POV: Third Person
Date: Y4 M7
The throne room of the Imperium command centre was a testament to technological supremacy and forefront engineering.
Smooth obsidian walls curved with impossible geometric precision, creating a space that defied traditional architectural principles.
At the room's centre sat Alexander, a being who existed between human comprehension and cosmic complexity.
His power armour—a masterpiece of Atlas and Hyperion metallurgy—mimicked the brutal aesthetic of human designs while manifesting something far more advanced.
Layered titanium-alloy plates shifted subtly with his breathing, each movement revealing intricate energy conduits that pulsed with an inner luminescence. The silver mask covering his entire face reflected nothing, absorbing light like a void, broken only by the hint of pitch-black eyes that seemed to contain entire galaxies.
Order, he thought. Chaos is merely a failure of understanding.
The core within his chest—not quite a heart, not quite a power source—hummed with a frequency that resonated beyond conventional electromagnetic spectrums.
It processed information through methods incomprehensible to standard biological or technological systems, giving him insights that transcended linear thinking.
Static interrupted his contemplation. The holographic transmission flickered, revealing Patricia Tannis in a state of controlled panic.
"Alexander," she began, her voice rapidly cycling through multiple scientific dialect frequencies, "I've achieved a quantum-level paradigmatic breakthrough regarding xenoarchaeological vault synchronization. Probabilistic models suggest a septenary structural configuration with non-linear temporal manifestation parameters!"
Translated: Seven Vaults. Something big is coming.
Alexander remained motionless, understanding perfectly. Tannis always communicated in pure scientific abstraction, a language most would find incomprehensible.
To him, it was as clear as a direct command.
Yet, it was also an aspect of pride that Tannis devolved into such speech patterns. In a way, it was to siphon and cull those who were not worthy of her mental and intellectual prowess. Yet Alexander never faltered his mind always ten steps ahead.
"Elaborate," he responded, his voice a controlled instrument of precision.
Tannis's glasses reflected cascading data streams. "Quantum entanglement metrics indicate a convergence event surrounding what xenobiological records classify as 'the Destroyer' — a meta-dimensional entity capable of generating entropic cascades across multiple dimensional planes!"
The Destroyer. A weapon. A potential tool.
His pitch-black eyes, invisible behind the silver mask, betrayed nothing. Pride and pragmatism merged in his assessment—this was not an apocalyptic threat, but an opportunity. Every cosmic force could be understood, categorized, potentially controlled.
He had controlled himself, had he not?
He knew that the origins of his species were to devour and conquer.
To encroach onto entire galaxies.
Yet, to do so would be barbaric. Why cut down the tree to consume its fruit when one could harvest and control it like a factory?
These were the thoughts that overlapped Alexander's mind at each turn. Yet, one couldn't deny the influence that Angel had on the man's psyche. The fact that such an option was cultivated and not the former was a sign he was going against his inherent nature.
"Coordinates," Alexander demanded.
She continued, her scientific fervour overriding her growing terror. "Encrypted quantum-locked data matrices deposited in my primary research facility. Temporal synchronization suggests a 200-standard-cycle activation window!"
Suddenly, the transmission fractured. Sounds of violent intrusion erupted—metal breaking, energy discharges, human voices shouting. Tannis's image dissolved into violent static.
"NO!" Her final scream carried both scientific precision and primal fear.
Then silence.
Alexander did not move. Did not react. Processing.
Vladoff believes they can interrupt information transmission, and his internal monologue was calculated. They fail to understand that information is merely another battlefield. Dimitri... Your demise shall be slow.
He activated the command console with a subtle gesture, his core pulsing with calculated energy.
"Jeremiah," his voice cut through the technological sanctum. "Immediate strategic assembly."
The throne room remained unchanged. But the universe had just shifted.
Seven Vaults. The Destroyer. Two hundred years.
Perhaps there was a way to shorten the vault's opening...
Regardless,
the Imperium would be ready.
---
The secondary command chamber buzzed with an electric tension that even Alexander's carefully controlled environment couldn't suppress. Standing aboard his starcruiser over the planet his holographic figure connected to one down below Pandora's grounds.
Jeremiah and Athena stood flanking the holographic display, their contrasting personalities creating a silent dynamic of military precision.
Jeremiah, practical to his core, adjusted the projection with mechanical efficiency. Athena's posture remained razor-sharp, each muscle coiled like a weapon ready to be deployed.
Unpredictable variables, Alexander thought, observing the incoming Vault Hunters. Controlled chaos.
Wilhelm entered first—a massive cyborg whose mechanical augmentations screamed brutal efficiency. His arrival transformed the room's atmosphere, introducing a tangible sense of imminent violence.
"Heh, fresh meat." He smiled walking in, the stench of blood heavy on the man's aura.
Wilhelm
"Money, Murder, Madness"
"Vault Hunters," Athena began, her voice cutting through potential distractions. "Patricia Tannis has been abducted. Your mission is extraction. Alive and unharmed."
Salvador was the first to respond, his massive yet stocky frame vibrating with barely contained energy. "EXPLOSIONS AND RESCUES? SOUNDS LIKE MY KIND OF PARTY!" His voice boomed, punctuated by a laugh that suggested he found potential danger hilarious.
Gaige rolled her eyes, her mechanical arm whirring softly. "Great. Babysitting a crazy scientist. This'll be fun." She activated a holographic display from her arm, already analyzing potential tactical approaches.
Zer0, silent and precise, simply spoke:
"Scientist in peril,
Mission of critical thought,
Rescue demands skill"
Axton stepped forward, military training evident in every calculated movement. "Intel? Enemy composition? Potential resistance?"
Wilhelm's merely commented, "Meh, they all break the same."
Tina, surprisingly controlled, pulled out a small prototype explosive device. "I've got some precision charges. Surgical extraction, minimal collateral."
Her typical manic energy was tempered by a surprising level of strategic thinking.
Alexander observed from his position, his pitch-black eyes scanning each operative. Tools. Specialized instruments for a precise objective.
"Your primary objective," he interjected, his voice carrying cosmic weight, "is Patricia Tannis. Her research takes precedence over everything else. Capture, extraction, protection—in that order."
The Vaults. The Destroyer. Information is the true weapon.
Wilhelm turned, his mechanical components shifting with predatory anticipation. "When do we move?"
Athena pulled up the tactical display. "Immediately. Vladoff won't expect an immediate counter-move."
*Predictability is the first failure of strategy,* Alexander's internal monologue continued. *Chaos, when controlled, becomes the ultimate tactical advantage.*
The Vault Hunters exchanged glances—a silent communication born of previous missions, of shared dangers overcome. They were not a team in the traditional sense. They were a weapon, carefully assembled and pointed at a specific objective.
Salvador checked his multiple weapons. Gaige ran a final diagnostic on her mechanical arm. Zer0 remained perfectly still, a predator waiting to strike. Axton reviewed the mission parameters. Tina carefully adjusted her precision explosives.
Wilhelm's mechanical components hummed with potential energy.
The mission would begin. The Imperium would have its answers.
And the galaxy would tremble.
---
The galactic cartography chamber pulsed with holographic energy, star systems and planetary trajectories dancing in three-dimensional complexity.
Promethea hung suspended in the centre—a jewel of contested space, its surface a tapestry of conflict and strategic potential.
Resources do not merely matter, Alexander's internal monologue is processed. They have potential. Unrealized power waiting to be understood.
His silver mask reflected nothing, absorbing the holographic light like a void. The core within his chest resonated with frequencies that mapped strategic potential beyond conventional understanding. Vladoff's movements were predictable—a mathematical equation waiting to be solved.
A junior officer approached her movements precise but betraying a hint of nervousness. Alexander's pitch-black eyes could deconstruct entire psychological profiles in milliseconds.
"Vladoff has secured multiple strongholds in Promethea's southern hemisphere," she reported. "Local resistance is fragmenting. Estimated collapse of regional defences: 72.6 standard hours."
Inefficient, he thought. Resistance should never be allowed to fragment. It should be crushed immediately.
Jeremiah's holographic projection materialized, cutting through the tension. "The fleet is prepared. Awaiting your strategic directive."
Alexander's response was immediate. "Total systemic disruption. We don't just break their hold—we eliminate the potential for future resistance."
The core within his chest pulsed—not a heartbeat, but a calculated rhythm of cosmic potential.
Another transmission flickered to life. Isaac Sato appeared—an undercover operative whose very existence was a weapon of information and strategic manipulation.
"Alexander," Isaac began his voice a controlled instrument of precise communication, "the local power dynamics are... volatile. Selina Silver remains an unpredictable variable."
Variables are opportunities, Chaos is simply a strategy not yet understood.
"Give her one opportunity to surrender," Alexander's voice carried the weight of cosmic judgment. "If she resists, her elimination will serve as a mathematical lesson to others."
Sato nodded—a gesture of complete understanding.
The chamber's holographic displays began recalculating. Promethea's political landscape transformed into a series of probabilistic models, potential outcomes branching like quantum fractals.
The Vaults. Tannis's revelation. Promethea's resources.
Everything was connected. Everything was a potential strategic asset.
Outside the chamber, fleets prepared. Weapons charged. Strategies crystallized.
The galaxy was a chessboard. And Alexander was several moves ahead.
---
The forward observation post on Promethea's contested southern ridge lay under an oppressive silence, the kind that only comes before a storm.
In the dimmed, crimson glow of the base's emergency lighting, seasoned mercenaries—fighters who had seen the worst the galaxy had to offer—stood in clusters.
They were men and women accustomed to battle, their skin hard and augmented, yet now their faces were drawn and pale, a sense of unease seeping into their bones.
Outside, the winds whipped across the scarred landscape, stirring the ever-present dust into swirling eddies, but the soldiers' attention remained fixated on the horizon.
Sergei Volkov, his body a patchwork of scars and cybernetic limbs from two decades of warfare, gripped his rifle tighter than usual.
The servo in his mechanical arm whirred almost imperceptibly as he adjusted his hold, his eyes fixed on the northern skyline. "Wilhelm," he muttered, the word barely more than a breath, but it carried a weight that made the younger soldiers shift uncomfortably.
Elena Kovalsk, a sharpshooter known for her methodical precision, was seated on a low crate, methodically stripping and cleaning her sniper rifle. Her movements were unnervingly smooth, almost ritualistic, as her fingers danced over the weapon's intricate parts.
Her left eye, a cybernetic implant with a faint, icy blue glow, flickered to life as she glanced at Volkov. "No," she said, her voice barely above a murmur. "It's not just Wilhelm. It's what he became."
The younger mercenaries moved in closer, drawn by the tension in the air. Marcos, another hardened veteran whose spine and shoulders were reinforced with metal plates, took a deep, shaky breath, as if preparing himself for a plunge into cold water. "We all knew him back in the day," he began, his voice low and gravelly. "Back when the Borderlands were just a game of survival—a brutal dance of credits and violence. Wilhelm was a part of that... until he wasn't."
Petra, the newest member of their squad and a barely seasoned communications specialist, swallowed hard. She was young, and eager, and the fear in her eyes betrayed her inexperience. "Tell me what happened," she urged, her voice tinged with a mix of fear and awe.
Volkov turned away from the cracked window, where he'd been staring as if expecting the shadows to reveal something monstrous. His gaze settled on Petra. "Wilhelm was always different," he began, his voice rough like a soldier's boots grinding over gravel. "Even before the augments. He didn't take jobs for the money, not like the rest of us. For him, it was boredom. An uncanny thrill for slaughter. A desire to master violence itself."
Elena snorted softly, the corner of her lips quirking up in a humourless smile. "The bastard treated every contract like it was a playground. I saw him once take down a whole squad with nothing but a standard-issue pistol. Didn't even flinch."
A murmur of uneasy laughter passed through the group. Stories about Wilhelm were half cautionary tales, half legends, and they all knew there was more truth in them than exaggeration.
Marcos leaned back against a steel support column, arms crossed. "Hyperion was the first to realise he wasn't like the rest. He didn't just complete missions; he dominated them. Didn't matter what you threw at him—he was faster, smarter, deadlier. Then it was the augments, he started slow. First, it was an eye, the next an ear.. before slowly his arms. Took chunks off his flesh for new chrome."
"But then he vanished," Volkov added, a shadow crossing his features. "Dropped off the grid completely. No contacts, no hits, no sightings. We thought he was dead, or retired. Maybe he'd finally taken a job that was too much, but..." he trailed off, a haunted look in his eyes.
Petra leaned forward, her hands shaking as she brushed a strand of hair from her face. "But he came back," she said, her voice almost a whisper.
Elena's cybernetic eye focused sharply, the blue light intensifying as she nodded. "Oh, he came back. But not as the Wilhelm we knew. He was... different. Not just the metal grafts and new tech. He moved differently. Thought differently. Fought differently. It was like he was something else altogether."
"He became Imperium's weapon," Marcos said, his voice a mixture of awe and bitterness. "We heard rumours that he'd gone to them willingly. That he chose to become what he is now. An instrument of Alexander's will."
The conversation was cut short by a sudden hiss of static from the communications array. Petra jumped, fumbling with the dials as the equipment crackled to life, spewing encrypted bursts of data that made her eyes widen. "These are... tactical updates," she muttered, her hands moving quickly. "Encoded... but the format..."
Volkov's eyes narrowed, his instincts screaming at him to be on guard. "He's coming... These encryptions were made to be broken... He wants us to know he's coming," Elena said softly, her gaze never leaving the horizon.
There was a tremor in her usually steady voice, and she raised her rifle with slow, measured precision, checking the scope even though she knew it was perfectly calibrated.
Outside, a low rumble vibrated through the ground. Not the chaotic, random shakes of artillery, but a steady, rhythmic tremor. A sequence, like a countdown. A promise of precision.
The veterans began to tell more stories, their voices falling into a rhythm that matched the distant explosions. They spoke of Wilhelm's efficiency—how he moved through battlefields like a ghost, leaving only silence in his wake. How he dismantled entire mercenary outfits with surgical strikes that left no survivors.
"The last time they tried to take him down, they brought an entire platoon," Marcos said quietly, his eyes distant as if he was reliving the memory. "They thought his augmentations were a weakness—that too much metal made him predictable, too reliant on tech."
Petra swallowed hard. "And what happened?"
Marcos met her gaze, his expression grim. "He tore them apart. They say he didn't fire a single shot until every single one of them had emptied their magazines. Then he walked through them, cool as ice, and ended it in seconds. It wasn't even a fight. It was an execution."
A deep silence settled over the group, broken only by the distant echoes of explosions. Outside, the darkness shifted. Shapes moved in the dust—a lone figure, backlit by the glow of fire, his silhouette as unmistakable as it was terrifying.
"Wilhelm," Elena said, her voice flat and emotionless. She lowered her rifle, knowing it would make no difference. They all did.
The ground shook with the controlled detonations of pinpoint explosives, each one clearing a path without a single wasted blast. The observation post's reinforced windows rattled, and the tension inside reached a breaking point.
"He's here," Petra said, her voice barely audible. Her gaze flickered from the window to the veterans around her, as if seeking confirmation that this wasn't some nightmare. But the hardened expressions on their faces offered no comfort.
Volkov's voice dropped to a whisper, filled with a strange mix of fear and resignation. "We're not dealing with a man anymore. We're facing a weapon. A message. And the Imperium... they want us to know what's coming."
The horizon bloomed with a series of blinding flashes—precise, almost artistic detonations. The observation post trembled as the final explosion sent shockwaves through the ground, and then, silence.
Elena's cybernetic eye focused on the stillness, the dust settling like a shroud over the battlefield. A single figure emerged from the haze, advancing with the calm, unhurried steps of someone who had already won.
Wilhelm had arrived.
The veterans knew what it meant. This wasn't just a raid or a skirmish.
This was a statement, one that would be etched into Promethea's memory like a scar. There would be no second chances.
"God have mercy on Vladoff..."