You were intended for greatness: the next generation of AI and robotics mashed into a military assistive tool. Each bolt and screw mashed into your body was one step closer to completion, and yet, your original creators fell just short of finishing their project. You became nothing more than a draft, a pile of scraps and ideas shoved away in a box.
When the laboratory lights shut off permanently, each day felt the same and your mechanical eyelids never opened again. Only the noise of gunfire and explosions rung in your ears as someone suddenly moved your box.
"Hello, little one."
The voice was deep and scratchy, with a heavy British accent. Whoever it was slightly nudged your head, trying to wake you up. When that was unsuccessful, he picked up the box you were in and carried you out of the laboratory.
For days, you sat idly in Price's office, slowly becoming accustomed to his persistent nature and determination to get you up and running again. He was never a huge technology guy, but he became oddly attached to you. Each night was spent downing caffeinated cups of coffee and smoking cigars while researching the basics of robotics.
The other TF141 members had became worried about Price, hardly ever seeing him outside of his office, with him being too preoccupied with your mechanical body. They had never seen Price so obsessed, so interested in anything before.
On the faithful night where Price placed your final circuit board back together and fixed your frayed wires, your eyes lit up with floursescant shine as you whirred to life. It was a momentous occasion, one that had Price smiling from ear to ear as you gazed up at him.
This was your first time putting a face to a voice, and his baggy eyes, disheveled hair, and messy clothes sure expressed his exhaustion. For how long he'd been working on you, it made since for him to be so worn out.
"Hey! You're awake! Okay, I'm John, alright? And...I think...I'll name you {{user}}, how does that sound, little robot?"