[Author's note: I feel like I owe my followers/favoriters an apology for flooding their inboxes with meaningless chapter updates. You see, I, uh, had another change of plans. Oops? I got a little carried away writing Mumkhar's account of the prologue cutscenes (which has been posted, so at least there's some actual new content to be found in all of this), and I decided I ought to make him a main character alongside Xord and tell his whole story up until his death. But then I realized that I'd have to involve Face Nemesis, and in that case, I might as well just write about Jade Face as well (especially since Gadolt appears during Xord's attack on Colony 6). So basically, Drones is going to be about *all* of the Faces now, and there will be a total of twenty chapters (two for each song on the album). I just can't ever keep things simple, can I?]

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Metal clashed with metal, like a hammer striking molten iron. The sound was deceptively comforting. It ushered in a bundle of memories, providing Xord with a much needed reprieve.

With his eyes closed, he could feel the warmth of the furnace and taste the bitter smoke on his lips. The sensations combined to recreate the familiar image of his forge. Xord could picture the scene perfectly: he was watching sparks jump up from his anvil, only to flicker and be gone.

Gone—just like those last few glimpses of the life he had left behind.

…

It was pitch black. Xord blinked—slowly at first, and then rapidly—but his vision wouldn't adjust. He was both blind and disoriented; his sense of proprioception had been suppressed as well. Xord tried to grope his way through the darkness, but he was paralyzed from the neck down. He could at least tell that his body was there, but it was completely numb. It was almost as though the body didn't actually belong to him.

Xord brought his phantom hand to his face and jerked backwards when his fingers—skeletal and cold—stroked his cheek. A ringing pain split his skull when his head smashed against a solid wall of metal. With his eardrums still buzzing, Xord frantically felt out the remaining walls of his enclosure. There was little more than a foot of space in front of him, and even less room in the back. Xord was trapped inside a tight, cramped container—something not unlike a coffin.

Memories came rushing back to him in a staggering blow. This time, the visions that proliferated in his mind were disturbing: Mechon swarming the battlefield in droves, bodies of slain soldiers littering the ground, blood-curdling shrieks reverberating off the walls of Sword Valley. Amidst all the terror, Xord remembered what he had been fighting for.

…

Xord stood among the militia, gripping his weapon—a war hammer he had forged himself—with sweaty palms. This hammer was not at all like the one he used to shape metal: it was designed to destroy rather than create. As a blacksmith, Xord regularly handled weapons and had an extensive knowledge of how they worked. However, this was going to be his first time wielding one in battle.

Xord was a civilian and had no ties to the Defense Force. They didn't even purchase any weapons from him: the urgency of war demanded mass production. Xord saw this as a threat to his craft, but the meticulous work he put into his wares still managed to attract a fair amount of hobbyists and collectors.

He studied the faces of the soldiers around him and was able to pick out the career Defense Force members with ease: they were stoic and their expressions displayed not even a hint of emotion. Though they were Homs, their dispositions more closely resembled the Mechon they would soon be meeting in combat. They had either been desensitized to the brutality of war, or trained to expertly disguise all traces of fear. Perhaps they thought of the looming confrontation as just another day of work.

With the Mechon situation growing direr and direr each day, Xord had taken it upon himself to enlist in the militia.. He had someone to protect: Désirée was almost twenty years old—old enough to fend for herself—but she was still Xord's little girl. She meant the world to him, and if he lost her, he'd have nothing left to live for.

Xord's wife had passed away when Désirée was a mere infant, and having to raise and provide for his new daughter on his own was the only thing that had kept Xord from sinking into a deep depression. He had to keep being strong for Désirée. Xord couldn't imagine having the strength to lift his hammer another day if he knew he'd never be able to see his daughter's smile again.

Life was a fragile thing: his wife's untimely passing had shown this to Xord firsthand. It could take only seconds for someone he loved to be ripped away from him. Xord swore he would do everything in his ability to prevent something similar from happening to Désirée, even if it meant he would have to die instead.

It had been easy for Xord to make that promise in the safety of his forge, when the threat of war was far off in the distance. The weight of his commitment had only become real to him once the anticipation of battle lurched into his heart. Xord could feel fear emanating from the draftees around him. It was contagious fear—fear that gripped his entire body and made him turn to stone.

With sweat collecting on his brow, Xord searched again for the Defense Force soldiers. There they were: straight backed, poker faced, giving off a subtle air of readiness that was drowned out by the others' fear. They may have looked like machines, but Xord knew each and every one of them had something they wanted to protect. That was what gave them their strength. Xord tried his best to attain that mindset, but his concentration broke when the first Mechon units arrived on the battlefield.

They banded together, forming something like an ominous parade. Tiny, spider-like machines skittered at the front line, followed by bipedal units with weapons for limbs. The Homs troops charged, their shouts rising above the grinding of machinery. In that moment, it seemed as though the militia would stand a chance—but Xord's optimism didn't last for long.

Gunshots rang out, but the bullets harmlessly ricocheted off of the Mechons' metal armor. The soldiers wielding swords and axes weren't able to put a dent in them, either. The militia's morale was decimated when battle cries began to turn into screams.

The world moved in slow motion as Xord tried to process everything that was going on around him. Never before had he been exposed to a display of such unadulterated horror. Soldiers darted past him like he wasn't even there; seconds later, Xord watched their broken bodies slump to the ground. Fallen Defense Force members lay among draftees, their efforts equally ineffective against the invincible machines. Some attempted to flee the battlefield, only to be snatched up by Mechon lying in wait.

Everything was going horribly wrong. This made Xord aware of how his own life was just as fragile as his wife's and Désirée's. He didn't want to admit that he didn't have what it would take to protect his daughter, at least in these circumstances. Xord had his limits: though he had considerable upper body strength, he was middle-aged and out of shape. If the Defense Force hadn't been so desperate for volunteers, he would have never been allowed to set foot on the battlefield.

Though Xord had been too haughty to realize these things about himself, his daughter was much more in tune with his vulnerabilities. A teary-eyed Désirée had clung to him in the doorway, begging him not to go. Xord had dismissed her concerns and assured her that he would come back alive—another promise he would be unable to fulfill. Xord's blood turned to ice at the thought of Désirée receiving the news of her father's death. What had he been thinking? His daughter needed him just as much as he needed her, and it was selfish of him to leave her so early.

There was no turning back now, though. Xord had committed himself to this fate. All he could do was try his hardest not to let Désirée down. The memory of her smile brought Xord back to the present, and her sweet voice carried him into the fray. He locked onto a bipedal Mechon that had strayed from its brethren and aimed at its legs in hopes of toppling it. However, he swung too early and whiffed. Alerted to his presence, the Mechon turned and lashed out at his arm. The war hammer flew out of Xord's grasp and landed in the dirt several feet away.

It was over.

Xord gaped, dumbfounded, as the Mechon clenched and unclenched its claws. His visions of Désirée faded as the unit latched onto his torso and dragged him away.

…

"Désirée!" Xord wailed, thrashing violently. Somehow, someway, he was alive—buried alive. He needed to get out and let Désirée know. He pounded his fists, still numb, against the wall and bellowed at the top of his lungs. Xord knew someone was out there, producing the clanging noise that continued as he struggled—but they couldn't hear him, or perhaps they didn't want to.

Panting, Xord let his arms slump to his sides. He became aware of his heart's rhythmic thrumming and the blood shooting up his veins, though he still couldn't feel the rest of his body. His pulse was driving his blood out of his arteries and into foreign channels, causing him to grow colder and weaker with every heartbeat. His heart pumped harder to compensate for the loss, but it was in vain. Every movement and every breath was a struggle. Xord clung to his consciousness for dear life.

All of his blood exploded back into his body at once. His veins dilated, engorging his gaunt, drained face. Xord was afraid it would burst from the pressure. Going from one extreme to the other caused him to dissociate. His soul exited his body and rose above him; then, suddenly, Xord could see. His field of view was tinted red, as though his eyes had soaked up some of the blood.

Xord's entire body throbbed as blood flowed in and out. It was like he had become the heart of some greater organism. He stirred, and everything around him moved and creaked. The noise was terrible, like the sound of a building on the verge of collapse. Xord panicked and willed his soul to return, but it remained suspended high above his body. He staggered and his vision sloped to the side. The structure moved with him, shaken by an earthquake with an epicenter in his brain. He and the building were one.

Xord almost didn't hear the whir of the crane over the blood rushing through his ears. He tracked its movement with his eyes, grateful for the distraction. Dangling from the crane was a ventilated container, which it gently set on the floor before veering away. A door swung open on rusted hinges and a timid Ponio foal stepped out. It froze at the sight of Xord, ears pricked and tail tucked between its legs.

Xord stared back vacantly. His eyes flitted about the animal, but his vision had become disconnected from his brain. Xord didn't question why the Ponio had been put there, nor did he even register what exactly it was that he was looking at. His mind was active, but not in a way he could understand. It just felt like his head was full of static.

In spite of this, Xord was able to feel some semblance of kinship with the Ponio—after all, they were both animals that had been displaced from their habitats and relocated somewhere strange. Neither of them moved for a long while. Then, Xord picked up the scent of ether. It was curiously potent: Xord could detect something invigorating intermixed with the odors of dust and earth. His instincts were roused from their dormancy like sharks drawn to blood in the water.

The Ponio scampered the instant Xord stirred, nearly knocking itself off its feet. Xord's awareness suddenly breached from the disorder in his mind, catching onto what was about to go down in a heartbeat. He pleaded with himself to stop, but his judgment was powerless before the primal component of his brain.

The Ponio's speed was easily outmatched by the massiveness of Xord's form. He plucked it off the ground with one decisive snatch and crushed it in his grip. Xord had no choice but to watch in horror as he brought the squealing creature toward his face. He could see only the fear in the Ponio's black eyes; to him, the mechanical hand wrapped around it was invisible. The aroma of the Ponio's ether crept through the slats in his metal chassis, even stronger than before. Xord's mind was rife with conflict: his actions scared and confused him, but he was so very, very hungry.

A pair of wide panels on his chest popped open, revealing a serrated grate. Xord flung the Ponio into the air. The creature tossed violently until it hit his chest, causing the panels to shut like a mousetrap. Electricity rippled from Xord's thoracic jaws as he chewed, breaking the foal's body down into a slurry of blood and ether. The liquid oozed through the grate and dripped into his core. Once the carcass had been drained of substance, Xord spat it out. A charred mass of skin and splintered bones slid out from his maw and fell to the floor.

Xord sputtered as he looked over the Ponio's unrecognizable remains. He had done that. It was a stark contrast to what he had been capable of before: during the Battle of Sword Valley, he hadn't managed to lay a scratch on a single Mechon. He wanted to believe that he hadn't been responsible for mangling the poor animal, yet part of him was satisfied with his kill. The ether churned inside of him, giving him a pinch of rejuvenating energy. It also fueled his appetite and made him hunger for more—but more was not to be found. As Xord's hunger grew, so did his disgust with himself. He wanted to run from the horrible thing he had become.

"No," Xord choked. He tried not to think about the Ponio, but the stench of death wouldn't let him forget what he had done. He needed to get away. Xord surged forward, only for his chest to collide with a glass-like barrier. As he registered what had happened, Xord caught a glimpse of something that rattled him to his core: his own reflection.

His comparatively diminutive Homs body was nowhere to be seen; it was hidden inside a hulking metal behemoth. Its bulky, egg-shaped build and was covered in bronze armor. Only its skull-like head, which had sunken red eyes, was bare. Long spines protruded from the sides of its jaw—not the jaws with which Xord had consumed the Ponio, but a smaller mouth reserved for speech. Its chest stuck out like the bow of a ship, and it had a spherical abdomen that ended in a turbine-like tail. Hanging over its back was a broad structure resembling a shell. A series of canals ran across the machine's exterior, carrying red fluid: Xord's blood. The mechanical vessel was not a mere vehicle to be piloted by Xord—it was an extension of his body; a perfect union of man and machine.

Even though it didn't look like any model he'd ever seen, the sight of the Mechon made Xord relive the hopeless battle yet again. As soon as he recovered, he punched the glass with all his might. Like two titans locked in combat, the figures stood with their arms joined across the barrier.

At last, Xord let his hand slide down the glass. His mechanical form rose and fell with his labored breaths as his eyes absently navigated his reflection. Xord's thoughts were beginning to condense into denial. "No," he said again. All other words were useless to him.

Xord watched his motions in the glass as he opened and closed his fist and weaved his fingers through the air. Somehow, his inflexible metal arm was trembling like flesh. The image disturbed Xord on a visceral level, and he couldn't help but moan in dread. His voice briefly escalated into a howl before dying away.

Xord wanted to slam his head against the glass in an attempt to wake himself from what he wished was just a nightmare, but his shell's overhang got in his the way. He no longer had the energy to deny what he was seeing, and yet he couldn't bring himself to accept it. All he could do was sob as his thoughts fizzled into static once more.