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{{awesome}}
With the heavy clunk-clack of locking joints and a brief shower of sparks, the heavy bolter slides into place upon the Praetorian's shoulder mount. It's a big, ugly weapon, salvaged from a Leman Russ wounded beyond the point of repair fighting for the Omnissiah's armies and decommissioned with full honours, and the thuggish machine-spirits rebel at union with such a lowly machine-being as a servitor. It takes three ritual anointations with sacred oils and a full recitation of the third hymn of pacification to persuade the weapon to accept its new mount and permit me to complete the work, the dancing, serpentine mechandrites that curl around from my back spot-welding it into place.
{{Infobox 40k Nations
|name= Adeptus Mechanicus
I check the great chronometer set into the servitor workshop's wall, run a hand through the half of my hair that hasn't been shaven away to make way for chrome plates, and allow myself a small smile. Preparing the battle-servitor took far less time than I had planned, even with the Heavy Bolter's stubborn spirit, giving me a chance to engage in a little guilty frivolity. Reaching into the greasy, oil-stained red robes that are the hallmark of the Adeptus Mechanicus, I withdraw a small vial of acid and a specialised stylus, clear away the myriad of servitor components scattered across my workbench, set them up and go to work.
|image= [[Image:AdMech_Flag.jpg ‎|300px|center]]
|bgcolor=
My occular implant hums and whirrs as I work, the bulky lenses rotating in place as I zoom in on the metalwork. Scrolls of data flow past, informing me of which Forge World originally machined it, the composition of the alloy, its stress limits, melting point, and a thousand other facts. I dismiss it to a corner of my HUD and concentrate upon my work, dipping the stylus into the acid and dragging it across the armour plating. The metal hisses and spits as the etched design takes shape, slowly transforming from a collection of shapes and guide-lines to a heroic figure mounted upon an armoured steed, striking out at cowering xenoforms with a mighty warhammer even as they're ridden down by his mount.
|fgcolor=
|Capital=[[Mars]]
>A FITTING TRIBUTE, ADEPT XI<
|Official Languages=Lingua-technis, Low Gothic, High Gothic
|Power=Galactic Superpower
I'm so deeply engrossed in my work that, when the sudden message is canted to me in binaric, I let out a startled gasp and drop the stylus, as if I've been found doing something wrong. A sudden, irrational spike of fear floods through me at the idea of being caught by my supervisor, who has never looked kindly upon my art, but it dies as suddenly as it came as rationality re-asserts itself. There is only one other Adept in the workshop today.
|Size=Galactic <br> 125 Known Forgeworlds <br> totals presumably in the tens-of-thousands <br> Numerous outposts and research stations
|Head of State=[[High Lords of Terra#Members|Fabricator-General of Mars]]
"You could try being a little more conspicuous, Omi." I say, a manipulator-dentrite scooping up the fallen stylus and tucking it, along with the vial of acid, back under my robes.
|Head of Government=[[High Lords of Terra#Members|Fabricator-General of Mars]], Martian Parliament
|Governmental Structure=Totalitarian Theocratic Technocracy (''Before Great Crusade'') <br> Semi-Autonomous Corporatocratic Theocratic Technocracy (''Great Crusade-41st Millennium'')
Omicron-24 is my work partner, though he could be mistaken for a senior adept with the amount of augmentations worked into his body. His face, a head and shoulders above mine and half-shrouded by the hood of his voluminous robe, has been completely replaced with a gleaming metal dome speckled with insectile sensor-clusters and half a dozen mismatched, glowing optics, which blink in seemingly random patterns as the other techpriest regards me.
|State Religion/Ideology=Cult Mechanicus / [[Omnissiah]] worship
|Demographic=[[Humans]], various [[Servitors]], assorted Transhumans and Cyborgs
>INDEED? I SHALL PRECEED MY ARRIVAL WITH A FLIGHT OF CHERUBIM IN FUTURE< He cants back, attaching info-tags signifying humour and slight admonishment to the end of his message. I give him an awkward smile and look down at the etchings, remembering the dozens of times we've had this discussion before. >FEW ADEPTS SHARE YOUR DEVOTION TO AESTHETIC. I REGRET THIS, BUT ENSURE IT DOES NOT DISTRACT YOU FROM YOUR DUTIES.<
|Military Force=[[Skitarii]], [[Titan (Warhammer 40,000)|Collegia Titanica]], [[Ordinatus|Centurio Ordinatus]], [[Legio Cybernetica]], [[Imperial Knight|Knight Houses]]
}}
"You do?" I look up, reviewing his last message, searching for any tags - or the lack of such -which might suggest Omicron is being insincere. "You've never said so before."
{{Topquote|Go go gadget Rocket boots!|An Ancient Terran Skitarii protector, code name "Gadget", seen as a living saint among the early Mechanicum}}
{{Topquote|I am... a machine|An ancient Terran Cybernetic law officer, serial numbers "R080-C0P" defended Hive City Detroit from those who would abuse the Omnissiah's subjects}}
Omicron reaches out, tracing one of his metal hands around the etchings. Each of his fingers is tipped with a separate micro-fine tool or probe, which twitch and click as his haptic feedback bundles come in contact with the acid.
{{Topquote|Sometimes I wonder why you submitted to the changes."<br>"Improvements! I submit to no one. I chose them.|A-4D & General Grievous, in a galaxy far far away... }}
 
>ONE OF THE CALIXAN ADEPTS ONCE STATED, THAT ONE SHOULD CREATE NOTHING WHICH IS NOT USEFUL, BEAUTIFUL, OR DEADLY. I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT ONE SHOULD ASPIRE TO ACHIEVE ALL THREE. SADLY, IN THIS, I FEEL I HAVE FAILED, BUT I HAVE HIGH HOPES FOR YOU<
Basically what happens when you combine the extreme technophilia and cyborg-fetishism of the [[Cyberpunk]] Genre with the religiosity and aesthetics of Medieval Catholicism, the '''Adeptus Mechanicus'''; [https://youtu.be/7p3H5avBJs0 Formerly] known as the '''Mechanicum''' and often shortened as '''AdMech''', is an organization in the [[Imperium of Man]] (In the loosest sense of the word) that simultaneously operates as a government ministry, religious organization and Technology Corporation, responsible for science, technology, engineering, manufacturing and most of the Imperium's Industrial production, as well as the operation of the [[Titan (Warhammer 40,000)|Titan]] Legions.  
 
"Failed?" I ask, stepping around the servitor and approaching him.
The Adeptus Mechanicus, whose individual members are known as [[Techpriest]]s, own dozens, maybe hundreds of heavily polluted planet-factories known as [[Forge World#Planet|forge worlds]], which are covered in massive manufactoria or, as they are known to speakers of Low Gothic, 'work'. The largest forge world of the Adeptus Mechanicus is its homeworld [[Mars]], on which the most badass weapons ever known to man are made, most of which they refuse to share. Despite being part of the Imperium, the AdMech was actually its own nation and a respectable superpower in its own right throughout the Great Crusade and largely is to this day. The 'being-part-of-the-Imperium' shtick was a symbolic gesture of goodwill signed by the Treaty of Mars, but was codified when they became the "Adeptus Mechanicus" after their former leader fell to chaos. They still secured quasi-independence and private property rights though, courtesy of [[Awesome|marching an Imperator titan into the senate chamber and holding them at building-sized gunpoint]].
 
>YES. THIS BODY IS FIT FOR PURPOSE AND CONTAINS SEVERAL CONCEALED WEAPON SYSTEMS, BUT IT HOLDS NO BEAUTY<
The Adeptus Mechanicus is basically the definition of a Mega-Corporation, or a [[Monopoly]]. They are simply so rich and powerful, and have totally privatized the production and manufacturing of technology for themselves, that they can basically buy the government and its politicians. The Imperium may hate the AdMech for being Heretics, but they have private claim to all the various Forgeworlds, Manufactoria, Mining worlds and Research Stations needed for the production of Imperium war machines. Where else can you even buy a new cellphone or have repair maintenance for your servitors, if not your local Techpriest? Because of this privatized monopoly, the AdMech has become an Empire within an Empire, and can ''possibly'' survive without the Imperium, while the Imperium cannot survive without the AdMech.
 
I bite my lip as Omicron cants across signifiers of regret. Omicron's body would certainly be seen as thing of horror to most within the Imperium; a lumpen, bulky mass of hissing old augmetics and hard angles, snaking cables and bronzed dermal armour plates, heavy servo-limbs and an old-fashioned, oversized potentia coil. But despite his claims to the contrary, there is something attractive about it; his body is brutish and powerful, possessed of a mechanical strength that has always appealed to a deep, primal part of me, ever since he dragged me clear of a malfunctioning servitor on our first day together. The feeling of his sheer power, his physicality, as he clutched my frail, organic body to his own, clung to me for a long time. And over the long, lonely nights in my cot, warped into something quite else; how it would feel for him to take me up in those hard arms and grasping claws, to be stripped and cast down, to be overwhelmed and ravished even though such desires must surely have been stripped from him long ago.
They have a monopoly on [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TvN5lCVkRk all the really cool shit for themselves (aside from the overpowered DAOT artifacts in the emperors basement)]—like Titans, [[Ordinatus]], and other wonderful stuff—only letting the Imperials have it when absolutely necessary or if they're threatened personally, with the justification of keeping the good shit away from [[Chaos]] in case an army rebels. They have two armies of their own, which are not anything like the [[Imperial Guard]], as they are mostly composed of badass angry technogrunge cyborgs that are more violent than ED209, [[Servitor|lobotomized minions]] manufactured out of clones and heretics, and [[Titan (Warhammer 40,000)|giant, world-devastating Super Robots]]. They are also technological rivals with the [[Tau|space weeaboos with transforming mecha]] and potentially have made a few advances beyond the [[Eldar]], though the Eldar are much more advanced in psionic technology.
 
He reaches for me, placing one of his heavy metal hands on my shoulder. There doesn't seem to be anything sexual about his touch, but it sets my heart pounding and my mechandrites writhing in agitation.
Only the [[Necrons]], an entire race of robots whose race-wide robotization was not their most advanced feat, eclipse them technologically. The Adeptus Mechanicus are conflicted on how to perceive the Necrons; some see them as perverse because it's alien, some are envious of the Necrons, others revere them as agents of the Machine-God and tend to kill themselves attempting to [[Looted|loot]] Necron tombs (though [[Void Dragon|there may be truth to this]]).
 
>MY IMPLANTS ARE TOO DEEPLY MESHED WITH MY REMAINING FLESH TO BE REPLACED. YOU, HOWEVER, ARE STILL MOSTLY UNAUGMENTED< One of Omicron's eye-lenses flickers, playing a green light over my body as he consults the data-readout of my noospheric signature. I shiver as the scan sweeps the length of my body, imagining it penetrating the folds of my robes so the other Techpriest can examine my frail, naked body. >AS YOU PROGRESS THROUGH THE CULT MECHANICUM'S RANKS, I IMPLORE YOU TO CHOOSE ONLY THOSE AUGMENTATIONS NECESSARY FOR YOUR DUTIES. THE FLESH MAY BE WEAK, BUT IT IS NOT TO BE REPLACED ENTIRELY. UPGRADE. IMPROVE. DO NOT NEEDLESSLY DISCARD<
They typically look like a cross between [[Star Wars|Jawas]] and [[/co/|Doctor Octopus]] with a healthy dose of [[Dune|The Bene Tleilax]], as well as wearing the sort of re-breather masks that you'll typically see on riot police.
 
"Omi, I..." I trail off, my mouth dry, suddenly unsure of what to say. Neither of us had undergone the Rite of Pure Thought - we still retained our capacity for emotion, even though our devotion to the martian ideal saw us try and repress it. To see such an open display of feeling from the other Techpriest, normally such a bastion of calm, deliberate rationalism, left me floundering. "Are you - I mean, you think I'm attractive?"
==The Commandments of the Mechanicus==
The Mechanicus have some ideas that they abide by:
I cursed myself as soon as I said it. It sounded so stupid - like something a child would say. Omicron cocked his head, his lenses clicking and rotating, then stepped closer, his servo-arms and mechandrites curling around me like the limbs of a spider. The heat radiating from his cooling vents gusted through the folds of my robes, caressing my pale, light-starved skin and sending a shiver down my spine, even as his presence filled the air with the heady scents of machine oil, devotional incense and engine grease.
 
'''The Mysteries:'''
>YOUR VOICE PURRS LIKE A WELL-MAINTAINED ENGINE. YOUR BODY IS MORE PERFECTLY FORMED THAN THE MOST SELECTIVELY GROWN SERVITOR HUSK. THE MIGHTIEST TITANS OF MARS, BEDECKED IN THEIR FINEST COLOURS OF WAR, WOULD BE A PALE SIGHT BEFORE YOUR BEAUTY<
#Life is directed motion.
#The spirit is the spark of life.
A confused slew of emotional signfiers follows his message; guilt, shame, sincerity, relief, too many to easily track at once. One of Omicron's smaller manipulatory dendrites extended from within his robes, dancing in the air like a ripple of liquid sliver, before curling in to caress my hair. Having had to shave it on one side, I had grown the other half out, dying it the same glowing blue as my electoos in a fit of whimsy.
#Sentience is the ability to learn the value of knowledge.
#Intellect is the understanding of knowledge.
>YOU SHINE BRIGHTER THAN THE DISPERSION COILS OF A PLASMA-BATTERY, XI<
#Sentience is the basest form of Intellect.
#Understanding is the True Path to Comprehension.
Lines of neat green script began to scroll across my HUD, notifying me of sharp spikes in my heart and breathing rates, and I could feel sweat starting to bead across my body - along with another, far more primal, heat that began to bloom within my core. I'd had a rare few relationships before being accepted into the Cult Mechanicus, but they had been short-lived, childish things, and none of my previous partners had ever spoken about me in such a fashion.
#Comprehension is the key to all things.
#The Omnissiah knows all, comprehends all.
This is happening, I thought. This is really happening. It felt like a dream, or a hallucination, but a cursory scan of my biometrics confirmed that neither was the case. Omicron stood before me, his beautifully lumpen metal body hunched, his eye-lenses clicking and spinning, waiting for my reply.
 
'''The Warnings:'''
Slowly, I raised one of my hands, placing it against the dull metal of his facemask. My other crept up towards the back of my neck, the sleeve falling away from the intricate, glowing electoos etched around my forearms, as I reached for the clasp that held my robes together. The irrational thought that if I moved too quickly, if I broke the surreal, dreamlike state that had settled upon me, the situation would dissipate like the steam from a melta-forge. So it was that I took ahold of the robes with my manipulatory mechandrites, undid the clasp with shaking fingers, and slowly slid the greasy red fabric down the length of my pale, trembling body. Omicron's many eyes followed the garment down, drinking in the sight of me, of the gleaming silver potential coil that wrapped itself around my ribs like a corset, the glowing power stacks creeping their way back up my spine.
#The alien mechanism is a perversion of the true path.
#The soul is the conscience of sentience.
>XI, WHAT IS-< Omicron canted. I let out a long, shaky breath and stepped in closer, cutting him silent and pressing my narrow, skinny body into his robes, feeling the beautiful hard angles of his body shifting against mine beneath them. The other techpriest's manipulatory arms folded down around me, industrial clamps closing around my shoulders, slender mechandrites wrapping around my arms and slender waist, holding me close. I pressed my head against his broad chest, listening to the steady thrumming of his potential coil and the soft, rumbling pulse of his mechanical heart. The potency of that embrace was breathtaking - he could have torn me apart or crushed my fleshy body like an ant, but his hulking, mechanical limbs held me so softly they wouldn't have cracked so much as a glass. My own mechandrites began to slide under his robes, extending datajacks and snaking blindly through the contours of his augmetic body, searching for hardpoints and input slots.
#A soul can be bestowed only by the Omnissiah.
#The Soulless sentience is the enemy of all.
>XI, I SUSPECT YOU WISH TO SHARE BIOLOGICAL INPUT< I lifted my head, a spare mechandrite brushing my hair away from my face as I looked up at the other techpriest. A string of info-tags followed, the equivalent of a raised eyebrow.
#The knowledge of the ancients stands beyond question.
#The machine spirit guards the knowledge of the ancients.
"Mmn. Whatever gave you that idea?" I laugh softly sliding one hand under his robes, my probing fingers running over dermal armour and the occasional scrap of wizened, grey flesh, briefly caressing a snarl of wires tangled around his lumpen potential coil, wandering further down, looking for something I don't even know if I'll find.
#Flesh is fallible, but ritual honors the machine spirit.
#To break with ritual is to break with faith.
>JUST A HUNCH< Omicron cants back, followed by a strange, wheezing sound. For a moment I wonder if his respiratory system has suffered a malfunction, before a wave of relief sweeps through me as I realize he's laughing - not simply an appropriately tagged statement registering happiness and amusement, but a genuine, organic laugh, and I smile a little at that. It's the first non-binaric sound I've ever heard from him.
 
== What the Mechanicus does ==
One of Omicron's wandering mechandrites curls around my waist, the metal cool against my skin, the input jack tap-tap-tapping along the outer shell of my potentia coil until it finds the dual row of upload sockets beneath the power stacks. It circles the entrance, fat yellow sparks jumping between the jack and the waiting socket and tingling like static as they crackle across my bionics. I don't know whether he's having trouble making the interface or simply teasing me with his blind fumbles, but it's enough to set my legs trembling with hot, animal need. I burrow deeper into his robes, breathing deep of his oily machine-scent, letting out a little gasp as my stiff, sensitive nipples drag against the ridges of his armour.
[[Image:Mechanical-man.jpg|thumb|300px|right|[[Awesome|"You may say, it is impossible for a man to become like the Machine. And I would reply, that only the smallest mind strives to comprehend its limits."<br>- Fabricator General Kane.]]]]
The main role of the Adeptus Mechanicus is to maintain the advanced equipment of the Imperium; which despite stereotypes, they are actually very good at. Most of their rituals to appease machinery are pretty much the same methods we would use to repair our machinery with a whole bunch of religious iconography mixed in. The terms used by the Mechanicus are quite similar to our engineers if you swap some of the words (replace machine spirit with A.I, sacred oils with lubricant etc.) Because of its religious nature some of the components of the rituals are unnecessary but almost all Tech-Priests skip or abandon the unnecessary stuff in dire situations. It's also implied that the so-called holy chants are really them repeating instructions to themselves-useful for remembering what you're doing. The cases where chanting is actually necessary is where they are working with something like a [[Land Raider]] or Titan - both of which have a temperamental machine spirit - that you don't want to piss off.
And then, at once, two things happen. My hand closes around something that feels like a thick tube of warm, viscous fluid danging from a port near Omicron's groin, and the input jack finally slides home with a crackle of power. At once, a sudden rush of current floods from the other techpriest as his potentia coil shunts power down the link, crackling through my unprepared body like lightning, setting every nerve and synth-bundle alight with screaming ecstasy as my own coil, so much newer and more advanced than his, blazes into life. It vents twin plume of steam as my back archs and my legs go limp, forcing me to sag forwards, to cling to Omicron's hulking, powerful body as my biological components react to the overwhelming neuro-stimulation, drenching my lower lips in moisture.
 
   
They spend a lot of time traveling across the galaxy looking for some old laptops called "[[Standard Template Construct]]s" that have all the info necessary for the first human colonist do their job well (mostly a mix of Ikea and "high-tech for dummies" manuals). This is the reason why you will end up selling groxburgers if you study to be a scientist (unless you have balls or are a spess mehreen artificer who might make something really good) in the [[Imperium]]: everything was already done by the ancients in the Dark Age of [[Cyberpunk|William Gibson]] and recorded in these STCs. Thanks to glitches, lack of maintenance, and Chaos corruption, nearly all the STCs found by the Mechanicus are more fucked up than Windows Vista. While the recoverable STCs are often useless or incomplete, there are rare instances where they are functional, such as the STC data of the Land Raider and the Land Speeder as well as Centurion armour. Another nice example is the one found in the novel Skitarius by [[Rob Sanders]], where the badass protagonist helps the Adeptus Mechanicus priests to find a sort of "Empyrean Bomb", capable of dissipating warp phenomena (this bomb's utilization would've negated the cause of the post-Iron War part of the [[Age of Strife]], which was caused by humanity's worlds being cut-off by [[Warp Storm|Warp storms]]). More often than not STC data comes from print-outs from fragmented STCs, or copies of these print-outs. These printouts, when discovered, are studied, translated and argued over for centuries before any useful products are made from them. If they ever find an undamaged complete STC, this would likely cause a schism within the Mechanicus and tear the Imperium asunder. It's worth noting that different writers seem to have different ideas of what an STC is. Some depict them as a single blueprint for some high-tech equipment, some depict them as a database of those blueprints, and on at least one occasion an STC was portrayed as a massive 3-D Printer. The Adeptus Mechanicus also sometimes attempt to loot [[Necron]] tombs and will gladly put an entire world at risk for this, and act like it's blasphemy of the most serious kind when people wall it off because of the goddamn killer robot skeletons! The idiots. The Priests of Mars also will not mind getting their hands on Xenos artifacts to see how such "blasphemies" can work, and maybe give a hint of how a [[Orky|"pure" design should have been.]]
He holds me, cradling me against him in his great metal arms, until the waves of stimulation finally draw back. I can still feel the strange, crackling thrum of his current pulsing through me - my potential coil may be slim and neat, but Omicron's older model possessed a sheer, brutal capacity for generation that leaves me weak with need. As I finally draw back, I realize what I've been hanging onto, and gingerly release Omicron's phallus.
 
[[Image:MECHANICUS.jpg|thumb|500px|left|The faculty of engineering never looked so cool!]]
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" I ask, wincing a little at the sight of the indentations my hand left in the tube.
Very rarely does the Mechanicus actually invent something. While they do adapt designs occasionally, the only things they actually invented from scratch is the [[Lascannon]], the Dunestrider perpetual motion machine (whose creator was promptly executed and all designs lost upon creation), as well all the [[Titan (Warhammer 40,000)|Titans]], except for the Reaver and Apocalypse Classes, which were invented during the Age of Strife and the Dark Age of Technology respectively. Which is pretty odd, until you realize they invented them [[Horus Heresy|pre-heresy]]. Even things like [[Land Raider]]s and [[Land Speeder]]s, which were said to have been given critically important parts by the famous Mr. Land himself, were actually just made from really old bits Land found in the galaxy's third biggest library/archive/warehouse (the one on Terra). Well, they also invented the Infernus pattern Predator. Sure they built it on the [[Rhino Transport|Rhino]] chassis, but they created a pattern without killing everyone involved. Of course, they aren't ''actually'' "inventing" it; they are using "divinely inspired reason" to create something that has always existed, implicit in the logical structure of the universe. This is, interestingly, not a new idea, traceable back to philosophers like Plato. Conveniently, the Mechanicus will play to no end with the meaning of the word "invent" if they must get job done, as too often and despite /tg/'s cartoonish flanderization your average techpriest has the common sense to "feel divinely inspired" whenever his/her neck is on the line, you know, desperation is the mother of all inven... Ahem, I mean, "divinely inspired reason". More recently, several of the cogboys under the influence of Archmagos [[Belisarius Cawl]] have relearned actual innovation, producing entirely new designs like the [[Repulsor Tank]]. If they'll produce something that isn't a ripoff of crappier franchises is another thing else entirely. Most in universe and out just wish they could recreate mass Volkites in 40k and other 30k era shit that hasn't been ported over yet, as well as [[Plasma#Phased_Plasma_Fusil|Plasma that doesn't explode when overcharged or requiring such a thing.]]
 
>NEGATIVE< He cants back. >THE HAPTIC FEEDBACK SENSORS DO NOT COME ONLINE UNLESS THE UNIT IS ENGAGED<
It's also important to mention is what they ''do not do.'' The Mechanicus by and large are the greediest gits in the galaxy, on top of being feudal as fuck. They hoard technology like it is going out of style, which would be fine, if they didn't hoard and defend it, but that isn't the point. The point ''is'' that each and every Forge World will basically [[Monopoly|try to own, buy, sell and take by force any existing technology]] while mostly paying lip service to Mars, and they're sure as hell not giving that STC of paperweight they found the other day to a neighboring Forge World. Getting a part, gun, computer, vehicle, schematic, program, eyepatch, cookie recipe, or even a [[Miniatures|tiny plastic model]] that wasn't specifically mass-produced and shipped to the [[Departmento Munitorum]] so ''they'' can give it to you, [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TvN5lCVkRk is nearly impossible.] Anything with any kind of passing significance or interest to the Mechanicus is guarded by 7-foot cyborg death machines. Anything in the private possession of a Mechanicus operative that ''might be'' harder to make than a bolt or nut is treated like the holy grail. I dare you to try and [[rage|take an 8,000 year-old flash drive from a techpriest who just found it.]] It's worse than taking little plastic models from [[tg|fat men]] [[neckbeards|with beards]].
 
Omicron looks down at his false phallus. It took the form of a long, transparent tube of thick blue fluid that culminated in a blunt tip, though it lacked any easily recognized head. >A RELIC FROM MY MORE REBELLIOUS DAYS< he cants, shrugging one of his broad, angular shoulders and spitting across a mixture of info-tags signifying a mixture of pride and embarrassment. >I RESENTED HAVING TO SURRENDER MY BIOLOGICAL UNIT, SO I CRAFTED A REPLACEMENT<
=== Mechanicum Understanding of Science ===
There's the common misconception that the AdMech don't really understand science and approach all tech with ritual and superstition. That's arguably wrong. In the "Mechanicum" novel they demonstrate theoretical knowledge of physics. Yes, it's set in the 31st millennium, but it's quite clear that even in the 41st they know "normal" sciences like mechanics, thermodynamics, biology, optics, quantum physics, etc. The AdMech definitely has as much scientific knowledge as we have today, and probably more. And they are quite happy to play with it. What they don't really understand, and don't like to play with (unless absolutely forced to), is the hyper-advanced tech from the Dark Age of Technology.  Basically, if it isn't so advanced that it's literal techno-sorcery, then they don't mind messing with it. Which is why we get goodies like Power Armor and Terminator Armor from back before such things started to decline; even volkite weaponry before that went out of style.  But, they're not going to meddle with ridiculously advanced technology because they might create an abomination like something from the Long Night.  In fact, it's entirely possible that's how horrifying techno monstrosities like those in the Age of Strife came into existence.
>IT WILL REQUIRE A REDIRECTION OF CURRENT TO FUNCTION< He continues, pulling off his own robes. The other techpriest seems more confident now - despite his regrets about the state of his body and the quality of his augmentations, he isn't shy, his many arms rolling his greasy robes up and off his body and depositing it in a heap next to my own garment. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of his body laid bare, like a factory prototype offered for my inspection. I go to him, place my hands upon his body, letting my fingers dance over his strange, asymmetrical augmentations. Some I recognize - heat sinks, ingestion ports, unused interface points for specialist mechandrites - but others are completely new to me. His body dwarfs mine in height and breadth. It vibrates with grumbling mechanical power, and once again I'm struck by the sheer, brute strength of his body - the presence, the raw physicality - and feel the urge to prostrate myself before him, like a living icon of the Omnissiah.
 
Take the Lasgun for example. There are almost infinite patterns of lasguns, many developed ''after'' the great crusade as the lasgun wasn't all that common back then. The AdMech understand materials and mechanics well enough to create different stocks and triggers. They understand optics to a decent degree as they can focus the las beam with different barrel lengths. What they don't understand is the power pack, because the power pack is a scary super advanced piece of technology that will not only hold enough energy for a hundred shots powerful enough to kill an armored man, but it can be easily recharged thousands upon thousands of times. And they don't have the slightest clue as to how it works.
The thought brings a smile of my lips, and my own bionic eye clicks and whirrs as it records the beauty of his lumpen metal form. Omicron takes one of my slender hands in his huge metal claw and directs it to one of his own upload sockets. >UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, I BELIEVE YOU SHOULD DO THE HONOURS<
 
There's a quite good reason to that. The ultra advanced science used in the Dark Age of Technology was developed with the aid of AIs and super advanced computers. It's entirely possible that even the scientists of that time didn't fully understand their science and a lot of r&d was done automatically by artificial intelligence's far superior to that of any human's, [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R9OHn5ZF4Uo&t with programing so complex no human actually knew how the damn thing was thinking]. Now you can't do this anymore because you know that AIs will try to kill you. In the "Mechanicum" novel the Dragon Caretaker says that the Emperor engineered the creation of the Mechanicum. Why would the ''atheist'' Emperor create a machine cult if not because it was the only way to retain technology that humanity would have no possibility to comprehend anymore once the AIs were wiped out.
"With pleasure." I purr, unable to tear my eyes away from the mechanical glory of his form. I extend an interface dendrite from one of my manipulators and wind it forwards, the smooth, silver metal wrapping around the techpriest's phallus, softly squeezing the thick, warm tube as the jack slid into place.
 
This is interesting because it's said that the Emperor defeated the [[Void Dragon|Dragon]] during the late Roman Empire, for this purpose. This means that he foresaw the rebellion of the machines and the long night and allowed it as a means to develop a technology that could then be salvaged after.  Or he just realized that a monster capable of controlling machines locked a stone's throw from Earth was really, really bad and decided to hedge his bets.  If no AI rebellion, hyper-advanced cult of scientists dedicated to humanity. If AI rebellion, salvation for mankind. Either way, Man wins.
And for the second time that day, I heard Omicron's flesh-voice. The other Techpriest let out a deep, rasping gasp, a blast of dusty air shooting out his filter-units as my own potentia coil jolted him full of current. His phallus sprang to life with such force that the jack was almost ripped from its socket, swelling and expanding as it comes to its full hardness, the viscous liquid within starting to glow and drip through the plastic skin. We stand there for a moment, linked to one another's coils, sharing in the intimacy of freely exchanged current; his, brutish and overwhelming, mine fresh and energetic. They two power sources mingle together, flooding our bodies with tingling sparks of stimulation. I can feel the wet heat between my legs blooming further, the combined sight of him and the taste of his electric power driving the fleshy, animal lust he has kindled to a fever-pitch.
 
Then the Horus Heresy fucked up everything. And yes, the cult mentality of AdMech were involved probably more than they should have been. But the real reason that they don't go around innovating and creating new stuff is because it doesn't pay off. The real "power" of their technology comes from the Dark Age of Technology stuff and they are not able to touch that.
>HOW SHALL WE ARRANGE OUR INTERFACE?< Omicron cants, then lets out a low, muffled groan as my mechandrite slides around his phallus like a metal snake, curling and coiling around the thick, glowing unit. I reach out and place a hand upon the rounded tip, squeezing it gently, feeling its heat and tensile strength.
 
And this is not all. The lack of AIs and uber computational power hinders understanding advanced science to a point. it also absolutely wrecks your ability to produce practical applications of said advanced science. Let me make an example. You are fifty years in the future and fusion energy is an everyday reality from fusion power plants. ITER worked after all. You are transported on to a desert island and you have all the scientific knowledge of humanity in your brain. You are asked to build a practical fusion based power source. You can use any tool and component but you don't have access to computers. Can you do it?
"Oh, holy Omnissiah." I breath, dragging my other hand down the length of his segmented bronze armour. "Look at you. You're beautiful. You're so strong. So powerful."
 
Nah. You can understand perfectly how the thing should work and how to design one. But without computers you don't have the ability of run the extremely complex calculations and simulations to optimize the reactor to the point that it produces more energy than it consumes. So they hand you a blueprint of a currently working reactor. Can you build it now? Sure. You have a blueprint and the theoretical knowledge to understand what you are doing, so you build the damn thing.
His chest rumbles in response to that, as if proud. His heavy mechanical limbs swing down, taking a hold of my flesh, thrilling me at their touch. Mechandrites swirl around me, slithering between my thighs, their segmented metal bodies running across my small breasts. I look up at him, nervously chewing my lip, trying to ignore the feeling of wetness creeping down my legs and the gnawing, needy feeling in my belly. "I want to feel that. I want to feel that power. Can you do that for me?"
 
Then they ask you if you can build another but slightly different. Bigger? Smaller? More powerful? Less powerful? Doesn't matter. Can you do that?
Omicron's optical lenses click and rotate as he scrutinizes me. >YOU ARE COMPARABLY FRAGILE< he cants, worried tags flashing across my HUD. >I WOULD NOT WISH TO HURT YOU<
 
Well... maybe? You have the blueprints of a working design and you have the theoretical understanding on how it works, so you can try to modify it. But you still don't have the computational power to validate your modifications so... you can try? Best case scenario, it works. Worst case scenario? You nuke the whole fucking island. On the average? It will kinda work but it will be less efficient/polished/optimized compared to the original design.
A devilish smile flits over my face, and I let my fingers curl around the tip of Omicron's phallus, rubbing back and forth across the sensitive plastic. "I can take it." I whisper, pressing myself needily against him. "I promise."
 
So you don't really like to modify the original (standard) template (construct), unless you are '''really''' forced to. That's the mechanicum mindset.  People who think they're better than this almost always become examples demonstrating that the Mechanicum and later Mechanicus have the right idea.
The other Techpriest remains silent for a moment, cogitating, his mechandrites still blindly groping at my body. Then, finally he nods, and his next burst of binaric cant is laden with authoritative, judgmental info-tags, enough to send a surge of alarm through me before I recognize the contextual ones underlaying the message; normally used when running combat simulations, they signify that what is happening is simply a game, or an act.
 
== History of the Adeptus Mechanicus ==
>YOU ARE WEAK AND HAVE FALLEN TO THE SINS OF THE FLESH< Omicron's binarc cant blasts through my noospheric grid, his hands clamping down upon my shoulders, nailing my taught, quivering body in place before him. >DO YOU DENY YOUR MANIFEST SIN?<
[[File:Techpriests_are_still_human_deep_inside.jpg|thumb|200px|left|Who said they are not human or lack the human factor? And thanks to Priests of Mars this is canon.]]
   
The Mechanicus was established in the distant past, when a bunch of <s>[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elon_Musk machine worshiping technophiles]</s> normal people terraformed Mars during mankind's dominating of the Solar System and colonizing of the galaxy. Thus Mars became an extremely technologically advanced society of astronauts, scientists, engineers, manufacturers, and miners wherein they could pursue advances in technology and power the [[Dark Age of Technology]]. During the [[Age of Strife]], their precious atmosphere was punctured, and solar radiation <s>beat down on their filthy heads</s> burned the land, boiled the seas, and took the sky from them, nuking all life. Everybody either died, hid underground, or turned feral. After hundreds of years of living from half-working mechanical bunker to partially-pressurized archaic hab spire; people began to look upon technology as a saviour and way to return to the former heights of glory. Thus, a new cult spread amongst the people of Mars, wherein they paid reverence to the Machine God. [[Just as planned]]. And then they joined the [[EMPRAH]] because they saw him as an aspect of the Machine God called the '[[Omnissiah]]'. As if the parallels aren't already tremendously clear at this point.
"N-no, master." I stammer, at once trying to remain stock-still, even as I unconsciously find my thighs rubbing together in a desperate attempt at finding some relief from the monstrous heat between my legs. "I a-await my deserved punishment, master."
 
Except it's giant load of bullshit. The Tech-priesthood were FORCED to acknowledge the Big E as an incarnate of Machine God at gunpoint. This happened after they sent pretty much their entire fleet and army to Terra to prevent the Unification of meatbags, so they can continue to raid ancient Terran tombs and libraries once or twice a century. The Emperor's fleet fucked them so hard only one in ten returned to Mars to tell the tale, so the Fabricator-General was very cooperative when the Emprah's armada arrived in Mars' orbit. At least they managed to get a special exemption from the "no religions" rule, possibly because the Emperor already knew about the Dragon of Mars (see below; though it wouldn't be the first time a head of state was a hypocrite or practiced double standards). In exchange for giving the Imperium all the guns and tanks they needed, the Emperor promised the Fabricator-General full autonomy on all Forge Worlds, access to Navigators and Astropaths for space travel, and all Archeotech found during the [[Great Crusade]]. Naturally, this smoothed things over between the two factions, resulting in the Treaty of Mars and the beginning of the Imperium; As a sign of their alliance, the Emperor changed his sigil from the lightning bolt, as used by the [[Thunder Warriors]], to the two-headed Aquila.
>EVEN NOW, YOUR GUILT IS MADE MANIFEST< Omicron blares, jabbing a thick finger at my squirming legs. Without waiting for me to react, he drags me bodily closer to him, a mechandrite looping around my leg and tugging it into the air, exposing my aching, sopping lips to him. I cry out in surprise as I'm pitched sideways, my half-plume of hair dangling awkwardly across my face as the other Techpriest probes my entrance with one of his blunter fingers. Out the corner of my eye, I can see clear strings of wetness as he draws the digit back, then drives it into be with a snarl of aggressive vox-static. Another mechandrite takes ahold of my other leg, and between the two of them I'm flipped upside down hefted into the air, even as I write and wriggle around the thick, metal digit working its way into my passage. He rubs me without skill or dexterity, but with stubborn force, the metal links of his knuckle-joints tugging and plucking at my sensitive outer lips. I wriggle and moan, feeling my climax building, only to let out a needy whine as he tugs his finger free with a noise of fake disgust.
 
Hilariously, the "Machine God" may actually be the [[Void Dragon]], one of the ancient [[C'tan]] Star Gods. The Void Dragon is actually one of the most powerful of the C'tan, controlling all machines. All those techpriests are going to have serious problems when it wakes up...It's on Mars because the EMPRAH roofied it and turned it into an angry cave on Mars. It's now guarded by the Mechanicus in their Noctys Labyrinth. This point of view is not certain, so the Machine God may be anything like the collective mass of all machines or the sum of all knowledge, neither would all Mechanicus accept a C'Tan as their lord (but that's the point, they don't know it's a C'tan if it is). But it's a more [[Grimdark|fun]] version, isn't it?
>IS THIS SUITABLE, XI?< His cant cuts in. I groan as I'm jolted out of the fantasy, still dangling in mid-air, my cranial circuits flashing up a warning as blood starts to rush to my head.
 
The Mechanicum only lasted till midway through the Heresy. Loyal tech magi were evacuated from Mars when the Death of Innocence hit the planet and a new Fabricator General was elected. This posed a bit of a problem for the Mechanicum as a whole as the previous Fabricator General was technically still the head of the Mechanicum and still held Mars. Various allied and vassal parts of the Mechanicum had a legal meltdown as to who they were supposed to be loyal to - the nation they were a part of and technically still subordinate to or the overarching Empire they had sworn fealty to by proxy. Martian loyalists suggested the creation of a new Adeptus to put the Mechanicum on a level playing field with the other sections of the council of Terra, gaining a voice in the running of the Imperium as a whole. The other sections weren't keen on the idea but took the opportunity to roll other Martian assets into Terra's direct control. The Martian ambassador resolved the complicated Binary Succession issue by literally walking an Imperator Titan right outside the council chambers until the council agreed. Thus the modern Adeptus Mechanicus was formed.
"It's good, it's good." I gasp. "Just keep going, I need to come."
 
They also created a [[Steel Confessors|Chapter]] of [[Space Marines]] meant to be loyal to them over the rest of the Imperium once. The Imperium actually reacted rather well, only taking their toy away instead of smashing the fuck out of every Forge World and mind-raping every Tech-Priest and servitor involved, which the Imperium is fully capable of doing but it wouldn't be worth nearly the effort unless something extremely stupid happened.
>THEN YOU SHALL NOT, SLATTERN< Omicron roars, snapping back to his adopted persona.  >NOT UNTIL I PERMIT IT<
 
== The Machine Spirits ==
He dumps me unceremoniously upon the ground, then begins to march in circles, his insectile gaze sweeping across the room. No sooner have I dragged myself up into a sitting position, Omicron's servo-arms grasp me by the shoulders and thrust me back to my feet with a rasp of hydraulics, shoving me ahead. The ache between my legs is almost unbearable. It would be so terribly easy to slide one of my mechandrites between them, to insert a datajack into my hot, wet passage and relieve the desperate pressure building there, but I quash the urge. Omicron is my Omnissiah, my master, and I will not go against his orders, no matter how much my weak flesh screams at me.
[[Image:Magos Dominus.jpg|thumb|300px|right|Your average Magos]]
{{topquote|If you run from technology, it will chase you.|Robert M. Pirsig}}
I'm thrust forwards, mechandrites slithering around my wrists and binding them together behind my back as the other Techpriest sweeps a workbench clean, scattering tools and half-built servitor components tumbling to the floor. I pretend to struggle, fighting vainly against his steely power, even though both of us know that I wouldn't want to escape, even if I could. I'm rewarded with a sharp, stinging slap across my buttocks from a datajack, the sudden flash of pain making me yelp, and I can imagine the lurid red mark it must have left behind.
 
The "[[Machine Spirit]]" is the Imperium's version of Artificial Intelligence, mainly because after the reunification of [[Earth|Terra]]; the Emperor forbade the use of AI in machinery (partly because of the ancient rebellion of the [[Men of Iron]], but mostly to prevent Chaos-corrupted AIs from skullfucking them, Skynet style).
>YOU WILL NOT ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE PUNISHMENT, FLESH-WHORE< The words of Omicron's cants seem to blur together into one long, binaric rumble, the vibrations of them coursing through my body as I'm bent roughly over the table, my sensitive breasts squashed against the cold, greasy work surface. A second, then a third stinging blow whips across my bare backside, each one sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure coursing through my body. A small analytical part of me, working away at the back of my mind, can't resist taking a neuro-recording of the sensation and the bio-readouts they elicit for future examination.
 
For all the importance of Machine Spirits to the Mechanicus, it's not entirely clear what they actually are. One theory holds that there is actually a semi-sentient AI fragment in virtually everything electronic, a leftover from the Age of Strife. These "ghosts in the machine" must be appeased, or else they'll fuck with the targeting systems in your Bolter at the worst possible moment, start doing doughnuts with your Land Raider, and generally act like [[dick]]s. All the ritual and apparent silliness of the Cult Mechanicus, then, is actually necessary to keep the machines operating.
"D-do you call that percussive maintenance?" I gasp, waves of mixed sensation surging through my overloading body like plasma-current. "I've seen tech thralls strike harder than that."
 
The prevailing theory within the Mechanicus itself seemingly holds is that a Machine Spirit is a fragment of the Machine God itself. Whether this is simply rhetoric (you need to keep your gun oiled, or it'll backfire, and the cogboys are really picky about how you oil it) or the actual truth (the Machine God extends its awareness to literally every machine in the universe, which is disturbingly more possible than one might think), the fact remains that Machine Spirits are real enough to severely ruin your day (or your continent, in the case of an itinerant Titan). The ritual and mysticism surrounding the Cult Mechanicum's everyday activities is far more important to them than even the Imperial Creed.
>MOCK ALL YOU WISH. IT WILL SIMPLY MAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT ALL THE GREATER< Omicron snarls back, though under the double-layer of authoritative and contextual info-tags, I detect a few signifying pleasure slipping through unbidden, and I know he's enjoying his dominance as much as I'm enjoying my submission. Heavy servo-arms clamp around my shoulders and thrust me forwards, forcing me down onto the table, while mechandrites snake around my ankles and drag them apart, leaving me spreadeagled and powerless to resist his intrusions. My heart hammers in my chest as I feel his thick phallus slapping against my thighs as he gets into position.
 
The Techpriests of Mars got around the restrictions against "Abominable Intelligence" in true WH40K [[grimdark]] fashion: cut out the "Artificial" part and make it organic, and vice versa. Nearly every piece of sophisticated machinery in the Imperium operates via a cogitator, analogous to a modern-day microchip, which is basically the cloned or recycled brain of a human converted to function like a horrific cyborg CPU. This interpretation of the "Machine Spirit" is particularly disturbing, to be sure, but is necessary because the Iron Men incident and Age of Strife in general made the Imperium fear the "Silica Animus". The only true difference between a semi-organic cogitator and a true AI is that their machine spirits cannot learn or improve on their own, and therefore must be manually programmed by their operators if they need to learn or do anything that is outside their current programming. Thus, it is now ''nearly'' impossible for machines to rebel on their own, quelling the fears of the Imperium.
There's no lead-in, no gentle tease, no time to prepare myself. Bound and helpless in his grip, the hulking, lumpen techpriest thrusts forwards, driving his thick, glowing phallus into my waiting body. The sound that slips from my lips is a cry born from pain, need and desire, as long suppressed urges and fantasies are finally realized. The metal armour of Omicron's thigh guards slap against my behind as he roots himself in my wet heat, his thick tool spreading me out, driving rational thought from my mind for a few terrifying, blissful moments. My own mechandrites write and thrash madly as Omicron pulls out before slamming another pile-driver thrust home, a wave of crushing pleasure sweeping through me.
 
In any of these cases, it can be easily understood why machines are revered by the Mechanicus and why they are treated like sentient beings. Although, the AdMech is a bit fuzzy just ''how'' sentient machines are; are they somehow capable of thought like organics or no more sentient than your bread toaster at home?
He leans forwards has he begins to thrust in and out in earnest, letting me feel his heavy, mechanical weight pressing down against my back, trapping me between the table and his beautiful, industrial mess of a body. I gasp and groan as I'm forced down and fucked, flashing, confused masses of data spooling back and forth across my HUD as I writhe beneath his massive, overwhelming weight, wallowing in his sheer, brute power and physicality. All the while, he blasts out a litany of binaric roars, accusing me of sinning against the Machine-God, of worshiping the flesh and its foul pleasures, of prostituting myself for forbidden knowledge. He subsumes me, dominates me, cursing me for having drive him into sin as well. I struggle against the mechandrites binding me in place, silently egging him on, trying to encourage the other Techpriest to fuck me harder, faster, rougher as the sound of his metalwork slapping against my soft, frail skin fills the room of the maintenance chamber.
 
== Forge Worlds ==
The table rattles and shakes beneath me, and I squeal as one of his data-probes slides from a port in his chest, snakes through the crevass of my buttocks, and eases itself into the organic dump-port it finds there. The cold metal slithering into the heat of my rear passage, rubbing madly against the thick phallus embedded in my frontal access port is, finally, too much. The bubble that has been building inside me finally swells and bursts, flooding my screaming nervous system with waves of light and force. I convulse madly beneath him, riding the waves of my climax even as a pair of dataprobes lock into my input jacks and funnel additional power from his potentia coil into me, coaxing my orgasm out further, and further, and further, in an endless, screaming wave of electrical bliss...
<!---move planets list on this page to Imperial Worlds?--->
 
And then it ends, Omicron pulling out and stumbling backwards, the last blast of current having forced his phallus back to its previous, flaccid form. His mechandrites release me and his datajacks snap clear of my input ports, cutting off the overwhelming feedback loop that had set my organic systems ablaze. Blearily, I watch as the length of blue synth-plastic is withdrawn back within the other Techpriest's body, leaving a wet smear of my juices across his groin-plate.
See [[Forge World#Planet]] for a comprehensive list of all Forge Worlds.
 
>ARE YOU WHOLE, XI?< He asks, his message underlined with concern. >WAS I TOO ROUGH?<
Forge Worlds are all based on Mars.  Literally so -- the AdMech so revere the nuke blasted hellscape of Mars that they intentionally terraform other planets into it. Filled with a combination of research labs, libraries, churches, forges, warehouses and factories, the Forge Worlds provide the Imperium with the vast majority of their equipment. However this didn't stop the Mechanicum from setting up shop anywhere they could during Old Night and the Great Crusade, including the volcanic Mezoa and frozen Altus Ferro.
 
I let out a long, garbled sigh, still spreadeagled across the bench, and manage to shake my head. Omicron steps forwards again, scooping me up in his great, metal arms, holding my frail, organic form to his mighty steel chest. I cuddle in against him, the warmth and vibrations of his chest soothing my gradual comedown.
Each Forge World has their own color scheme, themes, and specialties, similar to Space Marine chapters or Imperial Guard regiments.
   
 
"Shoulda done that a long time ago." I mutter, then turn to look up at him, gently teasing my fingers through a cluster of cables hanging from his body. "You're not ugly, you know. All machines are beautiful, even the unsubtle ones."
=== 8th Edition's Forge Worlds of choice are: ===
   
* '''Mars''':  The original.  Likely has a C'tan (The [[Void Dragon]]) buried inside it.  Mars is a radioactive desert wasteland where factories and other forge world bits are built on top of kilometer deep ruins of previous bits, all infested with insane robots, sentient demonic warp viruses, and other things that go bump in the night that have been dicking around since the Horus Heresy.  Immediately after the Dark Age of Technology they went full ''Kin-Dza-Dza'' and devolved into atmosphere-less techno-barbarianism until the Emperor showed up after he conquered Earth.
I stretch and resettle in his mighty grip, listening to the mechanical thrumming of his heart.
* '''Lucius''':  Teleportation and Armor specialists, as well as known for a strange "solar blessed" metal called Luciun. Lucius is hollow, with an artificial star inside.  Was attacked by Hive Fleet Leviathan, they survived by hiding inside their planet and sending out hordes of Servitors, letting them get eaten, then using Servo-skulls to pull the techy bits back underground and put them on new cloned bodies before the biomass could be absorbed, effectively starving the Leviathan forces to death.  Had a civil war called the Inculcata Schism that almost caused the planet to ''implode'' (teleportation specialists is a nice way of saying "experiments with warp tech"), so they wear red as a way to kiss up to Mars.  This is a common theme among forge worlds.
* '''Agripinaa''':  Right outside of and now the front line to the Eye of Terror. After Cadia fell all the refugees fled to Stygies VIII and Agripinaa... who forcibly conscripted them into their Skitarii and Servitor forces. They effectively blackmailed millions of desperate refugees, trapped on their planet and in orbit, and turned them into various flavors of mindless or brainwashed combat cyborgs.  Also known for sending incursions around and occasionally ''into'' the Eye of Terror.
>YOU'RE BIASED< Omicron cants, amusement underlying the burst of binary.
* '''Stygies VIII''':  Had '''two''' Titan legions based on it during the Horus Heresy, '''both''' of which turned traitor.  They were saved at the last minute by the [[Eldar]], leading to them having a soft spot for Xenos (mind, they still fully believe in human superority and conquering/exterminating aliens..it's just that they will consider appreciating that Xenos aren't totally worthless all the time).  Home to the Xenarite faction, a faction that believes in studying Xenos technology, officially to better understand why Humanity's technology is superior.  Stygies is also home to the "Runic Priests," (No, [[Space Wolves|not those]]), a faction of AdMech specialized in intuition, speculation, and improvisation. Ultimately considered "too big to fail," the High Lords of Terra declared they were to be left alone, despite flirting with Xenos crap and Heretekal science. Eventually the Inquisition found out and decided to purge the planet anyway, in the '''Xenarite Schism'''.  Stygies VIII responded by unleashing a computer virus that constantly purges the Administratum and the Ordo Xenos' computer systems of any evidence or discussion of how Stygies VIII is technically a Heretek world, while the Xenarites went mostly underground.  [[Deathwatch]] Kill Teams still frequently attack them, alongside various Xenos forces who want their tech back. Stygians are stealth specialists, which they will deny whenever asked; they're also known for pretending to be from Mars when needed due to their color scheme. Currently invading the Eldar Webway in an attempt at raiding the [[Black Library]].
   
* '''Graia''':  Even more aspie than normal AdMechs, Graia are nearly immune to psykers due to being too logical to manipulate.  Notable for their space station that covers a huge portion of their planet, which is actually a space ''ship'' which Graia move around, and even take through the warp! Recently it returned to Graia and then again departed, this time bringing Graia with it.  Both Chaos and the Necrons target them for it.  The whole Forge World lives on this <s>yellow submarine</s> space thing due to opening some sort of portal to ''somewhere'' on the planet's surface long ago. Known for refusing to retreat even when losses are guaranteed because to do so would mean their logical predictions were wrong.  Red on their uniform is ostensibly because they are loyal to Mars, but actually because [[Blood Angels|they like blood]].
"Are you complaining?" I grin up at him, blowing my plume of hair away from my bionic eye, winding my mechandrites lovingly around his.
* '''Metalica''':  Metalica is a completely sterile world, no atmosphere, no life, no anything but ''metal''.  This may or may not be due to an [[retcon|ancient copyright scouring]] by a musical group bearing a similar name.  Their Titan Legion was nearly destroyed during the Second War for Armageddon; their Princeps was ordered by Planetary Governor and notorious incompetent boob [[Herman von Strab]] to attack a horde of Gargants that outnumbered them three-to-one with no support like suicidal maniacs, and when that predictably failed the Legion then [[Death Korps of Krieg|''became'' suicidal maniacs]] by [[Astral Knights|self-destructing]] in the heart of the Ork forces because they weren't allowed to retreat. Totally ''not'' the noise AdMech -- their guns are intentionally loud to ''proclaim the glory of the Omnissiah.''  Metalica is also known for being the first Imperium force to go on a Tyranid safari.  That's right, they're '''[[Awesome|actively hunting Hive Fleet Leviathan.]]'''  They are, in fact, ''so metal.''
* '''Ryza''':  Energy shield and plasma specialists, who have nothing to do with the [[Tau]] because they managed to remain relatively unmolested until the Mechanicus found them again during the Great Crusade.  They have been invaded by [[Orks]] repeatedly, to the point that most of their Forge World's output goes directly to its own self defense.  The more red on a Ryzan's robe, the more important they are.  Led an aborted invasion of the Maelstrom in an attempt to go after the DarkMech world of Sarum.  Ryza has a sect of Ruststalkers that have gone rogue, but still worship the Omnissiah so whatevs, it's all good.  Known for being very ''enthusiastic'' towards melee combat, may or may not be due to Ork influence.
>NEGATIVE<
 
=== 8th Edition was nice enough to flesh out several back-canon Forge Worlds as well: ===
* '''Triplex Phall''':  Isolated, on the far east side of the galaxy, Triplex Phall has recovered a ton of STC and Archeotech but refused to give it to Mars.  Basically AdMech Protestants.  Mars now has a Skitarii Legion following them around with express instructions to warn Mars if Triplex Phall forces find anymore secret tech.  Invaded by Hive Fleet Kraken, attacked by Typhus, and invaded by Daemons.  We can only imagine the only reason the rest of the Mechanicus hasn't crushed them and taken their stuff is either the STCs are that potent or that the Machine Cult would rather space Protestants have it than to risk the data being damaged or destroyed.
* '''Deimos''':  The moon of Mars, gifted to the [[Grey Knights]] of [[Titan]] at the end of the Horus Heresy. Originally responsible for building the favored patterns of [[Rhino]] and [[Predator]] during the Great Crusade, they now make Grey Knight wargear and use Servitors to transfer the material between the Grey Knights and Deimos, mindscrubbing them at each end, allowing both organizations to keep their secrets.  Deimos has ''three'' different Knight houses, because apparently the Grey Knights aren't enough knights for Deimos.
* '''Voss Prime''':  The most Mars-fanboyish of the Mars Fanboys, has a focus on Legio Cybernetica robots.  Closest Forge World to Armageddon.  Voss has a huge asteroid field that repelled an Ork [[Waaagh]] merely on accident.  Known for good tanks, but crappy plasma weapons.  Not to be confused with Voss, which is another Forge World not too far away from Voss Prime. During the [[Great Crusade]] they made enough [[lasgun]]s to ''arm the entire [[Solar Auxilia]] with''.  Builds weird ships the Imperial Navy didn't ask for, like slow light cruisers and frigates with torpedos.
* '''Gryphonne IV''':  The lost Forge world.  They are responsible for a lot of Imperial Guard support-tank patterns, thanks to the real-life [[Forge_World#Company|Forge World]].  The Tyranids ate their planet after they refused to listen to Inquisitor Kryptman, so they have become the first nomadic Forge "World": a space fleet actively seeking out a planet they can terraform into a new Mars.  Whether or not Gryphonnians want to terraform said world into (degenerate-biome barren world) present-day Mars, or a (lush and properly-terraformed) Dark Age of Technology Mars is anyone's guess.  Gryphonne IV is ''definitely not'' [[Craftworld|copying anything]].
 
The "big" Forge World remains Mars, with [[Cawl]] being the only unique character in the AdMech force.  (Hieronomus Tezla says hello.)  Lucius and (Metalica or Ryza depending on the current Edition) round out as the "main three" Forge Worlds, fluff wise.
 
However, each world has their own rules and details in the fluff, although the new ones remain somewhat intentionally vague for [[your dudes]] purposes -- Triplex Phall lends itself to odd conversions because "It's Archeotech!"; Deimos lends itself to borrowing some Grey Knights aesthetic and allies; Gryphonne IV being nomadic lends itself to battle damage and the like.  Even the "old" forge worlds get some additional flavor in the new fluff -- Stygies VIII lends itself well to sneaky types or Xenos conversions and allies; Agripinaa force-conscripting refugees encourages Servitors / Skitarii converted from Imperial Guard (or even Ecclesiarchy and Necromunda).  Metalica going on a ''fucking safari'' for Hive Fleet Leviathan splinter fleets just screams "Nid Hunter" Skitarii.
 
== The Religion of the Adeptus Mechanicus ==
(Forgive OP's bellicose statement, but the fluff and novels pertaining to the AdMech are rather obscure to whether or not they truly understand what they talk about.)
 
Begin Rant/file exc.//>>
 
''Children, I'm fucking fed up with your shit. Cult Mechanicus IS NOT a replacement of rational thought with religion for the sake of operating machines.It's a (in-universe) developed philosophy of collective rationalism. AdMechs don't throw their critical thinking out of the window. They just already took this thinking, put it on a pedestal, brought it to its apex (Dark Age), suffered for it, suffered for it again (Horus Heresy, Schism of Mars), then looked at it and asked : "What do we do now?" Every Mechanicum is a rationalist, in a meaning that when he goes through all the critical thinking to the basic reason of his existence, he takes on the dogma of Quest for Knowledge. That he exists to Rationalize the Universe, move towards learning and understanding the Universe and its laws. It's also a collective quest - adept doesn't seek knowledge just for himself, he sees all the Adeptus Mechanicus as one single huge Gnostical Engine, a Machine of Comprehension designed to learn. He's just a single little gear in the heart of enormous Over-Intellect gathering and producing knowledge.
 
''For what sake? AdMechs thought a lot about this question, and took one answer.
 
''For the sake of Mankind.
 
''Now THIS is where shit gets religious.
 
''As of it now, humanity utilizes science for egoistical purposes of survival (scientists need something to eat) and/or domination, which can be understood by every human through his instincts. Society of Mars, however, got devoid of this motivators, as they dropped their human instincts, so they had to find new goals. This is where the Schism takes roots, as well as the "Cult" part. Every rational human can tell you that objectively life has no meaning. Accepting that fact is what brought the galaxy Necrons and Iron Men. AdMechs knew that this is what they wish to avoid. And the most effective way to avoid that is to walk the irrational way and put a sense for your existence through Faith.
 
''This is what they did.
 
''They are the fanatics in the sense that they BELIEVE that Universe CAN be comprehended, while they have 0 proof of that. They BELIEVE that critical thinking works, while living in a Galaxy that laughs at any attempts of rationalization. They BELIEVE that Quest for Knowledge can be completed. And it this faith, they are being paradoxical and irrational. And they know it. Lets have a look at Universal Laws, that Mechanicum use as the foundation of their philosophy.
 
''The Mysteries
 
''01. Life is directed motion.
 
''This gives a definition to "life", as existence of individual. A definition that basically says "Only that thing which irrationally takes a (faith) direction for its way can be called a Living Thing".
 
''02. The spirit is the spark of life.
 
''Here they recognize the illogical existence of Souls and Warp, and their defining roles in being representation of one's beliefs.
 
''03. Sentience is the ability to learn the value of knowledge.
 
''04. Intellect is the understanding of knowledge.
 
''05. Sentience is the basest form of Intellect.
 
''Here they define ability for rational thinking.
 
''06. Understanding is the True Path to Comprehension.
 
''07. Comprehension is the key to all things.
 
''And HERE they put this thinking as their Way to exist.
 
''08. The Omnissiah knows all, comprehends all.
 
''And establish an ideal, to which they are heading. --Anon
 
End Rant/file//>>
 
Another Magos adds:
There's definitely variation in the creed between forgeworlds and different cults-- even post Heresy, Mars is not unified-- but a lot of them operate on this sort of platonic/hermeticist logic. Regardless of whether they believe all knowledge already exists or that the disciplined mind can create new things, the religion is trying for union with some perfect being. Whether that's taken to mean "become a robot because the flesh is weak", "find salvation in logic", or even "cultivate the Omnissiah within you" (which would lead to radical differences in practice, from penitent cyberization cults to contemplative engineering orders, which we see in the many faces of the Mechanicum, [[Koriel Zeth]], Forgeworld Mezoa, the [[Myrmidon]] Orders, etc), it all leads back to a cautious quest to be the best you can be with logic as your guide.
 
===The Void Dragon===
A lot of their tech stuffs come from the Void Dragon that the Emperor bested and imprisoned on Mars ages ago as so humanity could gain mastery over machines. While it might have worked pretty well back when the Imperium wasn't the festering portaloo of a grimdark shitpit it is today, it's pretty much a matter of time before it escapes. The Necrons already attempted to raid Mars - they got vaporized before they could really even do anything, but the fact they managed to even land proved a point the High Lords of Terra had been turning a blind eye towards for ages.
 
If the T-800s get what they want and party on Mars long enough to wake the Void Dragon up, it's going to be a pretty goddamned bad day for just about any human not [[Feral World|wearing loincloths and still bashing rocks together]]. The few Mechanicus agents who have figured this out have either gone rogue, blammed or gone totally bonkers, ripping all the implants from their flesh. And when you're a member of the Mechanicus, that's about 80% of your body.
 
Of course, the even worse possibility is that the void dragon enjoys this situation, as every time the tech-priests remove their flesh and place more machine into it, they could be feeding him a fraction of their soul. As there are quite a few tech-priests out there, and humanity being the rabbits they are, this would give him a lifetime of souls to be eating, and a personal army that is very much willing.  Ironically, given this, it could mean the Void Dragon might side with humanity as an endlessly increasing supply of soul-stuff. The Mechanicus gets its implants and technology and does not lose enough of their souls to not pass on when they die, the Void Dragon gets a bit of soul from each of them and their numbers endlessly increase with humanity's ever growing population. Everyone wins and, as we all know, Dragons are rather protective of their hoards....
 
By the way, the "Void" Dragon is actually only called "The Dragon" in the official fluff, probably as a reference to Metropolis. <s>But for God knows what unreasonable reason, /tg/ insists on calling him the "Void Dragon", thus confusing him with an Eldar aircraft, or with an Eldar pirate warband. Unless it's an obscure vidya reference. Whatever, maybe it just sounds cooler.</s> The [[Eldar]] refer to it as the "Void Dragon", and the aircraft and pirate warband take their names from it.
 
'''UPDATE:''' The new Codex: Necrons written by our [[Matt Ward|Spiritual Liege]] reveals the necrons are no longer enslaved by the C'tan, instead they are their sworn enemies for tricking them into giving up flesh. They were probably going to Mars to capture the Imperial held C'tan shard of the Void Dragon as they won't see humans reliable, or perhaps they were under control of another shard, and wanted to liberate it, oh whatever, for what we know it may have been [[Trazyn the Infinite|Trollzyn]] trying to loot Mars. Or, maybe they simply realize that having a C'tan that can control technology on a planet-sized machine-scape is a ''bad'' idea.  It is unlikely that the Void Dragon would have been shattered, though.  Because it is hard to do that to something with technology when that something has complete control over all technology.  Yeah.  Which, in hind-sight, might be part of the reason why the Necrons went into hibernation.  Because when you are a living machine and you just pissed off something that controls machines... it is a good time to ''run away'' really fast.
 
The only thing that changes as a result of that is once the Void Dragon (shard or whole, who knows?) wakes up, it will be the only C'tan with ready access to an army, and a pretty damn huge one at that- so it's not only going to be a real bad day for the Imperium, but the Necrons as well.
 
'''UPDATE 2:''' And now it seems the World Engine of [[Astral Knights]] fame was supposed to be en route to Mars in order to allow his usurper Phaeron to get himself a new Void Dragon Pokémon, good thing he got sabotaged.
 
== Why Everything is so Grimdark ==
"The Mechanicus does NOT have the technology. They haven't been living on some fancy paradise planet since pre-Fall. Mars is an anarchic nightmare shithole the moment you leave the safe zones into the kilometres of labyrinthine corridors beneath it full of rogue machinery, self-aware and malevolent AI from before the Fall, and the daemon programs of the Heresy. EVERYTHING in the databases is fucked. The databases are fragmented over the entire surface to the extent that it would be impossible to see one-tenth of the total files in the ludicrously extended life of a Magos even assuming that they are completely safe to visit. And they are not.
 
The files have been corrupted into madness by the Fall, and the unleashing of the most potent informational warfare systems ever to exist to defeat the Iron Men. Nearly all of Mars was rendered uninhabitable, what they live in now is built on the top of the ruins. They send archeotech expeditions in to find shit, nearly all of them never come back. The sheer number of rogue war machine running around in there is sufficient to rape the mind. Then came the Heresy, which was not earth-exclusive. Mars as the second most critical planet in the Imperium was the site of fighting nearly as ferocious as on Terra, with Mechanicus loyalists and Hereteks fighting tooth, nail, and mechadendrite everywhere. Ancient machines were unleashed, viruses both normal and daemonic unleashed into all the computer systems. Nearly every single stored record on Mars was rendered unusable, and those that survived are half the time self-aware and don't like you, or daemonic and actively try to kill you.
 
If you come back with a schematic, it is almost certainly gibberish, and if it isn't, it's probably corrupted into uselessness. If it does come back whole it was probably malevolently fucked with so that instead of a Lasgun power cell it's a fucking grenade set to detonate the second you finish building it. Why do you think they want off-world STCs so damned much if they had them all here? The fucking Heresy is why. Off-world they only have to contend with the Fall's war and its effects on the machinery plus twenty thousand years of degradation with no maintenance. But at least off-world it'll probably just not work instead of actively seek to kill you.
 
Why do you think they seek to placate the Machine Spirit? It's because it exists. The fragments of trillions of self-aware programs, flourishing during the Dark Age of Technology and shattered by Man in his war with the Iron Men, imprisoning the few who had not set themselves irrevocably into the machinery, a prison smashed wide open by the Heresy. Everything that can hold programming in the Imperium has a shard of a program in it. EVERYTHING. And you'd better fucking please it or it will do everything in its power to make your day shit. Sure, if it's a Lasgun it'll just not work or start shooting off rounds by itself, but if you piss off a Land Raider you can say bye-bye to half a continent. They apply these principles to things without spirits by habit, since they're so used to dealing with tanks that if not talked to just right might go rogue and annihilate the Manufactorum before they can be killed.
 
This is why they do not like ANYONE fucking with technology because it is so rare to find anything that just works it is critical it not be compromised. That, and they do not have the actual knowledge to fuck with it intelligently, just through experimentation, which inevitably leads to slaughter. Pressing buttons to see what works is fine in a 21st-century computer, but it is a very stupid thing to do at the helm of a 410th-century starship with the destructive power to end solar systems. The entire knowledge base of humanity was lost. Not forgotten, but outright lost. Everything at all, poof. Nobody knows anything because the Fall fucked everything up and the Heresy double-fucked it. To rebuild the theoretical framework needed to design new technologies that don't kill everyone near them would require starting from the ground up. They don't have the time, and they never have.
 
This gets on to the point of war and what it does to technology. Someone will parrot that it makes it go much faster. Yes, it makes practical applications of technology go much faster. It also utterly stops all research on the scientific theories behind those technologies. This means that when war chugs along for a decade or two things get done. It means when it goes on too long you run out of theories to turn into technologies, and then you run out of technologies to apply. You stagnate. When you have been fighting in a war for survival in a drastically overextended empire, this is what happens. You are desperate for any extra material that can possibly be produced. Half your entire fucking military might went rogue, smashed the half that stayed, leaving you with the tattered shreds of a war machine to keep hold of an empire that was reaching straining point with an army far larger. There is no time for the sort of applied research programs that took Man twenty-five thousand years to develop, in a time of unprecedented growth and prosperity.
 
This is also why the Adeptus Mechanicus insists on cargo cultism. It's because when you are dealing with things you barely understand because everything you knew about them was destroyed it is the safest and most reliable option. The rituals do not exist for mysticism, they exist because they are the most practical means of building, repairing and maintaining the equipment they have with the knowledge surviving. You don't understand why pressing that button makes it go, because the manual tried to take over your brain and the copies are all unreadable and the research base that would let you reverse-engineer it does not exist and cannot be built.
 
Why are the Tau doing so well with their technology? Because they had peace. Eight thousand years unmolested by any enemy and they were helped the entire time by the most advanced biological race in the galaxy. Give the Imperium eight thousand years of peace and I can guarantee you it will be harder than it was during the Great Crusade.
 
Since some still don't get the idea, try this.
 
Build a library, fill it with all human knowledge. You take it elsewhere when you need a book from it, but the book is only a simplified copy. You don't understand the real book, and you don't need to. Nobody takes the real books anywhere because why would you when there's a whole library there?
 
Now that library goes rogue and the maintenance machinery starts killing everyone any-fucking-where near it. Where the fuck did they all come from, you swear to god there weren't this many, and there weren't because they're using the library's information to fight their war. The government fights a battle that destroys the planet against these robots and tears apart the library to stop them from using it, only to be destroyed in the process. The library is leveled, cast into flames, every book burned and every computer virus-laden.
 
Then comes a man who worked there. He talks to the few surviving library workers, assembles their information, and starts rebuilding a city around the library and expanding it as the librarians find little scraps of paper and fragmented bits of files that stuck together just right to read something. They rebuild a library from scrap on the ashes of the old. It isn't a shadow on the glory of the old, but it is all they have.
 
Then the city turns on itself, kills its master, and the librarians turn to rage. Half of them kill the other half and destroy the remnants of the library because where they're going they won't need science. Everything burns and the city is left to a scattered few survivors, walls open to the world, with the hungry predators circling.
 
The Adeptus Mechanicus is the sole surviving librarian, desperately scrabbling through the ashes of paper and splinters of hard drives for anything to help him and the city he needs to survive just a second longer.
 
The Imperium isn't grim because things suck by choice and could be fine if a sensible person came along. That sensible person wouldn't survive fifty seconds of the reality. The Imperium is grim because every single shit decision, every single sacrifice, every single death, every single man woman and child suffering a shit life in the worst conditions imaginable, is the absolute best that can be done. It is a study of the worst happening to everyone and what part of your humanity must be sacrificed today just to stand a chance of survival, and all it asks is whether or not it would have perhaps been better to die."
• Baron von Evilsatan
 
== On the Tabletop ==
''See also [[Warhammer_40,000/Tactics/Adeptus_Mechanicus(8E)|AdMech 8E Tactics]]''
 
8th Edition has landed, and the AdMech are resurgent.  Having Cult Mechanicus and Skitarii merged together into one list was good enough, but they also merged Imperial Knights as "Questor Mechanicus" -- AdMech aligned Imperial Knight houses.  Imperial Armor: Fires of Cyraxus is coming out "real soon now" which will have AdMech vs Tau and promises a bunch of new stuff, as well.
 
The biggest change, outside of the Knights now being part of AdMech (which means they can be repaired!) is the promotion of the Enginseer from Elite to HQ, allowing for a cheap HQ option if a tax is needed.
 
The Mechanicus received an entire army's worth of new plastic models and rulebook! Praise the Omnissiah!
 
At the moment, the Admech is divided into a number of different mini-factions. Currently, the [[Skitarii]] and the Cult Mechanicus army have been fully released. There is also the "Titan Guard" Secutarii on the way, but they're a Forge World army. The [[Legio Cybernetica]] is also part of the Adeptus Mechanicus, though aside from the Kastelan, they're [[Horus Heresy]] only.  There's also the Taghmata, which are like feudal troops, but they're not as much of a thing in the lore of 40K (though they have a HH dex, see below.)
 
The current releases include Skitarii, who are like if the Guard were badass technogrunge medievalpunk super-soldiers with access to all the good shit, spider-tanks, scout walkers that are basically the Sentinel if it was good, Servitors on tank treads that will wreck your shit, giant crazy-tough robots that will wreck your shit harder, and a plastic Magos HQ unit! Truly, venerate the Omnissiah, and He will provide. The Cult Mechanicus, meanwhile, consists mainly of half-naked tech-priests with a fetish for electricity and some battle servitors, including the aformentioned Kastelan. Tech-Priest Magos are also the only figures in modern 40k that carry [[Volkite]] weapons. The upcoming Titan Guard are divided into Peltasts and Hoplites, which are fitting descriptions as the former look to be ranged skirmishers, while the latter are heavily armored spearmen (the spears happen to shoot electricity.)
 
== Notable Members ==
* [[Archmagos]] [[Belisarius Cawl]]: Creator of the Primarines, their wargear, and Big G's current armor.
* [[Arkhan Land]]: An archivist who discovered STC fragments which brought about anything [[Land Raider|with the]] [[Land Crawler|name "Land"]] [[Land Speeder|in it]].
 
==Gallery==
{{Promotions}}
<gallery>
image:Adeptus_Mechanicus.jpg
Image:TechpriestChiyo.jpg|D'awwww.
Image:Mechanicuuuuus.jpg
Image:AdMech_Couple.jpg|D'awwww. By the way this is canon.
Image:CircleA_AdMech.jpg|PRAISE THE OMNISSIAH!
Image:rave_heretek_by_psykerscum.jpg|Someone got Chaos on my Mechanicus, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbAUwi4D3Ew now with theme music!]
image:1318818198286.gif.jpg|We're not sure if that's tech-heresy or an actual activation ritual. Ask your local Magos for clarification.
Image:Leokadia chernabog by mr culexus-d3hxqx2.jpg|showin' a little augmented leg
Image:AdMech Scientific Method.jpg|Science in the 41st Millennium.
Image:Madonna mechanicae by sexual yeti-daubney.jpg|TECHPRIESTESS TITTIES
Image:T girl by skeenlangly-d2y4n3p.png
Image:Time to technical inspection by SkeeNLangly.jpg
</gallery>
 
==See Also==
*[[Warhammer_40,000/Tactics/Adeptus_Mechanicus(8E)|Mechanicus Tactics.]] - [[Awesome|Yes, they have rules now.]]
*[[Warhammer_40,000/Tactics/Mechanicum_(30k)|Heresy Era Mechanicum Tactics.]] - 6th/early 7th edition rules. Very different from either of the 40k versions.
*[[Warhammer_40,000/Tactics/Mechanicum:_Taghmata_(30k)|Mechanicum: Taghmata (30k)]] - Current 7th edition rules. Still very different to the 40k versions.
*[[Warhammer 40,000: Mechanicus]] - The official Vidya Gaem
 
==Links==
*[https://store.steampowered.com/app/673880/Warhammer_40000_Mechanicus/ The Mechanicus video game,] an [[XCOM]]-style game where you play as a bunch of tech-priests raiding a [[Necron]] tomb. It's definitely one of the better 40k games to come out in the past few years.
*[https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLyLLeKcxw24U8s8C24FyUQ0EVS30stymM The soundtrack from the Mechanicus video game,] which is easily some of the best 40k music out there.
*The Adeptus Mechanicus are [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17PM-UMVud8 avid music lovers.]
*This is [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ecvLRxb3MU their theme] done by [[HMKids]].
*And one for [https://youtu.be/Jb8J1zx2Lrg the Machine Cult].
*And their [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wy-sVTaZRPk War Cant], play it the next time your Techpriest needs to get pumped before a battle.
 
{{Mechanicus}}
{{Imperium}}
{{WH40k-Factions}}
{{Template:40k-Governments}}

Revision as of 04:10, 20 February 2020

With the heavy clunk-clack of locking joints and a brief shower of sparks, the heavy bolter slides into place upon the Praetorian's shoulder mount. It's a big, ugly weapon, salvaged from a Leman Russ wounded beyond the point of repair fighting for the Omnissiah's armies and decommissioned with full honours, and the thuggish machine-spirits rebel at union with such a lowly machine-being as a servitor. It takes three ritual anointations with sacred oils and a full recitation of the third hymn of pacification to persuade the weapon to accept its new mount and permit me to complete the work, the dancing, serpentine mechandrites that curl around from my back spot-welding it into place.

I check the great chronometer set into the servitor workshop's wall, run a hand through the half of my hair that hasn't been shaven away to make way for chrome plates, and allow myself a small smile. Preparing the battle-servitor took far less time than I had planned, even with the Heavy Bolter's stubborn spirit, giving me a chance to engage in a little guilty frivolity. Reaching into the greasy, oil-stained red robes that are the hallmark of the Adeptus Mechanicus, I withdraw a small vial of acid and a specialised stylus, clear away the myriad of servitor components scattered across my workbench, set them up and go to work.

My occular implant hums and whirrs as I work, the bulky lenses rotating in place as I zoom in on the metalwork. Scrolls of data flow past, informing me of which Forge World originally machined it, the composition of the alloy, its stress limits, melting point, and a thousand other facts. I dismiss it to a corner of my HUD and concentrate upon my work, dipping the stylus into the acid and dragging it across the armour plating. The metal hisses and spits as the etched design takes shape, slowly transforming from a collection of shapes and guide-lines to a heroic figure mounted upon an armoured steed, striking out at cowering xenoforms with a mighty warhammer even as they're ridden down by his mount.

>A FITTING TRIBUTE, ADEPT XI<

I'm so deeply engrossed in my work that, when the sudden message is canted to me in binaric, I let out a startled gasp and drop the stylus, as if I've been found doing something wrong. A sudden, irrational spike of fear floods through me at the idea of being caught by my supervisor, who has never looked kindly upon my art, but it dies as suddenly as it came as rationality re-asserts itself. There is only one other Adept in the workshop today.

"You could try being a little more conspicuous, Omi." I say, a manipulator-dentrite scooping up the fallen stylus and tucking it, along with the vial of acid, back under my robes.

Omicron-24 is my work partner, though he could be mistaken for a senior adept with the amount of augmentations worked into his body. His face, a head and shoulders above mine and half-shrouded by the hood of his voluminous robe, has been completely replaced with a gleaming metal dome speckled with insectile sensor-clusters and half a dozen mismatched, glowing optics, which blink in seemingly random patterns as the other techpriest regards me.

>INDEED? I SHALL PRECEED MY ARRIVAL WITH A FLIGHT OF CHERUBIM IN FUTURE< He cants back, attaching info-tags signifying humour and slight admonishment to the end of his message. I give him an awkward smile and look down at the etchings, remembering the dozens of times we've had this discussion before. >FEW ADEPTS SHARE YOUR DEVOTION TO AESTHETIC. I REGRET THIS, BUT ENSURE IT DOES NOT DISTRACT YOU FROM YOUR DUTIES.<

"You do?" I look up, reviewing his last message, searching for any tags - or the lack of such -which might suggest Omicron is being insincere. "You've never said so before."

Omicron reaches out, tracing one of his metal hands around the etchings. Each of his fingers is tipped with a separate micro-fine tool or probe, which twitch and click as his haptic feedback bundles come in contact with the acid.

>ONE OF THE CALIXAN ADEPTS ONCE STATED, THAT ONE SHOULD CREATE NOTHING WHICH IS NOT USEFUL, BEAUTIFUL, OR DEADLY. I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT ONE SHOULD ASPIRE TO ACHIEVE ALL THREE. SADLY, IN THIS, I FEEL I HAVE FAILED, BUT I HAVE HIGH HOPES FOR YOU<

"Failed?" I ask, stepping around the servitor and approaching him.

>YES. THIS BODY IS FIT FOR PURPOSE AND CONTAINS SEVERAL CONCEALED WEAPON SYSTEMS, BUT IT HOLDS NO BEAUTY<

I bite my lip as Omicron cants across signifiers of regret. Omicron's body would certainly be seen as thing of horror to most within the Imperium; a lumpen, bulky mass of hissing old augmetics and hard angles, snaking cables and bronzed dermal armour plates, heavy servo-limbs and an old-fashioned, oversized potentia coil. But despite his claims to the contrary, there is something attractive about it; his body is brutish and powerful, possessed of a mechanical strength that has always appealed to a deep, primal part of me, ever since he dragged me clear of a malfunctioning servitor on our first day together. The feeling of his sheer power, his physicality, as he clutched my frail, organic body to his own, clung to me for a long time. And over the long, lonely nights in my cot, warped into something quite else; how it would feel for him to take me up in those hard arms and grasping claws, to be stripped and cast down, to be overwhelmed and ravished even though such desires must surely have been stripped from him long ago.

He reaches for me, placing one of his heavy metal hands on my shoulder. There doesn't seem to be anything sexual about his touch, but it sets my heart pounding and my mechandrites writhing in agitation.

>MY IMPLANTS ARE TOO DEEPLY MESHED WITH MY REMAINING FLESH TO BE REPLACED. YOU, HOWEVER, ARE STILL MOSTLY UNAUGMENTED< One of Omicron's eye-lenses flickers, playing a green light over my body as he consults the data-readout of my noospheric signature. I shiver as the scan sweeps the length of my body, imagining it penetrating the folds of my robes so the other Techpriest can examine my frail, naked body. >AS YOU PROGRESS THROUGH THE CULT MECHANICUM'S RANKS, I IMPLORE YOU TO CHOOSE ONLY THOSE AUGMENTATIONS NECESSARY FOR YOUR DUTIES. THE FLESH MAY BE WEAK, BUT IT IS NOT TO BE REPLACED ENTIRELY. UPGRADE. IMPROVE. DO NOT NEEDLESSLY DISCARD<

"Omi, I..." I trail off, my mouth dry, suddenly unsure of what to say. Neither of us had undergone the Rite of Pure Thought - we still retained our capacity for emotion, even though our devotion to the martian ideal saw us try and repress it. To see such an open display of feeling from the other Techpriest, normally such a bastion of calm, deliberate rationalism, left me floundering. "Are you - I mean, you think I'm attractive?"

I cursed myself as soon as I said it. It sounded so stupid - like something a child would say. Omicron cocked his head, his lenses clicking and rotating, then stepped closer, his servo-arms and mechandrites curling around me like the limbs of a spider. The heat radiating from his cooling vents gusted through the folds of my robes, caressing my pale, light-starved skin and sending a shiver down my spine, even as his presence filled the air with the heady scents of machine oil, devotional incense and engine grease.

>YOUR VOICE PURRS LIKE A WELL-MAINTAINED ENGINE. YOUR BODY IS MORE PERFECTLY FORMED THAN THE MOST SELECTIVELY GROWN SERVITOR HUSK. THE MIGHTIEST TITANS OF MARS, BEDECKED IN THEIR FINEST COLOURS OF WAR, WOULD BE A PALE SIGHT BEFORE YOUR BEAUTY<

A confused slew of emotional signfiers follows his message; guilt, shame, sincerity, relief, too many to easily track at once. One of Omicron's smaller manipulatory dendrites extended from within his robes, dancing in the air like a ripple of liquid sliver, before curling in to caress my hair. Having had to shave it on one side, I had grown the other half out, dying it the same glowing blue as my electoos in a fit of whimsy.

>YOU SHINE BRIGHTER THAN THE DISPERSION COILS OF A PLASMA-BATTERY, XI<

Lines of neat green script began to scroll across my HUD, notifying me of sharp spikes in my heart and breathing rates, and I could feel sweat starting to bead across my body - along with another, far more primal, heat that began to bloom within my core. I'd had a rare few relationships before being accepted into the Cult Mechanicus, but they had been short-lived, childish things, and none of my previous partners had ever spoken about me in such a fashion.

This is happening, I thought. This is really happening. It felt like a dream, or a hallucination, but a cursory scan of my biometrics confirmed that neither was the case. Omicron stood before me, his beautifully lumpen metal body hunched, his eye-lenses clicking and spinning, waiting for my reply.

Slowly, I raised one of my hands, placing it against the dull metal of his facemask. My other crept up towards the back of my neck, the sleeve falling away from the intricate, glowing electoos etched around my forearms, as I reached for the clasp that held my robes together. The irrational thought that if I moved too quickly, if I broke the surreal, dreamlike state that had settled upon me, the situation would dissipate like the steam from a melta-forge. So it was that I took ahold of the robes with my manipulatory mechandrites, undid the clasp with shaking fingers, and slowly slid the greasy red fabric down the length of my pale, trembling body. Omicron's many eyes followed the garment down, drinking in the sight of me, of the gleaming silver potential coil that wrapped itself around my ribs like a corset, the glowing power stacks creeping their way back up my spine.

>XI, WHAT IS-< Omicron canted. I let out a long, shaky breath and stepped in closer, cutting him silent and pressing my narrow, skinny body into his robes, feeling the beautiful hard angles of his body shifting against mine beneath them. The other techpriest's manipulatory arms folded down around me, industrial clamps closing around my shoulders, slender mechandrites wrapping around my arms and slender waist, holding me close. I pressed my head against his broad chest, listening to the steady thrumming of his potential coil and the soft, rumbling pulse of his mechanical heart. The potency of that embrace was breathtaking - he could have torn me apart or crushed my fleshy body like an ant, but his hulking, mechanical limbs held me so softly they wouldn't have cracked so much as a glass. My own mechandrites began to slide under his robes, extending datajacks and snaking blindly through the contours of his augmetic body, searching for hardpoints and input slots.

>XI, I SUSPECT YOU WISH TO SHARE BIOLOGICAL INPUT< I lifted my head, a spare mechandrite brushing my hair away from my face as I looked up at the other techpriest. A string of info-tags followed, the equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

"Mmn. Whatever gave you that idea?" I laugh softly sliding one hand under his robes, my probing fingers running over dermal armour and the occasional scrap of wizened, grey flesh, briefly caressing a snarl of wires tangled around his lumpen potential coil, wandering further down, looking for something I don't even know if I'll find.

>JUST A HUNCH< Omicron cants back, followed by a strange, wheezing sound. For a moment I wonder if his respiratory system has suffered a malfunction, before a wave of relief sweeps through me as I realize he's laughing - not simply an appropriately tagged statement registering happiness and amusement, but a genuine, organic laugh, and I smile a little at that. It's the first non-binaric sound I've ever heard from him.

One of Omicron's wandering mechandrites curls around my waist, the metal cool against my skin, the input jack tap-tap-tapping along the outer shell of my potentia coil until it finds the dual row of upload sockets beneath the power stacks. It circles the entrance, fat yellow sparks jumping between the jack and the waiting socket and tingling like static as they crackle across my bionics. I don't know whether he's having trouble making the interface or simply teasing me with his blind fumbles, but it's enough to set my legs trembling with hot, animal need. I burrow deeper into his robes, breathing deep of his oily machine-scent, letting out a little gasp as my stiff, sensitive nipples drag against the ridges of his armour.

And then, at once, two things happen. My hand closes around something that feels like a thick tube of warm, viscous fluid danging from a port near Omicron's groin, and the input jack finally slides home with a crackle of power. At once, a sudden rush of current floods from the other techpriest as his potentia coil shunts power down the link, crackling through my unprepared body like lightning, setting every nerve and synth-bundle alight with screaming ecstasy as my own coil, so much newer and more advanced than his, blazes into life. It vents twin plume of steam as my back archs and my legs go limp, forcing me to sag forwards, to cling to Omicron's hulking, powerful body as my biological components react to the overwhelming neuro-stimulation, drenching my lower lips in moisture.

He holds me, cradling me against him in his great metal arms, until the waves of stimulation finally draw back. I can still feel the strange, crackling thrum of his current pulsing through me - my potential coil may be slim and neat, but Omicron's older model possessed a sheer, brutal capacity for generation that leaves me weak with need. As I finally draw back, I realize what I've been hanging onto, and gingerly release Omicron's phallus.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" I ask, wincing a little at the sight of the indentations my hand left in the tube.

>NEGATIVE< He cants back. >THE HAPTIC FEEDBACK SENSORS DO NOT COME ONLINE UNLESS THE UNIT IS ENGAGED<

Omicron looks down at his false phallus. It took the form of a long, transparent tube of thick blue fluid that culminated in a blunt tip, though it lacked any easily recognized head. >A RELIC FROM MY MORE REBELLIOUS DAYS< he cants, shrugging one of his broad, angular shoulders and spitting across a mixture of info-tags signifying a mixture of pride and embarrassment. >I RESENTED HAVING TO SURRENDER MY BIOLOGICAL UNIT, SO I CRAFTED A REPLACEMENT<

>IT WILL REQUIRE A REDIRECTION OF CURRENT TO FUNCTION< He continues, pulling off his own robes. The other techpriest seems more confident now - despite his regrets about the state of his body and the quality of his augmentations, he isn't shy, his many arms rolling his greasy robes up and off his body and depositing it in a heap next to my own garment. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of his body laid bare, like a factory prototype offered for my inspection. I go to him, place my hands upon his body, letting my fingers dance over his strange, asymmetrical augmentations. Some I recognize - heat sinks, ingestion ports, unused interface points for specialist mechandrites - but others are completely new to me. His body dwarfs mine in height and breadth. It vibrates with grumbling mechanical power, and once again I'm struck by the sheer, brute strength of his body - the presence, the raw physicality - and feel the urge to prostrate myself before him, like a living icon of the Omnissiah.

The thought brings a smile of my lips, and my own bionic eye clicks and whirrs as it records the beauty of his lumpen metal form. Omicron takes one of my slender hands in his huge metal claw and directs it to one of his own upload sockets. >UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, I BELIEVE YOU SHOULD DO THE HONOURS<

"With pleasure." I purr, unable to tear my eyes away from the mechanical glory of his form. I extend an interface dendrite from one of my manipulators and wind it forwards, the smooth, silver metal wrapping around the techpriest's phallus, softly squeezing the thick, warm tube as the jack slid into place.

And for the second time that day, I heard Omicron's flesh-voice. The other Techpriest let out a deep, rasping gasp, a blast of dusty air shooting out his filter-units as my own potentia coil jolted him full of current. His phallus sprang to life with such force that the jack was almost ripped from its socket, swelling and expanding as it comes to its full hardness, the viscous liquid within starting to glow and drip through the plastic skin. We stand there for a moment, linked to one another's coils, sharing in the intimacy of freely exchanged current; his, brutish and overwhelming, mine fresh and energetic. They two power sources mingle together, flooding our bodies with tingling sparks of stimulation. I can feel the wet heat between my legs blooming further, the combined sight of him and the taste of his electric power driving the fleshy, animal lust he has kindled to a fever-pitch.

>HOW SHALL WE ARRANGE OUR INTERFACE?< Omicron cants, then lets out a low, muffled groan as my mechandrite slides around his phallus like a metal snake, curling and coiling around the thick, glowing unit. I reach out and place a hand upon the rounded tip, squeezing it gently, feeling its heat and tensile strength.

"Oh, holy Omnissiah." I breath, dragging my other hand down the length of his segmented bronze armour. "Look at you. You're beautiful. You're so strong. So powerful."

His chest rumbles in response to that, as if proud. His heavy mechanical limbs swing down, taking a hold of my flesh, thrilling me at their touch. Mechandrites swirl around me, slithering between my thighs, their segmented metal bodies running across my small breasts. I look up at him, nervously chewing my lip, trying to ignore the feeling of wetness creeping down my legs and the gnawing, needy feeling in my belly. "I want to feel that. I want to feel that power. Can you do that for me?"

Omicron's optical lenses click and rotate as he scrutinizes me. >YOU ARE COMPARABLY FRAGILE< he cants, worried tags flashing across my HUD. >I WOULD NOT WISH TO HURT YOU<

A devilish smile flits over my face, and I let my fingers curl around the tip of Omicron's phallus, rubbing back and forth across the sensitive plastic. "I can take it." I whisper, pressing myself needily against him. "I promise."

The other Techpriest remains silent for a moment, cogitating, his mechandrites still blindly groping at my body. Then, finally he nods, and his next burst of binaric cant is laden with authoritative, judgmental info-tags, enough to send a surge of alarm through me before I recognize the contextual ones underlaying the message; normally used when running combat simulations, they signify that what is happening is simply a game, or an act.

>YOU ARE WEAK AND HAVE FALLEN TO THE SINS OF THE FLESH< Omicron's binarc cant blasts through my noospheric grid, his hands clamping down upon my shoulders, nailing my taught, quivering body in place before him. >DO YOU DENY YOUR MANIFEST SIN?<

"N-no, master." I stammer, at once trying to remain stock-still, even as I unconsciously find my thighs rubbing together in a desperate attempt at finding some relief from the monstrous heat between my legs. "I a-await my deserved punishment, master."

>EVEN NOW, YOUR GUILT IS MADE MANIFEST< Omicron blares, jabbing a thick finger at my squirming legs. Without waiting for me to react, he drags me bodily closer to him, a mechandrite looping around my leg and tugging it into the air, exposing my aching, sopping lips to him. I cry out in surprise as I'm pitched sideways, my half-plume of hair dangling awkwardly across my face as the other Techpriest probes my entrance with one of his blunter fingers. Out the corner of my eye, I can see clear strings of wetness as he draws the digit back, then drives it into be with a snarl of aggressive vox-static. Another mechandrite takes ahold of my other leg, and between the two of them I'm flipped upside down hefted into the air, even as I write and wriggle around the thick, metal digit working its way into my passage. He rubs me without skill or dexterity, but with stubborn force, the metal links of his knuckle-joints tugging and plucking at my sensitive outer lips. I wriggle and moan, feeling my climax building, only to let out a needy whine as he tugs his finger free with a noise of fake disgust.

>IS THIS SUITABLE, XI?< His cant cuts in. I groan as I'm jolted out of the fantasy, still dangling in mid-air, my cranial circuits flashing up a warning as blood starts to rush to my head.

"It's good, it's good." I gasp. "Just keep going, I need to come."

>THEN YOU SHALL NOT, SLATTERN< Omicron roars, snapping back to his adopted persona. >NOT UNTIL I PERMIT IT<

He dumps me unceremoniously upon the ground, then begins to march in circles, his insectile gaze sweeping across the room. No sooner have I dragged myself up into a sitting position, Omicron's servo-arms grasp me by the shoulders and thrust me back to my feet with a rasp of hydraulics, shoving me ahead. The ache between my legs is almost unbearable. It would be so terribly easy to slide one of my mechandrites between them, to insert a datajack into my hot, wet passage and relieve the desperate pressure building there, but I quash the urge. Omicron is my Omnissiah, my master, and I will not go against his orders, no matter how much my weak flesh screams at me.

I'm thrust forwards, mechandrites slithering around my wrists and binding them together behind my back as the other Techpriest sweeps a workbench clean, scattering tools and half-built servitor components tumbling to the floor. I pretend to struggle, fighting vainly against his steely power, even though both of us know that I wouldn't want to escape, even if I could. I'm rewarded with a sharp, stinging slap across my buttocks from a datajack, the sudden flash of pain making me yelp, and I can imagine the lurid red mark it must have left behind.

>YOU WILL NOT ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE PUNISHMENT, FLESH-WHORE< The words of Omicron's cants seem to blur together into one long, binaric rumble, the vibrations of them coursing through my body as I'm bent roughly over the table, my sensitive breasts squashed against the cold, greasy work surface. A second, then a third stinging blow whips across my bare backside, each one sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure coursing through my body. A small analytical part of me, working away at the back of my mind, can't resist taking a neuro-recording of the sensation and the bio-readouts they elicit for future examination.

"D-do you call that percussive maintenance?" I gasp, waves of mixed sensation surging through my overloading body like plasma-current. "I've seen tech thralls strike harder than that."

>MOCK ALL YOU WISH. IT WILL SIMPLY MAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT ALL THE GREATER< Omicron snarls back, though under the double-layer of authoritative and contextual info-tags, I detect a few signifying pleasure slipping through unbidden, and I know he's enjoying his dominance as much as I'm enjoying my submission. Heavy servo-arms clamp around my shoulders and thrust me forwards, forcing me down onto the table, while mechandrites snake around my ankles and drag them apart, leaving me spreadeagled and powerless to resist his intrusions. My heart hammers in my chest as I feel his thick phallus slapping against my thighs as he gets into position.

There's no lead-in, no gentle tease, no time to prepare myself. Bound and helpless in his grip, the hulking, lumpen techpriest thrusts forwards, driving his thick, glowing phallus into my waiting body. The sound that slips from my lips is a cry born from pain, need and desire, as long suppressed urges and fantasies are finally realized. The metal armour of Omicron's thigh guards slap against my behind as he roots himself in my wet heat, his thick tool spreading me out, driving rational thought from my mind for a few terrifying, blissful moments. My own mechandrites write and thrash madly as Omicron pulls out before slamming another pile-driver thrust home, a wave of crushing pleasure sweeping through me.

He leans forwards has he begins to thrust in and out in earnest, letting me feel his heavy, mechanical weight pressing down against my back, trapping me between the table and his beautiful, industrial mess of a body. I gasp and groan as I'm forced down and fucked, flashing, confused masses of data spooling back and forth across my HUD as I writhe beneath his massive, overwhelming weight, wallowing in his sheer, brute power and physicality. All the while, he blasts out a litany of binaric roars, accusing me of sinning against the Machine-God, of worshiping the flesh and its foul pleasures, of prostituting myself for forbidden knowledge. He subsumes me, dominates me, cursing me for having drive him into sin as well. I struggle against the mechandrites binding me in place, silently egging him on, trying to encourage the other Techpriest to fuck me harder, faster, rougher as the sound of his metalwork slapping against my soft, frail skin fills the room of the maintenance chamber.

The table rattles and shakes beneath me, and I squeal as one of his data-probes slides from a port in his chest, snakes through the crevass of my buttocks, and eases itself into the organic dump-port it finds there. The cold metal slithering into the heat of my rear passage, rubbing madly against the thick phallus embedded in my frontal access port is, finally, too much. The bubble that has been building inside me finally swells and bursts, flooding my screaming nervous system with waves of light and force. I convulse madly beneath him, riding the waves of my climax even as a pair of dataprobes lock into my input jacks and funnel additional power from his potentia coil into me, coaxing my orgasm out further, and further, and further, in an endless, screaming wave of electrical bliss...

And then it ends, Omicron pulling out and stumbling backwards, the last blast of current having forced his phallus back to its previous, flaccid form. His mechandrites release me and his datajacks snap clear of my input ports, cutting off the overwhelming feedback loop that had set my organic systems ablaze. Blearily, I watch as the length of blue synth-plastic is withdrawn back within the other Techpriest's body, leaving a wet smear of my juices across his groin-plate.

>ARE YOU WHOLE, XI?< He asks, his message underlined with concern. >WAS I TOO ROUGH?<

I let out a long, garbled sigh, still spreadeagled across the bench, and manage to shake my head. Omicron steps forwards again, scooping me up in his great, metal arms, holding my frail, organic form to his mighty steel chest. I cuddle in against him, the warmth and vibrations of his chest soothing my gradual comedown.

"Shoulda done that a long time ago." I mutter, then turn to look up at him, gently teasing my fingers through a cluster of cables hanging from his body. "You're not ugly, you know. All machines are beautiful, even the unsubtle ones."

I stretch and resettle in his mighty grip, listening to the mechanical thrumming of his heart.

>YOU'RE BIASED< Omicron cants, amusement underlying the burst of binary.

"Are you complaining?" I grin up at him, blowing my plume of hair away from my bionic eye, winding my mechandrites lovingly around his.

>NEGATIVE<

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