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    1. emperorbob 11 yrs ago

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Believe it or not? Bob isn't my name.

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<Snipped quote by emperorbob>

Is Bob a builder by chance?

(Ganryu is an idiot to anyone who didn't know by the way)


He can fix it.


misfire
“How cold, buddy!”
Bob knew that Jean-Baptiste was entering his “I’m going to kill anything that wanders into my general direction” mode and wanted little to do with it….but least he knew what he was doing. The fresh meat eyed their mechs with a sort of eager curiosity that screamed inexperience. Each robot was unique, a work of art, and you couldn’t just thumb through the instruction manual and hope to do well in your first battle. That would be silly. Something of collaboration between Creed’s technology and Bob’s personal requests, he already knew the Moral Justice inside and out. It’s weapons, advanced tactics, the best methods of shield use….so many deliciously evil combinations were possible with this titan among titans. It made him smile, really. Fighting the average grunt was no fun, but a gigantic new unit? Yes, maybe a little field analysis *would* be prudent…
“Three heads, eh fearless leader? Maybe you’d like me to bring one back…”
Watching other pilots wince slightly while securing their helmets made Bob smile: he’d long since had a port installed in his neck and barely noticed such a trivial sensation. Made it so much easier to process data this way, but that was hardly the issue here. Such stuffy things, these pilot suits. Bob’s natural paranoia constantly screamed at him that such measures were less for streamlined mech controls, and more a leash. Not even removing his sunglasses, he placed the helmet firmly on his head and secured it. Chortling behind his mask, Bob produced a tiny spider like create and sat it on his shoulder.
“Let the experiment begin”
Meeting up with the group on the way, Bob decided it was time to have a little prebattle fun. Nudging Jean-Baptiste slightly, he shifts into his idiot facade. "So these are our buddies, eh comrade~~?" Without breaking eye contact, he slowly motions over to Katrina and Ian, his voice upbeat and almost singing. Upon noticing a lack of response, Bob decided to try another approach....
"One of them looks so scruffy...but what a wonderfully pretty man next to him! I wonder what he puts in his hair? My hair is so dry lately. The battlefield is a horrible place for hair, comrade." The (only slightly) passive aggressive rant came out of nowhere, and continued until Jean-Baptiste looked less amused and more ready to murder Bob if he kept going. Hair products...yeah. He'd totally get a foot in that business once he was rich.
Fiddling inside his coat, Bob groaned with distaste. No money right now it would seem, but pressing him would be a bad idea. Jean-Baptiste was unstable, currently unable to satisfy his urges, and the last thing Bob needed at the moment was a “semi friendly” battle to the death. "What you spend on "company” could feed a small nation, yanno”. Finally reaching what we hoped was the correct pocket,he pulled out a large syringe of a clear red color. Throwing it to his comrade, Bob began to mentally tally the interest that he would deduct from Jean-Baptiste’s next pay.
"I’ll take that bet if only because our female companion seems to the type to remove a man’s bal----"
Suddenly Creed's voice blared over the alarm system, cutting him off mid thought. "All pilots to the mech bay. We got an emergency on our hands people. War dogs are breaking through the gates on the Seattle, and California refugee bunkers. We will be splitting you into two teams." Bob visibly brightened.
"---oh there we go. The boss has a job for us. We should really get on that". Adjusting his glasses and motioning for Jean-Baptiste’ to follow him, Bob continued to gab. "We should seek to mentor them! You never know when you’ll need “backup” against a near innumerable alien menace, and the longer they live the more bodies between us and the horde!"
Am around.
"I wouldn't count on them too much, it takes more than a sob story to survive on the battlefield." Bob's tone was slightly bitter. At least they actually *had* something to lose in the first place. The moment quickly passed as Bob shifted into his business persona. The little invaders in their bodies, such a bothersome topic that he'd attempted to remedy many times. While Creed wasn't as intelligent as Bob, he was infinitely more innovative and these tiny machines served as proof. Simple and numerous, they tracked the various physical responses and served as a "leash" for the pilots. It was a form of control he didn't like one bit.
"As for those pesky nanomachines, I was unable to remove them without immediately terminating our ability to pilot ...." Jean-Baptiste seemed to lose interest at this point, but he decided to continue anyway. Reaching into his jacket, Bob's glasses gained an eerie shine "However, I *have* developed a little something to make our noggins....a little more private..." Trailing off like that was a tell-tale sign that Bob was willing to sell, not give, this new invention to his comrade. The only question was how much he could squeeze out before he lost interest. There were many selling points for this new wonder drug but none that Jean-Baptiste could, well, understand so he'd really need to market this one.
Making his way down the hallway Bob was rather amused to see his.....associate banging on the door to his "room."
Due to them both being special, rather dubious, cases both Bob and Jean-Baptiste were inducted at an earlier time. Hand picked by Creed for their skills rather than their personality they were given rooms first in the hopes that no...problems would occur later. To Bob, the sleeping solution seemed simple enough: if it was empty, squat in it and hope the boss man didn't complain. Creed was nothing but eccentric, and he never issued anything akin to a floor plan or even room numbers...so why shouldn't spare rooms go to him?
"HEY BOB, DID YOU SWITCH ROOMS AGAIN"
Sadly such a habit didn't sit well with Jean-Baptiste. He had such a low tolerance for the whimsy in life, a real shame. Upon a second glance, the man was clearly agitated. Bob grinned, knowing that Jean-Baptiste loved his women and his stimulants and that Creed probably didn't let such things aboard. Oh wait, no. Correcting himself Bob remembered that there *was* a woman among the pilots but she was a mood killer at best. Far too much angst in that one.
"You seem tense comrade.." Bob began, eagerly awaiting the mans response.
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