Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His first death was from the gas. 

It didn’t affect him as it did the others, when it came down like hellfire through the skylights, raining daggers of glass that ripped through his arms and lodged in his skull. No, it was so much worse for him, in his fragile body that regenerated much like any normal human’s did, with his humanoid lungs that breathed by instinct. A gasp of shock, and he inhaled, and burned. His nerves were on fire, he burned he burned he burned he burned -

He was choking, gasping for air and drowning in his own dissolving flesh. It hurt, it hurt, it HURT, and he was only barely aware enough to see the Scaldra enter, and begin firing on the figures around the seemingly abandoned mall, but he was more than present enough to feel the bullets rip through his skin, his muscles, his bones, his organs, his muscles, his bones, his skin-

And like his lungs, by instinct, he rejected this ending.

Again.  

His second was much the same.

Again.

His third was much the same. 

AGAIN.

His fourth… They had realized then, on some level, what was happening. The loop was odd like that, granting anyone who interacted with him an awareness of previous timelines. He’d never really tested how much they knew. He hadn’t wanted to.

The fourth time, the rest of the Hex scattered to the more protected areas before the gas canisters fell, slipping on masks, calling for him. He didn’t move from where he kneeled, hands on knees, waiting, waiting for the phantom agonies to dissipate. He could still… Feel. The glass in his skin. Feel the way his body burned, feel the way a sword ripped through his heart with every beat. This… No. This was not the story. Centuries on centuries had honed his capacity with time. He knew now that each reset was definite, and he could never reach forward once he’d gone back. He knew now that pain was… An annoyance, at best, a distraction at worst. He’d survive this, like he always had. 

The fourth time, he locked this sub-loop to the moment he stood up to face the commander, sliding down on a rope, surrounded by infantry. He met her eyes, felt her hatred, her… confusion, her fear. Yes, he’d meet her glare, and nod in greeting. When she raised her gun and fired, and when the bullet punctured his skull…

Again.

She’d been about to land upon his reset, heeled feet a meter from hitting ground, so when the loop came… She let go. Barely managing to grab onto it again, all around her her soldiers facing the same dissonance. They’d get used to it. 

Behind him, he heard confused gasps as even the members of the Hex found themselves reset, guns holstered, blades sheathed, bodies returned to where they’d been five seconds ago. In Amir’s case, it was quite the change. He’d nearly been to the drifter’s side, reaching to drag him back to safety. Now, he stumbled, hitting and tripping over one of the many little concrete flower boxes. That… He noted, would be something to watch out for. He’d not loop them into perpetual injury. No, he… Knew how much that hurt. Phantom pains were bad enough.

The drifter turned back to the Scaldra just in time to catch a fist to the face. He felt his nose crunch, pain blooming like flowers as he spun and fell, hitting the cement with an audible crack. It sent him reeling, but he wasn’t… Dead. Yet. He didn’t have to be dead to loop, but…

“WHAT IS THIS.” The major’s accented voice roared, barely audible through the ringing in his ears. “What sort of Entrati BULLSHIT IS THIS?”

He looked up, meeting her gaze through a haze of pain. “Cons…” He coughed over the words, blood filling his mouth. It still hurt to speak, his throat still scalded and filled with boils as his flesh rejected the air… No. No. That wasn’t real. “Consider this a… lesson-”

He didn’t get the opportunity to finish his sentence, the rest of the sound cut off and strangled as she grabbed him around the throat, heaving him to eye level. Oh Sol, his head was spinning. She was yelling something at him, then staring, expecting a response. It took him a moment to try and parse through the noise, and that was a moment she was not at all willing to spare as she ROARED. The world spun, light and shadows flashing as he fell again, and PAIN. Her clawed hand ripping through his chest as he hit the ground. Familiar agony, his heart stuttering and thrashing between her fingers, a spasm slamming his head against the concrete again. It hurt it hURT IT HURT-

AGAIN!

He stumbled where he stood, collapsing to one knee. The major slid down the rope. Screamed at him, desperation starting to bleed into her voice. Stormed over, grabbed him. Lifted him. What was she saying? Same as before. What was happening. What had he done. He smiled. She headbutted him. He saw stars, eyes rolling upwards in his skull. This was… bad, he needed time for the deaths to unwind from around his soul, he needed more…. more time… She dropped him. Shot him once, twice, seven times, screaming. 

Again.

He needed to reach back farther, he thought, as one of the Scaldra troops kneed him in the stomach, dropping him to his knees, cocking its shotgun, placing the cool metal against his skull. More yelling, demanding answers. Again, he smiled, finding them, forcing them out through a shattered jaw, through charred skin and twisted flesh. “New.. Years.” The major stopped, staring at him with a look that seemed incredulous, the metal against his head faltering. He didn’t know what the other members of the Hex were doing, didn’t quite care at the moment, so long as they were alive.

“We die at new years,” The drifter continued, voice slurred. “Come back then.”

The shotgun went off.

AGAIN.  

He gasped, keeling over in his rooms, heaving deep, desperate breaths of fire into his lungs, tears beading at the corners of his eyes from the lingering effects of the gas, heart struggling, beating, faltering, spine severed by a thousand strikes through it, legs useless, hands trembling. It hurt it hurt it hurt it HURT IT HURT IT HURT IT HURT IT HURT iT

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. He’d… He’d been through worse. He’d… Tried to escape, way back when. He could still feel that grass beneath his fingertips, the way the wind touched his cheeks. Could still feel the first time he’d lost control of the looping, too scared of the pain to think straight. Died again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Mere seconds between each blow of the blade, until he’d lost enough of himself to ignore the agony and correct it.

This… Was nothing, he promised himself, forcing himself to his hands and knees, coughing up the nothing that was filling his lungs, blinking away the nothing that burned his eyes, forcing himself to roll back and sit on his heels. Forcing himself to wrap broken fingers around shattered knees. Breathe. Breathe. It happened once, it happened again. That was life, everything echoed. 

Amir was the first to him, taking in the sweat that dripped down his face, and grabbed him by the shoulders. Shook him. Sent shocks of overstimulation down his spine, stopping only when he managed a wince. Was he… Talking? Yeah.

“Ten minutes.” The drifter offered. “Till… They come again.”

Amir quieted, and he opened his eyes briefly enough to see the look of horrified concern on the young man’s face. He didn’t deserve all this, poor kid. 

“Then we prepare.” A deeper voice, husky and soft with… That same concern. Again, the drifter peeled his scalded eyelids apart to look, light coalescing into Arthur's form… Yeah. Yeah, no, he hated the expression he saw there, too. He didn’t deserve their pity. Didn’t want it, either.

So, he gets up, heaving himself with a grunt to his feet. “We prepare,” He agrees, blinking away the haze, shrugging off the hand still on his arm that had helped him rise. “Eventually, they’ll learn their lesson. It's not like they can kill me harder than they already have, so we’ll call this a war of attrition. Or something.”

“What’s going on? And… Can't we just… Leave?” Another voice, a woman’s, soft and light. Aoi. Worried. Damnation, they needed to stop with that.

“Figure that’d be smartest, wit the way things keep goin’.” That was Quincy. Were they all here? He hoped not. Couldn’t they just-

“Marty, are we stuck in this building?” Arthur again, and the drifter focuses… With some trouble.

“No. But they’ll keep coming until they get it.”

“Get… What? That you’re some… time god, or something?” Amir. Who earned himself a raised brow or a side glance from everyone in the room, Lettie and Eleanor filing in together. 

“Again, no.” How to explain. He found himself… still lost in the before, the now subtly still slipping like sand through his fingers. “They… have a part to play, and this isn’t it. They cannot be here. They’re… Improvising, and not in a good way. Its...”

He cut himself off, because… That, from their reaction, had been the wrong thing to say. Like a physical wall had been manifested, he could see them shuttering off. It took all his will to avoid creating another loop and try that again, because… They’d have realized, and it would have made things worse.

But… It was… True, though. They weren’t supposed to be here, in this area. This was a safe zone. Like Teshin’s cave. It was supposed to be beyond their reach. It had to be, or he’d never be able to rest. It had to be safe. He’d make it safe, no matter the cost. For himself. For them. They’d understand. They did, on some level, he was sure, but…

“And… If the rest of us “improvise” in a bad way? Have you done this before?” Lettie, making air quotes with her fingers, staring at him with a wary gaze. Damnation.  

“I don’t think you can,” He admitted, rubbing the side of his jaw. Focusing on the soft scratchiness of the stubble that refused to remain shaved, instead on the way they looked at him. Instead of his heartbeat. Sol, they… Needed to stop looking at him. “It’s… hard to explain. But… I’m… Look. They’re just as aware of time jumps as you are, alright? I can’t hide the spirals. You’d know. Because you know me.”

As always, it was Amir who broke the ensuing silence first, with a drawn out ‘hmm.’ “Soo~o… Uhh… Back on track. You’re planning to just… Keep them in some crazy time loop until they stop trying to attack our base? So we don’t have to leave?”

A nod. That was his plan, more or less. And very clearly, the rest of them didn’t like it at all. 

Silence. Shared looks between them, and he stood there… Waiting. 

“Look. Marty. I don’t think anyone here could stop you, so we won’t.” Arthur sighed, “But whatever bullshit you’ve got going on, just don’t overdo it, alright? We’ve all got eyes, and I don’t think Lettie can fix…” He drew off, gesturing with his mutated hands towards the drifter in a sort of flicking way.

“I’ll be alright. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He affirmed. To them, and to himself. Part of him… Some small, cowardly part of him, curled up against the oncoming pain, wanting so badly to take their suggestion and just leave. What could it hurt, in the grand scheme.

It was the part of him that wanted so badly to just… Give up. The part of him that had always yearned to just lay down and let Thrax do whatever it wanted with him. To stop choosing, to stop wanting, to stop feeling all the emotions that had finally begun to return to his heart. It wanted so badly to shatter and be broken.  

But he couldn’t. 

He wasn’t allowed to do that, when there were so few who could do what he could. It was his duty, his responsibility. That was what his power was for, and cowardice had no place. So he’d do what he must. He had to be sure that they knew he’d do anything to keep them safe, to preserve what they cared for. They could trust him. They’d have to, in the oncoming months, so... Sol, they were looking at him again. Pity. They asked if they could help. He told them to stay out of sight, so they wouldn’t be hurt. 

--

He sat in the desolate common space, waiting, idly swinging one leg, the other tucked up beneath his free arm. It was a fine place for this sort of fight, will against will, he thought. He anchored himself there, memorizing this moment. Sitting on the stage, waiting, listening to the screaming roar of planes overhead, the rapid heartbeat thumping of helicopters flying low. The drifter lifts a hand to his chest, fabric curling beneath his fingers as he presses down. Like it would do anything to erase that phantom agony. A sword, stabbing through him. Over. And over. And over. And-

And the skylight shattered, the Major and her troops swinging down, turning to look at him. She shot him before he could blink.

Again.  

And the skylight shattered, the Major and her troops swinging down, already looking at him. He couldn’t see her mouth, or most of the soldier’s faces, but her snarl was more than visible in her eyes.

She shot him again.

Again.

“STOP THIS.” She roared, swinging down, staring at him. She landed fully this time, storming towards him. “Whatever you’re doing. Stop it immediately, and maybe I won't kill you this time, you miserable WRETCH.”

“Come back on New Years-” was all he managed to get out before his head was blasted off.

Again.

They slid back down.

“New years.” She said before he could, stalking closer, “Fucking New Years? What, are you having some sort of party? Going to take us all along to the Emerald City?”

“The nuclear reactor will explode, see,” He explained calmly, opening his hands. “So we’ll all be dead. Until then, stay away from this area. That is all.”

He barely had time to react before he was hit with a vial of Efervon gas, and his body exploded with pain, flesh corroding, lungs on FIRE-

Again.  

He coughed and hacked out the memory, as she slid down and that… That got her smiling. It sent chills down his spine.

“Now that is interesting,” She mused, stalking towards him again. “It almost seems like you’ve got some… Lingering effects. I wondered earlier if that was what was happening, but~ Well. Now I’m curious.”

“I’d tell you all about it,” He laces his fingers across the knee he left curled in, looking up as she stood just before him, hands on hips, “But I’m afraid I’d need more sticks of charcoal than I’ve got to dumb it down to your level.”

Her claws punctured both eye sockets, ripping through his brain in a blink.

Again.

It took all he had to not shudder, to not rub the phantom pain out of his eyes as she slid down.

“You’re stuck here, you know.” He sighs as she once again stalked up, her soldiers hesitantly touching down. Uncertain. “Until you promise.”

“What, until I promise to leave an active terrorist base alone?” She snapped, rolling her eyes. “You’re insane.”

The drifter shrugged. “Basically, yeah. Maybe to both points. Then again, I mean, if we leave, we’re fair game, but… While we’re in this building…” He gestures around at the area, and shrugs.

She stared at him, blinking slowly, brows lifted. In all respects, it was a good deal. Maybe she’d take it.

“And you won’t just…undo it,” A circly spin of a clawed finger. “If any of these…” She gestured over her shoulder at the rest of the mall, using her chin, “ Freaks happen to die while they’re out?”

“They need to survive until New Years,” He nods, setting both feet flat on the ground, pointing at her with his laced fingers. Every heartbeat. Hurt. “So I will absolutely do that. Sorry-not-sorry. 

More silence, and she crossed her arms. Amazing how well she could avoid stabbing herself with those claws. “...I find myself tempted to see how long your will lasts, dog. Dedicant?” Damn.

A heavily armored trooper, positively swaddled in efervon bubble-wrapping, marched forward, and set into her outstretched hand a heavy gun. She cocked it. It seemed… Familiar. Horribly familiar, with the way the efervon vials sloshed. A gas based weapon, not one that’d kill him fast. It’d hurt, whatever it was, and…

And he beat her to the punch, ripping his pistol from his belt, barrel hitting the softer point between throat and chin, and firing. Vaporizing his own head with a beam of focused energy, sourced from his soul.

Again.

She slid down, looking… almost impressed, and he blinked away the lingering shocks of pain that lanced through his system.

“A war of attrition,” He says, opening his arms as someone aimed, and a shotgun blast gutted him.

Again.

Her claws through his skull.

Again.

A bullet through his chest.

Again. 

Efervon eating through his skin.

Again. 

Agony. His blood rained on the techrot growths behind him, making them gurgle and shift.

Again. 

It hurt. His bones shattered by an explosive blast.

Again. 

It really hurt. 

Again. 

He wanted to curl up and cry, but- 

Blades.

Again. 

She was growing frustrated, and-

Acid.

Again. 

He could see her losing patience- 

Acid again.

Again. 

And he was slipping, the pain dulling to a faint haze-

His organs, splayed across the floor where he could see them.

Again. 

But that was alright, because if it kept them safe-

An electrical something, overclocked, stopping his heart.

Again. 

He’d sit here until the moon was ripped from orbit-

Did it matter? How he died?

Again. 

And he smiled as she killed him, opening his arms, welcoming-

No.

Again. 

Laughing, softly at first, then louder, the pain never pausing, every echo compounding in on itself-

Again. 

She was snarling, hateful, desperate, but what could she do-

Again. 

He’d been through all this before. She was no worse than Thrax-

Again. 

No worse than the monsters he himself had made-

Again. 

He was a drifter, a nobody, no King, no God, but-

Again. 

Sol above, it was good to see her growing desperate-

Again. 

Scream. Cry. It didn’t matter. Ten seconds. That was all he allowed her-

Again. 

Perhaps he was a King of this tiny domain. Even if she didn’t kill him this time, he reset everything anyway. Even if it meant that, since he wasn’t dead, they’d feel ALL of it, their memories as pure as his, bodies jerked back in time painfully-

Again. 

His domain. His domain. His. He was the one with the power here, even as she ripped his throat from his neck-

Again. 

He grinned at her frustration as she slid down, her soldiers not even coming through the glass anymore, remaining in their ships. What was the point? He hit his fist against the stage-

Again. 

She grasped the rope tight, not sliding. Climbing. Coward-

Again. 

Again.

Again . 

No time for her to recover from the shocks that heralded a reset as her nervous system rewound rapid fire, he laughed, lounging backwards, as she lost her grip on the rope, fell, body shattering like fired clay against the concrete-

Again. 

Yes, this was his domain. He was the King here. She deserved this. Her troops deserved this. And… Something… Reached out to him. Touched his mind, he was only faintly aware of it. Was it trying to be… delicate? Regardless. Let it come. Let it see-

Again. 

It felt good. Sol above, it felt so good, the words slipping from his lips in a language he’d never learned, the language of the power he used. The power that was his. The touch came again, and recoiled away as if burned, scalded by centuries of death-

Again. 

Duviri was his, he’d made it. His own personal heaven, his own personal hell. Owned every inch by him and him alone. He’d given it up.. Why? Bah. Who cared. For now… This… He could do with this. These were his subjects now, weren’t they, ruled from his throne upon this stage-

Again. 

She didn’t even come down this time, terrified, he could feel her, sense her, SEE Her, in front of him, saying something, begging with her hands up, five seconds between resets now, death? Why die? Why suffer ever again? They would bend to his rules. His whims. They would understand him. His pain. His power. It was his story, it…

Movement. Something brushing against his mind again. He hesitated…

Again . 

Something was off, this time. He was struck with… A feeling. Something… Heavy. Suffocating his thoughts, like a cloth pressed over his mouth. 

Something… He could feel… The major didn’t… What was this…? Who… Dared? His hand lifted, fingers making a fist... And the heavy feeling grew razor sharp, puncturing through the haze like a bullet through tissue paper.

The drifter doubled over and SCREAMED, Eleanor’s claws sinking deep into his psyche, his body twisting, muscles spasming as she fought him for control of his mind, ribs popping out of place under the force of his own spastic contractions. Blinding sound, voices, then hands, arms, far stronger than his own, clasping around his body and holding him, immobilizing him in a hold that shocked his nerves into submission. No. Tried to, it was too weak to last more than a moment. He writhed in that vice grip, until it shocked him again, all his muscles going stiff, vision going white. He… He couldn’t… He was unable to focus, unable to think, everything hurt, everything was AGONY, the hands in his head, around his head, pressure on his temples, on his brain, pulling him with force back into the present, back to the pain he’d tried so hard to ignore, to stop feeling. He didn’t- He was sobbing, he fought to stay away, aloof, every heartbeat STABBING through his body oh void oh void it hurt it hurt so much, he could see them, see their faces, their pain, their desperation, his fault, please start again start again start again please please oh mother please- 

One final push from Eleanor, one final shove, and his body and mind connected fully. Locking together, like they were supposed to, every defense and protection he had from his own actions and the accrued pain picked apart by her power. It was too much, far, far too much, even for him. And… And he fell. Vision going black, body falling utterly limp. 

--

It took him some time to wake up. 

He didn’t want to, was the problem. It was… So much easier to drift, curled up in the blackness. It was… Quiet, here. Peaceful. Painless. He could… Ignore the shame. For… just a little while.

But reality was insistent. It always was. He hated it for that. Reality always had a way of worming through the best of his illusions. All of his stories. It just… Kept coming. An extra child in the classroom. An extra face in the crowd, smiling with eyes like obsidian. Reality came like chains from the heavens. Like another soul, linked to his own. Like a meteor. Like… Right now, it came like a voice. Soft. He couldn’t quite tell what it was saying. Something… meaningless. Some… story. All stories were meaningless. Just ways to run away. Ways to flee inevitable reality, for a little while. The voice… was consistent. Rambling on and on. Didn’t seem… Hateful. Or… spiteful. 

Odd. Was he… Hallucinating it..? No.

“Anyway,” It was… slightly nasally, soft, as if the speaker wasn’t really trying to disturb. Just… Talking. Only vaguely did he understand it, his thoughts flowed like molasses, his comprehension matching its pace. “In BattleGear Four, the whooole story gets way more clear, because- remember how I told you about that one group who tried to overthrow the government? Well- in Four, you play as Agent Fox- Remember him? I think I mentioned him when I told you about BattleGear Two, he was the guy with the crrraazy hair and like, no moral code to speak of, unless of course you were rich, in which case his morals were whatever yours were- anyway, so Fox, and he goes and needs to infiltrate that group because now he’s starting to learn how to have morals, and-”

His ears were ringing, just a little. But… It was… Nice. To hear the flow of the words. It was something soft to come back to. Perhaps reality wasn’t so scary, just yet.

“So you get into their secret base after that, and its like, huge, especially since this was the 1980’s, right, so they really struggled with making big games, but boy did they try, and you’ve gotta see the lighting it’ll blow your mind- well maybe not your mind because you’ve probably got wayyy cooler games- I’ll ask you about those later-”

He wandered along with the voice, considering as he became aware of his own breath, filling his lungs, emptying them. Filling… Emptying. Did he… Have… Games? Komi didn’t count. Sol, he hated Komi. But… He’d… Known about… Some. Like that silly little one, Frame Fighter. Ordis had told him about that with some embarrassment, but… If the.. Cephalon liked it, well. The drifter had gone out of his way to find and collect every character he could, for Ordis’s sake. Maybe… Maybe the speaker would enjoy playing with Ordis.

What was the speaker’s name… Where.. Was he?

He lifted his hand to rub his eyes, hoping to ground himself… But no. Wait. What? His fingers  only twitched, the absolute extent of his current ability… Odd, and the speaker paused mid-way through his in-depth description of the full hierarchy of the enemy forces. 

“Oh. Oh! You’re awake! Wait, uhh… You’re… Yeah don’t try and move too much, Lettie had you tied down so you’d stop punching people. You should have seen Quincy’s face, I think you like, broke his nose last time. It was WILD!”

He’d… What? Last time? He hadn’t… When? He fought. Fought… Harder. Summoned every… Every ounce of effort, a muted panic thrumming through his chest. Tied down? He’d hurt people? What? What was… 

He opened his eyes, and… Immediately shut them again. That… Hurt.

Amir must have seen his attempt and following wince, because the man immediately made an ‘OH!’ and a crackling of lightning heralded his quick trip to the light switch (bless him, he turned it off) and then right back. “Better?”

The drifter… managed an undignified grunt. It’d have to do for now. Another attempt, eyes fluttering open with difficulty. Yes, that was better, and he managed a bleary stare in Amir’s direction. The lad was… Not as… Angry as he should be.

“Sorry about, uh… Waking you up. Got real bored since I haven’t had any missions for a day or two and I just had to tell someone something, and you were right there, so like, I dunno.”

Amir seemed… Chipper. Not scared, though he’d learned by now the lad could hide it shockingly well, but the way that he rocked back and forth in his chair didn’t seem like a nervous tick. Chipper, upbeat, and… healthy enough, he supposed. He even had the gall to throw the drifter a smile when he saw him looking, which… Well. That was infectious.

“I dont… Mind.” He managed, his throat feeling like it was full of glass. Sounded like it too, from the way Amir winced, and then zipped off, and… Returned walking at normal speed so he wouldn’t spill, carrying a glass of water. Aand… Hesitated, taking in the fact that yes, the drifter was still strapped down by his limbs, and laying down, and therefore couldn’t drink shit. Amir chewed his lip, ‘hmmn’-ing as he did, and, “You’re not going to punch me, are you?”

“I… No…?” 

“Good! Great, actually! The others wanted to talk to you when you woke up, but I was all like, nooo, he needs someone he likes to wake up to, or he’s gonna start decking people again, and like, Sol, you got Quincy good. Totally shoulda recorded that,” Amir chirped, all too friendly as he quickly undid the simple, soft restraints.

Dread pooled in his stomach. “Have I… Been awake before..?” He asks softly, and Amir nodded. A little more serious this time. 

“Y’woke up twice, I think, you don’t remember? Just like yesterday. You were up for a couple minutes, yelling something about those uhhh… What did you call em? Eh, whatever, y’thought we were coming to drag you off or whatever until Lettie knocked you out again. She’s an angel, lemme tell ya.” An utter storm of words, as he helped the drifter up a little further in the bed, stuffing pillows behind him. “First time we had no idea you were up until you’d snuck out of bed. That was when you hit Quincy, ‘cause he tried to grab you. Total newb move.” 

Now he actually could rub his eyes, and he did, pinching at the bridge of his nose and massaging it. Digging his fingertips into the corners of his eyelids. He’d… He didn’t have time to think about it, because warm hands grabbed his shaking ones and then promptly stuffed the cool cup full of water in them. He nearly dropped it, but Amir helped balance it until he’d mentally parsed through the sudden motions. Yet... All he could do was stare at it, for the moment. His haggard reflection, more of a silhouette than anything, backlit by the soft blue neons that lined the back of the room. He pressed his eyes shut. He’d rather not see himself right now. 

A faint knocking, and footsteps, heralded two new arrivals. 

The drifter wanted to vanish. He could do that, now, he probably should have, no, what he should have done was summon his frame, back during his idiotic, hairbrained plan to drive away the Scaldra. It might have galvanized them to bring greater forces, sure, but it also might have scared them off if he’d been able to kill enough of them. Should have… Shouldn’t have… Let himself get lost. Again. What had he been thinking.

“Dios Mio, about time he’s awake properly,” Lettie sighed, tutting as she strode closer. “He is, isn’t he, Amir? You’re lucky I’m not the one punching you for letting him up.”

“He was thirsty!” Amir complained, but Lettie merely waved him off, rolling her eyes, as she gently took the drifter’s chin in one hand and tilted it up. He complied, straightening his back a little as she examined him. She pulled out a small flashlight, shining it across both eyes, then let go of his chin as she checked both sides of his neck, pressing into various spots, lips set, and then taking one of his hands and pressing a thumb against the inside of his wrist. He... Had no idea what she was doing, or what she was checking, but he let her do it anyway. If this was how she wanted to deal with him, he'd take it.

Movement caught his eye as she wrapped something dark around his arm, and began inflating it, ordering him softly to relax. It was vaguely uncomfortable, but… A little kuaka jumped onto his lap, squeaking softly… No. No, that… Was called a mouse. Or… A rat? One was probably a sub-species of the other. He lifts his free hand to pet its tiny head. These were Lettie’s, and he lets it distract him as she sets his arm down and looks him over disapprovingly. 

“Your vitals seem… Okay. Blood pressure is low, but other than that, you’re fine. Stay here anyway, until you’re sure you’re feeling yourself again.”

He nodded. What else was he supposed to do?

“So.” A deeper voice from the doorframe. Arthur. He stepped in, and gestured with his chin to get Amir out. The younger man saluted, and left. “Want to explain what that all was? In your own words.”

And here was the fun part. He opened his mouth, pulling his arms into his stomach, cradling the mug like something precious, and then shut his mouth. What could he even say? ‘Oh, I’m sorry, pain makes me a little bit funny on Wednesdays. You remember that Thrax guy I said was such a nightmare? Guess who he’s made in the image of!’ Yeah, no.

So… He turned his head away. “I’m sorry.” He offered. “I…” Sol. What did he even say? What did Arthur want to hear? How could he possibly salvage such a horrible mistake. He wanted them to trust him, but… 

“We know some of it.” Arthur lifted a hand, softening his tone, likely sensing the drifter’s struggle. “Eleanor… Said she felt… A lot of pain, when she connected with your mind, but also something very wrong, and you sure as hell weren’t acting like yourself. So.” He marched forward, and set his hands on the end of his bed, leaning close and looking him in the eyes. “What happened?”

He winced away, breaking eye contact, thumbs running over the flat, smooth surface of the ceramic. “I dont know what to tell you. I thought she’d… Lose her nerve faster. They usually do.”

“You thought she’d lose her nerve faster.” He repeated flatly, studying him from behind quite the frown, and then sighed deeply. “Look. Marty. Or… Whatever your actual name is. I won’t lie to you. What you did worked, her gaudy ass hasn’t been back, and we’ve caught orders to leave this area alone on comms, but it also hurt. I’m sure you’re well aware of what it feels like, but don’t ever,” He stabbed a finger against the drifter’s chest, earning a genuine wince. A phantom lance. Not that Arthur knew. “-Ever do that to us again. Not without some serious express permission. It was fine, sure, the first twenty times, but it got bad. Aoi was throwing up for an hour or two after we finally took you down. Got it?” 

He nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest, sipping his water. It did feel good to drink, and eventually Arthur got tired of staring at him once he was silent for long enough. A quick grind of heel on tile as he pivoted, and marched out. Lettie followed, leaving him alone, stewing in his uneasy silence. The drifter wasn’t at all sure if this could count as a success or not. He’d… He’d protected them from the Scaldra, hopefully for the foreseeable future, yes, but… This did not feel at all like a victory should have. He’d hurt his… Were they… friends? Could they ever be, after something like this?

Sol, how could he possibly fix this.

Chapter Text

The drifter was the wind.

Armored feet barely touched the ground as he streamed across the city, moving so fast he himself could hardly comprehend the sights he passed.

He was a meteor, fate itself, the broadsword held in both hands at his side shredding metal and glass and concrete like paperwork every time it snagged on them, the gun on his back utterly unnecessary and unneeded. His body sang, every footstep providing a thudding beat, shattering pavement. This… This was living, seeing from the fused-shut eyes of a near braindead not-quite-corpse as he channeled the very forces of nature that made the world spin, bullets drained of their speed the moment they got too close to his body.

The drifter had a scant moment to process a tank rounding a corner the next block down before the shell of it crunched beneath his foot, the frame possessing muscle memory and reflexes far beyond his own. It leaped, he leaped, lighting up the sky and scattering a kaleidoscope of reflected light as he punched through the glass roof of yet another abandoned mall. He didn’t bother tucking and rolling, he didn’t have time, simply leaning back and listening to the scream of the tile, gouged deep by his not-quite-heels. He spun like a dancer as he slowed, lighter than air, and bounced from foot to foot, spinning his greatsword in one hand.

Be a distraction, they’d said, so they could covertly raid a supply line half the city away. Well, he could be distracting. Gods, he wasn’t rightly sure if there was anything he’d rather do, when he wore this body. So, he’d taken a quick jog through one of their outposts, slashed up a few vehicles here and there, fucked up their generators, and run off. As one did. It hadn’t been his original plan, he'd been intending to stick around and fight for longer, but… Well. Why not just lead them on a chase?

Printed warframes were supposed to be shells, empty of consciousness and personality, but he’d always had the feeling that that wasn’t absolutely correct. Beyond the sets of imprinted movement and fighting patterns, there’d always been something… More. Like some echo of the original, passed down through the void-given abilities each one held.

The one he wore now was called Gauss, and it wanted to move. It always did. He could feel its heartbeat thrumming with energy, pulsing power through its veins, begging to be used. It was almost like the thing could get excited, motion, kinetic, thermal energy, all of it compounding on itself to create the most wonderful stew of adrenaline. If this was what Amir was like all the time, the drifter mused, then it absolutely made sense that he wasn’t allowed caffeine even on his calmest days. Sol and Lune above, just one cup of coffee and a mission with this frame would have likely worn out what was left of his tired heart in minutes.

He shook out his free hand, and lifted his sword. An older fashioned Galantine, all gold filigree and spiked hilt surrounding a hefty, thin central blade. It was one he hadn’t used before, muscle groups on the frame itself adjusting and memorizing its weight and feel as the drifter became used to it mentally. He liked this one. Along with its razor edge, the drifter had taken to using the Scaldra’s own efervon against them. He’d infused the blade itself- by some process that he'd hit his head against for hours and yet still baffled him- with the liquidy acid. Something about mirroring chemical compositions and setting micro pockets of the stuff into the weapon, if he had to guess, or… Some void shit. How it didn’t weaken the metal was beyond him, but, well. The Orokin had never been the type to do anything halfway. Except maybe their hands. Though… 

The door in front of him explodes inwards, troops marching in with guns lifted, fog billowing outwards from around their feet. They saw him almost immediately, radiating power as he was, tendrils of energy flicking outwards from his body. Every time it struck an old electronic, or long since unpowered neon light, they glowed faintly, revived to shine and die once more in a second.

Maybe he could count the way they changed their arms going halfway past what was necessary, which… Also could fit them, honestly.

They opened fire, and he exploded with motion, that pure energy kicking his body into overdrive and electrifying his muscles. Move, MOVE, it said, and he obeyed. Heat vented from segments on his legs and back, launching him forward all in the time it took for fingers to squeeze their triggers, bullets shredding against his shield, deflected, and he was upon them.

Thirty against one wasn't a fair fight. Not by a long shot.

He hit the unlucky soldier in front knee-first, bubbles of acid popping like boils as he went straight through him, viscera flaring in his wake like some sort of ghastly halo. His blade flashed in a wide arc around him as his left foot touched pavement, the world moving slow.

There wasn’t time for the blood to coat his blade, the wind itself cleaning the sleek metal as his right foot hit the dirt. Efervon packing, meant as protection from the techrot, burst. Blade now to his left, nothing but death and lightning behind him. Perhaps saying he was a storm unto himself would be a little melodramatic, but, well. Not more so than calling himself the wind or fate, or whatever had gone through his head a minute ago.

The energy reached a fever pitch, and he could feel the frame smiling, teeth long since buried under layers of metalized skin and flesh gritted with the pure passion of motion. His body sang, and he let it, drawing in a breath from the world around him.

Frost crystalized around his feet and then vaporized as his core overclocked, sending fire through his veins. Yes, this was living. Music was the sounds of calls, yells, screams, silenced. Music was the way a mortar-shell took him in the chest and exploded around him, the force consumed by his ravenous soul. Music was the lightning in his eyes and the power that lit the red and green tapestry painting the earth behind him.

A blink, and he’d rounded the tank, smoke still rising from the barrel.

Another blink, and a precise blow towards the back of it, directly between plates of armor, like carapace on a fish.

A step past, attention turned to the paratroopers slowly, lazily drifting down. Leaves spinning from trees. Autumnal soldiers falling. Unwilling to wait.

Another step, and the tank’s engine exploded behind him, fueling his raging bonfire of energy, adding a bit more spring to his movements, like he needed it.

His legs coiled like springs and he leaped, soaring upwards, twisting in the air… It was in moments like these, the drifter thought, that he felt the most free. He brought the sword through a swift arc to the right, segmenting the first soldier, using the flow of the strike to carry him a bit farther. His feet hit brick with more than enough purchase to blaze along it and leap again towards the next one, who had had enough time to see the Gauss-Drifter coming. The soldier’s eyes were wide. Horrified.

He’d never been able to feel his own lingering, pulsating pain when he wore a frame. Perhaps it was something with the transference link, allowing him to escape his scarred and trauma-torn nervous system. Maybe it was the power the frames held, he considered, as his feet punched through another window, letting him slide gracefully into yet another abandoned building and dash through it. He wasn’t helpless now, no, he-

He’d gone straight through a thinner section of drywall, hoping to get through the building quickly, and nearly ran through a huddling woman as he had with the previous soldiers, body curled defensively around a much smaller figure. He saw half a face, turning away, tucking in. Terrified. His blade-like foot passed above her back, then skull by inches, sword held oh so carefully at his side, he-

He skidded, the wind gushing past him, grabbing the doorway in one fist and cracking the wood as he spun around it, dashing down the hallway. Every footstep scorched the carpet.

Micro vents along his neck and head flared as he sucked in a deep breath, fueling corrupted lungs, the tempest inside his chest twisting with… With… There. A window, just around this corner. He could see the light from it. Were there-

A door swung open in front of him, and he crashed through it, slamming the body behind it backwards with a startled yell. Hopefully they'd-

A tiny head, poking out, blinking sleepy eyes.

He jumped, arching above the child like a cat, coming down into a hard roll that his shoulders did not appreciate, the blade clattering to the ground and sliding across the floor. His roll carried him back to his feet and he grabbed it fluidly, wrenching the window open, and leaping out.

There were… People. Here.

Of course there were fucking people.

There-

Faintly, he heard sobbing, yelling, and he skidded along the cobbles as he managed a stop. Someone was… Hurt. Behind him, along those streets he’d just come from, he…

He rounded the corner in a second, peeking his head out. Scaldra troops in disarray, scrambling about.

It took him a moment to realize that they were trying to help the ones he’d left behind.

Some were working water pumps to try and wash efervon and fabric and flesh sludge off of those still living, some were yelling and organizing medical triages, and some were just… Crying. Cradling the dead.

The fire in his chest dulled to nothing. He’d… Forgotten. Let himself forget.

His comms, however, lit up from its place at his hip, the visual overlay inserted into the warframe’s skull flaring up with an image.

“Ay, famalam, you read me? Radios on fire, whatever you did set the whole sector on high alert. Bomb job, keep it up. We’re almost done over here, we’ve got hella more than we need to feed the locals too, ya? These fuckers been holdin’ out on us.”

Right, that was Quincy. It took him a second to respond. He couldn’t talk like this, back pressed against a wall, fingers clenched around a monster of a blade. Well, he never had been able to talk while piloting a warframe, they didn’t even have access to their own mouths, most of the time. But they’d worked around it, setting a button on his comm-link that he could press in combinations to reply. He hit it twice with a trembling hand, and a recording of his own voice played. “Affirmative.”

--

A minute or two of measured breaths, attention forcefully affixed on the visual overlay to check for movement in his direction, and he was… Fine. In control. He was doing fine. He just… couldn’t think about things too much, and besides! Despite the set of near misses, he hadn’t hurt anyone,  hopefully, that hadn’t either earned it already or lifted their weapon to be well on their way. The Scaldra called the Hex, and him by extension, terrorists. But, well. At least the Hex didn’t kill civilians. 

The split second image of the woman protecting her child, however, refused to leave his minds eye. It lingered there, haunting him, as he jogged back down another side street with his blade safely slapped onto his back. It remained there, held by the frame's will itself. The frame's will… Another, safer train of thought. Yes, that was… another bizarre mystery with Orokin technology, quite like elemental infusions. Each warframe was unique, yes, but they all still had some measure of telekinesis that he had practically no control over in any sense. Likely as ingrained as their abilities, and just as out of reach. Hell, he’d tried. He’d been in the heads of enough of these frames to be quite confident with their power, but the moment he was out, he was out of luck. Like the void was wagging its finger, tutting and telling him not to be greedy. 

The void sounded like Dominus Thrax, and he was real damn tired of hearing it.

He paused, then quickly ducked behind an awning, peeling open a long since broken door and slipping inside some old storefront as another patrol of heavy infantry came around the bend, and careened down the side-road he’d just come from. He could hear their radios, orders snapped out, telling them to search the area, and kill… Kill everything in sight.

Those children.

That mother. 

That man he’d never even had the time to spare a glance for.

No, they were very much not allowed to do that. The fire pulsed in his chest, thrumming and whining softly, like a dog begging for a treat. Even if the thought of what he was doing made him sick to his stomach, now and again.

Justice and good will were based on perspective, he thought, as he quickly withdrew a long ornate rifle from its place next to his blade. Truth, however, was constant, as elusive as it was to find. He loaded the hefty clip, snapping the segment into place. If he listened, he could hear the weapon’s metal singing a discordant song at every movement of its pieces. He didn’t particularly want to listen to it right now. Another check of his display, and he stepped out from his hiding spot. The truth of the matter was, none of this mattered. Every life he took would simply be returned if he failed once again on New Years. It’d all… Reset. Soldiers, civilians, the Hex, Entrati, and himself. None of it mattered.

Like a ceremonial soldier, firing off salutes for the fallen, he took aim and let loose a set of calculated, finely aimed shots towards the departing Scaldra units. The drifter tuned out the screams of void-borne metal as each bullet punctured armor and living tissue alike. It hummed, vibrating softly beneath his fingers between each shot, brought to life by contact with brain matter. Somehow, the bullets that he set into the thing linked to the gun itself, feeding it the bioelectricity they collected. He hated it. But gods, was it effective, the song fitting so well into his own form’s chorus of energy. 

Seventeen shots, barely half of a clip, and every fighter in front of him was dead. A quick crack of his spectral neck, physical shoulders rolled out, and he zipped forwards to leap into the truck and turn up the radio, listening in. Setting mental markers on places to hit. He reloaded his rifle anyway, tucking the extra bullets back in his side pouch for later. It didn’t matter. 

But some part of him still wanted to try anyway. If it didn’t matter, then it didn’t hurt anything to act like each loop mattered to everyone else. So he lifted his gun, overclocked his core, and exploded once more into motion.

--

By the time he returned, the sun had risen halfway, casting soft rosy shadows through the mall. He winced. Had it taken him… That long? He barely had the will to lift his feet properly, the earlike vents on his head drooping back despite his fire having long since extinguished. The drifter wasn’t sure if the warframes themselves could get tired, but damn him if it didn’t feel like he had done enough to be as tired as he should have been twice over. Whatever that meant.

His footsteps, metal clanking and scraping softly on concrete, didn’t alert his presence to the others until he was quite close. They were… Laughing, Quincy, slapping Aoi’s back, the latter having apparently just made some horrid joke. Good for them. He wondered idly what it had been. The others chuckled and snickered, Amir grinning and only half-paying attention, the other half locked firmly onto the game-system in his hands. He could hear Arthur and Eleanor in the kitchen, discussing over something that hissed and spat its displeasure at being cooked.

Lettie saw him first, and the smile on her face faltered when she took him in. Blood burned on, dried on, dripping across his body, (more his legs than anything else), flesh pockmarked and discolored by acid and bullets alike, weapons quite clearly very well used. He’d run right out of bullets in somewhere around thirty minutes, the ammo of this timeline a bit smaller than the Phenmor’s preferred, and his blade now had more than a few chips and scrapes from deflecting things it had never been meant to deflect. It’d take hours to repair, but, well, such was war. Part of him was sure that if he wasn’t wearing this frame, he’d have wound up asleep or dead on some bench somewhere in the open, a mile and a half back. 

The drifter didn’t wait to see how the others would react, merely offering Lettie a small nod and trudging up the long defunct escalators. His footsteps… Were bloody. He could smell it. It choked him. Warframes couldn’t smell, but it was there regardless, lingering like smog over his mind. One never forgot the smell of viscera and acid, melding and burning. One didn’t forget the sound, either.

Perhaps… A bath…? 

Chapter Text

The Drifter, King of Duviri, looked into his mug of peppermint tea and saw… Well, not much, really. Just… A shadow.

He had pulled his hair back into a tight ponytail before that last mission, so at very least the softly lit frame of his jaw and the corner of his eyes were visible, but it was somewhere around midnight and he wasn't about to leave the lights on and get told off for it. Ostensibly it was to hide from air-strikes, some wisdom of these old years. It shouldn’t have mattered. Arthur had mentioned that they were avoiding this area anyway, so… Well. Whatever. He sipped his tea, shifting back. 

He’d found no love in his heart for Albrecht Entrati. Not with how he’d treated his test subjects, or his family, and especially not with how he treated Loid. Either of the Loids, but more particularly the one that had fallen for him. How that had happened was utterly beyond him, but, well… It hadn’t seemed like Loid had ever really been able to get out much. Regardless of all that, there was one thing to say about the man. He had rather good taste in chairs.

At the moment, the drifter leaned back in an overly soft lounge chair that genuinely threatened to swallow him if he got too comfortable. Naturally, he did his best to take it up on that offer, and sipped his tea. No sugar, no milk, just well steeped herbs. He wasn’t sure if peppermint existed at all in the future, much of the flora and fauna both, even what had been spread across the system that he'd seen, had been devastated by terraforming and industrial projects, but damn. His time with Teshin had made him start appreciating things like tea, especially when it came in contrast to what he was used to. The Zariman’s method of cramming as many nutrients as possible into as small of cube as possible was… effective, once you’d learned to digest it, but only recently had he found the true joy of flavor. Pizza… was great, in that regard. Greasy, sloppy, loaded with sauce and dripping something only adjacent to what the rest of the Hex swore was mozzarella. So many new layers of overwhelming experience. He could still see the flabbergasted shock on Amir’s face when he’d realized that even pizza could be perfectly cubed. It was… Easier to stomach in small proper chunks. 

He sipped his tea.

He thought about anything but the things that had happened. 

He tried to ignore how pizza sauce, what had they called it? Marina? Mari… Whatever. The ‘tomato’ sauce, with the ‘cheese’. Was so close to… Red and off white green. Blood and acid. A tapestry. He sipped more tea, forcing himself out of the comfortable seat, clothed feet rasping across wooden floors. This was… A nice little backroom. Courtesy of a bastard, yes, but it was nice. This was a nice place. 

He missed Teshin. The old soldier would have loved it here. Probably would have done wonders for the people trapped in Hollovania. He’d always been that type. 

His sternum twinged, heartbeat thumping. That face, turning away in terror. Like he was… He set a hand against his chest. Don't think about them.

Teshin… It was odd. When he thought about it. How long had Duviri gone without another living, breathing being in it, other than him? It hadn’t felt like he’d spent centuries alone, but…

A child's eyes, wide, curious, frightened by the noise, peeking out from behind a door. Dark pupils gazing up at him from under darker lashes, under darker hair. Shadows, contrasted against the white of its scleras, against the greens of its irises. They haunted him. He'd been so close to… Something else. Think about something else.

Greens like… Like the grey green of the void scarring he and Teshin shared.

Gods, he missed Teshin. Sure, he spat nonsense sometimes, sure, he was a grump, sure, he’d never gone easy on him when teaching Komi. But he was… Teshin. He was a friend. Probably the first one the drifter had had in… So long. He missed the man. He missed the way he'd let the drifter just… Sit next to him. He missed the way his humming sounded. Missed having the knowledge in the back of his head that if nothing else, there was one place he could go that wouldn't hurt him. He’d heard days and days and days worth of stories, and…

And now he was here, and Teshin was still back there, in a place the drifter only ever seemed to see again in nightmares. He did wonder, sometimes, if… If he could get back there. In the same way as he could feel the Operator's timeline just beneath his fingers when he listened for it, Albrecht's simulacrums ever-waiting to be given a soul again.

His palm twitched with the faint overlayed memory of a soft cheek, made from steel-flesh, resting against it. A rhythmic song, so very far from what he’d grown used to. It had been so… Gentle. 

His heart ached. Not just with the phantom pain, but… Something more. That same old pain that had always turned his eyes to the sky and mind to freedom, back in Duviri.

He didn't want to go back, but… But he missed feeling like… 

Like… 

The words didn't come. He didn't know if they existed, yet.

The drifter downed the rest of his tea, and set his jaw, marching off through the void-portal back into the mall proper. He needed more of it, the flavor something tangible to focus on. This was not going to be a night where he’d sleep, that was for absolute certain. 

-

Arthur found him some four hours later, staring down a tea kettle. There was a limit to how much tea one human could drink on an empty stomach, and, well. Marty seemed utterly determined to find it. Even if he seemed to be reusing tea bags and must have basically been drinking hot, lightly flavored water. 

The swordsman offered a soft ‘morning’, and got an even softer grunt in return, Marty's vacant gaze never leaving the polished metal. Well. A glowing start to any day, that was. He stepped around the fellow, flipping through cupboards until he found the pan he wanted, setting it aside. Next stop was the fridge, where he gathered eggs, chives, dried peppers, dried ham…No real greens, but that was acceptable. Good enough for breakfast. 

Marty didn't move from his spot in front of the stove, left hand tucked into what was almost a fist, save for how he seemed to be idly rubbing his palm with his curled fingers. Fabric faintly rasping against fabric. Not for the first time in recent days, Arthur put a hand on the man’s shoulder and carefully pushed him about a third of a meter to the right. He was easy enough to move in small amounts when he was zoned out, likely something to do with being very old and very capable of getting lost in his own head. Not that Arthur could, or would, judge. So long as he didn’t get punched. 

His chopping of ingredients went quick, and Marty continued to stare, basically unblinking, at the teapot. Sol, the heat wasn’t even on. Did he know? Was boiling water through sheer force of will something he could do? Arthur wouldn’t put it past him, with all the rest of the bullshit the man seemed perfectly capable of pulling.

He sauteed the ham in oil before adding everything else, getting it just slightly browned and flavorful around the edges of each little slice, and got to cracking the eggs.

That… did get him to twitch, head snapping over at the sharp noises as his gaze refocused on the making of the food. Like he’d just now realized Arthur was there, right next to him, cooking. The immortal blinked at him with those softly glowing eyes, and frowned. 

“Good morning,” Arthur repeated, lifting his brows, and Marty grunted again, frown deepening. So Arthur stirred the peppers in with the eggs. “We don’t have onions,” he said in a conversational way, “Might have to see what Quincy can scrounge up next time we’ve got an opportunity to trade with the locals.”

That also got a reaction, oddly enough, and - Arthur’s brain still automatically defaulted to Amir’s ‘Marty McFlea’ comment, and the man had yet to correct any of them on any name they’d used for him - and Marty flinched, rocking back on his heels. He… Was only really wearing his jumpsuit, for once. Arthur noticed with a touch of amusement. “Onions or locals?” He asked, gesturing at the bizarre fellow with a lift of his spatula’s handle. 

Another blink, the bags under his eyes doubling as he scrunched up his face, obviously making an effort to zone himself back in. “...Huh...”

“You winced. So was it the onions or the locals.” He stirred, the egg on the bottom starting to go white.

“I… Did? Sorry. Just… No, no problems with either. Probably.”

“Probably.”

“Onions went extinct in the Great Vegetation Purge of 3402.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to shoot the man a look, after a heartbeat of genuine confusion. “You can just say you haven’t tried onions.”

Marty shrugged, wincing to the side. “Funnier if I don’t.”

Well… Yes. But also no. Ultimately, it was a moot point. So he sprinkled the chives, gently flopped one side of the egg over the other, and let it hiss away on the pan. 

They were quiet like that for quite some time. Marty resumed his staring at the teapot, and Arthur made himself breakfast. He found himself watching Marty anyway from the corner of his eye. Ever since the raid on the mall, he’d… Well. They’d all known the man practiced what he preached ever since he’d shown up. He’d personally known the moment he figured out who’d been inside his damn head, but… There’d always been something profoundly non-threatening about him until that day. Sure, he was sarcastic, and had a tendency to look at you like he wanted to start a fight, and sure, he could actually fight like nobody's business in those puppet suits of his, but… Well. Arthur couldn’t shake the memory of the way he’d laughed, teeth bared, humorless, dictating the flow of time like a child with its toys, throwing them all around like rag dolls. It was like…  Well, not unlike that creepy-as-fuck ‘void manifestation’, actually. The two were worryingly similar in appearance, though one of them was quite definitely more feminine, and extremely definitely a child. He itched to ask. Gods above, what he really wanted to do was sit the man down and not let him up until he’d interrogated every last piece of what the hell was going on with him out of his skull, but… Instead, he cut his omelet in half. 

Maybe it was because Marty looked exhausted. He had always seemed exhausted, on some level, but with the way his shoulders slumped... Maybe it had been the way he’d apologized, every time he’d had the opportunity. Or the way he’d volunteered for all the hardest and most dangerous parts of every mission he could, or how he’d come back and tidy up every mess in sight without complaint, or maybe it was because he’d cleared the whole local request board for the whole sector in two days flat. If there was anything to be said for upkeeping team morale...

Whatever it was, Arthur still plated both halves on two separate plates, and began cutting one of them into cubes.

Chapter Text

The drifter… Was… 

Well, he just was. Perhaps that was enough for now. It might have been nice to not be, but that never lasted more than a second or two when ift came to him. He was holding a plate, now, a fork resting ontop, steam gently brushing against his chest and chin as the world moved around him. 

Arthur was walking him somewhere, a gentle hand on his upper back, guiding him across the mall, and the drifter couldn’t find it in himself to care much. He merely was. Movement was. The plate was. The… The plate also smelled… Pretty good, actually. He focused on it, taking in the conglomerate of colors he held. Yellows splashed in a familiar, orderly pattern over white, dotted with darker greens and crimsons, pale blue playing in squares over its surface. His first thought was an amused one, wondering if he’d been handed a piece of cubed vomit on a marble floor. His second finally managed to connect his sight and smell and whatever singular piece of his mind was awake at this ungodly moment and recognize it as an omelet. 

The ground was… Cold. Arthur’s hand was warm, and if the drifter focused on it, he could almost feel the man’s soul. Soft rhythmic sound blessed his ears, low and underlaid by two sets of thumping. He loved rhythms. The world made sense when it was in order, when it fell into beat. He’d seen far too much chaos to ever truly find comfort in it again.

The sound organized itself into footsteps and speaking. Arthur was saying something, and he shook his head a little to shock his brain back into awareness. Something about ‘an old show he used to like’. A show? A play, perhaps? The world grew darker, colors bleeding in from neons in the next room over, and when Arthur’s hand shifted from his back to his shoulder, and pushed, the drifter sat down. It was… A very comfortable place to sit, and he watched Arthur with a deeply disassociated interest. Whatever he was doing made a harsh set of creaks, then rustling noises, and a soft, heavily accented ‘there you are’. The light greys and vibrant pinks shifted as he stood, travelling across his field of vision. The pinks were shed for blues, ones that caught beautifully on the white streaks through the man’s hair, and outlined well the scarred masterwork painting of his face. He was… Well, rather beautiful. The light only made it more clear, though the thoughts were too idle for him to dwell on for more than a second. 

He was very tired. 

Something whirred, clicked, and Arthur stood and approached the drifter's throne. He moved to his left, and flopped down next to him before lifting something dark. A gun? He tapped the end of it, and light bloomed infront of them both. The sound hit a second later, and he was grateful, because it was easier to process than light had ever been. It was loud at first, but additional tappings of the dark whatever seemed to convince it to grow softer. Bright colors, quick motion, and Arthur was speaking again. Setting down the dark thing, picking up something much lighter that clinked and scraped.

“Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I’ll watch something I liked when I was a kid.” More clinking, and Arthur paused to chew. Both of their eyes were on the light. “It helps. And make sure to eat that, -” (From the corner of his vision he could see a reflected flash when he gestured at the drifter’s omelet with his utensil,) “- because we’ve all seen how hard you’ve been working. You need the energy."

He picked up his own fork, rubbing the smooth metal with his thumb, lifting it and watching the tv screen through the tines. Before he'd come here, he'd rarely had the opportunity to use them. Not that he could remember, anyway. Nobody would spare a fork for a drifter when his hands would do just fine. The thought made him smile. He began to eat.

Slowly, reality began making more sense. The food helped far, far more than the tea had, and the moment he realized that, he realized in tandem just how god damn hungry he was.

 Arthur paused, fork halfway up to his mouth, brows lifting, watching Marty. Two seconds ago, he’d been moving at a snail’s pace, quite clearly drifting between basically sleepwalking and only vaguely present. Now, the man inhaled the food on his plate like he’d been starving for months. It was gone in seconds, and he was wiping a little bit of egg off his lip with a thumb, licking it, (oh) and then licking the plate as well. (Less oh.) A glowing five star review, more or less. Marty sighed with contentment, dropping his head back, and slowly blinked with renewed interest at the tv. “Thank you,” the man muttered, a smile ghosting over his lips. “You even put in the effort to cut it into cubes. Should have thanked you earlier.”

Arthur shrugged, cutting another bite and eating it, allowing the silence to hang while he ate. He’d used four eggs anyway, and had realized midway through that it was far too many for this horrible hour, and… Well, Marty had been standing there. He’d heard that kettle whistling multiple times since, what, midnight? And he hadn’t seen him eat dinner, either. 

“Anytime, Marty.” And… He watched as the man’s mouth opened, then closed, a contemplative sort of frown pressing his lips together.

“Drifter.”

“Huh?”

“That's… What I was called.” He lifted his hands a little, plate safe in his lap, making air quotes. “‘There goes that drifter again.’ ‘Kneel, drifter, and accept thy punishment.’ So forth. I… Didn’t know if I should bring it up, but figured you should know.” 

Arthur contemplated that, cutting up another bite, measuring his next response. “Your parents... Were the eccentric type, then?”

“Hmph. They were fine. Why?”

"Well... they named you Drifter.”

‘Drifter’ was silent, expression unreadable. Shit, had that been too far?

“They didn’t… Name me that. I don’t think.”

Arthur picked up the remote, turning the show down more as he turned to fully face Drifter, who was shifting in his seat, still focused on the television. “You don’t… think?”

“I… Yep. My head is perpetually empty at more or less all hours of the day.”

He gave him a flat look, and the man’s eyes met his one good one very briefly before he looked away again.

“...Sorry. I… Yeah. I can't tell you what they named me. Wish I could, but I genuinely don’t remember. A couple thousand years of everyone calling you something, and the name you had for just, I dunno, thirteen years, just…” He made a little poof gesture with both hands, lips twitching. Whether into a grimace or a flickering smile was genuinely impossible to tell in this lighting. Arthur sat back, taking that in. 

“Hmph. Suppose that explains why you've never corrected us. Eleanor was sure you just didn't trust us with it.”

Now it was Drifter’s turn to turn to Arthur, jerking upright. “What? Why? She should be able to tell that's not at all what was… ” He drew off, looking genuinely taken aback and more than a little tense, and Arthur shrugged.

"Mmnh. I've been told you think enough and worry enough that getting a good read is nearly impossible. You and Amir have that in common, though he's less nervous." He cut another bite and ate it, as the Drifter frowned and set his plate aside. He turned those paradoxically green-purple eyes down to his hands. That hadn’t been everything she’d said, but there was a limit to how much Arthur wanted to reveal. Having your mind picked apart by someone who wasn’t even trying to do so, especially for someone as closed off as Drifter-Not-Marty, didn’t seem like it’d be fun to learn about.

“There is a lot to worry about.” Drifter relented, tilting his head, voice halting in the way it always got when he didn't seem sure of how to say what he wanted. “But… That… The names. Aren't something that I care about. I genuinely don’t mind them. They’re… fun. Quincy calls me all sorts of things, and that gets me really used to a lot of shit really fast. Marty is fine, if it's easier.” 

“I can make do with Drifter.” He finished off his omelet, setting his plate aside as well. “Easy isn’t particularly what I’m concerned about either. I’m more worried about what makes you comfortable.”

His face went tight, eyes shut, hands clenching and unclenching like he was squeezing something; and he was silent for an extremely stressful several seconds before responding softly. “Arthur… Please… You… You really don’t need to worry about me losing control around you all like I did again. Even if you don't try to accommodate me. I promise. It was a mistake I will not repeat. I really really mean that, and… I’m sorry it happened at all. I know I’ve said it before, but Sol… You all shouldn’t have to… You all have enough to worry about without having to add me and my… Abilities to the pile. I’m here to help. Not hurt. I know I'm failing at that, but I promise I won't stop trying to make up for it. You don't need to appease me for that.” 

Arthur blinked, reeling. “That… Wasn’t… What I meant, Drifter.”

He couldn’t read minds, but with how blatantly the look he got was filled with resigned disbelief, he didn’t have to. Alright, so they were doing this, then.

“Look.” he sets his hands together, leaning forward on his knees, meeting Drifter’s eyes, before continuing.

“We all fuck up. All of us have done it more than just once or twice. Shit happens. We all make bad calls, stray shots happen in the heat of the moment. Hell, you’ve heard how often I get shit for my mistakes, and I do make mistakes. If we wanted you out, we’d have said so. I wouldn’t be calling you anything, nickname or otherwise, I’d be holding you at gunpoint and marching you out of here. The Scaldra wouldn’t even know you were gone, they’ve already sworn off the building entirely.”

Drifter broke eye contact, gaze falling to his hands, clasped in his lap, and he nodded.

“You are a part of the team.” He continued, softer, clapping a hand on his shoulder and gently shaking him. “You’ve already helped more than we could ever have asked for, and I wouldn’t be trying to help you feel comfortable if it wasn’t clear you did actually give a single shit about the rest of us. Its not appeasement, its just what teammates do. So, you can stop throwing yourself in front of every bus on the sodding street to prove your intentions. We know. Check it off the list. Thats an order.  

The drifter hesitated for a long moment before nodding slightly, the faintest ghost of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Good. Now, I’m gonna keep watching. You should sleep, if you can, or don't. Either way, your arse is staying here till…” He checked his kinepage, squinting through the gloom. “I dunno. Seven, at least. Quincy will be up then and then nobody gets any sleep.”

“..Thank you.” Drifter said again, barely above a whisper, looking at him once more. Sol, was he… Tearing up? “For… All of this. I…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

--

About six hours later, Eleanor opened the door to a particular side room, grinned, and snapped a picture. Arthur, head lolled back, an arm around the back of the couch, snoring softly. Drifter, head on his shoulder, curled up at his side. Also asleep. Dorks.

(Sent in the Hex chat a few minutes later, with a simple 'holy shit') 

Chapter Text

The drifter, exiled from his time, sat on a rooftop and overlooked his new kingdom. Below, mighty soldiers fought off hateful amalgamations of flesh and metal with blades, guns, and acid. 

He wasn’t needed in their fight, his charges were several blocks away behind him, after all, so for now he merely watched and waited. And… Thought.

The techrot deeply unnerved him. It was so eerily familiar to the infestation he’d helped fight not too long ago, while waiting for his significantly more capable counterpart to return. Perhaps it was already close enough to the perfect plague.

Not for the first time, he prayed to whatever deities were out there that he and all his metal scarring, courtesy of the daily-accursed void, would remain as strangely immune as he’d found himself to be. It didn’t really make much sense, how he could wade through two timelines worth of corruption, pilot corruption, communicate with corruption, and still remain pure. And not for the first time the thought that maybe he’d never been free of it anyway stepped up to the forefront of his mind. Maybe not infestation corruption, but something far worse. And as always, that thought had a little sibling who’s shadow never stopped threatening to overtake him. It had always loomed somewhere since his escape, watching impassively. Coloring everything grey.

Because as much as he hoped and prayed otherwise, there was a horrible, horrible chance that he was only whole because he’d never truly escaped Duviri. A horrible chance that everything he’d experienced thus far had all been more constructs of an ever evolving void, because some things were just too conveniently perfect.

Even from within the safety of a warframe, that thought was always enough to send a stab of pulsating, lingering pain through his heart. 

He could never stop it from being there. No logic he could put against it ever made it fade for more than a short while. Gods above, more than anything he wished the void would let him permanently kill the thoughts in his head, instead of just destroying manifestations and shadows, because…

Because times were… Good. And that terrified him. It pulled out other thoughts, memories, fears, all linked together like prisoners on a single chain, and paraded them around his head when what he wanted most was to breathe easy and relax for once. 

The first time things were good, he’d used that goodness to try and help the others trapped on that ship. It had worked, but had left him so very, very alone. The next time things had been good, he’d made himself friends, sculpted from the void echoing his yearning for companionship. It had worked, but the moment he wanted things to change, to progress, that dream had become a nightmare that seemed to be more than happy to repeat every time he closed his eyes.

Then, when he’d managed to escape, finally, finally, that stroke of good luck had set him in a solar system with only the barest fragments of free will left, all the rest of its minds held in the iron grasp of a tyrant, mind bending king. Almost like it had been mocking him, echoing his own journey out from the grasp of Thrax. He’d… Somehow managed to do enough there to begin the process of setting those people free. He’d slain wyrms. He’d wielded a bow made from the body of a sentient war machine, and used it to punch holes through an endless number of others of its own kind. 

And he’d died so many times in the process. 

He could still feel clawed hands around his throat. Still see the burning, paralyzing gaze of an serpentine archon, puppetting a body so very similar to Aoi’s. He could still hear the screams and howls of something only pretending to be a wolf. Could still feel the metal of the mask on his face, and hear the crooning voice that spoke to memories that didn’t properly belong to him. (And he could still, sometimes, feel the cool touch of a Shadow.)

And now… Now he was here. It was like he’d somehow gone in a complete spiral of experience, instead of just looping. He’d taken up yet another mantle. Agreed to help, again. And was again in a storybook land that looped over, and over, and over, and over, and over. Even if it was different, it was the same.

He didn’t want to think about it. 

Gods, he really did not want to think about it. 

He could feel his emotions pouring over the link into the warframe he wielded, its chest tightening, heart stuttering in its endless rhythm, phantom agony severing his spine and slicing through his nerves. He lifted a hand, grasping at the soft tissue above the frame’s collarbone. His fingertips caught on ornate, carefully designed ridges, palm sliding above growths more resilient than any blade. He squeezed hard, cutting off blood flow, digging his claw-like finger tips in, finding tiny air holes when he pressed down.

It hurt. Obviously; because a warframe’s grip strength was genuinely a little ridiculous. But at very least it hurt in a very, very different way than his phantom pains did. Hurt in a way that made the frame’s reflexes twitch, and made the mental agony subside, overtaken by something real. Hurt in the kind of way that let him come back to Earth. He counted to ten, forcing his chin up, inhaling, feeling air flow across his skin and into his chest from a hundred places.

He held the breath. 

Five. 

Six. 

Seven. 

Eight. 

Nine. 

Ten.

Exhale. Slowly. 

Another five second count. He could feel the ceramic roofing tile beneath his other hand, mottled by years of acid rain. He could hear, distantly, music being played. He could hear the gurgling, guttural screeches of Techrot being culled. The yells of Scaldra fighters. When he opened his eyes, he could see the moon. Right where it was supposed to be, no arching gold construction to outline its equators, no gravity wells to rip apart its surface. Smooth and whole. Warframes couldn’t smell or really taste much, so those two were off the list, unfortunately, but the rest would do.

He let go, feeling his heartbeat pump infested blood through this infested body, and listened to the way its muscles twitched and flexed when he stood up again to bathe in that beautiful soft blue light. Nothing he’d ever seen, from the hands of the Orokin, the humans, the sentients, anyone, had ever been able to compare to what had already existed. The void itself tried and could only fail to capture that perfect stillness-

His kinepage beeped, startling him from his grounding practice, and then kept beeping rapidly with all the insistence that only one man he knew was both capable of and willing to showcase.

The drifter removed it from its little pouch from the belt he’d slapped together, opening it. 

-HEY

-HEY

-HEY

-HEY

-Is your mission done yet?

-Where r u????

-Pizza Night!!

-DONT YOU DARE SAY YOURE STILL BUSY

-CMON

-CMON

-CMON

-BIG BYTES PIZZA

-DELICIOUS PIZZA

-YOU KNOW YOU WANT SOME

-CMON

-AOI GOT EXTRAS

-CMON

It was Amir. Blessed fellow, weird as he was. The drifter still had to suppress the urge to rub out shocked-stiff muscles when he remembered the way the man had subdued him. Effective, but painful. And of all people, he’d expected him and Eleanor to be the two most wary, they’d come in closest contact, after all, but… Sol. Someone must have skipped him with the ‘normal behavior around threats’ pamphlet, or Amir had tossed it before reading it. Either way, the drifter appreciated it more than he could say.

Yes, there was one big difference between every step he’d taken on this bizarre journey through time and space. Things might always seem to be repeating, but at the very least, each and every time, he’d had better and better company. If this was all just another construct, or a story for him to play in, then at least… At least the void was getting better at it. Maybe the Vast Indifference was hoping to build him up and tear him back down. Let him get attached, and then pull the rug, just like old times, but that lingering thought did have a counterpart. He wanted to get attached. He wanted to care. Gods, even if it hurt. Time spoiled everything eventually, but the void could not give him shitty pizza and vibrant smiles and expect him to not smile back, no matter how many times he’d been broken.

Whatever happened in this story, he’d face it as he had all his life, head on. And.... With his heart open, like Teshin had taught him. With his chin up, like the Solaris had shown him. With an unshakeable desire to keep on living. That one… He was still working on that one, but time spent with the Hex made it a little easier every day.

With every spiral, he learned a little more, got a little better. It could all be fake. It could all mean nothing. And if it did, then it meant it would always find a way to hurt him anyhow, so there was no problem in him finding joy where he could.

The resolute peace in his chest wouldn’t last, it never did, but he presented the idea anyway; like a lamp in the darkness of a ship filled with monsters he’d used to love. If some dumbass that looked and sounded just like he did took that light, well. He had a whole damn stash. 

And so, the drifter turned back to trek across his kingdom and return home, the wyrm safely back in its roost.

--

It was pretty shitty pizza, not that he’d ever say it out loud. The cheese was easily the worst part, basically some sort of synthetic rubber that tried its best to pretend it wasn’t, and he loved it. Gods, he loved it. Though… maybe he could steal a few slices away just long enough to take off the cheese, so when he cubed it he wouldn’t have to fight for his entire life against the stuff. He swore it was sentient, and it absolutely hated him.

Chapter Text

“Metal is more common than you might think.” The drifter said softly, and carefully nicked the back of his hand with a knife. He tilted it, bright, almost red blood pooling in the crevasse between muscle and tendon and bone, right where his thumb met his wrist. “You’re already very good with adjusting general structure and pushing or pulling what you’re affecting, so my next recommendation for progression comes down to this.”

He tilts his hand further, and allows the droplets to spill onto the table. Aoi sat across from him, fingers steepled, brow furrowed in genuine consideration.

“I’ve… Never really tried blood before. It’s not exactly…” She draws her fingers into her palms, wincing. “Isn’t it a little, I dunno, sparce on the metal side?”

The drifter shrugged. “Well... Yeah. On the battlefield, there will be quite a bit of it in any human opponent you face.” He gestured down with the knife, to where his blood was quickly losing its faint grey-green shimmer as the void energies dissipated. “ But, when you’re capable of locating and commanding this small of an amount of metal, all sorts of things you didn’t know you were capable of suddenly become a hell of a lot more doable. I'm... Hoping it might help you when you need it.”

She nodded, mulling over his words, wing-like bangs brushing the sides of her round face. The two sat cross-legged across from each other, in a way that faintly reminded him of his early interactions with his cosmic twin. Save for the fact that they weren’t sharing a meal of nutrient cubes, nor discussing externalism, and as far as he knew, neither he nor Aoi was having an existential crisis at this particular moment. Sol and Lua send that that lasted. 

Aoi lifted a hand, reaching a tentative finger towards the little puddle, and the drifter set his hand in front of it to block it from her view. “Focus on feeling it without touching it. It’s there, and you know where it is. You might hear the noise of iron in my veins first, but you can tune that out. You’re looking for a mote of dust on the table.”

She huffed, pursing her lips ever so slightly, but obediently shut her eyes and set both hands up. Yes, there it was. He could see the way the air warped, soft blues channeled as she reached. Not to command, just to… Notice. And he could also see from the way her brows started to furrow again that she wasn’t noticing a single drop of blood amidst everything else in the room. The metal playing cards scattered around them, his knife, the metal legs on the plastic table, the metal wiring in the walls, the metal outlets, the light fixtures, his gun, the paneling, the fuse box, the metal folding chairs, their outfits, the metal growing on her own body, or found in her body, in the drifter ’s body… 

He’d specifically suggested this little backroom for precisely this reason. It was loud. Hell, he couldn’t sense the metal, not unless he used the same variant of warframe she found herself partially belonging to, but the electricity buzzed and hummed along at a perpetual drone; and he didn’t need to pilot any warframe to know that the metal, when she felt it, had a very similar sort of feel. A vibration, telling you what and where and when, that happened whenever it came into contact with the subtle waves of energy you’d send off to find it in the first place. If he focused, he could feel it's tone within in himself. The iron in his blood, and whatever strange metal kept coalescing over time where he thought he should have scars, trembled at her attention. It wasn’t unpleasant, per-se, but he did find it slightly off putting. Whatever, though, he’d survive.

He let her focus, remaining silent as she searched, sensing… everything, and growing frustrated with her struggles. Eventually, she released that pressure, slapped her hands down on the table, dropped her forehead, and groaned.

“Four minutes and six seconds.” The drifter nodded, approving. “You’ve got way more patience than I did. Good job.”

She looked up at him, grimacing. “Four minutes and I still couldn’t find a single drop of blood not even a foot in front of me, and your blood has way more metal than it should. So it should be easy.”

He shook his head, smiling lightly, and flexed the hand that had been cut. His body healed at the same pace as a regular human, yes, but it was weird about it sometimes anyway. The wound had already scabbed over, the blood going dark as it should have, though a sort of… film, made of the void-metal, spiraled over where it had dried. Lettie might find that interesting, though he wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable around her enough, or her needles, to submit himself for experiments. Of all the people in the city the Hex would be the most likely to understand, but it didn’t make him any less nervous.

“When I first did this exercise,” He says, and she looked up to listen as he spoke, raising an eyebrow, “It took me about six cycles with a warframe who’s abilities had already fully matured and grown. If you had been able to find it immediately, despite everything else in this room, I think I might have flipped the table.” She snorted, rolling her eyes, but then looked back at him sharply as he offered his palm and asked, “May I have permission to show you what it feels like?” 

She was silent for a moment, weighing the decision, mouth pulling to the side. Most of her expressions had a good dose of whimsy to them, which the drifter had always found himself respecting considerably. The self-control it took, and the self-mastery to reprogram your entire on-demand battery of physical expression, was not small. 

“And to clarify, you’ll just pop right back out after, right?” 

“Yeah. If you want me out earlier, just give me a nudge and I’ll go. You have my promise.” 

“Hai. Dozo.” She said, taking his hand and giving it a little shake. He didn’t speak the language, but the meaning was clear.

Transference was… New to him. Newer than most things, anyway. Teshin had been the first to teach him, yes, but even Teshin hadn’t really been able to describe what it felt like. That sensation of reaching out, mentally, and finding the cage that held someone else’s existence. You had to hold to it, anchor yourself, and just… Slip through the bars.

His physical body evaporated, the whole process barely an eyeblink, and he was inside the cage along with Aoi. He could feel her mind working, considering, nervous. Stressed about so many things. He could feel her worry for the locals, the other members of the Hex, concerns about inadequacy and death, and how genuine she was, as a person. And…  And he could feel her understanding him. Getting glimpses of the fears and pains and memories that had pushed themselves so deep he could no longer tell where his mangled soul ended and they began. His worry for all of them, his desire to help, not just because it was his responsibility, but because he wanted to. Needed to. Because no - one should ever, ever, have to suffer like he had. No one should ever have to be that alone, that lost. They deserved better. They deserved so, so much better. Even if he knew the truth. Even if the hands would-

The drifter ripped himself out of the exchange of consciousnesses, closing off and pulling away. They still shared the same body, yes, but… He’d forgotten. Too used to piloting silent helminth bodies that he’d forgotten that transference had always been meant to be a two way street. Operator and frame. Fuck that. Fuck that. Sol above. He nearly cut off the link and ejected immediately, even though it had barely been a second in real time. His transference with Arthur had been extremely deliberate and planned, but this? This was terrifying, this was… This was for… For greater understanding of void given abilities, that he understood intimately, and she did not. He just had to focus on that, and disallow all other connections. He had to. And he could sense, vaguely, her confusion at the sudden loss of his consciousness, and he knew that she could sense, vaguely, his fear.

He guided her to lift her hands again, focusing on just this for now. Just her abilities. Just what he could understand, and could offer. Thankfully, though after a moment of hesitation, she let her arms follow his lead, and let him have full access to her power. 

So, he reached out, just as she had. He didn’t focus on anything in particular, at first, just grounding himself entirely in the now. The physical experience that was her, the psychic experience that was what she could do with Entrati’s…. Well, ‘gifts’ was too light of a term, and ‘curses’ were too dark. Either way. He felt, eyes closed, and Aoi felt alongside him. 

Eventually, he allowed his focus to narrow. Like putting a fist around a flashlight, to condense the beam into something far brighter, he amplified the awareness of that much smaller area. And… She was capable of it, her powers matured enough to allow a more subtle, careful set of rapid pulses. With the smaller area, it was far more manageable. 

And in that pulse, the faintest calling. The softest hum. A drop or two of blood, singing of iron and something else, melodic and many-toned, like a discordant choir. 

He took his metaphorical hands off the reins then, once he was sure Aoi was capable of holding that attention, and that awareness, herself. He could feel her exultation, her vibrant joy, and he allowed it to sweep him into a similar song. Pride, as he felt her not only sense the droplet, but call to it, attune to its response, and lift it, trapped between carefully placed waves of energy, off the table. Hell, that was a step farther than he’d been intending for this lesson to go, but it was obvious that she would, anyway. Yes, he had no doubt she would have gotten it significantly faster than he would even without his touch, and he let himself feel the same joy she did when she opened her eyes to witness that tiny orb just above two crossed fingertips. She shaped it into a heart, and laughed. 

It was such a radiant moment of minute triumph that… That when he transferred out, reappearing in a flash in his seat once more, he couldn’t help but laugh with her. And their practice with the minute continued, as she dropped her concentration, setting the bead of blood behind his hand at his prompting, and once again focused on finding it. She’d need the skills in time, and it was something kind he could do. 

--

(The pure focus on lessons and practice devolved rather fast into Aoi telling embarrassing stories about the rest of the Hex, aided by her telekinesis. The drifter laughed himself sick, and Sol, did it feel good.)

Chapter Text

The Drifter, Prince of the Unknowable, hung in the air like a star.

During his experience with warframes, he’d always found sensations like pain, heat, or cold… Fickle. He could be aware when he was hot or cold, and if he was burning, or freezing, he knew, sure, but at the same time those sensations were distant. When he focused, he could feel them as he would on his own body, but normally they seemed… optional. It was something he attributed to the warframe itself’s lack of active consciousness. If it wasn’t entirely aware of, or consumed by, the sensations, then it made a bit of sense to him that he wouldn’t be either, until he chose to wake up those parts of its brain.

And so, several thousand feet in the air and cradled by the wind, the Drifter didn’t really mind the frost crystalizing on his feather-like blades. In truth, he was more distracted by how pretty the little fractals were, as wind whipped around his body, upwards and downwards force perfectly equalized to let him simply float. He admired the way the soft, slowly growing silvery filaments caught the moonlight, spiralling and branching out in a way so very similar to void corruption, but somehow far more pure. 

Again, he was struck by how much the void sought to imitate the real. It was like… Someone had mixed sugar in with water, intending to make syrup, but had forgotten to finish the process and left the ladle in. When the ladle came out, it’d always be crusted with filament crystals. Evaporate the ladle with a bit of… Theoretical magic, and you’d have an inverted sugar version. Imperfect, inferior, but ultimately capable of making something similar when filled with matter.

Another echo, a voice, muttering in the back of his head. Sometimes he wondered if he’d never escaped at all. Sometimes he wondered if it was him who was an echo.

He then promptly flipped himself upsidown with a flap of a feather-blade lined arm, holding his bag carefully with his other so as to not spill its entire contents out below. A change of perspective. That always helped him focus. His head quirked, the warframe’s original brain rendering many of his motions bird-like, and he renewed his study of the ground. It was something else to think about. He always needed something else to think about. And right now, he was observing. 

This frame, Zephyr, was good at that. The sky belonged to it, the air itself kneeling at its metaphorical throne. And he… He loved the sky. Despite how long it took him to master riding a Kaithe, years of broken bones and cracked skulls and lingering shame, he’d never stopped trying for precisely that reason. The Y axis was simple freedom. He was untouchable, unseeable, safe and utterly alone. Up here, he was far, far out of Eleanor’s range, unless she was really trying, and high enough that the patrols of helicopters below didn’t come close enough to ping him as anything more than a bird on their radar. He was free. 

And, thank Sol, he didn’t need to see much in terms of details, or his entire plan would have been screwed right over by that precice need for freedom. He’d been observing for a few weeks, now, maps overlaid with writing and notes fervently filling up the satchel at his side, outlining three distinctly trackable groups. Techrot surface outbreaks, Scaldra troop movements, and the citizens within Hollovania. It was something he’d heard Quincy wishing he could do, some weeks back, So here he was, watching different colors of light slowly shift night by night across the wide expanse of the city. 

An idle shift of thought, and an increase in pressure to one side, and he was once again curled as if kneeling on that vast expanse of the world. There was a secondary purpose to his monitoring, one he wasn’t sure the Hex would particularly approve of. But, well. Adept at killing as they were, there were still only seven of them including himself. Other options needed to be considered eventually.

He withdrew his latest four map pages, arraying them out carefully and manicuring the slightest of updrafts to keep the papers neutral and undisturbed by the wind. Finally, his fifth, which he began marking. Just the Scaldra and the Techrot for now. Most of the civillians kept their lights off at night, given the curfew, but it wasn’t uncommon to catch one or two windows on. And where there was one, there were most often many. Once he’d finished annotating with corresponding orange and green pens, (nicked from Lettie’s never ending cup of pens, with full intent to have them returned) he lined up each one and surveyed. 

The Techrot was a curious thing to track, because while it’d pop out onto the surface in seemingly random places, it was like… Well, like a mushroom. If there were blooms, then it was a guarantee that the whole area had mycelium beneath. So, where the techrot bloomed, the underground must be truly infested, and predicting outbreaks would require many more days of research and observation. Not for the first time he itched to see what the Scaldra knew. They were always ontop of the blooms like fire jumping between patches of dry grass, which meant that either they had constant round-the-clock surveillance and dedicated on-call response teams, or had found the pattern. Or, hopefully, both. 

Pages properly annotated for approximate troop guesses and bloom sizes, he tucked away the sheaf into his side bag, and pulled out a much smaller notebook. In this, with a blue pen he’d become very fond of, he quickly began scratching out the changes in probable civilian locations.

Cold made his fingers sluggish, though he’d never seen a frame get frostbite, no matter the temperature, and he paused in his writing to flex and stretch out his right hand to try and work some warmpth back into his digits. A pain in the ass, but pain in the joints, especially pain in the joints of his primary hand, was way worse. 

And so, he wasn’t looking at his book when a streak of blue-purple light zipped like lightning from the complex that housed their mall off into the winding maze of side streets. The drifter snapped his book shut, head tilting sideways as he tracked the movement. Much too nimble to be anyone on a cycle, so… That must be Amir. No-one else, other than him, could reach that level of speed and agility. What was he doing ? Some late night request?

The drifter released his stranglehold on the wind, putting his book away, and held his bag tight as gravity began to take over once again. This wasn’t a place where he could ‘fly’, using that much power lit him up like the neons littering the city below, so instead he merely drifted downwards and modulated his fall with occasional shifts. It took some convincing to hit terminal velocity, which was still slower than he wanted. 

Thankfully, Amir’s mad midnight dash ended fairly quickly with the man settled somewhere in the western housing district, very far from any active blooms or Scaldra outposts. He could see that tiny figure, far below, stopping and crouching with hands on knees. Catching his breath?

He aimed for a rooftop adjacent and above Amirs’, and a quick flick of his winglike arms, and wind curled beneath his feet just enough to-

The featherlike blades that adorned his head twitched back. Amir was on his knees now, huddled, crying. He’d pulled off his goggles, and was running his hands over his face like he could erase it through sheer determination. Wiping away tears that didn’t seem to stop, and trembling like leaves in the wind.

The drifter stood utterly frozen. 

Had… Something… Happened? Was it Quincy? Had someone he cared for died? Had he been hurt? He barely knew how to help himself, when he was like this, but… Amir had obviously come out this way to be alone, and it wouldn’t be his place to intrude, but did he need someone to intrude? When was the last time someone had? He-

His clawed foot scraped against the roofing tile, and Amir jerked upright, whipping around and snapping out his hand, face a mask of unrecognizing panic. The pain hit him first, but that still took at least two seconds to register. Every synapse in this body had been overloaded, muscles all flexing at once, a guttural sound forced from its chest.

Sound. Pressure on arms that hurt. But… But the pain faded quickly, and when he lifted his head, there was Amir, somehow even more panicked than before. This body was… Going to need a moment. But the drifter had dealt with worse, so he pushed himself from his cradle, materializing in a cascade of sparks and light behind his frame.

“Oh SH-” Amir yelped, scrambling backwards and almost shocking him again, before the drifter could get both his hands up and start apologizing.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you, I just-”

“Shit, I totally hit you with lightning I didn’t mean to-”

“-Saw you here and wanted to check in-”

“-Scared the shit out of me and-”

They both paused for breath, and then both waited in silence for the other to say something. Amir shifted nervously. The drifter glanced down to their still twitching warframe, focusing on that for the second.

“Uh…” The drifter started, rubbing his jaw with his thumb. “Nice hit. Honestly. I should have announced my presence, I just…”

Amir shuttered off. “You… Saw that, didn’t you.” 

“Yeah.” He nodded, looking up again, though now it was the other man who’s gaze was down. He looked to be… Bracing himself, jaw tensing up, lips pressing together, hands clenched. Tears still beaded in his eyes and stained his tanned cheeks.

“So. Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it. You know. What you’re thinking. What everyone thinks. Nobody is around but us, anyway, it's not like they’ll think worse of you for saying the quiet part out loud. Amir’s no soldier. Going off because he had another bad dream.”

The drifter considered that, studying Amir in silence for a long moment. This… He had to handle carefully. And that was not something he had experience with… Hold on.

“You… Wanna see what I was… Doing? Up? I mean.”

Amir looked at him sideways, squinting, and didn’t respond.

“I could probably use your… help with it, honestly. You’re one of the smartest people I know.” He continued, digging out his maps, and then offering them out.

Amir didn’t take them, just looking at him still, though he was starting to shift his weight from foot to foot. 

“You don’t have to,” He relented, setting them down on the ground, and then looked back up from where he was now crouched. “I couldn’t sleep either. Tried. Failed. Went off to sit in the clouds till sunrise.” 

Ah, that broke the shell a little bit, Amir tilting his head back a little and then… Thankfully, Sol-blessed thankfully, crouching down to look at the maps with his chin nestled in his folded arms.

It only took him a few moments before he was sliding the papers closer to himself and flipping them over to get a better look. An improvement, in the drifter’s book. Offering a distraction was only ever a temporary fix, but… Well. It helped him to snap himself out of a spiral. So he waited as the man tipped his glasses up and lifted a page or two to look at them. 

“These… Are really detailed.” He admitted softly, squinting at them. “You… How many of these do you have? ” And a quick glance to the Drifter, who shrugged, and withdrew the rest of the stack. Some twenty or thirty others, which he held together with one sorry, overworked paperclip. 

“I don’t sleep much.” The drifter gestures to the maps. “So I focus on these. I try and keep tabs on civilians too, when I can. Working on something.”

Amir looked to him again, and then back at the stack, which he began leafing through. The two of them there, huddled over papers, must have been an odd sight to anyone still living in the area. He was silent for a long moment, and then, “I guess it’d be a stupid question to ask if you have nightmares too, wouldn’t it.” 

“Eh. Not much of a ‘stupid questions’ kinda guy. Don’t test me on that, but yeah. I do. More often than not, its just old memories my brain seems to hate the thought of letting go of. You?”

“...Yeah,” He lifted the most recent map, and compared it to the two previous. “Yeah. You ever look at someone, and think, like, that persons got a whole life ahead of them that…” He drew off, drooping a little.

“-That they won’t get to live out because of you?”

“...Yeah.” 

“You remember that one mission, like, last week, where I was working as a distraction while you all raided for supplies?”

Amir nodded.

“Well. On my way back, I was trying to vanish from their radar as fast as possible, so I went through an abandoned building, only…”

A questioning glance. “It… Wasn’t abandoned?”

“It wasn’t abandoned.” He agreed softly. “Sometimes I forget how dangerous we are. Nearly killed at least four innocent people in seconds for the simple crime of existing in the same path I was moving in, after ripping through a whole damn tank.”

Amir nodded again, letting him talk.

“The last… Person. I had to dodge. Was a little kid. Maybe…” He lifted his hand, about four feet off the ground. “This tall? She poked her head out to see what was going on and my foot almost went straight through it. I still see her eyes when I think about fighting around civilians. Gods. Sometimes even when just fighting Scaldra. I still see a lot of people’s faces when I think about things.”

“Even though you’re a soldier?” He asked softly, setting the pages down and lacing his fingers around his ankles, staring down at the marks without seeming to read them. 

The drifter snorted lightly, sitting back. “I’m… Not. Actually. My… twin. They’re the soldier. They’re the one with the training. I’m just… A guy with way too many second chances, I guess.”

Amir’s lips twitched, and he looked up again. “Admitting an actual child is better than you? Careful now, you’re gonna let your badass persona slip.”

“That shit’s dead and gone, only its ghost remains. Sure as hell haunts me whenever people meet me though. It takes convincing to remind them that I’m just a guy who got unlucky. Like you. Don’t need titles or training, life takes us anyway and kicks us into the ring.”

“Hear hear.” He lifted a fist lazily, and then sighed, setting his chin down on his knees again. “But at least you actually… Know what you’re doing. You know? You can deal with things, obviously. You show up, everything changes. You slam your hand down and time just up and walks right on back. I’d much rather have the Marty McFlea kinda unlucky than the Amir kinda unlucky, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Everything that he could come up with, sourced from ships (multiple) worth of libraries just… Felt flat. Hollow. Insincere.

“If… You didn’t exist, Amir.” He starts slowly, “If you were me, there’d be a hell of a lot more suffering out and about. There are a lot of things you can do that I just can’t. You’re stronger. Faster. Significantly smarter, too. I lived alone in a spaceship for gods knows how long as a kid and I’m still lucky when I can get a damn shock-stick to work. And the truth is, nothing I’ve done that has been worth anything was something I could do alone. Duviri happened because of someone else. I escaped because of someone else. My work in the future? Only possible because of everyone else. My work here? Only possible because of you all.” He leaned forward to tap Amir’s chest. “And without you, the Hex would be in deep shit. Hell will freeze over before Arthur can get his wpm up to half of yours, and everyone knows it. Nobody else can interact with tech like you can. You’re not just wanted, by me, by anyone else in the Hex with half a brain, but you’re needed. In your best, or your worst, because your worst is still better than most of their best when it comes to what you do.

Amir wasn’t smiling, but he was mulling over the words. That was probably the best the Drifter could hope for, at the moment.

“What if I can’t?  Drifter? When the heat goes up, what if my best isn’t good enough ? What if everyone else, everyone else, does what they  need to do, and it's me that's the problem? What if Quincy’s right? I’m practically a liability. I don’t take things seriously enough, and you know that. And we both know that even if Entrati didn't shoot me, I wouldn't have been able to fix anything in time.”

Gods. That. Hurt. And it was such a different pain than he was used to that it left him briefly silent. Scrambling for something that would convey what he felt. 

“Then we try again. As many times as it takes, until you’re who you want to be.” The drifter offered softly. “I don’t… Have answers. I’m still looking for them myself, but gods. I know that fear. I’m not going anywhere, Amir. You didn’t give up on me, when I lost myself. I won’t give up on you. You’ve more than earned it.” 

Amir sniffled again, shivering briefly, and then scooted the papers aside, hopped forward, and pulled the drifter into a hug. Practically squeezing the air out of his chest. The drifter went stiff with surprise, floundering for a moment before he remembered to do something and put his arms around Amir in response. This was... Nice. 

“I was pretty scared of you, you know.” He admitted, nose buried in the drifter’s dark hair.

“Was… Past tense...?” 

“Hmph. Yeah. You… I was tryna fix up one of the cabinets, because Lettie spilled some syrup on it when she was walking by. I was like… Aw. Damn. That ones a goner. But there you were, with a rag and an entire afternoon. I… Kinda figured that… Even if you were pretty scary, you wanted to be a friend. So maybe I made the right choice.”

The drifter huffed. “It was more than just an entire afternoon. I was on that thing since lunch.”

Amir laughed, in that infectious, vibrant way he did, still holding onto the drifter’s hug. Holding him tight. It was… New. And… Gentle. He found himself relaxing with a soft sigh.

“Amir?”

“Yeah?”

“My rooms are usually extra quiet, courtesy of the void, or whatever. If you need a spot to go to, and you cant get out, my door is always open. You’re not a bother, alright?”

“..Yeah. Tell me about what you're planning, future boy-o."

Chapter Text

The Drifter seemed to have been enough, that day, for at least one person. 

The two talked for a good while, discussing the maps and patterning that laid out on them as the sky slowly lightened.

“I mean, if you really think about it, right, the techrot’s actually alive. Like, it hits all of the thingies. Spreads, eats, learns, whatever. So… Pass me that notebook again.”

He handed over the notebook with the civilian maps, and Amir flipped through the pages. The drifter had taken great care to line up all the inserted papers up perfectly, enough that flipping through the book would let you see a quick play-through of every collected piece of information thus far. Amir nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheeks, and then put the book down.

“I’ve been noticing that techrot often follows the civilian’s path, but at irregular intervals.” The drifter offers, gesturing. “Without a solid map of the underground I don’t know why, though. Predicting the exact when and where seems to be beyond me. Sometimes you can tell when an outbreak happens within the population,” He gestured to the seventeenth map, and its corresponding page. “But other times-” He flipped through the book, through the twentieth to the twenty fifth, pointing out a shift from one building complex to another, “-An outbreak takes a while, or doesn’t happen at all.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Like,” Amir tapped the fullsized map marked with a twenty nine, in which an outbreak was marked at that exact location. “That's weird. Techrot spreads fast, not five-days-past-the-area-being-inhabited fast, but in like, one day fast. I wonder if it's just because it's… I dunno, run outa food.

The drifter paused again, fingers drumming on his knee idly. “I… You… Might be… Onto something there. It doesn’t like concrete or glass, just metal and electricity, and if it has… I need more data, is the problem. Do you know if it's been there before?” 

Amir shook his head, resting his chin on both fists and puffing his cheeks up just slightly. “Mmmmnoooo… Not there in particular. We’ve got logs, sure, but only for our missions. And some really big sites I like to keep an eye on. Plus Scaldra outposts, when we find them. And drop zones. And more permanent citizen outposts, and Scaldra staging zones, and their local barracks just outside the city, and that big old theme park that I really want to go to, and…” He blinked. “... Sorry. Uh. Yeah. Probably not super helpful.”

The drifter nodded absently, rubbing his forehead. Thinking. Hold… On. “Do you have any methods of getting into the Scaldra’s databases?” He asks, raising a brow, and Amir looked at him sideways again. 

“...Not without being there in person, no. Why?” 

--

Stealth was, thankfully, something that the drifter had extensive practice with. One got good at that sort of thing when either you avoided the sky and everything that moved or you got stabbed for it. Or shot. Or just beaten half to death and dragged off to be delt with by whoever Thrax had decided, that day.

He was crouched upon a building high above a Scaldra permanent encampment. It was all orange safety plastic and efervon containers, people running this way and that like pobbers as boxes were unloaded, and reloaded, papers were switched hands, and soldiers switched posts. It was infinitely more busy than any of the Narmer encampments, but this time, he had one particular boon. 

Before, he’d only been himself. His arsenal had been… Mediocre at best. A pistol that he couldn’t remember ever receiving, a shock-blade he’d jerry-rigged from defunct weaponry, smoke bombs, and a nano-injector. He’d been truthful to Amir, after all, the only thing special about him had ever been those endless, endless second chances. The universe wasn’t about to let him keel over and die, no matter how many times he tried it.

But now? Ever since that meteor, things had… Changed. Since linking with the version of him that had been…

Don’t think about it.

He’d somehow been able to use his other self’s powers. Transference had been a gift from the Lotus, yes, but now his tool-kit felt far more… Useful.

The drifter sucked in a sharp breath, and his physical body evaporated. He still had some substance, but he was merely an impression. Like he’d been standing in front of a drape, seen and tangible, and then had stepped behind it. The fabric indented where it outlined his shape, sure, and that mere indentation was all he was so long as he held his breath. (He didn’t think it was actually necessary, but it was damn hard to get it to work without some accompanying action.) 

He stepped up to the edge, and reached, stretching his hand out and grabbing a point he could see down below. A twist of his hand, a quick pull, and he was there, mid air. Falling. Another reach, another grab, another pull, and he was invisible amongst the scurrying Scaldra. Someone in a white coat bumped into him as he stood up, and stumbled with a yelp. Poor soul spilled his papers everywhere.

The drifter moved quickly, chest starting to hurt, sprinting through the base. Amir had told him what to look for, yes, but before he could do anything he needed to find a spot to- There - 

He slipped inside a side closet right as someone in heavy looking overalls closed it, looking bored and more than a little irritated. He struggled to interact with doors like this, but he was able to open it just wide enough to get in, and for just long enough that the fellow sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and slammed it shut. Darkness. He released his void-form, and gasped for breath as softly as he could, rubbing his arms to try and desperately get some warmth back in them. In that state, all his body heat dissipated so quickly, it left him shivering each time he returned to physicality. Lua above, he did not know how the Operator did it so easily.

Footsteps. He slammed his teeth together, stopping them from shattering, preparing to use what little of the void energy he’d regained to-

The footsteps continued walking right past his closet. Thank everything in the sky. 

He gave himself another few seconds, cracked the door open to check for movement, took in a deep breath, and slipped out. 

The drifter sprinted dead out down the hallway, following signage that he couldn’t read for shit but recognized from Amir’s notes. It was… adjacent to the orokin script he’d known, but at the same time, all condensed as it was and upright, it was damn hard to read. 

Server room, server room, server room. Four letters, two marks. Two letters, two marks. Sol above, he was running out of breath again. He slid sideways through an open door, entering a darkened makeshift meeting area. From the looks of things, it had once been someone’s living room. He dropped down, and exhaled with a gasp. 

It took him about five minutes of that, following the map he could only vaguely remember, dipping in and out of siderooms whenever possible to keep himself as unseen as possible, to find the server room. 

And course it was occupied. Someone in a heavy looking winter coat, growling at others in lab coats, running their hands through their hair and wringing their hands. Chunky boxes of machinery made hallways that people walked through, lights flickering and beeping. 

Well… Shit. 

He stalked around the side of it until he found a small maintenance closet, filled with cords. This would… Do. Hopefully. He wasn’t actually sure how long a parazon tether could get, and he wasn’t… Particularly enthused about the idea of killing, right now. The thought made his heart pulse with pain. 

The drifter waited, a beat. Two. Three. Four. No-one was looking. He slid the door partially shut, moved to a corner, and then reached. 

Zephyr was there a heartbeat later, dragged through space, and he was safe in its frame. Transference and his void-body were merely steps in the same direction, after all, and with a flick of his hand a long razor blade ejected from his right wrist. The parazon, yet another orokin mystery. It was somehow capable of, if inserted correctly, sensing and perfectly replicating electrical flows, requesting, reading, and storing data, and modifying currents almost automatically. Key word almost. It took some mental input, sure, if he wanted to convince electronics to do what he wanted, but the fact that it functioned like that at all was… Well… Impressive. He took the blade gently, and pulled. The sensation of that particular tendon extending was notably unpleasant, but he managed a good four feet before the dark cord rejected further stretching. Sol, trying to tug it farther yanked on the muscular connections at his elbow, which tweaked his nerves very wrong. 

A bit of testing quickly showed that there was no way to fully hide his frame and jam the parazon into one of the server boxes, which meant that either he found some other way, or risked it. So...

The drifter ejected from the frame, held his breath, and looked. After a few minutes the room was nearly empty, one poor lone electrician on the other side, who thankfully hadn’t heard the soft ‘thunk’ of his warframe’s knees hitting the tile as it slumped. So he could risk it. Probably. 

A quick transfer back in let him crouch the frame beside the door, and stick his hand out juuust enough that the cord could reach properly. A transfer out, and he grabbed a loose paper or two and draped them over the gold-and-black arm. Wasn’t perfect, but… Maybe it’d… Mask it for long enough to complete the data theft. Another quick void-mode check, and he carefully grabbed the end of the parazon and stabbed it straight in through one of the export sockets. It was too large, obviously, the long, needle like blade crunching through plastic and snapping through metal, but it had no need of delicacy. They’d notice the damage once he withdrew the blade, buut…

He reached to Zephyr, and slipped back inside. Yes, he could feel the data there, somehow. He was shit at knowing what he was feeling, but praise the sun and moon above he genuinely didn’t need to. There was almost always a brief fight against the electronics, software interfering with the functions, but… Well, he was getting better at that too. The connections were there, it was all about… Finding the right links. Convincing the right cords with the right pulses.

Something clicked, more mentally than physically, and the accessible data opened wide. Less than he had expected, but again, he was there for everything so he'd take what he could get. A command, and the download began. 

He didn’t need to be ‘in’ for this part, so he de-transferred and carefully drew from the frame’s telekinetic grip a silvery baton. Not all weapons could be condensed, but void metal seemed ambivalent to regular physical laws and regulations, and this was... his. The metal sang to him in discordant tones… and he slipped it onto a holster on his belt. Hopefully it’d be unnecessary, but if this was to be a stealth mission then he really wouldn’t be able to drift around the complex in his full destructive glory. Probably.

He wasn’t… Nostalgic, per se, about his life before a hole ripped through the sky and delivered a hand capable of rending and connecting souls, but it was familiar to not rely on it. A hundred lifetimes of familiar.

The drifter set his jaw, pressing a fist against his sternum as if he could press the phantom pains out. Not for the first time he wanted to just reach inside himself, grab the agony, and throw it to the wind. He’d tried, some time ago. His void mode self had seemed so close to incorporeal, but… No dice. A shame.

He waited, waited, and then watched as the parazon cord popped free and snapped back under the papers. The hack was over, this area was done. Good. He dragged the hand back into the room, hauled the too-light metal body to the corner again, and left it huddled there, hidden in shadows and behind mounds of cables and boxes. If nobody checked there in the next… Ten-ish minutes, then all would be well. And if they did, he thought as he once again held his breath and dashed from the room, all evidence would be gone the moment he called Zephyr once more anyway. They’d likely think the poor soul crazy.

The security camera, tucked into the corner of the security room, followed the faint ripple his body left in the air as he dashed out. Not that he saw. Or cared, so long as the alarms weren’t raised. He hadn’t had to kill, and he’d gotten a significant amount of data. What data he’d gotten, fuck if he knew, but that was for later Drifter to worry about.

-

Quite soon after, he kicked off the ground, zipping through the air like a miniature jet-plane. Nose to the wind, arm’s feather-blades angled for precise control, legs pointed to perfection. There were two other spots he wanted to hit, and moving by air, screaming between buildings fast enough to render the roofs he passed over by mere feet momentary blurs, really did shorten the travel time.

His visual com link popped up with an incoming transmission, which… Was probably one of the Hex, wondering what the fuck he was doing. Then again, Amir knew, and before the drifter had begun he’d flown the man home. (Much to Amir’s absolute delight. The way he’d whooped and laughed as they soared would probably remain stored away with his favorite memories for quite some time.) They’d both been at the base, briefly, which meant that Eleanor likely had been able to get the information and cross reference it, so she knew, and she could have told the others. 

Hesitantly, he accepted. 

It was the Major’s scowling face that greeted him.

Well. That was better than being chewed out by someone he genuinely cared about.

“You think you’re so very sneaky, don’t you, little freak? Think we didn’t see what you did?” 

He couldn’t exactly respond with words, so his left hand found the transponder link on his belt. He hit the button once, twice, thrice, and held it for a second. Unsure response, sarcasm variant. “Don’t know, don’t really care.” It broadcasted for him, and a part of him took great joy in the huff of irritated disgust she made.

“Kiddo, sometimes, I don’t know whether to be impressed or angry at your pure audacity. All the power in the world, and you waste it on this.” 

That… 

Didn’t… Sound like the Major.

Four taps. Questioning, genuine variant, and he cut his speed in half as he neared his next destination. “What?” 

“Your audacity. Stealing our data. Did you even think to ask, first? We could have had tea, worked things out like civilized people.” The Major sighed, and he could hear the eye roll in her very voice. “But no. Entrati’s best always do like making a mess.”

One tap. “Negative.” 

She cut the transmission with another scoff, and he… Paused. He’d landed on a rooftop a fair distance away from the next permanent complex, feather blades tucking back along his arms and head. No further jab? No threat? No domineering order to kill for him to hear? No, that… didn’t sound like the Major they’d been dealing with at all, and his mind fled to a face with a smile too wide and featureless, milky-black eyes. Swirling. Watching. From the corner of a classroom. He’d known that it had made a void-copy of the major, but… But the one that had performed the raid on the mall had been the real version, he’d been sure of that. 

Had he?

He felt… nauseated. 

And now he had a very, very uncomfortable decision to make. Break for it now, with the data he had, or risk going further. The Indifference had killed him before, yes, but never with a true doppelganger. No, those it merely used as playthings to dance around the mortal realm and interact as it pleased. Which, in his personal opinion, was infinitely more terrifying to deal with, since from experience he knew well that there were many fates far worse than death. He’d…

Don’t think about it. 

He had to try and get as much as he could, to help. He had to. It was his duty, his role. If the Hex had wanted him to do otherwise, they would have told him. Eleanor was probably keeping an eye on him right now, anyway. 

Nerves steeled, he took a deep breath in, and transferred out of his warframe. A quick jog and a leap and he was falling, air rushing past his body in the most beautiful way. He almost… No. He reached, grabbing a point in space near the ground, yanked himself there, and landed with a precice roll. 

They were on much higher alert, this time, and honestly? He didn’t blame them. Thankfully he wouldn’t show on infrared, to his knowledge, not after having maintained void-mode for more than a couple seconds. The patrols were easy to slip past, the roadblocks, the vehicles, all of it wasn’t an issue when you could be the very air they breathed. On occasion he relied on his makeshift teleportation, (he’d been told it was called void-slinging. He thought people put ‘void’ in front of too many things, even if it did apply.) just to speed things up or get himself onto a rooftop to breathe. Sol, but it was delightfully warm, even for a spring day. In a different scenario, he’d have liked to lay on the rooftop and just bask in the sunlight. 

He felt grass beneath his fingers, not shingles. 

Don’t think about it.

He kept moving. 

He was inside the base in practically no time at all, and yes, they were definitely on significantly higher alert. He had to actively dodge soldiers being yelled into action multiple times, and the crowded, plastic lined hallways were an actual nightmare. Bless the moon that he weighed nearly nothing while de-realized like he was, or stealth would have been impossible from the crinkling of the floor alone. 

Thankfully, there was always a corner where he could be unseen for a few seconds. This was the time to play it as safe as possible, since the alternative meant that… Well, not everyone was a soldier. Not everyone had a chance to choose, or even had the weapons to try and defend themselves. They were all just… People. People who’d be restored when the year reset, yes, but they were still worth thinking about. People were always worth thinking about. When the time loop shattered, he hoped to have it in the best state possible for as many sentient parties as possible. 

He wasn’t particularly sure about the techrot, but if it actively killed, it did have to either learn to change or risk annihilation. It consumed metal, after all.

There. The server room. The door was…

Wide open.

And it was filled with soldiers, armed with non acidic weapons, their backs to the machinery.

Shit. 

He slipped past the door and moved around a corner, finding a space in which he could breathe again. 

This… Would complicate things. He could still bail. It was never too late to bail, but… He peeked into the room, invisible, and noted the particular signage. Judging by the posters and how prevalent anti-techrot devices were, this was absolutely where he needed to be to find Scaldra techrot data. Hopefully. Damnation.

He decided, removing the silvery baton from its holster, and issued a simple decree. Immediately it lengthened, weight fully realizing, into sleek, regal, two handed nikana. An azothane, someplace between a traditional guandao and a classic katana. One of very few weapons he’d actively trained with over his time in Duviri.

The Drifter, time walker, stepped into the room and dropped his void-cloak just long enough to let them see him. Their guns began to fire, and Zephyr formed around him right as he called. The wind... Was his.

Bullets deflected off of obscenely high pressure air currents whirling around him, pinging helplessly against the door, lodging in concrete, and punching through glass.

Sol, it was unfair.

A sweep of his arm, and everything that wasn’t nailed down, living people and machines and  decor slammed into the wall behind him, pulled by vicious winds that whipped through the room like a self-contained hurricane. Plastic crumpled, glass shattered, wood splintered, metal bent.

The wind swirled back around him, leaving the rest of the room calm as he spun on one foot, clawed toes barely even touching the floor, blade held closer to the hilt so it wouldn’t damage the servers. Zephyr-Drifter balanced, crane-like, surveying the Scaldra troops who groaned and struggled to rise. He was the calm before the storm, blade held at a low angle. He twisted it as he watched. Waited. Serene.

They were on their feet, now, more filing in, lifting guns, firing, called by the commotion. Alarms sounded, and Zephyr… Zephyr grinned, muscles pulling and splitting flesh and pseudo-metal, razor teeth glistening with blood and plasma as they were bared.

He became the storm, primal power-lust surging through the warframe’s whispered memories. His first strike had him shifting his grip to the end of the hilt, utilizing its full reach and the entirety of the momentum he could put behind the tip, and its energy-blade trailed such a beautiful blue light when it pressed against, cut through, bisected… He focused on that. The warframe had better instincts than he. It knew the weapon better than he. It wanted to bring the weapon up and around for another beautiful swing, and he followed its lead. Melding its will with his, letting it guide. He felt none of its bestial enthusiasm at killing. Tried not to hear the screams when he spun, shearing through flesh and armor and metal and concrete. Instead, he… He focused on the wind pressure, diverting bullets not only away from him, but away from the servers as well, sending them harmlessly off to the sides where they could find their rest in the walls. 

It was done in merely a few minutes. They’d thrown so many at him. Corpses piled up, more soldiers were too scared to confront him, and ultimately they’d decided to merely let him be and institute a lockdown. The end of his blade dripped with blood. He couldn’t… look. So with a powerful sweep of the bladed arm, Zephyr sent it all away, wind tearing through the doorway, sucking corpses and mangled furniture out into the hallway. It was so… calm again. So poised, so… Unbothered. This was what it was made for. This was what had been expected of it. He could feel those sentiments echoed deep within. It had had two choices, once upon a time. Accept its fate whole heartedly, or go insane. Somehow… Somehow it had managed both. A contradiction, only solved by splitting its madness and duty into separate moments of time.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. DON’T think about it.

He turned, graceful and calm, and once again flicked his parazon free. There was… one computer left, it had had the particular honor of being both connected directly to the server-rack, and being directly behind him. The pocket of pressure it existed in had saved it from the fate of most other of the screens in the room, no doubt. A stab, and he was plugged in. A quick mental battle with the machine’s own will, and… The download began, monitor helpfully pulling up a nice little animation of the files being transferred, and even a progress bar. How helpful.

The Drifter, killer of thousands, ejected from the warframe and did his best not to vomit.

It wasn’t the death, not really. He’d… Found ways around that. But… A glance at Zephyr. It’s jaw had already sealed shut again, razor teeth hidden away behind flesh and muscle, but… but … He could still feel it. Feel the way it had felt, the pain, tearing its own face open to express that horrible, sick glee. Something about today… Was worse. Just an off day. Hell, Zephyr had smiled for him before, multiple times, even, but… Today was just an off day, he told himself. He’d not slept more than a few hours a night for about a week, and… Well. He couldn’t expect that to not weigh on him.

He picked up the azothane, shaking the blood dripping off its blade onto the ground.

And someone rap-tap-tapped on the wall behind him.

The drifter spun in an instant, panic clenching his chest, leveling the longsword at the figure at the door. It was... haughty, staring down at him with a posture that bespoke the Major, but eyes that he knew all too well. Pitch black, like obsidian, whirling with mist. Oh damnation. Here it was, his worst case scenario. Honestly, he’d been expecting them to try and just… Flood the area with gas, and flush him out. This… Fuck. 

She grinned, tombstone teeth catching the light of the whirring computers, and he growled in response, taking another half-step in front of the slumped-over warframe, still plugged into the system by its parazon.

“What do you want?” He snaps, cold, grip tightening on the hilt. He knew it was effectively useless against the infinite existence in front of him, but… Well. If he did somehow manage to hit it, a dead effigy would be a dead effigy.

Even if just seeing it’s smile made his heartbeat pulse with pain, again. And again. And again. 

“A bit of entertainment, is all. You know me, come on, now, kiddo. This isn’t our first dance.” The Indifference crooned, smile slipping into something just too wide to be human, and it offered him its hand, other behind its back. Gods, the drifter was shivering. Was he still so cold? How… How long did he need to do this. A glance backwards at the computer, checking the download progress. Seventy percent. Damnation. Oh damnation.  

“And you're asking for another? I'm sure you've got plenty of other poor fucks to haunt.” He asked flatly, ignoring the way sweat beaded on his forehead, and turning back to… To nothing, an empty room. Gone the moment he’d taken his eyes off it. Fear was starting to strangle his thoughts.

“Yes! That’ll do nicely~! And of course I do, but you... You happen to be delicious." It chirped from behind him in a songlike, accented voice that was so horribly, horribly familiar. A voice that threatened to send him off the edge of reality, spiraling to a very different time. He whirled, tucking his hands in, ready to cut the head off of Dominus Thrax but-

It was behind him again, and wrapped its clockwork arms around his, hands over his hands, adjusting his grip. “No no, you hold it like this, dummy. Didn’t you read the Art of the Dax? You need a wider s-”

He cut it off with a sharp elbow directly into its half-real armpit, ignoring the shock of pain he got from hitting metal with flesh, and whipped around to follow through with a sweeping blow. Thrax stumbled backwards, he felt it, but the blade only sliced through empty air. 

“Better! My fine knight! But not yet perfect. Maybe its just been too long for you. Thats alright, we can practice, just like old times. Come on, come on, only about…” Thrax was leaning over his warframe, drumming its fingers on the top of its slumped head, inspecting the computer. Where it touched, the warframe’s flesh bloomed with void-metal patterns. The drifter thrust the blade, aiming to strike straight through the Indifference’s mockery of a child’s only friend; but it was out of the way before he could even blink, casually slapping the tip of the two handed nikana with the heel of its palm and sending the metal straight into the computer system. It sparked, electricity lancing through his body. No. NO. 

He reset, time rewinding, withdrawing the hit and mending the computer all in reverse, striking again. But… but the figure wasn’t even there, gone the moment he’d blinked. 

“Two minutes!” It laughed, spinning behind him like a music-box doll, tapping him on the shoulder before he could even retract his arms. “Then you’ll have all the data you want, or whatever. Won’t that be exciting? You might even do something helpful!”

“ Fuck. You.” He gritted his teeth together, stepping back. His hands were shaking, grip shifted up towards the blade. Before, the reach had been a blessing, letting him guard against a whole room of space without moving all that much, but now? Now it felt positively unwieldy. There was… Gods. This wasn’t even a battle he could fight, all he could do was pray that-

The Indifference tutted, shaking its head, once more the Major. “You know, seeing you here... It baffles me, kiddo. It really does. You keep putting in all this effort, and people do start to like you, you know. You call me a threat, buut… The games you play? Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, my little knight.”

He swallowed, stepping back again, blade leveled at its chest. 

It became Arthur, staring at him impassively. The drifter stepped back once more, heel nudging Zephyr's knee, and his thoughts felt… Slow. Focus. Attention on the screen behind him. Wait for the click of the parazon ejecting. His brain screamed at him to run, to get away, to escape. But his body… Wouldn’t… listen.

“So... How long do you think it'll take?” The indifference spoke with Arthur’s husky voice, a perfect mimicry. “Until they realize what you are, Drifter. Ever impermanent. Staying just long enough for it to hurt. ” Not-Arthur folded his arms. He looked so... Tired. And...

It was Teshin, exhaling slowly, sitting cross legged, his swords in his lap. The old man looked up at the drifter, meeting his wide eyes with ones that were half shut and sorrowful.

“Every time you leave, I fear it’ll be the last.” His friend muttered softly. The words were hell itself, damning him. Because he had left, and… And he…

It was Dominus Thrax again, a simple mechanical doll, huddled where Teshin had sat. "You left me for him. An old, grouchy man in a cave was somehow more important to you than your own best friend. You, who made me. Tell me, how long until you tell them what you did to the last people who held you close? Hmm? How long until they know what you’ve done? What you keep on doing? Are you waiting for it to rip their hearts out when you vanish for the last time? Waiting till they get used to you, and then sit like dogs at the doorway forever for you to come back? Or are you just planning to kill them, so you never have to deal with the shame. Tell me. You're the mastermind. Then again... Well. Maybe its just a part of you to the core."

It was Teshin again, face a mask of pain, snarling, hurt, his fault, his-

“Because it didn’t even start with us, did it. DID IT, DRIFTER.”

He made the mistake of blinking. He couldn’t move his feet, rooted to the spot by something he couldn’t even hope to define.

And… The final blow fell, splitting him in half, striking straight through his soul.

Because he couldn’t… couldn't process its next face. His brain itself omitted it out of pure desperate self-preservation, heart stuttering in his chest. The blade dropped from his hands, clanging against the tile. He couldn't hear it. He was shaking. He couldn’t breathe. The figure stepped closer, clad in a familiar bodysuit, long hair pulled back. Speaking to him. He wanted to run. He wanted to die, he wanted-

Gentle hands touched his face, wiping away the tears that were spilling down it. Hands that he’d seen last rotting, bloodied, limp, flesh fallen from bare white bone,

“Oh, my tender hearted little [ ----- ]. I’ve missed you, so, so much.” The nightmare whispered, cupping his cheeks, even as his knees threatened to give out from under him. “My sweet little child, all grown up into a fine young man. I’m so proud of you.”

A strangled sob wrenched itself from his throat. His own name slipped from her lips and he couldn’t even hear it, refused to hear it, desperately pushing it and all it meant so very far away, because… 

Because he was a child again, holding her mothers hand, swinging it back and forth and clutching her favorite doll, humming a delighted tune. They’d been chosen to go to Tau. Them! 

She caught him when he stumbled, gently pushing his blade out of reach with an extra arm that his brain didn’t even bother registering, his mind was...

Because he was a child again, daydreaming in class, wondering what happened next in her favorite book. Of course, Lucinia would choose the mighty horseman as her champion, right? She missed her name being called the first time, but didn’t miss the snickers of her classmates. What? The teacher was staring, irritated but resigned. [ ----- ] had always been like this.

He was light headed, the world was swaying, his mother held him in her arms, he could see her smiling.

He was a child, babbling over dinner about her discoveries concerning old world architecture. People had used real wood once upon a time, back when it was soft and dark and grew slowly. That made it susceptible to flames! Her father nodded, putting her chopsticks back in her hands, trying to get her to remember to eat. She held them happily, stacking up her richly flavored cubes. They’d been lucky today.

Something high pitched. Many low pitches. He didn’t care.

She watched the jump fail. Wondered if this silence was Tau. Maybe they got to build it?

She came home after class. She and Rell didn’t talk, but they did walk together on their way to their rooms, reading their own books, like always. It was nice like that. He expected nothing of her, she expected nothing of him, and they were comfortable in each other’s silence. The others left them alone once they realized that the two never cared much to respond to their teasing.

Her parents weren’t in the kitchen. She heard them arguing in their rooms. 

Lips pressed a tender kiss against his forehead, his mother’s lips, soft and gentle and he could feel her smiling, smiling!

He was a child, dragging another table across the hall, into her rooms. Quickly. Quietly. Building their own little castle. A safe kingdom. Her doll tucked into her pocket. Her parents had been arguing a lot lately, and it had all been getting worse. So much yelling.

He was a child, huddling, silent, clutching her doll when footsteps came near. She was looking at her father’s gun, she’d heard him threaten mother with it, so she’d… She’d… The door opened, then shut, her father’s ragged breathing announcing his presence. She poked her head out. Was he hurt?

He couldn’t remember his face. Didn’t WANT to remember his face. A mask of black and red was all he could hold onto. Rage, hatred, sorrow, tears streaming down, hunger, HUNGER, every muscle fighting to be the one that flexed, every fiber fighting to be the one that twitched, making him jerk like a poorly controlled puppet. He saw her. He SAW her. 

A hand around her throat. Her fault. Her fault. Her fault. Her fault. Her fault. Her fault. His blood on her hands. His breathing wasn’t coming anymore, she’d just wanted to push him away, to hug him, to tell him it’d be alright, to fix things, to make it okay, to bring her father back. She loved him. She was sorry, so sorry, so sorry, please, wake up. Wake up. Father, please. She watched that horrid light drain from his eyes, the heat in the barrel of the gun burning her fingers as she clutched it. She just wanted his arms around her, she just wanted him to tell her it’d be okay. Please. PLEASE. It was all her fault, someone help, please, help, please, please, someone had to fix this, it wasn’t real, it was just a bad dream, it was just-

He was being moved. He didn’t care. She was there, she had him again. Loved him again. He was safe again. He curled up in her arms, sobbing. He was so sorry, he whimpered. So sorry. So sorry. So sorry.

Her mother had found her, clinging to a dead man in a room filled with blood. Her mother had found her, and hated her, hated her, had hated her, she could see it in her eyes, everything else was gone, blackness and red and hate and hate and hate and hate and hate and hate and hate and hate and hate and 

And she stayed in that room, red like hate, red like dried blood, the smell of death filling her nose and her mind. It had to be a dream. She’d wake up. She would. She would wake up. She held onto her little doll. It had to be a dream. She’d hidden in her castle.

She’d watched others come, and had hidden. She’d seen them… Seen… Teeth ripping flesh. Howls. Screams. Hunger. How dare they. How DARE they. They died faster than her parents had. She hated them. HATED them. They couldn’t take her parents from her. It was HER family. HERS. The gun was her armor. The gun was her lifeline. 

Others came, she waited for them, ripping them appart with her hatred. A trap, a dragon’s cave. She… She was so hungry. So very thirsty. The dispensers in the kitchen stopped working. She had to leave. Blood and death clung to her like a mask. She held onto her little doll. It would keep her safe. Her friend, the only one that didn’t hate her.

She was a dragon. How dare they. How dare they. How dare they. She was rage, she was hatred. How dare they think they could devour what was left of her… of…

Her fault. 

All her fault.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop the memories from dragging him down. So, so very far down.

The other children had stuck near her. She was their guardian. Their knight, soft hearted little [ ----- ] who killed and hunted and killed and hunted and smiled so that the rest of them could smile too. Tender little [ ----- ] who always carried a little doll and told stories to calm the little ones. 

“This,” she’d say, posing the doll, “is Dominus Thrax! He’s the king of Duviri, you know!” And the children would look on with wide eyes, hanging on to her every word.  

“He keeps us all safe, so we don’t have to worry! I’m his finest knight, so he lets me protect right along with him! And that's how you know that  I’ll always keep you safe. Because a Dax always keep their orders!”

And they’d smile, they’d smile, desperate for anything to cling to. She’d be anything for them. She’d be whatever they needed, if it meant that she could be anything but that little girl, hiding, terrified, who couldn’t control her fear and had betrayed the most loving and kind of people. Don’t think about it, she’d tell herself. Just be what they need you to be. Just be a mighty Dax with shining armor, ready to protect. That's what they need right now. Be better. Be in control. She was a dragon. A soldier. Anything but [ ----- ].

But that had only lasted so long. She couldn’t forget the scent of blood, the rot of death that came after days of corpses sleeping in her room. Every time she killed she felt it, that hatred, that passion, that horrible power that threatened at every turn to consume her from the inside out. Biting through her flesh like those monsters had bitten through her parents. 

She huddled, sobbing, rocking back and forth infront of an elevator shaft that she couldn’t get working, trying to rub away the tears that fell. They’d been trying to climb, to get to higher levels, to find more food. She’d dropped her lifeline into that dark, dark pit, her protection, her blade against the darkness. She could see the glimmer of the gun, tens of floors below, taunting her. She clutched her doll to her chest, and another child moved up beside her. Rell. They stared down that shaft together, and he remained at her side while she wept. They didn’t talk, they didn’t look at each other. They never did. It was comfortable like that. He couldn’t get the elevator to work either. 

Colors shifted around unseeing eyes. He couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move. He was so tired. 

He was a child again. She told the others that Thrax had taken her gun and was off trying to find more help. More food. She hoped he was. No. He was. It wasn’t lost, he was on a noble adventure, astride a powerful kaithe, travelling the whole ship to look for help and shooting down all the monsters. Rell knew the truth, but nodded when she said otherwise. He’d seen it, he said, to them. The horse had been made of beautiful metal, just like Thrax. The children had cheered up, had smiled. Help was coming, and they’d be safe. The void inside her chest had only deepened, like a cancer she couldnt excize.

Help was coming. It WAS. It had to be. It had to come. 

He drifted, caught on that faint line between the waking world and the dreaming one, and he was slipping further away. Physical senses didn’t matter. Because…

Because he was a child again, and help wasn’t coming. It was a lie. It had always been a lie. She’d lied to them. She’d lied to put smiles on their faces and everyone knew she had been lying. Everyone knew already. There was no help coming. 

Another face in the classroom. She didn’t look at it yet. She knew what it was. She’d seen it before. She’d heard it muttering. Seen it observing. She had to talk to it anyway.

She’d set up, then reinforced, their barricade when the monsters had come for them, all black and red and vicious and screaming. This was the end, they had no other secret bases to run to. They’d all been found. She couldn’t protect them, so… She wore a smile as her armor, a cheerful voice as her shield. She would be what they needed. She had to be. She had to be. She was their knight. Their guardian. She was their Dax. She was anything but herself, because [ ----- ] was only good for failing the people she tried to protect. [ ----- ] had already failed so many others. And the wall was coming down.

“Time’s up, kiddo.” 

No. Please no. Please. Please.

She needed more… More time. More time. More time. The wall was coming down. The children, all that was left of her class, just six, huddled and cried out. One was already dying, he’d taken a horrible blow to the head and couldn’t even speak anymore. She needed more time. She needed them to be safe. They had to be safe. Hands pushed through the cracks. Children wept.

Help would never come. They would all be ripped apart. Unless…

[ ----- ] took the hand of the void. Made a deal.

And.

Everything.

Went.

Quiet.

He was so tired. 

He was a child again, opening her eyes to an empty classroom. The light and noise from beyond the door was gone.

He was a child again, listening, waiting.

He was a child again, tearing down the barricade she’d made, tripping over the leg of a table, rolling her ankle.

He was a child again, ignoring the pain, pushing through the door.

He was a child again, staring down the empty hallway.

He was a child again, searching, furiously. Calling. Risking the chance of getting hunted down by monsters for the chance of a friend.

He was a child again, leaving messages on the walls in case someone else was out there.

He was a child again, following the whispers she heard, phantom voices, phantom laughter from somewhere beyond her reach, running, running, running, running, running through the halls until her feet were scraped and bleeding, trying to find where they came from, begging them to show themselves to her so she wouldn’t be alone.

He was a child again, sobbing, holding the portrait of her family close to her chest, huddled and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting

He was a child again, with no one to protect. No kingdom to defend. Just a little doll to hold and an endless, empty castle, and she waited for someone to come save her. Please.

He was a child again, drawing on the walls, creating armies of soldiers to keep the nightmares at bay, as she waited and waited and waited and waited and waited

He was a child again, finding her parents skeletons, the flesh long since rotted away. 

He was a child again, weeping over them, tucking their skulls under her arms as she showed them all that she had drawn and painted, because she loved them, and they couldn’t truly be gone. She needed them. She needed her mother, she needed her father. And someone had gone and…

He was a child again, growing plants just so she could use them for paint, covering the walls in murals, so they could find her when they found the ship. She put flowers in her parents eyes.

He was a child, finally able to once again access the library, her light easy enough to take apart for a charge, but the metal panel took great effort to remove, and the door greater effort to wire correctly. She waited with the books, reading just to kill time. 

He was a child, reading stories to her little doll as they waited together.

He was a child…

He was…

He was alone.

He was so, so alone. 

And the void was laughing.

--

< He was a child, again. >   

(Art by the absolutely incredible DoggoJin, infinite praises be upon em holy shit) 

Chapter Text

The drifter knew time like few others. He knew well how it pocketed and twisted, how easily it was to manipulate. Time was change. Time was motion. All variants of a possible change could exist, and therefore did exist. That is eternalism. All options of all changes existed somewhere. And with all those possible options, time travel was easier than most people thought.

To go backwards, you simply had to anchor yourself to a state of being, allow changes to occur, and then pull yourself back to that previous state of being. Your own being worked alright, but it was better to use an area, for the most consistent results. It was easiest for the drifter if he’d been in that state of being-area, but with proper anchor points that he could feel, it was doable without personal experience. Without even anchor points, it was still technically possible, but… Well. Overwhelming. Parsing through every possible outcome made getting lost very, very easy. And when you were lost, it was impossible to say if you’d managed to get back to where you’d been before.

To move forwards, you had to accelerate change. Or, inversely, slow your own rate of change. To do this was a far more irritatingly difficult task, but it could be done. Around objects of immense density, such as himself, (ha ha. >:( (note added in post)) gravity had a way of limiting particle movement and therefore slowing the rate at which things could change. With your perception of change itself muted, as you were made of particles, time would move quicker where you weren’t. Easy to overshoot, difficult to escape. Like black holes. Excellent time travel devices, those. 

Alternatively, you could simply leap to an anchor. Future anchors function the same, but are significantly more unstable. Changing enough of the past can utterly rupture the traveler's connection to the anchor in the future, as the future they were connected to did not necessarily have the changes made. All choices are separated. Thus, anchors in the future must be created with great care, and time travel, outside of loops, should be done with care. Not for the wellbeing of reality, but the wellbeing of the traveler.

Adaptable anchors are preferred. People anchors are ideal.

See Entrati's loop in 1999 for evidence, that man was so touched by the void you could have scooped it off him with a spoon. (Note added in post)

Entrati’s work with the helminth strain and Deimos humanoid constructs in the origin system, applicable for transference, are void-touched due to direct contact with a conscious manifestation of the Void Soup and surrounding reality degradation, and thus have their own unique signatures. This allows them to remain as stable anchors, traversing forwards through time at the rate of time around them, more or less permanently, unless destroyed. One can travel the path of a permanent anchor with little difficulty. Void signatures do not form on areas that have not been, or will not be, percieved by anything that can remember them. However, once formed, void signatures last until the object is destroyed, as the soup enjoys the concept of thought and does its best to replicate it. 

The process of making an anchor varies between travelers, but the general idea is a simple one. The drifter, desiring to make an anchor, fills the area with ambient void energy, and Decrees it to create a copy. And that is all. All anchors that the drifter is aware of , key phrase being aware of, have a habit of lingering in the back of one’s mind. Releasing these anchors is simple, but regaining them is possible. Most of the void reacts to thought, anyway, though incongruities between memory and the imprinted anchor can lead to alternate anchors.

Time travel is a fuckass bitch and should be kicked whenever possible. Thank you. Also, think about void signatures, and anchors, like the void itself thinking about things, and remembering things, respectively. Traversing through the void is far more akin to walking someone else's memories than walking your own. Always keep in mind that the void looks right back at you when you look into it, and it is not uncommon to find yourself with a void copy if you yourself have come in contact with the void. While it utterly lacks the chemical reactions necessary for emotions, it is pretty curious about them. Unfortunately the only way to get rid of a void copy is by being so catastrophically boring that it genuinely loses interest, and that usually means being both dead and forgotten by everyone around you. (Note added in post)

At very least, the drifter never found another him. Oh, there were other drifters. Save for the select few cases where the Endless Void of Cosmic Energy Between Moments itself decided to anchor a being, rather than a state of being, every choice he had ever made had spawned another ‘him.’ He could enter their timelines, because they weren’t him. They shared many of his memories, many of his thoughts, feelings, emotions, his dna, but the moment any small piece of their experience differed, they were their own person. 

Unfortunately for the traveler, if they have come into contact with the void, and seek to slip into a present that contains a variant of themself that has also come into contact with the void, it gets a bit confused. While the two are effectively separate people, yes, the signatures would be similar enough that to save itself the headache, the universe simply bounces the two off of each other like two magnets aligned the same way. Transference between the primary realm and a sub-realm allows for the physical body of either to exist, but cognitive coexistence is still under investigation, and may be possible.

The exact method of willing one's self onto a different plane of existence is unfortunately, entirely dependent on the time traveler. The drifter's method of channeling a harsh moment of change, whether it be extreme emotion, death, or a physical burst of energy, to convince the void to let himself slip out of the present and be free to transfer elsewhere, is easy enough to replicate. One should note, however,  that due the saturation of void energy in the surrounding area, living beings are often aware of the energy spike and- depending on how much the drifter knows about them, and therefore the deeper the void's imprint- may be more susceptible to maintaining a greater level of awareness of the shift. Curiously, the unravelling of energy that happens during a death allows for a much gentler transition. Why is anyone's guess. Current theory: Its not the drifter doing the moving. (Note added in post)

-- On Time: A discussion., Dated 14,003,134,587,091, Anchor 1jh-482-a39-gn3-198, [ ----- ]

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

(Stills here)

(Clearer ref for Zeppy's delightful smile here)

Chapter Text

When Eleanor had dragged Amir to the common room by the literal ear and called an emergency meeting, Aoi had been… A little bit worried. Just a teensy bit. Under her piercing gaze Amir had confessed that he might, might , have had a hand in egging on their drifter to do something that was perhaps in hindsight a little bit of a slightly bad idea. He got smacked (lightly) over the head, and amidst rubbing his hair he’d told them the truth.

And it might have actually been a good plan, if they had bothered with, well she didn’t know, maybe telling the rest of them and workshopping it for more than a few minutes. They could have sent the drifter back up, or kept watch over him while he did his thing, or at very least made sure that he had an escape plan that was something a little more nuanced than - and the words had been clear - “make a new doorway through the ceiling.”

Lettie had had a few things to say about the two men, and those few things took a few minutes, and were almost entirely insults. Aoi watched her pace, wringing her hands and rubbing her forehead, Amir looking more cowed with every passing second. Quincy looked resigned. Eleanor was pissed. And, of course, Arthur was scowling. Anyone who knew him though knew that that was an ‘I-am-stressing-over-everything-and-will-blame-this-entirely-on-my-own-failed-leadership’ scowl though and not an ‘how-dare-you-bother-me-when-I’m-avoiding-cleaning-my-desk’ scowl.

Their idea though… Well it was interesting. The drifter had more than a little bit of experience with breaking into and out of secure areas to steal data, and could directly bypass most restrictions on technology. That man was basically a walking cheat-code for just about every issue, it seemed. They’d download everything they could get their hands on and sort through it later to learn what the Scaldra might know that the Hex didn’t already know about the techrot. Amir had stressed the importance of backlogs marking previous outbreaks and growth patterns, which would have been extremely helpful when it came to keeping the civvies safe.

And they hadn’t told anyone or said anything to anyone before just diving in and starting the mission on their own. Or, more accurately, the drifter had. Sol above, that man was capable, and Aoi took great care in making sure that he knew they all knew it, but the thought of him going alone concerned her anyway. It also concerned her that he hadn’t trusted them enough to risk them vetoing the idea.

He’d never seemed the stubborn type, not even over text. He’d always behaved so… well, soft. He was the sort who had taken great care in learning about each of them the moment he’d learned about text-chatting, who had mastered emoticons just because she used them, who had learned slang so he could understand whatever Quincy was saying at any given time. He’d even started playing games with Amir, even though it was more than a little obvious he wasn’t much good. Was it so hard to believe that after all the effort he’d made, they’d want to actually let his ideas have some weight?

She mulled that over. Actually… No, he did seem like that sort of person. But still, the stubbornness was bizarre. She had to be missing something here. 

Arthur said something, and - “ I couldn’t, is the problem.” Eleanor thought, rubbing her forehead. Aoi zoned back in to the conversation immediately. “ I’m used to him vanishing for a few seconds every now and again, sure, but I haven’t been able to feel him for the past… ” She glanced up, amethystine eyes affixing on the clock. “ Ten minutes. That’s why we’re here. Something went wrong. ”

Amir fidgeted, rubbing his hands together, shifting his weight from side to side. Not a sign of knowing something, just nerves. She could imagine that he blamed himself wholeheartedly for the whole thing. 

“Well.” Arthur sighed, “We at very least have ideas as to where he might have been, and that should give us something to trace. Quincy, I know you’re off today, but-”

“Ay, don’t worry ‘bout it, man. I'm already all over comms.” The man gave a lazy salute. “He’ll owe us big time for pullin’ his arse outa all of this shit.” 

Another sigh, Arthur’s jaw subtly flexing. That was the difference between Arthur’s annoyed and worried scowl, and seeing it made a slight smile flicker across her face. He’d always been too… Serious for her. Stuck so firmly with one foot in the past and one foot in the future, with no thought or space for the present. Didn’t mean a girl couldn’t appreciate what she saw in a friend, though.

The rest of them received their assignments, and got to work.

--

Apparently, the comms were a ‘propa mess’ and ‘more on fire than the actual sun,’ according to Quincy and Amir. The latter had stayed behind, offering to keep the generators maintained and the base operational in case the drifter snuck back in after they’d all left. She’d talk to him later, if she could. Two bases had been hit. Both suffered complete data breaches. Only one had seen the culprit.

The first hit had happened somewhere around 8:16 am, and security footage was damaged beyond repair, and in response every other permanent outpost had been set on high alert for a possible attack. The next breach happened less than twenty minutes later.

The northern base hadn’t gone down without a fight, apparently, the Major herself had even stepped in to assist with dealing with the assailant. A figure clad in black and gold who seemed to bend the wind itself. Definitely their drifter. And the result of that fight?

She heard it announced right as they left the first base of operations, the speaker’s voice shaking softly. Complete annihilation of stationed forces. A full lockdown had been initiated, and their Major had been stuck in the room with the spear wielding beast.

But Major had walked out with a young man unconscious in her arms, dragging the black and gold warrior behind her like a child might drag a blanket.

Her mind flashed back to that dreamlike day when the drifter had arrived, and they’d all witnessed his double. That child, wearing the major’s face, who’d laughed and uttered words that made her very soul shake. Another scene right after, the drifter himself, laughing, uttering words in the same language, rending time itself.

Something bad had happened there, and she wasn’t completely sure she wanted to know what.

--

They arrived at the north base not minutes after the Major had left. They passed binoculars between them, (though Quincy preferred his scope). 

The Scaldra were laying out the dead, and the ground was covered. They were running out of sheets to drape them in.

Bizarrely, many of the fallen seemed crushed rather than sliced, their skin burned away by their own efervon armor, limbs mangled, chests caved in. And those that had been on the wrong side of the drifter’s spear… Were easy to tell apart, because they only brought out pieces. She heard Arthur swearing softly beside her, hanging his head. 

The drifter had been… Less violent, lately. Holding back, incapacitating or sneaking by regular soldiers whenever possible. He’d said it felt wrong, like fighting children, when he wore a warframe. (The thought made her brain itch in an off way. She’d let him transfer into her only a few times, but the sensation of truly not being alone in your own skull was not one she’d ever forget.) And it did sort of make sense. They’d all seen him fight, truly fight, against the techrot, and… And she’d understood. Thought she did, maybe. 

But… this? It didn’t seem like there’d even been a fight, more of a… natural disaster, coming through like a hurricane and leaving rows and rows and rows of bodies, piles of limbs and torsos and heads. A hurricane with some serious intent, anyway. Each blow, each cut, seemed so intentional when she looked closer. Each strike was meant to kill. No bleeding out when your head was caved in, or you’d been cut in half, or your heart had been crushed. For all his talk about being far less of a skilled fighter than his counterpart… Well. If she turned off the part of her that wept for such a severe loss of life, and the part of her that wanted to strangle him, and the part of her that wanted to turn away and vomit, she could see the artistry in the death. Like dancing, he’d once said. It was just like dancing.

“Any word on the Major?” Arthur said softly, and Quincy winced. 

“Heard she up and scooted off with our boy in tow. No escort.”

Another set of soft swearing from Lettie, who crouched behind them. She hadn’t bothered to ask for the binoculars, she’d said, rather simply, that she could already imagine just fine what they’d see through them, and she’d been right.

--

Four hours. It had taken them four hours to figure out where the Major had gone. Another thirty minutes to get there. It was a smaller research station, tucked directly into the mountains. She knew it all too well, because… A figure clad in gold, twisting his words and smiling in such a grandfatherly way, stilted and stuttering voice promising a way out. Entrati had worked here, once.

They didn’t waste time when they arrived, Quincy immediately finding a covert hiding place to wait with Lettie as Aoi and Arthur handled the approach. The things she’d heard discussed on the covert channels, the ones that had tipped them off, had been more than a little concerning. The Major had found someone with total techrot immunity. Someone who’d been in and around it for long enough that it saturated the man’s clothes, yes, but tests had shown that he wasn’t even a silent carrier. The techrot itself seemed adverse to the man, particles avoiding so much as coming into contact with his skin. The speaker had sounded breathless, the listener badgering with an endless barrage of questions. They were getting samples, the subject only had so much blood, but they were making do. The dead creature in black and gold seemed to be a new nonvirulent techrot variant, with flesh that resisted all but the sharpest and most careful of cuts. It didn’t share the man’s immunity, but it did, curiously, fit the appearance of the Northern outpost attacker. Somehow it had had control over the wind itself, which was, she'd caught amid the excited chatter, eerily similar to the things the Hex were able to do.

Arthur stopped at a corner, checking around it. Waved her forward. They’d been seen by a few security guards, but never had given them time to even call out. Scaldra were Scaldra. Though… She did feel bad for the scientists they-

A horrible, wailing, inhuman scream. It seemed to shake the walls, filled with lifetimes, lifetimes of agony and pure, unrelenting hatred. And it was very very quickly echoed by far more human ones. Echoed by gunshots. Echoed by explosions, the shriek of metal on metal, guttural and piercing roars that no living or mechanical creature she’d ever heard had ever made. Arthur had gone pale, fingers tight on the hilt of his skana. 

They didnt find the Drifter. The Drifter found them. 

Burning. Black and red, stained with, dripping with, coated in blood. Milky eyes stared hatefully out from behind eviscerated skin and flesh, which bunched like gums over an impossible amount of teeth. Arthur formed his blade, made of energy, facing it, lifting a hand in front of her like he could have done anything against this… thing. It moved like a shadow, air warping around it, wind slamming into her as it drew closer. 

And for the briefest of moments she could hear, like an echo in her mind, the sound of someone crying. A little child, reaching out through space for anyone, anything. And from the way Arthur jerked, she knew he had heard it too.

The creature knew them. Lowered its claws. Stepped back. 

Arthur stepped forwards, dismissing his blade, speaking softly. Introducing himself. Explaining the situation. Asking if it wanted anything to eat in particular when they got back.

It stepped further away, flesh fusing over its eyes. Teeth clenching together. Blood dripping like rain. He matched the difference, moving closer still. 

Arthur hugged it, and it just… stood there. Seeming stunned, frozen.

It let them lead it out. She didn’t look back, holding its clawed hand, taking it back home. 

Chapter Text

It just

Wasn’t fair. 

Amir couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing. Couldn’t keep his attention on his game. Not even music was helping. God, he was normally really good at being distracted, so good that Eleanor had started monitoring his dopamine levels but now? 

He clenched and unclenched his hands, looking over at the Drifter. They’d brought him home yesterday, and he swore he hadn’t seen the man blink once, much less sleep, just staring off into nothing with wide eyes and slumped shoulders. He’d been like this ever since Arthur had somehow talked him out of his warframe, which looked like somebody had shoved someone they really didn’t like in a blender and then dumped it over its head. Spooky as hell. He’d heard the comm chatter. The only time they’d gotten more than a simple nod or shake of a head had been when Arthur’d touched his bare arm. He wasn’t exactly decent, after all, dressed in just a hospital gown. But, like, with the way he’d recoiled? You’d think he’d been stabbed. Oddly enough he’d been just fine the moment he’d gotten a blanket around his shoulders. Probably some spacey-sensory bullshit, probably probably to do with those funky silver tats he had.

His leg kept bouncing, thoughts matching its pace.

God. It.

It wasn’t fair. He’d… If he had had an ounce more control over himself, this wouldn’t have happened. He wouldn’t have run off, the Drifter wouldn’t have seen him, wouldn’t have told him, and they wouldn’t have mutually fed off of each other’s excitement. Another thought.

Well. Actually, if he thought about it, he could count on one hand the times he’d seen a genuine sparkle of interest in the Drifter’s eyes. Almost made Amir’s heart skip a beat when he remembered the enthusiasm with which he’d explained his processes and theories. He took the Drifter for a lot of things, but an Amir-sized nerd? Nope. That’d been a shock. And yet, there he’d been, talking science and asking, actually asking, about Amir’s thoughts and technical knowledge. He could tell when people were just doing things to be nice, yeah, he was really good at that, and…

Well. 

The Drifter had genuinely seemed to care. 

The man was always doing that. 

It was probably a result of basically no socialization at all with actual people for like, a thousand years. That, or dying a bajillion times. He could imagine that the Drifter’s life hadn’t exactly been one where he’d been given a good dose of Society, and… Well, Amir did appreciate it. The Drifter was honest. The Drifter was attentive. The Drifter actually, for some bizarre reason, worried about them. Even if he was also scary as hell sometimes.

And…

And because he’d cared, he’d done his best to help in any and every way he could, and now he was sitting on a hospital bed, practically comatose, acting like somebody had forgotten to to animate him. Because Amir hadn't been thinking.

It wasn’t fair.

Eleanor had said all she could hear inside the man’s head was basically static, which… From the look of him, checked out. Said it happened to him more often than she’d prefer to admit, for his sake. He’d think of something, hurt, and then just… stop. Normally it’d last at maximum for a few hours, usually just a couple seconds.

Like, what did you even do for that? Amir had already tried shaking him, he’d been chatting on and off for a while, but he was genuinely losing things to talk about. The smell of food didn’t make him move,  Arthur had even, for whatever reason, crunched an egg-shell nearby. Hadn’t gotten a twitch. He’d looked real defeated after that one. Aoi'd made him one (1) paper crane out of metal. They’d tried to get him to lie down, but he resisted, so obviously he was present enough to want to sit up and stare at nothing and weird everyone out. Part of him wondered if he actually even needed to use the bathroom. Was he just... Holding it? Why?

Maybe it was just a void thing? Future people problem? Well it was a present problem for the rest of them, and Amir…

Well, Amir wasn’t about to leave him be, no matter how weird he was acting. 

So, to go with the Drifter's brain static, he pulled out his lil player, turned up the volume, and hit play. Bonafide elevator music, freshly ripped just last week, crackled through the speakers, and he was nodding along with the jaunty tune in no time. Needed something to do. If he wasn’t annoying the Drifter, he’d be annoying someone else, and Quincy had been real testy. Aoi was fun, but not his kind of fun. Eleanor was… Eleanor. Arthur had two swords, one he kept at his side, the other sheathed up his ass, and Lettie was way too much like his mother to play around with. And the Drifter had never, not once, told him to cut off the shenanigans. Or even had the decency to be annoyed. He’d be spacey, sure, but he was always a little spacey. Came with being a space-man. So, either the guy was actually some sort of saint, or he just didn’t say what he meant. He’d asked Eleanor, and she’d laughed. Said she’d never heard the Drifter lie.

Said Drifter blinked. Once. He was still staring at the wall like he wanted to count all the chips of paint off it.

So elevator music was the plan then. He cranked it higher, wobbling from side to side in time. “Great tune, right? Pulled it strrraight from a hotel on the other side o’ town. The elevator didn’t miss the data, thing had already grown like seventeen legs and was done with jigging, so your boy Amir here slipped the cd right outa its teeth.”

The Drifter did not respond. 

Eh, that was cool. Amir kept bobbing along.

Correction. The Drifter did not respond immediately. Gods, it nearly gave him a complete heart attack to feel Eleanor’s mental nudge right as the man finally opened his mouth to say something. 

“Why?” 

His voice was barely a whisper, and more than a little hoarse. Like he’d been crying, which was bizarre given what he’d heard, but it was definitely because of dehydration. Because, like, they’d tried to give him water, and he had very much not wanted to drink it, and Lettie had cussed him out over it. She was such a mother hen, even if people didn't always appreciate how much she cared.

“What, why the elevator music? Figured it’d fit the mood. Nice for static brains!” He chirped, giving him fingerguns. Even though he wasn’t even looking in the right direction to see them. 

Aaand… Back to silence. Huh.

Wasn’t what he was asking, but he did find it funny. Eleanor muttered in his head. Can't parse what he meant, though. He doesn’t even know.

Hhhuuh.

--

Amir was eating pizza later that evening when the Drifter moved, lowering his head with a soft sigh. Perhaps lured by the savory scent of the succulent s… s-food. Yeah, that’d do. Either way, he offered the man a slice. “Hungry?” 

No immediate response. Par for the course. He took a bite of his pizza. The Drifter blinked again, taking a deeper breath and leaning back a little. 

“Why, Amir?” He asked again, those eyes that seemed allergic to remaining any set color palette finally, finally, looking at him. Today they were blues and silvers. Like the sea.

“Becaauuuuse…. You haven’t eaten in like, two days?” 

The Drifter blinked at him tiredly. 

“Or slept. You look like shit, sorry-not-sorry even a little bit.”

The Drifter huffed softly through his nose, and resumed looking at the wall. Well, that was a vast improvement off of nothing. Amir finished his slice, then ate the one that obviously the piteous fool who didn’t appreciate the delicious things in life didn’t want. Deeelicious. Aoi had cooked, and pizza always tasted best when seasoned with the salty tears of someone else’s loss. 

Food consumed, in his stomach where it belonged, he pulled out his game and began to play. Now, he wasn’t totally sure if it counted as being annoying, but surely a bit of annoyance was better than pure apathy. Ol’ Marty McFlee himself had said as much, and if this wasn’t the most profoundly concerning show of apathy he’d ever seen, he didn’t know what the hell it was. So, he turned the sound on his game all the way up.

--

“How’s he doing?” Arthur asked, softly, leaning on the doorway.

“Just swell. We had a conversation about the capitals of the world and he wants to try a double shot latte with fouur pumps vanilla, noo ice, puh-lease and thank-you. ”

Arthur looked at him flatly, cocking an eyebrow.

Right. Well, not everyone could have a sparkling sense of humor. “He’s talked to me, like, twice. Seen him blinking and moving a little bit, buuuut…” He shrugged, and Arthur nodded.

Before he left, he quietly and very politely asked to have his tommy checked up on, because the break was wearing out, which, well. Easy enough!

--

Day three, and holy shit hospital rooms were small. Lettie’d decided that if the Drifter was so dead set on doing absolutely nothing, and really did not want to eat or drink, that he’d need an Iv. And in a truly impressive show of pure emotion and mental strength, the Drifter had growled at her. They’d both just stared at him for a good ten seconds before, again, wonder of wonders, he’d put his head down and seemed embarrassed. Another mega win. When she’d asked, pointedly, if he’d please drink something so she didn’t have to wrench his mouth open and pour it down his throat, he’d nodded. SUPER mega win.

And he’d actually drank and ate everything they put infront of him, though from his reluctance he did not seem happy about it. Whatever was going on with spacey-brain, he sure did seem to want to be a statue. Or dead. Which Amir would prefer not to think about. 

Yeah, sometimes he could forget. Sure, every member of the Hex was stronger, faster, maybe a little smarter than this literal ‘regular old guy’ with ‘nothing particularly special’ ‘cept for ‘infinite second chances’ or whatever, but, like, the Drifter had his own entire ass checkpoint mechanic and could quicksave for Sol’s sake. It was patently unfair. And, if he died, there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to stop him from loading up a previous version of all of them. Toss up if they’d remember it, too. Might have happened over, and over, and over... But like, why'd he keep this save, then. This could not be ideal.

--

“Why are you still here?” 

It was three a.m. Truly the asscrack of dawn. Worst time to be woken up, period. 

Amir blinked awake, groaning and rolling over on the couch he’d dragged into the little area. It took a second for his brain to catch up to why someone saying something was enough to break him out of his truly epic dreams, and… and then, he was sitting up straight and meeting the not-at-all-terrifying-in-the-dark softly glowing eyes of a guy who was totally not some space god. 

“Bwuh? ”

“It's been days.” The Drifter sighed, rubbing his forehead with his palm. “I know you get bored. Why are you still here.”

There were… No less than seventeen answers to that particular question, and they all tried very hard to come out at the exact same time. 

“I- uh-”

He stopped himself. Be chill, Amir. Be chill. 

“I mean, why wouldn’t I be?” Is what he came up with.

And the Drifter did seem to think it valid enough to consider… Or maybe he was just spacing out again, which, as the silence dragged, might have been what was actually happening. This asshat had woken him up at three am, with one line of speech, all cryptic as fuck, after days of near absolute silence? Man... Nah. Time to pester.

“Do you think I shouldn’t be, or something?”

He tilted his head to the side, that long dark hair (in desperate need of a wash, if he was being honest, sweet Sol.) falling over his face in strands. No response. 

Oookay, time to fish through the dialogue options. 

“Dooo you… Want me to go?” Please not that option. Please not that option, actually. 

A heartbeat. Amir felt his anxiety spike. Hard.

But...

“...No.” He answered slowly. Ohh, thank the gods. 

“Good, good, because I’m really not just gonna let our resident time lord, savior of the world, get off that easy.”

The Drifter nodded again, closing his eyes. This answer he seemed to accept and- ah shit, it did make it sound a whole lot like they just wanted him around for his power, didn’t it- Amir couldn’t just leave it at that. 

“Also. You happen to be my friend, and friends don’t let friends sit in one spot for days and not move without at least keeping them company.”

The Drifter turned to look at him, focusing. Despite having been zoned out for so long, his gaze was razor sharp. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, and then squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his legs to his chest and turning away. Oh, come on.

“Nooo, no no, you’ve been facing that same wall for like, seventy hours. It's boring as hell and we both know it. Can I at least put a cat poster there or something before you start staring again? I’m sure we can scrounge up a couple.” He wouldn’t deny the slight jerk of irritation in his chest. He was all for treating people nicely when they treated him nicely, but yikes.  

“Amir.” The Drifter muttered.

“Yeah?”

“I can’t… stay. Here. Not forever.”

“Well, duh. Lettie’s been wanting to evict you from that bed since your nicks and bruises got healed up. Which was like, ten minutes in.”

“ Amir.” 

“...Yeah?” 

“I can't stay here. ” He said again, stronger, but somehow… Infinitely more fragile. The Drifter looked at him. “Not forever. I will leave. And I don’t know if things will be better when I do. It… It isn’t safe for you to... I was hoping you all would…” What. Give up on me? Come to your senses? Let me sit in obvious misery forever? Fat chance.

“No duh,” Amir repeated right back, rolling his eyes. Even though… Gods, that thought did kinda hurt. An understatement. It really hurt. “Ion’ think anybody expected you’d be able to stay forever. You’re like, a time traveling space god, you’re gonna be needed. Plus, plus, this is a warzone, so, like, people die all the time anyway. But here we are, still friends.”

The Drifter didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, just staring at him with an expression that was way too hard to read in this lighting.

“While you’re here, though.” Amir gave the man his most winning smile. “Wanna have some pizza and join me in the arcade?”

And, wonder of wonders, he slowly, subtly, nodded, pressing down on his palms and sliding off the bed, dragging his blanket-robe with him. Yeah. Yeaaah, sometimes, you had to take the scales of the world into your own hands and throw rocks at the previous guys who loaded em.

Chapter Text

The drifter was

Slow.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk. To move. 

He just…

It felt like everything was moving so quickly, everywhere that wasn’t in his head. Amir was practically a blur ninety percent of the time, fuzzing in and out of his attention.

His head was

Was…

He struggled to remember. He’d been struggling. Words echoed.

‘Dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous.’

He and The Blur played two-player pinball. They’d tried other games, but they hadn’t made any sense to him. 

Amir should have left him alone. Should have. Should have. He couldn’t remember why, but

‘Staying just long enough to make it hurt’

He’d told him. Finally, He’d been trying to find the words for so long. Years. Centuries. It had been so… hard to… 

Stuffing. That was the word he wanted. His head was filled with stuffing. 

And he was on fire.

It was a subtle sensation. A thousand years away, as distant as… Not stars, he eventually recognized. Fake stars. Lights? Were they… Not playing pinball anymore? 

His heartbeat was like Amir. Too fast. He felt… viscous. Thick. Milk on the counter for a week. Equally as rotten. 

He could

So far away

Taste it. 

It tasted sharp, and it squirmed inside him. Tried to push its way out. Wanted OUT. Starved him of… Stuffed his brain with… 

Gods, what was happening to him?

The thought made him stumble, a year after it had gone through his head. Amir was there. Hands on h

Is

Bare skin. Arm, ripped off. Arm. Broken. Shot through. Stabbed. Chained. Stabbed. Sliced. Shredded. Pulled from its socket. Ripping muscle and skin and tendon and vein. Dead. Over. And over. And OVER. AND OVER. AND

GET. AWAY. 

Amir was apologizing, letting him stand, huddling his arms close. Amir looked… frantic. Why? Wasn’t his fault though. Soft textures. Equal pressure. Not hands. Not chains. Not ropes. Not something that would hurt. That was better. He’d wrapped his arm in the blanket. Leading him back. 

Time moved around him. Left him be. As it should. Better that way. Better that they forget. They’d hurt less.

His heart ached. Different pains. Not a blade’s stabbing.

They didnt deserve this. 

Should

Reset. 

Let them forget he existed. Let them…

Death. He watched it replay on a screen far away. Each of them dying. That was order.

No. No. Please.  Stop.

It didn’t listen to him.

-- 

A year drifted by. He couldn’t sleep. They wanted him to, he knew. They cared so much. Shouldn’t have. He was a pox. A plague. Rotting everything he touched. He was the air that rotted the milk. 

Rot. That was what was trying to happen to him. He could feel it. He could see it when he closed his eyes. It boiled. Incompatible. Wanting out. Desperate. Terrified. It knew. It knew. He was a plague. A plague. A plague.

Leticia spoke in that beautiful language he didn’t understand. Softly. Asking something. Baring his skin.

Tied down. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Move. MOVE. Taking away his thoughts, draining them away like something crimson that shimmered. Putting fire into his body. Injecting boiling acid. Incompatible. It burned.

He couldn’t lay down. He couldn’t. Didn’t she see? It was all he could do to protect himself. All he could do to separate the moments. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t leave himself to be taken from and put into. He couldn’t. 

Air touched his bare chest. Softly warm air. Bombastine. Emerald colors. Gods she was going to kill him. She moved his hands. He was too terrified to resist. Too slow. Too full of stuffing.

Pressure, sliding down his body. Remaining equal. Pressure that quieted the wind. Let him be free of at least that much. 

A… Huh? He looked down. What was a shirt? His skin was blackened, but the only fire he felt was the one that hadn’t been able to escape him. Ah. A shirt. Right. She took his arm again, but it was protected. Hands weren’t. It was… Alright. He’d lost his hands. They’d been cut off. Crushed. Stabbed with holes. But he’d grown used to the pressure being inconsistent there. 

Pressure. Upper arm. Made his heart beat wrong. Too fast already. Could feel his pulse. Pressure kept moving. Kept changing. Struggling against the pressure. Made his veins spasm. That wonderful, kind woman in red who swore at him too fast to understand more often than she spoke softly. She was looking… Like Amir had. Horrified. She’d noticed. He didn’t know, yet. She told him. He looked like he might faint. 

It took him a week to move his arm, but he managed it. Amir held still. He patted his shoulder. He didn’t need to worry. The drifter knew somehow that he was worried that he’d become like the rest of them. Or worse, the metal rot they knew. He didn’t need to worry. The drifter didn’t exist right.

Took him days to speak. His voice was so… Soft.  They had to know, for sure. So they didn’t worry. 

“It”

“Is”

“Incompatible.” 

He finally, finally said. Amir put his head in his hands. Lettie looked like she might do the same, but chose to put something dark and metal to his chest. 

A blade. Puncturing his lungs. Bisecting his heart. She was going to kill him, his heartbeat stuttered, she wa

Constant pressure. No further addition to pain. Her jaw set. She looked at him. Was he sure, babas? 

Another week of effort. 

“Yes.”

“I”

“Can”

“Feel”

“It”

“Boiling.”

Amir looked like he might throw up. 

Lettie

Pain. It was a subtle, small pain, but it was real. Small only at first. It grew. His hand. She’d cut. It. Open. He could see the silver and red bursting out of him. Trying so hard to escape, coming down his arm in streams. The pressure finally had a way out. Taking his blood with it. Amir ran out of the room. He… 

He passed out. 

--

And in all respects, the drifter felt much better when he woke back up. Still woozy from severe blood loss, yes, but at very least his brain wasn’t being starved of oxygen by the techrot. It was probably too large to permeate the membranes.

Having a walking Trinity was a blessing. (Hah-hah) Having a living, breathing, speaking one who called him babas and other strange things, could think, and subsisted off of basically just coffee? Far better. Likely he might have died without her help, the stress on his body far too much to bear. And that would have set him back… Set all of them back…

How long had it been? 

Amir was playing his game, sound way up, in his usual spot in the corner. How long had it been since he’d gotten back? A week? A month? Time dilated and fuzzed in his memories, he could barely remember anything.

No. That 

Wasn’t true. 

His brain itched in the wrong way when it offered up those thoughts, though, so he just… Put them right back down and kicked the box shut. Later, maybe. It didn’t stop the anxiety, or the lingering sorrow, but nothing did. And hey, both of those were better than nothing. He could live with sorrow and fear. 

The drifter heaved himself up with a groan, and immediately regretted it, because his body woke up. Its first gift, a pounding headache, and second, the distinctly unpleasant sensation of needs that had gone unfulfilled for a while. Gods, those were also new, since he'd escaped, and they did not stop getting on his metaphorical nerves or his physical ones. Hunger, real hunger. Thirst. Everything else on the pile was also a problem but those two were the most upsetting.

Amir was by his side when those thoughts hit him, the box opening right back up because he hadn't fucking locked it, and...

He had the briefest of mental echoes telling him to just eat the man.

Zephyr was… Going to be a problem for a little while. He’d…

Sol and Lua. The sensation of biting a human head in half was… He could still feel the way bone cracked, crunched, shattered, and just gave way to jelly. 

It was…

Exquisite. Powerful. Primal. He'd been so free to feel and do, no fear, no phantom pains, no regrets. A child with a gun. Protecting. It was protecting, wasn't it? Even if he was killing for himself. Even if he was hunting down tired old beasts with eyes that had gone dull from starvation. They cowered before his grin. Tombstone teeth in a smile too wide to be human. The void was a mirror, after all, and they? They wouldn't hurt him any more. Ever. 

He felt sick. 

Monster. Hurting because he could. Playing dangerous games, just for the thrill. Just to feel something. It had never been Zephyr. That was just a puppet. He'd chosen. He'd decided. The decrees had all been his own. Dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous. 

A child. Throwing a gun away in horror, hearing it clank and clatter down a deep, deep shaft where it could never ever hurt anyone ever again. Sobbing. She'd killed someone she hadn't meant to. She couldn't be a soldier. Couldn't be their guardian. Growing up had always meant he'd had to face what he'd done, and-

Gods he had never wanted to. 

But the sensations never left him. Sometimes, it'd just be so easy to...

No.

NO.

The monster was not who he wanted to be. Not who he'd let himself be. He couldn't. He would be better, for them. He was here because he cared. Because he could help. It wasn't just a game to him. It wasn't. There were so many emotions to feel. Why did he always loop back to the same few? He could kill to protect. HAD to. They needed him to.

And...

And it was just one more reason for his stomach to rebel. He held back a dry heave, thick, minerally saliva flooding his mouth. Grab the blanket, focus on that. Focus on that. Count the fibers beneath his thumb. Focus on the thought of the Hex. What he could do for them. Smiles on their faces, for once. Hope in their eyes.

Hope in the eyes of children in a classroom who knew he was lying. The wall was coming down. The door being forced open by hands. Limbs. Inhuman. Hateful. Murmuring voices. Screaming voices. Echoing voices. He couldn't protect them. 

Oh damnation. What was he doing.

“You’re awake!” Amir laughed, grinning. 

Took him a moment to swallow down the bile.

“Unfortunately.” The drifter grumbled. 

Amir laughed again anyway, wrapping him in a hug that threatened to knock him over. Sodding man. Beautiful, wonderful, friend that he was. Already he was yapping, catching him up on everything that’d been going down. The drifter stuffed the cracks in his head and let himself think about nothing but his friends.

Chapter Text

The drifter was…

Metal clanged against metal, then sang as blade edge ground against blade edge. 

The drifter was fighting for his gods damned life.

He held his sword in two hands, one on the hilt, the other on the flat part of the blade, and desperately did his best to block each oncoming blow. Sweat dripped, flew from his brow. His opponent was faster, stronger, and significantly more practiced, driving him back across the floor. Three strikes, right, left, right, now.

He snapped his sword out, Arthur was too close to dodge, and he’d always been slightly slower on a left drawn swing, so maybe- 

Clang

Damnation.

Arthur hadn’t even bothered with bringing his sword all the way around, just drawing the hilt back enough to deflect the strike, leaving the drifter’s arms too high up to bring his guard back down and-

The blow took him in the side, - ripping through fabric and skin and organs and muscle, bisecting him, he could feel every second - but the force was well tempered and it bounced off him lightly. Arthur nodded at him, dancing back, letting him reset his stance. He almost reset the damn timeline. If not for the phantom pain echoing through his torso, than for his injured pride. Surely with a few rounds of that he could memorize well enough how the fight would go, but…

That man. Legs giving out. Stumbling, falling against glass that burned flesh white as he laid against it, but that was nothing compared to the radiation. Dying, slowly, alive just long enough to see and hear everyone he loved die before him. Arthur remembered. He knew he remembered. He’d seen it. He’d remember this too.

“You’re doing better. That strike wasn’t bad, but I can still see you trying to act like you’re not limited by your own strength. Don’t worry, we can work on that. You can’t forget that you’re still in recovery, and that you’ve gotten used to piloting a warframe, alright? Signal when you’re ready.” Chipper. Arthur sounded downright chipper. Void take the bastard. 

The two were sparring, had been sparring for the past, what, thirty minutes? He’d walked in to check on him some time ago, and caught him in practice. The things Teshin had taught him lingered in his mind, even if precision was fading, so he’d been improvising.

He’d always struggled with consistency, often only having the presence of mind to do so once or twice a week, but at very least it was something to rely on when he needed to think. Or avoid thinking. Without a teacher, he’d taken to doing stretches, then running through what katas he could remember, working his way up in complexity. Once the drifter’s body began to struggle and flag, he’d call whatever warframe he had on hand at the moment to him, and do the whole thing over again until he’d recovered.

There was a profound difference between his fighting capacity inside of a warframe and out of it. Its innate skills and power bolstered his own, quickening his strikes, enhancing his precision to a supernatural degree, and purifying his balance and footwork. Like having a master guide his hand while he painted. With the memory of how the frame performed, he’d leave its body and do the katas once more, trying to recreate the feeling of perfection. It was an imperfect system, by every metric imaginable, but it was the best he’d had for… Well. Since he’d left Duviri. And until now. He’d needed the familiarity, after the last few days.

And he could still see the absolute delighted surprise on Arthur’s face, hand poised to knock. In a rare show of genuine excitement, he’d harassed the drifter until he’d agreed that yes, maybe, sparring could be good for both of them. Because it was, and, unfortunately, he’d never seen Arthur grinning like that. He couldn’t just say no. Not to that kind of smile. (It was an Arthur level grin, though, so in reality what had happened was a slight pulling up of the corners of his lips and a little more light in his eyes. The effect was the same.)

The infuriatingly likeable man swung the thin practice blade around. Neither of them wore padding of any sort, Arthur didn’t need it and the drifter felt even more sluggish with it on, so they’d decided on blunted weapons rather than actual ones, and Arthur had promised to lighten his blows if they hit. The feeling of fighting something he consciously knew couldn’t actually kill him without significant effort was far different than facing down a real blade. It was more… manageable. Not as desperate. In a real fight, when an entire day’s worth of progress and life and lingering agony was on the line, he’d often found himself in a clear state of flow, focused completely and entirely on one thing and one thing alone. Survival. 

But like this? 

Here he had the space to consider, actually consider, minor things like footwork and edge control. Not only that, but he had someone who could look at him and correct stances and positions past himself running entirely off of vibe.

The drifter shook himself out, rolling his shoulders, and lifted his blade into a low guard. “Ready.” 

Arthur came at him, hopping forward and executing a graceful stab. The drifter lifted his sword, deflecting with the pommel, shifting back. Another stab, higher, another block, and Arthur again struck towards his exposed side, almost faster than he could follow. He spun, twisting out of the way and again retreating, bringing his blade up to knock away a second strike at his briefly exposed back, and whipping the blade down to take a stab at Arthur’s now exposed chest. Infuriatingly, he danced out of reach, returning to a neutral stance. “Good! Almost had me.” 

Almost, yes, but he still hadn’t had him. He reset as well, exhaling a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. 

The two continued like that. They traded off first strikes, back and forth, and paused whenever the drifter needed a break. Which was unfortunately becoming more and more frequent. 

Arthur dropped low beneath a powerful swing, twisting and slapping the flat of his blade against the calf that the drifter couldn’t pull back in time. His brain told him he’d lost it, immediately dropping all muscular support for a second until the phantom sensation gave way to the very real presence of a foot still being there. It was still enough to leave him utterly off balance, dropping to a knee, eyes widening as Arthur followed through. And  - stabbed him straight through the chest, he was dead, spine severed, his legs gave out, his heart stopped beating, once, twice, millions of times, over and over and over and over and it hurt, it HURT - tapped his sternum gently. 

The drifter fell back anyway, collapsing with a groan, chest heaving. He even threw one arm over his eyes for good measure. Dead. He was dead. Very dead. Arthur snorted. The man didn’t need to know that his legs really had given out, or that even that light touch was enough to kill him, because in reality he did enjoy sparring and he did not want to give Arthur that sort of guilt. He didn’t deserve that. There was a profound disconnect between his mind and brain, and it never ceased to cause him endless trouble. 

He lay there for a moment, just catching his breath, waiting for the phantom pain to release his system. 

“You alright, Marty?” 

He looked, peeking with one half opened eye. Arthur was crouched next to him, still smiling, offering a hand. Gave him a bizarre moment of disconnect, that did. He’d done the same for Thrax, an infinity ago. He took the hand, letting himself be heaved back up to unsteady feet.

“Maybe… That's enough for today. I think Lettie would kill me if she found out we were sparring, given why I was here at all in the first place.” 

Ah. Yeah. He’d mentioned that there was something they needed to discuss. He looked up from where he was dusting himself off, meeting a slightly sheepish gaze. …Odd. “You never did say what that was about, by the way.”

“...Yeah. Lettie wants you off missions for the time being, until you let her give you an actual checkup.” 

He froze.

“ What. ”

“...Drifter. You’re immune to the techrot.”

“Yes, I know. Elaborate, please.” He snapped. 

“Immune in a way that refused to let it leave your body, until you were literally cut open, because it couldn't filter through your system. She wanted to make sure that it was all removed, and that there’s no lingering… Damage. From what the Scaldra did to you.” He said this delicately, which… Honestly, irritated him more. “There’s a chance that you’re just collecting it inside you, and that might cause problems down the line. It's not that she doesn’t think you’re not capable of fighting, but that she’s worried that you won’t be someday due to a very preventable cause. She… Wanted me to tell you.”

“Consider me told.” 

Well. That soured his mood completely. His heart thumped in his chest. Memories bubbled in his head. Voices. Eyes. Staring. Taking. Taking. He was a child again. Couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t even protect himself. They’d wanted to know how he was this way, he couldn’t work his mouth to tell them. So they’d just cut him open and taken the knowledge themselves. They’d filled him with fire, just to see how he ticked. 

The drifter found himself pacing, rubbing his forehead. He could feel Arthur’s gaze on him, more than a little pensive. Odd, how much more expressive the man was, these days. It was subtle, just variants on more or less the same scowl, but the differences were there when you looked. 

“Do you… Have… A problem with Lettie, Drifter?” 

He stopped. Did he? Did he really? No. He shook his head. “That's not it. I just…”

“...Don’t like to be touched, right?”

A nod. 

“Look. I won’t lie, I don’t understand. I don’t think any of us will, properly, until you explain it. But, if you do, I’m sure Lettie can work things out with you so it won’t be a problem, alright?” 

His body told him in no uncertain terms that doing so would actually kill him just as effectively as anything else. It was a weakness they could exploit. Gods knew Dominus Thrax had, and if they knew, if they ever…

Oh Sol. That was not a thought he could let his fears entertain, no matter how frequently they tried to bring it up.

“I’ll… try.” He finds himself saying. “I’ll try, Arthur. Alright? I…”

“That's all we’re hoping for.” He gets in return. “I know we don’t deserve to push or pressure you past what makes you comfortable, and… Even if you can’t. Tell us, I mean. Right away, or later. I hope you know that we’ll still try to do right by your kindness anyway. All I ask is that you be willing to trust that we’ll try to help.”

Sodding man. Horrid, wonderful man. 

Chapter Text

The drifter sat on the roof of the Hollovania central mall, overlooking a slowly cooling sky.

He and Arthur had agreed that perhaps a good sparring session at least twice a week would help both of them keep their skills up. The man had seen him running katas in frame, and wished to experience that sort of prowess as well, and honestly, it would give the drifter some semblance of a chance at landing at least a single hit. So…

So he’d agreed, and promised to work things out with Lettie. Then the drifter had given him a salute, and left.

Gods. He needed to think. He really needed to… To do something. He itched for it. Needed it. Needed to decide, or to run, or to just… He felt like he was surrounded by blades, trying to decide which one to fall on before they all stabbed him together. It was illogical. It was utterly illogical. If he looked at the situation properly, he knew he was overreacting to something very simple. These people were, for no better term, his friends. They cared, he knew they did, and yet there was still that part of him that bared its teeth like a whipped krubie at the thought of sharing one of his greatest weaknesses. They knew about it already, though, just not the details. And… not only did they care, though, but they were right. If his body couldn’t allow the techrot a way out, kept it trapped in his blood, then… Then well, eventually, he’d wind up like he had been for those few days all over again. Slowly, possibly slow enough that he wouldn’t even realize. There was a risk it’d get stuck in places it shouldn’t be, either. Or figure out how to bypass the void-corruption that kept him forever… Him. That would be the worst part. 

He wasn’t sure, totally, why he was the way he was. His body had aged so… oddly. He’d been a child for far, far longer than any human should have, until he’d… Started to grow up. It had been slow, and had persisted despite one day repeating for centuries. Realistically, he should have stopped aging entirely once the daily executions had begun, because his body was always pulled all the way back to where it had been before.

And yet here he was. 

Perhaps it was something mental. Something to do with being saturated with the sort of energy that manifested thoughts. Possibly being made of that sort of energy. Maybe his age was entirely linked to how old he thought he was, deep down. Even his time in the origin system hadn’t changed a single thing. And… And if the techrot got in that deep, if it affected him so subtly for so long, would he start to accept its existence as a part of himself? Would he stop being able to vent it, slowly decaying further and further into eternal silence? Would time just keep slowing down? 

The thought terrified him, because he just didn’t know. 

His chest felt tight.  

This was the closest he’d ever had to… to… He couldn’t just leave this place, leave all of them to die, again and again, stuck in a time loop until the void devoured everything. Not like it had begun to do with Duviri. He could actually do something here. Make some semblance of a difference. In the origin system, if he hadn’t done what he did, someone else would have. They already were, when he got there. His twin would have returned eventually. He was sure of it. The only thing that had been special about him was determination and an infinity of second chances.

But, when he thought about it, he didn’t want to die, either.

Not like this. Not slowly, surely, helpless as his very mind slipped from his fingers again. Not in a way that meant that his resets would mean nothing. Gods. Gods. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He could imagine it. He’d lived it. Being so… Slow. Unable to focus enough to muster his own power, terrified to do so because of the people it might hurt. Unable to sleep, for his own fear. Unable to talk, to think, without the most significant effort. Forgetting his own body had needs, and letting them just… fade. For days. Months. Years. He wouldn’t be there to reset this world on his own power, they’d lose their memories, and everything would repeat.

Except him. 

He’d just keep spiraling back down, further and further. Unable to die. No matter what happened, he’d always just fall right back down.

Again.

And again.

And again,

and again.

Until there was nothing left of him but a husk. Until he’d accepted the techrot so fully that it was able to infect him as it wanted to. Until it, like Dominus Thrax had always desired, had its puppet.

He sobbed, curling in on himself, clutching the fabric of his shirt in a trembling hand, the other digging nails into his scalp.

If they found him, on those resets. If they freed it from his walking corpse, he’d be sane again. He’d get to meet them again, remember who they were, be happy again.

Until he reset. His power would be his downfall. He’d have to choose between his own sanity and that of the Hex’s. He’d have to choose whether to reset them in a way that let them keep their memories, but send him back down to hell, or watch as they forgot who he was and all the time they’d spent together. There was no victory here, no victory at all. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t. He was lying to them anyway, saying he knew how to help. There was nothing he could…

His pager beeped. He didn’t hear it, trying to slow his breathing, failing. Every inhale was a battle all in its own right. Every exhale was stilted. His lungs just didn’t want to take in any air. He was going to die. He was going to die. This was how he could be killed. For good. This was how the Indifference got him. Slowly. Surely. Corrupting him as it had before, an eternity ago. Stealing away his sanity piece by piece by piece by piece by piece by piece by piece by piece…

It beeped again, but the sound was so insignificant. He couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he needed to, some days, but now, now? His fears ran like a brushfire. Everything was smoke, ephemeral, he couldn’t hold on. His ears were ringing, his heartbeat was so loud. He couldn’t breathe. He was crying. He-

Arms. Around him. He tensed immediately, trying to pull away, but they held him. Firm, but gentle. A soft voice, shushing him. Somehow he could hear it past all the noise, and with it came a sense of soft calm. Like a warm blanket, draped around his shoulders. Someone had settled behind him, and was just… Holding him. No pain. Just… Pressure. They pulled him close, and gods, all he wanted to do was just collapse into those arms. They let him. They held him. 

Eleanor.

It took him a minute or so for it to click that it was her. A good many more his head to clear after. Her hug was just as mental as it was physical. Like… Somehow she was able to grab all those scattered pieces and hold them together. 

Slow down. Just breathe. It’ll be alright. Her voice whispered in his mind, and he tried. He really, really did. And she stayed even though he failed. He could feel her head on his shoulder. Her arms around his, both sets wrapped around his stomach.

Can you feel my breath? She asked him, and he could. He could feel the slight shift in pressure against his back. The way her heart beat blood through her veins. The sound her soul made. So soft. Good. Good. Focus on that. Breathe with me. Slow it down.  

And it was a little easier. Matching his shuddering breaths with hers. His muscles still tried to rebel, and his head spun from the lack of oxygen, but… But it was a little easier.

There you go, Drifter. You’re doing great. Just keep on doing that, okay? Focus on my breath. My heart. My soul. Whatever happens, don’t forget that you’re not facing it alone, this time. We’re all here.

Her heartbeat was slow and steady. His own began to relax to beat in tandem. He was able to breathe a little deeper. Not alone. He was not alone.

You didn’t respond when I wanted to know if you wanted an intervention, so I came anyway. She said in a slightly more conversational way. I take it the chat with my brother didn’t go too well? He was there for hours.  

The thought of that radiant smile flashed through his head. Arthur had looked so excited for something as simple as a sparring partner. And... If he thought about it, he'd been more than a little happy about it too, even if he never once landed more than a nick. 

He felt Eleanor understand. Heard her amusement, especially at witnessing his smile. It was… Odd. Having her directly in his head. They hadn’t interacted much, since the Scaldra attacked the mall, though he’d never minded her. And now… There was a wonder in not having to translate his words. Something divine about not stumbling and reconsidering everything he said.

It is rather convenient, isn’t it. Though I’ll admit, sometimes your thoughts do move too fast to keep up with and stay sane. How do you manage it?

By not being sane, apparently. That thought put a grin on his face, and a chuckle from her in his head. She still held him. Normally, the touch of a living creature took him back to... Death. Fear. Panic. But this? Constant pressure? It… helped. Odd.

Yes, news flash, humans do tend to be social creatures. Even when they’re you. Everyone needs a hug once in a while.

And he knew she could feel his gratitude.

I dont… feel human. Most days. He thought back to her, and she shrugged behind him. 

Suppose it comes with the lot. Your lot… Maybe more than mine. But let me tell you, there sure is a lot of ‘i dont feel human’ sentiment around these parts. You’re not alone there, too.

Well… Yeah. He could imagine that. 

And you’re not alone in worrying that the techrot will slowly eat away at your mind, either. I… Think we’re all worried about that one.

…

And he could feel it. Subtly. Arthur and Lettie’s fears that Eleanor would lose herself. One willing to kill her, the other so very much not. Amir, terrified of what he’d become. What he had done and still did to people. Quincy, losing his humanity physically, watching his body transform far out of his mental control. Aoi, stranded and alone, far from everyone she loved. 

And himself. His own terrors, echoed back to him from a different perspective. When put up next to them, his fears were… Similar. Very similar, to their own. He could feel, through her point of view, that… That yes, people did worry for him. Did care. 

And her own sentiment. If he did lose himself, she’d find him every time and set him free. No matter what. She’d remember. She’d make sure the others remembered, too. Until they’d freed him enough times that his mind remembered that it didn’t belong to the corruption. Until his mind remembered that he should be free of it. That he should be him. Not [ ----- ], but the Drifter. Because she knew that he’d do the same for them. Had done the same for them. She knew how many times they’d died in battle and he’d turned back time so he could make things go differently. She had seen the Hex die, through six pairs of eyes. She knew. She knew. So no reset could ever stop her from trying.

It was illogical. Obviously, that wasn’t how it worked, but…

But the fear was illogical in the first place, anyway. He choked back a sob, trembling all over again. She held him as he cried for the second time. 

He was not alone.

Chapter Text

The drifter told her.

He told her, and it was okay.

It was okay. 

He'd come to her and explained, standing awkwardly in the doorway and doing his best to articulate his fears. It was a bit awkward, but she didn’t interrupt, just looking at him from under slightly furrowed brows and over pursed lips. 

“So… Your dances with la Flaca, they linger, and your body takes you back when you start on the same steps?” She’d said, and he nodded, because his attempt had been… Significantly more complicated. “And pressure, your clothing, this helps, si?”

“...Sometimes. On bad days there’s no difference, and… On some parts of my body, it doesn’t matter either way.”

She’d nodded again, head tilting as she considered this. 

“We can make this work, babas. I will be careful, and you will tell me if I am not being careful enough. Would you like a rat to hold?” 

And he actually had wanted to hold a rat, and she’d given him three. They sat in his lap now as she did what she could without him needing to remove his tight jumpsuit, greyed by time and cracked occasionally from stress. Honestly, he had no idea how it still fit him at all. Just one more mystery of the void. 

The mice investigated him as she did various… Things. Put a piece of metal beneath his armpit, it was cold, and waited until it beeped. Wrapped something around his upper arm as she’d done once before, inflated it, and let it deflate slowly. Observed his eyes, ears, and mouth. It was profoundly strange, being inspected like this. She had him stand on a piece of metal, and measured his height, and, somehow, his weight. (The mice were left on the bed for this part.) All the while, she talked to him. Told him what she was doing. 

The first thing had been a thermometer, to check his body temperature. The second was for testing his blood pressure, which she assured him had faded to an absolutely normal level from where it had been before. A little low, maybe, but he was doing alright. She’d checked his eyes, one at a time, with a little light to test both dilation and to check for their health. His ears, for their health, and his mouth, to observe not only his oral hygiene but his tonsils and saliva consistency. Also for health. She’d checked his pulse and lymph nodes, and the dark thing she’d put up to his chest not too long ago was to check how he breathed.

She’d told him he was in excellent condition. Oddly great condition, actually, given that since she’d never once witnessed him brushing his teeth there should have been problems. But… Apparently not. Not even a tiny bit. He’d explained that he hadn’t been eating much corrosive food, aside from the highly acidic sodas he’d sipped here and there, so it was alright.

Lettie had stared at him. He could have sworn one of her eyes twitched. 

“Babasito, por que. Most people need brushing with or without food. I envy you and your odd space teeth, Drifter.” 

He was going to avoid thinking about that one, because having to brush one’s teeth sounded like a pain in the ass, and he didn’t exactly want to add that to the arsenal of shit he had to deal with. 

But, then… Well. He did need to tell her. He should, because she needed to know he trusted her. And maybe because he wanted to tell someone by choice.

“It's… More than just the teeth. All of me is that way.” 

She raised a brow, looking up at him from where she’d been taking notes. “Que?” 

“I… Think I mentioned, once, that the majority of my life was spent in Duviri, right? In the void.”

She nodded. 

“That uh… Energy. Same thing that lets me rewind time. It also keeps me… me. I… Think? I don’t… Know for certain. It's why I can be centuries old but still look like…” He gestured down at himself. “What, I’m in my… Late twenties? Thirties? I think I am what I see myself as. So… I don’t get sick. Or get cavities. So on, so on. I think it's also why I’m immune to the techrot, though… Partially. Void energy is… corrosive. It's got a tendency to twist things it touches, and I think the techrot knows that. So it doesn’t want to come in contact with me at all, so…”

She was furiously taking notes on her clipboard. “...So it can’t leave your bloodstream,” She muttered, “Because it does not wish to touch the walls of your veins, or risk touching your organs… And even if it did, it cannot infect you, truly.” 

“It… might be able to. I just don’t know, because I can and do die. I just…” He shrugged helplessly, a rat on his shoulder squeaking from where it was inspecting his long hair. “I think it protects me on a very small scale. One small enough to stop things such as getting sick, but not things like getting stabbed. Techrot’s probably somewhere in the middle.”

Leticia tapped her foot, end of her pen against her lips. 

Pen. Reminded him of…

Ah shit. The data. Well. Double shit. He’d been so wrapped up in forgetting he hadn’t remembered. He’d left his notes with Amir, he should figure out how to-

“What would happen if some cabron injected themselves with your blood?”

“What?”

“You said it was corrosive. Energized, no?”

“Well… Yeah, but… What? ”

She looked at him severely, lips pursed. “The Scaldra know you are immune, and you said they took blood samples from you, no? And they will study them to find a cure, no?”

…He felt cold. Memories. Black and red. Hateful faces. A pistol in her hands.

“They’d… Go insane. It… It’s… Shit, Lettie, they’ll…” His chest felt tight again, and he forced himself to stop breathing in. Exhale. Clench and unclench his hands until the memories settled. “It's dangerous. Void energy corrupts your mind. I don’t know how it works, but it's… Hungry.”

“Yes, Albrecht’s last messages said as much. Is there any way to cure it, or replicate it?

“Cure… no. Not that I’ve seen. And… We… We did try. Maybe if it's just a little, it’ll be different, but… You can’t replicate it, you need to get it from the void. So unless they’ve got the means to open a portal, they shouldn’t be able to, no. There’s… A chance, though.”

“The Major?” Lettie asked, perfectly guessing his concern. She’d been there. She’d seen.

“Yeah. The Indifference is… Petty, but it loves new things. …Entertainment. It wants to be. And… gods. Gods. ”

She was silent. Letting him figure out how much he wanted to say about how little of a chance they all had if they actually wanted to survive this little pocket of infinity.

“...There’s a chance that history will repeat. Once, I-” 

His voice broke. It felt like a hand had closed around his windpipe, strangling it. Not yet. He… Couldn’t. Face it all yet. That wasn’t a box he could open willingly. No matter how much he wanted to show her that he trusted her.

“...Never mind. Just… There’s a risk it’ll take the opportunity to cause as much harm as possible. It’s fond of that.” 

And Lettie nodded at him, slowly, studying him. Seconds felt like hours. 

“So… No cure.” She sighed. 

“No cure. Not from me.” He agreed, and she waved a hand. 

“Oh well, we shall continue on as we have before, babas. It is no great loss. Now. Are you ready?”

It took him a moment to remember what for. 

She gestured to a makeshift side room, blocked by privacy screens, and offered him a bundle of blue clothing. “Only if you think you can, Drifter. I will not push if you cannot, or need to stop midway through.” 

He took the clothes. This was bound to happen eventually, yes, and at least in this scenario it was something he could control. So, he stepped behind the screen and got to work removing his bodysuit. It wasn’t something he did very often, as the fabric wicked away both sweat and bodily oils rather nicely, (it must, since they weren’t ever a problem. Toss up if that was a ‘he forgot that it should be’ issue or an actual element of the suit’s design.) and he’d nearly forgotten where all the proper connections were. Briefly he wondered what the others would think if they knew that he showered with it on as well. 

It was a five step affair. He took the collar-piece off first, then the two arm pieces, and the pants, leaving him in his undergarments. Then… 

It was bound to happen eventually and this was a scenario he could control, he repeated to himself. Convincing his mind that exposing his body to fresh air didn’t mean killing it had always been a struggle, but at least this would be a relatively short experience. After all, folks had already seen him without the suit on, too, and they hadn’t killed him, so clearly, they wouldn’t now. So there.

He removed the chest piece, absentmindedly rubbing at the metallic scars that crossed and looped and layered over his pale skin. It… He shivered. Right. Cold. He shook out the open backed hospital gown, (good thing he’d kept his undergarments on) slipped his arms in the holes, and buttoned up the back. It was loose, and every shift felt almost like sandpaper. Yes. This would need to be quick. At very least if he got too overwhelmed, transference was still an option for recovery. 

--

Rather than getting overwhelmed as he’d worried he would, the drifter disassociated from the present very, very quickly. 

It had begun when he’d explained to her what his scarring was. Manifestations of previous deaths and injuries, always shifting, slowly, across his skin. Linked to what he thought of himself as having and what he could remember, she’d asked, and he’d nodded. It was his best form of proof as to his theories about the way his own body functioned. She’d taken notes.

It had gotten worse when he took off the gown to show her the one and only constant scar, unmoving and unchanging. It went straight through his chest, evidence of thousands upon thousands of executions. Most of the scars weren’t deep, he’d explained, and let her take his right hand to investigate their texture. That one still had a mark from where Arthur had stabbed it through, silvery, with whorls and lines connecting it to the rest of his body. More notes on the clipboard, and she’d asked if, at some point, she could take samples of the tissue for analysis when she had the materials to do so. He’d agreed, and she’d taken a slice of flesh off the back of his hand. 

By then he’d felt… Like he was dreaming, observing a movie from a safe place behind a screen. He could tell she noticed. The air was cold. It was Lucinia’s day. Sorrow. Wherever he looked, the world was just a little more blue. He could almost feel snowflakes on his bare face. 

This reminded him of his first attempts at transference, figuring out how to puppet a warframe without being inside it entirely. He still could do it, but… But it felt like this moment. So very distant. So very small. 

She’d asked if he wanted a break, and he’d shaken his head. No, a break wouldn’t help. Best to get it all over with. So, she’d had him put the gown back on and lay down. They needed more samples of their own, to check for the techrot. She’d told him everything she’d wanted to do, but he was a bit past the point of caring, and had given her the full go ahead. He hadn’t even felt the needle puncturing his skin. Hadn’t looked at it, hadn’t needed to. He trusted her. He trusted her. She would not hurt him. She wouldn’t. If she did, he had the means to defend himself. Always had. With or without a frame. 

She’d done other things, taken samples from other places. It was alright. She healed him afterwards, mending cuts and puncture wounds.

Memories tried to come up to his attention, but he was indifferent. They slipped away. A little bit of weaponized peace. He’d think about them later, they always came back, but for now, he was safe. This was happening so he’d never have to face the horrible, endless future, swallowed up by time until the void broke the wall down entirely. 

In reality, it was all… Sort of relaxing. He let his eyes close, humming a tune that always seemed to linger at the edge of his consciousness. With how quiet everything was, how still, he could hear it again. He didn’t need to be or do anything but remain where he was. An easy enough task. No dragons to slay or archons to take down. Just… Be there, and let her do as she wished. He could have fallen asleep.

They finished, and he thanked her, and dressed himself again. She nodded and waved him off, setting up instruments that he didn’t recognize, and told him that hopefully they’d have results quickly. She’d let him know.

He’d promised himself that it would be alright, and it had been. It’d been just fine. His body had tried to panic, to throw a fit, sure. He could still feel that somewhere, deep down, the anxiety and terror remained from whatever bit of him had still been present enough to witness those memories, but that would pass. Every piece taken had been his own decree.

He would not be submitting himself through this again for a very, very long time. He couldn’t. 

Hopefully, he didn’t have to. Hopefully, they’d find that he wasn’t harboring anything that couldn't be fixed with a good stab once every so often, or, even better, that it wasn’t harboring anything at all. He wasn’t supposed to be able to get infected, so he wouldn’t be. His whole job these days was using infested puppets to kill whoever he was pointed at. So… Couldn’t have techrot. 

--

(Reference image for the drifter's scarring and such found on the first image here.)

Chapter Text

The drifter found himself humming, again.

It was that same echoing tune, forever repeating in the back of his mind. He’d taken to modulating it lately, adding notes and bits of rhythm, and had even attempted a few more solid compositions on his shawzin. He couldn’t get it to sound just quite right yet, but he’d keep at it.

He’d been here, in Hollovania, for about… Three months, now, give or take. Long enough that the snow was downright infrequent, and every day brought a little more warmpth. It was distinctly strange to have such a slow shift between different world states. There was something so very solid about it. So… Natural. Like it always should have been this way, and it was everything else that had been wrong. 

The eternal sameness of space-ships and the ephemeral one-day shifts that had existed at the core of Duviri had always been at odds with the slow shifting of living things. Plants, growing, spreading leaves and sprouting flowers. Petals uncurling, revealing colors in spectrums he both could and couldn’t see. Bodies, decomposing, flesh fading away as the water within it left, white bones left behind until they too began to crack and fall apart. Time was a river. It had eddies and currents, you could dig trenches and make it turn back apon itself, but it was always moving. And this? This felt right. 

Normally these sorts of thoughts would… hurt. He had expected that they would, when they drifted through his head, but the world was just a little lighter today, and that made things… nicer. He felt good today, and he smiled as the sun rose behind his back, warming his skin, and the wind tousled his hair. Mathila’s day, today, and so wonderfully pleasant. Perhaps it’d get hotter later on, but for now? For now it was perfect.

He was so small, here on the roof. So insignificant. And for once it didn’t feel like a bad thing. The drifter was dust, right now. Nothing to do. Nowhere to be. Not until Arthur joined him for their sparring session, but that was in an hour. For now, he could just be.

Amir had the data, he’d been sure of that. They’d had to sacrifice a hard drive slot, but Amir had been adamant that that could be replaced. He’d also just about lost his mind when the drifter had explained what the Parazon was, and what he knew about how it functioned. It had reminded him, since he’d apparently needed the reminder, that they really did have serious work to do. It was all too easy to get carried away in the endless flow of things. Centuries had lasted so long that… Well, immediacy didn’t come easy.

Three months lost, nine to go. 

Nine months, and then the time would come for them to try again.

The time loop that the Hex was stuck in, frankly, baffled him. He still wasn’t entirely sure what had caused it or how it functioned, nor was he sure what he could do about it, but he was sure of one thing. Without his intervention, they would forget.

It would ultimately be a kinder fate than Duviri had been for him, no matter how much he had deserved what had happened. If they forgot entirely, then time in their perception would never have shifted from its planned course. They’d witness the slow degradation into the void like it was there immediately, manifesting on New Years. With his help, they’d have to watch it happen.

Unless… Well, unless it worked. Unless refusing to let the loop reset as it wanted meant that the void could gain no extra hold. Or, perhaps, even, that they’d have time enough to find the breaches, seal them, and slowly restore things to an even better state than they were in now. That… That he could help with. He’d helped with it, on the Zariman. 

Albrecht had no doubt done what he’d wanted, and hitched a ride out when the reactor detonated, so… There was… A theoretical chance. An alternate path. That old bastard had no access to transference, and neither did the Hex.

But the chances of them abandoning the civilians here was low, he knew that. Either everyone possible escaped, or they’d remain until they found another way out. 

It was a problem with a hundred extra problems in tandem, and trying to puzzle it out here wouldn’t do anything for him.

So… Small problems first. 

Aoi had made significant progress with her metal sensing and focus, that, he could be proud of. Arthur, he had sparring with, and while using a warframe he could fight him at full strength. So… That left the other four. 

Quincy, he wasn’t sure. That man hated him, and he could practically smell it beneath the snark. Getting close enough to help him was… definitely going to take the nine months he had. 

Lettie… There were abilities that perhaps she was underutilizing, and he needed to know why, so he could assist. And perhaps he could do more. He could learn. Maybe take some of the stress off her back, so her mind would be clearer when she needed it to be. 

Amir, well. Amir needed to know that he was believed in not just for what was expected of him, but what he already was capable of. There was more to him, the drifter just needed to find out what, and why. He’d always been missing… something about the guy. The scene of him sniffling and crying on a rooftop came to mind. 

Eleanor, wonderful Eleanor. Her, he wasn’t sure. Practicing her abilities would be difficult to say the least, given how she’d died, but… 

You are not alone. 

Her own words.

Sometimes, kindness granted was an inverted mirror. He knew.

Their deaths flashed through his head. It hurt to watch them die. It did, it pulled at him. But… Well, at least this time it wasn’t just torment for Sorrow’s sake. As someone who’d died in more ways than he thought should be possible, one thing he knew for certain. A second chance was only a second chance if you tried something new. 

The little things he could do. They had eternity to figure out the big ones. This was enough. He could be enough. Maybe not just because he had to be, but he wanted to. He’d always wanted to, but it felt different, now.

Strange, how connection changed the way he looked at it all.

Chapter Text

The drifter had laid out his maps on the biggest tackboard he could find, and then another one besides that. Beneath each one he’d torn out and pinned up each corresponding map from his notebook. Without Aoi’s assistance in making about a hundred tacks, there would have been no possible way to scrounge up enough to pin up all sixty-odd pages. She’d also provided some pretty red string he could use to show more clearly the progression of time, which, while ultimately unnecessary, really did help with making the whole thing look a bit less like someone had used maps as scratch paper repeatedly.

Well, it was technically true. He had technically used them as scratch paper, in the literal sense, but the point stood regardless. 

Amir stood at his side, mimicking his posture exactly. Hands on hips. Chin lifted, observing the board. They both rocked a little from heel to toe, which wasn’t something he’d started doing, but once Amir had begun the motion he found himself following along anyway. It was fun. He could see the niceness of perpetual movement, every so often. 

“You think they’ll like your version of the plan more than they did mine?” The man asked, squinting at the paper.

“The only difference, from what you’ve told me, is that I got the maps out. If they didn’t like your telling of it, I dunno what I’ll do differently.”

Amir grinned. “We’re screwed.”

That made him snort, and lean over to nudge the man with his shoulder. “Like hell. I’d have been screwed without you. Needed a fresh set of eyes to tell me the things I was obviously missing, anyway. So at very least, we’re better off as a whole.”

His smile widened, and the drifter counted that as a point. It helped that Amir… Well, of all the Hex, Amir seemed to seem the most familiar. Not from a story standpoint, but from every other one. Arthur’s mention of their brains working at similar speeds rang back to him briefly.

About ten minutes later, Aoi had returned with the rest of them, midway through a discussion on how to bring up specific topics, and the real test began. 

“So.” The drifter clapped his hands together once they’d settled, taking his place on one side of the double tack-board setup. Amir snapped off to drag the computer desk over, and he waited to continue until after the screeching had died down. Sol, they should have done that earlier. 

“I know Amir told you some things about what I was… working on. We’d like a chance to try to pitch the idea again.” 

Arthur leaned against the wall. Aoi nodded along, seeming receptive, at very least. Eleanor was rubbing her chin, standing next to her, likely already having heard the entire presentation at least seventeen times over. He appreciated her showing up regardless. Quincy loomed in the back, arms folded, squinting at the pair of them. Lettie had found a chair, and seemed disapproving as ever. 

His nerves threatened to kick him into silence, but he pushed through. This could help. It genuinely could.

“Around last month-ish,” He forced himself to continue, and pulled out one of his silver weapon-batons to gesture to the first set of maps. “Quincy mentioned that it’d be helpful to be able to know where the techrot might spread, in order to ensure civilian safety. So,” he waved at the board in general. “I’ve been trying to gather the proper data to do exactly that.”

Quincy shifted, looking… uncomfortable? 

“ Si, babas, we’ve heard. Your pursuit of knowledge led you into dangerous places.” Lettie flicked a hand. “Get on with it, no? I have patients to get back to.”

He suppressed a wince. Amir, to his right, didn’t. 

“Yes, well. Knowledge does that. No reward without risk, or whatever. Amir?” 

“Uhh… So, like, turns out, the Scaldra don’t know much more than we do. But, but, what they did have is more maps. ” A second of lightning fast typing, likely modulated to account for the computers processing speed, and he hit enter. The images were small, but unmistakable. 

“Parking garages, the subway system, subterranean mall floors, maintenance tunnels, the whooole shebang. Pre techrot, but, we actually have some data here too on where they’ve noticed techrot outbreaks as well. Underground and aboveground. Couple this with some field rrreconnisance,” (Amir rolled his rs and wiggled his fingers for emphasis,) “And we’ll be able to get some way better data.”

“Additionally, there’s a chance that Amir can get into the systems on a building to building basis, to see what has and hasn’t been corrupted.” The drifter added, tapping his baton against his other hand. “It could be key to finding resources, safe zones, and more. With all of your help-”

“Seems a whole lot of the present.” Quincy interrupted, nodding at the board. “Not a whole lot of predictin’ what comes next. Fat lot of good it’ll do.”

Well…

“Yeah. That’s the rough part.” Once more he tapped at the maps. “From what I’ve found so far, the techrot pops up in three distinct ways. Firstly, around people. Metal means the techrot will come for it. Secondly, anywhere the Scaldra has been past tense. Same reason, probably. Thirdly, in places that might have had edible metals below. Additionally, the pacing and timing of the techrot is inconsistent, and without more data we cannot know why.”

“So…” Aoi chirped. “You want our help with data collection?” 

“If you all are willing, yes. Dealing with techrot outbreaks and keeping the Scaldra away from the civilians is the current major goal, right? The underground is dangerous, so I can’t ask this of every mission each of you take. That’d be irresponsible.”

There’s more, Eleanor gently prodded, giving them a little nod. 

“...Yep. There’s more.” Amir agreed. “Keeping the civvies safe is obviously the first priority, but there’s a chance we could, I dunno…” 

“Seed it.” He nodded. “The techrot will spread no matter what we do, but if we know where larger nodes are, we can lure it away from existing populations, giving them a little more time to recover. After all, I bet that it’ll find the electronics of a refrigerator a bit less enthralling than a tank, or two. Two birds with one stone, if we can figure out how to play the cards right.”

Arthur’s lips made a very fine line. “You can’t kill the techrot by feeding it more food, Drifter.” 

“I know, I know.” He pointed the baton at Arthur. “I’ll ask you this, though. Do you know what the Scaldra’s average response time is for a major outbreak?”

“An hour or two, tops. ” Quincy added from the back.

“ Exactly. And-”

“And if the techrot pops up around civilians all the gosh darn time, ” Amir added,

“Then there’s always a risk to them anyway.” The drifter finished. “There’s a chance that we can, also, I dunno, lead the Scaldra to places where an outbreak might happen, and that will fuel an extended battle for both the Techrot and the stationed forces.”

Now the Hex looked thoughtful. Eleanor was grinning at him. That… Maybe this could work.

“We already do plenty of missions that leave a lot of dead.” He continued, “Sol knows it's what I’m best at. Planning our missions on ‘might’s and ‘maybe’s is a little more dangerous, but I’d be willing to head all of those myself. Take out a platoon or two to seed the area for techrot growth, then come back later to kill as much techrot as possible to keep it there and drain its resources. Salt the earth, let it eat through the metal, leave nothing left for it to feed on. When the techrot can't live, the civilians can. That is the core of our idea.”

“If we do it right,” Amir chirped, “then the kinds of missions Arthur’s already got us doing will work out perfectly with these ones too.”

The drifter nodded.

“That… Could work.” Arthur himself agreed. “It’d give us more direction to go off of. Thus far most of our missions have been responsive. Waiting to see what happened and then dealing with problems as they arose. Good thinking, Marty.”

“I can’t take credit for more than the maps. The real genius came from him,” He thumbed behind him, “Because I was going to figure out where techrot might appear and then go to the Scaldra and tip them off, somehow, and then go to the civilians and give them information of locations less likely to manifest techrot. Between the two of us, Amir’s got the brains. He was the one who thought of playing off the feedback loop between the two until the resources were gone.” 

Gods, the way that man beamed. It made his heart sing. Yes, he wanted to help them. Gods, he very much did. 

The rest of the meeting wrapped up quickly, as the two of them explained the maps, and then Amir informed them of likely underground hives that the Scaldra had found. The drifter couldn’t remember what he’d been so worried about, in telling them. Lettie seemed to fervently approve of the further idea of bolstering the area around their mall, so more civilians could move in and around the area. It’d make trading easier, too, and according to Quincy, the civvies already liked the Hex plenty. Aoi suggested the idea of using her abilities to perhaps seek out and locate large amounts of metal to use as ‘seeds’, like a breadcrumb trail to keep the techrot away from current populations, and it would be safer than one of them risking themselves to pray and kill enough Scaldra that it lured the rot. Arthur promised to think it over and try and work out mission detailing if he could please have those maps and the data they’d collected, and Eleanor had offered a light hearted joke about how much louder it’d get with actual normal people all around.

It could work. It could.

There was another objective for him, though. A personal one. Eleanor knew it, from the way she glanced at him. A more constant and thorough observation of the city would allow him to keep an eye out for the void’s interference. Breaches, openings. Hands coming through the wall. He still wasn’t entirely sure if the Major had a double, or if she’d just been consumed entirely by the void already. Or… mostly ? Like transference, perhaps. He wasn’t sure how to, and didn’t want to, test it. 

Twenty minutes later, and the room was empty. Almost empty. Chatter filled the common area, and the only ones that remained infront of the board were him and Quincy.

“Robo cop.” The man said lowly, and the drifter turned.

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you do all this?”

He blinked. The whole presentation had been filled with exactly why, so he just… raised an eyebrow, watching Quincy stalk forward to him with growing trepidation. The man was… roughly his height, and he jammed a finger in his face, far too close for comfort. He felt something within him constrict, the world shifting a little more blue.

“You’d better answer fast, ‘cause I’m tryina figure out if you’re tryna get me in your pocket, space boy. 

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The man sniffed, wrinkling his nose in a bit of a sneer. “Favors for favors. I’m asking myself, this whole time. Do I owe you for this? For New Years? Do I owe you my life, or do I hate you for letting me remember my death? What do you want from us? Why’d you do all this?” He gestured his hand at the tackboards.

Oh. Oh. 

The drifter took a step back, but Quincy took another step forward, refusing to leave his space. His back hit the wall. 

“See, from the way I see it, we don’t really have all that much to offer someone like you. You come in here, all glory and stardust, and think we’ll eat out of your hands, or whatever. I’ve seen you, space boy. Seen what you really are. Alright? So this whole buddy-buddy thing you’ve got going on smells wrong to me. So you’d better answer fast before I decide to step up for the Hex since the rest of them wont. I don't like the idea of owing shit to you.”

He smelled blood. He was a black and gold warrior, ripping through flesh like it was paper. He was laughing, resetting time just to make them understand his pain. Over and over again.

No.

He set his jaw.

No.

Quincy must have seen the hardening shift in his expression, because the man took a step back, but that wasn’t what the Drifter wanted.

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he said, softly. “But it comes with a story, and that involves me getting very drunk, or the words will not be coming out at all. Can I ask that of you?”

Bless all that was, the man gave him a sharp nod, and turned to go.

"Tomorrow night. I'm off duty." He said, not fully looking back.

"Its a plan. I'll be there."

Chapter Text

[ ----- ] leaned into the turn. Hard. Land flashed by below him, and he felt as much as he saw his kaithe bank, twist, and fold its wings as they fell.

A sky full of color to his left, fields of emerald grass to his right. 

Shadows. Stone.

Then nothing but those beautiful rainbows of light.

The wind roared around him, whipping his hair, and he laughed, he laughed! His metallic steed pulled up sharply at his decree, and they swooped out of the dive, flying far beneath the islands of Duviri. He hugged its neck, singing out his song to the winds, and it echoed back the same notes, reverberating through his soul. The drifter opened his arms as if to embrace the sky. 

Today was a day of joy. Joy! He was free. He sang, his kaithe answering his decrees and soaring up once more. Past the coastline where stone met air, then above, where he could witness his home. His kingdom. Islands of beautiful, looping land, as far as he could see. It was perfect, he was free. He’d found his way in. He…

He was still alone.

The light died.

--

The drifter awoke with a jerk, then a gasp, bolting upright, fingers grasping at the ancient fabric that hid his scars from the open air. Where… When? 

The light was… Cool, a soft bluish grey. Faint. It was a day of Sorrow. They’d come for him soon, he needed to be ready. And preferably not still here.

He swung his legs off of the couch he’d woken on, the blanket he’d been using for some time falling to the ground. He didn’t bother with picking it up, it’d be right back where it was before in… two hours, if he was unlucky. Twenty two, if he was. He’d stopped caring about things like that some three hundred billion years ago.

The drifter stalked across the floor, surveying this odd place where Thrax had put him. The gold filigree and paneling… Likely someplace below the central palace island. He’d done this one before, he was sure of it. 

There. That could work as food. He didn’t bother with cutting up the solid protein brick, simply grabbing the whole floppy thing as he passed it. Eating wasn’t necessary, not when he was likely going to die before he even got hungry, but on the off chance he wouldn’t be, well. Better to die on a full stomach.

He took a bite as he stalked outside the room, turning the hallway. It tasted like… Survival, maybe. Dust with a faint meaty sweetness. He’d always hated protein bricks, but he couldn’t deny how filling they were. He took another bite. 

The hallway turned to a door. That gave him… Pause. Since when had Thrax bothered with sharp edged rectangles? For a palace island, the decor was… well, mediocre. Maybe he was somewhere else? He took another bite, forced it down his throat, pushed through the door, and stepped out. 

And he stopped.

This was not the palace island.

It looked like…

Well. Damnation. It looked like a mall before the sunrise, was what it looked like.

He grit his teeth, the disconnect hitting him like a hammer across the skull. Right. Fuck. Well. 

He took another bite of vile protein brick, turned right around, and stalked back into his room. Whatever mind-fuck this was, he’d actually prefer to just wait to be killed, thank-you-very-much. He could always just start again tomorrow. Second chances and whatever. One more bite, and he tossed it back onto the pile of various other nutrient bricks, where it slapped wetly against the others. Survival tasted like shit, felt like shit, acted like shit. Was shit. 

He groaned, rubbing his forehead, trying to will himself back into the right time and space. Last thing he remembered was… Well, he’d been stabbed right through the chest yesterday, as per usual. He’d nearly made it out of the city too. Thrax had laughed himself silly, so at least he’d been entertaining. 

No, no. He’d…

His foot hit something, and he squinted down at it. His toe. Seriously? Seriously? Like getting executed wasn’t bad enough, now he had to do it with a god damned stubbed toe. He spared a moment to curse the universe and the void in general, and then refocused on the offending object.

It was a warframe. 

“Fuck you.” He cursed it too for good measure. It didn’t respond. Damnation thing. They never moved. He’d tried to get them to, too. Everything else here was a puppet of Thrax’s, but whatever method they had of killing him had yet to be revealed. Suspense. Surprise. His favorite. God he hated it here.

It was pretty though, all whites and greys and gold. Almost looked like it had long ears too. Huh. Silly.

He’d been Judgement. Dancing with the wind. A bow of the old gods, singing of death. New gods, impaled by light, dead by his own hand. It was not enough. They had given him beasts of steel and shadow, and he had become a meteor. For them. The Champion of the Lotus. Still not enough. Watching as someone else with his own face did everything he could not, and was chosen to be protected by a mother that did not know the child’s twin. She’d tried to kill him.

He was Hatred. His other was Love. He’d never gotten a say in the matter.

The disconnect clicked.

The drifter was still for a moment as his brain and body aligned again.

Emotions of a hundred thousand kinds bubbled within him. He wanted to cry. To laugh. To scream.

He settled on a very long exhale.

He lifted Gauss’s arm, and draped it over his shoulder, heaving the admittedly very heavy frame to its feet. “Sorry,” He offered its limp form. “Didn’t mean what I said earlier. Wasn’t thinking right.” The drifter focused on that weight as he walked it back to the golden plinth of his armory, and set it down carefully. There. He should probably get a pillow to put beneath his frames if he’d have them out for a while. Logically, he was well aware that they didn’t feel much of anything, and certainly didn’t get compression sores, but maybe he just wanted to. 

Gauss settled and looking… Well, as comfortable as he could feasibly make the frame, he turned back to his desk with another sigh, rubbing a hand through his hair, and flopped into the nearest available chair. Mornings like this were… Un-fun. Terminally un-fun, as Amir would say. So, he rested his head against the wood and went right back to sleep.

Chapter Text

The drifter…

Should not have let himself fall asleep in such a nightmarish position. 

He peeled himself off of the wooden desk, wincing as the muscles in his neck and back screamed in protest. Gods. Ow. Worse still, he had to do his best to un-dishevel his hair after a night of constantly tossing and turning. It was a mess. He was a mess. God damned time moving forward at a consistent pace and dragging him along with it. The drifter began the task of detangling it, running his fingers through his hair and working out the snarls. Not an insignificant amount of time later, and he was… satisfied enough. A few blinks cleared the last of the haze from his eyes.

His gaze fell on the protein brick, with multiple straight up bites taken out of it. Explained why he was feeling full, yes, but also… He grabbed it, and slipped the dedicated protein brick knife from its spot near the stack of other nutrient blocks. It was nice, to have enough non-weapon knives to spare one per type of food. At very least, he wasn’t using his side knife to try and sever a chunk off of the fat cube, and having to sit at the side of a stream and scrub it brutally with soap to get the thing clean again. 

A quick visual measurement, a firm chop, and the bitten off end was removed. There. Back to a nice, perfect ninety degree angle. The drifter leaned back, checking it from the side, making sure it really was perfect, and… Well it wasn’t. Just... slightly off. His brain itched. So, he made another slight chop, severing a few degrees from the bottom, and checked again. There. That was better. He set the knife down, lifting the brick to make sure all the other angles were proper. It wasn’t necessary, but damn him, it did feel nice to have some order once in a while. At very least he could control this much.

That done, the drifter returned his attention to the mess he’d made of that end earlier in the morning. It… could be cubed as well, but he’d have to sacrifice some bits. So, he got to it.

And he didn’t notice Amir staring from the doorway, a hand poised to knock. Not immediately. Unknowingly under the man’s baffled gaze, he made himself busy by fully dicing up the end of the brick, sliding the pieces that were too irregular to be cut up neatly to the side, and then grabbing them all in a handful and simply stuffing them in his mouth so they wouldn’t curse his vision anymore. He chewed, well accustomed to the nothing-ness of the flavor. Order restored.

“What is that?”

He started, and looked up, as Amir lowered his hand. A moment, and then he swallowed.

“Breakfast. Want some?” 

“Deeepeends… What’s for breakfast?” 

“Protein cubes. Space food.” 

Amir was there by his side in a literal flash, leaning down to squint at the orderly stacks of nutrient cubes on his desk from behind orange glasses. Goggles? He wasn’t… Totally sure. “It looks like spam.”

“What?”

“You know, spam? The canned meaty stuff?” Experimentally, he poked at the protein brick, and winced dramatically at the texture. A fair response. “What's it taste like?”

“Survival.” He grinned, and offered the man one of the smaller cubes. Amir took it, and ate it, and physically reeled back. Maybe a bit of a dramatic response. Politely, though, he managed to swallow before sticking out his tongue and gagging.

“I take back everything I’ve ever said about wanting to go to the future. That is horrible. You eat this for breakfast? ”

“...Most meals, actually.” He admitted, and lifted another cube. He still needed quite a bit more to fill his quota. Amir snatched it from his hand, and put it back down on the counter. 

“Drifter. You are my friend. And friends don’t let friends eat… That. Holy hell, man. No.”

“Amir. You are my friend," he retorted. Some part of him sang to say those words out loud. “My body is used to nutrients that come like this,” He gestures to the cube stacks, “And not like…” He gestures out the door. “That.”

“Drifter. You are my friend.” Amir put his hands on his hips, taking on a serious tone. “And we need to re-acclimate your body. We will find you yogurt, or something.”

“The fuck is yogurt? ” 

“They don’t even have yogurt in the future?” He threw up his hands. “No pizza, no yogurt, next thing you’ll tell me they dont even have hamburgers. Or cows.”

The drifter stared at him. He blinked, once, slowly, for comedic measure.

“ No. ”

“The fuck is a hamburger -” He didn’t even get to finish before Amir had him by the hand, and was dragging him across the floor to the doorway. He nearly tripped on the blanket he’d neglected to pick up this morning, but found himself laughing anyway.

About twenty minutes later he’d been seated at a table, and Amir and Aoi were gesticulating wildly at each other while debating what foods were most important for him to try. Arthur and Eleanor were off on a mission together, and Lettie and Quincy were off taking care of the civilians, so every capable cook was missing.

The drifter checked the digital clock. Ten-ish. Daily time schedules still took some getting used to, but… That meant it was still morning, if he remembered correctly. He took a sip from the water that had been handed to him in a paper cup. Bizarre. Tasted clean, though.

This was going to be a very long day. 

And he didn’t mind that one bit.

They’d decided on hamburgers first. Amir was apparently from a place called ‘the good ol’ U S of L’,  (There was a yee-haw somewhere in there) and hamburgers were popular enough back home that everyone could make them or they were a ‘traitor to the nation’.

All three of them stood around the stove, watching four patties sizzle and pop on a pan, while buns were being steamed in the microwave in an attempt to get them less stale. Amir slid a spatula under each patty, shuffling it a little to work the crust off of the pan, and then flipped them.

Well, whatever unruly pink and white mess that the burgers had been was blackening now, cooking into a deep brown all the way through. Apparently, this was normal, and…

And they smelled amazing. It was all he could focus on for a second, rich and warm, fats and oils and spices and charred meat blurring together into a delightful symphony of scents. It almost, almost was enough for him to forget that it was ground up flesh they were cooking. 

“So… Cows.” He says after a moment, the sizzling renewed by the flipping. “What are they like?”

“You’ve never seen a cow?” Aoi rounded on him, brows lifting high enough to just about vanish in her hair.

“Apparently, there are a lot of things I haven’t seen. Makes sense, I don’t get out much.”

She scoffed, and turned to Amir. “Can you believe this man?” 

He looked at her, and shook his head solemnly. “I truly cannot. Our beloved Marty McFlea is an enigma beyond enigmas. His knowledge is so vast, yet so limited.” 

The drifter… Had no idea what to do with himself in this conversation, so he just stood there, watching the two shake their heads and sigh.

Amir checked the bottom of one of the patties, and perked up immediately. “Oh! Hey! These are good to go!” Aoi cheered, and rifled through the cabinets, finding an oddly yellow plastic bottle, and another in red, dropping both on the counter.

“No lettuce, still?” 

“‘Fraid not. Not a common loot drop in these tables.” 

“...Yep. Sure. No tomatoes either.” Aoi sighed. “Eh, well. Decent enough for apocalypse burgers, I suppose. No onions? Cheese?” 

“Noope~!” Amir popped the p sound, singsonging the word. 

The drifter found a chair and sat down. He understood about… half the words that were being spoken, right now, and wasn’t sure if he should be asking for clarification or not. After the way this day had started, the disconnect still lingered just enough to make the experience a little dream-like. He really was just fine with his cubes, he’d been fine with them since…

…Not now. Think about something else.

He distracted himself by watching the buns, (pieces of flatbread, by the look of it, with a fluffy texture) be removed from the microwave. (appliances had been explained to him) Three plates were laid out, and then half the buns were put down, and a patty was put on each one. Amir added a second to his. The bottles were squeezed, and concerningly bright sauce was slathered over the meat, and the top bit was put on.

“ Voila! ” Aoi chirped, marching over with two plates in tow, lifting them. “ One hamburger for the time traveling space man, delivered direct-to-chair. Here you go~!" 

If he could avoid thinking about whatever creature this might have come from…

Fish. Fish were fine. He could imagine a cow like… A meaty fish. Cetus was on earth, after all, and their fish were… Adjacent enough to the ground meat he’d seen. He ignored the fact that he knew a sentient earth-sourced fish, because that was a rare circumstance and must be seen as an outlier on the data set.

They both looked at him expectantly, waiting.

It was fish.

A hamburger was a fish sandwich, made with flatbread, and whatever the hell those sauces had been, that was all. He lifted it, and took a bite.

They’d wound up making a good few more burgers, enough so that when the others came back, there was enough to go around. The drifter had had two. 

The oil was… Not sitting well in his stomach, but it was a small price to pay for how good the food was. Gods. Gods, he… Needed to learn how to cook. Faced with the flavor of well cooked and spiced meat, he was a bit less enthused about going back to his cubes. They were very nicely shaped, yes, but… Hold on. Could he cook those in the same way? 

...Probably not.

Chapter Text

The drifter knew full damn well that you could not have a ‘calm before the storm’ without having a storm in the equation. He liked the calm, and sometimes, sometimes, the rain felt like home, but at the same time…

Quincy sauntered up to where Aoi was explaining to him the intricacies of one of the shows she liked, and set a hefty bottle of some clear liquid on the table. 

“Oi. Terminator. You ready to spill?” 

Well, sometimes he’d rather the storm not be so determined to show up, honestly.

He nodded, and apologized to Aoi for needing to cut their conversation short, and she patted him on the shoulder. “ Don’t let him get to you, okay?” She whispered, and… well. That was an order he’d no idea how to follow through with. Wasn’t the only way to get close to people letting them get to you? He could have sworn that was the point, right? 

Oh well, the only way to dispel this storm was to face it. Couldn’t be worse than getting executed a couple thousand times. Besides, running would make it worse, and…

And Quincy’s death had been agonizingly preventable. He had the tools he’d needed, if Albrecht’s notes were accurate. Even if he wouldn’t have been able to get out of his sniper’s nest fast enough to avoid the blast, he should have at least been able to take down a tank. To understand, he needed the sniper to at least not hate him.

So the drifter stood up, and followed after. 

--

The Operator, or Dust, as she preferred , stood at the edge of time and considered her twin.

To her right, where he could keep her in his true vision, stood Excalibur Umbra. A tall, regal figure, ornate golden arches of metal decorating his muscular, dark form, clad in fabrics that whipped and twisted in the wind. One pale, ragged eye, staring out from a cracked and broken mask.

She found it distinctly odd that the wind blew towards them, instead of out, into the void. Here in Entrati’s old labs, breaches such as these were concerningly common. Calcified energy, like sand and stone, stretched out to either side as far as the eye could see. Infront of her, a sheer cliff, into infinite storms and faces, screaming their displeasure at being witnessed. 

He’d wanted to see this place. He held his sheathed sword clasped in both hands, point down into the sand, like a guardian. Which he was. Umbra was her most constant companion, and the only warframe that she’d ever found with its original mind intact, despite being replicated from mere pieces. 

The orokin had not been able to break him. Ballas had tried. Umbra was stronger. In that, she was proud of him beyond what she could express with words, but that she hoped he felt each time he let her transfer into his body. Together, they did what they could to undo what had been done, bring peace no matter the cost, and hold back the void.

Except…

She remembered, distinctly, the look on her twin's face when he was chosen to go out into that infinite chaos. More distinctly, the echoes of his pain. The Lotus had wanted him to take up the mantle of holding the void’s attention, for the good of everyone else, and she’d never heard the Drifter turn down a request.

They were not close. They barely even spoke, more often than not. Shared the same reality, even less so. He’d helped, when he could, he’d been there for the reclamation of the Zariman and he’d done excellent work against Narmer’s forces, considering his inability to transfer. She still had the bow he’d used, and she’d keep it, in its place of honor, in case he ever wanted it back.

It was not her decision to keep him at arm's length, but his, and the operator understood why completely. She could feel it every time they made eye contact, that looming, subtle bitterness. His envy, his rage, and his sorrow. Not once had he ever let it show, but it was always there. She knew. 

Umbra turned to her, slow and assured, and she could feel his question in her mind. 

“Yes. I’m worried about him.” She admitted. “Did he ever ask to transfer into you?” 

A negative.

“Then you probably wouldn’t have been able to see. I don’t think the Lotus made the right decision, Umbra.” 

Another question.

“No, I know he’s capable. He has my powers, now, and can do as he pleases. It’s not that, he’s just…”

Umbra’s head quirked.

“Exactly. Even I am allowed time to rest. ”

He rested one hand on her small shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze.

“I wish we did. I can’t follow him, I don’t know how. We could trade places before, he’d be on the Zariman, keeping the angels at bay, and I’d work against Narmer, but this? I…”

Intent , from Umbra. She turned to him, eyes widening.

“You… You think that's possible? ”

A nod. Then… More slight, a shrug.

“But… He’d have to choose that. He’s already got access to our entire arsenal, doesn’t he?”

Another nod. She considered it, and then stepped over to hug him. With how small she was, her head barely made it up to his chest. He returned the hug willingly. 

“Thank you. I’ll speak to the Lotus, I know she still has that communicator. Please don’t do anything that you don’t want to, alright? You don’t need to let him use you.”

Amusement again, and he patted her head.

Hold on, Drifter. She thought, praying that somehow, in some way, her thoughts would reach him. You’re not alone.

--

Said Drifter, who was likely just about as much void energy as he was a person, was indeed not alone, and was also having some difficulty getting drunk.

He was on his sixth shot. Alcohol was spicy, but didn’t have the same level of burn as, say, effervon, so he didn’t mind it all that much. What he did mind was the fact that although he had been able to get drunk before, it just wasn’t happening much this time. Maybe he was nervous? Or was he just severely out of touch with what it took to get himself there? He could feel it burning in his stomach, and the way it fuzzed up the back of his head, but it wasn’t nearly the blackouts he’d been able to chase once every so often not so long ago. 

Then again, on the Zariman, alcohol content wasn’t a problem. He could just make a higher concentration variant, and being there… Well. It was easier to get yourself completely plastered when everything that you were experiencing already made you want to redo the plaster on the walls with your own blood. Alcohol was basically just a formality.

Quincy had only taken one shot, and seemed reluctant to pour him number eight. Thankfully, he did anyway. And he drank.

“I think you’re doing this wrong, future.” He said, not lifting the bottle to dish out number nine. “If you actually are some cybercop, you’d better not just be lookin’ to piss me off by draining my booze, mate.”

The drifter managed a sigh, running his hand over his face. “I’m… Sorry. This normally works, I promise. Not sure if I’ll get any more drunk than this. Ask your questions.”

“Fine then, let the interrogation commence.” Quincy said with a dramatic wave. He then pulled out a small black box, hit a button on it, and set it down on the table. “First off. Why’re you here?”

“I was honest with what I told you before.”

“Say it again, and I don’t want to know about Entrati. I’m talking about you. Why are you here.”

Trust. This was about trust. He stamped out the irritation in his stomach.

“Can you… elaborate…”

“Of all the future people they coulda sent, they sent you. Why.”

That…

That was a good question.

“My best guess is availability.” He sighed, and Quincy looked at him pointedly, making a ‘go on’ motion. “That and time travel isn’t… Something most people can do. Of all the people who could have gone, I suppose I was the one with the most experience.”

“S’pose that's fair. So, they sent us a psycho cybercop to come play friends until we all die. Next question. Why are you here? Just following orders? Or’d you volunteer, or some shit.”

“Orders.” He snapped, the comment stinging much like a knife in the chest. Lodun’s teeth clenching around his mind. Red tinted his vision. Heat. “And I’m not here to play friends, Quincy. I’m here, expressly , to make sure that Entrati doesn’t get to storm in with the void on his heels, fuck up everything for everyone else , AGAIN, and then just waltz off and leave the rest of you to decay. Not like he even cared enough to stick around and watch, because there's a ninety percent chance that he’s already gone. Is that clear? The void’s got its attention here, so I stay until it goes. I’m just the cleanup crew, and I’m very sorry that between me and someone capable, you got me. Next question.”

Quincy was looking up at him, and even… Shying back, a little? He didn’t look afraid, but even his shift to upright and tense was enough to… The drifter had stood at some point during his little rampage, clenching his hands into fists and leaning his weight onto them to leverage every inch of his height. Like a dragon. Raring to strike.

Anger crystalized into jagged shame.

“I’m… Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll behave. Please continue.” He sat, forcing his hands into his lap, head dropping. 

Quincy ‘hmmm’ed, arms crossed, tapping on his jacket sleeve with a finger. It took him a while to speak again, and every second felt like drowning.

“So…You’re definitely not working with Entrati, then.”

“ What?” He snapped his head back up, meeting Quincy’s contemplative gaze.

“Oh, you know.” He said casually, relaxing forwards onto his elbows. “Strange person, all future, appearing out of the blue and promising a way to make things better. Last time that happened, Marty, we all wound up toasters. You could still be fakin’, but I’ve never heard a spy manage that much hate. No offense, you don’t seem a top-shelf actor.”

Was… Was that what Quincy had been worried about?

“Not only that,” He continued, pouring himself his second shot, “But you waltz all up in here with exactly what Entrati was tryin’ to turn us into, too.” He downed it. “Your versions? Controllable. Totally inhuman. Just topple right over when you’re not all in their heads. Far as I was concerned? Entrati wanted eyes on us, and for you to finish the job.”

The drifter sank back, working that over in his head. It… He should not have had anything to drink for this conversation. He’d thought that they’d be discussing… But…

Quincy waited, helpfully, for him to respond in some way. 

“I… Knew you didn’t trust me, but I… I thought it was…”

“Because you’re about as stable as a cycle with the kickstand shot off?”

Ouch. 

“...I’m not that bad.” 

Quincy snorted, shaking his head, those colorful beaded braids swinging against the motions. “Nahh, just messin’. You goin’ all Akira and throwin us around? You taking out a whole Scaldra base by yourself in thirty minutes? Sure, that was scary, but I seen your reasons. Not about to pop one on you for giving us someplace safe to sleep. Nah. It's all about Entrati. How’s his room treatin’ you, by the way?”

The way that man talked was surprisingly nice to listen to. His accent had rhythm, and was smooth. Even with words knocked from his sentences, it was practically music. 

“I mean… It’s a room. Plus, there are some portraits left up, which… aren’t half bad for target practice.” 

He grinned, quirking a brow. “Careful, Arthur might not appreciate two of us knockin’ holes through walls. Not that I’m complainin’. What Entrati do to you, anyway?” 

The drifter shrugged. This was a much easier topic. “I dunno. Nothing directly, anyway. Nothing I have proof of. But if it weren’t for him, neither of us would be where we are, would we. Without his… well. I’d call it science if it had any logic to it. Without him, in the future, we wouldn’t have made contact with the void at all. No Indifference. No me. I’d just be a normal kid living a normal life.” 

Quincy lifted his empty shot glass to that, nodding a little. Like a salute.

“Next question, by the way. You’re talkin’ like this whole ‘back to the future’ time thing you do wasn’t something you were born with? Where’d you get it?”

A face. Grinning. A hand. A deal. Death for time. Safety. But not for him. Never for him.

An eternity of loneliness.

Flowers, growing through skulls. He’d been there so long the flesh had decayed.

Talking to the paintings on the walls until they’d started talking back.

Creating until his creations consumed him. Until he was finally free. Until empty halls gave way to open sky.

Quincy was saying something, reaching across the table, shaking him. The drifter was… Crying? Why was he… He wiped his tears away, trying to stop feeling the wind on his skin, the grass between his toes, and clear the greys from his eyes. The deep browns and tans that made up the man shifted back, as if they weren’t sure what to do, and then reached for the small black thing on the table and hit that button again. The shape slid the bottle over the table, took the box, and left.

The drifter drank until he forgot.

Chapter Text

The drifter had not been able to forget.

His head ached, but it was a small thing. The memories were worse.

Alcohol made his mind fuzzy, yes, but it had a way of enhancing his moods and increasing their volatility more than it dulled his pain.

He’d emptied Quincy’s bottle.

It was cold. Cold and grey, color leeched out from everything he could see. The table didn’t even have the decency to be brown. Snowflakes fell. He could have sworn, far off, that wind howled ever so softly, and thunder echoed in the distance. He could have sworn he could hear the faintest of voices, talking. Laughing. 

An eternity. 

The Zariman had never truly been silent, not in all the time he’d been trapped on it. Not even now, when he went back to keep it from falling apart. It was… It was his home, and had been for so long. Sometimes he’d gone out on a mission and found his old paintings on the wall, or cots, where he’d slept. Other times he’d see art and writing and signs of life that he’d never created. 

And always, always, there was music. Humming, droning, murmuring, singing. Whenever he’d listen, he could hear it. 

The music was alive, in its own way. It was what had made the Angels, the Doppelgangers, the lumbering chunks of stone and sinew from Entrati’s labs. He could still… Still hear it. In his soul. 

Void song.

It was power of the kind that wanted, so desperately, to be alive. It filled him, head to toe, soaking through every cell in his body. It changed him. Bolstered him. Let him bend the very fabric of reality.

He hated it. 

He wanted it gone. 

He wanted it gone, he wanted it out. He wanted the music to STOP. But it sang anyway, on and on and on and on, a perpetual reminder that he’d never be human. He could never go back. Reality may rewind, but he? He never could. The drifter remembered all of it. His body refused to sever those memories.

Tears kept coming, whether he wanted them to or not. Emotion was not weakness, but it did hurt. Just as much as any blade.

Quincy had never asked what he wanted, because that had never been the true question the man had wanted answers to. Merely another thing on the list. The Lotus hadn’t bothered either. Fuck, had anyone? Ever?  

Was the world, the real world, just… Like this?

He’d wanted more than Duviri, he’d wanted to change, he’d wanted his friends to be able to change. He’d wanted to explore and grow, he’d wanted to experience new things, to break out of the infinite sameness. 

He’d been bored. 

He comes to that last thought and finds it angry. At… Himself. He’d been happy before he’d tried to leave. He hadn’t been needed, he’d been wanted. Thrax had wanted him there, for no reason other than that they had been friends. 

The drifter stood up sharply, slamming his hands down on the table. He could scream. 

The real world was very disappointing. If he’d known…  

No. 

No, he couldn’t start down that train of thought. He was drunk, and couldn’t be trusted to make any sort of decision at the moment. His emotions were out of control, utterly and completely. Teshin’s advice of meditation and deep breathing worked about as well as using a feather to hold up a brick, when he was like this, so the drifter stalked out of the backroom, sucking in a sharp breath and fading into obscurity.

He passed the others, chatting, discussing.

“Bit of a buzzkill, if I’m bein’ honest, but-”

“But you were wrong about him, you’ve gotta at least admit that.”

“Wrong about Doctor E? Sure. Wrong about him bein’ wrong? Nah, but at least he’s got somethin’ human about him, though. Took a hella lot to get a rise-.”

He didn’t stick around long enough to keep on listening. He needed out.

As soon as the drifter was out of the main mall and into the buildings around the area, he took a risk, and made a Decree. A sharp whistle, and-

A kaithe, skeletal, metal framing shards of its beautiful, sleek body, exploded into existence from the shadows, whinnying, trotting to him. It bowed its great neck, horn just barely brushing the top of his hair, and he found it within himself to smile as he patted it's dark head. He’d named it They who Echo, on account of its odd, hollow sounding voice, which resonated inside its body beautifully as it chuffed.

A piece of home. The fact that it… came, nearly brought him to tears again. For a moment, for just a moment, there was something that he belonged with. He swung onto its back, and it pranced a few steps on the cobbles in delight, before a light kick sent it into a trot. 

Metal hooves on stone. He closed his eyes, the beast conscious enough to not need him to steer it more than offering it a forward decree, and just… Pretended. Pretended like the cool wind brought snow. Like he was trotting across a field of stone that hadn’t grown grass or dirt just yet, arching into beautiful rings and loops. He let the rhythmic clopping be the music he heard, not the ephemeral, haunting, perpetual song. He focused on the way the void-metal felt beneath his legs and hands, resting on the kaithe’s neck. Cool, but with just enough innate warmth that its almost-life was plausible. He pretended like he belonged.

Through the streets of the little safe haven they went, windows dark, doors shut all around him. He was alone, and he didn’t mind it, because he belonged that way. He belonged like this, astride a steed made from a child’s imagination, moonlight to his back. A drifter, and nothing else. Nobody else. No name, no place to stay, no duties to fulfill, merely passing through. For a moment, he could forget everything and just watch the buildings go by. Peace. For a moment, he could be at peace.

The haze in his head helped.

Normally, on a night like this, he would have taken to the sky to drown himself in roaring winds and fresh air, but that seemed like too much at the moment. He tucked his shawl a little tighter around itself, whistling that strange, other tune. 

In truth, there were two pieces of music in his head. One was the song of the void, and the other… wasn’t. It kept getting stuck there anyway, coming back to him, echoing, soft and familiar. He wasn’t sure where it came from, only that his brain saw it and felt warm. Protected. 

When was the last time he’d felt truly, truly protected? 

Gods, the alcohol really was getting to him. 

Movement caught his eye, a small shadow dashing across the road. It stopped, about midway, when it saw him. A… Child, by the look of it. He paid it no mind. He was… Indifferent, at the moment. The child stared anyway, and began to follow, wandering closer as he trotted on, cobbles clicking and clicking. 

“Excuse me, mister?” It was a little girl, if he read the grubby face right, and she tugged with a tiny hand at his boot. “What’s wrong with your unicorn?”

His… What?

He blinked down at her, and her eyes widened when she noticed that his glowed. 

“Are you a spirit? ” She hissed conspiratorily, a smile pinching up her cheeks. 

Was he? 

“A little bit,” He nodded to her.

“Can I ride with you?” She tugged a little more insistently at his boot. “I wanna see your unicorn! Do they all look like that? Are there more? Can you show me?”

It took him a moment to sort through all of the questions, with the severity of his disconnect, but the first one stuck. With a nudge and a soft ‘woah’, the kaithe stopped, and he hooked his leg underneath part of its plating enough that he could reach down and pick up the little girl, who lifted her arms expectantly. The kaithe was big enough for two. He set her down where she could see its head as it turned back to look at her.

The girl laughed, giggling, little hands patting the soft void-metal that formed its neck. “It doesn’t have eyes! How does it see, Mr. Spirit?” 

“It doesn’t need them.” He explained softly. What a bizarre experience. “It listens."

“But it doesn’t even have ears!” The child announced firmly, frowning at him like it was his fault for not giving the kaithe ears. Technically it… was, but skulls didn’t really show much soft tissue. “How does it hear?”

“With its soul. Not everything needs ears to hear, kid.” 

The child, thank the gods, accepted that. And patted its neck. “Can we go? I’m getting bored.”

The drifter hesitated.

“It's late, don’t you need to sleep?”

She pouted, hunching her shoulders.

“You do need to sleep, you know that, right? Humans’ brains don’t clean themselves out well when they’re awake. It takes sleep to empty all the excess materials that they’ve used.” 

She stared at him. 

“ Really?”

He nodded. 

She made a little ‘oh’ with her lips, and started looking for a way to get down, so he lifted her up again, hooked his foot, and set her back on the cobbled road. “You gonna go take care of your brain, then?”

“You’re a spirit, so you must know lots of stuff.” The girl sighed, and then brightened up again as an idea came to her. And lifted her arms up to be put back on the Kaithe. “Take me home! I wanna ride the unicorn!”

God damnit. 

They trotted down the side street together, the kaithe walking at a nice, leisurely pace. If the kid slipped off, he’d rather she not be hurt much. And all the while, she told him about her neighbors.

“There? Thats the Dostoy… No. The… the Dosti… Um… I dont know how to say it right, but they make candy! And they’re really nice, and they give some to me when I bring them coins I find! And over there,” she pointed, “They make clothing! I got a hole in my shirt once that was so big, I could put my whole arm through! And they fixed it! ” 

He whistled appreciatively, nodding.

“There’s this old lady who lives over there, she used to have, like, fifty cats, but they all ran off when the bad guys came. She leaves food out on the porch when she can, and they all come back, and she lets us pet them! She’s super nice, but you cannot touch her plates. Especially the ones she keeps in her special drawers with glass. They’re super important, and super special, and nobody knows where they came from. Aliens, maybe.”

He’d make a mental note of that. He told her so, and she smiled at him.

“Over there,” She continued, pointing at the next house they passed, and continued along the same vein. House to house, introducing him to the people, what they did, what they were like, and so forth. It was…

It was very nice.

They turned at the corner, and she directed him down another street. More movement, more shadows. More kids, running up and gasping, staring wide eyed at the drifter, the kaithe, and the girl. 

“Is that a unicorn?” One of them whisper-yelled, and the drifter set the girl down on the street.

“Yeah! Its nice, and its name is Bitty.”

“It is not. Its name is ‘They who Echo’.” He corrected, and Echo chuffed in agreement.

“That's a stupid name.” She told him flatly, and scowled at him. “And you smell like grown-up juice. So you don’t get to name things.”

“It was already named.” 

“I’m naming her Bitty, because its a better name.”

“Or maybe Codechaser,” Piped up one of the other kids, and a couple of them nodded vigorously. 

An argument, somehow intense despite how quiet it was, ensued. 

One of the children broke from the huddle, and hopped up to him, barely tall enough to brush the bottom of his foot. “Why’s your unicorn look like it's dead?” 

Well…

“It was dreamed up by someone who’s never seen a living one, of course.” He patted Echo’s neck. “So they had to make do.” 

“Dreamicorn.” One of the kids whispered, and just like that, it was decided. They Who Echo had been outvoted. Damnation.

A good few of the kids had wanted a turn sitting on Echo… Dreamicorn? No. Echo was better, even if he had been outvoted he was not going to adopt Dreamicorn, it was too long, and didn’t mean a damn thing. They’d sat with him on its back, and he’d trotted around a little. They’d played with it, poking at its nonexistent stomach, petting its face, and pulling (gently, thank god) on its tail. All in all, he’d have thought that Echo would have grown irate at the attention, but quite the opposite seemed true. The thing was practically basking in it, hitting poses and lifting its hooves high as it stepped. It was showing off. His kaithe was a damned show off. Maybe Dreamicorn was a better name.

Once they’d gotten their fill of his kaithe, they’d turned their attention back to him, and he’d been bullied into getting down so they could look at his gun, (he did not let them hold it) and ask him enough questions that his ears just about fell off.

“Why’s your hair long?”

“Where’d you get your armor?”

“Were you dreamed up too?”

“What happened to your eyes?”

“Are you part of the good guys who kill the bad guys?”

“Hows your gun work? Its got a hole in it!”

“Did you dream up your unicorn?”

“Why’d you dream up a unicorn missing all its parts?”

“Why’re you so old?”

On one hand, his patience was… Wearing thin fast. On the other… Well. He lifted that other hand to silence the tide for a second.

“I dont care about cutting it. I made it. I’m real. I dunno. Yes, hopefully. It shoots because I want it too. Yes. Because I’ve never seen a real one. And because I am old, damnit.” 

The kids considered these answers, no doubt trying to sort out which statement was for which question. Blessed silence.

And then more questions. Insatiable monsters.

Until a door opened, and a heavyset woman stepped out. She spotted the drifter and his kaithe immediately, and her eyes went wide.  

Anxiety shot through his chest, and he lifted his hands to explain, but she beat him to it.

“You must be part of the Hex! The ones that do all those wonderful things!” 

The drifter froze, and it took him a moment to get his mouth working again with the weight of all those eyes on him. “I… Sorta, yeah…”

“Very good, very good.” The woman nodded. “I hope the little ones weren’t too much of a bother, I know, they shouldn’t be out past curfew, but I can’t stop them so I might as well keep an eye on them. Come along now, children, let's leave this kind gentleman to his duties! Off to bed.” 

Her success on that front was questionable, given how this had all started.

But, regardless, he received a haphazard chorus of ‘bye!’s and ‘goodnight spirit-man!’s as the shadows all filtered back into the building, leaving him… Standing there. Wondering if he really was dreaming. 

He felt…

His chest felt warm. He could have sworn it, there were so very many colors in the dark sky. The drifter hopped up on Echo, still reeling, and guided it to trot off back in the direction he’d come. 

He’d known that there were civilians around, but…

Children. How long had it been since…

When he thought about it, he could remember times on the Zariman before he’d made a deal. He could remember… having friends. Rell was especially close, in their own strange way, but there had been others. 

There had been others. He’d had friends, once, when he was younger. Not many, but they’d been there. For some reason the thought made him smile as the two clopped across the stones.

Arthur was waiting when he got back. The man had been pacing back and forth and rubbing his forehead for quite some time by the depth of the creases on his face, and the drifter could hear him grumbling from down the path when he rounded the corner.

He looked up, and stared, taking in the kaithe. He didn’t move as the drifter trotted up, and slipped off its back, patting its neck gently. 

“I’m back,” He offered quietly, and released his decree, letting Echo return into the void. “I’m sorry for leaving without warning. Should have told you.”

Arthur was still silent, staring at the space where Echo had just been. It took him a few further seconds to recover, and he shook his head out, blinking furiously. “ Yes, you should have. I’m… Do I want to know about the horse, Marty.”

“Kaithe.” He corrected. “It's… From where I’m from. Sort of.”

“Let’s leave it at that, and for the love of Sol, tell someone when you go out, or just leave a note, or something. We were getting radio chatter of somebody riding a skeleton horse, I thought there might have been a gas leak. Can you summon any other shit that you haven’t told us about?”

The drifter thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Just things from Duviri. Echo is special.”

“ Echo.”

“They who Echo, yes. When it whinnies, it sounds hollow, so-”

“ I don’t …” He interrupted, and then sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled. “I heard about Quincy’s little interrogation. Someone went to check on you, and you were gone. Nobody saw you leave. Sol, mate, I thought you’d left. ”

Oh.

“...Just… Needed to clear my head.” He said weakly.

“So you just summon a skeleton horse and prance around after drinking an entire bottle of whiskey, yelling at one of my most capable operatives, and then going practically comatose when he asks you about your powers.”

He nodded.

“...Did it work?”

“Almost didn’t. But I promise, leaving wasn’t on my mind. I’m here until things are fixed properly.”

“Good. Don’t… do that again, please. I mean, being…” Arthur waved his hands a bit. “You scared the shit out of quite a few people, so maybe no horse next time you need a walk.”

The drifter winced, rocking back on his heels. Right. Well. He should have expected that much. He couldn’t deny the part of him that curled up and hid, however.

“Or at least warn the rest of us before you pull it out of your ass,” Arthur hissed. “Gods, Marty.”

“I can do that. Sorry… About the trouble, and not telling you all. I can do better.” 

“Good. Do that. We’ve all got enough to deal with.”

The drifter sighed, stuffed his hands back in his pockets, and started through the common area. Quincy, unfortunately, spotted him, and dashed over.

“You drank the whole bottle?”

“Apparently.”

“And you’re still standing? What do they feed you people, man?

“Cubes.” He replied, and began the irritating task of climbing the escalators. Quincy caught his arm. He nearly yanked it free, but instead managed to just… Turn and look at him.

“Still got more I need from you, Future. We’re not done, you hear? You still owe me.”

He was never done, apparently. The drifter nodded, and Quincy nodded back, releasing and letting him go. 

Reality was a mixed bag, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it at all.

--

(He closed his eyes... (and) pretended he belonged.)

Chapter Text

Song Req- This remix of Tenebre Rosso Sague from Ultrakill

The drifter did, in one other circumstance, feel like he belonged.  

He pumped his shotgun and fired, every bullet and shard of a bullet punching holes through techrot, sending a spray of sparks, flesh, and metal across the dimly lit room. More filled the space immediately, crowding, screens crackling. Snarling. 

Drifter-Gauss leaped backwards, propelling himself through a split second dash. Pump, aim, fire. Screens shattered. Pump, aim, fire. Metal and viscera. He opened a hole through the horde that chased him, peeling off the walls, slopping down from the ceiling, and blossoming from the ground, just enough to zip through the next doorway. He twisted, looking back, aimed, fired, once more opening a cone of space.

His goal was simple. Rile up the techrot, so they’d be focused on this location and this location alone. The Scaldra should arrive within thirty minutes, more or less, Arthur before then, and then his job would be complete.

He reloaded as he ran, the world a blur of motion and winding tunnels. It had been a subway complex once, if the maps were correct, and he was in the maintenance section. What was left of the maintenance section. 

Turned out, underground trains needed plenty of metal for tracks, cars, support, and electrical components, which happened to be the preferred food of the techrot. Who’da thought it. 

Here, his white-hot footsteps were actually quite the boon. Techrot scalded with every step, bubbling and hissing, leaving a fairly easy to follow trail to tell him where he had or hadn’t been. The more of the area he could piss off, the better. 

Shotgun fully reloaded, he once more lifted the barrel and aimed. A doorway in front of him, to his left, the door itself already more or less completely consumed by pulsing growth. He fired as he passed it, knocking the door clean off its hinges and puncturing deep into the cancerous mass behind, popping it. Fluid and wretched organic material exploded out behind him, cysts losing their liquid, and un-developed organisms bled out onto the throbbing floor behind him.

Techrot was a hivemind, he understood that well enough, and it meant, more than anything, that for once he didn’t need to hold back. Like he’d done before with his Galantine, he’d readied his gun with acidic shells that burst as they hit, melting the rot just as much as they tore through it. And gods was it satisfying to see the way growths writhed and retreated and broke to his bullets. Power. It felt like power that he didn’t need to feel guilty about. Killing that he didn’t need to regret, because for all his effort, it was more or less equivalent to cutting off the tip of a toe. They’d chop through the entire beast eventually, but until then? Until then, he danced.  

Another shot opened a mass blocking his path, and he punched through the rest of what hadn’t been cleared at speed and landed nimbly in the main subway tunnel. Techrot screamed all around him, the walls themselves constricting like a throat. A challenge it was, then, and he kicked his frame into high gear, ear-like slats flattening on top of his head.

Very rarely did he need to go at his top speed for more than a split second for repositioning, but he’d never deny how invigorating it was to just…

Go.

He surged forward, moving like the wind, the only light around him coming from the faint pulsing red glow of the rot and him. Lightning sparked, coalescing from the sheer energy output, making the muscle lining he ran through twitch and jerk and whiten. 

He ran, he ran, so wonderfully free, burning holes through membranes and ripping through sickly masses of flesh and fibrous wires. He ran, throwing his arms out, letting the sheer heat of his passing scald twin trails along both walls as they tried, and failed, to contain him. You could not contain the wind.

The ruins of a subsumed subway train stood in his path, some hundred meters away. He was dashing through it before he knew, pale lighting illuminating twisted seats and poles. People had been here, once, he could almost hear their ghosts as he dashed past. Echoing voices, the rumbling of tracks. A transitory place. 

He brought his knees up when he reached the front, momentum letting him clear the control panel and once again landing on the tracks below. A station, he’d reached a proper station, rot seeping through the once-white tiled walls. A moment to break his speed, a palm on the yellow concrete edge to boost himself up, and he was once again rocketing at the most wonderful pace up the stairs and out into the city proper. The whole area was a nightmare of black and reds, not unlike Deimos, far in the future. Buildings buckled as their internal cancer grew too large for the brick to contain, the ruins of what must have been a park at some point overgrown by pulsating cysts, growing and releasing an army of mindless, almost humanoid-like monsters.

Within the frame, he grinned, cocked his shotgun, and got to work.

He was flame.

Bullets and screams, aim, fire, aim, fire, aim, fire, eating steadily through the last of the ammo he’d brought, body blazing, lightning cracking. He inhaled, and frost crystalized flesh and steel, heat filling his core. Screens cracked, joints crunched, techrot fell. 

He could not be held, he could not be contained. 

His ammo ran out, and he slapped his gun back onto its makeshift holster at his side, and drew twin blades. These were Sun and Moon, glowing gold and azure. These were the blades he’d used to cut himself a path out of Duviri. 

Light bounced off of thick viscera and oil as he spun, cutting cleanly through an infinite haze of movement. 

Yes, he had the techrot’s attention. 

And in this glorious moment, Gauss grinned with him, an ancient jaw crunching as teeth forced apart.

He killed.

Mottled, bulging flesh staggers away from him, pale gas sacs beginning to balloon outwards as its lumbering legs struggle to hold its unbalanced weight. A heartbeat and he was there, stabbing precisely, perfectly, rupturing the tough membrane and driving the blade down through its not-quite spine. The blade rips out in an arc, his foot turning to mirror it, and he slams his other through the face-like screen of a monster that reached for him. Another step, a shift in his footwork, and its own momentum flings it off of the metal.

Dancing. 

He crouches, and a green blur of bile soars harmlessly by above him, splashing and burning through the servos of oncoming rot behind.

He was dancing.  

Always moving, he rises from his crouch and leaps, twirling, both swords out, their multicolored lights flickering in and out of his view as they slice into and through walking viscera. He kicks out as he lands, leg blazing with power, and the rocket-powered blow slams into a flopping beast of flesh and arms and wires that snapped with electricity. It was soft, then hard, then crunched, launched away as if on wings to crash headlong into several of its companions, toppling them all. His momentum carries him into another spin, blades flashing around him, switching from one foot to the other. A burst of speed, and he’d severed the sinuous tendons that tethered a great clot of red above him, letting it swing free. 

The air was thick with spores and gore, and the drifter felt like he belonged. He was enough, here, and nothing could hope to douse the inferno. 

His heart sang with energy, and he roars, expelling it in a whirling explosion of power, vaporizing blood and roasting flesh. All was red and black. All was as it was meant to be. 

Another kick of speed launches him through a still twitching lump, subsumed speakers thumping weakly to a beat so vastly inferior to the one he moved to. A wall presents itself to him, and he vaults upwards along its length and leaps, flipping backwards into the air and propelling himself with another explosion of power, sending him blade first through the hanging cyst. The mass curled inside it drops, splatting hard on the ground. It jerks, and unfurls like some demented butterfly, spidery tails and limbs and a crowned head unwinding from around each other so it can regard the meteor who’d woken it with an utterly alien gaze. A babau, he’d heard. A challenge, perhaps?

Maybe too optimistic. 

He landed in a spin, flipping around and opening his swords to the side, resolidifying his stance. Two heartbeats thrummed inside him, Gauss’s, brought to life by the dance and the fire, and his own, spectral, hammering with manic excitement. It was too rare an emotion for a regular spiral, but he could see its golds and smell the ozone. Alive. He felt alive. All around him, dying rot writhes and flops, coating the stones and dirt with a thick layer of slime.

The immense babau screams at him with a hundred overlayed, glitching voices, rearing its head and faux-shoulders like a cobra spreading its hood, its three legs puncturing the concrete as it slams them down, all four tails flaring out like a peacock.

The drifter laughs, and screams back a response to its challenge. Where Gauss’s mutated vocal chords struggled, he picked up the slack with the singing engine in his chest. A language they both understood. Flesh tech against flesh tech.

Unfortunately, between the two of them, killing god-like wannabes was his job. The babau was nothing. 

He moves first, launching himself into the air and then powering himself forward, moving to sever its head from its shoulder. The babau twists out of the way, remarkably fast for its size, and he rebounds off the far wall just in time to dash out of the way of three lightning quick strikes. Those tails were dangerous, each one armed with a set of hooks at the end, lithe enough to keep up with him. Almost. 

Drifter-Gauss zips in beneath its three legs, crashing and stomping around him as it tries to keep him in its vision. Everything, no matter how big or fast, no matter how tough the armor, had a weak point. He’d yet to fight a babau, but it wasn’t like a loss here would mean anything. He could just rewind. 

A moment of consideration, keeping out of the way of those clawed tails and jabbing legs, and he strikes. Sun flashes, catching on the more exposed, non chitinous joints, severing the outermost piece of its foremost leg in an instant. It roared its displeasure, staggering as it hurried to re-steady its weight. 

Clawed tails swing down and in, seeking to grab, but he was already gone, dancing behind it and slicing off the end of its back left leg, wires sparking and fluid gushing. The monstrosity topples over, scrabbling against the slick ground, working what remained of its legs underneath it and regaining motion. Steam rose from his shoulders where whater burned away. Lightning crackled. 

Arthur, on comms. “Drifter! Coming in hot, they scrambled jets. Be ready to move!”

He’d popped out his mother ready to move.

Well, it did mean he needed to finish with cleanup. Drifter-Gauss dashes in again, practically skating across the surface of the gore. He leaps the first strike of the tail and zig-zags back and forth to evade the others. He felt the wind as they missed him.

It begins to pull the tails back in, but he was already too close for it to defend itself. Crippled, incapable of its previous speed, but still capable of processing, he watches the screens that melded together to form its head flash and he heard the jittering wail. And he heard the beautiful crunching and the sick, meaty slice as Sun cut that head in half. The body thrashes, twitching, but he was already spinning with Moon, driving the blue, glowing blade directly into its chest at an angle. Flesh gave way like there’d never been chitin in the first place, steel bending and cleaving before his superior will. Wires barely slowed the process.

He lands carefully, respectful of the blood enough to not try and slide. The babau thumped to the ground behind him in two pieces, tails falling limp. 

He leans his head back. Inhales deeply, filling his lungs with spore saturated, death filled air. Slick dripped off his body, testament to the truth of the matter. Never again would he let himself be helpless. Never again. Never again would he let Duviri repeat. He was free.

Movement, more flesh and wires climbing out of the hole from whence he’d come. Still alive with sheer adrenaline and joy, rainbows and golds meshing together into an opalescent lightning storm in his vision, he dashed to meet them.

--

(He danced, the Sun and the Moon his only companions, killing and killing and killing)

Chapter Text

Drifter-Gauss flopped back on the stone steps, Sun and Moon set aside.

Done. He was done.

Everything that moved had been charred or frozen and cut into so many pieces that there was no chance of it rising again. Nothing lived here, anymore. He was done.

Inhale. 

Exhale.

His chest ached, every forced movement of his diaphragm draining energy he just didn’t have anymore. Mental or physical. Nothing more to give. His breaths were shallow and slow, but that was okay.

Behind him, blackened matter and metal smoldered and steamed in piles, fluid dripping from ledges and windowsils far above as ice melted. Planes roared by overhead. This area was dark, now. Nothing to see. They were looking for the outbreak. They’d missed it by a few minutes.

He knew he couldn’t fall asleep, or he’d be ejected from his warframe, but…

A nap right now sounded divine. 

…

And it was so comfortable.

..

Yeah. Maybe he could sleep right now…

……

….

“Drifter?”

…

“Drifter!” 

He peeled his awareness out of that gentle void, and managed the slightest turn of his metal head towards the noise. A familiar one. One he liked listening to. Couldn’t he let him sleep for a little while? 

Arthur shook Gauss, and it was unpleasant enough to dislodge the mental tar, more or less. 

He tried to answer, but… Well. He didn’t have a mouth anymore. It had sealed up, like they always did.

So, he released his failing grip on the warframe and de-transferred, manifesting his body into a sitting position so he wouldn’t have to bother doing it physically. It took all he had to maintain just that. Arthur started, and then moved to start looking him over. He’d find no injuries, the techrot didn’t really use much corrosive substance. He was alright. Just tired. He tried to say it, too, buut… Well. His mouth took a lot of effort to move, and he just didn’t have that right now. What’d been the point of leaving Gauss? 

Hmmmn… 

A mote of pain, Arthur had cut the back of his hand. He looked at it impassively, the blood flowing a little faster than usual but that was alright. He had a lot of blood. Didn’t do much for his exhaustion, though. He blinked at it, for good measure. 

Arthur was frowning. He was always frowning in some variant. A shame. The drifter gave him a sleepy smile, humming that one tune that always came to mind, and that made the man seem to stop worrying for the moment. Just one moment, because he had a new kind of frown on his face just a second later. This one was flatter. He checked the drifter’s pulse, found it normal. Eyes? Normal. Really, he was just tired. Adrenaline always dropped him just as far as it lifted him up. He felt… wonderful.

And heavy.

Like Jupiter.

The thought came to mind as Arthur set one of his arms over his shoulders and lifted him up, and the drifter tried to keep his feet beneath him, he really did. His legs felt heavy. He just wanted a nap, thank you.

Another pass of the roaring overhead. 

Whistling. He whistled along with it. Arthur hesitated for a moment, looking up, and his eyes went wide. He started to yell something, but-

PAIN.

It shocked through his system even as he slammed against brick, blinded by the explosion. His body slumped, his spine shattered, skull fractured. He tried to move his hand. His arm wouldn’t work. He regained enough vision to realize it was because he didn’t have arms anymore. 

Again. 

The drifter was alive again. 

This… This wasn’t fair. He was so tired, he… Arthur was calling his name. The drifter was wearing Gauss again. He had to… He couldn’t, he didn’t have the energy. He struggled, forcing his limbs to cooperate, and lifted a hand towards Arthur. The man took it, seeming concerned, glancing upwards. He remembered. Gauss was heavy. Arthur struggled to get him to his feet. Said something, and it sounded far away. Damnation. Damnation. Another horrid choice. 

Did he undo all of what he had done, or find a way out?

His worn thin brain fumbled the options as Arthur did his best to drag him out, because he could barely move, and…

Rumbling. 

Whistling.

Death.

Arthur didn’t call for him this time, just running, running full tilt, reaching the drifter and grabbing Gauss in a full carry. He tried to be helpful, despite weighing so damn much. Who’d made the warframes with this much metal, anyway? Was all of it necessary? Ballas didn’t have a void-cursed speck of common sense. 

They made it to the cycle before they died again. 

This… 

Arthur hopped back on his atomicycle and drove it up, getting Gauss’s body in his arms, and starting to drive away. The sky roared. Whistled. 

They’d bombed the entire area. 

This was different. 

It was fine when it was him. When he was the one dying over and over, trying to fix things, but Arthur didn’t deserve that.

At very least, every attempt woke him a little more. The deaths lingered, shocking his system awake. Danger, death, his nerves whispered. Move, or die. Dance, or die. 

Arthur ran to him, sweat dripping from his brows, and Drifter-Gauss grabbed the man. There was one way they’d both get out of this, even if it was unpleasant.

He struggled for a moment, and then looked at him, hesitated, and nodded. Whatever it was, he was willing to try. Drifter-Gauss directed him to curl as tightly as possible, huddled over Arthur’s form, and reached. Reached. Exhaustion was no excuse for failure. So he pulled from within his soul. He could have his cake and eat it too, as the saying went. He could succeed in cleansing an entire zone and still survive alongside Arthur. He would.

No matter the cost. 

His energy barrier flared to life, hexagonal segments of light flickering into and then out of visibility. Incomplete, weak, but it would be enough.

The bombs sang as they fell. 

Arthur survived, this time. Drifter-Gauss… No. Just the drifter, he’d been ejected when Gauss died, too much damage sustained to its back and spine to keep living. The drifter locked the loop to that moment. 

All was heat. Fire burned his legs as he stumbled to a stand, very human lungs gasping and panting for breath and choking on smoke. Arthur remained still, clutching his bleeding ears. He’d need a moment. The drifter looked around to see what had survived. 

He was shot through the head ten seconds later. 

Again.

To his feet. He grabbed Sun and Moon, his hands going numb nearly instantly as his nerves were melted away. The weapons had survived more than this, and so had he.

And he was so.

Damn.

Tired. 

THERE. 

A shot, and he lifted Moon, deflecting the bullet away from his head. Two more. He got one, the next took him in the neck. 

Again. He didn’t bother with the swords, instead drawing his pistol. His soul was… tapped. But there was a little more. There was always a little more. It wasn’t for him. It was for those little children, who deserved to be able to have a home, some day. For the kind woman, for the civilians lurked, frightened, just wanting some tiny sense of normalcy. It was for the Hex, his friends, and Arthur, who he...

He fired before the Stormfall trooper did, a lance of light popping their parachute and sending them plummeting some forty feet to the ground, where they crunched. He aimed. 

He fired. Once, twice, thrice. Each took a little more out of him. Three more fell. He just needed to buy time. 

Arthur stood up behind him, gently moving Gauss aside, just in time to catch the drifter as he staggered back, caught in the side by someone he hadn’t seen. He slammed his fist against his thigh in pure frustration and pain. 

Again. 

Sirocco in hand. Aim. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Turn. Fire. Fire. Reload. All was flame, and it wasn’t his. Gauss would be alright. Arthur needed to be.

His head spun, eyes threatening to unfocus. He didn’t have time for that. Arthur stood, put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. His atomicycle had been destroyed in the blast. Gauss could be resummoned, even while dead, to get it back to the hideout. It’d hurt more than anything thus far, but Gauss deserved the care. 

“-Requesting immediate extraction. Now.” Arthur was saying. A pause. “Gone. Scaldra made sure of it.” 

The drifter watched the area, holding himself perfectly upright and rigid so he wouldn’t simply collapse. Adrenaline was starting to filter back into his system. This was not for him. His soul had a little more left in it. He would not be cowed by death and pain into giving up what he’d done.

Gunfire rang out, Arthur reached for him, but he’d already been hit multiple times.

Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Turn. Fire. Fire. Turn. Wait. Watch. Bullets had come from the roof. There. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Wait. Watch. Reload. Arthur repeating his words, a little more exasperated. He had a hand on the drifter’s shoulder. The simple weight threatened to knock him over. 

Footsteps, radio chatter. 

Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. 

Silence. 

Reload.

Waiting. 

Watching. 

They would not control him. 

They could not take this from him. 

Never again. 

He’d never lose anyone again. 

Footsteps. 

Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Reload.

They. 

Couldn't. 

HAVE. 

THIS. 

Arthur did his best to drag him through the rubble, and eventually gave up and grabbed him around the waist, running. 

The drifter knew he was being irrational. He hadn’t really done anything special, but damnation he was so tired of losing everything he worked for. This time, he’d wake up and everything would be where he’d left it. 

Footsteps rounded the corner behind them. 

Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Reload.

Radio chatter in front of them. Arthur was going as fast as he could. The drifter twisted, aimed.

Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire.

Die. Die. Die. DIE. DIE. DIE. 

He was grinning. They couldn’t take anything from him ever again. He was untouchable. Arthur was alive and safe. 

Eleanor and Amir met them some two minutes later, and he was set behind someone on an atomicycle, Arthur hopping into the other. The world screamed and blurred around him. 

He laughed as they roared through the city, opening his arms to embrace the wind. 

Victory was sweet, and well earned. 

--

("This time, he’d wake up and everything would be where he’d left it... They'd (never) take anything from him ever again.")

Chapter Text

The drifter wasn’t done yet. 

He hopped off the cycle before Amir could help him, and jogged at speed through the base, looking. He wasn’t sure what he was running off of, at the moment. Pure desperation? The high of victory? The last vestiges of his second adrenaline rush? Pain? Whatever it was, he still had one job left to do.

Calling out for Lettie wasn’t an option right now, his lungs and throat hurt from the smoke still, and he didn’t have the capacity to deal with that, but luckily he didn’t have to. She rounded the corner in front of him, dashing to meet them, and took him by the arm. He didn’t have time, he couldn’t stop, or he’d collapse. 

So, he pulled her hand off him, motioned with his head for her to follow, and kept going. 

He needed… Someplace to lay down. She could heal Gauss, if she was willing. If not, he still needed to get the frame somewhere safe. He could take care of it later. 

Gods, he really did feel like Jupiter. Or, more accurately, he felt the way he had when he’d first stepped foot on its floating cities outside of a frame. Condensed. Like every inch of him was doing its best to collapse on itself and melt to the floor. 

A bed. There were a few civilians around, but if the Hex trusted them, so would he, so he hopped onto it, landing face-first with a soft thump.

And called.

Gauss came. 

Helminth-printed warframes were odd in that they were almost always effectively on standby, just about dead, until they were transferred into. The transference gave them a little jumpstart of energy, which was enough to restart their bodies and brains.

And in this scenario, that brief moment of energy returned Gauss to life, and exposed him to the frame’s nerve receptors, which were all too happy to remind him of exactly what he’d allowed to happen to it.

Solid metal, and the softer metal-infused cells that made up pseudometals, had all melted. The underlying bone and muscle had been blasted away, the pure heat of a direct bombing vaporizing the upper, tough layer of flesh. Gauss’s legs were simply nonfunctioning, because it more or less lacked the entirety of its spine. No blood, that had boiled away. All that was left of the frame was re-hardedned flesh and pure agony.

The drifter was kicked out almost immediately again, the brief burst of energy not enough to revive what was left of its brain for more than a moment, and he lay on the ground next to the bed gasping. Trembling. Lettie’s footsteps stopped as she took in Gauss’s state, and she whispered curses.

“Please.” He managed after a moment, fighting through his exhaustion, too tired to break into a coughing fit despite how badly his throat hurt. Keeping his eyes open was impossible. “Help. I’ll… Later. Tired.”

“Babas… I do not know what is to be done.”

The drifter meant to tell her that she was perfectly capable of healing this much damage, but…

Well, his body was shutting down entirely, the void reaching its soft wings around him and dragging him back down once more. He’d worn his soul too thin to push them aside any longer than this.

--

Arthur staggered into the medical room after Lettie, Eleanor helping to keep him upright.

His head was spinning, the whole experience refusing to leave his mind. He could still smell smoke. Why could he still smell smoke? Was there a fire in the building that hadn’t set off the alarms? Gods, and his skin… He’d need to be looked over for burns. Everything ached. He could swear he could still feel bullet shells in his chest. 

The drifter was passed out on the floor, his warframe a charred, blackened, melted mess on the white sheets, Lettie already looking it over. Odd, how… peaceful he looked, for once. Sol, he could hardly remember a time where he’d seen the man asleep without some sort of tension on his face.

Arthur sat in the next unoccupied bed, squeezing his eyes tight, breath ragged where it cut through his chest. 

He could have sworn that of all the parts of him, on their last run, his back had only suffered burns once or twice, and yet… It too protested him laying down against the soft sheets. Eleanor rested a hand on his arm again, and he… He winced, despite himself. His arms had been protected, that last time, right?

A glance showed him that they had been. No burns whatsoever, whatever magic the drifter had done with his warframe, it’d protected him completely. The discomfort persisted as a dull throbbing pain anyway.

Did the pain… Linger? Was he feeling echoes of those resets?

He could remember them vividly. Every failed attempt, trying to pull them both out, and dying again and again. He’d never felt so… helpless. What would have happened if the drifter hadn’t sacrificed his frame? Would they have been trapped there for an eternity?

Lettie was carefully picking the drifter off the ground, making him twitch and wince in his sleep before curling tightly in her arms. She set him in another unclaimed bed, to Arthur’s right, and went back to keep rubbing her chin and trying to figure out the warframe.

And Arthur suddenly understood.

The drifter’s nonchalance about his own pain. His utter disregard for his own wellbeing or safety. The way he seemed to make light of the most brutal situations like they were just another Tuesday.

The way the drifter flinched and pulled back whenever his skin was touched. The strange, almost overdramatic way he behaved when the two of them sparred and he took a hit. The scars.

How many times had that man died? How deeply had the pain wormed its way in? If he was feeling like this after just that one experience, how would thousands of years feel?

How would it feel to go through all that, alone?  

It was just Tuesday to him.

No wonder he’d lost his mind. Arthur would have shattered in days.

He considered the ceiling, feeling the pieces click into place in his mind. He’d had a general idea of the situation, sure. The drifter had never exactly been subtle, he’d outright answered most every question they’d asked him. There were still holes in his understanding, sure. Quincy’s list of things to ask may or may not have found its way onto Arthur’s desk once or twice over the past weeks, after all. This, he could make sense of, but there was still the matter of his abilities, and how they functioned. Why had he been able to remember it all so vividly? Why could the drifter? How'd he come back, all the way from the future? Who's orders had he been following, and why the fuck was there a ghost child that looked like a younger version of him.

“There’s a little more than just that,” Eleanor muttered in his mind, leaning against the side of his bed. “There’s some madness that comes from someplace deeper. Before Duviri. It might be connected to everything else. I’ve never been able to get more than hints, because every time he even begins to remember, he just… stops. Like he’s capable of dying a little on purpose, so he can redirect. He’s afraid of the madness, though.”

“Dying on purpose? ” Arthur asks softly, not wanting to wake the man next to them.

“Metaphorically. He can clear his head so completely, so fast, that the first time he did it I thought he’d been sniped.” She grinned, and he snorted. 

“What does the madness look like, to you? The deeper one, I mean. Is it something we need to be worried about?”

Eleanor was silent for a moment, amethyst eyes studying the drifter as he slept. The man’s face twitched, that peaceful expression tightening up, and he turned away.

“He really doesn’t like to think about it. Hah. Poor guy.”

Another moment of hesitation, and then she tilted her head to the side.

“I felt it earlier. Have felt it on rare occasions. It feels desperate, and because it's desperate, it’s twisted into something brutal, if not downright sadistic.”

“Brutal?” He repeated, raising an eyebrow. They were discussing a well trained fighter who avoided attacking anything that could look at him.

Wait, no.

That wasn’t accurate.

He’d been there, with Aoi, when the Drifter had ripped, teared, and eaten his way to freedom. He’d seen reports of the aftermath, too. Most of the deaths hadn’t even been soldiers.

“Yeah. Yeah. I can’t say for sure if that's his reasoning for not wanting to kill, but I know it is why he’s careful about what fights he’s mentally present for. Perhaps he’s called the drifter because his mind is always drifting.” 

Arthur would have chuckled if the topic hadn’t been so incredibly concerning. 

And bless her, Eleanor read his mind.

“No, I don’t think he’s a threat to us. He recognized you and Aoi, didn’t he?”

He remembered that weeping. Like a lost, scared child. 

“...Well. Harder to utilize. Suppose we’ll just have to keep a look out.”

…Yeah. Yeah, they really would.

“On the plus side, I did learn something interesting from your interaction with him earlier. When he was protecting you, everything else in his brain shut off except for that brutality, but it felt focused, not sadistic. That… I think we can use.”

“I don’t think I’m willing to repeat that scenario.” Arthur huffed, frowning.

“Well it doesn’t have to be y o u, you. I think he just needs something to care about that he can hold onto.”

An idea struck him, and Eleanor nodded. 

Chapter Text

Eleanor walked far beyond the walls of time, accompanying a little child who couldn’t see her.

They walked endlessly, moving through hallways and odd, round doors that opened before they even touched them. The child wasn’t looking where they were going, merely clutching a tiny doll and moving forward.

The child didn’t seem to be thinking, and if Eleanor hadn’t become accustomed to that same sort of emptiness elsewhere, she might have thought that they were a walking corpse.

But no… No, the child was thinking quite a bit, just on one particular topic. Nothing. All of their thoughts had been dedicated to thinking nothing for so long that it had become natural. Little feet marched on.

Always forward. Never stopping, or looking around. They just. Kept. Walking. Through utter silence. 

How long had it been since the world had been so quiet? How long had it been since she’d not been able to hear the thoughts of people around her. This place… Wherever they were, was empty.

This child was the only living thing as far out as she could reach. There was a chaotic energy just at the faintest reaches of her consciousness, but that wasn’t alive. It simply was . 

The child kept walking. Eleanor walked with them. 

Wherever they were, it seemed… Futuristic. Doors opened obediently before the child. Statues of golden people posed abstractly in various ways. She could see, as they passed, balconies leaning to peer down at them, hiding upper floors and floors above that, winding staircases leading onwards into oblivion. The child’s dark hair hung about their face, and from its ragged cut it had likely been done with a knife rather recently. It was tangled, very tangled, with some dirt here and there, which came as a surprise. She certainly didn’t see any plant life around them. All was sterile and clean. There wasn’t even dust in the air. All was so, so very dead. 

The child turned from their straight line, wide and uncaring eyes blinking as they moved through another door. And into a small kitchen-like room. Methodically, robotically, they stepped up to a dispenser-like appliance and began punching in codes at a rapid pace. The machine did nothing.

The first emotion that Eleanor saw on the drifter’s face was annoyance. The slightest, slightest tensing of the jaw. And then they turned, and kept going, finding the next door and repeating the process. 

Noise, somewhere distant. Singing. Layered, discordant. Faint laughter. Eleanor couldn’t feel anything with a conscious mind in that direction, and the young drifter didn’t even look in the direction of the sound. At some point, one of the rooms had merited a handful of fatty white cube-like chunks. These were, unceremoniously, robotically, stuffed into the child’s mouth and swallowed. No chewing seemed necessary, and the child didn’t even so much as wince in displeasure, though Eleanor could feel it inside of them. The texture irritated them, as did the fatty mess on their hands, which was scraped off on a counter.

Onwards. Up stairs, and out into… Not quite the open. They walked into a park-like arboretum, dead plants that they didn’t recognize filling every space that wasn’t clean white material or glass. The drifter marched down a path.

And… And when she looked up, she saw where they were. 

There was nothing outside. Dark, and somehow light, deep greys and blues and greens, mottled and swirled like an infinite nebulae. Eternity. The void.

And she became aware of that singing again. 

It took her a moment to place why it felt so familiar, instruments and choral voices that she couldn’t recognize and yet, somehow, knew intimately. Somehow, she knew the source of the music came from that empty void. Nothing lived, nothing was, but… But the song remained . 

It was one of the two songs that always haunted the drifter’s mind, softly echoing in and out of his consciousness. She’d never heard the same stanza twice in his head, and now she understood why.

It was chaos . Beautiful voices overlapped, instruments played, beats thumped. Every possibility at once. It was just noise. Cosmic static, utterly incomprehensible, and it hurt . Her brain struggled to pick apart just one tune, just one piece, but the harder she tried, the more that she could hear. It was always expanding, every second only made it worse. She tore her eyes away, but the music didn’t stop. It didn’t stop, it permeated everything. Every step the child took was to that infinite beat. Every time they blinked, it was on time. Eleanor’s own heartbeats thumped to that perpetual rhythm. 

Everything. 

It was everything, all at once.

She couldn’t escape it.

She fell to her knees before the vastness of eternity, trying to tune it all out, trying to pull her very mind away. She screamed, but her own voice was nothing . 

Eternity kept happening. She could hear laughter, talking, chatting, wailing, death, life, all at once. Everyone she knew and an infinity of people she didn’t, every moment echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed, echoed,

It was so much noise. 

Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor, an infinity of herself. Everyone she could be. Could have been. Everything she'd done, every option, every path, every footstep. Every choice made, somewhere, all at once.

She was drowning in it, there was no way to escape, there was nothing she could do but be consumed, it was so much , it was everything. Everything. All of eternity, every second, every millisecond, every synapse in her brain was consumed, torn apart, she would die to this. She saw it, she knew, this was what was coming for them, this place beyond places. 

Chaos bred chaos bred chaos bred chaos bred chaos bred chaos bred chaos bred chaos. Their world couldn't hold on forever. Nothing could. It would dissolve into possibility, and return into the infinite ocean of...

What was that? 

One tune, offered. 

Just one. 

One timeline. 

One reality.

One song.

She grabbed it, dragging herself free from eternity. She held on, plunging her head into the music, letting everything else fade away. 

It was order.

A thread, amidst the sea, walking forever onwards. Aspects of it split off and faded away from her view, but the core remained. She knew this thread, somehow. She knew it, and it knew her.

She had reached to it, and it had reached back. 

She held to it, and the void just… let her go. She was nothing to eternity.

One voice. A little child, calling to her. 

Eleanor opened her eyes, and the drifter was there. She clung to him, arms around his chest. He looked down at her, seeming utterly baffled, working through the bizarre moment as he often did. Slowly. She held on anyway. And then he understood, and wrapped his arms around her, and smiled. He witnessed her, collapsing her back down from all possible realities into just the one that she was. He knew her. Much of her, anyway, and that was enough that chaos could have little hold. Things existed, by being observed. To love was to know. She witnessed him in return, and his time strengthened, though somehow she knew that her observation wasn't needed. The void itself observed, saw him, and knew him.

"Lets go, alright? I fucking hate it here." The drifter's smile turned into a grin, and he winked.

And Eleanor woke up, starting awake from where she'd fallen asleep next to Arthur's bed. The drifter's body jerked as he woke, and he groaned softly, running his hands down his face.

And she decided that maybe, maybe , she needed to be a little more careful about visiting his dreams.

Chapter Text

The drifter rested a hand gently on what was left of Gauss’s face, his thumb tracing the ridges of metal and flesh. Such a beautiful creature. He saw freedom within its body, even if it was broken for the moment.

“I couldn’t do much for him, babas.” Lettie says behind him. “I am not a miracle worker, despite the abilities I have. There’s no life to bolster in that body.”

He shook his head lightly. “I was able to call it to me, so there is enough. Brain first, then heart, and the veins between. Everything else comes after those two.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, turning him to look her in the eyes. “There is nothing I can do, ” she repeated. “We can bury him, if you like.”

The drifter’s very soul twisted at the thought.

Nothing to be done, by her merit. It was something he’d need to turn back time to fix. Something worth giving up a kingdom for. 

Teshin had been worth that.

But Gauss… Gauss wasn’t Teshin.

“No.” He says firmly, holding her gaze. “You just need a spark of life to work with, yeah?”

“Esta bien, Drifter. Not even your transference would be enough. Loss comes to all of us. Arthur is alive, and for that I am grateful, but I cannot fix this.”

He rubs his face, thinking. Could… He… He’d never been able to get two frames out at the same time, it wasn’t how the system worked. There had to be something more. For now, though, he rolls that metal corpse over, and scoops it up into his arms. So light. “I’ll work on it, Lettie. Thank you for trying.”

She let him go. 

He walked up to the escalator, feeling Arthur’s eyes on him the whole way up. His left arm was resting inside Gauss’s back, the last remnants of its melted spine settling firmly against his skin. He didn’t think about that. 

He didn’t think about Teshin, dying because he’d been too slow. Too caught up in his own head.

He should have reset. It would have been better to start the mission earlier, and clear the techrot before everything else, but… But that had to be a last resort. Everyone would be set back days, and he didn’t know if they’d remember or not. Damn his stubborn insistence on keeping his own victories. One of these days he’d stop caring so much.

An eternity of grey. Endless nothing. Memories slipping from his mind like sand through his fingers, because nothing mattered. 

He couldn’t go back to that. He just… Damnation. Damnation. What was he supposed to do? Was there a middle line he could straddle between caring too much, and not caring at all? Some place between indifference and the orowyrms? How the hell did he find it, and how the hell would he stay there. How did anyone decide what was or wasn’t worth caring about? 

The drifter set Gauss down on his stomach on one of the long couches, making sure its legs were aligned in a way that wouldn’t put extra stress on its knees.

He felt like… 

He felt like he was there again, back in Duviri. Grief dragging its claws through his heart. This time, there was nowhere to direct the anger. He’d already killed enough.

“I’ll fix this.” He says softly, resting a hand on the frame’s shoulder. “I’ll fix it, I promise.”

“Is that something you can do?”

He started and whipped around, pistol in hand before he could think about it, leveling it at… Arthur. Who stood in the doorway, and lifted both hands. 

Oh. A friend. The pistol was put away.

“I don’t know.” He confesses. “I should be able to, though. I’ve seen my… Heard about my twin bringing people back from the brink of death with just a touch, but…” 

Arthur said nothing, gaze resting on the broken body, lowering his hands. 

The drifter looked too.

“You would have been able to get out of that just fine if I hadn’t’ve been there.” Arthur said. “You could have done that teleporting thing and then called him somewhere safe. You were protecting me. I’m… Sorry. Drifter.”

It was true. He would have likely been able to be fine, and now they were down a motorcycle and the warframe that the drifter felt the most at home in. Funny, how both he and Arthur had lost the things that made them feel the most free. 

“I can fix this.” He nodded. “I could restart the last two days, and then simply leave the area before I crash, meet up with you, go home. It’d all be fine.”

“...I couldn’t stop you if you wanted to.” Arthur allowed himself to say, after a moment.

“Don’t worry, I… That's my last resort. I think there is another option.” He says softly, leaning down to kiss Gauss’s forehead. “But it’d be a risk. One that might mean I’m not here for a little while.”

Arthur walked up, and crouched next to the couch, looking at him. 

Silent. 

Then, in a soft tone. “You can leave, can you.”

The drifter nodded.

The man's jaw flexed, and he saw a shift in his expression. He couldn't place what, but...

“And you haven’t… Done so before now? Why? I know what you told Quincy, but it doesn’t add up.” Arthur’s tone was harder, sharper. The shift slipped further. There was more to that question that he wasn’t saying, and the drifter… didn’t… know where to look to see what he was meaning, so he chose honesty.

“I… want to help.”

“Do you feel sorry for us, drifter?” Now his voice was getting cold. Their eyes met briefly, and he could see that suspicion, and that resignation. Wrong answer. He’d given the wrong answer.

Arthur, with black eyes, speaking to him in a voice that echoed. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

His chest constricted.

“No, no. I…” 

Arthur stood up, sighing. “I'm sorry, I'm just... stressed. You don’t need to answer that. Just… Be back quickly. You're needed, here. It's been nice-”

“Arthur.” He stood, determination forming inside him like armor. “I don’t pity you, or any of the other Hex. That’s not why I’m here, damnit. I really do want to be here.”

Their gazes locked, and Arthur’s brow quirked. His armor was strong enough for this, today. His stress and anxieties about Gauss and everything else only added veins of fire. So he took a risk.

“What do you think I have to go back to?”

The swordsman paused from where he was just barely turning away again, and then faced him entirely. “What? ”

“What do you think I have in the future? What's waiting for me, way out there.”

It took him a moment to respond, and then that brief softness froze completely once again in a flash.

“Anything. Everything.” Arthur snapped, stepping close, jabbing a finger at him. “You’ve told us. You get to go back to your twin, your spaceships, probably even wherever that damned horse came from. You’ve got worlds. Sounds like you had plenty of opportunities to be plenty useful out there. You know what? Honestly? Half the time I think you came here in the first place because you’re running from something. Gods know too many soldiers join up to fight for that reason. The other half of the time? I think you just like doing what you’re told, because that's easier than thinking. Either way, you've already made it clear you're out when your job is done. Am I wrong?”

Well. Arthur was a swordsman, and that blade went straight through. Armor or no armor.

How could he possibly respond to that?

He… Couldn’t find the words.

How long do you think it'll take, drifter? Before they realize what you are.

“What, no rebuttal? Nothing to say?” Arthur opened his arms, gesturing outwards and then curling his hands into fists. Waiting.

The drifter felt small.

“Fine. Whatever. Just go. Do what you need to. Come back and play house when you’re ready.”

Odd, how similar that was to what Quincy had said to him earlier. He felt his mind fading to its comfortable, safe, blank state. Just don’t feel. Just don’t care, and it won't hurt. 

It hurt anyway. Damnation, it always did. He looked down. Arthur waited for another few moments in his peripheral before throwing his hands up and stalking out. 

He stood there for some time, then sighed softly, sitting next to Gauss. He didn’t cry. He'd delt with this sort of treatment for hundreds of years, this was just a return to normalcy. The pain would fade, eventually. It'd be alright. Everything faded with enough time. 

The drifter had always known the past would echo eventually. He couldn't outrun a confrontation like this forever. It hurt to hear words like those again, but least Arthur hadn't killed him for wanting to leave, no matter how briefly.

He closed his eyes, seeking out that music in his mind. Infinite strains, everything, everywhere, all at once. They slid over him, around him, through him. They wanted to show him eternity, but he wasn’t looking for eternity right now, so they backed away and let him search.

He reached, fingers brushing over endless possibilities, seeking a thread he knew well. He grabbed hold. 

And vanished. 

--

Arthur paced back and forth, rubbing his hands through his hair.

He sat down, tried to relax. Even spun his sword a few times.

It didn’t work. He stood up and started pacing again.

He glanced at the two blades and the gun that the drifter had left behind. The swords glowed, softly, one blue, one gold, and the shotgun was unlike any construction he’d ever seen. That man, and everything he brought with him, was so profoundly alien.

The drifter’s words echoed in his head.

‘I really do want to be here.’ Said so earnestly, so genuinely, almost pleading.

‘What do you think I have to go back to?’ Desperate. 

‘What’s waiting for me, way out there.’ 

Gods, he was a sodding idiot. 

He sat down. Hand on the pommel of the blade. A quick snap of the wrist sent it spinning, and he caught it before it could fall. 

He knew damn well what the drifter had meant.

He also hadn’t rebutted a single word Arthur had said. There was something profoundly, bizarrely selfish about the man, and it irritated him to no end. The drifter could leave. From what little he’d told them, he was wanted, too. The drifter had family there, his twin. He had people who would miss him, and he had people who could use his help, so why the fuck was he still here. 

A few quick keystrokes pulled up the audio log Quincy had given him, and he listened through it again. 

‘I’m here, expressly, to make sure that Entrati doesn’t get to storm in with the void on his heels, fuck up everything for everyone else, AGAIN, and then just waltz off and leave the rest of you to decay. Not like he even cared enough to stick around and watch, because there's a ninety percent chance that he’s already gone. Is that clear? The void’s got its attention here, so I stay until it goes.’

The drifter sounded so… angry. Sure, he’d been several shots in, but it was the most worked up he’d ever seen the man. Either the topic was sensitive, or they’d been underestimating the volatility of his emotions and had just gotten lucky thus far. Or both. 

And if Entrati had left, wouldn’t the void have moved its attention elsewhere to follow him?

He’d… Buggered this all up quite nicely. The opportunity to get the answers they wanted had been right there, but instead of listening, he’d gone and used the man as a bloody punching bag, just so he could release some of his own steam. He needed to apologize for that. Even if he did have worries, even if he was stressed, it wasn’t an excuse to treat him so harshly.

And…

And he’d told the drifter to go.

Ah shit.  

Arthur stood, gathering the drifter’s weapons, and ran. Up the escalators, through the shop. He kicked open the exit door, dashing down the hallway and…

The void portal was just… gone.  

It was the staircase that it always had been before.

Arthur sagged against the doorframe.

What had he done.

Chapter Text

The drifter jerked as his consciousness aligned with that other strand, slipping into a cradle that was both eerily human and utterly wrong. The massive metal construct jerked along with him, sucking in a deep breath and turning its head to look around. He was… Back in the laboratories. Good, good. He did like it here, the architecture was so graceful. Dark wood and gold, stone stretching high, spiraling staircases and glowing, etherial lights. Yes, Entrati did have good taste in furniture.

He transferred out of the construct, and just… Existed, for a second. He didn’t think about Arthur, or how his words had hurt. Or even how accurate they’d been, even if he’d missed some key details. He didn’t think about those details, either. 

One more moment of just being here, in this space. Breathing in the air, lightly dusty, basking in the near silence. Beautiful. It was just so beautiful. 

He called, and Gauss came, dragged to him through time and space. The transference was quick enough that the frame’s nerves didn't get the chance to wake up. In and out. The drifter caught the broken frame before it could hit the ground, lifted it in his arms, and started walking. 

This place was familiar. When he’d first come here, an eternity ago, he’d thought it utterly labyrinthine, and had gotten lost almost embarrassingly fast, but now he’d memorized enough that at very least, his feet knew where to go. On and on and on, through arching doors and past machines he didn’t understand. Past little necramites, maintaining everything in perfect order.

His boots clacked over stone, and thumped over wood. His arms got tired, so he sat down for a little bit and just admired the marvels around him. He spared many moments to wonder at how this place had been constructed, given that, since it was underground, they’d have needed to hollow out the whole area. Had it been done by machine, or man? Warframes? There were plenty of warframes who could likely pull off such a feat. Before the infestation had taken over, had this area perhaps been softer rock, or soil?

He lifted Gauss, and kept going. A left, at this staircase, his intuition told him, and he followed it. It was a skill he’d had since…

Don't…

No. 

It was alright to think about that, right now. 

He was already indifferent, and the memories couldn’t take that from him. And… That dream he’d had, where Eleanor had shown up. That was why he was thinking about the Zariman in the first place.

Memorizing paths and directions was a skill he’d learned since then. With a ship as large as the Zariman, you needed to be able to know where you were going, and getting lost was extremely, extremely unpleasant. He’d spent days, weeks, months lost, at some points, trying to find his way back to his food stashes and two skulls, who’s flower-eyes needed watering. They’d been dead by the time he’d made his way back, but he just replanted them.

Visiting the Zariman here, in this time-line, felt like a gut punch. He was needed, there, yes. Arthur had been right about that one, but at the same time… 

Seeing all that plant life, and wondering if it had grown from the seeds he’d spent so long planting and caring for, wondering if it had been watered by the systems he’d fixed to do just that, it… It hurt, and it felt wonderful all the same. He’d checked, more than once, the places where he used to haunt. It was rare he found his old things. Those two skulls eluded him still.

The grief oozed like blood through the chinks in his armor, coating the ground of his ambivalence. It would drown him if it had the chance.

So he stops thinking about it, and just keeps walking. 

--

“You.”

“Fucking.”

“Idiot.” 

Quincy accentuated every word with a stab at Arthur’s chest, leaning in the doorway.

“I volunteered to do the asking. I volunteered, because I was the one he knew didn’t trust him. What in the bloody hell were you thinking? No, I take that back, you weren’t, were you. His majesty, doin’ whatever he likes, whenever he likes. Even if it spells doom for the rest of us.”

Arthur rubbed his knuckles, and sighed. 

“No, you don’t just sigh at me, Lordship, you fucked this one right proper. What if he doesn’t come back, hmm? What if he really does go. How’re you gonna get us all outa this one. Huh?”

“I dont-”

“You know what? I’on’even care. Fuck you, man. Big-headed asshole. Maybe if you got that damn sword out your ass you’d be half the man you should be. Don’t save me next time, I’d rather die. Woulda spared me all this shit if it’d happened then.”

Quincy slammed the door shut as he left.

Arthur slowly slid his face into his hands, and sighed again. Deeply.

He’d told the others over text chat, because that was easier.

‘Marty went to the future to fix up his warframe.’ He’d said.

‘Only half the story.’ Lettie had typed. ‘Be honest. You pushed him too far.’

He hadn’t responded, and Quincy had come for clarification within two minutes, gun slung over his shoulder. 

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, sighed for a third time, and then stepped out to explain things better than whatever the hell was going on with all that yelling.

--

The drifter was fine, really. He didn’t even think about it. What was it? Didn’t matter. Out of the brain. Just gone. Hurrah.

And he was nearly there, he hoped, to the center of the lab. If anyone could fix his mess, it’d be his twin. And if anyone could get in touch with his twin, it’d be Loid. 

Hopefully. 

His footsteps took him to a circular room with a pedestal of sorts in the center. How… Did this thing work, again? He gave it a light kick, and it rose, rings spinning around a magnificent, obol-encrusted orb. The elevator began to move, and he hoped that it was going in the right direction. Admittedly, it was nice to be in a place where technology was advanced enough to not need him to press buttons. Felt more like home, to him, and he’d grown fond of gold trimmings.

There was such a thing as too much gold, but good lighting made up for it. 

Five minutes later, Loid was fussing over the two of them, dragging him by the shoulder into a side room, dramatically sweeping everything off of a nearby desk, and directing him to put the warframe down. Papers fluttered about them, pens rolled on the floor. Odd glass tubes bounced off of adjacent table legs, and tinked down steps. Even a mug had been sacrificed for the moment, and dark liquid pooled about it. 

The drifter was immensely fond of the man. 

“I’ll get in touch with her right away. You, sit. You look awful. I’ll get you some tea. God, what have you been up to? Where'd you find enough trouble to do that sort of damage to Gauss of all frames?”

“Uh…”

“On second thought, tell me after I get you something to drink.” The man nodded, adjusted his glasses, and whipped around with a twirl of fabric and platinum blonde hair. And he was gone.

The drifter shifted in his plush seat, and leaned over, doing his best to read the pages that had fallen. They were… Notes, by the look of it, on both the degradation of the labs, and… The cavia. He picked up a page, straightening it with a snap, and looked closer. 

These were…

Test… results?

He grabbed another page, something frantic taking over. The world had kept spinning while he’d been in 1999 after all. He grabbed more of the pages. Different amounts of materials, tested against the void’s radiation itself. Oddly enough, this universe’s innate radiation and the void’s radiation didn’t seem to mix, according to these. Like two opposite waves, cancelling out. It made no sense, but the void never made sense, did it. 

The goal seemed consistent. 

Remove void radiation without killing the subject.

Hope flared in his chest.

Could it even be possible?

Could it…

Maybe he didn’t have to live forever, after all. 

Maybe the song could end.

He didn’t need to survive the process, he just needed time to not rewind.

Maybe…

The thoughts came and went, but they left a trail of every emotion he’d ever had access to. 

The drifter swallowed, suddenly feeling… 

If there was an end, then he had time to feel.

If there was an end, there was no time.

If there was an end, he could finally rest.

If there was an end, he couldn’t rest.

If there was an end, he could…

His hands were trembling, tears slipping down his cheeks and dropping onto the papers he clung to like a lifeline, as ironic as that was.

All the tests were failures, but that was okay. For once, for once, maybe he didn’t need to survive.

If he could nullify the void energy inside of himself, maybe the music would finally let him go. 

Freedom. True freedom.

True oblivion.

All the pain would finally stop.

A thought brushed against his fevered consciousness. Then another, and another.

Laughter. Not echoing and fake, but… Sitting across from him. Aoi, explaining in detail the way that Arthur had once tried to jump a stone wall on his atomicycle by using a car as a ramp, and had absolutely eaten shit. She’d made the whole scene with metal, and told it with such humor that he’d laughed so hard he’d nearly choked.

A smile. Amir, beaming as the drifter had offered genuine praise for a genuinely good idea. Another smile. The kind that started small and grew over time, as Amir told him about his thoughts on a particular series whose next installment was supposed to release in 1999, but that he hadn’t been able to get a copy of due to the martial law. 

A tune. Plucked out on the shawzin, his own fingers fluttering over the strings, giving the music a breathy feel. Teshin had told him it sounded like a bird in flight, and he’d found another shawzin so that they could play together. He’d loved just sitting next to his… Teshin felt more like family than a friend, but he didn’t know what to call him other than friend. He loved sitting next to him and playing, as he was told grand stories and histories that he’d never read in the libraries. 

A hug, his first like it in hundreds of years. Eleanor’s arms around him, holding him as he broke. Just… holding him, keeping him safe, keeping him whole. Her voice, telling him that he would always be remembered, no matter how time flowed.

Loid’s warm, real hand gently rested on his shoulder, and the papers were plucked out of his hand and replaced with a glass of steaming tea. The man didn’t say anything, but he left that hand there.

You are not alone. The touch seemed to say.

Sometimes, it sounded almost like a threat. Sometimes, he resented the words. It would be so much easier to just… vanish. To be forgotten. It’d be so much easier to fade into oblivion. To be nothing more than the drifter.

But…

You are not alone.

Other times, he…

Other times he wasn’t strong enough to keep going on his own, and it was only because of others that he was able to pick himself back up and keep going. Duviri had taught him that. The Zariman had taught him that. 

He took a drink, trembling. It was good tea, Loid had mastered the art long ago. 

“The tenno is on their way,” The man said softly, rubbing his back. The motions were firm, and yet gentle, somehow. It helped. “They should be here within the hour, given things hold out well. I won’t… press, despite my earlier excitement. I know better than to be too nosy into the things you get up to.” The drifter looked up at him, wiping away his tears, and Loid made a face once he knew it would be seen. All wrinkled nose and disgruntled ‘eegh.’ The drifter snorted. And drank a little more tea. 

“How ever, if you are willing to talk, I won’t deny I am very curious to find out what you’ve been up to. I see you found my lab papers. To make it even, before you ask, I’ll explain what I’ve been up to first, howabout that.” 

The drifter nodded, feeling a little more human. He was really thirsty, when he thought about it, and he drank more readily. 

“The cavia are… Decaying. ” Loid explained, adjusting his glasses. “I’m trying to figure out how to combat it. And... That’s… The entire story, actually.” 

He blinked. 

“Succinct of me, I know. I’m getting good at being brief. Though, I haven’t heard more out of you than an ‘uh’, so you might have me beat still.” 

The drifter snorted again, leaning back a little in his chair, blinking away the last of the haze. “The Lotus hasn't been keeping an eye on me?” 

“That woman doesn’t tell me anything, Drifter. Even if she was, I highly doubt she'd spare me the details.” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Though I know damn well you went back to wherever my Albrecht ran off to. You find him?”

“...Yeah. He shot me through the chest, actually. Hurt like a bitch.”

“Damnation.” The man cursed. It sounded so much better when it was Loid saying it, he put so much punch into his words. “You have tabs on him then?”

“Nah. So. Here’s what happened.” The drifter downed the rest of his tea, and then explained the rest of the story.

Chapter Text

“It sounds like you have… mixed feelings about this Arthur,” Loid mused, steepling his fingers.

The drifter groaned softly, sinking a little lower in his chair, and sipped his fourth cup of tea. “Gods, that's one way to put it, yeah. I… Thought… For like, a month, there, that maybe we were actually starting to get along. Maybe I could actually do the whole…” He waved a hand, gesturing off, “ help him not fucking die thing. But… Gah. I dunno. It might have all been an act. Just a game, of some kind. I’m tired of games. ”

“Well… There’s always the chance that he himself is confused over that very subject, you know. ” Loid tilted his fingers towards the drifter. “But I see your point. It’s dreadful when you suddenly realize that people have been keeping things from you, isn’t it.”

He took another sip of his tea, casting Loid a tired look, obviously understanding exactly what he was implying and choosing to read it wrong on purpose. “Suppose you’d know better than me, for sure. I don’t… I don’t know if I can help them. Not really, I mean. What if everyone lives, but the year resets them all anyway? Do I just… Do it all again?”

Loid shrugged. “Not my forte, that one's up to you. Until that bastard clone of my Albrecht shows his face again, it's hard to say where exactly the Indifference is looking, so we don’t even know how long that time loop will last, or if you’re even needed to repeat it at all.”

“That’s the whole problem, isn’t it.” He sighed again, rubbing his head. “They do remember, sometimes. Usually whenever they’ve interacted with me, but at the same damn time, I have no clue if they will even actually keep their memories if I reset the year. If they don’t, then the only thing I’m good for is keeping an eye out for void rifts.”

“One could argue that that is quite important, you know.” 

The drifter tilted his head from side to side, and then faded a little, drawing in. 

“But…?” Loid pressed, raising a brow and leaning in. 

“...But nothing. You’re right.” He mumbled, and hid his face in another sip of tea. 

Loid lifted his brow further.

The drifter didn’t look at him.

He leaned in a little more.

The drifter fidgeted, glancing at him, then away, leaning back.

“But…?” He repeated.

The drifter cracked. Sighed. Put the cup down. About time, Loid’s back was starting to hurt.

“...I don’t… Know. If… I…”

“...If you what ?”

“If I belong there.” He finishes, like it hurt to say the words out loud. “I want to help, but damnit, I don’t even know how. My twin-”

“Dust, she prefers,”

“- Dust, whatever. She’s the one they need, not me. I’m not…” He lifted his hands, gesturing helplessly. “I have no experience with this. If they needed me to kill a god, I’d be down, but you can't kill the Indifference. I tried, I really did. How the hell am I supposed to do anything for any of them?” 

Loid folded his arms, leaning back, studying the man. Sometimes he could forget. The tenno looked young, awfully young, and yet had the life experience to match her true age. A child outside, but a fully capable adult, within. Give or take, with the amnesia. This man was the opposite. Externally he looked… Late twenties to early thirties, sure, but he had about the same life experience as the Cavia. Maybe even less. Unless you counted whatever the hell Duviri had been as ‘life experience’.

On second thought, maybe it was less the life experience, and more the people experience that the drifter lacked. Same issues either way. Duviri was still a ‘whatever the hell that was’ sort of situation that only tallied against score.

…

Hold on.

“ Well. ” He mused. “Only way to save them is to know them, right?” The drifter nodded, frowning, because that was the whole problem. “That sort of thing does go both ways. Maybe if you… I don’t know, and here me out here, maybe tried sharing this information with them, they’d be a bit more receptive?”

The drifter blinked, and then his shoulders dropped. “If I tell them the truth, that I can’t protect them from the void forever, that everything will come apart eventually, I don’t see them taking it well.”

“That is not what I said.” 

“It’s what it’d mean, though.”

“It damn well isn’t. Always so extreme with you, Drifter.” He rolled his eyes. “Black or white, hmm? Have you considered, I don’t know, an uncertain grey from time to time?” 

“I am the uncertain grey, damnit. All I am is uncertain!” 

“Black and white stripes do not a grey make.”

“They sure as hell do if you look at it from far enough away.” 

“And you’re trying to get close. Tough luck.” 

The drifter groaned again, rubbing his face, pulling down his cheeks. 

“Yes, I know, it’s quite scary being vulnerable about your failings.” Loid poured himself another cup of tea. “Certainly does help folks, from time to time. You should try it more often.” He took a sip. “Do tell me how it goes, won't you?”

“Sometimes I really dislike you.” The drifter grumbled, but he still held out his cup, and muttered, ‘more tea please’ under his breath. Loid poured him another cup, because obviously the man really needed some tea. What was that, number five? Six? Did the man just not have a bladder? 

He wouldn’t be particularly surprised at that, actually. 

“Have you tried talking to them like you’re talking to me, right now?” 

The drifter looked at him flatly. “Would you let me stuff my mind and soul into your body?” 

Loid blinked. “ What? Like transference? Not unless you were looking to woo me, and you're not my type.” 

“Hah-hah. So it's a no, which means obviously this wouldn’t work.” 

“That’s bullshit. A sample size of one is a horrid experiment, and we haven’t talked since you left.” 

“You’re a horrid experiment.” 

“Actually, I’m not. You on the other hand-” 

“Wait. Don’t. I take it back. Don’t finish that, please.” And the drifter meant it, and Loid could tell. They were quiet for a moment.

The door opened behind them, and Excalibur Umbra walked in. 

Loid could always tell when it was the Tenno piloting, because there was a certain, almost mechanical spring to their step. Inversely, when Umbra was controlling himself, there was an almost… Well. The best way to put it would be prowling, way he walked instead, like he was doing now. He nodded a hello, (He got one back) and the Drifter tried to shrink into his chair. 

Umbra’s attention was now firmly on that man, who seemed to be doing his best to be as invisible as possible, and failing, because he was somewhere around two meters tall (more, probably) and was not light on the muscle department. The warframe straightened, and crossed its arms.

“No Dust?” He asked politely. 

Dust was there a second later, manifesting from an explosion of soft blue and green light that re-formed into her slight body. “I’m here. Any tea left?” 

“Oh, we’ve got a little, I think. The drifter here’s drunk most of it. Here, let me get you a cup, I need to make a fresh pot anyway. Umbra?” The warframe didn’t have a mouth, but he asked anyway, because it was polite. Umbra cocked his head, and then shrugged, and nodded. Well. Alright then. He made his way out. 

It was a well known fact, among the single digit handful of people who knew him, that if you wanted the drifter to be willing to talk, all you had to do was look at him. It took a bit of time, but it worked. The longer you stared, the more uncomfortable he’d get, and the less likely he was to start dodging questions. 

So Dust stared at him, and Umbra stared along with, though he’d re-sealed his mask.

The drifter sipped his tea, and gave a long, long sigh. Not making eye contact, but that was normal.

“How?” She asked, gesturing with her nose to the absolute wreckage of Gauss behind him.

“Bomb.”

“Gauss can take a bomb, we both know that.” 

The drifter winced again, rubbing the side of his neck. “Not when he’s already used up everything he’s got, he can’t.”

Well… That was true.

“...Please.” He said after a moment of silence. “I… I messed up, I can admit that, and… I’d really, really appreciate it if you could…”

“...I know that you probably tried your best to prevent this, so I’m not going to lecture you about it. I’ll see what I can do, okay?” She offered gently, reaching forward to pat him on the knee. He flinched when her hand touched him, and then nodded.

“Loid said you weren’t doing too well. Is… Everything alright?”

The drifter’s lips formed into a flat line.

“Did you get any communications from the Lotus? I asked her to send you a message.”

The drifter’s shoulders hunched. That… Was a ‘yes, but I purposefully ignored that it happened’ sort of hunch. This man. How was she supposed to reach someone who didn’t want to reach back? The longer things had gone on, the farther, and harder, he’d pulled away.

Umbra stepped forward, and she stepped back, letting him have room enough to kneel in front of the drifter and offer a singular hand. 

He looked at it, jaw tensing, glancing between the two of them. Yes, he was well aware that they were linked, still. She let herself hope anyway, and, praise be to all that were, he reached out a hand and took Umbra’s, at very least. 

Through the transference link, in just a moment, she could get echoes of who he was. Pain and  regret and longing, all twisted together into a knot that had lost its beginning and its end, and didn’t know where to even start to unravel. Unsure whether to reach out or pull away. They’d lose the arm, if they tried for help, but they couldn’t survive alone.

Lotus’s champion indeed. She couldn’t deny the spike of frustration she felt. The Lotus was their mother, of a sort, but sometimes…

Some decisions she just didn’t understand.

Umbra and the Drifter were conversing, she could feel it, even if all she could see was the way his eyes kept shifting, or the way he kept on drawing in. There was a soft musicality in their link. She could... Decipher it, if she wanted, but she didn't. She knew they could both tell. 

A quick pull, and Umbra had wrapped him in a firm, strong hug. He gave a shaky exhale, seeming unsure, hands twitching, not reciprocating for a long moment.

Until he did, gently wrapping his arms around Umbra's dark form, and he just seemed to… melt.  

Good.

Chapter Text

The drifter… Wasn’t sure how he was feeling right now. There was so much of… everything. He was overwhelmed, that was for sure, but also he felt wonderful, and at the same time he was stressed out of his mind, and he wanted to huddle in a corner somewhere and cry. But maybe also laugh from relief, because his twin, and Umbra by his own will, had been willing to help, and an infinity more. Or maybe scream, because… He couldn’t find a specific reason, but maybe screaming would make him feel better. He could die. Gauss would live. He wasn’t alone. He felt it, for the first time in his life. He truly felt it.

Umbra held Gauss in his arms like the frame was precious, which it was, and was carrying it back to their orbiter, the operator walking beside him and chatting amicably. Despite it sounding like an utterly one sided conversation, minute movements and shifts gave the truth. 

Umbra could speak just fine, because he didn’t need words. When they’d discussed earlier, their whole communication had been so… So freeing. It had reminded him of conversing with Eleanor, but raw. Somehow primal, and elegant, all at once. No words had been shared, only memories, emotion, and intent, because Umbra spoke with the thoughts that came before they were translated into language.

He hadn’t asked, per se, what was wrong, Umbra had just been there and had requested that the drifter just be there too, no matter what he was feeling. A partial link, ever so briefly linking all three of them together by their souls. And Umbra had experienced his emotions along with him, and that had been enough.

Because he’d understood.

The drifter’s feelings had been tied to his memories, because they were caused by his memories, and the faint glimpses had given the ancient frame all the information he’d needed to offer his help. He'd wanted to try and give some hope to the protoframes, because even if they were consumed, even if they were corrupted, it was not a guarantee that they’d lose their humanity. 

Umbra had reached deeper, though, gently tugging on threads he hadn’t realized made up the knot, and it hadn’t hurt because… Once they were pulled free, he had seen why Umbra had been able to find them at all.

It was because they had been the same, once. Locked in a cycle, repeating, repeating, repeating, everything falling out of control. Spiraling further into insanity until all that was left was either oblivion or madness. He’d…

He’d been there.

He’d been there. 

He’d been there.

The drifter wasn’t alone. His agony was understood. Actually understood. Umbra may not have died on repeat, but he’d seen glimpses, and felt the loss. Gods, it was… It was worse, perhaps, than having your own world turn against you, to kill the person you loved the most over and over and over, just so you’d break and be too lost in your own self hatred and grief to resist the control of someone else. Umbra had relied on anger to keep his mind despite the years and years of torment. He felt the depths of it, and he understood it so, so well, because he’d done the same.

And the grieving father had embraced the forgotten son. 

He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t alone. He was not alone, and he never would be. He was understood, he was wanted.

The exchange had taken seconds. 

Only seconds.

He felt lightheaded. 

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to laugh.

He didn’t know what to do. 

He followed the two, stepping onto the ship, because the other option was going back, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. 

Dust looked back at him and smiled, softly, before reaching out and taking his hand. He almost pulled away, but…

They were so different, and neither of them could use transference on each other, but for some reason Dust cared anyway. Even though he didn’t belong there. Even though this wasn’t his reality, and she was more than capable enough to do everything he did and a hundred times more. The envy was still there, the sorrow, the anger, the fear, but he couldn’t pick them and them alone out of the muddled mess.  

Why did she care? 

He already knew the answer to that question, because it was the same answer he had.

Because you had to care for something. You had to have something to hold onto, and Dust… Dust had chosen the people around her. The drifter had tried, but he didn’t know how, or if he was even doing it right.

How did you ask for help when you didn’t know what you were asking for?

What did she have that he didn’t? Or… More accurately. What did she know that he didn’t?

Umbra took the corpse through the ship, and stepped into a back room.

“We’ll see what we can salvage,” Dust explained, nudging him. “The helminth should be able to dissolve off everything that can’t be regrown, which might leave us with enough to reform the central nervous system. Even if we need to form another body, that’ll at least let it keep its memories intact, alright?” 

He nodded, because what else was there to do? She patted his arm, and gave him a little salute before moving off to another side room on the other side of the hall. 

The drifter stood there.

He leaned back just enough that his back hit the smooth wall, and… slid down to sit.

What else was there to do, but wait? 

The overwhelming… everything was… too much to think about, right now. He didn’t even know where to begin to process it all, so he just… Put it away. Later. Always later.

He could die. He could be killed. Not just through a slow degradation of body, until he was barely a husk of his former self, but true death. Without the void to sustain him, he wouldn’t be sustained. He’d take a bullet, and that’d be it, just like everyone else. Someday, anyway. That was a choice he couldn’t make, right now.

But even so, how much longer would he have access to ‘later’?

He ran his fingers through his hair, and buried his forehead into his palms. They felt… wet. He was crying. The tears just… Wouldn’t stop. He sniffled, trying to wipe them away. It didn’t work. Damnit, not again. 

Something had broken inside of him, during his conversation with Umbra, and he didn’t know how to fix it, because…

‘You’re feeling now, aren’t you.’ Teshin’s voice, echoing softly in his head. He missed Teshin. He… He wanted to hear him tell stories again. He wanted to spar with him, hell, he’d even be willing to lose fifteen games of Komi in a row. He wanted his friend back. He wanted to go home, he wanted it so badly, he just wanted to be safe.  

But where was home?

He couldn’t stop crying, and he tried, he really did. The tears were silent, but he was ashamed of them anyway, and he hid his face in his shawl, burying it into the fabric and letting the tears stain that instead of anything else. He curled up, tight.

He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong in Duviri, or on the Zariman, and he didn’t know if he belonged back in the past, either. His home was gone. It’d been lost to the infinite void, his old reality swallowed up and subsumed. He was the only survivor. His parents were dead. He had no relatives. He had friends, yes, but he wouldn’t want to burden them with his… Everything. He didn’t want to risk anything he’d experienced before repeating, it was safer to be distant, it was safer to be a drifter, but damn him was it so…

Lonely.

That was the word he had been looking for. Lonely. It was lonely to be alone. He felt so isolated and out of place, he felt lonely, even when he was with people he cared about, and he didn’t… Know why. Existing back in 1999 had felt so lonely. He’d… Everything he’d done had been so careful, because if he just was, if they saw him, for the little broken child he was, then how could they possibly rely on him? He’d just… Make things worse, wouldn’t he? How could he bring people hope, even if he was weak? Fallible?

Umbra had seen him, had embraced him, but the frame needed distance and time. Not even the Operator knew where he was, more often than not, and the drifter knew full well it wasn’t his place to intrude. But he wanted… Gods. Thinking through it, trying to think through it, was so… hard. Why was it so hard to just put words to what he wanted? Why was it so hard to…

Someone sat down beside him, and something thunked against the metal ground. 

It was Dust, sitting next to him, holding a shawzin by its long, graceful neck. They leaned it towards him, and he peered at it and her from between his arms. She wasn’t looking in his direction, gazing upwards at nothing in particular. Smart kid. 

“I know you… Don’t feel all that comfortable around me.” They said after a moment. “And you don’t have to. You don’t have to talk, but… I want to listen. I know I don’t understand you, but I want to.”

He could feel his chest tightening up, everything just… Shutting down. He didn’t want to hurt them with the emotions he couldn’t control. She deserved better than that. So he turned his head away.

“Would you play me a song?” She asked softly. And…

She sounded…

Unsure. 

Unsteady.

Small.

That wasn’t… She was always so confident, somehow.

Curious, confused, he met her gaze, straightening a little. “What?” 

“A song. Anything. I just…” They rubbed their forehead. “I know we don’t interact much, and you’d prefer your peace, but I… I understand one thing, I think. Sometimes words don’t cover everything. Sometimes you’d need a thousand years to explain every facet of a feeling, you know?”

He did. He nodded.

“So… I was wondering if you’d…” She lifted the shawzin, and offered it. “Maybe play them. Or just… Try. I know you like music, at the very least.”

Play his emotions?

Numb, distant, he reached out and took the instrument. It was dark and ornate, with gold trimmings and white streaks on the body, and he strummed over the strings once or twice to get a feel for its tuning. It was well maintained, by the sound of it, and the music it made was beautifully thin and delicate.

A few notes, just to get the feel of it. The strings weren’t made for human fingers, obviously, definitely some sort of strong steel that stung and resisted his attempts to play. It was built… For the strength of a warframe. Odd.

Hesitantly, Dust handed him a pick, of sorts, though it was a bit thicker than ones he’d seen before, and he took it, and tried that. 

It worked better. The notes were crisp, when he didn’t find himself irritated by the pain or strength required to pluck them.

“How do you feel about Gauss?” They asked, wrapping their arms around their knees and pulling them close. 

How did he feel? For a moment he forgot about the exercise, and found himself trying for words. But… 

He strummed, and switched positionings, drawing his fingers lower on the fretboard. Something in a major key, for Gauss. Not his current pain, or worry, for the frame, but the way the very name made him feel. Quick, vibrant. The tune found him, notes rising and falling like rapid breath, always moving upwards, always moving forwards. Motion. Freedom. 

The drifter closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall, just playing. How fast could he get his fingers to go? A strike of his extended non-pick holding fingers against the body of the shawzin provided a percussive beat. Notes flowed like water. 

It was easier to breathe, like this, when it was just him and the music. Easier to think when there were no words to say.

Dust listened, silent, wide eyed as the drifter played. He was… incredible, and that soft, relaxed smile on his face… Umbra opened the door behind them, brushing a few scraps of charred flesh off of his thighs, and stopped. 

A soft question, and she nodded, lifting a finger to their lips.

He stayed, crossing his arms behind his back, standing just to the side. 

This was it. This was how Dust could connect with him. This was how he’d talk, if she could figure out how to listen to what he was saying.

The drifter played an ode to life itself. To feeling again. To freedom. He could have played forever. Faster. Faster. The tune was ever shifting, always bringing something new, old stanzas echoing only when he could improve upon them. Living was movement. Time was motion. 

He loved Gauss, he loved the way it felt to exist in its head. He loved how it perfected him, he loved getting to move as fast as, if not faster than, his ever-racing head could go, but that wasn’t all of it. It was almost more that it was an option, now. It was surviving so many years of just walking, moving on his own two feet, never thinking at all, because that would mean he’d have to consider what he could and couldn’t do. And there was always so much he had never been able to do.

Gauss, all of the warframes, were… An end to helplessness. His tone modulated, going from merely energetic progression to something lighter. Something hopeful. Because that's what it was, at the core of the matter. Life, hope, and change. He finally, for once, had the opportunity to be something so far beyond his own capacity that maybe, just maybe, he’d be capable of something worthwhile. His work with Narmer had been so slow, on his own, and he’d needed to fixate on every tiny task just to feel like he was doing something. Every veil broken had taken so much effort, until he’d… Until Hunhow and the Shadow had given him aid. Until the operator had let him use their power, once again. 

On his own, he was nothing.

The music died off, his hands hovering just above the strings.

Silence filled in the spaces between the echoes, until it had smothered every sound. 

It was its own song, in his ears, even if… 

“That sounded like it felt for me, I think. All the power in the world, if I could figure out how to use it.” 

He nodded, because that was how it felt.

“How do you feel about the past? Where the Lotus sent you, I mean.” Dust asked, softly, leaning in a little, just enough to rest their shoulder against his.

He began to play again.

Slower, in a minor key. A ponderous sort of song, and he tapped the tip of his thumb against the strings he was playing in between plucks, making it staccato. Giving it a ticking sort of rhythm. Time was always moving. Always running out. He switched to a major key, slowing it down further, adding more in between the spaces of each tick, and then sped it back up again and returned to a minor one, oscillating between the two. Because he didn’t know which one fit the song best, he did both. Sometimes at once, fingers stretched at somewhat awkward angles.

“It sounds…” They mused, “complicated. ”

He snorted softly, and strummed a soft three note trill, medium, high, and a higher medium, sliding his finger over the frets. Like a spoken ‘yeah’. She snickered, and Umbra sat down from where he’d been standing.

Dust ‘hmm’-ed softly, 

“How about the Zariman? When we split. What was that... Like?”

That was… A hard song to play. He tried anyway. 

To begin, he had to… Capture the song. The void song that always lingered in the back of his head, the one that resonated from his very soul. He tried doing one string at first, stopped, frowned, and tried two, but that wasn’t.. Right. It took him a few seconds to figure out the positionings, and then he tried again.

All three strings at once, playing three different sets of music. He managed it for about four seconds before he couldn’t keep up with the song, and sighed. He’d need twenty or thirty more strings, and an equal amount of hands, if he wanted to play the sort of music that time made. 

“...Chaos?” The operator asked, squinting at his extremely awkward attempts and hand placements. Eh. Chaos was… Accurate enough, but there was more. 

So, one last try. Not the void song itself, though he dedicated one string to that chaotic melody. With how much movement he’d need to do, he twisted his wrist and used his thumb. On the last two strings, he… He just strummed, once, every so often. In a soft, minor key, just off harmony with the chaos, but close enough that it was clear it was trying to coexist. It was doing its best, and failing. He let it fall farther and farther out of sync, and began to speed it up until the two resynched, playing the harmony on all three strings at once. It was discordant, and unpleasant on his fingers. It was madness. It was falling until you had broken through what everyone thought had been the bottom and found yourself someplace even worse. 

“After the Zariman, comes insanity.” He whispered, and shifted the harmony, just enough to make it once more align with something that sounded almost, almost like a regular key, but he’d always make things a little too high, or a little too low. Just wrong. Just barely, barely wrong. Enough that you could tell, but not enough that the melody wasn’t beautiful. 

 “Duviri?” Dust guessed, keeping her voice as soft as his, and he nodded, continuing the song.

He kept it beautiful, until it wasn’t. He let the notes get higher. Hopeful, like the song he’d played for Gauss, until everything aligned into perfect key. It wasn’t particularly fast paced, but it was right.  

And then he stopped the notes with a sharp slap of his hand, and attacked the strings. He played, he played, he played, taking stanzas he’d done before and echoing them in reverse as if the whole song could be unraveled, so fast that his fingers ached, his tendons pulled to their limits. He knew this song. He’d known these songs for hundreds of years, he’d played them so many times before that thought wasn’t necessary. 

They were an irremovable part of his soul. Words could never replicate it, and he’d tried. 

He began to repeat the reversed stanzas, but cut out notes. The proper beat flew out the window, the rhythm just gone. Madness. He played the song of a child’s soul slowly shattering away. Every repeat took something new. He’d return notes once in a while, but the song just. Kept. Taking. It took and took, the time every repeat was even allowed narrowing until he was only playing two notes, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, quieter and quieter and quieter… Everything else had fallen away. Every sound but those, until there was one note, and one note alone. Perfectly in the middle of the musical capacity of the instrument. One last strum, and he let it ring out, clear and strong, the last remnants of a broken mind screaming in defiance against infinity itself… And he lowered the shawzin, and let it die.

“What happened?” They whispered, from where they snuggled in beside him.

“A meteor.” He answered softly. “The hand of the lotus. I’d never have gotten out without it.”

She nodded, tucking her head in against his shoulder, asking nothing more of him.

They were silent, all three of them. Just existing.

He'd... Played how he felt. He'd done it. He'd captured the songs he'd held in his head for so long. The emotions, the thoughts, the memories all threatened to overwhelm him so, so often, but now... It was so much easier when it was music.

“How…” He whispered, feeling the tears threaten him again. “How do you do this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Get me to… I’ve never been able to… I’ve never…”

“...Shared this before? Out loud?” She asked, straightening just enough to look him in the eyes.

He nodded.

She thought for a moment, and then leaned back in to rest against him once more. “Ballas once said that the ultimate power of the Tenno, us, was to ‘look inside a broken thing and take away its pain.’ And… He didn’t understand, then. I don’t think he ever could have.”

He let her speak, but listened, wanting, needing the answer. 

“The truth is, we can’t take away anything, but it helps to feel understood, right?” 

He nodded again.

“That's all I can do. I just… Try to understand, and accept. You didn’t want to talk, but I could feel your pain. I know that you…” She hesitated, rubbing her jaw. “I know you wish you’d been saved, Drifter, and seeing me probably reminds you of that. I know it's hard, even if I can’t… feel what you feel. Admittedly, this is easier when it’s done with transference, because then I really can understand.”

Umbra gently rested a fist on his chest, over his heart. 

“You also overthink things a lot,” She nudged him, and he hunched a bit. “Loid told me about your conversation with him, I… Figured. That maybe, the best way to get you to be able to express yourself was to give you something you’d not need to think too much about doing. If this didn’t work, I was gonna… Actually try to see if you’d paint, maybe. Or ask you to spar with me.” 

“Spar with you.” He says, voice a little ragged still, lips twitching into a smile. “I have two feet on you, Dust.”

“I know, ” They lifted their hands, “But it was worth a shot!”

“Why ?” He asks, utterly genuine, and she side-eyed him. 

“Because you’re the reason I exist, dumbass, and you’re probably one of the most heroic idiots I’ve ever even heard of even ignoring the Zariman.”

“Alright, hold on. What the hell are you talking about?” He chuffs, though he couldn’t deny the little spark of something in his chest that burst into being at that praise.

“Your deal,” she gently shoved him. “You. You’re the reason we all got rescued. You’re why all of us, the tenno, are here at all.”

“I asked for…”

He stopped.

He’d asked for them to all be safe. He’d…

“I thought…”

“That it only applied to your own universe, right?” She said lifting a brow, and he nodded, that spark blooming into something warm.

“I think it applies everywhere, drifter. Every single tenno got out of there alive. Somewhere, somehow. Including all of those other variants of you. Which includes me. ”

His breath stuck in his throat, and he clutched the shawzin in his arms. He’d… A thousand emotions twisted inside him, writhing for dominance. Those tears were back.

“Not only that,” Dust continued, gentler, but lighter in tone. “But you, without a warframe, took on and killed two sentient controlled primes.”

“I had help, and I can’t die,” He protested weakly, and she rolled her eyes. 

“You still did it, no matter how many tries it took. You saved the Lotus from dying, back when I was stuck trying to escape the void. You started the uprising against Narmer, the real one. You were the tinder, and the spark. Give yourself some credit, man.” She punched him on the arm, and he winced, rubbing it. It had been a hard punch, too. Cruel kid.

But it wasn’t… He hadn’t really done all that much. 

“Admit it.” Dust shook him by the shoulder. “Admit you did something good.”

He kept his face neutral, or tried to. That smile on her face was infectious. Smiles were always infectious.

“Come onnn,” She shook him harder, and then looked at Umbra. “Back me up here! He did!”

Umbra nodded solemnly.

“See? He agrees! You did good, and even if you don’t know shit, you’re still trying. You’ve gotta admit that that counts for something.” They kept shaking him, and he found himself smiling. 

“HAH! You smiled! I saw that! And that was a real one too, I got you. Ordis, tell him.” 

“Ordis is happy to report that the smile was documented, Operator. Along with everything else.” 

“What?” He yelped, feeling his face flush, and he lept to his feet. “What do you mean, everything else? ” 

Dust grinned. He glared at her.

“Ordis was… not recording anything.” Ordis said, sheepish, over the intercom. “Ordis values personal privacy over beautiful music, and would never create records for future listening.” 

“Oh fuck off,” He wailed, smacking the hand that wasn’t cradling the shawzin against his forehead. “You what?” 

“Hey! It was beautiful music.” She laughed, and Umbra nodded again, pointing at the shawzin, (pointedly) and then gesturing at himself. “And,” Dust added. “Umbra likes composing.” 

“Ordis would also add that Master Umbra desired to have all songs played on his instruments recorded, specifically... For composing purposes.” 

“Ordis! You traitor!”

“Ordis has never been a traitor a day in his life.”

“Oh you know what I meant,” He waved him off, and sat back down with a groan, and turned his best scowl to Dust, who was looking at him utterly innocently. “I’m not playing another damn song on this ship.” 

“Damn.” 

“Don’t swear, kid. It's bad form. You're like twelve.”

She snorted, and then pealed off into loud laughter, and he broke, joining in.

It felt wonderful.

He felt... light. Like the moon, maybe. The thought made him smile inside all over again. 

Later that day, after they'd eaten something and Umbra had vanished off into the night, Dust had told him that it'd take some time to gather everything they'd need, but that Gauss would be just fine. And in the mean time, there were a few things she thought he might like to know, given his worries for the Hex.

--

(The drifter played an ode to life itself...)

Chapter Text

Arthur sat, running his hand over his stubble, glaring at the pages he held as if he could fix every problem through cowing them into submission. A lack of supplies, however, wasn’t something you could treat like an unruly recruit, and it definitely didn’t care how you looked at it. 

They were running out of food. 

Food had always been a problem. Put an entire city under the control of a military who wanted the civilians in it gone, and trade died like a bug beneath a boot. Local gardening efforts would take more time to come to fruition, figuratively and literally, and there was no possible way to feed everyone off of the little space they had. Moreover, no-place was safe.

He pulled the topmost paper off of the clipboard, and turned it over to read the rest of the reports. Techrot populations had exploded in recent days, forcing more and more of the garden that the civilians had managed to set up to be abandoned. The entire west side of the city had become unlivable, and the Scaldra had redoubled their efforts, sure, but it was obvious they too were running out of supplies of their own. He’d seen it in their armor, less efervon bubbling, more reliance on solid layers of fabric, plastic, rubber, and Kevlar, which didn’t do much when you were getting clubbed to death by sentient machines. It did make the Hex’s strikes more difficult, which… concerned him.

All of the Scaldra’s recent tactics concerned him. They were more reckless, with a higher reliance on airborne supply chains, which meant that it was nearly impossible for the Hex to sabotage convoys and make off with what they needed like they’d used to. Now, they needed to strike directly at well fortified camps and that was a risk he hated taking. 

Additionally, there was the problem with the Major. Reports were conflicting.

Some said that she’d vanished, abandoning her military to the hands of Lieutenant Viktor Vodyanoi. 

But how could she have vanished if they’d seen her? She had headed the raid on the mall, some months ago. She’d been the one who’d bested the Drifter, and left him utterly mentally comatose for days. Obviously, she was present, but then, why the change in command?

He tapped the clipboard against his palm, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning his weight onto them.

If he had to bet on it, he’d guess that the rest of the Scaldra military didn’t know either. The drifter had said that she’d been replicated by the Indifference, but that meant that the original should have still been out there. Which were they facing? Or was she being controlled directly?

Gods.

Some part of him missed the days when he’d been part of the Crimson Watch. Then, he knew damn well who he was fighting and what he was fighting for, and although his superiors had been added to the list, at least he could look them in the eyes, and make them kneel.

And now he was here, barely human, trying to figure out how to fight an enemy he didn’t sodding understand. Tactics worked best, and sometimes only worked at all, when you knew your opponent. He knew Viktor, he’d been dealing with him since he’d come to this city-state, but the Major?

One person would know what’d happened to her, but the drifter hadn’t responded once when prodded about what she’d done to him, not even Eleanor had been able to get a peep. They’d ask, and he’d think about nothing.

And even if they could figure out how to weasel the information out, they couldn’t, because Arthur hadn’t had the strength of will to be anything but an arse.

Arthur sighed, forcing his breath out through clenched teeth. It’d been a week since their good old Marty McFlea had left. He didn’t know how long it normally took to fix up a warframe, but he was starting to think he’d fucked up this one far worse than he could patch up, and everyone knew it. How could they even reach him, anyway? He’d tried his old kinepage, but had gotten no response, Kalymos was a cat, and no amount of cajoling had been able to get her to do anything but push her head into his hands for attention. There was no saying when he’d be back, or if he’d be back at all. 

The rest of them seemed to have mixed feelings on the matter, when he’d explained their conversation. Amir was quite adamant that the drifter wouldn’t abandon them, but it was the same way the kid was adamant about them all returning to normal. Eleanor wasn’t certain what to think. Lettie thought she’d scared him off for good. Aoi had just been sad, and Quincy…

Quincy seemed plenty firm on the idea he’d be back. Why was beyond him, but he’d said something about consistency. 

And Arthur… 

Arthur wouldn’t blame the drifter for staying away, but he did let himself hope. He needed to apologize. He had to. 

He could still see that mad grin on the man’s face as he’d put his body and soul on the line to protect him. The drifter was more human than Arthur was, and he was as fragile as any regular person, but he’d still used himself as a bullet shield while Arthur had been recovering from the airstrikes, and…

He could still feel, when he thought about it, the sensitivity on his body from the times he’d been burned alive.

If he was right, and from what he’d seen of every concurrent timeloop, the drifter had used his own deaths to memorize where every bullet came from. He’d died, again and again and again, just so that Arthur could make it out alive and relatively unharmed. He could still see that wild glint in the man's eyes as he fired off shot after shot, determined to let no harm come to what was his, despite clearing an entire zone of techrot merely twenty minutes earlier and being so dead tired he had barely been able to stand. 

It had been incredible.

And the drifter hadn’t needed to do it. 

He hadn’t needed to do any of what he did. He didn’t have to be here. He’d said he was part of the ‘clean-up crew’, whatever that meant, but there was no possible way that had been intended to include helping the Hex with their missions. He’d been used as a conduit for the drifter to make it back to this timeline, but he’d been ordered to follow Entrati.  

He could still remember the way the drifter had wilted at his words. He’d opened up, for once. He’d tried to be vulnerable, he’d all but said that this was all he had, and Arthur had used that as an opportunity to put a blade through him.

No, he couldn’t blame the man for not wanting to come back, and he couldn’t blame the others for their coldness towards him. Some leader he was. 

A soft knock at the door, and he looked up from where he’d been staring blankly at the papers to meet Aoi’s soft gaze. He could feel his heart constrict. Much of him wanted to stand up, and walk away, because he knew she wouldn’t follow him. She never did, she loved him too much to push past his boundaries. He’d never deserved her.

“What’s the latest?” She gestured towards the clipboard in his hands, leaning against the doorframe.

“Food supplies running low, we won’t be able to support the locals around our area for more than two weeks, at best. Lost another four blocks to the western rot outbreak.” He answered, feeling mechanical. “Scaldra gathering forces to the north-west, looks like they’re going to start up another full-scale cleansing.”

“That worked well last time.” She snorted, and then, softer. “Anything from the kinepage?”

“...No.” He sighed, looking down again, shoulders slumping.

Silence, then she walked closer, crouched, and took the clipboard gently from his hands. He let her. She read it, standing in front of him, and then, very gently, tapped the top of his head with it. “Amir could use you, right now. Go play a round or two with him.”

“We don’t have time for his games, Aoi.” He forced himself upright, leaning back in his chair, scowling beneath her studying gaze. “I need to figure out how the hell we’re going to feed four thousand people without killing ourselves in raids against the Scaldra.”

“Quincy’s got a few ideas. Talk to him about it.” 

Arthur chuffed, pinching and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Talking evenly with Quincy was about as easy as removing a fish hook from your thumb with a spoon, and on equivalent levels of fun. The sniper had never liked him all that much, but these past few days? He'd been downright insubordinate. 

“ Arthur. ” She said a little more firmly. 

“Set a timer for five minutes.” He stood, groaning softly against the bone-deep ache in his muscles from nonstop mission after mission. “If we aren’t arguing by then, I’ll owe you five quid.”

A smile pulled at her lips, then faded, and she patted him on the back as he marched out. 

--

Amir couldn’t focus today.

It happened. 

He ground his teeth in frustration, listening to a mundane conversation turn into yelling, because Quincy was willing to take extra risks, and Arthur wasn’t. Because Arthur wanted to limit the amount of people that they kept around the central mall, due to supply shortages, and Quincy was very firm that if they turned people away, it was as good as killing them. The music he was listening to did nothing to mitigate his ability to hear the words.

They were running low on food, he’d done a couple double, triple checks, actually. The people coming in had some rations with ‘em, mostly in supplies such as flour or rice, but it wasn’t enough for anything long term.

Water was the biggest concern, actually. They had filters, but there was no telling how long they’d hold out against actual sentient bio-matter if it made up its mind to start eating plastic too.

He patted the keyboard in front of him with both hands, listening to the keys clack. He pressed down a little harder, and the d key won over the others, trailing a loooong line across the page, and then onto the next line, and the next, and the next. He let up, and a quick ctrl-z cleaned up the screen. 

Ugh.

Ugh.  

He wasn’t sure there was anything he wanted to be doing less than writing out reports right now, and that, automatically, meant he quite literally just couldn’t.  

Most people were capable of pushing through that, but no, not Amir. HIs brain was like a toddler with a gun. Sure, he could be pretty effective, slaying tasks left and right, but damn him he could not control the toddler, and if it didn’t want to point in the right direction, it’d wave the gun all over and fire whever else it pleased. Even if he did grab its arms by force and make it aim, there wasn’t even a guarantee there’d still be bullets in the chamber.

He groaned again, letting his arms drop to his sides, and pushed away from the desk with his legs, sending his swivelly chair rolling backwards. Deep breath in, deep breath out, it did nothing, but hey. It did for some people.

A little kick sent him spinning, and he let his head lull. He kept spinning, hitting the legs off the stand of the chair with his heel, turning himself around and around, faster and faster.

It didn’t help that there was still an argument going on. 

It also didn’t help that his brain didn’t even find the idea of playing in the arcade fun, right now. He’d had to stop earlier, when it felt more like more effort than it was worth. 

What did he feel like doing right now? He rubbed his forehead, watching the world rotate, choosing one spot on the ceiling to stare at.

Nothing, apparently. Nothing came to mind. Nothing sounded fun right now, or appealing at all.

Normally he would go see what people were up to, when he couldn’t think of anything to do. Had to be productive, always doing something. Motion, movement, all that. Being bored was agony.  

Another failing of the grand mind of Amir. Normal people could just do things, or be bored. Apparently for normal people, being bored was a good exercise and could make them more creative. Stimulate thought, and all that. For him? It was just awful. He didn’t need to stimulate his thoughts, he needed to slow them down, if anything. Put a good leash around them and walk ‘em like a dog, so they’d stop scattering in every direction when he wanted to go in one.

He stopped his spinning, feeling the way the fluids in his skull kept rotating anyway, making his head wobble. Slowly, he began to turn the other way, wincing against the discomfort, but the best way to un-dizzy yourself was to get the centrifugal force back someplace normal. 

Ugh.

He sped up in the other direction, trying hard not to listen to the arguments, failing anyway. Blah blah, Quincy was adamant that Arthur was a rock. Arthur thought Quincy was being an unrealistic daftie.

Amir slowed his spinning, but didn’t reverse it, he didn’t want to deal with the mental shocks from that right now. 

Ugh.  

It’d be better if the drifter would come back. He was always doing something weird. Running himself ragged or eating weird food or doing weird maintenance on really weird guns, doing weird exercises with his weird weapons. Apparently he’d even had a weird ass horse the whole time and just… hadn’t mentioned it. If Amir had a skeleton horse, he wouldn’t bother walking anywhere, at any point, ever. Let the people bask in its glory. It’d be fun.

He could use some fun right now.

Everything was just so much effort. Realistically he knew it was because he was probably lacking in the dopamine department, but how the hell were you supposed to find dopamine in the apocalypse? It wasn’t like he could just hop over to the nearest pharmacy, flash a smile, and go ‘hey! You! I’m here for my drugs that I still need because even though I got turned into a superhuman, it didn’t actually fix anything that needed fixing and I still need to eat stuff to be normal.’ And they’d all go ‘what?’ And he’d go ‘ritalin please, here’s my prescription,’ and they’d go ‘oh right yeah sure here you go’ and then he’d be able to write this stupid report.

Ugh.

He ground the heels of his boots against the ground to stop himself completely, took a deep breath, and sighed.

That drifter had better be back soon. 

He paused his music, and rolled out of his chair onto his feet. He didn’t even feel like going fast right now, he just wanted… A nap, maybe? Nah, too much to do. If he couldn’t do the report, he at very least needed to find something productive that he could do. He was the tech guy, the rest of them weren’t tech guys, and it was kinda literally the only thing he was useful for when they all got on the field. 

Well, Drifter hadn’t thought so, apparently, his brain supplied, but the drifter wasn’t here right now and might not even be back at all. 

He was too wired up to go and lay down and sleep, he’d just be bored there too, and he was too tired to manage any semblance of focus.

This was bullshit. The unique limbo-hell of not enough dopamine. So much to do, no energy to do it with. He started walking, going nowhere in particular. Stress was probably making everything worse, but again, apocalypse. Like he could find anywhere that wouldn’t be stressful, somehow. Could he make a sandwich out of spite? It’d be something to do, but getting everything out and putting it together was also just a bit much.

Ridiculous. Stupid. It was a sandwich. He needed lunch anyway. 

All he had to do was walk over to the kitchen, past all the noise, pray he wasn’t dragged into the argument or ordered to do some menial task, open the cupboards, pray they had the proper ingredients, find bread, (he hoped they had bread) maybe some peanut butter if he was lucky, jam, put it all down on the counter, take the package of bread, open it without ripping the thin plastic that was way too easy to rip with his enhanced strength, take out two pieces, (not the hub, the hub was the worst thing) realize he’d forgotten to get a plate, go back to the cupboards, open them, get a plate, (maybe he could just make it on the counter and pray Arthur didn’t yell at him for it) put the plate down, fight with the zipper on his left glove, take it off, put it aside, fight with the zipper on his right glove, take it off, put it aside, put the bread on the plate, open the jar of peanut butter, open the drawer, get a knife, put peanut butter on the knife (not to much, or too little, he didn’t want to double dip and get snapped at for leaving crumbs in the peanut butter) spread the butter on the bread, carefully, so it didn’t rip the bread, then open the jam jar, get out another knife, get the proper amount of jam on that, spread that, close the sandwich, not get anything on his fingers, take the knives to the sink, wash them, he’d need soap, so he’d have to squirt some out, (not too much) then scrub both off, wash them again, dry them, put them away, close the jar of jam, close the jar of peanut butter, tie a knot in the bread bag, open the cupboards, put the jam jar in its place, put the peanut butter in its place, put the bread in its place, take his sandwich, maybe not cut it up, eat it with like twelve bites, (He wondered if Arthur preferred to avoid eating his bread crusts like he avoided eating pizza crusts) hope he wasn’t interrupted, then take the plate to the sink, wash it, soap it, rinse it, dry it, put it away, wash his hands, soap his hands, rinse his hands, dry his hands, take his left glove, stuff it on even though it would be difficult with moist hands, fight with the zipper, take his right glove, stuff it on, fight with the zipper, done. 

Sweet Sol, it was a process to make a damn sandwich. Easier to just be hungry when thinking about making himself food exhausted him about as much as making it would in the first place. 

He sat back down, and flopped his legs out, letting his arms hang again, relaxing his neck. 

Ugh.

A draw in of the heels pulled him back to the computer, and he grabbed the mouse and slapped a hand onto the keyboard. He still couldn’t do the report, but maybe he could just… Monitor radio comms, or something. That’d be something to do that he could sit around and do nothing while doing, right? Technically productive, and not something he’d get yelled at, for. Maybe if Aoi could get back from her mission a little faster he could see if she’d found any new music. He needed something new, damnit.

He opened an application and adjusted his headset, blinking slowly from behind his glasses. It was easier to deal with hours and hours of blue light with yellow tinted glasses, but right now, his blood sugar was definitely too low to deal with all of this everything, and it made his vision a little bit blurred. 

Sandwich was too much, and he didn’t have any energy bars or anything on him, and he’d have to stand up to go get them.

Ugh.

A quick few numbers punched in on the keypad later, and he was ticking through radio frequencies.

Static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, ooh, that was music. He listened in for a minute or two. Some folk song from at least fourty years ago. Sounded nice. But… Not Scaldra radio transmissions. Keep ticking through. Static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, somebody discussing the weather of all things, (it was gloomy and grey, just like his mood) static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static, static… Ah. There. 

He arrived on the proper frequency just in time to hear someone with a drawl and a holier-than-thou voice snapping out orders ‘for the good of Hollvania and under the light of Sol.’ Looked like they really were going through with that cleansing after all, by the sheer amount of troops they were calling in. Hopefully the techrot would just eat them all like a big old white blood-cell. Or something. Viktor’s voice was a pain to listen to. 

Wait.

Wait, sector four? Wasn’t that…

He had a Scaldra made map of the city open in a second, panning across the scanned document. 

Sector four wasn’t in the techrot outbreak, it was just east of it, sure, but…

He pulled up another map, scanned as well, with notes in Lettie’s handwriting. 

Sector four had one of the last remaining civilian holdouts in the west side of the city.

His blood went cold.  

Chapter Text

Optional music link here

--

Eleanor called another emergency meeting the moment she got back, Amir by her side, and this time she didn’t have him by the ear.

Thankfully, it got Arthur and Quincy to both shut up, though they did stand at opposite sides of the group as they listened to Amir replay the audio recording, and everything was quite clear. 

Lieutenant Viktor Vodyanoi had never been subtle about his desires with Hollvania. He wanted it all remade, he wanted it done right, perfected, and his idea of perfection was quite specific. To him, the city ought to belong to its guardians, the Scaldra, and their wellbeing and housing specifications didn’t need to account for the civilians. Infact, the civilians were actually causing problems, because they selfishly wanted appliances and transportation and things like, gasp , shock, refrigerators , which were all lures for the techrot’s own advance. It was their fault that the west side had gotten overgrown. It was the civilians who quartered there who brought the plague, they spread it like rats. It was their avarice, their laziness, their greed, that had brought such weakness. 

While the Major had never been any sort of friend, she’d at least been some variant of stable.

Once the situation was explained, Arthur stood up a little straighter, and outlined what needed to be done. They needed to sever the Scaldra’s communications networks, they needed to warn and evacuate civilians, and they needed to create enough of a problem that the other two teams would have the time they needed to actually get their jobs done effectively. 

“Amir, Aoi,” he said, voice more firm than it had been in some days. “I want you two on communication networks. Quincy, Eleanor, evacuation duties. Lettie, if you’re willing to back me up, then I’ll see about-”

“Aoi would be better for evacuation,” Quincy interrupted flatly. “We’re gonna need to bring a lo’ov disabled and elderly folks out, and she c’n move a wheelchair easier than I can.”

Arthur hesitated, and his jaw tensed. “You know the area and the people better, we want as little panic as possible. Plus, we need a sniper with active training keeping an eye out for flankers.”

“That’s why Amir needs me. ” He tilted his head up, like a little reverse nod. “I’m na’ about to let him go in and get himself shot up while he’s tryna hack, heroboy.”

“Aoi would be better suited to setup and letting him know if anyone’s nearby.” Arthur snapped flatly. “This isn’t the time for sodding insubordination, Quincy. Save it for the afterparty.”

“Never is, with you -”

“Boys, boys,” Eleanor rubbed at her temples. “That’s enough. Aoi, where do you think you’d be the most helpful?”

And everyone looked at her. 

Well…

Quincy did have a point.  

--

They rode. 

Buildings flashed by, all six of them screaming westward. Arthur led as he usually did, and the rest followed in a tight formation, nearly in-line but not quite enough that they’d all die should he stop faster than they did. He lifted a hand, and flicked two fingers to the left, before leaning into the turn and drifting the corner, taking it at speed. The others followed behind.

It’d take them some ten minutes to get to sector four, and Arthur couldn’t help but worry for every second of the trip. What if they’d get there too late? What if something happened to the others? What if this was a trap, somehow? Why were they doing this now, of all times? Why spend so many resources on the civilians, when the techrot threat was right there?

He signaled to the right again. He’d memorized the map, and they’d discussed routes. Quincy’s argumentative nature applied before hand, but when everything came down to the wire, they all knew the truth. They rode together, for better or for worse. His command only lasted as far as they trusted him to lead, and sometimes that meant being willing to admit that even spoons had a point, on occasion. Anything to keep them all together. 

He didn’t think about the drifter, right now. He’d save that problem for the afterparty, with all the other arguments he still could feel everyone itching to have.

Another left, and he motioned straight at the next intersection, leading them all as they wove between the remnants of what once were. Cars, empty of gas, abandoned on the sides of the road. Overflowing trash bins, stuffed full with Scaldra propaganda, the little white flyers kicked up in the wind of their passing. Shattered storefronts, empty showcases, kicked down doors. 

It was like seeing the bloated corpse of a comrade.

He lifted a fist, and they slowed. 

One finger, he flicked to the left.

Two, left. 

Three, right.

The squad split, Quincy and Amir veering off to the side and riding away, dust kicking up in their wake. 

Another minute and he held up two fingers, and signaled Aoi and Eleanor off. They turned, and vanished from view.

That left him and Lettie. 

He trusted the others to do their jobs. Each of them were more than capable, they had proved that a hundred times over. They were capable. 

He still worried anyway.

Arthur rushed to their planned intercept point, Lettie hot behind him. 

“Broadsword, this is Jitter, all systems go! Bet they made their codes something super dumb. ”

“Chopper checking in. We’re just about there, people are already worked up, I think they might know something’s wrong already.”

Good. Both squads were still alive, at very least. It was a stupid worry. They were capable, and the mission had only just begun. It’d barely been a minute or two since they’d left his sight, after all.

“Broadsword,” He responded, steering one handed and holding the button on his comm. “Proceed as planned.”

“Orders received! All thrusters to full!” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Steppa t’ Broadsword, they’re movin’. Our first set’s where they need t’be, setting up the next row now. No visuals.”

“Affirmative.” 

Arthur and Leticia rolled to a stop on the northern end of the sector, right between the Scaldra’s nearest base, and the holdouts. 

This would be painful, but evacuation wasn’t fast. Even with their abilities, it was going to be like trying to stop the ocean with a sand wall, any leak would get far worse, far faster than they could rebuild. 

Not that they had backup to patch those holes, anyway. 

The problem was made more complicated by the sheer maze-like nature of Hollvania, as while this was the largest and most direct street between the two locations, there were a thousand other ways to sneak past them. Clearing Quincy and Amir’s lines of receivers and jammers would be difficult, but that was only after they’d all been placed. So, he and Lettie parked their cycles, and made for the rooftops. 

If he could pardon any of the changes that had been made to his body, perhaps the increase in strength would be at the top of his list. He crouched, mentally parsing through where he wanted to go… and leapt. The sheer force of his jump sent him several dozen meters into the air. It had taken him by surprise the first time he’d managed to get this high, and Lettie had cursed out Amir no more than a dozen times for smashing his head against ceilings. They’d all been accidents, or so he’d said anyway.

Arthur kicks off from the wall, twisting mid-air, and rebounds off of the far one, zigzagging between the two buildings until a final leap lets him clear the steep slope of the roof and scrabble up for the flat top. Lettie was there a second later, and she gave a soft phew before joining him in overlooking the area.

He could hear the Scaldra troops before he could see them, and both of them un-slung guns and lifted them to the ready. 

Be a distraction. Cause as much alarm and panic as possible. Easy enough. 

He aimed, closing his bad eye just to be rid of the slight glare that still made it to his retinas, watching… The sound got closer, and Lettie signaled, and leaped to the other side of the street. 

A heavily armored pair of TI-92s rumbled around the street, leading a grand procession of soldiers.

“Broadsword. Contact.” 

He opened fire. 

All hell broke loose. 

Bullets smashed through skulls and ripped through body armor, his wide sweep of shots leaving plenty screaming and writhing in pain, efervon protection doing more damage than his bullets had, burning through skin and flesh and bone.

He ran, Lettie opening fire to the other side, and gunfire punctured shingles and pinged off of metal behind him. Shouting, yelling, stumbling footsteps below, the roar of engines. He leapt, skidding across another roof, taking cover behind a chimney and opening fire from a new angle. More dead. 

Like dancing, the drifter had once said. 

Arthur was good at dancing, once in a while. 

The thought brought a twitch of a smile to his lips as he relocated again, sprinting to the far edge, leaping, moving upwards along the line to get a good feel for what they were dealing with. There was a not particularly quiet part of his brain that wanted to just go in, draw his blade, and fix the sodding problem himself, but that part of his brain was the same part that had led to him getting stabbed twice. By the same man, no less, so obviously it needed tempering. 

Besides, if there was ever a time to not be a loose cannon, it was now.

He adjusts his secondary comm-link, Scaldra chatter filling his left ear, all muffled yelling, though… One line grabbed his attention, and struck him as odd.

“Only two of the gods damned monstrosities are here, where’re the rest of the things?” 

“Secondary visual. Rooftops closer to the civilian population center, keep an eye out, B squad.” 

“Fine, fine, whatever.” Snapped another voice, deeper. “Better be right about this. Call in the last two when you find em.” 

Right about what?

His confusion nearly cost him, and he rolled out of the way just in time for the next chimney he’d been taking cover behind was blown apart, green efervon splattering across the metal. Droplets and dust rained over him, hissing against his reinforced skin. Enough to sting, but not anything worth caring about, just yet. 

“This is Broadsword,” He called in, sliding down the slanted roof-edge and sheltering on the far side for the moment. “Stepper, Jitter, be on the look out, you’ve been spotted. Chopper, Salem, status?”

“This is Chopper, all good. Salem can reach everyone at once, here, so things are going quick.” 

“Good. Be extra careful, something’s off.”

“Got it.” 

“ Jitter, callin’ in! Packages are almost all in line, then phasers can be set t’stun!”

Whatever that meant. 

“They’ve got air support. Be fast.”

“Fast’s my middle name, boss! Over and out.”

He peeked around the edge of the roof. Lettie was doing quite well, making up for his brief pause, and he joined in the fun. If any of this could be considered fun, which… 

War was never fun. Not for him. It wasn’t a dance, it was a slaughter. He leaned back behind the roof edge again to reload, listening to Lettie mutter a soft string of swears in spanish. She’d taken a hit, but these days bullets weren’t much of a problem, even when laced with efervon. Doubly so, not for her.  

And he worried anyway.

He leaped again, gunfire zipping past him near immediately. “How’s it coming, Squad three.” 

“Nearly there!” Amir chirped, the radio making his voice crackle.

“Two, check in.” 

“Getting there. They have no where to go, Arthur.” Eleanor, not through the comms, but directly into his mind. “No where but to us.”

Ah bollocks.

“We’ll make do.” He leaned, fired, ducked back behind cover. Holding attention on double time, then.

“Damn straight we will, heroboy. We’ll do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done.”

“Seems the Hex really are rats, scrounging about in the sewers for anything they can get. ” The new voice drawled with a sneer so audible, it was practically painted across the speakers. Viktor Vodyanoi had decided to grace their comms channel with his oily voice. Of course he did. He always did. “I got the strangest news, just the other day. Did you know? A letter from the Major herself! Just for me, and it said the sweetest little things.”

Arthur hoped, one of these days, that they’d get good enough of a lock on the man for Aoi to use that little trick the drifter had shown her to give him a bit of an aneurysm. It’d make everyone’s lives much more convenient. 

“The Hex are down a freak!” Viktor purred, and continued yapping, but the comms… Started fuzzing, static overlaid by a particular tone. 

He was nearby. Near enough that the jammers were working.

“Aaaand gotcha! Line numero tres! ”

“On it.” Eleanor’s voice in his head, again. “It’s a little loud, but if he’s nearby I should be able to find him.”

“Good. Aoi, Eleanor, be ready. Quincy, Amir, consider yourselves backup, but keep at your primary mission. Don’t let anyone past that barrier.”

“Arthur.” Lettie. “Arthur, these pendejos brought a tank.”

“WHAT?” Amir squawked. “For a civilian raid?” 

Yes, this… did not line up, not at all. 

He stood.

And a bullet ripped through his shoulder, snapping him back to the present. He was hidden from the primary forces, so that meant- 

“ S-” Arthur barely got the sound out before the next shot took him through the skull, dropping his body, limp, to the streets below. 

Noise…

So much…

Noise.  

His senses took too long to return, unwinding themselves, un-muddling. He groaned, rolling over onto his stomach, because his spine ached.

“I’ve got you, Arthur.” The noise worked itself into words, but there was so much more. “Sniper is down. Up you get, no time for sleeping. We have people to save.”

He needed to buy Lettie something nice, later. He took her hand, strength returning to his, blinking the haze from his eyes. A normal bullet through the skull wasn’t enough to kill him, not anymore, but efervon acid had a way with tearing apart organics and melting them into sludge that not even techrot could rebuild, easily. And that was why they needed Leticia.

The world reorganized. They were on another, lower rooftop, about half a block away. Soldiers marched by just out of sight. Something heavy rumbled, no, multiple somethings. This was… Bad.  

“Eleanor can’t find Viktor,” Lettie filled him in, helping him back to his feet. “But Amir was able to trace the sound, they’re on their way already. The bastards were lurking in the complex the whole time, but they’re invisible, somehow. To Eleanor.” 

Very bad. Very very bad.  

“We need to… Call it off. We don’t have enough information.” Arthur realigned his center of gravity, equilibrium returning to his brain-fluids. “Lettie, there’s something wrong about all this, I-”

“We cannot , or everyone in those buildings will die, ” Lettie snapped. “Amir and Quincy are investigating, Aoi and Eleanor are still helping with the evacuation of the area. We? We must buy them time, do you understand?”

He did.

He hated it. He worried, he worried so damn much. Why'd they gone against his orders? Something must have happened, he didn't understand. 

Growling, gritting his teeth, he summoned his exalted blade. Air hissed and boiled around the glowing manifestation of pure will, and he turned back towards the direction of the oncoming troops. Well… Looks like his impulsivity had just been a bit ahead of schedule.

“I’ve got your back, Arthur. Go.” 

He nodded, and got to work.

It wasn’t a dance.

He wasn’t dancing. 

Arthur launched himself, power surging through his body, sending him ripping through soldiers. Time moved slow, and he killed.  

They didn’t have time to react before a wave of blue energy split their skulls in half, impossibly thin, impossibly sharp. Pure will. 

They didn’t have time to fight him until he was there, driving the blade straight through the chest of three soldiers in a row. He didn’t give himself the time to consider how small they were. 

They didn’t have time to see him before he’d already lifted his blade high, and filled it so fully with energy that it exploded with light, and brought it down, sending a shockwave of coalescing javelins outward, impaling bodies, crunching them together, punching gaping holes through torsos and limbs and blinded heads. Soldiers staggered, fell, flew, died.

This wasn’t a dance.

It was a massacre.

Bullets flew for him, but he wasn’t where they were firing. They struck their own allies. There was so much screaming.

Turrets turned on him, soldiers hesitated, because he was among them. He re-angled, eyes burning with energy, and he was there, his blade already through the engine, driven through the grill, and he was gone before it had exploded, drawn to the next victim. 

There was no artistry in this much death.  

Bullets hit him, ripped through him, on occasion. They were healed almost immediately, and the soldiers were too focused on him to aim at her, high above. 

Acid sprayed across his face and chest, and the burns scalded, and vanished.

He was invincible. Unstoppable. 

Lettie didn’t let him run out of power.

Lettie didn’t let him die. He barely felt pain. 

He drew his blade through a wide curve, filling it with force, flicking a wave of icy-toned death like water flicked from fingers. It was nothing, to him. To them, it was a merciful end. 

He didn’t consider their humanity. Not right then. That was for deep nights with deeper stores of alcohol. 

Arthur did not dance, not to this beat, but he would be what was needed of him. There were people to protect, and he would be their guardian.

No matter the cost to himself.

He’d protect them. Nobody else that he loved would die, alone. 

He’d never lose anyone, ever again.

A footstep, a turn. His body barely felt his own.

A surge of speed, a swing of the blade. Odd, how he felt everything twice.  

A dash, a leap.

A raise of the hand, a surge of power. He knew this feeling.

A rain of bullets, an instantaneous healing. He knew it very well .

He was not alone in his head.

The realization made him stagger, thrown from his flow, and efervon laced bullets shredded through his torso, making him cry out. Now? Now of all times, the drifter came back? Lettie healed him, but the rhythm was gone, his focus shattered. He stumbled.

It was like someone had grabbed the back of his brain, digging their claws in, and was pulling on it. His vision doubled, he dashed, alight with energy, trying to get away. Not now. Not sodding NOW, he thought it as hard as he could, trying to boot the man from his head. 

The tank rounded the corner. 

The drifter fought him, baring its teeth, bristling. He didn’t have time for this, not in the middle of a battle as important as this one. He did not have time for the drifter’s gods damned bullshit. 

His body jerked, spasmed. 

The drifter’s razor teeth sunk deep into his brain, splitting him entirely out of his body. He was not asking for Arthur to kneel. There was no request, simply absolute domination. He would bow to his king.

His arms lifted. He watched them move, scrambling for control, fighting, desperate, futile. It was terrifying, his body wasn’t his own, he couldn’t do anything, he couldn’t even blink, not with those teeth -

The tank fired.

His wrists snapped his blade into a particular angle, and the world dropped to a crawl.

Memories.

He saw, in slow motion, the tank’s round approach. It spun, almost lazily, throwing off smoke and fire and acid.

He died, to that round.

He died, to that round.

He died.

The drifter didn’t intervene. He died.

He died again.

The drifter intervene only a little, begging Arthur to lift his hands. Arthur didn’t listen.

Arthur did listen. He tried. It wasn’t enough. He died.

The drifter went through him, trying to stop the explosion himself. They both died.

The drifter tried to call his warframe. Couldn’t do it in time.

The drifter tried to come through earlier. Arthur died because they pinned him and shot him faster than Lettie could heal. They realized she was there. They shot her down too.

The drifter tried absolute control, earlier, it worked, it almost worked, but Arthur fought him, and took it back, and died.

The drifter tried.

The drifter tried, and Arthur just. Kept. Dying.

It was like he wasn’t meant to survive this moment.

Along the way, Arthur realized that Lettie had used up everything she had, he’d died to that round because she didn’t have enough to keep them both going.

Arthur died. 

There was no other option.

The drifter sunk his teeth into Arthur’s mind. He decreed that Arthur kneel, and when he struggled, he kicked his knees out from behind, and decked him across the head.

Arthur could feel the man’s agony at the betrayal of trust. He could feel his regret. His desperation. It colored everything monochrome, the greens of acid and reds of blood fading into nothing. He was not allowed to die. They had to talk, there was more to be said. The drifter hadn’t had the chance to explain, he hadn’t had the chance to apologize, to tell the truth. The drifter was also aware that the price of what he had done may be higher than he could possibly hope to pay. He did it all anyway.

Because Arthur lived, this time.

The shell came. 

His wrists snapped, flicking the blade into a position he saw the drifter fail to create so many times. 

More memories.

He saw the shell get deflected wrong, go flying off above them, off behind, where it risked causing harm. He saw the shell get cut in half, the pieces exploded, melting him, ripping him apart. He saw himself dash away from it, but the explosion radius was too big. He tried every angle. 

And it came down to a slight minute change in angle to deflect the shell off to the side.

It screamed along his blade, Drifter-Arthur pushed, at precisely the right moment, and the explosive shell deflected just right to send it roaring past, exploding into and through a long abandoned apartment complex. The shockwave hit them both, sending them, and everyone around them, sprawling. 

The drifter ripped his teeth out, and pushed himself from Arthur’s body, though trails of connection remained.

It was indeed a king that stood before him. A king clad in blacks and blues and reds and golds, colors mottling and twisting together like nothing he’d ever seen, crowning his head, perfectly framing his body, looping and whirling like no metal could. He was haloed in pure emotion, a pure amethyst focus, golden passion crackling along the crystalline facets, crimson fury burning beneath, black-blue fear swirling alongside it, and deeper, something white that Arthur didn't know if he had the time to understand, just then. Somehow he knew he'd never be able to see those colors if the two weren't connected, but...

The drifter lifted a silvery baton, and snapped it outwards. Arthur felt as much as he saw the drifter’s will, and it transformed into a two handed longsword that dripped light.

The very sight was so…

Incongruous.

A knight in shining armor, facing down an army of Scaldra. Protecting what was his. 

No matter the cost.

The connection faded, and the armor and light followed suit, leaving the Drifter the same man he'd always been. 

--

("A knight in shining armor, (...) protecting what was his.")

(Armor ref here)

Chapter Text

The drifter…

No. He was Drifter, right now.

Today, he let that be his name, not just his title, because he needed to be more than just the drifter, for them. For all of them. They deserved so much better than what he’d offered thus far. 

For the Lotus, he’d be a champion. For his twin, a sibling. For the people of the origin system, a revolutionary. For the children of the Zariman, a savior. For Duviri, a king. For the Hex, a meteor. He’d bring them change. He’d bring them hope. He’d bring them a gods damned way out. He had to, because the Indifference had to be wrong about him. 

He couldn’t let himself be a monster. He couldn’t let himself let go. He couldn’t stop caring.

If he stopped trying to love, then there was nothing left to justify his existence. Love was time, time was motion, and motion was action. 

All along there had been other ways to bypass his pain and give, and he’d just been too god damn bullheaded to see them. The Hex deserved better. The Lotus deserved better. Hell, even Thrax deserved better than what he’d done.

It was easier to see all that now, it was so easy to see all the ways he could improve once he’d been forced to take a step back and stop for a minute. Playing songs in the sunshine, Umbra by his side, plucking tunes with no story or thought attached. Just for fun. Sitting by a campfire, listening to old soldiers swap stories while stew cooked. Soldiers from opposite factions who’d found their way to the camp he’d set up an eternity ago on earth, and now smiled and laughed. He’d even taken to sparring with Dust and Umbra both, sometimes Dust controlling, sometimes the warframe itself. 

Dust was always methodical, full of memorized stances and perfectly practiced strikes, but Umbra ran utterly wild, fighting for the sheer joy of a battle he didn’t have to fear losing; leading Drifter into thinking he understood his tempo before throwing in feints and lightning fast strikes that threw him for a loop every time. 

The man thought it was funny to see him panic, and had laughed and laughed and laughed himself silly with what gravely voice he had left the first time he’d taken Drifter-Gauss down. He could still remember the sheer embarrassment of it, he’d practically disarmed himself in his haste to block a strike he thought was coming, only to be hit on the other side, his own anticipatory motion making him trip over his own feet and go sprawling in the dirt. 

It had been fun. He’d been having fun.

He could have stayed.

He could have just stayed in his little camp, keeping the fort in check whenever the operator was off on a mission. He could have played music, eaten stew, sparred, laughed, told stories, relaxed, and never gone back to the past.

But then Arthur had called for him, and…

They’d shared some faint connection ever since his first experience transferring into his body. It was like that with all the warframes and the protoframes he’d slipped into, but it wasn’t strong enough that he could drag himself back thousands of years into the past and through their body. Not normally, anyway, despite the loop being attached to his progression through time, now.

However, in that moment, Arthur had been marching to the beat of destruction, singing a song of absolute love. For a brief time, their souls had sung matching songs, and the harmony was pure enough that he could have grabbed it and traced it through eternity. 

But he hadn’t been ready to go back. He hadn’t wanted to. He wanted to stay and listen to Kahl’s tales. He’d wanted to stay and help the refugees that were setting up in the area, he’d wanted to be there to protect them, so that they could, for once, just be. Maybe he wanted that for himself, too, as selfish as it was, even if he’d known that he would need to leave eventually.

And then he’d felt the song stop.

He’d been playing his shawzin, trying to capture that melody, playing an ode to the things people did for each other, and the song had just stopped.  

He’d felt Arthur die. He’d felt him die, he’d heard the beat spasm and it just… It hadn’t started up again. He… 

So he’d rewound, waited, and he’d reached, diving headfirst into the void to grab hold.

And when he failed to save him, he tried again.

And when he’d failed again, he tried again.

And when Arthur still died, he’d just kept trying.

And when there was no other option, he’d made a decision.

It was better that Duviri repeat than the Zariman. He would rather be hated by those he loved, than lose those he loved. It was better to be hated than to be alone. Thrax had killed him every day for a millennia, but at least the Drifter hadn’t been alone.

Even if Arthur hated him, he would only be able to hate him because he was still alive.

The cost was worth it.

It was worth it.

So he’d gone back, for love. His love of the Lotus for what she’d done for his twin, and her unknowing assistance in breaking free of his spiral, and for his love of the Hex. Each of them were masterpieces of art, beautiful snippets of humanity at its best. Broken, twisted, torn, but still trying anyway. They had to survive. They had to. He… He needed them to, because for all his bitching and whining and self pity, he really did love spending time around each of them. They were his friends. His. He claimed them. They were his. He did not own them, nor did he deserve their friendship or care, but he would not let them suffer alone. He’d been selfish enough.

And so, the Meteor stood tall, determined to earn his place among the stars. He held out his hand, decreed, and his Azothane sang back to him as it grew to its full size in a snap of energy. He called, and Gauss came. Arthur would need time to recover from such a brutal set of deaths and the mental toll of his rough treatment. Drifter would give him that time. All the time he needed. Anything he needed. So long as he was alive.

The tank was already prepping another shot, which meant he had a moment to get the frame to its full capacity.

The Scaldra infantry and heavy units recovered from their surprise and lifted their guns, what few vehicular turrets that remained rounding on him.

His engine hit a fever-pitch, vents opening and roaring with heat.

His heartbeat quickened, a mental decree focusing the oxygen to his brain and nervous system. He’d killed archons with a bow and arrow, he could focus for long enough to kill the staggered remains of an army.

He kicked forward, exploding into motion, blade held in a two handed grip. Today, he would give his best. Bullets bounced off his shield, deflecting harmlessly. Mounted turrets revved up. He needed to give Arthur cover. He went for the armored vehicle closest, and swung, the impossibly sharp blade trailing icy blue light as it cut through metal and flesh as if they were paper.

A heartbeat.

He twisted, and kicked, the vehicle’s frame no match for the reinforced flesh-steel of his leg, and it bent willingly, crushing, slipping apart, bodies caught in the momentum. 

A heartbeat. 

The top half flew, sent spinning lazily over and into the oncoming forces, like a flower petal caught by the wind, shedding shards of metal and car innards as it went, crushing bodies beneath it like clay beneath a fist. He twisted, tossing his blade high into the air, and grabbed the bottom half of the vehicle.

A heartbeat. He would give them his best. 

His grip crunched the ferrite armor plating, making it brittle, but between the metal splinters he caught the steel frame beneath.

A heartbeat, sending pure strength and speed through every muscle and synapse, as he decreed it.

His engines flared, and he pushed, straining with everything he had.  

A heartbeat.

What remained of the truck flipped, limbs, boxes, ammo, all flying out with abandon as the entire thing went rolling, side over side, once, twice-

A heartbeat.

He was there along side it, grabbing it by its now accessible bed, and slamming it back to a stop some ten feet in front of Arthur. He still huddled, clutching his head, but he was watching now.

He wasn’t entirely sure what emotion was on his face.

A heartbeat. 

Cover in place, he turned back, and ran, propelling himself once more into the fray of bodies and bullets.

A heartbeat.

He leapt, soaring high, and snatched his blade as it flashed on its way back down, light falling like smoke.

A heartbeat.

He put his feet through the head of a dedicant on the way back down, crunching efervon armoring, then skull, then ribs, and then everything else in an explosion of energy. A quick death. The acid didn’t have time to dissolve the pseudo metal, it merely burned, sublimating into noxious gasses as it came into contact with his white-hot body, and the flesh scalded off quite the same.

Drifter exhaled, releasing the focus decree, muscles screaming from not quite enough oxygen, but that would be remedied quickly enough. He rose from his crouch among scrambling, panicking soldiers, adjusted his grip for maximum range, and.

He.

Danced.

All was blood, fire, and death, played out to the rhythm of his heartbeat. The song didn’t last three minutes, and the tank he saved for last. It had fired at him. He’d taken the blast head on, just for the hell of it, and kept dancing. It had fired again. He’d deflected it into a small pocket of troops that still dared to fight. He didn’t let it fire a fourth time, simply driving his blade through the sliver of contact between the gun and main body, sliced off a vent, and used the opening to strike through the engine.

The explosion was his grand finale, his crescendo and encore, and although he didn’t bow there was a vainglorious whelp -ish part of him that really wanted to. Someday he’d earn that title, and Hunhow would be unendingly smug about it, he was sure.

“ Dios mio, Drifter,” Lettie breathed, landing lightly beside him from where she’d been perching above, eyes turned to the charred and bisected bodies he’d left behind, efervon steaming as it ate through mounds of corpses. “ Dios mio, ” She repeated, blinking once, “It is… different to see you dance with La Flaca in person. I hoped you would return to us.” 

Drifter-Gauss slapped a fist to his chest, and nodded, and they both turned as Arthur stalked up. 

The sheer force of the glare he wore pinned Drifter in place, and colors began to deepen, shadow going blue.

“Get your ass out of that thing right the fuck now, Drifter.” He snarled, and…

Drifter’d known this was the cost. He’d known. It was better to be hated, than have Arthur be dead.

He slipped from the cage, manifesting in front of Gauss, and the soldier had him by the vest in an eyeblink, yanking the Drifter down to an awkward half kneel and looming over him, faces barely four inches apart, hand still bunched in the fabric to keep him there. The Drifter couldn’t hold his gaze, and let it drop, waiting. Lettie began to say something, but was silenced with a raise of the finger. 

He’d known the cost. His heartbeat stuttered in his chest, every thump sending a phantom blade through it. He would accept this. He would accept that Arthur was alive. He could only hate if he was living. He would be happy that this could happen at all. He would be. No running, not this time. Arthur deserved to be able to be angry. Deserved to be able to take the power back, in some small way, after having his entire body ripped out of his control so brutally.

“If we weren’t in the middle of something very important,” the words were hissed gritted teeth, “we would have a talk. But we are, so it will happen after. Is. That. Clear.”

The drifter nodded. The gaze that froze him in place only intensified. “Out loud, Drifter.”

“...Yes.” He said, because Arthur deserved better, even though his pride reared up and bared its teeth at being made to kneel. It wanted to call Gauss and snap the man’s wrist for daring to try, wanted to stare the man down until he was forced to back off and acknowledge-

“Try again. I am your commanding officer, and you will treat me as such.”

“Yes sir.” Because Arthur didn’t deserve to have to deal with a monster, on top of everything else.

“ Good. ” And Arthur released him, letting him fall to his knees, pacing in a tight circle and exhaling, pinching the bridge of his nose. After a moment he was facing the drifter again. “Thank you for coming back, and for your help. You were a much needed boon, even if your methods leave much to be desired. Lettie, please debrief him on the current situation.”

Lettie shot him a look, and he shot her one back. She sighed. 

“Scaldra are targeting a set of blocks not too far from here, its a civilian holdout. Aoi and Eleanor are evacuating, Amir and Quincy have set up a perimeter of receivers and jammers to catch anyone getting too close and throw off communications with external troops. They found something odd beneath the complex, and are investigating. We were buying them time to finish evacuation.”

The drifter nodded again, remaining on his knees for the time being. He’d been so… relaxed, and now his ears were faintly ringing, sweat beading on the back of his neck. His hands trembled, body trying to shut down in anticipation of what would come, only made worse by the sheer emotional whiplash of the last twenty minutes. He’d deal with it like he always did, one step at a time.

So he forces his chin up, and meets Arthur’s gaze.

“Tell me where you need me, and I’ll go.”

--

Amir ran, Quincy as hot on his heels as he could be, their footsteps echoing sharply through the empty tunnel, rancid water lazily flowing through the middle of the corridor. He wasn’t at his top speed, he could have been out of here in a literal dash, but that meant leaving the closest thing he had to an older brother behind.

He’d been shot before, he’d rather just get shot again, thank you.

And yeah, Arthur had been right, something was definitely wrong. They’d checked the whole area where the jammer had been tripped above ground, and there’d been nothing. Eleanor had her eyes on them, but hadn’t been able to see anyone either anywhere near their location, so they’d gone below.

Like the Not Teenage Mutant Ninja… Toasters they were. 

They’d begun a nice trek through the sewers in search of that signal, and had, eventually, with significant help from Eleanor, found the room the signal had come from. It hadn’t really been much to see, just a large circular control area, split in half, one side overlooking purifying chem-vats and the other set up with monitoring and control equipment. And, for some god damn reason, a single boxy television on a rather nice stand in the middle of the room.

Quincy had been about a hair’s breadth from shooting it, and Amir couldn’t blame him.

It was unplugged, so he’d gone over, taken the prongs, slotted them between his fingers, and powered it up.

Static. 

He could have sworn there was more.

He almost saw... 

...Himself?

And then they'd been jumped by Scaldra. One had even dug a deep gash into his thigh with a hooked blade, but that had healed up just fine. The weapon had been tossed to the side in favor of a gun, after that. Smart choice. It should have been an easy fight, but…

Gunfire from behind them, bullets pinging off the concrete, bouncing by, and Quincy grabbed him by the hand and yanked him into a side tunnel, leading, now. He was a bit better at directions than Amir, thank god.

There were three options.

Either they were facing robots, zombies, or some secret third thing from actual hell. 

The scaldra unit rounded the counter behind them, smashing into the wall, efervon bubbling letting the thing bounce right off and keep on going, eyes ablaze. 

His money was on the third option. 

Two more followed, snarling to each other in heavily distorted voices, lifting guns.

“ Keep going in that direction,” Eleanor’s voice, trying to lead them out of this delightful death maze. “This map must be outdated, you took a turn that shouldn’t exist, but you’re headed towards Aoi.”

Amir threw a wide spray of energy in front of them, and it coalesced into a flickering shield that adhered to his palm, letting him spin it behind him to block the next cascade of bullets. Faintly, he could hear Aoi yelling, banging something metal against something metal. At least it gave them something to follow. If there was any time to burn through what little strength he had left, it’d be now.

Still holding the shield in his free hand, the other in Quincy’s, letting the taller man drag him along, he focused. Or… Tried to.

He’d learned recently that the little trick he used to speed up himself could work on others, if he did it right. The drifter had told him how, though his explanation had been convoluted and confusing as shit. Something about holding a mental map of the soul-songs that existed nearby, pushing the energy outwards, and decreeing it to maintain its original planned purpose alongside those other songs. He loved the guy, but sometimes Amir wondered exactly how big the pile of loose screws was. Had to be more than just, like, a few, right? He’d even asked Eleanor, and she’d said that ‘yeah, he really does always hear music, like, all the time,’-

Amir’s train of thought got cut off when a bullet ripped through his shoulder, his shield having been angled just a little too far to one side. It hurt like hell, efervon acid hissing inside his muscles, and he bit down hard to stop himself from screaming. It was just a bullet. The rest of the Hex took bullets all the damn time. It’d heal. 

Quincy glanced back at him anyway, dark eyes flicking to the sizzling chunk ripped out of his flesh, and they kept running. “We’ll patch that up when we get out of here, yeah? Can’t have our techie down a comfy hand.” 

Another tunnel, another turn, Aoi stood at the end of it, frantically waving them over. All three Scaldra troopers turned after them. They really needed to go. So…

This time he really focused, grabbing that eternal ball of lightning in his chest and sucking power out of it like juice through a silly straw, feeling it light up his very nerves, quicken his muscles and thoughts. He exhaled, imagining the power puddling around his feet, as a nice big old aoe of speed. If… When the drifter came back, he had to drag that man into a game of Fables and Frontiers. With what little he’d shared, living in a fairytale realm, fighting off a mad king every day, then going on to dethrone a god, it sorta just sounded like something he’d have fun with. He was basically an FnF character already, give or take some serious rule bending.

Quincy nearly tripped when the effect hit him, then laughed, gave his hand a squeeze in thanks, and they were sprinting fast enough that Aoi was within range in seconds. 

She started as her body got kicked into overdrive, and grinned. “C’mon! This way! Made us a way out!” She turned and ran with them, pointing down another main tunnel, and they both followed, letting her lead them down another side tunnel, which connected to massive metal sewer pipe. Techrot was already starting to pulsate along the walls here, but, more importantly, it was something Aoi had been able to use to just… Drill a hole up to the surface, peeling metal off the walls and spiraling it upwards. His feet crunched and cracked over shards of concrete and pats of dirt, and all three of them hit sunlight. 

It only took Aoi a few seconds to re-seal the hole, drawing the metal back up with a grunt of effort, peeling the metal from below off thin strip by strip and weaving them together like you might make a grass basket. Her fingers flexed, and the metal weave melded, seeping into the cracks in the concrete and leaving a shimmering manhole some four feet in radius. 

“Out? Good. I’m going to check on-”

Eleanor cut off. Probably had been meaning to say ‘check on Arthur.’

Amir took a moment to catch his breath, willing his heart to slow down so it wouldn’t just stop altogether.

“Scaldra’s gotten some new toy soldiers,” Quincy groaned, straightening up again, hands sliding up from his knees. “Eleanor can’t see em, and Amir’s lightning does the dodgin’ so they don’t have to. They’ve got heavy weaponry too. Chain bombs n’ shi’.”

Aoi blinked. “What? Why didn’t you say something on comms?” 

Meaningfully, pointedly, he lifted both hands to gesture at his communicator, which had been melted, his tactical webbing singed, ash greying his jacket. “As I said. Chain bombs. Didn’t even see them get thrown, shit just blew up. They were aiming for 'em.”

Aoi looked to Amir, who winced. “Dropped mine in the sewers trying to say something about it. Bastards shot it right out of my-”

A screaming whine, growing in intensity. Amir’s attention was on it in a half-second, and he flared out another shield just in time for the cover to get blown sky high. Fire erupted from the hole, heat blasting them all backwards, the shockwave of force shattering glass. The shield absorbed most of the knockback, though, thank god, which let them all stay on their feet.

The scaldra units stepped out amidst the heat, one still trailing smoke and steam and tucking away a heavy canister back onto its belt. All three rounded on them, and lifted their guns. Not firing, just waiting, one with a hand to its head. Rasping out muffled words.

Oddly, there was a faint… shimmer about them. Something delicately silver-blue-green that whirled and twisted like mist. It was eerily familiar, though he couldn’t quite place-

“Lettie and Arthur are… fine. Evacuation’s almost done. You three alright?”

“We’ve got sm’ new over here, Eleanor,” Quincy said softly. Amir picked up his shield, keeping it between them and the soldiers. “Bullets keep boucin’ off these fucks, and none of our abilities work, either. Took me three shots through the skull to take the last few down, and I’m about out of ammo.”

Aoi frowned. Raised an eyebrow. Glanced at a nearby lamp-post. Amir glanced at her, followed her gaze. They made eye contact. She grinned, put her hands behind her back, and flexed a hand.

“We give you one chance to surrender.” One of the soldier called out, his voice significantly deeper than he’d expect, gravelly and rough like he’d decided that chewing rocks was a preferable pastime to drinking water. “You give up, you come, you will not be killed. Is simple. Will hurt less.” 

“Sure, sure. But only on one condition.” Quincy lifted a finger, a slight swagger to his step as he moved forward. 

“What is your condition?”

“You go fuck yourself.”

Silence from the soldiers. 

Amir leaned into the other two, half whispering. “I mean, I think we have several conditions at this point…” 

Quincy didn’t smile, but it was close. Amir could see it in the twitch of his eye. Aoi snickered, and her fingers flicked to the side.

“Your deaths…” Said another one, a cool, feminine voice, “...will be-” 

They’d never figure out what their deaths would be, because fascinatingly, it was difficult to elaborate on a threat when you were being assaulted by hockey-puck sized chunks of a lamp-post. The first one hit and bounced off, the silvery teal mist coalescing more firmly, the second bounced, the third got closer, and the fourth broke through. And Aoi hadn’t sent four, she’d sent somewhere around twenty, which thunked hard against, into, and through the soldier’s skull, slamming into the next. 

He threw up another shield as Aoi’s assault continued, the energy catching the bullets that came for them in much the same way as that shimmering mist did. Sucking the energy out, dropping them to the ground. The third soldier sprinted back, snarling, unloading clip after clip in their direction, cracking Amir’s shield. He was… tired, they’d already taken down some ten of these strange shielded mini-bosses already, but he could make one more. 

Except Aoi didn’t need to pick up bullets, her strikes weren’t stopped when they bounced off, she could just loop them around and keep on going. The last one fell.

“Nobody else following you?” She asked, frowning at the bodies.

“Nah.” Quincy shook his head. “We killed the rest. How’s the evacuation?”

“Before I left it? Eleanor was getting the convoy back to HQ. There were… A surprising amount of people who didn’t want to leave, and couldn’t be convinced.”

“They were afraid,” Eleanor’s voice chimed in, “ Not of us, but of the Scaldra. They were in the area some few days ago, and were handing out vague threats like candy. Something about dissenters being next in line for testing. Nobody knew what ‘testing’ meant, but nobody also wanted to find out anyway. It might have something to do with these invisible soldiers. They're... really rattled. The Scaldra have been taking folks already.”

“Oh, and also.” She added like it was nothing, “The drifter’s back. He’s on his way to me to help with the convoy.”

Quincy held out a hand.

Aoi sighed, deep and long, and fiddled around for her wallet. She opened it with a dramatic snap, and counted every Hollar like it hurt her to part with them. She held them up, wistful, sighed again, and then slapped them into Quincy’s waiting palm.

He pocketed them with a grin and a wink. 

Chapter Text

“Thats it?” Viktor snapped, grabbing the hollow curved blade, glaring at the blood that filled it as if he could just will it to increase in volume. “All that waste, for this? Major, with all due respect, this was not worth my time.”

The Major grinned, taloned hands rap-tap-tapping on the desk she sat on. “Darling, don’t be so dour about it. Do you know what you’re holding, right there?”

He wrinkled his nose, sniffing in derision. “Evidence of failure.”

She tilted her head, and slid off the desk, lithe as a cat. Talons reached, dusting across his chest, collar, shoulder, and about the back of his neck as she moved behind him, coming up to his other side. “Picture it. Stormfall troopers raining throughout the city,” She guided his jaw, fingers pressing just so so he’d focus on her outstretched claws, catching the fading light and flickering as she made them ‘fall.’ 

“The Hex come, on their merry way, to make trouble. Meddling, picking, vile little monsters that they are.” She walked two fingers across the air, and then gasped softly, splaying her hands out. “But! Oh! What’s this? The forces they face are perfected, Sol and Lua’s light both blessing them with holy power. The devils look up, and witness angels. Your angels, soldiers beyond anything Entrati could ever have dreamed. They fight, and the Hex finally, finally, falls. This?” She purred, claws dipping to lift the blade in his hands so the blood contained within caught the light. “This contains the precise strain you need to make. That. Happen. And by divine providence, its bearer pulsed themselves full of power just before it was taken. You hold the helminth strain in your hands, this is what has made the Hex what they are. It always should have been yours to use, don't you think?” 

He looked at her, working it all out in his head. It… could work. If Entrati had been able to do it…

She grinned back, wider than she’d ever seen her smile. “Do you see now, Viktor? Do you see what you’ve done here, today? Everything you need for the perfect templars. Already your soldiers take to the void so well, don’t they? But you’d need more blood eventually.” 

The major stepped around to the other side of the desk, flesh fingers caressing a printed photo, the strange silver-scarred dark haired man she’d brought back, some time ago. “This sample has returned, but hunting him down would take time and effort you cannot spare. So, I recommend you simply make. Your. Own. Your little Eximus project would never need to end, Lieutenant. Give this to your scientists, have them start growth projects. This city will be yours, Viktor, but only if you are willing to reach out and take it. ” 

Chapter Text

The drifter was… 

Ready. 

He could take what was going to happen. He’d done so for centuries. He’d survive. He always did. Arthur was alive. He’d be happy. He wasn’t alone. He’d be happy with it. He’d be content. He’d be content. He’d be content. He’d be content. Hatred was better than loneliness. This had been coming for a very long time, he’d known. No good thing lasted forever. Duviri would always echo. All things would end like this, eventually. And besides, if his twin had taught him anything, it was that Arthur deserved to be able to express his emotions fully. That was how things might get better. No matter the cost, it was worth it.

Everything was colored in tones of blue and black, to his eyes, with idle snowflakes that didn’t quite belong, but brought greys with them. Arthur pulled him by the wrist, marching through a patch of monochrome, then another heavier pool of blue, every shadow on the man’s body emphasized and deepened. If he hadn’t been so damn terrified, he would have found it beautiful. Sometimes he wished that the others could see the world as he did. Maybe it’d be easier for them to understand the way he felt, or at very least easier for him to express it.

They went up the escalators, his heartbeat pulsing with pain. Arthur’s hand was warm, but he could still feel the icy coldness of heavy shackles, sucking away what little body heat he had with his scars bared to the wind. He’d survive this. He always did.

Like a tamm to the slaughter, he let himself be led. Through the shop, the white door open, down the corridor, and through the void portal. Arthur’s grip did not falter until they were out of Eleanor’s range, after which he let go, and stalked across the floor. Not towards anything in particular, just seeming to need to pace. The drifter shifted off to a corner to summon Gauss to him, the frame snapping into being around his body, and then dropping away as he transferred out and sat it down with care. 

The drifter stood, and watched Arthur march one way, turn on his heel, then march the other way, turn on his heel, march back, turn, march, turn, march, turn… It was worse that he was quiet. He didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t he just… Couldn’t he just yell, kill him until he was satisfied, and be done with it? Was the man waiting for him to do something? A few footsteps and he knelt by the pillar, not quite in the path of Arthur’s walking but still close enough so that the man would know he wasn’t trying to run. Arthur looked at him briefly, tightened his jaw, and stopped.

“You promised you wouldn’t do any more of that brain shit, Marty.” He growled. “You promised me, and everyone else, that you wouldn’t just pop into our sodding heads whenever you pleased. So. Explain.”

The drifter hesitated, trying to sort out his thoughts, grabbing things with some difficulty as they went around and around in his head like racing kaithes. “I… I couldn’t wait for the helminth systems to create another warframe.” He landed on. “I couldn’t just…”

“Why couldn’t you have just gone back and been there when we needed you?”

“Gauss wouldn’t have been-”

“You have an entire arsenal of those puppets, Marty. Don’t give me that bullshit.”

He… His chest constricted. He didn’t want to just… He couldn’t have…

But Gauss would have been fine, and he would have been able to just call him again once Dust gave him the go ahead. 

“I…” Gods. What did he say. Couldn’t he just… Couldn’t he just kill him and be done with it? This was almost worse. 

“You’re right.” The drifter said softly, drawing his shoulders in. “I could have, but-”

“But you didn’t.” He folded his arms. “Instead, you chose possibly the worst possible time to break a promise directly. Despite knowing exactly how I felt about it, you made that conscious choice.”

“You would have died, Arthur. I couldn’t- ” 

“I wouldn’t have if you’d been here. ” He snapped, hissing out a sigh through his teeth. “You… You are infuriating, sometimes. You’re our only way out. You. Gods help us all. We have to rely on you, we don’t have any other gods damned choice. You do realize that, right?”

He nodded.

“And yet, despite knowing that, you still run off and vanish for a week? ” He lifted his hands, yelling properly, now. “A whole sodding week. Did you have a nice vacation, while the rest of us rotted in here?” 

The drifter couldn’t get his mouth to work.

“I regret the things I said before, and I’m sorry for how I said them, but if you put yourself out here as our only lifeline, you don’t get to just… You don’t get to just fucking leave. Sometimes I wonder if you actually see anyone around you as human. Are you here to help us, or the idea of us, Drifter? Are you really here on orders, or do you just want to feel like you’re important. ” The words were snarled, and…

And humans were new too. He still…

If he thought about it, he…

He’d spent so long in Duviri, surrounded by almost-people. Surrounded by real dolls. Again, Arthur had, horribly, a point. Was it really them he loved, or the idea of them? Was there a difference? How… How did you tell? Because he had been fine with leaving. He’d been fine with leaving for a week, he’d wanted to be gone longer. He’d…

He hadn’t changed at all. 

Arthur hadn’t left this time, he’d just pulled up a chair and sat down to wait, drawing his sword out of his side-sheath, setting the point on the ground and spinning it. Time was running out. 

The drifter kneeled there, the fabric of his pants bunched up in his fists. Something to hold onto. Something. Anything. Arthur sat in silence. The sword whistled just slightly when it spun, and snapped when it was caught. Spin. Whistle. Snap. Spin, whistle, snap. Over and over. Minutes. The man sighed, eventually.

“Sometimes.” Arthur said softly, standing, lifting the blade to point it at the drifter’s chest. So close, and yet so, so dreadfully far away. He didn’t want suspense, he wanted it to be over. “Sometimes, its hard. Just being around you. You remind me of how helpless we all really are. No matter how strong we get, there is nothing we could ever do to fix things. No amount of missions, no clever plans, no help from the outside world, and there's no going home. I look at you, and I have to confront the fact that I’m stuck here for the rest of eternity. I look at you, and I can’t pretend like the world is alright.” 

Arthur’s voice was cracking, growing quieter still.

“And you can just… Just leave. You say this is all you have, but thats a lie, drifter, and we both know it. You can go, whenever you want. You’re not trapped here. You could slam your fist against the ground, everything would rewind, and none of us would ever be the wiser. Nothing I do will ever matter again, drifter. No matter who I save, no matter who I help, everything will just go right back to the way it was, and I hate it. And I know its not your fault, its not like you chose this, and I know that its wrong to blame you for the way things are, that's Entrati’s doing. You’ve done nothing but try and help, and I’ve been a real arse. Especially right after you saved my sodding life, and you’ve done so twice. I take back what I said before, it was rude, and uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

The drifter stood, mind made up, and walked forwards, taking the tip of the blade before Arthur could move it away, and set it just above the silvery scar that pierced completely through his chest. The well maintained blade split the fabric easily, and sunk into his flesh even easier, though not particularly deep. Arthur had frozen, staring at him. “You don’t need to take back the truth, and I don’t blame you for it,” he says softly, “Your anger, your hatred, all of it. It… hurts. To feel that sort of helplessness. It hurts to wonder how big the gaps in your memory are, how many years you’ve forgotten. It burns like acid in your chest to know that everyone else gets to move on, gets to live, the world keeps ticking, everyone except for you. I’m sorry too, Arthur. You shouldn’t have to be here. You never should have had to deal with any of this.” 

He stepped closer. The scar tissue allowed the blade entry without much struggle, blood barely seeping out, and that which did was heavily silvered by void metals. His bone grated against the blade bisecting his sternum as it slotted into the worn-thin segments, but now was not the time for pain. He’d feel it later. Now was not a moment for himself.

“I get it. Sometimes… Sometimes the only thing you have left is yourself, and the tiniest bits of control you can muster. Sometimes its just… cubes. Sometimes its in knowing your standing and rank. Sometimes its in the way you swing a sword. And… And I know, being reminded of everything you can’t control can feel… horrible. Like a sucker punch to the face every time, unexpected and very unappreciated. I won’t fight you, alright? You deserve better than all of this. I should have been better, for all of you. I’m sorry.” 

Arthur didn’t move, just staring at that silvery blood that dripped down his chest, lips just parted, face tensed.

The drifter takes the sword by the handle and sinks it all the way in, severing his spine.

Again.

Arthur started, jerking back, stumbling and flopping down in his seat, staring wide eyed at the drifter, who was once again kneeling. 

“What the hell was that?” He cried, clutching his sword in two white-knuckled fists, drawn in to his chest like he was protecting it. 

The drifter blinked. “I… I wanted you to know it was alright.”

“What?”

“I can take it. I’m not human, Arthur. I can take your anger. It’s okay. You don’t need to hold back, or hesitate.”

Arthur stared at him dumbfounded, mouth half open, horror pulling lines across his scarred face. “Why… What? Drifter, why the hell would I want to…”

“You were angry, and upset.” He said softly, “Its okay to be angry, especially since I broke my promise. I took control of your own body away from you, I took your agency away, and you were already struggling with feeling like you had any at all. I could have come back earlier, but I didn’t. I was being selfish, I can do more, I should have been doing more, and I’m sorry-”

Arthur stood up, casting the blade aside, dropped to his knees in front of him, and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him lightly as he spoke. “Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I want to fucking hurt you. Lua’s tears, Drifter! No!”  

The drifter stared back at him, emotions twisting inside his chest. Arthur’s face, those eyes, one oceanic blue, one pale sky, were filled with so much genuine concern. He… He didn’t know what to do with that. Wasn’t this how it went? He’d been ready for the pain. He’d been preparing himself this whole time to take it without complaint, because that was what happened.

“I… Wasn’t… That why you drew your sword…?” Was the best he could get out. Arthur’s shoulders slumped, his hands sliding from his shoulders to grip his biceps. The drifter couldn’t hold the man’s searching gaze.

“No, of course not! What sort of nightmare were you… Who… ” 

He drew off.

Realization bloomed over his face, lips forming a single word. Duviri.

"Oh, Drifter… " 

The drifter had never told them the specifics about what he’d been through. He hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t been able to. They knew about Thrax, yes, and the land's storybook nature, but other than saying he was trapped there…

To speak about it always seemed to mean reliving it.

The drifter’s eyes snapped to the door. He could leave, right now. Void sling to safety, out of this conversation. Before Arthur ripped open wounds that he wasn’t prepared to open. Before-

Arthur hugged him.

The drifter’s entire body went rigid, tense, anticipating… Anticipating anything, anything, he was supposed to be dead, he was supposed to be on the receiving side of anger. That was the way it was, that was how it was supposed to go, he wasn’t…

Arthur squeezed him just a little, arms wrapped all the way around him, drawing him in, chin on the drifter’s shoulder. 

“What… is happening?” The drifter’s voice was a rough croak, and he didn’t quite know why. 

“Just because I’m upset doesn’t mean I want to hurt you.” The man said softly. “I’m sorry for yelling. This is me showing you that I don’t want that.

“You have a right to be angry, I left, I forced you out of your body, I could have been doing more, I-”

“I am angry.” He interrupted, but still didn’t let go of the hug. Didn’t pull away. “When I’m angry, I sulk, I shout, sometimes I just drink. Most of my anger didn’t belong on your shoulders anyway. I shouldn’t have been putting it there.”

Like this, his emotions felt… It was like the pressure was squeezing all of them out. Everything he’d been feeling, all his frustration, all his irritation with the man, all at once. He couldn’t let it out all at once, it would drown both of them, his vision warped with emotions, blinding him. He… He chose one thing to focus on. The reds. He’d always been able to understand red the easiest.

“I don’t need your pity, Arthur.” He hissed, sucking a breath in. It was hard, and not due to those arms around him. “I don’t need you to hold back, I can take it. You don’t need to pretend. I’m not fragile.” 

That did get the man to draw back, but only enough so that they could be face to face. For once, the drifter let his pride win out, and held that gaze firmly. 

“I don’t pity you.” Arthur said, echoing his own damn words right back to him. “That’s not why I’m here.” 

The drifter’s jaw tensed, an eye twitching. 

“Besides.” That infuriating man said gently, “I don’t see you putting a sword through me, do I?”

“...That doesn’t count. ” 

“You’re saying you’re not mad at me being a sodding arsehole.” 

The drifter hesitated, and Arthur nodded a little, arms still around him. 

“You’ve got a right to be angry just as much as I do. Much more of one, actually. I know full well you only broke your promise because it was that or letting me die, and you were there, every reset. You felt every ounce of pain I did. I know full well that you being here is the only reason we can ever have the chance to change anything at all. You’d have every right to leave me broken in a ditch. You could, too.”

“It doesn’t count, Arthur.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” The drifter snapped. “I’m not fucking human. You die once. I can’t die. The Hex lose you, and they’re finished. They lose me, its just back to normal. You let your emotions loose, one person suffers. When I... You’re human. I’m not. So be fucking mad, and just get it over with. Don’t pity me, don’t hold back, don’t pretend. Just…”

He was pulled in again, and hugged even tighter. The world was so… Confusing. Colors whirled and mixed, darks and lights, everything was chaos. He couldn’t sort it out. Couldn’t make heads or tails. He wanted to cry. 

“I think I yelled at you earlier for not seeing us as people,” Arthur said softly. The only thing that was real in the room. “I was missing the point there, I guess. You’re not a doll, Drifter. You’re not just a soldier, or a means to an end. You're not a punching bag, either, and I never should have treated you like one. I've already expressed my anger. Besides. Even if you aren’t human anymore, that just makes you like the rest of us, and when you saved me, earlier, I saw, for a moment, what you really are.”

He couldn’t hold back the tears if he wanted to, his hands trembled where they remained in his lap. He didn’t know what colors his tears were, there were too many to count. He’d never be able to muster the skill to learn how to play the song for what he was feeling. Not even time was this overwhelming.

“I saw a guardian. A knight in shining armor. Everything I’ve ever wanted to be. I dunno how it worked, but I could see how you were feeling, too. I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that was jealous, and terrified. I let that win over everything else, and I shouldn't have. I’m sorry, Drifter. I think I know more than most how lonely it can be, looking out for everyone but yourself. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten so mad about you leaving, or being worried about your warframe. If anything, it's... It's been nice to see that even if we do go braindead, you'd still care as much as you do. Besides, you probably needed the break. You couldn't have known things would change so suddenly.”

He tried to respond, tried to breathe in to speak, but his chest trembled and it came out as a soft, humiliating sob. Arthur didn’t let go, just… Held him. Lifted a hand to run it through his hair.

“If it means anything, to you,” He continued, his voice, for some reason, wavering as if he too was on the verge of tears. “You do do more than you realize. You say the Hex would just go back to normal, but you don’t know just how shit normal was. You’ve already done so much, and not just on missions. Amir talks about you all the time, you know? I’ve had to worry about him so much less since you decided to be his friend. And Aoi’s needed someone to just talk to, to chat with like everything’s normal, and you’ve been that for her, like I never could. Quincy doesn’t say it, but he thinks more of you than he lets on. Eleanor’s enjoyed your talks too. Says you’re a breath of fresh air, full of stories and perspectives she’s never been able to think about before, and Lettie likes having someone else who’s reliable around."

Arthur leaned his head until it was resting against his. “And, honestly, I can’t say anyone else enjoys the food I make quite as much as you do. Sure, your brand of enthusiasm isn’t particularly… visible, but every now ‘n again I’ll catch you looking at the stars with a little smile, or crouched, looking at a leaf on the ground, or just listening to people talk. Sometimes I hear someone say they want something, you’ll look over, and two days later they’ll get a delivery. Quincy mentioned he wished he could have a proper timeline to reference techrot and scaldra movements, and you spent a month, every night, just to get him that. You’ve got a way about caring like nothing I’ve ever seen. To me, you’re an inspiration, and I know I’ve buggered up showing it right proper, especially lately. I was worried. Thought that there was no way you could be real. Thought there had to be some trick, something big you weren’t saying, and half of the reason I was so insistent on sparring with you was to keep you in my sight for more of the day. It was easier to be suspicious of you than just be grateful, and I’m sorry. You have never had to be here. Entrati's gone, and he was the one you were supposed to be following, but you came back anyway. You came back, despite everything. Despite having all of time, you chose us, even though its so much more than we have ever deserved. When I saw your emotions, I could see how much you truly did care, even after everything. I know that damn well. I wasn't ready to think about that, then. I wasn't ready to accept the truth, even though I should have done so long ago. Thank you, Drifter. Thank you for being here. For trying."

He didn’t know what to say, but… His hands twitched, and… And before he could blink he was hugging Arthur back, squeezing tight around the man’s broad form, trembling all over, curling his legs around his waist just he could get a little closer. 

Arthur held the drifter as he wept, and then a little longer, and a little longer still. Until he’d cried himself to sleep. Carefully, he hooked one arm beneath the man’s knees, lifted him, and brought him over to the couch he’d been using as some sort of makeshift bed. Even out, the drifter seemed very adverse to letting go, so he just sat, and consigned himself to a sore neck in the morning. It was well worth it.

--

(Arthur didn't let go, just... Held him.)

(HeraldicMage/Multi-Attack's absolutely incredible work, destroyed me)

Chapter Text

The drifter woke up gently, floating from the deepest, calmest depths of sleep, and found himself not alone for the first time that he could remember.

There were arms loosely about his waist, long since too relaxed to hold him completely. Soft breath by his ear, not quite snoring, but almost, and… And a warm, real body against his. Arthur had stayed. 

He’d stayed. 

He’d stayed.

For some reason, the thought made him want to cry all over again, even though now that he was up properly, he could tell how dehydrated he was. A tremor ran through him, and he curled up a little tighter, pressing his face back against the man’s shoulder, adjusting slightly, settling more comfortably on the man’s lap. He didn’t want the moment to end. Not now, not ever. Eternity could pass him by and he’d be fine with it. He felt… 

Safe. 

Rebellious tears welled in his eyes once more, though the colors were clear. Rainbows off of whites, gentle yellows and pinks and blues, all whirling together, all so tender. Happiness and love. Not the kind of love people might write about in the regular sense, though. The drifter wasn’t much sure that he deserved that sort, but… 

‘Thank you for being here, Drifter. Thank you for trying.’

He pressed his lips together to stop them from trembling. He was out of control, thrown off so thoroughly, but for once, he… For once the drifter wasn’t afraid of the consequences. For once, he knew that this wouldn’t drown him, burning away everything he wanted to be and revealing his worst self. These emotions seemed to… Stabilize him instead, somehow. Odd, how such gentle things could balance out the scales where force and pure self control could not.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out, and he closed his eyes, letting the tears flow into the fabric of the couch. 

‘You’re not just a means to an end.’

A smile made its way to his face unbidden. Utterly genuine. For once, it wasn’t the world singing to him, but his soul, singing back out to the world. 

He’d shown the depths of his weakness, and Arthur had seen it. He’d been ready to die, but for once, he wasn’t left broken and in pain. Despite the man’s anger, he’d not wanted to hurt him, he’d drawn back, he’d put in the effort to make sure that the drifter knew that he was cared for. He’d apologized. He’d apologized. How long had it been since anyone had ever? It was all so new. It was so… wonderful. Perhaps…

Perhaps he could trust them. Perhaps doing so may not mean death, this time. Perhaps it wouldn’t mean more pain.

Arthur drew in a deep breath beneath him, stirring, hands twitching. He hummed slightly, and the drifter felt those arms wrap firmly around him again, sleepy and slow.

The drifter would be fine with more arguments if it meant that he could have this more often. He wanted this. Maybe he needed it, even if it wasn’t his place to ask. Maybe he wanted to ask anyway.

“Mmn…hh.” Arthur blinked his eyes half open, fingers pushing up along the drifter’s back, searching, feeling, fabric bunching beneath his touch in a way that he couldn’t find himself minding, right now. And then Arthur stopped, as he realized what he was doing, and who exactly he was holding. The man started, lifting both his hands off, and the drifter could hear his heartbeat kick into overdrive, fabric and infested flesh hissing softly at the turn of his head as Arthur looked at him. Probably trying to see if he was still asleep. The drifter pretended he was. Anything for a few more seconds. He knew he was being selfish. He knew it was selfish, but the man had been an ass, and maybe he owed the drifter a few more seconds, damnit. 

More shifting of fabric along flesh, a pop of a pouch button, and the soft click of plastic and metal. Crunching of buttons. A soft ‘hmph,’ the faint smile audible in the noise. The snap of a kinepage shutting. 

Those arms returned, though less touchy, and the man sighed. Likely resigned, as he should be, to his fate as a delightfully warm rock on a lazy morning.

After a minute Arthur tapped him on the shoulder a few times, lightly.

The drifter tightened his grip. 

Arthur snorted, and sighed again, leaning his head back. “Enjoying yourself?” 

“Yes.” He said, utterly honestly, keeping his eyes closed.

That got another hmm-ing sound, and a few pats. “Had no idea you were so… Cuddly. Didn’t take you for the type.” 

He hadn’t exactly known either, so he shrugged.

A few heartbeats of silence.

“Sleep well?”

The drifter nodded.

“Know what time it is?”

Did it matter? He didn’t think it did, so he shrugged again.

“It’s almost noon.”

He shrugged a third time.

“Will I be allowed to get up, soon?”

He shook his head.

That earned him a light chuckle, and another little pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got sparring on the schedule today, if…” Arthur drew off, likely remembering his admission last night. The drifter remembered it just fine. But… Half full, half empty, water was still water. He sat up, blinking, and got a wonderful moment to lazily study how Arthur’s scarred face looked in the light. Beautiful, crowned by a ray of illumination from above, giving his white hair beneath the black a halo-ish effect. The blues and golds congregated in his eyes and trailed across his face, stability amidst the whirling color, and his scars were traced in prismatic whites, with pinks offering warmth to his pale cheeks. Beautiful. A masterwork of art. He found himself smiling again.

Arthur fidgeted, gaze shifting across his face, down, back up to his eyes. Uncomfortable, likely he’d pushed his luck as far as it could go. So… He leaned away, drawing his arms out from where they’d been more or less pinned behind Arthur’s back, set his hands on his shoulders, and got his legs out from where they’d been tucked between the man’s sides and the couch cushions so he could stand up. 

Another deep breath, and he stretched, so very relaxed and so pleasantly awake. But in a pastel way he could rarely remember experiencing. It was wonderful. 

“I’m up for a spar,” he nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair to try and de-messify it as best as he could, and he could hear Arthur getting up behind. 

“Reconvene in an hour? Lunch, then a fight? Aoi’s got things covered. Said she could tell I’d need the day off.” 

That sounded wonderful too.

“If there’s time, later tonight at the trade-meet, I think I’ve got a story I’d like to tell you all.”

Chapter Text

“He… What?” Amir’s voice was soft.

Arthur nodded.

Quincy looked to Eleanor, who nodded as well in confirmation.

Aoi scuffled the floor of the kitchen with her boot heel, worrying at the insides of her cheeks and staring at nothing but the tile. Lettie shifted, folding her arms. 

“Man, when you didn’t leave that room this morning, I was hoping it was because you two had fucked it out, or something.” Quincy grumbled, “That’s just… depressing.”

“At least he accepted your apology…?” Aoi tried with a wince, not looking up.

“I don’t know that he did. The most I ever got out of him about how he was feeling was a second of hesitation when I asked him if he wasn’t mad.”

Amir sat down, resting his head in his hands.

“He told me his scars came from past deaths, but to expect an execution so thoroughly that he did it himself when you would not… dios mio…”

“More than that. He was angry, from what Arthur remembers, when things did not go the way he expected. I’d investigate, but he avoids thinking about things so well that I’d need to pry, and he’d know if I did.”

“And last time I asked about his past,” Quincy added, wrinkling his nose, “He went catatonic. Not sure what we c’n do, there.”

“Where… Is he, right now?” Aoi asked, looking between Arthur and Eleanor.

“Last I saw, in his room.” 

“I can’t feel him, so likely, yes. Though he has his ways of going about unseen when he so pleases. How was he this morning, Arthur?” 

“...Clingy. Seemed happy enough. I stayed until he woke.”

Quincy’s brow shot right up, and Eleanor also gave him a double take, as…

The way the Drifter had looked at him came back to his head. All tender, smiling just so, side lit by sunshine that reflected and mixed with the pale blue glow of his pupils, irises a whirling array of pastels. Every color in that room had seemed somehow more vibrant in that moment, and every shadow had been softened. Dreamlike. Gentle.

“A little bit more than happy, maybe. Lua, brother. The more I learn about our dear Drifter the less I understand about him, especially whatever made him look at you like that. Madness, probably.”

He glared at her, and she snickered.

“Guys.” Amir sighed, lifting his head and readjusting his glasses. “Can we focus? Please? ”

That, from Amir of all people, did at least reign things back in. 

“You,” He pointed to Arthur. “Yelled at him, and he just kneeled there and took it. Didn’t say a single thing. Right?”

Arthur nodded.

“And when you didn’t kill him, when you apologized, for real, that's when he stood up and just…” Amir motioned stabbing himself through the chest.

“Yes.”

“And even after that he still argued with you as to why you should be killing him.”

“...Yes.” 

“And he never told you how he was feeling.”

“No.”

Amir leaned back on the crate he was sitting on, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

“To be fair to Arthur, he did more or less straight up tell me that if he wasn’t drunk enough that he could barely talk, he wouldn’t be telling anyone anything.” Quincy allowed.

“Mm… And our babasito drifts away when he must discuss, even for health’s sake.”

“Or just forgets.”

Aoi nodded, frowning. “Even when he was, like, showing me new techniques, he’d pull away so I couldn’t get much of a read on him. He was scared of that. Every time.”

There was a moment of silence as they all considered, and all came to a similar conclusion.

Arthur had been so worried about the Drifter being a threat, he’d failed to see that, likely, paradoxically, the Drifter was just as afraid of them, if not more. Despite having both the weaponry and skill to easily tear them all apart if he so chose. But... Even so, if he was so used to even the most misplaced of grievances meaning certain death or torture that he took it upon himself to enforce their happenings… 

It was no wonder the man didn’t talk much, or feel much. It was no surprise that everything just remained bottled up until it exploded.

They discussed, softly, what they should do. After all, the Drifter had all of time, and he had come back. Why was beyond him, but he wanted to help, and they had to let that matter.

Chapter Text

Whispers beckoned Quincy closer as he trotted down the white hallway to the creepy ass void-door to the Drifter’s room. The phantom voices didn’t even have the decency to come from the televisions fused into the door frame, either, but drifted around the gate like mist.

He could swear the eyes on the televisions followed him as he approached, warping just so they could keep watching. One of these days he’d have to have some words with their resident spaceman about shooting those out.

The Drifter wouldn’t be able to hear an external knock, so he stepped through the veil and was greeted with…

Music.

Not quite a guitar, it was a little too plucky and high, but it seemed to be played in the same way. A soft voice spoke, too muffled from its origin in the loft to be understood, but it was definitely along the same pace and rhythm, with slight modulations. Not quite singing, but almost.  

Well. That was new information. From the way the man played, it was clear that he had quite a lot of practice too, which made it all the weirder that he’d never once played where any of the Hex would hear it. Why not? Obviously he was good at it, and the lazy strumming he heard definitely sounded like the sound of someone who enjoyed doing it.

Quincy knocked, and the music didn’t stop. Not loud enough.

He knocked a bit louder, then louder still, and the strumming finally stopped with a slap of a palm on strings, and the thump of boots on carpet. More steps, the musical thud of the instrument being set down, and the Drifter spoke.

“You’re late! Might be the first time that…” He trailed off from where he stood at the railing, and tilted his head. “Quincy? Did something happen?” 

“Nah. Here to offer a deal.”

The Drifter’s brows immediately knit together, lips pulling tight for a moment before he responded. “I’ll hear you out, but we’re not gonna shake on it.”

Quincy snorted softly. “Nah, no shaking, cuz. Just wanna finish what we started.”

The man above leaned on his elbows, head tilting, expression flattening immediately to that perfect neutral.

He took a few heartbeats before he spoke. “All…right, though… Arthur’s thirty minutes late. Is he busy?” 

“Yeah. Sorting out a situation, or whatever. You gonna lean over the whole time or do I need to come up there?” 

The Drifter turned, looking back into the little loft area. “You can come up if you like. Better couches up here.”

And so he did, making his way up the side stairs, and giving the infested mass beyond a good middle finger before taking a left. Mid-day sunshine lit the whole area, lazily lighting the Drifter’s body as he quickly gathered items and took them off to the side. A large collection of books, the instrument he’d probably been playing earlier, (it looked more like a fancy shamisen or something than a guitar) and then an entire end-table that was more or less covered in assorted weapon parts, no less than two guns both partially through reassembly post cleaning. This one was dragged much more carefully, and with a hand on the back to stop any of the smaller bits from rolling off. The Drifter straightened, clapped off his hands, and gestured to the couch.

Quincy sat, lounging back, studying the man. He seemed a bit more disheveled than usual, which was saying something, because the man was always some variant of messy somewhere. (It was usually his chopped short hair, honestly. Looked like it had been knifed.) He was clad in something adjacent to a leather jacket, though it looked to fasten up on either side of his chest and lacked proper buttons, (or shoulder room, it fit quite tightly) one sleeve rolled up a bit farther than the other and revealing, (shock and surprise) his regular black jumpsuit beneath. It was tied off with a lopsided silvery sash at the waist, the ends hanging over his regular black pants and boots. One of these days he’d figure out how to convince the man to wear something that was fashionable, in any sense. Unless the future was all about wearing shells, or whatever. 

It did show off his fair chest and musculature nicely, but it was just at that awkward point between form fitting and fashionably loose where it just… Ehhh. 

Drifter grabbed that instrument again, and kicked over a pillow, plopping down on it cross legged. “Thankfully,” He said lightly, experimentally drawing over the instruments’ three strings with a very gentle touch of a pick, “I’m not drunk this time. Ask away.”

“Drinking was your idea, Robocop. Anyway. First question. Did you actually want to spar with Arthur today?” 

He paused, faint music drawing off. 

Silence. 

Well. That was an interesting response.

Eventually... “I can’t let myself get rusty, and he’s the only swordsman here.”

“Wild, since swords don't really seem all your speed on the field when you've got a gun. Plus all of us know hand to hand. Kinda mandatory. Except Amir, but he’s stabby enough to make up for that.”

A few notes, played in an upward trill, almost contemplative.

“If erry’one else offered, who’d you pick right now?” 

The Drifter blinked, music dying off again. After a few moments a frown overtook his face. “I mean… Other than Arthur, I don’t know any of your capabilities well enough to say.”

“Yeah, well. Sure, fair. Let me clarify. What I’m getting at is that you don’t have to spend extra time around that asshole.” He waved a hand, leaning on his elbow. “And he told us what happened last night.” 

More silence, and the Drifter’s face remained that perfect, honestly slightly infuriating neutral, gaze on his instrument. Until… A little strum, and a hesitant, slow stanza in a minor key. Curious… The man didn’t reply until he’d finished it, likely buying time for himself to think.

“He did apologize.” Another strum, still in a minor key, faster now. Every note was sharp and set clearly aside from the others, making them seem tense, altogether. “And if he wants a sparring partner…” He drew off, and slapped the strings with a palm, and looked up at Quincy, brows furrowing over narrowed eyes. “These sure as hell aren’t in line with last time. What do you really want?” 

Aegh. That was fast.

“You caught me.” He lifted his palms, giving an acquiescing tilt of the head. “Amir’s worried about you. Figured I’d check in.” 

“He could have come.” The Drifter went back to playing, expression once more neutral. More staccato notes in minor, more looking at only the instrument. “Why you?”

“Because he’s busy, and I’m not. Call that availability.”

That got a twitch of the lips. A faint smile. He remembered. “Alright, fair, fair. Why use that favor on this, though? You could have just…” The Drifter waved his pick in a circular way in Quincy’s direction. “Y’know, asked.” 

He shrugged, “Not much fun in that, and besides-” 

“Arthur no longer need the info?” The man interrupted lightly, picking out more staccato notes, a bit quicker, harsher. That was the sound of irritation. He really did have normal  emotions in there, somewhere.

“Oh, that info was for me, not him. Sure, he had particular questions, but I know well enough to leave well enough alone.”

“You’re still here, though, picking, leaving nothing in particular alone.” This was said in his regular flat voice, but with that little grin still. A joke, then? It was supported by a light trill, so he'd assume so. Sol, that was kind of helpful when it came to reading his nonexistent tone.

“Y’ever have siblings?”

“Mm? No.” A few neutral downward notes. “I mean, not really, unless you count my twin, but she doesn't count.” 

“Hold. How does a twin not count as a sibling.” 

The Drifter winced. “She’s not a twin by birth. Technically we’re the same person, just… She went right, I went left. Now we’re different people.”

Quincy blinked. “What? ”

He shrugged, lifting his hands, musical implements still held to his palms. “Explaining it would take a while. I’ll try, later, but unless you've got all afternoon…”

“Try later, huh. That the story you wanted to tell tonight?”

The Drifter nodded, playing a few more indistinct notes, not really in any sort of progression. Like they’d been picked at random. “You n’ Arthur both wanted to know the same thing, so I’ll tell you all at once, if I can. Trade meet means we'd at least all be present.”

“Without needing to drink a whole bottle of whiskey this time?” 

He grinned again. “If you’re offering…”

“I’m not, you know how much that damn bottle cost me?”

“About…” A pause, his squinted gaze lifted to the ceiling, lips moving as he silently counted. “Eleven questions.”

“Nah, it was at least thirty. Start singing, bird.”

The Drifter snorted. “I’ve been singing. The fuck more you want from me?” 

“Twenty questions.” 

“Get asking, then. I’ll keep count, so use ‘em wisely.”

“Damn, harsh. Fine. Question twelve.” He pointed at the mixed weapon parts on the end table. “Explain?”

The Drifter followed his point, confused… Realized, and immediately winced, hunching his shoulders. “…I got distracted.” 

“Twice.”

“…Twice.” 

“You treat all your weapons like this?”

“Let’s skip that one.” 

Chapter Text

The drifter strummed his shawzin, took a deep breath, stepped onto the stage, and pretended to be Bombastine.

He stood, thinking green thoughts, seeing green skies, imagining opera as an accompaniment to his playing. The watching eyes glowed to him, but they were golden, not quite red, so he didn’t need to be afraid. They would see him. Bombastine was never afraid, he merely did. He was a performer, he was brilliant, an orator who didn’t stutter or hesitate or overthink. He’d practiced these words, like any good performer should, and he did not have time to feel anxious. Today, the drifter was Bombastine. The previous storyteller made his way off to the side, chatting excitedly with his companions, and they laughed together. Well. He’d show them.

“Listen up, and listen well. Today I’ll give you a song that’s been playing for thousands of years, all throughout time, about two souls intwined. A devil, and a child. The child gave up their name long ago, so we shall call them Stardust. ” Another strum, simple, for now.

Children laughed and skipped back over to settle below in their proper seats, looking up at him, so joyous for this little ring of normalcy. Adults turned back to the stage. It was an open night for stories, they’d advertised it as such, (on short notice, but the locals had been coming to trade anyway, so people had stepped up all the same) but an instrument in these times wasn’t a common thing. The members of the Hex paused in their dealings, giving out food, discussing resources, bartering deals. They all looked at him, surprised. So many eyes. So many eyes. This was…

A spike of anxiety shot through his chest. This was… This was too much. Too much attention. His skin burned beneath their gaze, his throat threatened to close. He could see only blues and blacks and- No. No. No.

Bombastine. Be Bombastine. A deep breath in… Hold. Two. A deep breath out. He smiled.

“Now, Stardust was a part of some few million travelers, all aboard a ship and heading off through the stars to find a place called Tau. It was to be home, they were told, and they’d been sent there to make it so, riding on a space-ship called the Zariman Ten-Zero.” He strummed, playing in time to the rhythm of his words, soft enough that it wouldn’t overtake his story, speaking loud enough that he could still make every note crisp. To every person in this room but eight, his words would be fiction.

He forced himself to orate, this was his stage, and his story to tell. The drifter could complain all he liked, whine about this and that, wallow in misery, whatever. Bombastine didn’t give a shit.

“A shame it was, that their trip through the void went just slightly awry. They leapt from Jupiter, hoping to make it to Pluto. It took them thousands of years, and the ship never even made it there. And now, I think I’ll tell you why. ” He drew off with a slower upwards trill, plucking each note with his pick, leaning in to the children, who watched with wide eyes. Yes, they loved him. As they should.

“The void’s alive, you see, it exists beyond everything, all full of everything, everywhere, all at once. Every choice you could make, has been made, every thought you could speak has been said, every path you could take has been trodden, and every book has been written and read. It’s Eternity in there, and it doesn’t care much for us, save we’ve got something it doesn’t. Eternity happens, all on its own. It doesn’t choose the paths that happen, we do. It can’t control us, no fate destines our steps, and although it can guess, what it doesn’t have, it cannot understand.” 

“Not that it doesn’t want to, you see. And that's where the devil comes in. Straight from eternity itself, existing just to exist. To know and be known, that is love, and you cannot know the unknowable. Doesn’t mean it won’t try to be seen all the same. This devil could know, though, it could understand what it experienced, but without stepping in to our world, it could never quite experience things the way we could.”

He dripped drama into his words, leaning back, striding across the stage with a flick of his hair. He’d even done some proper makeup for this, and traded his regular nondescript clothing for something Bombastine would wear. After all, he’d never be caught dead without looping spirals of golds and greens and blues, and the white really did fit with his complexion. Of course it did. He was wondrous. Lucilla was right to be jealous, honestly.

“Lucky it, then, that a ship full of souls washed up on its doorstep. So many curious people, unknowing, unwitting. Perfect to know and be known. A shame, then, that the Indifferent Devil could not feel love like we can. Without empathy, it only wanted to experience emotion, and what stronger emotion can there be than the bonds of love?” He paused for emphasis, turning, filling his foot with energy and letting it drag emerald sparks behind it. The children’s eyes went wide.

“Ever jealous, ever curious, it wrapped its little fingers around the bonds and pulled, drawing forth agony. Those who could understand what was happening to them went insane, every adult mind reduced to the worst versions of itself that it could be. Would love still be present, when the world was at its end?” He strummed, letting his notes be hopeful, uplifting, slapping the strings to stop the vibrations, and then dropping them to a low minor key, slowing it down.

“Alas, the answer was no. What had been done could not be un-done, and the Indifference then turned to watch what would happen to those who had not gone mad.”

“Chaos, death, eyes of red and bodies of black, insanity and ravenous hunger, all pitted against mere children. The children never stood much of a chance, they were children, but together they stood anyway. If they could not rely on the bonds they had to their parents, they would rely on their bonds to each other. Connected, loving, even as one by one they all fell.”

The very real adults looked upset, at this. As they should, tragedies were all about the full range of emotion. He sighed, adding a fair dose of vibrato into his longer notes, wrist flowing through the movements just as he’d practiced. Just as they should. Bombastine was perfect.

“Our dear Stardust was one of the last, having fought to their final breath, and the walls were coming down. Every choice had been made. Every path had been trodden. Everything they could have done, had been done, and it was still not enough.”

A vibrant stanza, leading upwards, because he’d lied, and there was more that Stardust could do. Just one thing more. He winked at the children, struck a final note, and pointed across the empty stage to the other side.

“And that was when the devil struck, smiling with teeth like ivory and eyes of obsidian, and wearing Stardust’s own face.” A mental reach. A moment of focus, and he was there, erupting from a cascade of light of emerald and gold, the trail of energy he’d left behind dissolving upwards. Gasps from the audience, some stepping back in surprise. He grinned, and strummed, lifting his hand again to the other side of the stage. For the devil, a snarling voice, low and gravely.

“‘Time’s up, kiddo!’ The devil laughed. ‘You fought, you tried, but this will be the end, for you, for them. There’s no going back. Fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?” Another reach, another pull, and he was there, sitting on the edge of the stage in a vibrant burst. Children started, laughed. An adult made a half-step towards the stage, eyes on her own little ones. He gave her a wink, and a softer smile, and thankfully, she relaxed. Once more, he played. For Stardust, something higher.

“Stardust considered that, eyes on the hands that were peeling the doors apart, ears on the ravening howls, and they shook their head. ‘Maybe, maybe it is the end,’ they said. ‘Perhaps we’ll all die, today, but I’m not dead yet, am I?’” A reach, a burst, and he was ambling about mid-stage, lazily walking through flickering embers of energy. A quick spin, he held his breath, and dipped into invisibility, reappearing a few steps away in a crouch.

“‘What will you do, kiddo?’ The devil asked, leaning in with a grin. ‘You’re nothing to the void, you’re nothing to me, you’re nothing to them. Juuust a brief blip in time.’” A moment without breathing, and he was in his previous position again, looking down at the faintest afterimage of light as it faded.

“‘Perhaps,’ Stardust agreed again, and then met the devil’s gaze . ‘But you lie. If I was nothing, you’d not be in this room, waiting to watch us die, isn’t that right?’” A burst of light, and he was swinging his legs, sitting on the front of the stage, leaning off it just slightly, and lowering his voice.

“And the devil snickered, leaning in, and looked from side to side. It said, ‘I’ll tell you a secret, Kiddo. Wanna know?’” The kids nodded, leaning closer in turn.

“And Stardust leaned in,” (he gave the kids an extra nod and an approving smile) “-and the devil told them it’s truth. It said, ‘ I have no name, child. No face. No voice. I cannot love, for I cannot understand, nor be understood as I am. The only face I can wear is yours. To watch you die will be a sorrow, for you could have taught me much. ’” He didn’t move, this time, merely straightening his posture and putting one leg over the other. 

“‘If you have no name, then take mine, ’ Said Stardust. ‘You have my face already, and I can give a little more, Devil, I am not dead yet. Soon I will not need my name, and it is better that you have it than it be lost, with all the others. I cannot help them any more, but I can, perhaps, help you.’”

“And the devil sat back, surprised. ‘Make it a deal, kiddo.’ The devil pleaded. ‘Ask something of me. Ask me for the power to save them, and it’ll be yours, so that I may take your name, and I need not watch you die.’ It said, and Stardust shook their head.”

“‘I know I cannot save them, devil. Even if I did, where would we go? What would we do? No. Dear devil, I ask of you this. Take my name. Take everything, anything that you want, all I ask is that you save them.’ And the devil thought on this, and offered a hand. The child took it and shook for love, and for all but one, the nightmare ended in a blink of an eye.’”

He stood, raised his pick just so, too many people with hands already lifted to applaud. Bombastine was not done until the story had been finished. The drifter could never have done what he could do, and they deserved better, today. 

A vibrant strum, and he lifted his voice, singing out his words in tune. 

“All vanished away, every soul, leaving them, and them alone. For the Indifference was Indifferent. Emotions did not give it empathy, and the child had not asked to be saved themselves. And thus, they were alone. ”

“It was eternity, in there. Endless halls of void filled emptiness, laughing voices echoing from timelines they’d never reach. For the longest time, they subsisted on what food they could find, until they were beyond needing it. Forever locked as they were, on that fateful day, on which they’d shaken the devil’s hand.”

“It was madness, in there, and the child slipped farther and farther away, clinging to their books, their paintings, the bones of the dead, until each began to sing back when they sang to them.”

Bombastine paused. 

The drifter was curled up tightly in his chest, nails digging into their scalp, bleeding. Gutted. Overdramatic, that one.

“There was one lifeline, however, that the void had left them. The child had loved a doll, while they were human. A doll from a storybook, named for a noble king, ruling a wonderful land, free from the touch of the void. The book warned the child of the dangers of feeling, for the void was drawn to it, it said. Every emotion could be too much, even the good could overwhelm, but in the end, all could be managed and contained. The king was named Dominus Thrax, and of all the voices that spoke to them, it was Thrax’s voice that they cherished the most. Not for the warnings of the tale, but for the tale itself, and the world it spoke of.”

“With nothing else to love, no-one else to give to, the child’s emotions fixated on those stories. If they could just stop feeling, maybe it would all go away. Maybe the nightmare would end. If they could just stop feeling, maybe they’d wake up in a warm bed to voices they loved. And they tried. Alas, there was too much of them that was still human. The void latched onto their emotions, their desires, their thoughts, everything that refused to remain contained, everything they painted, they dreamed for, they wished for, and fed and fed them until they exploded into a new reality.”

“A world. A home. Better than Tau, for they could touch it. Once again, they felt moving air on their skin, saw the animals they loved to read about, and had people to talk to.”

“All this time they’d been so afraid of being, when that had been the key to their freedom all along. They’d been so afraid of feeling, they’d locked themself away to rot in infinity. All they’d ever had to do to be free was dream. Not of where they were, but of where they wanted to be, and put forth the work to get there. They’d gotten so lost in the words they’d lost the story.”

“And when their stories weren’t home anymore,” He closed his eyes. “They kept dreaming. They kept pushing, seeking, always looking for something worth loving. They saw the sun again. When their stories became too stifling, when the Tales of Duviri weren’t enough, they moved on. Do you know how they did it? How they beat the void a second time?”

“Feeling…?” Asked one of the little ones. 

“Thats right.” He nodded. “Feeling. It took them being willing to feel to be able to reach out for help, when they needed it, and this time, someone took their hand. For the other children that our child had freed had been claimed by a mother who loved them, and their bond was enough for the little lost lamb to grasp onto. It takes two hands, to reach and to grab. It takes at least two to be able to truly know love. And the more you love, the more you’ll know, and the freer you’ll be. The more hands, the lighter the work. Everything can be overcome, if you’re willing to try, and not do so alone. ”

Bombastine let the last few notes fade away, and bowed. Applause from tired hands, overworked hands, stressed hands, bandaged hands. Mutated hands. It was light, but it was enough. Words were called. Encore. Someone small asked where the child was now. He smiled at them, gave them a wink. He almost did, there was a lot to tell, but…

Teeth. Teeth, desperate, trembling, sinking through his brain, squeezing out every last drop of emerald green.

No more. No more. No more. No more. He couldn’t do any more than this. The stage was red with his own viscera. No more. He’d bleed out. Let the next person take the stage. There were more in line. He’d taken up enough space. This was enough. This was all he could give right now. Let it be enough.

He played a last trill on his shawzin, straightened, sucked in a breath, and vanished.  

Chapter Text

The drifter was not the drifter. Of that, Eleanor was sure.

She looked at him, and saw green. Someone with a grinning mask and a headpiece of loops and entwined snakes, azure skin that cracked like porcelain until it was replaced with gold. Not the drifter. That mask was made of solid stone, but with how focused he was on telling his story, it was easy enough to slide behind it and take a peek beyond.

Behind that mask was another, something metal and childlike that the drifter clung to and pressed to his face with trembling hands, as if it would protect him from the words he was saying. Beyond that…

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

The nothing she’d felt from him in his dreams, or in moments where he’d forget. Because if you were nothing, nothing would hurt.

Everything he spoke was curated by the emerald masked man, every movement he made was precisely done, every strum of the instrument he played was perfect. 

“Would love still be present, when the world was at its end?” The emerald drifter asked, and she could hear two answers when he answered that it would not be.

For those who had not gone mad from the void’s song, it had been.

“You fought, you tried, but this will be the end for you, for them. There’s no going back. Fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?” 

This line again echoed twice, but not with double meanings, but double memories. A black eyed child spoke, and Albrecht Entrati spoke.

“Maybe. Maybe it is the end. Perhaps we’ll all die today, but I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“I can give a little more, Devil. I am not dead yet.”

These words were spoken from that other face, the one behind the showman. The child, and somehow she knew it was who he had been, once, and who he still was, deep down.

The room was filled with thoughts and voices. Some would rather not have such a bizarre and depressing story be told, right now. Some were wondering how exactly the man had managed to teleport around, if it was perhaps some sort of showman's trick. The Hex didn’t teleport, they’d never seen it. Some were wondering if this was the same soft spoken dark haired man who’d visit to fulfill requests, and if so, what the hell he’d been drinking to do such a total 180. Could they have some?

Some of the children knew him, and were wondering where his unicorn was. The story was secondary, they’d rather him whip that out, thank you, because this one was confusing. If he was gonna tell a story about a spaceship, he really should have included aliens, fighting adults sounded weird.

Others found similarities between the void-madness and the Scaldra occupation. Good, rational people turned violent, hunting them all down until they were all gone, leaving them to hold together with love and pure tenacity, even though in the face of the sheer difference in supplies and power they were practically children.

And one was odd. It thought strangely, somewhere above, much like a child who was deaf and blind might, no words, but the gentle pride that radiated from it didn’t fit anything a child might feel. It felt… ancient, deep enough that focusing on it almost brought a tear to her eyes. It felt like a father’s love for a son, even though it too was twisted, somehow.

It took her a moment to figure out why, but in that time, somehow that mind recognized her touch, subtle as it was. It… No. He. He offered a soft feeling of greeting, and then once more focused on the story being told, letting her investigate, though there was a level of solidity to that mind that wouldn’t let her push further than the surface.

He felt like…

Them, somehow. Like a member of the hex, uniquely twisted by the techrot, somehow. Or, rather, the helminth strain as the drifter had said. Was this man infected? They’d been assured that the helminth strain wasn’t contagious, but…

Wait. No. It couldn’t be. 

“Everything can be overcome, if you’re willing to try, and not do so alone.”

The area erupted with applause, and the drifter took a bow.

The childlike mask from behind was removed, metal giving way to shadow. Claws grasped the emerald one, drawing it back and away from the forefront.

 Bestial teeth sunk in, shattering the stone, all attached to smoke and desperation, a dragon made of obsidian, bone, and gold, swallowing down the fake face. 

One last trill, the drifter leaned his head back, eyes glowing a deep crimson, and vanished in a burst of blood red sparks.

The mind from above’s body straightened, resolve and soft worry melding with the pride, and the presence moved at speed through the folks on the upper tier to the drifter’s backroom. 

Eleanor pushed off the couch. Civilians knew better than to go into that area, they’d posted up signage and asked nicely, and those that went in there anyway usually were found before they could do much or take much. And this man, whoever he was, both knew exactly where to go and was moving far quicker than any human could without even needing to dedicate the thought to an all out sprint.

Lettie’s attention was on her from the moment she moved, the dear, beautiful friend turning from where she was patching up a little child with a scraped knee, wonder and curiosity and worry flowing to concern ebbing through her mind, words echoed within her thoughts a half second before she said them.

“There might be another protoframe in the crowd,” Is what she sent in return to her name, said in question from those perfect lips. Shock spiked through Lettie’s mind, then a thousand thoughts at the pace of a rushing river, each tied to so very many emotions. “He’s going for the drifter’s room, I think they know each other, he was worried about him. Tell the others. I’ll investigate.”

Lettie nodded, concern returning and echoing through her core as Eleanor ran. Surprise and worry followed such a fast movement, some awe and jealousy blooming alongside as she leapt to the level above and dashed after a wisp of black fabric and resolve. 

For a moment, there was only one mental presence in the backroom that she could feel, and it was almost overwhelming. Protectiveness, pride, worry, and gentle love all tied together into a form that she could finally put a face to as she rounded the corner and saw the man.

The drifter was limp and thinking of nothing, dressed in his elaborate whites and greens, hair let down again, laying back against a figure of night that had its arms wrapped around his chest. 

It wasn’t a protoframe. 

It had no face, merely a solid helm of metal and flesh, cresting into a horn-like spike in front, decorated with waves and arches and moons of gold. Its body was made of sinuous, thick muscles that flowed beneath a dark scarf, so very similar to all of theirs. It… His head turned, and he lifted a hand with a simple request of intent, directed at her, and somehow it all decoded in her mind, a single packet of information opening into a full explanation the moment she picked at it.

Space for the drifter, who wasn’t breathing right, and needed some time to remember who he was. Space and time to banish that dragon of smoke and bone, and return to himself.

Eleanor sat, some seven feet away, and was given grateful appreciation, and then an apology. 

The appreciation decoded. He was holding the drifter, one hand directly, firmly against his heaving chest, offering pressure against the scars that threatened to consume him, the other closer to his diaphragm. At moments his breathing would stutter, stop, and a gentle direction of pressure against his diaphragm would force him to exhale and remind him to start again, and that he was human. At other times, he'd begin to hyperventilate, and with the same use of pressure he could be slowed down, returned to his neutral state. The drifter was a serpent, and if he felt threatened, he would strike. Her silence and space was appreciated.

The apology unfolded with memories, the two had discussed in some place full of sunlight. The drifter had wanted to tell them a story, and introduce them to this full fledged warframe, completely consumed by the helminth from head to toe, so they’d know that no matter what happened, it would be okay. The drifter had overestimated his own strength, though, and Umbra had noted within the apology that the man seemed to expect his healing to be linear.

His name was Umbra.

Umbra.

He was fully infested, and he still had his mind.

Eleanor had a million questions. 

She felt amusement, apologetic and light, when she passed them over, and got a question in return. He'd answer as best as he could, but weren't there others who'd like to know too? She felt themselves echoed through thoughts and feelings that didn’t belong to this frame in that question, everything linked and packaged so precisely, the drifter’s thoughts and fears for every one of the Hex. It was overwhelming, how much he worried in the brief memories that he’d shared with this Umbra. Over all of them, inadequacy reigned supreme. 

She’d felt those feelings of fear and inadequacy from the drifter before, most frequently whenever he spent too long alone, and Umbra agreed with this. How did he know? Did he also have some telepathic-

She didn’t even get to finish the question, spelled out so slowly in words, before she was already being handed the answer.

The drifter hadn’t been lying. A mother, an infinity of children. Himself, mirrored, holding his hand, dragging him from the abyss. That too was mirrored, a child, taking Umbra’s hand, dragging him from the abyss. Not telepathy, merely transference. Tied up with this was the bemused confession that he did still have a voice, but it was broken and marred by the disease. Most days the best he could do was howl. Regardless, it had taken him quite some time to get used to transferring thoughts as succinctly as he did.

Eleanor's attention returned to the previous response. If the drifter had been so worried, why hadn’t he introduced them before? Why hadn’t he called up Umbra in times past?

Hesitation was given back. 

Umbra didn’t know, but he echoed those feelings of inadequacy. From as far as he could guess, the drifter just didn’t think about even asking. Whether it was worthiness or pride, the result was the same. 

The drifter really was a stubborn idiot.

Umbra agreed with fond amusement, lifting the hand that wasn’t on the man’s chest to gently run through his hair, making his face twitch. Then, another request.

Eleanor nodded, and stood to leave.

Chapter Text

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in…

And out.

In.

Out.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat, and the soft roar of air filling his lungs. Leaving his lungs.

In.

Out.

Think of nothing else.

In. 

Out.

In.

The thoughts came anyway.

Out.

He was smoke. He was black and red and teeth. He was there again, screaming, desperate, for anyone to hear him. Nobody came. Nobody cared. Nobody heard him. Emptiness. Everything was emptiness. All was nothing. He was nothing. Nothing to infinity. Nothing to Thrax but a tool to be used. Nothing to anyone but a means to an end. Everything else was a lie. It was all fake.

Warmth.

Pressure to his back.

Pressure around him.

He was too tired to care.

Pressure, pushing the air out of his lungs, gentle. Muscles worked on reflex.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Endless halls. Endless emptiness. Endless nothing. Endless… How long had he been on the Zariman? How long? How long since he’d come to Duviri?

How long had it been?

Pressure.

In.

Out. 

In.

Out.

In.

He was so tired. 

Out.

In.

Out.

He wanted to be free, he had to get out, he didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t want to hurt, anymore. He didn’t want to be nothing, he wanted to be…

Pressure, helping him slow down so he wouldn’t hyperventilate. Warm pressure surrounding him. He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know who he was. He…

He’d given his name away. He’d given up his name, his face, his body, his soul, he was nothing. He was nothing, and he screamed, he wailed, he tore at his flesh, only to find smoke instead of blood. Nothing at all. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Pressure. Forcing him to exhale.

In.

Out.

In. 

Nothing was real, nothing was real, he wept, tears streaming down his cheeks, clawed at his eyes, there were no eyes, there. He’d traded them away. He’d given them away. He’d consigned himself to this emptiness. It had been his fault. All of this had happened by his choice.

Every nightmare he’d been through had been handcrafted by himself. It was all his fault. It always had been.

Pressure, slowing him down. He howled into the emptiness. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go back, he could never go back, nothing would ever be the same, he couldn’t rewind, not this. He could never go back. It was all the void, he’d left reality behind so very long ago. He’d given it up. He’d thrown it all away, and for what? For love? For care?

That was what he’d said, wasn’t it? 

He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t, because reality had been real, once, there had been real people, real friends, a real family, they were all gone, now. He’d traded himself for them.

Right now, he…

If he could undo it all, would he?

Would he go back? 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He couldn’t.

He still loved. He still loved them. The thought threatened to break him so much more than he was already broken, because he knew the truth. He would do it again. He would. He would. He’d go through it all again. He deserved nothing more. He deserved this, and he loved them. He’d loved, once, he’d loved, truly, he wanted to love again, he wanted to not be alone, he wanted to be loved, he wanted to be cared for, he wanted it, he wanted it so badly. Even if he’d never deserve it.

Pressure. Slowing him down again. A shift. Pressure on his head. He bared his teeth, he was afraid, he was terrified, he would bite and rip and shred through whatever had touched him, he wouldn’t let them hurt him, he couldn’t take anymore, he’d beg, he’d weep, anything. Anything to just make it all stop. He couldn’t take anymore. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t, he’d given all he had, there was nothing left, nothing left of the child, just a husk that did what was asked of it. 

He was a husk. Drifting in the wind. That was all he was.

He deserved nothing better.

He wanted so much more.  

He should not want more.

But he did.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Desire.

Rejection.

Love.

Hatred.

He was burning.

He was drowning.

He didn’t know who he was.  

The secondary pressure returned to his stomach, helping him with tempo.

Another heartbeat beside his own. 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Terror.

Joy.

Fury.

Sorrow.

Envy.

Why couldn’t it have been someone else who made the deal? He wanted to beg.

Why did it have to be him ? He wanted to snarl.

He knew others were okay, because of what he’d done. He wanted to sing.

What about him? What if he wasn’t? He wanted to sob.

What was he supposed to do? He wanted to whine.

Was it even his place to ask?

Was it even his place to care?

He’d killed them.

He’d killed so many.

He'd created Duviri.

He'd consigned its residents to the same torment he'd gone through.

They were trapped, because of him,

They were right to hate him.

They'd been right to kill him.

He was a monster. A dragon. An orowyrm, spiraling, screaming, black and red and teeth.

He deserved nothing.

But he wanted.  

He was desperate.

He’d do anything.

In.

He wanted his name back.

He wanted his family back.

He wanted his life back.

He just wanted to stop being so scared of everything.

He wanted to stop being so angry at himself, at everyone around him.

He wanted to silence the sickening joy that told him he’d gotten what he deserved.

He wanted to root out the envy he felt towards everyone who had been saved. Who was okay.

He wanted to let go of the grief, the loss, that held to him like weights on his ankles.

Out.

He didn’t know how.

In.

Pressure. Slowing him down.

Out.

In.

Out.

Spiraling into hell.

How did he claw his way out?

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

What if he didn’t have the strength.

What if he wanted to rage, for once.

What if he wanted to scream, to roar, to hate. To feel.

What if he wanted to be something.  

What if he wanted to be seen.

What if he wanted it all to be known?

What if he didn’t want to put it all away.

What if he wanted to sink his teeth into the sky and tear.

What if he wanted to. Who would stop him? Who could? Nothing mattered. Nothing was real.

What if he just wanted to let it all out?

What if he didn’t want to pretend?

Pressure on his chest. Forcing him to exhale.

In.

There was sound.

Something was nearby.

His teeth were already bared. It would be so easy.

Maybe he did want to kill. To hurt things. To protect, and maybe. Maybe just because. Maybe it felt wonderful to finally have power again. Maybe he just needed to know that for once, he was strong. For once, he could change things. For once, he was not helpless. Maybe he wanted to just take it all out on something he could feel.

Tears.

Teeth.

Tears.

Teeth.

In.

Out.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.  

He couldn’t.  

In.

Out.

Tears.

Teeth.

He wanted.

He couldn’t.

He wanted.

He couldn’t.

In.

Out.

He desired.

He did not deserve.  

Blackness.

Pure white.

Everything spiraled together.

Who was he?

In.

Out.

What was wrong with him?

Pressure.

That pressure belonged to something.

Someone.

Holding him.

Caring for him.

What was wrong with him?

He’d wanted to kill? 

He’d wanted to hurt?

What was wrong with him?

What had happened to that little child?

He knew he hurt, he knew it, he knew he was in pieces, he knew he was torn apart.

It wasn’t for him to inflict that pain on others.

Real or not.

They didn’t deserve that.

What was wrong with him?

He wanted to cry. 

He did. 

Tears flowed, cold, down his cheeks.

Real ones, this time.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Just breathe. 

It would pass.

The wyrm would return to its hold.

In. 

Out.

In.

Out.

Chapter Text

Umbra knew that the drifter wasn’t Isaah.

He knew, logically, that the boy in his arms didn’t belong to him.

He knew that he never would. That the two of them barely knew each other at all, only having come into contact once or twice at maximum since the drifter had joined their reality, before just a few days ago. He knew that his mind was still warped and changed, and that it was still influencing the way he thought, moved, acted… Whether or not he was able to accept the past and move forward.

Logically, this shouldn’t have felt like moving forward.

It did, anyway.

Umbra knew that the drifter wasn’t Isaah. No-one ever could be, nothing could ever hope to redeem what he had… Could ever hope to undo what Ballas had done. And yet, here he was. Perhaps it was a small redemption to treat the drifter with the love he still held in his heart anyways, perhaps it was just because it  eased the lingering grief that never quite went away. The drifter wasn’t Isaah, and he never would be, he was his own person, with his own mind, his own quirks, his own desires and dreams. So long as he could remember that, perhaps he could cling to it as justification. 

Their laughs sounded so similar. They’d fallen for the same tricks of the blade. Both of them were terrible at Komi. Whether or not the likenesses were real or just his memories warping to fit the current realities, he didn’t know. Both of them seemed so set on becoming warriors, throwing themselves fully into the path of hellfire, though their reasons were different. Perhaps the drifter too had a voracious sweet tooth, he’d yet to ask. Perhaps they both liked watching little birds.

On the flip side, his Dust had explained, many times, with deep frustration, how uneasy he seemed to be with assistance of any kind. How he’d accept kindness, cling to it like an imprinted pup, and then let go and shove the moment he no longer deemed himself weak enough to need it, or the moment he was no longer needed himself. It did not bode well for getting attached to him, nor did it bode well for the Hex, who made their way in some thirty minutes after the one he could recognize as Eleanor had left. One could only hope that the man was more capable of change than he gave himself credit for.

Boots scuffed stone, and the drifter jerked in his arms, sucking through clenched teeth as if in pain, breath stalling. A firm push, and he was forced to exhale, though his breathing remained stilted. Through their faint transference echoes, Umbra could practically taste the boiling fear and anger, like blood and smoke. He needed more time.

Umbra lifted a hand as the figures rounded the corner to halt their approach as he had before, the pack lead by a fellow of a volt model moving at a quick pace, with dark curly hair and vibrant glasses. Said man visibly recoiled upon seeing him, making an awkward ‘eegh’ sort of noise. That must be Amir. The drifter had been particularly fond of him. 

Next was an excalibur model, with shock black-and-white hair and a firm, militaristic posture. At least that was familiar enough for him to work with. That must be Arthur, the source of very many mixed feelings, and he started upon laying all too strangely familiarly scarred eyes upon him.

At very least, surprise was better than fear.

Eleanor after, followed by a trinity model with a bizarre, distinct bun and medical bags strapped to her hips. That would be Lettie. The drifter was a bit awkward and unsure about her, but ultimately trusting. 

A mag model and a… He didn’t quite recognize that make, though from its shaping the batch was obviously intended as a classic soldier. An 09, perhaps?

Those two would be Aoi and Quincy, a dear friend, and a man he stressed over considerably. 

These poor, poor souls. 

At very least they still had most of their faces left, though he could still see evidence of growth and splintering already happening, reforming jaws and adding transference bolts into their skulls. The power he had gained had never been worth losing his humanity, and from the looks on their faces, and from the fears of the drifter, it wasn’t for them, either.

And there was silence for a long moment as he returned his hand to the drifter’s stomach. 

The protoframes looked at each other, then back at him.

“Is he okay?” Amir asked, tapping a foot anxiously, and gesturing to the drifter, though his eyes never left Umbra’s mutated skull.

Umbra spun a finger in a circle, like the hand on an old fashioned clock. 

“He needs some time to recover. ” Eleanor added for him, and he nodded to her.

“Alll… right. Okay. Eleanor wasn’t lying. So… If he’s not just controlling this one to mess with us…” Quincy muttered, shook his head, and refocused on Umbra. “Why’d it take him four months to say a damn thing about you.” He said through a frown, throwing in a little upwards nod that made his hair-beads swing. “Figured that’d be the first thing he’d have mentioned. You some hot-rack addition, or somethin’?”

He looked to Eleanor.

“I asked the same earlier. He doesn’t know.”  

“Can you not… talk? ” Aoi piped up. The woman seemed shaken, which, as with the shock, was understandable, and she glanced between him and Eleanor with some visible confusion.

Umbra rotated a hand from side to side in the so-so gesture that Dust used, and then shook his head once. The movement made the drifter shift, so he was quick to give the man his pressure back. 

His answer seemed to subdue them all further. 

More silence, seconds ticking. Umbra doubted they'd ask anything particularly new, so he'd just wait patiently.

“What makes you not … A puppet. Like the ones he uses.” Arthur asked, arms firmly crossed over his chest.

Another question he’d been expecting, and one he’d already thought up a particular answer to.

Umbra lifted his fingers to the left side of his face and pulled, scarred tissue and cracked not-quite-metal plating giving with a bit of pressure, revealing his eye to the open air. It was good that they should know this. Perhaps it would give the drifter some extra leverage.

He could barely see them, in the literal sense, his vision warped and clouded, filled with the signature high-contrast darkness of damaged optical nerves. Normally his mind relied on other senses, both physical and mental, to map out his surroundings in entirety, but vision or not… The way they stepped back, the sharp gasps, those were unmistakable. To Eleanor’s constant mental pressure, he offered resolve.

“It’s… Umbra is… What we will become. He was human. ” The woman thought, the transmitted voice somehow breathy and unsure despite being thoughts. He nodded, and offered more, along with a subtle apology for needing to use her as a translator while his preferred was offline. 

“He says… most of the warframes like us have some approximation of their minds, but they have been driven mad by torture and mental degradation to be better weaponry. His… The drifter’s twin helped him regain his sanity.”

“What, the twin thing was real? I thought he might have just been fucking with me. How much of his story was accurate?” Quincy again, squinting. 

Umbra hesitated. Offered.

Eleanor seemed to wilt on pulling it apart, brows knitting, lips pulling tight.

“As far as Umbra knows? All of it.”

Amir rubbed his face with his hands. Always moving, that one. Strange how well each of them seemed to fit the frame they were transformed into. Arthur ran fingers over his stubble, gaze on the floor. 

“You said the other fully transformed frames were driven mad through mental degradation and torture,” Lettie hummed, eyes narrowing under full lashes. “How precisely was this reversed, Umbra? Or was it not so bad for you.” 

He shifted, slightly adjusting the way the drifter was leaning against him so he could have a bit more movement without jostling the boy quite so much, and then lifted a hand away from his chest. Gestured at the drifter’s head, then his own. Not a packet of information that could be easily condensed, given the complexity of it, but a glance to Eleanor showed that at least it was understandable.

“He says that when he was changed, it was different for him than most, yes. He was left with access to only one of his memories, a few days worth of time, and…” She paused, asking for clarification on what those had been..

He offered none.

She blinked, and continued under the pressing looks of the others.

“He says that the infestation is curated to remove much of the parts of your mind that… That interfere with judgement and reasoning, along with others.” Eleanor swallowed, her discomfort mirrored across every other member of the Hex. “And it tends to eat through your memories as well. Anything you don’t focus on falls away, until…”

Another moment of hesitation, pain twitching her expression further as she merely considered the thoughts he’d given.

“...He says there’s only a few other warframes he knows of that has survived as long as he has, and all of them kept going by holding onto something. The… Operator. The drifter’s twin. When their minds linked, the… His brain had a template to regenerate with, though it took quite some time. Something about needing places for electrical signals to be mirrored. There was more, but he’d… rather not say.” 

Umbra nodded.

“Well. That’s bloody lovely. Suppose its all just one more thing to look forward to, ey?” Arthur sighed. 

“Did you ever get them back?” Amir, speaking up again for the first time. “Your memories, I mean. Did… Did it help?”

Umbra lifted his gaze towards the shadows and cut-off lights that no doubt made the loft, which his mind outlined for his consciousness by outlining changes, and changes alone, in gold against the black of the flesh covering his right eye.

It was hard to tell if it had helped, or if the memories had just been… Buried. Links cut, leaving segments of his brain untethered. He gave Eleanor that unsure-ness.

“Yes, but how much he isn’t sure, though he can remember far more than he used to. It might be different for us, he hasn’t interacted much with the other living warframes.”  

“What? Why not? ” Aoi, straightening as she asked.

He sent bemusement, and some small irritation.

“The one other that he knows the whereabouts of has…” Eleanor stopped again, and an eyebrow twitched. “Only very recently regained the rest of his mind, or some variant of it, and remains violently unstable for the most part. The only improvements are... Due to needing to raise his… Child? Full warframes can have children? How?”

Umbra lifted a hand off of the drifter’s stomach to exaggerate a shrug, rotating his palm upwards in a quick movement before returning it back to its place.

“What ? You don’t know ?” Aoi blinked. “Wait... Do you not still have…” 

“I think we’re a bit off topic-” Arthur started, but was quickly interrupted.

“This is very much a topic that matters, hero boy.” Quincy snapped. 

Yes, they were still human. That bought him a small spark of joy, fondness trailing behind it. It was good that they still cared about something so very normal. 

The drifter shifted, turning away from the bickering, burying his face in Umbra’s scarf. He could feel his breath stuttering, and could almost hear the soft vibration of muscles tensing as he curled a little. So, Umbra changed his hands’ positioning, moving the one that had been against his sternum to the shoulder that wasn’t stuffed awkwardly against his side. The discomfort was a small thing, and the newly freed hand was set on his knee.

“Boys. ” Lettie again, tone flat. “Later. Umbra. I must ask. What is your relationship with our drifter? He would not allow me to lay a hand on his chest as you do.” 

Our drifter? Curious. He offered an explanation, and Eleanor takes it.

“They have similar scars, and between that and their existing mental bond, the drifter trusts him.” 

“Wait.” Quincy lifted a hand. “I thought that he wasn’t puppeting you.”

A moment of focus, and Eleanor was the mouth he’d lost again.

“He isn’t. Umbra is strong enough to break free of the bonds of most forms of transference. It is not something easily taken if there is resistance, and their bond is more of a handshake than a puppeting. The drifter seems to prefer it that way.”

Arthur winced, shifting, and Lettie side-eyed him. “Not easily taken is bloody right. What makes you stronger?” 

Now that was curious.

“He says it is because he both… Dust? Is that the… Is that the name of his twin?” He nodded, and she continued. It was not her true name, but that was for her to know, and him to be content with. “It’s because he has a great deal of experience, and he’s well enough acquainted with both the Drifter and Dust to know what specifically they latch onto.”  

Arthur set his jaw, and nodded. 

More silence.

Again, it is Amir that breaks it.

“So… Uh… I mean, its pretty normal for the drifter to just… Spring everything on us at once, but I do gotta ask before I go and lie down. Are you gonna be… like, staying here, or…”

Amusement, and Eleanor decodes.

“Not for long, he prefers his space, and the drifter’s twin often prefers to fight alongside him on their missions. If he’s called for, he will come back whenever he can.”

“Missions? Like, in the future?”

Umbra nodded.

“The world’s not even peaceful during his time?” Quincy cocked a brow.

He shakes his head, but offers some elaboration to Eleanor.

“...The entire solar system? Dust must be a busy gal.”

Umbra nodded again. 

“Wait, wai-wait wait. Entire. Solar system.” Amir repeats. “Missions throughout the entire solar system. Like… Every planet. Not just Earth. How is that even possible? Just getting to mars takes, like, nine months.”

He sends another little packet of amusement, tying it with a question.

“There are more people like him? How many warframes are there? And no, he hasn’t said jack shit about others.”

The drifter’s shoulders hunched, head lowering. The man was present enough now to be distinctly embarrassed, it seemed, that rang like a bell through their mental link. Umbra patted his arm, and gave him a gentle, but firm, telepathic nudge. 

He sighed, and hastily wiped the last of his tears away as covertly as he could before looking at the Hex. Although he was doing better, it was still a little unnerving how quickly embarrassment spiked into a powerful anxiety upon making eye contact with whichever one he was looking at,  and flickered to a deep resignation. Such strong emotions, all shifting within about two seconds.

“In… In Dust’s time, warframes aren’t made like you all.” He offered quietly. “The ones I use are made by bio-printing replicas using altered genetic models, with a few modifications from the original predecessors to remove the majority of the sentience and increase transference receptivity. Additionally, space travel has improved greatly since the Zariman, and void jumps rarely fail.”

“Ah. Space trauma himself finally breaks his silence to speak in textbook.” Quincy deadpanned, and Aoi punched him in the arm. Oddly though, through the link Umbra could feel quite well that the drifter found the sarcasm funny.

“Others, Babas. There are others with powers like yours? Time manipulation? That teleporting thing you do?”

The drifter lifted a hand to run it through the hair at the back of his neck, tension emanating from the man with enough strength that Umbra could practically taste it, flavored with black and red and teeth. And… Just like that, it was gone, leaving nothing but static.

“...Technically yes, but no. I… Do you… Remember. How the child… Wished for the others to be saved?” 

Lettie’s brow cocked immediately. “I do.”

“The… Time thing is pretty unique to me. The other...  children... have... a different set of powers. Thats the… You know. Lasers. Teleporting. Going invisible. I couldn’t do that until Dust shared her capability with me.”

Umbra nodded in agreement, offering the man another pat on the shoulder. He hadn’t pulled away just yet, and although his leg was starting to fall asleep, it was manageable. 

“So… There’s just like… A bunch of people running around with warframes and space magic doing things all over the solar system…? Just like we’re doing here, but on a much larger scale.” Aoi’s face scrunched.

“...Pretty much.”

Eleanor offered a subtle question to Umbra as the discussion continued. It was a bit more succinct; she was obviously doing her best to figure out how to tie meaning behind an emotion for quicker conversing, and although it needed work, he let himself be pleased that she was trying at all. 

She wondered if he had abilities like theirs, and if he’d be willing to help them gain better mastery. To that… He offered a double linked burst of resolve.

He would, if he had the time. It’d be nostalgic, though undoubtedly far different from training aspiring Dax, and he was of the same model-type as her brother, though with obvious embellishments. 

That got her brows up, and her head tilted in Arthur’s direction. A moment later his eyes widened, gaze snapping to Umbra from where it’d been narrowed at the drifter. He mouthed a silent ‘you’re sure?’, and Umbra gave a slight nod.

Some time later, the interrogation had ended, the backroom still aside from merely two once more, and the drifter leaned his head back against the wall with a soft thunk. 

“I’m… sorry about all that. I… Should have realized that…”

Umbra, from where he was settled on the couch, lifted a hand, and pushed resolve through their link.

It had been ill-thought out to spring all of that on the six members of the Hex at once, but he could see why the drifter had done so. Between his story and Umbra, much of the attention wouldn’t have been put on his own shoulders. Ultimately a selfish thing to do, yes, but not something that Umbra found himself irritated by. After all, his presence meant that when the drifter had needed help, he’d been there to help. 

“Well… Yeah, but-”

He pushed more firmly, leaning forward to rest the inner edge of the arches decorating his forearms over his knees, and staring as best as he could with his one barely functional eye.

It had been selfish, it had been poorly thought through. It was recognized, and he’d already apologized for it, and there was no true harm done. Did the drifter even realize how many times Umbra had been through nearly exactly these questions? Dust had often worked as the translator then, yes, but even she had hunted him down well past midnight just to pester him with some odd question about some odd thing. In a way, it was almost cathartic, and reminded him of better days.

The drifter’s jaw worked, brows furrowed, brain practically on fire with how hard he was trying to blame himself for something.

Umbra pushed a request. 

If he wanted to apologize further, then he could do so with a highly detailed map of the area contained within the time loop.

The drifter was on his feet in an eyeblink, vaulting over the railing of the loft to land with a nearly silent roll below, footsteps quickly cut off by the rapid shuffling of paper.

His lips had long since been fused together, but if he could have smiled, he would. Yes, the drifter wasn’t Isaah. Isaah would have taken the stairs.

Chapter Text

Arthur woke up with a start. He was sitting upright in an instant, drawing in deep shuddering lungfulls of air, fingers pressing against the soft flesh of his neck. No. No. It wasn’t soft, not anymore. Nothing about him was, it had all been stripped away and replaced, he could still feel the needle puncturing his skin. He could still feel the fire searing through his veins, could still feel the way every cell in his body had been transmuted into pure pain.

He ripped off his blanket, too much force in hands that were trembling so horribly.

Mirror.

He needed a mirror.

His legs didn’t belong to him, not anymore, and they staggered and stumbled beneath the increased weight of micro-metals and sinew. His lungs didn’t belong to him, he sucked air in through his mouth, but there were vents that he could feel shift across his body to allow passage into his chest. His own eyes didn’t even feel right these days.

That strange, black creature, looking at him so discerningly, so knowingly. Sharing his scars. Sharing that milky-blue gaze.

His feet threatened to give out from under him. They didn’t belong to him anymore either. His toes had fused together so very long ago, and he had to catch himself on the doorframe and just… Just breathe for a moment. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Gods, it did nothing to calm him down, not when focusing on his breath made him all the more aware of how much of his body was just wrong.

Every inch of him.

Mutated.

Monstrous. 

Designed to be a killer, consigned to be a killer, everything else slowly and surely stripped away. And, of course, the only one with any shot of undoing it probably wasn’t even around to hunt down anymore. Not that he'd been willing to do anything for them but make it all worse, using them, changing them, playing them all like puppets.

He’d die in this body, someday. Not even his bones would look right, once he was finally gone.

Sweat dripped down his face as he forced himself to get moving again, caressing the last of the human skin he had left, and he…

That warframe, Umbra, hadn’t even had a face anymore. Just revealing that eye had taken him tearing a chunk off his head. And the drifter’s frames, each time they revealed those vicious teeth, had always needed to practically rip their own jaws apart. 

He blinked back tears. 

If there was a real hell, this would be it.

If the drifter left them, for good, then the time loop would break, and every one of the Hex would have nothing to hold the mutations back.

With the time loop in place, living hardly even mattered. Every civilian that died would be pulled back into reality the moment the drifter slammed his fist into the ground. Every pain would be reversed. Every move undone.

There was no easy option. No way out of this one. No way to fix it.

How could he lead the Hex if he didn’t even understand how to move forward? They needed something to hold onto. All of them did. Umbra had been clear on that point, the only way to even have a chance at holding onto their humanity if the loop broke was to care about something so deeply that not even the rot could take it from you. And if he couldn’t figure out how to give them that, and if they all slipped back down, if they all died on New Years, or even if they survived it, and the drifter… drifted off, then it would be his own fault. Someone had to take responsibility. Someone had to care about them. There had to be something he could do. He’d taken that mantle onto his shoulders a very, very long time ago.

Someone had to care.

Someone had to.

He made it to the showers, and forced himself to keep going, through a side door. A shortcut, from his room to the main bathroom stalls. Past those, sinks, and…

Arthur could see his own reflection.

There was no lights on, the only illumination moonshine bouncing through the open door from the mall proper, but he could still see, perfectly clearly, his own face. Pale, glistening with sweat, brows pulled together, exhaustion drawing deep lines alongside the tightness of all too much stress, and two faintly glowing eyes. Human, but only barely. 

He got closer, turning his head to the side, studying the pseudo-metal rim outlining his jaw and emphasizing his chin, running a finger along that thin line where his humanity ended and the monster began. 

The shift was still occurring, miniscule tendrils of black and ashen grey rot rooting beneath his stubble. Worse than yesterday. Only just, but it was still worse. 

Misery. Numbness. Both warred inside his chest for dominance, holding his diaphragm in a vice grip. It was still getting worse. He would lose his face. Everything he had left. Every bit of humanity, buried beneath a mask of flesh strong enough to deflect bullets.

He’d rather just take them. 

His hands trembled, the one that had been running over skin clenching into a tight fist. He’d been loosing sensation in them over time, the nerves buried beneath growing carapace and tougher and tougher skin. His grip on the edge of the sink made the ceramic crack dangerously, minute webs of broken plaster spreading over its surface.

He let go.

Someone had to be stable. Someone had to be firm, so that even if their own curated hell only ever got worse, the Hex would have something to hold to. 

Gods, it was a tall order, and he was still, until the rot took it from him, human inside. Still imperfect. Still weak. Still fallible. They trusted him to give orders on the field, but when it came to everything else? Well. He’d shown many times how quickly and concisely he’d bollocks all of that up with all the skill of a professional. No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much he pretended, he was just human.

No. Mostly human, and instead of growing into something better, someone who could be what they needed, the techrot would be sure to drag him down until he became the very sort of monster he’d once promised Eleanor he’d defend her from. Back when they were kids, and she’d have night terrors, waking her up in tears for fear of the shadows in the closet.

He could still… Remember.

The way they all sounded across his coms when they’d died.

He’d asked Eleanor to control the techrot, and she’d done it, at the cost of her own mind. 

He’d killed her, and Lettie all the same.

Aoi and Amir had been by his side in the reactor, by his orders, trying to keep everything under control while he ran off with a blade and left them alone. He’d been able to hear, through the glass, burning radiation, and the screaming of techrot, the way they’d begged for support.

Quincy had had every chance to go, but he’d come back, because he thought- stupidly, ridiculously - that he’d owed it to him to stay. And the drifter'd barely been there for a few hours before he'd been removed as strangely as he'd arrived, no matter what promises he'd made. 

Not even his prowess on the field could really be trusted when it came down to it, it seemed.

His fingers made their way across his unarmored chest, pushing over the connection between the ebony muscles that rippled over much of his body, buried and accentuated by the metal infused flesh, and the tougher weave of pale ligaments that hid what little real skin he had left on his core. At places, rare spots, he could… Just… with an extra push, slip his fingertips beneath the segments and rip. It wasn’t comfortable by any means, but the nerve endings in the outer growths were… weaker.

He couldn’t take it all off. He’d tried that, Lettie had helped, and anything he removed just sodding grew right back. It was the same for all of them, and it was getting worse. Connections growing tighter, things they’d had on too long subsumed by the rot until they stopped being able to be removed entirely without a knife.

Arthur shifted a hand along the layered rot-armor of his neck, taking the rim near the base of his skull between his fingers, and wrenched it away from his body, wincing at the sound of flesh popping and tearing apart. The pain was… ignorable, but the noise haunted him. Beneath, at very least there was some color left to him, bioluminescence flickering like veins across darkened, patchy skin, minute thread-like filaments retracting from their broken connections to seep back into his muscles. His other hand went to the dog-tags he kept around his neck, a quick pull freeing them with a slick rasp from where his own skin had begun to fold around it, though it caught on the threads near the edges of the far side that had already reached out again to begin re-fusing. Another yank, and the necklace popped free entirely. Just looking at himself made him sick.

He turned on the water, pressing the thin chain between his index finger and thumb and rubbing off minute shreds of his own… of biomatter beneath the flowing tap. This was not something he could let the rot take from him. He couldn’t. He'd add another coat of protective oil before he put the tags back on.

Someone had to care.

The rot would not take his heart from him, even if it took his mind.

He would not let it. 

He would do better.

He had to, for all of them.

Even if the drifter didn’t stay, this time he knew what they were up against in the reactor. He would make better calls. He’d move up their time frame, give them more space to prepare. He would succeed. 

He was human, he was weak, but for them, he’d be more.

This was not his hell alone, each of them shared it, no matter how they treated their ordeal. Aoi smiled, she focused on the minute joys throughout the day to help her remain sane. Amir distracted himself away from reality to cope. Quincy just pretended it wasn’t happening. Lettie dove headfirst into her work, maintaining humanity by helping it whenever she could, and Eleanor… Eleanor made the best of it, accepting what she could in her own wonderful way, but… She lost herself in others. Of all of them, she had it the worst. He could pretend, for seconds at a time, that he was still… Human. She had to hear every one of their anxieties nonstop. She had to hear everyone around her, every thing around her, every second she was conscious. She didn’t get to pretend. She didn’t get to escape it.

He’d drawn her here, and not a day went by that he didn’t curse himself for it. 

Gods.

Someone had to care.

Some thirty minutes later, he’d re-donned his regular armor and straps, and stalked to the kitchen. Arthur’s head was damnably hazy everywhere he wanted it to be clear, and crystal where he wanted mud. He’d given himself his time to brood and mope about like a dejected child, and it had gotten him nowhere. The longer he kept it up, the worse it’d get, that he was well aware of by now, so… Time for plan B.

Mindful of those still sleeping, his rifling through the cabinets was a quiet affair. Cooking would leave him open to more thinking, and there was no-one to cook for at the moment but himself. 

Mutated fingers found, after an irritatingly long search, the glass neck of a bottle.

A shit plan B. He knew it was, but the techrot hadn’t cured him of this vice. Perhaps it was proof of his continuing humanity that it was something he always seemed to find his way back to, a way to force his overworked mind and body to relax and let go of the anxieties they both clung to so relentlessly. Worrying further, planning for eventualities that might not even happen, running over numbers and knowledge as it pertained to the people he’d promised to be there for, sorting it into lists in his head based on relevance, and then doing it all over again and again and again just… Wouldn’t help. In the moment, it always felt like it was better than nothing, but he couldn’t let himself get so exhausted in the planning phase that there was no energy left for execution.

And he knew, despite hating it, that letting go wasn’t something he could do without some sort of assistance.

He took the entire little cardboard crate, bottles clinking together, carefully sliding it off the shelf and shutting the cabinet door nearly silently. Might as well do another external sweep of the area before he let himself relax, just in case the long-since-vanished hangovers decided to make a spontaneous return. It had happened, once or twice, and fresh air often assisted in resetting him back to default.

Anything to get that lingering vision of everyone he cared about dying, over and over, out of his head. Anything to get the nightmare of watching on, helpless, unable to even beg through fused shut lips, kneeling like a puppet with its strings cut. Wishing someone would do something, wishing anyone would come to help, but knowing nobody cared. 

Getting up to the roof took him mere seconds, bounding from the ground floor to the second level, case held to his chest carefully, then flipping upwards to grab a ledge and heave himself through a cracked skylight. The cool night-time breeze brushed through his hair, playing with strands of it like a lover, and he allowed himself a moment to just… Bask in the sensation. There was something grounding about the wind, as contradictory as that was, and it-

A voice. Words, drifting through the open air.

Every muscle in his body tensed, case deposited silently on the roof, hand to his blade.

No changes to cadence or tone. They hadn't seen him. 

He crept closer, keeping himself low enough to mask his shape behind the curves and boxy ridges of the roof, augmented ears honing in on those soft sounds.

“...Over that way is District two and three, that’s… here. Until recently they were civilian occupied, and a good deal of the local farming was done there on people’s terraces or near apartment windows, if what Quincy knew was accurate. Scaldra occupied that space sometime last month, and now those groups have moved here.” 

It was the drifter, standing alongside the warframe named Umbra, constantly gesturing between something that the frame was holding and outwards, over the starlit city. Both had their backs to him. 

“This area here, the district that houses this mall and underground complex that you can see here,” the drifter flipped through a hefty booklet, catching a page before it fell, tucking it back in carefully, and then pointed to a page a few flips further. “Are technically safe from the Scaldra, as far as we know.”

A moment of silence, and the drifter chuckled in his light, almost musical way. “Yeah, yeah. I’m glad it worked out, given how badly it went. You’d think that after Duviri, I’d have gotten a bit better at handling death.” Another pause, and the drifter snorted, laughed, tapered off into snickers, and straightened out another paper. “Don’t tell Hunhow, Shadow’d have my spine. Anyway. The main problem I’m wondering about is this. Say you’ve got enough systems set up for self-sustaining food supplies for about, spitballing, a hundred, but then nine hundred more walk in.”

The drifter paused, looked at Umbra, and nodded. It was sodding bizarre seeing only one half of the conversation, and perhaps a bit more bizarre how much sense it made anyway. 

“Right. Limited clean water is also an issue. I think Aoi was going to see about the plumbing systems, or if there could be some way to improve… Exactly. It’s… Well. Not something I know a damn thing about, but I wanted to ask just in case. From what Eleanor’s told me, the local maps are outdated, so exploring’s mandatory either way, and I can't think of any place I'd want to explore less.”

Another moment, and the drifter shrugged. “Fair point, but… Would I rather scrub literal shit out of my boots for six hours, or take a nice walk through a genuine nightmare? That's a fifty fifty.” This was followed up with an immediate tilt of the head, and a grin he could just barely see. 

He slunk back to the opened skylight, nabbed his case of drinks, and slipped back inside. Maybe only one bottle tonight. Somehow… The world felt a little lighter than it had before, ten minutes ago.

Chapter Text

The drifter ducked his head into the void song like a waterbird, eyes closed as he merely… Listened. Its currents grabbed him, trying to drag him downriver, out of this time, away, into eternity, they nudged him with tendrils of possibility and tugged with a thousand offerings, but he was stronger than they, right now, and pushed.  

Most all of it backed away, like a bubble beneath the waves, leaving him with nothing but the energy of now, this world, this time, this song. It was not so hard to do once you understood what you were doing, holding it all back through pure conviction and will, leaving yourself with nothing but the present. And in that present, there was chaos.

Conscious beings made eddies in its currents, bodies, minds, all altering the pitch and tune ever so slightly if you knew what you were looking for. Physical objects were a bit less… Audible, but the echoes of ricocheting energy were present in a vague way. 

Souls darted about, or clumped together, or just seemed to wander, like they were lost. It was all so much chaos that he struggled to hold onto what he’d been listening for in the first place, but…

It wasn’t often he did this, having it as anything more than a vague stream in the back of his thoughts was overwhelming enough, but right now, it was needed. Because… There.

A faint soul that wasn’t moving. A pulsing blip just at the edge of how far he could hear its hum. 

Eyes still closed, he ran, nearly stumbling over concrete rubble as he followed that little thread of awareness, and was joined almost immediately by a steady thrumming beat beside, a warped but powerful soul who’s song was so melodically cracked, and yet whole. Umbra. The drifter lifted a finger to point, and did his best to offer that thread, forgetting, briefly, that Umbra wouldn’t know what he was hearing. Right.

“Someone small or badly injured, down there.”

Umbra acknowledged him, and his being flared with power, the massive warframe closing the distance to the soul’s proximity in an eyeblink, leaving the drifter’s ears ringing. It nearly made him trip, mind losing track of the internal map of where he’d been and what was around him, and in catching himself as he continued forward, the drifter opened his eyes.

Chaos indeed. The shattered and punched-through corpses of buildings framed his vision, acrid dust and smoke filling his nose the moment he was physically conscious enough to recognize its existence, and people were everywhere. Running blankets and supplies around, assisting the injured, carrying the severely injured on makeshift cots, resting between sessions of helping and drinking water, or digging through the rubble. Umbra was quickly joined by two civilians before the Drifter got there, and the three of them heaved, working on lifting a massive slab of concrete and brick that was blocking what was left of an entryway to a housing block. It was almost comedic how little the other two did compared to the ancient warrior, who hefted the solid material with shockingly little effort. Dust rained across his form, briefly highlighting the tiny air-vents across his body as the frame exhaled and pushed the entire wall section aside, leaving it to shatter with a crunch across other shards like it.

The drifter skidded on his knees over gravel and rocks, his legs protected in heavier armored boots, rather than his usual woven ones. A good thing too, as a half-buried chunk of rebar added a new nick by his shin. Still holding onto that thread of music in his mind with an iron grip, he dug, casting aside smaller pieces, struggling with the larger ones, and the others joined him.

The techrot had bloomed that sometime around four this morning, not three blocks from a civilian shelter, and the Scaldra had been particularly quick to it, coming in with efervon tanks and explosive rounds. The aftermath was…

A hand, sticking out from the rocks, crushed into a very wrong angle by the brick chunk that had just been moved. He heard a pained hiss from Umbra, and felt the transference-mirrored spike of agony through his heart. The drifter moved back, allowing the strongest of them to maneuver the rest, merely taking chunks that were handed to him and setting them aside where they wouldn’t tumble. Within a minute Umbra had got his shoulder underneath the reason the child hadn’t been simply killed, a weighty door that had been knocked off its hinges, pinning the child beneath it and the bricks that had kept it partially up. Umbra tenderly placed two fingers against the child’s throat, crouched low, looked up to the other two anxious civilians, and nodded, much to their visible relief. Extraction was equally careful, the… Girl, by the looks of her dust-infused blue skirts and white shirt, long since unconscious. One of her legs hadn’t quite been spared, like her hand, from mid-thigh to ankle simply crushed into a ragged, bloody mess. The crimsons were so much worse when they were emphasized by the paleness of her dirt-covered skin, streaked into mud on her face with tears. 

Umbra made a soft little noise, lifting her upper body just enough to put the flat of the scarf he wore beneath it, gathering up her limbs in a sort of sling to keep her weight evenly distributed. Gravel ground beneath his infested foot as he turned, and then cracked as he dashed away in a blast of azure light. Off to find Lettie, no doubt. Good. One more who could be helped.

The drifter sank back into the void song to continue his search. 

Some hours later, the only bodies they found in the rubble were ones he hadn’t been able to hear. Still keeping the song present, mind only halfway dipped in (not as effective, but he wasn’t as worried about precision at the moment), the drifter made the rounds for other things. His arms were full of thin blankets, which he handed out to everyone who he could see that looked like they might need one, which, if they were sitting, and had some form of blood on them, well. He’d only been wrong once , thus far. 

Amir was upon him before he knew it, leaping into the air, batting the top of his head, and vanishing in a flash, leaving his hair standing on end and granting him a very brief burst of extra speed, which made him nearly trip, again. Damnable man, lovable man. 

The next recipients for blankets were a couple whose little child, barely a toddler, giggled at the sight of the drifter’s slightly static-infused head. It was good that the child could laugh, given all of the chaos, and he handed them three. The father took the stack with hollow eyes, not meeting his, merely nodding and folding the first around the shoulders of his wife, who smiled in a way that didn’t even make it halfway up her face.

The casualties of war, the real ones, were always people like these. Driven from home to house to house to house to house. Normal folks. No powers, no guns, souls singing the songs of endlessly diverse and yet normal lives that all rose in a harmonic echo through the void. He wasn’t good enough to tell people apart just yet, not unless he’d transferred into their heads, and that wasn’t something he could do with regular folks, but regardless he tried to remember their faces.

Sometimes, it was hard to not see skin as a covering over void-crafted porcelain. He’d catch himself wondering, idly, what patterns of cracks and gold inlay they had under their clothing, or what shades of blues and greens made them them, and need to remind himself that, no, that was who they were. These tans, browns, pale peaches, all of the variance in color and tone that he could see with just a glance around him were what the masks he’d handcrafted, once, had been made to emulate. Everything had only been some vague approximation of this.

He handed a very real blanket to a very real woman, who took it with barely a nod, left arm in a tight sling. He could hear Lettie barking out orders not too far away, keeping the medical efforts organized, a platoon of folks who did seem to know what they were doing moving between the wounded like birds between the trees. 

The next blanket was handed, with five others, to a little family. A mother, eyes full of tears, and five young children. She didn’t even hear his offer, but one of her children did, and the stack was taken and distributed. On he went. 

He’d never spent much time with the aftermath of the fight. For the first thousand years, no such thing existed. For the last few… Most of his operations had been hit and run. Get in as quietly as possible, do what was needed, and get out without dying if he was lucky. He paused a child who was running about with two others, jumping between chunks of concrete and brick that scattered across the road, and sent the little boy running off to carry two more blankets to his own family. And he kept walking. 

Amir zipped up again, and gave him more blankets with a wink and a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Temp shelter’s done, ol’ Quincy-K is moving folks in. Goo’luck!” And Amir zipped off.

From the corner of his eye, he could see a muscular black figure carefully lifting someone with silver hair, thin as sticks, soul worn into paper. Umbra had seemed to have done work like this before, and the thought… Was not a happy one. How many wars had the Dax seen? Had they ever been allowed to openly help their lessers? Were they ever even allowed to leave survivors? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The drifter gave a stack of four blankets to four young men, who huddled beside a makeshift barrel-fire. The day would grow warmer, but there was something to be said about the mental comfort of a blanket for certain.

The sun was starting to fall across the sky.

“Scalpel.” And the drifter handed it over, his armor having been stripped away, the gloves of his suit removed and replaced with a bizarre, thin rubber, by Lettie’s request. The woman worked endlessly, eyes focused and alert, though the drifter had seen, on more than one occasion, the way her shoulders sagged and her head hung between patients, when she thought nobody was watching. Thankfully, Aoi had bullied her into eating something, because the drifter hadn’t had much luck, and neither had Amir. 

Lettie handed him a pair of bloodied forceps, and he washed them as she’d instructed. 

Blood was also new. Before, for so very long, the only one who’d ever bled had been him, and Thrax had painted with it where the drifter could see. Not that the murals lasted more than the day, but they didn’t have to. Those days, days when Thrax was angry, angry enough to be cold, those had always been the worst ones. When the sky burned, and snow fell, the drifter had always put everything he had into escaping and hiding for as long as possible. Not that it helped. He’d jumped, once, had fallen through the crimson for what seemed like an hour before the whole world just… looped. And he’d came down from the sky and shattered against the stone. Usually the Orowyrms caught him long before then.

It had still been better than the torture. 

“Thread.” He lifted the little needle and its strange string, and passed them carefully, accepting the knife in turn. He washed it. He… He didn’t want to continue those thoughts, right now. It was all too easy to slip with so much blood around, and the drifter kept on having to stop himself from patting his body down to figure out what was bleeding this time before the shock wore off and the pain kicked in. It wasn’t his blood, for once. And somehow that was worse.

“Bandages.” And he handed them over. They were running dangerously low, but Arthur had already set people on boiling what they could to make do. 

Antiseptic (Apparently some sort of non-drinkable alcohol that had some cleansing, or perhaps sealing effect on wounds? It hadn’t been explained.) was also running out, which had caused one of the most well contained nervous breakdowns he thought he’d ever witnessed. Lettie had heard the news, trembled, and then gotten back to work.

Amir zipped up, just beyond the partitioning, and a telltale thunk-thunk and scrape heralded the man replacing one empty coffee pot with a full one, and leaving a plate of food on the table next to it. Breathing hard, with a ‘phew!’ in tow, he zipped off again. 

A few of the others, volunteers, Lettie had told him, helped the woman she’d been working on to sit up and move off of the table, carrying her carefully to the seats outside. Her leg would take some time to heal, much time to heal, but without the shrapnel lodged inside, it was once again possible at all. 

The drifter found it odd that Lettie seemed to resent using her abilities to heal these folks, only doing so in the most dire of circumstances, but, when he thought about it for a moment, there was a part of him that could understand why. She’d had no teacher, and minimal notes, to tell her what to do and how to do it. Albrecht’s logs weren’t all too caring on the ability side of things, merely offering possibilities and methods of focusing along the warframe’s built in mental channels for the energy. It didn’t really tell them if using a void based, or, to their knowledge before his arrival, techrot based power would infect or affect someone who hadn’t been in contact with either prior. 

And Lettie wasn’t one to take chances, unless the risk was certain death, or possible death. 

The drifter found that wise. He’d gotten too used to his own immortality, the first time he’d seen a dead person since the Zariman had been… Rough. A dead anything, actually, so much of him had just been expecting the strange, golden-masked figure to simply vanish off into void particles, as everything else had for so very long. 

Instead, the body had just… lain there. Like it was asleep, if not for the cut separating its chest and torso. 

It had lain there and bled. 

The drifter had remembered, there, on that Murex, the other half of everything he’d tried so hard to forget.

He was lucky Ordis had found him, mistaking him for someone else.

Lettie snapped twice in front of his face, shocking him with a jolt back into reality. He blinked quickly, and refocused on her. For a moment, her expression was soft, and worried, brows ever so slightly drawn up, lips just barely pressed together. It was short lived, though, solidifying to its strong, crisply carved mask, which was what he preferred to have looking at him. Still, he didn’t know what to do with that worry. “Forceps?” She repeated, and the word took a second to decode.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry,” he murmured softly, grabbing the freshly cleaned forceps and passing them over, the man she was working on groaning and writhing and panting with pain. His stomach was bleeding from beneath his shirt, which, when Lettie lifted it, showed a jagged, dusty injury. A stab wound, made with some sort of rock, likely a pointed piece that had he’d accidentally impaled himself with while he fell. By the dust, though, which mixed with blood, maybe it was… Concrete, not regular stone. Lettie asked, and he helped her wash the wound, much to the the patient’s displeasure. The drifter clasped his hand, holding it, letting the man squeeze out the agony. There was not much strength left in his body, it seemed, and the flesh around the wound was inflamed and hot to the touch. That was… Odd.

“Must have nicked his intestines,” Lettie said softly, “it’s infected already. Ay… This will be a tough heal.” 

The drifter looked at her, frowning slightly. “For him, or for you?” 

She glanced up at him, flicked her eyebrows, and pursed her lips down at the oozing injury. “Both.”

His frown deepened. Infection… As in… techrot infection? If he was already infected with that, then she wouldn’t have minded using her abilities. She’d done so before on others, after all. 

Lettie worked, and, the drifter, still holding the man’s hand, rubbing the back of the stranger’s thumb with the pad of his own, continued assisting as he was instructed. Whatever the case, it wasn’t his decision to make, and he’d tried pushing before to very poor and very cold results. 

A few minutes later and the wound was as clean as they could get it, every little piece of gravel removed with a fascinatingly precise touch, and then Lettie left him alone with orders to ‘not kill him’ before she got back. So… He held the man’s hand, supporting it in both of his own, tracing with a light, but firm, touch the paths of the bones and tendons down the back of the stranger’s skin, upwards from the wrist to his fingertips, and back down again. It seemed to help, a little. The man’s breath slowed just a bit as he stared on with bleary, half shut eyes, glittering with tears that had been there, and been flowing, since he arrived. 

He couldn’t be any older than Amir, though his build was weightier, with fair layers of fat softening his form. It gave a bit of give to the flesh beneath the drifter’s fingers, a sort of gentle smoothness that he was utterly unused to. Nothing on Duviri had been ‘soft’, and his time in the Origin System hadn’t been much different. It was like… Layers of silk, perhaps. 

“Am I going to die?” 

The man’s voice was minute and quavering, eyelids narrowed to little slits, now, sweat making his hair stick to itself in clumps

“No.” The drifter said in return, and he meant it, clasping the stranger’s hand in both his own and cradling it tight. “No. Not if I can help it. Not if anyone here can. You will be alright.”

The man closed his eyes, and panic stabbed through his chest before he saw the man take a deep breath in… And out, though both were shuddering and horribly weak.

The drifter didn’t even know him, but he didn’t care. Damnation, this was what he lived for, what he had lived for, in the past. What he'd sacrificed everything for. Protecting, helping, anything to not be alone, sure, but also just… This. His grip tightened, palm slipping into the crook of that limp hand, letting himself just… hold on. Even if it didn’t matter. Even though this man was as trapped in Duviri as the drifter had been. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that it didn’t matter, he wanted to help. He’d wanted to be someone, and void take it all, that was who he wanted to be. That was who he’d always wanted to be.

Tears threatened his own eyes, so he shut them, just listening to the steady thrum of a soul he’d never know. He would be okay. He would be okay. He would be okay. They all would. He’d be sure of it. The time loop would break eventually, they always did, and by then, they would all be okay. The man’s fingers twitched, tightening firmly around his own, wrist strengthening. He’d be okay. He’d help. He’d help him, and the next one, and the next one, and the next one, he’d-

“Drifter?” Lettie said from behind him, and the drifter turned, blinking at her. She stared on, looking between him and the patient, not… Angry. Not… Not just confused. Incredulous, maybe? It wasn’t an expression he’d really seen before. She moved forwards, brows knitting. Was that a bad sign…? He followed her gaze.

The man was healed.

Not all the way, but he was healed, the redness entirely gone, the soft pinks of organs hidden beneath freshly mended muscle, divoted where the worst of the puncture had been with still broken fibers, off white fats no longer colored by blood. As he watched, the strands kept moving, kept healing, slower now that he was... looking at them. What..?

The drifter staggered back, or, tried to, but the man held on. “Wait-” He gasped. “Wait, please, it was working, whatever you were doing. Please- ”

Lettie grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him away, pushing him backwards through a partition into the little breakroom beyond, with the coffee and… Looked like a plate of sandwiches, cut into triangles. And a few chairs that needed any sort of cleaning like a human needed oxygen. He looked anywhere but directly at her piercing gaze.

“You can heal, Babas?” She hissed at him, eyes narrowed, keeping her voice low, obviously wanting him to follow suit. “Why did you never tell us this?”

“It’s… I didn’t-”

“It wasn’t me, drifter.” She interrupted, and pointed at him. “It was you. Tell me how.” 

“I just… I just wanted to help, I don't… I wasn’t trying to… it wasn’t on purpose, I’m sorry, Lettie, I-”

“Wasn’t…” She cut him off again, and leaned back a bit. “Drifter. Did you not know?”

He shook his head frantically. “These aren’t my powers, Lettie, I don’t know half of the shit Dust does, no I didn’t know.”

“And you never thought to ask the twin who you stayed with for so long? To show you?”

“No! ” He nearly yelped, but quickly dropped his volume. “No, I mean, we practiced a little, but not… Damnation, Lettie, she was showing me combat techniques, not…” He waves his hands. “I didn’t even know it was an option.” 

She rocked back on her heels, staring at him with yet another expression he had no idea how to read. Was she angry? Was she not?  Wasn't she mad at him for healing the man with magics that could possibly affect him?

“We must practice this, but not on civilians, drifter. Except on the worst cases. Si?”

He swallowed, and nodded. 

“Good. Now, let us get back to work, and hope that that poor man does not lose his mind. I... I am very glad I am not the only healer among the Hex, drifter." She said, softer, and with a faint smile. 

Chapter Text

The drifter’s legs swung idly, back against the cool concrete, as he looked upwards and considered the stars. They were beautiful, many cut from his sight by clouds, mere empty voids outlined by silver where the half-moon’s light reflected through them. 

His pick caught on the cord of Umbra’s shawzin, pitch lightened with a touch from his other hand, and the drifter let his eyes close as he began to play. 

Something simple and soft, it wouldn’t do to wake the people far below. Citizens and medical patients, all sleeping on benches, or couches, or huddled on tiled floors, grouped by family or just people who needed warmth. Humanity itself, or what of it that he could protect, slumbered at his back. He found himself strumming a lullaby, drawing out the notes and making them warble like a birdsong. Maybe it’d help, if anyone could hear it. He wouldn’t be able to sleep for some time yet. 

His mind still itched, aching for something to do, somewhere to go, someone to help, anything, really. His heart told him there was more he needed to get done. Somewhere that he was needed, still, even if it never seemed to care to tell him where that was, so… So he laid on the roof and played the shawzin.

Umbra had returned to Dust’s side, and the drifter didn’t mind it. He made sure that he didn’t, since Umbra was his own person, and had much to do. Comfort regardless.

Comfort…

The drifter’s mind edged his vision with pinks and blues and yellows and whites, love and happiness. A warm body that held his, that let him cry, that didn’t want to hurt him, that had stayed. Whether it had been out of pity or… Or connection, he wasn’t sure. He’d need to find out eventually, however that worked, but for now, he let himself bask in the warmth that he’d felt, then. 

Arthur’s face in the noonday sunlight, highlighted with pastel colors, those mismatched blue eyes that had met his with shock and despair on learning what the drifter had been expecting of him, because death was all he had ever known. 

No, that wasn’t true. It was just… most of it.

He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the man. Not really. It was stubbornness, it was petty, and it was definitely Lodun’s way of thinking about things, but the drifter couldn’t help but feel irritation despite the apologies. The yelling, the snappish demands, the accusations, the planning behind his back… Realistically, he did know why Arthur had felt how he did. He could understand Quincy’s wariness, too. Lettie’s hesitation, given how little they knew. Amir’s trying a little too hard. Eleanor’s watchfulness. Aoi’s cheer. He could understand, logically, why it all was the way it was. 

It didn’t stop him from feeling mad about some things anyway. It’d been so long since he’d been able to recognize it, he’d taken such care to keep it buried down, to be nothing but what they needed of him, but clearly, that had been the very source of his problems. 

Nobody was perfect, and pretending had just made them think he was hiding something. He was, technically, but it was nothing that they feared, just what he feared. Himself, what he was capable of, what he had done. His very nature. Loid’s words drifted back to his mind, chiding him for his blatant pretending, entreating him to just be honest. 

He missed a note, fingers jerking, the sound falling awry of anything in tune, and he winced. Off tune and imperfect, just like him. His imperfections had always seemed to be the cause of his downfall. His stubbornness, his pride, his volatility, his emotions, they’d always drag him to the worst possible outcomes. He’d spiral, and find himself a dragon, lashing out and hurting everyone around him. 

Dust had given him a possible outlet. Music. He’d tried that, he’d managed to tell them some of the truth, but the cost had been… High. The drifter wasn’t sure if he could do all of that again, not anytime soon, but they did want honesty, which left him with decisions to be made. How far could he push himself? Would it be worth it? What could he even do? 

To love is to know. You cannot be loved if you will not let yourself be known.

But how to be known without tearing himself apart. How to give his mind away without peeling back too many layers and revealing the orowyrm at the bottom of the pit.