Disclaimer: Characters/factions/items that were not mentioned/owned by DE or the Warframe franchise belong to me. I do not own any characters/factions/items that do belong to the said franchise (e.g Lotus).
Stalk You, Stalk I: The Brothers by the Garden
The other children were all dressed in magnificent articles; gold trimmed and white laced, the finest silk and softest wool. Their wrists and necks were adorned with glittering gems and shiny metals, whilst they tittered behind their equally (if not more) grand parents.
Mod looked at his own clothing, his fingers picking at the lint on his sleeve. They were dull from overuse, greyed and old; a tear that's been stitched up was found at the knees of his pants. He grimaced at the memory of his mother's reprimand, of what would the others think of them now with such an ugly mark. Not that it'll matter now, since her passing happened a summer ago.
A pouch dropped onto his lap then, the tinkling of coins can be heard inside. Mod could only gape at the velvet thing before he looked up, grinning, at his older brother.
Arthur smiled back and sat down next to him.
"Where'd you get coins out of all things Art?" Mod whispered, feeling excited; coins were a rare currency to come by, often traded amongst the Black Unders for other rarities.
Arthur shrugged, his dirty blond fringe falling into his eyes. "I salvaged them from this one guy." He tugged at the thong holding his short ponytail up, tightening it. "He didn't really need it I figured."
"Was he dead?"
"Maybe."
"Cool."
Arthur smiled, and wiped his grimy hands on his equally dirty shirt. If they had a choice, Mod would have traded the coins for newer clothes, maybe for even one of the grander kinds. But food and water were more important, and the other coins would be exchanged for proper credits and then deposited into their banks; if only to save up for when they're leaving home.
Leaving home...it seemed more like a distant dream than a goal in mind. He thought about their plans they had made when their father left them, married more to the life of a military's general than to a wife's life companion. He thought about their late and once-bedridden mother, with the deadly coughing fits of the poor and not the old. He thought about the burns and singes to his brother's clothes and hands when returning from a day at the furnaces and grid lines, payed four credits an hour for his age. He thought about the news of the war going on, on the call for the young and youth to join the ranks of their warriors. He thought of the day when he'll turn sixteen summers and when he'll finally leave for the military.
Without warning, a finger had flicked itself across Mod's forehead. "HEY!", he rubbed furiously at the stinging mark, "What was that for?"
"You were thinking again." Arthur replied nonchalantly.
"Am I not allowed to think?" He asked, incredulous.
"You're only ten-summers old. That's not old enough for thinking to be allowed."
"What makes being a twelve-winters old different then?"
Arthur gave a small smile. "It makes me the older brother. Let the older brother do the thinking; the younger one should still dream."
Things were quiet after; the sounds of the gardens engulfed them in peaceful embrace. Kubrows chased after their owners, Sentinals hummed in the shadows and the Orokin elites ignored the dirty brothers sitting by the fountains.
When the sky reddened with the setting sun, Arthur nudged at him. "C'mon Mod. Let's go home."
Little Modred followed his older brother home, wriggling his small hand into his sibling's slightly bigger one. And he dreamt of stars and space, of ships and battles; of how he and his brother were going to be more than the poor boys at the gardens, of how they'll be decorated and honoured warriors of the Empire.
They were going to be the best the Orokin has ever seen.