Author's Note: Destiny sure has a big crowd on , which is amazing! Of course, you're all probably a pretty tough crowd anyways, which is great for the author so long as said-toughness is constructive criticism instead of simply "YOU SUCK!" Regardless of whether or not I should liken you to Crota, I hope you enjoy the story of Fireteam CLANKS!
Our Beginning Pt. 1
POV: Narrator
The setting sun shoots red beams of light over the City, the last stronghold for humanity approximately 20 kilometers northwest from the Baikonur Cosmodrome. The Traveler lingers per usual, silent and mysterious as ever.
It's 6 pm, and a local bar is running normally. The establishment is only mildly lit, and the slow jazz music that has always been its ambience plays itself through various speakers. People sit at tables and talk quietly about various topics: their daily lives, New Monarchy politics, the fear that the Traveler may one day crush everyone, and other small pointless chatter.
Surprisingly, there's only one person at the actual bar counter besides the bartender. She's a young women, around her mid-20s, with short silver hair and bangs grown barely over her eyes. It's very obvious she's drunk.
"Reggie..." She slurs at the bowtie-donning man with slicked hair as he cleans a glass. "Could you give me another? I ain't drunk enough yet."
"Ah.. Fine, but shouldn't you be getting to the Tower soon enough?" He asks, pouring a little less beer than before into her mug. "I mean, I know you get over your alcohol quicker than most folks, but I don't think Guardians should act like you are right now. And by the way, don't call me 'Reggie'."
The women snatches the mug out of his hand and chugs it quickly, slamming the poor thing back down on the table loud enough that the whole bar could hear it. "NOW LISTEN HERE, REG! Just because I got some fuckin' pipsqueak started followin' me around and tellin' me I've been "chosen" or some bullshit like that, DOES NOT MEAN that I gotta act like everyone else who does!"
The bar goes silent. Everyone stares at her, some out of curiosity and others simply because they were annoyed someone interrupted their conversation. Only a few immediately understood, however, just what she was talking about.
Just then, a man with combed black hair and an unbuttoned brown trench coat enters. Despite being as old as the women, he has a face of a young man around 17 years of age. That is, if you take away the burn mark that crawls up the back of his neck, partially hidden by the coat and his slightly-outgrown hair, though not so much that it's entirely obscured. He looks determined, but as soon as he sees the women an expression of relief washes over him.
"Caren!" He calls out. "I knew you'd be here. Come on, we have to go." He says, ignoring the atmosphere of the room. He grabs her by the wrist, and tries to pull her out of the bar.
"Fuck OFF, Nykel!" Caren cries out like that of an angered Thrall, grabbing the mug and attempting to slam it over Nykel's head. She misses the first time, thanks to either being drunk or the fact that Nykel has had to face this a few times before. He lets go of her hand just before she tries to swing the drinking-tool-turned-weapon back around, grabbing her other wrist. He calmly pries the mug from her grip, setting it back down gently on the bar counter.
"I'm not going..." Caren mutters, holding her head low, her wrist still in Nykel's hand.
"Where? I haven't said where we were going yet." Nykel replies, hardly noticing his friend's pain. "And don't mumble; I don't care if you're drunk, it's disrespectful."
"But we're going to the Tower, right? To that massive, all-too-pure pillar that this city's been in the shadow of since before the fucking Collapse?! I don't give a fuck if I'm supposed to be a Guardian, I'm not going!" Caren exclaims.
"Do you not want to go because you hate the Tower or because you don't think you're worthy to go to the Tower? Look, if your ghost chose you, then doesn't that mean you are worthy?" Nykel tries his best to comfort his childhood friend.
Caren says nothing; rather, she keeps her head lowered, biting her lip.
Just as Nykel thinks Caren's calmed down, the doors swing open behind him, followed by multiple footsteps.
"My, my, who could this be? I thought I told you to stay away from our neighborhood," A sleazy voice calls out confidently. ".. Caren."
Nykel looks over, seeing five gangsters dressed half-assed in blue and black clothing that was meant to be a uniform. Immediately, he gets a bad taste in his mouth. "We were just about to leave."
"Now, now, what's the rush? After all, you still have to pay the price for trespassin' where you ain't welcome." The hoodlum pulls out a knife, neither big nor small, and points it at the two with a menacing sneer.
Caren keeps her head lowered.
"I really don't wanna hurt you." Nykel warns, his Italian-American accent coming out. "I know that sounds really strange coming from a kid whom everybody in our neighborhood's seen be one of the wimpiest pipsqueaks in the City, but things just got real different for me last night, so I'm more worried you and your buddies might get hurt, Jerry." While he appears to say these words out of sincerity, it must be known that the lead hoodlum, Jerry, absolutely hates being called by his first name.
Nykel knows this.
"Gah... Don't you dare CALL ME THAT!" Jerry screams, raising the blade high and bringing it down onto Nykel.
Except, that didn't happen. Just as the blade was about to come in contact with Nykel's left shoulder, the young man grabbed Jerry's attacking wrist.
Nykel sighs. "That's too bad. For you, I mean. Let me explain things a bit further. You see, when I said things got real different last night, I'm talkin' about how the Traveler himself sent one of his minions to tell yours truly that I had been chosen to become a Guardian. Now, it seems, I've been bestowed with the wondrous powers of the Traveler himself." He explains.
All the color drained from Jerry's face as his wrist begins to heat up. "H-hey, Nikky, no need to be so hasty because of a simple misundersta- h-h-hey, that's h-hot..."
"I'm afraid you'll just have to burn, my old friend. Ah, I guess you were never really my friend. Come to think of it, you were kind of an asshole to me, weren't you? The kind of asshole that deserves to be scorched."
"H-hey! Help me out here! Beat this joker, it don't matter if he's one of those stuck-up, light-obsessed pricks!" Jerry cries out to his comrades desperately as his jacket sleeve becomes seared and burnt.
"You really feel like burning with your lame excuse of a neighborhood watchman leader?" Nykel asks the other four hoodlums. Surprisingly, they only falter for a moment before taking out whatever cheap weapon they have: knives, pipes, or old baseball bats. "Ah, that's unfortunate."
"I got them." Caren tells her friend, her head still lowered. "You can take this clown."
"Fair enough, Caren." Nykel replies.
"Hey, I heard some Guardians use knives. This good enough?" Reggie asks, holding up the sheathed five-inch Jackknife he kept for self-comfort.
Caren takes the blade, muttering thanks.
Earlier that day:
POV: Link
"Hey ghost, you said there were others in this City who became Guardians last night?" I ask my new-found companion as he floats around my apartment, scanning various things. I, too, move around my abode, looking for an old heirloom my father left me.
"Yes. Normally, the Traveler chooses her Guardians from those who have been dead for a while, but it seems that recently that she decided to see how choosing those still-living would work out."
"I see. And just how many of us were chosen?"
"Hold on, scanning for Guardians..." The ghost tells me, floating still for a moment. "Not counting us, there are about five others."
"I see." I reply. "Can you tell me their names?"
"I can't, no. I can tell you where they are, though." Ghost explains.
"In which case, we'll go looking for them in a few minutes." I tell him. "Keep an eye out for a hand cannon for me, alright?"
And so, I continue looking for the hand cannon. Despite my greatest efforts, my ghost finds it before I do, tucked away in a part of my closet that I was sure didn't have it.
Taking the gray firearm in my hand, I look at the text engraved under the barrel:
Hoss Mk. 37
Tex Mechanica Co.
So this is what you left me? Thanks, dad. I'll need it. I tie the leather holster around my waist and tuck the gun in it, placing it on my lower waist.
"Okay ghost, take me to the nearest Guardian." I tell him. "I have a hunch as to who these people might be, though I'm not sure."
"Alright. Let's go."
And with those words from my floating friend, we open the doors to the middle city, and my journey begns.
Or rather, our journey.
I love how a lot of the fanfictions for Destiny think outside the box. I wouldn't think of the stuff that most people have been doing here, which makes me happy to see everyone be so creative :3
That being said, I think it warrants me to do something a little... less... original. Ah well, in any case I still hope you liked my pilot chapter! I'll be sure to make more in the future, but until then, don't forget to Follow, Favorite, and Review! It helps me get through the day... like coffee ~.~
P.S. Nykel's name is pronounced (nih-KELL), NOT nickel! :P
-Regards and all that, SEP