Underrealm

L’yophin

What is she?

He pulled from his pipe, billowing a plume of smoke into the gentle breeze. The glowshrooms sang, and twilight was upon the estate. He closed his eyes, soaking in that question. He searched his compartmental mind, checking each portioned memory like a book. Seeking any clue to Sol’s origin.

No. It is now Soltana. Her name has changed.

He scratched idly at his bulbous head, his eight eyes snapping open to survey his estate from atop his silk mansion. Craters dotted the land. Pale bodies began dragging themselves away past the broken wall.

He drew from his pipe, blowing a smoke ring away towards the glowing ceiling. The stars were alive. The glow worms were active up above, gripping the rocky horizon as they twinkled. He sighed, scanning the damage. It would take time to rebuild. The attack was over. He sat atop his pile of used weaponry, his special collection. The ammunition was all spent, but the threat had ended.

Borscha the Trow was the first to flee, limping away into the dark, his flunkies just behind as a scattered broken mass. Their torn flesh would regenerate, but the impactful weaponry shattered their spirits.

His rare collection of weapons were now piles of junk. He hadn’t seen Primetech ammo in an age, much less federacy parts. He blanched at the cracked barrel of the personal anti-structural artillery. A shoddy craftsmanship, made by the crate load. His energy rifle was the only remaining firearm; ammo wasn’t a Proturan concept.

He pulled from his pipe, sighing a wreath of smoke. First, he’d have to dig the crater in where the wall stood. Scrap was easy to come by, as was his own personal thread.

“Mm. Fourteen wake and twilight periods. But…. There are no more Trows.”

Both sides had hesitated to aggress, however the strange pulse rifles the Trows donned had tipped balance, giving them an overweighted confidence. One without foundation. They had one lucky shot against his chitin. And he had hundreds riddling their fleeing hides. It humbled Borscha. L’yophin doubted he’d ever see that odious Trow again. He sighed, snuffing out his pipe.

“What are you, Soltana?”

He chittered in his own tongue this time, putting to words what he couldn’t in glossolalia. To grow into a new nacelle attachment like that was unique. He couldn’t say it was impossible. He witnessed miracles with his own eyes daily in the presence of his gods. He shouldered his pipe, leaving the pile of discarded weaponry for later. He scurried inside, heading to check on Soltana. It was probably a good thirty minutes of shooting. She would be safe.

He sighed.

This was a long day. It was always the same thing. Build an estate. Build up resources. Loafers would catch wind and he’d have to defend his property in perpetuity, besieged by aggressive thugs. He’d win some. Lose others. But it always ended the same. Building a new estate. He just wanted some peace and quiet.

Borscha and his Trow flunkies were just a long line of vagabonds to aggress his land. It felt like a curse. Constant toil without progress. He began his descent from the fifth floor, heading to the fourth. He passed by the open gun locker, empty of weaponry. Heh ad probably cornered the market on rare armaments, but that was all spent in the defense of his home. Some of it was still probably valuable. And yet he’d trade it all for Soltana. She was familiar to him. Innocent and helpful. Extravagant and intelligent. Beautifully made.

“S’yliska…”

Perhaps too familiar. He descended to the third floor, passing by the guest rooms and his main quarters. All too empty. All too vacant. A grim reminder of his isolation.

No one was looking for me. Not like I was making any effort…

Finding companions was always in the back of his mind, a desire always doomed to be unfulfilled. Defeated in spirit before he ever tried.

Said I was too busy… But I was never not busy.

He understood why these rooms were empty. A barrier he could never pass. A grief he could never confront.

And now he was no longer alone. A strange Anform friend awaited him down in the Assemblage. One that defied description. One that grew, literally. One that remembered. One that dreamed. One that desired to know and help him. An Anform that was excited in her own little world of visions and memory.

Repair her.

That was what he had felt the moment he saw the automata. He had ideas.

Down to the second floor he arrived, where most of his treasures lay. Behind bars, locks, and doors, his life's collection moldered. Now it had purpose. Repairing his new guest.

Friend?

Perhaps. Or perhaps that is what one would call you after you rescued them.

“Didn’t ask for this…”

He sighed, feeling the fatigue of combat. A drink and a smoke would put him right. He listened to the hollow echo of the glowshrooms singing. They awakened at twilight, budding and shedding. The music was a quiet ambience, always changing like the wind. The Dekapillars would always enjoy this time as they rested, lulled to sleep by the pleasant melodies.

He was happier before Soltana, enjoying the denial and ignorance.

Now this estate life grit on him. A grain of sand under his chitin. His was a species meant for the stars, not to exist in caves and hollow dwelling.

Now the illusion popped. A new variable had been introduced, named Soltana. And now he was at a crossroads. Continue or change. Which would most definitely be traveling the galaxy again. The last time he flew was to escape…

“Mm… Not now.”

It wasn’t the time to remember.

He skittered down to the first floor, admiring his trophies and artifacts from ages gone by. All reminders of those who vanished. What were decorations had now become bitter reminders.

Soltana had changed everything.

He sighed, gingerly taking the last steps down to the main floor. The Assemblage LED was still active. Soltana was still sitting idle inside. He halted, staring down the hall.

What are you doing? Go in.

“Too much like her,” he whispered, “too much like S’yliska…”

He shook himself as he slapped a limb against his cheek.

“Why scared? No reason to be… She’s gone. Soltana is here.”

He skittered through the hall, spotting the phthalo blue metal atop her rough steel casing. He entered the Assemblage, his eight eyes taking in her powered down form.

“Soltana.”

He waited, expecting her to power on and speak with her cheery voice. Nothing.

“Soltana?”

He brushed against her shiny hull, feeling the comfortable warmth. She was still alive. When he had felt her during her exhumation, she had been quite cold.

“Please don’t leave me…”

Worry blossomed as he lifted her up, popping open the nacelle casing. It glowed a healthy green, branched with her blue cabling roots.

“She is asleep.”

He arrived at the only conclusion that made sense. If he could dream whenever he slept and could literally not move, he would be swimming in visions; taking the only action possible.

I trust that she is all right.

He theorized she was too engrossed in her own revelations to be shaken by outside stimuli. He had no idea how to relate. On the one hand, she desired to remember her past. And the other, he wished to forget his own.

He skittered away, searching for the pipe and bottle with his name on it.

And Soltana dreamed. She remembered more of her existence, her creator, and her God.

A man survived his demons, gained new crew, and traveled to a new destination.

A fallen Angel found her demons, bent them to her will, and slaved away to please an apathetic god.

Their adventures were only beginning.