Argall stood alone on the balcony of his personal quarters, high atop the tallest tower of Hyperborea. The wind swept past him, carrying the faint hum of the sprawling mega-cities below. He rested his hands on the cold railing, his gaze fixed on the expanse before him. Endless spires pierced the sky, their dark forms illuminated by countless lights, a constellation stretched across the surface of the planet. The cities pulsed faintly in the night, alive and breathing, their people sleeping beneath the protective embrace of those gleaming structures.
Most of them were likely at rest, oblivious to the looming threat of war with the Imperium. The thought brought a faint twitch to Argall's lips. It wasn't a smile, not quite, but something close. Their calm was a testament to their faith. Faith in their government. Faith in their defenders. Faith in him. That was as it should be. His people deserved their peace, and he would defend it with every ounce of strength he possessed.
His grip on the railing tightened. The metal creaked faintly, bending under the force. Argall's eyes swept over the horizon, taking in the immensity of his world. He would keep them safe, no matter the cost. He would defend Hyperborea against anything, even if it meant drawing upon the darkest corners of his capabilities, the untested depths of his own resolve. Even if it meant unleashing something he didn't fully understand, something that terrified even him.
His gaze dropped to the small vial in his hand. It was delicate, a crystalline container that caught the faint starlight above. Inside, light and pristine, were strands of hair. Pale, almost silver, they shimmered faintly under the soft glow. He turned the vial slowly, watching the strands shift and catch the light. They weren't ordinary. They belonged to his father.
Thragg.
The name settled in his mind like a weight, drawing his thoughts inward. Thragg, his father, was a Viltrumite, a being of incomprehensible strength, capable of conquering worlds with nothing but his fists. The Viltrumites were legends – living gods of destruction wrapped in human forms. Unstoppable. Invincible. Argall had never known another like his father, and he doubted he ever would.
Honestly, the very thought of an entire race of people, each of whom held a similar power to his father, sent shivers running down Argall's spine, just as it did the first time his father told him the truth.
The hair inside the vial held a piece of that power. Within those strands was the genetic essence of the Viltrumites, the very foundation of their unparalleled strength and resilience. Argall had kept the vial for decades, hidden from prying eyes, untouched by his own experiments. He wasn't even sure why he'd picked it up off the floor all those years ago, but he was glad he did.
He turned it again, the faintest tension in his jaw. It wasn't fear. It was reverence.
Thragg had renounced war. He had left violence behind, choosing a path of peace and quiet resolve. He had built a life far from conflict, only to be dragged back into the fray when the Rangdan invaded. That war had changed everything, forcing Thragg to wield the very power he had abandoned. The memory of his father's sacrifice flickered through Argall's mind, a reminder of the price of peace and the fragility of ideals in the face of annihilation.
Argall exhaled, slow and measured, his breath visible in the cool night air. The Genesis Chamber would make it possible. It could extract the unique traits within the Viltrumite DNA, isolating them and embedding them into his own genetic code. He could become stronger – far stronger than he already was. Indestructible, like Thragg. A living shield for his people, a force that even the Imperium might hesitate to challenge.
But it was more than a process. It was a choice. One he couldn't take lightly.
He rolled the vial between his fingers, the glass cool against his skin. His father would disapprove. Argall didn't need words to know that. Thragg had rejected the notion of using his power to dominate, to crush others underfoot. He had sought a life beyond that endless cycle of destruction. Would he look upon this act as betrayal? A step backward?
Argall clenched his fist, the vial still secure within his grasp. He had told himself he wouldn't use it. He had resisted for years, but now the choice was no longer theoretical. War loomed. His people needed him. The Imperium's shadow stretched long, and even his greatest warriors might falter against the sheer scale of its might. Argall couldn't afford to falter. Not now. Not ever.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the wind brushing against his face. Syreen's face flashed in his mind. His sister. His oldest connection. She was human, fragile compared to him. Compared to most of the Hyperboreans. Argall had entertained the thought of giving her this power, of letting her bear the weight alongside him. But the Genesis Chamber was unforgiving. Her body wouldn't survive the merging process. She would break apart before it was complete.
That left him. It had to be him.
Anyone else would misuse it. Anyone else would let it consume them. The power of the Viltrumites wasn't something to be wielded lightly. Argall knew that better than anyone.
He opened his eyes, the lights of the city below reflecting faintly in their depths. The vial felt heavier now, as though it carried more than just strands of hair. It carried a decision. A future. His people slept peacefully beneath him, their trust unspoken but present in every flickering light, every hum of the city.
Argall straightened, his grip tightening on the vial. Whatever lay ahead – war, peace, or something in between – he would face it. He would protect them. And if this was the cost, then so be it. He wouldn't hesitate any longer.
The vial disappeared into his armor, secured once more, its weight still pressing against him. Argall turned back toward his quarters, his footsteps silent against the cold stone floor. There was much to do, preparations to make.
The Imperium would come for him again. Argall knew this with the same certainty as the sunrise. And when they did, he would be ready.
At least, that was the plan.
He straightened, exhaling softly, brushing those thoughts aside for now. Time was running out, but the present demanded his focus. Other matters awaited his attention. For now, the question of embracing the Viltrumite power could wait.
Behind him, the air crackled faintly, a soft hum that built into a crescendo of energy. Viridian mists coiled into the room, twisting and folding like serpents. Emerald sparks crackled as a figure materialized, tall and gaunt, its form etched with sharp lines of otherworldly light. Cryptek Jzath. The Necron's metallic face shimmered with its own eerie brilliance, its eyes glowing with an unblinking emerald intensity.
The Cryptek's voice was a grating blend of synthetic resonance and dry amusement.
"The subject appears... strangely durable." Its head tilted slightly, as though observing some invisible data stream. "He survived the preliminary tests – somehow. A result that is, admittedly, outside my expectations. We may proceed. Are you certain, however? The specimen appears to share a kinship with you... however distant."
The Cryptek's tone sharpened, tinged with faint curiosity. "I calculate a 65.67% probability of death. A margin of error exists, of course. Perhaps 2.34%, give or take."
Argall turned, his movements deliberate, his face impassive. His crimson armor gleamed faintly in the pale light, the intricate etchings on its surface catching the green glow from Jzath's form. For a brief moment, he said nothing, letting the Cryptek's words linger in the air like a challenge.
"I am certain," Argall said finally, his voice low, steady. "We proceed."
The Cryptek's head tilted again, a faint mechanical whir accompanying the motion. "Fascinating. Your resolve, at times, mirrors the ruthlessness of the Phaeron himself. Yet... the specimen. It bears a fragment of your genetic signature. How curious, this... indifference."
Argall's lips pressed into a thin line. He moved closer to Jzath, his gaze cold, unyielding.
"I recognize three as kin. My mother, my father, and my sister. That creature—" He gestured toward the mist-shrouded doorway leading deeper into the chamber. "—is no more than a passing curiosity. Whatever fragment it bears is irrelevant. If it survives, it may serve. If it dies, it was unfit."
Jzath's mouthless face seemed to radiate an odd flicker of amusement. It raised one skeletal hand, thin green tendrils of light sparking between its elongated fingers. "Efficiency. A trait that often escapes organics, yet you wield it so naturally. Very well. The process will commence."
It turned, the mists swirling around its frame, its elongated stride carrying it toward the doorway. Argall followed, his steps measured, precise. The green mists engulfed him as well – a seamless teleportation. The flat ground became descent. And the soft hum of distant machinery grew louder as they descended into the chamber below.
The room was vast, its walls lined with Necron machinery that pulsed with an unnatural rhythm. Green light filled the space, reflecting off the metallic surfaces in sharp, fractured patterns. At the center of the chamber lay the subject – a figure suspended in a translucent field of energy, his body twisting slightly in the containment field.
Argall studied the figure, his expression unreadable. The subject was humanoid, his features distorted by the flickering energy that held him aloft. His form bore scars, evidence of the tests that had already pushed him to the brink – and a few more that had been inflicted by Argall himself, during their... fateful duel. Despite the damage, his chest rose and fell steadily, his body straining against the field in some futile instinct to escape.
"Durable indeed," Jzath said, its glowing eyes fixed on the suspended form. "This one clings to life with surprising tenacity. I calculate a 34.33% probability of survival. Lower than anticipated, but not without hope. Though I'd attribute that to the injuries the subject already suffered when you brought it in."
But there was a flicker, small and fleeting. The faintest trace of pity stirred within him, an echo of sympathy reserved for wounded creatures incapable of saving themselves. His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded the subject's chest rising and falling in slow, laboring breaths. Its body convulsed against the energy field, restrained but trembling, straining against the inevitable.
The truth – one he would never speak aloud – was that a part of him did care, though only in the abstract. It wasn't compassion, not truly. It was the fleeting pang of discomfort that came when witnessing a creature caught in agony. A small, uninvited thought brushed the edges of his mind: If nothing else, this would be a kind of mercy.
The end of this procedure offered release, one way or the other. The subject would either die, its pain snuffed out like a candle's flame, or it would emerge reborn, its mind unshackled and free of the technological curse that had imprisoned it. Either result was preferable to the broken existence it clung to now.
"Let us begin," Argall said, his voice cutting through the chamber with precision. The sound reverberated off the dark walls, sharp and deliberate, like the activation of a blade poised for purpose.
The chamber shifted into motion. Machines hummed and hissed, energy coils glowing faintly as Cryptek Jzath adjusted the Soul Furnace. It loomed at the center, a construct of impossible geometry, glowing with an eerie green light. Jzath's skeletal fingers danced over a console, adjusting dials and manipulating streams of data that flickered across hovering displays.
The first obstacle was the most abstract: isolating the "essence" of life from the physical shell. Argall had spent countless sleepless nights confronting this challenge, his mind twisting around the conceptual void at the heart of Bio-Transference. The Necrons, for all their grandeur, had never mastered the process. They'd performed it on a massive scale, yes, but the intricacies of transferring a living being's essence – what he theorized to be its soul – remained shrouded in mystery.
The Cryptek was no different. Despite its unparalleled knowledge of Necron technology, Jzath itself had admitted to the limitations of its understanding. The process remained an experiment riddled with unknowns, gaps in comprehension that no amount of computation could close. Yet, Argall had made it his obsession, pouring over ancient records and crafting theories where even the Crypteks had given up.
Argall approached the Soul Furnace, its green light casting shadows over his armor. He traced a gloved hand across the control panel, fingers pausing as he studied the data streaming across the console. His expression remained steady, his eyes sharp and unwavering. Theories churned in his mind, calculations unfurling like clockwork.
The foundation of his hypothesis was simple in principle yet maddeningly complex in execution. The essence of life – the soul – was tethered to the physical form, but its anchor was likely the brain. The intricate web of neural connections, electrical impulses, and biochemical reactions provided a plausible vessel for something more ephemeral.
He had no evidence to the contrary.
AN: Chapter 58 is out on (Pat)reon!