Eggman looked around as if confused about where the voice was coming from at first. He could hear someone yelling at him, but spotting the individual wayyy down there was difficult, especially with the poor lighting.

"Wwwhat?" blurted the Eggman aloud, as if genuinely confused. Squinting hard behind his dark shades, he seemed to have finally found Sheffer out. "What is it with you hedgehogs and Sonic? Is he all you pointy-haired, obstreperous little rats have to be proud of?" His mustache bristled, and he sat back in his seat, tall and full of his own puffery. "Maybe, just maybe, I should point out that he isn't here, if you somehow didn't notice. But, I'd welcome anyone else to try something incredibly heroic. —And stupid."

He quietly pushed the Sol Emerald safely into the Egg Mobile's console, and smirked surreptitiously.

The armada of zombiebots had remained pretty quiet in the midst of the doctor's outbursts. Even the big bad itself, the "boss monster" of the outfit, had apparently put the brakes on, wherever it had gone. As such, the group was left to its own devices, for the time being.

Naturally, that didn't last long. When Eggman's silvery Sonic counterpart reappeared it had stomped its way to the top of a bundle of gray metal shipping containers. Burn marks scorched its tough dark spines, remnants of the blast it had endured, and there was no way the thing hadn't gotten out of that without some of its insides scrambled around, but overall, the big old thing was still kicking. Even a megablast like that hadn't stopped the machine, and if that were the case, what could?

There was the question of why exactly it had reappeared, and the answer should have been obvious given who it seemed to have taken an interest in. Evidently it had heard enough of Sheff's boasting. When it reappeared it was clutching--clutching--a gigantic and unsettlingly heavy-looking shipping container not unlike the ones it was standing on, holding the entire thing over its head before hurling the makeshift projectile down at the noisy green hedgehog, looking like a mechanized version of a necktie-wearing ape throwing the world's biggest barrel.

Sheffer had insulted Eggman's weight.

He insulted the weight of a man who preferred to be called Eggman.

While the rotund doctor bore his best haters gonna hate face, he found himself at a loss for a scathing enough reply. But, Silver Sonic took the task upon himself, and interjected for his creator in a more than satisfactory fashion. While he was smiling at that small victory, however, there came a few quick beeps from one of the hovering camera drones. A twitch, a couple blinks, and a speed-lines-caliber double-take--Eggman looked at the machine in dread and horror, and spat, "We're still live?!"

Oops.

"Ahahrhrrm hrrm, ohoho... ho." ... He cleared his throat and laughed awkwardly. "Anyway. I believe I've made my point. The plot of today's episode is bulletproof, Mr. President, so you have, ohhh, three minutes to pick up the phone and dial the number on your screen, and 'negotiate' your country's peaceful surrender. Believe me, theeese guys aren't going to save you."

One camera drone was hovering around, following the SSD transport, and the other was buzzing around and watching Sheffer's battle. By the time both live feeds reached their audience, it can be assured that they had party hats, clown noses, giant buck teeth, and other flattering things digitally superimposed. Yes, even the SSD dropship itself. Insert raucous, grating Eggman laughter.

Once the big would-be barrel had left its grip, the robot evidently saw little need to do anything but watch the result. It exhibited no perceivable reaction upon the passing of said result, content to stand in place and watch as the hedgehog righted himself and began racing to where it had perched.

There was something to be said about something coming straight at you, though. And that was that, ultimately, Sheffer made for a relatively easy target. Silver Sonic II's gunhand rose nonchalantly and the cannons-for-fingers began spitting those little suns on full auto again, straight at the incoming hedgehog. One long, endless noise emitted from the hand as the plasma toroids burned their way through the atmosphere.



"What's the hold-up?" asked Cross in that polite, friendly way of his.

"Looking for a safe spot to unload, Captain," said Crash the Kangaroo, the Special Services Division's pilot of all things pilotable, through a cigar he had been chewing on for about the last three or four years. "Lots of defenses on that bugger; don't want to get swatted out of the air. Having a hard enough time finding a safe route without gettin' painted as it stands."

"It's Major," sighed Cross. "Well, take your time, it's not like we have a time limit or anything." He and the others had heard the good doctor's most recent statement...

"Certainly, sir. 'Course, y'may want to have your barf bags on stand-by anyway. Depends on when they decide to open up."

"That's very encouraging."

"I live to please, chappie."

Elegant Joe leaned out the window and waved again, except this time he was waving at that camera pod hovering around the shuttle like an obnoxious gnat. No, he had no idea that to the viewing audience at home he looked like he was riding in the world's fanciest clown car.

OOC: Too tired to proofread, and I just finished watching like three hours of superhero movies. Expect a void of sense.


Willing though she was, initially, Jam couldn't help but allow her zealous grin to falter, evidently having expected to be tasked with something a little cooler than "ghetto weld this for me."

Despite whatever internal disdain she had for the job, however, she wasn't absolutely certain how capable she'd be as a means to Rock's end, seeing as how she'd only ever tried anything even remotely similar with empty soda cans as a home remedy for her chronic too-much-free-time-and-not-enough-to-do-itis. She eyed the knotty chain dubiously for a moment, before casting that same look of uncertainty to the paler primate, which quickly ebbed in favor of her nearly infamous overconfidence.

What then began as an entirely unimpressive series of lapping, licking sparks became evident as the destructive (or more accurately, for once; constructive) force it was around the time the sections of heavy chain Jam gripped started to turn bright orange as the metal tangle's distinction literally melted away, and the characteristic aroma of burning leather wafted through the air. Their makeshift lasso dropped to the ground with a clatter soon after.

"As a general disclaimer thing," muttered the strawberry-hued simian impassively as she glared irritably at the blackened, still-smoking cigar-burn-like holes in the palms of her gloves. "I assume, y'know... no liability if this thing breaks and drops all our asses in lava'r some s**t."