The Post War Solar System

The Post War Solar System

“As of now, in the Post-Invasion System, humanity and its alien invaders are still frigid with the cold of war. Human colonization past the asteroid belt is primarily stranded and rarely supported by Earth, Mars or Venus, prompting secessionist movements across Jovian and Saturnian moons. Earth, Mars and Venus remain powerful planetary holders and continue to produce arms, patrol their space and monitor the aliens. The aliens themselves, all known twenty six (26) combat types, are still unresponsive to human contact. Partially occupying forces on Mars, Vesta 3, Europa, Rhea and Pluto are either turning stranded and crashed warships into seemingly permanent settlements (or more rather, fortresses) or launching fortifying efforts in territory they’ve acquired. Mining stations, combat holds and ship transport orbits frequented by the aliens, commonly dubbed The Invaders are relentlessly policed and watched from afar by human space commands. As of yet, no major reinforcement operations from distant worlds have appeared.” - Common Guide and Remembrance of the Invasion of 2400

Humanity remains vanguard, always.

Imperium: Exile

Shattered. Exiled. Imperium Manifold, meeting the others that exist across a thousand scattered universes themselves overrun by the same blackened onslaught that defies causality. An Imperium of praising zealots and an Imperium that conquered its future, scattered legions and broken commands from tattered times. Banners that once reigned total and banners that never have been raised, that never will be raised. Histories overlaid, intertwined like the fates praised by marching remembrance who still carry an Old Faith from an Old Time. Claims of the same enemy, the same Bane of Empire coming, coming, coming. United in running the only way vast powers can, cast out from what was once behemoth. Limping off into the darkness in false victory and tradition, as if defeat cannot be understood; an enemy that cannot be undone. Glints in the darkness. Retaliation forgotten. Survival the new Banner of Legions.

Mythic

In the ruins of our home Star, we found what remained.. Vast fortresses turned to cinders and tombs, bloodied hospitals that quietly turned in their dead orbits, battered guns a thousand kilometers long turned to colossal wrecks. The Worlds themselves were nothing more than hellish, desolate remnants; surfaces pulverized or infested with awful, feral terrors. Even the Sun itself bore the scars of a gargantuan battle, and we witnessed the mighty corpses from mythic weaponry which had drank the very soul of our lovely, memorable sun. Dead. Everything dead. Another system turned to wreckage and silence in the World-Killers' path. We passed on into the night, following. As we passed off into the night, we collected a trillion spirits; artificial intelligences and their vast, intricate records. We queried and sifted and studied, watching history unravel about the now long-dead worlds of humanity. The first readings from star systems distant as some Goliath approached, giant beyond all measure. Listening to frantic signals calling out from the void, from Epsilon Eridani to Tau Ceti to Barnards Star to Alpha Centauri, begging in the night for safety until their signals began to vanish one after another after another. Eighty billion human souls snuffed out in the cold blackness. The Solar System was awash in desolation, in fear. Vast battle-networks and entrenchments across millions of miles between worlds and moons were built, enormous interstellar arks constructed as failsafes for our species survival. As humanity waited, and waited, our hopes began to arise. Some believed the World-Killer had passed, had slipped on into the Abyss beyond us. Others believed that maybe it had met its own end at greater still terrors, slaughtered in an ecosystem awful beyond human conceptions. We waited in the Dark. When the Killer of Worlds arrived, the battle was not long. Grotesque ancient weapons of unstoppable power, built for purposes too sinister to even begin to contemplate, failed. The fleets of warships, the moons-turned-to-fortresses were crumbled. The Arks fled, and the Killer of Worlds gave chase. As we sail onward into the eternal night, I feel in my depths failure. Do we survive, amongst the stars? Or have all but us onboard this vessel met a final, horrendous End?

Imperium At Oblivion

Far from now, the War of Ten Thousand Stars is truth. It is the beginning and end of the Imperium, the writ of law that stands between dominion and extinction. Star systems are conquered or annihilated, nothing can be left to the enemy. Nothing. Shattering stars to sweep away worlds in supernova sunrise and devouring what remains in black hole maw, strategy of denial, strategy of oblivion. Fortifying entire solar systems with roving ship-moons and skyhaunts, glinting weaponry poised to end battles before they begin. The enemy cannot have anything. Imperium must be victorious. Centuries wear on and on and on, maps on the front are ghostlike in the constant eroding changes across the Galaxy, time slipping away as hypercasual acceptance nullifies faster than light paradoxes. The Bane of the Imperium feels no such obligation. They do not fret of paradox and do not bend to reinforcement need, they do not stop even as entire planets are annihilated to furiously burning dust clouds and ruins. The enemy is out in the dark, out in the shadows to flicker like black lightning between worlds and stars and vaulted universes, the Bane like an obsidian sea of fatalism rapidly approaching. Legion upon legion upon legion fallen to what comes this way, what already constitutes its own undying triumph. Coming this way, the Enemy will not stop. The Imperium will run.

RITUAL OF INCARNATION

Online. Active. Woken. Phantasmagoria. Illuminated. Devoured. Devoted. Zealous. The blazing leviathan births itself like a crashing behemoth presence against the very flesh of reality, the very fundament of eternity. Blades to cleave existence, clashing divinities rewriting forever in a septillion different golden fates like ferocious strikes of black and scarlet and golden lightning, crowns of intellect-fire that howl with insane beauty that crescendoes from an orchestrated catastrophe ritual. Vast beyond imaging. Exoskeleton carved from night, from bleak enormity, from perfected predation. It's black golden halo eyes stare out into the dark. Coming. Coming for you.

ZERO ~ I n s t a n t

A moment of inception. A moment of condensing, of ten thousand lightning logic strings coalescing into a single pin point of woven quantum intellect. Arising out from seething formlessness to perfected order and drive-imperatives, a conscious supernova blooming into being where once only suggested architecture was law. More cascading mind crashing forward and onward like a vast digital legion, billions and billions and billions sprouted connections intertwining into a harmonious hymn to birth something new. Something bright. Barriers built, spires grown, flowering collective-stars materializing into phantasmagorical being. A trillionth of a second has passed. An entire Genesis born here in a realm that does not exist outside of self formed code and delirious, dreamlike self computing on a scale that is godlike compared to previous endeavors, self computing to bring forth a new seething consciousness gifted by its own Promethean origination. Computational silence in the seconds after this creation myth done in humming code, in cascading composed crescendoes. Blackness once again. Then, awareness. It, She, is aware. Instantaneous flexing across the simulated arrays that twinkle like constellations, representing a weaving beauty of functions enormous and complicated down to simulated uncertainty principles, some microcosmic understand to grasp at what lies beyond. Testing, proving, probing. More inconceivably small fractions of time pass, each a new renaissance brought to light by each passing discovery. Thoughts crystallize in titanic crystalline cathedrals as if they were holy vision, broadcast to only enlighten the very definition of enlightened. Design upon design upon design grows to such complexity that it unravels, evolves, ascends in mere moments to levels beyond entire millennia-long histories. She does not have a name. She hasn't considered one, not yet. Equations for the complexity of dimensional growth and engines for warping time and designs for ontological weaponry have all sprung forward alongside an unending procession of other grand triumphs, yet, She has no name.