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Scavengers - A Warframe Story [Second Dream Spoilers]


(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139
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20 minutes ago, (PS4)ArtPrince17 said:

There was a keening flash, and a shockingly limited amount of recoil. A tremendous sheet of blood painted the far wall. The man’s corpse clanged gracelessly to the floor, his skull neatly vaporised above cheek level.

The Detron, it transpired, was user friendly.

I all of the sudden want to craft the Detron.

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“In a Tier 0 Contact situations, extreme caution cannot be overstated.

Force composition is key. Trained Nullification Units and advanced military grade proxies (Bursa/Jackal Class Minimum) should be deployed to contain the site, and - if necessary - neutralise potential threats prior to any successful material extraction. Overwhelming force is considered mandatory.

Void Exposure is likely. Handling teams may experience disorientation, inclement elemental fluctuations and temporal distortions of a particularly unusual and distressing nature; potentially fatal.

 Failure to follow these steps risks a catastrophic loss of life and material.”

-          Corpus Navy Field Manual: On the Containment of Tier 0 Assets

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The boy bolted upright, yelling.

Telin and Kelpo leapt back, yelling in turn.

Scattered, delirious; the boy ranted; almost frenzied. His knuckles stiffened on either sides of the pod as hunched forward; stricken.

He blinked, caught himself. An unnerving calmness washed over him in an instant.

The boy took one look around.

Then he spied the two panicked scavengers, all but pressing themselves against the far wall.

The boy took another look around, twisting about in the golden casket. He noted the blood flecked on the walls, the small minefield of discarded equipment and broken teeth. The scorch marks on the walls, and the frost that crept into the edges of the chamber, petering out only around the lingering heat generated by the Statis Pod.

“Oh.” he said at last.

The two scavengers didn’t dare breath.

The boy fixed them with a suspicious glare.

“Who are you?” he asked after a moment, curious “What are you doing here?”

He blinked again, looking down at his hands, turning them over. They seemed unfamiliar to him.

“What am I doing here?”

Telin mumbled something. Kelpo managed to cough a little blood against the inside of his helmet.

Telin rallied first.

“Uh… we’re a rescue team.” He cleared his throat, somewhat theatrically. “Here to save you.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He took in the carnage all about the pod once more.

“Distressing.” He remarked absently.

The boy pointed at the three dead men strewn about the chamber. Each had suffered a grievous head wound. If the carnage bothered him, the boy didn’t show it.

 “These men?” he asked. “They too formed part of the rescue effort?”

The boy stood up. He was tall for his age, though still only as high as Telin’s shoulder.

“Uh… no. They were, erm… thieves.” Telin coughed. “Hoping to steal something they had no rightful claim on.”

The boy approached each of the bodies in turn; picking the scene apart with a practiced serenity that bordered on the disturbing. The boy’s manner of speech was very particular; the enunciation clipped but perfect; the word selection just so.

“Facial wounds.” He crouched over Wen’s body. “Consistent with a thrown weapon of immense force; a Glaive perhaps.”

He spied the drone hovering in the air; the damage to one of its hover drives.

“… or perhaps not.”

The semi-decapitated drill operator was next. The boy sank to both knees, running a finger over the cauterised head wound; probing it without the slightest degree of hesitation.

“Energy weapon discharge, point blank.” The boy cocked his head to one side, clucked his tongue. “Poor marksmanship.”

Last was Speyer’s body. They had removed the man’s helmet to fix Kelpo’s own. There was no retrieving the scanning wand. It warbled and shrilled all manner of strange sounds the moment the boy touched it, before shorting out completely.

“This… I have no idea.” The boy stood up, turning to address them once more. “You did this?”

The scavengers nodded, meekly.

“And these men… they deserved to die?”

Another collective nod, this one a little numb.

“Good.” The boy nodded curtly. “What are your names?”

“Telin Voss.”

“Kelpo Marr.”

“Well thank you for your assistance, Telin Voss and Kelpo Marr. I’ll be going now.”

With that, he stepped from the pod and wandered toward the front of the ship. The chamber was freezing, yet the boy was dressed in little more than a form fitting sleeper suit and a respirator, and pottered about the place without even the slightest sign of discomfort.

The two scavengers mutely followed, entirely unsure what to do. Part of their distress was the strangeness emanating from the boy. Suit readouts flickered and danced; showing crazed, non-sensical readings. The air itself seemed to crackle with static intent.

They found the boy standing before the frozen lump at the center of the ship.

He frowned up at them; finally appearing the slightest bit distressed.

“Where am I?” the boy ask quietly.

 “Sector 2-12; edge of the Frozen Wastes.” Kelpo replied.

“No, no…” the boy shook his head impatiently. “I mean… what planet are we on?”

“Venus.” Telin replied, incredulous.

“You don’t remember?” Kelpo asked.

“Not the faintest thing.” The boy chuckled softly. “It is funny, you know: I could tell you a thousand things about that room back there. The blood spatter. How and why it arced the way it did. How many rounds were discharged in the fight. The impact trajectory of that single bullet on your environment suit, and the chances of your survival from your facial wound over the next twenty four to thirty six hours.”

Kelpo was growing paler by the word, but the boy was simply shaking his head in bafflement.

“But where I am now? How I got here?” he studied his hands again, in seemingly morbid fascination. “Nothing.”

“You’d better come with us.” Telin said. “We have a ship, not far from here. But others are coming. Men with guns.”

“I am not afraid.” The boy countered boldly.

“Sure, but you’ll freeze.” Kelpo started.

The boy’s eyes were suddenly hard.

“Do I appear cold?” the boy asked severely. “Does anything in my demeanour suggest a material craving for warmth? Is all you see a small child, looking to be sheltered?”

“Uh… no.” Kelpo mumbled, entirely creeped out by the angry Pod-man-child by this point.

“Good. You said we were being hunted. Tactical response is clear. We cannot stay here.” He was already clambering out of the hole when he stopped and turned. “I trust you men have a plan?”

Telin and Kelpo looked at each other blankly.

“We’re working on it.” They said in unison.

The boy scowled, and disappeared into the freezing beyond without a second word.

 

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The Severance Package drifted toward the dig site. Far below, the extractor skiff sat on the snow. The crew and the surviving drilling technician were being debriefed by a selection of his men groundside.

Kahrl Bravic listened to their report over the com line.

Three men dead. A drill rig heavily damaged by way of a hasty extraction. No cargo retrieved.

A total loss.

There was no point in punishing the survivors. People were assets; his drill team some of the best at what they did. Out here on the frontier, replacing the dead would prove difficult. Bravic was not above punishing incompetence, but beyond Wen and Speyer, his team had been salvagers first, mercenaries second.

Not so his Kill Team. They were an assembly of his best: trackers, bounty hunters, assaulters and assassins. A mishmash of hired guns and retired military specialists. Bravic kept them on payroll; an expensive edition to his stable, sure; but valuable for certain delicate situations.

Situations like now. Bravic wanted blood.

Two no-name scav-rats  did not get the luxury of denying him a Tier 0 Find and living to tell the tale.

His Chief Hunter was a retired Index gladiator; Terrenus Vern.

Vern was not the most imposing figure at first glance; average build, non-descript beyond a tight lipped grimace and a mirrored set of range-finder goggles. He was a hunter of prudence; utterly dedicated to the task of finding and ending people’s lives. True to his reputation, the man was a walking collection of ammo belts, stored drones, firearms of all classes; throwing knives and grenades. Anything to get the job done, body count be damned.

Bravic watched from an observation gantry as Vern prowled the aft crew deck now, addressing his team:

“Targets are Freelance Salvage Brokers; names are Kelpo Marr and Telin Voss.” Vern’s voice was a throaty rasp. “Linking you relevant trade history now.”

Five hunters stood in loose assembly before him. Vern had led the team for years; had built it from the ground up. A duel here, a contract acquisition there. Each were hand-picked for a given role; chosen killers all.

“No formal military training, but qualified survivalists and scrappers.” Vern was ticking off points on his fingers. “They are physically fit. They are resourceful. They are profit motivated. This is their terrain, not ours. Do not underestimate them.”

“Notable cargo?” That was their Moa Runner, Ladahr. In the field Ladahr oversaw the deployment of their automated proxies; a customised pack of bipedal robots intended to overrun and overwhelm fleeing prey. He was swathed in heavy furs, which covered a high-tech hard-suit below. A full-faced set of VR-Goggles allowed him to see through the eyes of each and every proxy; sometimes multiple at a time.

“A Tier 0 artefact has been identified on site. Separate teams will be deployed for their retrieval.”

“Amateurs.” scowled Brakarr, a hulking Grineer Bombard.

Allies.” Vern corrected severely. “There’s to be no friendly fire. Penalties will apply. We’re not paid to torch our own. Understood?”

Brakarr snarled, but bowed his head in deference. The single largest member of the team, the Grineer mercenary had been the hardest to recruit; a towering gene-brute whose love of advanced Corpus prosthetics outshone any traditional loyalty to the Twin Queens. Brakarr forwent any contract pay; asking instead for only the most advanced ordnance and the regular means to deploy it.

Vern continued.

“A Sleeper Pod was noted amongst the salvage claim. Potentially a third target; yet to be confirmed.”

 “Alive or dead, Surah?” asked Parson-Luk of Ur; their Ostron tracker. His earrings jangled as he scratched at the back of his scalp; a nervous tick that vanished while on a hunt.

Vern turned to look up at Bravic. Bravic shrugged expansively.

“Whatever works. Boss just wants the job done, and quickly. This is time sensitive.” Vern met each of their eyes in turn. “We don’t drop balls for Anyo Corp. Not now, not ever.”

“Confirmation of payment terms.” Torr Bycek; their designated rifleman. He wore the regulation box helmet of a Corpus crewman. Less regulation was the truly massive Opticor beam cannon held in his hands.

“One hundred thousand credits to a man upon mission completion. Five hundred thousand credits per confirmed kill.” Vern pointed at Bycek’s rifle. “Disintegration will require confirming scope footage, Torr.”

“And if the Sleeper wakes, and must be found?” asked the final member of the team, her voice a deathly whisper that somehow carried. “What price will you pay?”

A pale skinned, slight figure, the girl was plainly dressed in a dark crimson body suit; seemingly indifferent to the climate. A black shawl framed her slender face; drenching it in shadow. She carried no weapons of any kind.

Isolde, the newest member of the team. Even Vern found her unnerving.

“One million.” Kahrl Bravic boomed from the catwalk above. "Even."

The hunters looked at each other, murmuring. Even Isolde raised an eyebrow.

Vern clapped his hands, once. The team snapped to attention.

“I have your attention. Good. We’ve a job to do. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Good. Let’s get to work.”

 

 

Edited by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139
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4 minutes ago, (XB1)BigLithuanian said:

 I hope not!! That will complicate things by a lot

I'm surprised the official game hasn't already done that. Not including the stalker and the accolytes, because that's completely different.

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[Brief question - I am posting this story on FF.Net simultaneously to publishing it here. I've received a review saying "Huh, so this is AU? [Author's Universe]" - is there anything you guys have read to date that strikes you as jarringly non-canon?


I don't want to write something that isn't conceivably within the boundaries of possibility, and this story is entirely intended as being canon within the existing lore.

The setting is a remote fringe of Venus, in a confined area where Orokin terraforming has made more of an impact relative to the wider planet's condition, as we've seen on the devstream. If this is inaccurate I might rewrite to transplant the whole story to Europa, but thoughts welcome.

Regarding the Grineer mercenary referenced in the most recent section, and the use of freelance salvage teams - I don't think it's beyond the realms of possibility that the larger corporations would out-source to save costs and minimise in-house losses, but I'll defer to anyone who can assist my own understanding of the universe; I've only been writing in it since Tuesday! Speaking as somebody who has worked for several global corporations, the bigger fish will invariably try and cut costs by off-loading the hard labour further afield.

More to come later this evening; thanks for reading and suggestions welcome.

- Kat]

Edited by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139
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1 minute ago, (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 said:

[Brief question - I am posting this story on FF.Net simultaneously to publishing it here. I've received a review saying "Huh, so this is AU? [Author's Universe]" - is there anything you guys have read to date that strikes you as jarringly non-canon?


I don't want to write something that isn't conceivable within the boundaries of possibility, and this story is entirely intended as being canon within the existing lore. The setting is a remote fringe of Venus, where Orokin terraforming has made more of an impact relative to the wider planet. If this is inaccurate I might rewrite to transplant the whole story to Europa, but thoughts welcome.

Regarding the Grineer mercenary referenced in the most recent section, and the use of freelance salvage teams - I don't think it's beyond the realms of possibility that the larger corporations would out-source to save costs and minimise in-house losses, but I'll defer to anyone who can assist my own understanding of the universe; I've only been writing in it since Tuesday!

More to come later this evening; thanks for reading.

- Kat

This sounds like it would fit in the Warframe Universe just fine. Just remember, that in the game, we all are experiencing the events in our own alternate universe, in which we were the Tenno awakened from the Dream.

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[Thank's for that ArtPrince17, that's good to know. From what I can tell, the Tenno are being awoken en masse; and this is but one small story in that larger canvass. I suspect the review I quoted was somebody throwing shade for throwing shade's sake. I'll ignore them and soldier on - we've a story to tell.]

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I personally can see this being in the universe. The ostrons already salvage the meat from the tower on Earth so why not ship scavengers. The grineer team member I can also see since there is Clem who left the grineer army, there’s steel meridian members who also left. And as others have said every Tenno has their own universe correct?

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This is most certainly possible to happen in the actual universe of Warframe! There are definitely mercenaries in Warframe, especially if it involves Anyo Corp.

PS I love this story because of the fact that it shows the lowest of the low in Warframe's universe and we get to experience it, sometimes it gets tiring to be the high and mighty Tenno and never actually getting to experience what "normal"(if you could call be a scavenger who meets a Tenno normal haha) life would be like in this Warframe's universe. Warframe,as good as it is, has not struck such a depth into it's own universe like stories like this. Thank you @(XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 for this absolutely BEAUTIFUL story!! Stories like these make gaming 20,000 times better because it gives some more life to world we play in!!

Edited by (XB1)BigLithuanian
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"There are risks to employing freelancers. There are any number of variables, and with those variables; potential outcomes. They can prove expensive. They can prove reliable. They may have a particular value, or a unique skillset, but no two are alike.

Far too often, they are trouble."

- Teachings of the Free Market, Collected Thoughts of Frohd Bek, Third Edition


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They hesitated at the top of the ice shaft. The boy was delaying them now.

He lingered at the narrow gap leading back to the ruined space craft. They had been careful to sweep the ground behind them; masking the trail as best they could. They had not survived this long in the Frozen Sector without learning a few tricks.

"Kid, we need to move." Telin warned. "You said it yourself."

"This feels wrong. I am forgetting something." The boy's hands balled in frustration as he looked up at them, eyes wide and suddenly helpless. "Something important."

Any pity Telin felt was quickly overwhelmed by the thrum of propulsion drives. Multiple landing craft, on an approach vector. Full burn. They were almost on top of them.

Kelpo didn't waste time debating. He was already fitting the boy with a descent harness; cinching its straps with thinly disguised panic.

 


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Landing barges kissed down simultaneously; grav-drives kicking up a tumult of swirling snow. Scavengers bundled out in wet splashes; boots squelching in pools of melting coolant. Above, out-riders and aerial drones flitted through the howling wind, search lights piercing the gloom.

The Severance Package lurked in the sky above; an ominous shadow on the Venusian sky.

A full complement of the Severance's crew had been deployed; every able bodied man and woman not actively manning a station. Climbing lines were staked around the access tunnel leading down to the crash site. Scouting drones led the charge, and a dozen scavengers followed; smoke steaming from rebreathers as they fast-roped down. Others set up a perimeter, distributing pulsing flares and marking landing zones for further reinforcements; waving glowing marshalling wands that strobed in the darkness.

Vern and his hunters strode through the chaos at their own pace, indifferent to the surrounding bustle.

The two largest of the group were the lumbering Grineer, Brakarr; and the Moa Master Ladahr.

The Corpus master of hounds rode a small bipedal walker; a large cage rattling behind it. The cage contained two parallel lines of dangling puppets, who rattled in their moorings with each lurching stride

The Hunters stopped by the yawning hole in the surface of the ice. Vern addressed them quickly, yelling above the surrounding din.

"The Frozen Sectors are vast. Our quarry arrived here on a ship. Ladahr; sweep the area with your Moa. I want it found! Bycek, you're with him."

Ladahr's walker took two hunching steps backward. The cage on the back opened up, whirring as it lowered out six stalker-pattern Moa onto the steaming ground. Ladahr unbuckled a Lecta energy whip from his belt; holding it aloft. He snapped it to life and cracked the whip against the ground. It sparked and crackled. The Moa shrilled as they activated.

Torr Bycek clambered into the empty cage, which folded into a rear saddle. His Opticor unfolded with a mechanical clack as he buckled himself in. The two men often functioned as a unit.

They both saluted, and vanished into the storm; the Moa bounding before them like ravenous pack hounds. Vern watched them go.

"The rest of you, with me."


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The descent proved difficult.

The boy did not lack for confidence, but he was physically frailer than his stern demeanour suggested. He was no match for the two scavengers, in terms of field craft. Soon he was a good five metres above them, and falling behind.

"Keep pace, boy!" Telin growled. "They'll be on us in no time; the speed you're moving."

"I am trying!" the boy shot back, face screwed in determination. "And stop calling me boy!"

The scavengers for their part moved too slowly for their own liking. They were battered and bruised; badly wounded in Kelpo's case. Kelpo offered no complaint; primarily because doing so proved far too painful. His ravaged face flared from the pinch of the biting cold. Instead he focused on the mechanical movement. On routine and experience. Play out the line. Find purchase with your feet, inch downward; repeat.

There was no choice. The sounds of engines had long since faded, which meant only one thing.

Their pursuers had landed, and they were out of time.

"The trail begins here, Surah." Parson-Luk knelt by snow melt surrounding the damaged space craft; sniffing the ground. Their prey had covered their tracks well: the snow looked clean, unblemished. But there were few trails the Ostron trapper could not follow. The planets changed; the terrain along with it. His senses never did.

The Ostron picked his way across the chamber. He barely left a trace on the snow as he moved; a stark contrast to the meandering churn the salvage crews left as they teemed over the ruined ship; securing tethers and preparing the ship for extraction. Vern went to follow, but for a tug at his sleeve.

"A moment, Terrenus."

Few were permitted to call Vern by his first name. Isolde was one such exception.

Brakarr stood guard as Vern and Isolde clambered inside the ruined ship.

"They've moved on from here." Vern murmured, "The Ostron has the scent."

"Parson-Luk has one method; I another." Isolde replied, running an almost sentimental hand down the ruined ship's walls as she walked. "Two paths, converging on the same destination. Have I ever failed you?"

Vern knew better than to doubt the Void witch. He followed.

They found themselves before the empty casket.

"Behold, the Sleeper has woken." Isolde smiled sadly, "His Dream is now ended."

"We're wasting time."

"Patience, Terrenus. Indulge me."

Isolde knelt before the golden casket, folding her hands across her chest. She closed her eyes.

The walls of the chamber began to sweat. The very air itself crackled, threatened to tear.

Her lips began to move.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The boy had halted. They were a long way down the shaft, and had been making good time. Even the boy had found his rhythm. There was still so much farther to go.

Now this. Telin only noticed when he looked up and spied the boy; frozen in his tracks. The boy stared up, unmoving.

"Boy." Telin whispered up at him. "What's wrong. Boy!"

"Shh!" the boy hissed.

"Answer me!"

"Listen."

Telin listened. He heard the lingering plop of condensation in the chamber. He heard the distant rumble of landing craft circling the dig site. Closer still, he heard Kelpo's rasped breathing; his own, laboured from the arduous descent.

Beyond that, nothing.

Snarling, Telin clambered up level with the boy. The boy stared rapt withal; his eyes staring a million miles away.

"Snap out of it, kid." Telin gave him a shake. "This is no time to be going squirrelly on me now."

"You don't hear it, do you?" the boy sighed in breathless wonder. Tears sparkled in his eyes.

"Hear what?!"

The boy smiled as he wept openly.

"The music."


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Isolde made a sound, Vern certainly couldn't hear it.

He coughed and started when he discovered blood pattering down his front. The hunter swiped at his nose and stepped hastily from the chamber, distancing himself from her arcane mutterings.

Outside proved no different. All around the ship, work crews staggered groggily. Some in wonderment; others clutching their heads as though experiencing a keen and sudden migraine. Many vomited within their suits, and doubled over; choking. Perimeter lights flickered on and off. High on the surface, even Ladahr's pack units suffered a momentary spasm of confusion, temporarily losing their stride and tumbling head over heels before recovering scrappily.

Only Brakarr seemed unaffected. He had worked with Isolde in the field before. After their first mission together, his fee request had been singular:

Void dampeners, the most expensive available.

"Our Witch sings?" The Bombard rumbled.

Vern nodded groggily, collecting himself. His com bead hissed raw static in his ear. He unplugged it, trudging his way to where the Ostron crouched patiently in the shadows; visible only by the merest glint of the teeth encircled the neck of his primitive furs. The Grineer enforcer followed, plodding heavily through the snowdrift.

"Report." Vern grunted, finally recovered.

"They mask the scent, Surah; but the Void… it leaves a taste." The Ostron reached forward and swept aside a seemingly innocuous snow drift.

Hidden behind it was a narrow crawl space.

"See how it reveals them so."


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Telin was moments from slapping the kid when a spotlight blazed to life at the height of the shaft.

Telin's heart froze in his throat. They were exposed, their only available cover: a jutting spar of metal; some forgotten section of ancient wreckage.

The light swept from left to right, spearing toward them.

Telin grabbed the kid and swung to the left, feet braced. He slammed an ice pick into the far wall; wincing at the sharp crack as it impacted.

The light snapped off. Telin and the boy were eye to eye; the boy blinking as he finally snapped out of it. They stared at each other in terror, almost nose to nose. The only sound Telin felt in the dark was the terrified hammering of his own heart.

Then something yanked the boy's cable upward, jerking them both out of cover. Telin spun and slammed bodily into the wall; stubbornly clinging to the boy's harness. The beam snapped on again, bathing them in damning light.

Something took hold of his own cable, and started hauling it upward.

Whatever it was, it was immensely strong. They might as well have been on a motorised winch. Kelpo looked up, aghast; as his companions were pulled steadily toward the blazing light.

Telin fumbled with the utility harness attached to his rigging. One handed, he produced a knife and began frantically sawing at the boy's cable. Eventually it frayed, then snapped entirely. The weight on Telin's own harness increased exponentially; tightening against his ribs and legs. Crushing the wind out of him. The survival knife tumbled from his fingers.

Telin didn't have time to think of anything else. His next response was instinctual.

He took a firm grip of the ice pick. Then he unsnapped his harness.

They fell.

Telin swung the pick; striking again and again. It never bit.

Their heart-stopping fall suddenly came to a bone-jolting halt.

Kelpo had Telin's harness with his free hand; all but dislocating his arm in the process.

Kelpo howled through mangled lips. Kelpo Marr was as strong as an ox, but there was no way he could hold their combined weight. Telin twisted about in the harness with no purchase, no angle at which to help.

The boy appeared in view. He clambered up onto Kelpo's harness, in a surge of spry agility. Somehow, he had produced the survival knife Telin had dropped.

Telin watched the boy sawing through Kelpo's cable. Telin's eyes bulged in horror.

"Kid what are you -"

The cable snapped.

Edited by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139
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“There are many things that please an Ostron, Surah. Credits are one. Good company to spend them with are another. But most of all?

The Hunt. Always The Hunt.”

- Parson-Luk of Cetus, on life’s simple pleasures.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Telin and Kelpo fell screaming in the dark. The floor of the dark pit below rushed toward them. Telin squeezed his eyes shut. Braced himself.

Telin felt a hand grip the furred hem of his suit with unnatural strength.

A gale force wind blasted them sideways, hurling them to one side. The grip on his suit released.

They landed in a side tunnel feeding the lower echelons of the main ice shaft; hitting the ground with bone jolting force, tumbling end over end.

Telin took in a terror stricken breath in as he rolled onto his back, patting himself, wiggling his toes.

He had been deposited; no, thrown some ten feet down the side passage. He could feel every bump and bruise and ache and sore, but mercifully, he was alive; mercifully, unparalysed. Kelpo sprawled a few metres down, groaning but alive.

It was a miracle. Or perhaps not.

The boy stood tall in the gloom, looking down at them. His wide eyes glowied with an ethereal blue fire. It was the only light source in the dim chamber. The very air around him seemed to shimmer and warp.

Telin shrank back in terror.

“Void Demon!” he gibbered.

As suddenly as it appeared, the maelstrom enveloping the boy evaporated. His eyes rolling back in his head as he flopped to the floor, shivering.

Stillness reigned. The boy lay there, limp and still and very much the young man he physically appeared to be; scarcely into his teens.

The two scavengers kept their distance.

Void touched.

It was a forbidden thing.

You heard the stories as a child. Strange realms beyond the furthest stretches of the Solar Rail; where time and space and the natural order no longer applied. A twilight realm of eldritch power; where men lost their minds and eyeless horrors reached out from the chittering dark; to pluck children from their beds.

It was a nonsense to Telin. An old wives tale; used to scare traders and their corpus into being good little workers. A fantasy.

And yet it rang true. By every metric it was true.

Telin and Kelpo looked at the unconscious boy. He seemed a pitiful thing now, broken and small.

But for their ragged breathing and the echoing whisper of the tunnels around them, there was no sound.

“What do we do?” Telin asked eventually.

“Can’t leave him here.” Kelpo rasped. “Not like this.”

“Boy is cursed.” Telin hated the superstitious quiver in his voice. “We’re in way over our heads here.”

“Cursed or not; he saved our skins.” Kelpo countered, coughing. His face had become unusually drawn and pale as he looked at Telin. “I can’t carry him alone.”

“You okay?”

“Been worse.” Kelpo grimaced.

“That’s a lie.”

“Oh absolutely.” Kelpo coughed. “But whinging about it isn’t gonna help.”

“You rest up. I’ll carry him.”

Telin approached the kid gingerly, placing a hand on the boy’s forehead. Despite the environment, the boy’s forehead proved warm to the touch; even through Telin’s insulated glove.

He carefully started picking the boy up, groaning. Kid or not, the boy wasn’t exactly tiny either.

“Void Demons, angry mercs; pit falls...” Telin seethed as he shrugged the boy over his shoulder. “Our fee just went up.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Brakarr pulled the line hand over mechanical hand; hauling a tangled knot of abandoned harnesses into the light beaming down from the spot-lamps set into his war rig. The empty harness twirled in the wind. He cast the line aside with a snarl as Parson-Luk chuckled.

“Good Utz,” the Ostron chuckled, admiring their prey’s tenacity and the Grineer’s frustration in equal measure. “Only worthy prey chews from the snare.”

Vern keyed his com bead.

“Isolde. Status?”

“They live.” The girl replied. Vern was thankful she had the courtesy to use the com rather than answering in his head. “But the Sleeper’s Dream begins to fade.”

“Translation?” Vern’s voice was impatient.

Isolde studied the central column of the ruined star ship. The recovery techs were in the process of stripping the melted biomass from the wreck; peeling its layers and steadily revealing the true outline of the war machine beneath.

“Ladahr and Bycek will need to be quick.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ladahr Morval, Master of Moa, leaned into the wind, squinting past the visual artefacts the atmospherics inflicted on his visor. His charges swept wide in a hunting pattern; scanners flitting over the ice and rock. He would need to keep a close eye on their handling in such extreme conditions.

They had all but completed a 5 kilometre radius around the insertion point; making good time in spite of the harsh terrain. The Moa were agile bipeds, with birdlike intelligence. Each were heavily customised; carrying a variety of onboard weaponry suited for multi-purpose force deployment. This granted Ladahr tactical flexibility, but the units themselves could prove squirrelly because of it.

Particularly in these conditions. Surface temp was as cold as it got on Venus. Most of the planet was burning hot; vast swatches of molten rock swathed in drifts of imported coolant. The coolant mines formed a major part of Venus’ local economy. The Orokin had seeded certain areas with ancient technology; arcane engines embedded deep within the planet’s surface which permitted the altogether more primitive efforts the Corpus employed. The majority of the planet formed an unusual tableau of extreme contrast: as floating glaciers drifted over the barren landscape, slamming down into the ground and rendering the planet habitable.

The arcane engines that powered these unique phenomenon led to rare pockets of microclimates; such as the Frozen Zone they hunted in now. The snow itself was primitive coolant, that had long since morphed into its own unique property.

Drone 4 was experiencing sensor fluctuations. The hunter let it slide initially, but now they were affecting field performance beyond acceptable efficiency thresholds. Enough. Ladahr brought his scouting mech to a halt, hopping down and keying a series of instructions into a control slate. The affected Drone chirped and trotted over obediently.

Torr Bycek dismounted from the rear cage as well, glad to be stretching his legs. He trudged uphill towards an overlook point, his trademark beam cannon in his hands.

The two often worked together in the field; rifleman and outrider. Sniper and spotter.

Bycek seldom spoke. That suited Ladahr. He was better with machines than people.

Ladahr busied himself with the repairs; popping open the offending ocular lens on the drone and humming tunelessly as he worked; the sound all but lost in the storm around him. An old habit, it helped him tune everything out. All distractions.

Ladahr was still humming when Bycek tapped him on the shoulder.

“Over here.” It was a veritable speech by Bycek’s standards. “Found something.”

The two hurried to the top of the outcrop.

The vista below was all but snatch-stolen by the churning gusts of snow. But between Bycek’s advanced scope and Ladahr’s scouting optics, there was something there. Hidden at the base of the valley, by an old tunnel. Ladahr tapped a series of commands into his belt.

The Moa took positions on all sides of the valley, training their viewfinders at the base of the tunnel. Ladahr saw what they saw through the visor.

Multiple angles, full spectrum analysis. 

A camo tent, scrappily erected around a small, two man skimmer. A low budget model by all accounts. A rental, Ladahr sneered. The netting was mag-shielded, designed to hide a parked ship from unwelcome attention. The snow rendered it all but invisible in the howling storm.

“Good eyes, Torr.” Ladahr hissed, clapping him on the back.

Bycek grunted. He was already settling into a firing position.

Ladahr hurried back to his walker, snatching up the bulky field set from the dashboard.

 “Vern, this is Ladahr.” The Master of Moa sent. “Piping coordinates to your position.”

Another flurry of commands marshalled his drones. The Moa slunk forward, settling into the snowy hills overlooking the tunnel entrance. All but invisible but for the tips of their spy lenses.

“We have them.”

 

 

 

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“Set-backs in any venture are to be expected; nay, anticipated.

The mark of a successful trader is not how they handle times of plenty, but rather the opposite. Adversity, in all its many forms, is where one’s true character is revealed. Survival in such times requires many qualities.

Courage, creativity… and perhaps above all others… tenacity.”

- Ergo Glast, former Corpus financier and scientist

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They inched their way through the tunnels, their progress agonisingly slow.

Telin only focused on the next step in front of him. Between his loaded pack and the weight of the boy, his shoulders burned. Routine became essential; simple mechanical process. One foot in front of the other. The thought of the fee claim, of revenge against the thieving scum drove each step.

Kelpo started to fall behind. Twice he had stopped to catch his breath.

Telin set the boy down carefully, turning to look at his friend.

Kelpo held himself upright; one hand braced against the tunnel wall. The other encircled his ribs, tenderly. After a moment, he pressed his back to the wall, eventually sliding down into a slump; head bowed. The man’s breathing came ragged; air filters rasping in the dark.

“He needs rest.” The boy had appeared at his side now, rubbing his eyes groggily. “Kelpo Marr’s wounds have not reacted well to Void Exposure.”

“We can’t afford to stop. Our ship is hidden, but a crew that size isn’t gonna take our escape lying down. We need to get back to the one of the outposts.”

“Be that as it may, Kelpo Marr requires rest.”

Kelpo flapped a hand at them.

“S’alright.” He slurred. The crude bandages holding his face together were peeling. His skin had paled to an ashen grey. “Just gimme a sec.”

Then Kelpo’s head lolled to the side, listless.

The boy crouched beside Telin, studying Kelpo. The stocky scavener’s face was a bloody mess; his wounds having reopened during their tumbling descent.

“How far is your ship?” the boy asked, brow knitted.

“Not far. A klick, maybe less.”

“Too far in his present condition. We camp here.”

The boy’s commanding tone proved too much for Telin. He brusquely grabbed the boy by the shoulder, rounding on him.

 “Now listen here, kid.” the Scavenger snapped. “You don’t give the orders here. We found you. Your ship? Our find. You? You’re a rescue fee.”

With detached serenity the boy took a simple hold of Telin’s wrist. He squeezed, ever so slightly; with anatomical precision.

Telin yelped as white hot pain lanced through his arm. The boy spoke slowly, icily calm:

“Two things to remember, Telin Voss.” The boy’s voice was level, matter of fact; “First, touch me again and you will draw back a stump. Second, do not speak to me that way. Not once, not ever. Do you understand?”

Telin hissed but nodded. The death-grip released. The pain vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“You are welcome to your finders fee. I do not begrudge a man his income. Indeed, I would pay it myself, present resources notwithstanding.”

 The boy resumed examined Kelpo’s wounds, as matter of fact as ever:

“We achieve nothing by bickering. Help me attend to him, or we are both to blame.”

Telin unpacked what little remained of their medical supplies, handing them over. Concern for his friend overrode wounded pride.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Telin shook his head, massaging his swollen wrist.

The boy pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had removed Kelpo’s faceplate and attended the man’s wounds with the same careful precision as ever.

“Truth be told? I can’t remember. Our fall earlier, our altercation just now? Instinct; some kind of ingrained muscle memory.” The boy shrugged, “It is sufficient for me to understand that I possess a tremendous capacity for physical violence.”

“You were trained for this?”

“Evidently.”

“And when we fell in the tunnel, what happened?”

“If I could tell you, I most certainly would.” The boy never flinched as he peeled Kelpo’s bloodied gauzing away. “If it worries you, then rest assured it terrifies me. How does one explain the inexplicable?”

The boy daubed at Kelpo’s weeping flesh, holding it together as he strapped the primitive plasters back into place. There was no masking the anxiety in his voice.

 “It comes in flashes. Vague premonitions; snatches here and there.” The boy wiped anti-septic cream into the bruised flesh massing over Kelpo’s ruined eye. “And with those flashes, memories. An Old War, terrible to behold. Entire colonies burned. I am fearful forget; terrified to remember.”

The boy shook his head, resolute.

“Ancient history. Dwelling on the past will not help us here in the present.” He finished sealing the final bandage, locking Kelpo’s visor back in place. “There. That’s the last of our supplies. If he moves from here, it will be with our direct assistance.”

The boy turned his attention to Telin now.

“Weapon inventory.” The boy said. “Show me.”

Telin grudgingly unslung his pack, setting it between them. He laid out its contents carefully.

The boy picked over it smoothly. First the snub nosed pistol. He turned it over in his hands, scrutinising it. He popped out the magazine, re-secured it expertly. Then he pulled back the slide, inspecting it for blockages. Satisfied, he set it down. There were no spare magazines; its ammunition painfully limited.

Then he looped the grenades into the straps of Telin’s carry pack, for easy access. The knuckle duster was next, looking massive over his small hand.

Telin watched the boy work, an icy feeling in his gut.

The boy frowned. There was something missing. He fixed Telin with a look.

“You are carrying a knife. Your left boot, secreted away. Give it here, please.”

The knife was well hidden. How could he possibly know?

Telin handed it over without further protest.

The boy unfurled a grey emergency blanket from the pack; throwing it about his shoulders like a poncho. The wicked blade served as a makeshift broach.

“Shouldn’t I get a weapon?” Telin asked.

“That cutting beam you carry will suffice, Telin Voss. You were not designed for war.”

The boy spoke with a measure of himself now.

“You will have to carry him; for all my training, I lack your physicality. I do not know these tunnels, or indeed what has become of the world beyond. You will guide me from this place. In return, I will ensure you and your friend’s survival.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Telin grunted, sparing a glance at Kelpo’s sorry state.

The boy stood up, his makeshift poncho flapping in the wind; the pack looped with grenades seeming huge on his slight frame.

 “And if they try to stop us?” Telin asked.

The boy’s voice was hard as he looked at Telin directly.

“Well.” The boys eyes flashed ever so slightly. “You have your skills. I have mine.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The loading teams stood back from the dig site as the end of the chains clacked into view. The Liset twisted in the open air, suspended like a speared shark. The storm was beginning to clear.

Vern and the rest of his team watched it as the ancient ship was cinched to the belly of the Severance Package. Isolde seemed to take particular pity on the ancient spaceship. Parson-Luk rested a weathered hand on her shoulder and gave it a slight shake, breaking her from her reverie.

“Time to go.” Vern said. “Loading team has done their job. Now we finish ours.”

They clambered onto an open top assault skimmer. The ship was kitted with all manner of net launchers, rocket pods and beam projectors. Vern took the pilot’s seat; the brutish Grineer occupying most of the rear seating with his sheer bulk.

They shot off into the distance, closing on the beacon where Ladahr and Bycek lay carefully in wait.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This way.” Telin huffed, one eye on the map. “Not far now.”

The tunnel mouth was just ahead. It fed into a small bowl gulley. At the far end of the valley, trussed under the soaked sheeting of a flapping camo net, lay their salvation.

Telin forced himself forward, lugging Kelpo.

The boy walked beside them, pistol low at his side. He stopped at the cave mouth; peering across the horizon, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The snow coated hills loomed around them.

 “Wait.” The boy cautioned.

Telin waited. Nothing but howling wind and drifting gusts of snow. Ahead, the landing skimmer waited. The flapping camo netting flapped at them, seemingly beckoning Telin closer. The scavenger shook his head.

The scavenger started forward once more, shrugging as he adjusted his grip on Kelpo.

The boy called out to him, again, voice lost to the wind.

Heedless, Telin kept shuffling forward.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Target sighted. Taking the shot.” Bycek breathed; snuggling the Opticor rifle tightly against him.

An optical cable ran from the top of the rifle directly into the side of his boxy helmet. He sighted on the battered scavengers.

He pressed the record button on the side of his rifle.

The difficulty with hunting with an Opticor was just that: it was an Opticor. The targets you hit tended to vaporise. Documentation formed an essential part of payment.

The Rec light on the edge of his HUD winked to life.

He grinned and squeezed the trigger.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Telin shuffled forward; focus entirely on putting one foot in front of the other.

The snow was thick in the valley. His boots sank to knee level in places. Telin didn’t care. The sight of the drop ship, of salvation, drove him on.

Something smashed into Telin and Kelpo from behind, knocking them flat.

Then he felt the wave of pure heat pass overhead.

The snow around him melted in an instant as the hills behind him exploded in a flash.

Then he heard the keening after-roar of the beam rifle as it split the sky.

The boy had knocked them flat against the ground. The cave mouth beyond became molten slag.

Kelpo awoke with a fitful start. Telin rolled on top of him; a finger jammed over where his mouth would be; interspersed with the occasional throat slashing gesture.

This was no signing cant, or hidden message. It was a very universal, frenzied warning:

Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe.

Kelpo nodded, eyes bulging from pure adrenaline. Telin glanced about, a hasty plan forming. He turned to the boy.

Who was nowhere to be seen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bycek frowned, rising from his firing position in surprise. The shot had been on target. Scope calibration showed no change in trajectory. His aim had been true. The scavengers had been there one second, and were gone the next. But there were no scattered body parts, no strewn boots or descending ashfall common with a successful strike.

Bycek unplugged the optical cable; examining the impact area with the naked eye.

The cave mouth was gone. Steam rose in a tremendous plume over the mountainside; revealing charred rock once buried for centuries. Slush sizzled as it slid over collapsed rock. EMP from the blast wreaked havoc with the optics of Ladahr’s drones. Their screens darken momentarily before resetting.

Torr Bycek frowned, ran the playback. There were the targets. Centre mass, a clean sighting.

Then a blur; a snatch of visual artefacts on the scope feed. The shot fires.

Bycek replayed it again, at a fraction of the speed. He thumbs the clip forward manually, frame by frame.

The shape moves too quickly to be natural. It is energy, incorporeal. It hits the two men with blinding speed. It is not of any fixed form or speed that he can discern.

The truth of it only becomes visible by the time his target falls into the heaped snow. A pico-second.

Bycek pressed pause on the clip. He backs up to the moment in question.

It is a boy. He is young, barely a teenager. A shock of dark hair and pale skin. His face is masked by an ornate rebreather, but beyond that his skin is entirely exposed to the perilous elements, seemingly without consequence.

The boy is looking directly at Bycek. The unremitting fury in the young man’s eyes caused Bycek to blink and close the playback window entirely.

Bycek felt a sharp intake of breath. A jolting coolness in his chest. He looked down.

There was a knife buried in his sternum. Blood pooled out across the front of his environment suit; soaking the insulated fabric.

“Oh.” He managed in faint surprise.

The sniper toppled forward, dead before he even hits the ground.

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Ladahrr saw Bycek’s vitals flatline at the very same moment he realised their quarry survived the alpha strike.

The Master of Moa’s walker was hull down between a series of boulders, superbly camouflaged. He tapped in a duo of commands. The Moa walkers burst from concealed positions, their keening shrill rending the air. From six angles of attack they dart forward, converging from the hills above.

Three small objects flitted through the air. Ladahr’s eyes are good. He saw the grenades, his brain not quite registering them as possible. Their trajectory was improbable, their scattering all too wide to come from a single origin point.

They are not thrown. By some unknown force, they are guided.

A trio of airbursts rend the sky. Two of the Moa go dark instantly; scattered across the hills in component pieces.

A sharp series of gunshots fells a third; a fourth. He hears a pistol clack empty.

One of the scavengers burst forth from the snow. He was holding a primitive plasma cutter, yelling unintelligibly. He was a sitting duck.

The surviving Moa screech and bounded toward him. What happened next defied all conventional logic.

 A boy popped into existence between the Moa, hands raised either side; appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Now Ladahar knew he was losing his mind.

The air displaced between the boy and the two Moa; sending them flying in separate directions. One tumbled gracelessly in front of the yelling scavenger. He scythed the plasma cutter down in a ruthless arc, silencing it.

The last remaining Moa was still recovering when the boy raised a hand. A pulse of arcane power split the very universe; bursting the drone’s skull. It toppled headless to the snow, flitting sparks.

Ladahr wrestled with the controls of his walker. Every drone feed on his goggle display was dark. Void Energy readings maxed out on every scale; playing havoc with his instrumentation.

There was a break in the carnage. The boy collapsed to his knees, exhausted; alone and exposed in the open. The scavenger with the plasma torch could only look on. This was the hunter’s chance.

Ladahr’s walker tore forward. He primed every onboard weapon system. Electrified net launchers; missile volleys, cutting beams; the arsenal was appreciable. He prepared to fire all of them. They were not intended to be fired simultaneously. Doing so was possible, but required every ounce of his considerable skill, every shred of his determined concentration.

It is understandable then that he did not see Kelpo Marr perched, on the rocky outcrop Torr Bycek once occupied; grey-faced but resolutely determined.

Nor did he see the Opticor primed in his hands.

The Opticor is a Corpus anti-material rifle. It is intended for the comprehensive destruction of high-value targets; substituting rate of fire and ease of field deployment in favour of overwhelming single shot firepower. It is not an easy to use weapon for the untrained; possessing tremendous recoil, heavy weight and complicated optical software.

Kelpo Marr was entirely ignorant of these limitations. He was an untrained shooter. Moreover, he was physically impaired, almost delirious from a combination of blood lose, hypothermia and bruised ribs. The strain of his hasty climb had all but overtaken him.

Under such strenuous conditions and adverse circumstances, it was forgivable to miss a target; particularly one target moving at such speed.

No matter. Such was the power of the Opticor, it only required that Kelpo aim in the general direction of the target.

The Master of Moa didn’t have time to scream as the beam enveloped the walker; wiping it from existence. The walker’s ammunition stores cooked off in a mushroom cloud visible from miles around.

Kelpo Marr for his part collapsed, overcome by the sudden exertion.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The signs of the battle were visible fully a kilometre out before they touched down.

The camo tent was gone, and with it, the ship it so carefully concealed.

Vern’s team fanned out across the wreckage. Small fires still burned despite the savage cold. Drone parts and smouldering shrapnel decorated the hills around them. Isolde sniffed the air and smiled to herself, tipping her head back and feeling the cool snowflakes kiss against her skin. The cold didn’t seem to bother her. Neither did the burning stink of flesh permeating the air.

Parson- Luk found Bycek’s body; already half hidden beneath the falling snow.

There was nothing left of Ladahr, but for two mechanical stumps and a greasy smear across the landscape.

Terrenus Vern did not mourn the loss of his men; at least, not outwardly. They were mercenaries. Losing comrades was part of the business But they each saw the set of his jaw, that hardening in his demeanour.

This was personal now.

Edited by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139
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"Never underestimate the competition."

- Ergo Glast, of the Perrin Sequence

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prospect 141.

Stack city. Tithe city. Vice city.

It resembled a gleaming candlestick; one that steadily became more battered and rotten the deeper it descended. The base of the city was entirely metal; a weatherworn criss-crossing trellis of support girders and ribbed pipework; containing entire industries: power stations, flight hangars, habitation stacks. Storm shielding protected the summit of the tower from the violent winds and extreme shifts in hot and cold that plagued the surface of Venus.

Not so the lower stacks. These were of wrought iron and steel gantry; decaying. The sheer volume of metal kept it upright. Squashed between landing bays and acid-stained grain silos lived entire communities; vertical slums where the lowest in Corpus society huddled, simply grateful to have somewhere to eke out an existence; however miserable. There was no natural light here. Cold street lights and neon advertising banners cast long shadows on steel streets.

To Telin it was home. There were many ways to make a living in Prospect 141. Working the mining crews had been their parent's way; overseeing the drones and hand-sorting processed materials into refinement bins; serving as cheap labour where cost-cutting measures ensured human hands proved cheaper than the automated crews more prevalent throughout Corpus Society.

Indentured service in the Corpus Navy was another; signing your life away for a comparatively comfortable, if strictly regulated, life among the stars. One's freedom was a small price to pay for a regular meal and a humble stipend.

Telin and Kelpo had chosen another path. Frontier work. Life on the blasted surface was not easy, but it was one of the few honest trades left. An entire economy had been built upon the misery permeating Prospect 141's Low-Stacks. Casinos, extortion rackets; scrappers and mechanists, guns for hire. You could buy it all in Prospect 141, if you had the credits and the standing.

Politically the city was deemed independent. A lie, of course. All elections were corp-approved; and almost universally the realm of the Upper Tier Families. Members of the Corpus Guilds lived isolated lives in their gilded towers high above; interacting with the movers and shakers that rocked the trade ways of the Solar Rail; never once witnessing the squalid underbelly that festered beneath and made it all possible.

Telin and his companion's arrival was not a dramatic one. The city continued to teem with its own frenzied activity, oblivious. Never once did anyone notice the arrival of an overdue, low-rent skimmer; nor did they realise that its arrival would usher in a sequence of events that would change the city forever.

Telin's all but slammed the skimmer into hangar bay 2-12. He popped his restraints; leant over and unclasping Kelpo's. His stocky friend was still out of it, a shadow of his hearty self. The ship was a rental. Its arrival was registered by Tower Control; their return to the city surely documented. They had to go.

The boy was conscious but weak. He was slow to get to his feet. Telin noticed him shiver for the first time. Whatever Void trickery the boy employed in the battle had taxed heavily.

Telin threw an insulated field jacket around the kid's shoulders, audibly fussing. The boy might be a murderous Void Witch, but he was their murderous Void Witch; complete with a generous finders fee.

The only trick was living long enough to collect it.

"C'mon kid, let's go." Telin pulled Kelpo up onto his shoulder once more. "Got a safe place in mind."

The boy followed; coat draped over him like some ridiculous cloak.

A drone buzzed out towards them as they shuffled across the landing dock towards the Arrival gate. It was from the rental company. A series of credit demands flashed at them; pulsing a violent red. Late payment. Overdue invoices. Unacceptable landing protocol. It then began detailing an extensive list of punishments and penalties; up to and including off-world military service.

Telin snarled and waved his credit disc at the drone. Whatever scant few credits he had left vanished in an instant.

Pleased, the drone flushed a fulsome green and bid them a nice day. Telin scowled. That too would be tracked. Telin Voss was no a warrior, but he wasn't stupid either. In the Low Stacks of Prospect 141, a digital trail was a dangerous thing to leave behind.

Battered and bruised, the trio vanished into the jostling crowds of the wider city beyond.

All but invisible beneath the dark shadows of a neon billboard; a hooded figure detached itself from the wall, and followed.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 


The Severance Package languished in a holding pattern, one of six similar sized barges awaiting clearance. Behind them the blasted Venusian landscape stretched out; the unending baleful sun causing the floating glaciers to glisten and shine as they drifted over the landscape; serene and alien in equal measure.

Their berth was Anyo-sponsored; strictly Mid-Tier. Most of the ships around them were semi-private crews - mining ships and bulk haulers on long leases, intended for regional travel across the planet's surface. The Severance was the exception, in that it was only privately owned vessel, that also happened to bristle with weaponry. Other crews rubber-necked as the Severance idled beside them; wondering just how such a rangy, mean looking killer could be permitted in their esteemed company.

This section of the city formed a central belt buffering the Upper Tier from the more skeletal, industrial foundations below. The higher the tier, the more prevalent the Corpus iconography, as the patrols became more regular and visible. Viewing galleries looked down upon the idling barges; row after row of cafes, restaurants and other luxuries far beyond the grasp of the average crewman.

Anyo Corp were not the sole controlling Corpus power in Prospect 141. Fortunate Dawn exhibited a significant presence, as did Luxor and several of the other major Guilds. The City Watch were a subsidiary of the Corpus Navy; privately funded by the various stakeholders that controlled the space lanes to and from the colony. While not the largest colony on Venus, Prospect 141 held a peculiar form of significance on Venus: its semi-independent status at the fringes of Corpus society granting it notoriety for being a useful, if somewhat disreputable, place to conduct business.

Kahrl Bravic paced like a caged beast, barking at Teico. His flustered coms officer weathered the constant stream of snarling, suggestions and beratement with considerable aplomb. The crewman tried Tower Control again for the fifteenth time, his finger tapping on the transmit button with thinly disguised panic.

The Severance's presence here was guesswork on Vern's part. The hunter had looked at each of the surface colonies around them, and surmised that their prey would go to ground in the largest encampment within range. Bravic trusted the man.

Terrenus Vern paid no attention to his employer's impatience. Him and his team made ready in the belly of the cargo hold.

With Ladahr and Bycek gone, replacements were required. There were local crews you could sponsor; hired help. Less specialised, cheaper and decidedly expendable. Their quarry had eluded them once, and carved up two of their own in the process. Vern would not underestimate them again.

Sometimes numbers could make all the difference. Vern hired as many as he could afford; confirming their contracts through Disposable Solutions, a low-market broker.

A holographic representation of the city floated before them. Like most Venusian structures; a centralised core contained the central elevators facilitating access to and from varying tiers throughout the city. Communications between ships were heavily monitored, and purchasing landing data was frowned upon, if not entirely illegal. They would have to rely on local contacts for such direct leads.

City hunting was a different prospect to the Venusian wilds.

The Ostron's skills would be of little use without wider strategic input. The trapper's senses were keen, and while his nose was second to none; he found the tangling streets and narrow alleys bewildering.

Brakarr's deployment was similarly limited. Grineer were of the Empire; indistinguishable from the Twin Queen's war machine. The very sight of the hulking Bombard would likely incite a riot. He would have to be held in reserve, until they were sure of their quarry's location; and even then, carefully used.

Therein lay the challenge. They were looking for three targets; two of them locals. Once again, this was their terrain. Vern's team sought a needle, hidden in a stack of needles. A specialised broker was required.

Terrenus Vern was not a man to leave things to idle chance, or local help. He employed every tool at his disposal.

Isolde set the tarot deck carefully on the deck; legs folded beneath her. The Grineer stared blankly from the corner. He was built for war, not parlour tricks.

The Ostron kept his distance, perched atop a packing crate; as superstitious and squirrelly as ever.

The rest of Bravic's crew hung from the rafters and lurked on the gantries above, too curious not to watch. She was of the Touched. Of the Void. More dangerous and exotic than anything they had ever witnessed. Terrenus for his part folded his legs beneath him and joined her sitting on the floor.

The girl shuffled the cards, humming as she worked. She spread three of them out in a single dextrous sweep. The air grew cold throughout the deck; unnaturally so.

Three cards; each bearing a different face. It was not any deck Vern recognised.

"What do you see?" the hunter asked.

"The Nine of Quills. The Four of Chains." She read the cards, tasting each syllable; stroking each in reverent sequence. "Here, the Fool's Eye. Possibility and chaos. Multiple outcomes, intertwined."

She shuffled again. Three more cards set out; two set face down. The third, turned over and revealed. It depicted a young child of indeterminate gender, bathed in light.

"What do you see?" the hunter repeated.

"The Yuvan." The girl murmured. "It represents Youth…Rebirth. An Awakening."

"And the other two?"

Isolde pursed her lips as she held a hand over the cards. The faintest purple glow emanated from her finger tips. She turned them over, one by one.

The first was an Orokin Structure, inverted. Void energies lashed at its base.

"The Tower." Isolde read aloud, "Darkness and destruction on a physical scale."

"And not the city here?" Vern raised an eyebrow.

Isolde paid no heed, utterly absorbed in the process. She turned over the final card.

A grinning skull, stripped of skin.

Isolde stopped for a moment. Eventually, Vern learned forward and asked.

"Tell me what you see, girl."

Isolde looked at him squarely. Her smile was cold.

"Death."

"All very ominous." Brakarr growled, voice rendered mechanical and menacing by his armoured mask. "What purpose does it serve?"

Isolde rose to her feet, walking in a slow circle about the cards. She held her chin upward, proud and defiant as she addressed the hulking Grineer. Beneath the hood, her features were delicate. For one so young, there was a confidence and poise that far belied her physical age.

"The cards are a means to an end. A yardstick by which any wayfarer interpreting the Void can chart their path. Portents can change with sequencing; and with that sequencing, interpretation."

"Parlour tricks and nonsense." Brakarr scoffed.

"My cloned colleague's disdain is noted." Isolde scowled. "But consider the cards; their disposition. Every-changing, fearful. The destruction of order. Finality - speaking to a fear of death; either of the self or a close companion." Isolde indicated each of the cards. "These are a reflection of an emotional state. Our target's emotion state."

"I have seen you do things I thought not possible, Surah." Parson-Luk began, tentatively. "I do not doubt you. But I too must ask; how does this help us track our prey?"

Isolde stood tall, hands clasped behind her back. She spoke calmly yet her voice carried; filling the air with ease.

"Because our target, like me, is Void Touched." Isolde smiled. "He is uncertain. Terrified of a power that is not quite his to control just yet."

"And these cards?" Vern asked, "They can confirm the target's location?"

Isolde shook her head. Isolde's eyes carried what might have been a semblance of pity.

"No, not directly. But the very resonance of the cards tells me enough."

She swept the cards back into the arcane deck, standing upright once more.

"Our target is here, in this city." She addressed the gallery in full.

"And he is afraid."

Edited by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139
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Wow... just wow! O.O

An enthralling series 🙂

Some thoughts / speculations:

Spoiler

I've got this feeling that this Isolde is a sleeper agent, a Tenno herself maybe, spying for the Lotus from inside the enemy ranks, and this whole void witch trickery is just for cover and a front she shows towards the crew of the Severance. The way she was depicted after that last fight in the frozen wastes of Venus, she comes through as ruthless and/or someone who revels in destruction and violence, mixed with some arrogance, just keeps it under the surface? Add to that, the Tenno boy mentions hearing music. Suspecting an edgy Octavia frame or a Banshee :3

As for the Ostron, Parson --- I thought they were primarily merchants, community-driven but never venturing far from their own. 🤔 But I suppose there are individuals that are on the extreme ends of the scale, even by Ostron standards.

Not trying to take the characters apart, and chances are that I was jumping at hasty conclusions there anyway-- What I mean to say that it's a colorful cast of characters and there's a depth to each of them.

Very interesting, looking forward for more! 😉

Edited by Aldrr
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"...What they need, Margulis, is to be destroyed! They're devils from that hell, not human anymore."

- Executor Ballas


----------------------------------------

Then.

"Isolde!"

She runs to meet them, giggling. Giddy bare feet slap cool smooth decking as she dashes into the open concourse. Golden light streams down from the shutters overhead.

Beyond, the Void trembles and surges, unending.

The other children await her. Five friends, thrown together by life aboard the Orokin vessel. There is Sara, her closest friend and confidant. Impish and playful Sara grins and slaps palms with her adoptive sister. They speak over one another, exchanging breathless gossip at blinding speed.

Solemn Doric shushes them. He is the tallest of the boys; dour and broad shouldered. His ashen skin sets him apart. Kael, the paler boy beside him mutters an aside and the two chuckle privately. Isolde flushes. Sara scowls and swats at him playfully. They squabble. Kael complaining loudly as she tousles his mop of unkempt dark hair.

"Over here."

That is Sohren. He lacks Doric's commanding height but is the oldest of their little corpus. They were a team, separate from the other children aboard the ship.

Every roguish suggestion was Sohren's doing, every grand design, or misadventure or hushed conversation after lights out. He is barely a teenager, yet already carries the beginnings of a man about him. His parents were low within the mighty ship's vast hierarchy.

It does not matter to them. They are children. Hierarchies are naturally created and unconsciously maintained. He is the fastest, the strongest; the most experienced. They all but worship him.

The gang gathers around. Sohren stands by a large oval viewport that dominates the Observation Deck. It is one of the more remote parts of the ship, overshadowed by more central and heavily trafficked viewing galleries.

In normal times the viewport provides a grand view of the swooping lines and graceful golden curves of the ship beyond. It is a vast landscape, seemingly endless. These were not normal times. They are underway, beset on all sides by the swirling energies of the Void.

A Void Expedition, for the Void Era.

The viewport is opaque, a necessary safeguard. It appears to them now as an alabaster mirror, smooth and cool to the touch; It is rimmed by gold; infused with a lacing silver trim.

Only the Grownups had access to the science deck where the windows could be unveiled, and even then only with the strictest of safeguards in. The children never saw those places, mysterious and forbidden.

"What is it?" Kael asks, stepping forward.

"Watch." Sohren simply says. He steps towards the glass. Places his palm against it.

The opaque glass warps to his touch; twisting and folding into a shape. It becomes the outline boy, much like him. A perfect shadow.

The shadow cocks its head to one side. They all scream, all but Sohren. He stares, fascinated. The lights on the deck flicker. A bemused, cold laughter chuckles in the dark, playful yet distorted. Kael grabs his friend, shaking him. Sohren blinks.

The shadow is gone.

Lights restore and the ship thrums as it always has; a comforting ticking rhythm. All is calm again.

The children look at each other.

"Not a word of this to anyone." Sohren warns sternly. "Not even the others."


----------------------------------------

Weeks pass. Every day after lessons they gather in the same place where the shadow greeted them. Sohren tries to reveal the shadow once more, to no avail; clapping his hands, slapping the view screen; chanting. He sits down heavily, defeated. Evidently the shadow has found other ways to entertain itself.

But there are still oddities here, on this remote part of the ship. Peculiarities remain.

Doric brings with him a set of handcrafted marbles; an old gift from his Name Day past. The children marvel as the marbles spin and coalesce before the viewport; shifting into unknowable patterns before eventually settling still.

The next day Sara sets out an ayatan spinning top. It turns and spins as normal until it doesn't; abruptly whirling in the opposite direction with maddening speed. They yelp in unison as it shoots out across the room and shatters into a thousand pieces against the far wall.

Their collective yelp is one of delight.

The clandestine experimentation continues. Isolde sets out the tarot set, murmuring in wonder as the same faces reveal themselves time and time again, no matter how many times she shuffles the deck.

The set is new to her, a present from her Mother who served on the science team. An idle gift intended to keep her shy daughter entertained during the long shifts that kept her parents away more often than not. A distraction.

No longer. Now they are set out in sequence before the opaque mirror on the wall. Isolde's nervous reflection stares back at her as she turns each card over in sequence.

The other children stoop over her, craning in for a closer look. She sets the final card down.

The same sequence, every time. No matter how many times she shuffles and reshuffles the cards, there they were; staring back at her.

The Nine of Quills. The Four of Chains. The Fool's Eye. The Tower, inverted.

And finally, Death.

Isolde scrutinises the sequence. At this early stage in her life; the cards are unfamiliar, their true meanings and finer subtleties as unyielding and opaque as the viewport before her. Yet the cards themselves seem to hum; moving with a barely perceptible tremble. They are warm to the touch.

Isolde frowns and tries to swap the cards intentionally; to break the order with brutish direct input. The moment she does so the entire decks spits into the air, flitting about and sending the children scattering for cover, cackling as the cards rain down.

They recover, reset. The investigation must continue unabated. This is a science vessel, after all.

The sixth time; nothing. Deflated, they heave a collective sigh. The magic is gone once again.

They vow to return tomorrow, to once again tempt fate with a power that is unknown and perhaps unknowable.

Fate finds them first.


----------------------------------------

It is deep in the night shift when the killing starts.

It has already begun by the time her eyes snap awake. Her cabin is awash in sinister red warning lights. Toys scattered about her room leer at her; smiling blank expressions rendered feral in the disorientating strobe.

Isolde springs from her bed, and cries out for her parents in the dark. Warning klaxons are the only response.

Instinctively she grabs the tarot deck from her dresser, clutching it close as she pads into the shared living room that adjoins her parents' bedroom. The deck pulses warm in her hands. She calls out again.

Their door is ajar, the bed pristine and so terribly empty. She knows she should lock the door, to stay put and wait as her parents would tell her to. Her finger hovers over the activation stud that will seal her in here alone with that empty bed

The klaxons will not stop screaming.

Tarot deck clutched close to her chest, Isolde steps out into smoke and fire.


----------------------------------------

Isolde does not remember where she is when the first Void Storm breaches the hull of the Zariman Ten Zero .

Void-Jump Accident. The very concept is unthinkable. It is a research vessel staffed with thousands of the most qualified and brilliant scientific minds of the Orokin Empire. There are entire generations aboard; countless children. The Seven show the requisite caution, understanding the loss to the Empire should even the slightest mishap occur.

The design is peerless; as robust and timeless as anything made in the Empire's endless reign.

It fails; fails utterly. The Void Shields are compromised, and pulsing waves of eldritch power rip through the corridors; enveloping every soul aboard. It is unknown whether this is a natural malfunction, or deliberate sabotage.

The question is academic. The Zariman Ten Zero becomes a murderous funhouse; a killing field. The true horror of it is lost to time.

Fire suppression systems ship wide fail. Sentry turrets at key intersections blaze to life, slicing into panicking survivors and felling them in droves; all IFF restrictions wiped. Boarding defences spring to life; cutting beams severing bone and cooking flesh as they scythe through those unfortunate enough to be caught in their path.

Isolde remembers none of this. One moment she is treading carefully down a darkened corridor; listening to the ship-wide broadcast ordering all hands to emergency stations. The next she is on the floor, retching.

Cards scatter across the deck. She has fallen. The air tastes singed; her hair too. That Void stink. Her scalp is bleeding. Flecks of blood stain her night dress; spattering against the upturned face cards. The grinning skull beams up at her, pristine and mocking.

They are the same cards as before, that same damned sequence. Smoke fills the corridors, along with screams and shrill, insane laughter. Still the klaxons shriek.

Smudged hands shaking, Isolde sweeps the cards back into her hands and rises to her feet, limping numbly forward.

The first adult she encounters is a male crewmen, middle aged. One of the security detail, name of Agnas. A friendly man, he is known to her, but not like this. Agnas' helmet is missing. His tunic is frayed and torn, maroon with caked blood. The reason becomes apparent.

Agnas is bashing his skull into the bulkhead repeatedly; slow deliberate strikes. He makes no sound. Just that maddening, methodical squelching thud as torn, bruised flesh meets unyielding ship plating. The plating wins, and the man topples with a wet thud; forehead caved inward.

Isolde screams, louder than any siren.


----------------------------------------

Sohren finds her, a traumatised ball in the corner; eyes swollen shut from streaming tears. Isolde's lungs now manage little more than a tortured, prolonged croak.

He steals a panicked glance over his shoulder. He knows more Grownups are coming. Some are organising, lashing out in an animalistic rage. The Void has them. They tear each other apart, or stalk in groups; hurling themselves upon anyone and everyone they deem to be Other. The children are not spared.

Their children have a rule. In times of crisis, or injury or self-doubt, the lonely observation deck is their sanctuary. Sohren carefully guides Isolde through the dark. They arrive terrified, but unharmed.

Sara has appeared, all but dragging a groggy Kael. A venting conduit had all but cooked the corridor he and his parents had been standing in when the first Void Storm hit.

Sara is ordinarily a chirpy person; bright eyed and optimistic. That is gone now. With grim determination she had pulled Kael from beneath the cooked bodies; administering what little aid she knew. Kael rasps into a rebreather; eyes streaming.

They gather at the only place they know. Doric is already waiting for them. Marbles clack as they grind together in his balled fists. He too is bloodied.

He is staring out the viewport in awestruck horror. It is opaque no longer.

The veil has been lifted. The Lidless Eye of the Void stares back; baleful, livid and ever-changing.

The children sink to the floor together, clinging to each other and weeping.


----------------------------------------

One of the hunting parties finds them eventually. There are five of them, three men and two women. Their eyes are black with murderous intent. Some carry rifles, but wield them like clubs. Others brandish little more than bloodied fingernails, caked with gore.

The children have no weapons. They are hemmed in on both sides. Their backs kiss the cool glass behind them.

"Stay back!" Sara warns with thinly disguised panic.

Sohren puts himself between the encroaching killers and Isolde, shielding her. She is all but catatonic.

Doric attempts to break the deadlock. He charges forward; balled fists swinging. A rifle butt rewards him, cracking across his forehead with a meaty slap. Marbles bounce and skitter across the corridor as he tumbles to the deck, stunned.

Sara sprints forward instinctively, snarling. One of the women overpowers her easily, clamping gnarled hands over her throat. Kael throws himself onto the crazed woman's back; respirator working overtime. He pulls hair, claws at eyes; anything to save his diminutive friend.

To no avail. The adult feels no pain, and instead starts cackling as she tightens her grip on Sara's throat.

Sohren steps in to help. He is hopelessly outnumbered. Defiant to the end, he raises his fists in a striking stance. His father is a lowly guardsman, and he is scarcely more than a boy. He roars a challenge.

Something pushes past him.

It is Isolde. She is no longer crying. Her eyes blaze with fury. Sohren does not recognise the look in her eyes. It is a cold rage, pitiless and vengeful as she stares at the fiend choking Sara.

Isolde raises a hand and emits a primal scream. A shockwave rips through the corridor. Crewmen are scattered about like bowling pins; Kael along with them. The death grip on Sara is loosened.

In a flash Sara disappears; appearing in a terrified heap six metres away and scrambling backward on her elbows. Her face is a mask of confusion.

The adults charge. Another shockwave blasts them off their feet. Sohren has lunged at them, only he has covered too much ground, impossibly quick. He catches himself, looking down at his hands, bewildered.

The adults scramble to their feet. One of the men roars a challenge and arcs a rifle toward Isolde. A scalding bolt of light vaporises him on the spot; blasting ash back up the corridor. Flakes flicker in the air, like morbid butterflies.

The rest of the adults flee, hooting like stampeding animals.

Kael's eyes blaze a deep blue above the ridges of the respirator. Energy crackles across his fingertips.

He holds his hand up, turning it over in awe; studying it. A hush falls over them. This is a scene playing out across every deck, on every level. The realms of reality simply twist, bend, then shatter.

It is an Awakening of sorts. Untamed power unleashed, bonded to minds young enough and vivid enough to withstand an unbridled, forbidden power, but unable to control it beyond blind impulse.

Fully harnessed, it will determine the fate of an Empire.

Doric, groaning and clambering to his feet, looks up at the viewport that forms a silhouette behind his friends. He is dazed, winded certainly. His eyes play tricks on him surely.

For the briefest moment, a shadow watches them. It cocks its head in wry amusement, and as suddenly as it appears is gone.

Edited by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139
Minor typos - (note to self: do not write on a mobile phone!)
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“Do you have a visual?”

“Moving through the markets now. Damn, it smells. How do people live like this?”

“This is how the world is now. How it has always been, in a sense. Stay focused.”

“I am focused. You think it’s easy getting around this place without getting rumbled?”

“Just keep an eye on him. We can’t risk a scene.”

“Please, you worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry at all.”

-          Unidentified Venusian communication

 

--------------------------------------------------------

Now.

The boy watched the walls swarm up around them. He pulled the flapping coat tighter, scolding his lack of nerve.

Prospect 141’s Low Tier Markets were sensory overload. Alien smells and sights threatened to overwhelm him at every turn. Low awnings of all manner of shapes, materials and colours jutted out from the buildings around him, strung with bunting and cheap metallic lights that blinked simplistic patterns or depicted the neon names of various outlets. Coarse shouting and throaty yells exchanged between bawdy drunks and soliciting merchants. No single wall surface was clear: holo-projectors blinked from one image to the next, shilling survival gear, improvised fire-arms, drug rehabilitation and promises of the better future with Anyo Corp (experiences may vary).

Steel grates hissed wafting clouds of steam that temporarily obscured all the madness from view. The boy drank it in, dumbfounded.

The most striking aspect was the poverty. Children ran by cackling, their cheap environment suits stitched together from all manner of recycled materials; shoes bound together with little more than rope and emergency tape. The elderly shuffled by, gaits twisted by ailments long untreated. Still, they managed, suffering their privation with a measure of stubborn dignity. The markets teemed with activity; bartering and low credit swaps; heated haggling and laughter. The boy noted the waiting lines for the soup kitchens were the longest. These were a lean people, long used to hardship.

Was this how the world was now? The boy had no idea what year it was, or how long he had slept. Before his time beneath the ice, the world he knew was golden and splendid. Cruel and merciless yes, but precisely so. Here, this low in the bowels of a Corpus surface city, the technology was scrappily functional and improvised. Were it not for the Anyo Corp murals on the walls and constant assault of holo-advertising, the boy would have sworn it was Grineer built. The Trade Guilds had built an Empire upon the ashes of the Old World, and these people were its lowest rung.

The boy drew stares. Details mattered. The sleeper suit he wore beneath the shaggy environment coat was much too clean, for one. The frontiersmen around him had rugged skin, tanned from snow glare and pock-marked with burns from hazardous pipework. The boy by contrast was pale and unblemished and for a teenager carried himself with a demeanour that bordered on haughty, whether he was aware of it or not.

His rebreather in particular drew a lot of unwanted attention. It was much too ornate. With a hissing click he removed it, stuffing it into one of his pockets. He regretted it instantly. Without the mask the air was all the more rank; stale, reprocessed, mixed with heady aroma of imported spices and homegrown protein mix. The boy gagged and almost retched, nostrils twitching.

His attempts at blending in proved unsuccessful. The citizens around him could spot him a mile away, swamped as he was in the flapping thermal coat. Invisible shoulders clipped him and threatened to send him spinning off his feet as the battered trio wound their way through the bustling markets; people only parting when they saw Kelpo’s sorry state. Gruff or not, they took care of their own here.

The third time somebody knocked into the boy he reacted poorly. The oaf in question was left upended on a collapsed market stall, clutching a sprained wrist. Quite how this occurred was too fast to adequately process.  Telin swore vehemently and dragged the boy down a side street before they attracted further unwanted attention. The boy complained indignantly but allowed himself to be hauled away.

Telin’s route was memorised, but wound and double backed on itself time and time again; ducking beneath hissing pipes and stepping over gurgling coolant drains. Even the boy, for all his wits, was barely able to keep up.

They eventually came to a foreboding metal door secreted down a dingy alleyway. Any signage was unlit. Bullet holes dented the walls like punctuation.

The Mangled Moa was not a salubrious establishment. Indeed, it was barely an establishment at all.

It was only when Telin banged a gloved fist on the door that a woman’s muffled voice called out.

“We’re closed!”

Telin banged again. A view grille set into the door slid open. A bitter laugh split the air.

“Oh no. No-no-no-no.” She fumed. “Not you.”

The viewport slammed shut.

Telin sighed and banged his fist again. The viewport remained closed.

“Go away!” the woman’s muffled voice snapped.

“It’s Kelp, Neera.” Telin there was no masking the hoarseness in his voice. “He’s hurt.”

A pause. The viewport snicked open. Even in the gloom, the boy could make out the woman’s eyes, studying the weary scavengers. The concern in them when they saw Kelpo, ashen faced and battered. A heaving sigh filled the air.

There came a series of popping sounds; of heavy bolts being lifted; an energy emitted powering down; then padlocked chains being popped and sliding to the floor.

The door banged open with a metallic squeal. Neera was Telin’s age; with red hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun. Pretty; hard as nails. The scowl she fixed Telin with softened when she saw Kelpo’s condition.

“Inside, quickly.” She ordered, before stabbing a finger at Telin. “Don’t think for a second this means we’re cool.”

The glare found itself fixed on the boy next. For all his martial ability, the boy felt three inches tall.

“Who’s this?” Neera asked suddenly, only noticing him now. There was no hiding her shock at the boy’s strange appearance.

“He’s with us.” Telin replied.

Sara eyed the boy warily.

“Huh. Looks weird.”

“He is weird.” Telin confirmed as he lugged Kelpo through the doorway. The boy froze in place, utterly unsure of himself under her withering stare.

“Well what are you gawking at?” the woman barked. She kept to the point.

“I’m Neera. Bar’s mine. Inside now.”

The boy shuffled through, thoroughly told.

Neera took a final suspicious look out into the alleyway behind, then clanged the door shut behind them. A chorus of rattling chains, bolts and clicking locks followed. With a pop and fizzle a sorry little shield generator cranked to life, covering the doorway in a Sorry We’re Closed hologram.

In the shadows, a gleaming pair of yellow eyes winked into life, then vanished once more.

 

--------------------------------------------------------

 

 

The men assembled on the landing pad below were united only by their dishevelled appearance. They were local guns; cheap muscle and lone brokers for the most part. Long coats and clunky respirators; or bare-chested tat-fiends big on piercings and low on subtlety. Some even wore the box helmets of the Corpus Navy, albeit customised and stencilled far beyond immediate recognition. Only the hulking Grineer mercenary’s presence kept them in line. They eyed the massive clone with fascination.

Brakarr for his part showed no expression; ruined face hidden beneath his battle mask. He dwarfed them all.

Above them all, the Severance Package sat docked in its berth in the Mid-Tier Hangar. Kahrl Brahvic stood atop the ship, overseeing his crew; who were scrambling to and fro; attaching fuel hoses and supervising drones scrubbing the plating down.

“Remind me again why we’re hiring these Low Stack trash?” Brahvic began. “Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”

Terrenus Vern stood by his employer’s side, arms folded across his chest.

“Consider it a necessary expense. My team is for frontier work.” He gave a slight shrug. “Terrain has changed. City like this? We need numbers. Close routes, box the target.”

“It’s expensive.”

“Also dangerous.” Another shrug, this one more expansive. “Unless you’d prefer to use your own crew?”

“No.” Brahvic shook his head as he scratched at his jowls, “I need ‘em here. Do it your way.”

“Understood.” Vern flashed a thumbs up to Isolde and Parson-Luk, who waited below with the mercs. Isolde nodded coldly and turned to the drone representative from Disposable Solutions, finalising the deal.

“Should we notify Anyo Corp?” Vern asked, thumbs hooked on his holsters.

Kahrl Bravic sniffed and spat on the deck.

“Only when we’ve something to tell ‘em.” Brahvic grunted. “No more mistakes, Vern: we lose this asset and the whole Corpus Fleet’s gonna be breathing down our necks real fast.”

Vern nodded coldly, ever the professional.

“Consider it done.”

 


 

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