Update (as of May): Sorry yall for the inactivity, I've been busy with college stuff and am preparing for that so I haven't been able to focus on my art and story accounts, that'll continue sometime later during the summer, hopefully during June or...
Half-empty glass beakers littered the counters in irregular arrays, with several blueprints for new devices that stuck to the wet floor and sticky walls. What was normally so pristine and uniformed looked as if it was turned upside down, the room's owner was so caught up in his anger that he grew blind to the amounting mess.
"No, no no no, NO!" Brainstorm shouted, sweeping his arms over the counter and sending numerous beakers to the floor as glass shards thoroughly covered the floor. He tore out several pages unevenly from a journal, tossing it behind his head as unfinished papers flew out like leaves.
The metal door to the entrance opened with a creak. "Hey uh, prof..."
The scientist slammed the journal flat on the desk, not turning to look at Rustbolt. "Shouldn't you be in Recovery?" He said close to an irritated mumble.
"Erm, about that," He steps into view, the large hole clearly visible through the gauze around his chest. "There wasn't much they could do that I haven't done."
The professor grumbled, putting his face in his hands. "It's only a matter of time before his majesty demands our attendance."
A tubed shaft from above rattled fiercely, as a metal smoke-spewing drone clattered noisily through the narrow opening, hovering above their heads in uneven tilts and spins.
"His lordship–BZZZT–awaits your presence! His lordship awaits your–BZZZT–presence! His lord–"
BANG.
Rustbolt's ray gun contracted back into his arm as it instantly exploded upon the shot, becoming nothing more than a pile of scrap and flame.
"Let's go."
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This part of the headquarters seemed to be the darkest of the whole estate, the dim bulbs barely penetrating the dark as the portraits in the hallway glared at them, looming over the two zombie heroes. The thundering sound of heavy construction from below did not quell their fears, their slow and noisy shambling being the only signs of life, or unlife to be exact.
The towering twin doors seemed even heavier as they pushed through, entering the rather gaudy room that had been adorned with dark velvet linen and carpet, uneven pipes that carried a cacophony of wind and bubbling sounds, walls long stained with exhaust and oil. Had the high windows not let in so much moonlight, it all may have looked more menacing than it really was.
They stepped towards the center, lowering their heads and offering their necks to the figure who sat above them in a rather rickety and rigid chair that squeaked with each swivel and swerve. With an awkward cough, the figure spoke.
"I take it that you failed to shut down that racket of a festival?"
Rustbolt's screws and bolts rattled as he trembled, turning slightly to look at the professor, who smiled. "Don't worry my well bolted friend," he whispers. "Allow me to handle this."
He cleared his throat as he stood straight up. "It was all his fault–"
"What?!"
"If it weren't for him, I'd have been–"
"Whatever happened to 'working together'?!"
"You should have him punished–"
"ENOUGH!"
They lowered their heads instantly, sweating bullets.
"I don't care who did what," says the overlord of the undead, Zomboss. "It doesn't really matter anyways. It happens."
They blanked, their jaws agape.
"No need to worry, you are my most loyal and hardworking heroes, save for Immorticia and Neptuna, you should always expect to make mistakes."
No words, or even sounds escaped their mouths. Was this the real Zomboss?
"Now then, leave me be," He says, swiveling his throne away, turning towards a suspended desk that contained incomprehensible writing. "I've got more important matters to worry about."
__
Despite being in the safety of Brainstorm's lab, they were gripped with the sense of impending doom. They felt even worse than they did when they had first left.
"I'm sure that he has something planned," said Rustbolt, pacing around the room. "I actually wanted him to yell at us, hit us, send us back to the grave, anything else!"
"Yes yes," Brainstorm pondered, his foot rapidly tapping against the floor. "Perhaps he really is far too preoccupied with his current plan."
"What do you mean? What plan?"
"It's merely an educated guess," He says more quietly, turning slowly towards Rustbolt. "I'm sure that whatever he has planned, it has to do with the moon."
"The moon?"
"Hrrgh, don't you ever notice these things?" He shouted, before calming himself. "These past two weeks he's had that telescope pointed straight up there. There's no doubt about it." He walked over to Rustbolt, who shrinks back.
