Pepsiman’s visit to Central City had been… less than refreshing.
Immediately upon arriving several days ago, the wouldbe Lieutenant’s unit had been intercepted by a group of extremely dehydrated rioters and shuffled off to the structure at the middle of town. Their arrival, it seemed, stood in direct contrast to the rumors those in Central had heard about the collapse of the Miniskirt Armada, and the anarchists wanted to hear any and all reports or evidence to the contrary. For his part, Pepsiman had slipped out of his unit just before they’d been shuffled away by the locals… because he’d been terrified.
Who did he think he was? Even the thought of some measly rioters had nearly scared the soda out of him. He’d faded into the background, hiding out in lowkey locations throughout the city, avoiding any sort of conflict — and his assignment — at all costs.
He’d never been suited for this BS, though, had he?
Six years had passed since he’d accepted this coked-out contract, and to be honest, the mascot wasn’t sure why he insisted on remaining here. He remembered fondly his first interview with Karl Jak, the man’s shiny, well-hydrated pores staring at him and enticing him with an opportunity to do the thing he loved most: keep people happy. At the time, he hadn’t realized he was signing the rest of his life away to a madman’s whims, but it hadn’t been long before Jak had dropped him on an island to be mangled and ripped to shreds by a bunch of other sociopaths.
It was all just… too much. Overwhelming, even. But somewhere it was also… fulfilling? Yes, he’d been forced into combat, something he decidedly was not meant for, but he’d also gotten many an opportunity to refresh people! His Pepsis and other licensed Pepsi products had gotten many a contestant another day in this competition, and made him many a friend! He fondly remembered his time with Mickey Mouse and friends, or the time his products had propelled Gilgamesh to second place last year. He remembered watching the gilded king sip his sweet elixir, slowly piecing himself back together until he made his way to the finale!
It was funny. At the time, he’d been so in Gilgamesh’s corner, and now he found himself on the other side of it.
Had Pepsiman been… wrong about Gilgamesh?
He didn’t know, but he knew that no matter his feelings now, he’d loved being helpful to the man in his time of need before. Yes, his employment with Mr. Jak had been full of bumps and many, many bruises, but…
Hadn’t it also been a dream come true?
That was why, as the sun peeked over the horizon, he’d resolved to robot up. He’d never seen Baja Blast bring a smile to someone’s face like it did General Azula’s, and in exchange for that smile, he owed the general his best. He would satisfy her thirst.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, P-Man?” whispered the messenger who’d arrived from Fortress Briggs not hours ago. He’d come bearing tidings that Azula had formally taken over command of the Miniskirt Armada — a change Pepsiman felt could be refreshing for everyone, even if she had punched him in the face that one time. She was a wild lady, and kind of violent, but she appreciated his talents, and let him use them in a myriad of different ways, so he was glad to serve her. Now if he could just get these people in Central to jump on board.
Like clockwork, they came. Every day, rioters gathered in the town square, demagogues going off about the fall of the Armada, or if it hadn’t fallen yet, how utterly weak and on the precipice of destruction it was.
“Commander Mustang has capitulated to the God-King Gilgamesh,” today’s speaker announced, “so why not us too? What point is there in resisting? There is no hope in retaining the meaningless banners of the Armada anymore if even our leader knows surrender is the best option to fight the monsters to the north!”
“You’re wrong!”
Eyes turned toward the silver-and-blue spandex head that had popped up in the crowd.
“You’re… you’re wrong,” Pepsiman faltered. “The Armada is refreshed and ready to take on the enemy once more.”
“Ah,” the demagogue chuckled, “Lieutenant Pepsiman finally decides to show himself! Our most pathetic officer has come to spread the good news. By all means, coward — come up and speak.”
The robot felt all eyes on him. The pressure mounted, and he felt he was about to fizz out of control, but nevertheless, he pushed through the crowd to the makeshift stage at the head of it. He stepped up, and turned to face the growing number of Miniskirt citizens gathering to hear his words. What would he say? What was the most thirst-quenching thing?
He didn’t really breathe, being mostly a cyborg, but if he had, he would’ve taken a deep, refreshing breath.
“The Miniskirt Armada is not dead,” he started, and was met by skeptical chittering from the crowd. “In fact, quite the opposite! We are refreshed!”
“But Mustang’s given up the game to God-King Gilgamesh,” a voice shouted from the crowd. “Right?”
Pepsiman sputtered for a few moments, then continued, trying his best not to waver. “Gilgamesh is not tasty!” he shouted. “He betrayed Commander Mustang, and then Commander Mustang betrayed you by drying up for him! Are we going to just sit and dry up for Gilgamesh? Or do you want something more?! Do you want to be refreshed?!”
The crowd buzzed a little bit at this. The metaphor was a wild one, they thought, but perhaps apt; could Gilgamesh whet their appetites?
But if not Gilgamesh, then who?
“Our castle was destroyed under the rule of Commander Mustang,” Pepsiman explained, finally circling back to the assignment the Princess-Commander had sent him here on in the first place. Even after just two weeks, Azula knew that her achievements were nothing to shake a stick at -- and for Pepsiman, he had to make sure these people knew that her achievements proved her worth. She deserved their loyalty -- not a pretender like Gilgamesh.
Pepsiman blinked. Pretender? What type of word was that? Was his programming becoming… Azulified?!
“...but Commander Mustang is no more,” he continued. “He may live, but he is a pawn of a dry, dry man, while to the north, General Azula has been dipping her toes in new territory, extending the reach of our beautiful quest of hydration, stamping out the threats that threatened to dehydrate these very lands. Commander Mustang chased treasures and boons while General Azula built fortifications to your north. While she saved a village from the grasp of the Unmade. While she captured, personally, one of the Generals of the ferocious Hell Divers who would send you yourself to the fiery depths of Hell with the unmade demons to the north.”
Pepsiman felt himself screaming, and he honestly didn’t know where it was coming from. He had truly never felt so passionate about… anything, but all of a sudden, nothing felt more important.
“And now we are blessed to drink the juice of Azula as our new Princess-Commander! But there is no Miniskirt Armada without its capital city. There is no Miniskirt Armada without the people of Central, and Princess-Commander Azula knows this! This is why she has sent me, the Lieutenant of Hydration Services, to rain the good news upon all of you! That the Miniskirt Armada is more hydrated than ever, and it is ready for your continued loyalty and ready for your continued belief in us and our quest!”
“So join us, me and Princess-Commander Azula and the rest of our bewatered crew on our quest to drown our enemies!! And to hydrate, not die-drate!!!!!”