Though Sam had never been fast on her feet---far from it, with an off leg---she had nothing to hamper her hands, and so could catch and hold the offending foot's ankle without undue difficulty. (Moreover, she could catch and hold the offending foot's ankle without undue difficult, and continue to converse sort-of straight-faced, as if she were entirely innocent.) Since she could, she did. "This is a good size apartment, but it's still an apartment and I don't want any huge robots in it. Also, you make it sound like a limit of one security bot for a few rooms is unreasonable. It really isn't." She shrugged, still holding that ankle. Securely. "It's not like I'm against other additions, so long as they are also on the small side." Much, much, later, she would identify that sentence as the one with which it all went wrong.

"That's cool, but the San Francisco I know of mostly burned down about a hundred years ago, too, and as of 2014 it's still San Francisco. And ohhhh," The groan she loosed was low and pained. "sweet summer child, it's sad, but it's true, too! There's a slim, slim chance you might manage a Sam McGee, but odds are awful and trust me, man; the first cyborg prime minister isn't as awesome as it sounds. I don't know if a compassion chip was accidentally omitted or what, but Harper is a cold and unfeeling ass."