"So, we were well on our way to Earth. Two hours of sleep possible, but unlikely."

Uldren trailed after Petra insistently, waiting for her first officer to leave so he could talk to her alone. Silverhawk and Martin had charged off to no-where in particular after a repeat of their horror-inducing ritual of self-esteem recovery. Petra and Faroth had cast dumbfounded looks at the pair, and Peppermint had remained as unresponsive as ever.

Now he was stuck waiting for the first officer to shut up about the Wibbly-Wobbly as they made their way over to med bay. Uldren was hoping to at least get his cat bite treated(it already looked infected) before he began his long explanation about Silverhawk to Petra.

"…a while to repair; three days, with what we've got. The most we can do at this point is patch it up a little, the City will be able to repair it completely. The Sparrow's and easy fix, from what that ghost told us. A few minor damages, but it should be alright for riding by the time we get to Earth." The first officer was saying as they entered the med bay. Uldren couldn't remember his name, and he didn't really care.

Martin and Silverhawk were in one corner, where a doctor was tending to some nasty road burns on the Warlock's side and back, while another tried-and failed-to get Silverhawk to sit still while they treated a cut on her cheek. Uldren tensed, only relaxing a little when he noticed the doctor were wearing gloves. I need to get the word out!

Uldren went and sat as far away from the two Guardians as possible, though keeping an ear out for their conversation as Petra and her first made their way over to them. A doctor came up and examined his hand with a tsk.

"Hold a cat wrong, did you?" she asked. He glared at her.

"I didn't even touch it." He said through ground teeth. He re-focused once more on eavesdropping.

"…you might want your cat back, Warlock. Wouldn't want to have her wondering around here." Petra was saying, carefully lifting Peppermint back into Martin's waiting arms. One of the doctors gave a huff of disapproval, but finished bandaging Martin's wounds none the less.

"Um, th-thank you." Martin squeaked as Peppermint adjusted her position in his arms. Petra gave his road burns a curious frown.

"What happened there?" she asked.

"Um…uh…I, uh, got dragged along for the ride?" he tried lamely. "Silverhawk…kind of had to throw my through the door of that haunted building. Y-you know, when that…thingy came and tried to eat us?"

"Totally not haunted!" Silverhawk interjected. She turned to look at Petra, grinning. "He totally thought it was Uldren coming to haunt us from beyond the grave."

"Did not!" Martin protested, face growing even redder.

"'I'm definitely, one-hundred percent sure that this place is haunted.'" She mocked, swooning. "'Uldren is totally haunting us! We're all going to die!'"

"Silverhawk!" the Warlock took the nearest pillow and threw it at her face, but only succeeded in hitting the doctor next to her, who glared at him while the Hunter buried her face in her hands, laughing. Martin now looked like he was part tomato, and he used Peppermint to hide his face once more, much to the cat's chagrin.

Uldren hissed through his teeth as the doctor disinfected his cat-induced wounds. Petra looked on at the two Guardians, shuffling her feet uncertainly and sharing a confused glance with her first officer before he shrugged in a "you're on your own with this one, pal" kind of way, and walked off back the way they had come.

The golden-brown walls of the Cirrus' interior offered quite a homely experience for someone who had spent their whole life in space; the dull lighting bright enough to light one's way, but dim enough so as not to cause a reflection when you looked out the windows and to the stars beyond. After romping around in the wild for the last few days, Uldren found the clank of boots on the metal mesh floor and the hum and vibration of the ship's engine that constantly rang in the background to be the most relaxing sound in the world, even despite the fact he'd missed feild work.

He lent back, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of the ship. He would wait for Petra to get done with talking to the idiots, and then he would tell her. Yes, he'd tell her…

"Fortunately, I'm good at sleeping under stress."

"Prince Uldren?" a hand shook him awake. He jerked up, eye snapping open. It was Petra, looking grim. "We've arrived."

He blinked stupidly, realization dawning on him. I must have fallen asleep! STUPID! His old and sometimes unfortunate habit of falling alseep in strange places had betrayed him once more. They had arrived…by which she had obviously meant Earth. Which meant the clock was ticking again, there was no more time to lose; there was no time to tell her about Silverhawk's secret, no time to warn her about it, not time to share his suspicions. If Silverhawk was going to kill him, it was going to be soon, and there was no-one he could tell.

I get the cure, and I get out before she can catch up with me. That was the only plan now. He nodded to Petra, still half-asleep and still a little in shock. "I'll be down in a minute."

She gave a small bow and left, and he looked at his surroundings. He was still in the med bay, though sunlight now poured through the rows of circular windows rather than starlight, and there was a noticeable lack of Silverhawk and Martin. Martin's tattered Warlock robes lay forgotten on the bed he had occupied, and Silverhawk's damaged cloak was folded neatly next to it. Other than that, the only signs that the two Guardians had been there were the muddy boot prints all three of them had left.

Uldren looked down at his own boots, wincing at the sight of the crusty, dried mud. He stood up and stretch, flinching as his sore muscles were forced into action once more. He looked himself over in a nearby mirror.

I look more like a hermit than a prince! His face was dirty, his hasty haircut was messy and uneven, he had mud all over him, and there were a few tufts of grass still caught on his armor from the valley. There was a bruise on one side of his face, a result of his and Silverhawk's rough landing after falling several hundred feet on a Sparrow, and he felt battered and bruised all over.

The cut on his arm had been re-bandaged properly, and his hand had been dressed in a similar way. He flexed his fingers, and figured that they had put some sort of anethstetic around the wounds. The two hours of sleep had done little to lessen his exhaustion; if anything, it had made him feel the effects of sleep deprivation even worse. When we get done with this, I'm going to sleep untill the proverbial spring and nothing less.

Turning away from his reflection, he left the med bay. The hall leading back to the docking bay was eerily quiet, though a few curious engineers pocked their heads out to watch him pass. Even the hum of the Cirrus' engines was quieted, as if the ship itself was holding its breath as the Prince and the two Guardians prepared for the final leg of their mission. With a jolt, he realized what this really was.

This wasn't just when he could be killed by Silverhawk at any given moment; this was the last chance he had to cure his sister. The last, possible way to stop the disease, if they failed to get anything out of the sample.

This is it. A murderer at his side, time blowing at his front, with the looming threat of a deadly illness hanging over his head. AKA, the most dangerous situation he had ever been in. Taking a deep breath, he came out of the hall and onto the ramp that overlooked the docking bay. Petra and her first officer were standing with Faroth, Martin, and Silverhawk on the ramp to the Timey-Wimey. He could make out the white blob that was Peppermint in Martin's arms, and Silverhawk stood polishing her Sparrow with a cloth, looking like she was cooing at it like a mother would a child.

Well, it's time to board the idiot train again. He was still starving, and there was a horrible itch on one knee that he couldn't get to because of his armor, in combination with the mud that was crusted on everywhere. Wincing as the mud in the fabric of his armor cracked once more, he descended the steps to the bay, and ran over to the small gathering. Faroth, Petra, and her first officer acknowledged him with small bows of the head, before his sister's emissary began to speak.

"Right; the good news is that Faroth thinks he can synthesize a cure with the sample you guys brought us." She told him. Silverhawk looked up from her Sparrow, and Martin stroked Peppermint's head anxiously as he listed, eyes wide and face frowning with worry.

"And what's the bad news? There's always bad news." Martin's ghost asked, peeking out of the Warlock's pant pocket. He ducked back inside as Peppermint lashed out at him.

"So that's where your ghost was." Petra commented, surprised.

"The bad news," Faroth answered tiredly, "is that it will take at least a week for the cure to reach its full potential, and that there's no way to duplicate it. So far, genetic duplication is the only way to get more of it, but we don't have that kind of technology. Making such a device would take weeks, if not months. By then…we'll have lost too much of the population to make a difference; 90% of organic humanoids will be either dead or too far gone by the time the cure is ready. Whatever this equation is, it has to be better than that, or we're all doomed."

Martin let out a nervous laugh, Silverhawk let out a huff of breath, and Uldren felt like his gut might up and leave via his mouth if his nerves got any worse than this.

"Yeah, like, no pressure, or anything." Silverhawk commented wryly. Uldren blinked, realizing that both she and Martin had changed into different armor. He recognized Silverhawk's chest plate from a crow report he had read a long time ago; a series of hunter armor fashioned to mimic ancient defenders of City refugees, his if memory served. Her new cloak was a dark blue camo that went down to her ankles, and the armor had the same color scheme as her old stuff had; blue and black, with bits of red here and there.

Martin's clothes were much more…well, normal looking; plain as gray, one could say. In fact, it was actually a little worrying that such an idiot would even consider wearing civvies to battle. He was wearing a dark green tunic, with plain brown pants. He still wore his bond, gray and black, around one of his upper arms, fresh duct-tape had been added to the bridge of his glasses, and his boots were of civilian style as well. The tunic reveal the many cuts and scrapes he had receive from the mission so far, and what appeared to be another patch of road burn peeked out from under a bandage on his left arm.

"Why aren't you geared up?" he demanded of the Warlock, who seemed to visibly shrink under his gaze. Idiot number two has just about reached the end of my patience.

"I, uh, I-I-"

"He's not cleared for duty for this one, Prince Uldren." Petra interjected. Martin cast her a shy, grateful glance before looking at the floor, suddenly finding his boots to be very interesting indeed. "Doctors don't want him running around with burns like that; they were kind of infected."

"But I will, uh, I'll be standing by to come pick you and Silverhawk up." Martin added hopefully.

"Pick us up? From where?" Uldren asked, confused. Can't Petra just get us from wherever we're going? It took him a few moments to remember that he was planning on leaving Silverhawk behind. It looked like now, he was going to have to kick Martin and Peppermint off the Timey-Wimey in order to make his escape.

Everything just got ten times more complicated. Plus, there was always the worrying thought that Martin would crash the Timey-Wimey. How that man had managed to be approved for a ship license was a mystery…

"Oh, boy." Silverhawk commented, echoing Uldren's thoughts. "As soon as we get on, I'm driving."

"Oh, no you're not!" Martin protested fiercely, whirling around to face his friend. "It's my ship!"

"Yeah, and we're going to be carrying precious cargo." Silverhawk countered.

"Why can't you come and get us?" Uldren asked Petra, hoping to salvage some kind of chance to be picked up by someone trustworthy.

"Faroth thinks that going to the City will speed up the process of synthesizing a cure from the sample." Petra shrugged. "That, and the volcanic smoke is too much for the Cirrus to handle. The Timey-Wimey has the filters needed to get in and out without breaking down."

"Ah, well that make—VOLCANIC SMOKE!?" he burst out as he registered what she had said. What the heck!? Nobody said anythingabout a volcano!

"Oh, uh…We kind of forgot to tell you. That, and you were asleep." Martin turned his head to explain sheepishly."The, uh, the coordinates, they, um, they lead to an old Certech facility that was posted at the base of an old and, erm, very infamous volcano. Now, it was probably dormant three hundred years ago, but now...not so much."

"Martin..."Uldren said slowly, bracing himself and trying to keep the urge to scream under control,"which volcano?"

Martin gulped."Krakatoa."


"Okay, so as soon as I heard the word 'Krakatoa', my whole brain just went 'NOPE'. And I only admit to that because COME ON!? Who freaking builds a lab on a volcano known for exploding, and then puts a much-needed cure in said lab! Seriously, I mean COME FREAKING ON!"

"WHERE IS THE LOGIC IN THAT!?"

The Timey-Wimey rumbled and trembled beneath him as they flew over the sea and towards the volcanic island, as if the ship were preparing them for the conditions they were about to face on the surface. He stood, gripping a handle on one of the upper walls of the ramp bay, jaw set as he tried to map out a plan for himself to escape.

So far, nothing he had thought of would work in this current situation. He adjusted the strap that held his scout rifle across his back as he scratched another plan off the list. He knew that for there to be any hope at all, he had to get to the cure first. And then he would have to find a way to wrest control of the Timey-Wimey before Silverhawk got to him. That would no doubt mean killing Martin(and his cat), and then getting off the ground before the Hunter caught up with him. Key to such a plan would likely mean hijacking Silverhawk's Sparrow, and to do that, he would need to find a way to separate her from the vehicle and leave him alone with it.

And so far, he was drawing up a complete blank on just how he was going to accomplish that. He had no idea where the lab was, had no idea where the cure was in the lab, and he had no idea where Martin was planning on picking them up. As much as he hated it...

It looks like I'm going to have to improvise as I go along. There were too many unknowns to form a proper plan, detail to detail, so a basic idea was the best he could do at this point.

The clank of boots on metal heralded the arrival of Silverhawk, who was carrying a helmet and a collar-type device in each hand. She was no longer carrying the Sparky-Sparky Boom-Boom Stick, and she seemed to him to appear slightly taller because of it.

"Which way do you go; helmet or mask?" she asked cheerfully, holding up each item. He took the helmet from her with a glare.

"Looks like I'm going mask it is, then!" she chirped, working the collar around the back of her neck. He froze as she took her sunglasses off, once again revealing the burning, sky-blue eyes that marked her as a hybrid. Shaking off the unease that trickled down his spine, he fitted the helmet over his head. It was comfortable, at least, and the long visor offered him well enough vision that he didn't have any complaints, though his senses felt horrible restricted. Fresh air gushed in from the re-breather, and he hoped that the filters would hold out once they got to the island.

"We're coming up on the island! If you're going to drop down, now's the time to do it! We've got Fallen down there!" Martin's voice called from above, up in the cockpit.

"Got it!" Silverhawk replied, rushing up to her Sparrow and uncliping the straps that held it in place on the floor. She turned it on, revving the engines and engaging the extension, which emerged from the back of the Sparrow with a whir of mechanics. Ugh, not again! His last experience on a Sparrow had been traumatizing enough!

"Up you get, Prince!" the Hunter chirped, patting the handles of the extension. he glowered at her from under his helmet, and reluctantly approached the Sparrow. Silverhawk shoved her fedora back so that it hung over her back from the strap that held it around her neck, revealing a messy bun of brown hair, which was, strangely, streaked with white at the tips. He looked at it curiously for a few moments, earning him a knowing grimace from the Hunter.

"Don't ask." she stated simply, waving a hand to indicate her hair. Still glowering, he jumped onto the extension, gripping the handles tightly.

"I swear, Silverhawk, if you crash again, so help me I'll have you be-headed." he grumbled. The hybrid gasped, whirling around to face him, concern etched along her features.

"Uldren! Was that...a joke? Are you sure you're feeling okay?" she fretted dramatically. Anger flashed through him realizing what he had said.

"Just shut up and drive!" he snapped. She turned back around.

"Okay!" she chirped, pressing the side of the collar. Suddenly, it seemed to grow round her, metal plates sliding up her neck, around her ears, and creeping up her face. Metal parts extended with clicks and whirs to form a re-breather and eyepieces, and a streak of energy flashed along the edges as it finished it's construction. "Drop us, Pippin!"

"Quit calling me that." came the drowned reply as the ramp of the Timey-Wimey extended, Uldren still mentally checking himself for evidence of dillusion after having seen the collar eat Silverhawk's face. Did I just see what I think I saw?! He was snapped back to reality as the Sparrow kicked forwards.

"YEEE-HAAAA!" Silverhawk cried as they sped down the ramp and down to the broiling sea below."KRAKA-TOA!"

The Sparrow hit the water with a splash, dowsing them in seawater before the vehicle righted itself. Uldren clutched the handles so hard, he thought he might break his hands, as they sped across the water like a floating jet ski. Dang it dang it dang it dang it dang it. He thought continuously. He risked a glance back, and saw the Timey-Wimey lifting into the sky above them.

He jerked back around as the Sparrow hit another wave, and on the fast-approaching shore, he could see Fallen swarming along the boulders.

The island itself was huge. There were many other islands all around it…several of which looked like they had been blown up, now merely the outlines of craters in the water, half sticking out of the dark water as the one intact island loomed over them all. Exactly how long it would be intact for, he couldn't tell, because it billowed out enough smoke to darken the sky for miles, and even from a distance, he could see arcs of fire, rock, and ash spewing from various points along the mountain.

It was menacing to say the least, and the blackness of the island only added to the "totally an evil island" vibe he was getting from it. Some way up near the top of the volcano, he could see what might have been a structure of some sort, half-buried into the rocky face of the small mountain. It would be a daunting task to get up there, and even more so to make his escape. I hope I live to regret this idea. Perhaps he should have sent someone else along on the mission. There were several Crows whom he knew of that would have been more than capable of handling this just as much as he could.

It was like he had been struck by one of the lightning bolts that flickered and boomed through the billowing cloud of ash that rose from the volcano. At the thought of his Crows, something went click, as if a mystery had just been solved. He struggled to catch the new piece of information, but before he could grasp it, Silverhawk was yelling over her shoulder at him. He swore loudly.

"Now's the time when you start shooting things, and I keep driving. And watch your language!" she yelled, before pressing the Sparrow onto the shore, the vehicle jerking as it made the transfer. The Fallen, whose House colors he recognized as that of the House of Wolves, had been alerted to their presence by the Timey-Wimey, started to shoot, and Uldren lifted his rifle of his back, anger boiling through him.

He and his Crows had spent months chasing cold leads, trying to figure out how the House had begun to rebuild; outside the Reef. They kept tabs on all Fallen living among the Awoken, none of them had been leaving; but the House had been growing anyway. Which meant that whoever the new leader of the Wolves was, they were recruiting from other Houses. As he shot a vandal in the head as they flew by, he couldn't help but feel dread withering around in inside him. It was a familiar feeling with this case, but it was even stronger now knowing what was currently at steak.

"A rematch", he thought, was what that Fallen said. Another Twilight Gap, another Reef war. A chance for the Wolves to prove themselves loyal to the cause after the others' defeat at the hands of the Guardians. This disease is their chance; if I can get the cure, then I can break that chance, and end the Wolves. Then came finding their new Kell, and killing him before he could do anymore damage.

He lurched forwards as the Sparrow began to climb, up, up, up and over the rocks and ashy slopes of the volcano, running over the occasional unlucky Fallen. The bullets they fired mostly missed, or otherwise ping-ed off the armor plating of Silverhawk's Sparrow. He gripped the handles, looking around wildly. If he didn't start shooting again, no matter how armored or fast this Sparrow was, they would be overwhelmed fairly quickly. But if he tried to shoot, he would fall off the Sparrow and no doubt hurt himself very bad.

His searching gaze found a spare rope coiled up on the side of the Sparrow, and he took his knife out, cutting it loose, before hastily wrapping it around his waist and tying the ends to the handles. Twisting in his now steady standing position, he brought his rifle up to eye level once more, and began to knock off the enemies that had begun to charge after them.

"Alright, this is where I drop you off!" Silverhawk called. What? He snapped his head around in shock, giving himself a painful bolt whiplash.

"What do you mean!?" they were coming up on the half-buried facility, and there was a field of large fissures between it and them, all of which let off an eerily red glow, spouting fire occasionally.

"I mean, cover for me while I charge the keep!" with one hand, she took out one of the blades strapped to her legs, and reached behind herself expertly…and cut the rope that held him to the Sparrow.

Be didn't have time to protest, and he grabbed at the handles too late. The Sparrow slowed briefly, and then kicked forwards with even greater speed, the extension retracting. Uldren was thrown off, hitting the ground and rolling head-over-feet painfully. I hate her, SO much. He groaned, wincing and pushing himself to his feet and glaring after Silverhawk as she sped away towards the buried building. He could feel that the cut on his arm had re-opened...AGAIN, and his already battered body felt even worse now.

His leg smarted as he bent down to pick up his rifle, and he rolled his shoulders, trying to get the stiffness out of them. He examined his surroundings, looking for possible cover. The large boulders would offer sufficient enough cover, if worse came to worst, though the pockets of exploding gas and fire caused a certain amount of unease. Fighting here is going to be like working in a mine field. Howls sounded behind him, and he ran for the nearest boulder, turning as he did so to see the horde of Fallen clumsily making their way up the slope.

Settling his rifle on the top of the rock, he began to pick them off as they struggled up the terrain. Huh. Easier than I thought. It was like, as the old human saying went, shooting fish in a barrel.


Silverhawk ground her Sparrow to a halt just outside the building. She could hear the sound of Uldren's rifle going off in the distance behind her, and over that, the hissing and popping of the steam vents and tiny lava fountains going off. One went off nearly directly under her foot as she dismounted, and she jumped back onto her Sparrow with a yelp.

"This island's a little salty, eh, Westley?" she remarked, the little robot gliding up next to her head."Get it? 'Salty'? Cuz we're in the middle of the ocean?"

The ghost rolled his eye. "Terrible puns aside, I'm picking up a signature inside, similar tot he one the Certech computer was letting off."

She perked up hopefully. Another computer? Are there answers in there? Any possible leads into a cure for her condition, if such a cure existed, would be like a million Christmases and birthdays all at once. No more "monster" this, or "freak" that. No doubt, it would appease Uldren. The Prince hadn't spoken about the incident at all since it had happened, and had spoken to her even less than he had been before.

The fact that he kept glaring at her murderously didn't help. But, then again, it could just be what his face always looks like. She hadn't seen him crack one smile during the whole trip; not one! She was starting to think that the only thing that would get him to smile or laugh or anything, would be merciless tickling. Which he would propably shoot her for, if she tried it. She was still weighing the pros and cons on that one.

But other than the usual glaring, there was the backlight of fear in his eyes. That same fear that shone in the eyes of those few who knew about her touch. Her being half awoken was no secret around the Tower; she had spent the remainder of her childhood there, and she hadn't started hiding her appearance until she'd started training, and she had always worn gloves and long sleeves, no matter what the weather was; having skin exposed was a risk she couldn't take, not then, not now, and probably not ever.

But those who knew, by accident or by her own will, they were all afraid of her. Even Martin, though he didn't seem to realize it himself; but what else could explain his constant state of fear, at least, whenever she was around? Maybe he was just paranoid, or maybe she was just being paranoid, but her jumpy companion had to be jumpy for a reason, right? Sure, it could be Wheatly rubbing off on him, but she couldn't help but feel like she had something to do with it.

"Well," she clapped her hands together, rubbing them,"let's ditch this frying pan and head into the fire, shall we?"

She dismounted on the side that hadn't blown up, and pulled out one of her blades as she approached the rusty, blacked door to the building, hanging off it's hinges and looking all-around trust-worthy. She tried to tenderly pull it aside, but it let out a groan, and she jumped back as it fell to the floor with a loud clang. Looking at Westley, she gestured to the gaping maw of the dark interior of the building.

"Ghosts first." she offered, grinning beneath her mask.

"It's ladies first, Silverhawk.You're a lady."

"Age before beauty; you've been around since the Collapse began, and my dead years don't count."

"It's a gentleman's duty to hold the door open and let the girls go first."

"AHA! But you don't have any thumbs, andI opened the door!"

"Buuuut...it doesn't count because the door wasn't opened by anyone; it was broken."

"The it was a jar. Who goes first after opening a jar?"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"You, Westley;you go first after opening a jar. You're the only one who can fit in one."

"No pain, no gain; it's the Guardians who have to do the gaining, I'm just here to hack stuff."

"And provide emotional support in my times of need. You have a flashlight head, you're going first, no exceptions. I'll let you now when humanity evolves to have night vision."

The little robot sighed, and glided forward, eye down and shell drooping in mock depression. He led the way into the dark doorway, his eye lighting up and illuminating the area. Silverhawk stepped over the threshold, stumbling as she adjusted her footing in the piles of ash that had build up over the years. It's like walking into an oven.

"Now I know what the Thanksgiving turkey feels like." she joked. Even through her armor, it felt like she was being baked alive. Outside it had been tolerable, but this building was shockingly hot; so much so, she was surprised it hadn't gone up in flames a long time ago.

"The what?" Martin's voice came from over her mask comms.

"The Thanksgiving turkey. You know, Thanksgiving? Big feast, gorge yourself till you die, turkey death day, giving thanks." she explained. She had spent the first years of her life living in the Collapse, when the awoken were a fairly new development, and clinging on to old earth traditions had brought a sense of hope and joy to the small village where she had grown up. It had been to her great shock to discover that everyone had forgotten about Christmas in the last three hundred years, though she and a few other revived Guardians had been working over the years to revive the holiday completely.

She could still vividly remember her first Christmas at the Tower, in which Cayde-6(then a new Hunter) had plotted with her and Martin to leave the Tower inhabitants a little morning present. But one of the unfortunate side-effects of being a revived Guardian was the fact that half the time, nobody knew what you were talking about when it came to old traditions.

"Oh, oh, I think you've mentioned this one before! Is it the one about the Indians and the British?" he guessed.

"Correct-a-mundo. A word I have never said before, and hopefully will never say again." a static buzz began to take over the comms as she pressed farther into the dark, dusty building. "Hold on; I'm getting some nasty interference down here. I'll contact you once I'm out."

"Right." came her friend's distorted voice. "Be careful down there, Heather."

"I will; quite worrying." she reassured him.

"I'm not worried." he bald-faced lied, the interference nearly drowning him out.

"Yes you are; you only call me 'Heather' when you're worried." whatever he said next, she couldn't make it out; all she could hear was a loud, buzzing noise.

"Silverhawk; up here!" Westley called from ahead. She picked her way through the ashes, and looked around as her eyes finally began to adjust completely to the dim light of her ghost-lit path. The interior of the building was just about unrecognizable, piles of ash blown in from the years and what looked like several dried puddles of lava that had leaked in through the wall marring the entire appearance of what might have once been a front lobby.

A dirty, ash-covered desk was at one end, a set of stairs led off to the left side of the room, and there was a busted door in front of a room just to the right of the desk. Westley hovered over to the old room, shining his light through the door.

"What is it?" she asked, approaching him. It seemed to get even hotter the closer she got, and even the air coming through her re-breather was starting to get uncomfortably stifling.

"The signal's coming from somewhere in here; from what I can see of my scans(which isn't much, by the way; his heat is jamming my sensors up horribly), there's some kind of entrance in the back, similar to the one we encountered at the other lab." he told her, dimming his light so as not to blind her as he turned to face her. His back shell spun."If it's not a secret entrance, then I'm a mouse!"

Guided by his light, she entered the room, cautiously looking around for any traps that Certech might have left behind. Content that nothing was going to blow up in her face, she made her way to the back of the room, where an old, metal bookcase stood against the wall behind a scorched desk. What once might have been the bookcase's contents were scattered all over the floor...

Except for one. An old, blackened hula doll at the edge of the middle shelf.

"A hula doll? really?" she reached out, and pulled it. There was a loud, scraping, screeching sound as the case began to slid to the side, and she tried to cover her ears. But alas, twas in vain, as the mask covered her ears, therefor preventing her from blocking out the sound. It was one of those agonizing noises that made your teeth hurt. Snapple cracks! She shouted mentally.

The case stopped with a final screech, revealing a narrow passage behind it. There was an early red glow coming from somewhere farther in the tunnel, and a rush of burning hot air came out to greet her. Her and her ghost looked at each other, and he played the small Legend of Zelda victory chime, the short medley echoing down the tunnel.

"Looks like you're staying a Ghost, then. Pity, really; I was wondering what your fursona would look like." she teased, causing him to roll his eye at her. She stepped forwards into the tunnel. There was what might have once been a computor imbeded into the wall; hauntingly familiar in design, she'd seen something similar during her time as a certech lab rat.

"Nah, you know you could never live with yourself if I turned into a mouse. Mice have no charm; I've got personality." he said, hovering at her shoulder, scanning the old computor. She looked at him, hand over her heart with mock affrontation.

"Ghost!" she chided playfully. "Mice are adorable! If that's not charm, I don't know what is!"

"They poop every three minutes, chew holes in walls, and wet themselves while you're holding them. That's not charm. And they carry diseases." he argued pointedly. The computor flickered on in a flash of static, and numbers and symbols and half-rendered menus danced across the screen.

"Um, you don't have any hands, you can't get sick, and have you ever see a mouse with a tiny little top hat on? It's freaking adorable." she listed on the fingers of one hand, still gripping a blade in the other. Westley finished his scan, backed away from the compurot, and left it to turn off with a flash of static.

"There, done; I didn't find much on you, but I did find the locations of numerous Certech labs, as well as many, many blueprints for their other projects. And that doesn't mean mice have personality; I have an emotional interface, and I'm just as cuddly and lovable as any mouse could ever be. I was your living teddy bear for what; three years? And I did quite the good job, if I do say so myself. Perfection in the role of emotional support, with eloquence and dignity abound." Her Ghost bragged eloquently, shifting his shell and whirring pridefully with the Ghost equivalent of walking with his chin raised high.

"I'd love to see you admit that in front of another ghost." she challenged, trying to push away the drowning dissapointment she felt. Many ghosts of children met the fate of being cuddled and coddled like sentient stuffed toys. Many were tolerant, many sometimes enjoyed the attention, but none of them would ever mention it to each other. It was a strict matter of pride.

He let out a whir and a bleep, and might have been about to respond, if not for the loud groan that came from ahead. They froze, listening carefully, hoping that the tunnel wasn't about to collapse on top of them. After a few moments, they continued on in silence, until the red glow became so bright, her ghost didn't need to light the way anymore.

Oh, snapple cracks.

"Mamma mia…" Westley muttered as they came into the room. It was so hot, she wondered if she might be in danger of having a heat stroke. But there, at the back of the room, was a rusty vault. And leaking through the walls and covering a good portion of the floor, was molten-hot lava.

"Well, I think it's safe to say, the cure is in the vault. Correction; the conveniently placed-on-the-other-side-of-a-lava-field vault." Silverhawk sighed. "Ready for this?"

"No."

"Thanks for the confidence-booster."

Cautiously, she began to weave her way through the puddle field. "Become a Guardian!", they said. "It'll be fun!", they said. She made care to pull her cloak around and hold it in one arm to keep it from being set on fire. She nearly got her foot burned off when she made the mistake of trying to step on a seemingly-cooled puddle of black obsidian. There also multiple other times in which she nearly lost a toe(or two), but a complete detail of her slow retrieval and extraction of the cure out of that room would inconvenience you as readers, and seem like an over-detailing on my account. So please, ignore this rupture of the fourth wall.

When she got to the vault(finally), she channeled arc into her blade, shoved it between the door and the rim of the vault, and the metal burst open, nearly hitting her in the face like the door from the Venus lab. Snapple cracks! She cursed inwardly as she narrowly avoided the blow, staggering and nearly falling backwards into a puddle of lava. Westley yelped, and zoomed around to push at the small of her back in an attempt to steady her(this really didn't do much, as one can imagine).

She grabbed the vault door and pulled herself up, steadying herself, but at the same time experiencing a terrible burning sensation in her hand, and she let go of the hot metal as soon as she was stable. She shook out her hand as Westley let out a "Whew" of relief.

"Okay, then; that metal is hot. Maybe not touch any more metal then." She commented. She used the butt of her blade to open the door all the way.

Are you KIDDING ME!?

Inside the vault was a metal canister, about the size of her hand, with what looked like mathematical gibberish engraved all over one side.

"So much for not touching metal." the blue ghost said forlornly with a bleep. She sighed. The hot metal of the door had burned, even when she was wearing her glove. She looked down at her gauntlets, an idea coming to her. It would be risky, with Uldren around; he wasn't wearing any gloves, last time I checked. But if it helps me fight the temptation to drop the thing…

She sheathed her blade, and took out her knife, which(thankfully) had yet to heat up to the same degree as the door or the canister. She expertly cut off the wrist guard of her right gauntlet, and wrapped it around her right hand, reinforcing her glove. Crossing her left fingers, she reached in, and took the canister. Much to her satisfaction, it didn't burn with the same degree as the door had before.

She turned to grin under her mask at Westley.

"Looks like we're going home."


Uldren was swearing right now. He didn't care what language the swear was in, he was letting the string of "bad words" run out his mouth like there was no tomorrow.

Why was he swearing right now? Because, just when he thought he was in the clear, after killing nearly all the Fallen that had followed them up the volcano, a small troop had ambushed him from above. He had heard the Captain in time to avoid a deadly blow, but his scout rifle had met a violent fate, having been cut in half by the Captain's shock blades.

He had had to run, because of the unexpected attack. He had shot several Fallen with his hand cannon, but then a vandal had loomed up from behind a boulder, and, before he could react, had punched him across the face with a force that had sent him flying a short distance.

The blow had also shattered his visor. Which was why he was swearing. Still reeling from the punch, he looked up, barely making out the figure coming at him with a pair of blades. he lifted his hand cannon, hoping it would hit, and emptied the mag. he saw the form fall to the ground, blood bursting from it, and he heard and saw the blast of a wire rifle hit the ground dangerously close to his head.

He staggered to his feet, rushing for the nearest discernible boulder, and vaulted over it before ripping his helmet off.


Silverhawk emerged from the building to find her Sparrow was not where she had left it.

"What the Snapple cracks!?" she exclaimed, the canister still gripped in her hand. She whirled, looking around for it desperately. Then, she spotted it, and rage exploded inside of her.

"HEY!" she yelled, running towards them."WHAT IN THE HECK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!? THAT'S NOT A PIKE THAT'S MY SPARROW!"

A small group of Fallen had discovered her vehicle, and several dregs were trying to ride it at once; trying, because they didn't seem to have any idea what they were doing. A few vandals and other dregs were just sitting on the sidelines, cackling their butts off at the failures of their comrades. At Silverhawk's shout however, they all sat bolt upright, grabbing their guns.

She opened her mouth to yell at the again, but she was interrupted as a vent blew just under her injured leg. POOPY MCGUMBO!

"SNAPPLE CRACKS!" her mouth countered. At this, the Fallen halted, confused as to what the heck she had just said. She was sent flying to the right, and the canister flew out of her hand as she landed dangerously close to one of the fissures that(supposedly and most definitely) led to a painful, burning death. Oh, no you don't! her hand shot out to stop it from rolling over the edge, but she mis-judged the distance. Intsead, the hot metal was pinned to the very edge of the fissure by her very exposed wrist.

She bit back a scream as the metal pressed against her skin, fighting through the pain to try and retrieve the canister. But before her other hand could relieve her burning wrist of it's burden, the sound of a wire rifle going off went through the air, and she barely had time to register the sound before agony bolted up her hand like lighting. She retracted it, screaming, and the canister fell, down, down, down, down into the fire.

Mind dizzy with pain, she watched it disappear, and felt her world crash like Martin on a Sparrow in the middle of a boulder field. No.

She looked up back at the Fallen, where a vandal was re-aiming his wire rifle, perhaps at her head. The agony in her hand, and the rage that boiled in the pit of her stomach, and the horrible realization that it was all her fault, made the storm within her howl, bay, scream for blood.

And she set the storm loose. Arc energy shot through her body, her nervous system accelerated as the electrical impulses increased tenfold. everything became faster, more precise, more clear, more swift. All she needed was one thing...

She reached up, and pressed the engagements on her mask collar. The metal mask retracted down her face, revealing her face, flooding her suddenly-enhanced senses with the smell of volcanic ash, the tainted stench of her own burnt flesh, the sound of rocks and ash and fire, her vision honing in on the vandal that had fired the shot that had cost all known civilization unimaginable loses.

She launched herself forwards, the storm baying for revenge, unsheathing her blades. Like lighting, she was there in only one second, her arc blades piercing the vandal through the chest. The pain in her hand was non-existent as the lightning embraced her. I'm going to make you pay, stupid-heads!

She whirled around, taking her blades out with her, and charged at the nearest Fallen. She cut him around the middle in a passing blow, before driving her other blade up the chin of the next vandal. She spun as two dregs tried to get at her from both sides, jumping and letting the storm free below her, lightning blasting them to pieces.

She landed, and looked back at the dregs that were still corrupting her Sparrow. They froze, and a few of them backed away uneasily, only one of them staying in the seat.

"Get. Your dirty paws. Off. MY. SPARROW."

The dreg in the seat went flying, and the rest ran for their lives from the Guardian's wrath. The storm and it's rage died down, and she felt the horrible pain in her hand return. Westley floated out from behind the boulder he had hid behind, gliding over to her and inspecting her hand with a worried bleep.

"That looks really bad." He stated the obvious.

"Why, thank you, Captain Obvious." He gave her a discouraging look.

"Don't do that. And the damage is probably mostly cosmetic; if you hadn't been wearing your sleeve on you hand, you'd probably need an amputation." He told her. He scanned the wound. "Though there is some damage to the tendons, and your pinky is, well, shattered. It's nothing Terra-27 can't fix."

"When she's not busy keeping people comfortable." Silverhawk said forlornly. Her throat felt tight. Her insides felt broken.

"Our best healthy option."

My first major mission. The fate of known civilization depended on it. Not what I had expected, but I never thought I would fail it…fail everybody… fail our mother...I...I never told Martin...

"Oh, no you don't!" Westley reprimanded fiercely, coming eye-level with her. "I know that look! The 'I'm blaming myself right now' look! NONE of this is your fault, Heather Chancellor! You hear me? NONE of it. THIS, this was Certech, and the Fallen, and a whole bunch of other weird science-y junk that we don't understand."

"I should have been more careful, West. I should have held on tighter." she countered, swinging her leg over her Sparrow and settling her feet into the peddles. She let out a cough as the volcanic fumes assaulted her senses, now that the 'Arc-Blade high" was wearing off. "I failed the mission. I'm to blame for every death that comes as a result. There's nothing you can say that will change that."

My fault, my fault, my fault. The words rang through her bones, coinciding with the old song of "You're too strange to be a Guardian; too dangerous, to untrustworthy", and "Monster", and "Death bringer". She pulled her fedora up onto her head, took her sunglasses out, and flicked them open. Her ghost let out a sigh, and she felt his light weight enter the hood of her cloak. She put her glasses on.

"So, we failed the mission; what now?" her Ghost's voice asked. She revved the engines, and brushed a speck of dirt off the dash. As Guardians start to die, the Darkness will surely notice. They'll attack the City every day.

"We get ready for the fight of our lives." She kicked the Sparrow into high gear, and they were blasting off in the direction of the gunfire sounds coming from farther down the slope.


Uldren leaned out of cover to fire off several shots from his hand cannon, but the gun clicked uselessly-

"Whoa, whoa, whoa; wait, I think I already showed this part. Yup, I definitely already showed this part. Just, let me fast forwards here, check the log..."

"Out of ammo, blah, blah, blah, dreg hit by Sparrow, blah, blah, blah, she lost the cure, vent blows us sky high, th-ah, that was it! Okay, now, at least I think this is where I started at, it continued along the lines of this..."

They screamed as they began to fall back to the ground, the Sparrow dropping like a stone.

"You idio-" he was cut off, winded, as he landed, the impact shocking his body. Groaning, he realized that he was still moving, his face pressed against cold metal as the wind rushed past him. Vision hazy, he saw the smoky clouds rushing past above him, and there was the mechanical sound of ship engines mixed in with the roar of the wind.

"Martin Anton, I love you, dude!" Silverhawk's voice yelled over the wind. Recovering his breath and facing away from the wind, he gripped the edge of the Timey-Wimey's wing, his initial relief at not being dead turning into wild fear, his insides lurching as he cough sight of the drop below, and at the speed at which they were flying. He ducked his head under his chest to keep the fast air from causing his lungs to explode, and he saw Silverhawk crouched in the middle of the back of the ship, clutching Westley close to her chest and yelling at it excitedly, presumably taking to Martin.

So much for my escape plan. He groaned internally, and rubbed his forehead with one hand. There was a dull ache in his head, and his lungs were not thanking him for that exposure to volcanic toxins; his breathing felt all scratchy, and he was couching like he had the disease. Which, he seriously hoped wasn't the case.

"Did you get my Sparrow!?" He heard Silverhawk yell. He didn't catch the response. He glared at her, and she turned to face him, tucking Westley under one arm, pinning him to her side, and cupping her hands over her mouth to shout at the prince.

"We're going to land! Do you hear me? Or do I just look stupid?" she practically screamed. He only gave her a simple nod, and she gave him a toothy grin and a thumbs up, before taking her ghost out from under her arm, and crouching lower to the back of the ship. Her cloak flung and flapped itself around her, and he was surprised that that stupid hat of hers didn't fly off into the sky. Stupid idiot, getting everybody killed-

Everything inside him crashed as the news about the cure finally caught up with him after their hectic escape. The cure. Destroyed. Mara...everyone...we're all going to die. The mission had been failed. His sister was going to die, and then what? He wouldn't even be crowned, there was no point; he'd be dead two weeks into his reign. And after that? Would the inhabitants of the Reef just die and die and die until there was no-one left? Or would the Fallen have their 'revenge' before the disease could kill everyone?

The Timey-Wimey began to lower itself to the ground, but Uldren didn't notice; he didn't care. He had failed. He'd told himself that he would be the one to get the cure, that he would escape his would-be murderers and return to the Reef a champion, a hero. He would save his sister. But he had failed, and now she would die because of that failure.

But there's one thing I can make right... He might not be able to save his sister, but he couldn't let death walk free, even if the disease would kill them all eventually. He could kill Silverhawk, put an end to whatever crimes she'd planned, avenge all those she had killed before now.

That, was the only thing he could do now.


"My baby!" Silverhawk exclaimed as soon as the ramp opened. She rushed forwards to her Sparrow, sliding on her knees next to it, and ran her hand down it's side. The paint was scratched and scuffed, and there were several dents in one side, the protective glass on the dash shattered near the left edge.

"There, there, my precious; mommy's here." she cooed to the vehicle. Some kind of coolant fluid leaked out of the rear and onto the floor in a slow, drizzly manner, creating a multi-colored pool of gook on the floor under it. "I won't let anyone hurt you, you're safe now, you darling thing you!"

He felt like puking in his mouth. By the rings of Saturn; it's just a freaking Sparrow!

"Silverhawk!" Martin called from the cockpit. "Close the door, you'll let in a draft. Or let out the cat; either one is bad."

Uldren climbed up the ramp, and hit the button on his way in. The ramp lifted with a whir, and he was shut in with his enemies. An uneasy shiver ran down his spine at this realization. He coughed again, still suffering the effects of the volcanic air. I hope this coughing doesn't give me away when I try to... kill them. At the beginning of this mission, he would have leapt for joy at the prospect of killing either one of these idiots; now, with the cure gone, and Silverhawk a walking bringer of death, he was much less looking forwards to the prospect.

In fact, he was terrified. Yes, him, Uldren Sov, was terrified of killing someone he hated, in self defense. Questions kept flying around in his head, like "Will her blood kill me if it touches me?", or "How dangerous is Martin, really?", and "Can I kill her before she can touch me, in this close a space?"

There was also the looming prospect of explaining why he had killed the two Guardians he had supposed to have been working with, and getting out of City territory in a hurry if things got too hairy. He was not going to have fun with that conversation.

"You'd better hand the cure to me, Silverhawk; I don't like how you played with the sample, and we both know you have a habit of loosing things." Martin's voice came again. Silverhawk froze, and let out a heavy sigh. Uldren gestured for her to go ahead.

"You're the one who dropped it. Keep me out it." he insisted angrily. She looked up at him, expression hidden by her glasses, all but her frown. Slowly, she got up, and walked past him, making her way around to the cockpit. Something hit him with the force of a Cabal's punch.

This is the perfect chance. All he had to do was come up behind them, while their idiotic backs were turned. Silverhawk, up the back of the neck, stab. Martin, through the throat, stab. Then, it would all be over. He looked around, and spotted an old cleaning rag near a recently-used tool kit. Silently, he walked up, and wrapped his right hand in it. He took out his knife, holding it in his right hand, hoping it would be enough to stop Silverhawk's blood, if it was as deadly as she was.

He stopped, and listened. Under the hum of the ship, he could make out hushed voices, coming from the cockpit. his heartbeat quickened. They're doing it. They're planning it. They planning how to kill me. What information would they try to pump out of him, before murdering him? What was it that they thought he knew, to keep him alive this long? The mission was over; perhaps, failed on purpose. They didn't need him to keep up the ruse anymore; they could, in fact, do whatever they wanted with him now.

He desperately wished he had back-up right now. he gathered himself, and took a deep breath, forcing his lungs not to cough. Alright; it's time to do the deed.

Silently, he crept up to the cockpit. He strained his ears, curious to know what they were saying. He heard one voice pitch, and he pressed himself against the wall, waiting, listening. After a few moments, heart pounding, he turned into the cockpit area.

Silverhawk's form was knelt on the floor next to the pilot seat, her face buried in her arms and lap of the Warlock pilot. He could only just make her out, and started to get confused. he shoulders moved up and down, and now that he was closer, it sounded as if she were... crying? But why? He crouched down next to the wall, leaning in and trying to listen.

"...your fault. It's none of ours. If you're going to blame someone, blame Certech, for making this stupid disease in the first place." Martin's voice said softly. His hand was on the Hunter's back. Silverhawk's initial reply was muffled an incoherent, but then she lifted her head.

"None of this would be happening if Westley had never found me." she sobbed. "Flint is right; all I do is kill. I'm killing everybody, and I didn't even touch them. She's going to die because of me!"

"Heather Chancellor, don't you dare say anything like that again!" The voice of the Hunter's ghost suddenly roared, surprisingly loud for someone so small. "Do you know how long I spent looking for you? Nearly four centuries! Sometimes, I almost gave up, looking for a dead Guardian; but I knew, someday I'd find you, and I did! Four centuries! And if you had never been revived, where would Martin be right now? Where would I? Slaughtered by the first Hive he encountered? Hanging from the belt of a Fallen as a prize? And Jimmy Flint is a bag of-of-of thrall spit! And so is anyone who thinks the same thing!"

"You do realize you just called Uldren a bag of thrall spit, right, West?" the Hunter sniffed with weak mirth. Unable to listen any longer, Uldren shakily stepped back, his heart pounding even heavier than before. He tried to go silently, but in his shaky haste, every step sounded like a thunderclap.

He fumbled to put his knife away, and to set the rag back as he found it. His breath rattle in his throat, but he refused to cough, and he felt like his whole being was getting torn apart an sewn back together like a quilt a five-year-old had made out of old shirts.

Silverhawk's not a murderer. The words kept resonating through him, the only thought in his mind. Still shaking, he hurried into one of the "rooms"(more like closets, really) on the Timey-Wimey, and locked the door. Immediately, he sunk down, back against the wall, trying to process what he had just witnessed.

She's not a murderer. She's not a murderer. She didn't fail on purpose. Who's Jimmy Flint? She's not a murderer... She had, in fact, seemed momentously upset about killing, failing, and being the monster that she was. It just didn't fit.

If you had the most powerful weapon in the universe, why wouldn't you use it? Silverhawk could kill every enemy of the City a thousand times, just by touching them. Why not use that skill? Why not-

He pictured Silverhawk being used against the Reef, and then he understood. A shudder of terror ran down his spine, and he let out a small whimper against his will. Because; the most powerful weapon in the universe...it would be horrifying. Was that horror the reason she wasn't used for her true purpose? Did the Vanguard really know about the viper in disguise as a simple, garden snake?

I was wrong. He admitted to himself; an effort that took no small amount of pain to his pride. I was wrong about her.

But that doesn't mean I won't kill her if I ever see her at the Reef; I swear, if she ever goes anywhere nearmy sister-

His thoughts crashed at that point as he realized; he wouldn't be seeing Silverhawk again, and within the next week or so, his sister would be dead. He buried his face in his knees.

The emotionless mask of Uldren Sov rarely cracked. This was one of those few times it ever would.

"Putting it simply; our extraction was not as smooth as I had hoped it would be, and everyone was pretty much doomed."


Whoooo-whoooo! All aboard the feels train! Who do you feel the MOST sorry for in this chapter? Uldren's feeling all-around awful right now; you know, impending death of his sister and, you know, everyone else. Silverhawk's ten levels of messed up, crying into her best friend's lap and everything(you know things are bad when the most cheerful character is sobbing uncontrollably). Martin's probably feeling a bit low himself as well.

As Uldren said; everyone's doomed. And does anyone else find it inconvenient that Uldren isn't on the list of characters you can put up under your fanfic summary? It just says "crow", which is horrifically inaccurate; it could mean any one of Uldren's Crows. Like, how do we fix that?

And the prince of Thrall spit finally sees the light! Pun not intended(not)! Hawky's no murderer, silly crow! She's just a poor, poor, misunderstood creature of exotic beauty who happens to see life a very different way than you do. She's all sunshine and sarcasm and unicorns eating sparkles and pooping rainbows while you're all "I hate the world go away I don't care about the stupid freaking Black garden go die in a hole I hate you."

Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant: Don't worry; it's not going to be one-sided. Martin's just really, really, hopelessly transparent. Peppermint...well, I was originally going to have her show up at the tower, in the next chapter, but I decided that three chapters was too long to wait for Uldren to get bit by a cat. And Silverhawk IS a literally bringer of death and doom; she's just a very cheerful, sometimes naïve one who prefers to look on the positive side of things in order to escape her dark past. That's a close one on her origins, but not quit it; she happened naturally. 100% free-range Silverhawk, through and through; no genetic enhancements, no preservatives(unless you count the frozen river). That wasone of the possible origins I had for her, but a scrapped it for something more tragic. The Scoutships? Well, in my head they just look like a big ugly 'Y'/'T' shape. Emphasis on 'ugly', ramshackle-looking, like most things fallen. By the way; Cabal Warship. EXPLODING. Rumors have it the new fall DLC will involve the Cabal somehow... big, epic, invasion-type situation. I think I know what's going to trigger it, if I decide to extend that far... Possible, but unlikely. I have basic plot laid out(ironically, I started out winging it with this fic) through The Taken King, and I can't imagine this series continuing with Uldren preoccupied like that; you know, the Queen is dead, he's the only heir. You get how that works. He may be a big, horrible, jerk, but really, I don't think the series could continue without him. That being said, that means I can TOTALLY get away with killing him off! If I decide not to continue, anyway.

MaybeALittleBroken: in my professional opinion; this human is dead. Time of death...irrelevant. Species...well, I said 'Human', but ,also, irrelevant. Cause of death...unknown. Just dropped in front of her computer, right on the keyboard; by the time they got there, the search bar was full of so much gibberish, it blew up the OS. Non-recoverable data. Perhaps if I ask the body...what killed you?

FANFICTION!

*has heart attack, dies*

By the way, YAY! Reviews! But what DID kill you? Was it the un-tethered immaturity, the childish early errors of plot progression, the succulently long chapters, or my now over-stoked ego?

By the way, folks; just one or two more chapters left! Oh goody!*rubs hands together* I can't WAIT to see how many people actuallyleave a complimentary review to say how much they enjoyed reading this fic! Cuz so far, I've had practically zilch, aside from those few*hugs* who answered my desperate pleas. I LIVE off of feedback; 'tis my lifeblood, my inspiration. If you think this fic is disinteresting...well, tell me what will fix that!

'Cept if it's more action and drama you're after. I've already got action and drama like you wouldn't believe. And it ain't for this fic.

Let's just say; I'm going to leave a little present for you all at the end of the final chapter...

mau ha ha.

And boy, those of you who scoff at this fic now are SUUUURE gonna regret it when we move into The Taken King... epicness and drama at the highest levels. And LOTS of Martenj moments. Speaking of ships, who would you ship with who(if you don't say Martenj, I will hunt you down and DESTROY yo-)? Is CrowHawk a possibility to you? Thoughts on Martenj? Chancellon(Martin/Silverhawk)? Be warned, though; there will eventually be a third party joining the fun, and a relationship with Silverhawk looks, at this point, to be slightly likely. Then again; at this point, I'm also considering making her like Uldren; no love interests, no ships, except with possible insanity added to the mix.

What do you think? Should I ship our little bird of prey? Or is she too weird for anyone?

(Gosh, ships are the last thing I thought I'd be talking about three years ago)

Next Time: All hope is lost, Cayde-6 gives us an overview of just howdoomed we are, and hope is literallyburned.

Cheers!^^