"When we were at war, oh! We were at war, in the army corps, drowning in gore. Each man thought of his love back home, where she was waiting by the door, each man thought of his love back home, where she was waiting by the door!" I hummed.

  I stalked through the forest, pistol in hand. I had been right. From memory, a gauss flayer can fire once every 2 or so seconds. the pistol fires every 3 or so.

  At the highest end, a cannon can fire... at 6ish seconds, I think. The pistol, at that power, fires once every 17 and a bit. The problem was that it had 88% of the range of it's lowest power equivalent weapon in range. At the highest, it dropped to 51%.

  In trade, pocket cannon. I think I'm the real winner here. I had tested it on every verminus and overabundant creature I had seen. There were quite a few. And as they screamed in agony as they disintegrated, I hummed and sung softly.

  On some level, I thought I should be disturbed, uncomfortable maybe with my actions instead of my uncaring, blasé attitude. But I suppose it makes sense.

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  My necron memories create a backbone on which my organic memories support themselves on. So, it was the main chunk of me, I suppose. Not that I'm not affected by my other memory's, but still.

  Anyhow, after having my fun with the pistol, I had to struggle with my new blade. And by the dead gods, it was a struggle.

  I had the memories of it, I knew I could fight with all manner of one handed bladed weaponry, but shooting and melee fighting was... extremely difficult.

  I was making progress, but it was so very slow. Days, weeks, and months pass, and I slowly get better. Every day, I practice with my short sword. I fight invisible enemies from memory, I practice each move innumerable times, and I meditate on why to use each move.

  This ridged structure of training helped my progress immensely. It set a pace, helped keep my thoughts in line, and helped focusing on everything.

  I was now moderately proficient, and I would accept that. The thing was, that it was fighting like an assassin. That distinction mattered.

  It ment that there were no large, smashing strikes in my memory. No heavy chops. It was all small, economic cuts and jabs. There was deflecting and riposting, but the style was made for quick movements and a quicker blade.

  But that was fine with me. It fit. And one day, I hoped to improve upon my memories. Why, I-

  Wait...

  As I scanned the sky, in the distance I saw a ship. It was small, not fit for extrasolar travel from the looks of it, but it was far away, so I might be mistaken. It dropped and landed in the forest, some 90km away. It left shortly afterwards.

  Just what in the hell was that?