Coda: Of Endings, and Beginnings
They buried the Dax's sword on a hill overlooking Cetus.
In the distance, the Condroc's plaintive cries echoed across the steppe. Soon it would be dark, and the waters would glow that ethereal glow. They must be quick. Soon, the Eidolon would stir.
Parson-Luk breathed deeply, drinking in another lungful of scented, clean air. He was incredulous to be back on the Plains. Incredulous to be alive, and reunited with his daughter once more. Ordinarily out in the wild he would be wary. Even in the long shadows of sunset, there were often Grineer patrols about.
And yet he was not. The Tenno were with him, and mighty Brakarr too. His companion's new war rig was a monstrous thing indeed; paid for by the vast credit reserves Terrenus Vern held, but never truly enjoyed. And yet the brute watched peacefully as Parson-Luk's daughter Valla ran circles around him, delighted by the shining giant, and the chance to step beyond the city's walls.
Valla was healthy. For that the old tracker was glad.
As gatherings went it made for an eclectic mix: the Tenno, the Ostron and the rogue Grineer. The scavvers of Venus had sent a bottle of aged moonshine, dredged from the ever-suspicious stores of the Severance Package. There would be sore heads in the morning.
The Quills too were present. They watched from afar. Fate seems to shift and churn around these Tenno in a state of constant flux. It fascinated them.
Isolde led the ceremony, surrounded by her fellow Tenno. They bid farewell to Terrenus Vern and Tenno Sohren. The funeral wreath was tied by the Tenno as one, under the Ostron tracker's careful instruction.
They placed it on the great boulder Brakarr rolled into position.
Isolde and the Tenno pressed their hands against the smooth rock, burning their hand prints into the stone.
The Ostron left a tribute of a sharpened zaw, engraved with Vern's name.
Valla, a single iron flower.
Two great warriors, honoured by a nomadic tribe of mercenaries and warriors.
It seemed fitting, in a way.
For this was Cetus: Landless, of no one clade; home to any who are blown as dust on the wind.
As reunions went, it was a brief one.
Parson-Luk remained on the dock with Valla and Brakarr, watching the Tenno Lisets depart one by one. The Exchange still hunted them. Even under the Unum's endless watch, none of them were truly safe.
As it came together, the Cell diverged once more, bound for destinations far beyond the lapping shore.
The two bounty hunters and the young girl watched them go: content, for now, for a moment's rest.
Kael looked around at the Relay, mouth agape. Stunned by the shoals of Lisets that streamed in and out of the station, his head on a swivel.
There were more Tenno than he had ever seen. All manner of Frames strolled through the entryway. No two were alike.
Each told a story, wore a storied history on their armour: be it through dented plating or ornate scroll-work. A riot of colour and self-expression, far more than was ever permitted by the House Eternal.
Kael shook himself. That was the past.
This… this was his future.
Other Tenno greeted him as they stepped through the arrival gates, some saluting or bowing to as they approached. Many passed without a second glance. They were strangers to Kael, and yet he felt a kinship with them.
What stories had they lived? What glories had they witnessed?
Below their feet stretched the entirety of Venus. Prospect 141 seemed a small and distant memory now: tiny, insignificant.
Doric and Sara awaited him at the foot of a statue, watching their bewildered friend with bemused smiles.
"What happens now?" Kael asked.
Doric looked at Sara. Sara grinned.
"That, my dear Tenno, is entirely your decision."
The Exchange was a city unto itself. A floating trade hub, surrounded on all sides by Corpus picket ships and larger frigates. It nestled at the heart of Corpus space, in low orbit over Neptune.
The Hall of Submission was ornate, by Corpus standards. The floor was a rich amber marble, imported at significant expense. The supporting columns overlooking the vast space, hiding their metallic core in layers of stained copper. Any visitor would never think they were on a cyclopean space station, but for the silvered viewport that looked out onto the Corpus fleet beyond.
People of all kinds flocked here. Those with grudges to nurse and credits to burn. A long counter of processing clerks awaited the crowds: sixteen clerks long, each with a dizzying amount of cybernetic prosthesis. The length of the waiting lines in the reception hall spoke volumes as to the current state of galactic harmony. It didn't matter who they were. Everything was a transaction here. Credits for blood. Life for Profit.
Across the Origin System, the Exchange's agents stood by, awaiting their bloody work; preparing weapons and watching the alerts as the bounty boards steadily updated.
The clerk worked her station as best she could: cybernetic hands dancing across the haptic display at her station. Sweat beaded her tattooed forehead. She had processed two hundred contracts this work cycle, and there were another six hours left on her shift.
"Next!"
The girl in the hood stepped forward. She was diminutive, far too young to be in a place like this. Still, there was protocol.
"Name."
A name was given, inputted at lightning speed.
"Face forward for the camera please."
The girl removed her hood, staring regally at the hovering drone, perfectly poised. The clerk abruptly stopped typing.
The girl was little more than a teenager. Delicately beautiful, with ivory skin and dark black hair tied in an elegant ponytail.
Yet there was something off about her. An ethereal glow to her eyes. An aura of cold precision that belied her years.
The clerk blinked, conscious that she had lost precious seconds of productivity. Any further dallying would be penalised. She triggered the tiny camera drone with a hasty wave of her hand. The recording began: uploading the conversation to the Exchange archive.
"Please state your business." The clerk requested.
"I'm here about an outstanding contract." The girl began, in a clipped, formal accent. "I wish to make a formal complaint."
"I see. Which contract?"
The clerk's hands hovered over the holographic keyboard, waiting.
The girl tilted her head upwards, her eyes meeting the clerk's directly.
Isolde flashed a dangerous smile, right before the alarms sounded.
"Mine."