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Two blazing suns light the backs of long-abandoned buildings to cast shadows across the desert floor that sprawls before Hermes. With each step, more sand is danced across the path by winds that bite any sliver of exposed skin. This isn't his first desolate planet exploration though, and his clothing choices are a testament to his experience. Chief among them are the visor, respirator, and scarf that keep his face almost completely shielded from the borderline cursed elements of the wasteland.
Orange and red light up most of the ground around him, but the closer he draws to his target, the more blue starts to dot his vision. It coincides with the largest of the shades, cast by a tower jutting out like the lone digit of a long-dead god breaking forth from the desolation. If he hadn't know it was built by the previous ruling mega corporation of this system, Hermes might have thought it out of place. Given his own history, and what he knows of Titan Co., he isn't surprised by the monstrosity, looming hundreds of times taller than the rubble around it.
Luckily for Hermes, this is the previous ruling entity's building. And Titan Co. severely underestimated just how underhanded and brutal the Olympians can be. Resources were cut, the planet was all but starved through a campaign of poison and terror, and Zeus personally saw to the destruction of this particular rock. All out of spite—because it had been the CEO of Titan Co.'s darling. So many lives lost, turned to a state indistinguishable from the sands covering the surface. Disgust bubbles up and Hermes sets his focus back to the task on hand.
Despite the ruin around it, the tower is mostly intact. Even the door is ostentatious, inlaid with gold and blessed to be untarnished by time. Unaffected by the entropy swallowing the planet whole. The door also won't budge. A quick tap of the cracked screen beside it shows that it's still powered—strange.
Hermes pulls the direct connection jack from the micro computer attached to his wrist. The device barely has any heft, as much a part of him as any of his limbs these days. Below the screen is a thin slit, and Hermes smiles to himself. Easy enough. With a quick motion, he attaches a card to the cable and slots it in the opening.
"Alright, Chelly. Time to work your magic." A few taps on his wrist later and the doors wheeze to life, pulling apart at the command of someone masquerading as their long-dead masters. With the card plucked and cable reeled in, Hermes slips inside and taps on the low-light mode for his visor on instinct, only to find it unnecessary. The building is still lit.
"Easier than I thought, but I'm not going to complain," he says to the empty air of the tower's vestibule. A few points of interest immediately light up his vision, small bright pings within the soft layer of amber that coats his sight. There should be enough in here to make quite the haul. Enough to survive on and contribute to his main hub as of late. Make sure the other weavers and those seeking news from them are safe, cared for.
No time like the present. Hermes hops the security gate and rounds the gold and black marble reception desk to check for any still-active security functions. It only takes a moment to find a few systems still online thanks to a generator that truly just didn't quit.
"What the hell do they have powering this thing?" It couldn't be nuclear. Or could it? Nothing should have survived this long, and yet the front door and now parts of this system were still online. Are still online. Hermes sighs and pulls the cable from his wrist once more. Each level seems to have its own independent system—smart. If the entire planet hadn't been starved out, they would have been able to hold off quite a heavy physical advance.
Not that it did them any good.
"What in the world are you?" One system flashes a steadily pulsing purple light at him. "Sub-basement? There weren't any signs of a sub-basement on the plans." Through his visor, Hermes pulls up the file containing said plans and looks them over once more. There was only one level underground on it, but this security layout seems to suggest an entire four floors beneath that.
"And just what were you hiding, old man?" he hums to himself and cross-references the color with the code listed. Security system is offline, but power is still being fed to the area. Curiosity grips him with such force that Hermes quickly disables the other remaining security protocols and makes sure he has each door open between the front open and his points of interest ready on his arrival. No need to pause and hack each one if he can help it. The cord clicks back into place and he pushes away from the desk with a grin.
"What could be down there? Maybe secret product testing? Or a research and development space that Chronos wanted to keep out of the public eye?" Regardless of what it is, Hermes knows that it's going to be worth his time and effort. It has to be. Even the lobby of the tower has Titan Co.'s formerly opulent fingerprints all over it. The unbroken slabs of expensive stone veined in gold, undoubtedly hauled in from off planet. The technology that has held up without human support for several decades. The sheer size of the damnable place.
Signs of a level of wealth that never could have been made without the tide of blood and mountain of bone Titan Co. ripped from unwilling sacrifices.
It's a thought that Hermes shakes from his head. Parts of this exquisite and grotesque corpse can still be stripped and given back. Reclaimed for those still under the boot of the latest in a line of megacorps like Titan Co. He pulls a deep, steady breath and feels his focus shift back into place along with the need to move that never really fully leaves. Someone constantly in motion is someone who can't readily be caught, after all.
Thankfully, the tower's main stairwell is still easily accessible, and he flies down them two at a time to get to the basement, growing increasingly excited with each step. The quiet of the building might be unnerving, but after years of scavenging, he'd grown to love filling such silence with his own voice when possible. Soft tunes for no one but himself light the stale air around him, rising and falling with each step.
Given the layout of the basement in the plans, Hermes suspects the stairwell into the sub-basement is part of one of the dead zones he'd originally assumed to be utility space or a power core feeding up through the rest of the tower. The basement is utilitarian in a way that contrasts with the upstairs foyer—gone are gold accents and beautiful light panels made to look like stained glass. Instead there are hard lines and edges, though still plastered with Titan Co.'s name and colors. It appears it was used for storage. There are containers stacked on one another reaching almost entirely from floor to ceiling. Potential goods to pull or mark for later.
"But first." Hermes heads toward the dead spot on his map and is met by a large, perfectly square column. It is certainly made to look like a conduit. "Alright, where's the seam here?" Hermes murmurs and runs a gloved hand along the first edge, then the second. On the third, he finds the catch and presses in. The door sighs and depressurizes before sliding open and revealing a staircase lit by a dim purple glow leading down.
"Menacing. Well. Never stopped me before." His approach is no less rollicking than the first descent, unafraid of what he might meet at the bottom. It's an abandoned building on a dead planet, after all. What's at the base of the stairs, however, throws him.
"An airlock?" he says and checks the number above it. It isn't one of the doors he unlocked through the main terminal. Strangely enough, it doesn't seem powered at all. "Mechanical, alright." The red valve seems to be in good condition still, and Hermes braces either side before slowly cranking it counterclockwise. A few grunts of effort later, the door releases and swings inward to a small, unassuming chamber with another valve on the opposite side. Wide, uninterrupted panels give the feeling of being in a light box, though the white of it is painted in bright crimson at the moment.
"Alright, well, one more to go." A red light stares Hermes down from above the second door, and he glances back to the first. "Ah. That would defeat the purpose of an airlock, wouldn't it?" Closing the first door is thankfully easier than opening it, and he shoulders it closed before spinning the inner valve until it clicks and is cast in a gentle green light instead. Sure enough, the signal above the other door casts its verdin hue of permission, and Hermes takes it. There is some trouble from disuse, but Hermes manages it in short order, the lean muscle in his arms and back proving its worth with each turn.
"What in the world?" Before Hermes sprawls something completely alien, divorced from the building atop it. The space is covered from floor to ceiling in dark machinery—twisting tubes, channels, and panels. Beneath the glow of the ever-present pulsing purple light, it all looks oily and black. Hermes touches his visor, low-light mode activating with a single press. A few points of interest light up, specifically stacks of what look like ice boxes—those fancy cryogenic pods used in colonization missions.
"How many are there?" In just one row Hermes quickly counts over a hundred of the pods. They are unlit, most of the doors hanging open. "Why are they here? What was Chronos up to?" There weren't any plans that Olympus knew of for further expansion. It would have been in the deepest parts of the archives of data Hermes made off with when he left the 'family' or in one of the thousands of missives he carried between members.
What a story this would be when he returned to the hub. Hermes takes a deep breath and fully lets the enormity of the find sink in. He draws close to one of the pods and runs a finger over it. There are words along the side, but not a language he knows. It seems to have similarities to a few though—including one that sees little use in modern times that is originally from an outer system.
"How are you related to it though? There aren't any recorded systems with tech on this level out that way past it." As he says it, another ping comes in, this time accompanied by a soft beep. In the middle of the room is what seems to be a pedestal. The surface is smooth, polished. Hermes pulls off the glove from his right hand and reaches out. It has the look—and feel, Hermes finds—of black onyx.
"What are you, gorgeous?" Atop the small column is a monolith, slightly smaller than the length of Hermes' forearm. It curves gently along its length and its inner core swirls, ever shifting and red as blood. The outer casing is clear—glass, if the readout of his visor is to be trusted. Temptation slithers its way through Hermes' chest and compels his hand forward, fingers sliding across the artifact.
A shock runs through his entire arm and Hermes stumbles back a few steps. Light edges the corners of his eyes and Hermes pulls a few unsteady breaths through his respirator. A pressure sits at his temples, and suddenly the script from the side of the pod flashes in his mind before fading.
Noise, a loud whirring, fills his ears and Hermes watches as the column begins to lower into the ground. Impulse seizes him by the lungs and he lunges back toward the obelisk. He takes a hold of it, this time with both hands and pulls it free before it can be swallowed by the ground. A winding probing feeling pushes into his mind once again and Hermes gasps as the red from within it seems to fill his eyes, warm and blinding.
A few grasps are all it takes to pull his rucksack around and shove the monolith inside, letting it be swallowed by the safety of his bag. The instant it leaves his hand, Hermes' eyesight begins to clear and he doubles over, breathing deeply.
"What the fuck? What the fuck was that?" His visor retreats and he touches his forehead and brushes his fingers over his closed eyes, trying to wipe away the phantom feeling of something covering them, seeping in past them. With it, with those feelings, more of the writing imprints itself. Flashes of connections he started to make begin to strengthen and focus.
Just as he's getting his bearings, a door slides open not far from him. A lift, by the looks of it.
"Four floors, right." Hermes closes his rucksack and stares at the open door, at the soft violet glow from within. A thread pulls taut within him, and Hermes crosses the distance to it before the voice at the back of his mind warning him to turn tail can win out. The doors slide closed the moment he's fully in, and Hermes stomach plunges with the lift. It isn't long before the rounded walls feel too small. Hermes pulls his respirator off, drawing a few more heavy breaths with his head tilted down.
It isn't until the lift settles at its final destination that Hermes finally looks up, his heart still beating in double time. A hiss signals the door opening, and Hermes only hesitates a second before stepping out into the new floor.
"How?" Hermes murmurs, his eyes darting around from place to place as he absorbs every detail of the space. Columnar jointing pushes up all around him, creating alcoves and nooks. It stretches beyond one floor—climbing toward the first level above. Something like an altar sits toward the center of the chamber, and Hermes finds himself drawn to it.
Wonderment overwhelms his sense of self preservation, a recurring theme for Hermes. That same line of tension that pulled him to the lift draws him closer, leading him step by step up to the shining dark board. A tablet catches his eye, matte against the glinting top. Hermes picks it up and feels energy crackle through his fingertips as his eyes track over the sigils carved into it—the words shimmer and seem to shift despite being engraved. Pressure builds at the base of his skull this time, and Hermes lets out a shaky breath.
"You who are of this place, who guards the river of the souls departed, hear my plea. I bring new life to you, in search of your dark grasp." It isn't a perfect translation, but it's close. "Is this a prayer?" Hermes closes his eyes, the motion of the script forming and reforming beginning to dizzy him.
Shadow rolls out from the jointing around Hermes, gathering into a statuesque figure a few steps behind him. Shapes of words form in Hermes' mind. A new acolyte.
A rush hits Hermes and he spins on his heels, tucking his tablet into the pouch at his lower back. The mass before him blurs and shifts. Cables, tendrils, writhing and melting into each other sting at the corners of Hermes' eyes as he tries to take in the being approaching him.
Soft purple lights some of the edges, but Hermes can't seem to fully focus on the figure as he draws nearer. Smoke and oil form something solid and for the first time, Hermes can finally see part of him—a hand extended, beseeching.
"Something from me?" Hermes says and looks from the hand to the room around him. Columns fell away when he wasn't looking, and in their place Hermes finds twisting shapes he can't quite grasp. The entire floor feels smaller, shrunk in ways that make him dizzy. There's a task at hand though. A puzzle to solve.
Offering. He said a prayer and now this—entity? This being needs an offering. Hermes shifts his bag around and quickly digs through one of the anterior pockets. Anticipation pricks at the back of his neck with every tool he pushes out of the way. He finds purchase on the intended target and he lets out a stuttered breath.
A single gold coin, unblemished and shining in the low light rests heavy between his fingers and Hermes thanks some unseen force that he didn't trade this small treasure at the last outpost. He extends his hand and places it gently into the outstretched one. The skin beneath is cool, and even so Hermes lingers as he tries once more to take in the rest of the being before him.
More of the figure takes shape—something like a hat, wide-brimmed and dark shadows pale features and riotous pale waves. As Hermes takes in the shapes coming together, he has the distinct feeling that he too is being taken in. Violet light, swirling like smoke is concentrated where there must be eyes, looking at him, peering into him.
At once all thought is halted and the hand below Hermes' closes, grasping him tightly along with the coin and tugging him forward. As he falls, but Hermes realizes he's being pulled up, held aloft by a series of tendrils snaking down his arms, around his wrist. Cold machinery rendered gentle slips across his neck and tilts his head this way and that. Hermes tries his best to swallow the shuddered breath it pulls from him.
"So," he starts, heart picking up once more as he stares down the dreadful, beautiful unknown. "I seem to have disturbed your rest—sorry about that! Hope you enjoy the gold though, Boss." One of the tendrils tightens, nearly crushing until Hermes lets out a pained gasp. It relaxes, and he dares to continue, desperate to find some sort of leverage. "Risked my neck for that in more way than one, if you'll believe it. I bet you could use some time to reorient yourself though, so don't let me hold you up."
A sound, atonal and droning comes from the being who has him suspended, and Hermes fights to hear something within the static that fills his ears. Beyond it he knows there are words. A song with lyrics that he can learn, that he can know. Hermes is about to speak again when dark cloth that shrouds the body of the being parts to reveal more wires, conduits, and cables like those that tease Hermes' periphery. They push up and out, and through their sinew better prop up Hermes so he isn't quite dangling by just his wrist.
Obvious questions burn on Hermes' tongue. What are you? An angel? Deity? They spiral out into more thoughts, jumping from topic to topic while he burns under the gaze of the creature before him.
"It seems more like you're going to hold me up instead. And that's all well and good, but I need you to be a little more careful," Hermes says, false confidence layered into every word. "Thanks for not just dangling me though. Could have lost my arm and I kind of need that for my work. Not that I can't get it replaced, I'm just rather attached to this one is all." None of his nervousness could quash who he is at his core, and Hermes refuses to back down from this—from something new and strange.
"Looking for anything in particular?" he adds. The ingrained need to move is silenced by the knowledge that he needs to relax. Tense bodies get hurt worse—a lesson he learned early and often.
In response, the metal appendages securing Hermes begin to prod at him more. They slip under his jacket, push it down his shoulders; simultaneously other ones wiggle up beneath his shirt and curl across his skin, warming from it. It's not unlike the arms of an octopus, Hermes thinks. It's a thought that draws a breathy chuckle as several of the tentacles find more precious spots to feel.
Another staticky groan fills the air around him and Hermes can feel the word forming, knows it's there. One of the many cabled tendrils slips across Hermes lips with the gentleness of a lover's finger. It drains what little apprehension remains in Hermes and he finally is able to find the word.
Entrance.
The tentacle retreats and Hermes looks from it to the being holding him a few paces away. "And if I let you in?" Another whirring sigh answers him.
Passage. Perhaps safe passage, though it's difficult to tell. Curiosity almost always wins out when it comes to Hermes, and it does again as he parts his lips, wholly unprepared for what presses inside.
Metal coated in shadow twitches and enters the heat of his mouth in a slow, steady motion. Another finds room beside it, its cables smaller to start and searching, mapping. The metal seems to fold away within itself, within Hermes, and something fleshy meets his tongue. Muscle tangles with muscle and Hermes feels heat rise in his face at the sensation. There is a spasm, brief but noticeable and saccharine slick floods his mouth. He swallows, unable to do anything else, and moans at the warmth that drips down his chest with it.
Ache quickly builds between his thighs, and Hermes finds instant relief when one of this machine lord's tendrils slips beneath the waistband of his pants. For a moment Hermes wonders if this would be what makes him believe in the divine. His pants slip down to his knees and he watches through half-lidded eyes as the being steps nearer.
Novel sensations build as more appendages form hands of machine and flesh. They search Hermes, roam his body with a tender fascination. With every touch, Hermes feels himself drawn farther into the unfathomable coiling that is this being. One of the hands grips his thigh, more kind than anyone he laid with before, and massages the finely toned muscle. Another drifts up to the leaking heat of his cunt and presses, curious and soft, between its folds.
One brush and Hermes' eyes flutter shut, a moan vibrating down the tentacles still filling his mouth and throat. With a great amount of care, Hermes twists his hand just enough within one of the still-metal appendage's grasp and pushes at it gently until the cosmic machine unfurls and slots it into the palm of Hermes's hand. He lets his own curiosity take hold then, thumb stroking the plated and ridged surface and giving a little squeeze.
It's strange then, how the machine lord responds. Hermes can feel the shift, the way its warmed metal splits and slips between his fingers, holding him in return, seeking out his touch. Were this just a machine, a robot with only a set of protocols, Hermes might not read much into it. But this being is more, he knows it. Knows it in the way his mind refuses to hold onto certain parts of it. Knows it in the way his speech fills more than just Hermes' mind, but drips into his very core.
Another tentacle slips around his waist, holds him closer. It supports him in a way that makes Hermes feel like he is something to be treasured. Like he is something worth caring for.
That feeling lights a new fire in his chest, and Hermes struggles to breathe around the warmth within his throat. Even with tears stinging the corners of his eyes, he uses the leverage of the new hold to rock his hips, grinding down on the hand settled between his thighs. His pants fall further with the motion, revealing where flesh meets the machine of his prosthetic legs below each knee. So much of himself is on display. So much is given freely.
Hermes' vision dances as the being begins to work in concert with the motion of his hips. A probing tendril finds his clit and brushes across it once, twice, then swirls around with a steady, undulating pressure. Despite his throat being steadily fucked open in parallel, Hermes moans around it. He pulls breath through his nose, sucking and tonguing the appendage within his mouth once more as the machine lord tilts his head up.
This is worship, Hermes is sure of it. This entity of machine and oil and flesh could very well be a god. Divinity is what blinds him when the being speaks again through a crashing, almost musical sound that forms a single word. The name is clear, free of the static that clung so tightly to his words before: Charon.
It only just registers for Hermes when the snaking tendrils within his mouth and throat pulse and spill within him once more. It is less of a surprise this time, and Hermes finds himself eagerly swallowing the liquid down. It coats his throat, burning and then soothing as the tentacles withdraw from his lips as he gasps and sputters.
For a brief, incomprehensible moment, Hermes fears the emptiness. His grip tightens on Charon's appendages, and his eyes flutter open to find the one of glowing violet still trained on him.
"Please," he chokes out. And that is all it takes.
With little fanfare, Charon eases Hermes' knees apart farther. The tentacle that had been teasing him shifts direction and slips back to nudge at the dripping entrance. Another quickly joins it, both pushing in with the same urgency Hermes feels taking residence in his lungs. He moans, low and throaty as they stroke inside him.
Winding, dizzying feelings are only amplified when the tentacles spasm and thicken. It's so much more than he's ever taken, so much more than he could be prepared for, and it rakes Hermes' mind clean of any thought. All there is, all there can be in that moment is the feeling of Charon fucking him apart with multiple tendrils in steady alternating rhythms.
Any brain power left is devoted to holding on, to whispering soft pleas for more, to singing Charon's name as he tightens around the ever-probing tendrils within him. Another tendril finds Hermes' throat and curls around to cradle the back of his head. The pressure is a delicious addition to the overstimulating symphony of sound and sensation, not unbearable, but a steady reminder for the writhing Hermes. Charon's intentions are unknowable, but he is safe.
Just as Hermes believes he has found the full rhythm, just as he begins to try and move his hips in time with Charon, a slick, fleshy tentacle slides against the cleft of his ass. It shocks him into a gasp, and in that moment squirms and plunges inside of him. Hermes' breaths come in short, sharp pants, his mind swimming again as Charon cycles fucking him with a deep tenderness and obscene power.
The third tendril expands and Hermes cries out as his stomach distends with each press in. Tears streak his face, and it's there, in Charon's many twisting appendages of machine and flesh, that Hermes feels at once more alive than he has ever been and on the very brink of being torn apart. The potent mix sparks something in him, something long at rest, and Hermes tightens his grip as he meets Charon's single, unblinking eye.
Overwhelming bliss crashes over him, crushes him, and Hermes' body tightens like a bow string. All three tendrils push in at once, power behind the motion like Hermes has never known, and he clamps around them as heat floods his body. A desperate little noise that almost sounds like Charon's name leaves his lips, and he slumps onto the various appendages surrounding him.
Through it all the tentacles do not cease. They pump in and out of him, fucking him through his orgasm. Fucking him until he cries Charon's name again, a prayer. Begging for more. Begging for what he truly needs. The violet eye still watching him seems to glow brighter and another staccato of vibrations and musical industrial whirring fill the air before warmth floods Hermes. Full. He's so full. Stars light up his vision and Hermes' knuckles whiten as he holds onto Charon.
Charon moves closer, new arms, closer to the one that took the coin from him, reach out and take him by the waist. In a flurry of metal and cloth, Hermes is tucked against what might loosely be described as Charon's body. Exhaustion melds with euphoria, and Hermes isn't able to cling to his consciousness despite wanting—needing—to know more. The fight for wakefulness is over before it can even begin, and Hermes has lost. One last word fills his ears before sleep steals him away.
Rest.