~X~
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Basilinna
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
"The House of Kings? Yeah, I know 'em. Either as large as Devils or else infiltrated them so thoroughly as to make themselves invisible. No one has ever found their top leadership and lived to tell about it. Well, except perhaps The Seraphim, but hey, they ain't gonna share anything with us unless it benefits them. But that's a whole 'nother story."
—Cayde-6
A delta-wing shape shot through the skies.
Aboard, Guardian Cheyah Palpatine guided the ship from out the clouds and down below. The Appalachian mountains loomed beneath her Phaeton-class v1.1 jumpship, their bulk passing by swiftly as she decelerated. In another life—dimly remembered—she once lived and worked here. Her Ghost had located her in a blasted city not far from the mountains, closer toward the Eastern seaboard. Beyond that her memories were faded, like dim curtains, both grey and foggy.
She was a petite woman in her early thirties, light-green eyes scanning the monitor as her ship banked into a turn. In another life she might have been a white collar worker, her features pixyish and cute but not model-like, and utterly unremarkable. Her asymmetrically cut hair was a natural black, but ever since her resurrection she kept it dyed white. Many speculated as to why, some coming close to the truth, but none figured out. Those who knew her, admittedly few, respected her privacy.
"We're coming over the city now."
"Thank you, Ghost," she answered. "Can you prepare my weapons for transmat once we're in position?"
"Of course. Do you want Noisemaker this time or just Silence?"
Cheyah thought for a moment on that. At last she said, "I'd prefer Silence. We're going in quietly, and we've no backup."
"Understood."
The drone transmatted away to another part of the ship. It was easier that way than fly to the armory. Cheyah turned to where she could see, through the screen, the ruined skyline of what once had been a thriving city, a major metropolitan area of the North American Empire. It had a name, but now all that was left was the fall. Long ago towering skyscrapers had pierced the sky, queues of aerial traffic crisscrossing between, and jumpships descending toward special airfields alongside airports where advanced planes departed. Now, like so much of Earth, this was a dead place devoid of human habitation. It would be suicide to live here.
The Fallen were very protective of their territory.
Cheyah's grey jumpship, The Overshadow, angled over an old parking lot now mostly surrounded by grass and greenery. Once she ensured it was in hover-mode she pressed a button, preparing to transmat herself. it was too dangerous to actually land and go down the gangplank.
Immediately she felt a thrill of euphoria, as if she were physically flying—falling, really, like a skydiver—through the air. A tingling sensation began to spread throughout her body, starting at her toes and fingertips and converging at her torso. Then her gut doubled-up and she literally twisted about as if a vortex had opened inside—and then, with a rush of cold American air, she was spat out onto the ground standing upright where, moments before, she had been sitting.
Repressing the urge to fall down and vomit she instead took stock of the area. A single stretch of pavement led into the parking lot, spiderwebbed with cracks and moss, a cluster of trees growing where a building used to stand, its ancient walls lining the edge of the lot—did this used to be a fastfood place, or a gas station?—and for miles around a clear open view of the rest of the city. Cheyah could see wherever the Fallen chose to come at her, and that suited her, even if it meant exposing herself in the process.
Then again, so what? They'd have seen her coming anyway. Good that they did. She wanted them to know.
Suddenly her back felt burdened, a weight pulling down on her; she automatically reached around to feel the sniper rifle. Good old Silence, its long muzzle comforting to the touch. Cheyah's Ghost appeared not long after, white shell glinting as sunlight reflected off. "Where to first, Palpatine?" it asked, voice female.
"Downtown. I have a hunch we'll find what we are looking for soon enough."
"Don't your hunches often lead to us walking straight into an ambush?"
"Relax, Ghost, we're not escorting refugees. Sparrow, please?" Cheyah adjusted the weight of her twin hand cannons, resting in their holsters on her waist.
"And we don't have a backup plan, either," Ghost retorted.
"I always have a backup plan," her partner answered, smile hidden behind her helm. "Me."
The drone sighed, an amusing gesture in any circumstance. "You're the boss." She disappeared, and in her place hovered Cheyah's Sparrow. Quickly leaping on, grunting as she settled into her seat, the Guardian gunned the engine and blasted off. Angling to the left, she turned to head into downtown, her robes flapping in the wind.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Removing its eye from the scope, a Vandal turned to hiss at another. Behind them, stationed at the edges of the half-caved in, three-storey building were two Shanks, gold bodies hovering in place through the means of independent thrusters. They were to keep watch for any surprises, not that the Fallen expect any.
"The Light-stealer is here," the first Vandal said, pointing as the jumpship disappeared off into orbit, beyond their reach. "It is too reckless. We shall have its soul!"
"Not reckless," the other replied. "They know what they are doing as often as naught."
"They aren't the fire-demons!"
"Fire-demons do not come back from the dead. Don't let its tactics trick you. They know exactly what they're doing."
"Alert the Basilinna," the first growled, whether in defeat or exasperation, one couldn't tell.
Both Kings Vandals turned and left; the Shanks remained, their job to keep watch for the Guardian's ship and report if it returned to this location. Outside hovered their Pikes, long and angular. Both hopped on and activated them. Before setting off, one spoke into an encrypted comms channel, clicking rapidly. It wasn't likely they'd be picked up by eavesdroppers, but the Fallen were not stupid. The radio barked with confirmation.
With a roar the Pikes sped off, angling for an intercept course.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
The cold air whistled by as Cheyah zipped through an ancient thoroughfare. The pavement was cracked and moss and grass grew in the jagged marks. The street was devoid of vehicles apart from her own, having fled for the spaceport in the Collapse. Cheyah angled her flight and the Sparrow flew over a ramp formed by debris over a fallen section of building.
For the past thirty minutes nothing had happened—no Fallen Shanks had attempted to ambush her, nor did Arc rounds whizz by her head. Everything was silent except for her vehicle.
"I have got a very bad feeling about this," Ghost said, seemingly right by her ear. "If this were the European Dead Zone we would have been swarmed by now."
"It is not. We are in the ADZ, Kings' domain," she answered.
"Just be on your guard."
After that there was little in the way of conversation. Unlike most Guardians Cheyah seldom chatted with her Ghost when in the field, preferring to be moving rather than talking. Ghost was the same way, speaking only when she felt it was necessary. Loneliness was not a problem; this world was such an alien place, so different from what Cheyah had known, it often felt it was a dream. Not at all real.
Her mentor had assured her it wasn't uncommon for Guardians to feel out of place, detached from those they fight to protect. Memory was lost and few, if any, ever remembered their past. Ironically enough the Exo robots remembered more of their former lives than did their human counterparts. Those few who did were often looking for ways to find more stimulus to "jog" their memory, spending time with the Cryptarchy and aiding their searches. Not Cheyah. It distracted from the fighting.
The fighting was all she lived for. Not a day went by that she saw the scared and scarred faces of countless refugees streaming into the City. It was the same when she went out in the field: alien pirates picking over the remains of these same refugees' heritage, callous in their disregard for culture and history. Never mind the fact it was a few hundred years—was it, really?—since the Collapse. Very likely it was that none of the refugees had ever experienced the benefits of peace and prosperity from that long ago Golden. They always lived on the run, had no one to protect them or lead them, fearful for their lives—or more often, fearful for the lives of their children.
That was why she was here, in the ADZ. Not many Guardians came here, their main strength focused on fighting the Devils in Old Russia, of protecting an ungrateful Warmind. No, this Dead Zone was devoid of human habitation, the sole stronghold of the Fallen Kings. Save, perhaps, the Seraphim. Not that it mattered. Cheyah was a Guardian, and with her… unique skills… she could go anywhere she pleased. Not that she had any choice.
Her target's name had been whispered among the trembling, cracked lips of the City's most recent refugees. Basilinna. It was derived from a Fallen word, related closely to a similar word from an ancient human language lost to time, meaning "queen". Fitting for the Kings. This Basilinna had rampaged throughout the south-eastern ADZ for many months now, displacing many human settlements in its search for lost troves of technology. Such was the depredation that even the Seraphim feared to track it; one of the refugees had told, shaking, of how an entire squadron of their best soldiers sent to kill it were thoroughly exterminated, and then as an afterthought a settlement under Seraphim protection razed, and everyone massacred.
This was why Cheyah was here.
Turning, she angled into a side-street. There looming before her was one of the city's landmarks. Once it had been a cathedral constructed at the height of the Golden Age, filled with worshippers on the high holy days and tourists during the secular week. Now it was a monument to what once was. One of its two towers had crumbled, rubble blocking off another street. The other bravely stood but it was only a matter of time before it too gave way.
She parked at the top of an old garage, rusted cars and trucks everywhere. "Ghost, can you hide its signature?" she asked.
"Certainly." The drone materialized and glowed; in a moment the Sparrow resembled one of the cars beside it. "It'll transform when we return."
"Good."
Passing a hand over her holstered cannons Cheyah took out one of ornate gold and examined it. Its rounds were loaded and its weight comforting. After inspecting the other, she strode to the edge of the garage and leapt outward.
To ordinary eyes it was suicide. Three stories off the ground would kill a man after shattering their legs. But Cheyah was no ordinary person.
Before she touched the ground there was a flash of light, and she stopped abruptly in the air. For a moment, a split second of an instant, she hovered, several feet off the ground. Then Cheyah landed gracefully, robes fluttering as they settled back down. Turning about, she saw no enemy. Would have been just great if a sniper decided to pick her off about then.
Then there it was. A faint rumble filled the air, like a distant turbine in one of those ancient wind tunnels firing up. Then a shadow passed over the ground, blocking out both the faint sun and foggy clouds. A great Ketch had appeared, soaring low over the ground, its bottommost part of the hull just barely clearing the buildings.
Shaped as a massive javelin, with a single gigantic engine asymmetrically to her port and four smaller ones triangularly placed for balance, the Fallen Ketch was a powerful foe to behold—no human ship had ever dared exchange weapons' fire with one, and lived. From where she stood Cheyah could see rows of Arc turrets along the vessel's length pointing outward, with a large cannon going to the tip of the spear. Several smaller shapes flew alongside it, ugly Skiffs and graceful Sloops in formation, zooming over buildings with a roar.
That there was where her target was, inside that Ketch.
But from here it was foot only, no Sparrow. The Fallen may sometimes forget an enemy was standing right below them—like now—but not even they would ignore a such tempting electronic treat beneath their insectoid nose. Here, disguised by junk long since picked over, it was safe; and so was she. Closer to where that Ketch was, no. But Cheyah was a Guardian. She could perform astonishing feats of gymnastics and stamina, and with her Ghost not even death could stop her. Where the Seraphim failed she would succeed.
Alone.
"Let's go," she said. Taking off at a run she began the final phase of her journey.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Racing through the city with noisy abandon, fearless of any foe, sped thirteen Pikes, excess Arc energy expelled through turbo-boosting. Five Vandals and twelve Dregs sat astride each of them, some riding double. Resting upon each Pike's rear within its own compartment was a Shank, its golden chassis blending with the vehicle. Once they reached their destination the robots would deploy to flank and cover the riders.
Yeldir, chief Vandal, led this scavenger band. For the past three weeks he and his crew stripped this city of whatever resources usable to the Fallen it held. Most of it was mechanical and technological in nature, but some junk material had also been taken for ether transfusion; the rest was to go to the Basilinna as tribute. Now a Light-stealer had arrived, to claim the Basilinna's soul in vengeance. Yeldir was determined not to let that happen. Should he be the one to strike down the thief, and present its miniature Servitor to Prime, he would be well on his way to becoming a Captain—perhaps as Guard. Should he fail, the punishment was not worth thinking of.
Gesturing with his upper-right arm, Yeldir ordered three Vandals and two Dregs to veer off. The other Vandal and six Dregs went to left. Four continued with him as flankers. They would trap the thief in a circle and kill it with blue fire. Grasping shock pistol with lower-left arm, where it rested comfortably in the holster, Yeldir prepared for the coming fight.
The Basilinna would have been alerted by now as to the thief's presence. To herald arrival like that with great Ketch, and grand armada, was—in Yeldir's humble and private opinion—very pretentious. Arrogant, almost. Either his Basilinna was confident to display such power; or ignorant of the thief's true might. Yeldir had fought such beings before, once or twice, in the raiding of human villages. Fire-demons had been with them, yes, but those were expected. None of the bands with him had survived the thieves; he himself barely made it away from the last one with three arms shaven away, lucky to be alive.
His upper-left arm, mechanical and sharp, flexed as he adjusted grip on Pike controls.
This time he would be ready. With its dead body made ether he would regrow that arm and become Captain of Kings' Fallen—command a Skiff, or Sloop. This he was certain of.
But the thief was not dead. Not yet. It must die first.
If Yeldir failed, he vowed, then let his ether be released to the wind.
Yeldir would not fail.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
"The Fallen are gaining ground," Ghost interrupted.
Cheyah paused and looked back. She stood opposite of a rise, blocking her vision, but not her hearing. Going up the rise would only increase the chances of her becoming a target. A growling rumble, like that of the Sparrow but more guttural, slowly filled the air, coming low from the ground instead of the air. By its timbre she gauged maybe upwards of ten Pikes, less if there were heavies mixed in. Unlikely, though, on that last. Fallen never deployed their strongest forces unless they were in total control of the area or wished to take a stronger place by deadly force.
"You're right," she answered. "I estimate they'll reach us before we reach the Basilinna."
"Shall I create a decoy?"
"No. We keep going. If they come, they shall regret it."
"They aren't Devils," Cheyah's Ghost cautioned her. "These are Kings and are smarter."
"We'll see, won't we?" her partner answered with a grin.
"I hate it when you do that. We don't—"
"That backup plan is me. Come on, Ghost, you've been with me for the past four years. You ought to know my capabilities now." Cheyah started moving again, but it was no matter. The Fallen would reach her no matter how fast she ran.
"You aren't Pahanin!"
Cheyah rolled her eyes, unseen by Ghost, and pressed forward. There were times when wearing a helm was useful. "We've been through this before."
"They always end with you dying at least once after every time," came the pointed rejoinder. "There are no Guardians to help you."
"Who said I needed help?" With that the conversation was closed, the most they'd spoken in months. There was no more time for that now. Cheyah cocked the hammer of one cannon and pulled out the other. The Fallen were close.
For most of her working life, once she had been put through the rigors of the Crucible and deemed competent by Shaxx and the Vanguard, Cheyah had always worked alone. Whether it was scouring the vaults of east Asia, pawing through ancient libraries of the Japanese isles, or looting the John F. Kennedy space center of Old Florida, she never made contact with another Guardian except once or twice, and those had always been Hunters. Once or twice she'd see a fireteam on patrol, looking for refugees, but these she usually avoided.
It was something she couldn't help but do. Being around others made her uneasy. It was as if the mere presence of another like her, displaced through time, would dispel the illusion that this world was, in fact, not a dream. Cheyah didn't want that dream gone—it made life easier, somehow, to pretend it was a fantasy. The fewer times she spent with another, beyond refugees telling her their horror stories or putting bullets through Fallen heads, the safer she felt.
But she could never, ever, shake the feeling that one day the reality would slam home. Until that day came, she was determined to put it off. It was also another reason why she seldom talked with Ghost. Talking dispelled dreams, made them less real, less vivid and intense. It was no wonder she lived up the Hunter stereotype—
—an Arc round whizzed close by—too close—and skipped into the ground, displacing dirt and rock.
Whirling Cheyah aimed both her cannons back and let loose—crack, report!
The Vandal whipped back into cover, a broken piece of wall of a two-storey shop, the Hunter's rounds missing by scant inches; stone flaked off by the passage.
A whirring of sound made her look to her right—and she jumped, reality warping. A Pike sped right over where she stood, Arc blasts firing rapidly. Had she hesitated a split-second longer her body would be transmuted electricity. The vehicle banked and changed direction, clumsily, pebbles kicked up by gravitic field shifting beneath.
Cheyah landed, catlike, and let off two more rounds. Both thudded into a shield and dissipated—then she whirled again and fired another round. This time the Vandal which missed her screamed as a hole vacated its neck, and collapsed, ether and body fluids coagulating.
With a roar three more Pikes came over the rise, Shank drones detaching and flitting to the side to get a better angle.
The Hunter jumped again, reality warping to spit her six meters high into the air, spinning about as she went. Crack! Report! Crack!
Three riderless Pikes skidded and collided with the ground, exploding with spectacular displays of light, as three dead Dregs with brains evacuated fell off their seats.
All of this was done within four seconds.
The first Pike, which she had shot at but didn't land a hit, had sped forward in that time, slowing down only slightly to allow its brethren to pass by without being hit. But this time it was too close to jump over. So she jumped and swung to the side. With a scream the Dreg flew and hit the ground at high speed, neck broken by the force of her kick, and Cheyah now was the proud owner of a Pike.
Banking hard to the left and turning about in a full circle, to face the rise over which the trio came from, she let loose with a flurry of Arc rounds and wasted the Shanks with wild abandon.
"Careful, it'll overheat!" her Ghost screamed from where she hid inside.
"That's the idea," Cheyah retorted. Two more Pikes—one with two Dregs—flew over the rise straight at her, shields catching and transmuting the electric rounds with ease. She watched as they came—then dove off, gun leaving her holster and firing. With an explosion to rival the others downed, its transductor-coils overloaded and the Pike blew to kingdom-come, and shrapnel took out the oncoming Fallen. Their Pikes too similarly exploded. A few more rounds blew up the Shanks, along with a third she had overlooked from before, hiding. Now it was not hiding.
Rolling she came up and observed her work. One Vandal, seven Dregs and their Pikes, plus Shanks. Not bad, for being caught by surprise.
"I don't suppose you could have spared one?"
"No time. But more will come. There should be fo—"
Seven more Pikes encircled her, one pair of arms each holding shock pistols aimed right at Cheyah. Some Pikes held passengers in addition to riders, and these held unwieldy and quite deadly shrapnel launchers. Their Shanks detached and floated upwards, cannons aimed at her. With muted growls the floating vehicles came to rest. The Fallen did not lower their weapons.
"Didn't you say you had a backup plan?"
Cheyah wasn't so sure about that one now, and Ghost had said it with no little but unintentional irony. She was surrounded, far from where she could call help (not even the Seraphim could help her), and outgunned and outnumbered.
One the Vandals, a nasty-looking piece of work with an upper metal arm, growled at her and gestured with its pistol. Translation: "Drop your weapons. Surrender. Or die."
Very well, then. Let's see what happens next. Cheyah dropped her weapons and let herself be bound under the watchful gaze of Shanks. The Fallen made quite an aggressive show of patting her down completely, and none too gentle about it or caring for modesty, looking for Ghost but the robot kept herself hidden quite snugly away.
The Fallen were quite crafty, Kings even more so.
But sometimes they were quite stupid as well.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
They were taking no chances.
The Fallen had sandwiched her between two Dregs, and that was mightily uncomfortable on that Pike. The Shank's docked chassis served as a makeshift seat for the second Dreg, for it to watch her—and keep its pistol pointed at her head. Cheyah didn't know if its finger was on the trigger or not, and she wasn't too keen on finding out either. The rest of the Fallen had spread out, keeping her Pike within clear view; in fact the only Pike directly in front was the leader, the metal-arm Vandal. Both her cannons were taken away, Silence too, and given to other Dregs for safekeeping, and neither of those were her present companions. Taking no chances.
Fully bound as she was, there was no possibility of slipping off or getting herself loose, not that she planned to. Even if she could, she wouldn't. Sometimes the fastest way to your enemy is to walk right on in. Saved her time sneaking into that Ketch, and many unneeded firefights. Cheyah had heard stories of legendary Guardians capable of gunning down an entire Cabal century with only a hand cannon; lesser Guardians had brought down several Skiffs in one sitting. There was even a rumor that a Ketch had exploded—from the inside!, no less—on Mars, and it wasn't from Cabal ordnance either.
Cheyah wasn't that kind of Guardian. Despite wanting the world to be just a dream, she retained enough presence of mind not to act cocky about it. Life was short enough as a Guardian, and with each revive one lived on borrowed time. She was cautious. But not cautious enough to avoid the Fallen.
Wasn't as if she could help it. They owned the place here. Neither did she risk talking to Ghost. They'd pick up on that right quick, and submit her to more searching until they found what they were looking for.
Oh the conundrums a rouge like her faced.
Her stomach plummeted—the Pikes screamed off a large hill and Cheyah felt every jolt in her bones, and she grunted. The Dreg behind hissed and nudged her head as a warning. Her companions took little notice of the sudden drop except to adjust their grip, and in one's case, its gun. They left the main thoroughfare and went down a slightly smaller but building-less street, Pike frames scraping the ground slightly. Now they sped through a large field, yellowed grass moving slightly in a weak breeze. The buildings were now left far behind; they had entered what was the countryside.
The sun was starting to become stronger; breaking through the thin clouds its strengthening gaze cast the place in a whole new light. (What an irony, she thought idly.) The Pikes' golden colors were now clearly defined, the Dregs' similarly-hued armor glinting, and all of that bright color starting to give Cheyah a headache. She tried closing her eyes but the light was too intense, stabbing through her eyelids with ease. She then tried leaning forward, ignoring that it was a Dreg's back she was about to rest on, only to be whacked hard. "Still!" the rearmost Dreg growled, gun nozzle pressing again to her head.
How long was this going to take?
A very long time.
The sun had gone down when they arrived to their destination, many, many kilometers from where she touched down. According to the sun's glaring on her face while they rode, they had been travelling due west. From the great shadows cast about the ground, and tall hulks thrusting upward into a now starry sky, they were now in the Appalachian mountains. Probably in Old West Virginia if she wasn't mistaken. Ghost could probably confirm it.
The Pikes began to slow. Their incessant rumbling, which had begun to wear on her ears, began to die away as their speed lessened.
"Off."
Cheyah clumsily got off, muscles protesting, only just managing to avoid falling down. Sitting awkwardly on a two-seater Pike for hours was not a good way to improve blood circulation. Then a foot pushed her along.
"Ow!"
"Quiet," the same Dreg snarled, hitting her again.
Cheyah wished she could glare at it but her helm had been taken, robes also stripped away, likely for trophies. All she had was her sapphire-wire plated armor, none of which they bothered to take. Perhaps they wanted to deliver her intact to the Basilinna. Best not to provoke their ire any longer. Her time to act would come. So swallowing her pride, and ignoring the bruise forming upon her pale cheek, Cheyah submitted to being led forward.
As she predicted hours before they had taken her to where the Basilinna's Ketch landed. There it was, like an overgrown bird, upon a large frame designed to support cargo spacecraft from the late Golden Age, presiding like a king. Its massive engine was powered down, Dregs swarming about for damage or worn down components, Shanks drifting alongside. Others roamed the long central spearhead, tending to the cannon, its Arc turrets, or fiddling with armor. On smaller landing pads surrounding it sat Skiffs and Sloops, some in various states of disrepair and others hooked up for fueling; some were leaving or returning.
As Cheyah was led through the encampment—one that neared the size of the legendary Fallen siege camps of the Gap—other Kings' Fallen emerged to see her. Captains standing tall in their ancient capes, lower hands resting upon shock blades. Vandals leering at her demise, a Guardian led captive. Dregs openly whooping for joy in that barbaric tongue of theirs. Servitors hovered solemnly beside, eyes unblinking, and Shanks stood sentinel.
When they neared the entrance to the Ketch, a sort of command deck extending out from the lower half of the ship, several Vandals came to relieve the crew which captured her. Cheyah knew from their higher-quality armor and ornate clothing that these were Kell's Guards, high ranking Fallen charged with protecting Fallen leadership. If there was any more proof needed that she was on the right track it was the presence of these. The Dregs fell back, fading into the camp, their job done, Vandals too. Only the leader remained, and after a short conversation with a Kell's Guard, clearly was going to stay.
She could only guess at why it did. Ether supplement? Commendation? Promotion?
Further thoughts were cut off with a surprisingly gentle push to her back. The Kell's Guard fell into formation about her, wire rifles shouldered with precise discipline, and started marching. Literally, marched. Like a parody of ancient human militaries of old. Of course, Kings' were known to be more sophisticated than the Devils. They went inside the Ketch, passing by digilant crews working, and disappeared inside.
She was now in the hands of the Basilinna.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Basilinna Nythris the Golden lounged upon her throne in the heart of the Ketch, toying with an ancient artefact of the Eliksni. Something pre-Whirlwind, one of their heritage. Several such items cluttered her chamber, placed so that they could be appreciated without exerting much effort to look at. Banners and pennants of old houses, both Greater and Lesser, hung from the ceiling, their symbols faded but legible, with an effigy of the Great Machine placed prominently upon its own little shrine.
A perfect white sphere, carved from a crystalline-like substance found nowhere on this world.
Also taking pride of place was a containment unit along one wall filled with ancient human media, crumbly books and faded plastic boxes, and one of those viewscreens of theirs she entertained herself with. Nythris could turn on the viewscreen, relax while she waited. She hadn't had much time to do so. The pesky fire-demons kept her on the move until recently. The slaughter of their strength was a successful message.
But as high priestess of this scion of Kings' House her times of rest were few and far between. With the two Barons occupied commanding the ship, it was her task to see to the Servitor. Both to keep ether production up and the machine itself from failing. While the lesser creatures worshiped their Servitors, only she and other higher ups understood that the Servitors were not gods. True, they held them in reverence, but only as icons of what once was.
In a few moments she would need to get up and inquire if repairs were complete so they could be on the move. A nasty brush with an eastern storm whose strength even now bled out had necessitated this landing. The primary components of the engines needed to be checked on and minor repairs made to armor before they lifted off. Who knew where the Kell would send her next—Venus, where ancient machines of blasphemous might clashed with Winter? Mars, where a vast army strode upon a land of blood? Or beyond the Reef itself, to communicate with mysterious Time? As her Kell ordered, so she would obey.
Running her fingers over the carving, a small stone object of some dead Kell, Nythris remembered her primary mission: retrieve intelligence on the City That Docks. Hard to do.
The Houses had failed in their test to reclaim their mediator years before. She remembered it as if it had happened yesterday; had sent the call herself to the Wolves. A shame they failed to arrive. But perhaps it was upon her House. The gods had judged them unworthy. So they must fight again, with patience, with planning. They would bleed those dead warriors who killed their children, murdered their Servitors and Barons, bleed them dry. One at a time.
Devils telemetry indicated the City That Docks had a limited number of these warriors. No doubt still reeling from the Gap. Bah. The Twilight Gap they called it. Eliksni called it the Defeat, the Second Battle. But they were slowly gaining. If only they could reclaim Winter's focus from Venus, then the City That Docks would fall. Devils Prime would rally its House to them even without the Kell. Victory would be assured.
A buzzer sounded, comms communication coming through. Straightening up, Nythris touched the blinking light upon her seat. "What is it, captain?" Her voice was sinuous for an Eliksni.
"Basilinna," the commander of her personal detachment of Kell's Guard answered. "Yeldir has reported in with a captured Light-stealer. Though a third of his crew and equipment was lost, he has incapacitated the warrior."
Nythris had no eyebrows but the expression she wore resembled something a suspicious human might wear. A dead warrior, defeated that easily? Impossible. "What is the captive?"
"Female, small human, smaller than Dreg. Armed with twin gold-and-silver pistols, and wire rifle facsimile. No Ghost visible after four searches. Ship unaccounted for."
Oh? Interesting…
"Take her to the interrogation chamber immediately. Alert the Barons—do not let your guard down. Strip her completely, understood?"
"Yes, Basilinna. Galdos out."
The communication-line ended and the ether-rich air silent again. Stretching Nythris slowly stood, exercising out all tired bones and limbs. It was not often she had the pleasure of "entertaining" a Light-stealer personally, and in such perfect condition too. Usually they were more than half-dead by the time she met them, having suffered brutally at the hands of their captors. This was because they struggled mightily during capture, and before that had charged into ambush. To prevent the possibility of being resurrected by their Ghosts she had them "etherized" immediately. Hmmm… interesting bastardization, she thought idly.
Then she stood, all eight feet of her. Taking her horned helmet from off its pedestal, she secured it into place, ether-hoses latching on, instruments lighting up. It fit comfortably about her head. This was less for breathing and more for intimidation unless she strode out into the alien air of the human world. The poor human now in her hands would be wearing a mask, designed to filter out ether so she could survive, her only article of "clothing". It of course would not disguise or obscure her voice—her voice most especially.
To say that Nythris was a sadist would be using human terms. The Fallen did not view torture in the same manner as did humans, their morals slightly different. Anything not Eliksni was inferior unless it somehow impressed them enough. But even among the Fallen Nythris was… an exception, to the norm. And humans were most especially sensitive creatures.
Now no longer able to put duty off, Nythris marched out of her chambers and down the twisty, winding tunnels of her Ketch, Dregs and Vandals moving out of her way. This was going to be an interesting conversation.
Lounged wasn't perhaps the best word to use. Reclined and at ease was better; with the Pilot Servitor occupied in processing intel from distant Ketches far away, and the two Barons upon this ship down in the camp below ordering dregs about,
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Cheyah breathed through the harsh filters of her mask.
Her Vandal escort had taken her to this room somewhere aboard the Ketch and completely stripped off her armor. Ghost would flee from it once it was left unattended. Then they chained her up with energy-cuffs that prickled at her wrists and ankles and left her to hang from the wall without so much as a backward glance. Then they departed—leaving her alone.
Of course she knew she wasn't fully alone, not really. For all of Kings' arrogance there'd be two guards outside the only way in and out of this room, electro-staves at the ready.
Then there was also the Servitor in the same room with her, set upon a special contraption off to her right that allowed it to move like a ball bearing. Were Servitors used as computers? she wondered as she stared into its single purple eye. The machine had been rolling around as they entered, either bored in a parody of restlessness or idle amusement. It halted as she was bound up, observing with keen unblinking eye, making those strange noises Guardians were unable to decipher. Now it just gazed at her.
Was it some kind of interrogator? To submit the captive to an endless staring that would eventually drive them over the edge? Or was she being too literal? It was a machine, and able to be ignored—how could she feel naked (pun not intended) beneath the eye of a robot? Was it different for the Fallen?
She wished whatever they planned on doing would come to pass quickly. Loneliness was not a problem; endless waiting was soon to be a problem, especially when she expected some horrible thing to happen. A classic tactic on the part of wardens toward their prisoners. So to take her mind off of the expected arrival of whatever they sent, Cheyah started to examine her bonds.
The energy-cuffs prickled even more as she struggled to contort her body, to look up. From the way her arms were bound up, it was a wonder they hadn't detached from her body already. No, no chance of slipping out of these. For that she'd need Ghost. Her ankles were bound in the same way, energy coursing along her skin. After nearly cricking her neck Cheyah determined that the frame too was wildly spaced apart from her to use it as leverage. They did a good job of it all right.
She sighed, a gust of air leaving her, slumping down as far her bonds would let her. "I don't suppose you'd know when they get here, do you?" she asked the Servitor. "I'm bored."
The Servitor click-growled in response, a deeper robotic-bass version of the Fallen's tongue. Was it admonishing her to stay quiet, or telling her to be patient?
She unconsciously rolled her eyes at that last thought. "You are useless," she said instead. It was a futile gesture. The Servitor could care less of her opinion, if it cared at all.
"Not as useless as your broken body would be," a smooth, cultured voice—was that British she was hearing?!—answered her. "If, that is, you refuse to give us what we want."
The door had opened during her talking, and three large Fallen had entered the room. The chamber's dimensions easily made it possible to accommodate them, its curving, bulbous ceiling higher than their heads. Two were cloaked in Kings' finery—Barons. Their shock-swords, deactivated, rested in their sheaths. The other just wore silver armor with no cloak.
The Basilinna.
"What, is our presence too irritating?" the Basilinna asked, proving both that she was female and the source of the British voice. "Speak up, thief."
At last Cheyah found her tongue. "Just how many BBC shows did you watch? Doctor Who, Sherlock?"
Instantly she felt pain—terrible pain. Cheyah arched her back as electricity flowed through, mouth open wide in a silent scream. Then the agony left. As she slumped forward she heard one of the Barons chuckling.
"Do not presume to be presumptuous with me, thief," the Basilinna admonished. "Or else Sentinel Orbiks-3 will administer higher voltage. Now I will ask again. Why are you silent?"
"I was… curious… about your excellent English," Cheyah ground out, shaking.
The Basilinna seemed pleased. "Not often a human thinks to ask about it. Yes, I do enjoy several of your old shows from before your fall. They reveal quite a bit of your nature—everything from your excellence to your depravity. Your whole culture is on display in these programmes. Rather primitive."
"Thank you for your compliments."
The Basilinna seemed not to notice the sarcasm. "Let us cut to the chase. You cooperate and give me what I want, and you will suffer little if any pain and indignity. If not, we'll see how far you can go before you become ether."
Cheyah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Fine. What is it?" And where is Ghost?
"First—let us start with your City. Tell me about its current, hmm, let us say… state…"
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Ghost flitted about the interior of the Kings Ketch, darting from shadow to shadow. Every time a Shank turned in her direction she ducked down and transmatted inside whatever object that was nearest. If a Servitor turned its sleepless eye toward her that was when things became critical—she powered off, for a few seconds, before a self-spark awoke her again. The Fallen were otherwise oblivious.
If only Cheyah's plans didn't rely on herself so often, or meant getting into risky situations like this. It would make Ghost feel better if Cheyah listened to reason for once. But sadly her Guardian still thought she was in a transient, lucid dream, capable of doing amazing feats without undue misfortune; not even pain or death convinced her it was anything but a waking dream. If only so many of the Risen had common sense left then fewer Ghosts would have aneurysms—wait a minute…
Shaking her jointed shell in disbelief, Ghost phased through the wall—
—and phased back through it again.
It was a long while before she mustered up the courage to peek in there again.
Three Dregs, off-duty, were sorting through junk and scrap in one of the Ketch's many holds. But what caught Ghost's eye was that Cheyah's armor was among the debris. Now if only she'd get close enough to transmat it away from them…
Too late!
A Dreg saw the silver glinting in the mass of grey and brown. It nabbed the torso-portion and displayed it, holding it out like a shirt, chittering at its fellows. One was unimpressed, returning back to work, and the other had only half a mind to keep going on.
Now how am I to get it back?
While Ghost deliberated a hatch at the far end of the cavernous chamber opened, and something came in snarling. Immediately the Dregs dropped all slacking and hurriedly resumed their tasks, the one holding the armor shoving it beneath some innocuous junk. They kept up this pretence, hoping the intruder would go away, but in vain—instead it seemed to notice them and walked on over.
It was that curious Vandal which had captured Cheyah, the one with a metal arm. Ghost watched as it pulled one Dreg aside and growled at it. The other responded, and apparently the answer was not to the Vandal's liking, for it began to shake the Dreg viciously, its clicks and chittering growing louder. Another Dreg, the one which grabbed Cheyah's armor, stepped up and inquired why the Vandal was interrupting their work. At least, that's what she assumed it said. The Cryptarchs still a long ways to go with a Fallen dictionary and thesaurus; if only they had someone friendly to crosscheck their work.
With a snort the Vandal backhanded the Dreg speaking to it, pushed the first one aside, and began rummaging through the junk. Ghost then understood it was looking for Cheyah's armor. Why, though, was beyond her. It didn't cross her mind that it was looking for her.
Eventually the Vandal gave up, but still didn't relinquish hold of its prize. It was then Ghost saw the tattered remnants of Cheyah's Warlock-equse robes and helm in the lower arms. Aha! the spark of a plan began to form inside…
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Yeldir turned away from the three in disgust. Claiming the armor when it was property of the Basilinna. How it ended up in the hold was unknown to him, and only the Great Machine knew why. He paid no mind as the other Fallen shouted abuse at him. They'd be punished later when he reported to her.
Stepping into the twisting tunnel-like corridors that made up the Ketch's interior he inspected the stolen property for damage. Satisfied nothing serious had occurred—promotion for sure!—Yeldir set off for the interrogation chambers. He'd find the little Servitor later; it wouldn't be far anyway.
He heard the screaming before he entered the level proper. The Kell's Guard outside the chamber door betrayed no discomfort but Yeldir could still read their eyes beneath the masks.
"Permission to enter?" he asked.
Behind him a tiny light transmatted into the wall, unseen by either Guard.
The Guard nodded as another bout of screams tore through the air. The hatch opened and Yeldir entered.
Inside one of the two Barons took notice of him, or rather what he held before him. Jerking its head the noble indicated it was to be set next to the Servitor. Yeldir complied. The Basilinna spoke again in that human tongue called English, the rudiments Yeldir had only barely grasped. From her tone she was getting impatient and annoyed. The human female showed no sign of injury on that perfectly white skin of hers, but the eyes betrayed the extent of her pain.
The human answered again, feebly.
Behind the Vandal and the Barons, the small light entered the room, manifesting into Ghost. She knew that the Servitor and Cheyah's target were focusing all attention on her, and not the robot. From the way Cheyah looked, however, she was near the breaking point. Ghost could only thank the Traveler that neither of them had spent any time in the Tower since resurrection. Still, four-year-old information was still potent, but neither knew anything of importance, just what they were ordered to do.
Cheyah hung limply as the electricity died away. She had heard of Guardians being subjected to worse but this was nothing she could have imagined.
"I will ask you again, and no more," the Basilinna said, leaning in close to her, harsh ether exhaled. "The City's strength. How many since the Gap?" Cheyah mumbled—then cried out as her jaw was grabbed. "What was that? I couldn't hear you."
"I—I told you…" Cheyah breathed. "I don't know. I've never gone back since resurr—" Another scream.
"I will assume you are lying," came the cold retort. "But do go on. It has been a while since I last entertained one of your kind, thief."
The Guardian tried to glare but the effect was wasted as the Basilinna turned her back.
Wait a minute!
Yes—yes, it was Ghost! The little light had somehow survived getting dismantled—later she found out that once the Guard had taken over, Ghost had transmatted into one of their weapons—and made it without so much as a scratch or a dent on that white shell.
The little robot edged closer to the armor, understanding that Servitors, like the one in its immobile chassis, were very sensitive to strange signals. As long as she was careful, her Guardian would be free and out of here in no time—and mission success. So far none of the Fallen had seen the nearly visible fluctuation that marked a cloaking field. The Vandal was eyeing Cheyah while the Basilinna talked to her Barons, both of which listened intently. The Servitor had not once turned around.
At last.
The Basilinna had turned back to Cheyah. "Now then. We'll resume this in the morning, give you time to… reconsider… before another session. Is that clear?"
"Yes… yes. Very clear," the Guardian answered.
"Good. Good night."
"Wait!"
Every Fallen in the room turned toward her. "Yes?" the Basilinna asked, conveying the impression of an eyebrow raised.
Cheyah grinned, weakly. "There is… is something you should know."
The Basilinna frowned beneath the mask. "What?"
Cheyah wouldn't let pain slur her words for this one. So speaking carefully, she replied: "For one, I am ambidextrous, neither left- nor right-handed." As the Fallen just stared at her in confusion, she then added. "And I am on the Brute Squad."
Her cuffs disappeared and she dropped to the ground.
Comprehension dawning, the Fallen roared and drew their weapons—a Baron fell, body disintegrating into Solar light from the top down. The Vandal screeched and retreated through a now-open hatch; Guards raced in, Arc-energy crackling. The Servitor, trapped in its prison, exploded in a burst of heat and energy.
Crowned with Radiance, fully healed of all injuries, wielding twin hand cannons of fire and fully armored, Cheyah sent multiple shots through the air, cleaving Fallen apart like so many clay birds. Bodies and machinery perished as she unleashed the full fury of the Light.
The Basilinna had escaped and raced down the hall, lone Baron following, Vandal in front of her still screeching.
Dispatching the last of her enemies in a now igniting inferno Cheyah followed.
Hatches opened and Dregs and Shanks spilled out, guns blazing as the alarm raced through the Ketch. Several dissipated into Light and ether before they even left their hatchway as their target floated after her tormentors, wings of fire transforming a petite woman into a Solar entity of vengeance. Other hatches slammed closed, intending to block her progress—a few blasts of energy from her palms melted these deterrents as if cheese.
Outside the encampment was in an uproar. Many Fallen had taken to the sky, expecting an assault from the outside—Seraphim was on their mind. Most milled around in confusion, wondering how an enemy had slipped past their outer defenses to warrant sounding off the Ketch's alarms. As the Basilinna and her Baron burst out of the command deck, shouting, a section of the hull grew fiery red in an instant, then exploded outward.
At last understanding the full might of the Kings was unleashed. Heedless of the damage caused to their ship, turret emplacements fired massive Arc-blasts toward the disruption, wire and shock rifles sounding off like so many firecrackers.
And still Cheyah went on.
She felt utterly revitalized, the raw fury of the sun coursing through her veins as if she were literally made of fire—a true demon that these Fallen feared, given bodily form. Giving her new wings a sweep downward, like a vast bird of prey, she leapt off the hole and soared down to the ground, after the Basilinna. Another shot beheaded the Baron; a second eradicated four Dregs and a Vandal trying to activate a Spider Tank; a third ensured the robot never walked again.
"Get the Skiffs in the air!" the Basilinna shrieked, turning back to fire off a shot before redoubling speed.
The Skiffs and Sloops already flying turned about, their cannons locking on the Guardian. She merely ducked and weaved, cutting a burning path through the night sky as she made her way steadily toward the fleeing Basilinna. Arc blasts impacted the side of the Ketch, enough in intensity that the massive frame it sat upon shuddered. When a chance shot severed one of the supports the entire thing gave way, and the ship flew no more.
In fact the entire valley was no more.
Something inside the ship must have been affected, for when the Ketch crashed to the ground, its long spearhead shattering into so many little pieces, a gigantic explosion suddenly filled the air, throwing up hundreds of screaming Fallen and burnt machinery. The very mountains shuddered with the force thereof.
Riding upon the vanguard of the inferno was Cheyah, eyes burning.
The Basilinna had somehow gotten aboard a Sloop, for she was fleeing as fast as she could in the direction of the ruined city, the vessel's wings dipping as it struggled to gain altitude. Two Skiffs covered while the remainder ships tried to slow down the Guardian. Muted explosions told of their fate.
Nythris turned to look back at her ruined encampment. What was left was a burning, radioactive crater that would stay that way for months. Not so much as an outline of her Ketch remained. She growled—it had taken months to build up her forces, to work her way through the Kings' hierarchy, and her prisoner had destroyed it all in an instant. Heads will be rolling if she survived. It didn't cross her mind that the Vandal who brought the captive in was nowhere to be found.
"Oh Basilinna!" a voice cried on the wind. Speeding after her with unnatural speed was that damned Guardian. "There is a well known saying that you should never fight a land war on Mars. A lesser known saying is to never go against a Guardian when their life is on the line!"
Ignoring her, Nythris turned to the Captain piloting the ship, all four of his eyes bugged in fear. "Get this thing moving faster!" she screamed at him.
"And another thing!"
Nythris heard an odd sound. It sounded like something was going faster than she was.
"Fallen of unusual size means they ought not to exist!"
A mind-numbing explosion, and Nythris felt herself light as a feather—before she slammed hard on the ground. Groaning she lifted herself up, not immediately registering a handless arm. Another explosion in the background meant her Sloop had crashed.
More importantly, however, was that a burning, Radiant creature was striding toward her. Behind her hovered a dark shape—a jumpship she vaguely recognized. How did it appear so fast?
Basilinna Nythris the Golden roared defiantly at Cheyah, who only smiled knowingly.
Pointing her gun at the Fallen's head, Cheyah said: "Do you hear that?" The explosions continued. "That is the sound of ultimate suffering. My heart made that sound when I first heard of your ravages. You will make it now."
Nythris' answer was to whip out a shock pistol and press the trigger.
Cheyah was faster.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Yeldir stumbled along, lame in one foot, forced to use his lower limbs and a stolen electro-stave to support himself. His metal arm was rendered useless because of the Solar Radiance the Guardian had used—twisted by heat, blackened by smoke.
Swearing silently in pain, he made a vow to hunt down that Guardian and make her pay. Those unnatural powers were never hers. This he would accomplish.
A slightly lesser roar caught his ear. Turning back he beheld a thick cloud of smoke rising up in the predawn sky, the landing site of a downed Ketch. And a small grey shape flying through the sky to lands unknown.
He roared, shaking his hunk of metal at the sky. He would have vengeance!
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Yes, but that stunt you pulled is the last straw. Fine, I understand the exotic interpretive dance that one time but nude torture is the last straw! Is that clear?"
"Okay, okay, Ghost, I understand."
"Do you promise?" Ghost asked slyly.
Cheyah grinned. "No. Circumstance permitting."
The drone sighed again. "Fine."
"Hey, cheer up—we scored a major victory against the Kings. Even I wasn't expecting to take out a Ketch."
"I still don't like it, but oh well. Zavala will be pleased. However… while you were off entertaining—"
Cheyah waved a hand. "Zip it."
"—this is important!"
"I wasn't entertaining, got that?"
Undeterred, Ghost said: "We found the coordinates to the Kings' main base." When Cheyah didn't reply, Ghost added, "Does this mean I win?"
"No, it means Zavala will be less angry with us. Raise him on the comms, best he hears it from us than from some overexcited Hunter."
"I could have sworn that was you."
"Zip it."
The Overshadow disappeared into the dawn of the new morning.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
A/N: I would love to hear your thoughts and critiques about this—anything helps in the long run.
This story is perhaps unique in the Destiny archive. When I first conceptualized it, this story was to be about the exploits of our Guardian here, either alone or with a fireteam, doing basically the OC-version of the in-game Strikes, and never intersecting with the game-Strikes or the storyline except obliquely. Since then my mind decided to break that mold, and now there'll be other Guardian(s) starring here, of all classes and hopefully species.
As I'm following Destinypedia's listing of the Strikes (with some rearranging), this one is kin to The Devils' Lair: a Fallen-themed strike. This story will follow based on the events in-game but will not actually intersect them and neither will we see much of the "player's Guardian"; don't want the spotlight stolen by a "super-Guardian", will we? In addition, we'll see the Raids, exactly as they appear in-game after the Strikes, and following by DLC. They'll be somewhat different than the chapter/Strike format I'll be following.
So, reviews, critiques, maybe? Anything that struck your fancy, perhaps even want to insert an OC of your own (don't go overboard with it), anything really. I like reviews that give me something to mull over—but I'm not adverse to smaller reviews: whatever floats your goat. :)
The Guardian here was loosely inspired by Eve from the game Angel Stone's cinematic trailer. Beta-read by dogmeathasdied.