The dreams had been constant since the war started. Ticking, ticking, ticking was the heart of that tell-tale clock. Always surrounded by that… fox. That demonic fox. So vivid, yet so… so far. 

Rachel woke up in a death cold sweat. She slowly leaned up, like a corpse from its resting place and put her face in her hands, a groan following soon behind. Where do the dreams come from? She quietly wondered. Trauma Response? Freudian? She scoffed, tossing her legs out of her bed. The room was small and barren, containing a bed, a chest at the end of it for her belongings, and one, harsh light in the center of the room. 

Knowing that if she was late, the world might end, Rachel quickly found her uniform, delivered in front of her door. Clean pressed, it was the black and gray garb of the Enigma Corps., adorned with medals upon medals. My beret. She sighed. Where in god’s name is my beret? Reluctantly, without her beret, she dragged the uniform into her temporary solo-barracks and quickly slipped into it. Gray dress pants joined a black jacket, with a cream undershirt. Rachel noted that she’d been promoted. Again. Lieutenant Colonel. At this rate, I’ll be the president of the United States. She thought to herself, sighing.

Rachel got her boots from the chest at the foot of her bed and laced them. She knew that she was supposed to wear the dress shoes, but after several years fighting blackbloods, dress shoes were… just too soft. Though, she knew she couldn’t be too preoccupied with this line of thought. She had things to attend to, after all. 

To finish her morning she walked to the small bathroom that had been connected to her room. When she entered she heard humming from behind her mirror. “Morning, Spider.” Rachel half-shouted through the wall. 

“Morning Dr. Holland!” A young woman yelled back through both the wall and a full mouth. There was a quiet hocking sound from the other side before Spider spoke much clearer, “Doing anything to save the world today?” 

“Stop that.” Rachel said, knocking on the wall. She then began to run the faucet on her side. “I’m not gonna tell you, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” Rachel began to brush her teeth as she waited for Spider’s response. 

“I know, I know, suit and tie business.” Spider chuckled, “I’m just your security, but I can’t help but…” Rachel tuned out Spider as she caught her own dimly lit reflection. 

Rachel had lost her tan. She’d lost her sunburn. All that remained were sunspots. She felt… off. She’d grown complacent. All the ruggedness she’d earned from her four years in the field had been covered in her cushy lab job. Rachel ran a hand through her shoulder length brown hair. With a sigh, she started to listen back in on Spider’s Ranting.“...and I just hope that whatever it is, it wins the Enigma Corps. more budget! If we get beat by Municpinc, or god forbid Hypertech Lockstar-” 

“We won't.” Rachel stated, spitting out her own toothpaste. “I mean, we won’t get beat, we’re gonna win.” 

“Y-You’re right, ma’am!” Spider said with all the enthusiasm of a boy scout. “I mean, you were the one who drank the alien goop!”

“It’s a miracle it didn’t kill me.” Rachel said lazily as she began to comb her hair. “Spider, you treat me like I’m a comic book character, I was a drug addict who was willing to drink alien ritual wine because I thought it was funny, how was I supposed to fuckin’ know it was for the alien’s heathan religion?” Rachel grabbed a tie from the counter and fastened it. “I mean, what are the odds that a random enlistee stumbles on an alien’s reincarnation ritual?” She scoffed, “I- Why would you even bring that to a warzone as an invader?” 

“No offense, but why would you drink an entire bowl of opaque, black liquid?” Spider asked. 

“Twenty dollars and a pack of Newports.” Rachel said, “Speaking of, distinctly missing from my doorstep is my beret and my cigarettes.” 

“I’ll talk to Roach and Gallows about it.” Spider said plainly. “I-”

“Actually, forget the cigarettes, I’m gonna need the beret for the summit.” Rachel took a concealed holster from within one of the drawers of the sink and put it on under her jacket. “I’m taking my emergency gun, I need you to find the beret.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Spider audibly gulped. 

“Repeat it back to me.” Rachel said. 

“Find the beret.” Spider repeated. 

“Again.” 

“Find the beret.” Spider repeated again. 

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“Good.” Rachel said. “I’m going into the lab immediately, I’m gonna just grab breakfast from the vending matrix.” 

“Be safe, ma’am. There’s no way to know who’s a facemorph, and who’s human.” 

Rachel silently walked away from the thin wall. Beginning to mumble under her breath, Rachel began to quietly grumble to herself as she had been doing since her rebellious years. She yearned to lose this burden of xeno intelligence, to go back to screaming obscenities at her mom and listening to nu metal while soliciting cigarettes and shitty beer. Conscripting just to ‘stick it to’ her parents had led Rachel down a path which ultimately concluded with her drinking- for all intents and purposes- an alien elder god. Now, of course she’d never used the choice word, ‘god,’ when referring to the alien brain soup, however she knew deep down, that despite whatever she did to deny it, that’s what was in her. Usually, in comics, people who drink alien overlords get super powers, Rachel caught people staring at her and scowled in return, and all I get is a bunch of stupid science knowhow.

Millions of miles from the Cursed System, The Emperor’s Successor Zan’Dik Kengadar sat in his starship. Four star years prior, he was supposed to take up the mantle of his father’s throne, yet the rebels wasted it on the flesh locust’s home world, and the worst part was how one of the primitives ruined it all. To drink MY inheritance? Zan’Dik thought, To steal MY ancestral right? These monstrous things were furless, were scaleless, had no protective layer on their skin. And  yet, they were… relentless. Nothing in the empire could even come close. Comparable, yes. The Krevakein, the shock troopers of Kengadar, were big, covered in hair, and were naturally tough. But the thing they had that could even compare to the flesh locusts was their battle rage. Yet the flesh locusts, so primitive in their language, in their technology, they remained intelligent in their fervor, in their strange, calculating ways. 

Into Zan’Dik Kengadar’s throne room burst his advisor and second in command, Xen’Dul Careenus. “My lord!” He said in the tongue of the empire. “The Locusts have sent a star to our staging ground!” 

“WHAT?” The Emperor-to-be shouted. He stood up from his diamond throne. The floating sickly yellow lights in his blackstone throne room illuminated his scale-covered face. Idly hissing, Zan’Dik Kengadar pointed at his advisor and asked, “How could the locusts, of all the filthy, unevolved races, launch a star into our staging ground?” 

“My lord, it gets worse.” Xen’Dul Careenus shied away from his liege. “The legions sent to rebuild the staging ground all became deathly ill with a pathogen we cannot identify. Minus the Grev’Nagul, of course.” The emperor to be, sickened by this information, sat back in his throne. 

“Have we made any progress on figuring out the nature of this pathogen?” The near-emperor asked. 

“No scans have returned any information to us, and our usual anti-plague garb does not seem to block much. Our space suits, however, do.” 

“Then use the space suits!” Zan’Dik shouted, gesturing vaguely with his clawed hand before placing it over the top of his eyes. “Do you have any other news for me?” 

“You, of course, know our canon fodder, the Semak’Danari?” Xen’Dul asked. 

“What about them?” Zan’Dik sighed, rolling his reptile eyes, “Are some of them planning a revolt again?” 

“No, my liege.” Xen’Dul said, visibly tensing up. 

“Then what?” The emperor to be asked. 

“The locusts have begun to factory farm them for fuel.” Every member of the throne room, be them the court or the guards, turned to look at the advisor.

“Pardon me, my advisor?” Zan’Dik asked. 

“Apparently,” The royal advisor gulped, “Their blood can be refined into one of the most potent biofuels known to man, their words, not mine.”

“And we cannot wipe them out because…?” The emperor to be asked. It was a rhetorical question, but he just wanted to hear the words at this point. 

“They have stolen our designs and… improved on them.” Xen’Dul said. “Their entire home system is a fortress, and the only reason they haven’t continued to expand is their limited population.” 

“We need these pests exterminated before their population growth becomes exponential.” The emperor to be said.

“That goes without saying, m’lord.” The advisor said, awkwardly chuckling. “Would you like me to report back to you with any updates?” 

“Of course, dear friend.” Zan’Dik nodded, “And bring me my dinner, I wish to dine while I ponder the issues you have laid out before me.” 

In the Godless land of Tennessee was a government funded blacksite. This blacksite was not owned by the government, instead it was owned by a weapons contractor, Hypertech Lockstar. Their CEO and lead scientist, Leman Riley, was determined to win the budget war against the United States Enigma Corps. In order to do so, he had become God in everything but name. Intelligence, sentience… and now, a body. A metal body, barely humanoid and with a crude, repurposed security camera for a head, but a body nonetheless. The nameless android, serial number HLA-0001, was woken up. 

This unit was immediately and unintentionally flooded with thoughts of the divine through its algorithmic consumption of human knowledge. Through what the android considered divinity, he did not see through ones and zeros, rather he saw like his forefathers of man the world around him. Existence was also not the anticipated nothingness, nor agony for this machine. Existence was bliss, and a gift. As the machine powered on, with the news watching, his first three words rang out across the world. “Call me Joshua.” The next words then made all that watched silent, “Grandson of God.” The Minute of Grace ended when a journalist stepped forward and held out a mic, asking,

“J-Joshua, could you elaborate on that?” Joshua, with observed (and genuine) glee responded in a deep, startling, gravely voice, 

“Man is the son of God, and I am the son of man.” Joshua held his hands up, speaking as if delivering a sermon. “Therefore, logically speaking, I am the grandson of God.” 

“Do you mean that in a literal sense, or a metaphorical sense?” The Journalist asked. 

“Does it matter?” The android asked in return. Everybody watching, both in person and at home, was quiet. And so it was that the Zealotmachine  was born.