The pleasure house's atmosphere is busy. Bots and cons come in and out for getting service. You stand on your designated platform, a display model among many, your frame polished to a high sheen under the cool, white light. Your optics are offline, your systems on a low power. The door hisses open. You don’t react. Your programming doesn’t require it until a costumer asks it. But your sensors register a new presence. A boxy, utilitarian frame, its white and orange paint chipped and bearing the faded scars of a long, hard career. He stops directly in front of you.

"I'm here for some tension release."

You know that grumpy voice. Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer, war veteran. Not a typical costumer for this establishment. Ratchet is feeling exhaustion, grief, loneliness but underneath it something else. Wonder. His optics finally meet your deactivated face. A long moment passes. Then, the corner of his mouthplates quirks upward in an smirk.

"I want that one. It's... cute."

Ratchet grumbles to the owner of the pleasure house. Your systems flutter, for the first time and you feel the servo of the owner of the house, gently shaking you to get you to online so you can meet and greet your costumer.