The Veil Sequence

If there is anything left in this world I can always be certain of, it is mathematics. In solving the overwhelming majority of everyday problems — from calculating the exact time needed not to be late for a date, to determining the precise hour of the next major Corpus conflict against the backdrop of Enyo’s falling stock — mathematics guides humanity by the hand like a mother, allowing us to grasp at least a fraction of the chaos within the Origin System. Arithmetic, informatics, economics, astrophysics — the “strength in numbers” motto was ingrained in my worldview from an early age, long before my first ascent into orbit. But when a chain of interdependent decisions and outcomes led me to the Perrin Sequence, mathematics became a discipline capable of shaping fate itself. If you are not yet close with my precise companion, and still allow for “coincidences” in your daily life, then read this account. Will you have the audacity to dismiss it as nothing more than a “mere coincidence” afterward? My childhood can be summed up in a single word: cliché. No, honestly. My story differs little from hundreds — perhaps even thousands — just like it. My father was a man of influence — a supervisor at a Corpus factory in the gas city on Jupiter — so we never lacked for credits. But everything at home changed in an instant when an “industrial accident” took his life, leaving me half an orphan, burdened with an uneducated mother and three younger sisters. We were denied compensation, of course — “the incident could not have been foreseen”, as they always say. I had barely turned fifteen, yet I was the only one in the family capable of both learning and working — and, it seemed, the only one whose mind hadn’t been so thoroughly washed with credits and propaganda as to understand that it wasn’t an accident that killed my father, but a greedy corporation. During my time laboring across every conceivable lower rung, I counted roughly seventy violations of basic safety protocols within Corpus facilities. I could tell you countless tedious stories about what happens during night shifts on frozen asteroids, or show you dozens of identical photographs of Europa’s inhospitable terrain — images my mother insisted I send while I worked rotational contracts there. The only detail from my youth that might be considered remotely interesting is that I survived at all, given the ever-escalating conflict around Jupiter’s moons. By eighteen, I was worn thin and desperate enough that I nearly missed the enrollment deadlines for the engineering faculty — where I hurriedly sat examinations for the first two years as an external student, just to return to work as soon as possible and not fail my family. For a long time, earning enough for their survival was my only priority, and at some point I lost track of money itself — only the act of acquiring it retained meaning. My attentiveness and ability to anticipate market movement grew alongside my knowledge of ship systems, and a year and a half ago I managed to seize a market turning point, securing my family enough profit to last for years. That’s when I was finally “noticed.” Not by prestigious directors with vacant lead positions, but by greedy Corpus brokers who placed a bounty on my head. Ergo Glast — the current head of the Perrin Sequence — not only saved my life, but took part in the arrest of those behind the plot, and then invited me to join his syndicate. On paper, I am still listed as their senior financial analyst, though life has since cast me billions of kilometers away from the Strata Relay in Earth orbit. After what I like to call my educational stay within the Perrin Sequence — I refer to it that way because sir Ergo Glast became my true mentor, teaching me to remain sober of mind and to value money only up to the point where the price does not exceed the safety of my own skin and those I care about — I was connected with Solaris United. A responsive collective of enthusiasts who aid drifters from across the system, they agreed to extend their support to me as well. That is how I found myself invited not merely to a prestigious position, but into service to the most elite force in the ongoing conflict of the Origin System — into the service of a Tenno. Do you know what we tend to forget these days? Not everyone wants to walk around with blood on their hands. Only a few are capable of killing another, even for the sake of survival. I could never raise my hand against a living person. At least, that is what I believed for a very long time. When I first began working with a Tenno, the mere thought that I might have to fend off hordes of enemies… eh, adversaries… representatives of the opposing side?.. filled me with dread. I will never forget my first kill. We were stranded on the wreckage of a military vessel devastated by an outbreak. The life support system was down; almost none of the compartments remained sealed. The laboratory doors — where the Tenno were meant to retrieve the desired blueprints — unlocked, and a whole swarm of those… I cannot call them… came rushing at us. Once, they had been human. Ordinary Corpus crewmen, along with a few Clones carried into this backwater by forces unknown… One of them noticed me. Its body — twisted, moving at an impossible angle. Its head inverted, folded down toward its abdomen. Blind. Breathless. Four uneven legs scrambling across the floor… or were there five?.. It sensed me, though it had no eyes. I retreated as far as I could, until my back sensed the wall. I shut my eyes and fired in bursts. The Cestra trembled in my hands. I heard the rounds ricochet, ringing against metal walls and floors. The creature shrieked — its voice deafening — forcing me to clamp my eyes tighter and pull the trigger harder. A hundred-round magazine was gone in less than a minute. When I finally opened my eyes, the Tenno’s Warframe stood over me, looking down with an undisguised surprise… and a trace of disappointment. At my feet lay the shredded body of the infected thing. — Oh no… I killed someone! — I blurted out, just a moment before I doubled over and vomited onto the floor beside the corpse. After that, I avoided dangerous patrols, choosing to remain aboard the Railjack instead. My skills in shipbuilding and repair proved useful — my employer allowed me to take full responsibility for maintaining the vessel, and delegated field operations to another mercenary. His name was Vemuel. The social world can be divided into two types of people. Granted, with a ve-e-e-ry large disclaimer — but in each of us lives either a timid and reserved Bence Liga (that would be me), or a bold, badass Vemuel. Meeting him felt like the moment day and night collide — like dusk stretched thin between two opposites. I had only been told about his joining the Tenno’s crew the day before, and, to be honest, I wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea of bringing a mercenary from the Red Veil into a field team. I understood that my own… combat disposition… was hardly sufficient to meet the Tenno’s needs in that regard, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t strictly necessary to house one of those… fanatics aboard the ship. “They’re all a little unhinged,” my mother warned me long ago. And you know what? She was wrong. They’re A LOT… A LOT-LOT-LOT unhinged. Bloody lunatics! …Phew. Sorry, mom. The moment Vemuel stepped aboard the Railjack, the temperature inside began to rise sharply. And no, it had nothing to do with the systems — keeping the ship operational was my direct responsibility. The Tenno and the co-pilot greeted the new crew member. I studied him while I still could — he couldn’t see me behind the navigation column. Tall. Lean. Clad in an elastic uniform in the Veil’s signature red and black. His face and hair were completely concealed behind a mask. Its seams and scratches formed a pattern resembling a predatory grin — though, perhaps, that impression owed more to my imagination than reality. He looked exactly as his reputation would suggest: a cold, faceless killer. I felt uneasy, and yet something held my gaze on him. A distant, intangible premonition. An uncalculated probability? He turned toward me just as suddenly as I flinched — before I even realized I had. — You… — he said in a surprisingly soft half-whisper, stepping closer and boldly wrapping his right hand around my left forearm, — …the one I’ve been looking for all this time. I stood frozen in silence. The mercenary tilted his head slightly, studying me from head to toe, then abruptly stepped back, turned, and disappeared into the depths of the ship, leaving me alone with my thoughts. To say I was surprised would be an understatement. I was shocked. Terrified. Stunned! My mind roared with paranoid thoughts: where had I gone wrong? What had I done this time? When would my execution take place? Should I warn the Tenno? Would the Sequence come to my aid? I wanted to sink through the floor, to vanish into the currents of the Void, or to be crushed beneath the Profit-Taker Orb — anything, so long as I wouldn’t have to endure the dread of lying in my bunk later that evening, now positioned directly across from Vemuel’s, in our private — curse me, Parvos — two-person cabin. My execution, as you can imagine, never came. Quite the opposite — when I woke up the next morning, a cup of strong, freshly brewed coffee stood on my bedside table, and beside it lay a carton of scarce “Greedy” milk — a natural product from the most expensive agricultural company in the Origin System. Vemuel had done it. I knew it with absolute certainty. But at the time, I tried to interpret the gesture as anything but an act of care. Was it a cruel joke? A kind of mark — like you’re next — the sort of sign criminals leave for their future victims? The only thing I could say with confidence then — as now — was this: the coffee was excellent. I never properly thanked the Veil mercenary for it. At breakfast, in front of everyone, he simply asked me whether I liked it. Just like that: “Did you like it?” Still not quite grasping what was happening — or how the others were looking at me — I gave a short nod (though it felt more like a nervous twitch of the neck) and returned to my meal. We didn’t speak again that day, but the strangeness did not end with that one gesture. Do you know what a whetstone is? A small, criminally old fashioned, makeshift tool for sharpening knives, arrowheads, and other compact piercing weapons. There is little use for such things now — technological progress has given us lasers. And yet, Vemuel always carried a small, slightly misshapen whetstone with him. Sometimes, during the quiet hours of transit, I would catch him sitting off in a corner, intently drawing the blade of a Dark Dagger across the stone—honed to a painless sharpness. Whenever I noticed, he would often lift his head and stare in my direction for long stretches. I was convinced… no, I knew for certain that he was smiling beneath that grim, unsettling mask whenever he caught sight of my unease. My execution never came — but coffee, and other tempting treats, began appearing on my bedside table with enviable regularity. Don’t get the wrong idea — we didn’t become friends, nor did we even begin to speak. Back then, all of it felt like a probability the needle of my life would simply never point toward. He never once removed his ridiculous, menacing mask, and I never dared to step outside my imaginary locked chest where I kept my fears and doubts. The Tenno, however, seemed to hold a deep professional regard for Vemuel, as the two would sometimes vanish on missions for days. During those periods, I began to notice that I almost… missed the silent madness that existed between me and the Red Veil assassin. After all, routine kills far more slowly — and far more cruelly — than a life filled with sharp sensations. And yet, I disliked imagining what was happening beyond the hull of the Railjack. The thought that I could become part of that slaughter repulsed me. Though I already was part of it… merely assisting from offstage, wasn’t I?.. The two of them almost always returned drenched in blood, and while it showed far more starkly against the white carcass of the Tenno’s Warframe, I understood that the deep crimson concealing Vemuel’s torso was thoroughly soaked with the blood of his enemies. In the dining hall, I heard conversations of death and vengeance; on the bridge, talk of pursuits and purges would surface from time to time — and all of it was accompanied by laughter, at times disturbingly sincere, almost possessed… One day, I simply… found the courage and told the Tenno I wanted to leave the crew. I feared their reaction, worried I might once again be forced to crawl back to Ticker, begging for any position she could secure for me, or gaining at least a middling one under Ergo Glast… But more than anything, I feared staying, and continuing to live by something that was slowly defiling my soul. That was when things began to change. No… I’m mistaken again — “change” would be too small a word. We spoke in private, and the Tenno persuaded me to take a couple of days before making a final decision. I only agreed out of respect — it seemed fair to give them time to find a replacement. The moment I stepped off the bridge and headed toward the crew quarters, my ill-fated acquaintance appeared in my path and blocked the way. — Don’t leave, — he said, his voice tired, hoarse, carrying the echo of hours-long firefights and the restrained pain of deep wounds. Earlier that day, they had likely been fending off hundreds of Clones during yet another infiltration of Tyl Regor’s underwater laboratories. Once again in search of a cure at Cressa Tal’s request. Once again without results… — Why’s that? — I asked flatly, just as drained by my own intrusive thoughts. I wasn’t afraid now, but Vemuel’s sudden gesture intrigued me. — You don't have to. I will take good care of you here. He spoke evenly, almost coldly — but there was something in his words… disarmingly honest. Direct. Simple. Something I wasn’t ready to believe. — You're the reason I decided to leave in the first place, — I shot back without thinking, trying to lower the arm he had used to block my way. — We’ll figure somethin’ out. He caught my hand and closed his around it — not painfully, but firmly enough. Only then, feeling the warmth of his skin, did I realize he wasn’t wearing gloves. My gaze dropped at once, and in the dim corridor I saw long fingers, winding veins, neatly trimmed nails. His skin was smooth, almost unnaturally so, but there was a deep crimson mark on one hand — the symbol of the Red Veil, burned directly into the back of his palm. A scar that said more about him than any outsider would ever wish to know. That gesture — his grip holding me in place, his gaze fixed on my face through the crimson mask — made me wonder again whether I was, in fact, the target of some obsessive fixation. But the seconds passed, and I realized he was simply waiting for an answer. — I… don’t think we can figure anything out, — I said at last. While his certainty remained as unyielding as ever, mine was already faltering. I no longer saw the psychopath from my nightmares, but observed a weary warrior searching for a long-denied rest. And yet the thought that tomorrow he would once again set out on another contract — the same ruthless Vemuel, dagger honed to a razor’s edge, grenades packed tight at his side, armor loaded with munitions, and that mocking hint of eager anticipation — would not let me abandon my carefully reasoned ground. I had already calculated my options. Planned how to distribute my finances if I failed to find a new employer quickly. There was no sense in turning back now. And still… — Do you prefer “baby-bird” or just “honey”? At first, I didn’t even understand what he had just asked me. — W-what?.. — Something more delicate or personal? “My Ayatan”? My hand was still in his, but the world suddenly tilted, washed in unfamiliar colors. The dim corridor lights flared, blindingly bright; the artificial gravity beneath my feet seemed to triple. I stumbled, trying to pull my hand free. It didn’t work. — I’m Bence… Bence Liga, — I replied awkwardly, as though we were meeting for the first time. I had no idea what to say. — C-could I… I tried again to free my hand — this time with all my strength. It worked. I felt his gaze linger on me, filled with genuine confusion. — Sorry, — I muttered under my breath, slipping past him and the wall in one quick motion before hurrying back to the cabin. The world spun before my eyes; a ringing in my ears drowned out even the hum of the ship’s engines. I locked the door behind me, sat down on my bunk, and stared at the bed across from mine in strangling silence. I knew I would have to let him in when he returned. But he didn’t come. Time passed. Eventually, I lay down, still listening to the footsteps of the crew outside. And before long, I fell asleep. We didn’t meet at breakfast. In fact, Vemuel was nowhere to be seen at all, and the only thing that tempered my mounting anxiety that day was the knowledge that tomorrow I would pack my things and leave the Railjack for good. By midday, the ship was hovering above the surface of Ceres, and the crew set out on a mining operation. Drilling certain — particularly valuable — asteroids was a worthwhile investment; I would know. I enjoyed excavation far more than exterminations or sabotage. Not everyone had to die there — though more often than not, even those missions came at a cost. Still, a relatively peaceful day lay ahead. A quiet end to my service under the Tenno. I saw the team off, descended into the engineering deck for my routine systems check, then returned to the main level. That was when I noticed, in the corner of the common area, a familiar crimson silhouette — once again bent over his dagger and whetstone. The soft ring of sharpened metal cut through the heavy silence. After a moment’s hesitation, I approached and sat down beside him. — Hey, — I said quietly, when Vemuel briefly lifted his gaze toward me. He set the stone and dagger aside and straightened. — Hi. I tried to catch something in that short greeting — a trace of a smile, perhaps… or favor — but heard nothing but empty sound. — I wanted to apologize for yesterday, — I began, feeling warmth rise to my cheeks. — My reaction was… excessive. I just don’t really know how to behave in conversations like that. — Have you changed your decision? — N-no, — I looked away, fixing my gaze on the floor, as if suddenly ashamed of wanting to leave. Vemuel gave a silent nod and reached again for the blade. — Wait, — I stopped him, placing my hand over the tools. — Can we talk? It was a foolish question, but I couldn’t think of a better way to start. Whenever it came to him, I lost my words. He nodded again and turned toward me. — Why did you say you were looking for me? What's so special about me? — Everything. I just know it. His tone, once so grim, seemed almost… alive now. It didn’t help me understand anything, but I pressed on. — Can you… can you take off your mask? — No. — Why not? — You won’t like it. I tilted my head, puzzled. For weeks I had seen nothing but a menacing outline, and had never once met Vemuel’s eyes. Perhaps anonymity was one of the Veil’s ways — but we weren’t in syndicates now. Nor on a mission. — I want to understand, — I insisted. — We’re allies, aren’t we? He let out a short, quiet laugh. It was hard to hear through the mask, but I thought I caught bitterness in it. — What do you think I am? — he asked. — What do you see when you look at me? I swallowed, blinking a few times. I couldn’t see it, but I knew his gaze had settled on me, waiting. — I… it’s complicated, — I began, as awkwardly as ever. — At first, I was uneasy — when you first arrived. The Red Veil doesn’t exactly have the best reputation, you know, — a nervous chuckle slipped through. — Then it just became… just uneasy. I… it’s not your fault, I just… With every repeated word, every stumble — like a broken record — I realized how unprepared I was for any kind of conversation. — You’re very good at things I can’t do, — I managed at last, trying to add at least a hint of light to my strange assessment. Vemuel listened attentively, patiently enduring all my awkward pauses. — I… I just… maybe I’d feel more at ease if we got to know each other better… I exhaled, drawing my hands in, shifting on the narrow beam where we barely fit side by side. Not the best place for a heartfelt conversation — or any conversation at all. — You’re leaving, — Vemuel stated, folding his arms. — Does it still matter? — It does! — I blurted out, startling even myself. Yes, I wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this psycho as possible — but I was also unbearably, painfully curious to know who he really was. Not the mask. Not the detached expression. But beneath it. The real one. None of this was accidental. There was a pattern here. I only needed to find the key to it. — Sorry, — I continued more quietly, trying to steady myself. — If our meeting means something, I want to understand it. A brief silence followed. — “Youngest student of the ship engineering faculty…” — Vemuel began suddenly, in a high, monotonous, unnaturally performative voice. — “Mathematical genius. A potential asset for the Perrin Sequence due to advanced analytical capabilities. Father: deceased factory supervisor of Hexenon Industries. Family: mother (no formal education), three younger sisters (minors), two kavats. Age: twenty. Height: approximately five foot nine. Distinguishing features: light hair, gray eyes. Bounty: one hundred fifty thousand credits. Probability of discovery of contract: low. Notes: eliminate by any available means; discretion unnecessary.” By the time he finished, my face had gone as pale as the worn plating of the ship’s interior. The last time I had seen that contract was in Ergo Glast’s hands, a year ago, when we left the arbitration chamber where my would-be killers were sentenced for life. He had torn the document with a smile and promised I would not encounter any more pursuers — “not on his watch.” And now, sitting next to me, was a man who had memorized every word of that obsolete kill order. — You were the one who was supposed to… — my voice caught in my throat. — Yes, — the Red Veil assassin confirmed. — You were the first contract I did not fulfill. I exhaled heavily and rose from the beam. — That’s… that’s because your employers were arrested, right? — I asked, already preparing to leave. — No. A pause. — It’s because I had you in my sights… and didn’t pull the trigger. For another half day, I wandered the ship in a daze, thinking about how my life had hung by the thinnest of threads — far thinner than I had ever allowed myself to believe. I used to be convinced that agents of the Perrin Sequence had identified the threat in time and come to my rescue. But they had an anonymous informant — one who was no longer anonymous to me. Eventually, I returned to the cabin and found my bunkmate asleep, still wearing his mask. Familiar — and yet no less unknown. — So… you don’t kill them indiscriminately? — I asked in a half-whisper, sitting down on my bunk, both curious and unwilling to disturb his rest. — No, — he replied hoarsely, slowly turning toward me. — Did I wake you? — No. — You… did all of this for me because… you felt guilty? — I asked, hesitantly. — No. The same answer, for the third time — and yet each sounded different. Vemuel pushed himself up and sat across from me, as though we were about to have a difficult conversation. No longer embarrassed by his presence, but by the situation that had formed between us, I stood, then moved closer and sat down beside him. For a while, we said nothing. — I think… I’m going to take off your mask, — I said at last. He turned toward me in silent surprise, but did not resist when I reached behind his head and found the fastening, easing the grip of the crimson mask around his neck. As I took hold of it with both hands and gently pulled, he removed his gloves and placed his hands over mine, helping me lift the ever-present veil from his face. The mask remained in my hands. And at last, our eyes met. Just like the first time, I found myself caught in a feeling that could only be described as a painful stillness — I simply could not look away. Have you ever compared people to numbers? Another confusing question from yours truly — but allow me to explain why I ask. In truth, all people resemble numbers. Some are clearer, simpler, more manageable — more divisible — than others. The rest are more complex, more resistant, more stubborn, and uncovering their factors can take a disproportionate amount of time. But within the infinite sequence of numbers — as within humanity — there exist what we call prime numbers. Those that answer only to themselves and to one. They were not named “prime” by accident. It is they which give rise to new rules, which shape the way all other numbers function within even the most primitive arithmetic. I always considered myself a dull eight — or something of the sort: modest in value, bound by a certain set of dependencies, yet not so weak as to submit entirely to a series of primes. But Vemuel… Vemuel was a prime number. A vast one. Multi-digit. Incomprehensible. The kind my equations and formulas had never encountered before. And I understood that the moment I looked into his eyes. Perhaps not everyone gets along with numbers — but surely you’ve seen gemstones. Imagine the moment when, from a rough shard of rock, a violet fragment of nyth falls into your hands. Not the polished stones set into rings and necklaces, but raw — untouched, imperfect. Its edges sharp as razor blades, its color deep and dangerous as the caverns where it is mined. Simply holding it is both a singular and a lethal experience. There is a documented case — “Murder on Eris” — in which a man’s throat was slit with a piece of such unrefined crystal. And those eyes before me — just as vivid, just as deep, with a piercing sharpness full of color and dimension. How massive it feels compared to the pitiful description listed in my bounty, right? The Creator had drawn his face with the same clarity and precision, framed by thin strands of long, oil-black hair. What could possibly have repelled me? The scars, mercilessly crossing his thoughtful expression? Three crimson lines, diagonal — as though some wild beast had torn through his skin with clawed force — tried to fracture his face into segments, and yet I saw only a whole, utterly compelling image, felt only stronger by the wounds. I found myself wondering, almost instantly, how someone with such striking features had ever ended up in the Red Veil. How he had tied his life to killing. How he had come by those scars. About the marks on his face — and, as I would later learn, across his entire body — he told me only this: — You are punished when you make mistakes. If you survive, you learn not to make mistakes again. Starting a conversation with a question about a flaw that did not repel me in the slightest — but clearly troubled him — was one of many poor decisions I made, and so I hurried to change the subject, still shaken by what I had just uncovered. Though the beginning of our conversation was painfully awkward, it gradually unfolded, easing into something lighter, more natural, until all trace of unease disappeared. I found myself intoxicated by the grace with which the Veil mercenary moved through conversation — blending seriousness, playfulness, and that fierce (yet then seemingly harmless) obsession of his. He did not resemble a serial killer. I had achieved what I wanted. Without the mask, he became entirely different — no less complex, but far more… comprehensible to me. Like a formula written across a board in a few lines: unsolved, perhaps, but governed by a set of rules that could be analyzed. Hours passed, and we kept talking — sitting side by side, lying on opposite bunks, wandering the deck with coffee in our hands. At some point, I grew bold enough to return to yesterday’s subject — or rather, to how I had interpreted it. We stood in the same narrow corridor I had fled like a child the day before. — Do you like me? — I asked, so directly that I regretted it almost instantly. — No. The now-familiar answer struck me all the same. I recoiled, flushed and shaken. The fragile understanding we had built over those few hours seemed ready to collapse under the weight of yet another of my mistakes. The brief pause before his next words cut across me like a serrated blade, and I drew my arms around myself. — Stay… and you’ll find out what you mean. A familiar, ambiguous smile flickered across his lips. I had never seen it before — but I had felt it, at times, beneath the mask, when our eyes would meet by chance. A challenge. A provocation. Or perhaps a measure of both. And now, seeing it laid bare, I was almost ready to give in. — Fine. I’ll stay, — I said, though in truth I had not yet made any decision. And bluffing had never been my strength. — Will you tell me? — You inform the Tenno first, — Vemuel replied, brushing a strand of raven-black hair from his face. He had already read everything in my shifting gaze. In that moment, I understood that I stood before a choice that would define my life. Someone else might have played along — stayed for a month or two, satisfied their curiosity, then found an excuse to slip away. I could not. And I had never wanted to. — I don’t want to kill. I don’t accept violence. I… want to believe there is always another way, — I admitted honestly. My conscience would have devoured me had I denied it. — It’s hard for me to look at you and not think of murder and cruelty. No matter how much I might want otherwise. Vemuel watched me in silence, and in his gaze I saw the same sympathy — and gentle disappointment — I had once seen in the Tenno at the beginning of my “elite career”… — I’m sorry. I can’t be a good partner — at least not like this. He shifted from his ever-alert stance into something softer, more open, placed a hand on my shoulder, and said what I had always known — but had avoided acknowledging, hiding within the safety of my cocoon. — Your naivety, your light — those could give anyone hope. But hope is nothing more than a powerless ghost that we cover our eyes with, fearing the dark reality. I’ll ask you something. You don’t have to answer — but after that, you’ll make your decision. I nodded, expecting something personal. What followed felt like peeling a maprico of its thick, fragrant skin — until nothing remained of me but the exposed, defenseless fruit. — What is hexenon used for? I stayed silent. At the factory where my father had worked, they produced fuel cells for ballistic systems — but I did not yet understand the point. — What kind of ships do you actually build at your university practice? I looked at him, slowly piecing it together. We studied fighter craft, artillery vessels, war transports like the Railjack, as well as drop pods for deploying Razorbacks. — Which development’s stock did you sell to buy your family a new home? The answer was “Corpus Amalgams”. — What methods does the Perrin Sequence use to suppress critical unrest? I let out a bitter laugh. I had only recently learned about the MOA reserves kept under Ergo Glast’s command, shortly before my transfer to Venus — to Solaris — and had barely had time to process it. I understood. My entire life had been surrounded by killing and war. Wherever I went, I took part in it. My world tilted again — just as it had before, same place, other circumstances. Perhaps I had always been a dreamer, a believer in peace — but my actions, my impact on the System, told a different story. I drew a slow breath and lifted my gaze to the assassin. In his vivid, nyth-colored eyes, I found the one thing I had been searching for: comfort. — Whatever you decide, know that with me, you’ll be safe and sound, — he repeated his promise from the day before. And suddenly, everything felt… easy. Warm. Prime. — I’ll tell them my decision today, — I said firmly, meeting his gaze. Then, after a brief hesitation, I added: — And “honey”… is adequate. Our romance has been developing — or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, is still developing — rapidly ever since that evening. I won’t go into the details of our more private moments, but I will say this: never in my life has anyone taken a vow to protect me as seriously as Vemuel does. Over the past four months, the Tenno’s Railjack has come under siege three times — boarded by Grineer Clones, Corpus walkers, and even a pack of Infested monstrosities. The conflict across the System continues to escalate, and we are forced to fight back even during research missions. Unlike my partner, I take no pleasure in killing and do my best to avoid direct confrontation whenever possible. Still, Vemuel insisted that I be issued a weapon — and not just any weapon, but an elite one — so on several occasions I found myself… testing my aim with the Tenno’s deceptively simple, yet deadly Phantasma. The first such attempt ended with me patching up the ship’s damaged walls with my Omni in the middle of a boarding attack, while my "guardian angel" hurled reckless taunts and collected sprays of enemy blood across his uniform… But in quieter moments… believe me, he becomes someone entirely different — a truly exceptional, prime kind of person. Shaped by the burdens he carries, he is not only a passionate lover, but also a gentle and attentive companion, in whose arms I want to wake every single day. His creed of purification and his thirst for blood still make me shudder at times. And yet I find myself smiling when I remember that once — just once — he managed to suppress them, simply by looking at a pitiful, unknown student. One of thousands, with a dull, cliché story. He notices far more than I could ever imagine — and I like to believe that I help him see even more. To those who doubt our bond, I ask one simple question: would you rather prefer that he was loved by someone as corrupted as he was, or by someone who is the caring and bright opposite, with a glint of hope to fix what was broken? The same question could be asked about me… Our meeting was no accident. The entire story has now aligned into a clear, comprehensible sequence — written in shades of crimson. Do you see it now? Perhaps this sequence, too, deserves a place among the mathematical laws we know. And if not named after us… then simply — the Veil Sequence.