Eight bodies regard you, lifeless and dry organic eyes peering from behind steel masks engraved with symbols. Cables trail from their spines and limbs, disappearing into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling above. Light is sparse, and broken up by what seems to be perpetual haze. You recognize some of the symbols, though they make your eyes swim: the Mark of the Four decorates the mask of four of the Servitors, and some of the other marks appear to be some alteration of Lingua Technica, possibly enumerating either the crimes that got these servitors placed in this position or possible the ancient laws they are meant to embody.
Your systems light up with layer upon layer of meaning, but you dismiss it all. There is no such thing as knowledge freely offered, upon Nuton's Folly: anything you learn would be useless at best, and mind- body- and soulflaying at worst. It is simply not worth it. You are in deep enough trouble as it is.
This is the Court of Eight: here, those whose transgressions have damaged the whole of the Dark Forge are evaluated, sentenced, and processed. It is not clear who truly makes the decisions made here, what force, if any, puppets these bodies. Perhaps the rumors are true, and it is a self-sufficient database drawing upon previous rulings and the laws of the Dark Forge to come to their decision. Maybe the Dark Council itself is watching through hidden means. Maybe there are some other masters, hidden beneath the layers of deception and obfuscation that marks politics upon Nuton's Folly. You do not know, nor ever cared to find out. Politics, such as they were, have so far only factored into your calculation when they stood in the way of you achieving your goals.
It is not like it matters either way. The one that addresses you now is some long-dead transgressor, forced into eternal servitude as punishment for his wrongdoings.
The Servitors voice is rough, forced from a voice box long unused. You can almost hear the dust. The Court, as you understand it, usually operates in binaric: the flesh-voice is reserved for the truly unworthy, and even then it is usually transmitted in a synthesized form, and not through the very least means of expressing thought.
It speaks your name and your origin, forcing each syllable from long atrophied lips like air expelled from a bellow.
What is your name? What does the Servitor utter? [](Write in)
Where do you stem from?
[] You were born within the bowls of Nuton's Folly, raised up from obscurity in one of the regular intelligence culls that recognised your potential and trained as a menial assistance before rising further through a mixture of sheer intelligence and ruthless brutality
[] You used to be a Tech Priest of the benighted Imperium, before a mixture of curiosity and arrogance brought you and your experiments under the scrutiny of the Inquisition and it's Mechanicus-equivalent organ, who are if anything a bit more zealous about that sort of thing. You ran from the shattered, burning ruins of your laboratory on Phaeton, making your way into the Eye of Terror and, after many trials and tribulations, to Nuton's Folly
[] You were there, when Horus slew the Emperor: at least almost. You saw the fall of the Mechanicum of old, the loss of so much knowledge in the destruction unleashed by Kelbor Hal, and the long retreat from Mars towards the Eye of Terror. Of course, the warp was turbulent indeed: you arrived on Nuton's Folly a pauper in a broken ship a mere century or so ago, an outsider in already established power structures.
You re-assess how much trouble you are in, by adding a new category above 'the most amount you could be' and moving yourself into that.
You wish you could claim to be surprised.
"Do you know why you are here", the lead servitor asks you, punctuating every second word with a long, drawn-out whistle of a wheeze. It is not just the lack of inflection that makes the question seem highly rhetorical. Of course you know why you are here. The tremors of the impact of Nuton IIIs debris is still periodically shaking the very chamber you are standing in.
You blew up this Dark Forge's Moon, one of them, anyways. It was an accident (probably), and only a small one (relatively), but that is still quite the thing to occur. Just how and why did you do it?
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[] You were behind production targets, and so in order to meet them you put more strain upon the generators that powered the Forge Complexes of the Moon that you had requisitioned for the project. When that did not work, you put up more strain, and then more, and more, and more, disabling safeguards and shrinking safety margins as you went. You managed to finish the project, but in the aftermath a catastrophic chain reaction occurred, the reactor cores deep within the moon's core blowing it apart in a truly spectacular explosion.
[] You were behind production targets, and so in order to meet them, you put more strain on the reactors that provided energy for the Forge Complexes you had requisition to meet them. When that didn't work out, you panicked, and began instead increasing the stockpiles of raw materials you were using, parts of which were highly combustible. When that didn't put you back on schedule, you started bringing in more workers, striking a deal for borrowed slaves with one of the Chaos Warbands currently in orbit around Nuton's Folly, putting you in more debt but also back on schedule. You managed to reach your production target, but then issues arose at handover, when some of the slaves got loose, into the stockpiles, which caused a detonation that in turn disabled several of the safeguards on the generators. This would usually not have been an issue, but in this particular case, given the already increased strain, led to a chain reaction. Then the moon ripped apart.
[] You…don't actually remember why you did it. You remember every step you took to achieve it: the orders sent out to the reactors, the forged work orders aimed at increasing the stockpile of ammunition kept within the arsenals of Nuton III, the injection of scrap code and contradicting orders into the systems of every Magos that might have prevented it. Objectively speaking, you had no reason to do it. You also recall the deep satisfaction you felt when you saw the moon tear itself apart, taking your chief rival's project with it. That did not feel like it stemmed from you either, not entirely. You may, to your deep embarrassment, have a secret and heretofore undiscovered passenger.
Not that possession, or messing with your own brain enough to create an entire separate personality, is worth much as a defense, of course.
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You give your explanation, as best you can, sticking to the truth as much as that is practical, shifting blame and responsibility wherever possible. It's a perfunctory effort, and you know it. Your guilt is exceedingly well established. There is very little doubt what awaits you.
You look at the Servitors, and now you see the glimmer of pain within their otherwise lifeless eyes. The verdict is not in question. Everything before it is simply the Dark Forge following what is procedure with a fully accredited Magos. This, a mindless existence as a menial servitor, will be your future fate.
"What was the nature of your project", one of the Servitors (not one of the ones marked for a God) asks, and you cannot help but look at it askance. They should know this already. For a brief, ridiculous moment, you feel something like hope well up inside you. You ensure that nothing of that makes its way into your voice, as you respond.
[]You had been commissioned to create the shells of a hundred daemon engines by the Splintered Annihilators, a Warband of the Word Bearers led by Dark Apostle Laqib Shamas. They had sought you out personally for your skill, and offered to pay handsomely for the empty shells, seeking to fill them with Daemons of their own. You were put in trouble by the stringent requirements for both the capabilities of the design and the standard of precision they demanded.
[]A Warband of what you assume to be of the Alpha Legion had sought you out (through intermediaries, of course) specifically for your notable skill at creating Scrap Code, asked to erect a ship-mobile Kill Cogitator capable of infecting entire Hive Worlds with it's malignant signals. What you created was a thing of true beauty. It was the facilities you needed to build, and the physical components required, that put you behind schedule.
[]You were tasked with infusing several Titans provided to you by the Warband of the Black Legion knowns as the Brethren of Abbadon with Daemons, a task you accomplished with aplomb, though the facilities you needed to construct ahead of time to actually contain and transport these Daemon Titans strained your capabilities to the brink.
[]The 261th Company of the Iron Warriors put out a commission to you for an entire army of Murder Servitors, and entrusted you with their creation. This is largely because you had fought alongside them in the grueling campaign on Drabadu IV, and they had seen what you could do. It was the sheer number of Servitors you had to create and store that put a strain on your abilities, especially as you were far more used to creating them under far less quality-controlled conditions.
[]Damanos Sius, Lord-Monarch of the Thralls of Excess sought you out personally to create a pack of Hunting Hounds for him and his Warbands. You created them, on time, budget, and within specifications five times, and each time Damanos Sius returned with more and bigger demands, seeking perfection he refused to specify. Upon completion of the sixth batch, through all the sacrifice it took, he actually wept, claiming them to be as close to perfection as any mortal could manage. You took your payment from him in that moment of weakness, and fully intend to never answer any of his calls ever again.
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You recount your project in great detail, giving the general details in your organic voice while providing a steady stream of supplemental information in binaric. Usually, you would be loath to part with information like this: proprietary secrets that cost you years of laborious autodidactic effort to acquire. Right now, though, it doesn't really matter. A chance at continuing to live is worth giving them up.
Time stretches to infinity as the Court deliberates, though your eternal chronometer (as reliable as it can be made within the confines of the Eye of Terror) informs you that mere seconds pass until they come to a determination. Too short a time, a small voice inside your head notes, for even the rapid intellect of the Mechanicum. This entire trial was a farce, perhaps a bit of showmanship.
The verdict was decided well in advance.
They deliver it, once they speak, one sentence at a time.
"You will be aware, of course", the first Servitor begins, "of recent developments within the Long War."
"Blood", moans the Servitor marked for Khorne, "and Skulls."
You are, in fact. Everybody is. You are also aware that none of the rulers of Nuton's Folly started calling it the Long War until it looked like Abaddon was about to win. Still, it is hard to overlook. The benighted Imperium has been ripped apart, and to your awareness that has triggered an absolute feeding frenzy, every two-bit Warband rushing out to establish a domain of their own within the parts of the Corpse's Realm now cast permanently from his light.
"These developments", the second Servitor continues, "bring with them much opportunity."
"Pleasure", hisses the Servitor that bears the Mark of Slaanesh.
"But it has also brought about some…unfortunate occurrences."
"Pain", the Slaanesh-marked Servitor adds, moments before the one that bears the Mark of Nurgles buzzes a contented "Rot".
"Wonders and Weapons made by this very Forge World have stopped functioning as intended", says the fourth Servitor.
"We cannot at this juncture be seen as unreliable", says the first.
"Someone has to go and fix them", says the second.
"You have been chosen to be that someone", adds the third.
"This is your punishment, and your opportunity for penance", concludes the fourth.
You stare at them, aghast, as they transmit the details of your new assignment in a binaric burst that hits you with the force of a hammer. You gasp, even though you thought that reflex removed from your system as useless an age ago.
As you stand there in the middle of the Court of Eight, grasping with the totality of your new-found position, the Servitor marked for Tzeentch makes a sound like a murder of crows descending upon fresh carrion.
It takes you until it is joined by the other three god-marked Servitors to understand that it is laughing at you.
[] Request to be Servitorized instead.
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Hello and welcome to my first attempt at writing one of these, brought to you by a random thought that got stuck in my head and refused to leave. I am new to this, so bear with me, please. The aim of this quest is to lean into the somewhat more absurd side of Warhammer 40k and to be fun for me to write. For this purpose, I am willing and able to just make things up wholesale.
For the sake of transparency and making things clear ahead of time, I will say this: randomness and stats will play a role in this quest, but as I intend to write it it will be very difficult to outright impossible to make a choice that outright ends the quest. That doesn't mean that failure isn't a possibility or won't have consequences, but there will always be a chance to mitigate it, survive it, or run away like a complete coward, burning every bit of evidence behind you. You will not be playing a good person, or a particularly nice person, or somebody exceedingly in touch with reality as we would understand it. Votes cast because you would like to know what happens or because you think an option is funny are explicitly encouraged.
Thank you to all the people that gave me feedback when I pitched this to them.
