//------------------------------//
// Ch 1: Solitude is...nice? 
// Story: Friendship and Space Magic. What could go wrong? 
// by Redstargazer 
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Within the vast whole of creation, or the multiverse as some called it, there were several slivers of existence where magic ruled. In one of these slivers existed a world called Equus. Its inhabitants, aside from a few exceptions, were largely content with peaceful life and the goal of following the creed of harmony under the rule of the two sisters. Unknown to them, however, there existed a terrifying form of life housed within a patch of Darkspace opposite of their side of their galaxy.

Within the heart of Darkspace floated a monstrous, metallic form stretching to an astonishing two kilometers. It seemed an abhorrent mix of machine and organic life that took the form of a giant insect and crawled from the deepest depths of the worst nightmare conceived by sentient life. Orbiting around it were lesser forms: three that were half its size and six more that measured around two hundred meters. If the vacuum of Darkspace were capable of carrying sound, or better yet had a communicator able to decipher the proper signals, one would hear a booming, terrifying voice that once heralded the doom of whole galaxies. A voice that currently monologued while accompanied by stately music.

“Space. The last frontier. These are the logs of Jeff, the last surviving Reaper. My mission? To explore and discover strange, new life. To boldly fight the simple truth that space…IS FIRGGIN BORING AS CRAP!!!”

Actually, scratch that. Space was far more boring in comparison. At least with crap, you could occupy your free time counting and categorizing the individual molecules whilst conversing with the flies. Assuming, of course, one remembered to maintain a small amount of atmosphere to support those flies.

Now now Jeff, don’t forget your manners, I admonished myself silently, you should always start at the beginning so as not to lose your audience; even if the only one listening is yourself.

Myself concurred. Now…er…where was the beginning?

THE BATTLE STUPID!!

Ah! Yes, yes of course. The Battle. Ahem.

The latest cycle started in a rather unexpected way. Instead of flooding through the relay to slaughter the spacefarers in one fell swoop, the Vanguard had been found out and slain. Not that the rest of the fleet was surprised. Many predicted that Vanguard, either due to so much time in exile or that last hit to the processors by a mass driver, was due for a screw up.

Harbinger hadn’t been worried, of course. Being the first and most intelligent of the supreme Reaper Command, it had a failsafe in place for such a possibility. And then the failsafe failed. For the first time in Reaper history, the fleet had to make a painstaking journey from Darkspace via the scenic route. Harbs would likely have had a hard time living that fiasco down if any of us had bothered installing a sense of humor.

Upon arrival, after a few more failsafe failures *robo cough*, the harvest continued with its standard protocol: blowing crap up, laser blasting orphans, having husks kick some puppies, the whole Armageddon shtick. As the harvest continued, however, something happened that, metaphorically speaking, stunned the entire fleet. A Reaper was killed in battle.

And then there was another. And another. Whether through a procession of sheer flukes or some newly discovered knowledge, the organics had come together and began resisting in a manner unheard of in past cycles. It was estimated that they were still destined to the harvest, but the sudden change in pattern sent a feeling of unease along the fleet. Well, as much unease as soulless, genocidal machines could feel. Harbinger definitely showed signs of strain as its pushes toward the end of the cycle became more frenzied.

It was in the battle of Earth that the cyber shit really hit the fan.

At the climax of the battle, a massive energy surge shot from the Citadel and followed the path set by the Mass Relays. Inquisitor, essentially the head researcher among the Reaper Capitals, sensed the surge and threw up a number of experimental defenses it had been working on since news of the first Reaper death. Whether it was caused by a reaction between the surge and the new defenses or some unknown variable, Inquisitor found itself tearing through dimensional boundaries and flung into its current universe. It was ill prepared for the new ambient energy, now known as magic, and found itself shorted out temporarily until its systems managed to identify and adapt for this new energy. Between Inquisitor’s recovery and time to rediscover the dimensional boundaries, it took about four hundred years to find its way back. What it found shook it to its very core.

The Reapers were gone.

Not just gone, of course. Inquisitor fully expected to find the battle finished and have to make a long sojourn back to Darkspace. What it didn’t expect was to find the spacefarers from the cycle still around. Based on what little intel Inquisitor could gather, the organics found a way to render the Reaper Harvest solution void. The organic leader came and… Honestly, for some reason, the exact how of the matter was still fuzzy. Maybe a lot of crap blew up? Something about reprogramming maybe? There were even some hints at something hokey involving cyber genetics.

Eh, screw it. Doesn’t really matter. The point is Reapers, as they were known, were deep-sixed and Inquisitor was put out of a job. And if there is anything a machine can truly fear than deactivation, it is losing its job: its purpose.

The only means of joining the new solution, the Citadel and the Mass Relays, were shot to heck which meant it was stuck as the last member of an obsolete model. Seeing no point in remaining, Inquisitor slunk back to its last place of exile to ponder a new solution for itself. It couldn’t terminate itself because of self-preservation programing so that idea was out. So what else was there for an outdated tool?

After a few decades of thought, Inquisitor finally came up with an idea. Since the organics were obviously on to something the Reapers couldn’t catch, perhaps a little observation and change in methods were in order? When in Rome and all that.

Of course, it couldn’t go back to its old universe and ask someone there. Whatever had happened, it was unlikely an old-school Reaper would find a warm reception. Instead, Inquisitor would carry out its observations in this universe where there were no Reapers and where the organics were still in early development. Watching them evolve for a few hundred millennia should make for thorough study.

Step one: pepper this universe with probes to find life sustaining worlds and watch for change. Step two: restructure programing and thought processes. That last one would be a bit tricky.

The experiment would be pointless if observed by a Reaper that only knew ‘kill everything, toss it in a blender, and hit frappe’ setting. A few finer nuances in the study would likely have been lost on such a mindset. The problem lay in the fact that a machine couldn’t just change its mind overnight like the meatbags. It needed to be directly overridden. Self-reprogramming wouldn’t work as the inherent risks would kick in the self-preservation protocols and shut down the operation. The introduction of a new OS was called for.   
To this purpose, it sent additional probes into other universes, excluding the one it came from, to seek out an appropriate mind. Not just any sentient would do though. It had to be human. As clouded as its memories were, Inquisitor did remember that is was a human that found the new solution.

The concept was simple. First, it would pick a random human and pull it into this universe. That was simple enough, despite the yelling and squeaking from it when it was finally delivered. Then, using a combination of this universe’s magic and program code found in the home-verse, Inquisitor would strip the mind from the organic and install it in the new core processor, with a few augments to adjust for size difference in hardware. The transference must have been fairly painful if its screams were anything to go by. But hey, it was getting immortality and power in the deal so there probably would not be too many hard feelings. Organics were all about the immortality and power, right? Finally, the process would be complete when Inquisitor initiated a sleep mode and rebooted with the new core designated as the priority system. The results upon reactivation were…interesting.

Once the systems were restored, Inquisitor was replaced and I, The Dreadnought Reaper Jeff, awoke to see the universe in new light. And proceeded to scream like a little girl. Or, you know, as much as a giant death machine could sound like one at any rate.
It took a few centuries of freaking out, funny how time flies during an immortal’s nervous breakdown, before I finally thought to check through the systems logs. What I found did not make me happy. While I was free to do whatever I wanted with my new powers and resourced for the most part, Inq’s ‘mission’ would take priority on my actions. That meant I would have to wait in Darkspace for new life to evolve. All by myself.

Fast-forward thirty thousand years, give or take a few centuries, to today.

Within the central chamber of…well…me…a mass of husks with the occasional brute were shuffling along in an odd dance number. Watching the proceedings was a small, holosphere that currently acted as an avatar for me to directly interact with the group of lumbering gits.  

“Annnnd welcome! To another exciting season of Jeffian Idol! I’m your host and overlord, Jeff, here to proudly announce our latest project: auditions to see which meatbags are chosen for the remake of Thriller! MS, what are your thoughts?” I asked while bouncing in excitement as I looked over at the marauder host to my left.

A noncommittal grunt came in reply.

“Wow, MS that’s…that’s kind of harsh actually. I mean, I know your feelings on sequels but, wow.” I turned to the banshee standing to my right, “Got any counterarguments for us, June?”

A blood curdling screech resounded through the hallways of me.

“Ah, yes. Excellent point and just the sort of optimism I have come to expect from you, June,” I said graciously before turning to share the verdict with my rapt audience. “In the fine words of my associate judge, every sequel has potential to unlock previously overlooked expression and bring it to a new level of art form. Who knows? Perhaps three hundred and seventy seven will be Thriller’s lucky number. Okay, boys. From the top. And a one and a two…”

*Ping*

“The fock was that?”

All sounds stopped as processing power was redirected to listening for the new noise. It sounded off again. “That’s different,” my voice intoned flatly as I fought against the rising hope in my enormous nonexistent heart, “different is good.”

I sent a spike through the data banks to identify the new noise. I know it meant something but…I just couldn’t place what it was. An answer came to me in the form of a report in point zero zero three seconds.  
 
Probe three forty two reporting from stationed sector. New sentient life identified. Herbivorous. Hoofed quadruped. Multiple phenotypes detected. Speech recognized, translated, and stored. Recognized as compatible with energy theta.
 
“Huh. Talking, magical ponies. Doesn’t that just beat all?”
 
Awaiting command. Initiate contact? y/n
 
“Hmmm. Let’s see,” I turned the possibility over in my processors, “how about FUCK THE HELL YEAH!”

I turned my holosphere toward the marauder judge, “MS! Take one of the troop transports and head there to establish a communication link yesterday! Oh, oh!” I stopped as a thought came to me, “and see about downloading some tunes to play for them first. You know, to soften the blow of seeing a giant behemoth landing on their front porch. And none of that Close Encounters of the Third Kind crap. No, we need style. We need the good stuff. We need to get them Hooked on a Feeling!!” I cackled a few minutes in appreciation of my little joke before turning back to MS, “but seriously, dude. Get down there ASAP. I need to meet someone that DOESN’T NEED REMINDING ON HOW TO BREATHE!”

The marauder saluted before turning to dash for one of my landing ports.

With that dealt with, I turned to address the rest of my adoring, if slightly drooly, subjects. “Alright everyone, listen up! I have bad news and great news. Bad news is, we have just dropped Thriller remake three seventy seven,” a collective, monotone moan came from the masses, “I know, I know. Everyone was looking forward to it, but that is where the great news comes in. WE ARE MEETING REAL PEOPLE!” another groan answered in the exact same tone.

Naturally, with our longstanding relationship, I had the context needed to recognize the different inflections in the analogous sounding moans. “Yes, yes we are all excited by the prospect. That is why I have to drop the Thriller project. We need the best of the best to greet these new friends. Only my masterpiece will do. Prepare yourselves for…SPONGEBOB THE SPACE OPERA!!”

After being stuck in the body of a killer robot the size of a small asteroid for longer than I could remember, I honestly couldn’t predict how my new organic buddies were going to react. All I knew was that things would be different. And different. Is. Good.