The story begins in the last few days of Season of Arrivals, right before Beyond Light kicks off. I originally planned to get this first chapter out closer to Beyond Light's launch, but as it turns out I am not a fast writer. Either way, here's this hot mess. Enjoy!


Chapter 1, A Slow Farewell


The landing platform rocked gently as the second to last civilian merchant ship took off, the engine thrust temporarily clearing off the thin layer of liquid methane. The last of the cargo on the platform strained against their restraints, protective tarps flapping in the headwind.

A lone Guardian watched it move from his perch, his battered and dirty duster plastered against his sides from the rain. As a Warlock, a classification to distinguish his specialty amongst the Guardian ranks, he understood most of the practical science that allowed spacecraft to operate; the Thrust-to-Lift ratios, material densities, antigrav compensators and the like. Even with all that knowledge locked in his head, actually seeing the principles in action felt unreal. There was still a part of his brain that kept screaming at the impossibility of an object that big moving so easily.

Undeterred by the personal concerns of the Guardian watching, the merchant ship rose to a few hundred meters from the landing strip before adjusting its heading. With an echoing boom it fired its main engines and vanished into the sky. The last thing he could make out before it vanished past the horizon and into orbit was the symbol of the New Monarchy faction proudly displayed on its starboard hull.

His grip tightened on the sniper rifle he carried in his lap. He had been down on the Arcology Dockyards for the past week or so, running overwatch for the various civilian crews that were stripping the Arcology of all its valuables. Supplies, equipment, raw materials, Golden Age data, anything they could pull from the rigs that the Fallen hadn't already gotten their claws on. The beginning of this self-assigned posting had been almost non-stop fighting as Fallen pirates and Hive raiders had assaulted the Dockyards over and over, seeking to steal the collected materials or kill the collected crews. Usually both. Now, the attacks had stalled, and nearly entirely stopped. The human ships had left, taking their cargos back to the Last City on Earth, humanity's last and greatest stronghold.

For the enemies of the City, there was nothing worth killing for in the Dockyards now. For the protectors of the City, there was nothing left that warranted killing.

The methane rain prattled off his duster, falling in heavy, slow drops. He shook the worst of it off his rifle and pulled out the binoculars he had traded off of one of the crews. The crewmember would have probably just given them to him, but he didn't like taking things. There had to be an exchange, either service for goods, or goods for goods. Besides, the refurbished shock knife he had traded for it didn't fit the Warlock's style.

The next few minutes passed by without event, his work zone offering a full view of the section of Dockyard he was in. He had been at this particular antenna relay yesterday to fix sabotage from some plucky Fallen pirate. While one of the civilians around could have handled it, he was happy to do the repair himself. He loved tinkering with tech, and he knew that at the very least the Fallen were excellent at giving him interesting problems to fix. Looking over at the repair he had made the day before, he was happy to see the gnarled cat's cradle of wiring and fiber optic line he had set up was still going strong. Strong and defiant despite the recent efforts of what he expected was the same saboteur again, if the fresh claw and tool marks all over it were any indication.

The relay also made a fantastic sniper's perch. There were a few points of interest scattered throughout the platforms and rigging structures that bobbed in the vast methane ocean, the most important being the doorways and halls that led below deck to the service tunnels and unused storage holds of the Dockyard. Both were places that the Fallen and Hive infested. Further along, there were connection points from the Dockyard to the actual Arcology super-structure. It was from these points that the bulk of the Hive assaults had come from.

High above along the curve of the superstructure the Warlock could see stringy clumps of Hive growth clinging to the sides like a cancer. The fact that the New Pacific Arcology had been so thoroughly infested with the Hive was depressing. The Arcology was a relic of the Golden Age, and had survived the storms of Titan for centuries without crumbling fully into the methane sea. It was a standout piece of engineering in the Warlock's opinion, made independently by human hand and mind.

As dangerous a location as it had turned into, he would miss it. He'd miss the sweeping complexes buried deep within, the churning seas, the swaying rigs. Hell, he'd even miss the bitter cold and the strangely odorless methane rain.

"Glimmer for your thoughts?"

The Guardian put down the binoculars and turned to look at his companion, who had decided to materialize over his shoulder.

He shook his head. "And here I thought you hated the rain."

His partner tittered indignantly at the comment. Every Guardian had a partner; one who by necessity would accompany them for their entire life. A small, fully sapient, autonomous drone created by the Traveler at the end of the Collapse. Typically they had a protective shell consisting of eight tetrahedral fins arranged vertically along their sides and top. Typically they were full of snark. Guardians called them Ghosts. A rather fitting name, as the Ghosts were what allowed Guardians to resurrect when they were inevitably killed in battle.

Years ago, when she had found and revived his cadaver for the first time, they had had the luxury of enough time to pick a name for the Ghost. She had picked "Calypso," a name she got from the half destroyed sign of what had once been a restaurant. Over time the Warlock had convinced her that "Callie" was an acceptable substitute.

"Oh, well I do hate Titan's rain, it really gums up my fins you know. But you know what I hate even more?" Callie floated to the side of his head. "How mopey you're getting. You've been up in this perch for the past 7 hours without so much as a word or affirmative grunt. So spill the beans, Guardian. What's on your mind."

He shifted uncomfortably, binoculars back up to his helmet. "This whole situation rubs me the wrong way. And no, I don't mean sniper duty."

"The evacuation."

"Among other things."

They both fell silent, well aware of what was behind them in the distance. The Warlock had chosen this particular antenna relay for his perch for several reasons. It provided good overwatch for the docks, excellent sightlines on key locations, and made him a remarkably hard to hit target. It also was at the far perimeter edge of the docks, and allowed him to strategically ignore the oceans behind him.

Titan was a moon of the gas giant Saturn, and had proven its worth to the Last City several times over. It had been a key staging ground during the Red War and allowed for more accurate monitoring of the destroyed Hive fleet scattered in the rings of Saturn. It remained one of the most intact and lightly pilfered Golden Age facilities ever discovered, with a wealth of secrets still left within the Arcology's halls. The three years that active operations had been conducted on the moon had barely scratched the surface of what Titan could offer.

Now they were scrambling to abandon it.

All thanks to the thing at their backs. Its presence was oppressive, like a lead blanket being pressed down over the moon. Its appearance was oppressive. Its history was even worse. Apocalyptic. A black tetrahedron, alien in intent and form, and large enough to dwarf mountains, hovered over the horizon. The air distorted with dark energies around it. If he listened carefully when the storms of Titan settled, he could hear the distant crack of unnatural lightning as the ship poured its power into the moon. It was changing Titan, terraforming it to some unknown, hostile criteria.

And they were powerless to stop it.

"Ok." Callie said after a while. "Fair. What is the plan then for when the last civilian ship is homebound?"

"After this finishes up, I think we'll pop over to Commander Sloane, see if there's anything left that needs doing here on Titan."

"And when she tells us there's nothing left in the bounty bin?"

"I don't know Callie, I guess we go back home to the Tower and I reorganize my vault or something."

"That sure sounds like an exciting use of time. Maybe we can work on clearing the interference or whatever gobbledygook Eris Morn was on about. That's still happening here, right?"

He tilted his head, considering. "Shooting some bad guys would be a nice change of pace, I gotta admit."

Callie's shell rotated slightly, the topmost fin elevating in the Ghost's version of a raised eyebrow. "Isn't 'shooting bad guys' practically all we ever do?"

"Yes, but it's the little details that matter."

"Of course. Sniper work doesn't have the same chance of severe bodily harm that you crave." Callie half-joked.

"Pretty much."

"You're hopeless."

"I know."

They settled back into the routine they had established for this mission. Callie disappeared, returning to what they called the Backpack. It was her private nonspace, some mysterious pocket dimension that felt like it was directly behind his head. Truth be told he didn't actually know where she went, and so far she had been unable to provide a decent answer. Regardless of where she transported her physical form, she wasn't floating beside him anymore, although they could still talk to each other if need be. Callie monitored the local comms they had established with the ground crews for any mention of hostile activity or callouts. The Guardian kept an eye out for emerging enemy patrols. It was a simple, quiet task that absorbed most of their attention; kept their minds off of the black pyramid behind them. Better to focus on the immediate problem ahead of them, than to dwell on the extinction event that the pyramid and its kin scattered throughout the rest of the system were probably brewing. At least for the moment.

Eventually their peace was broken. Callie's voice picked up in his helmet. "We got an incoming signature. Don't worry, ID tags are working, it looks like one of ours."

The Guardian nodded in acknowledgement and began to stow the handful of equipment he had brought up with him. He then dropped the 30 off feet from his perch to the roof of the broadcasting building he had stationed himself to, and activated his glide to break his fall. He slung his sniper over his shoulder, and waited for whoever was coming his way. A few moments later a man came up the stairs hanging off the side of the building. He was dressed in a waterproof thermal suit, complete with a full face respirator. The whole thing was covered in the smoky greys and dull blacks that Dead Orbit loved so much, and their faction logo was proudly displayed on the man's right shoulder. Unarmored, and unarmed outside of a small Omolon brand pistol strapped to his thigh, everything about him screamed voidman, the name given to the people who braved voyaging through the vacuum of space without the benefit of the Traveler's Light. He waited for the man to speak first. Eventually the man did.

"Guardian." The man stopped, taking a moment to catch his breath. The only ship left in the Dockyards was at most 300 meters from where he was standing, and 4 stories up. A distance that wouldn't dent the Guardian's stamina, but would wear out a normal person if they ran.

He was about to ask if he did in fact run out here when the Dead Orbit man continued, having caught his breath. "The Captain wanted me to let you know The Radiant Nebula is packed up and should be on its way within the next 10 minutes. Home stretch and all that."

"Good to hear, but it seems like you're cutting it a bit close by telling me in person. Any reason you didn't call me over the comms?"

"I eh… I guess I wanted to thank you in person. For what you did. For what you've been doing." The man hesitated, then stuck out his hand. The Warlock stared at it for a second too long before reaching out and shaking it. "There's more than one of us that gets to go home thanks to your fancy shooting. It's done the lads plenty of good knowing that at least one Guardian stayed around to keep an eye out for us."

"No problem, just glad I could be of assistance. Although if the ship takes off in 10, we should probably get you back down there."

The man nodded. "Right, let's do that then."

The man began to turn to go down the stairs before he stopped and looked back at the Guardian. "One last thing, if I may. The Captain wanted to get your name, put in a good word with the Vanguard on your behalf whenever you're back City-side. And a lotta the lads want to put a name to the rifle crack that's been giving the Fallen hell."

Unseen under his helmet, the Guardian pursed his lips. "It's Hakke."

"What, like the weapons foundry?"

"No relation, but yes. Exactly like that."

The Dead Orbit man rocked in place. "They at least sponsor you or something? Name like that, you're basically a living advertisement."

Hakke snorted. "It'd be cool if they did, but no. They unfortunately don't. Besides, Veist makes better guns."

The man shook his head as the Warlock took the lead, making sure not to let the Dead Orbit man fall more than a handful of meters behind. The immediate area they were in was typically safe, but it wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility for something nasty to find its way in. The man made small talk, asking questions that Hakke was used to answering. Questions about what next, how was life on the Tower, what crazy things had he seen out on his missions. The Warlock gave his standard answers, carefully avoiding talking at all about the recent crisis. Most Guardians he knew didn't like talking about it, let alone regular humans like his current companion.

Eventually he got the man to his ship, and waved off the few crew who had yet to board the vessel. He had turned down the offer of Glimmer that some of the crew had tried to give him, stating that he had already been compensated. He hadn't, but he fully intended to let the Vanguard, the overseers of Guardian activity back at the Tower, know about his good deeds and get paid with guns and glimmer there. Besides, the few hundred glimmer the Dead Orbit crew had offered had been out of their own personal accounts. He didn't know how much glimmer they earned in a year, but he knew that they could use that currency more than he could.

He left the landing platform, taking shelter on an adjacent rig from the usual windstorm that a ship the size of the Radiant Nebula made while taking off.

"Gotta say, it was rather nice of you to let them keep their money."

"Felt wrong to take that. Now if they had given me a gun, I would have absolutely taken it. For the dismantling resources if nothing else."

Callie sighed in his helmet speaker. "Never change, Hakke."

True to the voidman's words, after ten minutes the ship was gone. Beyond the crashing of the waves below and the pattering of rain, the Dockyards were silent for the first time in three years.

Callie materialized. "I'll ready a transmat to Siren's Watch. Let's see if Commander Sloane has anything else for us."

"Actually, could you do a quick scan along friendly frequencies here? I just want to make sure no one got left behind." Hakke asked.

"Of course. One second please."

Hakke looked around the room he was in for a place to sit and wait. Callie was normally an incredibly quick worker on all things electronic, but a scan of the entire Dockyards for friendly IDs would take a bit. Eventually he settled for a console embedded in the wall. Not comfortable, but at least it didn't dig into his backside like the metal struts of his sniper perch.

"Hmm." Callie muttered to herself. Hakke looked over to her. "I'm picking up a broadcast from inside the Arcology. It's a Guardian frequency. A request for aid, doesn't look like an SOS though."

That gave him pause. "It's not an SOS? That's… weird. I don't know of any strikes that have been given Vanguard approval recently. You know of any operation down here?"

"I haven't heard anything, either in person or over the usual channels. Probably someone acting on their own." Callie paused. "Bet ya 10 glimmer its a newly risen Hunter. In over their head and too proud to call for proper backup."

"Not taking that bet."

"And why is that?"

"Don't want to figure out the logistics of who pays who when we both bet on the same thing."

"I think we'd just trade glimmer cubes."

"Also we'd be dealing in my own money."

Callie shot him a look.

"Okay, fine. Our money." Callie gave a nod of approval at his correction. "Back on track, how deep in the Arcology is this signal? Did it give any details as to what exactly they're up against?"

"The signal is almost a mile into the underbelly of the Arcology, and a fair way below the waterline. It's deep enough that we won't be able to transmat to our ship if things get sticky. As for details, it just said 'bring a trusted sword'. Strange way to phrase it, but I'm pretty sure we both know what that means."

Unfortunately she was right. Hakke had read enough of the ancient histories found in the Books of Sorrow, and participated in the Drifter's Gambit enough to know what 'bring a sword' meant. It was a reference to the Hive via their central guiding philosophy: the Sword Logic. It was essentially survival of the fittest taken to its most universal, genocidal extreme, and it guided the Hive on all their internal and external decisions. The phrase echoed all throughout the Hive's collected histories, at least the ones that had been translated off of the repository of knowledge discovered in the World's Grave on Earth's Moon.

The Drifter meanwhile loved to tell people to 'bring a sword' whenever the Hive were around his arenas.

"The Hive. Of course it wouldn't be anything pleasant."

"And which enemy faction would you consider pleasant, pray tell?" Callie asked, giving him the Ghost equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

"More pleasant than the Hive, at least." Hakke elaborated. "If they know that reference they can't be too green at least. I'm going to swap out my sniper for something a little more close quarters before we head down."

"So we are going after this distress call."

"Absolutely. Someone down there needs a hand, and there's no way I won't provide it, especially since we were looking for an excuse to get into some trouble. Been a while since I bagged any of those three eyed crustaceans."

"First off, you are the one looking to get into some trouble, I'm just along for the ride. Secondly, Hive aren't crustaceans. And last off, you killed at least five of them yesterday."

Hakke shrugged, already looking over his assorted weaponry. His primary workhorse was a massive white and gold hand cannon a little larger than his forearm. The Midnight Coup. A weapon he had won while participating in a series of bloody challenges aboard the pleasure barge of an enormous, insane, egotistical alien emperor by the name of Calus. He had no love for the exiled emperor, but even Hakke had to admit the prizes he offered were second to none. Hakke still didn't get the logic behind letting fireteams of Guardians on board his ship just to watch them kill his own men, but apparently that was what the emperor called entertainment.

He had Callie remove his sniper rifle, converting the solid matter into a digital format. It was a process that Hakke understood poorly; he expected that only the City Cryptographers actually understood the minutiae of the process, and they were dedicated to learning the secrets of the more convoluted Golden Age tech. The gun he had her replace it with was an angular auto rifle he had purchased from the Veist weapons foundry several years ago. It wasn't the best weapon he had ever held, but it had proven its reliability over more battles than he could count. Besides, there were few situations where the absurd fire rate of the Valakadyn model wasn't a benefit. It was also a bonus that the gun's internal systems generated solar-charged projectiles, which were perfect for chewing through most Hive Wizard shields.

His last weapon was also his heaviest, an imposing double barreled, belt fed machine gun called 21% Delirium. It had been a "gift" from the single most shady human being Hakke had ever met, given after Hakke had run through dozens of Gambit matches. At the end of the day, and as good a gun as 21% was, he was confident that the Drifter had profited the most from that particular exchange. Somehow.

The whole process of weapon swapping took a handful of seconds, ending with Midnight Coup materializing in his hand. He and Callie were mentally linked to a small degree, with Hakke able to send mental requests for one of his three slotted weapons for Callie to convert into his hand, and Callie able to give him mental callouts, directing him to objectives and alerting him to nearby enemies.

"Do you think we should give our fireteam a call for this?" Callie asked.

"No, they'd take too long to get here. Besides, they have their hands full with the Mars evacuation." Hakke paused, checking the ammunition in his hand cannon before snapping it shut. "Alright Callie, lead the way."