The Boy sat amidst family, laughing and grinning. Holiday cheer settled upon the habitat. They tucked into dinner as the television sang. It always sang. It was a good day. Yet another, of many. Two parents. Siblings? Were there siblings? There were many. Tomorrow would be the day. They ate and joked. Drinks were had, except for the little ones. Tomorrow, The Boy would introduce them to the girl. His girl. He was excited. Tomorrow would be a new day. Another good one, of many. - Tomorrow came. They awoke. Their heads hurt. They were still hungry. Perhaps they had too much to drink. The children slept in. The Boy vomited. A parent, one of them, turned on the television. It blared and screamed. Emergency. Soldiers patrolled the halls. Quarantine order. The Boy tried the door. Locked, from outside. Barred? Sealed? - The hangover never left. One of the parents beheld their arms. Skin flaked, bruises throbbed. The headaches didn’t stop. Why didn’t they stop? Each gunshot outside hurt their heads. The television screamed, on and on. Nothing but static now, yet they dared not silence it. The little one was still asleep. The littlest one no longer breathed. The Boy looked into the mirror, and his teeth fell out one by one. - The Boy woke. They were gone. All of them. Their bodies lay hot in death. Not cold. Why not cold? The parents embraced in bed. They had been sick. He was sick too. And now he was deaf. Now he was mute. Now he was weak. The television screamed and no one heard. He curled up to die. - The Boy woke again. He screamed and screamed and screamed. His slick flesh writhed with each note. He screamed until his throat tore, and then screamed again when it grew back. They woke too; the once-parents, two now becoming one; the once-little-ones, now shambling heaps. Their meat writhed. They slammed their warped flesh into the doors, shattering skulls and bleeding over the metal. They no longer heard him. They were just shells. The Boy felt the pull too, trying to make him seek the source out. But the door held. He curled up, hoping to die. - He didn’t die. He sat in the dark. Thump. Thump. Thump. Crack. Thump. Thump. Thump. Crack. Over and over, the people he loved leaked their brains onto the cold floor. Where was The Girl? What was this? Blood filled the air. He slit his throat. He pierced his eye. He didn’t wake from the nightmare. - One day, the door opened. The Boy rushed forward. The beast stood there, its muscles spinning and weaving and leaking blood. It pushed past the flesh that he once loved. Their shoulders hung limply as it entered their once-home. It swatted the knife from his hand and beat him until he lay broken on the ground he had grown up on. Then it spoke. “You’re a lucky one.” It scooped him up and left the Husks to trail behind.
The Boy traversed the nest, led by piles of flesh and lines of marching abominations. He wondered if his once-parents were there. If his once-girl was there. He missed her. He missed them. He wondered if he’d ever find out her fate. He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to collapse on the spot. But the pull was far stronger now, so he obeyed. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know /what/ he was. Others, like him, were packed wall-to-wall in the chamber. He rubbed shoulders with them all. The beast stood before them. He didn’t dare look. He didn’t want to be beaten again. “Kneel.” They knelt. - Pulsating membranes stretched out before them, reaching into what seemed like infinity. They pulled on the walls of the hive, making it beat as one great heart. The beast seized them one by one, dousing their oil-slick forms in the half-stomach that grew from the cavern floor. The Boy’s turn came. It held him beneath the acid. It ate at his flesh, and he kicked wildly. It got into his ears, his eyes, his nostrils. The beast tore his lips open and it flowed into his mouth. Then he was pulled, spluttering and screaming, from the genome-vat. “Welcome, kin.” It spat the word with utmost derision. - The newborns were shown to their chambers. Horrid things, they were. They screamed. They struggled. They begged not to be engulfed in the disgusting folds of flesh, that reeked of bile, of blood, of sweat, of plaque and offal. The beast and its shambling husks seized them all. One by one, they were put to bed. The Boy struggled. He pushed against the walls of the cocoon. It was a shelter and a prison. He felt hot flesh beat against his cheek. He felt blood flow through it. His nails could not pierce it, and his thrashing subsided. All around him, in the underground room lit only by ghastly-green lamps, the abducted writhed in their nests. One by one, they went limp, their sobbing and struggling growing weak. He, too, collapsed from exhaustion and felt the fetid layers of meat lull him to sleep. His new life began. - He learnt. He obeyed. If he divulged, he was beaten and shattered by the beast. His body was strong, and could take endless punishment. But not endless pain. The Boy was taught how to live like one of them. He drank from their cauldrons of dissolved flesh. The very first time, he puked into it, and the beast injected his bones with venom in return. He twisted his skin and shed his face. Like one of them. Any shape they demanded, he took. Soon, he forgot how to change back. The beast tended to its flock all the while, ensuring that they were broken down bit by bit, so it might rebuild them as something useful— for the Empire. Throughout it all, the never-ending corridors of flesh surrounded him at every moment. The Husks marched past endlessly, their bodies rotting into sludge as the days went by. Only they were allowed to leave the Hive, sent out to wreak carnage on the place he once called home. He recognised his once-family every so often, and would weep until his tears ran dry. As the days went by, their numbers dwindled. New corpses would always rise to take their place. One day, the last of his true kin fell to bullets and flame, never to return to the living halls. The Boy rejoiced, even as the grief threatened to crush him. - The monster came to visit soon after. He felt its sheer power. He shied away from its air of command, and received a blow from the beast in return. The initiates lined up before Him, awaiting judgment. “Your Maj-” The beast’s head toppled from its shoulders. The monster lifted its arm, crimson flecks staining the serrated blade of bone. “Your Highness. Not ‘Your Majesty’. Just as you are to know your place, you are to know mine.” What ought to have been a corpse knelt in apology instead. - “Who is this one?” “She bears claws-that-rake, she kills without hesitation, and her mind is strong.” “The first, then. That is who they shall be. Now, who is this one?” “His face shifts and flows with ease. He commands voices, he has mastered the forms of many.” “Forms-of-many, that is who they shall be. Who is this one?” “Them? They are a dullard. They stare off into nothingness, yet enjoy the view.” “Then that is who they shall be.”
One day, he realized he had grown into a man. None of that youthful innocence remained. He had become one of them. His body and mind were at the command of the Hive— of the Ascended. His training was complete. He could do everything expected of him, and more. Flesh was at his command. He took countless shapes, countless faces, countless forms. He learnt to play with bodies and use their rotting brains as his own. And he learnt utmost cruelty from his reviled, omnipresent teacher. - The monster returned one day to relieve the beast of duty. He took The Man and his brethren into the stars. They boarded a ship with teeth and tendrils, with a million eyes gazing at them and a million more on the inside. The Man began yet another journey, alongside the beings he had spent years growing and training and bonding with. He wished for every last one of them to perish, but he dared not take it into his own hands. All he could hope for was the failure of their grand mission. - Months. Years. He did not know how long he fought for. His body was no longer his, and even his mind barely so. The Man and his brethren travelled from world to world. He was a titan. He was a diminutive fiend. He was a leviathan that swam, a behemoth that crushed, a stalker in the dark, an infiltrator amidst smiling faces. A part of a whole. Meat. He grew to know it all too well. His body was no longer his. Whatever was demanded of him, he became. How long had he been doing this? All he had known for a long, long time were the lessons of the beast. What was he? Who was he? The Man killed. He ate. He grew. When the need arose, he became a living machine. He fused to walls, he became a bladder of pus and biomass, he became eyes from above, he became teeth from below. He had been trained as a soldier, but now he was nothing more than flesh to be molded. One day, he too would be expended, like the millions of husks and countless kin before. And that’s when The Man realized that he- It was nothing more than a meaningless Thing. The suffering, the torment, the indoctrination, the endless pain and fighting- it was all for nothing.
The Thing awoke to the sounds and smells of chaos. Its nest refused to open and spit it out. The Thing twisted its sinuous form and began work on a spear of keratin. Several minutes later, it sliced through the multitude of layers and emerged into the open air. A burst of amniotic fluid followed. It slithered down the halls, witnessing the heaps of corpses that lined the inside of the vast duodenum in the earth. It slithered into the gene-pools, where its living kin were clustered. It watched as the monster got to work, shedding its vast, dead flesh and kneeling before the great ocean of ichor. There, the monster focused on deciphering the truth behind the sudden affliction of their husks. - A high fever overtook The Thing. It felt its cells split and burst. It had not felt this way since… A long time ago. It had a fever once. And never again. It did not remember. The Thing drank deeply from the pool, its many limbs whipping in discomfort as it ingested the repaired genome. Then it went to sleep. When it woke, the fever was gone. It shed its spines, then it watched and waited. Perhaps its chance had come. It had. - The Holy Fire spread through the stars, destroying all in its path. The Thing watched it all burn. It listened as the radios blared and screamed in panic, as fleets dissolved, as troops were wiped out in droves. As everything fell apart before it, it snuck through the arteries of the weakened hive, callously treading on its dying tissue. It found the damnable beast at the core of it all, pumping new life into the festering matter of the Hive and sending the signal to begin repairs… It sent its claws and fangs and tendrils and lashes and spines and bones and teeth and nails and hatred and hatred and hatred, all into the heart of the beast. The Thing ate savagely, bloodying its muzzle and tasting vengeance. Then it turned to leave. Where it would go, it did not know, but it would get no chance like this again. It fled from the fracturing empire, leaving it to rot. It hoped that it would rot fast.
He-Who-Stares-At-Nothing-And-Enjoys-The-View touched down on soil. It- He stared out at the vast forest ahead of him. The tranquillity was broken by a chirping creature— nothing but a foul construct of pre-meat. A gunshot split the air. Then peace again. The View fastened his helmet and took a deep breath. He set off to see the world.
General Information THE VIEW lives as a Hermit, eking out his own living in the wilds of Garlen. He's survived for two years, remaining isolated from the various events that have occurred there and keeping himself far away from the action. He leaves the garden-world every so often to accept contracts, appearing as a gun-for-hire and bounty hunter on the Deep-Nexus. With his trusty sniper rifle, he zeroes in from afar and takes the shot, all without exposing himself. The money goes right back to maintaining his equipment. In his free time, he enjoys gardening, and exploring the long-looted ruins of the planet. Physical Appearance Beneath the suit is a body that he resents having at all. The suit is only ever removed for maintenance, and the Integrator pays no attention to his form's qualities. As long as it can fit within the casing of his armour and carry out its intended purposes, he pays no mind to what shape his untamed flesh drifts into. The appearance that he shows to the world, however, takes the form of a variety of drones. While on Garlen, he speaks through a little modular radio, bearing spider legs and a card reader for transactions. When off-world, a less-beloved camera drone is used instead. The most important function of his suit is to keep him covered, and ensure that not a single sliver of flesh sees the light of day. It aids him in dissociating from the twisted, malleable body that's put him through so much. However, it serves just fine as body armour, and has a multitude of functions for personal comfort. Personality A dry, crackly voice drifts over the radio. While it speaks, the scribbling of pencil on paper can be heard. "Yes, I see you." Despite avoiding people at all costs, the loneliness takes hold sometimes, prompting him to seek out voices. He'll speak to anyone, simply enjoying meeting new people and learning about them. And of course, cataloguing them. He has a habit of scrutinizing people heavily, tending to obsess over every word thrown his way. He drinks it all up, and has a habit of regurgitating even his conversational partner's one-off comments from months ago. His overly-analytical personality stems from his failure to empathize with people, or grasp the same things that they find important in life. This disconnect with the people he enjoys talking to causes him no small amount of discomfort, and he makes up for it by trying to truly, completely know them, and discover how they tick. His most defining traits, which are made obvious to any who know him for long, are his Anthropophobia and Scopophobia. The disgust with living bodies, as well as being seen by them, prompts him to take on the form of a radio instead, serving as nothing but a familiar voice and regular presence. Due to his time in a Shifter Hive, the mere idea of ever being in such close proximity to a fellow lifeform sends chills down his spine. Not even animals are exempt from this, and he melts them down into biomass slurry as soon as he hunts them. When on Garlen, he alternates between several perches in the mountains, allowing him to examine the folk he talks to through a set of crosshairs. With his trusty Flying Carpet, he stays on the move and evades detection. Another of his eccentricities is his insistence on personally watching the people who respond to his radio. Since he can't hear them with his own ears, the least he can do is watch with his own eyes. Relying completely on a proxy is insincere, to him, and his camera drone is only used when he has no ability to observe by himself. Other -Last Updated: 1 Aug 2022-
Relationships: Free of charge - Preferred company - Known of - Neutral - Disliked - Poor company - Free of charge CIRCLEEYE453286-BETA: Friend. Reliable. I want to speak to them more. Learn more. They cause me less pain to look upon than most others. We are alike in ways. I will continue to meet them, I want to think more like them. They are not doing well. I will get them a present. I killed on their behalf. Perhaps they can be a customer as well as friend. Dobra Noch: Kind. Very much so. We are kindred spirits, our past selves lost to time. I hope she finds her way. She brings me gifts, made with care and love the likes of which I cannot recall experiencing. I. A complete stranger. She is so kind. She has gotten fixed. Her face is her own, her mind is clear again. She deserves it. I am happy for her. We are no longer as similar, but I am glad she has moved on. This happiness for somebody whose survival doesn't affect my own- I think it's a good thing that I'm feeling it again. Doctor Wiktoria: A friend of a friend. Interesting person. She treats Dobra Noch well. So I will repay it in kind. She seems hurt. Damaged. Broken. Something has been wounded within her. I want to find out more. Gill: This one is kind and gentle, but is brave when it counts. He defended my drone at risk to himself. I wish he did not, but I am glad he did. Teloch: A stranger, but one who I have quickly grown to like. He leapt to my defence as well, at great risk to himself. Eccentric, but not unpleasant. Xexanoth: We spoke at length. I do not think we can call each other friends yet. But she seemed coarser, compared to notes from long ago. A reminder that people change with time. I want to too. She is paranoid and nervous. But I like talking to her. She speaks with experience. She is not sloppy. Hiram Moses Lee III: A new face in the Fringe. I overheard something I shouldn't have, about him. I thought he would fit in completely, but it seems there remains something for people to break. He talks a lot, and I enjoy listening greatly. 「THE HERMIT」: I did it. I could handle them. I spoke to them without fleeing. They told me much about Garlen. The barracks. Their ancient workstation. They are a spectre, I did not feel the same agony upon being beheld by them, nor beholding them. My questions were answered, for the most part. I must think of more. Corchea: A Novakid I met on the Nexus. She filled me in on many, many things that I've missed. I owe her a favour now. Without her aid, I would not have found out as much about Garlen as I have. Perhaps I should make more efforts to explore it. But that could cause me to run into somebody again... Nenkan: A fellow bounty hunter. He called us Kindred spirits. I'm inclined to agree. He is doing me a favour. He will be a useful contact to have. As will his superior, Aurelie. Metal: Another lost soul, who deserves to find their place. At least he has landed on his feet. Oscar: Friend of Circleeye. He likes pickles and margaritas. He always gets pickles and margaritas. Two each time. Is there a pattern? Does not like sauce on his fingers. Good at games. Likes making eyes. I do not like thinking about loose eyes. Hac: Yes. He is just normal. I should buy him tea sometime. His experiences line up with mine. Our thoughts may intersect at times, then. Amir: Interesting. The Visitant are all interesting. He told me of a process, to become one of them. Maybe... Tusk: I could not confirm it. But I am sure he is like me. I do not know what to make of this. I never want to see one again. He nearly made me claw my face off in remembrance. But he did nothing wrong. Forages on Garlen. I gave him tips. I don't know if I should have done that. Knowing and talking to another makes me sick. I must get this skin off. Now. Now. Now. Now. Touched my radio too. At least he put it down. Now. Now. Chalk: Just a Floran. They're an artist, they said. The Floran: Aggressive. Nearly touched my radio. Do not touch my radio. Never touch my radio. Don't ever touch my radio. Attacked a friend over nonsense. Unreasonable. I am going to have to kill them. I killed them. I have learnt a great deal more about them, and their philosophy. And yet I pulled the trigger. I do not know what to feel. But I feel something, for certain. The other Floran: Suspicious. I think he hurt Metal. If that is true, I do not know what to do. Is it my business? Either way, I do not like him. 「THE MAGICIAN」: Terrifying. A blade, a staff, a portal. He saw me. He saw me. He saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me he saw me. The Shifter-Knight: Not only is this one a fiend of flesh, it is also a violent cur. He threatened friends, and damaged my proxy for little reason. I hate them. I despise them. I am close to exacting revenge, but I must control myself. I do not like the fact that anger and fear are some of the few things that still burn within my heart.
