Ticker's not one to provide problems, but solutions. A list embedded of lives that can be saved from menial labor, from organ repossession, from being brain-shelved on some forsaken Corpus vessel.
But she can only solve so many problems - not even her own.
[ Includes spoilers for 'OLD MATE' rank with Solaris United, and Ticker's Codex Fragments ]
Mature | No Warnings
Content tags: Ticker (Warframe), Modified body, Repaying Debt, Life Debt, Straw purchase, Charity donation, Spoilers, Unrequited love
[ Read on Ao3 ] or continue beneath the read more!
It is the clamor of the elevator lift that pulls her from a daydreaming stupor.
An averted gaze is brought back from the dredge of fragmented thoughts, cast to the mechanical strumming before her – beyond the balcony that overlooks the menial coolant filtration maintenance pool. Ticker’s cerebral casing follows the rising mechanical sighs as the lift crawls back into the oppressing chill above, beyond the transparent ceiling that stares beyond the surface filtration system looming precariously over Fortuna’s operations. Far beyond the neon lights; the cold shiver echoes of hammer falls and gut-shaking thumps.
Leaning forth, a sigh crawls through the audio processors in her chest, elbows resting against her knees as wondering lulls through tired thoughts. Things beyond the physical… her grip goes lax as she stares at the distant exposed Venusian stone.
And snaps back into attention as an object slips against her thigh –
Her datapad!
Fumbling with a grunt, Ticker finds hold of the device once more; holding it half tilted against the shin of her boot. “Damn,” slips. She’s careful to secure it back onto her lap, shuffling to even out the grid hatch lying over her thighs.
Despite contemplating the attention seeking dot in the corner of the datapad’s message system, she huddles her gloved plan over it, hiding it from her sight as she looks back to the elevator lift. Where Eudico’s talking to a small crowd of strangers.
“Close to busy hours, ain’t it,” her thoughts drift… and her grip affirms.
Another plip sings from the device.
One leg over the other, Ticker drops herself from the table sat beside the balcony railing with an exhale, sight turning back to the datapad as she wanders around the table, to overlook the glows of distant activity beyond where she resides. Enclosed warehouse windows bloom in the eve of the morning hours, glinting through the cavernous open center. Strung electronics sway in the shutter of the enigmatic filtration system – overlooking lamps beaming down from overhead. She looks beyond it, far past the tubing that lines the walls, further than around the corner of the hard labor complex.
Beneath her index finger, the pulsating tone of awaiting messages from neighboring outposts, from outposts reaching far beyond the frequent shuttle transports and the tunnel burrows that connect the remote locations. Holding her vision away from the overworked device in her hands, she takes in the requests from the bond-assistant networks. There’s always more that need help… it takes another moment before she browses through the resources being requested, taking herself back to location in front of her personal space.
Her rig makes the ribbed gate shudder as she leans, index and thumb flipping through the pleas for parcel assistances. Thousands of credits, hundred of thousands of credits, a laundry list of resources that are to be used to pay off the weight of the loans. Items found in the vallis above, resources that take weeks to be taxied into the inner system, a seeking for replacements of ‘stolen goods’ that make her reserved features flinch.
Stolen goods to be repaid by whatever poor courier was responsible – not uncommon.
As she scrolls through the wave of collected requests, minor chatter notes in the corner of the datapad. From the east end, from the gravefield outpost to the north; echoing sympathetic apologies. Another accident happened, a truck split and ruined the fresh supply from the vallis storage cores. In diligence her cadence comes through her vocabulary. That things happen out of any of their control, as soon as those items become available, she’ll send the parcel out through the network tunnels for quick repayment.
‘Thank you so much,’ the person on the other end of the channel messages back.
And only a short stint of silence fills the space before another message blips – confirming Ticker had received the bond request through the network. That the previous request that have been fulfilled are on their way. “I’ve seen to it that the items are securely in transport, stardust,” she chirps from her post, taking a glance up as she hears the lift hum to life. Clientele.
Before looking away, she checks on a previous case that still lies open. An overseer in another outpost. Three dependents. An industrial accident, busted a case of argon crystals in a spaceport – threatened with brain shelving.
They personally sent their bond to Ticker the other day cycle…
“Got good people hoping to see another sunrise, Stardust,” she sighs, datapad tapping against the metal surface. The bond requests already transferred to her internal recollection. “Are you here for donations, love; or bond forgiveness? Either are good news.”
Ahead of her, another day of delegating whom is to live another day – until the blasted corpus ask for more money as ‘compensation’ for whichever incident preceded the time-ticking bounties on people’s lives. She rackets through the trove of those unfortunate; a courier strapped for financial security that they made an incidental mistake, the ex-mercantile recently paying off a loan after they paid off their father’s removal from being brain shelved. The new start that got grinded up by machinery and shoved back into their place of work and forced to pay for their new enhancements. The mother with three dependents selling off her organs to keep herself afloat – just another million to defer the bonds passed onto her by her late parents. The absentee that wandered too far off site and got reprimanded – another stack of payments to their own pillar of paternal loans. It’s the third time they’ve shown up on her list…
A guard threatened with brain-shelving after they claim being unwell, not at their post in corpus punctuality. Ones tied to the undercurrent of bond repayment – they weren’t slippery enough and got caught by the tax-men.
With ease Ticker rattles off the bonds left on her list short and sweet – Their position, dependents, relationships and all associated personality markers. The chime of total bodily repossession or the read out of 60 days hard labor are spoken with the same relative ease – an emotional detachment that relies on her casual demeanor. Getting emotionally invested never lead her to pleasant things… as she gives a casual glance back to her storage unit. A disembodied glove left in the open.
It goes dismissed by the front of her consciousness; turning back to the chroma shuffling through their own manifest of resources. Allocating and matching those they can afford to pay off, stumbling through their words. Flustered, Ticker can assume as she waits. They barely have enough to pay of two additional bonds.
“We can only do what we can, darlin’,” Ticker’s cerebral casing tilts in response, transposed sight looking over the short stature frame. A payment of polymers, rubedo, and alloy plates, a barely short change of credits to fulfill another two’s bonds. But its just enough for the mother, paying off the new-start in another outpost. “Life’s a ride; you can only help so much.” Beneath the shutter vent, a weary smile.
“Thanks, ma’am,” the warframe fumbles, passing off the container details to their cephalon. “Just wish I could do more, the items will be on the dock in an hour!” They chirp, flexible features standing at attention in an adoring attentive display.
Ticker laughs, “don’t worry, Stardust, I’m here all day. The transports not going out for another three to the specific outpost, you got time.”
Beyond the warframe’s sight, Ticker watches the countdown for the overseer clicks over to one hour left. For such an occasion? It’s hard for her to avoid biting her lip, lingering against hope. Thankful her cerebral casing’s display doesn’t correspond with the distress.
They’re counting on her to find someone to pay off the argon crystal damage; It’s rare for someone to have that much argon sitting around, nonetheless enough to survive the transport. Even when she first got the message… the outlook was bleak.
“Take care, stardust,” she waves off the chroma as they bound around the corner, their hand held against their strange flexing scalp as their voice chirps.
Ticker might never get used to how… distinctly different they are to her, to anyone she may have once known; and her hand curls into a fist. Different, but not unfamiliar – digitally, she checks the two bonds off from needing funds. Once her contact on the tunnel docks confirms the shipment, then she’ll let the retrieving persons know they have nothing to worry about.
But until then, it’s onto the next potential client, giving hope to more unfortunates.
Slowly the list begins to chisel away, talking thousands of credits she’ll never see; resources she’ll never touch but corresponds to different drop off points for the future shipments. Can’t be too predictable beneath the Corpus stranglehold. “Chek, chek,” beams across her coms unit, “tube glinty gots the goods.”
“Thank you, Ruub,” Ticker recalls back, double crossing the bonds paid off by the earlier chroma.
“Gotsa note, interested?”
“Later, Ruub,” Ticker answers, turning her attention back to the stranger flicking through their resources. In the corner of her vision, she finally dismisses the delayed debt by the overseer – four hours pass the due. Far too late to do anything about it now; she sighs. Not everyone can be saved.
“Are your considerations in order?” She notions over to the cloaked figure hovering at the table.
Their legs, MOA’d up, pad about anxiously, gloved hands tapping against the datapad in either double check or triples. Ticker can’t be certain as they keep it tilted out of either of her views, the clumsy tech held in tight uncertainty. Under her observation, as Ticker makes impatient idle pace, they throw their hood back over the mess of their hair. “Ye-yeah,” they call over, huddling the datapad against their chest.
Novice in the trade, she assumes.
“I’ve got a sum of polymer, plastids… uh, Gallium, and Neurodes. I want to donate them to the fund.”
Suspicion queries. “I work in inventory transportation, Stardust. You have a location and credits?”
The stranger fumbles through a pack buried beneath their cloak, MOA legs pacing to and fro as she digs through the contents for something. “I assure you, I’m not a plant,” she fumbles with a mingling smile on her flushed squared features, voice trembling. “I’ve – got a shipment for you from a tenno, at least all options lead me to that conclusion. Left me this note about a drop a few days ago with this inventory.” And she hustles a folded fabric to Ticker – it’s been forever since she had to hold some form of writing.
Sure enough, written in plain was a line of coordinates from a tenno-tone frequency. A list of resources rattles off beneath an albeit simple commlink combination; just having writing in some form would be enough to put the girl in some trouble. Ticker glances over to her; the code, one she dials privately, checks out.
“How’d you get a hold of this information?” A simple question; but its never exactly simple.
The woman fumbles with her pack, throwing their hood back over the flutter of her hacked hair – an attempt to hide their identity, the Fortuna debt forgiver assumes.
It reminds her so much of herself… trying to escape a previous life.
“A friend of mine; a researcher from the west needed to repay his prosthetics a while a back. He went missing a few months back and – a frame delivered a parcel to me and that was tucked inside it.” Hands fiddling with their covered hood – anxious.
Hidden away from the stranger’s view, Ticker’s free to let her confusion manifest. She’s seen so many lives pass through the debt forgiveness network, she can’t willingly say she can’t really remember… the details are not uncommon, except for being a researcher. Not many higher rank Corpus seek through the network to pay off loans – most are well connected enough to solve that through their work.
But Ticker can tell her silence makes the stranger uncomfortable.
“What’s the name, stardust? Of the researcher friend of yours.” With nowhere to tuck the precarious writing, she tucks it into the crease of her body casing to dispose of later. The coordinates – already given off to another of the ventkids to investigate at the drop off time.
“Kedan; Kedan Laundras was his name,” the woman sighs, “he’s apparently doing well.” And a faint smile on her stubbled face.
With the same ease as delegating the hopeful fortunes of others, Ticker traces through the archive of payments she penned into her memory banks. Over those with too much debt, the ones just running short of repayments, the few that now languish on a brain shelf somewhere on a Corpus vessel. But he’s on her list; Mechanic turned biomechanic researcher, from the southern cap of Venus. Reliable and hard-working.
“Checks out,” Ticker notions with her palm, a confirmation the stranger is legit, “his case went through me – oof!” winds through her as the slightly taller woman pulls her into a hug. She stands stunned, awkward before the other woman pulls herself away – apologizing.
“Sorry, I’m – just glad there’s people like you out here. He, Kedan, managed to find his way off this place, and – I’ve always wondered who was able to pay off my dad’s debts when I was small. The supplies – they come from whomever Kedan’s with now.”
The smile the stranger gives off… reminds Ticker too much of the look she gives the man as she watches him work the coolant filtration system – the man that doesn’t remember their love.
“I was looking for – for how my father’s debt got repaid. And Kedan’s. And everyone else’s that have come and gone. I’m just – they’ve told me how grateful they are for people like you looking out for them.” She digs through her pack, pulling out the datapad once more. “I want to pay forward to someone else’s bond – I don’t have much to my name, but I have credits.” Handing the personal device over to Ticker, she can confirm the amount – 14 thousand credits.
Compared to the total she tended to today? Its nothing, but for someone working under the corpus?
It’s a lot.
“You’re certain you can afford the donation, stardust?”
“Yeah,” the woman smiles. “it’s fine.”
Her expression… the half-tilted smile brimmed by exhausted stubble, the dreary drifting sigh trying to find focus on Ticker’s cerebral casing for familiarity. Her raiments; they call to a higher working position, office worker perhaps. From the southern laboratories; given her friend’s location prior and position.
And its hard to vanish, and it has taken its toll on the woman.
“Give whatever you can, lovely. But don’t forget to take care of yourself,” she sighs, handing back the datapad – the 14 thousand credits exchanged. Always so poignant, deliberate… “Courier? Take good care of yourself out there.”
“Yeah,” she smiles back, creasing the striped tattoos across her cheeks. “It’s hell out there but pays well.”
It’s the last Ticker sees of her; passing around the back of the next person offering up credits and resources anew. With ease Ticker moves over to handling what they are willing to give, rattling off those still on her list. Lives like merchandise… shaken from her thoughts.
Another cycle of debt fulfillment, networking the ventkids to assure the drops are where they should be, that everything is paid in full from the transactional fees to covering their tracks. Silent transport always has its price, and its too easy to find one willing to hijack resources for high rollers. Working amongst the scavengers taught her to be resourceful, sharp; the taxmen, how to keep a low profile to provide for those on the repayment network. A single slip up won’t expose her – that she’s sure.
The comslinks, masked. The archive logs? Smeared. Scattering them makes it hard to track, the ventkids reliable in understanding the network above and below. Without them; Ticker would be hard pressed to keep it running – relying on credit transfers.
And it’s the most dangerous measure.
But, she’s good at it.
After handing off a nutrient canister to Smokefinger, she takes herself back to her post at the edge of the filtration pool. Never giving a secondary glance to a man standing on the other side of the pool with a diagnostic tool in hand. It hammers against the port all the same as the others; the ring of metal on metal that embeds itself into Fortuna’s background noise. The inconsistent hums by those she passes by onto the short lift – holding her daily nutrient allowance close at her side.
The gate of her personal storage unit clatters as she yanks it up, snapping the locks into place above her.
Spare log books are seamlessly plucked from the floor, stacked one over the other as a boot shoves over an old busted diagnostics tool. Organized chaos, that’s what it is as she steps up one crate and lands down upon another much larger. Huffing one leg to hike up against the container, forcing it out of the way, the shutters of her rib-mounted head case falls open; giving both of her sights a clear view of the opposing wall.
In one hand, the nutrient canister - an ugly little grey thing with only a tube line connection on the top, a secure valve keeping the contents inside. Never had she investigated the contents, flipping the seal off her retrieval port tucked away in the side of the modifications done to graph tech onto flesh and bone. A hiss squeals through the container as the connection between her body and the package turns tight – the seal broken with a simple pull to the valve’s locking pin and holding it up above her shoulder… and all she has to do is stare at the bleak, empty, dreaded wall.
One hand still empty – and she picks up the lone glove that has been sitting on another crate.
Ticker holds it against her lap, in front of her lower sight-line as a sigh rolls through her systems, through the muscles she bought back, the fingers that only now are hers.
Fingers intertwining with the disembodied hand… too well aware they won’t hold back.
They never will.
The mimicry of the handhold distracts her from the wall, turning to look half at the enclosure of all that remains of her former body, and the commotion of Fortuna’s productions. Shaking out the last of the nutrient canister, she holds the palm close against herself, staring off into that middling distance between sight and thought.
Another shaking of the canister – emptied.
With a drifting exhale, Ticker allows the palm to lie against her thigh as she disconnects the nutrient feed from her entry port and the reusable container. A daily deposit, to keep their enhancements from breaking down, from their joints from ceasing up and making it hard to work. Beneath sight, connected to the electronic body that houses her as a prisoner, it confirms the transfusion of material into blood and piping.
Disinterested, she tosses the canister away to pick up later.
Lying back against the wall of the open storage unit, she holds the back of the gloved palm against her stomach-region forehead, obscuring her physical sight to only electronics – perspective that closes itself off to inner records, allocating and recounting the resources and credits. That nothing has been misplaced between client and the drop off points; that manifests are accurate between her and the tunnel docks that moves the resources from Fortuna to the other outposts.
People counting on her to get it right.
Glove interlace with glove; fingers winding around unfeeling fingers that lie limp against her grip as another hand holds the enclosed forearm against the rim of her head containment. Out she stares to the hustle of activity within Fortuna. The slam of metal on metal, the steam exhaust that whistles in the distance and the mechanical shutters from the transport vessel below them.
Always active, always busy – she lifts herself from the crate, careful to lie the sentimental wrist down where a brush of dust marks its domain.
Picking up her personal datapad, she scrolls through the remaining debts seeking assistance. New ‘merchandise’ all the time. It makes her whince before the shutter of her head casing drops back down, closing her away from the view of Fortuna’s neon lights as she wanders over to the edge of the balcony.
Over on the other side of the filtration pool, Ticker sees him working hard. Conversing among himself with others working the same region.
His body posture looks…. enthusiastic.
Ticker adverts herself from contemplation, from lost love as she involves herself with the datapad held firmly against her rig. Picking through the debts once more, casual as she notices in the corner a notification that more people are logged into the underground system, more seeking assistance.
And she’s all to glad to receive their requests, looking over them as she wanders back to her usual post.
Slamming the gate of the storage area down, she secures the sentimental object out of her sight, out of mind as she resumes the dual duty of inventory cataloger, and of debt deferrer. There are people depending on her, and there are people willing to help out those in need – without a way to find them.
“Hey there, Stardust,” she welcomes another donor, “time’s running out for those on my books. What’ve you got?”
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Imagine; the Baker family before finding Evelyn and Mia, before their property regressed, before the mold took hold.
Jack Baker, father of two, driving into town on a weekly basis; helping the homeless and disenfranchised people the best he can. Sometimes, he offers them a dinner and a bed for the night - bringing them the home where Marguerite is happy to make a semi-special dinner in front of their guest - scolding Jack in the next room. “Stop bringing home guests, Jack.”
“They needed help, Marguerite.”
And the visitor stays the night; they stay in a guest room. They never see Zoe - she rather sleep in her trailer - and Lucas Baker never seems to be around. Jack and Marguerite like having guests, they planned to someday rent out their home as a Bed & Breakfast - that’s why they bought the house on the edge of the bayou.
In the morning, the visitor sees the half-deconstructed yard, with chopped log and stumps scattered around the front yard. Work tools left off to the side, it’s still a big work-in-progress. Stuff here and there, but the passion is there, and only in certain light does it look a bit creepy.
The visitor leaves in Jack’s truck that morning; Jack’s truck is known locally to give people a ride or a home for a night. People suggest those without a place to stay to look for Jack’s truck.
And after going out Jack returns home, resuming his work on fixing up the property. Marguerite helps too, so does Zoe. The three of them ask Lucas to help out when he’s not locked up with his next project. He doesn’t know what to do, but he tries to do his best. They have their laughs, they have leftovers for dinner, and go to bed.
That’s how the days go for the Bakers.
Jack and Marguerite work on their dream Bed & Breakfast business. Zoe and Lucas are working up to their own ambitions. They’re isolated from the nearby town - not many people come visit them. Cut off from the rest of the world except for a lone road and the nearby river.
One night, there’s a series of thumps. They sleep through it, except for Lucas - working on another one of his projects late into the night. He brings it up the next morning, Jack plans to drive out down the river later that day.
After trying to dig out a stump for most of the day, he goes out on a boat.
And he finds the wreck of the tanker; horrified but what he finds, still clinging to some hope there is someone alive. He continues to search with the light on his boat, searching the dark waters with a plastic PVC pipe - finding odd growths here and there on the rubble. He finds a young woman and a conscious child on a pile of wreckage and - as he’s always done - takes them home. Give them a bed and a meal.
Jack and Marguerite ask the young girl, Evelyn, if she knows what happens. She claims no, and she’s afraid of losing her mommy too. There’s tears, Jack and Marguerite try to cheer her up; reassuring Evelyn her mommy could just be fine - she just might be out for a couple days.
Evelyn is happy; she has a family.
Then Jack wants to go into town for supplies; tools and food to fill the fridge. Evelyn tags along; strangely, she doesn’t want to bring up the tanker, nor is she keen on looking to have Jack tell anyone about it. And when they get back Marguerite tells Jack that ... Evelyn never left.
She’s been in her mother’s room for the entire time.
Slowly, things start getting weirder. Marguerite starts finding grey mold in the cracks of fresh floorboards. Grazed by nicks here and there from fixing the house just seem to vanish - no welt, no marks. She must’ve imagined them.
At dinner Evelyn doesn’t want to stay at the table; Jack and Marguerite try and get her to stay, but she leaves anyway. Lucas and Zoe are spending less time at the table, in the house. Lucas tells Marguerite on his way to eat leftovers the next morning the little girl creeps him out. Zoe says nothing.
Over time, things just keep getting weirder. Jack finds himself being able to uproot stumps easier, some of his tools are more worn. He shows off the Marguerite - that his strength when he was younger has come back. Marguerite finds more strange mold in the crooks of the house, Jack suggests that he could get some specialized things in town.
And Evelyn is always just ... there. By his side, saying nothing. Watching.
He doesn’t talk with other residents anymore, doesn’t invite anyone to his family’s home even if they plead. It just wouldn’t feel right to him. Eventually, he doesn’t show up in town anymore.
Rumors grow that something has gone wrong at the Bakers, but no one goes to check on them - not many people know them well enough to just swing by.
Lucas put up signs for visitors to stay out on the front gates.
Behind the front gates, the family is suffering.
Marguerite’s joy of cooking starts failing her, finding herself more and more often giving out under-cooked food to Jack and occasionally Lucas or Zoe. She starts craving for odd things - the bugs swarming the boat house, a bird that died in a tree above the property. It disturbs her when she has time to think about it. But after being cut off from the outside world ... she’s gotten used to it.
Jack has endured intrusive thoughts about taking people he wants to help home to make them a part of the ‘family’. Evelyn keeps trying to persuade him, no matter where he tries to cut himself off, she’s always there, telling him, yelling at him. One night, he digs out the gun he got Marguerite back when he was working. He makes a note for Marguerite, makes sure the gun is loaded, and pulls the trigger.
Marguerite finds him soon after, half stunned and half relieved, Jack tried to commit suicide, and it succeeded ... and failed. He’s still alive; he’s distraught, Marguerite is distraught, Evenlyn is distraught ... and angry.
Evelyn’s demands get more stringent; and her mother wakes up and becomes her muscle.
The systematic war claims many victims; from the captivation of child soldiers and bodies turned into machines are war – there’s no external hope for them, disposable soldiers for the might of the Orokin Empire, battered and bruised. Restrain, dismiss, collect… repeat until the war is over.
Mature | Graphic Depictions of violence
Tags: Loki (Warframe) | Operator (Warframe) | The Orokin (Warframe) | Operative Jacob Warren | Transference Project – Freeform | Somatic Link – Freeform | Pre-Canon | Canon relevance | Imprisoned Tenno | Restrained Warframe | Merged pain | Horrors of War | Father Figure | Emotional Stress | Mass evacuation | Lasting injuries | Massacre | Orokin Empire Collapse - Freeform
[ Link ] or continue beneath the read more!
Claws angrily snap against Orokin binds, flexing and scratching, limbs jolting held behind a back plastered with healing welts. A growl rumbles behind sneering teeth, snapping and bent down as a mind peels through their anxiety – trapped, trapped; no escape.
And electricity shears through their spine as their transference bolt prods in the back of their neck, burning and aching, straining to connect as he shrugs off the mental assault. An attempt to interlink, to take his body from his own discretion. Pilfer his fraying sense of control left as he tries to shrug off the pins digging into his neck, tugging him down to the ground as a presiding guard shouts.
Obey.
‘Obey.’
Such is the Orokin way.
The loki snaps back with a rumbling hiss, slits in his face filtering through the overwhelming volume of feedback sensors. Another jolt meets his spine.
Again….
And again…
His will taken away for their own empirical needs. Where blood stains upon his tongue, and a childish voice commanding his motions relinquished for their own objectives.
It’s a mild discomfort of sensory invasion as he feels the young teen’s presence pervade his thoughts, drifting down through T’viska’s nerves and lungs as he rolls his shoulders. There’s only so far that they can move however, given minimal range as his arms still lie trapped behind his back, golden claws divided together against the cushion. Service crew mumble around him as he patiently waits for the vessel ‘distributing’ him, catching their nervous glances as a single Orokin guard hovers above him.
The loki can feel as the preteen tries to shuffle off the restraints, giving up once he recalls through T’viska’s own thoughts. ‘Welcome back, kid,’ the warframe chuckles, ‘you sure showed up early.’ Glancing back casually to the guard that holds the key to the meager restraints – well, meager if they weren’t cast with energy draining mechanisms.
Warren is quiet, thoughts furrowing as the warframe so casually waits to disembark on their next mission. There’s a pain surging against the loki’s cheek that wasn’t there before… and the warframe’s barely formed, and muffled, mouth frowns. ‘You alright?’
‘They punished me again,’ is all Warren cares to mention, winching as he tries to shuffle off the full-arm restraints pressing the warframe’s arms against his back, the surge of pain that follows as he tries to channel the small swell of energy still ebbing through T’viska’s chest.
‘Easy, easy,’ the warframe hisses, wrestling his movement away from the anxious Warren. ‘I’m okay, I’m fine,’ T’viska sighs, looking away from the floor meeting him to the other occupants of the small ship – a pin collar keeping his body tucked close to his thighs. ‘Don’t worry about me; this is just their standard protocol.’ He can feel tears welting against his cheeks – on Warren’s cheeks as he just follows through with the jolting of turbulence, listening to the shouting around him as distances are called out.
T’viska sighs as his body is tossed back and forth, people rummaging around and shouting as a projectile makes the ship shutter. He can feel as an armored hand yanks the leading of his pin-collar, unlatching it in the frantic fray. Behind him, the restraints around his arms begin to unlock, the engineering hiss of the mechanics made mute by the shouting pervading the ship’s small cabin – it’s time for them to go.
‘Hold tight, Warren,’ the warframe sighs as he draws his muscles to flex beneath his tough hide, standing to his full height momentarily as the ship creaks. Aching muscles stretch as the Orokin guard shouts at him, screaming commands directed to his operator, Warren, to jump through the open airlock door. Where the wind kicks through the ship, where smoke billows and explosions light up the withering night.
Inside his mind, T’viska can feel Warren coiling, withdrawn and quiet. The warframe snaps off the makeshift muzzle, yanking the small weapon holster from a safeguard compartment. Golden claws curl against the sealant structure of the airlock, inhaling the noxious smells – and lunges into the darkness, carried by the loki’s placid calm as the operator’s ring anxious.
Following down into the fogs of war, armed merely with a pistol and a stained blade.
Ichor black drips down the loki’s palm as he sits among the wreckage of the small provincial ruins decorated with the veracity of corpses and blast marks, eyeless sight watching the skies as archwinged compatriots follow the sentient combatants into the skies above. The aching blue of the slitting heat pits follow their motions, relaying them through Warren and to the command center controlling their platoon of disposable warriors. T’viska’s lungs wheeze as hands yield at his gut, shuttering as fingers grip and yank another inch of the sentient spear from his torso.
Jaws clench as he holds around the souring wound, steaming heat in a growl. It fucking hurts.
‘How are you holding up,kid,’ the loki questions, golden claws dividing around the injury pinning him in place. Half sat on rubble, half leaned – he’s hard pressed to move anytime soon. Black stains his chin and throat, body left battered and bruised.
‘This shit, fucking sucks,’ Warren growls from within his somatic cradle. ‘If I just got you out of the way fast enough-‘
‘Now, stop that,’ T’viska hisses, glancing from their melding injury to the skies above as a collage explosions rings. ‘shit already happened, and we’re just meant to deal with it.’
‘Sorry…’ the teenager mumbles, withdrawing in the warframe’s senses even as he winces from the transferred pain. His sensory hands hold over the loki’s physical own – sad and sullen as there’s nothing much he can do.
‘You stop that too, Warren,’ T’viska grumbles, leaning back against the structure with a hiss. A fist punches the structure’s metal coating in anger, forced to wait for the pain to subside, to give the teen a breather before he tries again. ‘Sorry doesn’t change anything. We’re going to get out of this mess; though, not anytime soon,’ he briefly laughs, hands grasping around the remnants of the sentient that gored him. He can feel Warren’s discomfort as he tries to wiggle another notch from his torso, maw snarling as his head arches back into the wall. And within his nerves he can feel the operator force his hands to withdraw, steeling them back from the burning pain dug into their merging torso.
‘You sound like my dad,’ Warren hisses, their hands melding into a single motion as they push the javelin-shaped chitin from T’viska’s scarred chest – the leading edge prodding against his heaving lungs before they shove it out completely. It lands with a sloppy thump, sentient blood and muscle still drooping from the opposing end. Their hands meet the gushing of slick black blood, staring up at the volley of sentient countermeasures blooming in the sky above.
T’viska groans as he reclines against the bloodied structure, an arm wrapping around the pulsating wound as he feels the operator do the same. A merging of nerves to transfer pain. Leaned against rumble decorated with the gore of a sentient, the loki sighs, exhausted. ‘Tell me, what was your dad like?’ He looks down at his blood-stained hand with a grimace, ‘this’ll take a bit to heal up…’
‘He always… tried to keep me calm. To stop worrying about other people.’ His emotional projection rests him beside the wounded warframe, unable to help in any other way than to distract him. ‘That people need to deal with their own problems, that there’s only so much I can do… to stop pushing myself all the time.’
‘Well, sounds like you haven’t followed his advice,’ T’viska laughs dry, wincing as he shuffles. ‘What happened to him,’ he mumbles, sighing as he tries to relax.
Warren slums through their somatic link, half listening to the transmissions echoing through the platoon commands. ‘He tried to choke me… on the ship. He just, went mad, that there was something watching us…’
The warframe wheezes a sigh, heat billowing out of his lungs and vents. ‘What happened to him…’
T’viska can feel the teenager’s nerves echo against his side, coiling arms into legs, a wince against the transferred pain prodding in his side. ‘He died… just like the rest of the adults. I’ve got no one… of course you know that now.’
‘Well, Warren,’ T’viska sighs, his left hand rising to pat his own shoulder. A motion of sincerity as he pats against the teenager’s senses, hugging transferred nerves. How very odd he must look to outsiders, hugging himself while clinging against a seeping wound, covered in vicious gore from his squad members and the sentients eviscerated among the ruins. ‘I’ll be your father now, how does that sound?’
Against his own cheeks the loki can feel a hand brush away idled tears, and Warren hisses, still holding a mirror of the angry wound against his own, safe body. An idle sob, a crooked smile, barely holding it together as phantoming limbs grasp around him – a transference hug that presses into the wound – and T’viska hisses. ‘Sorry,’ Warren mumbles, adjusting the motions to not irritate the bleeding gap in the loki’s torso. ‘That… sure,’ he stumbles to speak, holding tight in a clasping hug. ‘Sounds good… dad.’
T’viska pats his shoulder again as their nerves dissolve their melding motions, letting the loki hold his tender wounds as the isolated operator hugs his signal tight.
With a sigh, the loki stares into the maw of the sky, where smoke and debris floats in the wind. The fighting has ended, and it’ll be a while for the resource scavengers to show up and pick up what remains of the frontline combatants. Across the way he can spot an ember struggling to keep themselves conscious, clawing against their jaw as they lie beneath a heavy structure slab. Another screaming somewhere in the far distance, a rolling scream that makes the ambiance of bleeding energy and the sparkling of nervous electricity.
Against his side, the loki can feel the operator’s senses sleeping, exhausted.
T’viska remains vigilant, watching and waiting, clutching the signal tight.
He won’t let him go.
Although he had a choice in the matter.
But he stays with the teen as long as he’s able.
The loki cringes as electricity sparks through his mind as their connection is severed again, barely hearing a brief departing ‘I’ll be back’ from the teenager as he waits in the belly of a cruiser.
Restrained again, imprisoned among the ranks of other nestled warframes that growl and hiss mindlessly. Few remain quiet – either out of instinct or their own conscious choice. The ember from before growls down the row, rustling their chained restraints until electricity sparks. T’viska looks away as they scream hoarse. Hoping that Warren is okay, pressing his stinging cheek against his shoulder – smacked again.
Silence… long and exhausting.
T’viska can only wait to hear back from the teen, enveloped in darkness as the ship hums beneath his bowed shins, throat pinned down as he listens to the echoes of radio chatter. Another battlefield awaits them, the transport slipping into a disrupting mask as they slip into another gate that makes all of them jolt and sway. The more aggressive of the ‘unoccupied’ warframes snarl as the ship shutters, alarms blaring as it makes an invasive maneuver and slams him against the wall.
Against his mind he can feel a jolt, burning through his transference bolt as Warren is throttled back into the somatic cradle, picking at the restraints holding his adoptive father down. ‘The ship was hit, I need to get you out of there,’ the teen stammers, wrestling with the restraints, yanking them as he takes hold of T’viska’s arms and legs, a foot pressing against the pin collar tether. ‘Come the fuck on,’ Warren hisses, and the loki sustains him, growling vocally as others around him make similar, anxious motions.
Shouts clamor from the room above, radio waves surging and alarms blaring. Heavy boots kick down the short stairway, nearly stumbling as a crew hand throws back their fist into the emergency release. They’re safe behind reinforced glass as the restraints snap loose, the cargo door to their side falling open as the ship shutters again.
‘Sentients, a whole lot of them,’ Warren panics, his motions followed through by T’viska as they shove off a manic nyx as they slip down the slope, down to the distant field of ground combat. ‘We’re on our own, defensive.’
‘Great,’ the loki grumbles, yanking down a tonbo from the arsenal rack above the open chamber, paws slipping as the ship shutters and theres a sudden jolt. Others have already started to make their scrambling escape as their section begins to plummet – cascading into free fall and barreling down to the ground. T’viska’s strong leg muscles pivot him up the dividers as other stunned occupants wrestle with their fault restraints – and the loki can feel Warren choke. But Warren pushes the loki to ascend out of the separated compartment.
A building catches the loki’s gut and golden claws scramble against the architecture has he follows the tumbling cargo hold, as it tumbles into a fireball, colliding into Orokin structures as bodies are tossed against the ruins, a sentient behemoth stepping over the remains. A simple tonbo won’t be enough to take it down.
As T’viska clambers over the railing, Warren combs through the transmissions intruding his thoughts, prying through the screams and shouts for reinforcements and the hum of sentient presence. The loki’s paws kick up debris as he moves higher, searching for a good vantage point of the battle waging against the sentients overtaking the once ‘pristine’ Orokin city. Fire ignites the sky with their brilliant blaze, rippling off sentient shell bombardments
Far in the skies above, they watch as an Orokin heavy class vessel explores, fire bursting from its halting thrusters, descending down through the choking smog to the tune of armament fire. Railgun fire booms through the harrowing low light, making the sky quake as the ship tumbles and collides with the sentient behemoth, crowded beyond the smoke. The ships reactor detonates as it crumples into the landscape, blowing out the gilded towers, thundering as heat blasts, nearly tossing T’viska behind a support strut within an Orokin Tower. Once a living quarters, they both figures as glass shatters around them, dust kicked up through the lavish interior.
T’viska snarls before coughing through his chest-bound vents, curled back against the column as he listens to the commotion on Warren’s end – his head still ringing. ‘Warren,’ he coughs, glancing back, fingers slipping down the tonbo’s shaft where it flutters over glass. ‘Any orders from those assholes?’
Through their synthesized nerves the loki can feel Warren’s brow furl, squinting as he fields through the tremors in the transmissions. ‘I… there’s nothing. They just want us to fight the sentients.’
The loki huffs, throwing away the shatter of a once very expensive vase, turning back to the sky alight in the tremendous fires, the beaming of orbital laser fire and the singing of sentient energy. Air stings in his lungs, carrying himself and the nerve-hitching tenno along with him.
Golden claws divide through the senses of hair as the loki releases a heavy sigh, his claws dancing up his arching horns as his head lies back against the carrier wall. Legs lied crossed beneath him, he cements himself back from the footpath of screaming survivors, dismissing the mild gratitude of the lower castes as they’re huddled deep into the cargo ship converted personal carrier. Voices of various distinctions inflex around him, shouts and conversations, meandering to and fro as the last of the survivors make their way up the ramp – even more standing beneath, held back by guards as the door begins to screw itself shut.
T’viska barely nudges at himself, kneading against his blood-soaked shoulder as he briefly sends a courtesy call to Warren on the other end of the somatic link. Through their nervous meld he can feel the teen shift in his somatic cradle, uninterrupted by the frantic broadcasts screaming in his ear… The loki sighs, resting back against the hull as people collect around him, families nestling down yet still give him a cautious spacing.
Looking around, he can only spot a few other warframes beside himself, vastly outnumbered by exhausted Orokin Soldiers, ones that take their post in the form of bend over heaves, throwing off armor through their anxious dread.
The loki frowns as he watches the civilians jolt, fear plastering as the ship heaves and sways, swollen to capacity with its fearful occupants. His sight falls to a father ushering his son beneath what seems to be the remains of their possessions – covered in soot and spattered with blood. And drifts from it as the father looks up, whispering beneath the cries of young children displaced.
T'viska listens intently on the broadcasts above him and through the somatic link, hoisting whatever semblance he can gather of the exhausted teen at his side. A phantom weight heaving emotion against his side, a sensation of a sleeping coil clinging to him… He’s been through so much, the warframe muses to himself; what would happen to them after the war? What use would they have?
His mouth splits as he attunes to the stammering broadcast his adoptive son was subjected to; the bombardments of the panic in cargo pilot’s voice, the alerting of straggler sentients materializing aboard ships and slaughtering radio contact to cease. Whispers of words flake through him, the transmissions more aptly calm and collected, letting the mimicry flow low enough to not alert the traumatized civilians huddled around him. Even then, he receives cautious stares, his voice projected guttural and scratching.
As he shifts, he can feel Warren flinch; their melded leg fractured in the shin, barely held in place by a haphazardly wrapped blanket. The vibrant colors stand out against his pale coloration, a child’s blanket wrapped by curious hands before they were ushered away.
T’viska huffs and yanks his leg to perch in his lap – and promptly stops.
Warren, in the depth of an exhausted nap, hisses in pain.
The loki heaves breath through his lungs, head collapsing back against the wall as his horns arch up against the slate grey of the cargo hold. His thoughts lie drowned in the commotion around him, the pips of conversation and the spontaneous claims of aggression – him and so many stuffed together elbow to elbow.
A brief reprieve from the throes of combat… and he lets his sensors drift muted, dulled from the commotion as he strives for a notion of sleep.
He’s bound to need it.
Their melded sensors scream as a serrated lance carves through their forearm, throwing them off-kilter as ammunition clamors to the ground beneath where they roll through the notion. Breath hisses as the gashed forearm is forced beneath the opposing armpit, staring up through slitting eyespots to the sentient that caught their motions. Its jagged, battle-damaged chitin glints in the flicker of a dying flame as it lunges. It’s bladed limp thrusts towards the stunned warframe – but both warframe and tenno roll from the motion, scampering back to their feet just behind with a hiss. Their focus splits as T’viska catches a rounding smack hand over tattered palm, golden claws digging into the hard shell as Warren’s sight adverts to their surroundings.
Deep behind the sentient lines.
Fingers flicker over the hilt of a bloody dagger before it snaps into gaps in the sentient’s chitin shell, twisting and yanking forth as the attacker’s core shimmers with aggression. It’s mass easily throws T’viska off his feet, paws digging against soot coated soil as a laser beams where his chest once resided – jumping back behind a pillar as the sentient ignites a chorus alert.
T’viska gasps as his arm trembles, nerves bleeding anxious as his fingers can barely grip the dagger’s hilt, his hand reinforced by Warren. “I’m fine,” T’viska verbally growls, tucking the hand beneath his opposing arm, swallowing as he waits for the sentient’s circulating beams to flutter faint. And, as it begins to dissipate, he shakes out his numbing nerves, shaking out beads of sickly black blood.
‘Dad, don’t lie,’ Warren groans, peering through the loki’s sight to where the ammunition lies. ‘Forget the sentient, just get supplies to the dropzone.’
“Agreed,” the warframe hisses, still getting used to the act of verbal conversation – even though it lies somewhere within the somatic link, its still something as he snaps into his cloak. He’s running dry of energy, he has to move fast.
It’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone that cares for him still.
He huddles the crate against his chest as the sentient bobbles and sways, dripping luminescent blood as T’viska hurries past.
His heart surges in his chest as he crumples along the hull’s pylons, concentration deafened by the rumble of the ship’s engines and the constant bombardment of shouting commands. Breathing labored, his exhale is strained, letting himself fall back into a structural recess as he swats away a curious soldier. T’viska coils back within it as he fights his anxious breathing, stuck with metal shards and broken glass. As exhausted as the loki is, it’s Warren that gives him the strength to pull the protrusions from his shoulder, discarding them with gritting teeth and through the merging pain. It’s the teen’s persistence that makes T’viska adjust, sitting up straight, swallowing air before he pulls a bleeding leg to prop up. His claws pinch against a glass fragment embedded in his thigh, one of many as the trembling fingers toss them out of sight.
Together they disregard the commotion of shuffling bodies, to focused on black-blooded injuries to pay any mind to the accumulating stack of corpses. Collecting the dead, the less fortunate personnel at the tail end of an overly long skirmish. Orokin soldier or warframe remnants, the distinction doesn’t matter as the body count rises.
T’viska props himself up as one of the few still ‘operating’ warframes that are gathered on the grisly ship, one of many decorated with blood and gore, skin split and bleeding. Others like him lie merely desolate or unresponsive, very few disheveled frames collect in groups, fringing themselves as loners with only a few scant warframes collecting close to the linking airlock. As the number of corpses grow, so does their numbers as more ships connect to the vessel, and their reclusive isolation draws Warren’s attention.
None of them look visibly hurt unlike those that stumble past.
Even as the coms link within the somatic cradle blasts encouragement, that the tides of war have shifted, and the sentients are on the retreat, it drives a pit into the teen’s stomach. Why are they gathering? ‘I don’t like this,’ the teen mumbles, intently focused on the gathering group on the fringes of the cargo space. They leer around the ‘other’ warframes, glancing reading accusatory in their silent conversations.
T’viska only stares down an Orokin soldier as they motioned towards him, releasing a guttural growl as they scuttle pass.
‘What’s the matter, Warren,’ T’viska sighs, his exhaustion bleeding through their connection as he lets his head fall back against the wall, arms lying lax against his propped knees. ‘Wars over, can finally catch a break,’ he breathlessly heaves, body still lying marred with dark scars of injuries unhealed, spotted with his own blood and spatter of sentient gore.
Over the ship’s broadcast system, the news spreads rapidly.
‘Those warframes over there,’ Warren motions through their merged sigh, ‘I don’t like how they’re gathering and looking at everyone…’ T’viska catches sight of a gazing pair.
They look away without incident.
Above them, a voice held in a chipper tone, announces that the fleets are collecting near mercury and that their course is deviating from the collection procedure.
Standing not a few feet from where the loki lies exhausted, a soldier brings up hopes that the Orokin hierarchy will be there. Another notions their disgust, “they better be, we don’t know how much of the empire is left.”
The ship hums beneath them as T’viska remains in his recess. Finally granted a reprieve, he doesn’t hesitate to let his senses draw close, lying back with a hearty sigh. His skin seals out the small pricklings of glass fragments as his skin begins to mend anew, ever so graciously as blood still clings to his features, blood tinting his cream pelt into rust as he slips into a partial sleep. He tugs the teen’s signal tight; checking that he’s still there.
While his father figure finds rest, its Warren’s turn to stoop in on the conversations, filtering through whatever nonsense the soldiers converse among themselves. They dismiss the ‘tin suits’ around them as they pass, some spitting down with a slurring curse.
With nothing else to do, he can’t help but to listen in; and still as ever vigilant about the clustering warframes as they migrate away from the airlock hatches. He tries to beam a cross communication towards them – but their signal has been drawn tight, more established as their presence stings against Warren’s tongue within his somatic cradle. He wonders if they’re a part of the ‘Margulis’ clutch – rumors he heard from other kids the few times he was allowed to wander among them.
Warren draws himself through T’viska’s nerves, merging with the diluted sense as the loki remains in his partial sleep. The warframe pulls the somatic signal close in the mock of a hug, a gesture the teen returns as he remains alert, watching the carrier’s bumbling activity as the soldiers turn more celebratory… and aggressive towards the stacked pile of corpses. He winces as he watches them kick long dead bodies, talking amongst themselves their hatred of the war machines.
He’s almost startled by the trinity hovering over him and his adopted father, their head turned half cant as their energy swarms across their transparent cranium. Their silence lingers as they look over the resting loki, almost curious before a somatic signal scrapes against Warren’s own. Its pitch drives him to flinch, ears ringing as he cautiously draws the loki to shuffle in his exhaustion driven sleep. Hopeful that they’ll leave T’viska alone.
And they do, collecting back to their hushed clustering.
‘Warren,’ T’viska whispers through their meld of thoughts, ‘don’t push them.’
‘I wasn’t…’
‘I know,’ the loki sighs, striving to draw a gesture to comfort Warren’s trembling concentration. ‘Just get some rest…don’t push yourself too much.’
Warren draws himself silent, drifting down to the loki’s firm hold. ‘Alright… I just… don’t know.’
‘Worry about it later,’ T’viska breathes, ‘we’ll be fine.’
They remain in that state until a pilot sets up a live transmission, letting the voice of the Orokin high consul speak loud and clear, presiding over the vast network of ships surrounding the half-carved planetoid. The soldiers had already begun grouping themselves in a rounding collection, hooting and hollering as the last fragments of the warframes sit back and watch their future play out.
Warren watches the ones from what he remembers as Margulis’ clutch fiddle, nervously glancing, a scant few pacing as the voice above resounds their gratitude for the metal warriors that defeated the sentients. The lives lost were not in vain, the vast contributions of manpower and metal vessels granting them this victory – a voice coopting the warframes with the ships now left in ruin.
‘Dad,’ Warren whispers, only half listening to the speech carving into his stomach, more attentive to the grouping of warframes that stare down the grouping of soldiers. As though their gaze was their blades, as the Orokin speaker praises the warframes for defeating the sentients – an emotionless statement as it disregards the dead wasting away. Truth buried beneath bureaucracy.
‘It’ll be over soon, Warren,’ T’viska sighs, motioning through their somatic link a fainting reassurance. ‘Its just the Orokin announcing their bullshit, it’ll be over and done soon enough.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Warren sighs in return, ‘but those warframes over there… they’ve been staring at the soldiers. It’s like they’re waiting for something.’
Through the transmission, the appraisal turns to remorse; acknowledging the colonies lost, that the empire’s people are left suffering in the aftermath of war.
‘Could be just waiting for the shit show to be over with,’ the loki briefly shrugs, easing himself back against the structure as he stretches. ‘I know I am.’
‘Yeah… I guess.’
Instruments resound through the speakers above them as the speaking Orokin returns to their triumph as an empire, and T’viska turns his sight to the fidgeting frames. ‘They could just be nervous,’ he suggests, ticking a finger to the tune of the naga drums. ‘They don’t look too torn up,’ he muses, churning back to Warren’s somatic sig-
There’s a snap.
T’viska hisses as electricity sparks through his thoughts, a hand digging against his head as heat bleeds along his spine. Around him, there’s vicious growls, others making similar motions.
The gathered, and still standing, warframes make no such motion.
Static courses through the loki’s thoughts as he tries to find the source of the burst, shuffling forward and searches for Warren’s signal, to make sure he’s alright. ‘Warren?’
No response.
‘Warren?’ he hushes through his mind, golden claws digging beneath his horn as he tries to browse through the remnants of their somatic connection. “Warren?!” he growls, pulling himself to sway on his feet, sight tilted down as he tries to find something to grasp in his mind.
He’d always respond; but he’s not there.
Warren’s gone.
T’viska’s head snaps up as the beat of the naga drums slam into vicious screams, torn into garbling gore that cast the once jubilus soldiers to freeze and their booze filled festivities to dawn silent. It’s sounds that twist through T’viska’s stomach as he stands on the edge of the ship’s occupants, looking amongst the screams of other warframes and other stunned occupants.
His sight lands on the group Warren had been watching.
And they stare back.
Fingers imbed themselves into T’viska’s skin, yanking him back in a frantic heave as he’s forced to turn into the garbled scream of a frantic frost. His attempts to pry himself free are counted by their bulking strength, digging against his skin before their attention turns – watching eviscerating ribbons of red spatters across the cargo hold, body parts slouching down as the soldiers scream a choir of fear.
The warframes Warren was worried about tear through the soldier’s undercoats with ease – their armor long forgotten in turn for their celebration. Evisceration paints the stunned occupants as claws twist into anxious abdomens, carving through skin to let organs flow free.
T’viska shoves the frost away, slender legs letting him dodge around an anxious grapple – their voice rumbling a pleading confusion. Above them, the unhalted transmission continues to ring an alert.
Lua is gone, and so is the Orokin hierarchy.
‘Warren was on the moon,’ T’viska dreads, his features twisting into a scowl.
He’s gone…
He’s got no one…
T’viska’s stupor is winded out of him as hands yank his arm, caroling him between one of the assaulting warframe and the young man clinging against his side. He pleas against the loki’s back as the massacre plays out, a barren observer turned shield as a trinity knocks him out of the way – reactively, the loki keeps himself between the sword-wielding trinity.
Their energy bleeds into accusation as words hiss through their throat, tossing an elbow towards T’viska’s gut as he steps back, yanking the scared soldier behind him as though he was Warren – his emotional restraint bleeds, catching the blade in his forearm.
“What’s going on,” he growls to the trinity; and their response is another flurry against his arm, hissing as his black blood coats the ground.
Another frame yanks him away from the soldier, claws digging into his forearm as he’s thrown into the open airlock.
It snaps behind him as he tries to find his legs; before they’re sucked out beneath him, ejected into the depths of space as air bursts out his lungs. His ventilation systems snap shut as he falters through space, clawing through the tethers drifting from another vessel, trying to find hold as his thoughts race.
Despite his predicament – he can survive this, looking back to where his body drifts.
Caught smuggling weapons to rebelling colonies, there’s nothing left to look forward to. Fastened into a chair, needle dug into restrained veins; an interrogation to end with a bloody snarl.
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The rattle of shackles signals his consciousness as the overhead lights bloom, surging in electric hums as the door opposite to him slips closed – their status lights beaming red. Locked. There’s nothing between him and the administer … a cheeky name given to those presiding over interrogations. In the rattle of sturdy metal Trey tests his restraints; but for what end? The golden cuffs chafe around his wrists, spurs digging into his exposed paled skin trembling in the coercing cold. Where he once wore a uniform, he lies bared – saved only by raggedy pants stained by blood.
“Are you ready to talk, 20964?” The hooded figure smirks beneath the fabric hiding their eyes – their features twisted by augmentation and golden orokin gilding chest down. A hand gestures over towards a side wall as they sit within a seat across from him – sitting beside vials of inky red fluid in tear-drop containers.
He struggles again, pulling his throat against the restraint forcing his upper body flat against the grating sensation against his spine – hissing as fragments of memories kick in. Blood still oozes from a dent in his forehead, a pain blinding his memory as he hopelessly seeks relief. “Why would I?” He growls, settling back into the pain digging into his spine – centering at the base of his neck.
“You see,” the other starts, heaving themselves to sit comfortably in their cushioned chair, their brilliant robes draping ever so elegantly over the delicate carved arm rests, swaying on a soundless swivel. “You got yourself in quite the predicament, 20964.”
“It’s Trey,” he hisses, pain-squinting eyes darting around the room – no escape. A sealed room with only one exit behind the Orokin Administer.
“That name does not matter,” their blue-toned lips curl, brilliant against their gently greyed skin. “All traces have been scrubbed from the manifests.”
Within the debilitating chair, Trey still searches, grazing over the pre-scratched edges of the well-worn seat – shards prodding into his sides and back. Damages baring hints at the results of others put within the same chair, of wounds that pooled beneath the grinding swivel locking him into place and staring at the Administer and their daunting array of devices.
And Trey says nothing, throwing his head to the side to merely brush hair from his eyes.
Defiant.
The Administer stares, a sigh, rising themselves to a height modified for grand statue, to impose dominance over those to be interrogated for crimes against the Orokin empire. A smirk crosses their features, a grin twisted by re-arranged teeth to be hauntingly flawless and gleaming. They take Trey’s chin in their gilded hand – enrapturing and sharp it presses at his shivering skin, cold metal slicing a bead of blood from his throat. “Poor little smuggler, you don’t even exist anymore;” they start, their once covered eyes gleaming from beneath the brilliantly embroidered hood, “you’re nothing.”
In an attempt to snap his head away the metal slices him again, letting blood drip down his captive throat. Trey growls, glaring at the imposing Administer as they stand at their full height and push the chair backwards – his feet dangling from the floor. Helpless. “I don’t care, Orokin.” And the chair snaps back, causing him to gag and choke, straining to hold himself as the interrogator returns to their comfortable chair.
“I don’t think that sentiment will last long,” they smile beneath their hood, drawing one of the vials from their side table. “Do you know what this is?”
“I don’t care,” the former courier hisses between choking coughs, knuckles straining against the rough edges of his chair.
“I have – excellent – knowledge, that you do, 20964,” they dance it between their palms, drawing up a transparent manifest salvaged from the wipe. “You know about the gardens; you personally delivered these canisters yourself under our behest.”
It was true… carrying the canisters to drop points around malnourished colonies, told that they’d make the population flourish. An order from Executor Ballas to deliver to the so far neglected outposts that he was already supplying with aid he could manage around the system. Their weight, ever so heavy as the Administer balances them carelessly between their palms.
Matter made to transform, give new life to the poor and neglected … was about as correct the material was described as. It did transform matter it contacted, given the downtrodden people beneath the Orokin Empire new life… They flourished together, a conglomerate of flesh and blood oozing and chiding in a mass of organs and tissue, blooming in sickly flora on his return.
In his hands, a small case of stagnant nutrients to help the colony in their spiritual ceremony, a clawing in his chest as a town lies twisted in an ill mass amongst dilapidated buildings torn to shreds. Cloth lingering stained with the blood of a massacre and the oozing flora lingering and stinging the air with miasma. A scent digging through his inflight respirator as he stands beneath his courier ship – the makeshift basket dropped at his feet….
“I don’t recall,” Trey bites his lip as the pain in his spine surges, shoulders seizing as it sparks between and aches against the scratching knobs at his back. “I only delivered things; I can never recall which I delivered where. Scan and drop, that’s what I did.”
“I hear what you are saying,” they sigh, pulling up the tube digging into Trey’s inner elbow. It makes him hiss, the inserted needle affixed into place by spires. “But there’s no reason to believe someone that doesn’t exist anymore, isn’t it?” Trey’s eyes spark with fear as the Administer slide the canister open, easing the ill sack into their palm and inserting the spout end into the drip.
“I heard Ballas’ gardens were magnificent,” they chide, sitting back as their hands knead the ill fluid down the tube. There’s only a gentle sway as Trey tries to pull away, yet he’s kept firmly in place by wrist and neck, fighting against the chilling cold restraints in desperation. “They make for such fine experiment grounds, those colonies. We have to at least thank you for the service of keeping them alive for so long,” they laugh, tilting their brilliant golden sight as the courier writhes in pain, veins engorging with the sickly fluid oozing into his veins.
“You know how hard it was to remove someone as hard working as you from the manifests?” the Administer scolds, pushing the agonizing fluid to swarm into Trey’s veins, kneading another agonized choked cry from Trey. It blooms through his nerves, overloading his senses as it burns through his elbow and shoulder, fingers digging against the arm rest as he tries to pull away from the pain – much to the Administer’s amusement. “You were instrumental to so many tests on our subordinate populous; why now do you choose to rebel when we’re in the middle of a war?”
Teeth gnashing, breath heaving as his veins strain to absorb the virus that begins to course through him; it’s too much, he wheezes, head thrown back as it crawls through his heart and chest. It swarms through him in a torrent of unassuming agony, like daggers tracing through each individual nerve ending, sparking him into silence as the Administer’s words fall onto ears made deaf – the pain is too much.
There’s no solace for him as the bag drains, his nerves crawling with microscopic prickles of pain, jolting him aware and agonized as his eyes remain shut. A hand cups his face downwards, forcing him to stare at his tormenter with a stern glare. “I’m not telling you anything,” he hisses, coughing as his throat tightens up in pain. And, to his defiance, their dagger sharp nail digs into his heaving stomach, cutting into his gut.
“You -will- talk, 20964, but I’m certain that you’ve already made your choice at the start,” they sigh, yanking his insides towards them, making him agonize and writhe. “That fluid, is not the same as what you delivered,” they grin beneath the hallowing hood, “it was specially crafted by dear executor Ballas’ command. You’re not suited to become a blooming garden… at least not yet.” And they release his side, letting Trey ache and strain, blood dripping over his pants as he heaves.
“You Orokin, are tyrants,” Trey snarls, trying his best to itch the crawling beneath his skin, the agony sparking in every muscular movement as he tries to find an unyielding comfort. “I know how you fucks operate,” he growls, hissing as he arches from the crawling inside his veins. “Everything is just paneling for the next greatness, even you –“ and he bites his tongue as pain surges through his stomach – a blade sticking out of his middle where it’s been jammed into his guts.
“Shut your mouth,” sternly states the administer, twisting the knife with a self-assuring twitch. “There’s nothing left for you to achieve, traitor. This fluid,” they motion to the other five canisters, filled with the same illing liquid that churns Trey’s stomach – though he can’t feel it as much with a knife twisted inside his guts. His legs contort below him as he tries to kick the Administer away, faltering as their armor is flawlessly sleek, bare feet sliding from it as he’s pushed back once more.
And he shutters as the chair falls forward again, gasping as blood pours from the stab wound over his pants – overlapping the other soak stains that decorate it. The blade glides against his arm, smearing his blood against his skin, removing it completely from the blade as the Administer returns to their comfortable chair, letting it lie against their robe as they pop another bag from a canister. “The coordinates of the suppliers, where are they?”
“I’m not telling,” Trey gasps, watching as the fluid begins to ooze through the IV again.
“Who are your contacts, to smuggle the weapons from?”
“I’m not telling,” Trey writhes, feet and hands twisting as the burning fluid courses through his nerves.
“The location; the weapon storage,” where is it?”
“Fuck you,” Trey hisses, aching as his nerves are alight again by the jagged feeling, his veins bulging as the infested fluid coats through his body, drawing him to gasp as it strikes through his heart and the pain contorts. He growls as the pain surges through his organs, hammering in his throat, burning through his cortex and making him queasy.
And he throws up, choking against the restraint around his neck, throat burning as any meal he once had spreads down over his bleeding gut and stained pants. It’s never-the-less another result of the agonizing pain, his eyes squeezing shut as he contorts, legs pushing against the floor as his blood begins to fizzle, sparking his nerves again senseless as his thoughts go blank.
There’s nothing but pain. Jagged and stabbing as he can only endure it as sickly fluid drips against his skin – his blood and sick making him queasy yet again as the pungent smell festers.
The Administer continues to sit there, kneading the fluid into his veins, staring and bored.
He doesn’t wait for the initial pain to subside as the bag runs empty.
“I will ask again; where did you get the weapons?”
“I said,” Trey gasps, choking as his stomach rolls over – at least it felt like it did, “fuck. You.”
They sigh from where they sat, picking up another canister. “You know, this is disappointing. You had such promise,” they chide, turning their frown towards him. “But you had to go and get soft; now did you?”
Trey only glares back, breath huffing as he tries to restrain himself in the restraints.
“Why don’t you explain to me, what you think this might do?” And Trey at first says nothing, only glaring, “come on, don’t be shy.” And pops the third bag of viral liquid into the IV connector.
“Another Orokin bioweapon,” is all Trey curses, spitting in the Administer’s general direction. “Go ahead and turn me into a pile of goo; I’m not saying anything.”
“Oh, this won’t turn you into a pile of goo,” they grin, gently squeezing the bag of fluid to rush into Trey’s veins. “You’ll become a tool once more, a frame for war under Orokin control.” And Trey’s teeth grit, features twisted as the matter plunges through his veins, writhing as veins burst from the overloading fluids. “You will not think for yourself anymore… what was your name again?”
Trey’s unable to speak, his voice cracking as his organs begin to puddle in his abdomen, sickly grey fluid gushing from the stab wound in his gut.
“Oh, that’s right. You don’t have a name!” They laugh, “You’re nothing! But, at least you will still be of use,” they smile, pushing the bag against their knee, pushing the fluid through the straining IV. “But, there is still time to say where you got the weapons from, 20964. Fess up, and I’ll end your suffering.”
Barely conscious, swarmed in agony, Trey grits his teeth, staring down beneath his sweat coated bangs.
“FUCK. YOU.”
The Administer frowns. “So be it, then,” picking up their knife. “That was your final choice; either to ‘volunteer’ or not. You were a good pilot, it’s sad to see you come to this.”
A bold-faced lie.
Trey’s helpless as they grab his jaw, forcing his head backwards as the knife spreads his mouth wider – tears dripping over his slopping teeth as his muscles slop beneath his control.
As he stares up – the Administer’s eyes are glowing, “open wide.”
And he can’t fight it, helpless as his jaw trembles wide, his cheeks split and bleeding.
The blade dances beneath his tongue, jamming itself between his teeth and throat as it cuts and slices – eyes watering closed as the pain in his mouth is nothing to the fizzling in his gut.
There’s a flop against his lap; his mouth bleeding no matter how much he tries … he can’t spit, only able to drool as his head hangs lull.
Saliva and blood oozes over the restraints, dripping over hands trying to cradle his head steady as the blade dances further up his face.
And prods against his eyes.
Noise is nothing as fluid drips down his cheeks – eyelids sagging as objects once holding them sink into their sockets empty of fluid.
“Fak oou,” he whimpers, trembling beneath the resurging pain.
Nothing.
He can see nothing.
His eyes are fucking gone.
Hands knead against the arm rests as he hears the Administer step away, their knife sliding again against his bare arms as they mumble beneath their breath.
“Now I’ve gone and gotten my robes dirty,” they complain, tinkering with objects on their side table.
Another bag, is all he can figure, listening to them fumble, ready for the agonizing rush through his liquidating veins.
Again, it hits like a hammer, feeling his body contort under the viral bombardment, senses twisting as he can only dripple whatever is left in his gut. Writhing, agonizing, he can feel his body go numb and burning, kicking against the floor as tries to push it all away – useless. “Try all you might,” the Administer musters, “but you made your choice.”
His body…. He can’t feel his body as he tries to twist in the restraints, until his bones begin to snap.
Then it’s nothing but gargling screams, haplessly struggling as bones snap like twigs, skin stretching and tearing as the infestation takes his flesh as its own. Inside his elbow he can feel the fluid oozing again – was it the final bag? He’s uncertain as all he can feel is unrelenting pain, blooming him jagged and anxious, burning for any solace, any peace as he can hear his body contort in putty metamorphosis. He can feel the Administer’s presence – they’re just watching him, watching him suffer.
Watching his body blooming hollow and angry, what remains of his voice gagging and twisting, agonizing as it turns from whimpering cries to guttural growls – his mine reading blank as all can be felt is the unbridled pain. What did he do to deserve this? He can’t even remember – not like he was in any state to as he pulls against the restraints, struggling as the other voice just laughs.
How Orokin of them.
How very Orokin.
And it echoes in his mind as his body shells itself, snapping the restraints, hands digging through soft and malleable.
How very Orokin they taste.
Metallic. Bitter.
Claws, sharp and jagged, dig into fabric and jaw, scooping through fragmenting skull bones as his back cracks and bones snap into place. Its not done, he can feel as the pain corrodes through his spine, reaching back for the shape embedded at the base of his neck. Yet all is found is skin, skin twisting under his transformation as all his mind can bend is to pain, the suffering, the anger boiling through his gut as his claws dig through the flesh of Orokin tyranny.
But were they really Orokin?
It doesn’t matter, his senseless mind concludes, engorging himself on their face, tearing through their chest rending their fabric.
Anger.
Rage festers through him as he yanks through the bones, picking through the remains.
He’s so hungry.
And plucks through their flesh, peeling strips from the bones before biting through to the marrow.
His stomach aches, burdened and yet…
So hollow and empty.
It festers inside him as he picks through the messy fabric, frantic as he picks through the devices laid upon the table beside the chair – no flesh to eat.
It collides with the side wall, crashing as he snaps himself around the room for a means to escape, to feed the burning starvation inside his gut. Claws find nothing against the sleek walls, scratching helplessly as he’s left blind, driven by instinct to eat – escape, escape from here.
His mind rings silent as he digs against the structure, finding the door and wailing, screaming to be let out.
But there’s nothing.
And pacing doesn’t help – as his legs wobble beneath him, crawling and scratching as he incircles the room, jumping towards the lighting fixture for any crack – and nothing.
There’s nothing to eat, his mind fines folly, his only sense of direction being a mental map, the sound of things clattering on his body as it finally begins to settle around a mind ringing null.
Where is he… his mind slurs, only a figment of wording as senses run recesses, looping in confusion as he tries anything, biting through the fabric remains of a body left with him.
And there’s no questions where he is.
No quandary about what happened, as his stomach aches for food.
Not even as a pressure tightens around his chest, squeezing his arms against his side, struggling to fight free of sudden captivity. His voice neither cries or asks, only screeches and growls, mind numb to the noises around him, the banter he’s unable to concentrate on. The conversation about him as he’s held in restraints and lashes out with a serrating mouth – snarling like a mad beast.
“There’s nothing left in this one,” a voice sighs, forcing weight down onto a dark tan back while avoiding the curled horns lashing back. “What a fucking idiot, locking himself up while administering the serum,” and barely prevents the freshly metamorphized warframe from rolling over – straining to take a bite out of their shoulder.
“What should we do with it, any idea who it was?” Another spits, tying up legs striking out towards the trio.
“No idea, manifest has already been wiped. Just get them out to the next transference transport, might find some use there,” the first sighs, watching the loki struggle and hiss, claws tied behind his back and snarling.
Nrtya stares into the enveloping black, emotionally numb as his mind swims as he tries to settle his taut nerves. Despite his attempts, a voice grinds at his restraints, body trembling as stones tap on wood.
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The hum of the liset’s void mask lets his mind drift unobstructed; focus honed to the paced breath escaping reformed lungs, the shifting of a dark scarf laid between crossed legs as it lifts and eases down against his sword-steel skin as his palms lie barren. He thinks of nothing, only of the inhale and exhale, his glazed vision drifting down from closure to the skiajati laid out on the blanket in front of him, a glance of reassurance that it’s still there. The singular eye drifts closed again amongst the mass of exposed flesh, where veins echo tainted blue energy around his sullen eye.
In front of him, in the thick glass separating him from the empty voids of space, lingers his reflection.
An encrustment of faded gold stands firmly in the center of his helm – his head – and trails down along the sides of the prominent jut that provokes the silhouette of an excalibur warframe. The gilding is twisted by the exposing damage on the left side, leaving his vision exposed, the innards of his firm features laid bare and pink with maddened flesh. Aside from his gilding, a rarity, it was a distinction of who he is.
Not of who he was.
Breathing sighs as he adjusts himself, feeling along his biceps his escaping breath from unseen vents tucked against his sides, along ribs refashioned for his broader chest, an increased capacity. This body, so comforting yet so foreign. That he was not his yet, it was. It was regrettably his own despite being reformed by the tenno in the other room.
Even I make mistakes, like you.
His constituted, formless brow squeezes; pressuring the memory from his thoughts as he focuses outward beyond himself. Fingers drawn over the scarf lingering around his neck, rubbing the fabric between forefinger and thumb as he focuses on the physical world around him. The mild hum of the void mask engines as prevents its presence to the passing corpus ships – shapes dulled and their lights outlining their rounded features. He watches it beyond the glass, drawing breath within himself as its where his focus shapes. To his predicament, his situation.
Stay on the ship, stay out of trouble. That’s all his directives he was given before the teen’s parental figure headed out for a long mission. It’d take a tentative week or so, the warframe had estimated before leaving the ship; leaving him alone with the kid and a different warframe with back-bent horns. An ‘oberon’ or whichever they were referred to as being – too different from him, too uncomfortable to fathom as he isolated himself from the others.
All he needs is space, as he closes his eye once more; breath exhaling against his biceps lying limp against his chest. They just need to leave him be, to come to terms with the reality within self-isolation.
Embroidered by thought he refocuses again, distraction tempting as the void mask around the ship begins to dissipate, the empty air refilled with the ambience of the ship’s normal functions in a regulated cloak as it drifts in orbit. Technological clicks merge into the backing of noise, analysis of system functions running routine. Music whispers around him, singing faintly as his head drifts back serene, calming, listening to the mellow sounds taking him adrift in his mental landscape and retain placidity.
If only it would remain thus; the clicking of something foreign taps.
And another.
He rejects the taunting against his nerves, carving his attention back to the meditation and away from the disruption. It’s a distant noise, a brief nuance in the variety surrounding him in humming machinery, the rustle of bobbing bonsais, the texture of his deep umber skin and the fibers of his loose flowing scarf. There’s always something he attunes to and pull him back, drawing himself away from the sound of what seems to be … stone on a hard surface. Smooth. Small. A dainty tap as it makes contact.
His singular brow presses against the flesh crafted into his cranem jut, trying to push out the thoughts, the memories forming, away.
It just won’t stop.
A black stone placed.
Tapping.
A white stone is laid.
Again.
A carnal shake doesn’t displace the feeling oozing through his gut, the dread sinking through his nerves; the visceral and the carnal. Desperate to evoke himself back to silence, staring out into the emptiness and his own glazed sight in his reflection. Skin formed into sword-steel, darken, saturating in the depths of space as gold gilding reflects the backing light of the quarters. A hideous visage reflected, a body his own but also not. Skin made of infested flesh, yet smooth beside his damaged face where his eye squints alone.
A tap, followed by another.
The eye closes, energy surging as he tries to focus himself to the foliage around him. The humming electronics. The texture of his scarf as he pulls it against his side.
Tap.
Anywhere but his memories, he tries to draw himself.
Tap.
His fists ball against his thighs, the scarf around his neck tightens as he loses track of his breathing. Relentlessly he tries to keep his focus contained, away from the figments forming, digging against his anxious nerves as his hand plays with the coils of his dark scarf. It draws the curled fabric tighter against a muted scar, a carryover from his transformation, the congealing of organic matter permanently scarred.
He chokes.
Voice hoarse, barely a cry as his memories flash.
Laid upon a hospital bed, tucked tightly, body bound, unable to move as the Orokin sits with leg over knee. He can’t breathe, struggling in the concealed binds.
Ballas is staring. Luminous eyes glowing.
The faint of a callous smile.
A click.
His hand around his throat presses against the sullen wound, a tinge of pain that draws him back to the present of staring out into the unending black. It’s a false comfort as the anxiety bleeds, his glazed eye reflecting the tinted bleached blue energy swarming beneath his umber skin and destressed gilding. Fingers press around the faint of the wound, a reminder of the one memory that remained prior to being taken in by the teen and their warframes. He was not like them, there was no one like him.
Tap.
Palm pressed against the floor, he hoists himself up, exhaling a breath he had unattentively holding, drawing breath quickly as the skiajati is held tightly against his side. Almost conjoined to his hip, he rises to his full towering height, lording over the surrounding bonsais and flowering plants that decorate the meditation platform. He pressures the memories away even as they fleet at the edge of his attention, drawn against his nerves as the incessant tapping persists beyond the closed door into the small quarters.
Anxiety draws him away from investigating and hesitation makes him still; yet he needs to know, discomfort a primary that forces him to move. Despite the crawling within his nerves, the anxiousness that dampens his mood, his movements display as a façade of calm as he wanders up the curling stairs around the flora display. It’s merely a falsehood of stability, his lack of visible stability his only salvation from trembling as he steps towards the tap of stones.
It beats within his temple like naga drums, a daft percussion as the door eases itself open with a vocal hiss.
His inability to express himself is a double-edged vice; suited more for the dredge of battle than in the company of discomfort. Unable to speak, expression null by contorted flesh aside from a sullen eye glazed by disease and painted stark white. His voice; taken from him; leaving only a berserker howl from mutated lungs and barely the figment of a whisper as he breathes – his wheeze a sound only he is so privy to hearing.
The stone taps that extubate his anxiety meld with his mild wheezing; two sounds that draw him back to trauma.
Lied back on a bed unable to move, voice taken from him, a pain jolting through his body as he’s forced to move figments of black stones. The difficulty of concentrating on playing, to satisfy a mocking emotionless mouth. Golden sight baring down at him; cold and taunting.
Tap.
At the corner his motion slows moreso, half standing on the ramp towards the central hub of operation and leaning in to peek with concealed sight.
It’s the teen, hair tussled from clawed fingers running through front to back before it scratches the head of their resting two-toned kavat. Across from them sits the boy’s oberon, the warframe hunched down and staring intently at the item between them. As he peers further, it’s a goban, decorated with black and white stones.
A wave of relief coaxes through his systems. Ballas hasn’t come back for him.
But the sound of the tapping stones still draws him anxious. Too close to the panic he felt so long ago, a reminder of what he’s lost and of the pain he was put through.
The oberon catches sight, and then the teen does.
“Oh, Nrtya!” the teen calls.
The umbra barely flinches, restoring himself to a nearly proud stance – his first instinct.
“Would you like to play-“ the teen starts.
“- a game of komi?” his anxiety finishes, reliving the surge of pain digging around his throat, held reveled around his wrists making him plank stiff. Nrtya barely raises his hand and fingers brush down in a brief dismissal, forcing himself to breathe, to relax. It’s not the executor; he’s safe; he’s okay – but he knows he’s not actually okay as panic storms through his stoic shape. Nrtya fumbles to remember the teen’s name – Warren, was it? He can’t be sure as his mind continues to swarm with trauma received by Ballas.
Warren goes silent as he watches the umbra’s posture shift. Nrtya’s posture displays an air of discomfort inadvertently as he wavers in place; standing separated by a structure strut from the goban despite Warren sitting between him and the block. Fingers dig against where they lie, the skiajati held angular down for fight or flight, his breathing slow yet whining very faint. The teen’s singular visible eye traces over the umbra’s both language, his partly concealed mouth dips to one side in a sympathetic frown – jagged and toothy on the other.
“Sorry,” he whispers, guiding the kavat’s face away from his side as he motions to stand. Digitigrade feet carry him to his full height – mutated legs remarking him taller than the stature of teenren untampered by the void. Dark claws paw against the floor in idle thought, straining to find his words. “I forgot about… yeah,” he fumbles. “were we playing too loud, Nrtya?”
The umbra doesn’t respond, keeping himself anchored beside the column.
Warren doesn’t shift from his position, hesitant to making any aggressive movements. “I’ll try to keep it down, find another surface we can use,” a toothy smile grins warm. “I’ll see if Obses can’t put audio dampeners on the personal quarters, let you have some peace and quiet.”
Nrtya doesn’t respond; but he does move, letting the skiajati lie against his thigh, his palm hooking over the smooth sheath made of his flesh.
There’s a moment of pause before the umbra moves himself away from the pair, wandering back into the personal quarters to quell his burning anxiety. An aching expressed in his slowed steps as Warren watches Nrtya walk away.
The kavat winds itself against Warren’s thigh, butting and nipping at his hand for more attention. His hand drifts down and scratches it behind the ear as hi listens to Nrtya’s shallow steps, the sound of the quarter door opening and closing. He whispers down at the kavat before looking back to where the oberon sits crouched, tapping a white stone against its snarling concentrating teeth. “Kiln,” he whispers, “stop that.”
The oberon grumbles in response, dropping the piece back into the basket beside the goban.
…
A heavy sigh heaves from the umbra as his single gaze opens to the depths again, the liset rising over the horizon of Saturn and rising up through the clouds of debris. Nrtya is motionless as he watches the accent through the side of the ship, accustomed to the settled transition of below to above as it’s been since the tenno’s warframe left. He hasn’t paid much mind to count the hours, the ship cephalon already had that responsibility. They’ll be back eventually, he figures, taking a deep breath and exhaling once more into the cooled atmosphere of the homelier quarters.
The flora sits perked around him and the mute ayatan sculptures, items that would’ve been a cause of great duress before due to their ambiguous nature. But, their rhythmical motions made it easier to disrupt his anxiety, entranced for a brief time until he was able to keep himself away from the burning thought. It was the teen’s idea to introduce them; of course, he had his apprehension, foreign objects introduced into his meditation routine, retrieved from some place unknown to him.
He was given something foreign along with it; a choice of ambiance as dampeners are put in place around the room – leaving him separated from the rest of the ship. The ambience, a serene song of occasional plucked chords, the quiet whisper of a drifting stream, the gentle sound of wind established around him at his own discretion. It’s a first, to have a semblance of control over his environment.
His breathing is calm, yet his joints radiate tension from sitting still for so long, adrift in his own null thoughts on nothing in particular. They scream for movement, to stretch, to lunge and eviscerate; a carnal side he despises due to its bestial desires – and its origin.
“Trouble concentrating, old friend?” the single sullen brow presses against his exposed flesh, hand drifting up along the folds of the long scarf and feeling over the lingering scar felt faint beneath his fingertips. A ghost snaking through his nerves, imagery of staring down glowing eyes that feed him anguishing truths as he lied drugged and dazed – forced to play through the nerve damage tingling through fingers and bone. A swarm presses inside his mind, his fingers pressing around his throat and grasping it as his breathing wheezes.
“Umbra,” the ship cephalon starts, and stops, correcting itself, “Nrtya.” He’s broken out of the repeating memory as he stares at the ceiling – where the cephalon’s voice resides. “Would you prefer another soundscape? Your stress levels have risen above the specified threshold.”
With a chuff, Nrtya rises to his feet and plucks the skiajati from the nook between the kneeling cushion and the thick observation glass. It’s not the noise, he just needs to move; that’s all he rationalizes. Just too stuffed up in the lingering ship to be anything but neurotic. He’s taken time to meditation, letting his mind drift to and fro; he needs to stretch his legs, pace around the ship a couple times and do something besides being static. Perhaps memorize the layout of the ship in case anything was to happen.
His steps are slow as he moves to the back of the room, where the dampeners are the weakest, where the ship’s ambient hum overtakes the customized soundscape and where the door slide open with a hiss. There’s a hesitant flinch that crawls over his shoulders as the thick blocks are cradled by their interior housing, leading him out into the open space of the lower galley. The cephalon’s core hums below the center region as he wanders, investigating the stunted growth firmly ingrained into the ship’s paneling. He doesn’t stray too far however, a sense of unease swarming before he maneuvers himself to where the operation hub rests in the upper galley. The machinery sits quiet, the slate grey panels reflecting sunset orange light as he traces over the sleek white bordering.
The style, distinctly not orokin; comfortable, not orokin.
On the far end the ramp is held up tight, the navigation systems closed off until the tenno’s warframe returns. There was a strain between the two he felt as he stepped aboard of his own volition – a hesitation from the heavily scarred loki as the umbra passed without a word. Too mentally strained, leaving the tenno’s side as he just wanted some peace; their words tense as he found a place to settle.
His dark fingers graze over the surface as he looks to the center of the galley, where the teen had set up the day prior – it was yesterday, wasn’t it? There was no indication in how much time has passed since he last left the personal quarters – that was the cephalon’s job. And he couldn’t just ask. His hand drifts away from the sleek surface and beneath his scarf, grazing at the remnant scar.
Nerves jolt as something grazes along his thigh, reaction quicker than thought as he smacks downward towards the offending touch. Warren’s kavat jumps away, tail flickering as its faint blue energy glows through squinting eyes. Nrtya goes still, his hand held firmly idle as he processes what had just happened. The cat creature was just seeking attention… he’s unsure what to do and holds out his palm that he had swatted the kavat with. He strains to make some sort of noise; a soft breath as he squats with his hand held out.
The kavat leers at him, but slowly crouches forth and smells his fingers.
It doesn’t proceed any further and instead wanders back around to the lower galley with a low meow.
Still knelt on the floor Nrtya watches the creature vanish down the ramp, and as it doubles back to peer at him.
He was never good at reading body language. Nrtya stands up again, following the kavat down the ramp and back towards where the transference chamber resides. It stands on its back legs, scratching at the sealed door, and meows. It goes unnoticed by the cephalon until Nrtya moves closer, letting him and the kavat into the arboriform lit room. The creature trots around the corner quickly, its short tail vanishing behind a screen panel.
“Rhubarb, how’d you get in here,” the tenno fumes around the corner as Nrtya slowly walks; half curious, half hesitant. He can hear a stone tap on a hard surface, a game in session he had interrupted.
You spied on me, intercepted my communications.
He didn’t mean…
Anxiety chokes out hesitation, curiosity satisfied, he turns heel.
“Nrtya,” a voice whispers behind him, the only thing that brings him to pause and look back.
The kavat wiggles as its held restrained by Warren, meowing and pawing to get free.
“Can you take her out?” The digitgrade tenno slowly approaches him – though the wiggling kavat makes it difficult. “I don’t like having her in here, she gets into trouble.” The kavat’s tufted ears brushes Warren’s short hair around, exposing a voided eye bleed white surrounded by deeply scarred skin.
Nrtya scoops the kavat up, fumbling the creature as he turns around to leave as anxiousness spikes. Its spindly legs make it hard to manage, dropping it back to the floor as soon as he’s out of the room only for the kavat to turn heel and run back in.
“Rhubarb!” And he hears a small scuffle down the short walk into the transference chamber. The umbra watches as the tenno heaves the kavat back into Nrtya’s arms. “Can you watch her for me?” he sighs, fixing his hair back to cover his void tainted eye. “There should be some toys in the personal quarters to entertain her for a while.”
Nrtya nods, holding the disgruntled kavat against his chest as the transference chamber door eases shut.
The kavat meows in his arms, pawing to be let down.
He releases the fawn-marked creature with a steady exhale, watching as it circles in place before it returns to pawing at the door once more. He watches it for a moment, then turns back to the open galley ready to stretch his anxious nerves.
Eventually, the kavat gives up, joining in the circular pace aching for attention and after his wisping scarf.
…
Nearly a week passes before the tenno’s warframe returns. He’s decorated with angry healing wounds, sprayed with sticky blood ichor black and red, and it drips down the white and tan inhuman skin as he paws back aboard the vessel. Warren’s unfazed by his warframe’s gruesome appearance, and it leaves Nrtya to stare as the warframe collapses back on a short stool on the other end of the galley. Blood soaked weapons are callously cast into a stained bin, a later preoccupation for the pair to tend to as the umbra only watches from across the way.
From where he leans against a wall panel leading to the lower galley, he can hear the warframe wheeze through his chest vents. Shaking exhales held firm as a wet rag washes away the blood onto a soaked basin. The loki sits hunched over, elbows lied over knees as his operator cleans away the dark stains and pulls at metal shrapnel clustering in the warframe’s back. Barely a sound rises from the loki as they’re removed piece by piece, the only acknowledgement being the resound of metal as they’re cast aside into an awaiting pail. The wounds reseal as blood begins to welt, padded away as the pair speak barely above a whisper; the loki’s voice strained.
The loki – T’viska, the umbra catches – runs his fingers through the tenno’s hair, ruffling it into a haphazard mess with a tired smile. Warren huffs, dropping the dripping rag to brush his hair back into place. A milky white eye catches sight of Nrtya as he looks away, as does T’viska whose breathing holds firm as he stares the other frame down. Neither of the frames move, a sightless gaze peering into a singular white eye.
Last they met, Nrtya threw T’viska into a wall and nearly choked Warren.
T’viska flinches when Warren presses his thumb into a healing wound, ichor black dripping over his finger. “Dad, it’s okay,” he sighs, “just give him some time to adjust.” The loki relents with a sigh, his shoulders drooping down with his crown, shadowing himself as Warren tends to the damage he sustained in his escape. Metal burns, blood drawn by tracer rounds, a marking of explosive damage laid bare to the bright light of the galley.
Nrtya excuses himself.
As he passes into the personal quarters his singular eye squeezes shut, a hand grasping against the front of his helm as restrained memories swarm. ‘Isaah…’ his soul aches, carrying himself back to the panoramic glass. The skiajati clatters to the side as he drops down onto the cushion in a hurry, knees crumbled against it. Rending disrupts his thoughts, the burning agony biting into his restraint with vicious malformed teeth wrought with infestation. Tearing of metal perturbs his nerves, throwing him back into reliving the trauma. ‘Isaah…’ his vents breath with a deep aching sigh – both hands cradle his face as he kneels forward as his movements lie barely restrained. The memory just won’t stop.
His throat aches as he tries to sob, tries to cry, tries to mourn! But with him trapped inside the melding of flesh, in a body once completely his viciously taken from him. And palms press against his made strange skin, the faded gilding, the exposed flesh crafted within his helm and leaving him with a singular sight that can see into the void itself. Fingers claw against his skin, digging against the flesh as he tries to find something to hold onto, something to become transfixed as he can feel himself breaking down bit by bit.
The realization upon waking up and restrained to a hospital bed, the executor poised with a board laid between them, his son standing by his side unassuming to the horrors before him. If only he knew, if only he knew; but they were dax, there was only the servitude to the orokin. There was nothing he could’ve done to prevent it. But still, it doesn’t cease the burning in his nerves as he crumples down, fists held against the glass staring out into the depths of space as the ship hums through a collective of corpus ships.
The time between, far too long.
But the hurt is deep, scratching as it replays in repeat, a focal lens he’s unable to control.
Don’t worry, old friend. I’m not going to kill your boy…
A jaunt hand raised, an invitation to the horror pilfering his restraint. Made broken, a fist strikes the glass to the cephalon’s muted displeasure. An ill scratching through what could constitute his throat, breath in heavy exhales as he recoils into the surface astrewn. He’s inattentive as he stares into the memory, the infestation burrowed into his body and mind, twisting him into whom he was forced to become and only then breaking the restraints that held him.
You are.
Tearing the restraints as his body metamorphized, a snarling mass of constituted claws and teeth shattering dax armor, rending blood upon the hospital floor as the bastard only watched. Watched how good of a servant the serum turned him into as he claws through Isaah’s dax armor, bit into arms raised in defense and yanked them from their sockets. An uncaring body displaced from a broken mind that can only watch nervously numb. Fist run gory as he strikes again and again, shattering armor with formed metal knuckles and singing gilded claws saturated with maroon. Vision draws away from indulging on warm flesh swallowed in vicious snaps, looking down as life bleeds out of the younger dax’s eyes.
Only then, after his uncontrolled body made his son into ruin, did he have control.
He mourned for what felt like a lifetime until the Orokin commanded him to stand, his front saturated with his son’s blood, he was forced to walk out in his new body. One he caught in a reflection as he left his son’s corpse behind, only giving it one last courtesy glance. He didn’t have to see the Orokin to feel his smile – that he took his will away, his personhood.
If he was able to, he would’ve wrung the Orokin’s neck.
Again the memory relapses, fighting against it as his hands grip against the juts in his forearms, pulling against them as he collapses against the glass. Unable to even cry as his energy flares up.
Across the quarters the door unseals, hissing open.
His energy flares into an exalted blade, the burning energy brimming with anguished ferocity as he scrambles to his feet even as his body trembles. Nerves still run erratic as he holds the blade towards the intruder, the battle-marred loki T’viska, ready for any trickery even as his limbs are still trembling, still reliving the trauma in the backdrop of controlled motions. They stare each other down, vision meeting a lacking sight made of tan and cream. It’s featureless shape unnerves him, unable to read the loki’s emotion as he starts to walk down the curved stairs and around the display that used to separate them.
T’viska plucks a cushion from the rounded couch, still keeping Nrtya in his sights as he moves. The loki’s golden claws are nimble as it grips the white cushion, holding it outstretched behind him as he so casually approaches Nrtya, the exalted blade held against his chest with a mild burn.
And the two stare.
And stare until it’s all Nrtya can think about – the ‘what is he going to do?’ pervades his thoughts.
Just enough to make the umbra hesitate, but not enough for him to withdraw the exalted blade until the loki shifts to kneel – tapping it against the warframe’s bare chest. T’viska stares back, and then, just as casually, puts the cushion down beside Nrtya’s. He kneels as the umbra holds the exalted blade against his nape, letting out a sigh and a worn exhale.
Then a quick inhale. “Join me,” the loki softly snaps, looking up to Nrtya.
Only then does Nrtya displaces his exalted blade; when he’s sure the warframe isn’t interested in hurting him. He adjusts the cushion he collected prior, easing it off to the side to give the loki unassuming space before kneeling upon it.
And again, between them is only silence, leaving the soundscape to prevail.
T’viska’s decorative piercings jingle as he adjusts, pierced through his horns and in the back of his head, tapping against the metal covering his spine as he stretches out his neck. Across the loki’s body rifts of black wounds return mostly healed – excluding the deep scars decorating his chest, ones that makes Nrtya curious. Why didn’t those heal like the rest?
T’viska breathes beside him, looking over to catch Nrtya’s curiosity. He says nothing, but runs his golden claws over the scratches and fogging marks in the glass in front of them – what Nrtya left behind in his erratic episode. It makes Nrtya flinch.
The loki drags his fingers across them, pulling back to rub index middle and thumb. “Panic attack?” he questions, looking over to Nrtya.
It takes him a moment to respond; a slow nod, resenting the embarrassment of such an act.
“It’s okay,” T’viska sighs as Nrtya looks away. The loki’s formed maw frowns as he watches the umbra and looks towards the ceiling. “Obses, hologram please.”
“Certainly,” the cephalon replies, dimming the external glass coating as light ignites in front of it, a display made of series of pinpointing lights narrowed down into their location. T’viska taps away at a dialogue screen, formatting it, navigating it as he searches for a certain function. Not something among the cephalon weave, or to prod through the signals of the ships the liset speeds past, but instead to a simple writing surface.
“Warren, filled me in,” the loki starts, moving back into a kneel. “On what… happened to you.” There’s a pause, a tension as within Nrtya memories threaten to swarm. “Just use this,” T’viska motions in front of them, “to communicate for now… I have another job lined up once we arrive at the destination, and I’ll have to leave again.”
He can feel Nrtya’s hesitation, looking over at him for a moment. Claws trace against the light laid upon the glass, images responding with the gestures, drawing out tenno words. “You had a son, right…?” he questions, to which the umbra nods a confirmation. T’viska sighs, sitting back onto the cushion. “I’m not like you… Nryta. But Warren is my son; I only have a semblance of what you feel.”
Nrtya looks over T’viska, his single solitary white eye narrowed. Then he looks over to the displayed screen on glass, slowly raising his hand to draw out a word in Orokin, the letters slightly distinct from the tenno’s concise language.
‘how?’ is written over the glass in a smooth hand gesture.
At his side T’viska sighs, looking out past the tinted glass to the silent space beyond. There’s a motion to speak – but he thinks other of it, his hand rising to the illuminated screen in front of the glass. Motions trace out words as he begins to speak, “Warren…” he starts, “saved me.” His fingers form a mimicry of what had transpired, a forced connection, the empathetic link, of shared pain.
As the loki’s finger withdraws, a dark digit traces out among the scratchboard, spelling simply among the complex. ‘why?’
T’viska’s golden claw returns to the malleable surface, etching out as he explains the circumstances to the umbra. He allows Nrtya to interrupt him, explain their differences – one transformed, the other a flesh-craft golem given sentience; of one’s loss, the others gain. Their conversation bleeds between verbal and written, the once firm tension dissolving as the ship hums towards its next destination. T’viska will have to run another dangerous espionage mission to keep them afloat, leave Warren again despite how much it pains him – something he is eager to express to Nrtya.
He notions this through voice and gilded claw, looking over with seamed eyes echoing steaming blue.
Please, take care of him for me.
A breath eases from Nrtya’s lungs as he watches Warren and the oberon across the transference chamber, observing the kavat making a nuisance of itself by worming between the two and the goban settled between them. Leaned against the wall, far from the board bound with the burning memory, he’s able to disassociate from it easier, muting out the sound of stone on the fabric covered wood surface.
Don’t concentrate on the object itself, Nrtya. Leave any noise as an afterthought if you want to get comfortable with it again. The loki tried to encourage, feeding him to just watch the two play and not listen to the sound that could trigger his relapse. Taps still resound in his head, tearing himself away before he can get too focused on the noise.
He watches as the kavat viciously rubs against Warren’s face, pushing him as he tries to lay down a stone. “Rhubarb,” the teen curses, wrapping his clawed limb around the creature’s neck, spined elbow easing the creature gently before it flops and drags along the floor. With a stone placed, Warren releases the kavat’s neck, adjusting to not let the creature between him and the block again. But the kavat is persistent, rubbing into the tenno’s loose clothing, pawing at the flaps of cloth that hangs over the teen’s thighs.
Warren grunts, his somatic implants glowing as he tries to ease the kavat away again. “Go bug Nrtya or something, Rhubarb, shoo!” The kavat doesn’t move, too encouraged by the attention.
He grumbles before cupping the kavat between the shoulders and behind its rump, scooting it across the floor and out of the way. Rhubarb looks back over the floor space to where Warren settles back on the cushion, her tail flickering from being unceremoniously moved, expression disgruntled as she is relegated to just lying on the floor and watching.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Warren exasperates, rolling his visible sight as he turns back to the goban.
At the acknowledgement of her presence, the kavat moves back to lying on her legs, shifting to get up before there’s a single snap that makes her pause. Tufted ears twitch towards the source of the sudden noise, glancing back towards the other end of the room where Nrtya has a hand held out.
He watches the creature carefully as he eases down into a crouch, his scarf dangling down around him, dragging across the ground as he anticipates the kavat’s response. It lies still across the room, watching him, waiting; and he snaps his fingers again with a breathing chuff – hoping the creature is able to understand his intention. The kavat lies back down on the floor, rubbing as it looks over towards Nrtya.
“She wants you to come get her,” Warren sighs, placing a piece to claim a forgotten stone. “Ignore her enough, and she’ll come to you.”
Nrtya’s hand drops against his thigh, brushing along the fabrics attached to his person as he watches the kavat between the support beams. It leaves him separated from the other ship’s occupants, but he’s not alone as before and shutting himself out and isolated; and perfectly fine with watching the ongoing game from afar now than before. ‘Give it some time, Nrtya,’ he can remember the loki say as he etched along the holographic display before them, ‘take care of yourself, ease yourself into your comfort zone.’
Dark fingers edge along his fractured feature, staring down at his hand as it pulls away.
Maybe someday. He’s gotten better with suppressing the anxiety the simple game brought, partly due to T’viska’s adamancy about him recovering from the trauma and removing it from the situation. He’s fine with the its occupation in his region, but the noise.
The tapping; the taunting of stoned placed in confidence.
A struggling to remain focused as pain surges through his body made of the orokin’s dangling serums, only able to look over the board as his concentration is the one to set the stones into place. Unable to control himself, forced to play the orokin’s little game as a mind forces him to listen…
Nrtya holds his face, shaking it to replace his throughs elsewhere.
He quietly excuses himself, swiftly walking out of the chamber with so much of an acknowledgement of the kavat tailing his scarf, nor the call of the tenno sat around the corner.
…
Nrtya is at ease back in the personal quarters, staring out into the darkness beyond the tinted observation glass, eyeing the swarming corpus vessels as they drift out of sight as the liset drifts through its passive orbit around pluto. There, amongst the gentle hum of the ayatan sculptures, surrounded with bobbing foliage, his breathing lies calmed; traces of bleached blue crease around the sides of his chest as his vision drifts comfortably closed. A soundscape echoes through the chamber an ocean breeze, soothing his anxious mind away from trauma, coaxing it to drift comfortably safe.
Against his side, the kavat years for attention. Fangs drag against his skin as she rubs her jowls against his shoulder, headbutting as he sits poised in the center of the raised platform. She’s persistent, trying to nudge herself beneath Nrtya’s arm, pawing at the loose fabric hanging around his shoulders and down his back. Gently she pats at it, claws pulling against the cloth and yanking till they’re free once more.
Eventually, Rhubarb gives up, curling in her bed, dozing off to the serene tunes.
After some time, Nrtya removes himself from the room, wandering back into the transference chamber and lying back against the wall, placing himself faintly closer to where Warren and Kiln are kneeling with half-adverted attention. ‘Take it easy,” the loki’s words spring to mind as he stares into the distance, hinted with the imagery of a golden claw etching as the other spoke, ‘don’t push yourself too hard. It always takes some time.’ His hand kneads against his helm, rubbing at the feeling of his temple. He doesn’t need to stay in its presence, he can excuse himself when he’s uncomfortable, which he inevitably does.
Wandering out of the transference chamber, settling back into the personal quarters to bleed the anxiety plaguing his systems. Mind drawn to a blank as he stares out into the depths, to the pinpoint glint of the sun as the ship’s orbit erodes and passes a corpus station.
He wants to get better; a hand balling against his face, pressing into the gilding crest of his face, a voided eye drifting close as he lets the sounds eb and flow. He just wants to get better; a simple game he once enjoyed made him weak. ‘It’s not your fault,” he remembers, Warren’s voice, his face torn into anguish as the umbra remembered. “Ballas did this, not you,”
Fingers claw against his thighs as the memory fades, hands balling into fists as he presses himself up to return to the transference chamber. Once there, he remains quietly leaned up against the wall faintly closer to the silent pair, still separated by the decorative struts lining the central path. And again, the anxiety begins to compound as the gentle tapping of stone on the cloth covering digs through his senses, a nuance that forces him to stand upright and return to the personal quarters.
On his way back, he catches the tenno’s gaze following him out; Warren says nothing…
But his expression tells Nrtya enough.
And he persists for untold hours, edging himself closer, leaning against the inner side of the struts as he keeps his distance. Even when he finds himself alone, the goban and kneeling cushions unoccupied, a game set and ended with any space left aside from a draw – he leans up against the strut, releasing a deep exhale as he waits… hoping they’d return. To start up another game of soft taps and let him stare at the ceiling once more.
His gaze traces over the pieces left behind, a mosaic of white and black laid upon a cream cloth lined with a grid in black. Nrtya can barely see it from this distance, hidden beneath the pieces and tempting him to come ever closer. Just a mimicry of charcoal, he figures, fingers pressing against his crossed biceps, fiddling with the scarf as he forces himself to look away in exasperation.
It’s only a couple steps, his mind so adamantly declares.
He’s gotten this close.
A memory surges through his thoughts before vehemently shutting it out, a singular brow squeezing against his congested features, his horizontal pupil staring towards stilled game. It’s only a couple steps away, so close, but still a distance. Silence is his only company, a relieve and an anxiety – no one can see his reaction…
His confidence strains, lifting himself off the column with a deep exhale.
The umbra crosses the central path leading up to Warren’s somatic link, a hand extending and grasping a decorative strut connecting the left region. Carefully, he eases himself towards it, holding it not for physical support but as a stabilizer – pulse hammering in his throat. Now only a simple screen panel separates him from the little gam – a voice chuckles in his thoughts.
Moving forth, Nrtya’s fingers find themselves adrift without contact, drawn close against his body and becoming enthralled with the fabric draping down his front. Nervous, he can tell as they fiddle through the material, a palm roving ever so closer to where his breathing chokes in his throat. He’s trembling, and he forces himself to breathe as he moves to the sidelines. Deep in, deep out; he stares over the goban and the mischievous mistakes laid out in stone, where countless errors and careless placements coaxed the game into a draw.
‘Take it easy,’ the loki’s words spring through the hammering panic ‘don’t force it.’
The words repeat even as a glowing sight forms inside his mind, staring him down from across a digital komi display. Anxiety stammers through his throat.
It’s just a game; his mind cries.
Sound rumbles through his chest as his voided eye squeezes shut, hands balling into fists as trauma surges through his thoughts. The fear caught in his throat rings too similar – a voice box removed, his individuality stripped – and yet he’s still there.
He’s still there.
Blood oozes down his fingers, forgotten as he crosses himself down into a kneel, breath rumbling through the flaring dark vents along his side as they bellow gas. A knee bends against a bead of blood, followed by the other as his palms aggressively press against his legs. Torn through there and now, forcing air out of his lungs as he tries to get himself to settle on the floor. His vision averted – he’s gotten this close.
Nrtya teeters at the edge of his comfort zone, rubbing a hand clean of the foreign stickiness, he reaches out and traces a digit over a smooth stone settled at the edge. His vision remains averted as his breathing is forced to slow, finger tips grazing from stone to another as his relief sighs erratic. His forefinger is slow to drag, moving over onto a third with a brief hesitation.
And then, the hesitation is stripped. Not from relief, as the anxiety tumbles.
To when he was held in restraints.
An object jabs and prods as it digs through a hole in his head, arms held down as a device mutilates and coils. Blood, so much blood oozing down his arms, a billowing scream hampered by dampeners inserted into his back. He wants out; he can’t run, his legs are gone – and his claws dig into stone as a voice disregards his anguish. Ballas, his gut twists, howling as he’s able to strike. Smooth stones rattle to the floor, an object overturned – bringing him back to the ache in a body not his own – a body moved through another’s mind as he’s only able to claw internal; mind numbed, sedated, tormented as a single voice coaxes him to brutalize.
Just a husk… an empty shell.
Blood oozes as he cuts through flesh, cutting into sword-steel skin and digging against phantom restraints with an anguished hushed gasp. Body trembling, the goban knocked to its side, blood dripping from his wrists and throat…
“Nrtya!” The tenno, “are you alright?”
The umbra’s scarf flourishes as he storms past the tenno. Nrtya doesn’t want to think; throwing off the teen’s hand with an aggressive growl.
…
His breathing stammers as he stares out into the darkness, coiled upon the cushion with his head between his hands, blood oozing down his chin as his voided eye squeezes shut. Despite the calming environmental tones, all he can hear is static overstimulation – a tone between comfort and dread, the agony of long ago prying at his thoughts as his breath shutters through his vents. At his side, the kavat stares but remains distant, kept away by his growling breaths.
Anxiety chokes within his throat, kept in place as his mind rockets between horrors sat between remembered and blurred. Tormented, eviscerated, toyed with relentlessly; mind brutalized again and again –
Nrtya doesn’t want to think.
As his breathing wheezes, he’s unable to pull himself out of his coiling state, too exhausted by his anxious mind to move, emotions running numb as the flaring vents at his side flex contradictory to his aching inhales. Choking, he can feel in his sore lungs, hands wrapping and pulling at the gilding fused into his skin. His hands eventually faulter, crossing over his knees as the head is cradled by his forearms, run ragged into disassociation.
Rhubarb inches herself closer, until she’s rubbing beneath his arm. Her wide head snakes beneath him to sniff his gored face, lapping at the traces of blood clinging to his visage. Still too exhausted to protest, he allows the kavat to lick his skin, her whiskers tickling at his slumped features as she presses further and rounds to his other side. She nudges his arm, pawing against his leg with a chuff as she tries to scoot herself into his lap. Between his exhaustion and her persistence, she wins, forcing him to sit up with an exhausted sigh.
Before she can crawl into his lap, he pulls her close; his face buries into her fur, his features rubbing until she worms out of his grasp and turns into his lap. Still ringing emotionally numb, he stares back into the depth of space; his hand remains occupied with the kavat’s fur.
She purrs as he strokes her fur, the noise strumming against his lingering tension in his nerves to dilute, letting the tension in his senses loosen and listen to the whisper soundscape around him. Emotions still ringing null, exhausted.
“Nrtya…?” the umbra doesn’t move, even as a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. His sight remains to stare out into the distance even as Warren drops a cushion beside him, collapsing down with a sigh.
Strained, anticipating silence.
Two hands reach out, taking a dark palm gently outwards from its petting strokes. “Nrtya,” Warren whispers, “you’re bleeding.” From the side Warren pulls a rag from a dry basin, the fabric smooth against the umbra’s skin. It’s healing, but there’s still the traces of blood between his digits and along the sharpened claws. Hand over hand, Warren grasps the injured palm – a hold that gently returns. After a moment, he finally speaks, “there was blood on the goban cover.”
Nrtya flinches.
Warren kneels, wrestling the umbra’s other hand over to clean it of lingering blood. He wipes it from the kavat’s fur as he goes along, paying more attention to Nrtya’s lingering injuries over his pet’s personal appearance. The umbra doesn’t move as the tenno works. “You pushed yourself, didn’t you,” Warren muses, returning to sitting on his cushion. Nrtya doesn’t respond, cleaned hands burying into the kavat’s coat. “To approach the goban.”
The tenno signals to his cephalon, indicating to turn on the temporal screen in front of the observation glass. As before it darkens the glass to dilute the incoming light, and around them the lights proceed to dim until the orange glow of the display screen is the brightest thing. The writing display reignites in front of them, the size doubled with the teen’s hand gestures before he sits back with a sigh. “Don’t worry about it, the mess is already cleaned up, you aren’t in trouble,” a laugh left dry. Nrtya’s silence tints his mood, drawing Warren to sigh.
“Listen, Nrtya,” he tries again, “you heard what my dad said. Don’t force it if you feel uncomfortable – that’s the last thing I want you to feel.” With a huff, the tenno’s mismatched arms cross, getting himself settled. “If you still have any inclination,” he pauses, looking for a momentary reaction by the umbra. He finds none, “we play for the fun of it – no risk, no gambles…” his voice chokes, breathing a sigh. “Sorry, I should probably just leave you be, I apologize.”
As he goes to stand, a hand grips his wrist. Nrtya’s dark limb holds him there, the only change in the umbra’s body language.
The tenno relents, getting settled on the cushion once again. “I can stay, if that’s what you need.”
Nrtya releases Warren’s wrist, and slowly, he nods.
…
Warren finds himself playing alone in the transference chamber, moving the smooth stones in a meticulous fashion to bide his time as Nrtya watches from a far. His nerves still ring anxious, but the tenno’s presence eases the worry about his own self-control. Separated from the screen panel once torn in a panic, he listens to the gentle taps, the tenno humming a song that doesn’t strike him as foreign, but still unfamiliar.
Under the tenno’s directive, Nrtya’s stopped forcing himself closer to the game; he’s already gotten himself worn down from the prospect of forcing himself closer only to have to remove himself again to calm down. It was Warren’s suggestion to linger as the tenno played, remove himself when the noise got to be too much for him. And from his position, Warren is able to watch him, stopping his game whenever it looked like the umbra was pursuing enough duress.
Someone must escort him out for his own good.
And when the umbra’s nerves settle, they return to the small area in the transference chamber. Warren on one side of the divider, Nrtya on the other. It’s a rhythm they fall into, silently as the duration increases, the proximity narrows.
That is, up until Nrtya is able to hold himself composed as he kneels onto a cushion, the breath through his vents a deep exhale as he stares at the empty grid in front of him. Across sits Warren, drawing their colors at their side. Two baskets hold the colored stones, and Warren holds up a black piece between them, deep in thought.
And carefully, he places it down, giving Nrtya the right to play as white.
The game is slow and methodical as around them a soundscape plays, it’s a gentle forest from the cephalon’s archival records, a distinctively different mood from the personal quarter’s mimicry ocean breeze. And Warren speaks of nothing in particular – something to add to the auditory combination to suppress Nrtya’s bleeding anxiety, letting him play longer games as time goes on.
But, nonetheless, he still needs his occasional break to breathe, to step away and settle the anxious thoughts before they resume.
Gradually, as the time passes from hours into days, Nrtya can feel a semblance of comfort again as he plays, plotting out between their movements as the operator droops across from him. The tenno’s voided eye stares unobscured through Warren’s hair as time elapses, yawning as he leans against the wall exhausted, yet still playing.
If he could, Nrtya would smile, placing a white stone beside black on an unfiltered grid. Capturing a sum.
Warren grunts from against the wall, beaten again.
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enveloped in shatterproof folds - lingering alone and forsaken.
SUMMARY
The somatic link; a mental surge to connect a void tainted mind to a receiving body molded into living puppetry. Senses matched, motions matched, perfected down to the smallest, inexcusable detail… transmitting the puppet’s death one to one. Phantom pains ache against healthy nerves, organs askew as they remain in place… one can only take so much.
Testing a new post structure; either read directly at [ Ao3 ] or access through these links - the work is posted in two portions: [ Part 1 ] and [ Part 2 ]
As a preemptive warning; this has visceral, graphic content with a teenage operator. This fiction is overtly long; 10,128 words, thus the new posting structure. If you choose to reblog, reblog this post.
After running an exhaustive contract, Lucifer and Xev just want to take a break from waiting on filtered contracts with low pay. Xev, meanwhile, mulls over his feelings for the Chroma.
Mature | No Archive Warnings Apply
Tags: Chroma | Excalibur Prime | Mawframe | Contract work
[ Link ] or continue reading below beneath the read more!
- AO3 account is connected to nsfw theme content as a fair warning -
Word count: 1951
Usually, their rendezvous would end at the terminal.
Xev overlooks the relay’s cramped mercenary floorspace with a sigh, leaning up against a guardrail as he watches the troves of syndicate operatives bickering amongst themselves. Warframes weave through the crowd alongside the factionless marines looking for the next prospective contract work; easy to weed out from the ones in suited faction gear. A pantheon of operatives congested in a small space, the prime muses, the bustle deafening and almost muting the small scuffle that breaks out below him.
With a half-cant perspective, he can see the shimmering of spilt blood on a Red veil loyalist’s lips, a punch pulled from a Hexis follower spattered. It doesn’t enthrall him, looking back to the crowding of multi-toned suits and worn warframes. He disregards the mumbling he hears behind him, the gawking of his primed complexion and battle scars – he rarely steps on the relays for such reasons. He’s only here to wait on a certain chroma to deliver their payload.
Gilded chin in hand, the Excalibur prime eyes the towering chroma as he wades through the noisy plaza, impatiently elbowing his way through the crowd with a device carefully coddled against his puffed stature. His bright ivory and turquoise pelt stands out among the crowd of diluted tones, towering above the crowd, easy to distinguish amongst the visual noise in the cramped space. But his puffing feathers express his aggressive chill that surrounds him, casting the unwary aside half startled and intimidated, a presence that is difficult to ignore as well as daunting. By the standards of the syndicate operatives, the ones always intrigued by the warframes occupying their space, they stay far away.
The renegade mercenaries just stay out of his without a second glance.
Lucifer shoves his way past a bickering cluster of operatives on his way to a cephalon kiosk, pausing briefly as one of them shouts, an aggressive growl rumbling in his chest to disperse them. Left alone, he heaves the heavy data device into the small alcove in the wall and onto the reluctant shelf surface laid barren to time. It lands with a hollowing thunk that deviates the attention of those around him; a wandering operative’s head quickly turns until he identifies the source, hurriedly shunting themselves away from the agitated chroma.
In front of him, a cephalon flickers awake and illuminates the corner in a dampened aquatic hue.
“Here’s the device; take from the area designated. All data retrieved, unscratched,” the chroma growls; the payout they were offered was less than ideal for the difficulty. Nullifers and the looming presence of an active fissure was not something he’d consider as worth less than forty grand.
“Excellent,” the cephalon mumbles with disinterest, igniting a display of the data device’s contents in a hologram behind the recess’ surface. Text scrolls at an accelerated pace, data markers placed and erased in a blinding speed with the nuance only a connected cephalon can muster as they pry through the insurmountable information. All the chroma can see is a blurring illumination; releasing an exhale as he waits for the digital consciousness to just bring up their payment. Money to put forth towards the maintenance of his squadmate’s vessel; Lucifer doesn’t need much.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the cephalon dryly states, diminishing the display with contempt, just another analysis to run through. “As for the matter of payment, the contractor has put down twenty thousand credits.”
“Hold on,” Lucifer growls, leaning against the surface and staring down at the cephalon’s meager display, “the payout was supposed to be thirty-five grand. Where’s the rest?” He snaps, voice rumbling in his large chest. They could’ve just captured a couple people for interrogations for twenty, it would’ve taken much longer surely, but for the high security they went through for a measly twenty thousand?
The cephalon is quiet for a minute before surging back to life, “unfortunately, it seems that the client had miscalculated their assets… prior to your arrival they seem to have retracted their contract and the price drop may have been done to pay the array’s service fees and the refile fee instead of paying the array service fee separately.”
“That’s a load of bullshit, bitbrain, and you know it. It’s their fucking fault, not ours to just ‘deal’ with when they contracted us for forty thousand.” A claw taps at the surface concealing the cephalon’s hologram device, irritated.
“I am aware of that, but they withdrew before the payout was dispensed. I am unable to correct the error in this state, as you’ve already got the device and fulfills the contract… however.”
“What is it,” the chroma growls.
“Due to their negligence… when refilling the contract, they seem to have forgotten to include the delivery information they shown in their formal contract. In the active one, you would only be paid twenty-thousand credits for retrieval, without a designation of delivery.” The cephalon smarms, bringing up a display of the two contracts – one reading ‘NULL’ – more for Lucifer’s reference than the cephalon’s. “I can’t fulfill a contract that is invalid… and nor would the one that sent it would retrieve the device. Would you like to hold it for ransom at a higher amount? There are file paths that hint that it is well worth more than the initial offer. Would you prefer this venture to the lump sum payout.”
The chroma’s aura dulls, muscles once drawn relax, head tilted down towards the cephalon’s presence, “I assume that, due to their negligence, we are well within our right as the contractors, since the contract is fulfilled.”
“Correct; you’ve collected the device, you fulfilled the contract. It is yours to deal with, as you please.”
Lucifer pauses for a moment and stands to his full height, turning to look back to where Xev is watching from above. “Ransom it?” is all the chroma asks through their coms – the Excalibur nods. Turned back, Lucifer also nods. “Ransom it, I am assured you can get us – say – around 50 thousand?”
“From the filer? Doubt it – my coding obligates I am not able to refer to them outside their contract. There is encrypted files on here that may be worth well more than that… perhaps a few thousands if I can relocate the frequency of the vessel it originated.”
Xev chimes in through the chroma’s com links, “50 thousand is good, unless the cephalon wants to negotiate for a while. Let’s just drop it and get outta here.” Lucifer nods – he never was much of a fan of the crowded market.
“Just offer it back for 50 thousand, I’m certain they’ll pay up soon enough,” he rumbles. He does his best to drown out the ramble of the mercenaries around him, the shouts, the loud banter, the ominous background hum of the relay’s aged engine and systems. It’s too much noise, too much going on.
In front of him the cephalon chirps again to life. “They have problems with their communication system - “ they took out the grid during the raid for the device “ - and are more than willing to pay the ransom for the device back within the next few hours. We’ll have one of our stewards deliver the device in another location. Once it’s delivered,” they start, the device’s temporal existence diminishing down into a digital archive, in a vessel that can be shuttled through the cephalon weave to its delivery point. “you will receive the payment. The head cephalon will contact you when they have another contract that meets your partner’s criteria.” In an instance their display fizzles, leaving the chroma alone at the alcove.
There’s a heavy sigh from the chroma, a relief short-lived as his feathers puff up as the noises around him sink back into his mind, igniting his defensive chill. Voices run in a blur surrounding him, saturating his thoughts as he guides himself back to the stairways leading to the higher levels – where the smell of blood doesn’t sink as deep, nor distorts his senseless sight with the draw of violence. Up on a floor above, as he glances, he can see Xev waiting for him. It’s only been the third time in their partnership has the prime stepped aboard and out of his comfort zone.
Not that this was the chroma’s comfort zone either; to drawn agitated, his claws flexing as rumbles.
Lucifer’s steps ring as he walks up the wide sloping stairway, disregarding those around him with the best of his ability. He only gives an occasional growl, just enough to have them steer clear and to prevent the ever-present bloodlust from clouding his thoughts. The noise, too close to that of a crowding vessel filled with grineer soldiers, ripe to be shredded. To stain his pelt crimson red and warmed.
He’s quiet when he approaches the prime, who remains just as silent as he. Externally they keep the silence, the pair walking back to the docks. “It’d be enough to pay off the expenses completely, right? 70 thousand credits; get those repairs finalized and we can finally go freelance?”
“It should be enough,” the Excalibur sighs, relaying his thoughts back to the chroma beside him. “The right board engine took a hit on the way out, will need to have a mechanic check on it later to be sure its operational.” He remains close to the towering ice chroma, sinking into his partner’s aura as they navigate back to his ship. They’ve both worked out of it for months now, taking jobs together but never really involving themselves farther than running contract work together.
The prime sighs, drifting out of the chroma’s line of sight, where the larger warframe’s tail drifts and sways against his thigh. With Lucifer taking the lead, it gives Xev space to stare and ponder, his thoughts fragment when the chroma calls back. “Want to wait in the ship for a call back on the payment?”
Xev adverts his sight as Lucifer looks back, his undamaged portion tilted towards the chroma’s field of view. “Yeah, I can get someone out later to check the outboard engines for if its just superficial damage.” He follows the chroma through the crowds, the air open and crisp as they walk through the central lobby and towards the checkpoint – security quickly checks them through and to the docks where his ship waits. The prime shunts off his commlink with the chroma briefly; questioning how he could ask the chroma to stay with him outside of their missions.
A warmth glows in his chest as he imagines the prospect of not being alone anymore; since they started running missions together the chroma has always just been hanging around in his ship, lounging whichever way he found comfortable. And it’s been like that they started partnering up – Lucifer didn’t have his own transport vessel at the time. He’s not physically alone, he’s well aware as he steps back into the chroma’s aura, yanked out of his thoughts as turquoise claws pull him close against his side.
Outside his thoughts Xev watches what coaxed the chroma’s actions, a large group of operatives walking in the opposite direction – the hallway small. Any glances they had were swayed by the chroma’s defensive growl, instinctive in his reactions to keep his partner close and safe. Xev basks in it, tucked beneath the chroma’s arm as they approach his ship. The chroma’s cold dilutes his burning heat, easing his nerves as he opens their commlink again. He’s comfortable just like this… against the chroma’s feathers before he eases himself away, a flush grown over his gilded face. He’ll have to ask Lucifer later.
Euno returns to his hosted home, where his curious host asks for his company at a house-sitting gig. (2448 words)
Euno Almai walks through the southern Kineisy market with a skewer-kebab in hand, browsing through a foreign book, his pack filled with a stock of off-world snack and other literature as he weaves around children running past to their favorite vendors, well aware of their second glances. He hears them question behind his back, asking their parents who he was, why he so easily melded among the local crowd on this busy afternoon. Adults step out of his way as he walks the center lane, ignoring the whispering rumors that surround him – local and targeting, knowing he may be subject to the gossip. He picks up on every word, aware of their hushed dialogue call him a tourist, an outsider, a paftozaln.
A slur for gueiso; humans.
Around him Nellusy folk go about their daily lives; vendors shouting about their fresh products, commuters weaving through the crowding corridor as they talk among themselves in manners he can barely replicate. Voices click around him, resounding in the confined spaces as he maneuvers through the towering locals, holding his baggage close to make himself as small as possible as he excuses himself from bumping into a browsing visitor. He preoccupies himself with the literature every chance he gets, finding his way back to his adoptive home on the other end of the busy market.
He might’ve taken a quicker route prior, but he finds safety among the busy market; he looks peculiar enough for others to take notice is something happened to him.
He tucks his book away as he wanders through the end of the market, swerving himself onto a narrow pedestrian path between rows of clustered townhouses. The tightly packed houses are vibrant opposed to the dirtied path he walks on old shoes, giving a passing Nellusy room to walk as they grumble about him. He says nothing, focused on just finding his way back home.
“Euno, there you are,” his host calls from an old wooden chair sat on the small front yard, shaded by a sun-worn fabric roof. He welcomes himself into the shaded residence – his silence is common, the norm after a long day doing local freelance translations for laymen and young business entrepreneurs. In the front yard his yellow spotted host sighs, pulling together the paper he had entertained himself with as he waited for the translator’s return.
Inside the group housing Euno tugs off his shoes and lies out on the couch, his bag falling to the floor as he grumbles unintelligible into the kebab between his teeth. The kebab is local, roasted meat locked touch between his teeth as he stares at the ceiling, slowly chewing at it as he thinks back on the day’s events. He had to meet with a client again, in a police department after he tried to steal from a storefront family business he had some nonsense beef with. Seven hours of repetitive questioning, he kept track, was how long he spent there. He partly blames himself for getting involved with the person in question, it was his job to filter his clients; but the officers told him not to worry, that ‘it happens’.
“Bullshit,” he grumbles, looking over as the door clicks closed behind his host’s steps. “Did you spend all day waiting?” he asks, subsequently answered by the nellusy’s large shaking head. “Have you made anything today…?” he calls between tough bites of the kebab, throwing his legs down beside him as the nellusy sits beside him.
“Very little, I’m afraid.”
“Have you tried selling the jewelery first; what are the chances the original owner will see it after so long?” Euno motions his head over towards their shared room, where the other keeps items he sells at a nearby corner.
“Big enough to be a risk. If they want some jewelry, they should ask,” Tilo sighs, his secondary limbs coiling against his chest, his primaries crossing his chest as he stares at the silent tv across the small conjoined kitchen and foyer. The large nellusy sinks into the couch with a sigh, glancing over to the kebab held between Euno’s fingers. “Going to finish that…?” he asks meekly.
Euno hands it over. “Have at it, it’s too tough for my teeth.” The nellusy is quick to devour the remains, biting over the entire thing and dragging it all into his maw in a single sweep. It leaves Euno unimpressed with only the stick, flicking it off to the trash bin on Tilo’s other side. “Have you at least got a gig,” he sighs.
“Ay, was thinking you could help me with Lotnilki Touru’s kids. Utiu asked me to help out while she worked on studies, and she’d like you to come along as well.”
“Sure,” Euno shrugs, pulling up his pack to fetch through the snacks he brought along with him, “when does Utiu start sitting them?”
“She told me in half a Kiishu, so I’d like to leave there in five tnilki or so – so I’ll be early.”
36 minutes, five minutes, Euno recounts, popping fruit snacks into his mouth. His body shifts as the nellusy pushes himself from the couch, limping into their shared room to fetch his jacket, plucking his wooden cane from an old gun case.
“What’s in the pack? Documents?” He calls from the other room.
“Snacks, some stuff I bought from a trade station down in the square. Been kind of missing soft food since I got off the vertical transport last week.” Euno shuffles through his pack, pulling out the small crinkled packet of fruit snacks. “Want to try one? I had to recycle the box – easier to pack in their individual wrappers.”
Tilo shrugs on his coat as he re-enters the foyer, head shaking as he rights himself in more presentable attire. “No thanks, but the kids might be interested,” he grumbles, fidgeting with his loose shirt beneath his well-worn coat. His secondary arms peak out, tugging the coat closed as he shuffles his less ratty pants comfortable around his waist and thick tail – tightening the belt to pull it up behind him. “Well, I’m ready to go when you are,” he chuckles as he watches Euno fiddle his shoes back on, zipping up his own coat for the evening chill rushing through the narrow streets.
They talk amongst themselves as they make their way onto the interconnecting street buried between the innumerable row of townhouses, where Tilo’s cane taps against the cobblestone pathing alongside his clicking claws. Tilo boasts about false adventures of his youth, spinning another tale about what truly caused his hobbled state. Beside him the translator only nods, keeping himself quiet as he mulls over the incidents with his earlier client. Nilneilil Sykatze, a supposed ex-criminal that hired him to remove his tracking chip.
Tilo begs him to talk about his day, pestering the smaller man until he decides to speak up.
“Relates to a pass job,” he sighs, “I worked with a gnazlti and a scrapper; got his criminal-track chip or whatever its called now removed. Turns out he tries to steal from a store before the wounds even healed,” he grumbles, fumbling with his pack’s front flap, clicking the buckle open and closed. “Was called down to the station and had to get everything sorted out. Spent seven hours doing nothing but listen to him lying. About who I was, what I was doing; discrediting me and all sorts of bullshit.”
“I thought the Affairs Department straightened that stuff up?”
“They do and did. He got sent of to sit for another few months. He’s not allowed to hire a translator anymore.”
“What about you, any probation?” Tilo stops to turn to Euno, digits swirling his cane as they wait for a group to walk past them in the connecting street.
“No. It’s not my fault he robbed anyone. I just translated for him to a scrapper.”
“Good,” the nellusy sighs, ushering the translator to follow him up the paved roads leading towards the more decorative dwellings of cramped living arrangements. The walk is long, waiting for newly installed traffic systems to signal when it’s safe to cross streets made busy by the dimming hours. It makes Tilo anxious, tapping his cane as he becomes quiet as they walk down the filled sidewalk marking the different dwelling arrangements. This wasn’t a place for him, made meek as they round the last corner into a quiet street filled with stacking rowhouses towering around them.
“Tilo!” shouts a woman peering out of a window, a young sleek silisha wearing a decorative vale around her face. “Utiu’s waiting in the den – what is that paftozaln under-skin doing with you?” She spits. Her mouth full of teeth bares as she stares.
Tilo whispers to Euno as they approach. “Might be best to walk past the building and stand at the corner.” He pulls himself away from the translator, acting bemused as he gently bumps Euno as he passes. “They’re a lost tourist I found wandering around, and I think they just started to follow me to see where I’d go!” And, as suggested, Euno walks pass the building as Tilo stands beneath the aggressive mother.
“Tilo, stop lying. You know who they are.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about, Lotnilki! You know I would never put the kids in danger, right?”
Above him the women growls, turning back into the room behind her. “Utiu! Don’t let any paftozaln under-skins in!”
“Yes, Lotnilki,” shouts a second voice inside the vertical living space.
Tilo heaves a sigh as the woman returns to bantering nonsense inside her living space, walking himself to the door as he watches Euno kick at the sidewalk in the corner of his vision, playing with the strap of his back as he waits for the bitter mother to leave the block. It takes some time before Tilo can hear the woman trotting around on the other side of the door, talking towards her children as items clatter. She trots out the front door and waves her small case in front of Tilo’s scarred nose. “How do I look, gaistzine?” she chuffs, flaunting a dress hanging around her hips, splitting in back to reveal her tail, latching behind her neck to leave her back exposed. Cloth drapes along her haphazard, lingering from the hoops hanging from her tusks.
“Like a night on the town,” Tilo mumbles as he steps out of her way, scarred lip twisting as she ensnares his chin to look her in the eyes.
“You best not let that under-skin in, Tilo,” she growls, baring her teeth. “I know who you work for, and I can have both of you arrested if they get near my children.”
He shoves her hand away, glaring up at the taller nellusy. “What, you’ll lie on me? How terrifying,” he snarls, moving himself into the open doorframe. “Now get along and let me do what you paid me; the customers are waiting for their ‘star’.”
Lotnilki huffs, flexing her secondary limbs to claw at the air as she turns away. Her trimmed claws clicking on concrete as she walks off for a night of work and practice, passing Euno with so much as a second glance. But, beneath her breath, she growls. “Get off my planet, paftozaln,” disappearing into the evening crowd for a night of entertainment. Euno says nothing, entertaining himself with a book written in his language.
With her gone, he collects himself back to the rowhouse where Tilo waits leaning against the open door frame. “Sorry about her; she’s a new rebel supporter, doesn’t like the occupation.”
“I’m used to it,” Euno sighs as he scoots past.
“What?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m used to it,” Euno holds onto his bag as two children run past, latching themselves to Tilo’s legs. Their voices click and squeak, whispers frilling as they cling to his coat.
A young sloped nosed gnazlti peaks her head out of an adjoining room. “Tilo, there you are. Is that the translator you were talking about? They’re small,” she laments, collecting one of the children as Tilo picks up the other. “Sorry about Lotnilki, she had a problem with the twins earlier.”
“It’s fine, she’s just being theatrical. And yes, this is Euno, he’s living with me in the group housing; I’m lucky enough to have him.” He glances over at the smaller man, the smallest in the room aside from the children held in the nellusy’s arms.
“Where does he sleep, on the couch?” Utiu grunts, failing to restrain one of the wiggling and squeaking children as they slip out of her arms. They tug at Tilo’s clothing, their speech garbled with half developed vocal cords as the child within Tilo’s arms latches onto him. “They’ve missed you,” she chuckles, watching Tilo take over her babysitting duties.
“I – can tell,” Tilo grunts, ushering the children upstairs where a television sings.
It leaves Utiu and Euno alone, the later greeting the nellusy with a quick nod – the typical nellusy greeting. “Tilo lets me sleep on his bed, he takes the couch.”
“Does he?” To which Euno flicks up his chin, “that must be some mess,” Utiu grumbles, walking up the stairs. The human follows her.
“You’d be surprised,” Euno sighs, recounting the sheet may sit a little crumped at the head of the bed. “The children watching something?”
“A retelling of the assassination aboard the Faulnonal,” she chirps, back turned as Euno frowns. “It’s become interconnected with the night’s festivities, and I don’t want to shelter them, nor let them follow after their mother.” Euno only nods, fist balling against his bag. He keeps quiet as he wanders himself up into the open landing where the twins finally catch sight.
“What’s that?” ask the one with a single painted dot on their nose.
“Yeah, is that a gueiso?” asks the other, with two dots.
“Yes, natiruln. He’s a gueiso, a ‘human’, not a monster like your mother sees it,” Tilo chuckles, nestling the twins between his spread shins as he tucks his cane away – nursing his bad leg with a grimace. “Now, it’s time to settle down. I’ll make you two ilakon if you settle down.” Both click back as their slimy hands finish fidgeting, wrapping around Tilo’s pants as they hide behind his legs from Euno. The translator settles himself on the other side of the couch, paying the children no mind as he flips open to where he left on – the text illegible to those around him. He half listens to the documentary return to broadcast, half turning his gaze at the brief mention of the ship’s captain – attentive to if they represented his father right.
