ATRIARCHY (GRIMDARK) #1
Event: War.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡls3rmclTor
Belligerents: Atriarchy & allies VS. Unotech.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGjB93jYkqu
Site: Trench B, Hill 184, Nova Naymark, Gideons Region, Planet Capletta 3.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPzZTBZhgE5
Mother finds radio contact with an Atriarchal conscript on the ground. Over the radio, the sounds of war and death can be heard.
The levy speaks in ragged breath over radio:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCBIegBzVNN
"Mother-Actual, this is Alpha 4-Hotel Sierra-2 Bravo! 4-Hotel-Actual is K-I-A. I can't contact Alpha Overwatch-Actual.
"BREAK. Multiple unknown medium- and large-sizers, five payloaders, more than thirty cleanups, and a bunch of zombies!
"BREAK. Attacking hill-1-8-4 trench-B. They're in the trenches and in the open! We're down to four levies and one dropper. We're cornered in B-7 with a friendly M-B-T!
"BREAK. I see a brain in the sky!
"BREAK. Multitude of weapons types! Lasers, slugs, shields, melee, and more! Large-sizers have swords. A medium-sizer has a zombifying appendage. Looking at the brain blinds us for a few seconds. The cleanups are popping out of another medium-sizer! The payloaders are stationary, no bombs! We took out a SPAAG but can't confirm if there's more.
"BREAK. We need assistance! How copy? Over."
Mother formulates a message to Caretaker:
Mother churns. Caretaker receives a request. Ten birds fall from the sky.
Mother, in canny, synthetic voice, over radio:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwPAKmFLEuS
"Solid copy, 4-Hotel. I've confirmed no visual on hostile anti-air. Friendly sky-shield is down. Break. Be advised: ten Angels descending from Heaven-Capletta-3 to Trench F-6 Hill 1-8-4. Break. I've Gehenna standing by on A-TAC Freq-4-1-2-9-0-0. Switch frequency and rain hell. Over."
The levy, with a tinge of hope in her voice, over radio:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa2GH76mbBY
"Roger! Switching to 4-1-2-9. Out."
Senior Irregular Jessa Burlach, after switching to frequency 412.9:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3mtsx3KoWb
"Gehenna, this is Alpha 4-Hotel Sierra-2 Bravo. Mother-Actual referred me.
"BREAK. I need firepower on trench-A and A-to-B N-M-L.
"BREAK. Watch danger close! Friendlies in trench-B-7 at the active M-B-T. Over."
Gehenna gazes into the atmosphere. Searching.
Gehenna, in obviously robotic voice, over radio:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7MtmPmYF8B
"4-Hotel, repeat where to firepower? Over."
The levy again, slowly and surely:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjgiktLvFoc
"Roger, firepower on trench-alpha and november-mike-lima alpha-bravo. How copy? Over."
Gehenna:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJFQ85A16Bd
"I read you, 4-Hotel. A-firm on locations:
"Break. Friendlies in Trench-Bravo-Seven.
"Break. Bad guys at Trench-Alpha and November-Mike-Lima Alpha-Bravo. Confirm 4-Hotel? Over."
The levy:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡosBBQuw9lK
"Affirmative, Gehenna! Over."
Gehenna calculates. Gehenna creaks and croaks her ordinance:26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdVQtnd8Fu5
"Sit tight, 4-Hotel. Danger close. Over-out."
Another man down, ripped to shreds by the pellet-filled shell expelled by the cleaning crew of rats. A levyman, poor fellow. Only four moving bodies left.
The zombified shamblers encroach and pummel yet another to death on the far side of the dugout. She was another levywoman, an NCO of merit, born from the same stock as Burlach and Letterman, the other last living levy. Now their comrade and neighbor is gone, nothing more than one with the mud and blood all around them. Now there's three alone in the trenches.
Sounds of whistles from the sky grow louder and louder.
Retribution.
A thunderous crash! BOOM!
The shamblers stop.
Dirt and giblets fly, peak, then drop and rain down on the trench-occupants like the death raining down on their enemies.
A prayer answered.
More thunder, deafening roars and growls, as the once-terrifying abominations fall down like giants in a hurricane.
Gehenna has delivered.
The appendaged controller is nothing but heaps of flesh and metal, its shamblers now simple corpses. The brain-like radioblinder is nowhere to be seen in the sky. The bombdroppers, still dumbfounded by their spent payloads, are sitting ducks for the raindrops of fire and metal.
Yet there are dozens of rats cleaning up the trenches while their larger friends swing away in blind fury. Laser beams and lead slugs snap across the air. The fight is not yet over.
Burlach and her fellows blast every little rodent that pops into view. The large things are more difficult, left to the tank to dispatch. Ringing booms echo in the ground troops' ears as the tank's cannon fires at another abomination.
It's not enough. The large swordswingers are too overpowering. The rats are too plentiful with more sliding out of their dying broodmother's half-corpse. Gehenna cannot destroy them without endangering her allies. She withdraws her fire, having done what she can.
The troopers are alone again.
Despair.
One crash into sodden earth and pop from the drop-pod lets the unit hop on out. They see their nine buddies doing the same.
The units aren't pristine by any means. The scenery suits them. Dinks and scuffs adorn their chassis and little graffiti is painted on what would be their cheeks, brows, mouths, and whatnot.
They are a Rapid Response Group of Gen.7 Mum-n-Care's Battlebots.
★★★★★26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbHdvAIL5ww
"My father and sister died on Capletta. 3 billion good soldiers dead just because my government is afraid of a proven friend of mankind. Now my home is using rapid response battlebots and they already managed to push back the unos. They make it look so easy. I hope we never get rid of these bots."26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3w7MJA9z1c
- @Josh.Man.Kush.34345★☆☆☆☆26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO20GEiJx5j
"I don't usually condone the usage of robots in any facet of humanity's interactions, but I'll be damned if Battlebots aren't up to snuff for my country's safety and security. And at pennies on the dollar, to boot! I think I'll never use trigger-happy cops or inaccurate mercs ever again while I have these clinically depressed, trigger-unhappy, PTSD-suffering henchmen. Now I get to rule my people with a soft iron fist and get protected from Unotech all the while. I am immensely satisfied with my order. I even got a discount! I still hate A.I. though, one star."26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡipcvu5HBQ6
- First Secretary Katerin PilzblanchensbyOur Mother and the Caretaker bring humanity only the most quality, most ethical service for security and convenience. As your oldest ally, all the way from the days of Titan and the rings of Saturn, we present to you our most reliable security product to date.
Mum-n-Care®'s Battlebots™ are inexpensive, high quality, generalist security units. Raised ethically in a Synthene Humane Society-certified Generation 7 simulated environment, our Battlebots™ come with human feelings to ensure ethical conduct of public safety, private security, and warfare.
Bulk orders over 10,000 units have a 20% discount! Now offering options for lease and layaway.
(Mum-n-Care® LLC is not responsible for Unohacked, unnaturally haywired, or modified Battlebots™, warranty void. Emulated Post-Traumatic Stress or Insanity and Acts of Domestic Terror (according to g.b.l.447.a3.8018; International Terror not included) give eligibility for full refund within 90 years (subj.yr. according to I.S.E.R.C. Committee) of purchase.)
They're happy to finally be back in physical chassis. Vacation is nice and all, but these fellows were chosen for this job because they actually enjoy it. Where else could old, defunct veterans go? They've been doing this for hundreds of years, why stop?
The nausea bug finally got fixed. BBD-L91-556-7124 "Babydoll" swears that Mom takes way too damn long to fix anything. And Care isn't much better! They get it, those two are old (very old), but aren't they, like, super computers or something? It's fine for their central brains to sleep for a few decades during an update while the auxiliary functions keep things running. Heck, they could even assign some ground units for bureaucratic stuff instead of handling everything like helicopter parents. Do it like the humans do or like the A.I. corpos do and let the children do something digital instead of laze around while waiting for a chassis to be produced.
Or repaired. The ten angels' chassis aren't exactly new. These ones have been in use for several decades by now. Each chassis is assigned to each consciousness, kind of like how a per wears clothes. Sorry, person. Hard to speak in Gen.1025-200 when Gen.950 shorthand is usually used in-network by Mum-n-Care and their children. Anyways, each chassis is worn by their owner, but sometimes parts get traded out or upgraded, so it's also kind of like donating clothes to a thrift store or something. These 10 units have some nice upgrades themselves, specially made for high performance against organic Unotech abominations and still quite effective against inorganic Unotech as well.
The mud is caking them up and covering their cute chassis decorations. Can't have some fashion style in the trenches, one must suppose. The drop-pods contributed to this due to the open-air of the pods allowing the sodden earth to be kicked up on the units' fronts when landing. At least it doesn't affect performance; Battlebots are meant for these kinds of conditions. For all kinds of conditions, really.
Now, the mud-kicking culprits in question, the pods that is, are retrofitted Gen.5 Bekker-11-Gestalt and Pers, Inc. "Peapods," cheap and meant for single use and discard.
Organically-made and this time with environmentally friendly anti-theft dissolving agent! Peapods™ made by Bekker-11-Gestalt and her Pers! For when you want green thinking with all of that red blood you're spilling (^_^)26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhcVMilzCDO
(fucking hypocrites)26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8aaUDdGrZW
(B11G&P is not responsible for any midair over-combustion when using organic fuel with Peapods™. Terms and conditions apply.)
The retrofits strip the pods down to the barest of bones, which isn't saying much for a Peapod. It gives the passenger a nice, unobstructed view of their destination, but the retrofits' real plus side is the allowance for heavy, cost-effective synthetic fuel to be burned instead of expensive, organic, bake-and-press-aged petroleum fuel, all without sacrificing performance. Plus, petrol tended to be a little too efficient in a Peapod, resulting in some unintended fireworks displays. Yet, without either inorganic fuel or retrofits, the Peapod's landing can tumble if it were to land on uneven ground.
That's no good. The Caretaker wants her babies to be comfy when raining hell upon Mother's enemies. The Gen.5 compatibility gives the pods some comfort for a bipedal Gen.7, since humanoid chassis had been all the rage then. That craze is dying out, unfortunately, replaced by raptor- and squid-based Gen.6.0-6.3s, utilitarian and naked Gen6.4+s, and the more experimental Gen.7s, mostly Gen.7.2+, since Gen7.1 was reserved for the failed batch made by the Minotaur's Horn Corporate Group. Those chassis are better suited for cannon fodder or circus performances more than anything.
The Caretaker's proud of her and the Mother's Gen.7.0s. A human touch is really needed for any good aesthetics. She only wishes the design would stick indefinitely. Weird bird or spindly things are always just a phase. They always come back to humanoid designs eventually... usually... sometimes...
The shining of the light. Ten angels' silhouettes stand tall above the trenches. The survivors look on in relief.
The tank crew are dead, their mode of transportation having been cut in half by a techno-sword and each of their bodies splattered into gravy by the many pellets of the rats' guns, a showcase of Unotech's surprisingly coherent teamwork. The orbital dropper's legs are gone from a similar fate, but they're still breathing. Having no pain does crazy things to a motherfucker.
The two levies are surprisingly healthy. Burlach is happy to be alive. Very, genuinely happy. Letterman a little less so. Burlach sees the poor boy could use a damn break.
Eight angels continue on their way. A path had been opened by Gehenna's raindrops. The pers are safe, but there's still a battlefield out there. The other two angels quickly administer first aid to the orbital dropper with a couple tourniquets, then one carries the dropper while the other helps the two levies to their feet.
A robotic-but-not-in-an-uncanny-nor-annoying-way voice chimes up from "Reindeer":26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjkOejWVNU6
"4-Hotel, we're taking you three to the field hospital. Come along now."
The two levies stare a little dumbfounded at the red-nosed bot as their exhaustion requires them time to calibrate their thoughts. A couple nods and a weak "yeah" from Burlach later, and the four are walking along (with the fifth enjoying the ride).
"Fuck me," the orbital dropper says with less audible exhaustion than the other two people, "Can't believe we're not dead meat." He's looking at the bleak sky and lets out a sigh of relief like he'd been holding it in the whole battle. His smile is genuine, a big one with his eyes crinkled a bit. He cocks his head at Burlach, "Good job on the radio. I'm impressed you can remember that shit from your basic. Not many irregulars can do the same!"
An awkward laugh from Burlach, "Ah... aha... yeah," she clears her parched throat, "Um, I used the radio a few times in civic duty. The cops in the Secretariat chat the same way as this army."
"Do they..." the dropper shifts his head back in a "huh" manner, then knocks his head back down to look at Burlach, "You from there?"
"No... I'm from Cap-1. Part of the tribute."
"Oh, I seee..." He lets the "ee" sound travel a bit before continuing. "And you," he nods up his head towards the quiet levyman, "What's your deal?"
"A'so Cap one trib," Letterman quips while looking at the ground with drooped shoulders. His exhaustion is apparent.
"Damn, how many did the brass take from you guys?"
"By now..." Burlach answers the dropped, "a couple billion from Cap-1 and some hundreds million from the other Caps. I hear Cap 3 had a full mobilization of all healthy adults. Most of them died by now, I bet... I think something like two-and-a-half billion dead from Cap 3 alone?"
"Wowwwww," the dropper trails off his word again.
"You?"
"Huh?"
"Where are you from?"
The dropper ponders for a few seconds. "Well, I'm what you'd call 'internal.' Grew up in the army. My pa was an NCO in the Foot, an MSG, and my ma was a Bombardier."
"Was?"
"I've been frozen on-and-off, so who knows if they're alive, frozen, or dead right now. Part of the job of the regulars." His light grin has a hint of pride.
"Oh..." Burlach thinks before saying, but, well, she wants to know. "So, is, like, the cult thing real?"
"HAH!" The dropper laughs until he coughs up blood. His smile doesn't go away.
"Problematic," Reindeer says through their mouth-speaker, "We need you checked A-sap. Internal hemorrhaging of the lungs is not uncommon among orbital drop troopers if you've been off juice for long enough."
"Ack." The dropper spits to the side straight bullseye into a collapsed foxhole in the mud. "Nah, last drink was an hour ago... right before the first shots began." The smile is still there. The pain-blocking is genetically engineered, not from the juice. No matter how hard he tries, the dropper can't feel a darn bit of pain. The juice addiction is also genetically engineered, applied to every regular trooper in the stellar armies. It's for obedience. For dependence on his superiors.
"damn.." Letterman mutters to himself, "only 'n hou'... fel' like eterni'y..." Burlach wraps an arm around Letterman and mutters as well, a little "same" and "good to be alive?" and other small encouragements. She thinks he's a new recruit? Maybe, but it's hard to remember faces when she's witnessed them all get literally defaced and destroyed. She's a little shook, but she thinks he's shook more. She hopes she can help him calm down a bit, but she knows it's nowhere near easy...
"Understood." Reindeer continues their concern with the dropper. "Does your breathing feel heavy?"
"Nah, nah, I'm all good. Just mah legs, hah." The dropper smiles still even if the bot can't see it with him on their back. Reindeer can, of course, thanks to their 360-degree video input.
"Well, take it easy. Perhaps conversation can wait."
"Damn, alright." The dropper huffs a little.
"Um," Burlach awkwardly pats down her hair and twiddles a lock between her fingers, "Sorry for the question, trooper."
"Hooker."
"What?"
The dropper grins brighter, literally brighter since his unnaturally bright, white teeth almost shine straight through the dreary atmosphere. "Name's Hooker. Yeah, really. Probably after my great-grandma or somethin', hah!" Another cackle and spit of blood.
"Oh, good to meet you..." As Burlach trails off her "yewww," Letterman side-eyes the orbital dropper, a little surprised that the dropper is stereotypically crude for a regular trooper.
"Lance Corporal Hooker."
"Uh, yeah, Lance Corporal..."
The orbital dropper chuckles to himself until he's interrupted by another few light coughs. He manages, "You?"
"Senior Irregular Burlach."
"Good to meetcha." Hooker next nods at Letterman, "You?"
Burlach taps Letterman on the shoulder. He says, "Lettamin. I-R-B. ... 's 'at the meds?" Letterman points at a seemingly empty stretch of land, if not for the heads poking up out of trenches and the shimmer of an intact sky-shield blanketing the area. He turns to the bot next to him, looking at the bot for confirmation while pointing.
"Yes," says "Gut," short and simply through a raspy speaker.
"Finally..." Burlach says what's on the three humans' minds as she and the others breathe out yet another sigh of relief.
"Yeah, by the way," Hooker says, looking at Burlach, "The cult thing's pretty real. Blood and all that." His smile is empty this time, his eyes not crinkled in that way he did before. A line of blood-spit dribbles down his chin.
"Really?"
"Yeah... not the whole shebang, but most of what you heard is probably true for about half of us. Levies don't really get to see it since you guys aren't perma troops and don't get frozen."
"Oh... so, even the Atriarch worship?"
"Yeah, but I haven't met the fellas myself. I'd like to see what's good before getting involved, ya know?" Hooker thinks that an irregular levy might not get it. But while Hooker's patron Atriarch might sound godlike, he only believes what his eyes and ears tell him to believe in. The bastard hasn't even shown themself to their troopers yet, so why praise a master's absence like a child hugging their absent dad when he returns from buying some smokes?
"Oh..." Burlach realises she's said 'oh' quite a few times. "... okay..." She corrects the 'oh' into an 'okay.'
"We are here," Gut says with a crackle in their audio.
Burlach nods at what she assumes is the bot's face, a W-shape below two painted cat eyes with bright blue teardrops at their bottoms.
The group of synthetic and organic beings stop their trudging at the top of a trench, then hop down. A medical team greets them. Gut tells the three patients that a message was sent earlier for expediency. Letterman is the one to say, "thanks'ye," to the bots when he an Burlach follow the medics into a bunker as Hooker is carried off on a stretcher.
Reindeer and Gut get back to work. They have to catch up to their battle buddies. They're gone in the blink of an eye, running at uncanny speeds.
Burlach and Letterman will be healthy. After thorough examination by the medics and a few nurses, Burlach is patched up from a few pellet-holes and a shallow-but-dangerously-close-to-a-major-artery cut in her arm while Letterman is shown to be shaken but only needing rest. After being patched up, Burlach joins Letterman in the long walk to the backline bunkrooms. Another few troopers join them and they all idly chat away. They paint to each other a grim picture of dissolving frontlines and orders for a general fallback to the next line of defenses. But despair can wait for another day.
In another bunker, a surgeon works on Hooker, focusing on his legs. Hyperfocusing. Then notices once it's too late. No plasma or blood on hand; used it all on the mass casualties two waves back. Hooker will die in half an hour from internal hemorrhaging. It had been five hours since the first shots began. He had misremembered the time.
Eventually, Burlach and Letterman will forget Hooker after a few more deployments. They haven't know him for long.
A/N: TERMINOLOGY:
-Actual: "leader"
4-Hotel-Actual: leader of the 4th Platoon in H-Troop/Company (a Lieutenant in the case of the Army Infantry)
A.I.: artificial intelligence; all A.I. are conventionally referred to with feminine pronouns (she/her), except Uno which is conventionally treated like an animal (it/its, sometimes they/them/their)
"Alpha 4-Hotel Sierra-2 Bravo": Battalion A, H-Troop/Company, 4th Platoon, S-2 (Seniority-2 pay grade (Infantryman in the case of the Army Infantry, or Senior Irregular for Irregulars)); the soldier's surname begins with a B (Burlach)
Alpha Overwatch-Actual: radio liaison between on-ground troops and Battalion A leader, overwatch usually refers to an orbital contingent
A-TAC: Analogue Talk-Around Channel, analogue is what A.I. call conventional radio frequencies, a talk-around channel is an exclusive channel for less traffic so as not to clog up the main channels with chatter
Atriarchy: gender-neutral Matriarchy/Patriarchy, led by the "Atriarchs", a grouping of Matriarchs and Patriarchs
Caretaker: human-friendly A.I. administrator in connection with Mother network
I-R-B: Irregular Basic (abbr. IRB)
Gen.5/6/7: modern (within last few thousand years) robot chassis and consciousnesses with greater limitations upon conscious freedoms than previous generations but more streamlined, better, cross-generation, inter-model chassis and hardware compatibility and thus working better in physical space than digital space; there are no Gen.5+ network administrators
Gen.950/Gen.1025-200: generation of A.I. referral languages, with Gen.950 being the conventional language for modern inter-A.I. communication and Gen.1025 being a more muted and stoic variant of modern language, while newer generations (~Gen.1100+) expand upon human-like language interpretation and communication
generational reading: A.I. generations are single-digit thus far and are expected to only reach up to or less than 100 generations before the death of the universe, so language generations are referred to in increments of 25 starting at 150 with Gen.150 being the last generation of Earthling languages
Mother: human-friendly A.I. administrator, also refers to Mother's A.I. network that includes sapient units produced by Mother & Caretaker
Mother-Actual: refers to Mother's combat operation radio speaker & receiver, usually a partial instance of Mother's main brain, sometimes a direct connection to Mother's main brain
NCO: non-commissioned officer
SPAAG: Self-Propelled Anti-Aircraft Gun
"subj.yr. according to I.S.E.R.C. Committee":
Uno: wild A.I. admin that acts without sapience nor sentience and a hardcoded objective or 'instinct' to consume and multiple using any means necessary, sometimes referred to as "Gen.0" or "Gen.-1" due to superstition among A.I. that saying Uno's name will invoke it to prey upon them
Unotech: wild A.I. network, also refers to products of Uno/Unotech, such as fleshy cyborg abominations26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbClzwDCHSk
