02-23-2018, 11:05 AM
(This post was last modified: 06-06-2018, 12:17 PM by Android 17.)
Beatrix Zulenka was many things.
One of those things was an efficient stickler for military decorum.
By the time Seventeen made it back to his quarters, there was already a parcel envelope attached to the wall just next to the hatch control. Tearing it free, the cyborg opened the top and inverted the buff-colored packaged into his left palm. A pair of rank insignia plopped into his hand, along with a rolled up document that probably contained some military mumbo-jumbo about his new position.
“So many fucking arches.” While the chevrons remained unchanged, the machine-hybrid new rank featured not one, not two, but three arches underlying the icon of the Imperial Military forces that lay at the center. He hadn’t bothered to wear the old designs that often, but with this fundraiser thing, Seventeen was certain he was going to have to break out the whole array of military decorations.
Entering his private quarters, he dropped the rank insignia onto his desk and made for his closet. With the doors wide open, he flicked on the fluorescent track lighting and took a step back to survey his collection. To the far left, his trench coat was half-concealed behind shadows and other shirts. In a past life, the item had been a ‘focusing cloak’—which apparently meant it was designed to help bring out the best in a fighter. Had he bought the original on Earth, he would have called bullshit, but Seventeen had made the original purchase on Vegeta. The saiyans were anything but bullshitters when it came to making themselves stronger.
A ball was no place for a greatcoat, so the cyborg kept scanning the oversized closet. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear to him that he would be—in the words of Trixie—SOL.
On the opposite side of his clothing rack was his saiyan armor, another piece of equipment from a past life he had summoned out of nostalgia. In front of that set or gear was his stormtrooper armor, which was in dire need of some maintenance if he wound up back in the field.
In between the armor and the greatcoat was over a few dozen hangers, yet absolutely nothing there would be of any use.
Why?
Twenty hangers sported black t-shirts, and the other twenty sported white, long-sleeved undershirts. Over the years, the machine-hybrid had developed a look he enjoyed, and with rare exception, he didn’t deviate from the norm.
Underneath the rack of shirts was three drawers that each contained six pairs of blue jeans with light brown belts. Next to the jeans, a tiny basket contained about twenty pairs of green striated socks. The last part of the floor was filled with a three-tier shoe rack that housed five pairs of brown boots and five pairs of blue, lo-top sneakers.
Above the clothes rack, a stack of three orange bandanas was neatly folded and weighed down with a nostalgia-inducing saiyan scouter. Also atop the rack was the sheathed Power Sword, an empty belt holster, a Dragon Rader wristwatch, and a bin filled with a variety of assorted knickknacks that he didn’t have shelf space for in the rest of the room. Normally, Seventeen would stash a lot of his portables into a trusty brown belt bag, but he had been sedentary for a majority of his time in the Omniverse.
“Yea, no formal clothes.”
He was certain he used to have a few suits in the mansion, but that was a lifetime ago (like many other things).
Do I just summon a tux? Seventeen frowned. That felt too wasteful. Surely, he could just order something and have the Empire cover the cost? He was a hoity-toity sergeant with a bunch of arches on his shoulders. That had to entitle him to tap into the company’s discretionary funds, right?
With a shrug of his bony shoulders, he slid the closet doors closed and went to go find the intercom. He already knew his measurements down to the exact—a bonus derived from the machine that helped him function and the fact that his biology never changed with time.
“Trixie, where am I meeting you?”
There was a burst of static before the response came. “Helipad on the roof of A-Deck. Are you dressed already?”
Seventeen glanced down at the tuxedo and pressed out a ruffle he saw near his hip. “Yea, I’m all good.” Aside from epaulets that housed his rank insignia and a collection of medals over his left breast, the attire was your standard formal tuxedo, complete with bow tie, pseudo-buttons, and fake pockets on the front. The black slacks and matching dress shoes were shiny but otherwise unremarkable. Beneath the jacket, a pair of dark suspenders kept Seventeen feeling snug and unafraid of gravity.
Through the static, a mildly exasperated response came. “Give me three.”
The cyborg shrugged his shoulders as he made for the nearby lift that would take him to his destination. Along the way, he did his part to ensure that nothing was unsymmetrical with his attire. The quartermaster assistant had been kind enough to provide him with various ‘pro tips’ for ensuring he looked as ‘snazzy’ as he could at the fundraising gala.
He was still shuffling around the medals when he heard the tap of heels on the rooftop.
One of those things was an efficient stickler for military decorum.
By the time Seventeen made it back to his quarters, there was already a parcel envelope attached to the wall just next to the hatch control. Tearing it free, the cyborg opened the top and inverted the buff-colored packaged into his left palm. A pair of rank insignia plopped into his hand, along with a rolled up document that probably contained some military mumbo-jumbo about his new position.
“So many fucking arches.” While the chevrons remained unchanged, the machine-hybrid new rank featured not one, not two, but three arches underlying the icon of the Imperial Military forces that lay at the center. He hadn’t bothered to wear the old designs that often, but with this fundraiser thing, Seventeen was certain he was going to have to break out the whole array of military decorations.
Entering his private quarters, he dropped the rank insignia onto his desk and made for his closet. With the doors wide open, he flicked on the fluorescent track lighting and took a step back to survey his collection. To the far left, his trench coat was half-concealed behind shadows and other shirts. In a past life, the item had been a ‘focusing cloak’—which apparently meant it was designed to help bring out the best in a fighter. Had he bought the original on Earth, he would have called bullshit, but Seventeen had made the original purchase on Vegeta. The saiyans were anything but bullshitters when it came to making themselves stronger.
A ball was no place for a greatcoat, so the cyborg kept scanning the oversized closet. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear to him that he would be—in the words of Trixie—SOL.
On the opposite side of his clothing rack was his saiyan armor, another piece of equipment from a past life he had summoned out of nostalgia. In front of that set or gear was his stormtrooper armor, which was in dire need of some maintenance if he wound up back in the field.
In between the armor and the greatcoat was over a few dozen hangers, yet absolutely nothing there would be of any use.
Why?
Twenty hangers sported black t-shirts, and the other twenty sported white, long-sleeved undershirts. Over the years, the machine-hybrid had developed a look he enjoyed, and with rare exception, he didn’t deviate from the norm.
Underneath the rack of shirts was three drawers that each contained six pairs of blue jeans with light brown belts. Next to the jeans, a tiny basket contained about twenty pairs of green striated socks. The last part of the floor was filled with a three-tier shoe rack that housed five pairs of brown boots and five pairs of blue, lo-top sneakers.
Above the clothes rack, a stack of three orange bandanas was neatly folded and weighed down with a nostalgia-inducing saiyan scouter. Also atop the rack was the sheathed Power Sword, an empty belt holster, a Dragon Rader wristwatch, and a bin filled with a variety of assorted knickknacks that he didn’t have shelf space for in the rest of the room. Normally, Seventeen would stash a lot of his portables into a trusty brown belt bag, but he had been sedentary for a majority of his time in the Omniverse.
“Yea, no formal clothes.”
He was certain he used to have a few suits in the mansion, but that was a lifetime ago (like many other things).
Do I just summon a tux? Seventeen frowned. That felt too wasteful. Surely, he could just order something and have the Empire cover the cost? He was a hoity-toity sergeant with a bunch of arches on his shoulders. That had to entitle him to tap into the company’s discretionary funds, right?
With a shrug of his bony shoulders, he slid the closet doors closed and went to go find the intercom. He already knew his measurements down to the exact—a bonus derived from the machine that helped him function and the fact that his biology never changed with time.
***
“Trixie, where am I meeting you?”
There was a burst of static before the response came. “Helipad on the roof of A-Deck. Are you dressed already?”
Seventeen glanced down at the tuxedo and pressed out a ruffle he saw near his hip. “Yea, I’m all good.” Aside from epaulets that housed his rank insignia and a collection of medals over his left breast, the attire was your standard formal tuxedo, complete with bow tie, pseudo-buttons, and fake pockets on the front. The black slacks and matching dress shoes were shiny but otherwise unremarkable. Beneath the jacket, a pair of dark suspenders kept Seventeen feeling snug and unafraid of gravity.
Through the static, a mildly exasperated response came. “Give me three.”
The cyborg shrugged his shoulders as he made for the nearby lift that would take him to his destination. Along the way, he did his part to ensure that nothing was unsymmetrical with his attire. The quartermaster assistant had been kind enough to provide him with various ‘pro tips’ for ensuring he looked as ‘snazzy’ as he could at the fundraising gala.
He was still shuffling around the medals when he heard the tap of heels on the rooftop.
![[Image: 17.jpg]](http://omniverse-rpg.com/images/17.jpg)