Argall stared at the tall, gaunt, skeletal robot dressed in ornate armor and wielding a cackling staff, standing right before him, who was also most definitely staring back at him. This was an Iron Man? Well, that name was a bit misleading, because this... mechanized entity was neither made of iron and neither was it in the shape of a man. Though, admittedly, the shape of the skeleton was somewhat humanoid. The hunch gave it away. Unless this machine was modeled after someone with some form of extreme stenosis, then it couldn't possibly be of human origin. More than that, the technology it wielded was impossibly advanced – more advanced than anything Argall had ever seen on this planet or conceived in his head. And it was definitely not of human origin. He'd gotten a feel of which artifact or piece of tech once belonged to the former human empire that once stretched across the stars and which ones belonged to aliens.
Human design was distinct, deceptively simple, robust, powerful, and easy to clean and maintain. A lot of human technology was actually modular in nature, allowing anyone to switch certain parts for weaker, stronger, or specialized variants. A lot of Argall's own designs made use of human technology as its base, before either incorporating whatever alien tech he'd scavenged and pulled apart or with whatever else he'd already built. It was surprisingly sturdy and adaptable, needing very little alteration to allow perfect compatibility with non-human tech.
The machine before him was... beyond all of that. The closest thing that kind of mirrored their tech was, strangely enough, were the freaking Dragons that roamed the Scrapyards, the apex predators that no other beast or monster could fight against. His mother defeated one and took its skull as a trophy; how she was able to do that, he'd never know. She was an anomaly, which was likely why the alien invaders targeted her first.
Argall's ability to understand the innate workings, functions, and designs of almost every single piece of technology or machinery worked overtime as he processed and analyzed just the Iron Man's staff, the thing it held up – some form of weapon, winged and regal, boasting a power output that was nearly equal to that of a star, because, if his ability did not deceive him, it did have a star at its center, captured in some form of dimensional stasis, its energies harnessed for reasons that were beyond his understanding. It baffled him, honestly. A star functionally possessed unlimited amounts of energy; why would a handheld weapon need that much energy?
And don't even get him started on the rest of the artifacts the Iron Man carried, such as the orb of cackling emerald energies in its chest, the pendant that held not one but two captured stars, or the black crown that Argall was pretty sure was a blackhole that'd been plucked from the void and somehow shaped into a crown. Everything about this... being was impossibly advanced. And yet, his skill allowed him, of only barely, some measure of understanding about how it all worked and it seemed that the base of their technology relied on very clever space-time manipulation, allowing them to play with the physical world where no other species could.
But, he'd worry about that later.
Around him, the Scrappers who'd rallied under his leadership seemed utterly disturbed. These ones had been lost and afraid, unaware of what it was they should've done or why. Without anyone to take charge, they would've been slaughtered. Inspired by his father's words, Argall immediately took the reins. And something about the idea of leadership, oddly enough, even when his experience with it was limited to the classroom... something about it just felt right. It felt as though he was born to lead, born to command. It felt natural. And so, Argall led the lost flock of scrappers out of the flames, taught them to use their weapons with discipline, to remember the training they've already undergone, and inspired their hearts to battle.
It wasn't enough. The Rangdan attack overwhelmed their defenses almost immediately, a tidal wave of slaves and warriors killing everything on sight.
Earlier, when all hope seemed lost and their enemy closed in around them and they were in full retreat, the earth opened up beneath them, revealing massive subterranean structures, where legions of Iron Men poured forth and, with their insanely advanced weapons, pushed back the Rangdan Hordes.
Calling it a battle would've been an exaggeration, because the Iron Men annihilated everything they came across, even the heavy hitters among the Rangdan, such as their Warriors, who wielded potent weapons and cloaked themselves from human perception. None of them stood even the slightest chance. Within moments, the tide of war shifted, the scales tipping so wildly and so rapidly that the Rangdan hardly had a chance to fight back, assuming they even could. The Rangdan were powerful and strong, but their technology was nowhere near as advanced as what Argall saw now. Actually, a few of them did fight back, but the advance of the Iron Men was unstoppable, and whatever petty resistance they managed to put up just before they were simply erased by arcs of baleful green lightning bolts.
Some form of molecular disintegration, Argall figured. Incredibly dangerous.
"Are you an Iron Man?" Argall asked. He wasn't certain. And he needed to be certain. Thus far, none of the machine soldiers attacked a single human being and that was good news. But, that wasn't enough for him. It didn't quite help that these Iron Men exuded an aura of dread and emptiness, death clung to them – eons of it. And emptiness. Yes, that was it. Every machine Argall had ever worked with always had a spark to them, almost like a soul, but not quite. It was a strange thing that he never quite understood, the concept of life within cogs and wheels and wires; but it did exist and it was real. Not tangible, perhaps, but there. These Iron Men did not possess that spark. Their machinery was, for all intents and purposes, quite dead.
He wasn't sure if he should be worried or not.
Briefly, Argall glanced at the Scrappers behind him, those who'd chosen to follow him when everything went to hell and the Rangdan and all their slaves went berserk, attacking and rampaging like rabid animals. If it hadn't been for their numbers, this would not have been a problem. But their attack became dangerously chaotic and, even with Argall's leadership, his disparate band of scrappers couldn't hope to stem the tide by themselves. Still, these were the men and women who'd been there with him, in the thick of it, fighting side by side as brothers and sisters. He couldn't ask for more noble companions. "What are your intentions?"
The Iron Man let out a sound that sounded almost like a chuckle. That was good. It meant there were no hostilities. "Ah, forgive me; it has been some time since I've spoken to you humans. A thousand of your years, by my estimation – verbal communication has become uncomfortable. And, no, I am not a Man of Iron, I am a Phaeron, Lord Khoteph, Divine Ruler of the Sulekh Dynasty. My intention is to save this planet from the miscreants who'd sooner see its people enslaved. And who are you, tall human? Are you the leader of this... flock?"
Argall nodded, turning to the fifty or so scrappers behind him. Where the rest disappeared to in the chaos of it all, he didn't know. But he hoped they found some measure of safety, at least. He'd done all he could to protect these ones and lead them properly as his father would've wanted. A few died during the fighting, but such was expected in war. It was unfortunate, but inevitable. They'd mourn for the lost and the dead later. "I am Argall, son of Thragg and Nareena. Yes, I lead them."
Lord Khoteph nodded, which looked... odd, given the shape of his head and his cumbersome crown. "That is... something, I suppose. I assume there still isn't a centralized form of government, yeah? The last time we awakened, you humans had formed cities over entrances to my Tomb Complexes."
"Not that I know of, no." Argall shook his head. The Great Council sort of acted like a central government if one squinted their eyes hard enough and ignored the fact that they held no real power over the cities, even if the governors listened to their advice, decrees, mandates, and resolutions. They held power over the Geomantic Web, which is a data network that connected each of the cities to each other, allowing for instant transfer of information, which – in Argall's opinion – was where most of their political power was concentrated. But, beyond that, the Great Council acted more like a committee of judges and mediators.
Actually, that there was no central government seemed like a serious weakness, but the simple truth was that it simply hadn't been necessary. The cities were at peace and life was generally great as long as you didn't venture into the Scrapyards as the Scrappers did on the daily, but that was an entirely different matter.
"Oh, well, that's disappointing; I was hoping to speak to someone – anyone of any authority over a vast majority of the population, at least. Rangdan are crafty little insects. If even a single one of them survives, they usually come back and become problematic again." The Phaeron, Khoteph, explained with a strange, mechanical shrug. Argall struggled to imagine how anyone could've created such a machine. But, the way it spoke was not how a machine would've spoken, artificial intelligence or no. This...entity, the one inhabiting the body of a skeletal robot, was entirely sapient, entire self-aware. His conclusion? Some form of consciousness transfer took place, a living mind transported into the body of a machine. Fascinating. How was such a thing done? Could he do it to himself? Certainly, a machine would be far more efficient than flesh. "But, you have potential. Listen, I'm going back to sleep soon; my internal clock says I shouldn't be awake just yet. Someone is gonna have to take charge and it might as well be you – tall, brooding, and handsome. Hunt down the remaining Rangdan bioforms; cleanse this planet of them. Ensure that not a single trace of them remains."
"They multiply quickly?" Argall asked, but otherwise nodded. Somehow, a part of him trusted the strange machine. Or, at the very least, Argall founds its words to be completely rational and logical and, therefore, trustworthy, even if that didn't make much sense in his head. The Phaeron nodded.
"Yes," Lord Khoteph added. "Quicker than you might think is possible; that's why we haven't been able to exterminate these pests. But that's not the worst part, no; not even close."
Argall blinked. Around him, the scrappers had settled in, somewhat, becoming far more relaxed. A few of them even touched the Iron Men and found that they were completely harmless or, at the very least, unresponsive to human touch. That was good. The others fanned out, simply walking around. They couldn't go back to Alka just yet, however, as the whole city was ablaze and covered in toxic gases from chemical spills and other such things from the ruined artifacts. They were gonna have to form a camp of some sorts right here, just somewhere for the survivors to gather, regroup, and hopefully rest. Once the flames died down, then maybe they could begin the long process of rebuilding all that was lost. Though, to be fair, Alka had never beena grand city; so, that shouldn't be too difficult to achieve. "What else do I have to worry about?"
"The sudden appearance of the Rangdan has led me to believe that the Orks are, once again, rising from the ashes of their former glories." The Phaeron answered, not bothering to explain to him what an Ork was, but, extrapolating purely from their conversation, indicated the possibility that this might be another alien race, one that was even worse than the Rangdan. "A Green Tide is coming. You cannot stop it – not as you are now. I will help as much as I can, but what aid I can offer is limited – for now."
"Rebuild," Khoteph finished. "And if you truly wish for your people to survive, then they must rise higher... and flourish beyond this world. Forge an empire that spans the stars."
The Phaeron then... reached into the open air, a green rift snapping open, which he then reached into, before pulling something out – a box. Argall's eyes widened. It was the same box he made, the one that'd fallen out of his grasp during their retreat, the one that contained most of his designs and creations. "After all, you created this... marvel, did you not? I can see that your grasp on technology is nothing short of astounding; your understanding of pocket dimensions was lacking, so you supplemented it with Immaterial-based tech. Instead of shunting objects into a locked sub-dimension as we do, you send it to the Immaterium, into the Deep Currents, where only primal concepts reside, ensuring whatever you send there remains inviolable. Quite clever."
"If you're capable of creating such things, then I'm sure uniting the distant peoples of this planet shouldn't be much of a problem, especially with a common enemy on the horizon." Khoteph finished. "Good luck. I'll be watching."