Chapter Text
Two seconds.
Approximately ten to twelve paces.
Umbra knows this fact well. Two seconds. Ten to twelve paces. The exact time and space it takes to patrol from the INFESTED ROOM to the doors of the Operator. The child. The Operator-Child. Two seconds. Ten to twelve paces. Begun when the Operator-Child goes to their room to sleep and stopped when they wake up.
The Cephalon complains (“If you keep doing that you’re going to walk a valley into my hull!”). The Cephalon complains a lot (“This possessive pacing is —LIKE A PATHETIC DOG — a bit excessive, don’t you think?”). All the Cephalon does is complain (“Operator is extremely safe inside the Orbiter, Warframe, there’s no need to do this — SO STOP ALREADY YOU STUPID—“).
Umbra ignores the Cephalon. It is irrelevant. It is also correct. There is no need for this patrolling. The INFESTED ROOM is securely sealed, the ROT WITHIN bound to its torture device, unable to venture forth and harm Operator-Child unless they themselves enter it. That is why Umbra settles into standby during Operator-Child’s waking hours in front of the INFESTED ROOM’s door. The Cephalon does not complain about this.
(No. That is a lie. The Cephalon complains that if Umbra was so bothered by the INFESTED ROOM then he could “pick up a broom and dustpan and finally clean that mess up”. Umbra ignores this too.)
Two seconds.
Approximately ten to twelve paces.
Umbra does not let its thoughts wander beyond these small yet irrefutable facts. Umbra does not think often, nowadays, though it is vaguely aware it had done so intensely, many times, long ago. Mind always running calculations - both social, cunning and political - as he shuffled people and situations around like stones on a Komi board, safe in his pride that no one could possibly see through his schemes-
No.
Umbra is not that, anymore. There is a tranquillity, in not allowing its mind to progress beyond its current point in time. It had spent so long writhing in the thorny past because it had been too focused on the future, that staying in the immediate now was far more peaceful - painless. Empty, perhaps, but peaceful.
Two seconds.
Approximately ten to twelve paces.
It has been three hours since Operator-Child went to sleep. Umbra patrols. Two seconds. Approximately ten to twelve paces. The Cephalon’s now grumbling complaints. Ceaseless. Umbra patrols. The Cephalon complains. Umbra paces. The Cephalon grumbles. A cry emits from the Operator-Child’s rozeropointfivesecondsthreepaces
Umbra is inside the Operator-Child’s personal quarters.
Hand on sword hilt, stance squared - threat search-
“Really now, this Warframe-! Umbra, it was only…”
Empty.
Incorrect. Operator-Child occupies the room. Umbra is standing over them. No threats nearby - or on the Orbiter. Well, of course not. Umbra has been patrolling the outer corridor and there is no other ingress point. Unless the Sentient threat has created teleportation means as of yet unknown to Orokin both past and present, no intruder would have managed to infiltrate Operator-Child’s room without Umbra detecting it.
It a feels a prickle of - something.
Embarrassment?
Odd.
But it had heard…
Umbra shifts its focus downwards. Operator-Child is curled up, small hand clenched into the hem of its blanket, their sleep anything but peaceful. Sweat beads their brow, expression tense - as if in concentration, or pain.
“…it was the Operator, Warframe.”
Umbra tilts its head to indicate acknowledgement of the Cephalon. The next logical step would be to resume patrol. Operator-Child was safe here - physically. There was nothing for Umbra to do. But.
But.
But?
But.
Umbra finds itself reluctant to move. It watches Operator-Child sleep, a vague sense of wrongness pervading it though it cannot identify the source. The Cephalon is grumbling at it again - but that is the norm. Umbra ignores him.
It cannot ignore Operator-Child. It takes half a pace forwards, until the edge of the bed bumps against its legs. Operator-Child makes another noise - a quiet, incoherent noise that is not dissimilar to a dying animal. Umbra feels that wrongness surge again and it scans its immediate environs sharply.
Nothing. But.
But its memory is not so gone that it cannot recognise the scene. Operator-Child is- a child. A child performing feats and undertaking tasks that would make a Dax wake up in cold sweats. It is normal for them to have nightmares in response. It is not good - but it is normal. It is not something that requires a Warframe - not of Umbra’s specialisation. It can cut down physical threats, but the mental… no.
It could not cut down even its own demons. The child is- Operator-Child is better equipped to deal with this.
Then what is this sense of wrongness?
Is there a threat its instincts were detecting, but its physical sensors could not? Umbra moves away from the bed, pacing the cramped perimeter of Operator-Child’s room. It is dark but there is little clutter - no clutter. It is spartan, with the only decoration being the Sentient helmet that Operator-Child clings to like a comfort toy when they think they are alone.
Umbra ignores it. It completes its circuit of the room. Operator-Child rolls over, feet kicking the blanket until it is tangled around their legs, a quiet, distressed whine caught in their throat. Umbra unthinkingly grasps the edge of the blanket and pulls it back over Operator-Child, tucking them in-
It freezes.
It freezes, hands gripping the edge of the blanket, hovering half-an-inch from settling over the boy’s- Operator-Child’s chest. It had been an instinctual movement. Unthinking. A familiarity to it, as if he had done it countless of times, because he had, when Isaah had been small and still believed that a monster lived in his closet, and so he had to tuck him in, murmuring that no monster will ever harm him because-
( “-it will have to get through me first.”
“But, what if it’s super strong?”
“That won’t matter, because I’m the strongest, remember? I promise, I’ll protect-“)
Umbra recoils.
( “I promise, I’ll-“)
Stock still. It stands stock still, letting that hazy, smudged memory disintegrate. I promise lingers on the edges, sour and bitter and tasting of rot, drowning underneath the echoing scream of - the scream. Umbra stares at the Sentient helmet. It thinks about the expression on Ballas’s face when its blade slipped into his gut.
The nausea fades.
The Cephalon is complaining again. Its words buzz like a swarm of insects. The wrongness thumps like a war drum inside Umbra’s chest cavity and it clenches its hands, knowing it needs to - do something, but unable to ascertain what or where to direct this energy. It paces the short length of Operator-Child’s room, back and forth, three times.
Only three, because it realises that the Operator-Child’s breathing rate has shifted. It returns to their bedside, to their eyes wide open, staring at him with an expression of confusion and wariness. Umbra understands. It was not long ago it had this boy’s throat underneath its palm, squeezing with lethal force. Now they have woken up to that same Warframe prowling their room while they slept without good reason. Umbra would be disconcerted too.
“U-Umbra?” Operator-Child rasps, grogginess fading rapidly from their eyes. They sit up slowly, one hand slightly raised. Umbra stays still. The hand touches its arm. “Uh, why’re you…”
“You made a noise in your sleep, Operator. This Warframe assumed —YOU WERE DYING HORRIBLY — ahem, were in trouble, so barged in. Rudely, I may add…”
“Oh.” The wariness fades from Operator-Child’s eyes. It is replaced by something else. Umbra cannot parse it. “I see. Well, I’m okay, Umbra. You can, uh, go back to… whatever it was you were doing.”
“Stalking the hallways,” the Cephalon mutters snidely.
“Patrolling,” Operator-Child says a bit more firmly. “If it makes him feel better, then there’s no harm in it, Ordis.”
“There is harm in it… harm to my floors! This Warframe is already leaving scuff marks from where it obsessively paces day in, day out…”
The Operator-Child’s palm is sweaty. Umbra turns its head to look at the hand - small against its muscular forearm. The same hand that reached out to it, over and over again, the same hand that pointed at Ballas in the hellish memory, saying “You didn’t kill your son. He did.” A small hand, that contains the power to rip the very fabric of reality as easily as rice paper. A small hand, that Umbra could not help but find familiar.
Isaah’s hand had been that small once.
Once.
Isaah had not been as powerful, though.
Perhaps if he had.
“Umbra?”
Operator-Child sounds concerned. Peers at him, as if Umbra is the young child in need of help- well. Yes. Hasn’t that been the case so far? Umbra feels as if his thoughts have been dragged through sandpaper. The tranquillity of only staying in the present long gone. Umbra never learns. Never. Always wandering back into the past to stick his hand into the grinder, to languish in the pain because it is familiar, agonisingly familiar…
Umbra takes a step back. Two.
Two steps backwards.
It leaves. It ignores Operator-Child’s confused call of its name and the Cephalon’s harrumph. It returns to the INFESTED ROOM’s door and stays there, staring at the blank grey steel. Operator-Child does not follow him and Umbra does not move from its post.
It thinks.
It thinks…
It looks down at its hand. Alien to it, encased in infested flesh. Transformed. Curls its fingers, remembers the memory of tucking Isaah in, murmuring that false promise, of those same fingers digging into flesh and ripping his son apart, of those same fingers gently curled around the blanket as it tucked Operator-Child into bed. It thinks… there is no harm in that. The Orbiter is cold. The Operator-Child is still human. Requires warmth to remain healthy, especially in sleep. Umbra’s actions were logical, as a Warframe protecting its-
( “I promise, I’ll protect-“)
No.
( “Father? Father!”)
It lowers its hand.
( “You didn’t kill your son. He did.”)
He thinks…
…
…
Two seconds.
…
…
…
Approximately ten to twelve paces.
…
…
…
Umbra patrols.
He does not think for the rest of the night.