This article was written by Ahpolki Inika. Please do not add to it without the writer's permission.
|Setting||An unknown planet|
|Date set||Over 90 thousand years ago?|
War Machine is serial story focusing on the origins of Stonewall.
Location: Aboard The Last Resort….
Cold. That one word was all that can describe the space-bound warship. Not just in temperature, but also in atmosphere. The place felt like a graveyard, yet empty of the fallen. The lights were dimly lit, casting a feeling of dread upon any outsider who might set foot. Many beings with organic tissue would shiver, even before they would enter the place. This place didn’t have organic or biomechanical beings, though. Rather, the whole crew was composed of autonomous, robotic entities. One in particular the commander of the vessel.
Sitting on a throne of sorts was a large mechanical warlord, clan in ash-gray and royal-silver, with hints of jet-black. His acid-green optics were the only source of illumination in the chamber, casting a haunting light into the dark void. On one of his upper arms were three claw-like spikes, the other a massive shield. In place of a “mouth” was a visor of sorts, somewhat like on Noble Kanohi masks Turaga would wear. He had large boot-like feet and sharp servos, further enforcing his intimidating aura. Right now, he was tapping a knife-like digit on the armrest of his chair, lost in his memory banks. He had done this many times during jumps in slipspace, So it wasn’t any surprise to find him frozen in his throne.
“Commander,” Droned a genderless voice. “We have arrived.”
His processor closed the file it was reviewing, and returned to the material universe. His optics were showing a crimson-and-black mechanoid, with bits of gunmetal. The drone’s own set of optics were a fiery orange. Within its servo was a simple sword. He instantly recognized the model as that of a Black Fire unit.
“Tell Nutaj that I will be there in a klik.” Replied the Marshal. “I need to equip myself for the mission.”
The drone nodded, exiting the chamber. As the general rose to his feet, he grabbed the blade at his side and sat it across his backside. The weapon was slapped on magnetically, so there was no need for a sheath. Making his way into the forgery, he pasted by some of the smaller units. The tiny blacksmiths and medics were busy repairing or modifying fellow troopers. He made his way towards what at first glance was a massive canister. However, this wasn’t the case.
The chamber’s doors slid open, revealing an array of mechanical arms hanging onto an unseen ceiling. Stepping onto a platform, he could feel a number of anchors attaching to various parts of his chassis. A swarm of the metallic limbs descended upon him, dismantling him bolt by bolt. His hidden weapons were exchanged for another, one melee and one firearm. He felt his jetboosters being wielded onto his back as well.
It was during the reconstruction that he fell back into his memory banks. The cold air suddenly rose to a temperate warmth. The usual metals of his ship was replaced with a lush forest. He could feel a soft breeze brushing against his body. But his body…
His body was no longer the mechanical warrior he knew himself as. Or rather, he wasn’t what that being yet. Once upon a time, he was flesh and bone. Once, he was part of a larger group of this species. Once, he had a name. But those were long since forgotten, his people long since dead. His world was no more, and he was glad to leave it that way.
But, as with everything old, the past can teach one many things. It can show the errors of the old times. It can serve as a warning to the future. It can remind one of the importance and values of their existence. So once more, to remind himself, he allowed the memories to flood though his chassis.
The Third Fragments