The rising sun cast dappled shadows over the Brazilian Dead Zone. Craters and holes pitted the ruined buildings and rainforest, clear signs of the struggle between the Fallen, and from other battles before that. Trees grew through the cracks and holes in ruined buildings, reaching for the sun. Vines snaked around them, wrapping them in a tight living embrace. The ancient ruins led to an artificial hill - a slope, a base for the monolithic structure stretching towards the sky, a long shadow forming from the rising sun. The ancient statue had arms outstretched, as if preparing to embrace the world and fill it with love. Once it was a reminder of an ancient religion - one that lived on in diligent survivors and civilians in The Last City, who held hands and said prayers over dinner. Now it was a reminder of what had been. The ages had not spared it. Fallen symbols occasionally defaced its surface, and large chunks of rock had fallen off, leaving parts of it pitted with huge holes and cracks. Vines even clung to its feet - as if trying to return the offer of an embrace it always give - growing slowly up its legs. The boom of a jump ship breaking orbit broke the silence of the new dawn. Agents of the cunning Kell observed it with piercing blue eyes from their observation posts, and less dutiful creatures scurried into their hiding places. The ship moved sloppily - it wobbled slightly before being pulled skillfully into position, hovering just over the ground. A figure appeared from the bright blue after effects of transmatting. It wore rugged clothes - it had long since shed the armor it had once worn - a leather duster, an old worn gun belt, a smelly shirt and pants. Metal skin gleamed where there was no clothing. Bright blue eyes - more dim than usual - shone from beneath a worn hat, made from the hide of a long dead beast. The figure drank from a bottle of extraordinarily strong liquor and wobbled before righting itself and walking forwards. It shed the duster - the day may have been new, but the heat had already begun to swelter - and approached a large stone jutting from the soil. It was engraved with crudely carved letters - made from the razor sharp edge of a knife long ago - and looked like a large boulder that had been smashed apart to serve its purpose. It stood above a lumpy patch of dirt littered with rocks. “Here Lies Henry.” It read. “A good friend. A fallen hero. And a good son.” The last part was faint, as if the engraver had struggled to write it. The figure approached the gravestone, and, taking off its hat, it produced a small bouquet of flowers with a trembling metal hand. It laid the flowers down to lean on the gravestone. Clearing its throat, the figure struggled to speak. “Har-he-ugh.” It faltered, and sighed deeply. It struggled to pull the name from its distant, patchy memories, and shamefully read it off of the gravestone. “Henry, I- I don't remember what I did. I don't remember how you- you-” the Exo faltered. Emotion gripped its throat in a stranglehold. “I don't remember what happened. I try to remember it every goddamn night but I can't remember it any better than I remember your face. I-” he stepped back. “I can't, I can't do this.” He clenched his fists. The hat crumpled beneath his powerful grip. Then he threw it away. Something clicked. “Henry. I didn't mean it. I didn't want to hurt you. And- I miss you.” He just stood there. Wallowing in his own sorrow. Then he took another drink from his liquor and sank to his knees. Then he realized what he was doing, and in a fit of rage crushed the bottle. He didn't even have the satisfaction of the glass cutting his hand - his metal skin didn't allow it. The shards of glass fell to the ground, cushioned by the grass. For a while he just knelt there in silence before Henry’s grave. Drinking in the guilt. Drowning in the sorrow. After a minute or two he stood. From a distance, he heard a wire rifle being charged up, the distinctive crackling of arc batteries. The shot ripped the air, tore through his civilian clothes and made a scorching hole in his side. He staggered with the pain, and almost on reflex drew a worn revolver from his gun belt, moved into a firing position, and slammed the trigger. From a distance he heard the distunctive sound of Ether being released - a far off sniper crumpled to the ground. Then he realized what he'd done. Where he was. The fleeting image of a figure - scorched and armored - lunging for him - and shotgun slugs drilling holes in its head. The memory made him want to throw the revolver over the cliff. Conflict surged in him - his hands trembled. But like the old soldier he was, he just stuck the weapon in his gun belt. Repetition, routine, and training had trumped over his hated act all those years ago. He picked up his hat and coat. Then with one last sorrowful glance, Orion turned around and limped to his ship. The engines roared, and it sped away, faster than normal. The sound echoed, and its absence left only silence.