"… and from that pain, rage."
- Trainer, addressing the Tenno of the House Eternal
The shelves were cluttered with all manner of bric-a-brac. A wide variety of Moa heads were mounted on the wall, arrayed and displayed less like a trophy cabinet, and more like an accessories store. From patrol units to simple janitorial support. This was the part of the Upper Tier unseen by the wealthy and proud. The necessary storehouse that kept their machines running, and their perfect lives functioning smoothly without interruption. Beneath the display cases were boxes of spare parts: a butcher's array of synthetic limbs and cybernetic chassis. There were small boxes of joints, focusing lenses; rotator servos big and small; all manner of odds and ends.
Enough to save Brakarr's life. Parson-Luk was almost finished with his repairs when the boxes began to rattle in unison. Then the entire shop began vibrate. Cybernetic limbs fell from their hooks, clattering against the floor. Parson-Luk looked up from the task at hand. The Ostron's ear twitched; his nostrils sniffing.
A ship, hovering at low altitude.
Parson-Luk rose to his feet, a wicked recurve dagger in his hand. He left Brakarr slumped by the wall, hidden behind a large shape covered by a tarpaulin.
The door hissed open.
A ship hung overhead. Parson-Luk marvelled at its unusual organic curvature. He had seen its kind come and go from Cetus over the years. Had more recently seen one buried beneath the ice, a hole shot clean through its bow. A Liset, Isolde had called it once; when she first invited them aboard.
This one was intact. It was familiar; dressed in red and black. It hovered in the air by the Northern Landing Pad. A metal figure dropped from its belly, automatically finding its feet. It rose to stand where it was, its head dipped; inert.
Isolde stepped from the shadows; stripped to her simple body-glove. Her eyes were red rimmed, baleful slits. Bruises studded her exposed arms. A golden nikana was clamped in her hand; a bloodied crimson rag in the other. The buildings behind her were ablaze. An ugly pillar of coiling smoke rose in the air before the ribbed Orokin barge that shimmered through the haze.
Parson-Luk had seen her Warframe before, in those unguarded moments where Isolde had allowed them aboard, to sit with her and work on improving Brakarr's augmentations.
For Brakarr it was life-saving. Grineer lives were short-lived; could only be prolonged through extensive and intrusive cyberization. For Isolde it was practice. Her Warframe's skin had been extensively modified; stripped and rebuilt with every successive rework of Brakarr's systems. The Grineer design influence shone heavily, tempered by the Tenno's more streamlined aesthetic.
Gone was the Orokin finery. It was dressed in jet black; complimented by dark strokes of crimson. A single bulky ocular lens was mounted over where one eye should have been. The face itself was an impassive mask of smooth crimson metal. A hooded red cloak flitted in the breeze.
It was a keep sake, a trophy from an era long forgotten. Never once had Parson-Luk seen it removed from its display stand in the heart of the Liset.
Even in the direst circumstances she had refused to deploy it; preferring instead to rely solely on her Void tricks and her own brand of lethal improvisation. Vern had never questioned it, never forced the issue. The Grineer and the Ostron similarly respected her wishes. She was dangerous enough without it.
Isolde ignored Parson-Luk as he approached, cautiously. Her focus was entirely on the metal figure before her. She tied the bloodied rag around its waist. Parson-Luk recognised her cloak; frayed and charred as it was. It was soaked with blood, that still dripped and pattered on the deck at her feet. The blood was not her own.
A profound sense of dread overtook the Ostron hunter. She sensed him, finally acknowledged him with the briefest of nods.
"It's funny." She smiled a brittle smile at the floor. "When the war ended, I entered my great sleep. I made a promise. That when I awoke and the world had forgotten the Old War, I would live for myself.
She cinched the knot tighter.
"That I would never wear their puppet again."
She spoke softly, running her finger along the sleek lines of its arm. Her finger glowed as she traced it down the forearm; all but caressing it. The Warframe's fingers twitched.
"By rights I should have buried it, left it alone. Instead it has followed me wherever I've gone; a box on a shelf. Forgotten, but never cast aside."
She looked at Parson-Luk.
"Perhaps it was weakness. Sentimentality of some kind." She looked up at the Warframe's faceplate.
"I saw it as a burden." The loathing in her voice was palpable as her eyes narrowed. "I was a fool."
"I know better now. This is who I am. The weapon I was meant to be."
"What happened, Surah?" he asked hesitantly.
Isolde closed her eyes. Her grip on the nikana tightened. Tears pulsed down her cheeks. She sobbed.
Vern then. It defied belief.
The bones of Parson-Luk's necklace jangled as he swamped her with a hug. She flinched at the unfamiliar affection, arms rigid by her sides. He was struck by just how small she was. For a moment he thought of his own daughter. His throat tightened.
Then she was gone; fading into the Void itself. The nikana clanged to the deck.
The Warframe's head rose up. The ocular lens projected a single yellow targeting circle, as it became live once more.
Isolde-as-Mesa looked up at the looming Orokin barge. At the ziggurat, coated in fire; teeming with Corpus. The dropships that drifted above the smoking ruins of the Upper Tier; piercing the gloom with their searchlights. Her ocular lens tagged targets, marking them each in turn. Methodical, systematic.
The Pyrana at its side was a snarling short range repeater. It whirled and flashed in her hands as she twirled it about. It whipped back into its holster with a snap. Mesa rolled its neck about, cracking imaginary tendons. Awakening, after so many years dormant.
Mesa retrieved the nikana from the floor with a metallic scrape; sliding it into the rags at the small of her back.
Isolde's voice carried a harsh metallic echo as it issued from the Warframe.
"I'll wear it now. I'll wear it now and I'll bury them. The House Eternal, the Exchange. Even the damned Board. In the name of Terrenus Vern, I'll bury them all."
She stalked toward the ziggurat, her voice carrying over her shoulder.
"But I won't do it alone."
The Severance Package and Forward Transaction reported green on all systems. They idled at the edge of the Upper Tier, far from the chaos of the ziggurat.
Telin smiled as Kelpo and Stren appeared on the bridge.
"You know, Kelp; I'm beginning to think we're not getting paid for finding that contract."
"You think?"
"Mm, call it a hunch." Telin scratched at his cheek.
"Could be worse." Kelpo shrugged as he joined him by the viewport. "Got a barge out of it."
"Yeah." Telin snorted. "Finally have our own ship, our own crew. Good timing for a suicide mission, I reckon. Baby steps, and all that."
"You were always ambitious, Tel. Never said you were smart."
Telin grinned.
"So how we lookin'?"
"Guns loaded. Shields are running, but for how long is anyone's guess." Kelpo was blunt. "Crews ready; far as I can tell. But don't push it. This is going to have to be an in and out job."
"Like the old Proximus Contract." Telin raised an aside eyebrow.
"Don't remind me." Kelpo chuckled. "I still have the scars."
"Well here's to a few more, buddy."
They bumped knuckles.
Kelpo took a station beside Stren, who was now fully absorbed with the readout of the munitions station.
Telin settled back in the command throne. The ziggurat was awash in Void energy. Boulders ran freely down its sloping face; pulverising the advancing Corpus below. At its summit, a rock giant raged; stomping and bellowing; swatting at flitting drones that needled it from above. Telin was long past questioning how any of it made sense.
The Tenno did as they did. Telin Voss was just a humble scavenger. Who just so happened to owed one of them his life. Telin had scraped and scrapped through most of his life. Often poor, seldom comfortable. Never once had he been in debt.
He wasn't about to start now.
Telin flicked the broadcast button on the command chair. Open broadcast; all channels, all decks.
"Right, we doing this?" Telin asked, addressing the bridge casually.
The crew murmured a vague affirmative.
"Really? That's the best you've got?" Telin thumped his fist against the arm rest, indignant. "C'mon now; we're about to make history. Are we doing this?"
A louder cheer, more heartfelt this time. Telin shook his head.
"Not good enough. Look out there. Just look. A thousand drones. More box-heads and warranties than I rightly know what to do with. Some see an army. I see opportunity. Circuits, scrap; spare parts in bulk. An ocean of salvage."
Telin was on his feet now. He crossed to the viewport. His eyes were narrowed; voice laden with contempt.
"The Board forget about us. They write us off. Subcontractors. Starving on the lowest rung, begging for scraps. Hired help, they call us. Cheap. Disposable. Expendable. No longer."
Telin's eyes were infused with a zeal Kelpo had never seen. A lifetime of small indignities, of freezing their sorry hides in the most inhospitable climate. Anger, frustration; rage. It all came welling up, spilling forth in a blazing fire:
"Two barges against an army! The stuff of songs; of legends! The Board won't see us coming, they won't know our names; but by the howling Void we'll make damn sure they remember when we send them there!"
Telin looked at each of the crew in turn. His voice was strong and clear; eyes fierce:
"So I ask you; one last time: are we doing this?"
The crew howled.