Faculty of Engineering: A Cult Mechanicus Quest
You stand at the back of the room, silent as a statue and tucked away in a corner like a cast-off toy, when they bring in the monster. He is tall, imposing, as seemingly huge as an arcology spire and drawing the eyes of every one of the cybernetic myrmidons lining the walls, yourself included. The monster walks on feet stolen from the dead, his legs replaced by iron and steel forged in blood and suffering, and in his wake is the faint scent of murder. In his arms are the tools of death and ruin, to kill and to defile the dead. And in his mind are secrets, secrets wrested from a past that fought and killed to keep them entombed. Secrets that were forbidden. A simple red cloak nevertheless wraps around him and all his works, perhaps to declare his allegiance here or perhaps to safeguard your eyes from what he has done to himself in the years on the run.
In the years before you caught him.
He walks up to the center of the room with his arms held in front of him in cuffs that seem ludicrously fragile compared to the augmetic might of the warrior-cyborg. Bands of glimmering demolition wire strung around his biceps are connected to the handcuffs, a reminder of what it takes to subdue something like this. In front of him is a panel of judges, three red-robed sages of the Machine-God watching with unblinking red augmetic eyes as they stand in a semicircle around the prisoner. This is a place of judgement, where a single word from those sages can lead to life, or to death. And yet, despite all of that, the set of the prisoner's shoulders bespeaks amusement.
"Magos Explorator Decimus of Mars," say the judges in hissing unison, "You are here to answer for charges of heresy against the Machine-God. Under the light of His works and under the gaze of Him on Terra, we are here to pass sentence on your works." Their voices are solemn, tinged with frustration, and the smooth echo of their 'voices' in the noosphere only makes it more obvious. "You stand accused of abominable experimentation, of techno-sorcery, of trespasses against the Treaty that binds us to the Imperium of Man." He stands accused of those things, each of which carries a sentence of death and worse than death, because you made sure to do as you were told.
You still remember what you found there, deep in the underhives of a world that's now a blasted hellscape haunted by monsters and the souls of the damned.
"On Castris III, you were among those who worked with the Conclave of God's Eyes. You stand accused of being complicit in techno-sorcery, in the corruption of the Machine-God's works and the perversion of their purpose." The first judge croaks this out almost dispassionately, failing to hide the edge of anger in its voice. He is old, older perhaps than any other in this room, and with age comes anger. Anger at what is, anger at what should not be, anger at himself for not doing enough.
"On Castris III, you destroyed the body of a Space Marine as you attempted to divine the secrets of the Black Carapace which binds them to their armor at the bidding of the Conclave. You stand accused of trespasses against the Treaty of Mars, trespasses so foundational that they imperil your life." The second judge's voice is the hissing binaric of a full-body augmetic, a fervent follower of the Omnissiah. His voice is devoid of condemnation, of approval or even of scientific curiosity. His eyes glint with reflected light, and there is little behind them save cold calculation.
"On Castris III, you were apprehended by a Juris Secutor unit tasked with your retrieval, and you resisted your rightful arrest. In doing so you have deprived the Omnissiah of the services of no less than twenty of his servants and masked the retreat of the Conclave of God's Eyes. You stand accused of resisting the judgement of the God-Machine." The last judge's voice is all too human, smooth and deep and modulated just enough to be convincing with just a smidgeon of disappointment in it. Their voice and their verdict is all tailored perfection, the same uncanny symmetry as their face under that red hood. The part of you that's human remembers enough to be unnerved. The part of you that isn't anymore remembers that biological perfection nevertheless hides lethal self-modification, for all that some claim that iron is stronger than flesh.
"And yet," the judges say together, "And yet, the verdict is difficult." You can feel your muscles tense, servos spinning up before you kill their activation and the eyes of the chamber's myrmidons turn towards
you instead. This was not expected. You brought in a monster, an augmented heretic whose very gaze was death and whose voice a siren song of promises and vaulting ambition, and you brought that monster in to die at the bidding of the same judges who now pass this sentence.
Yet now that sentence is
difficult?
"Castris III no longer exists," hisses out the first judge, "It was wiped out by planetary bombardment to prevent the creation of a Daemon World, to shut down a portal to the realms of our great adversaries. And it was wiped out just after your seizure." The first judge sounds frustrated, and rightly so - you remember exactly how the Conclave of God's Eyes masked their retreat, and it involved the detonation of nuclear warheads under an arcology-hive. A sacrifice written in radiation and sunfire. "Thus, in light of the lack of evidence," croaks the judge, "I recommend mindwipe and retention, and the tenure of this Magos to be reviewed at a later date."
"The Space Marines have refused to comment on the body and remains of their comrade. They have refused to allow examination or give testimony, written or otherwise. There is no other witness save the capture squad." The second judge sounds as if it's reading off a prepared set of notes, "Nevertheless, the offense is grave enough that we cannot see the charges going unanswered. I recommend termination of tenure and reassignment from Explorator to the Imperial Guard as liaison." Standard procedure for exile, in other words. Those cold, calculating augmetic eyes turn to you for a bare moment, and you freeze. Fear - something long-since left behind as your mind changed alongside your body - almost comes roaring back.
"On Castris III you were responsible for the deaths of servants of the God-Machine's justice. Whatever the outcome of the other charges, the justice of the God-Machine cannot be resisted or denied by His servants. We deem you guilty of heresy of the highest order and recommend execution." Their perfect voice is marred by anger, their tension betrays their nervousness so near to the hulking combat-chassis of the captive, and they are outvoted two to one before they even spoke.
As such, it falls to the eldest of the panel to read out the sentence after a long, long second wherein you fancy you can almost see the data-transmissions between the three sages at the front of the room. "This Tenure Review Panel recommends a mindwipe of memories related to the allegations and placement of the accused on Indefinite Review. Explorator assignment is revoked. The accused is reassigned to the Redemptory Spire on Mars." Not death, not a true mindwipe and its concomitant loss of skills, not even the loss of augmetics and status.
Tenure Review. A paltry thing, when the monster before you killed a world.
As the hulking tech-heretic walks out, you can feel the prod of another's data-stream in your augmentation. The packets are as cold and flat as you expected, the second judge's 'voice' simply laying out facts with no room for emotion or appeal.
You have failed in apprehension of the conspiracy against the Machine God, and allowed most of the Conclave to escape. Your team is responsible, in part, for the death of a world through inaction. You have been judged in absentia and there is no appeal.
"There are three prices," says the third judge, their voice calm yet threaded with pity. "The first of the mind, the second of the body and the third of self. There is no weregild for the accused, for the blood of your comrades made the sentence possible for all that the Conspiracy was allowed to escape. But the God-Machine does not appreciate failure."
"The first," comes the old, old voice of the Chair of the Tenure Panel, "The first price is of the mind. Some say this is the dearest of the prices, for it is the mind that allows us to serve the Omnissiah, the Machine-God. I disagree there, but I digress. We begin with the price of the mind, to remove the taint of heresy and failure from your databanks.."
Choose one:
[] "This panel recommends the excision of memories": You are shaped by your past, just as any other sentient being. Your past is rich with sorrows and joys, of centuries in service to an ideal that has now deemed you unworthy of remembering it. You will lose the skills that were practiced over centuries, the skills that were won on the battlefield and the memories of the bonds you forged with those you served alongside. These are the tithe taken by the Omnissiah, for an unworthy servant has no need of their battlefield skills - unless they earn them anew, from a polished, pristine initial state that is free of older sins and older mistakes.
[] "This panel recommends the loss of experiences": Despite claims to the contrary, the servants of the God-Machine are shaped as much by their emotional experiences as the servants of the Church of the God-Emperor on Terra. The panel recommends that these experiences, so rich with potential for unpredictable outcomes, be excised. You will lose the experiences and stories that made you
what you are. The stolen moments in the back of a troop-transport. The intimacy and belonging that came with a total mind-link to your intake-clade, now all dead save yourself. The joy of discovery shared with another, the pain of loss shared and thus lessened. All gone, all faded, all no more than data and facts that lack emotional context completely. No longer
yours. You will be a new priest, one that lacks the ties that can lead to heresy.
[] "This panel recommends the removal of secrets": All priests of the God-Machine have secrets. Perhaps they are technological miracles hidden from the wider community - an ancient weapon, a long-dead device, the secrets of the Cult itself once locked in a vault and now locked away in your mind for the time when they are needed. Perhaps they are hidden sins, experiments that went too far or artifacts in fields now forbidden. These are the little treasures that are won over centuries and hidden away, the things that give status in the Cult of the Machine and yet may be vulnerabilities if revealed. You have your share of secrets, and relied on them perhaps too much - now you will go without and be purer for it.
"We come, then, to the next price." The most machine-like of the panel does not let a trace of emotion taint its verdict, and yet you fancy its body language is almost satisfied. This judge is almost a machine in and of itself, someone who traded their self for the purity of iron and dancing electrons long, long ago. It is fitting, you think to yourself as you stand there too frozen to move and with the cold sweat of fear beading what is left of your biological flesh, that this almost-machine is to choose what remains of your body. "It is at my discretion that the Omnissiah's price of the body is to be set, and I have come to a verdict…"
Choose One:
[] "This judge recommends the removal of failed implements of power": Your weapons that lasted centuries, the tools of a hunter and an agent of the Omnissiah's justice, are to be taken from you until you are once again fit to wield them. You built them and their machine-spirits know you as master, creator and brother-in-arms, but for now they may lead you astray on paths that led to failure already. The judge has taken your armaments, and you will be weak as a Guardsman until you are deemed fit to wield them once again.
[] "This judge recommends the removal of heretical thought": The noosphere is a perilous place, especially when the world itself is contaminated with the writhing scrapcode that makes up a daemon's attempts at aetheric warfare. Were your very thoughts compromised? Were your communications, barked out over dedicated comm channels, rendered useless? Perhaps. You cannot say. Looking at the evidence, the ancient machine-man in front of you believes that it can. And here, it has. The 'tongue of the Omnissiah', the noosphere whose transmissions bear the load of entire conversations in seconds, will not be yours until you have proven yourself worthy of it.
[] "This judge recommends the removal of armor now-sundered": Your armor broke under laser fire on Castris III, and your servos failed against a Daemon's blade on that world as you led your team through hell and back with a prisoner in tow. Your augmentation failed to keep you whole, and what failed to work is a failed experiment. Your armor and your servos, your mobility and your endurance, they will go to another who will use them better. Another who will not fail. Armor, endurance, servomotor augmentation, all of those are things you will regain with time and rebuild in a manner that will not fail again.
"And at the end, we come to the price of the self. You have served the Omnissiah for centuries, and your self has been shaped by your understanding of the secrets of the God-Machine." The last judge is tired, and their voice betrays them here. Perhaps it is the fact that you failed, or perhaps it is the verdict being handed down, but you relax slightly until they say the final sentence of their decision. "You will be a liaison to the Inquisition until you have proven yourself pure of mind and soul and you are worthy once more to wield the implements of justice," they say, and you nod. And then they say, "And you will lose your name until you are worthy to take it up once more. The name of a heretic is one that will be expunged, and the name of a servant of the Omnissiah's justice is one that is to be honored, writ in iron and steel unto eternity. Until we know which one you are, you will simply
be not."
And so, you think to yourself, has justice been mislaid. The sentences are already working, and your augmentation demands a username once more. For all that you wrestle with the commands in your databanks and the commands that were written into your mind and soul, you fail. White fire blooms in your eyes as your mind wars upon itself, and you sway in place as the judges wait and watch and see what comes out of their sentencing.
It is an eternity compressed to seconds, a loss so profound you cannot scream. You scrabble for some reference, some memories, some signal or hint or augury to tell you who you were. Your memories betray you, your thoughts are wiped clean of it, and your body is frozen in place. A question forms in your mind, and one that desperately seeks an answer you cannot give.
Yet you still need a name. One of the judges steps forward to give you one, a penance-name that will hopefully not last you a lifetime.
What is your name?
[]Write in
This will be run using Dark Heresy mechanics, suitably modified and in the background. The above votes are the start of character creation. Following this we will move to missions and Inquisition assignments. The intent is a five-to-six story-update Dark Heresy oneshot with room for growth if need be.
I am somewhat conversant with lore. I have not read new lore for a while, please do take that into account.
I will check thread maybe once or twice a week, so tag me with questions.
I am mostly offline these days. It'll be updating once a week over winter break.
