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BioWare is responsible for yet another franchise: Anthem.

The Public Plaza, Fort Tarsis, Northern Bastion, Mirrus, Summerset 22, 1183 LV

Cypher Owen Corley heard the news, heard the name, and bolted as if he had a wyvren at his back.

He had only seen her a few times over the years since he had gone to the Academy of the Mind and she Flight School. Who'd had thought that a pair of orphans and survivors such as themselves would have ever become friends like they were, but there you go! Yanya Valencia was a friend to him when she didn't have to be, looking out for him when no one asked. He had been a scamp and a spot of trouble on her behalf, and yet she wasn't dissuaded. To think that the first time he met her was to pick the pocket of the easiest mark he could find, seeing a girl his age in a uniform that wasn't quite like the Sentinels, but something resembling their Order. He figured, being a boy, he could outrun a girl naturally as his hand slipped for her Shard bag, cutting the tethering string that kept it attached to her and was off like the wind.

What he hadn't expected was a scamp like himself to be chased halfway through the bloody city by a girl who was by no means an easy mark.

It had taken her half of an hour to finally get to him when a scaffolding he had been on decided to give way when he put his weight on it, young Owen thinking himself falling to his death three stories below before he realized that he had been dangling over the ledge, a hand around his wrist, and a pair of dark eyes looking into his own. She had hauled him up back onto the rooftop, the both of them panting and exhausted when she began to laugh, a real one. She could have beaten him up but she didn't. She could have called the Sentinels but she didn't. When Owen handed her her Shard bag back, giving her back her money in return for rescuing him, she had told him her name.

And then offered to buy him food; what he had been stealing for.

For months it was like that with Yanya. A ten year old girl under the auspice of a Legionnaire, she looked out for him and took care of him when Owen didn't have anyone else. He didn't know that the headaches and the dreams were really something else, his telepathy emerging. All he knew was that sometimes he would be lying shivering on the ground, sweating and crying as too many voices bombarded him, voices of secrets and thoughts that people kept to themselves, all laid bare to him. The first time that happened to him in front of his friend, she did the only thing she could; she rested his aching head on her lap and soothed him through his episode, singing some song in a different tongue to him as he whimpered and cried, exposed and vulnerable. Never had she took advantage of him, and not once did she admonish him. Owen didn't know why before that day, why this daughter of a Legionnaire would take such pity on him, to give him money for food, to give him clothes, to be his friend. But on that day as she held him and comfort him, he heard her without her saying a word, the thoughts in her head. It was then he knew that she was no different than he; an orphan, a survivor, one who had been brought so low.

The brother I couldn't save, her thoughts had said, and Owen could almost see it, a boy a shade younger than he with the same tanned skin, dark, hair, and dark eyes that Yanya had. There was a song of sorrow to that thought, a song that wanted to make Owen cry.

The brother I can, and he knew, he knew right then and there why Yanya Valencia had done all those things for him. She had lost like he had, and in her broken heart, she had found a way to heal herself by helping someone else heal. He could hear in her thoughts the roar of combat and pain, the cries of a young girl and the sounds of the wilds, the broken machinery of a Strider and the long, cold nights spent outside. On that day Owen Corley learned more of his friend than he had ever known, the dark past she held deep inside. She held him in his time of need, and he returned the favor. He apologized for accidentally hearing her thoughts, not knowing how to stop it, but he knew the truth.

Save this one life, that song of sorrow keened inside of her, that tortured flute of pain that forever lived within her heart. Make it worth something, give back what was taken.

It was her father, Legionnaire Paulo Valencia, Grandmaster of the Order of the Legion of Dawn that they had eventually went to about Owen's condition. Owen didn't know why he could hear thoughts, the street urchin being overlooked by the Empires' education system into identifying possible sensitives. It was Legionnaire Valencia that told him of what he was; his gift, his potential, what he could do with it. In a day, he was giving purpose and a chance to make something of himself, to go from the starving, begging child that he was to going to a school where he would be surrounded by others just like him, taught and trained (as well as fed, clothed, given a place to sleep, and seen to!). He remembered Yanya's face when he learned of what he could become; a Cypher, a telepathic communicator who looked out for the people of Bastion, a warrior of the mind. The young girl who had brought him into her heart to replace the brother torn from it had been so proud of him, to see him have the chance to rise above all that he had suffered, to give himself worth and purpose.

Owen had never told her that he had done it for her, the woman he owed it all to. Some words just weren't sufficient enough, and there were times he wished she could hear him truly.

The boy had turned into a young man with his years of training at the Academy of the Mind, where Arcanists and Cyphers were educated and trained to explore the sciences and technologies of the world, to aid in the fight that would ultimately help save mankind. The Academy was unfortunately at Antium, and that meant being away from Yanya, whose father was stationed at Heliost due to its location on the continent to best strike out where needed for the few remaining members of the Legion of Dawn. The young girl had promised that she would write to him… and kept it. She wrote twice a month and sent it on a Strider, and Owen found himself reading about the girl who was his sister as she grew up a Legionnaire's daughter while he was trained to help control his powers 'lest it drive him mad. He found himself looking forward to Post, and he returned the favor, too, telling her of the Academy. Well, the good bits, at least. There were its trials and troubles, but he wasn't going to worry her about things that he could overcome or deal with. After years on the streets, the complications of the Academy were laughable, really. He was fed three times a day, had a real bed that was his, clean clothes, and didn't have to pick bugs out of his hair. It was practically a paradise with a few eye-rolling moments; he'd survive. There were times that Legionnaire Valencia was needed in Antium, normally at the beck-and-call of the Emperor, and whenever he went, Yanya came. On those visits, the young woman found him easily enough, sometimes Owen sneaking out to spend time with her. While those visits were few and far between, he had cherished each and every one of them.

Then came the day she visited him and told him that she was beginning her training to be a Javelin pilot. They were fourteen years old, Yanya growing from young girl to young woman as he was going from young boy to young man. Owen knew this to be her dream; he didn't need to hear her thoughts to know that. It was his turn to tell her how proud he was of her, to give her worth and purpose. He didn't need to be told that the training and ordeals were difficult or punishing; those he knew. Yanya wouldn't be dissuaded, and he wasn't going to try. Like himself, she had something to prove, something to show for the dark times that she had endured, to make it worth something. She would be a guardian of the sky, the lance of the clouds, the stalwart defender who took to battle for mankind. He knew this without her ever having to say so, and the only reason he wished to be a Cypher was to be her Cypher, to look out after her as she had for him. Every trial and tribulation had been done to reach that goal, to look out for the girl that called him brother by choice.

He only saw her once in five years, the letter still coming if sporadically, sometimes once a month. Owen knew that Flight School was a punishing ordeal that put a pilot through their paces; physically, mentally, and emotionally. Fear was driven from their minds and their souls, those who couldn't beat it drummed out. Their bodies were put to their paces as they trained in athletic competitions geared to teach them how to fight, how to shoot, how to hone their instincts and senses to become a warrior. It would be several years before Yanya would grace a Javelin save a training one, and yet she would do it, as Owen knew she would. One day, she would earn the right to be called a Lancer, and he would go to her on that day and ask to be her Cypher.

Owen had graduated from the Academy of the Mind just the month prior, and was surprised to see that two people had arrived to congratulate him; Legionnaires, at that. The sight of Legionnaire Paulo Valencia had been a surprising one, and yet it was a welcoming one as that beast of a man shook his hand and congratulated him, Owen knowing that it was on his recommendation that the young man would enter the Academy at such an 'old' age of ten. Yet the sight of a young woman the same age as he standing next to him in a Legionnaire's uniform, that mantel that was recognizable anywhere? To see her wearing it? Owen couldn't help but hug her, to congratulate her. Not only was she a Lancer, but a Legionnaire; one of those proud illustrious few who were the epitome of Lancers, a position coveted by many. Oh, he knew without being told that her father had likely groomed her for the chance, yet even his vote was but one; it had to be unanimous amongst the Legion to accept a member, pouring over training, actions, deeds, and words. The Legion didn't accept those who bullied or pushed their way through life, who trampled upon the downtrodden or looked down upon the common man. Lancers held themselves as heroes, but the Legion really were heroes, an Order of honor and duty mixed with rules and expectations. Seeing her in that uniform? Owen knew that his sister had succeeded at her dreams; not to just be a Lancer, but to be at her fathers' side in battle, too.

Unfortunately, getting to be her Cypher had a bit of a wrinkle to it.

Owen had heard the rumors; there was a great expedition having been called by the Emperor Himself. Lancers from all over Bastion had made their way to Antium to gather their forces to prepare a strike against a rapidly growing cataclysm near where Freemark once stood known as the Heart of Rage. Dozens of Lancers from a dozen Guilds had arrived to the Imperial Capital to be a part of the operation, Lancers clogging the streets with their Javelin suits and their own mortal presences. Owen knew that he, as a beginning Cypher, would not be a part of the operation, and despite it all, it made sense. Dozens of Cyphers from around the continent were being called as well, along with engineers, Arcanists, Strider crews and pilots… the works. There hadn't been such a planned gathering in almost two centuries, and everyone was banding together in a strike that would be remembered for ages. Owens got his orders for Fort Tarsis, and a week before Operation: Stormbreaker began, he was sitting in a Strider going to the old fort while Yanya prepared herself for her part in the expedition as the Legion of Dawn's newest member.

He got to go to that celebratory party, at least, Owen and Yanya heroically trying to outdrink the other while the adults watched on, amused.

Fort Tarsis was everything he expected it to be; which wasn't much. It had been a grand city once, but decades and centuries of attacks and losses had the Fort slowly slipping into a dilapidated state as trade was impacted by the loss of Freemark. Antium and Heliost were relatively close, but it had been Freemark that connected Tarsis to Heliost, giving respite to the long and dangerous journey. With the loss of that important hub, the Fort had fallen on hard times, the weight of the Empire slowly softening as the population slowly trickled away. Commerce slowly dried up to, and what was once a city of thousands and thousands was a ghost of its former glory. Owen wasn't thrilled at the thought of being stationed on the arse end of the Empire, looking forward to relaying correspondences between the government posts and the Sentinel Order, a normal Cypher's job. He hadn't worked himself harder than everyone else to become some glorified post clerk, and he seethed at the job. He knew, he knew he knew he knew that Yanya would come for him once Operation: Stormbreaker was complete, to have him train and chosen to be a Legionnaires' Cypher; a coveted position in itself. So he would bide his time and gnash his teeth at the boring tedium to get to the part he really wanted; to be her Cypher. He knew the day would come.

But Gods Above and Below… not like this.

She laid on a recovery bed, her tortured body laying on dried bloody sheets, physicians having stitched her wounds and set her bones, splinting her limbs and wrapping her ribs. The sight of it broke Owen's heart, and it was more than enough to move him into tears. This brave young woman who had saved his life in many more ways than one so damaged? It was almost too much to bear. Yet he would, for her. She had lost almost everything and everyone.

She hadn't lost him. She would know that.

"You get your rest, Yanya." Owen took her one good hand into both of his own as he sat by her bedside, her injured body covered in a sweat-soaked sheet, disguising the bandages, sutures, and splints that decorated her body. "I'll take care of everything else for you, you just worry about taking care of yourself.

"Because that's what Cyphers do. That's what brothers do."

Owen leaned forward and kissed her forehead, wishing he could communicate to her what he really thought and felt, how brokenhearted he was to see her in such a state, and utterly grateful that she had come back alive. He knew that when she awoke, she would be an utter disaster of emotions, and he would bear it for her. She had lost her father, the Legion now gone. She was the last of her kind.

And he would make sure that she wouldn't go quietly. Or anytime soon.

Of course, the first thing he did before leaving her room was to pick her pockets. It was just tradition, now.

Owen Corley walked through the Fort Tarsis Bazaar, seeing the wooden stalls of the merchants as they hawked their wares from a dozen smaller settlements as well as the great cities, handmade and handcrafted items that the people might want or need for whatever purpose. There was a food stall of a hunter selling fresh meat (or what he called fresh meat) while right next to him was a woman selling silk scarves spun from spiders. The young Cypher was a little disappointed in the sight of so many stall spots empty of merchant and goods, only about half of the Bazaar occupied with hawkers, and even then their carts and stalls only half-filled. It was nothing like the bazaars of Heliost or Antium, though Owen had heard that the bazaars of Freemark had been the most numerous. He had herd a few old-timers grouse on the lack of banners and shading streamers of fabric that would offer respite from the hot Summerset sun, the color and life drained from their city. For him, it was almost strange to walk down the streets and not bump into half-a-dozen people and offer apologies (the old habit of checking for pockets still lingering in his fingers), a few people going to shop for daily needs or that special something. He could easily work his way through the Bazaar in a straight line without having to tour around a congregation of bargainers dickering over prices of items in Coin or Shard, whatever currency was provided and accepted, or a few bartering for goods the other wanted. The bazaar was sadly a quiet affair as less than a dozen stalls stood sentinel in its walled embraced, tired-eyed merchants only giving off pitiful calls of goods available as the young man sauntered past without a look.

He didn't need a merchant, he needed an engineer. Thankfully, he happened to know a good one.

Zoe McGrady.

"Zo!" Owen called out as he went to the Forge, where Javelins of both Sentinels and Lancers were crafted and maintained by engineers, maintenance personnel, and their own pilots. The Forge was a host of gyroscopic platforms that could rotate with a pair of hydraulic suspension manipulators for more delicate work on more dangerous components such as the fuel cells or Relic-infused armor plating if one could afford it. Zoe wasn't the best because she possessed some latent talent or amazing capacity. Oh no. No, Zoe was the best because she got the work done in the time she said it would get done. She was a woman of her word, a professional mechanic and engineer who wasn't afraid to get her hands greasy cleaning out the servos and actuators of a Javelin, replacing faulty components with her bare hands, and having a sharp eye for flaws or cracks. One didn't need to be a miracle worker to be great at one did. But she really was a miracle worker. She said she would have suit repaired and functional in four hours? It would be ready in three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and enough time to reach for one's Shard bag to pay for her services.

"Owen! Fancy meeting you here, broadcaster." The almond-skinned woman said with a smile as a greasy hand brushed back a curl of hair that had draped itself over her face, putting a streak of soot on her forehead. Her dungerees were appropriately filthy with grease, paint, soot, and dirt; the sign of an engineer that got up-close and personal in their jobs. Hadn't Paulo once said never trust a clean engineer or some such thing? It made sense, really. If one said their were a mechanic and had clean fingernails, without grime embedded into the patterns and whorls in the skin? Chances were they were a liar or a bad mechanic. Of course, that addage had come with the tradition don't trust a skinny cook as well, and yes… that made sense, too. All the cooks in the Academy had been portly from sampling the soups, broths, roasts, and meals they made for the students, and Owen couldn't really recall one having come down with something from something they ate. A good sign. "What brings a jockey like yourself down to the pits with my type?"

"I want to hire you." Owen blurted out, not really knowing any protocols or whatnots, never actually having to deal with a mechanic or engineer before, in which Zoe was both. He had met her in the Plaza while taking her son to the fountain on his first day in Fort Tarsis, forced to ask for directions (not very manly, that). Thankfully, Zoe was a good-natured woman who was quite easy on the eyes and a good head on her shoulders. Striking up a conversation with the woman had him learning the ins-and-outs of Tarsis in a couple of hours, and in that time he made a friend. "I… don't know how to do this properly. But I have a suit that is in need of repair."

"Odd. Wait…" Zoe looked at him for a moment, and then to the one Javelin suit that stood to one corner of the Forge, the workshop having several orders for the Sentinel Order… but not one for a Lancer. None of the platforms held the Javelin of a Lancer pilot; not for repair, maintenance, calibrations… storage… upkeep… upgrades…

Gods Above, they really were all gone, weren't they?

"Yes, that one." Owen hadn't seen the extent of the damages done to the Ranger-Class Javelin of Dawn Mk. XXVII, having only seen it once when it came off the assembly line. It had been started by Legion engineers in Antium several months before Yanya Valencia had graduated, configured towards the young womans' capability and style of fighting. She had never graced a Lancer's Javelin suit, instead piloting a rarity that was a masterwork of design, a feat of engineering, using rare and expensive components and dangerous Relic energies to craft a vehicle that would bring hope to the populous and death to those that threatened them. To see it in such a damaged state was a blow; Gods, Yanya had survived… that? It was almost impossible to believe, yet he had heard it from Sentinel Lieutenant Ryssa Brin herself (admittedly, she had been talking to someone else) how the Legionnaire had come in hot, the suit barely able to fly, crashing into the tarmac and skidding across the cobblestone streets until it struck a building. It was easy to tell that whatever fight had happened had been absolutely hellacious, and it was a wonder that Yanya had not only survived the fight, but the flight from wherever the Heart of Rage was. Since it existed near the ruins of Freemark… that was a two-hundred and sixty kilometers away; much further than even a Legionnaires' Javelin could fly in one go. She had gone for the nearest city, wounded, possibly dying, inside her failing suit. He saw the burnt metal, the scored steel, the melted pieces, parts sheered or torn off, the punctures where weapons or claws had pierced that toughened exterior to reach the fragility of the pilot inside. If that had been what Yanya had been dealt, it was no wonder the other Lancers had lost, calling for a retreat but unable to do so. Gods Above… it must have been a slaughter.

"Owen, that's a Legion-made Javelin suit." Zoe told him as if he didn't know.

"I have…" He took Yanya's Shard bag and opened it up to inspect its contents, frowning for a moment, "forty…eight thousand coins and about… eight hundred Shards or so." A Shard was worth about seventy coin, so there was about over a hundred thousand coins worth of repairs he could have done on the Javelin. That should get it up to operational level, though he actually had no idea how much repairs cost.

"Owen… you're not understanding." Zoe said as she shook her head. "It isn't about the money. I can't repair it. This Forge?" She swept a dirty hand over the maintenance bay and workshop were a dozen mechanics worked on some of the Sentinel Javelin suits. "This forge is good for Sentinels and common Lancer Javelin suits, often engineered by people such as myself with materials and components provided. What you need… it just isn't here.

"What you need is a Starforge. Which is in Antium."

"Okay." Well, that wasn't the worst news in the world, was it? Striders were coming and going to the capital, so all he needed to to was charter the suits' return to the Imperial City to get the Mk. XXVII back to where it would be properly repaired. "How much would that cost?"

"Owen, they cancelled Strider services to the capital and Heliost with the news of the loss of the Lancers." The engineer told him. That had the Cypher feel… shocked. Fort Tarsis… was on its' own? "The Sentinel Order in Antium and Heliost deemed it too dangerous to have Striders traverse the five hundred kilometers from here to Heliost. Yours was the first to make it in almost a month, and of the last ten monthly services, we lost four. With no more Lancers and the Sentinels not providing…" What she didn't say was clear.

They were stuck here. They all were.

"Okay, what can we do with it?" The Cypher asked, his mind spinning. He wasn't trained or knowledge of these things, but just getting the Javelin in operational order was a start.

"Honestly… it would be better for salvage." Owen was about to protest but Zoe held up a hand. "It is damaged quite extensively, and I haven't even run a proper diagnostic on it. Our machines aren't at the level to operate with the materials needed to craft that suit, which we lack the materials as well. What you're asking me to do is slap some components from some other Javelin suit that is damaged too much to be repaired upon a work of art and call it good. That would be like taking your arm off and replacing it with that of a crippled old man with swollen knuckles and the shakes."

"Can you do the opposite? Take the components of the Mk. XXVII and augment another Javelin suit?" Owen asked. "Make… a normal suit more powerful instead of a powerful suit lesser?"

"Some parts, yes. But mostly just the armor." The engineer was shaking her head again. "Honestly, as I understand it, a great deal of the power and force of a Javelin of Dawn is in the schematics and power distribution system, as well as the inclusion of specific Relic Technology and tightly-harnessed Shaper energies. I can't do any of those things here, kid. I can't pull out vital internal components and staple them onto another suit and expect it to work even half as well. I do something like that… it might explode upon launch. Or fall out of the sky. Or overpower a weapon system and blow off a limb. We don't have the knowledge, the know-how, the machines, the components, the schematics, the blueprints… any of that. The best I can do is clean it, buff out some of the surface damages, take a look at some of the other issues and decide whether or not it's feasible. It… it would be smarter to just build an entirely new suit from scratch. I'm capable of that, and it's cheaper, too."

Owen certainly hadn't been expecting that.

"How… much does a new suit cost? That… hypothetical built-from-scratch one?" He really wished he knew what he was talking about, or knew what he was doing. Or had an idea on what the right idea would be.

"To give you an idea, see that Ranger-Class Sentinel Javelin over there?" Zoe pointed out the one in question, the eight-foot tall robotic suit standing on its platform, clean and ready-to-go. "That one was built last year for Commander Marcus Vule, and it's the best one we got. That cost a thousand Shards in materials, another two hundred in design, and five hundred in labor." The Cypher felt his heart slowly drop as his belly did a nice lazy flip-flop. Seventeen hundred Shards… a hundred and twenty thousand coins. "Now, that one over there?" Several platforms over was another Ranger-Class Sentinel Javelin that certainly looked… less impressive than the one belonging to the Sentinel Commander of Fort Tarsis. "That one belongs to a wet-behind-his-ears Sentinel. It's a ten-year old model that's been overhauled no less than four times, has three dozen replacements for parts and armor due to patrols and wear-and-tear, and is the no-frills, no bells-and-whistles model, as basic as one can get. That one would run you about a hundred and twenty Shards considering its already been manufactured and actually runs. If you bought something like that and paid to have the necessary flight components installed so it could take to the skies would cost…" Zoe's eyes went shrewd for a moment, "…approximately another two hundred Shards for components and labor. Actually… I think I have a couple of busted Lancer Javelins as well as some Sentinel Javelins that aren't in use. Lancers forced to sell their suits to cover debts, some who quit or retired and sold them for retirement money, salvaged from the wilds, a few Sentinels who retired or moved and their suits remained, that kind of thing. There's about eight that are sitting around, taking space and gathering dust. For the most part they just sit there, but sooner or later they'll be bought up or used for parts. You buy one of those as-is? A hundred Shards, and likely you'll be doing both yourself and I a favor getting them out of some dusty corner and back into action. They'll need some tender loving care, probably a bit of an overhaul, but you can have someone outside of the wall in less than a week without burning through all your money."

Owen found himself thinking it over for all of ten seconds… and had an idea. Years of letters from Yanya telling him about Flight School had him knowing more than most about what aspiring Lancers were taught and trained in. Flight, fighting, marksmanship… and maintenance. The idea formed in his head, and the more he thought about it, the more he thought it would work.

Hopefully, Yanya wouldn't kill him.

"A hundred Shards, you said?" The Cypher asked, getting a nod from the engineer. He opened up the Shard bag and grabbed what he needed… and deposited eight hundred Shards into the woman's hand.

"I'll take them. As is." Owen Corley told the engineer as the Shards were put into her outstretched hand.

"All eight."

Author's Note: Commander Vule's first name isn't Marcus; I think it's Leonard or something (or perhaps Nathanial). It's mentioned once when Vule and someone else get friendly and he casually mentions a first name while in conversation with him (meaning his own) and I wasn't expecting it and don't remember it. It's not on the wikia, along with the lack of his voice actor (in which he sounds incredibly like Christopher Judge, who you might know of from The Orville). I looked up the voice actor on IMDB, and Vule's voice is Peter Macon. Actually, the usual suspects of voice acting weren't there in Anthem, the big ones and the 'everybody' ones missing. I'd have a hard time guessing who any of them were without looking them up.

If you're feeling spunky, you can by useless armor piece for your Javelin! And it costs real money! Shards are the in-game currency that one can buy if one doesn't wish to earn coin via the Alliance System (and a fair bit of time), and the ratio of Shard-to-Coin was based off the price of some of the items on the featured lists where you could dump tens of thousands of coins for suit modifications (or emotes, if feeling snazy) or hundreds of Shards. It seems that one Shard equals about seventy Coin, so I'm running with both currencies and that equivalency rate. I'll explain later why they're two sets of currency (which, if most people don't know, damn near everyone does with paper and coin).

I will tease you later with Yanya's awesomesuit, which will be down for a while. What? That's how RPG's work! Here's awesome… gets destroyed… learn how to look around a room and here's your shiny basic rifle/sword.