Slowly and methodically, lest it injure itself, Murderbot starts moving its extremities. It runs diagnostics the whole time, prioritizing those to do with the areas it moves and working through the system. A backlog of angry notifications dissipate until there's only a few and performance reliability is at an acceptable operating level.

Good. Good. Glad that's over. "I do not need support," it answers the offer. It has already accepted far more help than it usually asks of its friends, much less strangers. Even if strangers are the only ones here. It also observes NewContact's physical changes for awareness sake (and, lets be real because paranoia is a long habit proven true, for threat assessment).

"You look younger than that," Murderbot says awkwardly. The one second delay prevented a version that could have sounded like flirting from coming out. A quick query against its database of serials helped it avoid that problem. "For a human, anyway." This is an alien after all. Plus, Murderbot has always been awful at telling people's ages.