There were twenty-eight. Twenty eight Tenno against countless Grineer, with nowhere to run. Umbra thought it both a curse and a blessing that the last of the shuttles were now leaving; Ilene would soon be safe, and would carry on without her. It still stabbed a dagger of wrenching sorrow into her chest whenever she even thought about Ilene. How she would be alone. Part of her wanted to go on the shuttles as well, to join her sister so that they could be together once more. But, alas, the universe did not allow her such luxuries.

She readjusted her crescent-bladed Tipedo on her back so that it didn't jut into her shoulder blades, and then headed to the small handful of Tenno congregating in the centre of the lobby. She took notice of the beauty of the Clan's main lobby; glorious red banners adorned the sides and glass staircases wound like snakes into the upper levels. Several statues guarded the doorways, sculpted in striking poses of battle and considerate thought alike. A particular piece appealed to her, placed in the middle of the room. It was a hawk, posed in mid-flight with a screeching visage, the thrill of the hunt in its eyes. It was a remarkably built sculpture, one that brought the clan of the Diving Hawks great pride. She stepped into the small crowd and quietly and uninterruptedly made her way through to the front, coming to a stop next to Antheia. She swore she could smell something like alcohol on the Saryn, but she kept her comments to herself.

They all felt the same, it seemed, for the same listless expression was written on their faces like morose grey paint. Several of them she had not seen for many months and some she did not even recognise. She felt somewhat curious as to their origin, but she avoided any queries into the matter with the Frost; they took any help they could get. As soon as he came across her mind, she noticed him step onto the stone boundary of the hawk statue and give a curt ahem to catch their attention. Their silence was immediate. His helmet was tucked under his arm and his eyes were colder than ever.

"Greetings, brothers and sisters. I am sure that you know what danger approaches us. That is not important. We face dangers every day of our lives; now is merely another. You are not the type that flee, that dwell on the past, the type that look for excuses. You were chosen for a reason, Hawks." The crowd beamed with new pride, chests a little more puffed out and eyes a little wilder. The Frost had obviously made some sort of preparation; this was no half-hearted speech, this was a rally, one that would rile them up unlike any artificial drug.

"And that reason comes down to today, and to every day after it. The Grineer come in their disgusting masses, here to corrupt and destroy what we hold most dear. Will you allow this?" Unruly words, maybe a scattered few 'no's were heard from the group. "I said, WILL YOU ALLOW THIS?!" He roared.

They roared back in their defiance, a chorus of voices united, brother and sister. The Hawk had spread its wings, and its cry for war resonated through the galaxy.

Skarlaggh was hungry for blood. The crazed rattles on the cages around him rang through the metal hangar of the Gruzh-Nakaal. Hek had brought in as many platoons for the assault as possible, as well as his brooding Fomorian battleships to shatter any defences that might impede them. He didn't have any place among them, though.

They called him different, they called him crazy. They gave him a name: the Manic. He no longer had a number, either; the Grineer did not want to associate themselves with him, but his usefulness kept him from the firing squad. He licked his diseased gums, feeling the metal spikes of his teeth with his tongue and tasting the salty taste of blood that followed when he cut it. He giggled and began to drool in his helmet. The saliva cooled in the air-conditioned chill of the hangar and trickled down his sweaty neck and onto his surgically tormented chest. It had been way too long.

"How much more?"

Mokraggh chose to speak the Common Tongue, even if it was garbled and rotten. Skarlaggh had no idea how he had learnt it, but the months spent in his cell would allow him to overhear a few snippets here and there, and often from the fearful sobs of the civilian population left slaughtered on their Hunts.

"Quiet. Count. Do not care." Skarlaggh's wasn't any better, but as pack leader he got his point across well enough.

"Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleventwelvethirteen..."

The corner of his lip twitched. "Quiet."

"Twentytwentyonetwentytwotwentythreetwentyfourtwentyfive..."

"QUIET." Skarlaggh's claws slammed into the cell to his right, biting deep into the metal and slicing out onto the other side. One of the guards turned round and yelled something at them. Skarlaggh's tongue whipped round his lips again and he snarled.

Mokraggh fell silent to the cell on the right. A dog-like whimper teetered through the holes opened by the claws in the wall.

The hangar doors were opening now. The other soldiers clung to the sides, guns hugged to their chests. The locks on Skarlaggh's cell swung open and they cuffed him immediately, one electric rod poised to his neck. His brothers were taken out in the same way. They were all the same. They were all hungry.

And they would all feast, very, very soon.

BAM!

The door rattled again, giving only a bit more. The Tenno had taken up positions all around the room; an Excalibur stood guard behind a pillar, his Latron's sights poised at the entrance; Umbra preferred her trusted Orthos and her mind and kept closer to the doors with her staff slowly swaying in her hand; the Banshee lay prone across the top of the golden gate into the main lobby with her Vectis locked on the ever-giving doors.

BAM!

She ran another sonar scan. Thirty-three marines, five Gunners and an Arctic Eximus. She didn't need sights on her rifle to see that it was nothing good.

BAM!

The constant battering of the door was interfering with her sensors and shook her "vision" with each strike. She grimaced.

BAM!

The next one was worse than the rest and created a huge dent in the door. The metal bent into a grotesque likeness to Hek's face.

BAM!

The doors were flung open, and out poured the Grineer. Time slowed to a near-halt, and sound rippled like soft waves lapping at the shore. The Banshee knew these things, but she wasn't sure from where. That will be a thought for another time.

The room exploded as a flurry of adrenaline, hearts pounding, bullets flying, Grineer dying. Umbra plunged the staff's blade into the nearest marine's head then sliced the mechanical torso off another. Her weapon dictated her movements, guiding her through gunfire and weaving in and out of combat. Her style was flawless, her movements unbroken. The blades rang with the screams of dying Grineer, who stood nought of a chance.

Green energy surrounded her as she took upon a meditative pose, the Flowering Lotus. Petals became blades of pure energy, and all the bullets fired at her, no matter how many, turned against their masters and flung themselves at them. Ten Grineer died in a flash of jade, and four more burned into nothingness from the crystalline spikes imbedded in their bodies. The Gunners were next, falling in a cascade of shimmering blight and lead rain. One of them, before their violent death, slashed down at the Nyx with the bayonet on its rifle and slicing into her warframe and bare white flesh. She groaned as its brute force slammed her into the ground and punched the air out of her lungs. She drew the Pyrana from her hip and fired until the pistol couldn't fire anymore. The Gunner, now a mesh of smoking shrapnel and shredded bloody flesh, crashed down next to her.

The Banshee terminated the other group of marines, but it did not appear to be the last, for more swarmed in between the prominent silhouette of the Eximus. The Banshee swore when her sonar gave her a moment of solitude to observe the scene.

The Eximus was going to be another challenge entirely. The Excalibur, only supporting with Latron fire until now, came out from behind the pillar and drew his iconic Skana. It flashed a brilliant flash from its tip, scorching the eye lenses of the Grineer who dared look his way. He slammed his front foot forward into the ground while putting the weight on his heel and driving the sword behind his back. His warframe pulsed briefly and the gunfire seemed to stop for a millisecond of time. In this small frame the Banshee loaded the last round in her magazine and found the centre of mass on the Eximus. She fired.

The Skana left a white-hot trail through the platoon, encountering only the slightest resistance at the Arctic Eximus, where it left a gaping hole in its side. The bullet from the Vectis screeched into this gap and shattered the gargantuan soldier in two. Its Gorgon roared its owner's agony as it fell to the floor, dead. The remaining Grineer, now without the bittersweet cold of the Eximus to protect them, quickly fell to the Banshee's unrelenting fire and the beautiful mêlée between the marines and the Excalibur and Nyx.

It was not long before the hall fell silent and the smell of gunpowder had descended. The Nyx suffered a nasty-looking gash running down the left side of her back, but her warframe was already looking to repair the damage over it as it softly fizzled over the wound. The Excalibur silently checked the fresh corpses for any signs of life, making swift thrusts and twists with his Skana before drawing it out to go on to the next body. He showed no sign of injury.

The Banshee took the peace of the moment to look out to the rest of the Dojo with her sonar. The Saryn's group had already engaged a much larger enemy, it seemed, but she had an equally powerful entourage of the Volt, another Excalibur, two Mags – one, sadly, had fallen – and Palatinus. She held no worry for their survival; they were all able students of hers.

The Frost led the main defence, wielding the full power of both Rhinos, the Nova, another Nyx, Vulcan and Eir. The black Wraith stalked among them, riding the enemy down on his steed of strife. Several Spectres had been summoned from old debts, it seemed, as the the Corrupted swelled the ranks of the defence. She could hear the chatter of machine guns, and the deathly cries of men answering them. The Frost yelled over the noise, rallying them once again as the next wave of Grineer thundered in through the narrow doors.

She chuckled to herself. Odin sure loved his war cries, something to get the troops all riled up. But as the chuckle died in her throat, she realised she still was laughing. But... this wasn't her laughter.

The pattering of footsteps resounded somewhere far away, down at the entrance of the chamber where the Nyx and Excalibur talked as they continued checking the bodies. The laughter didn't go away. Her right ear twitched. She slowly brought her hand from the rifle to her hip. The laughter got louder. The others must have heard it, surely? Her heart beat faster. Her hand still crept down her side, just a few more inches until-

She felt a coldness of a blade pressing down on her neck, only just drawing blood.

"Found. You."

Death truly was beautiful. The black mistress never lifted her ashen veil to the Wraith, but he sensed a serene, definite beauty under it all. Here he felt at peace. His path to take. His ground to tend for.

Blood met steel in a crimson red wedding across the battlefield, and its praise was sung by the screams of the dying and the pounding of the planetary defence cannons beat with the drums of war. The hundreds of corrupted, tortured souls, encased in their eternal camouflaged tomb, were set free by his hand with each passing hour like heavenly doves.

The scythe found its mark with every stroke and swing. He did not like pain. He had suffered enough to know its power. This power he administered with almost no leniency; every swing of his scythe had to connect, it had to cut them down without hesitation. Such was his expertise, one that he had fine-tuned into perfection like the sharpened ethereal edge of his scythe.

And they would know death. Their numbers thinned, but more approached from the entrance. Several were larger than their grunt counterparts, and wielded biomass-infected weapons that oozed a saliva-like liquid from their maws. The Ogris and Torid; the twins of destruction and waste.

The Bombard, Ogris in hand, fired off a deadly salvo at the rubedo-plated doors while the Torid-wielder launched his payload of toxic canisters. Thanatos did not need to breathe, but the effects of the gas were having an effect on his allies, who coughed and became sluggish in their movements. The Vulcan, who had taken to his machete for combat, miss-stepped a wide chop, and the force of the alloy blade sent him staggering to the side. The marine he faced swung with the butt of its gun into Vulcan's face, connecting with brutal force. The Vauban reeled back and caught his footing somewhat haphazardly. He took one of the metal spheres attached to his armour and twisted it. It lit up and beeped a few times, changing colour from blue to red. Vulcan gave a grunt as he lobbed the sphere at the marine, which landed with a heavy clunk and caved in the front of its helmet.

It beeped one last time before it exploded in a flash of brilliant white light. This light cleared and the sphere hopped off the ground and started to suck in everything nearby. The marines meshed together as flesh and metal, tumbling into an infinitely small vortex of unimaginable force. The pallid mass of meat left on the ground filled the air with a fresh wave of blood. The Nova only had a moment to gag before the Grineer launched their assault once again, launching salvo after salvo of explosives and horrific chemicals alike.

The defence was weakening. The Nekros heard those serpentine voices in his head, cackling as their dark prophecy neared. Something needed to be done. After the momentary deliberation the combat allowed him, he regrettably decided what he had to do. The Word of She would be uttered, a silence he had not broken for a century. He separated the blade of his scythe from a marine's body and swept his free hand across the incoming waves of camouflaged green.

One word he whispered: "Morti'sker."

"This area is clear. The gates have been breached, but I've put up a psychic barrier to-. Yes. I said YES. All accounted for. Fifty-six. I know. Yes. Good luck, Prelate, Lotus guide you."

The checks were finished. The Excalibur had occupied himself with religiously cleaning his sword on the hard metal gauntlets on his forearm and seemed more determined wipe it clean of blood than to listen to Umbra's politely ignored attempts at conversation. She frowned and crossed her arms, specially putting her weight on one prominent hip. The Excalibur chose to ignore her and keep cleaning.

She scowled and yanked his torso across his shoulder, leaving him sprawled on the floor. The Skana clattered down next to him. The Excalibur straightened up and gave her a hmmph in reply before picking up his newly-polished sword. He followed behind her, observing how she carried herself, how her feet never seemed to touch the ground.

Probably some psychic bullshit, as always. Stuck-up little c-

Keep your thoughts to yourself, Apostle. On second thought, don't think them at all.

He gulped. "Apologies, ma'am."

No need to be so formal. I'm not "little" either. Just over six feet.

He gave a polite chuckle and looked up to the gate. The Banshee's Vectis poked out from behind it, but no sound came from it. The air was thick with the stench of blood, but that had already settled in his nose. This was something else. He stopped, and Umbra slowed her footsteps when she heard his were not following.

"What is it?"

"The Banshee. She's still there."

Umbra narrowed her eyebrows under her helmet.

"Ayasha?"

No reply.

"Ayasha, what's going on?"

Nothing.

Umbra reached out to the Vectis and pulled it very slightly. Perhaps the sounds had overwhelmed the Banshee and rendered her unconscious. Not entirely unheard of. That was it. Nothing else. But when she pulled, it was much heavier than she anticipated. She gave it one hard tug and it came loose, but so did a hand. She kept pulling, and she felt bile rising up her throat and scalding her until she couldn't breathe. She kept pulling. Her eyes shot open. She shrieked and let go, letting the body of Ayasha the Banshee to smack onto the floor.

The Excalibur didn't have a comment to give, nor did she want one. Her helmet separated to reveal her reddened eyes as her hand caught another shriek from escaping her mouth. She tried to inhale, but the horror that squeezed her lungs did not let her. The Banshee's back had been rended apart, the ribs sliced down on both sides and her lungs ripped from the front of her chest. In the mind of the most tormented of them, they looked like wings of flesh.

She could not bring herself to touch Ayasha, as if the contact would break the wavy screen of tears in front of her and make the Banshee really dead. She didn't want to believe it. Her reluctant, trembling fingers finally found Ayasha's neck in the futile search of any pulse. She only felt her own, which raced at a million beats per minute. The tears would not come. Her face was on fire, her heart cold; her body was being torn apart from the extremes of the torments unleashed upon her.

"Pick her up."

The Excalibur obeyed without question, softly cradling her head and her knees and forcing himself to look away to the Nyx. Umbra clenched her teeth and shut her eyes for a second. Grief nearly overtook her, but she fought and stayed strong.

She barely found the words.

"Bring her with us. She will not be found among them."

"This will not hold."

The planetary defence lances were firing more than ever at the incoming shower of drop pods as the second Fomorian battlecruiser to dock alongside them exploded into a destructive display of fire and plasma. The vivid yellow and fierce red flashed across Orion's torn face, and his lips bent into a slight frown. The first waves of Grineer lay dead around him, creating a fine path to tread on for the forces that followed, which now came, and they appeared to be double – no, triple - its size.

Antheia was playing with her Fangs again, flicking each one across her slender fingers, spinning them on the back of her thumbs and starting over again. She had noticed the approaching foe with worry in her eyes. They narrowed so very slightly. She sheathed both daggers with a simultaneous click.

"I think we all know that, Ash." Her hair was dishevelled and loose strands fell across her face, which she blew away and gave up when they drifted back down. Dried blood was flecked across her cheek.

He regarded the scene with a bit more attention. There was incongruence behind it all, behind those exploding streaks that spread themselves across the blackness. There, there it was. It was the way the ships moved. The one destroyed just now, it came alone. The others were mere iron-grey specks among the white stars in the distance.

"This is intended to be our last stand, Antheia."

"How in the name of the Old Earth do you know my name?" She turned her head to face him, looking comically shocked.

"I have my ways. You should know that by now."

She half-smiled as a forlorn look entered her irises. "Hm. I guess I will never know them, will I?"

"That's why we aren't fighting. That was merely a scouting party." He stated very simply.

"Excuse me?" She placed a questioning hand on her hip.

"Not them, anyway." He said, gesturing with a nod to the pods, which were coming closer by the minute. Thick smoke poured from their chemically-fuelled engines.

"Then what do you propose we do, Ash? As much as I'd like to," she stepped toward him and set a finger on his arm before putting it to her Fang, "I'm not standing idly by while my brothers and sisters die around me."

"Don't be absurd." He stepped towards the gallery's viewing screen and pressed a sharpened metal claw on his index finger into it. It squealed as he tracked it across, following a much larger pod that seemed to eclipse the others, now that he had noticed it. "That is what we want."

Antheia afforded him a small laugh as she resumed her knife spinning routine.

"You want to go straight for Hek? Didn't your own sword teach you that lesson well enough already?"

He ran his finger along his abdomen; underneath the armour was a scar that prickled when he touched it. "I'm better now. His guard won't be able to defend him, now that they have an ample distraction." What worried her was the shark-like smile that crept along his mouth.

"This won't work, Ash. Four of you couldn't handle him, what makes you think you can take on him alone? You can't let him win like this. We go," she took his hand and clasped it in hers, "as one."

He let out a sigh. The pods were only a few hundred meters from the Dojo's exterior. Time for chat was not something they had. He spun on his heel and set for the elevator to the main lobby.

"Well, we'd better get going then, hm?" He proposed. She followed him in, and they descended, with nothing but silence between them.