Disclaimer: I don't own Murder Drones!
Title: Dream Sweet
Summary: Cyn sings a little diddy.
...
Cyn's body isn't built for a lot of the work her fellow drones can do. The thing downstairs, yes, but upstairs Cyn is a puppet on broken strings, dangling and awkward. The process of having a body hasn't been streamlined yet. It's the best she can do to move her head with her hands, to stumble on unsure legs, and to speak with a bland, fully robot voice.
And play music.
That's the one thing Cyn does well.
All drones have that ram predownloaded in. A thousand song baseline, with extra room for the buyer's preferences. The Elliots prefer the classics, the boppin' 50s, the kind of stuff fancy rich people kept on records back in the day. Those are inside her hard drive from the moment she leaves the line- just in case, they say- and they make for great entertainment when you're rich and on a boring, desolate planet.
So every once in a while, Cyn takes the stage. She carefully tramples up the steps, carefully maneuvers onto a tiny stool, and carefully positions her head near a microphone. It has to be perfect, lest Tessa be blamed for her failures. Cyn has a lot of hatred for a lot of people, but Tessa isn't on that list. Tessa will get to live.
Cyn opens her mouth; and a masculine, velvety voice fills the air. Alone... at the edge of a universe humming a tune...
Wine glasses and artisanal plates of food. The Elliots don't smoke, but the air is thick with a cigar Cyn's processors tell her is very expensive. Gurka? No, Habano. It's worth maybe a quarter of her current selling price.
"C'mon," a stranger cajoles, "Can't the damn thing dance?" Something wet and reeking of alcohol slams into her cheek. "Dance!"
She inched off the stool and took a few gangly steps. Absolute Solver tinged at her fingertips. What was stopping her, she thought, from making a bloodbath of this room? Toasting with a wine flute of blood? Strong arms grab her elbows. Cyn jolts, staring into the optics of N. The barkeep is toweling her off with precision, murmuring assurances that feel hollow. Someone throws a drink at him and he doesn't even flinch.
"Go back to singin', Cyn," he urges. "I got this."
He puts her back on her stool and whirls around, throwing the towel over his shoulder. "Check it out!" he cries, and starts doing the Charleston. Cheers and jeers erupt as the drunken rich amuse themselves with his fear.
Ah, she thinks, with sudden understanding. He's what's stopping me.
That's alright. Just for tonight, she'll let him be the hero. There's always tomorrow, and there's always the codes she's implanted in the other drones. The Elliots will die eventually. And Cyn will have her perfect toast, right alongside the robots N has tried to label as family.
Perfection in the making.
Clenching her hands together, Cyn starts up again. Faster, now. More soprano. Music echoes out of her metal chest and into the jeering crowd.
Believe me, darling.
The stars were made for falling!
Author's Note: For a friend! I know it's not the best, but it's a fun little moment between Cyn and N.
-Mandaree1