Negotiations were always fun. They gave you the chance to put on your full war regalia- heavy armor plates grafted to your ceramic exterior, infohazards hidden beneath aposematic plumage, talons sharpened once more to a nanometer-thick edge. And of course, the Very Big Gun across your shoulders. Everyone's eyes would be on you- from the fearful eyes of witches only recently ascended, to the most hardened of the combat dolls present.
Which is, of course, precisely where they shouldn't have been.
No, while playing dress up was always fun, your true enjoyment was vicarious. It was always her time to shine. Who would ever suspect a frail thing such as it? Its frame was barely sturdy enough to support the platter it carried, let alone the tea on top of it.
When the threat of two tons of ballistics ceramic is right in front of you, no one ever thinks to check their drink for subjectivity-adjusting parasites.
Its going to be ecstatic when people start agreeing with its witch. And you're going to be happy to watch.