When I was younger, I often wondered what I would change about myself if given the chance. My first thought was always my eyes turning their dull brown to a sharp, stormy grey, a colour to match the strange patches of grey hair I was born with.

Now, I can do far more than just alter eye colour. With a simple thought, I can reshape my entire biology. Any modification I can conceive becomes a reality, moulded from the biomass I shape.

Still, part of me clings to that idle curiosity how would the perfect human version of myself look? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I store that thought away, like a forgotten project left on a shelf. Perhaps one day I’ll sculpt a new human form. There might even be humans here, though I doubt they’d recognize me as one of their own any more.

I don't know whether this place exists in the same galaxy or even the same reality I was born into. For all I know, I could be in a parallel dimension where humanity evolved differently, or not at all. If they exist here, what would they look like? What shape or form would their bodies take in this alien place? The question lingers, unanswered and irrelevant for now.

The past few days have been spent reviewing potential alterations to my primary body. I began with the basics, reinforcing the design I’ve come to favour.

The general shape will remain unchanged. I’ve grown accustomed to my multi-limbed form, the efficiency of manipulating several tools in tandem too valuable to abandon. There’s a grace to the synchronization, a seamless dance of movement that I’m reluctant to disrupt.

But in my current state, I lack defence. My natural claws are effective against weaker threats, but against the kind of forces I expect to face, they are insufficient. Drones have been my primary shield in battle, but I can’t rely solely on them in case the enemy reach here.

I’ve slowed biomass consumption to prioritize my clone production. They are already gathering in a secured section of the warren. Many architects are constructing a new workshop, larger than before. A smaller surgical drone has been produced to accompany the larger one. Efficiency is paramount.

I retain one clone, its hands moving over a freshly cured resin tablet as I sketch out designs. The base acid gel launcher will remain the primary ranged weapon. It’s simple, effective, and reliable. Until a superior alternative presents itself, it will suffice.

The arms will need adjustments of greater dexterity to accommodate internal weapon systems. Bulk must be added without compromising flexibility. The internal structure will remain largely unchanged, but reinforcing key points is essential. Strength is nothing if the limbs can’t endure sustained combat.

For armour, I’ve decided on a lighter variation of the heavy drone plating. It sacrifices raw durability for mobility, but I believe the trade-off is necessary. In the rare moments, I’m isolated from my combat drones, I cannot afford to be sluggish. The lighter plating allows for rapid response, though it carries risk.

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My legs require the most modification. To balance the recoil from my upper limbs, they must be reinforced. The design draws inspiration from the heavies denser muscle fibres, compact yet powerful. Stability is non-negotiable.

Lastly, I outline the addition of a hive carrier integrated into my back. A larger variant, capable of housing smaller explosive drones for deployment mid-battle. It’s experimental, but if successful, it allows me to sustain prolonged engagements without relying on external fabrication.

A fleeting thought crosses my mind, missile pods. A ludicrous addition, but the idea of mounting rocket arrays directly to my frame amuses me. I scribble the concept down, though I know it will likely remain a theoretical design. Still, there’s something appealing about the sheer overkill.

The final addition is a series of bio-jets along my limbs and torso. In the low gravity of this moon, speed can be the deciding factor between life and death. Quick bursts of propulsion could mean the difference between retreating intact or becoming another casualty.

With the designs complete, I step back and analyse the sketches. The result is bulkier than anticipated, but not to the point of hindering mobility. I make a note to include disposable armour plating, something I can shed if necessary during combat. Modular, adaptable.

I send the clone back to its tasks. The pod containing my next body is escorted by architects to the surgical chamber. The drones are already waiting, instruments prepared.

My new body breaches the containment membrane, viscous fluids cascading off its frame. It stands larger and more robust. Initial tests proceed without issue. Faster than the heavies, though not quite as swift as the assault drones. The weapon systems perform as intended, each strike precise.

While the new form undergoes field tests, I oversee the surgical procedure on my current body. The implant extraction is delicate, one misstep could render the system unusable.

For the Gen-one drone, the process is far more complex. Its outer shell must be carefully dismantled by architects, exposing the internal augmentations. The implants are more extensive than anticipated, embedded deep within the carapace.

I take the opportunity to study the implant closely. Its design is intricate layered neural pathways, delicate yet robust. Extracting and reinstalling the implant is a challenge, but the tools required are already within my grasp.

The surgical drone carefully removes the storage drives, sanitizing each component before transferring it to the new body.

Hours pass. The gen-one drone is stripped of all valuable parts, and its remains are recycled for biomass.

The architects peel away the outer layers of my back and head, exposing the internal framework. The implant slides into place, tendrils of neural fibre weaving into my existing systems. The process is seamless.

For a brief moment, the implants activate prematurely. I suppress the surge of energy, shutting it down before it destabilizes the interface.

With the final connections made, I initiated the reboot manually. The system hums to life, fully integrated.

The implants booted on schedule, but the process was sluggish as multiple drives initialized in sequence. Data flickered through the system, cascading into place as the hard drives loaded, one by one.

As the refresh cycle was completed, the HUD solidified. Little had changed in structure—save for the addition of fresh storage drives. I deleted the copied files lingering in the old drive, clearing the remaining space and leaving the audio logs untouched.

Rising, I shifted my focus to the clones. My main body moved independently, drifting toward the workshop chamber where more critical tasks awaited.

Beyond the walls of my refuge no, not refuge. I paused at the thought. Sanctuary was gone. In all this time, I had not chosen a new name for what this place had become.

The twisting labyrinth of tunnels still stretched unexplored beneath me. The name could wait.

A quick check of the outside revealed little of note. The warships lingered far above, and no surface patrols ventured near.

Expansion beneath the crust proceeded according to schedule. Soon, this sector would be sealed. I instructed the architects to collapse the entrance, leaving the crude tracks of first-generation drones buried beneath layers of rock. Let it resemble nothing more than an old cave-in.

Burrowers were reassigned, and tasked with gathering mineral samples wherever they were discovered. With the upcoming experiments, raw materials were essential.

I drifted toward the workshop. Clones crowded the chamber, engaged in the myriad projects, as data was shared on ongoing progress. I left them to their tasks, focusing my attention elsewhere.

Bio-metallurgy consumes most of my effort now. Seven clones worked in tandem one refining anti-ship measures, another revisiting the plasma weapon designs.

The most critical project lay at the far end of the chamber. Ship designs.