My name is Richard Andrew Weaver, but you can call me Skip. My friends called me Skip, and we're friends, right? I hope so.
I'm a mechanoelectrical engineer for the Last City. All those flashy arc conduits that power the city? The handiwork of guys in my field. Among other things, we handle powering Wall defenses, sewage processing, and mass transit. While guardians are out fighting for the light, we're the ones that hold this entire complex together.
As the metaphorical glue that keeps the chaos of the City controlled, you'd think it was a respectable career, but you'd be wrong. The vanguard, surprisingly, know practically nothing about the ins and outs of power generation or machines since they rely almost exclusively on their Ghosts to handle the work.
Ghosts! By the Traveller, I wish I could pick one's brain. Ghosts are these tiny flying robots that bond with guardians symbiotically. Leftovers from the golden age, ghosts are the Traveller's will made manifest; thus speaketh the Speaker, may he trip on his obnoxious robes... but I digress. All ghosts are essentially miniature databases, matter-energy converters and 3-d printers all in one. Basically any engineer's wet dream come true.
Sadly, a ghost can only bond with a single person, for some mysterious reason, and each guardian has one other important qualification; they have to have died. As a person of flesh and bone, a puny mortal born within the city walls, I will never be a guardian.
But a guy can dream, right? You hear stories, well, the stories that the vanguard let leak. Great battles, strange planets, ancient threats. It's all very vague, frustratingly so. But one thing is clear from it all; guardians are not like you or me. They are a breed apart, forged in light. Badasses that are a cut above the likes of regular men, with incredible powers and supernal skill at arms.
I reminisce on this fact as I lean on my push-broom and watch the goings-on in the courtyard of the Tower. A semi-circle of guardians in one corner is having some kind of dance-off. Another is staring threateningly at the cryptarch, a blue engram clutched tightly in one hand and breathing heavily. Credit to Rahool, he has balls of steel, dropping sarcastic quips and sneering at guys that eat the Darkness for breakfast. Across the way, I see a particularly twitchy guardian throw himself repeatedly off of the tower with neurotic glee, only to be resurrected by his ghost. Yep, these guys are our last line of defense against the darkness.
Then again, maybe I'm just being bitter. Familiarity breeds contempt, after all. Which brings me back to where I started; myself. I have about twelve years in the field, and tons of practical experience. Going by golden-age educational standards, I'd have the equivalent of a Masters. I've personally made big contributions to the city; notably, one tweak of my invention to relay superconducting coils saves an average of 5% of power consumption over a year. The vanguard were so impressed with this, that they gave me a ribbon. A ribbon! I didn't even get a raise for it. See, I should have gone into weapons research and development, that's where the money is. These guys seem to care about nothing but guns.
I feel something prod me in the back. It looks like Rusty the robot wants me to continue cleaning. With a sigh, I lean over and get back to work.