The second of them comes limping through the door worse off than the first. His suit (three-piece, finest Icelandic wool, well tailored, very smart) is shredded completely and is quite possibly held together by the Agent's willpower alone. His left arm is blasted off above the elbow, two inches of splintered humerus exposed to the air. There is a plain lead .22 caliber bullet in his left parietal lobe.
Robo-Ikipr rises to his feet affecting the composure of a 19th century Austrian duke. The Agent smiles to say that he is a menace.
"Your mouth is full of broken teeth," Robo-Ikipr intones and an autistic swarm of nanotech listener drones assembles in the space as the Agent falls limply to the floor. The suit finally comes apart and falls into a heap with its owner. A handmade wood and leather slingshot is tucked into the back of the agent's brown cotton briefs.
The listener swarm hovers a few more seconds and then switches to autocannibalism mode. .01 seconds later the fattened survivor of the frenzy saturates the chamber with a flood of infrasound, amplified record of the Agent's final vocalization before shutdown. Into the hardware for decryption and analysis.