if you build it, they will come. hopefully.

[abyssum_invocat]

So. Replicators.

They take some getting used to for a child who's never come across technology even remotely similar before, but after a few wrong turns and a bit of confusion over how what it spat out at her was supposed to be decent clothing Sinthia got the hang of it. Enough, anyway, to order food and drink, and a modest bunch of parts to make something.

A something which, if the instructions are anything to go by--thankfully they're pictograms as well as words, in case the passersby like the mun don't read German--will be a quite pretty little mechanical tellurion.

She's totally interruptable while building this, yes. Periodically she needs breaks.

Comments

[abyssum_invocat]

"No," Sinthia huffs, reaching across the table to get her gear back--nevermind that there are others he could just as easily pick up. "Bad monkey," she says, as forcefully polite as an eight-year-old can manage.

"This is not a toy for you."

Honestly. Monkeys on a spaceship.

[scarred_grin]

He straightens up and grips his lapels like an offended little old-time banker. A monkey banker. They probably store fruit in their vault, but the vault's made of bamboo so the other monkeys just reach right through and take the coconuts.

Is that stereotyping?

"I was trying," he says, with the incongruous voice of Richard Burton, "to determine what sort of wood it is."

[abyssum_invocat]

Her eyes get very, very wide. Very quickly.

"It's birchwood," she replies slowly.

[scarred_grin]

"An excellent wood," he says. "Very strong, very light."

He approves of it for this purpose, not that anyone particularly needs the approval of a monkey for their crafting projects.

There really aren't birch trees where this monkey is from, anyway. Loki's another story.

[abyssum_invocat]

"...How can you talk?" she asks, finally, looking sideways away from the monkey as if she expects someone to come out with the joking--because this has to be a joke--explanation.

"You're a monkey."

[scarred_grin]

"We're all monkeys here, aren't we?" he asks. "All primates, anyway. Except for some of these people who aren't human, and whose evolution likely descends from some other path."

He's not an expert in xenobiology. He's just a pianist.

[abyssum_invocat]

"...Not really," she says, unsure of how she got into a discussion on evolutionary tendencies with a capuchin monkey, but steadily--if slowly--going abut it anyway. "The term monkey usually excludes the great apes and humans."

She blinks. "How did you get those clothes? Do you belong to someone who gave them to you?"

[scarred_grin]

"I belong to myself," he says.

What a question, really. He belongs to himself as much as anyone else belongs to himself--maybe even more.

Probably more. He's not under contract to anyone.

"I'm a musician. I play the piano. People expect a certain... a certain appearance."

And he has the stereotypes of being a monkey to overcome.

[abyssum_invocat]

"But you're a monkey," she says. "Not a person."

She is plainly a little bit lost here. "Who taught you to play the piano?"

[scarred_grin]

"I went to school for it. I always had a talent for it, and the school encouraged--oh, it was expensive, but I did get scholarships, and that helped a lot."

First of his family to finish higher education. He's a source of pride for them, and he doesn't want to let them down.

[abyssum_invocat]

"...But you're a monkey."

She doesn't know what to say otherwise. It doesn't really make sense for her.

[scarred_grin]

"And you're a person."

He looks down at the gears, contemplatively.

"We are what we are."