44. Burning Memory under the Blood Ocean

"So you're the prize of Blackwater? What a joke," Harborym expressed distaste for the soldier beneath his heel. Waves crashed on the cold beach. Winds dared not interrupt a word of the cowboy and flowed gently along the coconut trees with black leaves. Salt stuck to Harborym's coat with seawater splashing in the scuffle of the futile Bass, "Tactics? Dirty fighting? Are you really that afraid of me? Lichlord?" the unit laughed with the tales of immolation aloft their breath. He looked hard and far in every direction hoping nobody would follow his trail.

In the sand behind him was a trail of glass stretching to the other end of the island where Sleeping Willow sat. They were closer to the theme park on the second island of these retched lands. Here was only a lot of land desired and shaped for tourists who desired the tropics. Soft light pink sands and foamy layers of cold ocean water heated by blistering suns. Crabs and eels dug their boroughs under the sea in hiding once more shells graced the shore. Behind the pair was a ridge of brown rocks held in place by the jungle which accompanied the size. Only describable as a layer of green over murky black. "Hmm…"

Wild creatures called these stretches home. Claws and teeth were what you needed to be an apex. Thorns and disguises were needed for the bottom feeders to escape the apex. A dead man was treasure to scavenger and feeble plants alike. Ideas flooded Harborym's mind as he plunged Bass' head under the water.

Beaten to a pulp with holes in his suit and pride as a man. Blood decorated the oceans to draw in bait who fled from the north. Red skin among pale dots was punctured with the sediments of bone puncturing the surface. A hot hand lowered itself unto his scalp and pulled. Bass' entire body weight was dragged by the force grabbing his hair. The trail of glass became a dragged line as Harborym carried the soon-to-be body into the woods. "I gave you a gift, boy. But you had to go and look it in the mouth."

A tangent sat on the tip of the robot's tongue with each violent pluck of hair, "I'm being nice to you people and you return the feeling with a knife, that's what you get for trusting humankind," Harborym spat molten iron; Bass' eyes were too weak to focus on the orange. The cowboy wiped his orange tongue off with his gloves. "Tell me something, Lichlord."

"Why is your species filled with only hypocrites?"

"Millenium have gone by and they've exploited the minds of AI and men alike for their delusions. Castles of stone and steel built on a foundation of scrapped iron….is that the world you're proud of?" his victim couldn't even hear anything with ears full of blood and water, "We are sold and traded by giant moguls on the daily, but when it was done to men by dwarves it was immoral? How is that different?" he spat words of animosity towards the human. Emotion got ahold of the cowboy causing his heel to fall on Bass' wrist. Not even a yelp followed by the snap. Years upon years units suffered at the hands of discrimination to lords with their same steel skin- but they cared not for faux lives. No….to men like Harborym the Astarama only battled for their greed and lust and humanity's light. "Why do I have less value than you for being born differently?"

Bass' body collided with the ridges, damaged more by brunt force embedding rock into their suit, "Hmm? Are you paying attention? Maybe I was too rough…" Harborym inspected his surroundings. "You can exploit my people for the most brutal of wars. Then why is it a sin when I try to allow humans the same strength that I own?"

"So they can fight and work for themselves- but you rather they stay a lazy, reactive lot don't you? So their machine caretakers do perform all the duties."

Thick shrubs and a litter of dark leaves parted way as mud smeared the body. Black scurried along invisible trails and pulled on the hanging vines of the low hanging trees of the lowest floor of this forest; a few mega trees stood twice as tall as the rest. Nests of straw and strings sat aloft with eggs from inhabitants without a care in the world. If one were to stand at such a height and looked South, where both came from, you'd see almost all the land had to offer. Every building of stocky steampunk going unto the land of modern men, the land of ice betwixt that and the hub of Blackworks valley's ridge and fields of sand between the v-shaped gap in mountains.

Steam, coal, and slavery polluted as far as Harborym knew. Then among it all was his theme park….where boys and girls came for the fun to last a lifetime. Harborym wasn't built with pain detectors as many others in his ranks, this cold night was a foreign concept. Heat within his bowls was foreign to him. They took an unneeded breath and drew the pistol right off their waist. A bullet slid down his wrists from their steaming sleeves and into their awaiting weapon. He spun the weapon and licked the end. "May God have mercy on your soul, and I'm not referring to those frauds Vulcan made."

Where silence meant survival, birds who defended their nests and snakes who hid from cats fled with instincts having them claw up trees. Under snakes who nested under the roots and disguise themselves as branches. There was a bang followed by a void. Only Harborym left those woods wiping his hands of dirt and grinding the ends of his shoes against the rocks. His eyes fell on the glass walkway made beforehand as collateral; covered in blood and smashed to sediments in some sections. It crunched the loudest under his heels. Many things did.

Crabs and shellfish tried to escape the same faith. Some did and some didn't. He who was preoccupied with their neuragear. Haborym rested a finger against their hypothetical ear, "This is Salamander reporting. I disposed one of the Blackwater thugs and left their bodies northwest of the coast near Sleepin'. Double productivity in our laboratory and triple the secret sentries around the park," conviction. Ambition. Courage. These were the things the contractor reflected. In a few words, some could call him 'above other contractors' but not titled an admin.

The red hot solider born from a volcano's anger solidified in a faux body, blessed by their lord. A figurehead among men allowed into the private conversions of the admins and their god who has no hesitation over loose lips. Before dragons had wings they were but puny snakes, when they grew legs they became titans of the end. And when they followed after birds to extend their rule the ones who were left continued to sit in the flames. Attuned to it, molded by greed until they were no longer of this world. Salamanders. "And get me a line with those three in Gottenfall and ask what happened to 'laying low' as Andro kindly put it."

Glass cracked and the system crumbled. Each step reflected the moon and stars with that smile made by a crescent hanging from the heavenly ceiling. A half-open eye enjoyed the next phase ordered. A ballad to rock the world and set the stage was now in motion.

Though the moon looked down upon one, its glare indiscriminate in nature when thought of as a whole. It looked at many at once, Gottenfall was no exception. That sultry look fell silver and gray streams upon the smallest of Mandaly's rural districts. The south. Horns blared in the distance marking few ships who were brave enough to cut through bodies of chum; the dream for bacteria to fester. Most incoming ships from Himmelboren received accessories from the Obscura group to aid in the cleansing of bacteria. "So what you're telling me is they strapped flamethrowers to the front to burn off all the possible pathogens?"

Lena was left in her home to entertain her rogue employer also present. Wilson had left hours ago for his monthly check-up on the oysters. A dim bulb flickered in their kitchen, in rhythm with the flicker of the stove crackling with a bot of boiling water of it. Lena stuck her head into the fridge, in a hunt of whatever snacks remained. Dressed down to a tank top and shorts from the heated night, "Is that even effective ?" she questioned Dynamo who reclined against a kitchen chair.

Both of his legs were detached next to the chair as he dug into them with the sharp end of a screwdriver. Pliers, wrenches, and other tools were scattered next to his toolbox on the table, "Good question," he didn't personally know. There were far too many variables, "Dragon fire could be an exception cause of its heat and acidic properties...at the same time I can't tell if resistances were put in place."

With adhesive bolts, he stuck shaped billets of steel around his knee's core. An added flair for sure, but it no longer grated against the surface with such a smooth finish, "Honestly, I don't know a lot about this world- it's a culture shock waking up a thousand years after finding a few of the faces you know are now in history books."

Yet again Lena was reminded of her insignificant age to someone like him, the knights and gods themselves. With milk in hand, she peeked into the soldering of metal and the cutting of new blades for his heels. Dynamo had on one of the white dress shirts Lucki bought him. His hair combed back for the first time. Their jaw was also protruding with a razor-like sharpness. But that skin wasn't real. Nor the hair or eyes, "It really makes you think, huh?"

"Look at all these units for a moment, Lena," Dynamo was soft-spoken, gentle like his fingers working around the metal. A gentle spark, "If Vulcan knew the world was going to be like this, I doubt he would have tried to perfect AI in the first place."

He was enthralled in his work, the prints of his legs were copied in the back of his mind, "He set the stage for warmachines as we know it- he made them fear....though when he realized that he was ashamed, embarrassed and loathed the idea," his hand-stretched for another piece of kosmik.

With micro bolts securing his new bladed heels all that was left was the hydraulics and satellite systems.

"Hmm?" Lena spun her glass around, sulking with a finger on some of his bolts, "Well you do seem to know him a lot...what was he like? This elusive maker of yours?" she was exhausted after today of all days, any topic at all to change the subject was a welcomed one. "You two don't seem like the best of friends."

Dynamo dropped his gear. His leg toppled to the side and a white eye looked back at her. Force of habit made him scratch behind his head, "We were, then weren't. Simple," he elaborated, "He didn't see his shortcomings, always thinking on what to do and not if- The mark of a fool with something to prove."

Insult after insult left his mouth for his main creator in particular. The greatest undisputably was nothing more than a fool to the average AI. "If we must talk about him, I'd much rather talk about his domain as a whole- what I truly respect of him."

"His household was an old one, relative in terms of Destrias and Dysons obviously but checkered nonetheless...the knights and their platoons were already well known by then. They were smart enough to know they didn't have time to create completely new machines so re-used some features in the original conception of the deities…." Dynamo's eyes reverted to a normal hue, but his mouth remained slung all the while never moving as words escaped. He creaked both shoulders and stretched their arms before socketing his legs into the black ports where his thighs would be. Airtight seals hissed with pressure sealing the gap. Mechanical locks solidified their bonds and magnetic fields within added to the union.

With the second leg slightly out of reach, Lena needed to hoist it up for him, "Yeah but….why are you telling me this?-" she took deep breaths lifting the object to a standing position. Not the worst in the world, however, her muscles twitched at a memory of her past days. "Don't they have a listening comms in you or something? Aren't you worried that GNS is reading my gear?"

Discussions of the Vulcan to such degree could be penalized if one of the seven lords decided this. Was it a petty vengeance against vulgarity to their maker? It held no merit on the rogue unit's brain. Dynamo hopped past her, resting cold fingers on her shoulder as he reached into their fridge. Eyes on the drawers with oysters on ice waiting to be shucked along a plethora of other scary seafood, "Girl, I'm friends with some of the most powerful people in this country- Tome a senior agent is staying a few miles north of here. If he wanted me arrested he would have done it a decade before," a midnight feast was readied for the unit on a wooden plank.

A plethora of smoked fish, oysters still in their shells and lime was pulled out of the fridge and sent one after the next into Dynamo's artificial gullet; smoke escaped with an aroma of death, "To spite what you just told me about the government spying on people, I'm about to tell a story that would definitely get someone arrested so listen up."

He cleared his throat. Lena sat upon the opposite end of the chair, "Let me tell you about the man people still worship because of those big iron lugs. A soldier, a mechanic, a living tragedy."

"Astarama Ek. Slave King of snow. This isn't about just Vulcan, this is his life. Born into a trove of knowledge he was expected to climb higher than his father, as per customs. Though he lived in the time where dwarves ran rampant- the threat of war, terrorism, and expectations to be perfect isn't a good mix for your health."

"But he was a man. He powered on and took it on the chin as you should- They were friends with a lot of people too, studying across the continent lead him to meet a lot of people including the Red Knights and their counterparts. But it was during the terrorist attacks where he was forced to flee home he had the idea. The knights worked hard, but around the world, they weren't enough…..that's where the Astarama came in."

"Day after day, year after year he worked just to create a fitting form of artificial intelligence to match the greatness of what he wished to achieve. Of course, for one success he failed a hundred other times...and that one didn't come for years. Everybody started to lose faith in him, telling him to hop on another project. He was too stubborn too. But there were few who stuck with him, never allowing him to give up his goals yet. Yes...those four people, if he lived he'd give them the utmost praise. So would you, if not for them the Astarama would never be created."

"But….the giant Rote was designed with good intentions….but nobody saw that. They berated him. The public chased him from his home and the weapon of destruction they viewed. Bullets and bombs thrown at his head due to panic…." his mind trailed away. Eyes stuck on the ceiling with a chair leaned against the kitchen counter with one leg keeping support on the ground. His brain twitched with a surge moving into his mind. Arms vibrated from a sensation lost since then..."Slave to the system. Slave to the fox. Slave to her people. Slave to the rot."

Lena looked to the side, "Ummm, are you short-circuiting?" no words could be filtered out of her mind after what he said. How could they? Her friend continually boasted and held an ego now sat in silence. A continuous image fettered to life.

"No….only remembering what he told me," he admitted, "What Vulcan told me years ago….before he perished. His tomb is one filled with regret...I know this.