Chapter 3: A Friendly New World
Compared to the hellish nightmare of the Warhammer universe Joric had just escaped—a galaxy teeming with the Ruinous Powers of the Warp that yearned to devour souls, with Greenskin Orks whose only desire was endless war, with the soulless, implacable Necrons who sought to extinguish all life, and with the oppressive, fanatical darkness of the Imperium of Man itself, which regarded unsanctioned technology as the foulest heresy…
This cyberpunk world, for all its glaring faults, was practically a paradise.
At the very least, humanity was still the dominant species here (even if they were more chrome than flesh). At the very least, there were no constant, insidious whispers from the Warp seeking to corrupt his mind. At the very least, the tech-tree was broadly understandable, and he could innovate without being branded a heretek and burned at the stake.
And most importantly, this world had fizzy drinks. It had an Internet (however shattered). It had a relatively "normal" urban and social structure (however rotten to the core).
"Servo-skull, re-evaluate the environment," he said, his voice now filled with a renewed sense of cheer and lightness.
++Re-evaluation Commenced: Based on current observable data. Environmental Parameters: Stable, but exhibits radiological contamination and extreme weather patterns. Indigenous Life: Moderate-threat mutant species present; behavioral patterns are predictable.++
++Technological Traces: Confirmed post-information-age civilization with mass cybernetic integration. Remote communication attempts and power signatures detected, but network architecture is highly fragmented. No signs of Warp contamination, Orkoid spore clouds, Tyranid hive-fleet signals, or large-scale armed conflict detected.++
++Composite Judgment: Current sector is environmentally hostile but is not an active warzone. Probability of survival is significantly elevated when compared to the majority of extreme-environment templates in the database.++
"Exactly," Joric patted the servo-skull's metallic cranium, the gesture almost jaunty. "Energy levels are low, but this isn't a frontline battlefield. The network is in pieces, but nodes can be found. There are mutants, but they're a million times easier to deal with than a Genestealer Patriarch."
A trace of loss remained—after all, he couldn't return to his true home. But it was overshadowed by a profound sense of relief and… a burgeoning sense of purpose.
"Alright," he said to himself, his optical sensors beginning to scan the repair shop for anything salvageable. "First step: find a reliable power source. Then, refit this hovel. I need a proper laboratory."
This world was a mess, but for him, it might just be a place where he could start over. A place where he could even… thrive.
His feet—or rather, his precision multi-terrain adaptive pedes—made almost no sound on the weathered concrete floor. Only the faint crunch of grit under his weight broke the silence. Joric moved through the streets of the abandoned town like a crimson specter from another time.
The servo-skull hovered over his shoulder, its hollow eye sockets emitting a faint scanning beam, superimposing a translucent schematic of the town's structures and real-time thermal signatures over his vision. The air was thick with the smell of dust, ozone, and the indescribable, metallic tang of slow decay. The radiation index remained high, but for his augmented respiratory filters and internal circulatory systems, it was just another environmental parameter to be logged.
An absolute silence blanketed the place, broken only by the wind—the eternal master of this land—as it whistled a mournful, lonely dirge through shattered doorways and empty window frames.
Guided by the servo-skull's map of low-intensity bio-signals, he first approached a half-collapsed, canopy-style garage. As he neared the twisted wreckage of the roll-up door, a hoarse, threatening hiss emanated from the shadows within.
A moment later, several hideous creatures lunged out. Their hides were covered in thick, tumorous keratinous growths, their eyes had degenerated into clouded white membranes, and their bared fangs glinted with an unhealthy yellow light. They were clearly the product of severe radiation mutation.
"Inefficient evolution. A grotesque form, twisted purely for the sake of survival," Joric commented dispassionately, his tone carrying the unique, analytical disdain of a Tech-Priest for a lesser creation. The thought of expending energy on his weapon systems didn't even cross his mind.
With a mere flicker of his will, two slender yet incredibly strong mechadendrites, tipped with precision tools, shot out from under his robes like coiled vipers.
Swish! Swish!
With two soft impacts, the sharp probes at the ends of the tendrils had flawlessly pierced the craniums of the two lead mutants. Another, attempting a flanking attack on his legs, was met with a casual but precise stomp from his ceramite-plated foot. An unpleasant crunch of breaking bone followed.
The last one was more cunning, trying to use a pile of debris for cover to circle behind him, but its every move was already being tracked by the servo-skull's omnidirectional sensors. The skull's jaw clicked open and discharged a low-power, directed electro-pulse. It wasn't meant to be lethal, but to strike the ground just in front of the creature's snout, kicking up a small shower of sparks and the smell of ozone.
In the instant the mutant recoiled in shock, another waiting mechadendrite shot forward like a spear, ending its miserable existence.
"Threat neutralized. Biological tissue exhibits minor corrosive and radioactive properties. Recommend isolation protocols for subsequent handling," he assessed calmly. He manipulated the mechadendrites, flicking the viscous gore from their tips as if he were merely completing a routine instrument sterilization.
With the vermin cleared, he could properly inspect the garage. The space was compact, perhaps forty square meters, but its main structure was surprisingly sound and not completely buried in sand. A heavy metal workbench, though rusted, was still stable. A corner was piled with corroded tools and several unidentifiable metal crates. There was even an old vehicle lift with a completely failed hydraulic system.
"Compact space, structural integrity assessed as good, basic tools are serviceable… Excellent. With some minor reorganization, this will serve as a suitable temporary workshop and sanctum." He marked the location as a primary resource point with satisfaction.
Continuing his exploration toward the town center, he encountered a second "resident" inside a shop with a shattered facade and a long-fallen sign.
It was a disc-shaped, old-model cleaning drone. Its once-smooth white casing was now covered in dents, scratches, and patches of brownish-red rust. Its optical sensor was a cloudy lens that flickered with an unstable red light. It mindlessly repeated a broken electronic phrase, "CLEAN-ING—MODE—EN-GAGED—...ER-ROR—," while spinning its top-mounted brush like a decapitated chicken and charging straight at Joric.
Its base logic circuits were clearly damaged, causing it to identify any moving object as an obstacle to be "cleaned."
"Oh? Still executing its primary directive after all these years? Such devotion is… touching, in a way, even if its machine spirit has become utterly deranged," Joric noted, easily sidestepping the clumsy charge. For such a low-tech automaton, physical destruction was the least elegant solution.
A data-probe extended silently from his wrist, lancing out to connect with a maintenance port exposed by the damaged chassis.
"Forcibly overwriting core command. Executing: Rite of Deep Hibernation. May your circuits find peace."
The robot's frantic movements froze instantly. The red optical sensor flickered a few times before going dark. The grinding motor fell silent, and it became a truly quiet pile of scrap metal.
"Servo-units, sensors, and parts of the alloy frame may be salvageable," he noted, ever the pragmatist.