(1)

"Today will be a blazing and adventurous day!"

That was what Niven had imagined when he woke up in his rusty, rickety apartment— A day where he would finally encounter some danger, some adventure. Unfortunately for him, that wasn't true. Instead, he would be comfortably siting on a nice little chair by a cafe, witnessing the spectacular rings of the eternal eclipse, all the while thieves and killers and ruffians go about their businesses, with bodies dropping near him every moment, vehicles flying in blazing glory with the mutilated limbs of their drivers still attached to them, buildings collapsing and catching fire, and people dying in ridiculously humorous ways. And at the face of this madness, all he could ever do was sigh.

Fate of the Saint, he thought to himself. No danger for all eternity. Can do no crimes. Can do only good. Destined to be free from life's ups and downs. Destined to have the best kind of life in a wretched, indifferent world. But also cursed. Of what? Of pointlessness. To live a life without pain and suffering, for all the good that it sounds like, is indeed one hell of a thing. Because without suffering, enjoyment loses its flavour. Victory, loses its flavour. Only the bitter aftertaste of sand fills your mouth, when you find out that you will always win, no matter what.

And what could you do to even console yourself in this bountiful yet pitiful existence? Nothing, for all the great advice that has ever been spoken, all the great poems and stories that have ever been penned, they've all been written for people who are destined to suffer. None has ever written words to console the Blessed One.

So, without anything else to do, he submitted to the great whirlpool of imagination, the only place where he could savour victory— for only there could he suffer fate. But alas! Even his seemingly infinite wellspring of imagination was beginning to dry up. So what could this poor soul do now?

"Sleep, I will sleep.", determined the Blessed Niven, fighting this depressing narrator within his mind. "At least my dreams will be eventful." They never will be, of course. But it is good to imagine. Healthy for a famished soul, or whatever.

A single "Hmph" was the only reply.

(2)

His dreams, as always, were uneventful. Dreams draw from life, and a bland life can only give birth to bland dreams. So, instead of formulating more dreams, his mind took a side turn, and delved instead into the wellspring of memories that he had accumulated over the past twenty two years.

It was a long, arduous search for his mind to find this needle in the haystack; a memory which elicits something from his heart, wheter that be happiness or sadness, bitterness or anger. Eventually it found one, and latched onto it as tightly as possible. So vividly was it summoned unto his eyes that, for a moment, Niven though himself transported to the past. It was the memory of his first-ever entropic count, and the day when he recieved the accursed title of a "Saint".

(2)—(Dream)

Zero.

Absolutely zero.

No Ilym.

Perfection.

Murmurs. Of Jealousy. Of Reverence. Of Pity.

Whisper. Of Confusion.

Noise. Of People Unknown.

"He is a saviour.", some said.

"He is a Saint.", some said.

In the end, he was carried away by the whirlwind of unseen faces, leaving only the wrinkled storybook carried by each child, sitting there amidst the atomies of dust, itself becoming as old as the knights it portrayed.

Knights...

I want to be like that. To have an adventurous life. To live.

"Be grateful, my child. You won't have to suffer, ever."

Escaping a tiny mind, thoughts and questions, about what these people meant, until it all became clear, with him growing up, and his life becoming as meandering, as meditative as a quiet stream by an orchard. A life, unneringly, unnervingly quiet.

In short, an oppressive existence. A life never meant to be lived for oneself, but for others. To be their lucky charm, forever. And to have a fate so achingly beautiful, that pain itself becomes inviting....

(3)

Same dream, different feelings. As it has been said, Niven had quite a creative mind. A single moment can be extrapolated into a thousand more, each a new memory, with different feelings and views attached to it. This time, it was his memory of glory and curse, of reverence and fear; the day that the Priests declared him to be a Saint, and the day he was asked to forsake the lowly life of a mortal, and enjoy the taste of heaven amidst the upper echelons.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I say he was asked, but really, he was bought. His parents, brought up amidst the poor and the ignominious of the Salamor Slums, sold him to the Zigguraus, hoping him neither a good fortune nor an accursed one. They were happy with filling up their coffers. Niven tried to bade them farewell, but they were too busy picking up the golden coins from the ground. That was his last memory of them.

From then onwards, it was the Zigguraus that was his parent. The entire system of Priests, of people with faith in their hearts but sins on their hands, they were the ones who raised him, and in a world far too bright, and far too alien. These were the days when he developed his vehemence for the upper echelons, for he saw in them not the noble representatives of gods they claimed to be, but a perverse and twisted society, who cared as much for their children as one does for a stray Billinzi.

So he ran away, back unto the shadows he once came from, destined to never experience want of anything, and reestablished himself there, as a humble, dutiful guard. Soon enough, with his good fortune, he rose through the ranks, and became what he is today; Niven of the Massahrs, the Finest Guardsmen unit in Palimpos. And that leads to what he us up to now; to be a spy for the Emperor, and to discover, and hopefully assassinate, the mastermind behind the ServoMundi Slavers, so that justice may be brought upon those poor souls kidnapped and so horribly experimented upon; such was their torture that, even after being rescued, they are naught more than mindless husks.

But enough of reminiscing, Niven thought to himself. He was a guardsman, after all. It was time for his daily rounds through the slums, ousting more of those pesky VH lilygangs, making sure that more people donot assume the malformatory way of life.

..........××_××..........

(4)

"Bod No. 72C, please report to Taskstation #45. Your Decommisoner, Mr Revalos, has arrived.", said the soulless voice from behind the microphone, tired from not doing anything stimulating, waiting to go home and vanish unto its world of dreams.

"Bod No. 72C, please respond.", repeated the voice again after a few moments, now a bit more interested than before. Then, it checked the cameras, and lo and behold! Bod 72 had escaped!

In a frenzied tremble, the voice directed," Release the Macronauts! I repeat, release the Macronauts!"

(5)

"On behalf of our entire facility, I would like to apologise for this mishap."

So said the Bodstation Superintendant Ms Mallory Ulrien to a now-disgruntled, previously-distinguished gentleman named Revalos Estrange. Though he did not let it seep unto his face, it was quite evident that Mr Revalos was angry. In fact, one could even say that Mr Revalos was blazing within. It was the third time that Bod had ran away from the factory, the third time that it had shown personal agency. And, for a Bod, a machine made to serve, such personality is unnatural. Such a being should be put down and dealt with.

Or so did Mr Revalos thought. Though there were widespread protests that Bods have souls and such, Mr Revalos, an unabashedly old fashioned man, paid no heed to them. For him, Bods were workers, from life till death. No mercy was to be bestowed upon them, for they have neither heart nor soul. Only work for them, so that man may rest. And besides, none could prove the presence of their souls till a CMs are discovered within them.

"When will it be caught?", he asked, trying to keep his timbre from going too deep.

"Within an hour or so. The macronauts are currently colonising the Salamor Surveillance Networks. As soon his feed reaches us, we will dispatch our men to retrieve him."

"Two things. 'It', not 'him'. And donot retrieve it. End it as soon as it is found."

"As you say, sir."

(6)

Beatbod was tired. The last time he was caught, they had removed his crysalite cells, replacing them instead with weaker phosphite ones. Almost all of his battle mods were gone too. But he still had his Damascene-grade motors. And the makeshift cells could certainly run them for quite a while. If only he could find somewhere safe to rest....

"Bod detected."

The macronauts. Quantized programs used to colonise electronic systems in an instant.

He searched all around himself, trying to locate the source of that feeble voice, when he saw the tiny camera hidden beside the Salamor periphery fence. They were still after him. And if he gets caught this time, he would be decommissioned.

So he ran, knowing full well that he cannot escape the macros, hoping instead to die in the chase than to give up his mind. Little did he knew that Revalos had already arranged for that....

(7)

Saltmarsh Nodulum

All Things Geared

That was what the shop's motto said. Not Capturing Beatbod Ever.

That was what Beat thought when he faced all those guns trained at him. It was a trap, he thought to himself. Why the hell would someone open a Bod shop in Salamor when you could get everything from ServoMundi. To think he got captured in such a juvenile trap, and that too after being a war veteran....

Well, there was no escape now, he said to himself. Surrendering meant a peaceful end, at least. "I surr—"

Before he could continue his words, the Militant Bod shot him at his Core and said, "Negative. Order to Eliminate Rogue Bod 72C. Prepare to die."

"Fuck."

And then the bulletstorm began. Several shots grazed by his carapace, as he ducked for cover behind an upturned table. It was of no use, of course; no myceline table could handle the force of bullets. But it did decrease their impact, making it so that his body would last a few moments longer.

Think fast, he said to himself. As the second volley was about to be fired. Then, it clicked.

"I will go for suicide."

Thus, he bravely exposed himself to the gunfire and, without a second thought, he crashed through the window, falling a good four storeys below, right at the feet of a Massahr Guardsman.

"So much for freedom...."

(8)

As much as he had imagined those to be his last thoughts, they weren't. By some fluke of fate, he had lived. And by some unnamed god's grace, the guardsman had bought him.

He was unconscious when the deal had occured, but Mallory had informed him later of everything.

Apparently, Revalos had ordered him to be executed. And apparently, APPARENTLY, this man, a Massahr, one of the finest guardsman of the Emperor, had bought him off, and that too without letting him be mindwipped.

"He first sought to deposit you here. The moment he heard about your involvement in the Damascene war, he bought you instead. He seeks to listen to your story, apparently. Weird guy.... well, atleast you won't have to die now. "