) Sugar and Copper (

The ride to Mars is painfully silent.

Gloves ball against the sleeves of his new jacket as he shuffles, an intermittent unease that wanders through his thoughts and waifs across through the sympathetic transference; Warren resigns himself half aware of his surroundings as each embittering attempt to converse is met by his dejected mumble beneath the scarf cloth. Leaning upon his knees, holding himself small, Warren merely rides out the hitches in the liset’s decent as it rocks in the timid gusts. Golden claws pry the craft into a settled yawn as sand puffs around the landing gear, machinery finding their placements as the engines ease down into idle silence.

As the loki goes through the off-boarding protocols Warren remains huddled, sight adrift as he holds himself firmly in place. Remaining slouched as the loki steps back to check the gear stuffed into the rafters and stow-away hatches, bantering amongst himself as the tenno’s hands curl.

‘Another practice session…’ Warren mulls, briefly looking back as the warframe pulls down a bundle of targets, a snarling grunt as he tugs it to land with a heavy thump.

Exhaustion taints Warren’s cognition, senses muddied as he barely retains any attention to the motions behind the seat as he leans into it, head cast back with a choking sigh as he fumbles to keep himself together. Fingers knead into the sleeves; biting his lip against the fierce strain of overbearing tears that threaten to brim his sight. To not dwell on it; ignore it, Warren shivers, holding himself still as his fingers pry against the jacket. They falter down beneath the flaps to pull himself into a tighter bundle, looking over anything that suits his need for redirected attention. The ceiling, the floor, the individual metallic grooves in the console before him as laces of energy lingers in the breath of the idle engine. He burrows himself in the scarf, sight hanging lull as he traces out the intricate little details and flaws.

Teetering under the threat of another breakdown.

“Everything’s set up, kid,” the loki whispers as he eases down into a kneel, resting an arm on the chair as he looks over to the teenager. T’viska’s eyespots register a split hesitation, mouth pressing a line as he watches the tenno flicker his sight over for a moment, then looks away. Despondent. A persistent, aching silence carries between; and the warframe releases a steady exhale. “Whenever you feel ready… I’ll be outside, alright?” And a clawed palm pats Warren’s shoulder.

It’s with a heave and a sigh that the warframe departs, his steps light as they move from the liset’s ramp down into the blowing martian sand. Piece by piece he reassesses the target posts, the cloth tatters of a few of the dummies that sit in snug haphazard bundles. Needlework keeps them tight in the easing gusts, shadowed by the cargo wreckage strewn out across the landscape. Double checking, triple checking, T’viska keeps himself occupied.

And, steadily, Warren pulls himself to his feet.

Confounded in the clash of hesitation, anxieties, a backlog of emotional baggage that he shoves into the deep recesses of his mind as he faces the sand. Gloved fingers scratch against the traces of tears as he pulls himself to walk, to do something aside from sitting alone in the darkness as he steps out into the shadow of the carrier. Questions scratch in the back of his thoughts that are shoved aside; still shaking, hands fumbling as he tries to find some measurement of self-control as he walks over to the loki’s side.

His features; cracking.

“I’m here,” he mumbles; and hitched by the trembling in his breath, the threatening sniff as he shuns himself away from the warframe’s sight. Wanting to think of elsewhere, not on the turmoil saturating inside his head.

And when the loki kneels down before him, hands holding his arms gently, he adverts his sight – not want to be seen like this, his breathing hitches. A fumble of inner criticism cascades – and he shoves off the golden claws from his sleeves. “Which weapon,” he forces a swallow, looking over between the curls of hair.

“Warren –” T’viska strains, hands turning into fists, watching and standing as the tenno storms over to where weapons have been laid out. Busted lato, reassembled braton, and the ceramic daggers; the ammo sits sparse – the allotment for off-contract use. It takes a moment, a hesitation, and he grabs the teenager’s arm.

“Let go of me!” Warren snaps, his voice trembling, tears creasing his sight.

Useless. Worthless. Scratches in the teenager’s mind.

“Warren,” the loki snarls, “calm down, there’s –”

It’s too late; as his emotions fissure.

“I am fucking calm!” he yells, trembling as his fists press at his sides, ebbing with void energy. “I’m- just wasting my time, aren’t I? I can’t find anything on those fucking plants; not even scant theories that aren’t locked behind some Corpus bullshit!” Cyan energy flickers through his palms; can’t fight back, never fight back. Tearing up. “There’s –“ he chokes, “there’s nothing for me, isn’t there? After the war, the sentients, the Orokin, there’s nothing… nothing,” his voice quivers, hands pressing against his face, across the remnants of his facial damage.

Gloved fingers curl, trembling, teeth gnash aggressive.

A fucking failure.

And T’viska just stands there, a hand barely held out as the turmoil casts through his own mind.

Doubting his own thoughts as they contort in form with the teeanger’s lashing somatic signal; anger, fear, uncertainty and a lingering embittered hatred. He doesn’t move – he can’t move as the tenno’s breathing shutters, choking, crying as he holds his fists at his side. “Don’t… just fucking stand there,” he mumbles, a fist swiping away the pouring tears. “Fucking, say something,” he snarls – halfhearted and stained with the crumbs of loathing. Of doing nothing before, the things out of his control that he’s lost without – why? Why can’t he fucking function?

“Jacob,” T’viska fumes, neural processes overloading with the anxious bleeding that ensnares him in place. “Warren,” he tries again, choking to try and find his wording. “You’re not at fault for what they’ve done to you,” he tries to reach over – but it’s shoved away through his own nerves – cast off with the frantic shake of a downcast head. Not having it; not taking the lies that are so thought.

“I fucking know that, dad!” the teenager cries; shaking, trembling. His breathing hitches, “but I – I don’t fucking know what to do, and just –“ he falters, fingers prying through his hair. “I’m – I’m useless,” he sobs, “I can’t find anything, do anything to help…” he chokes, “please…” he stutters, a hiccup, “I’m a burden, aren’t I…? You can’t do anything with me around…” his voice creaks, crumpling down to his knees.

T’viska’s hesitant to force himself forward, a snarl breaking across his face as his eyespot remain in aggressive slits. Tumbling through the thunderous waves that crests his thoughts, the overwhelm of the somatic control – but its hinge of encouragement is short lived as he kneels at the tenno’s side. A sentimental reaching out that retracts as an elbow pushes away half-hearted.

And golden claws rest around the teen’s back, a gentle pat with a sigh.

“No, Warren, you aren’t,” the warframe hushes, leaning into the crestfallen sobs. Easing the teenager to lean against him with a sigh. “It’s… not easy to get over that shit,” his lip curls, “it’s going to take time… to not feel bad about just existing.” He eases the teen’s head over, whispering, “we’ll get you through this – alright?”

“Okay,” Warren sniffs, angrily brushing away the tears. “I’m…” he swallows, “just so tired of this shit… being afraid of everything.”

“I know, kid,” the warframe adjusts, sitting on his legs as he rubs the teen’s arm. “But it’ll get better, okay? Don’t worry about dad, just focus on yourself. Alright?”

There’s a swallow of tears, a huffed nod as the tenno fumbles to pull himself together, his sleeve pressing against his face. “I know but…” he halts, pulling himself away to bury his forehead against his knees. “I can’t do anything…” he shakes.

Silence stings inside the loki’s thoughts, uncertain of what else to say as the teenager sits there – the warframe’s arm still hitched over in a sentiment of comfort, that he’s still there. T’viska looks over the target markers, the posts he set up in hopes of deluding the resentment that course through the somatic current. “You might not be able to right now,” he sits up, pulling his hand away as he moves to stand. “But you have focus, kid, I’m sure you can crack whatever the connection is between them – the plants and the chairs.”

Hesitant about bringing up the neural override. Where outside the seat the tenno made him immobile.

“That arboriform, back on the orbiter, how’s it doing?” T’viska moves over to Warren’s other side, sitting down.

“It’s… doing okay, I guess,” Warren hiccups, his sleeves stained with tears. “The reservoir waters… haven’t done any harm to it so far. And it’s still reacting.”

“Good,” T’viska sighs, leaning against his knees with crossed arms. “It’s a good place to start… working off of experience.” He looks over, letting a sigh slip from him, “you can only glean so much from documents… it’s really hands-on experience that gives insight. I could study codes for decades and not complete a single assignment.”

“Yeah…” Warren swallows, wiping away tearing remnants.

“Whatever you feel like doing… just tell me, alright? Be it looking at a derelict or running on a mission, I might not be able to do them all,” T’viska adjusts himself, legs crossing against the sands. “But I’ll try to fit in those occasional trips when I can,” he sighs, “Suuir could use some help around the ship… you could probably poke around and see how the ship’s guts function too.”

Warren nods, still shielding his face. The briefest of a smile marred with the remnant cries.

Golden claws pat his shoulder, easing him over to a hug. “We can go back, if you want.”

Again, Warren nods; exhausted.

Exhaustion that directs him back to the bed once he’s aboard, cradling himself amongst the body heat comfort left by the kavats – whom leap back on after him one by one. Their bodies crest around his cocooned form, Crenshaw cradling against his fists before Warren throws a sheet over her. Rhubarb skips and hops around them before she cuddles herself against his back, where each motion coaxes out a stubborn whine.

From the other end of the cushioned bench the loki watches them find peace, listening until the teenager’s breathing falls calm. Finally finding sleep.

On the other side of the door, T’viska sighs, “how long was he awake, Suuir?”

’38 hours,’ not too long, ‘he took a brief nap before continuing through the archives. Without it, 74,’ the tetrahedron flickers at the edge of the loki’s vision.

He snarls.

Should’ve paid more attention… but he’s always off on some mission, and Suuir isn’t a suitable guardian for an anxiety riddled teenager. Claws press his forehead, mediating on it as he leans up against the wall.

“Suuir,” the loki growls, head falling back as his arms cross. “Let him work on the systems, poke around a bit.”

‘Are you certain that’s a good idea? To let him poke around.’

“You don’t have a choice in the matter, cephalon,” the loki hisses through his teeth, “what I am asking is for you to give guidance. Letting him figure out on his own won’t exactly be suitable to keep things running, no would it?” Silence, a stalemate as the cephalon’s polygonal representation fizzles at the edge of the loki’s sight before blipping out.

T’viska heaves a sigh, pushing himself off the wall with a roll of his shoulders, “Suuir,” he breathes, “can you send me the stuff he was looking at?” Gold claws squeeze against his biceps as he walks up the ramp to the upper hall. The cephalon never answers, merely transferring the records over the neural signal from one to the other. Thousands muddy his internal listing, vision decorated with relevant keywords and earmarked for the potential of arboriform consensus, ones that linger with the base possibility of vital information.

Sitting himself before the navigation console, the loki stretches his shoulders. His spine. Each of his joints one by one as he begins to pick through the files new and old.

And begins discarding them.

As he eases down into long hold stretches, T’viska picks through for the more relevant files; the ones that are more than a mention amongst the expounds of an unrelated excursion, more than a brief glace of subjective hints, ones that aren’t a list of faulty information or construes and turns into nonsensible garbage. In, and out he breathes, flipping through them; compare and contrast, if there’s connections not yet made between the scraps.

Pulling himself back with a steady exhale, the warframe switches to his other side, peering through the files, picking them apart and separating out the relevant from the oversized bulk, stowing them away into their own filings before he culls the rest. Only to set them free once the irrelevant are sent away, repeating the process, dwindling from thousands into hundreds.

And he begins another set of long held stretches.

Exhaling.

 Golden claws allow the datapad to slip from his grasp.

It lands with a softened pat before sliding down on the ottoman sat in front of the cushioned bench as a minor tone plays overhead – a finger pushing it over, to where device doesn’t hang off the edge as he takes a glace to where the tenno and kavats lie asleep. At peace. Looking back to the datapad, T’viska taps it to remain open on the cultivated research – down from a few thousands to less than 500.

“Suuir, when he wakes up tell him I parsed through it, narrowed it down,” he exhales, his sight caught on the jarred arboriform sat in front of the camera-fed vista.

‘Affirmative,’ the cephalon doesn’t bother to make his polygon known, saturated by contract correspondence.

Setting the jar in the middle of the ottoman, T’viska reads through the mission details sent to him by Suuir; duration assignment, a transport of sensitive material on a corpus vessel. A small frown creases his features, turning himself back to the steps that lead into the upper landing, hand gesturing the lights to dim as he departs.

“You’ll let him poke around while I’m gone,” T’viska doesn’t ask, wandering himself over to the workbench, picking through his small arsenal.

‘I will,’ the cephalon waves him off, detailing the vessel that will carry the cargo once it reaches the port.

“Good,” the warframe’s maw flinches, counting over his remaining spira blades – the half sat off to the side and embedded into the scratched wooden finishing. “Make sure he eats too,” he snarls, testing his forearm wraps, securing his belt band around his gut and the one that slouches over the skirt. “I’m relying on you, Suuir.”

‘I’m aware of that,’ the tetrahedron flickers at the edge of his vision, depositing the schematics.

The warframe fiddles with his gear as his cognition pieces through the cargo ship’s layout, plucking a capture device out of a bin. A mess of noise made of clicks taps and snaps as he doubles and triple checks himself, leaning up against the workbench, his sight breaking through the schematics to glace over at the partial spira blade sunk deep. He exhales, mouth pressing flat.

“Worried…?” the cephalon cuts through.

“What gave you the hint,” the loki chuffs, tucking the capture device away at his side. “How long is the window?”

‘A few minutes, I’ll signal when the gyro-locks are in place. Information says it’s a touch-and-go.’

T’viska grunts; and pushes himself from the workbench.

 Tired eyes clench as he rouses from the depths of sleep, pulling himself into a tightly wound ball against the persistence warmth – yet also hampered by the kavats that pin him beneath the blankets, shoving against one with a grumble. Worming around, twisting himself and throwing off a sheet, a hand reaches up against his temple, index and thumb prying beneath his curly hair as his eyes try to find focus in the darkness, somatic sight abuzz and groggy. Hand over fist, he pulls himself out of the entombed blankets, twisting himself into a sit where his back rests against the wall. The corner of the room.

Looking out into the dimly lit room, his eyes fall shut once more – heavy as he listens to the soft tunes still playing through the residential quarter. It lulls through his tired mind, head tapping back against the wall as he reclines.

A moment of silence; extended as he leans himself forward, head resting in his hands.

An exhale.

When he finally looks up Warren catches sight of trained blue eyes that stare back, ones connected to a fan tail that flickers and smacks down against the bed. As he moves, it quivers, large ears perked forward. He sighs, reaching out with one hand, “oh Rhu,” the adarza kavat plurps as he scratches beneath her chin, leaning up into his palm as the tufted ears drift back, eyes falling closed.

One hand becomes two as the kavat stretches out, pulling herself up onto his lap for additional attention. Petting over her tufted cheeks, cradling them for a moment; Warren smiles, stroking over the short mane of fur that stands from her head to between her shoulders. Rhubarb cradles herself against him, on his lap as he reclines back against the wall with a sigh, his somatic sight hanging lull as he browses the room.

His sight hinges on the datapad left out on the ottoman sitting out of his reach, the jar that sits beside it that glows from the seemingly healthy arboriform within.

Warren’s smile begins to fade, sinking down beneath the sheets as he slumps, hands plying through the kavat’s fur.

Still has to get up… stuck beneath exhaustion physical and mental.

Lifting the kavat’s front legs, he sets Rhubarb off to the side. Peeling off the sheets, freeing his legs of the blanket imprisonment, he crawls to the other end of the cot where he lets himself rest; head in hand, an arm crossed over his gut, he barely snarls, head spinning. Pressure tenses in the back of his eyes, rubbing against them as mild pain splinters across his back.

Gunfire.

A hand messes through auburn furls as he strains to find his senses, eyes bolting from the datapad, the jar, the dismissive camera view that gives the false pretenses of a window into space. Fingers press at his temple, rubbing, pulling back and through his hair with a sigh. The same shit. As he takes a moment to find his grounding, Warren plucks the datapad from the ottoman, his eyes hanging over the open lines of text that fills the hologram display. ‘You’re awake,’ Suuir’s text holds at the side of the device, turning with the orientation.

“Mhhh,” the tenno mumbles as he leans on his legs, letting the device dangle between his fingers before letting it tap on his opposing wrist. “On a mission,” he mumbles, looking up to the glass display, and then back to the datapad with furrowed brows.

‘T’viska culled the records,’ he reads, the cepahlon’s tetrahedron nowhere to be seen. ‘Most of them were just fluff, he said.’

“Oh, did he,” his tired sight moves from it to the arboriform.

It glows in the low light, the base sat firm as it fills the lower quarter of the jar.

Easing in another inhale, he looks back to where Rhubarb had replanted herself in the corner he once resided, over to where Crenshaw still sits nestled on her end beneath the thrown over covers. Exhaustion still aches in the back of his mind, thumb rubbing against the datapad as he pulls it up onto his thigh. “Suuir, what type of mission is dad on.”

‘Sensitive research retrieval, duration assignment.’

“How long is he gonna be gone,” his somatic sight flickers over the datapad, index finger scrolling through the incredibly shortened list of references he can turn to.

‘Uncertain, as he needs to still find the target and their docket.’

What remains of his mouth presses flat, reaching over to where he left his jacket and the small transponder. He fumbles through the pockets for a moment before his memory kicks in – last left it in his coat jacket, the one laid out on the platform on the higher landing. He gives in.

Crawling himself back beneath the blankets with a stern grunt.

“Suuir,” he whispers as he throws the blanket back over himself, curling back against Rhubarb who keeps her place, “did dad ask you anything while I was asleep.”

‘That you’re to help out with repairs – given you may have interest in them.’

“Since the ship’s got the same plants, yeah,” he sighs, throwing the blanket over his head. “Whenever… I can, I want to do that, I’ve been thinking on it…” his words fall mute, eyes squinting, flipping through the documents. Nearly full records from corpus experiments, technical details pulled from a ship’s manifest, things he glossed over in the throes of anxious research or ones buried beneath a cipher. Once overwhelming.

He’s glad, gracious, even.

Despite the pilfering that digs at his heart.

“I… want to look over them on this thing, is it alright, Suuir?”

A set of lights blink at the top edge of the datapad, a signal retrieval.

“Thanks.”

Silence persists as the liset’s ramp taps against the overgrowth on the dock platform, further in as they finally board it, safely stowed away from the prospect of Lotus operatives or the dread of the infested hoards that still lie in waste. Warren clings to the jar and the slightly withering branch of arboriform, his face shielded from T’viska by his hair still stuck with derelict residue. Each side-wards glance the loki takes, all he can surmise is the down casted slouch, the reserved motions as the teenager coils himself small into the passenger seat. As he turns back to the console above them, his golden claws clicking against the console and breathing life into the old ship’s engines.

As he finally begins to ease it from the derelict’s dock, T’viska itches through his reservations, the memory of his words and the vulnerable worry of before. His motions are slow, calculated, just as the cumulation of the morphology he was given. Quiet, reserved, sharp on the draw and impatient; he taps in the connection to the orbiter waiting within its void cloak a few thousand kilometers away – out of the common routes for grineer and corpus alike. Suuir takes over the directive as the connection is affirmed, tethered back into entry as the cabin remains lull.

T’viska doesn’t turn when he hears Warren sigh, the slighting trembles of tearful shakes.

His maw twists into a frown.

What is he to do… turning his attention to the notation Suuir briefs in his vision.

One more mission to go before they can reach Mars…

The liset shutters as the locking pins secure the vessel into place, pulled rearwards into the cradle.

“After this mission, we’ll be in Martian orbit. Would you like to go there again, Warren?” the loki doesn’t look over as he hears the shuffle of damp boots, the squeaking on the metal floor.

“Sure,” he hears mumbled at his back as the liset’s ramp eases down. “That’d be nice,” breathing hitches, steps turning aggressive as they move from the vessel into the orbiter’s hanger proper.

Golden claws curl against the armrest, mouth turning into a confused snarl. The transmission of anxieties coil inside his chest, the transference of sensory hiccups. Fingers press against his temples from one hand, throwing the liset back into Suuir’s control. “Ready for launch,” he snarls, “let’s just get this fucking over with,” hands cup his face.

‘Rescue of an informant, requested by Corpus, held in a Grineer facility.’ The liset shutters out of the platform, surging into life back into top speed. T’viska takes control of the steering column, snarling as it jerks into his palms. It popped up while he was on his way back, ‘On route to execution, or prolonged interrogation. They have information on the Lotus.’

T’viska, one last time, checks the lato’s barrel. To kill or return them to a neighboring vessel.

He snaps the chamber back into the gun. Three rounds left.

 Aboard the orbiter, Warren plods himself back to the residential quarters. Water pools beneath him as he sets the arboriform onto the display platform that connects the upper and lower platforms. His mouth, flesh and teeth, snarl as he rips off his coat, tears embittering his sight as he chokes back the sobs. His only pair of shoes are thrown into the corner, his coat tossed at the edge of the display platform as he shoves Crenshaw’s curious muzzle out of the way with a half curse and partial apology.

The look she gives him… startled and confused corrodes his efforts.

He scratches away the tears in his sight. He rids himself the total warmth of pants – leaving him more exposed to the temperate chill of the orbiter as he discards them. His feet are still wet, same for his ankles and part of his shins, the cold biting him to shiver as he storms around to the lower landing. From the meager cache of clothing he pulls out his other pair of pants, a shirt, underwear, and towel, digging them out in quick succession. His steps remain heavy as he chokes back the sobbing anxiety that clings in the back of his mind, hanging there in his throat as he slams the shower chamber door open. Drops the clothing to the side and locks himself inside – isolation.

Still clothed, hands wringing in his messy hair, Warren crumbles back against the tile wall. Snarling as he turns the shower head on, and the tears flow free.

He’s so fucking tired of crying.

It chases him even after he’s long dried out; his hair a hamper mess of natural curls in every which way as he sits bundled in front of the glass screen. At one side Crenshaw had curled herself up, her withers pressed against his thigh as he browses again through the near infinite trove of meager data. Nothing concrete he can find through Suuir or the previous cephalon about the plant sat at his other side, sitting quant in its jar. Almost alert as his bare void-stained fingers ease beneath areas once wilted, smooth but course on the growing ends. It hints him the lightest of a smile before he looks back into his reflection beyond the datapoints transposed before him.

There has to be something amongst the trove, his features snarl.

Fingers dance aggressive across the surface before him, through file after file, image after image amongst the classified and undisclosed, accounts ranging from intervened to abandoned records seizing from sporadic facilities along their path. Datamined and files sorted; there’s not enough, there’s barely anything to find! At the urging pain that splits in his sides, the transference, the reminder of the transference connection, only makes him angrier; and scared.

At this point, is it even worth trying…?

Warren shakes the thoughts from his consciousness with a huff, fingers pulling out corpus logs before him to read in earnest. Mere footnotes, minor mentions in passing of the strange white plants that bend and wind beneath the hulls of the tethered void-towers. The disgust of those rotting left in the derelicts that sprinkle throughout the solar system, remnants of the Orokin empire. His focus contorts, bending over against the anxieties that still plague him after Lua.

He pushes himself out with the self-defeatist rhetoric. He’s doing something wrong, all the information is there but he’s too fucking screwed up to read it right. That must be it, his hand screws through his hair, jostling it back and forth as he tries to tear out the ruminations that cobble in his chest, in his throat as his somatic sight dances over the screen. The hours he spent looking through them… the absolute bullshit he had to tinker with the files to get them into semi-coherent correspondence of data made difficult due to cephalon decay. He can only access the previous one for so long before Suuir’s words cut across the screen – they damage his neural process, they need to stop.

And cuts Warren off mid-sentence.

Is looking all this up even worth it…?

Warren glances over at the jar at his side, where the arboriform sits still with neural sap pooling at the base – reflecting solid in the low lights. Still alive… for how long he doesn’t exactly know, how long does it have left? His breathing stutters, palm rubbing against his sight where his mouth sits in bitter anger. Warren can feel himself trembling, watching it become more frustrating to course through the files placed before him, dismissing the cephalon off to the side as he just wants to know, want to just fucking know what he’s looking for.

His fist balls into the kavat’s fur, grounding him a semblance of stability, quelling the angry trembling that makes him worried – not helped by the pain that still occasionally blooms on his shoulders and back, the notion of gunfire, flame, and blade. Father on a mission, son stuck all alone…Warren fights back the chokes of feeling forgotten, dismissed to the uncaring cephalon that sits idle as he cries.

Tears mess against the glass before him.

And they reflect the inner glow of his sight as he moves onto a dark image of the void – null against the dark backdrop on the other side of the glass.

Fingers curling into fist. He can only tremble, pressing the ebbs of void energy against his reflection, staring at the exposed teeth made by Orokin abuse. Choking, shuttering, his forehead presses down against it, eyes falling closed as his left-hand dives against his side, patting.

The blades in his coat… right…

And it only makes him worse as the ruminations turn to dark verbal. Useless. Worthless. His brilliant blue eyes spotted with somatic implants curse into his reflection, snarling as tears stain down his cheeks and cut through his restraint. Pain of his own, pain of T’viska’s on a mission.

Warren’s hurting.

One foot over the other, he drops the blanket in a silent and slow motion, ebbing with void aggression as he stands to full. Standard wear, arms exposed, feet cold against the metal flooring, he moves back to the upper landing, following over to the coat that sits slumped and still damp half way down.

And he picks out the half of a spira blade.

And holds the blade against his wrist as tears stain over his eyes.

He’s hurting and he doesn’t know what to do. Physical punishment for doing something wrong, he tries to quell the screaming in the back of his mind, feeling the cold blade against his void corrupted wrist.

The damage of his face when being struck when he tried to stand up for himself, for other children, a slap he could feel and others couldn’t see.

His brows press tight, faltering back against the wall as he still holds it there… holds it there against his wrist.

This will make everything right… right?

His chest surges with choking breaths, sobs dripping through his chest and down his cheek and exposed gums. Clouding his vision, pressing it down as his hands tremble and shake.

Warren throws the blade, his hands curling into his hair as he cries.

 Golden claws remain curled into the loki’s bicep as he watches the Corpus officials tend to the informant, half preoccupied with repayment, the other with the worry of Warren; half and half melding with the young corpus that sits huddled at the edge of the stretcher the medical technicians had pulled up when his liset landed in the port. At either side stands a corpus tech, and further out crewmen that are unnerved by his proximity to their medical staff.

T’viska can’t blame them; but at least none recognize him for now.

But it doesn’t keep the nerves on the back of his neck from standing alert, sat anxious as he listens to their banter that Suuir quickly translates. ‘He’ll be fine,’ the cephalon translates from a paramedic, ‘shaken up, the bullet in their shin will take some time to heal.’ T’viska tosses a sentence to translate back, ‘that’s a relief. Curious, what information do they have?’

Communication is broken off as the technicians cart the rescued informant away, giving Suuir the leeway he was looking for to handle the final part of the transaction. Thirty thousand credits more the loki sighs in relief, escorting himself back to his ship as the corpus techs keep their supras on standby.

Back within the safety of the liset only one thing still stings in his mind as he ignites the liset back to life, coaxing it out of the hanger and back to the cephalon’s control. “How’s he doing,” the loki frowns, letting his claws drift over where he felt the taunting of a blade bite.

‘He’s doing fine, T,’ floats across the loki’s vision, ‘he’s asleep right now… he didn’t do any harm to himself.’ It grants T’viska the room to breathe, lying back loose into the comfort of the pilot seat while Suuir directs the landing craft’s controls.

“So… he had it on him the whole time. Makes sense how he kept it secret for so long,” the warframe mulls, watching the dark sky sail before him. Suuir only grants him a minor confirmation. “The ship needs a fucking clean up… I would’ve noticed sooner,” he snarls.

‘Cleaned and repaired, T’viska,’ the cephalon rebounds in the peripherals of the warframe’s vision. ‘My bolts are still loose from when you tore it open and put me in the drink,’ his words cut across, rattling off the century worth of repairs that have not been done. The ones that haven’t been mended or are in desperate need of a technician’s hand.

The loki grunts, stretching an arm around his back and behind his head. “I’ve told you, I’ll get to it when I get to it. I’m the only one that’s getting any expenses taken care of,” he briefly snarls, stretching his worn muscles with a sigh, arm hanging off his neck. Eyespots hang open as he stares into the emptiness before him, watching neutral as the liset nears the location of the orbiter. A few minutes, and he’ll be back aboard…

“Suuir, how far off is the Bazaar,” he states flat, thoughts cobbling near the hind of his mind.

‘Three minutes from your current position; you wish to redirect?’

“Yes,” the warframe heaves another sigh, claws itching against the back of his head and down the side of one horn. “Get the orbiter to Mars; I want to run by the bazaar and get some things.”

‘Right,’ the cephalon flickers out of his vision, the vessel diverting beneath his feet. Golden claws grasp around the steering column at ease, feeling the automated systems beneath his fingertips as the cephalon’s directives guide the vessel away from the orbiter. Just as stated, it takes merely three minutes to close in on the semi-cloaked bazaar adrift over Mars.

Beneath the void cloak, T’viska watches as he zooms pass grineer galleons and heavy class interceptors, only releasing his tense grip as the liset settles into its boarding cradle, sinking into the restraints that hold it steady within the habitation bubble. Social tensity clings in the back of his mind, a meeting place of merchants and mercenaries, he pats the broken lato at his side – questioning if he needs a replacement or he can fix it later. Another thing to put off.

Though his steps remain light, the loki keeps his wits about him as he passes through the antechamber and into the vessel proper – where the looms of overgrown Terran and Martian flora hang over the floors above and below, the open-air platforms giving room to the median scale prompted by Lotus interference. Not the most comfortable place he’d rather be… taking a deep breath before he exhales.

First on the agenda… a bed; and he browses through a small directory where he might find one.

 Fingers crawl through auburn hair as his exhaustion begins to wear off. Shivering, Warren finds himself slumped back against the wall, his feet and fingers freezing in the orbiter’s low ambiance as his eyes still remain tear-stung. Once pulled from his hair, his hands bury themselves beneath his arms, held there as he stares off into the middle distance, mouth pressing into a flat line.

Across from him, where it had rebounded off the display glass of one of the ship’s tanks, the spira blade.

Fingers knead in the warmth that radiates from his body as his mind sits lull, focus adverted from the physical to ruminate over and over, a cobble of self-deprecation and aggressive dismissal. He’s doing it all wrong; he should’ve just done it and let the ill red flow from his wrist. Impulsive thoughts that scratch against his neurals; overthought into the minor detail, the banishment of not overthinking and he’s an idiot.

His mouth twists into a snarl.

Clutching onto his shirt, curling his legs up against his chest, he forces his somatic sights closed.

Something else… he needs something else to concentrate on. His mouth bites at what remains of his lip, face pressing into his knees as he continues to shiver in the chill. Itching through the thought of self-hatred, the impulsive resentment of failure, he emotionally tears himself apart. As a vagabond child, the Zariman, the discovery and imprisonment beneath the Orokin empire – he snarls, pulling his legs close.

And the tears are pouring again… pooling against his clothing as he tries to wipe them free. His breathing stuttering, crying as the banishment to isolation plays over again in his mind – the internal trauma that wasn’t his own but felt just as real as could be. Being pulled from the somatic cradles and wavering to nausea and collapsing on functional legs.

Fingers pry through his hair.

Something else, his breathing hitches, fingers pulling and churning across his scalp.

Thrown into the isolation room… staring up above.

He releases his head, looking up into the direction of the now quiet holographic pane.

One foot over the other, Warren eases himself to his feet and side steps the spira blade as he walks to the lower landing. The jarred arboriform is still there, just where he left it as he fumbles down onto his knees, hands taking hold of the blanket that once covered him. He takes a second to pause, pulling the blanket over him as he still continues to shiver.

Sat with legs crossed, the arboriform shoot held almost beneath the blanket as much as him. Warren just sits there, looking over the minor structure fragments as anxious thoughts still scratch in his mind, bounding at the back of his consciousness as his somatic sight continues to look over the plant held between his palms. Even as silent tears begin their pour over his cheek and exposed mouth.

It’s at least something; his mouth stems a small smile, bundling it as his blanketed head falls against the glass with a muffled thump. Remaining there as impulsion drags through his mind, staring back into his reflection as his fingers grip around the jar. Something to keep him firmly grounded, he figures as he eases himself back to sit, hooded by the blanket that retains his heat.

Looking down to it, he sighs.

With the blanket still draped over him, checking once more before he moves, Warren stands up with the jar in hand. He ignores the half of spira blade as he walks around to the back of the residential quarters, exiting it and returning to the central walkway in order to cross it, wandering over to the medical bay. It drops from him there, which he allows once the door finally slips open for him and the jarred arboriform.

Engulfed by the dim lighting, swallowing his hesitation. Warren walks cautiously, bare feet moving from the raised platform that ramps down to the glass floor that separates the two halves, where an opening reaches down into the reservoir below. A breath choking in his throat forces itself down, overlooking the hole in the glass as he holds the glass against his chest. Forcing himself down onto his knees, looking between them – he sets the arboriform jar to the side, pulling back the sleeve of his left arm.

He reaches into the coolant water with an open palm to scoop.

And hisses as the radioactive water stings his skin, yanking it back and shaking it off.

Warren holds his limb close as he looks over the malignant damage that just as quickly heals itself as he sits there, breathing himself back calm. Between it, the arboriform, and the opening into the water below him, he questions. Wondering as his eyes flicker between them and the fish that swim beneath, the flora that blooms in the rolling reservoir.

With the same hand, he reaches over for the jar.

Taking a slow and steady inhale, exhale, he holds the jar steady in both hands. One sleeve pulled up, the other sitting loose around his wrist, he angles it, dipping it into the water carefully as for one side to plunge beneath the surface as the volume beings to flow inside. His hands remain steady as he endures the tensing pain around his fingers and palm, letting the water pour and filter into a quarter of the jar before he pulls back. It drops with a dull klink against the glass to his side, massaging his stinging fingers.

“Ow, ow ow,” he whispers, tucking his hands beneath his arms with a simmering grunt.

Sitting there, waiting for the pain to dissipate, Warren looks over to the arboriform. Nothing has changed; of course nothing has changed, he muses. A hand digs through his hair in exasperation, still choking on the earlier panic attack as he forces himself to sit and breathe.

It’s a few hours until T’viska gets back.

 Fingers skate across the glass-bound display as the bulkhead slides open far behind him, listening back as a heavy weight begins to clamber down the short steps that connect the two landings around the raised platform. It eases to behind where he’s sitting, keeping his focus sat before him as he troves through the older documents recovered from the null cephalon. A hand perusing through the directory, another fiddling with the wrapping arboriform coil, his emotions sit flat, sight flickering to the muddled reflection behind him.

Halved curses speak in the backdrop as he tries to look through files he’s already poured through, trying to pick one more time for any semblance of things he’s missed, that there’s a reason he still holds a marginal interest in them. Or, a thought pulsates in the back of his mind, desperation, overthinking, thoughts that ache as a box is chucked away, collapsing in on itself as he looks back.

T’viska’s back is turned to him, wrestling with an unfurling bed as the blankets that once made it sit on the cushions at the side. Crenshaw tries her steps on it as the loki shoves it into the resigned corner between the wall and the cushion – a pawed foot shoving a crate out of the way with a grunt.

“Cren,” the warframe growls, picking up the feline before dropping her off to the side – where she only rounds back and jumps onto the bed.

Warren pulls his hand back from the glass, his other hand unwrapping from the arboriform coil.

Pulling away the plastics, rummaging them up into a ball, T’viska turns over to Warren. “Thought you could use a real bed,” he stems a smile; before he turns back and has to pull the kavat off the bed. “Crenshaw seems happy about it,” he grunts, dropping her off on the walkway before turning to continue replacing the covers.

Warren remains in place as he watches the warframe’s reflection in the glass, uncertainty digging through his thoughts as he looks back to the endless directory sitting in front of him. His hand hovers above the glass, fingers pulling back as anxious thoughts drip into self-doubt. And he holds the arboriform coil once more, at ease as static slips against the internal disapproval. To work, work, work, find a solution to the problem sitting at his side.

Cover over cover, he can hear the warframe make the bed and leave. Silence, he thinks, thoughts of being judged dig against his perception as he peels through the documents set in front of him. He huffs, anchoring to at least find something of importance – even as his tired sight drifts over to the reflection of the now made bed – watching it moment after moment as he goes over another document.

Behind him, he can hear the loki drop another parcel, keeping his attention before him.

“Hey,” the warframe whispers, crouching beside him.

Warren remains silent.

Golden claws nudge off the blanket that houses over the teenager, freeing his hair to furl freely from the static. “I’ve got you a new clothes – since your other ones are wet.” T’viska offers the tenno a jacket, its arms embroidered with golden trims, a firm black and grey tone with internal padding to retain heat.

Between his palms, he looks over it with half-lid eyes, straining back the trembling anxious thoughts. “Thanks…” is all he can muster out; he hadn’t taken care of the spira blade – worry painting over his nerves.

“Since you liked the boots, I got an exact pair just like them, and some food if you want to try them out?” He keeps his words hushed, tender as Warren stares at the jacket on his lap. “I’ve gotten some stuff for the kavats too,” he sighs, looking over to where the pair of packages sit beside the bed.

Warren remains null; a stunned and nervous silence.

T’viska pats him on the back, a slight sigh, “get some rest, okay? When you have, we can go down to Mars for a bit, if you want.” He remains in his crouch, hand dropping down to mirror his other hand. “If you need anything, call for me. Suuir needs me to do some repairs.”

‘I’m waiting,’ the cephalon makes himself known across the screen before them – Warren flinches.

T’viska scowls.

With one more affirmative pat, the warframe stands. “Crenshaw will keep it warm for you,” he tempts to laugh, “the archives will be there when you wake up,” the warframe pauses, “when you can… get some sleep, alright?”

Warren says nothing, hands wringing in the jacket.

Silence persists as the warframe walks away, rounding back out of the residential quarters and leaving Warren to sit before the glass.

Back on the orbiter, Warren holds the arboriform coil against his chest, watching against the mod console as the warframe scrounges through debris left around the foundry. Glass bottles sit in fragmented chunks, scraps of blood-tainted fabric lie unwashed and stacked at the side – in need of systematic processing. Hands cupped across his chest, Warren looks over the bits and pieces left in the wake of the constant assignments, half-heartedly trying to remind himself to clean it up later… whenever that is. Watching the warframe pick through the refuse his thoughts begin to wander – regarding the arboriform, the white foliage. Between his palms he peeks at the coil, would it be possible, he wonders.

“Ah, here we go,” the loki gleans on the other side of the chamber, a small jar in his grip. He tosses away the odd bit of cloth that once sat inside its short shape – once used as a medical soak from the residual grime left inside. Something that’s knocked out into another rag with a grunt, still stuck with dust. “How about this?”

With the coil held against his chest with one hand, the other reaches out for the jar with a quizzical expression. “It’s… disgusting,” the tenno comments, watching the loki reorganize the chaotic foundry back into being somewhat manageable.

“It just needs a good cleanin’,” the warframe grunts as he shoves scrap fabric into the hatch to be reprocessed. “The place in the back, medical wing, has it filtered,” he holds his hand out, and Warren gives him the jar. “Let me show you,” he turns.

Warren follows close behind him, holding the coil still close to his chest as he looks around the damp medical ward overgrown with bioluminescent flora. Beneath their feet, beyond the short landing and stairs, glass and metal ribbing separate the two sections of the chamber. As he watches, T’viska kneels over beside a small section that cuts into the reservoir beneath the chamber, dunking it deep into the pulsating waters. After a moment of watching he eases himself to sit on the short steps, his sight set on what the warframe’s hands are doing in the water reverberating with the engine throbs.

He can see the occasional flinch itch across the loki’s features, feeling the mild burn up to his elbows as the arms sink deep into the coolant pool. White cloth that covers the warframe’s rich purple muscle remains damp, forgotten by T’viska as he rubs out the final pieces of ill grime. “It cleans itself regularly,” he briefs, an attempt to dismiss the material that drifts down to the bottom as he shakes the jar clean. “There we go,” he sighs, wiping it across his leggings and side-hitched skirt.

It takes a moment for Warren to take the jar, his sight adverted to the bandaging that covers the loki’s forearm and the scarring held beneath. Only after he tears his sight away does he take the – now cleaned – jar and cradles it between his knees and body, dropping the coil inside it where it barely plinks and rattles against the glass.

With a grunt the warframe raises himself to his feet, “with that taken care of, how about we see what Suuir knows about them.” It takes a few seconds to process, but Warren eventually pulls himself to his feet as well, holding the jar close as he and T’viska cross over to the residential chamber.

He huddles himself up in a blanket as he sits back on the bench cushion, watching from beneath the drawn hooding as the loki pries through the database at their disposal. Suuir’s tetrahedron vectors bounces from corner to corner of the wide display as gold claws direct through the depths of the cephalon’s subconscious information. Sitting null, he only observes the banter between them; the sterned words that read out before them and the warframe’s own comments.

“It should be in here somewhere,” he grumbles, pawing through the records of far gone assignments where he siphoned out data. In the top corner, where the directory sources from, it notates a different name. “I’m certain I saw something somewhere about them,” the loki bites his lip with a snarl.

On the couch the tenno bites his lip, gloves fumbling against the jar for something to say. “I can look for it later, dad.” Barely audible.

“Hm?” The warframe turns back.

“I-I’ll be fine. I can look it up later,” he peeks up from beneath the hood for a moment, pauses, then covers his face again. All he can hear is the hum of the engines through the ship’s structure and the minor shuffle of cloth as the loki continues for a little while longer – and eventually gives up. To which he lets the resolution go back into the outwards gaze of space.

T’viska settles himself to the side after shoving off Crenshaw, an only momentary removal as she crawls back on top of the cushions and his lap. He breathes a sigh as he undoes the soaked wraps around his forearms. “Suuir’s gonna go through and index what he can in the meantime. It’ll be a while until we’re near Mars – so there’s plenty of time to fill up before we take another trip out.”

The teenager bites his lip; he doesn’t turn. “How many do you have now…?

“Spotted around the route – five to six;” Suuir corrects him across his vision, “seven, some scrap missions.” He sighs.

“Ah,” the tenno mumbles, shuffling himself to sit slightly more comfortably. “They don’t pay well… do they.”

The warframe heaves an exhale, looking out into the depth of space through the glass screen. “No, they don’t…” He tosses the crumpled wrappings behind him as he relaxes into the bench – as much as he can with a kavat on his lap prying for attention. “Next time we swing by a relay, I’ll see if I can scrounge up enough for a datapad.”

Warren remains silent as he pushes the jar up through the blanket he encompassed himself in and holds it snuggly in his blanket covered palms. Somatic eyes fall half-lid over the grey material, mind cobbling over ideas of their nature; where they come from, what they mean, what part they have to be so vastly used and with the somatic system. Leeching off those like him, facilitate the transference and somatic connection? Then by what means does it hurt so much when he’s outside the cradle – chair, his head shakes out the near-suffocating liquid that flourishes into his lungs as he was plunged into other shell.

At his side, he can hear the kavat purring. A sideways glance catches the golden claws messed into the brown and tan fur in an exhausted hold. Looking further he can see the loki’s head resting back against the surface behind them, dozing off as he sat in rumination.

Fingers grip the sides of the jar, brows scrunching as his focus offsets inwards. Through the days spent in isolation; screaming in pain, scooping invisible guts back into place torn by transference static. Dwelling into the miniscule details of each fault in the benching he leaned back against, the hum sunk around him as he was left alone by a single helpless guard.

His head knocks back on the platform connected to the bench, eyes wound shut.

Placing the jar off to the side and beneath the bench, Warren pulls himself down to the floor with the blanket in tow. He wraps himself in it, coiling himself up within the curve in the wall as he tries to hush the anxious thoughts. Finger pick against the fabric as he tries to stop the trembling, the nervous quakes as he bites his lip with eyes clenched shut. Not to think about it. Stop thinking.

Over…

And over.

A body flops against his chest as he tries to undo the thoughts steaming through his consciousness, a shuffle as the kavat tries to get comfortable on the hard floor barely cushioned and the body wrapped in another. It takes a moment to let his eyes fall open, and buries his hands into the animal’s ruff, prying through the fur for a moment… and pulls Crenshaw close, letting the blanket fall loose around him and the kavat.

By the time he wakes up, the loki is gone again.

It takes a moment to pull himself up into a sit, poking around beneath the bench for the jar as he settles himself again beneath the blanket. He holds it coiled around him as he settles it into his lap, half-lid sight glancing around the coil within as a hand pulls the warmth around him. Beyond it, outside the comfort he wraps around himself, lies only the barren cold, the dank emptiness save for old crates and miscellaneous items. Somatic sights glance over the aged vessels etched with corpus and grineer labels; stolen items.

He ignores the biting at his shoulder, the echo of trace rounds.

“Suuir, where’s dad,” he whispers, a hand prying at his side to the transponder.

‘Capture assignment,’ cuts across the screen on the other side of the room.

Taking a short inhale, Warren forces himself to his feet.

Each footfall echoes minor amongst the muted rumble of the orbiter’s engines within the ship, moving from the bench and the haphazard notion of a bed to the wide screen that holds the false external view. First onto his knees, then shuttering himself within the comfort of the blanket, he puts the jar down at his side on the platform before the glass screen. One hand raises, and the internal holographs return to life as the flicker scrapes across his brow. Bright somatic blue roams across the broad interface as the camera view backdrop ceases – the room falling dark.

On the glass, he can see the pulsations as his vision moves across the vast archive deep within the cephalon’s memory banks. Or, as he divulges through the information, the memory of another.

“Suuir, how long have you known dad.”

‘Years,’ is all that etches before him, the tetrahedron flickers away.

“This… was someone else’s, wasn’t it?”

‘Yes,’ the cephalon returns, rudimentary in details. ‘My former vessel was adrift and frozen, he gave me a new one.’

A finger traces across the cold glass, “Suuir… do you know anything, about these things.”

There’s a pause, ‘that wasn’t my specialization.’ And the cephalon is gone again.

Warren looks at the reflection in the glass as his palm swipes across the format, clearing it of the collected clutter. In it, he can see the somatic pulsations within his eyes, the furling auburn traced with dust and twigs, the angry snarl that remains of the left side of his jaw – completely healed.

With a frown, he pulls up a list repository.

For hours he spends his time troving through the databanks of Suuir and the former cephalon, chasing any trace of information as he waits out the lulls in communication. Left alone, it drives his attention away from the bites of pain.

And the arboriform coil begins to rot.

It starts as a minor forgettable blemish on the pure-white features as Warren carries it around, traveling around the orbiter when his legs begin to cramp for sitting idle for so long. As it contorts and unravels it remains at his side, even once T’viska finally manages to snag a datapad before he’s off to another assignment, leaving Warren alone to tinker with the tech and become frustrated. With the jar sat at his side, the datapad tucked between his palms, the blanket thrown up over his shoulders… he falls asleep against the way. Exhausted in monotonous hours of flickering through the database with the cephalon’s life-support strut.

Each time T’viska’s the one to find him passed out from the engine drones. He carries Warren back to the makeshift bed in the residential quarters, noting up to the cephalon to keep an eye out for bedding, blankets, pillows, for something to give the sleeping teen who nestles up against the lazy kavats. As he fetches the datapad again, scrolling through the latest additions in Warren’s documents, he notices the arboriform coil; knotting and spun into near complete grey.

He’s unable to will himself to throw it away – sealing the jar with a band and cloth.

T’viska sets it down at the side of the sparse collection of bedding once more, watching for a moment before pulling another blanket over the sleeping teenager and the cuddling kavats that finally gave up their status. “Suuir, any luck searching through the weave?”

‘Negative,’ the cephalon corresponds, ‘but that remnant… is looking nasty. You need to be rid of it.’

Outside the residential quarters the loki leans against the walls, arms held crossed. “I know, Suuir. And I’m sure he knows it, something like that can’t just be ignored.” Fangs bite across the skin of his maw, eyespots fuming in the cold light. Golden claws dig against the forearm wrappings as he stares at the piping, at the wires held suspended within the ceiling. “How far are we from Mars.”

‘Hundred point eight million kilometers. Point six seven AU.’

T’viska chews on his lip. “Any derelicts in proximity?”

‘If we divert from course, there is one thirty-two million with a rightward yaw and pitch.’

“Where is it from the next assignment.”

‘Thirty-five.’

The warframe grunts as he pulls himself to his feet, “the sabotage, right?”

‘Correct.’

An exhale leaves the warframe as he moves to the front section of the orbiter, ruffling his hand through Rhubarb’s fur as she passes by. “Suuir, ping me when he wakes up. Going to clean and check the arms before I head out.”

‘Would you like me to tell him when he wakes?’ the cephalon’s tetrahedron specks through his vision.

“Please,” the warframe leans against the workstation and the spread of his sparse armaments, a half disassembled braton sits at the side. “How long till launch.”

‘We’ll be there in ten. Dropoff point is beneath the pylon under maintenance. You’ll have five minutes to return to extraction.’

“Fantastic,” he grumbles, golden claws clicking against the worn grip of his lato. Its barrel sits off-kilter as he brushes over the scratched matte, thumbing against the notch taken out. Uncertain of how well it’ll fire.

He tucks it into the holster.

 A stinging in his neck makes Warren wince, reaching up through the covers in search of the ache. Within the darkness, shrouded from the cold of the quarters he palms between himself and the lump outside the warm comfort. There’s a brief tired shove against the warm lazy body as he tries to make himself comfortable, head slouching forward as the kavat presses back – releasing a mild chuffing yawn. Rolling to his side the teenager tries again, growling to the short burst of aggression. “Which of you –“ he grumbles, peeling the blankets back over his ruffled hair. Green eyes stare back, the kavat’s legs outstretched against the wall.

Crenshaw chatters back as she rolls back, ears flattened against the blankets.

“Cren,” he yanks the blankets stuck beneath her. She doesn’t move.

Defeated, Warren lies back down.

Tucking himself back beneath the blankets and the entombed warmth, he reaches over beneath the bench in search for the datapad. Fingers trace over the cold metal floor and the glass jar before he finally locates it, pulling it into the darkness as the screen flickers back to life. Index against it, he scrolls back through the vast documentation of nearly nothing, incremental observations made from the inspections of the scant references.

Suuir’s tetrahedron blips into the lower corner, which he barely registers. ‘Your father plans to get you a new plant.’

Somatic sights roam across the images on the palm-sized device. “I know, it’s rotten.”

There’s a pause as the ship gently rocks, gyro rolling through the distinct rumble of the liset leaving its internal perch.

The teen exhales, ignoring the pressure pushing against his back.

‘What have you planned to do with it, and the next,’ the cephalon’s words buzz before the tenno, cutting through a classified video.

“Suuir,” he bites his lip. A pause as his eyes search against the cephalon’s polygonal surfaces. “You have connection to that… chair. Right? Does the coolant have any part of it-“

‘No,’ sits stark. ‘Separate systems.’

“Oh,” he whispers, coiling a hand through his hair.

‘Where you going to ask if the reservoir could sustain it.’

“Yes,” answers meek, “it’s a stupid question. Forget it.”

‘There’s no information to the contrary,’ and the cephalon blips out, leaving Warren to wonder. Thoughts that fester as he waits out the hours and slips back into sleep.

 Warren coughs as he dumps the jar out, rattling out the dried chalky strands as he holds a sleeve up against his face. Bundled in his coat and scarf, the spores still manage to irritate his senses, itching within his exposed mouth as he tries to wipe out any more of the arboriform remnants. A quick glance confirms the loki’s location a short distance away, peering around the overgrown derelict. “Is, there an assignment,” he coughs.

“No,” T’viska sighs, “but we’ll need to be on the lookout for infested.”

“Wha-“ the tenno pauses, brushing out the matter clinging to the jars lip. “What do they look like.”

“Infested,” a flat statement, “if it moves, isn’t Corpus nor Grineer, it’s infested.”

“Oh,” he chuffs another cough, balling his glove against his face as he sets the jar aside. He tugs his scarf tighter around his face as he leans into the balls of his boots, hoisting the jar up with him as he stands and tucks it into a side pocket. Warren’s quick to join the warframe’s side, looking over the rotten remnants that surrounds them as they proceed.

It doesn’t take long for them to come across the first infested.

Torn and scattered off to the side of the hallway, gore slicken the floor and wall, innards splashed and quivering as they begin to walk past. Holding a glove over his face, Warren looks over the mutated flesh that was once a grineer – the shattered skull lying limp beneath the eviscerated chest cavity, the bones and muscles sat torn by a heavy caliber round.

A side-wards glance reminds him to keep up.

Following after the warframe, Warren swallows the lump becoming lodged in his throat, adverting his eyes from the accumulation of corpses they pass. Body parts lie strewn in their path, tearing his eyes away to stare forward as the loki remains unfazed and curious. But they keep their pace, following the trailing of infested bodies, stepping over the spilt gore and the organs that have begun to shrivel and decay. Above the trunks of infested arboriforms slouch, spindles breaking through the cracks in the walls, coiling around golden spires and bending them out of shape.

Dropping down onto his haunches, golden claws etch against the bullet holes riddling the back of an ancient, smearing with blood as his eyespots flush open. A grunt. He looks to the scorch marks that lines the floor between where they entered and the spot the corpses lies.

“What is it…?” Warren’s voice remains at a whisper, holding back his breath.

“Nothing,” he lies, “it’s been a few hours since someone’s passed through.”

The teenager’s brows cross, uncertain to sigh, “should I worry.”

“If there was anything to salvage, then no,” the loki turns back, shaking the blood from his hand and smearing it against the wall. “Let’s keep moving, search every room we come across.” His lip twitches as he heaves himself to stand, staring over the ruin of the stranger’s wake. “Should be able to find something before they revive,” and he moves.

For a moment Warren remains stunned, glancing at the hulking form of the diseased, deceased ancient – and turns heel to catch up with T’viska, blood splattering his boots.

With the tenno pasted against his side, T’viska’s pace begins to slow, cautious as he holds a hand against the damaged lato’s holster. Where uncertainty clings in his thoughts and carves through the possibilities of the one that cleared the vessel still being there, and hostile. The focus of finding a healthy arboriform fades as he takes notes of the damage to the diseased trunks, the marks of an ember’s flame and the deep scratches of a Valkyr’s murderous claws – a scared arm holds his own.

Taking pause, the loki’s breath shakes, forcing his eyespots to close. What would he do if they’re still aboard?

He shakes it from his thoughts.

Guiding them away from the slaughter, he ushers the frightened teenager into another overburdened hallway drooping under the weight of water damage. “Hey, kid,” he briefs, exhaling, “have you found out anything yet, with these things,” he brushes aside a hanging rotten vine to let Warren through.

“There’s not much,” the teenager swallows, glancing around the waterlogged hallway before them, “much of it is muddied with speculation – or behind a Corpus cipher.” He watches as T’viska follows after him, pulling off the matter clinging to his horns. “But it’s in all Orokin vessels and towers – they radiate light and are connected to console platforms. Safe to say they might function like… electronics, nerves of a ship.” He looks to the ceiling, where lines of mutated arboriforms crack the weathered panels.

“So, these trunk things are the ships organs,” T’viska stands at his side, tossing aside the arboriform remnants that cling to his crown.

“In a way, yeah,” Warren steps down into the shallow waters before them; the warframe’s own barely make a sound as they slip in behind him. “There’s… not much in the way of circuitry that isn’t connected to them,” he turns, stepping backwards. “Classified documents detailed them.”

“From the weave?”

“The previous cephalon’s files,” Warren’s brows squeeze, “Suuir told me there was someone else…”

T’viska sighs, maw twisting into a snarl as he wipes away the oozing drapes of an arboriform for the tenno to pass through. “Suuir told you.”

“He… didn’t say much, aside from that you brought him aboard,” the teenager waits for the loki to duck beneath the slouching limb lined with energy cysts. “And these aren’t… his ‘specialty’.”

“You’ll have to ask Suuir what he means by that,” the loki grunts, passing by and peeking into one of the adjacent rooms. “He’s never told me who he was before I met him, the bastard.”

A blip flickers across T’viska’s vision, ‘I can hear you.’ The loki grunts, confirming with himself before stepping back in the flooded hallway.

Releasing a softened exhale, the tenno continues to wander. “But, the ship has them too, and somehow is sustaining them,” his eyes narrow as he runs a hand over a wavering trunk that runs along the hallway before it returns to perch – his somatic sights following it and the energy pulsations. “Dad, you think they could be… alive? And sick, the ships.”

The warframe’s shoulders shrug, bypassing the crisis of consciousness. “Who knows, much of the knowledge is being coveted. Whomever came through here… I have a feeling are affiliated.”

Warren stares, eyes following the loki as he walks into the connected hub, his hand held against the wavering of the diseased vegetation structure. It ebbs in the hind of his mind, a whisper and crowing groan that vanishes as he pulls his hand away. Looking to his palm, the smudging of diseased rot, the smudging of porous energy nodes, the teenager looks back over the truck lying decrepit in the hall. Back to his hand… it slowly clenches into a fist, thumb and index rolling the material from his fingertips.

…It was nothing.

He convinces himself.

“Warren,” T’viska calls over from inside the plaza down the hall.

He’s crouched near the center, crowded by the towering infested arboriform trunk that runs through the floor and ceiling. Muddied waters sit stagnant around his hocks clustered with rotting spores, golden claws hanging between his knees as he watches the teenager’s approach. With his eyespots sat in a slit, he turns to the trunk before them as Warren stands at his side, pointing along the ridge between the drainage ports and the fresh shoots. Struggling branches. “Would those work.”

There’s a moment of pause before Warren’s boots wade deeper into the flooded basin. They slosh through the stagnant pool, pushing away fragmented strands as he approaches the pairing branches that break through the stale water. Crouching down, his gloves cup beneath a slightly wilted wind trying to find its way back to the central trunk. Its coils waver as he guides it out of the wrapping – the lead it is trying to follow only ends with infested energy cysts.

Above him he can feel the arboriform quivering, almost… breathing as he holds the arboriform branch between his palms. Whispers ebb through his thoughts as he looks over the paling trunk, the green-grey it becomes the further along the slouching branches above them.

Claws rest against his shoulder, startling him.

“Well…?” the loki questions, looking over the gentle hold the tenno has of the relatively short shoot, just enough it might fit inside the jar tucked in Warren’s coat.

“Yeah… yeah. It looks healthy enough,” Warren whispers, looking over the question nervous foliage that begins to coil around his digit. “But I don’t know the best way to… take care of it.” Stalling – he can feel the weight of the spira blade fragment in his right-side pocket, coat fabric dragging through the stale water as he shuffles on his heels.

“That’s fine, Warren,” the loki reaches over, replacing the tenno’s hands as they retreat back hesitantly. Sitting uncertain as the claws force the growing branch to ache to the side, moving back as the loki pulls a blade out of its holster at his hip. Back and forth the warframe cuts into the brilliant white of the arboriform, carving it out with the worn edge. Warren steps back as the warframe crowds closer, investigating the shoot as he cuts through the lower ridge of the coiling mass.

With a final grunt, T’viska finally cuts it free.

“Thanks,” Warren whispers as T’viska hands over the arboriform fragment, tucking the ceramic blade away as the tenno pulls out the jar. Taking a couple steps back, the tenno seats himself onto a quivering diseased arboriform, jamming the oozing end through the opening.

Meanwhile T’viska watches the multiple entrances, his eyespots bright.

“Hey, dad,” the tenno holds the jarred arboriform shoot close to him, shivering as his boots sit utterly soaked with stagnant water. “was there… something off about those infested back there…?”

The loki looks over, quiet for a moment before walking through the ankle-deep waters and sitting beside the tenno. “Just not sure if who ever passed through is lone gone,” he sighs, leaning upon his knees. “Three of them, at least were the one to clear out the infested… way too many to handle on my own.”

“Shouldn’t… you and others be able to work together?”

T’viska’s lip snarls, “if only… they’re the ones that only leave the scraps. Those with the Lotus… I don’t trust them.”

“Why…?”

The loki fumes with his features, twitching as he finds his words. “They’re the reason we’re biting for scraps. They’re everywhere…”

“Oh…” somatics turn back to the arboriform sat on his lap, fingers dancing against the glass. Sinking as he stares to the currently wilted sprout. Releasing an exhale, fibers tickle against his throat, coughing the scarf to hang off the edge of his nose. It leaves a gap for the spores to fleck his gums, trying to compose himself until he finally yanks it back over his face.

At his side the warframe sighs, grunting as he pulls himself to his feet. “Let’s get back to the ship, we don’t need to be here anymore. You’ve got your plant.” He dismisses, thoughts still preoccupied with the fear of an ember, a valkyr, a third warframe that raises the tensely in his shoulders.

Warren hustles the jar against his chest, forcing himself to stand in his soggy boots that plod after the warframe’s delicate steps. His brow remains drawn tight, a frown crossing the remnants of his mouth beneath the scarf. ‘You’ve got your plant’… aches in the back of his mind, remaining silent as his feet remain soaked as he walks, making him shiver as he keeps moving from flooded hall to ones saturated with infested blood. A palm presses it against his chest, cradling it as he fights back the urge to cry.

Dismissed, barely a notion of satisfaction. Here just to keep him quiet and so he’ll have something.

A few steps in front of him, T’viska bites his lip.

Golden claws snare around the wrist of a Corpus engineer as the cloak dissipates from his flesh. A blade held between the snarl of canines glints in the low light as the loki tosses the shorter stature aside, a gasp squawks through their speaker as they fall against the rot of disease riddled arboriforms. He barely has a moment to look up, features sitting closed behind the bulky helmet - fear contorting his weary brwo as he watches the loki storm over towards him. Hands scramble to find the short blade tucked into the side of his suit, heart pounding throughout his chest and head - and grunts as a dagger pierces his survival suit.

It’s cruel, jagged as he tries to punch the scarred warframe in the stomach, kicking with a scream into the radio. “Jattasey! Jatta--!!” Another carves through his oxygen supply and pierces his lung. Another carves deeper and into his heart.

Hands clutch around the carving as he stares up, whimpering.

A grimace has carved across the loki’s face, claws balling around the handle of the dual daggers as they drip saturated with corpus blood.

An exhale shudders through the warframe as he watches the helpless engineer finally perspire, slumped and messed with blood and viscous infested goo. Forcing himself to turn away from his first kill of the assignment, he peers over to the machine the Corpus was monitoring – a regional gate. He tucks his ceramic daggers away.

Haphazard tech half sits against the Orokin console – wires sprouting out of every drilled space with the recognizable finesses of brute force. T’viska would only be so lucky that they were manning the failsafe alone, tapping the holographic surface with precision to initiate the locking protocol – he only has a minute as the gilded mechanics grind behind the walls, squealing against the overgrowth as he bolts.

‘Warren, gate’s closing. Once I take care of them you’ll need to unlock it for me,’ he calls over the transference link – passing by where the teenager had sat himself between the cracks in the walls.

Warren watches as his father disappears through the next doorway, sprinting off to beat the ship’s bulkhead. Tired blue somatics drift close as gloves huddle his knees beneath his chin, releasing a sigh as he waits for the painful blooms of transference; or for the minor scrapes that come with each assignment the loki undertakes.

He can feel the slight spring in his ankle after a sudden jolt, debris scratching against his face before finally pulled away. The teenager buries his face into his clothing, wiggling himself further into the cleft in the Orokin architecture. Against his ribs his breathing hitches, a sudden exhale as an object collides with it – the spark of impact. Motions he’s become more than used to; sitting it out at the sidelines.

Riding out the damage being done to the loki several rooms down.

Sight half-lid he watches the gentle waver of the infested arboriforms at his side, the gentle crackle of the once slender core writhing in slow methodical agony. Focusing upon it as he flinches off the bruises, the abrasions given through the somatic link, the brief traces of pinpoint lasers that graze over his spine.

Warren sighs, brushing it off as he watches the nervous foliage dance in the spore laden air, watching the wounded and green-grey matter barely pulsate energy. Behind him he can hear it creak, straining behind the rubble and through the spires that crawl into the open air. Almost as though it was gasping for air – and a palm clutches against Warren’s chest, glove twisting into his coat as his features twist.

‘Sorry,’ the warframe apologizes through the connection, muffled at Warren’s side as he sits there patiently. ‘research team is almost taken out, shouldn’t take much longer.’ The warframe huffs, taking another glance across his brow that’s transferred across Warren’s forehead.

His exposed teeth grit, and his mouth presses flat as his somatic sight falls open once more. “Okay,” he whispers back, the signal transponder sat on his wrist that curls into his hair.

Leaving him alone in silence again… everything’s so dead quiet.

Peaking between the auburn tussle that is his hair, Warren returns his focus back to the infested arboriforms that sit around him. Concentration unfocused, he pulls himself back together, boots shuffling against the dusty debris as he watches the foliage; each twitch in the stale gusts around him, the barest of blooms on the green-grey trunk. A minor effect of internal pulsations – a hand reaching out and held against them.

He doesn’t hear the whirling of a curious Moa; nor does he hear the steps as it approaches with it’s head cocked – plasma barrel scoped.

Warren flinches as another shot grazes the loki’s arm, rubbing the mild sensory burn with a hiss.

In his peripherals, he spots the moa’s foot, and glances up to the mechanical whirl that greets him. Emotionless pin-point optics staring down into startled somatics.

Bright eyes watch as the digitigrade proxy rounds from his left to his right, steps easily maneuvering around the rotten arboriform waste and the trawls of infested matter. Ever so careful it begins approaching him, cornering him further into the crevasse in the wall, where his fingers ball against the ground, stumbling himself backwards against the inner remnants. Clicks and whirls roll through the corpus machine as it ducks, scooting its steps to the side as it investigates the teen’s presence so far from any noted colony – confused.

Warren’s fists briefly swirl with void energy as he trembles; straining to force himself sensible as the small head sways in an observation pendulum – and sticks its small head into the cramped space.

Cyan energy lashes out, and the moa squeals as it stumbles, kicking out against the tenno and swatting at the arboriform bark as it tries to stabilize its steps, processes utterly confused as a crevice marks where it’s cortex once sat before it crumples to the ground.

His right arm ebbs with energy as his breathing stutters.

‘Warren, what was that,’ he can hear over the transponder.

He pulls his arm back firmly against his body, shaking as he stares at the decapitated moa – and kneels himself out to see if it is completely dead. “I-I’m fine, dad,” Warren swallows, flinching as he feels a jolt graze the warframe on the other end of the somatic link. “Just… focus on your assignment,” he resigns himself alone again, shuffling himself onto his feet.

The teenager can hear the loki sigh through the comslink, and pries the device from resting around his neck, disconnecting the cable from the remote transponder. Too restrictive, he fumes, scratching at his nape.

It’ll probably be a while until T’viska fully clears up the research team on the other-side of the void gate anyway. Warren sighs. At his side, the transponder speaks. ‘Gate’s almost open, kid. It might be an in-out or may take a while. I’ll ping when I’m back through,’ the loki’s voice chimes with false bravado – Warren can feel the wounding that’s only just began to heal; it’ll be the latter. His features twisted. ‘Take care, son, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

And then… nothing. He can’t feel the splash of void energy through the somatic link as T’viska wades through the void gate, their signals interrupted.

Gloves pry against his jacket as he looks to the ceiling, mouth twisting into a partial snarl.

It would’ve just been better if he waited on the ship.

His somatic sights follow the ebbs and creaks of the vessel’s arboriforms. The fractured architecture, the strands that twist through the spore-laden air and trunks that lie slumped from where they were once tethered within the wall. Releasing a sigh, his eyes drift closed once more with a moment’s pause, a hesitation as his features cross and bites what remains of his lip.

Just awaiting his father’s return…

Warren forces himself to move in the direction T’viska had sprinted from, following the blood splatter and ignoring the forms left in the loki’s wake. His attention remains cast to the arboriform rot that laces from room to room, the green-grey shapes that ache with a diminished white glow. Gloves trace against the infested material, over the nodes bleeding blue-green hues. It sinks into his thoughts as two hold against the material, sight glancing over the diseased surface that holds cold within his palms.

“What are you…” he whispers beneath his breath, releasing it, stepping over the corpus corpse as he wanders to another hanging dredge. A coil of white struggles amongst the cluster, a fresh grown that slouches from the diseased material. And, of course, he cups it in his hands, staring, mouth fumbling and biting his lip beneath the scarf.

He palms against his side before he finds the item he sought; a broken shard of spira blade wounded with a fabric grip. Only half the size T’viska has stored away before he found the fragment – probably forgotten about since he had cleaned it so many times at this point… his wrist aches at the thought.

It pats against his gloved palm as he looks over the worn etching, the Orokin writing that barely shows in the low derelict light. Looking from it, he glances back to the struggling wind of arboriform that peers before him. The blade dances in his hand as he cups the sharp edge between the rot and the fresh bloom. Warren whittling the blade between the two parts, flinching as the strange growth squeaks in each roll of his wrist, his other hand holding the part he hopes to separate away.

It’s well enough to preoccupy his time for the time being, slowly working the material free until only a short strand keeps it connected to the rot.

But, much to Warren’s dismay, it had just gone more and more limp, dropping and dulling as he continued to try working it free.

A hand holds it separate from the derelict’s rotted air.

Beneath the scarf Warren frowns, the spira blade still held against the last piece that connects the two. After a moment, he cuts into it, catching the weary portion in his palm as it drops.

He falls to his knees as he drops the blade at his side, cupping the weary coil in his gloves. It draws him to pause, to stare, biting his lip. Fingers pry against one another, dragging them into a more fulling cupping that shades it from the congesting air, shrouding it with his body as he stares with brows furrowed – concentrated.

A moment…. and he sits back with a sigh. He just can’t will things back to life.

  Blade tucked back into its hideaway pouch inside his coat, Warren waits in the room with the regional lock console. He doesn’t acknowledge the corpse laid across from him, head angled back and tilted towards the ceiling; eyes closed, his hands continue to cradle the dead piece of arboriform that has wrapped itself into a tight coil.

A peace that’s suddenly broken as injuries resurge across his arms; T’viska’s return.

His transponder beeps as he forces himself to stand, forcing the pain aside as one fist holds the arboriform remnant.

‘Warren?’ the loki coughs, forcing himself into stable breaths. ‘You, already got the bulkhead open?’

“Mhm,” the teenager nods, wrapping his pain laden arms against his chest, “there… was a lot of time to.” He struggles to edge across the wall towards the door.

‘I’m sorry kid,’ the warframe sighs, ‘there… was a lot going on. You doing alright? Where are you.’

“I’m… in the console room, with the body,” Warren gasps, fighting back against the bloom of transferred agony. “Was good until now.”

‘Coming to get you,’ the loki imparts, cutting himself short.

  Within the safety of the liset Warren lets his hand fall open, still cradling the dead arboriform coil as he curls himself up into the co-pilot seat. It takes his preoccupation as his boots slip along the edge of chair, finally at once finding their footing as he listens to the warframe click the systems to ignite, directing it back to the orbiter under Suuir’s control.

“What’s you got there, kid?” the loki calls over, letting the autopilot take over as he rubs a dirty rag over the welts of his spilt ichor blood.

“A piece of one of those plant things,” Warren muffles against his scarf… and pauses, pulling it free from his face. The healed scarring of his left jaw exposed. “It was… growing from one of them, I found it when I wandering back to the bulkhead controls.” His mouth draws a flat line as much as it can, glancing down to it from the depths before them – as the liset shakes.

“Oh, those… arboriforms?”

“That’s the name for them?” the teenager glances over, hands reactive in holding the coil close.

“Mhm,” the loki relaxes, “Do they… pique your interest, Warren?”

“They’re…” he pauses, digging back through the trauma of the isolation rooms; staring up at the winding white sat so far above him where he bit back pain. The hours spent screaming at them for why, why him? “They have… something to do with transference, I think. It’s what the pods were connected to… the chair back on the orbiter… I don’t like it.”

The warframe’s maw presses flat, glancing back to the console readouts. “That’s fine,” the loki leans into a smile, adjusting the trajectory. “Asides, I’m sure you might not need it.”

“What do you mean…”

“Those plants, arboriforms, have your interest, right? Maybe while I’m out on assignment you can spend time researching them. It’d be better than letting Suuir tutor you constantly, right?”

“I suppose,” the teen looks down into his palms once more, “better than nothing… I suppose you’re right. But… these things…” his fingers coil around the small coil. “It’s all I could ever think about when they threw me away, hoping that it’d just heal up so they can put me back into another ‘shell’.” He stares into the depth of space, his voice – distant. “Dad… you were on lua… the moon. How many were there.”

Silence sits between them as the tenno slumps back into his chair, letting his feet fall down to the floor as he cradles the coil. T’viska turns his focus to the depths for a moment and flips to a transponder channel for a moment. “The moon’s made of it, Warren… covered.”

“How many like me were there…” Warren bites his lip, sigh obscured by his tussled hair.

“… Too many to count.”

Warren sits quiet, hands cupping the white coil against his chest.

After a moment, with a swallow and a sigh, the warframe forces himself to sit upright. “Maybe I’ll take you there, but for now the entire system is fighting over it. I can’t take you there-“

“I don’t want to.”

“I know – it’s not the only place that has them either – as you saw back on that derelict.” T’viska glances over, Warren’s gloves slightly spreading as he looks to the coil. “Maybe the next time we come across a derelict or something, we’ll find the time so you can look at them more. Figure things out; how does that sound?”

Warren’s features remain turned into a small frown. “That’s fine…”

Golden claws ruffle through his auburn hair. “Maybe there might be hope for that little piece when we get back to the orbiter,” the warframe’s maw smiles. “I’m sure with enough persuasion Suuir would be happy to help to get the information you need.”

Warren remains quiet, eyes downcast.

A pause… and T’viska pulls his hand back. “Warren… son.”

“Mh.”

The loki’s mouth briefly sneers. “I’m not saying that’s all you can do; just when assignments are too dangerous.”

“You mean all of them.”

“Most of them, for now. Give it some time; I’m sure you can do those other vanishing acts cited in those sightings. Whatever makes you happy, do it. Suuir’s got a cog stuck in his processes, but he doesn’t do anything about it unless it affects his routine systems.” T’viska sighs, “I’m going to try and get it so you have more time out of the ship – practice those void powers of yours. You don’t need to be stuffed up with Suuir for so long.” He tries to smile.

The teen scoffs, briefly smiling. “You really think that…?”

“I mean,” the loki halves a chuckle, messing his claws in the teenager’s hair. “You made it this far… you got a strong will to survive all that, kid. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you can – without that chair.”

Releasing a snort, Warren brushes off the bandaged forearm, cupping the arboriform against his coat.

A sigh breathes through the chroma’s bulking form as turquoise claws edge against the temperate bloom on his sleeping partner’s ribs. Feathered limbs encircle the dozing prime securely against his chest, feeling each of the nervous twitches of the hands digging against his form. A frown etches across his hard-plating features, concern scrunching across the trace of soft tissue at the edge of his maw. One cradles the prime against him as the other secures lower, rolling them off to the side – his head craning down over the partly broken crescent of gold. Watching the sleeping snarl and the scrunching of pale features around the metallic.

Silent he remains, trying to seek for a semblance of consciousness. Against his cold palms he feels the anxious heat, the steam that seeps through the excalibur’s furling and huffing vents. Traces of overheating; golden claws sinking against his feathers and gripping hard; the stammers of anxious breaths against his chest.

“Xev… sunshine,” the chroma whispers, claws kneading against the golden plates of his spine. Shuffling, he cradles the twitching legs between his own, entrapping them. “I’m here for ya.”

The prime buries against his chest; trembling.

 Golden messes in the spilling of ichor black; clawing into the dense warmth as his breathing heaves – feeling it against his palms as the pain resurges.

His feet stumble beneath him, slicken with spilt gore that trails down his wrists, down his thighs as he leans against an Orokin wall for support. A buzzing in his skull he can’t quite yet place as warm fluid drips down his jaw – messing his features in the diluting blood as his hand falls down his chin, fingers nervous, twitching, clutching around his stomach.

Static congests his senses as he stumbles on shaking legs – hunger gripping through his gut, crawling fierce up his throat as he strains for breath.

The buzzing only gets louder, wrenching through his conscious, crumpling him down into a puddle of his own gore as his stomach churns – mouth held open in the blinding tear of nervous overload. The peeling of each vital nerve ending throughout his cortex as he holds it in a vice – golden claws tearing into his skin, his maw embittered into a snarl. Joints ache in each nervous twitch as a self-reliant electric current carves through his neurons; twitching in spasms, straining to hold himself together as ichor stains his biomechanic shell. Claws snap against his skin as he crumples further – lying against the floor as his head coils backwards, against the pulling centered inside his skull.

Curling, writhing; Xev’s form contorts through the sporadic nervous signals, rebounding as his hands grip against the floor, straining to hold himself stable. Breath shaking, head lulling into a sway, he struggles to find his grounding – sight blurred through the features of agony.

To and fro he sways, wobbling through each forced stride – not of his own will, his mind lulls, unconcentrated, uncontrolled as his limbs hang limp against his sides. They twitch as his stomach aches, needing of desperate energy as he can barely see straight.

E A T

A voice carves through his thoughts, messing in the gore he finds against his palms. Warm and sloppy – it fevers his maw into open trembles.

And snarls as he bites into the warm, icking muscle chunk as it slides down his throat – a satisfied sigh.

Energy, his lucid mind drifts obscured.

Golden claws laced with ichor black tear against the idle muscle he finds before him, crumpled down against a body that chills his knees. But unintelligable thoughts keep going, keep feeding the goring intent for the energy that screams in the back of his thoughts. More… he needs more if he’s to get better, to heal from the ailing thoughts.

Those ailing thoughts breath space for his consciousness to peer past the numbing hunger; to glance over the body where his bloodied palms tear into the body cavity of turquoise, brown and white.

Lucifer…

He’s eating Lucifer.

His body chokes, tearing him away from the temptation of astral projection.

To know what he’s doing.

Xev gags to force it out of his gut, choking on the volume he tries to undo. The entity forces it into place… and his hands dig back into Lucifer’s gut.

Hands fall onto lungs – he’s breathing.

His features, twisting. Screaming unheard.

 A cold blooming against his sides startles him out of the sleeping stupor. His optics flare into focus against the inhale of a brown feathered chest, his golden grip held firm around the chill of a feathered spine. Turquoise claws hold against his spine plate gently, another hitched over a side of his hip before pulling the smaller warframe into an embrace. “It’s okay, sunshine,” the chroma rumbles, where Xev sinks against the breathing chest, “you’re safe, you’re safe.”

Xev’s teeth grit, forcing his damaged features into Lucifer’s feathers. His exhale shaking, a hand curling around a cool bicep as the warmth steaming inside his chest calms. Temperature cooled – but the prime’s still shaken, keeping his attention far from the chroma’s gaze.

Lucifer won’t have it.

With a grunt he forces himself into a sit with the excalibur cradled in his arms – letting the prime slump from his hold to lie between his thighs and over his flickering tail. An aggressive huff breathes through his chest as he hustles the prime against his chest, letting his partner figure out the best situation for his legs as they sit there, silent.

Claws press against the shuttering heat in Xev’s vents – just get his temperature down – is Lucifer’s focus.

Xev remains silent as he curls into the larger frame’s form, praying to discard the thoughts that dug through his mind seconds ago – carving through Lucifer’s gut, consuming him without a care. His teeth snarled, trying to rid himself of the taste that languishes at the tip of his tendril tongues.

The chilling chest where he rests his chest stutters, plated face resting against his own. “Xev, what happened…?”

“Neural sentry,” Xev snarls, comforting himself into his cold partner’s embrace. “Corruption, the usual,” his form balls up against the larger frame. Still trying to dissuade himself from the taste stinging in his mouth, the feeling of filling bites.

“Xev,” the chroma rumbles, “we talked about this.” He cradles the prime within his arms, a hand yanking over a loose blanket to lie around their shoulders – to which the prime tugs it tight. “Whatever it was, talk to me.”

Xev sits quiet… letting out a disheveled sigh. “Cannibalism…”