"Sir… it's escalating."
- City Watch Communique, Prospect 141
The golem landed amidst the stricken mercenaries; on them, in one particularly terminal case.
The mercenaries were not learned men. They had not travelled the Solar Rail, nor seen the infinite wonders and terrible beauty that awaited in the stars above. Their lives were as simple as they were brutal: confined to the squalid tenements and skeletal gantries of low-colony life in the gutters of the Corpus Empire. Muscle for profit. Culture and mystery far escaped them.
The Warframe's ornamentation shocked them. It was a bejewelled, gaudy thing; a spritely metal jester wrenched from the design of a twisted mind and made very real by master craftsmen and Technocyte fleshsmiths. Every inch of it was patterned and engraved with loving detail. Gold, alabaster, clashing reds and vivid yellows; a riot of colour and nonsense. It regarded them with an avian tilt of its head. Small earrings flashed and jingled at either end of its diamond shaped head.
The next man to draw lost an arm. It was hard to follow quite how this occurred. One moment his hand clamped onto a holster; the next that very same hand twisted and spun through the air, still clutching the repeater it so desperately needed. The sound of the bladed whip in the Warframe's hand split the air after the fact; the lashing, crack reverberating against the high vaulted ceiling.
The dismantled market formed an arena, delineated by collapsed tents, slumped stalls and scattered bric-a-brac. She was surrounded on all sides.
The mercs went to sight their target, only now there were five. Five jesters chuckled as it enjoyed their confusion; the quivering rattle of their guns as they switched aim from one jester to the next, hands shaking. Some kind of mimicry, some foul Void trick. It did not matter. What mattered were the twinned Furis sub-machine guns clamped in the golems' collective hands. The Warframes bowed theatrically in unison; an illusion, an impossibility; a damned mirage.
Sara laughed, and the killing resumed in earnest.
Telin twisted in his restraints, earning another glare from Neera.
"Quit it already. There's no give."
"Excuse me for trying!"
"You think I haven't?!"
"Quiet, both of you!" Kelpo growled. He was coming around from the painkillers now, and regretting every second of it.
The three were bound together by a single beam of hardened bamboo; hands trussed by thick corded rope. Small bells tied along the rod jangled and chimed whenever Telin tried to test the rope in vain.
Parson-Luk laughed, prodding Telin with the stick once more. Embedded through the end of the stick was some kind of primitive cattle prod. Telin learned this the hard way.
"Calm yourself Surah!" the toothless tracker grinned. "Those ropes - Earth-vine; not easily broken!"
With that he laughed uproariously and poked Telin again. Slung over the hunter's shoulder was yet another rope, this one connected to the bundled sack that contained the boy. Every time the boy tested his restraints, another jolt frazzled him into submission. Parson-Luk dragged him across the deck; with a wiry strength at odds with his sinewy frame.
They were in one of the access corridors leading back towards the Starport. They had left the carnage of the markets behind, though the gunfire had triggered a sector-wide lockdown. City Watch alerts rang out from battered PA systems mounted at every corner; demanding citizens remain indoors until the security sweep was complete. It wouldn't be long before Watch patrols flooded the streets; Moa teams and Bursa units strong-arming the populace back into submission.
"Not far now." Parson-Luk urged. "Boss man waiting at hangar bay."
Telin glowered but continued walking. His ear already bled from a previous clout from Parson-Luk's stick.
They left the market far behind, bells ringing as they marched toward an uncertain fate.
Mirage's thigh tensed against her ankle, and the final merc's neck popped like a dry twig; the skull all but pulverised under the crushing weight.
She let the body flop to the floor. Gun-smoke twisted through the air. At least there was no more screaming.
But for the hooting alarms, distant panicked wails and settling shell casings, you might even consider it peaceful.
A voice was yammering in Sara's ear. Or head. She wasn't quite sure. Things got muddled in Transference.
"What?!" Sara replied. "What is it?!"
The voice hollered some more, tinged with panic.
"Kidnapped? What do you mean kidnapped?!"
By the time she found the ambush site, her quarry was long gone.
Left behind was a starburst of soot from where a smoke bomb had gone off, and a series of crude apotropaic markings scratched into the wall. They were Ostron in origin; a warding sigil.
Void Demon, the scratchings read.
Terrenus Vern awaited them at the landing pad; flanked on both sides by a coterie of henchmen. A small hooded girl and a giant bruiser of a Grineer stood out in particular.
The brute in particular caught Telin's attention. Telin had never seen a Grineer before. He marvelled at the monster's sheer scale; the unrelentingly crude mechanisation that allowed its lumbering bulk to tower over them as it did. The monster stared straight back, impassive behind its circular white visor and round yellow eyes.
Behind them waited a transport shuttle, its landing ramp extended.
"All present and accounted for?" Vern asked, arms folded across his chest.
"All here, Surah." Parson-Luk nodded towards the writhing bag. "This one, too dangerous. Charc-Sack for Tenno."
Parson-Luk winced at Isolde's scowl, then bowed apologetically. "Sorry Isolde-Surah. Too dangerous for Parson-Luk. Tenno get free? Bad… bad utz."
"Prepare them for transport." Vern ordered.
Parson-Luk produced a machete from his belt and systematically freed them from the bamboo stick, slinging it over his shoulder with a neat flicking roll of his hand; leaving the prisoners' hands restrained but rendering them comparatively mobile. Hired crewmen lined the prisoners up in line before Terrenus Vern, who studied them coldly.
Vern stepped closer, examining Telin and Kelpo in particular. He was no taller than Telin, but carried himself in a lean, dangerous manner. For every pocket and harness decorating Telin's scrappy environment suit, Vern seemingly had a matching holster and blade in return.
Vern reached up and removed his goggles. He had no pupils. Just cold expanses of grey metal, dimpled with green sensor studs.
"Telin Voss. Kelpo Marr." He said simply, expression unreadable as he paced before them. "I admire your resourcefulness. My employer is particularly displeased with the damage to his mining drill. An expensive loss, for a salvage job."
"Our salvage job." Kelpo spat blood on the deck. "Our find, properly reported. Your goons started it, we finished it."
"I don't disagree." The ghost of a smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. "But this is Venus; frontier work. Justice and profit seldom correspond. You escalated the scenario."
Vern was almost nose to nose with Telin.
"More pressingly, you killed my men."
This time it was Telin's turn to sneer.
"Well." Telin nodded toward the bag writhing on the deck. "That was really more of a group effort."
Vern pursed his lips, nodded calmly; then buried his fist in Telin's stomach. Telin's knees hit the floor, the wind driven from him. Neera and Kelp started forward but the giant Grineer growled and reared up; brandishing a cannon fully wider than Kelpo's shoulders. They froze on the spot.
"Consider it a mercy you're wanted alive," Vern turned and strode toward the transport. A brief hand signal got the entire crew moving.
Rough hands hauled Telin off his feet. He could still hear Vern's voice drifting through the tears as they manhandled him towards the transport.
"Though after Bravic's through with you, I expect to be mistaken."
The buyer's arrival did not come with grandiose announcement or fanfare. Like so many landmark moments in the colony's history, the arrival of Kef Mehrino's buyer was little more than a forgotten hello at a reception desk.
Jef Anyo was a loyal member of Anyo Corp. This perhaps was something of an understatement. Jef had changed his name, had undergone extensive facial reconstruction and deep-dive memory replacement to better serve the Prophet of Profit. Even the cybernetic faux-goatee affixed to his chin carried the sigil of Anyo Corp.
This level of obsessive detail extended to his day job too. Jef Anyo manned the reception desk of the trading house with a diligence that bordered on the fanatical. He filled forms faster and more efficiently than any member of Kef Mehrino's team. Jef knew every trader's name by voice, every rival guildsman by sight. This was not an easy thing to do. Indeed, of his allotted fourteen hours of personal time a week, he spent fully half of it memorising faces on the Intra-Guild, to better prepare himself for his solemn duty.
This meant that when the buyer arrived at Jef Anyo's, a complete stranger, it took him by surprise.
The man was not dressed in the typical folding robes of an Anyo devotee, or even the rugged practicality of a regular Corpus trader. His robes were ornate, but of a style and cut fundamentally at odds with the clean, utilitarian shapes and cold greens that defined fashion in the Upper Tier Towers.
Still, there was no mistaking it. This was a man of considerable wealth and taste. Though strangely cut, the beige robes and deep navy poncho did little to hide the suit of form-fitting, glimmering body armour that encased his frame. An elegant sword hung at the small of his back; as ornate as it was lethally sharp.
The trader's face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed had. Meshwork stencilled the exposed skin around his jaw, and he moved with a flowing grace that seemed astoundingly silent for such a tall and imposing figure.
It was only when he tapped the platinum rings on the marble counter top that Jef Anyo jumped, mortified, and noticed he was there at all.
"Hello!" Jef Anyo stammered, his data slate almost flying from his hands as he launched to his feet, rattling off his trademark greeting as he attempted to rally:
"Welcome to Anyo Corp; Chosen Disciples of the Prophet of Profit. How can we help you?"
The man's voice carried a mechanical burr; his voice smoothly modulated.
"There is a trader here by the name of Kef Mehrino. Take me to him."
"I understand you and your peers have come into contact with something quite precious."
"I… I am not sure I follow. The Assistant Director is a busy man. I am not privy to his business."
"Kef Mehrino will understand. He received a communique from one of his sub-contractors approximately six minutes ago. It is imperative I speak with him, immediately."
Jef Anyo bristled at the stranger's presumptive tone.
"Have you an appointment?" Jef's response was automatic.
The buyer's eyes were hidden beneath a visor comprising three metal strips, but his lips were tight as he set a single platinum chit on the counter.
Jef's eyes widened. His jaw dropped open.
The trader leaned forward, his voice a luxuriant purr.
"I do now."