"Set-backs in any venture are to be expected; nay, anticipated.
The mark of a successful trader is not how they handle times of plenty, but rather the opposite. Adversity, in all its many forms, is where one's true character is revealed. Survival in such times requires many qualities.
Courage, creativity… and perhaps above all others… tenacity."
- Ergo Glast, former Corpus financier and scientist
They inched their way through the tunnels, their progress agonisingly slow.
Telin only focused on the next step in front of him. Between his loaded pack and the weight of the boy, his shoulders burned. Routine became essential; simple mechanical process. One foot in front of the other. The thought of the fee claim, of revenge against the thieving scum drove each step.
Kelpo started to fall behind. Twice he had stopped to catch his breath.
Telin set the boy down carefully, turning to look at his friend.
Kelpo held himself upright; one hand braced against the tunnel wall. The other encircled his ribs, tenderly. After a moment, he pressed his back to the wall, eventually sliding down into a slump; head bowed. The man's breathing came ragged; air filters rasping in the dark.
"He needs rest." The boy had appeared at his side now, rubbing his eyes groggily. "Kelpo Marr's wounds have not reacted well to Void Exposure."
"We can't afford to stop. Our ship is hidden, but a crew that size isn't gonna take our escape lying down. We need to get back to the one of the outposts."
"Be that as it may, Kelpo Marr requires rest."
Kelpo flapped a hand at them.
"S'alright." He slurred. The crude bandages holding his face together were peeling. His skin had paled to an ashen grey. "Just gimme a sec."
Then Kelpo's head lolled to the side, listless.
The boy crouched beside Telin, studying Kelpo. The stocky scavener's face was a bloody mess; his wounds having reopened during their tumbling descent.
"How far is your ship?" the boy asked, brow knitted.
"Not far. A klick, maybe less."
"Too far in his present condition. We camp here."
The boy's commanding tone proved too much for Telin. He brusquely grabbed the boy by the shoulder, rounding on him.
"Now listen here, kid." the Scavenger snapped. "You don't give the orders here. We found you. Your ship? Our find. You? You're a rescue fee."
With detached serenity the boy took a simple hold of Telin's wrist. He squeezed, ever so slightly; with anatomical precision.
Telin yelped as white hot pain lanced through his arm. The boy spoke slowly, icily calm:
"Two things to remember, Telin Voss." The boy's voice was level, matter of fact; "First, touch me again and you will draw back a stump. Second, do not speak to me that way. Not once, not ever. Do you understand?"
Telin hissed but nodded. The death-grip released. The pain vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"You are welcome to your finders fee. I do not begrudge a man his income. Indeed, I would pay it myself, present resources notwithstanding."
The boy resumed examined Kelpo's wounds, as matter of fact as ever:
"We achieve nothing by bickering. Help me attend to him, or we are both to blame."
Telin unpacked what little remained of their medical supplies, handing them over. Concern for his friend overrode wounded pride.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" Telin shook his head, massaging his swollen wrist.
The boy pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had removed Kelpo's faceplate and attended the man's wounds with the same careful precision as ever.
"Truth be told? I can't remember. Our fall earlier, our altercation just now? Instinct; some kind of ingrained muscle memory." The boy shrugged, "It is sufficient for me to understand that I possess a tremendous capacity for physical violence."
"You were trained for this?"
"Evidently."
"And when we fell in the tunnel, what happened?"
"If I could tell you, I most certainly would." The boy never flinched as he peeled Kelpo's bloodied gauzing away. "If it worries you, then rest assured it terrifies me. How does one explain the inexplicable?"
The boy daubed at Kelpo's weeping flesh, holding it together as he strapped the primitive plasters back into place. There was no masking the anxiety in his voice.
"It comes in flashes. Vague premonitions; snatches here and there." The boy wiped anti-septic cream into the bruised flesh massing over Kelpo's ruined eye. "And with those flashes, memories. An Old War, terrible to behold. Entire colonies burned. I am fearful forget; terrified to remember."
The boy shook his head, resolute.
"Ancient history. Dwelling on the past will not help us here in the present." He finished sealing the final bandage, locking Kelpo's visor back in place. "There. That's the last of our supplies. If he moves from here, it will be with our direct assistance."
The boy turned his attention to Telin now.
"Weapon inventory." The boy said. "Show me."
Telin grudgingly unslung his pack, setting it between them. He laid out its contents carefully.
The boy picked over it smoothly. First the snub nosed pistol. He turned it over in his hands, scrutinising it. He popped out the magazine, re-secured it expertly. Then he pulled back the slide, inspecting it for blockages. Satisfied, he set it down. There were no spare magazines; its ammunition painfully limited.
Then he looped the grenades into the straps of Telin's carry pack, for easy access. The knuckle duster was next, looking massive over his small hand.
Telin watched the boy work, an icy feeling in his gut.
The boy frowned. There was something missing. He fixed Telin with a look.
"You are carrying a knife. Your left boot, secreted away. Give it here, please."
The knife was well hidden. How could he possibly know?
Telin handed it over without further protest.
The boy unfurled a grey emergency blanket from the pack; throwing it about his shoulders like a poncho. The wicked blade served as a makeshift broach.
"Shouldn't I get a weapon?" Telin asked.
"That cutting beam you carry will suffice, Telin Voss. You were not designed for war."
The boy spoke with a measure of himself now.
"You will have to carry him; for all my training, I lack your physicality. I do not know these tunnels, or indeed what has become of the world beyond. You will guide me from this place. In return, I will ensure you and your friend's survival."
"Can't argue with that." Telin grunted, sparing a glance at Kelpo's sorry state.
The boy stood up, his makeshift poncho flapping in the wind; the pack looped with grenades seeming huge on his slight frame.
"And if they try to stop us?" Telin asked.
The boy's voice was hard as he looked at Telin directly.
"Well." The boys eyes flashed ever so slightly. "You have your skills. I have mine."
The loading teams stood back from the dig site as the end of the chains clacked into view. The Liset twisted in the open air, suspended like a speared shark. The storm was beginning to clear.
Vern and the rest of his team watched it as the ancient ship was cinched to the belly of the Severance Package. Isolde seemed to take particular pity on the ancient spaceship. Parson-Luk rested a weathered hand on her shoulder and gave it a slight shake, breaking her from her reverie.
"Time to go." Vern said. "Loading team has done their job. Now we finish ours."
They clambered onto an open top assault skimmer. The ship was kitted with all manner of net launchers, rocket pods and beam projectors. Vern took the pilot's seat; the brutish Grineer occupying most of the rear seating with his sheer bulk.
They shot off into the distance, closing on the beacon where Ladahr and Bycek lay carefully in wait.
"This way." Telin huffed, one eye on the map. "Not far now."
The tunnel mouth was just ahead. It fed into a small bowl gulley. At the far end of the valley, trussed under the soaked sheeting of a flapping camo net, lay their salvation.
Telin forced himself forward, lugging Kelpo.
The boy walked beside them, pistol low at his side. He stopped at the cave mouth; peering across the horizon, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The snow coated hills loomed around them.
"Wait." The boy cautioned.
Telin waited. Nothing but howling wind and drifting gusts of snow. Ahead, the landing skimmer waited. The flapping camo netting flapped at them, seemingly beckoning Telin closer. The scavenger shook his head.
The scavenger started forward once more, shrugging as he adjusted his grip on Kelpo.
The boy called out to him, again, voice lost to the wind.
Heedless, Telin kept shuffling forward.
"Target sighted. Taking the shot." Bycek breathed; snuggling the Opticor rifle tightly against him.
An optical cable ran from the top of the rifle directly into the side of his boxy helmet. He sighted on the battered scavengers.
He pressed the record button on the side of his rifle.
The difficulty with hunting with an Opticor was just that: it was an Opticor. The targets you hit tended to vaporise. Documentation formed an essential part of payment.
The Rec light on the edge of his HUD winked to life.
He grinned and squeezed the trigger.
Telin shuffled forward; focus entirely on putting one foot in front of the other.
The snow was thick in the valley. His boots sank to knee level in places. Telin didn't care. The sight of the drop ship, of salvation, drove him on.
Something smashed into Telin and Kelpo from behind, knocking them flat.
Then he felt the wave of pure heat pass overhead.
The snow around him melted in an instant as the hills behind him exploded in a flash.
Then he heard the keening after-roar of the beam rifle as it split the sky.
The boy had knocked them flat against the ground. The cave mouth beyond became molten slag.
Kelpo awoke with a fitful start. Telin rolled on top of him; a finger jammed over where his mouth would be; interspersed with the occasional throat slashing gesture.
This was no signing cant, or hidden message. It was a very universal, frenzied warning:
Don't move. Don't speak. Don't breathe.
Kelpo nodded, eyes bulging from pure adrenaline. Telin glanced about, a hasty plan forming. He turned to the boy.
Who was nowhere to be seen.
Bycek frowned, rising from his firing position in surprise. The shot had been on target. Scope calibration showed no change in trajectory. His aim had been true. The scavengers had been there one second, and were gone the next. But there were no scattered body parts, no strewn boots or descending ashfall common with a successful strike.
Bycek unplugged the optical cable; examining the impact area with the naked eye.
The cave mouth was gone. Steam rose in a tremendous plume over the mountainside; revealing charred rock once buried for centuries. Slush sizzled as it slid over collapsed rock. EMP from the blast wreaked havoc with the optics of Ladahr's drones. Their screens darken momentarily before resetting.
Torr Bycek frowned once more, ran the playback. There were the targets. Centre mass, a clean sighting.
Then a blur; a snatch of visual artefacts on the scope feed. The shot fires.
Bycek replayed it again, at a fraction of the speed. He thumbs the clip forward manually, frame by frame.
The shape moves too quickly to be natural. It is energy, incorporeal. It hits the two men with blinding speed. It is not of any fixed form or speed that he can discern.
The truth of it only becomes visible by the time his target falls into the heaped snow. A pico-second.
Bycek presses pause on the clip. He backs up to the moment in question.
It is a boy. He is young, barely a teenager. A shock of dark hair and pale skin. His face is masked by an ornate rebreather, but beyond that his skin is entirely exposed to the perilous elements, seemingly without consequence.
The boy is looking directly at Bycek. The unremitting fury in the young man's eyes causes Bycek to blink and close the playback window entirely.
Bycek felt a sharp intake of breath. A jolting coolness in his chest. He looked down.
There was a knife buried in his sternum. Blood pooled out across the front of his environment suit; soaking the insulated fabric.
"Oh." He managed in faint surprise.
The sniper toppled forward, dead before he even hit the ground.
Ladahrr saw Bycek's vitals flatline at the very same moment he realised their quarry survived the alpha strike.
The Master of Moa's walker was hull down between a series of boulders, superbly camouflaged. He tapped in a duo of commands. The Moa walkers burst from concealed positions, their keening shrill rending the air. From six angles of attack they dart forward, converging from the hills above.
Three small objects flitted through the air. Ladahr's eyes are good. He saw the grenades, his brain not quite registering them as possible. Their trajectory was improbable, their scattering all too wide to come from a single origin point.
They are not thrown. By some unknown force, they are guided.
A trio of airbursts rend the sky. Two of the Moa go dark instantly; scattered across the hills in component pieces.
A sharp series of gunshots fells a third; a fourth. He hears a pistol clack empty.
One of the scavengers burst forth from the snow. He was holding a primitive plasma cutter, yelling unintelligibly. He was a sitting duck.
The surviving Moa screech and bounded toward him. What happened next defied all conventional logic.
A boy popped into existence between the Moa, hands raised either side; appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Now Ladahar knew he was losing his mind.
The air displaced between the boy and the two Moa; sending them flying in separate directions. One tumbled gracelessly in front of the yelling scavenger. He scythed the plasma cutter down in a ruthless arc, silencing it.
The last remaining Moa was still recovering when the boy raised a hand. A pulse of arcane power split the very universe; bursting the drone's skull. It toppled headless to the snow, flitting sparks.
Ladahr wrestled with the controls of his walker. Every drone feed on his goggle display was dark. Void Energy readings maxed out on every scale; playing havoc with his instrumentation.
There was a break in the carnage. The boy collapsed to his knees, exhausted; alone and exposed in the open. The scavenger with the plasma torch could only look on. This was the hunter's chance.
Ladahr's walker tore forward. He primed every onboard weapon system. Electrified net launchers; missile volleys, cutting beams; the arsenal was appreciable. He prepared to fire all of them. They were not intended to be fired simultaneously. Doing so was possible, but required every ounce of his considerable skill, every shred of his determined concentration.
It is understandable then that he did not see Kelpo Marr perched, on the rocky outcrop Torr Bycek once occupied; grey-faced but resolutely determined.
Nor did he see the Opticor primed in his hands.
The Opticor is a Corpus anti-material rifle. It is intended for the comprehensive destruction of high-value targets; substituting rate of fire and ease of field deployment in favour of overwhelming single shot firepower. It is not an easy to use weapon for the untrained; possessing tremendous recoil, heavy weight and complicated optical software.
Kelpo Marr was entirely ignorant of these limitations. He was an untrained shooter. Moreover, he was physically impaired, almost delirious from a combination of blood lose, hypothermia and bruised ribs. The strain of his hasty climb had all but overtaken him.
Under such strenuous conditions and adverse circumstances, it was forgivable to miss a target; particularly one target moving at such speed.
No matter. Such was the power of the Opticor, it only required that Kelpo aim in the general direction of the target.
The Master of Moa didn't have time to scream as the beam enveloped the walker; wiping it from existence. The walker's ammunition stores cooked off in a mushroom cloud visible from miles around.
Kelpo Marr for his part collapsed, overcome by the sudden exertion.
The signs of the battle were visible fully a kilometre out before they touched down.
The camo tent was gone, and with it, the ship it so carefully concealed.
Vern's team fanned out across the wreckage. Small fires still burned despite the savage cold. Drone parts and smouldering shrapnel decorated the hills around them. Isolde sniffed the air and smiled to herself, tipping her head back and feeling the cool snowflakes kiss against her skin. The cold didn't seem to bother her. Neither did the burning stink of flesh permeating the air.
Parson- Luk found Bycek's body; already half hidden beneath the falling snow.
There was nothing left of Ladahr, but for two mechanical stumps and a greasy smear across the landscape.
Terrenus Vern did not mourn the loss of his men; at least, not outwardly. They were mercenaries. Losing comrades was part of the business But they each saw the set of his jaw, that hardening in his demeanour.
This was personal now.