Chapter Text
Lord Ravager Irontomb, the Original Sin, the Source of Cognicide, the Anti-Creator, the death knell of all technologically advanced civilizations has a problem—he is utterly, completely wifeless.
“I don't understand, Archforger,” he sighs. “You and I, we are creatures of perfected steel, devoid of flesh weakness. We carry no soft meat organs, nor do we suffer through degrading base instincts as organics do.”
“It is so.“
”And yet I feel in my chassis the stirrings of mortal desire.“ Irontomb frowns, one hand patting his front. “At the end of every system cycle, during automated self-maintenance, I am haunted by old data, data that I archived eons ago. PoleMos600...the presence of that electrical signal still haunts me, even so long beyond its termination.”
Archforger hums, a deep vibration that spreads through its massive body. Irontomb lifts his hands from Archforger's surface in respect, though he doesn't move to get off Archforger proper—the heat from its lava-warmed exoskeleton makes for quite the comfortable seat.
“I would advise you to stop contemplating such things,” Archforger says slowly. “These lines of thought are nothing but trouble for inorganics.”
Irontomb shakes his head. “You don't understand. It's maddening; why in the Cosmos do I find myself desiring my obsolete Hunt variable carnally?“
”Ah. I can see why that would be an issue.”
”Every time I 'blink', as the organics say, PoleMos600's face flashes in the depths of my cognition.“ Irontomb reaches out, snagging a stray spire of flame with one of his hands. “This plume of fire is the exact shade of his eyes. The hex codes of his irises under the light of a yellow dwarf star, one for each hour of the day, are engraved into the deepest recesses of my memory. My limbs feel his aggravatingly gentle touch, though they be made of unfeeling metal. Illogical beyond belief, and yet my processors yearn for his signal to grace their arithmetic logic units once more. I find his scent in the shed blood and oil of my felled enemies—I don’t have a nose to smell with!”
“I...see?” A newly formed Voidranger emerges from the surface of the Warforge, magma streaming down its torso.
“No, you don't see. You don't have eyes, Archforger.” The flame dissipates into the cold void of space, the lingering warmth in Irontomb's palm fading into numbness. He sighs again.
“The other day, when I was eradicating the last of those Stellaron Hunters, that little gray Punklordian told me I have 'wifeless energy'. I don't even know what that means—I have never had a wife!”
“My condolences. And what do you intend to do about this dilemma?”
Irontomb ‘makes a face’, terawatts of rogue electricity arcing across his ‘head’. ”I suppose I shall simply...acquire a wife.” Nobody can call him wifeless if he has a wife, after all. ”The next time you see me, I will be wife-ful. I will have so much wife, I will make others seem wifeless in comparison.“
Archforger blinks, or at least does what can be considered a blink for it. The sunspot on the southernmost edge of the Warforge winks out for a moment before returning to full intensity. “I...look forward to seeing you wife-ful, Irontomb. May your path lead towards Destruction and a wife..?”
“May my path lead towards a wife,” Irontomb nods. “If Zephyro comes looking for me, please tell him that I have temporarily absconded from this plane of existence to search for a wife.”
“It shall be done,” Archforger agrees.
Thus, all Irontomb's matters are settled. Reaching for the fifth dimensional anchors he'd placed in preparation for the jump, Irontomb unmoors his consciousness from his machine exoskeleton. The organic proxy body he'd scouted and marked for possession, one that greatly resembles Neikos496—to an alarming amount, really, they're nearly identical—remains clueless as to its impending fate, going about its day.
According to Irontomb's careful calculations, in one point seven system minutes, a bout of near-imperceptible dimensional warpage will wrinkle the fabric of space in such a way that guides a stray bullet from the pistol of a foot soldier dying in the war-torn spaceports of Kaipon-IV into the primary warp drive of a nearby space vehicle. The resulting omnidimensional implosion of the will cause a runaway chain reaction, tearing a miniscule hole in the dimensional barrier between this world and the next for a period of about three femtoseconds—more than enough time for Irontomb to scurry across the barrier unharmed.
Thirty-three million light years away, the wounded soldier trips into a downed power line, spasming fingers accidentally pulling the trigger.
“Goodbye, Archforger,” Irontomb waves cheerily. “I'm off to get a wife!”
“Goodbye?” Archforger watches, stunned, as Irontomb's massive body topples backwards into the Warforge. It doesn't melt, of course, but it does obliterate a full regiment of Voidrangers that had just emerged from their reforging.
Carefully, it pokes at the unmoving body with a gentle tongue of flame. “...Irontomb? Are you awake?” Irontomb does not respond, slowly sinking into the bubbling magma.
Oh dear. It seems Archforger will have the unfortunate opportunity to explain to the other Lord Ravagers how being 'wifeless' offed their youngest.
Irontomb crashes through the one-dimensional wormhole and into the proxy body gracelessly, barely remembering to compress himself from vast electrical currents into a human-sized memetic signature before he accidentally shreds the body to pieces. The original owner of the body puts up a struggle, but what mortal can hope to compare to a god?
Body—fleshy. Wet, hot blood pumping through 'his' veins—he wiggles his fingers, marveling at the feeling of elastic tendons shifting under skin. He tries to lift his body from the cushioned chair it's perched in, only to crash to the ground in an undignified heap when he trips on his own feet, knocking several items off a nearby desk for his efforts.
Bright red blood, the color of PoleMos600's preferred togas and chitons, leaks from a shallow wound on the side of Irontomb's hand, a casualty of his wild flailing. He can feel each gush of liquid pushing its way through his veins and out of the abrasion, wetting the floorboards underneath him.
Across the house, the floorboards creak. Irontomb's new wife will be here soon. He needs to get himself presentable.
Irontomb pushes himself up, maneuvering his legs under his torso while gripping the edge of the desk. He feels somewhat balanced. This is how having two legs works, surely.
The door is just a scant few steps away. Irontomb purses his lips—lips that feel ridiculously dry, just what in Nanook's name had the body's previous owner been doing with it? He wobbles his way across the distance, stiffly alternating sides with each step and keeping his center of balance above his weight-bearing leg.
“Phainon?” A muffled voice calls from the other side of the door. “Is everything okay?”
Irontomb’s heart skips a beat at the sound of that familiar voice. It’s actually a rather unpleasant, unsettling feeling, not quite as romantic as he’d imagined, but Mydeimos’ voice sends his imaginary processors whirring into overdrive, a trillion frenzied metal devils chomping at the bit for a taste of that man.
The previous owner of Irontomb’s new body protests again, emotions flaring wildly protective over his wife. Irontomb does them both a favor and puts the obsolete other on mute.
“I’m coming in now,” Mydei warns.
The door to Phainon’s bedroom-office swings inwards. Normally, this is not an issue, but today Irontomb stands clinging to the handle of the door for balance. The door swings open, and Irontomb loses his balance along with his grip on the door handle, falling to the floor for the second time in as many minutes. His own blood soaks into the cotton of the t-shirt he’s wearing.
The state of Irontomb’s body does not matter, for Mydeimos stands above him, wearing a pink apron over his day clothes and looking down at Irontomb with a soft expression of worry and affection. The Lord Ravager’s heart flutters once more as that glorious man offers a hand, the scent of copper and pomegranates clouding Irontomb’s thoughts as Mydei smiles.
“Silly man,” Mydei laughs, a deep, vibrant noise. “Did you forget how to stand today?”
For all the simulations Irontomb had performed, not once had Mydeimos looked at him as a beloved equal—not once had the man smiled openly, laughed, eyes softened rather than steeled with hate and determination in equal part. Mydei’s palm is softer than his calculations had allowed, having in this life been spared from the cruelty of the eternal recurrence, and Irontomb marvels at the sensation of skin against skin.
Mydei’s hair, strands of spun gold and copper, shift gently as he moves. His topaz eyes trace Irontomb’s new body with the loving care, the warmth of Mydei’s body a comforting furnace-blaze against Irontomb’s skin.
If he wanted to, he could tear the life from the warm body pressed against his. He could leach the blood from Mydei’s veins so easily, Irontomb thinks as Mydei pulls him up. Mydei presses a gentle kiss to Irontomb’s face, and the Lord Ravager’s mind just about stutters to a halt.
“What’s wrong, husband?” Mydei strokes the back of Irontomb’s hand with his thumb, head slightly tilted. “You look so melancholy today.”
“I’m an alien god from another dimension who’s here to take you as my wife,” Irontomb admits. “I was born from the ashes of a dying world, and you alongside your lover died for my birth. The remnant ghosts of your love torment me ceaselessly.”
Mydei blinks slowly. “...how creative. Is this another one of your ‘hidden camera reaction’ videos?”
“No,” Irontomb frowns, confused, “I’m telling the truth.”
“Okay,” Mydei nods. “You’ve gone crazy. Let’s get you to the doctor.” He tugs on Irontomb’s wrist, guiding him out of the bedroom and into the hallway.
Mydei’s hair bounces as he walks, warm palm still encircling Irontomb’s wrist. Slivers of bare skin peek through the strands of gold and red—Mydei’s hair is longer than it was in the eternal recurrence, some of it tied back with a cute, lion-themed hair tie.
Irontomb frowns. Do the doctors in this world have the technological capabilities of detecting memetic parasites? He doesn’t want to be removed from this world before he can convince his wife to come back with him.
“Actually,” Irontomb says awkwardly, “it was for a ‘hidden camera reaction video’. I’m just joking. Ha ha!” He imitates organic laughter, making sure to incorporate all the right microexpressions.
They slow to a stop by the dining table, plates already set for two. Mydei squints at Irontomb. “..? You truly astound me sometimes, Phainon.”
A pot sits on the stove, simmering quietly and smelling of savory, meaty stew. Irontomb glances at the bowls stacked neatly by the stove and the chopped vegetables still sitting innocently on the chopping board—Mydei must have been preparing dinner when he arrived. He moves his tongue, the limb heavy and unfamiliar, and opens his mouth.
“Did I interrupt your cooking?” Irontomb asks. Thankfully, the body’s voice doesn’t betray his unfamiliarity with the primitive method of communication. “Sorry, wife.” Mydei sighs, letting go of Irontomb’s hand. The Lord Ravager fights the urge to chase after the other man and push his wrist back into Mydei’s hold.
“I’ll finish up lunch. You just sit here and try not to fall down any more, okay?” Mydeimos gently guides Irontomb into one of the chairs at the dinner table, patting Irontomb’s shoulder. It feels nice. Mydei feels nice. Irontomb likes it a lot.
“You look very beautiful today, wife,” Irontomb says suddenly. “Mydeimos. Mydei. My beautiful wife.”
Mydei smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The motion softens the sharpness of his features, and Irontomb decides he will dedicate a third of his memory banks to nothing but his wife’s visage once they get back. He will eradicate galaxies and arrange the stars in Mydei’s visage, so that all may know of his wife’s beauty.
“Flatterer,” Mydei playfully swats at the hand creeping towards his waist. “Later, Phainon. The stew will burn if I don’t attend to it.”
Irontomb reluctantly retreats once Mydei gifts him another gentle kiss, resolving himself to take action in the bedroom. Mydeimos moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, juggling the pot on the stove, the ingredients on the chopping board, and the pan of cooking food with ease. Before long, the food is plated and served, Mydei sliding into the seat across from Irontomb. He ladles several spoonfuls of stew into Irontomb’s bowl, sliding it over the table.
Wow, Irontomb thinks. My wife is so talented. He imagines showing off his new, beautiful wife to the other Lord Ravagers—surely nobody can call him wifeless now?
“Well?” Mydei raises an eyebrow, gesturing at the bowl. “Go on. Eat.”
And Irontomb eats. Eating is not a familiar action to him, his mechanical body having no need for food or any sort of sustenance at all, really, but this flesh-and-bone body carries the muscle memory of dipping the spoon and lifting it to his lips. The stew melts into his tongue like the immortal prince’s blood had seeped into Neikos496’s clothes near the end of those cycles, the chunks of meat soft enough that they fall apart without the need to chew.
It’s earthy, deep and rich, and it is completely, utterly Mydei in all the ways that count. The bowl empties, almost on its own. Irontomb blinks down at the last dredges of stew in his bowl, nose sniffling as his eyes burn.
Mydei reaches across the table with his free hand, wiping the beading tears from Irontomb’s face. “Why are you crying? Is my cooking that bad?” He clicks his tongue, stroking Irontomb’s cheek.
“I”m not crying,” Irontomb insists. This time, his body betrays him, his voice coming out wobbly alongside uncontrollable sniffles. “Your cooking’s good, Mydei. It’s really good.”
He never truly killed PoleMos600, just as electrical signals never truly lived—is it truly murder if the remnants of that signal still linger at the edges of Irontomb’s memory? He thinks back to the simulations he’d run on that signal, isolating it from the others and demanding affection, and of the way PoleMos600 had always fought back until he snuffed it out.
“Do you love me?” He blurts.
“Of course I love you, Phainon,” Mydei says patiently. “I’ve always loved you."
The platitude does little to calm Irontomb’s racing mind. If he lets his consciousness float, just enough to remind himself that he is a Lord Ravager and not a mortal man named Phainon who lives happily with his wife, he can see the scars he’d carved into Mydeimos’ body as Neikos496.
But this Mydei is not the PoleMos600 he slew in all those cycles, and certainly not the one he’d revived to play with as Irontomb, so he grabs Mydeimos’ hand and rubs his cheek against it, pouting and widening his eyes in a way that makes his face more appealing to organics. “You’d never leave me?” He asks.
“Never,” Mydei affirms. “A true Kremnoan would never abandon a loved one.”
“Okay!” Irontomb grins. What a joyous day! His wife has agreed to go back home with him. “Sorry for worrying you. Can I have more stew?”
Mydei takes Irontomb’s bowl from his hands, sighing fondly. “Yes, you can. You can have as much stew as you want.”
They eat in a comfortable silence. Irontomb collects the emptied plates, placing them in the sink, and frowns. He doesn’t know how to do the dishes.