MALFEASANCE

Drifter couldn't believe his luck. Oh, he'd never held any malice toward Cayde, or even cared much for his life or job for that matter, but he still felt a certain giddy rush as he settled into his chair, looking up at the array of monitors before him.

You ever just have everything good in life fall into the palm of your hands? Well, he didn't have quite everything he wanted, but he was nearly there, and working on the rest. It was almost like fate, he figured. The Vanguard was down a Hunter, and as it turned out, he was the only one willing to answer the call, what with all the rest refusing to take the Dare.

The rest of them had given him some real dirty looks when he entered the city, even the New Lights were scowling at him, like they wanted him to think they knew the guy he was replacing, even though they couldn't be more than a few weeks "old" by the looks of their armour. He considered telling them that he'd hardly been given a job, much less cared for it, but they probably wouldn't like that much either. The irony was, Zavala might have insisted on there being a representative of the Hunters in his little shindig, but he'd also been pretty clear that he "didn't give a damn" about giving him any of the authority of the role. The big guy even put tangible emphasis on his threat to "break him" if he broke any of the laws of the Last City "without a damn good reason". At least the Titans here hadn't changed.

Either way, it hadn't taken him half as long to set up shop as it had back when his bar was smashed by 'ol Malphur, and that bar had only taken half the time to set up as the one Efrideet had smashed. He'd stashed most of his supplies out in a hole some miles away when he'd been told that he was being hunted, so he hadn't lost all that much anyway, but what he had lost in the fires still hurt. He considered whether he ought to hire some mortal guards the next time, but something gave him the feeling that neither of those wacko Crusader types would care all that much if they snuffed out some people. No, he'd realized long before either of them took the opportunity to "punish him" for his wares that the only thing that'd surefire kill a Lightbearer like that, was a whole gang of people like them.

That was the thing about Hunters, while Titans were content to die in droves for refugees, and Warlocks could barely be kept from their mouldering old Libraries and abandoned Warmind Bases, only Hunters ever seemed to have the pragmatism to escape to fight another day, and the cunning to find other ways to deal with their problems. After all, how do you get revenge if you become just another smear on the ground? Granted, he hadn't quite planned on Brask getting himself killed when he'd given him that Red Death years ago, but he couldn't argue with the results: Malphur might have been able to get away with killing another Lightbearer -too many people lost something or someone to Yor to put much effort into stopping someone dedicated to stopping the next one in his tracks- but gunning down the Hunter Vanguard in full sight of his best friend? That was a something even he couldn't weasel out of.

Funny enough, that was the only time Drifter could remember Cayde seeming serious, creeping through the different Posses and Orders for any information that could be found about the Gunman. All it took was a little nudge, just the tiniest push from a certain source to help him find Shin's camp, and Drifter didn't even need to intervene when the first shots from the Golden Gun flew. And alright, it hadn't been a perfect victory, Cayde didn't give the little Crusader his final death, but the warning alone was enough to keep him out. And as for the Iron Lords? The ones that didn't die from unleashing SIVA knew plenty well just how easily they could be banned as "enemies of the Traveler" too.

So, with his enemies taken care of -or at least held at bay by the threat of a few hundred angry Lightbearers- he figured that he could begin preparing for the next time things went pear-shaped. First things first, he had to find the people to make a team. There was no point to planning something if he didn't have people at his back to help with it, and that meant he had to get at least a little leeway with the Little Lights outside. He knew the rules, he couldn't encourage anything illegal persay, but that didn't stop him from inviting others to participate in a little game he was running.

Once those New Lights got to try some of the old loot he'd stashed away, he'd been certain the older Hunters would come in to talk, they'd be too pragmatic to let old questions about loyalty keep them from expanding their armories, and from there, it only took a bit of word-of-mouth for the little game to blow up.

Speaking of which, he turned his attention back to the current Gambit Matches running across the system. Each one was it's own little conflagration of violence, but his interest was focused on one in particular. It had a certain...protégé of his, a Huntress by the name of Echo-3. She and her Fireteam had blown in from a bad Crucible match, apparently tired of the "gentle advice" of Shaxx and eager for the loot they'd heard he was peddling. It was just a guess, but even then he'd figured her for an Invader. It was a skill he'd picked up in the dark ages, finding a Guardian-Killer by the way the weight of their weaponry hung from them, by the way they evaluated a room when they came through the door. Efrideet was cautious, observant, she only needed half a minute to find his men among the bar's patrons, and it took her a hell of a lot less to take them down while he made his escape. Malphur just set the damn place on fire and burned everyone that came out the entrance with that Gun of his. Echo wasn't quite either of them, but she was vigilant and her hand kept creeping down to one of those Last Word replicas, a real Gunslinger then, he'd decided.

With just a bit of work, she'd be a good member of his crew.

If his guess about her being a born-Invader was wrong, then she sure didn't show it. She was consistently one of the most aggressive Invaders he'd seen in a long while, but that was hardly what impressed him, aggression could be taught if you gave someone enough feelings of power. And it wasn't how ruthless she was on the enemy team, far from it actually.

Nine Guardians out of ten were nasty little buggers, they had this…vindictive streak that pushed them to take the biggest, baddest guns into Shaxx little murder-carnival, and the mad-man would actually congratulate them for it. For a man that could ramble about keeping light sharp, he sure seemed content to let people skid-by on the fruits of their findings. Then again, Shaxx was the warlord, maybe he was just used to the lucky punching down. Not that Drifter could really judge, he wasn't going to ban the weapons in Gambit, it's whole purpose was to find and exclude people like that after all.

What, did you think that all that mattered was being a Guardian-Killer? Letting the wolves loose on anyone that crosses your path? Ha, not anymore, not after Yor. You see, he might have been one of the biggest Guardian-Killers out there, but he's dead now, and you gotta ask the big questions about why that is. The truth of the matter, the simple bleeding fact, is that he lost his edge. Oh sure, he was a real champion in Crucible, but once he took up that black gun it was all over for him, big time. He got cocky, reckless, embraced the wrong kind of power and wound up letting it define who he was, and what he did with it, and after years of punching down he found out he couldn't punch up anymore.

And so he died to a chump with a glorified six-shooter.

A real Invader doesn't rely on some one-of-a-kind miracle weapon, or even those fancy powers from the big orb making zombies of us all, because they know that Miracles are just like Wishes, there's always, always, a cost. And that's what he finds impressive; she never fell into the trap of needing a weapon.

He hooked into her Comm-line, something she kept increasingly separate from her assigned team -the other two Guardians being absent on missions- and spoke:
"You know, the others might start wondering why you don't talk on the main frequency, they might wonder if we're...working together" his tone didn't mock the idea.

She scoffed, "If they think so, they can complain in person-" she was interrupted by one of the newly risen Warlocks bumping into her before she shoved him away, more than a little frustrated with her failing team. The Little Lights had already wasted two portals and she was running almost as much interference on them as she was the enemy team.

"-Do you even know how many times I've had to race of these idiots to the portal? Too many times." She finished.

"Well it can't be all bad, Sister, or you wouldn't be there, would you? What's the enemy team got so far?"

"I already saw one Xenophage, and a Truth, if that's what you're asking about-" There was a grunt of exertion as she pulled the leg out from one of the Warlocks that had been racing her to the portal, the visor of his helmet cracked on the rocks and he could be heard cursing as she dashed through into the darkness.

Echo didn't quite have the words to describe what the Darkness of the portal felt like. The first description that came to mind was too simple to capture the scale of the feeling, it wasn't just "surety of purpose", it was more than just a certainty, too. It was comforting even, if for the wrong reasons, as she passed between realms. The Praxic Order had warned her about it, that the para-causal nature of the portal meant it would engulf her in the very substance of what they were fighting. She was practically swimming through the Darkness itself and her Ghost whispered to her as her body passed through the final layers separating her from them. Her targets, people to be destroyed. She felt a sudden thrill and glanced at her hand-cannon, even it's brass and gold being tinted a bright crimson by the alien aura around herself as she took off towards the first name on her HUD.

She was a Hunter, and they had just become her prey.

The first was a simple Titan, clad in burning regalia that affronted her. They saw each other at the same time, close enough for both to make out the markings on the other's armour. Her Future War Cult insignia lit eerily, while his New Monarchy sigil lay almost buried under a dozen coats of paint. She took special pride in watching his head snap back, heard the sicking crunch and muffled whoosh of trapped, hermetically sealed air suddenly venting out into the Titanian atmosphere as the rocket he'd been fumbling to unholster spilled out of his hands onto the catwalk. She vaulted off the edge as a much less satisfying shrieking filled the air, this time coming from a rocket that raced to where she was, catching the Ghost in a blaze of scarlet light.

She didn't offer it a second thought as she landed heavily on the moving cargo-conveyor. What had once made life on Titan somewhat more bearable was now just a component in her savage spree, as she sprinted forward along the path, closing in on the Warlock holding the launcher. They panicked, leveling the rocket and firing just as she leapt, using the force of the momentum to carry her over both the rocket and the Guardian themselves. Three bursts and the helmet protecting their precious brain gave way to the blasts from her rifle. The sound of the air splitting behind her sent her into a combat roll, coming up an impressive distance from the sword slash that had almost bisected her from a Hunter with what seemed to almost be a massive kukri. The hunter made a single motion, beckoning her to make the first move. She didn't waste it.

She baited the first slice, rolling her upper body around and under the blade, as she planted the rifle barrel into the Hunter's stomach. The noise as the armour groaned to keep the rounds from penetrating was matched by an exhale from her target. Albeit, she hadn't quite expected him to react with a right-hook across her jaw. The world spun for a second, and in the distance she could see the final member of the team dashing towards them using the same conveyors that she had. The sight of him reminded her of the limits on how long the Portal could keep her there, so she dragged herself back to her feet, matched the gaze of the now-rearmed Hunter, and threw herself forward. His slash went high as she slide low, her combat knife catching in his gut as she pulled him to the floor.

She didn't even steady herself as the final Titan rocketed into the air, their fists curling as the air around them burst into arcing plasma, their light turning into an electric shroud. She watched them plummet from the sky then, ready to obliterate her in a wave of arc-light. She still brought her rifle to bear, pumping a single burst of fire out of it as the rounds splattered harmlessly against their armour and helmet. She felt the first bolt strike her armour only for the tingling to increase, saw the Titan's helm suddenly move in shock and -there was a slight smugness she felt at this- anger as the Portal ripped her back.

Weeks later, she still felt the anger from the match lingering, and what was worse, there was nothing in it that felt foreign. No, the aggression that was building up was entirely native to her. When she's been approached by the Order, she hadn't entered the Crucible in years, not since the Red War-

She saw dozens of corpses lining the streets, Guardians and Civilians strewn across the leveled asphalt, some of them looked like they'd fought to the last, the loss of their light hadn't stopped them from protecting their charges. Others lay folded over the rear-edges of barricades, a last moment of cowardice when faced with their final death. The scene almost felt alien to her, so many seemingly invulnerable people scattered and dead. Her helmet lost power then, the damage it had sustained finally breaking the hermetic seals as the dying battery struggled not to leave her trapped and suffocating. She almost wished it had as the scent of roasting flesh invaded her senses.

She couldn't decide what was worse, the slaughter itself, or the way that -as she got further and further from the city center, the battles against the Cabal seemed to become less and less spirited, defenses that should have held even without the light had shattered, the void taint and Mark of a fallen Titan gave her a lump in her throat that she just couldn't seem to clear, this Guardian had been a member of a Defender Order in the city. This Titan had broken cover and ran. This Titan would never be revived. She wasn't sure if that was what left her feeling depressed, or if it was the fact that the Titan had willingly left Civilians behind. She rolled the body onto it's back and balked, her face twisting as she saw what they had clutched so preciously to their chest, had taken the pain to evacuate as children and fathers and mothers screamed and begged their oh-so-invulnerable Defenders to protect them. It was nothing more than a golden-age relic, a fusion rifle that blustered with energy. She checked the magazine and felt something dark twist in her gut as she saw that it was still full. An object saved from destruction, that hadn't even saved a single damn person. She hurled it as far away from the body as she could. Let the dead woman come back to life again and dig through the bodies, bodies and more bodies for her rifle if she wanted it so much.

She pushed forward, walked through streets that had once ferried the lifeblood of the City to markets and schools and workplaces, but now acted more like charnel canals, the blood that ran down the crowded sloped streets sickened her almost as much as the constant smoke that only seemed to escalate as she crossed into a central plaza. There, at the center of the square, leaning against the monument to the Titan Orders lost during the battle of Twilight Gap, was Efrideet. Her helmet had lost it's plume, and been heavily dented by the fighting. She was surrounded by dead Cabal, some of them with similarly dented heads, while others had clearly had their pressure suits breached by a hand-cannon. Her rifle was shattered far from where her body lay, evidently the result of the new Slug-Rifles they were using. Closer to her body were the Psions that had rushed her as their large companions fell. She had left most of them dead as well, though a few twitched as Echo wordlessly walked over them. She felt like she was in a dream. The carnage brought images out from the darkened recesses of her mind, and she fought hard to store them. The first priority was escape, to find her ghost (her mind loomed darkly with an "If it survived" and she blanked her mind to escape the pessimism the thought encouraged) and escape this mass grave, so she came even closer to the body.

From this distance, it was transparent that Efrideet hung between life and death. Her every breath was slow and laboured. Her helmet lifted only the smallest fraction, though it must have taken titanic effort given her bloodloss. Her own ghost was shattered, but she did not fear. This was the Final Death that had taken so many of her friends, perhaps all of them if Saladin had not the sense to flee while he had the chance. She saw the wounded Hunter stalking closer and closer, and took some level of satisfaction in letting the Ghost she had sheltered in her hand loose. It rose up, and let out an exclamation, transmitting itself to the suit for it's own protection as it began to knit the holes in the armour back together. She held out her other hand, the one holding the weapon, and let the hand-cannon swing loose, an invitation between two shell-shocked Guardians without the strength to speak. She wondered if Saladin would have the strength to continue the Grand Hunts. But the Guardian didn't take the hand-cannon, they wandered off and returned seconds later, limping, with the mangled hulk of her rifle. They quietly traded the weaponry, the Guardian laying the rifle down into the cradle made by Efrideet's arm. Echo watched the visor of the helmet lose it's steely hold, sinking lower and lower as the body went limp, and the second to last Iron Lord died.

The weapon in her hand was cold through her armoured glove. It was heavy, and marred with scars, and just marginally less damaged than the rifle she'd just laid to rest with it's owner. But it had survived, battered, maybe only good for a few more shots, but intact. She tried to take some comfort in that as she began the hard mile out of the city, the first priority was to survive. Later, later they'd return and bury the dead, and send Ghaul and his legion to join them. She swallowed the question that lingered, though. How many of her fellow Guardians deserved to join them too? How many abandoned the people of the city to the fires of the Incendiors for the sake of their accumulated treasures? The taste of the question was like ash in her mouth.-

And she hadn't wanted to try Gambit. The thought of seeing more and more brutal weapons used by Guardians, on Guardians brought feelings of revulsion to her, and memories that left her leaning against the wall, fighting the phantom urge to vomit despite her mechanical form.

She closed her eyes to stabilize herself and focused on the last words the Drifter had said as they each stood around a small campfire in the EDZ. She was thankful for her helmet, even Exo lacked a poker-face, sometimes.

"So, do you think you'll take my deal?" he said, turning his head at her. He was slumped back against a pillar and she shook off the memory of Efrideet, slumped and bleeding.

"I won't kill other Guardians." She said, with just a hint more aggression and a touch less sincerity than she had intended. Drifter picked it up because the fire in his eyes glimmered with understanding.

"I'm not asking you to wage war on anything, but a few jobs won't make much of a difference, will it? Beside, I have something that might interest you…" He pulled a case out from within his cloak, and it opened to reveal a hand-cannon that glowered with a strange internal light.

"A little something for when we have to be the bad guys, or when we have to punish the bad guys for being even worse." His voice was low, just barely able to be heard over the wind.

"I'm not interested in killing more Guardians, we lost enough in the war." She repeated, feeling herself slipping against the temptation.

He settled for a half-lie: "The kinds of people we'll be going after, Sister, are the kind that didn't lift a finger for anyone back in the war."

"I don't believe that."

"And where was 'ol Malphur when the City burned? Where was the Praxic Order?...where were those Guardians with their shiny little hoards?"

She felt the grip of the Hand-Cannon, it thrummed with the same dark energy as the portal. Her hand closed around it. Her mind closed around the truth. It was a weapon carved from Ahamkara Bones and infused with the darkness itself, and it had the potential to show those who would crow over their stockpile of weaponry just how easily they could be broken. It promised her a future where the Guardians might be less virtuous, but more good.

"Count me in" she intoned, the night eating their conversation as though it were the Taken and the Light.

Hey all! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, because I've been really grappling with it. I debated including a bit where the Drifter would rig the match, because he's actively farming anger IMO, but it sorta grew without that plot point.

Please drop a review if you like it, that's a big part of me choosing to continue these sorts of stories.