TDM #1, arc 1.0: we drift like worried fire

[lamentus]

BUFF

Bonded of The Sorrowweld will find that the NPCs are especially friendly to them this month. Seriously, they just keep trying to give you things. It might get annoying.

DEBUFF

For those who are bonded to Tarnished Az-Mehet, you keep seeing shadows out of the corner of your eye on every screen in the ship, even your datapad. Something is lurking.

At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.

And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.

All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.

As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.

Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"

They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.

"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so." They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay!"

REFLECT

When you manage to get your wits about you -- it's a bumpy ride between universes! -- you start to leave the medbay. Starling's Lament has indicated that you are free to explore the ship, and nowhere is off limits to you. As you leave the cool white tones of the medbay behind, a hallway stretches out in front of you. Both sides are transparent, offering a view into the long dark of space beyond. However, unlike deep space, there is currently quite a lot to see.



On the left lays the broad curve of a planet, lush green landmass and white clouds skidding across its surface. Its star is just sinking behind it, lighting up the very edge of its atmosphere in tones of engine-burn orange and ozone blue, as long shadows cast by enormous space elevators creep across the landmasses. Its most eye-catching feature, however, are the hexagonal structures webbed across its surface, connected by fine corridors with all the geometric precision of woven spider's silk. You can just barely see the tiny dots of spaceships flowing around them, docking, embarking, shuttling between them.

"That is the Redline Trading Post." You hear a tiny whisper, and look up to see another robot — a beetleform, this time, with a shiny dotted shell — watching you curiously from its place on the ceiling. In fact, there are a number of other Hosts doing the exact same thing; a snakeform coiled around a barrier rail, a catform with bright yellow eyes peeking around the corner, a chirping droneform hovering some distance down the hallway. They're all fascinated by you. "But we will be departing soon. You will not get to taste the Galactic Snowball Nova-Cream, the shining culinary jewel of Redline. Sorry. I hear it is very tasty."

You look to your right, away from the planet and the Redline post, to gaze out into the depths of space. In the distance, there is a nebula, its gasses lit up in shades of coral pink and deep purple. It is pockmarked with stars both young and old, newborn stellar entities cradled in the depths of its life-making dust. Set against the dark of space, it is a flower in bloom.



It's beautiful, except—

The longer you look at it, the more something nags at the corner of your mind. A memory glances across your thoughts, unbidden. Something you hoped for, maybe; or something you fear. Whatever the memory, as you gaze at the nebula, a small piece of it curls, shaping in response to your memory. It is your face, reflected perfectly. Smiling, or howling in anger, or weeping.

Eventually, the nebula will go back to normal. But for now, it reflects the fears and triumphs of the new Wayfarers, a mirror held up in the darkness of space.

IMBIBE

Once you make it into the bulk of the ship, the Hosts inform you that as they have just restocked all essential supplies, they will be throwing a party in your honor, and they hope you will sample the food.

Maybe you're incredibly dubious about this. Maybe you're starving after your long journey. Either way, you find yourself in the mess hall. It's less like a traditional mess hall and more like a park full of food trucks with seating in the middle. The food trucks are bright and eye-catching, Hosts serving huge heaps of food from their interiors, as their signs advertise everything from Earthen Ancient Egyptian food (As Close As We Can Reconstruct It!) to Raxalar Black Stew (New and Improved: Now Free Of Grit!).

Real grass is underfoot, and the picnic-style seating in the middle appears to be real wood. The lighting is a myriad; whimsical string lights strung between the trucks, floating globe lights playfully dancing like fireflies, and the luminescence of a dogform's patterns and a droneform's enormous eyes and a flyform's glittering trail. The Hosts are clearly excited.

And if the food happens to have... some kind of effect?

Well, the Hosts say, that's only to be expected! The attention of an Edict may, for a nano-second, turn toward the start of this voyage, and that's bound to make anything go a little wonky. Also, they've used some ingredients from the local system, and it's only customary there to share some thoughts and ideas and memories when you eat together. How else can you properly get to know each other?

RED BUFFALO SHANK WITH SPIKED LOTUS

This may or may not look appealing to you depending on your sensibilities, but it does smell incredible. Soft, savory red meat paired with the fragrant, earthy scent of the vegetable. The Red Buffalo is perfectly seared, and if you poke them cautiously, you'll find the spikes are entirely edible, as long as you chew well enough. If Wayfarers eat this, they will find themselves sharing a memory with the nearest person, a vision of the last time they were truly happy.

UPSIDE-DOWN PLUM SPARK-WINE

It seems the Hosts aren't quite sure of the appropriate alcohol content of substances, as this will burn all the way down, chased by a cool, sparkly feeling all the way down one's esophagus. It tastes of sweetly sour plums, and a potential hangover tomorrow morning. Wayfarers that imbibe this alcohol beverage will start overhearing the thoughts of those around them, as if they are perfectly in tune with everyone.

GOLDEN BUNS WITH SPICED HONEY DRIZZLE

Ah, a perfectly homey looking meal, sweet and savory, gently steaming. These are a must-try for any Wayfarer with a sweet tooth, proudly boasting of the agricultural and apiary skill of a nearby alien culture. The buns are perfectly fluffy, the spiced honey is warming. What's not to love? After eating this, Wayfarers will find themselves and the nearest person sharing a vision of themselves as they might have been had they gone down the worst possible path in their life.

CHERRY COLA!™

This isn't the Cherry Cola! you may or may not be familiar with, but it's interesting that whatever alien came up with this came up with the same Earth word. Or maybe the Hosts got it from Earth? Either way, it's fizzy, it's sparkly, it makes you feel like you're floating on rainbow bubbles. Upon drinking this, imbibers will telepathically project outward a vision of the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.

A CAKE. MAYBE.

Dear god. What is it? Who came up with this? Who is even brave enough to try this? It certainly… has a taste. It… has an appearance. Whether either of these things are good is in the eye of the beholder. Wayfarers adventurous enough to put this in their mouths (or other eating appendages) will find themselves uncontrollably speaking aloud of the thing they long for the most.

INITIATE

Eventually, it comes time to launch.

The Hosts are a blur of activity, some of them packing up more delicate equipment in case of errant gravity waves during initial propulsion, some of them herding the Wayfarers into a seating area reserved specifically for the safety of its occupants during launch, deceleration, and rare turbulence. You are informed that engine flare will be so bright it will rival a star for the next twenty-five hours of engine start-up burn, but you will only need to stay strapped in for half an hour or so.

As the Theorem's enormous engines start cycling, the entire ship seems to hum in melodic song. And after everybody is strapped in, that's when the intensity starts. Gravity seems to want to push everything toward the stern, and Wayfarers are pressed hard against their seats with the inertia. After half an hour, the Hosts cheerily announce that everybody is free to get up and move around — but you might want to stay near a window, as they will be doing a low dive through the nearby planet's second moon's atmosphere, and it will be quite the sight.

Soon enough, the moon becomes visible. It is of unbroken crimson red, though subtle shifting in its surface lets you guess that it's water rather than earth. And then, as the Theorem rolls gently to the side, the view in the windows nearly perfectly split between moon and space, that's when you see them, swimming through the atmosphere.



To call them fish would be inaccurate — they are not in an ocean, or any body of water — and yet, that will be the word that springs to mind for most Wayfarers. Some of them are sleek and small, schooling in packs of shimmering white and ochre. Others are long and pointed, appendages pointed backward to exude a bright pink gas that propels them forward and which trails after them like oil slicks in the air. The locals call them x'enuda, the Hosts tell you, a combination of words that mean to fly and cunning prey.

They swim closer, swarming outside of the window. Some of them swim through, phasing through the shielding and windows alike, to dance gently in the interior of the Theorem, darting to and fro. If any Wayfarers find themselves curious enough to reach out and touch these creatures, they will find themselves similarly phased, capable of passing through matter for the next few minutes before the shared electrical field wears off and returns them to normal corporality. The external shield will catch you if you phase right through the ship's floor, but you may need to swim back up. Others may find themselves suddenly craving company, as if the x'enuda's instinct to remain safe in a school is catching.

FOREWORD

"All Wayfarers, please report to the docking bay!"

As you filter into the enormous cavern that makes up the docking bay of the Theorem, you see rows of smaller spacecraft. Some of them are sleek and light, like they'd be as free as a feather during aerial combat, while others are bulky and spacious. Many of them have designs in alien languages on them, or bizarre looking mascots, seemingly for good luck. As the occasional screen informs you, you are free to claim any one of the ships as your own, but first, Starling's Lament would very much like to give a presentation.

Past the rows of ships lays an expansive opening in the side of the Theorem, many stories high and wide, a shimmering forcefield the only thing between you and space. Beyond it, you can see the quickly fading shape of the planet and moons you left behind as the Theorem continues acceleration. It is in front of this that Starling's Lament has set up a large hologram of a star map.

As they start to explain once everyone is gathered, the map currently shows the region of space you are in. It is an enormous quadrant of multiple galaxies, some pinwheeled in shape, some circuler or tube-like. A line arcs across it, heading into what is clearly less-explored space, beyond the area colorfully marked as Alliance territory. Eventually, that line stops at a star, which then magnifies to reveal a six planet system, the second planet from the star circled.

This is your first objective: designation Epsilon-355.

There are many stories of which planets the Last Pilgrim has set foot upon, and yet, nobody has ever verified any of them. This, the Ascendants claim, is the closest match they have found for one of those planets in a scrap of story: a land of golden sand and shimmering glass, where pilgrimages track their way across the Golden Barrens desert. The planet is small and unassuming in the hologram, and the details next to it are scarce: relatively normal gravity, breathable atmosphere. More details will become available as the Theorem gets close enough for in-depth scans.

If there any notes of the Song to be found, they may yet be found in the Last Pilgrim's footprints.

Presentation nearly over, Starling's Lament directs you a series of tables that have neatly assembled packages of gear. Once you have picked your Division, you are welcome to claim the technological tools of its trade. You can also look at the spaceships available to claim, or even just watch out the docking bay door as you leave the planet behind and head deeper into space.

Welcome to the mission, Wayfarer.

(CODE)

Comments

Svarog | Honkai Star Rail

[underworldboss]

REFLECT
A.
[Although the database contains extensive records of ancient Belobogian trade with their distant cosmic neighbors, in Svarog's time interplanetary travel had already become the exclusive domain of invading forces. Svarog was constructed on Jarilo-VI, assigned to the planet as its guardian, and confined to it for hundreds of years. Even now, when isolation is a choice and not a necessity, Svarog tended to stay planetside. It was only very recently that he had voluntarily took a trip after being able to deem there being no matters of severe urgency for him.

A single visual censor is aimed at the passing nebula. If there is beauty to be found at such a sight, Svarog does not acknowledge it. Without any regard to whoever may be around, a series of system alerts are allowed to go off in a steady rhythm. ]

Comparative analysis complete. 0% match with all known star charts.

B.
[The robots are attending to everyone on the deck, but Svarog is especially garnering attention from the Hosts. While superficially similar, Svarog is many times larger than even the biggest form. But he takes such effort to move gently and around them, carefully considering every step in order to not crush them, that the Hosts soon end up in control of where he is going. They swarm and surround him, in defiance of any verbal expression from Svarog.

Nonverbal, electronic communication is not seeing better results. The light of Svarog's eye is flashing, the warning sign that signals are going out and being left unregistered. ]

Error: no compatibility found with automaton OS. No response received.


IMBIBE
A.
[Svarog takes a seat at the picnic, the heavy weight of his frame supported by his legs causing him to sink slightly into the grass when he sits down on it. But it is only a perfunctory gesture done out of politeness; obviously he has no mouth, let alone a working digestive system. This is apparently not enough of a deterrent, Svarog having to turning down a Host that extends a sample platter.]

I have no need to consume sustenance. Reuse the materials to someone with greater need.

B.
[Or, if that's a sight too lonely to bear, an outside observer appears to agree and takes pity on the fasting picnic guest. Someone raising the next cup of Spark-Wine to their lips and see the memory of a girl who is smiling as she is lifted by a pair of metal hands.

The moment of empathy does not go by without action when Svarog notices it.]

Invasive virus scan initiated.

reflect - a.

[orbitalhare]

[ Wait a minute. Who the hell is stomping around the ship wearing an Arsenal?

That is the first question Nova wonders about when he sees the machine, especially since he is still missing his suit. While the Red Hare is a one-of-a-kind exosuit crafted specifically for Axiom elites like him, Nova can practically wield any Arsenal with relative ease. That's why he can't believe some random joker was given a suit.

With a huff, the white-haired merc marches right over towards the Arsenal with a look of pure annoyance. ]

What the hell are you doing?

[ He asks bluntly like some kind of drill sergeant. ]

You do realize this is a civilian carrier, right? That means NO exosuits.

[underworldboss]

[Svarog normally would not be interrupted from his self-administered assignments by mere conversation, but this time he almost gladly takes the interruption from his fruitless analysis. The servomotors in his central support strut adjust the angle of his primary camera as he centers the new individual in his sights. The initial readings are outputting detection of negative emotional reactions, identified as irritability and anger. While Svarog has no responsibility to explain himself, the results of his risk analysis determine that it is in everyone's best interest for him to attempt to diffuse the situation. ]

Apologies, but this seems to be the result of a miscommunication. I am a fully automated unit.

[He assumes that the critical man refers to something like the body-encapsulating mechs piloted by managerial staff of the Interastral Peace Corporation. While his external appearance may be defined as an exoskeleton of sorts, in his case it is intrinsically part of his intraskeleton.]

[orbitalhare]

[Fully-automated? Wait is this individual really a completely autonomous android?! That's very shocking, especially given how human-like this robot moves.

Yes, Nova sees the absurdity in his evaluation, but even the robots in his universe have movement constraints. His fellow Neun, Gearworm, struggles to operate his entirely artificial body on the same level as any organic. This is also the same for Zanki, the blind samurai fighting on the behalf of the Reclaimers.

While the technology definitely exists, it’s more or less reserved for rare cases. Even so, this big guy looks like he could hold his own up against Red Hare. It’s just a shame Nova can’t test that theory out.]

My mistake! I didn’t realize—[Fuck! Nova can’t help but look a bit sheepish now. This is definitely embarrassing.]

I…I guess you’re one of the security droids deployed here?

[underworldboss]

I have taken no offense. [In other words: don't apologize and make this even more awkward. In contrast to the drastic change in Nova's attitude, Svarog is exactly as neutral as he was before. ]

It is not an unreasonable conjecture to make. I've attempted to send experimental test signals to check for any segments of shared code. Regrettably, none were successfully received. Our systems differ too greatly. The residents of this ship are equally aliens to me as they are to you.

[Although they are both made of metallic elements and have equivalents for parts, Svarog finds little of his Belobog kindred among them.]

[orbitalhare]

[ Good. The last thing Nova needs is some uppity Borg trying to make mincemeat out of him. He had enough of that bullshit during his time with the Reclaimers. ]

Checking for any segments of shared code?

[ Nova isn't quite sure how to feel about that, but he's decided to avoid discussing it for now. Instead, his curiosity is piqued about the creators of this sophisticated robot and the methods they used in its development. However, Nova gets the sense he's not really privy to such details. That's why he picks an easy question to ask since they're all technically new here. ]

If we're all in the same boat, then we might as well get to know each other, right?

[ He remarks with a subtle smile. ]

So where are you from? I take it you never heard of a planet named "Hel" before.

[underworldboss]

I have not. [A simply stated agreement, neither impressed nor curious. It is the truth that while Belobog has other stellar civilizations in its database, some dating to the pre-Freeze era and others added much more recently, there is no planet with that designation which is recorded to have intelligent residents.]

My origin is likely to be as obscure to you as yours is to my records. I was constructed on the planet of Jarilo-VI, in the city of Belobog. Neither the planet's history nor my personal memory archives had any previous awareness of the interstellar vessel known as the Theorem before now.

reflect, b

[flavourtown]

[ It had been impossible to miss the heavier footsteps of another being in the hallway, but at their clear metallic sound, Jiaoqiu had assumed it was another Host. His earpiece had somewhat described the scene -- a large robotic entity, the Hosts are swarming around it -- which hadn't been enough for an identification.

But then, apparently, they're not compatible with the Host OS. Curious! That must mean they're a Wayfarer, like Jiaoqiu. ]

Would you even want to connect with them, if you were able? Have you ever heard about what happened to organic beings from an isolated population when they're exposed to a different population, and all of the pathogens, viruses, and bacteria they've never built an immunity to?

[ Jiaoqiu's tone is light, contemplative. ]

Or does not that not happen with technological beings?

[underworldboss]

[The Host-Wayfarer gestalt turns the way to face Jiaoqiu, and Svarog meets the first species he has been able to successfully identify (thanks to the Foxian population which he encountered on his recent sabbatical to the Xianzhou Luofu). The implications of this are of a magnitude to immediately overshadow his current quandary, but inquires should still be handled in order.]

Ordinarily, electronic-based communication is more efficient than messages through aural languages which are subject to misinterpretations and practical obstructions.

[Which speaks to his desperation when he tried.]

Are you by any chance from the Xianzhou Alliance? Our homeplanets may have previously had dealings with each other.

[flavourtown]

[ The entity (that Jiaoqiu will tentatively label as a he going by the synthetic voice tone) is certainly not wrong: electronic messaging is considerably more efficient than aural language. Still, it does not mean that contact with other mechanical beings and their programming is necessarily safe, he thinks -- what if the Host's programming is so alien, so incomprehensible, that it makes any other programming it comes into contact with riddled with glitches?

Ah, he is merely speculating. Getting carried away by fanciful notions, perhaps. He is sure this entity knows far, far more than he does.

The mention of the Xianzhou makes him stiffen in shock, from the tips of his ears to his tail fluffing out in something between alarm and surprise. He laughs, then, perplexed. An actual genuine little laugh, as opposed to the more performative ones he gives at other times. ]

Really? We're from the same universe? How fascinating-- I'd hardly expected that.

[ He recovers, shaking his head in wonder. ]

Yes, I'm from the Yaoqing. Which planet are you from, my friend? Are you an Intellitron?

[underworldboss]

[Svarog's body language scanners tell him that such reactions can possibly be signifies of stress and fear. Curiously, none it seems to be directed at him or caused by him. Could the variable be something else?

Svarog writes the still open-question into files as his database searches finish. The Yaoqing, a vessel of the Xianzhou different from the Luofu which he personally visited. ]

Your speculation is close to, but not the entire truth. My model and all other automatons of my homeplanet Jarilo-VI are derivative of heavily modified IPC software. I am the only unit designed with self-awareness. Self-aware intelligence in other automatons is a much later, unplanned development.

[flavourtown]

[ It takes Jiaoqiu a moment to parse the designation. Jarilo-VI is not especially descriptive, and he reads battle reports spanning galaxies before breakfast, each of them containing dozens of similar designations. It takes a good few seconds before he manages to figure it out: Belobog.

He's never personally been, obviously, but he's heard the reports of the Trailblaze mission there. A planet plunged into an ice age by a Stellaron, freed by the IPC and the Astral Express -- he doubts the IPC did much of the work, but they do love to claim credit in official reports. If there had been much in the report about the robotic entities on Belobog, he does not remember, but he does know that the only reported sentient life had been biological and humanoid. So, this one speaking to him really must be the only self-aware mechanical entity from Belobog. ]

How curious. I have heard of intelligence that evolved naturally among mechanical entities, but never in just one of the population. You must be something truly special.

[underworldboss]

Organics may attribute cultural importance to entities at the top of hierarchy, but my status is out of objective design, not anything of significance. The majority of automatons do not need to process complex programs for perfect execution of their purpose. There is only one necessary control unit for administrative functions.

[In Svarog's worldview, there's nothing distinguishing him from the rank-and-file Beetle and Grizzly units other than a different suite of capabilities. ]

May I inquire further into your departure from the Yaoqing? Were there any different observations? [Svarog's projections estimate low chances, but not zero. The cost of asking is minimal in the risk reward analysis, but it is atypical for Svarog to act on such statistically insignificant odds. Unless he has something to motivate him, a thing which is rare not just among automatons but his own past behaviors: wishful thinking.]

imbibe - b

[blyat]

[Free wine won't be turned down, and Cain is happy to volunteer to take it off the hands of what appears to be another robot. Different than those he's come across so far, though — not nearly as small as the bird that first greeted them upon waking. If there's any intimidation to be found at that singular red light for an eye-face, he doesn't show it; his brow only arches when it speaks.

He? That is definitely a male voice, however mechanical it sounds.]

Who's that? [He caught the flash of an image, a young girl held aloft.] ... Uh, is that virus contagious?

[Because he saw it in his own mind, he's pretty sure, and it takes a moment to recognize maybe that's not normal.]

[underworldboss]

[It's a simple request for results of his analysis, so it is of no extra difficulty for Svarog to comply.]Possibility and or occurrence of transmission: Unconfirmed. Viral analysis inconclusive. [Taking on a softer tone for the delivery of potentially upsetting news is not a practice he's adopted, yet. The very concept of comforting people is still a work in progress. ]

Identifying possible vectors of infection.

[Svarog turned down any food or drink for himself, and he hasn't done any other interaction with the passengers of the Theorem. His eye stays on the man who just spoke to him conspicuously.] It would be an exceptional virus to be able to cross the boundary from inorganic to organic.

[blyat]

[This is a pretty surreal experience. Cain squints, not in the habit of speaking to "inorganic" lifeforms — his interactions with all the robots he's encountered so far across the Theorem is the most he's had, ever. Although Alliance tech is advanced, it's never managed quite this level of functionality and still relies heavily on human sentience.

He's not really sure what to say, but... it does make him curious.]

Are you like, a computer? You can scan yourself for a virus?

[The image hasn't left his mind, that girl very much human held up in metallic hands.]

... What are you called?

[underworldboss]

A computer is one type of machine designed for solving operational problems. It is just one organ in a system needed for function. The more exact term is inorganic lifeform. Protections against malicious software can be thought of as an immune system.

[It's technically not malware if it's a backdoor accessed by your old boss who was assumed to have vacated the planet centuries ago. But all contingencies can only be a start, not a solution.]

The one who you are addressing is Fully Automated Control Unit, designation: Svarog.

[blyat]

Hearing you say shit makes my head hurt.

[Maybe Abel would enjoy a conversation with an inorganic lifeform – but as soon as he thinks that, he grimaces, annoyed that it's where his mind went.]

So the computer is part of your body. Svarog? [That name almost sounds like it could belong to someone from the colonies, which catches his attention.] Did you pick that name yourself? ... Wait, you got any weapons built into, uh, you?

Imbibe: A.

[theroadpaved]

[He's so jealous right now he's practically sick with it. Please. He wants to go back to not needing to consume sustenance.

After a very reluctant look at the sample platter, Castiel takes a little jug of the plum spark-wine. Alcohol, at least, is not unfamiliar to him.] How were you able to retain your form? Did you threaten them?

[underworldboss]

[If Svarog were to trust the initial readings of his sensors, he would identify the one addressing him as an organic lifeform, specifically a human. But his line of questioning casts doubt on this assessment. ]

I did not.

[Said with the total objectivity that only a robot could achieve without a trace of sass or humor.] Intimidation would not have worked toward any desired end. The hosts are clearly not in the position to meet demands even in the case of acquiescence.

[theroadpaved]

[Sighs. Metal man is right, though Cas has let himself feel just a little hopeful that violence could be the answer here. Maybe it could be the a little bit of the answer? Pretty please? He's come back around to the benefits of definitive conflict resolution in specific cases.

The cork pulls free of the jug with a fat-sounding TTHOB. Castiel sniffs it.] You're right. Frustrating. [We're gonna gulp some of that]

reflect a.

[muddlefudge]

Yeah, that's about what I figured.

[There goes Boothill just assuming this guy is comparing it to star charts he also knows (what a coinkydink). His spurs jingle as he strides up next to Svarog, and damn, suddenly he feels short. He is not used to that.

The view outside the window is pretty and all, but he's more interested in the massive hunk of metal he's just stumbled on. He looks him up (and up) and down, whistling through his teeth.]

And I thought my hardware was impressive. Maybe it's time for an upgrade.

[underworldboss]

[Svarog hears someone making an articulation of shock besides him. Like what was probably intended, it grabs his attention from the observation data that is being gathered from across the window and the analysis of his internal readouts. He begins to examine his new acquaintance right back at him, though he is less perceptibly impressed.]

By "upgrade" I assume you refer to your computerized implants? I have done periodic maintenance, but the majority of my components remain unchanged from my initial design.

[Biotechnology is not unknown to Svarog, especially with the IPC's copious amounts of investments into its development. But Belobog did not have facilities capable of the manufacturing or the operations, and this is his first physical encounter of an example. ]

[muddlefudge]

[Whoa, ok, the whole cyclops thing this guy's got going on is a little unnerving. At least he got to keep his pretty face. Though the more he looks, the less like a cyborg Svarog seems. In spite of, you know, the pants.

In fact, he's vaguely reminded of the mechs employed by the IPC...]

You're... huh. You're no cyborg, are ya? Nothing but metal in there. You're not one of those IPC shirtbags, right?

[That would be just his luck. Whisked away to some unknown part of the universe, and the IPC is already here.]

[underworldboss]

Calculated accuracy rate of proposed hypotheses: 50% percent. Initializing correction of previously declared statements: I affirm that I am a purely inorganic organism. I deny any affiliation with the IPC.

[This is technically correct. Svarog was created on Jarilo-VI by a remote party of Architects, with the design by one of their own scientists. The IPC had no claim to ownership of him at any point. How he may have acted toward their representatives during their temporary stay is incidental.]

Expressed hostility toward the IPC corresponds to documented characteristics of onfile individual, designation: Boothill. [Along with the heavily, obvious body modifications, and the accent.]