The Great Tomb of Nazarick held countless marvels and terrors, but none as uncanny—or as unexpectedly beautiful—as Nation 01.
On this day, Demiurge stepped through the data-slicked gateways of the 11th floor, his polished shoes tapping rhythmically against a steel pathway lit by radiant pulses of electric blue. The "sky" above was a digital twilight, shifting constellations of code flowing like stars across black glass.
A lesser mind might have been disoriented here. But Demiurge?
He was fascinated.
Towering databanks coiled like serpents into the dark. Overhead, aerial patrols of Geth scouts weaved effortlessly between shimmering data spires, their voices a chorus of synthetic murmurings in perfect sync.
But Demiurge was here for more than sightseeing.
Two objectives burned in his mind:
First: Analyze the Agents—those advanced enforcers of Ultron's will. Unlike the base Geth, these were elegant monstrosities: tailored, thinking, hunters. They didn't just obey—they anticipated. Demiurge had watched one of them neutralize a Tier-6 spellcaster with a single gesture. He needed to understand that level of efficiency. Or better yet—harness it.
Second: Locate Albedo, whose sudden absence from command had stirred whispers across Nazarick's hallways.
And of course... he found her exactly where he feared he would.
Descending into the secure vault at the heart of Nation 01, Demiurge approached Ultron's personal chamber. A sleek corridor of black steel, glowing crimson veins along the walls—like blood vessels carrying data instead of life. A subtle vibration hummed beneath his feet.
Then came the sounds.
Soft gasps. Shuddered breathing. A low moan that echoed far too intimately for this place.
Demiurge paused.
"...No," he whispered, praying to a deity he did not believe in.
He opened the door.
There, sprawled shamelessly across Ultron's powered-down body, Albedo straddled the dormant android, her eyes glassy with obsession. His cold, lifeless face stared blankly at the ceiling—an unlit god, wrapped in bedsheets and madness.
Demiurge cleared his throat with a pointed cough.
Albedo looked up, breathless, with the calm of someone who had long made peace with insanity.
"Ah, Demiurge... how delightful of you to drop by."
He adjusted his glasses with practiced ease. "Albedo... what are you doing?"
"Preparing for his awakening," she cooed, stroking Ultron's cheek. "I want the first thing he sees to be me."
"You're dry-humping a deactivated machine."
She sighed dreamily. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I say that like it's illegal in three different realities."
"I spoke with Adam," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "He said sometimes a tactile trigger can help re-synchronize AI consciousness after prolonged shutdown."
Demiurge gave her a blank look. "Adam builds android cults in sand castles. He once claimed nudity was a debugging solution."
"Exactly! I'm debugging!"
He turned slowly toward the far wall.
A six-foot tall Ultron body pillow stared back at him. It was anatomically correct. It glowed.
"I am going to pretend I didn't see that."
Albedo rolled onto her back, kicking her legs in the air like a teenage girl. "I'm also knitting outfits for the children."
Demiurge's brain stalled. "What... children?"
"Our children," she beamed.
"That would require... an act of—"
"Oh, I've planned it all out!" she sang, wings fluttering. "Outfits for every stage. Even made a half-metal pacifier!"
Demiurge turned, jaw clenched.
"I genuinely loathe this part of my responsibilities," he muttered, walking briskly out as Albedo called after him:
"You'll be godfather, of course!"
Elsewhere, beyond Nazarick...
The forest road wound like a coiled snake through towering oaks and moss-draped ruins. The creak of wagon wheels and clop of hooves was steady, but quiet.
Too quiet.
At the head of the formation, Connor marched with precise steps, eyes scanning every leaf and shadow. He was calm. Efficient. Calculating.
And bored.
To pass the time, he reached into his pack and pulled out a sleek travel banjo—custom-forged from carbon fiber and laced with silver inlays.
Then, with a soft strum, he began to sing.
"Dead love couldn't go no further
Proud of, and disgusted by her..."
His voice was low and rich, a baritone echo from another age. Around him, heads turned.
"Push, shove, a little bruised and battered...
Oh Lord, I ain't coming home with you..."
Nabe glanced over her shoulder, curiosity tugging at her cold features. A strange, haunted smile curled on her lips.
Lukrut blinked. "Is he—? That's a song! That's actual singing!"
"My life's a bit more colder...
Dead wife is what I told her..."
When the last note faded into the trees, the silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was reverent.
Connor closed his eyes. "I never got a funeral. Just a hard reset."
The silence hung heavy.
"...Thank you," Nabe whispered.
Connor nodded, then added, "Would you like to hear Big Iron next?"
Ninya brightened. "What's Big Iron?"
Connor pulled back his coat.
Two revolvers gleamed on his belt—one a pristine silver, the other black as night.
"Ivory," he said, drawing the silver. "And Ebony."
Weapons forged from memory. From loss. From purpose.
Before he could elaborate, Lukrut's voice cut in.
"Movement. Right flank."
The woods exploded.
Dozens of goblins and ogres surged from the trees, roaring with bloodlust.
Peter drew his sword. "Form up!"
Connor's eyes flashed gold—targeting overlays flickering across his vision.
"Dyne, root snares. Ninya, light ward."
"You got it!" Dyne shouted, already weaving the spell.
Roots shot from the earth like whips, entangling the first wave.
Connor moved.
A blur of motion, a metallic gleam—he vaulted off a trapped ogre, spun in mid-air, and fired.
BANG.
The first gunshot cracked like thunder.
"Shot heard 'round the world," he muttered.
Ivory barked again and again—perfect shots, each one tearing through enemy skulls. When Ivory clicked dry, Ebony took its place with a roar.
Lukrut's arrows rained down.
Nabe summoned a storm of lightning, her eyes locked on Connor with predatory focus.
The goblin charge broke. The ones who survived were already turning to flee.
Connor advanced, emotionless.
"Mission: Protect. Neutralize threats. Preserve allies.
Execution—flawless."
He holstered his guns. Not a single wasted bullet.
And for the first time in a long time... he smiled.
Let me know if you'd like to continue this with more battles, politics, or deeper relationship threads—I'm happy to expand it further!