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cephalon-celaeno · 5 years

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Styx returns from their mission breathless, and they have to take a moment to compose themself before re-entering the dojo. Van is where they always are: the main room is filled with chunks of things Styx doesn’t want to identify, lying in piles that can’t possibly be as organized as Van seems to think they are. Styx doesn’t blink at the corpse Van is currently dissecting; there have been worse ones. This one gives off an almost pleasant glow, illuminating itself and Van in bright yellow light.

Styx gives a halfhearted wave as they make their way past. Now that they’re home, the exhaustion is setting in. They aren’t expecting a response from Van; they rarely get one. They startle when Van’s voice calls to them from across the room:

“You’re going to need to stop.”

Styx pauses a moment, unsure if the words were meant for them. Van doesn’t usually speak if they’re busy, and Van is almost always buried in their work. Styx shoots them a look, raised eyebrow and confused half-smile, and takes a moment to point at their chest. Me?

Van looks up from what they’re doing, then, the light glinting off their goggles. They meet Styx’s eyes, and that’s also strange; Styx has lived here for months, known Van for longer, and made eye contact enough times to count on one hand. Van pays enough attention to pick up on the signs Styx communicates with, but it’s hard enough to get them to stop working even to eat or sleep. When Van raises a hand to take their goggles off, and when they look Styx directly in the face, Styx feels in their core what goes unsaid: this is serious.

They walk closer, the exhaustion forgotten for now. If Van needs to talk, Styx wants to hear what they have to say. “I have to stop?” they sign, emphasizing the question mark at the end.

“I know what you’ve been doing,” Van says. Of course they do -- Styx hasn’t been trying to hide it. “The derelicts. Exposing yourself to more of the Infestation. You’ve been going out more and more often, and you’re going to need to stop.”

“Why?” Styx signs. They’re confused. To their knowledge, it hasn’t been getting in Van’s way when they leave. They haven’t been missing anything important, and they always make it clear that they’re gone, just in case something happens. “I’m helping people. I’m saving lives. What’s the problem, here?”

“You’re destroying yours,” Van says. “You’re vulnerable. I’ve told you this before -- the Infestation already has a foothold in you.” Van gestures to their face, and Styx reaches up to their own chin, feeling the familiar scarring underneath their jaw. “Just because it isn’t killing you now doesn’t mean it won’t start later. I’ve told you.” And Van does hate repeating themself.

“Would you rather I leave those people to die?” Styx asks. They don’t want this to turn into an argument, but an indignant feeling is rising in their chest. When the motions of their signs get tense, Styx doesn’t try very hard to stop it. “Just because I might be in danger from it in the future?”

“Yes,” Van says. Styx doesn’t understand how their face can be so expressionless. “I want you to stop. You’re beginning to reach the point where I won’t be able to help you any longer, and if you reach that point it will kill you.” Bad news, delivered like it doesn’t mean anything. Like Van is making a suggestion, not issuing an order. Like they don’t care if Styx does what they say or not, even though every single piece of this scenario speaks to the power of Van’s feelings on the matter.

“I’m saving lives,” Styx repeats, trying to calm down as they realize what Van is doing. This is a difficult conversation, made harder by the emotion involved, but Styx can’t seem to separate themself from their feelings as well as Van can. “Is my life really worth more than all the people trapped on those ships? Would you really prefer it if I live at the cost of hundreds?” They leave their hands in the air where they fall for emphasis, a gesture for so many lives.

“Yes, your life is worth more,” Van hisses -- a break in their composure. They take a breath, but there’s still anger in their face when they continue. “You’re Tenno. You’re the only one who can control your Warframe -- without you, she becomes a wild monster, a danger to us all. If you just avoided the Infestation and took different missions, you could save just as many lives -- more, because you’d last longer.” A beat passes, and then the anger on their face collapses, revealing the grief hidden behind it. “And you’re my friend, and I don’t want you to die.”

Van looks away, then, choosing something off to the side to stare at instead of Styx.

“I’m not dying,” Styx signs, momentarily thrown by the implication. Their health has never been better -- they’re tired when they return from missions, but that’s to be expected. All the problems they normally look out for have been quiet in recent months, ever since they moved permanently into Van’s dojo.

“You are,” Van sighs. The expression on their face is grim when they drag their eyes back to Styx. “I’ve been running numbers. Tracking your condition. I don’t know if it’s the Warframe’s influence or if you’ve run across something especially dangerous out there, but it doesn’t look good for you.”

“What does that mean?” Styx asks. “Whatever it is, surely you can fix it. You’ve kept the Infestation from killing Clava, and she’s half-gone.”

“Clava doesn’t insist on exposing herself to aggressive strains of a disease we don’t understand,” Van growls. “Do you know how hard it is to beat something that mutates every time I look away? Each and every time you come back, it’s with something different, and I don’t think it’s a puzzle I can solve if you keep letting it change. If you stopped now, there’s a chance I could save you.”

“I won’t,” Styx signs, only realizing the words the moment after. Something settles into place in their mind, an idea that has probably always been there in some capacity. “If I’m dying either way, why should I stop doing what I’m doing?”

“There’s a chance--”

“Only a chance,” Styx interrupts. “A chance that will cost hundreds of lives that I can save if I continue. Nobody else is doing what I do. Nobody else can track the Infestation like I can, and nobody else is there to fill the place I leave. I’m not going to let those people die on a chance, Van.”

Van is silent for some time, but Styx waits. They’re certain about this decision, more certain than they expected to be, and they need Van to understand that. Van stares down at the work they’d forgotten when Styx had entered the room, but nothing in their eyes seems to register. They aren’t really looking. Long minutes pass, and Styx notices a shimmer over Van’s eyes, like held-back tears.

There’s an ache in Styx’s chest as they realize what they’ve just said. They’ve told one of their only friends that they don’t care about their own well-being; they would rather sacrifice themself than try to find a new solution. To Van, that must sound unconscionable; Van has saved lives by manipulating the Infestation, and Styx is refusing them a chance to do that.

Finally, Van speaks. “We can find someone else to fill your shoes,” they say, quieter than they’d been speaking before. “You can... you can tell them where to go, and they can deal with it, and you won’t have to. Lives saved, but without the cost of yours.” Your life matters to me, Van doesn’t say, but Styx hears it.

Styx’s composure wavers. “Do you really think we’ll find another Tenno willing to take these missions?” they ask, hesitant to even entertain the idea. “It’s dangerous. It’s unrewarding. They would need to be willing to live here, ready to go out on a moment’s notice, and they would need to be able to handle themselves around the Infestation better than I can. Does someone like that exist?”

“We can look,” Van says. “If that’s what it’ll take to get you to stop, I will find that person.” They look back at Styx’s face, and this time there’s an expression there that Styx has never seen them make. It hurts to look at. “Please, Styx,” Van pleads, “just let me try to save you.”

#cephalon recordings #celaeno speaks #operator styx #operator van #story fragment #numbered days #it's been awhile since i posted my writing so i've forgotten how i tag it lmao #i'd like to write this again from van's perspective cause the stuff going through their head is v interesting #but i dont think i'd post the Exact Same Conversation here again even if i do that #anyway here's some styx writing because Apparently i've been really craving some styx writing. just spat out 1500 words in like an hour tops #it's been a minute since i posted any pictures of styx or their warframes tho #why don't i ever get inspiration for the operator that i currently have in-game!!!

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chamberofnectar · 5 years

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Wounded, but not yet broken

Summary

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

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

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

Mature | Graphic Depiction of violence

[ Story Link ] Chapter 10 of (?) continue beneath the read more!

Claws affix themselves around the railing, ones that pull the warframe up the ramp as he tries to force his steps slow as he enters the silence of the orbiter. Without the interrogation device as a main priority, he heads to the arsenal bench where he drops the lato; a clattering of hard material as he deposits his belt band on top of the station. As it finds itself settled he stands on his toes, checking the bin where he left the spira blades earlier and hopefully out of the teenager’s reach.

With a soft clatter – blades resounding off of blades – he begins to pick through them, counting them to be certain none have been displaced last he can recall.

They’re all there.

With a sigh, the loki shoves the bin of throwing blades back above his sight line, about two meters from the floor from where he stands. Too far laterally for the teenager to reach for himself, too precarious to pull down, retrieve one, and put it back into place. It fumbles in his golden grip, shoved back against the backwall of the shelving unit. His lip curls.

He’ll figure it out eventually.

T’viska settles himself back onto his feet, crossing over to the foundry and picking out one of the many rags from a stack that have begun to cumulate over the last couple days. A scrap of a former shirt drips with water as he pulls it from the small dish sat on top the foundry console, smearing it against the stains of the wound in his side. Less of a wound – more of a stain; another clears the remnants of the ink-stain fluid.

Leaning onto the foundry unit with a sigh, T’viska turns himself towards the ceiling, “Suuir, where’s Warren,” he whispers. There’re not very many places the tenno could’ve gone – he’s aware – but knowing where he is will make his approach less aggressive – apologetic. In his sightline the cephalon reveals the teenager’s location – in the same corner of the residential chamber. Huddling again.

‘Been there since the incident,’ the cephalon briefs, flickering out once again from his vision.

Once he clears himself of the stain, T’viska abandons the fabric on the surface of the foundry station.

T’viska’s steps remain calm as he moves to the back of the orbiter’s quarters, thoughts muddied and fumbled as to how to apologize for his own failings – the things he failed to do like not realizing the cloak was down, that it was irresponsible of him to bring the mentally damaged teenagers into the front lines on his first mission. A mire of his own insecurities hitch – clamoring inside his thoughts as he nears the door into the residential quarters; his lack of tact on the frontline after the initial conversation, the snarl he let out to the frightened teenager… the bite of self-harm with a spira blade. Was it a spira blade, certainly he stored them all away?

The door slips open, brimming him into the silence of the dark room and the playback glow.

Across what would’ve been the out-bound observation scene echoes a lush scenery, bathing the residential quarters in beams of yellows and blues – a stark contrast as it dances across the interior, wandering in its silence. Within the very same glow his steps softly pad against the floor, head craned over to where the cushioned bench is position, in the direction it ends and creates an open notch between it and the wall. The warframe swallows his hesitation. “Jacob…?”

In the corner he can see the shape of the tenno bundled beneath the blanket, turned away and quietly staring, hooded by the simple two-tone black and tan patterning as the kavats lie curled at his sides. One nestles against his left side, paws lying up over his lap and outstretched, her head sitting lull within the teenager’s palms. Crenshaw’s purrs are soft, buried beneath the muffled tranquility given off by the mocking view.

T’viska looks between them, his sight narrowing with an exhale.

He walks over to where the tenno sits on the floor, finding a place for himself on the bench cushion and above where grumpy Rhurbarb’s tail flickers, ears pointing back in lazy acknowledgement. “Jacob…. Warren,” the loki corrects himself, leaning against his knees – hands wringing together as he looks to the display across the way.

No response comes from Warren, but his hands do press against the kavat’s sleeping jaw – sought for reassurance.

Silence; awkward in a silent debate.

Where’s he to start? – Warren nips his lip, his sight twisting down to where the kavat’s head sits nestled in his palms – petting over the brief flicker of an ear. The slightest of a squeeze stains against his mind, still carving around the self-deprecation; the self-hatred as his wrist and thigh still stings with the bite of a blade. Hoping the warframe remains unaware – he’s just barely keeping himself stable – the stains of tears ebbing against his cheeks.

It’s T’viska that starts, preluded by a deep exhale. “What happened today… Warren, that wasn’t your fault. I should’ve noticed the cloak went down.” Golden claws click and fumble between his knees, the warframe’s crown turned down and looking away. “I took you out on a mission without any precautions – you aren’t suited to go out yet. I should’ve waited a bit longer before bringing you out on the field.”

A dismissal, a disarm. The teenager’s fists grasp against the kavat’s fur, moving from skull to neck and further – a brevity of comfort as the kavat huffs. Of course, it wasn’t his fault – it just couldn’t be when he was needed the most, when he was set to prove he was capable still.

Not to T’viska, or to Suuir.

He was useless; broken.

Warren bites his lip, head cast down and away.

“It’s…” T’viska sighs, hands grasping against his wrapped forearms – and Warren glances over for a brief moment – he’s only caused the loki harm. “It’s complicated out there, kid. Everyone’s fighting for scraps. What I do… it’s not good work, but it’s the only thing that pays enough. I just don’t ask questions anymore…”

The teenager shuffles, yielding the kavat close as his hands hold over his forearms – fingers tracing against the blemishes that mark the faint scars in his wrist. Almost healed, and he won’t have to worry about keeping it hidden. He’s done enough harm to the loki; blue eyes downcasted.

Staring into the evergreen grove situated on the wide screen, the warframe eases himself against his knees, hands falling limp with a sigh. Needless. “I wish there was any other way but… this line of work is all I got. And I rather you not get involved but… that’s too much to ask, isn’t it…?”

“Mhm…” mumbles dejected. Warren just wants to be useful… for something.

Another splint of silence pervades; where the clicking of metal claws tick amongst the serenity imbued before them, as the sleeping creatures hold Warren captive with their warmth and company.

Tense – T’viska swallows reactive.

As the screen before them continues its lull of artificial nature – of a location far out of their reach and falsehood of security. But they at least have this to break up the pain – a thought that crosses as the loki leans back with his arms crossed, head lulling back against the platform behind the cushioned bench.

Within himself he can feel the teenager’s anguish, the dredging of self-doubt that carves through one torso and into another – prying at heart strings while the sting of self-harm still aches. Beneath Warren’s fingers they pulsate, radiate in the diversion of self-anxiety as they slowly ebb to heal across his skin. It’s harder to place the pain dug into his thigh. “I’ve asked Suuir to divert our course for a bit… there’s an open space on Mars that’s barren of settlements,” the warframe sighs. At his side, the teenager peaks up beneath his hood. “I figured… after what happened earlier, it’d be best to get you some field practice out and about – not in the middle of a hot zone.” His maw faints a smile – melancholy as he still stares forward here foliage sits in blooms.

Warren diverts his gaze back to the taupe fur nestling between his fingers, where Crenhaw huffs beneath his hand as he cups her jaw. Prying in uncertainty. What if he fucks up again; his brows scrunch.

“We’ll head out whenever you’re ready, Warren,” the loki breathes before he stands, glancing over to where the tenno remains seated crowded by Crenshaw and Rhubarb.

He does catch a glimpse at the damage – but is relieved to see how far it’s healed.

Not too deep… and doesn’t mention it before he leaves.

As the door to the residential quarters’ eases shut, separating Warren in totality from the rest of the ship as his focus shifts back to the scene before him. The warmth against his side and on his lap. The wrapping of the blanket around him to keep him entombed, separated from the room and muffled. After a moment, a brief stint of time, he holds his once slashed wrist before him – thumb tracing along the blemishing rise were his oozed over his skin. It presses soft at first, easing downwards as he squeezes against it – and releases as his knuckles press against his mouth, the exposed teeth of his left side.

He’s unable to feel the Martian chill as the warframe steps out of the liset – barred by the transference circumstances as Warren sits lull in the somatic cradle. Sat nestled in the back of the warframe’s thoughts, he observes as his father carries out makeshift targets – remnants of shirts and pipe metal scraps he sets into the tussle of rock and sand. They sit far from the liset as T’viska pries through the containers lining the inside of the vessel. Items riddled with bullet holes once sat in the storage area of the orbiter are moved out into the open, pivoted outside of the liset’s rear hatch.

The set up for such an occasion drags out, conversation minimum as the loki strikes the ground with the steel bars, digging into the soil until they’re able to keep steady. Ten targets in total, heaving to the side as a gust billows past them.

T’viska, sat on the ramp, fiddles with the lato and a magazine; reaching out to the teenager whom has kept himself quiet all this time. “They’re all set up for you, kid,” the warframe exhales, looking out to the targets as he eases himself from personal control – giving space for the tenno to take over his nervous system. “Take it slow, Warren,” he heeds as the teenager affirms control of the warframe’s body, rising up to the loki’s full height.

And the teen remains quiet as he walks towards a mark in the dust – made between stuffed containers.

“Start by standing behind that line,” the warframe notes, observing as Warren pilots his body to the point – paws splaying in the cold dust as golden claws hold onto the pistol, finger positions shifting as the loki makes manual adjustments for Warren. “Keep your finger off the trigger when you’re holding it,” he suggests – and lets the tenno correct himself. “We’ll just go through the basics, alright kid?”

T’viska’s head – Warren’s – nods.

“Good, now then,” T’viska exhales, directing his internal IFF diagnostics manually – separate from Suuir’s systems. “We’ll go from nearest target, to farthest. Try and aim for the upper chest region – most often it’s shoot first or be killed.” His voice softens as he drifts out of organic control of his body, watching as Warren shuffles himself, glancing amongst the marked targets – 10 meters, 25, 30, 32, 40 – and such, a distance calculated by the warframe’s innate instincts melded with circuitry.

Within the cradle Warren nips his lip, and fires twice into a short formerly splattered with the loki’s dark blood. There’s almost a visual snap as he moves onto the next target – further out – almost as acutely accurate as the lato rings out into the empty valley. And again, he moves onto the next one, finger snapping against trigger, bullet punching through the fabric and shredding it with a dusting sear. At the next, he fires repetitive, and to the next – the lato clicks empty.

At first T’viska guides Warren’s hand down to the satchel held against his side, plucking through the reserved ammunition as the empty magazine cartridge billows in the dust at the loki’s scarred feet. A moment to meld the motions into the quick firing succession – as Warren aims down the sight towards the furthest cloth dummy. Bullets pierce through the fabric in ringing shots and into exhaustion; and the teenager snaps in a new magazine as he moves forth, over the line in the martian dust as he moves them forth.

Chestnut and ivory paws sprint across the scants of rubble, scampering around the outer edge where the liset sits null and launches up onto the ruins of a half-buried turbine. Farther from the targets, trickier shots, one hand securing them in place as neither of them speak – a silence that pervades through into their motions as the tenno fires at the make-shift marks.

And again, the lato clicks empty, and is satisfied with more ammunition.

Until Warren finally runs himself ragged.

Tears sting against his sight as he collapses on the metal ruins, where he allows his father to regain personal control of his muscles, of his nerves to clean up the mess of bullets and abandoned magazines. Sat as an observer, the teenager only watches as each spent shell is plucked by golden claws, cloth scraps caught from the wind-blown ravaging brought upon by the aggressive shots. One by one, each individual piece of the loose training is picked up, and deposited into a bin within the liset.

But the loki makes no indication that they’re leaving.

With a sigh, the warframe eases himself down to sit at the edge of the nearby mechanical ruins, legs hanging loose over the edge. Chest resting on crossed arms, leaned down against weary knees, T’viska looks off into the distance, solemn. “Warren, what’s on your mind.”

A first audible sniff, a hand rubbing against an itching nose. “Nothing,” he fumbles – tension staining inside his chest, eyes clenched shut. “It’s nothing…”

“Warren.”

“Don’t!” Half chokes, caught in a sob, “just… don’t.”

Golden claws curl, one balling against his opposing knee. “Warren…” T’viska hesitates, “It’s okay, kid.”

He can hear the hiccups, the trembles of rage breaking through the sympathetic link – a forced self-containment – of residual trauma fragmenting and aggressive.

“If I don’t know what’s wrong… I can’t help,” the loki briefs, caught in the transfer of sensations, seizing in his throat and forcing him to swallow. “You did nothing wrong, Jacob,” he finds it hard to speak, vocal cords seized in trembles – “I’m the one that screwed up.”

Thoughts fragment; breaking; searing as fluid stains against exposed teeth and gums nearly healed from punishment damage. A palm holds against it, fingers digging, screwing his eyes shut against the aching tears. A shatter – fingers dig into his hair, straining – regressing; he’ll only get hit again.

“Warren –“

“DON”T!” the teenager snarls, overriding the warframe’s neural control; nerves and muscles forced still – captivated by the transference surge. “I’m a fucking fuck up, okay?! There was only one thing I was good at – and I can’t fucking do it right anymore! The only thing – the Orokin – the only thing I was useful for was following what ever forsaken objective I was given – there was no question of morals, and that was the only thing I was able to do well! And now – and now I just fuck it up, I fucked up, screwed up the mission. That person – screaming – I can still hear them! We were face to face and I just shot them!

“All I’m good for is on stand-by, just like before, and I’m able to do nothing – a fucking distraction – I’m fucking useless. I might as well be thrown away for scraps – that’s all I’m useful for! I’m fucking BROKEN, dad, USELESS, do you understand that?! I was the defacto to just fucking toss at suicide missions, or just to outlast the fucking pain because I could just ‘deal with it’ and ‘walk it off’ and lie in some fucking room.” Warren chokes, hands palming against his face, against the flow of tears and broken sobs. “But I fucking can’t – I fucking can’t do that anymore! Because I’m so fucked up… I can’t do anything anymore…”

The stress against the loki’s throat drifts, held back in a vice as he finds himself able to speak once more. “We’re both fucked up, Warren, “ T’viska bites back, carrying a brief wrestle of his self-control. “But you did nothing WRONG. Understand that – what the Orokin did to you, forced upon you, is not your fault.”

“I know that!” croaks, tear struck and anguished as the teenager trembles. “But this… this fucking scar on my face – this damage wont just fucking go away, reminds me every time, every time and I’m tired of dealing with it!” He rustles amongst the cradle, vicious, trying to force his way out for a moment before seizing himself again. “I –“ he chokes, harsh, “I can’t fucking do anything, dad… I’m too fucking scared of fucking it all up… I don’t want to get hurt anymore… is that too much to ask…?”

Amongst the outburst only lies the martian winds, billowing past in a flurry, a gust of harsh blown sand that itches against the warframe’s skin, against the numerous scars laden by injuries once severe. And silent – a comforting embrace melded within the somatic connection. It doesn’t replace the need Warren strains – to be held as he’s situated still in the cradle, lingering beyond the planet’s surface as the loki exhales. “No, Warren… that, it’s not too much to ask for. I just wish I knew the answers.”

He can feel the shuffling – of knees drawn against chest and held tight. The sniffling.

“Sometimes –“ the loki pauses, mouth drawn narrow, “it takes time to get everything figured out, kid. And honestly… I don’t like it either, leaving up there all by your self – only with your thoughts to distract you.” He heaves himself to stand, steps eager to return to the liset. “I’m heading up… feels like this is something best discussed in person.”

Within the cradle Warren bites his lip, straining against the knotting in his chest. An uncertainty that hammers through the transference link and ensnaring the warframe to stop. “I – I heard that there’s others like me out there… tenno or whats-it… on broadcast frequencies. That they could just… simply appear out of nowhere, like ghosts,” he hiccups.

“Do you want to try that?” T’viska eases himself in control of his motions once more, pausing at the edge of a scrap metal ridge, his head in a minor tilt. “Of course,” his mouth faintly smiles. Beneath his steps the ragged remains of a cargo ship creaks, carrying them back down to where the chill of desert sands meets their steps.

Red dust wisps follow the loki’s movement as a billowing gust swarms around them, a bare nuisance as amongst the sympathetic connection energy begins to sing. It stems through nerve endings in flicker of a surge from the cradle as Warren’s teeth grit; grinding, aggressive yet exhausted as the warframe stands beneath the security of the liset’s under carriage. Nips and needle-pin prickles dance along forearm nerve endings, a bittering sensation that makes the warframe wince, hissing in pain.

It’s a flaring that ceases in an instant – where Warren swallows down the lump in his throat, eyes aching with the sting of old tears. Another thing he can’t do right. He curls his arms around his knees, drawing them against his chest as he eases to only observe – to watch as the warframe settles himself down on the floor connecting to the ramp.

T’viska swallows down the trembling shivers that wrack his body, golden claws affixing themselves against his sides and compressed beneath his arms – still ebbing with the tearing sensation from the lashing of somatic energy. Pricklets of the transference uncertainty stings the back of his throat, inside his head as he listens to Warren’s voice trembles. “I’m alright, kid,” he faintly smiles, stark against the claws clutching against his skin; against the rattle of blooming nerve ending twitches. “We can work on it once I get back,” he clarifies, “maybe tomorrow, I can bring you down here. Get yourself some exercise, maybe have some hands-on with a firearm.”

Would it be a bad idea? T’viska shakes it from his consciousness; he needs to engage Warren in something. Anything to get him out of the orbiter, get him out of his head.

On the other end of the somatic link, he can hear the teenager shifts, palms wiping away the tint of tears, posture relaxed. “Okay,” he grunts, stifled, “I’m… I’m fine with that, dad.” An expression tinted with a broken smile, tear stricken and exhausted.

“Go ahead and get some sleep, Warren,” the warframe sighs, staring out into the billows of red sands beyond the liset’s ramp. “I’ll be in orbit soon,” golden claws hold against his head, leaning into it as a headache pounds. Through the somatic connection, he can’t hear the teenager speak as he feels the motions as though they’re his own. He waits out the echoes of movements, holding his bandaged forearms as his sight stares beyond the horizon – golden claws squeezing, anxious hope.

Never does he feel the sting of a blade.

The next evening, T’viska and Warren mark a clear perimeter with strips of scrap fabric, ones that flutter upon their metal pole mountings sat embedded into the rock and sands. Starks of white flutter in the occasional martian gust, decorating the region around them to mark small targets as their conversations ebb – on the things Warren’s heard through radio chatter, captured transmissions and the murmurs of idle banter between relay posts. It takes priority over their conversation; on the wonderous possible things that others seem to have as the teenager’s hands secure themselves around the lato’s grip, aiming down the sights to a target down the way.

One of many he aims at… hours spent.

The puffs sand out behind the small, fabric wrapped metal. A miss.

“Dad,” Warren sighs, taking up the sight again. “What do you think… of me being able to do such things,” he mumbles, adjusting his grip before he fires. Another whiff of dust.

Watching from the sidelines, T’viska exhales through the vents along the side of his chest – echoed by a puff of steam into temperate chill. “Well, I don’t doubt it,” he breathes, “everyone’s got their own abilities, you might just not have what the others do. That’s all.”

“Like what?” the lato clicks empty.

“Your strength, for one thing,” T’viska watches as the teenager switches out the magazine, sight turned to the bare knuckles faintly bruised. Worry. “On the moon – you were able to crack the shell of the thing that they kept you in – my claws barely marred it.”

Warren’s expression remains static, focus still on the target in the distance. “I just… punch things whenever I’m angry, whatever is nearby…” he sighs, arms dropping a slight as his eyes stare into the distance – brows furl. “Only thing I was good for was enduring pain…” he flinches, “always just an asset… a means to the end. And I hated it,” his teeth grit, holding the pistol out before him, aim true. “I’ve got nothing…”

“Nonsense,” the loki’s lip twitches, watching as the bullet strikes the scrap metal. “You’re just as capable, Warren. It might just be that you don’t know how to utilize them. That’s all.”

“But what if you’re wrong…?”

T’viska looks away, off into the distance.

Another shot rings out.

“You never know until you try, kid.”

And another.

The teenager’s sight remains contorted, gazing to and past the target struck twice. He’s caught in thought, a hand brushing his face. “So many of the reports… talk about offensive abilities but –“ Warren wavers, mouth pressed flat.

He hands the lato back to T’viska as golden claws hold around his shoulders. Palms held up, he stares at them – brows scrunched. Holding them out, Warren tries to focus on both, then only on one – but he flinches, pulling it back against his chest, rubbing his inner wrist as he buries himself against the loki’s chest.

Reassurance pats at his spine, careful as he takes the teenager’s palms into his own. “I don’t know how any of this works, Warren,” he briefs, tilting the tenno’s right palm upwards; but Warren forces it back down again. It scrunches the warframe’s face. “But just because one thing doesn’t work out now, doesn’t mean other things won’t work out later.”

“I know,” Warren mumbles beneath his breath, pulling himself away from the loki’s attempting comfort to hide the scarring on his wrist – his other hand holds it. “But it’s just… exhausting, you know? Not to amount up to anything… after the shit I went through. The Orokin fucking putting me to use as some sort of puppet master in their war. A war I never wanted to be a part of…”

T’viska remains still, watching.

Warren looks down upon his palms as his concentration fluxes, mouth in a snarl. “The same results… over and over again,” he turns, expression bitter, “stowed away until I was able to stand again… until I couldn’t anymore.” Apathy paints his features – brilliant blue eyes half lid, red dust catching in his auburn hair as his dark coat flutters in the blown martian sands. It’s the remnants of the cargo ship that directs his attention – sandblasted and worn. “Every time I fought back… every time I struggled, it only got worse.”

Making the connection between the teenager’s glance and the wreckage, T’viska shifts. “It’s worth a try, Warren. To see what you can do.”

It takes a look back to the warframe before Warren understands the words, the intent behind him as his adopted father looks back to the scrap from the downed vessel. The surface sandblasted slate white, smooth enough to glint in the sun’s minor gaze. What part of the teenager’s face that still has lips press, brows squeezed – and wanders over to it.

And he gives it one, hard, strike.

Cyan energy splinters between the impact and Warren’s fist, a flicker and glow as he pulls back, shaking his hand in the slight sting. The metal, dented.

“Do it again,” T’viska wanders, crossing the distance between the liset and the wreckage.

Another strike, another burst of void energy sparkles between them.

In that instance Warren looks upon his knuckles, once bruised by earlier aggression they ring with the glow of transparent armor in bright cyan. A mimicry that flutters around his hand – flexing and relaxing as he draws his fingers back into a fist.

And his eyes light up, mouthing a broken smile.

“Of course… it takes whatever pain and gives it strength,” he chatters in bemusement, drawing both hands before him, bouncing the transparent visage of armored knuckles. One, two, he strikes the metal. Indented with two more fist-shaped indentations – his palms glow in tune with the energy pulsations, strumming through the sympathetic connection in prickles that make the loki’s own ache.

But the smile on the teenager’s face is worth it. “I told you, didn’t I?” the loki smiles back, “you never know until you try.”

“It hurts,” Warren shakes, tears tinting his sight, “but I can take it. I’m just… glad I got something of worth.” As the loki holds his arms open, the teenager moves the other way, his shape shuttering across the landscape as his form ebbs with void energy – just enough to fold through a few centimeters.

But it’s enough.

Warren stumbles himself back into T’viska’s arms, yanking the warframe into a tight hug, arms like a vice under the void pulsations from his palms. His face buries against the overshirt protecting the loki’s scars from the harsh sand, auburn furls dusting in martian dust. “Thank you, dad… for believing in me.”

Gold claws wrap back, pulling against the coat the teenager’s wearing to yield him into a tighter hug as he rests his head on Warren’s. “That’s why I’m here for you, Warren,” he whispers, easing them into a gentling sway. A moment of comfort, reassurance of ability that exhales around them as the winds pick up, throwing the white flag markers to flutter and snap. A billowing they endure as the teenager sobs, messing his face against the warframe’s chest while his fists ball against T’viska’s back.

“Thank you…. so much, dad,” he mumbles.

T’viska dares to not pull back from the embrace as Warren cries; stroking his back, messing his hair with the gentle utterance of soothing hushes. Reassurance that it’s okay, whispered down as the teenager relents to the overflowing emotional outcry – he has something! He’s not useless! A tumble of relief that holds the loki in a vice.

For a time, they remain there as beneath it T’viska scours through the call for mercenaries, for a job more slow-paced, suited to give the teenager space and find use. “Let’s head home, kid,” he sighs down, pulling the teenager close. “It’ll be a while... should start getting back.” Across his vision the cephalon blips, he’s found a criteria match. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you out on the field... something slow paced. How does that sound?”

Warren sniffs, “S-sure,” hiccups. A hand held with golden claws pats at his back.

“It’s a sabotage,” the loki briefs, easing space between them. “An easy get in, get out type. You won’t have to worry about a thing,” T’viska smiles as he pulls himself free from the anxious teen, motioning back towards the liset – and Warren follows close behind.

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

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