My brother's primary weapon is the Vaykor Hek and Steel Meridian was the first syndicate he maxed out. This blurb was inspired by that – and also because Clem's pillow fort down at Iron Wake was the cutest damn thing ever! Scrappy little cinnamon roll. ^_^

Nezha is our Warframe/Operator Prime, meaning he's the persona that went through every mainline quest and accompanying cinematic, including our first visit to Fortuna. We've grown very fond of him, LOL, so that's why he'll keep popping up in this anthology. More on this later.

Set after the Second Dream but before The War Within.

Spoilers

The Second Dream - MODERATE

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx-O-xxxxxxxxxxxxX

We can't build a relay on spit and hope alone.

That's what Cressa Tal had said to him once. And yet, as far as the Grineer commander was concerned, there was no problem in the universe that couldn't be overcome with enough of those two ingredients. Push until your bones cracked, then get up and push a little more. The Tenno had sought no special favors when they'd accepted the ragtag band of defectors into their relays; these Grineer had been different, and the Lotus had only desired to preserve the flower struggling to bloom from a mire of filth and decay.

Cressa Tal had repaid that gesture with loyalty, vowed unto Death. Not that death would be an impediment to her. More likely, the female Grineer would simply roll up her sleeves and drag her own carcass back from Hell, carving the way with a knife clamped in her teeth.

Nezha was dwelling on that image as he made his way through the concourse to the elevator at the far end. Unlike the handful of other relays made solely by Tenno hands, the Larunda Relay had been built in conjunction with Steel Meridian, who had supervised most if not all of the actual construction. Everything gleamed in the blazing orange hues of pyrus, a metallic alloy prized for its durability, though the defectors seemed to have a special love for it beyond its material strength. Fires burned in every niche and alcove, and the ornamental trees favored by the Tenno blazed in rich autumnal hues. Here and there, open vents pumped shimmering columns of heat into the concourse. It was not an unwelcome sensation. Nezha wished he could feel it with his actual skin. Skin he hadn't even known had existed until a mere two weeks ago.

Not for the first time in recent days, Nezha pushed back a surge of vicious annoyance. He was here on business, and it would not do to dwell on what couldn't be changed.

The East Wing was as crowded as ever. Beings from across the Origin System thronged the corridors: orbital miners, Ostron merchants, Grineer defectors, even a select handful of Corpus Traders who'd been granted special permission to conduct business on the Relays, all under the watchful eye of the Tenno. Like Cetus, all were welcome – so long as they obeyed the peace. Blood would be repaid in blood, but as of yet, none had dared test the limits of the Tenno's silent, eerie tolerance.

The gathering parted as Nezha walked. Some rubbernecked at him, others bowed in respect. Most dropped their gazes to the floor and kept them there until he'd passed. Nezha knew what they were thinking, what left the touch of fear on their skin. Were he and the others noble warriors fighting against cruelty and injustice, or opportunistic mercenaries exploiting their superiority for wealth? Nezha saw no reason to fragment the two; shadow and light did not exist independently from each other. For some, the Tenno were a beacon of hope. For others, they were harbingers of destruction. Nobility alone did not pay for the resources necessary for existence, nor could mercenary work fully honor the legacy they'd wrested from the grasping, golden fingers of the Orokin.

Never again would they stoop to the beck and command of another.

From now on, the Tenno forged their own path.

What that meant was up to others to judge.

A moment later, Nezha arrived at his destination. Steel Meridian had appropriated a large storage room as their enclave, part base of operations, part embassy to any who wished to speak or do business with their leadership. The door slid open with a whoosh, and Nezha stepped inside. The chamber was comparatively dim and shabby compared to the rest of the Relay, filled with disorganized piles of scrap, cylinders of fuel, and squat banks of machinery connected by heavy cables. The air smelled of fire-hardened steel and rusted iron, burnt wires and thick lubricating oils. The Warframe did not breathe; its "lungs" were shriveled pouches filled with pustules and Infested neurodes enhanced with a network of Orokin sensors that interpreted chemical particles as scent… but Nezha had never been so profoundly aware of them before. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he felt his Operator try to draw the scent into his own, living lungs.

The somatic link barked a warning.

Nezha slammed his drifting consciousness back into his Warframe, fingers tightening on the handle of the case he was holding. For a beat, he was perfectly, utterly still – then he slowly resumed his path through the enclave, drawing more than a few looks. A rift had opened in his consciousness, a schism between his Warframe and its Operator, and it was getting harder and harder to reconcile the two.

The Lotus had known.

Ordis had certainly known.

And yet they had withheld that knowledge from him.

Resentment surged in him, and again he forced it back down. Decades of discipline made the struggle easy to compartmentalize; the vainglorious Dax soldiers who had trained him would be pleased.

He found Cressa Tal at the very end on the room. She was typing into a console, but turned at the sound of his approach. "Ah, Tenno!" she greeted him, her face splitting into a grin. "What do you have for me today?"

Nezha held out the case by way of an answer.

"Oh, hoho! I'm impressed – but then again, maybe I shouldn't be. Here, hand it over."

She took the case from him and sat it on the console, popping the clasps that held it shut. Inside was a wealth of irregular, crystalline cubes of ore nestled between protective layers of foam. Cressa Tal lifted one up and whistled.

"Damn, Tenno. Them's the good stuff and no mistake. This would've taken months for my people ta' to scratch it outta Phobos! How'd you get your hands on it so quick? Nah, don't answer that. Better I don't know in case somebody comes sniffing."

There wasn't much danger of that. The valuable haul of rubedo had been liberated from the blackened guts of an Orokin derelict and Nezha doubted anybody was going to come looking for it anytime soon.

Cressa Tal carefully put the ore back in its case and closed the lid, sealing off the radiant, vermilion glow. She turned back to Nezha, but the Tenno wasn't looking in her direction. He had one more delivery to make. This time, however, his services hadn't been bought. There was no contract, verbal or otherwise, that had compelled him visit the hazardous jungles of Old Earth. He'd undertaken this one simply becausehe'd been asked.

Stepping down from the platform, Nezha retraced his footsteps, angling his course to the side of the room. Cressa Tal went to call after him, then closed her mouth and decided to watch instead, her gaze deceptively sharp. Tucked between another console and a Dargyn engine that was being gutted for scrap was a pillow fort of inflated blunts, with another thrown on top in lieu of a roof. A pair of glowing yellow eyes inspected Nezha as he approached.

"Clem," said the eyes.

The scrappy little Grineer had ensconced himself in makeshift pillbox filled with ration packs, boxes of ammunition, posters and assorted knickknacks. It was, in essence, a thriving mini-mart over which Clem was the sole proprietor, trading his collection of items for other, more interesting items. A smile tugged at Nezha's lips. His real lips, not the taut, shriveled mounds of skin clinging to a mouth filled with too many teeth, the perverse reality secreted beneath an eyeless helmet.

"Clem clem!"

Nezha could not translate the Grineer's limited vocabulary as easily as Darvo, but he could read Clem's tone well enough to know he was being greeted. Quite enthusiastically, in fact. His secret smile grew a little wider as Clem picked up bundle of maprico-flavored ration bars – a perennial favorite of the Ostron traders that frequented the relay – and offered it to him through the slot in his pillbox.

"Clem?"

That one had been a question, accompanied by a small tilt of the Grineer's head.

Would the Tenno like to trade for something?

Nezha reached into the bag at his hip. Made of the hide of a takin, a goat-like creature that inhabited the foothills of the Plains, Nezha had acquired the buckled pouch from a vendor in Cetus – his first of many purchases, once the people there had grown accustomed to his presence. He primarily used it for lugging the ore and precious gemstones Ordis required for his foundry, but it also served him well as a credit purse when certain purchases required him to bring large sums to the Relay. It did not happen often, but when it did it was usually the Void Trader's fault, his rare and exotic inventory far from being sold on the cheap.

Finding what he wanted, Nezha held out a flowering plant, its muddy, tuberous roots swaddled in a wet scrap of cloth to keep them hydrated. Clem's yellow eyes brightened like headlamps. He reached out and eagerly took the flowers. It had not always been so, but centuries of evolution in the dark, mutant jungles of Earth had given the orchid a phosphorescent glow. Not rare, not valuable, but hard to acquire due to the perils of the surrounding environment. Clem snatched a cracked beverage mug from somewhere in his fort, the bottom already filled with a handful of soil. After the flower had been planted, the Grineer proudly sat the mug on his "windowsill".

"Clem!" he announced happily, tearing the neck off a H2O bulb and gently watering his prize. Watching Clem perform the simple task, his chunky fingers moving with surprising care, Nezha felt something tighten in the back of his throat. Even with Grineer, evil was not born. It'd been created.

"I was wrong about you, Tenno," said Cressa Tal softly.

Nezha rose from where he'd been crouched on the floor, regarding the female Grineer in silence. He did not ask what her opinion of him had been before this moment. He suspected he already knew. Cressa Tal hollowed her cheek, sucking on a tooth. "Ya know," she began slowly, a grin forming on her lips, "I know we discussed credits for that shipment, but I think I got something better."

She turned to a pile of crates in the corner and dug around for a moment, littering the floor with dried bits of straw – an effective, if primitive alternative for those that couldn't afford kinetic packing gel. "My people have been workin' on this for a while now. Took us a while to get the firing system down, but anyway…"

She withdrew a bulky weapon from the crate, ceramic parts gleaming like polished bone.

"Here," she lobbed it at Nezha. "Check it out!"

Nezha caught the weapon one-handed. It was enormously heavy for its size. A mere footsoldier would be hard-pressed to even lift the beefy shotgun, let alone handle the immense recoil generated by its deadly quad of barrels. Nezha regarded it for a moment, then wrapped his fingers around the stock and lifted it to his shoulder. Despite the weight, it was surprisingly well-balanced. He curled a finger against the trigger.

"We took the original Hek and polished the loading ramp to make it smoother, then shifted the breechblock waaay back," said Cressa Tal, jaunty as the best of Ostron hucksters. She clapped a hand on the cylinder jutting from the underside of the barrel.

"Just pop a gas cylinder in there – standard mix, nothin' fancy – pull the trigger and BANG! This thing will spew hot shrapnel up to ten meters! The prototypes were shreddin' through bursas at half that range, so it'll do great at tearing Corpus thugs a new asshole. Give that trigger a squeeze!"

Nezha remained motionless.

Cressa Tal smirked at him. "Don't worry, Tenno. It ain't loaded. Ain't no chance of you poppin' holes in this goofy little idiot." She flicked a thumb at the pillbox.

"Clem!" said Clem indignantly, clutching his plant.

Nezha flexed his finger. The trigger was stiff, but had only a short amount of play, depressing only half an inch before there was a subtle tick deep within the mechanism. Nezha held it there for a moment. Feeling it. Memorizing it. He pulled the trigger back the rest of the way. The shotgun gave a weighty click.

"Smooth as butter, am I right?" said Cressa Tal. "My people are calling it the Vaykor Hek."

Vaykor Hek.

Glorious Inferno.

"There's only one right now, but I want you to have it, Tenno," Cressa Tal continued. "I know you'll put it to good use. This war's chewin' up the weak and defenseless, and we're the only ones standing in the way."

Nezha lowered the shotgun to waist-height, switching his attention to the Grineer commander. She did not flinch, holding his sightless gaze without fear. Nezha felt his throat began to tighten again, strangling the emotions trying to clamber out of his chest. The shotgun was a tool of death, and yet, something about it was fundamentally different than the bulbous, greasy instruments of suffering usually made by the Grineer. The Vaykor had been created for a new purpose, a new creed.

Over Cressa Tal's shoulder, Clem had grown bored with the gun show and was fussing with his plant. There were brown patches on his ungloved hands, the same deep, festering rot beginning to encircle Cressa's roguish grin. It would be years before the Decay affected more than just skin cells, but even so, these Grineer – born with a glitch that allowed them to disobey – who were capable of self-sacrifice, of kindness, mercy and humor, were doomed to a host of degenerative diseases that would ultimately take their life. The cloning process was failing; the original blanks had been flawed, artisanally crafted to be obedient and dull-witted, sterile laborers robbed of the right to procreate life. Struggle as they might, they could never escape the yoke the Orokin had tightened around their necks, any more than the Tenno could escape theirs.

Nezha moved the shotgun over his shoulder, the magnetic nodes embedded in his back taking over and clamping the weapon to his back. He pressed his palms together and bowed deeply at the waist.

"Thank you," he said.

Cressa Tal smiled at him, the dingy, overhead lighting reflecting in her good eye. Somehow, her gaze seemed inexplicably warmer. "You can thank me by fetching some more of that rubedo," she said. "I've got an operative that won't say no to your help, if you're still offering it."

Clem sprinkled his flowers with water, releasing their milky, indolic scent into the air. Nezha let it wash the bitterness from his heart. Maybe they couldn't escape the yoke, but with enough spit and hope, they sure as hell could elope with the plow.

"Give me the coordinates," said Nezha.

Clem poked him in the thigh with the maprico bars, offering him a little snack for the road.