You think I'm REVELING? In THIS? That wasn't why I came here!
[* It's difficult to hold an argument while fighting, and doubly so when most of his energy is being put into clawing the shit out of the other TV while he's got him held down. It doesn't ever occur to Dial to use some of his other attacks, like ones that involve magic. As far as he's concerned, once he feels cloth tearing under his claws and metal scraping against them, then that's all there is to this battle. Noise started it, anyways. Although, the sudden talk of heaven does put him off a bit. He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve that at all. Neither one of them do. Heaven isn't a place for those with stained hands. It is unattainable, but especially so for him.]
[* Dial doesn't immediately notice that at least one pair of his arms are being torn off during the struggle, that wires are fraying, servos are being disconnected, and metal is tearing in jagged patterns. Nothing soft, nothing kid friendly, and nothing to suggest that he really should be someone to comfort others. Sharp, unforgiving edges on a CRT whose description doesn't fit the role he was made for.]
[* When Dial does register what's happening, it's already too late.]
[* Whatever he was trying to say beforehand quickly escalated into a screech of agony paired with auditory static, his screen going from completely dark, to a bright and colorful expression of the pain he was in: colorbars. He might have even drowned out the sound of his own arms clattering to the tile floor, if he hadn't stopped screaming by then. For a split second, Dial was motionless, antennae lopsided, body slightly slumped over, but still standing, his screen reverting to static. In that brief moment, it looked like he had decided to stop, his suit in tatters, metal all scratched and dented, and not nearly enough energy to speak of.]
[* Pair two, arm left. Pair two, arm right. He gingerly moved both of his still remaining arms to test if they were still there. They were. It was only the upper ones that were unresponsive, the dreadful feeling of electrical sparks buzzing off the still live wires. Smoke filtered through the openings in his head; Dial had overheated far too much during the conflict, and now condensation was appearing on his screen, giving the impression that he was sweating, even if he was incapable of doing so. At some point during the conflict, he must have lost his gloves, because there were clear stains on his hands from some sort of past event. He tilted his head enough to glance down at what he had lost, what was now visible, and how oil was pooling up underneath where he stood. The scene was painfully familiar on account of what he had done before, but any panic or paranoia he should've had about the situation was oddly absent, most likely buried by something else. Some kind of fear so intense that it left him hollow.]
[* A few things were able to pop up through the static, sounding garbled, but also like Dial attempting to speak, then just giving up. Now was not the time for words. His movements were unstable and jerky for a minute or so as he inched closer, but then he dropped the act; it was his turn to lunge at Noise now. Although he had just gotten his original pair of arms ripped off, his second pair had stubbornly latched onto Noise again. They dug into him as soon as Dial had barreled into him just to deliver a crushing bite to his shoulder at the same time, not stopping until he both felt and heard the metal plates underneath that unkempt fur creaking in protest. Once he thinks he's got a good enough hold on him again, he shakes his head while the other's shoulder is still in between his teeth, all while pulling backwards. If something tears, then it'll just have to do so. Dial isn't letting go until that happens.]
