Perhaps because he’s had words for everyone for quite a while now, it’s just difficult to portray his point without communication or any discernable facial cues. Still, the comment brings a snort of laughter, along with a somewhat rude hand gesture; at least the intent is amicable.

It helps mask some of his trepidation as well. The moment his HUD pops up an alert, he’s gritting his teeth, breathing deep to quell the sudden rush of nerves.

There isn’t a sense of intrusion like he’s expecting; there’s no new presence in his mind, no computer program burning pathways through his brain, but there’s a hint of something, a ghost of a feeling that pales in comparison to what he’s been through in the past. Psychosomatic, more than likely, but it’s almost comforting, in a way. After existing for so many years as a horrible conglomeration of flesh and AI, and the abrupt silence after their destruction, there’s something familiar about the idea of being melded to his tech in such a way again.

A heavy twitch runs through his body, fingers clenching and unclenching as seconds, minutes, tick by. Notifications flash along his HUD, sparks crackle from the power unit cobbled to his back, and there’s a low hiss of static from the speaker by his shoulder that manages to coalesce into a single, semi-intelligible word.

“motherfucker.”