Canis was full of bones.

Failures. Rebels. Mutants.

...It was the failures that lingered, and the rebels that haunted him, though in a thousand years he'd have never admitted such to the Masters. It wasn't that Vargas was the sentimental type--he wasn't. But he valued strength. He valued the ability to survive, to push on: he valued resourcefulness, courage, cunning.

Above all, he valued that inner fire, that indomitable refusal to give up no matter what. Those exceptional few who dragged themselves across the line despite injury, despite agony, despite loss; despite Vargas himself pacing along behind them, waiting for them to give in, offering them a merciful end. He'd always appreciated those.

And when they died--when those who had rebelled refused to stand down, and fought on and hid and scrambled in the dark; or when a testee struggled against the odds; yet died, regardless... There was too-often nothing left to show for it. At times Vargas had regretted. It was a passing thing, pushed aside for more practical matters, but some memories yet lingered. If one fought, and did well, but was struck down by a twist of fate--could that design not be preserved, tried again? Too often, the answer had been no. If a rebel had done well, even fought back well, why could a future iteration of the same physical form not be trusted-?

Vargas sat quietly, now, with a long, thick femur clapsed in one hand. The neon-green Titanite that perched along its oddly-brown length had reminded him, when he'd found it. He hadn't known how the bone had survived this long--if one could even call it a bone. It looked--and was--more like a bleached twist of driftwood. And after he'd found it, he'd pondered--how had they missed its stone? Why wasn't it destroyed?

Titanite One-Eight-Nine had been... unique. So many of them had been. But Titanite had been both a brute, and quiet; intelligent, but aloof. His small size and plantlike nature had both caused him to fare poorly in Hydra, but he had pressed on nonetheless; and in other trials, he had done well. Stoic, quiet, moving slowly and sticking to the cover of trees--into which the being could blend in without issues--he had proven himself again and again. He was indomitable, relentless, and Vargas had watched him with pride.

And then, the rebellion.

Titanite's own personal rebellion.

One of those he'd taken under his wing had been sent out too soon--too early; she had died. Titanite had vanished overnight, and Vargas--as always--had been sent to hunt him. And Titanite had been one of the few brave enough, and stupid enough, to actually fight back.

He had set traps, though they hadn't stopped the Overseer. Vargas had found some fun in it, finding the spiked pit, the propped-up tumble of bones, and so forth. Titanite had fled through Canis, he remembered: hiding amongst the bones, shouting in anger whenever Vargas drew close. "SHE WAS NOT READY," he had howled, and the Overseer remembered the grin on his own face, the anguish in Titanite's voice. And she wasn't, either. He was right in that. But he was wrong to say it wasn't fair. Nothing is fair. Life is chance, and brutal.

Vargas turned the femur over in his hand. The Titanite glittered, catching the light.

Many, when fatally cornered--when they knew they could not escape--submitted. They would lie there trembling in terror even as his jaws or claws closed on their necks. Some would beg. Some stared at him, some closed their eyes. Some didn't give in; they tried, even to the end, to escape: scrabbling at the dead-end wall, or desperately trying to dig through a pile of bones. Titanite had been one of the few to outright turn on him, biting at him, clawing with branchlike talons. And when Vargas had had him fully pinned, when he announced why he Titanite's punishment for rebellion would be death, the thing had never stopped fighting. Clawing at him, kicking, swearing. Despite his sorrow, he'd never stopped fighting.

There had been many, like this--a small percentage, but enough in number. The Titanite was the only one whose gemstone Vargas had... neglected, to destroy.

Perhaps he hadn't wanted to--he couldn't remember, now. Possibly an oversight, or more likely, a subconscious decision to 'forget.' Regardless, he had it here, now.

And he had a little bit of extra freedom, these days. Surely the masters wouldn't object to Titanite's revival, so to speak, this far down the road? These other designs were weak. A little bit of old blood... yes, that was the ticket.

He knew this one was strong. Implacable. Courageous. He would return it to life himself, and give it another chance--without its memories. It was a kindness, really, that it wouldn't remember.

Vargas clutched the femur, his six-thumbed 'hands' working over the stone, lifting it to his snout. Six hammerhead eyes stared at it; it reflected, refracting the green light through his vision.

"A little delayed," he murmured, "but let's get you back to testing."

He set it down beneath the overhang he'd carried it to--right near Tunnel P--and pressed his thumbs down upon the stone, his magicka surging into it. This was something he'd never done; he'd never created another, like this, and the sense of power was thrilling.

It was his choice, to do this. This would be his creation, and no one else's.

The Titanite cracked, and creaked, and began to spread. In seconds the calcified wood was engulfed, and Vargas stepped back to allow the chrysalis to begin to form. Lost in thought, he watched it.

Titanite had been interesting, and second chances were always a fascinating thing.