Gift of Hatred, Given Shape (before battle)
<I think I'm hearing some odd noise from in there.>
Heh. A rather high-pitched S.O.S. It's always a good indicator of wonderful happenings.
Can you not giggle about sounds of screaming, please...?!
I am familiar with this tone. The decibel range of this screaming is an exact match with Don Quixote's.
Wait. We have yet to conduct a threat assessment of the combat area. That area appears to be a closed-off space, which means -
Outis. Were Heathcliff with us, he would have said as such.
Said what?
<I think I know.>
<How bloody frustrating. Quit whinging, pick up your tools, and get crackin'!>
Heh, that was pretty close.
Ishmael soon blasted the door open with a powerful kick.
Meanwhile...
AAAHHH! Where the bloody hell are we?! Why am I tied up?!
I regretfully say unto thee, that we are... quite screwed...
Forsooth, we are fated to become toys in that hydraulic press...
It appears that, when the time cometh, I shall be turned into a roly-poly toy myself... That riseth with every fall... Agh...
Oi! Shut your trap and do something! We've got to get out of these binds!
Sir Heathcliff, I apologize profusely...! 'Tis true that there was the tiniest bit of selfishness within me that I wished to procure the Red Sack cosplay set for myself... However...
... 'twas no lie that I wished to find thee an impeccable outfit!
You little shite, I knew that this was going to happen. Once I'm out these binds, I'll...
Sob... at least thou shall become an elaborate pocket watch...
Augh...! Damn clocks, again...?!
I-I think they're going to turn me into a box of color pencils... Sob... twenty-four vibrant natural colors, or so it says...
We've not seen living raw materials in a while-ome!
But they're a bit loud-ome. Can you see if my ears are bleeding-ome?
Ome! The more they scream, the happier our recipients will be-ome!
Ome, ome! Then let's get cutting-ome!
Boom!
Heathcliff! Don Quixote! Ah, what a relief...! They've not been turned into gifts yet!
*Whistle* Quite cozy in here.
Everyone...!
H-how...
<We're here for you, Heathcliff.>
Clockhead...!
Damnit, didn't think I'd ever be this glad to see your mug...
Looks like we got here in the nick of time. Heathcliff was about to be shoved into the gift-making hydraulic machine press.
I have hewn your straps. Descend!
Look. I'm not the type to wear my heart on my sleeve. But after you lot saved me from getting turned into a pocket watch, I have to say it. Tha -
You absolute idiots! You two had ONE job, to remain by the Executive Manager's side! Yet you let yourselves be captured like this?!
... You know what? Forget it.
Right. Get a hold of yourself, you two.
Manager... what now?
<Well... we've got to trash this place. Come on. Get ready to wear your Identities.>