"Trust is a weapon. Handle with care." - Batteries Not Included
Two options lay before her. A thread-worn grey boilersuit, with the name ERIN embroidered over the breast pocket. Or a standard-issue Royal Armada field uniform in all its vivid magenta glory.
Neither option appealed.
Both garments had been laid out atop the chest at the side of Variks' nest, folded ever so neatly, waiting for her. They hadn't been there last evening when the two of them had finally dragged themselves away from the makeshift dresser where they'd consummated their reacquaintance and to the comfort of the nest. Which meant Variks must have gone through the trouble of procuring and arranging them while she'd been out cold.
His day had started hours ago, or so Meren assumed. A faint memory told her he'd woken her just enough to draw the blankets over her and murmur something about how there was 'much to be done' and for her to 'rest.' At the time, her only response had been a grumble and an attempt to pull him back down into the furs. The effort had failed. She'd promptly rolled over and passed out again.
Now, if her internal clock could be trusted, it was somewhere around mid-cycle, and she was finally awake. Albeit bleary-eyed and half-slumping, half-leaning over the nest's edge. She didn't care to move, content to lounge amidst the tangle of blankets and furs while her mind continued to catch up.
After days of sleeping on the ground or atop a thin mat in a cave, the plush, yielding comfort of Variks' nest was heaven. Her body still ached in places from the ordeal with the House of Kings, though it had dulled considerably. A couple more nights of rest would no doubt see the worst of it fade. For now, the lingering discomfort was easy enough to ignore.
The new predicament she found herself in, however, was not.
As nice as it was to see Variks again, her impromptu trip to the Reef posed a few logistical issues. Namely, her lack of...everything. Clothing. Footwear. Basic human toiletries. Food. Not to mention essential personal effects like her comm, datapad, and a programmable currency chip. How was she supposed to function?
Then again, the clothing issue appeared to have been addressed already, judging by the selection on the chest. Whether she approved of the fashion statements the outfits made was another matter. Everything else could likely be sorted out with a polite request to her host. He'd have the resources and contacts to acquire what she needed.
From the comfort of the nest, Meren returned to considering her options. The boilersuit had the benefit of being comfortable, if utterly shapeless. It had pockets, too - lots of them. Plus, it was unlikely to attract much attention.
The Royal Armada uniform, on the other hand, was magenta. Deep, gaudy, obnoxious magenta.
In the end, she opted for the uniform.
The color was an affront to be sure, but the tailoring was impeccable. Just looking at it, she could tell the fit would be near-perfect, and when she touched it, the fabric felt smooth and rich beneath her fingertips. If there was one thing to be said for the Awoken, it was that they had excellent taste in textiles.
It was the motivation she needed to get out of the nest.
Her body protested at first, a few joints popping, and the bruises on her thighs and backside from days of Pike travel sending up a wave of stinging pain. A long, slow stretch worked most of it out, though, and soon, she was up on her feet, reaching for the uniform.
As she'd suspected, the fit was superb, hugging her in all the right places. It had the added benefit of coverage, too, hiding a multitude of sins - the bruising, various scrapes and nicks, and the ever-present mark on her shoulder. She had yet to ask Variks about the latter. Still, she hadn't missed his attention lingering on the spot when he'd undressed her last night. Nor the way he'd seemingly made an effort to avoid looking at it thereafter.
Something told her that when she eventually asked, his answer would be a cryptic one.
With the uniform's high collar fastened and her hair pulled up into a messy bun, the ensemble was nearly complete. A quick scan of the pod turned up a pair of boots sitting beside the door, which she slipped into. They fit snugly - a vast improvement over the pair Variks had presented her with when she'd first arrived.
Finally dressed, Meren padded across the room to the table, where a carafe and mug sat waiting. Beside them, a small bowl containing an assortment of various fruits. Not to be missed were several folded squares of paper arranged about the table. All notes addressed to her, penned in Variks' precise, flowing longhand.
'Breakfast, should you desire it,' the first note atop the bowl read.
'Forgive my absence. There are matters that demand my attention,' read the second.
A third near the mug, upon unfolding, said, 'Should the water cool before you wake, a kettle sits hot on the countertop. Make use of it. It would be a shame to start the day without warm tea.'
The fourth and final note was written in Eliksni. A simple translation would have been along the lines of:
'A pleasure to share the night with you once more. How rude it would be of me to leave before your waking. I trust this message will suffice as an apology.' At the bottom was an elegantly-styled string of glyphs - his signature, followed by the title of Scribe.
Meren smiled despite herself. Even the apparent jab at her own oversight managed to come off as charming.
Setting the notes aside, she busied herself preparing a cup of tea. The water in the carafe had indeed cooled, but the kettle was as promised, piping hot. Once the tea was steeping away in the mug, Meren helped herself to a sampling of fruit. The varieties were unlike anything she'd seen on Earth, a mix of bright pinks, deep reds, and a strange yellowish-green. They smelled good, though. The first nibble proved the same.
She was on her third piece of fruit and halfway done with her tea when a soft knock came at the door. Meren froze mid-sip, a flicker of paranoia coursing through her. Variks had no need to knock on his own door. Who else could it be?
The answer came a second later when the door opened, and none other than the Scribe himself slipped inside. His eyes went straight to her.
"Ah, you are awake," he observed, allowing the door to close. "Good."
Meren rose from her seat. It seemed the proper thing to do. "Do you always knock before entering your own home?"
"Not as a rule, no."
"I see."
He made a slow approach, his eyes raking her from top to bottom, then back up. When his gaze finally settled on her face, Meren caught a glimpse of approval.
"A fine choice, the uniform," he remarked. "The color suits you."
"It clashes with my eyes, and my hair, and just about everything else."
Variks let out a chuff. "Perhaps our perception of color differs," he replied. "To Eliksni eyes, the combination is quite striking."
Academically, she knew Eliksni interpreted the visual spectrum differently from humans. Their eyes could perceive wavelengths into the ultraviolet, where human vision could not. Infrared to a much lesser extent. Meren could only imagine how she looked to him.
"I'll take your word for it."
"Mm, as you should." He stopped in front of her, close enough to touch. "It is a compliment, you understand. And a high one."
"Were all the old Scribes fashion critics like you?" Meren teased.
"To find uncommon beauty in the world around us is a worthy pursuit," replied Variks. "A discerning eye and a discerning mind go hand-in-hand."
"Sounds like something a fashion critic would say."
That drew a chuckle.
"I am glad to see you have returned to yourself." A hint of humor had found its way into his voice. "Ah, and you found breakfast, it would seem."
His eyes drifted to the mug and the remaining fruit in the bowl. Meren's did, too.
"If I'd known you were coming back, I would have waited," she told him. "The water's still hot if you-"
"No, no." A dismissive yet polite hand waved away the offer. "It was meant for you. I have had my fill already."
"Are you sure?" Meren pressed.
Variks' reply was a low, pleasant sound. "Quite."
It was an odd sensation, this...whatever it was. To stand in his pod, freshly awoken, talking about nothing in particular, a cup of tea clutched in her hands, while he stood alongside her. Odd, and yet...so very ordinary. Comfortable.
She liked it.
"So, what's on the docket today?" Meren asked, changing the subject. "Anything exciting? Judgement? Research? An audience with the Queen?" The last one was said with a smirk.
"Nothing so interesting," Variks answered. "Today's work is of a more…administrative nature."
Meren regarded him quizzically. "Paperwork?"
For a moment, he seemed to contemplate the question. Then, he motioned his staff toward the door.
"Walk with me," he said.
Meren raised the mug to her lips and took a slow sip of tea, eyes narrowed. The mug lowered.
"This isn't a ploy to put me to work, is it?" she asked.
Variks' eyes simply grinned back at her.
The request, as it turned out, was indeed a ploy to put her to work.
In less than fifteen minutes, a datapad had found its way into Meren's hands. Upon it, a lengthy checklist of Prison facilities, systems, and fail-safes, all needing to be checked and double-checked by the Warden himself. In person. By the week's end.
'A quarterly facility audit' was how Variks had described it initially. The benign-sounding description hadn't prepared her for the sheer magnitude of the task before them.
"This is absurd," Meren grumbled, following Variks down a staircase to the platform of Transport Access Six.
Variks hit the landing and continued straight, heading for the platform's substation, Meren a step behind.
"It is necessary," he countered. "Every system must be verified. Every safeguard. The Prison must not be allowed to fall into disrepair."
"Have you looked at this?" She brandished the datapad. Variks, still moving, didn't bother to even glance at it.
"Several times."
"There are twenty-two substations on this list," Meren informed him regardless. "Four maintenance hubs. Seventy-eight security turrets. Three armories. Seventeen data core repositories. A mess hall. Eight cellblocks. Two alternative correction facilities... What the hell is an alternative correction facility?"
"There is only one such facility," he responded. "You may mark the other as redundant."
"That doesn't answer my question."
A deep rumbling came from somewhere ahead, and Variks paused mid-stride. Meren, in turn, drew up beside him, the low vibration registering in the soles of her feet. It only grew in intensity.
An unspoken question on her lips, she turned to Variks. In the next instant, a transport shuttle was rushing by on the leftmost track. It shot past in a blur, the sudden displacement of air ruffling her hair and whipping at Variks' robes. The Scribe stood unfazed, his only movement a single firm hand coming down on Meren's shoulder, drawing her a step back as the shuttle blew past.
Then it was gone, its deafening roar fading into the distance.
"I believe the term is self-explanatory," Variks replied, lifting his hand and continuing on as if the interruption had never happened.
"Variks," Meren sighed, giving up. Her focus shifting back to the matter at hand, she set off after him. "The amount of time this is going to take-"
"Would be considerable," he finished for her. "But with two sets of eyes, the task should require half the effort, yes?"
She frowned. "If we could transmat between inspection points, sure."
"Unfortunately, the facility's security protocols prohibit such travel outside of designated arena access zones." He reached the substation and stepped through its open access door. "The risk of containment breach is too great."
Meren followed him inside, the datapad held limply in one hand. "Can we use the transport shuttles, at least?" Her feet hurt just thinking about walking through the entirety of the Prison's sprawling campus.
Variks, meanwhile, made his way to a control console at the edge of the room, pressing a claw to the interface. The console came alive, a series of power readings and diagnostics flashing across the screen.
"Cabal relocation from Block C is underway," Variks said absently, scanning the readouts. "The transport pods will be quite...humid for some time. But if you wish to brave the discomfort, by all means."
The overpowering stench of Uluran sweat had already invaded Meren's imagination. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
"On second thought, walking sounds lovely," she concluded.
"A wise decision."
They stayed at the station a few moments more, Variks taking the time to double-check the readouts, Meren idly scrolling through the checklist on the datapad. For their current position, the first item listed was 'substation integrity'. Next was 'substation diagnostics' and 'substation power distribution'. Below that, 'fire-suppression system' had preemptively been marked as 'not applicable'.
She was still scrolling when a clawed hand reached over and tapped the screen.
"All systems functioning within normal parameters," noted Variks. "Mark them so."
"Got it."
She ticked the boxes Variks indicated, and together, they moved on to the next inspection point: the automated rail switch control hub two levels up.
They opted for the stairs, the ascent quiet save for the clicking of Variks' staff against the steps. It was an easy pace, leisurely. Side by side, their arms brushed now and again. Meren found herself acutely aware of it each time. It struck her how easy it would have been to reach out and take his hand.
She didn't, of course. For a number of reasons. The primary being they were both in public, and as Variks so often reminded her, there were eyes everywhere. The secondary reason - the more academically-minded one - was that in all her years of studying Eliksni language and culture, she'd never come across an instance of Eliksni holding hands. That, and she'd truthfully never been one for such gestures.
"How long will you stay?"
The question came seemingly out of the blue, and Meren nearly missed a step. She recovered in a single stride.
"I just got here," she replied, shooting him a confused glance. "Are you trying to get rid of me already?"
"On the contrary," he answered. "I am merely curious."
Meren mulled it over, a finger tapping the datapad's edge. "I don't know. A few days? The Vanguard's probably been informed of my disappearance by now." Assuming Cayde wasn't permanently dead in a ditch somewhere. "Sooner or later, someone's going to come looking for me. It seems prudent to get home before a bunch of Guardians start turning the whole system upside down."
Variks acknowledged the comment with a thoughtful hum.
"I'm sure it's crossed your mind, too," she pointed out. "How long until the Corsairs or Petra discover I'm here? They'll have questions." She glanced down at her new uniform. "About a lot of things."
Variks made a low noise. "Leave that worry to me."
Meren looked up. He didn't return the glance.
"Are you trying to persuade me to stay longer?" she ventured after a moment.
They crested the stairs and made their way to a narrow catwalk overlooking the rail lines levels below. It looked to be a straight shot to the switch control hub, a squat, dome-shaped structure embedded into the high arching ceiling.
"Your departure is inevitable," Variks told her, directing her onto the walkway. "It is what comes after that concerns me."
He sounded almost pensive. It didn't fit.
"You...think I won't come back," Meren stated.
"The thought had crossed my mind."
An updraft from the transport line below caught her - a cool, gentle breeze, the smell of machine oil and ozone wafting up with it. Meren admired how it rustled the fur mantle about Variks' shoulders.
"Do you want me to?" she asked, turning her attention back to the catwalk. "Come back, I mean."
The question was blunt, but it had to be. After all the dancing around each other they'd done, another protracted misunderstanding was the last thing either of them needed.
"What I want and what is wise are not always in alignment," said Variks.
Of all the cryptic non-answers he'd ever given, that one was certainly up there. Meren's expression flattened.
"You know," she said, unable to keep the annoyance from creeping into her voice, "sometimes it would be helpful if you just answered a question directly."
The switch hub was close now, a dozen or so meters away. Variks didn't slow his pace.
Still, he muttered something in Eliksni and then relented in her tongue, "I would not be...opposed to your continued visits, Meren."
"Still indirect."
Variks' eyes fluttered shut in an expression of mild exasperation. Or possibly regret. It was hard to tell.
"It has been...a pleasant change, having you here," he admitted, albeit a bit stiltedly. "I would like very much for you to return. With regular frequency." A beat. "In a manner which does not involve forceful retrieval from the claws of a hostile House."
The admission, however halting, brought a smirk to her face.
"See? Was that so hard?" she asked.
Variks made another indistinct noise and came to a stop before the hub's entry hatch. Meren was already scrolling through the datapad, searching for the corresponding inspection point as Variks tapped an overly-complex passcode into the hatch's keypad. It popped open with a hiss, the door swinging outward.
The space inside looked like the Dawning - all alight with colorful, blinking indicators and screens cascading with lines of code like the adverts that would appear on the HoloNet during the holidays. A dozen or so control consoles, all connected to an array of server stacks and power conduits, were arranged in a horseshoe shape, with a wide viewing window overlooking the tracks below.
Variks motioned her inside with a half-bow. "After you."
"Always the gentleman."
"Mm, not always," he purred, following her through the doorway.
What passed for mid-afternoon in the Reef found them in the Correction Labs, deep within the heart of the Prison.
The label was somewhat of a misnomer, Meren had decided. The place wasn't so much a laboratory as it was a series of gladiatorial combat rings suspended in one of the facility's auxiliary reactor shafts. They had been caged in by meshes of twisted steel girders and reinforced with enough energy shielding to stop a ballistic warhead. Around the monstrosities, the walls of the shaft itself were inset with containment pods of all sizes. Meren had initially wanted to believe they were empty, but she knew better.
Upon reaching the reactor shaft, a clever lateral tube lift had deposited them on the labs' upper administrative platform, overlooking the fighting pits, the Prison's mainframe, and the reactor housing far below. It was there they stood now, surrounded by monitors flipping between feeds of varying angles, displaying the interior of the pits and the surrounding cells.
Variks had taken up before a cluster of the screens, eyes flicking between the different feeds. Meren lingered a bit farther off, near the platform's viewing window, gazing down into the rings, her stomach roiling at the sight of the sheer drop on the other side of the transparisteel. She tried to focus on the closest fighting pit instead. Currently it was empty.
The labs' sole purpose, as far as she could tell, was the alternative correction the checklist had alluded to. Based on some nebulous criteria that Variks wouldn't elaborate on, inmates deemed unsuitable for residence in the general population were sent to the pits for 'rehabilitation' as opposed to the arenas. A crude form of therapy, it seemed, involving the systematic application of violence and a healthy dose of survival of the fittest. Regardless of the archaic approach, judging by the scorch marks and blood stains of varying colors staining the floor and the walls of the pit, the facility appeared to be serving its purpose.
Surprisingly, Meren found the prospect of bloodshed didn't appall her as much as it once might have. After all the time spent with Variks, the squeamish part of her had begun to give way to the pragmatic. The Warden had his methods - some more effective than others. She'd accepted that. Yet something about the labs was still off-putting. Perhaps it was the reminder of how little she understood when it came to the workings of the Prison of Elders.
"And you use this place...how often?" Meren asked, turning away from the view of the pit to look at Variks.
His eyes were glued to a monitor displaying a live feed of a cell, occupied by a single Eliksni prisoner. She appeared to be clawing at the wall, futilely attempting to dig her way out.
"Again, in the High Speak," he instructed.
Variks had made it his afternoon's mission to acquaint her with the tongue of House Judgement. So far, Meren's ineptitude had made for a slow and painful lesson. Still, the Scribe's patience had yet to run out.
"How often," Meren tried again, "dost thou...use this place?" One of her more competent attempts, yet the words came out stiff and awkward.
"Better," said Variks, the hint of a smile behind the praise. "And to answer thy inquiry, it depends. The process of Judgement is not one born of impulse. Nor doth it willingly seek the suffering of the condemned." Something like a sneer curled his features. It was solely directed at the Eliksni on the screen. "When the situation necessitates, however, the Labs see use." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Some prisoners showeth...potential. Others doth not."
"Potential," Meren repeated. She didn't quite understand, but the word left a bad taste in her mouth.
Variks finally pulled his eyes away from the screen, turning to face her. "To rebuild the House of Judgement is no simple task," he reminded her. "There is much that willst need be done. And many who might serve to do it."
Meren shook her head, uncomprehending. "Thee recruit...criminal?"
"Elders bless us," Variks sighed, rubbing a spot behind his eyes with a claw. "Thou must enunciate. What more, 'thee' is only used when the object of a verb. As a singular subject of a verb, 'thou' is used."
She scrunched her face. "Thee recruit. Criminal."
Variks breathed another weary sigh. Hopefully, it meant he'd finally given up on the lesson.
"Who use High-Speak even? Still?" A frustrated Meren ran a hand through her hair. "Is Variks Scribe the last?"
To Meren's mild annoyance, Variks apparently hadn't given up. He held up a finger in correction, enunciating the following phrase with excruciating clarity.
"Who still useth the High Speak?"
"Who still useth the High Speak?" repeated Meren.
Variks nodded slowly, approving. "Very good." He paused a moment, and then, "Once, the Elders and the old Houses of Riis spoke the Judgement-tongue. Few in the wake of the Drift, and fewer still, now. Some amongst the House of Kings, perhaps. The House of Winter. Though it remains reserved for times of negotiation. Alliance. House defection. Such matters do not befit the lower tongues."
"House defection," Meren echoed. "This happens?"
"Mm, on occasion." Variks inclined his head in acknowledgment. "In the case of such matters, the process is lengthy and complex. It doth not always end in favor."
Meren cracked a smile. "Isn't that just all of Eliksni politics? Long, complicated, and potentially fruitless?"
Variks regarded her with a long look, and then a slow chuckle.
"It may seem that way to thee," he allowed. "To Eliksni, it is merely the way things are. How they have always been."
"I suppose when you have thousand-year lifespans, things move at a different pace."
Variks regarded her thoughtfully, then returned his attention to the monitor. "A matter of perspective," he remarked. "To live so long can be both a blessing and a curse."
There was a wistfulness to the statement. Meren felt an echo of it in her own chest.
"We should" -she waggled the datapad- "keep moving. The list is never-ending."
Variks seemed to snap back to the present, retrieving his staff from where it leaned beside the viewing window.
"So it is," he agreed. "Where did we leave off?"
"Medbay Two," Meren recited, scrolling through the checklist. "Cellblock B. Cellblock E."
"Ah, yes."
Together, they made their way from the Correction Labs' admin platform back into the lift that would ferry them across the reactor chasm to the next inspection point.
"You know," Meren started, eyeing Variks as he thumbed the control panel. "Maybe it's time we swap. You take over the datapad, and I'll carry the staff."
His response was immediate. "I think not."
"You don't trust me with your staff?"
The look he gave her was humorless. "Perhaps when you have mastered the High Speak, the privilege will be earned."
"That'll be the day," she mumbled.
As the lift began its transverse, Meren returned her focus to the checklist. The upcoming cellblocks would be a pain, no doubt. The data core stations were going to take forever, too. But worst of all would be the Prison's automated defense systems, which lay in wait at the very bottom of the list.
Meren reached the defense network subsection and scrolled and scrolled. And kept scrolling.
"Why are there so many turrets?" she said aloud, a note of despair creeping into her voice.
Without missing a beat, Variks leveled a claw at her. "The High Speak."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Mere shot him a look, not bothering to conceal her sarcasm. Then, with as much dramatic flair as she could muster:
"Wherefore art there so many turrets?!"
The last stop for the day had them circumnavigating the central spire, heading for the E-Block. Variks in charge of the datapad. Meren toting the staff.
The Scribe's prized possession, she'd come to find, was heavy. The haft had a core of dense alloy running down its center, and the ornamental head was no light decoration. Combined with the sheer length - a good meter longer than she was tall - it made for an unwieldy burden. She had no idea how Variks carried the damn thing around all the time.
Still, she managed. If only because it meant not having to deal with the datapad's endless checklist.
"Cellblock E," mused Meren, her breath coming a little heavier than usual. "Anything exciting in there I should know about?"
Variks didn't look up from the datapad, his claws clicking away on the screen.
"Prisoners," he replied.
Meren rolled her eyes. "I gathered that much. Who?"
"Ah, it is more of a...what than a who."
Meren waited for him to elaborate. He did not.
"A what, then?" she finally prompted.
They'd rounded the spire's arc now and were headed toward an entry arch, shielded with a shimmering energy field and marked with a series of vertical Eliksni glyphs that phonetically read ii-Block . Beyond it, a short corridor led to the cellblock proper.
"Patience, my dear," said Variks, his amusement plain. "All shall be revealed in time."
She gave him a long, exasperated look but said nothing. They'd reached the entry arch. Before them, the force field rippled out of existence, opening the way.
Meren followed Variks into the corridor, the shield reengaging behind them with a faint hum. The sound was quickly drowned out by the distant sibilance of Eliksni speech. It didn't take long for Meren to locate its source.
Around a curve in the corridor, a pair of Wolf guards, draped in blue bannercloth, stood on duty, posted outside the blast doors leading to Cellblock E. The pair were deep in conversation, or at least one was. The other looked to be half-asleep, leaning heavily on his Arc spear, responding to the other's remarks with the occasional grunt. Then, the guard doing the talking seemed to catch sight of Variks and shot up straight, nudging the other with two forceful elbows.
"Sir," she managed, giving Variks a stiff alien salute.
The other, meanwhile, fumbled his spear. It went clattering to the floor, along with a pair of loose stun cuffs he'd been holding. He froze as the noise echoed through the hallway, then bent awkwardly to retrieve his weapon, almost stumbling in the process.
Meren could only stare at the two Captain-sized sentries, struck somewhere between bewilderment and amusement. For all her time spent in the Prison of Elders, she'd never actually encountered anyone on the facility's staff. She'd known they were around - Eliksni guards, maintenance crews, correctional technicians, and the like. But somehow her excursions with Variks had always seemed to steer her clear of their posts and patrol routes.
The second guard finally had his spear back in his grip. He gave Variks a salute of his own, though it was more of a nervous, half-hearted wave.
"S-sir," he stammered.
"Krysis. Fraviks." Variks greeted them in turn, inclining his head faintly in each's direction.
"Sir."
"S-sir."
The pair's eyes shifted, finally seeming to take notice of Meren with the staff. Variks waved them off before they could address her, the motion somehow conveying both dismissal and command.
"As you were," the Scribe instructed.
The two guards exchanged glances, then shuffled aside, bobbing their heads in awkward deference. Variks, in turn, strode forward, the blast doors parting before him. Meren scurried after, not missing the Wolves' eyes following her as she passed.
The configuration of Cellblock E differed significantly from the others Meren had seen. Rather than the neat rows of cells or pods arranged like the spokes of a wheel, the holding units were arranged one atop the other in a sheer, dizzying grid, spanning all the way to the ceiling high above. A chasm cut through the center of the block, separating the landing they'd entered on from the cells opposite, with the only means across being a narrow catwalk suspended high over the abyss. When Meren glanced over the lip of the landing, the matrix of cells continued down, down, down, into the blackness below.
There must have been hundreds, maybe thousands, of cells in the block. All occupied, from the looks of it. Yet dead silence reigned, save for the sound of her and Variks' footsteps. It didn't take more than a second for Meren to identify the cause.
Every cell, as far as she could see, was gated not by solid steel hatches but by a latticework of glittering violet energy. Into each pen, the field extended, running from ceiling to floor and wall to wall, completely cutting off each cell's occupants from its neighbors. Not that the occupants looked up to much socializing.
All the residents of the E-Block were Vex constructs. The smallest, Goblins, had been packed three or four to a pen. The larger units, Minotaurs and Hobgoblins, were crammed in two to a cell. For the Harpies, it varied, with most cells holding a small flock of the floating machines. The largest unit - a Hydra - had its own cell. The thing's 'head' lolled lifelessly forward, its once-glowing sensor dark and cold. It was the same in every pen. Every construct, motionless. Hunched and folded in on itself or bobbing slack in the air.
At the landing's edge, Variks slowed and pulled up the datapad. Meren stopped alongside him, thumping his staff against the floor for good measure.
"Well," she announced, her eyes sweeping the silent block, "this doesn't seem safe. Whose idea was it to keep time-traveling, reality-augmenting robots under the same roof as some of the most dangerous beings in the system?"
Variks didn't spare her a glance. "Not to worry," he said. "They pose no threat, as you can see."
"Don't they?" A skeptical Meren squinted at the nearest cells. In one, a small cluster of Harpies had arranged themselves in a loose semicircle, hovering about a meter off the floor, their bladed fins furled, their sensors upturned. Meren found herself imagining a school of fish, dead, bobbing belly-up on the surface of a pond.
"The containment lattice severs their connection to the greater collective," Variks explained, looking up from the datapad. "As an additional precaution, the Axis Minds have been segregated in Block F. Separated from the Minds, these constructs lack directive. Without directive, they enter a state of...stasis." His eyes were on the Harpy pen now. "I assure, they are quite harmless."
Meren craned her neck, gazing up at the endless grid of cells.
"So, a force field conveniently keeps them inert," she recapped, skeptical. If such technology existed, why didn't the Vanguard employ it and put the Vex threat to bed once and for all? "That seems a little far-fetched, doesn't it?"
"The Awoken keep many secrets," Variks answered. "Powers not of Light or Dark. Whispers from the stars." Meren swore she saw a shudder of discomfort run through him. "Do not be so quick to dismiss that which seems beyond reason."
Meren wasn't sure what to make of that. She'd heard rumors of strange Awoken magic - had seen stranger things still in the Dreaming City. Her scientific sensibilities dismissed it all. Then again, those same sensibilities tried to dismiss the existence of undying human demi-gods and time-traveling robots, and yet, here they were.
"Fair enough," she said, conceding the point.
Variks returned to his work on the datapad, checking off another box on the list. Meren waited, leaning into the staff, watching the constructs idle within their cages.
Except…not all of them were idle.
Across the chasm, one of the Harpies looked to be stirring, its sensor beginning to glow, its fins flexing open. The movements were jerky, sluggish, like something was dragging it out of sleep.
Meren's brow furrowed. "Uh, Variks…"
"Patience, Meren."
"No, I'm not-"
A flurry of movement cut her off. Several more of the Harpies had begun to stir. Within moments, the flock was very much awake, their sensors blazing red, their fins flared and spinning. All seemed to lock on her at once.
"Uhh."
In a blur, the first Harpy let out an electronic shriek and launched itself at the containment lattice, smashing into the energy field with a blinding flash. It rebounded, screeching its fury, its brethren rushing forward to join the fray. The pen lit up with a dozen flashes as the Harpies pounded against the cell's barrier, the force field sparking and crackling, the machines screaming.
Meren took a reflexive step back, bumping into Variks. A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and then the Scribe was jerking her back, away from the edge of the platform. The staff nearly wound up on the floor.
Still, the Harpies weren't stopping. One slammed into the lattice so hard the energy field seemed to bulge outward, rippling and distorting. The next repeated the assault. Over and over, until their ruckus was enough to breach the containment field. Suddenly, all across the block, constructs were stirring in their pens, sensors slowly flickering to life.
Now, the cellblock definitely didn't seem safe.
Meren's wide eyes flicked to Variks. He didn't look calm exactly, but he wasn't panicking, either.
The reason why quickly became apparent. As the constructs roused, the Prison itself seemingly began to react. From somewhere deep within the walls came the telltale crackle of capacitors charging. The lights dimmed, drawn down to emergency power levels as the sound built and built, and then-
With a snap, something that must have been an electromagnetic pulse activated, flaring through the cellblock wall.
The effect was immediate. Like puppets whose strings had been cut, the Harpies dropped. They hit the ground, clattering against the floor and each other, their sensors blinking out. The same picture was repeated cell after cell, half-roused constructs slumping to the ground, lifeless.
The silence that fell was deafening.
For a long moment, Meren stood rooted in place, heart thudding in her chest. Only the hand on her shoulder kept her grounded as the main grid cycled back online. The sudden flood of illumination that followed left her blinking.
When the power held, Variks' claws slowly unclenched, and his touch withdrew. Meren, still in a state of near shock, turned to face him. His eyes were locked on the pen where the Harpies lay motionless, his expression distant.
"What interactions have you had with the Vex?" he asked quietly, the words low and steady.
"None?" Meren swallowed. "I- I've never even seen one in person. Just holostills."
Variks' eyes remained on the pen, but they'd narrowed. "You are certain?"
"I don't think I'd forget something like that." Meren tried for a smile. It came out looking like a grimace.
"Hm."
"Why?"
"Curiosity," Variks murmured. Then, he seemed to snap out of his thoughts, looking the datapad over. His mechanical claws had clenched into the bezel, fracturing the corner of the display. It still appeared functional, thankfully.
Still, he growled to himself, muttering something in Eliksni.
"I'm sorry," said Meren. She wasn't even sure what she was apologizing for.
"The fault does not lie with you," replied Variks. The next moment he turned, making his way to a diagnostic panel at the far end of the landing. "The Vex are… inquisitive ," he went on. "Even in their isolated state. Your presence is unfamiliar. That is all."
Meren trailed after him, not entirely convinced. She watched as he ran the cellblock through its final diagnostics.
"Did the EMP...?" She wanted to say 'kill', but that wasn't quite the right word.
"Hm? Oh, no, no. No," Variks reassured her, tapping the final box on the checklist. "The radiolarian fluid remains intact. The constructs will reboot. No lasting damage has been done." He closed out the diagnostic, then turned back to Meren, softening.
"Now, we have seen enough excitement for one day, yes? Perhaps we should retire to my quarters for the evening."
That perked Meren right up.
"Finally."
Without waiting for the Scribe's blessing, she hefted the staff over her shoulder, the maneuver drawing a look of disapproval from Variks. She ignored it, already making her way back to the exit.
Outside, it was apparently time for the mid-cycle guard rotation because Krysis and Fraviks were nowhere to be seen. Though one of them had left an arc spear leaning, forgotten, against the wall. Fraviks' fumbled stun cuffs remained on the floor. Meren scooped them up as she passed, hooking them through a loop on the uniform's belt.
Variks gave her a look for that, too. This time, it was the furthest thing from disapproving.
The dinner plates had been cleared to make room for a wooden board. A grid, nineteen rows by nineteen columns, had been carved into its surface with painstaking precision. Squat, round stones in black and white sat atop various intersects, some alone, others clustered in twos and threes. To the untrained eye, it was an exercise in chaos. To an adept of Go, it was a battlefield, and the lines had been drawn.
Across the table, Variks sat hunched, a claw hovering over the board, his eyes studying the grid intently. He'd been that way for almost a minute.
Meren, meanwhile, watched him, sipping her drink. His protracted contemplation didn't unnerve her in the slightest. In her mind, she was already three moves ahead.
The game of Go was an old one, long predating humanity's Golden Age. Its origins were shrouded in the same mystery as its name, both lost somewhere in the murk of the Collapse. What had survived were its rules: two players, black and white, alternated turns placing stones on a board, seeking to claim territory with an army of pebbles. Simple in theory, yet devilishly complex in execution.
Thankfully, Meren knew Go.
She'd picked it up during her student years at the Academy, a casual hobby to occupy her mind between exams and thesis deadlines. Looking back, those early matches had been easy - simple, straightforward games. But over the years, the more she'd learned, the more the game had revealed itself. Its nuances. Its complexities. The hundreds of strategies that could be employed, and the hundreds more that couldn't.
Commencement had put an end to the pursuit. There were only so many hours in the day, and a full-time professorial career left her precious few to spend on leisurely activities, board games especially. Still, she and Hiro played on occasion when the opportunity presented itself. It gave her no small amount of pride that he'd only bested her twice.
Variks, however, was proving to be a far more formidable opponent.
An hour-and-a-half into their first match and the board had become a monochrome mosaic, the black stones clustering and branching, the white forming walls and choke points. A few handfuls of territory had already been claimed, a score of empty intersects marking the conquered ground. Each player was down a half dozen or so stones, captured by the other.
The game remained far from over.
At last, Variks drew a white stone from the bowl at his elbow, placing it atop an intersection, joining a column of its kin. It was an aggressive move, cutting off an inroute to a section of Meren's territory. He looked up, locking eyes.
"Take your time, my dear," he purred, settling back in his seat. Without his mask, the grin he offered was all teeth.
Unbothered, Meren studied the board and then scrutinized Variks' latest addition.
He was trying to provoke her. Force her into a reactionary play, instead of the calculated ones she'd made throughout the match. She could see the intent behind it, plain as day. Still, it was tempting…
She might even have bitten if not for the stakes on the table - literally.
Beside the bowl of stones sat the pair of cuffs Meren had appropriated outside the E-Block. Variks had furnished the cuffs' key chip that lay alongside them, his contribution to the wager. As for the bet itself, it was a simple affair. Whoever lost the game would find themselves on the receiving end of the cuffs - and at the winner's mercy - for the remainder of the evening.
Meren did not plan on losing.
She returned Variks' smirk, plucking a black stone from the bowl, setting it on the board with a click. E6N7. The intersection was an exposed flank of Variks' territory. He didn't flinch.
"A bold play," he drawled.
Meren leaned back, lacing her fingers together. "Your move."
"So it is."
The Scribe drew another white stone from the bowl. He held it between two claws, turning it over thoughtfully, considering his next play.
"You know," Meren started, attempting to make idle conversation, "we never did talk about Craask."
"Craask," Variks repeated the name as if it was the first time he'd heard it. "What of him?"
"Well, one of us seems to think I would have been fine handling a meeting with him," she reminded him, "while the other thinks I would have been dead before the day was out."
"Ah."
Meren waited. Variks continued his examination of the grid, the stone still rotating between his claws, an idle hand scratching a spot alongside his mandibles.
"So which is it?" she prompted. "Would I make it out alive or not?"
"My assertion on the matter remains unchanged," Variks replied coolly. "As does yours, it seems."
Meren took a moment to consider his response, sipping her drink. After some deliberation, she opted for a compromise:
"What if we're both wrong?"
That got Variks to glance up. "What is the third option, Meren? The middle ground between life and death?"
She had to pause and consider that, too.
"Uh, protracted captivity?" she finally offered.
"You do not know House Kings," said Variks, setting the stone on the board. He made no move to impede her newest advance on his flank. "A prisoner who is of no use is not fit for keeping."
"Did you just call me useless?"
"To House Kings, it was implied, yes."
"Well, now I'm just offended." Meren buried her hand in the bowl, digging around until she found a suitable stone.
"It is not a personal affront, Meren." Variks paused, sweeping a hand through his silvery crest. "Craask and his House are pragmatic, above most else. To them, you are a pawn. And pawns have no place among Kings."
Despite the offense, Meren made her gambit. E7S5. She felt a flicker of satisfaction as one of Variks' liberties disappeared beneath her newest stone.
"So I would have been dead at Craask's behest," she concluded. "Is that what you're saying? …Your move, by the way."
"No." Variks' answer was flat. Matter-of-fact.
Meren looked up from the board, puzzled.
"Craask would not have dishonored himself with the betrayal of your ireliis," he elaborated. "He would have passed the Wolf-Killer to the Wolves. Reaped the little utility offered in exchange. And cleaned his hands of the matter."
Meren's eyes were suddenly back on the table. The implication of her untimely end at the hands of the remaining Wolves didn't need to be spoken aloud. Just the thought of their ire over her imaginary crimes was disconcerting enough.
That wasn't the only troubling thing about Variks' answer, however. Almost equally disconcerting was the cavalier mention of the Wolf-Killer moniker. Like the truth of the Eliksni in the Tower, she hadn't ever gotten around to telling Variks about the foolish title the Spider had bestowed upon her, either.
"You know about that?" she murmured.
Variks was already placing his next stone. "I have known for quite some time."
"And?"
"I do not share Spider's humor," the Scribe said flatly, sinking back in his seat. At least he didn't seem upset. "It is your play."
"Right."
Meren looked the board over, trying to recall the plan of attack she'd mapped out only a moment ago. It took her longer than it should have.
E7S5 - W6S5 - W7S6 - W7S7. That was it.
She retrieved the necessary piece and set the sequence in motion. All she could do was wait.
"Well, I appreciate the rescue, in any case," Meren offered.
"Yes, you expressed this gratitude last night." Variks tilted his head, regarding the playing field. "Several times."
Meren felt herself flush at the remark. "Still," she said, "it bears repeating. So. Thank you."
"Think nothing of it."
The next six turns passed without comment. Each stone played spoke in their place. A challenge. A rebuff. A counter. The story on the grid before them an ever-shifting narrative, its ending still unpenned.
Still, the quiet couldn't last forever.
"So," Meren started up again, shifting gears. "The Eliksni incarcerated by the Vanguard..."
Variks chuffed. "This again."
"What?" she said defensively. "Do you expect me to talk about the weather? Because there isn't any."
Variks' eyes had slitted, his expression wary.
"There has to be something we could do," Meren went on, planting her arms on the table. "A compromise with the Vanguard, or something. You're a negotiator. Negotiate."
The look on Variks' face didn't change. He turned his attention to the grid, studying it as if he was seeing it for the first time.
"Variks."
"I told you before," he answered at last. "It is not your place to interfere in this matter. Let it rest."
Meren did not let it rest.
"Maybe there's a more indirect approach we could take, then," she suggested. "That's not technically interfering, right?"
"No."
"Variks."
"Meren." He punctuated her name with the decisive click of his stone against the board. It was enough to silence her.
Withdrawing his hand, Variks slowly straightened in his seat, eyes drifting from the game to meet hers. His gaze had lost its sharpness.
"Meren," he repeated, gentler this time. "Your heart is in the right place. But what you ask..." He shook his head. "To sway those whose hearts hold nothing but hate. To convince them of that which they wish not to understand. This is not a war that can be won with words alone."
"Something else, then," Meren countered, not yet ready to concede the point. "If we could change their minds about Eliksni, somehow..."
Variks gave a heavy sigh. "Even if possible, what you propose - this change you seek. It does not come overnight. Such things take time. Effort. The process may be painful - for you, perhaps for all. You may not live to see your vision come to pass."
Meren's face fell. Deep down, she knew Variks was right. The centuries of ingrained xenophobia couldn't be overcome with an impassioned treatise, or a few well-chosen words.
But the thought of leaving Itrik, Yalsis, Spekkis, and Revys to suffer - to die - in those dark cells...
One of Variks' claws lifted her chin, raising her eyes.
"Meren," he said again. "Please. For your sake, put aside this burden. These notions of saving those who cannot be saved. Let them go."
His claw traced the curve of her jaw, cupping her cheek. Meren leaned into his touch, studying the face across the table. He blinked back at her slowly. He looked weary, as if the centuries had finally caught up to him.
Looking into his eyes, she wanted nothing more than to give him the reprieve he'd asked for. And she would.
A new hope had already blossomed in her mind.
Reaching up and taking his hand, she turned it over, pressing a faint kiss to the inside of his palm. It drew a soft purr.
"Alright," she murmured. "I'll let it rest."
Variks' relief was palpable.
"Thank you." He withdrew his hand and with it, the moment. "Now, I believe it is your move."
Just like that, the game was back on.
Meren glanced the board over. The stone Variks had placed put her at an advantage. If she was willing to sacrifice a small portion of her held territory, she could potentially usurp a larger part of his. She could almost hear him asking: Would you risk it, my dear?
"So, the weather..." Meren mused aloud, pretending to ponder the choice before her.
Variks let out a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh.
"I hear it gets quite warm on Mercury this time of year," she added, feigning deep interest.
"Does it, now?"
Meren gave a shrug and then, with a deliberate gesture, set her stone. Now, to see if the risk paid off.
"Well, I've never been, myself. But my sources are reliable," she quipped back.
It seemed to do the trick. Variks' eyes glinted with a flicker of mirth, the badinage too tempting to resist.
"And what sources are these that speak of the surface of Mercury?" he inquired, a stone laid offhand.
"Oh, you know."
Meren readied her coup de grâce. And there wasn't a better moment for it. Now that she'd gotten Variks caught up in the back-and-forth, his attention had shifted from the board entirely.
"City sanitation bots," she continued, sliding the stone home. "A Guardian or two. The usual suspects."
"Ah, the most reputable of informants."
"Absolutely." Meren folded her arms. Sat back.
Across from her, Variks simply chuckled, an idle hand scooping his next piece from the bowl. He didn't even spare the board a glance as he set it down. Neither did Meren. She didn't need to.
The admission of his defeat was imminent.
"So." She kept her expression carefully neutral. "How does it feel?"
However, his response was not what she expected.
Instead of a glance at the board and a moment of stunned silence, Variks simply leaned in, resting all four of his elbows on the table. Over steepled claws, he regarded her with an impassive, unblinking stare.
"What?" she asked, the grin she'd been stifling finally creeping onto her face.
Still, Variks said nothing. His stare remained unwavering.
Only then did Meren's smile falter. "Variks, come on."
She looked down at the board, then. And there, the last of her grin died.
With a singular stone, Variks had changed the tide of the battle, subverting her advance, claiming an open swath of the board and hemming her in. Any move she could make would only be a prolongment of her inevitable defeat. The only option left to her was to fold.
She hadn't even seen the play coming.
