Chapter Text
As it is with many, many things in the universe, an earth-shattering revelation, a mystical event that will change the course of fate as we know it, starts not with a bang.
It doesn’t start with a cry, either, as the saying usually goes. It starts with a long gasp, a shaky breath that wreaks an Exo’s chest in a way that’d make those around him terribly concerned for his health, if there was anyone in his immediate surroundings, but there isn’t. It’s just him, in a lonely bathroom of the Tower, holding onto the sink like a lifeline while he stares into the mirror.
The syntho-adrenaline subsides and leaves him heaving, and even though he knows it’s physically impossible, he feels like he’s about to vomit. Not that he didn’t expect the feeling—there was bound to be some kind of sickness after performing a ritual with a variety of items ranging from the picked-apart remains of an Ahamkaran fusion rifle to a Vex instrument from a far-flung pocket of space and time. He knew the risks, he really did—but the reward was simply too tantalizing for him to give up. It must be the Hunter in him; Cayde would’ve been proud of him if he was still alive.
He is, if he got this right.
For a moment, he feels like he’s done it wrong. Feels like the air is different, weirdly stale or perhaps the opposite and too full of vigor. The Witness’s use of the Light has led to him not trusting neither the dead nor the living.
But then he takes a breath. Focuses on the weight of his gear, on how Solipsism, Stoicism and Relativism hum with renewed purpose.
He’s not there. He’s not there anymore, and he almost sobs at the realization. He waits a few more seconds before he reluctantly takes off his helmet, and his eyes widen at the thought that he hasn’t seen his own face in ages.
He’s a mess. His metal is rough, scuffed in multiple places and bursting open in others, wounds unhealed from weakness, and the twin horns on his forehead have never looked worse for wear, one of them shorter than the other.
(The Exo remembers why that is: He had to take a page from Saint’s book and headbutt a Taken Ogre until it lay dead and disintegrating beneath his feet. The Titan never told him how much it hurt to do that.)
Orange lights blaze like flames from his eyes and cheeks, and, remembering a technique from Ikora, steadies his breathing with the paracausal heartbeat of his Light. His newfound calm makes them dim down, and the Guardian lets out an audible sigh, rubbing his face with his hand.
Shaxx would scold him for looking like this, he knows, but he really couldn’t help it, back in the Before. He’s in the After now, partitioning his systems to recognize that the Darkness is no longer lapping at his ankles, that’s it all in the past.
He rests. He needs a moment to recover, to prepare, and he can’t face anyone, not like this, not when he’d break apart at the sight of any of his old friends. The Vanguard, Saint-14, Osiris, his off-world allies…
Shaxx.
But he can’t run away. Chaos follows him like a cloak, and it’s not comforting like the vow of a Hunter’s. Just when it feels like he’s built up his composure, it shatters immediately when a voice calls out to him from outside. One he should’ve expected, but didn’t, and without any preparation, he feels like he’s about to cry all over again.
“Guardian?” The voice asks, softly, respectfully, yet the warmth and concern in it makes it clear this is not the words of any mere stranger, or even a friend. “Are you still there? It’s been a few minutes since you went in.”
His voice chokes up. Not him. Not his closest friend, his little Light in the dark, the sacrifice he had to make to get here. He knows he understood his place in the ritual, all but forcefully asked the Guardian to do it, but he can’t get his flickering eye out of his mind.
“...I’m fine, Ghost.” He whispers. He knows Ghost can hear him, attuned to him in every way that matters. “I’ll be right there.”
He remembers just like it was yesterday why Ghost is outside: He had followed him into the bathroom once and from then on it was decided that every time he had to go use the toilet while Ghost was up and floating, he’d wait near the door. He knows he’s going to tell Ghost to disregard that rule sometime.
When he finally opens the door, his Ghost blinks up at him. The Guardian remembers the blank, white shell he’s wearing. It’s a useful indicator of when he came back—Probably a little before the Red War. Hopefully, not so far back that he has to deal with anything from before then.
They both stew in silence for a bit, and when the Guardian catches up to it, still reeling in front of Ghost, he realizes why he’s looking at him so weirdly.
“...New exotics?” His voice, usually low and deep, gets higher and higher as he speaks. Did he even have some exotic Engrams on him at this time? God, he sure hopes so.
When Ghost looks at him with even more suspicion in his one eye, he continues, checking off everything that could be weird and unexplainable on him. When he remembers he’s wearing three different class items, he speaks up again. “I didn’t feel like any of the three classes today. Doesn’t Ikora shoulder charge? No, that was Felwinter—”
“You’re talking,” Ghost cuts him off, and the Guardian realizes his mistake with a flicn and a grimace. “And your helmet’s off. Are you okay, Guardian?”
He never did those things in front of anyone or, even if he was alone with his Ghost. Not before Cayde died, at the very least. Combine that with his scarred face, and Ghost is probably equal parts creeped out and uneased.
“I’ll… I’ll explain later, Ghost.” The Guardian hopes his voice doesn’t sound like he’s about to break down. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
Ghost gets even more worried at that, but recognizing his Guardian is in need of some comfort, he floats closer, nuzzling his neck. “I’ll always be with you, Guardian. I’m your Ghost, after all.”
Ha. That’s what every Ghost says, but the Guardian knows better. Knows that strange, paracausal overload that explodes when one of them disappears into the other side, but he ignores the cynicism in his soul and remembers that his Ghost lived to see him travel back to make things right. That he was there, every step of the way.
The two of them start walking back to the Tower proper, and with every step, it becomes clear that he’s in the Last City, the entire place beaming with strength, with hope. A few seconds into their journey and the bright, blinding sun warms up the Guardian’s face, and he instinctively closes his eyes and raises a hand at just how warm it is outside. It was nothing like the Pale Heart, that was both comfortably and uncomfortably just right, perfect, in everything from temperature to humidity.
The Guardian stares up at the Traveler for a moment, halting his steps, and he just… wonders. Does it know? Does the Gardener know, right now, that the timeline has shifted? Dammit, his train of thought starts getting derailed. Does the Vex know? Fuck, once he rescues Osiris and he discovers Saint’s dead, at least right at this moment in the timeline, will the Sundial be glitchy or anything? Do the Corridors of Time still exist? Honestly, for that last one, he’s more worried that he won’t be able to replace his trashed Bastion than the idea that his death might have changed.
Holy shit. Does he still have his vault? He had to become an expert in using everything in his arsenal and he’d be damned to learn he has to reobtain everything.
It takes his Ghost running into his back a couple of times before he snaps out of his reverie and sees that a few other Guardians are staring at him, probably because, with his helmet off, they don’t recognize him, or because they can’t tell which class is he, or because his class items are screaming Prismatic energy to his surroundings and the tinge of Darkness in it is a little disconcerting, or all of the above. He trudges forward despite their stares.
“Ghost, what date is it today?” He asks, absent-mindedly. Now that he has time, in spades, in fact, he needs to actually fix things, make things better. Rescue Osiris. Find Saint. Deal with Xol and get a better working relationship with Rasputin. The Pyramid on the Moon needs to be contained, because if the Nightmares won’t kill him with how much added trauma he has, the Tower constantly repeating that ‘the moon is haunted’ will. Can he get into contact with Neomuna? Can he get an audience with Caiatl, who’s probably still in space after escaping Torobatl’s destruction? Can he ally with Mithrax yet?
He needs to talk with Elsie. She’s the only person who could ever help, who could ever understand.
He’s in the middle of thinking which Baron he wants to kill first (the Rifleman, obviously) when Ghost rattles off the date to him, and he stops. Then he asks the Ghost to repeat what he just said. His Ghost does.
“Fuck.” He rarely swears, even in sign, so he doesn’t flinch when his Ghost gasps, his little voice reprimanding him. “They’re attacking tomorrow?”
He’s got a whole lot of talking and a whole lot of thinking to do.
***
Banshee-44 very rarely hears a voice he doesn’t know while he’s on the counter.
He knows how bad his memory is, but any shopkeeper knows there’s simply some things you don’t forget. Your best customers, the things in your stock that sell out the quickest. He knows every Guardian that frequents the Tower, their favorite dances, which weapon archetypes they like best. The Awoken Warlock speaking to a member of the Future War Cult likes the feeling of a pulse rifle in her hands, one with a high magazine size so that her cold hands don’t have to take time spent for killing reloading. The Hunter in all-black doing acrobatics on his way to the Postmaster has his heart set on hand cannons, and the impactful weight that comes with firing one in one hand. And the Titan… Warlock… Hunter…
Banshee’s glowing eyes narrow as he focuses on the Guardian making his way towards him. His gait is exhausted yet determined, and his footsteps are silent, even more so than the most fleet-footed Hunters he knows. His Ghost floats around him, almost frustrated in the way it moves, weirdly familiar. The gunsmith’s guard is raised before he even realizes it is, and he has to take a long breath to remind himself that he’s in the Tower, and that this Guardian is obviously a customer. Not an enemy, no matter how his systems scream at him to run.
(There’s a small part of him that’s oddly curious. One that wants to know everything about this interesting, new person. It’s not a good feeling, and he drowns it out with the revving of a chainsaw in his head.)
“Guardian.” He nods as they lean on the counter. “You new here? Never seen a guy that looked half like you around here before.”
Even though it’s covered by his helmet, Banshee can recognize the Guardian’s surprised expression. When he speaks, Banshee can only tell it’s an Exo, and nothing more.
“Uh… What do you mean by that, Banshee?” The Guardian looks both ways, as if watching out for any onlookers, before he transmats his helmet away, revealing… someone Banshee doesn’t remember, or perhaps someone he doesn’t know at all. He points at himself repeatedly. “It’s me.”
The Ghost stares up at his Guardian with an audible sigh, as if already expecting Banshee’s unknowing reaction. “Guardian…”
“...Oh. Right.” The mysterious stranger whispers to himself, his raised hand clenching and unclenching into a fist, before his hands move into something Banshee does recognize. His right hand forms a gun pointing to the sky, while the other one makes a pinching gesture and moves up into the air with a swooshing motion. A combination of the sign for gun, and spirit, or rather…
“Banshee.” The gunsmith says his own name, his eyes finally meeting the Guardian’s own in a more certain way. “Guardian?”
The word isn’t just the general term for a Lightbearer anymore, no, it’s the name of a dear friend to Banshee, and his favorite customer.
“It gets a little confusing calling me that. You know you can call me the Young Wolf, right?” The Guardian quirked up an eyebrow before letting out a hesitant chuckle at Banshee’s expression when the gunsmith registers that yes, that’s his voice.
“Guardian, maybe we should stop and think for a second before, ahem, dropping any bombs on our allies?” Ghost sighs, turning to Banshee. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into him this morning.”
“I told you Ghost, I’d explain later!” The Guardian hisses at the little Light, before he flinches at the way his Ghost recoils. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that was—”
“No, no, Guardian, you’re right. We’ll talk about… this, later.” Ghost sighs, hovering a little closer to his Guardian. “Why exactly are we here, Guardian?”
“I need some help with Banshee in fixing a few things. And maybe reverse-engineering them, too.” The Guardian stretches an arm out, and before Banshee can even question what he’s doing, a sword that he can only describe as being made of pure light forms in his hand, and he places it gently onto the counter.
The gunsmith gingerly lays his fingers on it, and he feels it respond with a surge of warmth. He’s never seen any weapon like this, so alive and thrumming like a hummingbird’s heart. He swipes down its etched blade until he makes it to the Ghost-shaped pommel, just a little bit of worship in his eyes.
“Where did you find something like this, Guardian?” Banshee holds it up with both hands, and the weight almost shifts, making it easy to wield yet heavy enough to strike at enemies with decisive blows. “Feels… strange.”
“Its name is Ergo Sum,” The Guardian sounds reverent as he speaks, and even his Ghost takes a few inches back at the way he says it. The little Light has never heard his Guardian talk like that. It’s the tone one would use to describe a tool that’s served them all their life, and has never broken. If Ghost knew he could talk like that, he would've expected the word he’d use with it to be ‘Eyasluna’. “I found it in the… European Dead Zone.”
“Near the Traveler’s Shard?” Banshee says, suspicion evident in his voice. The Guardian lets out a nervous laugh—he’s gonna have to learn to expect those kinds of words from others real quick. “I don’t remember the Vanguard issuing a mission or bounty anywhere near that place.”
“I went exploring. As I do. Reconnaissance against the Devils.” The Guardian’s voice is joking enough to be a semblance of his usual self but firm enough to let Banshee know he shouldn’t ask any more questions. “It’s pretty strong. Do you think you can maybe run some tests on it? See if there’s anything useful you could put into some other guns?”
“I can try. I can’t make any promises.” Banshee says after a moment, placing the sword next to one of his commissions. “I’ll need to use a few of my favors. Cassoid, maybe. Daito might also want to take a look at this—”
“Oh, while you’re at it, can you check this, too?” Another burst of light heralds the Guardian’s transmatting of what Banshee thinks is a fixed-up Khvostov 7G-0X, the laser sight on it casting a crimson spearhead toward the barrel’s direction. Banshee recognizes the black metal as being honed through Bright Dust, and in the same few seconds it takes for him to process that he’ll need to take off the ornament to get a closer look, the Guardian’s already dropping more stuff on him.
“Oh, and this—” A sniper rifle, its barrel singed, as if Solar Light was pooled right through it. “And this—” An auto rifle with flowing quicksilver within. “And this—” A shotgun with both fire and what seems to be paracausal ice flowing out of it. “And also—”
The Guardian cuts himself off at the last one, pulling it back with an almost startled quickness in his movements, but Banshee, for some unknown reason, can’t help but grab the Guardian’s arm. He stares down at what he’s looking at, his inner systems ticking like a clock.
It’s a sword, but just like Ergo Sum, it’s not like anything Banshee’s seen before… but what’s different about this one is that he feels like he should know it. It’s a finely designed thing, as if a circuit board was turned into a honed edge, gold and azure teeth sticking right out one of the ends.
“Oh, uh… you don’t need to look at this—” The Guardian tugs back at Banshee’s hold, but Banshee ignores him, taking the sword into his arms. It’s… familiar, and bits and pieces of long-forgotten memories flash beneath his eyes, barely recognizable, and the gunsmith can’t grab hold of them long enough for them to solidify.
“I want to.” His voice is surprisingly firm, as he looks up at the Guardian. “Give me a favor, Guardian. What’s its name?”
When the Guardian answers, it’s with a deep breath, almost self-deprecating in its resignation. “It’s the Lament, Banshee. I’m sure you’ll learn all about it.”
Banshee’s fixation on the chain-sword is cut through by the Guardian’s strange wording, and he focuses back on the fact that this is just another business dealing. At least, it should be. “Are you sure about bringing these all to me? Might lose ‘em.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I trust you. Besides, I can make copies of those things with some enhancement shards and glimmer.” The Guardian shrugs. “Well, legendary shards, actually. Except Ergo Sum, but I gave you my worst roll.” He scoffs to himself. “Insectoid Robot Grenades are a scam, I tell you…”
Before Banshee can even decipher what that even means, the Guardian stands back up straight. “I’ll have to go now. Thanks, Banshee.”
With that, he walks away, and his Ghost only gives an apologetic nod at the gunsmith before he chases his Guardian down, leaving Banshee alone with a lot of guns he has no idea about. Was this going to be a normal occurrence, now? The worst thing the Guardian had ever shown him was a few weeks ago with that Touch of Malice thing, but this was a close second purely from the chaos and oddness of the whole incident.
Banshee moved all of the weapons he had been given, putting the bigger ones of his counters and hanging the stuff he could onto the walls. Regardless of his feelings about what had just happened, the Guardian had trusted him with something. A lot of things, and he’d be damned if he didn’t do what he did best: his job.
“Alright,” Banshee hummed to himself, setting the Lament on his worktable. “Let’s see what makes you tick…”
***
“What exactly was that, Guardian?” Ghost says, exasperation coloring his voice. “And where are we going now?”
The Young Wolf frowns. He doesn’t enjoy the feeling of dragging his Ghost everywhere without telling him anything, but there’s simply no time to…
Huh. Maybe he should apologize to Elsie for hating her cryptic info-dropping. When you were in the middle of time travel shenanigans, there really was no time to explain.
“Just speedrunning technological advancement for the whole of Guardiankind.” The Guardian says, oddly nonchalant. “I’m not fighting the Witness on Ballyhoos. Anyways, the Vanguard. I need to talk to them. All three of them, preferably. I’m going to wrangle Cayde from wherever he is so that I’m at least giving my info to a functioning fireteam.”
The Guardian hopes that his words are full of assured confidence, but the way his voice breaks ever so slightly on Cayde’s name makes his face burn. Fuck. There were far too many emotions associated with that name. “Do you think I should’ve given Lament to Banshee, Ghost? I mean, it might kickstart a few things I don’t want happening…”
“I don’t even know what that sword is, Guardian.” Ghost deadpans. “I didn’t even see you get it. Did you go spelunking without me? Into the wilderness?”
“Of course not, Ghost! I’d never do such a thing? Hm, Cayde might… Hey, can you hack into the Vanguard’s mission directory? See if he’s gone on any bouts of spontaneous ‘leave’ recently. I have the access keys in my head, search for the right date.”
“W-What?” Ghost sputtered, his shell revolving around him in shock. “You can’t just ask me to hack the Vanguard! I don’t even want to know why you have Vanguard encryption keys on you!”
It’s oddly comforting to get into these verbal ‘sparring matches’ with Ghost, the Young Wolf thinks. Too comforting, in fact, because before long, every Guardian in the Tower is looking at them as they discuss the ethics of looking into the private information of what is essentially your bosses. Most of them turn away after a few seconds, too busy with their own work and the recent peace that the Last City has found.
It’s a shame that there’s one Guardian that just gets more and more curious with every word that leaves the Guardian’s lips and his Ghost’s shell.
***
Cayde assumes they’re a New Light.
It’s a hypothesis he can back up, surprisingly, since he’s never seen hide nor hair of this Guardian before. Big Blue might have the strength and integrity of his loyal Titans and Ikora might have her spooky Hidden, but even the carefree Hunter Vanguard has bits and pieces of information he just knows. He’ll barely submit paperwork, and he’ll take every chance he gets to get back on the field, but when it comes to managing his Hunters, what they see and what they hear of with hushed whispers, his focus is as sharp and concealed as the knife on his hip.
It’s just another Guardian, he thinks, albeit one that dresses weirdly. The build underneath their armor tells him Titan, and the robes which are clearly not a mark speak Warlock, but Cayde just focuses on the shroud over their back, a Hunter’s cloak, even if it looks really, really weird.
Yet, there’s a tingling feeling in the back of his head, where those endless dreams of cold and snow rest, that tells him the Guardian he’s looking at is dangerous. He’s only ever gotten that feeling a few times in his life. Once, when he was freshly revived, facing down a horde of Hive. Another time, close to the first, when he faced a Fallen Baroness with nothing but one of her Shock Pistols in hand.
The last time, when he faced down Taniks.
Meh. He’s a Hunter. Danger is his middle name, right between his first name and his number. If they are a New Light, they’ll need a Vanguard to help guide their way, especially if they really are one of his Hunters. A look at their armor tells Cayde they’ve been in the wilds for a long time, but hey, even the most lone of wolves need to learn how to acclimate to the Tower.
Still, he can’t resist playing around, perhaps chasing away the fear in his head by creeping up to the New Light. He rarely gets to give anyone a good scare nowadays, mostly because they all know when to expect him. His footsteps are silent, nary a sound to be heard even as steel-toed boots walk on concrete.
All it’d take was a couple more steps. He’s right behind the Guardian now, and just as the Ghost in front of the New Light registers his presence, he reaches out a hand to firmly place on the Guardian’s shoulder—
—and is immediately sent reeling into the floor, flipped all the way onto his back. No Hunter acrobatics could’ve saved his dignity, not when the guy he was trying to frighten was made of muscle. Well, made of muscle in the only way Exos could be, Cayde’s vision clearing up to reveal a fellow machine with orange eyes. He lets out a grunt of pain, but it immediately dissipates as Sundance laughs in his head. Great. He can tell there’s eyes on both of them, a few of the usual vendors and regulars laughing their asses off or decidedly looking away from the sight of the Hunter Vanguard sprawled on the floor.
Just as quickly as he was flipped, though, he’s immediately helped up by the Guardian, who’s already stumbling through apologies like a madman. “Shit. Sorry, Cayde, I didn’t realize it was you.”
Cayde can just barely make out the nervous words, his keen eyes instead focusing on how the New Light in front of him transmats a hand cannon away before he can see it. Had he trained it on him as he laid flat on the ground? Cayde didn’t know if he should pat the Guardian on the back for being so instinctual in his defense or a little worried he almost got shot.
“Hey, hey, it’s no big deal. Can’t fault a Guardian for defending themselves, even if it’s from little ol’ me…” Cayde tried to let out a charming chuckle but it just faded into a wince, rolling one of his arms. This New Light had a firm grip, that was for sure. “Flipping Vanguards onto the floor, you’re having a pretty exciting welcome to the City. What’s your name, pal? You seem to already know mine.”
The Exo Hunter expected another round of quick-paced phrases. Not for the Guardian’s Ghost to look at him disappointedly and for the Guardian himself to groan. Loudly, in fact, before his hands moved to sign. “Cayde. It’s me.”
…Oh. Ohhh.
“What the—Kid?!” Cayde can’t hide his astonished surprise. He thought he was a New Light, and one of his hunters, not the Godslayer and one of Ikora’s. Before he can say anything else, the Guardian cuts him off with his own voice.
“Yes. It’s me. The Guardian. The Young Wolf. Whatever.” The man in question puts a hand to his forehead, massaging it. Cayde didn’t even know he was a fellow Exo. “Ghost, can you just message every Ghost you know, tell them I look like this now and that I’m talking? Please?”
“Half of them won’t believe you, Guardian.” Ghost sighs, but he complies with his friend’s request, disappearing into blue light.
There’s a fondness to the way the Guardian stares at his Ghost’s usual movements, as if he hasn't seen them in a long time, but once again, Cayde can’t focus on it long enough to think harder about what he’s seeing before the Guardian speaks up again. “It’s nice to see you, Cayde. Do you know where Zavala is? And Ikora?”
“They’re in the Hall of Guardians, like always.” Cayde put a light tone into his voice, but if he had eyebrows, they’d be all the way into the stratosphere. The Guardian should know these things. It’s not like they’ve moved regularly—part of why Cayde hates, no, that’s a bit strong, dislikes his job is because they’re just cooped up in that stuffy room all the time. “Why? Need to ask them for something?”
“Yeah. I do.” The Guardian crosses his arms, thinking for a moment, before he looks up at Cayde. Those orange, blazing eyes… they’re almost like a cat’s, Cayde thinks as they blink up lazily at him.
Actually, scratch that. They’re more like a tiger’s. No cat would decide to just grab the scruff of Cayde’s cloak and decide to drag him along for the ride.
“Guardian?!” Cayde shouts, a few birds perched on Tower railings flying off into the distance at the volume of his voice. “Where are you taking me, kid? Is it somewhere exciting, at least!?”
“Not at all.” The Guardian responds, no kindness in his voice, only a trace of pity. “You’re gonna hate it. Especially what I’m going to talk about.”
What does that even mean? With a suffering groan, Cayde lets himself be pulled towards the Hall of Guardians. At the very least, this is a lot more interesting than anything he’s been doing in the last couple days.
***
It has been decades since Zavala has been scared of anything.
There’s a kind of immortal confidence that comes with being a Guardian. The reassurance that your Ghost will revive you no matter how or where you die can be intoxicating, and Zavala has seen his fair share of Guardians over the centuries of his long life lose themselves to that feeling, challenge a foe that they cannot handle alone, and die their final death.
It is because of those experiences, of fallen comrades and the graves of those he’s lost, that he’s made sure to beat into not only himself but in every Guardian under his watchful eyes the caution it takes to live as long as he has.
Yet, despite his best efforts, it’s been a while since he’s stepped into the field. It’s been a while since the numbers of casualties he reads in his datapad has felt real, that he’s seen every corpse with his own eyes. It’s the perfect breeding ground for invincibility to creep in, to become a weakness that can be exploited.
When Targe transmats into existence to tell him the Guardian is headed his way, there shouldn’t be anything unusual about it… Except there is. He makes eye-contact with Ikora as he orders the central room to clear out, leaving him and his fellow Vanguard alone.
“I take it you received the same message as me?” The Awoken asks, crossing his arms as the last few frames make their way out. Ikora just nods in return, looking towards the hall’s entrance as if already expecting the Guardian’s arrival.
“I did. His Ghost informed me about ‘information on an urgent threat’,” She mutters, eyes narrowed as she ponders. “But I’m not so certain this is anything like what we’ve faced before.”
Zavala’s eyes widened minutely. “Oh? What makes you say that?”
Ikora has already been better at discerning the hidden meanings in others’ words than him. The Tower’s politics is more complicated than ‘the Vanguard vs. the factions vs. the others’, and her skills have made her a remarkable force in allowing Guardians the little privileges they can indulge in across the Sol System. Not only that, but the Guardian is one of her Warlocks—She’d know if something was wrong with them with a single glance.
“Ghost’s tone was strange.” Ikora answered. “Hurried, and worried. As if he didn’t fully understand the information he had. He told me that the Guardian would explain.”
“I heard that too.” Zavala stared down towards one of his datapads, flicking through the words written on it. “What was the last operation the Guardian went on, again?”
“The SIVA Crisis.” Ikora says. “Ever since then, he has only ever participated in the Crucible. His skills are…” The edges of her lips turn down into a frown, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she pauses to find the right word. “...in need of a refresher.”
Zavala lets a small smile show up on his face. At this point, their conversation is both serious discussion and small talk. Often, it’s the former between them, but with such a perplexing encounter in front of them, they can’t help but try to bring the mood up. The two of them are known as the more serious of the three Vanguards, but that’s not to say they don’t know the importance of morale and positivity personally.
It’s minutes later that the Guardian finally enters the room, the sound of twin footsteps resounding in the overlook of the Last City, and both Vanguards straighten up. Zavala recognizes Cayde’s footsteps, relaxed and lazy, and while the other set has to be the Guardian, there’s something different in the way it’s like that of a child relearning to walk. They’re firm, yet stilted, as if the Guardian is forcing himself to make a sound as he moves.
The Guardian comes into view from right around the corner, waving a hand up to greet them. His armor is strange, but he’s known for changing up his looks every once in a while, so Zavala doesn’t take a second glance at him. When Cayde arrives right behind him, fixing up the hood of his cloak, the Titan Vanguard hides his surprise behind a well-prepared poker face. He managed to get Cayde to join in?
“Guardian,” Zavala nods in greeting. He can tell from the corner of his eye that Ikora does the same, and when Cayde finally makes himself comfortable by leaning on the war table (with a whisper of ‘Hey, Blue.’), only then does the Guardian speak.
“Hey, Commander,” The Guardian speaks, and when Zavala glances over at Ikora to see the expression of shock on her face, he looks back to find that the Guardian has his hands on his hips as he stares at his Ghost.
“I said what you told me to say to Ophiuchus and Targe!” Ghost groans. “I told you they wouldn’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t get any less annoying, though.” The Guardian growls under his breath, before letting out a sigh. It’s a voice lower than Zavala expects, like that of a Guardian with more years than the one in front of him has.
“They’ll get used to it in time, Guardian.”
“Sure. Sure. I have time…” The Guardian trails off, and the silence that takes place should usually be normal but instead makes even Cayde look uneasy.
“Guardian, you said you had information for us?” Leave it to Ikora to always get their meeting on track. “Ghost informed us it was of utmost importance.”
“Oh, right. How should I say this…” The Guardian steadies himself with his Vanguard’s words, and he takes a moment to think. “Ghost, can you bring up the file in my head? You’ll know the one.”
Ghost dutifully follows the Guardian’s commands, but his shell expands in surprise before he moves to an empty wall, projecting what seems to be the schematics for something… enormous, a ship almost like a herald of war. Zavala can tell from the language of the blueprints that it’s of Cabal make, but that’s it.
“I visited Mars a few days ago to—” He stops himself, orange eyes narrowing. “Because I was bored.” It’s one of his usual excuses, and the three Vanguards decide to gloss over the way he stopped himself. For now.
“I went in, encountered some Cabal who got really angry and tried to kill me, killed them, then got out. I took some loot from them and was just orbiting around the planet, ready to head home when a datapad I nicked delivered some… very interesting stuff.” The Guardian points towards the image Ghost is projecting.
“Well, it’s definitely huge, that’s for sure,” Cayde walks up to the wall, and Ghost has to move it away so that the Exo doesn’t just render the damn thing unreadable. “But what is it? Seems like it’s just a big ship.”
“It’s called the Almighty.” When Ikora’s eyes grow suspicious, the Guardian quickly raises his hands in surrender. “I think. My Ulurant’s rusty. It’s a world destroyer of the Cabal, the Red Legion. The cabal influence here must’ve sent out a distress call. If my use of the language is right, it’s coming here in a day or two.”
“A day?” Zavala can’t help the incredulousness in his voice. “In our system?”
When the Guardian nods, Ikora is the next to interject. “Guardian, are you absolutely sure this information can be trusted? Our early warning sensors haven’t caught anything in years.”
“I mean, we’ve been busy with a lot of other stuff recently, haven’t we?” Cayde shrugged. He almost looked completely relaxed, if it weren’t for the way he absent-mindedly fiddled with Ace of Spades. “Oryx and Crota and all that. When was the last time we gave those things a tune-up?”
The grim line that settles on Ikora’s face answers everything the Hunter asks. Zavala’s fists tighten in their gauntlets.
“I’ll contact the maintenance workers in the Last City, ask them to check in on the sensors while we call back our Guardians off-world.” He decides. “Ikora, can you bring your Hidden alongside them?”
“Of course. If it’s possible they’ve been hijacked, they’ll be able to recognize the signs of it.”
“Okay, but that’s really not the worst part of it.” The Guardian interrupts them both, and the next image that slides into Ghost’s projection is something that fills Zavala with a sense of sheer wrong: A prison-like structure, encircling what can only be the Traveler like a spider hunting its prey.
“Is that…?” The Awoken can’t bear to even put his theory into words.
“Yeah.” The Guardian says, voice quiet. “The Cabal’s done research on the Traveler. They think they can… cut us off from its Light, make us useless. If this thing has any chance of working, we’re toast.”
The silence that follows only serves to emphasize the gravity of the situation. Ghost shuts down the projections, seizing the moment. “I’m sending the data to your Ghosts.” He murmurs, trying to bring the mood up to something more determined than bleak. “What’s our next move, Commander?”
“We must ready our defenses.” Zavala says. His mind is already running through the resources the Last City has on hand. “Contact the Speaker and the Consensus, and order an evacuation for the Last City. We need our people consolidated in the Tower’s defense. Ikora?”
“The Hidden are by your side, Commander. I’ll call back all of my Warlocks.” She responds, a steady presence by his side. Zavala turns to call on Cayde, but the Hunter Vanguard is already speaking.
“I know what you want, Big Blue,” The Exo raises his hands up in a placating gesture, taking a few steps back. “And I’ll do my best, but you know how my Hunters are. They might just decide to leave Sol and get the hell out of dodge.”
“I’ll round them up if I have to.” The Guardian mutters, arms crossed, and all three of the Vanguard turn to look at him. “What?”
“It’s nothing.” Cayde waves the Guardian off, but there’s a smile on his face. “Hey, I don’t know what’s up with you, but this change looks good on you.”
The Guardian gives a weak grin of his own. “I’ll try to do some recon on the Almighty. If they’re really coming here tomorrow, they’ll probably be on the edge of the system. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Zavala stares into the Guardian’s eyes. As much as he knows that he’s needed for this new threat, he can’t help but think that the Guardian is still so, so new. It’s barely been a few months since he arrived at the City from the Cosmodrome yet he’s done so much for humanity without taking even a single vacation. Perhaps it’s not that he won’t let himself catch a break, but rather that he can’t.
Before any of them can continue the conversation, the Guardian walks away. “We’re going, Ghost. We need to move fast.”
It’s with those words that he transmats away. His Ghost turns around just to give an apologetic bow before he too is gone, with nothing but motes of Light left in the air.
None of them know what to make of it.
“Soooo…” Cayde whistled, holstering his hand cannon onto his waist. “Are we gonna talk about the Knight in the room?”
“It concerns me too, Cayde, but now is not the time.” Ikora says sternly, turning away. “I’ll deal with our defenses. Zavala, you need to speak with the Speaker and the Consensus as a whole. A threat of this magnitude needs the Last City unified.”
“I know that.” He whispers, untold anxiety in his voice.. The so-called ‘Almighty’ is right in their backyard, and if it weren’t for the Guardian’s information, they would have been blind to this attack. “You two know what to do.”
“We’ll try our best, Zavala. You just deal with the bigwigs.” Cayde gives the man a playful salute, and with a flash of Sundance’s form, he too goes wherever he’s needed. Zavala trusts the Hunter Vanguard—He’s known the man for centuries, knows that when lives are truly on the line, he’ll do his job.
Where Cayde is facetious, Ikora is stoic. “Zavala.” She calls, her brown eyes charged with energy. “If you need any more assistance…”
“We all have our place against the Darkness, Ikora.” He tries to give her a small smile, but from the way Ikora’s brow creases with concern, he doubts it looks any good. “I know you and Cayde will be ready to support me.”
“I’ll give you a report of our defenses in the next 4 hours. Be cautious, Zavala.” She advises, and she too disappears. Zavala wonders if Ikora sees a glimpse of Ophiuchus as she transmats, but he shakes the thought from his mind. The relationship between Ikora and her Ghost is none of his business.
“Are you good, Commander?” Targe shows up over his shoulder, his red-lined shell twitching. His Guardian lets out a deep sigh, before splaying his hands out on the war table. For a moment, a hint of vulnerability strays on his face, a sign that the invincible Titan isn’t so invincible after all.
It’s not long before that too smoothes over into a resolute face. As much as he might hate the path fate has laid out for humanity, this is simply another day in the life of a Guardian of the Last City. Humanity has always fought to survive, and Zavala knows the role he needs to play.
“Targe, contact the Speaker, and the faction leaders.” He asks of his Ghost. “Tell them that there’s a critical threat we need to discuss.”
***
The Guardian doesn’t transmat to the busy, industrial sprawl of the Hangar, even if that’s where the Vanguard expects him to reappear. No, he reappears just outside the Hall of Guardians, his composure falling with his downturned shoulders like a robe he’s undressed out of.
“...Who knew acting was this hard?” He mutters to himself. He forgot how it felt to be… innocent, he supposes. Carefree. The Guardian knows it’s something he needs to relearn, but he doubts it’ll ever be the same.
He starts off on another walk. If his ship is where he thinks it is, he’ll have to replace it. He never cared for it before, aside from its appearance, but after years of running from the Dread? He knows he’ll need to have something more practical. It’s a miracle his entire collection carried over from the previous cycle.
“Guardian, will you explain what’s going on now?” His Ghost blooms into existence from aetherspace, hovering in front of him. The Guardian instinctively bats him away, but he’s undeterred. When he talks again, his voice is quiet. Fearful, almost. “Please. You’re scaring me.”
The Guardian pauses. It’s not the same, but the tone’s similar. Similar to the one Ghost used during the Baron hunt. Similar to the one he used when he was first dealing with the Dark, with Stasis.
Similar to the one he used when they were about to face the Witness, determined and resolute but so, so afraid.
“I know. Like I said, I’m sorry, Ghost.” He whispers back. His eyes soften ever so slightly. “Trust me just a little more, please. Once we’re in our ship and away from prying eyes, I’ll tell you everything.”
“You promise.” It’s not a question when Ghost says it, but the Guardian nods anyway. “Okay. Of course I will. You’re my Guardian.”
“Thanks, Ghost.” The Guardian actually manages a small smile at that, one that hasn’t been faked to hell and back. The both of them move to continue their walk, but a few seconds later, they immediately get derailed again.
It’s not the work of a physical obstruction, or even something urgent to accomplish. No, it’s the work of a booming, warm voice, and the sudden fear and grief that echoes from the Guardian’s Light.
He sees from the corner of his eye the way his Ghost backs away at the sudden flinch that wreaks havoc to his body, and for a moment, he just wants to run. To deal with what he’s about to face later, to push it back.
But he knows this person, and he just can’t. He’d grow concerned, wait for the right time, and corner him, so he wouldn’t be able to escape. He can’t deal with that right now, meeting him one-on-one.
He turns around and is greeted by Lord Shaxx, already right on his heels.
“Guardian!” The man laughs, carrying what appears to be a few large boxes stamped with the symbol of the Crucible. New loot, the Guardian thinks. The old version of him would’ve been floundering with excitement. It was a shame that these weapons would never see the light of day, torched to their frames by the Red Legion. “I didn’t expect you to be out and about today! What brings you to the courtyard this time, hm?”
He’s bright and energetic as always, and the Guardian can’t help but relax for a split second. Even with years of experience on his belt, Shaxx is just so disarming. Perhaps it was his kindness that allowed him to outlast every other Warlord on Earth.
“Nothing much.” The Guardian signs curtly, hands raised up. There’s a sharp tinge of surprise that runs through his head, at the fact that Shaxx somehow recognizes him, even with his helmet off, but then he remembers. He remembers revealing his face, hiding his shyness under an uncharacteristic stoicism, when he invited Shaxx for a meal after one of his Crucible matches.
He wasn’t subtle at all back then.
“How about you? You’re away from your post.”
“Ah, I just needed to pick up some new shipments from the weapon foundries. Their new weapons pack quite the punch, and the Crucible does need some fresh blood when it comes to its armory.” Shaxx sounds excited even when talking about something as normal as some new guns. It makes the Guardian miss his old self even harder.
“That sounds fun.” He tries, injecting a bit more cheer into his gestures. “I’ll try to come to the Crucible today, after I do my missions. You’ll wait for me?”
The Guardian’s hands spasm when the length of his thoughts catches up to him. Was that too intimate, too friendly? Worry is his entire world for longer than it should be, but when Shaxx just laughs once more at his words, his concerns melt away. Maybe he’s never had to act much around Shaxx after all.
“As much as I can as the handler.” He jokes, adjusting his one-armed hold on the crates. “I have a vested interest in seeing your growth, Guardian. I should see you do better today, you understand?”
“Of course.” A vested interest. Is that all that ever was, the Guardian thinks? He frowns. “I’ll see you later, Shaxx.”
“Victory to you always, Guardian.”
When Shaxx finally turns away to fulfill his duties, when he’s finally far enough that he can no longer hear even a shout from the other man, the Guardian lets a gasp tremble through his throat. Weak, mechanical ribs protected by Light-blessed armor shiver with the motion.
“Ghost, take me to our ship.” The godslayer’s gaze is downcast, brought down. He was planning to do more, but not after this. “Please.”
“...Of course, Guardian.”
They leave in another haze of light and particles, and in the next few seconds, it’s almost like they were never there.
***
Somewhere in the system, a stranger pauses, her Pouka looking up to the stars alongside her.
Somewhere in the system, a queen opens her bright, seeing eyes, Awoken magicks stirring at her awakening.
Somewhere in the system, a Witch Queen breaks out into maniacal laughter, watching as the threads of providence shift and unfurl.
Somewhere in the system, the first knife, for reasons it does not know, trembles.
Guardians make their own fate, even if they have to descend into hell and back to obtain the future they wish.