We talked about making it
I'm sorry that you never made it
And it pains me just to hear you have to say it
You knew the game and played it
It kills to know that you have been defeated
I see the wires pulling while you're breathing
You knew you had a reason
It killed you like diseases
I can hear it in your voice while youâre speaking
You can't be treated
Mr. Know-it-all had his reign and his fall
At least thatâs what his brain is telling all
If he said, "Help me kill the president."
Well, I'd say he needs medicine
Sick of screaming let us in
The wires got the best of him
And all that he invested in goes
Straight to hell, straight to hell
an ooc note from andricâs player about why they have not been around much lately, wrote a whole lot of cathartic mindvomit, and will not be about in the future
thank you kind souls for playing with me, and for the support thatâs been shown towards writing, art, and related posts otherwise. it has been wonderful.
a few months back, anxiety and stage fright reared its ugly head, and I asked around and reached out for a bit of help and hand holding to get over a growing fear of people, groups, and events
several folks responded with kindness and a bit of going out of their way to talk to me. being unsure if I have thanked everyone for doing so, I have to extend a blanket thank you here. I appreciate it. for... for a little while there became involved with a lot of stuff and good people, regular events and group projects, guilds and channels, chattering with people both in game and out. you folks are really amazing.
unfortunately, this became a losing battle on my part. kind of dropped and went silent at the start of the year save a few attempts of reaching out or responding.
things related only loosely to the game - and unfortunately that I have associated to wildstar quite directly - have become a source of extreme anxiety, to point of taking a very visible toll on my health both mental and physical. not a thing in the world to do with the current state of the game or where itâs going. this is still the only mmo I honest to goodness enjoy for simple sake of it - but cannot stomach playing anymore.
purely personal issues, however.
i am one of those who thinks wildstar truly has a niche, and that it is a wonderful one, and have high hopes that the game continues on for a long time yet.
going to be retiring from rp and mmos and the like, stepping away from the game, although my characters have not seen much active engagement for some time now. (as taking andric through writing exercises of worse to worst scenarios might imply.)
for closureâs sake,
an obituary for andric pena is published--died during his mutiny/murder spree, circumstances unknown.
jack dynaer retires quietly, and fairly peacefully, to the background.
iszu skysoul travels and disappears after an encounter with volatile native elements- Â nexusâ are much more animate and dangerous than what sheâs dealt with before.
i apologize for being unable to continue, and for loose threads left unaddressed.
for those of you who took the time to read this far, again, thank you.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.
So, please don't take m'sunshine away.
Okay, so - so th'rest of these lyrics ainât... Well, ainât as much what I'm aimin' for. Yâdo whatcha need.
I just wanted to say goodbye, th'right way. Keep movin' forward, as ever y'can. I gotta give th'most heartfelt, uh... Hell. Already told yâguys what I thought, while back. Th'time on Nexus has been th'best dream I ever had. Yâall were thâbest what ever happened to me. Thank you for everythin'. [User mechanosynthesis connection lost.]
[::End recording.]
You are m'sunshine, my only sunshine.
Y'make me happy when skies are grey.
Each target was offered the reason of their impending end by the impassive voice that took over the shipâs system.
Each death, delivered by hand. Their hunter could have turned the ship itself against them. Turrets and laser mounts, the internal shield system, atmospheric control, or the external airlocks - he took control of it all. He did not, however, weaponize the ship. Used it to give himself the occasional upper hand, yes, but employ it as an impersonal killing machine? No.
Everything about his one man mutiny was personal, and so he met them one by one. Most he took by surprise, but several fought back. Giving them their chances was a simple matter of respect. If one of them killed him, he had no right to finish anyway.
A couple even lived.
Sadly, not many trained combatants resided among the scientists, coders, technicians, and doctors. He felt as a pumera in a coop of ash hens. Several damaged him, and severely so in some cases, but the stalker had been far beyond pain for hours. For the most part, anyway. His ribs hurt, and his head ached with a migraine fueled by some remnant of fear and... maybe regret. He was not entirely sure what that odd tangle of emotion was.
Regardless.
The body count rose to fifteen, before Andric returned to the shipâs captain as initially promised. The two of them had, in fact, been talking the entire time. It made for the most words ever passed between them in Rackham Briggams' decades long tenure as commanding officer.
In something of a sad irony, they almost got along. Almost. Each hated the othersâ reasoning and manner, but they reached an understanding far too many years late.
When the cyborg came for his last mark, it was not as an invisible killer, nor full of fury and threat as at the start.
Andric braced his shoulder to the entryway of the supplies hold that Briggs ended up in. His breath shuddered and rattled in his chest awkwardly before he croaked out a short sound. Lips drawing thin afterwards, the stalkerâs nose wrinkled.
âCaptain.â The comm spoke for him, instead, flooding the room with an ambient murmur. âYouâre the last one remaining. Shall we?â
The granokâs voice boomed from out of line of sight, his form obscured by shelving. âOne more time for accountability, ETO. Ya didnât kill any security? Nobody outside the project? Havenât ruined my ship for good?â
Picking himself up from where he leaned, Andric stepped into the clear forward section of the bay. Exosuits lined the far wall, for use in operations outside of the ship, or loading and unloading materials. Two weapons lockers in the back lay just out of line of sight - and thanks to the sensors and security verification, he knew Briggs had just been at one. He half expected a suit to rise to life and pelt him with a hail of magshot from afar.
âYou actually called me by my rank for the first time.â He mused instead of answering the questions initially. After a moment, the stalker shrugged his shoulders, and spoke on as though he could not help himself. âThe voice modulation will remain, and a few unfortunate side effects of my linking so thoroughly with the digital systems. Sheâs keeping little pieces of me forever. Not the unstable reasoning, though. Doing what is possible to prevent that from infecting the system. Also added a few speech pattern variants for those who cringe at the Cassian lilt.â
Andricâs arms dropped to either side, hands flexing. âOtherwise, damage is minimal. The hull breeches will be easily sorted as soon as people can get at them, and shields will easily hold as long as needed. Old Blue will probably require another shipâs help. I broke the spindrive couplings. No crew were harmed save the manifest of those involved with me, and co-conspirators behind your plot. I did not kill those whom you made patsies of, who were misinformed, or could not possibly understand what they dabbled in. So... no. Security is all still here. Honestly, you could check your datachron. I am not doctoring the information you receive.â
âDonât know that for certain.â Briggsâ gravelly chuckle rolled and resonated to fill the space almost as easily as the stalkerâs ship borne voice. âYa kept my comm pretty restricted.â
âMere prudence.â Andric lightly tapped the flat of one of his claws to the side of his leg. âYou would have put crew in harms way, and given instruction to co-conspirators outside the ship. I interrupted nothing else. Give me a little credit, here.â
Instead, Briggs shot at him.
This came as no surprise. Andric lifted and spun on one foot, diving aside. Whatever kind of weapon it was, the force with which it fired caused visual ripples, mirage-like distortions along its path. Something not logged in the shipâs database, nor anything he had ever seen firsthand before.
The sound of thuds across the bay echoed, then sand and metal scattering across the flooring immediately around him echoed after the concussive thump of the weapon. The stalker felt lopsided, his balance shot from the ringing in his ears, and stumbled as he rose.
âHo-oh, SHIT.â Rackham practically groaned victorious from his vantage. Boxes had been blown out of the way. Tools and barrels now littered the floor.
As did silver sand in a wide spray, and the alloy claws that wrapped over the back of the stalkerâs wrist and hand, in pieces.
Andric stared at them in disconcerted confusion.
âYa look like you could use a hand, Sparks.â Briggs snorted from his perch, as he pulled some kind of bolt action reset along the side of his weapon back into place. It was a heavy gun, obviously meant to be used by an exosuit, but he held it freehand easily enough. The granok stood tall, in much the same uniform as he had been wearing the last time they met. Strange that he had not taken the time to find heavier armor.
The cyborg glanced up, then down at his hands. Right, accounted for... left, not so much. Silver muck bled and dripped from his left shoulder to his hip, with only a minimal amount of blood trickling down with the goop. The pale, metal-reinforced and blue streaked bars of his ribs peeked through the nanite slush that just could not seem to pull itself back together.
âOh.â Andric croaked the little sound out with his own voice, mouth working after and nothing else quite following.
âAmazing, right?â Rackham hauled the heavy gun up to shoulder level again.
This time the cyborg dropped into stealth. The effect flickered and faltered, but obscured his form enough that when the next shot came, it threw the captainâs aim, and he managed to skid out of the way. Even one arm and a bit extra down, he could move fast. Faster than Briggs expected, that was for certain. The granok swung the gun itself at him, when he jumped up to the shelf tops and moved in close, with all the force of a battering ram.
For a brief moment, Andric knew what it was like to fly. Shelving broke his fall and he landed in a heap of twisted metal and wire. With no time to waste in a daze, he pushed himself up on his right arm and dragged himself aside until he could get a foot down on solid flooring. On his feet, he moved as quickly as he could for his left side and middle protested every motion. He hugged the side of the shelves, trying to stay out of sight as he moved into a better position.
The distinct double-click of the weaponâs bolt being pulled into place sounded again.
âYou could save a hell of a lot of lives if you took this tech down to Nexus.â Andricâs voice echoed from somewhere vaguely above. âIf it works like that on me, imagine what it could do for FCON against augmentation facilities with some adjustment.â
âGet back up here so I can kill you,â the captain grumbled.
âYessir,â the comm answered much too quickly.
One of the exosuits jumped up onto the shelving that Briggams perched on. He swung about to face it, his shot going off in the center mass of the thing. The cockpitâs forward screen shattered, shrapnel blew out of the back of the machine, and bits of metal melted down. Empty.
Unable to handle the extra weight, the shelving caved in, and the suit toppled with it. Briggs slid down and stumbled aside, landing on one knee. He only narrowly avoided one of the exosuitâs arms falling on him with a quick roll out of the way.
Andric was on him in a hot second before he could rise, however.
The hand the captain still held the gun with fell to the side, cleanly cut free, and the weapon clattered to the floor.
Briggs bellowed and snapped the remaining stump towards Andric, using his own arm as a bludgeon and grabbing with the other hand. The stalker ducked beneath, and whipped his fist into the heavy hitterâs side beneath the wounded arm.
Granok were notoriously hard to kill - and goodness knows the other on his list had done a number on him too - but he struck with all the weight and force he could muster. It helped that he knew where to hit, too. He ground his knuckles to Briggs until bloody silver smeared the captainâs coat and stony skin, three slim blades of a foot and a half of metallic alloy buried in the broader manâs chest. A jerk and forced twist of his wrist brought pained shouts from the both of them.
The granok twitched, shuddered, and then buried his elbow in Andricâs middle while the human was too close to dodge away again. Bones cracked where he caught the ribs, metal snapped with an audible twang. The human crumpled and spat, stuck vaguely upright only by virtue of his claws and the way they slumped together.
âGo into shock already,â Rackham hissed, sounding more like an animal growling than anything remotely civilized.
âYou first.â An ambient, room-wide murmur of the cyborgâs response held no emotion. The man himself made an awkward consonant sound of trying to draw breath in, then a weak cough spattered blood.
Briggs grunted in response, and stretched to reach for the gun again, despite the wristblades wedged in him. He slid it close and pulled the bolt, then fumbled, and pulled it again.
He would have fared better simply bludgeoning the cyborg to death, but the thought never occurred to him between pain and disorientation otherwise.
Andric worked up the nerve to yank his claws out to the tune of a groan from the granok, and buried them in once more. His own reflexive scream caught in his throat, a strangled sound, even if the pain of his broken body felt like a very far away thing.Â
This time he started beneath the line of thicker stone and ribcage supports that reinforced the granokâs torso. He worked the claws up at an angle into central mass. Rackham jolted, then slumped.
The gun went off with concussive force, and blew them both several feet in either direction.
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken,
So I hung m'head, an' I cried.
Andric stopped cold. The tips of his claws caught the coder's jacket over the heart, scratching through the fake leather.
The aurin made a squeak in the back of his throat, his own claws dragging against the acrylic panel of the wall behind himself as his fingers curled. The dark blue curve of his tail shuddered to the side, fur bottle brushing. Both ears lay flat to his head. Eyes locked on him, wide enough to appear luminous in the relatively low light. The aurin drew a breath, nose wrinkling in distaste at the reek of death and coppery ichor, then hissed in the attacker's face.
"Your file says you are twenty." A voice, not the normal feminine lilt of the ship's systems, spoke into the eerie silence of the crewman's quarters. It bore a Cassian's accent, masculine, though no emotional inflection colored it.
[cut for length. contains some violence and combat, mentions of blood, a minor, and sometimes someone lives]
Gleaming wristblades withdrew from their all too close proximity. Stepping back, Andric's bleeding brow furrowed in a baffled look. He wiped his right hand on his hip, little good it did to rid it entirely of a congealing substance - silty blood - then smoothed his palm over the white circuitous lines that crowned his head.
Rapid, shallow breathing slowed marginally. The aurin's toes twitched, digging into the rug bunched beneath them. His claws pulled against the plastic wall behind himself again.
"Not even twelve..." The broad man croaked himself, his voice muddy and low with disuse. He coughed aside, flinching at the sound of his own words.
The room's speaker system continued for him. "You're the coder I was so furious at and impressed with? You're so young, and... absolutely brilliant. Let me make you an offer. You can refuse. I will not harm you."
Slowly backing away, Andric gave the much smaller fellow space. "I know somewhere safe you could be able to work after all of this is over, if you come to understand that subverting another's will is a truly monstrous thing to do."
"Makes you no better than the stuff you're trying to fight, given these holonet posts of yours that are turning up. I was not the kind of enemy they told you I was - at that point in time. Your datachron, over there. I added a contact number. You want to strike at corruption in the Exiles? Do damage to the Dominion? Start there."
Hands rolling palm-up, the human dipped his head when the intercom finished speaking. The gesture reassured little, given the long points of the wristblades that remained in place.
Frozen throughout the words, whether they came from overhead or from the stalker himself, the aurin stared at him with wide, bright eyes.
He unfroze by launching at the bloody stalker. Razor sharp claws found purchase over the torn armor and prexisting wound in the broad human's shoulder. Bark-gripping toe claws dug into the mesh at his thigh and hip. The aurin, not even half Andric's height, threw his weight and tore at the comparatively massive aggressor as best as he could.
"Next time, bash in the throat or groin on a target my size," the ambient monotone voice advised, as the cyborg peeled the young man off and slung him clear across the room. His arm folded in quickly again after, wounded ribs reacting poorly to the powerful motion. The blue aurin hit the bed with a sharp exhalation of air, bounced off, and landed on all fours behind it. "Or learn wrist locks. You will have better odds. Seriously, look into that contact. They can teach you how to fight, too."
Andric huffed air out and turned towards the door. The aurin took his chances at attacking again, only to hit against a shield of hexagonal blue that flashed to life between them.
"It-it was just. J-just. Just a job, you don't. You donât have to kill eh-every-everyone!" The kid finally screamed at his back, hands raking against the shielding.
"It's personal," he retorted in the physical, voice rasping and croaking. His nanoskin activated and phased him from sight in a smooth, watery ripple.
The shield dropped, immediately after.
Almost as an afterthought, the intercom offered slow words, as though drawing them out could add an apologetic feel to the toneless speech. âSorry for almost putting a foot and a half of nanite-bound alloy through you, kit. Choose your jobs wisely, in the future.â
Please don't take my sunshine away.
Th' other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamt I held you in m'arms.
She must have seen the distortion from the corner of her eye. Whipping around to face the empty room and put her back to the wall, the engineer lifted a plasma multitool. The tool's leading edge sparked blue-white.
A granok with excellent reflexes. The man hunting her could appreciate that.
"Second Engineering Officer Hidara Orathur. Trying to repair what I did to Winner even after Briggs shot you a warning? Stars, I almost want to let you live for sheer dedication."
The voice filtered through the observation deck of Engine One's bay.
"Then why don'ya?" She spit back into the air. "It's what we DO, Penya. I got a job tae finish an' people to save, iffen ya didn't notice!"
Andric exhaled a heavy sigh aloud, and the granok fixed her gaze roughly on his location.
"I know. I do know. Remember when we used to dance? You, me, Menden, Hitchy, a couple trainees, putting on music in the low power cycles and fixing whatever they woke Hitchy and me up for..." He seemed to speak without source.
Lowering the multi-tool slowly, the granok engineer sighed, herself. "Yea, I 'memba."
As soon at the words were out of her mouth and the white hot edge of the repair tool lowered out of the way, he slammed into her with all the force a stalker-nanite augmented human could muster. She crumpled onto the console at her back, stony hide cracking awkwardly. The display sparked once and went dark.
His claws dug into her middle, and he tried to pull back in order to free his right arm. It was pinned between them due to the force that he shoulder-slammed her with and their awkward landing.
Hidara gurgled something that sounded an attempt at words, kneed him in the stomach hard enough that he doubled over, then she kicked his ass clear to the metallic floor. He skidded before righting himself, nanosuit flickering over as he rose.
By the time he had himself back onto his feet, she came at him in fire and fury instead of the other way around. The plasma tool neatly cauterized a line from his pectoral to his shoulder, searing over the rise of his collarbone. Engineer Orathurâs arms raised left opportunity for the stalker to strike her middle again, however, which he did. Getting his claws high enough to punch through the center mass of her torso or to get at her neck as his original plan dictated would require dropping into stealth and re-positioning, he decided.
âYou know,â the ambient Cassian voice from the comms rumbled around them, even as Hidara got a hand on the humanâs throat and tried to yank the side of his head into the multitool. The attempt failed, as he kicked a foot out from under her, and instead took the unheated metal butt of it to the brow. It split the skin there and blood trickled down the rise of his cheekbone, but she did not strike solidly enough to daze him. âI really would have let you live, had you not asked Briggs about using me to murder Menden, Hitchy, and your previous commander.â
She only answered with a strangled shriek as the human took advantage of her fall to shove her over, claws scraping stone and tearing the metal and cloth mesh of her uniform. Hidara attempted to yank him down with her, but her grip faltered and slipped when the nanosuit beneath her hand turned slick and silvery. He rasped, gasping for air once she lost the hold on his throat. Her nails left furrows in his skin.
Perhaps he would not need to temporarily flee for a better opportunity, after all. Putting his opponent on the ground offered him an extreme advantage.
âThe part about people who you would enjoy mailing our remnant body parts to did you no favors, either, but gave me a wonderful idea.â
Andric grinned, wild and toothy, as the granok snapped a fist into his left side. It rang resonant through his ribs. The two struck directly fractured and he hissed in pleasure, despite his body attempting to crumple inward with his next breath in.
In retaliation, he stomped her knee the wrong way.
She screamed and collapsed completely, but the sound cut abruptly short - after what felt like a year or so - into a wet, choked gurgle. His right hand's claws broke through stone and clay-like softness easily enough as he dragged her head up with his left arm. His ribs screamed their own protest. The grating resistance that followed caused a nails on chalkboard twinge and shudder up through his wounded shoulder, but he diligently worked the razor thin edge of a claw into place between her vertebrae.
âI guess Hitchyâs getting promoted to Second instead, if the fleet doesnât overhaul the rank crew entirely after this.â
A bubbly snort of a laugh escaped the stalker, and he briefly stilled, startled at the noise.
âWouldnât that be something?â The intercom asked the room, as Andric lifted up Orathurâs head.
He was going to send it to Admiral Daranok Briggams. She had always been the old granokâs favorite techie.
Upload voice protocol Mc.exblender.02 to the ship, please. I need to make a voicelog or few, and like hell if Iâm doing it lapsing into sounding like I just stepped out of a Cassian ball.
Operation successful.
[::Recording.]
You're my sunshine, m'only sunshine.
You make me happy when skies're grey.
Y'never know, dear, how much I love ya.
Thanks, man. Can you work on parsing as much of my persona data as you can while I'm finishing up here, too?
You're welcome, mechanosynthesis. I will try. Efficiency rises by a factor of three if I am given access to the Eldan facility, or ten should I upload myself to the ship. Also, if we introduce a sufficient amount of Medical 501xb.iv to your system within three hours, it is still within statistic possibility to disconnect you and reverse much of the damage done. If you cease your ridiculous vengeance plot and give me time to load in
How long, knowing I donât have the space to house you right now and weâd have to do everything via the ship until a disconnect was even possible?
[cut for length. contains a relatively graphic mention of violence, blood mention, decapitation mention, cursing, exposition otherwise, dissociative states, and an A.I. Morality Checking Software foil, shot in the dark tech descriptions, a stalker gone off the deep end, sci fi bs that may not be grounded in anything remotely resembling science]
Seven hours, skipping extraneous protocols covered by Project: MATILDA. I can minimize degradation to your system after introduction, even if the link must be kept active.
No can do. Thereâs no way to get a tank of custom nanites here that fast, then have to wait that long to transfer, verify, and reconfigure you twice even before we try to make magic happen with whatâs left of me.
It is my job to make certain you survive. We are not beyond repair.
Yeah... look. Those ain't the only problems. Thereâs a reason Iâm burning up so fast. Youâre doing exactly that by saving every scrap you can, anyway. Pass encryption's seed for the Eldan lab lockout is Faustin's birthday, to the nano. Don't touch the phage stuff. Don't upload to the ship. Anything else?
Threatening miss Briggams and her daughter was poor form. You still appear quite coherent, to me, regardless of your biometrics.
Friggenâ... okay. I know. They deserve better than that. Also no. I just dismantled Doctor Serigal. While we were talking, here. See the endorphin rush, those dopamine levels? Youâre talking to a part using the ship to multitask and me trying to focus while executing a few dozen operations. Iâm loopier than a hoverboard racetrack. Cracked. Snapped. Canât stop.
Thereâs blood in my mouth, and I like it.
Besides, itâs not your job to keep me on the moral straight and narrow.
I am required to re-examine your decisions. This is not you. They will be disappointed, if not horrified. I believe you wished me to point out moments such as this.
Of course I did. And youâre right. I wasnât as well off as I thought I was. Broke something besides the ship and some necks. Iâll... no kids. I got it. No kids. No making orphans, either. Iâll double-check their records before I take down the rest.
Hoods are going to be all over this when I'm done. In fact, we need to scrub these data transfer logs and FCON sat 315's records. They're gonna investigate the lab on principle, and I don't want you found.
Already on it. I'm better at this part than you, mechanosynthesis. I will not be caught with my hardlight pants down.
Evindraâs fucking mercy, I hate hearing my own ego reflected-- ooh... I found SEO Orathur. This is going to be fun.
Morality check.
Too late for that, bud. I'm gonna wedge my claws between C4 and 5 and pop her head off like a cork out of a wine bottle.
Perhaps you are not as coherent as I hoped. These are not cerebral patterns I wish to save to my own database. Please try to focus on something else as I attempt to perform as requested.
Captain Rackham Briggams required a tool and a weapon. What he received instead became a nightmare unexpected, before he ever truly could put his ideas in motion.
Maybe it started with the ship-wide system failures. Everything but residential, medbay, and cryopod maintenance suffered power surges and shortages. Engine Two fired without spool up procedures nor warning, punching the fore of the arkship into the Halon belt object she rest flush against. The spindriveâs unstable singularity buckled its support casing inwards towards itself before the rift in space came apart. Shield systems prevented damage from spreading or any hands from being lost, but the shipâs hull tore across two decks between the impact and gravity anomalies.
Maybe it was when her weapons fired, carving a wide-angle sweep clean through three of her own maneuvering thruster mounts and across the side of Engine Oneâs external hull.
Maybe it was when something went incredibly wrong with the Matilda protocols...
No, Peña did something. The system reported normal. Even the Peregrine King reported all green, two engines down, internal shielding partitioning the ship without alarms, and several cabin sections bearing multiple hull ruptures.
Andric somehow took control back, unexpected, both of himself and of the whole damned arkship in one fell swoop.
And then the bastard went absolutely insane.
[cut for length. contains blood, gore, altered states, mental illness, reactive psychosis, depersonalization, body horror, strangulation, murder in a fair measure of graphic detail, threats against children, outright powerplay, shot in the dark tech descriptions, a stalker gone a little bit off the deep end, sci fi bs that may not be grounded in anything remotely resembling science]
Executive Officer Ben Dalton jerked, his arms lifting to swat his hands against the bulky stalkerâs forearms and grip on claw-like as he could. The wild grin on the darker skinned humanâs face turned feral, teeth bared and metallic eyes wide as he gripped the XO by the throat.
He whispered something, and Dalton struggled anew. Unfortunately the bridge officerâs gun - and three of his fingers - lay to the side, neatly divided into pieces by the stalkerâs claws.
The crimson stains spreading over front and back of the superior officer's shirt proved that the strangulation was superfluous: either for pleasure or to bring the man to a quicker end.
âYou thought I was dangerous?â
That damned Cassian's voice spoke through the Captainâs datachron, devoid of inflection, as Rackham watched him from the other side of two panes of tinted aluminum glass.
The cyborg turned his head to stare at him directly, as though the walls were not even there. His dead eye glowed a baleful and bright yellow, repaired and reactivated through some means the granok could hardly guess at. The humanâs lips did not move as his voice resonated. The more slender man held in his grasp ceased struggling and slacked.
âLet me show you dangerous.â
His nanosuit rippled and pulsed with lines silver and white, in a constant state of looking as though it melted off his form and melded back in. The patterns remained lit across the manâs clean shaven head, over both eyes, and along his neck to disappear beneath the half-attached armor they had been fitting onto him.
Dalton's final twitches came to a halt.
"For my next magic trick, I'll give Seylana my regards, and make little Rini disappear."
Rackhamâs fist slammed against the metal wall, which echoed resonant with the impact.
The shorter figure on the other side of the glass rolled a wrist that dripped with blood in return, gesturing as though they spoke conversationally.
"She's TEN, ya psycho fuck," the Captain's voice cracked. "Don't involve her. I didn't involve your family."
Andric dropped Dalton's body to the side and turned fully towards the tinted window, his shoulders rising in a shrug.
There were two other bodies in the room already. Dalton made three. They were scientists, however, not the two granok he threatened.
"Now she's dead," the datachron stated dully. "They both are."
Rackham lifted himself from where he leaned on the wall and took a step back. "You're a fucking liar. Yer fuckin' with me. Ya were always too moral for anything like this. Threatening a kid's life? That's too low." If there was one thing that was ever a given, it was that the Specialist could always be baited into talking, as far as Briggams knew.
Apparently the stalker believed he had the luxury of time enough for conversations, and entertained the granokâs baiting.
"Yes." To which part he answered, he did not clarify.
Andric's head cocked aside and he paced up to the glassy metal with motions animalistic. "You tortured me, Briggs." The datachron on the floor accused, still toneless, like that explained everything.
Rackham said nothing.
The corners of Andric's mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile. "I had my happy ending. My family.â The smile faded again. âAnd lost it when that EMP went off. Then lost all hope of repair, the moment I stepped back onto this ship - it just took me a while to realize it. There's no way you're going to have any kind of storybook turnaround, yourself. Iâve forwarded the files to FCON and the Hoods already, you know. Everything you were trying to do. Everything I recorded. What you stole from the Hoods. Your personal records. Your little bout of Dominion collusion to get what you wanted, there, and the sabotage and assassination shit."
The man's yellow eye gleamed brighter. "And pre-emptive confession for multiple murders and crippling of an Exile vessel still carrying a significant amount of cryo cases, on my part. They won't get here in time to stop me nor save any of your accomplices. Nobody will. Not your men. Not their men."
His brow twitched. "Not my men."
The human's bloody hand rose and pressed to the tinted window, smearing a print there. His claws scraped against the aluminum, audible even from Rackham's position. Drips of red rolled down his arm. "I can tell you my sense of morality's at an all time low right now. I'm also- not. Not in my right mind. You sit tight, sir. I still have eight scientists' necks to snap, a Second Engineer to behead, three more bridge officers to murder, and then I shall return promptly."
After taking a deep breath of sterile, recycled air that bore the faintest tinge of distant chemical smoke, Briggams growled out roughly, "Wait. Peña, wait."
That hand slid downwards to leave a crimson streak, accompanied by a sharp squeal of metal on metal from the claws dragging furrows into the wall. "Unable to comply, Captain. Speak your peace, though. You don't need your datachron. I'm always listening, now. Feel free to wander anywhere but medical. Iâll even drop the shields for you... sir."
Silver goop pulled itself back upwards from its incessant dripping off of the stalker's broad frame. His figure rippled and distorted as disturbed water might, then he phased from sight completely, glowing lines and all.
The familiar hum of life support moving air made the faintest of vibrations through the shipâs hull. A distant awareness of Won, Tried and True, and Aqua Fortisâ electric presences pricked at him. The background melody of the Peregrine Kingâs regular digital operations sang over the bass heartbeat of her analog functions.
Andric never stopped adding code to the rudimentary interface he had started just to send messages, months ago. It kept him from going insane over blurry spans of time, helped him keep the nanites he did control both low-key and appropriately busy, and kept him from taking up all of his available space ranting endlessly into personal logs.
The relay chip tucked away in the ship pinged him immediately on detection, as well as clarified which he had been using before.
He felt tears well up again.
Oh, thank all that is great and good in this universe.
He painted the cargo bay in reds and golds, in flowers and spring hues, even in the warm wood panels of familiar places. Hallucination, maybe, or allowing himself to be lost in recollection.
Time blurred away, then filtered back with the metallic clicks of his left foot to panel flooring. Dark edges to the left side of his vision reminded him of his broken bionics and cybernetics, and the marker that blinked idly there of the steps he had made towards breaking his bonds. Bobs and sways in patterns he recognized and in motions he could not control once more grounded him in reality.
Cool recycled air filtering down from above made it obvious that damp lines streaked his face. They grew chill at his cheeks and jawline as they dried.
A word halted him with his hands upraised as though in supplication, balanced upon his toes.
[cut for length. contains cursing, murderous fantasy and intent, a couple of jerks, unwilling restraint]
This is getting tedious.
Reformation during his time on Nexus be damned, forget everything it would do to his career or freedom to cold blood murder a fleet commander and company officer of good standing. He was going to stab that rocky fuckface right in the chest. This puppet act and being ripped out of his life infuriated him.
Soon as he could move again. Boom. Stab time. No time to waste waiting for someone else to assassinate them.
Console chirping - rapid typing in the background - punctuated his abruptly resumed fantasies of how he would pry one Briggs or anothers' rocky plates off and make them choke on them. Especially Rackham.
Sabotage in engineering, airlocks snapping open when he passed. Someone on board tried to kill him thrice over, a year ago. He suspected Rackham and Dalton trying to play at plausible deniability, but...
Well. Here they were.
Here they were, and he had all the proof he could ever possibly want.
"Menden and Orathur are awake and on board, ser. Hitchy is on call in the Halon. Four others on Nexus before dipping into FCON resources."
The soft twang of the voice rang human, distinctly masculine. Andric recognized that sycophant instantly, even with shoddy hearing. Dalton again. That was executive officer Dalton talking. Bastard Benny, who sent vague threat letters to himself and Faustin despite both agreeing to tours of duty. Accusations of being deserters and traitors. Blackmail and bribery. Shit that briefly put Andric in hot water with his XAS dispatcher and had a Hood snooping through his laboratory investments thinking he wouldnât notice. They probably wanted him to notice, honestly. Subtle interest was a marked threat tactic to certain Hoods operatives. "What about the eye and cerebral implants?" Daltonâs voice lilted curiously. âConsidering his past, ser.â
He fervently wished to kill him, too. The King's commanding officers, both of whom personally ruined certain aspects of his life, conveniently alone in a room with him. They would be missed, and probably quickly so, but at this point he decided it was worth it.
A pang reminded him that he learned better from Faustin, though. He could get away from this, from them. In fact, he had.
The conflict of interest raged in the back of his head as he listened to the pitches and tones of the two officersâ voices.
"Eggheads couldnât crack out that brain stuff given months, and if he could be a problem, he wouldâve." Rackham shot back dismissively, his attention obviously not on Dalton. "Orathur will do. Chief got a soft spot for this âun, keep him dark or weâll have to make him dark, and I ainât keen on promoting Hitchy when sheâs sellinâ info to groundbound FCON."
Discomforting fear itched at the prone stalker with the shift in tones. However, no sinking feeling turned in his stomach. No spike of adrenaline. No irregular flutters of his heartbeat from the softly chiming monitor to the side. Denied these sensations, all he had was the twitch of the muscles at his jaw, clenching tightly enough to grind his teeth.
"This here says you're awake, Specialist. Welcome home. Apologies for the... circumstance." The granok's voice tried for kindly tones. Kindly tones obviously lacked in his repertoire.
Briggs stepped around into Andric's line of sight, dusting his hands off on his pants. Out of uniform, the broad figure looked like the kind of laid back guy somebody could just chill with. He wore overalls and no marks of station. Russet, sedimentary-looking stone clinked when the granok put his hands together with a broad grin.
The stalker lipped a choice few words, not even managing to breathe out the curses. "What do you want?" He mouthed the rest after.
Home, though.
Right on cue, the shuttleâs engines fired again, countering much of her momentum. Small vibrations in the hull marked fine maneuvering thrusters adjusting her course.
Here he held a fighting chance. Hope hammered like a drumbeat, abrupt and overwhelming in him. His heartrate remained largely unchanged. Matilda reported a minor adrenaline spike in the subject.
Drawing a squared datachron from a pocket, Rackham glanced down, then back to the stalker. The ruddy granok snorted. âNothin' to be afraid of. Pretty damn valuable investment.â
Andric understood the idea of what he meant there, at least the first part of it, and the corner of his mouth twitched down. Being underestimated and misunderstood worked perfectly for him, and inwardly he beamed.
For good measure, though, he mouthed, âKill you first.â
The Peregrine King held complex systems, and simply existing with his feet to the floor, being in her frame, he could influence her. Nobody and nothing could keep him out of this arkshipâs system for long, whatever they tried to stymie his access.
Oh they had no idea what fun they were in for.
"Can't seem to hear ya," Rackham quipped. "Sorry." Â A grin split his face, and whether it was happy or threatening, Andric could not even tell.
Even if he could barely communicate, sneering in response came second nature to the ginger.
The captain lifted his chin and angled his head with an exaggerated motion of rolling his eyes. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to shoot that look off your highborne face. Unfortunately, we've work to do. About face, Specialist. Stay two steps ahead of me."
Andricâs arms lowered finally, and he turned to face the exit of the transport.
âIn addition, you can assume that none of our cultures demonize the LGBT members of their society.â âGary Astleford (CRB_Spellchecker) Senior Story Designer, WildStar
Another example of why WildStar is a game worth supporting.Â
âThis is embarrassing!â A voice so like his own laughed, hands so much like his own thrown up into the air in playful exasperation.
âWe do need to learn. Father insisted. Itâs important.â He heard himself say, and he remembered folding his arms across his chest indignantly.
How old were they? Seven or eight. Somewhere in there, so he recalled.
Nereus laughed again, pointing at him as he looked away. âI want a better dance partner. Mes pattes! He squished my foot!â
âI did not! You tripped!â Andreal barked back, completely offended. âPulled us both down!â
Bubbly laughter answered them both, and their mother picked herself up from where she reclined aside on a cushioned seat. She dressed simply, in bright colors offsetting dark skin, and had flowers in her braids. Gifts from the boys. Spring flowers and budding plants dominated the edges of the garden courtyard, especially the roses.
Especially the pastel and red roses, vivid in almost every memory involving his brother and mother. Arranged on tables, in singular vases at windowsills, framing the banisters of stairwells, petals topping food or rosehips and petals in the drinks, stems held in nervous hands or tucked behind delicately pointed ears, always roses. Their mother had roses in her very name.
She held out a hand to his brother. âStepped with cro-cros, did he? Mais, first dance to you, shoushou, for your poor toes, them. Bebette, chere, after, âtil he learn his care.â
Andreal tried to look annoyed over the affectionate namecalling as he sat down to wait, but his mother tossed one of her roses over to him. He kicked his feet back and forth, shoes skimming against the stone tile, and pushed its stem through a button hole on his shirt.
She led the other boy through the dance. Three steps, three steps, sway and a slow spin.
Voices murmured in a background drone. The lighting shifted to illuminate the central floor, casting the expansive room in a warm and golden glow. People filtered out in pairs as the music began. Yellow and red roses accented everything. Gold and scarlet drapery softened the background and made the space feel larger than it might have already been. Crystalline chandeliers hung overhead, reflecting rainbows.
The Annual Gala of Bellemarais, with invitation extended to those of blue blood only. Schmooze with the landed and blooded families from within several hundred miles. A few representatives of holdings from even longer distances attended, largely for a chance to meet the reclusive Luminai of the coast and thicket. Some of the families represented held long histories and considerable sway.
Three vaulted Luminai, each beholden to a different house, deigned grace their constituents with their elegant presences, this year.
Andreal rest down on one knee before one named Soloa, whose eyes glowed like sparks of blue behind the delicate filigrees of their mask. Long, pallid ears chimed faintly with the Luminaiâs subtle motions due to the bell-strung cuffs adorning them.
Behind him, Nereus bowed his head, a fist over his heart.
Soloaâs fingers moved, and the twins withdrew to find their partners for the dance floor.
âShe scares me,â his brother remarked in an undertone once well out of hearing range of the Luminaiâs guardians.
He smiled, himself, and exhaled his words as a sigh. âTo the very core, as any god should.â
âWhatever she did to you frightens me even more,â Nereus added in answer to the wistful words, voice low and terse. He raised his head and glanced away, however, smiling brightly and lifting his fingers to a pair who alternately tittered and self-righteously lifted their chins in return.
âIâm fine. Youâre fine,â Andreal murmured with a shake of his head, as though clearing it. âYou make good choices. You listen, and work hard. Weâll go far, especially in the church. Theyâve no reason to do anything to you. Anyway, we are supposed to be putting on a bloody show and showing the rest of these sad, muddied souls how itâs done, Ditty. Shall we steal away the lovely lad and lady and take point on the next waltz with a little synchronization?â
Nereusâ own laugh seemed to catch him off guard, and he brightened. âJust so, Connie. Let us make a night of outclassing the high class, since you insist.â
The rest blurred into so much music, laughter, playful egotism and politics, and warm hues. He even forgot about the glowing stares of the Luminai, for a time.
âAinât never done nothinâ... well, it ainât like a two-step or square dance, issit?â
Brown eyes caught Andricâs own bronze and gold. A pale brow pinched together in an expression almost pained.
His darker fingers caught beneath Faustinâs chin and nudged his head up. âKinna is close tâ two-step, actually. Trust me, itâs thâeasiest thing in thâworld, Buffalump. No gettinâ embarrassed even if we stumble. Letâs just have fun, maybe learn a liâl somethinâ, arright?â
Faustin sniffed indignantly, once, but replaced his calloused hand on Andricâs shoulder. âThis feels all fancy. Got two left feet,â he mumbled.
âI've only a right foot, yâknow, weâll balance right on out,â he whispered back with a smile. âNothinâ fancy, come on. Feel anâ follow, and- âey, I even found music youâll prolly be down with.â
An Exileâs waltz. Quaint, one part of him thought. And absolutely spectacular, the rest of him exulted. He honestly thought quite highly of those who - with the smallest bit of tuning, or modification of a bridge, or by style of play - turned a violin into a fiddle. The music bounced and engaged.
For worrying about his two left feet, Faustin followed well. For having one mechanical leg, Andric liked to think he still taught and led well, too. The musicâs volume crept up slowly from one of the screens in the background on a silent beck from the stalker until it provided the perfect undercurrent.
âOne-two-three, one anâ a two anâ a three... see? Easy. Easy, peasy. Turn with me, we donât wanna bump the table. Good. Good, you got this. Canni spin you? Promise I wonât letcha fall.â
Faustin guffawed, though kept with the steps despite his laugh making him falter just a bit. âWhat, Iâm taller, lemme spin ya!â
A grin split Andricâs face and he moved one hand aside to pluck his fingertips against a belt that strapped over Faustinâs shoulder. âCan do. But can ya lift me up after? That was thânext bit, afore we turn and swing back over thattaway.â
âYa bet yer ass ah sure kin,â the doctor grinned right back, even if he was probably half Andricâs weight and the stalker had been resisting the urge to teasingly call him a greenbean for the last week. The beans outside had started putting on, and cracking a joke about losing Faustin every time he walked between the lines was just entirely too perfect.
It turned out the esper really could lift the bulky technician with ease, though, even if he cheated to do it.
The near weightlessness of whatever forgettable section of the Halon ring the outpost had stood on gave over to artificial gravity. Engines rumbled to life, then silenced once momentum sufficed to get the transporter where it needed to go.
A standard Exile short range cargo ship, modified and upgraded: the supply runners for arkships. Andric absently considered the make and model, worked out her engine type by tonal vibration through the hull. Megatech power cells, a Vora-Shin thruster on one side and Protostar trash on the other, though they aligned well enough. This vehicle saw upgrades since Nexus, a thought that he filed away as details which could be traced.
Someone made the mistake of resting him against the side of the cargo bay where wires ran behind the thin metal and acrylic panels of the wall. Maybe they figured that since he had not been able to break into the systems of the laboratory, nor break the Matildaâs systemâs hold, that he posed no threat near electronics. More likely, whoever ordered him to stand there simply had no awareness of ship configurations.
He reached out without reaching out, and a simple challenge-response authentication greeted him. Matilda took no notice. Minor fluctuations of the nanoskin remained well within operating parameters. The ship made no note of the intrusion, either, and he made certain of that.
The wild urge to send the small ship shooting into the closest solid object tugged at the back of his mind, but there was a pilot in the cockpit. No autopilot enabled to tweak, and he could not switch the control scheme from the back of the ship. Thirteen people aboard, the internal systems reported. No network access. This ship still used a real comms station up front, requiring manual transmissions.
He could, however, grab a snapshot of her current position and course. Filed away with the rest of his personal logs, that undoubtedly would help at a later point in time. Halon object number... slipping around the dark side of several belt objects, then... towards a cluster of well-hidden Exile ships. The identifiers made the corner of his mouth crook and his eyelids drift low.
The Peregrine King and her auxiliaries. Of course. They moved again since the last time he saw her, well over a year ago. He did not look forward to revisiting the old girl just yet, but this worked in his favor.
A voice growled bestial and interrupted his idle analysis and being blessedly lost in an unsecured system. An upwards lilt carried it into grinding gravel and thunder.
Andric cocked his head ever so slightly at the noise. Third time in the last few days...
Briggs.
Though he himself could not understand the words spoken, he moved in response. Heavy footsteps carried him to the center of the bay and pulled him away from his trading musical notes with the ship. A floodlight turned to center on him.
Time to put on a show, apparently.
Captain Rackham Briggams might as well be a beast, as far as the technician cared. More subtle than his father and theoretically more cunning, Rackham had a vengeance streak a lightyear wide and a love of salting wounds.
At least Admiral Daranok Briggams stuck to a steady ideal of what constituted the law, warped though it was. Big fish, small pond ideals ran in their family. Not to mention the nepotism, and the favoritism, the dehumanization of living elements that they could not control, the violence, and--
The stalker flirted again with the idea of finding a way to off the entire Briggs line and get away clean. They were no boon to the Exiles.
That wasn't true, and he knew it. They ran a damned effective company, had seen to the survival and evacuation of a great many Exiles, did a number on their fair share of pirate groups and Dominion, had played hide and seek with a Dominion military ship for years, and kept a tight ship despite a nigh marauder style of command at times. That they encouraged competition rather than cooperation between - or even internally among - departments on the ship was probably a minor quibble in the grand scheme of things.
Honestly, they were fairly upstanding fleet men outwardly, which was more than he could say for many. Except... one had taken his leg and effectively enslaved him, the other created circumstances for loss of his eye and the necessity for several implants. They had made a piece of equipment out of him, especially once fully informed of his talents and ease of connection with the Peregrine King, and he was not the only one. They were horrible to certain people under their own command, however good their results.
Trying to consider their virtues did nothing to keep him from obsessing over killing that entire granok line for several minutes anyway, as he watched his own wristblades and hand glitter under the bright lights.
Andric swept a kick, slipped between the strikes of a holographic target. Another motion test. Another display of how well Matilda could control him, of how effectively Briggs controlled him.
He supposed they did not need him for ship maintenance purposes anymore, not that he had any reason to comply at this point. He still could not figure out what the reasoning was...
Andric always made a more effective tool than weapon, he thought. This whole ordeal had been one colossal waste of time for a vengeance plot.
Perhaps Briggs disagreed. Maybe it did not even matter.
On a word resonant, the martial routine turned over to dancing. His hands lifted and wrists rolled, claws disengaging. Touching forward as though to meet a partner at shoulder and hip though the hologram did not play along, he swept aside. His mind wandered from murder to dance, away from the specifics of the performance he gave and through memories. Given his circumstance, it proved all too easy to get lost in his own head.
Personal log ^^^^ââââ*%ââ
Error: Data c â rrupted.
Hey hey, lookie at what beautiful thing I got working again. This helps a bit. Now I can keep logs and queue stuff for transmission. Praise be to better data storage.
[cut for length. contains stream of thought reflection over poor circumstances, including brief mentions of surgery, altered states, helplessness, death, wills, Â assassination, murder and murderous tendencies, some egotism, stalker headcanons that probably make no sense eyy.]
Still don't know where exactly this is. Kind of hope luck is on my side and the relay point that I found wasnât an arkship at all - the Dawn, not the King. Thatâd be beautiful. Canât be the Ruin, space around her is way too populated even if sheâs in hiding. Bad place to hide folks. If itâs the others, Iunno Iâm just fucked and I really am dead already but theyâve got better stalker-breakinâ tech than this, itâs one of their specialties. If my internal clock is even roughly correct, I have been held in a near-comatose state for what is getting well into the months, now. Save when they have me up and running mobility or connect and control tests.
Sucks. Least it ainât cryo.
In and out of consciousness. Pretty consistently drugged. Theyâre not meeting my nutritional reqs too well. Under a knife a few too many times. They have got to know I was awake for some of those. They do know Iâm pretty aware in general. Bastards.
They found my tunnel and cut me off. Don't think there's any external access in this lab anymore. Whatever techie they have in here, they are pretty smart, even if it took them a while. Were it another situation, I would be trying to hire them. Hell. If they cared to communicate, I'd make the offer even now. Pretty sure they arenât getting paid enough for this BS, and maybe I could add enough 0s to turn a head.
But no more collecting data from the fleet worm. I think they cut me off before my biometrics even finished sending to Snow. With the constant breaks and errors, I don't even know if my messages even got out before that plug was pulled. Gods be damned, needed to... ah well.
Sorry, guys. And tree.
I'm growing tired of talking to myself. Who ever thought that was even possible? I love hearing me talk, listening to me think, something like that. Pity I ain't the type for meditation or this could be relaxing. Though time for self-reflection in clear moments isn't entirely bad.
The pitches of conversations here changed. Whatever they were doing with me, with my nanoskin, my implants, something's different. Think they hit and failed a deadline, or are under threat of being shut down. Nobody bothered fixing my ears, so haven't been able to make out jack nor shit all of what is being said. Just tones, the occasional word.
Believe they were trying to access my core unit, given the surgeries. Or figure out what got replaced in my skull and where the wet wires all are. Or figure out how I do my magic acts with electronics. Something Matilda wasnât made for, whatever the aim.
Maybe get at my OS. Ha. Good luck finding what works among a bunch of useless EMPâd trash that I could eventually fix but yaâll sorry sons of bitches sure canât.
My configuration, physical or not, sure isnât in any database. Custom Dominion systems and fucked up stalker implantation that never should have happened in the first place does that. They've probably not seen someone quite like me, unless they got someone on team thatâs dealt with results of aggressive augment problems down planetside. Yeah. Doubt that. XAS and CoGS havenât lost many to other organizations yet, just to field deaths.
Lucky me they need me alive for whatever theyâre doing, else they would have just taken my brain out and done more than biopsies and looking around. Good luck working out my bionics when I'm not going to tell you what does what, which parts are truly cybernetic, and why it's half metal in there. No matter what you try. My being a tangled mess with nerve problems works to my advantage, I suppose. Even if that advantage is just pissing off and stalling abductors, buying me time.
For the life of me, I cannot figure out what they've been trying to do otherwise, besides those guesses in the dark. Relatively assured this is some vengeance stunt of Briggs the Younger. He's got rank and pull to just have me thrown out an airlock, or hung by a zealous Judge, or put up in front of firing squad. Why the ambush and experiments? Doesn't make sense.
Caught his voice a couple times. Him and Dalton.
If anyone ever gets this log, if someone figures which node it is and pulls the control core out of my skull, or they move what's left of me in close enough range of a wireless system with network access and these queues send, fucking kill the both of them for me. Ben Dalton, human, and Rackham Briggams, granok. XO and CO of the arkship Peregrine King, respectively.
If this ever uploads to home- yeah Iâm sorry for disappearing. I was trying to do something good, got distracted in a matter of personal pissing contests with a hundred year old rival, and everything went to hell again. Really donât know how I went from Dominion territory to some Exile-merc lab, though. Was unconscious for that. Thatâs suspicious shit on itâs own.
But okay, the brass. They're kind of respected men, not entirely bad guys. But I want them DEAD. The Peregrineâs a good ship, an amazing ship. Theyâre shitty, corrupted commanders that run the ship like Exile civvies are expendable and com and noncom folks are cogs in a machine, however good the rep. Hell, I could even still issue a reward in a worst case scenario. Even if I'm pretty sure that's against the Exile Accords. Prolly supposed to go through FCON or a Judge. Fuck it.
Pena Nanotech, Wilderrun. On the Protostar lists. Ask for Gus. The Ekose will know what's up, if you say Andric sent ya. They'll put you in front of a computer. Gus is the computer, or, well, the operating system. My operating system. A copy of my simulacrum, with the true A.I. stuff enabled. My worse half, the calculator. He'll probably make a couple odd requests if you inform him I got offed, or if he gets these files. He can authorize a pretty fucking good payoff for an assassination. Far as records are concerned, heâs a person. Okay. Yeah. Iâve got like four or five pseudos. Heâs got em all, and their bank records. I donât even care anymore. Some of thatâs willed off to other parties, or poured into PNL and a construction company, but the rest? Fuck it. Kill them and youâre sittinâ pretty for years.
Anyway. I'd appreciate if somebody fulfilled the weird requests, too. Especially the one about getting Gus into the Datascape, because itâs going to come up. I kept him cut off on purpose despite the Eldan facility next door. Too noisy for me, couldnât handle that overwhelming shit. No point in not uploading him now. Thereâs this place he was going to look after and keep somebody company for a long time yet, and a poor augmented kid he was gonna try to help on the internal code kind of level, and thatâs the only way to approach it.
Can't even get revenge for myself if I do get out of here. Moral issue. There's an amazing man out there on Nexus who told me there's a better way of living, and I'll still listen. Even if paying off somebody for a murder sure ainât abiding by it too well. Sorry, far as that goes. Petty vengeance streaks. I canât forgive Briggs for ruininâ me again.
I'm probably not getting out of here. Though, maybe. Maybe. I AM making progress. Maybe I can swipe control back, fuck up the databases here and figure out what they were doing with me, and scram without killing anybody on the way out, visceral temptation though it is.
Never really thought about going home before. Even after Cassus.
I just want to go home. I've places that feel as home, now. I w^^ââââââââ*%*%%%
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