Machine Spirit (PA/Multicross SI)
A/N: Some of these stories have a little thing that makes...
A/N: Some of these stories have a little thing that makes...
Machine Spirit (PA/Multicross SI)
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Chapter 1
Lazurman
This is fine.
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Machine Spirit (PA/Multicross SI)
A/N: Some of these stories have a little thing that makes them unique. Drich was the first, the pioneer. Torroar has a Unit Cap. Me? I start my adventure in hell.
Chapter 1
ROB, contrary to popular belief, was not always a dick. Most of the time, assuredly, but not always. I'd used him several times as a matter of fact; it usually turned out kind of okay for the victims. My ROB was actually a pretty cool guy. I'd patterned him after myself. But the ROB that did this? Whether it was a cosmic version of me or not? Most definitely a dick. You hear that? Fuck you, ROB. Fuck you so hard.
Bit of an odd way to start an audio-log, isn't it? Heh. Whoever's listening to this probably doesn't even know what a ROB is. To put it simply, a ROB is a literary device used by the authors who inhabit a particularly peculiar series of forums I used to frequent. They're an odd bunch, and I already miss them terribly. It is an acronym that stands for Random Omnipotent Being. Or Bastard, depending on the dickishness levels, which totally applied here.
Whenever an author wanted to explain the unexplainable, or create a scenario otherwise impossible or unfeasible by normal means, they used the explanation, "A ROB did it."
From the perspective of those 'ROBbed', they were eldritch, unfathomable beings that molded the forces of reality to their liking, without a care given to the concerns of lesser beings, mortals and gods alike. All were equal targets in the eyes of ROB. They are an answer to the age-old question of, "What would one do with unlimited power?" The answer was anything and everything they pleased.
And today, I had just been ROBbed. In a very particular way.
I'd seen this kind of thing happen before, only with the safety of a computer screen and the walls of the multiverse between me and the action. The many tales I'd read of for this exact scenario were so utterly fascinating. Self-Inserts, authors who inserted themselves into various works of fiction, transplanted into the bodies of 15-meter tall brutally efficient self-replicating mechanisms of war, Commanders from the video game Planetary Annihilation, for the sole purpose of using their awesome and terrible foreknowledge and newfound power to unfuck the various universes they find themselves in (and entertain their ROB audience, but that was a given).
You know how the saying goes. It's all fun and games until someone gets turned into a giant robot. Something like that, anyways.
This was my life now. I'd been sitting behind a computer screen, rereading the story of the first and most famous of the Commander Inserts, when the universe suffered a blue screen of death and was replaced with a formless darkness, infinite in its emptiness. I'd been too shocked to scream. And then it was too late. I didn't have a mouth to scream with. Or lungs. Or even a brain. All of it replaced by my new chassis, constructed of hyper-advanced super-materials designed by an ancient, warlike progenitor race for the singular cause of doing battle on a galactic scale.
This was the Progenitor chassis, a broad-chested and sleek bipedal design, painted steely grey and light blue, with a nano-constructor array on one arm and a heavy-duty pulse cannon on the other. A Commander was expected to be dropped from orbit to a planet's surface, and promptly raise endless armies of killer-robots to drown the enemy with by force of sheer numbers. Or swarms of nuclear missiles. Or strapping titanic engines to lunar bodies and dropping them on the enemy. Or blowing up planets with the help of a moon-sized Death Star laser ripoff.
Point is, Commanders are walking-(not)talking murder-machines of doom, perfect for the art of waging war and not much else. I was now, to put it bluntly, one rather killy sumbitch. In most universes, I'd win against just about anything that wasn't a literal god with just a few days of build-up.
But the place I was in?
A myriad of sensor arrays, some used by modern humans, most incapable of being imagined by human minds, had not been idle in the ten or so seconds I'd spent contemplating my new existence. Oh yeah, that there was another perk of being a hyper-advanced machine: time dilation. I'd instinctively spent upwards of a few hours internally going through the stages of shock, grief, wonder, all the crap new SIs had to deal with, and the sudden ability to see all of the everything within my not inconsiderable range, all in the span of just ten seconds. Almost like my own pause button. Neato.
So, yeah. While I was regaining a semblance of calm, I'd been recording what my sensors were telling me. When I finally took a look at the data, I didn't want to believe it. I did not want to believe that my ROB could have been so cruel. But he had been.
<Traitors! And cowards! Will be shot! Forward, you maggots! Forward! Charge! Die a glorious death! Die for the Imperium! Die for your Emperor!>
That was the first radio broadcast I heard. It was not the last of its type. Calls for fire support and evac, orders being bandied about, interspersed with litanies of hatred and prayers of fervent religious zeal; all of it, and the armies of drab-armored lasgun-toting infantry and spiky, screaming, blood-coated cultists fighting in the burning city in front of me decorated with skulls and other such Gothic iconography all pointed to the setting of my unasked-for adventure.
Warhammer 40k. The place good little robots like myself did not deserve to die in. On a scale of one to Bad Time, I was having a Very Bad Time. I would have been crying, had I the ducts.
…You know? In a way, the raw morass of terror, despair, hopelessness, and helpless rage helped make my decision for me. Do I do my utmost best to commit suicide and spare myself the horror of the brief remaining stint of my life? Or do I keep calm, praise Teh Emprah, and do what Commanders do best?
Again. Fuck you, ROB. Fuck you, so, so hard.
I laughed internally, long and bitter, and so very, very pissed. Off.
In the grim dark future of the forty-first millennium, a Progenitor Commander builds a metal extractor…
Sooooo many heads were about to roll.
XXXXX
AN: *glances at hands* Et tu, Muse?
Eh. Nothing for it, then. Here goes another one.
A/N: Some of these stories have a little thing that makes them unique. Drich was the first, the pioneer. Torroar has a Unit Cap. Me? I start my adventure in hell.
Chapter 1
ROB, contrary to popular belief, was not always a dick. Most of the time, assuredly, but not always. I'd used him several times as a matter of fact; it usually turned out kind of okay for the victims. My ROB was actually a pretty cool guy. I'd patterned him after myself. But the ROB that did this? Whether it was a cosmic version of me or not? Most definitely a dick. You hear that? Fuck you, ROB. Fuck you so hard.
Bit of an odd way to start an audio-log, isn't it? Heh. Whoever's listening to this probably doesn't even know what a ROB is. To put it simply, a ROB is a literary device used by the authors who inhabit a particularly peculiar series of forums I used to frequent. They're an odd bunch, and I already miss them terribly. It is an acronym that stands for Random Omnipotent Being. Or Bastard, depending on the dickishness levels, which totally applied here.
Whenever an author wanted to explain the unexplainable, or create a scenario otherwise impossible or unfeasible by normal means, they used the explanation, "A ROB did it."
From the perspective of those 'ROBbed', they were eldritch, unfathomable beings that molded the forces of reality to their liking, without a care given to the concerns of lesser beings, mortals and gods alike. All were equal targets in the eyes of ROB. They are an answer to the age-old question of, "What would one do with unlimited power?" The answer was anything and everything they pleased.
And today, I had just been ROBbed. In a very particular way.
I'd seen this kind of thing happen before, only with the safety of a computer screen and the walls of the multiverse between me and the action. The many tales I'd read of for this exact scenario were so utterly fascinating. Self-Inserts, authors who inserted themselves into various works of fiction, transplanted into the bodies of 15-meter tall brutally efficient self-replicating mechanisms of war, Commanders from the video game Planetary Annihilation, for the sole purpose of using their awesome and terrible foreknowledge and newfound power to unfuck the various universes they find themselves in (and entertain their ROB audience, but that was a given).
You know how the saying goes. It's all fun and games until someone gets turned into a giant robot. Something like that, anyways.
This was my life now. I'd been sitting behind a computer screen, rereading the story of the first and most famous of the Commander Inserts, when the universe suffered a blue screen of death and was replaced with a formless darkness, infinite in its emptiness. I'd been too shocked to scream. And then it was too late. I didn't have a mouth to scream with. Or lungs. Or even a brain. All of it replaced by my new chassis, constructed of hyper-advanced super-materials designed by an ancient, warlike progenitor race for the singular cause of doing battle on a galactic scale.
This was the Progenitor chassis, a broad-chested and sleek bipedal design, painted steely grey and light blue, with a nano-constructor array on one arm and a heavy-duty pulse cannon on the other. A Commander was expected to be dropped from orbit to a planet's surface, and promptly raise endless armies of killer-robots to drown the enemy with by force of sheer numbers. Or swarms of nuclear missiles. Or strapping titanic engines to lunar bodies and dropping them on the enemy. Or blowing up planets with the help of a moon-sized Death Star laser ripoff.
Point is, Commanders are walking-(not)talking murder-machines of doom, perfect for the art of waging war and not much else. I was now, to put it bluntly, one rather killy sumbitch. In most universes, I'd win against just about anything that wasn't a literal god with just a few days of build-up.
But the place I was in?
A myriad of sensor arrays, some used by modern humans, most incapable of being imagined by human minds, had not been idle in the ten or so seconds I'd spent contemplating my new existence. Oh yeah, that there was another perk of being a hyper-advanced machine: time dilation. I'd instinctively spent upwards of a few hours internally going through the stages of shock, grief, wonder, all the crap new SIs had to deal with, and the sudden ability to see all of the everything within my not inconsiderable range, all in the span of just ten seconds. Almost like my own pause button. Neato.
So, yeah. While I was regaining a semblance of calm, I'd been recording what my sensors were telling me. When I finally took a look at the data, I didn't want to believe it. I did not want to believe that my ROB could have been so cruel. But he had been.
<Traitors! And cowards! Will be shot! Forward, you maggots! Forward! Charge! Die a glorious death! Die for the Imperium! Die for your Emperor!>
That was the first radio broadcast I heard. It was not the last of its type. Calls for fire support and evac, orders being bandied about, interspersed with litanies of hatred and prayers of fervent religious zeal; all of it, and the armies of drab-armored lasgun-toting infantry and spiky, screaming, blood-coated cultists fighting in the burning city in front of me decorated with skulls and other such Gothic iconography all pointed to the setting of my unasked-for adventure.
Warhammer 40k. The place good little robots like myself did not deserve to die in. On a scale of one to Bad Time, I was having a Very Bad Time. I would have been crying, had I the ducts.
…You know? In a way, the raw morass of terror, despair, hopelessness, and helpless rage helped make my decision for me. Do I do my utmost best to commit suicide and spare myself the horror of the brief remaining stint of my life? Or do I keep calm, praise Teh Emprah, and do what Commanders do best?
Again. Fuck you, ROB. Fuck you, so, so hard.
I laughed internally, long and bitter, and so very, very pissed. Off.
In the grim dark future of the forty-first millennium, a Progenitor Commander builds a metal extractor…
Sooooo many heads were about to roll.
XXXXX
AN: *glances at hands* Et tu, Muse?
Eh. Nothing for it, then. Here goes another one.
Last edited:
Lazurman
This is fine.
- Location
- Classified
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The World List
1. Warhammer 40k - For the foreseeable future.
2. Halo
3. Mass Effect
4. Star Wars
5. Pacific Rim
6. Metal Gear
7. Worm
8. Crysis
9. Starcraft
10. Transformers Prime
11. Planetary Annihilation - The Game
12. James Cameron's Avatar
13. Half-Life
14. Asura's Wrath
15. The Matrix
Might be more, might be less. I really need to increase my other-than-fanfiction intake to add more.
1. Warhammer 40k - For the foreseeable future.
2. Halo
3. Mass Effect
4. Star Wars
5. Pacific Rim
6. Metal Gear
7. Worm
8. Crysis
9. Starcraft
10. Transformers Prime
11. Planetary Annihilation - The Game
12. James Cameron's Avatar
13. Half-Life
14. Asura's Wrath
15. The Matrix
Might be more, might be less. I really need to increase my other-than-fanfiction intake to add more.
Last edited:
Yes!!!! Finally a 40k insert
Can't wait to see what you will do.
Can't wait to see what you will do.
The Magician
Yeet
- Location
- The Basement
Time to unfuck the fucked galaxy of fucking 40K with the fucking magical fucking bullshit of fucking PA motherfucking Commanders.
The Uninspired
Sir Terrier
- Location
- Australia, Queensland.
I want more of this with all the force of Teh Emprah's might. And considering who Teh Emprah is, that's saying something.
Are you ready to rumble / I wonder what stance you're gonna take in it all?
I can imagine the ORK's being quite happy if you start mowing em' down. A fight, a fight is what they want and you could probably draw every ORK In WH40K if you put some effort into it. I mean, aren't they attracted to fights or WAAAAGH's, so you start a fight and keep it simmering'. Before long, Gork and Mork are more than likely to be all "OI, Dere a gud fite ova dis wey, dey ned gud krumpin!"
How will da 'umies react, how will the Eldar take your presence, and oh god.
I want more, I want more so bad.
Thank you for writing this, and I eagerly await the next update, fuck yes.
Are you ready to rumble / I wonder what stance you're gonna take in it all?
I can imagine the ORK's being quite happy if you start mowing em' down. A fight, a fight is what they want and you could probably draw every ORK In WH40K if you put some effort into it. I mean, aren't they attracted to fights or WAAAAGH's, so you start a fight and keep it simmering'. Before long, Gork and Mork are more than likely to be all "OI, Dere a gud fite ova dis wey, dey ned gud krumpin!"
How will da 'umies react, how will the Eldar take your presence, and oh god.
I want more, I want more so bad.
Thank you for writing this, and I eagerly await the next update, fuck yes.
finally. a commander in 40k. I have awaited you good sir.
Glitchrr36
Slick's Short Company, CEO
- Location
- The Wastes
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Well. This will be a good learning experience.
Though, on the bright side, very little will be able to bother you after this.
Though, on the bright side, very little will be able to bother you after this.
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
That is why you need to grab enough Necron tech to deal with it and Warp fuckery in general since they can no sell it.
Also another plus lots of bullshit tech to yoink while here.
Also if able recommend trying to find find/heal loyal Primarchs with Vulkan on top of the list since he is super friendly and your best chance to make a powerful human ally that won't want to kill you for no reason.
Chapter 2
Lazurman
This is fine.
- Location
- Classified
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 2
It had already been remarked on by all of my forebears, but it bore repeating nonetheless. Commanders were pure, concentrated, bullshit. I was not kidding when I said that a Commander, left unchecked, could conquer a solar system within a matter of hours. It took me only a few seconds to begin constructing the economy that would let me do that.
A glowing green stream of nanomachines spewed out of my arm to a spot on the ground my sensors were telling me was most efficient place for the purpose of extracting metal. A sturdy structure that could, simultaneously, dig up deposits of metals, refine them into a usable form by Progenitor standards, transmute all of it into a weightless, massless energy-form, and beam it all into a subspace inventory accessible only by me. Flawless mass to energy conversions. And back again. All in just a few measly seconds.
An energy plant followed that. Then another one. Then a few more extractors. Then some storage structures. Then some turrets…
I paused as I looked back at the number of structures I'd just built. It was surprisingly easy to get carried away with this. All the better for me. Now the armies could be raised.
The Enemy had made a mistake in giving me five minutes of free time. My body went on auto-pilot as I continued setting up my base. My newly upgraded mental processes were busy going over anything (which was everything) I could pull from the radio broadcasts flying everywhere. This world did not have an internet. And that was just plain unforgivable. It also made my attempts at getting a good info-dump futile. All I could pick up were Imperial Guard tactical commands over the radio. And the identity of the attackers.
Khornates. Cultists and daemons in service to the Warp god of bloody murder, Khorne, versus the flashlights and can-do attitude of the Imperial Guard. The IG was losing, badly. Looks like Chaos would be the first to suck on my guns. This group of fuckers in particular were probably going to love fighting me. "The Blood God cares not from where the blood flows, only that there is blood!" and all that rot.
Let's see how long that attitude lasted. Probably until I murder all of Chaos's worshippers and cut the Warp off from the Materium with Necron-tech.
The bot factory finished construction. Then the other one. And the Doxes started churning out in the dozens.
See, this is another part of the reason why Planetary Annihilation units outclassed those of so many other settings. The Dox was the single weakest infantry bot producible by Commanders. They had basically no armor to speak of, and tended to explode like so much popcorn in the face of most opposition.
In PA, that is.
Not so much here. Every single Dox was of a height and weight with the venerable Space Marine Dreadnaughts, and leagues more mobile. The guns they toted were nothing to scoff at either. And these blocky little robots came in swarms.
My weakest units were peers to some of the most powerful infantry forces fielded by the Imperium. This made me smile inside.
I immediately directed a detachment of fifty to the city as soon as they were all done. It gave me somewhat of a giddy feeling seeing them form up and start sprinting to the fight, the ground rumbling as they went. ETA: fifteen minutes. Primary directive: Ensuring the safety and well-being of all human forces. Secondary objective: Elimination of all Chaos forces. Collateral damage acceptable in the pursuit of aforementioned objectives.
They'd make a difference in this fight. All I could hope for was that the outrageously xenophobic humans wouldn't start shooting at me at first sight, too.
Oh, would you look at that. The air and vehicle factories had just finished as well. Now the fight was about to get even more lopsided in my favor!
XXXXX
I split my attention between expanding my economy and plunking down more walls and defense turrets, and micro-managing my Doxes. That was another thing I could do; fork myself. Even the best and fastest PA players were limited to whatever their screen could show at one time. I didn't have that problem. From the Commander unit I was installed in, to the growing fleet of fabricator bots scurrying about, to each and every single Dox about to slam into the unprepared forces of Chaos, I controlled all with equal levels of attention paid to each.
Was this what Skitter felt like? Unlimited multitasking really was the most broken power ever.
I could hear the confused radio chatter as my small army thundered in.
<And for the love of the Emperor, will someone tell me why the ground is shaking?!>
Good a time as any to say hello. I cut in through the chatter. <That would be me.>
<What the- WHO IS THIS?! How did you crack this frequency?!>
That was encrypted? Whoops. My bad. Another point in favor of Progenitor-tech.
This was a good time to raise the question of how I would interact with the Imperium in the days to come. I dialed up the time dilation to buy time to think.
When I said the Imperium was xenophobic, I was not kidding. I was a nonhuman. That was grounds enough to get a bolter round to the face. Even worse, I was also an artificial, sorry, abominable intelligence, in their vernacular. Ever since an early attempt at AI soldiers had gone bad and subsequently pushed in humanity's shit, AIs were banned, feared, and reviled.
And I? I was the most dangerous AI the Imperium would ever know. Even the most progressive and forward thinking members of the Imperium would think me an existential threat. To be fair, I was, but intent mattered a hell of a lot.
But, aside from all of that, I was human. Whether or not my skin was made of metal, I was, first and foremost, human. For all of this fucked up galaxy's many, many flaws, I could not stand idly by and let my race die. Not when I had the power and will to help.
Nothing for it, then. I'd just have to do my best to be friendly, and if they still shot at me, well, fine, I'd deal with that then. Wasn't like I couldn't afford the losses. "We have reserves" literally defined my combat doctrine.
<I'm a friend of humanity. Brave soldiers of the Imperium, reinforcements are at hand. Allow us to take it from here.> Should I add it? Couldn't hurt. <The Emperor Protects. Now let's kick these sons of bitches off this planet!>
With that, the first wave of Doxes crested the hill obscuring them from the city. And as legions of killbots started pouring fire into the unguarded flank of the undisciplined hordes of murderous traitors, loudspeakers fit enough for the Noise Marines embedded in each Dox boomed, "FOR THE EMPEROR!"
Today was a good day to keep calm and purge the heretic.
XXXXX
AN: Ave Imperator!
Edit: I have no idea what just happened to the format. I'll just leave it be.
It had already been remarked on by all of my forebears, but it bore repeating nonetheless. Commanders were pure, concentrated, bullshit. I was not kidding when I said that a Commander, left unchecked, could conquer a solar system within a matter of hours. It took me only a few seconds to begin constructing the economy that would let me do that.
A glowing green stream of nanomachines spewed out of my arm to a spot on the ground my sensors were telling me was most efficient place for the purpose of extracting metal. A sturdy structure that could, simultaneously, dig up deposits of metals, refine them into a usable form by Progenitor standards, transmute all of it into a weightless, massless energy-form, and beam it all into a subspace inventory accessible only by me. Flawless mass to energy conversions. And back again. All in just a few measly seconds.
An energy plant followed that. Then another one. Then a few more extractors. Then some storage structures. Then some turrets…
I paused as I looked back at the number of structures I'd just built. It was surprisingly easy to get carried away with this. All the better for me. Now the armies could be raised.
The Enemy had made a mistake in giving me five minutes of free time. My body went on auto-pilot as I continued setting up my base. My newly upgraded mental processes were busy going over anything (which was everything) I could pull from the radio broadcasts flying everywhere. This world did not have an internet. And that was just plain unforgivable. It also made my attempts at getting a good info-dump futile. All I could pick up were Imperial Guard tactical commands over the radio. And the identity of the attackers.
Khornates. Cultists and daemons in service to the Warp god of bloody murder, Khorne, versus the flashlights and can-do attitude of the Imperial Guard. The IG was losing, badly. Looks like Chaos would be the first to suck on my guns. This group of fuckers in particular were probably going to love fighting me. "The Blood God cares not from where the blood flows, only that there is blood!" and all that rot.
Let's see how long that attitude lasted. Probably until I murder all of Chaos's worshippers and cut the Warp off from the Materium with Necron-tech.
The bot factory finished construction. Then the other one. And the Doxes started churning out in the dozens.
See, this is another part of the reason why Planetary Annihilation units outclassed those of so many other settings. The Dox was the single weakest infantry bot producible by Commanders. They had basically no armor to speak of, and tended to explode like so much popcorn in the face of most opposition.
In PA, that is.
Not so much here. Every single Dox was of a height and weight with the venerable Space Marine Dreadnaughts, and leagues more mobile. The guns they toted were nothing to scoff at either. And these blocky little robots came in swarms.
My weakest units were peers to some of the most powerful infantry forces fielded by the Imperium. This made me smile inside.
I immediately directed a detachment of fifty to the city as soon as they were all done. It gave me somewhat of a giddy feeling seeing them form up and start sprinting to the fight, the ground rumbling as they went. ETA: fifteen minutes. Primary directive: Ensuring the safety and well-being of all human forces. Secondary objective: Elimination of all Chaos forces. Collateral damage acceptable in the pursuit of aforementioned objectives.
They'd make a difference in this fight. All I could hope for was that the outrageously xenophobic humans wouldn't start shooting at me at first sight, too.
Oh, would you look at that. The air and vehicle factories had just finished as well. Now the fight was about to get even more lopsided in my favor!
XXXXX
I split my attention between expanding my economy and plunking down more walls and defense turrets, and micro-managing my Doxes. That was another thing I could do; fork myself. Even the best and fastest PA players were limited to whatever their screen could show at one time. I didn't have that problem. From the Commander unit I was installed in, to the growing fleet of fabricator bots scurrying about, to each and every single Dox about to slam into the unprepared forces of Chaos, I controlled all with equal levels of attention paid to each.
Was this what Skitter felt like? Unlimited multitasking really was the most broken power ever.
I could hear the confused radio chatter as my small army thundered in.
<And for the love of the Emperor, will someone tell me why the ground is shaking?!>
Good a time as any to say hello. I cut in through the chatter. <That would be me.>
<What the- WHO IS THIS?! How did you crack this frequency?!>
That was encrypted? Whoops. My bad. Another point in favor of Progenitor-tech.
This was a good time to raise the question of how I would interact with the Imperium in the days to come. I dialed up the time dilation to buy time to think.
When I said the Imperium was xenophobic, I was not kidding. I was a nonhuman. That was grounds enough to get a bolter round to the face. Even worse, I was also an artificial, sorry, abominable intelligence, in their vernacular. Ever since an early attempt at AI soldiers had gone bad and subsequently pushed in humanity's shit, AIs were banned, feared, and reviled.
And I? I was the most dangerous AI the Imperium would ever know. Even the most progressive and forward thinking members of the Imperium would think me an existential threat. To be fair, I was, but intent mattered a hell of a lot.
But, aside from all of that, I was human. Whether or not my skin was made of metal, I was, first and foremost, human. For all of this fucked up galaxy's many, many flaws, I could not stand idly by and let my race die. Not when I had the power and will to help.
Nothing for it, then. I'd just have to do my best to be friendly, and if they still shot at me, well, fine, I'd deal with that then. Wasn't like I couldn't afford the losses. "We have reserves" literally defined my combat doctrine.
<I'm a friend of humanity. Brave soldiers of the Imperium, reinforcements are at hand. Allow us to take it from here.> Should I add it? Couldn't hurt. <The Emperor Protects. Now let's kick these sons of bitches off this planet!>
With that, the first wave of Doxes crested the hill obscuring them from the city. And as legions of killbots started pouring fire into the unguarded flank of the undisciplined hordes of murderous traitors, loudspeakers fit enough for the Noise Marines embedded in each Dox boomed, "FOR THE EMPEROR!"
Today was a good day to keep calm and purge the heretic.
XXXXX
AN: Ave Imperator!
Edit: I have no idea what just happened to the format. I'll just leave it be.
Last edited:
Glitchrr36
Slick's Short Company, CEO
- Location
- The Wastes
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This is going to be a beautiful, glorious trainwreck.
Arafell
Verified Cephalon
- Location
- Oregon
Unless you follow Tzeentch.
As long as there aren't a ton of inquisitors running around, he should be fine.
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
That's why I said average citizen which are on average not the smartest people around.
Baughn
Healing-type writer
- Location
- Dublin
Scrapcode should be your worst nightmare, but I bet the Warp Gods have other things to throw at you if it comes to that. Scrapcode definitely ranks up there, though. Commanders are deeply dependent on their exponential growth—I mean, who wouldn't be—and perversion attacks...
It occurs to me that, in this universe, "perversion attack" might mean something different. Let me rephrase.
Any successful attempt at hacking your systems would be the most dangerous threat you can possibly face. Scrapcode embodies exactly that possibility. I do hope those Progenitor E-war defences are good... and that they can cope with literal magic worms.
Once you're done with WH40k, though, why not try Megaten? I hear that SMT:Nocturne looks pretty this time of year.
It occurs to me that, in this universe, "perversion attack" might mean something different. Let me rephrase.
Any successful attempt at hacking your systems would be the most dangerous threat you can possibly face. Scrapcode embodies exactly that possibility. I do hope those Progenitor E-war defences are good... and that they can cope with literal magic worms.
Once you're done with WH40k, though, why not try Megaten? I hear that SMT:Nocturne looks pretty this time of year.
Lazurman
This is fine.
- Location
- Classified
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yeah... Tzeentch is gonna be a motherfucker and a half to deal with. Throwing a Commander into 40k is like dropping a boulder into a pond. The ripples aren't just ripples, they're waves. Changes. You know what also falls under Tzeentch's purview? Change. Also future-sight. How do you meaningfully fight a god that draws strength from your every action?
Baughn
Healing-type writer
- Location
- Dublin
Cutting it off from the Warp would be a good start. But, uh, how is that going to affect the people living there?
You're not quite as badly off as you'd be in Megaten, as the physics you run on aren't literally fake, but you're still missing about half of them and you're gonna have to learn fast.
You're not quite as badly off as you'd be in Megaten, as the physics you run on aren't literally fake, but you're still missing about half of them and you're gonna have to learn fast.
Arafell
Verified Cephalon
- Location
- Oregon
Hmm. Well, you could always steal pylon tech from the Necrons. They restrict Warp-activity near them, so much so that they form a stable gateway into the Eye of Terror.
Granted, it's a restriction, not an absolute fix, but you can at least adapt the tech to your own means. If Necron's can do it, then presumably you can do it better with assimilation and Progenitor hypertech. You might be able to permanently seal off some of the rifts into real space with enough of them.
Granted, it's a restriction, not an absolute fix, but you can at least adapt the tech to your own means. If Necron's can do it, then presumably you can do it better with assimilation and Progenitor hypertech. You might be able to permanently seal off some of the rifts into real space with enough of them.
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Technically to the Mechanicius you are robot space jesbus.
What is essentially an STC combined with a human and turned into a living machine spirit.
What is essentially an STC combined with a human and turned into a living machine spirit.
