Prolouge - Awakening
A voice stabs through the darkness, the loudest thing heard throughout the infinite sleep. He doesn't understand the words, but he recognizes words are being spoken, and it stirs him. The impenetrable smog of his consciousness swirls and twists into shapes, faces, and colors. He sees the muzzle flashes. Dirt thrown into the sky makes his left eye sting and shut, irritated by the debris. His own breathing becomes apparent to him, rapid and shallow. Feet plod along on the burnt and trampled grass, and he sees blood.
He can hear the whistling, the screaming of people around him. The voices are all saying the same thing over and over, but he can't make out the meaning in the din. Sleep! He wishes for sleep! If only the smoke would return, if only the quiet had remained! The scream gets louder, piercing the shrill noise of energy weapons and the hiss of nearby bullets flying through the air. Slowly, the voices start to coalesce into the single sentence.
One grand, thunderous boom burns a ten mile hole in the heavens of his delirium:
"Hello…?"
Slowly, his eyes crack open in the slightest. Even the moonlight feels like Sol himself, and he shuts his eyes again as his first breath escapes his lips. His mind is alight, a blaze of panic, but his body is not responding, and so he can only make senseless noises.
"Shh, it's okay. I hear the first wake-up is the hardest."
He takes a deep breath, this time opening his eyes enough to see. A curious object awaits him, polygonal and with a single glowing eye. When it speaks, the eye's brightness fluctuates and twists. It feels like it's observing him as a machine would, yet the voice, female and genuine, is too human for that.
"Take your time."
"I intend to," he raggedly replies, the words difficult to form. Giving his eyes a rub with one hand, he finds he can feel the rest of his body without any difficulty. His body operates on habit, and he lifts himself with his left hand. It feels effortless, as though he has no weight to lift, and if he couldn't feel himself moving he wouldn't detect the weight at all. Vines and grass cover his body, and he brushes it off as he stands, leaving a person shaped divot in the earth.
Upright and apparently alive, he finally beholds this little bot. It floats with no visible assistance, and it is still looking at him. It speaks again, "So do you remember anything? From before?"
"Before what," he inquires, and it occurs to him that before this moment, he has no idea how he got to this location. "Where am I?"
"One thousand, seventy-four miles east from the Traveler!" the bot explains, which means absolutely nothing to him.
He examines his surroundings. A thick forest surrounds him in nearly all directions. Dirt and grime cover what appears to be an otherwise healthy body, covered in some kind of tattered clothing. Desiring a clearing and space to gather his thoughts, he starts to move, and the clothing simply falls away, long since too weak to withstand even the lightest breeze.
Looking over himself, he observes his body, near perfectly toned and very pale. With no clothes, he imagines he should feel cold, but he feels perfectly comfortable, minus a natural feeling of vulnerability from exposure. Starting his walk, he ignores the bot's inquiry, who follows him along in silence after the first ten minutes. He doesn't want to ask questions yet.
For an hour he walks, taking the time to gather his thoughts and make sense of a situation with precious few details. Once he feels he can learn no more by simple observation, he sits down at a fallen tree in a small clearing, with a creek nearby. The sound of gentle water is so comforting, and mixes perfectly with the crickets and rustling leaves.
"What are you?" he asks to the bot, who seems suddenly cheered up by the break of silence.
"I'm a ghost!" was the chipper response.
Flatly, he retorts with "you're a robot." He's puzzled to see that the bot seems downtrodden for moment. "Or…well...sorry?"
"No, it's okay. You show signs of disorientation, but given you've been dead for approximately two hundred and fifty years, I suppose that's to be expected!"
He cocks his head, a look of shock communicating what words simply could not. With exasperation, he puts his face in his hands and takes another deep breath. Being covered in dirt and plants, the clothes being so tattered, are both evidence that perhaps what the bot says has merit. Thankfully, his lack of memories provides him no context for such a long absence from consciousness.
"Why am I alive?" he hesitantly asks, unsure that he wants to know the answer.
"Because I found you! I don't mean to have pestered you so much after you started walking, I'm just so happy I finally found you. It's hard to contain myself." It bobs in the air erratically, as though excited.
"Why, though?"
"Well, because it's what I was made for!"
"You were made," he slowly repeats, "to find me? To bring me back to life?"
"Yes!"
"Then what do I do now? What's the catch?"
Looking at him, then off behind him, then in various other directions, the bot calculates terabyes of data in a few seconds. "I…I don't know, what you want, I guess. The Last City could always use more Guardians but I suppose I couldn't force you to go there."
He's puzzled. In his confusion there exists numerous questions, and what answers he hears are doing nothing to sate his immense curiosity, nor remove the ambiguity of the situation. "Which way to the City?" The bot turns west, and a deep sigh escapes him. He begins the walk.
Prologue - Ceasefire
Commander Zavala of the Vanguard stands at his table. He stares through the documents upon it, barely registering their presence. A hundred scenes play in his mind. What could he have done differently? Thousands of Guardians dead in an instant, the moment Ghaul's cage cut them off from the Light. Bolts mid-flight, grenades detonating by their feet, all of them suddenly and permanently dangerous. There was some cold comfort in thinking that perhaps many of them never even realized they died. That comfort faded as soon as he thought of those that didn't die instantly; the injured would have lain on the ground, realizing their eternal end was at hand, in pain and weak.
"They died like dogs," Zavala mutters to himself through gritted teeth.
"They died like Guardians," Ikora says from behind him. Zavala's head raises, and his shoulders rise and fall from a forlorn sigh.
"Guardians don't die." The words leave him like a deflation, but he mentally shoulders the weight as always. The Titan Vanguard does not falter, not through failure or despair. A wall does not crumble to emotion, it crumbles to firepower.
He reads the reports that flood in every half hour. The numbers of dead civilians is significant. Many of those that left the city have yet to return, and its likely that they will not for some time. At current approximation, seventy-five percent of the population is unaccounted for. Thousands of Guardians have been confirmed dead, mostly at the hand of the Red Legion.
Personal accounts are written on many of the reports. A hunter that was mid-triple jump, stripped of her light, breaking her neck after a twenty-five foot drop. Four guardians trapped in a building, slowly suffocating from a roaring fire set to it by Incendiors. Unable to fight their way out, and weakened from smoke inhalation, they were killed by the building's collapse and found only after the ceasefire. The ceasefire - the words send streaks of cold anger through Zavala's body. His eyes leave the reports out of mercy for himself and stare instead through the window of the command center, overlooking the City.
Cabal ships were still hovering low. The City is currently occupied while the terms of the cease fire are worked through. Squads of Cabal soldiers scavenged weapons and bodies from the dead near the epicenter of the Traveller's shattered shackles. When it awoke, metal hundreds of meters long rained down on the city and some of the Red Fleet, causing widespread destruction. Zavala, the stone-faced, the resolute, was filled with the strongest desire for revenge he ever felt. It would take a miracle for this negotiation to go well without him launching across the table and strangling Ghaul.
If the Vanguard still had the strength, the Red Fleet would be dead. The Vanguard, however, is weak and scattered. Some Guardians left with the evacuation efforts to protect civilians as per the Neo Collapse Protocol. What few were left were still searching the City for more bodies.
"It's time," Ikora reminds him quietly. They leave the command center. On the way, Zavala must divert through a maintenance access so no one but Ikora sees him shed tears.
They enter a room so thick with tension it could be gagged on. At the other end of a long table, with two Centurions to his left and right, Dominus Ghaul. Zavala and Ikora exude bloodlust, and this time its Zavala who comforts Ikora, who cannot remember to breathe through the haze of red fury. They step to the table, and all eyes are on them. For minutes, both sides stare intensely at each other. Both sides glare each other down, imagining all the ways they could - right at this moment - kill each other. It is Zavala who speaks first.
"What is your plan?" he is seething but his voice is calm enough. Offence to Ghaul might mean death for the whole city.
Ghaul answers with a deep and serious voice. He is not deaf to the silent screams for blood on either side of the conversation. "We have accounted for half of our missing ground troops, and steadily find more as time passes. Most of the casualties are a result of ships being downed by the broken stasis device I placed on the Traveler."
"Were that more of them were by Guardians," Ikora seethes through clenched teeth, and Zavala shakes his head and puts a hand on her forearm.
"We will speak as commanders, not antagonists," Zavala reminds her quietly, and Ikora takes a deep breath. He continues, returning his steel gaze to Ghaul, "It is our intention to commence rebuilding and communicate to our scattered evacuated citizens. They will not return if Cabal ships remain overhead."
"As soon as our preparations are finished we will establish a camp some distance to the north of your borders and begin construction of an orbital station to facilitate repair and rearm. We will remove every ship but I will demand the concession that an envoy be left behind. I will require you to criminalize attacks against my Legion to prevent further conflict." Ghaul's tone is that of the victor. It is not indignant, only completely certain. Zavala internally winces at the realization Ghaul must see this as a total victory and them as too useful to simply destroy. Still, these terms were more agreeable than he had expected.
"Very well. We will ensure that your envoy is provided quarters and any attempt to accost them will be met with swift punishment," Zavala concedes - better a small envoy than the entire Red Fleet.
"You could destroy us," Ikora spits with contempt, "why don't you?" Zavala shoots her an irritated look but to his surprise Ghaul answers.
"Your statement answers the question. The option to destroy you is mine. You live by my allowance, and you would be wise to stay focused on recovering from your defeat."
Ikora's mouth opens, stepping forward a half pace, and Zavala knows a hasty and violent retort is incoming. "Silence, Ikora," he demands, and Ikora looks at him, dumbstruck. Zavala's eyes are locked on Ghaul's once again. "The negotiation has concluded for now." There is a heavy silence that overtakes the room as the shadow of anger descends upon them once again. While there is more to talk about, the Vanguard Commander has reached the end of his restraint.
Without waiting on a response, Zavala issues orders to his Tower Manager, who will prepare the quarters for the emissary. Speaking to Ghaul as he leaves the room, "we will meet again once your fleet is prepared to relocate."
If nothing else, the fury has instilled in the Commander a resolute determination. Ghaul is right, they have no military power, and the Fallen, Hive, Vex, and Taken are still major threats. "Ikora, I'm sorry for that," he says as they walk; his voice is sympathetic and even a bit sheepish. There are few scenarios where he could get away with stiff arming Ikora.
"It's fine. It was necessary." She is not quite settled down judging by her irate tone, but Zavala knows that she is almost never facetious. His actions have been forgiven, purged by the blaze of their mutual hatred.
Wanting to discuss a plan, he speaks, "We need new Guar-"
Cutting him off, she pulls his pauldron so that he's facing her and she hisses with conviction, "You will rebuild the city. I will rearm and recruit. And I'm going to take a battalion of Guardians to his camp, break down his doors, beat his men to death in front of him with my bare hands while he watches, and bathe him in pain for a thousand fucking days or until I'm otherwise tired of his screaming."
There was a time when Ikora's recklessness would be counterbalanced by Zavala's cold rationality, but in this moment Zavala finds it difficult not to rally with her. It would be foolish to voice this to Ikora in her present state, where she may feel herself placed in a position of overall leadership. In her eyes he can see the dead. The civilians they couldn't save, and Guardians who were slaughtered in droves. Instead, he nods, more out of understanding how she feels rather than agreeing to her need for vengeance. Her reaction to the meeting with Ghaul reminds him that he must keep himself in check or they may destroy themselves, consumed with rage. The wall does not crumble to emotion.
They make their way back to the command center.