Episode 3: Origin Story — Part Three

Ira felt nothing but the numb pinch of ice water. Her dead Ghost, no bigger than a broken heart, rested in her left hand. And in her right sat a pistol as light as a blade of grass.

The lake and its shore blurred together in her stiff green eyes, it’s clear water lapping against the mossy stone where she sat, statuesque. Lily pads trembled in the subtle tide. There was no wind to wipe away the heat of the high sun, nor clouds for shade. And though the light shimmered against her pale face, she never blinked.

There came to her a sudden awareness of spying eyes. Ira hadn’t heard the footsteps, but she could all at once sense the trespass. Their silence betrayed their solemnity. She didn’t turn to greet the procession.

“Hey, Ira.” The words came from a tungsten tongue.

“Hey, Rook.” The response was reflex.

“How’s the water?”

“It’s fine.”

A fish sucked down a bug in front of her. Tiny ripples to rolled against her shins.

“Ira, can we — ” Rook called again.

“No.” She shook her head softly. “No.”

“Ira?” It was Golondrina’s turn, apparently. Ira’s throat tightened. She could hardly stand it; not the tip-toeing; not the pity.

“Abel,” Her Ghost’s name came like a dry heave, “…is dead. And for what? The Legion already had everything. They already took my City. They already killed my people. They already stole my Light. What good could come from killing such a small thing?”

Her green eyes closed for the first time since she could remember. They scratched like sand on glass. Her arm tensed with sinew and sorrow as she squeezed the hollowed Ghost, digging its shell into her palm. Without warning, another’s hand slid onto her shoulder near her neck. Her right arm seized, squeezing the pistol’s grip. A sour bullet skipped across the water with a crack. The hand fled.

Ira rose, spinning wildly, right arm swung like a morning star. Familiar hands caught the savage swipe but, as usual, they did little to stop her momentum. As the figure tipped aside, Ira’s left fist, still wrapped around the Ghost shell, crashed into the intruder’s gut. She felt bones break, heard the man take a bloodied gasp. His knees bowed as he shrank with pain.

The red slowly drained from Ira’s sight and she looked down as if to see the man for the first time. His skin rippled blue like the water at her feet.

Khalil.

While his right arm cradled his shattered rib cage, his left hand was reaching toward her. It pawed at the pauldron, clawing its way down and in, grasping for any gap in the armor to hold. Scouring for the person beneath it. At last it found a spot, resting on her shoulder between plates of armor. He wheezed and wheezed until his words finally caught wind.

“Hhhh…hhuu…Hi…Hira,” Khalil heaved.

“Let go of me, Khalil.”

After some delay, he shook his head, face still bowing toward the water.

“Lee,” Ira raised the gun, barrel skyward, ejection port less than a quarter-meter from his head. “Let me go!”

The Hunter’s right hand forsook his swelling side and reached toward her. She fired the gun intentionally this time. Khalil flinched, but resumed his motion. His hand slipped under her arm and she felt him tug on the small of her back. At first, she thought he would try pulling her toward him, but it was quite the opposite. He went to her. His head collapsed onto her breastplate.

Ira tried to muster what remained of her evaporating spite, “Lee, please…”

She tried to squeeze the trigger once more, but could barely muster the strength. The gun was heavy with unspent lead.

“Please…let me go.”

Khalil shook his head so softly, it was barely visible. Only Ira could feel it.

It was the gentleness that broke this, her final wall. The grief that had trickled through the cracks now burst through like a deluge. Her gun arm crumpled. Her whole body quaked with sobbing.

Rook-9, Atlas, Golondrina, and Utola-2 remained where they were, holding reverent vigil while a choir of birds sang requiems.

— -\\// — -

Atlas volunteered himself to hike back to the Farm to find some kind of dinner for the crew. No one had asked him to, and he hadn’t told anybody why he had left, but none questioned his escape. The sun was peeking through the trees trying to find him, but he trekked on undeterred, hoping to reach the Farm before he would be swallowed whole by the afternoon heat.

“You know,” Ezri jingled in his ear, “now that Zavala has green-lit the mission, we could have just called for a Hawk to pick us up. There’s no more need for so much… sweating.”

“I needed the walk.”

Underbrush littered his path with detours and awkward hurdles. He used the towering pines to slingshot himself over the subtle inclines or down the steady drops leading to the Farm’s front gate. In no time, his hands were sticky with spiced pine gum, but he only noticed when it came time to unclench a fist when reaching for a new tree. It didn’t bother him as much as he would have thought. The burning just beneath his skin bothered him far more. Ezri never had managed to heal the nerve damage one hundred percent.

“If you get tired, I can call for a ship. We’ll pass by a couple of clearings on this path.” Ezri pitched in again, “Just saying.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right, I know. It’s just — ”

“It’s just what?” Atlas barked as nearly toppled over a log.

“It’s just, we don’t have long before we need to head back to the City, and this is eating up a lot of time.” A valid point, though uncharacteristically sharp in its presentation.

“I needed the walk.” Atlas repeated.

“Fine, but they need us to hurry! And I’d like to be there when the engineers arrive to make sure they don’t mess anything up. You of all people should understand that!”

“I do understand, Zi.” The words came between labored breaths, hot and sharp from the back of the Warlock’s throat. “I understand you. But do you understand me?”

Silence was Ezri’s first response, as usual. But just as Atlas was beginning to feel the satisfaction, she offered another.

“Honestly — ”

A protruding root caught Atlas by the foot. His other foot fumbled with nerves prickled and slow, and down a steep hill he fell, arms shielding his head impact. Branches like daggers punctured his skin and sank to the bone. He tumbled forward over another log and landed hard on his rear, skidding against the ground, dry needles weaving their way into his robes and skin. A pair of evergreens rushed up to flank him and he kicked out his legs. His feet planted, his knees nearly buckling with pain, but his slide had stopped. The trees shook for a moment, showering him in fresh needles and cones that bounced against his bare head.

Ezri fizzled into the air in front of him and immediately flashed her eye to assess the damage. Atlas raised his forearms to her. They were bleeding, parts still filled with bits of bark. His back and bottom were scratched and itched terribly, and his knees panged with frustration.

“Oh no,” Ezri tutted. “Oh dear.” The light is her eye shifted to something softer, and Atlas could feel the bits of splintered wood tumble out from his healing skin and onto his lap.

“A deer? Where?” Atlas asked dryly.

“Tsk,” the Ghost shuddered as she made her way down to mend his bruised tailbone. “You’ve been spending too much time with Rook.”

“And not enough time with you, I suppose?” He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not what I said.” She moved on to his knees, leaving his lower back feeling fresh but still very itchy.

“I know what you said.” His left knee popped, and sensation flooded his whole leg. He hadn’t noticed the dislocation until just then. A stinging sweetness inundated his senses, and he winced reflexively in relief. “You said ‘honestly.’”

Once Ezri had patched him up, she lingered in the open air. Green shadows played on her shell, and her eye was turned northwest. Atlas could barely make out the Shard through the late summer forest. He sat there listening to the wind and the whistling birds, each one taking turns with the staccato drill of a woodpecker. It was more peaceful than it had any right to be.

“Atlas?” Ezri finally said, still facing the Shard. “I honestly don’t understand you.”

He didn’t answer, opting instead to give her words the air to breathe.

“I know what the world was like before you were in it. We were confused, all of us, Ghosts, Guardians, normal people. Risen flaunted their clumsy godhood, grabbing at everything in sight. Civilization was merely tribes and stragglers scrapping over what food they could find. And us Ghosts? We were newborns. All we knew was the silent god that spawned us and the Light that burned within us, begging us to share it.

“When I found you,” Ezri turned to him, “the universe clicked for me. I heard it. I knew I had found not just ‘The One,’ but… my One.”

Atlas didn’t speak. He only looked at her softly.

“You’ve done so much for the City, for other people, for the Traveler. You’re everything I’d ever hoped for.” She shrugged her shell, then whispered, “Almost.”

Atlas recoiled slightly, but he held his tongue.

“I can’t help but think… what if I had been in that crate along with Abel? I couldn’t go back to a world without you. Could you be in a world without me?”

And there it was. Atlas dropped his eyes to the ground. Sunlight and shadow had faded together as a cloud obscured the sun above. He could see the shade roll through the woods like the rising tide, dulling everything in sight.

“I don’t know,” he heard himself confess.

Ezri hung silently in the air until the cloud had passed and every shadow was once again sharpened by light. She glided behind Atlas and, with a surprising amount of strength, nudged him up to his feet. As he stood, he felt her vanish inside him.

“C’mon,” she mumbled. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

It took them another hour to get to the Farm. Neither said another word.

— -\\// — -

Image Credit to u/Garrus1138 from r/DestinytheGame

“Holliday,” Commander Zavala called through his transponder, “I need a handful of your best engineers. Particularly any that are familiar with Cabal tech.”

Rook-9 could hear Holliday’s twang through Zavala’s earpiece. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but that was hardly new for him.

“Yes, even those working on our…newest assets.” Zavala shot a glance toward Cayde-6, who was busy bragging to a trio of Guardians. Rook had picked up snippets. Something about how he had single-handedly gotten himself out of a Vex teleportation loop. Emphasis on single-handedly.

Another mumble from Holliday came over comms.

“Have them report to me at the Hangar’s balcony immediately. And tell them that they are in for a nice surprise.”

A tiny smirk curled across Rook’s face. Zavala lowered his arm and leaned against the banister, looking out over the rusted hamlet.

“How are your men, Rook?”

“Ready for action, Commander. More than ever, my fireteam is ready to locate and extract the captured Ghosts.” Rook declared. Whether or not this was true, Rook wasn’t exactly sure. That crate full of dead Ghosts had put him on edge. The Red Legion had been collecting and killing them for any number of reasons, and not knowing how Tom fared in that process ate away at Rook’s insides like acid.

The Commander snorted, face as stiff as his spine, “Rook, one of the first lessons you have yet to learn as a commanding officer is to see things how they are and not how you wish them to be.”

Rook squeezed his eyes shut to keep himself from sighing. Stress had nearly robbed him of his patience for second guessing. He took a moment to calm down and consider his team before answering a second time.

“Frankly, sir, it’s a mixed bag,” Rook said haltingly. “Finding Ira’s Ghost was a tough blow to everyone’s morale — hers most of all. I’m not even sure she’s up for the mission anymore. Without her, we’d lose Khalil, which would mean we wouldn’t be able to count on his Ghost either. Golondrina is as determined as ever, but I can see the dread behind her eyes. As for Utola-2… I’ll be honest, I can’t get a read on them. They haven’t left the gladen since before you arrived.”

“And yourself?” Zavala asked.

Rook meant to respond immediately, but the truth got caught in the back of his throat. His eyes pressed against their metal sockets. He shuffled in place and the rusty perforated steel groaned under his shifting weight. The next 48 hours hung over Rook like a guillotine.

“I’ve been better, Commander,” he managed, “I’m just keeping myself occupied til this operation gets off the ground. I’d rather avoid thinking about it.”

Zavala turned from his watch of the Farm to regard him. “How very Titan of you. Fighting before feeling.” His clear blue eyes dimmed with introspection. “Were it only so easy.”

“Sir?”

“Rook, a Titan’s duty is to the City and her people, to protect them without a second thought. However, some among us have misinterpreted that call. They think only of their next fight, and feel nothing but the recoil of their rifle.” Zavala sighed fretfully. “We cannot not be thoughtless, Rook. That is not what our people need. And that is not why the Traveler chose us. We must be more than simply monster-killing machines. Not if we are going to win this war… or the next.”

“Yessir. I suppose I didn’t want to distract myself.” Rook was hoping to avoid another one of Zavala’s prolonged lectures. The surest sign of trouble would be if the Commander were to quote pre-Collapse texts —

“Know yourself and you will win all battles,” Zavala recited, “Sun Tsu said that. Avoiding distraction on the battlefield is crucial, but we cannot forsake our mindfulness. I’d forgotten that when I tried to rally our forces on Titan, and some of the Guardians that followed me paid for my mistake.” Zavala sighed again, his heavy shoulders drooping. “A mistake you must avoid. You must consider your own state before you ask others to jeopardize theirs. As we prepare for our assault, take what little time you can to make sure that you are ready.”

Rook had never seen his Commander like this. While Zavala brandished confidence like a banner for others to follow, he had yoked himself with the losses of the last couple weeks. The mantle of Vanguard must have been heavier than Rook would have considered.

“And as I was saying before,” Zavala continued, “remember to use your mind as well as your fist. In battle you must recognize yourself as both pawn and player. But I suppose you are more of a rook than a pawn, aren’t you?”

Rook’s eyes widened as he spied a thin grin stretching across his Commander’s face. In all his life as a Guardian, and through all his voyages through the system, Rook had never before beheld something so rare: Zavala cracking a pun.

“Yessir, I suppose so!”

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve put Cayde into checkmate with one of my castles.” Upon hearing his name, the Hunter Vanguard looked up from his knife and whetstone, then returned to his sharpening, all the while muttering something about Poker. “Perhaps you will play a similar role as we retake our City.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rook bowed his head. “I appreciate your faith in us.”

To their west, a Cityhawk emerged from the field of windmills and slowed to a hover between the barn and the cryptarch’s hovel, blocking Rook’s view of the Traveler’s Shard. He joined Zavala at the banister and watched as a handful of grease-stained engineers fizzled into being. One of them called up to the Commander, who in return waved them up with a flick of his wrist.

“Before we brief the engineers on your…escapade,” Zavala said in a low voice, “I need to ask you a question.”

Rook’s long yellow ears perked up, “Sir?”

“Had I not changed my mind about your mission, would you have defied my orders?” His face had turned to stone, his eyes sharp as flint.

Rook studied the ground below him. The grass had grown wildly near the broken retainer wall, its long, green blades trembling from the Cityhawk’s exhaust. Little flowers, pale as ghosts, spun on their short stalks. They looked like they wanted to be free to fly in the turbulent wind. He thought of Tom, of how he had always loved darting about the Tower whenever they had returned to collect on bounties or rally with friends.

Rook glanced at Zavala and was surprised to see his Vanguard’s hand raised to stop him.

“Hold on to your response,” said Zavala. “Some questions are worth pondering more than answering.”

Rook nodded his head, and then with a crooked grin replied, “Indeed.”

Zavala sighed, frowning. A parade of boots clambered behind them, and they both turned to greet Holliday’s engineers who eagerly awaited their promised surprise.

— -\\// — -

“Are you ready?”

Atlas’ question bounced around Rook’s head, rebounding like a beam of light in a hall of mirrors, illuminating every logistical detail that the two of them had to review, evaluate, and confirm. And with that light came shadows of doubts, haunting him just beyond his perception.

“Let’s go over what we’ve got to work with. One more time,” Rook replied.

Atlas quietly unfurled the holoscroll between them and his fingers danced as they navigated window after window of data. Ezri was gone, busy running errands for her Guardian. While she and Rook weren’t always on the best of terms, her present absence made his insides twist.

“Here.” With the flick of a finger, Atlas flipped the logistic tables toward Rook. “I’ve confirmed with Holliday’s men that the Fox is flight-ready. As you know, we’ve removed most of the spare ammo to make room for our raid team. We’ll still have some ordinance, but weight will be an issue for maneuverability in case the Ghosts’ smokescreen doesn’t work. Either way, our biggest concern is making sure we’re not shot down.”

“Ghosts? As in plural?” Rook shot a glance toward Atlas. The Warlock’s face glowed pale yellow and ghostly blue from the sizzling electric lantern and the holoscroll between them.

“Of course plural. We’ve got Ezri and Khalil’s Ghost at the very least.”

“I’m not sure we should count on either him or Ira being there. I haven’t heard a word from them since we found Abel. Have you?”

Atlas shook his head. “No, but I thought they were in for the long haul.”

“That was before Abel,” Rook leaned against the wooden countertop, which creaked like everything else in the Farm’s dilapidated manor house. Its varnish had been stripped untold decades ago, likely due to the gaping hole in the collapsed red-brick wall behind Atlas. A turbid gust barged through the house, whipping dust and leaves as it came and went.

“Alright, well,” Atlas grumbled, “That does complicate things. I think both Richtden and Wardell still have their Ghosts, so it’ll just be a matter of briefing them. That does exacerbate our main problem, however.”

“Which one?” Rook asked. “The smokescreen?”

“In part, yes. Khalil’s Ghost…”

“You really should have learned his name.”

“Details,” the Warlock waved him off. “Anyways, his Ghost worked pretty closely with Ezri to circumvent certain firewalls in the Cabal network. From what she told me, he had a knack for it, especially whenever the system would try to surprise them with authentication requests. So getting either of those Titans’ Ghosts to learn the system on such short notice will be tricky.”

“Agreed. But you said that was only part of the problem,” Rook said, left eye closed to block out the lamplight.

“Right,” Atlas highlighted a set of data on the soft blue screen. “Like I said earlier, one of Holliday’s men reported that the Fox’s engines will be struggling with all the extra weight, especially yours and Utola’s — no offense.”

“None taken,” Rook said. There were certain disadvantages of being made of Golden Age machinery, weight being one of them. It wasn’t that they were massively meatier than their Human counterparts, but in flight, every gram mattered. And being clad in armor didn’t help Rook’s case much either. “So you’re telling me that even though we gutted the ship of most of its ammo reserves, we’re still going to be overweight?”

“That’s what they’re telling me, yes,” Atlas nodded. “Add on top of that not one but two Titans, and the Fox is going to be pretty overburdened.”

“Is fuel going to be an issue?”

“No, no, it’s purely a question of mobility. Even if you were to ditch your shoulderpads-”

“Pauldrons.”

“Whatever,” Atlas growled. “It doesn’t matter. The Fox is going to struggle. Add to that an under-trained Ghost navigating Cabal firmware riddled with firewalls, and there is a very real chance that we’re going to get shot down before we get anywhere near that Cruiser.”

Another gust whipped through the house, one so brash it toppled the electric lantern, making it hiss angrily. At this new angle, the lantern’s light exposed the concern stretching across Atlas’ face like an old shadow.

“As I said before, Rook,” Atlas asked softly, “are you ready for this?”

The question was deceptively complex. Rook considered the fears that had been weighing on him for the past two weeks. What if, in this quest to rescue his first friend in this second life, they were to fail? What if he were to die before he could save Tom? And even if they did everything right, what if they were already too late? Was he really ready for that? Was he ready to die?

His mind lingered on that last question. He thought back to the last time he had asked it. The Battle of the Ravine was already a week behind them, but still…it had only been a week! He thought of his fireteam, of Nebun and of Sylva; of how the Cabal had obliterated them in a blink by a single drop pod. He thought of Yung’s gambit and of Tifi’s desperate prayer. You promised, she had said.

How could Rook keep that unspoken promise to Tom as well? The wish to protect everyone, especially the ones closest to him. What was he willing to do to protect those he cared for? Rook remembered Golondrina writhing in bloody pain. His flight for her fusion rifle. The smell of melting armor and cooked flesh. The Thresher looming like a reaper over his near martyrdom.

Then Rook remembered Atlas’ rescue and the risky maneuver that saved his life. Others were willing to sacrifice themselves. Per the Speaker’s doctrine, that was what made them Guardians. Devotion. Self-sacrifice. Death. Should he not be grateful, even accepting of the atonements others extended towards him? Towards any Ghost captured by the Cabal? That was what allowed them to wrest the Legion’s gunship from their control. The sacrifice of Amparo, and the near death of…

“Atlas!” Rook jumped. “That’s it!”

The Warlock stared blankly at the Titan. All of a sudden, Rook couldn’t stand to be still any longer. The nascent idea bursting to life inside him, kicking his legs into action. He trotted over loose bricks and through the hole in the wall, emerging into the clear night air. Atlas pursued, puzzled as ever.

“Okay, shoot me down if this is just a terrible idea,” Rook rambled into the night.

“I always do-”

“So we’re worried about the smokescreen. That is making us worry about maneuverability. And THAT is making us worry about weight, right?”

“Not in that order, really, but — ” Atlas tried to get a word in, but Rook just kept rambling.

“But here’s the thing, we’re looking at this all wrong. In fact, we’re looking at this backwards! You following?”

“Only literally,” Atlas said. Rook had led them to Tyra’s watermill, where he hopped down into the midnight creek. “And now I’m not sure I even want to do THAT.”

Rook moved down the dimly lit tunnel beneath the mill, his splashes echoing with his breathless thought process. “Here’s the thing: you and I are counting on the fact that the Cabal are going to be on such high alert during our assault that they’re going to have all eyes on the air traffic. Most people would think the opposite, but you and I know better. The Cabal on Mars might have been sloppy, but we’re not gonna give the Red Legion the same courtesy.”

As he came out the other end of the tunnel, the westerly gust blasted him upon his emergence. Atlas had circled around the front of the watermill.

“Where are you going with this?” The Warlock asked, “Better yet, where are you going?”

“Don’t you see!” Rook continued, the flow of the stream carrying his thoughts far beyond him. “You saved my life back in the Ravine and then you and Amparo chased that crimson bitch over half of Trostland. And it wasn’t long before their Warship shot you both down.”

“Right, thanks for the reminder.” Rook barely heard the sarcasm as he trudged under the rusted bridge.

“But the Cabal never followed up on their missing Thresher because of Ezri’s jamming! They must have thought that the thing had blown up when you pulled your Jumper in close!” Rook was half-shouting now, the excitement of this unfurling inspiration filling him with vigor.

“Get to the POINT!” Atlas was jogging on the ridge riding by the side of the Barn, trying to keep up.

“ATLAS!” Rook spun toward him. “We’ll use their own protocol against them! If they see a lone Thresher coming out of nowhere during the assault, they’ll blast it to bits! But if they see it being chased by a couple of jumpships, they’ll leap to defend one of their own!”

Atlas stopped in his tracks. In the clear indigo of night, he finally found the clarity of Rook’s vision. He followed Rook down the stream once more.

“So then we’ll need to get a couple of Guardians to tail us, and when things get hairy, they’ll either transmat onto the Fox or just disengage if need be. Which means we won’t have to worry about the smokescreen OR out-maneuvering any Cabal attacks!”

“EXACTLY!” Rook’s voice nearly cracked with excitement.

“Alright, that should work, but we’re going to need to make sure that our timing is just right, and that whoever is in those jumpships has a Ghost to get them onboard. Ezri will be too busy searching the Cabal net AND keeping up appearances.”

“Agreed.” Rook climbed over a mossy log and ducked down to search the riverbed. His hands crawled over and between slimy rocks in search of something he’d lost.

“Rook,” Atlas called from behind, “What are you doing down there?”

“Looking…for…GAH!” Rook jumped in shock, his right hand retreating from the icy water. The index finger throbbed with digital pain. Examining it, he found there was a clean cut through his glove. He reached back down into the water, this time a good deal more careful. He fumbled only a little longer before he seized upon the thing.

“THIS!” His arm shot into the sky, hand firmly gripping a rusted axe. “Good thing I can’t get tetanus.” He span around and scrambled up the soggy riverbank, using the roots as anchors to haul himself to dry land. He moved back through the grove behind the barn. The moon lit his way, outlining the grizzled trees with an almost holy aura. Atlas followed wordlessly.

Rook found his way back to the spot where Atlas had found him a few weeks prior. The underbrush had yet to recover from his anxious rutting. He got into position and looked dead at his target, a moss-bearded tree leaning northward. Rook raised his arm, locked his muscles, and then with a strength he had forgotten, threw the wet axe as hard as he could. It sliced through the night air and bit into the tree with a satisfying THUNK!

Rook-9 turned to Atlas, the citrine in his eyes burning bright against the dark.

“I’m ready.”

— -\\// — -

Tom awoke to the sound of a hissing door. He swung on his tether to face the translucent barrier at the mouth of his cage. A screeching pitch rent the air. Shadows filled every corner of the growling orange wall. The chittering Psions had returned. There came the sigh of a deactivated prison just out of sight. This one was so near. His neighbor screamed. It was Tom’s turn next. His eye squeezed shut, and he chanted the name to block out the cavernous wailing.

“Rook. Rook. Rook.”

— -\\// — -

The sun’s fingers clung to the trees, reaching for the Guardians as it dragged toward the horizon. Rook and Atlas oversaw the arrival of their raid team, each clad in freshly forged armor. Rook, Wardell, and Richtden strapped on their pauldrons, satisfied at last to be mantled with semi-decent plasteel. Utola fidgeted in their new robes and clasped on a fresh bond, each ensuring that everything fit just right. Atlas tore his new robes in a few key places to ensure they couldn’t be a hindrance. Golondrina had shown up early in a twin-tailed cloak threaded in cool indigo and was already working with Ezri to fine tune the avionics and run through final start-up protocols before take-off.

A rustling in the leaves approached from the east. Nerves tight, more than one Guardian reached for the nearest weapon. They turned to the noise only to find the faces of Ira and Khalil emerging from the green wilds.

Rook and Atlas exchanged a weary-but-grateful glance as the two late-comers approached. Rook offered a hand to greet Ira, unsure if she’d receive it. But she did, their hands clasping tightly as if to test each other’s steel. Rook could just barely feel a shiver of trepidation in her raw strength. It was, surprisingly, a relief. To know that others hid their fear just as he did was consoling.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

Ira nodded, her green eyes glowing in the golden hour light. “Brought a plus one. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Rook looked over her spiked pauldron to spy on Khalil, who had all the while stayed uncharacteristically quiet. “Well…maybe a little.” Rook slipped her a wink before turning to the Titans behind him

“Wardell! Richtden! Change of plan. Once the Cabal start shooting at you, disengage and join ranks with the rest of the ground forces. Do what you do best. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the help.”

The Titans’ fists bumped with an audible clank. Rook glanced over at Atlas, who gave an approving nod. The less they had to juggle, the less Murphy’s Law could meddle.

“You sure we’re all going to fit?” Khalil spoke up.

Rook shot him an impish grin. “We’ll all just think skinny thoughts. Should be easy enough for you, Hunter.” Khalil scoffed, but before he could get smart, Atlas cut him off.

“Get on deck. Ezri is gonna want to know you and your Ghost are here.”

“He’s got a name!” The Hunter raised his hands in resignation and made for the Fox. “You know what? Forget it.”

“Liftoff at sundown! That gives us twelve minutes, team. Let’s go!” Rook’s clarion call roused the whole camp. It was finally time. The day’s light was dying and the air was thick with anticipation.

With the last of the ammo loaded, Rook-9, Atlas, Golondrina, Utola-2, Ira, and Khalil all piled into the cramped hull of the Skulking Fox. It still reeked of synthetic lilac, ammonia, and Cabal atmosphere. Most faced the rear hatch of the Fox in an attempt to capture what was likely to be their last memory of fresh air. Rook joked about how Exos could turn off their sense of smell, ribbing Utola with his elbow to get them to agree. The Warlock remained as stoic as ever.

Rook clambered up to the cockpit where Atlas was tinkering with the alien console. He too was silenced by nerves that only Rook could see. After decades of friendship, familiarity had bred insight.

“Hey Atlas, remind me: what did you end up dubbing this little operation of ours?” Rook asked in an attempt to pull his friend back to the present.

“Operation Ligneous Vulpes,” Atlas responded cooly, a smirk breaking through his forced composure.

“Wow…that’s uh…that’s a mouthful.”

“Maybe for you.”

“What does ‘ligneous’ mean? Or ‘vulpes’ for that matter?”

“I’ll explain when we get back.”

“Right. When we get back…” Rook trailed off. Through the angular canopy, he could see the last embers of sunlight leaving the trees that protected the glade. Soon they would be swallowed by night.

A fit of nervous giggles welled up within Rook. His shoulders bounced as he tried to fight them back down, but his chest trembled as the stifled laughter tried to escape. Atlas cocked his head toward him, one eyebrow curiously raised. Through multiple attempts to gulp it back down, Rook finally got some words out amid airy gasps:

“This…is…a terrible plan!”

But his words only seemed to transmit the affliction. With a sudden dry snort, Atlas found himself snickering right alongside his friend. Only he couldn’t hold it back as long. The Warlock’s howls echoed through the cabin of the ship. Rook followed suit, unable to muzzle himself any longer. Their laughter, nervous and uncontrollable, outlasted the sun as it slipped behind the western mountains.

Rook left Atlas with a pat on the shoulder and then rolled back into his makeshift seat. He glanced over at the rest of their raid team, each wearing a look of bemused confusion.

Golondrina leaned into him, “What was that all about?”

With the widest, most sincere, most frightened smile, Rook softly shook his head. “We’re all going to die.”

The amusement slid off Golondrina’s face like a wet towel. “We’re what?”

But before Rook could say any more, the Fox’s engines rumbled to life. The ship trembled as it rose, lateral engines charring the grassy glade until it cleared the treeline. Accompanied by Wardell and Richtden, each in their own escorting jumpship, the Fox crawled over the black lake and it’s fire-lit settlements, and skulked into the night.

— -\\// — -

“Please tell me he’s not going to do it,” Ezri whispered in Atlas’ ear.

“He’ll do it,” Atlas whispered back.

“Traveler, please!” Ezri prayed. “Just this once, please let him not do it.”

“Too late.”

“So!” Rook began, his voice booming over the comms louder than he likely realized. Despite Rook’s volume, Atlas still clearly heard Ezri’s cursing. “While we’re a-waiting the go ahead…why don’t we go around and say something no one else knows about us!”

The Fox, as well as Wardell’s and Richtden’s jumpships, were settled down in a little valley on the other side of Twilight Gap. Per Zavala’s orders, they were to wait until the Guardian had disabled the Almighty, and then another few minutes, that way the chaos of the ensuing battle would give them the necessary cover. Dawn was fast approaching, but still they awaited the signal.

“How about no — ,” Khalil tried to speak for the group but, as usual, another voice overcame his own.

“I’VE NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN TO THE DREADNAUGHT.”

It was Richtden who had shouted. A loud sigh of relief soon followed, as if the Titan had relieved himself of a guilty burden.

“Reeeeeally!?” Rook said, his eyes rolling down upon Khalil, “And why not?”

“THE HIVE TERRIFY ME!” Richtden replied. “I’LL FIGHT FALLEN OR CABAL OR VEX… WELL, MAYBE NOT VEX. BUT THE DEFINITELY THE OTHER TWO ALL DAY, ANY DAY, BUT I REFUSE TO GO ANYWHERE NEAR THAT SHIP!”

“Interesting! Anyone else?”

Ira spoke up, killing any hope Khalil — or Ezri — had of hindering the moment.

“I’ve been collecting the ramen coupons Cayde gives out.” A tight-lipped smile full of satisfaction blossomed on Ira’s face.

“Wait, he gave you one too?” Golondrina asked, a little hurt hiding in her question.

“Yep, but every last one of them’s expired,” Ira said. “I’m planning on confronting him about it one of these days. That is…if that ramen shop opens again.”

“Okay! Okay!” Rook said encouragingly. “What about you, Goly? Care to share what nickname your Ghost gave you?”

“With our luck, it’s probably even longer than Goooloooondriiina,” Atlas sneered from the cockpit.

“Firstly,” the Hunter said, the point of a dagger appearing between both her and Rook’s face, “Do NOT call me Goly!” She tapped the tip of the blade against the Titan’s metal brow.

“Secondly…” Her voice trailed off, “I maaaay know who wrote ‘Hunter of the Heart.’”

“Wait, you do?!” Khalil erupted.

“Well, I guess we know what your secret is!” Rook jeered. Ira wrapped her arm around the Hunter’s shoulders, her chest piece trembling with stifled laughter. This, however, didn’t deter him.

“Who wrote it?” Khalil insisted. In her silence, the lightbulb in his head burst. “Wait! Was it you!”

Golondrina only smiled and shrugged coyly.

Another voice boomed over the radio, “I love ‘Hunter of the Heart’!” It was Wardell this time, although it was hard to tell over the laughter.

“WHAT?” Richtden bellowed. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

“It’s wonderful! I don’t care if my secret is out now! Please tell me you are writing a sequel!”

“I never said it was me!” Golondrina dodged with a calibrated modesty.

“WARDELL, YOU MUST BE JOKING!” Richtden was almost pleading.

“Why would I be!” Wardell shouted. “It’s good fiction.”

“That’s right…” Golondrina replied softly, “Fiction.”

“WHAT?!” A myriad of voices swooned in unison. It took a minute for comms to clear again.

“Alright!” Rook’s voice rang through the comms. “Alright, let’s give someone else a chance! Atlas, your turn.”

“You could have stopped this, you know…” Ezri whispered, but he brushed her off.

“After you, Rook.”

“Oh no!” Rook said, “I insist!”

“Alright, allow me to oblige!” Atlas whipped around in his seat to face the fireteam. Some of the taller Guardians — specifically Rook, Utola, and Ira — had to bend their necks forward just to fit into the confined quarters. Awoken and Exo eyes were pinpricks of light in the dark of the hull. “Rook once lost a bet to me and had to drink an Omolon magazine.”

Gasps and cackles flooded the radio as Atlas basked in Rook’s betrayed glare.

“Hey, now hold up, that ain’t fair!” the Titan protested.

“What did it taste like?” Khalil asked, finally getting his chance for revenge.

“Go ahead, Rook!” Atlas said. “Tell them how many rezzes it took before Tom got the flavor out of your mouth.”

Rook spun to Khalil, brow furled, voice gnarled with spite, “It tasted like your Reefborn mother, and I can still smell it sometimes when Tom brings me back. Satisfied?”

“Not as satisfied as you are around old Granny nooks, apparently!” Khalil’s smirk was wide like a shark’s, his glowing eyes burning in the dark of the cabin.

“WHAT’LL IT BE TONIGHT, ROOK? URIEL’S OR DO YOU NEED A SHOT OF ERENTIL?!”

Atlas had to adjust the volume to not go deaf from Richtden’s crowing.

“Well, I, for one,” Rook interjected, finger raised to quell the mob, “will never forget the time that Atlas tried to bring some Hive crystals back from Luna to impress a certain Shipwright Holliday and somehow didn’t realize that he had scooped up a Hive cocoon.”

Comms were awash with disbelief. Rook continued.

“Oooh yeah. And once our esteemed Warlock here had unloaded everything in the Hangar, the cocoon cracked open to reveal what else but a freshly cursed thrall! So right in front of the lovely shipright — sorry buddy, I know this one is a bit of a twofer — Atlas gets blown across the Hangar floor and crashes right smack dab into a Sparrow that she had been fixing up for none other than Lord Shaxx!”

Another merry explosion rocked the gunship. Atlas, however, didn’t join them. His mouth was screwed into a malignant smirk, and in his mind, he was already planning what story he would tell next.

“Hey!” Ira’s voice cut through the cackle. “What about you, Utola?”

Utola did not respond.

“Aw, c’mon, guy!” Golondrina leaned in, nudging them in the ribs. Her elbow bounced off with a dull clang.

They shook their head.

“Utola. Please,” Rook begged gleefully, “I’ve hardly heard you string any more than ten words together!”

Utola didn’t move. Their deep violet eyes stared vacantly into some space beyond the hull. Their adamant reluctance made Atlas preemptively swallow his grin.

“My Ghost was dead in the crate next to Abel.”

The sudden crash of sobriety shook them all from their drunken mirth. Atlas fumbled on his tongue. Golondrina’s eyes spilled down her face. Ira closed up entirely, her fists clenching so hard the textured grip whined for release. Khalil looked at Utola the way a widower examines a casket. No one dared disturb the heavy hush.

No one, that is, except Rook. The Titan turned from Utola as if to release him from the bondage of observation. His head and shoulders resting against the cabin wall. He started talking. Not to Utola or to anyone else within earshot. When he spoke against the silence, he spoke for himself, and this is what he said:

“War machines. That’s why they think we Exos were made. That we were built for some long gone conflict of the Golden Age that no one can remember. I’ve checked with plenty of non-Guardian Exos in the City to see if any of them can recall, but none can. Only things that stick out now after so many resets are the Tower and their birthname. And I only have the former.

“Whoever built us, what-ever built us, had a pretty good handle on Humanity though. They were well enough aware of the kinds of things we’d need to survive. Psychologically, I mean. I can eat, drink. Laugh. Touch. Who would have thought that a war machine would need tp touch? Not me, but I’m sure glad they did.

“My only complaint is what’s missing and I haven’t decided if they left it out intentionally or not. But with all their foresight, innovation, and ingenuity to accommodate our psyches, they denied us the ability to weep.

“Practically thinking, it makes sense. Exos don’t need tearducts to keep eyeballs wet like any Human or… Awoken? I don’t know, ask Khalil. But there are times…times when I really, really wish that I could. Because I feel it. Behind these eyes, I feel it but… I can’t do it. There’s no way for me to. It’s impossible.

“I felt it when the City fell. And then again as the Thresher hung over me in the ravine. Then again when I saw the shells and watched Ira leave. I feel it now. All I can ever do… is push forward. That’s all we can do, Utola.”

Rook-9 brought his hands, one wrapped over the other, up to his chin and finally said, “Maybe that’s what makes us such good war machines.”

Utola turned to Rook, and their eyes met. They didn’t speak. It wasn’t necessary.

Silence followed Rook’s eulogy and presided for several eternal minutes. Out of this new nothingness, Ezri’s voice sparked.

“Incoming communication from Commander Zavala.”

Atlas was at once irritated and relieved at Ezri’s disruption. “Put him through.”

The Vanguard Commander’s voice filled the dead air.

“Fireteam Ulysses, we are a go. I repeat, we are a go. Good hunting.”

Atlas settled himself back into the seat and with Ezri’s help, the Fox’s engines spooled up, melting the permafrost around them. Before long, they were in the air, angling themselves around the last ridge that separated them from the City. As they crested the hill, eyes eagerly searched for the Traveler’s benevolence.

What they found instead was its blackened husk burning in the fiery talons of the Cabal Lightcage.

— -\\// — -

Image Credit to u/IIM4GNUSII from r/HudlessDestiny

“How much longer until we find the Inquisition?” Atlas asked as the Fox banked left and right to evade the gunfire from the escorting jumpships. While coordinating with the pair of them had been easy, Atlas really wanted to sell it to the Cabal whose side they were on.

“Just another minute!” Ezri shouted over the flak bursts popping up around them. Red Legion anti-air cannons were on full display, shooting at every Guardian jumpship that wandered within their sights, including the two on their tail.

“What is taking so long?” The Fox jolted to the left as one of the flak explosions came a bit too close for comfort.

“Do you have any idea how overloaded the Cabal net is right now?!” His Ghost screamed in exasperation.

Atlas had no idea, nor did he have any time to learn. He was too busy. To label what he saw out his window as hellish would be unimaginative. The Last City was in flames. Tracer rounds sliced through the sky all around them, and in the pre-dawn light, he could barely distinguish the tumor-like batteries against the city they infected. Guardian jumpships flew past them like flaming arrows. Explosions bloomed out of the cityscape so often, Atlas felt as though the whole world was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. And above it all, the Traveler’s charred husk radiated in vermillion malevolence.

“INCOMING!” Rook bellowed from behind him.

The Fox’s radar lit up with a swarm of white lights emerging from a nearby warship. The barrage was on its way, heading straight for them. Now was the moment when they would know whether Rook was right or whether they were all dead. Atlas peered out through the cockpit, watching the white volley approach. Closer and closer, larger and faster they grew in his eyes. His whole body tensed, hands at the ready to dodge, if possible, any missile that locked onto them. Premature evasion would blowed their cover. The barrage was seconds from impact. Suddenly, Richtden’s and Wardell’s jumpships roared past the Fox, each one banking in an opposite direction. And as if the sea had parted, the barrage divided itself into two equal groups, each half-dozen whipping into the direction of their target jumpship.

The whole raid party exhaled in unison. Rook’s gambit had paid off.

“Ezri?!”

“Atlas, it’s like trying to swim in white water, except the water is made of alien code and I have to sift through EACH AND EVERY LINE!”

“Well why not- HOLD ON!” Atlas cranked on the controls hard, forcing the Fox into a clumsy aileron roll to avoid a new overzealous jumpship spraying cannonfire down their throat. Blood rushed to his head and for a moment, his eyesight was stained sepia. He could hear his passengers tumble in the tight space behind him until the gunship had leveled once again.

“Why not try pinging the Ghosts on our network?”

“What do you think Qareen is doing?!”

“Qareen?” Atlas whipped his head around the stiff seat to see Khalil in the far back. In front of him, his Ghost sparkled in an orb of soft light, each cubelet of its shell spinning in its own axis, its small nucleus twitching wildly. “So that’s his name.”

He turned back to the front, and through the hexagonal canopy, he saw a flash of blue as the afterburners of a jumpship flared hot to meet them midair. It was the same jumpship as before, the one that had tried to face them head on. It was sharp green with forward wings. Vector-class. Dangerously maneuverable.

An alarm whistled. Gunfire buzzed past them aiming to sever their left wing. Atlas pulled a hard right, and the whiplash almost pulled him out of his seat. This Guardian wasn’t trying to sell the ruse. They were actually trying to kill them!

“I need someone on comms to hail that ship!”

“No can do!” Rook hollered from behind. “If we break radio silence, the Cabal will know we’re not one of them!”

“Well, I can’t keep dodging him! We’re too heavy!” To think, the whole time Atlas was worried the Cabal wouldn’t think twice about firing on one of their own. Somehow, friendly fire was still their biggest threat.

His radar pinged something coming on them, fast and heavy. There was no doubt who it was.

“Rook!” Atlas cried. “Is there any way you can operate the underboard cannon?”

“You want me to shoot them down down?!” Rook asked incredulously.

“It’s either them or us!”

“But what if they don’t have a Ghost!”

“It’s either THEM or US!” Atlas repeated. Under his hand, the Thresher pulled high into the air and then stalled left, performing a slow wingover. Too slow. A ribbon of bullets perforated the port-side hull, clawing into the cabin. The atmosphere howled. Pressure and temperature dropped in tandem. Atlas was thankful that they had had the good sense to don their helmets before they entered City airspace.

“LEE!”

The scream barely made it over the shrieking wind.

“What’s going on?” Atlas asked.

“Khalil has been shot,” Utola answered him.

“Is he alright?”

“He is bleeding profusely. But he is conscious.” Atlas couldn’t believe how matter-of-fact the Exo was, even in the heat of battle. Then again, it was probably their detached nature that kept them from going into shock like the rest of the crew.

“Ezri!”

“I’ve got it!” She squealed. “The Inquisition! I’ve got it marked!”

Atlas saw a translucent indicator flash to life. He followed it up and up and up until he finally saw the Cruiser. It was high above the City, higher than the rest of the Red Legion fleet. The Inquisition V circled the Traveler like a fat vulture. But its altitude presented a real problem. There was no way the Fox could ascend so quickly while dodging the Guardian that so doggedly pursued them.

“Ezri, take the helm and pass me the cannon.”

All of the Fox’s console wrested itself from Atlas’ control except for the section directly in front of him. A holographic image calibrated in front of him, showing him the sights of the underboard cannon. He flicked the gun around behind them, expecting to see the Jumpship. It wasn’t there. Atlas eyed his radar warily, scanning it for any pings.

“Come on, you dumb bastard,” Atlas muttered.

Lightning flashed in the corner of his eye. He turned the cannon to its source. The jumpship was on fast approach, its digital outline growing bigger and bigger on his screen. Atlas’ finger found the cannon’s trigger. He only had to wait another couple seconds. He couldn’t afford to miss.

A voice cut through his tunnel vision. Atlas heard words but he didn’t understand them for a full second until their collective meaning crashed upon him.

“Qareen…take care of her.” It was Khalil.

“I will,” the Ghost’s voice was deeper than Atlas had expected.

“Wait, what are you doing?!” That one was from Ira. Why was she so distraught?

“Give ’em hell, Ira.” Khalil again.

“LEE!”

Atlas heard a strange whoosh above the howling breach of the depressurized gunship. He’d heard it thousands of times before. The sound of transmat. His eyes barely caught the flash through the cannon’s holographic display. A sudden flicker from inside the Jumpship’s canopy. The ship wobbled and faltered, spiralling through the air past them, and then plummeted to the ground.

Atlas’ seat rocked as someone barrelled into it. It was Ira, staring over his shoulder, scanning the radar. There were no pings. Their assailant was out of range.

“Ezri, lock onto the Jumpship’s signal.”

After a long pause, Ezri chirped over general comms.

“The jumpship’s signal is nominal. They are flying level.”

Ira crumpled into the space between Atlas’ chair and the sidewall. Her heavy breathing filled the comms.

“How we doing, Ira?” Rook spoke up. “Ira?”

Once again, Atlas felt his seat bend as she pulled herself up to her feet. Her words made his spine shiver.

“I am going to kill every Red bastard on that ship.”

— -\\// — -

The Inquisition V was bathed in the soft light of pre-dawn as the Fox made its final approach. Cabin pressure had reached an equilibrium with the thin atmosphere outside the gunship’s hull, and each of the passengers collectively held their breath. Alarms rang dull the oxygen-starved altitude. Atlas hoped that they would be allowed to board, given how damaged their ship was.

“That’s it. We’re just coming back for repairs. That’s all. Let us in, please,” Atlas whispered under his breath.

A bay door opened on the side of the Cruiser, slowly rumbling back to reveal orange shimmering force fields and their docking bays beyond. Atlas slowly eased the Fox into the belly of the beast.

“Be careful,” Rook admonished over his shoulder, “just don’t look like you’re trying to be careful.”

Atlas paid him no mind. The Fox’s nose was awash with orange light, blinding Atlas as it eased through the barrier and into the docking bay. He looked around their floating harbor, counting as many Cabal as he could find. There were several clusters of Legionnaires patrolling the central gangway, and small crews of psions awaited the Fox as it spun into docking position.

“I count seventeen,” Atlas called out.

“Whew, that many? Good thing I brought enough for the whole class,” Rook racked his shotgun.

“They’re likely going to vent the bay if we’re in there too long, so we have to move quick. Qareen?” Atlas called out. A silvergreen ghost looped over his shoulder and met his gaze. “You are going to join us on the ground while Ezri mans the ship.”

Ezri spiralled into existence with an audible pop.

“NO! I am coming with you!” She demanded, her shell shaking with fury.

“Out of the question,” Atlas replied coldly. “I need you to pilot the Fox. You’ve got more experience than anybody else.”

“Atlas, NO!” She repeated, her voice rising with her shell. “I’m not going to let you go in there alone!”

“I won’t be alone.”

“You will be without ME! If something happens, Qareen can’t save you.”

“Ezri! If you come in, then I can’t save you!”

Ezri tumbled backwards in surprise. The words had surprised even Atlas. The pair of them sat dumbfounded, looking at each other.

“Hey guys,” Rook grumbled out of sight, “those bay doors are just about shut, and from the looks of it, our hosts are getting a little antsy.”

Guardian and Ghost once again locked eyes. As usual, Ezri broke the ceasefire.

“I know Tom’s Light signature more than anybody, Atlas,” she begged. “Please…”

Atlas took a deep breath, collecting himself.

“Qareen, the Fox is yours. Use Ezri’s signal as a beacon, and when I give the order, transmat us out.”

“Will do,” Qareen affirmed, and then in a puff of light, he vanished into the gunship.

Ezri evaporated into her Warlock without another word. Qareen’s voice filled his earpiece.

“Get ready, everyone.”

Atlas felt something heavy land on his right shoulder. He turned to find Rook presenting him with the grip of a hand cannon. He received it gratefully, flicking open its cylinder to find ten slugs ready for new homes. He flicked it shut just as his body decomposed into a pillar of light. Once his eyes re-assembled, he found himself side by side with Rook behind a pair of fat Legionnaires standing guard on the central gangway, which served to split the hanger into two mirrored halves, with the Fox filling the left side of the bay looking out. The air was thick and moist.

They exchanged a quick nod and, in a synchronicity earned after decades, Atlas and Rook stood in unison.

Guns raised. They took aim.

And fired.

The twin Legionnaires dropped, a fiery spray erupting from where their heads had once been. Rook bounded over his defunct target, hand snatching up the breach-loaded grenade launcher that hung at his hip. In a flash of thunder, its barrel erupted. The grenade ripped through the air and burst against another pair of Legionnaires. The one the grenade hit directly died instantly. The other lost its head as it fell from the bridge, courtesy of Atlas’ eagle eye. Quick deaths denied them any chance of retaliation.

The air ignited with growls and shrieks. The Fox still hadn’t fully docked, which allowed its undercannon to swivel in the direction of a cult of psions that had taken cover in the docking pit. Its heavy artillery drowned out their death throes.

Golondrina materialized at the end of the gangway, her long rifle whistling as soon as it appeared. From atop the Fox, Utola’s rifle sung in triplets. Ira’s machine gun never stopped to take a breath.

As soon as the rest of the team had substantiated, Atlas rushed to a covered position toward the back wall and summoned Ezri with a flick of his wrist. Her shell erupted into a ball of Light, her signals sent scouring through the ship, penetrating every door and wall until…

“I’ve got him!” Ezri cried out.

“Where?” Rook’s rushed toward them, his voice dry with desperation.

“He’s…” Ezri paused, her iris growing with surprise, “wow. It’s not just him! There are dozens of Ghosts here!”

“Is he alive?!”

“Signal’s faint, but it looks like it, yeah!”

Rook collapsed behind the crimson pillar he was using for cover. Atlas could see relief shining through his helmet. The Titan raised his launcher and with a fat THUD, he blindly sent a grenade ricocheting against the wall of the hanger. His finger kept a tight grip against the trigger, delaying the grenade’s explosion until it felt right. When Rook released, the unseen grenade detonated, and with the blast came a chorus of muffled screams.

“Plot a course and unlock all the doors between us and Tom,” Atlas ordered. “Can you do that?”

“You got it!” And with that, Ezri’s shell spiraled fast, cubelets blurring into one another.

“Rook! Atlas!” Golondrina’s voice popped over comms. “We got problems!”

The floor shook beneath Atlas’ feet, and amid the torrent of rifle-fire, a slow mechanical grinding filled the air. Atlas peered past Rook, down the gangway, and found the source of the grating. The docking bay doors were slowly opening. The cold light of dawn sliced through the separating plates.

“Zi!” Atlas cried.

“Working on it!”

“No,” Qareen chirped in their ear. “Ezri, you clear the path to the captive Ghosts. I’ll handle the blast doors.”

“Qareen, you are a lifesaver!” Ira sang out from cover somewhere.

“Utola, you might want to dismount. I’ll need to leave the Fox before I can attempt a counter-hack.”

“Affirmative.”

Atlas watched as Utola-2 leapt from the portside wing of the Fox down to the gangway to Golondrina’s side. The Exo’s rifle perpetually alight with fire. The Fox slumped clumsily into the docking pit. The friction between metals sent goosebumps down Atlas’ spine. Engines extinguished, Atlas spied Qareen fizzle into the air beside to Ira, and then the pair of them disappeared around a corner to where Atlas trusted the nearest console was.

“Zi?” Atlas’ hand cannon caught a bold psion trying to shimmy up the ramp to their position.

“Wait for iiiiit…” Ezri’s shell orbited her eye in increasingly tight revolutions until with a crack, they locked into place. “Got it! Fastest route is through the far door on the right side of the bay.”

“How about the safest route?” Golondrina asked as she ejected another empty magazine.

“We’ll make it safe,” Rook responded. “Besides, in a few seconds, anywhere will be safer than here. Ira? Qareen?”

“No dice on that counter-hack! They’ve got it locked down!” Ira shouted.

The blast doors had opened almost entirely, and the orange barrier had begun to flicker and fade.

“Is our route clear?” Atlas grabbed Ezri and she de-materialized into his person.

A high-pitched burst sang from somewhere near the gangway, and Utola answered, “It is now.”

“Right! MOVE!” Rook snapped the tube of his grenade launcher closed. Together, Atlas and Rook bounded down the ramp and barrelled for the distant hatch on the hangar’s right side. Golondrina and Utola flung themselves to the ground, the Hunter rolling out of the landing, the Warlock crashing with a solid impact. They soon joined formation with Atlas and Rook.

The hatch unlocked before them, revealing another handful of Cabal rolling down the corridor towards them. The mountain leading the phalanx brandished a shield on its forearm and with a flick of a wrist, the plate’s aperture expanded into a menacing barricade that covered its whole body. The armored beast dropped to its knee, slug rifle crooked over the burning shield, and the rest of its unit formed up behind it.

“Goly!” Rook cried out, himself dropping to a knee, his grenade launcher trained on the enemy squad.

The Hunter’s rifle swung up and clapped a single concussive outburst. The heart of the Phalanx’s shield shattered, the flaming forcefield collapsed, and before they could return fire, Rook sent a grenade sailing into the cluster, the ripe explosion reverberating through the corridor as it collapsed Cabal skulls.

“Everyone in NOW!” Atlas demanded. As they crossed the threshold, a voice rang out behind them.

“WAIT!”

He whipped just in time to see Ira sprinting towards them. Qareen was a flashing point in the distance, a beam bridging between his eye and a console. Atlas waved to her.

The blast doors locked into place. The translucent barrier vanished, and with it, all the heat and atmosphere in the bay. The decompression was explosive, nearly ripping Atlas back into the hangar. Rook clung to Golondrina, her rifle ripped from her hands. Utola dug their robotic fingers into the wall. Weapons tumbled out into the hangar. Qareen dissolved into a cloud of light. The Fox shuddered, its engines struggling to light. And Ira, even with all her armor, was swept off her feet and flung like a doll out the bay door. Her screams mixed in with the rushing air.

The hatch snapped shut.

The screaming dissolved to static.

— -\\// — -

“Ira!”

“Qareen?”

“IRA!”

“QAREEN!”

White noise was their only answer. Cabal alarms whooped around them.

“They are probably out of range by now,” Rook said grimly.

“That’s a nice way to say ‘dead,’” Atlas growled.

“We don’t know that.”

“If you mean we don’t know whether or not explosive decompression and getting ragdolled into high atmosphere only to eventually hit the ground at terminal velocity would actually kill her, then yes, you’re correct, we don’t know that.”

Rook sighed. Golondrina was struggling to remove her cape from the emergency hatch’s vice, so with both hands, he grabbed the edge of the fabric and tore it in half in a single fluid motion. The now-free Golondrina immediately drew her sidearm and moved down the corridor ahead of them. Rook approached Atlas and placed his hand on the Warlock’s shoulder.

“You’re right. But now, we need to move before we get vented too.”

And with that, Rook set about inspecting their supplies. Much of their equipment had been lost to the wind. His grenade launcher had been sucked away in his attempt to prevent Golondrina’s abduction, but had somehow retained his shotgun. She had lost her long rifle, which would be a serious problem considering how handy she had been with it. Utola still had their pulse rifle, and Atlas, his hand cannon.

“Alright Ezri, where’re we going?” Rook asked.

“I’ve updated your HUDs,” her voice broke over the radio. “It’s going to be a little bit of a walk, but we should be there in ten minutes.”

Rook pushed a fresh shell into his shotgun and racked it once more. “Make it five.”

Rook took flight down the corridor, Golondrina by his side. With one eye on his display and the other on the horizon, the rest followed in his wake.

Their passage was long and winding. Red corridors bled into each other, only occasionally scabbed by the occasional patrol. When resistance found them, the skirmishes took mere seconds to resolve. The Cabal were surprisingly thin in numbers, even on their own ship. Rook suspected that most of their forces had been deployed within the City, and if their raid was quick enough, backup would be too far away to help in time.

They were getting close. Rook could see Tom’s beacon pulsing on his display. Impatience boiled inside him. Just another corner. Just one more door. He pushed ahead, outpacing Golondrina and rounded the final turn.

A pair of psions, their sharp orange eyes gleaming like freshly-forged daggers, stood between Rook and the final portal. But close enough that Rook could close the gap. He dropped his right shoulder and rushed the psion on the right, hoping to pin it to the wall. It managed to fire a shot, and white hot pain bored a hole into Rook’s right arm, but it didn’t slow him down. His heavy pauldron caught the psion by the skull, ramming it into the bulkhead with a single resounding crunch. Its body crumpled immediately.

Rook swiveled, trying to raise the shotgun to silence the other psion before it could do him any harm. But his arm hung limp, the shotgun dangling from his fingers.

The air filled with a high pitched whistle, and Rook felt himself forced against the wall, his armor grinding as he slowly ascended. An ultraviolet aura engulfed the psion in front of him, its four-fingered hand twisting the air between them menacingly. The pressure around the Titan doubled and then doubled again, his helmet cracking, the holographic display flickering until it quit completely.

The psion’s open hand clawed to a close, its chittering now omnipresent in Rook’s head.

BANGBANGBANG

A three bullets punched through the psion’s veiny forehead. The creature folded limply onto the steel floor. Released from his invisible binding, Rook dropped to his knees. He yanked the fractured helmet from his head and immediately felt the humid air sweating against his metallic skin.

“You alright?” Golondrina knelt beside him, smoke curling from the barrel of her gun..

“Yeah,” Rook winced as he inspected his bicep. “I remember that being a lot easier.” The psion’s shot had disintegrated the under-armor below his bulky pauldron. The exposed machinery was a smoldering mess of melted sinew and Golden Age clockwork. He tried flexing it, but found the action impossible. He could barely close his hand. He heard the rush of footsteps, and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“How bad is it?” It was Utola.

“The whole arm is dead.” Rook tried to lift it again, but nothing came of it.

Utola removed their helmet and inspected the wound with great care, lifting and lowering Rook’s arm as if were a doctor taking care of a child patient.

“Yes, it is. But only for the moment.” Utola said in his usual monotone, “Your Ghost will know how to fix you.”

Rook nodded, taken aback by what could only be described as Utola’s optimism. Yet his eyes never left the fresh hole in his arm. In this moment of abstract positivity and concrete pain, the weight of hope was almost unbearable.

“Atlas?”

The Warlock had been keeping guard, but at the mention, he dropped to a knee beside him. Golondrina shot up to watch in his place.

“What is it?” Atlas said

“My helmet’s busted. I can’t see his signature. Is Tom still there?”

“Yeah, he’s still there.”

“Are you sure? What if he’s gone? What if he’s actually gone?”

The doubt had emerged from some unknown cranny deep inside of him, pulled to the surface like bad blood to an open wound. The questions floated into the thick air around them. Atlas sighed, his eyes dropping to the floor. Suddenly, Ezri flashed into the air over her Guardian’s shoulder, her eye beaming down upon the downtroddenTitan.

“He’s not gone,” the Ghost’s voice was warm with assurance, “Not yet.”

Atlas followed where his Ghost had led him, “And right now, he needs you.”

Rook peered through the dark glass visor and found the Warlock’s eyes. Then to Utola, the humid air glistening from their violet gaze. He nodded and, with their help, made it back onto his feet. In his good hand, Rook took up the shotgun and together with his fireteam marched toward the final hatch.

The door retreated into the bulk and revealed a chamber unlike anything Rook had never seen. While he had grown familiar with Cabal installations over the years, this cabin’s design was entirely foreign to him.

The room was shorter than most Cabal architecture, tall enough for a Guardian or any Psion, but definitely not accommodating for any of the rank and file Cabal. The far left wall was a massive window that exposed them to the early morning light over a blanket of smoke and clouds. The ebon crown of the Traveler crested up from the below, showing no sign of healing. The wall opposite of them was gridded with small cubic cells, many burning with the usual amber barrier. Many more were dark and hollow. The right wall was lined with long carbon-stained counters bearing strange implements, thin steel cranes on rust-colored hinges, clamps and claws, blades and torches.

The centerpiece of the room belonged to a red and black basin about a meter wide and not more than a half meter off the floor. Gastly implements hung like silvery spider legs from the ceiling, each one bending outward and then back inward toward the bottom of the bowl, which itself held a small, silent object. Rook recognized who it was right away.

“TOM!”

Rook rushed forward, his steps thundering desperately against the dense steel floor. The Ghost wasn’t moving. Rook had to —

A screech ripped against his long yellow ears. The exo’s feet left the floor, his whole body suspended as if by a massive invisible hand. Its grip enveloped him and violently whipped him against the long window with a terrifying crack. The rest of the team called out in shock. He tried to regain composure, to stand while his head was full of viscous trauma.

A shimmering singularity budded in the center of the room beside the torturous basin. It blossomed outward, sucking in the humid air around it as if it were drawing breath. Then, from within the glassy orb, its surface undulating like ocean shallows, a figure twisted into being. The embryo disintegrated around the figure as its spindly legs extended. Its forked crown solidified. A pair of fiery holographic ribbons streaming down from its shoulders in a mantle of power. Its cyclopic eye was trained on the fallen Titan.

Rook-9 knew its name before Golondrina could scream it.

“FLAYER!”

— -\\// — -

The hatch slammed shut behind Atlas, Golondrina and Utola-2. They were trapped. A Flayer’s mind was like the eye of a hurricane, but could direct that power with the precision to slice a blade of grass in three. They were one of the greatest dangers any Guardian could face, even when they had the Light. As this moment, Atlas considered themselves as good as dead.

So he did what any dying man would do: he fought with everything he had left.

Atlas leveled his hand cannon, both hands clenching the grip and fired every round left in the cylinder, the gun bucking with every shot. Not one made it to the Flayer. The thing was enveloped by a lenticular mirage, a forcefield of adulterated distortion. Atlas watched each bullet disintegrate into dust.

The psion’s gaze honed itself to a point. Atlas felt it searing into his mind. The heat wasn’t akin to a molten brand or a crackling flame. No, the Flayer’s malevolence flared like a gamma burst, intent to broil bones as it dispassionately cascaded through you.

The air around them seethed with a phantasmic density. Atlas barely noticed the burgeoning pocket of energy coalesce at their feet before it erupted. He was thrown like a stone toward the long observation window. His head cracked against some unseen mass and a hot dull pain struck him like a bolt of lightning. He slumped to the ground and the unseen thing crashed down on top of his chest. He felt his ribs splinter. His heartbeat hammered in his skull. Blood flooded his cowl.

“Atlas!” His ghost’s voice was clear as a bell.

“Ezri! Stay!.” Atlas gurgled. He couldn’t risk her exposing herself. He tried to move the object pressing down on his chest as his lungs struggled for air.

He scanned the room for aid but found his team in dire straits as well. Flung forward by the Flayer’s blast, Golondrina was sprawled onto the floor near the central basin, her tattered cape draped over her head and blood pooling beneath it. Utola was rolling in pain on top of darkened countertops.

Meanwhile, Rook was hanging by an invisible noose, his whole frame pinned against the thick glass separating them from the upper atmosphere. The chittering Flayer bobbed before him, one hand raised to fix the Titan in place. Atlas could do nothing as it brought its other hand forward, its long fingers flared like a fan of knives. With a swipe, the Titan was torn apart at the waist, his mechanical legs sheared from him, falling lifelessly to the floor. His bloodless howling shook the very air around them.

A clamber of steel clanged against the far floor, and Atlas saw Utola dashing from the counter where they had been thrown, rifle leading like a bayonet. In a split second, they were upon the Flayer. They pierced the psion’s barrier with the barrel of their gun and a trio of bullets rattled the air. The psion screeched, its back arching as the lead pierced its body, and the forcefield around it vanished like mist in the hot sun. Rook’s screaming torso joined his severed legs on the ground.

Atlas, still struggling against the weight on his chest, could only watch as the Flayer retaliated. Utola flew backward and stopped with a jolt in midair. Their arms and legs extended away from them, drawn as if by invisible ropes and spectral steeds, their torso perpendicular to the ground. Atlas saw them straining against the telekinetic bindings, but flex all they might, their hands and feet remained immobile.

The Flayer slowly approached the Warlock, its feet never touching the ground. Each one of its slender fingers bent and curled at its own crooked leisure. Atlas heard the tearing of fabric and the creaking of gears. Piece by piece, Utola’s armored body was disassembled starting from the extremities and steadily moving inward. Fabrics, shredded. Plates, dismantled. Nerve cords, unwound. The Psion pulled apart the Exo with meticulous malice, each individual component suspended and displayed so that Utola could witness their own unmaking.

As their unmaking neared completion, when there was nothing more left intact than a floating steel cranium, Utola-2 stared directly into the Flayer’s eye. And with a defiant smile, they spat something small and hard right into its eye. The Psion recoiled, unintelligible curses garbling behind its mask. Only when the object clattered on the floor, Atlas realized what it was: a bolt of metal, a bit of Utola themself that the Flayer had unwound.

At once, the Psion’s claws snapped into fists. Utola’s skull exploded. Shrapnel showered every surface in the chamber. Bits and pieces dug into the walls, skidded across the floor, and planted themselves into the glass of the observation window, lining it with hairline cracks. Shards of the Warlock even embedded themselves into Atlas’ flesh, piercing his robes and under-armor with tremendous force. Utola-2 was gone.

Atlas couldn’t sit by any longer. Adrenaline pounded in his oxygen-starved skull. His hands grappled with the bulk pressing down on him, and with a growl, he shoved it off. The thing hit the ground with a loud clunk followed by what sounded like stones bouncing off of aluminum. Stale air rushed to Atlas’ lungs, his eyes streaked by stars and exploding colors. He reached for his fallen hand cannon.

Another wave of energy roiled around him. His mind collapsed in a shrill pop, and he found himself airborne once again. His face was the first to drag on the floor as he skidded to a halt near Golondrina. He had made it to his hands and knees before he felt himself removed from the floor entirely. Whipped upright, his arms drawn and quartered like Utola before him. The dawn’s light barely broke through the smoky sky.

The Flayer’s twisted crown eclipsed the newborn sun. Its slimy, crimson cranium was punctuated by pale gold bolts that sunk deep into its worm-veined flesh. Deep black divets crowned its fierce orange eye, forming the pupil into a cruel pitchfork. And that eye. It seemed to pierce space itself. It jittered and shrank and swelled as the Flayer assessed the helpless Warlock until it locked into his chest with a skittering squeal. Atlas searched for help, but Golondrina was only just managing to crawl away from her bloody pool beside the basin. What remained of Rook was crawling toward her, his eyes and mouth wide with shock.

Atlas glanced to where he had fallen before and at last recognized the object that had been crushing him like a millstone. It was a crate, just like the one Cayde had brought to their glade. It’s dead contents were spilled across the floor.

All at once, Atlas heard them. A chorus of voices in the distance. He tried to turn his head, but it was locked in by the psionic vice. His eyes stretched to find where the voices were coming from. He couldn’t see anything but Golondrina, Rook, the Traveler, and…the orange cages. Their voices chirped. He finally heard their words.

They were the Ghosts that yet lived. They were crying out. Begging. Warning. Despairing.

“Atlas?” Ezri was frantic.

“STAY INSIDE!” He tried to speak, but couldn’t. The Flayer had learned from its mistake. His jaw was locked shut.

“ATLAS!?”

The Warlock felt something very strange just then. Like a hand with stiletto fingers slicing his mind and body, violating a space within himself that only he had ever explored. A light sparked between the Warlock and the Flayer. He could feel its pull, an unstoppable siphon drinking from the unnamed realm within him. The energy grew louder and brighter, and soon the point cracked like an egg.

And from it hatched a Ghost. His Ghost. Ezri.

She struggled against the pull, but the Flayer had her now. She screamed for Atlas, her shell spinning as if to swim in midair like she always had. But to no avail. The Psion reached out for her.

Atlas’ whole body seized up, his muscles raged against his ghostly prison. He rocked back and forward, but his hands and feet remained frustratingly trapped in place. He watched as his desperate Ghost was carried away from him, her cries manic.

“No!” He shouted through gritted teeth, his words bleeding with fury and terror and heartbreak. “NO! Not her! You can’t take my Ghost! Not my one! She’s mine!”

Fierce light flooded the entire chamber. Atlas’ eyes squinted against the blinding beam. The Flayer recoiled in shock, spinning to find its. All of a sudden, the static in Atlas’ bleeding ears was pierced by a warcry.

“FOR ABEL!”

BOOM.

The Fox’s cannon shook the chamber. The cracked observation window shivered from the blast. Atlas dropped to the floor with Ezri beside him.

BOOM!

The Flayer’s chittering had boiled into a fever pitch. The Ghosts cried out for help. Atlas and Ezri locked eyes.

BOOM!

“Rook!”

Atlas saw Golondrina, bloodied and weak, clinging to the basin. Tom was in her hand. Rook fell to his side, his left arm trembling, hand open to receive his Ghost.

BOOM!

The glass veined with deep fissures fracturing the light. The Flayer’s arms were raised. The Fox tumbled in the air. Ezri flew to a nearby console and blasted it with a beam of light. The orange cages extinguished. Ghosts flooded the room. The Fox rocketed toward the carrier, but was stopped by the Flayer’s invisible will. Its cannon fired.

BOOM.

The glass shattered. The ship ripped away from them. Nothing remained but dark sky and howling dawn.

— -\\// — -

Art by Caleb Wilkie (@calebwilkie on Twitter)

Rook fell through the burning sky. He could feel every whip of wind that assailed what remained of his shattered body. White noise roared in his ears. His left had squeezed tightly around his first friend, holding the broken Ghost close to the chest.

Above the washing tumble of wind, he barely heard a voice.

“R…Rook?”

“TOM!”

“Rook… I knew you’d come.” The ghost’s voice cracked with exhaustion.

“I got you, buddy. I got you.”

Rook didn’t know how high they were or how much time they had before impact. All he knew was to keep Tom close.

A golden flash caught his attention. From the base of the dying Traveler, a pair of molten wings unfurled into the liquified aurelian visage of a Cabal. It dominated the skyline. Its voice rumbled like thunder.

“TRAVELER! DO YOU SEE ME NOW? I AM IMMORTAL! A GOD! YOU HAVE FAILED!”

“Is it… all over?” Tom whimpered.

“Maybe.” The Guardian cradled his Ghost in his arm. “But you’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

“WITNESS THE DAWNING OF A NEW AGE!”

Suddenly, a new Light broke upon them. Rook peered up from Tom’s resting place to find its origin. The blackened facade enveloping the Traveler was cracking. Deep veins of brilliant Light pierced through the darkness. The bands of the Lightcage shattered. The molten visage roared. The radiance grew and grew until a new and brighter dawn burst before them.

The Traveler awoke. A wave of Light burst cascaded from it, baptising Rook with a luminescent splendor that he had nearly forgotten. His whole being was suffused with pure life. The barren wastes inside him erupted in exultation.

“ROOK!” Tom dissolved inside his Guardian. “THE LIGHT!”

All at once, Rook’s wounded arm was reforged in steel and Light. The phantom pains of his shattered lower half vanished, but Tom had no time to repair his legs. Rook cast his eyes down at the growing Earth below. He was only seconds from impact. The Traveler’s rebirth had set him on a new trajectory. He flew toward one of the many Cabal Bunkers that infected his City like a bloodied tumor, this one near the Wall.

“HOLD ON TIGHT!” Rook shouted. He cranked his freshly reforged arm back and, for the first time in what felt like forever, felt the ecstatic charge of Light surge within his clenched fist. The galvanizing power devoured him entirely as he streaked toward the bunker, trailing thunder in his wake.

And for the first time in an age, a bolt of lightning struck the City at terminal velocity.

— -\\// — -

“You’re probably wondering why we saved you.”

Atlas looked down upon the Flayer with its hands and feet clamped to the floor. Its orange iris pulsed nervously as it tried to get its bearings in the dark room. A lone light buzzed overhead, bathing them in a cone of phosphorescent light.

“You’re probably thinking, ‘Why not just let me fall to my death?’”

Atlas could sense the space around him expand as the Flayer’s mind reached out, grasping for control. The Warlock merely extended his hand, and from it, a crackling bolt of electricity arched to the thing’s skull. It squealed and kicked against the restraints as its flesh was scorched. Atlas enjoyed the role reversal with guiltless pleasure.

“What’s that saying, Zi? ‘Karma’s a bitch?’” Atlas levied the question. His Ghost tumbled like a leaf to match the convulsing psion’s eyeline.

“Yes, I believe it is!”

The Warlock released the spell, and the Flayer slumped to the floor, drawing in raspy breaths. Atlas squatted in front of his prisoner, Ezri beside him.

“Well, if you really want to know: I don’t think you should get off that easy. And I’m fairly certain a psion of your caliber is quite immune to the charms of gravity. That is…unless you think my eyes deceive me.”

The Flayer answered him nothing, but its undulating eye told him everything he wanted to know.

“Mmmm,” Atlas nodded smugly, “I thought not. And while I’d love to stay here with you all day and give you what you deserve, in my heart of hearts, I know that it wouldn’t be right.”

The Warlock rose to his feet, flicking a small bolt at the Flayer’s temple. It gave a satisfying shriek.

“Besides,” he said, a wicked smile curling on his lips, “Who am I to deprive others of their rightful revenge?”

As Atlas turned to leave, the dark room flashed like a thunderhead on a moonless night. From misty rifts there emerged figures wreathed with Light and malice. Ghosts’ eyes burned like ball lightning. Guardians loomed over the psion with procellous foreboding. From among them approached a towering Titan, her knuckles cracking, green eyes sparking with violent intent. From behind it, an arm wrapped around the psion’s throat and locked like a vice.

“After you, Ira,” Khalil growled with great satisfaction.

Atlas heard bones crackle like thunder as he exited through the chamber’s only door, leaving the vengeful to their leisure.

Rook was waiting for him in the hallway, his back resting against the corridor wall. Were it not for him, Atlas would never have known about this part of the Wall, so deep and secluded as it was. He approached nonchalantly, even as screams slipped through the cracks in the doorsill.

“You sure you don’t want a piece of that?” Atlas asked.

Rook shook his head. “Nah. I got what I came for.”

Tom puffed into the air beside him. Parts of his red and bronze shell were missing, exposing his shiny metal nucleus

“I wouldn’t mind a bit, after what they did to my shell!” the Ghost said, waving his two side cubelets as if he were winding up tiny fists. “Still waiting to get a new one. Can you believe Tess still hasn’t gotten that shipment of them from Fenchurch? It’s outrageous!”

Ezri spiralled out from behind Atlas, “Oh, would you stop grumbling?! At least you’re alive!”

The door opened shut behind them, and Atlas turned to see Golondrina approaching them. He cursed under his breath, grabbing Ezri and squeezing her back into nothing. The Hunter’s gloves remained unstained.

Rook spoke first, “Any luck finding your Ghost?”

Golondrina shook her head. “Ira and Khalil have been helping me track down the crates that got blasted out of the Flayer’s lab. But so far… nothing.”

Rook sighed fretfully. “I’m sorry, Goly — er… Golondrina.”

“Thank you,” she replied softly.

“What’s her name?” Atlas asked. “Maybe we can see if any of the other Ghosts recognized her. Or maybe put out a notice on the Spectral Network?”

Golondrina raised her head, the tiniest sparkle of hope in her eyes.

“Madrugada,” a faint smile haunted her face, “I always called her “mi Madre,” seeing as she’s the one that raised me.”

Rook softly chuckled, “Of course her name is as long as yours. And what did she call you?”

The Hunter’s sad smile widened.

“Nina.”

Tom let out a sudden gasp. All eyes fell to him — Golondrina’s most desperately.

“I…I…” Tom sputtered, “I heard a Ghost call out that name. She called out for Nina as she…” His voice trailed off.

Silence conquered in the dimly lit corridor. The Flayer’s screams had long since died.

Atlas broke the silence, “Take the Fox. The crate we found in the EDZ had coordinates in the Reef. Take it and look for clues… you might find something there.”

Golondrina’s head nodded, but her eyes were lost in some distant point beyond them all. She mouthed the words “thank you” and turned to leave.

As she moved past them, Rook opened his arms to hug her. She didn’t even consider it. Before long, the echo of her steps faded into nothing.

— -\\// — -

“Rook, where the hell are we going?”

The Titan shrugged as he made his way down the dusty remains of Salstadt Avenue. Loose concrete and split rebar were being piled in the gutters by Guardians and citizens alike, where Frames would come and collect them for recycling. The length of the road was pockmarked with craters. The City’s bones had been broken, but the lifeblood of the City, its people, would see them mended.

“Rook, honestly, couldn’t we have at least taken sparrows to wherever we’re going?” Atlas trudged grumpily behind him.

“What, and miss all the sights, the sounds,” Rook sucked in a deep breath through his nasal receptors, “the smells! Oh, how I missed these smells!”

“You didn’t get enough of the sawdust back at the Farm?”

“You mean, you can’t smell them?” Rook waved air into his face again. “Someone’s cooking nearby! It smells like…ramen! Honestly, I thought human noses worked better than that!”

“Take it up with my designer, if ever you meet them.” Atlas grumbled

“Nah, I’ll just thank mine. Mars ain’t that far away!”

A fresh shadow engulfed their street. Rook looked up to find one of the thousands of alabaster shards orbiting the newly awakened Traveler. His bright orange eyes ogled their savior. It’s face had shattered as it broke free from the Cabal’s cage, restoring both Light and hope. Twice now it had done the unimaginable to intercede for Humanity. Were Rook a poet, he would have spent all his days composing praises. But instead, the Traveler had chosen him to be a Guardian, a fact he didn’t mind so much. Such a gift gave him other avenues for gratitude.

“Watch it!” Atlas’ hand latched onto one of Rook’s pauldrons and pulled him to a stop. Rook’s eyes crashed back to the ground to find that his friend had saved him from falling into one of the hundreds of craters that bespeckled the City’s streets. This one in particular would have been quite the tumble.

“Woof. Thank you!” said Rook.

“Don’t mention it.” Atlas stuffed his hand back into a pocket. “Can we just get on with why we’re here? Speaking of which, why are we here?”

“We’re here,” Rook went ahead and hopped into the crater, “because once again, I lost something.” He crawled up the opposite side on all fours, like a child scrambling up stairs. “And I came to get it back.”

“What did you lose? Another axe?”

“Ooh, close. You’ll see!” Rook shot him a wink.

Another couple of turns down various avenues and Rook finally caught sight of what remained of the cantina. The Red War had ravaged the entire block but the cantina was in particularly rough shape. Every window was gone, their pieces glimmering amidst the rubble. A Cabal Interceptor had somehow wedged its way into one of the retaining walls without bringing the whole structure down. It was a miracle the building still stood at all. Orange-vested workers were salvaging what was possible, a nest of scaffolding slowly unfolding at their feet.

Kitty-corner to them, Rook spied a Frame hauling the ashen remains of the first Red Legion platoon he had decimated weeks before. There were fewer bodies than he remembered, but he just chalked that up to this being the Frame’s second pass. He looked up and down the road, his line of sight perpetually disrupted by laborers going to and from their tasks.

“It’s over THERE!” Tom chirped, bursting into the air beside his Guardian. He weaved between a cluster of Frames carrying clumps of freshly forged rebar and frolicked around the corner of the cantina. Rook followed as best he could, almost toppling over a pair of workers and scattering their cargo. Atlas slowly sauntered after them.

Rook rounded the corner to find Tom orbiting a Lightless Hammer, dully reflecting the midmorning sun. His heart leapt to his throat. He approached it the way a deacon draws near to an altar, Tom’s shell spinning gleefully in every vector. Rook glanced back to see Atlas leaning on one of the cantina’s last remaining pillars, keeping his distance, a pleasant smirk gracing his tired face. Construction workers, frames, and ordinary people began to gather near Atlas, the crowd curiously regarding the Guardians.

Rook faced Tom, who ceremoniously bowed toward the Hammer. Rook bent and slid his hand down the handle, remembering how the knobs lining it perfectly filled the gaps between his fingers. The steel handle was cold and dusty, but he had an idea on how to fix that.

The Light surged through the Titan. The Hammer awoke in the palm of his hand, silver steel ripening to a luscious red. Lingering dust was incinerated into nothing but a wisp of smoke. The Hammer grew hotter and brighter as he lifted it from the ground. The molten red blossomed into a vibrant orange, yellow petals of flame flicking in the wind and engulfing his fist and forearm in a veil of mesmerizing flame. With the Hammer now kindled, Rook let the inferno consume him entirely. The fire raced up his arm, igniting his chest, his legs, and his head until he became a beacon of pure summer sunlight. His brilliance burned away every shadow around. He was a living pyre of the Traveler’s Light.

The Titan extinguished himself, though not truly wanting to. He extended his empty hand, and Tom flew into it, nuzzling himself in the warmth of his Guardian’s palm.

Rook-9 looked up at Atlas, at his people, at his City, and at his Traveler.

All he could do was smile.

— -\\ THE END OF ORIGIN STORY// — -