Foreward: I do not own Highschool DxD. This disclaimer will be for the entire lifecycle of this work.
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[Your termination was in error. You are being offered compensation. Please make a selection from the analog database presented. You are permitted one selection and that selection will be final.]
"I know it was in error! You've already said that! Can you please explain what exactly I'm getting into?"
[Your termination was in error. You are being offered compensation. Please make a selection from the analog database presented. You are permitted one selection and that selection will be final.]
Above and radiating from the infinite white plane above, the same droning voice answers the same way it has the last several times it has been questioned.
Which is to say unhelpfully.
Taking a deep breath, one Stephen Steele raises a hand to his forehead and rubs it with a groan. Lowering his hand, he instead looks to his side, where an archaic, leather-bound tome hovers perfectly still at chest height.
The covers of the tome are bare, and it does not seem to matter how much he leafs through the pages, but there seems to be an infinite number. Each turn of the page reveals something new, and each new page makes Stephen's stomach churn with terrible realization.
On each yellowed page is a description of a superpower, and after flipping through a few pages, Stephen realized just what is happening to him. As seen in many a bad fanfiction and uninspired manga, something great and unknowable wants to give him a power so he might become an interesting plaything.
At first, it seemed ludicrous, absolutely preposterous, even, but the more the lost man thinks about it, the harder it becomes to rationalize other possibilities. He tried biting his tongue to see if the shock of pain would wake him from this fever dream, only to find that his teeth couldn't penetrate his flesh. Pinching himself produced a similar, painless result.
He remembers retiring to bed after a particularly long day of work the night prior. He felt a bit off, but as a man in less-than-perfect health and nearing thirty years of age, he thought nothing of it. Perhaps he was just a bit mentally drained, as he did put off sleeping to fool around on his computer for a bit.
Apparently, whatever condition befell him was hardly benign, since he went to sleep just fine and woke up in a great white void with only a book and an unhelpful, disembodied voice for company. 'What a crock. I don't smoke, I barely drink, and I get plenty of exercise on the job site. If I had a heart attack and croaked in my sleep, I hope whoever finds me takes the hard drive out of my computer and microwaves it.'
Taking yet another deep breath and trying to center himself, Stephen stares blankly up into the great expanse above. "There is nothing else you can tell me?"
[Your termination was in error. You are being offered compensation. Please make a selection from the analog database presented. You are permitted one selection and that selection will be final.]
Grunting, Stephen stops and thinks. Maybe if he simplifies things? "List available commands!" He barks.
[Your termination was in error. You are being offered compensation. Please make a selection from the analog database presented. You are permitted one selection and that selection will be final.]
"New query! Instruction Manual!"
[Your termination was in error. You are being offered compensation. Please make a selection from the analog database presented. You are permitted one selection and that selection will be final.]
Maybe…? "Elevate permissions! Username: admin! Password: admin!"
[Your termination was in error. You are being offered compensation. Please make a selection from the analog database presented. You are permitted one selection and that selection will be final.]
Son of a bitch.
It's almost as if whatever is administering this Limbo-like place isn't intelligent enough to provide anything else. The way it answers reminds him of a poorly programmed bot or a computer system locked down into uselessness. Hell, it might be programmed so rigidly or simplistically that saying anything other than its pre recorded message is simply impossible. It doesn't have any strange, mystical feeling of being inhuman, it's just frustratingly robotic.
Frowning, Stephen turns back to the floating book. '… I don't have any option but to play along, do I?' The thought is as humbling as it is infuriating.
Each page in the book lists a superpower or supernatural item of some sort, and whoever created the compendium obviously had no idea on how to neatly sort information, or even what might be prudent to include. Some entries are vague, others are too specific, and some have their single page wasted with useless trivia and bloat. If one is going to be railroaded into some kind of portal fantasy nonsense, then it only makes sense to pick the most broken, overpowered cheat skill or weapon to help you along.
Compared to some of the things Stephen has seen given to other poor saps in fictional situations like these, his 'cheats' are distinctly underwhelming.
One option is a bastard sword that is indestructible… And that's it. The rest of the page is just lore pertaining to someplace that Stephen has never heard of before. It's not infinitely sharp, magic conductive, sapient, or kitted with the skills required to use it effectively. Although he yearns to find out why and how it's indestructible, it has no other qualities and is thus a terrible choice.
There is another option to instantly be granted the skill to fly any aircraft with superhuman skill. The downside? That's it. There is no plane included, and even if one was included, there is no readily available way to fuel it, keep it maintained, and keep the weapons stocked. It would be a great pick for a jet fighter aficionado competent enough to be a pilot, but not him.
Another one that looked promising at first glance was a pocket dimension that the user can travel to and from at will, but the fine print ruined it. Time flows normally in the pocket dimension, so perishables will still spoil. Nothing living can be inserted inside of it against their will. If the user retreats into the dimension, they will always reemerge in real-space from the place they left, meaning that catching the user simply becomes a waiting game. There are other caveats that also make it a poor pick.
There is seemingly nothing worth taking. No Lantern power rings, no 'magic for dummies' grimoire, no mecha-suits or Gundams, nothing. The book is the cosmic equivalent of a junk drawer.
Looking up once more, Stephen tries his luck again. "How much time do I get to make my choice?"
[Your termination was in error. You are being offered compensation. Please make a selection from the analog database presented. You are permitted one selection and that selection will be final.]
"I'll just take that as 'take your time, no rush'," he says with a humorless smile.
So begins an endless scroll through the pages of the book.
Mentally, Stephen notes the page numbers of the various options that aren't too bad, and often has to flip back-and-forth to compare two selections against each other. Without a clock, or even the sun to gauge time, the seconds turn to minutes, and minutes blur to hours.
A throwing knife that always finds its mark.
A bottle that turns any liquid inside into a mild healing potion.
A flail with a chain that can extend a hundred meters.
'No. All of that is risky. It can't be a singular item. If I lose it or break it, then I lose my only advantage.'
More time passes, and more options are considered.
The power to teleport anywhere there is loose flower petals.
The power to delete ten cubic centimeters of material a day.
The power to mind control up to five arthropods at once.
'Too niche, and too involved on my end. Some of these are good, but the best sort of ability should not require my complete focus. I don't want to do everything on my own.'
How long has he been here? There is not even hunger or thirst in this strange place, so it's difficult to say. It has to have been a full day by now, right? Maybe longer? He keeps reading.
A dog companion, mundane sans his ability to self-resurrect twelve hours after his death.
A one-time ritual to summon a random, deceased criminal as a slave.
A snake familiar, as bright as a man, but only willing to speak in lies.
'Better, but I need to think about the future as well. I want something that can grow and scale upward. A single companion simply won't do. The disembodied attendant refuses to tell me where I'm going, so I need to assume the worst.'
Stephen looks down at the page number on the corner of the latest page, feeling his eyes widen.
Pg. 498,037
'How many have I sorted through?' He wonders. 'How long have I been here?'
He looks up and away from the book, but the snow white purgatory around him remains unchanged.
Unsettled, Stephen turns to the next page and reads. His eyes widen once more, and this time, a smile rises to his face.
Name: Automata Gigue
Subcategory: Sacred Gear (Soul Bound)
Behold the mastery and wonder of Automata Gigue – the Sacred Gear that bestows life upon the lifeless. By this sublime rite, the practitioner breathes existence into the inanimate, igniting within them the quiet whispers of cognition and locomotion. May the aspiring master grasp the intricacy of this artistry, for its grandeur lies in the intricate intertwining of form and material, spirit and gemstone.
Know, O reader, that the potency of Automata Gigue is constrained not merely by the wielder's proficiency but also by the raw materials that serve as the basis for these golemic miracles. The golem's corporal shell dictates its power and capabilities. Clay and wood may fashion a simple protector or aide, its motion crude and clumsy, yet solid steel and stone can sire a warrior of unrivalled strength, its motion elegant and precise. The golem's form also holds significant sway: an automaton carved like a bird shall indeed take to the sky, whilst one moulded in the likeness of a lion shall roam the earth with majesty.
Beyond form and substance, however, lies the heart of the golem - a precious gemstone core. Within this lustrous kernel resides the true spirit of your creation, the radiant focal point that anchors the ethereal soul to its physical vessel. Yet tread with caution, for every core necessitates equal regard. A lustrous river stone might suffice for a humble marionette of wood and clay, but a golem of sophisticated alchemical gold will not stir without a gemstone of the purest diamond.
However, this forms only one facet of the gem. The other side reveals an equally critical reality. As the body demands a worthy core, so too does the core call for the vital energy needed to animate its form. He who holds Automata Gigue must provide lifeforce, a flicker of inner flame, to kindle the heartstone and bring the golem to life. The finer the material, the greater energy it thirsts for. The diamond core of a golden golem might exact from you a costly fee, a price paid in physical depletion or even long-term fatigue.
Beware, holder. Within this Sacred Gear lies a power both fantastic and terrible.
It fits. It fits all of Stephen's needs.
It's soul bound, meaning losing it is difficult.
It's not situational, meaning no getting fucked over if fortune doesn't favor him.
Most of all, it's scalable. Golems are just magic robots, right? He can make do with that.
Of course, it's not without its downsides. The page is unfortunately vague, so there is no indication of how strong the golems are or what other limitations they may have, and it looks like anything worthwhile is going to be expensive given the casual mentions of gold and diamonds. The prep time required goes without saying. This 'Automata Gigue' feels like a real superpower, however, like it was put here by mistake. Maybe an oversight, perhaps? It wouldn't surprise him, considering how lazy and low-effort the attendant of this place seems to be.
"Hey!" Stephen looks up at the infinitely high ceiling. He presses a finger to the page. "I know what I want!"
There is a flash, then he is gone without another word.
When Stephen opens his eyes, he finds himself in a dimly lit room, one smelling of mildew and aged wood. Whatever brought him here also kicked up a plume of dust, so he covers his mouth and nose, stifling a cough. Once the cloud of filth settles, Stephen hazards a look around himself.
The spacious room has high ceilings and an open floor occupied by rows of backed, wooden benches. Light streams in from stained-glass windows on either side of the room, dust dancing within the multicolored rays. Tall candelabras sit in the rear corners of the room and by the high double doors, their arms covered in melted wax. Turning around, Stephen looks up, and up, and up.
Just behind him is a wooden podium with a gold leaf embossed crucifix engraved upon it. Behind that, is a large pipe organ. Its rusted pipes stretch up to the drooping ceiling, and a number of missing keys on the monolithic instrument tell a tale of neglect.
"A church?" Stephen wonders aloud, blinking and turning back to the benches. "No, not benches. Pews," he murmurs, stepping down to the closest one. Tentatively sitting on the pew as he listens for creaks, the lost man sighs and rests his hands on his knees.
"How did these go again?" He wonders quietly. "I just treat it like a voice activated video game, right? What's my status?" He asks the thin air.
No floating blue box appears.
"Status!" He commands with more authority.
Once more, nothing occurs. Worry begins to creep up his spine.
"Inventory?" He tries next, only for nothing to happen again. "Shit. Quests? Tutorial? Help? Anyone?"
Every single command goes unanswered, and Stephen can help but sigh and flop back on the pew, exasperated. "Wonderful…" He grumbles. "Absolutely fantastic. I don't get any of that gamer stuff, do I?"
The following silences all of the confirmation he needs, so rather than sit and dwell on his misfortune, Stephen looks down and takes stock of himself.
He wasn't de-aged or magically cured of all that ails him. There is still some pudge in his middle, and his left ankle is stiff, courtesy of a childhood injury that never healed correctly. He checks his hands, which are still rough and calloused. Reaching up, he takes off his hat (which he is surprised to find, considering he didn't go to bed with it) probes his short, dark hair, and finds nubby stitch scars on his scalp. 'That one could have been worse. Too bad my hardhat was totaled,' he thinks, replacing his hat.
At the very least, his rather impersonal benefactor saw fit to provide him with proper clothing, as he's in his work attire. Scuffed boots, worn jeans, button-up shirt, knock-off carhartt jacket, and #3 NASCAR cap. The only things missing are his hard hat and hi-viz vest. Hell, he even has his pens, his mini notebook, and his multi-tool in his breast pocket. 'I still feel cheated if I'm being honest.'
"Looks like that's everything…" Stephen murmurs, standing once more. Without much else to do, he looks around the abandoned church, scanning each pew for anything useful. The main room has nothing of note, save for a few bibles destroyed by exposure to the elements, so he winds back around to the rear of the room, where the preacher's podium and pipe organ lay. To the left of the pipe organ is a door, and upon testing the knob, the door swings inward freely, letting Stephen in.
Beyond the door is a rather spartan rear room. Besides a decorative oak table that has seen better days, a sagging bookshelf filled with different books, and two more doors, there is nothing.
Walking up to the bookshelf, Stephen pulls one free and looks over the cover, finding himself surprised. "King James Bible, English and Japanese? Did these folks have some converts?" He wonders aloud, scanning the bookshelf and noting several other dual-language Bibles. Replacing the book, he continues on. "Weird."
Both of the doors in the church backroom are unlocked. One leads to what looks like the preacher's office, and the other leads into a pretty mundane maintenance closet. Deciding to save the best (and potentially most useful) for last, Stephen digs through the preacher's office first.
The large desk's drawers are mostly empty, save for a lockbox in one. Taking the box up, Stephen gives it a shake.
Rattle rattle!
"Something inside, but it's locked…" He frowns. "Lord in heaven, forgive this theft, but I believe that I am in great need right now," he prays, taking his multitool from his breast pocket. With a flick of his wrist, the pliers within the multitool are readied.
The lockbox clearly isn't of high-security make, for the hinge is exposed on the outside. All Stephen needs to do is poke the end of the hinge pin with the nose of his pliers until a little bit is exposed on the other side, then with his pliers, he yanks the long pin out and opens the box without a fight. Placing the lid aside, he finds his eyebrow rising high again.
"Yen?" He questions, looking at banknotes and coins in the previously locked box. "What is this doing here? Something isn't adding up…"
Regardless, he takes the money and stuffs it in his pocket. What he finds under the money, though, is even more surprising.
In the lockbox is a gold ring set with a small emerald. The band is plain and the stone is modest, but it must have been a tidy tithe paid to the church.
"I'll be…" Stephen whistles. "I feel sorry for whoever gave this only for it to sit here and collect dust. Money is one thing, but maybe I should put this back..." As he does so, he pauses. 'Wait…'
He came here with a… a… A something gear, one that lets him do magic.
Automata Gigue!
He completely forgot!
"Shit. I need precious stones to make anything work…" He looks back down at the ring with guilt. "Guess you're coming with me. To whoever lost it, I promise I'll put this ring to good use."
The rest of the office has nothing of interest. There's a couple of forms with faint scraps of both English and Japanese on them in the filing cabinets, but the broken window in the office means everything inside is more or less ruined thanks to exposure.
As he walks to the maintenance closet, Stephen wonders to himself. How does Automata Gigue work? What designs are feasible, and what ones are not? How efficient are the stones used to power the golems? How much does a golem require from him? 'I'll test with something small,' he concludes.
The inside of the maintenance closet is filthy and dark, and Stephen finds himself wishing that his flashlight came along with them. Nevertheless, he finds a mostly intact box of hand tools that might be useful, and behind the tools is a sight that makes him recoil slightly.
A power outlet, one hanging limply by bare copper wire. One only needs to get shocked unconscious once before they learn to respect electricity.
"Hold on," he begins aloud, staring at the copper wire. Plans begin to form, and the perfect test for his new Automata Gigue thing takes shape in his head. "That's it!"
After finding the church's power breaker deeper in the maintenance closet and confirming that the building indeed has no power, Stephen once more murmurs a prayer asking for forgiveness before kicking the wall with all his might. Under his boot, the drywall gives way, crumbling to reveal a bounty of wiring in the walls.
"I feel like a drug addict, taking wire out of the walls of the church," he muses, grabbing a thick strip and giving it a yank. A few more sections of wall have to be knocked down, but it only takes a few minutes before he has all the material he needs.
Once enough wire comes free, he takes the armful of pilfered copper into the church back room and drops it on the oak table. He flicks his wrist, and now his multitool is sporting its wire stripper.
Stripping away all of the protective rubber around the copper takes time, but before long he is left with a pile of bare copper that shines in the low light.
"If one needs inspiration for a damn good design, then one needs to look no further than nature," Stephen switches his multitool back to its pliers as he takes the emerald ring from his pocket. "Let there bee life," he jokes with a corny grin.
Between his fingers and his pliers, the man weaves copper around the gold band, being sure to leave the emerald bare. He forms a head with two dome-like eyes, a pair of antennae, some small mandibles, all carefully hinged so they might move freely. The body comes next, and from it sprouts six spindly legs. On the back, a pair of woven wings stands erect. In the rear, a round abdomen tipped with a copper spike is balled together.
Folding up his multitool and wiping his brow, Stephen looks down at his creation with a small smile. "Well, aren't you just bee-autiful," he grins again.
On the table is a wire sculpture of a large, finger-sized bee crafted from copper wire. The gold ring is hidden beneath the weaves of copper, and only the emerald is exposed between the wings. With some proper coloration, it would look indistinguishable from the real thing.
"Okay, now for the hard part…" he lays a finger on the tiny sculpture's emerald. "Surely it's not some esoteric nonsense where I have to 'feel the magic inside me' or something, is it? Automata Gigue is a-"
As soon as he says the name of his Sacred Gear, the emerald under his finger begins to glow a brilliant green, and Stephen is forced to catch himself on the desk from the sudden jolt of fatigue. In the span of a second, it feels as if he's endured a ten-hour shift on the job site.
Buzzzzz!
"Jesus!" Stephen's hand shoots up when something buzzes beneath it, looking down, his shock wears off instantly, replaced with awe.
Crawling around on the table as if a living, breathing animal, his bee sculpture – No, bee golem raises its head, its antennae moving a mile a minute.
"No way…" He breathes. "It works."
At the sound of his voice, the tiny, copper golem ceases its scuttling and instead looks up at him, almost appearing expectant. Despite its eyes being solid metal, Stephen distinctly feels the bee staring at him.
'Is it intelligent? Can it understand orders? What are the capabilities of its body? Can it actually fly?' Questions run through him a mile a minute, but the only word that comes out is: "Hey."
The bee lays its wings flat and flicks its antennae.
"Okay, um…" The man pauses. What exactly is he supposed to say? "Are you intelligent enough to answer yes or no questions? Move your head up and down for yes," he mimes 'up and down' with a finger. "For no, move your head side to side," he once again demonstrates with his finger.
The golem moves its head up and down. Holy shit.
"Okay, good," Stephen smiles. "I've got a few tests for you. Please follow my instructions to the best of your ability. To start, fly to the bookshelf, touch it, and return to the desk," he orders, not elaborating on what a 'bookshelf' is. 'A newly manufactured robot without a database to reference should have no concept of a book or a shelf, let alone the words used in conjunction. If this little guy can figure it out, then that's got some interesting connotations.'
The insect golem spreads its wings and rapidly flaps them up to an unnerving buzz, then violating what Stephen knows about physics, it lifts off the table, flies all the way to the Bible-filled bookshelf and lands briefly upon it. Then it flies right back to the table as instructed. Once it lands, it looks up at him expectantly.
"Unreal…" Stephen shakes his head. "Just incredible…"
Over the next few minutes, he gives his little golem more and more tests, each one a bit more complex than the last, and like clockwork, the bee completes them.
It moves its limbs in sequence, correctly remembering which limb it moved when asked what move it made an arbitrary number of moves ago.
It performs aerial maneuvers without being provided the definition of the maneuvers. Then it performs different ones in the sequence requested of it.
It does basic math, flicking its antennae to relay answers. When asked for a string of prime numbers, the copper construct flawlessly provides an answer. Stephen challenges that more, presenting in-depth equations that most would require schooling to complete. When the numbers grow too large to relay in a timely manner, the bee takes some leftover copper wire from the table and bends it into the shape of the number, all of its own accord.
The golem is capable of advanced problem-solving. This is a miracle. This is everything Stephen was hoping for and more! 'Does the stone and body material used to determine intelligence? Is it acquiring information from me somehow? I have to know more! This is just too freakin' cool! Automata Gigue is so baller that I almost don't care that I died in my sleep. What was the subcategory again? Sacred Gear?'
Stopping to think about it, Stephen wonders where he's heard the phrase 'Sacred Gear' before. 'Was it one of those animes I watched years ago? Or was it some kind of porno? Sacred Gears were in a hentai masquerading around as an action show, I thought. DxD something?' He hums, and the more he thinks, the more he remembers, but the more he remembers, the worse the revelations become. 'Is… Is that where I am? I remember there being a deserted church in the show and it took place in Japan. It would explain the Japanese Bibles and the yen I found. That church was near the main town, too, someplace called 'Kooho?... Oh shit.' His eyes go wide as the most prominent memories finally resurface. 'This place has dimension busters like the infinitely goth dragon and all that other shit. Eat your fucking heart out Dragon Ball Z.'
His eyes drop down to the bee golem, who waits as patiently as ever for a command.
"Golem, take note," he begins quietly. "Your new designation is Alpha 1. Confirmed?"
The bee nods once.
"Alpha 1," Stephen looks at the pile of copper on the table. There is still plenty left, more than enough for a handful of bee golems. "Begin assembly of a new golem. Use your body as the template, and leave a space in the back for a core. Repeat instructions until insufficient material, core charge falls to 20%, or verbal override from me."
'This might be some fucked up hentai universe where people can sneeze countries off the map because whoever wrote the place couldn't be bothered to balance things…'
The bee, now known as Alpha 1, skitters over to the wire and takes a strand in his mandibles. With machinelike speed and precision, he quickly begins to bend another insect body into shape.
'… But Stephen Steele, career engineer, has magical, self-replicating robots on his side, and no Geneva Convention to stop him. None of you are ready for this fucked-up arms race.'