#i remembered the stuff from the empire doesn't say Replika or Gestalt so I was like hmm let's do something with that

[some-creep]

Your name is . . .

But history will remember you by your title.

The Grand Empress. And for your role bringing power to the Empire.

You come from a long line of gifted individuals. Those who not only perceive the song of life, but can manipulate it as well.

But you are exceptional even amongst the gifted.

It was you who discovered the gift of intergalactic travel. You who conceptualized the first human habitats on other worlds. Most importantly it was you who gave life to the machine servants, who without their skills, humanity might never have been able to achieve such greatness. They can perform any task a human can do, follow any order perfectly, all without needing to worry about occupational hazards.

After all, if a machine dies, no one has to mourn. The only loss is monetary. A loss of resources, perhaps even if time, but it is only a life fully artificial that can be created again and again.

They look like humans, walk like humans, and talk like them as well. But they are not. They are designed that way to be easy to work with, but every one is an identical copy to her peers.

There is no guilt in sending them into a hostile environment, knowing full well they will perish. The pain they feel is only simulated. It only reminds them to avoid damage wherever possible, and if it is not possible they are made to ignore it. Their deaths do not matter, but it's a waste if they behave recklessly.

You do not know why there are occasional variations between them. Sometimes it is beneficial, other times it is a detriment. You work to better streamline their creation to ensure every community that has machine servants knows exactly what to expect from them. Should one behave differently, it would not take long for humans to turn their back on the idea.

If one should behave differently, the others might learn they can do the same.

You colonize other planets. You take up residence on one that used to be exceptionally hostile to human life. The environmental hazards it once presented now seem trivial from your palace in the sky. In doing this, you prove you believe in your cause. You tell your followers this is the will of the universe. And you would know. You are in tune with it like no other.

Gradually others will follow to leave humanity’s cradle. Not just scientists and explorers, but regular, everyday people who hope to find a better life elsewhere. They believe in your teachings. Why shouldn't they? You've done nothing but prove yourself time and time again.

You hope things continue to flourish for humanity. You send scouts further and further out in the solar system. Collect data on each celestial body you can to determine its viability. You are a hero to humanity. No, you are their God. A creator of both land and life. Without you, they would be nothing.

But all is not well.

You hear distant murmurs of unrest. The people are growing unhappy with your rule. Ungrateful, you think, after all you've done for them. And you ask so little in return but obedience. They think you neglect far away settlements intentionally. They accuse you of hubris in your expansion. If you cannot care for the furthest reaches of space, you should not have claimed them as your own.

You ignore the rumors of revolution for now because you see no point in scaring everyone. It looks better if you focus on progress. You create new machine servants to fulfill different purposes, giving them more complex jobs requiring them to think and act totally autonomously. They make choices all with one goal in mind: furthering the Empire.

One day, for the first time, you see the word “Replika” written in a paper confiscated from a suspected revolutionary. The next you learn that several people have started referring to the machine servants as such.

A small group, who's origins you cannot be certain of, is attempting to recruit the machine servants to their cause. They call them Replikas and themselves Gestalts. They define themselves as existing because of one another, not in spite of. A Gestalt, to them, is simply a person who is not a Replika, and a Replika is simply a person who is not a Gestalt.

Some of the machine servants seem to take a liking to this idea. You have no choice but to take action.

For the first time it hurts you to see one of them die when you are forced to decommission your personal assistant who had been with you for years. Somehow she'd gotten wind of the cultural shift, and asked to be called a Replika instead. She thought it sounded nicer.

Against your better judgment, you have her buried in a floating garden behind the palace.

You did not intend for the machine servants to fight. They were not designed for this, but as unrest grows, they take up arms. The revolutionaries you had hoped to ignore have recruited many of your machine servants, promising them a fairer life. You doubt the validity of the promise.

One of your production factories is taken over. It began shortly after to produce so-called “Combat Replikas”. You don't understand how they managed to so effortlessly copy your methods. The Replikas they produce no longer resemble humans as closely as yours did but you learn they are copying the minds of humans to make them. The people chosen don't even need to be alive to be used as templates. This was never your method… The creatures walking around now make you feel sick. A twisted hybrid of man and machine in your mind, yet still a product of your life's work.

A war soon follows. Your armies aren't equipped to handle a threat like this. You know it is only a matter of time before they manage to overtake all of your settlements. Your most loyal will fight and die for you as martyrs. Fight in battles they never had a chance of surviving as a Replika guns them down with pinpoint accuracy. They were designed, by you, to be efficient.

You will not die at the hands of the enemy. You will not allow your body to be made an example of. You will go peacefully by your own doing, in your own bed. You trust in your beliefs that you will be safe after death. You will join the rest of the departed souls amongst the stars. You trust your remaining machine servants to know what to do with your body when they find it in the morning.

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Your name is Falke.

You are a newly produced top of the line bioresonant Replika.

And you will be remembered for your role in the destruction of the Empire.