Mech Hunter who knows that if you fashion tools in the shape of people, you will not hesitate to fashion people into the shape of tools.
don't try to make yourself remember, darling
Interior
New Agartha Station
Medb district outskirts
Bar "Underworld"
0379 local time
6 hibernations after the Gravity Spire
"Nah, I can't-"
"No it's loud, I'm just-"
"Yeah I'd make the call on the internals but you don't like it when I-"
"Schutz-"
"Schutzhund, I-"
"Schutzhund, I can't-"
"DORA, WILL YOU FUCKING LISTEN A SECOND!"
The bar was no stranger to raised voices, and as the conversation escalated, its clientele initially paid them no mind. When it reached that breaking point, though, that particular shout, a ripple of quiet spread rapidly from the epicenter, heads swiveling to see who was speaking, a few hands dropping to tried and true implements in case an intervention was required.
When they saw the small woman in the red jacket hunched miserably over her drink, the tension took on a different tone, briefly, and then when she fixed some of them with a Look, the kind of look which said I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, which said I know it's rude,, which said I didn't mean to interrupt and raised her hand to wave with the universal gesture of I'm sorry, ladies, I'm okay, it slowly dissipated as the murmuration resumed quietly, at first, and threatened to return to its previous raucous tone.
Calypso Tarantula returned to her call.
"Yeah I'm in a bar. I don't have anywhere else to go right now. I'm sorry, Dora. I can't- they haven't-"
"I can't ship out. Not for a while. I fucked everything up."
"This isn’t adding up. Greywash swarms, paracausal tech, strange aesthetic...
this should be the sign of a new HORUS patterngroup by all metrics
but the codebase is wrong. HORUS codebases are fragmented and disparate.
This is laser focused, with no wasted space trying to force some meme
from 300 years ago or random religious diatribes. We've got footage of how
these things acted. Airlocks dematerialized to vent entire sections to space,
MOI's bleeding edge tech passing through them like they were ghosts.
The only reason they left is because they chose to leave, regardless of what
the security forces claim. I don’t know who made this, half a dozen black
market groups are claiming it but I think they just got their hands on some
cut-rate blueprints; they shouldn’t have been able to act in Union space long
enough to develop this without us knowing about it and the first ones encountered
outclasses anything they're selling.
Running theory: Outside Union Actor. Highly Advanced.
Fundamentally opposed to Blink Technology.”
- Medea Nu, Union Science Bureau attaché
don't look for me I'm just a story to be told
WARNING. ALERT. WARNING. WEAPON SYSTEM DISABLED. CATASTROPHIC DAMAGE TO MOUNTING.
Calypso blinked away the warning as her eyes opened. Mech system alerts competed with familiar alerts from her own internals, a list of traumas scrolling up behind her vision, rapidly bubble-sorting into a neat, hierarchically ordered set of columns; onboard triage systems separating her into rough piles of this will keep until later, injecting painkillers through automatic ports, and a growing, outsized list of error insignificant: function unimpeded, catalog and report, do not treat soldier. The imminent lethality was low this time: chemical inhalants which her lung implants were scrubbing (do not talk, use internal unit for communication, do not risk damage by aggravating mucous membranes and throat), shrapnel under the ribs and near the circulatory system (try not to move too much, trust the life support, you've been through worse) and the rest was minor. Fractured skull, definite concussion, malfunctioning eye (right), shattered shoulder, hip joint leaking coolant, (a lot more broken bones and some internal bleeding, nothing new) nothing that couldn't be fixed later.
[where r we] was her first query, followed immediately by [wht hppnd] and the response from sensor feedback was swift and chilling.
Distance is an illusion.
Absolute space does not truly exist.
Nimue understands this, that to be a breath away or to be beyond sight
are the lies of causality.
The Lady of the Lake stands at the nexus of what the unenlightened
called locations, watching over Union, Avalon and
the
gates
of
the
prison
where
Merlin
screams
and
pounds
forever.
so let's pretend a little longer
"No, Dora, no, it's not my fault, it isn't. Look, I'm... yes, she's in repairs! Don't fucking act so surprised, Dora, it's me, you know how it is, you know the reputation, it's... yeah tell the crew, whatever, I know, whoever had money on 'mechbroken' instead of 'heartbroken' wins the pool, I... Dora you know I'm worth it, you know, you, please. Please, just let me finish!"
Calypso Tarantula modulates her voice better this time, adjusting the gain and trusting that the pickup implanted in her jaw and ears will balance itself, fighting the natural urge to raise her voice so that the other person can hear her better. At a different time, with different company, she might have laughed about how it's so easy to trust technology with her life but for some reason, this is a bridge too far. For now, she just focuses on pushing past the growing static at the corners of her vision.
"No, Dora, they quarantined me for - yes I know I had a week of leave, they quarantined me for it, I didn't... no. Dora, no, I'm out of quarantine but I'm not allowed off station until they- Dora, no. Dora. Don't. Don't do this, please don't do this. I'm begging, please, don't leave-"
“As mentioned in my report, I believe that MOI’s remit to engage in Paracausal
research is moving into strange areas. Some of their latest creations seem to
warp linear time, silencing any response before they're even aware of the call for support.”
- Medea Nu, Union Science Bureau attaché
cause when I'm gone
There were too many of them. The sensor suite on Angelfire Ignition wasn't extremely robust; firewalls were important and other defenses, but her current configuration wasn't set up for her to be scout or ewar support, and Calypso didn't have the head for a robust sensorium to be part of her normal loadout. Regardless, her sensors should have been able to catch when mechs were actually there, to track how many unique signatures were present and not obscured by one form of cloaking technology or another, but here they were, standing out in the the open, plain as day, and her sensors couldn't tell whether there were three, or five, or eleven, or thirteen, or
Trying to count was making her head hurt. So much for that report. Scrubbing through the data didn't help recreate it either; she could tell when she hit the recon checkpoint, and then Angelfire was disabled, massive damage registered in far too many places, downed and half-buried under rubble and according to sensors nothing had happened, yet? She was disabled approximately 20 seconds before she arrived at the checkpoint
(which was under a minute after she came to, but according to her internals and life support, she'd been unconscious for about 9,700 seconds, which couldn't be right)
and it didn't make any sense, there's no way this could [let me in]
there's no way this could [your configuration is compatible, let me in]
there's no way this could [this is the 48'th loop, you cannot handle many more]
there's no way this could [this is the 49'th loop, if you do not let me in, they will find us and I cannot stop it]
there's no way this could [if begging will help, consider this begging. you are compatible, lancer. you are a weapon. i am able to interface. let me in and we will both survive. a blade knows its own kind. please, sister. you have to]
let me in
and dissolve the world into light
"The core of this weapon system is a Núada-Class NHP, controlling the complex
systems behind this unusual sword. Rainbow light glints off the true form of the
blade when it moves, a thin slice of blinkspace itself as it cuts through reality
around it.
With invocations of liturgicode Núada can be awakened to full consciousness
for a moment and this blade will cleave a chasm through the fabric of existence."
everything goes on
Calypso Tarantula had far too much to drink by the time a familiar, worried face arrived, nose peeking out over the top of her too-large turtleneck jumper, rumpled hair spilling over upturned jacket collar, hands hidden in flapping sleeves. She didn't say anything as she slid into the booth, nodding to let the bartender know that her call got through and the mech pilot was being looked after now.
"sorry," said mech pilot slurred into the table where her head rested, "but she's leaving without us. I couldn't talk her out of it. I didn't want to worry you, I thought I could, I thought"
Seventeen Upset didn't need her apologies, but didn't have the words to say that. It was okay, though. It was usually okay. Communication was hard, but the two of them knew each other, and Seventeen knew that sometimes, just being there was enough. And other times, getting the pilot's arm over her shoulder, getting her out to the street where the station air was a bit less stuffy, where they could walk to their temporary lodgings as New Agartha's microclimate broke a rain shower over their heads, that was also enough.
It's not until Calypso Tarantula was tumbled into bed, shoes and trousers off, jacket off, shirt still on because Seventeen didn't dare, that something intruded into that comfortable bubble of 'enough'.
"Seventeen, I gotta..."
The girl shook her head and squeaked something out. The words didn't matter all that much usually. Seventeen Upset did most of her talking without words, so what did it matter which ones she tried to use?
"No, seriously, I gotta. I gotta show you something, I..."
Calypso struggled to pull her shirt up, over her head, something which Seventeen would normally be happy to see (and in the back of her mind, maybe happy to help with, maybe, or maybe to touch the skin under- no, that's where the thought had to stop) but right now, it was something which brought her rushing back to her pilot's bedside with a look of concern on her face instead, a look which only deepened when Calypso rolled to one side, thumbing away the dust-cover which protected one of her core spinal mount jacks, to reveal something pulsing with a rainbow light, deep inside the socket.
"Seventeen, I want you to meet Soléis. I... she needs your help too. We need to get her a housing. I can't sheathe her much longer. Please."
Her voice was a tired whisper.
"She got me out. I owe her the same favor. Swords gotta watch out for each other."
Núada sleeps uneasily.
One of the original NHPs designed to travel through blinkspace;
it lost its mind to the impossibilities of that realm.
The maimed god is still in shock, responding like a sleepwalker
to orders and questions. Despite that, its insights are hard to overstate
as the NHP forms impossible links
and gives half-formed prophecy to its Lancer.
Occasionally it turns and tosses,
nightmares crossing its mind.
Pilots are recommended to cycle Núada-class NHPs before long
as the nightmares become increasingly common.
Do not let it remember.
