We’re here for you. Inside your brain. You’re a servo skull, now.
Dark Angels: You never grew out of that emo phase. You’re still keeping secrets, throwing a bedsheet over your shoulder and calling it a cape, and saying “I know something that you don’t know” in a singsong voice.
Zoats: What even are you? Who are your parents?
Elysian Drop Troops: You’re a former president of the AV club, the person who can figure out how to ACTUALLY MAKE THE HDMI CABLE WORK, and a subscriber to Mechanicum Magazine. A gearhead who likes shiny toys and has five burner email accounts. You do as much hacking as eating, and you’d rather play Warhammer on tabletop simulator.
Cato Sicarius: You suck, dude.
Ynarri: You went from most hated kid who still wasn’t good enough to win, to forgotten middle child. You feel strange; people still use all the same models they used to, but now they call them other names. Hunter of Ancient Cellos, Superior Whosiwutsit, Children of Profitsey? All you can feel is pain, all you can see are tears. What can you do? Nothing, really. You’re just a useless wierdo.
The Old Ones: You really had to start all this. Thanks. You’re the type to pull pranks and blame it on someone else.
Inquisition: You’ve always been the curious type. All of your friendships end up like this: “Dude have you ever considered that we’re in a parallel universe and everyone died at the end of old night and we’ve been in a simulation this whole time–You don’t? HERESY! AWAY WITH HIM! He’ll make a fine servitor.”
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