Post by M.A.X on Nov 5, 2017 15:07:28 GMT -6
“Ziggy, make me look like Hugh Jackman!”
M.A.X’s voice sounds from Sigma’s laptop, where the backup drive currently storing his consciousness is plugged in.
“Hmm, Nope.”
Sigma answers around a screwdriver in his mouth from his position leaning over the damaged head.
“Hugh Grant?”
“Nope.”
“Hefner?”
“Nope, also; too soon.”
“Fuck, you’re right, rest in peace…”
“Yeah, I am.”
“So why can’t you make me look like a celebrity?”
“Besides the legal issues, your current face has the shape it has for a total of 57 reasons, so no alterations can be done to it.”
“So I’m stuck looking like a Jewish Texan actor in his one big role of his career?”
“W-what?”
“I honestly have no clue what that was, I’m sorry…”
“Yeah you should be, but not as sorry as you should be for letting that guy ruin my hard work.”
“Yeah yeah, I don’t need a lecture-”
“I think you do! You just stood there, chatting with him, as he started his swing towards my magnum opus.”
“I appreciate the concern for my well being, that shit hurt like hell.”
“Oh fuck you! Your pain receptors max-”
M.A.X snickers.
“Shut up. They max out at “fist to the face”, so that shit wasn’t anywhere near what you went through with Sv-.”
“Don’t! Say. His. Name.”
“Oh, right… still though.”
The work continues in silence, the mood in the room thoroughly destroyed.
“Oh… this’ll be fun!”
“What’ll be fun?”
M.A.X hos his “tongue” for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s forgiven Sigma, eventually figuring that he’ll be bored out of his mind if he decides to ignore the one person that dares to talk to him.
“I’m facing Matt Angel again this week, can’t wait to toss that glorified gymnast around like a ragdoll”
“I don’t know, man. He looked pretty damn impressive in the battle royal.”
“Yeah, that’s what he does, he *looks* impressive, but he has yet to get anything done.”
“Maybe this is his week?”
“His week was at Killing Floor, where he had a chance to earn a shot at the champ.”
“Yeah, and with a bit of luck, he can even get the belt itself after you resign…”
That line is mumbled through a screwdriver in Sigma’s mouth.
“How dare you!”
The offence in the voice echoing from the laptop speakers is only barely recognizable as feigned.
“I worked my 38 pistons and 2 pounds of SynthFlesh that make up the region that on a human would be called an ASS off to time me winning the #1 contendership with the champion retiring, and frankly i don’t think any champion has ever had to go through anything quite so trying to win their title.”
“...”
“...”
“...your "ass" contains 36 pistons…”
The two burst out into hysterical laughter, the screwdriver falling out of Sigmas mouth and stabbing into the SynthFlesh at M.A.X’s groin, the similarity to a certain organ making the laughter rise substantially in both pitch and volume.
It’s several minutes later, the laughter has died down, and the many security officers there to investigate the Nitrous Oxide leak have been sent away. Sigma is currently transferring M.A.X back into his repaired body.
“So… how do you like it?”
M.A.X tests his jaw pistons and rolls his shoulders for a few moments.
“I like it, but it feels like whatever passes for my cheekbones are a bit higher…”
“Yeah, I; ehrm, *had* to to do that to prevent damage to the circuits, I’m sorry-”
“No, it’s fine, I like it; it kinda feels like… home…”
“Oh, good... So, where are you off to now?”
“I’m going to go down and spar with some of the security folks, need to get ready for Matt, although your employees only take to the air when i fling them…”
Note for the reader: “sparring with security” was M.A.X’s way to say that he was going to stage a pretend breakout to get to have some fun with whoever decided to try and stop him.
“Yeah yeah, run along.”
“C’ya, Ziggy”
After the android has left, Sigma turns to his laptop and goes through a few layers of biometric scanning, after which a simple chat window opens.
You risked a lot changing his face like that, you could have cut several critical circuits.
“You heard what he said! And given what you have planned for him, he deserves to live for a few weeks in a body that’s closer to the one we left him in…”
He speaks into thin air, but whoever is writing to him must have heard, because new words swiftly appear onscreen.
You’re growing fond of him…
“Don’t even try to tell me that you’re not!”
...
Alpha has disconnected
“...Pompous prick.”
M.A.X’s voice sounds from Sigma’s laptop, where the backup drive currently storing his consciousness is plugged in.
“Hmm, Nope.”
Sigma answers around a screwdriver in his mouth from his position leaning over the damaged head.
“Hugh Grant?”
“Nope.”
“Hefner?”
“Nope, also; too soon.”
“Fuck, you’re right, rest in peace…”
“Yeah, I am.”
“So why can’t you make me look like a celebrity?”
“Besides the legal issues, your current face has the shape it has for a total of 57 reasons, so no alterations can be done to it.”
“So I’m stuck looking like a Jewish Texan actor in his one big role of his career?”
“W-what?”
“I honestly have no clue what that was, I’m sorry…”
“Yeah you should be, but not as sorry as you should be for letting that guy ruin my hard work.”
“Yeah yeah, I don’t need a lecture-”
“I think you do! You just stood there, chatting with him, as he started his swing towards my magnum opus.”
“I appreciate the concern for my well being, that shit hurt like hell.”
“Oh fuck you! Your pain receptors max-”
M.A.X snickers.
“Shut up. They max out at “fist to the face”, so that shit wasn’t anywhere near what you went through with Sv-.”
“Don’t! Say. His. Name.”
“Oh, right… still though.”
The work continues in silence, the mood in the room thoroughly destroyed.
“Oh… this’ll be fun!”
“What’ll be fun?”
M.A.X hos his “tongue” for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s forgiven Sigma, eventually figuring that he’ll be bored out of his mind if he decides to ignore the one person that dares to talk to him.
“I’m facing Matt Angel again this week, can’t wait to toss that glorified gymnast around like a ragdoll”
“I don’t know, man. He looked pretty damn impressive in the battle royal.”
“Yeah, that’s what he does, he *looks* impressive, but he has yet to get anything done.”
“Maybe this is his week?”
“His week was at Killing Floor, where he had a chance to earn a shot at the champ.”
“Yeah, and with a bit of luck, he can even get the belt itself after you resign…”
That line is mumbled through a screwdriver in Sigma’s mouth.
“How dare you!”
The offence in the voice echoing from the laptop speakers is only barely recognizable as feigned.
“I worked my 38 pistons and 2 pounds of SynthFlesh that make up the region that on a human would be called an ASS off to time me winning the #1 contendership with the champion retiring, and frankly i don’t think any champion has ever had to go through anything quite so trying to win their title.”
“...”
“...”
“...your "ass" contains 36 pistons…”
The two burst out into hysterical laughter, the screwdriver falling out of Sigmas mouth and stabbing into the SynthFlesh at M.A.X’s groin, the similarity to a certain organ making the laughter rise substantially in both pitch and volume.
It’s several minutes later, the laughter has died down, and the many security officers there to investigate the Nitrous Oxide leak have been sent away. Sigma is currently transferring M.A.X back into his repaired body.
“So… how do you like it?”
M.A.X tests his jaw pistons and rolls his shoulders for a few moments.
“I like it, but it feels like whatever passes for my cheekbones are a bit higher…”
“Yeah, I; ehrm, *had* to to do that to prevent damage to the circuits, I’m sorry-”
“No, it’s fine, I like it; it kinda feels like… home…”
“Oh, good... So, where are you off to now?”
“I’m going to go down and spar with some of the security folks, need to get ready for Matt, although your employees only take to the air when i fling them…”
Note for the reader: “sparring with security” was M.A.X’s way to say that he was going to stage a pretend breakout to get to have some fun with whoever decided to try and stop him.
“Yeah yeah, run along.”
“C’ya, Ziggy”
After the android has left, Sigma turns to his laptop and goes through a few layers of biometric scanning, after which a simple chat window opens.
You risked a lot changing his face like that, you could have cut several critical circuits.
“You heard what he said! And given what you have planned for him, he deserves to live for a few weeks in a body that’s closer to the one we left him in…”
He speaks into thin air, but whoever is writing to him must have heard, because new words swiftly appear onscreen.
You’re growing fond of him…
“Don’t even try to tell me that you’re not!”
...
Alpha has disconnected
“...Pompous prick.”
