Name Registration...: Haviland
I like to go by...: Just call me Haviland, dispense with all that name-shortening frippery.
I've gained a few years...: 45, according to the construction date etched into my back here.
I'm...: Male.
Don't be fooled by my size: I'm only as tall as the decrepit old rat that runs this place.
Don't tell anyone, but I have a few feelings for...: Oh, bah. There's no point in fussing over it.
Welcome to Gregory House...: Resident, Mechanical
I can be awfully dangerous...: Well, not particularly, other than I have a few sharp edges which are terribly rusted.
People say I'm...: Stuffy and a little disagreeable, but I'm the one who sat unattended in a scrapheap for who knows how many years.
I have a love for...: Order, space (not of the outer variety, mind you).
I'd like to avoid...: Cramped spaces, scales.
What haunts my dreams...: Horrible, horrible claustrophobia. And weighing-scales. I don't know why, but I just have this odd aversion to them.
"What am I doing wondering through this forest?": I don't recall when or where I was manufactured, only that I awoke in a scrapyard for some reason covered in rust, dust and various other things, found a train station and caught the last train leaving. The next thing I know, I was smack-bang in the middle of somewhere or another, staring this hotel in the face.
A few more things you should be aware of...: On occasion, my arms don't work properly. Also, my grilles have a habit of flickering whilst I speak, but that's perfectly normal... I think.
Will you remember my face?:
Like I always say...: "This is all getting far too stupid."
[Quick note - Haviland's voice is meant to sound like it is run through a ring modulator. If you don't know what that sounds like, watch Doctor Who and listen to the Cybermen. It's like that.]
I like to go by...: Just call me Haviland, dispense with all that name-shortening frippery.
I've gained a few years...: 45, according to the construction date etched into my back here.
I'm...: Male.
Don't be fooled by my size: I'm only as tall as the decrepit old rat that runs this place.
Don't tell anyone, but I have a few feelings for...: Oh, bah. There's no point in fussing over it.
Welcome to Gregory House...: Resident, Mechanical
I can be awfully dangerous...: Well, not particularly, other than I have a few sharp edges which are terribly rusted.
People say I'm...: Stuffy and a little disagreeable, but I'm the one who sat unattended in a scrapheap for who knows how many years.
I have a love for...: Order, space (not of the outer variety, mind you).
I'd like to avoid...: Cramped spaces, scales.
What haunts my dreams...: Horrible, horrible claustrophobia. And weighing-scales. I don't know why, but I just have this odd aversion to them.
"What am I doing wondering through this forest?": I don't recall when or where I was manufactured, only that I awoke in a scrapyard for some reason covered in rust, dust and various other things, found a train station and caught the last train leaving. The next thing I know, I was smack-bang in the middle of somewhere or another, staring this hotel in the face.
A few more things you should be aware of...: On occasion, my arms don't work properly. Also, my grilles have a habit of flickering whilst I speak, but that's perfectly normal... I think.
Will you remember my face?:
Like I always say...: "This is all getting far too stupid."
[Quick note - Haviland's voice is meant to sound like it is run through a ring modulator. If you don't know what that sounds like, watch Doctor Who and listen to the Cybermen. It's like that.]
