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Chapter Text

The Hex had seen better days. Their base, if it could even be called that, was the ruined husk of the Höllvania Central Mall, a monument to the past before the Void twisted their world. What once held store shelves now cradled scavenged tech, old steel, and flickering makeshift terminals. It wasn’t home, but it was all they had.

Arthur Nightingale, callsign Broadsword, stood near a cracked window overlooking the ruins. His Excalibur-based Protoframe gleamed faintly, his body catching the weak light from outside. Leadership sat heavily on his shoulders, but he carried it as he always did, with discipline, grace, and a deep-seated sense of duty.

Beside him, the Drifter stood in silence, his Nezha Warframe looming in the shadows. His presence was like a weight in the air, quiet and imposing. The Drifter didn’t speak much, but the quiet understanding between him and Arthur had only deepened over time. The faintest nod from the Drifter acknowledged the grim nature of their situation.

Arthur shifted his stance, adjusting the luminous blade strapped to his back. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was a symbol, the last vestige of order in a world that had long abandoned it. The Drifter mirrored the movement, his posture relaxed yet ready, his Warframe a perfect reflection of the quiet chaos within him.

Behind them, Aoi Morohoshi—Chopper—sat on a stack of old crates, idly flipping a wrench in one hand. Her Mag-based armor pulsed slightly as her magnetic gauntlets adjusted the energy lines embedded in her plating.

“We need a better power grid. Half our terminals are barely holding together.” She tilted her head toward Amir Beckett, their resident tech expert. “What do you think, Surge? You’re the one who keeps this junk running.”

Amir was sprawled across the floor, his Volt-based frame crackling with faint arcs of energy. His visor glowed with shifting data readouts as he tinkered with a salvaged terminal.

“Oh yeah, totally, let me just conjure up a fusion core from my ass.” He snorted, his fingers typing at lightning speed. “We’ll have to scavenge deeper into the city if we want to stabilize anything. And I’m not about to run into more Void-twisted nightmares without a plan.”

“Then we should prepare a scouting party,” Arthur said firmly, his voice measured but commanding.

From the other end of the room, Leticia Garcia—Belladonna—let out a quiet breath, running a hand over the smooth, organic plating of her Trinity-based armor.

“If we’re doing this, I want to make sure we don’t come back missing limbs. Or worse.” Her deep red and gold hues gave her a regal air, but the weight in her voice was purely practical. “No heroics. We don’t have the numbers for it.”

Quincy Isaacs, callsign Stepper, leaned against a rusted pillar, his arms crossed over his sniper-rifle-clad frame. His Cyte-09 prototype was an oddity even among them—built for precision, for cold, calculated efficiency. His dark matte green plating absorbed the dim light around him, his sniper giving off a faint green glow.

“Agreed. We should avoid unnecessary fights. A quick in-and-out.” Quincy said, looking over his sniper.

“Where’s Salem?” Arthur asked, glancing around.

Eleanor Nightingale had a habit of vanishing, both physically and in conversation.

A chill ran through the air as Eleanor stepped forward from the shadows, her Nyx-based armor shimmering with an almost spectral quality. Her featureless helmet tilted slightly, the crack-like glowing patterns on its surface shifting as if watching them.

“I was listening,” she said in a voice that bordered on a whisper. “And I have... concerns.”

Arthur sighed, knowing she never spoke without purpose. “Go on.”

Eleanor’s iridescent form flickered, an effect of the Void energy woven into her Protoframe.

“The Void’s influence is growing. I feel it pressing against our minds more than before. Something is changing.”

A heavy silence followed. The Hex had all felt it. It was subtle at first, like static at the edges of their thoughts, but now… it was something more. More intrusive. More familiar.
Arthur’s fingers curled into a fist.

“Then we don’t have time to waste. We move at first light.”

No one argued. They had seen what happened when they hesitated.

As the group dispersed, preparing for the mission, Leticia passed by Quincy, who was silently adjusting his rifle’s optics. She hesitated for a brief moment.
“Hey,” she said, softer than usual. He looked up, wordless but listening. “Be careful out there.”

Quincy gave a small nod, the closest thing to reassurance he could offer. “You too.”

In another corner, Amir nudged Aoi with his elbow.

“Wanna bet who takes down the most hostiles tomorrow?” Amir said, smirking.

Aoi scoffed, flipping her cards again in the air before catching them effortlessly.

“Against you? That’s not even a challenge.” She let out a loud laugh.

Arthur, overhearing, shook his head with an amused exhale. Despite the darkness they lived in, some things never changed.

The Drifter, standing in silence next to him, gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was as if the Drifter’s entire presence spoke for him—silent but watchful.
He just hoped they all made it back this time.

The rain fell into torrents, slicking the dirty cobblestones underfoot as the Drifter tightened his grip on his polearm. The dim glow of streetlights barely cut through the haze, leaving shadows deep enough to swallow the unprepared.

Beside him, The Hex moved with a haunting synchronicity—six Protoframes, their forms a testament to both Orokin ingenuity and the haunting cost of lost humanity. Each bore the unmistakable marks of Albrecht Entrati's experimentation.

"Target's close," the Drifter muttered, his voice barely audible over the patter of rain. He glanced at Arthur, whose head turned slightly in acknowledgment.
"Let's make this quick. No unnecessary risks." The Drifter said as he ran, using the void to give him a boost.

Arthur's voice, though modulated by his Protoframe, carried a weight of authority and lingering anger.

"Understood. Hex, prepare for engagement."

Before they could advance, the alley ahead exploded in a flash of light and shrapnel. The bounty—a Scaldra enforcer bristling with void tch enhancements—emerged from a green smoke, flanked by a swarm of scaldras enforcers armed with rifles.

"Engage!" Arthur commanded, his sword slicing through the air as he charged forward. Arthur, fataly ending enemies with just a strike of his sword.
Aoi was a blur of motion, her gun effortly firing attacks disabling automatons with surgical precision.

Amir moved with graceful speed, reappearing behind enemies to deliver fatal strikes.

Quincy appeared in the skies, sniper rifle in hand, providing suppressive cover for his teammates in the skies.
Leticia moved gracefully among them, her healing aura mending wounds and bolstering their resolve.

Eleanor's spectral form phased through attacks, her counterstrikes distorting reality around her foes.

The battlefield was chaos, a cacophony of roaring machines, shattering debris, and clashing energy. The rain streaked in neon hues as it caught the glow of Nezha’s swirling colors. Nezha moved like fire, each step a flash of brilliance. The Drifter spun his polearm, its radiant edges slicing through automatons in a flurry of arcs, leaving trails of searing heat.

The blazing halo circling Nezha’s shoulders flared with each maneuver, casting radiant reflections off the glistening dirty cobblestones. The Drifter, fully synced with his Warframe, felt the familiar surge of adrenaline mix with an unfamiliar hum—a deep, vibrating pulse of Void energy that seemed to thread through the air.

It wasn’t just the bounty that made this target dangerous—it was the strange, pulsing energy field surrounding him, a resonance that felt disturbingly similar to the Void.
"Something’s wrong," the Drifter growled into his comms. "That field… it’s not normal."

"We noticed," Arthur replied, his voice strained as he struggled against the enforcer’s augmented strength. "This thing’s been tampering with Void tech. Drifter, we need your expertise." The Drifter grimaced, his grip tightening on his polearm.

He hated relying on the Void—it was unpredictable, dangerous. But with The Hex holding the line, he had no choice. Closing his eyes, he reached inward, pulling at the thread of energy that coiled deep within his chest. It answered, reluctantly at first, then all at once, flooding him with power.

The air around him shimmered, bending as he stepped forward, his strikes now infused with the raw, unrelenting force of the Void. The Drifter nodded, spinning his polearm with new found energy then hurling it toward a cluster of scaldras enforcers. It blazed through them in a fiery arc before returning to his grasp. But his focus remained on a certain enforcer, the source of the suffocating Void resonance. The energy emanating from the enforcer wasn’t natural—it was corrupted, unstable, and seeping into the environment like a poison.

The Drifter felt it pressing against him, testing the boundaries of his Warframe’s shielding.

With a growl, he launched forward, Nezha’s agility propelling him through the fray. He collided with the enforcer, the impact sending shockwaves across the battlefield. The corrupted field writhed in response, lashing out with tendrils of Void energy. The Drifter staggered, his senses overwhelmed by the Void’s chaotic whispers. He clenched his fists, drawing on Nezha’s power and igniting the Warframe’s halo. The flames expanded, forming a radiant barrier that pushed back the Void’s influence.

“This ends now,” the Drifter growled, spinning his polearm in a blazing vortex.

The Scaldra enforcer roared, its void energy field surging, but the Drifter pressed on. He leapt high, his Warframe spinning like a comet before crashing down with devastating force.

The impact shattered the enforcer’s defenses, the corrupted energy dispersing in a violent cascade. The battlefield fell silent for a moment, save for the hiss of dissipating steam and the distant hum of the storm.

The Drifter stood amidst the wreckage, Nezha’s vibrant aura flickering as the Warframe surged with fire, liquid heat through his Warframes systems. As the rain began to subside, the Drifter stood amidst the wreckage, his breath heavy, the Void’s hum still echoing in his ears.

"Mission accomplished," Arthur said, his tone a mix of relief and lingering melancholy. The Drifter sheathed his blade, his gaze lingering on the remains of the enforcer.
"Let's hope this brings some peace to Höllvania."

Above them, the storm clouds parted slowly to let the moon shine through, just enough to reveal the faint glow of the stars—an ironic reminder of the worlds they fought to protect and the power they had to harness to do it.

Return to the Central Mall

The rain had eased to a light drizzle as the team made their way back through the dimly lit streets of Höllvania. Signs flickered overhead, their glow reflected in the puddles dotting the cracked cobblestones. The towering silhouette of the Central Mall rose before them, its once-grand facade now a blend of ancient architecture and modern retrofitting. The mall served as their headquarters, its sprawling interior repurposed into a blend of tactical hub, living quarters, and a food market.

The Drifter stepped through the underground doors, Nezha’s presence fading as he transferred from the Warframe. His heavy boots clicked on the cracked marble tiles, the echoes swallowed by the low hum of the space.

Arthur led the group to the central hub, a sprawling command center tucked into what used to be a department store. Monitors lined the walls, displaying maps of Höllvania and data from their latest mission.

Quincy headed straight for a console, his heavy frame causing the floor to groan slightly. “Let’s see what we’ve earned,” he muttered, tapping commands until the bounty details appeared on the largest screen.

“Void resonance confirmed,” Arthur noted, his voice grave. “And a hefty payout, at least.”

Eleanor leaned against a nearby column, her spectral form flickering faintly. “The Void’s touch is spreading. This isn’t just another mission—it’s a warning.”

The Drifter set his glaive down beside him, his expression unreadable as he studied the data.

“We’ll deal with it,” he said quietly. “But first, we need to recharge.”

Aoi grinned, her voice sparking with amusement. “Finally, some downtime. I could use something hot and drenched in oil.”

Quincy, ever the gourmand, had a soggy pizza in his hand, the grease dribbling.

Leticia smiled faintly as she took a bit out of the hot pizza in her hand. Her healing aura was dim, but it still radiated a subtle warmth that seemed to make the market’s dullness shine brighter.

“We deserve this. Just for tonight, let’s not think about the Void.” She said as she watched her mic with joy.

Eleanor sat a little apart from the group, her spectral form shimmering faintly. A plate of warm pizza rested untouched before her, but she seemed content to observe the others, her eyes distant.

Amir, as always, was talking about so many things at once it all seemed jumbled together, only stopping to eat his pizza then going back to the chase.

The Drifter joined them, a plate of squared pizza. He slid into a seat beside Arthur, who was meticulously eating a slice of pizza. For a while, there was only the sound of eating and the low murmur of conversation.

It was Aoi who broke the quiet, her voice sparking with amusement.

“Did you see the way that enforcer crumpled? Almost felt sorry for it.” She said as her globs of metal formed into cards and fell over.

“Almost,” Arthur replied, his tone dry. “But it was Void-corrupted. No mercy for those things.”

The Drifter looked away, his expression thoughtful. “That Void energy… it’s getting worse. It’s not just the enforcers. It’s everywhere. Even the air feels heavier.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “We’ll handle it. We always do.”

The team lingered a while longer, sharing stories, teasing one another, and stealing moments of levity from their harsh reality.
Eventually, one by one, they retreated to their quarters scattered throughout the mall.

The Drifter remained in the market, staring up at the glass dome and the sky beyond. Then he went to the backroom.

Chapter Text

The Operator sat cross-legged on the cold, polished floor, framed by the window that opened to the vastness of space. Saturn loomed beyond, its swirling rings casting muted, ghostly reflections against the dim of the Orbiter. Void energy coiled and twisted around him, weaving intricate patterns that flickered and pulsed with his emotions, as if trying to speak in a language he couldn't yet understand.

The threads of light were restless, like stormy waves crashing against an unseen shore.

They surged and ebbed with each fragmented thought, grief, guilt, and an aching determination to fill a void that no longer felt metaphorical.

His breaths came shallow, every inhale weighted with the things he could not say.

Silence reigned on the orbiter. the usual hum of its machinery felt muted, distant.

The Void's whispers, chaotic and relentless since he first touched its power, were faint but insistent now. Like old scars aching before a storm. The departure of The Drifter had dulled those whispers but left behind a quiet too heavy to bear.

A soft lavender glow pierced the dimness as The Lotus materialized. Her arrival had brought with it, a familiar warmth, tinged with motherly love and unspoken sadness. Her silhouette, framed in the ethereal glow, moved silently to stand behind him.

"You're thinking about The Drifter, aren't you?" Her voice was soft, gentle, the voice of a caretaker who knew the weight of the question she had posed.

The Operator energy faltered, the delicate patterns unraveling into faint wisps that faded into the air. He turned his head slightly but couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. His young face, already aged by grief, and showed every line carved by battles far beyond his years.

"Every day," he admitted, his voice a tremor. "Every moment, I can't stop." His words stumbled, as if braving a storm of emotion that threaded to consume him.

"He...he might need me. What if I made a mistake? What if leaving was wrong?" He said as he blinked back the Void wisps that threatened to spill out of his eyes like tears.

The Lotus stepped closer, her hand hovering over hi shoulder before finally resting there, hesitant, as though afraid the gesture might shatter him.

"My child," She began, her voice a thread of tenderness. "The Drifter made their choice, as you made yours. They understood the risks, as did you. This path you've chosen is no less vital."

His shoulders tensed beneath her touch as he debated shrugging her off but couldn't bring himself to do it.

"And yet," he whispered. "I can't feel whole without him."

The Lotus moved to kneel before him, her lavender glow dimming as she searched his eyes for the boy she once knew.

"You have given so much, sacrificed more than anyone should ever asked to be. but this feeling inside you...Its the void, twisting your grief and love into doubt."
"It's not just the Void," he retorted, his voice sharer now, cutting through her calm.

"It's me, I was supposed to be his anchor, but now...now I'm nothing but this broken piece of something larger I don't understand." His hands clenched into fists, Void energy seeping between his fingers like tears.

The Lotus didn't flinch. Her hand reached for his, easing it open, letting the energy flow freely.

"You are not broken," She said softly. " You are a part of something extraordinary, yes, but you're still you. And you're needed here."

The room fell silent, the only sound that can be heard is the faint hum of the orbiter. The weight of her words pressed against him, but so did the aching pill of the Void. Before he could reply, Ordis' hologram flickered to life. His jittery voice filled the room like a splinter of glass.

"Operator! I must strongly advise against-against whatever you're planning! The timeline, the Void, the-" Ordis glitched, his voice breaking, -"chaos is already teetering! A single misstep could unravel-could be catastrophic!"

The operator rose to his feet slowly, the motion deliberate. He faced the window once more, his reflection staring back at him like a ghost, haunting yet familiar.

"You;re telling me to stay," he said quietly. "To focus on battles here, on the Origin System. But what if I can't? What if the Void isn't just calling me? What if its warning me?"

Ordis' hologram flickered again, frantic. "The Void is-is unpredictable! Dangerous! It has never-never been wise to trust its callings!"

The Operator turned away from the window, his eyes blazing with raw determination despite the weariness that weighed him down.

"I've spent my life navigating the chaos of the Void. If its leading me to him now, I have to listen" He said as he looked at the silent Excalibur umbra in the corner.

The Lotus got up, stepped forward, her presence steady and grounding.

"You risk more than yourself," She said, her voice firm but laced with a tremor. "The Origin System...everything we've built together...all of it hangs in the balance. Please, promise me you'll reconsider."

His lips trembled,, but his resolve did not falter.

"I'm sorry, Lotus. If I don't go, I'll never forgive myself. I always wondered if he needed me and I did nothing." He said as his hands squeezed his fingers, cold to the touch.

She reached for him, her hand hovering inches from his cheek before withdrawing. Her glow dimmed further, her form almost flickering with the weight of her sorrow."Then go," she whispered. "But come back. Promise me that you'll come back."

Ordis jittered nervously, his form glitching again."Operator, please! You cannot-you must not-"

The Operator, turned toward Excalibur umbra, the Warframe standing silent and steady in the corner. Staring at the Operator, its polished armor, reflecting the teal light of the Void. He transferred into the frame, the connection sparking to life as the frame's energy surged to meet his own.

He summoned a portal, its edges shimmering with teal light that pulsed like a heartbeat. The energy pouring from it was overwhelming, waves of raw void power surging into the room like a rising tide, but nothing he felt before.

Then, he heard it. The faint hum of the Drifters voice. His breath hitched as the Voids whispers grew louder, cutting off the Drifters voice, overwhelming it. Almost deafening now, a cacophony of voices tangled in chaos yet oddly harmonious. The portal flared, its brilliance illuminating every shadow, every corner, and casting the Orbiter in an otherworldly glow.

The Void seemed to scream, its voice a temprest that tore through his mind. They, admits the chaos, he stood unyielding. The overwhelming brightness. the fierce winds swirling form the portal, they bent to his will. The teal making his aura gleam brighter, co-existing. The teal light danced across his frame, reflecting his inner strength and defiance.
Before stepping through, he glanced back one last time.

The Lotus stood rooted in place, her glow faint but unyielding. Ordis' hologram flickered silently, his protest cut short.

"I'll be back," The Operator said, his voice steady now. "I promise."

Without another word, he stepped through the portal. The gateway closed behind him with a final, resonant hum, leaving the Orbiter bathed in silence.
The Lotus remained where she stood, her gaze fixed on the empty space where he had been, her light a faint beacon in the dark.

The Void was neither friend nor foe, it was a relentless presence that clung to The Operator’s very being. When he stepped through the shimmering portal, a surge of teal light cascaded around him, its brilliance both magnificent and overwhelming.

The air itself seemed to thum with energy, dense with ancient whispers that clawed at his mind. It was the Void’s voice...chaotic, eternal, and suffused with power that was as destructive as it was alluring.

The Operator’s breath hitched as his senses adjusted. He felt the pull of the energy around him, oppressive yet strangely intimate, like a heartbeat reverberating through his frame.

Excalibur Umbra’s armor bore the brunt of the chaos, its surface shimmering under the relentless onslaught of Void light. But even as the Warframe shielded him, faint ripples of swirling, liquid metal danced along the edges of its plating, a testament to the Void’s corruptive presence.

He clenched his fists, focusing on the connection between his mind and the Warframe, grounding himself against the overwhelming tide.

The moment he stepped fully through, the portal collapsed behind him with a soft yet resounding thrum. The stillness that followed was almost jarring.

He found himself suspended in a timeless liminal space, an endless expanse of soft teal light stretching infinitely in every direction. The Void. It was not a place but a state of being, a dimension beyond comprehension. Here, reality and memory blurred together, a landscape shaped as much by thought as by existence.

He took a step forward, the soundless motion rippling through the fabric of the Void. Memories began to surface unbidden, each one carried on the tide of whispers that ebbed and flowed like waves crashing on a distant shore. The faint swirl of liquid metal at the corners of his vision reminded him that these were not just memories but manifestations, reflections of what the Void’s power could bring to life.

The first memory hit him like a physical blow. He stood in a familiar corridor—cold metal walls lined with Orokin designs. The scent of sterile air filled his lungs as he watched himself, younger, untouched by the weight of years and battles. He was with The Drifter, their laughter echoing in the otherwise somber hall.

“Do you think we’ll ever find peace?” The Drifter had asked, leaning against the gilded frame of a door. Their expression was guarded, but their tone betrayed a faint glimmer of hope.

“Peace?” he had echoed, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Not in this life, but maybe in the next.”

The memory fractured, giving way to another. He saw The Drifter again, this time in the midst of battle. Their frame was battered, their movements desperate. The Operator’s younger self shouted something, a warning, a plea, but the words were lost as the scene dissolved into the shimmering expanse.

“Why show me this?” The Operator’s voice broke the silence of the Void. His question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, but the whispers seemed to respond, their cadence shifting into a mournful symphony.

The Void never answered in words, only in feelings and fragments. The swirling metal around him intensified, gleaming like molten silver, and he felt the weight of memories become almost tangible, pressing against his armor.

The next vision was sharper, cutting through the haze with cruel precision. It was the day The Drifter made their choice to leave the Origin System. The memory unfolded with agonizing clarity.

The Drifter’s back was to him, their posture rigid as they stared at the portal leading to 1999. The Operator’s hand had hovered inches from their shoulder, trembling with hesitation.

“You don’t have to do this,” he had said, his voice thick with emotion. “We can find another way.”

The Drifter’s response had been resolute, yet tinged with sadness. “This is the only way. You know that.”

And then he was gone. The memory faded, leaving behind an ache that had never truly healed. The Void’s whispers grew louder, almost accusatory, as if amplifying his guilt. He glanced down at his hands, momentarily startled to see faint streaks of liquid metal coiling around his fingers before dissipating into the air.

The Operator’s steps quickened. He needed to find an anchor, something to ground him amidst the relentless tide of memories and emotions. He focused on the feel of the Warframe, the strength of Umbra’s form shielding him from the Void’s overwhelming presence.

As he moved forward, the teal light began to shift. Shadows emerged, swirling and coalescing into faint images. He saw flashes of 1999—a world unfamiliar yet eerily vivid. Streets bathed in dim, flickering light. Buildings crumbling under the weight of time. And then, amidst it all, The Drifter’s silhouette. He was running, his expression obscured but their urgency palpable.

“Drifter,” he whispered, the word laced with longing and determination.

The Void responded with a sudden surge of energy. The air thickened, the whispers rising to a deafening crescendo. The Operator staggered, his connection to Umbra momentarily faltering. He dropped to one knee, gripping the ground as the light around him intensified. The swirling metal at the edges of his vision grew more pronounced, threatening to consume his surroundings.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the chaos subsided. The teal light softened, the whispers fading into a gentle hum. The Operator rose slowly, his resolve stronger than ever. He took one final step forward, and the Void shifted again. The ground beneath him solidified, and the oppressive light gave way to the cool, muted darkness of night.

Chapter Text

The portal flared to life in the middle of a forgotten alley, its edges rippling with teal luminescence. A surge of energy hummed through the air, resonating with a frequency that seemed to bend the world around it. From the swirling depths of the Void, a figure emerged, stepping with a deliberate grace that belied the storm of power trailing behind him.

It was Excalibur Umbra who emerged first, his armored form wreathed in an aura of Void energy. The Warframe’s movements were smooth, almost sentient, its golden trims catching and refracting the dim light of the alley. Its polished plating seemed to radiate an ethereal perfection, casting faint, unsettling reflections against the crumbling walls.

Every step carried an unspoken tension, as if the world around it braced for something monumental. The aura surrounding Umbra was both a beacon and a warning. Heavenly, yet tinged with a profound eeriness, it imposed an unnatural order on its surroundings. The alley’s grimy walls seemed momentarily cleansed under the soft teal light, and the flickering neon signs above dimmed, unable to compete with the Warframe’s presence. Shadows twisted and recoiled, reforming into bizarre shapes that seemed to whisper of forgotten things.

The air grew thick, heavy with an oppressive stillness that devoured sound. Umbra halted, its helm tilting slightly as if listening to the Void’s silent song. Then, the Operator stepped out of transference, his form materializing beside the Warframe in a seamless transition. Clad in Void-forged armor that echoed the design of Umbra, he stood with a quiet confidence.

His hair glowed faintly, catching the ethereal breeze that seemed to follow him wherever he went. His presence amplified the unsettling perfection that had already transformed the alley. The debris scattered along the ground seemed to arrange itself subtly, aligning as though obeying some unseen command. The dim light around him brightened momentarily, illuminating the space with a teal glow that felt both holy and profoundly alien.

The Operator’s gaze swept across his surroundings, keen and deliberate. The alley was narrow and littered with remnants of the past—discarded cans, faded posters clinging to brick walls, and the skeletal remains of what might have once been a streetlamp. Beyond the alley’s mouth, the faint hum of a restless city echoed, punctuated by the occasional hiss of steam or the rumble of distant machinery. Yet even that distant noise seemed muted, as though the world were holding its breath in his presence. Beside him, Umbra stood motionless, a sentinel waiting for its master’s command.

The Operator reached out, his gloved fingers brushing against the surface of the wall of a nearby building. A shiver ran through him as the sensation of old, dormant technology flickered to life beneath his touch.

“An old Scaldra base,” he murmured, his voice soft yet resonant. The name came unbidden, pulled from fragments of forgotten history. He stepped back, his gaze narrowing as he studied the structure more closely. The Operator’s presence seemed to awaken the world around him.

A faint breeze picked up, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked concrete and something faintly metallic. The portal behind him flickered, its edges collapsing inward until it vanished, leaving the alley cloaked in silence once more. The air, now free of the portal’s hum, seemed heavier, the stillness deepening as though the world struggled to reclaim its equilibrium.

For a moment, the Operator simply stood there, bathed in the pale glow of his own aura, a lone figure against the vast expanse of Höllvania. Though the city-state’s chaos loomed just beyond the alley, he felt the weight of the Void pressing heavily on his shoulders. The air suddenly grew thick, heavy with an oppressive stillness that devoured sound. Umbra halted, its helm tilting slightly as if listening to the Void’s silent song. After a long moment of observation, The Operator stepped into transference, seamlessly merging with the Warframe once more.

His presence, amplified by Umbra, became an undeniable force—something both celestial and unnerving. The Operator guided Umbra out of the alley and onto a cracked, dirty street. The breeze followed him, carrying an unnatural stillness that seemed to reshape the world in his wake. The broken asphalt beneath his feet smoothed ever so slightly, the faint glow of his aura pushing away filth and debris. It was as if the environment responded to his presence, compelled by an unseen command to make itself presentable. Buildings on either side of the street, their facades marred by years of decay, seemed momentarily renewed under the Operator’s gaze.

The infection—an ominous blackened growth spreading like veins across the ground and walls—writhed as he passed, recoiling in a way that suggested both fear and reverence. The transformation was subtle but undeniable; the world bent to his will, creating an eerie, path-like clarity through the chaos. He paused, scanning the desolate street. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional creak of a weathered sign swinging in the breeze. The Void energy clinging to him heightened his senses, and he could feel the faint remnants of life lingering in the shadows. Somewhere in this fractured city-state, the Drifter was waiting. The Operator pressed forward, the weight of the Void heavy on his shoulders.

Each step carried a sense of purpose, though his path remained uncertain. The infection loomed closer as he ventured deeper, its tendrils darkening the edges of the street. Yet it never touched him, as though some unspoken rule forbade it from crossing his path. He came to a stop in the shadow of an abandoned building, its windows shattered and walls riddled with cracks.

The air here was thicker, and the scent of corruption clung to the atmosphere like a miasma. The Operator dismounted from transference, leaving Umbra standing as an imposing guardian behind him. The Warframe’s teal light dimmed slightly, allowing the Operator’s own aura to take center stage. He reached out, brushing his fingers against the corrupted wall. The texture beneath his touch was cold and brittle, yet it seemed to ripple as if alive. A faint energy pulsed through it, ancient and malicious, whispering of forgotten struggles. He drew his hand back, his expression hardening as he considered his next move.

The Operator’s presence continued to ripple through the stillness, each moment filled with an unsettling perfection that reshaped everything around him. Somewhere in this city of ruin and infection, answers awaited.

The night cloaked Höllvania in an oppressive stillness, the dim glow of cracked streetlights barely piercing the haze of decay. The Operator, clad in Excalibur Umbra, moved through the shadows with a fluidity that defied human comprehension.

His presence transformed the broken city around him, the Void’s chaotic energy seeping into every crack and corner. Umbra’s frame shimmered faintly, its polished armor gleaming even under the faintest light. The Warframe seemed alive, a hunter prowling through its territory. The infection that marred the city—pulsing black tendrils of decay—shuddered in his wake, retreating as if afraid of the storm that followed him. He ran into the Scaldra base tucked behind a collapsing factory, its perimeter patrolled by enforcers armed to the teeth.

The faint hum of machinery buzzed in the air, mingling with guttural voices barking orders. The Operator transference from Excalibur umbra and observed from a rooftop, his teal-glowing aura faintly illuminating the grime-covered ledge beneath him. Without hesitation, he transferred into Umbra fully, the connection igniting a surge of power that electrified the air around him.

He leapt from the rooftop, landing silently in the shadows below. His movements were graceful, calculated—a predator stalking prey. The first enforcer had no time to react before a gleaming blade emerged from the darkness, cutting through flesh and bone like paper. The alarm was raised, but it didn’t matter. Umbra surged forward, a blur of motion and death.

Bullets whizzed past, their trajectories warped by the Void’s influence. He moved like a storm, his blade a flash of destruction that carved through the chaos. One enforcer raised a heavy rifle, but the Operator’s Void Dash sent Umbra streaking across the battlefield in an instant. A sweeping strike cleaved the rifle in two, the enforcer’s scream cut short as Umbra’s blade found its mark.

The base descended into chaos. Machinery sparked and sputtered, overwhelmed by the Operator’s disruptive energy. The infection spread wildly, as though sensing the destruction and panicking in its wake. Umbra’s glowing eyes cut through the haze, unrelenting and merciless. Three enforcers charged, attempting to flank him. The Operator reacted without hesitation, summoning a surge of Void energy. A wave of teal light rippled outward, stunning the attackers. In the blink of an eye, Umbra dashed between them, his blade dancing with deadly precision. Blood spattered the ground as the enforcers fell, their weapons clattering uselessly. A Scaldra heavy unit emerged from the shadows, its towering form encased in crude but formidable armor.

It roared a challenge, raising a massive hammer. The Operator’s lips curled into a faint smile—a rare expression of confidence. Umbra face moved to make a smile from its metal face, the smile was so eerily.  Then Excalibur Umbra moved to meet the foe, dodging a powerful swing with inhuman agility. The Warframe’s blade sliced through the joints of the armor, sparks flying as metal gave way.

The heavy unit’s hammer crashed into the ground, the shockwave shaking the battlefield. Umbra leapt onto its back, driving his blade into a vulnerable seam. The giant shuddered, its roar turning into a guttural choke as it collapsed. The Operator stepped off its lifeless body, his aura growing darker, more oppressive. The chaos surrounding him seemed to amplify, every object and sound warped by his presence. The last of the enforcers fled, their courage shattered. The base lay in ruins, its defenses obliterated, and its occupants reduced to whispers on the wind.

The Operator transfered from the warframe. He stood in the center of the carnage, his form illuminated by the faint glow of Void energy. Umbra’s helm turned slowly, the smile that was just plastered on its metal face disappearing, then the warframe slowly twirled, surveying the destruction with an almost sentient satisfaction. As The operator walked around then transferring back into Excalibur umbra. The path behind him descended further into disarray. Machinery short-circuited, walls cracked, and the infection writhed uncontrollably. His aura—deadly, chaotic, and commanding—left an indelible mark on the, now destroyed base.

DRIFTER

The air in Höllvania was thick with the scent of damp concrete and rust. The night had passed uneventfully for most of the Hex, who were already awake and preparing for the day’s tasks in the ruins of the Central Mall. The dim, flickering glow of makeshift lighting illuminated the once-bustling structure, now their stronghold.

But the Drifter was restless. A faint hum in the back of his mind had stirred him awake long before the others. It wasn’t a sound, not exactly. It was a feeling, like a distant echo resonating through his veins. It gnawed at him, pulling him to his feet before he could make sense of it.

He slipped away from the communal area, his steps deliberately light as he moved through the maze of rubble and faded storefronts. The others didn’t notice his absence; they were too focused on checking their gear and reviewing data from their last bounty. For now, it was better that way.

The Drifter’s instincts guided him through the city.

His Warframe, Nezha, remained in standby, stored safely in the backroom. This was a task for his own senses, free of the amplification and constraints of transference. Dressed in his usual garb, he blended into the decaying streets of Höllvania, his movements swift and deliberate.

The hum grew stronger as he moved deeper into the city. It was faint but undeniable, an almost magnetic pull that seemed to defy logic. His path took him through narrow alleyways and under crumbling overpasses, the city’s decay seeming to press closer with every step. Yet, he pressed on, curiosity outweighing caution.

Eventually, he found himself standing in front of an old electronics store. The sign above the shattered glass door read "Electro Haven," its neon letters flickering weakly. The feeling was strongest here, a tangible presence that seemed to beckon him inside. He hesitated, his hand brushing the hilt of his blade. The Drifter was no stranger to danger, but this—whatever it was—felt different.

He stepped inside, the sound of crunching glass underfoot breaking the oppressive silence. The store was a ruin, shelves overturned and merchandise long since looted. Dust hung in the air, illuminated by faint streams of light filtering through holes in the ceiling. And yet, the hum was overwhelming now, almost a song that only he could hear.

In the center of the store, surrounded by scattered debris, was a small device. It was old, its casing dented and its screen cracked, but it pulsed faintly with teal light—the same color as the Void.

The Drifter knelt, his fingers brushing against it, the cold steel, gold swirling around it in perfect designs. The touch sent a jolt through him, a rush of images and sensations that left him breathless.

He saw a figure cloaked in radiant light, their form both human and otherworldly. The figure was shrouded in an eerie perfection, their presence both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling. As the vision sharpened, he recognized elements of the Operator: the same otherworldly grace, the same glowing aura that seemed to bend reality around it. But this wasn’t the Operator he knew. This figure carried an oppressive sense of divinity, like a god descending to mortal realms. It was beautiful, but it was wrong—like a painting so perfect it felt lifeless.

The connection grew stronger, dragging the Drifter deeper into the vision. He saw flashes of destruction, a swirling maelstrom of Void energy tearing apart the world around it. The Operator’s figure stood at the center, their expression calm and detached, as though the chaos was beneath their notice. The Drifter’s heart raced as he felt a cold dread seep into him, his own reflection distorted and fractured in the presence of such overwhelming power.

The device’s glow intensified, and the hum grew louder, vibrating through the Drifter’s bones. It wasn’t just a signal or a message; it was alive, a fragment of the Void itself imbued into the object. His hands trembled as he picked it up, the cold metal biting into his skin. For a brief moment, he felt the Void reaching out to him, whispering secrets he couldn’t comprehend.

A low, resonant sound echoed through the store, snapping him back to reality. It wasn’t the hum this time. It was something else—a presence. The air grew colder, and the shadows deepened. The Drifter’s breath hitched as he felt an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. He wasn’t alone.

He turned, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade tightly, but the store was empty. The shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally, their edges curling like tendrils reaching for him. He scanned the room, his senses heightened, but there was nothing… yet the feeling remained.

“What are you?” he murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible.

The device in his hand pulsed again, almost as if in response. The glow dimmed slightly, but the oppressive weight of the Void lingered. Whatever this was, it was tied to the Operator—and to something far older, far darker.

The Drifter slipped the device into his satchel, his mind racing. He knew he couldn’t ignore this, but neither could he bring it to the Hex. Not yet. They had enough to deal with without chasing shadows and whispers. This was his burden to bear, at least for now.

As he made his way back to the Central Mall, the Drifter couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. The city’s shadows seemed deeper, its silence heavier. The hum in his mind had faded to a faint whisper, but its presence remained, like a ghost haunting his every step. He quickened his pace, the device in his satchel a heavy reminder of what he had uncovered.

Back at the Mall, the others greeted him with nods and brief words, too focused on their tasks to notice his unease. The Drifter joined them, his usual calm demeanor masking the storm within. For now, he would keep this secret. 

Chapter Text

The air in Höllvania was thick with the scent of damp concrete and rust. Morning light filtered weakly through the cracked skylights of the Central Mall, casting long shadows over the ruins.

While the others busied themselves with their routines—fixing equipment, sorting supplies, or sharpening blades. The Drifter found himself drawn, as if by an unseen thread, to the backroom.

The pull was insistent, relentless. It wasn’t a sound, not in the conventional sense. It was deeper, resonating through his very marrow like a hum threading through his veins.

He had felt it in his dreams, phantom vibrations that clung to him like cobwebs even after he woke, leaving his skin prickling with unease.

The backroom was dimly lit, a forgotten corner of the Mall cluttered with rusted tools and the skeletons of ancient machinery. Dust hung heavy in the air, swirling lazily in the faint glow of an unnatural light.

At the center of it all sat the device.

It wasn’t large, barely the size of a dinner plate but its presence was suffocating. Golden veins threaded through the steel surface, swirling in hypnotic, ever-shifting patterns.
It pulsed faintly with an otherworldly glow, a heartbeat that seemed both alive and alien.

The Drifter froze in the doorway, his jaw clenching as the pull intensified, nearly deafening in its silence. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat echoing the device’s rhythm.

"Why won’t you let me be?" he muttered, his voice low and taut with frustration.

Despite himself, his feet carried him closer. He knelt before it, his fingers hovering just above the surface. The air around it was cold, biting against his skin, but it felt alive, like the exhale of some great unseen force.

The moment his fingers brushed the smooth metal, the world shifted.

A storm of images tore through his mind, vivid and visceral, each one more horrifying than the last.

He saw a figure, radiant yet wrong.

SOMETHING IS WRONG

Their presence exuded divine perfection, but it was hollow, a construct masquerading as something whole.

SOMETHING IS WRONG

The resemblance to the Operator struck him like a blow to the chest.

WHO IS THAT?

"No..." he whispered, his voice cracking.

The figure’s serene expression twisted, their movements mechanical, calculated. The world around them dissolved into chaos, cities crumbled, oceans boiled, the sky split into jagged scars of Void energy.

"No, no, no, no, no—" His voice rose in pitch, his throat tightening as panic clawed at the edges of his mind.

The clothes on his body itched unbearably, suffocating him. He wanted to peel them off, tear them away, free himself from their oppressive weight.

The Operator was there, his face fractured into countless shards, each reflecting a different version of themselves-black, grief, rage, joy, apathy, sad, happiness. None of them were whole.

None of them were... the Operator he knew.

The whispers came next. Disjointed words, half-formed meanings, a cacophony clawing at his thoughts. Ancient jumbled words he couldn't make out

He saw his own reflection in the Void, his face distorted, consumed by the same swirling energy that surrounded the Operator.

His chest tightened, the air growing thin. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven. He staggered back, his vision blurring at the edges.

“Breathe,” he muttered, his voice trembling. “Just... breathe.”

The room seemed to close in around him. The walls loomed closer, their shadows writhing like living things. The dim light from the ceiling flickered, casting jagged shapes that danced mockingly at the edges of his vision.

His heart raced, a deafening drumbeat in his ears, drowning out the faint hum of the device.

“Not now,” he hissed, gripping the edge of a table. His fingers dug into the rough surface, the bite of splinters grounding him just enough to keep the panic at bay.

His breath came in shallow gasps, each one catching painfully in his throat. The vice around his chest tightened, a cold sweat breaking out along his brow. His legs felt weak, unsteady beneath him, but he refused to collapse.

His gaze locked on the device, its faint glow an anchor in the sea of chaos.

Gradually, the suffocating pressure began to ease, though the whispers remained, distant but relentless. His pulse slowed, though it didn’t settle, each beat sending tremors through his body.

He unclenched his grip, his fingers aching from how tightly he’d held the table.

“What the hell is this?” he growled, his voice raw with desperation.

The device sat there, its glow flickering weakly, almost as if mocking him. A fresh wave of anger surged through him, hot and consuming. His hand lashed out, striking the edge of the table with a dull thud. The pain was grounding, but it did little to quench the fire burning in his chest.

The whispers grew softer, fading into the walls. Or had they come from the walls all along?

He couldn’t tell anymore.

Shaking, he nudged the device away with the toe of his boot. Its glow dimmed, retreating into itself like an animal sensing rejection.

He turned and trudged toward the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The stairs stretched impossibly long before him, his vision swimming.

One step.

Another.

Another.

The climb seemed endless.

By the time he reached the top, his limbs felt like lead, his breath shallow and strained.

The orange light spilling into the room was almost blinding, a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness of the backroom.

He made his way to the couch, collapsing onto its worn cushions. The fabric enveloped him, its softness a faint reprieve. He let his head fall back, his eyes fluttering shut as the room spun around him.

For a moment, he felt the pull again, faint but persistent, a whisper at the edge of his consciousness.

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.

“Just let me rest,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

The whispers, faint and mocking, offered no reply.

The air around the operator was cold, with a tinge of iron.

A deep fog shrouded his mind, making it impossible to see things clearly but he can stand it. Somewhere, deep within the fractured city, The Operator moved like a shadow among the ruins, his Warframe's form clocked in void energy. Making him appear indivisible.

Every step felt purposeful but strained, as if the ground beneath him threatened to give way into an abyss he couldn't see.

He hadn't slept in days, even though the concept of rest had always eluded him, since he had stepped out of the portal, he had been busy looking for The Drifter. A faint pulse in the Void, an errant echo brushing the edges of his mind, had been enough to draw him to this forsaken place. He hadn’t seen the Drifter, but he felt him. Or perhaps it was only the longing to feel him, to reach across the insurmountable gulf between him and reclaim something he feared had been lost.

The pull of the Void was erratic here, Fractured like broken glass. It whispered in disjointed fragments, half-formed words and fleeting sensations. Each time the Operator tried to focus, the voices scattered, elusive as smoke, luring him deeper into the labyrinth of decaying buildings and twisted streets. Höllvania’s ruins bore the scars of past horrors.

The walls were scorched by fire, windows shattered by desperation. But it wasn’t the ghosts of the city’s past that brought the Operator here.

It was a name.

“Lieutenant Viktor Vodyanoi,” a wiry scavenger had said, his darting eyes filled with mistrust. “They say he knows things. Things about… them. The Hex.”The Operator’s head tilted slightly at the mention of the group. The Hex. The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning he couldn’t yet grasp. He didn’t press the scavenger for details.

The man’s trembling hands and shallow breathing told him all he needed to know. Whatever this Viktor knew, it was worth fear.

The Operator moved silently through Höllvania’s crumbling alleyways, his Warframe’s dark plating blending seamlessly with the night. The faint hum of Void energy in his chest acted as his guide, tugging him toward the heart of the city. It wasn’t long before he picked up Viktor’s trail. Locals spoke of the man in hushed tones, their fear palpable.

Some said Viktor was a former military officer turned enforcer for a rogue faction. Others claimed he was more, a hunter of secrets, a man who trafficked in whispers of the Void. The Operator cared little for rumors. He was after answers.

Perched atop a crumbling spire, he spotted his target. Viktor strode through the dimly lit streets below, flanked by a pair of heavily armed mercenaries. His imposing figure was unmistakable, the Efervon tubes running along his arms and shoulders pulsing faintly with each step. Even from a distance, Viktor radiated control—an air of someone who expected the world to bend to his will.

The Operator’s visor glinted faintly as he tracked the group’s movements. He didn’t follow directly, choosing instead to flank them from above, his steps silent as a shadow’s breath.

Chapter Text

Viktor’s path led him to a secluded courtyard, its once-vibrant mosaic tiles now faded and cracked. The mercenaries took up defensive positions at the edges of the space, their weapons scanning for threats. Viktor stood at the center, his back to a rusted fountain as he lit a cigarette with practiced ease.

“Lieutenant,” a voice crackled through a comm on Viktor’s shoulder. “Report.”

“Situation’s under control,” Viktor replied, his voice calm and clipped. “No signs of interference so far. If the Hex were here, they’ve moved on.”

The Operator stiffened at the name, his grip tightening on the ledge he crouched upon. The Hex. What was their connection to the Void’s pull here? And why was this man searching for them?

Viktor’s comm crackled again, but the Operator didn’t hear the words.

The Void had begun to hum louder, its whispers turning into a dissonant chorus. They clawed at the edges of his sanity, urging him forward, screaming at him to act. He pressed a trembling hand to his Warframe's helmet, his breathing shallow as the energy rippled through his mind.

The world blurred, the edges of reality fraying as the Void surged. He wasn’t sure anymore if the whispers were his own thoughts or something far older, far darker.

High above, the Operator crouched on a crumbling ledge, his Nikana strapped across his back. The blade hummed faintly, resonating with the Void’s energy swirling through him. He didn’t move...he didn’t need to. The Void whispered secrets into his ears, fragments of words and faces tangled in an endless cacophony.

The Operator’s voice was a harsh whisper to himself, tinged with a raw desperation.

“The Hex… what do you know about them?”

The Operator dropped from his perch like a shadow falling to earth. The air warped around him, his form blurring as he landed with preternatural silence. Viktor and his men didn’t see him until he was already moving.

The Operator drew his Nikana in one fluid motion. The blade gleamed in the faint moonlight, its edge impossibly sharp. With a single, devastating arc, the first mercenary fell, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground.

The second mercenary barely had time to raise his rifle. The Operator moved like liquid Void, his blade slicing through armor, flesh, and bone with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed across the cracked tiles as the man crumpled.

Viktor froze, his cigarette falling from his lips.

“What the hell…” Viktor said as he took a fighting stance.

The Operator stepped forward, his blade dripping crimson. His Warframe glinted in the dim light, a faceless harbinger of death.

“You’ve made a mistake,” Viktor snarled.

“Open fire!” Viktor barked, raising his slug thrower.

The courtyard erupted in chaos as bullets and energy beams tore through the air. The Operator weaved between the projectiles, his movements fluid and otherworldly. He unleashed a pulse of Void energy, sending a wave of disorientation rippling through the mercenaries.

The Operator twisted unnaturally, his body bending at an inhuman angle as the bullets grazed past him. In the same motion, he surged forward, his Nikana coming down in a brutal overhead slash. Viktor barely blocked with his forearm, the Efervon tubing groaning under the impact.

“You’ll tell me everything about the Hex,” the Operator growled, his voice distorted, an otherworldly echo beneath the words.

Viktor shoved him back, firing another shot. The slug struck the Operator’s chestplate, the impact forcing him back a step, but he didn’t falter. He lunged again, the Void rippling around him as his strikes became faster, more erratic.

The courtyard became a blur of motion. The clash of Viktor’s weapon and the Operator’s blade, the hiss of Void energy, and the scrape of boots on broken tiles. Viktor’s confidence faltered as he realized he wasn’t fighting a man. He was fighting a force barely contained.

Viktor growled in frustration, his enhanced reflexes barely keeping him alive. He aimed and fired, the slug roaring toward its target but the Operator vanished into the shadows, reappearing behind him in a burst of Void light.

The Nikana’s blade hovered at Viktor’s throat, its edge gleaming with an unsettling brilliance.

“Tell me,” the Operator hissed, his voice reverberating with Void resonance.' “The Hex. Where are they?”

“I don’t—” Viktor stammered, his face pale.

The blade pressed closer.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The Operator’s movements grew wilder, his blade heavy on his throat. His Nikana seemed to carry the weight of the Void itself, the blade glowing faintly with the energy coursing through him.

“I won’t ask again!” he roared, his voice cracking as the Void surged.

Viktor broke from the blade, then made another strike to the blade, but when he hit it the sheer force sent him staggering back. He barely had time to react before the Operator moved again, his form flickering like a broken projection.

Then it happened.

The Operator froze mid-motion, his entire body trembling. A pulse of Void energy radiated outward, warping the air and cracking the ground beneath him. His form blurred, and with a sudden flash, he was gone.

For a moment, the courtyard was silent, the only sound Viktor’s ragged breathing. Then, with a blinding burst of light, the Operator reappeared, not within the Warframe but outside it.

The Operator’s Warframe kneeling, its head down, his human form interphasing in and out of existence. Bare feet touched the cracked tiles, his Nikana now held by trembling hands.

The aura surrounding him was almost divine, his body shimmering with radiant energy. His long hair flowed in an invisible wind, catching the moonlight like strands of silver. His Nikana was clutched tightly in his hand, the blade now blazing with Void energy, its edges refracting light into a dazzling array of colors.

Viktor stumbled back, his mouth opening in shock.

“What… are you?” He said as he couldn't tear his eyes from his form.

The Operator’s gaze burned beneath his glowing hair.

“I am the one who’ll tear the truth from you.” He growled loudly.

He stepped forward, his movements graceful yet otherworldly. Each step seemed to distort reality around him, the ground cracking beneath his feet as the Void surged.

His eyes burned with fury, his face twisted in anguish as he clutched at his head.

The fight resumed with ferocious intensity. Viktor fired again and again, but each shot was deflected by the Operator’s blade, the glowing Nikana moving too fast for the eye to follow.

The Operator struck with renewed fury, his attacks a blur of light and shadow. Viktor fought back desperately, using every ounce of his strength and training, but it wasn’t enough.

The Void pulsed around the Operator, distorting his form as he phased in and out of his Warframe. One moment, he was within its armored shell, striking with mechanical precision. The next, he stood outside it, a radiant figure of light and fury.

“Tell me what you know about the Hex!” the Operator roared, his voice echoing like a thunderclap.

Viktor’s defenses crumbled as the Operator’s strikes grew more relentless. His Nikana flashed in the dim light, carving through the air with devastating precision.

Viktor fell to one knee, his weapon slipping from his grasp. Blood dripped from a dozen wounds, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The Operator stood over him, his blade poised for the killing blow. The Void’s whispers were deafening now, urging him to finish it, to take what he needed.

But something held him back.

The Operator’s hand trembled, the blade wavering. His breath hitched as the Void’s influence clawed at his mind, threatening to consume him entirely.

Viktor stared up at him, his expression a mix of fear and defiance.

“You’re no savior… you’re just another monster.” He said as he spat blood onto the ground.

The words cut deeper than any weapon. For a moment, the Operator hesitated, the glow around him flickering.

And then, with a growl of frustration, he slammed the hilt of his Nikana into Viktor’s head, knocking him unconscious. The Void hummed angrily, but the Operator ignored it.

“No!” the Operator growled, Void energy radiating from him in violent waves. “Stay out of my head!”

Gasping, he almost dropped his blade, but he quickly regained his breathing.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, his voice shaking.

“I’ll find the truth. One way or another." He said turning around.

The Operator turned back. His Warframe reasserted itself, covering his human form like a second skin. For a moment, he stood in the eerie stillness, his eyes locked on Viktor’s crumpled body.

Then he turned, vanishing into the shadows, leaving only the faint hum of the Void in his wake.

The city was a corpse.

From his perch atop a derelict skyscraper, Quincy peered through the scope of his rifle, scanning the desolate streets below. The building groaned in the wind, its rusted beams and shattered windows a testament to Höllvania’s decay. He adjusted his position, the bulky weight of his Warframe creaking as he settled against the crumbling ledge.

The night was eerily still, save for the distant wail of the wind through the ruins. His bounty had been a simple one. A group of scavengers caught peddling Void-tainted relics. A few warning shots from his Soma rifle, and the cowards scattered like roaches. Job done.

But Quincy didn’t leave. Something had kept him here, some unease gnawing at his instincts.

And then he saw it.

His patience was rewarded. A figure stepped into the courtyard—a man with a commanding presence, his posture rigid and confident. Quincy recognized the face instantly from his briefing, Viktor Vodyanoi.

The man stopped near a rusted fountain, lighting a cigarette with an almost casual air. Around him, a team of mercenaries moved into position, scanning the area with disciplined precision. Viktor didn’t seem worried, but Quincy had seen this kind of arrogance before. It was always the same with these high-ranking types.

Quincy’s finger hovered over the trigger. He could take the shot right now, end it cleanly. But something held him back. The mercenaries were too well-placed—if he missed, or even if he hit but didn’t kill Viktor outright, the return fire would be brutal. He needed to wait for the right moment.

Then, something unexpected happened.

A ripple in the air, subtle at first, like heat rising from the pavement. Quincy frowned, adjusting his scope to account for the distortion. That’s when he saw it.
A figure descending from the shadows above, landing with a grace that was almost unnatural.

“What the hell…” Quincy whispered, his focus narrowing on the newcomer.

The figure moved like liquid darkness, almost blending into the shadows as it approached the first mercenary. Quincy barely had time to register the gleam of a blade before the mercenary dropped, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground.

Quincy’s instincts screamed at him to fire, but his curiosity held him in place.

Who was this?

The second mercenary turned, his rifle raising just a fraction too late. The figure’s blade moved in a blur, cutting him down with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed across the cracked tiles, and Quincy felt his stomach twist.

The mercenaries opened fire, the courtyard erupting into chaos. Bullets and energy beams lit the night, but the figure moved like a ghost, weaving through the storm of projectiles with impossible speed.

Quincy watched, transfixed, as the mysterious combatant unleashed a pulse of energy that sent a wave of disorientation rippling through the mercenaries.

“What kind of tech is that?” Quincy muttered, his voice barely audible.

Through his scope, he could see Viktor shouting orders, his calm exterior finally cracking. The man raised his weapon, a heavy slug thrower, and fired. The shot was well-aimed, but the figure twisted unnaturally, the slug grazing past harmlessly.

The fight became a blur of motion, the clash of steel against armor, the hiss of energy discharges, and the scrape of boots on broken tiles. Quincy could hardly keep up with the figure’s movements. Whoever they were, they weren’t just skilled.
They were something else entirely.

Then, a surge of energy rippled outward from the figure, distorting the air and cracking the ground beneath them. Quincy’s scope struggled to focus as the distortion grew more intense.

When the view cleared, Quincy’s breath caught in his throat.

The figure had changed. Their armor shimmered, blurring the line between man and machine. The blade they wielded glowed with an eerie light, its edge refracting energy into a dazzling array of colors.

The figure advanced towards viktor, their movements graceful yet otherworldly.

Quincy’s scope tracked the human figure now standing in the courtyard, barefoot on the cracked tiles. The Operator’s hair flowed in an invisible wind, catching the faint light like molten silver. Their blade glowed brightly, its blade refracting Void energy into dazzling, chaotic patterns.

“What in the Void…” Quincy muttered, his voice barely audible.

Viktor staggered back, his confidence replaced by raw fear. Quincy could see the man’s mouth moving, though he couldn’t hear the words from this distance. Instead, they moved forward, their steps deliberate and graceful, yet each one seemed to fracture the ground beneath them.

Each step seemed to warp the ground beneath them, cracks spidering out from their feet as if reality itself recoiled from their presence.

Quincy’s grip tightened on his rifle as he watched Viktor lunge at the figure, the man’s attacks growing more desperate with each passing moment. The figure didn’t falter. Their strikes were relentless, their blade moving with a precision that bordered on inhuman.

And then, just as it seemed Viktor would meet his end, the figure hesitated. Their blade wavered, the glow around them flickering like a dying flame.

Quincy exhaled sharply as the figure finally struck Viktor down—not with the blade, but with the hilt. Viktor crumpled to the ground, unconscious but alive.

For a long moment, the courtyard was silent.

The figure stood over Viktor, their breathing heavy and labored. Quincy could see the tension in their stance, the way their shoulders rose and fell as if they were battling something unseen.

Then, without a word, the figure turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving only the faint hum of energy in their wake.

Quincy lowered his rifle, his heart pounding.

“What in the hell was that?” he muttered, his voice a mix of awe and unease.

He stood, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

Whatever he’d just witnessed, it wasn’t part of the mission. But one thing was clear.

This wasn’t over.

Quincy turned and began the long trek back to the Hex’s base, his mind racing with questions. He didn’t know who or what that figure was, but something told him it was only the beginning of a much larger problem.

Chapter Text

The food court of the Höllvania Central Mall was eerily silent. What was once a bustling center of commerce had transformed into the cold heart of The Hex's operations.

Rusted beams and shattered glass lay scattered across the cracked tile floors, and the faint hum of the city outside was the only sound breaking the silence.

Quincy stood alone, pacing the ruins, his boots echoing through the empty space. He couldn't shake the vision of the figure he'd seen out there—the one in the Void. He’d tried to focus on other things: cleaning his rifles, blasting holes in the walls, even listening to his boy band music to drown out the sound of his own thoughts. But nothing worked. Nothing could erase the memory of those haunting, burning eyes.

Frustration clawed at him as he continued to pace, his movements becoming more agitated. The figure... Beautiful. Terrifying. There was a twisted, raw power that had both entranced and terrified him in equal measure. He hadn't known what it was, but it was something far beyond anything he'd ever encountered. And it had called to him. That much he was certain of.

He ran his hands through his locs, trying to steady himself, but the pulse of dread, of something other, kept gnawing at his insides. His thoughts continued to drift back to the battle with Viktor. The way the figure had fought, how the Void energy twisted around it. The way Viktor had nearly been consumed, barely conscious, barely alive.
Quincy knew he couldn’t keep this to himself any longer. His mind raced as he dialed the team for a meeting, his thumb pressing against the comms device with a sense of urgency.

The Hex soon gathered in the food court, their expressions grim. Arthur stood at the head of the group, his usual calm and commanding presence now mixed with an edge of concern. Aoi stood with arms crossed, her sharp gaze scanning the surroundings. Amir was bouncing on his heels, trying to mask his nervous energy with a forced, upbeat demeanor, while Leticia and Eleanor stood off to the side. Eleanor’s glowing form was barely visible in the dim light, while Leticia radiated a subtle aura of calm, though even she could sense the tension in the air.

Quincy stopped pacing and faced them. His usual bravado was absent. Instead, there was a palpable unease that seemed to radiate from him.

“I saw something,” he started, his voice uncharacteristically strained. “Viktor was fighting something. No… someone. A figure.” He paused, eyes scanning the room. “It wasn’t just any Void creature. This... this thing was different. Alive. It pulsed with the Void like it was a part of it, but it wasn’t just a manifestation. It was a presence. I almost felt like it was alive.”

Arthur's brow furrowed as he stepped forward. “What do you mean by alive?”

Quincy swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair again. His mind was still reeling from the memory. “It was dark. But there was this twisted glow to it. The Void... it wrapped around him like a second skin, and when he moved, the very air seemed to bend. And Viktor—Viktor barely survived. He was knocked out, disoriented... barely able to fight back.”

The team exchanged glances, unease settling over them.

“What did this thing look like?” Aoi asked, her voice cold, calculating.

Quincy hesitated, his mind still fighting to understand what he had seen. “Its hair was white, long. Dragging on the ground behind it like it was part of him. It wasn’t... normal. It was both beautiful and dangerous. And the energy that flowed from him—twilight. Dark, but full of light. The Void pulses through him like it’s his blood.”
A chilling silence fell over the group as the words sank in. They had all faced horrors before, but nothing like this.

Arthur leaned forward, his expression turning darker. “And you’re sure this was Viktor’s enemy? Or was it someone else? Something else?”

“I don't know,” Quincy admitted. “But I swear, it felt like… like the Void itself was alive in them.” His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the table. “I don’t know why, but I felt drawn to them. Like they're calling me.”

The room remained still as the weight of Quincy’s words settled on them.

"Viktor was fighting someone from the Void," Aoi murmured, her mind racing. "But the figure you saw... this is something new. We need to know who—or what—they are before it gets worse."

But as they all exchanged uneasy glances, something else was pulling at the Drifter. His gaze drifted downward, his eyes flickering with an unreadable expression. A quiet hum of energy vibrated in the air around him, but no one could place it—the Void itself seemed to pulse within him.

The team fell silent, and despite the growing tension in the air, no one spoke. The Drifter's mind was elsewhere—drifting, torn between the world around him and the swirling thoughts of a past he could not outrun.

Memories rose, tangled like a web of regrets.

The Operator—the figure in the Void—was more than just a reflection of the Drifter. He was a dangerous, heavenly force, both beautiful and terrifying in his otherworldly perfection. His appearance was like something from a dream, but the kind of dream that left you drenched in sweat, heart racing. His long, white hair, like the light of the moon, cascaded down his back, trailing like a celestial river. His eyes were an impossible shade of yellow and red, glowing faintly, flickering like dying stars. The aura around him was thick with Void energy, but it wasn’t just power—it was presence, the kind of presence that made the air around him heavy with the promise of destruction. His body was lithe, graceful, but there was nothing soft about him. He was a predator, an angel of death wrapped in light.

And he was a part of the Drifter.

Two Sides of the Same Coin.

He could still hear the hum of the Zariman Ten Zero, the explosion, the pull of the Void as it swallowed him whole. He had been left behind, forgotten by the others, and trapped in the endless spiral of time.

But the Operator, the other self, had never been abandoned. He had been freed from the Void’s grip, allowed to fight alongside the Tenno and reclaim a place in the world. It was a fate the Drifter could never have. The Operator was free.

And yet, that figure Quincy had seen—that presence—had called to him. The same power that had trapped him in the Void now threatened to pull him back, to merge their worlds together. And the Drifter knew, deep down, that if he didn’t confront it now, everything he had built—the fragments of himself, the world he had created—would crumble.
Arthur’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Drifter?”

The Drifter flinched, his hand instinctively hovering near his sidearm. He didn’t want to face this. He didn’t want anyone to see what was unraveling inside him.
But Arthur’s gaze was steady, unyielding.

"What was it?" Arthur asked again, his voice softened but insistent. “You've been silent since Quincy explained this figure.”

The Hex waited for him to say something, anything.

The Drifter’s chest tightened. He clenched his fists, but his voice was barely a whisper when he finally spoke. "It’s me. Well, not me, but it is. The Operator... that... that figure. He’s me, from another timeline, from the Void. He... he was left behind like I was, but he's different. He’s free."

Arthur’s brow furrowed, his confusion clear. “What are you talking about?”

The Drifter’s mind raced, and his frustration boiled over. “I was left behind, Arthur. Abandoned. And the Operator—he wasn’t. He was freed. He became a weapon—a tool of the Void’s power. And if he’s free now, I—I can't let him destroy everything.” His breath came in shallow gasps, his body tense with emotion. “The Void will take everything, and I can’t let it happen again.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, his confusion clear. “What are you talking about?”

The Drifter’s mind raced, the fragments of his past colliding into each other like crashing waves. His breath quickened, and for a moment, his gaze dropped to the cracked floor beneath him, as though the weight of his words would crumble the entire room if he spoke to them.

“I…” The Drifter’s voice faltered as he struggled to find the words. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

His fists clenched tighter at his sides. Every muscle in his body was tense, the storm of memories swirling, tearing at his thoughts, forcing him to relive a past that felt like a nightmare that refused to fade.

“Alright,” he continued, taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Before all of this… before The Hex... before I even became the Drifter, I wasn’t always like this. I was… just a kid. I had a family. I had friends.” His voice shook as the weight of those lost memories bore down on him. “I lived on the Zariman Ten Zero, like most of us. It wasn’t supposed to end like that.”

Arthur’s expression softened, sensing the pain behind his words, but the Drifter pressed on.

“We were caught in the Void, Arthur. Left behind when the others escaped. The rest of the crew—they made it out. They were saved. But I… I was trapped. Trapped in a dimension that didn’t belong to time, where everything was twisted and broken.” His gaze flickered up to meet Arthur’s, his eyes filled with a quiet, almost desperate intensity. “And I wasn’t alone.”

He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice steady, but the memories surged again, sharper, more vivid than ever.

“The Operator… that’s who he was. He was the one who was freed. The others—they took him, saved him, gave him a place in the world. He wasn’t left behind in the Void like I was. They… they gave him power. And in the end, he became something different.” The Drifter’s eyes narrowed, as though trying to block out the ghost of a figure that had haunted him for so long.

Arthur frowned, still trying to piece together the Drifter’s cryptic words. “You’re saying the Operator… is you? From a different timeline?”

The Drifter shook his head slowly. “Not just any timeline, Arthur. We were… created by the Void itself. We’re two sides of the same coin. The Void took me, twisted me, broke me down until I didn’t know who I was anymore. And in the end, I created Duviri. It was my kingdom, my escape from the Void’s grip, a world built from my pain, my regrets.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I forgot about it, Arthur. I forgot I made it. The Operator was freed from the Void, but I… I was left to rot. Alone. Forgotten.”

The silence hung in the air like a thick fog, as everyone in the room processed the Drifter’s words. The Operator wasn’t just some other entity—the two of them, linked by the Void, were reflections of each other. And one had been trapped in darkness while the other had been allowed to wield power.

The Drifter stepped back, running a hand through his long white hair. His fingers trembled, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from something deeper—an unshakable frustration that had festered for centuries. “And now, he’s back. And he’s free.” His eyes hardened as his words took on an edge of finality. “The Void can’t be allowed to take everything. It can’t take him. It’s already devoured parts of me. And if the Operator—if that figure from the Void—becomes the weapon I know he will, everything we’ve worked for, everything I’ve built… it’ll be gone.”

Arthur’s expression was grim, but he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His voice was firm but compassionate. “You’re not alone anymore. You’ve got us.”
But the Drifter shook his head, his gaze distant, lost in the tangle of his thoughts. “I want to believe that. But I don’t know if I can. The Void—the way it warps reality, how it distorts time and space... I can’t keep running from it. And I can’t keep running from him. The Operator is me, and until I figure out how to stop him, there’s no escaping it.”

Then everything spiraled out of control, the once quiet mall and broke out in an outcry. Among the members, Aoi and Amir were talking loudly, looking at the drifter. Quincy stood quiet, processing his words. Eleanor and Leticia were looking at each other.

The Drifter’s gaze remained distant, his eyes glossed over as he seemed to retreat further into his own mind. The questions kept coming—Arthur’s voice, Aoi and Amir's probing, even Leticia’s looks—but they only made the storm inside him grow louder, more chaotic. His fists were clenched, the skin taut over his knuckles, and his breath quickened as though he were suffocating.

He shook his head again, this time more forcefully, more frustrated, as though to shake off the rising flood of emotions that threatened to drown him.

The voices of his past—the Operator, the Void—swirled around him, each one a cruel reminder of what he’d been forced to endure. “The Void—it’s not just some place. It’s not just some… dimension. It’s everything, Arthur! It warps everything—reality, time, space—it breaks you down, until there’s nothing left but it.” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping lower, his gaze flickering between the floor and the faces of those around him. “And it doesn’t care. It doesn’t care what it does to you. What it takes from you.”
Everyone got quiet, confused and shocked by his outburst.

A flicker of light ignited in his eyes, something like madness or pain—a flicker that terrified even him. The memories were clawing their way out of him, screaming to be heard, and for the first time in ages, he couldn’t keep them back.

“I was just a kid! Just a damn kid on the Zariman. A kid, who had everything—family, friends, a life.” His voice cracked, and his hands shot up to grab at his hair, pulling it in frustration, his breath hitching. “Then the Void happened... and they left us behind! I was left behind. Alone. While he was freed. He was the one they saved, the one they gave power to, and he...” He slammed a fist into his palm, his frustration turning to rage. “He became the Operator. They gave him everything. And I was left there, stuck, twisted by the Void, broken by it, forgotten.”

Arthur and the others flinched as the Drifter’s voice rose, the intensity in it more than any of them had ever heard before. The weight of his words slammed into them like a tidal wave. They had seen him angry, they’d seen him distant, but this—the raw, unfiltered emotion—was something different. This was desperation.

“I created Duviri. I made it!” The Drifter’s voice shook, the shout almost desperate. His chest heaved with every breath, as though the admission of it were both a relief and a new burden. “It was my world, my escape from the Void’s grip. But I forgot... I forgot I made it. The pain, the darkness—it was all I had left. And I let it consume me. It was me. It made me who I am.”

His body trembled, the air around him thick with the weight of the confession. He was no longer the controlled Drifter they knew, the stoic figure who kept his emotions locked away. This was a man unraveling, lost in his own grief and confusion.

“And now he’s free,” he spat, his voice venomous, as his eyes flashed with something darker. “The Operator. That thing—the other half of me—he’s out there, and I can’t just... I can’t just run from it anymore.” His voice cracked again, and his hands clenched tighter, digging his nails into his palms as if trying to anchor himself to reality. “The Void is coming for everything, Arthur. For him. For me. And I don’t know if I can stop it.”

The room fell silent, the tension so thick that even the walls seemed to breathe in the Drifter’s pain. He stood there, his shoulders slumped, his breath ragged, but there was a finality to the words he’d spoken, a sense of helplessness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel until now.

“I’ve spent so long trying to fix it,” he murmured, his voice now quieter, but still laced with the weight of his fears. “But it doesn’t stop. It never stops. And now... now, I don’t even know where to start.”

Arthur took a hesitant step forward, his voice soft but firm. “We’ll still help you, Drifter. Whatever it is, whatever you’re facing, you don’t have to do it alone.”

But the Drifter didn’t respond. He just stared ahead, lost in the whirlwind of his own mind. The words were empty now, the comfort nothing more than an echo. He didn’t believe it. How could he? With everything he’d been through, everything he’d lost, how could he possibly believe that anyone—anyone—could help him now?

The tension in the room is suffocating, thick with the weight of unspoken words and fears. The Drifter, his back turned to the team, sits hunched in the corner, his eyes locked onto the device in his hands. The glow of it flickers erratically, casting strange shadows across his face. It’s almost as if it has become an extension of him, something he can’t—or won’t—let go of. The more he clutches it, the more distant he becomes, slipping further and further away from the group.

Back at the table, the team sat in heavy silence. Arthur finally broke it, his tone resolute. “We’re not leaving this alone. Amir, I want you tracking Viktor. Aoi, monitor any Void disturbances. Leticia, prepare for the worst. If the Drifter won’t tell us the full story, we’ll have to find it ourselves.”

The tension in the room is suffocating, thick with the weight of unspoken words and fears. The Drifter, his back turned to the team, sits hunched in the corner, his eyes locked onto the device in his hands. The glow of it flickers erratically, casting strange shadows across his face. It’s almost as if it has become an extension of him, something he can’t—or won’t—let go of. The more he clutches it, the more distant he becomes, slipping further and further away from the group.

The Hex watches him from across the room, their eyes filled with a mixture of concern and sadness. No one moves, but the collective weight of their worry is palpable.
Quincy’s voice breaks the silence first, hoarse with barely contained frustration.

“What’s happening to him?” His words hang in the air, a question that no one can answer. “He’s not the same... This isn’t the Drifter we know.”

Leticia steps forward, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with the sorrow of watching a friend deteriorate.“It’s the device. It’s taking him from us, piece by piece.”

Amir paces restlessly, rubbing his temples, trying to shake off the gnawing feeling of helplessness. He can’t stand to see the Drifter like this, so consumed by whatever the device is feeding him. It’s turning him into something unrecognizable. But the worst part? The Drifter is letting it happen.

“We need to take it from him, now, before he’s gone for good.” Amir’s voice is filled with urgency, every word an attempt to stir the team into action.

Arthur is quiet, his expression distant as he watches the Drifter from afar. He’s conflicted, unsure of what the right course of action is. But deep down, he knows they can’t just stand by and let the Drifter lose himself to whatever the device represents.

“Taking it from him could destroy everything...” Arthur says, his voice heavy with the weight of the choice. “But if we don’t do something... he’ll slip away entirely.”

Leticia steps closer to him, her gaze hard with conviction. “We can’t leave him like this, Arthur. He’s already slipping away. He’s becoming a shell of himself.”

Quincy looks down at the Drifter, his gaze softening as he sees the weight of the man’s grief. He’s seen the signs of it—the way the Drifter is pulling away from them, the hollow look in his eyes. But now it’s like he’s being consumed by something he can’t fight, something that’s dragging him deeper into darkness.

“We have to do something. He won’t ask for help. We need to take it from him.” Quincy said as he slowly walked over to him, amir staging back, Eleanor watching from a distance, aoi and Leticia slowly following him.

The Drifter is sitting on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, his face hidden from them by his hair. He doesn’t even react when they move closer, lost in his own world. His grip on the device is tight, as if letting go would mean losing himself entirely. His breathing is shallow, erratic, as though he’s struggling to keep himself together.
Quincy is the first to approach him, his voice firm but gentle. “Drifter.” He reaches out, his hand hovering near the Drifter’s shoulder, hesitant, but filled with care. “You need to let it go. You’re not yourself.”

The Drifter doesn’t answer. His body is rigid, his eyes dark, distant. It’s as though he’s not even there. The words seem to slide off him, unable to pierce the thick walls he’s built around himself.

“No.” The Drifter’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “I can’t... I can’t let it go.”

Leticia steps forward, her stern face masking a face of worry and empathy. “We have to take it from you, Drifter. You’re slipping further every minute. This isn’t you.”

The Drifter flinches as Leticia’s hand brushes the edge of his arm, and his body stiffens. He’s trembling, his fingers shaking as he tightens his grip on the device. His lips tremble, and for a moment, it looks like he might collapse in on himself.

“Please... don’t.” His voice breaks, thick with emotion. “I can’t do this. I can’t lose him.”

Tears start to well in his eyes, but he blinks them away, furious with himself for showing weakness. He’s not supposed to be this vulnerable. Not like this. Not when everything is already falling apart.

Eleanor, who has been standing silently in the background, watches him with a deep, aching empathy. Her heart breaks for him. She can feel everything he’s feeling—the isolation, the guilt, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on him. And the worst part is, she gets it. She can hear his thoughts, his emotions, the things he can’t say. She’s attuned to him in ways the others can’t understand. She knows what he’s afraid of.

Her heart clenches in her chest, and before she can stop herself, she’s moving toward him, her voice soft and steady. “You’re not alone, Drifter.”

The Drifter’s head jerks up at the sound of her voice, his eyes wide and filled with confusion. The walls he’s built around himself have cracked just enough for her to see the pain, the fear, the vulnerability buried beneath. But even as she hesitantly reaches out, her hand hovers near him, he pulls away, his body shaking with barely contained sobs. His eyes are wide, wild with desperation.

“Please, Eleanor. Please don’t... don’t make me do this.” His voice is broken, raw. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Eleanor’s own chest tightens with sorrow, her heart aching as she feels his turmoil seep into her very bones. She steps closer, her hand gently brushing his arm, and for a moment, it’s like the world falls away. She sees him—not just the Drifter, but the man beneath the pain. She feels his guilt, his isolation, the way he’s drowning in his own mind, endless amounts of his deaths, trapped between his desire to save the Operator and his inability to save himself. It’s too much.

“You don’t have to do this alone.” Eleanor’s voice is soft, but firm. She can feel his emotions swirling around her—grief, guilt, desperation—and she knows she has to break through the wall he’s built. “Let us help you.”

The Drifter’s eyes flicker with something….something more human than anything he’s shown in what feels like ages. His breath hitches as tears finally spill from his eyes, not just in a single, silent stream, but a flood. The dam he’s been holding back for so long has broken. And the grief, the sorrow, the guilt—it all comes rushing to the surface in a wave too powerful for him to contain.

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled sob, a broken plea that he can’t make sense of. The walls are finally crumbling, and Eleanor feels every single piece of it—his heartache, his regrets, his desperate need to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.

In that moment, she makes her decision. She can’t watch him,a friend destroy himself. With a swift motion, Eleanor reaches forward, her hands trembling as she gently pries the device from his grip. The moment the device leaves his hands, it’s like a shift in the air, as though the weight of it has been lifted from both of them.

The Drifter freezes, his wide eyes locked on her as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in. “No.” His voice cracks, panic surging through him as he lunges toward the device, but Eleanor holds it just out of reach, her hands steady but her heart heavy.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to carry this anymore.” Her voice is soft, but resolute. She’s not letting him backslide. Not anymore.

The Drifter collapses into a heap, his sobs becoming almost frantic as he presses his hands to his face. He’s lost. He’s broken. The tears flow freely now, his entire body shaking as the weight of everything crashes down on him. The guilt of not being enough. The fear of failing those he’s promised to protect. The shame of holding onto something that was never meant to define him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him... I couldn’t save anyone.” The words spill out of him in a broken sob, his chest heaving with the force of his emotions.
Eleanor kneels beside him, her heart breaking as she watches him unravel. She doesn’t say anything else. She simply stays with him, her hand resting on his shoulder, offering the comfort of her presence. Her empathy. Her understanding.

The room is silent, save for the sound of the Drifter’s grief, raw and unfiltered. The rest of the team watches from a distance, knowing that the walls between the Drifter and them are finally crumbling.

The ruinous city of Höllvania stretched out beneath a sky too cloudy to reveal a single star. The dark silhouette of the Excalibur Umbra Warframe stood perched on the edge of a dilapidated ledge, one of the few remaining strongholds in the city. The immense figure was a perfect blend of ancient Orokin technology and raw, untamed power—its glowing sigils casting faint light across the shattered ruins. Its sword, gleaming even in the dimness, hummed with a subtle energy as if attuned to something unseen.

The Operator, clothed in the living armor of Excalibur Umbra, was a far cry from the confident figure he once was. The fusion between man and machine, this warframe’s sentience and his own, had blurred the line between them. The warframe’s obsidian hue seemed to pulse with his own fatigue. He wasn’t resting—not truly. His mind buzzed, tugged in every direction. The weight of the Excalibur Umbra frame, with its inherited memories and feelings, pressed against him, anchoring him to a sense of purpose he couldn’t shake. But, at the same time, it felt like a cage.

He decided he would only rest, in the drifters space. Otherwise he is too paranoid to fall asleep.

His mind was worn thin from the constant, gnawing tension. He had been in search of the Drifter for 2 days, the connection between them seemingly pulled apart by an invisible force. He needed to find him, needed to understand why everything felt so… off.

The city around him was quiet, but that silence didn’t soothe him. The whispers of the Void always lingered, ever-present, pulling at his consciousness, as if the very world itself were trying to smother him.

Excalibur Umbra’s frame seemed to feel it too. The energy within him, within them, was in constant flux. The ancient power contained in the Warframe’s form was a reminder of the past, a brutal history that twisted with the present. It was a legacy that bore the weight of millions of souls, all of them aching for release. The Excalibur Umbra’s internal hum seemed to mirror the Operator's restless thoughts.

His hands, covered in armored gauntlets, brushed lightly against the cold, cracked stone. He could feel the warframe’s energy pulsing through him, a constant reminder of his own vulnerability. The two halves of his identity were at odds: the man who once walked freely and the weapon he was now bound to.

A tremor passed through his body. His eyes flickered as Void energy thrummed in his veins, pulling at him. The whispers had returned, louder now, and more urgent than before.

You are lost, they beckoned, slithering into his mind. Come closer. Find him. Find the Drifter.

His breath caught in his throat, the Void's persistent hum stirring an all-too-familiar itch in his mind. Every part of him wanted to give in, to let the Void’s influence fill the emptiness he felt, but the Operator held himself back. He couldn’t lose himself to it, not again.

But despite his best efforts, something within the Warframe began to awaken. Memories. Echoes. Flashbacks of past battles, of the bloodshed, of the sense of duty that once defined his every movement. His hands clenched into fists. The Excalibur Umbra was no longer just a suit of armor—it was a prison of memories, and he was trapped within its walls.

The sky above him darkened further, the world around him twisting, like the remnants of an old nightmare. His thoughts began to shift, just slightly, until he could almost hear the Drifter’s voice in the distance—faint, indistinct, but unmistakably familiar. The presence of the Drifter had always been a tether to reality for him, grounding him even when everything else felt as if it were falling apart.

But now, there was something else: a distortion. The connection, that unspoken bond between them, was unraveling, like a thread being pulled apart slowly but inevitably.
The energy within him surged again, this time violently. The Excalibur Umbra frame vibrated, as if trying to reject the Void’s call. The glow from its sigils flickered erratically. Its sentience—the ancient presence of the Warframe’s long-forgotten creators—had always been a silent observer, watching, judging. But now, it felt more like an active force, like the Warframe itself was struggling to maintain control.

What’s happening? The Operator wondered. The warframe’s power was beyond his own control. Was it trying to protect him? Or was it growing restless with each passing moment? The Void was pulling at him from every direction, making it difficult to focus.

He staggered forward, the ground beneath him trembling. His breath quickened as the oppressive pull of the Void seemed to take physical form—swirling shadows, stretching, mutating, feeding on his exhaustion.

The Drifter, he thought, trying to hold onto the thought through the chaos. I have to find him. I have to—

His chest tightened. The shadows around him shifted unnaturally, their shapes becoming more defined, coalescing into something tangible. A figure appeared before him, but it was… distorted. The familiar silhouette of the Drifter flickered like a mirage, as though the Void was trying to conceal him, wrapping the truth in a veil of lies.

The Operator’s pulse quickened. The air around him warped. A piece of him—still the man he once was, buried deep beneath the surface—knew that the Drifter wasn’t just a victim of the Void’s tricks. No. The Drifter was somewhere. He had to be.

The Operator’s mind swam with fractured thoughts as the Void began to warp his senses. The figure before him—was it really the Drifter? Or was it yet another trick? His heart ached with the desire to reach out, to pull the Drifter from the depths of the Void’s influence, but the power surged through him once more, making him freeze in place. The Excalibur Umbra frame seemed to recognize the danger, its armor growing heavier, more solid.

The figure before him shifted again, the Void’s distortion pulling and twisting it further. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision shattered, like a fragile glass dropped from great height.

The Void was pulling at his mind, but this time, the Operator didn’t fight it. Instead, he let it wash over him, his senses stretching outwards. He reached into the swirling chaos, trying to pull something solid from it, something that would guide him.

The Warframe’s armor pulsed, and suddenly, the vision cleared.

The Drifter’s form stood just ahead of him, his face barely illuminated in the dark. But it wasn’t the Drifter’s voice that the Operator heard—it was the Void’s, whispering promises and threats, murmuring through the Operator’s very soul.

“Don’t forget me,” the words echoed, reverberating inside him. They were the Drifter’s words, but they were warped, twisted by the power that sought to divide them.
The Operator’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. His hands were shaking. He looked down at his own gauntleted palms, the Excalibur Umbra sigils pulsing as if it could sense his growing unease. The Warframe’s power was overwhelming, consuming his thoughts. The Void seemed to be closing in on him, like an unholy fog. The weight of the armor pressed against his chest, making each breath harder than the last.

Stay focused, he told himself. Stay grounded.

But it was so hard. The Void’s whispers were louder now, and they filled his ears with the sound of his name—“Operator… Operator… come closer…”

The shadows shifted, bending under the weight of the Void’s influence. He could feel the Drifter’s presence again, though it was distant and faint. The Operator’s gaze sharpened as he pushed forward. The Excalibur Umbra frame reacted to his determination, the sword glowing brightly as if sensing his renewed resolve.

His grip tightened around the hilt. The vision of the Drifter remained just out of reach, a tantalizing hint of reality hanging in the distance. But he was close now. He could feel it. The connection was still there, but the Void was threatening to tear it apart.

The Operator took a final, steadying breath. His hands shook with the effort, but he would not falter. The Drifter was out there, and he would find him.

Chapter Text

The ruins of Höllvania stretched out in every direction, an empty husk of a city once filled with life, now consumed by decay. It was almost as if time itself had forsaken this place. The ground cracked and heaved, buildings half-collapsed, their skeletal frames jutting into the sky like grotesque monuments to an old, forgotten era. Dark clouds swirled overhead, blocking out the sun, casting the world in a grim twilight.

Viktor Vodyanoy stood at the heart of this forsaken landscape, his boots crunching over the broken pavement. His sharp green eyes scanned the horizon, burning with the intensity of someone who had nothing left to lose. His unkempt black hair fluttered slightly in the wind, and his usual unflinching expression was twisted into something darker—a mix of determination, frustration, and seething rage.

“Where is it?” he muttered under his breath, barely audible in the eerie stillness. His voice was harsh, the words raw with urgency and suspicion. “Where is this thing? Where is the Operator?”

Viktor had always prided himself on his unshakable confidence. Yet, as he stood there, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in his gut. A feeling that something was hidden from him, something powerful, something that had eluded his grasp for far too long. This city had fallen under the weight of the Hex, and he was determined to fix that. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he thought of the strange group of warframes that had been tormenting him, turning every victory into a hollow one.

The Hex.

A team of augmented soldiers, each one an anomaly, each one dangerous in their own way. But it was the Operator—the child—who had drawn Viktor’s full ire. He didn’t care about the warframes themselves; to him, they were merely vessels. The Operator, however, was something else entirely. Viktor had seen the way the Operator’s presence seemed to warp reality itself. That was a power that could not be allowed to exist. Not when it could wipe away everything Viktor had built.

As he moved through the ruined city, Viktor’s steps quickened. Every corner he turned, every alley he passed, felt like a whisper of something elusive. He was closing in, he could feel it. The pull of the Operator—however faint—was like a cold breath on his neck, an unmistakable sign that he was near.

His thoughts drifted back to the last time he had encountered them—the brief but unsettling interaction at the edge of the city, where he had caught the faintest glimpse of their figure, shrouded in shadow. Their pale, almost ethereal appearance, their glowing eyes, the soft gleam of their long white hair—it had been like staring into a void. The memory clung to him like a weight.

Viktor hated how they made him feel. Weak. Small. The child had been nothing but a symbol of everything he despised: fragility, uncertainty, and above all, a challenge to his authority. But it was more than that. Viktor’s obsession was driven by something darker. There was a part of him that feared the Operator—their power was an unknown, something he couldn’t control or predict. That uncertainty gnawed at him.

He halted in the middle of the street, eyes narrowing as he peered through the haze of dust and smoke. The glow of the ruined city reflected off the twisted metal and shattered glass, creating an unnatural glow in the otherwise dim surroundings. It was almost as if the city itself was waiting for something.

“Where are you?” Viktor repeated the question, this time louder, almost like a demand to the emptiness. “I will find you, and when I do...”

The words hung in the air as the winds picked up, rattling the skeletal remains of the city. Viktor turned on his heel, heading deeper into the wreckage. His heart hammered in his chest. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that the answer was just out of reach—but close enough that he could almost taste it.

Beneath his anger, Viktor's determination burned brighter than ever. He had a singular goal in mind, and it was nothing short of complete control. The Operator was a threat. And like any threat, it had to be eradicated before it could grow too powerful. Viktor wasn’t just hunting them out of curiosity or desire for dominance. He was hunting them out of fear. Fear that they could destroy everything he believed in.

As he passed through a crumbling archway, the sound of his footsteps was the only thing that filled the silence. He paused again, staring at the horizon. The wind carried with it the faintest sensation, a whisper, almost like the city itself was speaking to him. It was subtle—too subtle for anyone else to notice—but Viktor felt it in his bones.
The Operator’s presence. They’re here.

Viktor clenched his fists again, his anger boiling over. “I’ll tear this place apart if I have to,” he muttered. “I’ll find them. I’ll find you.”

With renewed vigor, he pushed forward, determined that no matter what it took, he would uncover the truth. The Operator could hide behind their faceless masks and the warframes they controlled, but Viktor would stop at nothing to expose them.

Viktor’s footsteps were muffled by the cracked ground as he moved deeper into the heart of the ruined city. The sky above darkened further, swirling with unnatural clouds that had become the city’s permanent cloak. It was as if the atmosphere itself had given up on Höllvania, suffocating it in an oppressive gloom.

He was certain now. The Operator was nearby, hiding in the remnants of the city, lurking like a ghost, taunting him. The feeling of their presence was growing stronger with every passing moment, more palpable, like an invisible force pressing against his chest. He could feel their eyes on him—though he never saw them, never heard their footsteps. Yet, he knew they were watching.

Viktor gritted his teeth, his jaw tight with frustration. His hand instinctively reached for the weapon holstered at his side—the H-09 Efervon Tank. The heavy, oversized weapon was a symbol of his power, but at this moment, it felt inadequate. It felt like a tool for a lesser fight. This wasn’t about technology or firepower. This was something deeper, something he couldn't fully comprehend.

He stopped in front of a decimated building, its once-grand façade now a jagged skeleton of glass and steel. The ruins had once housed a luxury estate, a place where the elite of Höllvania had gathered, laughing and drinking while the rest of the world bled. Now, it was an empty shell, a fitting reflection of everything Viktor had come to know about the world.

With deliberate slowness, Viktor stepped forward, scanning the rubble. His sharp eyes flicked over the twisted metal and broken glass, searching for any sign, any clue that the Operator had passed this way. Yet, the place was devoid of life. It felt dead, like everything else in this city. But the presence... that feeling... it lingered.

He clenched his fists, the faint tremor of his frustration barely visible. "Damn you," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone who might be listening.

He had been hunting them for days, searching the ruins, but it was as if the city itself was shifting under his feet, hiding the Operator from his grasp. It was maddening.
Behind him, a faint rustling in the distance caught his attention. Viktor spun, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon as he zeroed in on the sound. His breath quickened, but no figure emerged from the shadows. The streets were silent once more, but Viktor could feel the air thick with tension.

He wasn’t alone.

In the back of his mind, a voice whispered, They’re watching you. They know you’re here.

It wasn’t just the presence of the Operator. There was something else—an unsettling feeling, like the entire world was holding its breath. The Hex had eyes on him. Viktor had always known that the members of The Hex were skilled, but this... this felt different. There was a subtle power in their movements, a collective intelligence that felt like it was working in the background, manipulating the very environment to their advantage.

Viktor shook his head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came. He wasn’t going to let them distract him. This was his mission, and he would see it through. The Operator and The Hex were a plague on Höllvania, and Viktor wasn’t about to let them slip away again.

As he turned back toward the ruins, the wind picked up again, carrying with it a faint, almost imperceptible scent—a trace of something metallic, something otherworldly. Viktor inhaled sharply. His senses were heightened, on edge, every instinct telling him that something was about to happen.

A soft sound—a footstep?—echoed faintly from the direction of the ruins. He didn’t turn, not yet, but his mind raced. He had to act quickly. His breath came in shallow bursts as he shifted into a defensive posture, his hand tightening around the H-09. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He wouldn’t let them outsmart him this time.

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, his body coiled like a spring, ready to lash out.

And then, just as he was about to move forward, a quiet, distant voice whispered on the wind. It wasn’t audible, but Viktor felt it in his bones. The voice was cold, hollow, and somehow familiar. It was the Operator. He could hear it—echoing in his mind, as if the child had reached out from the shadows.

"You’ll never find me."

Viktor froze, his blood running cold. The voice was soft, almost teasing, but it carried a weight, a weight that pressed against his chest like an anchor. His heart raced, his grip tightening on the weapon. It was as if the Operator had reached into his mind, playing with him, mocking his every move.

“Where are you?!” Viktor growled, his voice tinged with frustration. “Stop hiding!”

But there was no answer. The wind howled, and the world around him seemed to shift once again, the air thick with the tension of impending confrontation. He could feel the Operator watching, could almost sense their every move. It was maddening. Viktor felt like a puppet in a game he didn’t fully understand.

As the silence stretched on, Viktor’s mind raced. He could feel the presence of The Hex too, like shadows flickering at the edges of his vision. He was being watched. But the Operator? They were a ghost in this place—too fast, too elusive to catch.

The sound of footsteps—real this time—sounded from behind. Viktor whirled around, his heart hammering in his chest. He was prepared for anything, his weapon raised. But there was nothing there.

He exhaled sharply, lowering his weapon. His frustration was growing into something darker, something more primal. He couldn’t keep chasing phantoms.

They’re always one step ahead, he thought, the realization sinking in. The Operator wasn’t just hiding—they were playing with him. And if Viktor wasn’t careful, he would be their next game.

Viktor’s boots thudded against the concrete as he stalked deeper into the heart of the ruined district. The city around him had long ago stopped resembling anything remotely familiar, transformed into a twisted labyrinth of half-buried secrets. Burnt-out vehicles, crumbling skyscrapers, and the skeletal remains of long-dead trees lined the streets, casting jagged shadows under the fading light of the blood-red sky.

But Viktor wasn’t looking at the surroundings. His eyes were locked on the ground ahead, scanning every crack, every piece of rubble with feverish intensity. His thoughts raced with each step. He could feel the Operator’s presence growing stronger, almost tangibly. It was suffocating, pressing against his chest like a vice. Every now and then, the hairs on the back of his neck would stand on end, as if he were being watched. But each time he turned to look, there was nothing. No signs of the Operator.

The Operator had always been a ghost, slipping between the cracks of reality, hiding in plain sight. But now, Viktor knew something had changed. He could feel them. The Operator’s energy—cold, ethereal, and unsettling—was drawing closer, like an inescapable tide. It gnawed at him, pulling him forward, pulling him deeper into the heart of the city.

The silence was suffocating. He reached a street corner, the remnants of a collapsed building to his left, and instinctively crouched, his gaze darting to every shadow. His breath was shallow, controlled. He had been at this for hours, yet the Operator’s figure remained elusive. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in this game of cat and mouse. But this time, something was different. He could almost hear their heartbeat—slowing, growing louder—ringing in his ears.

What are you trying to show me?

The thought slipped into his mind unbidden. Viktor’s pulse quickened. For a moment, he paused, his fingers tightening around the H-09 Efervon Tank’s grip. He was close, he knew it. Every nerve in his body told him that the Operator was just around the corner, waiting. Waiting for him to make the first move. Viktor wasn’t about to give them that satisfaction.

He exhaled, and with a single motion, his body surged forward. His eyes swept the alleyway ahead of him, his every sense attuned to the faintest movement. But just as he rounded the corner, a shift in the air caught his attention. It wasn’t the usual trickery of the wind. No. This was different.

Something cold brushed against his skin. A sudden, overwhelming sense of dread washed over him. It felt like the world itself was turning on its head.

He froze, his heart hammering in his chest. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his feet were rooted to the spot. Every muscle in his body locked in place. In the distance, a soft, low laugh echoed through the empty street, bouncing off the walls like a mocking shadow.

"Found you."

The voice was as light as air, teasing, playful, yet dripping with malice. It was unmistakable.

Viktor’s blood ran cold. It wasn’t just the Operator’s presence anymore; this was something else. A deeper, more dangerous power laced in their words, something he couldn’t entirely understand. The laugh faded, leaving behind an eerie silence that made the hairs on his neck stand up.

This was a mistake.

He realized it too late. The game had changed, and the pieces were moving far beyond his control.

Viktor’s hand flew to his side, fingers closing around his weapon. His knuckles turned white as he gripped it, the cold metal of the H-09 Efervon Tank grounding him. He scanned the street again. Nothing moved, yet the oppressive weight of the Operator’s presence was everywhere.

"You’re not what you seem." The voice sliced through the air again, softer this time, but its impact felt like a blade at his throat. It came from behind him.

Viktor spun, ready to bring his weapon to bear, but there was no one there. His pulse raced, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes darted across the empty street. His mind spun with the realization that the Operator wasn’t here to be caught. They were here to break him.

His grip tightened on his weapon, his fingers trembling, and for a brief moment, the thought occurred to him.

What if he wasn’t the one hunting the Operator? What if he was the one being hunted?

The idea gnawed at him, a creeping doubt that he tried to shove aside. He would not let his prey slip through his fingers again. He would not lose. Not now.
"You’ll never catch me."

This time, the voice was right beside him, low and sultry, and it sent a shiver crawling up his spine. He spun again, weapon raised, but there was still nothing. The words lingered in his mind, chilling him to the core.

He was no longer sure of the rules of this hunt. He thought he was in control, but now it felt like he was stumbling in the dark, always a step behind, always on the verge of something he couldn’t quite understand.

The city was alive, shifting under his feet, as if the very architecture was conspiring against him. He felt his sanity begin to fray at the edges. The Operator, or whatever force they had become, was no longer just a figure in the shadows. They were in his mind, whispering, bending reality.

Viktor swallowed hard, his breath shallow. He had come to find them. To destroy them. But now, a deep, unsettling thought started to take root: What if I’m the one who’s being destroyed?

A distant sound broke his spiral. A thud, far away, perhaps the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground. The momentary distraction pulled Viktor out of his stupor, his instincts sharpening. He narrowed his eyes and adjusted his stance, refocusing. His pulse quickened, and with it, his anger flared. He was getting tired of these games.
He forced himself to take a deep breath. He wasn’t losing control. Not yet. The Operator would pay for everything.

He stepped forward, his movement precise. But before he could take another step, a cold gust of wind slammed into him, carrying with it the scent of something metallic, bitter. Viktor’s mind snapped back to the scent he’d briefly noticed earlier—the same unsettling, otherworldly smell that had been on the air since he first entered the city. His gaze sharpened, and he scanned the surroundings again, every inch of his mind focused.

And then, just as he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, it happened. The ground beneath him began to shift.

He staggered back as the very earth cracked open, a deep, resonating groan echoing from below. His heart lurched in his chest. The city was alive in ways he couldn’t fathom, and the Operator—no, whatever was out there—was leading him deeper into its twisted embrace.

And Viktor realized, with a gut-wrenching clarity, that he wasn’t just hunting the Operator anymore. He was being drawn into something far darker than he had ever imagined.
Viktor’s legs burned with exhaustion as he made his way through the streets of the district, his steps dragging through the thick dust and debris. The sounds of his boots against the cracked pavement were the only noise in the stillness. The city had swallowed him whole, pulling him deeper into its heart, its labyrinthine passageways twisting with every turn. It was as though the city was alive, an organic entity, its wounds constantly bleeding through the cracks in its structure.

He paused at an intersection, his senses heightened. The air was heavy with an unfamiliar tension, thick with the oppressive energy of the Void. He could feel it now, coursing through the streets like a dark river. The hairs on his neck stood on end as a shiver ran down his spine. The Operator was near, he could feel them watching from the shadows.
He clenched his fists, fingers tightening around the cold metal of his weapon. His teeth ground together, a low growl escaping his throat. The frustration was gnawing at him, twisting like a thorn in his side. He had been searching for hours, perhaps longer, but it felt like days. Time had begun to lose its meaning, slipping through his fingers like sand. How long had he been in this city? Hours? Days? Weeks? The more he tried to focus, the more it seemed to slip away from him.

Viktor glanced at his wrist, but his watch was frozen in time—its hands unmoving. Panic gripped him for a brief moment, but he quickly pushed it aside, his anger flaring once more. No. He would not be distracted. He would not let the Operator’s tricks pull him under. He was in control. He had to be.

A cold gust of wind swept through the alleyway, carrying with it the faint, unmistakable scent of something metallic, mingled with decay. Viktor’s head snapped to the side. The Operator’s presence was suffocating. It was no longer just an impression or a distant sensation. It was everywhere. He could feel them in the very air around him, pressing against his skin, seeping into his thoughts.

He breathed deeply, pushing the panic down. He was close now. He could almost taste it—the final confrontation, the reckoning. He had to find them. The operator’s mocking presence, their every word, had been seared into his mind, and the more he heard, the more he wanted to end this—once and for all.

He took a few more steps down the alley, his eyes darting to every shadow, his body tense. A strange feeling washed over him, something new. A sense of dread, yes, but something else, something... familiar. A distant memory tugged at him, but it was fleeting. His mind was already trying to bury it, to protect him from whatever the Operator was planning. Viktor narrowed his eyes and pushed on.

Suddenly, the world around him shifted. The alley, which had seemed so concrete and real moments ago, began to ripple like water disturbed by a stone. The buildings around him warped and twisted, elongating and shrinking at impossible angles. Viktor’s stomach lurched. The distorted city began to bend in on itself, folding like paper. Reality was fracturing before his eyes, and with it, his sense of time.

One moment, he was walking down a narrow alley; the next, he was standing in the middle of an open square, the sky above him darkening, the clouds swirling in unnatural patterns. He blinked, disoriented. This wasn’t right. The city around him had changed. The ground felt different beneath his feet, softer, almost as if he were standing on a thin layer of ice. The air was thick with an oppressive weight, the tension in the atmosphere making his heart race.

He took a step forward, and the ground beneath him cracked, sending shards of broken pavement scattering in all directions. The world seemed to tremble around him, the very earth beneath his boots shifting like a living creature. His breath hitched, and his mind screamed at him to run—to escape this madness. But he couldn’t. The Operator’s grip was tightening, and there was no escape.

The laughter came again, distant yet close enough to make Viktor’s skin crawl.

"Do you feel it? The weight of the Void? The fracture between worlds?"

The voice was everywhere and nowhere, surrounding him, seeping into his skin. Viktor’s blood ran cold as the laughter echoed through his mind, invasive and relentless. It was as though the Operator had opened a door in his mind, slipping through the cracks, turning his thoughts against him.

Viktor clutched his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp as the pressure of the voice filled his skull. His vision blurred, and the world around him seemed to bleed together in a kaleidoscope of twisting colors and shapes.

"This is what it feels like to lose control," the voice whispered, soft and mocking. "This is what it feels like to drown in your own fear."

His knees buckled, and Viktor fell to the ground, his hands splayed out in front of him to catch his fall. The world continued to shift, the landscape folding in on itself, each corner of the city stretching and contorting. The laughter filled his ears, louder now, relentless, drowning out every other sound.

"You think you can stop me?" The voice was cruel, but there was a note of something else in it. Something Viktor couldn’t quite place. "You think you can fix this world?"

Viktor’s pulse thundered in his ears. His chest constricted, and he could feel the walls of reality closing in on him, suffocating him. He fought to breathe, his breaths coming in sharp gasps, but the air felt thick, almost impossible to inhale.

"What have you really been fighting for, Viktor?" the voice taunted, its words sharp like a blade. "For your precious Scaldra? For some twisted idea of power? You’re nothing more than a puppet, a pawn in a game far bigger than you can comprehend."

Viktor’s vision blurred again, and for a moment, he saw flashes of the past—faces of soldiers, comrades, long since lost. They were looking at him with judgment, their eyes accusing. They were all dead. His hands were stained with their blood.

"They’re all gone, Viktor. You failed them. You failed everyone."

The world continued to warp, and Viktor’s grip on reality slipped further away. He staggered to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him. The city felt like a dream, its edges blurry and indistinct. He couldn’t trust his senses anymore. Every movement, every sound seemed wrong.

He spun around, his eyes wild. His heart raced, and his hands trembled as he aimed the Efervon Tank at the empty air. He couldn’t see the Operator, but he could feel them—there—hidden in the folds of reality.

"Do you feel the weight of your actions?" the voice mocked, growing stronger, louder, as if the very city itself was amplifying the Operator’s words. "You were never meant to save this place. You were always meant to fail."

Viktor clenched his teeth, fury rising within him like a storm. His breath was ragged, his pulse erratic as he struggled to hold on to the remnants of his sanity. He was losing himself, and the Operator was the one driving him to the edge.

And then, with a sudden lurch, the world around him stopped. The city’s twisting, warping, bending halted, and Viktor was left in a cold, disorienting silence. He stood in the middle of an empty square, the world now eerily still.

The Operator was gone.

But the damage had already been done. Viktor was no longer certain of what was real. The lines between the physical and the psychological had blurred beyond recognition, and the darkness of the Void had seeped into his soul.

The streets felt colder now. A biting chill had swept through the city, a wind carrying with it the echoes of a past that Viktor wished he could erase. He hadn’t noticed when the temperature had dropped, or when the city had become more lifeless, more oppressive. All he knew was that something had changed, something inside him had cracked, and the more he tried to ignore it, the louder the crack grew.

He was walking again, though he couldn’t remember how long it had been. The city around him was still, the once-bustling streets now hollow, devoid of life. There were no signs of the Operator—no hidden presence lurking in the corners, no whispered voices in the wind. But Viktor could feel them, always. The pressure in the air, the weight of unseen eyes. It was maddening.

The further Viktor walked, the more it seemed like the city itself was closing in on him. He couldn’t escape the feeling that it was a trap, that he had been walking in circles, each path leading him to the same desolate square. And yet, there was no choice but to keep moving, to keep searching.

He turned a corner, and there it was: a towering spire in the distance, jagged and dark, as though it had been torn from the very earth. The shape of it was familiar, though Viktor couldn’t place why. He had seen it before, in the twisted visions that had plagued him, the fracturing reality that had eaten away at his sanity.

Something pulled him toward it, an unseen force tugging at his chest. Every step felt heavier than the last, each one a battle against the pull of the Void. But still, he walked, unwilling to let himself stop. He could feel the Operator’s presence, closer now, as if they were waiting for him, waiting to break him.

The wind howled through the streets, and for a brief moment, Viktor thought he saw the shadow of a figure dart past him, just out of the corner of his eye. His heart skipped a beat, and he instinctively reached for his weapon. But when he turned to face the shadow, there was nothing. Only the empty street, the desolate silence.

He cursed under his breath, his fingers tightening around the cold metal of his Efervon Tank. The silence was unbearable, the weight of it pressing down on him with every step. The city itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something. Waiting for him.

As he reached the base of the spire, Viktor stopped. He could feel the oppressive energy radiating from it, could hear the faint hum of something ancient, something powerful. It was the source of the pull, he realized. The device that had haunted him since he first felt its presence, the one that had been the catalyst for everything—the one he had been drawn to without understanding why.

He reached out a trembling hand, fingers brushing against the cold, jagged surface of the spire. The moment his skin made contact, a surge of energy shot through him, sharp and raw. His vision blurred, his head swimming with the intensity of it. A voice, faint and distant, echoed in his mind.

"You are too late, Viktor. You always were."

Viktor staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The voice—the Operator’s voice—slithered through his mind like a serpent, wrapping around his thoughts, twisting them into knots. It was everywhere, consuming him from the inside out.

"This city, this world... they were never meant to be saved. You cannot fix what is already broken."

The words hit him like a hammer, each one driving deep into his chest. He clenched his teeth, fighting the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. No. He refused to believe it. He wouldn’t give in. Not now.

His hand, trembling, hovered over the surface of the spire. There was power here, he could feel it. A force that called to him, a promise of strength, of victory. It was seductive, tempting him with its warmth, its reassurance that he could still control it, still control everything. But the longer he stood there, the more he could feel it slipping away, just beyond his reach.

Viktor gritted his teeth and pulled his hand back, taking a step away from the spire. He would not be seduced. He couldn’t allow himself to fall into that trap. He had a mission. He had to find the Operator, had to defeat them—no matter the cost.

The world around him shifted again. The city seemed to pulse, its structures warping and stretching, as though it were alive, breathing in sync with the rising tension in Viktor’s chest. The air became thicker, more oppressive. He could feel the Void pressing against his skull, threatening to collapse his mind. It was suffocating.

Suddenly, he was not alone. The air crackled with energy, and before him, materialized a figure, tall and looming. Viktor’s breath caught in his throat. It was the Operator.
Their presence was overwhelming, their figure shrouded in shadows. Their long white hair swayed as if moved by an unseen breeze, their skin pale and dewy in the dim light, their eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural hue. There was something so otherworldly about them, something that made Viktor’s heart race with both fear and rage.

The Operator’s eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, Viktor was paralyzed, caught in their gaze. The world around them seemed to collapse, the spire, the city, everything dissolving into nothingness. All that remained was the Operator and him.

"You still think you can stop me?" the Operator’s voice echoed, cold and mocking. "You think you can defeat me, Viktor? You are but a speck, a fleeting moment in the grand design. A failure."

Viktor’s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. The anger surged through him like a wildfire, burning away the doubt, the fear, the weakness. He would not let the Operator break him.

"I am not afraid of you," Viktor growled, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I will end you."

The Operator’s lips curled into a smile, their eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Then come. Show me what you’ve got."

With that, the air around them seemed to shift once more. The spire dissolved into the ether, and Viktor was thrown back into the real world, the city, still silent and empty. But now, it was no longer a city of stone and metal. It was a battleground, and Viktor was standing at the edge, staring down the abyss.

His mind was clear now, the weight of the Void pressing harder against him. He could feel the pull of the Operator, the cold, insidious touch that threatened to erase him. But Viktor stood firm. He would face the Operator, and he would win. He had no choice.

The game was on, and Viktor was ready.'

Viktor’s footsteps echoed through the dead streets, the weight of his every step bearing down on him like a heavy shackle. His pulse pounded in his ears, and though he hadn’t realized it until now, his breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. The frustration, the confusion, the raw anger—all of it had been building up inside him for what felt like an eternity. And now, it was about to explode.

It felt like the city had turned into a maze of shadows. Viktor was used to the weight of solitude, but this... this was different. It was as though the city itself was holding its breath, watching, waiting for something to happen. Viktor didn’t know whether to fight it or flee, but there was no escape now. He had found the Operator.
There, at the end of the alley, beneath the dim light of a lone street lamp, he saw him.

The Operator. The figure that had haunted his every waking moment. Sitting there, perched casually atop a stone wall, the unmistakable silhouette of his body outlined by a soft, ethereal glow.

The Operator’s long white hair, more white than blonde, shifted with the breeze—flowing and undisturbed, as if moving with a grace that defied the laws of nature. It was unsettling, the way it seemed to shift with an unearthly fluidity, like it was part of something beyond Viktor’s understanding. The long strands seemed alive, flowing on their own accord, blowing in the wind with a softness that was at odds with the tension crackling in the air.

Viktor’s gut churned. Something about the Operator’s presence unsettled him more than he could put into words. It wasn’t just his appearance—no, it was his aura, the weight of it. The way his very being seemed to warp the air around him, distorting reality in subtle ways. His power radiated from him like a tangible force, and Viktor could feel it seeping into his bones.

His vision blurred as his thoughts swirled in frustration. This was it. This was the being that had been toying with his mind, feeding him whispers of power and defeat.
His mouth went dry as he tried to gather his thoughts, but they escaped him like sand slipping through his fingers. What? Why was the Operator even here? Hadn’t they fought before? The memory was hazy, but Viktor could feel the edges of it biting at his consciousness. That fight—the way the Operator had defeated him so effortlessly. It was like the Operator had anticipated every move, had known his every weakness before he even made a decision.

But now, Viktor’s anger bubbled to the surface. He had no time for that pain. No time for weakness. He wasn’t going to let it haunt him any longer.

Without thinking, Viktor shouted, his voice a jagged edge of rage.

“What is this? What are you?”

His voice echoed through the empty alley, distorted by the thickening tension in the air. He didn’t care who or what might hear him. All that mattered now was the Operator—the one who had been pulling his strings, twisting his thoughts, leading him to this moment.

But the Operator just sat there, unperturbed. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move an inch, as if Viktor’s outburst was nothing more than a passing breeze.

Viktor’s blood boiled. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened, and his teeth ground together in fury. How could he remain so calm? How could he sit there so unaffected by his rage?

“Answer me!” Viktor roared again, stepping forward, his voice cracking under the pressure.

“You’ve been haunting me—feeding me these lies! You’ve led me to this point... and I don’t even know what you want anymore!”

Still, the Operator didn’t react. He merely tilted his head slightly, his eyes glowing faintly—a soft yellowish hue that shimmered in the dim light. It was as if he were studying Viktor, as though Viktor were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

Viktor’s breath quickened as the silence stretched on, only broken by the sound of the wind brushing through the alley. Every second felt like an eternity. The Operator, so still, so composed, had an air of untouchable calm. He didn’t respond. Didn’t even speak.

The more Viktor thought about it, the more his anger turned into something darker. He remembered the fight. He could feel it—how easily the Operator had crushed him, how effortless it had been. It was like the Operator had been waiting for him, just to show him how powerless he was.

Viktor’s legs shook, though he would never admit it. The power emanating from the Operator was suffocating, a weight pressing against his chest, squeezing out the air from his lungs. It wasn’t the physical presence that unsettled him; it was the sense that the Operator was standing outside of reality itself—like he didn’t belong here, in this moment, in this world.

Then, without warning, Viktor’s mind began to fracture. The anger still burned, but something else surged—an unfamiliar dizziness, a distortion of the scene before him. The world around him seemed to waver, the space between the two of them flickering like a broken screen.

And suddenly, it all snapped into place: the fight.

He remembered it with sickening clarity. The heat of battle, the clash of wills... and then, the crushing weight of defeat. The Operator’s laughter in the back of his mind, the impossibility of winning, the overwhelming sense that he had never stood a chance.

He saw it now, a hallucination creeping into his perception: the Operator standing there in front of him, his long white hair whipping in an impossible wind, a perfect, haunting figure in the storm. Viktor saw the defeat—saw the Operator looking down at him with those cold, piercing eyes.

“Do you remember the fight?” The words of the hallucination echoed in his mind, cutting through his sanity like a blade.

Viktor shook his head violently, trying to dispel the vision. His breath caught in his throat as his surroundings began to twist. Was this real? Was this another trick? His body trembled with the sheer terror of it all.

Before he could make sense of it, Viktor found himself screaming.

“No! No more tricks! Answer me, damn it!”

The hallucination flickered away, but the Operator remained. Calm. Stoic. Silent.

The tension in the air felt unbearable now, suffocating him. Viktor was trapped between his fury and his fear. The hallucination left a bitter aftertaste in his mind, but he refused to let it control him.

He growled low, eyes narrowed on the Operator, his fists still trembling at his sides.

“You’re nothing but a monster. All of this—everything—it's because of you!”

And the Operator—still standing there, ever composed, his white hair flowing in the breeze—didn’t move. His silence felt like a verdict.

Viktor wanted to charge, to attack, to end whatever this was—but instead, he stood frozen. The weight of the Operator’s gaze pressed down on him, making it clear: This was his moment, but Viktor had no control.

“Why are you angry?” the Operator asks simply, his voice carrying a soft resonance. His tone is detached, almost like he isn’t truly present, as though Viktor’s outburst means little in the grand scheme of things.

Viktor’s eyes widen in frustration. “Why am I angry?! You—YOU! You think you can just appear here, do as you please, and expect no consequences? You’ve ruined everything! Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

The Operator doesn’t flinch, his glowing eyes never wavering. “I don’t understand what you mean,” he replies, his tone almost disinterested.

Viktor growls, the tension in the air growing as he steps closer. The Operator doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the growing storm of emotion in Viktor. It’s like the Operator isn’t even a part of the world that Viktor knows—like he’s from somewhere else, a different dimension altogether.

As Viktor stands before him, all his rage suddenly feels hollow, like he’s shouting into an empty void. The Operator seems so... detached, so beyond him. This unease starts to gnaw at Viktor's chest, his hands shaking slightly despite the anger still coursing through his veins.

Still, the Operator says nothing at first, his eyes following Viktor’s every movement with a detached, almost clinical curiosity. The air between them is thick, uncomfortable.
Finally, the Operator speaks, his voice soft yet sharp enough to cut through Viktor’s rage. “Why are you angry?” he asks, the words almost a whisper against the chaos Viktor feels. “You’re not angry with me… you’re angry with what you cannot control.”

Viktor seethes, his breath coming in sharp, jagged bursts. “I’m angry because you don’t even care. You—” His words falter as a realization begins to claw at him. Why doesn’t the Operator seem to understand? “Why don’t you remember what happened? Why don’t you remember me?”

The Operator’s eyes narrow, his gaze drifting as though lost in thought. “I... remember nothing," he admits after a pause. "The Void... it clouds my mind.”

Viktor freezes, a wave of confusion crashing over him. “The Void?” He snarls. “You expect me to believe that? You were there. How can you—?”

The Operator raises a hand, stopping Viktor’s tirade. “It is not what you think,” he says, his voice distant. “The Void… it alters perception. It warps memory. When I began to lose control—to shift—I lost more. It clouded everything. Faces, places… even my own name. I can barely remember the moments before I woke up.”
Viktor stares at him, trying to comprehend the words. “You’re telling me… you don’t remember what you’ve done?”

The Operator’s gaze hardens slightly, a hint of something dark flickering behind his eyes. “I remember pieces, flashes… but they are not whole. The Void took them from me. Perhaps it was never meant to be remembered. Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to know.”

Viktor steps back, his fists shaking. This isn’t the answer he expected. He wanted anger, retaliation. But what he gets is a quiet admission of confusion, of fragmentation. It doesn’t make sense. The Operator, standing before him, looks like someone who has been torn apart and put back together—broken in ways Viktor can’t even begin to understand.

“Then why are you here?” Viktor demands, his voice rising again. “If you’re so lost, so twisted, then why don’t you leave? Why do you keep showing up and—” His words falter, the overwhelming sense of wrongness creeping in. “You’re not even… real, are you?”

The Operator’s expression doesn’t change, but Viktor can see the shift in his eyes, a subtle recognition. “I am as real as the world allows me to be.”

As Viktor speaks, his mind begins to fragment as well. His thoughts swirl in a mess of confusion, caught between anger and disbelief. Suddenly, the Operator’s figure flickers. For a brief moment, the calm, detached form begins to warp—his glowing eyes pulse erratically, and the long strands of his hair twist unnaturally in the wind, turning into sharp, chaotic tendrils. His once serene expression turns to something monstrous, almost void-like, and Viktor can feel a wave of coldness flood his mind, like a creeping darkness that is both alien and suffocating.

Viktor stumbles back, his head pounding, his breath ragged. He blinks rapidly, trying to shake the vision from his mind. Was this real? Was the Operator’s presence breaking him? Or was this something more?

The hallucination fades as quickly as it appeared, and Viktor is left staring at the Operator once more. The world feels hazy, and he can’t tell if he’s still seeing the effects of the Void or if it’s his own mind starting to unravel.

“No…” Viktor whispers, his voice trembling. “No, this isn’t real. You’re not real. You’re just a... a hallucination. A trick.”

The Operator tilts his head slightly, his eyes still unreadable. “I assure you, I am real. Even if you cannot remember... even if you cannot trust your own mind... I am here.”
Viktor stares at him, lost for words. He wants to scream, to tear the Operator apart for making him feel so powerless, but the weight of the moment sinks in. How can he fight something so elusive, so detached from the world? How can he strike at what doesn’t even seem to care?

Finally, he spits on the ground, anger still burning in his chest, though it’s dulled by confusion. “Then you’re nothing. Nothing but a ghost.”

The Operator’s gaze lingers on Viktor for a moment longer, and in that brief instant, there’s a flicker of something—something almost like pity. “Perhaps, Viktor. But a ghost can still change the world.”

With that, the Operator turns, his long hair billowing in the wind as he walks away, leaving Viktor standing alone in the ruins.

Chapter Text

The Backroom was a twisted blend of function and decay, an expression of the Drifter’s isolation and repurposed past. Once a sterile, abandoned Orokin stronghold, it had been reformed, transformed into a personal space steeped in an uneasy quiet. The walls, once immaculate, now wore faded patches of peeling paint and patchwork materials from the scraps of old, salvaged furnishings.

There were windows. On top of the rooms, outside peering into the city, letting in natural sunlight. The boxes underneath the stairway, leading into the orange room with a mirror and TV.

The space felt suffocating in its silence, narrow hallways and broken-down pieces of old tech strewn about as makeshift furniture. Discarded Orokin machinery, relics of a bygone era, sat idle in the corners, some still functional, others long since forgotten.

The air was thick with the smell of metal, dust, and the lingering hum of machinery, always a constant companion in the background. A set of old, rusted computers, their screens dim and cracked, sat alongside piles of scribbled notes and tech manuals. The Drifter had long since stopped caring about organization. The things that mattered were the ones that kept him alive and the ones that served as reminders of what had come before.

At the center of it all sat the Drifter, his mind heavy with the echoes of the last few days. He sat on his black bed, eyes glazed as he stared at the dimming TV, the Pom-2 beside him, the mirror facing him. He paced back and forth, the restlessness gnawing at him. His thoughts were a storm. He thinks of Viktor and the operators fight. There had been violence, aggression… but more than that, there was something beneath it. Something darker.

He couldn’t figure out his next move. He couldn’t tell if the battle with Viktor had been the first of many, or if there was more at play here. The last thing the Drifter wanted was more bloodshed, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling that the worst was yet to come. But it wasn’t just that. It was The Hex, the team. Tension had been rising, unspoken between them, and it left him wondering if they would remain united. If they would fall apart under the weight of everything happening. Would he have to choose? Was it time for him to take action?

The clock ticked on, each second louder in the silence. The longer he stayed in his own head, the more uncertain he became.

Was he even doing enough to protect them?

Nothing, absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, a voice broke through his thoughts.

“Drifter. We need to talk.” Arthur’s words were brief, but the gravity in them was immediate. The Drifter turned to find Arthur standing in the doorway, eyes piercing with urgency. There was no hesitation in Arthur’s demeanor, but the Drifter could sense the weight of something on the horizon.

“Alright,” the Drifter murmured, pushing himself up from the bed. His body felt heavy, each step deliberate as he followed Arthur through the wreckage of the backroom, past the broken machines and strewn-about relics. It felt like everything was crumbling, like nothing would ever be the same again.

They emerged into the half-lit corridors of the Höllvania Mall, the place that had once been bustling with life now a ghost of what it used to be. As they reached the designated meeting spot, the rest of The Hex were already gathered. Their expressions varied from concern, frustration, uncertainty but the one thing that stood out was that all their eyes were on the Drifter. It was as though the weight of the past few days had settled on their collective shoulders.

Arthur motioned for everyone to speak. “We need to tell you everything.”

The Drifter’s eyes flickered over to the members of The Hex, their faces all drawn with tension, some unreadable, as though they had just seen something that shook them. Quincy was the first to speak, stepping forward from the group.

“We’ve been tracking Viktor’s movements,” he said, his voice rough, his face serious. “And what we’ve discovered isn’t good.”

The Drifter’s heart sank. Viktor’s name was a trigger, and his mind instantly flashed back to the fight between Viktor and the operator. Viktor barely escaped with his life. The thought of Viktor made the Drifter’s blood run cold. But it was the Hex’s next words that stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Viktor’s spiraling,” Quincy continued, his words laced with pity. “He’s obsessed, more than we thought. After the fight with the operator, he’s been fixated on finding the Operator…hunting him.”

The room fell silent as the Drifter’s chest tightened. Viktor wasn’t just angry anymore; he was hunting the Operator. The Drifter’s mind raced, and the realization hit hard: Viktor had shifted into something far more dangerous, something he couldn’t afford to ignore. The thought that Viktor was out there, actively hunting the Operator, sent a surge of protectiveness through him—a drive to shield the Operator from what Viktor was capable of.

His eyes narrowed, fingers twitching as though reaching for something. “What’s his next move? Where is he now?”

Leticia stepped forward, her voice filled with a quiet intensity. “We’re not sure, but his fixation on the Operator is escalating. He’s going to make his next move soon. We need to act before he gets too close.”

The Drifter’s hand clenched into a fist, jaw tightening with resolve. “Then we move first.”

Aoi, who had been quiet until now, gave a sharp nod. “We need a plan—something more than just waiting. If Viktor’s out there hunting for the Operator, we’ll have to do the same.”

The Drifter looked around the room, eyes settling on each member of The Hex. He could feel their fear, their uncertainty, but there was also something else—something stronger. Loyalty. Purpose.

“Then we make sure Viktor doesn’t get what he wants,” the Drifter said, his voice low and dangerous. “We do this together.”

The weight of the moment settled over them all, but the Drifter could feel the resolve in the air. There was no turning back now. They would face whatever Viktor had in store and this time, they would be ready.

As the group began to disperse, the Drifter lingered for a moment, standing in the dimmed light of the abandoned mall. His heart thudded with a mixture of anxiety and determination. He had no choice. He had to protect the Operator. No matter the cost.

The second day after their confrontation with Viktor was marked by a palpable sense of urgency.

The backroom of the Höllvania Central Mall buzzed with quiet discussions, the faint hum of the Pom-2 computer the only sound, aside from the occasional murmurs of The Hex members.

The Drifter had spent the night in solitude, his thoughts swirling. Viktor’s threats had only amplified his desire to protect the Operator. The time for hesitation was over. He had to act.

He stood by the table now, looking up and out into the darkened window into a world beyond the broken mall walls. His Nidus warframe mind raced as he formulated a plan, his brow furrowed with concentration. Viktor was dangerous, driven by rage and humiliation, but the Drifter knew him. He knew how to anticipate his moves, how to outmaneuver him.

"You’re planning something," Arthur’s voice broke through his thoughts once more, steady but carrying an undertone of concern.

The Drifter turned to face him, his expression grim. "We can’t keep waiting for Viktor to make his move. I’m going to draw him out, make him come for me."

Arthur’s brow furrowed. "That’s a dangerous game. If you go after Viktor, you’re putting yourself in his crosshairs."

The Drifter nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I’ll take the risk. The Operator’s safety is the priority. I can handle Viktor." His voice hardened. "I’ll keep him occupied while you all figure out a way to neutralize the threat. We’ll do it together, but the Operator can’t be caught in the crossfire."

Arthur hesitated, clearly weighing the Drifter’s words. "And you’re sure about this? You’re putting yourself in the line of fire."

The Drifter’s expression softened just slightly. "I’m sure. But we’ll need to keep the Operator in the dark. Viktor’s after him, but I can’t let him know I’m protecting him. It’s a delicate balance."

They had gotten everything ready, finishing their plan.

The drifter walking around in his Nidus Warframe. His Warframe tendrils or rather infestation leaving a foul smell in the air, the drifter didn't mind it but the others did, but no one said anything.

The day dragged on like a slow, unrelenting crawl. The Hex had spent hours driving through the ruins of Höllvania on their Atomicycles, chasing down lead after lead, only to find nothing. The once-bustling streets, now eerily silent, felt like a hollow shell of the city they used to know.

Arthur gripped the handlebars of his Atomicycle, steering it with a tight, deliberate motion as they sped through the ruins. The engine hummed beneath him, its power vibrating through the frame, a constant reminder of the precision required to navigate the crumbling streets. Despite the mechanical prowess beneath him, he felt no satisfaction in the ride. Only frustration.

“I can’t believe we’re chasing our own shadows,” Aoi muttered, riding just behind him, her gaze scanning the buildings they passed. Her Atomicycle glided silently, the hum of her bike a mere whisper compared to the cacophony of their thoughts.

“It’s not nothing,” Arthur replied, his voice tight with mounting tension. “Viktor’s out there. He has to be. We’re just missing something.”

Quincy, riding on his own Atomicycle a few feet back, let out an exasperated sigh. “Every damn lead’s been a dead end. I’m getting sick of this.” His bike revved slightly, his impatience spilling into the throttle. “I want to find him. Now.”

“We will,” Arthur said, trying to keep his tone calm, but it was clear that even he was starting to feel the weight of the hours-long hunt. “We just need to be patient.”

Amir, his energy a constant source of restlessness, leaned forward on his bike, tapping his hands on the handlebars. “I’m tellin’ you, he’s out there. We’re just not lookin’ in the right places.”

The search continued, each lead growing colder with each passing minute. They scoured abandoned buildings, sifted through destroyed communication outposts, and interrogated any lingering shadows in the ruins. Yet every turn they took ended with no trace of Viktor. Each dead end only made the silence around them feel deeper.

The Drifter, his eyes scanning the distant skyline, couldn’t shake the growing sense of dread. His thoughts were consumed by Viktor’s confrontation, the brutal fight that had taken everything from him. Then, there was the Operator—their connection weighing on him, always present in the background like an unspoken truth. And now Viktor... Viktor was out there, obsessing over the Operator.

But where? The thought gnawed at him, filling his mind with doubt and fear.

The hours passed, and the tension inside the group continued to build. They were no closer to finding Viktor, no closer to answers, and the frustration was becoming impossible to ignore. The Drifter glanced over at Arthur, his expression tense, and Arthur could see the same thoughts swirling in his head.

Finally, as the light of day began to fade, casting long shadows over the ruined city, they arrived in a district that felt even more desolate than the others. The industrial sector. Stale air, rusted machinery, broken buildings—everything was in decay here. The sounds of the city had long since faded into the oppressive quiet.

“Another dead end,” Aoi muttered under her breath, the bitterness clear in her voice.

“We can’t stop now,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. “We need to find him.”

The group continued to ride through the district, their Atomicycles humming against the backdrop of silence. They drove through streets that seemed to lead nowhere, alleys too narrow to navigate, yet they kept pushing forward, hoping for a breakthrough.

And then, they saw him.

Viktor.

Standing in the middle of a shattered atrium—a place that had once been the heart of a bustling marketplace. His figure was motionless, his back to them, eyes staring at something far in the distance.

He was almost ghostly in the setting sun, his silhouette framed by the broken glass and rusted metal around him.

He didn’t move. He didn’t acknowledge their presence.

The Hex slowed to a stop, their bikes skidding to a halt on the cracked asphalt. The group stared at him in disbelief.

Aoi was the first to speak, her voice barely more than a whisper. “What the hell...”

“He’s just standing there,” Amir said, his voice low with unease. “Doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.”

Quincy’s hand tightened around his weapon, his face hardening. “Get ready. Something’s wrong.”

Arthur motioned for everyone to stay still, the air thick with tension. “Stay calm. We approach quietly. Weapons ready.”

The Hex dismounted their Atomicycles silently, eyes locked on Viktor. The Drifter’s heart hammered in his chest, the weight of the moment pressing down on him as he observed Viktor. This wasn’t the Viktor he remembered—the man who had fought with him in the streets of Höllvania. This was something different.

Something... wrong.

They crept closer, keeping their distance. Each step was deliberate. The silence between them felt heavy, the world around them frozen. Viktor stood utterly still, his eyes locked on something only he could see. His posture was rigid, unnatural, as though he had been standing there for hours—or even days.

“What the hell happened to him?” Aoi murmured, her voice barely audible.

“Stay focused,” Arthur warned, his tone sharp. “We don’t know what’s going on here. Stay sharp.”

The Drifter, his eyes narrowing, called out to Viktor, his voice calm but carrying a thread of urgency. “Viktor,” he said, stepping forward. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

Viktor’s blank stare remained fixed ahead, as if he didn’t even hear the Drifter’s voice. He didn’t respond to the Drifter’s presence or the Hex’s arrival. His eyes were dull, lifeless.
Arthur, his gaze calculating, held up a hand, signaling for them to stop. “Don’t move. We need to see what he’s doing.”

Amir stepped forward, hesitant. “Should we—?”

“No,” Arthur cut him off, his voice firm. “We wait.”

The Drifter’s breath caught in his throat. Viktor’s lack of reaction was unsettling. His earlier confrontation—there had been rage, hatred, intent. But now, Viktor seemed... lost. Empty.

Then, just as suddenly as they had approached, Viktor shifted. His head tilted slightly, as if he were acknowledging them, but not truly seeing them. There was something off about it—like a mechanical motion, deliberate, but not human.

Arthur’s hand instinctively reached for his sword. “Get ready, this could get ugly.”

The Drifter’s eyes locked with Viktor’s, his pulse quickening. The cold emptiness in those eyes sent a chill down his spine. This wasn’t just a man consumed by vengeance—it was a man broken, lost to something darker.

The Hex tightened their grips on their weapons, their senses heightened. The air around them was thick with anticipation.

Viktor was no longer the man they once knew. And the Drifter had no idea what he had become.

The air around Viktor seemed to grow thick, suffocating him as he stood before The Hex, their weapons still pointed at him but slowly lowering. His breath was shaky, uneven. His eyes darted across the group, a flicker of something—vulnerability, madness, guilt—dancing behind them.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the hum of the Atomicycles parked nearby, their engines still warm. Viktor’s gaze fixed on the ground, his hands trembling at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in a vain attempt to regain control. But the words spilled out before he could stop them.

“You think I’m just... lost. You think I’m some mad dog hunting shadows.” Viktor said, slowly pulling out a pack of cigarettes, pulling a stick out and lighting it.
He let out a harsh, bitter laugh, the sound hollow and cracked. Aoi took a step forward, sensing the weight in his words, but she kept her weapon aimed, unsure of whether to trust him.

“I used to be something, you know. I believed in something... I wasn’t just some soldier. I... I was a protector. I swore to defend this place... my people. Scaldra, Sol, Lua—they were my everything. And now? Now, all I have left is this.” He said as he inhaled and exhaled a bunch of smoke.

He gestured helplessly toward his own chest, as if the hollow emptiness within him could somehow be seen. The Hex stayed silent, but each of them could see the cracks forming in Viktor’s armor—his bravado breaking down piece by piece.

“I was strong once. I could command armies, make them listen, fight for something that mattered... But it’s all gone now. And it’s my fault.” He said looking up into the peachy sky.

There was a tremor in his voice now, a rawness that hadn’t been there before. The realization was sinking in: his belief, his identity—everything he’d held dear—had crumbled. And in its place, there was nothing but a mind consumed by regret.

“I failed. The Tank. Rusalka. My men... They all trusted me, and I let them down. But it wasn’t just the Tank, was it?” He inhaled sharply and let it out after a couple seconds.
His eyes locked with Arthur, who had been standing quietly with his weapon lowered, watching Viktor like he was seeing him for the first time. There was no empathy in Arthur's gaze, only a simmering animosity. Viktor’s broken words couldn’t erase the hatred Arthur felt for the man who had stood as a symbol of everything Arthur despised—zealotry, cruelty, and fanaticism.

“It was that damn..thing. That child. He humiliated me. I’ve never been the same since. He didn’t just defeat me—he crushed me. In front of everyone.” He said as he spit something onto the ground and threw his cigarette at it.

Arthur's jaw tightened. His eyes hardened with a flash of anger, not just from Viktor’s words but from the personal weight they carried. The memory of Viktor’s arrogant, cruel attitude toward The Hex stirred an immediate, deep resentment.

“You’re not the only one who’s been humiliated, Viktor.” His voice was low and controlled, a stark contrast to the raw pain Viktor was spilling. “But the difference between you and me is that I don’t drag others down with me.”

Viktor’s eyes flickered, a brief moment of recognition, but it quickly turned to frustration, his hands tightening into fists again.

“You don’t get it, do you? You never will. You’re a traitor. A terrorist. You’ve turned your back on everything that made us strong—Scaldra, Lua, Sol. You’ve thrown it all away, just like you threw away your humanity when they made you one of them.” His voice grew darker, bitterness seeping into every word. “And now you’re leading these... these abominations, this Hex... they’re not even human anymore!”

Arthur’s hand twitched, but he forced himself to keep his weapon lowered, though the urge to strike was almost overwhelming. He knew this was a dangerous moment, but Viktor’s words—his accusations—were too much. Every part of Arthur’s being recoiled at the idea that he could ever align himself with someone like Viktor.

“You think I’m the traitor? You think I’ve sold out?” Arthur stepped forward, his voice gaining strength, the underlying anger finally breaking through. “I fight for those who have lost everything. People like you. People like me. But you... You fight for a god you never understood, for ideals that have long since rotted away. You’re nothing but a puppet of your own delusions.”

The venom in his words was palpable, but Viktor seemed unmoved, as if the accusations had no weight. His mind was elsewhere, obsessively fixated on the Operator—the only thing that seemed to keep him going now.

“I’ll never stop. I’ll never rest until I’ve found him, until I’ve made him pay for everything he’s done. He’s in my head, and I can’t... I can’t stop it. I won’t stop.”

Aoi, hearing the desperation in his voice, took another step forward. Her voice was soft but sharp with concern.

“Viktor, you don’t have to keep chasing this. You don’t have to be this broken man.” Aoi said, her voice masked with pity.

You don’t understand! None of you do! He broke me—destroyed everything I was. And I’m not done. Not until he’s gone. And neither are you, Arthur. You’re just as lost as I am.”
Arthur’s heart pounded, and for a split second, he wanted to yell, to fight back against Viktor’s words. But instead, he let the silence stretch, forcing himself to remain calm. He could feel The Hex’s eyes on him, the tension heavy in the air. They all knew how deep Viktor’s obsession ran, how dangerous it had become.

They had to tread carefully.

“You’re wrong. I haven’t lost myself. And neither has The Hex.” He looked to the others, his eyes momentarily softening as he spoke to them, even though he still held a deep, burning contempt for Viktor. “We may not have all the answers, but we’re not going to let someone like you burn us down with your hatred. Not anymore.”

Viktor’s eyes flickered with something darker, and for a moment, there was a shift—a tiny crack in the obsessive haze that clouded his mind. But it was only a brief moment. His hands remained clenched, and his gaze locked on Arthur.

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything. To lose everything... and still be standing.” His voice trembled, and there was no doubt now—his obsession was a fragile, fraying thread keeping him upright.

The Drifter watched in silence, his mind racing. The pain Viktor carried was clear, but so was the danger he posed. He had to make sure no one else would get caught in Viktor’s destruction. Not The Hex, and certainly not the Operator.

As Viktor’s final words hung in the air, The Hex stood ready—unsure whether to offer a hand or prepare for a fight.

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the landscape in hues of orange and crimson. The Hex stood in a tense semi-circle around Viktor, weapons still raised but less steady than before. The golden glow of the horizon cast long shadows across the cracked ground, illuminating the raw tension in their faces.

The Drifter, clad in his Nidus Warframe, stood at the center. The organic tendrils of the Warframe pulsed faintly, their eerie light reflecting off Viktor’s haggard face. He stood motionless, his posture rigid, his expression a mixture of defiance and something far more fragile—exhaustion, perhaps, or despair.

“We can help you,” the Drifter said, his voice calm but cautious. He took a careful step forward, the Nidus frame’s energy humming softly. “Whatever the Void has done to you, whatever you’ve been through, you don’t have to face it alone.”

Viktor’s lips curled into a bitter smirk, his laugh sharp and hollow. “Help me? From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just waiting for an excuse to put me down.” He gestured at their raised weapons, his voice dripping with venom. “Don’t pretend this is about kindness.”

Arthur’s grip on his weapon tightened, his jaw clenching as he shot a glare at Viktor. “It’s not kindness, Vodyanoy. It’s pragmatism. You’re a loose cannon, and if you go unchecked, you’ll do more harm than good. We’re offering you a chance to do something useful with whatever’s left of you.”

“Useful?” Viktor repeated, his voice rising as he took a step back, shaking his head. “You think I need you to tell me what’s useful? I’ve survived longer than any of you would have in my shoes. I’ve fought wars you can’t even imagine!”

Leticia, lowering her weapon slightly, spoke with a softness that cut through the tension. “We’re not here to argue about who’s suffered more, Viktor. Everyone here has scars, seen things we wish we hadn’t. But this... whatever this is—it’s not sustainable. Let us help you before it destroys you.”

Viktor’s hand shot up, silencing her. His breathing was ragged now, his face contorted with rage and pain. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need your pity, your lectures, or your judgment.” His eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto the Drifter’s. “And you—parading around in that monstrosity—don’t pretend you’re any better than me.”

The Drifter took another step closer, the Nidus Warframe’s tendrils rippling in response to his emotions. His voice was low, steady, but heavy with meaning. “I’m not better than you, Viktor. I’ve made mistakes too. But running from the people who want to help you—pushing them away out of pride—that’s not strength. That’s fear.”

For a moment, Viktor froze. The words seemed to hit something deep within him, a crack in the armor of his defiance. His lips parted as if to respond, but then his expression hardened again, the vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice breaking slightly before regaining its edge. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of you. And I sure as hell don’t trust myself.”

Aoi stepped forward, her eyes searching his face. “Then start somewhere, Viktor. If you can’t trust us, then trust that we’re offering this because we’ve been where you are. We know what it feels like to lose control.”

Viktor laughed again, but this time it sounded more like a sob. He shook his head, his fists clenching at his sides. “I can’t. I won’t. You think you’re doing me a favor, but all you’re doing is giving me a crutch I don’t need. I have to face this alone.”

Arthur, his weapon still raised, muttered under his breath, “Stubborn idiot.”

Viktor ignored him, turning his back on the group. “If you really want to help, then stay out of my way. Whatever happens next, it’s on me.”

The Drifter didn’t move, the Nidus Warframe’s energy dimming slightly as he watched Viktor retreat into the deepening twilight. His voice was quiet, almost to himself. “It doesn’t have to be.”

As Viktor walked away, his silhouette fading into the shadowy horizon, the group stood in silence. The air was heavy with unspoken words, their weapons now lowered but their emotions were still running high.

Leticia sighed, her voice breaking the quiet. “Do we just let him go? After everything?”

Arthur holstered his weapon, shaking his head. “He made his choice.”

The Drifter didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the spot where Viktor had disappeared. For a moment, the Nidus frame’s tendrils seemed to quiver, as though sensing the weight of the moment.

Finally, he turned to the group, his voice quiet but resolute. “We move forward. If he crosses our path again, we’ll deal with it then.”

The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving them bathed in the soft glow of the twilight. One by one, they followed the Drifter back to their vehicles, their thoughts heavy with uncertainty as the night settled in around them.

Chapter Text

The streets of Höllvania sprawled before him like veins on a withered hand, each alley and avenue a testament to the city’s slow demise. The air was thick with decay, tinged with the acrid scent of burned machinery and the faint, metallic tang of Void energy that seemed to seep from the cracks in the pavement. Shadows pooled in the narrow spaces between crumbling buildings, where the faint hum of flickering signs was the only sign of life.

The Operator moved like a ghost through the desolation, his Excalibur Umbra Warframe merging seamlessly with the darkness. Its jagged armor, worn and scarred from countless battles, caught the dim glow of the failing lights, refracting them into fleeting bursts of unnatural brilliance that danced across the walls like specters. The faint, golden glow of his Warframe’s eyes cut through the gloom, making his passage impossible to ignore for those brave or foolish enough to watch.

Every step was measured, silent, yet heavy with purpose. His thoughts circled endlessly around The Hex. Their presence in Höllvania couldn’t be a mere chance, he knew that much. They operated with precision, their movements deliberate and calculated, as though each step they took was part of a plan too intricate for him to see. They never crossed paths directly, but there was always a sense of being watched, of their presence lurking at the periphery, a reminder that they were always one step ahead.

But now, the roles have reversed. He had felt their trail, subtle but unmistakable, pulling him deeper into the labyrinth of the city. His fists clenched within the armored skin, fingers flexing with a metallic whisper. Answers. There were answers here, answers he had to find, not just about their purpose, but about how they seemed to know him so intimately, as though they had been watching from the shadows long before their paths had crossed. It unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

The city around him seemed to hold its breath, as though aware of the tension building within him. Somewhere in its depths, The Hex was waiting, and he intended to uncover why.

The marketplace was a testament to human tenacity. Stalls constructed from salvaged materials lined the square, their mismatched canopies providing scant protection from the elements. The vendors peddled everything from decayed foodstuffs to trinkets humming faintly with Void energy. The air was thick with tension, a shared unease amplified by the Operator’s arrival.

Conversations ceased as the Warframe’s towering figure entered, glowing trimming a bright gold, he scanned the crowd. His presence was impossible to ignore, his every movement a stark reminder of a power that both terrified and fascinated the onlookers. He was a living weapon, but more than that, he was something the city had never truly seen, an embodiment of the Void, the chaos within it made flesh.

He walked in and looked around before approaching a stall cluttered with Void-touched artifacts. Crystalline shards, their surfaces shimmering faintly, were displayed alongside warped machinery. The vendor, a wiry red haired woman with dull brown eyes, her gaze was as sharp as the broken blade she leaned on, straightened as he approached. Her son peeked out from behind the countertop, eyes wide as the child spotted his warframe.

“You don’t belong here,” she said, her voice low but steady. It wasn’t a challenge, it was a statement of fact, one that cut deeper than she likely realized.

The Operator didn’t flinch. “I’m looking for information,” he replied, his warframes voice garbled and staticy, but it was calm and weighted. “Do you know about a group called The Hex?”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “You mean those things? Like you, but... not.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned closer, her sharp gaze darting around the square, checking for ears in the shadows. “They passed through here. Didn’t stay long. Too much attention was already on them.”

“What were they doing?” he pressed.

“They came storming in,” she said, gesturing vaguely with a tilt of her chin. “Looked like they were searching for something. Or someone.”

Her eyes lingered on him as she spoke the last word. The Operator’s gaze sharpened. Searching for someone..him? Or someone else?

Before he could ask further, she straightened and turned away, almost as if she were dismissing him. The Operator hesitated, but there was nothing more to gain here. He turned around and left without a word.

He moved deeper into the marketplace, the murmurs of the crowd trailing behind him like whispers on the wind. He walked up to another stall, this one laid with scrap electronics and makeshift weapons, and a grizzled man working on a battered rifle.

The clanging of metal paused as the man looked up. “Looking for something, stranger?”

“A group of people,” the Operator said, his voice quiet but firm. “They passed through here recently.”

The man grunted, resuming his work. “You’re not the first to ask about them. Hell of a stir they caused, storming through like they owned the place. Nearly flattened my stall.”
The Operator leaned in, his tone sharpening, frustration creeping into his voice. “Did they leave anything behind?”

The man hesitated, then reached beneath his stall and produced a small, hexagonal device. Its surface shimmered faintly, its edges marred by cracks.

“One of ‘em dropped this,” the man said, tossing it lightly into the Operator’s waiting hand. “Thought it might fetch a price, but no one’s dumb enough to touch Void-touched junk around here.”

The Operator examined the device carefully. It hummed faintly, its resonance aligning with the Void energy coursing through him. A trail, perhaps. A clue. He felt a subtle tug from the device, like a whisper beckoning him forward.

“What’s your price?” he asked looking up at the man, but the man waved him off dismissively.

“Just take it. Bad luck holding onto it, anyway.” The man gave him a long, wary look, his eyes scanning the Operator from head to toe. There was something about his expression, an unease that bordered on fear. It made the Operator pause for a moment longer than he might have. He turned and left with the device in hand.

As he continued down the street, a sudden voice called out from behind him, drawing his attention.

“You won’t find them by following breadcrumbs.”

The Operator stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t heard the boy approach, hadn’t even noticed him in the shadows until the voice rang out so clearly. Turning slowly, the Operator’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the figure standing atop a stack of crates.

The boy was young, with a careless air about him, ragged clothes, messy blonde hair, and a smirk that seemed to stretch too wide. He had an odd confidence about him, as if he knew something the Operator didn’t, something important. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous glint, though the cocky grin never left his face.

“Who are you?” the Operator asked, his voice low. He hadn’t sensed this boy’s presence before, which almost left him grabbing for his sword but he didn't.

The boy leaned forward, his grin unfading. “Doesn’t matter,” he replied casually. “What matters is that you’re asking the wrong questions. You think you’re gonna get anywhere with them, but trust me, you’re just walking into their trap.”

The Operator’s gaze sharpened, an involuntary shiver running down his spine. This boy... He couldn’t place it, but something about his presence felt oddly familiar, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Why would they be setting a trap for me?” the Operator pressed, his voice laced with suspicion.

The boy’s grin faltered, replaced by a more serious, almost grim expression. “You’re not as hard to read as you think. They’ve been waiting for you to show up. You don’t realize it, but you’re exactly what they want.”

The Operator took a slow step forward. The boy’s words were gnawing at him, pulling at something deep within, but he refused to show any sign of uncertainty. He couldn’t afford to. "What do you mean, exactly? Who are they, and why are they after me?"

The boy shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes never left the Operator’s. “Like I said. Breadcrumbs. But keep following, and you’ll find out. Or you won’t. It’s your choice.”

Without waiting for a response, the boy jumped down from the crates and melted into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as he had come. The Operator stood still for a moment, his mind racing with questions and implications. What was that about? Why was the boy so confident? And, more importantly, what was The Hex really after?
As the boy’s words echoed in his mind, the Operator’s hand instinctively pulled out the hexagonal device he’d taken from the market stall. It hummed faintly in his grip, its resonance undeniable, a tether to the Void and to the mystery that had been pulling him forward.

Without another word, the Operator pocketed the hexagonal device and turned away, the boy’s voice fading into the distance. The warning echoed in his mind, sharp and insistent.

On the roof of a nearby building, the Operator examined the device again. It hummed faintly, its resonance aligning with the Void energy coursing through him. The connection was undeniable—it had been left for him to find, a breadcrumb of a different kind.

He looked up, his gaze fixed northward, toward the fractured skyline of Höllvania. What lay ahead? The Hex was waiting, of that he was certain. The boy’s warning echoed in his mind, but it didn’t deter him. It only sharpened his resolve. Whatever this was, whatever they were waiting for, he was going to find it.

With the hexagonal device as his guide and purpose renewed, he descended into the labyrinth of Höllvania’s streets, moving with a renewed sense of determination. His mind buzzed with a singular focus.

The Operator's heartbeat echoed inside his chest, amplified by the resonance of the Excalibur Umbra Warframe he wore. The armored suit’s dark, intricate plating hummed with power, attuned to his every movement. He felt a quiet, eerie pull as the device in his hand pulsed, a faint yet urgent call guiding him through the decaying streets of Höllvania.
Umbra’s shadowy presence matched the gloom of the city around him. The familiar weight of the Warframe was both a blessing and a curse. It gave him power, strength, and speed, but it also reminded him of the pain and loss that followed him. The device, glowing faintly in his grip, served as the only constant in this war-torn world. The whispers it emitted seemed to vibrate through his armor, as if speaking to the Warframe itself. But it wasn’t just the device, it was him, or rather, the Void’s energy running through him.

He moved, like a shadow among shadows, pushing past the remnants of a life long lost. The streets of Höllvania were twisted, warped by the Void’s corruption, where nothing was what it seemed. Buildings collapsed, foundations crumbled, and forgotten remnants of the past sat in silent ruin. The echoes of a civilization long gone reverberated, but now only darkness lingered.

The Hex had passed through here. He knew it. The device had pulled him to this place, he could feel their presence in the air, like an electric charge that tugged at his mind. The whispers in his head grew louder, each one more insistent. The closer he got, the more the Hex’s energy radiated from them, and the more he found himself sinking deeper into the enigma that was their purpose.

He gripped his blade tighter. His Excalibur Umbra Warframe’s exalted sword, gleaming with dark energy, hummed with an eerie anticipation, its crimson hue almost alive. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a part of him now, forged in shadow, just like the path he walked.

The path led him to an old, crumbling structure. His scanners picked up faint traces of Void corruption—a manifestation of something far more dangerous than he could comprehend. He stepped inside, and the immediate pressure in the air seemed to thicken around him. The walls of the building pulsed, as if they were breathing. Strange symbols covered the surfaces, their glow dim but unmistakable. Orokin in origin—ancient and enigmatic. The presence of the Void hung in the air like a thick fog.

It was here, the device seemed to say. The connection grew stronger.

The Excalibur Umbra Warframe’s systems flickered as Void energy lapped at his consciousness. He could feel it—like claws scraping against his mind. His thoughts were suddenly heavier, weighed down by the pervasive sense of unease. The Warframe fought back, its energies resonating with his, but even it couldn’t completely ward off the Void’s influence.

The whispers grew clearer. They weren't just memories—they were fragments of someone else’s thoughts.

"Come closer... we know you... You can hear us..."

The voice was familiar, yet distant. A figure from his past, but not his own memories. The Operator’s eyes narrowed as the whispers clawed at the edges of his thoughts. It felt as though someone was trying to invade his mind, and he knew, with a shiver, that it was the Excalibur Umbra—its connection to the Void stronger than his own.
And then he saw it.

A shadow darted across the hallway. A flash of steel.

His breath caught. No—this wasn’t just a fleeting image. It was a call to action. The Excalibur Umbra’s nikana was already in his hand, a lethal weapon that had been with him longer than he cared to admit.

But before he could react, the figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat in the stillness.

The Operator shook his head, trying to steady his thoughts. Focus. He was getting closer.

He moved deeper into the heart of the structure, feeling the weight of the Warframe bear down on him. The whispers from the device grew louder with each step, as if guiding him. The warping presence of the Void wasn’t just in the air—it was inside him, feeding off his connection with Excalibur Umbra. The power within the suit thrummed with dangerous anticipation.

The more the device guided him, the more the Void sought to breach his mind. Memories—fragmented and jumbled—began to flash before his eyes. He saw a world—the world twisted and shifting, created by the Drifter’s hand. The landscapes bent, and the sky warped in strange hues. He felt a pull, a desire to understand it all. The Drifter was the key. But why?

"Do you remember us?" a voice crooned in his ear.

The Operator jerked his head to the side. It was a woman—her figure flickering for a moment before her lithe form appeared from the shadows. Her glowing eyes cracked with electricity, a reflection of the energy that buzzed around them.

"You’re close," she whispered, her voice carrying a strange weight. "Too close. You don’t know what you’re meddling with."

Her words only fueled his determination. “I have to know. What are you? What have you become?”

She stared at him for a long, unsettling moment, her gaze unflinching. There was something unreadable in her eyes, like pity or resignation. "You think you’ll find the answers by following us?" she asked, her voice low, almost mournful.

"I already know," he replied, his voice cool, steady despite the chaos swirling inside him. "You’re more than what you were. And you’re hiding something. I need to know what it is."

Before he could speak again, she was gone, slipping into the shadows like she had never been there at all.

The Operator’s pulse raced. She was right, but so was he. There was more at play here than just following The Hex. There was something deeper at work—something that he had yet to fully grasp.

His journey led him to a long-abandoned chamber. The device in his hand pulsed brightly now, its light illuminating the space in flashes of orange and white. Ancient symbols covered the walls, familiar in a way he couldn’t place. The air was heavy with the remnants of Orokin energy, as if the place had once been a sacred space for their technology.
The Operator stepped forward, his Warframe’s shadow casting long across the room. It was here, in this forgotten place, that he felt it—the final piece of the puzzle. The memory that had been pulling at the edges of his consciousness.

The Drifter.

He saw him standing in the center of this room, his figure framed by the glowing walls but it was blurry.

The tension in the room crackled as the Operator stood frozen in the chamber, the hum of his Excalibur Umbra Warframe reverberating against the ancient walls. The device in his hand pulsed steadily, its light casting wild shadows, and the air felt thick with power. His heartbeat was sharp, almost erratic, and the whispers that had followed him for so long now crescendoed into a cacophony of voices, pushing him toward the truth.

Then, a sudden noise broke the silence. A distant clang, followed by the unmistakable thud of footsteps. The Operator’s gaze snapped to the source, his Warframe’s systems immediately tuning to the faintest fluctuations in the air. His mind raced; whoever this was, they were close, and this was no coincidence. They had found him. Or perhaps, he had found them.

A figure emerged from the shadows, sleek and armored, with the fluid, predatory grace of a creature forged in the darkness. The Operator’s hand tightened around his nikana, its glow flickering in time with his pulse. He wasn’t prepared for this fight, but the answers were within his reach, and nothing was going to stop him now.

The enemy didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Instead, a blinding surge of energy burst from their Warframe. The air hummed, and the ground beneath their feet trembled with the sheer force of the power unleashed. The Operator’s Warframe reacted instantly, moving with a fluidity born of necessity. The shadowy, ethereal nature of the Umbra Warframe’s movements was perfectly suited for this kind of battle—a dance between two shadows, each knowing the other’s steps.

The first strike came without warning, a bolt of energy, sharp and brutal, slamming into the Operator’s chest. The impact sent him staggering back, but he recovered quickly, his Warframe’s armor absorbing the worst of the blow. He slashed forward, the exalted sword cleaving through the air with terrifying speed. But the enemy was fast…faster than he had anticipated, evading the blade with an agility that betrayed their formidable skill.

A burst of electric energy crackled along the enemy’s Warframe, and they lunged toward him, their own blade flashing in the dim light. The Operator parried, their weapons clashing with a resounding shockwave that sent sparks flying. The battle was a blur of movement—every strike met with a counter, every maneuver designed to unbalance the other. It was more than just a physical confrontation; it was a battle of wills, of the Void itself manifesting through them.

The Operator’s mind swirled with confusion as his foe’s movements became a blur, the flashes of their blade and the sudden bursts of energy disorienting him. And then, through the chaos, he saw it. A flicker of recognition. This wasn’t just another opponent. This was a figure from his past. A figure who had once walked beside him, but whose face was now a distorted memory.

“Why?” The word slipped from his lips, a question born of anger, confusion, and desperation.

The enemy’s voice came low and cold. “You still don’t understand, do you? We were never meant to be apart.”

A crackling surge of energy shot from their Warframe, a wave of pure Void power. The Operator dodged, but the force of the blast caught the edge of his armor, sending him tumbling backward. He hit the ground with a grunt, his Warframe’s systems struggling to compensate for the damage.

But there was no time to pause. His enemy was already closing in, blade raised for the killing blow. The Operator’s mind raced, searching for the answer he needed, for the key that would end this fight.

And then, in a sudden flash of insight, he realized. The figure before him wasn’t just an enemy. It was a reflection of himself—twisted and corrupted by the same Void energy that had consumed him. The battle wasn’t just about defeating this enemy; it was about understanding what they had become and how to escape the same fate.

Summoning every ounce of his strength, the Operator focused on the energy coursing through him. The Excalibur Umbra Warframe resonated in harmony with his will, its energy flaring brighter as he summoned the power of the Void itself. He twisted his blade, channeling the raw force of his connection with the Void into a single, decisive strike.

The blow landed with an explosive impact, shattering the enemy’s defense. The figure staggered back, their Warframe flickering as if losing its connection to the Void. The Operator pressed forward, his blade flashing in a final arc that cleaved through the enemy’s armor, sending them crashing to the ground.

For a long moment, the world stood still. The Operator stood over the fallen figure, his breath ragged, the weight of the battle settling over him. The device in his hand pulsed one last time, its light dimming as if in acknowledgment. He wasn’t sure whether this victory was his alone, or if it had been won at the cost of something far more precious.

The whispers in his mind grew faint, almost inaudible. The war within him had only just begun, and the answers he sought were still just out of reach.

Chapter Text

The chamber door creaked open with a groan, its echoes stretching into the suffocating silence. The Operator stumbled forward, his Nikana dragging against the cracked concrete floor, the blade pulsating faintly with cursed Void energy.

Each step felt heavier than the last, his legs trembling beneath the weight of exhaustion. His breaths were uneven, shallow gasps that scraped at his throat, a struggle to anchor himself to reality amid the encroaching haze of fatigue and pain.

His Warframe Excalibur Umbras towering form like a vigilant shadow, its golden eyes scanning the area with an ever-watchful intensity. The Warframe’s movements were fluid and precise, contrasting sharply with the Operator’s unsteady gait. Umbra’s presence was a source of strength, but even that seemed distant now—a fading echo against the relentless pull of exhaustion.

The narrow alley that had led him here was a labyrinth of decay, the walls lined with crumbling bricks and overgrown with patches of moss. The faint glow of distant streetlights cast fragmented beams through the broken windows, but the oppressive darkness clung to every corner, offering only fleeting moments of solace.

As they reached the entrance of the dilapidated structure, the Operator hesitated, his blurred vision settling on a rusted underground access hatch. His instincts screamed at him to stop—to turn back—but his body moved on its own, driven by a desperate need for refuge. With unsteady hands, he pulled the hatch open, the metallic screech echoing into the quiet night.

The air inside was thick and stale, carrying the tang of rust and decay. The walls of the underground chamber were lined with dormant machinery, their surfaces coated in decades of grime and dust. Shafts of pale light filtered through the cracks above, illuminating the swirling particles in the air. The Operator staggered deeper into the dark space, his steps faltering as his vision swam.

And then the alarm blared.

The loud blaring alarm echoed through the desolate structure, an unwelcome reminder of the precariousness of their situation. The Operator slumped against the cold, crumbling wall, he transferred out of his Excalibur Umbra, who then turned to help him, its glowing eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor. His breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps, and his hands trembled as he tightened his grip on his Nikana and the wall. Void energy sparked faintly along the blade, a cursed residue of his recent battle.

A deafening wail shattered the silence, its piercing tone reverberating through the hollow corridors. The Operator froze in terror, his entire body tensing as the sound raked against his frayed nerves. His Nikana slipped from his grasp, clattering noisily to the ground, Umbra immediately moved to shield him and grab the nikana, then crouching protectively as the Operator stumbled into a shadowed corner behind a stack of crates.

The Operator stumbled behind the boxes, his hands groping for support as he slumped against the cold, crumbling wall. His breaths came in rapid, uneven bursts, and sparks of Void energy flickered along his trembling fingers.

Umbra immediately shifted towards his surroundings, its armored form moving to shield the Operator from any potential threat. The Warframe’s low growl-like hum echoed faintly in the background, a protective warning to anything that might approach.

Across the structure, the members of The Hex reacted to the alarm with practiced urgency.

“What the hell is that?” Arthur barked, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his blade.

Eleanor’s sharp gaze darted toward the source of the sound. “It’s the security system,” she said from her mind. “Something—or someone—tripped it.”

Quincy hefted his weapon, his broad shoulders tensing. “This ain’t just a stray animal,” he muttered. “That alert means intruder.”

Arthur’s voice cut through the tension like steel. “Split up. Eleanor, Amir—check the lower levels. Quincy, Leticia, Aoi, you’re on the higher levels. Drifter, you’re on the west wing outside. Report back immediately if you find anything.”

The team moved swiftly, their movements a blur of calculated precision. Eleanor led Amir into the shadowed depths of the structure, her weapon raised and ready.
“Think it’s some big bad Void thing?” Amir whispered, his voice tinged with both excitement and unease.

Eleanor shot him a withering look. “Stay focused. Whatever’s down here isn’t playing games.”

The Drifter lingered for a moment, his thoughts churning. He couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion clawing at his mind—the Operator. Could it really be him? The idea sent a jolt of anxiety through him, but he kept his fears to himself, following Arthur’s orders without a word.

Eleanor and Amir made their way down the dimly lit corridors leading to the underground levels. The faint hum of the mall’s outdated systems provided an unsettling backdrop to their tense silence.

Amir broke the quiet first. “So, uh… you think it’s another one of Quincy’s ghost stories?”

Eleanor shot him a sharp look. “Focus, Amir.”

“I am focused,” he mumbled, gripping his blade tighter. “It’s just… I don’t feel good about this. Something feels… off.”

Eleanor stopped abruptly, her hand raised to silence him. Her purple glowing eyes narrowed as she scanned the darkness ahead. There’s something here, she thought, and as she did, her Protoframe’s abilities expanded outward.

In the storage room, the Operator felt a presence. It wasn’t physical, but a sharp, invasive pressure in his mind, as though someone were reaching in and tugging at his very soul. He gritted his teeth, grasping the wall, but his body betrayed him.

Eleanor’s voice echoed through the corridor, sharp and unyielding. “Whoever you are, come out. Now.”

The Operator flinched at the sound, his heart hammering in his chest. He pressed himself further into the shadows, his body trembling with the effort to remain upright. Umbra shifted slightly, its posture protective, but the Operator knew they couldn’t stay hidden.

Eleanor’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the stillness. She stood at the mouth of the corridor, her weapon raised, her glowing eyes scanning the darkness. Amir lingered behind her, his hand hovering near the hilt of his gun.

The Operator tried to steady himself, using Umbra’s arm for support. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying dangerously.

There he stood—ethereal and otherworldly. His long white hair spilled over his shoulders and down his back, gleaming faintly even in the dim light. His mismatched eyes—one a bright yellow, the other a deep red—glowed faintly. The translucent, embroidered cape he wore fluttered with each step, an elegance that contrasted with his visibly frail state. His pale skin was almost luminous, a haunting beauty that both mesmerized and unsettled.

The Operator swayed, barely able to keep himself upright. His lips moved as if to speak, but no sound came out. His exhaustion was evident, his breaths shallow and labored.
Eleanor’s weapon was raised the moment she saw him. Amir froze beside her, his eyes wide with both awe and fear.

“Is that…?” Amir started, his voice barely a whisper.

“Call the others,” Eleanor snapped, not taking her eyes off the Operator. “Now.”

Amir’s voice cracked as he spoke into the communicator. “Uh, yeah, we found something. Or, uh… someone. You might wanna come see this.”

The operator tried to take a step but Eleanor’s yelling voice pierced through him. Her voice was steel.

“Stop right there. I won’t warn you again.” She said and leveled her weapon at him.

The Operator paused, his mismatched eyes—one bright yellow and orange, the other dark red streaked with orange—locking onto hers. His gaze was tired, haunted, but there was no malice in it.

Umbra was behind him, its towering frame gleaming ominously in the dim light. It emitted a low growl-like sound, its movements slow and deliberate, as though daring them to attack.

The rest of The Hex arrived in record time, their weapons drawn and their expressions ranging from confusion to outright hostility. Arthur was the first to step forward, his sharp gaze landing on the Operator. His jaw tightened as his eyes swept over the frail, trembling figure, noting the unearthly glow of his mismatched eyes and the way his hair fell in cascading waves of white.

“What… is this?” Arthur’s voice was low, demanding, but tinged with an edge of disbelief.

The Drifter came around a corner, he pushed past the members and stopped, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He didn’t wait for an answer, he moved with a sense of urgency, his long strides carrying him directly to the Operator. His eyes locked onto the smaller figure, and in that instant, the world around him seemed to fade.

The sight of the Operator—so weak, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths—hit the Drifter like a blow to the chest. This wasn’t the same enigmatic being he had known, the one who radiated an almost unbearable otherworldly presence. The one who was undefeated in his eyes. This was someone weakened, stripped bare of all defenses, teetering on the edge of collapse.

Quincy was the first to speak, his voice a low growl. “That’s him. That’s the thing I told you about.”

Leticia hesitated, her healing aura flickering faintly as she observed the figure before her. “He doesn’t look dangerous,” she said softly, but her words were drowned out by Quincy’s scoff.

“Doesn’t look dangerous? Look at him! That’s Void corruption if I’ve ever seen it!”

The Operator swayed again, barely managing to stay upright. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no words came out—only a faint, hoarse whisper.
“Stop,” Arthur said, stepping forward. His voice was steady, but his eyes were hard. “We don’t know what he is, but we’re not taking chances.”

“Wait,” The drifter said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. “He’s not a threat.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Explain. Now.”

“He’s… He’s one of us,” the Drifter said, his voice unsteady but resolute. “I can’t explain everything, but I know him. He needs help.”

The Hex exchanged uncertain glances. Leticia was the first to lower her weapon, her expression softening. “He looks like he’s about to collapse.”

The Operator blinked up at them, his mismatched eyes glassy with exhaustion. His lips parted as if to speak, but before he could, his body went limp.

“Hey—” The Drifter caught him just in time, cradling the smaller figure in his arms. The Operator’s head rested against his chest, his breathing shallow but steady.

The room fell silent as The Hex watched the scene unfold. For a moment, there was no tension, no suspicion—just the quiet sound of the Operator’s breathing as the Drifter held him close.

The faint click of a gate closing echoed behind him, unnoticed in his haze of exhaustion. He had wandered for what felt like hours through darkened alleys, his vision swimming and his thoughts disjointed. Now, this abandoned building seemed like a sanctuary—a place where he could rest, if only for a moment.

The Operator stirred, struggling to recall his body but ultimately resting against the drifter. His long white hair, tangled and gleaming faintly, spilled over his shoulders as he laid against the drifter. For a moment, all the tension drained from his face, he felt his features softening in unconscious relief.

Eleanor’s voice rose, sharp and demanding. “Who is he? What is he?”

The Drifter didn’t look up, his focus solely on the Operator. “He’s my responsibility. That’s all you need to know.”

Leticia stepped forward, her weapon lowered. “At least let me take a look at him. He’s barely breathing.”

The others hesitated, their distrust palpable, but one by one, they lowered their weapons.

The Drifter offered a faint smile, relief washing over him as he watched lettie walk over, kneel and look at the operator. He cradled the Operator closer. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, he hesitated, his throat tightening as he struggled to find the right words. How could he explain to the hex to trust him, trust the operator.

The others exchanged wary glances, their tension palpable. Quincy’s brow furrowed deeply, his massive frame taut like a coiled spring.

The Drifter stood carefully, cradling the Operator. His arms tightened protectively, his body positioned between the fallen figure and the wary stares of The Hex. “Trust me,” the Drifter said lightly, his voice filled with resolute. “He’s not what you think.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with hesitation, but he didn’t lower his blade. “You’re asking us to trust you. But right now, we don’t even know what he is—or why he’s here.”

Some of the group began to lower their weapons, slowly, though their gazes remained wary. But Quincy stood firm, his broad shoulders squared and his expression a storm of anger. His weapon didn’t waver as his piercing eyes bore into the Drifter.

“You expect us to just trust you? To trust this… thing?” Quincy’s voice was sharp, each word cutting through the tense air. He then jabbed a finger toward the Operator, who lay limp in the Drifter’s arms. “We don’t even know what it is. For all we know, it’s another Void creature sent here to kill us—or worse.”

The Drifter’s jaw tightened, his own anger flickering beneath the surface. “I said he’s not a threat,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don’t understand—”

“No, I don’t!” Quincy snapped, stepping forward. “Because you won’t tell us anything! You keep expecting us to just follow along blindly, but this?” He gestured to the Operator, his voice rising. “This is too far. You’re putting all of us at risk because of… him.”

“Quincy, stop,” Leticia said sharply, but her words only seemed to fuel his frustration.

“I’m done,” Quincy growled, lowering his weapon but not out of trust—out of resignation. He turned on his heel, his heavy footsteps echoing through the chamber as he stalked off. “I’m not going to stand around and watch you get us killed.”

The tension lingered in the air long after Quincy disappeared into the shadows. The Drifter’s grip on the Operator tightened, his protective instincts only deepening in the face of the group’s mistrust.

For a moment, the silence was oppressive, broken only by the Operator’s shallow breaths. Then Arthur spoke, his tone calm but firm. “Drifter, you’re going to have to explain this. Soon.”

The Drifter didn’t look up, his focus entirely on the fragile figure in his arms. “I will,” he said quietly. “But right now, he needs rest.

Chapter Text

The backroom of the mall was silent except for the low hum of the Void conduits pulsing faintly against the walls. The dim, uneven lighting cast shifting patterns across the floor, like ripples on a dark, restless sea. In the middle of the room, the Operator's physical body lay limp on the mattress, his pale face drawn and almost translucent in the glow. His hair spilled across the fabric in shimmering white threads, curling faintly at the edges as if the Void itself lingered there.

Above his body, the Operator’s spectral form hovered, cross-legged and faintly translucent, tethered to the physical realm by thin strands of shimmering energy. His glowing eyes—one an intense, almost searing yellow and the other a deep crimson streaked with orange—flickered softly like dying embers. He sat still, his form flickering faintly, as though even maintaining this state was a struggle.

“I never thought it would come to this,” the Operator thought, his voice echoing in the confines of his mind. “Watching myself like I’m already gone. How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Time doesn’t feel real anymore.”

The operator said as he thinks now. It has been more than a couple days he thinks.

He tilted his head slightly, gazing down at his inert body. There was no panic, no sense of urgency, only the quiet weight of resignation pressing down on him like a leaden shroud.

“Am I even alive? Or just another ghost wandering this war-torn world?”

The question lingered in his thoughts, unanswered. He raised a hand—thin, ethereal, and faintly glowing—and stared at it as it flickered in and out of focus. A memory surfaced unbidden: his hands steady on the controls of the Orbiter, strong and certain, back when he still felt like himself. Now, even this spectral form seemed fragile, unraveling at the edges like threads in a frayed tapestry.

He looked down again, his gaze drawn to the trail of his hair resting over the side of the mattress. It glowed faintly, catching the soft light of the Void conduits. “It’s still here, still growing,” he mused, his thoughts shifting. “A reminder of what I used to be. What I’ve lost.” His chest ached—not physically, but deeper, a pain that felt like the Void itself gnawing at his soul.

A sudden pang, sharp and suffocating, shot through him, pulling his attention away. The swirling liquid-metal corruption wrapped around his physical arms twisted, the tendrils tightening as if sensing his detachment. The glow intensified briefly, a warning that he was still bound to his failing body.

“They don’t trust me,” he thought bitterly, closing his spectral eyes. “I wouldn’t either if I were them. I’m everything they fear—a walking reminder of the Void, of what it’s done to all of us. But I can’t leave. Not yet. Not until…”

The thought trailed off, unfinished, as another wave of exhaustion swept over him. He tried to push the ache away, but it lingered, growing heavier. Slowly, his spectral form dimmed, flickering like a candle on the verge of being snuffed out.

And still, the Operator floated, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to return to himself.

The air in the mall was heavy, the tension almost as tangible as the Void energy thrumming faintly in the walls. The members of The Hex stood in a loose circle, their voices sharp and strained as they argued. Behind Quincy, hidden beneath a thick cloth stained with grease and wear, the plate of intricate Orokin design lay tucked away—a gold and white enigma they had taken from the drifter and decided to hide it.

Aoi paced the room, her arms crossed, her movements as restless as the energy crackling faintly along her Protoframe. “We’ve let him stay here too long,” she said sharply, her glowing eyes darting toward the backroom door. “He’s more Void than human at this point. What’s to stop him from turning on us when it suits him? And besides, he's just…laying there.”

Arthur stood at the head of the group, his knightly frame rigid with authority. “Aoi’s right. The longer he stays, the more dangerous this becomes—for all of us,” he said, his voice steady but grim. His hand rested on the hilt of his gleaming blade, a gesture that wasn’t lost on the others.

Leticia, the group’s healer, frowned, her brows knitting together as she leaned against the wall. “We don’t know enough about him to make that call,” she said, her tone soft but no less firm. “What if there’s a way to help him? What if—”

Quincy cut her off, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Help him?” He snorted, crossing his bulky arms over his chest. His frame towered over the others, a walking fortress. “He’s an open Void conduit, Leticia. Help him, and you risk letting the Void in. Do you really want to bet our lives on that?”

Amir, perched casually on the edge of a table, leaned forward with a mischievous smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s hiding something,” he said, his tone almost playful but laced with suspicion. “You don’t sit in the backroom, glowing like a damn nightlight, unless you’ve got secrets. And if he’s connected to that plate—” He nodded toward the hidden Orokin artifact, “—they both are, now we’ve got more than just Void corruption to worry about.”

Eleanor, standing slightly apart from the others, spoke for the first time, her voice cool and distant. “It doesn’t matter if he knows about the plate or not. What matters is that his presence here is a risk we can’t afford to take. The Void doesn’t play fair, and neither should we.”

The group’s distrust crackled like a live wire. Arthur raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. “We have to do something,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the team. “Waiting only gives him more power. If we act now—”

A shadow fell across the mall, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence. The group turned toward the doorway, where the Drifter leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes gleamed faintly, the scars on his face catching the dim light.

“You’re not doing anything to him,” the Drifter said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Arthur stepped forward, his blade lowering but still within reach. His voice, though steady, was raised enough to cut through the room like a knife. “Drifter, this isn’t about you!” he barked. “It’s about all of us. Do you even realize the risk you’ve brought into this place? If he’s connected to that plate, like you are, he’s dragging us toward another Void-fueled catastrophe—”

“He’s not your enemy!” the Drifter snapped, cutting Arthur off, his voice ringing with defiance. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, as if bracing for a blow. “He’s my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility?” Arthur spat, his voice rising now, his eyes blazing with disbelief. “And what happens when your responsibility gets us all killed? When the Void tears this place apart because of him?”

The Drifter pushed off the doorframe, stepping fully into the room, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the group. His voice was low but sharp, brimming with barely restrained fury. “I’ve been with him longer than any of you,” he growled. “I know what he’s capable of and what he’s not. You think I’d let him stay here if I thought he was a threat?”

Arthur stepped closer, his blade glinting under the dim light as his hand tightened around the hilt. “Don’t you dare play that card with me,” he snapped, his voice cracking with frustration. “You’re blinded by your own guilt! Whatever happened between you two—whatever history you have—it’s clouding your judgment. And it’s going to get us all killed!”

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices, the group splintering into a shouting match. Aoi’s voice rose above the others, sharp and crackling with emotion. “He’s not your problem anymore, Drifter! He’s all of ours, whether we like it or not! If we don’t act, he’ll act—and you know it!”

Leticia’s voice, usually calm, broke into the fray, trembling but firm. “Have any of you even considered that he might not want this? That he’s not some monster just waiting to destroy us?”

“Wake up, Leticia!” Quincy roared, his booming voice silencing hers. “That’s exactly what he is! He’s a Void conduit! He’s already gone! The only thing left to figure out is how much of him is going to take us with him!”

“Enough!” the Drifter bellowed, his voice cutting through the room like a thunderclap. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” His voice broke slightly, raw with desperation. “You think I don’t see what the Void has done to him? You think I don’t feel it every time I look at him?!”

Arthur’s gaze narrowed, his voice dropping into something cold and cutting. “Then you should know better,” he said. “The Void doesn’t leave survivors. It twists. It corrupts. And he’s no exception.”

The Drifter took a step forward, his jaw tight, his voice trembling with anger. “Maybe. But I’m not letting you touch him.”

“Then you’re as much of a danger as he is!” Arthur roared back, his voice echoing in the confined space. His hand went to his blade, drawing it part way as if daring the Drifter to make the next move.

The room fell into a strained silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing. The group stared each other down, their faces taut with anger and distrust.

In the corner, the covered plate seemed to hum faintly, its presence a quiet reminder of the secrets and lies festering beneath the surface.

The drifter hummed angrily and walked back to his room.

The hallway void door opened, leading him to his companion, he knelt down next to it and petted it, feeling the fur and smiling. He then stood up, as if remembering something.

He walked up his stairs, turning into the room.

The operator's body laid there,on his bed, his hair still growing slowly, but still noticeable. He sat on his couch, grabbing the book that lay next to him.

The Operator floated in the corner of the room, watching his own motionless body lying on the floor. It was surreal, almost dreamlike, to see himself so still, so vulnerable. His long, white hair fanned out beneath him, catching the faint light-like threads of starlight.

He hesitated. Returning to that frail vessel meant feeling everything again—the weight, the exhaustion, the overwhelming tension in the room. But the Drifter’s words—pleading, raw—clung to him.

“You’re still in there,” the Drifter had said.

The Operator closed his glowing mismatched eyes and let himself drift downward. His form shimmered faintly as it approached his body. With a soft pulse of Void energy, his essence slipped back into the familiar, constricting shell.

A sharp inhale broke the silence as the Operator’s chest heaved, and his eyes fluttered open.

The Drifter froze for a moment, his tense shoulders sagging with relief. “You’re back,” he said softly, his voice betraying just how tightly he’d been holding onto hope.
The Operator sat up slowly, his movements stiff and sluggish. He didn’t look at the Drifter right away, instead staring down at his pale hands. “I wasn’t gone” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost detached.

The Drifter got up and went to stand beside him, he hesitated before sitting fully on the bed, just a foot away. His movements were slow, careful, as if he were trying not to spook a wounded animal.

“They’re planning something,” the Drifter said after a beat, his voice low but steady. “The Hex. They’re scared of you, and they’re letting it cloud their judgment.”

The Operator finally turned his head toward the Drifter, his glowing eyes locking onto him. There was no anger in his expression—just a quiet wariness and something deeper, harder to name. “What are they going to do?” he asked, his voice softer than before but trembling at the edges.

The Drifter’s jaw tightened, his scarred face hardening with frustration. “Nothing,” he said firmly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The Operator’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head slightly. “You can’t stop them. They’re all armed to the teeth, and they’re—” He paused, searching for the words. “They’re afraid of me. That’s a dangerous combination.”

“They’re afraid because they don’t understand you,” the Drifter countered. “They see the Void and what it’s done, and they think you’re just another monster it spat out.”
The Operator’s gaze dropped to his hands again, his fingers curling slightly. “Maybe they’re right,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

The Drifter leaned forward, his voice sharpening. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” The Operator’s voice rose slightly, though it still carried a hollow edge. “You’ve seen what the Void can do. What it does to people. To things. I’ve felt it inside me—changing me.” He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “If they’re scared of me, maybe they should be.”

The Drifter reached out, not hesitating anymore, and placed a hand on the Operator’s shoulder. The touch was firm, grounding. “You’re not a monster,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “I don’t care what the Void has done to you. I know who you are.”

The Operator’s shoulders stiffened under the touch, but he didn’t pull away. “You don’t know everything,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“I know enough,” the Drifter said. “Enough to know you don’t deserve this.”

The Operator finally looked back at him, his glowing mismatched eyes shimmering faintly. “What if they decide I do?”

“Then they’ll have to go through me first,” the Drifter said, his tone hard and unyielding.

The Operator stared at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. When he found none, he exhaled softly and pulled his knees to his chest, curling into himself. “I don’t trust them…not now” he admitted, his voice a whisper.

The Drifter’s hand remained on his shoulder, a steady presence in the growing storm. “You don’t have to,” he said. “Trust me instead.”

The Operator didn’t respond right away. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he said after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You can,” the Drifter said firmly. “You’re stronger than you think. And I’ll be here, no matter what they try to pull.”

For the first time since waking, the Operator’s lips quirked into the faintest semblance of a bitter smile. “You make it sound so simple,” he said softly.
“It’s not,” the Drifter admitted. “But we’ll figure it out.”

The Operator stared at his eyes, staring at the faint glow of Void energy that still lingered in the room. His expression was calm, composed—but the storm beneath it was impossible to ignore.

“I hope you’re right,” he murmured.

The Drifter didn’t answer, but his hand on the Operator’s shoulder said enough.

“Besides, I have something for you” The drifter said as he got up and walked away, smirking.

The operator looked at him, confused but intrigued.

“Got me what?” The operator asked.

The drifter stopped at his desk, which had a computer on it. He then proceeded to dig around for a bit. He suddenly straightened up and walked back to the operator, hiding something behind his back. The operator prepared for the worst.

“What is that….” The operator said in disbelief as he stared at what the drifter was holding out in front of him. What lay in his hand was a cube ... .of spaghetti?