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The backroom was dim, sealed off from the rest of the compound by layers of reinforced bulkhead and humming machinery. Medical lights cast a dull, sterile glow over the space, illuminating steel walls stained faintly with oil, coolant, and something older that never quite washed away. The air smelled of antiseptic, metal—and the faint, organic tang that came from Helminth systems running somewhere deeper in the structure.
Aoi sat slumped in a reinforced chair at the center of the room.
Even seated, the protoframe modifications were unmistakable. Plates of living metal traced along her arms and shoulders, integrated into muscle rather than layered over it. Faint seams pulsed softly beneath her skin, a dull amber glow flickering in uneven rhythm, responding sluggishly instead of sharply like they should. Her hair clung to her forehead in damp strands, sweat beading along her temples and jaw. Her usual kinetic energy was gone, replaced by a brittle stillness that made her look smaller than she ever should.
Her breathing was shallow.
The Drifter sat beside her on a low metal stool, knees angled toward her, posture tense despite his attempt at stillness. Short, curly hair framed his face, dark against brown skin worn by sun and long nights without rest. A black beard, shaved close to his jaw, traced sharp lines along his cheeks and chin, emphasizing the tight set of his mouth. His gloved hand wrapped around hers, firm but careful. Her fingers squeezed back, grounding, reassuring—more for him than herself.
His eyes glowed faintly red in the low light, fixed on her face. Not scanning. Not calculating. Just watching.
Concern etched itself into every line of his expression, jaw tight, shoulders rigid as if bracing for something he couldn’t see coming.
Aoi noticed.
She turned her head slightly toward him, lips tugging into a weak smile. “Y’know,” she said, voice rough but still carrying that familiar edge, “if this is your idea of a date, you really gotta work on the ambiance.”
For a moment, the tension eased.
Drifter huffed out a quiet breath, a small grin breaking through despite himself. “I’ll make a note,” he mused. “Less industrial despair next time.”
Her smile lingered—
Then she doubled forward with a sharp, rattling cough.
The sound tore through the room, dry and painful, leaving her gasping as her grip tightened involuntarily around his hand. Drifter was on his feet instantly.
“Easy—hey, easy,” he said, already moving toward the counter. He grabbed a sealed vial from a secured case, its contents shifting sluggishly inside. The fluid within was thick, semi-translucent, threaded with faint organic motion. Helminth secretions, distilled and stabilized. Medicine meant for warframes that had been torn apart and put back together one fight too many.
He turned back toward her, vial in hand.
Aoi eyed it as he approached, nose wrinkling. “Wow,” she rasped. “If this flu on steroids doesn’t kill me, that stuff definitely will.”
He stopped cold.
“No,” the Drifter said sharply.
The word cut through the room harder than the cough had.
Aoi blinked, surprised. Her playful expression faltered, just slightly, the levity dimming as she looked back up at him. “Hey,” she said, trying to soften it, “I’m just—”
“Don’t joke like that,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not now.”
Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.
Her shoulders slumped a fraction. “You know,” she muttered, “that usually something you something you would say.”
He didn’t miss a beat.
“Yes,” he replied, stepping closer again, gaze unwavering, “and you look ready to fling me out of the room every time I do.”
That earned a quiet, breathless laugh from her, more exhale than sound, but it was real.
She squeezed his hand again.
“Yeah,” she admitted softly. “Guess I do.”
He knelt in front of her, uncapping the vial with careful hands. His sternness eased, replaced by something steadier, gentler.
“Drink,” he said, not unkindly. “Then you can complain about it.”
Aoi eyed the vial one more time, grimaced theatrically, and muttered, “You better owe me for this.”
He didn’t answer.
He just stayed right there, watching her like he wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what came next.
The Drifter stayed where he was a while longer.
Aoi’s breathing had evened out, the shallow hitch finally smoothing into something steady. Her head lolled slightly to one side as sleep claimed her, exhaustion dragging her down harder than any sedative could. Color had begun to return to her skin, the faint amber glow beneath her protoframe seams stabilizing into a healthier rhythm instead of the erratic flicker from before.
She looked peaceful.
That, more than anything, loosened the knot in his chest.
He stood, careful not to disturb her, and paused at the top of the stairs. One last look back—just to be sure. She hadn’t moved. Still breathing. Still here.
Only then did he turn away.
The Drifter descended the steps, boots quiet against the metal treads. Halfway down, he reached up and pulled his mask into place—the lower half locking over his jaw and mouth with a soft mechanical click. The mask was a deep, muted blue, its surface matte and worn from use. Gold vents flanked either side, catching the light as he moved, functional and unmistakably Zariman in design. The upper portion remained folded back, leaving his face visible, his expression unguarded.
His gear marked him instantly.
Lone-Rider pants hugged his legs, deep blue fabric reinforced for movement, trimmed with subtle red light strips that pulsed faintly along the seams. A gold belt sat secure at his waist, worn smooth with use, catching the overhead lights as he moved. The design was unmistakable—functional, fast, and built for someone who never stayed still for long.
Over his torso, the Voidshell Zariman top rested like a second skin. Predominantly black, its surface absorbed light rather than reflecting it, broken only by blue underarm panels that flexed with each movement and fine gold accents traced along its edges. An Aeos Prime chest piece was integrated at the center, its structure elegant and angular, glowing softly red with restrained Void energy—steady, controlled, alive.
Matching it, an Aeos Prime shoulder pad sat over one side, its sharp, gilded geometry mirroring the chest piece’s design. On the opposite shoulder rested a Conquera shoulder pad, bulkier, ceremonial in shape but recolored to fit the same palette—black and blue plating edged with gold, its presence a quiet statement rather than ornamentation.
At his ankles, Naktavyre spurs curved outward, sharp silhouettes against the floor, their presence subtle but unmistakable. They weren’t decorative. Nothing he wore ever was.
The Lone Rider hood stayed down, resting between his shoulders. The interior lining flashed gold when it shifted, a stark contrast to the dark outer fabric. He looked less like a soldier standing at attention and more like someone who had never quite stopped moving long enough to become one.
The main floor opened up beneath him.
The rest of the Hex were already there.
They stood in a loose semicircle, tension written plainly across their faces. No one was sitting. No one was joking. Concern and apprehension hung thick in the air, every pair of eyes snapping toward him the moment his boots hit the floor.
Arthur was the first to speak.
“Is she okay?” he asked, voice level but tight around the edges.
The Drifter nodded once. “She will be.”
The relief was immediate.
Shoulders eased. Aoi’s absence stopped feeling like a wound and more like a bruise—still painful, but no longer bleeding. Quincy let out a breath he’d clearly been holding. Amir’s hands unclenched from where they’d been fidgeting at his sides.
Lettie studied him closely. “What did you give her?” she asked. Not accusatory. Clinical. “That wasn’t standard field treatment.”
“Helminth secretion,” the Drifter replied.
That earned a few looks.
He continued before anyone could interrupt. “The Helminth isn’t just a forge. It’s a living biomechanical system. It repairs warframes by introducing adaptive infested matter directly into damaged structures—muscle, armor, neural pathways. It breaks down what’s failing, replaces it with viable tissue, and forces the system to rebind. Painful. Ugly.” His jaw tightened slightly. “But effective.”
Lettie nodded slowly, filing it away. “That explains the recovery curve.”
Quincy snorted. “Funny how none of us ever got that miracle goo before.”
The Drifter’s gaze flicked to him. Flat. Unamused.
“None of you have ever been that hurt before,” he said.
Silence dropped like a weight.
Amir swallowed. “So… how did this even happen?”
The Drifter’s hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.
“We were on a routing sweep,” he said. “Standard scouting. Keeping an eye on Flare ahead of the concert.”
Arthur’s expression darkened. “Scaldra?”
“Yes.”
The word came out sharp.
“They took a shot at us. Not random.” His eyes hardened. “Viktor Vodyanoi’s idea.”
A ripple of unease moved through the group at the name.
“He’s been issuing new equipment,” the Drifter continued, bitterness bleeding openly into his voice now. “Tailored. Tuned specifically for protoframes. For you.”
He let out a slow breath, jaw tightening. “Ballistic delivery systems. Heavy. Deliberate. Built to punch through protoframe plating instead of around it.”
His eyes hardened. “A hardened arrow—dense core, reinforced shaft. The head carries an injector. On impact, it drives straight through the armor and pumps concentrated Efervon directly into the body.”
A pause.
“Not enough to kill a protoframe,” he said quietly. “Just enough to weaken you. Slow your reactions. Disrupt regeneration.” His voice dropped. “Enough to make the follow-up shot easy.”
Quincy muttered something under his breath.
“They knew exactly where to aim,” the Drifter said. “Exactly how hard to hit.”
His jaw set, anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Lettie was the first to break the silence.
“¿Y tú?” she asked quietly. Then, catching herself, she straightened just a little, though the edge in her voice dulled. “Are you okay?”
The question landed heavier than she probably intended.
Drifter didn’t answer right away.
He drew in a slow breath through his nose, then another, forcing his shoulders to loosen. The anger was still there—coiled tight in his chest, sharp and restless—but he didn’t let it run him. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Duviri flashed through his mind.
Lodun’s story—rage given shape, spiraling outward until it devoured everything around it. Lodun had believed anger was strength, that feeding it would bring clarity. Instead, it hollowed him out, left him trapped in a storm of his own making. Drifter remembered how the cycle broke—not by denying the anger, but by naming it, grounding it, refusing to let it choose the next step.
He let the memory settle.
Teshin would say this is the moment that matters, he thought. Not when the blade is drawn—but when you decide whether to strike blindly or with purpose. Control was not the absence of fury. It was command over it.
Drifter exhaled.
Then he looked back at Lettie.
“I’m better,” he said honestly. “Not good yet.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the stairs. “Not until Aoi’s back on her feet. Walking under her own power.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed, but there was no judgment in it—only understanding. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Amir shifted where he stood, rocking slightly on his heels. “Uh—hey,” he said, voice hesitant. “Is it… is it okay if I stay with her for a bit? Just—keep her company?”
Drifter’s eyes snapped to him.
For a heartbeat, the red glow sharpened, unreadable. Amir froze, instantly aware he’d stepped into something fragile.
Then Drifter’s expression softened.
“Yeah,” he said, the tension easing from his shoulders. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”
He added, dry but not unkind, “Maybe you can pitch her that new questline you were talking about. Fables and Frontiers could use more near-death experiences, right?”
Amir blinked.
Then perked up. “Oh! Yeah—yeah, actually, I’ve been workshopping this thing with modular outcomes—”
He was already halfway up the stairs, words tumbling out faster than his feet, voice animated but careful as it carried upward. They could hear him talking to Aoi even before he reached the backroom—soft, enthusiastic, unmistakably relieved.
The space he left behind felt quieter.
Then Eleanor addressed the group, her eyes fixated on Drifter with concern and sympathy.
'There is… a lot moving through you right now', her voice brushed against their minds, calm and precise. 'None of it is particularly positive.'
Drifter didn’t flinch.
“Didn’t say it was,” he replied, voice steady.
Quincy broke the quiet first.
“This doesn’t end with warnings,” he muttered, jaw tight. “We get even. Put a bullet through Viktor for what he’s done.”
Arthur turned on him immediately.
“No,” he said flatly. “We don’t even know where he’s operating out of. Charging blind gets someone else hurt.” His gaze flicked, briefly, toward the stairs. “We don’t risk another one of our own.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the room crackled.
The radio at Drifter’s station came alive. It was almost comical in its timing—so perfectly, cruelly ill-timed it might’ve passed for a joke, if it weren’t real.
Static hissed, then resolved into a clear channel.
Drifter’s workstation sat against the far wall: a cluttered sprawl of open laptops feeding live data, tactical overlays, and surveillance loops. Cables snaked between them into the foundry unit behind the desk—industrial, angular, its internal mechanisms glowing faintly as it idled, half-assembled components suspended in magnetic clamps.
The voice that came through the radio was calm.
Measured.
Smug.
“Today,” Viktor Vodyanoi said, “one of the abominations has been put down.”
The Hex went still.
“This,” Viktor continued, his voice steady with conviction, “is proof. A sign from Sol himself, cast in fire and blood, that our path is the correct one.”
Static crackled faintly as he spoke on. “The abominations call themselves protectors. Heroes. But today, one of them fell—struck down by human hands, by the hands of our glorious soldiers.”
A pause, deliberate.
“That is righteousness,” Viktor said. “That is justice. Not mercy. Not compromise.”
There was unmistakable satisfaction in his voice now, pride sharpened into certainty. “My men acted with clarity and faith. And Sol answered.”
He spread his arms wide, voice carrying across the square. “Here, in Founders’ Square of Holvania, we stand victorious.”
Another beat.
“Let this stand as a message to the rest of them: the old monsters bleed. And we will finish the work we began.”
Quincy’s hands curled into fists.
Aoi wasn’t there to hear it—but the space she left felt like an open wound.
Drifter didn’t move.
His eyes burned brighter, red light flaring sharp beneath the lowered brow of his mask. His face went utterly still, carved from stone, but his hands clenched so tightly his gloves creaked. Red Void energy began to bleed from him, thin at first, then thicker—smoke-like tendrils rolling off his shoulders and arms, curling along the floor like a low, angry fog.
The air felt heavier.
Lettie took an involuntary step back with Arthur doing the same.
Even Eleanor’s attention sharpened, her head tilting as she felt the shift rather than saw it.
Drifter stopped himself drawing in a breath. Slow. Deliberate.
Not like this, he told himself. Not at their expense.
He thought of Aoi upstairs. Of Amir’s voice drifting softly through the floor. Of all of them standing too close to the edge already.
The fog thinned.
The glow dimmed—just enough.
When Drifter lifted his head again, he was smiling.
It wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t angry, either.
It was cold.
The kind of smile that made the room recoil.
“Fine,” he said quietly.
Every eye snapped to him.
“They think they’re the hands of the Gods?” His gaze stayed locked on the radio, voice steady and lethal. “Then let me show them the fangs of the Devil.”
The radio crackled on.
But no one was listening anymore.
Drifter turned away from the radio and walked toward the Arsenal.
There was no rush in his stride. No tension in his shoulders. His footsteps echoed evenly across the floor—unhurried, deliberate—like someone who had already solved the problem and was now simply retrieving the correct tool.
Quincy watched him go, unease creeping into his voice. “Uh—okay, I don’t love that look,” he said, attempting a half-smirk that didn’t quite stick. “That’s the face people make right before things get… permanent. What’re you doin’, Marty?”
Drifter didn’t slow.
“I’m showing you,” he said calmly, “what happens to heretics.”
The Arsenal responded with a low, resonant hum as it unlocked. Segmented panels slid apart. Lights shifted. Systems awakened with a restrained, mechanical precision that felt almost reverent.
And then Uriel emerged.
The frame was entirely black—armor so dark it seemed to swallow the light around it, edges only barely catching the glow of the room. Beneath and between those plates, solid fields of muted blue formed the body itself, structural rather than luminous, giving the frame the impression of something built from layered substance instead of energy. Red lights burned at key junctions, steady and watchful, not flashing warnings but declarations.
Uriel’s posture was wrong in a way that set nerves on edge.
It stood hunched slightly forward, shoulders rolled inward, arms hanging low as if the weight of its own presence pressed down on it. Its hands were clawed, fingers elongated and spread wide, talons flexing once before going still. The frame twitched—subtle, involuntary—like something restrained by will rather than mechanism, barely holding itself in check.
Its armor bore deliberate additions.
A Dex Raksa chest piece reinforced its torso, angular and severe, mirrored by Dex Raksa leg pieces that locked its stance into something solid and predatory. Kitrima shoulder pads flared outward, sharp-edged and imposing, framing the frame like raised spines and giving its silhouette a brutal, ceremonial authority.
Its weapons completed the picture.
An Epitaph Prime was integrated along its wrist, elegant and lethal, its mechanisms clean and still. Slung into position on the Warframe's back was the Burston Prime—a rifle the Hex had learned to fear. They knew what happened when it crossed its threshold, when its Incarnon form awakened and sustained fire turned discipline into devastation.
And on its knuckles—
Venka Prime.
Segmented claws encasing its hands with a set of three on each one. Each talon honed to surgical lethality, built not for spectacle but for erasure.
Lettie crossed herself without thinking. “Dios mío…” she murmured, then whispered a prayer under her breath.
Arthur stared at the frame, brow knitting tighter. “Marty,” he said carefully. “What is this?”
Drifter turned back to them.
“Truth,” he said.
He gestured toward Uriel. “Everyone claims they want it. Honesty. Reality. Facts.” His voice was calm, measured. “But no one’s ever prepared to carry the cost.”
He took a step, eyes flicking briefly toward the radio station before returning to the group. “The moment truth stops being convenient, they don’t just ignore it,” he said evenly. “They bury it. Archive it. Break it down into fragments small enough to be managed.”
His jaw tightened. “The Orokin were masters of that. They rewrote history until obedience felt natural. Turned atrocities into necessity. Failure into sacrifice.” His eyes hardened. “They stripped truth of its weight, polished it, framed it, made it safe to look at without actually seeing it.”
“And when something refused to be contained—when it stayed sharp, stayed honest,” his voice dropped, colder now, “they demonized them.”
Drifter stopped beside the frame and rested a hand against its black armor.
“That,” he said, looking directly at Arthur, “is what Uriel is. The Heretic of Xata. The heretic of truth.”
Uriel twitched.
Its head shifted a fraction toward Drifter, slow and deliberate, as if acknowledging the name. As if responding.
“The honest shape of destruction,” Drifter continued quietly, “the original Orokin Empire was capable of.” His hand dropped. “Not the myths. Not the lies.”
The room stayed silent.
Uriel stood unmoving.
Waiting.
Eleanor’s attention shifted—not to Uriel, but to Drifter.
Her head tilted slightly, eyes unfocusing as her awareness brushed against the currents beneath his surface. The anger. The restraint. The purpose coiling tight around both. Understanding settled in her expression.
‘You intend to use that,’ her voice touched their minds, precise and calm. ‘On the Scaldra.’
The reaction was immediate.
Quincy took a step back, eyes flicking to the frame again. “Yeah, no—whatever that thing is, it’s lookin’ a little too… awake for my taste.”
Lettie crossed her arms, tension etched deep. “Eso no es una herramienta,” she muttered. “Eso está vivo.”
Arthur didn’t look away from Uriel. His concern wasn’t fear—it was calculation. “Even if it does what you think it will,” he said carefully, “working alongside something like that risks cohesion. It changes how a team moves. How it thinks.”
Drifter turned to face him.
“You’re not going after Viktor,” he said simply. “None of you are.”
The words landed hard.
Arthur stared. Quincy let out a sharp laugh. “Okay—yeah, no, that’s insane.”
Lettie shook her head. “You’re hurt. Not like Aoi—like this,” she said, tapping her temple. “This is how people get killed.”
Quincy added, dry but edged with unease, “You’re talkin’ about soloing Scaldra’s messiah with that thing. That’s not a plan, that’s a cautionary tale.”
Eleanor didn’t join them. She studied Drifter quietly, the way one watches a judge whether an object will break or shatter everything on impact.
‘If you do this,’ she asked gently, ‘will it quiet the storm in your heart?’
Drifter met her gaze, faint smile touched his mouth—tired, honest. “Maybe not,” he said. “But it’ll slow the winds.”
Eleanor held his eyes for a long moment then, reluctantly, she nodded.
Lettie turned on her. “¿Estás loca también?” she demanded. “You’re really going to let him do this?”
Eleanor didn’t look away from Drifter as she answered. ‘Do you honestly think,’ she said quietly, ‘that if we tried to stop either of them—him, or that frame—we could?’
The question hung.
No one answered.
They looked instead.
At Drifter—calm, resolved, already moving past permission and into inevitability.
And at Uriel.
The frame stood perfectly still now, head lowered, claws flexed just enough to betray anticipation. Systems hummed at a barely restrained pitch, weapons locked and ready. It felt like a predator at heel, waiting not for orders—but for a single, irrevocable signal. A kill command that would unchain it completely.
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“…Fine,” he said at last. “Compromise.”
He exhaled sharply. “Quincy and I go with you. We keep distance. Eyes open.” He glanced toward Eleanor. “You monitor his mind—from the mall. If he starts slipping—”
‘I’ll know,’ Eleanor said.
“—and Lettie stays on standby,” Arthur finished. “If anything goes wrong.”
Drifter’s shoulders eased.
This time, his smile was genuine.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
He turned back toward Uriel.
The air warped.
Transference snapped into place.
Uriel lurched forward as if a chain had been cut.
The frame straightened with a low, resonant sound—something between a growl and a purr—armor plates shifting as awareness flooded fully into it. Its claws curled slowly, deliberately. Contentment radiated from it, dark and unmistakable, like a beast finally granted permission to hunt.
Drifter’s voice carried from within the frame now—layered, distorted, edged with something ancient and unholy.
“Now,” he said, tilting Uriel’s head slightly toward the exit, “let’s go hunt some sinners, shall we?””
The Arsenal lights dimmed as Uriel took its first step forward.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Night wrapped the Scaldra encampment in a hard, oil-dark shroud.
Floodlights cast harsh white cones across ranks of armored soldiers gathered around Viktor Vodyanoi, banners snapping in the cold air, sigils of Sol gleaming against polished plating. Fires burned in steel braziers, their glow reflected in visors and eager eyes. The mood was jubilant—triumphant in the way only zealotry could be.
Viktor stood elevated above them, arms spread wide, drinking it in.
“Tonight,” he proclaimed, voice carrying clean and loud across the assembly, “we have been vindicated.”
Cheers thundered back at him.
“Our heavenly arrows struck true,” Viktor continued, pacing slowly along the platform. “The Infested leeches fell. The abominations bled.” His hand clenched into a fist as he spoke, savoring every word. “Even the Metal Banshee—terror of the streets, false idol of the weak—was brought low by human will.”
The soldiers roared his name.
Viktor smiled, teeth bared. “Sol watched,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to draw them in. “Not from afar. Not in silence.” His gaze swept over the crowd, burning with certainty. “Sol judged.”
The fires flared as if in answer.
“He saw our resolve,” Viktor continued. “Our discipline. Our faith.” His smile widened. “And he chose us. He always does.” He raised one arm skyward. “We are the instrument of that judgment. The hand that carries it out when the world strays from the light.”
The cheer that followed was deafening.
It died in an explosion.
Not a clean detonation—this was wrong. Metal screamed as it tore apart, followed by a sound that crawled up the spine: something vast and unholy roaring into the night sky. Fire spiraled upward beyond the outer perimeter, lighting the clouds from below in violent pulses.
Viktor turned sharply. “Terrorists,” he scoffed. “It seems they wish to join their comrades.” He gestured to the soldier beside him. “Look.”
The man raised binoculars, hands steady at first.
Then his breath hitched.
The color drained from his face so fast it was as if the blood had fled outright. His grip faltered, binoculars rattling faintly against each other before he lowered them with a sharp, panicked motion. He staggered back a step, boots scraping against the platform, chest rising too fast. His hands shook openly now, fingers curling as if he needed to grasp something solid to keep from falling.
“S-sir,” he stammered, voice thin and frayed, eyes fixed on nothing at all. “That’s not—” He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “That’s a demon.”
Viktor snatched the binoculars from him, irritation flashing hot and sharp. “Compose yourself.”
He looked.
The spiral of flame was moving—hunting. It darted between Scaldra positions with impossible speed, shredding barricades, reducing armor to slag, setting men ablaze where they stood. It rose high into the air, fire coiling tightly around it—
—and then it fell.
The impact shook the ground.
When the fire cleared, the thing crouched at the center of the crater on all fours, claws sunk deep into broken earth. Black armor drank in the light around it, jagged and predatory in shape, its body formed of layered darkness and solid blue structure beneath. Red lights burned across it like watchful eyes.
One claw pulled free.
Then another.
It rose slowly, unfolding to its full height, and threw its head back as it roared into the night—raw, thunderous, shaking the courage from the air itself.
Behind it, three shapes emerged.
One slithered forward low and serpentine, its body long and sinuous, plated with shifting segments that glistened like wet obsidian, eyes burning with feral intelligence. Another stalked upright, massive and horned, its bulk radiating heat, every step cracking scorched ground beneath it. The third moved like smoke given form—winged, sharp, hovering just above the ground, its presence warping the air around it.
They did not circle.
They waited.
Viktor lowered the binoculars slowly, face twisting into fury. “Put it down,” he snarled. “Put the devil back into the ground where it belongs!”
The frame answered with a low, reverberating purr—pleased. Inviting.
Then a voice carried across the battlefield, calm and wrong, layered with something deeper beneath it.
“Rap. Tap. Tap, Viktor.”
The sound of it raised gooseflesh, intimate and inevitable.
“You can run as far as you want,” the voice continued, measured and cold. “But there is nowhere in this world I won’t find you.”
Within the frame, Drifter felt it clearly now.
Not rage that burned out of control.
Not fury that blinded.
This was predatory hate—focused, honed, sharpened to a single purpose.
And it was finally loose.
The Scaldra opened fire.
Rifles barked in disciplined bursts, tracer rounds stitching the night as heavy weapons locked on. The air screamed with incoming metal—
—and Uriel moved.
He spun, body twisting into a tight, violent arc as a spiral of fire erupted outward from him. Heat detonated across the front ranks, armor glowing white-hot before collapsing inward. Men didn’t have time to scream—some burned where they stood, others ran only to collapse as the fire chased them, clinging, consuming. Shadows flailed across the ground, then vanished entirely.
Rounds passed through where Uriel had been.
He danced between shots, movement fluid and merciless, fury sharpened into precision. Bullets screamed past his shoulders, skipped off black armor, tore through empty space a heartbeat too late.
Then he dropped.
Uriel slammed down onto a Scaldra tank from above.
The impact crushed the turret inward, armor buckling like paper. A fraction of a second later the vehicle detonated beneath him, fireball blooming outward as the chassis ruptured. Uriel rode the explosion, landing in the crater as burning debris rained around him.
He didn’t straighten fully.
He stayed crouched—coiled.
Then his hands snapped down.
Metal screamed as segmented claws slid free from his knuckles, three on each hand, locking into place with a sound like blades being drawn across bone.
Uriel launched himself forward.
A Scaldra Jaeger barely had time to turn before Uriel hit it head-on. The claws punched into its helmet with savage force, driving the unit backward. Uriel didn’t stop. He stabbed again. And again. And again. Each strike precise, brutal, until the helmet split, plating collapsing inward as the Jaeger crumpled to the ground in a broken heap.
Shots rang out behind him.
Uriel twisted his wrist.
A blast of arctic cold exploded outward, washing over the firing squad in a shockwave of frost and invisible radiation. Armor flash-froze, joints locking solid mid-motion. Ice crawled across visors and limbs as the men stiffened in place—then the radiation took hold.
Their bodies turned against them.
Hands twitched. Muscles spasmed. Frozen soldiers convulsed violently as systems misfired, nerves screaming, some collapsing inward despite the ice that held them upright. The night filled with cracking frost and wet, choking gasps trapped behind sealed masks.
Uriel turned away from them.
His focus snapped forward.
Viktor.
Before he could move, something landed directly in front of him.
A Screamer.
The Scaldra unit dropped from above on thruster-assisted limbs, armor angular and reinforced, its frame wrapped in heavy plating designed to amplify and project sound. A distorted helm housed a resonant emitter that thrummed ominously, plates along its chest vibrating as it inhaled power. It planted itself between Uriel and Viktor, feet digging into the ground, weaponized scream building in its core.
Uriel didn’t flinch.
Behind him, the three familiars surged into motion.
The serpentine one struck first.
Its long, obsidian body uncoiled and lashed forward, spectral segments phasing through cover as it wove between Scaldra ranks. Glowing bands snapped outward from it, wrapping around multiple soldiers at once—linking them together in a living chain. When one was struck, the damage tore through all of them. Armor cracked in unison. Bodies slammed to the ground together, dragged screaming as the chain tightened and redirected every impact across the group.
Elsewhere, the massive, horned shape barreled into Scaldra lines like a living siege engine, scattering men and crushing barricades beneath its weight, heat rolling off it in suffocating waves.
Above them, the winged presence swept low and fast, carving through the air, its passage alone enough to send soldiers diving for cover as it harried, struck, and vanished again in blurs of motion.
The Screamer unleashed its weapon.
A cone of sonic force blasted forward, warping the air itself.
Uriel stepped into it.
The scream washed over him, rattling armor and ground alike—but he kept moving, advancing through the distortion, claws flexing as the sound broke uselessly against his frame.
Inside, Drifter felt it clearly now.
The hate wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t wild.
It was focused—predatory, measured, honed to a single point.
Viktor stood in the distance.
And the distance was shrinking.
Uriel lunged, the ground cracked beneath the force of it as he tore forward, Venka claws flashing. Armor split like thin foil under his hands—plates peeled open, bodies snapped backward, blood and fire mixing in violent arcs. Every strike landed with surgical intent. Throats crushed. Chests opened. Soldiers fell in pieces, the black-and-blue blur carving straight through them as if resistance were a suggestion rather than an obstacle.
A Flayer dropped in behind him, thrusters flaring, sickles raised for a killing blow.
Uriel spun on the spot.
The claws drove up through the underside of the Flayer’s mask, punching straight through its head. The unit went limp instantly, momentum carrying it a step farther before it collapsed at Uriel’s feet in a heap of sparking armor.
Wave after wave followed.
They charged. They fired. They screamed.
And they burned.
Hellfire rolled outward in choking blasts as Uriel tore through the ranks, claws flashing like fangs, bodies flung aside or consumed where they stood. Barricades melted. Shields shattered. The ground became slick with slag and ash. Every attempt to close in ended the same way—men swallowed by flame or ripped apart before they could even understand what they were facing.
From a nearby rooftop, Arthur and Quincy watched.
Quincy’s mouth hung open, his usual commentary failing him entirely. “Okay,” he muttered finally, voice tight. “That’s… that’s not a fight. That’s a statement.”
Arthur didn’t answer at first. His jaw was set hard, eyes locked on the carnage below. “Eleanor,” he said quietly. “How’s he holding?”
Her response brushed their minds, calm but weighted. ‘He’s in control,’ she said. ‘But he’s not alone in there. Something else is moving with him. Not taking over—guiding.’
Arthur grunted once, accepting it, and turned his attention back to the battlefield.
Uriel stood where an entire squad had been moments before.
The ground around him was scorched black, concrete fused into glassy sheets, metal twisted into useless shapes. Smoke rolled low and thick, heat shimmering the air. And still—Scaldra soldiers surrounded him, fear warring with indoctrination as they closed ranks again.
A sharp thunk cut through the chaos.
An arrow struck home.
The same weapon. Dense. Ballistic. Injecting Efervon straight into Uriel’s side. The shooter whielding a crossbow like weapon standing upon seeing the successful hit.
Arthur tensed. Quincy swore. They were already moving—
—but Uriel didn’t fall.
He reached up, wrapped his fingers around the shaft, and tore it free in one brutal motion. Red Void energy surged outward from him in a pulsing wave, flooding the wound. Flesh and armor knit together instantly, the damage erased as if it had never existed.
The Hex froze.
Viktor stared.
“That’s—” Viktor breathed, disbelief cracking his voice. “No devil can withstand the light of the gods.”
Uriel lifted his head.
Drifter’s voice rolled out across the battlefield, layered and cold. “Your gods aren’t here,” he said. “And there will be no divine intervention.”
The air ignited.
A wave of fire exploded outward from Uriel, a roaring inferno that tore through everything around him. Concrete liquefied. Metal warped and sagged like wax. The heat was so intense it seemed to burn the air itself, the shockwave hurling soldiers backward like broken dolls.
The celebration ground behind Viktor was swallowed in flame.
Banners burned. Platforms collapsed. Cheers died mid-breath, replaced by screams and the crackle of an all-consuming blaze. What had been a triumphant gathering became a funeral pyre in seconds—rows of Scaldra silhouettes outlined in fire, faith reduced to ash.
Uriel stood at its center.
Unburned.
Unmoved.
And Viktor finally understood—
The hunt had truly begun.
Uriel stalked forward. Not fast. Not rushed. The battlefield parted ahead of him like a wound being peeled open—smoke rolling low, fire guttering around twisted metal and scorched bodies. The carnage didn’t slow him. Didn’t register. His gait was steady, deliberate, each step eating away the distance between him and Viktor Vodyanoi.
Viktor was still far ahead.
But not far enough.
Engines roared as two Scaldra tanks rolled in from the street ahead, treads grinding over rubble as they angled their cannons toward Uriel. Floodlights snapped on, bathing the frame in harsh white glare. Targeting systems whined as locks were established.
Uriel didn’t change pace, calmly lifting the rifle from his back.
The weapon hummed—then screamed.
Plates along its length shifted and unfolded, geometry breaking apart and reassembling in impossible ways as the core flared to life. The air around it distorted, pressure building as if reality itself were bracing.
Uriel braced once.
Then he fired.
The first shot wasn’t a projectile—it was annihilation. A roaring lance of compressed force and incandescent energy tore forward, hitting the lead tank dead center. The armor didn’t explode; it collapsed inward, imploding as if crushed by a god’s fist. The turret caved, the hull folding in on itself before detonating from within, fire bursting out through ruptured seams.
Uriel adjusted the barrel a fraction.
The second tank didn’t even get a warning.
The beam punched straight through its frontal plating, carving a molten tunnel clean through the vehicle. The round exited the far side in a shower of liquefied metal, the tank’s engine screaming once before the entire chassis erupted, flipping end over end as it burned. Both wrecks skidded to a stop in smoking heaps.
Uriel stepped between them without breaking stride.
Viktor stood frozen. Shock had cracked his certainty—but arrogance still clung to him, stubborn and delusional. His mind raced, scrambling for doctrine, for miracle, for some last sliver of divine reprieve. Sol had always answered before.
He would again.
Uriel slowed.
Then stopped.
For one terrible heartbeat, Viktor dared to hope.
The Efervon, he thought wildly. It’s finally taking effect. The poison—Sol’s light—working its will.
The world folded.
Space twisted.
And the Drifter was suddenly there.
He stood directly in front of Viktor, close enough that the heat from the battlefield rolled off him in waves. Mask locked into place, deep blue and gold catching the firelight, its expression unreadable. Void energy clung to him like a shadow that refused to let go.
Viktor staggered back a step, boots scraping against the platform.
Then rage surged up to smother fear.
“You unholy spirit,” Viktor snarled, spittle flying as he pointed at him. “You mock the gods with that stolen flesh. You are an affront to Sol. A blasphemy given form.”
The Drifter didn’t respond.
He just tilted his head.
Slowly.
At an angle that wasn’t quite human.
The gesture unsettled Viktor more than the fire ever could.
“You tried to take away the woman I love,” the Drifter said calmly.
His voice was even. Measured. Worse than shouting.
“You laughed about it,” he continued. “Mocked her for it.” A pause. “Sang about itiled hymns while she bled.”
Viktor opened his mouth—
“You thought,” the Drifter went on, half-amused now, the edge of it razor-sharp, “that if you yelled loud enough, the gods would support you.”
He took a step closer.
Cold anger bled through the distortion in his voice, heavy and undeniable.
“But all you ever took from them,” he said coldly, “was permission to be cruel.”
And Viktor finally understood—
There was no way out of this alive.
Before Viktor could draw breath to answer the Drifter vanished, transference static cracked through the air like shattered glass, reality stuttering for a fraction of a second—
—and Uriel stood where he had been.
The Warframe surged forward with a snarl that shook the platform, the sound torn from deep within its frame, animal and furious. Viktor barely had time to gasp before a black, clawed fist drove upward into his chest.
The impact was catastrophic.
Uriel’s strike punched straight into Viktor’s sternum with a wet, concussive crack, ribs collapsing inward as if struck by a piledriver. Viktor’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the force lifted him off his feet and then the claws came out.
Metal sang.
Segmented talons snapped forward from Uriel’s knuckles and buried themselves deep into Viktor’s gut, punching through armor, flesh, and bone alike. The claws punched out through his back in a spray of dark red, lifting him higher, skewering him fully as Uriel raised his arm.
Viktor convulsed, blood poured freely now, cascading down Uriel’s forearm in thick sheets, spattering across the black armor and steaming where it struck the heat-scorched ground. It rained from Viktor’s boots, pattering wetly against the platform below. His hands clawed weakly at Uriel’s arm, fingers slick and useless, slipping as his strength fled him.
His eyes were wide.
Not with faith.
With realization.
He tried to speak—tried to pray—but only a wet, choking sound escaped his throat as blood bubbled between his lips. His body spasmed once, twice, then sagged heavily against the claws that held him aloft.
Uriel did not move.
Inside the frame, the Drifter watched.
He said nothing.
He waited.
Seconds stretched. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath with him. Fire crackled. Distant screams faded. Viktor’s eyes flickered, the last spark of defiance guttering—
Then the light went out.
Completely.
Uriel lowered his hand, Viktor Vodyanoi slidding off the Venka's claws and hitting the ground with a dull, unceremonious thud—no reverence, no ceremony—like garbage tossed aside. His body lay twisted at Uriel’s feet, blood pooling beneath him, faith finally and utterly silent.
Uriel stared down at him for a moment longer.
No roar.
No triumph.
Just stillness.
A radio crackles in his sense "Marty," Arthur asks, his voice cautious. "you there?"
Drifter paused for a moment, before finally letting go of the anger and breathing. It's over, for now at least.
"Yeah, let's go home."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The mall was quiet when they returned.
Not peaceful—just subdued, like a place holding its breath after surviving something catastrophic. Smoke still clung faintly to the air, the lights dimmed to low power as emergency systems cycled back into place. Scorched debris marked the routes they passed through, silent testimony to where Uriel had walked.
Quincy and Arthur kept their distance.
Not out of fear, exactly—but caution. Respect. The kind you gave a loaded weapon that had just proven exactly how far it could reach.
Uriel moved through the space with heavy, deliberate steps, black armor still darkened with soot and dried blood. The red lights along the frame burned steadily now, no longer flaring, no longer restless. Purpose fulfilled.
They reached the backrooms.
The Arsenal doors hissed open, and Uriel stepped inside. Eleanor was already there, standing off to the side, her attention fixed entirely on the Warframe—and the presence inside it.
She didn’t speak right away.
She listened.
‘How are you doing?’ she finally asked, her voice brushing gently against his thoughts.
Uriel stood still.
Then—slowly—the Warframe relaxed, posture easing just a fraction.
“The winds are gone,” Drifter said at last, his voice still layered, still carrying that faint distortion. “At least for now.”
Eleanor’s shoulders eased.
A small, genuine smile touched her lips. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Transference disengaged with a soft crackle.
The Warframe went still as the Drifter stepped free, boots touching the floor lightly. The moment he did, the difference was immediate—his shoulders looser, his stance less coiled. Like something heavy had finally been set down.
Arthur stared at Uriel, then back at Drifter.
“…Marty,” he said slowly, disbelief plain in his voice, “that was… something else.”
Quincy let out a low whistle. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve seen you do a lot of insane stuff, man, but that?” He shook his head. “That wasn’t a fight. That was… biblical.”
Lettie crossed her arms, eyes still on the Warframe. “That thing,” she said carefully, “it didn’t feel like the others. Not like the frames you usually use.” She glanced at Drifter. “What exactly was it?”
Drifter turned to look at her.
For a moment, the shadows of Uriel’s silhouette loomed behind him.
“The kind,” he said quietly, “the Orokin rewrote history to hide.”
The words landed hard.
The Hex exchanged looks—unease and understanding mixing in equal measure.
Quincy broke the tension with a snort. “Yeah, okay, I can see why.” He grinned crookedly. “Just—next time you suit up like that, give me a heads-up, yeah? I’ll bring hotdogs. Save a fortune on the gas bill.”
Arthur groaned. “Quincy—”
But Drifter laughed.
Not sharp. Not dark.
A real laugh—low and genuine, echoing faintly off the metal walls.
The Hex noticed it then. The way Drifter stood easier. The tight edge gone from his movements. Like a burden he’d carried for too long had finally been put down, even if only temporarily.
“I’ll remember that,” Drifter said, still smiling.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs.
Amir nearly tripped over himself as he burst into the room. “Hey—hey! She’s awake!” he blurted out. “Aoi, I mean. She’s sitting up, talking, way better than before.”
Drifter’s breath caught.
Then his grin widened, relief washing over his face so clearly it didn’t need words.
“Thanks,” he said, already moving.
Void energy flared and he was gone, slinging upward toward the balcony in a blink.
The Hex stood there for a second, listening to the fading hum.
Lettie exhaled slowly. “We should give them privacy.”
Arthur nodded. “Yeah.”
One by one, they filed out.
Outside, the mall felt quieter still.
Eleanor lingered beside Arthur as the others moved ahead.
‘It feels like he’s always walking a line,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Between two selves. A noble rogue—trying to do the right thing, wherever and whenever he can.’ She paused. ‘And a predator. One who will tear down anything that threatens what’s his.’
Arthur considered that.
Then he huffed softly. “Guess we’re lucky Höllvania’s his.”
Eleanor smiled.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. 'we are.'
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The backroom was quieter now, the lights dimmed further, the harsh medical glare softened into something warmer, almost gentle. The hum of machinery had settled into a low, steady rhythm—no alarms, no urgency. Just breathing. Life continuing.
Drifter stepped inside and immediately crossed the room.
“Aoi—” he started, then stopped himself, forcing his voice to slow. “How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Chest tightness? Headache? Do the seams still feel—”
She laughed. A soft, breathy giggle that cut him off mid-spiral.
“I’m okay,” Aoi said, smiling up at him. “Still a little under the weather. Everything feels… heavy.” She rolled one shoulder experimentally. “But definitely better than before.”
Drifter let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It left him in one slow exhale, shoulders finally dropping. "Good,” he murmured. “Good.”
She shifted, pushing herself more upright on the couch, then patted the space beside her. “C’mon,” she said lightly. “You’re pacing.”
He arched a brow at her. “You sure?”
Aoi’s smile turned knowing. “Very.”
He hesitated only a moment before sitting. Almost immediately, she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder and looping both arms around one of his. The contact was warm. Real. Anchoring.
She sighed contentedly. “Yeah,” she said. “This is better.”
Drifter sagged into it, tension bleeding out of him at last. His head tipped slightly toward hers, eyes closing as he finally allowed himself to relax.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then, quietly—carefully—Aoi asked, “Was all of that… for me?”
Drifter stiffened.
Just a fraction. But she felt it.
His jaw tightened, thoughts racing all at once—images of fire, blood, Viktor’s last breath. Fear flared sharp in his chest, not of what he’d done, but of what she might see in him because of it.
“I—” He swallowed. “I didn’t want you to hear it like that. I didn’t want you thinking I—”
She lifted her head and looked at him.
Really looked.
She saw the conflict written across his face, the guilt, the fear of being too much. Her expression softened instantly.
“Hey,” she said gently, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. “I know who you are.”
He met her eyes.
“I love all of you,” Aoi continued. “The part that helps people when no one’s watching. The part that jokes when things are bad. And yeah—” her thumb brushed lightly along his jaw, “—the part that gets scary when someone hurts the people you care about.”
Drifter searched her face. “Even that?”
“Even that,” she said without hesitation. “I just… don’t want you throwing away the best parts of yourself in a moment of hate.”
Something in him eased. Slowly, carefully, he leaned in and kissed her—gentle, unhurried, full of things he didn’t have words for. When he pulled back, he smiled, smaller now, but real.
“I’ll keep the devil around,” he said quietly. “But I’ll only let it loose when I need to.”
Aoi snorted softly. “Wow,” she said. “That was incredibly dramatic.”
He laughed—actually laughed—and she smiled wider for it, settling back against him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Down on the main floor, far below them, Uriel stood motionless in the Arsenal.
The tension in its frame eased.
Claws relaxed. Systems powered down into idle. The predatory stillness faded into something quieter, almost… satisfied.
As if it knew.
Its purpose—for now—was complete.
Wonderful_Crystal Mon 15 Dec 2025 05:51AM UTC
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Rev140 Mon 15 Dec 2025 06:36AM UTC
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