Chapter Text
One of the last Orokin Foundries on Lua is buzzing with life.
A stone's throw from your main base of operations, the concave halls of the clean porcelain room are gilded with a typical Orokin gold. Open rectangular cubbies line the walls, set deep enough to give shelves and countertops to the otherwise monotonous space. Indicator lights dot each segment, automating the process of calculating the storage capacity of every resource.
It's a modest inventory, all things considered. Your Tenno are disturbingly adept at hoovering up every crafting resource they can get their Warframes' hands on. The materials you collect and store here are closer to that of a scrapyard than a treasury: the leftover pieces sent to you from a multitude of Tenno Operatives and the like.
If you had to answer, the more valuable items in here wouldn't be the things cozied up in the vaults. They would be the gifts you've received from your children — the items you've been placing gently around the home you've been making of Lua. This Foundry room is speckled with drawings and handicrafts… with notes and letters and plants and flowers.
The original collection of presents are kept safely in your Lotus Chambers, hidden in a pocket of cloaked space somewhere within Lua. You deem these little trinkets and drawings too precious to allow them to sit away from your watchful eye… So to the Foundry you go — to personally run every gift you receive through your own Sentient scanners. To examine, download, and perfectly replicate… brandishing very simple blueprints for your peace of mind.
Maybe the Tenno would laugh if they found out about your routine… but you can't help it. It's only good practice to keep copies of what you cherish.
You approach the life-sized Foundry with reverence in your collected gait. She is taller than you — older than you. Housed within an entire wall, her multitude of mechanical arms stretch down the middle and extend neatly outwards, hard at work crafting the latest blueprint you've fed her.
Part of you thinks it's a pity for such a handsome piece of machinery to spend her time with the little items you usually assign her to… but even though the old lady bashfully assures you that she's content with what she has, you found yourself wanting to give her something a bit more enriching.
So you gave her something you've wanted to have a hand at building yourself.
A blueprint for a Warframe.
A blueprint for Mirage.
You take a seat next to the diligent machine, listening politely to her buzzing as she crafts. You smile when she tells you she's enjoying this project, even though she's a bit embarrassed about how her more intricate spools and widgets took a while to whir to life. Letting your optics rest upon the nimble figure being fabricated in her hands — Mirage's red, white and black flesh cloaked in a protective blue construction field — you can't help but synthesize a purr in your throat.
"You're doing excellently."
She responds with an elegant flicker of her lights.
You usually feel Margulis' amusement tickling your mind whenever you talk to a machine. Amusement and endearment… She finds you very charming, very cute, even though interfacing with your fellow synthetics is a regular day-to-day occurrence for you. You aren't quite sure what to do with the attention, but at least you find solace in the fact that it's a positive kind.
In all fairness, Natah exhibits a similar curiosity to all organics. You can count on both hands how many times she's gone on tangents about the silent, interwoven mastery of nervous systems and instinct, the strategic pulsing of the most tender Human organs, the tantalizing marriage between ribbons of sinew and keratin… the heady tones of iron in the sticky films of…
Hm. Maybe the underlying nature of Natah's fascination is best left untouched.
Speaking of the duo. Your voices have been… busy… these past few days. You think you hear their whispers occasionally, giving you the assurance that they're still there, but in all truth and honesty… You wish you hadn't, because the pair have figured out something very dire…
That a Sentient mindscape grants an inexplicable degree of ability to its inhabitants.
Imagination and fantasy are the only limits to a mind.
Natah and Margulis are using those limits to have the raunchiest lesbian sex — right behind your eyes.
Sometimes you think the things they let you hear are their own practical jokes. If so, they must be poor comedians; they have yet to make you laugh.
Still. Your voices' growing boldness and mental antics in your shared headspace spur more than just annoyance in your systems. You recognize the bitter silvers of envy trickling from your core — trickling from a source more deep-set than you'd like…
You hadn't chosen just any old Warframe to build on a whim.
While Natah and Margulis engage in the divine sharing of pleasantries, you find yourself drifting to older memories. You're careful to wade past the thick brambles that shelter the most traumatic events of your three lives — your path is practiced, and deliberate. You have one particular set of memories in mind… One person that you keep on visiting…
Mirage. The Original.
One of the first sentient Warframes you met during the Old War. A captivating woman… Unpredictable. Almost incorrigible. A performer by design, a performer through flesh, and a performer through spirit. When you realized she hadn't a Tenno to her Transference hooks… you, decidedly, left her alone.
Or at least, you tried to.
To say Mirage merely took an interest in you would be false.
You disliked inconveniences… Meaningless obstacles. But Mirage… With a satin, rose red ribbon she managed to dance around your distaste and into your heart. She left you with no time to react — she clearly toyed with you, clearly reveled in worming reactions out of you. Every time she pried your attention to her, she saw a victory, and she wouldn't let you forget it.
Where the Tenno would disregard her irregularities during missions as a quirk of her manic character, you saw through her patterns. It was something more than blatant disrespect of your command; it was a ruse… A ploy to hook herself into your gaze and make a Void-damned throne out of it.
How bold she was, to find ways to tease you right underneath Orokin scrutiny… How clever… How… irritating.
It all served to house a feeling you didn't recognize then: An inexplicable sense of thrill.
This was no Zariman child. This was someone who glued herself to you for her own entertainment.
And you couldn't deny it — it was fascinating. It sparked bolts of static in your metaphorical pins and twisted hooks in your metaphorical wires. It tapped into your natural urges as a Sentient: your curiosity… your desire to learn… your desire to adapt.
Sometimes, you let your curiosity lead you. Sometimes, you wouldn't look away when she caught you staring. Sometimes, you let her whisk you away from your command post, where you were supposed to stay unflinching, watching over the Tenno with no breaks between.
Sometimes, you would break the pattern. You would join her parole. You would watch over her mastery tests in person. You would become her lone audience, as she turned your simulation into her stage with nothing but the whims of her grace and her rhythm.
You would realize… that her movements were now laced with a softer edge. No longer was every sharp prod and pointed jerk accentuated with the beheading of a foe. She was elegant, ethereal, as you watched the lines of her body curve and dip with a fluidness you hadn't seen on the battlefield.
In that simulation, she looked peaceful. Every so often, her gaze would flit to yours. You would let yourself smile. You would tip your head and nod your encouragement. She would respond like you'd just administered a liquid surge through her veins — she would laugh, she would beam, and you would feel it: the wide, gory grin underneath her fleshy metal skin.
Mirage wanted to put on a show just for you.
You would feel a warm, pulsing ripple in your core… You would picture yourself alongside her agile figure, you would dream of mimicking her every movement… You would become her perfect mirror.
Sentient as you are… these thoughts permeated every synthetic fiber of your being.
Only for you to reel back.
...And shuck yourself into that command post again.
When she died on that ship… under your charge… between the climaxes of the Old War, your grief made you sever the memory. So many reasons for guilt, so many untold words…
The strands of memory were cut, and cut… abandoned in your data stores, never to be brought to the surface again. Never by your own terms.
By the miracle of your Radiance… these memories have returned in all their entirety. And you've been turning through their pages with a somberness that no longer wishes to be caged.
You miss it. You miss her. The safe thrill, the false danger. Mirage was sadistic in her exuberance and exuberant in her sadism, but she nurtured a kind spirit alongside it. She kept you safe from the Orokin — distracted them during those little gallivants around pristine golden halls — knowing how integral you were to the Tenno operation… how much you had to enjoy her surprises in secret.
Now that the golden era has toppled and you've nothing to tether you… your mind now clear and steadfast even with the two irritating anomalies that accompany them… You feel safe. Calm… Relaxed. Happy. But something's missing from routine.
Natah and Margulis have already discovered what it is.
The more you think about the Warframe, the more lovesick you realize you are. When Natah speaks in rhyme and riddles, you hear Mirage. When Natah challenges your gaze, you see Mirage's cocksure demeanor. When Margulis teases you with her lilting touches and quiet chuckles, you feel Mirage's sly grin; etched into your mind.
You tuck your wrists behind your elbows and lay your head on the desk, hiding a sigh behind your arms. Absently, you trace your finger in little circles around the Foundry wall, watching the light reflect off your painted nails.
Despite your complaints, you wish your voices would say something. Respond to your remorse and heartache with… just about anything. Your trains of thought feel much more homely with them around; you can't imagine a life without them anymore.
Even if Natah's awful Sentient warbling accosting a wanton moan from Margulis may be all you'd have to go by for conversation.
Your lips quirk upwards at the imaginary scenario, a tiny laugh blowing through your nose. If nothing else, you can at least be grateful that they're having fun, finding release in one another's respective mind-body. "Why do Sentients think?" is a sufficiently easy question — "Why do some of them develop sexual inclinations?" is a bit more difficult to answer. While the answers to both are wonders of the universe, the latter has you flustered.
You know for a fact that Natah is more than comfortable with explaining it. Once, you caught a glimpse of the way her porcelain hands "rest" upon Margulis' rear, and somehow you don't get the feeling she worries where her proclivity comes from.
One day… Maybe one day you'll try taking from her example.
The Foundry chirps with a sharp buzz. Five minutes remain until she completes her work. You realize something pressing.
You have not considered what to actually do with a fully built Mirage.
You subconsciously tip your helmeted head to the side. The Warframe is stone still, and she will keep being stone still without any outside intervention. You built her to remember your shared past, but how?
Will you let her stand sentinel? Speak to her as you speak with your Foundry unit? Will you move her around Lua, only reminding yourself that the woman you fell in love with can no longer act and dance on her own accord?
Will you be torturing her by not assigning her to an Operator? Have you already tortured her by simply building her?
Your neural systems frazzle.
These questions never made their way through your mind, especially not before your Radiance… Your old helmet and all its external tampering gave a new meaning to the word "duty-bound".
You run a quick recalibration, smoothing out your metaphorical wires.
Natah sees Warframes as nothing but dead bodies. She remembers more clearly how they tore apart Sentient-kind, and she remembers the revelation of the Tenno puppeteers like a holy sigil emblazoned on her mind. She much rather focuses on the Warframe capacity to destroy than to feel.
Margulis knows all too well about the Warframe conversion process… She remembers the strangled screams and the tortured retching from the Helminth rooms. She believes the Original still persists within every copy. Their conscience folded, subdued, but present nonetheless.
You?
You… want to see a fellow machine woven between all that Infested sinew. A synthetic life form, just like you. A blur of Human and Not Quite There… Just like you. A haphazard smattering of white and black…
Just like you.
Your helmet lights start to pulse. You realize now… how deeply set your desire for a companion is. The continued existence of Natah and Margulis within your mind only embellishes that. You aren't sure how your Sentient programming was able to split your mind into three individual souls, but perhaps the answer has always lied in the name — your "Sentient sentience" has always been a potent force to breathe life into new vessels.
You purse your lips, chewing on the hypothesis. It begs the question— it begs many questions. Just a moment ago you were pondering: Is an empty Warframe really that empty?
But now. Your attention clicks onto a new subject, and it latches tightly around your mind as your optics feed floats over to Mirage.
What would happen if a Sentient like you were to perform Transference?
Your helmet lights flicker.
You stare at Mirage for a while.
You stare at Mirage for a long while.
You stare at Mirage for a very long while.
Until the Foundry unit clicks and beeps with a happy little musical sting. She folds her mechanical arms back into her chassis, and you listen to her steady movements with an almost vacant expression on your features. You whisper your thanks before she sinks into a much deserved slumber.
The blue construction field enveloping Mirage is cleared. You run your optics over her for what must be the trillionth time in the past minute. She's just as you remember her: she stands an entire head shorter than you. Her beady little circles for eyes and the amusing red and black shape of her headdress… Her colors are asymmetrical, flipped around her limbs and torso. It should disorient your Sentient side, given your kind's insistence on perfect symmetry, but… you only feel your systems groan with longing.
Mirage is here. But Mirage is not.
Maybe she can see you. Maybe she can sense you. Maybe the only thing she can't do is move on her own.
Or play with you.
Or remember you.
None of it stops the wrenching in your chest. It frankly does quite the opposite.
Your core shudders.
You want her back.
In a near haze, you switch your receptors to their base Sentient functions. Forgoing what logic tells you, you power down your own optics feed, and you connect your neuroptics interface directly to the Warframe's. A Transference hook flickers online in your peripheral, making your fingers tingle…
And you reach for it. You wrap your Sentient tendrils tight around its base, feeling the strain in every plane of your being.
You wait, and squeeze, and wait. But that tingle in your digits… it's all you get.
You ignore the bitter howl of your core. Gathering your energy, you move past the general utilities in the forefront of the Frame… the near useless lines of code even your Sentient mind glosses over… and you stop. You're right in front of the mental firewall — where the Infestation finally blocks your mechanical reaches from moving any further.
The firm set of your jaw betrays your defeat. You tremble within the cavernous walls of the Warframe's hollow datascape.
The Helminth strain taunts you. You can hear it…
Laughing…
Your optics feed claps open.
The Foundry is empty.
Mirage is gone.
You bolt to your feet — the force sends your chair clattering into the opposite wall. Your helmet meets your hands with a synchronized slap as you furiously flip through your most recent memory logs.
This isn't a hallucination — you really did build her. She really did leave.
Impossible.
Your posture stiffens, your neural systems now on high alert. You launch a scan of the surrounding area. Your interface with Mirage is still intact, but the feed is indecipherable.
A flutter in your peripheral vision. It snags your gaze with laser-point precision.
"Mirage?"
You hear a giggle — a bright, vibrant laugh. The sound echoes from the depths of your mind.
A blip appears in the corner of your minimap.
You give chase.