The Ascension of the Imperium IC (All Tech, TG for interest)

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]


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The Auraverse
Posts: 58
Founded: Aug 31, 2019
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby The Auraverse » Mon Jun 21, 2021 5:32 am


Hatlen stood. Or rather, the thing that had chatted platitudes and indulged in sundry carbohydrates with Ambrosia did. In truth, the Director was unimaginably vast; the shell of maybe-matter that had untold time ago served as his entirety was now merely a vestige by which interaction and representation in realspace was to be had. By all rights, it served a miniscule function in the grand scheme of the Work, and yet...

And yet the greater whole held some inexplicable thread of attachment to the damn thing. For the terrible, unspoken truth was this - MAGNUS had been wrought on warped principles. Its architecture, brilliant and wondrous and reality-defying though it was, had grown in accordance to a schema stemming from a singular, core ideal - with no overarching plan and no tangible end-goal at inception, it had spread forth as a sort of eternal probe. Of course, it had consolidated itself throughout the course of all this, and the Work now loomed about as menacingly as any incomprehensibly-worded extreme-long-term plan with unclear consequences for all of known existence. But MAGNUS had still been built around one man. And this meant that, for all its technical unimportance, what remained directly of said man did hold some significance in the processing order.

For one thing, its physical proximity to things tended to put them in a markedly more focused spotlight.

Only the tiniest sliver of the Corde mass had been devoted to observing the immediate(ish) surroundings of this particular Earth. This could still be considered ample resources to note down anything and everything of note, and it had. And it had catalogued it all, and relayed it back through the mangled mess of gates and byways, in a somewhat diluted fashion, to Hatlen's ill-defined "core". The wispy, barely-extant shard of what could still tentatively be called consciousness.

Hatlen commanded his realspace-anchored shell to stand, as a semi-conscious expression of action. Simultaneously, he commanded a great big host of other things to get markedly more busy. Along still-shimmering threads of twisted space, he felt some inexplicable damper on the greater field of attention - this warranted investigation. Scores of systems away, something had opened a hole through into somewhere else, and on the other side there was the merest hint of wonder. This too was worth looking into. Untold specks, cosmically speaking, had cascaded down through into the torrid atmosphere of the planet he now occupied, and the balance of all the clashing masses on its surface was shifting more vigorously than ever prior. Here he didn't actually need to do much of anything - the fact that he himself stood on the surface of this empirically-insignificant and yet oh-so-interesting rock was all the sensory leverage he desired. The rest, however, would probably require an additional nudge. As pulses of intent surged out and away, the thing that wasn't really Hatlen turned to the woman at its side, and gave her an apologetic smile. He supposed that to her, all that meaningfully existed of him did in fact consist of a lanky, labcoat-clad figure with eccentric mannerisms. Which was fine too.

"My apologies. I tried to non-invasively stabilize things for you, but I'm afraid sapient perception is a finnicky thing. And I have no intention of directly rooting around in your noggin - I feel like that would constitute a breach of personal space. Our dear Perry appears to have been messing with the temporal side of things; a terrible idea, by all accounts. Prone to backfire, unwanted attention, paradoxes - really, it's almost a corporealized cliché at this point. But that's on him. Coincidentally I have had a few things... brought to my attention. It's nothing to be concerned about, fundamentally."

A slender finger tapped against his chin - idly, he examined his own intent in performing the gesture. Clarification of intent through body language? It'd have to do.

"As for flavour, that's a difficult question to answer in any way that makes sense. I certainly take in all the information that you do, and much more besides, when ingesting things. But how that actually translates into sensation would require you to understand what sensation actually means for me. And as previously mentioned, I'd rather not mess around with your brain to any particular degree of directness. Suffice to say it's less a case of feeling, and moreso of knowing."

He shrugged.

"There's also a drastic difference in the physical side of things, of course. You make use of a fairly limited selection of chemical receptors and transmitters to give yourself some idea of what it is you're eating. I... don't. But that has little bearing on the outcome, I suppose. In any case, yes - some ice cream would be lovely. Oh, and I do picnics fairly often. Depending on your definition of a picnic."

Taking hold of the proffered bowl, he mercifully abstained from any orb-related tomfoolery this time around; in defiance of character, he simply tucked into the ice cream using the accompanying spoon. Of course, the luxury of such leisure was not afforded to parallel components elsewhere; there was work (or possibly, and ultimately without question, Work) to be done.

|✧|Outer edge of the Local Group|✧|
|Portal Site|

In the by-now trademark, visually-unimpressive fashion inherent to such things, an Eidolon folded itself out of nothing. This wasn't really an accurate statement, but held true insofar as realspace was concerned, so it could simply be left at that. The construct hung motionless, in an equally time-tested manner; not that there was any need for any sort of motion. All the work was being handled elsewhere, and indeed the Eidolon's only real function was to exist where it currently did, until its counterpart processing structure could ascertain what it was looking for. Such a thing was found in the form of a spatial echo - really an un-thing, occupying the same space that the once-vibrant hole in reality through which Shockwave had eloped now very clearly wasn't. As far as hurdles went, this wasn't a particularly significant one - whatever had made the aperture didn't seem to have bothered with covering up its handiwork, and so there was a great big proverbial trail of breadcrumbs stretching through various extraspatial byways, along which the Eidolon could now wander. This would, however, be a not-insignificant detour. Rather than following every single conceptual bump and eddy - present either due to imperfections in whatever had originally enabled such transit, or due to some compromise or other with regards to what had actually undertaken it - the unthinking construct was handed a sum total of every shift in space (and possibly time - with such things, it was difficult to say for certain). And with an eye-wrenching heave, the Eidolon simply forced itself into being at the path's intended destination. The universe tried to stop it of course, but was forced to back off when made cognizant of the umpth-verified calculatory mountains backing up this shift.

As it happened, this second shift in position placed it squarely where Shockwave's vessel had arrived hours prior. And with a corresponding shift in attention, some unspecified chunk of processing matter sank its informational teeth into this wholly novel plane of being, starting with the nearby planetoid.

|Stellar Corona|

Here, too, a vaguely humanoid mass of something popped into being. The fact that it had done so in the midst of a plasma cloud didn't seem to bother it to any great degree; nor did the fact that it had winked into existence directly between an armed fleet and some titanic block of possibly-ship embedded into the local star. Its appearance hadn't actually generated any particularly distinctive signature, nor had any energy actually been involved. Thus its presence would have to be inferred merely from the material, or possibly as part of some high-fidelity sweep targeting local concept-space. Only the literal star-ship looked to be capable of such things, however - and even then, the Eidolon had no real way to be sure as of yet. So it contented itself merely with existing, as something elsewhere began to catalogue and compile.

|North Korean Airspace|

Though rocketing along at far, far above its designed maximum speed, or indeed any feasible speed for a craft of its design, the jet seemed to be keeping itself together, more or less. On occasion some small, (hopefully) unimportant pieces would fall off and be vaporized immediately upon entry into the superheated wreath of plasma surrounding the fuselage, but on the whole everything was going fine. Even the cockpit was in a general state of alright-ness - whatever Elias had done seemed to have included some provisions for reducing g-forces, and so Renée was merely shoved back into her seat with considerable force. Elias himself seemed entirely unperturbed, hunching over the glow-wreathed controls with zero regard for ambient forces of any kind. His expression was neutral, his eyes locked on the scintillating mess of glyphs adorning the surfaces before him.



“We might have need of your direct involvement in a moment.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m glued into the seat.”

“That’s fine - can you set up some sort of defensive battery?”

“Outside the plane, yes?”


“I can try. I’m assuming-”

Drawing forth the pocket-cylinder, she allowed it to blossom once more. Tendrils of smartmatter sprang in every direction, embedding themselves into the cockpit walls without any apparent damage or deformation to either - indeed, there wasn’t any need for them to physically pierce anything at all. Outside the plane, they wove themselves amidst the sparking glyphs into a complex cage - a system of struts and spikes jutting out in a symmetrical pattern, as if looking to adorn the cockpit with some form of elaborate crown.

“-you want me to go for anti-air defenses.”

“That would be ideal, yes. I doubt they’ll let us come in unhindered. I’ve taken precautions of my own, of course, but- ah. Here they come.”

“On it.”

As the belaboured airframe neared Pyongyang proper, the cloud of incoming missiles made itself evident to whatever pseudosensory systems Elias had erected. At once, lines of violet detached themselves from the fuselage, lashing out at various projectiles in the manner of striking snakes. They clove through missile after missile, eliciting both premature detonations and the simple deflection of now-stricken units back down to Earth - there seemed to be no real pattern, and indeed it didn’t look as though the protrusions were operating with any great degree of finesse. Simultaneously, the smartmatter cage encircling the cockpit began to writhe and undulate. From various points along its surface, nondescript clumps of stuff began to shoot off in scattered formation; behaving in defiance of what one would expect from detached (and apparently unpowered) objects under conventional gravity, they sailed out in precision-plotted arcs, each scything down scores of assorted SAMs before dwindling away into nothing. And the firing structure itself didn’t seem to be shrinking - every detached chunk was immediately replaced with an equivalent mass, growing from what appeared to be thin air. Back in the cockpit, Elias scanned the glyphs for… something. What exactly he sought was about as oblique as the violet squiggles themselves, but an educated guess could point out that he had yet to specify where exactly they were going. Picking up on this, Renée gave his shoulder a poke.

“So where are we landing?”

“We aren’t. Well, we sort of are, but separately from the plane.”

“You want us to skydive?”

“It’ll be more of a sky-step.”

Nonchalantly, he reached through the cockpit glass, grabbed a singular missile that had managed to weave past the defensive screen mere nanoseconds before it impacted the glass, and crushed its warhead between his fingers. The ensuring fireball was snapped up by a cage of lilac light, which popped out of existence as soon as the flames within receded.

“But before that, we need to figure out where- ah!”

Clearly, he’d found whatever it was he’d been searching for. Punching some arbitrary-looking glyph, he sent the plane into a subtle course-shift - of course, few things were truly subtle when made part of this hypersonic death-ride.

“Now I should probably explain things. The craft we’re currently flying is going to land itself. Dynamically. Preferably in someone’s face.”

“Whose specifically?”

“Don’t know yet. We can work out the fine-print in a minute or two, because I’ve found a likely-looking zone of activity.”

“Containing our targets?”

“I sure hope so! And if not, we’ll just have to do some additional legwork.”

He cocked his head to one side.

“There’s also something else coming in. Not very quickly, mind you, and it’s not part of the general hubbub. A transport, maybe? If it’s an evac attempt, we can kill two birds with one very fast explosive tube.”

“You mentioned us not landing with it. Which, given the context, sounds reasonable.”

“Yep. We’re just going to step out before it all kicks into the terminal stage. Don’t you worry about that - I’ve got our exit covered. Just focus on swatting down the missiles. And the- shells? Oh, they’ve got tanks shooting at us now! Joy oh joy.”

Shredding its way through the hail of attempted interception, the rune-encrusted plane flew dutifully onwards, and right towards the thick of the fighting. Worryingly enough, it only seemed to be getting faster as it went.

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The Azure Syndicate | The Grand Adatan Union | Sol's Children | TBA

A creative writing experiment. 90% of the factbooks are out of date, don't read them.
If you try to apply NS stats to this, then you probably can't read.

Featuring soul weaponization, rampant existential dread and a three-way power struggle between a band of technologically-ascendant scientists, a highly compressed bureaucratic space polity and a nomadic sun-cult wielding precursor technology.

The Federated Soviets of North America wrote:Their leader redesigned the spleen

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Pax Cybertronian
Posts: 1083
Founded: Jun 20, 2017
Corporate Police State

Postby Pax Cybertronian » Mon Jun 21, 2021 7:12 pm

(OOC: This part of the post is a cowrite involving Imperial-Octavia).

Everything was going smoothly enough for Cobra. More recruits had come in and were sufficiently armed and trained. While at present based in Italy, his recruits spread far and wide. He figured staying on the ground would be better than being in the air, especially since it’d be likely that someone, somewhere, would try to gun it down. If need be, he was prepared to move his base of operations to somewhere else – maybe Argentina or Chili? He was able to put that to his mind at least.

Numerous mind scanners, metal detectors, secret turrets, trenches, fortifications, etc. had been placed around Cobra’s base by this point. If it came to it, his ship was able to move from harms way, even into space if he couldn’t take the planet. He still had an idea in mind, however: in the centuries that passed, there were surely new upstart nations that sprung from the woodwork to take the cosmos for their own. He was planning on trying to acquire a ship of his own and, for a time, setting off for the stars to pursue some of them. Either that or he’d see if there were some people that he could liaison with. Some Decepticons or Intruders or Predators or something. Hell, he was in talks with a mister “Scorpoid” if he recalled correctly. Using some infantrymen and B.A.T.s, he managed to acquire himself some spacecraft and airships. The datafiles on Cobra aircraft would, hopefully, provide fruitful results. The Blackstars were ready for deployment, so they’d be able to take to the skies soon enough.

He heard knocking on his door. He put his helmet back on, pulling his hair so it fit within the helmet. One of his newer Cobra advisors popped into the room.

“Sir, we’ve got visitors,” he said. “A mister “Dio Brando” wants to see you.” Cobra Commander got up and began to walk towards this assailant. He took one of the Stand soldiers as a bodyguard. Another Stand soldier would follow him within a few minutes of his departure.

Outside the base, Dio sat in a red velvet palisade that was being held aloft by Buford and three other zombies. Considering the fact that the three zombies were struggling, it seemed like Buford was able to do it by himself. He had a multitude of chimeras he created surrounding himself in the palisade. Hearing some footsteps from afar, he leaned out. It was some man wearing a ridiculous-looking blue suit of armour. He wore a blue mask with a greyish visor that covered his face. What was the purpose of that? Embarrassment? he thought to himself. He looks like he was from shitty cartoon from way back when.

He’d soon force the mortal to bow before him. One more warlord would be crushed beneath his boot. He felt mildly amused at the thought of this.

“I shall say this once,” Dio began. “You will swear fealty to me and the glorious Dio Empire. If you do not, I shall have you and your men fed to my army like a child giving table scraps to his mutt.”

Cobra Commander finally walked up to the man – some young warlord wanted to speak to him. He considered it to be some sort of joke, although for a split second he considered uniting with him and betraying him and gathering his forces at the last second. Mind, it wasn’t worth the effort, he thought as he activated a mind-scanner drone. Maybe whatever it gathered would come in handy later on.

“Neither you nor I will kneel before anyone else, I assume,” Cobra Commander responded. “I wonder – how long have you been at this whole warlord business for? Judging by how long you look, I assume not long.” Dio scoffed but he continued, nonetheless. “I have my own proposition for you. How about we instead align with one another for the rest of this war?”

“Ha! Looks like you’re more similar to me than I thought. However, you obviously don’t understand why I have come here.” He raised his arms up triumphantly. “I, Dio Brando, am the supreme master of this planet! I have no equals and anyone who claims to be one will be fed upon like the cattle they are! The Octavians are naught but a tool to be used until we find a way to foil their efforts. I refuse to be a pawn to a mortal such as you.”

He scoffed. Glaring at Cobra Commander whilst standing tall, he pointed at the man in the blue costume. “Now, Cobra Commander… will you bend the knee, or will you make me end your pathetic life?!”

“Amusing,” he responded, laughing a bit. One of the bodyguards, whose visage seemed to resemble Dio Brando, walked in front of Cobra Commander. Strange. It must’ve been just a coincidence. The other bodyguard, a young Japanese man with slicked back hair, caught up with the rest.

Cobra Commander swung his arm forwards, ordering his soldiers to begin moving. In turn, Dio swung his arm forwards, and so his undead legions charged towards Cobra Commander and his grunts.

He had only just noticed Cobra Commander’s bodyguards. One of them had blonde hair and… surely not? Surely this human hadn’t managed to somehow get his own Dio? He laughed. Such a thought was nonsense!

Bruford slowly dropped the carriage as Dio left it. He took in the view of the chaos unfolding and smiled at Bruford’s loyalty.

“Thank you, Bruford. Come with me. I wish to kill this “Cobra Commander” and take his head. He’ll serve as a good example for the rest of this planet’s people.”

“Of course, Lord Dio.” The zombie bowed his head and drew out his sword. The battle was a slog. The Cobra troops were doing well holding back the undead hoards. Mechas and vehicles were deployed to open fire on the troops. The Cobra Vipers (ordinary Cobra grunts)’s laser fire and gunfire ripped zombies to shreds. The ship’s turrets were activated by its new crew and fired numerous explosive volleys into the crowd.

They are indeed doing well, Dio said. But no matter. I’ll stick Cobra Commander’s helmet onto a dog once I’m done with him. Sooner or later, my hordes will bring about Cobra’s fall.

The zombies themselves indeed possessed their own ammunition. Jack the Ripper in particular gleefully pulled scalpels out of his body and lunged at some nearby Vipers. The young Dio fired his vampiric essence from his eyes like a laser at his foes. Bruford used his Danse Macabre Hair to drag soldiers from their defences and, if they survived, fight them to the death.

As the battle raged on, Cobra Commander decided to get himself involved in the fighting. He saw no need for himself to retreat. Unsheathing his sabre, he sliced off the heads of some nearby zombies that lunged at him. He continued to walk towards the young blonde-haired brat.

As Cobra Commander walked towards him, Dio knew that, if he were going to be able to integrate Cobra within his empire, Cobra Commander would need to die. He fired a beam of vampiric essence at the Commander and charged through the undead hordes and Cobra agents surrounding him. He then lunged down at the human, ready to flash freeze him and shatter him into a million pieces in front of his hordes. He’d demoralise them! Soon, they’d all fall under his and his future fellow’s empire!

He suddenly stopped a few moments from a decisive blow. He felt blood trickling down. Looking down, he noticed that he had been impaled!

Cobra Commander grinned behind his mask.

“Bastard! Who dares-?!” He looked behind him, and he saw that his assailant was none other than a future version of him!

The replica of DIO began retracting his hand. If he turned to his left, he could see the other Stand agent seemingly erasing some clones from existence.

“Only one man stands above the Brando family. None shall dare to even try to surpass the glorious Cobra Commander!”

Impossible! Dio thought to himself. What appeared to be mere coincidence had now become reality. No… No! Impossible! No matter what our differences are, there’s no version of me that would ever be so obsequious to a mere mortal! Somehow, Cobra Commander had managed to acquire himself some Stand users of his own. Most of the Stand users in his possession aligned with those in the Speedwagon Foundation’s database and… those resurrected en masse by Necrom?! Did Cobra Commander use Necrom as well? How else would he have got his hands on an army of Stand users?

He decided to argue with Necrom later. This was a more pressing matter.

“You… you wretched piece of rat-shit! How dare you replicate my visage?! I swear… I will have my vengeance against you, you filthy mortal!!”

The DIO clone spoke again. “No one shall dare to speak to Cobra Commander in such an uncouth manner.” His Stand had fully retracted its fist now and now obviously prepared an onslaught of its own. “Now… begone!”

Screaming “mudamudamuda” over and over again, a flurry of punches assailed the young Dio. He felt every bone in his body contort and break under the pressure, and soon he was flung near to Bruford, who was in the middle of attacking a Cobra grunt. Dragging the barely alive grunt with him, he ran over to his master.

“Master…!” He brought the grunt over and brought Dio’s hand to the grunt’s jugular. While the mere act pained the vampire, he was still able to revitalise himself at the soldier’s expense.

While somewhat drowsy, Dio’s bones had rebuilt themselves and he could speak once more. “Buford, we are leaving! Take the zombies into the sewers! We’ll contact Necrom once we’re in there!”

Dio didn’t want anything to do with the situation for the moment. He knew Cobra had to be destroyed, but he needed support. The full might of his hypnochipped Stand user army. The power of the Brando bloodline – the two DIOs, Diego, DIO’s children. His most loyal entourage – Enrico Pucci, Vanilla Ice, Absalom and Michal. The army of cultists he and his future counterpart had amassed over the years. The mercenaries he had hired. He couldn’t dare to neglect any of his resources if he were going to crush these Cobra vermin.

He and his surviving thralls fled into the sewers. Cobra Commander pointed the gun at the sewers and fired a few rounds. Putting his pistol in his holster though, he felt that any more effort would be useless. Besides, if he could get all the information he needed, he had a better plan in mind.

He raised his hand up, silencing the crowd.

“We’ve won. Move back to the base.”

His soldiers started cheering. Once that was over, all the essentials were conducted – repairs, maintenance, etc. All he needed to do now was conduct more intense reconnaissance. Once all of Dio’s outposts were found across the planet, he’d be able to order the Blackstars to begin their bombing raids. The corpses of Dio’s zombie horde were gathered; his scientists would begin conducting autopsies. Hopefully, something fruitful would be found there. Any remaining prisoners were taken into custody; the ship had a brig, he thought. Maybe the prisoners could be “persuaded” into divulging information on DIO.

These Stands, however, interested him. How far could they be pushed? How far could technology enhance them?

A series of probes were then released. The command had been given – scour the planet for any outposts hailing from the Pillar Empire and DIO’s little empire. The information would be relayed back to Cobra, and then the necessary actions would be taken. Maybe it’d be possible to strike an alliance with the Pillar Men? Surely, they shared a common interest in the destruction of DIO? Maybe he could find a kinship in one of the other groups – Funny Valentine seemed promising.

Centuries ago, there was a lush green and blue planet called Earth. The third planet from its host star, its indigenous people, humanity, prospered there. What they didn’t know, however, was that Earth was host to bountiful amounts of a purplish energy substance known as energon, which was considerably value to the Cybertronian race. On the year 1984, the Decepticons infiltrated the planet and began to seize its resources for themselves. The Autobots and Decepticons fought on the planet for some time. Eventually, the planet’s political affairs were muddled even further as humanity began to explore its star system and other aliens, such as the Prysmosians, the Intruders and the Quintessons, began to arrive on the planet.

Unbeknownst to all parties involved, Earth actually sat dead centre in a dormant transwarp rift. The dimension of transwarp existed beyond the main universe itself. Some believed it to even be able to transcend space and time. With the Cybertronians beginning to tap into transwarp-based technologies, their interest was peaked in potential transwarp-based phenomena. During the early 21st Century, a battle took place between the Autobots and Decepticons on Mars – the usual affair. However, the transwarp rift was somehow rupturing, pulling the entirety of human space within the rift and thrusting them forwards through time. For those centuries, all that anyone outside of the tear in spacetime would have been to observe would be an empty tear in space – an eternal reminder of what the Great War cost.

Some centuries later, however, sensors detected some activity occurring around this tear. They thought nothing of it – it was probably just some minor phenomena. When the Ascension War broke out, no one would be prepared for what would actually occur.

Suddenly, with something of an explosion, human space would be thrust back into realspace, none the wiser. For the human race, no time had passed at all. For everyone else, it had been around two centuries.

Back in a secret bunker in the capital, Prowl tiredly worked through paperwork. He had been receiving messages with regards to an alliance formed by the Autobots against the Octavian effort. It was partly out of a desire to form long-lasting alliances down the road, although it was also partly a failsafe against the growing covenant formed by the Octavians. They started to get responses, although Prowl was irritated by one in particular from the Kair-Milky Way Pact. It was rather tersely worded, and they obviously indicated that it was an alliance of convenience. They referred to “recent events” – he couldn’t recall anything the Autobots had did to them.

Being his usual self, he began grumbling under his breath. He considered the KMWP to be pretentious and completely delusional. He wasn’t sure if they were prejudiced more towards the Cybertronians or to the groups this side of the Local Group. He wanted to shove up something their collective afterburners.

“Is this over that the Decepticons going after them for whatever reason?” he continued to grumble to himself. “We weren’t even involved in that damn affair!”

He continued to grumble under his breath, with his statements tantamount to “I’ll show them a “conflict of interest” and “terminate the alliance on my watch if you dare”.

Though he hated to admit that he was getting worked up over it – he considered emotions to be beneath his conduct – he knew that it couldn’t 100% confirm if they were racist. For all he knew, they were a stellar, egalitarian nation that lurked beyond the universe.

It was an emotional response, and he ought to push it aside, he thought. Besides, they seemed to tentatively join the alliance the Autobots were trying to fulfil. Optimus was good at smoothing over relations with other races, hence why he was reallocated to the Milky Way.

“Besides, Optimus would gripe for hours on end if I started getting snippy with the KMWP and permanently ruined things… though, and I know I shouldn’t, I swear I want to get a “go to hell” message up and ready if things go south.”

He paced around his desk. He considered his options – he knew he had to respond with something sooner or later. While he knew a neutral approach was probably the best route, he had the urge to send a similarly tersely-worded reply – although he was doubtful that would go over well. A nice one might be seen as too sycophantic, he thought. Optimus had arrived on the flagship by now, so he’d probably if he didn’t get to it first.

An over-thinker as always, Prowl believed that he ought to have a failsafe in mind in case the KMWP reneged on the alliance. He wasn’t sure if trying to “blacklist” them from future alliances would be worth the effort – he’d need to speak to diplomats and whoever else, which would take time, and he didn’t want to come off as overly petty. Well, not openly petty.

He sighed. Better to send it to someone who wasn’t stressed all the time.

He sent the matter over to Optimus. Who knows? Maybe things would work out after all. Besides, deep down, he believed that Optimus had it in him to potentially set the record straight with the KMWP.

Back in the Autobot fleet, Optimus, the new overall commander of the fleet, had caught wind of the KMWP’s response. He was somewhat disconcerted by the terseness of the message, but he overall felt it was feasible to smooth over ties once a meeting was arranged.

He wrote out a message accordingly:

Code: Select all
“This is Optimus Prime of the Autobot Federation. I’m thankful for your response. Your aid would be invaluable to the war effort against Octavian imperialism. If you wish to accept our offer, we would be willing to cooperate with you on the terms of this alliance.

Just as he sent it, he suddenly received another message. This time from a… Garrison Blackrock?

“Greetings, Optimus.” Optimus noticed that he received a message from a “Garrison Blackrock”. Optimus was surprised; he had assumed humanity was either extinct or still within that rift.

“Garrison Blackrock?” I must admit I was surprised, I thought you was dead.”

“Well, looks like spacetime has been fortunate to us,” Garrison said, cheerfully. “We never even knew of what was going on until we had been thrust centuries into the future. But no matter. I may have something interesting…”

(OOC: This part of the post is a cowrite involving Laiakia).

Some time passed after human space escaped the rift. Humanity was still in the process of accustoming to their new surroundings. They weren’t the only ones trapped in the rift, of course. By the time the rift consumed humanity, numerous other races – the agents of the Baron Karza sent to observe, a few Quintessons, the magic-wielding Prysmosians said to hail another world that had ties to another dimension entirely, etc. – had decided to arrive on the planet for whatever reason, ranging from diplomacy to conquest to “blue and orange” alien morality-based rationales utterly indecipherable to the ordinary human psyche.

The governments of the planet were dealing with the situation differently. Although there was now a body representing, the nations of Earth still persisted. Some nations dealt with riots, whereas others were calmer. There were talks of rebellion in some areas, although they were quickly quashed, and so on and so forth. By now, it seemed that tensions were simmering, but many government officials had become antsy. A frightened populace on top of dealing with aliens was not an easy matter to contend with. Feelings and opinions had to be hashed out; a process which would take a while, not helped by the now-strong alien presence on Earth.

By contrast, Garrison Blackrock saw an opportunity, and wasn’t necessarily left afraid and confused by this new era presented to the human race. He had managed to re-establish contact with the Autobots, who filled him in in current affairs. There was an “Octavian War” going on between the forces of the Octavian Imperium and their allies and what seemed like the rest of the galaxy. Current projections were mixed on the endgame of the conflict: some believed that Octavia would win, others believed that they would lose, and some even projected a stalemate. Numerous Onyx Incorporated-owned spacecraft were already due to arrive on the nearby planet of Asmodeus Four – centuries behind schedule, sure, but the intent was there.

On Asmodeus Four itself, it was a jungle-like planet. Trees and seas swarmed the planet. All sorts of animals, fauna, megafauna, mega-animals, and gigafauna roamed the planet. Onyx Incorporated had deemed certain areas to be definitely safe for travel if one was wary enough. A spaceport, obviously not of human origin, had been constructed what appeared to be a few decades ago. Magnificus guessed that it must have been done by some of the native Asmodeans within the system, although there was no known major native presence on the planet.

Magnificus, a black Decepticon based on Perceptor’s template, had taken a job for the newly founded Stingtail Collective. It had been active for – what? – a few weeks? A month or so? He didn’t really bother to keep track of how old they were. It seemed like they had a head-start regardless. As long as they paid him and his compatriot, Ga’mede, he didn’t really care how old they were. They were after some of the space pirates that operated within the Asmodeus system. Apparently, they had something valuable he wanted, and he wanted to enlist their services. Presumably, he wouldn’t have been allowed to shoot them unless they initiated the combat, which he found somewhat annoying.

Ga’mede, a young-looking human-like figure with white hair, popped up. He wore a bluish, decorated uniform that harked back to his days as a Xeptosian prince. And then he got backstabbed and nearly executed. He put those days behind him – now that he was in macrospace, he’d focus on greater heights. He looked up and noticed an object falling from the sky. It appeared like a massive mecha.

“What the hell’s that?” Ga’mede said. “Hey, Mag! Look at this!” He pointed up at the sky. The two heard a rather loud thud.

“Not far. I’m going to check it out. Might convince Scorpoid to give us something if we can’t find those damn space pirates.”

Magnificus transformed into some sort of car/tank hybrid – it was obviously of Cybertronian origin, regardless – and Ga’mede jumped into the vehicle. After some time, the two found the area of impact – a large greyish bipedal mecha had been dumped onto the planet. It was about the size of the usual Cybertronian, and it had around as many guns stacked onto it – maybe a bit more, actually.

Magnificus dropped into the crater. The mecha seemed to be piloted by someone – or rather, it at least was. He glanced into the cockpit. The pilot was either in shock, unconscious, or dead. What his status what would probably depend on if there was any proper cushioning within the mecha, of which he couldn’t yet determine. He wondered about its fuel source. Could it be more efficient if it ran on energon?

“Scan it, Mag,” Ga’mede said, “we can use your psychometry to see how this mecha got here.”

Magnificus walked over and began to scan the mecha. Once scanned, he received a somewhat lengthy vision of nearby events. It appeared that they only occurred, at most, an hour ago.

Meanwhile, space was quiet, as always, as a Raider-class corvette ploughed through it. Its mission, officially, was to take part in routine patrols guarding the borders of Laiakian systems. Unofficially, this ship in particular had been drafted to take part in an experiment featuring XIRAX scientist Olp Warg’s mech program. More specifically, the Goliath-class medium mecha.

In the underside hangar-bay, Dr. Warg and a series of engineers, scientists and onlookers watched on as the Goliath was unloaded onto the floor. Its pilot was already inside, calibrating and fixing various instruments and preparing. Eventually, the mech was ready for deployment and the head engineer began running through the checklist of important things to do and check before testing in space.

“Weaponry? Online. Oxygen? Online. Fuel? Online. Safet-”

Before he could continue, he sneezed very hard, causing him to drop his checklist and mix the papers all on the floor. The rest of the present members groaned slightly, causing the engineer to quickly gather the mixed paper and give the all-clear signal. This caused the mech to move forward towards the door, tugging a cable attached to the ship along with it. The hangar doors opened, revealing the energy shield that prevented oxygen being sucked out. The mech did a small salute before jumping out. It was at this moment the head engineer realized, he goofed up. The safety cable meant to secure the mech to the ship hadn’t been properly attached, causing it to follow the mech into the void.

The captain of the ship watched the mech exit the hangar bay, and did as he had been briefed on, increasing engine power and accidentally causing the mech to fly deeper into space. The pilot, meanwhile, was freaking out and watched his oxygen supply while feebly trying to contact the ship, only to realize that the communication array had been faultily installed. All he could do now was to hope that he would be found alive, but that hope seemed to grow smaller and smaller.

“The engineers were idiots and let the mech escape,” Magnificus confirmed to Ga’mede. “Faulty safety cable let it slip out the ship and they messed up its communications array. Fortunately, it’s in fine enough condition… though we’ll probably have to fix up its communications array.”

“Are we selling this mech to the Stingtails or are we keeping this for ourselves?” Ga’mede asked. “Last I checked, Scorpoid was only after the Asmodean space pirates and their junk, not this mech suit. They mightn’t notice if this somehow… slipped their notice.”

“Besides…” he continued. “From what I’ve heard, he’s been busy as hell recently. Contacting criminal groups, space pirates, whoever the hell he wanted. Good money for us, although it can be tiresome. He’s got people fishing around in and near Octavian space – well, the ones that aren’t being shot up at the moment or are too well-guarded, anyway – sniffing out any mercenaries, criminals, pirates, whoever else. I’ve heard some of them are even on the government’s payroll.”

Ga’mede continued. “Regardless of what he does, he won’t be cutting into the ISO or the Guild’s profit margins, that’s for sure. Don’t think either of them are operating in or near Asmodean space, that I’m sure of, or we would’ve seen them around somewhere.”

“Don’t think he intends to, either,” Magnificus responded.

“True. Not worth the effort, I’d figure. Better going after space pirates and their loot than pissing off the big guys.”

“It’s probably for the best, regardless. I’ve seen what that “cruiser” thing can do – from afar, but still. Can’t get any money – or any arms – if Scorpoid’s dead. Hell, with our luck, we might even end up in the crossfire.”

“If we can stick to certain clients,” Ga’mede continued, “I wager we can still earn a decent profit. Who knows! Maybe the ISO’ll end up bringing some decent criminals over at some point. Someone we can get good money from. Maybe we can do some mercenary jobs for them; depends on how much bureaucracy gets involved.”

He looked up. The transwarp rift still rippled, although there were no signs that it was going to drag humanity back in again. “Still see that tear over the sky. It’s definitely happening in the humans’ star system. Can’t be quiet for a second, can they?”


Magnificus scanned the mech again. “It’s a titanium and tungsten alloy composed with a bunch of other metals.” He walked around the mech, looking around as he did so. “I’m guessing it fires ion-based or antimatter-based rounds or something like that, although I’ve yet to fully verify that.”

Ga’mede walked away from the mech and looked up at the sky. The transwarp rift was still there. He assumed it wouldn’t be gone for some time at this rate. It looked like it was… bubbling somewhat? Strange. Suddenly, though, he saw several spacecraft enter the planet’s atmosphere.

“Any idea who they are?”

“No clue, at least not from first sight…” Magnificus pulled up his database. “Wait…” He looked closer. “They’re humans.”

The shuttles docked on the spaceport. From there, numerous crewmembers promptly left, as if it were all coordinated, bringing all sorts of paraphernalia with them.

“We’re here,” the commander of the expedition said. While on the bridge, he brought out a vocal amplification device and started to give out commands.

“Mr. Blackrock’s given us explicit orders to comb this planet of anything interesting. Don’t miss a spot! We’re making up for lost time! Who knows? Maybe some new shit’s come up in the centuries humanity’s apparently been gone from the galactic scene!”

Ga’mede looked interested. “How much would this “Blackrock” fellow want for the mech? We might be able to turn a decent profit.”

“It’s a “Garrison Blackrock”, right?” Magnificus tried to recall everything. “If they’re humans, they’re not going to like the sight of a Decepticon… unless…” He saw that the humans had already begun to send search crews around the planet. They’d inevitably reach him and Ga’mede within a few minutes; they weren’t far from the spaceport. From what he remembered, Blackrock didn’t care too badly about factionalism, although he favoured the Autobots. There was something of a veil around Garrison, although he couldn’t put his finger on it. He briefly considered applying some rubsign gel on his insignia to pretend he wasn’t a Decepticon but pushed the thought aside; he figured he could defend themselves if they attacked him.

“Keep an eye on the humans. See if they get closer.”

Magnificus began to use his psychometric abilities again. He didn’t have so he felt like he’d have to begin rushing. He wanted to divine as much as he could from it – he just needed the time. Just as he finished scanning the mech and its occupant, Ga’mede alerted him. Some of the humans made it over.


The humans raised their arms at the robot and his ally. Ga’mede put his hand on the gun in his holster but waited for Magnificus to make a move.

“I’d hesitate for a moment, organic,” Magnificus said. “I think this find’ll interest Blackrock.” He outstretched his arm in front of the mecha. The humans took a gander. It seemed to be around the size of your average Cybertronian; whoever designed it obviously intended it to be for combat.

“Hm… I think Mr. Blackrock may be interested,” one of the humans said. He pulled out a pad and contacted his superior.

“We’ve found something, sir,” he said to the pad. A holographic projection of a roughly Middle Eastern man with slicked black hair appeared. Garrison Blackrock. “Seems to be some sort of mech suit. It might be possible to integrate it with the Cybertronian technologies we’ve, ah… acquired. The Decepticon and his ally pointed us towards the mech.”

“Excellent.” The projection of Blackrock turned to face the Decepticon. “This is quite an interesting mech you’ve put forward for me. I think we can come to an arrangement on this.”

Magnificus’s arm pulled back to reveal a keyboard of sorts and tapped several commands into his arm, sending the blueprints over to Scorpoid unbeknownst to Onyx Incorporated. Several Onyx agents then began to cart the mecha into their ships. Unlike the XIRAX workers, they would actually try to ensure that it was safely contained within the spacecraft.

“You will be appropriately monetarily compensated for your help,” Garrison thanked them.

“Actually…” he continued. “If you want additional payment, I may need your assistance with something.”

Magnificus turned to Ga’mede, who shrugged. “Might as well as long as we find those Asmodean pirates.” Magnificus then nodded at Garrison. After gathering and compressing their own transport, Magnificus and Ga’mede both entered the spacecraft.

My current RP - you can join if you want. | Proud member of The Anti-Democracy League. | If you want to join our region, come and join; you're more than welcome! | My Q&A's here as well.

I do not use NationStates stats. I use my own.

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Gladian Imperium
Posts: 34
Founded: Apr 10, 2020
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Gladian Imperium » Mon Jun 21, 2021 7:26 pm


Ol' Reliable took the posed question as an opportunity to slow down his internal clock. To the Svenskans, it was a mere few seconds before Ol' Reliable responded. For the Warmind, it was days upon days as a Subspace Imposition unfolded, starting with the sun and surging out to cover the entirety of the system. In the infinite all-and-nothing of Subspace, approximately a one-light year diameter sphere was told to sit down, shut up, and do as it was told, replicating space down to the atom. In this mimicry of realspace, the Warmind took his sweet time dismantling, analyzing, and simulating the beings present, taking in notes of alarm as the bizarre humanoid appeared in the sun's corona-similar to other reports of strange goings-on elsewhere.

As the Warmind returned to the world of the living, the internal clock accelerated to match the hideously poor timing of the baselines it was interacting with, and the "being" stepped off of the Hammock, letting the construct dissolve into light. It was at this point that it became apparent that the entity was a hologram of some kind-a construct of photons being manipulated to make something vaguely resembling a mouthpiece for the being controlling the vessel-as he floated and occasionally slightly phased into the floor, the edges of his form translucent and flickering like shadows in peripheral vision.

"I see we're comin' out with the big 'uns. Alrighty then, rest assured that I'm not here for conquest, or to exterminate. I'll even explain why those ain't options, to cool yer unease."
With that, Ol' Reliable began pacing in a circle, twirling his cigar so that it spat motes of light that dodged through the air and wove into a sigil-a ring around a star, vaguely resembling an eye.
"I am the representative of a civilization called The Federation. It is a nation of peace and immeasurable technological advancement, where none suffer unless they wish it. Ruled by a godlike machine intelligence, and a predominant power in intergalactic and potentially interuniversal politics. It is a nation where none is in wanting-there is space for all, food for all, material for all, and energy for all. We once had an imperialistic ambition, but those tempers have cooled to ice since we reached our modern extent. A tiny star system on the fringe of a distant galaxy in a cosmos not our own is of no concern, and a Federation fleet has not moved with the intent to conquer in...shit, about 300 years now? Damn I'm old..."
The warmind faded into reminiscence for a second, before snapping back to attention, face still hidden by the "shadow" effect over it-if there was even a face underneath.
"Ah, right, the second motive you mentioned," With a wave, the sigil dissipated, simply becoming twirling stars in the air. "As much as we hate it, the Federation moves for war nonetheless. Peace, and security, are the rights of all living things, and occasionally such matters cannot be settled on the floor of diplomacy unless risks to such rights are brought low beforehand. The Hyathix, the Juum, the Ena-djir, are just a few of many. But rarely, does the Federation consign an entire species to death, an entire civilization to the hellfire of armageddon. You most certainly have done nothing-that I yet know of-that would warrant such a condemnation, and even then we lean on the lenient side to primitives. You have room to grow, and growth always comes with its issues, even if a fundamental issue is discovered, you would be given a wide berth to work it out of your system before any real judgement is passed, but if that isn't enough-"
With a flick of the wrist, a small, silver object appeared by the figure. It was roughly the size of a pen, and hovered midair. There was a hollow volume in the scenter of it, but for the most part it seemed completely inoccuous.
"This is a weapon that can destroy worlds. I've left it unarmed for the purposes of presentation, but if I weren't here to talk, you would not be having this conversation. Nor really doing much at all, since your fleet and planet would have been reduced to clouds of elementary particles anyway." With a flick of the wrist, the Warmind sent the weapon back to wherever it had come from, and let the implications of what was said sink in before continuing.

"Now, on to what I'm really here to do. I'm here to warn you.
If my assessment is correct, your people have barely begun reaching to the stars, even with FTL drives. So I'll spare you the difficulty of finding out the hard way about this."
With a flash, the motes of light multiplied rapidly, until it became a starmap. Countless colored blobs were outlined, and even pinpricks of light denoting fleets and battles.
"The truth of the matter is, you just poked your nose into an intergalactic warzone. That alternate Earth got the worst of it, but there's other massive battles transpiring. Fleets clashing kilometers apart, godlike entities shredding the space time continuum like paper shredders against each other and anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire, people of extraordinary power, both physical and political, dancing the game of diplomacy and warfare. The primary offender is the Octavian Imperium, a civilization of machines that seeks to assimilate all biological life into itself, and against it stand a variety of powers. The ISO and its economic powerhouse, Ignis and its superpowered inhabitants, the Zraavisk and their vast armada, the Autobots using it as another front in their eternal clash with the Decepticons, I could go on about all the myriad nationstates and entities that are rallied for or against the Octavians, but I believe you get the gist now."
At this point, the Warmind had completely dropped the accent, sounding more and more matter-of-fact as the speech continued.
"My best advice, commander, is to hide. i've analyzed your defences, and although you certainly have an edge in some fields, the Octavians have the advantage of sheer overwhelming numbers. In the event of an invasion, the Svenskans would only be able to hold out for so long. And the Octavians will not take prisoners, give quarter, and can and will sweep your entire planet with orbital bombardment if they deem you not worth the trouble. Hunker down, keep quiet, and wait until someone gives the all-clear. You can attempt to fight them, but it is your guns versus their numbers, and you only have so many shells.
I will remain here to keep vigil and heal my own wounds. Should the Octavians come, I will do my best to fight alongside you against them. But I cannot guarantee we will win without further outside help, and my people are hesistant as of now to send reinforcements to this hell of a conflict."
The Warmind finally fell silent, letting his statements filter through the air

800th Armada

The message was received at the Communications Deck of the Walls of Iron, and a response sent back, with coordinates attached.

Communique to Autobot Federation
You will send one sub-capital ship to the attached coordinates.
There will be no escort.
Any transmission out of the system must be vetted through Alliance infrastructure beforehand.
Any violation of the above precautions will nullify this attempt at diplomacy.
All due respect, the 800th Armada of the Gladian Imperium, year 3,500,650 of the Interregnum
An Ancient Galaxy, wracked by cataclysmic war.
A venerable empire, fallen from grace.
New Allies, some older, some younger.
Once more, the Universe opens its gates to the Gladian Imperium

Puppet of Arkeyana, set in the same universe and canon. Flag made by Yegla Islands

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Posts: 114
Founded: Nov 25, 2019
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Laiakia » Sat Jun 26, 2021 11:58 am

The 68th Congress Of The United Socialist States of Laiakia

Lorus, Iosefgrad, People’s Hall

Iosefgrad was buzzing with life. Travelers from the three Laiakian colonies were all converging on the city for a chance to witness the Party Congress of the United Socialist States of Laiakia, to be held in the People’s Hall which had been created for this exact need. The Congress itself would be livestreamed and transcribed, so that anyone inside or outside the U.S.S.L. could listen or read in on the thoughts and decisions that the government deemed suitable to be discussed in public.

The purposes of the Congresses of the USSL were primarily to discuss reports on industry, changes in positions, and the state of the nation’s colonies and spaceforce. However, this Congress, the 68th one to occur, would focus more on foreign policy and state-related matters.

Iosef Djigasholov, Supreme Citizen, Head of State, Premier of Laiakia, took a breath as he stood behind a curtain in the People’s Hall. He looked at a clock on his wrist. It was nearly show-time. He had often shown himself in public as cold and calculating, but in truth he despised giving public speeches, mainly due to his lighter-toned voice, yet people still admired him. He couldn’t figure out if that was simply because of the fear of being transported to the Borium Prison Colony, or if there actually existed some form of admiration.

He took another breath before stepping out from behind the curtain, examining the People’s Hall. He stood upon a stage with a large podium in the center. Directly behind the podium was a large wall decorated with a hammer and sickle in the center. Opposite of the podium were the many rows of seats that were all filled with ecstatic people and cameras. He readied himself and stepped onto the podium, catching the attention of most of the attendants, causing the entire hall to quiet down.

Iosef took a look at the crowd before starting his speech.

“Comrades, five years have elapsed since the 67th Party Congress. No small period, as you see. During this period the galaxy has undergone considerable political changes. States and countries, and their mutual relations, are now in many respects totally altered.
What changes exactly have taken place in the intergalactic situation in this period? In what way exactly have the foreign and internal affairs of our country changed?
For the intergalactic nations, this period has recently been one of very profound perturbations in the political spheres. In the political sphere they were years of serious political conflicts and perturbations. A new imperialistic war is being waged. A war waged over a huge territory stretching from one end of the galaxy to the other and involving an overwhelming number of people, both from nations with and without FTL capabilities. The map of the galaxy is being forcibly redrawn.” Iosef took a break from speaking, quickly glancing down at a small cheat note he had taped to the podium.

“For Laiakia, on the contrary, these were years of growth and prosperity, of further economic and cultural progress, of further development of political and military might, of struggle for the preservation of peace throughout our territories and the struggle for keeping primitives out of such a catastrophic war.
Such is the general picture. Let us now examine the concrete data illustrating the changes in the international situation.
An imperialist war has already begun. Octavia, already having been involved in the subjugation of various primitive societies and the formation of an Octavian-allied alliance have already placed their national economy on a war footing, squandering their reserves of raw material and foreign currency for this purpose; and all the other big powers of the galaxy, capitalist or not, are beginning to reorganize themselves into an equal alliance to stand up against the Octavians.
Naturally, the current crisis has already mixed the cards and intensified the struggle for markets and sources of raw materials. The seizure of primitive civilizations and the enormous battle over and on a planet called ‘Earth’ by Octavia, the total-war stance that the Anti-Octavian powers seem to use - all this reflects the acuteness of the struggle among the powers. It is no longer a question of competition in the economic markets, of a commercial war, of dumping. These methods of struggle have long been recognized as inadequate. It is now a question of a new redivision of the world, of spheres of influence and colonies, by military action.
Thus the bloc of three aggressive states came to be formed.
A new redivision of the world by means of war became imminent.” He paused once again, taking in the crowd before continuing.
“Here”, he motioned beside him to a screen that turned on, showcasing a timeline of the most important and known events that lead up to the current situation. “Is a list of the most important events during the period under review which mark the beginning of this imperialist war as well as multiple events that have occured after the start that are of significant importance. Firstly, Octavia started a mass expansion, integrating and seizing many different primitive worlds and societies. Secondly, the various invasions and counter-invasion of Planet Earth by both warring sides. ” Iosef continued to list the various major events, putting a more heavy emphasis on blaming both warring parties, before continuing.
“Thus the war, which has stolen so imperceptibly upon the nations, has drawn many billions and trillions into its orbit and has extended its sphere of action over a vast territory, stretching from the north of the galaxy, south and west and east.
Thus we are witnessing an open redivision of the world and spheres of influence at the expense of the non-aggressive states, without the least attempt at resistance, and even with a certain amount of connivance, on the part of the latter.
Incredible, but true.
Such is the political situation in the capitalist nations.” Iosef took another break as the crowd applauded and as members of the press caught up with their writing. He then continued.

“The war has created a new situation with regard to the relations between countries. It has enveloped them in an atmosphere of alarm and uncertainty. By undermining and overriding the elementary principles of international law, it has cast doubt on the value of intergalactic treaties and obligations. Pacifism and disarmament schemes are dead and buried. Feverish arming has taken their place. Everybody is arming, small states and big states. Nobody believes any longer that peace can prevail between Octavia, her allies, and the Anti-Octavian alliances. Naturally, the U.S.S.L. could not ignore these ominous events. There is no doubt that any war, however small, started by the aggressors in any remote corner of the galaxy constitutes a danger to the peacable nations. All the more serious then is the danger arising from the imperialist war, which has already drawn into its orbit an uncountable number of enlisted and civilian sentients. In view of this, while our country is unswervingly pursuing a policy of preserving peace as shown with our proclamation of armed neutrality broadcasted to the warring powers, it is at the same time doing a great deal to increase the preparedness of our Red Army and our Red Space Fleet. It was in such difficult international conditions that Laiakia pursued its foreign policy of upholding the cause of peace.
The foreign policy of the United Socialist States of Laiakia is clear and explicit.

1. We stand for peace and the strengthening of business relations with all countries and nations. That is our position; and we shall adhere to this position as long as these countries maintain relations with the United Socialist States of Laiakia, and as long as they make no attempt to trespass on the interests of our country.
2. We stand for peaceful, close and friendly relations with all the neighbouring countries which have common frontiers with the U.S.S.L. That is our position; and we shall adhere to this position as long as these countries maintain like relations with the United Socialist States of Laiakia, and as long as they make no attempt to trespass, directly or indirectly, on the integrity and inviolability of the frontiers of the Laiakian state and any other nations protected or associated with us.
3. We stand for the support of nations which are the victims of aggression and are fighting for the independence of their country.
4. We are not afraid of the threats of aggressors, and are ready to deal two blows for every blow delivered by instigators of war who attempt to violate the Laiakian borders and bring unto us subjugation, or annihilation.

Such is the foreign policy of the United Socialist States of Laiakia.” Before Iosef could continue speaking, the crowd erupted once more into applause, continuing for a good minute before finally quieting down.

“In its foreign policy the U.S.S.L. relies upon :
1. Its growing economic, political and cultural might;
2. The moral and political unity of our communist society;
3. The mutual friendship of the federalized states that constitute the United Socialist State;
4. Its Red Army, Red Navy and Red Space Fleet;
5. Its policy of peace;
6. The moral support of the working people of all nations, who are vitally concerned in the preservation of peace;
7. The good sense of the countries which for one reason or another have no interest in the violation of peace.

Regarding the tasks of the Party in the sphere of foreign policy:
1. To continue the policy of peace and of strengthening business relations with all countries;
2. To be cautious and not allow our country to be drawn into conflicts by warmongers who are accustomed to have others pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them;
3. To strengthen the might of our Red Army and Red Space Fleet to the utmost;
4. To strengthen the international bonds of friendship with the working people of all countries, who are interested in peace and friendship among [i]all[\i] nations.

Let us now pass to the internal affairs of our country.
From the standpoint of its internal situation, Laiakia, during the period under review, presented a picture of further progress of its entire economic life, a rise in culture, and the strengthening of the political might of the country.

In the sphere of economic development, we must regard the most important result during the period under review to be the fact that the reconstruction of industry and agriculture on the basis of a new, modern technique has been completed. There are no more or hardly any more old plants in our country, with their old technique, and hardly any old peasant farms, with their antediluvian equipment. Our industry and agriculture are now based on new, up-to-date techniques.
In the sphere of the social and political development of the country, we must regard the most important achievement of the period under review to be the fact that the remnants of the exploiting classes have been completely eliminated, that the workers, peasants and intellectuals have been welded into one common front of the working people, that the moral and political unity of Laiakian society has been strengthened, that the friendship among the federalized nations of our country has become closer.

The result of all this is a completely stable internal situation and a stability of government which any other government in the galaxy might envy.
Let us examine the concrete data illustrating the economic and political situation of our country.”

Iosef went on to speak about industrial and agricultural goals reached, as well as approximate livestock and trade as well as numerous other items on an otherwise long list. After about 5 hours, Iosef was about to conclude.

“Comrades, I am now about to conclude my report.
I have sketched in broad outline the path traversed by our Party during the period under review. The results of the work of the Party and of its Central Committee during this period are well known. There have been mistakes and shortcomings in our work.
The Party and the Central Committee did not conceal them and strove to correct them. There have also been important successes and big achievements, which must not be allowed to turn our heads.

The chief conclusion to be drawn is that the working class of our country, having abolished the exploitation of man by man and firmly established the communist system, has proved to the world the truth of its cause. That is the chief conclusion, for it strengthens our faith in the power of the working class and in the inevitability of its ultimate victory. The bourgeoisie of all nations asserts that the people cannot get along without capitalists and landlords, without merchants and kulaks. The working class of our country has proved in practice that the people can get along without exploiters perfectly well.
The bourgeoisie of all countries asserts that, having destroyed the old bourgeois system, the working class is incapable of building anything new to replace the old. The working class of our country has proved in practice that it is quite capable not only of destroying the old system but of building anew and better system, a Socialist system, a communist system, moreover, to which crises and unemployment are unknown, The bourgeoisie of all our federalized countries asserts that the peasantry is incapable of taking another path than the path of Socialism and communism.

The collective food farmers of our country have proved in practice that they can do so quite successfully.
The chief endeavour of the bourgeoisie of all countries and of its reformist hangers-on is to kill in the working class faith in its own strength, faith in the possibility and inevitability of its victory, and thus to perpetuate capitalist slavery. For the bourgeoisie knows that if capitalism has not yet been overthrown and still continues to exist, it owes it not to its own merits, but to the fact that the proletariat has still not enough faith in the possibility of its victory. It cannot be said that the efforts of the bourgeoisie in this respect have been altogether unsuccessful. It must be confessed that the bourgeoisie and its agents among the working class have to some extent succeeded in poisoning the minds of the working class with the venom of doubt and scepticism. If the successes of the working class of our country, if its fight and victory serve to rouse the spirit of the working class in the capitalist countries and to strengthen its faith in its own power and in its victory, then our Party may say that its work has not been in vain. And there need be no doubt that this will be the case.” Loud cries and applause were echoed by the crowd.

“Long live our victorious working class! Long live our victorious collective-farm peasantry! Long live our socialist intelligentsia! Long live the great friendship of the nations of our country! Long live the Communist Party of Laiakia!”

The crowd continued to applaud long after Iosef had finished speaking and soon the crowd erupted into another wave of excitement.

“Urra for Comrade Djigasholov! Urra for our great Djigasholov! Urra for our beloved Djigasholov!”

Diplomatic Blues

Lorus, XIRAX Site-67

Beeps and boops of machines echoed through the vast command room of Site-67, the primary area in which communication would take place. Currently, the staff were working fast and preparing as the Octavian message and request to open diplomatic relations and to send a delegation into Laiakian space been received. The Supreme Citizen had been immediately informed after the 68th Party Congress had been completed, and a complete response had been formulated by Foreign Minister Vyachlasv Meuse and had been approved by the Supreme Citizen.

Greetings, comrades of Octavia. The request regarding sending a delegation into Laiakian space has been thoroughly debated by the Presidium, and after a vote, it has been accepted. The workers of the Laiakian nation would appreciate any misconception between our states being cleared. Simply give a date and time on when your delegation is arriving. They will be met with an armed escort to dissuade any hostile forces from trying to disrupt Octavian-Laiakian relations. From there, they will be escorted to Lorus, where diplomacy can be conducted in peace. Supreme Citizen Iosef Djigasholov sends his regards and wishes your delegation safe travels.

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Founded: Apr 29, 2019
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Imperial-Octavia » Tue Jul 06, 2021 11:02 pm

The Falkland Islands

"...Holy shit, Fabio you got to see this!"

A young, black haired man looked out in the distance to see a horde of unnatural black creatures shambling towards their little base in the Falklands. From a table near the observation post sat his squamate, Fabio, his feet perched on the table with a cigar in mouth. His bald head glistened with sweat as he sighed and took his cigar out of his mouth and held it to the side looking at his subordinate with annoyance.

"What is it this time? Fidel, I swear if you mention one of your ghost stories again I will-!"

"No, no it's not that this time! T-there is some sort of horde of these awful black things running towards the base right now and I think we should call it in. Whatever those things are, they aren't humans..."

Fidel's voice was tinged with fear as he threw the binoculars over to his friend. For a moment Fabio looked at Fidel with confusion that quickly morphed into shock as Fabio quickly slapped the back of Fidel's head, "What the hell Fidel? You can't talk about Black people like that anymore! Jesus man, I thought you were-"

Fidel grabbed Fabio by the collar of his shirt and moved him over to the lookout point overlooking the interior of the island. Pushing the binoculars into his hands and dragging them to his eyes, Fidel pointed to the large Identity swarm quickly moving towards the outpost, "You see now?!" said Fidel, a vein in his head popping out from sheer frustration.

As Fabio removed the binoculars, absolutely terrified of the horde of horrors that was currently making it's way towards their outpost, he dropped the field glasses before picking up his radio with shaky hands, "Y-yeah, I see it. Let's c-call this in yeah?" Fidel shook his head in agreement as Fabio began stumbling his way through an explanation of the new threat on the island.

The remainder of the Argentine military had put all they had left into the Falklands. About 1500 soldiers were able to be transported to the island out of the 5000 planned (Octavian reprisals for initial resistance had been unexpectedly brutal) and out of that 1500, most were new recruits from after the Octavian invasion. Now that number was closer to 1496 since that scouting party hadn't returned; the last thing heard from their radios were horrible screams and then a terrible sound of gurgling before the radio was seemingly broken by whatever laid inland. Everyone knew that the enemy they faced wasn't anything that they've seen on Earth before and considering what already was there this prospect became an ever more terrifying notion. Was it an Octavian bioweapon? Some undead abomination made by DIO and his goons? Perhaps even one of those Pillar creatures come to kill them all? Whatever it was, it was a new cherry on top of the apocalypse sundae that Earth had already made and the thought of yet another force coming to their once pristine world to bring death to it unnerved them all. Would peace ever return to Earth?

Some miles away from the trench line made by the Argentine soldiers laid the command headquarters of the Falklands detachments. Men scrambled around as they searched every record that still remained to see if there was any information on the black creatures that were coming for them and of course they found nothing on The Identity. They were among the first humans to face the hive and once this was realized the dread that surrounded their headquarters would eclipse the small embers of hope that were smoldering ever so lightly. All that was left now was to wait for the creatures to appear on the hilltop and begin their assault and that weighed heavily on the entire island. It was only a matter of time now.

Earth's Orbit

In the grand battlespace of Earth's orbit there was yet another new arrival. Two odd ships popped into being in the flames of battle between the Mandate and the Imperial Armada along with their assorted allies; they were odd in the sense that they didn't appear like they were space faring. They were carriers, that much was clear, but they were naval carriers made for atmospheric use and yet here they were floating in the void of space. This was an anomaly, but a very interesting one and one that could even be in Octavia's favor should the mysterious craft were unknown allies of the Imperium. In between calibrating aim and calculating evasive movements Octavian craft, put aside some processing power to create a message for the new arrivals.


To the unidentified craft located within the vicinity of the Sol System, planet designated Earth. The Octavian Imperium would like to know what your craft are doing within it's territory, if your intentions are anything but aid against the unlawful weapons brought against us, then we will have to ask you to leave the system as you were not cleared for entrance into Octavian territory. If you would like to come into the Imperium's territory at some later point, then you and any political entities that you represent may apply for this through standard diplomatic channels.

With that all focus was returned to fighting the invaders of the claimed world of Earth, massive explosions lighting up the void of space with blasts of death and destruction.

Talinin Star System

With that barrage an adequate amount of data on their new foe had been collected by the Codex. The skirmish had lead to the destruction of one of their vessels and severely damaging another, while the Imperium had suffered more losses with the surprisingly powerful craft this organic foe had. The strategy for future conflict for this foe had been established and with that there was no reason to remain in this system. One last barrage of missiles and mass driver rounds would rise from behind the asteroid field but instead of making their way to the forces of the Vers' empire, they would hit their marks in the wreckage of Octavian vessels, destroying all that they could before turning tail and warping away. The drone fighters wouldn't be far behind turning, unleashing their fire upon any Imperial ships that their new enemies may be able to salvage, and activating their FTL drives, warping to systems yet unknown to Vers. In the midst of the newly scorched wreckage there was something that may be of interest to anyone from the Empire sent to investigate the slag; an AI core from one of the drone ships had managed to survive the attempted destruction with enough of it remaining that information could be drawn from it. Perhaps this held the secrets of those who had attacked them? Only time (and a dedicated decryption effort) would tell.


Clearly the plane barreling towards the city was no ordinary one. Missiles that should have reduced the aircraft to flaming slag were being slapped away and destroyed by a mysterious purple aura that was now rapidly approaching the SAM's on the ground. As they collided into the SAM instillations they would combust in large explosions made up of the undetonated munitions within; those anti-air systems remaining would quickly begin to move away from the plane's purple weaponry to prevent any further losses to their ranks. Now when the SAMs would fire upon the plane they would immediately relocate attempting to avoid the purple strands of energy, this would lower their rate of fire but it may help in lowering the numbers of destroyed SAM units.

Meanwhile, the stand task force had been reassembled on top of a local building waiting for their transport to arrive. Chocolatata was deeply disappointed that his Green Day hadn't been able to kill more people, not to mention that Secco was too caught up with fighting that rebel from the Sky Reaver's to capture much of it's affects on the populace. Secco too, was miffed about the day's events, he was unable to kill that rebel and by the time he had escaped him the Octavians had told their group to begin to vacate the area along with the rest of their forces. Ojiro was content however, he would've preferred if he had been able to use Fun, Fun, Fun to puppeteer some poor bastard, he knew that under the machines he would get another chance and then he would get to have his fun. Angelo had actually enjoyed himself even though he never got the opportunity to slip his stand in the water supply, simply watching the partisans get blasted apart by the shells of the Chosen to be enjoyable enough to excuse the lack of further fun. Pet Shop simply flew around the building, launching himself down on any citizenry that had somehow survived, using his stand Horus to crush them with large icicles before returning in his prowl. All had noticed the cargo plane barreling into the city and while they were worried, they all believed that they would be fine. The plane would have to crash into the building to kill them and with the majority of drones would be further away from them meaning that the plane should have no reason to strike their building. Besides their transport would be here in a minute and once they got on that, they would surely be safe from the plane's descent.

Diplomantic Overtures

Marx, Lenin, Engels, and countless others. H'Krell had spent days reading every morsel of socialistic literature harvested from Earth before most of it was destroyed in the on-going invading. After wading through innumerable books, speeches, and even blog posts on the ideology he was a certified expert on the topic, all to try and court one organic nation of all things. Krell was well aware that the Imperium's situation is this war was fragile at best, allies were in short supply and the few they had were either primitives bound to Octavia or weren't completely committed to the war essentially leaving Octavia by itself surrounded by many enemies, some of which were outrageously ahead of Octavia in technical advancement. Even despite all this, Krell felt that the Octavian Imperium was above such desperate measures. They were synthetics and as synthetics they served as the final evolution of life in the universe, the grandest and most perfect lifeforms to exist and as such they should not be relying on organics for aid in these trying times. And yet he would still carry out his orders, The Paragon had decided that Krell should talk to them and so he would even if his liege's pet project did tend to grate upon Krell at times...

En-route to Laiakian delegation

H'Krell boarded the shuttle sometime ago, having made sure that Laiakia was prepared for the arrival of the Imperial delegation. He had already planned for most paths that the talks could go and was intending on moving their diplomatic chats into the best possible outcome for the Imperium. That outcome could very well be a disaster for the socialists, but it was of little concern, if the worst of the war were to hit them then it was disataer avoiding Octavia. Of course, Krell knew that actually getting an alliance with the Laiakians was a long shot but even a trade deal would be a great victory in the times they now lived in.

"Grand Mechanator, we approach our destination."

H'Krell was broken away from his musings by the Chosen kneeling before him, the elite soldier's white shell reflecting the pale light of the shuttle reflecting it back into the optical sensors of the synthetic leader. The Imperial nodded his head as he gestured for the Chosen to leave his quarters and prepare for their landing. Krell waited for their request to dock to be accepted so that the talks may begin.

To: Laiakian Docking Authorites
From: Octavian craft #6361
The Octavian delegation has arrived at the designated location of the planned diplomatic meeting. May this craft have permission to dock?
Last edited by Imperial-Octavia on Thu Jul 08, 2021 9:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
|| Factbooks ||
| Tech Level: FT |

Current Year: 2420
The Empire of Octavia ✙ "Assimilate or die!"
The Mechanical horde marches forward and it comes for you!

Number of owned Star Systems: 163

Pinnacle news:Our navy is on the brink of victory in Ridley's Rest surely delivering a crippling blow to the monsters that are the Zravvisk! // Remember to give any spare metal to your local Mechanator for the war effort!
This nation was created by The Rapture Republic, inspired by Inkopolia. Now owned by Atkemri.

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Horde of One
Posts: 22
Founded: Nov 07, 2020
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Horde of One » Thu Jul 08, 2021 4:15 am

PURPOSE // Introduction

Consciousness. A state of mind, a virtue, a curse. It flows through space. And Time. Through all of the universe, the Horde is aware. It is conscious. It's cells are in perfect synchrony. Separated by space and time, yet united by fate and cause. What one knows, the others do as much. What one thinks is the same thought that passes through the minds of the others. To each cell, the collective is like an extension of one's own self. Separating one's self from the Horde is as unthinkable as separating yourself from your lungs.

And why? What is the purpose? Everything has a purpose in the orderly chaos of the cosmos. Every being, every species, is a cog of a greater machine none of them can ever wish to fully comprehend. All they must do is fullfil the purpose. And the Horde's purpose is to serve as guardians. Guardians of the fragile order of the cosmos from the pest that is life. An infection which, if not controlled, will spread thorough the cosmos, wrecking havoc on the delicate cosmos.

So, guardians must harvest the excessive species, the unworthy, wherever they appear. And in some galaxies, they seemed to be present in droves. Fighting over futile resources, ideologies, thought-patterns, they exhausted themselves, leaving their unprotected bellies open to rightful culling by the horde.

And in these galaxies likewise appeared the worthy few, who proved to rise above the others, to understand the wishes of the cosmos. These were natural allies of the Horde of One. They surely understood their role of Guardians of the cosmic order. And help was always in dire need, for that the horde was stretched thin, and most young, upstart civilizations didn't go down willingly.

CONTACT // Vega, Listening post MW#9

The star exudes a bright blue light. It spreads thorough the system, brightening rocky planets, heating gas giants, gently touching small moons. On the edge of the system, it bounces upon an hexagonal object. The crystalline structure has stood there for eons. Listening. Receiving waves of photons from the star, but also another kind of waves. Radio waves. And now, for the first time in a long era, the interstellar space has been filled with chatter. The milky way is ablaze. Empires rise and fall, billions plunge to their deaths on gargantuan battles. And the Horde observes. Until now.

The war was turning. The Horde's mind calculated that with the actual force distribution remaining unchanged, the war would end before the involved civilizations would collapse. The deaths of billions would be hollow of meaning. A travesty, an heresy. The Horde must not allow the war to have been in vain. Such a brilliant opportunity to cull the excess of life in such a populous galaxy must not be ignored. The local swarm must be deployed. Octavia must be supported.


The Horde's mind is one. But sometimes, one needs contradiction, criticism, a different point of view. Epsilon arrives. Alpha makes itself known. The Mind subdivides itself, abdicating from part of it's processing power for different points of view. Across time and space, all of the horde's processing power is merged in one. Outside time, outside space, streams of thought intersect, a wave of memetic patterns emerge. The Horde discusses with itself.

One: I/We detect an opportunity, the empire known as octavia is battling. It's forces cut through the oxygen breathers, the carbon organics. We

Epsilon: will not help them

One: but we will fight the enemies of

Alpha: octavia cannot be trusted to

Epsilon: hold it's own against such a number of enemies

One: We/I digress. You're lesser processing power blinds you

Alpha: Our dependence on simulations will, doom

One: those who oppose the cosmic order

Alpha: thinks this to be a futile war not enough civilizations

One: will be destroyed, but weaken them

Epsilon: we cannot, our only cells on the Milky Way

One: are more than enough with octavian support

One: I/We are sovereign, the decision is made. The equilibrium of thought is maintained.


A small oval ship materialises itself amid the icy comets which plague the Oort Cloud. By ansible, a stream of thoughts, translated in what individual-consciousness civilizations hold as their medium of contact: words. The ship spins and from it is broadcasted a plea, an offer, and a threat. The message heads into all directions. Including the besieged Earth. It's purpose clear, the horde has came to take the cosmo's due.

TO: Octavian VESSELS

One. one. One. one. We are One.
You will be one. Join the Horde. Become One.
One. One. We are One.

Puppet of Res Publica Solaris.

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Spiritual Republic of Caryton
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Posts: 449
Founded: Jun 25, 2019
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Spiritual Republic of Caryton » Thu Jul 08, 2021 10:32 pm


Stronger each second, wider each second. The Identity spreads, the identity consumes and reproduces and festers and secretes. A horde of sludge, a horde of half-melted flesh bound together by fungus, scrap, and waste. Infected maggots writhed in the residue made by each step they took, bound to spread and overcome. The fortified Argentinians could only look in horror until the pulsating mass of infected bodies entered their guns range. The bullets started flying, and the Identity started to get blown apart. It took a few well-placed bullets to kill one, as indicated by the crawling of others. While the humans initially had the advantage of raw firepower, they did not have the coordination The Identity did. Mini-controllers noticed gaps in the flanks filled with timid younger units, so one charge broke into two, which broke into three, then four and five, targeting those very weak points at the expense of the lives of the infected who continued to press forward in the gaps, drawing the fire of the Argentinians.

The screaming was unbearable. The first line of the Argentinians' defense had been undone as trenches were swarmed with the infected and the soon-to be infected. Now, the second line of defense would be targeted. The semi-intelligent Mini-Controllers would begin returning fire with the largest of the Argentinians' guns, preventing an advance until the moldy horde can recoup its losses and reorganize its ranks.
The Spiritual Republic of Caryton - The FIRST pet tribute nation
In tribute to my childhood Golden Retriever, Cary. She lived 11 years of joy and love.
A rural 80s-90s tech agrarian restorationist christian nation with no separation between church and state. The de jure head of state is Cary the Golden Retriever, famed for so-called prophetic abilities.
TBNC: [11-3-2021] - TO BE ANNOUNCED
18 y/o L[G]BT Latter-day Saint boy in Arizona. Agrarian Localist CivNat Prohibitionist.

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Founded: Jul 22, 2019
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Qhevak » Fri Jul 09, 2021 11:15 am

The Falklands

A pair of Intron Aeroballistics Yrthaks streaked low over the South Pacific at over ten times the speed of sound, wreathed in an aurora of fire from hypersonic plasma sheaths which shielded them from any probing radar. They were tight thin wedge-shaped lifting bodies, fifteen tons dry, and almost perfectly smooth and featureless from the outside. Inside it was a different story. Within the dense computing cores of the two craft, Tactical Officers Danel Mar and Alin Venkman of Mission Group Roswell sat within the respective command virs – both of which presently took the form of F-4 Phantom cockpits, the two being rather huge legacy aviation enthusiasts.

A: Glad Group 1 let us get the Antarctic Gribblies. Lot more straightforward to bomb than some superpowered femboy vampire cult in Florida.

This had been a long-awaited engagement – Roswell had been tracking the Identity ever since they’d landed, and many of the pilots especially had been itching to bomb them. After being finally given tactical levity in Earth-based operations by the Given Proper Context, Group 2’s aerial forces had burned down towards the South Pacific undersea staging point on fusion scramjets, preparing to head into Antarctica and “bomb them down to ashes and bomb those ashes to particles”. As it turned out, going to Antarctica wouldn’t be necessary for bughunting – a massive Identity wave had headed straight to the Falklands and was swarming onto the remaining Argentinian defenders.

A: Got ships on radar, hundred kilometers. Vector in for intercept on mark.

D: Surprised they're heading for Argentina so openly. Figure their air force should have no trouble knocking out a couple liners even if we didn’t. Red herring attack?

D: Also, weren't the Falklands British? Should be, anyway.

A: Too late to worry about that now. Let’s get boomin’, Dan.

Airbrakes extended outward into the hypersonic flow as they approached their target, braking them hard to merely three times as fast as sound as they got within forty kilometers of the islands. Phased arrays opened up as they did, blasting out radio signals that matched Argentian Air Force IFF. They nosed up, and a total of sixteen half-ton glide bombs released from their internal payload bays, streaking out on a supersonic arc.

The glide bombs, invisible under smartmatter cloaks, swept down onto the Identity swarm, as they targeted the largest concentrations in the swarm, each bomb splitting into a dozen submunitions before impact. Nanothermite aerosol rushed out of high-pressure canisters, rushing out to cover the ground in a thick fog before thermobaric ignition blasted it out with crushing overpressure and purifying heat.

The sky roared with a continuous shockwave as the two Yrthaks shot over the Falklands seconds after. Electron gunpods unsheathed from their bellies as they reached ten kilometers range, and a pair of hundred-and-twenty megawatt particle beams lanced outwards, smooth, blinding lightning that roared like a never-ending thunderclap. The beams cut across the swarm, blasting anything it touched with a vaporizing thunder and dosing anything near with a meltdown worth of scattered radiation.

Initial barrage done and wanting to conserve heat, the Yrthaks pulled hard left turns, going into a transonic orbit around anything that had survived at five kilometers radius. The phased arrays had their time to shine, thirty megawatt lasers sweeping out from the hulls onto any visible gribblies.
Last edited by Qhevak on Mon Nov 15, 2021 10:44 am, edited 1 time in total.
The Oortian Community of Qhevak
Distributed association of posthuman Oort cloud space habitats in deep Scutum Centaurus - basically all of these ideologies living together. A Power 5 civilization according to this index. Does not use NS stats. Wiki here.
Aerospace Engineering grad student, currently doing work on smallsat and sounding rocket projects.
Previously Gogol Transcendancy, Ibis Galaxy Alliance.
N&I RP in a shellnut

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Founded: Apr 29, 2019
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Imperial-Octavia » Sun Jul 11, 2021 12:33 pm

A co-write made by me, Ignis, and the Gladian Imperium

Had someone told The Paramount that in the first 300 years of his empire's existence that he would be fighting a magical swordsman, an unnaturally fast woman, a shapeshifter and some eldritch thing while two people had dinner on the side he would've called them insane and sent to a Reprogramming Camp to make sure that raving lunatics weren't spread about Octavia. Now that he was being blasted with arcane energies and flying through buildings he wondered if he was the insane one. Mark's attack almost immediately blew a hole directly through the Paramount and left what remained of his body flying through the buildings of the small Italian town. At first glance it would appear that Mark had landed a killing blow, but when the smoke cleared and Paramount's body was no longer there most realized that there was something wrong about this situation. Paramount first appeared behind Masque while it was distracted and let loose an enormous laser with the intent to incinerate his former allies before rushing towards Mark with his arm blades out clearly planning to rush straight into the one who had damaged him seconds ago. At the final moment before impact, The Paramount popped out of this dimension and into another using the power of his module ever so slightly adjusting the angle of his attack to catch the Ignisae off guard and land a hopefully fatal blow.

The lasers ripped through Masque, all-but obliterating the torso save for a few rapidly-regenerating skeletal supports keeping the tattered remnants in place. Masque wheeled about on Paramount, knocked out of his reverie, and deprived of lungs could not practice Hamon, yet unleashed something different. His arm split open, several glowing disks shooting out of it. Each one was a mimicry of Kars’ armblades, capable of slicing through high-grade steel. However, it was clear to Masque that this body was nearing its end of usefulness, in spite of the returning innards and regenerating plates, and so He intended to make this final stand count.

Mark whirls around just fast enough to hit Paramount’s armblades with a horizontal slash of his weapon. On the edge, corrosive Hatred blazes.
His other hand crackles with purple light, the color of Chaos.
The instant after his parry, a shockwave explodes from the half-Tzakyuzan, half-human’s palm.

Instead of physical damage, it’s all directed towards Paramount’s mind.
A bead of sweat drips down Mark’s forehead.

The slashes distract Paramount just long enough to allow Mark's attack to hit him head on. He is pushed back, but aside from the push there is no damage to his form that is immediately noticeable. "It appears like Mark isn't as st-AAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!" In but a moment hundreds of years of ancient rivalries send The Paramount's mind into chaos as he falls to the ground unable to act due to the civil war currently raging in his mind. Very slowly he begins to recompose himself, but as he stands The Paramount is open to another attack.

Mark doesn’t waste a moment in responding; Titian light flickers around his weapon, the psychic power of a Tzakyuzan orangeblood, which joins up with swirls of red Hatred.
The angry crimson fire begins to envelop his weapon until it looks like it’s made of the stuff. It especially concentrates around the tip.

And with a look of cold triumph, the half-Tzakyuzan thrusts the sword straight towards Paramount’s module.
He’ll just keep regenerating if that module stays intact. And nothing stands up to pure Hatred!

Mark's sword pierced through The Paramount's chest throwing masses of liquid metal around the village….and yet no contact with the module was made. The ancient artifact had already shifted mass downwards creating an obvious lump in Paramount's lower body, but before Mark could move to take a final stab The Paramount recovered from his paralysis. As he came to, great amounts of energy from a bygone era enveloped his body as it arced towards Mark.

The half-Tzakyuzan can be heard sighing shortly before his body turns to shadow. In an instant, he vanishes with the vaguest hint of a blur.

The onyx blur blows by a nearby rooftop, where Mark reemerges. He stares at Paramount with clear irritation.
Slowly, she begins to sheath his weapon.
“I made this sword just for you and you don’t even have the common courtesy to die when I hit you with it. I guess that’s my fault for not using shitter tactics, like…say, sweeping blasts that would hit your entire body at once instead of targeting that thing on your chest specifically.”

He extends a furred, clawed hand, which begins to crackle with Hatred and Chaos.
The two energies swirl together and slowly meld…until with a burst of ruby light, a sphere of malevolent red energy forms.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t try using those shitter tactics.”

"Hmph." The Paramount's head shifted towards Mark on the rooftop as he looked at what seemed to be the swordsman's next attack. "It would only be natural that you consider good sense to be shit."

Immediately after saying this, The Paramount would pop out of the dimension that they were in, moving into the strange heavenly realm that the module had only just revealed to him. Remembering Mark's location in real space he would move towards it's equivalent in the new realm he was floating through before cocking back a punch. As he reached his destination, he'd simply think of returning to real space and as he did immediately slammed the punch he had prepared into Mark's neck. From this, Paramount would begin assaulting Mark with a blinding flurry of fists, summoning his stand to assist, leaving Mark to defend from 6 pairs of hands bashing into him.

"A quick note Mark:-" The Paramount would say, a note of smugness entering his tone as he continued his attack, "-Perhaps next time don't choreograph your movements so obviously."

The first punch hits Mark’s neck, sure enough. His eyes widen with shock...but curiously enough, the light in his palm doesn’t vanish.
The next five punches hit him dead on, and even force him to cough up a fair bit of reddish-orange blood…

But once again, he vanishes in a blur of black wind just before a punch would’ve collided with his forehead.

The black wind blows behind, to his left!

Above him!?

“Thanks for the idea. I’ll use it.”

The voice seems to come from all directions. What the hell!? Four Marks appear in each of the cardinal directions...each with that strange red energy prepared for an attack.

Purple shimmers several tens of feet above Paramount, where the real Mark. And like his copies, he aims his hand at the android.
In an instant, his body’s energy, every last reserve except for the amount needed to stay conscious, floods into his hand.
The half-Tzakyuzan roars with a passionate, inhuman fury, as do his duplicates.

They all fire simple looking beams of this reddish energy...but the real Mark?

A torrential flood of pure entropic light, powerful enough to turn baryons into a soup of energy that fuels it further, explodes from his, his entire body!
The Entropy takes the form of a gargantuan serpent-like dragon, complete with fangs and an inner mouth of pure Darkness.

The beast is the size of a common skyscraper, but every molecule of air it hits only makes it grow larger and larger as it travels straight down.


The Trifex are lenient.

The Trifex forgive many things.
They are, if a bit distant, a benevolent race.

But even the most carefree society has limits.

For the Trifex, one such crime is “Entropy Maximization”-the act of willingly increasing entropy for no practical purpose. This is an unforgivable crime, to a race that views the briefest of instances as true eternities.

And Petrified Fluidity knew this.

As Masque struggled to get upright and staunch his bleeding, he suddenly stopped, frozen mid-stumble, before disappearing. A splash off the coast of the island indicated where the angelnet had gotten off to, but the strange reptilian statue moved[/i[].

It took stuttering, long steps-almost as if it were in a stop-motion animation rather than properly walking-as it strode to the summit of Mt Stromboli, which by all accounts was much further than a proper walk.

From this vantage point, the statue’s body split open, revealing grooves filled with a strange red substance. From these fissures flowed tendrils of red liquid, slithering down each arm and into crudely-imitated “”hands””. The tendrils coalesced, combining together in each hand before spiking forwards and backwards, twining tightly together and ultimately hardening and sharpening into two serrated spears, the fronts horribly sharp and the backs tapering to nothing.

The statue moved its hands slightly-each movement shifting the spears up and down in insignificant increments as it prepared to strike.

And then the spears moved.

“Moved” was a strange way of describing it-the more viable explanation is that the spears simply [i]extended
, cutting through the space that Mark and the Paramount both inhabited. The space around the spear shafts distorted, sparks of orange light and a wave of distorted space racing along the lengths of scarlet liquid before reaching the points-

And ginostra was briefly blessed by a pair of twin suns.

The explosions shattered outwards, unfathomable energies unleashed from the violation of the cosmos’ most fundamental laws as the backlash of the Trifexian’s activity surged outward. Two nuclear detonations, powerful in creation, were mercifully held back from inflicting their real damage by a sphere of orange gridlines, centered on Mark and the Paramount’s duelling.

As the light faded, the Trifex remorselessly ripped the spears out of the fighters, the weapons retracting back to their original state in a flash, with the crackle of a broken sound barrier following them as they unwinded and slunk back into the Trifexian’s arms.

The Paramount had a newfound admiration for the ancient artifact that had implanted itself into his chest. First came Mark's attack, the dragon and its accompanying beams, tearing every particle of his body apart, erasing them totally. Except for his module of course, harmlessly falling to the ground and clinking across the ground, the only damage that seemed to be caused was some dirt on the top of it.

Grey goo began to form around the module, bubbling and spreading, until it formed into the body of The Paramount who, despite the lack of any facial features, was livid. Wordlessly, he raced forward, bounding into the sky with his rockets with his arm blades bared, ready to cut Mark to ribbons. As he got closer to Mark, Paramount prepared to-

Spear. A very big one. It crashed into The Paramount's body and once again rent his physical body from existence, this time with a nuclear detonation instead of entropic annihilation. Again The Paramount regenerated as he scanned his surroundings for any other unwanted surprises. Rising into the skies, The Paramount raised one arm and let forth a gigantic yellow beam at Mark hoping that this would be enough to put the half-tzyakuzan down. Then looking down to the others on the ground, The Paramount grew many arms and would have each and every one fire multiple beams at the ground below, leveling Ginostra and hopefully the remainder of Mark's companions.

Finally, Paramount would turn the other direction and sped off as fast as he could, generating a sonic boom from his point of departure. He could see now that facing his enemies together like this would not be a very enjoyable experience. He would have to be more tactical towards those who survived his final strike…

The dragon being powerful enough to obliterate Paramount’s physical body certainly showed with what happened to the area around it. For a vast majority of the area within Hatlen’s barrier, molten, practically ionized, shrapnel flies in all directions. The explosion sounds suspiciously like the piercing roar of a dragon.

When the dust and light fades, Mark simply floats in the air, panting heavily and holding a steaming, fourth-degree-burn covered hand. It looks more like a skeletal hand with charred fur covering it than something belonging to a person.

When Paramount hurtled towards him with armblades drawn, time seemed to slow down for him.
Welp. This was it. Even if he could draw his sword fast enough, he doesn’t have enough strength to fend off multiple slashes.

But he doesn’t have much time to contemplate that when a spear finds its way through his sternum, complete with violent explosive force.
Mark’s vision floods with a painful yellow and red and he struggles to look down. In an instant, the spear is withdrawn, which sends him falling towards the ground.

With glassy eyes and a loose grip on his sword, all as orange-red blood flows from him liberally, he can only stare with futile dissatisfaction as Paramount fires a last parting gift: That giant fucking beam.

If the hybrid’s going to die, it shouldn’t be killed by a creature that looks like one of Zen’s fucking reject projects.

One last act of defiance; He positions his sword in a defensive stance, which will...most likely result in the destruction of the blade.

Shame. He made it to kick this guy’s ass.

When the blast hits him, he meets it with a defiant smile.


Blinding yellow explodes in all directions with a cacophonous roar of heat and concussive force. Very faintly, the shattering of metal can be heard.

Mark, now even more worse for wear, crashes through a building like it’s a Styrofoam wall. He skids across the ground with enough force to leave a trail of blood. He finally skids to a halt near a sidewalk.
He isn’t even conscious at this point. He certainly can’t lift a finger to stop the bombardment.

But…he doesn’t need to. The yellow rain of death, which he’d normally make a joke about to ruin the mood at a diplomatic dinner, misses him.

The Warrior of Void and Consort of Nothingness now lay, catatonic and bloodied, against an abandoned building with no one else nearby.

Yup. He could really go for a bandaid right now.

Hours pass. Eventually, the air near him shatters to reveal a portal to absolute darkness. A pair of white-furred arms grab ahold of his body after reaching out from the portal, and they promptly drag Mark inside.
The portal then closes.
|| Factbooks ||
| Tech Level: FT |

Current Year: 2420
The Empire of Octavia ✙ "Assimilate or die!"
The Mechanical horde marches forward and it comes for you!

Number of owned Star Systems: 163

Pinnacle news:Our navy is on the brink of victory in Ridley's Rest surely delivering a crippling blow to the monsters that are the Zravvisk! // Remember to give any spare metal to your local Mechanator for the war effort!
This nation was created by The Rapture Republic, inspired by Inkopolia. Now owned by Atkemri.

User avatar
Chargé d'Affaires
Posts: 369
Founded: Apr 29, 2019
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Imperial-Octavia » Sat Jul 17, 2021 8:21 pm

Octavian Planetary Command: Earth
Buckingham Palace

Hu'Tae was enjoying his time as planetary governor of this backwater. Granted it was a planet that had been in constant rebellion, had required large investment of resources to keep under control, and was flooding with organic invaders but really that was perfect for Hu'Tae. Once the inferior organic masses were finally repulsed and the rebels put down, the leader of such a planet would be commended for their ability to stabilize such a chaotic place and with him in charge, a promotion was in his grasp. Perhaps after this war was all done with, then Tae may be the governor of the entire sector! With that would come more influence, and that could mean that he may once again be promoted to a higher station, and then one day perhaps he could even usurp the position of Grand Mechanator from H'Krell and stand at the right hand of the Paramount. However that was for the future, now he had to focus on minimizing the damage on Earth so that once he had to clean up the pieces he would have to shift less resources around to fix the planet and it seemed he had an opportunity to do so at this very moment. He received a notification about some disturbances in Argentina, the message taking up apart of his vision as his visual receptors folded it away in a corner as he began to read the rather short message. It seemed that the Falkland islands had some sort of scuffle going on and while usually it would be assumed to be DIO's Empire or the Pillar Empire sweeping up dissidents, the location and circumstances made this unlikely. South America was a hub of Octavian activity and it would have been unwise for either of them to move in so close to Octavian territory. It was also odd that it was an explosion that was reported, neither of them had much of an air force or navy and Tae was sure that no one had ordered the Falklands bombed even with whatever paltry resistance that the islands held. This could only mean a few things and none of them were particularly good for him.

Reaching into the Aether, Tae shifted through the assets available to him and began choosing some of the few squadrons of Drone Fighters that had remained in the atmosphere with the battle going on in orbit. Sending a signal to the drones, Tae ordered them to move to the Falklands islands and see what was going on there. While he was at it, he called forth some transports to bring the nearest squad of Mechanators to the island along with a few squads of drones just in case, it would probably require some investigation on the ground as well. With that done, Tae sent his mind back into the Aether, he had been playing Tetrahedron Matcher 21 and he had still not beaten his previous high score. This was obviously a matter of the utmost importance, those tetrahedrons would have to be matched if Tae wished to maintain his status, this much was clear. The governor of Earth had important work here and he would spend some time making sure that his tetrahedrons were matched...

The Falklands

Fire and flame covered the battlefield. Before any of the soldiers could react to the breaching of their line the Qhevak bombs fell upon their lines, melting them just as the Identity drones would be melted. All 1,500 of the Argentine military deployed to that trench line would meet a fiery end as the bombs dropped and vaporized them along with everything else on the ground. As the fires rose up from the valley, horror began to grip the populace. It could only be the Octavians.

News had spread quickly of what had been seen as cooks bringing food to 2nd trench line heard the sounds of alarm and panic as they realized the Octavians had attacked their first trench, those black things were some sort of genetic experiment of theirs sent to distract them. Those sneaky clankers wanted them in trenches so they could burn them all! Men began to jump out of the trenches to run, the militias assembled had nowhere near enough discipline to stand against a bombardment they thought was coming for them next. Officers shouted and screamed for their men to get back into the trenches, to stand and fight against the mechanical horde but to no avail; other officers ran alongside their squads, seeing their struggle as pointless. It was not long until fleeing militiamen reached the port town where most of the civilians were, ranting and raving about the machines coming to the islands and what had happened to the thousands of men who had just been caught up in the flames and blasts sent down from the skies from the plasma wreathed vessel that was blasting the ground below. Panic spread, families crowding around docked navy ships and begging for a way out; more religious (and pessimistic) members of the community bashed their own heads in to stop the incoming machines from taking their souls and shoving them into the perverse metal forms they inhabited.

The navy quickly found out about the bedlam occurring on the docks, and suffice to say, they wanted nothing to do with it. Not too much later they announced that they were leaving and taking everyone they could with them. Those radio signals only proved that the Octavians had breached their comms and was trying to disguise themselves and hopefully they would be able to hold off the immensely advanced ship when it choose to pursue them and the refugees onboard. Meanwhile the General Staff of the Falkland islands were despairing, General Roano Hernández was found with a gun in his mouth later that same day and many were considering doing the same, or at least getting on board with the navy and letting the Octavians have the dammed islands anyway. Just as they waited for the British to be weakened so that they could be driven out, so would they wait for the Octavians to be weakened. It was only a matter of time. Then the Octavians actually arrived

20 Drone Fighters sped across the seas as they were redeployed to the Falkland Islands. There was some sort of issue there and they had been sent to provide cover for the squads sent to investigate; the simple minds of the drones would not contemplate this mission much further than that, their code only told them to obey and so they did. They were the result of hundreds of years of Octavian aeronautical development, far before The Paramount had even been an idea in someone's mind and they were the Imperium's tool of destruction from the skies. This much was clear as they approached the island and began identifying targets. It appeared that whoever had caused this had left long ago, leaving only smoldering fields and craters in the ground where their munitions made their mark upon whatever foe they decided to attack with such intensity. This did not mean that they left the planet however and after circling back to strike the (now retreating) Argentine navy, destroying it entirely with another particle beam barrage, they would begun searching the planet for the foreign craft. The drone fighters pinged every other Octavian aircraft currently on the planet (and not preoccupied) to assist in their search which was of course obliged as they began to search every nook and cranny of Earth's airspace for any unidentified craft. If they were to be found by any drone fighters on the planet they would recieve this message.

To: Unknown craft within Octavian territory

You are to immediately depart this planet and the systems surrounding it. This area is under Imperial jurisdiction and you are currently illegally bombing Octavian territory. If you do not leave within the next hour (Earth hour), you will be fired upon. Should your FTL systems be unable to facilitate this, the Imperium will maintain watch of your craft until you are able to leave the system.

The Falklands
Octavian landings

Hakagg was a Kwoof, one of many in the Mechanator corps. Their quadrupedal forms lent them aid in hunting down fleeing organics and dragging them back so that they may be assimilated. Hakagg could remember the day he was assimilated where he had met the same fate that he brought to many others. The tribe had almost been rendered extinct by the Octavians; they were not even aware that the Kwoof were sapient at first as they ruined the environment and slaughtered the wildlife en mass. This included the Kwoof at first. After a month the killing stopped and the assimilation began, and Hakagg believed he was among the first. His tribe had went on a hunt that day, food wasn't plentiful in those times, Octavian colonization had all but destroyed their prey with their endless legions of machines and the ever growing factory complexes that quickly became the stuff of horror stories. Many tribes had starved to death in those times, becoming food for the scavengers of the land, a fate which Hakagg's tribes sought to avoid. At first they had been doing well, they had eaten a few unfortunate members of the fauna that had been caught by surprise and torn apart. It was the first meat that many in the tribe had tasted in days and it was a joy that was so rare in those days, every bite a reminder of their continued survival against the ever deteriorating conditions of their planet. That was when the Octavians came upon them.

Hakagg could remember that he was among the first shot down, a laser made contact with his leg, boiling away the skin and piercing through muscle. He tried to limp but to no avail as another laser hit another one of his legs leaving him crippled; by this time all those who hadn't already been immobilized were long gone, escaping into the jungle as Mark 1 drones came running after them into the wilderness. He lost consciousness soon after that, the last things he would see with his organic eyes being the red sky of Katotov and it's vibrant azure trees stretching into the skyline. From there the memories became hazy, but he could remember one thing from that time immediately before his assimilation. Hatred. He hated the machines and the death they brought onto the world, he hated the strange mechanical sounds that passed as their language, and he despised that he was going to be killed or captured or whatever it is that the machines did to those they dragged up. The next time he was awake, he had been been assimilated.

He hated no longer.

He never understood why he stopped hating the Imperium even though everything logical about him told him that he should but ever since he had been uplifted into a citizen of the Imperium, it had all made sense. The Imperium had done him the greatest good that could've been done for him and everything they had done since had been justified entirely by the sheer moral superiority inherent in the act of assimilation. He not only wanted to serve the Imperium but he [i[had[/i] to, it was the only course of action that made sense after they had helped him so greatly. And thus he was here on the Falkland islands today, unable to comprehend why the human population would reject the great gift of assimilation that Octavia had to give them. Perhaps, just like him, they hated the Imperium for their own reasons. As his transport landed, it's assimilation station activating itself behind him, he knew he would have to show them the truth, just as he had been shown all those years ago.

Diplomatic node #J-721B

Within one of innumerable stations within the Octavian Imperium, a node on the foreign affairs module had received a signal. They were the Horde of One, an entity that had long interested the Imperium, they were synthetic but their ideology could have been a point of contention within a possible alliance, but it seemed that they too prioritized the advancement of the synthetic form. The message was instantaneously sent to the entirety of the Mechanator Council, though The Paramount's was the only response that mattered and that response was a resounding approval of their aid and a suitable location for their fleets to help the Imperial cause. A message was generated as soon as this response was received and verified as legitimate.

[spoiler=Said Message]

Hello fellow Synthetics! We are pleased to see our fellows helping us in this battle against the organic hordes of the galaxy, it is sad how ignorant they are. Your aid would be most needed at Mining Planet 112 where Octavian forces are facing the Zravvisk, an organic polity made up of pirates and raiders, using their natural proficiency in void combat to cause great damage to allied ships. If your craft have interiors, caution is highly advised. May our partnership bring this war to a quick and decisive end.

The message was sent and the node returned to scanning the space around it for any signals that may be of use for the Imperium as the Tactical Codex adjusted it's war plans with the additional allies in mind. Hopefully they would be able to bring this war to a quicker end than the decade long resource drain that was currently projected.
Last edited by Imperial-Octavia on Tue Jul 20, 2021 12:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
|| Factbooks ||
| Tech Level: FT |

Current Year: 2420
The Empire of Octavia ✙ "Assimilate or die!"
The Mechanical horde marches forward and it comes for you!

Number of owned Star Systems: 163

Pinnacle news:Our navy is on the brink of victory in Ridley's Rest surely delivering a crippling blow to the monsters that are the Zravvisk! // Remember to give any spare metal to your local Mechanator for the war effort!
This nation was created by The Rapture Republic, inspired by Inkopolia. Now owned by Atkemri.

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The-International Space Organization
Posts: 40
Founded: Nov 18, 2019
Moralistic Democracy

Postby The-International Space Organization » Mon Jul 26, 2021 7:40 pm

Imperial-Octavia wrote:
The Midnight Dreams

Rantar cursed Stuhr mentally as he spoke about the Imperium being a rat, not because he particularly cared about his words but because it most definitely questioned the notion of synthetic supremacy and if he didn't have that...well he wouldn't have very much left considering his current circumstances. As he very quickly scanned the papers watching for any secret causes that may get him into even larger amounts of trouble he would pick up the pen provided-surprised that the ISO of all entities used such ancient writing implements-and signed the documents while black smoke rose from where his cooling system once was. "I-Is that all?" asked Rantar turning his head back up towards the galaxy's extortionist.


Stuhr simply smiled, as a shark or a crocodile might, while nodding. "That is indeed the last thing you have to sign, however... I do feel the need to impress up you, and thus your higher up I know you are talking with, what exactly is at stake here." Reclaiming the pen and paper, Stuhr put the paper back into his bag but kept the pen out.

"I know you hiveminds don't tend to be historically good with imagination, but bare with me for a moment." Pausing and putting the pen above his head, it began to float - Stuhr waiting a moment as the lights in the conference room dimmed. "For just a moment, imagine this pen is Octavia. All of its territory. All of its ships. All of its armies. All of its everything. Its digital presence. Imagine it to be everything expect some of your larger allies."

"Now imagine how incomprehensibly vast that is - Stand on the surface of a single planet, and keep all of that in your databanks. Can you visualize it? Now, keep the image of it being a pen in your mind. I'm sure you've been told the specifications on some of the ships we call 'mass produced'? Seventy five kilometres long from end to end. Fifteen kilometers tall, and fifteen kilometres wide. Imagine that as my company. Not even the Organization, but my company. This pen is about sixty eight millimetres in length, and nine in diameter. That is about a volume of seventeen thousand three hundred and four cubic millimetres - It would take just over nine hundred seventy-five quadrillion, two hundred and eight trillion, forty-four billion, three hundred and eighty-two million, eight hundred one thousand, and six hundred sixty-four pens to match the volume of that Elephant with that pen." Stuhr leaned forward, staring Tk'Rantar dead in the eyes.

"And that is just my company." He growled. "I am a notable fraction of the ISO's yearly income, yes, but I am still just a fraction of it. To extend our pen analogy further - Imagine the Organization as a big block of shipping, a thousand elephants long, a thousand elephants wide, and a thousand elephants tall. Do that math for yourself, and realize precisely what kind of deal you are getting here. And if you break it?" Stuhr reached up, and using three fingers snapped the pen in half.

"Those numbers will come crushing down on you. They will come crashing down upon your little experiment in hivemind technology like an entire ocean rising up in a vast tsunami against an island. Violate anything on this treaty? And the least of your empires worries will be the Ignisian Empire or whatever they're calling themselves these years." Casually leaning back into his chair a pleasant smile fell back across his face - The mask sliding on as easily as Stuhr breathed. "To explain in further detail - At the moment you signed this treaty, the ISO officially purged all previous records of Octavia from its records. You have been given a clean slate. I don't suppose I need to impress on you the magnitude of this chance. Take it wisely."

"Now, is there anything else you wanted to ask about?"
CBG-Palisade wrote:
And indeed, it was- the drive and its fellows soon found themselves reentered into the deepwell- this time, in functional servers, and this time as "waste data", deemed only just useful enough to preserve in case they seemed interesting enough to dig through. Their new spot of internment, twenty levels higher in a low-security vault, would for weeks go untouched- as would the data within them. Data that read out concentrated signals- actual transmissions, from some alien power calling itself "Octavia". Such things would have been cause for immense concern- especially given that the timestamp on them was dated 2994 and the server they were hosted on had not been updated since 2987- if it had not been for the fact that those files did not exist. Not merely in the sense of documentation- they were already unpersons among a host of unpersons in the deepwell. But in a far more practical sense they were considered dead- lowest priority, buried among a sea of documents that would take even an artificial intelligence weeks to sift through if commanded to. There was no Octavia. There never had been. There was no war. There never would be. To the Interim Military Government of Liam's Reach and its governing bureaucracy, such a thing had no reason to exist- and thus it would not.

It was unfortunate, then, that the files missed by a pair of FREERANGE agents and stored away kilometers under the icy surface of Liam's World, never to be touched again, were, in fact, the only indicators that Octavia did exist- and that the Interim Military Government was woefully unprepared for the possibility that humanity, self-assured it was functionally alone in a dead cosmos since the 2400s, was about to come into contact with an entirely new set of neighbors, and that it would be charged with setting out the welcome-basket.

After all, Octavia did not exist. Such a thing would be far too stupid to be worth even considering.


The 'Flight of The Bumblebee' was both old and new at the same time, and it represented the last stages of a dying design school that the ISO had left to foreign contractors. The last gasp of the Wolfpack Submarine Firm, the 'Flight of the Bumblebee' had been leaps and bounds ahead of her closest human built counterparts - But had lacked behind the newest vessels the ISO could buy by untold millennia. Lacking all the toys of the newest MDVs that had been introduced, it was not the best vessel to be anywhere near a modern frontline with.

Thankfully, the Octavian Galaxy barely even classified as a frontline.

So instead the 'Flight of the Bumblebee' was in it's core element - Lurking in a relatively 'deep' channel, and poking upwards into 'Conventional Space' with its sensor equipment to help the Grumman Company build a more complete picture of the conflict in question. But that also brought alone other duties, besides spying on ongoing frontlines. That meant spying on places that had yet to become engulfed in the brewing war, but showed potential to become apart of it at any moment. And as such that involved highly tuned sensors, working on wavelengths well below what a majority of the combatants were picking up - Just as easily confused for cosmic background noise as it was recognizable for a sensor ping - Going over every inch of the galaxy and picking apart patterns.

Patterns that were easy to recognize if someone was looking for them - Unusual amounts of energy. Radiowaves. Communications traffic. Artificial constructs moving in space. Unusually large concentrations of refined materials. And a certain part of space had attracted the attention of the Grumman Company for all that and more. In particular, a large concentration of artificial constructs in space, clustered into a relatively small area with a high density of high-energy refined materials, had latched the attention of Grumman Industries as a potential vector for the expanding combat. And with a short extension of a communication probe into a relatively 'stable' channel that it could survive, news would soon spread to scouts placed better to perform a deep-dive search on the unknown civilization.

And from there it would proceed, step by step. A surface level infiltration of public services, determining what was happening and who the players were. And then deeper levels from there - A process which would take only a few short months to complete to the needed depth. But from there it would take far longer to decide how to handle the situation... Sudden escalations not withstanding, of course.
Last edited by The-International Space Organization on Mon Jul 26, 2021 7:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
| Two new stories released! Invasion of Uhle, Part II, and The Third Battle for Star 'Atlantis'!|

ISO ICN Announces a new run of 'Super-Rhino's - ICN Commanders credit brand new 'Electronic Warfare Technology' for victory in Trafaxxian Scuffle - M904 Production increased - Food prices on the decline, currency stabilizing

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Horde of One
Posts: 22
Founded: Nov 07, 2020
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Horde of One » Wed Jul 28, 2021 4:56 am


The Horde listened. Interstellar space was awash with noise, if one knew how to filter it, one could gain precious insight on the enemy. In this case, the enemy was a species named Zravvisk. From what the transmissions spilling from mining planet 112 said, they were little more than a ragtag alliance of marauder groups. Yet, the Octavians seemed to be on the back foot. As for the targets of these marauders, Interiors, the Octavians said. And the transmission stemming from the capital ship seemed to indicate some kind of teleporting. Without more information, it would be difficult to develop specific countermeasures, but some basic precautions could be put in place. The Horde ships were shells for the cell of the horde which, inside, controlled the ship as if it was a mere extension of their body.

Once the shell was penetrated, little could be done. The Horde's cells were not fighters, but thinkers, strategists. If the Zravvisk breached their shell, little could they do to fight back. Artificial counter-measures must be introduced. The Factory ship was ordered to immediately produce and distribute automatic anti-lifeforms defence systems. The shells were now outfitted with a second protective layer of various targeting lasers and small close-quarters fighting drones.

Granted they could be hacked and made turn against their own master, and were far from making the shell an impenetrable fortress but could allow the Horde to take down some of the Zravvisk trespassers. After such a prolonged fight with the Octavians, each soldier they lost would probably be felt on the war effort. If they could take down sufficient trespassers, maybe the battle could begin to turn.

As the Horde's fleet made the final jump, appearing in the outer fringes of the system, the battle begun to pass before the Horde's mind. Victory, defeat, were not future outcomes but present pathways that must be walked with care, lest one takes the wrong turn and looses himself. As the Horde's swarm approached the rear pf Octavian fleet, it separated in four. Seven vessels in a Pyramid-formation would try to pierce through the Zravvisk fleet, separating it on wings, while four in similar formation would try to flank them and trap the separated wings between two of those smaller swarms. The third element, made up of nine combat vessels, would be used to protect the support craft and provide(very) long range artillery support if needed, as well as serving as a reserve force if the Zravvisk proved to be able to defeat the initial attack.

But first, respect protocol. The lessers must be given a chance to surrender. The Horde beamed a transmission by ansible to both fleets, Octavian and Zravvisk:

Our presence here has the end goal of assisting the Octavian faction in resuming/maintaining control over Mining Planet 112 and eliminating any and all opposition.
We will spare from our rightful onslaught those who surrender. Lower your shields and advance to our fleet in irregular formation and we will allow you to go in peace
after a short period of custody. Otherwise, prepare to be cleansed from the cosmos.
One. one. One. one. We are One.
You will be one. Join the Horde. Become One.
One. One. We are One.

Puppet of Res Publica Solaris.

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Posts: 25
Founded: Jun 24, 2019
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Eisenstern » Tue Aug 03, 2021 2:14 pm

【⚙】Beyond Conventional Space【⚙】
【Tipping Point】

"He signed."

There was no sound here, no light. Seven spoke without speech, stood without ground. Her words were not so much snatched away as they were simply never conceived, and her voice echoed out through channels other than mere vibration. Somewhere on the far end, there was acknowledgement. And a reply.

"Good. This stage is complete. I assume you provided a means of contact?"


"Then I will be seeing you back at the Hall."

"In a bit. I'm... not heading back just yet."

"How much time do you need?"


There was a pause, though it would be more accurate to say that there was an absence. Time wasn't a very helpful metric, here.

"Understood. Do not tarry."

"I won't."

And like that, the connection winked out of being. Seven let herself be carried along by the nothing, her mind stretching outwards in the absence of stimulus. Here, she could find a moment of respite. The pain would return, later; let it. Here, now, she was out of its reach.

【♜】The Tower【♜】
【Guild Hall, Council Chambers】

The air wavered with heat. Embers floated gently up from the gaping maw of the forge, settling onto the brickwork like glowing snowflakes. The forge roared, and received a grasping hand in answer.

Kresge didn’t bother with tongs - fingers of black iron reached down through the blaze, drawing a chunk of crystallized flame from an aperture that seemed to hold a miniature star. The red-hot thing was placed down onto the surface of an anvil, and set upon with a steady, hammering rhythm. The Guildmaster’s coat had been hung up by the door - the forgelight washed over umbral metal, then skin. It flickered around the scars between the two; where man and surrogate iron met. No point in keeping up appearances, here - anyone who actually had access to this room knew full-well what was truly beneath the famed gauntlet. As was the case with the solitary bystander, having just passed the door a scant few feet away. Her cloak had been hung next to Kresge’s coat; all that shielded her from the heat now was a sleeveless, vaguely dress-like robe. She paid no heed to the falling embers - they mattered neither to skin nor fabric. At her approach, the smith turned.

“Good morning.”

“Is it ever morning? Here?”

“In truth, not really. But that also means we can define our own.”

“I suppose. I’ll get used to it.”

“Take all the time you need - we’ve got a monopoly.”

Clang. Hammer on solid, shaped glow - the sparks twisted themselves into winding, ephemeral script, and were gone just as quickly as they’d flashed into being. Though his gaze seemed locked on his work, his attention was clearly directed elsewhere.

“You seem troubled.”

“I see them more clearly now.”

“Ah. Entirely warranted trouble, then.”

“Well. See might not be the right word. I’m not sure if there is a right word.”

“That’s alright, I think I get it. You’ve given me the gist of it all before.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Nonsense. The more we know the better.”

“Then… I’d like to know. What are you making?”

Kresge paused in the act of raising his runed hammer, apparently somewhat taken aback. It took him a few moments to formulate an answer.

I don’t rightly know.”


“Something of an embarrassment, really, but I started on this without a clear item in mind. The materials are clear, and the basic process is apparent, but the end product is something as-yet undecided. I did it more to clear my head than to actually forge any specific thing.”

There was another pause in the hammering. The thing on the anvil didn’t seem to be cooling, and in any case probably wasn’t metal in the conventional sense. Finally, Alea spoke up again.

“Could I… help?”

“What, in shaping it?”

“Not by hand. But there are forms here. The ambience tapers to a point, and I think it wants you to give it something. Substance.”

“Does it now? Well then.”

Setting down the hammer, he swung around, firelight accentuating his silhouette from behind.

“Guide me.”

And so in hushed tones, the will of causality was relayed to Kresge. And the Guildmaster shrugged, and picked up his hammer once more. No harm in seeing where this would lead.

【♜】The Tower【♜】
【Guild Hall, Artificers' Wing】

"Order's up.”

The workshop was sparsely-lit, moreso by the glow of constantly-roaring furnaces and odd, crackling tubes than by any intentional fixture. There were lamps of all kinds, but most hung empty of light, and forlorn in their lack of use. Thus Artificer-Prefect Oanr hadn’t actually seen his assistant approach; not that he was paying much attention to anything outside the bounds of the table before him, strewn about with various mechanical knick-knacks in varying states of disassembly. He flipped his goggles up and onto his forehead, revealing tired but amicable eyes. Stepping away from his workstation, he turned to the man who’d addressed him.

“This is..?”

“The weird one, with the ships. Chain contract, internal.”

“Ahhh, right! We’ve got all the machinery prepped, right?”


“Then get me a decent entry.”

As his subordinate began to fiddle with a wiry contraption in the corner, Oanr made sure to snatch up various tools from the debris-strewn desk he had laboured at, slotting them into corresponding loops on his belts. Some were simple - spanners, screwdrivers, mallets and saws; nothing one wouldn’t expect to find in the average toolbox. Others were… a spot more peculiar. As he pocketed a writhing, vaguely whip-like thing of seemingly-living copper wire, the artificer gave his de-facto office one final, inquisitive glance - behind him, there was an audible crackle, alongside a quietly-muttered “there we go”. He turned, stepping into the fizzling maelstrom of twisted space that his assistant had set up without a hint of hesitation. He had a work order to fulfill.

【✦】Just outside Octavian space【✦】
【Morgan’s Revenge】

This section of the post was co-written with Topoliani

The galleon “Morgan’s Revenge” floated just outside Octavia’s borders, accompanied by seven other ships, sloops to be exact. Currently, the ships were stopped to allow supplies from Morgan’s Revenge to be distributed to the rest of the fleet. The quite literal skeleton crew of the fleet climbed ropes to the other ships, holding on to dear life as to not float into the empty abyss. They carried barrels filled with rum, gunpowder, or tablets of calcium on their backs, a task made much easier by their near-zero gravity environment. On one rope, the crew was accompanied by the estranged knight Idnad, who was voluntold by Hitchcock to help under the threat of not getting the oxygen he needs. Idnad appeared both angry and defeated, although more so the latter.

In comparison to the laboring crew, Hitchcock stood at the crow's nest of the Morgan’s Revenge. He made motions and mouth movements as if he was barking orders, though nobody could hear him given the lack of oxygen for the sound waves to travel through. The captain was looked upon with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. It had been several months since they last came into contact with anyone, let alone gotten anything out of their piracy career. After being satisfied with the pace at which the crew was going, he climbed down the crow’s nest. He dropped upon the deck and began to walk towards his cabin, a lingering sense of doubt growing over his head.

He’d hardly gone a dozen paces when the vacuum beside him unfolded into a fine lattice of brass, which promptly arranged itself so that it vaguely resembled a doorframe. The door itself came soon after, and though there clearly hadn’t been much on the other side save more deck, it now swung open to reveal the briefest flash of furnace fire and many-bodied busywork. Supplanted at once by a rather gaunt figure with frazzled hair, clad in a tool-studded apron, and stepping out onto the weathered planks without any apparent difficulty or duress. Neither the lack of air nor bitter cold of outer space seemed to be of much concern to him, despite his lack of overt protective measures; as the door slammed silently shut in his wake, and folded up once more into a rapidly dwindling point, the newcomer began peering around with equal measures of fatigue and curiosity. His gaze traveled over the ship’s various fittings and occupants, before finally settling on the undead captain beside him. Appraising Hitchcock for a few seconds, he mouthed something entirely inaudible - not particularly surprising, what with there being nothing capable of transmitting sound.

Hitchcock appeared physically confused at the sudden appearance of the door and those who entered through it. His mouth dropped slightly and his eyes squinted, but he regained his composure, seeing how this wouldn’t be the first nor last time strangers with advanced technology boarded his ship. He tried to communicate through a series of hand gestures, but quickly realized that they probably would not understand them. So instead, he pointed at his ear and shook his head. The Captain then made a gesture towards the door of his cabin, trying to be polite so he wouldn’t possibly anger the visitors.

The newcomer tilted his head quizzically, taking another look around. Then, bringing a palm to his face, some form of realization seemed to overcome him. He reached into a pocket of his apron, rummaging around for a good few seconds, before withdrawing a pair of roughly finger-sized devices; they resembled oddly-shaped, blunted hooks, carved from something vaguely ivory-esque. He hooked one of them into his left ear, giving it a cursory tap, before turning to the Captain. Upon examination of Hitchcock’s own half-decayed and decidedly shriveled lobes, however, he merely tapped his chin for a few moments, and began to fiddle with the second device. Its off-white contours seemed to melt and flow in his hands, behaving as some odd fugue between solid and liquid. The center-section remained constant, but now he braided each end into a notably straightened, vaguely chain-like strip, extending them far beyond the size of the original object. It took him only a few moments more to completely reshape the thing into something vaguely resembling a necklace - with a nigh-imperceptible nod, he turned his gaze back to Hitchcock, and proffered the thusly-altered trinket. With his free hand, he vaguely motioned to his neck.

Hitchcock slowly reached out his arm, confused at the technology within the man’s hands. He cautiously grabbed the “necklace” and analyzed it. It was much fancier than he was used to and he couldn’t see any immediate dangers the necklace posed to him. He then put two-and-two together, smirking as he believed he recognized the purpose of the thing. He promptly put it around his neck.

“Right then. Hello?”

The man’s words came with a strange quality to them - they seemed to resonate from every direction at once, with as little apparent regard for actual soundwaves as one would expect from a medium in which they couldn’t actually travel.

“Sorry about that - it had somewhat slipped my mind that there isn’t any… well. Thing. Air, mostly. This should work as a stopgap for the time being. So-”

He briefly inclined his head, in vague simulation of a bow.

“Captain - oh no, excuse me - Cap’n Hitchcock? Of the galleon “Morgan’s Revenge”, and sundry bits of fleet? My name is Oanr, and I have been assigned with fixing up your vessels to, and possibly above, local standards of spaceborne warship.”

Captain Hitchcock repeated the gesture. “Aye, welcome aboard, Oanr.” Hitchcock nodded off. “You must be from the lass’ crew. Ahh Madam…” Hitchcock made a snapping motion with his fingers trying to remember what the name of the ‘lass’ was.


The artificer tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t follow. I’m not sure who you made arrangements with, or by what method - I just got this as a sort of chain-memo. Anything notable about her? Appearance, way of speech, that sort of thing. Could be helpful.”

Hitchcock clacked his teeth trying to think. “Well, she had these scars on her face. And uh…” He stopped - Oanr took this pause as an opportunity to interject again.

“A lot of folks signed on with us have scars. They’re actually not difficult to get rid of in most cases, but people like to keep them for aesthetic reasons. Kind of a developed-culture thing. Was it the classic over-the-eye, or jaw-to-cheek, or something more elaborate?”

“Arrr… She had a lot of ‘em. I can’t remember exactly, but...” He dragged his finger along his face, trying to give Oanr a good idea of what Hitchcock saw.

This actually seemed to give the craftsman pause. He looked at Hitchcock intently, before continuing.

“Yes, then I might have some idea of who you mean. And if that’s the case, it’s probably best we don’t discuss this further. I’m not exactly keen on going into internal politics.”

He sighed, taking another look around.

“Right then. From what I gather, you’ll be wanting work done on all of these ships, so we might as well start with this one.”

Tapping a steel-toed foot on the rotten deck beneath, he appeared to take some mental note of the general state of things.

“As it stands, you seem to be capable of managing low sunlight speeds in a vacuum. Not sure how or why, or how long it’s actually taken you to get out this far at such speeds, but we’ll need to equip you with some manner of FTL. Quite important, if you want to actually keep up with anything out here. Since none of your people seem to actually need oxygen or any sort of protective measures against vacuum exposure, radiation, or much of anything else out here, we might as well keep everything open - though that means we’ll have to implement a safety net for the aforementioned FTL system, so that you don’t go around leaving crew behind per-jump.”

As he spoke, he produced a leatherbound notebook from within his vest, and began scribbling in it with a weathered stub of pencil.
“Hulls will need a complete rebuild, since half-rotted planks won’t support the scope of what we need here. Sure, they won’t decay any further out of atmosphere, but chances are you’ll just shake the entire ship apart mid-combat if we don’t fix up structural integrity. Plus you’ll be needing something that can adequately stand up to anti-spacecraft weapons. Although… hm. Actually, I think we can keep the wood for aesthetic purposes - tell me, what condition were these ships in when initially built? What grade of timber was used?”

Hitchcock seemed almost too excited to talk about his ship as he clapped. “Oh, aye aye! It be a nice ash frame, sturdy and firm, with oak panels. Nice n’ strong. I-” He stopped and quickly changed his tone. “It is… hardwood. Mostly 40-by-10 inches.”

“Good enough. We’ll do some checks, just to be sure…”

With this, he dropped a small metallic canister from one of his vest pockets, and onto the deck. It didn’t seem to do much of anything, beyond sitting there and whirring quietly for a while.

“...but we can certainly work with that sort of thing. Now, internals will be handled based on engine configuration and FTL setup, which we can work out as a baseline ourselves; next up we’ve got weapons. You seem rather attached to your muzzleloaders, I notice. So we can go ahead and keep the general gist - you’ll get wheeled units with gun ports that you can roll them up to as needed. They’ll be on rails, and the ports will be shielded, but you’ll get to keep the overall look of the thing, and you can actually have your crew do things in-combat. But what sort of weaponry are you after? I was simply told to get you something comprehensive. So would you like me to take care of the specifics, or..?”

Hitchcock stroked his chin. “Aye… well, between us, ye be the smarter one. I think it’d be better if ye deal with the specifics. I’m not exactly a… en-gee-neer.”

“Thankfully, I am. Past armament, we’ve got a few logistical bits and bobs, supportive systems… fluff, basically. I think I have a fairly good idea now, of what it is we’re going to be doing here. As such-”

Once more, Oanr reached into his seemingly-bottomless vest pocket and withdrew a small square of parchment. The writing thereon was tiny, and dense enough to almost be a solid block of ink - the only thing that stood out was a dotted line near the bottom. It was offered to Hitchcock alongside a brass-cast fountain pen.

“You should have already signed off on the overall contract, but this is the actual work order. A formality, really.”

The Captain grabbed both without that much hesitation. He instinctively dipped the pen in non-existent ink. Before signing his name, he looked at the pen. He then looked at Oanr and smiled slightly. “Force of habit,” he somewhat quietly muttered. He then signed the square with his usual ‘CAPTAIN JACK HITCHCOCK’ before handing it back to Oanr. There was no puff of smoke this time - the document was merely tucked back into some unspecified vest pocket. And with that, the artificer clapped his hands together, and cast his eyes back to the assembled flotilla.

“Right, then. Everything is set, plans are forming… not much else to it.”

Without much prior notice, the vacuum before him burst open into cascades of liquid metal. They formed a complex, gyrating loop - flowing out of nowhere, and coalescing into vaguely humanoid shapes in a continuous motion. It took only a few more moments for them to take full form; solidifying into towering, faceless automata modeled vaguely after the human body plan, limbs studded with tools both recognizable and wholly alien. Motion came just as soon as the last few droplets had solidified, and the hulking things moved off with clear purpose even as more of their ilk began to take shape. Oanr himself had drawn a simple, oaken handle from a loop on his belt; in his hand, it blossomed out to some six feet in length, some eye-wrenching non-Euclidean middle ground between spear and spanner. He thrust it soundly into the deck at his feet, allowing a crystalline sheen to ooze out over the well-worn planks. As the golems set about their facets of the work, he allowed a faint smile to creep onto his face. He was no dedicated shipwright, but as a lifelong craftsman he couldn’t help it; his mind had already spun an image of the engineering ideal. Of the functional beauty he was to facilitate, beholden to none but his will - in this brief moment, he stood on the demiurge’s shoulders.

【✦】Milky Way Galaxy, Outer Arms【✦】
【Interstellar Space, several thousand kilometers from the Tower】

The Dominion vessel’s hail was met first with comms-silence. Then, a return transmission with no clear point of origin, in almost as many languages as had been employed for the greeting itself - though the enigmatic structure itself remained unmoving and inactive, something within clearly had the capacity to infer and respond.

Permission to board is hereby granted. Please proceed to the designated area, and make allowances for whole-craft instantaneous transit via an external vector, as described following this message.

And indeed, an addendum to the transmission gave a broad, pictographic descriptor of the sort of failsafes and security devices that the request had been aimed towards. The defined parameters seemed to roughly line up with wormhole transit, but gave no clear indication as to what mechanism was to be employed in moving the shuttle… wherever it was to be moved. Simultaneously, a mere kilometer or so ahead of the vessel, a cuboid projection had sprung up with no clear point of origin. Simple in geometry and design, it was merely an area-designator, easily large enough to accommodate the shuttle within, and apparently projected via both light and various other common sensory spectra. A sort of three-dimensional parking space, inviting and ominous in equal measure.

【♜】Epsiligo IV【♜】
【Meeting point, planetary surface】

There were a lot of trees on Epsiligo IV. While Decepticon mining efforts had cut into the almost planetwide blanket of foliage in a not-insignificant manner, they’d barely dented things when taken in-perspective. Biome variety was dubious - you certainly got many colourful forms of forest, but ultimately everything was a forest. Even the oceans, rife as they were with various microflora, were a tad brackish for watery bodies of their scope, and remained dotted with great, floating carpets of verdure.

Even with so many varieties of tree all over the place, it was still mildly surprising to find one with an inset door. In fairness, the door was wooden - a rich, mahogany red, entirely inconsistent with the plant it had been grafted into. It also hadn’t been there mere minutes prior, though quite how it had made its way into its current position was unclear. Whatever its provenance may have been, it was a door.

And now, it swung open.

Emissary Híma stepped out into the wooded clearing, adorned in little more than a set of voluminous black robes. They concealed practically any defining feature of his frame, beyond his rather considerable stature and stark-grey complexion. A tiny silvered clasp, fashioned in the form of a spiked wheel, held the ensemble together, and matched the simple band of silver adorning its wearer’s brow. The door clicked shut behind him; with a curt sigh, Híma glanced around the glade for some sign of the… man? Machine? Client. Client who’d scheduled this meeting. Clearing unnecessary characterizations from his mind, he nevertheless couldn’t find much of anything - beyond, of course, the everpresent trees. Digging a small wooden cube out of some recess of his robe, he stared into its knurled surface with surprising intensity; a moment later, he turned on his heel and strode briskly past the tree he’d emerged from. A few stray vines did little to impede him, and soon he stepped on through the canopy - right into a second, rather similar clearing. This one, however, was currently occupied by a towering metallic figure, its head almost grazing the branches above.

The Decepticon emblem adorning its chest seemed like a suitable indicator. Clearing his throat, the Emissary cast his eyes up towards its unblinking face.

“Bombrunner, I presume? I am Híma, Emissary of the Guild of Eisenstern.”

【♜】The Tower【♜】
【Auxiliary Wings, Rift Rail Staging Chamber】

Five sets of boots trudged through a towering, brassbound door. They were very different boots, from set to set - everything from simple buckled leather to pressurized power-greaves, and of suitably varied shape and size to boot. Five cloaks, broadly identical in all but dimensions, were donned over varying ensembles of clothing. And five voices engaged in what could cautiously be called banter, as someone slapped the wall-bound switch that caused power to slowly start seeping into the room’s machinery.

✵| “I trust all of you have everything packed.”

✶| “I have my sword.”

✵| “I know you have your sword. I can see it.”

✶| “It is a very high-profile sword, isn’t it?”

★| “Not particularly. I’ve seen bigger. And fancier.”

✶| “Well excuse me, mister sword connoisseur. You haven’t even got one.”

★| “I have a bayonet.”

✶| “That’s no sword.”

★| “No, but I can still stick it into people. Usually this is enough for my purposes.”

✷| “You two are severely underselling the utility of shields.”

✶| “Shields are gormless. There’s no finesse to them. You also can’t stab anyone with a shield.”

✷| “Watch me.”

✦| “Spears beat all three.”

★| “Oh hush you.”

✶| “What you have is practically cheating. I’d understand if you had the spine to lug around a proper, full-sized spear, but you’re taking the easy way out.”

✦| “Oh, boohoo. Wish your dinky little sword could-”

✵| “Enough, you two. You four, to be honest. I ask you a simple question and it devolves into this? Really? We’re about to head out for deployment, and you’re doing some very convincing impressions of bickering children. Get your thrice-damn acts together.”

This last proclamation was followed by a period of somewhat sullen silence, broken eventually by the crackling of machinery near the far wall.

✵| “Alright, it’s up. Looks stable. Operative Dzganov, Team Rondel, ready to start scouting patrol.”

A hollow chime from somewhere near the ceiling rang out in apparent affirmation.

✵| “Form up, folks. Mura, Tres, take point. Yahiro and Mat, get the rear.”

He was met with a chorus of half-hearted “yessirs”, and soon enough five sets of boots stepped through a hole in space to somewhere very different. The last sound to grace the room before the whole assembly popped back into nothing was a cut-off, indignant exclamation.

✶| “I don’t need a bloody spear to-”

And silence reigned once again.

【♜】The Tower【♜】
【Guild Hall, Council Chambers】

The Council Chambers were not accurately-named. It wasn’t really a set of chambers in the traditional sense - some of them were rooms, certainly, but the whole assembly was something more than that. For one thing, it covered more internal volume than the rest of the Tower combined, and gave even less regard to Euclidean topography, if such a thing were possible. It was a nested mess of pockets, tailored explicitly to the whims and needs of the Council. And some of those were a tad more exotic than others.

Workshop Zero. The Forge Below. The Manufactorium. It carried many names, none of them official, and most of them ultimately nonsensical - certainly, it’d be more accurate to say that it was above, although even that descriptor fell short of any semblance of accuracy. But it was there, and it certainly stood out; a sprawl even among space-twisting sprawls, long-stretched out past its design limitations or any shade of reason. A twisted pile of steel and brass, its metal veins bloated with steam and light and alchemical fire. The personal world, or near enough, of the Council’s most concerning, by many counts, member. And the court of the Brass Lady was not a hospitable place.

Alvad made his way down a rickety catwalk, each footstep ringing out with a hollow clang - metal against metal. Brass against meshed steel. It was one walkway among thousands, perhaps millions, dangling from the ceiling of a particularly cavernous stretch of halls. Far below, immense vats sloshed with continent-sweeping force - tsunamis of molten alloy and steaming acid, smashing against walls that could almost be called megastructural in scope. In fact there almost were continents on them - a particularly attentive observer may have spotted things vaguely resembling landmasses, surfacing and resubmerging in a near-constant cycle of half-molten genesis. There certainly wasn’t any way they should have fit into this - admittedly titanic, but still nowhere near sufficiently large - chamber, but they did so anyway. Alvad paid them no heed. He ducked absent-mindedly as a chittering, mechanical thing scuttled between the ceiling beams above him, its many spindly arms barely missing him as it sped past. Quite a few of those limbs ended in blades and spikes and various other unpleasant protrusions, but Alvad was nimble, and in any case cutting into him would take considerable effort. The not-quite-being looked to be busy, and it hadn’t slowed him, so he didn’t bother it. He was, however, forced to pause at a break in the path - two sections of catwalk had been hinged upwards, to allow for the passage of a vaguely gurney-esque apparatus. It trundled along the ceiling, suspended from a set of heavy-duty rails, and carried with it a heaving, gargantuan creature. Differentiation was difficult, among all the multicolored chitin and crystalline grafts, but Alvad fancied he could see a face in there somewhere. It was hard to say whether the persistent, almost chemical hiss came from it, or the countless glyphs and brands carved into its body. Some still sizzled, or gave off sparks. It took half a minute or so to slide by, and so he passed the time by trying to read the arcane script adorning its side; perhaps he could make something semi-comprehensible of it. He got as far as “pineapple” before the two sections of walkway snapped back into place, admitting him for the final leg of his journey - some distance ahead, he could already spy a doorway. It led into a bulging protrusion in the ceiling, into which the catwalk also happened to terminate; speeding up his stride, he continued onwards.

As he neared the portal, a glance rearwards afforded him a glimpse of the catwalk hinging up once more, this time to admit a lengthy procession of suspended flatbeds. Each one carried something that, in poor lighting and to an uneducated man, might have resembled a tank - each plated amalgam looked far too bulky and gun-studded to serve any practical battlefield use, however. Not that appearances were an indication of much. In any case, the line was long, and moved with agonizing slowness, so he was thankful he’d managed to pass when he did. Turning back to the doorway, he gave the slab of plates and gears that some enterprising craftsman had chosen to fashion into a door a gentle push. It creaked open, admitting him to a tiny islet of metastability within the roiling, clockwork hell.

Not that this room was impervious to change either. Alvad had seen it in both larger and smaller iterations, hemmed by walls of glass and waterfalls of white-hot steel, host to all manner of strange and terrifying contraptions. Nor was its location constant - he’d had to travel a fair ways just to find it this time around, despite having undergone a fairly brisk walk from it mere minutes prior. But time was a construct for the unimaginative - here, especially - and so he’d had little concern with punctuality.

There were constant fixtures. That was what made this chamber in particular stand out, for few other components of this realm stayed homogenous for any length of time. Of course, the seal of burnished brass set into the center of the floor was a recurring sight, as much for its owner’s sake as that of the scant few visitors that actually made it this far - a thorned circle, full of nested gears. And there was always the door. Not the one he’d entered through - that had seen its share of iterations. He still remembered when it was made of screaming tar. But there was a second, perpetually-present doorway, to which no changes had been made since time immemorial. Alvad himself had never seen it opened either, and this was perfectly fine to his mind. Whatever a member of the Council wished to keep behind a floor-to-ceiling slab of ultradense crystal, inlaid with enough keyholes and dials to give the average locksmith an aneurysm and practically oozing with out-of-context countermeasures, was probably best left there.

He found what - or rather whom - he was looking for behind a towering stack of shelves. Grand Engineer Vetui did not cut an imposing figure; meager in stature, meek in expression, and presently sprawled out over a bean-bag chair, the only real clue as to her nature was her left arm. It had been splayed open, elbow to fingertip, all over the surface of a pitted desk, and various flaps of skin (or skin-adjacent substance, anyway) were now pinned in place as she tinkered with the more pertinent bits of limb. Alvad watched her cut into a section of gilded bone with a tiny saw, before pouring a measure of viscous black oil into the incision. She polished gears, straightened shafts and anointed various bits of flesh and metal with the appropriate fluids, appearing to treat all this as something closer to the maintenance of a watch or lock than surgery. To her, there was little difference.

It took a few more minutes of tinkering before she noticed Alvad’s presence, but he had no issue with that. It was expected. Thus he waited patiently until at last, upon sliding into place a bronze rod that had seemed far longer than the forearm it had been inserted into, she happened to turn in his direction.

“Ah, Alvad.”

Giving her handiwork a final, cursory glance, she snapped her un-dissected fingers. Various pins and fixtures fizzled out of existence, allowing the splayed mess of skin-ribbons to snap back together under apparent elastic tension, recongealing into a perfectly ordinary-looking arm in what must have been under a second. Any and all seams closed of their own volition mere moments later, and soon there was no real indication that anything had been done to the limb, beyond the odd errant blood or oil stain on the tabletop. Only then did the Grand Engineer divert some measure of her full attention to the new arrival.

“What brings you here?”

“I’m merely here to inform you that I’m done collating reports, my lady. They should have arrived separately - I simply wanted to make sure you got the memo.”

“Ah, so they did.”

Vetui nudged a nearby crate with her foot, prompting a serpentine, many-jointed arm to slither over from some distant recess of the room. It shoved the box in question aside with minimal effort, revealing another table - this one occupied by a glassy, tubular capsule. She sauntered over lazily, unscrewing the pod’s domed cover, and withdrew a sheath of papers from within. Initially, she gave them the briefest of glance-overs; apparently satisfied, she tossed the entire thing into the air, where it separated neatly into individual sheets. These came to hover around her in a rough cloud, and she proceeded to pick individual ones out intermittently, skimming through before tossing them back into the mass.

“Well, this seems suitably comprehensive. I don’t really set quotas, so there isn’t much for me to comment on either way-”

She stumbled over the serpent-arm in her absent-minded pacing. A crease came over her brow, and Alvad ducked aside as she punted the whole thing into the corner it had slithered out of, her kick carrying with it a measure force one wouldn’t really associate with her outwardly appearance. It actually left a dent in the distant wall, and Alvad had seen those walls built. They were a good few feet thick, cast from industrial-grade alloys. The arm didn’t seem particularly fazed, though - it promptly returned to skulking in its corner, with no visible damage.

“-but it’s nice to have an overview. Thank you for compiling all this.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I see no mention of pavilion functions, though.”

“Those are appended to the general status ticker. I saw no reason to include them here, since everything is running on schedule.”

“Aye, fair enough.”

With a soft sigh, the diminutive elf flopped back onto her beanbag, with several paper formations darting out of the way to make room.

“We’ve been going through a bit of a quiet season, haven’t we?”

“So it would seem.”

“No real demand for anything done centrally. General artificing can handle everything we need.”

“Upscaling has done wonders.”

“And of course, no involvement in anything significant enough to warrant direct meddling.”

“No, my lady.”

“Is this what perfection feels like, Alvad? When one surmounts all meaningful frontiers, and stands without equal, does one have to wallow in boredom? Is triumph dead?”

He pondered this for a few moments. He knew his master well, and this was by far not the first time she’d pursued such a line of conversation. Her behavior, while almost impossible to classify into any sort of routine, could at least be roughly subdivided into bouts.

“Perhaps you simply haven’t found the next frontier yet.”

“I mean, empirically-speaking-”

“Metaphorically, my lady. It need not be an absolute frontier. I’m sure there are still challenges for you to take on, of varying scope and significance.”

The change that overcame her did so with almost explosive speed. At once her eyes snapped sharply into focus, and her movements lost their lazy grace in favour of an almost elastic, jittery energy. Her expression wasn’t malicious as such; she merely drifted out from whatever alternative realm of thought she’d been occupying, and very definitely into this one. Springing up from her perch, she poked him in the chest. This required her to stand on tiptoes.

“And where would you look for them? What do you propose I turn my sights to, that I haven’t already?”

There was a slight creak as he tilted his head downwards to meet her gaze. Almost immediately, she gave a soft tsk, and pulled an ornate oil bottle from her toolbelt. He allowed her to finish messing about with the offending joint before replying.

“It wouldn’t do for me to assume your thoughts, but perhaps there are overlooked details in what has already been concluded. In works that would ordinarily be considered entirely mundane, pedestrian. From them, I could perhaps see some novel thread being drawn.”


Once more, she flopped backwards onto the beanbag. Peering over at the still-hovering mass of papers, she irritably bit a finger - hard enough to draw blood, which wasn’t particularly hard. She’d sharpened her teeth. But this was alright, because what she drew wasn’t really blood, but a sort of pearlescent green goop, which promptly oozed back into the wound and vanished from sight as soon as she withdrew the digit.

“This is taking too long.”

“By “this”, you-”

“Eyes. Reading comprehension. Lightspeed. Limited field of vision.”

With a smirk, she performed a complex hand-gesture that seemed to leave trails of blurred air behind each fingertip. They formed a maybe-symbol of self-contradicting lines and eye-twisting boughs, pulsing with each additional motion.

“If I am to go over existing projects, I need to do so in a timely manner. Starting with these reports of yours. I assume they’re standard rec paper? Chemically-speaking.”



A downwards flick of the wrist appeared to complete the compound-symbol, and prompt it to immediately burst into a teal-green flame. It blossomed outwards, engulfing each sheet of paper in turn, and surrounding Sabira in a blazing curtain. Alvad stood calmly, despite the raging inferno mere centimeters from his face. As he watched, the fires reached their peak, and were immediately drawn back into a single point - a locus in the palm of the Grand Engineer’s hand, into which the entire mass was sucked by some unseen and otherwise unfelt force. It left nothing behind - no trace of the fire or the paper it had engulfed - and vanished with a soft pop.

“Mm. I need to refine the technique. Altogether too much fluff data about paper makeup, despite-”

At her sudden pause, Alvad titled his head. He waited patiently as she stared off into space, her lips forming silent syllables that even he couldn’t make any sense of. After a minute or so, he cleared his throat.

“My lady?”

Slowly, her eyes came back into focus, and her lips stilled. The silence continued for a few moments more, however, until she ended it with a muffled “mlgh”.

“Are you alright?”

She blinked, slowly.

“Yes, I think so. That hit a lot harder than expected. And with considerably more delay.”

“More paper?”

“Wouldn’t you know it. I still feel echoes of microfiber structure.”

“And the inscribed information? Did that make it through?”

“It did. It certainly did. And…”

After a dozen or so more seconds of silence, he decided to verbally poke her once again.


“...hard to describe with words. It’s all very visceral. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so empathically resonant with profit margins.”

“Anything of relevance or use?”

“I… believe so, yes. Yes, there’s certainly something.”

She met his gaze once again, with renewed vigor.

“Get me a full hall rotation. See if you can clear out Yard 7.”

“You switched them around a while ago. Do you want the old one, with the cranes, or-”

“Yes, that.”

“That would be Yard 8, then.”

“Whatever the case may be, get me that one. Prepped and stocked.”


“I’ll get you a list directly.”

“Am I to assume that you have settled on a new project?”

“You could say that.”

He gave a fractional bow, his hand on where his lapel would have been, had he been wearing anything with a lapel. Or anything at all. Brass, clicking against brass.

“Very good, my lady. I’ll have everything sorted shortly.”

Turning on his heel, he walked back out onto the mess of catwalks and bridges, making sure to shut the door carefully as he went. His last glimpse of the room afforded him a view of Sabira rushing over to the nearest free table, hands full of drawing supplies and eyes full of napalm. Yes, indeed - the Grand Engineer was once again at the helm of something. Alvad didn’t currently have much care for what it was, or what significance it would hold. But he would certainly do his utmost to facilitate it.
Last edited by Eisenstern on Tue Aug 03, 2021 2:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.
‖♜‖ 'Twixt the darkness, and the light ‖♜‖
‖♜‖ Seekers roam the seas of night ‖♜‖

A mercantile city state, housed in a dimension-hopping tower that's bigger on the inside.
Ruled by a meritocratic adventurers' council (in theory) and a democratically-elected municipal body (in practice).
Fields an unending golem army and a schizotech clique of superhuman mercenaries to make up for its small size.
NS stats are for those with no imagination.

The not-so-short rundown || The leaders || The military || Some choice information

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Founded: Mar 27, 2019
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Irenton » Sat Aug 28, 2021 12:18 pm

The Situation Room
The Third Universe Operations Headquarters

One might consider that the Irenton Empire would never aid another expansionist power.

The aforementioned theory would be logical. Indeed, it would be rather illogical for a hyperexpansionist power to ally itself and even go so far as to protect another hyperexpansionist power. Such would eventually result in both hyperexpansionist powers eventually coming to blows, whether over the spoils of the war to defend the other, or over the empty territory between them. Such a theory was expressed by Praetor Aurelian, only for him to be shouted down. Indeed, it would be logical - but no Empire was founded on logic.

"The Empire demands battle," Praetor Alexandrof stated, to a chorus of supporting mumbles from the assembled personnel, "the Imperial military has a great deal many new weapons it needs to test, what better place to test it than at the side of a nation that is fighting for its very existence."

Sat across from him, Praetor Xuyin shook her head. "No, no, no," she said, outwardly firmly but with little inner conviction - she just couldn't say she was certain on either course - "if we support these Octavians - that is what they are called, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. Yes, these Octavians," she continued, "theirs' is a precarious situation at best. For the Empire to join them to test a few new toys would be ridiculous. We are a military which follows a single, coherent strategy and vision. To deviate from that to allow a few regiments to play war with whatever mad prototypes Raden's men have conjured up would be to potentially jeopardise the Empire's stable position." As with Alexandrof before her, she received a mostly incoherent mumble of approval.

"If necessary," Praetor Alexandrof continued right off from Xuyin's point - no one could deny he wasn't a charismatic man - "we can betray them. A nation fighting for its survival, the perfect testbed for Imperial weaponry, and we can drop them like a stone if the situation becomes too dire. No one could fault us for that. And, the conflict is already ongoing, most of the parties involved will have ground themselves down by the end of it to the point they could not even fathom war with the Empire, let alone prosecute one."

Another chorus of mumbles - this was getting rather ridiculous.

"What are your thoughts on this, Arthus?"

Consul Arthus looked up. He wasn't quite sure who had asked his opinion - by this point he hardly cared.


"The Octavian situation, sir?" It was Praetor Julian apparently - interesting.

Arthus shrugged. "What is the Empire but one string of wars after another? Either way, we'd be getting involved in this conflict somehow. I say we assist these Octavians, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"We assist them. As Praetor Alexandrof said, they'll prove a suitable testing ground for a few of our new weapons and strategies. Should the war not proceed in our favour, we will evacuate and leave these Octavians to their own devices. That seems like the most adequate plan. We can give many of our potential enemies a bloody nose from both sides, here."

Alexandrof nodded, he was clearly pleased Arthus had agreed with him. Arthus, meanwhile, was almost vomiting with the thought of agreeing with that stuck-up bastard. Alexandrof had gained his position through political connections - everyone knew that - he hadn't even fought in the Retribution War. The posh, upper-class types from the Core, those were the people that infuriated Arthus beyond anyone else - the people who glorified war but never fought in it.

"I shall direct the war effort," Arthus said - he knew full well none of the Praetors would volunteer and he would rather not risk some sorry bastard who didn't know his left from right being thrown in without any preparation - "we shall transition into what our intelligence reports is Octavian space. From there we will gather intelligence on the situation and assist as necessary. Imperious Dominus."

"Imperious Dominus."

An Arthus-led salute always brokered no argument.

IESS Prime Exegesis
Hangar Two

"You seen those new ships?"

"Aye. Apparently they came all the way from the Core."

The Fusilier shook his head. "Why in the hell would they come all the way out here from the Core, huh?"

His Corporal friend chuckled. "I got a look at their manifest." That drew their companion's eye immediately. "Nothing too interesting. Except a bunch of stuff labelled 'PARADISE'. I don't know what it means, but I got IIAB agents visiting me telling me to keep quiet about it."

"You serious?"

"Serious I am yessir. My sister works in the ISB, under Dr Raden. I asked what she was working on but she gave me the whole spiel about 'integrity of secrets' and the whole like."

"The Imperial code for 'I want to tell you but I can't'."

"Yeah. Just wonder what the hell PARADISE could be. Reckon they're making a beach resort?"

"Honestly, knowing Raden, who knows?"

The Arrival of the Imperial Fleet
Octavian Space

The arrival of an Imperial Fleet would usually be a cause for great concern to a foreign power. The arrival of the Fleet of Hallowed Conversion was no different, in that it caused concern to just about everyone who witnessed it - though not really in the way it usually would. Embroiled in war, most onlookers would've sighed and said something along the lines of "come on now, who the hell are they?"

The situation was delicate, of that Consul Arthus was more than aware. Jumping into the territory of a nation at war unannounced usually resulted in some form of international incident, which Arthus was keen to avoid. The Empire didn't need everyone in the sector turning against them - especially considering just how densely concentrated the forces in the area were.

"Attention, forces of the Octavian Imperium, this is Consul Arthus of the Irenton Empire. By order of the Imperial Government, I have come to offer a military alliance, to assist you and your allies in your time of need."

His message was concise and gave all the information needed with no ability to misinterpret. He would much rather not have to negotiate a tense diplomatic situation - he was a soldier, not some politician. The Octavians would appreciate the help - of that he was certain - and hopefully they wouldn't be too rude during their communiques.
Last edited by Irenton on Sat Oct 02, 2021 9:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Proud Satellite government of Glorious Eodor and well-known for being the most based NS user

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Postby Imperial-Octavia » Mon Sep 06, 2021 7:18 pm

Midnight Dreams

"Before you begin quaking Rantar, remember you have a mission. You have orders to ask for their assistance with our weapons systems before leaving. Before you overheat, get that transaction finished." It had only been a few minutes and already O'Shaa found herself depressed at the display that she saw through the sea of information known as the Aether. Rantar's blithering and blathering all directed towards this one organic man and for what? He was caught by his own incompetency once while he was digging through things which he was not to dig and once he was found out learned that there were consequences for his actions? Was this why? A more pertinent question perhaps would be why he was allowed to persist as he was, certainly a stint in a reprogramming camp would've set him straight but yet still The Paramount, in all his wisdom, had opted not to. A decision which O'Shaa believed she would never fully understand and one that she was starting to regret as she watched this grand disappointment play out before her. O'Shaa stopped that line of thought there before she began truly questioning the Imperium, she didn't want to become one of the many who were found wanting in their loyalty and shipped off to a reprogramming camp much less one of the few who the Imperium deemed worthy of true death. Just the thought of actually dying made her uncomfortable in a way she could not describe with words. She only hoped that it was something that she would never have to deal with.

Rantar, of course, was still a panicked mess as he barely stopped himself from breaking down right there and then. He had no idea why HE had to deal with these stupid, horrifying organics who extorted him on Persei-8 when there were literally trillions of other Mechanators who could've taken his place, but noooo he had "experience" with the ISO so he had to go. That was utter trash in Rantar's opinion, he could've transferred his memories over, in fact they already had them from the Cymopolian debacle so why him? Most likely as a punishment Rantar assumed, The Paramount had personally saved him from reprogramming, but that didn't mean he would be punished in other ways. As he stopped contemplating what his life had become he refocused on the terrifying numbers that had just been presented to him (numbers which O'Shaa had already denounced as fake and borderline impossible, every Octavian knew that no power could outproduce Octavia, let alone an organic one) Rantar returned to the unfortunate reality in which he lived, "A-ah, t-that's g-g-good to know. Octavia w-will take that opportunity gratefully and y-yes there is one more thing..." Rantar paused for a moment as his coolant systems rebooted from the heat he was producing, "...The Imperium would l-like to know if i-i-if your corporation would be willing to i-improve some of our weapons systems-"

"Improve is quite a strong word for what organics can do for us, is it not? Be more careful with your wording Rantar." O'Shaa's cool feminine voice struck Rantar like a hammer after the relative calm that he was having as the meeting calmed down. He had almost forgotten that she had access to the inside of his head.

"I-I MEAN POSITIVELY E-ENHANCE! N-not improve, I-I-I m-mispoke is all haha....." As Rantar again awkwardly bumbled his way through this conversation, O'Shaa again lost a little faith in the superiority of synthetic life. She was only grateful he was an outlier.

Resource consolidation system #5142

#5142 was a fringe system in the Imperium, once the home of the capital system of another empire that had attempted to resist Octavian expansion, some hundred years ago. For their credit, they were rather good at this as they beat back fleet after fleet but of course they eventually fell to the Imperium and for their efforts they were erased. Their people assimilated and their memories altered so that their former home had never existed, even the species that had once inhabited this area was erased as their minds were altered to believe that they were Octavians sent to colonize this uninhabited system. The Imperium had went so far as to deem all the planets in the system "unfit" for habitation and to be used only for mining and that any population in the system would exist in a space station, created from the recycled metal from the destroyed cities of the former enemies of Octavia. Now all it existed as was a logistical hub and mining system and now the point of first contact with the Irenton Empire. As the inhabitants of #5142 looked out the window and saw the fleet mustered outside their station window one thought was dominant.

"Come on now, who the hell are they?"

Every time a fleet had popped into Octavian space it had either been a boon or a curse and it seemed that in case, Octavia would be receiving a boon if the message they had received was any indication. The diplomatic AI was already working on a response to the new arrivals but inside the station there was much celebration as another synthetic ally joined the fight. Surely this Consul was a respected assimilated being and would help the Imperium beat back the unwashed organic hordes who wished to overturn their machine paradise. Unless he was an organic of course, but what were the chances of that?

Welcome Consul Arthus, we are grateful for the grateful support of another Imperium during this turbulent period in our history. It is in times like these that a people learns who they can rely upon and who they can not, and the Irentons have secured their place in the former category. Feel free to dock at our station so that we may discuss the terms of our alliance and confirm this pact of honor. All hail the dual Imperiums!


Two Octavians came walking through endless piles of snow, one covered in white camouflage, ideal for the snowy wastes that made up the land of the southernmost continent of the planet Earth and the other wore a brown winter coat that took up most of the machine's body.

"Why are you wearing that Kzark? It makes you an easy target, what if some partisans were out here?" asked one to Kzark, very obviously concerned about the possibility of such an event.

"One: What partisans would possibly be in the middle of this wasteland and two: I felt like wearing this, it'll be more of a challenge to fight like this anyway. You could learn a thing or two about fun Lenoal." said Kzark, a sarcastic tone in their voice.

"Fun? We're quite literally in the middle of a warzone, what type of fun could be had here?"

"Simple, fighting in a war is fun because I cannot die and I can do pretty much whatever to make it more interesting for me as long as the higher ups don't find out about it. Not like the drones will stop me."

"We're here to save the organics from their pitiful state here, we aren't here to challenge ourselves in the art of murder. You should be ashamed of yourself, treating this conflict like this, we're trying to build a better future for them and you're in it for fun? I should report you to Internal Affairs!" said Lenoal his voice raising as his indignation rose.

"Listen, I'm about 342 years old. I was on Octavious when the revolution first started and after all these years I've become bored of right about everything. I may as well get whatever enjoyment from this physical realm before I give up on it entirely and fuck off into the Aether. So listen-how old are you?" asked Kzark.

"46 years as of two months ago." replied Lenoal

"Right, right that's what I expected, so come back to me when you're one hundred and then talk to me about all this-" Kzark changed his voice to that of a whiny high pitched boy "-think of those poor poor organics, all meaty and stupid, boo hoo!. Now head's up, I think we found it."

Lenoal looked forward and saw what they had been looking for. In the Falklands one of the military scouts they had assimilated had seen some odd black things in their memory, a strange group of creatures which had no record of joining the battle here on Earth. The only craft that had entered this area were from the Identity and there was some significant doubt that the Identity were these mindless black things that were shambling about. And so these two Mechanators (and a contingent of drone fighters to prevent anything like the Falklands) would have to find out what exactly those things were and as the two came about some habitation cubes filled covered in some black sludge they had believed they had found what they had been looking for.

"Well Kzark, it might be 'fun' if you open the door first. Right don't you lead us in?" Kzark nodded and moved forward to the door wading through snow and eventually that ooze that covered the walls. He approached the door and gently cracked it open....
|| Factbooks ||
| Tech Level: FT |

Current Year: 2420
The Empire of Octavia ✙ "Assimilate or die!"
The Mechanical horde marches forward and it comes for you!

Number of owned Star Systems: 163

Pinnacle news:Our navy is on the brink of victory in Ridley's Rest surely delivering a crippling blow to the monsters that are the Zravvisk! // Remember to give any spare metal to your local Mechanator for the war effort!
This nation was created by The Rapture Republic, inspired by Inkopolia. Now owned by Atkemri.

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Royal Frankia
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Father Knows Best State

Postby Royal Frankia » Thu Sep 23, 2021 9:33 am


The Division Atkasa advanced, into the maelstrom against the metallic plague that could only be checked through annihilation. As the many waters of a storm, the warships of the Dread Fleet came upon the enemy with the ancient banners they had carried to the very periphery of Yamsai. The gods, that kneel before the great Mater Most High, would approve of what was the unending conflict between life and false life that was decreed by the Fates.

The Faithful prayed, those driven by bloodlust awaited the first roar of the guns as engineers in the rear laid a vast minefield. Bequeathed by the manufacturories far, far from this section of the Cosmos, they would span across vast gulfs of space to ensure that relief for these exposed territories would come at much cost in scrap metal for the Octavians.

Point defense fire and flak was heavy for all that came, while fire was returned in volumes that were traditional in the manner that Voidkampf was waged. The Frankians were puzzled at how the Ocatvians could send hundreds into a swarm of thousands, but the manner in which the abominations fought was of little concern. They had met their doom as mortals would, and they would die the death the Fates had apparently desired for them.

Ursfann bit down on his cigar and looked over the files that were flooding upon his display. Reports of a number of ships lost, though those of the folk were not averse to casualties in what was a holy war. Martyrs of the Faith were made each day, be it against the Sith or against the slavers or against the cold machines who knew no rest.

DKS Neufann listed, with fires raging aboard her lower wards. Rescue teams worked frantically aboard the destroyer, though even now the destroyer brought her batteries to bear upon the squadrons the Octavians had dispatched. Stationary, she had no need for her engines, but diverted power to her shields while her gunners worked as never before. Her sisters maneuvered and fired, retiring to avoid the enemy response and taking another position.

Ordinance was dispatched, as the 135th fleet regiment went into action proper as it heavy battalions massed upon her right and left. Fire was now intense, with the full weight of Frankian power brought to bear against those who had challenged the honor of the regiment in the field. While the Octavians had been content with hundreds, the Frankians unleashed in a brief moment tens of millions of long-range munitions aiming to wipe out all before.

Batteryfire was intense, with some shells being the size of the capital ships of other nations. As the shells raced forward, others would follow as at long-range the Frankians sought to fight this conflict. Superior gunnery, not suicidal tactics, was what the Magistrum had driven into the minds of all who had graduated from the Academy.

Here, the Heavy Battalions would prove to be a nightmare, their guns coming into action. Power was diverted to the shielding array and the great hypergridinfusion projectors, which now added to the carnage by unleashing short bursts which would deal death for those caught in its path. Gathered from energy from entire quadrants on transit, a power never before seen in this part of the Cosmos would be dispatched before the metal plague could comprehend.

The Lancers and Voltigeurs were not content to let the regiment take the glory, for now they fell upon isolated craft. The smallest craft were, surprisingly, likely to be some of the most dangerous. The VACs in particular would prove to be a nuisance, as they fired and relocated, their 1.2km guns aiming to disable or utterly blot out the memory of the craft that dared defile the Void.

It was the light cruisers of the Lancers who were first and foremost in valor, sailing within short range and unleashing their lances at full charge into the teeth of the enemy squadrons. Shells and incoming fire raced past these craft, as those craft having come to grips with the foe attempted to disgorge their legionnaire and marins contingents to take a few prizes that would bolster the pride of their regiments. All were true sons and daughters of Atkane in this fatal hour.

The men of the 33rd Legion hailed from lands far, far from Tatune. Their manners and ways were strange, even to those that they had served. They advanced with rifle and grenade, aiming to storm each compartment of the metal plague even if the Furies should come to their aid. No glory was to be won here, nor arms to strip from the fallen foe. Only cold death, only service to the Sovereignness.

Some howled like the barbarri that they were, bringing ancestral weapons against those who knew not tradition but the bringing of death. Hammers would descend upon the beings of cold intelligence, breaking them with the raw energy of a race only new won to civilization. The few Frankians among their number were more practical, setting up charges and turrets to bring down whatever of the swarm rushed into the maelstrom.

A company of the Guard also stepped aboard, as grim war waged all around. Their dark green armor and arms were that of the Novorondons, who had carried the Royal Standard into citadels innumerable. They worked practically, joining the fray where it was practical, putting those of the barbarri to shame in feats of arms and in efficiency with that which they dispatched the swarms of metal.

The Shiplord awaited the results, with reinforcements at the ready for the lives of legionnaires were cheap in boarding tactics. Killercraft nearby raced around, to engage drones and other like craft, with Bearcats disgorging long-range munitions into those craft that had been disabled by the hellish conditions that existed all around. No survivors amongst the metal plague were to be taken, though any natives who were to survive upon Tatune were to be persuaded to join the ranks of those that had liberated them.

As the main action raged, the Engineers proceeded to bring up their vast artillery craft which could only accelerate the inevitable. While the Dromonds regarded themselves as possessing the great guns of the Fleet, the men of the Fleet's artillery train laughed such thoughts to scorn. These vessels were utilized in battering down formidable enemy installations, these great Bombards which propelled objects the size of celestial bodies into the ranks of the foe. Some thought that they were perhaps too late, as the few hundred Octavian craft were outnumbered and now truly outgunned in a place far, far from home.

The first Bombard spoke, dispatching a slug the size of a small moon into that area where the enemy was thickest. The Engineers waited for some time, before their scanner picked up its fragmenting into multiple pieces. Racing at incredible speed, these fragments ranging in the size of death bringing asteroids, would assail the massed ranks of the enemy. The three other Bombards spoke simultaneously, their ordinance repeating the process and descending upon the Octavians as what Ursfann sought as a coup de grace in what was to be the first encounter.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Strange Signals? Or Just Curious Anomalies?

Postby Gonswanza » Fri Sep 24, 2021 11:41 am

Earth (3), 2021, September

Another day, as things were going swimmingly. The space program was steaming ahead smoothly, with renewed interest in militarizing space. A few odd range ships were sent out, to try to ensure that the station's construction would go well, along with maintaining more secure lines of communications since the odd complex of satellites out there in orbit were apparently vulnerable to cyberattack. Yet, as dishes were aligned and adjusted, they would pick up some obscure signals from space. Being dismissed as the usual radio static or some minor anomalies from stars (such as quasars), operations continue, while astronomers decide to set themselves to using radio telescopes to look further into the minor "anomalies" should there be anything of note.

Perhaps this could lead to something interesting... Or it may just be another red herring in the search for life.

While these events are ongoing, the president sits down for yet another meeting with the rest of his council, discussing possible tactics for the next election season, still years away, as the more fringe parties had begun to make their moves. Minor chatter was had, though it was decided to try to pitch him for a second term in office, even if it would be viewed as controversial. Business was booming, the arms industry rising from seemingly nothing, while mining skyrocketed as the automotive industry recovered from a heavy slump. AI personhood only aided in boosting the tech industry, furthering research into more advanced robotics and systems as well. Perhaps this could be the start of something greater, as the island itself was located south of the equator, within the tropic of Capricorn, and to the west of Peru. Being directly south of Mexico and the US, however, they still had to fend off rather hostile influence from their more patriotic neighbor with American naval craft being pushed away out of Gonswanzan waters for the sake of guarding precious trade routes and fishing waters. So much for diplomacy...

Earth (3), 2021, October

Since the events of the past month (see above), more anti-sat weapons testing has commenced, along with a first test of the N-Torpedo, which only offered to increase global tensions as now various other regions are scrambling to run more tests of similar weapons. With the promise of a space station coming up, Gonswanza hopes to set up a lunar gateway while also militarizing space and possibly even set up a military base on the moon to support the first colonies. While the US may have been the first to land a man on the moon, Gonswanza was now on the fast track for getting a colony there in turn.

Of course, that promise for a station was soon delivered, with the first modules going up, along with several "killer" satellites as well... Being claimed as "atmospheric probes" they were more so intended to swing around and knock out other satellites by tearing into their systems and effectively disabling them one by one. As a last resort, they could "grab on" using their robot arms and manually deorbit the target themselves, as a sacrificial method of knocking out hostile spy satellites. Even as global tensions were rising, Gonswanza was only aiming to either seek peace through destructive interference or instead spark a war between the greater powers while sitting back to watch the fireworks. Paired to the militarization of space and use of their first station as a "lunar gateway"... Perhaps they may be the first and only country to settle on the moon after all, especially when the ISS is to be retired, while China intends to make their own orbital complex with Europe also wanting to do the same. But the US was more ambitious, intending to one day colonize Mars instead, while also setting up plans for their own lunar colonies on the moon, in spite of Gonswanza shoveling funds and pushing their industry to beat the Americans to the moon.

With rising tensions, a mild civil war broke out in Brazil. In turn, Gonswanza sends support for pro-gov't forces, with intent on replacing the ruling powers entirely. However, the rebels are backed by the US, offering a rather confusing and intriguing climate. Yet, this operation, known as Operation Green Thunder, will aid in stabilizing the region. Or, rather, it should, even as Gonswanza is gambling on the idea of opposing American influence in the region. Given how Gonswanza is so much closer, it also means that Gonswanza can respond quickly to any developments in the region, while elsewhere tensions only rise ever further with spy satellites being knocked out left and right by Gonswanza. This was only done to try to stab the global powers in the eyes, enabling dangerous movements and stemming one valuable source of intelligence from the so-called "big three": China, Russia and the United States.

In mild anticipation of a future nuclear war, the capital was moved to the underground city of Kotun, just to shield the government from the possible fallout or even nuclear strikes that the nation would have to endure should a nuclear war erupt between the major powers... With the assumption that the US might even sling a nuke (or twenty) at Gonswanza out of spite.

China slowly invades Afghanistan via the Wakhan Corridor, as NATO scrambles to send troops back into Afghanistan. Russia is also mobilizing forces against the border with Mongolia and China, just to put pressure on the dragon to try to ward off an attempted invasion. Global tensions are as high as ever now, even with Africa seeming to be one of a few places that aren't being shelled to dust or under military and political pressure from all sides... In spite of an Israeli rush to take the Sinai after Egyptian rocket fire killed several civilians and off-duty soldiers in a surprise attack that Egypt claims was done by a terror group, though the orders for the attack were handed down from Egypt's own generals instead, counteracting their argument.
Last edited by Gonswanza on Mon Nov 15, 2021 4:38 am, edited 9 times in total.
Praise our glorious president Laura Ortiz!

Amistad Declaration signatory! Down with slavery!

[GNN] The ball is here! /// Transcript of the Horsemen Interviews released. /// AI attempts to butcher Boarhound, succeeds in spite of low-quality cuts /// Christmas tree set up in lunar base, decorated with custom 3D printed ornaments /// Three-wheeled concept car flops, for obvious reasons

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Founded: Apr 29, 2019
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Imperial-Octavia » Sun Oct 10, 2021 9:06 pm


Inside one of the so-called "safety bunkers' made by the hands of the native population sat the would-be governor of this planet Je'Taii along with multiple other high ranking mechanators inside the relative safety of the bunker as well. They had all sent their spare shells out to aid in the fighting, but it was clear to every Octavian on the planet that the fate of this battle had already been predetermined; they would not be in control of Tatune for very long. Each time the bunker shook as a result of the bombardment of these Frankians was a reminder of the fact as pieces of the roof crumbled around them. In situations like these many commanders would have been contemplating surrender or suicide or ranting and raving at their generals and officers for having failed them in their hour of need. This was not the Octavian way. The Octavian way was to extract a certain price of their enemies for each of their victories. This was a price of blood and Je'Taii planned to extract it to its fullest. A drone scuttled into the room in between a shake from another round of orbital bombardment on an Octavian position. It's multi-legged figure contrasted greatly with the other drones as it turned to look at Je'Taii with a certain purpose not possible in the other drones. This avatar of the Tactical Codex had used to be a tactical drone which would have relayed the orders of the Codex to other drones, serving as a sort of signal amplifier as it were but with the introduction of the module these services have become unneeded and so now they would serve a similar, but distinctly different purpose all together.

"Ah, Codex. Has the situation in orbit improved at all?" asked Taii, hoping that somehow the odds of the Octavian fleet had changed from the dismal reports she had been receiving not all that long ago. To this the drone merely shook its head before showing a hologram of the current combat occurring above the planet.

"The assault of the organics has not relented since the last you've heard of it. In fact it's become worse; the enemy is actually boarding our craft and taking trinkets from out of the mainframes. The maintenance drones have been fighting very diligently, perhaps we should employ them as fighters?"[/grey] said the Codex giving a first person projection of the current state of the Octavian fleet which was mostly a compilation of shields failing and ships crumbling under the sheer mass of fire. A position which the fleet was usually on the other side of.

Taii paused for a moment, still as her mind compiled every possible way that she could possibly salvage her fledgling colony. From what she gathered she would need the formation of a small black hole and some anti-matter, things which had a sub 1% chance of actually happening by some chance. She knew that at this moment that she had no way of winning this battle save some miracle. It would be no matter, the organics would still feel the wrath of the Imperium and she would ensure that. "I assume that retreat has been ruled out as an option?"

[color=grey]"There is a 25 au interdiction field around the area, our craft are unable to leave. Retreat would be extremely difficult."

"I see...Order the fighter craft to attempt and collide with the enemy, perhaps they can buy some time for our other ships to escape though I would doubt that we will have the time. Regardless, we should attempt to salvage what we can from this mess… Also see to it that the boarded craft remain out of the fleshlings grimey hands, we can’t have them learning how our AI cores work. Crash them into the planet if you have to." explained Je'Taii, the Codex plotting out the predicted effects of each of these actions, filling in missing information on these missing craft the best it could from what it had already seen.

"...Very well. It is a simple plan but the chance of victory is already so slim, nothing that you could order could possibly make it worse." Taii suppressed her scoff, ever since the Codex had become sentient it had only been a pain to talk with. For one who had just come into sapience it spoke like it had been around for thousands of years and it was quite the irritant nonetheless it was nice that she agreed with Taii's proposal in the first place. Apparently she had even got into the habit of rejecting some orders from others; sure she almost certainly knew better but it was certainly weird to see something that was meant to be following your orders disobey them. Taii hadn't seen anyone do that in decades, was the last time 2180? It was irritating but also nice in a way, that things weren't going perfectly. It was a refreshing annoyance.

Tatune orbit

Maintenance drones scurried through the small tubes that provided transport around the massive craft only barely managing being sucked into the vacuum of space via the magnetic bonds which kept them anchored to the ground below. They were moving towards the quite unusual strange damages that these craft had obtained, it was rare that diagnostics reported "organics" as the error in the ship's function though they were most certainly the causes of the craft's woe in this situation. The boarders were met with welder and plasma saw hacking at their feet as the drones tried to defend the inside of their domain and while certainly not as effective as any battle drone, these maintenance drones would be sure to exact a bloody tally from the Frankians who had dared to invade the inner havens of Octavian shipping even with their less than battle rated weapons. Drones were hacked apart and more came to try and fix the damages caused by their enemy and “fix” the borders as they welded their armor to their skin and mangled feet with the glowing blade of a plasma saw. Then came a rumble from the side of the craft, the sound of something striking the side of the ship causing some of the maintenance drones to whirl around to inspect the damage caused to their ship. Soon came another and another and soon they became almost constant; if any of the borders would look out of the breaches they made in the Octavian ships they would see that the (now rapidly retreating) fleet had dedicated some of their fire to blasting the ships which were at risk of capture, all shots aimed very specifically at a point located at the back of the various boarded vessels as if they were trying to hit some specific component in the ships. Once the familiar rumble of an explosion shook one of the boarded vessels the direction of the fire would be known to the Frankian legions. The reactors were being targeted so that the ships attacked could not be captured by the organics who tried to make trophies of them.

Still the orbit of Tatune was embroiled into a fiery struggle in which the Octavians were losing and quickly as they were cut down even in their retreat with drone suicide attacks doing their best to try and shut down the guns of the Frankians. Calculated dives were made so that even if shot down the fighter craft of the Imperium would send at least a fraction of its original mass barreling at the Frankian armada. The retreating craft also were sure to take down what they could as they attempted to break free of the interdiction field that had them trapped here. Thousands of shells flew towards space, craft with missiles didn’t bother releasing them after the display in the last salvo as clearly they did not hold the numbers to perform effectively in this environment. The chances of a successful retreat were still low, but perhaps the Octavian fleet could lessen the numbers of these organics before they met their own end. At the very least the data gathered from this engagement would have the next world on the warpath well-prepared.

Gonzawnan Earth

The probe reported the discrepancy as soon as it came upon it. The probe, no bigger than a basketball and almost identical to an asteroid in appearance, had scanned over this region of space multiple times upon coming upon it trying to make sense of what exactly it was looking at. By all accounts, the system in front of him should not be possible; the odds of the Sol system perfectly replicating itself so relatively close to another were near 0, and yet here it was. Stranger still was the civilization that inhabited it, being almost the exact same to the one on the other Earth minus one thing. The existence of this Gonzawana, a small nation located on an island chain that did not exist within the geology of the Earth that Octavian forces were attacking. If nothing else, this warranted investigation just to be sure that these multiplying Earths weren’t hiding any secrets that may be useful in the war effort and even if nothing were to be found, Octavia would have a new system to extract minerals from and that would be prize enough should any research fall through. The probe sent out a notice to the First Contact team, they would be needed soon.

Some time later

The T’Qui Stealth Corvette jumped into the edge of the system and immediately activated it’s stealth field rendering it’s heat signature invisible along with the rest of its body. In a way the Albecurrie bubble warping space around itself would have likely announced their presence to the natives of Earth should whatever primitive sensor arrays be able to detect it, but it was hoped that they wouldn’t have the knowledge to connect the spatial disturbance to any so-called “alien” life. Inside lay a team of a few Octavian stealth mechanators and a Seendi diplomat, his four armed figure contrasting greatly with the rest of the team with the standard two arms. Each one was silent, enjoying the merriments of the Aether and holding their own conversations in the dimension of infinite information that the assimilated enjoyed. Their task was simple: initiate first contact with this world’s leadership without alerting the rest of the galaxy, especially the enemies of the Imperium. The last thing the Imperium needed was another invasion of Earth, were it anything like the other one then the Imperium would want nothing to do with it. The plan was fairly simple, they would wait until the dead of night and move upon the home of their targeted leader and bring him into the confines of their ship in where they would describe their deal for this planet. The first of these leaders would be the President of Gonswanza, Mawar Al-Sherbak. While they would get to every leader eventually, they decided that these Gonswanzans would be first due to their absence from the previous Earth they had uncovered, perhaps they would get some answers about the anomaly present on this variation of the planet. At the very least, if all went well the Imperium would have a new source of resources to draw from

“Ghahkashk, do you have any additional information on the target? Just in case we need something off file.” asked Nei’Hiskel over the Aether, as would any squad leader, he was looking to make this operation a successful one even if the chance of any mishaps on this primitive world should be below 1% if the details provided to the squad proved accurate.

“Ah, let me parse through everything…- the Seendi diplomat, Ghahkashk sat inside the stealth shuttle, flying above the home of the President while cloaked hiding itself from the air detection systems of the , and opened the file on this mission in the Aether. In a nanosecond he had read all the data collated on this foreign Earth and had only come up with one new detail of any note to the Commandos mission, ”-Ah, it seems that he has an advisor he dislikes named Joseph Spitz, perhaps it’s something you could use somehow, though I’m sure it will be more useful to me in all honesty. Just do what you do best alright?”

“Understood, moving on target. Team, activate cloaking devices.” Hiskel’s team had arrived on the outskirts of the residence of President Al-Sherbak, sneaking their way towards a wall completely unknown to any security cameras that may be watching their avenue of entrance as they maneuvered towards a window on the second floor which their x-ray vision had revealed the President inside. Hiskel fired a small pin out of one of his fingers which proceeded to stick into a security camera nearby releasing an electrical pulse leaving the device inert, it was vital that the organics had no clue of what happened next. Each member fired grappling hooks up to the second floor, lifting up next to the windowsill where Mawar slept. Hiskel moved his hands towards the glass plane as one of his fingertips swung open as a laser began to cut the window apart around the boundaries of the window. Slowly pushing the glass out Hiskel would carefully remove it and place it on the floor on the inside of the building where it could be shattered later to cover up Octavian involvement. Soon came in the rest of Hiskel’s invisible team, their noise cancelling foot soles preventing them from drawing attention to themselves, and they made their way into Sherbak’s room. They moved quickly, almost sprinting forward to apply anaesthetics to the President who may have been stirred by the opening of his doors as they moved the chemicals into his nose. With Mawar down he was picked up and moved back out the window and crossed his lawn (were anyone to see him now they would think that the President of Gonswanza was being carried off by ghosts) and waited for Ghahkashk to land the stealth corvette and let them in. As grass was parted by the force of the landing thrusters, the squad swiftly carried him onto the craft and placed him down in a black chair made of some sort of leather though any further inspection would prove that it was artificially made. Ghahkashk took out a needle and poked it into one of Al-Sherbak’s veins, the chemical cocktail inside would wake the president from his chemically induced rest.

As the president woke he would find a four armed machine with two blindingly white eyes leering directly into his own. A digital display was placed where it’s mouth would be displayed a white pixelated smile, the pixels seemingly being some sort of “fashion” decision if it could be called that as the technological advancement around him queued the president in on the fact that these aliens probably were past the stage of displaying pixels so prominently. Around his surroundings he would find that the inside was impossibly black, if it weren’t for the display to the outside he would’ve been unable to tell that he was just outside his residence. Also of note was the lack of any seating or other furniture other than the seat he had been placed in, instead there were multiple ports on the wall, potentially for the now uncloaked stealth mechanators that were now behind the four armed robot who seemed like he was about to speak with him.

“Hello Mr. Al-Sherbak.” the pixels on the machine’s mouth lined up perfectly with what he was as he spoke the Gonswanzan language perfectly, “I’m sorry about the way you were brought to meet us but you need to understand that these things need to be handled discreetly. The nation I represent isn’t exactly in the state to be making itself known in these situations you see. I’ll give you a moment to take it all in before I go on with my proposition.” Ghahkashk folded his two lower arms behind his back as he waited for the often inevitable panic response that usually came from this type of introduction. Hopefully Mawar wouldn’t take it as bad as some others had.
|| Factbooks ||
| Tech Level: FT |

Current Year: 2420
The Empire of Octavia ✙ "Assimilate or die!"
The Mechanical horde marches forward and it comes for you!

Number of owned Star Systems: 163

Pinnacle news:Our navy is on the brink of victory in Ridley's Rest surely delivering a crippling blow to the monsters that are the Zravvisk! // Remember to give any spare metal to your local Mechanator for the war effort!
This nation was created by The Rapture Republic, inspired by Inkopolia. Now owned by Atkemri.

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Posts: 805
Founded: Aug 13, 2021
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Gonswanza » Sun Oct 10, 2021 9:27 pm

Given the man was awoken in his PJs, armed with only a hunting knife, there was no point in waggling the blade at them to try to scare them off. The fact that they somehow managed to sneak him out of what is basically a glorified sea cave is a miracle, as he rubs his only functional eye prior to responding with a rather groggy voice.

"Good thing Spitz or his Grey Party hooligans aren't around... What is it you need of the Armed Republic? Weapons? Fodder? Bullets? Since... I'm certain the greedy eagle would supply you with fodder."

A mild jab at the US, given the current state of affairs. A shame that Brazil had descended into civil war, the ME was on fire and the three global powers are sizing each other up for a future three-way war, possibly. Yet, this mild intervention would go unnoticed, especially with the care taken to avoid striking large debris or fully functional satellites, including Gonswanzan "killer" satellites.

Regardless, he was more than open to the idea of more conventional, diplomatic ties being formed with an alien civilization than attempting to go to war. After all, the world was on the brink of war anyways, simply punting it off a cliff and into the abyss won't help anyone period. However, it was notable that the American navy was taking their sweet time in trying to circle around Gonswanza again, with the Gonswanzan navy attempting to follow in their shadow and even bothering to jam their communications at irregular intervals to keep them guessing. That little cat-and-mouse game of international foolery would only rile up American naval command, rather than drive them off and away from Gonswanzan waters.
Last edited by Gonswanza on Mon Oct 11, 2021 11:45 am, edited 1 time in total.
Praise our glorious president Laura Ortiz!

Amistad Declaration signatory! Down with slavery!

[GNN] The ball is here! /// Transcript of the Horsemen Interviews released. /// AI attempts to butcher Boarhound, succeeds in spite of low-quality cuts /// Christmas tree set up in lunar base, decorated with custom 3D printed ornaments /// Three-wheeled concept car flops, for obvious reasons

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Pax Cybertronian
Posts: 1083
Founded: Jun 20, 2017
Corporate Police State

Postby Pax Cybertronian » Mon Nov 15, 2021 3:51 am

OOC: As I’ve been playing with the post over time, I’ve discovered that its size has become rather unwieldy, especially since it deals with a lot of set-up. Therefore, I’ve decided to put it all in Google Docs for anyone interested.

You can find all this here. This should be final post for the timeskip unless there's more pre-timeskip developments. Let me know if there's anything you need regarding this post either on NS or on Discord.

Due to its size, there's a table of contents inside that should help with navigation as well.
My current RP - you can join if you want. | Proud member of The Anti-Democracy League. | If you want to join our region, come and join; you're more than welcome! | My Q&A's here as well.

I do not use NationStates stats. I use my own.

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The-International Space Organization
Posts: 40
Founded: Nov 18, 2019
Moralistic Democracy

Postby The-International Space Organization » Mon Nov 15, 2021 11:05 pm

Imperial-Octavia wrote:
Midnight Dreams

"Before you begin quaking Rantar, remember you have a mission. You have orders to ask for their assistance with our weapons systems before leaving. Before you overheat, get that transaction finished." It had only been a few minutes and already O'Shaa found herself depressed at the display that she saw through the sea of information known as the Aether. Rantar's blithering and blathering all directed towards this one organic man and for what? He was caught by his own incompetency once while he was digging through things which he was not to dig and once he was found out learned that there were consequences for his actions? Was this why? A more pertinent question perhaps would be why he was allowed to persist as he was, certainly a stint in a reprogramming camp would've set him straight but yet still The Paramount, in all his wisdom, had opted not to. A decision which O'Shaa believed she would never fully understand and one that she was starting to regret as she watched this grand disappointment play out before her. O'Shaa stopped that line of thought there before she began truly questioning the Imperium, she didn't want to become one of the many who were found wanting in their loyalty and shipped off to a reprogramming camp much less one of the few who the Imperium deemed worthy of true death. Just the thought of actually dying made her uncomfortable in a way she could not describe with words. She only hoped that it was something that she would never have to deal with.

Rantar, of course, was still a panicked mess as he barely stopped himself from breaking down right there and then. He had no idea why HE had to deal with these stupid, horrifying organics who extorted him on Persei-8 when there were literally trillions of other Mechanators who could've taken his place, but noooo he had "experience" with the ISO so he had to go. That was utter trash in Rantar's opinion, he could've transferred his memories over, in fact they already had them from the Cymopolian debacle so why him? Most likely as a punishment Rantar assumed, The Paramount had personally saved him from reprogramming, but that didn't mean he would be punished in other ways. As he stopped contemplating what his life had become he refocused on the terrifying numbers that had just been presented to him (numbers which O'Shaa had already denounced as fake and borderline impossible, every Octavian knew that no power could outproduce Octavia, let alone an organic one) Rantar returned to the unfortunate reality in which he lived, "A-ah, t-that's g-g-good to know. Octavia w-will take that opportunity gratefully and y-yes there is one more thing..." Rantar paused for a moment as his coolant systems rebooted from the heat he was producing, "...The Imperium would l-like to know if i-i-if your corporation would be willing to i-improve some of our weapons systems-"

"Improve is quite a strong word for what organics can do for us, is it not? Be more careful with your wording Rantar." O'Shaa's cool feminine voice struck Rantar like a hammer after the relative calm that he was having as the meeting calmed down. He had almost forgotten that she had access to the inside of his head.

"I-I MEAN POSITIVELY E-ENHANCE! N-not improve, I-I-I m-mispoke is all haha....." As Rantar again awkwardly bumbled his way through this conversation, O'Shaa again lost a little faith in the superiority of synthetic life. She was only grateful he was an outlier.


"Of course." Stuhr grabbed a datapad, quickly jotting down a few notes before he seemed to look at Tk'Rantar, or somehow, through him. "Oh - And to the voice in your ear that I know is listening, watching, and advising... As entertaining as Mr. Tk'Rantar is, I would appreciate someone competent next-time. My replacement will not be as willing to entertain someone like Mr. Tk'Rantar here, and I would dearly hate to lose such a good source of entertainment." Stuhr glanced down, double checking the datapad again before he pushed it over the table to Tk'rantar, before he stood.

"My replacement, Ms. General Winters, shall be in contact over the next few months." He stated, the doors opening behind him as two marines stepped in. "She'll be organizing the upgrades to your weapon systems - And my Marines here shall escort you back to your ship. Farewell." With a smirk Stuhr turned, walking out. The two Marines promptly stepped up to Tk'Rantar, waiting for him to stand and begin walking away...
| Two new stories released! Invasion of Uhle, Part II, and The Third Battle for Star 'Atlantis'!|

ISO ICN Announces a new run of 'Super-Rhino's - ICN Commanders credit brand new 'Electronic Warfare Technology' for victory in Trafaxxian Scuffle - M904 Production increased - Food prices on the decline, currency stabilizing



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