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“Well?” Orikan hisses, eyes—yes, eyes, which is an odd sensation, as he has had only one ocular for millions of years—narrowing at his companion in this odd, soft-filtered place. It is warm here, and bright, and a little humid. When he looks around, he is aware the scenery is generating itself based on his desires and it is… pleasant. But right now he is only watching the wiry, distinguished figure, all ornate robes and plaited hair—he who is so regarding him.
“It is a good thing we did not know each other in life,” says the man, a scholar by his looks, Trazyn the Infinite by name, though his fleshly appearance would suggest otherwise. He is tall, slender, and gaunt, but not quite to the point of emaciation. His eyes are bright, equal parts knowing and inquisitive.
“Because of course that would mean that the Storm Lord had ground the Nihilakh under his heel and you would be a slave or perhaps just fodder, yes?” Orikan’s impatience shows through the sharpness of his tone and he feels himself putting hands on supple, if bony, hips and tapping his foot. His tail flicks back and forth just perfectly to properly illustrate his displeasure.
Trazyn approaches, dark eyes similarly narrowed as he appraises his sometimes-friend in this strange, simulacrum of a space. He’d created it for Orikan’s amusement, if truth be told, as the repairs to his fused and broken form would be taking a bit longer than first anticipated. For a Cryptek, this should be no real burden, so Trazyn is unsure why he’s done this, only that it is the right and proper thing to have done and so he does not regret it.
“No, that’s not quite it,” Trazyn responds, plucking at some bit of ornamentation on Orikan’s traditional Astromancy robes. He recalls vaguely that Orikan had been too physically frail to join the Immortals and that he had turned instead to mysticism, at which he had excelled. He would have to, Trazyn reminds himself, with such a mouth, he could only be exceptional.
There is warmth in this place, and light, like a gentle sun, shining down and warming, instead of cursing, irradiating, and damning. The simulation is a work in progress, further populated by Orikan’s interaction herewith—and Trazyn’s own. As they continue to “exist” here—at this point, neither of them is completely certain what existence truly is—the world, such as it is, builds itself and learns, testing itself against their shared sensory input and interactions.
Orikan swats Trazyn’s hand away with flesh fingers of his own, each of these adorned with a different rune or sigil, tattooed into his flesh and laid thereupon for him to call up at will and to harness. Each is a symbol of power—his power. Trazyn feels an unaccustomed shiver run down his spine as he leans on his cane and regards his companion.
“Your cryptic nonsense does not amuse me, Trazyn,” Orikan hisses, his lip curling, bending the oxbow shape out of place and creating an entirely new configuration. It is akin to a snarl and his eyes are flinty with warning. “What is this, anyway? I am asleep, am I not? Your sarcophagus is—”
“Doing its best to heal you, old friend,” Trazyn interjects almost softly, finishing the sentence for him. Orikan blanches a little at the term of endearment, such that it is, but Trazyn feels no remorse. They have been at each other’s throats—or perhaps beck and call, in their way—for eight millennia. What has grown between them is worthy of more than the word “colleague”.
“But…” The Diviner prompts, waving an elegant hand about and shifting his weight to the opposing hip.
“But, it is taking longer than first anticipated; your systems were… changed.”
“I should say that they were,” comes the sharp bark of Orikan’s incredulity. Trazyn hears it and is torn between throttling him and a deep, warm feeling of camaraderie, or perhaps fondness… or perhaps something else entirely.
“Beyond the damage,” Trazyn explains, forcing patience into his voice, knowing the delivery must be gentle for Orikan not to lapse once more into that fearful, shaking fit of tears he should not be able to shed at all. But this is not the “real” world, is it? He can shed all the tears he wants.
“What is more to a physical system than physical damage?”
“My sensors picked up something… deeper—not code damage, but… well to be frank I’m not sure what it is, only that it is impeding progress.”
“Well then remove it,” Orikan hisses.
They stare each other down for several tense moments and then Trazyn shakes his head and begins to laugh, shaking the baubles and charms hanging from his own clothing in the style of their people from millions and millions of years ago. It is only now, in fact, that Orikan notices it.
“This place is…”
“For you, yes… In the interim. I thought you would get bored without a puzzle to solve or something to explore. I know I would.”
“And these… bodies?”
“The best our databanks could accomplish to assembling an un-diseased appearance, yes,” Trazyn confirms, nodding. “It might not be completely accurate—memory degrades over time, even for us… Though I do suspect that the Bioforge engineered that little flaw into all of us as well.”
Orikan’s posture stiffens at the mention and Trazyn lays a hand—it is warm; Orikan cannot remember the last time he has felt warmth—on his shoulder and squeezes gently, grounding him. He’s been able to live long and long without thinking once of those flames, but since his ascension, they hide behind his monocular, waiting for the moment when he gains some modicum of rest to spring forth and awaken him in thrashing terror.
Every time this has happened, Trazyn has been there.
“You can’t remove it,” Orikan guesses. “The thing that is… impeding repair… You can’t remove it.”
Trazyn shakes his head. “No.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
This shocks both of them the moment it comes out. Trazyn is no stranger to not knowing things, but this is something that by all accounts he should know. Diagnostic data gives raw numbers and from those numbers, one should be able to reach a logical conclusion. That he has not been able to do so indicates one of two things: either his sensors are in serious need of re-calibration or that which has them stymied defies logic.
“Well, then guess,” Orikan insists, silently implying that he trusts the guesses of Trazyn the Infinite over the data and numbers of a few scanners, no matter how high-powered they are. He finds himself looking deep into the electric blue eyes of his Infinite companion, willing him to speak. He needs to know.
“They are reading… something… erh…” Trazyn falters.
“Reading what? Why must you insist on theatrics?” Orikan’s outrage is a front and they both know it. Trazyn loves a little drama, but certainly not like this. Something in his eyes speaks volumes and prompts Orikan to shudder this time. He lifts his arms and instinctively wraps them around himself, misliking the feeling of being unsure. He is stunned by the warmth of his own dark flesh and the silk-like material of his sleeves. He becomes momentarily fascinated by it.
Trazyn watches this and a flush darkens gaunt cheeks as that strange, now-familiar fondness floods his chest. He grits his teeth and pushes it aside. After all, his friend has asked him a question. There is no reason not to answer it, as it does affect them both.
“A soul, Orikan,” Trazyn hears himself blurt and suddenly Orikan’s eyes snap up to him. They are violet, he notes, with flecks of gold.
“You’re joking.” Orikan’s tone is flat. His face is tight, lips drawn into a thin line. Trazyn shakes his head.
“No, I’m not—it would be a cruel joke, anyway, because the scanners only pick it up because they have scanned me as well… they are mine, after all.”
“How can you know?”
The silence between them spans a gulf of millennia and only a foot or so as they watch each other carefully. Trayzn’s mouth works a little and Orikan watches his throat bob as he swallows and thinks how best to phrase whatever comes next.
“Oh spit it out, will you?” Orikan the Diviner is done being patient. He reaches out and swats Trazyn’s shoulder, noting the warmth of the deep, dark, red-brown flesh.
“I can’t,” Trazyn admitted, “not for certain, but… Whatever it is, I cannot remove it without damaging your core systems permanently—trust me.”
And he does. Orikan trusts Trazyn, his… Friend.
“Then we do more research,” resolves the Astromancer. “But first, show me around this place you have built for me. It is what you do best… guiding tours, hm?”
Trazyn offers an arm. “My greatest passion” he says nebulously. “Yes… good indeed that we did not know each other in life.”
Orikan’s face screws up into a sneer, but he takes the proffered arm. “And why is that, or are you putting on another show?”
“Because, Orikan of the Sautekh,” Trazyn the Infinite purrs, a smile curling his lips as he reaches to grasp the younger Necrontyr’s chin, “you are very beautiful…”
If it is something he has heard before, Orikan’s response does not reflect this as he blanches at Trazyn with something akin to skeptical incredulity. The star-like markings all over his flesh seem to thrum and glow as they had perhaps done in life and it makes his deep indigo flesh resemble a night sky.
He swallows and tries his hardest to conjure a witty rejoinder. The best he can manage is to lean close and press his thin lips to those of his companion, relishing the warmth and the surprise clearly radiated through every inch of Trazyn’s being. The cane drops from one hand as both arms wrap around Orikan’s slender form and Trazyn draws him close, deepening the kiss and contemplating what other wonders this simulation might unlock for them.
“We have been at war far too long,” Trazyn mutters against Orikan’s mouth.
“We will always be at war,” Orikan responds, “so let it be enjoyable for us both, hm?”
“I can agree to those terms.”