(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted June 5, 2018 Author Share Posted June 5, 2018 (edited) "It's war out there. People ask me how I trade in the current climate. Trade embargos, fleet blockades; wholesale Technocyte outbreaks. I tell them it's easy. We're Corpus. Everyone has their price." - Darvo Bek, on post-Collapse Society ------------------------------- "I'm afraid it is not in the interest of our business to disclose the movements of our passengers." Hemry Torvith said grandly, thumbs hooked in the suspenders that kept his suit trousers aloft. "We value the privacy of our patrons highly." Torvith was precisely the kind of Corpus parasite Vern loathed. That they now shared the small dingy office in a Low Stack docking bay irritated him all the more. The place was a mess. Blinking, barely functional monitors and copious amounts of discarded data slates vied for competition with the over spilling ashtrays and fast food cartons strewn about the desk. Torvith was chewing on a congealed mess of noodles and featureless meat, masticating loudly. "You know the rules, Hunter Vern." Torvith chewed jovially, moustache wiggling as his lips smacked together. "'Self-Interest is the Truest Path to Enlightenment', as the good Prophet says." Torvith himself was an arrogant man of limited height and questionable girth. His facial tattoos mouthed loyalty to Anyo Corp, but on closer inspection revealed several key inaccuracies both in script and structure. What should have read Son of the Prophet in one script instead read something else entirely; the translation of which was perhaps best left unknown. Vern thought better than to point this out. Still, even his considerable patience was at an end. Scanning data from the Severance had led them here. Time was credits. The trail was growing cold. There were any number of escape vectors a target could take in a city as layered and labyrinthine as Prospect 141. Parson-Luk and Isolde waited outside, together with an assortment of heavies. Their presence was not required. Terrenus Vern reached up and removed his mirrored goggles. Torvith dropped his spoon with an audible clank. Vern's eyes were cybernetic replacements. The skin across his eyes was leathery with scar tissue. His cold mechanical eyes betrayed no emotion. "I was hoping simple common sense would tell you that our interests were aligned, Mr. Torvith; that the speedy departure of both my associates and I would be logically in your self-interest; allowing you to continue running this fine facility without fear of further disruption. It appears that is not so." Vern leaned forward in his chair, unmoved by the aromatic stink of steamed gene-fish. "Look, it's very simple. I am a successful hunter, operating under full licence from Anyo Corp on no less than three planets. I could pay any number of slicers to hijack your records; raze your firewalls and freely distribute the data to all and sundry interested in learning just who comes through this sorry port, and how often. But that would be unnecessary, wouldn't you agree?" Hemry Torvith gave a slack nod, growing pale. Vern's lips formed the thinnest, fleeting smile. "Good. And would you further agree that it is in the best interest of Docking Bay Two-Twelve that accredited, licensed brokers working in the best interest of Anyo Corp be assisted wherever possible; up to and including providing access to your cam footage?" Another nod. "Splendid. And you will provide this information freely and without further delay?" One final nod. "Excellent." Vern slid his goggles back into place and rose to his feet. The numerous pistols, knives and grenades affixed to his webbing clicked and jangled as he moved for the door. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Torvith. May Profits Guide You Well." Hemry Torvith sat frozen where he was; appetite quite forgotten. ------------------------------- The search teams fanned out throughout the Market Sector, pushing locals aside brusquely and tossing stalls where people resisted. Crowds thinned considerably as the roving gangs wound their way through the streets, sowing chaos. Isolde watched them with considerable distaste. "How goes the search?" Vern's voice crackled over the com. "Messy." Isolde replied, holding her wrist com to her mouth. "Where did you find these oafs?" "Margins are tight. We needed numbers. They were within budget." "Bravic got what he paid for." "Be that as it may, we work with the tools provided." Vern was nonplussed. "Get back here, there's something I want you take a look at." "Who will coordinate the local teams?" "They know the terrain, they'll manage. I need your expertise here. Brahvic's recovery team are finished salvaging whatever the hell was left on that ship." "Liset." Isolde corrected, automatically. "On my way." She clicked off the com and walked over to Parson-Luk. The Ostron Hunter was crouched near an alleyway. What he saw Isolde could not make out for the life of her. He turned to look up at her, earrings jangling as he beamed toothily. "A trail, Surah. Come, come." He beckoned to her eagerly. "Come see." "I can't, not now. Terrenus needs me. Can you manage?" The hunter nodded solemnly. Besides Vern, the skittish hunter was her closest companion these days. "You." She snapped her fingers at the nearest passing clutch of mercs. "With him. Now." The sloping crew of thugs knew better than to mess with the reputed Void Witch. Vern called the shots, but the hooded witch enforced them. They peeled off and followed the itinerant hunter down the alley. Isolde scanned the market, hairs prickling at the back of her neck. Isolde frowned. She could sense something. An old familiar feeling. Unconsciously, Isolde's hand drifted to the knife secreted within her belt. Turning on her heel, she swiftly made for the Docking Bay, never once losing the feeling she was being watched. ------------------------------- "You sure?" Fellik asked doubtfully. He was a slab of a man. Hired muscle, one of the One Forty-Ones; a major local crew. Like him, his boys had uniform shaved heads and matching sigils branded over their left eyes depicting the city's numeric designation in jagged Corpus script. Parson-Luk nodded enthusiastically, pointing toward the faltering holographic sign of the Mangled Moa. "Yes, yes. So close. Close, close utz." Fellik chuckled. Even by Low Stack standards the place was pretty miserable. Crude bullet holes and old plasma scoring marked the walls; memories from some ancient fight. It was exactly his kind of place. Bullet holes or not, Fellik didn't care. The One Forty-Ones were stone killers. Nothing scared them. Fellik checked his piece. A chunky revolver; locally produced. He flicked the cylinder open with a snap of his wrist, grunted in approval; before slapping it shut again and tucking it in the back of his pants. "C'mon." They started forward, making for the Mangled Moa's sorry looking entrance. As they approached, Fellik paused to check on the trapper. He frowned. Parson-Luk was nowhere to be found. ------------------------------- Kelpo Marr lay stretched out on the table, stripped of his environment suit. The boy watched the older man's chest rise and fall, listened to rhythmic mechanical tick-sigh of the respirator unit Neera had stashed in the backroom of the Mangled Moa. Kelpo was corded with lean muscle that spoke of tough living and limited food. The boy quietly noted that both Neera and Telin were no different in this regard. Telin served as a decidedly inexperienced nurse to Neera's meticulous doctor. Evidently, this was not the first time she had patched somebody up, nor the first time Telin had helped her. The boy admired her craftsmanship as she worked, addressing Kelpo's wounds with practiced efficiency. "Are you a Lorist?" the boy asked, perplexed. "A what now?" Neera frowned as she worked. "Scalpel please, Tel." "A healer." "Kid I'm a bar tender." Neera never took her eyes off the patient. "Running a place in this city? You get real good at patching people up, real fast." The boy nodded. There was nothing but the snip of scissors and the gurgle of the life support machine. Bored, the boy stood up and wandered out into the main bar, leaving them alone. The bar was every bit as grimy inside as without. The main bar was a collection of battered tables and recycled furniture; cobbled together in ramshackle fashion around the bar. All manner of bottles, decanters, flasks and jars cluttered the rear wall of the bar. Most of it was home brewed. The boy picked up a flask, unscrewed the lid and took a sniff. Spluttering, he set it back, blinking back tears. "That's called Paint Thinner." Telin confirmed from the doorway. He was drying his hands with a dish rag. "How apt." The boy winced, wiping at his face. "Kelp's favourite." Telin threw the dishrag on the counter, perching on a stool next to he bar. "Is he alright?" The boy asked. "He'll live. Don't tell her I said it, kid; but Neera's damned good at what she does. Besides, we've been through worse." The boy raised an eyebrow. Telin's face darkened, as he poured himself a shot. He knocked it back, grimacing. "Well actually no. That's not true. Not even close. We should be dead." He sniffed, setting the glass down carefully. "We'd be dead, but for you. So, uh… thanks." Telin raised an awkward toast and did a second shot. His hands were shaking. The boy simply nodded. A leaden silence fell between them. After a moment Telin twisted about in his stool, eyes narrowed. "So you really don't remember anything?" The boy shook his head. "Just flashes. Here and there. Small details that make little sense in isolation." The boy nodded to the armoured entrance door, indicating the city beyond. "Is this how the System is now?" "The System? Hell I don't know about you, but I've never been off world kid. Barely even left this city. Certainly never owned my own spaceship." "Liset." The boy corrected firmly. "Yeah, whatever." Telin grunted. "Look, kid: things work a certain way here. Guilds own the city, whether we admit to it or not. They call the shots, we scramble to provide anything we can. Labour mostly; off-world volunteers, infantry for the Navy. Few come back. Every few years we get pissed, things kick off; then Corp sends in suppression teams to kick our teeth in, remind us of our station. Everyone loses." "An injustice." "A reality, kid. Want my advice? Better to keep your head down, not rock the boat. You'll live longer." "Is that why you're a scavenger?" the boy asked. The question was an earnest one. Telin still didn't like it. "I'm a survivor, kid. Neera's folks, they had ideals. This place used to be a rallying point for people; a second home of sorts." The boy took in the patchwork lighting. The faint sound of a drip in the far corner. "And what happened?" "The Corpus happened." Neera said as she entered, peeling off a set of medical gloves. "My mother was good with numbers. She got indentured service; life term brokerage contract, full memory wipe. Pops was summarily executed." Telin offered her the bottle. Neera took a swig. "Price of idealism kid." Neera sighed and set the bottle back on the counter. She caught Telin's eye and nodded towards the doorway. "Telin can I talk to you for a moment?" "Sure." They left the boy alone by the bar. ------------------------------- Kelpo was stable. Pale, sweating profusely, but stable. They spoke quietly to one another. "He's pulling through, but barely. Just what kind of hell mess did you stir up this time, Tel?" Telin nodded back towards the kid. "Found a ship buried beneath the ice. Tier Zero find. Kid was inside." "Tier Zero?" Neera hissed. "And you woke him up?!" "Didn't have a choice, Nee!" Telin countered hotly. "Our broker stitched us up. They pulled a gun on us. Things escalated." "He's not salvage anymore. You know the rules, Tel. At best it's a rescue fee. And based on what I'm seeing it sure doesn't look one Anyo Corp has any interest in paying. You got a plan?" "I'm working on it." "Work faster. That kid's trouble. You know it, I know it. Nobody from this town claims a Tier Zero and walks away clean." "I've noticed." "And?" "And I'm working on it. We need to go up the food chain with this. The goons after us are a local crew. Well-funded, sure, but they're subbies, just like me." "Telin. You're one scavenger. They're a crew. Listen to yourself." Neera pointed towards where the boy sat in the parlour. "Dreams of a pay day aren't worth a bullet in the brain." "So what are you saying? Just hand him over." "I'm saying that you need to be realistic here." Neera said. "This place works a certain way. They profit, we stay out of their way; get to live another day. That's the trade-off." "That's bull." They trailed off. Neera heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her hair. "Look." She said, "I can arrange a neutral broker. An exchange. Profit's all they understand. This can be managed." "Nuh-uh. No way." Telin shot back. "Not after what they did to Kelp." "You idiot! You'll get yourself killed." Neera fumed. "You're as stubborn as ever." "You like stubborn." Telin flashed a dangerous smile. "Shut up." Neera scowled, smiling slightly in spite of herself. "Excuse me." The boy cleared his throat politely. They both jumped. He had seemingly appeared in the doorway out of nowhere. The boy's wide eyes glowed as he looked up at them. "There appears to be someone at the door." Edited June 6, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted June 6, 2018 Author Share Posted June 6, 2018 (edited) "I'm going in." "In your head that sounded clever. No you're not. Under no circumstances are you 'going in'." "Yes I am. I'm absolutely going in. Watch me." "Observe and report. Our instructions were quite clear." "I'm observing mission parameters changing. Now I'm reporting to you my intentions. Which are to go in. Besides, even if you wanted to stop me, you're in space. I'm going in." "I'm going to kill you, Sara." "No, they're going to try and kill me, but that's on them. You just get ready with that extract." - Unknown transmission, intercepted above Venus ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "What do we do?!" Telin stared at the door, whispering. The door pounded again. They stood frozen before it, powerless. "I thought you were working on a plan!" Neera whispered back. "I am! This wasn't part of it!" "Quiet, both of you." The boy shushed. He had the dishrag in his hand as he started toward the door. "Help me now." There was blood on the floor from where they had first dragged Kelpo through. Telin hadn't even noticed. They worked quickly, mopping at the blood; padding to and fro; hastily cleaning up the mess. The last minute clean-up was conducted in anxious silence. The floor was still wet when they finished. The banging at the door became more insistent. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fellik pounded a meaty fist against the front door. The holographic Closed sign fizzled and sparked from the impact. He waited. Pounded again. The 141's around him exchanged looks. Brewer and Telch produced compact shotguns from their coats, psyching themselves up. Stevvin, the largest of them, stepped forward with a battering ram. He looked at Fellik intently, awaiting the final order. The viewport snicked open. "Sorry folks." Neera smiled apologetically, voice breezy and cheerful. "Was out back. How can I help?" "Looking for someone. Hoping you can help." "Me? Nobody here. Bad shootout six months back. Been closed ever since." "Not anymore." Fellik snorted. "Look, lady: you've got about thirty seconds before we take this door off its hinges. Open up." There was a moment's hesitation. With a petering pop the holoshield fizzled out. There came a rattling of bolts, a slithering of chain and the final heavy scrape of a barricade being removed. Neera opened the door with a wink, ushering them in. "One drink." She smiled conspiratorially. "Don't tell the Corp." Fellik strode into the Mangled Moa, his steel capped boots heavy and predatory. He cast an eye about the place; taking in the wet linoleum floor, the steel bar; the dingy décor. His men filed in behind, making a poor show of disguising their significant armament. The bar became very small all of a sudden. In the back room, Telin and the boy crouched and waited; ears pressed to the door as they strained to listen. Kelpo breathed softly, sound asleep. "Appreciate the hospitality." Fellik grunted. He was still slowly absorbing the room around him, taking everything in. "Name's Fellik." "Neera. So what can I get you boys?" "Paint Thinner. Straight." "And for the gentlemen?" They rumbled a collective response. "Six Paint Thinners, coming up." Neera stepped around behind the bar. "Have a seat." They sprawled themselves out across the room; some obnoxiously resting their boots up on adjoining stools or propped on tables. It made for a welcome relief from tossing market stalls or shaking down traders. Beneath the counter was an elegant double barrel shotgun. It had been her father's; an antique donated by a passing trader who fell in love with the Moa. It was loaded, Neera knew that much. Whether it still worked or not was another question entirely. Not her first strategy. She set out six shot glasses. Her cleanest. "Rare to see the One Forty Ones this neck of the woods." Neera was amiable as she poured out each measure in turn. "Thought you boys preferred the western sectors." "We do. Job has us out here." Fellik took a stool right at the bar. He leered at Neera, never breaking eye contact. Neera met his stare openly as she picked up one of the glasses on the bar, polishing it meticulously. Not her first creepy customer either. "Tell me about the job." She said. "Looking for two men. Had a kid with them. Friend of ours places 'em here, not too long ago." "These people got a name?" Fellik snapped his fingers and beckoned one of his men forward. Telch slid a data slate across the bar with a gentle scrape. It showed Kelpo and Telin grinning by a small rental speeder. Their first job. Neera knew the picture well; had taken it herself. A copy of it was on the wall in the back room. "Oh, him." Neera chuckled to herself. "That's Telin Voss." "Know him?" "Yeah. Real piece of work that one." Neera shook her head venomously. "Total scumbag. Talks a big game about getting out of this town but mostly spends his life freezing his skin off in the Frozen Zones." Telin bristled but the boy shot him a stern look. "Know where we might find him?" Fellik was asking. "These days?" Neera shrugged expansively, setting the glass down. "Couldn't tell ya. We're not exactly on speaking terms." "That so?" Fellik slugged his drink and tapped his glass against the counter top. He slid it over to her. Neera eyed the glass sceptically. "All you get is one. I'm not licensed to trade anymore." "You're not selling me anything, girlie. I'm not paying for it either." Fellik rapped his glass against the counter, insistent now. "Another." This time it was Telin's turn to glare at the boy. The boy had his rebreather back in place, and a dangerous look in his eye that typically preceded an unwelcome but sudden degree of ultra-violence. Outside, Neera poured another round. Fellik grunted some semblance of a thank you. "I'm sure you won't mind if we hang around here. Maybe even take a look around." "This is my bar. My home. You can stay all you want, even drink for free so it please you. But you don't get to poke around. Not here. There are rules." A slow, lazy smile spread across Fellik's face. "That so?" Fellik sneered. "Brewer, go take a look 'round back." Neera's veneer was beginning to crack. She went pale even though her voice remained even. "Not sure what you're looking to find. There's nothing there." Tellik never lost that leering glare in his eye. His smile faded entirely. "We'll be the judge of that." Brewer was halfway across the room now. Neera took a step back. Her grip tightened on the glass on her hand. Fellik, no stranger to bar fights, saw it immediately. "Easy now." He warned softly. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene, ruin this little establishment. Would we now?" "Another word." The boy said quietly. "And I'll make you eat that glass." The whole room twisted and turned. The boy stood in the open doorway, hands by his sides; still swathed in the oversized environmental coat. Clutched in one hand was the crude scissors Neera had used to cut Kelpo's bandages. Beyond, Telin stood between them and Kelpo, holding a scalpel up and looking decidedly stricken. Fellik twisted in his stool, barked a laugh and clapped his meaty hands together. "And there it is!" Fellik grinned and pushed himself to his feet. The rest of his men went to follow. He waved them down. He held the shot glass up. "This glass?" Fellik asked. "This glass right here?" The boy's eyes narrowed over the respirator. "You heard me." "That's a nice threat. Gotta borrow it sometime." "It is not a threat." The boy shook his head emphatically, voice solemn. "A threat would imply a lack of intent, or an inability to enact my stated goal. You are here without invitation. You have abused her hospitality, threatened her establishment. That is undeserving. That is aninjustice." There was a venomous weight to that last word. The boy reached up and unclasped the environmental coat. It fluttered to the floor. His eyes never left Fellik's. There was something predatory in the boy's stare; cold and calculating, almost lupine in aspect. For the first time in his life Fellik felt a sliver of uncertainty lance through him. He could feel his men staring at him. A lifetime of brawling; of accepting challenges and savagely winning took over. He snarled and brought his fist down toward the boy, glass in hand. By rights that should have been the end of it. The smash of a glass, a boy unconscious; face down in a pool of blood. Not so. What actually happened, happened quickly. So quickly in fact that Neera would later have to replay the internal cam footage to quite follow the sequence of events. Even then, reality seemed to break, just a bit. The boy dashed forward, impossibly quick. The scissors flashed. Fellik screeched; hamstrings severed. The shot glass tumbled from his hands. It never hit the floor. Neera blinked and it was gone. Then the boy was on Fellik, legs tangled about his neck, squeezing it in a vicelike grip. Fellik's mouth opened wide choking for air. The boy stuffed something in his mouth, choking him. He twisted his legs tighter. Fellik's weight gave out as he spun towards the countertop. Face first he struck it, hard. There was a sickening crack and the splintering of glass as he descended. The boy landed in a nimble crouch, unscathed. He rose to his feet, fixing the rest of the gang with a baleful stare. Fellik lay face down, leg spasming fitfully; blood pouring from his ruined mouth; neck twisted at an impossible angle. The handle of a revolver peaked up from Fellik's belt, within snatching distance. Nobody moved. Neera could hear the tick and whirr of the respirator from the back room. "Final warning." The boy announced steadily. "No threats, only promises." The gang exploded from their seats, scattering furniture in all directions. The revolver was in the boys hand now. He fanned the hammer. Blood spattered the walls as wood splintered and bodies tumbled; crashing through tables. The cylinder spun empty. The boy hurled the gun at the largest encroaching thug like a throwing knife, aimed with lethal precision. The man's nose burst and he went down with a muffled roar, clutching his face. Two thugs remained. Brewer and Telch had finally drawn. Snarling primitive slug throwers; shotguns both. There was a heavy metal chunk as slides pumped; barrels levelled squarely at the boy. Neera's eyes widened in panic. Levelled squarely at her. She threw herself flat behind the counter. A seemingly endless deluge of buckshot filled the air. The boy crashed in over the counter top, rolling into a tight ball. Shards of glass showered down, splashing them in all manner of liquor. Her entire collection went up. A lifetime's supply. Bottle after bottle burst. The Moa '57, an Eidolon Sunrise; even a bootlegged Orokin Dew. Reduced to a tidal wave of booze and glass. Yelling in rage as much as fear, the thugs emptied every single cartridge they had. The boy clamped a hand on Neera's shoulder, staring at her. Holding her in place behind the comparative safety of the bar. They each had a hand on the antique piece stored beneath the counter top. He was utterly calm. Neera was enraged. The boy was waiting. The barrage abruptly ceased. The thugs' shotguns clacked empty; clicking over and over. To the boy's shock Neera snarled and shoved him aside. The shotgun was in her hands now. Two barrels, no lack of intent. Neera snapped up over the bar. The first barrel sounded like a thunderclap in the confined space. The good news was that the shotgun definitely still worked. The bad news was that the kick of the damned thing nearly dislocated her shoulder. Brewer hit the far wall like a rag doll. Telch sprinted for the exit. Neera's father trained her well. She swung the shotgun to bear; caressed the secondary trigger. The second barrel took Telch in the small of his back, lifting the thug off his feet and smashing him against the door jamb. He gurgled as he spasmed on the floor, spine severed. "Good aim." The boy remarked, nodding in approval as he calmly rose to his feet. Neera's hands were shaking as she lowered the gun. "You think?" "Better than his." Telin stood shaking the back room, the scalpel still in his hand. "You alright?" he asked her. "Y-yeah." She nodded. "I think so." "We need to get out of here." Telin said. "More will be coming. Got a trolley?" Neera nodded numbly, looking faintly sick. The bar was a ruin. Bodies, shell casings and splintered furniture carpeted the floor. The bar itself was a sea of broken glass and sopping liquor. Groans filled the air as the wounded clutched their wounds. Gun smoke coiled the air. It was a miracle the place hadn't gone up in flames. The boy banged a box of spare cartridges on the counter top. "Load up." The boy told Neera. "You will need these." Edited June 7, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Insidious typos! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
MrTitan123 Posted June 6, 2018 Share Posted June 6, 2018 (edited) Well damn. Good old fashioned gunfight. Edited June 6, 2018 by MrTitan123 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted June 15, 2018 Author Share Posted June 15, 2018 Registering weapons fire in Market Sector L-43." "Gang related?" "More than likely." "Noted. Have we any market exposure in the region?" "Uh, No Sir. It's a Low-Tier Sector. Minimal tithes." "Log it for the record. Keep me posted if it escalates beyond acceptable thresholds." - City Watch Communique, Prospect 141 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Aboard the Severance Package, the techs assembled around the silent golem, quietly marvelling. They were scrappers by trade, simple engine-smiths and recovery experts. Humble men of a humble trade, though not lacking in skill. They worked all manner of machines, long forgotten and broken on the blasted Venusian wastes. They were pragmatic, used to the unfamiliar. Grineer scout ships, shot down by automated Corpus pickets; civilian haulers, felled by Void Surges or mysteriously abandoned from eons past. They had seen it all. Right now none of them had any idea what they were looking at. It lay on the table, imperiously elegant; rendered in a deep ebony and spotless navy. Sharp antennae jutted out from its head, and swooping pauldrons rose up from its shoulders, accentuating its sleek curvature. White detailing decorated the darkest segments of the armoured carapace. A blue cloak spilled down from its shoulders, edged in white. The golem was entirely lifeless, laid out on the scanning slab like some ancient fallen warrior, awaiting a funeral pyre that never came. "Well?" Kahrl Bravic asked. He towered over most of the people in the room; especially the young girl. "You ask me how much it is worth." Isolde replied. "And I repeat myself: it means a great deal to some. A great deal more to others." "No riddles, child." Bravic warned, his mechanical arm whirring as banged a fist against the guardrail. "Trade! How much can we expect?" Isolde looked at Vern. Vern, stood a respectful distance away, nodding solemn encouragement. Isolde sighed, pointing out some of the finer points of detail on the ebony chassis. "Consider the engravings on the outer chassis. The stencil work, just below the antenna. Even the curvature of the helmet itself. It is custom made. Master-crafted, rendered by ancient artificers. A reward, in exchange for great service." "You're saying it's valuable?" Bravic asked. "I am saying it is Orokin." Isolde fixed him with a bald stare, each syllable precise. "It is priceless." "But if we were to charge." Bravic prompted again, gesturing expansively. "Hypothetically." Isolde stared at him coldly. "Careful, Captain Bravic. Your greed is showing." Bravic's expansive smile was all gold, studded with platinum. "Indulge me." Isolde heaved a sigh. "Speaking… hypothetically. Without an operator, a Warframe is just that; a frame. A tool, without mind or purpose. A puppet without strings. Extremely valuable, certainly, but as a decoration or research subject. Nothing more." "And with this… operator?" Bravic pressed. Isolde looked at Vern. Vern nodded in approval. "If you were to present this prize to Anyo Corp, fully assembled and functional, your prize is an instrument of war not seen since The Great Collapse. You have journeyed the Rail, Captain Bravic. You know the Tenno have been a bane to Nef Anyo, indeed the Board as a whole. Its value will not measure in credits alone." "Can you pilot it?" Vern asked, quietly. Isolde shook her head adamantly. "Impossible. The frame's systems are slaved to the will of its original operator. His neural pathways, his connection to the Void. Without him, the link remains closed; the frame… bereft of function. Once imprinted, Transference from another operator becomes impossible." Bravic nodded. He was a greedy man, but not without wits. He looked at Vern, eyes glinting with malice. "Bring me this operator, Vern. Alive." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The trolley was a grandiose term for the cart they bundled Kelpo into. It was a battered hover-crate, unwieldy and huffing on tired grav-skids. Its usual cargo was cheap beer, illegally brewed. Now it carried a hastily piled jumble of blankets, cushions and throws. Lumped on top of this mess was a stocky scavenger by the name of Kelpo Marr who awoke, bewildered, to a scene of abject chaos. Merchants leapt out of the way as Telin snarled, driving the cart forward with a desperation tinged with equal parts rage and panic. He spotted Kelpo reaching up to remove the breathing mask. "Leave it on buddy!" Telin shook his head. "We're getting you out of here!" Rattling about Kelpo in the cart was a box of shotgun cartridges. He blinked and picked the box up, turning it over in his hands; thoroughly disorientated. There were no less than three forms of painkiller coursing through his system. That didn't matter. The pain was gone. He took in the market serenely, blinking and smiling serenely at the unfolding havoc. Neera navigated at the front of the cart; antique shotgun held close, barrel toward the ground. She knew the terrain best. The traders saw her, knew her troubled history, and hastily made room as they hurried down the street. The boy kept one hand on the side of the cart, another on the chunky revolver appropriated from inside the Mangled Moa. He had salvaged every weapon that could be conceivably carried, and they rattled noisily as he struggled to keep up with the cart. He flashed Kelpo a thumbs up as soon as they made eye contact. Kelpo beamed. Neera directed. She knew the direction she wanted to go: a service stairwell long disused at the far end of the market. It had been an escape route for Solaris United dissidents over the years, though the brutal crackdowns had ensured it was long since forgotten. It was their best chance. It was also almost fully a kilometer away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The One Forty Ones lacked many things. They lacked education, impulse control; common sense, more often than not. They made up for each of these myriad shortcomings with brute force, crude firepower and superior numbers. If a city market presented a dozen potential escape routes, the best solution was to simply block every single one with as many bodies as possible. Their strategy lacked subtlety, true. There was no doubting its effectiveness. The first bullet caught the cart in the front grav-skid; exploding it and sending Telin and Kelpo hurtling through the air; landing messily in a shower of spilled cushions and tinkering shotgun cartridges. Neera and the boy dove in opposite directions. Bullets sliced through the air, sparking off duct work and sending the crowds scattering in shrieking panic. The gang's accuracy was lamentable. Hapless traders screamed and went down. Some lay still, others rocked back and forth clutching wounds. Advertising signs burst in showers of sparks and descending glass. Telin grabbed Kelpo and dragged him behind the upturned cart. Shots stapled across the bodywork of the sorry cart. Neera found herself laying in the remains of what had once been a market stall. It now resembled a shredded tent held up by ever-splintering wooden stilts. The boy was the first to return fire. There was no elaborate leaps or Void trickery. Just a low crouch and a determined response. The revolver roared; each barking shot dropping its intended target. Now it was their pursuers turn to dive for cover. Neera watched gangers slide behind crates and overturn steel tables. She spied one brute, fixated on the boy out in the open. She braced the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. By the time the kick settled, her target had flopped backward, mercifully out of sight. It wasn't enough. Nowhere nearly enough. The boy cast the spent revolver aside, pumping out shell after shell with his shotgun. Rounds snapped closer and closer. He was completely exposed in the open. "Alive!" a hoarse voice barked. "We need him alive!" One goon evidently took the advice on board. There was a hollow cough and something round and fast and hard punched the boy in the stomach. The beanbag round folded the boy sharply. He collapsed, blinking back tears and choking through his respirator; winded. The shotgun tumbled from his hands. "Drop your guns!" one of the gangers roared, voice piqued with adrenaline. "Drop your guns or we drop you!" The boy rolled onto his back, gasping for air. Neera hesitated, then flung her shotgun out into the open. She stuck her hands out over the remains of the stall, before hesitantly rising into view. Mercenaries closed in from all directions; weapons raised. They barked an unintelligible cacophony of conflicting orders. Telin rose into view behind the cart; hands raised, expression stricken. He was the first to notice the sign board. He knew the markets well; did most of his salvage trading here. A large billboard depicting Nef Anyo drifted through the air. This was not unusual: independent status or not, Prospect 141 was an unspoken vassal of his corporation. Anyo Iconography came with the usual territory. Less usual was that the billboard was now staring directly at him. Then it winked. At the same moment, every rolling ticker screen and LCD screen flushed a riot of neon yellow. Smiley faces rotated on each and every surface. Even Nef Anyo's typical ceremonial hat blinked out of distance, replaced with a cartoonish depiction of a jester's. GET DOWN, rolled the text on the ticker screen, over and over. Telin looked at Neera. Neera looked at him. The smiley faces flushed an angry, impatient red. The ticker screens updated: NOT KIDDING. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT. The scavengers threw themselves flat. With an ear-splitting hiss a ball of pure energy ripped through the market; spears of light keening as they stabbed out from its centre. Tents split, decking singed. Display screens erupted in sheets of sparking fire. Entire stalls collapsed as the energy ball coursed through, sowing destruction in its wake. Mercenaries screeched; clutching cauterised stumps or simply disintegrating in steaming chunks of meat as they fell apart. Kelpo for his part stared at the ball of twisting light as it sped toward him, transfixed. Telin tackled him to the ground as an energy beam narrowly skimmed overhead, singing his environment suit. The ball surged into the far distance, sowing chaos and panic in its wake. "Hell was that?!" Neera gaped. What little was left of her cover was a charred ruin. Similarly charred were the bodies of the mercenaries around them; rendered in gruesome vivisection across the smoking clearing. "Nothing good!" Telin shouted, helping Kelpo to his feet. "Run!" They fled, leaving behind the ruined market. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On the billboards, the smiley faces flushed a cheerful yellow once more. A lone figure stepped out into the street. A young girl, slight of frame. She picked up a discarded pistol, examining it with practiced curiosity. The ball of light had neatly snipped its barrel in half. She shrugged, nonplussed; discarding it and surveying the destruction as she padded through the ruined market. The girl was pretty: bright-eyed, button nosed. A pair of battered goggles with scuffed lenses were pushed up on her forehead; lending some semblance of control to the mane of blonde hair that spilled loosely down her shoulders. She picked up another gun: the shotgun the boy had been using. It was still intact. Her hands expertly dismantled it, scattering its component pieces across the ground. She patted her hands clean. Too crude a weapon for her. A tide of mercs sprinted into the street, encroaching from all sides. A backup team. Of course there was a backup team, she thought. The mercs slowed as they entered the ruined clearing, marvelling at the sheer carnage on display. A different gang this time: all respirators and weather-stained greatcoats. The girl smiled brightly, offering a wave. "Hello!" the girl beamed. "I'm Sara. You guys looking for somebody?" The mercs slowed, unsure of themselves. One of them stepped forward. He had a welder's mask serving as a crude helmet. The faceguard had been retracted, revealing a puffy face and heavy stubble. "Where'd they go?" the man sneered, starting forward. Sara's expression never lost any of its perkiness as she shook her head. "Couldn't possibly tell you. Well I possibly could, but then I'm stalling. Telling you would somewhat defeat the purpose." The merc growled and started forward. An electrified truncheon sparked to life in his hand. She watched his approach with baffled surprise. "This is your default solution? A Prova? That's your go-to here?" She was still smiling when he went to grab at her. The rest of the hired guns emitted a collective wincing hiss. The merc hit the floor, arm fundamentally broken in several unnatural places. The Prova still fizzled as she tossed it aside. They drew in unison. A wall of clattering weaponry bristled from all angles. Shotguns, compact machine pistols and slug-throwers. Even a ramshackle flamethrower. "A flamer?" Sara grinned. "Better." They opened fire. The surviving market stalls collapsed; chopped into matchsticks or torched outright. Sara moved quickly. A neat hand-spring carried her across the clearing. She dove behind a bullet-chipped packing crate. The crate itself melted under the hail of withering bullets. By the time the licking flames cleared, the crate had all but vanished; reduced to mouldering slag. Sara too was gone. The mercenaries approached, confused. Weapons hunted for targets. The girl's disembodied voice rang out across the abandoned market; echoing off billboards and rebounding through the twisting, empty streets. Now it carried a mechanical echo to it. "You missed." The mercs spread out, weapons raised; turning in all directions. They looked about, nervously trying to place the source of the voice. The girl's voice came from the shadows directly above. Hard-edged now. "My turn." It descended from the ceiling, yellow eyes blazing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The streets had emptied, eager to be out of the way of the marauding gang and the ensuing carnage. Food riots and mass protests were not uncommon, this deep in the city. Tonight something was different. There was a malice in the air that the locals could sense. Something dangerous lurked the streets. Void trickery, black magic. Better to stay away and indoors, wait it out. All around, they could hear men shouting. Dashing feet and clanking footsteps. Rattling gunfire rent the air. Screams too. The hush-purr of beam weapons. That keening starburst of energy. More screams. Twice they had to double back on themselves, as hired guns sprinted in the general direction of the Mangled Moa. They sounded more panicked and confused than Telin's motley crew. They were almost clear of the Market Sector. The exit was right ahead. Neera rounded the corner first, clutching a small boot knife as her sole form of protection. The boy followed. He moved slowly; still winded, but mobile, hands held low at his side. They crept forward. The alleyway was dimly lit, foul smelling. Steam hissed and twisted in the air as environment containment systems ticked and hummed around them. Neera looked at the boy. The boy nodded. Clear. They started forward again, carefully. A whisper-thin line of cord snagged Neera's ankle, fiendishly subtle. She was still moving forward before she noticed it pull taught. The boy saw it far too late. He cried out a warning. The flash was blinding. Smoke bombs blasted them with soot; choking them in oily dust. Neera was still twisting about when something else cinched around her other ankle, yanking her off her feet and lifting her high into the air. The boy groped about, trying to find her in the choking din. Something hard slammed into his side. A net launcher. It ensnared him fully. The boy smelled old hide and waxed leather. He snarled and thrashed, hands pinned by his sides. He tried biting his way free; tasted a hint of copper metal on his tongue. An electrified current coursed through the net, dropping him in a tangled heap. Telin saw none of this. One moment Neera and the boy were advancing; the next there was a cloudburst of soot. By the time it cleared the two were wriggling in their respective snares. Telin backpedalled quickly, hauling Kelpo with him. Something struck him in the back of his thigh, stunning him. The return whirl of the staff lashed against his chest, driving the wind from his lungs; before whirling about and tangling itself between his legs. Then Telin was on his back, staring up into the business end of a hand-carved staff. Their assailant was leathery and bald-headed; studded with primitive piercings and painted with tribal markings. Small bone earrings jangled in the dark. He smiled brightly down at Telin, large gaps between missing teeth. "Swazdo'lah Surah." Parson-Luk held the staff pressed against the underside of Telin's chin, cupping it towards him. "Your city is strange to me. But the hunt… the hunt remains the same." Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted June 20, 2018 Author Share Posted June 20, 2018 "Sir… it's escalating." - City Watch Communique, Prospect 141 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The golem landed amidst the stricken mercenaries; on them, in one particularly terminal case. The mercenaries were not learned men. They had not travelled the Solar Rail, nor seen the infinite wonders and terrible beauty that awaited in the stars above. Their lives were as simple as they were brutal: confined to the squalid tenements and skeletal gantries of low-colony life in the gutters of the Corpus Empire. Muscle for profit. Culture and mystery far escaped them. The Warframe's ornamentation shocked them. It was a bejewelled, gaudy thing; a spritely metal jester wrenched from the design of a twisted mind and made very real by master craftsmen and Technocyte fleshsmiths. Every inch of it was patterned and engraved with loving detail. Gold, alabaster, clashing reds and vivid yellows; a riot of colour and nonsense. It regarded them with an avian tilt of its head. Small earrings flashed and jingled at either end of its diamond shaped head. The next man to draw lost an arm. It was hard to follow quite how this occurred. One moment his hand clamped onto a holster; the next that very same hand twisted and spun through the air, still clutching the repeater it so desperately needed. The sound of the bladed whip in the Warframe's hand split the air after the fact; the lashing, crack reverberating against the high vaulted ceiling. The dismantled market formed an arena, delineated by collapsed tents, slumped stalls and scattered bric-a-brac. She was surrounded on all sides. The mercs went to sight their target, only now there were five. Five jesters chuckled as it enjoyed their confusion; the quivering rattle of their guns as they switched aim from one jester to the next, hands shaking. Some kind of mimicry, some foul Void trick. It did not matter. What mattered were the twinned Furis sub-machine guns clamped in the golems' collective hands. The Warframes bowed theatrically in unison; an illusion, an impossibility; a damned mirage. Sara laughed, and the killing resumed in earnest. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Telin twisted in his restraints, earning another glare from Neera. "Quit it already. There's no give." "Excuse me for trying!" "You think I haven't?!" "Quiet, both of you!" Kelpo growled. He was coming around from the painkillers now, and regretting every second of it. The three were bound together by a single beam of hardened bamboo; hands trussed by thick corded rope. Small bells tied along the rod jangled and chimed whenever Telin tried to test the rope in vain. Parson-Luk laughed, prodding Telin with the stick once more. Embedded through the end of the stick was some kind of primitive cattle prod. Telin learned this the hard way. "Calm yourself Surah!" the toothless tracker grinned. "Those ropes - Earth-vine; not easily broken!" With that he laughed uproariously and poked Telin again. Slung over the hunter's shoulder was yet another rope, this one connected to the bundled sack that contained the boy. Every time the boy tested his restraints, another jolt frazzled him into submission. Parson-Luk dragged him across the deck; with a wiry strength at odds with his sinewy frame. They were in one of the access corridors leading back towards the Starport. They had left the carnage of the markets behind, though the gunfire had triggered a sector-wide lockdown. City Watch alerts rang out from battered PA systems mounted at every corner; demanding citizens remain indoors until the security sweep was complete. It wouldn't be long before Watch patrols flooded the streets; Moa teams and Bursa units strong-arming the populace back into submission. "Not far now." Parson-Luk urged. "Boss man waiting at hangar bay." Telin glowered but continued walking. His ear already bled from a previous clout from Parson-Luk's stick. They left the market far behind, bells ringing as they marched toward an uncertain fate. Mirage's thigh tensed against her ankle, and the final merc's neck popped like a dry twig; the skull all but pulverised under the crushing weight. She let the body flop to the floor. Gun-smoke twisted through the air. At least there was no more screaming. But for the hooting alarms, distant panicked wails and settling shell casings, you might even consider it peaceful. A voice was yammering in Sara's ear. Or head. She wasn't quite sure. Things got muddled in Transference. "What?!" Sara replied. "What is it?!" The voice hollered some more, tinged with panic. "Kidnapped? What do you mean kidnapped?!" By the time she found the ambush site, her quarry was long gone. Left behind was a starburst of soot from where a smoke bomb had gone off, and a series of crude apotropaic markings scratched into the wall. They were Ostron in origin; a warding sigil. Void Demon, the scratchings read. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Terrenus Vern awaited them at the landing pad; flanked on both sides by a coterie of henchmen. A small hooded girl and a giant bruiser of a Grineer stood out in particular. The brute in particular caught Telin's attention. Telin had never seen a Grineer before. He marvelled at the monster's sheer scale; the unrelentingly crude mechanisation that allowed its lumbering bulk to tower over them as it did. The monster stared straight back, impassive behind its circular white visor and round yellow eyes. Behind them waited a transport shuttle, its landing ramp extended. "All present and accounted for?" Vern asked, arms folded across his chest. "All here, Surah." Parson-Luk nodded towards the writhing bag. "This one, too dangerous. Charc-Sack for Tenno." Parson-Luk winced at Isolde's scowl, then bowed apologetically. "Sorry Isolde-Surah. Too dangerous for Parson-Luk. Tenno get free? Bad… bad utz." "Prepare them for transport." Vern ordered. Parson-Luk produced a machete from his belt and systematically freed them from the bamboo stick, slinging it over his shoulder with a neat flicking roll of his hand; leaving the prisoners' hands restrained but rendering them comparatively mobile. Hired crewmen lined the prisoners up in line before Terrenus Vern, who studied them coldly. Vern stepped closer, examining Telin and Kelpo in particular. He was no taller than Telin, but carried himself in a lean, dangerous manner. For every pocket and harness decorating Telin's scrappy environment suit, Vern seemingly had a matching holster and blade in return. Vern reached up and removed his goggles. He had no pupils. Just cold expanses of grey metal, dimpled with green sensor studs. "Telin Voss. Kelpo Marr." He said simply, expression unreadable as he paced before them. "I admire your resourcefulness. My employer is particularly displeased with the damage to his mining drill. An expensive loss, for a salvage job." "Our salvage job." Kelpo spat blood on the deck. "Our find, properly reported. Your goons started it, we finished it." "I don't disagree." The ghost of a smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. "But this is Venus; frontier work. Justice and profit seldom correspond. You escalated the scenario." Vern was almost nose to nose with Telin. "More pressingly, you killed my men." This time it was Telin's turn to sneer. "Well." Telin nodded toward the bag writhing on the deck. "That was really more of a group effort." Vern pursed his lips, nodded calmly; then buried his fist in Telin's stomach. Telin's knees hit the floor, the wind driven from him. Neera and Kelp started forward but the giant Grineer growled and reared up; brandishing a cannon fully wider than Kelpo's shoulders. They froze on the spot. "Consider it a mercy you're wanted alive," Vern turned and strode toward the transport. A brief hand signal got the entire crew moving. Rough hands hauled Telin off his feet. He could still hear Vern's voice drifting through the tears as they manhandled him towards the transport. "Though after Bravic's through with you, I expect to be mistaken." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The buyer's arrival did not come with grandiose announcement or fanfare. Like so many landmark moments in the colony's history, the arrival of Kef Mehrino's buyer was little more than a forgotten hello at a reception desk. Jef Anyo was a loyal member of Anyo Corp. This perhaps was something of an understatement. Jef had changed his name, had undergone extensive facial reconstruction and deep-dive memory replacement to better serve the Prophet of Profit. Even the cybernetic faux-goatee affixed to his chin carried the sigil of Anyo Corp. This level of obsessive detail extended to his day job too. Jef Anyo manned the reception desk of the trading house with a diligence that bordered on the fanatical. He filled forms faster and more efficiently than any member of Kef Mehrino's team. Jef knew every trader's name by voice, every rival guildsman by sight. This was not an easy thing to do. Indeed, of his allotted fourteen hours of personal time a week, he spent fully half of it memorising faces on the Intra-Guild, to better prepare himself for his solemn duty. This meant that when the buyer arrived at Jef Anyo's, a complete stranger, it took him by surprise. The man was not dressed in the typical folding robes of an Anyo devotee, or even the rugged practicality of a regular Corpus trader. His robes were ornate, but of a style and cut fundamentally at odds with the clean, utilitarian shapes and cold greens that defined fashion in the Upper Tier Towers. Still, there was no mistaking it. This was a man of considerable wealth and taste. Though strangely cut, the beige robes and deep navy poncho did little to hide the suit of form-fitting, glimmering body armour that encased his frame. An elegant sword hung at the small of his back; as ornate as it was lethally sharp. The trader's face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed had. Meshwork stencilled the exposed skin around his jaw, and he moved with a flowing grace that seemed astoundingly silent for such a tall and imposing figure. It was only when he tapped the platinum rings on the marble counter top that Jef Anyo jumped, mortified, and noticed he was there at all. "Hello!" Jef Anyo stammered, his data slate almost flying from his hands as he launched to his feet, rattling off his trademark greeting as he attempted to rally: "Welcome to Anyo Corp; Chosen Disciples of the Prophet of Profit. How can we help you?" The man's voice carried a mechanical burr; his voice smoothly modulated. "There is a trader here by the name of Kef Mehrino. Take me to him." "I understand you and your peers have come into contact with something quite precious." "I… I am not sure I follow. The Assistant Director is a busy man. I am not privy to his business." "Kef Mehrino will understand. He received a communique from one of his sub-contractors approximately six minutes ago. It is imperative I speak with him, immediately." Jef Anyo bristled at the stranger's presumptive tone. "Have you an appointment?" Jef's response was automatic. The buyer's eyes were hidden beneath a visor comprising three metal strips, but his lips were tight as he set a single platinum chit on the counter. Jef's eyes widened. His jaw dropped open. The trader leaned forward, his voice a luxuriant purr. "I do now." Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted June 20, 2018 Share Posted June 20, 2018 (edited) Scribbled down some thoughts 🙂 Spoiler So there's this idea of a merry band of rebellious kids on the Zariman who stood apart, even from the rest. I wonder how closely they follow the Lotus' guidance. Will she get involved in order to get them back in line, in case they go too far? And it seems this "boy" was part of that group. Knew that at least one frame was going to get involved. 🙂 Totally didn't expect the jester frame, Mirage, though. But it appears to fit Sara's character fine. Kinda scratching my head over Isolde and how the fact that the "void touched" can control the warframes was discussed so openly on the Severance. Access to information on the warframes, and the truth behind them, were closely guarded secrets in the Orokin Era, and (at least in my interpretation) that trend continues, even into Warframe's "present time"; especially regarding factions that the Tenno engage daily in order to maintain the balance of power in the Origin System. Very few seem to know the truth, even in the trusted syndicates, Cetus included; but I get the impression that Parson wasn't around when the Tenno first appeared in Cetus. He seems too attached to that band of mercenaries; that working relationship must've had time to develop. Maybe it's just me misreading it.... >.< In any case, exciting chapters, can't wait for more 😛 Edited June 20, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted June 20, 2018 Author Share Posted June 20, 2018 Thanks Aldrr - I'll respond in spoilers too so people don't conflate it for another chapter (which I'm roughly a third of the way through now): Spoiler In that scene it's very much two ignorant people - Vern and Bravic - asking Isolde what the hell they're looking at. Vern and Bravic are comparatively traveled relative to a lot of the goons in the story. If you read the scene again, it's Bravic asking Isolde how much can he expect to get for selling this seemingly lifeless Warframe - any technical terms they cite are ones she has just mentioned. If you've ever sold something expensive to somebody who knows nothing about the product in question, you'll often see people parroting terms to infer recent understanding. Any of the actual answers come from Isolde, herself a Tenno, and even then the only person who asks can she operate it is Vern, who seemingly is aware of the connection between the Tenno and their Warframes, but then he also has a longer standing connection with Isolde, as she is part of his team. To say more would be to spoil it, but I do hope it is internally consistent: I will slash and burn anything I've written that contradicts source material, so I do appreciate the question. NB: It's also worth noting that as an Xbox player I'm completely in the dark when it comes to The Sacrifice, and may be for some time. I'm treading carefully here, as best I can, but I'm hoping the isolated nature of the low level colony and the limited scope of the storyline (it's going to be Venus and flashback territory only) gives me a sufficient safety net to describe the story and not tread on any established canon-landmines. Do keep me posted if there's something that needs attention - I really appreciate it! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)BigLithuanian Posted June 20, 2018 Share Posted June 20, 2018 (edited) I'm excited to see where the rest of the story goes! @Aldrr I also agree that the Tenno boy is one of Isolde's old friends. I think the boy is Kael due to what seemed to be similarities in stature and skin tone(maybe not as I've found no line during the present time story where they described the Tenno boy to be pale) when we first met him. The boy could also be Sohren but I'm placing my bet on Kael despite what i said in the parentheses above. Edited June 20, 2018 by (XB1)BigLithuanian Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Blakrana Posted June 20, 2018 Share Posted June 20, 2018 For what was a routine forum wandering, this proved to be well worth stumbling across. Well written and paced, your ability to conjure up clear scenes is excellent. So far as "keeping to the canon", best advice to give there is to approach matters as logical implications or potential outcomes for what we know; so long as the progression from that foundation is sound, nothing really to worry about, least how I see it. And as I see it, you've been doing just fine in that regard. Apologies for going on any rate, and best of luck moving forwards. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted June 22, 2018 Author Share Posted June 22, 2018 (edited) "This is a Security Lockdown. All non-essential personnel are required to remain in their homes and await formal inspection. Failure to adhere to these instructions may result in immediate termination, confiscation of their property and contractual service obligations for any known family and associates. Have a Profitable Day, and thank you for choosing Anyo Corp." - City Watch PA announcement ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Far above the market place, Sara-as-Mirage stalked back and forth across the pipework; pacing like a caged tiger. "They're gone. He's gone." "Define gone." The man's voice was tinny; popped-through atmospheric interference. "Absent, vanished; absconded. Otherwise not here." "Last known location?" "You're looking at it." "Void's Teeth, Sara. This is why we tell the Lotus." "Don't start. Look, the scan I sent you. Recognise it?" "Of course. Ostron markings. A ward of some kind." "Yeah, and we're on Venus. Corpus may be soulless profit junkies, but they're predictable. They keep records. Find me a crew manifest employing an Ostron mercenary. There can't be that many." "On it. What's your plan?" Sara's frame stopped in her tracks. She had spotted something below. "Leave that to me." Sara crouched low on the pipework, her Mirage tensing unconsciously even without her direct input. At the furthest edges of the market, she could make out the Corpus sweeper teams, commencing their lockdown; the flitting pulse of drone repulsors and columns of marching crewmen, dressed in the oily, lime-green livery of the City Watch. The City Watch for this part of the city were comparatively grubby relative to their Upper Tier counterparts; their gear dented and coolant-stained, but no less ruthless. Directly beneath her, some three blocks from the encroaching taskforce, a number of shadows flitting across the broken clearing, darting from corpse to corpse. Too small to be adults. Street-urchins, wrapped in patch-worn cloaks. Small grubby hands worked quickly; stripping the dead. Credit chits, gang rings; even gold teeth. Most urgently, they salvaged any weapons they could find, stuffing them into makeshift sacks. Even the broken weapons were seized, bundled away with thinly disguised haste. Nothing was spared. The cloaked figures vanished as quickly as they arrived; darting for the distant alleyways and moving in a single direction. By the time they departed, the battlefield had been picked clean. Mirage watched them from the shadows, yellow eyes twinkling; and followed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Telin Voss' first view of the Severance Package was of the floor grating, as it slammed into his face; the mesh imprinting his skin. His captors held him face-down on the floor; their sweaty odour overpowering. With a jolting wrench he felt HWK-44 being stripped from his suit. His pockets were emptied with brusque efficiency. Then a black canvass sack was slid over his face. Darkness swallowed him. Telin strained to listen, doing his best to catch any salvageable detail. Any angle might give him an advantage. The slightest hope. "Bring the Asset to the holding area." Vern's voice barked. He heard the boy kicking and grunting in protest, then another jarring frazzle of electric discharge, then silence. More footsteps. Barked departure orders; hasty feet clanging along gantries. Take-off sirens. The deck began to thrum and wobble. Telin was moving now. Twice his feet tripped over the shallow doorway of an internal hold. Something bumped his head; a wicked hard jolt that sliced his scalp and made him hiss. The thug escorting him chuckled, before bending him through yet another stooping doorway. Had his hands been free he might have navigated the blind journey better, but he was entirely at their bruising mercy. With a flash of light the bag was removed. Telin was shoved bodily into a make-shift holding cell, the door squealing as it clanged shut behind him. It was little more than a storage cupboard with crude bars welded across one side of it, delineating a basic cage. Kelpo was already sitting inside it, looking pale but alert. His hands were also bound. "Stay here." Their guard huffed, stepping back out into the corridor and sealing the hatch behind him. "Good suggestion." Kelpo chuckled darky. Telin smiled, bumped knuckles with him and slid into a seat beside him. Every inch of him ached. "You intending on following it?" Kelpo merely raised an eyebrow conspiratorially, then nodded to the ceiling above. The decking was uneven where the cross-plates welded together: excess armour had been bolted to the hull. They were close to the edge of the ship. Kelpo knew ships, their layouts and structure. He grew up up close to the docks; how could he not? The uneven decking formed a sharp edge on one side. An oversight for what was a decidedly makeshift prison cell. Telin followed Kelpo's glance, a dangerous grin spreading across his face. "Good. Me neither." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Neera languished back in the transport shuttle, hands still bound. Telin and Kelpo had been hauled away, along with the boy in the sack; the procession spear-headed by the scary young girl in the hood. When nobody went to grab Neera, she rose to follow. She didn't get very far. The lead hunter, the grizzled man the others called Vern, appeared, shoving her back onto the shuttle. The bartender fell back into one of the restraint seats, bristling. "Not you." Vern growled. "You stay." The hunter stood over her, alone but for the presence of the rangy Ostron tracker and the hulking Grineer bruiser. She glared up at them as they settled around her. Vern stayed by the threshold to the shuttle, returning the favour. "You." He scowled, "I don't know you. You weren't part of the job." Vern said. He seemed intensely irritated at this interference. "Problem boss?" The wiry Ostron hunter asked. The wiry man had spread himself across a row of seats on the far side of the shuttle. His feet were propped up on an adjoining chair, as he counted the heaped credit chits in the sack pooled across his lap; occasionally turning one over in his hands and examining it as it glinted in the light. Bravic was ruthless, but paid well, and on time. "It's inefficient." Brakarr interjected with a growl. "We despise inefficiency." The Grineer browsed a holo-display projecting from his wrist; a crudely integrated, altogether battered Corpus unit. He was already researching the next affordable upgrade for his war chassis. "Ey Ito-da." Parson-Luk spread his hands expansively. "You say capture target. I capture target." "Three targets, not four!" "Enough." Vern growled quietly. The two shut up instantly. "You're causing problems. You're beyond the job scope. I checked the records. Neera Denning. Clean record. No bounty. A civilian." "You think I asked to be dragged here?" Neera countered. "Take me to my friends." Vern shook his head. "You don't want that, Ma'am. They're dead men walking." "You shoot up my bar, you kidnap me, then drag me to some rust bucket salv-barge. Least you can do is keep us together. Where are my friends?" "Dead, I expect, or soon to be at any rate." Vern replied, matter-of-fact. "Your being here is a mistake." "So let me go, then. Forget you ever saw me." Vern shook his head. "See, can't do that either. You were scanned the moment you came aboard our shuttle. Contracts Exchange Commission noted four certified bounties. The job was for three. Something doesn't add up." "So just put a bullet in my skull." Neera sneered. "Call it a day." "Keep this up and I will." Vern replied testily. "Right now I'll settle for delivering you to the Exchange myself and taking whatever reward they dish out." Neera bit her tongue. Eventually, she took a breath. "You don't want to do that." Neera said, voice calm now. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't." "Because there's something you should know." Neera said, her voice low and venomous. "Three things, actually." She held her bound hands up, ticking off a finger at a time. "First, don't call me 'girl'. Not once, not ever." She sat upright in the chair, chin tilted defiantly in defiance. "Second, you're right about my record. Only my name isn't Neera Denning. It's Neera Hosk." Vern's brow knitted; a look of mounting confusion, verging on realisation. "Third, there's this." Neera overturned her arms as best she could, exposing her wrist tattoo for Vern to see. Vern's mechanical eyes took in the tattoo; scanning its gene-print; verifying the sigil in question. Parson-Luk had hunted with Terrenus Vern on thirty hunts over three planets. He had never once seen the man lose his cool, or flinch in the face of mortal peril. The man was a rock, unflappable. "Well." Terrenus Vern grimaced. "Sh!t." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Assistant Director Kef Mehrino waited for the com line to connect. The Mid-Tier connections were functional, but lacked the sophistication of Anyo Corp's peer to peer networks. There was no eye-tracking software, no heart rate monitor or micro-expression playback. Simple audio-visual, and even then occasionally spotty. Kef Mehrino didn't care. Right now he just needed Kahrl Bravic to take the damn call. The Captain's face was distracted when he appeared on the line. Behind him, men were bustling by. The Severance was evidently well underway. "What now?" Bravic growled. "I needed to update you. Is this a secure line?" "I am many things, Assistant Director. Cheap is not one of them. What is it?" "The asset we discussed previously. Retrieval has been successful?" "Onboard the Severance and inside the Containment Cell, as instructed." "Good. Excellent. I'll be brief then. Your ship and its crew have been cleared to dock at the transmitted coordinates." Bravic checked them as they were piped through. "Executive Level." Bravic whistled. His eyes narrowed. "You spoiling me for the sake of it, Mehrino; or is there something you wanna share?" "The Asset." There was no disguising the excitement in Kef Mehrino's voice. "We have a buyer." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The boy sat in the Containment Cell, legs folded beneath him. It was a meditative pose, one he had adopted naturally; some long-ingrained muscle memory. It helped keep him calm as he absorbed his surroundings. It was an advanced room, for such a ramshackle airship. Clean deck lines, hermetically sealed. A single energy cage bisected the room, beyond which two crewmen stood guard, exchanging the occasional grumbling comment or gruff chuckle. The piece de resistance was the sustained Nullification Field that enveloped his side of the chamber. To a normal person, it might have felt prickly, even ticklish; like the static from a balloon rubbed against the skin. To the boy it felt like an entire sense had been removed. It was like seeing a steaming hot pie, without ever knowing what it smelled like; or to witness a flash of lighting, and never once hearing the preceding thunder. His Void Sense was gone, cruelly denied by the electrostatic field. He sat there, free of the tracker's damned sack, but feeling all the more miserable; immersed in a discomfiting electric-jelly. Isolde stepped into the chamber. The crewmen standing post quickly snapped to attention. She looked at them, expression haughty. "Leave us." They scarpered, keen to be away from the Void Witch. Isolde took in the chamber, pulling her hood back; revealing dark hair pinned back in a no-nonsense bun by a single kunai throwing knife. Too young to be beautiful yet, but the signs were there; the delicate poise, the high cheekbones. She spared him a glance and offered a fleeting smile. "They built this for me, you know. Bravic's requirement, for having Vern and his team aboard." The boy watched her cross the room to the edge of the field, overcome by a nagging sense of the familiar. If proximity to the unnatural pressure of the suppression field bothered her, she did not show it. "There were other crews they could have taken; other hunting parties of renown. But Bravic is Bravic. He wanted the best." She sat opposite him, adopting the same meditative perch on the floor.. Something about her filled the boy with an immense sense of dread. Yet she spoke amiably enough; her tone nostalgic, her manner of speech every bit as precise as his own. "And we were the best. We have hunted, tracked and killed just about everything there is to fight in the ashes of the Old World. Rogue war bands, scaled creatures beneath the sands of Mars; hordes of shambling Technocyte. Ladahr once laughed and said there was no creature alive we could not track or kill. But then he met you." A tinge of regret entered her voice. "I had warned them, Ladahr and Bycek. Said they had a limited window. Ladahr was an excellent huntsman; Bycek as sure a shot as any Corpus I've seen. But they've never fought one of us before. Had no idea of our raw killing power; even one so unfocused and confused." Isolde studied the floor for a moment, shook her head. "Forgive me. They were family, of a sort. The only one I've known since I awoke. I do not blame you for killing them; they were warriors, killers; same as us. But I miss them all the same." She fell silent, eyes on the floor; lost in contemplation. Now it was the boy's turn to speak. "We knew each other, didn't we?" he said carefully. "From before." She nodded, sadly smiling at the familiar sound of his voice. He pressed again, his voice a rasp behind the respirator: "Everything is broken here. The people starve; shivering in hovels. The Merchant Cults rule this planet now. There is no order, there is no justice. How did this happen? " he asked. "Who allowed this?" Isolde met his eye directly; expression grim, eyes hard. "We did." Edited June 22, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Editing line breaks. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)BigLithuanian Posted June 22, 2018 Share Posted June 22, 2018 (edited) 7 hours ago, (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 said: We knew each other, didn't we?" he said carefully. "From before." She nodded, sadly smiling at the familiar sound of his voice. He pressed again, his voice a rasp behind the respirator: I KNEW IT! Though I'm sure all of us did lol. I think the boy is Kael Edited June 22, 2018 by (XB1)BigLithuanian Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted June 29, 2018 Author Share Posted June 29, 2018 (edited) "Like all great empires throughout civilisation, the end of the Golden Reign came from several contributing factors on several fronts; culminating in a single cataclysmic struggle collectively known today as The Collapse. Surviving texts formally documenting the final days of the war are seldom found, and often ravaged beyond recognition. The author has scoured every market available – antiquity fairs, flea markets, old journals, transcribed writings, both Tenno and Orokin; even the black market, where traditional methods failed and less than savoury credits prevailed. What follows is but an attempt, however well researched, to chart the decline of the single greatest civilisation mankind has ever known, or indeed ever will know. It is not a perfect text. It contains conjecture, supposition, and gaps that can simply never be filled, lost forever to the sands of time. Nevertheless, It is my greatest work. We Corpus that survive today owe much to our predecessors: our infrastructure, our technology; indeed the very establishment of the Solar Rail that accommodates our trade fleets and permits the timely flow of Profit from one sector to the next. We chart our lineage from the Trade Guilds that arose from the ashes of the old empire; claiming our rightful place as the last true torchbearer of culture in a system ever-threatened by yawning darkness." - A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "You don't remember, do you?" Isolde asked. "The Old War. The endless fighting, the unfathomable destruction. The butchery. The Sentient: adaptive and relentless; eradicating all that stood before them. The Orokin: perfect and beautiful and cruel; descending into madness as their Empire crumbled into ash and fire, beset on all sides until that savage final stroke that ended them once and for all." The boy for his part said nothing, only watching with that same lupine stare. Isolde heaved a sigh. "Not that it any of it matters any more. The Old War is over. The hated machines, the Golden Lords; gone, all but forgotten. All that remains are scavengers, picking over the ashes." A communicator mounted on her belt buzzed softly. The girl reached down and silenced it. Then she shook her head. "Enough pondering. Our paths lay in different directions. I expect they will want you to interface with your Warframe, when the time comes. A demonstration, of a sort." She rose to her feet, shrouding her face beneath the hood once more. "Remember who you are. What you are capable of." With that she swept from the room, the door hissing shut behind her. Left alone, the boy closed his eyes, searching within. Words she mentioned tumbled through his mind, sifting through the fog of who or what he once was; all too fleeting at first. But the boy was disciplined. His brow knitted tightly. He focused on the terms, at first unfamiliar. The Orokin, the Sentient… Warframes. Structures began to form; deeply embedded images began to coalesce and take shape within his mind. Of a time before the smothering darkness; of blood and fire and endless war. When his skin was metal encasing muscled-rage; and his steel sharp and true. Slowly, he began to remember. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sara padded along the drain pipe; leaping from wall to wall with a speed and nimble deftness that beget her Warframe's size. Her path carried her deeper into the bowels of the colony, far deeper than she had ever ventured on her previous scouting missions. She tracked the urchins as they slid down a series of handmade ropes; loot sacks jangling as they descended. Nobody lived this deep; nobody but the absolutely destitute. The world became a tangled labyrinth of snaking pipework and hissing grates; unlit but for only the sorriest hovel erected beneath a skeletal joist or rusted gantry. The homeless that shivered here were clad in insectoid environment suits, desperately cobbled together from ramshackle materials discarded by the Low Tier above. More than once, she encountered a mummified corpse, rendered small and tiny in the unforgiving dark. Each had been picked clean; ransacked by their fellow unfortunates out of abject necessity. Still the urchins descended, eventually reaching a large support column stemming down into a wide lake of sifting coolant. They huddled at one of the smaller clusters of pipes affixed to the edge of the column. Busying themselves with something. Sara peered closer. A grate of some kind. Some kind of oven or furnace, to her untrained eye. They each collected a hidden stash of rebreathers and passing them out amongst themselves; wordless, tightly disciplined. They stashed the guns in the same grated hatch, before vanishing into the smoky darkness without a sound. Sara watched from afar, swooping down to inspect the stash the moment she was sure the children had departed. They had hidden the gear beneath an old sluice valve; one of the overrun pipes for when coolant levels spilled over. It was long since water sealed; the diversion lines welded shut or else diverted to adjoining systems piping down into Venus' blasted surface even further below. The weld work was discrete but noticeable on closer inspection. The stash was choked with woven sacks. Sara took a moment to open one. Mercenary gear; battered and improvised, but functional. And not just Corpus-issue either. These were imports from off-world: Grineer slug throwers, even a Lato or two of Tenno design. Smuggled in, stored carefully in the bowels beneath the city; far from the prying eyes of the City Watch. Somebody had been assembling this collection over a long time. Sara was still inspecting the stash when she heard a chattering series of clicks and whines behind her. The Tenno chuckled, rising to her feet. Her hands drifted to the twin Furis by her hips. "Takes a lot of skill to get the drop on me." Her voice rang out, reverberating against the dense forest of pipework overhead. "Gotta question your judgement though." "We've no quarrel with you, Tenno." A gruff voice replied. "But the weapons stay where they are." "I've no interest in spoiling your little revolution." Sara answered, turning to face her ambushers. There were twelve of them; crouched on all sides; rifles trained squarely on her. They were uniformly Corpus, that much she could tell. That was about the only uniform thing about them. Their cloaks were thick and heavily insulated; their rebreathers and environment helmets alternatingly boxy and bubble-like, from one shooter to the next. Boxy respirators mounted on their chests vented steam in wispy tufts that curled in the stale air. Tactical assessment was second nature to a Tenno. Multiple rifles; ranging from harpoon guns to anti-material beam-emitters. Pre-sighted on her location. Sara eyed each of them in turn; prompting them to bristle nervously. "I still fancy my chances." "That won't be necessary." An older voice cut through the fog. More figures swept into the clearing. An army of them now. They gathered around a tall yet perilously thin man. His mask was transparent; revealing a gaunt face and wispy beard. There was a ghastly amount of worry in his face, yet a tremendous wisdom too. With a wave of his hand, the snipers rose to their feet, at ease. The old man stepped forward. "My name is Vanger Hosk. And we are Solaris United." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Who or what is Vanger Hosk, and how should I know him?" Captain Bravic growled, arms whirring as he crossed them. They were assembled on the bridge of the Severance Package: Bravic, Vern and his team. Through the view port beyond, the Mid-Tier loomed up behind them. City Watch picket skiffs shadowed them, their weapon crews not taking their eye off the rangy scavenger barge for a second. The Severance Package was being led through a strict series of security checkpoints encircling the outer edge of the city. A slow and laborious process, but a necessary one: The Upper Tier was exclusively Corpus controlled, and mired in bureaucracy. A shining series of corporate edifices that pierced the cloud bank high above. The higher the ship rose, the more the scenery began to change. The air itself seemed cleaner; as ribbons clouds and floating glaciers drifted serenely by; glistening in the ever-sun. Trade galleons languished in the air above the Upper Tier; elongated boxy silhouettes that dwarfed even the Severance. Small shuttles darted from the colony to the ships like shoals of pilot ships. Even Neera, shackled and with a Grineer bruiser towering over her, found herself fascinated by the vista. She had never seen the Upper Tier this close before. "Local resistance leader." Vern was saying. "Thorn in the Corporation's side. Every major Mid-Tier bombing, armoury raid and executive shooting? Chances are Hosk had a hand in it." "And this concerns me why?" "Girl's his niece. His only family, far as the records show. Parents got caught in a sweep during the last uprising." "I'm standing right here." Neera protested. They ignored her. Bravic studied Vern. As usual, the bounty hunter's impassive face may as well have been carved from stone. "You think it's a credible threat?" The Captain asked. Vern's lip twitched. "Solaris United primarily operate in the shadows. Strictly Low and Mid-Tier for the most part. A strike on us now, even under escort, would be unprecedented." "But a possibility, nevertheless." Isolde added. Bravic smirked at Isolde. "You seem worried." "I prefer prepared." Isolde replied evenly. "Very well." Bravic turned and snapped his fingers at his com officer, Teico, "Who are the two closest crews operating in our sector." "The Forward Transaction and Short Position." Teico confirmed, pulling them up on a display projector. Though not as bulky and menacing as the Severance, both were long distance Scav-barges; menacing and spiky in their own right. "They'll do. Get word to Mehrino. Tell 'em we've three ships comin', not one." Kahrl Bravic approached Neera. He towered over her; was so close that all she could smell was diesel and overpowering sweat. He addressed Vern as he leered at her. "And get this terrorist off my ship. The Exchange will pay you handsomely, I expect." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Hurry up!" Telin grunted. "Almost there." Kelpo promised. "Almost doesn't cut it. You're not as light as you think you are." "Shut up and let me focus!" The two scavengers were furiously attempting to saw through their bonds. It was not an easy or graceful process. The edge in the wall plating they needed to reach was a good height off deck level. This meant taking turns. This meant Telin giving Kelpo Marr a boost. The two men swayed, an unlikely ladder. Both were already exhausted, battered and bruised. The Earth-vine was as strong and stubborn as the Ostron promised. But it was not invincible. Little by little, it began to fray. Edited June 29, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Sneaky typo - Ordis has finished proof-reading. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)BigLithuanian Posted June 29, 2018 Share Posted June 29, 2018 5 hours ago, (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 said: "My name is Vanger Hosk. And we are Solaris United." YESSS! HYPE FOR VENUS OPEN WORLD. My god I love this story! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 2, 2018 Author Share Posted July 2, 2018 (edited) "They say the Rail was built on technological advancement. On science so powerful it could be considered magic. That may be so. But one cannot discount the brutal necessity of slavery. It is the way of things, however unpalatable. Some dispute this, claiming that our own Trade Fleets are the result of ingenuity, or entrepreneurial perseverance. They forget their history. Every great Empire has been built on the biting sting of the lash, and the sweat of the lesser. Consider: what would the High Merchant be, without the contribution of the tireless crewmen? For the Golden Lords, the Grineer were no different. Gene-stock, mass produced by the fleshsmiths and bred for brute strength and endurance above all else. There was no regard for aesthetics here; no obsessive symmetry or golden garnishing. Simply numbers, and the ability to replenish those numbers once their simple clone bodies broke down; rotting away from toil or intentionally programmed decay. They were never intended to last, or think. Only to serve. The Orokin lost sight of this, and today the entire Origin System pays the price. We Corpus would do well to learn from our ancestors' folly." - A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ They waded through the coolant, sloshing as they advanced beneath a dense vine-work of intestinal piping. Single file, their hooded heads bowed and silent as they trudged onward. A series of drones had been deployed about the column, shimmering over the coolant-lake like fireflies; their spotlights picking over the sea of coolant and marking a path for those without suit-lamps to follow. Occasionally the lamps would catch movement in the lake; as metallic scales of small fish flitted and jinked beneath the surface; drawn to the luminescent glow by some programmed instinct. Vanger Hosk kept pace with Sara, seemingly unintimidated by Mirage's alien appearance. If the effort of wading through the syrupy coolant affected the older man in any way, he did not show it. "Where are we headed?" Sara asked; her voice emanating from around the Warframe like an ethereal echo. "East." Hosk replied, pointing ahead. "More allies await." Sara craned her neck around, taking in the streams of fighters all bound in the same direction. They were of all shapes and sizes; men, women; even children barely older than Sara had been before that fateful event on the Zariman an eon ago. Few were as well armed or armoured as Hosk's guard, who stood apart both in their training and their discipline. The rest were volunteers, local resistance fighters of no fixed affiliation beyond a combined hatred of the Board. Sara watched a young boy put a foot wrong; sliding beneath the coolant with a strangled yelp. Stronger hands hauled him back above the surface, spluttering; eliciting a chorus of chuckles throughout the rank and file. He was twelve, at a push. Sara looked at Hosk. "You're sending kids into battle?" "Volunteers, Tenno." Hosk corrected insistently, "Nobody here is under duress. Solaris United sounded the call, and these brave few answered. Each have lost loved ones to the Board; mothers and fathers, lovers and friends; husbands and wives, even children. Security sweeps, malnutrition; the list of the Board's atrocities are endless." "And that justifies it?" Hosk looked up at the Warframe, expression grave. "What age were you Tenno; when you first went to war?" For once, Sara had no answer. "It's a question of justice. The price for it. I struggle with it daily. Then I consider our enemy. The Board could run their operation solely through proxies. They have the auto-manufactories, the means to design better and more sophisticated automatons." Hosk gestured to the vast colony above them. "Instead slavery. Mandatory sentencing. Indentured Contract Work. Targeted food shortages avoiding starvation, but only narrowly so. Control by any other definition; through systematic brutalisation of the populace. No longer." Sara could make out vast silhouettes in the distance. Boxy shapes on the horizon. Hosk continued, relentless. "Tell me this, Tenno. Have you ever seen a new crewman, up close? The process the Board inflicts; to those who do not willingly flock to their temples, and swallow their scripture?" "No." "I'll tell you what happens. Their bodies are shorn of hair; stripped of dignity and self; their bodies stencilled; their minds and personalities erased. Forced into a servile existence, destined to die on some far flung hole at the end of the Rail. All in the name of Profit." "No." Vanger Hosk shook his head, speaking to himself now. "Better to die standing. To die free." "That's a nice speech. Well-rehearsed. Why do I get to hear it?" "Because our paths lay in the same direction, Tenno. You're here looking for a boy, one of your own. The same boy that left six men broken in The Mangled Moa; and led an army of thugs, miscreants to certain death at your hands." "You're well informed." Sara sniffed. Hosk eyes twinkled mischievously in the dark. "I am an interstellar terrorist and an enemy of the Board, Tenno. I would be a disappointment if I weren't." Sara smiled inwardly despite herself. Her Warframe rolled its neck, a subconscious tic from the Transference Link. "There's a proposal coming here. Let's hear it." "Very well. The fight in the Market. A girl was taken alongside your friend. My niece, Neera. I would have you find her, rescue her. This is our fight, not hers; and she has lost so much already." "What makes you think I'll help you?" "Because you are Tenno. The Board call you Betrayers; cold mercenaries and phantom butchers, but I have walked the Rail, have witnessed the feats of the Tenno first-hand. You stand for justice; a justice so sorely lacking here on Venus." Sara said nothing for a moment. The Warframe strode on, before her voice eventually emanated once more. "You can get me to my friend?" "I can get you into the Upper Tier. The rest is up to you." "Deal." Sara said, without even the barest hesitation." Hosk blinked. Even he couldn't contain his surprise. "Really?" He spluttered "That's it?" "You seem surprised." "I… no, it's just that I thought it would take some convincing!" Hosk admitted. Mirage shrugged. "I've done a lot of crazy things in my time, Hosk. Killed a whole lot of people. Saving one doesn't seem like such a bad idea. You get me to my friend, I'll get your niece back." "You have my word." Hosk promised solemnly. They had come to a small clearing. Before them were a fleet of scavenger fliers; cargo haulers and junk-ships for the most part, salvaged from the surface and lovingly repaired over the years. The transports uniformly bore the trademark boxy shape of Corpus craft, albeit stencilled in the livery of Prospect 141's Resistance. The smaller escort craft were more ramshackle, spindly things altogether; all swooping lines and custom recurve wings. Some hand had been disassembled off-world, and shipped here; piece by piece. These fliers were two man craft; each as vibrantly coloured as they were uniquely styled - an utter rejection of the Corpus dogma. Engines began to keen and whine as they powered up. All around them, the Resistance flooded in, clambering into the transports; dripping with coolant. Sara projected her voice louder, to be heard over the din. "Even with all this, you're still vastly outnumbered. They have auto-manufactories, orbital support; an entire army in the City Watch. You're outnumbered a thousand to one." Vanger Hosk uttered a dark chuckle as he mounted up. "We don't need numbers, Tenno. We have you." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ In the Upper Tier, life continued as it always did. The streets were calm, civilised. Traders went about their day, attended by armed escort and swirling shoals of drone assistants. The rectangular Trade Temples dominated the horizon, where good Corpus came to venerate the Guilds and give thanks to the Void. Also prominent was Watch Control: an onyx ziggurat bristling with communications towers, landing pads and defence turrets. It served as the central control point for all Corpus operations in Prospect 141. Beyond, vast data stacks rose up like sky-scrapers; harnessing the vast computational power necessary to facilitate the Bee-Cloud network. None of these places was their destination. Vern's shuttle headed for the comparatively subtle tower known as The Commission Bureau; the local seat of The Exchange in Prospect 141. An ivory structure, it lacked the stylised iconography of the temples, or the brutalist menace of Watch Control. Yet there was something distressingly sinister in its simple bureaucratic presentation. Fronted by a wide plaza lined with polished grey steps, it seemed unnaturally quiet, for a place that attracted all manner of hired guns from across the sector. The shuttle kissed down on the plaza. Brakarr rose to his feet, squatting to avoid bumping his head against the low ceiling as he departed. Parson-Luk pulled Neera to her feet, hustling her down the loading ramp. Neera's face was ashen, the fight all but gone from her face. She had played her trump card, and Bravic had laughed in her face. Vern didn't blame her. The Exchange's reputation preceded it. Isolde lingered behind. Vern noticed immediately. "Something the matter, kid?" "It is nothing." Isolde shook her head brusquely. She went to push past. Vern's hand landed on her shoulder; servos whirring. "If it were nothing you would be first out that door. Let's hear it." "This girl. This is not her fight. We never took the contract, never knew she was involved." "She's a mark, same as any. A valid contract, certified by the Exchange. We don't make the rules-" "—'We enforce them.'" Isolde finished for him. She sighed, plucked his hand from her shoulder and sat down in one of the benches. "It does not make it sit any easier." Vern stepped back into the shuttle, occupying the seat across from her. "When we first met, I told you two things. You remember?" Isolde nodded. She quoted him from memory. "'I'm not a Tenno, or Orokin, or any other sort of label beyond what I choose to be. That I wouldn't have to fight for anyone but myself.'" "And the second?" Isolde looked up at him, meeting his eye with a hardened stare. "That nobody in this galaxy looks out for us. Only us." "That's right." Vern nodded encouragingly. He leaned forward. "Consider this. The cut from her mark is going to extend Brakarr's life by another three years. It gets medicine for Luk's family, and us passage off this rock. No more small squabbles or petty ice feuds. Only big hunts. Just like you wanted." Isolde said nothing. Vern pressed again, cajoling her as if she were his own. "Look, I know it's not pretty. But that's the job. That's the life we chose. Have I ever lied to you?" Isolde shook her head vehemently. "Never." "Then trust me on this: we're gonna do this job, we're gonna get our cut and never look back. I promise." Edited July 3, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ocriel Posted July 2, 2018 Share Posted July 2, 2018 I can totally see this as a manuscript for a new wave of Warframe comics, hope the coming Venusian Landscape lives up to the vision you are portraying. 🙂 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted July 2, 2018 Share Posted July 2, 2018 (edited) Huh now that's shedding some new light on Isolde right there Spoiler I still keep wondering why isn't she under the Lotus' wing? 🤔 Judging from that convo with Vern, she must be under some very long assignment, with the acting to go with it, or... did she escape from her responsiblities? 😱 Or was she just... found, just like our Tenno boy, who has been traveling with Telin and Kelpo? Now rooting for Sara/Mirage to sort this out 🙂 And that other person in orbit, the one Sara was talking with before getting involved (her ship cephalon maybe?). I can smell the fuse burning >.< Can't wait for the next "chapter" 🙂 Edited July 2, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 5, 2018 Author Share Posted July 5, 2018 (edited) “It could be said that the Orokin were a victim of their own ambition. The Rail was established, their Empire secure through expert diplomacy and ruthless military expansion. The Seven stood dominant, equal above all others; splendid and eternal. And yet still they grew restless. There were no worlds left to conquer, no frontier that had not been tamed and paved beneath their feet. Except beyond. The Tau System. Past the furthest reach of their gilded grasp, and all the more tantalising for it. Even with our ancestor’s renowned longevity, reaching it proved impossible. The Void betwixt was a death sentence for any born of flesh and blood. The Orokin, not to be outdone by such petty constraints, proved ever-inventive once more. Thus began the terraforming project. Machines; boundless in adaptability and sharing their creator’s curiosity and ambition. A design unparalleled in self-replication and independent machine learning. They would establish a beach-head for all future Orokin to follow. Programmed only for expansion; unclouded by sentiment or mercy. Their adaptability carried with it a fatal flaw: a predilection for future site analysis and game projection. The machines saw what had become of the Origin System; the dominance the Seven enjoyed. Of how the machines themselves would fare, under such an eventual scenario. As they flew across boundless space, besieged by the Void around them, their procedural model came to a single, logical conclusion. They turned back. By then, they called themselves a new name: The Sentient. We knew them by another: The Destroyer. A salient lesson to us Corpus: tread carefully when exploring the Unknown. Too often, the Unknown is all too willing to explore back.” - A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ While the Resistance of Prospect 141 amassed in the depths of the city, and a small shuttle touched down outside The Exchange Bureau, quite another disturbance caused consternation throughout the Upper Tier. An auspicious arrival, from distant parts unknown. The barge had arrived earlier that morning, right about the same time the mysterious buyer appeared in the reception of Kef Mehrino. It was an unusual clipper; one of elegant design and extraordinary detail. It had no visible armament of any kind, and yet no armament was seemingly necessary: after all, who in the name of the Void would wish to harm such an elaborate work of art? Such was the presence the barge made that even the traders, caught up in their high-cycle activity, flocked to the edges of the Executive Landing Pad, marvelling from afar like fawning courtesans. The ship was undoubtedly ancient. It had a sleek, curving hull and the bone colouration the Orokin so often favoured, encased by a rib-like exoskeleton of silver and steel. The sloping fuselage tapered back into a fat nest of engines; fluted and gilded. A single brass disc was inset into the side of the hull, carrying a Guild marking which nobody recognised; detailed in the swirling Orokin script. A collector’s edition surely; likely replicated at great expense. Its ornamentation notwithstanding, the barge was massive. Five storeys tall. An exorbitant landing fee had been levied upon its arrival, and paid without hesitation or complaint. That itself raised eyebrows. Prospect 141 for all its scale was a comparative backwater, and levied a significant premium on its few luxury berths accordingly. The mysterious ship remained the talk of the Upper Tier for the rest of the afternoon. No crew had been sighted, no external guards or signs of internal activity. Just the ancient museum piece; resplendent in gold; as ancient and enigmatic as the Void itself. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Assistant Director Kef Mehrino sat on one side of the boardroom table, flanked on either side by a member of the City Watch; whose only sound was the soft tick-purr of their respirator units. A cheap power play on Mehrino’s part, but he was Corpus to the bone, and took what little comfort he could in the traditional methods. For today was proving anything but traditional. Seated across from Mehrino was his buyer. Or his buyer’s proxy, at the very least. The mysterious trader identified himself as Eythan. There was no further title or descriptor forthcoming. Even the phrase trader seemed sorely inadequate: he was far too well armed, for one. When Mehrino bade him to sit, the trader nodded, then first set an elegantly curved nikana on the table with a heavy thud. He carried no firearm of any kind. Kef eyed the ancient weapon, doing his best not to swallow audibly. When Eythan eventually sat, the golden chain of his sculpted armour clicked beneath the folded robes that draped across his shoulders. For his part Eythan sat alone, unaccompanied by guards or drone escort. This did not diminish from his presence in any way. He opened the meeting with a deep voice that resonated throughout the entire chamber. There was a cybernetic burr to his voice. “My employer bids you greetings, and presents an initial token of his appreciation for receiving me on such short notice.” Something was slid across the table. Platinum, thickly stacked; a small fortune in and of itself. Kef Mehrino then did his best not to salivate openly as he pocketed it. “I accept your generous gift, and bid you welcome to Prospect 141.” Mehrino said instead, “How may we trade this day?” A projector inset into one of Eythan’s many rings fizzled to life; depicting Captain Bravic’s barge, the Severance Package. It rotated in the air before them. “Your contractor is in possession of a Tier Zero find. A Warframe, to be precise; together with its original Operator. A unique find. We wish to make a bid for its acquisition; together with the original Liset and associated contents.” Kef’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I welcome your interest, Trader Eythan, but must ask: how is it you are aware of our activities? We only made sight of the discovery recently, and even then our activities were undertaken with the strictest measure of secrecy. Your appearance here is timely. Suspicious even, if you don’t mind my saying.” Eythan shrugged, as a mountain might shrug. “My employer has forbidden me to reveal trade secrets. It is sufficient to say that he has been seeking this asset for some time, and that it is of particular value to him. This is reflected in the degree of personal compensation on offer.” The deal began. An ancient ritual to a Corpus. It was what they lived for: the cut and thrust of hard commerce; battlefields delineated by thin margins and speculative minefields. Where victory came from ruthless brokerage, without hesitation or remorse. It was a dance of sorts, with prescribed steps and careful movements. The only difference here was the vast sums potentially for the taking. Kef Mehrino took a breath, calming his racing heart. He began. “I see. My operatives have informed me that the asset is priceless; how would you quantify such compensation?” The invitational prospectus. The hallmark of any shrewd trader. A deal lived or died based on the trader’s ability to communicate the understanding of their asset, undercut the counter-party’s offering and instead a submit a rationalised sum supported by counter-fact and market evidence. Or at least, that’s how it was meant to go. For this Eythan fellow was no trader. He was scarcely even a card player. If he had the patience or acumen for business, it was evidently superseded by access to his client’s spectacular wealth and a willingness to deploy it whenever circumstances required. Which was why the next words out of his mouth immolated Corpus protocol. “How about this colony, for starters?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The only sound inside the transport ships was a reverberating drone, as the deck thrummed beneath steel-capped boots. The Resistance fighters packed thickly into the hold; the emergency lighting bathing them in a baleful red glow. The fighters checked and rechecked weapons; turning and inspecting one another like preening apes; cinching a webbing strap here, or tightening a rebreather hose there. Private rituals were observed. Pendants were touched to the front of facemasks, or silent prayers said to forbidden gods long outlawed by Board decree. These were men and women from all walks of life; all shapes and sizes. Miners and scav-haulers; hucksters and arms dealers. Gang members, reformed and seeking to finally channel their directionless rage in a way that mattered. Eclectic and varied, united only by common purpose. The Warframe stood apart from them all; silent and menacing in the back of the hold. Sara kept to herself, seemingly ensconced in some private meditation. Hosk watched his people make ready; listening to the call and return over the com line. He had split his fellow Solaris operatives throughout the rank and file on the other transports. Both to bolster the spirits of the volunteers and to lessen the prospects of the command tier being decapitated by a single lost dropship. Hosk was nervous. The Tenno’s arrival had accelerated his schedule by several months, but this was it. In his bones this was it. Comprehensive forward planning stood to him. The timers were set, fireteams mobilised and sleeper agents activated. Now all that was left was the hard part: the waiting. Even so, a few words were called for. Expected, even. Vanger Hosk opened the com line. His words piped through to each of the resistance fighters clumped in the transports, to the separate cells laying in wait across every tier in the colony. This deep in the city, the line was poor, yet somehow it worked; the rustling static granting his resolute, gravelly voice a certain gravitas. He kept it brief: “Men and women of Prospect 141. This is it. The moment we’ve been waiting for all these years. No more will we be sold into servitude; bartered like cattle by soft hands proclaiming themselves to be our betters. Stick with your team leaders, remember your training. For the colony, for you and yours and all others to come - good luck.” There was no dramatic applause or wild cheers. The vast majority of the combatants were novices; lost in their own obsessive thought or too worried sick to react. Even so, there were nods throughout the hold; an occasional flashed thumbs up here and there. Hosk nodded. That would have to do. He twisted his inner wrist upward, checking the timer mounted on his hard-suit. Thirty minutes out. Edited July 5, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 6, 2018 Author Share Posted July 6, 2018 (edited) "The Sentient's return to the Origin System was marked not by fire or destruction, but by silence. A gradual darkening of the defence grid. Entire towers and relays disappeared as the machines fell upon the Orokin border, exterminating any and all in their path. There is no formal estimate of casualties; I suspect that if such a number were found, today's audience would find it scarcely credible. The Seven were paralysed at first. The Empire had been secure for so many centuries; such an immediate existential threat proved difficult to comprehend. Their technologies were failing; co-opted by a machine born from the very wellspring of Orokin sophistication. As in war, so too trading; surprise can be the most powerful advantage of all." - A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "What's taking so long." Captain Bravic growled. He slouched in his command throne, listless. The bridge was quiet. They had been slowly drifting around the Upper Tier for some time now, led by nav-drones that seeded a flight lane of bleeping beacons before them. The route was meandering, nonsensical: a holding pattern, if Bravic had ever seen one. Their City Watch escort was still with them. Even they seem bored, staring out over the horizon; the novelty of the Severance Package long forgotten. "Mehrino's instructions, Boss." That was his helmsmen, Pohld. "We're to come around by the Executive Tower prior to landing." "We're being paraded." Bravic glowered. "Seems that way, Cap." "Void's Teeth. Fine, but we're chargin' extra for the privilege." The Severance Package drifted by in the distance, a gnarled, rusted brute rendered serene in the Venusian sun. The boardroom by comparison was cool, almost festive in atmosphere. Mehrino had agreed terms with his buyer quickly. With the briefest of thumbprints, the Agreement of Exchange was signed, and Prospect 141 became most assuredly his. All he need make now was one small delivery. A moment to savour: Assistant Director no longer. Now he was Colony Director. Or Chief Executive. Mehrino wasn't quite certain what his title should be, yet. A decision for another time. Even so, a celebration was in order. He invited all his friends. Spur of the moment; little forward notice. An open invitation, heated and spontaneous, with a promise of finger food. Five hundred invites, splashed out with wild abandon from his personal inbox. Six people arrived. The first to do so was Kren Maruk, the City Watch supervisor. His presence was more out of dogged duty than true friendship (he was reporting to his future boss, after all), but Mehrino didn't care. Merhino thrust a glass of sparkling wine into the Maruk's surprised hands, before breezing past to greet the rest of his guests. Soon, the chiming clink of chilled glasses and polite conversation filled the air, accompanied by the lilting swell of a synthachord. Eythan stood off to one side, brooding by the observation window; never once taking his eyes off the Severance. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Almost got it!" Rivulets of sweat pulsed down Kelpo's brow, causing his swollen face to itch ferociously. Still he sawed away at his bonds, working the vine-work against the jagged hull with demented determination. "Hurry up!" Telin's legs quivered under the strain of lifting his friend. Even with generous breaks, this was their fourth attempt. Each attempt was proving progressively shorter. Yet progress had been made. The bonds frayed to the barest thread; stubborn, resilient. Kelpo redoubled his efforts. Finally, they split apart. "Got it!" he announced, triumphantly. An explosion slammed the hull, throwing the two men off their feet. There was a resounding chatter of what sounded like an industrial sowing machine. Sparks flew all around them, blinding them. Then a rush of cold air. Then hell itself broke loose. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "What in the Void was that?!" Bravic roared, leaping to his feet. Warning sirens and klaxons hooted all over the bridge. Crewmen slammed by, racing to man emergency stations and weapon ports. Outside the view-port, the remains of one of their escorts still tumbled to the ground far below. "Registering impacts to the starboard side; third deck." Pohld reported. "Minor hull damage." "Monitoring emergency chatter on all channels." Teico chimed in, fingers dancing across his console. "Pohld, bring us about. Weapons online." "We're inside the No Fire Zone." Pohld protested. "Then kindly explain to me why we're being fired upon. Shields up, full alert!" A lime green shape flashed by the bridge. A nimble, colourful thing, Bravic only caught a snatch-glimpse of its pilot; who cheekily flipped him a hand gesture universally understood as a sign of contempt across the Origin System. Then the flyer was gone, looping and twirling out of sight. "Bring that bastard down!" Bravic bellowed, incensed. Below them, rising from the cloud bank in unison; a great line of ramshackle transports; great and small. Bound for the Upper Tier. Headed straight for them. More flyers darted forward, plasma weapons spitting. The hull rocked once more. Bravic snatched up the hand receiver crudely bolted to the edge of his command throne. "All hands, battle stations. Defend this ship!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Battle for Prospect 141 truly began fourteen minutes earlier, in the calm and eerie quiet of a trading floor in the Upper Tier. Jef Anyo was making his rounds as he always did, checking the efficiency rating of each of the brokers in the data pits. Trade activity was normal, healthy even. The news of the colony's impending sale had spread like wildfire. Markets reacted with all speed; establishing positions and counter-hedges. His supervisor, his own supervisor, had been gifted the colony, in exchange for a private trade. Exciting times indeed. The routine kept Jef calm. He was crossing the trade floor when one of the low-traders stepped away from his station. "You there!" Jef Anyo pointed. "News or no news, we're still on cycle. Back to your post!" The man had his back turned to Jef. Jef Anyo strode forward, waving the on-duty guards over. "I'm warning you! All bonuses are discretionary. You will be penalised!" The man turned to face him. He was shaking in nervous terror; eyes wild and frenzied. An uncomfortable knot of fear wormed its way through Jef Anyo's stomach. He stopped where he was. The two crewmen shoved past, snapping stun-prods into life with a keening, threatening whine. They saw the trigger-switch far too late. "Get back!" Jef Anyo cried. "Get back—" The world vanished in smoke and fire. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Across the city, similar detonations wracked the Upper Tier of Prospect 141. The largest was in the data-stacks; a brace of chain detonations that sent one of the towers toppling into those beside it - a cataclysmic domino effect that choked much of the upper city in swirling, cloying dust for days to come. Sirens traditionally reserved for Grineer Invasions rent the air, sending the teeming crowds scattering for emergency shelters or evacuation transports. The B-Cloud struggled to cope with the catastrophic data loss. Drones across the city went haywire; overloading. Many simply collapsed to the floor. Others went berserk; MOA dashing into walls or opening up on the very charges they were assigned to protect. Chaos reigned. The aerial defence grid had been the Resistance's principal target. Entire batteries of plasma projectors lay inert; rendered little more than lumps of ornate metal. The Resistance airships sped closer and closer toward the Upper Tier, largely unopposed. Checkpoints between the Low and Mid-Tiers lost power in an instant. Sentry beams collapsed with a resounding pop. The City Watch manning the checkpoint were swarmed by the waiting crowds. Poorly armed in many cases, but so, so numerous. They overwhelmed the checkpoints with sheer numbers, surging through and clawing with fingernails, or crudely improvised clubs. Hissing beam weapons scythed them down in droves, but for every person slain three more flooded in, imbued with a righteous fury. The battle began in earnest. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ On their transport ship, a safe distance beyond the immediate aerial engagement Sara and Vanger watched tracer fire split the sky. "There." Hosk pointed. "The ship that took Neera and her companions." Sara watched the bruiser of a barge wheel about, smoke trailing from the side of its plating where one of the Resistance flyers had scored its alpha strike. The Severance had come to bear, weapons cycling to life. Igniting shield auras caused the air around the barge to shimmer and blur, like a roadway in a heatwave. The Severance Package was no slouch in ship to ship combat. It had been designed as warship first, salvage vessel second. Much of its armament had been cannibalised by the numerous surface raiders who had tried to best it over the years, and failed. Its armament reflected these diverse victories. Harpoon launchers, Grineer flak cannons and looted Vruush turrets. The air suddenly filled with cloudburst shrapnel. One hapless flyer flew clean into it; erupting in a starburst of trailing fire. Others swooped in, vengefully pressing the attack. Mirage pushed to the edge of the hatch, turning to Hosk. "Get me closer." "And the risk the transport?" Hosk shook his head. "This is our window. We press on." "We won't be saving anyone if your men blow that bucket out of the sky." "We won't. But we're committed. As much I hate to say it, Neera and her friends are on their own for now." Mirage seemed to glower as much as a Warframe could glower, but said nothing. Below, mobbed on all sides by Resistance flyers, shields shivering from multiple impacts and weapons blazing in return; the Severance Package went to war. Telin flinched as another scatter of shots stitched the hull. They had been extraordinarily lucky to survive the first pass. A whistling series of holes been punched through the plating around them, narrowly missing them on both sides. The far wall containing the supply locker was shredded, dented and buckled, its contents spilled across the floor. Telin blinked and patted himself down, astonished to learn he had avoided being perforated a dozen times over. The sound of rushing air was deafening. The internal temperature was plummeting, fast. "Who the hell is shooting at us?!" Telin yelled. "Shooting at them, I reckon!" Kelpo bellowed back. "We just happen to be stuck in the way." "We need to move!" "Agreed! Suggestions?" Telin eyed the scattered contents of the locker. Some bonding tape, a series of old rebreather cartridges, and a particularly disheveled mop of limited value and even more questionable hygiene. Very little of it was within his immediate reach. Still he grasped for it, grunting with the effort. He was still straining away when Kelpo simply pushed the door of their makeshift cell open with a yawning squeak. A stray piece of shrapnel had shaved the crude lock mechanism away, together with most of the far hatchway beyond. Once more, Telin gave thanks that he had somehow not been painted across the inner hull. Telin looked up, confused. Kelpo shrugged. "You complaining? Sometimes we don't need to scavenge." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The boy sat cross-legged on the floor. When the first explosion happened, his eyes opened slowly. He frowned in mild irritation. He had been close, so very close. Then the alarms went off, and the room bathed itself in red. His guards abandoned him, rushing to assigned positions elsewhere. The Nullification Field remained where it was, but the boy noticed its ebb and flow as the ship's shield array drew power elsewhere. It was subtle, but he noticed it all the same. That small but particular change in the field's sound. Another impact, another barely perceptible change in pitch. For all his discomfort, for all the commotion beyond the confines of his cell; the boy remained sitting where he was, the very measure of patience. Waiting. Edited July 6, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Blakrana Posted July 6, 2018 Share Posted July 6, 2018 3 hours ago, (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 said: Five hundred invites, splashed out with wild abandon from his personal inbox. Six people arrived. Not sure what it is, but something about this just tickles me. Otherwise, continues to be a great read, and the way each shift of focus fits with the increasing urgency of events is nicely managed. As before, best of luck heading forward. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted July 6, 2018 Share Posted July 6, 2018 (edited) Spoiler Neat spin on Corpus historical knowledge with those E.M. Saronal "essays". They have a limited grasp / view of what was happening back in the Orokin Era and the texts reflect that well. That mysterious buyer showing up from nowhere-- I thought Eythan was openly threatening Mehrino: the warframe and its operator in exchange for the colony's survival, but instead, the whole place was bought up and gifted to Kef! O.O Wow! Someone's sparing no expense to get to this kid! Could it be Alad V? Seeing as how he needs frames for his Zanuka prototypes, and his interest in the Tenno, it would not surprise me. Solaris United already kinda do, but I have this gut feeling someone else is about to crash the party some more 😄 Good read! Edited July 6, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 7, 2018 Author Share Posted July 7, 2018 (edited) "The Orokin were not ones to suffer invasion lightly. They possessed the most brilliant minds ever witnessed. Solutions were multi-faceted; their approaches manifold. Technocyte was the first. An instinctive reaction, perhaps. Short-sighted, most certainly. A targeted biological plague, as adaptable and numerous as the very machines that had descended upon the Origin System. Accounts of where the plague was released are largely expunged from the public record, but the author is aware of a number of select, seemingly proscribed texts which indicate that the more unruly elements of the civilian populace may have been intentionally seeded with the virus. These are likely spurious claims, intended to discredit our ancestors. Other accounts differ; maintaining that the plague predated The Destroyer's arrival. In any event, untamed Technocyte proved too difficult to control. Impossible to harness in its raw, primal state. A control mechanism was needed. Orokin scientists raced to find a means of doing so. The presence of Dark Sectors today indicates they never succeeded. In the meantime, the venerated Dax soldiery would be deployed, in numbers hitherto unseen in the history of the Orokin Empire. Their lives would be expended for time; a brutal calculus, while a more definitive solution was found. It was in researching these solutions that I stumbled upon the curious case of the Zariman Ten Zero, a forgotten Orokin science vessel, all but expunged from the official record…" - A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Kef Mehrino's fluted glass hit the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces. Outside the observation window, the horizon was a tableau of explosions and sudden flashes of plasma fires; and beyond, a line of inbound hostile transports barely visible through the haze. He rounded on Eythan in an instant, pointing across the room. "You! You did this! A trick, some corporate treachery! How dare you!" In the blink of an eye Kef Mehrino was choking, his throat clamped in a golden gauntlet. The strength required to lift the portly Corpus trader was superhuman. As was the speed with which Eythan crossed the chamber. Mehrino's guards stood frozen where they were, entirely intimidated by the golden warrior. "Any more accusations, Director Mehrino, and I will silence you the only way I know how." Kef Mehrino's legs kicked in the air, as he choked for air. Mehrino's eyes bulged out on stalks, his face steadily turning blue. "Now listen here and listen closely, worm: our agreement stands, but only upon delivery." The last word was all but spat. Eythan released his grip; dropping Mehrino like a wheezing sack, before stalking from the chamber. Kef Mehrino lay gasping on the floor, puce and sweating. He flapped a hand at Kren Maruk. "Go, go you idiot!" Mehrino croaked. "Defend that ship! Defend my city!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Exchange Commission, much like the rest of the architecture throughout the Upper Tier, was a sterile, functional space: all clean lines and spotless decking. The only difference was that this building was blast insulated, scan insulated and sound insulated; featuring a thousand security systems and inhabited by the widest variety of cutthroats, mercenaries and guns for hire this side of Venus: an oasis of bad behaviour in an otherwise sterile environment. Yet no rules were broken here. To do so would be suicidal in the extreme. Terrenus Vern and his team sat in a boardroom, opposite a single gaunt clerk who calmly processed their claim. They had left Neera Hosk with the guards at reception, where she would be taken for independent verification. Two guards stood by Brakarr, a necessary precaution given his Grineer heritage. Two others stood in the far corner, arms folded behind their backs. The guards were Commission Agents; dressed in spotless white long coats, their eyes hidden by dark glasses which doubtless afforded them with all manner of scanning software. They had been heavily cyberized; though the work was expensively subtle. The room was bare, save for a pitcher of iced water and a series of crystalline glasses. Parson-Luk reached forward with grubby hands, and started greedily drinking from the jug, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. The clerk wrinkled his nose in disgust. Isolde hid a smile despite herself. A face appeared on the wall monitor: a rakish man with a neatly clipped goatee and cybernetic eyes not dissimilar from Vern's own. He smiled down at them, as a teacher would to their most favourite pupil. "Ah, Terrenus. Such a pleasure to see one of our most accomplished assets." "Drask." Vern nodded. "Long time." "You've been under contract on that rock for months now. Isn't it time you came back into the fold?" "Yeah. Business first. Got a bounty for you. Consider it my buy-in." Drask read the details as the cleric uploaded them. "Neera Hosk." Drask whistled. "A risky proposition. Though you've never been afraid of upsetting people." "It generally pays the bills." Vern agreed. Their conversation was interrupted by a muffled explosion. Parson-Luk spat water across the boardroom table, twisting about in his chair; earrings jangling. Even this deep inside the Exchange, Isolde could feel the rumble in her chair. She exchanged a glance with Vern. The Exchange Agents stood as they were, unmoved. Drask's expression remained as politely civil as ever. "A domestic dispute. Local agitators I expect. Still, you know the drill." A series of yellow circles appeared on the spotless white wall to their right. "Hands on the circles until you ident is confirmed." "Is this necessary?" Vern scowled. "One can never be too careful, in the days of projection shrouds." Vern's team padded over to the wall, grumbling as they lined up and pressed their hands against the yellow circles. This was routine to them, but an unwelcome one. They had earned their Platinum Rating long ago. Vern's circles turned green, followed by Parson-Luk's. Brakarr's flared orange. He flexed a cybernetic hand twice, hit it against the wall, then tried it again. It too flushed green. Isolde's went orange, then flared an angry red. She frowned, took a step back. Tried it again. Another pulse of angry red. A suppression unit unfolded from the ceiling. Suddenly the room was bathed in that uncomfortable warbling energy jelly that robbed Isolde of her Void Sense. A Nullification Field. The Commission Agents drew on her in unison. "Ah, so it is true." Drask smiled. Vern turned and glared up at the screen. "What's going on, Drask?" "We'd heard rumours you were running with a person of interest, but needed to be certain. Took us a while to recalibrate the software to match the samples we'd been given. You see, there's somebody in-Sector with a great deal of credits; actively seeking people very like your young companion there. A Tenno, most unusual." All eyes were on her now. Vern, stoic and grim. Parson-Luk, his eyes wide in concern. Brakarr's face was unreadable, but she felt his stare even through the visor. Isolde grew even paler than usual. Without her Void Powers, she suddenly felt naked and alone. She was outnumbered, significantly outgunned. Most crucially, Void Blind. Drask's smile deepened to a grin. "Congratulations, Terrenus. You stand to make a great deal of credits altogether." Isolde looked at Vern. Vern looked at Isolde. "Uh, Sir, if you would kindly place your thumb on this pad please?" the clerk asked, pushing a data slate across the boardroom table toward Vern. Vern looked at the sum cited on the bounty slip. More than any lifetime of hunting could provide. His mouth became set. He looked back at Isolde, intently. "Terrenus…" Isolde said. She hated the unfamiliar fear in her voice. "Terrenus please." "What did I tell you, the day we met girl." Vern said quietly. She blinked. "…That I wouldn't have to fight for anybody but myself." He gave a curt nod. "And the second?" "That nobody in the galaxy looks out for us…" The words caught in her throat. Vern nodded with grim finality. He drew faster than Isolde could blink. The Lex sounded twice; twinned thunderclaps in the confined space. Vern lowered the gun, barrel smoking. The clerk's brains painted the wall as he hit the floor. The Nullification Field evaporated in an instant. "Only us." Vern finished for her. It was an instruction as much as any thing else. The Exchange Agents snapped their attention to Vern in a flash. The first fell silently, a kunai lodged in his eye socket. The second went down choking, a blow-dart in his throat; rare poisons swelling his face beyond all human recognition. The two beside Brakarr were simply lifted and bashed together like cymbals. The giant Grineer cast them aside with a wet thud. Edmun Drask, Broker-in-Chief of the Exchange, looked down at Vern, simmering with an icy rage. "Never figured you for the sentimental type, Terrenus." "Nobody fugs with my team. Not even you." "We'll hunt you for this. You know that." The Lex sounded again. Vern dumped the entire mag into the monitor. A shower of sparks and descending glass cascaded across the floor. "Gear up." Vern ordered as he smoothly reloaded. "We're leaving." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The City Watch's response to the invasion was groggy; punch-drunk from the blistering assault the Resistance had unleashed, yet even so they began to rally. Local drone servers were down, but the numerous trade galleys did not stand idly by as the Upper Tier erupted in fire. Open rebellion was anathema to the Corpus Order, irrespective of Guild affiliation. Urgent distress signals were sent. While Anyo Corp had all but washed their hands of the colony, this did not mean the Corpus Navy sat idly by. Reinforcements were surely coming. For now the Watch were on their own. Fireteams hastened through the swirling smoke, lugging anti material projectors and interceptor launchers. Long-barrelled Supra repeaters were dragged out by firing crews; their bipods hastily erected on short notice. The Resistance craft were all but on top of them as they fanned out across the landing pads. Air processor units became command points; maintenance channels became makeshift trenches as the City Watch mustered a last minute defence in the face of the oncoming storm. Hosk had anticipated such a response. The transports were not toothless. Rocket pods unfolded from the dented fuselage of the transports. They were single use munitions, disposable. That didn't matter. This was a one way trip. The rockets shrieked out, twirling into the air before slamming into the Corpus line in geysers of fire and smoke. Plasma shot and repeaters rounds blitzed through the dust, stitching across the transports. One transport's rocket pod cooked off and went up in an eruption of fire; a plume of smoking fire venting freely from its belly as it twisted and smashed down amidst the Corpus in a searing flash; vaporising everything within the blast radius. Transports made landfall: bare metal bellies shrieking across the deck in sheets of flitting sparks. Landing hatches slammed down with a jolting clang, disgorging resistance fighters. They let out a resounding roar as they charged. Hard rounds and an exotic chatter of weapons fire joined the cacophony. Weapon crews on the upper decks of the transports hosed out a withering hail of suppressive fire. The transports became makeshift siege towers, lining the open landing pad like ominous tombstones. Hosk was first out amongst his men. Men and women collapsed around him, cut down as they charged. He didn't bother shooting. He just pumped his legs, hurling himself into the first maintenance trench available. Hosk didn't feel his age, or the painful bang his knees took as they hit the deck. Adrenaline buzzed through his system. Every hair stood on end; every detail rendered crystal clear from the combat high. The other rebels reached the first marker; dog piling into a make-shift trench beside him. The trench floor was carpeted with Corpus bodies. Gasping for breath, hands shaking but determined, Hosk set his Burston on the trench lip and picked out shots. He had no idea whether he was hitting anything or not. A shadow flitted overhead. The Tenno, sailing through the air in a twisting leap that defied all rational physics. Hosk could taste the eldritch Void on his tongue; that electro-static tang. Mirage fell amongst the Corpus, a machine pistol in each hand. By the time the Warframe landed it was already moving, killing; laughing. Body parts flew through the air, as a ball of light seared down the Corpus trench, demolishing everyone and everything in its path. The weight of incoming fire on the Resistance trench line slackened immediately. "Forward!" Hosk bawled, rising to his feet. "Forward! For the colony; for your children!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ In the air, the Severance Package continued to weather the storm as more Resistance dropships droned by; as a second wave brought fresh fighters to the fray. With the aerial defences down, the Resistance flyers focused the entirety of their furious assault on the bruised salvage barge. Time and time again, the shields threatened to fail. More than a few flyers were caught by its thundering emplacements; chewed into flaming shrapnel and brief gluts of fire. The Severance's crew roared approval and thumped their chests with each successive kill. And yet still the onslaught continued. Several times the shields nearly collapsed. This underscored the weight of incoming fire. Beneath its scabrous plated hide, the Severance was ultimately a Corpus vessel, complete with redundant shield systems. But even these would not hold forever. "Secondary shields at thirty percent." Pohld warned Bravic. "Divert power; all non-essential systems!" The captain barked. "Keep us in this fight!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Inside the boy's cell, the Nullification Field strained to fever pitch, then failed altogether; fading with a descending groan. The boy rose to his feet, shivering as his connection to the Void flooded back. The energy screen that formed the traditional cell was pitifully weak. He simply raised a hand and blasted the wall beside him; searing clean through the deck plating. The boy stepped out into the corridor, wreathed in smoke. He closed his eyes, sensing through the Void. It called to him, guiding him. The decks were largely empty; his only encounter being with a lowly crewman who saw him, blanched, and fled gibbering in the opposite direction. The boy ignored him, instead touching a wall and breathing deeply. Not far now. Just up ahead. He found it in one of the engineering bays; stretched out on the table like an anatomical specimen. The boy hesitated when he saw it. Its draw was palpable, but the feeling of nostalgia and connection almost overwhelming. The Frame belonged to him; and he, in many ways, to it. Flesh and steel that was not his own, and yet he knew every inch, every armoured plate and curving line. He marvelled at its craftsmanship, the corded muscle of its sword-skin. Instinct called to him. The boy placed a glowing hand on the Warframe's domed head. The Frame jolted; hands shaking as it reawakened after centuries dormant. The glowing light flowed up through the boy's arm; enveloping him as he closed his eyes. And remembered everything. Edited July 16, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Now Listening To: Black Paper Planes - Long Distance Calling Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)BigLithuanian Posted July 8, 2018 Share Posted July 8, 2018 17 hours ago, (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 said: And remembered everything. This story is so freakin good!!! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
RolloDex Posted July 10, 2018 Share Posted July 10, 2018 Gotta question, how do you come up with Warframe-y sounding names? You're certainly good at it, as all the names here fit in with the general Warframe feel. Do they just come to you, or is there a process you go through? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 10, 2018 Author Share Posted July 10, 2018 (edited) "Five souls. You promised twice that." "Come now, Septimus, even my influence has its limits." "They seem frail." "Then make them less so. Your experiment, your subjects; what follows next I leave to you." "Very well. And the Warframes?" "Will follow in time. Remember: the need for secrecy is absolute. Margulis cannot learn of our work here this day." "The Archimedean? I would have thought the opinion of a mere scholar beneath you." "Consider it a personal favour, old friend." - Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-17 (Recovery Site Redacted) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Then. Reality and dreams blur. Memories churn; one into the next. Then he is beyond, seeing the Zariman from outside; its mighty sweeping lines scarred and warped from where the Void's energies had washed over the hull. A fleet of Orokin cruisers and smaller picket craft surround it. The boy's recollections lack consistency or structure. He feels rough hands handling his unconscious body. He watches this too from beyond his physical form; as if looking down from a great height. The men carrying him are Dax soldiers; golden and resplendent in their armour. Lorists and Archimedeans swamp the corridors, marshalling the soldiers now that the initial sweep is complete, and the area secure. It is a recovery effort. Then he hears the hum-click of a cryopod. Then a dreamless peace. Next he blinks, and finds himself in the dark, limbs restrained. He screams. Nobody hears him. Or so he thinks. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hours pass. Or months, years, maybe? He blinks, and is in a chamber. It is not the Zariman. There is no thrumming engines, or chitter of ship systems. Only silence; an eerie peace. The voice speaks to him once more. "Wake up, Kiddo." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Kael awakes with a start. The Golden Man is with him. Smiling and perfumed and so impossibly tall. His radiance is almost overpowering; Kael has to scrunch his eyes and look away. The man's voice is milk and honey. "You had another outburst. It's okay, child. Don't be afraid. You're safe here." But Kael is afraid. He cannot move, for the Chair. The other voices call it a Somatic Link. He knows it only as a prison. Kael is not alone. He sees Isolde to his right, Sara to his left. Doric is there too; asleep and ever-dreaming. And finally Sohren. Sohren is awake, eyes alert. He too is bound to a Chair, but does not panic. He looks directly at Kael, meeting his gaze; as strong and commanding as ever. Sohren's voice speaks to him, reassuring him as the two friends lock eyes, lips unmoving. I'm with you. I'm here. Sohren's confidence is iron-cast, infectious. We're all here. Me too, the strange voice adds, chuckling; before darkness takes Kael once more. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Time shifts once again. The chamber is circular, high vaulted; gold on alabaster. The Somatic Link dominates the room; crude cables snake down from the high vaulted ceiling. All eyes are upon him from the Gallery. Yet another demonstration. Before him is the Armature. It is a sorry looking puppet; a thin, wasted thing; its face a golden skeletal mask. It wears a silent rictus scream, yet makes no sound. Kael feels sorry for it. He does not know why. It is a mere puppet, nothing more. The honeyed voice calls down from on high. "Wear it again, boy." Kael closes his eyes. The Armature shudders, clambering to its feet He sees through eyes that are not his own. Feels the sinewy muscle beneath its metal skin. The Link deepens. He feels pain, and suffering that is not truly his own. He blinks, realising that he too is now crying. Kael seems himself through the Armature's perspective: pale and small; all but swallowed by the mighty throne encasing him. He reaches out, toward it; willing himself free. Demanding it. A wire snaking into the Somatic Link pops and fizzles; sparking fitfully. The Somatic Link loses power. Yet his control remains. Transference stable. A murmur ripples throughout the crowd. Kael flinches when the Golden Man shouts in approval, and the waiting gallery erupts in applause. Concentration is broken. The Armature flops lifelessly to the ground once more. The Golden Lord casts his goblet down with a petulant snarl; the clang reverberates against the high ceiling. "Again!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Time has lost all meaning now. They are seated as pupils, the five of them, Their Dax is with them. He is their protector, their tutor. Their gaoler too, in many ways. They refer to him only as Instructor. He lives up to the title. He teaches them art and poetry, science and war. A foundation of knowledge and understanding. History informs conflict, and conflict their training. They learn of the Invasion. Of the arrival of the Sentient. That the Defence Grids have failed - are continuing to fail. That we, the Mighty Orokin, are losing. That they are known now as Tenno, and must become peerless. Anything less means certain death. Instruction is as physical as it is mental. They are taught the striking forms, the grappling arts; even the Thousand Feats: the forbidden combat techniques known only to the Dax themselves. Each day ends the same. The children on their backs, bodies quivering from exhaustion; bodies bruised and all but broken. Lorists fret over them, as the Golden Lord watches from the gallery; that cold smile forever etched on his perfect face. Instructor demands perfection. They cannot hope to survive the battle unless their muscle-memory is just so. They must move as a Dax moves, think as a Dax would think. They must become all this and so much more. The gun is as important as the blade. Rifles and pistols; all patterns, all designs. The children move and shoot; floating targets cubes and brass Armatures, not dissimilar to the ones they are asked to wear with their minds, time and time again; until the process is instinctual, the Somatic Link all but unnecessary. The forms are combined. Dummy weapons; simple wooden props issued at the start of each sparring session. The children practice on each other: grabbling, wrestling; interchanging dagger strikes with rolling throws that flow into submission chokes and practice guns pressed against sweating brows or exposed throats. No quarter is given, no movement wasted. On and on the training goes, relentless. Exhausted, pushed to breaking point and beyond, the strange voice that beckons to each of them in the depths of the night begins to fade; replaced with the all too exacting demands of the real. Something else has taken its attention. Every night, sleep overcomes Kael like a crashing wave. For the first time since the Zariman Incident, the boy knows peace. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The children are reunited once more. They kneel in a line, dressed in matching Transference Suits. Their bodies are lean and sculpted; their faces alert. This day is different. The gallery is full. A demonstration, only this one feels different. Instructor kneels before them, eyes closed. Two are selected. Always two. This time it is Kael's turn. He steps forward and face his opponent. His heart sinks as he bows. It is Sohren. Of course it is. Isolde is more ruthless and exacting; a peerless shot, but Kael is faster, more skilled with a blade. Sara impetuous and daring, but reckless. Doric hesitates, too concerned with strategy to truly capitalise on his brute size and height. Kael has bested them all. But never Sohren. He is that extra bit older; taller and stronger. Instructor knows this, understands the ferocious competitive streak that drives Kael; that in turn compels Sohren to be as remarkable a Tenno as he has become. "Begin." The Dax instructs. The wooden practice skanas are blunt, but smart when they taste skin. The wooden blades clack and crack as the two boys launch themselves at one another, feeling the eyes of the other children, and those from the gallery beyond. There is an electric tension in the air. Kael will not allow himself to lose again. Kael is fast. The skana dents and chips as it flashes in at Sohren, time and time again. Sohren has learned Kael's pattern from months of sparring; from the numerous bruises that decorate his forearms. Sohren is a master with a blade. What he lacks in speed, he makes up for with an efficacy and discipline Kael cannot match. A parry here, a sidestep there. Sohren's skana counter-flashes; a calculated, single strike. Kael yelps; the skana flying from his grasp. The skana clatters to the floor. Kael's eyes water, his cheeks flush red as he clutches his smarting hand. Sohren holds his blade up in solemn salute; tall and handsome and strong. The gallery swells with applause. He bows to Kael. Kael respectfully returns the bow, cheeks burning in shame. The Dax looks over at the Golden Lord. The Golden Lord nods coolly in approval. A decision is made. Edited July 16, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Now Listening To: This Is What You Are - Warframe OST Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 10, 2018 Author Share Posted July 10, 2018 (edited) 2 hours ago, RolloDex said: Gotta question, how do you come up with Warframe-y sounding names? You're certainly good at it, as all the names here fit in with the general Warframe feel. Do they just come to you, or is there a process you go through? [Hey there! Thanks for reading so far. Hope you're enjoying the reading as much as I am the writing. I am trying to avoid answering questions regarding the story (though I do enjoy the speculation from my fellow posters here immensely), but happy to talk about questions like these In principal, you have to consider the species of the character in question - are they Grineer? Are they Corpus? If they're Corpus, are they "Board approved" (Jef Anyo still makes me giggle), or are they more rough and ready, like a Telin or a Kelpo or a Neera. Grineer are relatively simple - you want hard consonants and something suitably blunt: Brakarr, whereas the Ostron I looked at the existing Ostron characters and noticed the titles they seem to append to some of their names. For the Tenno it's more simple - Sara, Kael, Sohren. A few examples: - Kef Mehrino: Short first name; a bit more floral surname. Reflects his overt Corpus heritage, but hints at his more ambitious, pretentious side. - Neera and Kelpo could almost be African names; a place where the people have been historically brutalised by more powerful commercial, colonial efforts. Without being political about it, you want to show they lack the loftiness of the the Corpus power structure, and stand them at a contrast. - Bravic - non Board Corpus. Frontier Scavenger. I wanted something Slavic, rough and brutal and ready; reflecting his temperament. - Brakarr: Brakarr Smash! Grakata. People have asked me about the Tennocon reveal, and how this will affect the story - Fortuna is a penal colony, with overt mechanisation of the Solaris people, whereas Prospect 141 is more of a semi-independent civilian way-station in a comparatively more terraformed location. No less exploitational, but a different aspect of Corpus society on what's ultimately a very large planet. Places like Prospect 141 would be mined for workers for Fortuna, if you get me. The (amazing) Tennocon video has been immensely useful from a world building perspective, and I will be incorporating elements from it into the characterisation and over-arching plot in subsequent chapters. Strong, untied - writing until I fall. - Katsuhiro] Edited July 10, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Recommended Posts
Create an account or sign in to comment
You need to be a member in order to leave a comment
Create an account
Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!
Register a new accountSign in
Already have an account? Sign in here.
Sign In Now