10-14-2015, 08:09 PM
Soon after Karkat and Jade’s departure, the heavy clomping sound of metal jarring against smooth linoleum tile indicates the arrival of someone else on the main floor. Becquerel turns his head to regard this newcomer, green tongue lolling oafishly from his mouth.
“Follow after her, boy,” Grandpabot urges the large dog on, because like heck is he letting his granddaughter go anywhere without a proper weapon or at least three computers, and Beccy boy just so happens to be the greatest secret weapon a person can have. Well, he at least makes for good company, anyways, and robots have no need of that. “She’s about to go on a fantastic adventure, I can feel it! Guidance is a must.”
The dog snuffles stubbornly back at the robotic old guy, firmly planting his bottom on the floor a fair distance from the teleporter platform. He isn’t disobeying a direct order, no matter the identity of the one who is issuing new ones.
Grandpabot gives a tinny sigh. “See here, I will even put the tower on lock-down the whole while that you two are away! Scout’s honor. Not even a whole battalion of trolls could plow through acrylic windows in-laid with a curtain of solid steel four inches thick!”
Becquerel tilts his head to the side, considering this notion. Now this is a thought, indeed. It is entirely possible that what Jade’s grandfather is saying is one hundred point five percent truthful, and that nothing horrible will befall Jade’s home while the First Guardian is away. He would also really like to follow after Jade and make sure that she doesn’t fall asleep in someplace dangerous, as well. Plus, those Alternian trolls sure are frolicsome fellows! Jade could be hurt and he would never know of it. This is quite the dilemma.
Tail slowly brushing scratchily against the floor as it sways, Bec whines at Grandpabot, shifting his paws as if considered taking off for the teleporter pad right this instant to follow after his young charge.
“Good dog,” the robot of advanced years says, patting Bec on his nose with a synthetic glove of rubbery material. “Now hurry up and catch up with Jade! Go on!”
With a muffled grumbling noise, the white-furred wolfdog gets to his feet and steps up onto the golden teleporter to Camelot. He disappears a half-second later in a flashfire of brilliant green-yellow lightning, what sounds suspiciously like a jaw-cracking yawn marking his departure.
Face plate unchanging and eternally locked into a cheery smile, Grandpabot’s voice plays over the tower’s prudently concealed speakers: “Initiate lock-down sequence.”
The entire tower noticeably rumbles, as if the ground beneath it were shifting a few inches to the right. Solid sheets of steel drop down over the shiny glass windows all over the building with hollow clinks indicating their descent. The front door suddenly becomes immovable and locked in place. Every floor in the tower experiences a severe dimming of the lights by several megawatts, save for the garden atrium which glows warmly with thermal light and melts away any frost patterns that collect on the windows.
There is a very obvious “Trespassers Will Be Shot” feel about the Harley residence now, judiciously fused with a noticeable “top secret scientific facility in the Arctic” aesthetic. Just the way he likes it.
His eyes giving off an eerie red glow in the dark like a ship’s lights through a dense fog, Grandpabot turns on his heel and marches off towards his workrooms.
He has quite a few irons in the fire, at the moment. Literally.
“Follow after her, boy,” Grandpabot urges the large dog on, because like heck is he letting his granddaughter go anywhere without a proper weapon or at least three computers, and Beccy boy just so happens to be the greatest secret weapon a person can have. Well, he at least makes for good company, anyways, and robots have no need of that. “She’s about to go on a fantastic adventure, I can feel it! Guidance is a must.”
The dog snuffles stubbornly back at the robotic old guy, firmly planting his bottom on the floor a fair distance from the teleporter platform. He isn’t disobeying a direct order, no matter the identity of the one who is issuing new ones.
Grandpabot gives a tinny sigh. “See here, I will even put the tower on lock-down the whole while that you two are away! Scout’s honor. Not even a whole battalion of trolls could plow through acrylic windows in-laid with a curtain of solid steel four inches thick!”
Becquerel tilts his head to the side, considering this notion. Now this is a thought, indeed. It is entirely possible that what Jade’s grandfather is saying is one hundred point five percent truthful, and that nothing horrible will befall Jade’s home while the First Guardian is away. He would also really like to follow after Jade and make sure that she doesn’t fall asleep in someplace dangerous, as well. Plus, those Alternian trolls sure are frolicsome fellows! Jade could be hurt and he would never know of it. This is quite the dilemma.
Tail slowly brushing scratchily against the floor as it sways, Bec whines at Grandpabot, shifting his paws as if considered taking off for the teleporter pad right this instant to follow after his young charge.
“Good dog,” the robot of advanced years says, patting Bec on his nose with a synthetic glove of rubbery material. “Now hurry up and catch up with Jade! Go on!”
With a muffled grumbling noise, the white-furred wolfdog gets to his feet and steps up onto the golden teleporter to Camelot. He disappears a half-second later in a flashfire of brilliant green-yellow lightning, what sounds suspiciously like a jaw-cracking yawn marking his departure.
Face plate unchanging and eternally locked into a cheery smile, Grandpabot’s voice plays over the tower’s prudently concealed speakers: “Initiate lock-down sequence.”
The entire tower noticeably rumbles, as if the ground beneath it were shifting a few inches to the right. Solid sheets of steel drop down over the shiny glass windows all over the building with hollow clinks indicating their descent. The front door suddenly becomes immovable and locked in place. Every floor in the tower experiences a severe dimming of the lights by several megawatts, save for the garden atrium which glows warmly with thermal light and melts away any frost patterns that collect on the windows.
There is a very obvious “Trespassers Will Be Shot” feel about the Harley residence now, judiciously fused with a noticeable “top secret scientific facility in the Arctic” aesthetic. Just the way he likes it.
His eyes giving off an eerie red glow in the dark like a ship’s lights through a dense fog, Grandpabot turns on his heel and marches off towards his workrooms.
He has quite a few irons in the fire, at the moment. Literally.
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Gamzee Makara Wrote:S’aight. After all, dogs have a tendency to motherfuckin’ bite.