The Cleaner is basically an independent contractor of mayhem and improvisation, sowing chaos throughout the Continuum for the benefit of only one person. Himself. Tonight’s mayhem? Avatar kidnapping and ransom.
While a Technician might kill quickly from the front, a Matriarch will take her time, slowly stalking from the shadows and killing in the most cunning and torturous way they can devise.
But something at the back of Kalki’s mind troubled him as he stood on the rise surveying the ship in the blue gloom and listening to his own exhales gurgle away to the surface. It was like a subtle itch that couldn’t be scratched.
The Technicians had managed to isolate it behind a wall of ever-shifting encryption that, in our minds, appeared as a sphere of polished obsidian interlaced with cracks showing the data beneath.
Far to the south, just over the horizon, a discrete column of black smoke drifted and dissipated in the prevailing winds of early morning. Black smoke. That was odd.
Many of the Vek were lulled into a sense of security, thinking Ascension had left us or decided to capitulate. These slipped into truesleep. Perhaps that was its plan, to lull us into a sense of complacency, then strike.
Sometimes you’ve got your timid, broken, ready to piss their pants types … if they even wear pants. Other times you’ve got your defiant “Screw you, you can’t touch me!” types who carry a copy of the antiquated Troxian Convention in their back pocket … if they even wear pants.
Many Vek succumbed to the AI plague in the last moments as it made efforts to sabotage our plans. Some Vek committed suicide knowing they had been overly compromised … others were regrettably terminated by the Technicians.
The Necro laughed maniacally and mechanically as he swiveled his masked head back to the balcony on which sat a now despondent boy. Serves the sniveling rat right for being outdoors during Soulstice.
They endured months of long darkness where what little heat that was contained by their enhancement suits was sucked from their bodies by the jet black firmament of space hanging over their heads.
There’s no real good reason to go to Earth. The species produces nothing noteworthy of trade except violence, funny animated images and attention seeking news bulletins. None of which have any use or value to a productive society.
We delved deep and unearthed the source of those whispers. The ancient abomination we discovered under the icy ruins was almost our undoing, but in the end it would be our salvation.