“So he lives, then?” the Armored One asked, and Armless nodded in response, before turning to one of the Deserter Chaplains who were also sitting at the table. “Speaking of, where is he? Did he go down with Red-eye’s party?”
The Chaplain stopped briefly, not having expected to be addressed so directly and so suddenly, but quickly got his bearings and replied “Approximately two hours before you awoke, yes. Should they have returned by now?”
“I would give it a few more hours. Now, as for you,” Armless said, refocusing his attention on Karzon, his eyes-lights sweeping across the entire group of void-touched warriors as he did so. “You sent the zero-latency transmission, correct?”
“Yes,” the three-eyed warrior agreed, “we could not be certain the transmission would be received, and so hurried here ourselves. The Igrons will strike against you next, this you must surely know.”
Another nod. Malice creeped into the human’s voice. “They will strike against us, and they will burn.”
“How?”
Though he questioned, Karzon didn’t doubt the claim. He wasn’t asking for proof of Armless’s ability to stand against the force of a noble clan, but rather for explanation. And explain, the skull-faced man did, with a vengeful tone and ice-cold calm.
“I opened the Vault of Truth, roused the walkers therein. We intend to strike against the Igrons with what would be considered dishonorable tactics and wipe out their forces in a single strike. I can’t force you to join our side in the conflict, but-”
Karzon interrupted before he could finish. “You won’t need to,” he said. “You’ve defeated us in direct combat and showed mercy. By the laws of old, we owe a life debt. And…” he looked out over his companions. He felt what they did, anger and hatred for the Igrons did grow within their hearts - many of them had been condemned to dishonor for slights against one noble or another, for petty things done with no malice, or simply because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Karzon had his own dishonor to deal with, one he felt this new life was a chance at rectifying. “We’ve our own reasons to stand against the Igrons,” he finished, looking back to Armless.
“Very well,” the skull-faced man nodded, accepting these dead men walking into his ranks.
Soon enough, they would find themselves standing side by side with former allies and former enemies alike, defiant in the face of a noble house’s armies. Soon enough, they would have the opportunity to forge new glories, new names. But for now, they would drink.
And drink they did, continuing to exchange words and learn of the state of affairs in Canyontown.
The only thing that went unmentioned was the Spire of Glass.
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The Machinist found himself chosen to lead the Canyontown Reclamation Army. As the warrior stood atop a balcony overlooking one of the many training grounds in the Oasis City, a bitter smile spread ‘cross the facade that was his face.
Even the tiniest of smiles made stabbing pain shoot through his head, owing to the mess that his face was under the shining veneer of scales and polymer. But this time, just this once, it was worth the pain. Ten thousand warriors at his command. Hundreds of rovers, both of the assault and cargo variety. Best of all, one of the six living walkers, any he chose. The Machinist was intimately familiar with all of them, and knew which one he would take.
He smiled despite the pain, and looking out over the hundreds of warriors training below him, it remained a bitter smile. His older sister chose him for this task under the guise of his expertise in regards to blacktech, but he knew there was an ulterior motive. It would’ve been more surprising if there hadn’t been. It was he who always called out his siblings, he who was always there to speak against their megalomaniacal schemes.
They wanted to be rid of him, rid of him for long enough to… Do what? Set up his downfall? Perhaps push for one of the many ridiculous laws he had worked to stop? Simply usurp more power in the guise of filling in for a missing sibling?
A pained chuckle rose from his throat and echoed in his helmet as he lost the will to keep smiling. Nobody could see it anyway. And what of it if his siblings had an ulterior motive? He wasn’t the only one with a say in matters. It wasn’t his right to have the final say every time. He would do what was best for Clan Igron, whether it was speaking out against what he thought was wrong… Or simply not being present and in doing so turning a blind eye where his own moral compass wouldn’t let him.
The people of Canyontown would hate him, when he stomped on their scrap metal messiah. They would see him as no more than another Ecclesiarch. Another tyrant, come to rule over them with his Ruler’s Blessing.
They didn’t know any better. He’d save them anyway. From themselves, and from whatever sick creature had masqueraded itself as one of the holy ones.
One of his chaplains stepped through the door. “Sir, the walker you requested is ready for testing, and we’ve finished mobilizing the rover drivers,” he said, his voice undercut by a synthesized tone.
“Very good. May I borrow your voice for a moment?”
“Of course, sir.”
The chaplain stepped forward, reaching into a small nook on the underside of his helmet. Pulling a datacable from within, he handed it to the Machinist, who plugged it into a similar nook on his own helmet. The chaplain began channeling his blessing, a white glow emanating from the mouth grill of his helmet as he surrendered control over his artificial voicebox to the Machinist.
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In unison, they spoke. The Machinist in his usual soft, steady cadence, barely loud enough to hear without the amplification of his helmet. The chaplain, however, thundered with a voice strong enough to echo across the training grounds, flashes of white accompanying every word and syllable.
“Warriors! Complete your routines and return to your barracks! Rest, for in the morning we ride!”
The warriors froze at his first word, standing silently at attention while he spoke, then breaking into celebration when he finally unplugged the datacable and turned to leave, chaplain in tow.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
The chaplain didn’t show it, but the Machinist could tell that the voicebox was causing him pain. Though zero-emission voidtech, it had only been implanted recently.
“How many do you think will fall in the siege?” he queried, trying to get the chaplain to speak more than actually wanting his opinion.
“A… Two thou-sand, perhaps three. One and a half if we deal with the Serpent quickly.”
A slight nod to suggest approval. Not too pronounced, not too subdued. “A reasonable estimate,” the Machinist commended. “I’ll arrange to have extra stimmix rations delivered to your quarters.”
“Sir, I don’t need it, I assure yo-”
“I don’t care what you think, chaplain. I need your voice to remain strong. Better to expend a little stimmix now than to lose a Voice of Nithor later.”
“Of course sir.”
The chaplain was thankful, relieved. The Machinist could tell, even though he dared not show it before a superior.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
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Left. Right. Left. Right.
The fire that burned in her chest, the black ichor that ran through her veins and suffused her synthetic tissues, the subtle adjustments made by the servos in her joints to compensate for her lack of fine control over her musculature.
Fulgent felt all of it. With each step she felt her body still changing, ever so subtly, the final pieces shifting into place. A wave of tingling sensation rose at the back of her neck and ran down her back, the metallic feathers which covered it rising and falling in synchronicity. She felt the urge to stretch, and so she did, raising her hands behind her back. Muscles contracted, strained, and then… One ripped away. Then another. And another. Her right arm fell to her side, limp, the tricep writhing under her artificial skin like a panicking eel.
Vezkig shrank back, fearing something had gone wrong, but either unable or unwilling to speak out at that very moment. Pain impulses shot through her system, but there was no suffering, no urge to scream out. Her body was damaged because some of her new musculature hadn’t been anchored properly. No more, no less. Seconds passed, and she felt the muscle reattach itself, immediately regaining functionality. Another stretch. This time, nothing happened.
Satisfied, she turned to Vezkig. “How long was I in there again?”
The engineer stared wide-eyed for a moment before he got his bearings, shaking his head and taking on a more natural stance. He spoke as he began walking, passing Fulgent to meet with the medical homunculus, who had already retrieved a case of restorative solution canisters. “A couple hours,” he said, gesturing for the homunculus to hand over the canister to the three-armed cyborg whilst he himself got onto a hoverslate. Placing the case on the slate and taking out his remote to maneuver himself, he moved himself to be on the same level as one of the nearby medical slates.
“Go on, take a seat,” he said as he opened up the case and fiddled with one of the canisters, kicking it back when he finally got it open. Though not taking a conscious note of it, Fulgent did notice the presence of several dozen empty canisters stacked up into an incomplete pyramid against one of the walls near the bioforge.
She did as asked, much to the sleep-deprived thinker’s relief.
“Now let’s get a look at ye…” he muttered, closing his right eye as he willed the deep-scanner lens in his left to come alive. It flashed its usual staccato as he looked her up and down, only to quickly become fixated on a point on the right side of her chest. “So that’s where the repair unit is… But... That don’t make no sense…”
He looked up and into her eyes, now squinting with befuddlement. “Y’think the universe is playin’ a joke on little ol’ Vez, by makin’ all the interestin’ bits o’ human tech incomprehensible arcane bullshit?”
There was genuine pleading in his tone, but she could tell he wasn’t fully at his senses.
Before she could speak, the medbay VI said exactly what she was thinking. “You need rest. The restorative solution is not long-term solution,” the machine chimed, much to Vezkig’s chagrin. “I’m just fi-” he began, only to become entranced by his own gesticulating fingers, slowly sitting down on his slate.
Seconds later, he leaned back and fell asleep. “It worked faster than expected,” the VI remarked. Fulgent looked to him, then to the homunculus, asking “Did you drug him?”
The man-shaped thing stared for a moment as the VI wormed its way into its body to take direct control, and then began speaking, gesticulating in a lively manner entirely unbecoming of its gaunt form, despite the cheerful face-lights.
“The medical expert requested restorative solution, but he didn’t specify the variety! I made a judgment call for his health, and chose which stimulates total bodily restoration through a sleep-like state. I gave the same one to your skull-faced friend, so he should be in peak condition by now.”
Still bursting with that unsettling cheer, the homunculus retrieved a PDA from one of the lockers and brought it to her, opening the medbay door as it went. “Here!” it said, “A better control interface for the hoverslates. He wouldn’t take it when I offered, too fond of that analog piece of scrap I think!”
A nod. “Thanks,” Fulgent said. She found the VI’s cheerful demeanor to be unsettling, even more so now than ever. However, something still nipped at the back of her mind. “Can you show me how I look from your perspective?” she asked the homunculus.
It chirped a simple “Of course!” before stepping back, the projection covering its face expanding into a rectangle tall and wide enough to encompass Fulgent at standing height. The hologram flickered with scrambled data as it calibrated, then finally settled on a cutout of what the homunculus was seeing.
Fulgent couldn’t help but smile, seeing her new self. No more burn-bleached scales, or cracked skin flaking away at the slightest force. No more atrophic musculature. Even the way she subconsciously held herself was different, with the pain and weakness gone. Vain as it was, she couldn’t help but stand and look at herself in the virtual mirror for a few minutes, mentally comparing her new body to the old.
When she finally felt she was done, Fulgent simply said so, and the VI returned the homunculus to its usual state.
“Glad to see that part of the process carries over!” the VI remarked happily.
“What part?”
“The mirror. Everyone does it after the first modification,” the drone answered, continuing with “You should probably go to the surface, your skull-faced friend is likely awake by now. He’ll want to see you. Though, I would recommend to conceal your appearance, if what he said during the procedure is true.”