It was evening when Aine-13 woke with a start in the familiar black plains of his dreams. He came here almost everytime he powered himself down to sleep. In the distance, beyond rolling hills, there stood a large tower. This tower was not the Tower, but just a tower. All exos found their way here in their dreams.
The tower stood, dark and ominous in front of the large mountains behind it. The sun was setting in a notch of the mountains, and the light came down in strange, fractal shapes. Aine slowly began to move toward it, compelled to reach it. He had been born there. He could feel that singular truth deep inside his mind, although he was not sure why.
At the base of the tower, a large army stood. A countless amount of people stood waiting, their eyes watching Aine from a distance as he slowly closed the gap between them. Once Aine was within fifty meters of the army, he began to recognize some of the people in it. There was Ikora Ray, the Warlock Vanguard that doubled as his mentor. Amanda Holiday, the Tower's Shipwright, was also there. He saw many friends, people he had become familiar with during his time as a Guardian. However, many other people stood, unaccounted for. The majority of the people in the army he could not recognize. Deep inside him, a feeling burned its way into the back of his mind, telling him that he should know them. Perhaps he once did.
Despite seeing his friends and family, he did not hesitate to break into a run, charging directly at their front line. He raised his metal fists, and brung it down on Ikora Ray's skull with brutal force. The Warlock crumpled from the blow, and he immediately turned to the others. The people of the army began to fight back, trying to swarm around and subdue him. He continued swinging his fists, and even threw out kicks every now and then. Every blow left bloody marks on others skin and slowly he killed them one by one.
While fighting, he easily lost track of time. It felt as if everything was happening so fast, the battle itself a blur. He did not even realize when he picked up a Handcannon and began to fire into the crowd. Screams of pain accompanied every shot, and blood splattered in all directions. Despite it all, he felt nothing. He was meant to do this. This was natural.
As the sun slowly set behind the mountains, Aine continued to kill. For hours, he did this, bodies piling around his sides. He pushed forward, edging closer and closer to the Deep Stone Crypt with every kill. Finally, after a long battle, Aine had defeated the army. Behind him were hundreds of corpses, all people he knew or once knew. He continued moving, his iron legs stepping over a mountain of broken bodies. He had reached the tower, and in the back of his mind he could feel the crypt only compelling him further.
He slowly stepped inside of the crypt, his footsteps creating loud echoes in the quiet structure. The tower was completely empty. Not a single piece of furniture, nothing. Even the round walls stood bare. He darted his head around, trying to find something, anything, that would give him a real reason to have come here. This was not his birth place. He was not made here. In a panic, he turned and rested his eyes outside, at the large field of grass that was littered with the people he had killed.
A slow realization wormed its way into his head, and he let out a helpless yell. He had not wanted to come to the tower. He thought he wanted to. He thought that he would have found his origin, his birthplace. But he really just wanted to kill. It was an excuse. Frowning, the exo stood and exited the building. He turned his head to the mountains behind the crypt. Another tower, one identical to the building he had just fought his way into, stood. At the base, another army. A small, helpless smile grew on his face. Perhaps this tower was the one. This Deep Stone Crypt was his birthplace. He could feel it.
And so, with a renewed sense of purpose, he began to move toward the army. He ignored the fact that these people were the same as the ones he had killed previously. He ignored the fact that some still bore the bloody marks of combat from earlier. Instead, he raised his fists and charged, ready to kill.