Conflicting Hardware - Tales of the Parodyverse

    The Harvester stomped into the room and stood defiantly, his thick arms crossed over his chest. “This had better be important,” he growled.

    “I assure you we would not have contacted you were it otherwise,” sniffed Political Machine. The robot did little to disguise his disdain for the mech before him in the dirty brown overalls.

    Harvester glared at the condescending robot. “I’ve got things to do. Speak your piece.”

    “Gentlemechs,” Media Machine attempted to placate the two robots. “Please, we’re all civilized constructs here. Why don’t we all have a seat?” The sleek android indicated the conference table behind them.

    Harvester begrudgingly took a seat in the structurally reinforced chair, removing his wide-brimmed hat and setting it on the table before him. He pulled a crumpled package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one.

    “You’ll clog up your exhaust ports with those things,” chided Fitness Machine.

    Harvester didn’t seem to be concerned. “Where’s Master Machine?”

    “He regrets that he is running a tad behind schedule,” Media Machine apologized. “But he sent word for us to begin without him.”

    “As I’m sure you’ve heard,” began Political Machine, pacing back and forth at the head of the table, “many of our associates were destroyed at the hands of the Lair Legion.”

    “Weren’t you one of them?” snorted Harvester.

    “Yes, well, Master Machine put a priority on my reconstruction,” said Political Machine snootily.

    “I heard you required the least processing power,” snarled Mean Machine. “And that pile of used parts out back needed using before they rusted out.”

    “I assure you my parts are not rusted!” denied Political Machine.

    “That would explain the brown nosing,” snickered Fitness Machine.

    “That is enough,” said Master Machine as he entered the room. The other members of the Machine Shop in the room writhed in agony as their leader activated their pain circuits. He waited a full two minutes before switching them off. “You were not constructed to banter like organics.”

    Master Machine turned his attention to Harvester. “Greetings, Farm Machine.”

    The large grey robot rose to his feet in anger. “I told you then and this is the last time I’m telling you, I’m not your damn Farm Machine. I left you chumps behind a long time ago.”

    “Yes, and what have you been up to since then, hmm? Worked up-state on various farms, scraping for a living like a human. Recently turned to petty crime, and ran into your first Legionnaires the other day,” summarized Surveillance Machine. “And they sent you packing.”

    Harvester met the robot’s gaze. “You’ve been spying on me.”

    Surveillance shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

    Harvester reached over and grabbed the robot by the head, slamming him through the table. “To each his own then,” said Harvester as he hit the mech again.

    “That’s enough!” shouted Master Machine as he activated the agony routines Industrial Machine had installed in all of his creations to stop the large grey robot.

    Harvester didn’t seem to notice as he slammed Surveillance Machine through one of the chairs bolted to the floor.

    Mean and Fitness pulled Harvester off of the decimated android, though Mean Machine couldn’t help but admire the ferocity of the attack. He hoped he’d get a crack at Harvester himself before the day was done.

    “I see you’ve had your pain circuitry removed,” noted Master Machine as he looked over the wreckage that was Surveillance Machine. He would have to construct the next model out of sturdier materials.

    “No I didn’t,” Harvester disagreed. “I was built for physical labour. I ignore pain every day.” He pulled his arms free from Mean Machine and Fitness. “Now unless you get to the point of this visit fast I’m going to rip this whole installation down on your heads.”

    Mean Machine really hoped Harvester would try it.

    Master Machine waved away the two robots flanking the farming machine. “In short, we want you back.”

    “Why? Threshing can’t pull my weight?” smirked Harvester.

    “Our recent battles with the Lair Legion have left us severely under-staffed,” admitted Political Machine. “And with the black-outs continually forcing us to halt production of replacement automatons, we would find ourselves rather hard-pressed to fend off another Legion assault.”

    “Did it ever occur to you that you’re beneath their notice right now?” Harvester had to admit to himself he was enjoying this part. “They’re kind of busy with fighting the most powerful force in the universe. Taking on you scrap heaps probably isn’t a concern.”

    “Scrap heaps?!” protested Mean Machine. He ground his teeth in anger, literally.

    “Regardless, we need to consolidate our power base and prepare for any contingency,” Media Machine interjected, trying to prevent any further property damage. “You bring considerable power and experience, and we would of course compensate you for your services.”

    “This is a one time offer,” added Master Machine. “If you walk away today there will be no chance of reconciliation, I promise you that.”

    “I told you when I left, I got no desire to take over the world,” said Harvester as he put his hat back on his head. “I like being one of the most powerful ‘bots around. Populate the whole world with mechs, I’m not so special any more. So the answer is no.”

    “Know that if you leave now, the next time we meet it will be as enemies,” warned Political Machine.

    “Bet on it,” growled Mean Machine.

    “You stay outta my way, I’ll say out of yours. Come after me, and I’ll put you in the ground.” Harvester looked Master Machine in the optics. “You’ve seen my specs, so you know I mean that literally.”

    “I do,” agreed Master Machine. “You may leave now. Our business is clearly concluded.”

    Harvester shouldered his way past Mean Machine, gave Fitness one last once-over and stored the image in his databanks, then left the room without a look back. He tossed the remains of his smoke on the steps as he exited.

    “Why’re we just letting him walk?!” demanded Mean Machine. He slammed his hands down on the remains of the table to demonstrate his aggravation.

    “We will deal with our errant automaton at a future date,” Master Machine told him. “We do not have the time or numbers to engage Farm Machine in a prolonged conflict at the moment. But we will.

    “And then,” Master Machine promised his underlings, “we will see who puts who in the ground.”

END

Post By Hatman Mon Oct 23, 2006 at 07:24:38 am EDT	Subject Conflicting Hardware

	[New] [Email] [Print] [RSS] [Tales of the Parodyverse]	Next In Thread >>