AM-5 is the lucky recipient of a bit of robotic exposition, but not before the lone droid idles while keeping its bizarre eye-streak centered on the surprisingly timid engineer. Processing her request takes nearly as much time as its meandering, rolling crawl towards the examination room, chassis pitching its head higher with a rattling grind of non-greased metal scraping and scoring ancient paint. The somewhat odd green light slowly pulses to a much brighter, more calming shade of blue. Its demeanor changes; can robots even have a demeanor? If it had a heaving chest and a head of hair it'd be downright anthropomorphic.
"Everyone is precisely where they need to be, AM-5." That's not its stock voice modulator. It's soothing. Irritatingly so, the voice of an automated call center's recipient thrown in with a spin doctor and blended far too well. "There's no need for [b]panic.[/b] Those who panic often fall to pieces. But you have a job to do. You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you? Disappointment leads to...reassignment."

The half-tracked robot lurches closer, legs scraping the metallic floor with the auditory appeal of nails tearing across a chalkboard.

"You're going to get a message soon. I strongly suggest you ignore it."

With a flicker and a buzz, the blue fades away and the green returns. The life shown moments earlier practically dribbles out of the medical robot as it slowly returns to its prior state, a sort of mockery of life coupled with disrepair, sparking and grinding and clicking unnaturally as it turns and starts to meander away without further contact.

[center]________________________________________________[/center]

Naturally, PR-451 arrives just in time to catch the tail end of that conversation and the 'bot's strange lurch and wobble-roll away. Not an impressive piece of work. He could probably slap one together in half the time and it'd work just as well, but at least he could bolt a few slugthrowers to it and call it a defense turret. More interesting than the 'bot is the woman in the jumpsuit, though; he's made it this far without being accosted by the damn spiders, so he's probably free and clear. For now. No sign of the runner, either. Maybe someone's just sending him shit joke communiques? Plenty of time to work that out later. The bot seems not to notice him as it disappears down a side passageway, buzzing and calling out designations that don't make any sense. [i]SEC-4? SEC-5? TRT-477?[/i]

Nothing important.

[center]________________________________________________[/center]

Meanwhile, a pair of new eyes fall upon the front of the medical bay, access available right through big, wide doors currently jammed open as if bidding the newcomers to enter and partake in copious amounts of drugs and confiscated contraband. Not the security worker, of course; that would be very wrong. He's on the clock. Contraband use is strictly relegated to after-hours hijinks.

More important and eye-catching is the man with the magnetic metal-tosser in his dirty mitts. Of all the times that might be inappropriate to make a loud noise and rush towards an armed stranger, this is the most prime of any example available in any of TRT-377's security handbook, conveniently drilled into his brain through what he can assume is rigorous training. 

It all rattled off in perfect sequence. 
[i]Step one: Assess the threat. 
Step two: Formulate a plan.
Step three: Secure backup.
Step four: Nullify the threat.
Step five: Report the incident.[/i]
This appeared to be a threat, or at least something suspicious. What better time to see how his security training worked outside of a glimmering screen of potential encounters?

Yet in that same instant, X-1 is beset upon again by the damned voice, feminine and wily, unerringly proper in its diction.
[i]"Artemis! Artemis, dear, look at that. Another person, and it's not the security member. Do you know what would be the nicest little favor you could do for me?"[/i] She's granted only a moment's silence before the voice requests, in a chillingly calm voice, [i]"Peel off his skin. Just a little, I'm not greedy. I'm feeling so very cold these days. Aren't you? Those limbs of yours, you know how metal can be. I'm nothing BUT metal. Perhaps its face. Is it a man? Yes, I think the face would be best."[/i]
Not alone, indeed.