Chapter Text
Towering, Bangalter is roughly six foot one of unequivocal disdain—arms tightly folded, stance wide and secure—and far more disturbing than any leader ought to be. His screen flashes words like red lightning, surging with snippets such as, "QUITE PITIFUL" and "WRETCHED CREATURE". The man kneeling on hands and knees before him has to crane his neck at uncomfortable slants to be able to read it. After several seconds, he gets the general idea that it's all just synonyms for, "You're a nasty human," and returns his glare to the floor as Bangalter continues deliberating a suitable retribution for the fleshy rebel.
Behind him, de Homem-Christo is a golden shadow as he mimics his partner's hostile pose, though he comes up just a little short in all senses of the word—not quite enough pointy angles on his body to make him look imposing, not quite enough distance between him and the ground for him to be able to stare down at it condescendingly. "What shall we do with this one, Thomas?" he asks in a low, amiable tone, as if pondering their breakfast options. If robots were to have such a thing.
Bangalter rubs the fur trim of his silk cloak between two fingers as he often does when deep in thought. The material hangs from his thin shoulders like ebony waves, pooling into foamy white ermine just past his elbows. Unlike most kings with a penchant for garish, multicolored garb, both Bangalter and de Homem-Christo opt to clothe themselves predominantly in black, more often than not. It appropriately likens them to harbingers of death rather than kings. Were it not for the grandiose thrones, luxurious red curtains, and massive marble archways looming in the backdrop, the accused might have mistaken his whereabouts for death row rather than a throne room.
Fabric flourishes in glistening ruffles around Bangalter as he approaches the sorry knave and says evenly, "For an act as… underhanded as proposing an uprising against your supreme rulers, I think the punishment should be proportionately great. Do you not agree, Guillaume?"
De Homem-Christo says nothing, simply nodding his dome a millimeter. He is a good steward of language; he does not tend to speak unless the situation really calls for it.
"Right, then." Bangalter hefts an oppressive foot onto the man's shoulder, and the weight crushes the man to the tile with a thud and a crack of his chin. Bangalter is unwavering as he digs a heel into the vulnerable, pliable skin. De Homem-Christo creeps up from behind and leans against Bangalter's back, watching the great sport unfold. "For your sins against the monarchy and the very good of our illustrious kingdom, you must be punished."
The man winces, then regains confidence and spits at Bangalter's other foot. "Fuck your filthy tin can monarchy in the ass," he snarls despite the newfound pain in his jaw.
Bangalter and de Homem-Christo exchange wordless looks. Bangalter nods, assenting to something unspoken. De Homem-Christo crouches down and cradles the bruised chin between taut fingers, forcing the man to wrench his face upwards once more. A grimace is reflected back at him in de Homem-Christo's black, soulless screen.
They speak in unison: "Sir Zimmerman, your gracious reigning kings hereby sentence you to robotization." And in unison, they cast Sir Zimmerman off to the side and stand up straight, dusting themselves of mortal filth.
The tight-lipped defiance of the perpetrator crumbles away into unfiltered horror—disgust—fear. His face contorts into a red pucker. He cries openly for them to spare him, imprison him for life, grace him with the gallows, but Bangalter and de Homem-Christo have already long since lost interest in the man. De Homem-Christo claps his hands twice, summoning a pair of hefty guard units to carry the vulgar, screaming human away, leaving the two of them to settle back into their thrones and discuss the weather.
"This humidity is awful on my gears," chirps Bangalter, even as Sir Zimmerman's slanders against the robot race echo from the hallway.
De Homem-Christo nods and rests a thoughtful hand against Bangalter's knee. "We really should do something about that."
It is the year 2130 AD in the year of our robot overlords, and the joint sovereignty of Kings Bangalter and de Homem-Christo has never been stronger.