I would like to see an omake about what could have been, if only to scratch the itch. I definitely prefer Tide though
The Galaxy is Flood, Not Food
- Thread starter Jackson Fox
- Start date
- Crossover Sci-Fi Horror
-
- Tags
- halo (game) warhammer 40k
TheAkashicRecord
The Library Of All Knowledge
- Location
- Somewhere~
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Agreed, a single one or two shot would definatlly be fun to read.
lazyrobot87
Couch potatoing since 2005
It's almost here … : )
Chapter 9 - Ascension
Day 10
Tide considered the previous day's events. He'd been avoiding thinking about the subject for a while now.
He wasn't a fan of pain. More than that, as the Flood, he'd thought he'd be outright immune to it. The Flood were after all, or they always had seemed to be. Certainly, he hadn't ever felt pain from damage to his Flood forms before.
But, when the hijacked body of Crick had been wreathed in flames, Tide had felt the fire burning him, his flesh charring and cracking. Not Crick's flesh, his. He had never felt something like that, not in this life and certainly not in his past one. It had been so intense that it had blinded him, made him...
No, that wasn't true. He'd been in control the entire time. There was no knee-jerk reaction, no Flood directive that demanded he kill. He had been hurt and he had wanted to kill the one who hurt him. To make them suffer in return.
Even afterwards, after Crick's body had been rendered mush and paste, which had hurt almost as much as the burning, that anger had stayed in him. It was what had turned him so… vindictive when dealing with that woman, Lysilla. He'd been angry and had lashed out.
So, why, after all that, did he now feel… nothing? The memory of the pain was still there. If he wished, he could even experience the feeling again, though he wasn't insane or curious enough to want to. The same was true of the anger he had felt, the focused rage.
This was not the first time something like this had happened, in hindsight. When he thought back about the factory workers, the men and women he had unwillingly murdered to gain thought and form, he felt little, disconnected. Yet, after what had happened with Jace, he'd felt despondent, almost depressed. He'd wrote it off as simply being because he hadn't been sentient when he'd killed those people, hadn't been aware of it, but now he saw how little that made sense. He had all the memories, after all, all the experiences.
He thought about Jace, about the man he had eased into whatever afterlife awaited him and found he felt little. The guilt about not preserving his life, the worry about what the man's soul would experience, that strange thought that he had messed with something precious and private, none of that seemed to be rising to the surface.
What was happening? Why couldn't he feel that anger anymore?
Why had he felt the pain of Crick's body, but not that of any of the other bioforms that had been damaged over the past days?
He could feel something after all, Tide realized. Curiosity. The curiosity of an observer, interested in what would happen next, yet not connected to the events being observed.
At that moment, Tide's focus was not on any flood form or Altered. He was aware of them all still, his minds were still conducting a myriad of tasks on something almost like autopilot, but Tide still had some degree of separation from the Flood, in the same way that the brain had a degree of separation from the fingers.
Tide's focus turned towards a single combat form, a spider that he had infected several days ago and was now silently watching over one of the many corridors that connected to his lair. One of the two long tentacles slowly shifted, sprouting a spear-like tip made of bone, though it had a rounded point, making it unsuitable for combat. With careful, cautious movements, the bone hovered inches away from the flesh of the spider, right over where Tide knew a small cluster of pain receptors were located.
The spider tentacle darted forward into the pain receptors, and Tide flinched as he felt something akin to having one's ribs jabbed. No, he hadn't flinched, the spider had, which was strange. Combat forms shouldn't have been bothered by pain.
Withdrawing from the spider, this time he merely commanded a few other spiders to do the same thing. The spiders obeyed, but this time Tide felt only a vague acknowledgement of the pain of the spiders, akin to an alert that damage had been taken. He tried again, this time with sharpened spears that pierced the skin of the spiders, and felt the same distant acknowledgement, although it was heightened. The wounds would quickly heal.
So, it depended on his focus? If he was focused on controlling a form, rather than letting the minds of those forms control themselves, he felt what they felt. Or something like that? He hadn't been controlling Jace, but he had been manipulating the man's mind to a degree. Was this something inherent to the Flood or was it because a human mind had been placed in control of it? As a hive mind, he really shouldn't have a focus, right?
It really must have been because he was once a human, Tide decided. Or was it? Had the Precursors been hive minds? The Gravemind had seemed like an individual, even if it was in control of the Flood.
He tried something new this time. Almost every combat form he possessed, hundreds of wasps, centipedes, and spiders, sprouted bone-tipped tentacles and, once more, stabbed themselves.
This time, the feeling of pain was very present, though it was strange. It was like the feeling one got when a limb fell asleep, the countless needles poking into the skin. Uncomfortable, but bearable. Certainly not as painful as being burned alive and it was only momentary, disappearing as soon as the wounds healed.
He considered conducting a few tests on his Proto-Gravemind, but… Well, it was something like a gut feeling of wrongness at the idea. Like he would be taking his brain out of the skull and squeezing it in his hands to see how springy it was. Maybe it was Flood instinct, maybe it was his common sense screaming at him, he wasn't really sure, but he wouldn't test it.
From what he could tell, when his thoughts were disseminated across his forms, when he wasn't focused on any individual within his collective self, the same was true of his emotions. He did feel pain, but that pain was shared across countless minds, the same was true of his anger and sadness. The exception occurred when he focused the bulk of his minds on a single body.
While he held absolute control over every Flood form down to the tiniest Flood spore floating in the air, it was not like he was controlling every action they took. It was like… breathing, Tide decided. Most of the time, it just happened without being needed to be thought about. An automatic process. His Flood forms could breathe, patrol, hunt, even fight and kill without needing him to think about the actions they should take in each moment. But just like breathing, he could think about it and take control of it.
It wasn't a perfect analogy, by any means. For humans, it wasn't possible to just hold one's breath until they stopped breathing. He could make his combat forms stop breathing if he wished. Not that they really needed to breathe in order to function anymore. Similarly, he could alter the basic processes as he wished to a degree far more complex than just how one drew breath.
Was he making sense? He wasn't sure. Well, it wasn't like he'd ever need to explain this to someone.
When he'd taken direct control of the ogryn, Hoog, his anger had been focused by that single mind. The animalistic rage and pain of Crick when being burned alive was similarly focused by that single mind. Just as his discomfort had been translated by the spider's mind and sadness and disgust by the hijacked mind of Jace.
There was one more test he needed to conduct if he was to be sure. He took direct control of one of the many corpses that were slowly making their way down the hab levels to his Proto-Gravemind. Then, he thought about the murders of the factory workers, his entrapment in the 40k galaxy, the fact that he would never see his loved ones again.
That had been a mistake.
İ̵̧̡̢̪̪̝̭̹̝̮̲̝̪̩̫̲̙̹̹̳̬͕̼̟̦̱̩̥̠͔̫̫̯̱͉̟͍̞̪͖̎̀̋̅̆͑̋͂̉̑͋̈̇̈̀̿͑̓͂̏̾̈̋̔̈̚̚͜͝͝ͅͅ'̸̢̧̡̩̰͓͖̬̩͎̼̦̮̹͓̦͇͍̭͚̮̝̺̻̟̲̻̯͉̗̣̀ͅM̶̢̡̛̛̩̮̳͍̗͇̩̝̱̩͙̘̭̣̣͉͇̪̳̬̰̦̌̔̓̅͐̋̄̂͌̅̆̓́̃̽̐̌̈́̓̂͋̋͐̇͐͒́̈́̐̏̐͆́̓̃̀̂̽͊͛̿̕̕͜͠͝͝N̴̢̬͙͇̺̖̜̝̬͔̣̓͆́͒̅͗͂̈́͗̈͠Ḙ̶̛̦́͌̐͛̔̾̅̓̈́͛͒̽̎̊͑̓̃̊̇̇̌̓̈́̈̀̀͐̏͊̀͂̒̍̔̈̐̈̑̈̌̏̚͝͝͠͠͝͝V̵̼̺͆̏̒͆̊͐̓͗̊̌͂̾͆̏̄̎͂͊͋͂̚͝͝Ȩ̴̢̡̧̱̝̝͚̤̰̻̣̬̞͓͖͖͉̯͓̻̝̤̭̼͕͖̗̖̮̕͜͜R̵̛̛̮̮̠̳̈̔́̄̅͒̅͗͑̑̆̌̊̍̔͗̌̋̓̈̐̔̆̽̔̅̍͑̈́́͂̅̍̓͗̎̉̾́̌͆̾͘̚͝͝Ḡ̷̢̡̬̠̠̘͇̫͎͇̯͖̙̟̠̞̣͉̘̖͈̳̲̲̬͍̙̦̺̮̻̯̔̓̈̉̎͜ͅO̴̢̹̦̻̞̳̠̜̺̯̗͙͍̗͙̦̪̙̿̈́̀̿̇̂̚̕͜I̵̧̢̼̩̣͎̱͔̤͕̤̩̪̘͎̰̲͙͇͔̥̤̼͒̏̀̿̿̎̂̿̿͜͝ͅN̸̡͙̤̰̼͔̮̤͉͓̤̙̩͎͈͕̖͕̺̫̙̹̯̼̭̰̘̭̟̖͙̦͔̻̬̜̫̼̮̍͒͐͆̆̔̽̄̒̽̓̊͋̉͒̆̊̋́͂̋̓̄͊̑͂̋͒̄̋̓̀̌̈͂̋͘̕̕͜͠͠͝ͅG̸̡̫͔̖̫͉̥̉̒̒̓̍̈́̈́͌͠͝ͅT̷͇̗͍̯̻͈͚̗̆̑̒̒̐͒̌̔͊̒͑̇̿͆͛̐̉̓̚͝͠Ǒ̸̡̡̡̥̞͕̰͈̝̯͔̦̺̮͚̲̬̜̎͛́̏̈́̔̓̈́̏͂̈́͋̐͆͆͛̄͆̐̈͘̚̚̕͜S̷̨̡̧̢̡̗̼̗̣͖̹̜͚̫̱̠̫̗̗͍̼̟̟̯̱̗̥̮̯̹̻͍̥̞̝̠̩̩̐̐͐͂͆͛͑̈́͐͆̈́͋̓̊̑̓͊̓̄̀́̆̈́̽͐̿̾͘͘͘͜͠͝E̸̩̺͍̰̱̪͎̗̯̝̊̈́̕͝ͅE̸̢̛̤̝̩͛̉̿͒̆͐̔͑͛̃́̇̍̎̍͊͑̍̀́̂͗̈́͊̕̕͠͠M̴̧̢̨̢̧̡̢̛̙̠̘̻̱͕̦̥̝̬̠͎̪͕̦̤͈̲̝͙̼̻̫̙͖̪̝̣̘̮͚͓̤͔͚͓͇̰͛͑̿͗̌̽̑̾͒͂̀̊͌͌̂́̿̑̌͘͜͜͠͝Y̴̨̧̧̢̢̨̛̖̰̖̖̺̺͎̠̣̝̮̖̖̠̫̼̹̞͇͉̲̙͎̗͎̗͉͇͔͇̿̽͐̇͊͒̅̆́͊̄̏̋͂̒̏̇̇͂̉̿̀͜͜͜͜͝͠F̶̧̧͇̜͍̘̣͔͍̳̖͙̞̫̩̻̟̼̙̫̰̻̖̤̠̝͚̀͊́̍̓̈͌̊̏̓̋̈́͂̅̔̅̄̋̓͒́̊͐͊́̓̆͆̃̊̈͋́̿̓̓̋̽̏͆̅͐̕̚̚͜͠͠͠͠ͅÄ̴̢̢̹̗̟͍̰̼͍̎̽̂M̶̨̢̢̨͙̭̠͈̯̥̦͙͇̞̲͇̼͚̩͔̯̪̫̝̠͉̯͎̺͖̩͙̬̪̩̻̾̃͌̃̇̀̋̉̓̃͛̄͛͑́̍́̚͘͝͝Ĩ̷̭̘͉͔͉̣̳͉̗̳͉͉̘͖̱̤̹͙̞̣̇̈́̏͐̓́́̈́͊̀̌͊̀͐̒͋̋Ļ̴̟̣̦͖͎̺͎͉͓̠̤̭͓̠͋̉̈͒̿̿̏̈́̍͛̃͌̓̅̿͘͝͠Y̸̢͎̤̰̞̯͔͙̻̹̼̻̙̠͉̙̯͔̆̂̄̉͋̔͌͌͆́̆̒̀͂̈͊̌̑̈́͛̓́̎̒͂͒͘͘̚͝͝͠͝ͅ,̸̧̨̨̧̢̡̛͓̺̣̘̘̜͓͇̭͙̟̫̲̱̰̪̝̠̖͎̻̣͚̮̯̟̭͈͈͓̭̞̙̝̗̀̃̿̔̇͆͂̒̐̎͒͒̿̏̿̈͋̌̉̿̉͌̓͗̎͗̋͌̐̇̓̄͒̎̌͘̚̚̕͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅI̷̡̱̗̯͙͈̩̖̙̐̌̋͆̎̑̃̏̋̒̿̅́̀̉͂͌͛̿͒͂̍͑̉͂̚̕͝͝'̵̧̧̧̨̡͚̻̣͍̙̺̃̊̾̾͂̌͋̀̊̉̈̿̋͊̉́́̓͐̀̽͛̏̐̀̆͑̃̈́̈́̽͐̿̂̊̉̚͘͝͝M̴̛̛̤̹̗͍̝͈̗̲͔̈́̎͐́̀͆̆̌̍͌̾̋͛̅͋͑̊͌̒̃̇̓̑̈́̃͐̑̐̂̾̿͊̆̋̿̚͘͜͠͠͝ͅG̶̡̛͔͎̺̖̖̗͉̳̞͔͇͎̙͓̺̬̲̬̪̠͖̦̭͉̲̈́̇͆̈̈́̿̿̅͐̓̄͌̆͑̉̃̉͊̏͂́̆̔̂̏̍̂́͋͌̈́̔̍͗̏̇̾͘͘͘̚̕̚̕͠͝͝͝Ơ̷̡̨̭̮̫̯̪͙̥̮̙̰̻͍̻͉͙̺͔̣̖͇͔͎̘̱̈́̋̎̃͛̑̍͛̓͋̐͒̃̇̇̓́͋́͆̒̿̆̍̐̒̓͂́̒̂̉̈́̽̿̋͋̆̇͘͘̚̕̕͝͠͝͝Ȉ̴̞̜̫̥̘̙͕̹̱̘͑̆͒̌̌̂̋̒̌̉̿̆̏̐̑͒̏̒̔̾̿͐͂͂̐̈́̏͘͝͠N̶̡̨̢̨̜̘̼̱̼̮̝͈̱̦̥̣͍͓̩͉͕̯̭̺̟͚̘̗̼̝̻͔͖̜̲̦̯͔̝̦̪͉͍̝̟̲͍̑̽̑̓̒̈̎̏̊̃̋̇͌̅̾́̃͜͝͝͝G̴̮̗͇̹̗̺̺̻̯̏̽͆͗̐̽͆̍̈́̎̈́̓́̔̇̓̎̈́̀͊̓̎͐͑́̚͠͠͝͠͝ͅŢ̴̡̜͇̼͖̪̤̥̝̲̯̮̳͙̻̣̝̥̼̖̝͚̭͚̇̋̅́ͅƠ̸̢̙̱̭͇̝̬͙̭̙̹̙̟̼̼̦̼͙͉̔̽̄̓̏̀͆͊̄̽͆̏͗͐̌̿͗̂͛͘͘̚͝͝͝ͅḐ̶̨̢̢̢̳͉̲̜̠͓͉̮̭͕̣̮̮̪̠̥̰̳͇̖̬͍̮͕̻͕̝̟̗͈̝͕͓̞̘͖̇̉͝ͅͅI̷̧̡̨̡̧̧͙͔̗̘̥̳͍͙̱̙̩̱͖̺̬̙̦̤̲̳̳̺̝͚͎͙̠͉͙̮̘͎͎̤̘̺̘̟̙̍̂͑͘͝ͅͅȨ̸̡̨̢̣̝͎̣̪͈̰͉̤̭̲͔͎̬̯̬̦͈̼͕̻̝͈͎̬͖͔͓̱͎̟̰̒̅̀̾͊̓͂̿̐͋̽͋̔̓̊̾̃̑̔̿̊́̏̚͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅH̶̢̢̦̝̖͈̼̞̜̪̹̤͎̯̬̭̠͚̼͍̺͖̗̖̘̼͎̭̪͚̖̒̈́̂̀̀́̃̑̏͜͠ͅĔ̷̯̼̗̳̠͓̼͉̙̦̥̲͉̓̆͒̓̓̃̔̄̈͗̐̐̈̂̿̌́̓͛̑̊̐͆̄̑̽͆̀͑̾̕̚͠͝ͅR̶̨̡̢̛̛̛̪̭̣͔̣͇̪̪̭͉̱͕̹͈͉̭̙͚̼̻̫̫͍̫͕͍͉̬̞̹͙͓̽̄̐̄̀͋͂̓̐̀̊̀̏͐͋̿͂͐͌͐̓̃̄͒̾̽́̚͘̚͜͜͠͝͠ͅḚ̸̡̡̨͇͓͈̟̬͖̮̯͙̻̣̳̩̻̗͖̄͐͊̓̔̾̃͒͌̓͊̋͜ͅ,̵̨̨̢̛̛̛̪͕̫͔͇͈̱͎̝͎͎̮͎̗̜̌̽͊͂̐̈͗̄̀̈̈́̽͌͐̃͗̈́̏́̑̾́̆͆̄̾̑̔̄̏̔̉̓͌̈́͂̆̊͘̚̚͘͝ͅͅW̵̨̛̮̘͔͎̐̈́͆͛͂̽͑́̄̉͒̈̾͌̏̈́̎̂̿́̋͛͌̀̋͆̑̃̋̈́͛̕̕͘͝͠͠Ḩ̵̡̛̛͕̦̤͚͚͎̤̓̉͋͋͊̊͌́͗̅̅̃̾̓͆̒̈́̽́̒̿̾̇̓͒̆͗̃̒̆̒̌̽͘͘͠͝͠͝͝͠Y̵̧̛̼̖̪̰͚̩̤͓̙͓̯͔̺͓̩͕͕̖̱̿͋̐͑͆̉̈̍̾͆̈́̈̍̆̆͂̅̓͗̈́̄̔̍̍͌͒́̈̒͑̽͒́̑̅̏̋͑̎͘̚̚͘͝͠͝Ť̴̢̫͈̲̣̰͔̣͚̯̤̗͙͇͙͉͆̈́̈̈̊̈́̈́̇͑̀̽͂̓̈̎̆̓͆̑̌͒̀̅̀͂̓̒͑͋͗̓̌͗̐̅͛͘̕͠͠H̸̡̧̡̢̢̛̛̛̛͎̖͈͖̼̜̬̝̗͓̒̒̅̒̊̂̎́̄̈̽͑̆͒̍̌̇̇̊̅͋̒͌̏͆̈́̃̉͛̾̑̽̋̊̑͆̚̚͘̕͘͠͠͝͝͝ͅE̵̡̢̧̘̺͕͍̳̬̥͉̲͚͉̼̩̩̯͙̎̄̈̈́͆̇͐̎͊̈́̎̌̿̏͘F̴̛̭͓͍̮̘̙̥̖͔̱͖̗̣̠̥͉̭͉͓̘̰̩̙͍̥̱͙̬̰̱͇̲͍̘̦̼̜̘̜̦̎̽͐̔̈́͑̽̅́̒̉̔͋̾̐͗̎̇̓̀̍̃̐͋̐͑͗͗̽̄̄̈́̅̾̾̽̀͋͋̔̒̕̚͘͜͠ͅŲ̴̡̳̼͍̳̲̼̭̭͍͉͈̯̯̦̱̺̼͎̪͔͍̪̈́̂͛̅̄̓̈͋̍͐̌̑͑͂͗͊̈́͝C̶̨̢͎̲̖̹͕̫̜̭͇͙̭͖͇͕̖͖͚̺̰͔͉͚͓̙̩̻̭̩͈̺̰̲͔͌̈́̑̑̍͗̆͌́̈͋̏̒̈̚̚̕̚͜ͅK̶̨͖̲̥̥̻̲͇͔̮̮̱͈̯̻͈̜̳̩͈̭̤̲͇̙̗͖̪͎͍̜̬̑͜ͅͅͅḐ̸̢̙̘̹̺̭̝̫̤̙̺̗͉̥̼̼͇̳̪̥̅̈́̃̓͊̽̄̽͂̐̕͜͠͝ͅȈ̶̡̢̢̛͇͖̻͈̩̣͉̖̣̤͕̗͔̝̜̼͍͖̈́͒̅͛͛̑͂͐̆̓̉̎̐͛̓͂̃̿̐̈̊̀͒̇̀̀̅̎́̌͑́̀͑̑͋̉̎́͂͘͝͝͝͠ͅD̵̢̨̩͎̠͉̦͍̟̫͖̝̮̭̩̦̦̲̹̜̮̥̱͉̭͓̬̬̻̤̫̟͈͍͇͈͈̮̲̦̞̞͔̩͊̊̀͒̈̃̐͋̑̓͗̀̊̀̾̈́̾͑̉̇̌̍́̊̉̊̀̚̕͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅḮ̷̡̨̡̫̩͉̑̎Ṯ̸̳͉̬͇̳̫͐̏͒͒͌͊̑̈̽͗̄̂̔̍̉̂̏͌̈́͋̾̄̃̽̌̈́̏͘͘̕͜͝͝Ḣ̸̛̟̹̹̟̞͔̋͋̊͗͐̈́̿͗̓̓͆̾͗̀̊̊̀̓̀̑̓̈́͊̉̿̎̋͑́̎͑̂͌̒́͊̽͛͘͝A̷̢̡̡̛̜͖͉̩̗̮̘̯͔̱͕̹̲͔͍͖̥̙̱̦̎͒͂͛̆̋̓̀́͂̂̓̿͂̂̃̓̑̾͐̀̐͌̍̽̓́̓͝͝͝V̵̢̧̡̢̛͉̲̤͍̱̫̰̰͔̜͓̥̓͒̈́͑̽̈́̌̍̇̀͐̉̇̓̄̇͝͝Ę̵̡͎̳̠̺̖̰̞͖̘͎̭̹̟̞͙̗̪̦͚̱̼̯̤͇̗̟͔͍͈̻̞̰̯̇͑̀̍̒͐͊̉̓́̾͒͐̆͌̒̎̎̀̓̍͗̀͋́̀͘͘T̶̡̨̡̢̛̯̯̱̺̹̟̫̻͓̺̼̲̼̯̹̫̥͈͇̱̖̪̝̥̠̪̟͕̠͖̳̫̻̲̠͖̙͉͕̜̘̖̈́̏̋̊̊̿̔̒̀̾̊͗̈́̄̋̾̽͊̈́͌́͒͆͌̈́̓̊̾̽̄̉̃͛́̀̚͘͜͝͝ͅͅƠ̷̼̳͍͇͈̺̻͛͛̾̈̆͌̎̀̆̐̆̂̌̃̊͊͂̔́̂̈́̌̎͑̀͑̏̂̓̐͛̏̓̋̍̂̕͘̕̚̚̚͝͝͝B̶̨̧̨̛̹͓̺͈̤̭͚̟̖̭͚̻̳̩͎̝̘͓̰͉̞̟͔͙̖̘̬̯̱̟̺̩̖̭͙͉̞̻̀̈́͒̅̈́͑̈́̀̿ͅͅĘ̷̪̘̮̟̠̙̩̙̤̣͎̲͎͍͍͉̰̖̹͐̈́̅͗̋̉̉̇̐̓̇4̵̛̛̤̭̞̮̦̘̀̔͋̐̌̈́͊́̊͊̔͊̌̈͆̈́̄͌͒̉̄͌̿͘͠0̵̛͕͕̲̞̤̗͙͔̦̰̖̼͇̓͊͌̉̿͌̊̋́́̏͒̈͐̾́͗̃̓̚K̷̙̝͕̻͇͈͖̤̣͈͚̩͌,̵̧̨̢̣̳̮̙̫͔͓͓̩̲͍̭͕͉̣̜̗̳̮̖͎͓̗̹̲̭̻̖̲̞̙͙͔͊̃̇̽͛̾͊͐͌̽̑̓̀̆̈́͆͗̒̉̀͆̊̉̈̉̌͒̋̎͛̂̕͘͘͜ͅͅI̴̡̛̻͍̪͚̟͙̬̣͕̝̮͍͓͙̬̯̣̼̬̟͍̭̣̣̲̖͖̞͔̫͙̥̬͍̜̳̦͓̻̾͒̌̂͐͋̑̒͊̈̎̈́̍̈́͌͋̐͑́̂̕͘̚ͅͅ'̴̨̨̢̧̢̧̢̙͈̙̜̯̗̞̬͓͎̻̙̜͕͚͖̱͖̼͙̟͚̪̹͉̲̋̈̍̈́͒ͅM̵̨̢̡̗̣͙̖͍͕̞̬̬͖͖̼̮͙͈̟̼̼̟̦̼̞̲̹͍̖̳̣̜̭̭̜̳̠̩̺͖̯͎͎̙̜͒̋ͅT̴̛͍̲͙̀̀̈́̑͋̈́̿͛͐̌͂̂̈́̾͂̂͌̐̐̒͝͠Ŗ̶̛͕͔̱̮͎̆̑̃̈͐̋́̓͑̉͂̈́̀̍̕͜͠͝A̶̖͉̙̯̯͕͚͕̤̼͉̺̣͈͖͎͔̩̱̥͙̺̺͎̖͙̰̎͊̏͛͋̈̏͜ͅͅP̴̤̱͕̫͔̟͖̝̺͕̬͈̖̰̭͉̞̑̓͌̀͆͒̿̒͗̏̓̀͌̓́̒̾͛͑́͌͌̊̅̓́̽̍̅́͐̈́͑͌̾̕͘̕̕̚͘͜͝͠͠͠ͅṔ̷̢̳͕͉̜͍̜̱̞̹̰̫̥̱͙̖̭͓̖͉͈͚̰̮̫̤̮͊͐̉̆̽̽̒̅̈́̾̉̇̀̒͌͋̀̂͂̆́̄̃̈̊̑̊̊̿͌̆͌̕͜͝͝͝͝͝E̸̡̧̬̼̗͙̼͍͖̙͇̝͎͇͍̣̼̰̪̥͍̦̫͈̣̘͑͒̆̽͂͌̃͆̂̍̿̅͘Ḏ̶̢̢̢͖̯̤͓̼̠͎͙̳̪͓̲͚̩͇̝̣̝̮̣̮̗͖͔̪̮̮̇͌̒͗̀͊̔̋́̒́̿̑͘͜W̸̨̧̢̧̡̢̧̨̛̗̻͔͔̙̤̮͇͍͓̏́͊̉̾̍̉̂̽̈̆̆̉́̀̉̊̀̋̐̈́̓͑̊̈̐̏̏̄̈́̑̀̐̅͛̽͗͋͘͝͠͝͝İ̴̧̢̡̨̺̞̩̝͙̺̱̳̙̗̭͕̗̫̺̮̹̯̫̤͚̼̲̲̻̠̗̹̭̣͖͔̤͓͔̣̫̊͊̾͊̽̽̕͜͜ͅT̷̡̨͉̦̭̬̳̰̞͍̪̫͆̈̾̒͒̓͆̍̐͌̓̉̑͛̑̊̒̓̄̿̿̌̑͂̕̕͜͠H̵̛̟̺͇̙̖̘͎͕̝͎̹̟̺̹̫͈̺̓̐̋͛̓̀̃̈͛̓̌͐̌̆͑͐͐̏̓̈́͑̑͛͑̈́̀̄͋͘͠Í̷̧̢̨̬̠̣̱͎͈͈͚̼̺̭̪̲̞̥̼̰̲̮͓̹͓̻̟̯̬͕͓̩͙͓̙̦̫̙̩̗̓̈́̇̒̿̄̉̈͑̔́̆̐͆̅͗̀̌̌͒͒̇̇̔̃̓̓̇̍͂̀̆̿̆̚̚̕̕͜͜͝͠ͅͅͅͅN̵̢̙̹̙͔̪̝͙̣̬̖̲͓̯͓̬͚͕̍̃͐̋͒̓̌̄̊͑̂̾̌ͅĀ̶̛͚̌͋̃̾͌͊̒͑̍͋̃̀̓́̈̑̒̈̀͊͘͘͝͠N̶̢̨̨̢̨̢̛̹̹͇̗̝̘̙̘͚͕̭̝̖̙͉̳͚̥̼̮̻̹̮̯͕͓͈̱̟͖̫̼̞̘̪͎͚̝͎̯̟̣̈́͐̓͑͌̾͛̃͆̇͠͝ͅỠ̶̧̨͓̲̹̗̯͔̞͕̜͔͎̳̙͙͔͖̟͎̗͖̟̪̼̎̇́̊͗̓̓̋͋̌̈̕͜͝Ḿ̴̡̨̡͔͔̹̘̰̥̦͎̤̰̙͇̼͙̠̥̱̪͔̬̮͔̖̰͙̫͎̝̥͔͕̣͍̩̝̺̩͇̯̞̫͖̪͛̈́͑͘ͅͅN̷̡̨̨̩̼̪͍̖̦̥̮̫̳̥͍̜̣̯̤͙͇̟̱̲̙̯̮͊͛̌̄͂͆̊͆̏̈́̇̓̌͛̄̓̅̎̽́̓̑̍̀̅̎̚͜͠͝Ì̶̢̡̨̧̜̲̼̣͈̖͖͓͇̗̦̺͚̬̪̲̙̰̥͓͉̱̤̬̺͓̪̞̬̠̗̥̯̤̘͍͉̿̐͗̈̾̑͌̄̾̍̽͂̓̑̔͐͋̐̍͋̇̈́̐̽̈̀̏̾̑̑͘͝͝ͅÇ̷̧̡̡̭̥͚̪͕̗̱̯̘̝͙̪̝̰̹̲͙͎̟̯̟̣͓̯̱̘͕̜̩̝͎̣̗̳̰̆̉͛̀̌̿͊͂́̄̆́͒̊̿̚͜ͅͅI̸̢̨̹̦̥̳̖̣͍̞͚̲͔̲͎͙̺̭̤̼͎̺̿̃͂͛͐͛̓̂̐̑̇̇̾̔̈́͆̂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Hours later, Tide ran through the breathing exercises he'd learned during his past life. The idea that such things might actually work in this instance was… well, in this case, they were woefully inadequate.
Which was why he wasn't alone when doing them. Well, he was, but also wasn't. He'd taken a thousand of the deceased Altered that had arrived at his lair and separated them into an adjacent chamber. Said chamber was filled with a large amount of scrap metal that had been dragged in recently by combat forms for the express purpose of having the shit beaten out of it by the deceased.
It was one of several coping mechanisms he was trying out, most of which were less violent and varying degrees of more or less effective.
A thousand deceased Altered, half of those who had perished from that day alone, were enough minds to spread his focus out across that he could still feel the pain and anxiety and fear of his current circumstances, without falling into a downward spiral like… before.
In terms of mental health… he'd been moderately alright in his past life? He'd had problems, but he'd managed to live or deal with most of them. He'd had support, medicine, methods he had learned.
He now only had the last of those things. He was not going to see his family again and he was fairly certain that if there was no cure for the Flood, there likely wasn't any depression meds for them either.
Regardless, all of that led him to create what was essentially a very dingy, very grimy looking relaxation yoga room. Was it ridiculous? Absolutely. He was having dead puppets go through half-remembered yoga-exercises and breathing exercises despite, notably, being dead. Was it messed up? Also absolutely, but he was handling it much better than he had everything else.
Part of him wanted to permanently withdraw to the more objective observer role, if only for his own protection. The danger of letting his emotions get the better of him when he had the potential to end countless lives was… Well, he couldn't fault the reasoning, at least.
Yet, he knew he would be cutting himself off from an important part of himself if he did so. He liked having emotions, despite what a much younger, middle-schooler version of himself might have tried to claim back in his edgelord phase. He didn't want to lose that, not least of all because he feared what he might become if he did so.
Right now, his main motivation was survival. What happened if, in his emotionless state, he decided that wiping out all other life, like the real Flood would want, was the best method to ensure that survival? Would he be able to stop himself? He didn't know and that was terrifying enough that he felt it deeply even when his emotions were spread across a thousand minds.
He would not cut himself off, but he couldn't let himself be a prisoner of those emotions. He missed his old life, more than anything he wanted to go back, but that wasn't an option. Even if he could somehow return to his old world… well, he wasn't exactly a regular human anymore, was he? He might have been able to pretend, make a false body, act like nothing had changed… But he'd be lying to everyone and to himself. And then, after however many years until everyone he knew and loved was gone, what would he do?
He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
For the first time, he recognized that that person was well and truly gone. That person was dead. He had to make his way forward, not forgetting, but not pretending any longer.
He was Tide. He was the Flood.
It was a strange feeling, acceptance. He'd come to it after only twelve hours of thinking through these deceased Altered. Granted, that was roughly twelve thousand hours-worth of time from the point of view of a single human mind, so that may have helped speed up the process.
Slowly, he expanded his focus back across all the Flood forms, feeling any remnants of his outburst diffuse across countless minds. He considered the small army of corpses that had been assembled and were growing, constantly.
From thirty-six million Altered the day prior to nearly two billion. Most, nearly one and a half billion humans, were inside a single hab spire, the one that currently housed his Proto-Gravemind and the bulk of his forces, but he'd begun spreading rapidly growing tendrils into nearly every other spire in just a few days. Of those billions of beings, the dead were his to claim.
They made their way downwards, taking the best routes available to them that were frequented only by those whose eyes were Tide's to turn away. They trickled in, almost like lines of ants, marching before his Proto-Gravemind.
Nearly eighty-thousand dead men and women, young and old, fit and decrepit, stood in perfectly ordered ranks around his lair and along the adjacent chambers, and corridors, and levels both above and below. He had not killed these people, but he had not saved them either. Though he had eradicated disease in those he Altered, not wanting any chance of a certain Plague God gaining ground in this city if possible, he had not stopped the deaths that had resulted from the lives they were forced to lead. Accidents, age, murder. He had let it all happen.
He'd used a thousand of them to calm himself, but he had held off from adding those that were left to his Proto-Gravemind. Held off from pushing himself over into the status of a true Gravemind.
He selected ten thousand of them, dead men and women that all looked like young adults, people that would have likely lived one or two more decades in this horrid world had they not already died. Some had been hive gangers, others had been enforcers from the PDF, but most had simply been factory workers. He took them before his Proto-Gravemind and transferred their memories, their experiences, everything that they were into the Flood's own knowledge. While their biomass would not become apart of his Proto and thus would not add their intellect to his own, he would not ever lose the memories of who they were.
The rush of information, greater than any he had ever experienced before over any length of time, was not painful as he thought it might be. It felt natural. Right.
With comfort in knowing their memory would never be forgotten, Tide regarded the empty husks that were left. These would be his Puppets, his hands in the society that lived above. Their bodies would appear human, on both the outside and inside. Only a search on the microscopic level would reveal they were otherwise. They would be his soldiers, his spies, the ones he could expend without worry or guilt.
Most of the Puppets returned, each off to start a new life. Their features were changed, as were their bodies in subtle ways so no one who'd known them in the past would recognize them. Many were sent to join the PDF or the Arbites, others to work in factories that produced weapons, armor, food, and other important supplies. Some were littered across the layers of the habs, to keep watch, to learn.
The few Puppets that remained, a thousand strong, stood guard around the Proto-Gravemind. These would be the ones that he would use for experiments, to test the limits of his abilities, to create the perfect infiltrator and soldier, and as guards more intelligent than the spiders, wasps, and centipedes that would support them. As soon as he was able to, he would see about equipping them with arms and armor.
Once his Puppets had left, Tide regarded the rest of the deceased. Nearly seventy-thousand humans. He wished to take a breath and, as one, his myriad forms did.
Then, he allowed it all to begin.
He was endless.
That was what it felt like, for a moment anyways. There was a slight lag, odd though it was to use that word, in his sensations as seventy-thousand bodies were reshaped into raw biomass and neuron clusters. Many became fewer became one.
The feeling left him quickly and he quickly moved on to study his new form.
The Gravemind stretched out its tentacles, some kilometers long when unfurled, seeking out every nook and cranny in the Underhive that he could reach. His range, his intelligence, his power had all been expanded massively in addition to his size.
He felt like the intensity of his control had become empowered greatly as well. Where before he had had to dedicate a portion of his mind to constantly restrain the ravenous impulses of the Flood, now he felt those instincts had changed to be in line with his will, not held back by it. The Flood were no longer wielded like a tool, but as a part of him, a natural extension.
There was so many new things to explore about himself, he almost felt overwhelmed by them and it was only his massively expanded mind that allowed him to understand it all so quickly. While some of it included new tools that would be directly useful in a military sense, what he was most interested in were his expanded understanding of Neural Physics.
His ability to tap into radio signals had greatly increased. Additionally, he had discovered something new, signals being sent throughout the planet. He hadn't managed to decipher them yet, as they were encoded, but he suspected this was the Mechanicus' Noosphere technology. If he could find a way into it, he might have an alternative method of infecting the Tech-Priests, though he still wanted their organic bits.
As he'd thought, he had learned how to 'throw' things through another dimension utilized by the Precursors, though it came with drawbacks. The range, even as large as he was now, was insufficient for anything beyond interplanetary travel and the largest thing he could throw was roughly the size of a cargo container. Additionally, if he tried throwing something now, it was going to crash. Hard. His accuracy wasn't that great.
That range and accuracy would grow, with time and more bodies, but for now it was just a situational tool. There was little doubt that he could reach the other hive cities, but a massive box filled with spores crashing through walls wasn't exactly 'subtle'. He could try and send it into the Underhives of the other cities, but without any eyes on the inside to guide him, he would miss or, more likely, end up inside solid rockrete. Worst case, he ended up in a public area and was noticed. Not a risk he could really take at this delicate stage.
Though, it was possible that he would not have many other options in the approaching days. Even before his rise to a Gravemind, he'd known of the Altered being created in the far North of Monstrum. The way they were growing was… strange and suggested another actor.
There were a hundred presently undergoing Alteration. While their infection had not yet grown to the extent that he could hijack their awareness and learn what was happening, he could still gain vague sensations from them. They were all clustered in a single area and had not moved much from that place. Strangely, ten of them had died since he first became aware of them.
Normally, he'd have leapt at the chance and tried to expand his control to those ten and try to create a Proto-Gravemind and begin his expansion in another city. Yet, the fact that a perfect one hundred had been Altered, the fact that no others had been infected following the first batch, made him suspicious. If these people had been purposefully infected, for what reason?
He didn't know if it was the Genestealers or another party, but he could guess that whoever they were, they were interested in him. Or, at least, his Flood Spores.
Perhaps they knew of his true nature, perhaps they only knew that the spores could infect humans. Regardless, it seemed they wanted to know more. Naturally, Tide wasn't keen on revealing his hand to a potential enemy.
So, when those ten perished, he let the Flood Spores in those bodies perish as well, slowly as though they were dying alongside the body.
He considered just killing the lot of the spores in those Altered, but decided it was a bad idea. Though that would deny the potential enemy biological information on him, it would certainly reveal that there was an intelligence behind the spores. If it wasn't the Genestealers, who already knew this, that little tidbit would send alarm bells throughout the entire planet.
So, he allowed them to see what he wanted them to see. He did for these Altered what he did for the rest, eradicating their diseases, slowly changing their lungs to produce more Flood spores, and nestling himself deep in their nervous systems. He'd have to be careful about interacting with those spores.
For the moment, however, there was another enemy he was very interested in dealing with.
The Three-Eyed King rested atop his throne, a grand seat that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the Underhive's rusted and grimy appearance. It was polished to a shiny silver, enough that it seemed to shimmer even in the darkness. It was thin and tall, reaching nearly to the ceiling of the King's personal audience chambers, which were decorated with the bones of his enemies, bubbling cauldrons of awful potions, and the remnants of various other debauched acts. The air was thick with the smell of poison and incense. Every time she came to her boss' throne room, she wondered if this was what the Planetary Governor's throne room looked like, if more twisted.
The man himself, if he could be called a man, was long and lithe, almost spindly in appearance, but he had a vicious, toothy grin plastered across his face constantly that spoke of danger and violence. His namesake was not a true third-eye, but one that had been tattooed onto his forehead. Its outside was blue with a silver iris and Lysilla often thought she could see it moving, just slightly, though never when she focused on it.
The Three-Eyed King, whose real name no one was left alive to know, had been the ruler of the Under-Hive for over twenty years. Every Hive Gang paid homage to him, at least the ones that wanted to stick around. The King did not lead any gang personally, though he had favorites he would call upon and enforcers of his own when he wanted something handled. Normally, such a system would never have worked. After all, one man could not command the loyalty and fear of dozens of gangs, not all on his own and certainly not for a decade, let alone two.
The Three-Eyed King was not a man.
The King clicked a talon-like finger against the armrest of his throne, leisurely, as though setting a beat for one of the choirs of the world above. He was dressed in robes that, like his throne, should have no place within the dingy Underhive, soft silken things that shimmered even more brightly than the throne itself.
"Dear Lysilla," The King said and his voice still made her want to shudder. It was a cold whisper, like the hiss of poisoned air. "You have returned."
"My liege," Lysilla said, bowing her head. Behind her, Grease and Hoog did the same, while Crick had already slinked off somewhere. She'd have felt silly the first few times she'd done this, had she not seen the Three-Eyed King melt the flesh off the bones of a Hive Ganger that had refused to show him the respect the King felt he was due. "I have completed the task you set me on."
"And the results?" The King asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.
"Nothing of concern, my liege," She supplied quickly, not wanting to draw his ire. "The wasps have multiplied more than expected. Their recent expansion should die down swiftly."
"I see," The King said and there was something about the way he said the words that made Lysilla wonder if something was wrong. He didn't sound disappointed or upset. "And what happened to dear Crick?"
"My liege?" Lysilla asked, glancing up at the boss.
"Crick," The King repeated, as though speaking to a child. "I sent him with you, did I not?"
"You did my liege."
"So, what happened to him?"
"He departed my company shortly after we returned, my liege," Lysilla said, not sure why the King was asking about the mutant. Crick was a favored servant, one who rarely joined her during these reports. She suspected it was because he didn't want to catch any flak for any failures.
"Crick," The King drawled, two eyes narrowing. "Is dead."
"What?" Lysilla said, her own eyes widening in shock. That wasn't… she'd seen him less than ten minutes ago! "How?!?"
"That is what I would like to know!" The Three-Eyed King shouted, suddenly standing, blue flames crackling in his hands. Lysilla takes a few steps back, as do Grease and Hoog, startled by the display of unnatural might. "I sensed his death nearly a day ago, yet you say he returned with you! I demand the tru-!"
The witch was cut off mid-rant by a bony spike that lodged itself deep in the King's third eye, the tattoo emitting sparks of silver and blue light. The flames that wreathed his hands were snuffed out in a moment and the being who had ruled the Underhive for over twenty years spasmed on his feet for a moment before collapsing back onto his throne, twitching but clearly dead.
"Well, best to be safe when it comes to these kinds of things," Grease said, speaking for the first time that Lysilla knew of as he lowered his wrist from where the projectile had been launched. Crick emerged from the darkness, lugging the flamer. Grease took it up and aimed at the Three-Eyed King. The weapon sparked, once, twice, then ignited, bathing the witch's corpse in fire and scorching the throne he sat upon.
Lysilla and Hoog both watched this with blank stares, as though nothing out of the ordinary were occurring in front of them.
Tide considered the previous day's events. He'd been avoiding thinking about the subject for a while now.
He wasn't a fan of pain. More than that, as the Flood, he'd thought he'd be outright immune to it. The Flood were after all, or they always had seemed to be. Certainly, he hadn't ever felt pain from damage to his Flood forms before.
But, when the hijacked body of Crick had been wreathed in flames, Tide had felt the fire burning him, his flesh charring and cracking. Not Crick's flesh, his. He had never felt something like that, not in this life and certainly not in his past one. It had been so intense that it had blinded him, made him...
No, that wasn't true. He'd been in control the entire time. There was no knee-jerk reaction, no Flood directive that demanded he kill. He had been hurt and he had wanted to kill the one who hurt him. To make them suffer in return.
Even afterwards, after Crick's body had been rendered mush and paste, which had hurt almost as much as the burning, that anger had stayed in him. It was what had turned him so… vindictive when dealing with that woman, Lysilla. He'd been angry and had lashed out.
So, why, after all that, did he now feel… nothing? The memory of the pain was still there. If he wished, he could even experience the feeling again, though he wasn't insane or curious enough to want to. The same was true of the anger he had felt, the focused rage.
This was not the first time something like this had happened, in hindsight. When he thought back about the factory workers, the men and women he had unwillingly murdered to gain thought and form, he felt little, disconnected. Yet, after what had happened with Jace, he'd felt despondent, almost depressed. He'd wrote it off as simply being because he hadn't been sentient when he'd killed those people, hadn't been aware of it, but now he saw how little that made sense. He had all the memories, after all, all the experiences.
He thought about Jace, about the man he had eased into whatever afterlife awaited him and found he felt little. The guilt about not preserving his life, the worry about what the man's soul would experience, that strange thought that he had messed with something precious and private, none of that seemed to be rising to the surface.
What was happening? Why couldn't he feel that anger anymore?
Why had he felt the pain of Crick's body, but not that of any of the other bioforms that had been damaged over the past days?
He could feel something after all, Tide realized. Curiosity. The curiosity of an observer, interested in what would happen next, yet not connected to the events being observed.
At that moment, Tide's focus was not on any flood form or Altered. He was aware of them all still, his minds were still conducting a myriad of tasks on something almost like autopilot, but Tide still had some degree of separation from the Flood, in the same way that the brain had a degree of separation from the fingers.
Tide's focus turned towards a single combat form, a spider that he had infected several days ago and was now silently watching over one of the many corridors that connected to his lair. One of the two long tentacles slowly shifted, sprouting a spear-like tip made of bone, though it had a rounded point, making it unsuitable for combat. With careful, cautious movements, the bone hovered inches away from the flesh of the spider, right over where Tide knew a small cluster of pain receptors were located.
The spider tentacle darted forward into the pain receptors, and Tide flinched as he felt something akin to having one's ribs jabbed. No, he hadn't flinched, the spider had, which was strange. Combat forms shouldn't have been bothered by pain.
Withdrawing from the spider, this time he merely commanded a few other spiders to do the same thing. The spiders obeyed, but this time Tide felt only a vague acknowledgement of the pain of the spiders, akin to an alert that damage had been taken. He tried again, this time with sharpened spears that pierced the skin of the spiders, and felt the same distant acknowledgement, although it was heightened. The wounds would quickly heal.
So, it depended on his focus? If he was focused on controlling a form, rather than letting the minds of those forms control themselves, he felt what they felt. Or something like that? He hadn't been controlling Jace, but he had been manipulating the man's mind to a degree. Was this something inherent to the Flood or was it because a human mind had been placed in control of it? As a hive mind, he really shouldn't have a focus, right?
It really must have been because he was once a human, Tide decided. Or was it? Had the Precursors been hive minds? The Gravemind had seemed like an individual, even if it was in control of the Flood.
He tried something new this time. Almost every combat form he possessed, hundreds of wasps, centipedes, and spiders, sprouted bone-tipped tentacles and, once more, stabbed themselves.
This time, the feeling of pain was very present, though it was strange. It was like the feeling one got when a limb fell asleep, the countless needles poking into the skin. Uncomfortable, but bearable. Certainly not as painful as being burned alive and it was only momentary, disappearing as soon as the wounds healed.
He considered conducting a few tests on his Proto-Gravemind, but… Well, it was something like a gut feeling of wrongness at the idea. Like he would be taking his brain out of the skull and squeezing it in his hands to see how springy it was. Maybe it was Flood instinct, maybe it was his common sense screaming at him, he wasn't really sure, but he wouldn't test it.
From what he could tell, when his thoughts were disseminated across his forms, when he wasn't focused on any individual within his collective self, the same was true of his emotions. He did feel pain, but that pain was shared across countless minds, the same was true of his anger and sadness. The exception occurred when he focused the bulk of his minds on a single body.
While he held absolute control over every Flood form down to the tiniest Flood spore floating in the air, it was not like he was controlling every action they took. It was like… breathing, Tide decided. Most of the time, it just happened without being needed to be thought about. An automatic process. His Flood forms could breathe, patrol, hunt, even fight and kill without needing him to think about the actions they should take in each moment. But just like breathing, he could think about it and take control of it.
It wasn't a perfect analogy, by any means. For humans, it wasn't possible to just hold one's breath until they stopped breathing. He could make his combat forms stop breathing if he wished. Not that they really needed to breathe in order to function anymore. Similarly, he could alter the basic processes as he wished to a degree far more complex than just how one drew breath.
Was he making sense? He wasn't sure. Well, it wasn't like he'd ever need to explain this to someone.
When he'd taken direct control of the ogryn, Hoog, his anger had been focused by that single mind. The animalistic rage and pain of Crick when being burned alive was similarly focused by that single mind. Just as his discomfort had been translated by the spider's mind and sadness and disgust by the hijacked mind of Jace.
There was one more test he needed to conduct if he was to be sure. He took direct control of one of the many corpses that were slowly making their way down the hab levels to his Proto-Gravemind. Then, he thought about the murders of the factory workers, his entrapment in the 40k galaxy, the fact that he would never see his loved ones again.
That had been a mistake.
Hours later, Tide ran through the breathing exercises he'd learned during his past life. The idea that such things might actually work in this instance was… well, in this case, they were woefully inadequate.
Which was why he wasn't alone when doing them. Well, he was, but also wasn't. He'd taken a thousand of the deceased Altered that had arrived at his lair and separated them into an adjacent chamber. Said chamber was filled with a large amount of scrap metal that had been dragged in recently by combat forms for the express purpose of having the shit beaten out of it by the deceased.
It was one of several coping mechanisms he was trying out, most of which were less violent and varying degrees of more or less effective.
A thousand deceased Altered, half of those who had perished from that day alone, were enough minds to spread his focus out across that he could still feel the pain and anxiety and fear of his current circumstances, without falling into a downward spiral like… before.
In terms of mental health… he'd been moderately alright in his past life? He'd had problems, but he'd managed to live or deal with most of them. He'd had support, medicine, methods he had learned.
He now only had the last of those things. He was not going to see his family again and he was fairly certain that if there was no cure for the Flood, there likely wasn't any depression meds for them either.
Regardless, all of that led him to create what was essentially a very dingy, very grimy looking relaxation yoga room. Was it ridiculous? Absolutely. He was having dead puppets go through half-remembered yoga-exercises and breathing exercises despite, notably, being dead. Was it messed up? Also absolutely, but he was handling it much better than he had everything else.
Part of him wanted to permanently withdraw to the more objective observer role, if only for his own protection. The danger of letting his emotions get the better of him when he had the potential to end countless lives was… Well, he couldn't fault the reasoning, at least.
Yet, he knew he would be cutting himself off from an important part of himself if he did so. He liked having emotions, despite what a much younger, middle-schooler version of himself might have tried to claim back in his edgelord phase. He didn't want to lose that, not least of all because he feared what he might become if he did so.
Right now, his main motivation was survival. What happened if, in his emotionless state, he decided that wiping out all other life, like the real Flood would want, was the best method to ensure that survival? Would he be able to stop himself? He didn't know and that was terrifying enough that he felt it deeply even when his emotions were spread across a thousand minds.
He would not cut himself off, but he couldn't let himself be a prisoner of those emotions. He missed his old life, more than anything he wanted to go back, but that wasn't an option. Even if he could somehow return to his old world… well, he wasn't exactly a regular human anymore, was he? He might have been able to pretend, make a false body, act like nothing had changed… But he'd be lying to everyone and to himself. And then, after however many years until everyone he knew and loved was gone, what would he do?
He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
For the first time, he recognized that that person was well and truly gone. That person was dead. He had to make his way forward, not forgetting, but not pretending any longer.
He was Tide. He was the Flood.
It was a strange feeling, acceptance. He'd come to it after only twelve hours of thinking through these deceased Altered. Granted, that was roughly twelve thousand hours-worth of time from the point of view of a single human mind, so that may have helped speed up the process.
Slowly, he expanded his focus back across all the Flood forms, feeling any remnants of his outburst diffuse across countless minds. He considered the small army of corpses that had been assembled and were growing, constantly.
From thirty-six million Altered the day prior to nearly two billion. Most, nearly one and a half billion humans, were inside a single hab spire, the one that currently housed his Proto-Gravemind and the bulk of his forces, but he'd begun spreading rapidly growing tendrils into nearly every other spire in just a few days. Of those billions of beings, the dead were his to claim.
They made their way downwards, taking the best routes available to them that were frequented only by those whose eyes were Tide's to turn away. They trickled in, almost like lines of ants, marching before his Proto-Gravemind.
Nearly eighty-thousand dead men and women, young and old, fit and decrepit, stood in perfectly ordered ranks around his lair and along the adjacent chambers, and corridors, and levels both above and below. He had not killed these people, but he had not saved them either. Though he had eradicated disease in those he Altered, not wanting any chance of a certain Plague God gaining ground in this city if possible, he had not stopped the deaths that had resulted from the lives they were forced to lead. Accidents, age, murder. He had let it all happen.
He'd used a thousand of them to calm himself, but he had held off from adding those that were left to his Proto-Gravemind. Held off from pushing himself over into the status of a true Gravemind.
He selected ten thousand of them, dead men and women that all looked like young adults, people that would have likely lived one or two more decades in this horrid world had they not already died. Some had been hive gangers, others had been enforcers from the PDF, but most had simply been factory workers. He took them before his Proto-Gravemind and transferred their memories, their experiences, everything that they were into the Flood's own knowledge. While their biomass would not become apart of his Proto and thus would not add their intellect to his own, he would not ever lose the memories of who they were.
The rush of information, greater than any he had ever experienced before over any length of time, was not painful as he thought it might be. It felt natural. Right.
With comfort in knowing their memory would never be forgotten, Tide regarded the empty husks that were left. These would be his Puppets, his hands in the society that lived above. Their bodies would appear human, on both the outside and inside. Only a search on the microscopic level would reveal they were otherwise. They would be his soldiers, his spies, the ones he could expend without worry or guilt.
Most of the Puppets returned, each off to start a new life. Their features were changed, as were their bodies in subtle ways so no one who'd known them in the past would recognize them. Many were sent to join the PDF or the Arbites, others to work in factories that produced weapons, armor, food, and other important supplies. Some were littered across the layers of the habs, to keep watch, to learn.
The few Puppets that remained, a thousand strong, stood guard around the Proto-Gravemind. These would be the ones that he would use for experiments, to test the limits of his abilities, to create the perfect infiltrator and soldier, and as guards more intelligent than the spiders, wasps, and centipedes that would support them. As soon as he was able to, he would see about equipping them with arms and armor.
Once his Puppets had left, Tide regarded the rest of the deceased. Nearly seventy-thousand humans. He wished to take a breath and, as one, his myriad forms did.
Then, he allowed it all to begin.
He was endless.
That was what it felt like, for a moment anyways. There was a slight lag, odd though it was to use that word, in his sensations as seventy-thousand bodies were reshaped into raw biomass and neuron clusters. Many became fewer became one.
The feeling left him quickly and he quickly moved on to study his new form.
The Gravemind stretched out its tentacles, some kilometers long when unfurled, seeking out every nook and cranny in the Underhive that he could reach. His range, his intelligence, his power had all been expanded massively in addition to his size.
He felt like the intensity of his control had become empowered greatly as well. Where before he had had to dedicate a portion of his mind to constantly restrain the ravenous impulses of the Flood, now he felt those instincts had changed to be in line with his will, not held back by it. The Flood were no longer wielded like a tool, but as a part of him, a natural extension.
There was so many new things to explore about himself, he almost felt overwhelmed by them and it was only his massively expanded mind that allowed him to understand it all so quickly. While some of it included new tools that would be directly useful in a military sense, what he was most interested in were his expanded understanding of Neural Physics.
His ability to tap into radio signals had greatly increased. Additionally, he had discovered something new, signals being sent throughout the planet. He hadn't managed to decipher them yet, as they were encoded, but he suspected this was the Mechanicus' Noosphere technology. If he could find a way into it, he might have an alternative method of infecting the Tech-Priests, though he still wanted their organic bits.
As he'd thought, he had learned how to 'throw' things through another dimension utilized by the Precursors, though it came with drawbacks. The range, even as large as he was now, was insufficient for anything beyond interplanetary travel and the largest thing he could throw was roughly the size of a cargo container. Additionally, if he tried throwing something now, it was going to crash. Hard. His accuracy wasn't that great.
That range and accuracy would grow, with time and more bodies, but for now it was just a situational tool. There was little doubt that he could reach the other hive cities, but a massive box filled with spores crashing through walls wasn't exactly 'subtle'. He could try and send it into the Underhives of the other cities, but without any eyes on the inside to guide him, he would miss or, more likely, end up inside solid rockrete. Worst case, he ended up in a public area and was noticed. Not a risk he could really take at this delicate stage.
Though, it was possible that he would not have many other options in the approaching days. Even before his rise to a Gravemind, he'd known of the Altered being created in the far North of Monstrum. The way they were growing was… strange and suggested another actor.
There were a hundred presently undergoing Alteration. While their infection had not yet grown to the extent that he could hijack their awareness and learn what was happening, he could still gain vague sensations from them. They were all clustered in a single area and had not moved much from that place. Strangely, ten of them had died since he first became aware of them.
Normally, he'd have leapt at the chance and tried to expand his control to those ten and try to create a Proto-Gravemind and begin his expansion in another city. Yet, the fact that a perfect one hundred had been Altered, the fact that no others had been infected following the first batch, made him suspicious. If these people had been purposefully infected, for what reason?
He didn't know if it was the Genestealers or another party, but he could guess that whoever they were, they were interested in him. Or, at least, his Flood Spores.
Perhaps they knew of his true nature, perhaps they only knew that the spores could infect humans. Regardless, it seemed they wanted to know more. Naturally, Tide wasn't keen on revealing his hand to a potential enemy.
So, when those ten perished, he let the Flood Spores in those bodies perish as well, slowly as though they were dying alongside the body.
He considered just killing the lot of the spores in those Altered, but decided it was a bad idea. Though that would deny the potential enemy biological information on him, it would certainly reveal that there was an intelligence behind the spores. If it wasn't the Genestealers, who already knew this, that little tidbit would send alarm bells throughout the entire planet.
So, he allowed them to see what he wanted them to see. He did for these Altered what he did for the rest, eradicating their diseases, slowly changing their lungs to produce more Flood spores, and nestling himself deep in their nervous systems. He'd have to be careful about interacting with those spores.
For the moment, however, there was another enemy he was very interested in dealing with.
The Three-Eyed King rested atop his throne, a grand seat that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the Underhive's rusted and grimy appearance. It was polished to a shiny silver, enough that it seemed to shimmer even in the darkness. It was thin and tall, reaching nearly to the ceiling of the King's personal audience chambers, which were decorated with the bones of his enemies, bubbling cauldrons of awful potions, and the remnants of various other debauched acts. The air was thick with the smell of poison and incense. Every time she came to her boss' throne room, she wondered if this was what the Planetary Governor's throne room looked like, if more twisted.
The man himself, if he could be called a man, was long and lithe, almost spindly in appearance, but he had a vicious, toothy grin plastered across his face constantly that spoke of danger and violence. His namesake was not a true third-eye, but one that had been tattooed onto his forehead. Its outside was blue with a silver iris and Lysilla often thought she could see it moving, just slightly, though never when she focused on it.
The Three-Eyed King, whose real name no one was left alive to know, had been the ruler of the Under-Hive for over twenty years. Every Hive Gang paid homage to him, at least the ones that wanted to stick around. The King did not lead any gang personally, though he had favorites he would call upon and enforcers of his own when he wanted something handled. Normally, such a system would never have worked. After all, one man could not command the loyalty and fear of dozens of gangs, not all on his own and certainly not for a decade, let alone two.
The Three-Eyed King was not a man.
The King clicked a talon-like finger against the armrest of his throne, leisurely, as though setting a beat for one of the choirs of the world above. He was dressed in robes that, like his throne, should have no place within the dingy Underhive, soft silken things that shimmered even more brightly than the throne itself.
"Dear Lysilla," The King said and his voice still made her want to shudder. It was a cold whisper, like the hiss of poisoned air. "You have returned."
"My liege," Lysilla said, bowing her head. Behind her, Grease and Hoog did the same, while Crick had already slinked off somewhere. She'd have felt silly the first few times she'd done this, had she not seen the Three-Eyed King melt the flesh off the bones of a Hive Ganger that had refused to show him the respect the King felt he was due. "I have completed the task you set me on."
"And the results?" The King asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.
"Nothing of concern, my liege," She supplied quickly, not wanting to draw his ire. "The wasps have multiplied more than expected. Their recent expansion should die down swiftly."
"I see," The King said and there was something about the way he said the words that made Lysilla wonder if something was wrong. He didn't sound disappointed or upset. "And what happened to dear Crick?"
"My liege?" Lysilla asked, glancing up at the boss.
"Crick," The King repeated, as though speaking to a child. "I sent him with you, did I not?"
"You did my liege."
"So, what happened to him?"
"He departed my company shortly after we returned, my liege," Lysilla said, not sure why the King was asking about the mutant. Crick was a favored servant, one who rarely joined her during these reports. She suspected it was because he didn't want to catch any flak for any failures.
"Crick," The King drawled, two eyes narrowing. "Is dead."
"What?" Lysilla said, her own eyes widening in shock. That wasn't… she'd seen him less than ten minutes ago! "How?!?"
"That is what I would like to know!" The Three-Eyed King shouted, suddenly standing, blue flames crackling in his hands. Lysilla takes a few steps back, as do Grease and Hoog, startled by the display of unnatural might. "I sensed his death nearly a day ago, yet you say he returned with you! I demand the tru-!"
The witch was cut off mid-rant by a bony spike that lodged itself deep in the King's third eye, the tattoo emitting sparks of silver and blue light. The flames that wreathed his hands were snuffed out in a moment and the being who had ruled the Underhive for over twenty years spasmed on his feet for a moment before collapsing back onto his throne, twitching but clearly dead.
"Well, best to be safe when it comes to these kinds of things," Grease said, speaking for the first time that Lysilla knew of as he lowered his wrist from where the projectile had been launched. Crick emerged from the darkness, lugging the flamer. Grease took it up and aimed at the Three-Eyed King. The weapon sparked, once, twice, then ignited, bathing the witch's corpse in fire and scorching the throne he sat upon.
Lysilla and Hoog both watched this with blank stares, as though nothing out of the ordinary were occurring in front of them.
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I don't know why I've been writing chapters as long as they've been, but I think I'll try to go for around 4k apiece in the future.
canned Tomatoes
verified non-perishable
- Location
- Germany
I know that feeling.
I personally like to write chapters around 3k words, even without checking the word count.
They just come out that way.
Just take care about the pacing.
There's a number of fanfic authors who go for terribly long chapters, and they just ruin their pacing with them.
But if 4k is just the length for you to put everything you want in a chapter then that's perfect.
Sometimes they follow too much from the canon with very little changes to the point it's just a novelization of the show.
Unit Info (Chapter 9)
Combat Forms
-Combat Spider: An infected giant spider from the depths of a hive city. Range in size from 2-4 meters in height, while crouched. Eight legs and eyes, enhanced Flood senses. Able to emit Flood Spores from its lungs. Razor sharp mandibles and claws. Can crawl on walls and ceiling. Able to spit strands of webbing from its mouth. Webbing is very strong, able to trap beings of human strength. The webbing can be mixed with Flood Spores. Possesses a pair of whip-like Flood tentacles emerging from behind its neck which have superhuman levels of strength.
-Combat Centipede: An infected giant centipede from the depths of a hive city. Range in size from 3-4 meters in length. Powerful mandibles and tough hides, resistant to low caliber stubber rounds. Very fast and can crawl on walls and ceiling.
-Combat Wasp: An infected giant wasp from the depths of a hive city. Roughly 1 meter in length. Strong mandibles and armor-like chitin. Able to fly at speeds upwards of 20 MPH. Possesses a stinger with powerful venom.
-Puppet: A deceased Altered that has been taken over completely by Tide. Flood biomass has increased greatly within these individuals to take up most of their total biomass. While they usually only utilize a fraction of their true strength to remain unnoticed, Puppets are capable of enormous feats of strength on par with any combat form. Similarly, in terms of endurance they are much more capable of taking what would be lethal damage on an ordinary human and continuing to function at full or near-full capability. Each Puppet is capable of independent action depending on the memories imprinted onto them by Tide.
Pure Forms
-???
Mind Forms
Note: Mind Forms is another term for key minds, which were retconned into creation from and should not be confused with the Keymind, the next level of evolution of the Gravemind.
-Proto-Gravemind (Slug): A Slug shaped Proto-Gravemind. Not very fast, able to move at a slow walking pace.
-Proto-Gravemind (Defense): A Proto-Gravemind with two whip-like tentacles for defense.
-Gravemind: A fully formed Gravemind consisting of biomass equivalent to over ten thousand corpses. Hyper intelligent. Range of Flood control extends across an entire solar system, at minimum. Current Gravemind is based off the same Gravemind from Halo 2 Anniversary Edition.
Other
-Altered Human: A human that has been infected by the Flood but not transformed or taken control of by it. Possesses greater than average strength and dexterity. Ability to heal and immune system has been taken over entirely by the Flood. Certain organs may be replaced by Flood-variants. Indistinguishable from a normal human except through an in-depth medical exam. At any given time, the Flood can immediately take control of the body from the brain, chemically isolating it. If desired, the Flood can transform the body into a combat form within seconds. The Flood can look through and edit the memories of the Altered at-will. Lungs are replaced with Flood-variants which naturally release Flood Spores into the air through exhaling. When asleep, the Altered dream of the Flood.
-Infector Pod: The standard and swiftest method of infection. A single Infector Pod can transform a human into a combat form in a matter of seconds. Not very strong and easily slain by anyone with a crowbar, but ingesting even the slightest amount of its biomass will result in infection.
-Flood Spore: One single Flood Spore can destroy a species. While much slower than the Infector Pod, being infected by a Spore can easily be said to be the worse fate. It takes several days for a single Flood Spore to transform the host, with changes coming faster as its growth accelerates. A Flood Spore is a micro-organism and cannot be seen by the naked eye. If uncoordinated, the Flood Spore will attempt to become a combat form and infect others, spreading the Flood until a Proto-Gravemind can be formed. If coordinated, the Flood Spore can be directed in certain directions such as the creation of combat forms or the much subtler Altered.
-Combat Spider: An infected giant spider from the depths of a hive city. Range in size from 2-4 meters in height, while crouched. Eight legs and eyes, enhanced Flood senses. Able to emit Flood Spores from its lungs. Razor sharp mandibles and claws. Can crawl on walls and ceiling. Able to spit strands of webbing from its mouth. Webbing is very strong, able to trap beings of human strength. The webbing can be mixed with Flood Spores. Possesses a pair of whip-like Flood tentacles emerging from behind its neck which have superhuman levels of strength.
-Combat Centipede: An infected giant centipede from the depths of a hive city. Range in size from 3-4 meters in length. Powerful mandibles and tough hides, resistant to low caliber stubber rounds. Very fast and can crawl on walls and ceiling.
-Combat Wasp: An infected giant wasp from the depths of a hive city. Roughly 1 meter in length. Strong mandibles and armor-like chitin. Able to fly at speeds upwards of 20 MPH. Possesses a stinger with powerful venom.
-Puppet: A deceased Altered that has been taken over completely by Tide. Flood biomass has increased greatly within these individuals to take up most of their total biomass. While they usually only utilize a fraction of their true strength to remain unnoticed, Puppets are capable of enormous feats of strength on par with any combat form. Similarly, in terms of endurance they are much more capable of taking what would be lethal damage on an ordinary human and continuing to function at full or near-full capability. Each Puppet is capable of independent action depending on the memories imprinted onto them by Tide.
Pure Forms
-???
Mind Forms
Note: Mind Forms is another term for key minds, which were retconned into creation from and should not be confused with the Keymind, the next level of evolution of the Gravemind.
-Proto-Gravemind (Slug): A Slug shaped Proto-Gravemind. Not very fast, able to move at a slow walking pace.
-Proto-Gravemind (Defense): A Proto-Gravemind with two whip-like tentacles for defense.
-Gravemind: A fully formed Gravemind consisting of biomass equivalent to over ten thousand corpses. Hyper intelligent. Range of Flood control extends across an entire solar system, at minimum. Current Gravemind is based off the same Gravemind from Halo 2 Anniversary Edition.
Other
-Altered Human: A human that has been infected by the Flood but not transformed or taken control of by it. Possesses greater than average strength and dexterity. Ability to heal and immune system has been taken over entirely by the Flood. Certain organs may be replaced by Flood-variants. Indistinguishable from a normal human except through an in-depth medical exam. At any given time, the Flood can immediately take control of the body from the brain, chemically isolating it. If desired, the Flood can transform the body into a combat form within seconds. The Flood can look through and edit the memories of the Altered at-will. Lungs are replaced with Flood-variants which naturally release Flood Spores into the air through exhaling. When asleep, the Altered dream of the Flood.
-Infector Pod: The standard and swiftest method of infection. A single Infector Pod can transform a human into a combat form in a matter of seconds. Not very strong and easily slain by anyone with a crowbar, but ingesting even the slightest amount of its biomass will result in infection.
-Flood Spore: One single Flood Spore can destroy a species. While much slower than the Infector Pod, being infected by a Spore can easily be said to be the worse fate. It takes several days for a single Flood Spore to transform the host, with changes coming faster as its growth accelerates. A Flood Spore is a micro-organism and cannot be seen by the naked eye. If uncoordinated, the Flood Spore will attempt to become a combat form and infect others, spreading the Flood until a Proto-Gravemind can be formed. If coordinated, the Flood Spore can be directed in certain directions such as the creation of combat forms or the much subtler Altered.
I don't really mind very long chapters, at least not reading them, but if the word count gets over 8k or so I do feel like I need to set time aside for reading it.
I once wrote a fic (which will never, ever see the light of day) which was basically just the book I was making a fic of with a few scenes tacked on for my oc. It was awful.
He's finally done it and become the gravemind.
The Three eyed king is dead. Long live the king!
And the imperium is experimenting with the flood thinking it's Pancea, something that I think our protag will find deeply humours if he knows about the Forerunner trilogy books where humanity essentially did the same thing. "History doesn't repeat but it certainly loves to rhyme."
The Three eyed king is dead. Long live the king!
And the imperium is experimenting with the flood thinking it's Pancea, something that I think our protag will find deeply humours if he knows about the Forerunner trilogy books where humanity essentially did the same thing. "History doesn't repeat but it certainly loves to rhyme."
Yeah, I did notice that in those fics, the OCs didn't really contribute to the story other than adding extra dialogue and commentary, stealing the spotlight from the canon characters, and didn't really change much of the story despite possessing overpowered abilities and influence.
lazyrobot87
Couch potatoing since 2005
while that is going to be awesome. Take your time jackson. We really enjoy your stories and we dont want you suffering from burnout. I just finished the chapter and a l have to say is Nicely done sir!
I hope you have a great weekend and im probably going to be commenting later on more of whats going on. Also good for tide coming to terms with being an all consuming parasite. Cant wait to see what horrors beyond he comes up with! 
JmonsterNEO
Spouter of nonsense
- Location
- The quest forums
Good call on not even trying to assimilate the Three-eyed King.
just a side not but text like this always hurt my eyes what does it say? (thats also the case for the thread on spacebattles.com.)
- Location
- North America
silly cultist. you can't beat a hive mind.
canned Tomatoes
verified non-perishable
- Location
- Germany
Same here, I am reading really fast, so the bite sized chapter length cutoff for me is around 10 - 20k words.
But they need to have good pacing.
There's somes stories that just drag on.
One of the better examples for that, that I have seen is brockton bays celestial forge.
Good writing, character definition, entertaining even, but at some point you notice that you read a million words and it's been a month in the story or less.
A lot of things are going on, with very little actually happening.
That just one more page feeling of a good book or story gets lost. It's easier to manage with shorter chapters, although it can work out with stupid long chapters, too.
Like 50k words and it still maintains that interesting feeling of tension and progression of the story.
- Location
- colombia
At 2 billion infected people there is likely 20k to 30k deaths a day
It will take him a month-ish (at current pace) to reach a million corpses on his gravemind
83-90 years to reach a billion
830 to 900 years to reach the 10 billion mark as it did with high charity
Realisticly,it will have spread across the entire planet lomg before that
It will take him a month-ish (at current pace) to reach a million corpses on his gravemind
83-90 years to reach a billion
830 to 900 years to reach the 10 billion mark as it did with high charity
Realisticly,it will have spread across the entire planet lomg before that
- Location
- Germany
IM NEVER GOING TO SEE MY FAMILY IM GOING TO DIE HERE WHY THE FUCK DID IT HAVE TO BE 40K IM TRAPPED WITHIN AN OMNICIDAL PARASITE OF UNIVERSAL HORROR IVE MURDERED OVER A HUNDRED HUMAN BEINGS
The numbers reached once he gets moved to other hive planets will make high charity look like a joke and he can go pure human mass and still reach dumb numbers
Strunkriidiisk
THE LEGEND
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Keep in mind, Tide isn't even at a majority of one hive infected yet. He's just barely starting to spread out of the initial spire.
- Location
- Anchorage, Alaska
thats whats horrifying, not to mention the sheer depths of hive worlds can get too...add in multiple hives? you get yourself a KEYMIND VERY fast, or at least the levels where the Gravemind is solar-system level of control, if not further beyond with throwing flood spores everywhere for maximum effectiveness...like dear god, once neural physics hits that level he is all but capable of psionically talking to people from across the galaxy if he hits high charity levels of infection and corpses added to his form...which case he gets Pure-flood forms which would be all sorts of hell.
lazyrobot87
Couch potatoing since 2005
I have said it once and I will say it again.
Space hulk + flood = high charity 2: electric boogaloo
The scariest part is that space hulks aren't all the rare either. You just need to know where to look and boom! Brand new warship. Hell that's what the arks of omens are.
Ps. While writing this an idea popped into my head.
Listen very closely. Flood infested space hulk vs ark of omen. I didn't know I needed it but I need it right now. I pray this ends up in the story at some point.
