I crouched beside the smoldering wreckage of the doppelgänger, still wary of any twitch of movement. My instincts screamed to leave it alone, but the glinting metal and faint pulses of energy hinted at something valuable.
“Alright,” I muttered, activating my visor's scan function. Or rather, the janky SYSTEM interface that now lived rent-free in my head. A faint hum vibrated in my skull as the scan illuminated the doppelgänger’s shattered form.
[ADAPTIVE PLATING]
Lightweight, Self-Healing Potential
High compatibility with modular systems.
“Self-healing armor? Jackpot,” I said, prying the sleek plates free. They came off easier than I expected, like the SYSTEM wanted me to have them.
“Careful, Mr. Engineer,” Elmo quipped. “That’s not just fancy scrap metal. That’s alien fancy scrap metal. Probably cursed.”
“Noted,” I said, tucking the plates into my makeshift satchel. “But I’m willing to risk it.”
Moving to the ape’s massive frame, I winced at the damage my explosion had caused. One of its arms had been completely blown off, but the other was relatively intact. My scan tagged it immediately.
[HYDRAULIC ACTUATORS]
Enhanced Force Application, High Durability
Ideal for strength-focused modifications.
I leaned back, letting out a low whistle. These things were impressive—a glimpse into engineering I could only dream of back in the garage days. Still, they weren’t ideal for reinforcing the armor frame. They’d add bulk where I needed flexibility.
“Not bad,” I muttered, prying one free with a grunt. The actuator came loose with a satisfying pop, trailing a few stray wires.
Elmo, never missing a moment to be annoying, chimed in with mock applause. “Congratulations! You’ve unlocked the power of robot steroids. Just try not to tear a muscle showing off your new hydraulics.”
“They’re not for me,” I said, shooting an exasperated look at the air. “I’m not bolting these things onto my suit.”
“Oh, sure,” Elmo quipped. “Because nothing says ‘cool guy armor’ like skipping the one thing that could turn you into Optimus Prime.”
I rolled my eyes. “They’ll be way more useful for a precision tool upgrade, maybe even an assistive rig. You know, actual utility?”
Elmo snorted. “Utility? That’s rich coming from the guy whose lawn mower got turned into a deathtrap. Face it, Blake. You’re one bedazzled power gauntlet away from joining The Fast and the Furious franchise.”
I ignored him and examined the actuators again, already running through ideas in my head. With a little refinement, they could enhance dexterity for fine-tuned builds or serve as components for heavy-lifting tools. Perfect for later projects, but not for the frame upgrades I had in mind.
Next, I noticed a faint glow emanating from the ape’s shattered chest cavity. My scan zeroed in on a cluster of jagged crystalline shards embedded in its core.
[DAMAGED CRYSTAL CORE SHARD] (x3)
Residual Energy, Adaptive Output Potential
Requires stabilization matrix for safe usage.
“These could be used for... something,” I muttered, carefully extracting the shards. “If they don’t blow me up first.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Elmo chimed. “That’s how it starts. Next thing you know, you’re Tony Stark in a cave, trying to stop shrapnel from ending your career.”
“Or my life,” I shot back, pocketing the shards.
Finally, I turned back to the doppelgänger’s head—or what was left of it. A single flickering node glared back at me like the last boss in a video game.
[Deactivated SYNTHETIC CORTEX UNIT]
High-Level AI Processing, Tactical Analysis
Extreme caution advised. Potential reactivation risk.
“Nope,” I said, stepping back immediately. “Not touching that.”
“Smart move,” Elmo said, approving for once. “You don’t want to end up pulling a Jurassic Park. Remember the velociraptors? Just because it’s ‘off’ doesn’t mean it won’t eat your face.”
I sighed, leaving the cortex alone. Instead, I focused on the legs, salvaging intact servo units from the wreckage.
[HIGH-SPEED SERVO UNIT (x2)]
Enhanced Mobility, Sprint Boost
Ideal for mobility-focused upgrades.
“These could help with mobility,” I said, tucking the servos into my pack.
“Or give you the worst case of road rash in history,” Elmo chimed in. “If you slap those on and start running like the Flash, I’m recording it for the SYSTEM blooper reel.”
Surveying the pile of salvaged parts, I took a deep breath. These scraps would be the foundation of my next move. The SYSTEM wanted to throw me into a death match with mechanical monstrosities? Fine. I’d build something that could fight back.
“Alright,” I said, standing and dusting off my hands. “Time to get to work.”
“And cue the montage,” Elmo said. “Let me know when you’re ready to throw in some explosions and an 80s soundtrack. I recommend Eye of the Tiger—classic underdog energy.”
I smirked, shaking my head. “More like Weird Science. Now pipe down unless you have a good idea for how to wire this.”
My eyes fell to the pile of scavenged parts from the doppelgänger, a mix of scorched plating and exposed circuits. The arcbolt generator I’d salvaged earlier lay in the center, still faintly humming with power. That thing was going to be the centerpiece of my next project: a second gauntlet.
The first gauntlet I’d cobbled together had been great for brute force and shielding, but it lacked finesse. This one would be different—focused, precise, and packing a serious punch.
I grabbed the arcbolt launcher, carefully turning it over in my hands. Its sleek design looked almost alien, with glowing conduits that pulsed faintly like veins.
[ARCBOLT LAUNCHER]
For the discerning hero who loves precision and a bit of chaos. Because nothing says “I’m serious about survival” like strapping a science experiment to your wrist and praying for the best! Launches charged projectiles to stun or disable your foes—or yourself, if you’re feeling adventurous! Powered by 4 MP per shot, it's the perfect blend of cutting-edge tech and reckless ambition. Warning: Side effects may include minor electrocution, bad aim-induced regret, and zero customer support. Use at your own peril. No refunds, no sympathy.
I started by crafting the gauntlet’s frame. This one needed to be lighter but just as durable as the first. Using some salvaged composite plating, I cut and welded together a sleeker design that allowed for greater flexibility. Unlike the first gauntlet, this one would incorporate fine-motor capabilities for precision work.
The arcbolt launcher’s generator slotted into the forearm compartment, snug and secure. From there, I carefully routed insulated wiring to the gauntlet’s fingertips, using salvaged conductive materials to create micro-discharge points. These would let me focus the arcbolt’s energy into controlled bursts—a taser on steroids.
Elmo chimed in as I worked. “You know, this is how it always starts. One little power-up, then next thing you know, you’re wearing a suit of armor and calling yourself Iron Man. Better start thinking of a catchphrase, Blake.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, soldering a regulator circuit into place.
ARC-GAUNTLET MK I
For the daring innovator with a penchant for electrifying solutions—and no sense of self-preservation. Featuring the cutting-edge Arcbolt Generator you ripped from the smoldering wreckage of a murder bot, this bad boy channels high-voltage energy straight to your fingertips. Perfect for stunning enemies, frying electronics, or accidentally zapping yourself when you forget to ground the circuits.
Powered by 8 MP per shot, the Arc-Gauntlet MK I combines sleek craftsmanship with just enough reckless engineering to make OSHA weep. The built-in charge indicator lets you know when it’s ready to fire... or about to explode. Warning: May cause singed eyebrows, unplanned villain monologues, and the eternal regret of aiming at the wrong target.
Side effects include:
* Temporary god complex.
* Awkward explanations for the scorch marks on your sleeves.
* Zero warranty. No refunds, no replacements, no pity.
Use responsibly—or don’t. It’s not like anyone’s keeping score. Yet.
I flexed my fingers, admiring the faint hum of power from the newly assembled Arc-Gauntlet MK I. "Alright, that’s one down. Now, let’s talk about Grinder."
“Ah yes, the cuddly death machine,” Elmo chimed in, his voice dripping with faux reverence. “What’s next? Chainsaw attachment? Flamethrower? Oh, oh, I know—rocket launchers! Nothing says ‘overkill’ like a tactical-grade stuffed bear.”
I leaned over the bench where Grinder lay, his tattered fur and half-burnt ear looking even more pitiful under the work lamp. “Okay, buddy,” I muttered, cracking my knuckles. “Time to upgrade you into something a little less embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” Elmo piped up, scandalized. “How dare you? That bear has character! He’s seen things, Blake. Things that would make your sad little lawnmower cry oil.”
“Yeah, well, character doesn’t stop me from getting eaten alive,” I said, tapping the hollowed-out section of Grinder’s chest. The salvaged doppelgänger parts sat on the bench beside him, ready for integration. “He needs more than just sass and patchy fur.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Elmo said, voice dripping with mock offense. “First, it’s ‘Let’s save the bear!’ and now it’s ‘Let’s Frankenstein the bear!’ Make up your mind, Doc Brown.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” I shot back, lifting a tiny servo with my pliers. The mechanism would fit perfectly in Grinder’s left arm—if I could just thread it through without ripping the whole limb apart.
“Nope,” Elmo chirped. “And you love it. Besides, I’m here for moral support. And to point out when you’re doing something incredibly dumb. Like now.”
“This isn’t dumb,” I said, carefully soldering the servo into place. “Grinder’s going to be more than just a stuffed toy. He’s going to be—” I paused for dramatic effect, “—a force of nature.”
“A force of nap time, maybe,” Elmo muttered. “Face it, Blake. No amount of tinkering will make a teddy bear intimidating. Unless you’re planning to weaponize his cuteness. In which case, genius.”
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
“Not cuteness,” I corrected, slipping a reinforced plating under Grinder’s chest. “Firepower.”
Elmo’s tone shifted to horrified amusement. “You’re giving the bear guns? What’s next, a bazooka? A tactical nuke? Oh wait, let me guess—laser eyes.”
“Tempting,” I admitted, smirking as I attached a small pulse generator to Grinder’s right paw. “But I think a stun pulse will do for now. Non-lethal, versatile, and…” I twisted the module into place, “...adorable.”
Elmo let out a theatrical gasp. “You’re turning him into Paddington with a vengeance. This is both horrifying and delightful.”
Grinder’s upgrades were taking shape. I’d reinforced his limbs with lightweight servos for greater dexterity, upgraded his torso with a modular power core, and rigged a small compartment in his back to store spare energy cells. His left paw would house a retractable blade—just in case—and his right, the stun pulse emitter.
I gave Grinder a test flex, moving his arms and legs with a controller. His stubby limbs twitched awkwardly at first, then smoothed out into a surprisingly fluid motion.
“Look at that,” I said, holding up the bear for inspection. “Grinder 2.0—mobile, functional, and ready to kick ass.”
GRINDER 2.0
Combat Companion / Sentient Snuggle Buddy
Congratulations! You’ve successfully turned a once-innocent childhood icon into a walking nightmare. Grinder 2.0 combines the huggable charm of a stuffed bear with the subtle menace of a Swiss Army knife on steroids. Equipped with advanced servos for mobility, a retractable blade for close encounters, and a stun pulse generator for non-lethal takedowns, Grinder is the perfect companion for all your apocalyptic needs.
* Left Paw: Retractable Blade – Ideal for cutting through enemies or picnic baskets (your choice).
* Right Paw: Stun Pulse Emitter – Because nothing says “back off” like a 10,000-volt handshake.
* Reinforced Core: Lightweight Durability – Sturdy enough to take a beating, soft enough to double as a pillow.
* Personality: Murderous charm meets unblinking loyalty. Note: May trigger existential dread in enemies (and allies).
Warning: Excessive tinkering may void warranty. Grinder is not responsible for collateral damage, nightmares, or misplaced affection toward inanimate objects.
Elmo cackled as the notification blinked out. “Well, there you have it, Blake. You’ve officially created the world’s most terrifying Build-A-Bear. If this thing ever gets a movie deal, I’m thinking Ted meets Mad Max. Thoughts?”
I groaned, rubbing my temple. “You’re impossible.”
“And Grinder’s improbable. We’re a perfect team!”
I stared at the battered remnants of the lawnmower, the poor thing barely recognizable under the layers of grime and dents. It had been through hell—dragged here from my old garage, nearly obliterated during the last fight, and now reduced to little more than a sad pile of metal and frayed wires.
“Alright, buddy,” I muttered, running a hand over the mangled frame. “Time for a glow-up.”
“Oh, this is going to be rich,” Elmo chimed in, his voice dripping with amusement. “A lawnmower. For transportation. You’re really leaning into that ‘man of the people’ vibe, huh? Why not throw a cupholder in while you’re at it?”
Ignoring him, I crouched down and began to assess the damage. The blade mechanism was a lost cause, but the engine block, surprisingly, had survived with only minor cracks. The wheels were toast, though—cheap plastic that had no chance of holding up against the labyrinth’s jagged terrain.
Toro Wheel Horse Classic 312
Once the pride of suburban dads everywhere, this battered relic has seen better days—and by better, we mean functional. What remains of this once-majestic mower now sits as a grim testament to neglect, bad ideas, and one too many "it'll run fine" assurances.
* Engine: A coughing, sputtering disaster that sounds like it’s auditioning for a death metal band. Capable of starting fires (mostly unintentional).
* Speed: Crawling. Literally. It moves slower than a toddler learning to walk.
* Wheels: Two barely attached and one that wobbles so aggressively, it might achieve sentience soon.
* Defense: Rust. Lots of rust. Bonus points for tetanus.
* Offense: Dull, bent blades that shred grass with all the finesse of a plastic spoon attacking a steak.
* Aesthetic: A charming mix of chipped red paint, duct tape patches, and whatever that sticky brown stain is.
WARNING: Not roadworthy. Not yard-worthy. Not anything-worthy. Recommended use: an expensive paperweight or ironic coffee table centerpiece.
I crouched down beside the mangled Toro Wheel Horse Classic 312, shaking my head at the sorry state it was in. Rust had eaten through parts of the frame, the blades were bent like overcooked spaghetti, and the engine looked like it had been used as a chew toy by a particularly angry dog. This wasn’t going to be a simple patch job.
“Elmo,” I muttered, poking at a dangling wire. “Tell me this isn’t beyond saving.”
“Depends,” Elmo quipped, his voice dripping with mock wisdom. “Are you trying to fix it, or are you planning to add it to the ‘Museum of Misfit Contraptions’? Because this thing screams, ‘My brain is full of gravy!’”
I blinked, caught mid-thought. “Gravy? Seriously? That’s where we’re starting?”
“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” Elmo shot back. “Look at this thing. If it had a brain, it would absolutely be gravy. Lumpy, cold, leftover gravy from Thanksgiving two years ago. The kind even your mom wouldn’t reheat.”
“Oh, right,” I said, rolling my eyes as I yanked at a particularly stubborn bolt. “And you’re the fine dining connoisseur here, right? Pretty sure you run on sarcastic energy and zero taste.”
“Touché, but let’s focus on the pile of dreams and broken metal you’re trying to resuscitate,” Elmo said, his tone mockingly helpful. “Are you planning to turn this into a mower or a meat grinder on wheels? Either way, I’m not judging. Much.”
I leaned back, wiping my hands on my jeans. “For your information, I’m going to make this thing into the best all-terrain vehicle this labyrinth has ever seen. It’s going to mow down everything in its path—plants, obstacles, maybe even you if you keep talking.”
“Big words, Mr. Fix-It, but I’m picturing more of a ‘putt-putt’ escape vehicle,” Elmo jabbed. “Like something Ed would ride while yelling about buttered toast.”
I couldn’t help but snort at the mental image. “So what? I’ll make sure it’s a really fast ‘putt-putt.’ Maybe throw on a rocket booster to impress you. Paint flames down the side. Call it the Gravy Train in your honor.”
“Ah, now we’re talking,” Elmo said, his voice gleeful. “Though flames might be redundant. If you wire this thing wrong, it’s going to catch fire all on its own.”
I glared at the air, imagining where his smug little face would be. “Do you want me to fix this thing or not?”
“Oh, I absolutely want you to fix it,” Elmo said, the grin practically audible. “Watching you try is the best entertainment I’ve had since that time you tripped over your own toolbox. Twice.”
“Just wait,” I said, smirking as I grabbed my tools and dove into the work. “By the time I’m done, this thing’s going to make you eat your words.”
“Only if those words come with a side of gravy,” Elmo quipped. “And maybe a biscuit. This project’s going to need comfort food for how hard it’s about to crash.”
I got to work, shaking my head at Elmo's running commentary. The remains of the mower weren’t much to look at, but under the grime and rust, there was a foundation. Solid frame. Sturdy engine. Or at least potentially sturdy once I replaced half the parts.
“Alright,” I muttered, prying off a bent wheel with a crowbar. “Step one: make this thing move without falling apart. Step two: turn it into a nightmare for anything dumb enough to stand in my way.”
“Oh, great,” Elmo chirped. “Because nothing screams ‘master tactician’ like strapping weapons to a glorified lawn chair. You’re basically the Kevin McCallister of the apocalypse.”
I grinned. “Hey, Home Alone references are valid. If a kid can fight off burglars with paint cans and toy cars, I can take on a labyrinth with a tricked-out mower.”
Elmo cackled. “Sure, sure. Just don’t forget step three: catastrophic failure and me laughing my circuits off.”
Ignoring him, I grabbed the arcbolt gauntlet and started tinkering with its wiring. If I could rig the discharge coil to the mower’s engine, I could power up a defensive system—a jolt strong enough to fry anything that got too close. The mower’s hood popped open with a groan, and I stared down at the engine.
“Okay, I need you to not explode,” I muttered, fitting the arcbolt generator into place. “Let’s work together on this one, alright?”
Elmo snickered. “Talking to the machine now? What’s next, naming it? I vote for something classy, like The Death Roomba.”
“Noted,” I said, tightening a bolt. “But I was thinking more like... the Thunder Toro.”
Elmo gasped dramatically. “Oh, so original. Maybe slap on some lightning decals and call it a day.”
I laughed despite myself, focusing on the modifications. The arcbolt generator sparked to life, and the engine hummed with a satisfying growl. Next, I started reinforcing the frame. The scavenged steel plates from the mech beasts fit perfectly, and I bolted them down with a vengeance.
With the armor plating in place, the mower already looked intimidating enough to scare off anything smaller than a tank. But I wasn’t done. If this labyrinth wanted to throw chaos at me, I’d throw it right back—with style.
“Now, we need a little offensive oomph,” I muttered, searching through the pile of mech parts scattered around the garage.
“Oomph, huh?” Elmo chimed in. “Why not add a flamethrower? Nothing says ‘overkill’ like gratuitous firepower. Or are you saving that for version 2.0?”
“Flamethrowers are impractical,” I said, rummaging through the pile. “Plus, I don’t want to accidentally barbecue myself.”
“Fair point,” Elmo said. “But if we’re ruling out fire, what about a rocket launcher? Or, ooh, buzz saws! Classic villain energy.”
“Not a bad idea,” I admitted, though I wasn’t sure where I’d find rocket parts. My hands landed on a salvaged hydraulic claw mechanism from the larger mech beast. The claw was twisted and dented, but the spring-loaded mechanism was salvageable. A grin spread across my face.
“Forget buzz saws,” I said. “I’m building a catapult.”
“A catapult?” Elmo sounded genuinely impressed. “Alright, Ed, I see you. Just don’t expect me to help when this turns into one of those ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ situations.”
I pulled the hydraulic assembly apart, salvaging the most functional components. The mechanism would need to be mounted at an angle, with reinforced brackets to handle the launch force. A quick survey of the mower revealed the perfect spot: right on the rear platform, above the engine housing.
“Step one: build the launcher,” I said, half to myself.
“Step two: convince Grinder 2.0 to let you fling him at enemies like a furry little missile,” Elmo added.
I glanced at Grinder, who was pacing the garage floor like a tiny, mechanical sentry. His glowing eyes locked onto me for a moment, and I could’ve sworn he looked annoyed.
“Relax, buddy,” I said. “The launcher isn’t for you. Probably.”
Grinder growled softly, the sound more like a buzz saw than an actual bear. Elmo snickered. “Oh, he definitely doesn’t trust you now. Can’t blame him. I’ve seen you work.”
I ignored them both and got to work assembling the launcher. The hydraulic system was surprisingly cooperative, fitting neatly onto the reinforced frame. I rigged a simple release lever next to the driver’s seat, so I could aim and fire without dismounting.
“There,” I said, stepping back to admire the setup. “A compact, spring-loaded catapult. Perfect for launching... uh... whatever I want, I guess.”
“Like self-esteem,” Elmo quipped. “Because you’re clearly running low.”
“Ha ha,” I deadpanned. “I’ll start with tools and rocks. Maybe Grinder can supervise.”
Grinder growled again, and Elmo cackled. “He’s one bad day away from staging a mutiny.”
Next, I turned my attention to the offensive systems. The arcbolt generator was already integrated, but I needed a way to focus its power into something practical. I dug out the remains of a mechanical pincer, which still had intact copper conduits running through its fingers. It was perfect for channeling electricity.
“Let’s give this mower some bite,” I muttered, wiring the pincer mechanism to the arcbolt generator. The result was a front-mounted shock claw capable of stunning anything dumb enough to get in the way.
I wiped some grease off my hands and leaned back, surveying my work. The beast of a machine was starting to take shape, but now came the important part: naming it.
“Alright, Elmo,” I said, tightening a bolt, “time for a name. What do you think?”
Elmo’s voice piped up, dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I’ve got a few suggestions, don’t worry. How about SodSlayer? I’m thinking of something that really sends a message.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Elmo. That sounds like a lawn care service, not a war machine.”
“Fair enough,” he said, conceding. “What about Mowpocalypse? Because we’re clearly in the middle of a ‘kill or be killed’ situation here, and this baby’s ready to carve through the apocalypse like it’s a freshly cut lawn.”
I snorted. “Yeah, that’s a little on the nose. But it’s got potential.” I shook my head. “Still, let’s keep brainstorming.”
“What about Turf Terminator?” Elmo suggested, clearly enjoying himself. “You know, something that strikes fear into the hearts of overgrown lawns everywhere. It’s a classic.”
I winced. “Too much like a low-budget action movie. It’s got to be more... refined. More futuristic.”
“Alright, alright,” Elmo said, as if trying to think of something truly epic. “How about ToroMax? You know, just a little play on the old Toro, but with a sci-fi twist. Sounds unstoppable.”
I paused, considering it. ToroMax. Yeah, that worked. It had the weight of something serious. It was strong, sleek, and screamed "this isn’t just a lawnmower."
“That’s it,” I said, nodding. “ToroMax it is. Simple. Effective. And it sounds like it could turn a tank into a lawn ornament.”
Elmo let out a low whistle. “Not bad, kid. You might actually be onto something. Just don’t let the grass take over, okay? This is a harbinger of doom, not a garden gnome.”
I grinned. "ToroMax it is, then."
ToroMax: Apocalypse Edition
For the discerning post-apocalyptic lawn enthusiast who demands more than just a clean yard—because why stop at mowing grass when you can mow down everything in your path?
the ultimate combination of brute force and questionable design choices. Equipped with reinforced armor plating scavenged from forgotten mechanical beasts and a custom-built arcbolt generator that might also double as a potential hazard to your health, this beast is more than capable of turning overgrown lawns into war zones.
Key Features:
* Unstoppable Off-Road Capability: Whether you're crushing weeds or enemies, the ToroMax Apocalypse doesn’t just mow—it obliterates. The upgraded frame, forged with heavy-duty steel plates, ensures this machine can handle whatever terrain you throw at it... or whatever terrain throws back at you.
* Arcbolt Surge Cannons: Because nothing says “I’m serious about mowing” like hurling electricity at your problems. Whether you’re stunning the enemy or shocking yourself into an existential crisis, the ToroMax has you covered. (Warning: May cause minor electrocution, questionable decisions, and irreparable damage to your dignity.)
* Grinder Launcher: Why settle for trimming edges when you can launch your bear-turned-combatant into the fray? Equipped with a Grinder 2.0-powered catapult, the ToroMax Apocalypse lets you hurl your furry friend at targets with all the grace and subtlety of a wrecking ball.
* Front-Mounted Shock Claw: Equipped with razor-sharp claws and an electrified strike powered by the arcbolt generator, this front-mounted beast rips through enemies and obstacles alike, leaving a trail of chaos and sparks in its wake. Whether clearing debris, tearing through enemies, or just showing off, the Shock Claw brings the power of shock and destruction to the frontlines of your ToroMax Apocalypse Edition.
Warning: Side effects may include spontaneous grass fires, neighborhood complaints, and a sudden increase in your desire to fight for the future of humanity (or at least your lawn). Use with extreme caution. No refunds, no sympathy, and definitely no one to call for repairs.