new you

Lyra's transformation had been different. As a Magos Biologis, her body was already a patchwork of cybernetics and enhanced flesh. When the Waaagh! field hit her, it didn't just change her biology; it corrupted her programming. Her cybernetic implants—the neural laces, the subcutaneous armor plating, the optical enhancers—didn't reject the change. They adapted.

Her mechanical implants grew with her. Her cybernetic breasts, once sleek and functional for monitoring vitals, had expanded into massive, armored globes that mimicked the obscene proportions of the Ork Girlz. Her synthetic skin had taken on a bronze, leathery toughness. Even her neural interface had rewired itself; instead of processing complex data streams, it now amplified the raw, sensory overload of lust and violence.

"Data corrupted," she muttered, but she wasn't upset. In fact, she felt more 'correct' than she ever had. The complicated equations of her old life were gone, replaced by a simple, undeniable equation: Big Boom + Big Cock = Happy Girl.

She stood in her workshop, which was now a chaotic forge of salvaged scrap and jury-rigged technology. She was no longer analyzing life; she was building weapons. Her hands, once delicate instruments of surgery, were now massive claws tipped with plasma-cutters. Her mechanical eye whirred as it scanned a human prisoner she had captured—a young engineer who looked terrified as he stared at the towering, cybernetic Diga before him.

"Magos Lyra was a fool," she growled to herself, her voice a grinding mechanical rasp. "She wanted to understand da universe. Now I know da universe. Da universe is loud, it's dirty, and it smells like sweat and oil."

She stepped toward the prisoner, her massive cybernetic tits swaying with every heavy footfall. The hydraulic pistons in her thighs hissed as she crouched down, invading his personal space until he could smell the sharp tang of heated metal and unwashed musk clinging to her skin.

"Hey there, liddle meat-thing," she purred, her mechanical eye zooming in on the bulge beneath his pants. "I was tinkin' about... calibration. Need to test da friction coefficients of dis new alloy I made." Her fingers, cold steel against his thigh, traced the outline of his cock. "And I need a proper specimen to test it on."

The prisoner whimpered, but Lyra didn't care about his fear. She only cared about the data—the raw, visceral data of pleasure that her corrupted brain now craved above all else. The old Lyra would have studied him. The Diga Lyra would simply take him.

"Don't worry, liddle human," she grinned, showing teeth that had been augmented with serrated metal implants. "I'm gonna make sure yer data collection is... extensive."