Were you aware, Mr. A, that nostalgia was once thought to be a mental condition that afflicted soldiers? Back in the 17th century, I mean. Melancholy. Mal du pays, as they say in the old country. Of course, they also thought the body was made up of a balance of biles and blood and phlegm. A philosophical way of looking at the body, you understand, but they thought it was rational. Funny how as times change we look back at the past with ridicule.

Mr. C placed the old circuit board back in the robo-box, sealed the lid, and moved on to the next bin.

Ah! Pictures of my sporting days! Come, have a look, Mr. A. Do you recall the days when I sported? Or was that before we met?

There are some things that a man never forgets no matter how far he stares down an empty bottle. I didn't know you when you were young. That was before... Before the darkness. We first met in '88 in Bignona. I was muscle for the local warlord. Did some bad things in those days. A trained assassin killing women and children... It rained every god-foresaken day that summer, but I could never wash that innocent blood off of my hands. I was in a dusty piece-of-crap tavern trying to forget what I had done. You offered me a cookie.

Oh yes, ha! Those were dear old days, were they not? Well, let me tell you, A, before those days I was quite the sport! Have a look at these photos, won't you? MVP of the polo club. Star third basemen. I even still had legs!

From what I can see, you still have legs.

Yes, but, Mr. A, we must remember that you do only have one eye. Ha! Sorry, I shouldn't tease. Yes, it is true I do have "legs" but they are in fact robot-spider legs, and I meant proper human legs. Sigh. I would never have thought that I would miss the sensations of having an itch on your leg... But such are the consequences of Mecha-Polio. I suppose also that in those days I would never have imagined being able to transform my legs into a propeller for a boat should the situation arise. Give and take, you see?

In Saigon we gave makeshift amputations to prisoners with MP. Hacked their legs off with a machete and cauterized the wounds with boiling oil. In the night I still hear their screams, haunting--

Yes, yes, you are a grim one. Now let's sort through these boxes and get on with our day, shall we? Did my parents leave behind any financial records? They most definitely remained in poverty since I last saw them, but I wouldn't be shocked if they had some secret investment that might still prove lucrative.

Never knew my parents. Brigands slit their throats when I was just a -

The records, please. Just the records.

Nothing of note. Your mother retained the deed to a fertility clinic. Your suits have deemed it unprofitable.

Oh mother... always loved children. I assume we've already had the assets liquidated but I will verify with Charles at the next board meeting. Going through the inventory here I see little else of value. The handcrafted toys of my youth, I'm told, are not desired by any collector. I have already sold my mother's cookie recipes...

What about your father's Doge Coin investment?

Utterly worthless, even to collectors.

It may rebound.

You keep them, then, A. Maybe they'll prove more useful to you than to my foolish father.

Thank-you. Before we leave, Mr. C, we need to talk about Awkward. He has rallied the hobos, as your analytics suggested. He's a desperate man, with nothing to lose. Man like that won't be negotiating for Sally-bot, unless it's with the edge of his knife.

My word, you are dramatic. I am aware he is unlikely to negotiate in good faith. I have already taken precautionary measure. Do you remember my old colleague, the Robotonist? Well, with the market for robo-seeds taking a "surprise" downturn she's fallen into some hard times. Pity that, of course. She's offered, or rather, accepted, cash payment in exchange for a small robofloran army. They are no doubt much sturdier than hobos. They bleed less and are sober.

Could work. I have another solution though.

Yes I am not surprised at that. Let's hear it.

Robots and hobos are fine and good but when the battle gets hot, the weight of a man's heart is all that matters. When the bullets are flying, and all hell's breaking loose all over bedlam, I'll find Awkward and challenge him to single combat. I'll cut him open and show him his own damn circuits. Then I'll bring you his head.

That is indeed quite grizzly. I do not suspect a simple robot mechanic will accept your challenge to single combat, but I will nevertheless give it some thought.

I'll sharpen my blade.

Good.

What should we do with the rest of the estate?

My parents' place? Oh. Burn it. Burn it all.

IF YOU THINK MR.C SHOULD PREPARE FOR AWKWARD, JOHN, AND THE HOBOS BY USING NUMBERS AND HER ROBOFLORAN ARMY, TURN TO PAGE 254.

IF YOU THINK MR.C SHOULD ALLOW MR. A TO CHALLENGE AWKWARD TO SINGLE COMBAT, TURN TO PAGE 193.

RESULT: THE FORUMS VOTED FOR PAGE 254.