Instead of waking up a thousand years later in New New York, Fry wakes up in the Grim Darkness of the 41st Millennium, in which there is only war, but hopefully there is also room for laughs. Leans more on the silly and satirical side of 40k. It is probably an isekai by definition.
40krama! Exactly What it Sounds Like!
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Space Pilot 40 Thousand Part One
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
Phillip Joseph Fry had never had much of a life. There isn't much of one anyone can expect from life as a pizza delivery boy. Or as a twenty-five year old Community College drop-out. Really, not much one can expect from a life such as Phillip J Fry.
It was New Years, 2019 to 2020. People were just starting to realize the year would turn over as normal, and were starting to cling to the foolish hope that things might actually improve for once. And somewhere, beyond the perception of man, an all-powerful being contemplated how to save the human race.
Fry had even less reason than any other human being to be aware of that, of course. He went about his pathetic, tiny little life unaware of anything beyond it. On this fateful New Year, he was being sent out to deliver a pizza to the local cryogenics facility.
The hour before New Years in New York was, as ever, loud, grungy, and rough. There was war, but it was somewhere far away and no one really thought much about it. There would be more soon, and more and more to come, but for now everything seemed boring and simple.
Fry didn't care about any of this. All he was thinking about was how his job didn't even give him New Year's off, his girlfriend had finally cut him loose, and life was, as ever, just plain lousy.
So really, the fact he ended up alone in a half-broken down lab with pizza and soda seemed almost tolerable.
"Here I thought I'd be the one making the crank calls," Fry grumbled. He held up the soda and prepared to sip. "Happy New Year!"
It was here that one of history's strangest trillion to one chances occurred. By all rights, Fry should have finished his impromptu New Year's celebration, gone home, petted his dog, and gone to sleep no more miserable than he'd been yesterday. He'd live as best he could until the end of his life. Perhaps, in some distant time, he'd even manage to be happy.
Instead, Fry was doomed by poor posture and a poorly put-together chair. The thing slid back off its front wheels before suddenly flipping clean over. Fry let out a cry of surprise, finding himself right into an open cyro-pod. The thing slammed shut, and an instant later, he was flash frozen.
Perhaps if Fry had been lucky, the setting on the door would have been set for as little as a day or two. But instead, as some sick, twisted, joke of the manufacturer, the timer froze at 40 thousand years. Why such a thing would ever be considered necessary is anyone's guess, but here we are.
Of course, the main reason that such a thing would be fundamentally worthless is the simple fact that no piece of 20th century technology could ever survive that unfathomable amount of time. Without help, anyway.
The cryo-container was, in fact, designed to sturdily endure ten thousand years of wear-and-tear. Hopefully, it would have steady maintenance over that period, and luckily for Fry, it did.
The people of the Terran Golden Age that lasted oh so long were a humanitarian bunch, and so were happy to continue to maintain the human popsicle. If Fry had been truly fortunate, one would have opened it, and he would have emerged into a life of joy, luxury, really good sex, and not having to work. Instead, no one wanted a 20th century caveman messing with their vibe, and they figured the strange fellow had settled on forty thousand years anyway, so Fry stayed frozen.
The pod bounced from place to place and collector to collector, often kept as one of those funny novelties like a dead cowboy stuffed and dressed in a demeaning outfit for the pleasure of dipshit tourists.
And then everything blew up and died. The Age of Strife hit the Earth like a punch straight to the dick, sending it all plummeting into a barbaric dark age from which there was no escape.
At this point, Fry was in the ownership of a powerful and absurdly rich collector who was head rich asshole on the planet Oswald. Oswald, sadly, was one of many billions of planets that collapsed into utter anarchy as thousands of psykers awoke all at once, and the collector locked himself down in his own house, awaiting the end, rocking back and forth, and slowly starving to death.
Fry, at this point maintained very carefully by hundreds of subsystems and a regular injection of the miracle of juvenat, survived as his master's guts hollowed and his ribs collapsed in on themselves until they were nothing but powder.
Oswald remained a nondescript feral world, busted straight down to a stone age. It was, odd to say, the strange and wild kind of stone age, imagined by visionary comic book writers thousands of years prior. Scraps of tech dredged up by fierce and savage inhabitants, brutal battle against unquestioned overlords by proud barbarian warriors, and the occasional visitation by mysterious alien nomads and pirates.
The planet was brought under the control of the Imperium in short order. A Primarch was unnecessary, it only took a single warband of the Space Wolves legion, a perfect choice, as the natives of Oswald embraced the fierce barbarian post-humans as the ultimate in their ideal. It was a peaceful transition. Only about a hundred thousand inhabitants had to die.
Fry was discovered in his ancient primordial vault, on the cusp of technological death, by a group tasked by the Imperium to seek out and either destroy or utilize archeotech. Fry was deemed neither dangerous or useful, so with a bored shrug, he was sent to languish in the vault of one Malcador the Sigillite. The pod was restored, somewhat haphazardly, to continue existing, and the technology involved was later used to save Robute Guilliman from the cusp of death.
So Fry proved useful to the Imperium of Man, but it was deemed that there was little to no reason to wake him up. And so once again, Fry languished in the vault of a powerful man, though this time on his once-homeworld. Though if he woke up now, his mind would shatter at the sheer immensity of the change, much less at seeing beings like Malcador, the Emperor of Mankind, and Horus Lupercal. Perhaps it was for the best that Fry hadn't awoken at this time.
Horus' temper tantrum eventually ripped through the newborn Imperium, shattering whatever blood-soaked peace the Emperor had created and dealing him a mortal blow in the bargain.
From there, it was a simple matter of slow, agonizing, rot. The Imperium dragged on, like a gut-wounded man clinging to life while in utter, world-ending, pain by sheer mad hate and determination. The Imperium was dying by such a gut-wound, but before it succumbed, it would kill all its foes, and burn itself out in a blaze of glory.
Ten thousand years of ceaseless wars, crusades, jihads, skirmishes, massacres, xenocides, genocides, shadow conflicts, cold wars, hot wars, lukewarm wars, and the occasional especially deadly food fight dragged on.
Fry once again bounced from collector to collector. From High Lords of Terra to Merchant Masters to local feudal overlords as his value steadily diminished. The fact that he had once belonged to Malcador the Sigillite vanished just as the name Malcador the Sigillite vanished.
Disaster struck at the dawn of the forty-second millennium. Abaddon the Despoiler, the heir of Horus and the continuer of the arch-traitor's eternal temper tantrum, struck with the crusade to end all crusades, the 13th Black Crusade. In this anarchic moment, worlds were conquered, daemons tore their way out of hell, and, yes, many people died.
The Galaxy itself was split clean in two by a massive warp storm, half ruled by Robute Guilliman in an Imperium much like it always had been. The other, despite all efforts by warriors like Chapter Master Dante of the Blood Angels of Baal, was effectively lost, split from the rest of the Imperium and turned into a hellish horror-show of all kinds of terrible, naughty heresy.
This was were Fry found himself, once again stuck on a world gone mad, once again locked in a vault, and once again dredged out by a mysterious man.
That man was the Rogue Trader and Magos Hubert J Farnsworth. Always on the look-out for semi-legal examples of technology, the Magos and his loyal crew dredged up Fry from the depths of the dead planet and brought him on board. Tragically, in the process, most of Farnsworth's crew died horribly. Planets that seemed dead often weren't.
Farnsworth hung his head, said, "Oh those poor fools," and then quite cheerfully went to check on his new acquisition.
Accompanied by his student, Amy, the ancient cyborg examined Fry carefully. "Why, it is incredible! He is even older than I am, but manages to barely be into his twenties."
Amy, with her hot pink mechanicus robes, and rapidly modernizing way of viewing the world, tilted her head. "Magos, he is kind of cute, in a pudgy kind of way."
"Why yes." One of Farnsworth's many tendrils turned into a poker, much like what a school teacher would have used in the century before Fry's. "See his slight rotundness, his dull and blank eyes. This man lived, by all standards, a comfortable and decent life. Perhaps he is a wealthy man, locked into this piece of archeotech in order to preserve his life from the grasp of the heretics."
"So what you are saying is…"
"Why yes! He may make for an excellent source of patronage!" Farnsworth walked about the machine, frowning as he cleaned it down. "Eureka!" he cried suddenly.
"What Magos?"
"Why, this is the most shocking discovery, this popsicle isn't just old, why, he is over forty thousand years old! He must have been frozen during the Golden Age of Technology!" Farnesworth allowed himself a mad cackle. "Why, this is even better! Imagine what secrets this ancient has locked inside his brain."
Amy frowned. "Professor? How can you tell it is over forty thousand years old?"
"The Copyright Date on the back of the machine, of course. My, that Golden Age truly was a Golden Age of Copyright!"
Feeling returned to Fry all at once, as if he suddenly woke from a long, dark sleep. He finished the shriek he had begun, then calmed. Then he screamed again at the ancient, withered, mechanical, thing hunching over him. "What the? What? WHAT?"
"Welcome!" the creature boomed. Metal creaked together with a clatter as the thing moved in a manner that was somehow impossible and disturbing, like seeing a stop motion effect brought into the world. "To the world of tomorrow!"
"An alien!" Fry screamed, struggling to get away. Long metal tentacles reached for him, like Doctor Octopus. "Oh God, are you going to probe me? You wouldn't want to probe me! My ass is completely unprobable! Please, no!"
"I assure you, I have already fully inspected your ass for any potential elements of interest," said the monster, "it is a perfectly average ass of flesh, not worthy of probing." A tendril reached up and adjusted the thick glasses protruding from the alien robot thing's sockets. "I am no alien, as well, I am as human as you are."
"But you are all gross and wrinkly!"
"My remaining flesh has aged, yes."
"But you have tentacles and metal bits!"
"Having multiple limbs is far superior to having only two frail, fallible, flesh sticks."
Fry felt a severe headache coming on. "Alright, Darth Vader, where am I?"
"My name is not Darth, I am Hugo J Farnsworth, Magos and Rogue Trader." The entity that claimed to be human rattled off more apparent identifiers. "What is your name, frozen ancient?"
"Philip J Fry," Fry responded through the haze. "Uh, call me Fry."
"Can you stand, Fry?" the Magos asked. One of the tendrils reached for the young man, the frozen cold metal on Fry's bare skin making him yelp and jump out of the pod immediately, his feet wobbly but perfectly fine after a moment's adjustment. "Excellent! Now, follow me!"
Fry was led out of the room into a kind of dirty, creaking, chamber, the cold metal that surrounded him of the same type that composed a sizable chunk of his apparent benefactor's body. There was a rumble, and everything shook and spasmed as if close to an end. The Magos' tentacles kept Fry from falling. "Do hold on to something," said the Magos. There were no railings or handholds in sight.
Fry settled to clinging close to the wall, almost leaning on it. "So is this your lab?" he asked.
"No, it is my spaceship," answered Farnsworth. "Hurry it up."
They made their way down the quivering, metal hall, until Fry felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest. He panted, "Are we there yet?"
"Yes yes," answered the cyborg brusquely.
Another figure stood before them, this one apparently fully metal. In front of it was a pile of girders, that the being would bend down, pick up, and bend at regular intervals. "Wow!" Fry gasped. "A real robot!"
"Goodness no!" cried Farnsworth. "This, my popsicle son, is a Servitor. A miserable human soul shoved into a metal shell, forced to perform manual labor for me until his very body, mind, and soul wear away into nothing more than vestigial nubs."
"Ah retail," Fry said with a sigh. He patted the servitor on the shoulder. "Hang in there buddy." He looked over. "So when does he get off?"
"Oh never," said Farnsworth. "He will be like that until what remains of his biology ceases to function." At Fry's expression, the Magos shrugged. "Oh, don't be so disturbed. He was probably a murderer or something."
Fry felt a sudden urge to puke, and it wasn't just the shaking of the supposed space-ship, the continuing horror of his strange companion, or the filth that now encrusted the hand he'd used to pat the poor damned bastard.
"Perhaps familiarity will make you more used to it, it seems this one was just performing the strangely necessary task of endlessly bending metal girders. It can be removed from that for now." He gestured to the serviator. "Come, attend us for now."
"Bite m-uh, I mean, yes boss," the undead thing responded, setting down the girder with a clang.
"It seems some residual sense of rebellion is still within it," mused Farnsworth as they continued on their path. "Oh well, nothing that a little extra lobotomy can't fix."
The thing walked beside Fry, of a height with him, but the heavy clang of its steel feet made it clear that it was far heavier. Proximity and familiarity in fact did not make Fry more comfortable with it. This had to be some kind of pirate ship, some terrible renegade. Surely the entire future wasn't like this? Surely?
Finally, they entered a room, filled with a couple metal cots and a jumbled mess of shelving, filled with things Fry couldn't place. There was also the first comforting sight Fry had seen since he had woken up. A pretty young woman in a hot pink robe of similar make to everyone else's.
"Oh!' the girl said. She pulled back her hood. She was, Fry would guess, of asian descent, though who knew what that meant in the distant future. "He's awake!"
"Uh, hey," Fry said in his best suave voice. The one that had never, not once, ever, gotten him laid.
The girl swooped in close, frowning. "I am Amy Wong, Tech Adept. Do you know of the Wong family?"
"No," Fry stammered.
"Huh wow, he really is ancient, Magos!"
"Well the Wong family does have an illustrious history going back a good thousand years," a cheerful voice added, "So that would make him at least that, to be in this part of space and not know." A short, brown-skinned fellow stepped forward, holding out a hand. "Now, if you cease being distracted, this discovery does require quite the towering stack of paperwork." The man seemed absolutely ecstatic by the prospect. "I am Hermes Conrad, of the Administratum. Or well, what is left of the Administratum in this part of space at any rate."
Fry took the hand, strangely happy to meet two people that seemed entirely normal.
"Well, now we must commence the check-up!" declared Farnsworth, shuttling him away from the two people. "We do have to make certain you don't have any horrible past diseases that could slaughter trillions!" What was probably supposed to be a comforting pat rocked Fry's body. "Thank the Omnisassiah we have one hell of a doctor on board!"
"Hell is one word for it," Hermes muttered, probably in a voice he thought was too low for Fry to catch.
"What?" Fry gasped at him.
"Good luck!" Amy waved. "Hope your penis survives!"
"WHAT?!?" Fry shrieked as he was shoved into a side room.
He was in what appeared to be a perfectly normal doctor's office. Before him was a figure in long robes, skin of a strange pinkish tink. "Um…hi?" Fry offered.
The man turned. His face was graced with a mustache of tentacles that drooped over his upper lip with some solemnity. Fry screamed. The apparent doctor screamed right back, a weird gurgling noise. They both stopped at the same instant. "Excellent, the customary greeting has been completed," the alien said, "I am Doctor Zoidberg in the human language, which is of course my native tongue. Now please, remove your clothing and exoskeleton so I may inspect your cloaca."
"I don't have one of those," Fry said. He wasn't entirely certain what a cloaca was, but he was pretty certain on that.
"A wise guy, huh!" Zoidberg held up his hands, both of which were tipped with massive, meaty, claws. He clacked them. "Well, nobody likes to have it checked, but it is important to ensure you don't have Yetiism or UltraFlu."
The claws looked sharp and utterly deadly, and Fry was a little too terrified to really fight back on anything. He stripped off his clothes, and lay down on the bed.
What followed was a doctor's visit from hell. Fry was no holder of a medical doctorate, far from it, but he could tell instantly that Doctor Zoidberg, whatever Doctor Zoidberg even was, had no clue what he was doing. Those big sharp claws that could so easily snip off any offending part of Fry's biology didn't help the discomfort. Fry held perfectly still until the Doctor declared, "You are in terrible health! But there isn't anything contagious, so move along you poor, doomed, bastard!"
Fry was barely allowed to tug on his clothes before he was shoved back into the waiting lounge. "I uh, guess I'm fine," Fry stammered.
"Hooray!" The Magos started to clap, quickly followed by Amy and Hermes. The servitor didn't. "Come servitor, clap for Fry with us."
Fry was certain he could hear the grating of metal teeth, but the undead thing slowly rose its hands and cracked them together. It made a dull metal sound that only added to Fry's growing sense of acute discomfort.
"Now that it has been definitely settled that Fry won't start a terrible epidemic, let us commence to the hanger bay!"
Once again, Fry found himself walking down the hallway, now flanked by the servitor and Amy. "So, you seem mostly normal, no offense."
"None taken," Amy said with a shrug.
"What exactly is the deal here?" Fry asked, looking around. "This is kind of shitty for a starship, isn't it?"
She gave him a curious look. "It's about average. Were starships much better in the Golden Age of Technology?"
"The Golden what? No, we didn't have starships in the 21st century."
She blinks. "Wow. You are even older than I thought. That's impressive. So like, did you guys really make artificial intelligence?"
"Yeah, we used it in video games. Could beat a guy in chess, but I don't think it was that great."
"Chess?"
"Is that like Regicide?" Hermes jumped in.
"Sure?" Fry answered, kind of regretting bringing it up.
"Behold!" the Magos boomed. "My landing craft!"
This, Fry realized with a burst of excitement, would be the first space-ship he'd be able to see from the exterior. He stepped forward, and beheld the lump of metal in the middle of the hanger.
It was painted teal, and more resembled a slightly tapered brick with engines slapped on. Hardly the sleek machines Fry expected from watching Star Trek and even Star Wars. "Why did you paint it teal?" he asked. He was still impressed, it was still a ship.
"That is the color of my Rogue Trader Dynasty, of course. We are usually little more than a courier business of course, small compared to our rivals, but we manage well enough, especially in these horrible, terrible, heretical, times."
"So, where are we going?" Fry asked, wondering if he was, in fact, just going on a grand tour.
"We will be heading to my estate in the Hive City of Nova Secundus Eburaci, there you will be held in safety and studied, so you aren't exposed to any small minded fools that may want to do something decidedly untoward to you."
"Like burn you!" Amy said helpfully.
"Or…well…it will probably be burning, yes," Hermes said with an air of sympathy.
Fry's stomach dropped. "What, what do you mean?"
"This sector of space is presently, as it has ever been, at war. Forces of Chaos have been pushing inward ever since the split from the Imperium occurred, Orks are also hitting at the fringe systems, led by their Warboss, the Butcher of Omicron Persei 8. And quite a bit more just keeps happening, it is a terrible and wonderful time to be a Magos!" The Magos adjusted his spectacle implants. "The Good News, Fry, is that this has led to quite a bit of tension. This has resulted in many people already fanatic and dangerous to be even more fanatic and dangerous then usual. You are a praised specimen, and I have no interest in seeing you destroyed by those who can't see the value."
Fry started to back away, towards the serviator. "Wait, so, you are going to dissect me or something?"
"My dear boy, if I wished to dissect you, I would have some time ago. No, I simply wish to keep you in observation in relative safety. You will thank me," said the Magos. He stepped forward, not being able to not look menacing. The other two stepped forward as well, both seeming at least a bit apologetic.
"I don't even know what is going on," Fry stammered, "I don't want to be locked away from the future! The greatest thing about that is seeing the universe!"
Something flickered across Farnsworth's face. Maybe some vestige of pity. "Oh you poor fool, no you do not."
"Yeah, well, I think it is my choice to make!" Fry had made many stupid choices, uncounted many, but if he was going to never see his family, his friends, ever again, he would make the one choice that seemed right. The conviction to not be the plaything of some mechanical mad scientist was powerful and overwhelming. Fry backed into the rigid form of the serviator.
Two strong arms, capable of easily bending the massive girders, latched around him. "Excellent, than-"
"Bite my shiny metal ass you stupid meatbag!" The voice was rough and harsh. "Take one step towards me and this guy's neck is snapped!'
"By the moons of Space Jamaica! It's still sentient!" cried Hermes.
"That's right!" barked the cyborg/robot/who even knew at this point. It began to pull Fry towards the space ship. "I'm taking this ship. Don't try to stop me!"
Farnsworth reached for something at his side, his metal eyes staring into Fry's. Fry had the sense that what the Magos did next would mean life or death. "Very well," Farnsworth said hollowly, "get out of her, you damned metal bastard."
"That's right! Coward!" and Fry found himself yanked into the ship.
He was shoved onto a chair and the metal man clanged over to the cockpit. "Hah hah, oh man, that was the best steal I ever did, but you gotta take the cake, Fry. Pretending to be some popsicle, what did you manage to grab?"
"I, what, who are you? What's happening?"
"What's happening is I bailed you out," the metal guy sniffed, "we are going to Secundus at lightning speed Fry, and from there, we will have out pick of what ever ever luxury we want!" With a clank, he opened his chest, revealing a cavity filled with a sack. Pulling it out, he set it on the ground. "So yeah, what did you grab?"
"Nothing," Fry stammered.
"Yeesh, you are some kind of amateur huh?"
"No! I'm not a thief, I'm just some guy from the 21st century!"
"Hah hah, no stop, you're killing me!"
The ship lifted off with a rattle, and Fry was shoved back in his chair by the g-force. As they entered the void of space, he saw what is widely considered to be the most lovely sight by generations of humanity. A planet from deep in space. Earth, long ago, was described as a blue jewel, perfect and delicate hanging in space. Something to change the perspective of any being who viewed it for the better.
The planet they were approaching, even from a distance, would probably change one's perspective for the worst. It was a mottled, brown, ball, looking like a mud ball made by a cackling little boy to throw at his neighbor. Speckling the ball were gray spots, the largest of which being the one they were headed towards.
"Ah Secundus, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, but most can't!" the machine man chuckled. "Hope you are ready, Fry!"
Fry only clung to the arms of his chair, more confused than ever. Was that Earth? Where was he even? "I guess."
[Something I've been working on for a bit now! The idea came to me a bit ago, and I wanted to have something a little more comedic to write alongside my King Arthur fic, which is more of a Dan Abnett kind of deal in terms of being a 40k story. This won't update as often, but the hope is that the updates are longer, each covering about half of an 'episode'.]
It was New Years, 2019 to 2020. People were just starting to realize the year would turn over as normal, and were starting to cling to the foolish hope that things might actually improve for once. And somewhere, beyond the perception of man, an all-powerful being contemplated how to save the human race.
Fry had even less reason than any other human being to be aware of that, of course. He went about his pathetic, tiny little life unaware of anything beyond it. On this fateful New Year, he was being sent out to deliver a pizza to the local cryogenics facility.
The hour before New Years in New York was, as ever, loud, grungy, and rough. There was war, but it was somewhere far away and no one really thought much about it. There would be more soon, and more and more to come, but for now everything seemed boring and simple.
Fry didn't care about any of this. All he was thinking about was how his job didn't even give him New Year's off, his girlfriend had finally cut him loose, and life was, as ever, just plain lousy.
So really, the fact he ended up alone in a half-broken down lab with pizza and soda seemed almost tolerable.
"Here I thought I'd be the one making the crank calls," Fry grumbled. He held up the soda and prepared to sip. "Happy New Year!"
It was here that one of history's strangest trillion to one chances occurred. By all rights, Fry should have finished his impromptu New Year's celebration, gone home, petted his dog, and gone to sleep no more miserable than he'd been yesterday. He'd live as best he could until the end of his life. Perhaps, in some distant time, he'd even manage to be happy.
Instead, Fry was doomed by poor posture and a poorly put-together chair. The thing slid back off its front wheels before suddenly flipping clean over. Fry let out a cry of surprise, finding himself right into an open cyro-pod. The thing slammed shut, and an instant later, he was flash frozen.
Perhaps if Fry had been lucky, the setting on the door would have been set for as little as a day or two. But instead, as some sick, twisted, joke of the manufacturer, the timer froze at 40 thousand years. Why such a thing would ever be considered necessary is anyone's guess, but here we are.
Of course, the main reason that such a thing would be fundamentally worthless is the simple fact that no piece of 20th century technology could ever survive that unfathomable amount of time. Without help, anyway.
The cryo-container was, in fact, designed to sturdily endure ten thousand years of wear-and-tear. Hopefully, it would have steady maintenance over that period, and luckily for Fry, it did.
The people of the Terran Golden Age that lasted oh so long were a humanitarian bunch, and so were happy to continue to maintain the human popsicle. If Fry had been truly fortunate, one would have opened it, and he would have emerged into a life of joy, luxury, really good sex, and not having to work. Instead, no one wanted a 20th century caveman messing with their vibe, and they figured the strange fellow had settled on forty thousand years anyway, so Fry stayed frozen.
The pod bounced from place to place and collector to collector, often kept as one of those funny novelties like a dead cowboy stuffed and dressed in a demeaning outfit for the pleasure of dipshit tourists.
And then everything blew up and died. The Age of Strife hit the Earth like a punch straight to the dick, sending it all plummeting into a barbaric dark age from which there was no escape.
At this point, Fry was in the ownership of a powerful and absurdly rich collector who was head rich asshole on the planet Oswald. Oswald, sadly, was one of many billions of planets that collapsed into utter anarchy as thousands of psykers awoke all at once, and the collector locked himself down in his own house, awaiting the end, rocking back and forth, and slowly starving to death.
Fry, at this point maintained very carefully by hundreds of subsystems and a regular injection of the miracle of juvenat, survived as his master's guts hollowed and his ribs collapsed in on themselves until they were nothing but powder.
Oswald remained a nondescript feral world, busted straight down to a stone age. It was, odd to say, the strange and wild kind of stone age, imagined by visionary comic book writers thousands of years prior. Scraps of tech dredged up by fierce and savage inhabitants, brutal battle against unquestioned overlords by proud barbarian warriors, and the occasional visitation by mysterious alien nomads and pirates.
The planet was brought under the control of the Imperium in short order. A Primarch was unnecessary, it only took a single warband of the Space Wolves legion, a perfect choice, as the natives of Oswald embraced the fierce barbarian post-humans as the ultimate in their ideal. It was a peaceful transition. Only about a hundred thousand inhabitants had to die.
Fry was discovered in his ancient primordial vault, on the cusp of technological death, by a group tasked by the Imperium to seek out and either destroy or utilize archeotech. Fry was deemed neither dangerous or useful, so with a bored shrug, he was sent to languish in the vault of one Malcador the Sigillite. The pod was restored, somewhat haphazardly, to continue existing, and the technology involved was later used to save Robute Guilliman from the cusp of death.
So Fry proved useful to the Imperium of Man, but it was deemed that there was little to no reason to wake him up. And so once again, Fry languished in the vault of a powerful man, though this time on his once-homeworld. Though if he woke up now, his mind would shatter at the sheer immensity of the change, much less at seeing beings like Malcador, the Emperor of Mankind, and Horus Lupercal. Perhaps it was for the best that Fry hadn't awoken at this time.
Horus' temper tantrum eventually ripped through the newborn Imperium, shattering whatever blood-soaked peace the Emperor had created and dealing him a mortal blow in the bargain.
From there, it was a simple matter of slow, agonizing, rot. The Imperium dragged on, like a gut-wounded man clinging to life while in utter, world-ending, pain by sheer mad hate and determination. The Imperium was dying by such a gut-wound, but before it succumbed, it would kill all its foes, and burn itself out in a blaze of glory.
Ten thousand years of ceaseless wars, crusades, jihads, skirmishes, massacres, xenocides, genocides, shadow conflicts, cold wars, hot wars, lukewarm wars, and the occasional especially deadly food fight dragged on.
Fry once again bounced from collector to collector. From High Lords of Terra to Merchant Masters to local feudal overlords as his value steadily diminished. The fact that he had once belonged to Malcador the Sigillite vanished just as the name Malcador the Sigillite vanished.
Disaster struck at the dawn of the forty-second millennium. Abaddon the Despoiler, the heir of Horus and the continuer of the arch-traitor's eternal temper tantrum, struck with the crusade to end all crusades, the 13th Black Crusade. In this anarchic moment, worlds were conquered, daemons tore their way out of hell, and, yes, many people died.
The Galaxy itself was split clean in two by a massive warp storm, half ruled by Robute Guilliman in an Imperium much like it always had been. The other, despite all efforts by warriors like Chapter Master Dante of the Blood Angels of Baal, was effectively lost, split from the rest of the Imperium and turned into a hellish horror-show of all kinds of terrible, naughty heresy.
This was were Fry found himself, once again stuck on a world gone mad, once again locked in a vault, and once again dredged out by a mysterious man.
That man was the Rogue Trader and Magos Hubert J Farnsworth. Always on the look-out for semi-legal examples of technology, the Magos and his loyal crew dredged up Fry from the depths of the dead planet and brought him on board. Tragically, in the process, most of Farnsworth's crew died horribly. Planets that seemed dead often weren't.
Farnsworth hung his head, said, "Oh those poor fools," and then quite cheerfully went to check on his new acquisition.
Accompanied by his student, Amy, the ancient cyborg examined Fry carefully. "Why, it is incredible! He is even older than I am, but manages to barely be into his twenties."
Amy, with her hot pink mechanicus robes, and rapidly modernizing way of viewing the world, tilted her head. "Magos, he is kind of cute, in a pudgy kind of way."
"Why yes." One of Farnsworth's many tendrils turned into a poker, much like what a school teacher would have used in the century before Fry's. "See his slight rotundness, his dull and blank eyes. This man lived, by all standards, a comfortable and decent life. Perhaps he is a wealthy man, locked into this piece of archeotech in order to preserve his life from the grasp of the heretics."
"So what you are saying is…"
"Why yes! He may make for an excellent source of patronage!" Farnsworth walked about the machine, frowning as he cleaned it down. "Eureka!" he cried suddenly.
"What Magos?"
"Why, this is the most shocking discovery, this popsicle isn't just old, why, he is over forty thousand years old! He must have been frozen during the Golden Age of Technology!" Farnesworth allowed himself a mad cackle. "Why, this is even better! Imagine what secrets this ancient has locked inside his brain."
Amy frowned. "Professor? How can you tell it is over forty thousand years old?"
"The Copyright Date on the back of the machine, of course. My, that Golden Age truly was a Golden Age of Copyright!"
************
Feeling returned to Fry all at once, as if he suddenly woke from a long, dark sleep. He finished the shriek he had begun, then calmed. Then he screamed again at the ancient, withered, mechanical, thing hunching over him. "What the? What? WHAT?"
"Welcome!" the creature boomed. Metal creaked together with a clatter as the thing moved in a manner that was somehow impossible and disturbing, like seeing a stop motion effect brought into the world. "To the world of tomorrow!"
"An alien!" Fry screamed, struggling to get away. Long metal tentacles reached for him, like Doctor Octopus. "Oh God, are you going to probe me? You wouldn't want to probe me! My ass is completely unprobable! Please, no!"
"I assure you, I have already fully inspected your ass for any potential elements of interest," said the monster, "it is a perfectly average ass of flesh, not worthy of probing." A tendril reached up and adjusted the thick glasses protruding from the alien robot thing's sockets. "I am no alien, as well, I am as human as you are."
"But you are all gross and wrinkly!"
"My remaining flesh has aged, yes."
"But you have tentacles and metal bits!"
"Having multiple limbs is far superior to having only two frail, fallible, flesh sticks."
Fry felt a severe headache coming on. "Alright, Darth Vader, where am I?"
"My name is not Darth, I am Hugo J Farnsworth, Magos and Rogue Trader." The entity that claimed to be human rattled off more apparent identifiers. "What is your name, frozen ancient?"
"Philip J Fry," Fry responded through the haze. "Uh, call me Fry."
"Can you stand, Fry?" the Magos asked. One of the tendrils reached for the young man, the frozen cold metal on Fry's bare skin making him yelp and jump out of the pod immediately, his feet wobbly but perfectly fine after a moment's adjustment. "Excellent! Now, follow me!"
Fry was led out of the room into a kind of dirty, creaking, chamber, the cold metal that surrounded him of the same type that composed a sizable chunk of his apparent benefactor's body. There was a rumble, and everything shook and spasmed as if close to an end. The Magos' tentacles kept Fry from falling. "Do hold on to something," said the Magos. There were no railings or handholds in sight.
Fry settled to clinging close to the wall, almost leaning on it. "So is this your lab?" he asked.
"No, it is my spaceship," answered Farnsworth. "Hurry it up."
They made their way down the quivering, metal hall, until Fry felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest. He panted, "Are we there yet?"
"Yes yes," answered the cyborg brusquely.
Another figure stood before them, this one apparently fully metal. In front of it was a pile of girders, that the being would bend down, pick up, and bend at regular intervals. "Wow!" Fry gasped. "A real robot!"
"Goodness no!" cried Farnsworth. "This, my popsicle son, is a Servitor. A miserable human soul shoved into a metal shell, forced to perform manual labor for me until his very body, mind, and soul wear away into nothing more than vestigial nubs."
"Ah retail," Fry said with a sigh. He patted the servitor on the shoulder. "Hang in there buddy." He looked over. "So when does he get off?"
"Oh never," said Farnsworth. "He will be like that until what remains of his biology ceases to function." At Fry's expression, the Magos shrugged. "Oh, don't be so disturbed. He was probably a murderer or something."
Fry felt a sudden urge to puke, and it wasn't just the shaking of the supposed space-ship, the continuing horror of his strange companion, or the filth that now encrusted the hand he'd used to pat the poor damned bastard.
"Perhaps familiarity will make you more used to it, it seems this one was just performing the strangely necessary task of endlessly bending metal girders. It can be removed from that for now." He gestured to the serviator. "Come, attend us for now."
"Bite m-uh, I mean, yes boss," the undead thing responded, setting down the girder with a clang.
"It seems some residual sense of rebellion is still within it," mused Farnsworth as they continued on their path. "Oh well, nothing that a little extra lobotomy can't fix."
The thing walked beside Fry, of a height with him, but the heavy clang of its steel feet made it clear that it was far heavier. Proximity and familiarity in fact did not make Fry more comfortable with it. This had to be some kind of pirate ship, some terrible renegade. Surely the entire future wasn't like this? Surely?
Finally, they entered a room, filled with a couple metal cots and a jumbled mess of shelving, filled with things Fry couldn't place. There was also the first comforting sight Fry had seen since he had woken up. A pretty young woman in a hot pink robe of similar make to everyone else's.
"Oh!' the girl said. She pulled back her hood. She was, Fry would guess, of asian descent, though who knew what that meant in the distant future. "He's awake!"
"Uh, hey," Fry said in his best suave voice. The one that had never, not once, ever, gotten him laid.
The girl swooped in close, frowning. "I am Amy Wong, Tech Adept. Do you know of the Wong family?"
"No," Fry stammered.
"Huh wow, he really is ancient, Magos!"
"Well the Wong family does have an illustrious history going back a good thousand years," a cheerful voice added, "So that would make him at least that, to be in this part of space and not know." A short, brown-skinned fellow stepped forward, holding out a hand. "Now, if you cease being distracted, this discovery does require quite the towering stack of paperwork." The man seemed absolutely ecstatic by the prospect. "I am Hermes Conrad, of the Administratum. Or well, what is left of the Administratum in this part of space at any rate."
Fry took the hand, strangely happy to meet two people that seemed entirely normal.
"Well, now we must commence the check-up!" declared Farnsworth, shuttling him away from the two people. "We do have to make certain you don't have any horrible past diseases that could slaughter trillions!" What was probably supposed to be a comforting pat rocked Fry's body. "Thank the Omnisassiah we have one hell of a doctor on board!"
"Hell is one word for it," Hermes muttered, probably in a voice he thought was too low for Fry to catch.
"What?" Fry gasped at him.
"Good luck!" Amy waved. "Hope your penis survives!"
"WHAT?!?" Fry shrieked as he was shoved into a side room.
He was in what appeared to be a perfectly normal doctor's office. Before him was a figure in long robes, skin of a strange pinkish tink. "Um…hi?" Fry offered.
The man turned. His face was graced with a mustache of tentacles that drooped over his upper lip with some solemnity. Fry screamed. The apparent doctor screamed right back, a weird gurgling noise. They both stopped at the same instant. "Excellent, the customary greeting has been completed," the alien said, "I am Doctor Zoidberg in the human language, which is of course my native tongue. Now please, remove your clothing and exoskeleton so I may inspect your cloaca."
"I don't have one of those," Fry said. He wasn't entirely certain what a cloaca was, but he was pretty certain on that.
"A wise guy, huh!" Zoidberg held up his hands, both of which were tipped with massive, meaty, claws. He clacked them. "Well, nobody likes to have it checked, but it is important to ensure you don't have Yetiism or UltraFlu."
The claws looked sharp and utterly deadly, and Fry was a little too terrified to really fight back on anything. He stripped off his clothes, and lay down on the bed.
What followed was a doctor's visit from hell. Fry was no holder of a medical doctorate, far from it, but he could tell instantly that Doctor Zoidberg, whatever Doctor Zoidberg even was, had no clue what he was doing. Those big sharp claws that could so easily snip off any offending part of Fry's biology didn't help the discomfort. Fry held perfectly still until the Doctor declared, "You are in terrible health! But there isn't anything contagious, so move along you poor, doomed, bastard!"
Fry was barely allowed to tug on his clothes before he was shoved back into the waiting lounge. "I uh, guess I'm fine," Fry stammered.
"Hooray!" The Magos started to clap, quickly followed by Amy and Hermes. The servitor didn't. "Come servitor, clap for Fry with us."
Fry was certain he could hear the grating of metal teeth, but the undead thing slowly rose its hands and cracked them together. It made a dull metal sound that only added to Fry's growing sense of acute discomfort.
"Now that it has been definitely settled that Fry won't start a terrible epidemic, let us commence to the hanger bay!"
Once again, Fry found himself walking down the hallway, now flanked by the servitor and Amy. "So, you seem mostly normal, no offense."
"None taken," Amy said with a shrug.
"What exactly is the deal here?" Fry asked, looking around. "This is kind of shitty for a starship, isn't it?"
She gave him a curious look. "It's about average. Were starships much better in the Golden Age of Technology?"
"The Golden what? No, we didn't have starships in the 21st century."
She blinks. "Wow. You are even older than I thought. That's impressive. So like, did you guys really make artificial intelligence?"
"Yeah, we used it in video games. Could beat a guy in chess, but I don't think it was that great."
"Chess?"
"Is that like Regicide?" Hermes jumped in.
"Sure?" Fry answered, kind of regretting bringing it up.
"Behold!" the Magos boomed. "My landing craft!"
This, Fry realized with a burst of excitement, would be the first space-ship he'd be able to see from the exterior. He stepped forward, and beheld the lump of metal in the middle of the hanger.
It was painted teal, and more resembled a slightly tapered brick with engines slapped on. Hardly the sleek machines Fry expected from watching Star Trek and even Star Wars. "Why did you paint it teal?" he asked. He was still impressed, it was still a ship.
"That is the color of my Rogue Trader Dynasty, of course. We are usually little more than a courier business of course, small compared to our rivals, but we manage well enough, especially in these horrible, terrible, heretical, times."
"So, where are we going?" Fry asked, wondering if he was, in fact, just going on a grand tour.
"We will be heading to my estate in the Hive City of Nova Secundus Eburaci, there you will be held in safety and studied, so you aren't exposed to any small minded fools that may want to do something decidedly untoward to you."
"Like burn you!" Amy said helpfully.
"Or…well…it will probably be burning, yes," Hermes said with an air of sympathy.
Fry's stomach dropped. "What, what do you mean?"
"This sector of space is presently, as it has ever been, at war. Forces of Chaos have been pushing inward ever since the split from the Imperium occurred, Orks are also hitting at the fringe systems, led by their Warboss, the Butcher of Omicron Persei 8. And quite a bit more just keeps happening, it is a terrible and wonderful time to be a Magos!" The Magos adjusted his spectacle implants. "The Good News, Fry, is that this has led to quite a bit of tension. This has resulted in many people already fanatic and dangerous to be even more fanatic and dangerous then usual. You are a praised specimen, and I have no interest in seeing you destroyed by those who can't see the value."
Fry started to back away, towards the serviator. "Wait, so, you are going to dissect me or something?"
"My dear boy, if I wished to dissect you, I would have some time ago. No, I simply wish to keep you in observation in relative safety. You will thank me," said the Magos. He stepped forward, not being able to not look menacing. The other two stepped forward as well, both seeming at least a bit apologetic.
"I don't even know what is going on," Fry stammered, "I don't want to be locked away from the future! The greatest thing about that is seeing the universe!"
Something flickered across Farnsworth's face. Maybe some vestige of pity. "Oh you poor fool, no you do not."
"Yeah, well, I think it is my choice to make!" Fry had made many stupid choices, uncounted many, but if he was going to never see his family, his friends, ever again, he would make the one choice that seemed right. The conviction to not be the plaything of some mechanical mad scientist was powerful and overwhelming. Fry backed into the rigid form of the serviator.
Two strong arms, capable of easily bending the massive girders, latched around him. "Excellent, than-"
"Bite my shiny metal ass you stupid meatbag!" The voice was rough and harsh. "Take one step towards me and this guy's neck is snapped!'
"By the moons of Space Jamaica! It's still sentient!" cried Hermes.
"That's right!" barked the cyborg/robot/who even knew at this point. It began to pull Fry towards the space ship. "I'm taking this ship. Don't try to stop me!"
Farnsworth reached for something at his side, his metal eyes staring into Fry's. Fry had the sense that what the Magos did next would mean life or death. "Very well," Farnsworth said hollowly, "get out of her, you damned metal bastard."
"That's right! Coward!" and Fry found himself yanked into the ship.
He was shoved onto a chair and the metal man clanged over to the cockpit. "Hah hah, oh man, that was the best steal I ever did, but you gotta take the cake, Fry. Pretending to be some popsicle, what did you manage to grab?"
"I, what, who are you? What's happening?"
"What's happening is I bailed you out," the metal guy sniffed, "we are going to Secundus at lightning speed Fry, and from there, we will have out pick of what ever ever luxury we want!" With a clank, he opened his chest, revealing a cavity filled with a sack. Pulling it out, he set it on the ground. "So yeah, what did you grab?"
"Nothing," Fry stammered.
"Yeesh, you are some kind of amateur huh?"
"No! I'm not a thief, I'm just some guy from the 21st century!"
"Hah hah, no stop, you're killing me!"
The ship lifted off with a rattle, and Fry was shoved back in his chair by the g-force. As they entered the void of space, he saw what is widely considered to be the most lovely sight by generations of humanity. A planet from deep in space. Earth, long ago, was described as a blue jewel, perfect and delicate hanging in space. Something to change the perspective of any being who viewed it for the better.
The planet they were approaching, even from a distance, would probably change one's perspective for the worst. It was a mottled, brown, ball, looking like a mud ball made by a cackling little boy to throw at his neighbor. Speckling the ball were gray spots, the largest of which being the one they were headed towards.
"Ah Secundus, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, but most can't!" the machine man chuckled. "Hope you are ready, Fry!"
Fry only clung to the arms of his chair, more confused than ever. Was that Earth? Where was he even? "I guess."
[Something I've been working on for a bit now! The idea came to me a bit ago, and I wanted to have something a little more comedic to write alongside my King Arthur fic, which is more of a Dan Abnett kind of deal in terms of being a 40k story. This won't update as often, but the hope is that the updates are longer, each covering about half of an 'episode'.]
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