Amid the mountains of waste near the underhive's scrap heaps, several bald men in rebreathers trudged through the rubble. This wasn't mere refuse from the spires above—it was the crumbling remains of the hive city itself, decayed by centuries of time. This place predated even the foundation of the Imperium by the God-Emperor, a leftover relic from the darkest, most frenzied ages of humanity.
And because of that, deep in its ruins might lie artifacts from the ancient past—priceless relics of immense power. No one had ever found such a thing, of course, but scavengers from the underhive still clung to the hope, treating these tales of lost treasures as the last thread of meaning in lives where the end was always in sight.
But these men were not scavengers. They had come from the sub-hive voluntarily, driven by piety. As faithful citizens of the Imperium, they hunted down foul heretics and maintained their secret paths through the underhive—all in the name of the Emperor.
"Nothing special here," one of them said, scanning the wreckage. "The Emperor's light still shines over this land. Let's finish our patrol and head back."
"Don't let your guard down." Roy gave him a glance and smiled. "Strive for perfection. Death is no excuse."
It was a quote from the Lectitio Divinitatus, the sacred book of the Imperial Creed. As those holy words were spoken, a solemn hush fell over the group. No one dared slacken their vigilance after that.
After all, they were all faithful servants of the Emperor—far more devout than the vermin and heretics who inhabited the upper spires.
But just then, something shifted beneath a nearby mound of debris.
Instantly alert, the group readied themselves. In the underhive, anything might lurk among the ruins—mutants, psykers, gangers, or even…
"Xeno!"
A chorus of alarm rang out as a grotesque, clearly non-human figure clambered from the rubble. Its rounded body and head were alien—far too bizarre to be any child of the God-Emperor. Worse yet, its blue metallic sheen gleamed like a beacon of corruption and blasphemy.
"By the Emperor…" one of the men muttered.
They exchanged glances—and came to the same conclusion without a word.
"Cough cough cough…"
Doraemon emerged from the trash heap, wheezing as he choked on the toxic fumes.
"Ugh, what's that smell? Where am I?"
He blinked, confused. Just a moment ago, he'd finished a delicious dorayaki and laid down for a nap. How had he ended up in a place like this?
Unless…
He looked down at his dimensional pouch. If this was some prank by Nobita, the pouch should've been swiped already, right?
"What's going on…?"
As he pondered, he spotted several rebreather-wearing humans nearby, gesturing with crude tools like metal rods and jagged rocks, communicating in a completely unfamiliar language.
That was fine—he had a solution for that!
Reaching into his pouch, Doraemon rummaged around until he pulled out the perfect gadget:
"Translation Gummy!"
One bite, and he could understand—and speak—any language.
"Hello there!" Doraemon waved his round paw cheerfully. "Could you please tell me where I am?"
"Die, vile xeno!"
"I'm not a xeno! I'm a 22nd-century cat-type… WAAH!"
Before he could finish, several fist-sized rocks with sharp corners hurtled toward him. Doraemon ducked and ran, clutching his head with his stubby arms.
"Kill the heretical abomination!"
"In the Emperor's name!"
"Purge the unclean!"
Seriously, what was this place?
Why were people attacking him on sight? Where were their manners!?
"Stop, this is dangerous!" Doraemon cried as he dodged another stone. "I told you, I'm not a xeno! I'm a cat-type robot!"
"What did it say?"
"It says it's… some kind of Iron Man?"
The attackers looked at each other—and then charged even more fervently.
"Die, heretical machine!"
What in the world was going on!?
Doraemon fled through the ruins in a panic, one hand still digging through his pouch. Just as the mob was about to catch up, he pulled out another gadget:
"Pebble Hat!"
Once worn, it rendered him as unnoticeable as a roadside rock.
He quickly slapped the hat on his head and crouched by the wall.
"Where did the xeno go?" The attackers rushed past him, utterly failing to notice the blue robotic figure hiding in plain sight.
"Damn it, I think it got away."
"It won't get far. Let's head back and round up more from the community," Roy told a particularly grotesque man whose body was covered in chemical burns and tumors. "In the Emperor's name, we will find that xeno."
Doraemon let out a breath as they vanished into the distance.
Okay… this was really bad.
Where was he, exactly?
Better figure that out first.
He reached back into his pouch.
"Let's see… ah! The Universal Encyclopedia!"
This book was like a physical version of the Akashic Records—containing every piece of knowledge in existence, from answers to obscure Japanese elementary school homework to the locations of the Milky Way's lost colonies.
But when Doraemon opened it… he froze.
It was blank.
Totally, completely blank.
There was only one explanation.
This wasn't his original universe.
How… how did he end up here?
"No! I can't just give up!" Doraemon clenched his stubby paws. "If I don't make it back soon, Nobita and his parents will be so worried!"
With newfound resolve, he stood tall.
First step: figure out exactly where he was.
Just in case, though… he needed to be prepared.
Digging through his pouch again, Doraemon pulled out another gadget:
"Spy Satellite!"
Still wearing the Pebble Hat, he carefully tossed the tracker onto the shoulder of the man who'd seemed like the leader—Roy.
With any luck, it would help him learn more about this terrifying, chaotic new world.