With a metallic hiss, the boarding ramp of the SS Ouroboros lowered, revealing the immensity of the Lost City spaceport. The crew descended in unison, stepping onto a dusty steel floor that faintly reflected the artificial purple lights. Before them lay a vast space, a labyrinth of already anchored ships, their dented hulls looming like silent shadows, making it difficult to navigate the chaos of metal and cables.
"Damn, for a spaceport in a city like this, it's really huge," commented Micheal, his gaze lost among the rows of starships.
"Where is the exit lift?" Nicky retorted, turning right and left, his eyes searching for a landmark in that steel sea.
Erick, lost in his own thoughts, murmured to himself, "Actually, this place was much smaller a few years ago." After a moment, as the group advanced between the ships, he spotted the elevator in the distance, isolated in an empty space beyond the docking area. "There it is!" he exclaimed, pointing toward the goal and rushing toward it. The rest of the crew followed, but the Lone Soldier lagged behind, standing motionless as a statue, his gaze fixed on an indefinite point, lost in dark reflections. Micheal noticed him, his curiosity piqued. "Everything alright?" he asked, turning, but before the man could answer, the elevator opened with a clang.
A sharp sound echoed in the hangar: someone's metallic boot hitting the floor. Then, a strange Imprint spread through the air, a subtle film hovering like an invisible shadow, setting off alarms in everyone's senses. Micheal immediately realized that the Lone Soldier had sensed it much earlier, but something else struck him. Turning, he saw three figures emerging from the elevator. In the center stood a Meynethian man, skin black as ebony, white feathered wings folded gracefully behind him. He wore an elegant white suit adorned with golden studs, typical of the Meyneth Papacy's politicians, and his short mustache framed a young face, around thirty, marked by serene authority. On either side, two shackled men advanced with difficulty, their hands and legs bound to a heavy metallic ball. Their long white tunics and black trousers matched heavy metallic boots, but their faces were hidden by stylized masks: one displayed an unsettling smile, the other a tormented cry, both carrying a dark, alien aura.
"Hey guys, I might suck at sensing others' Imprints, but ever since these guys arrived, I can't feel anything anymore," Micheal said, his voice strained in an attempt to alert the others.
"Come on, seriously! We just landed," snapped Nicky, his tone annoyed at the thought of imminent combat.
"Calm down, guys!" Erick intervened, raising a hand. "That's the Ambassador. I briefed myself on his appearance. But I wonder why he's here... and who the hell are those two in masks? I've never seen anything like that among the Papacy's ranks."
The voice of the man in the center interrupted the debate, calm yet authoritative. "Welcome to Lost City," he said, advancing confidently. "My name is Malick, Ambassador of the Papacy on this planet. You must be the Fifth Maverick Division, and you, Mr. Erick Huy, its Commander, is that not so?"
"Yes, that's me. To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Ambassador? We were just about to head to the embassy ourselves for the visa," Erick said, his voice firm yet curious, as he moved slightly forward from the group.
Malick approached with measured steps, his white wings brushing the dusty air of the spaceport. His gaze, however, seemed to slide past Erick, lost in an indefinite point behind him. "Don't worry," he replied, his tone calm but distant. "We are here to deliver your visa personally and to inform you that we have taken the liberty of preparing accommodation for you in the city."
"And to what do we owe all this kindness?" Erick asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Simply a formality. Lest anyone say the Papacy is unfamiliar with good manners," Malick continued, his tone serious and almost rushed. With a crisp gesture, he ordered something to the masked man with the unsettling smile. The latter approached slowly, the metallic sound of chains dragging on the floor like a lament. In his hand he held the visa documentation, which he offered to Erick, remaining immobile until the man took it. "These guys are even creepier than Niles," Erick thought, a shiver running down his spine.
"What is this Imprint I feel? It seems to block any perception in the air," Erick asked Malick, his eyes fixed on the masked figure.
"Ah, that? Do not fear, it is merely a precaution. After all, prominent people are gathered in one place, and the situation here in Wasteland hasn't been the best lately," Malick explained, his face impassive.
"The bandits?"
"And not only them. Crime increases day by day in the city since the administration passed to Pain and Gain, but the administrator himself will speak to you about that," Malick added, with a nod that ordered the masked man to step back.
"I see you are quite informed about our mission, Mr. Malick," Erick replied, surprised by the Ambassador's knowledge.
"It is natural. There is a very fragile balance here in Wasteland. As the representative of the Papacy, it is my duty to preserve it, and your presence is not something that can pass unnoticed by me," Malick replied, his tone firm. He paused, then continued: "On those papers, you will also find the address of the building where your accommodation is located... We hope you do not jeopardize that balance, Mr. Erick." With that, he turned and headed back to the elevator, followed by his companions.
"Wow, what a nice guy, huh?" Nicky whispered as soon as the three figures from the Papacy disappeared into the elevator.
"Extremely nice, especially his two friends," Micheal replied, an ironic smirk on his lips. "Who the hell were they anyway? They weren't normal guys," Micheal thought, his gaze still fixed on the elevator.
"At least, for now, he's shown himself to be gracious, but we will follow the usual procedure," Erick announced, his authoritative voice echoing in the hangar. "Phase, take the ship and hide it outside the city. I'll send you the accommodation coordinates. Once the ship is hidden, head there."
"Yes, Commander!" Phase replied, his metallic voice attempting to imitate a friendly, almost human tone. The robot moved toward the Ouroboros, but stopped, turning back to Erick. "May I collect materials in the desert, Commander?" he asked, with an intonation reminiscent of a child seeking approval.
"Phase, do you remember what happened last time?" Erick sighed, resigned to a recurring argument.
"Yes! Phase collected many rare materials useful for the crew!" the robot replied, his tone enthusiastic.
"Yes, Phase, you did! Too bad that when I told you not to overdo it filling the cargo with rocks and stones, you didn't listen to me and hid it in the common room instead!" Erick retorted, exasperated.
"Phase needed those materials for repairs," the robot insisted.
"Yours is an obsession! You didn't even declare that extra material, you darn robot! They stopped us at the Marva customs for hours because they thought there was a bomb on the ship!"
"Mmm... yes, perhaps Commander Erick is right," Phase said, lowering his voice. "Stupid sack of bones and meat!" he whispered, loud enough to be heard.
"What did you say, you stupid robot?!" Erick exploded, furious.
"Nothing, Commander! I'm going!" Phase replied, with a playful tone that seemed to mock him. Omnium robots were designed to mimic human behaviors, and Phase was no exception. As he moved away toward the ship, a strange feeling grew inside Erick, a thought that struck him: "It's strange, though... this obsession of his."
The Republic of Maverick stood as a mosaic of kingdoms, united five hundred years earlier by the necessity of opposing the Meyneth Papacy. Although each kingdom preserved its ancient dominion over the territories, their sovereignty bent to the Republic, led by a figure shrouded in mystery: the Maverick President. A name that spanned centuries, symbolizing the struggle against the Papacy and the message of coexistence for Omnium. No one knew the face behind the mask that concealed his identity, elected in secret by the kingdom heads behind closed doors, a faceless shadow that reigned.
Within the Republic's ranks operated Phase SS-01, an automaton from the Phase series, mass-produced by the government to pilot the army's ships. Forged with Taurus, a rare metallic alloy extracted only in certain areas of Axis where gravity is ten times higher than normal, Phase SS-01 was more than just a pilot. Like the Bots—flying robots that hummed around the ship—he was endowed with a limited function to imitate human behavior, a ploy to lift the soldiers' spirits amidst the cold metallic bulkheads. But Phase SS-01 distinguished himself: his ability to emulate humanity surpassed that of his peers. Micheal, on recent trips, had caught him practicing in front of a mirror in the cabin, his metallic voice awkwardly stammering. "Ohhh... hello," he'd try, hesitating. "Ohhh... greetings," he'd repeat with evident effort, like a child learning.
This peculiarity had manifested at the Lost City spaceport, where Phase SS-01 had dared to answer Erick back, mixing sarcasm and obedience. Yet, what truly defined him was a singular obsession: rocks, minerals, metals. Wherever he went, he collected enormous quantities, transforming them into weapons or gadgets for himself and the crew. He wasn't just the pilot of the Ouroboros; he fought alongside the Fifth Division, a full-fledged member. Everything emanated a passive Imprint, even inanimate objects, and Phase SS-01 was no exception. Only biological creatures could develop the active Imprint, a source of extraordinary powers, but despite this limitation, the robot remained a valuable pillar for the team, an anomaly that defied the laws of Omnium.
Currently executing Commander Erick's order: activating the Fifth Division's classic procedure. When we land in hostile places like this, where trust is a rare luxury, we land at the first spaceport. While the crew gets lost in the typical formalities of biological creatures, I remain still, recharging within the Ouroboros, for at least three hours. It is in these moments of silence, between the muffled hum of the engines and the pulsing of the neon lights, that I delight in recording my memories, coloring them with my personal impressions. I wouldn't need to, after all, I am a robot, but recently I have noticed anomalies. I have checked my parameters over and over again, finding nothing strange, and yet those images... what were they?
Not only did I see them, but during those visions, I remained immobilized, as if a part of my system had jammed, slightly damaged. It reminds me of something, a distant echo, as if in some way I were... but no, it's impossible. Yet, that sequence persists. My system captured fragments: a huge sphere of white energy wrapped in a wild storm, transforming into an intense, thick, almost suffocating purple. From that purplish ocean emerge luminous threads, similar to sunbeams falling on a mottled sphere—blue, green, and gray, like a living planet. On it, I glimpse figures, perhaps people, but their race escapes me. And then... a sound, a collective, heart-wrenching cry, that passes through me like a wave. Did I write "heart-wrenching"? Strange... I criticize other robots for their lack of desires, but then I stop to reflect: I, too, being a robot, should not have any.
This is why I rewrite the data, intertwining them with my impressions: an attempt to investigate, to understand this strangeness... or perhaps myself?
P.S.: I believe it happened recently, but I received encrypted information. I cannot access it yet, but I am working on it. It seemed to come from earlier. I felt a strange sensation, an intuition I cannot explain. Maybe I'm wrong, but I noticed Ambassador Malick staring at me, his gaze digging beyond my metal. For now, it is a superfluous detail. After three hours, I will briefly deactivate the cameras in this place and open the main gate—another function that sets me apart, as if I could communicate with machinery. Could it be an Active Imprint? No, impossible... after all... I am a robot.