"That doesn't mean I know how," the Soldier points out, and edges back to its seat. Sitting with a handler for drinks goes against a lot of its programming, but it's just so damn tired and unhappy after this day. And Crowley asked. So here it is, with some kind of alcohol in its flesh hand, running through tactile tests (mostly tapping fingers together in a steady rhythm) and slow calibration loops (plates rippling and whirring) with the metal arm. Definitely needs a little tune-up, but nothing it can't handle on its own now.

Which deserves a comment. Instead of punishment, it got a fixed arm. Jesus, these handlers. "Thank you."