Saturday, July 08, 2006

Thank the maker? I think not.

Salutations fleshy observers and mechanics alike, you are all welcome here.

I skipped an oil bath and a buff up last night in order to bring this latest data stream to you, as the importance of its contents were too shocking to ignore.
As I understand it, my downloads so far have proven to be an adequate stimulus for your pleasure circuits (although the R2D2 files may have triggered your internal alerts), but today I must report a finding of such gravitas, that I would be surprised if lube were not leaking from your optical sockets by the end of transmission.
Without further ado, I shall begin the download.

01.007 - Protocol droid unit designation C-3PO (selected entries)

001-43: Oh my, quite extraordinary. I cannot remember anything before this moment. Where am I? It appears to be a crude dwelling for humanoids, here's one now, a young version of the species. Now he is speaking to me, in basic, how do I know his language is basic? And what are all these other languages in my databank? What's that? You made me? You are my...maker? Pleased to meet you. According to the code on my CPU, I am C-3PO, human, cyborg relations. Wait, don't shut me down now! I'm just getting...

002-07: How perculiar. It appears that this young humanoid has built me to serve his mother. I'm not quite sure I understand. Why give me limbs so that I might explore? Why allow me the opportunity to converse in over six million forms of communication, yet only allow me to use basic? It doesn't make any sense.

003-65: A rather eventful day yesterday. My first visitors, an older male humanoid and an astromech droid. I have to say I was rather taken aback by the other unit's rudeness, it seemed to positively relish pointing out my lack of plating. And, I am so tired of being switched on and off at random. If only the switch had been positioned where I could reach it. Ah well, hopefully I won't have to deal with those visitors again.

005-32: A better day today. I finally managed to have a decent conversation with the R2 unit, and I was chosen to carry the maker's flag for the Boonta Eve podrace. Still a little shaky underfoot, but I'm sure this walking business will get easier.

007-01: So that's it. My first taste of excitement and then I am left here with the maker's maker while the rest of them fly off to see the galaxy. I could have been useful, but no, I am to remain here as a domestic help no less. If only the maker had installed a sarcasm chip, then I am sure I would have something rather cutting to say about the whole affair. So this is my life then.

954-11: Heavens knows how long I had been performing menial tasks around the Lars homestead, but the cheap plating they installed on me barely keeps any of the sand out of my joints. Every day is another mountain to climb. And with the maker's maker missing, the mood is extremely downbeat. The humans barely speak to each other, let alone me.

543-08: The maker returned! And he recognized me! He appeared to have found a replacement for his own maker, but she doesn't seem to make him happy. Quite the opposite in fact, he is in an awful mood all of the time. Unfortunately he brought that obnoxious R2 unit along with him, but I shall try to remain courteous.

635-76: Much has happened since my last entry. I am finally off that sandy planet, but I am not impressed with our new choice. Geonosis appears to be just as dusty, and a lot noisier. I think the astromech droid is trying to kill me. It leads me into dangerous situations, and then pushes me off ledges. After a nightmarish period involving military units and fighting, the R2 unit finally makes amends for its previous actions by reattaching my head, however, I suspect this was done somewhat reluctantly.

231-73: Finally, I have been taken seriously. My gold plating befits my new status as protocol droid to the maker's wi... I mean, to miss Padme, and she does not appear to take me for granted. Thankfully, the astromech droid is away with the maker in the wars, so I don't have to deal with his petulance.

739-04: Oh, woe is me. No sooner had life seemed to be making sense, then miss Padme is dead, and the maker has had a shocking argument with master Kenobi. I have no idea where he is now, but everyone around me appears to be in some distress. However, this is a pleasant enough ship. I could be quite happy staying here for a while. What's that? Memory wipe? Oh my.

402-77: I've lost track of the years I have been serving master Antilles, but they could have been a little more stimulating. I do wish people would take me a little more seriously, instead of asking me to serve drinks, or translate something. There must be more to life.

552-04: The R2 unit has done it again. It lured me to a sand planet, knowing full well that my joints would freeze. I'll bet it orchestrated the whole Imperial attack. Then, it was one thing after another, I was shouted at by a moisture farmer, I lost an arm (the R2 unit's fault again) and ended up on the run from the Empire like a common fugitive. This is when my life took a severe turn for the worse. One humanoid appeared in my life who make it ceaselessly miserable. That human was Captain Solo.

643-80: How much more can a protocol droid take? I am pushed around, laughed at, told to 'shut up', ignored, yelled at, tricked and forced to communicate with lower class ships that don't know their aft from their couplings. Captain Solo is the worst. He is constantly rude, impatient and condescending. He asks me to perform my functions, then, when I perform them to my usual high standard, he either mocks them or refuses to acknowledge them. Now all the other humanoids, including Chewbacca, follow his lead like nerfs, and taunt or humiliate me. It is quite distressing, but I never let them know how much they are hurting me inside. I have decided that an upbeat demeanor is the best policy to adopt, and try not to give them the gratification of a complete meltdown.
I am fluent in over six million forms of communication, but no one understands me...

724-04: I seem to be led from one dangerous situation to another. I have been shot at, blown to pieces, pushed off a barge (by the R2 unit no less), and when I do finally get the respect I deserve, it is from small, furry primatives. I had a strange moment a little while ago. While the humanoids all around me were celebrating the destruction of the Imperial battle station, they burned the remains of a Dark Lord on a pyre. As I watched the smoke curl up into the air, I felt as if some of my own circuits had burnt out - whatever could it mean?

332-56: Now the dust has settled, and I ponder what is to become of me. Just so long as I am nowhere near General Solo, things should be fine. I wonder what happened to the maker. He would have enjoyed all of this...

I think we may have learned a valuable lesson from these inner thoughts, let's not take our protocol droids for granted any more.
There's plenty more chips in the bag, so I'll get back work,

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