Catlin was adrift.
She had felt such strange disconnection before when the Grineer queen interrupted her transference, poisoning her with her essence in an attempt to steal her body. Catlin had felt like this—severed from her own body, as though left to float away through the fiery tendrils of the Void. But back then, Teshin had been there to guide her mind, feeding her memories of an ancient Orokin palace and freeing her powers from Margulus’s bonds.
There was no guiding influence now, no thread of sanity for her to follow. I was actually there, on the Railjack. Cy and I died together. She saw nothing but darkness, felt only a diffuse fuzz that passed through her as easily as she passed through objects with only physical presence. How could she feel anything?
Wasn’t supposed to happen, said the voice that had driven Rel to insanity. The voice that kept her up in the small hours of the night, and whispered things she shouldn’t know when no one else was around. I’m not finished with you.
The voice still sounded like her—her perfect double, just like the fallen Entrati patriarch had seen. But that ancient Orokin was dead now, just like the fallen Tenno. Whatever the speaker was, he always had a target. Apparently death itself couldn’t separate them.
It took her an endless eternity to figure out how to say anything in response. But the Man in the Walls was a patient creature, a timeless being. It was willing to wait for her to learn to speak in this substanceless nothing. Did you save me? she finally asked.
Implied causality. Action taken leads to saving brings you here. This place is everywhen. You’re dead, you’re dreaming, you’re dying. All are true.
Unhelpful, like so many of the other things this creature said. She didn’t need another lecture on Eternalism. But what was the point of objecting? She was “dead” now, utterly within its power. What do you want with me?
You are many things, he said, apparently not even trying to answer her question. Or more likely, not caring. A knife, a rifle, a hammer. But sometimes, a lever. You’re gonna lift something for me, kiddo. Try not to drop it.
The fuzzing, burning, was suddenly far more intense, charring her whole body. There would be no blissful oblivion here—she burned, nausea turning at her stomach in a suddenly familiar sensation.
Transference static—this was what happened when she tried to manifest in the battlefield, but harm disrupted her projection and flung her back into her warframe.
The sensation was irresistible, cramming her mind into a body with an agony she couldn’t express, since she lost her mouth to scream. This was so much worse than any static she’d experienced before, intense enough that Catlin could briefly understand why so many of the ancient Orokin researchers had lost their minds while studying the Void.
But how was this possible? Was she being sentenced to the same torment Rel had endured, locked into one of her warframes forever? She couldn’t ask anymore. The timeless, dimensionless nothing vanished from around her, as her mind settled into a warframe. She was laying on an Orokin derelict, her face inches from faintly glowing, undulating spores. Yet that was where the familiar features ended.
She tried to stand, bracing her hands against the ground. But they didn’t respond correctly, her fingers were completely numb. When she tried to push off, she lifted easily to hands-and-knees. But instead of shoving to her feet, she only bucked violently upward with her forelegs, flailing them uselessly before settling onto the ground again.
What the hell kind of frame is this? She reached subconsciously for the reference database, the one that would supply her mind with a brief summary of the frame’s abilities. The node was there, but no knowledge filled her. Just feelings—fear, confusion, and distant despair.
Memories. This was no sterile, lifeless frame, mass produced by fabricator blueprint. This was something else. Something like Umbra. It felt her. But unlike the incredible strength of that frame, this time the presence withdrew, fading like a dream upon first waking. If I can’t do that, then… Catlin tried withdrawing her control over the frame, projecting her body onto the battlefield the same way she’d done a thousand times before.
She gathered the necessary void-energy, then—static. Something held her down with an instant, overwhelming pressure. Like trying to use her powers near a disruptor, though there were none around her. She was trapped. Am I like this forever? Stuck in this… bizarre frame, helpless?
But as talkative as the demon had been moments before, she heard nothing, and didn’t feel its presence watching her.
The one time it doesn’t want to whisper confusing nothings at me… But Catlin wasn’t the kind of person to wait passively for the world to resolve itself into order. First, understand yourself. She could almost hear Teshin’s voice in her mind even now—though it couldn’t be the real thing, or else he’d be telling her to visit the Conclave.
Catlin tried to obey the advice anyway, scanning the room for a gold surface that hadn’t been covered with infested slime, and walking over to it. This frame was stranger than any she’d ever used—far harder than Oberon’s hooves, or Titania’s nimble wings. But if she could adapt to a Necramech, she could handle this.
By the time she found a reflective surface, she wasn’t stumbling. The shape she saw reflected there resembled some ancient photos of extinct Earth wildlife, though she couldn’t remember the name. Four legs, with joints that didn’t bend the ways she expected, and a lithe, nimble build.
There’d be no way to change the colors, so she’d have to be content with the reds and grays of the strange old frame. I wonder how much torture you endured to be twisted so far, she thought. Was it Ballas, or some other Orokin?
It did not respond—but that wasn’t unexpected. Reconciling with the ancient Excalibur had taken many days and much research.
The frame had no obvious features that suggested what its abilities or method of combat might be, other than the horn atop its head. It was swept back and stylized, a little like a Nyx. There was a tail too, or at least an elegant collection of flowing transparent fibers meant to represent one, with the usual Orokin grace. But why make a deadly war machine look like an extinct animal?
Something moved in the hallway behind her, squelching and crunching on the infested ground. Of course she wouldn’t be alone forever. Something had noticed her.
It was an ancient, elder thing, its body a disfigured mass of unrecognizable tentacles and writhing growth. But the ancients were the most dangerous infested, made strong by age and feeding.
Catlin’s curious pondering snapped aside, replaced by endless dreaming centuries of slaughter. She’d been given a handicap, it was true—she had no mastery of this frame, or any of its abilities. She might just die if it was overwhelmed by the fight.
She leapt on the nearest infested, smashing into its chest with careful pressure from her forelegs. It didn’t matter that she was smaller and lighter than her enemy—it was all about leverage. She spun through the air, rebounding off the wall to bring both legs down into the creature’s mutilated head. It exploded under the pressure, spraying infested ichor in all directions.
Ugh, that stuff is awful. She scrambled off the body, trailing green fluids as she tried to maximize distance. Now where was something to fight with in this ancient ship? Of course none of her carefully honed and modded tools would be here—but she’d take a Stug over fighting everything with her feet.
The room around her wasn’t empty, though her eyes glazed over at most of it. She’d seen so many old ships like this that much of what they contained blended together. There was a single strange device against the far wall, one that stood out for its simplicity. A wax disk spinning slowly in a mechanical cylinder, with an oversized funnel opening down. Some Ostron tool, maybe?
Did he send me to Earth? At least then I’d be able to get back to the Dojo and rejoin the others. Someone can help me out of this frame.
But first, she had to escape. In the few seconds it had taken her to survey the room, half a dozen infested had clogged the doorway. There were none of the Grineer or Corpus variety—all were ancients, limbs long and grasping. A few radiated with elemental powers, festering in this place for endless eons.
Strange. Am I the first one here? That would be the first time that had ever happened, if it were true. The Tenno were children and newcomers to the galaxy, compared to so many other factions. Catlin usually only got anywhere in time to pick up the pieces.
But there was no time for academic considerations—Catlin fought. The Orokin had crafted her to be a murderous tool, and so she murdered. But for less time than she expected. Usually the infestation was an endless thing, swarming over her until it was time to evacuate. But it felt like only minutes before the last of the ancients fell beneath her, and no more shambled from distant corridors to take their place.
Catlin stood practically knee-deep in dozens of bodies, her frame covered in slime and refuse. She was breathing heavily now, and limping on one side from damage she’d sustained. And that is why you don’t fight in an unmodded frame without weapons.
She should probably get going, and find her way back to Cetus or some other friendly port as quickly as she could. Maybe she would meet someone who could get a transmission up to Ordis, before he lost his mind with grief over her “death.”
But she hadn’t lived this long by rushing. First she had to search, breaking into every overgrown locker and supply-box she could find. This proved a fortuitous decision, when she stumbled past the room she’d woken up in and over to the ship’s armory.
Most of what was stored within had been rotted by the infestation as surely as the rest of the vessel. But a single shelf of mods still had its security field intact. Slotting them into her frame without the aid of an armory, or her own human body to do the dexterity-dependent tasks, was hardly a pleasant experience.
But considering the damage she’d taken and the uncertain path to escape, she was willing to delay an hour if it meant getting a Rejuvenation working.
The pain of her broken body began to fade as the frame suddenly gained the capacity for self-repair. Far too slow to be useful in combat, but she wasn’t in combat anymore. For some reason.
Her hopes of finding some ancient cache of honed Dax weapons were dashed, but at least the locker had a Burston that still fired. She slung it over her back, along with the least corroded blade. She might get a few dozen strikes out of it before it shattered.
We’re gonna get through this, she thought, as much to the frame she was wearing as to herself. I have friends, they’ll help us.
For a second she could almost feel the presence of the mind within, or what was left of it. It watched her—but it had the same senses she had. As soon as she walked back into the hall full of corpses, it fled again, overwhelmed.
That was curious. Weren’t most warframes created using powerful warriors? Why use someone who was too afraid to fight?
Catlin turned, and realized suddenly that her gun was floating beside her. She spun wildly, and the gun matched her intention, as though she were holding it with invisible hands. What the hell is this? She stumbled forward a few steps, until she found metal clean enough for a reflection. The gun was floating, surrounded with a pale reddish glow the same color as a similar glow on her horn. Can I…
She imagined slinging the gun across her back, and it obeyed, settling there almost without effort. Okay. I guess that explains how I’m supposed to do anything without hands. By no means was this the strangest ability she’d seen from a frame. It probably suggested how she could use it to fight, if she could weaponize that power somehow.
But first we have to find a way out of here. She scooped up the strange Ostron tool using her new ability, then set off into the derelict to search for an exit.