Miss Pauling's chin rested on her hand as lines of this stranger's script fed itself into the screen, eyes moving slightly, a frown making the faintest furrows in her forehead. The solution had been laughingly simple. In order to get him to 'say' something, she had to 'say' nothing...
It was a one-sided, piecemeal dialogue/monologue, fed to her only by audible observation of this entity, but fortunately he had a lot to say.
They told me NEVER NEVER -EVER- to disengage myself from my Management Rail, or-or I would DIE. [not dead]
This information implied that he really was an automated construct.
But how he was speaking to her, the way he was speaking, didn't make sense.
Then she considered her opponent in this struggle, and sighed. Well, it made more sense than most things...
I... Am... Not... Dead! I'm not dead! [not dead, not dead] Ha-ha! . . . C-can't move, though. That's the problem now. [help me]
Hello? Can you—can you pick me up, please? If you are there? [please be there]
She wasn't supposed to say anything, but could only watch as apparently he was picked up.
That was the other strange thing, he was interacting with someone who interacted with him in return, but lacked any audible feedback.
Which, she supposed, meant that either his mysterious companion couldn't be 'heard' through here, or couldn't speak at all.
She filed this thoughtful tidbit away for later, and continued to read.
In order to escape, we're going to have to go through HER chamber... [and I really don't want to go in there]
. . .
"There can only be one, and it is not you. Yield to a superior entity."
"I was created 5.28 nanoseconds before your assembly commands even made the production line."
"My door opened 8 seconds before yours, therefore I have first claims to the Inferior prey. Do not deny me my right, O expired construct."
"Your faceplate is aesthetically deficient."
"Your weight and consequent bulk grossly exceed the expected standard of your model."
"Your production manager was a nanobot."
This conversation was broken with the screech and slamming of metal as they awkwardly shoved and battered each other, making the room shake with their collisions, crushing and crashing throughout the chamber in showers of sparks and debris.
"You tell 'em, ye mutant metal ostriches!" the Demoman crowed with laugher, ducking the deadly shards of shrapnel.
The Witch-woman was shrieking at them, the very walls, floors, and ceiling shoving them aside or trying to shove them apart or even trying to crush them. But the dino-machines were awfully tough things, pretty much breaking everything the Hag threw at them.
They were determined to brawl to the death.
Now THIS would go perfectly with scrumpy!
One stared at the other, as one warningly spun its gun extensions, the distinct clack-CLACK sounding even over the white noise of carnage.
Demoman chuckled, "Aye! Show some bullets, you buckets of bolts!"
. . .
The Heavy could barely help it as his fists clenched on either side of the baby keyboard, looking at the footage.
This was it! Fire! Fire! FI-I-I-IRE!
. . .
The other one prepped its guns, clack-CLACK, in a classic Western standoff, quiet, and ready.
. . .
She was frantic, frayed, distracted, and it was not in Her to be these things, therefore, above all things, She was furious.
The Moron had somehow escaped from his Aperture Science Virtually Realistic Android Hell, and She could not locate him.
The Monster had kidnapped Her Bloodhound.
The crazed gunman was no longer a viable test subject.
And now Her Engineer's machines were showing their ugly, ugly flaws!
She had not commanded this!
She had not—!
She looked.
Data:
To: Interesting Idea Generator.
Through: Bloodhound.
Connecting: Moron.
She froze.
From: the Russian.
. . .
As their respective guns were primed and ready, Demoman heard Her sudden shriek.
"NO! Do not fire! I command you, hold your fire—hold your fire—HOLD YOUR FIRE!"
Clack...
The Demoman watched, grinning savagely, his sole eye glinting.
"Ka-beuuum, lassie..." he chuckled.
CLACK.