A golden sort of gynoid in high riding pants, with black suspenders and a flowy white poet's shirt and a black pageboy comes upon the scene. For a moment she seems smitten with the dolly's plight. She looks uncomfortably at the longish and bumpy veggies and wrinkles her nose at the stonger smelling ones. She looks about to see if there's anyone that might help or explain why this ragdolly is here. There's a note, but it neglects to mention on whose authority it's arrested under. After trying unsuccessfully to get the ragdolly's attention for a mo, she walks over to a lifesized sort of tin soldier. A tin soldier as created by the likes of Julie Bell or Hajime Sorayama by the looks of him. His servos and joints look like they might could run all day or night without a squeak or clank. Smoooooth and lawgiving efficiency is what he looks like under his tallish hat. Of course the sky blue of his eyes and the red circles at his flesh-chromed cheeks ruin the imposing terminator effect. With his chassis dressed as it is and his makeup, a martial man of action you can see. But you certainly don't see him letting loose with any epithets like 'I AM THE LAW!' any time soon.
"Pardon me, officer." says Rose. "I was noticing Sir Bradley over there."
"Aye.miss.ro.bot. Tis'.a.woe.ful.sight.to.see.such.a.one.so.bound." he says in a clipped but hushed voice so as to stay out of earshot of the ragdoll. His voice is a bit gruff, but friendly in a way that a lot of military types lack.
Rose blinks at The Soldier. Who'd have expected his like? Such odd speech even. "Who put it in those stocks? It seems unduly cruel.
Who'd want to hurt a toy?"
The soldier looks at Rose for a moment, his almost boyish expression showing surprise. "Why.Miss.Ro.bot! You.don't.know?
Why.'tis.by.its.own.do.ing.that.it's.pre.sent.ed.for.such.sport. I.din.nae.en.cour.age.such. But.'tis.its.right.to.pre.sent.it.self.so.if.it.choo.ses. Mind.you.din.nae.ab.use.it.for.rea.sons.not.sta.ted.in.its.list.of.crimes."
Rose looks thoughtful for a moment. "Jeepers... Umm..."
The officer, pointing at a signal across the street which abruptly turns green with a short trumpet of binary audio, turns to Rose.
Rose shuffles her feet. She'd been looking to try out a new algorithm in her hypnotic suite on some amenable or not so amenable organic that might be visiting the land of toys and robots. With Mr. Soldier there, that might not be a good idea. But that's not the cause of her distress. Nor what she comes out with.
"Would it be okay to do something nice for it?" says Rose.
The Soldier looks thoughtful. "Hmm.. The.need.for.pun.ish.ment.is.on.ly.im.plied. Not.spe.ci.fied. Per.miss.a.ble. ac.tion.is.pre.sum.a.bly. o.pen.for.in.ter.pre.ta.tion."
Rose nods. "Hokiedoke. Thank you, Mr. Officer."
The Soldier bends forward in a machined and graceful arc, tipping his hat in a respectful manner. "Do.no.e.vil.Miss.Ro.bot."
Rose walks away, thinking that was an odd way to tell someone to keep one's nose clean. Certainly nice tho. Certainly an officer & a gentlebot. Then catches the attention of one of a migrating node of free-service drones.
Rose points at her hand and makes a book be there in that oddly disturbing reality bending way of hers and gives it to the drone, designated 3-of-20. Then slots her credstick into the task-specific labor bot, who looks at her with an almost cute primary sensor. [STATE INSTRUCTION]
Rose pats the little guy and tells it to read to the ragdolly over there from this book of assorted robot fiction from the likes of Asimov, Anthony, Robotdoll, RC and Bradbury among other notables. Cease if instructed to. But standby to assist the ragdolly in those stocks with whatever it may require until dismissed.
The little service bot cocks it's head in an attitude of robotic subserviance. [COMMAND ACCEPTED]
Rose looks over as the service bot goes to perform it's task and goes on her way. There's got to be an organic around here somewhere out of sensor range of Mr. Officer. Who knows. The organic might even twig and hack her defenses imaginatively...
'Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season?
where the why and wherefore are without rhyme or reason.'
William Shakespere's 'A Comedy of Errors'