"The Blorg representatives are refusing to disembark," her assistant, a twitchy drone-operator named Skrit, chirped through the comms. "They say the 'aroma' of our starport is melting their environmental suits."
Vetra sighed, a wet, rattling sound. "Tell them it is a localized pheromonal greeting. If they want the trade deal for the mutagenic crystals, they have to breathe the air we breathe." STELLARIS TOXOIDS SPECIES(2022)
The air inside the atmospheric processing plant on Otheman II didn't just smell bad; it tasted like rusted pennies and desperation. For Vetra, a Chief Reclamation Officer of the Otheman Industrial Mandate, this was the scent of progress. "The Blorg representatives are refusing to disembark," her
She looked at her hands, where the chemical burns were beginning to form—a sign of the "Shorted Lifespan" trait she had accepted for the sake of her empire's growth. She wouldn't live to see the next century, but her civilization would choke the stars until they were the only ones left breathing. If they want the trade deal for the
The Otheman Mandate had risen from the literal trash heap of their sector. While other civilizations spent centuries cleaning their oceans and filtering their skies, Vetra’s ancestors had leaned into the rot. They had accelerated their evolution through the Relentless Industrialists civic, turning their home world into a tomb world that thrived on the very pollutants that killed everything else.
"The Blorg representatives are refusing to disembark," her assistant, a twitchy drone-operator named Skrit, chirped through the comms. "They say the 'aroma' of our starport is melting their environmental suits."
Vetra sighed, a wet, rattling sound. "Tell them it is a localized pheromonal greeting. If they want the trade deal for the mutagenic crystals, they have to breathe the air we breathe."
The air inside the atmospheric processing plant on Otheman II didn't just smell bad; it tasted like rusted pennies and desperation. For Vetra, a Chief Reclamation Officer of the Otheman Industrial Mandate, this was the scent of progress.
She looked at her hands, where the chemical burns were beginning to form—a sign of the "Shorted Lifespan" trait she had accepted for the sake of her empire's growth. She wouldn't live to see the next century, but her civilization would choke the stars until they were the only ones left breathing.
The Otheman Mandate had risen from the literal trash heap of their sector. While other civilizations spent centuries cleaning their oceans and filtering their skies, Vetra’s ancestors had leaned into the rot. They had accelerated their evolution through the Relentless Industrialists civic, turning their home world into a tomb world that thrived on the very pollutants that killed everything else.