The forge-lab was quiet. The only sound came from faint pulses of energy moving through the embedded conduits, a low reminder that this was no ordinary place. A single reinforced observatory lens remained shuttered, muting the last of the daylight above.
At the heart of the chamber, Luthar stood before the forge. Robed in red and solemn, he watched molten metal flow through containment grooves and into insectile moulds. Sparks flared, hissed, and died.
Two crude Scarabs emerged from the birthing crucible, smoke still trailing from their cooling carapaces. They were knock-offs—rough imitations of Necron archeotech—but they would serve. They lacked the ornate inlay, the grace, and the living-metal shimmer. Yet they moved. They obeyed. That was enough.
"Activate Scarab subroutines," Luthar ordered, resting a gloved hand on the interface terminal.
Cables descended with a soft chime and locked into the ports on the Scarabs' backs. The machines twitched, first in stuttering spasms, then with smoother, insectoid precision. Their legs clicked across the grated floor as diagnostic lights flickered over their photoreceptors. These were not war constructs. They had not been built for battle. Their purpose was more sacred: to assist in transformation.
Across the chamber the first test subjects waited. A row of surgical slabs lined the augmentation hall, each fitted with magnetic restraints and cranial interface ports. Sedated soldiers lay bare upon them. Their uniforms had been burned. Their bodies had been shaved and marked for surgery.
Luthar moved among them like a high priest more than a general. He paused at each slab, checking musculature, bone density, and vital compatibility. Each man had once served Hydra, SHIELD, or some local military. None had volunteered.
"Commence augmentation," he said.
The Scarabs responded at once. Thin mechanical tendrils unfolded, tipped with scalpels, injectors, laser cutters, and bone drills. The air filled with the sharp scent of antiseptic mist and cauterised flesh.
The first man shuddered as his eyes were removed and replaced with adaptive ocular lenses capable of infrared vision and kinetic tracking. His limbs were opened and titanium braces welded along the bones. His vocal cords were severed, leaving him permanently mute. Synthfibre mesh was laced through the muscle to sharpen response time.
What rose from the slab was no longer human in any ordinary sense. Luthar watched without expression as the Scarabs finished the final sealing and grafted an obedience node to the base of the man's spine. He was Skitarii now—half-dead, wholly obedient, a silent guardian waiting for orders.
Luthar stepped back and triggered the containment protocol. The slabs rotated downward, lowering the newly forged into nutrient stasis pods. Pneumatic seals hissed shut. Monitoring lights turned green. Inside the dark suspension fluid the cyborgs floated, still and silent, waiting for purpose.
Armoured boots echoed from the corridor. Luthar did not turn.
"Efficient," Rumlow said as he entered. His face gave little away, but unease flickered behind his eyes. "Doesn't look good, though."
"You will be next," Luthar answered flatly.
Rumlow straightened. "Next for what?"
"A heart that does not fail. Eyes that cannot be deceived. It is time you left natural flesh behind."
"I think my current enhancements are enough," Rumlow began, but the protest died as mechanical arms dropped from the ceiling. Clamps seized him with impossible speed and lifted him clear of the floor.
"You are valuable," Luthar said. "I intend to keep you that way."
Rumlow's scream was muffled by the auto-suppressor clamped over his jaw. Sedatives dulled the edges of his mind but could not spare him the pain of being remade.
One eye was torn from its socket and replaced with a multi-spectrum augmetic. His ribcage was cracked open to make room for a synthetic heart whose pump beat out of rhythm until neural calibration took hold. Bones were flayed and reinforced with black-alloy splints. His spinal cord was spliced to accept data jacks and biofeedback regulators. Electrodes stabbed into his nervous system, flooding the synapses with machine logic.
It took hours.
When the machines finally withdrew and the restraints loosened, Rumlow sagged forward, convulsing, soaked in sweat, blood trailing from his nose and ears. He did not speak. He could not. His mouth hung open, slack and lost.
Luthar stepped into view, casting a long shadow over him.
"Congratulations on surviving."
Rumlow's remaining organic eye fluttered open, bloodshot and wild. The augmetic pulsed red, scanning the chamber in rapid, unfocused sweeps.
Before he could force a sound out, he collapsed with a low groan, body no longer answering as it once had.
"I should have used more anaesthetic next time," Luthar murmured.
An hour later, in another chamber, three girls sat at separate desks under the watch of guards. The room was sterile rather than punitive—built for function. Each had a datapad in front of her showing rotating schematics: rudimentary bionics, simplified chemical models, stripped-down xenotech codices broken into digestible modules.
"You are no longer civilians," Luthar said from the doorway. His voice carried flatly through the space. "You are assets."
One of the girls swallowed hard. Her hands trembled over the pad, but she said nothing.
Lily stood at his side, expression impassive. She tapped her own device. "Initial aptitude scans are finished. The two older ones show potential for bionic assistance roles. The youngest leans toward chemical comprehension."
"Good. Refine their instruction accordingly. Segment the modules and isolate their sleep cycles to reduce behavioural overlap."
He walked slowly between the desks. His presence offered no comfort, only pressure. To him they were clay—unformed, but not without use. They could become technicians, operators, asset managers—anything but liabilities.
Near the rear of the chamber stood Kara Lin, arms folded. Her body armour sat poorly on her now, more prison than protection. Her eyes flicked toward the exit, then back to the girls.
"You dream of escape," Luthar said without turning.
Kara flinched.
"You may run," he continued, "but the spinal implant with its micro-charges cannot be removed without killing you."
"Why are you keeping me here?" she asked, voice tight.
"Because you are still useful."
Lily glanced at her with something close to pity. "Come on. It's not that bad. At least it's better than working for those idiots at SHIELD."
That evening Luthar stood alone again in his command alcove, a raised dais ringed by hololithic displays. The forge beyond was quiet. The Scarabs rested in their maintenance alcoves, bodies still wet with blood and lubricant.
He activated the deep-recon protocol.
From concealed launch tubes in the upper corridors, dozens of micro-drones slipped silently into the night. Each was no larger than a sparrow, coated in stealth polymers and guided by predictive algorithms. Their orders were simple: infiltrate and acquire any data on Pym Particle technology.
One by one, telemetry feeds lit the console. Trajectories tracked toward science labs, R&D vaults, forgotten SHIELD sub-nodes, even Stark Industries satellite nodes. The drones moved through wind and shadow, unnoticed.
Luthar's eyes gleamed.
If the operation succeeded he would hold the key to matter manipulation. With Pym Particles, machinery could be shrunk, reactors compressed. Servitors stored inside coins. A forge that fit inside a lunch box.
He turned and walked toward the serum chamber.
Suspended in a cryo-vault was a plasteel cylinder of amber fluid—the next iteration of the serum. No longer a simple copy of Erskine's formula, but a synthetic, gene-reshaped compound drawn from classified SHIELD trials.
He opened the cryo-lock. A restrained SHIELD commando was wheeled forward, half-conscious under neural dampeners.
Without ceremony Luthar injected the serum into the man's neck.
He waited.
Spasms began within seconds. The subject writhed against the restraints, convulsing hard. Muscle density surged, neural pathways flared, bones creaked under the strain. Then stabilisation.
Vital signs levelled. Brain activity returned to optimal ranges. Reflex scans showed clear improvement. Bone density up seventeen per cent. Neural integration stable at ninety-three.
It was working—partially.
The man would almost certainly die within seventy-two hours from systemic degeneration, but the data would be logged. That was enough.
Luthar tapped a control rune. "Schedule incineration of the test body for 0200 hours. Tag the data Phase II Viability."
Moments later Lily entered carrying two datapads. Her eyes were tired but precise.
"The second girl has completed the autopsy sequence. The eldest shows mild resistance. The third… hesitates."
"Accelerate her immersion. Begin visual indoctrination—surgery footage, detachment drills, neurosystem collapse simulations."
"She's still young," Lily said quietly.
"You are younger than they are," Luthar answered, voice colder. "If they cannot adapt, they will serve in another role—perhaps as disposable maids."
Lily said nothing.
Another drone pinged on the console. Target acquired: Pym Data Vault – Subnode Q17 (Dormant). Download in progress.
Luthar smiled faintly. Progress.
He turned back toward the forge. Diagrams for a new drone model flickered across the console—smaller, smarter. Not mere scouts this time, but harvesters.
He activated the intercom.
Kara's voice crackled through. "What now?"
"Bring the girls. We begin conditioning."
A few minutes later they were escorted in, led by Lily and flanked by silent servitors. Their faces were pale, their steps reluctant. They stopped at the white line painted on the floor, eyes wide as they took in the Skitarii pods behind Luthar—the things they would one day help build.
"You have been chosen," Luthar said, "not for your pasts, but for what you can become. You will serve the Machine God."
He held out three slim injectors. "Memory catalysts. They will accelerate learning—at a cost. Hallucinations. Amnesia. Identity degradation. Acceptable losses."
He handed them to Lily.
For a long moment she hesitated.
Then, with deliberate care, she turned and injected each girl in turn. One by one they collapsed.
Servitors stepped forward, lifting them gently and carrying them toward the indoctrination chambers. Their minds would now absorb programming not through reason but through synthetic dreaming, neural flooding, and simulated trauma.
Lily stood silent afterwards, spent injectors still in her hands.
"Was there no other way?" she asked. "It feels like… brainwashing."
Luthar did not answer. His gaze remained fixed on the console where the blueprints for the next advancement were already forming.
They were ready.
And the forge was never silent.
---
**Author's Note**
When I write the tech-priest chapters I tend to go heavy on the creation and discovery side. That's fine for the character, but it can drag the novel down. Next chapters I'm shifting to Hulk, then Thor, and I'll keep the forge work to a minimum.
I just bought new headphones hoping for better voice typing, but they've already started acting up. Now I'm looking at a new phone—this one's screen is full of ghost touches. At least the machine spirits seem quiet for once, since I haven't written about them lately.
Every Sunday I usually pick up around five new subscribers. Last Sunday it was only one. Not sure if there's a reason or if I'm heading in the wrong direction.
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