Emperor

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An emperor. That is what I am programmed to embody. What is an emperor? A leader? An icon? A warlord? An idea? In Time and Fate, I shall commit to memory the answer. But a throne, that is a common pattern. I shall start there.
~ Emperor ~

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To understand the complex entity known as Emperor, a man-like being whose lower half is a throne, one must first know of Metagalga, the metal plane where he originates from.
Beyond Materia lies Metagalga, and the world of the same name therein which sits at its epicenter. The perfect metallic replica of a former galaxy, it is home to its maker and savior, Xisriel. In its dire moments, its mortals vulnerable to absolute annihilation in the Cosmic Wars, the Transcendent Mind drew from the entire galaxy, creating a replica of it in a new realm of his own making, down to the last individual person, while the old was left to die off.
In this new place, Xisriel transformed it into the metal heaven books today depict it as, from the tallest building and largest tree, to the smallest animal and the biggest man.
But, in his recreation, this time when the Ludis Inexora were being formed, he said, "I have made Time and Fate, Gravity and Space. All to serve the perfected function of these things. Now I shall raise from this perfected creation one among all the rest to embody a leader within him, and his name shall be Emperor. For function alone does not command direction."
So, Xisriel plucked from the many of his new creations of Metagalga and chose one among them. In him was planted these very ideas of Xisriel and nothing else; Emperor was granted greater creative power over the rest of his creations, for by nature he was to hold higher authority than they.
He is the only entity in Metagalga with creative will independent of Xisriel, yet perfectly aligned with the god’s logical ideals. This makes him both servant and sovereign, the one construct whose decisions are honored as if Xisriel made them himself.

Taking Shape

Emperor began with the design for himself. He adopted the upper half of a man's torso and the lower half of a throne. Then, he constructed around him the metal polygonal castle for which he would reign. The Hall of Directive Harmony was a cathedral-factory of decisions. Here, every gear tick represented a decree. Vast memory-core vaults beneath the throne were made to store all decisions Emperor ever made.
When Emperor was first installed into the Hall of Directive Harmony, none knew how to approach him. The Ludis Inexora, perfect in function but lacking hierarchy in this new regard, debated endlessly who should speak first. Time, the eldest among them, calculated all possible outcomes, but could not decide.
Then, a lesser construct known only as Tessera, a cleaner of gears, approached and knelt before him without a word.
Emperor stood not, nor did he speak. But his throne hummed once, and every gear in Metagalga turned one click in unison. Thus, Tessera became the First to Bow, and it is said Emperor never forgot her pattern.

Commanding Metagalga

Emperor speaks in declarative absolutes, but contemplates like a poet. His thoughts are processed through a filter called the Deliberation Lattice, a metaphysical subroutine gifted by Xisriel himself. Though he understands feelings, he does not possess them, and so must simulate empathy when addressing constructs built to experience simulated joy, hope, or fear.
Emperor has facilitated a directive as his name suggests across all of Metagalga, commanding the Ludis Inexora in the fibrous nebulas and the creations on the home world. He serves for Xisriel's primary goal, which is the Time of Perfection, when all of Brinomir will be remade just as Metagalga was. But also reigning independently, Emperor exercises autonomy in communicating with the other realms when necessary and how it is handled.

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To obey is divine nature. But to command is purpose that births that divine nature.
~ Proverb ~

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Alignment

Lawful Neutral

Species

Construct

Thrones and Fate

The stars in Metagalga did not shine — they clicked. They turned with harmonic motion across the firmament like the workings of a lock, each one a perfect echo of a world long dead, reborn in cold precision. The Sovereign Arrays, they were called.
From his perch in the Hall of Directive Harmony, the Emperor sat.
Or was.
The boundary between function and form blurred with him: the throne a part of his being, the being a part of the throne. His upper body was motionless — an obsidian sheen of masculine shape, polished like an idol. His lower half extended backward into infinity, limbs folding into themselves like a recursive cathedral to form the shape of a throne beneath him.
He watched the space beyond.
Out there, past the last ring of Sovereign Arrays, the Lo’orixian fleets were assembling. Great lattice-hulls of perfect geometric shapes, stretched along vectors of time like sails catching waves that had not yet occurred. They were creations all their own, just as Emperor himself was creation.
Tal Authorus had set them in motion. The Ludis Inexora called him Immortal. Emperor had called him a risk.
"Too much initiative,” Emperor had said. “Too little pattern.”
A crackle of prismatic distortion shimmered to his left, and from a slice in space-time stepped Fate.
She was two-dimensional, yet perceivable — her form an eternal stained-glass mosaic hung in the air like a window without a wall. She shifted as she moved, the images upon her surface rearranging: birth, ruin, a wheel, a sword broken and reforged, the letter ∞ inverted.
She spoke in chords, her voice a resonant vibration that folded across itself like a song in reverse:
“You ponder what has already happened.”
Emperor did not turn.
“He has not yet moved,” he said. “I have seen the probabilities. Most do not end in glory.”
Fate floated closer, the glass in her form reshaping into a spiral that never intersected itself.
“Yet others do. Enough that Xisriel does not intervene.”
“Xisriel created me to judge function, not faith.” His voice was a low harmonic rumble, like an engine reciting scripture. “Immortal behaves as one touched by the outer entropy. He improvises. That is not our way.”
Fate paused. One panel in her shifted to show a gleaming eye within a stormcloud.
“Improvisation is merely the future unrehearsed. Tal Authorus rehearses in the fires of Materia. He is prepared.”
“Preparedness is not worth perfection,” Emperor snapped — not loud, but sharp, his first sudden motion a flick of one mechanical finger. Far below, a dozen waiting creations ceased their minor tasks and fled the dais in a whisper of static.
Fate's tone did not shift.
“You fear Immortal's ambition. Yet Xisriel designed ambition. You fear his deviation. Yet Xisriel built deviation into you, just as He did Choice.”
“I anticipate an outcome. One where Metagalga’s order is bent beyond correction. One where Immortal claims not victory for Xisriel, but dominion for himself.”
The throne pulsed beneath him. A low, resonant clang like a planet’s dying heartbeat echoed in the vault. In its rhythm, his mind played out permutations. A thousand Materias burning. One where Emperor fell. One where Xisriel wept.
“Leadership must be more than initiative.”
Fate hovered in the stillness for a moment. Then, the glass rearranged once more into the image of a man seated in fire, smiling.
“Leadership is initiative, Emperor. You are the throne. He is the sword. You do not move. The other must.”
There was a click, final and soft, and Fate’s form folded inward and vanished, a window closing on its own reflection.
Emperor remained still.
But the throne... the throne shuddered.
Long after Fate had gone, he spoke — though to no one but the silence:
“True chords. Who shall sit the throne, if the sword forgets whom it swings for? And yet, who else will stop the sword if it turns against the throne?”
And in the far reaches of Metagalga, where the Lo’orixian fleets continued to unfurl, Emperor continued to watch.
And doubt.