[Engineer is sleeping well for a while, the gears in his head ever turning, whatever he's seeing behind his eyes manifesting itself in slight movements of his Gunslinger beneath the blankets. The mechanisms of the device whirr and click together as his builds his dreams.
He can only get so far with one Gunslinger, though. He'd do even better if he had two. Then maybe he could build something to solve those problems for which even he has no solution. Not yet, anyway. There has to be some way to get the mercenaries out of the graves they've dug for themselves.
And so he looks down to his mechanical hands and with them builds one hell of a gun- it towers over the battlefield, protecting his nest, keeping his team from being torn apart by anyone sent from the administration.
His legs grow weary as he gets older, though. It's hard to keep building when your legs give out on you. He'd be better with mechanical ones, like his hands- hands for building the future, and feet to walk him there.
And then he has a complete set of mechanical limbs, ones able to carry more metal than before. The guns he can make are the height of technology; however, he can't build them forever. His own heart and mind will only last so long before they give out, organs running down like the clockworks of an old machine. He hasn't taken as good of care of them as he should have; now he'll have to replace them, too, and while he's at it, the skin and muscles that encase them.
And now, he's nothing but machine, with nothing left to call human, nothing but cold steel and eyes that can't see the world the way he used to. He has outlived his team, and they have outlived their usefulness. After all, if he can build himself a body of steel, why does he need them at all? All he needs are his own weapons, his guns- and now, they're more his kin than anybody has ever been.
And as he watches his monstrous gun spray his team with bullets, he snaps awake, sitting up as he grits his teeth together. His Gunslinger flexes and twitches wildly, still reacting to his nightmare- he grunts as he yanks it from the plug midway up his arm, the metal fingers going lifeless as he tosses it aside.]
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He can only get so far with one Gunslinger, though. He'd do even better if he had two. Then maybe he could build something to solve those problems for which even he has no solution. Not yet, anyway. There has to be some way to get the mercenaries out of the graves they've dug for themselves.
And so he looks down to his mechanical hands and with them builds one hell of a gun- it towers over the battlefield, protecting his nest, keeping his team from being torn apart by anyone sent from the administration.
His legs grow weary as he gets older, though. It's hard to keep building when your legs give out on you. He'd be better with mechanical ones, like his hands- hands for building the future, and feet to walk him there.
And then he has a complete set of mechanical limbs, ones able to carry more metal than before. The guns he can make are the height of technology; however, he can't build them forever. His own heart and mind will only last so long before they give out, organs running down like the clockworks of an old machine. He hasn't taken as good of care of them as he should have; now he'll have to replace them, too, and while he's at it, the skin and muscles that encase them.
And now, he's nothing but machine, with nothing left to call human, nothing but cold steel and eyes that can't see the world the way he used to. He has outlived his team, and they have outlived their usefulness. After all, if he can build himself a body of steel, why does he need them at all? All he needs are his own weapons, his guns- and now, they're more his kin than anybody has ever been.
And as he watches his monstrous gun spray his team with bullets, he snaps awake, sitting up as he grits his teeth together. His Gunslinger flexes and twitches wildly, still reacting to his nightmare- he grunts as he yanks it from the plug midway up his arm, the metal fingers going lifeless as he tosses it aside.]