lttlebuddy:
Max couldn’t seem to give a crap about the more sensible of the pair. Hypnotized by staring at the robot, all of the potential for violence and mayhem that the two of them could cause made him nonfunctional for a moment. It made him giddy. He was bouncing up and down on his feet, watching the robot spawn a shot gun.
❝ YOU could be the school girls pet weasel for all I care! I wanna talk to Warstock more! ❞ Mention of the time travel wasn’t missed on him. While he may be impulsive and rash, he was no moron. He knew that they were talking about the Time Travel Elevator. But you see there is one problem with that.
They asked for a machine. Not an elevator.
Pulling out his own gun in response to the robot’s summoning of a weapon, Max expertly spun it in his hands, grinning wildly. The love of his life, you could call that Luger. ❝ IF you want a real anomaly, you should go to Stinky’s. It’s Plug-Your-Nose Thursday! ❞
"School girl's pet- for the love of- ... Eh, Warstock, you keep that hyper-mammal entertained, i'm going to search for that time machine."
Verne transferred from a valiant tall pose to an arched back, letting out a deep sigh. He hated when his intros weren't impressive enough! If anything, he's probably gonna go fetch a drink, and certainly not at this described "Stinky's", because to be fair, that sounded gross. Warstock on the other hand, was still showing off his guns, his literal guns.
"That's a big gun. KZZZRRT Probably blow- KZZRRT Clean holes~ KZZZRRT in people's heads!"
Warstock proceeded to step out the other door, revealing his true, menacing stature, and his shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. He walked towards the lagomorph with heavy metallic stomps following every footstep, and robotic whirs following every bend of his knees. Warstock of course, left the shotgun in the car, after all, he can just make more.
"Sooo- KZZZZRRRT SHORT ROUND! KZZZRRT Got a name?"
Warstock fiddled around with the cords beneath his torso armor and pulled out a microphone connected to... whatever innards are in him, and held it low to the small talking mammal. The screen on Warstock's face flickered to a screen that said "ENTER YOUR NAME", all in glorious, high def, eight bit graphics, much like a video game. Below those words was a blank line, waiting for those three letters to fill it in. He also played what he liked to call "waiting music", a small, looping, three second chiptune sample.
