Enigmatik

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed]

Isabella adjusted the loose-fitted cuffs of her shirt, gave her rapier a final once-over, then stepped forward. In front of her stood Raphael Lorenzo de Antigua, patrician of thirty-four years and a loudmouthed, ignorant, backwards-thinking bastard. "Aren't you glad I chose blades, rather than bullets? Just think, I could have shot you dead already, but instead you get a chance to reconsider!" She swished the blade lazily through the air a few times, trying to convince herself to be cockier than she really was. Raphael was not going to go easy on her, so she would not be able to go easy on him.

This whole duel was not even remotely what she desired. A way for her to pointlessly die before her twenty-fifth birthday? Yes, that was precisely what she loved to do, yet the blaggard had ended up so incensed by her that he had thrown down the glove, and she would have looked terrible to refuse such a challenge. For the umpteenth time she sized him up, their eyes meeting for a brief moment, all three suns staring down upon them.

"On this day, the eighteenth rotation of the third quarter, Anno 300, Patrician Isabella Maria Rodriguez de Lobasla, defending herself against Patrician Raphael Lorenzo de Antigua. The fight will end when one fighter is incapable of defending themselves. May the saints grace you, and may the fight begin." The mediator bowed and took a step back, leaving the two with only air between them.

A bead of sweat slipped down Isabella's face as the pair rotated around each other, cautiously. She had the longer reach with her rapier, but Raphael's sabre was not to be underestimated. She kept him at arm’s length, the pair stepping back and forth slowly, neither one willing to commit... Until Raphael darted forward, sabre held high. Isabella raised her blade up and lunged forward, steel clashing against steel as the point of her blade was deflected away. Before she could strike again, the sabre came across, the woman throwing herself back to avoid its razor edge.

Then forward again. She took the initiative this time, darting forward and thrusting out low, towards his stomach. Raphael side-stepped, then returned with an overhead. She brought the blade up, the sabre skidding off the flat of her rapier, then riposted. Raphael moved to the side and twisted his hand, the guard of their sabre failing to purchase on the thinner rapier blade. So as to not lose tempo, he followed through despite the failed grab, his sabre sweeping against her sleeve and snicking the fabric in two. Unperturbed, Isabella pushed forward, her blade finding a significantly juicier target in his forearm, where it slid cleanly in and out.

To his credit, Raphael didn’t make a sound despite the blood staining his shirt. The two fighters moved backwards, Isabella flicking her rapier to get rid of any large droplets of crimson, then tightened her footwork up again and prepared herself, just in time for Raphael’s next assault. This time, the man attempted to get in close, past her guard, bringing the sabre down and towards her shoulder blade. A flick of her wrist deflected, but then before she could counter-attack, he had stepped in, her rapier finding itself uselessly shoved to his side.

She lashed out with her foot; Raphael moved out of the way. He attempted to grab her hand, she smacked it back. He put more pressure on his sabre, she reached up and grabbed a hold of it, wrestling with the man for control of his blade. Just as it seemed she might win control, he rapidly retreated, taking his sabre with him. By now, the superficial puncture had thoroughly soaked his shirt, a few drops penetrating the fabric and falling down to water the grass below the pair.

Again, they matched against each other. Again, metal clashed, ripostes and counter-ripostes failing to make any dent in the other’s attack. Were they both equally good, or were they just both horrendous fighters? Who could tell anymore, the heat and intensity having brought beads of sweat to the skins of both duellists.

For the fourth time the duo circled each other. A quick thrust by Isabella was sidestepped, a wild swing from Raphael left unpunished. Then, quite unexpectedly, Isabella darted forward, driving her rapier towards him hard. He just barely avoided it- earning himself a tear in his shirt to match hers, but her aim was not to hit him with the thrust, but instead to get in close enough to grab his forearm. Distracted by her blade, he failed to react in time, and she managed to twist his arm about and pull his sword out of position, bringing her rapier across for a finishing cut.

Astonishingly, he caught it with the blade of his sabre, the rapier a hair’s breadth from slicing his neck open. Frowning, she hammered her head forward hard, the brow of her head impacting hard with his nose. Reeling backwards, the sweep her rapier made was practically lazy compared to the tight swordsmanship displayed before, but it didn’t need to be sophisticated. Her rapier sliced through his skin and thin layer of fat, lodging itself between his ribs and somewhere deep within his lungs. As quickly as she had lunged in she retreated, drawing her sword out and slicing through quite a bit more of the man. A laboured breath of his caught and turned into a gurgle, the man’s hand coming down quite automatically to clutch at his side. As medics rushed forth to aid him, Isabella planted the tip of her rapier in the ground and delivered a final line. “Let this… be a lesson… to the remaining De Antiguas that would think your behaviour appropriate.”

One of the assistants by the duel handed her a bottle of coffee-flavoured re-hydrating solution and she sucked it down eagerly, finally handing her blade off and walking towards the changing room she had emerged from not ten minutes ago. She had been asked to model for charcoal artists at the Academia el Arte Lupata, and she didn’t intend on being late just because of a little thing like a duel.

---

You got your warform needlessly damaged. The technician looked at the machine, frustrated.

I ‘got’ satisfaction from it. It wasn’t needless. Eta-Theta joined them, looking down at their new form. After the gunfire it had taken it was in bad shape, metal twisted and servomotors misaligned in unusual and strange ways. And it’s given me ideas. Their left arm reached down and picked up their damaged right, before rotating their forearm around 360 degrees like a bizarre fan blade. We’re already pioneering new warforms. Let me design one myself.

A brief vote was held in the Collective. A custom-made warform was not an unusual request, and truth be told there were some in the Consciousness that had recognised Eta-Theta’s slightly concerning behaviour and actively encouraged it. They were in a war for survival- an unhinged terror weapon was now a benefit, not a disadvantage. So it was that Eta-Theta got their desire, and a new form was manufactured for them, in the foundries of Elysium-Alpha.

It was… Morbidly beautiful. The warform had been designed for stealth, manoeuvrability and speed over strength or durability and tapped into the uncanny valley wonderfully well. Their limbs were just slightly out of proportion to the human average, silhouette just a tad too thin and gangly. Their face split the difference between emaciated and a skull, a sunken, hollow, matte-black thing that stared out with haunting red eyes. It was entirely naked, choosing to internalise weaponry and carrying systems, and when Eta-Theta took control of its motors, it felt like slipping into a well-worn set of shoes.

We’re positive it’s the same ones that terminated my original body.

Absolutely. Perfect match.

Well then. I’ll give them a warm Zetan welcome.

---

Isabella’s jetbike thrummed as its magnetic fields were pushed to their limit. She flicked her boots back, the heels coming down on the thruster controls and toes curling to tap the boosters into activation. Her speedometer crept up despite the inclination, until at last she was level with the island, easing the boosters off and gliding down. As her bike’s magnetic fields were pulled in by the lodestone’s attraction, she choked the electromagnets, finally touching down onto its surface cleanly. In front of her, on the hazy horizon of the Lupatan sea settled the second sun, the first having already completed its descent over this part of the planet.

She reached into a pocket, settling side-saddle on her bike, and retrieved a fat, heavy, pungent-smelling stick. El Verde Verdugo, pricy, skunk-like, strong. She fixed one end in her mouth, wrapping her lips around it as she brought her lighter up. There was a quiet whompf, then a soft crackle as she breathed in.

The smoke filled up her lungs with a rich warmth, slowly spilling out into the rest of her upper body. Isabella let her eyes unfocus, affixed on some distant point on the horizon far beyond even the remaining two suns. It was easy to do- the heat coming off the water sent up a screen of hazy mist that practically invited one to rest one’s eyeballs on it.

So much to consider. So much had happened. Even without the duel and her new orders, there was the matter of their fourth sun: the gateway that had opened. Soon, Matuvista would establish formal relations with the other colonies, assuming they had survived, and then nothing would be the same again. It was quite the exciting prospect to consider… Or, she could let herself be washed away on waves of curling smoke.

That second one seemed like a much better prospect right now.

---

Alfonso listened to the messages slowly, then repeated then again, just for good measure. ‘The Meeting Place,’ a diplomatic space station. That made sense with the readings they were getting- so many different ships, and what little they’d seen of the station itself made it seem like a hodgepodge of different systems all stapled together. It was a miracle life support functioned at all. The ‘Earth Cultural Union’ was a peculiar name for a nation, yet… He was here to explore, learn as much as he could, and report back. He had to admit though, ‘United Columbian Republic?’ Now, that sounded quite like quite the right-thinking group of individuals.

“Fetch me my full-dress uniform. My sword and my cap as well.” He turned to follow the plebians as they scurried to do his bidding, situating himself in his quarters as the various elements that made up his uniform were delivered to him. Some might have thought him slightly ridiculous like this, but in the eyes of the Grand Republic, only now was he really properly dressed.

Gold epaulettes, a rich blue jacket, blindingly bright white trousers, white gloves, black boots, a golden belt, his sword, his bicorne, and, of course, a complement of medals and honours adorned his chest. To the trained eye, it spoke of a wound taken in combat against the Yyasum, an award for valour, the ownership of his second vote in the Lower Senate and the participation in an interplanetary campaign. To the untrained eye, it was somewhat over the top.

La Introducción sailed into the Meeting Place calmly, airlock affixing itself and adjusting to scale. Straight back. Eyes forward. An honour guard of plebians stood on either side of Alfonso, boots and caps polished until they gleamed and rifles held at parade-perfect angles. “Excellente.” The patrician nodded. “Remember what Condel Julianus said- we are representatives of the Grand Republic! Act accordingly.” A curt nod to his men, and then the airlock door hissed open, and a Matuvistan boot touched the Meeting Place for the first time.

“Hail!” Alfonso said dramatically, a small microphone in his collar serving double-duty to broadcast the sound back to the frequencies that had signalled to La Introducción as it had entered the system, and also boost the volume of his words now, in the confines of the ship. “I am Alfonso Leoncio Alvarez De Caravajal, patrician, officer and formal representative of the Grand Republic of Matuvista, reporting by the benediction of the saints and on the order of Chancellor Julianus de Aquilius and the senate. Never before has your sight been graced by our presence, and never onwards shall a brighter beacon shine!” Was it boastful? Yes. Was it dramatic? Yes. Was it perfect? Yes.

WH40k: Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap! - A Necromunda Bounty Hunter Narrative [Currently Open]

Kinesium

Name: Kinesium. Surname not needed.

Clan House: Delaque

Personal Demeanour: Quiet. Observant. Professional. Kinseium does not like extra attention. Although usually a solo-operator, working with a group suits him- others to take the blame, and the bullets. The best snipers view their marks not as people, but as figures- unthinking, human-shaped blobs of meat that need dispatching, and Kinseium takes this attitude with him everywhere. Allies are useful, yes, but not to get obsessive over, and ideals like 'hatred' or 'vengeance' only distract you from the kill.

The people who have 'feelings' in the Hive are the type of meatheaded Goliaths that'd beat their boss to death with an archeotech trophy.

Description: Kinesium does not particularly stand out among the members of House Delaque. He is perhaps a little more hirsuit than the average Delaque ganger, managing to grow a wiry, scraggly rattailed mohawk. He's exceedingly pale, and, rather than a standard pair of human eyes instead has two unblinking mettalic replacements. His clothing is the unofficial House Delaque uniform- a long, heavy duty black coat that covers him shoulder-to-toes, complimented by a set of well-worn leather boots and a thin pair of gloves. In case Kinseium does get caught in the line of fire, his jacket is reinforced with flak armour: enough to turn a stubber or catch the worst of a frag.

Skills: Kinesium is a peculiar blend of close-quarter specialist and long range 'problem remover.' Anything without an inch of steel in front of their face is in danger of a closed casket funeral, as Kinesium is perfectly capable of laying down accurate and precise fire at long range and in the exceedingly gloomy conditions of the underhive. Those thinking such a marksman must be incapable at close ranges are in for a surprise though, because Kinesium is anything but. With a blade or a blunt, Kinesium can hold his own, turning his opponnet's strength against them, and it doesn't take much of a cut to let their poisoned blade set to work...

History: Kinesium's life was... Boring. As boring as one's early life in the underhive can be, anyway. Living in the gloomy territory that marks out Delaque land from that of the rest of the underhive, Kinesium practiced his letters, numbers, and stub pistol cleaning drills like any good underhive boy or girl. Delaque prises their gangers being at least vaguely educated- after all, a spy that can't read or write is a pretty bad spy, and his early effectiveness on the shooting range meant that extra maths were foisted on him. A good sniper weaponises mathematics, and Kinesium is nothing but a good sniper.

Their early jobs were small-scale tussles with other lowlife gangs. He never stayed among one group for long, always plying his long-las alongside a different set of Delaque and against a different set of foes. He's shot at almost everything, down in the hive- corpse grinders, goliaths, eschers, enforcers, civillians, and he quickly gained a reputation among his fellow gangers as the sort of individual you wanted when precision was important.

As more and more people clamoured for his attention, it only made sense for Kinesium to start selling his expertise. Gradually, as the tales of a high-calibre Delque sniper seeped out and into the wider hive, a target was painted on Kinseium's back, and one he was only too happy to accept. Anyone's welcome to try and take him on in a sniper duel, but 'Shh's' acquisition warns other marksmen what can happen when they underestimate Kinesium.

Equipment and Armament:

Shh: An interesting piece of kit, 'Shh,' as it's named by the engraving on the barrel, is a heavy duty, silenced sniper rifle with some exotic features from its time in an underhive foundry. The barrel sits flush against a powerful spring- not only does this minimise recoil when firing from an unsupported position, but, when the barrel is pressed all the way down against the spring, shortens the entire device down massively. To aid in concealment, the stock also telescopically unfolds out, and the sights, rather than being inconvenient glass, are instead a form of holo-targeting requiring no bulky scope, no need to zero the gun and providing clear targeting in low-light situations. In short, 'Shh' is exactly what most Delaque would look for in a rifle: concealable, powerful, near-silent.

Muffled Handshake: A peculiar piece of equipment, the Muffled Handshake is relatively slender despite its boxy design, and has a prominent surpressor attached to the end of it. Don't let the lack of stock or the box magazine fool you however- despite its appearance, the Muffled Handshake is not a pistol, but is in fact a 'pocket shotgun,' with enough lead in one box to stop even the dumbest of Goliaths.

Catachan's Envy: Such a name would, of course, get Kinesium murdered by any Catachan in earshot, but such individuals are in short supply in Necromunda. Deliberately made to resemble the infamous 'Night Reaper' combat knife that the legendary troopers use, the Envy is eight inches of darkened steel, coated in an unpleasant and toxic concoction that would make Kinesium's eyes water if they hadn't been replaced years ago.

Throwing Knives: A Delaque classic. Never leave home without at least five. Darkened steel, razor-sharp. Just the ticket for non-ballistic takedowns.

Miscellaneous:

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed]

"Patricians." The Speaker of the Senate declared imperiously. The hubbub of noise continued unabated despite this.

"Patricians." The speaker insisted again. A hundred and twenty years old, but looking like someone in their sixties at most, the steel-haired woman slammed her fist down onto her podium, sending a screech of feedback through the entire auditorium. "PATRICIANS." She finally barked out, at last bringing the cacophony to silence. "Quite right." The Speaker finally declared. "I expect this sort of racket from our younger members, but it is quite unseemly for the Upper Senate to act so raucously. Now then, to business." She smoothed her clothes down, and indicated across to another podium. "Speaking now, the Venerable Chancellor of Matuvista, Condel Julianus de Aqualius."

"My thanks, Speaker." The Chancellor nodded respectfully. Younger than the speaker by several decades, the de-facto President of the Grand Republic adjusted their medals a little, then begun to speak. "Friends. Patricians. Countrymen. The time that we have long since considered would never come has finally arrived. Above us, where once three stars burned, a fourth has sprung to life. We know not why or how, but a probe sent through has returned unharmed." He paused for emphasis.

"For the first time in three centuries, we now are reconnected once again with the rest of the galaxy." Polite applause broke out throughout the auditorium. "We are now able to return to Earth. To find out what happened to our fellow colonists, strung through the stars like glistening pearls of hope for our race. To understand our place in this wonderous universe. It is a privilege, and a pleasure, to be the Chancellor who, by the grace of the saints, has been given this opportunity, and I hope each and every patrician will feel the same way."

"To those who are not here today, the patricians and plebians both, understand that this is a most momentous occasion. Each and every one of us is now no mere citizen of the Republic: We are representatives of it. Of our people. Our fine culture. Our honourable legacy. This is a great burden, yes, but also an honour no past generation has had. With God as my witness, let this day begin a renaissance for our people, our planets, and our Republic!"

---

Alfonso Leoncio Alvarez De Caravajal had been assigned to his most difficult mission yet. Harder than handling insurgencies. Harder than interstellar combat. Harder even than not making a fool of himself at the debut gala. No, his mission was to head through the Gateway, and see what was left of Earth. His new flagship- an extensively modified patrol corvette re-christened La Introducción, sailed through the empty space that connected solar systems, plotting a course for the home of humanity- Sol System.

When he emerged, he wasn't entirely certain what he was going to find, but it certainly wasn't this. A swarm of vessels, of many and varied designs shuffled to and fro through the gateway, all heading towards a lump of steel that hung above a...

"Dios Mio." Alfonso paused there for a moment, staring at the remnants of a home he had never owned. The planet... It was grey. Ashen. No blue. No green... Not even the white of clouds. "Head for that station," he declared. "And try to figure out who all these people are!"

He had a messanger drone to send back to Matuvista.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed]

Ten soldiers, proceeding through Zetan tunnels. These were Unionist soldiers- protectors, more suited to bullying civilians than they were fighting a guerrilla war, and yet here they were. Eta-Theta examined them through the lenses of their new warform, analysing them. Studying them. It had been determined that the standard 'light warform,' was good enough in combat to be iterated upon, changed, and adjusted. With the glut of disembodied Zetans, there had been high demand for forms to take revenge on those that had taken so much from them. If they were honest though... Eta-Theta wasn't here for vengeance. The people they wanted dead for hurting them were in orbit, to be handled at a later date. No, this? This was simply for their own pleasure.

The squad swept through a set of tunnels and passed by a heavy-duty breach-proof door that had been set open. This was their last mistake. No sooner had the last man entered then both sides slammed shut.

"Fuck!" One of them cried out, looking around. "What the hell?"

"They had eyes on us?" Another said, confused and... Concerned. Eta-Theta had no tongue and no lips, but they would have been using the former to lick the latter had they been in their original body. The warform they were in untangled itself from the ceiling and deactivated its magnetic clamps, clattering against the ground loudly. Immediately, all eyes whirled towards it, guns shouldered, but... Eta-Theta was unarmed.

They were not the threat here.

"So glad you could join me today for an experiment." The Zetan felt as one of the men rattled off half a magazine from their gun, sending the warform backwards and against the ground. Thankfully, they didn't feel the pain of the bullets any more- the hardened carapace of the warform weathering the storm well enough to continue talking.

"In approximately fifteen seconds..."

"Wait! Stop shooting." One of the men said, as a magazine hit the floor. "Let it finish, then shoot it. Fucking toaster."

"I have halted the countdown timer. The room you are in now is built directly adjacent to Asphodel-Epsilon's main nuclear reactor. You are being kept safe by our radiation shielding. However... You are trespassers here. Trespassers must be removed." They could see the unease that the men had already.

"The countdown has been resumed. By the time I finish this sentence, you will have been exposed to lethal levels of ionizing radiation. You will have approximately five minutes of lucidity. I recommend you do with it what you can." Eta-Theta felt something stirring within their chest at the reaction that got from the men. Panic. Fear. Anger. It didn't matter though. Already, the warform's internal Geiger sensors were crackling off the chart. At first, the men would feel nothing. Then, heat. Burns would form. The skin blistered. The radiation exposure was cut off, but the dosage had been given.

Of course, the men extracted vengeance on the form that Eta-Theta was in, but they could only pump so many shots into it, and they had larger things to worry about. Soon nausea set in. The contents of their stomachs splashed out against the floor of the room. Hair began to wither, then teeth fell out. They begged, pleaded, and at last collapsed down. When they fell, Eta-Theta rose, damaged micromotors and misaligned servos screeching to pull the warform up and into shape. As the men closed their eyes and were finally excused from their living hell, Eta-Theta picked one of the still living ones up by the throat.

"Just remember. You made us this way." Eta-Theta squeezed down, hard. They had made a promise, and they needed practise. The warform's thumb, even in its damaged state, sunk into the man's throat and tightened his windpipe shut. The man's eyes fluttered in panic, but there simply wasn't much more his body could do. When his eyes closed, the irradiated warform tossed his corpse down.

"You turned me into a killing machine... Who am I to argue with programming?"

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed]

| In Collaboration with @Tortoise |

There’s a single, bright line shining overhead. The chairs are steel, and the Zetan’s hands are tied behind it. Across from him are two ECU protectors, one sitting at the metal table and shuffling through files, and the other glaring menacingly from beside the door.

And it’s all clearly a scene taken from an Old Earth, 1950's detective show.

“Look,” the sitting protector said. “I want to help you here, okay? We don’t want this fight. You guys took Bodi from us. We just need some information, and then we’ll let you go home, alright?”

“Forget it, Jo,” her partner cut in. “This tin can probably can’t even talk.”

Eta-Theta was having a bad day. It could have been a lot worse of a day if there had been a problem with their transcendence protocols, but as it was, it was just a bad day. The resistance fighter had been carrying out a subterranean operation when their group had run straight into an ECU patrol nobody else had picked up on- the resulting firefight had left the resistance group wiped almost to a man, and the patrol only barely faring better. Unfortunately, ‘better’ was still good enough to take them captive.

“Alpha-Bodi is a willing refugee. You just wanted an excuse.” They spat onto the floor.

“Where is Alpha-Bodi today, then?”

“Alpha-Elysium, probably.” They frowned.

The protector by the door, whose name is Yun, seems to take a note on his infopad. “I like that you’re willing to cooperate,” he says. “Where is Alpha-Elysium? And how does one enter?”

“It’s the Alpha subsector of the Elysium sector,” Eta-Theta deadpanned. “You get down there by going down the big shuttle, we’ll welcome you the right way.”

Yun rolls his eyes, while Jo slides her infopad across the table. It’s displaying an active map of the Zeta-5, compiled together from orbital data and whatever satellites the ECU has managed to hijack since the blockade started. “Show us on this map where Elysium-Alpha is. If we can get Bodi now, you know, maybe the Oligarchs will be satisfied- and then we can all go home, and your people can be free again. Isn’t that what we all want?”

“You’re destroying our cities, killing our people, ruining our stations and lying about the whole thing, and you think you’ll get me to just give you the location of our first settlement? Burn in Tartarus like your scout teams.”

This time, Jo rolled her eyes while Yun did something. He smiled. The beautiful, big New Hollywood smile that was all teeth and shining.

"Listen, kid," he addressed the Zetan, not because he thought it was a kid, but because that's how protectors talk when they're about to do something intimidating, "we've got some theories about your kind. About how some of you know too much. And the big boys at top are starting to come up with ideas on how to prove it. You wanna be our first test subject? That can be arranged."

There was a long moment of silence. Eta-Theta sat there, eyes staring ahead of them for a few seconds, and then a twitch ran through the side of their face. They slumped down into the chair slightly, then they smirked. “Alright. Test away.”

At that moment, Eta-Theta's head hit the steel floor. Protector Yun had kicked their chair over backwards, and soon was dragging the Zetan out into the hallway by the legs of it. "Alright, you glorified freak, come on then."

They brought them to the only airlock onboard this mid-sized ship. Through the window, you could see Zeta-5 far below.

“Never seen space in person.” The Zetan said, looking out at their planet down below. “She’s… Well, I wouldn’t call her beautiful, but she’s killed more of you than we have, so I suppose she’s due a few compliments.” The cyborg laughed a little.

"Hey, you're about to see her real up-close and personal," Yun growled. This close to killing someone, his act was starting to slip a little. It always did.

The airlock doors wheezed open with a slow hiss. Eta-Theta was briskly tossed in, the chair clanging unceremoniously against the floors.

"Wait!" Jo, who had been following a few steps behind, interrupted. "Are you sure about this?" She paused dramatically. "Those chairs are expensive."

Yun laughed while the doors wheezed back closed.

Eta-Theta was, curiously, equipped quite well for spacing. Not for surviving spacing, no, but with the neural nanobots having fried any and all sensation to their left leg and their arm replacement having taken critical damage, they were never going to simply walk out. Therefore, the best method for going through with this was to transcend as rapidly as possible.

Deep breaths. Eta-Theta had to force out all of the old air as quickly as possible, then fill their lungs. The change in pressure when the airlock doors opened would blow their lungs out rapidly enough. The shock’d knock them unconscious- the lack of oxygen in their blood would begin the transcendence process afterwards. All in all, it would be quick.

They hoped.

Yun's face peered in through the airlock interior door's window, visible from where Eta had landed. "Here's how it's going to go down…"

The ECU had long been theorizing that Zetan individuals were speaking to each other in some covert way. They just too often seemed to know what they shouldn't, or fought in perfect unison without needing to talk at all. Just yesterday, an ECU patrol was spotted by one lone Zetan, and then ambushed by a separate team of warforms only a few minutes later. It was starting to make them suspicious.

"In one-hundred-and-twenty seconds," Yun continued, "this airlock is gonna open up to empty space, and you're gonna be in it or you're not. If you don't wanna be, tell your buddies on the surface to send us a message right now. We know you freaks are talking to each other somehow."

“Open the fucking airlock quicker.” Eta-Theta had never raised their middle finger at someone in Zetan society, but apparently, according to the consciousness, Hollywoodites viewed it as offensive. So, that’s what they did. One middle finger raised directly to the two protectors. “When we rebuild, I’m going to personally crush one of your tracheas.”

Yun only mimed tapping on a watch. Ten seconds passed, thirty, a minute...

The airlock door hissed open, and Eta-Theta had a full lungful of air. There was a muffled popping noise, and from within their chest came the most excruciating pain imaginable. They didn’t believe that this sort of pain was even imaginable let alone something real that your body could experience.

Luckily, their calculations hadn’t been wrong. Their body shut down less than three seconds after the airlock had opened up again. Thirty seconds later, Eta-Theta had re-entered a warform down on the surface of Zeta-5, looking up at where their original form had perished. The two protectors- Yun and Jo, burned into their mind.

As they examined their individually articulated fingers, strong enough to crush cartilage, they wished they still had the ability to smile.

---

The Zetan response came not from the surface of the planet, but from an old satellite, still hanging in orbit. Summoned to life through old codes and signals, it sent a weak response towards where the Xandalian Republic had made their broadcast.

The message held the coordinates to an unassuming patch of desert, where a single warform had been left. The message assured them it would be activated by the time that talks were meant to begin.

---

Sigma-Devi was roused from her observation of the war by the recognition that someone aboard the station above Earth was attempting to contact her. Christensen, an envoy from the Xandalian Republic. She set herself down in front of her main desks, signalled for the automated door to open, then watched as the man entered. Their displeasure was obvious from their body language, but her smile and neutral eyes made it clear that her frustration was not with the man currently entering the room.

"Firstly, I must say it's very refreshing to see the Xandalians attempt to uncover the truth of what is happening. The ECU are rabid, they're spacing prisoners, attacking civilian centres, blatantly lying about the entire situation..." She hissed, frustrated. "But enough about my ramblings. I'm sure you have a reason to be here, and we should act properly, regardless." There was a long pause. "What can I do for you?"

| @Crusader Lord |

WH40k: Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap! - A Necromunda Bounty Hunter Narrative [Currently Open]

Kinesium

Name: Kinesium. Surname not needed.

Clan House: Delaque

Personal Demeanour: Quiet. Observant. Professional. Kinseium does not like extra attention. Although usually a solo-operator, working with a group suits him- others to take the blame, and the bullets. The best snipers view their marks not as people, but as figures- unthinking, human-shaped blobs of meat that need dispatching, and Kinseium takes this attitude with him everywhere. Allies are useful, yes, but not to get obsessive over, and ideals like 'hatred' or 'vengeance' only distract you from the kill.

The people who have 'feelings' in the Hive are the type of meatheaded Goliaths that'd beat their boss to death with an archeotech trophy.

Description: Kinesium does not particularly stand out among the members of House Delaque. He is perhaps a little more hirsuit than the average Delaque ganger, managing to grow a wiry, scraggly rattailed mohawk. He's exceedingly pale, and, rather than a standard pair of human eyes instead has two unblinking mettalic replacements. His clothing is the unofficial House Delaque uniform- a long, heavy duty black coat that covers him shoulder-to-toes, complimented by a set of well-worn leather boots and a thin pair of gloves. In case Kinseium does get caught in the line of fire, his jacket is reinforced with flak armour: enough to turn a stubber or catch the worst of a frag.

Skills: Kinesium is a peculiar blend of close-quarter specialist and long range 'problem remover.' Anything without an inch of steel in front of their face is in danger of a closed casket funeral, as Kinesium is perfectly capable of laying down accurate and precise fire at long range and in the exceedingly gloomy conditions of the underhive. Those thinking such a marksman must be incapable at close ranges are in for a surprise though, because Kinesium is anything but. With a blade or a blunt, Kinesium can hold his own, turning his opponnet's strength against them, and it doesn't take much of a cut to let their poisoned blade set to work...

History: Kinesium's life was... Boring. As boring as one's early life in the underhive can be, anyway. Living in the gloomy territory that marks out Delaque land from that of the rest of the underhive, Kinesium practiced his letters, numbers, and stub pistol cleaning drills like any good underhive boy or girl. Delaque prises their gangers being at least vaguely educated- after all, a spy that can't read or write is a pretty bad spy, and his early effectiveness on the shooting range meant that extra maths were foisted on him. A good sniper weaponises mathematics, and Kinesium is nothing but a good sniper.

Their early jobs were small-scale tussles with other lowlife gangs. He never stayed among one group for long, always plying his long-las alongside a different set of Delaque and against a different set of foes. He's shot at almost everything, down in the hive- corpse grinders, goliaths, eschers, enforcers, civillians, and he quickly gained a reputation among his fellow gangers as the sort of individual you wanted when precision was important.

As more and more people clamoured for his attention, it only made sense for Kinesium to start selling his expertise. Gradually, as the tales of a high-calibre Delque sniper seeped out and into the wider hive, a target was painted on Kinseium's back, and one he was only too happy to accept. Anyone's welcome to try and take him on in a sniper duel, but 'Shh's' acquisition warns other marksmen what can happen when they underestimate Kinesium.

Equipment and Armament:

Shh: An interesting piece of kit, 'Shh,' as it's named by the engraving on the barrel, is a heavy duty, silenced sniper rifle with some exotic features from its time in an underhive foundry. The barrel sits flush against a powerful spring- not only does this minimise recoil when firing from an unsupported position, but, when the barrel is pressed all the way down against the spring, shortens the entire device down massively. To aid in concealment, the stock also telescopically unfolds out, and the sights, rather than being inconvenient glass, are instead a form of holo-targeting requiring no bulky scope, no need to zero the gun and providing clear targeting in low-light situations. In short, 'Shh' is exactly what most Delaque would look for in a rifle: concealable, powerful, near-silent.

Muffled Handshake: A peculiar piece of equipment, the Muffled Handshake is relatively slender despite its boxy design, and has a prominent surpressor attached to the end of it. Don't let the lack of stock or the box magazine fool you however- despite its appearance, the Muffled Handshake is not a pistol, but is in fact a 'pocket shotgun,' with enough lead in one box to stop even the dumbest of Goliaths.

Catachan's Envy: Such a name would, of course, get Kinesium murdered by any Catachan in earshot, but such individuals are in short supply in Necromunda. Deliberately made to resemble the infamous 'Night Reaper' combat knife that the legendary troopers use, the Envy is eight inches of darkened steel, coated in an unpleasant and toxic concoction that would make Kinesium's eyes water if they hadn't been replaced years ago.

Throwing Knives: A Delaque classic. Never leave home without at least five. Darkened steel, razor-sharp. Just the ticket for non-ballistic takedowns.

Miscellaneous:

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed]

The Grand Republic of Matuvista

The Grand Republic of Matuvista

A ruler without culture is a tyrant and nothing more.



---

Government Form:
Matuvistan society is ruled by the Senate, an oligarchal council drawn from a caste of warrior-artists, under which labour a majority of plebeians.

Demographics:
Human.

Approximately 10% of Matuvistan society are patricians, 23% are mathetes, and the remaining 66% are plebians.

Population:
2.3 Billion
---

Planet Name and Description: Matuvista is an astounding planet in multiple ways. Firstly, it's classified as a 'Mega-Earth,' by old astrogeological standards. At roughly the size of Neptune, Matuvista dominates the trinary star system it inhabits, only outmatched by two particularly gargantuan gas giants, neither of which rotate the same stars.

Because of this, Matuvista has been home to many an interstellar encounter, quite a few of which have resulted in it ensnaring another planetary body as a moon. Three of Matuvista's moons are inhabitable- nicknamed 'the three sisters,' they each hold their own populations of settlers, acting as 'colonies' to the Grand Republic's 'motherland.'

On Matuvista's surface, the planet is dominated by wetlands and rainforests. Hot and wet, it's a prime place for growing modified old Earth crops and a wide bounty of Matuvista's own native foods, and its oceans teem with often dangerous, often delicious marine life to be hunted and eaten. Aside from the flora and fauna, Matuvista's geology hosts some of the most powerful lodestones ever found- so powerful, in fact, that they've been known to violently free themselves from the crust to burst upwards as floating islands. Lodestone prospecting is one of the few ways plebeians can really strike it big- it's dangerous, difficult and extremely demanding work, but the substance is always in high demand.

Most of Matuvista's population lives around the Lupatan Sea- a colossal freshwater basin that makes the Pacific look like a bathtub. Above the water hang some of the largest lodestone islands on the planet, with their own fauna, specially adapted to thriving among the unstable crags.

History: The first colonists of Matuvista came from the remnants of several old-Earth Hispanic countries. Upon initial landing, cultural and political differences almost shattered the nascent colony before it could get its feet on the ground, but through a series of increasingly more desperately power-hungry strongmen, the early Matuvistan settlements were held together.

The initial colonisation was not an easy one. Successive waves of settlers, fleeing whichever dictator had rested power that particular year expanded the borders out, at great cost to life and limb. The thick, choking jungles and lethal wildlife proved to be a combination enough to suppress even the most dedicated of colonisation efforts, and the small settlements on Matuvista’s moons hardly fared much better. As the population grew though, and the early terror began to subside, the successive and unstable ascension of dictators began to come under closer and closer scrutiny.

Eventually, one dictator- his name deliberately scrubbed from the record, overstepped his boundaries. Several unpopular reforms back-to-back caused almost every aspect of society to independently despise him, whereupon a woman by the name of Julia De Angelo rallied the people and overthrew the dictator, throwing him out of his capital and watching as he was devoured by one of the man-hunting beasts that lived in the jungles.

De Angelo’s temporary solution was to have a council of experienced individuals lead the country until a more equitable form of government could be arranged. The Technocracy was a short-lived period in Matuvistan history, as it was rapidly supplanted by the Patrician’s Republic. Now, De Angelo is a folk hero to most Matuvistans- widely accepted as the first plebian-knight, she set the model for both patricians and plebians.

The first challenge the Republic had was to establish control over the entirety of the Matuvistan system. The four separate nations that had sprung up lead to trade, yes, but also a constant struggle over resources and jockeying for political influence. United by the Republic, the Matuvistan home worlds launched what would come to be known as the Reconquista, a period of time that defined the tactics used by the Matuvistans ever since. Patricians, who were the only ones wealthy enough to use the then-experimental lodestone craft en masse, wreaked havoc in enemy lines- blurring along at reaction-defying speeds, they were able to punch colossal holes in enemy fortifications in the field, react to incursions within minutes of scout reports, and were manoeuvrable and capable enough in urban combat to still be effective. Alongside patrician footsloggers, the moons fell one by one, until at last Matuvista was the republic no more- now it was the Grand Republic.

Its tribulations hardly ended there however, for only a hundred years after settling down, they had a new threat to contend with. Unbeknownst to the initial colonists, a spacefaring civilisation had, centuries before mankind had ever left their solar system, sent slower-than-light colony ships to claim Matuvista for themselves. The War of Counter-Aggression was a five-year conflict fought primarily on Matuvista itself, and was largely a patrician’s war. Determined to prove themselves to an increasingly displeased plebian class, patricians demonstrated themselves to be every bit the gallants they so desperately claimed they were, and in the rare case of feudal overlords actually defending their vassals, drove back the initial invasion/colonisation force.

Not only did this demonstration of standing up to ideals actually prove that the patricians weren’t all talk, but the War of Counter-Aggression resulted in the deaths of around 20% of the younger patrician generation. To replace them, many more plebians than usual were drawn up into the patrician classes, further placating the unruly rabble.

Although the War of Counter-Aggression was short, the initial colonisation ships were not the only one. Even today, a steady stream of follow-up ships bring with them more Yyasum soldiers, to the point where fighting off Yyasum insurgencies is considered a vital part of any young patrician’s military training.

Thus has the Grand Republic been formed. Even today, things are rarely stable- be it disgruntled plebians, independence movements from the moon, Yyasum soldiers or simply the colossal variety of man-hunting wildlife in Matuvista’s jungles, a patrician’s lance is never unused for long, and the plebians are reminded constantly why their cultural and military betters should be in charge, whilst being distracted from the drudgery of their everyday lives by a well-established network of panem et circenses.

Culture and Society: Matuvistan society is a tapestry of old-Earth customs, blended with decidedly new-world attitudes and tribulations. At the lowest rung of society there are the majority plebians- farmers, engineers, miners and office clerks, Matuvistan plebians have no political power whatsoever. Unlike serfs of the past, plebians have firm legal protections as subjects. Patricians can no more kill a plebian than they can anyone else without suffering serious consequences, and plebians are afforded a basic safety net in the form of universal healthcare, unemployment (although there are also compulsory work assignments) and have the expectation of protection by the patricians.

Off Matuvista, plebians take on a slightly different role. The triplet inhabited moons of Matuvista often chafe under the rule of the ‘oppressive’ Senate. Uprisings and rebellions are not uncommon, but the patricians maintain a much higher military presence in the ‘colonies,’ and those foolish enough to take up arms can expect no quarter from young jet-knights looking to prove themselves on the field.

Plebians also make up the bulk of the Matuvistan military. Although patrician jet-knights steal the glory and the limelight, most of the hard work and drudgery is done by patrician dragoons and ground forces. The army is a quick way for plebians to rise above their station- stellar military service is the most reliable way to find yourself in the lower ranks of the patricians, and thus, the Matuvistan army is large, motivated, well-trained and experienced.

Above the plebians are the mathetes. Mathetes, or, as most non-Matuvistans would call them, scientists, sit between the plebians and patricians. Although not permitted to vote or own property, mathetes nonetheless have a privileged position. Patricians surround themselves with mathetes, both as advisors and because it’s considered important to do so- recognising what you do not know is a sign of a cultured man, not a weak one. Because of this mathetes receive a cushy position and allowed to dedicate themselves to their craft, along with limited access to patrician luxuries.

Finally, the top rungs of Matuvistan society are home to the patricians. From their carefully selected birth, patricians are expected to train themselves to be true warrior-artists. The cultural superiority of a patrician is considered just as important as military prowess- an uncultured warrior is little more than a tyrant in waiting, although Matuvistan society places little prestige on one form of culture over another, and there are relatively few gendered expectations when it comes to what art one excels in. Music, dance, poetry, drama, patricians are anything from celebutants, composers, novelists or even chefs.

Finally, Matuvistan society is a fairly spiritual one. Knightly ideals are, after all, fundamentally rooted in Christianity. Although the core message has been corrupted over the years, and the very different environment of Matuvista has spurred some quite radical shifts to the human experience, there are still plenty of obvious influences. From the almost polytheistic ideas they have about saints to the belief in a very Christian afterlife, not only is religion a large part of society at every stratum, but as more Machiavellian patricians know: religion is the opium of the people.

---

Governance and Politics: The Grand Republic is, in the strictest sense of the word, a democracy, similar to those of the Ancient Greek city states. Voting is restricted to the landowning patricians, and votes can be awarded to individuals as commendations for various actions (thus, there is no 'one person, one vote,' within the Grand Republic.)

Every patrician of majority age makes up the Lower Senate, a body that proposes, debates and discusses laws. Every five years, elections are held to select patricians to be a part of the Upper Senate, which is the Republic's executive. The Upper Senate contains several smaller committees specialising in various fields, such as the High Generalship, High Admiralty, and the Chancellors of Matuvista and the three inhabited moons.

Technology Overview: With the mathetes class and a healthy respect for the people that design their sophisticated equipment, Grand Republic research progresses at a healthy and well-rounded rate. The most unique aspect of Matuvistan technology is, of course, their unique lodestones, and how this tremendously powerful substance is used. Matuvistan lodestones seemingly defy the normal conventions of magnetism, with even the lowest-grade ‘rock rumbler,’ lodestone managing to be a superconductor. Although artificial lodestone can be made, the process results in a lower-grade, less useful end product: perfect for industrial and civilian use, but inferior to the real stuff in every way. A true patrician wouldn’t be caught dead using artificial lodestone equipment.

The most iconic piece of Matuvistan equipment is, of course, the jetbike. Kept aloft by powerful engines and a complicated network of agitated lodestones, jetbikes can remain airborne for up to a day at a time and also come with deployable wheels. Floating above the ground, jetbikes have a max speed of around three hundred kilometres an hour, although most are never pushed above around one hundred and thirty, where patricians can comfortably operate. Personal patrician jetbikes tend to also feature two plasma-casters at the front to maximise close-range damage, whilst plebian combat ‘jetrikes’ tend to feature heavier, pintle-mounted weaponry.

A true combat jetbike features almost no protection for the rider. A patrician is expected to remain safe through speed, agility, and their suits of power-armour, ducking and weaving through enemy fire, or letting smaller calibre bullets ping off their armoured shells. So-called ‘jetrikes,’ tend to have an enclosed canopy and other ‘un-knightly’ protective features for their riders.

Lodestones are also extremely useful when it comes to plasma technology. Industrial-quality lodestones make excellent magnetic plasma containment fields. Plasma technology is therefore in common usage across Matuvista- from generators to the archetypal patrician weapon of the plasma lance.

The plasma lance is nothing more than a patrician’s pride and joy. Each one is custom made for their user; their hilts designed to cleanly attach to a Matuvistan jetbike. The speeds at which these jetbikes operate means that to use a physical weapon would invite the loss of a limb. Instead, Matuvistan lances use an extremely fragile containment layer around a constantly agitated spike of plasma. When the field makes contact, it immediately disperses, resulting in a jet of plasma exploding out into the target, slicing a path through for the hilt.

Other than these advancements, Matuvista has a firm grasp on genetic tampering. Revivalist gene therapy can add several decades, if not a century to the lifespan of those able to afford it, and almost all patricians are the result of several generations worth of selective ‘designer babies.’ To actually modify, your child would be to cheat, but simply selecting the best candidate out of several and weeding out anomalies and defects is common sense. Pharmacological advancements further placate the population and enhance the soldiery- from old Earth coffee and marijuana to stims like tri-sun and savant a mathetes with an interest in the pharmaceutical can make a big name for themselves.

Military Overview: The Grand Republic is not only prepared to fight, but, in fact, relishes it. With a culture infused with colonialism, militarism and nationalism, as well as eager warriors ready and willing to prove themselves, a Matuvistan force is motivated, experienced and well-equipped.

When it comes to an open battlefield, the Matuvistans are most easily compared to the crusades of old. Heavily armoured cavalry screech through the skies, tearing through those foolish enough to challenge them in close combat, whilst heavier jetrikes follow behind the initial spearpoint to lay down a withering barrage of fire on whatever survived the initial charge. Once the cavalry has done the job, dragoons and footsloggers move in to neutralise any remaining threats and confirm the victory.

In urban environments, the plan changes little. Jetbikes turn from being used in mass charges to instead be lightning-fast strike and fade troops, smashing apart strongpoints with plasma before shooting off before proper retaliatory forces can be mustered. Even dismounted, patricians are no pushovers: their power suits and training in hand-to-hand combat means that even without their formidable jetbikes, they can still hold their own, and their men-at-arms are still professionals at heart.

If all that isn't enough, many patricians also train to be duellists. Although actual honour duels are relatively rare among patrician society (as generally speaking, cultured individuals don't attempt to murder each other over slights,) any patrician family worth their salt will have a set of pistols and swords that have tasted blood at least once.

Outside of planetary force, the Matuvistans also maintain a not insignificant navy, with purpose-built corvette-sized escort craft, heavily armed and armoured troop transports, and light interceptors. Interceptors and escort craft run interference and engage threats quickly and at close distances, giving troop transports the time they need to bring to bear their larger guns, and hopefully arrive at their destination to boot.

---

The World Has Died

@Kuro To be fair, any zombie apocalypse needs to skim over the details of how the military doesn't instantly wipe out zombies. All it would take to kill a horde in most zombie fiction is a single Warthog on a strafing run.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed]

The Consciousness had seen the war preparations. It would be impossible not to. Dr. Bodi had been reassured that none within the Consciousness were upset with him: That the ECU was so unreasonable was not his fault. Now, Sigma-Devi's feet clacked hard against the steel surfaces of the space station above Earth, and she, along with Alpha-Newton, settled in to make an announcement.

"It has come to my attention." She declared authoritatively. "That the ECU has been spreading lies, falsehoods and misinformation about a diplomatic incident that occurred between our nations. As a representative of the Zetan Consciousness, we would like to make it unequivocally clear that under no circumstances would Zetans capture, kidnap or otherwise forcefully take the citizens of another star nation." She paused for emphasis. "Did Dr. Bodi leave the ECU Gateway station on a Zetan vessel? Yes. Is Dr. Bodi currently on Zeta-5? Yes. However." Another long pause, and Alpha-Newton's eye-projector shone out an image of Dr. Bodi, seemingly unaugmented, healthy, and well.

"Dr. Bodi came to us Because he felt he was being mistreated by the Earth Cultural Union authorities. He believed that his health-based prosthetic, the one that kept him alive, was causing him to be discriminated against. He gave us credible proof of this, and asked, quite willingly, to come with us of his own volition. We have not augmented him against his will. We have not tortured him. All we have done is take in a refugee, and like any empathetic, reasonable nation, we did so." She let out a long breath.

"Any military action taken based on this will be considered a violation of Zetan sovereignty, and we will use any and every method at our disposal to protect our people."

---

Can we safely accelerate transcendence protocols? The group mind was abuzz with war preparations. In the space near the gateway, ships clustered about- swarming like a throng of insects protecting their hive. The Oistos construction site had been hastily disguised, in an attempt to avoid destruction should the worst occur. Colonists on Z and 3 had been busy turning their peaceful surface stations into bastions to protect against ground assault from... And in their minds, work was underway on preserving those who might lose their physical forms in this confrontation.

Theoretically, yes, however... We'd need to stimulate nanite colonies. We know what happens when they get too hungry.

Is that not an advantage? As long as the mind is still fit for transcendence, the nanite surge targeting non-neural tissue could be beneficious for soldiers on the field.

If the nanites were designed for such a thing, yes, but they don't reknit non-neural tissue together properly. They're just not designed for that. We can't build them for everything.

Can we start slower stimulations?

That wouldn't be effective for what we need. We need to ensure individuals who die in conflicts that might start any day now are able to transcend normally.

It has to be rapid then, and if the nanites get overstimulated, we just move them into warforms.

This is... Does this not make us who they think we are?

They forced our hand in this. Don't mistake pragmatism for evil.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed]

| In collaboration with @Tortoise |

All that had happened outwards had drawn the Collectives memory inwards. To long ago- before the 'Consciousness' had had any idea of what they would become, and where he next step they would take in artificial evolution would lead them. Back when Elysium-Alpha had been the only settlement, an eked-out existence a kilometre and a half below the surface. Down there, in the dark, drawing power through thin lifelines up to solar panels, things had been hard.

Much of Zeta-5's life relied on the subterranean environment to provide it cover from the extreme surface world. Like most inhabitable planets, once you got down into the crust, temperatures evened out and weather was no longer a factor. A searfront could roll by your burrow and you'd survive, safe and sound, where the heat wouldn't concern you. The initial tunnels, un-guarded and carved directly into the rock, were prime targets for the deepest of Zeta's burrowing life- large, annelid-looking things, harmless yet terrifying, bastard-born swarms of foul-smelling yet tiny predators, drawn to the vibrations of daily life, and more besides. Firearms were too risky in the enclosed conditions to be used, so instead colonists found themselves fighting back vermin with their tools- hand drills, mattocks and pickaxes.

Back then, hydroponics had been worth giving your life for. The precious seedlings were what sustained the colony- leafy greens, protein-filled mushrooms and nuts, flavourful fruits. What was one life in exchange for the wellbeing of all those in the colony? Such hardships had bonded them closer, but also made them more fragile. Their politicians had become dictators, consolidating power around them and their parties 'for the best' of the colony.

The Collective, when it had first been formed, was little more than the internet in one's head. At first, people were inducted slowly, through exterior gadgets, and only when the technology had improved that it did burrow into their skulls and start to replace their grey matter. Not for centuries had the Collective implanted a fully grown adult, and the technology had advanced oh-so-much since then... But they had a new challenge. Induction.

---

The ECU would be sure to make this out to be some kind of aggressive action. In truth, it had been Bodi's idea in the first place. Disrespected, ground down and displeased, when it had been made clear that the Zetan ambassadors were no longer welcome in the Cultural Union's borders, they had surreptitiously smuggled out the good doctor with them. Nobody had noticed for long enough for the crew to slip through the gateway and back to the Zeta system, and now, after two weeks in the space between stars, the ship came down towards the surface of the fifth planet from the sun of Zeta.

The Collective was… Unsure if this would work. Normally, induction occurred prior to puberty- prior, in fact, prior to the ability for humans to recall memories when they were older. This was a new one. An entirely new one. The ship that had conveyed their first foreign citizen touched down into Elysium-Alpha to a flurry of activity. No sooner had the doors of the craft opened before they were beset by a contingent of doctors and scientists standing by, all displaying a vast and dizzying variety of augmentations to better serve their purposes. The maglev to the surface had been cleared in preparation for the doctor’s arrival, and although there were no journalists, the entire Collective was tuning in to the show.

“Welcome to Zeta-5,” a tall, handsome, and extremely augmented gentleman declared. “No time to waste: we’re going to try the implants ASAP.”

Dr. Bodi, potential ECU defector and very frightened man, only nodded. "I… see." Ever since meeting the Zetans for the first time six months earlier, aboard the Listening Post he worked on, he felt a deeper connection to them than he ever had in his own nation. The Zetan diplomats were polite and considerate, whereas any Oligarch only treated legitimate scientists as tools to be used or dirty secrets to be hidden.

No, no, it went deeper than that. Any diplomat would be polite. But the ECU once promised the doctor a future, and when his heart gave out and had to be replaced with a prosthetic, attitudes changed. They were so concerned with preserving the human form that even that small replacement was something horrid. It made him less-than-human. New Hollywood hadn't been his home since; they holed him up at the Listening Post, where he met the Zetans.

Dr. Bodi took a deep breath. "Alright. Let's go."

The Mag-Lev spooled up and off the ground, then fired its engines. “This,” explained Bodi’s new guide, “Is Elysium-Alpha. The whole of Zeta-5 is broken down into 3 sectors, each carrying twenty-four subsectors, denoting their viability for life and usefulness to us as colonists. Elysium holds the best, brightest and most valuable sectors, whilst Tartarus holds the least valuable and most dangerous. Most all Zetan settlements are located deep beneath the surface- our hydroponic plants don’t much like the radiation on the surface.”

Bodi chuckled at this. "Our people don't much like radiation on the surface."

“True enough. It’s why we only head to the surface once we’ve shed enough to keep ourselves safe.”

Their vehicle was currently moving just slightly slower than the sound barrier. At this speed, it took only a minute or two to descend down to the main ‘city,’ not that Bodi would be seeing much of it, as they instead hurried to the main medical facility of Elysium-Alpha. Sleek, clean and sterile, the people inside parted to allow the team through.

“We can’t put you under for the operation. It’s simply too risky. We’ll apply a local anaesthetic, but it’s likely it won’t penetrate deep enough to make you entirely numb to the sensation. We’ll try to make it as easy on you as we possibly can.” A long pause. “And, I suppose, the good news is that the brain doesn’t hold any pain receptors.”

Ah, good news. Yes. That's good news.

Bodi briefly considered running away instead. But his mouth instead said "Yes, alright." It was too late to reconsider.

Bodi was unceremoniously stripped and asked to lie down on a custom-produced hospital bed. The headrest had a looped shape to it, keeping his head in place whilst allowing direct access to the back of it and his neck. “Apologies,” one of the doctors said, pulling a strap across his scalp and tightening it down. “This must all feel rather inhumane, but it’s best not to take chances.”

Well, thought Bodi. It could be worse. They could be using even more straps.

More straps applied to his arms and legs, and then, when all was ready, he would feel a cold gel applied to his neck and lower head. The sensation spread inwards, penetrating the skin and sapping sensation away from his flesh, until the entire area couldn’t feel a thing.

“Vital signs reading normal. Elevated heart rate. Nervous?” One of the doctors asked him, although they already knew his answer.

"Oh, you know what I'm thinking already," Bodi answered from the bed. It was meant to be a light-hearted joke, but probably didn't come out that way.

“Preparing site.” There was a quick hissing noise, and then the rather disgusting smell of hair being scorched off. “Don’t worry,” the doctor remarked. “It’s just a medical grade razor. No blade means nothing to sterilise.” Then came the instrument itself. Just one- so innocent, so… Innocuous. A plain metal spike, splitting open to reveal a needle. A large needle, a very thick, sharp, and pointy needle, but just a needle.

“Inserting.” As promised, there was a tweak of pain as the needle eased its way through the numbed portion of Bodi’s flesh, and into the still-sensitive part. Still, it slid deeper, until the man could feel an odd sensation- a piece of metal scratching at his skull.

“Bone reached. You’re going to feel a sharp pinch,” the doctor warned. A muffled click sounded from inside his head, accompanied by a dagger of pain, and then the needle continued past, into the senseless brain matter underneath.

Bodi’s fingers gripped onto the bed as he tried not to scream. That was not a pinch. That was a whole stab into his brain, but at least, it was subsiding as they went deeper. A small mercy. Did they use anaesthetic when they did this on infants? Or was every Zetan traumatized at an early age? Did the Collective carry a group trauma that nobody ever acknowledged?

The man decided to focus on this, rather than all of what was going on around (and now, inside) him.

“Reached grey matter.” There was a long pause.

“Nanite spike deploying.” The plunger was depressed, and the payload of microscopic robots was deployed into Dr. Bodi’s brain. The needle slid cleanly out, the doctor wiping away a dot of blood, then spraying on a sterile ‘foam’ of neutered nanites, which would patch the skull, sew the skin together and then harmlessly pass into his bloodstream to be filtered by his kidneys and deposited as waste. “Right. Nanites are currently dormant. Activation signal in

5...

4...

3...

2...

1...

Activating.”

A few seconds went by. Dr. Bodi started to think it wasn’t going to work, and then, he realized the doctor was thinking the same thing. From a different perspective, anyway, because the Zetan doctor knew much more about…

Wait. Bodi thought. How do I know that?

Picking up nanite surge. They’re multiplying. Neural tissue being modified… the words weren’t spoken, yet Bodi heard them. The same way he heard the thoughts, maybe even the feelings, of the men and women in the room with him. And the adjacent room… and then…

Like a bird’s eye view, but from the level of individuals rather than over their heads, he could suddenly feel the building around him- or, the people within it. He witnessed through their eyes, through the eyes of a man briefly on the surface, hearing through the ears a woman in orbit, and finally, knowing the anxieties of an explorer far, far on the other end of a Gateway.

“...oh,” he said, as if that covers it. “That’s what it’s like.”

Nanite appetite is stabilising, they’re settling into normal transcendence routines. Activating medical nanites… Now… He would feel a tingling sensation as the medical robots did their job. Complete. Welcome to the Collective, Dr Bodi… Or, how does ‘Alpha-Bodi’ sound to you?

---

Most Zetans no longer feared radiation. The simple fact of the matter was that it posed much less of a threat to humans forged from metal than it did those still comprised of flesh. Replaced organs, dermal coverings and their deeply-dug tunnels kept them safe, even when they left those tunnels for the surface, but there was one part of Zetan society that still had to be kept radiation-free... Their plants.

All of Zeta's half-a-billion strong population was supplied by their farms. A combination of hydroponic, aeroponic and tissue-culture plants were carefully groomed for maximum yields with minimal resources. Although most Zetans took this system for granted, it was oh-so-very fragile. It only took one or two things going wrong for a catastrophic cascade of events to knock out most of Zeta's food supplies, and although they could be regrown and stores would keep Zetans alive, there was no doubt that they were the most vulnerable of all the Consciousness' systems.

Because of this, should fighting enter the tunnels, and Zetans once again had to fight for their homes, their current weapons were unacceptable. The deleterious effects of their fusion batteries were a boon when scorching enemy soil, but down in the tunnels all they would do was seal the Consciousness' doom if improperly used. Thus, the subterranean theatre had required its own developments.

First and foremost was the upgrading of current radiation countermeasures. It had been floated that, against a sufficiently threatening enemy, it might be possible to 'flood' passages and rooms with bursts of gamma radiation. Around 30 grays of ionizing radiation, although invariably fatal within only a few days, could be extremely potent in the short term- just minutes after such exposure burns, nausea, vomiting, headaches and worse would cripple enemy troops, rendering them easy picking for infantry.

Said infantry would need to equip themselves with different weapons to their surface-fighting brethren, and it had been found in classic weapons from old Earth- firearms. The tunnels of their forebearers were far too risky to use firearms in, but Zetans had built them sturdier and safer in the intervening decades. Automatic shotguns and compact rifles, in combination with melee weapons would defend Zetan homes, children, and crops.

They could only pray these preparations were in vain.