"Hey, Serges! This one's for yer momma!"
Before he could respond, a large test-tube came sailing across the small laboratory room and nailed Sergeant Serges on the side of his metallic head. The troublemaking culprits in the far corner could be heard laughing histerically. They high-fived eachother in a comical manner and continued their jeering.
Serges nursed his now-swollen cranium. "Damned imbicles! What in the name of jahosophat do you think you're doing? We can't be acting like idiots while a masterpiece is being reborn!" He lifted his hunchbacked body up from the ground and displayed a menacing glare. "Now get yer arses back in gear, or I'll report all of you to Master Sigma! Then you will face the consequences! Now MUSH!"
As Serges pounded his fist against the table beside him, the reckless technicians immediatley returned to their work on Vile's enhanced battle armor. Sigma himself had chosen the new colors - orange, with sleek gold trimmings - which was certainly a departure from the drab purple and blue hues of the past. The Maverick leader was ready to welcome a new generation of destruction and annihilation, and he held the colors as a sign of total dominance over all. It seemed perfectly fit for the occasion.
It had certainly been a rough week. Almost all of the technicians in Sigma's fortress had been working nonstop on the reconstruction of the fallen Maverick general. None managed to slip in even a second of free time - their Sergeant was very strict with them. They often enjoyed comparing him to a slavedriver.
In the sea of enthusiasm, however, there thrived a gathering of fear throughout the fortress. Word had spread that their precious well-hidden fortress had been located somehow, as reported by the Chief Maverick Guard. Even some of the strongest soldiers of Sigma's army had been in deep panic, with the belief that the Maverick Hunters would attack at any time, before the construction of Vile was complete. It had certainly become a frantic environment, and Serges was having a great deal of trouble trying to keep everybody in order.
Not only that, however, but Sigma had given him the job of babysitting a bunch of slackjawed yokels who apparently were "high-class" technicians. It seemed that all they did was goof off - which could annoy the distressed Sergeant to the breaking point.
While pondering the happy results of resignation, Serges was abruptly knocked back to his senses when he heard a loud, frantic cry escape from one of the technicians.
"MY HAND!! FIRE! FIIRREE!!!!!" the distressed reploid yelled as he began shaking his hand, now lit aflame. While doing an idiotic dance of fright around the room, his co-workers began shouting suggestions.
"Hit it against a piece of metal!" one technician called.
"No! Snuff it out with your mouth!" another yelled.
"Press it against your chest and pound it on the floor!" a third suggested.
"Just dip it in a bucket of gasoline!" a final one cried.
Without much hesitation, the technician rushed to the corner where a bucket lay hidden. Stamped on a large sign above exclaimed "USE IN CASE OF FIRE". Not totally understanding the warning, the reploid drank the entire bucket of the mysterious liquid. It took him a few seconds to realize that he had just made a huge mistake.
"You idiot!" shouted Serges from across the room. "You're supposed to pour it on the fire, not drink it!"
The frantic technician, now desperate, decided that he had to make a decision fast. Without thinking, he ran over to the development table and slammed his burning fist constantly on the sleek metal. It took about a minute for him to totally smother the flame beneath his hand, which was now a deep, charred black. The sorry excuse for a mechanic fell to his knees and nursed his injured hand, with a few silent tears escaping his frightened eyes.
Serges released another yell; this time, however, the tone in his voice was given a livid touch. "Moron! Get up and look at the damage you've done!"
Heeding his superior's request, the scarred mechanic lifted his sorry self to his shaking feet. A bit shaken, he nervously glanced at the development table above him. There lay Vile's metallic chestplate, now charred and burnt from the intensity of the flames he had spread upon it. To top things off, a large dent in its center had caused the once gleaming piece of metal to crack and whither at the seams. The mechanic, shocked by his actions, proceeded to gawk at the damage he had done to a priceless piece of work.
The respectlful Sergeant couldn't take it anymore. His face white-hot with rage, he began to loudly scold the roustabout laborers.
"YOU FRIGGIN IDITOS!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?? DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO FOLLOW SAFETY PROCEDURES? ARE YOU SO BRAINDEAD THAT YOU CAN'T ABIDE BY A FEW SIMPLE RULES??? HOW CAN SIGMA PUT UP WITH YOU IDIOTS?!" He took a moment to catch his breath before resuming his extravagant rant. "THIS IS OVER!! IF YOU WANT TO ACT LIKE A GANG OF CIRCUS FREAKS, BE MY DAMN GUEST!" Serges swiftly turned towards the door. With seemingly little effort, he firmly grasped the doorknob and - with one mighty thrust - ripped the entire door out of its respective spot and tossed it across the small room, causing it to crash against the cold, metallic wall.
"I'M GOING TO SEE MASTER SIGMA! ALL OF YOU CAN JUST STAY HERE AND WALLOW IN YOUR OWN IDIOCY, IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT!" And with that, the bearded soldier stormed out the doorway and vanished from sight.
Shocked and confused from what had just happened, the mechanics stood in place like marble statues, remaining totally quiet. The silence was soon interrupted, however, by a stray reploid's low-toned voice.
"Magnus... we told you not to use the blowtorch to clean your nails."
The tranquil silence that surrounded Sigma's quarters was very pleasing to the Maverick King. Rarely did he feel a calm atmosphere such as this - Sigma had always been busy filling out construction reports and supervising his workers lately, and he hardly received even a second of free time. Moments like these were always treasured.
Alone at his small workdesk, Sigma pondered what the future of the human race might be like. He could picture the torment, the bloodshed, the screams of mercy... it was all like a beautiful dream to him. This time, however, he intended to make that dream become true at last.
Until then, however, all he could do was express his feelings in the best way he could: written word. Not many of his comrades knew of it, but Sigma loved to write poetry in the little free time he had. He felt that the poem he was currently composing was one of the best he had written yet. Sitting snugly in his dark scarlet armchair, he proudly observed the words he had printed on his notepad:
Humans!
Their time is through for good!
How joyous it shall be to see them die!
When nightfall arrives, I shall find a human
And tear off all his limbs!
Then, with a hearty laugh, I shall snap the fool's spine
To halt his irritating screeches!
That is my wrath, human! No more soup for you!
In his eyes, it was a true masterpiece. His admiration of his work was short lived, however, when a loud pounding of metallic boots came thundering from the hallway beyond his office door. Soon enough, a disgruntled Sergeant Serges kicked the large, steel doors open and paraded into the once-peaceful room, reciting a string of random curse words while prancing around the area repeatedly. After a few seconds he proceeded to slam his head against the cold, marble floor while sobbing in an extremely awkward manner. Sigma seemed a bit lost with his actions.
"Serges... you seem a bit.... perturbed," stated Sigma, with a look of slight concern on his face.
The bearded X-Hunter looked up to his humble Master, still halfway through his sobbing. "You're damn right I'm perturbed!" he shouted as he pounded his fists against the neatly carpeted flooring. He soon regained his composure and spoke to Sigma in a civilized tone. "Those bumbling circus clowns! Idiots! Every last one of 'em! They can't tell their arses from a hole in the wall they accidentaly made yesterday! They have no order whatsoever! They're like a pack of slackjawed yokels! I can't believe that they're smart enough to be advanced mechanics!" He lifted himself from the ground and pounded a fist on Sigma's desk. "Something has to be done, Sigma! I can't be babysitting these people anymore! You need to take immediate action!"
Resting his head against his free arm, Sigma nonchalantly nodded his head. "Of course, Sergeant. I understand that supervising a group such as that can be quite troubling. I'll take care of things right away..."
The Reploid Champion reached for the blood red phone resting at the far end of his desktop. His fingers dialed the numbers slowly as Serges's agitated self anxiously waited, prattling his fingers against the smooth tabletop. It wasn't long before Sigma began to speak with a high-voiced Maverick on the other line.
"Hello, Reva... yes, everything's going well. Yes... I heard about that. Very tragic. Hope they reattach it soon, that must be a mess to carry around... well, there has been a bit of trouble. It's not much of a deal, however, so don't worry about it... I will. You take care now..."
Sigma hung the phone up before returning to his poem writing, seemingly forgetting about the overly pissed-off Serges standing before him.
The Sergeant was befuddled. "Well?" he queried.
Sigma glanced up. "'Well' what?"
Serges, now ready to kill, pounded his fist against the desktop once again. "About the mechanics! Are you gonna do anything about it?"
Sigma nodded his head, suddenly understanding the matter. "Ah yes... I called Reva, nice gal... she says she'll give them a little slap on the wrist, I suppose. Things'll be taken care of."
This was far more than Serges could handle. "Dammit, you fool! I can't believe that you're acting like a friggin smartass at a time as crucial as this!" He turned away from his Master and advanced to the exit. "Master Sigma, if you can't control the behavior of a few simple mechanics, then I can't see how you can possibly carry out General Vile's rebirth! You're just gonna sit here and let the Maverick Hunters discover our location! Then we'll be totally screwed over! I'm warning you! If you don't take action, then our entire operation will be shot to hell!" He stormed out of the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him.
Left alone at his desk, Sigma took a moment to let what just occured sink in. For the first time, he realized that his bearded comrade might have something of a good point; Sigma had been a bit leniant and laid back lately, and the reconstruction of Vile had been moving rather slowly. If he didn't get things moving, the Hunters might be swift to discover the fortress's location and may attack - which obviously would ruin all of his plans. Something had to be done, and fast.
Scrambling for his notepad, Sigma ripped off the piece of paper displaying his poem and began writing a memo:
To all staff:
It is to my understanding that not all procedures and tasks have been followed with complete effort and dilligence. I have recieved numerous complaints involving this issue, and I have chosen to impose the following order:
All mechanics, mercenaries, etc. must work at double the time they have previously. Time is slowly running thin, and we need all of the effort possible to wage our attack against the Maverick Hunters. If we slow down and act like fools, then we will never be able to achieve our goal.
I know that this will not be an easy task to complete, but I have total confidence in the hard work and determination of our soldiers.
Thank you --
Master Sigma
Happy with his work, Sigma sat back in his chair. Once again, he began to fill his mind with the sweet dreams of a hopeful future.