ACT II. BROTHERHOOD.
The evac ship sliced through the clouds like a blade baptized in silence. Alone inside, Maverick sat—shoulders broad, armor cracked and steaming. Blood dried in streaks across his helmet. The air still stank of ash and monstrous ichor. Not a word passed his lips.
No brothers to share the weight.
Maverick is the only "person" who has escaped Xorta in lifetimes.
A fate he suspects wasn't planned by certain… " Oathkeepers".
⸻
The ship landed behind the temple, thrusters shaking the very bones of the mountain it stood on. A crowd had gathered—priests, engineers, civilians. People who had only ever seen a Warmachine on holos or in scripture. They wept. They chanted. Some collapsed to their knees, overcome by the miracle of his return.
But Maverick did not look at them.
Not once.
He stomped down the ship's ramp, each footstep cracking the platform. He walked past the masses as if they didn't exist, as if their praise was ash in his ears.
He did not raise a fist.
He did not nod.
He did not breathe any air but his own.
He entered the temple in silence.
⸻
The sacred corridors were drenched in golden light, whispering with incense and scripture. Holos of old battles flickered along the walls. The names of the fallen were etched into pillars like holy tombs.
And that's where Maverick stopped.
At one such pillar.
And roared.
With a fury that cracked marble and silenced the heavens, Maverick raised his shockwave pulse gauntlet—
And shattered the memorial into ruin.
Stone exploded. Dust choked the air. The scripture of heroes disintegrated beneath his wrath.
⸻
The Primortals turned, startled from their eternal focus around the war-table. Tubes hissed and whirred behind them. Lights blinked rapidly on their ancient machines.
MAVERICK:
"You sent me to die."
His voice rolled through the halls like cannon fire.
Cold. Clear. Terrifying.
MAVERICK:
"You knew that world was lost.
You knew what lived there.
And you buried me with them!"
A dozen Primortals stood in stunned silence. Only one moved—Primortal Sovel, the oldest, cloaked in white metal and time itself. Tubes coiled from his spine like roots of ancient thought.
SOVEL:
"You survived. That is the measure."
MAVERICK (stepping forward):
"No.
That is the gamble.
You carved names in stone before the mission was done.
You grieved for me before I even fell."
He pointed to the shattered memorial.
It bore names he had seen in death.
It bore his.
MAVERICK:
"Don't you dare speak of survival.
I walked through a world of rot.
I breathed in the memories of a thousand fallen.
I watched brothers scream through bones and black fire.
And you—sat here. Waiting to see if I'd crawl back to feed your myths."
Sovel said nothing.
None of them did.
What could they say?
⸻
From the corridor beyond, two Warmachines peeked from their quarters—Mitus and Fitus, summoned by the thunder of Maverick's wrath.
MITUS (softly, to Fitus):
"Do you think he's alright?"
FITUS (coldly):
"Would you be?
He was sent to a graveyard. He walked out alone."
MITUS:
"I thought he'd be proud… for surviving."
FITUS:
"Survival isn't always a victory, boy.
Sometimes it's just the punishment for being strong enough to live."
Mitus fell silent, watching as Maverick turned and began his march down the corridor.
⸻
He turned.
And walked.
Down the corridor, past the golden murals.
Past the living myth his body had become.
The doors to his quarters hissed open.
He entered.
They sealed behind him with finality.
The Warmachine was home.
But not at peace.
___________________________________
The silence that followed Maverick's outburst was not the stillness of peace.
It was the kind that lingers after something ancient has shifted in its grave.
Down the corridor, in the quarters assigned to those who had returned from the canyon, three Warmachines sat beneath the low flickering of red emergency light. Their armor still bore the grime of war. Dust. Ash. The blood of beasts. None had bothered to remove it.
Mitus sat with his back against the wall, helmet off, his shaved head streaked with sweat and soot. The youngest among them, barely over seven feet in armor, he looked smaller in that moment—like the weight of what he'd witnessed had crushed some invisible part of him.
Fitus stood near the center of the room, arms folded, breathing steady but eyes alert. His voice was always sharp, his judgments immediate. But now, even he said nothing.
It was the third who finally broke the stillness.
A gruff voice, low and gravel-thick:
"You ever seen him like that before?"
The new voice belonged to Valkar—an older Warmachine with a twisted metal scar running down the left side of his helmet. He'd survived the canyon too, but not without cost. His right shoulder armor was dented inward like something had tried to chew through it, and the plating around his left knee bore the scorched imprint of a beast's claw.
Fitus didn't turn to look at him.
"No."
Mitus ran a hand over his face, eyes darting toward the sealed chamber door where Maverick had disappeared.
"I thought… when we got back, there'd be a moment. A breath. That we'd get to feel like we survived."
Valkar snorted, pacing once, limping only slightly.
"We did survive. That's the problem."
Fitus looked at him now. "Explain."
Valkar stopped. His head tilted slightly, voice quiet now.
"When you're built to die in battle, surviving feels like failure."
No one answered that.
Mitus, eyes still distant, spoke next.
"He looked… wrong. Not weak. Never weak. Just… like he brought something back with him."
Fitus narrowed his eyes. "He's always carried more than we know."
Mitus shook his head. "But this time it's different. He wasn't just angry. He was grieving."
Fitus:
"He doesn't grieve. He endures."
Mitus:
"He grieved. You saw it."
The air pulsed with silence. The kind you don't interrupt. Then Valkar, voice heavier now, added:
"We're not machines. Not really. They call us that, but they know nothing of what it costs. To remember the faces. The screams. The names we carved into our own bones. He's carried more wars than we've even read about."
Fitus, jaw tightening:
"Then he should sha that weight. Not shatter the temple because it was too heavy."
Mitus stared at him. "Maybe that was him sharing it."
That silenced even Fitus.
The door hissed open suddenly—a Bringer, faceless and silent, stepped in. With a quiet nod, it beckoned. Mission debrief would resume soon.
Valkar moved first, rolling his shoulder with a grunt.
"Well, I'll say this—if the next fight's worse than the last one, I want him on our side again."
Mitus stood, strapping on his gauntlet.
"We'll all need each other, before this is over."
Fitus paused at the doorway, then finally muttered:
"I hope he's ready to be one of us again. Not just the story they wrote."
They walked out together, shoulder to shoulder. Three weapons. Three men. Each of them carrying something heavier than steel.
And down the hall behind them, behind that sealed chamber door—
He did not sleep.