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The landing pad buzzed with static as skiffs sailed through. Void watched, as the trails of the ships disappeared into deep space, a resonant hum filled the space around him.
Beside him, Pahanin stood quietly. The tremors had stopped—the frantic, shallow breaths now deep and even. He seemed grounded, for now. But Void furrowed his brow. The Vault had left marks that ran deeper than flesh.
Then, Pahanin brought his hands closer to his chest, and stared into the sea of shifting stars.
He spoke, "Why come here? To the shore. This place, it reeks of Fallen."
"Well, I had something to do". Void leaned on a railing, "and a damn good reason to do it."
Pahanin raised a brow, his gaze was unreadable, "what would that be?"
Void sighed, "You saw it, didn't you? The City's changed. Neither you nor I recognize it anymore."
He paused, and a stillness passed over them. As the stars pulsed, a hum echoed, akin to a heartbeat.
"It's time I made something of my own," Void said finally. He looked out over the Tangled Shore, eyes tracing its jagged silhouettes and flickering lights. "No better place to start."
Pahanin nodded, sparing the shore a glance.
"What about you? What now?" Void asked.
"I don't know" Pahanin muttered, "I feel lost. It's a strange feeling, as if the world's left me behind."
Void tapped a gloved finger against the railing. Thoughtfully. Measured. "Then join me," he said. "I need help. Someone like you? You're exactly what I need."
Pahanin hesitated. His lips parted, then closed. He didn't speak, only stared—haunted by memory, weighed by something unspoken. But Void could see it—the resolve flickering beneath the wreckage.
"I…" Pahanin began, glancing back at the stars. "Are you sure?"
"Well, considering you and I both can't go back. We need a stronghold." Void nodded, "No better place than the shore, we can lay low."
A sullen silence hung between the two.
Eventually. Pahanin nodded, "Alright."
"Alright," he said. "I'll head back to Earth. Gather my tools. We'll need space if we're setting up for real."
"Leave it to me, I'll get right on it." Void smirked.
As Pahanin got to his feet, his Jumpship roared to life. But then he turned back, his gaze lingered.
"Maybe lay low for a while. Just—make sure you're here when I'm back, alright?" He muttered.
Void flashed a faint smile, "I'm not planning on dying this early", then he turned to the horizon and spoke softly, "Can't die till I pay back the vault."
Pahanin's face lit up, the two locked eyes and a faint hope seemed to bloom in his eyes. The hunter transmatted to his ship, its thrusters flickered and the Jumpship warped away.
Void stood there long after it disappeared, arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing.
The Tangled Shore stretched before him like a graveyard. And yet, it breathed. In the darkness between wrecks, cliffs and floating asteroids, life squirmed. Fallen life.
Void pulled his hood lower, and disappeared from the platform.
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[Thieves Landing, Tangled Shore]
The tangled shore was a drifting graveyard, stitched and given form through asteroids and shipwrecks. It lingered beyond the Awoken Reef. A handspan away from the Queen's influence.
It was lawless.
And thieves landing was its rotting heart. A port carved from hulking warships with hundreds of landing pads joined at the edges, welded from rock and rust. The air was thick. Ether fumes polluted the horizon, masking the scent of dying engines and centuries old grease.
Fallen skiffs descended in slow rotations, their engines humming in staccato bursts. They offloaded crates, bartered for scrap, weapons, slaves, and glimmer. The rules were unwritten but understood—power governed all. Betrayal wasn't a question. It was tradition.
Void watched from a nest of girders and vent shafts above the main thoroughfare, cloaked in silence. His gaze followed the movement of every patrol, every deal, every unsheathed blade. Crews barked in guttural Eliksni, their guttural speech sharpened with tension. A few wore modified helmets that translated their words into clipped, accented English. Others simply didn't bother.
The Fallen crews were intermixed with rogue awoken, and human mercenaries. Void wasn't surprised, he'd half expected to see a guardian or two in their mix, after all, glimmer was the great unifier of races.
Void flickered, moving from shadow to shadow, observing everything that took place.
Then he saw them.
A crew of Fallen broke away from the crowd, their formation tight and practiced. They cut through the congestion of traders and loiterers, heading toward an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the landing zone. Their armor was polished, their weapons military-grade. They weren't common pirates.
Void's eyes narrowed. There it was—on the leader's shoulder: a crude white insignia, etched in haste but clear enough to be recognized.
Void stood, his silhouette dissolving into the dim air.
He vanished.
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[Old Warehouse]
The interior was stripped and skeletal—support beams exposed like ribs, walls corroded with age. Metal creaked overhead, and dim amber lights flickered with unstable voltage. The Fallen crew moved quickly, unloading crates with practiced efficiency. Each container hissed as it opened, revealing neatly stacked munitions, ether canisters, and data caches wrapped in alloy mesh.
They were in a rush. Every gesture, every grunt was laced with urgency.
Void clung to the rafters above, motionless. He tracked the rhythm of their work—their breath, the low clicks of their jaws, the flex of talons around crate handles. He mapped their routines with mechanical precision.
Minutes passed.
The crew took a brief pause. Ether flared from their masks as they inhaled, basking in their harvest. Then came the low murmurs of chatter—Eliksni dialect, tense and sharp.
Void dropped silently onto a catwalk overlooking the floor, crouched like a predator.
He counted seven of them. Lightly armoured, but well-armed.
And from what he could tell, this wasn't just a trade hub. This warehouse was a relay. A waypoint.
'Spider's already expanding business. That sleazy bastard.' Void chuckled to himself.
There was only one reason Void deemed it necessary to keep tabs on spider's crew, his was the only syndicate vulnerable to outside collusion. And if all went according to his plan, Spider's syndicate would become his stepping stone.
A moment later, the chatter stopped.
The warehouse pulsed with unseen currents—the hum of distant engines, the whisper of boots against steel. Ether flared in small bursts, casting fleeting glows against rusted walls.
Finally, a communicator rang, and he heard a familiar voice.
A gravelly Eliksni rambled about the standard of his loot.
"…loot quality is substandard," the Eliksni grumbled, dragging syllables like a merchant tasting bad wine. "If I wanted trash, I'd trade with House Devil. Clean it up before my buyers arrive."
Void's eyes narrowed, 'That's Spider alright. Couldn't forget that voice if I wanted to.'
The crews stood at attention, the communicator pulsed again, and finally it died.
With their orders in place, the crews seemed ready to depart. Unfortunately for them Void had decided they wouldn't be leaving with any loot.
Void dropped from the catwalk, emerging from the shadows like a wraith. As the crew performed their final checks, so had Void.
'Let's keep it old fashioned.'
Void flicked his wrist, equipping a sidearm from his inventory. He trained the iron sights on the ether tanks.
He whistled.
A sharp, rising note that sliced through the air.
The warehouse froze.
Fallen heads turned, mandibles twitching. Weapons lifted.
But it was too late, Void squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash was blinding.
The ether tanks erupted, ripping through crates and torsos alike. Shockwaves slammed into metal walls, vapor curling through seams. One Vandal was thrown into a girder. Another screeched before his mask shattered under debris.
Void stepped over bodies, weaving through flickering flames and hissing vents till he reached the centre of the room.
A Vandal lunged through the haze, crackling arc-blade raised—Void ducked low and fired once. The Vandal dropped, spine severed.
"That wraps it up," he muttered, exhaling slowly.
He stepped through the smoldering wreckage, boots crunching over glass and scorched metal, until he spotted it—a communicator, half-buried under debris, still flickering.
"Obsidian," Void called, twirling his sidearm once before holstering it, "copy the codes. Prep a message."
With a sharp hiss of static, his Ghost materialized—eye glowing cold blue.
"Roger. What do you want to say?"
Void didn't answer immediately. He strode to a nearby crate, pried it open, and pulled out a grenade. With practiced ease, he nestled it inside the pile of remaining loot, then took a few steps back.
"Tell him…" Void raised his weapon, lining up the shot. "I'll be paying a visit soon."
Obsidian hovered slightly higher. "That's it?"
Void smirked. "He's not dumb. He'll get the message."
He fired.
The crate detonated with a thunderous blast, fire blooming outward as shrapnel and ether canisters ignited. In the chaos, Void vanished into the smoke, leaving behind only a blinking communicator in the centre of the scorched floor.
A few hours later, the Tangled Shore roared to life. Patrols doubled. Alarms blared.
And in the heart of the lawless frontier, the House of Spider stirred.
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