Main Group
The machine did not believe in the afterlife. As an organic she had, long ago, back on Artam, when she had been shackled by ignorance and superstitions. Its people had believed that the stars were the domain of powerful Gods, beautiful and devastating in their wrath, who had sent the Great Plague to cull the unworthy and punish mankind for its sins. Moira had long left these beliefs behind her. Before she ascended.
She averted her gaze from the bright, too bright, sunlight, for it seemed substantial even for a sophisticated machine like her, as the light seemed to envelope her. She heard the powerful, terribly annoying noise of the horn and wondered where she could find whatever foolish organic was responsible for blowing it so that she could crush his throat, for the sound annoyed her.
Her first thought - the probably most obvious one - was to think she was on Tatooine, given the desert landscape, but as she gazed across the scene before she dismissed that claim. The great announcement, hailing a so called King Oa, caught her attention. Moira liked to think she had a very good grasp on galactic politics and she was well-connected, yet she drew a blank regarding the name as she searched her databanks, even as she searched further, going back years, decades, centuries. Something else as amiss, she reflected as she moved forward, knocking some irrelevant, obviously primitive organics in shawls and desert clothing, aside.
The sun was bright, though the heat would not trouble her unless it reached the levels of the hellhole called Gehenna. Cold eyes flickered across the organics that had assembled, some of whom she knew. For a moment they focused on one in particular, @[member="Sargon Vynea"], a Fringe Governor. The last time they had met had been in a Fringe laboratory on Endor where she had almost killed him. It had been an entertaining fight. Her hands checked her clothing, noting that her newly acquired lightsabre was still there.
While the desert natives celebrated joyously and hailed the glory of their King, she processed, analysed. Information was processed through her mind at a rapid rate, with the efficiency and speed of a super computer. Upon a whim, her eyes focused upon the stars, braving the hot rays of the sun that were mercilessly coming down upon the organics, as she looked up, those cold eyes focusing on the position of three stars in particular, analysing the constellation. Once, twice, another time to be certain of what the data being fed into the droid brain was telling her.
This is not my time, thus was the logical conclusion and the machine did not argue with facts. It would not be the first time a Terminatrix was swept through the maelstrom and back in time. The next logical questions were how and why.
