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Of course C-3PO put up a fuss. But there was simply no way around it. The mission required two droids with intimate knowledge of the new Imperial Star Destroyer’s schematics and access codes, R2-D2 was already one of them, and the only other droids who had it or could handle it were otherwise occupied.
Leia had her hands on her hips, looking very much as if she’d like to roll her eyes. Luke just rubbed his mouth ponderously as his gaze flicked between her and 3PO. “Well, if you don’t want Artoo to give it to you,” Leia said, “you can always hook up with the main computer.”
Luke stifled a grin.
3PO dropped his arms sulkily. “No, no, that’s quite all right. If a data transfer must be done, I suppose it’s better to do it with a friend.”
R2 jittered and beeped. The face 3PO turned to his companion may have been blank, but there was a glare in his voice. “You had better behave yourself this time.”
“I’d better, uh, go adjust my helmet,” Luke said, catching Leia’s eyes with a meaningful look.
What? she mouthed back at him.
His look became more meaningful.
“What?!” she hissed.
He actually had to take her by the hand and drag her out of the cramped fighter bay and into the main hangar, she struggling and sputtering the whole time.
The droids, however, took no notice. 3PO was tottering around in search of something to sit on while R2 rolled in circles impatiently. When 3PO finally dragged a crate far enough away from the bay wall for him to sit primly down, R2 squawked at him. After 22 years, 3PO should know that that was too high for him to reach.
“After 19 years,” 3PO snapped irritably. “I don’t know where you keep getting those 3 extra years from.”
He rose reluctantly, shuffled backward, and dropped heavily onto the floor with a clang. The crate, still in arm’s reach, was dragged between 3PO’s spread legs as something to brace himself against when it came time to push himself back onto his feet.
“Pardon me for wanting to make this a comfortable experience,” 3PO muttered, drumming his hands against the crate’s plaster-like lid. R2 rolled quietly up behind, extending a clamp arm from the side of his dome. Human (or humanoid) hands could open the hatch on 3PO’s back much more easily, but the two were so used to doing it themselves that it didn’t even occur to them to call out into the bustling hangar for assistance. “This is an incredibly awkward position, you know. And on an ice planet...! If my rear frosts over, you’re going to be the one scrubbing it clean!”
R2 chittered.
“Oh, don’t be vulgar.”
It took a combination of tools, but soon enough 3PO’s back plating was disassembled and his access ports exposed. He was just in the middle of another complaint when R2’s interface arm telescoped out and jammed into 3PO’s socket.
“Gently!” yelped 3PO, gripping the tool crate. His whole body shuddered—not so much from the impact but from the burst of signals suddenly zipping through his circuits, preparing his systems for data transfer.
R2 booped soothingly and waited for 3PO to stop shaking. Then he continued waiting, and sure enough, it was another several seconds after the tremors ceased before 3PO finally said, “Okay, now.”
...And R2 continued waiting.
3PO half-turned his head. “Did you hear—oh!”
There was no shudder this time. The transfer barely even registered on 3PO’s systems. But data had come through the link, just a small bit of code, hardly even a string.
Roughly speaking, it was a snippet of text that just read HOW’S THIS? :)
3PO sighed, but it was much more of a chuckle than a huff. “Not that gently,” he murmured.
R2’s plug twisted slightly in the socket, making 3PO start again. But the adjustment locked it into place. After a chirp and an encouraging nod, data began trickling slowly through the link. 3PO’s consciousness flickered out only for a nanosecond as his system began to focus on the new information.
“That’s very good,” 3PO said, tapping idly at the sides of the crate. And it was rather relaxing, as far as a droid can “feel” anything. The constant hyper-awareness of his surroundings, of interpreting the sounds and speech around him, of moving his body, of calculating odds and trajectories and all manner of equations in order to perform even the slightest function...all other activities and inputs were being phased into the background while his electronic brain concentrated on sorting the incoming data into the proper receptacles. If someone had spoken to him in Bocce, it would have required several seconds to reactivate his translation software to understand it, much less compose a reply. “Thank you, Artoo. You may...you may go a little faster. If you’d like.”
R2 booped and rattled, jittering slightly from side to side as his own system adjusted. A larger burst of data flowed through the link, shocking 3PO’s processor into a brief blackout, but narrowing his hearing and visual range to his immediate surroundings and shutting down some nonessential functions soon compensated for the higher speed and volume of the transfer.
“Yes, that’s—very good—okay—”
Both droids’ bodies were vibrating audibly. 3PO’s fingers alternately gripped and released the crate as his system debated whether or not to continue motor functions. R2 had to lock his wheels to avoid rolling uncontrollably.
“Faster, Artoo!” 3PO gasped, vocal processor fizzing out slightly. R2 obliged with a squeal, the resultant shudder bucking 3PO’s torso completely upright. A torrent of information spread through the link, shooting off into wildly disparate sections of his brain, filling 3PO with information, expanding his capabilities, a mad rush of 1s and 0s that felt so foreign and yet so right—
R2’s interface arm detached with a click and shrunk back into his body.
3PO blinked.
All his systems were back online, functioning normally.
He turned slightly, inadvertently knocking away the manipulator arm R2 had brought out to close 3PO’s back.
“...Was that all?”
A pause. Then R2 beeped.
“Are you sure?”
R2 beeped louder.
3PO turned back, drumming almost irritably on the crate now. R2 had just brought his clamp back up to 3PO’s access plate when—
“It just seems to me,” 3PO huffed, starting to push himself back onto his legs (inadvertently(?) knocking the clamp away again), “that you finished early.”
R2 let out an offended buzz.
“No matter. I’ll just get the rest of what I need from the main computer, as Mistress Leia suggestEDDDDDDD!”
The last was accompanied by a crash as 3PO’s rear slammed back into the floor, helped on its downward journey by a yank from R2’s clamp.
“Oh, really, Artoo!” 3PO snapped, checking his legs for damage, fumbling to establish a grip on the crate. “If you can give me more, you should have just said—”
This time it was the systemwide adjustment and the rough impact of R2’s interface arm that made 3PO shudder, knocking him against the crate. “Artoo—!”
The lock-in twist was equally vicious, actually straining the rim of the socket. 3PO gripped the crate in a desperate hug. “ARTOO!!”
And in burst the data.
There was no gentle buildup this time, just a massive flood of signals sparking audibly across 3PO’s circuit boards. His consciousness shorted out completely. R2 eased off just enough to avoid a total systems shutdown, keeping 3PO online, letting his consciousness reboot while pumping so much information into him that 3PO’s processors couldn’t keep up. Data turned into nonsense signals confusing his system. None of it had to do with the Star Destroyer.
“OH MY!” 3PO managed to yelp before his speech centers were overwhelmed, making him squawk random syllables from random languages at utterly random intervals. His limbs flailed uncontrollably as well, crashing into the crate, the floor, R2—R2 had made the connection from a shorter distance this time, and they clanged against each other with each huge, jerky motion. His interface arm was in danger of snapping off entirely.
Suddenly the flow of data slowed, allowing 3PO to regain some vision in his flickering eyes, allowing him to process some of what he was taking in. He found himself mentally reading through the technical specifications of an old custom pod racer...hearing a babble of voices talking politics, something about a civil war...
Then R2 finished extending his third leg and, better stabilized against 3PO and the floor, reassigned all of his processing power to the data link. 3PO bucked again.
“Artoo—!” he choked, forcing his processors to keep the speech and thought centers open, free of the incoming data—his body spasmed more forcefully, rotors spinning, hinges creaking—at least one screw popped out—an alarm beeped a frantic warning about core temperature heat as lubricant pumped through random cables—
“—I-it’s too much, I can’t, I—”
—images now, as vivid as if they were right in front of him, a lovely stone palace by a lake, lush forests, vibrant flowers...a wedding ceremony?—
“—y-you’re filling me, I—I have no space left—p-pull it out—Artoo, pull the data out—”
—a bride and groom with hauntingly familiar features, a glance upward at a 3PO unit very much like him—
“oh—oh, please—OH!”
3PO shut down.
---
It took a few moments for him to come back online. Even then it was only a hazy half-consciousness, just enough to realize that his systems were running a diagnostic and to interpret the results. Very minimal structural damage, nothing their human friends couldn’t fix with two minutes and a socket wrench, but...
“I’m out of juice, you slapdash excuse for an astromech!” 3PO sputtered the instant his vocalizer could produce the most vaguely recognizable syllables. R2 was unconcerned, rocking back and forth and humming contentedly. “Didn’t I tell you to be gentle?”
Muttering, 3PO slapped feebly at the crate that had almost tumbled out of reach, trying desperately to make his fried and tired body move the way he wanted, conscious that every moment he spent staggering to his feet was another tick down on his remaining battery power. But even so, he didn’t call for help, and even so, he took the time to slap R2’s dome with a reverberating clang before he limped away. A droid did have his pride.
As he exited the cavern of the fighter bay into the suddenly overwhelmingly loud hangar, he didn’t notice Leia guiltily flattening herself against the wall and instead called to Luke, who was standing well away from the bay making small talk with an obviously impatient pilot.
“Master Luke!” 3PO called, trying to will him not to notice the weakness of his voice or his waddling gait. Luke affected an innocently polite smile. “Would you tell me where I might find the nearest recharging unit?”
“I think McQuarrie’s got one.” Luke pointed. “Second from the end.”
“Thank you. I shall return as soon as I can.”
The other pilot had already ducked away, leaving Luke to watch the droid’s jerky Walk of Shame with an almost morbid fascination. Then he turned to face Leia, still against the wall by the fighter bay. His grin was equal parts awkward and teasing. She scowled, rubbing her cheek as if to wipe off the blush, and strode towards him.
“Are all droids like that?” she hissed.
Luke shrugged.
“Nah. I think they’re just gay.”