It has been a while since you had an actual headache. Manuals, blueprints, technical readouts and status logs race through your neurons in a never ending neural firework of information bouncing around in your short term memory. The moment you noticed you start feeling like the texts were beginning to scramble into incoherence, you took a break, two pills promising relief in a few minutes as you begin to idly walk through the base, waiting for your head to clear and your thoughts to settle.
They don't, trying your hardest to remain, hundreds of pages of documentation flashing through your mind whenever you inevitably drift off to think about your duties again. Evaluation your possible distractions, your subconscious ultimately decides for you. When you finally take notice where your subconscious is taking your strides, your mood lifts a little, your conscious mind coming to the conclusion that it is a welcome distraction.
A distraction predicated on him not being busy. Fran might be on the surface and in demeanor less weird than many of the other members of the Cult of Mars you had the fortune and misfortune to meet so far, but he's hardly less dedicated, as the two times he spent days working day and night to produce results clearly demonstrated.
"Fran", you shout up at him standing on a gantry after quickly searching the workshop for a minute, upper body disappearing deep in the guts of the ACU power converter, flickering light emerging out of the opening. The flicker stops, the adept himself emerging covered in machine grease covering both his red robe and his face, only his eyes staring out of the dirt like two islands of brightness, gaze lighting up when he spots you, which gives you a fuzzy feeling.
"Is something the matter, General?", he calls back, depositing the instrument he's been using on a nearby table as he lazily leans on the railing, looking down on you, expression turned neutral again.
"No General, I'm on break", you huff, averting your attention to look at the converter suspended from the ceiling before turning it back on him, the corners of your mouth twitching up watching him try to wipe away the lubricant stains on his face with his equally stained hands unsuccessfully. "Do you have time to eat lunch?"
"There remains a lot of work to do, Rebecca", he answers, a hint of unsureness creeping into his voice as he says your name, eyes darting through the workshop to where Adept Mael is protofabricating something, hands grasping the welding instrument again and turning back to the converter. "There is no time to be lost."
"Alright", you sigh, hands burying itself in your pockets as you move to turn, mind going through Eliza's schedule to figure out what she is up to right now. "Carry on then, Adept."
You have not walked two steps before the sounds of welding stops again, Fran audibly struggling to climb back out again. "But Omnissiah willing I can find the time. Give me two minutes to clean up."
You lean against a crate and settle in to wait. One of your freshly deputized Sisters Fabrica finds you in the meanwhile, but you shoo her away before she can make something out of you being here. Fran eventually returns, drying his hands with a clean towel he tosses up to his workplace with pinpoint accuracy, tidied up, his dirty robes replaced by standard template UEF clothes, presumably lacking a replacement. They look out of place on him, not just because of the now different shade of grey, but also because they fit him much better in a way you can appreciate than the heavy duty and widely tailored fabric with its countless pockets.
"You got something there", you put two fingers gently at the side of his chin, stubble rubbing against your fingertip as you gently turn his head, your eyes focused on the oil stain remaining on the underside of his jaw, even as he continues to hold eye contact.
"Blasted sparks", he curses, another piece of cloth appearing out of the expansive pockets of his pants as he quickly wipes down his neck, your eyes clinging to the sinews and muscles moving there as he twists his head side to side to clean himself down. "That is what happens when you foolishly claim two minutes, but notice halfway through you require three."
"I could have waited a little longer", you chuckle, watching the cloth disappear back into his pockets.
"I hold myself to higher standards than to let someone as presentable looking as you wait unnecessarily", he hums, eyebrow twitching humorously. "But I shall keep that in mind."
"You also look very presentable", you coo back at him, the tone of your voice lowering.
"You do not seem to have much desire to conceal this involvement", Fran notes, pulling at the edges of his blue jacket, as the two of you continue walking through the endless corridors, his pace slightly sped up, yours slightly slowed down, comfortably keeping pace with each other.
"If someone makes you trouble because of it, tell me", you huff, blowing a loose strain of hair out of your face. "We are not that many here. It will make the rounds quite quickly. You might need to sign a form however."
"I wouldn't exactly claim that Sergeant Sena has caused me trouble so far…"
"Because of your combat cybernetics?"
"My days as an Adept Militant are in the past. I no longer possess deadly armaments." He pauses. "Among the higher ranks of the Adeptus Mechanicus, such involvements are usually well concealed and not publicly acknowledged", he continues. "But it is usually also a more transactional arrangement, which I am confident is not your intent."
"Correct", you nudge his arm with your elbow reassuringly. "Right now, it helps to distract me from work."
"I can think of more time efficient ways to provide distraction", he nudges you back. "The quantity of empty rooms in this facility provides ample opportunity to do so."
You roll your eyes with a chuckle, clicking your tongue as you give him a half lidded gaze, your mouth twisting into a predatory grin. Quickly checking for footsteps, you ensure you are alone, safe for the ever watching eyes of Luna observing you through the surveillance systems but you are hardly gonna scandalize her. Before Fran can react, your hand is on his chest, the beat of his bionic heart felt accelerating through the fabric of his shirt as you push him backwards and into the wall.
"Later", you purr into his ear, your breath hot and voice low, before you lean down to mash your lips against his in a kiss that is anything but chaste, stubble prickling against your skin, his hands wandering to your hips. He tastes and smells like iron with a note of machine oil that is to be expected and you find yourself fortunate that those two senses are not impaired. It is a brief and intense moment, from which you step back as quickly as you engage into it, composure reinstated. "Lunch first."
"Given the company, I will gladly partake in such", he grins, still looking a little rattled before his face turns more somber, moving a hand to scratch his chin in thought. "I believe you mentioned going through an extensive formal education program when you grew up."
"I don't know about extensive", you shrug. "Three years preschool, four years primary, ten years basic, three years at the military academy?"
"And the first three stages are provided to all?"
"Yes", you nod. "But before you ask, I was an okay student, not an excellent one."
"Seventeen years of broad education sounds to me like a lot of time spent teaching someone knowledge they might not have use for in their later occupation."
"Pre and primary are more like expanded child care", you shrug, his face lighting up at that.
"So like the Progeny Cults?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to explain what that is?"
"The Progeny cults are responsible for both looking over the children of a forgeworld's menial laborers during their shifts and instructing them with the most basic rites and procedures of forge work. On Hillivan Secundus, where I was born, you remain with the cults for six years."
"And after that?"
"Children who show certain intellectual or behavioral markers are recommended to be inducted into the higher ranks of their forge world", he elaborates. "The rest enter the workforce as menials."
You make a disapproving grunt at the mention of child labor.
"It was not that bad, I believe?"
"You believe?", the words leave your mouth with a little more bite than you intended.
"Many of the memories deemed of no value were erased during my apprenticeship to become a lex militant to make room for more important knowledge. I possess effectively no recollection of my time in the Cults", he explains. His words soften your simmering irritation, turning it into a swell of compassion, hand involuntarily moving to grab his shoulder and squeeze it gently, remaining there for a moment.
"I've come to terms with that circumstance," he reassures you with a tap of his hand before you withdraw yours. Together, you enter the civilian administration's cafeteria, where Phraulk and his staff are already bustling, preparing lunch for the residents. As always, Phraulk is ready to accommodate any additional requests. Soon enough, you and Fran find yourselves seated at one of the nondescript metal tables arranged neatly in rows across the spacious area, waiting for lunch to be delivered.
"What does an Adept Militant even do?", you ask, bracing your chin on your hands.
"I believe the name should give some idea. Every forgeworld has a standing army in the form of its Legiones Skitarii and while the function of lower officers are performed by noteworthy individuals among them, higher command authority lies with subsection of the priesthood."
"So you are an officer", you inquire with interest.
"Were", he folds his hands as if in thought. "It is not really comparable to the Guard or EarthCOM, I believe. You must understand that the position comes with a wide suite of cybernetic augmentation and implanted knowledge to which I lost access when I was deemed unfit due to my worsening condition." He chuckles. "Back then I would have been taller than you."
"Not really into full body cyborgs", you give him a wink. "I like my men how I like my steak, made of flesh with a lean ten percent fat."
He actually laughs at that, which makes you unreasonably proud.
"To return where we left off. I never really learned how to command assets or devise strategy like you did and would perform suboptimally in that role if pressed."
"Was that the knowledge for which there needed to be room?"
"Yes", he sighs, posture deflating in a way that twists something in your stomach as his hand moves towards one of his many pockets. "Some memories are deemed more important than others by those who mold you into an Adept of the Machine God", he pulls out a small hardware nut, holding it between index finger and thumb with a great deal of gentleness. "The only memento I have of them. And it's not even the original, it's a replacement I made. I just knew I had one such as this at some point."
"That's sad", your voice is quiet, comforting. "Do you miss them?"
"There is not more to miss than a vague hint of a memory, an echo. For a long time I believed such notions to be below one of my stations", he admits, the memento disappearing back into his pockets. "Now, I deem it a type of knowledge worth possessing, an experience I would have liked to remember."
"Hm", you hum, idly swaying the mug in your hand, eyes wondering to his hands before you stop. "Arrogant as I was, I managed to break the one thing reminding me of my family."
"Break?", his eyes light up with concern, posture straightening up as he leans forward. "Would you care to elaborate?"
"It's a mug, similar to this", you lift it up. "I managed to shatter it into a thousand pieces."
"If you'll let me, I can make an attempt to piece it back together", he offers. "I am quite adept at fixing various things, a broken piece of ceramic should be within my capabilities."
"I don't think you-"
"I know I can", he states with enough confidence in his voice to make you pause, a small sliver of amused irritation growing inside you at the smug grin creeping on his face as he raises his hands, wiggling his fingers. "You know what these hands can-."
You reach out, fast, catching some of his fingers between yours and squeezing, not quite strong enough to hurt, but the playful threat is made clear. "No need to be so self-congratulatory about it", you hum, unable to suppress both the smile playing around the corners of your mouth and the slight blush creeping on your face. He mirrors your expression, his thumb gently stroking the hand with which you hold his fingers in an iron grip.
"Be careful with those", he hums back with a difficult to read expression. "I'll need them later."
With such a compelling argument given, you decide to let his hand escape, today, relaxing your grip, even if doing so takes more of your willpower than anticipated. In that moment, one of Clad's Skitarii, repurposed for kitchen duty comes with your trays of food, the amount of calories on yours significantly greater than on Fran's. You prepare to dig in, mouth watering at the smell, when something catches your attention. The blinking small status lights on the implants behind their ears, flashing between on and off in rapid succession, the frequency wearing off but still continuing even as the full-body-cyborg Skitarii in kitchenwear departs again.
"These are for wireless communication, right", you point at the back of your skull, other hand poking around your synthetic potato stew. "Who are you talking to right now?"
"The noosphere", he answers, hands intertwined in the symbol of the cog, presumably to silently bless the food before he takes up the fork, before he can look up. "It feels comforting feeling the presence of the ACU's machine spirit at the back of my mind."
Your stomach sinks, your eyes darting to one of the many cameras in the cafeteria, staring directly at it. It takes you two moments to fully grasp the severity of the situation. You never felt you had anything to fear from Luna, but you've seen how easily she could circumvent Magos Clad's defenses and rewrite their memories. With measured collectedness, you take out your datapad, opening the chat to Luna to write her a single line.
>Get out of his head!
The effect is immediate. Before you have even put it back into your pocket, Fran's spine straightens, his face taking on a look of utter confusion as he stares off into nothingness, blinking.
"Fran", you get his attention, some of the confusion disappearing as his attention focuses back on you. "Can you do me a favor and turn off your noosphere implants. I don't trust the Adeptus Mechanicus' security protocols."
"My noosphere defense rites are of great sophistication and have been tested thoroughly", he replies, half a statement, half a question asked in irritation. "Rebecca, did you-"
"Don't ask me something I can't answer", you cut him off with authority, before your voice softens again. "Just trust me, please?"
Fran snarls. You can see the gears behind his eyes turning, until they finally click into place and he relaxes, the status lights on his noosphere implant turning dark. "Omnissiah's guidance, fine, but you'll owe me."
"I'll make it worth your while", you promise with a more cheerful expression, before you return your attention to your lunch, the conversation quickly returns back on track, discussing everything and nothing.
idk about you but if I was a cyborg I'd certainly listen after the stuff I'd seen her pull off yeah. But also incredibly concerning xD
