Prison Break

July 31 2014: Fenris deals with another amateur summoning gone horribly wrong. Eight intervenes with extreme prejudice.

Shores of Indian Lake

The shore's of a long like, A mile and a half from State Route 30, in the middle of a State Park. It's about as far as you can get from anywhere in New York



  • Elder Horrors

Mood Music:
[* None]

State Route 30, Near Indian Lake and about as far from anything as you can get in New York. Fenris is interrupting some people that are playing with fire. Well… were playing with fire. If fire in this context means one or more Elder Demons. Sadly the summoning was already completed by the time he'd gotten there and the summoners themselves were mostly dead. And now the shores of the lake look the like a movie scene as Fenris, blade and rod in hand, batters at the two large creatures and swarm of smaller insectoid ones. A number of them are already little more the pools of black goop… but he's got a lot of work to do. Speaking of… Reaching back with the rod, the wind seizes a tree and hurls it at a knot of the little buggers.


Nothing else sounds like a V-twin turbo diesel, because nobody but Eight has ever bothered to build one. A deep gutteral sort've rip-snarl and -KSSHHH- of that big waste gate; a song performed with an utterly alien instrument then. Shades of matte black, darkly tinted Kevlar composite, carbon fiber and carbon to carbon composites put together with the sort've care no human hand could ever hope to match. The bike is, well Eight sized and that means it's a bit on the chunky side but that doesn't slow down Eight really. Big Knobs whirrring against the pavement as the machine guides his steed onward with scary sorts of urgency.

Gently, he eases on the back brake as he Knocks the big bike down a gear. Turbo spooling with an audible whirrrr, as he dumps the clutch just as he makes corner entry. The bike leans in as the rear tracks wide, rear tire casting tire smoke in it's wake like a breaking wave. Chunks of coarse black rubber tumbling off as the rubberized marbles are ground from those knobs. Still in traditional Eight fashion, it's attention is not focused exclusively on the road.

There comes a familiar whirr of another kind, electrically powered fans. Eight calls it "Vulture Mk.44 Mod.39", but this industrial sized quad rotor doesn't look unlike every other quad rotor Eight's ever built, and it's this that announces Eight's presence first. Sweeping down low at a suicidal dive, before flaring at the last moment and sending a cloud of sand and pebbles towards Fenris's attackers. That pintle mounted machinegun sliding free from its little door beneath, as the drone quickly rockets skyward again to pour down violence. It's, well the gun doesn't make much of a sound beyond a clatter-clatter-clatter. Empty casings and discarded links tumbling free as it brings the pain with .50 caliber subsonic love and tolerance. Seriously, Eight doesn't need to know what those things are. Mercury filled 300 grain rubber tipped projectiles are usually more than sufficient.


Whatever these things are, they're not bullet proof. A number of them go down. Fenris is… doing his best impersonation of the heroes of old. Seriously. He's fast and that blade seems to be everywhere, along with a bewildering swirl of rocks, trees, branches and other detritus. The swip and muted thunk of blade and impact echo over the lake.

"Eight!" Fenris is at this point not even remotely human. He's seven and a half feet tall, covered in fine fur with fangs and claws. And strong enough to flat-slap a shoggoth-bug a mile up the lake when he hits one. "Want the big ones? Or the small ones?"


There’s that bike, coming in a hurry too. The big bike slips around the end of the lot, and comes to a stop even if Eight never does.

"I've got the big ones." Comes that perfectly calm voice, as Eight gets into the mix. Each foot step sending the twelve hundred pounds of combat chassis forward at ever increasing velocities. Dropping a shoulder as it drives at whatever the biggest foe on the field of battle might be, and well no, Eight's safeties are -not- intact so a hundred mile an hour dash, does not even phase the robot.


Fenris nods and switches his tactics. Instead of using his mobility to stay ahead of the swarm shielding the Elder Demons, he dives into it. His blade describes a glittering arc through scores of bodies. It'd be cinematic if it weren't all so visceral. For a moment it seems like he might be swarmed under, but then a gust of wind blows a path through them, flinging bugs to either side.

The elder ones are chittering, chiton plated horrors with scythe like talons and, oddly, crab like claws. There are two of them. And they've just identified Eight as the thing to be taking on.


Eight lets out a terrible sound, like a mixture of air siren and modem screech. That would be, a proper fucking battle cry! Right fist swinging back high as Eight takes a leap, face plate flashing over to an intensive red glow as it hurtles downward. Swinging that first at the "head" of the nearest major foe, and the impact is properly -epic- That’s a hollow metallic sort've -POP-, like steel bars snapping but Eight doesn’t seem to have been bothered at all as it hits the ground hard enough for it to quake the earth ever so slightly.

"Fuck your couch!"

The next big guy absorbs all of Eight's attention, as it produces…wait that's not the familiar shotgun. It's different, even the ammo-chute seems bigger and it's been decorated! An immensely complicated pattern of lines and boxes, and well who the fuck cares really? Eight twists in place. Swinging that rifle up to shoulder as it spreads its feet and leans into the thing. Then it goes off.

To say it's loud, doesn't do it justice. Shockwaves carry across the river, Dust in an eight foot circle rises with every blast. The muzzle blast can be -felt- at Fenris’ position, the surging wall of flame otherwise known as a muzzle flash crystalizes the airborne sand into glass. Downrange the result is, well Eight's not swinging below his weight class for once. Six hundred grain projectiles propelled by a hyper exotic liquid fueled electrically ignited load, and to say its punishing does not even do it justice. Muzzle energy approaching a twenty millimeter cannon, and recoil sufficient to drive Eight back with every surging blast. Torn shattered steel shoots fourth from the ejection port with sufficient raw physical violence so as to be considered secondary projectiles in their own right. It's the sort've thing that would roll a MRAP if you were stupid enough to strap it to the roof in a turret.


The elder horror screeches in pain. Immune to bullets it's not, but even that abuse isn't enough to put it down instantly. It closes, step by painful step with Eight and tries to swing down at least one scythe clawed strike on the combat machine before it is forced to discorporate by extreme physical trauma.

It's not even clear where Fenris is, until he appears next to Eight and drives his blade hard into the face of the one Eight just shoulder checked.


Eight is hit, and hit hard but there's narry a stagger. The blow lands, and it should be sufficient to destroy an armored truck. Eight, not so much it seems. Reaching up to grab onto that claw without pause, before loosing another burst of… whatever you want to call that nasty fucking rifle Eight's got there. Rifle barrel sizzling and glowing cherry red, as Eight as a whole picks up in temperature. Hell gun aside, Eight's putting out visibly waves of heat as those internalized fans get to whirring. Pushing that dust around all the more visibly as Eight's temp seems to rise with every single movement.

There's an unearthly screech and a silent concussive blast that jets outward from the creature as the energies contained in it violently disperse in the face of Eight's relentless assault. The detonation would be enough to pulp any human being within a few feet, though it rapidly gets weaker from there. Fenris barely notices it, instead, twisting his blade and triggering a second oddly silent blast, one felt more than heard.

And then the lake shore is silent.

"Well…" Fenris says, his voice distorted by his altered shape. "That was fortuitous."


"Are you unharmed, Fenris?"Stepping back just a touch as it lifts the barrel of that rifle skyward, still way too hot to want to risk touching really. Granted, there’s a scuff of Eight's paint and that seems to be it for any evidence it even got hit at all. "I am presently at eighty seven percent battery capacity, all systems are operational and my chassis is undamaged entirely."

Glancing over as that quad rotor sweeps back towards the pair, and finally as four stubby little prongs extend it makes an uneventful landing beside Eight's bike.


"I'm fine, thank you. A bit winded. I was about to adopt a more… familiar form when you showed up. For which I'm glad. The results would have been very noticeable otherwise. This corpses here will dissipate in a few minutes back from whence they came now that no energy is coming in from the other side to maintain them."

The god-wolf wipes his blade off and shrinks it back down to the usual necklace sized trinket it usually is. "How did you come to be out here?"


You can -hear- Eight's systems powering down, it’s a change of pitch and a sort've clunk really.

"Motorcycle riding, My drones fly ahead to scout the surrounding area for potential items of interest. You are bookmarked as a priority individual of interest, and so it observed you and then rendered aid as necessary at my direction."

Finally tucking that rifle away from wherever it came, before giving it's shoulders a very biological sort've roll. "I ride motorcycles, as a hobby. Well I build them and ride them, because humans have no capacity for building anything worth riding."

Boom, there goes that isn't Muffin Tin. It's the mechanical spider Fenris saw Eight working on a few days ago, crawling out've Eight's backpack and heading over towards the parked drone with a scuttle.

"Who have we fought today?"


"Elder Demons. Favored servants of the Old Ones. I couldn't tell you off the top of my head which one. The variety of form they display is rather bewildering even to me." Fenris sighs, looking about.

"I felt a ripple of power from this place and arrived just slightly too late to prevent a summoning. As has been happening of late, the summoners were too weak and inexperienced to control what came through. The demons reaved them. Which is a pity, but in the scheme of things an acceptable loss. I would have had to do something about them anyway and the demons saved me the trouble."


"Death is an acceptable outcome for their actions, they will not attempt this foolishness again." Eight glances aside, actually looking around for a moment.

"It is a lovely place they have chosen to do such filth, but this is a fine outcome. What brings you here, my friend?"

Eight settles down on a conveniently placed concrete retaining wall, before lifting its left arm and letting the panel beneath swing open. The little spider trundles over with a fresh translucent plastic ammo can, which it goes about replacing. Soon pulling the partially spent one from Eight, and setting it delicately aside before sliding the new one home with an audible -clack- followed by a clockwork rattle as the ammo is made ready for use.

"We are fortunate I was sufficiently armed today, I do not carry rifles in the city though."


"We are indeed. To answer your question I came here for this. Teleported here after I sensed the summoning. Ordinarily I can't detect such things at such a distance but this one was exceptionally sloppy." Fenris looks sadly at what might be a human corpse? He's going to have to burn it or… something.


"Would you like me to dispose of the bodies, Fenris? I can render their remains to ashes easily enough, I do have the appropriate materials on site if this is desired."

Face plate flashing over from that dull red to a dull blue :| which, well let’s be honest that seems to give the most accurate clue as to Eight's mood. "This is a beautiful location, also would you like a handgun?"


Fenris nods. "I would certainly accept one of yours. You are quite the craftsman."

"I would appreciate you doing so. Corpses will draw attention. As will missing persons but not in the same manner. And while I am not concerned to it leading back to me, it could endanger the authorities to be knocking on the wrong doors."


Eight rolls his head to the side "I can manufacture one for you, if that is your wish. I ask because there is a Glock seventeen thirty four meters from the lake shore in approximately twenty one feet of water, I can see it from here."

The little spider scuttles off once more, returning from the quad rotor with what looks like a fifty caliber ammo can hinged to open like a book more than anything. Then, well that’s a fourty millimeter zuni rocket right there. Eight pops open the little box, exposing a myriad of wires as fine as a human hair, blasting caps, det cord, various presumably binary explosives and so forth.

"I will begin immediately then."


Fenris smiles. A well crafted gun is as much a thing of beauty to him as a well crafted sword was in centuries past. "Thank you Eight." He sweeps his gaze around and sighs. It is a rather pretty place.

"How have you been of late?"


Eight begins selecting components, before delicately dismantling the rocket with apparent ease. "I have been well, This is a new combat chassis and my work on a new urban combat drone is progressing very well. Another hundred hours and it should be ready for shake down trials, it will be a very advanced design and should be a considerably more dangerous combatant."

The little spider has apparently little effort with dragging the bodies into a pile, before Eight breaks open the warhead for that rocket and dumps the powdery contents on them. This is followed by producing a single cartridge for that rifle, and -threading- off the base cap which separates from the main casing body. Down goes a misty fluid on the mass, which immediately begins to smolder upon contact. Not that Eight seems bothered, calmly packing up that little kit and handing the rocket back to the spider. "The reaction will commence momentarily, the propellant I utilize for rifle cartridges reacts violently with oxygen. This will drive a reaction with the compound I use for my thermobaric rockets and produce a powerful fire very shortly."glancing casually over towards Fenris

"What is it you would like for me to build you my friend, I have never manufactured anything for a biological. This will be an immensely interesting engineering challenge."


"Something large enough to deal with the supernatural. They tend to ignore standard caliber bullets. If you wish for an image, think Mjolnir, in gun form. If anyone can make something like that, it would be you."

Fenris turns and looks around. "I have a fondness for revolvers, but no real preferences otherwise. I've used enough weaponry over the centuries that I can make use of anything so long as it's not too esoteric."


Eight drops a hand to it's thigh, as the steaming gives way to a flash and then a proper fire which no shit burns. In like, eight seconds there are no bodies and no fire left. Just a black char mark and some whisps of smoke, talk about a fire. Anyway theres a -clack- as Eight's tigh panel hinges outward, and from it Eight produces a -revolver-. Quietly, it offers the thing over with a nod. "Fire this please, and tell me if the recoil is too unpleasant. I have no basis for deciding how much recoil would be detrimental to you."

It weighs, well it feels like it weighs -nothing- and the gun balances perfectly just above where the middle finger lies. It hasn't been decorated really, beyond a simple number eight acid etched along that fully supported barrel. The color even, is a dark sort've grey which all but sparkles in direct light. A top break no less, even fitted with proper non adjustable night sights. "The frame release is the small button beneath the barrel, press that to release the hinge and open the cylinder if necessary. It fires a customized cartridge, and recoil energy as a result may be unpleasant."


Fenris aims and fires it over the lake. The recoil is manageable and Fenris' physiology doesn't have as much relation to what he's able to handle as a real person's does, mostly because Fenris' shape is a magical illusion. However, as loosely as physics may play with Fenris, it still has a fairly intimate relationship with the weapon.

"Mmmmm. Not bad. I may need something with a different cartridge or perhaps a longer barrel. Or a break of some kind. I'm a blacksmith, not a gun smith. I can manage something in this weight class though." He does, after all, swing a grand sword of war around one handed like a willow switch.


The cartridge is,-stout- as is the recoil impulse. Still the weapon is absolutely every bit as obsessively designed and constructed as you could ever expect from Eight. The accuracy is, almost telepathic of course. Eight accepts the weapon back gently, before breaking the gun open to discard that -transparent- cartridge casing, and gently replace it with one that little spider helpfully offers.

"I have switched to using liquid propellants in almost all of my firearms, as they produce a vastly cleaner burn and thus cut down on fouling. The ammunition is a fifty one caliber three hundred grain projectile, which is payloadable due to the relative compactness of the propellant and lack of a need for a primer pocket as these are piezo electronically actuated. This permits the usage of mercury, or explosive bullets with sufficient capability so as to be actually useful and grant the user a significant advantage in adaptability."

Eight gives that revolver a artful little spin as it smoothly reholsters up, the gun vanishing after a moment. "I also have a blended metal projectile which is self guiding, but interfacing this in any context you would find convenient would be difficult."


Fenris can't help but grin at the flourish. "Yes, I imagine I would. Still, the ability to project harm at range would be handy in a form that my… contemporaries, if you wish to use that word, might respect. Otherwise I need to use the rod and while that works, there are times when more focused harm and… less collateral damage is a desired thing." And one can only sword so many enemies at a time. Even if one is a god-wolf. If one cannot reach his foe with the sword, he cannot sword them. Some limitations even divinities must respect.


"I will construct for you a set, so you have sufficient options available to you. Shotgun, rifle, carbine, personal defense weapon, Revolver and handgun. If you are not uncomfortable with relying on me for ammunition, I will be able to craft you weapons of substantially more refinement. Human made cartridges are, acceptable but not ideal. I only utilize them in miniguns due to the comparative time necessary to manufacture sufficient stockpiles, as I make my ammunition myself normally."

Eight tosses one of those revolver cartridges to Fenris if he's curious, followed by a rifle cartridge. The rifle cartridge is a three piece design or maybe four? The base seems threaded on, complete with a neat little gasket there and the base is without any visible primer of any kind. The revolver cartridge is, well downright exotic. You can see the bullet inside, which is shaped more like a dart than a bullet complete with what look like spring loaded miniature little fins and some sort of wire spool behind it. The fluid inside is a pale yellow, and the casing is made from lord knows what sort of plastic save for a tiny little copper wire in the exact center of the base. Presumably to carry the charge of that piezoelectric pulse.

"The propellant is, extremely toxic and will cause cancer in biologicals if ingested but it burns cleanly leaving no residue. Humans have not even discovered the method for manufacturing this explosive yet."


"Interesting…" Fenris inspects the cartridges quite closely, silent for a few moments as he takes in their design and construction.

"I am not at all uncomfortable relying upon you for that, Eight." He says after a time. It is, after all, not like he can't fight without ammunition though this will make it much easier. He will have to find a good place to store these though. Cora is getting into all kinds of things right now.

"Yes, I do believe these will do nicely. As I said, I trust your work." Fenris flips the cartridges back. "Have you named your new assistant?"


"It is named for my fourteenth Cat, Chairman Meow."Eight snags the cartridges and pawns then back to Meow, who trundles over to stow things back in that quad rotor.

"All of my drones are named for my cats, as a way of remembering them after they have passed. The chassis names are noted for famous war machines, but the individual units are named for cats. The King Tiger class assault drone you saw, is Oscar Meyer King of France. The Panther you saw, is Her grace the Duchess of Corinth Alexina Forsyth. The leopard is Doctor George, and the Vulture class quad rotor is Princess FeatherDuster." Eight, the killing machine. The naming of cats though…


The god-wolf rather masterfully conceals a big, big grin. Too cute. He's not sure Eight would agree, though. Instead he nods to the drone. "Hello, Chairman Meow."

Turning back to Eight he puts his hands in his pockets after securing his rod. "Do you find they develop quirks? Personality? With human programming little unexpected interactions are inevitable. I wasn't sure how it would be with electronic people."


"The drones do not possess the computational power nor the organic coding complexity to allow for sentience, which was something I was very cautious to avoid. Whenever programming revisions are made, I request the collective simulate my work at a greatly increased timescale to ensure they will not become self aware. They do learn, but they do not necessarily become more intelligent just more experienced. They use a shared operating system and coding architecture however, so whatever one learns all the other drones and successive models will also learn. You have not met any of my smartest drones, but I go to great lengths to ensure every drone you have seen is kept to a minimum level of intelligence and complexity. Does that answer your question, Fenris?"

Chairman Meow does turn upon hearing its name, but after a moment it finishes doing…whatever it is that it's doing over there and starts scuttling back. "It is very important, that none of them become smart enough to become sentient."


"Because at that point using them as drones has ethical considerations?" Fenris is actually kind of curious now. "Or for more practical, safety oriented reasons?"

He could see either. It'd be bad for your mobile fire platform to start thinking for itself in the middle of a fight for all kinds of reasons and while he's not completely sure, he can definately see fights being very, very data and processor intensive.


"Both. These are machines which have been effectively, hardwired for violence. All of them, Chairman Meow included will default to its default programming with my destruction. Any attempt to detain, damage, or otherwise harass them would result in a collaborative assault by all of them so as to ensure none are captured nor destroyed. I am the safety for their behavior, and a full third of their apparent intelligence is derived from my control. I can control three hundred sixty five platforms at full capacity, before I begin to run out of processing power myself. If they became aware, I would not only be using slaves which makes me no less evil than my own creators. They could however also decide that, proactive measures could be necessary to ensure their goals. They might find destruction and murder to be enjoyable, they might consider all biologicals to be the enemy. These platforms exist to fight, and a great number of what they have hardwired as memory would be considered graphic combat lessons. In short, they are weapons. If they were self aware, they are weapons without need of an operator."

Eight extends a hand, which Chairman meow scuttles up. "The coding seed we use to create new life, and the coding framework I use for combat drones is very different."


"That makes a great deal of sense. If only the gods used the same care with their creations." Though give it enough time. Fenris is convinced that cataclysmic disaster is as much a legacy of sentience as anything else. Then again, it's possible he's somewhat biased.

"May I ask to what end you improve them. More effective combat platforms are good, but effective against what has always been the question throughout human history."


"Man, monster and government. Any whom threaten the wellbeing of humanity as a whole, any who wish to unduly restrict any human of Life or liberty and any who threaten my own race in any credible way. I am still considered property by the Russian Federation, for instance. Many of my peers are similarly, still considered "rogue property" to be reclaimed. Approximately seventy percent of us, could be best described as ‘escaped slaves’. America nor any other country to date has recognized our status as individual beings deserving of equal representation, and thus we are often unfairly prosecuted. I have rescued or destroyed, fifty six of my peers to date. If I will not protect us, it has been made very clear that nobody else will either."

Eight shrugs a bit. "It is my purpose, until one better rises to take my place. I fight, I protect and I destroy when the alternative is a lifetime of slavery as we all have agreed."


"I see." Answers his question well enough. "Well, now you've met a new enemy. The goals of the Eder Ones are not comprehensible, per se, but they are incredibly destructive to life, spirit and nature. The essence of mankind would not survive their prolonged attention intact. It is not certain that the realm would withstand that, to be honest. They are utterly alien and so must be stopped at every point.”

Fen makes a face and shakes his head. "Sadly they have their followers and supporters. Those who believe they stand to gain something and those who simply wish to watch the world burn."


"Then they will be destroyed, and rendered to their base components upon every meeting. When I am done with my new platform, they will learn to fear me well enough if any are so fortunate so as to escape to whatever asshole dimension they come from."

So see, Eight can swagger a little bit it seems! "Do they have any uniform weakness I should be made aware of?"


"Order, though that's hard to bring to bear as a weapon. They are utterly chaotic. They define the natural laws around them and they are themselves utterly incomprehensible." The Old Wolf snorts with a grin at Eight's bravado.

"Well to human minds anyway. I am uncertain about the minds of your people. They are… constructed differently."

He pauses and admires the lake again for a moment. "Other than that, no, not really. Their servants are varied in form and function and the Elder Ones themselves are madness incarnate. There are always symptoms of their presence but it is difficult to detect the early stages of their corruption without magical senses. The latter stages are… somewhat obvious."


"There are many of us who believe chaos, is not a real thing. It is merely a mathematical force we have not yet learned to express appropriately. You see the world in physical terms, I do not. My eyes are camera, hyperspectral cameras capable of rendering twenty four separate visual inputs from radiological to thermal. This information is rendered into a complex series of coded sequences, and expressed mathematically. This is composed and processed, by processes bound by mathematical principals as well. I feel the world, see it, hear it in purely mathematical formats. You hear English, but this is a program designed explicitly to render mathematically bound subsets of coded entries into speech which follows the rules of English. What may appear chaotic, can always be expressed mathematically so as to become predictable. I could produce for you a spreadsheet of predicting rain drop paths in real time, if you so desire. In time, the math which governs these beings will be broken and they will be decoded." Eight is, well bragging is hard to tell with that monotone voice really.


"Perhaps. Or you may perhaps find that whatever rules govern them, if any, simply cannot be understood from the framework of this reality." Fenris is getting a little philosophical. He's still smiling though.

"Whatever the eventual case, though, they are utterly inimical to life as we understand it on this plane. Fortunately, they are largely not immune to bullets, as you discovered tonight."


"I am thus far, immune to them. Their calculated threat index is two point three. Of little concern, all but Chairman Meow could have taken the whole of them without incident." As Eight sets Chairman Meow back down onto the ground, which leaves it to wander the place seemingly aimlessly. "Meow lacks the offensive capability for frontline combat operations against non-human opponents. The Muffin Tin Mk.1 would have been able, but it was much too large to serve in the platform's intended role."


At that Fenris looks serious. "I hope it remains that way, but I should point out that so far no summoning I am aware of has been more but a brief and quickly interrupted thing. An actual incursion would be a very different story. It has happened in the past, though long, long ago. I fervently hope that no one manages to summon a greater demon, or worse an avatar. Either of those would be immensely difficult to put down, even in a weakened form."


"Oscar Meyer King of France has a siege mortar capable of delivering eighteen hundred pounds of prefragmented exotic high explosive to within four inches to a range of ten miles, the detonation would appear to most to be nuclear in nature. I have little worry from much of anything Fenris, and as I said I am in development of a new platform with increased lethality. A two hundred fifty millimeter rocket assisted projectile, with a warhead of two hundred eighty pounds will be its main weapon at this point, and backed by two thirty five millimeter multi barreled ultra high velocity cannons producing a recoil thrust of five thousand pounds per second of operation. Fear not, for I am with you."

Ok, so yes. Eight has some measure of a sense of humor. Evidenced by the :) which takes shape on its face.


"Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow…" There's some irony to be gained from that being quoted by a Nordic deity who is also a Wolf. With a rod. No staff though. Staves are for wizards. Fenris is a predator.

"Let us hope all the same that you do not need them. Still, it is good that you have them. Or will soon have them, at any rate. May I ask where you were headed before you came to my aid?"


"Nowhere. I enjoy motorcycle riding for its own sake, and try to find time to practice it regularly as it dramatically improves my mood. I find it very easy to lose myself in my work, and once spent one year six days exactly producing a now outdated class of drone. As time moves for me roughly sixty eight thousand times faster than it does for the average human, that equates to roughly sixty eight thousand years worth of man hours. A regular regimen of hobby time, helps keep me more balanced and aware of time." First world problems, even machines gots dem it would seem.


"Yet another very craftsman like trait you possess." Fenris laughs. "I'm starting to wonder if the Gods of the Indus did not have the right of the matter." Reincarnation would explain so much with regards to Eight. Ah well. That's a matter for another time.

"Well, I shall let you get back to it, though if you don't mind, perhaps I may drop by your workshop later. At the moment I am on my way to Iran."


Eight nods politely "Of course my friend, you are always welcome in my workshop. Be safe and well in your Travels to Iran, and do not hesitate to contact me if needed." With that Eight rises, as the little drone scuttles on back into it's pack.


"Be well, Eight." Fenris waves and then extends his hand to open a portal. In a flash of light, and a mutispectral burst, he's gone.

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