Welcome to the Sjingdom

He sucks in a deep breath and sits up, staring at the holographic images projected onto the desk in front of him as he taps idly on his whiskey glass. The light on the device apparently attached onto his right ear pulses quicker, and with the same electric blue colour of his eyes in the dim light of his ‘garage’ (he insists it’s a garage, but really, it’s more of an immense underground engineering facility). Good to hear that they made it to the location okay. -They’ll be attempting to achieve mission objective in the morning.- Sounds reasonable enough.

  “Omi’.” He taps the desk with the hand not currently dragging his whiskey glass out of the way, and a new hologram appears: a deep-orange coloured man-shaped thing with little to no defining features aside from the gentle rippling of blue throughout it, and the bright blue eyes that match the human man’s own. “What do you think of this then? I’ve had a rethink about–”

  “I know, Sir.” Right yeah. It’s living in his head. The light on the man’s ear-device blink rapidly for a moment, then, “My simulations suggest this will produce a stable prototype this time, and so one that may - theoretically - not produce reality-ruining side effects from its testing.”

  “Great.” The corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly and he sits back in his swivel-chair, taking a swig from his drink. “Can we get the armours working on it straight away? I don’t wanna keep Ry’ waiting longer than necessary.”

He expected an audible answer, a ‘Yes’, or an ‘Of course, Sir’, but–  but he knows why he doesn’t get one, and quickly scrambles to his feet. The holograms (including the ‘man’: this “Omi’”) throughout the room all vanishing as his light changes to a deep maroon colour and begins to flicker from the speed of its flashing. Shit.

  “Agent Maine!” Fuck. The wave of sickness at the sound of that voice calling his name hits him like a truck, just as it does every time this asshole opens his damn mouth. All Maine wanted was to be left alone to work on some armours, and now this mongrel waltzes in in his stupid king-getup. Maine turns and scowls at the new arrival and his gold-adorned, pathetic excuse for a ‘spacesuit’. His dumb crown. His dumb cloak. His dumb moustache.