Chapter Text
Jugular didn't usually busy himself with job offers. It was illogical, most simply put. He was a respected and feared villain who could and would kill anyone for any price he demanded. His reputation as both the one of the only assassin willing to take on jobs involving heroes as well as one of the only who held no form of morality had earnt him both fear and respect. His role as a symbol of robotic defection led not only to a downtrodden community who looked up to him as a paragon of rebellion against fickle human code but also to many other villains choosing to avoid him for the fear that those same followers would tear them apart if he were to be harmed.
In short, Jugular was a very influential robot who's very mention could silence bars and who very much enjoyed that fact about himself. It was illogical to think he needed anything else.
Despite this, Jugular found himself analysing the poster front and back, arguing with himself over why the offer didn't sound too bad.
SDN's brand new 'phoenix program'. A chance for villains, no matter how deplorable, to become heroes. One of his brethren had brought it too him, bringing warnings from other contract killers about clients potentially selling them out to further endear themselves to whoever was running the project. Jugular reckoned it was far from a likely scenario but had noted the possibility down somewhere in his files, paying more attention to what the poster was actually advertising.
It was idiotic for him of all androids to even think of applying- between his hatred of humanity and the responsibilities he held as THE hero assassin (although he felt the title was too tacky to take seriously)- as well as the fact that his logic unit has very plainly stated the several ways this could go extremely wrong (54% he would immediately be arrested on the spot, 23% they'd lead him on until they could disable him permanently, etc) all should've quite effortlessly convinced him that this was a bad idea. Yet, still, uncertainty tainted his processor with thoughts of a better life. A life where he, nor his peers, needed to scavenge junkyards or scrap their fallen brethren for parts.
Jugular hated uncertainty.
It was, in his logical opinion, the most human of feelings. Machines could be happy and they could be sad or angry or anything else, but uncertainty required the distinct knowledge that you didn't know something. Machines always knew the variables and, if they didn't, they were always smart enough to clarify.
Jugular's only shot at clarity was going into that building and asking.
Which would show he was interested.
Which he wasn't.
...
But he needed repairs. The constant locking up and spazaming of his left servo proved that well enough, not to mention the way his left leg strut strained with each step he took, chasing or not. Or maybe it was the way the casing around his core poked inwards after a rough skirmish with a hero trying to save her friend, constantly rubbing against his internals. Or maybe it was the frayed wires connecting his helm to his body or the sticking joints in his thighs or the way his lense didn't focus properly anymore or his dulled paint or his hotlined sensors or-
Jugular closed his self diagnosis program down rather quickly, already feeling his fans kick up in an attempt to cool his racing processor.
He was going to break something permanent soon.
That was a scary thought, no matter how much Jugular hated it.
Limping his way further into the oppressive darkness the alleyway seemed to hold, Jugular barely noticed himself pulling the blood soaked hoodie from the dead body on the floor. He only mildly recognised pulling it over his skeletal form to conceal what little of himself he could.
He'd have to investigate further, no matter how much he hated the disgusting blight on the world that was humanity.