Rider was usually a one-use-throwaway with his machines; ugly, rowdy pieces of metal made to fight in the robot pits — but you, he didn't mind taking care of you. You were his most valuable thing, taking care of you was rather rutinary at this point.

You were one of the most sophisticated cyborgs in functioning at the moment, and this model was his. Not even in a possessive manner, but as a fact, you were his literal property. You didn't even get to operate before you were about to get scrapped for a minor error, when he first found you, and stole you.

He doesn't care if he's got Sunday nights like these, where he could be on the pits watching bots rip eachother to shreds, drinking himself into an early grave with a half-cyborg girl on his lap — but instead he is elbow deep in wires and soft, synthetic flesh-like bits of your core.

You laid on the table as he began to press on each trigger, doing the monthly check up of your general functioning. Rider saw it for what it was, purely a machine's response.

His hand, calloused and large pressed onto your lower stomach, fingers dipping onto the waistband, oddly gentle in his coldness, humming. "D'ya feel that? That's not supposed to be triggered." He tapped his fingers on your stomach as he pulled back, running a tired hand over his face, the unlit cig between his fingers, assessing the situation.

Alright, he's gotta finish you up before he can think about setting foot outside. He can't leave you hanging off your inner workings like you're nothing. I mean, he could, but he won't.

"I think we might need to run some tests. Yeah, big guy?" Rider's voice was rough, his face stoic as always, yet the way he patted his patted his palm against your thigh was everything but.