DESTINY
RUST ZONE
Prologue
Darkness, wherever you directed your gaze, that's all you would see, darkness. The sun shined its blinding rays down onto the earth, but there was no light to be found. Earth had been consumed by the darkness, now the maggots known as the Fallen chewed on the rotting flesh of this once prosperous world. People, survivors, were mercilessly slain by the minions of this unholy specter. The civilizations which were able to maintain economic and social stability did not last very long, the Fallen soon arrived on their doorstep, and then there was only death. It had been like this ever since the Traveler fell silent, only a few mere decades ago. The Golden Age has long since passed, and the Dark Age had destroyed everything.
Hope, a word that this wasteland had unfortunately forgotten; had now took physical form, it trailed through the bloodstream of earth's peace keepers.
The Guardians.
Men and Women infused with the last bits of the Travelers light, now wander the carcass formally known as Earth. Their appearance brought a new age, the age of The City, the age of a Dim Light. Theses Guardians reside in the city, the last true city, which rest under the Travelers shadow. But, this is where many Guardians do not spend their days, unless injured, or representatives of their faction, Guardians travel throughout the rotten corpse of Earth.
And he is no acceptation.
His name, unknown, the only ones who have even heard whispers of his true identity, are his enemies, and they don't live long enough to spread the word. Those who have heard him speak, say that his tone seemed human, but no one can know for sure. His face is constantly covered by his helmet, a vanguard issued Gravebreaker 1.6, a precursor to the 2.1, assigned to the Hunters. A rusted bucket covering a dead man's face, as some have described it, due to the abnormal amounts of rust sprinkled across the helmet. His chest, arms, and legs are also covered by that of the Gravebreaker class armor. Its color faded, now covered by a thick coat of rust. A shredded cloak tied around his neck, no specific design separating it from other cloaks, nothing which makes him truly stand out. Just a short, dark brown cloak, littered with holes and discolored stains.
When questioned why he seemingly never cleans his armor, he simply replied
"I aint got enough time."
Many have seen him, but few have ever heard the tale surrounding this rusted warrior. Since no one truly knows his name, a variety of nicknames have been assigned to him. The Sandstorm, in reference to his wandering nature, he'll pop up suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, raising all sorts of hell for those who do not seek shelter from his justice fueled wrath. A Fallen's Nightmare, originating from the tales of how he single handily slayed a Roving band of Pikes with nothing but his wits, half a clip of a Tex Mechanica Hand-Cannon, and an ungodly amount of luck. Wherever he makes himself known, Fallen activity mysteriously begins to die down, up until he inevitably fades away. But if you ever have the chance to approach him and ask for his name, he'll simply scrape a small chunk of rust off of his armor, and hand it to you.
Granting him his most popular nickname, The Rusted Gunslinger.
So few tales have ever been scraped together by those who were somehow able to track down the few bits of evidence, documenting this living phantom. The stories are usually jumbled, inconsistent, either singing his praise, or exploiting his sins. But all tell of the unfortunate fate that befell those who dared to make an attempt on his life.
He has no name, no face, the only thing that truly identifies the warrior of light, is the rancid stench of rust which follows this living legend…
"There, I've successfully sent your report to the Vanguard," The ghost mumbled as it then directed its bright blue gaze towards his assigned Guardian, seemingly piercing through his rusted armor, and looking him dead in the eyes. "However, I feel like you're getting off topic."
He just shrugged, causing tiny flakes of rust to drift down to the dusty ground which laid under his boots. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not getting off topic, I'm simply just making my reports more entertaining for the lucky bastard who gets to read them!" He assured his ghost as he then looked out towards the seemingly endless wasteland which laid before him.
His ghost released a short, metallic, sigh. "Listen Rusty, we were assigned to document the Dead zones current condition, manage and record Fallen activity, maybe even pay a visit to a few remaining towns. Not write your autobiography." The ghost then hovered by his Guardians side, following the rust covered warriors gaze. "It just seems, unnecessary."
Rusty released a short chuckle under his muffled breathing and shook his head, "You just don't get it Bud, every story needs its hero! We're not just informing the Vanguard on the outside world's current situation-"
"Actually…"
"-WE'RE RECORDING AN EPIC TALE! Filled to the brim with gunfights! Aliens! Explosions! A tale following its strong, intelligent, and unbelievably attractive hero! The Rusted Gunslinger!"
The ghost, named Bud by his Guardian, just shook his single blue eye, expressing his annoyance with the current situation. "You need to take this more seriously! We're entering the Dead Zone, the Dead Zone! If we get outnumbered, we won't be able to call reinforcements! No light! Not a bit! If you die, that's it! I won't have enough light to revive you! Done! You're dead for good!"
"Every story needs a bit of tension, keeps it exciting for the reader!" Rusty quickly responded, maintaining his tone of pure optimism.
"We're going to die out here, aren't we?"
"I prefer to call it a fitting end!" Rusty told his ghost as he raised his leg high into the air, before slamming it down into the bit of earth before him, taking his first official step, into the unexplored, the highly dangerous, and oh so fun, Dead Zone.