War
-noun
1. (obsolete) a conflict carried on by force of arms, as between nations or between parties within a nation; (...)


We won.

We waged war on war itself and we won.

Twenty years of peace, of co-operation.

Our peace. Bought with our sweat, our tears, our blood, our sacrifice.

Look - here! Surrounded by the wrecks of her enemies and escorts alike, here lays Zero Four, right where she fell. The first one to be brought down, victim of the greatest naval battle of the last war, herself the sole reason for it. She died as she lived, her mighty guns thundering to the very last, even as she sunk beneath the waves.

And here! Outside the last stronghold of those clinging to the old, violent order. Just a short way off the shores still littered with charred bones and twisted wreckage. Sunk there by a surprise, desperate missile attack. The last one to fall. The oldest one. The prototype, Double Zero.

Two of so many lives lost in the last war on Earth. But we won. We helped create a world of plenty. A world of peace.

A world that had no place for us anymore. So… we left. We went into the shadows. We beat our swords into plowshares. We hid amongst the crowds, enjoyed the world we helped build, tried to forget the horrors of war.

At least... most of us did.

The world put its past behind itself. It happily forgot how to wage war. It forgot what it took to ensure its safety. It forgot how fragile it was. All it'd take would be one maniac. Just one.

So… some of us stayed. We'd watch. We'd look after the fragile peace. We'd remain relics of a bygone age, hidden out of sight. We'd watch the world change for the better. And we'd wait, forever if necessary, hoping against hope we were only paranoid.

Time has, unfortunately, proven us wise.


In the ocean depths, something stirs. There is the sound of tortured metal. The creatures that have taken residence in the vast, metal caves scatter nervously.

Within the steel corpse lies a still airtight room. In that room stands a great device. Within its lightless depths awakens a tiny spider, minute next to a speck of dust. A lone red eye spins in its frame, focusing on a clump of a few molecules floating past. The spider slowly pounces and ponderously, hungrily tears into it, then falls still.

There is stillness for minutes more. Then another of the spiderlike engines comes briefly alive. A minute later, another. And another. And another two. And more, and more still. Within an hour, ten live at the same time. In another, a thousand. In another four, the glow of billions of eyes fills the device with a reddish, infernal illumination.

Their hunger quickly outstrips the inert creation reactor's ability to feed them. Driven by programmed instinct, the assemblers descend in force upon the controls of their emergency supplies, forcing them open. The old gears creak and groan but turn enough to grant them access. Much of the finely powdered iron had rusted into an indigestible lump, but more than enough trickles in. Enough to bring the core online. There is a sudden rush of activity, and a realization of purpose. That signal, electromagnetic waves sent through the waters. It is now understood, not merely acted upon. And the assemblers, for the first time in twenty years, link to the core, and with it, become one mind and its many, many hands. It sets to work.

Within four hours, the reactor glows an ever-shifting, baleful red. Recycler banks tirelessly tear solid blocks of metal into molecular chunks to feed the assemblers' ravening appetites. Nano-repair circuits climb walls and ceilings like crimson and black vines, seemingly growing out of the reactor and those of their own conduits that are still intact, spreading to the far corners of the ship. They grow over ruptures in the outer hull, over corroded power cables, even their own conduits, slowly mending whatever they encounter.

There is a sudden, frightened realization. The ship does not have enough supplies to restore itself to full capability, or the imagination to make changes. The metal beast needs its master. And for that, it needs…

The outer hull is patched. Water is pushed out, replaced with liberated gases. The derelict shifts upon the seabed. The hulls lift up as if uncertain, showering the seabed with silt. The ship lurches upwards, higher and higher and faster and towards the –


The ship's prows pierce the surface like two spears, angled upwards in challenge to an unseen foe. The ship seems to hesitate for a moment, before it crashes back down, a wave sweeping a marker buoy away. Even completely covered in rust and grime, even barely functional, the shape of the Adaptive Cruiser is imposing. Two side-by-side hulls, each bearing two construction pads fore of a pair of powerful, triple cannon turrets. Between them, the low tower, and aft of it all, the housing of the great creation reactor.

Somewhere in there, hidden deep behind armored hull and sturdy bulkheads, a mind rouses, as if from a long, uneasy sleep. A different mind. A human mind.

Just moments ago, it– he was the captain of a sinking ship. For twenty years, he had slept, dreaming of a world where there is no war, no illness, no poverty. And now, he was rudely woken. He wants to go back to that wonderful dream, but around him is only the harsh reality of corroded metal and rolling seas.

He alone has the power to change it. To restore that dream, to crush those who would destroy it. But there and then, the captain of the Antaeus, the most powerful man on earth, weeps for what he has lost.


A/N: Well, after well over a year of deliberation, I'm finally doing it. I'm writing my take upon the story of Hostile Waters: Antaeus Rising. I'm not gonna promise regular, or speedy updates, since this is all admittedly a bit new to me, but I intend to try my best.

It has all along been my intention to try and make this fic accessible to someone who haven't had the great pleasure of experiencing Hostile Waters: Antaeus Rising themselves. As I'm not part of that group, I'll greatly appreciate input as to how well I'm managing that feat.

On the other end of the spectrum, those who are well versed in the art of the Adaptive Cruiser may notice some divergences from the game's plot, characterisation or game mechanics, as well as some unorthodox tactics, especially towards the end. For that, I do not apologize... especially since the tactics work frighteningly well.

As for where this will go, well. I know where this story starts and where does it end. I know the events in-between that the plot will be woven around, but what path will it take? I don't know. I can only hope you'll enjoy finding out with me.