Zer0’s first thought upon seeing the face of his supposed double is not about how frightening or otherworldly he is, no, it’s about Atlas. How could they have been trying to imitate this creature and fail so completely. He’s surprised to note that he’s insulted, not for himself but for this other Zer0. They didn’t even try.
Wordlessly he returns the gesture, releasing the seals on his own mask with a hiss, pulling the piece forward and up until his head is revealed, not quite human anymore with the mods occupying much of the right side of his face, but far more so than the being standing before him. Both unmasked, the illusion of similarity is utterly shattered.
"They didn’t even try." He says, his voice strange to his own ears without the helmet’s speaker system, his tone disgusted at Atlas’ failing. Nothing like the resounding, lyrical speech of the other before him. Blue eyes, one mechanical and glowing bright, sweep across the creature’s ‘face’ as it were, caught somewhere between remaining fear and awe.
The hum he emits is a pleased one in response to the reaction that he is given to his true appearance, unblinking oculars observing silently the removal of the identical veil that hides what his imitation was created from the world. It’s true, Atlas had hardly made much of an attempt when it came to the many series of assassins created in Zer0’s likeness in an attempt to replicate the original Eridian race. It’s a laughable notion, but laughter is a foreign concept to his kind.
"—They didn’t have proper information."
After all, that was not far from the truth. Just as Hyperion and the other Vault Hunters did not, Atlas had known just as much about Zer0 as they had—which was close to nothing, save for fluid, poetic speech and rhythmic movement, knowledge of advanced technologies that gave him abilities far beyond the grasp of mere humans. The revelation of just how inaccurate they’d been, however, urges him to press forward, the sound of footsteps falling on the ancient planet nonexistent as he steps forward, the tips of hidden fingers carefully reaching up to prod at the intricate circuitry laced with human genes.
Disgusting what humans would do, with the promise of power.
Like a thick layer of skin, the suit dissipates from claws, the digistruction following the same concept of his weaponry as it retracts to a hidden sheath stored amongst his body. Fingertips are like daggers, curiously picking and prodding at parts revealed by the simple removal of the helm—but in return, he’s revealing himself, becoming vulnerable in the face of the one person upon this ball of dust who could possibly deserve it. And by the time his shoulder has been revealed, a skeletal wing outstretches itself, the plasmatic webbing and feathers igniting like a slagged fire. As the last remaining Eridian, once he’s revealed himself from the suit, he has full control of the substance—it’s a fuel.