Greetings, everyone. Imperaxum here; I'm a moderately competent fanfic writer for all my favorite games and shows, and I'm here with my first Warframe fic.
Inspired by an article on the Warframe Wiki stating that the Grineer rely on Corpus technology, and an image showing the two sides pulling out weapons at the negotiating table.
Will be updated as soon as I can write, though Finals are this week.
The Crewman and the Ballista
Ninety-three miles outside the Grineer settlement of Vunuzku, a boxy starship coasted out of the red sky. The drab, utilitarian grey of the craft contrasted sharply with the sheer sandstone cliffs all around it - however, at least the landing lights were turned off. The bleak symbol of the Corpus was etched into its side.
Flying into a deep valley, barely missing the jagged cliff face on either side, the ship eventually touched down midst a storm of flying sand. Before the cloud had subsided, the landing ramp came down.
Out of the haze came a Corpus Crewman, stepping cautiously onto the hard ground with his Dera up and searching the surrounding terrain. Flanking him were six standardized MOA units; they bounded out in front of him, screeching incessantly as they scanned for threats.
To the Crewman's considerable relief, they quieted down quickly. All he heard now was the harsh desert wind howling through the valley, and the patter of rocks that bounced down the slopes, stirred up by his ship.
Looking around, he slowly took off his cumbersome helmet. Blinking at the sudden light, he sighed happily at the feeling of the wind on his face. Such was a benefit of volunteering for Trade missions. A chance to get out of the disgustingly sterile air of a big starship was not something to be passed by.
Of course, the pay wasn't that bad either. However, that was hardly a comfort by itself. Not when you remembered just what you were trading with. The Grineer might be the biggest customer to the Corpus (despite fighting them constantly), but transfers like this one often resulted in a firefight and one side taking from the other's wreckage.
Still, even though it was the young Crewman's first time alone on a Trade mission, he rated his chances better than the other option available to him at his rank and experience; Salvage runs into Venus and Mars were regarded as death sentences. You only had to survive a few successful ones to climb the ladder, but the Tenno and Grineer made sure that was a rare occurrence indeed.
Presently, however, his reverie was interrupted as he noticed a distinct rumble in the distance, growing in strength with every second. Before long, a bloated Grineer Takkhran transport flew unsteadily into the valley. The Crewman resisted the urge to dive for cover - there were still many, many gun barrels poking out of the "transport".
The Grineer ship landed awkwardly and skidded crazily upon hitting the ground. It enough the make the Crewman, a reasonably competent pilot, cringe. Quickly, he put his helmet back and and awaited the worst. Ten tons of augmentation circuits were in his responsibility, and if he didn't come back with the 150,000 credits the Grineer were supposed to pay him with, he would've been better off taking a Salvage run.
The landing ramp dropped out of the belly of the Takkhran with the screech of rusted machinery, hitting the ground with a sharp thud. After a moment, three Grineer strode out.
He recognized the two rear clones easily enough - they were Lancers, rusting Gratakas in their warped hands and a look of barely-contained hatred on their faces. The middle one, presumably the leader, took a moment of thought; eventually he recalled a file he'd read on the Ballista, a low-level female Grineer with a Vulkar. The operational analysis that came with the file hadn't been favorable of them. This one was noticeably smaller and thinner than the hulking brutes on either side of her, and a round face-plate masked her features.
Personally, he hoped female Grineer were more reasonable than the male ones. Those Lancers looked and acted like they were fresh out of the cloning tubes - and honestly, that probably was the case.
As the clones neared him, the Ballista surprised him by calling out in the Crewman's language. "Hail to the Twin Sisters!" she said awkwardly yet understandably. He noticed the aging translator built into her helmet.
"Yes, hail to the Twin Sisters." he responded slowly, heeding the advice of the training video he'd watched previously, titled Trade with the Grineer.
The Ballista nodded; the two Lancers seemed unconvinced. "Corpus skum." one of them muttered.
For the other's part, he spoke in rapid-fire Grineer to the Ballista, who shot back angrily - the Crewman nervously fingered the trigger on his Dera.
Finishing up the conversation, the Ballista turned back to him.
The Crewman chose this time to start business. "The ten tons of Augs are ready for delivery." he stated, the translator in his helmet turning his word into the Grineer tongue, ugly and angry.
"One-hundred fifty thousand credits, please." he added a second later, tensing up.
"I'm sorry," the Ballista said, surprising him again with an apology - from Grineer, no less. "Plans have changed. We can only pay fifty-thousand."
The Crewman tried to ignore the chill that went down his spine, instead saying neutrally; "That is unacceptable. We were not notified of this."
"It was those Lancers' idea anyway. We will lea-" the Ballista started, and hope for a peaceful resolution rose in his chest. The hope and the Ballista were both cut off by one of the Lancers shoving the hapless sniper aside and raising his Grataka - the other Lancer followed suit.
"Then we'll take it!" the lead Lancer snarled, the translated speech ringing in the Crewman's helmet. "Corpus skum!"
"They're hostile!" the Crewman yelled, the MOAs roaring to the attack. Grataka tracers and laser trails filled the space between the two parties in seconds.
The Crewman managed to fire a few shots from his Dera before taking a full burst in his helmet, sending him staggering back. Luckily, the Lancer ran out of ammunition at that moment, haphazard spraying draining the magazine of his Grataka astonishingly quickly. Beside the Crewman, he was dimly aware of one of his MOAs taking a hit in the sensor "head" and falling in a limp, sparking heap.
Rolling to the cover of a dusty rock, the Crewman watched another of his MOAs get hit, again in the head. He realized belatedly the Ballista had also taken good cover behind a rock when the firefight had began, and was picking off his robotics with well-aimed shots.
The chest-armor on one of the Lancers finally gave way to the hail of laser fire, caving in with a sickening crunch. The Lancer screamed as he collapsed, the laser fire vaporizing his cloned flesh.
Another earsplitting crack, and MOA #3 went down. The Crewman unloaded his Dera at the Ballista's position, the lasers bouncing crazily of the rock and forcing the sniper back into cover.
The remaining Lancer, crazed with hatred, simply threw away his Grataka when it ran dry the second time, opting to charge headlong at the nearest MOA. Lasers glanced off his armor to little effect as he tore into the MOA, crushing its head between his crude cybernetic hands.
The two remaining MOAs adjusted their fire on the now-still target, and the lasers ripped into the Lancer's exposed face, his head erupting into a spray of blood and light. The clone dropped to the ground.
Primitive by Corpus standards, the AI in the MOAs recognized the source of the sniper fire. With scarcely a pause from killing the last Lancer, they fired at the Ballista's position, adding their firepower to the Crewman's Dera.
The rock was getting chipped away quickly - it wouldn't last much longer - when the Crewman snapped out of his battle-fueled adrenaline rush long enough to realize he couldn't get payment from the locked credit chip of a dead Grineer.
"Cease fire!" he ordered, and the MOAs complied instantly.
The Crewman walked cautiously toward the Ballista, slapping a fresh charge pack into his Dera as he went. "We can still make this deal work!" he called. He didn't imagine the Grineer commanders were any more lenient to failure as the Corpus overseers were.
Slowly, the Ballista got up from her cover. Her face-plate had been blown off by a stray laser bolt, and her face betrayed confusion to his suggestion.
After a pause, she nodded hesitantly. "Very well," she said, lowering her Vulkar.
The Crewman let out a relieved sigh, and becoming aware of his cracked helmet for the first time, removed it. Plucking the translator off the side of the helmet, her turned to the Ballista. "Let's get back to business."