Archaeus Titanicus (Wh40k/SupCom)

Life on the streets of a hive world is difficult.

Your name is Kora Cynannos, and you are the daughter of a street whore. Your father would not acknowledge you, and you know little of him beyond what scraps of information your mother, Cyna, has told you. She is the only real family you have, and it is from her that you took your second name.

In some ways you were a typical street child. You'd scamper about on the streets, playing with other children, begging money off those better off, scavenging for your next meal when times were tough - and they always were. Yet there was always something different about you. You heard voices where the other children did not. Whispers at the edge of your senses. If you strained a little, you could hear them trying to tell you things, trying to encourage you to do things, to let them in.

When you told mother of the voices, she grew fearful and told you not to tell anyone. You understood then that the voices were bad, that they meant you ill no matter how much they may claim otherwise. That they were something you should reject and push away, like the mutant, the alien and the heretic.

Of course, you quickly found that ignoring the voices in your head was not as easy as simply willing it to be. You couldn't not hear them, and as you grew older they only grew clearer, pushing and straining against the edges of your mind. Influencing you. Trying to force their way inside.

Sometimes you would pray to the holy god-emperor, begging for what little support he would offer you. On occasion it drove away the voices for a time. When that didn't work you took to humming tunes, inventing poetry, making songs - anything to drown the voices out, if only for a little while.

The stopgap measure grew into a skill and a hobby, then became a trade that you found you could ply to earn scraps from those better off than you. Your voice was not poor, and your homemade song and poetry appealed to some. You would seek out the places they frequented, make a spectacle of your art, then beg a reward from those who would listen.

Years passed, and you grew from a young teen to a young adult. As your mother's health began to deteriorate, you became ever more dependent on your performances to support the both of you. You took risks, dared to perform in places that were not so far out of the arbites' gaze as to be fully safe.

Eventually, you took one risk too many. One of your performances was questioned by one of the arbites. You didn't have a permit, and sang the wrong thing at the wrong place and time besides. The arrest was swift and brutal. There was a shortage of manpower, and as your crime was not amongst the gravest you were offered a choice in Matar's time of need: serve the Emperor and atone for your crimes, or face his justice here and now.

You chose life, and quickly found yourself conscripted into the local planetary defense forces. They gave you a lasgun, clad you in basic military armor and taught you to follow orders above all else. Driven by self-preservation instincts, you obeyed. The commissars always made short work of those who did not.

At some point, life in the PDF became normal. Its many duties became your life. You trained, learning how to aim and how to dig a proper trench. You marched in formation, looking impressive in parades or simply moving up and down the same courtyard for hours on end. You made friends, even a lover or two, though it never lasted long.

Sometimes you would be sent against the enemies of the emperor. Great gangs flourished in Matar's underworld, and the arbites would sometimes call on the PDF to be the executors of the emperor's mercy. You slaughtered men, women and children lest the commissar execute you in turn. Always, people you knew would die, but the god-emperor's grace saw you through ordeal after ordeal with little more than a scar over your left eyebrow to show for it.

You kept up your songs and your poetry, especially in battle where the voices would swell with a litany of KILL MAIM BURN that threatened to invade your mind and body both. Sometimes you would sing litanies to the emperor - at others, you would sing or hum songs of your own making. It earned you the nickname of the regiment's sister after a comparison drawn to the sisters of battle by one of your peers, albeit together with a rude comment about the size of your chest. He earned a knock on his head for his trouble, but the nickname stuck.

Most of those people are gone now. Dead, or chosen to serve in the imperial guard, carted offworld never to be seen again. You were never amongst them - always your build was considered too slight to be a good fit, and you evaded being tithed by a hair's breadth again and again. Though it was not what you'd wanted in your childhood, it seemed to be how your life was fated to go. You would serve until you were too old to do so, or until a traitor or criminal got a lucky shot in.

At least that had been your belief until a few days ago. You'd thought it a simple inspection at the time, the kind of thing where you would all line up so that someone of high rank could go around and feel good about the state of the regiment. They'd surprised you by bringing a servitor instead, which had gone around waving a strange device at your comrades one after the other.

It had beeped differently for you than for everyone else. What it meant you weren't sure of, but it led to you being escorted away, your peers giving you the kind of looks you give someone you think you've seen the last of. You'd been terrified at the time, scared and confused, your heart beating rapidly in your chest, but disobedience meant death, so you followed along.

What followed was… well, you're still not entirely sure you believe any of it. You'd been put in a room and told to wait for what felt like hours, then brought to meet your regimental commander. He'd invited you to dinner, sharing with you what had to be the most luxurious meal you'd ever eaten - it even had fresh vegetables, an unthinkable luxury for someone of your station. You'd talked and had been asked to remember your time with the regiment fondly, though you had been far too tense to really enjoy the food. The whole thing had felt altogether surreal.

Everything after that is mostly just a blur. You'd been put on an aircraft. At the time you'd thought you were being taken off-world after all, but no, when you'd emerged some hours later it was to the familiar sight of a hive-city, though seen from a height you'd never before experienced.

From there they moved you again and again. Sometimes they'd scan you again, or tell you to wait somewhere. At others, you'd meet people, high nobles and officials, people who by all rights you should be beneath all notice of. Too many names and faces to remember, especially for someone who spent the whole time trying desperately not to offend people who could easily get you executed with a word and a glance.

That's pretty much your life story. All of it leading up to this. Here and now.

You find yourself standing before a door, your throat quietly humming an old tune that's stuck with you since you were a child. Around you stand mighty figures clad in red and steel, figures not of the PDF or even the astra militarum but the adeptus mechanicus. The greatest amongst them is a mighty amalgamation of flesh and steel, a techpriest in all his glory. You're still wearing your military uniform - the brown cloth, the gray armor and the aquila-emblazoned helmet haven't left you for days.

A servo-skull floats up between you, pressing its manipulator-arm against the seal of the door. There's a click accompanied by a hiss of pneumatics, and then it opens. Beyond stands… stands…

The chamber beyond is filled with figures of all kinds. Servitors, menials, a whole swarm of servoskulls and several more techpriests, all swathed in the smothering scent of oil, smoke and a great deal of holy incense, but you have no eyes for them. All you see is the great machine at the center, surrounded by scaffolding all across its body. A machine clad in armor plates of holy gold. Dim pinpricks of green light shine from the mechanical innards visible between the armor plates, six great slitted eyes staring unflinchingly into the space above you.

It's enormous, easily twenty times your own length, and undeniably magnificent, but that is not what has you so spellbound. As you enter, you do not merely see it - you feel it. The hum in your throat catches, seeming to resonate inside the great machine. It whispers to you in turn. Promises of comfort, of safety. You're safe now. Everything will be okay. The Way protects you.

The feeling of it is like meeting an old friend, like you've finally found a piece of yourself that you hadn't known you were missing your whole life. You don't even realize you've started moving until you've crossed the intervening space, your hand settling against the pleasantly cool golden surface of one of the great titan's feet. The chants of the techpriests, the everpresent voices, your own thoughts - all of it fades as for just a few special moments, you and the spirit of this great machine simply coexist. For the first time in your life, you truly feel like maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay.

But then something touches your shoulder, and just like that the moment is over. You turn, shaking your head in an attempt to dislodge a sudden bout of disorientation, and find yourself met with the robed techpriest who'd brought you in here to begin with. His cold mechadendrite slips off your shoulder, a mechanical screeching noise reaching you from the vox-speaker mounted where his chin used to be. You just blink at him, still struggling to take in everything you just experienced, and he stares at you in turn. It takes a moment before he seems to realize that you don't speak… whatever that was.

"Do not interfere with the Omnissiah's blessed archaeotech prematurely. The litanies of awakening must be observed."

His voice is dull and monotone, rough and metallic in a way no human's ever would be. It's unsettling, moreso for how discordant it is with the smooth and soothing mind-voice of the vast machine's great spirit. You don't really understand half of what he says, either. Still, you're a trained soldier and so you obediently take a step back even though part of you yearns to disobey.

"Why?" you question. Normally you'd never dare ask, but so close to this great machine -a holy mechanism of war you're finally starting to realize is nothing short of a great titan from myth- the fear of reprisal is curiously absent. No harm will come to you here, you're sure of it.

"Do not question it, lest you rouse it in discord" your techpriest… guide? Escort? Chaperone? answers, a hint of exasperated rebuke carrying through his monotone. It doesn't feel quite right to you somehow, but then again he's a priest of the mechanicus and you're but a soldier - what do you know of such things? He's probably right. Still…

"Is it not already roused?" you venture, the clicking of the techpriest's many spindly mechano-legs against the steel floor following you as he starts to lead you away from the machine. You're guided off to one side of the room, set to watch as the techpriests go about their business. Their movements are well-practiced, following a tune you can't hear but can feel through the titan. You find yourself humming along to it, muttering something unintelligible under your breath that even you aren't quite sure what it is.

"How can you tell?" he finally asks. You snap out of your muttering, surprised that he hadn't just dropped the topic entirely;
"You are but weak flesh."

"I…" you hesitate, your mother's words ringing in your ears. Nobody can know about the voices.
"It was just a feeling."

There's a momentary pause. You wish mother was here, but you haven't seen her in years. Who knows if she's even still alive? Who knows if you will be, for much longer.

"Why did you bring me here?"

There is, again, a brief pause. You suspect he's pondering whether to answer you or not.

"It is held in truth that the greatest of machine spirits reject all but the most compatible souls to serve within them. By the Omnissiah's grace, the ritual of spiritual unity may show us the way."

He turns towards you, looking you in the eyes past the shadows of his robes, his brown irises meeting your bluish hues.

"You have been found suitable."

You swallow heavily. It's… that's what all this is about? You're supposed to, what, pilot this thing? You don't even know how to drive a Chimera!

Mulling over this revelation -it explains a lot about the last few days, really- you return to watching the staff work. They won't let you do anything until it is done, so all you can do is wait. It feels like it takes forever. They move, they chant, they strike the machine in all the right places; they spread the heady scent of holy incense and call for the blessings of the Omnissiah - their word for the holy god-emperor, you believe.

Finally, they stop. You feel the techpriest's eyes settle on you.

"It is done. You must commence entry so that we may ascertain the nature of the implants you will require."

"Show me" you counter, eagerness and trepidation mingling in your tone. Implants?

"This holy archaeotech is unfamiliar to us" the techpriest replies, then adds;
"We have found no ingress points. Trust in the Omnissiah's will to guide you right."

You turn towards the titan, looking up at the towering form with trepidation. They expect you to just stumble on a doorway by the grace of the god-emperor?

…May as well start at the top. You know not the consequences of failure, but you doubt they are good. Best-case scenario you're thrown back into the PDF where you started; worst case they wouldn't bother and simply execute you on the spot.

You set your steps for a stairway built into the great scaffolding that surrounds the machine. The techpriest follows after you, watching your every move like a suspicious arbites. Thrumming machine-sounds emerge from his speaker - sounds you can't even begin to comprehend, but perhaps they are helping somehow.

Bit by bit, you ascend until finally, you stand at the top, emerging onto a walkway that curves around the machine's great left pauldron. Great patterns cover it, darker indents in curving and spiraling patterns between the thickest parts of the armor plate. Curiously, there are no bolts; no seams or welding lines; none of the signs of it being naturally assembled. It is as though it was cast as a single solid piece.

Beneath you you spy exposed machinery. There are great joints, motors and actuators; wires as thick as a man, glowing with vibrant green energy; more bits and pieces you couldn't begin to guess the purpose of. Ahead of you towers the head of the titan, it alone twice your height.

Reverently, you approach the head of the great colossus, stepping up to the very edge of the scaffolding. Like the rest of the titan, the side of its head glimmers with gold and dark steel. This close to it, you could reach out and touch it… but there's no door. Just more strange machinery.

You lean forward, placing your forehead against the side of the titan, trusting in its bulk to support you. For a few seconds, you simply linger there, feeling the presence of the machine spirit inside the metal, feeling its metaphysical gaze upon your soul, but then words come to mind - a poem. An urging for help.

"Holy warrior" you mumble, pressing your head against the cool metal;
"Before you I am laid, begging your aid. Show me the way, lest I be led astray."

There's a brief pause, a hint of an echo in the great spirit - and then the surface of the metal ripples like a disturbed puddle. You have just enough time to open your mouth for a scream; just enough to hear the techpriest behind you exclaim an incomprehensible machine-sound, before you are enveloped.

Your head sinks into the metal, followed by the rest of your body. You can't breathe; can't see; can't hear; only feel it around you. The viscosity is like thick tar, heavy and slow yet undeniably liquid, and the feel of it is like cool metal. You choke and cough, trying to expel the strange substance from your mouth - and then suddenly it's no longer around you.

You collapse to the ground, the liquid retreating from you as quickly as it came. The scene you find yourself in, coughing and choking as the last of the strange metal retreats from your throat, is altogether different from where you were just a few moments ago.

It's somewhat cramped, but not so much that you can't stand upright. The floor is an odd bluish-silver, as are most of the walls. A silvery-white chair stands in the middle, with a backrest that gradually narrows to a point from a broad base. Behind it, glowing panels light up the space with a whitish-green fluorescent light. In front of it is something else - a wide array of controls, buttons and levers. Strange, incorporeal displays hover on and above the control table, displaying various readouts, most of which you couldn't even begin to understand. Only one makes some modicum of sense, displaying a familiar sight from the place you were in but a moment ago. A camera feed, no doubt.

There's no way out, that you can see. The wall you emerged from is cold and smooth when you press your hand to it - firm and unyielding like any other metal. You're trapped, you realize. Caught inside this vast machine. The feeling of its spirit around you is strong here; stronger, as you step towards the seat in the center. It just takes another step or two, and then you're sliding into the seat; letting yourself sink fully into it, feeling the titan around you.

Your hands grip the controls. It feels natural to have this great machine around you, its great form almost feeling like an extension of your own. A thrum of music hums from your throat, the machine spirit singing with you in unison, mixing and mingling with your own to help you understand. None of the concepts are familiar to you, but you need not learn them, only feel them as the spirit does, and in so doing comprehend the controls before you.

You feel its actuators as if they were your own. Feel its hull around you, self-repair protocols eager to get to work; feel the eagerness of its great quantum disruptor to destroy the unfaithful and the lethargy of its slumbering overcharge module. You sense the thrum of power from its quantum core, energy and matter lingering within; feel the hunger of its reclamation module and the pliant potential of its fabricator module to create new wonders beyond reckoning, ancient designs flitting at the edges of your mind. You see through its eyes; sense the world around you many ways over through its omni-sensors. At the same time you're still you; still Kora Cynannos, a soldier and singer and more besides, sitting in an unfamiliar seat with unfamiliar controls before you. You're still present, just… more, somehow.

Experimentally, you take a step forward. The great titan moves, its weight coming down on reinforced flooring, crushing a hapless servitor under its immense weight. Tiny figures scurry below, some seeming to panic, others drawing weapons, others still seeming unfazed. They're so tiny and insignificant.

The realization strikes you that maybe you've gotten a bit carried away in this heady feeling. Absently, you thumb a button to turn on the external speakers. The techpriest who guided you here, whose name you did not ask and he did not give, is still watching you - watching the titan, you mentally correct yourself.

"Hey" you start, a bit hesitant, your low gothic reverberating loudly into the entire chamber.
"I'm still alive in here. Could-"

[] -you stand back a little? I'm coming back out.
-You've proven yourself a true titan pilot. Now to deal with the political fallout…
[] -we take this somewhere else?
-Neither you nor the techpriests seem to know what this kind of titan can do, but there's only one way to find out. All you need is to get somewhere where you actually have the space to try it out.
[] Write-in