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ritens · 11 months

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[wf] Nothing Is As It Was 2. The New Blank Page

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“Is this real?” He asks the only question that comes to mind.

There’s something wet and slightly sharp scraping his cheek. Leander pushes it away instinctively, thinking he’d been asleep for so long that the doppelgangers are already having a go at his flesh. However, the curious “murrp!” causes him to drop the idea on the spot.

He opens his eyes and sees the sun rays lean through the branches of tall trees above him. He feels the grass on which he is laying and even hears tree leaves rattle in the wind. There also seems to be a trickling stream of water nearby. The scene seems surreal. It pushes him to sit up and have a better look around. But then the kavat plants itself down right in front of him, purposefully blocking the view.

“As real as it gets.” The feline replies. “Listen, the threads of time are thin and there is much you should know.”

The kavat waits for a pained exhale then continues. “This is the Earth of a parallel time. You are mortal here, and a war has recently concluded in the Origin System. I suggest you lay low while you figure out how things work.”

Leander nods. The kavat then stands up and circles around the man thoughtfully. It’s difficult to condense all the important information in a few sentences but an attempt has to be made.

“So the ship as you know it is gone. Your cousin Ria is also long gone.”

“A war?” the man mouths in disbelief, then lets out a nervous chuckle. “You’ve brought me here to die permanently?”

“Would remaining in the timeloop be better? Anyway, we are even now.” The feline stops circling the man to boop him on the cheek with its nose. Leander dares to touch the animal and strokes its surprisingly silky fur. He notices existential particles shift within the kavat like a water current, and this is when the realization hits him, that his mysterious savior might indeed have maybe a few minutes of life left.

“Who are you?” he finally asks.

“My name is Goere. We were friends in this timeline.” Goere introduces herself.

“Thank you, Goere.” Leander whispers as he gently pats the kavat between the ears. His hand goes through her.

Goere steps away from Leander. Both of them make note of Goere’s now rapidly disappearing form. And neither of them know what to do about it.

“Don’t be a hero, Leander. Stay in your Lane.” she says.

They stare at one another in uncomfortable silence, and in less than a minute the kavat fades into a sea green mass of energy before she ceases to exist entirely.

Just a moment later Leander shoots up to his feet and begins pacing back and forth. He is on Earth, a war has just ended but there are remnants of it, whatever they may be. He has free will, he can do whatever he wants now, but he has no idea what he wants, doesn’t know what he should be doing.

Before the man has the chance to really overthink it, the sound of running water manages to grasp his attention. It’s the stream nearby. He could try getting rid of the grime as a start. In the colosseum all he could do was get filthy. He is foul in every sense of the word. But he could fix it now that it’s an option.

Leander traipses through the forest in the direction of the source of water. He makes sure to touch every tree he passes by as though there’s a chance that everything might be fake after all. Instead the trunks of the trees are solid, the bark textured. Earth is magnificent. What a wonderful second first impression.

The body of water turns out to be bigger than he had expected. It’s not a quick little stream running through the rocks, rather a calm and steady river path.

The man walks down to the bank of the river. Once within reach of water, he pulls off his well worn gloves, and squats down to touch the surface of the water. Chilly but not unpleasant. Good enough. He proceeds to peel off the layers of armor and clothing on him, and thinks about giving those a rinse as well.

The next hour he spends by sitting in the water with all of his ragged belongings. Occasionally he attempts to touch one of the small amphibian creatures surrounding him. Peculiar!

Once sufficiently clean, the man finally gets out of the river. Not without wrinkled fingers and blue lips, of course. He is feeling uncomfortable but refreshed at the same time. And somehow that is still one of the best things he has experienced so far.

The skies above are turning gray with clouds, and the mood shifts. A not so distant snap of twigs makes the ambience of the woods quite unfriendly. Leander then realizes that maybe satiating his need for some kind of hygiene wasn’t the smartest idea. He pays extra attention to the sounds of the area as he wrings out his soaking wet pieces of clothing. Then he throws on the bare minimum of the still insufficiently dry clothes, and runs toward a bunch of fallen trees to hide. One of the tree trunks turns out to be hollow and that’s where he crawls in to take cover.

There are footsteps and the occasional verbal exchange of incoherent words nearing Leander’s location. He listens to how the feet sink into the moss. Slow and heavy. They’re definitely bigger beings than him.

When they’re a good distance away, Leander peeks out of the hollow trunk of the tree to take a look at these beings. They turn out to be brute men dressed in dusty rags similar to that of his own. There’s odd golden bowls stuck to their faces, likely a design of the Orokin. Maybe it’s now possible to comfortably eat without using one's hands. Levitating telepathy bowls? But how could anyone see anything with a bowl in their face like that. Is it really a viable multitasking method?

Before he could continue pondering the meaning of the golden food bowls, one of the burly men turns around to glance in his direction and Leander ducks back into his hiding spot. They don’t look friendly and he’s not about to test that theory by being in their line of sight.

He continues to sit in the trunk near motionlessly if not for the shivers caused by the cold stick of the still wet clothes wrapping his person.

There’s something falling from the sky by now. Water. Rain. He sighs and furrows his brows. The rain acts as a layer of noise reduction and Leander is certain it's likely safe enough for him to get back out in the fray to collect the remainder of his belongings.

The man makes his way back to the riverbank. He puts on his thick chest armor and boots, then straps everything in place with a number of belts. He can’t remember how he obtained any of these things. It feels as though he was born wearing melee combat gear. But it doesn’t make sense. Suddenly he shakes his head again.

“Stop. Stop circling. We need to focus on the situation at hand. Which is… uh.“ Leander attempts to talk some sense into himself but quickly comes to the conclusion that there is no basis for this so-called ‘sense’. All thoughts then cease and he stares blankly ahead.

After standing still for a minute, he lifts a hand to his chin and thinks out loud “I should probably find a safe enough location to sleep in.”

“Somewhere with a roof.” He glances up at the gray sky. Rain immediately hits him in the eyes and he turns his face back down. It’s probably afternoon now. He’s not entirely sure what the current season could be, nor when the sun sets. The sooner he starts looking for a potential camping spot the better.

Walking along the river seems like an idea. Whether it’s a good or a bad one remains to be seen, but for now it’s an idea that Leander is going with. He treks in the same direction where the men with the golden bowls had gone, against the river’s flow.

The skies become increasingly darker with each hour, the clouds hiding any indication of a sunset but Leander continues walking. Now and then the man stops to stare at any animal that happens to cross his path. And starts sprinting when a vasca kavat comes at him hissing with bared fangs. Goere may have been snappy but at least she had good intentions. This one, however, has Leander return to being the prey.

He dashes through the rain deeper into the darkness of the forest, away from the river. He jumps over fallen trees, dodges low hanging branches, and ignores the sting of prickly bushes and oversized nettles which he may have brushed against in his rush. The feral kavat is relentless still, and evades all obstacles with relative ease.

At one point he runs through something like a makeshift fence, past a familiar golden sheen. He glances back to have a better look. It’s the burly men from earlier, now lying dead in the forest moss, wisps of red energy flowing out of their bodies. Moreso, he appears to be moving on a well worn and recently used path.

Leander stops.

He witnesses the kavat let out a harsh, piercing cry right as it reaches the dead bodies. Then it keels over seemingly from nothing.

The man continues walking backwards as he reaches for the swords holstered on his back, only to remember not packing them there in the first place. His blades remain at the river bed where he had gone for a swim.

“Horrible.” He mutters, turns around, and is knocked out cold by an unexpected fist to his temple. The last thing he sees are two red eyes staring down at him.

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#ritens-art #ritens-writing #this is a filler exploring the behaviour of the character. not much happens plotwise tbh. had fun with it and thats what matters #warframe #wf oc #wf-lane

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alteredsilicone · 15 days

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The First Failure

Dad had a portrait of Albrecht Entrati mounted on his wall, along with other esteemed scientists, but for some reason it was Entrati that he would point to whenever he felt like giving a lecture.

"Remember, Viri, no matter how hard you try, how long you work, you will never reach the light of the Orokin, but we can always hope to follow in their footsteps, however far behind."

The corpse of Albrecht Entrati laid at Virgo's feet. Arthur had cut him from groin to neck, his guts spilling out, blood and pus and viscera everywhere. The smell was frightening. A normal person would have cried, screamed, retched, but Virgo simply stared. She remembered countless sights like these, she caused sights like these. Kalymos laid not far away, her head only partially detached. A hasty, messy cut, not like Albrecht's.

"So, how fucked up is he? Can we put him together?" a voice came up behind Virgo. Artemis.

"You have a surgeon's needle? Thread?"

"Do I look like a fucking surgeon?!" Artemis snapped.

"Do you have tape?"

Artemis stared at Virgo, grimacing.

"You want to tape him together?!"

"Eir said we need Albrecht and Kalymos in one piece. If tape is what holds his guts inside, it's tape we use. We can rearrange him later at the ritual site."

Artemis chuckled.

"I've desecrated plenty of Orokin corpses, but this is a bit too fucked even for me. You tape him up, I'll go find Eir."

"Did you find Arthur?"

"Yeah, put him out of his misery."

"He was still alive?"

"Barely. Kavat got him good. Lost too much blood. So I sent him on his merry way." Artemis did a finger-gun gesture at her head then walked away.

---

The corpse of a young woman laid at Albrecht's feet. She had blonde hair with a hint of blue and pink. He had never met this woman before yet she felt familiar.

Albrecht knelt beside her. Something had cut open her chest and torn her ribs apart, exposing her heart. He reached into her chest cavity and pulled it out. The heart was blue and cold to the touch, pulsating cords keeping it attached to the body. It whispered.

The corpse grabbed Albrecht's arm. He did not flinch.

"What killed you?"

"Love."

---

Loid stared at the wall. He could not bare to look at the screen. He listened as Artemis cussed out her sister as the two shuffled Albrecht's corpse around.

It's not him. It's just an echo of the past. He's not dead.

Loid could not help but steal a glance. As if his gaze could penetrate time and space itself - the moment he turns to the screen, the sisters stumble and drop Albrecht's body on the floor, spilling viscera everywhere. Artemis shouted expletives, Virgo scrambled to push Albrecht's insides back where they belonged.

Loid looks away. His own insides twist. He bends forward, folding his arms over his stomach as if beset by a sudden pain.

It's not him. It's just an echo of the past. He's not dead.

---

The casket hisses and hums as it slowly opens. Albrecht opens his eyes and is greeted with a harsh light. Kalymos meows.

He is in the middle of the desert.

How?

He steps out of the casket. A vast nothingness. He is not in his lab. He decides to take a step forward, Kalymos right at his side. He walks and walks. He can feel solid ground under his feet, but no signs of anything else. Albrecht walks and walks and walks until he comes upon a mound.

He gets down beside it and shuffles the sand. There is something under. A skeleton, covered in tattered rags.

Albrecht recognizes a golden oculus.

He is alone in the world.

#viriverse #wf 1999 au #this is nonsense lol #cw for violence though #my writing #<- rarest tag on this blog

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smeeta · 4 years

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Me, getting a solid Loka Brown kavat and therefore owning a solid for every one of the available natural colors, naming it Ratatouille:

IT’S FRENCH, IT’S FOOD, AND IT HAS RAT IN IT.

#warframe #journey's end lmao.#kavat #smeeta kavat #ratatouille #orbiter #rip stasis view #solid kavat

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plastidgremlin · 2 years

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How the Operator and the Drifter explain...

These two decide that maybe it's better not to tell certain people the whole deal with them. It opens a lot of questions that just aren't that easy to answer, and Drifter's of a mind that someone somewhere will get it into their head to exploit them.

The people that really matter know—at first, it's only the Lotus, and then the Operator gets it into her head to maybe tell Onkko. He probably already knows, anyways, right? So Drifter suggests telling Little Duck, being she's involved with the Quills and also helped Drifty out. And they're the only ones who know for a long time.

For everyone else, they're Meeho (operator) and Marlow (Drifter)—Tenno sisters. When they're asked, they say Marlow was pulled out of stasis early by some hapless Corpus scientist that Marlow killed before he could exploit her.

It's a solid enough story, and the Lotus is happy to help them sell it—if it comes into question, all she need do is speak up, and no one's going to argue with the Tenno's mother.

No one really speaks up about it, though. Marlow and Meeho talk about each other like siblings, and the constant fucking with each other certainly helps sell it.

Eventually, some people start asking - it’s brushed aside for the most part, but Meeho caves for Ticker, tells her everything from the moment she got the call that there were Murexes on the move up to a blade piercing her chest, to dying, to the chat with the Drifter, with herself. Ticker’s the woman Meeho trusts just as much as her mother. Ticker isn’t going to spill her secrets, because she gets heartbreak better than most.

Marlow, on the other hand... Grandmother picks up that she’s got secrets - the other Tenno are unfazed by the Infestation, but Marlow? Marlow is deeply uncomfortable when she’s on Deimos, and lacks the deadly grace of the Tenno in their warframes, bumbles around the Necralisk like a newborn kavat with a nukor strapped to its back. She comes wearing a mask over her mouth and nose, and once or twice she’s come waltzing back from the Cambion Drift pressing a heat dagger into a bite to cauterize and kill anything left behind.

But Grandmother doesn’t ask, she lets it be - and for that, Marlow eventually fills her in, too. It gets filed away in her list of secrets she’ll never share.

#warframe #warframe tenno #warframe operator #warframe drifter #warframe the new war #warframe spoilers #look they're idiots #but they'll be alright

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theterribletenno · 3 years

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Morgana, the Witch warframe

Step on me, goth mommy.

Health: 100 (300 at rank 30) Shields: 100 (300 at rank 30) Armor: 75 Energy: 150 (225 at rank 30) Sprint Speed: 1

Passive: If Morgana has not cast an ability within the last 15 seconds her next ability cast will gain 20% strength. Bonus strength is increased by 5% for each additional 5 seconds, scaling up to a maximum of +50% strength.

Ability 1: Cursed Missile, 25 energy. Fires four elemental missiles that deal 300 damage with 100% status chance of their randomly selected element. These missiles target enemies standing within a 6 meter radius around Morgana, or home in on enemies within 60 meters and a 90 degree angle of the aiming reticle. Each projectile’s element is chosen randomly from the possibilities of cold, electric, heat, toxin, corrosive, gas, radiation, or viral.

Ability 2: Hex of Frailty, 50 energy. Condemns the flesh and souls of all enemies within 20 meters, causing their movement and attack speed to be reduced by 40% and increasing the damage they receive by 100%. The effects of Hex of Frailty linger for 60 seconds on affected enemies.

Ability 3: Devil’s Contract, 75 energy. A dark covenant is made with the targeted enemy within 25 meters of Morgana. The affected enemy takes 75 true damage every second for 10 seconds. If the enemy is still alive one second after the final tick, they will be hit for an additional 1000 true damage. If the enemy dies before the final tick occurs, Morgana is healed for 50 health and the enemy releases a nova of dark energy, dealing 500 gas damage with 100% status chance to all enemies within 15 meters.

Ability 4: Wild Magic, 100 energy. Speaking in unholy tongues, Morgana surrenders herself to a flood of arcane energy, letting it surge outwards in all directions up to a range of 60 meters. A total of 15 random bolts of magic shoot from Morgana’s body, homing in on friends or foes in accordance with their individual properties. The number of bolts is affected by ability strength. Bolt properties include the following, in descending order of probability (high probability at top, low probability at bottom) A) Deals 300 cold, electric, heat, toxin, corrosive, gas, radiation, or viral damage with 100% status chance. B) Freezes an enemy solid, rendering them unable to move or attack and increasing damage they take by 400% for 10 seconds. C) Heals a single ally for 120 health/shields. This healing can grant overshields. D) Converts a single enemy into a mind-controlled thrall for 10 seconds, dealing 1500 true damage on expiration. E) Gives a single ally a 30% bonus to damage dealt, crit chance, status chance, and ability strength for 7.5 seconds. F) Applies Devil’s Contract to a single enemy. G) Summons a random familiar (such as a Sentinel, Kubrow, or Kavat) to act as a temporary companion for one ally for 12 seconds.

Signature Weapons Caduceus: A Tenno spear-gun once used to execute blasphemers by burning them alive. As the Orokin fell into corruption the blasphemous became the profound, and the holy became the reviled. Primary fire behaves like a flamethrower, dealing pure heat damage in a wide cone with infinite punch-through against bodies and very high status chance at the cost of low crit. Alt-fire throws the spear-gun. When thrown, this weapon releases a series of elemental novas in the order of Cold, Heat, Toxic, Electric with 100% status chance. Nova damage scales with mods but elements do not combine. When Morgana throws the Caduceus her next cast of Cursed Missile or Devil’s Contract has its energy cost reduced by half, lasts 6 seconds or until Caduceus is picked up. Asclepius: A Tenno staff oozing with dark energy from the time of the Orokin downfall. It is said that if an unworthy wielder picks up the Asclepius they will suffer a crippling sickness. Deals mostly viral and impact damage with low puncture and slash. High crit at the cost of low status chance. When in Morgana’s hands finisher attacks with this weapon spawn an energy orb.

Closing notes: See this turned out WAY more satisfying than Zafi. She feels strong, she feels useful and flexible, an absolute girlboss warframe. Honestly in retrospect with how naturally this came to me I’m surprised I felt daunted by it at first, I really am just super pleased with her, especially after feeling like a fumbled with Zafi.

#Warframe #original character #fan-made

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retfarcyroeht · 3 years

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Esprit de Khora

There's quite a few options when considering pet proliferation builds; most centering (and rightfully so) around maggots.

I've expanded my personal view on this to almost always include Tesla Nervos (w/Bank). Tesla gives you up to four independent AI attack dogs that ALWAYS seek out enemies; causing both CC and AoE damage.

I've gone with these on multiple frames for varying strategies but for some heavy petting, I went with Khora.

At her base, she can employ two pets; Venari and your choice of Sentinel, Moa, Kavat or Kubrow. For this particular setup, I went with the Helminth Charger; which produces 2-8 maggots, over time, when modded with Strain set mods. This is also where my pet specific Hunter set mods are (since Venari can't utilize set mod bonuses when equipped on her).

At this point, we're a solid army of three with the potential to hit eleven when hitting the trenches with our fellow maggots.

Next, I subsumed Ensnare out (the HORROR); replacing it with Nervos (with the Tesla Bank augment). So we now have a core squad of 3-7; 15 with timely reinforcements. Although the maggots don't do much damage; that's still quite a bit of cc running around the map.

Any good maggot build should include the Pathocyst glaive (because it makes more maggots); it can be difficult to quantify the number of simultaneous grubs it puts out... it'll cover the Strain sets cool down though.

Strangledome serves the build in both utility and theme; grouping up mobs to fight to the death in THE TERRORDOME. (which, coincidentally, becomes an aggro magnet for the rowdy spectators (ie. more army for you, no rads required).

I use a kitgun secondary so I can use the arcane that spawns the shock spires; synergizing it with both Theorem Demulcent and Theorem Infection, so that my frame and the two main pets can get damage buffs. It also provides its own area cc and damage. (It's worth noting that the spires don't seem to target mobs caught in the strangle dome)

Wherever possible, mod for radiation damage to increase you ability to make enemies defect and fight for you..

#warframe #khora #venari #helminth charger #helminth system

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nek-ros · 4 years

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with the colors i got on my kavat when i got em like a few months ago i feel rng was deliberately trying to piss me off (almost solid conculyst brown, had pink accents and the ugly face) but joke's on rng im deliberately making my cat ugly now

#warframe

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prophecydungeon · 7 years

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// nekros -↠ soul punch / terrify / despoil / shield of shadows

#warframe tag #warframe #nekros #friendframe endgame #good morning i spent a solid hour and a half in captura today messing around #have an edgy boy photoset #i cant believe im a fucking edgelord main in every game i play. god #now i kinda want to do build photosets for all the frames i use regularly #but nekros is kinda the only frame i've put Thought(tm) into a build for? so we'll see #also the only frame ive beggared augment mods off of friends for :B :B :B #BUT anyways. i'll have nekros prime One Day and i'll potato him One Day and i'll forma him One Day #also captura is giving me the runaround re: shadows of the dead so i'll try scanning some basic enemies and give it another shot.... later #the only enemy i have full scans for is kavats LMAO #eta: got me that shadows of the dead hashtag look in there + rearranged things #not in numerical order anymore but it Looks better to me

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heartslogos · 5 years

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seas who could sing so deep and strong [180]

“Hey, real talk,” Punk slings an arm around Chic’s shoulder as she’s organizing invoices. “Percy has a Cephalon, right? I’m not imagining it?”

“Every tenno has a Cephalon, some are better than others,” Chic replies. “Of course she has one.”

“But…have you ever heard it? Or seen its projection?”

Chic pauses, the answer here is yes. Of course. How could she have not? Even when you’re in a random squad you’ll sometimes hear the chatter of other tenno’s Cephalons. Or you’ll hear those tenno idly giving their Cephalons instructions. Sometimes if you’re talking to a tenno through a video feed and the Cephalon needs to interrupt you’ll see a small display view of that Cephalon’s image for a moment.

And yet. Chic can’t think of a moment when she’s heard Persephone’s Cephalon.

“Its called Ordis, I think,” Chic says. Because she does remember Persephone and Hades mentioning Ordis once. Or twice. Probably more Hades than Persephone, which is, again, strange that Hades talks about and to Persephone’s Cephalon more than Persephone does.

But it is Persephone, so…

“She wore a mask under a mask under a mask around us for ages. She only stopped using voice filters around us recently. I don’t think she accepted either of our friend requests for a solid year. I’ve been on her Orbiter once and that was because we were all freaking out about Nora Nightwave. I don’t think it’s too weird that neither of us knows jack shit about Persephone’s Cephalon. I mean, I don’t even know what her real name is.”

Punk hums, mouth twisting in thought.

“Do you think her Cephalon is broken?”

“Maybe.” There are a few tenno who’s Cephalons have been corrupted or fragmented over their long hibernation cycles. Or almost completely destroyed altogether and are being held together by patch-work done by Simaris and Suda. “But with how well her ship functions and how quick her Cephalon is to respond when she does command it I don’t think so. Maybe her Cephalon is shy, like Hades’.”

“The idea of Percy having a shy Cephalon is so out of this world that it’s in the Void.”

“Their personalities don’t have to match,” Chic protests. “I mean. Look at Alpha and his Cephalon. His Cephalon is mean. And Empress’ Cephalon is pretty loud.”

“But they still match a little bit. Alpha’s Cephalon isn’t mean so much as it has high standards and expectations, and its got a really…noble? Uh. Noble feeling about it. Kind of mysterious, too. And Empress’ Cephalon is loud but its also really battle focused and confident. Judge’s Cephalon is just as curious and science-minded as he is. So there’s got to be some kind of similarity or compatibility there.”

“Maybe her Cephalon doesn’t like us. Just like how she doesn’t like you. Maybe its unsociable.”

Punk hums. “But we wore her down eventually. It’s different, isn’t it?”

“Why are you so curious about this anyway?”

“Because I’m not sure if I’m imagining her Cephalon or not and it made me nervous.”

It is by some narrow miracle that neither Judge’s, nor Kore’s, Umbra has been found out by someone else. And there have been some close calls. Some very close calls.

Once while he was video-calling Joy his Umbra made an unfortunate minor appearance walking in the background. Scylla barely managed to warn him and Judge let out a flash of void energy causing several precariously stacked robotics projects he was working on to tumble and obscure the warframe from view. Chic had mentioned it later and Judge explained it as a specter that his Cephalon was controlling.

One time while they were group calling Kore’s Umbra briefly appeared int he corner of her screen practicing stances with her nikana and Kore quickly pretended to trip so that the camera’s field of view would move away from him. Kore’s not a good liar or actress, and you could see from every single pixel her frustration as she continued talking into the screen while lying through her teeth. Saying that she tripped. Tripped. Kore. Tripping. In her own ship. With no one else around her.

And they believed it.

Which is, frankly, ridiculous, because he’s never seen Kore trip ever unless someone was actively aiming for her legs.

The point is, their Umbra’s existence is a barely kept secret, maintained only by the skin of their teeth and the willingness of their friends to believe their bad lies for lack of better explanation.

“Please, please, please,” Judge mutters under his breath as he tries to shove his Umbra into the Helminth chamber. Umbra remains firmly just outside of said Helminth chamber, projecting mild confusion as Judge tries to move him. “There are three tenno who don’t know who you are about to board my ship.”

Judge swears he thought Umbra was going to be somewhere else — wandering one of the lower decks like he normally does — but apparently his Umbra’s in the mood where he wants to sit and stare out into the darkness of space because Judge found him on the navigation deck earlier. And while that’s normally fine and something Judge thinks of as probably healthy for Umbra’s fractured mind, it’s not something he can do right now. Judge doesn’t think he can explain Umbra sitting up there as a very large articula or another specter. Punk and Chic would want to poke at it, and Alpha’s general existence might make Umbra uneasy and want to test it.

Alpha tends to provoke that reaction in people. It’s unintentional of course, but most of things Alpha causes are unintentional.

While it would be a relief not to have to hide Umbra anymore, he would rather that particular secret not come out to his friends by his warframe attempting to duel Alpha in the middle of his ship. Where he lives. In the cold, unforgiving vacuum of space.

He’d have to move in with Kore and her norgs would drive him insane if his kavat doesn’t give Kore some kind of aneurysm.

#heartsfic #warframe #punk and chic #otp: space kids

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chamberofnectar · 5 years

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Wounded, but not yet broken

Summary

No more Orokin. No more Somatic Cradle. No more forced self-sacrifices.

But scars always take so long to heal, especially if they’re dug so deep.

[Tags update over time, rating will remain the same. A strained Father and Son relationship due to financial and emotional stress]

Mature | Graphic Depiction of violence

[ Story Link ] Chapter 13 of (?) continue beneath the read more!

Silence persists as the liset’s ramp taps against the overgrowth on the dock platform, further in as they finally board it, safely stowed away from the prospect of Lotus operatives or the dread of the infested hoards that still lie in waste. Warren clings to the jar and the slightly withering branch of arboriform, his face shielded from T’viska by his hair still stuck with derelict residue. Each side-wards glance the loki takes, all he can surmise is the down casted slouch, the reserved motions as the teenager coils himself small into the passenger seat. As he turns back to the console above them, his golden claws clicking against the console and breathing life into the old ship’s engines.

As he finally begins to ease it from the derelict’s dock, T’viska itches through his reservations, the memory of his words and the vulnerable worry of before. His motions are slow, calculated, just as the cumulation of the morphology he was given. Quiet, reserved, sharp on the draw and impatient; he taps in the connection to the orbiter waiting within its void cloak a few thousand kilometers away – out of the common routes for grineer and corpus alike. Suuir takes over the directive as the connection is affirmed, tethered back into entry as the cabin remains lull.

T’viska doesn’t turn when he hears Warren sigh, the slighting trembles of tearful shakes.

His maw twists into a frown.

What is he to do… turning his attention to the notation Suuir briefs in his vision.

One more mission to go before they can reach Mars…

The liset shutters as the locking pins secure the vessel into place, pulled rearwards into the cradle.

“After this mission, we’ll be in Martian orbit. Would you like to go there again, Warren?” the loki doesn’t look over as he hears the shuffle of damp boots, the squeaking on the metal floor.

“Sure,” he hears mumbled at his back as the liset’s ramp eases down. “That’d be nice,” breathing hitches, steps turning aggressive as they move from the vessel into the orbiter’s hanger proper.

Golden claws curl against the armrest, mouth turning into a confused snarl. The transmission of anxieties coil inside his chest, the transference of sensory hiccups. Fingers press against his temples from one hand, throwing the liset back into Suuir’s control. “Ready for launch,” he snarls, “let’s just get this fucking over with,” hands cup his face.

‘Rescue of an informant, requested by Corpus, held in a Grineer facility.’ The liset shutters out of the platform, surging into life back into top speed. T’viska takes control of the steering column, snarling as it jerks into his palms. It popped up while he was on his way back, ‘On route to execution, or prolonged interrogation. They have information on the Lotus.’

T’viska, one last time, checks the lato’s barrel. To kill or return them to a neighboring vessel.

He snaps the chamber back into the gun. Three rounds left.

Aboard the orbiter, Warren plods himself back to the residential quarters. Water pools beneath him as he sets the arboriform onto the display platform that connects the upper and lower platforms. His mouth, flesh and teeth, snarl as he rips off his coat, tears embittering his sight as he chokes back the sobs. His only pair of shoes are thrown into the corner, his coat tossed at the edge of the display platform as he shoves Crenshaw’s curious muzzle out of the way with a half curse and partial apology.

The look she gives him… startled and confused corrodes his efforts.

He scratches away the tears in his sight. He rids himself the total warmth of pants – leaving him more exposed to the temperate chill of the orbiter as he discards them. His feet are still wet, same for his ankles and part of his shins, the cold biting him to shiver as he storms around to the lower landing. From the meager cache of clothing he pulls out his other pair of pants, a shirt, underwear, and towel, digging them out in quick succession. His steps remain heavy as he chokes back the sobbing anxiety that clings in the back of his mind, hanging there in his throat as he slams the shower chamber door open. Drops the clothing to the side and locks himself inside – isolation.

Still clothed, hands wringing in his messy hair, Warren crumbles back against the tile wall. Snarling as he turns the shower head on, and the tears flow free.

He’s so fucking tired of crying.

It chases him even after he’s long dried out; his hair a hamper mess of natural curls in every which way as he sits bundled in front of the glass screen. At one side Crenshaw had curled herself up, her withers pressed against his thigh as he browses again through the near infinite trove of meager data. Nothing concrete he can find through Suuir or the previous cephalon about the plant sat at his other side, sitting quant in its jar. Almost alert as his bare void-stained fingers ease beneath areas once wilted, smooth but course on the growing ends. It hints him the lightest of a smile before he looks back into his reflection beyond the datapoints transposed before him.

There has to be something amongst the trove, his features snarl.

Fingers dance aggressive across the surface before him, through file after file, image after image amongst the classified and undisclosed, accounts ranging from intervened to abandoned records seizing from sporadic facilities along their path. Datamined and files sorted; there’s not enough, there’s barely anything to find! At the urging pain that splits in his sides, the transference, the reminder of the transference connection, only makes him angrier; and scared.

At this point, is it even worth trying…?

Warren shakes the thoughts from his consciousness with a huff, fingers pulling out corpus logs before him to read in earnest. Mere footnotes, minor mentions in passing of the strange white plants that bend and wind beneath the hulls of the tethered void-towers. The disgust of those rotting left in the derelicts that sprinkle throughout the solar system, remnants of the Orokin empire. His focus contorts, bending over against the anxieties that still plague him after Lua.

He pushes himself out with the self-defeatist rhetoric. He’s doing something wrong, all the information is there but he’s too fucking screwed up to read it right. That must be it, his hand screws through his hair, jostling it back and forth as he tries to tear out the ruminations that cobble in his chest, in his throat as his somatic sight dances over the screen. The hours he spent looking through them… the absolute bullshit he had to tinker with the files to get them into semi-coherent correspondence of data made difficult due to cephalon decay. He can only access the previous one for so long before Suuir’s words cut across the screen – they damage his neural process, they need to stop.

And cuts Warren off mid-sentence.

Is looking all this up even worth it…?

Warren glances over at the jar at his side, where the arboriform sits still with neural sap pooling at the base – reflecting solid in the low lights. Still alive… for how long he doesn’t exactly know, how long does it have left? His breathing stutters, palm rubbing against his sight where his mouth sits in bitter anger. Warren can feel himself trembling, watching it become more frustrating to course through the files placed before him, dismissing the cephalon off to the side as he just wants to know, want to just fucking know what he’s looking for.

His fist balls into the kavat’s fur, grounding him a semblance of stability, quelling the angry trembling that makes him worried – not helped by the pain that still occasionally blooms on his shoulders and back, the notion of gunfire, flame, and blade. Father on a mission, son stuck all alone…Warren fights back the chokes of feeling forgotten, dismissed to the uncaring cephalon that sits idle as he cries.

Tears mess against the glass before him.

And they reflect the inner glow of his sight as he moves onto a dark image of the void – null against the dark backdrop on the other side of the glass.

Fingers curling into fist. He can only tremble, pressing the ebbs of void energy against his reflection, staring at the exposed teeth made by Orokin abuse. Choking, shuttering, his forehead presses down against it, eyes falling closed as his left-hand dives against his side, patting.

The blades in his coat… right…

And it only makes him worse as the ruminations turn to dark verbal. Useless. Worthless. His brilliant blue eyes spotted with somatic implants curse into his reflection, snarling as tears stain down his cheeks and cut through his restraint. Pain of his own, pain of T’viska’s on a mission.

Warren’s hurting.

One foot over the other, he drops the blanket in a silent and slow motion, ebbing with void aggression as he stands to full. Standard wear, arms exposed, feet cold against the metal flooring, he moves back to the upper landing, following over to the coat that sits slumped and still damp half way down.

And he picks out the half of a spira blade.

And holds the blade against his wrist as tears stain over his eyes.

He’s hurting and he doesn’t know what to do. Physical punishment for doing something wrong, he tries to quell the screaming in the back of his mind, feeling the cold blade against his void corrupted wrist.

The damage of his face when being struck when he tried to stand up for himself, for other children, a slap he could feel and others couldn’t see.

His brows press tight, faltering back against the wall as he still holds it there… holds it there against his wrist.

This will make everything right… right?

His chest surges with choking breaths, sobs dripping through his chest and down his cheek and exposed gums. Clouding his vision, pressing it down as his hands tremble and shake.

Warren throws the blade, his hands curling into his hair as he cries.

Golden claws remain curled into the loki’s bicep as he watches the Corpus officials tend to the informant, half preoccupied with repayment, the other with the worry of Warren; half and half melding with the young corpus that sits huddled at the edge of the stretcher the medical technicians had pulled up when his liset landed in the port. At either side stands a corpus tech, and further out crewmen that are unnerved by his proximity to their medical staff.

T’viska can’t blame them; but at least none recognize him for now.

But it doesn’t keep the nerves on the back of his neck from standing alert, sat anxious as he listens to their banter that Suuir quickly translates. ‘He’ll be fine,’ the cephalon translates from a paramedic, ‘shaken up, the bullet in their shin will take some time to heal.’ T’viska tosses a sentence to translate back, ‘that’s a relief. Curious, what information do they have?’

Communication is broken off as the technicians cart the rescued informant away, giving Suuir the leeway he was looking for to handle the final part of the transaction. Thirty thousand credits more the loki sighs in relief, escorting himself back to his ship as the corpus techs keep their supras on standby.

Back within the safety of the liset only one thing still stings in his mind as he ignites the liset back to life, coaxing it out of the hanger and back to the cephalon’s control. “How’s he doing,” the loki frowns, letting his claws drift over where he felt the taunting of a blade bite.

‘He’s doing fine, T,’ floats across the loki’s vision, ‘he’s asleep right now… he didn’t do any harm to himself.’ It grants T’viska the room to breathe, lying back loose into the comfort of the pilot seat while Suuir directs the landing craft’s controls.

“So… he had it on him the whole time. Makes sense how he kept it secret for so long,” the warframe mulls, watching the dark sky sail before him. Suuir only grants him a minor confirmation. “The ship needs a fucking clean up… I would’ve noticed sooner,” he snarls.

‘Cleaned and repaired, T’viska,’ the cephalon rebounds in the peripherals of the warframe’s vision. ‘My bolts are still loose from when you tore it open and put me in the drink,’ his words cut across, rattling off the century worth of repairs that have not been done. The ones that haven’t been mended or are in desperate need of a technician’s hand.

The loki grunts, stretching an arm around his back and behind his head. “I’ve told you, I’ll get to it when I get to it. I’m the only one that’s getting any expenses taken care of,” he briefly snarls, stretching his worn muscles with a sigh, arm hanging off his neck. Eyespots hang open as he stares into the emptiness before him, watching neutral as the liset nears the location of the orbiter. A few minutes, and he’ll be back aboard…

“Suuir, how far off is the Bazaar,” he states flat, thoughts cobbling near the hind of his mind.

‘Three minutes from your current position; you wish to redirect?’

“Yes,” the warframe heaves another sigh, claws itching against the back of his head and down the side of one horn. “Get the orbiter to Mars; I want to run by the bazaar and get some things.”

‘Right,’ the cephalon flickers out of his vision, the vessel diverting beneath his feet. Golden claws grasp around the steering column at ease, feeling the automated systems beneath his fingertips as the cephalon’s directives guide the vessel away from the orbiter. Just as stated, it takes merely three minutes to close in on the semi-cloaked bazaar adrift over Mars.

Beneath the void cloak, T’viska watches as he zooms pass grineer galleons and heavy class interceptors, only releasing his tense grip as the liset settles into its boarding cradle, sinking into the restraints that hold it steady within the habitation bubble. Social tensity clings in the back of his mind, a meeting place of merchants and mercenaries, he pats the broken lato at his side – questioning if he needs a replacement or he can fix it later. Another thing to put off.

Though his steps remain light, the loki keeps his wits about him as he passes through the antechamber and into the vessel proper – where the looms of overgrown Terran and Martian flora hang over the floors above and below, the open-air platforms giving room to the median scale prompted by Lotus interference. Not the most comfortable place he’d rather be… taking a deep breath before he exhales.

First on the agenda… a bed; and he browses through a small directory where he might find one.

Fingers crawl through auburn hair as his exhaustion begins to wear off. Shivering, Warren finds himself slumped back against the wall, his feet and fingers freezing in the orbiter’s low ambiance as his eyes still remain tear-stung. Once pulled from his hair, his hands bury themselves beneath his arms, held there as he stares off into the middle distance, mouth pressing into a flat line.

Across from him, where it had rebounded off the display glass of one of the ship’s tanks, the spira blade.

Fingers knead in the warmth that radiates from his body as his mind sits lull, focus adverted from the physical to ruminate over and over, a cobble of self-deprecation and aggressive dismissal. He’s doing it all wrong; he should’ve just done it and let the ill red flow from his wrist. Impulsive thoughts that scratch against his neurals; overthought into the minor detail, the banishment of not overthinking and he’s an idiot.

His mouth twists into a snarl.

Clutching onto his shirt, curling his legs up against his chest, he forces his somatic sights closed.

Something else… he needs something else to concentrate on. His mouth bites at what remains of his lip, face pressing into his knees as he continues to shiver in the chill. Itching through the thought of self-hatred, the impulsive resentment of failure, he emotionally tears himself apart. As a vagabond child, the Zariman, the discovery and imprisonment beneath the Orokin empire – he snarls, pulling his legs close.

And the tears are pouring again… pooling against his clothing as he tries to wipe them free. His breathing stuttering, crying as the banishment to isolation plays over again in his mind – the internal trauma that wasn’t his own but felt just as real as could be. Being pulled from the somatic cradles and wavering to nausea and collapsing on functional legs.

Fingers pry through his hair.

Something else, his breathing hitches, fingers pulling and churning across his scalp.

Thrown into the isolation room… staring up above.

He releases his head, looking up into the direction of the now quiet holographic pane.

One foot over the other, Warren eases himself to his feet and side steps the spira blade as he walks to the lower landing. The jarred arboriform is still there, just where he left it as he fumbles down onto his knees, hands taking hold of the blanket that once covered him. He takes a second to pause, pulling the blanket over him as he still continues to shiver.

Sat with legs crossed, the arboriform shoot held almost beneath the blanket as much as him. Warren just sits there, looking over the minor structure fragments as anxious thoughts still scratch in his mind, bounding at the back of his consciousness as his somatic sight continues to look over the plant held between his palms. Even as silent tears begin their pour over his cheek and exposed mouth.

It’s at least something; his mouth stems a small smile, bundling it as his blanketed head falls against the glass with a muffled thump. Remaining there as impulsion drags through his mind, staring back into his reflection as his fingers grip around the jar. Something to keep him firmly grounded, he figures as he eases himself back to sit, hooded by the blanket that retains his heat.

Looking down to it, he sighs.

With the blanket still draped over him, checking once more before he moves, Warren stands up with the jar in hand. He ignores the half of spira blade as he walks around to the back of the residential quarters, exiting it and returning to the central walkway in order to cross it, wandering over to the medical bay. It drops from him there, which he allows once the door finally slips open for him and the jarred arboriform.

Engulfed by the dim lighting, swallowing his hesitation. Warren walks cautiously, bare feet moving from the raised platform that ramps down to the glass floor that separates the two halves, where an opening reaches down into the reservoir below. A breath choking in his throat forces itself down, overlooking the hole in the glass as he holds the glass against his chest. Forcing himself down onto his knees, looking between them – he sets the arboriform jar to the side, pulling back the sleeve of his left arm.

He reaches into the coolant water with an open palm to scoop.

And hisses as the radioactive water stings his skin, yanking it back and shaking it off.

Warren holds his limb close as he looks over the malignant damage that just as quickly heals itself as he sits there, breathing himself back calm. Between it, the arboriform, and the opening into the water below him, he questions. Wondering as his eyes flicker between them and the fish that swim beneath, the flora that blooms in the rolling reservoir.

With the same hand, he reaches over for the jar.

Taking a slow and steady inhale, exhale, he holds the jar steady in both hands. One sleeve pulled up, the other sitting loose around his wrist, he angles it, dipping it into the water carefully as for one side to plunge beneath the surface as the volume beings to flow inside. His hands remain steady as he endures the tensing pain around his fingers and palm, letting the water pour and filter into a quarter of the jar before he pulls back. It drops with a dull klink against the glass to his side, massaging his stinging fingers.

“Ow, ow ow,” he whispers, tucking his hands beneath his arms with a simmering grunt.

Sitting there, waiting for the pain to dissipate, Warren looks over to the arboriform. Nothing has changed; of course nothing has changed, he muses. A hand digs through his hair in exasperation, still choking on the earlier panic attack as he forces himself to sit and breathe.

It’s a few hours until T’viska gets back.

Fingers skate across the glass-bound display as the bulkhead slides open far behind him, listening back as a heavy weight begins to clamber down the short steps that connect the two landings around the raised platform. It eases to behind where he’s sitting, keeping his focus sat before him as he troves through the older documents recovered from the null cephalon. A hand perusing through the directory, another fiddling with the wrapping arboriform coil, his emotions sit flat, sight flickering to the muddled reflection behind him.

Halved curses speak in the backdrop as he tries to look through files he’s already poured through, trying to pick one more time for any semblance of things he’s missed, that there’s a reason he still holds a marginal interest in them. Or, a thought pulsates in the back of his mind, desperation, overthinking, thoughts that ache as a box is chucked away, collapsing in on itself as he looks back.

T’viska’s back is turned to him, wrestling with an unfurling bed as the blankets that once made it sit on the cushions at the side. Crenshaw tries her steps on it as the loki shoves it into the resigned corner between the wall and the cushion – a pawed foot shoving a crate out of the way with a grunt.

“Cren,” the warframe growls, picking up the feline before dropping her off to the side – where she only rounds back and jumps onto the bed.

Warren pulls his hand back from the glass, his other hand unwrapping from the arboriform coil.

Pulling away the plastics, rummaging them up into a ball, T’viska turns over to Warren. “Thought you could use a real bed,” he stems a smile; before he turns back and has to pull the kavat off the bed. “Crenshaw seems happy about it,” he grunts, dropping her off on the walkway before turning to continue replacing the covers.

Warren remains in place as he watches the warframe’s reflection in the glass, uncertainty digging through his thoughts as he looks back to the endless directory sitting in front of him. His hand hovers above the glass, fingers pulling back as anxious thoughts drip into self-doubt. And he holds the arboriform coil once more, at ease as static slips against the internal disapproval. To work, work, work, find a solution to the problem sitting at his side.

Cover over cover, he can hear the warframe make the bed and leave. Silence, he thinks, thoughts of being judged dig against his perception as he peels through the documents set in front of him. He huffs, anchoring to at least find something of importance – even as his tired sight drifts over to the reflection of the now made bed – watching it moment after moment as he goes over another document.

Behind him, he can hear the loki drop another parcel, keeping his attention before him.

“Hey,” the warframe whispers, crouching beside him.

Warren remains silent.

Golden claws nudge off the blanket that houses over the teenager, freeing his hair to furl freely from the static. “I’ve got you a new clothes – since your other ones are wet.” T’viska offers the tenno a jacket, its arms embroidered with golden trims, a firm black and grey tone with internal padding to retain heat.

Between his palms, he looks over it with half-lid eyes, straining back the trembling anxious thoughts. “Thanks…” is all he can muster out; he hadn’t taken care of the spira blade – worry painting over his nerves.

“Since you liked the boots, I got an exact pair just like them, and some food if you want to try them out?” He keeps his words hushed, tender as Warren stares at the jacket on his lap. “I’ve gotten some stuff for the kavats too,” he sighs, looking over to where the pair of packages sit beside the bed.

Warren remains null; a stunned and nervous silence.

T’viska pats him on the back, a slight sigh, “get some rest, okay? When you have, we can go down to Mars for a bit, if you want.” He remains in his crouch, hand dropping down to mirror his other hand. “If you need anything, call for me. Suuir needs me to do some repairs.”

‘I’m waiting,’ the cephalon makes himself known across the screen before them – Warren flinches.

T’viska scowls.

With one more affirmative pat, the warframe stands. “Crenshaw will keep it warm for you,” he tempts to laugh, “the archives will be there when you wake up,” the warframe pauses, “when you can… get some sleep, alright?”

Warren says nothing, hands wringing in the jacket.

Silence persists as the warframe walks away, rounding back out of the residential quarters and leaving Warren to sit before the glass.

And cry.

#VueWritten #Warframe #fanfiction #Tenno #Loki #Trauma #Operative Warren #T'viska #familial relationship #chapter #wip #cw selfharm #cw panic attack

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