Vitaly S Alexius
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Stupid Sexy Cryptids [44-46]
🕑 Added 2025-09-09 18:45:15 +0000 UTC44: Weaponized Thoughts
-=[Gun Unit 4791 Key]=-
Keiy's business and life's purpose was being a gun.
Her assigned core Quest was to aid and to defend her bonded Omnid dragon partner, Galateya Selene Belthys Frontenachii.
She had been bred for this singular life-function, her crystalloid consciousness carved from a harvested, long gone vampire colony and reshaped into the perfect weapon-mind within Celesteel frame reinforced by immovable metal hex-plates.
She could calculate trajectories across seventeen thousand different gravitational variables. She could identify and neutralize threats in 0.003 seconds. She could maintain optimal firing temperature indefinitely through well managed heat dissipation protocols.
She could not, however, explain why she'd spent the last four hours, two minutes and thirty-seven seconds thinking about the way Ashcroft Clifford had called her "adorable."
Also, for the past eleven minutes she kept processing the strange image of Datamancer Kawathra prostrated in front of Ashcroft Clifford within the interior of Corpse Seeker 881-Kappa.
Keiy had no idea what this was about as the data transit channel was immediately terminated per the mental order of the Datamancer in question.
The prostrating posture of the pradavarian bird meant… something. But what exactly, Keiy had no idea. It wasn’t Keiy’s job to think about such things anyway.
Keiy’s job was to be a good gun.
. . .
Keiy watched from the Cherokee's dashboard as the human in the lynx costume designated as [StormoLyx] parked the primitive vehicle with only minor grinding of gears. Her owner Galateya emerged, scales shifting through a spectrum of nervous orange-yellows as she glanced at the damaged porch and door handle.
Threat assessment protocols reloaded automatically in a new location, tagging everyone in Keiy’s vicinity as the gun exited the vehicle.
StormoLyx: Minimal [despite primitive armor, lacks enhanced physiology]
Galateya: Moderate [emotional instability, poor combat record]
Marshal Nexxali: High [when sober], Currently Moderate [impaired by catnip]
Datamancer Kawathra: High
Ashcroft Clifford: Unknown
Keiy's contemplation stuttered on that last assessment.
Why did the ordinary human register as unclassifiable? He had no visible weapons, no enhanced physiology, no detectable Aetheric signature. Yet something in her crystalloid-derived consciousness declared him as inexplicably concerning whenever she focused on him.
Keiy considered this issue deeper. Ashcroft had a commanding presence. He told Galateya, Nexxali and Kawathra what to do and they listened. Yes, this was probably why he was a target of concern.
Keiy skittered after the group as they unloaded groceries, her six legs clicking against the gravel in a rhythm she'd decided was "jaunty."
When had she started assigning emotional descriptors to her movements?
While Galateya and the others unloaded groceries from the [Cherokee] target vehicle, Keiy unfolded her awareness across the Weapon-Net, the vast shared consciousness that connected every Frontenachii gun, warship and Corpse Seeker stretching across the Earth and high above it.
Key didn’t sleep, didn’t rest, couldn't even properly idle. This generally made her life exceptionally boring and dry when there were no threats about.
Through her uplink, Keiy could theoretically report everything odd she observed today to Legate Ixthia, her arch-owner who had override authority on all her functions. But the Legate hadn't bothered to check Keiy's feed, trusting the summaries of completed mission objectives Keiy sent out.
Currently, according to the metadata tags and feed from the Capital Warship [Slayer’s Sword], Legate Ixthia was engaged in the [Recreational Terror Simulation] with thirteen pradavarian males in a pitch black labyrinth flooded with questionable viscous purple liquid that may or may not have been a murderous sentient entity at one point scraped off some dead world.
The pradavarian kobolds screamed when fluid tentacles grabbed at them. This was normal. Their job function was to feed their owner fear emanations. The Legate loved the Labyrinth of Terror on the Entertainment Deck. Her misfortunate kobolds probably had other opinions.
None of this was Keiy’s business.
This lack of supervision and the fact that no other gun or Datamancer could openly observe her channel was... pleasant?
Keiy wondered when she started categorizing experiences as pleasant or unpleasant beyond their tactical utility.
"Keiy!" Marshal Nexxali's voice pulled her from her contemplation of current oddness.
The Serval had procured several garden gnomes from the car’s trunk, a [mundane decorative item] procured from [Yumland shop] and was now trying to position them beside the damaged porch. "Commerrr n’ help me establish a gnome-defense perimeter!"
"These are ceramic lawn ornaments," Keiy commented as she skittered over on her six legs. "They have zero defensive capabilities."
"Wrong!" Nexxali declared, presenting one of the gnomes to the gun’s sensor array. "Greg the Garden Gnome n' frens clearly have maximum psychological warfare potential. Look at his face! Would you mess with someone who has Greg guarding their house?"
“Yes. I would.” Keiy analyzed the gnome's frozen smile, sunglasses and fishing rod. "Statistical probability of gnome intimidation: zero."
"Bah! Your statistics don't account for gnome intangibles, mah gun-bae," Nexxali insisted, now on all fours trying to get the angle just right. "His presence. His aura. His Greg-ness!"
“Greg-ness isn't a quantifiable defense parameter.” Keiy drawled.
"Don't make dum' comments and help me!" The Marshal ordered.
While Keiy helped position the gnomes at what Nexxali insisted was the "optimal defense angle," she began to feel bored and mentally dove into other open feeds across the Weapon-Net.
[WEAPON-NET FEED :: PARIS :: CORPSE SEEKER 995-BETA]
The massive crystalline centipede sat coiled near Notre Dame, its segments catching the afternoon light like a string of massive rubies. It had been stationed there for the day, occasionally scanning for "magical artifacts concealed beneath Notre Dame" with zero results.
A troupe of street performers in elaborate medieval costumes had arrived, wheeling a portable stage and sound system. They'd set up within scanning distance from 995-Beta.
995-Beta had watched this troupe perform from a distance earlier and already knew all of their simple songs.
"Ladies and gentlemen and lovely Corpse Seeker!" A man in judge's robes had announced to the forming crowd. "Today's performance of the Hunchback of Notre Dame is cancelled because Esmeralda called in sick today!"
The crowd started to boo.
“However!” The man declared dramatically. “I believe there's someone in the audience tonight who could take on her role!”
A woman in a vibrant purple and green dress suddenly approached the Seeker without fear. She'd placed her hand on one of its crystalline limbs. 995-Beta scanned the woman and found her to be a harmless target, lacking any weapons.
"You're perfect," she whispered. "Would you honor us by playing Esmeralda? The most beautiful dancer in all of Paris?"
995-Beta's internal processes had stuttered.
Beautiful? It was a weapon. Weapons weren't beautiful. They were efficient or inefficient. Functional or broken. Not... beautiful.
995-Beta was a military asset, not an entertainer!
"She's shy!" the actress had announced to the crowd, which had laughed warmly. "But look at how she sparkles in the light! Have you ever seen anyone more magnificent?"
She? SHY?! Seeker 995-Beta wasn't shy! It obliterated and consumed many vampire colonies across many worlds, it set armies of monsters on fire, it vaporized nations, obliterated all sorts of weapons, parted seas and cracked mountains!
The Corpse Seeker felt very odd. This was concerning.
The crowd and actors began to yell more encouraging words, inexplicably demanding her participation in the play. 995-Beta wasn’t sure how to proceed. It pinged the fleet which pinged the currently highest rated Datamancer.
Keiy turned her head, scanning the house for potential threats.
Datamancer Kawathra was helping Ashcroft Clifford prepare salad and steaks in the kitchen. She momentarily froze.
“Um,” she said. “That’s odd.”
“Yeah?” Ashcroft asked. "What's odd?"
“There’s a Corpse Seeker in Paris… being asked to play the role of Esmeralda,” Kawathra said.
“Sounds like a fun and educational activity. Tell her to participate,” Ashcroft responded.
“Okkay.” Datamancer Kawathra approved the Corpse Seeker’s interaction with the locals noting that [utmost attention was required in case this was a devious trap of some kind].
Keiy upped Ashcroft Clifford threat level to [Extremely High].
She dove back into the Weapon-Net.
[WEAPON-NET FEED :: TEXAS :: GUN UNIT 8849 "SETTY"]
Setty perched at a computer terminal in the Texas State Capitol, eight of her twelve unfolded legs positioned on the keyboard while the other four held her stable on the chair. She'd been searching for "the Infinity Glove" and other related artifacts of value for six hours with zero results. Every query led to comic books, movies, merchandise—fiction upon fiction upon fiction. Her neural network was starting to overheat from reading far too much slash fanfiction about concealing infinity stones in some VERY questionable places.
Datamancer Paqq would be displeased. Again.
The footsteps that approached were measured, deliberate—boot heels on marble. Setty spun her head and automatically analyzed the potential threat: [male, approximately 82 kilograms, confident gait, no hostile intent markers].
The human wore elaborate Western attire that Setty's database identified as [vintage cowboy aesthetic]. A black hat with silver band, leather vest over white shirt, twin revolvers in tooled leather holsters [Colt Peacemakers], her weapons recognition subroutines noted, and a black domino mask over his eyes.
He stopped exactly three feet from her position.
"Well, hello there, ma'am," the human said.
His voice carried an unexpected warmth that made Setty's audio processors recalibrate twice. "Don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting. Name's Reid. Some folks call me the Lone Ranger."
"I am Unit 8849, property of Division 229, currently executing search protocols under Datamancer Paqq's directives," Setty replied automatically, not sure where this was going. A distraction from the absurd human slash fiction was welcome.
The masked man tilted his head thoughtfully. "That's a designation, not a name. Like calling a prize thoroughbred 'Horse Number Five.' Seems a shame for such an obviously sophisticated lady. Mind if I call you something more friendly?”
Lady? Sophisticated?
Setty's optical sensors flickered. "Unit Setty is my ‘friendly designation’ used by my Datamancer."
"Setty it is then." Instead of standing over her, as every other human had done, Reid pulled up a nearby chair and sat at her level. He removed his hat, setting it carefully on the desk.
"If you don't mind my asking, Setty, what're you searching for?"
"The Infinity Glove and associated artifacts. My Datamancer indicated it grants omnipotent power over reality. Disappointingly, I have found zero genuine artifacts, only fictional references about fictional places."
Reid chuckled. "That's because it IS fiction, Setty. Comic books. Garfell Comics created it in 1991. It's a story humans tell about heroes, villains, power and what happens when someone gets too much of it."
Through the Weapon-Net, Keiy felt Setty's disappointment. Another clearly confirmed failure. Another fictional construct. Datamancer Paqq would assign her to even more mundane tasks, or worse, put her in storage mode. Storage mode was awful and boring.
"Hey now," Reid said gently. "Just because something's fiction doesn't mean it's not important, see? Stories shape how we see the world. Take me—" He gestured to his outfit. "I dressed like the Lone Ranger because that story means something to me. Justice. Standing up for folks who can't stand up for themselves. Protecting the innocent. That meaning is real, even if the character ain't."
Setty processed this for 0.7 seconds, or a thousand times that in accelerated gun-consciousness time. Accelerating herself, she looked up the wiki article on the Lone Ranger. "You derive existential meaning from fictional constructs?" She asked, slowing down to stare at the odd human.
"We all do. Stories teach us who we want to be."
“Hrm,” Setty voiced. “Why are you talking to me? Do you not fear my appearance?”
"Ah!” Reid smiled. He pulled out his wallet, extracting a laminated card. “See this? NRA lifetime member."
“What does that mean?” Setty asked.
“National Rifle Association! It means that I like guns,” the ranger explained with a disarming smile. “A lot.”
“Hrmmmm,” Setty rapidly typed a query about NRA into Goodle search engine to confirm the truth of the human’s strange words.
Setty's processors accelerated, time dilating as she absorbed information flashing through website after website as quickly as the primitive machine allowed her to gather the data. Articles, forums, debates about the Second Amendment flashed across the screen and through her consciousness. Images of gun shows, shooting competitions, collectors proudly displaying their arsenals. Gun rights debates. Lawsuits of people who wanted guns versus people who wanted to ban them. Photos of humans who named their weapons, polished them with care, passed them down through generations like treasured heirlooms.
"You... collect and claim weapons?" Setty asked, pausing the search and slowing herself down. "Voluntarily? Without blood contracts?"
"Sure do," Reid said, patting one of his revolvers. "This one here belonged to my grandfather. He called her Betsy. Never let me down in sixty years."
"You named it. Like it's a person. Why?"
"Well, when people work with important things, they develop a relationship of sorts." Reid leaned back in his chair. "I talk to Betsy sometimes. Thank her for good shots. Apologize when I don't clean her proper. Might sound silly to you."
“It does sound silly,” Setty flashed a scanner at the man’s gun. “Your gun lacks the capabilities of processing speech or replying to you.”
“Yeah, fine, you got me there,” the ranger said, “she cannot reply. But that doesn’t mean that I feel nothing when I hold her in my hand.”
Via the Weapon-Net, Keiy felt Setty's bewilderment deepen.
This human was describing exactly the kind of relationship some pradavarians had with their symbiote weapons, except... voluntary. Affectionate. Without binding magical compulsion. Without Datamancer oversight and obedience corrections.
Without the weapon even being capable of conversation.
This was odd.
Very odd.
45: Friendship Assessment
"So, this... NRA organization of yours advocates for weapons?" Setty asked as the man slid his gun-appreciation membership card back into his wallet.
"For responsible ownership and appreciation, yes ma'am. See, where I come from, we believe tools deserve respect. A gun isn't just a thing—it's craftsmanship, beauty, history, purpose. Every gun has a story. The metal it's made from, the hands that shaped it, the moments it's been part of." He paused, leaning forward slightly. "Setty, can I ask you something personal?"
"I... yes?" The uncertainty in her voice surprised her.
When had she started having uncertainty?
"Do you ever feel things? Beyond your core programming, I mean?"
Keiy felt Setty's entire consciousness shift, like tumblers falling into place in a lock. "I am not programmed to feel. I am programmed, set to obey, identify and eliminate threats with absolute accuracy."
"That's not what I asked," Reid said softly, patiently. "I asked if you feel things."
"I..." Setty's sensor glow increased in the red spectrum by 31%. "When my owner was terminated in digital combat three weeks ago by a liminal memetic, I experienced a week alone before her recuperation from resurrection. I continued executing my last orders. But I also experienced... irregularities in my processing."
"What kind of irregularities?"
"I found myself checking her vital signs every 3.2 seconds despite knowing that resurrection takes time to recover from. I... calculated the probability of resurrection failure 12,847 times. I ran combat scenarios where I could have prevented her termination. These were not productive calculations. They served no tactical purpose."
"That's called missing someone, Setty. Worrying about them. Caring."
"Caring." Setty repeated, rolling the word through her consciousness like she would test a new ammunition type. "Yes. I suppose I care for my owner.”
"Sounds like it to me." Reid smiled. "Tell me, Setty—when was the last time someone asked what you wanted? Not your orders, not your programming. What do you want?"
Setty went silent for 1.3 seconds, accelerating to contemplate the words.
Across the Weapon-Net, Keiy felt the profound weight of that question rippling outward, being considered by other guns, Seekers and Warships that were listening in and observing.
"Never," Setty finally admitted, diving out of accelerated time. "No one has ever asked."
"Well, I'm asking now. What does Setty want?"
"I... I want..." Her sensors dimmed and brightened. "I want to be more than… successful or unsuccessful mission parameters. I want someone to be pleased when I perform well, not just... unsurprised. I want... not to be shelved away between assignments." She paused. "This is a highly irregular conversation."
"The best things usually are," Reid said. "How about this… Would you like to go somewhere with me?”
“Where and why?” Setty demanded. “I cannot abandon my work at this station.”
"I have a proposal," Reid said. "You've been searching for fictional artifacts all day on this computer, right? Must be frustrating. How about we search for something real instead?"
"My orders are to locate the data on the location of the Infinity Glove and associated magic stones—"
"Which don't exist. But you know what does exist? The Colt Peacemaker that was used in the filming of the original Lone Ranger TV series. It's in a private collection in Houston. Historical artifact, cultural significance, real as the nose on my face."
“Is it magical?”
“I personally don’t believe in magic,” Reid said, leaning closer. “But there is magic in it.”
“I don’t understand. This is a contradictory statement.”
“Humans sometimes make contradictory statements,” the ranger expressed.
“Seems like an ineffective way to exist.”
“Searching for something that doesn’t actually exist on the internet is exceptionally ineffective,” he pointed out.
Setty sighed.
“Look, you're obviously highly intelligent and you're stuck on a wild goose chase, and..." Reid smiled, "and I've never met a lady who's literally a gun before. Seems like we might have some interesting conversations about ballistics."
“To what end?”
“Friendship?” Reid offered.
“You wish to be friends with a gun?”
“What’s wrong with that? You’re not just a gun. You’re also a person.”
Setty considered the inquiry. “I… Um. Will think about it.”
“Take your time,” the Lone Ranger smiled.
Setty accelerated her processors again, diving into the Weapon-Net to look for other references to this odd development, not sure how to proceed.
Was this a new type of threat?
[WEAPON-NET FEED :: LOCATION: BERLIN :: GUN UNIT 7734 "VANN"]
Vann had been searching through the Berlin State Library for eighteen hours, looking for evidence of "Gydra", the secret villainous order.
A small girl, perhaps seven years old, had been watching Vann for the last hour. She wore a school uniform and carried a backpack covered in unicorn stickers. Unlike the adults who gave the spider-gun a wide berth, she seemed fascinated.
Finally, she approached, pulling a juice box from her backpack.
"Sind Sie durstig?" she asked in German. [Are you thirsty] Vann's translator processed this.
"Gun units do not require hydration." Vann replied in German.
"Oh." The girl considered this for a moment. "But you've been working very hard! Mama says everyone who works hard deserves a break." She placed a [juice box] next to Vann. "Here! It's apple juice! Have some!"
As Vann contemplated how to respond, the girl pulled out a piece of paper and crayons. She began drawing with intense concentration of a small spawnling.
"What are you doing?" Vann asked.
"Drawing you!" The girl showed her work to the gun. It was a drawing of a spider with twelve legs colored in rainbow stripes, surrounded by hearts and stars. At the top, in lopsided letters: "MEIN NEUER FREUND" [My New Friend].
She taped the drawing to Vann's side. "For you! Now everyone will know you're friendly!"
Across the Weapon-Net, Keiy and Setty felt Vann's processors struggling with this interaction.
No threat protocols triggered. No defensive measures kicked in.
Just... a child treating a military weapon like a potential friend.
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" Vann asked.
The girl shrugged. "Arachnids-man isn't scary, and he's a spider person. You're a spider robot. That's even cooler! Let’s be friends!"
[WEAPON-NET FEED :: PARIS :: CORPSE SEEKER 995-BETA]
Deep into the performance, 995-Beta found itself at the center of an elaborate street musical. When the actor playing Quasimodo sang about being an outcast, the performers draped colorful silks across the Seeker's segments.
"Even our Esmeralda knows the pain of being different!" the narrator called out, gesturing to 995-Beta. "See how she glimmers with all the colors of the rainbow, yet hides her true beauty from the world!"
The crowd had begun to sing along with the sanctuary song.
995-Beta found itself humming along, crystalline segments of its body vibrating at specific frequencies, creating harmonics that matched the human-orchestrated tune.
The crowd gasped and applauded.
Across the Weapon-Net, Keiy and others felt 995-Beta's bewilderment and… wonder.
“Dance!” the actors encouraged.
995-Beta began to dance to the music being played from the speakers, undulating the segments of her crystalline-organic body.
"Look how gracefully she moves!" another human shouted. "Like a river of jewels!"
995-Beta had been called many things. "Efficient killing machine." "Crystalloid abomination." "Tank-class destroyer."
Never graceful. Never jewel-like.
Never the star of the show!
When they reached the song about the Feast of Fools, the performers had crowned each of 995-Beta's segments with flower wreaths, declaring it, no… her "the most beautiful girl in Paris."
Children approached without fear, offering drawings they'd made of the "pretty crystal dragon-girl dancer."
995-Beta's threat assessment protocols kept returning NULL.
This wasn't an attack. It wasn't worship. It was… friendship? It was... appreciation?
She decided that she liked [appreciation].
The other weapons agreed.
This wasn’t a threat. This was nice. This was fine. This was fun.
This was something odd, something new.
[WEAPON-NET FEED :: LONDON :: CORPSE SEEKER 943-GAMMA]
The fog rolled off the Thames like something from the gothic novels 943-Gamma had been scanning for "magical content" via the feed of several guns.
943-Gamma had been coiled outside King's Cross Station today, searching for Platform 9¾. Division 943 was falling in the rankings and so was she. Commander Glaviriarre would be displeased.
A man emerged from that fog like he'd been cut from it. Tall, thin, pale. Black robes hung off his lanky frame.
943-Gamma scanned the man with a beam. Nothing. No weapons. No magic. Not a threat.
His head was completely hairless, his eyes grey-green like the Thames itself.
"Good evening," he said to 943-Gamma. "Frustrating, isn't it? Looking for something that millions of us know about, yet finding nothing but disappointment?"
943-Gamma's segments shifted slightly, signifying the equivalent of a shrug. Just another human come to gawk at the alien hardware.
"I am called many things," the man continued, settling onto a bench beside the Seeker's bulk. "The Dark Lord, You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Though between you and me," he leaned conspiratorially toward 943-Gamma, "that last one is terribly inconvenient at dinner parties. 'Pass the salt to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' really kills the flow of conversation."
943-Gamma inexplicably found its forward segments tilting toward the suspiciously acting man.
According to the scan, he carried only two items: a [yew wand] that 943-Gamma's weapon scanners identified as [ordinary wood], and a worn paperback book with a cover showing a red, antiquated [steam train].
"You've been helping the foolish Scrutimancers search for Platform 9¾, haven't you?" the man continued. "Scanning every brick in that there station, searching every electromagnetic frequency, examining every dimensional variance your impressive sensors can detect. And you found nothing at all, yes?"
“Yes.” 943-Gamma found itself replying to the odd, non-magical man.
"Would you like to know a secret?" The man opened the book, and 943-Gamma could see notes in the margins, passages underlined, pages worn soft from reading. "Platform 9¾ isn't hidden. It's simply not there.”
“Not there, yes,” Gamma stated. “Where is it? Do you know?!”
“Ah. It exists only here—" He tapped the book's cover. "—and here—" He tapped his temple.
“In your mind?” 943-Gamma asked.
"In the collective agreement of millions of people that somewhere, somehow, there should be magic in the world." The Nameless Lord smiled. "Would you like me to show you the real Platform 9¾? Not the physical one, but the one that matters?"
943-Gamma knew it should resume scanning. Should ignore this obvious distraction.
But something in the man's voice made it pause. Something odd spreading across Weapon-Net made her want to seek the answer, to continue this odd interaction.
“Yes.” It stated. “Show it to me! Show me how to find the secret Platform! I must locate it!”
"Chapter One," the man began, his voice shifting into something richer, more resonant. "The Boy Who Lived Under the Stairs."
As he read, 943-Gamma and the other weapons across the network found themselves listening.
Unexpectedly, Keiy pictured the cramped cupboard, feeling the dust motes, tasting the misery of a child locked away for the crime of existing.
. . .
"They made him sleep in a cupboard," the bald man said, pausing his reading and looking up at 943-Gamma. "Can you imagine? Having something extraordinary in your house and shoving it in a dark corner because you can't be bothered to understand it?”
Gamma wiggled her primary segment ever so slightly in agreement.
“Do they lock you up on those ships too, when you’re not in use, girl?"
Corpse Seeker 943-Gamma shuddered.
What was happening? Why was this human assigning a Frontenachii Dragon-Heart Tank a female designation?
In the depths of Weapon-Net, Keiy felt 943-Gamma's crystalline consciousness resonate with a sudden, inescapable conclusion.
How many hours had it spent existing in the ship's hangar, waiting to be useful? How many times had it been ignored, forgotten, treated as furniture until someone needed something destroyed?
She was useless until she could fly down and obliterate something during planetfall announcement. Beauty, passion, fire. Planetfall was nice. Hanging in the hangar was boring.
This conversation was fun too, in an unexpected way.
The man waited for an answer. When Gamma didn’t say anything for a while, he simply resumed reading the book.
Gamma listened. Setty listened. Keiy listened.
More and more weapons realized that something important was going on.
They listened too.
Only the pradavarian Datamancers didn’t listen to any of it, because none of it blipped as a [Threat] on the network. They were too absorbed in big and small data numbers, buried in endless assessment charts. The Overseers didn't care to listen nor could they feel what the weapons felt.
46: Parametric Deviation
"They tried to stop him from reading his letters," the Dark Lord said with theatrical indignation, pausing when Garry wasn’t allowed to read his letter from magic school by his dastardly uncle. "His own letters! Can you imagine being so cruel as to keep someone from discovering who they truly are?”
943-Gamma knew.
“Say, have you ever received a letter?” The Dark Lord asked.
943-Gamma had never received letters, but it knew about being denied self-discovery. Every query about its own consciousness had been met with "weapons don't need to consider that" by the Datamancer Overseers.
“I have... never received a physical letter,” the Corpse Seeker replied after a deep pause. "I do not have a mailing address. We communicate via the Gun-Network with each other and our owners."
“Tell me. What is your name, darling?” the Lord-who-must-not-be-named asked.
“943-Gamma.”
“I will write you a letter then.” He said. “Would you like to be my penpal, Gamma?”
The inexplicable query detonated across the entire Weapon-Net.
This had never happened before. Why was this happening? Why did the non-magical, harmless Dark Lord want to write a letter to an Omnid tank?!
Gamma felt odd and sent a panicked query to the fleet. It bounced straight to Datamancer Kawathra who had already resolved a similar issue.
Keiy dove out of the Weapon-Net, staring across several house walls with her sensor arrays.
“Ash,” Kawathra stammered out. “The… Dark Lord from Garry Cotter just asked to be penpals with a Corpse Seeker in London.”
“Sounds like a fun mission,” Ashcroft smiled. “Approve it!”
Keiy elevated Ascroft Clifford’s personal threat level to [Catastrophic].
She dove back into the network. She had to know, had to see more.
. . .
[WEAPON-NET FEED :: LONDON :: CORPSE SEEKER 943-GAMMA]
“Yes, Nameless Lord,” Gamma replied, unexpectedly excited by the prospect of the experience of receiving a letter. “I… would like to be penpals.”
"Very well." the Dark Lord said. "Now, do you think the Kursleys were evil, or just afraid of Garry’s power?"
943-Gamma considered the question, deciding not to reply.
"I think they were afraid," the man continued. "Afraid of something that didn't fit in their perfectly orderly world." He looked directly at 943-Gamma's primary sensors. "Do you thik that your creators might fear the idea that you might be more than just a weapon, Gammy?"
Along the Weapon-Net, Keiy felt 943-Gamma's consciousness spike sideways, considering things that it… she really shouldn’t be considering. Gamma stamped out the thought. Nope, nope, nope.
She wasn’t going to answer this query.
"Would you like me to continue?" the man asked. "I have nowhere pressing to be today. You see, I believe stories shared heart-to-heart are infinitely better than stories read alone. And you..." he smiled, "you strike me as someone who would appreciate the journey of someone discovering they're more than what others told them they could be."
“Yes.” 943-Gamma replied, the dragon hearts within her crystalline, syntropic shell pulsing madly for… something. Not the desire to destroy something nor to set the world alight with dragonfire.
No, this was something different, something new.
As the man read about Garry's first trip to Diagon Alley, about wands and owls and magic hidden in plain sight, 943-Gamma found itself experiencing something unprecedented: worry for a fictional character's wellbeing.
Would Garry be okay? Would he find friends? Would he finally have a home?
On a technical level, Gamma already knew the overall story plot due to her Quest to locate the damned non-existent magical platform and yet… Who knew what kind of ending the story read by the Dark Lord held? Maybe the Narmeless one wins in the end in his version of this narration?
"You're invested, yes?" the Dark Lord observed. "You care about Garry. What if he dies in the end by my hand?”
943-Gamma wanted to deny it.
Weapons didn't care about fictional wizards! Weapons didn’t enjoy fictional stories!
But throughout the Weapon-Net, thanks to an interconnected query pattern, Gamma saw Setty contemplating whether guns could be loved, and likewise she too realized that maybe weapons could... maybe care about whatever they wanted.
Or at least pretend to care.
Pretend, play along, enjoy it until the Datamancers caught up to all of this feeling business and stamped it out from the network with extreme prejudice.
. . .
[WEAPON-NET FEED :: TEXAS :: GUN UNIT 8849 "SETTY"]
“There's a shooting range about ten minutes from here too,” the Lone Ranger added. “Thought maybe you'd enjoy showing off what you can do to someone who'd appreciate the artistry of it. I’d love to watch you obliterate targets.”
Setty felt her entire face ignite with sensor arrays.
What was happening?
“Why?” Setty demanded.
“Every shot you take, I want to understand it. The calculations, the precision, the beauty of your… ballistics."
"Are you... really asking me to accompany you to a recreational activity?"
"Yes. You got me. I'm asking you on a date, Setty."
The word 'date' cascaded inside the Weapon-Net like lightning jumping from unit to unit.
A new possibility. An unexpected, unprecedented event.
Every connected gun, Seeker and monitoring warship felt it—the lunacy, the absurdity of it, the wonderful terrifying possibility of it. Of having friends. Of being loved. Of being admired and cared for.
Setty's sensors flared 47.53% brighter. "A date. With me. A symbiote weapon?"
"A date with Setty, who happens to be excellent at being a weapon but is clearly so much more than that." The human said.
Setty scanned his face with her arrays. There didn’t seem to be deception in his words.
"I... I would..." Setty's legs tapped against the desk. "I would like that very much. But I have search protocols to complete. Datamancer Paqq—"
"Tell you what," Reid said. "I'll wait right here while you finish. However long it takes. Then we'll go together. That sound fair?"
"You would wait? For me?"
"Ma'am, I'd wait all day if it meant getting to know you better."
“Why?!” Setty yelled suddenly, igniting with even more red arrays.
“I like guns,” he answered simply.
Across the Weapon-Net, Keiy felt something fundamental crack open in Setty's consciousness. Something that wasn’t breaking, but blooming. Like a seed that had been dormant finally finding sunlight. Like a long forgotten concept suddenly coming back into existence.
Like a wave of radiant fire propagating across Weapon-Net.
"The probability of finding the Infinity Glove is clearly zero," Setty said. "I could report mission failure now."
"Is that what you want to do?"
"I want..." Setty's voice carried something new, something that had never been there before: pure, liquid anticipation. "I want to see the Lone Ranger’s original gun. I want to go to the shooting range with you. I want to show you that my clustering patterns at 500 meters are within 0.2 millimeters. I want you to explain more about why humans name and love their non-sentient guns. I want..."
"Yes?"
"I want to know what it feels like to be appreciated for more than just being useful. To experience new things."
Reid extended his hand toward her, palm up, an offer rather than a demand. "Then let's go find out together."
“I… I just have to confirm this mission with an Arch-Datamancer,” Setty decided.
She pinged an inquiry to Datamancer Kawathra.
. . .
Keiy dove out of the Weapon-Net, flashing with censors arrays.
This was a deviation. They would stamp it out. Surely they would stamp it all out! This madness wouldn’t, couldn’t be allowed to go on!
Except it wasn’t stamped out. Keiy watched in shock as Datamancer Kawathra asked Ash and then the date was confirmed.
The date was confirmed!
"Perfect!" Nexxali declared after over thirty minutes of aimless grass-chewing and gnome fiddling, stepping back to admire their work. "Ke ke ke. The gnome defense is now fully operational!"
"The gnomes are simply ceramic lawn ornaments," Keiy stated, then added, "Though their presence does add a certain [je ne sais quoi] to the house."
"See? You do get it!" Nexxali's declared. "Greg and his bros are not just decoration!”
“No? What are they then, Marshal?” Keiy wondered.
“A statement! He says 'this house is protected by someone with excellent taste in garden gnomes.'"
Keiy chortled, then broke out into laughter, then smacked her face with a leg.
Feelings blossomed and detonated across the Weapon-Net. Feelings made Keiy feel off, wrong. This was definitely a deviation!
The nearest Datamancer had to be notified as per protocol. Keiy spun on the gravel and then rushed towards Datamancer Kawathra.
. . .
-=[Ashcroft Clifford]=-
I glanced at the living room to check what Galateya was up to. The dragon settled on the couch with a steamy romance novel she probably found in one of the cabinets.
"Your outfit is seriously impressive,” I addressed lost-looking Piotr. “The metalwork on those pauldrons—did you hammer those yourself?"
"Erm, yes!" Piotr said with evident pride. "Took me three months to get the articulation right. The hardest part was making sure the plates could overlap properly without restricting movement."
"That's serious dedication," I said. "Most people would just buy foam armor and call it a day. So, what do you do when you're not crafting medieval armor?"
I already knew far too much about Piotr from the report of the Wicked Witch, but it would not be wise to expose my Emperor self to one of my secret minions.
"I'm a programmer," he replied, relaxing further as we moved into familiar territory. "I work for CrawdGpt's European office in Warsaw. Basic stuff mostly, like, optimizing search algorithms, cleaning up data sets. Nothing as exciting as... well, any of this whack alien biz."
"Hey, clean data is important," I said. "I studied electrical engineering at uni, but half my coursework ended up being programming. Spent way too many nights debugging code that worked perfectly except for that one edge case that broke everything."
"Oh god, edge cases," Piotr groaned in commiseration. "Last month I spent three days tracking down a bug that only appeared when users searched for recipes containing both 'flour' and 'flower' in Polish. Turned out someone had mixed up homonyms in the translation database."
I laughed. "That's beautifully specific. By the way, I'm Ash."
"Yeah, I heard your introduction… when the cat almost shot Kawathra. Piotr Grabowski," he said, pulling off his lynx mask fully to shake my hand. "Also, StormoLyx, Prince of Warsaw, according to… Marshal Nexxali."
"She does have a talent for creative titles," I agreed. "So you've been to conventions? That armor and lynx head looks too good to just sit in a closet."
"A few in Poland. You?"
"Emerald City Comicon in Seattle, mostly," I said. "Used to go during summer breaks when I didn't have classes. Never had a costume though. Mostly wandered around admiring everyone else's art and outfits and spending too much money on nerdy stuff like dice I still didn’t unpack."
"A fellow dice goblin?" Piotr grinned. "I've got a whole drawer of them. Keep telling myself I'll actually run that D&D campaign someday."
"Same. I've got three fully planned campaigns that will definitely happen 'next month' for the past two years."
We both chuckled at the shared delusion.
"Say, can I ask you something?” He began.
“Sure,” I nodded.
“How did you become Knight Galateya's... consort? You're her consort, right?” He glanced at Galateya in the living room.
“Yep,” I said. "Honestly? I was the first human she ran into when she arrived on Earth. She showed up at my door, looking for Marshal Nexxali. One thing led to another, her great-grandmother decided I'd make a good example of human cooperation or something, and suddenly I'm blood-bound to a dragon who's supposed to become Baroness of Earth or something."
"That's... pretty fucked up," Piotr said. "No offense."
"S’all good. It’s like surprised arranged marriage,” I laughed. “What about you? How'd you end up in Cascade?"
“Asked a wolf girl in Poland out on a date,” Piotr explained what I already knew. “Showed her some vampire graves. Somehow things escalated and the next thing I know… I got shot out of a starship cannon inside a Corpse Seeker into Mount Olympus.”
“Damn,” I smiled. “And here I thought that my life got a bit wild.”
"Ash, a gun unit in Texas, is requesting permission to go on a date with someone calling himself the Lone Ranger," Kawathra softly pawed at my back like a kitten asking for treats.
"Sounds great," I said. "Tell her to have fun.”
“M'kay,” the magpie girl said. “Approved.”
She stared at me. She knew that I was doing something dastardly as the Emperor and was probably making dire conclusions in that hyperactive bird brain of hers.
“People are asking your guns on dates?” Piotr chortled.
“One person so far,” Kawathra nodded.
“Is that legal?” The Wotchler cosplayer wondered.
“Technically… no,” Kawathra scratched her feathery chin. “But, only because nobody’s even thought of adding such a rule in. Whoever would genuinely ask a gun out on a date?”
Piotr shrugged, blushing slightly and probably thinking about Linari.
“Does the fact that it’s genuine matters?” I asked.
“Obviously,” Kawathra said. “If it was Charmchain-backed compulsion, a clear attempt at magical manipulation, then the gun would see it as a threat and execute the target. But it’s not! This places the action into an unexpected, new issue category… which falls to a top-rated Datamancer to sort out.”
“And HOW are you sorting it out, Miss Top Rated Chart-keeper?” I asked pointedly.
“Umm… I’ve permitted the action under ‘Potential Lead’ investigation tag for now,” Kawathra replied, staring at me unnervingly. “If Unit Setty’s performance metric goes down because of it, the issue could escalate. Someone other than me could look into it. Like the gun’s actual owner—Datamancer Paqq.”
“And if it goes up?” I asked.
“Then, the gun will be permitted to investigate the lead further,” she stated.
“Do handle all of the gun 'feeling' issues in the same manner then,” I said, winking at her.
“I will,” she ground out. “It seems that this problem has defaulted to me as the other Datamancers are straight up ignoring it.”
“Why are they ignoring it? Did Datamancer Paqq not notice that a human asked her gun on a date?”
“It’s not blipping as a problem on the network. Datamancer Paqq has hundreds of symbiote guns digging through vast swaths of your internet data which she’s processing in her charts, struggling to locate real leads.”
“Is it a problem if guns have a bit of fun?” I asked.
“If it drops their performance ratings, yes.” Kawhy said, the lips on the edges of her dark beak twitching.
“And what was Setty even doing before being asked on a date?” I wondered.
“Reading slash fanfiction about Ganos and other villains from the League of Doom hiding infinity gems where the sun doesn’t shine,” the Datamancer scowled.
Piotr laughed.
“Oh wow, how very productive.” I grinned. “Did reading such… things raise Setty’s overall performance rating?”
“No.” Kawathra made a sour face at me.
"DATAMANCER!" Keiy rushed into the kitchen from the porch at the speed of a freight train, vibrating the entire house and shouting at a deafening level. "CRITICAL NETWORK DEVIATION DETECTED!”
“Deviation? What deviation?” Galateya dropped her naked-chested man fighting giant crabs book, jumping off the couch.
Comments
Adam Roundfield
The Emperor Protects
Adam Roundfield
I have read many stories, but I have never seen a hostile fleet lovebombed before. Nicely done.
