Erkor
Active member
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2022
- Messages
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- Thread Author
- #1
It is the 22nd century, or more accurately, the 122nd century.
Long gone are the days of the “free man”, the rogue variable, who was stalled indefinitely through a better offer.
Transhumanity has become a reality.
Humanity has become a memory.
Taphyder had spent some time marveling at the intricate storms of Jupiter in the viewing bridge. Indeed, when he wasn’t subjugating himself to flash-training simulations, he’d spend most of his time here instead.
Today was a special day, however, for a different reason: Gathered within this viewing hall – which doubled as a lounge – were many transhuman scientists, researchers, and other personnel. Many of them mingled among one another, quenching hunger-thirst with synth-alk concoctions – synthesized, alkaline drinks – or other chirally-inverted snacks.
He, on the other hand, eschewed the mingling. In his hand he held a crystal-glass filled with a synth-alk branded ‘Joe Cricket’s’. He raised it to his lips, taking an absent-minded drink from it, and felt the faint, energetic sizzling play on his tongue. Then, he heard his name be called.
“Taphyder,” the voice called out, “un-glue yourself from that window and come over here!” The one who spoke was Daphtha, an old, long-lived transhuman and chief of security on the station they were on. He joined the chief and their allies after a moment’s thought. As he arrived, the large hominid wrapped their arm around his shoulder. They had done the same to another soldier; a sign of fraternity among each other.
Indeed, many of the people under Daphtha’s command had been in service of the Combine for many, many years and decades. Daphtha themselves carried scars of every conflict, each in a certain manner. Faint muscle twitches and a slight lameness across the left arm were among the most noticeable signs – and probably the only reason why they now served a position like this, rather than being in the field themselves. The others were not dissimilar: The other one under their arm was Aaran, a decorated veteran of the Transhuman Arm, who could trace his life back to Ćexiv and its earliest days under the Combine’s reach. In spite of that, he wasn’t all there. His brows slacked low and his blue eyes were as dull as his personality. He had undergone so many memory replacements that the only thing left was the training – but he didn’t suffer because of it, apparently.
Daphtha had taken a liking to their similarly-ancient compatriots, but Taphyder was different: He was new, grown from synthesized cells and implanted with the mind of a hundred year-old artifact known as Jahanara. Of course, that name meant nothing to him now; all he knew was the name of his mind-donor.
“On account of the festivities,” Daphtha began, “I’m going to eschew a formal briefing, is that understood? I want you all geared, prepared, and ready for transport in, say… Ten hours.”
A couple of the old ones looked between one-another, but none of them seemed to have the will or want to question what was going on. Taphyder, however, did.
“Where are we headed?” Taphyder looked up to the hulking figure that was his chief, who stood at about two meters – compared to the average transhuman, who stood at about a meter eighty-five.
Daphtha turned their head down to look at him in kind, and shot him a grin. “I’m glad you asked. We’re going to Ćexiv.” The proclamation gave some of the people in the squad pause. “That’s right,” Daphtha reassured, “we’re going back to mother Earth. Just for this assignment, though. Apparently the ‘Bureau of Metaphysics’ has need for some special reinforcements, and all the goons that work the cities down there are a bit too thick-headed for the job.”
However vague his commander was, Taphyder already had some impressions. The squad he fought with was specialized in what the Combine would qualify ‘anomalous activities’: Xeno-biological infestations, extra-terrestrial incursions, and everything in-between. Compared to the rest of the squad, however, he was green, and never truly experienced the vast majority of truly alien encounters. He was slapped out of his daydreaming with a rough pat on his back. It was Daphtha, whose proclamation quickly too the forefront of his mind:
“I’ll be waiting on you in ten hours, sharp! Don’t keep me waiting too long.” As they unfurled their arms, they took some steps back and left. On the way, they snatched a bottle of synth-alk from the viewing bridge’s counter.
Taphyder looked between the other soldiers for a moment. All of them wore the same kind of jumpsuit, padded and colored in a multi-tone manner to denote their station as soldiers and xeno-biological specialists. It was their faces where they truly looked unique, however: Aaran’s skin was a creamy white, his eyes a dull blue and his head wholly hairless. The other one beside him was Dvora, who looked different. She had reed-green hair, grown down to her chin, and worn here in an unbound manner. Her eyes were cream-colored, and her complexion gray white. Many of the transhumans had similar skin tones – a side-effect from the way their pigmentation interacts. Taphyder was no different, although he had hair unlike Aaran. His was short and pale brown all over, and his eyes were an ivory hue on a darker sclera. On his, and every other assembled soldier’s, brow was a tattooed marking; a number stamped in red. This was their service number, along with a series of sigils indicating their station. Indeed, most transhumans served indefinitely on the same field, but transfers weren’t uncommon: altering the markings was not a difficult or costly task with the right equipment.
Aaran looked back at him, unversed in any form of courtesy. He offered only a grunt-like nod before he turned and lumbered away. In spite of having held a drink this entire time, the glass was full: He never took a sip from it. In fact, as he passed the counter by the doorway, he put it down.
Dvora followed Aaran’s movements just like Taphyder did, and as he went out of earshot, she looked back at him. “I’ll take some refreshers before we deploy,” she mused, before she dispersed as well. The few others that were crowding Daphtha and the rest of the soldiers had already dispersed to other crowds, while Taphyder returned to the window to look upon Jupiter once again.
Today was a special day, however, for a different reason: Gathered within this viewing hall – which doubled as a lounge – were many transhuman scientists, researchers, and other personnel. Many of them mingled among one another, quenching hunger-thirst with synth-alk concoctions – synthesized, alkaline drinks – or other chirally-inverted snacks.
He, on the other hand, eschewed the mingling. In his hand he held a crystal-glass filled with a synth-alk branded ‘Joe Cricket’s’. He raised it to his lips, taking an absent-minded drink from it, and felt the faint, energetic sizzling play on his tongue. Then, he heard his name be called.
“Taphyder,” the voice called out, “un-glue yourself from that window and come over here!” The one who spoke was Daphtha, an old, long-lived transhuman and chief of security on the station they were on. He joined the chief and their allies after a moment’s thought. As he arrived, the large hominid wrapped their arm around his shoulder. They had done the same to another soldier; a sign of fraternity among each other.
Indeed, many of the people under Daphtha’s command had been in service of the Combine for many, many years and decades. Daphtha themselves carried scars of every conflict, each in a certain manner. Faint muscle twitches and a slight lameness across the left arm were among the most noticeable signs – and probably the only reason why they now served a position like this, rather than being in the field themselves. The others were not dissimilar: The other one under their arm was Aaran, a decorated veteran of the Transhuman Arm, who could trace his life back to Ćexiv and its earliest days under the Combine’s reach. In spite of that, he wasn’t all there. His brows slacked low and his blue eyes were as dull as his personality. He had undergone so many memory replacements that the only thing left was the training – but he didn’t suffer because of it, apparently.
Daphtha had taken a liking to their similarly-ancient compatriots, but Taphyder was different: He was new, grown from synthesized cells and implanted with the mind of a hundred year-old artifact known as Jahanara. Of course, that name meant nothing to him now; all he knew was the name of his mind-donor.
“On account of the festivities,” Daphtha began, “I’m going to eschew a formal briefing, is that understood? I want you all geared, prepared, and ready for transport in, say… Ten hours.”
A couple of the old ones looked between one-another, but none of them seemed to have the will or want to question what was going on. Taphyder, however, did.
“Where are we headed?” Taphyder looked up to the hulking figure that was his chief, who stood at about two meters – compared to the average transhuman, who stood at about a meter eighty-five.
Daphtha turned their head down to look at him in kind, and shot him a grin. “I’m glad you asked. We’re going to Ćexiv.” The proclamation gave some of the people in the squad pause. “That’s right,” Daphtha reassured, “we’re going back to mother Earth. Just for this assignment, though. Apparently the ‘Bureau of Metaphysics’ has need for some special reinforcements, and all the goons that work the cities down there are a bit too thick-headed for the job.”
However vague his commander was, Taphyder already had some impressions. The squad he fought with was specialized in what the Combine would qualify ‘anomalous activities’: Xeno-biological infestations, extra-terrestrial incursions, and everything in-between. Compared to the rest of the squad, however, he was green, and never truly experienced the vast majority of truly alien encounters. He was slapped out of his daydreaming with a rough pat on his back. It was Daphtha, whose proclamation quickly too the forefront of his mind:
“I’ll be waiting on you in ten hours, sharp! Don’t keep me waiting too long.” As they unfurled their arms, they took some steps back and left. On the way, they snatched a bottle of synth-alk from the viewing bridge’s counter.
Taphyder looked between the other soldiers for a moment. All of them wore the same kind of jumpsuit, padded and colored in a multi-tone manner to denote their station as soldiers and xeno-biological specialists. It was their faces where they truly looked unique, however: Aaran’s skin was a creamy white, his eyes a dull blue and his head wholly hairless. The other one beside him was Dvora, who looked different. She had reed-green hair, grown down to her chin, and worn here in an unbound manner. Her eyes were cream-colored, and her complexion gray white. Many of the transhumans had similar skin tones – a side-effect from the way their pigmentation interacts. Taphyder was no different, although he had hair unlike Aaran. His was short and pale brown all over, and his eyes were an ivory hue on a darker sclera. On his, and every other assembled soldier’s, brow was a tattooed marking; a number stamped in red. This was their service number, along with a series of sigils indicating their station. Indeed, most transhumans served indefinitely on the same field, but transfers weren’t uncommon: altering the markings was not a difficult or costly task with the right equipment.
Aaran looked back at him, unversed in any form of courtesy. He offered only a grunt-like nod before he turned and lumbered away. In spite of having held a drink this entire time, the glass was full: He never took a sip from it. In fact, as he passed the counter by the doorway, he put it down.
Dvora followed Aaran’s movements just like Taphyder did, and as he went out of earshot, she looked back at him. “I’ll take some refreshers before we deploy,” she mused, before she dispersed as well. The few others that were crowding Daphtha and the rest of the soldiers had already dispersed to other crowds, while Taphyder returned to the window to look upon Jupiter once again.