Harley couldn't bring himself to feel at ease in the house. His mind wouldn't stop dredging up memories of his last excursion to River District, even though he hadn't gone inside back then.

He looked around. The interior was no longer dark, as Tristan had turned on the lights, but Harley still felt apprehensive.

The other two Guardians had gone to stock up on supplies. Both of their Ghosts had attempted to remove the Praxic restraining bands but hadn't been able to produce any results since neither of them had any prior experience with Praxic technology.

So for now, Harley was Lightless. It was like the Red War all over again; only this time, Prism couldn't even heal him. He'd cleaned and dressed the wound in his hand to the best of his abilities, then wrapped up his ribs. Tristan had mentioned something about helping him heal when he returned later.

Harley fiddled with Kyler's necklace. It had been ages since Kyler had given it to him - since they'd met in the field behind the house. Learning that his intentions had been good still hadn't improved Harley's impression of what had happened.

He didn't think it would ever change. Kyler could add all the context he wanted but the Hunter would always remember it as a betrayal, even though he knew that wasn't fair to the mechanic.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Prism.

Harley looked over to where his Ghost was sitting on a cushion. "Nothing," he replied.

Reaching over, he picked her up, running his fingers over the restraining band. "...Does this hurt?" he asked, "The band?"

"No, but it's not exactly comfortable either," said Prism despondently, "I can't move, scan, hack, or heal. I can't even send messages. I feel useless."

"I know the feeling," Harley commiserated, "But you'll never be useless."

Prism emoted a smile at him. "...What about you?" she asked, "Does it hurt you to have your Light suppressed?"

Harley's hand fell to one of the suppression cuffs around his wrists. "Not by itself... I feel weird, though. Like after an explosion when everything's sort of muffled. I feel so exposed. It reminds me of the Red War… and the Dreadnaught."

"Well, don't let it get to you too much," Prism comforted, "You just wait. We'll get these off and give whoever wants to kill us something to worry about."

A smile tugged at Harley's lips. When his mind veered so readily toward the negative, he appreciated his Ghost taking a more optimistic stance. He thought of an expression Jade's Ghost, Delta, often used. "Positive thoughts bring positive results." Things rarely worked out so easily in Harley's perspective, but he supposed there might be something to it.

The front door rattled.

Instantly Harley was on alert. He didn't have any weapons on him, so he grabbed the nearest object he could find - in this case, a fire poker - and approached the door on silent feet.

The handle turned. He raised the poker.

"We're back!" called Rogue, sticking his head through the door.

He spotted Harley. "Hey, Ace. Nice to see the welcoming committee's plannin' to bash my head in."

Harley lowered the poker. "I don't know what you expected me to think, Rogue. I can only imagine the whole Praxic Order is after me right now."

"Oh yeah," said Rogue, "We saw 'em… Come to think of it, we'd better close the door before we get found out."

He and Tristan stepped inside. Harley got a brief glimpse of a gray sky before the door closed again. He followed the other two back over to the sofa, setting the poker down on the table as he went.

Rogue sat down but Tristan remained standing, eyeing Harley.

"How are your injuries?" the Warlock asked.

He reached for Harley's hand. Harley let him unwrap the bandage to look at it.

"I'm fine," he said, "Prism said she doesn't think any of my broken ribs shifted."

"Would you like me to heal you?" asked Tristan.

Harley frowned. "What would that involve?" he asked curiously.

"I will show you."

The Warlock closed his eyes, seemingly concentrating.

A few moments later, a pool of Light formed on the floor, emanating from where he stood. Harley estimated about six Guardians could stand inside if they stood close enough together. As he stood in it, he began to feel different. His injuries started to hurt less.

He held up his hand, watching as the tissue slowly repaired itself.

"That's incredible... How are you doing this?"

"It's called a healing rift," Tristan told him, "One of the abilities given to Warlocks by the Traveler after the Red War."

"And you can heal anything with it?"

Tristan tilted his head. "Within reason. The graver the injury, the longer it takes to heal. The rift works like any other Light ability - maintaining it costs energy. The ability itself, however, is invaluable. It's used in both combat and civilian settings."

"What do you mean 'civilian settings?'" Harley asked.

"Occasionally, Warlocks will visit City hospitals to assist in healing the patients there."

The pool of Light vanished. Harley flexed his hand and prodded at his ribs. The pain had dissipated.

"Thanks, Tristan."

The Warlock nodded. "My pleasure." He sat down in a chair.

Harley took a seat next to Rogue. "So what did you guys get?" he asked.

"Buncha food," said the Exo, "First aid stuff. We even picked you up some armor. Nothin' flashy but it'll get the job done."

His Ghost, Cable, appeared and transmatted the armor onto the coffee table. Harley examined it. It reminded him of the set he'd been issued after arriving at the Tower for the first time.

"Thanks."

"No problem. But it ain't all good news. The Praxic Order's definitely out there and they're definitely lookin' for ya. We saw a couple Cormorant cars on a street just outside Core District."

"Fantastic," muttered Harley.

"Yeah, and there's more. The guy who sold me the armor also said there's a bounty on your head. And he wasn't what you'd call respectable."

"You're saying the bounty was put out by whoever sent those assassins." The Titan nodded. "Wonderful. Anything else?"

Rogue exchanged a look with Tristan. "Yeah… Tristan and I gotta leave soon."

At Harley's incredulous look, the Exo hastened to explain. "Look, kid, this is the Praxic Order we're talking about. When it comes to rogue Guardians, they're as official as it gets. You've been labeled a criminal - armed and dangerous or whatever."

Tristan nodded. "The Praxic agents have been given clearance to use excessive force."

"Means they'll shoot ya on sight," said Rogue.

Harley's mouth suddenly felt extremely dry. He had to fight to get words out. "So what's the plan?"

"Rogue and I must return to the Tower," Tristan stated, "One of the Orders' first actions will be to investigate known associates. We must ensure that they don't suspect our involvement. Trillian will transmat the supplies we've gathered into the kitchen, then Rogue and I must leave."

Harley nodded. It made sense, what they were saying. He was connected to both of them. If they stayed missing for too long, the Praxic Order would assume that they were with him.

Rogue and Tristan stood up, Tristan's Ghost darting off towards the kitchen. Harley rose to his feet as well and followed them over to the entryway.

"I wish we could help ya more, Ace," said Rogue.

Harley shook his head. "You two have already done more for me than I could ever ask for... Thank you for that."

"A word of advice," said Tristan, "The Praxic Order has the law on their side. You should refrain from going out in public. If you must, make sure your face is covered. The restraining bands you and Prism are wearing are equipped with a tracker. Fortunately, I was able to deactivate it last night and spoof the location data. Your last known location was on the opposite side of the City, as far as the Praxic Order is concerned."

Harley felt a surge of gratitude toward the Warlock. "Thanks," he said.

"My turn," said Rogue. He met Harley's gaze. "You've got criminals on the lookout for you too, Ace. If it comes down to them or the Praxics, choose the Praxics."

Harley frowned. "I thought the Praxic Order wanted to shoot me."

The Exo nodded. "They do. Difference is, they'll let Prism bring you back. You let the other guys getcha, they'll kill her too."

The thought was sobering.

"I'll keep it in mind," he said, "What should I do in the meantime?"

"Nothing," said Tristan, "Rogue and I will look into the situation and keep you informed to the best of our ability. The Praxic Order will likely be monitoring our communications, so do not contact us unless it's an emergency. And even then, encode the message if possible."

That sounded reasonable enough. Harley nodded.

"Alright, kid, we're gonna bounce," said Rogue, "Remember, anyone comes after ya, you run like hell."

"Will do."

"And don't go outside," Tristan added, "But if you must leave, avoid security cameras."

"Alright."

"And don't talk to anyone," Rogue said, "No tellin' who's trustworthy."

"Avoid getting injured. I will not be able to heal you immediately."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I suggest you refrain from doing anything he would do as well."

"Don't listen to Warlocks named Tristan."

"Don't take advice from Titans named Rogue-12."

"Don't-"

"Ok, I think I've got it," said Harley, forestalling anymore one-upmanship, "Thanks again."

"Bye, Ace," said Rogue, ruffling his hair.

"Good luck, Harley," said Tristan.

With that, the two Guardians opened the door and were gone in a matter of seconds.

Sighing tiredly, Harley closed and locked the door, resigning himself to the empty house.

Aunor found herself staring at the wall again. It was easy to zone out while confined to her office, especially if there was action brewing elsewhere.

Seven hours ago, Harley Hayden had escaped his holding cell. The common area in Praxic headquarters was brewing with rumors and theories about how he'd managed it. Cormorant agents had been sent out to track him down.

Aunor had assumed she'd be one of them, but instead, she'd been relegated to her desk, doing nothing but - in her opinion - unhelpful busy work. Her superiors had refused to put her in the field or even investigate the circumstances of Hayden's escape. Aunor was almost positive she was being punished. Even so, she didn't let it stop her. Instead, she'd enlisted Sarren's help in conducting her own investigation.

Hayden's escape had been estimated to have happened sometime between 2300 and 0100 hours. They couldn't be sure, because the security camera feeds around the holding cells had been cut and no alarms had gone off. The investigators had formed the theory that whoever helped Hayden escape must have been a professional.

But Aunor wasn't so sure. Sarren had gotten her images from Hayden's cell. There were signs of a struggle: scuff marks on the floor, a groove in the bench, and even some blood. The contradictory evidence stumped her. But figuring out how Hayden had done it wasn't as important as figuring out where he'd gone.

The Cormorant investigators immediately went after the tracker in Hayden's suppression bands but it had proven to be a dead-end. This gave rise to the theory that Hayden had managed to get out of the bands and was now reconnected with the Light.

Aunor doubted it. The restraining and suppression bands were meant to be used against Guardians and Ghosts. For them to break free, they'd either have to have prior experience with Praxic tech or excellent engineering skills.

If she was right, then it would mean Hayden was still in the City. Exiting the walls without the Light was practically a death sentence, especially for Guardians. Being as used to immortality as they were, they typically didn't go out of their way to avoid danger like mortal humans.

But even if Hayden was still in the City, locating him was sure to be a chore. The City was a large place. The longer Hayden evaded them, the slimmer the chance was that they would find him.

Because of this, Aunor had followed up on the investigation, making sure that all precautions were in place.

Hayden's ship - The Wandering Star - was impounded at the Hangar. His known contacts were being monitored and all communications between them were screened by the Order. Some might call such measures extreme, but Aunor knew the stakes.

Hayden was a high priority in the view of the Consensus. The Praxic Order was under a lot of pressure to rectify what the Consensus saw as their mistake. What made the situation even more difficult was the fact that it was now only a matter of time before the public got wind of everything. As far as Aunor was concerned, nothing was more valued than discretion when it came to Guardian affairs.

Just then, Sarren entered her office, pulling her away from her thoughts.

"Any news?" she asked.

Sarren's bionic implants allowed him to access a great deal of information much more easily than other people.

"Hayden's known associates have all been flagged," the Warlock reported, "Praxic agents are working with InfoSec to monitor them in case Hayden attempts to make contact."

Aunor nodded. It was as she'd expected.

InfoSec, short for Information and Security, was the department that handled the security systems used in the Tower and most of the City. She found it somewhat comforting to know that despite how badly things had gone, the Praxic Order could be counted on to operate by the book. Speaking of which.

"Have you made any progress in locating the mole?" she asked.

A slight grimace crossed Sarren's face. "Unfortunately not... Molehunts are difficult at the best of times, and this certainly isn't the best of times. I'm reluctant to enlist support since there's a chance the mole could discover it and vanish before we even uncover their identity."

Aunor's lips pressed together in disappointment, but she nodded. Sarren was right. A successful molehunt was a delicate one. Molehunts depended heavily on secrecy.

An idea presented itself to her.

"From now on, make the molehunt your first priority," she said, "The search for Hayden has likely distracted the mole." She gave a dry smile. "This might be the one time when upheaval in the Order proves helpful."

Sarren frowned. "What about Hayden?"

"Don't worry," Aunor assured him, "The Cormorant Blade's finest are after him. Well, most of them anyway. I know how manhunt operations work. I'll be able to keep myself appraised."

Sarren still didn't look happy about it, but he nodded in acceptance. "I'll do my best to find the mole's identity."

"I know you will."

Taking it for the dismissal it was, Sarren nodded to her once more before leaving the office.

Harley did not enjoy being stuck in the house. Was it better than being stuck in a cell in Praxic HQ? Objectively, yes. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

He wondered at the fact that the house had been left empty for so long. Surely someone else would have moved in? Then he realized that a lot had probably changed because of the Red War. There were probably many more houses in the same predicament.

He sighed. He wanted to be out tracking down the people who wanted him dead, but he knew that confronting people - especially dangerous people - while Lightless was a recipe for disaster.

Still, that didn't stop him from wishing that he could do something to help. His life was the one in danger and he didn't want his friends putting themselves in the crosshairs of whoever was powerful enough to discredit and assassinate a Guardian.

Suddenly, something pinged.

Harley frowned at the pile of armor Rogue had gotten for him. It had to be the source of the noise.

He moved closer and dug through it until he came up with one of the gauntlets. Its interface panel was displaying a message.

PUBLIC KEY 17776

FROM: USER 8675

TO: USER 2112
SUBJECT: MEETUP

MESSAGE IS:

Heya brother. How's about you meet me on the corner of LeVinn and Synth. Ask for Eli.

Trust me, I'll make it worth your time.

MESSAGE ENDS

Harley groaned. He knew instantly who the message had come from, though he didn't know how the message had managed to get to him.

He glanced at Prism, who was currently sleeping on the couch. He knew she would tell him not to go. On most occasions, he'd agree with her. However, this was not most occasions. Light knew how many people were after him. He needed answers and if the meeting was really "worth his time," then he'd find some there.

Harley cast another look at Prism. There was no way she'd go along with it. He didn't want to make her a target for the people after him either. She'd have to stay behind. Stamping down the guilt, he began to put on the armor. He might be leaving the house, but there was no way he'd be leaving unprotected. He was pleased to see that Rogue had included a helmet to further conceal his face.

Harley froze upon seeing what was at the bottom of the pile. Tristan had left Cayde's cloak.

He knew better than to wear it around the City, but he felt a surge of gratitude towards the Warlock. The cloak was one of the few mementos of Cayde he had left. He let his hand brush against the fabric before moving to don the armor.

Once he was ready, he made his way out the front door, closing it behind him. He didn't really have a way to lock it without having the key, and who knew where that had gone?

Upon reaching the sidewalk, he used the gauntlet's interface to ping one of the autonomous taxis. As he waited for it to arrive, he looked around. At some point, it had passed noon, but the sky was still overcast and pale.

He thought about Prism waking up alone in the house and the guilt surged once more. Better for her to be safe, he told himself, Who cares if I die, as long as Prism doesn't?

The taxi pulled up next to him. He got into it and input the address the Drifter had given him. The vehicle displayed a map on one of the screens and Harley's eyebrows furrowed. The streets were in River District. Could his location have gotten out somehow? Tristan and Rogue wouldn't have told anyone about it, but there were plenty of people looking for him.

He entertained the idea of returning to the house to get Prism but decided against it. The meetup was his best chance of getting answers.

He reached to start the cab before realizing that he couldn't pay the fare. If he used the Glimmer in his account to do so, the Praxic Order would be able to find him. His only options were to hijack the taxi or go on foot. Part of him was tempted to hijack it, but it was probably better to avoid doing anything that could get him noticed.

With a sigh, he got out of the cab and started walking. After a few minutes, the taxi drove past him, presumably to pick up someone who could pay.

It took a little while since he was unfamiliar with the layout of the district, but Harley eventually found the corner of LeVinn and Synth. The building on that corner was a bar with flickering neon signs on the walls.

Pulling open the door, he stepped inside. The bar was dimly lit. Harley wondered if it was to maintain the illusion of a more appropriate drinking hour. Though he suspected that no one in the bar cared very much about what time it was.

He hesitated just inside the doorway.

Harley had no idea who "Eli" was or who he was supposed to ask about him. The bartender was the most likely candidate.

He walked up to the counter and sat down on one of the stools. The bartender was turned away, restocking something or other.

"Excuse me," said Harley, "Do you know where I can find Eli?"

The man chuckled. "You're talkin' to him, brother."

He faced Harley, who blinked in surprise. "Drifter?"

The Drifter spread his arms. "The one and only. Not expectin' to see me, were ya, kid?"

"I was, actually," said Harley, "I just didn't know you were a bartender."

The man wasn't wearing or carrying anything that indicated his status as a Lightbearer. He was dressed in civilian clothes. The only thing that had remained constant was his green headband.

"Runnin' back-alley schemes in the Tower doesn't exactly pay the bills," the Drifter joked, "I bet you're gonna ask me why I'm up here instead of lurkin' at some corner table. Well, brother, let me fill you in on something. The real trick-"

"Spare me," said Harley dryly, "There are any number of reasons to be at the bar. You get access to people - information, you gain an appearance of trust, you can pour them free drinks if they see or hear something they shouldn't, and it's where anyone looking for you would least expect to find you."

"Not bad, kid." The Drifter looked him over appraisingly. "You're not as hopeless as I thought."

"Gee, thanks... So is Eli your real name then?"

The Drifter chuckled. "'Real name'... It's just an alias, brother. One of many. Anyway…" His head dipped toward the shelves, "What can I getcha?"

Harley frowned. He hadn't intended to get anything to drink. He was already putting enough on the line by being out in public. Intoxication was the last thing he needed.

The Drifter seemed to sense his reason for hesitating. "C'mon. It'll help ya blend in."

Harley sighed. "Fine. I'd like an old fashioned then."

The Drifter grinned and started making it.

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Harley removed his helmet - leaving his hood on - and placed it on the stool next to his. Old fashions were a favorite of Kaedro's, which was the only reason Harley remembered the name.

He tended to favor Sevyt - highly potent liquor tailored to Guardians specifically. But he needed to keep his senses sharp and there was no telling if having his Light suppressed would increase the alcohol's effects on him.

The Drifter placed the drink in front of him. "On the house," he said with a wink.

Picking up the glass, Harley took a tentative sip and was surprised to find that he liked it.

"I didn't know you could actually make drinks," he said.

The Drifter scoffed in mock offense. "What do you take me for, brother? Of course I know how to make drinks. In fact, I used to run a place a bit like this over by old Felwinter's peak."

"Hmm. So why did you message me? Actually, I'd also like to know how you messaged me and how you knew I was in River District."

"Tricks of the trade, kid."

"What trade? Scheming and plotting?"

The Drifter shrugged nonchalantly. "If that's what you wanna call it."

"It's not what I want to call it, it's what you do. You even said so yourself... And I want to know how you found me."

The man raised his hands slightly as if in mock surrender. "Whoa, kid, what's with the third degree? I'm here to help you."

Harley scoffed. "Right and I'm supposed to believe that? Because you sure as hell haven't helped me so far... You keep telling me that your hands are tied. You say you want me on your side, but you didn't even help me get out of Praxic headquarters when that assassin came after me!"

At some point, Harley's tone had crossed over to more of a whisper-shout.

"And who's to say you're not working with those people? For all I know, you could've told them I was coming. They could be sitting here in this bar right now, waiting for their chance."

The Drifter's eyes glinted darkly. "Maybe I did and maybe they are," he growled, "But if one of 'em took a shot at you right now and found his mark, you'd deserve it."

Like a striking snake, his hand darted forward and Harley felt the cold touch of metal on the exposed skin at his neck. He froze.

"I could kill you right now," said the Drifter, "You've got no Light, no Ghost, no backup. Hell, you don't even have a gun on you. Know what that is, kid? That's stupid. And when you're stupid, that's how you get dead."

He removed the knife and tucked it away but Harley could still feel the phantom kiss of the blade against his throat.

He wanted to respond, but no words came to him. None of the other patrons seemed to have noticed what transpired.

"Listen real good, kid," said the Drifter, "Like I told your friends, I like you. You've got an edge, and that gives you a fighting chance. But that's all it gets you. I know those jokers in the Tower taught you about recon, reports, glory in battle, whatever. Those things don't get you anywhere. When you're outside of the system, on the edge of the frontier, when all those 'civilized' folk and their rules turn against you, you gotta be able to survive.

You're on the run from the Praxic Order and the worst of the murdering scum the City has to offer. You're a Guardian so you're used to being in danger, but how 'bout when the danger's kicking down your door? When it can come from anyone, even the little old lady you passed on the street? The Last Safe City ain't safe, brother. Not for anyone and especially not for you."

Harley felt as though someone had carved out a piece from inside of him. The Drifter was right. He'd been conditioned to feel safe within the City's walls. He had dropped his guard and that could get him killed.

"Is this what you wanted to meet with me about?" he asked challengingly.

The Drifter shrugged. "Part of it. I want you on my team, kid. And folks on my team can't be gettin' themselves killed off by being stupid." He pulled out a hand cannon from under the bar and slid it across to Harley. "Take this. Keep it with you."

Harley tucked the gun into his belt. "Can I assume you still won't help me?" he said dryly.

The Drifter shrugged. "You know how it is, kid. Gotta look out for number one. Keep your head down. Once this thing plays out, come find me... We could do some good business together. Trust."

"Helpful," Harley muttered, "If I'm on your team, wouldn't you have a stake in keeping me alive?"

The Drifter laughed. "You're not on my team yet, kid. I need to know how you'll handle things before I bring you in... Call it my hiring process."

"So you're saying you won't trust me unless I make it out alive? That's how it has to be?"

"Nope, just how it is."

Harley downed the rest of his old fashioned before getting to his feet and putting his helmet back on. "Thanks for the drink," he said, "Don't contact me again."

With that, he turned and strode out of the bar.

The Drifter chuckled to himself. "There's hope for him yet."