Chapter Text
Taylor wakes from what feels like ordinary sleep to completely unfamiliar surroundings. She looks around as an upright pod of some sorts opens in front of her. Her pod is in a circular room, surrounded by some 20 pods, some empty, others occupied. As she makes her way out, she takes stock of herself: black spider-silk superhero costume, mask with its yellow bug-eyes. This feels normal until memories resurface. She hasn't worn this costume for about two years, since she surrendered to the PRT. It's not her Weaver suit – she remembers that one being in tatters by the end – but it is the one she wore as Skitter. A hand moving at her hip discovers the monomolecular knife given to her by Armsmaster, still sheathed in an appropriate hilt. She narrows her eyes. Anachronistic attire, anachronistic weaponry, anachronistic settings.
She searches her memories for what happened – she was Taylor Hebert, eighteen years old. She'd gained powers at fifteen, joined a villain gang, turned herself in to the PRT, then trained for two grueling years to stop the end of the world. Her world, all the worlds, Dinah Alcott had said. Didn't help. Scion was driven mad by Jack Slash, though all the thinkers had said it would have happened anyway. And then... they fought him... and then...
Then Taylor wakes up and finds herself in a round room, finding herself in a pod in an anachronistic setting. There was one thing that fit. The Slaughterhouse Nine clones. Except Jack was dead. Scion had killed him first, perhaps ironically, perhaps not. But there were plenty of Bonesaws running around. Fuck. Well, if she is a clone, they did too good a job recreating her memories.
She scans her surrounding to see if the others in the pods are recognizable. They aren't.
Several things stand out to her. She wonders if Panacea gave her perfect vision as a freebie for the battle with Scion; her memories of his rampage remain murky. But she notices immediately the size discrepancy. Three stand at about two-and-a-half meters and are slabs of muscle, well-proportioned though. Not triplets –their faces are distinct enough to tell. They wear simple linen tunics. All of them narrow their eyes at each other.
Then there are the normal humans. For a definition of normal. There are three men not wearing those linen tunics. Two are dressed regally, in black with red highlights. One has a sword that immediately screams tinkertech to her mind, a black, slithery thing. He looks like someone had given Draco Malfoy a kingdom to rule. He has white hair and a severe, long face. The other, too, has white hair, is dressed similarly, and has what a silvery steel sword strapped to his back. They both have purple eyes.
The third sports black curly hair and grey eyes, is dressed like a Scandinavian cosplayer, with a greatsword strapped to his back, sleek and black, slithery in appearance, that instantly registers as tinkertech to her.
The remaining four are all dressed in simple linen as well. One is a woman with a severe face and hair and eyes the color of congealed blood. Scars from... something are visible on her arms and across the upper part of her chest. One of the two men wearing linen stands out as an oddity all on his own. Another tinker – or tinker-augmented, but she's willing to bet the former – missing his jaw entirely. Red bionics replace his natural eyes, with various port-holes circling his neck where machinery should be but isn't. The third is a woman with a severe face, one eye replaced by a bionic implant, black hair tied back with a rough metal cord behind her head. The final one appears ordinary, perhaps in his thirties, with nothing particularly distinctive about him.
All eleven stand together, eyeing each other wearily. Taylor breaks the silence. "What's going on?"
One of the giants – for what else can she call him? – answers bemusedly. "I know as little as you, my lady. We were off to be taken for "information gathering" and execution, and now here we are, free. Perhaps the wretched Inquisition is playing a game with us?"
Taylor scans her surroundings carefully. The three giants and the three men in linen know exactly what is being discussed. Taylor, however, along with the armored figures, does not know anything about it. The fourth man, his face like carved stone, knows, or at least suspects, something.
"It looks like not all of us are on the same page," Taylor speaks for the four who remain in the dark. "What is this Inquisition and what do they want with us? Why would they kill us after we answer their questions?" She'd noticed that the giant had stressed "information gathering", he'd made it clear it meant torture.
"How about introductions first? You may call me Ciro."
"Khepri," Taylor says, then blinks. She'd meant to say 'Taylor'. "I meant... Khepri." She grinds out. "What the fuck? Why can't I say my name?" Ciro raises an eyebrow.
One of the giants ignores her fumbling, introducing himself. "Babaroth."
The Draco Malfoy-look-alike has had enough. "I am Daemon Targaryen, son of King Jaehaerys Targaryen, King-Consort of Westeros." He says with forced composure.
The other white-haired man draws himself to attention as well. "I am Aemond Targaryen, son of King Viserys Targaryen, Prince of Westeros."
The black-haired man gulps. As the only ones besides her still wearing non-linen clothes, there must be some link between them, and his reaction clinches it in her mind. He gathers the courage to speak as well. "I am Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, loyal vassal of King Robert Baratheon." The two white-haired men study him closely, but let the moment pass.
The jawless man looks downcast, sighing. Next, the red-haired woman introduces herself: "I have been called Kastala the Scarred." Taylor can see how that could have come to be. The third giant introduces himself as well. "You may call me Asrodel." The black-haired woman introduces herself next, angry that she didn't go first. "I am Nina Black, rightful heir of House Black." Finally, the last of those wearing linen speaks, after what looks like deliberate consideration. "You may call me Blank Shard."
Before anyone else speaks, Daemon blurts out: "We speak neither the common tongue of Westeros, nor Valyrian." Realization dawns on the three. Taylor notices too. "It's not English either." The last man – Blank Shard – nods. So he's like them. Why is he dressed in linen alongside the others, then? And the name, sounds like a cape name. The others have given plausible names, though some sound like they were plucked straight out of ancient tomes... or sci‑fi/fantasy novels.
"You speak High Gothic," Ciro says, then smirks at the blank stares on the faces of the four. "And you do not know what that is. Interesting..." Blank Shard's face has gone stony once more, yet there's also certainty in it. He knows. Taylor doesn't know what he knows—only that he's reached some kind of realization, and from the twitches on his face, he clearly isn't enjoying where they are.
Before she can ask another question, the red-haired woman stares directly at her: "A Golden one looks after you." Taylor freezes, then relaxes. Her passenger. That means, wherever they are, they must be on an Earth. Passengers stop giving powers outside Earth's atmosphere.
"Oh? Do we have an Imperial Saint among us?" Ciro asks with smooth glee, though there's a viciousness hidden beneath it. Taylor does not like the turn this is taking. She has to counterattack, fast. "What's this Empire? This Inquisition? I know the words, but they don't fit with what I know of them." Blank Shard has not reacted at the Imperial Saint remark. If anything, he seems more relaxed, accepting his situation. He knows where they are. The only one here who understands what 'English' means. The three Westerosi still stare blankly; not dumbly, though. It's obvious they are learning, but that they don't know what's going on at all. Before she can be answered, she looks Blank Shard in the eye. "21st century Earth?" He simply nods.
Satisfied, she turns her attention to the giants. It's obvious the men in cloth defer to them. Ciro answers sardonically, "So our friends do not know of the Imperium of Man, and its rotting Corpse-God they call the Emperor?"
"The Emperor?" Taylor asks, and something clicks. "I... know that name..." She frowns, and begins reciting. "For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor of Mankind has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the vast Imperium of Man for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day so that He may never truly die.
Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the Tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few."
Taylor trails off, looking at the... natives, she ventures. The people who know what she's talking about. They've frozen stiff, waiting for battle, as if she had just recited a battle chant... or a spell. Warp? Deathless? Psychic? "What was that?" Taylor asks. The others look at her. The Westerosi absorb everything, but her words haven't affected them as it did the others. Blank Shard is still looking at her like he knows. Jawless – it's crass, but she'll call him that until they find his name; even if she can't read this place's language – and she's not sure she can – the giants probably can – looks at her with wide eyes, borderline ecstasy... borderline fanaticism.
"It's not one of the Golden ones'." the red-haired women spits. "It is a different Golden being. And those words... did not attract anything from the Great Ocean." The others look at the two women, skeptical.
"Why can't I say my name? And why do I have... that text in my head? It feels like something that someone wrote down, and put it in my head." Taylor asks.
Ciro scratches his chin, although they're all alert of their surroundings. "Do you feel any... urges? Any hate when you mentioned the warp... or when you're looking at us? Ecstasy when you mentioned... Him on Terra?" Taylor narrows her eyes. She's not a stranger of master-stranger protocol, but... "No." She answers.
"And how do we know she's not a sleeper agent, programmed to tell the Inquisition our plans as soon as we're recaptured?" Asrodel asks.
"Can this Inquisition recreate my gear from my memories? My weapons?" She looks at the monomolecular knife. "Can I test this?" The others shrug. She goes to a metal wall, activates it and easily cuts through it. "If they wanted me to infiltrate you, wouldn't it be a dead giveaway to leave the gear on me?" She asks.
"Double, triple and multiple crosses are not out of the question," Ciro answers with a shrug, but concedes the floor.
"So where the hell are we?" Taylor asks. "We are on the prison barge the Chains of Judgement on our way to Scintilla, capital planet of the Calixis Sector." Those words mean nothing to Taylor, so she asks. "And how far is this Calixis Sector to Terra?" Ciro raises an eyebrow, but concedes that it is him who mentioned Terra in the first place. "Oh, a few tens of thousands of light-years, give or take." That's... that's a lot. The Westerosi don't seem to understand any of it. The natives don't seem to care. And Blank Shard... just watches, like a play whose players he already knows. Precognition? Thinker? Something else?
She turns to him. "Do you know us?"
Blank Shard slowly shakes his head. "I know... you. Or at least the name of a person wearing that suit. Those yellow bug-eyes are distinctive, and that name... Skitter, Weaver, Khepri. Am I correct?" Taylor nods, her lips dry. "I know some things – mostly hearsay, could be bad info, don't base decisions around what I know – about the Emperor, the Warp, the Imperium... if they are what I think they are..." He trails off. "Thinker? Precog?" Taylor asks. The man shakes his head slowly once again. "Neither. But I... think I'm a parahuman now. I... wasn't before. I'm not from... your homeworld, Bet." Taylor's lips continue to remain dry. "So, do you know anything to help us out?" She asks. "All I know is, if this is really an Inquisition plot, we're fucked. Those fuckers have the best gear in the Imperium, and technically speaking, can recruit its brightest minds. We wouldn't be fighting thinkers like on your homeworld, we'd be fighting natural geniuses whose minds are honed to battle and ruthlessness. All I know about the Calixis Sector is its name. I know literally nothing else about it. Did you... try your bugs?" He trails off uncertain.
The others are looking at them intrigued. So she tries to connect to bugs. She succeeded. Immediately, she notices something wrong. The insects are insects, yes, they see, they feel... and they're carrying germs they shouldn't. Some are bloated, some are rolling in filth, some are much too agile. She cuts the connection. "Fuck."
"What's wrong?" Ciro asks concerned. If she's gathered anything from him, it's that the concern is strictly for himself.
"I... can control insects. Could do it on my homeworld. And no, not with this warp thing of yours, we didn't have it there." The natives don't seem to believe her, but they don't interrupt her. Blank Shard does seem to believe her. Fuck. Ciro notices. It clicks immediately that Ciro is going to try to make Blank Shard his pocket crystal ball, as inaccurate as he may be. "But," she continues, ignoring the developing situation for now, "these insects were... strange. Extra eyes, some too fat, and all of them carry different strains of... I don't know. I left them alone, but they give an off feeling."
"Fuck," Ciro curses. "The Plague God got its hands into this... ah... ah ah ah..." It is not laughter, it is revelation. "If your senses tell truly, then this is not an Inquisitor trap after all. Are we in the warp, by any chance?" The red-haired woman nods. "Excellent! Then that means the Inquisitor would never dare to play his game while at the mercy of outside incursions. If this were an Inquisitorial game, it'd be on a nice warpless planet. That does mean we're free and this ship is potentially ours for the taking! Of course, there's always the risk of double or triple or multiple cross, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it." The natives nod hesitantly. Ciro is developing into a true leader. Taylor considers if she wants to usurp him, and if she can. That height and muscles aren't for show, and that reference to super-soldiers downloaded in her mind make her think of the three giants. Except...
"That quote I just gave..." the rest are looking at her curiously. "It said about the Astartes serving that Emperor. But you hate him. Why?"
"He betrayed us," Babaroth grunts.
"It is more complicated than that, but true, in a manner of speaking. You see, his favorite son..." starts Ciro, but then gives a look for Blank Shard to continue. "... Horus." Blank Shard reluctantly does so. Ciro continues "...was enlightened of the Primordial Truth, the Great Ocean, the true power and right of the warp over reality. The denizens of the warp showed him the truth, that only through communing with the warp, would humanity ascend. Furious, Horus sieged Holy Terra itself, the birthplace of humanity, taking fully half the Astartes made by the Emperor himself."
"And?" Taylor asks. It's obvious that besides her and the Westerosi, the others already know the broad strokes of this.
"Horus failed. Supposedly, the Emperor completely obliterated Horus' soul, but was grievously wounded in return and interred on the Golden Throne. Those who followed Horus fled into warp storms – places where reality as we know it and the warp overlap. Supposedly, humans can't survive completely submerged in the warp, but survival is more of a coin toss. Still, physically jumping in the warp is a last resort," Blank Shard says carefully. Ciro nods smiling, happy to see value in Blank Shard.
"Hold." Draco Malfoy-wannabe – Daemon – intervenes. "Let me clarify some things. We are on a "ship" that travels through this "warp", this "great ocean" of yours. If we leave this warp, will we surface upon the shores of Westeros?" The red-haired woman is stonefaced. It is obvious the giants are holding their mirth at bay.
"No, my good... King-Consort..." Ciro interjects smoothly, "We are not inside a sea of water on your world. We are in the black sea you look upon in the night sky, between the stars." Taylor notes the three men stiffen. Taylor notes Blank Shard does not. "And this warp, then?" Daemon continues carefully.
"Think of it as a magic sea that you can enter if you could cut a doorway with a magic knife. This ship has such a magic knife. The problem is, this magic sea is full of kraken, sharks and whales, who for millions of years have been eating each other and anything that enters unprotected. Our... companions, except perhaps the five of us, worship these kraken. In fact, you would best be served by thinking them as Iron Islanders who worship kraken. Many of them act like them too. Except, despite what they might tell you, and what they themselves might believe, the kraken and the sharks and the whales only care to eat them," Blank Shard answers. Ciro narrows his eyes, and finally replies. "A rather cynical view, friend."
"You wanted my "seer" abilities. This is what I see," Blank Shard shrugs.
"I have seen..." Kastala interrupts, "There is a great denizen of the Sea attached to the Golden being, looking upon us." This time, it is the natives' turn to stiffen. "And... another... somewhere... bound to flesh."
Ciro looks askance at Blank Shard. "I have no idea." Blank Shard shrugs. Ciro narrows his eyes. "I might as well tell you what I think my power is. Matter manipulation in some 50m radius. That might seem impressive, but I don't think I can do more than one or two things at a time. Maybe telekinetically move something, or maybe teleport bits of a wall some meters away from the wall. Or maybe mangle someone's heart from a distance." Blank Shard shrugs. "But I feel that I have 3-4 of those actions in me before I couldn't. And to be clear, it's not warp-based." Ciro raises an eyebrow. "So a trump card. At least you won't be completely helpless." If Blank Shard has recognized Ciro's interest, he hasn't shown it yet, as far as Taylor notices. It seems Blank Shard is more concerned about his current situation than being strong-armed like Dinah was. Although, if he can just mangle someone's heart, perhaps he's not wrong to not fear the giants.
"So what's our move?" Taylor asks.
"We take the ship, of course. We kill anyone who opposes us – and anyone still loyal to the Corpse-God, to be sure. Then we steer the ship to the Screaming Vortex." Ciro answers with joy.
"That is not a reassuring name. What is it?" Taylor asks carefully.
"A warp storm. But do not fear, my friends. There are normal, real-space planets there. Certainly, some are... changed, but most are completely livable and safe." Ciro answers smoothly. Babaroth grunts. "The sly talker is right about this. Warp storms aren't as dangerous as they sound once you're in real-space. Technically, they're not more dangerous for ships in the warp either – except for the Imperial-aligned ones, for obvious reasons." Taylor is starting to piece together the obvious reasons. If the warp creatures are intelligent and capable of manipulation – not even necessarily outright sapient – then they'd hate the Emperor for trying to limit their feeding ground. She has to ask, though. "Are the warp creatures sapient and/or intelligent?" The natives nod. She takes a sharp breath. Right. So the warp creatures eat absolutely anything, including each other, but they hold a special hatred for the nation who limits their feeding ground. Right. The more she hears about the warp, the less she likes anything in it.
"Right..." Taylor says, "And the Imperium relies on that Astronomican thing, which I assume is clouded by a "warp storm" like a ship in a fog."
"Exactly!" Ciro exclaims. "An astute observation indeed!" Jawless' eyes spark with something she doesn't like each time they talk about the warp. Then she remembers Blank Shard said the natives – at least the ones in the pods – worship the warp.
"Well, then," Ciro says, "Let us try to find where our gear is, and storm a prison barge!"