Destiny: Rearm

Chapter 1

Part 1

The Traveler, over a thousand miles away, is nonetheless visible from the plateau the Guardian and Ghost peered from. Lowering his eyes, he peers over the edge of the cliff, then looks left and right, shaking his head as he takes a few steps back. "Great," he mutters, "This cliff goes on for miles in either direction. Guess I'll go left."

"Or," the ghost interjects, talking at him from just over his left shoulder, "you could just jump. Guardians can fly, and they're like you! I've seen it! Well, they glide, but still...you should be fine."

He stops and stares deadpan at it. The ghost bobs and tilts inquisitively. "That's not true," he states, and then looks back towards the Traveler, "is it?"

"There are thousands of Guardians at the City, and they run around gliding and jumping super high all the time! I don't see why you can't."

Shuffling his feet uneasily, he looks back down over the cliff, feeling a sudden vertigo as he imagines himself falling to the ground without means of stopping. "Okay, but how do they do it?"

"I'm pretty sure it's automatic. They do it EVERY time they fall or jump. I'm pretty sure they don't even know how to turn it off."

"So," he toys with the idea in his head, "I can just jump from this, and I should just glide?"

"Uh huh!"

"Huh." The vertigo fades for just a moment as a feeling of elated invincibility floods his mind, only to be replaced by distrust and skepticism immediately. Trust isn't something gained so easily, but then again, this bot brought him back from the dead, and it seems to know what's going in the world. Besides, it brought him back once. "Okay. I guess we'll try that then; beats walking for the next several hours just to end up down there anyway."

...

He stands at the edge. Multiple times he's tried to will himself to step off the cliff, and multiple times he's psyched himself out as survival instinct overrode any words of encouragement from the ghost.

"You, uh," the ghost chirps after floating nearby, watching, for several minutes, "you gonna jump?"

"Yeah, I think." His reply is tinged with apprehension.

"You think?"

"Look, you fly by default, okay? I don't think I did before I died, or my heart wouldn't be doing back flips in my chest right now. Just give me a second."

Taking a deep breath, he decides on a running start, and takes a dozen steps back from the edge. This far back, he can't really perceive the height of the fall, and it's just a little easier to ignore it. His hands clap and shake to try and loosen his nerves, and he inhales what his brain is convinced will be his last breath. He finally takes a step, then a second, and this momentum is all he needs to abolish the last twinges of doubt from his mind as he breaks into a run for several steps before launching himself into the air! For a fleeting moment, gravity hasn't taken him, and in the midst of the adrenaline and imminent danger, he feels a spark of hope.

Then, after the briefest of half-seconds, he starts to fall.

Wind rushes by his ears as he starts to hyperventilate – he tries to shout words but only terrified babbling escapes him as he accelerates away from the cliff edge and towards the thick forest hundreds of feet below. The ghost shouts after him but he doesn't even register it's voice, and as he closes in on the last twenty feet before impact, he screeches out "Help me!" before crashing through the tops of the branches.

Some branch catches his arm but snaps immediately, throwing him into a frontward tumble. His blurred vision whites out as his midsection slams into a much sturdier branch, knocking the wind out of him and breaking his pelvis. Though his downward momentum slowed, his front flip accelerates from this impact, throwing him slightly horizontal, and his face connects with a full trunk. Orbital bone fragments, his nose breaks, and blackness takes him.

Separated from most of his consciousness, he's vaguely aware of his now backwards fall into the ground thirty feet below. Pain snaps him into reality as he lands spine first onto a gnarled root, and he coughs out an agonized yelp as a vertebrae and several ribs break. Some internal organ ruptures, and he immediately coughs up and breathes in blood, throwing him into a coughing fit that causes him to seethe and writhe in pain. His head, mercifully, falls to the side, giving blood and spittle somewhere else to go. He lies there, a sickening groan pushing through his lips. His ordeal didn't kill him. He wished it had.

"Oh no, no no no no-" the frantic and apologetic tone of the ghost can finally be heard as it flies down to him, as fast as it can. "You're, oh…don't worry, I can fix that, probably!"

He feels a sudden warmth, which turns into an intense burning pain as his bones begin to force themselves back into place. Twitching and rolling, the worst of the pain subsides quickly as his bones rebind themselves, and his organs take shape and seal tissue breaches. In only around ten seconds, he finds himself on all fours, deeply breathing as spit falls freely from his mouth, still tinted pink.

A terrified sob escapes him, "You said I could glide!"

The ghost stays silent, and the Guardian takes a deep breath and internally revels in the absence of pain and terror. Cautiously, he gets to his feet, and immediately he puts a finger inches away from the ghost's eye. "Why the hell did you tell me to do that?!" he furiously shouts.

"I thought you could glide. I thought all Guardians could!" The ghost's tone was sheepish and defensive, as it shied away from his aggressive posture.

"You little piece of…" Inhale, exhale. He looked down at his body, and felt his face with his fingers; it was as if he had never been injured at all. "You can heal me?"

"From basically anything, as far as I know!"

"Yeah? How far is that? Further than your knowledge on gliding?" He scoffs, turning away to start walking once again. Despite his anger, at least the goal was accomplished: they had skipped quite the walk taking that suicidal detour.

The ghost looked visibly sad, as it's eye focused on the ground as they moved, "Some stuff I know for sure, other stuff I…I don't know. I can definitely heal you." The Guardian doesn't answer, and the Ghost meekly tails after him.

On they walked in silence for nearly an hour. The memories of what he thought was death began to slowly fade from his mind. The near jungle-like forest was finally thinning into something more temperate, and navigation was becoming more manageable. "Actually," he began finally, causing the ghost to perk up in delight that there was something to talk about, "makes me wonder...can I die?"

The ghost catches up to him, having been lagging behind in shame for the entire trip since the cliff incident, "Yes, but if I'm near I can resurrect you." He grimaces, realizing after that, that he'll need this ghost if he gets into real trouble and can't deal with it. They were stuck together, much to his chagrin.

…

A decrepit town stretches before them. The hill they're on offers a good vantage point on a few of the roads leading into it, with long abandoned cars often overrun with rampaging foliage. The outskirts are single-story buildings with attached garages, perhaps residences. Further into the town, multi-story brick buildings loom, and it would have been a quaint and calming sight in it's hayday. Now it's a disheartening dump, full of plant overgrowth and abandoned buildings. Wait… "How do I know those are cars?" he asks, looking at the ghost. "Wouldn't my memory of that be gone too?"

It bobs almost like it's shrugging and replies, "A guess: your object recognition is untouched by amnesia, but fully constructed events from your past are not."

He nods, thinking that makes sense; it's not like he knows the ins and outs of the human brain so one answer is as good as another. "We'll need supplies," he says, looking down at his still naked body, "and some bags. See any sign that the town is occupied?"

The ghost wordlessly flies up, then comes back down. "I don't see anyone, but that doesn't mean no one's there." True.

"Guess we just have to go in and find out," he says, beginning the descent from their hilltop vantage point. "Hopefully they-" BZZT-CRACK! A deafening snap makes his ears ring as some sort of electric projectile pierces into his right pectoral, detonating a lung and burning clear through several ribs. Falling face first, he tumbles down into a roadside trough while the ghost sticks low to the ground, trying to break line of sight. When he stops rolling, it showers him with gracious healing light once again, and he takes a sudden deep breath as his lung knits itself back together.

The ghost begins to speak but he puts a finger to his mouth and scoots himself into the shrubbery of the ditch. The sticks and leaves scratched uncomfortably against his skin, and the lack of clothing made him feel much more vulnerable than an essentially immortal being should feel.

Whispering, he peeks through the branches, "direction?"

"See that four story building? Red and yellow sign? The shot came from the roof," the ghost stays too low to see, conscious that it's glowing eye might give them both away. "If we get into a building with some materials I can use, I might be able to fashion you something usable."

He begins moving immediately, his skin burning as his crawl scrapes him over small stones and sticks. As soon as he's clear of the sniper's line of sight, he leaps from the trough, making a rush towards what was likely once a residence, judging by it's size. Several of the windows are broken out, and he carefully maneuvers through the window frame to avoid major cuts, though some nicks are unavoidable.

The inside of the home is filthy, with the brown carpet slightly damp from humidity and stinking mildew, and mold breaking through many parts of the ceiling. Dry wall lay strewn over rotted furniture, with bug and rat nests visible through much of the house's infrastructure. The ghost flies through the rooms, beginning to simply absorb various dressers and chairs as though it was digitally dismantling them. After thirty seconds of this, it stops right next to him. "Stay still," it says. He complies, and is showered with the same light that normally heals him.

This time, though, a suit began to form itself around him, from his limbs to his torso. "How is this possible?" he asks, as his head is slowly encased by a helmet, and body in a simple gray and black suit, which feels flexible and light, but padded in vital areas and joints.

"If I have materials, I can transmute them to other objects. The closer those materials are to whatever I'm trying to make, the quicker I can make them. I don't need materials, but it speeds up the process a lot. Hold for twenty more seconds, I'm building the circuitry." Before he could ask what it means by that, the glass visor of his helmet begins to emit a gentle light, which slowly glitches itself into a heads-up display. The ghost describes each HUD element as they appear, "Line of sight motion detector, vitals, and if you can find a gun, you'll see ammo. This suit has a very basic shield generator; that's what the bar is for. It'll deflect glancing shots and some physical impacts, but taking direct fire is not advisable."

He looks around, impressed and pleased to not just be clothed, but for the clothing to have practical use beyond protection. "You can't make me a gun?"

It shakes it's head, "I don't have time. The tighter the molecular bonds of an object are, the harder it is for me to pull or create material. We don't have an hour to dismantle a car for the metal to make a gun and ammo. So you'll have to make do with this," as it speaks, knife pockets form on the front of his suit, followed by eight small knives. "Ceramic. Don't try to block wi-"

Before the ghost can finish, they both turn in the direction of a skittering sound coming from the other end of the house. The ghost quickly transmutes itself into a small fixture on his belt. "Large contact," the voice of the ghost emanates from poor quality speakers inside his helmet, "what are you doing? Take cover!"

He quickly and quietly steps from the hall into an ancient bedroom, but winces immediately when his foot sinks straight through the wood board, creating a loud, wet crack that echoes through the building. Pulling his foot out, he slowly creeps to the wall, listening, and waiting. There's a barely audible tip-tapping of light footsteps, which continue for a few seconds before stopping. Whatever it is, it's doing the same thing he is. "What do I do?" he whispers.

"I don't know! Something clever?"

"Gee, thanks," he snaps in a harsh whisper. Looking down, he sees a wood fragment and picks it up. Since this gambit doesn't matter if this likely opponent sees him throw it, he peeks around the corner of the door frame. He sees nothing, and backs off the door, then throws the wood into another room, creating an audible but soft clattering. A moment passes, and he hears what sounds like a door lightly creek open from the living room down the hall. Is it playing the same game, or did it leave? He takes another peek, and again, sees nothing. "Motion?"

"I'm not picking up anything. If it's behind cover the tracker won't pick it up either."

He decides to move, keeping a close eye on where he's stepping to try and avoid badly rotted areas that won't support his weight. Slow and cautious, he steps down the hall, pausing to listen after each step. Halfway down the hall, he steps on a creaky part of the carpet and again winces, holding his breath, waiting for an attack. It doesn't come.

He takes a long and slow breath, and continues, making the assumption that he's given himself away. Checking each of the rooms he passes with a visual sweep, he's nearly at the end of the hall, which opens into a living room. He stops before he breaks cover; should he rush out, or move slow? A threat could be around either corner, or behind the rotted furniture, or in the kitchen. It might even be outside, since he heard the door earlier.

Better to rip the bandage off. He picks the right side corner as the one he'll check first, and with swiftness he dives out of the hall. Keeping his head faced right and seeing nothing in the corner, he executes a clumsy roll and quickly stands back up to check the other corner. Seeing nothing, he looks to the kitchen doorway and the furniture. Nothing there either. It must be outside.

He takes a step towards the front door.

CRASH! The rotted ceiling collapses as something falls directly on top of him. He reacts fast enough that if he had time to think, he'd be impressed with himself, and he flails his arms upward to somewhat deflect the body of the attacker just off to his side. The assailant, humanoid, is up in an instant with the crackling blade of an electrically charged knife. Shields flare and break immediately from the energy output of the weapon and the blade cuts deep into his side. His only thought is to create distance as his senses are overwhelmed with pain, and he kicks out with all his force. The creature is launched towards the kitchen doorway, crashing straight through the moldy door frame and slamming into the counter cabinets, dazing it momentarily.

He stumbles backwards and looks down at the deep gash, blood soaking through the suit quickly. He looks back at the creature to try and get a good look at it. The creature is a little under six feet tall, with two arms and a face mask on, glowing blue eye-shaped visors shining brightly. It stumbles to it's feet, the metal fixture on it's chest dented from the kick. The Guardian wonders if he did that, or if the dent was there before.

It reactivates the knife after a few seconds of gathering itself, and it darts into melee range once more. It starts to slash with quick, jolting motions, the blade crackling loudly with every swing. The Guardian ducks and steps out of range repeatedly as fear of the weapon hinders any ability to fight back with precision, but this time the creature steps into rotted flooring that gives way, throwing it off balance. The Guardian takes the chance, tackling the creature to the ground but going into spasms as the blade discharges into a shallow cut in his arm. He wildly whips the unaffected arm into the head of the creature, hammer-fisting the mask, which seems to completely daze the creature. Still under electrocution, he hammers over and over as he cries out in pain; the mask starts to give way and the eye-shaped visors break. It's outer structure dents so far inwards that he's sure it's dented into the creatures skull.

As the body goes limp, he rips the knife out and throws it aside, his limbs still convulsing. Ragged, sharp breaths fly from his mouth as he glances at his handiwork, finding purple blood leaking through various breaks in the mask. He feels a sense of dominance. His last breath is long, and he breathes out a snarl through clenched teeth, picking himself up from the broken alien.

"It's a Dreg...a name for a kind of Fallen troop," the Ghost almost whimpers, clearly rattled itself. Again, he marveled at how human it sounded; maybe it wasn't just a machine.

"I-I'll pretend I know what that means," he stammers, walking over to pick up the knife as his shields recharge gradually. The ghost reshapes itself into it's normal form before healing his wounds. The knife is much better crafted than his ceramic extras. He mentally remarks he didn't need them to kill the thing, and looks back at the now concave mask. His hands are spattered in purple blood and visor glass. "How strong am I?" he whispers to himself. He looks to the ghost, "Can you make a sheathe for this?"

The ghost agrees and creates one at his hip, and he stores the knife there. "We better get out of this town; I'll need more than knives to fight these if there's more than one around here." The ghost floats down to a gun-shaped item on the floor and appears to scan it.

"You could try this. Do you know how to use a gun? Seems like these work pretty much the same," it says, and he walks over to pick it up. "Fires contained electrical energy. The projectiles don't fly fast because it would destabilize the ammunition mid-flight, but they can track targets, though I've never really figured out how just by watching them."

He picks up the weapon, turning it over a few times, enjoying the security of it's weight. He remarks, "At least I've got a little range now," but the weapon suddenly disappears from his hands, "woah!"

"Just showing you how to do this. The suit gives me a basic link to your brain waves so I can read simple intentions. The moment you want the gun, I can build it into your hand immediately."

He thinks about the weapon, and it manifests in his hands in barely a tenth of a second. Opening his mouth to reply, he's cut off by the roar of thrusters from outside. The entire building shakes, debris flung loose and more drywall collapsing. Dust billows outward from an overhead source outside the front door. The ghost commands, "Run!"

He leaves through the kitchen, going through a door frame at the back of the house with the door long since removed, and starts running through the neighborhood. As he pushes himself, he finds he's running faster than he feels like he should be able to. With reckless abandon, he leaps to vault over a fence and finds himself clearing it entirely, and he stumbles into a landing with poor posture due to the unexpectedly high jump he managed. Behind him, the powerful reports of a dropship's chin gun ripple through his chest as explosive projectiles rain on his location. Entire walls of the buildings he dodges through explode and vaporize with vibrant electrical arcs and crackles.

Only a few houses away from what sound like an entire squad of reinforcements, he decides to cross the street towards what looks like the beginnings of a downtown area several blocks away. The dropship ceases to deploy troops and starts tailing him, keeping the lightning rain falling whenever it has an even slightly clear shot at the Guardian.

Once he makes it to brick and mortar structures, the fire has a much more difficult time reaching him, and he throws himself through an already broken storefront window of a three story building and bolts upstairs. At the top of the stairs, he turns and crouches, weapon in hand and leveled at where the front door would be if there was still a door. His breath is heavy, more due to fear than fatigue, and in fact he barely feels affected by his running at all. After a few seconds, he leaves his post and makes way to the third floor. Kicking in a door to an old bedroom, he looks out the window towards where he ran from.

The dropship seems to have lost him, but it seems like more of these "Fallen" are appearing from every other building, scouring the streets and speaking into comms units in a language he doesn't understand. He takes a deep breath and makes his way back into the hallway, where a large window with a greater field of view is built into the end of the hall, and now he regrets stopping at all. He can see several dozen of these aliens here. Some of them have four arms and are only a little bigger than the Dreg. A voice whispers in his ear, "Vandal. Marauder, those cloak." He sees a four-armed behemoth that towers over the rest, impressive armor shining in the sun, with a large rifle. "Captain. Do not engage. Strong as you, skilled fighters, and they can teleport." Outstanding.

His motion sensor flashes red: behind him! He swivels around, gun already raised, and he fires rounds at Fallen that are attempting to sneak up on him from the stairs. He catches a Dreg in the chest, but this doesn't work in his favor, as the Vandal just uses it as a shield and pushes forward, rifle popping off searing electrical missiles. He turns and plows straight through the window. Breath catching in his throat, he lets out a startled shout as he forgot how high up he was. Memories of his fall from the cliff flash through his mind. He lands on his feet, however, relatively unbothered by the impact.

Before he can be surprised at this, he gets spear-tackled by a Vandal straight through the same storefront window frame he had just jumped through earlier. He throws an elbow into the neck of the alien as hard as possible. He doesn't feel anything break, but it debilitates the alien enough that he can throw it off of him. Before it recovers, he puts the shock pistol to it's face and fires several shots, fusing the breathing ports to it's mouth. As it writhes in panic and pain from suffocation and searing burns, he takes it's rifle.

The other two vandals from upstairs come back down, turning the corner to be met with the Guardian's shock rifle fire, and they duck out of the way. Behind him, towards the front of the building, the shrieking pop of sudden air displacement startles him, and he pulls the pistol with his off-hand to take quick shots at whatever did that. A captain stops his wrist with one arm, and it's upper two arms grab his shoulders and pull, throwing him through the doorway and out into the street. His roll is not graceful, but he's up relatively quick right as the Captain pops into position slightly off the Guardian's aim axis; now it's only a few feet away. Swords flash, and in one smooth motion the captain slices the shock rifle in two and spin-kicks the Guardian in the chest with brutal might.

A half dozen ribs buckle from the hit as he slams into a brick wall hard enough to crumble some of it. He looks down to his ghost for help, but the ghost is gone. Ignoring the pain, he kicks off the wall with a war cry, drawing his shock knife, but the pop alerts him that the Captain is behind him once again, and he lurches forward from a force impacting on his back. His breath, ragged and suddenly difficult, catches in his chest.

He looks down, to find the blade of a sword sticking out through his torso. Blood seeps both from the wound, and from his mouth in a cough, splattering the inside of the helmet. The Captain yanks the blade out, and the Guardian's legs shake uncontrollably as he drops to his knees, barely able to breathe through pain and a sudden coldness.

The Captain slowly circles him. Vandals and Dreg stand around him, weapons raised but fingers off triggers.

The Guardian grunts – just raising his own arms is an ordeal – and he slowly pulls his helmet off, throwing it to the side and swallowing down the sudden onset of bloody vomit. The Captain stops in front of him, only fifteen feet away. It watches him. Within the haze of his mind, a fury starts to take him, and his expression becomes clearer, and angrier. He staggers slowly to his feet, breath unsteady and vision blurring, though his mind's fog has temporarily abated. The Captain's head tilts back. Is it impressed? Amused? It flips one of it's swords around, catching the blade and offering it to the Guardian. Perhaps it is both impressed and amused. He stares at the handle for a few seconds, then locks eyes with the Captain as he takes the handle of the sword, free hand leaving his open wound. With all the internal damage, he won't put a meaningful stop to the bleeding anyway.

He grips the sword in shaking hands, his breath becoming quick and staggered. The Captain readies itself. The Vandals and the Dreg lower their weapons and step back, either out of fear, respect, or both. The Guardian is swift, but his injuries make his movements erratic, his swing preparation too telegraphed, and he knows his follow-through will be weak.

He steps forward, launching a horizontal slash towards the Captain's neck, and in a flash the Captain slides into the swing's follow-through path before the blade can reach it, and the alien's blade neatly carves through the Guardian's chest cavity. It was so fast, but the Guardian never heard a pop. Perhaps the creature didn't even teleport, or maybe he was too injured and focused to notice. The wound is through the right half of his chest, under the arm, going through the front and out of his back, through the shoulder blade. A pathetic, pained yelp bursts from the Guardian's mouth as he falls forward.

The last thing he remembers is the Captain picking the sword up, and the entire group leaving the area.

A trickle of fear courses through him, replaced by pain as his breathing became impossible to maintain, and then the cold nothingness.

…

Screaming, screaming, everything is screaming! Lights and wisps fly by him and through him barely slow enough for him to perceive. Ahead, a star-shaped tear in the void, where the screaming originates. He's pulled towards it. He cannot fight, and cannot scream. In seconds, he's at the mouth of the opening. Before him stretches a void of immeasurable size. Billions of eyes stare from the darkness.

This is Hell.

…

He awakens with a start, breathing deep the sweetest air he's ever inhaled. The warmth of the Ghost's light fills his chest and eases his mind. There was just a moment of pain as he awoke, and now it ebbs and is replaced by the calm of a man born again from death. He lays there for a moment, even after the light ceases and the Ghost drifts into his line of sight.

"Are you okay?" she…it...whispers, nervously keeping tabs on the surrounding area.

"It was dark forever. A hole in...I...I can't remember. What happened?" He sits up, and notices right away that it's night. The streets are quiet, and he doesn't seen any Fallen.

"I couldn't revive you right away. I think they were looking for me but I hid for hours. They must have thought I wasn't coming back because they left about an hour ago."

Slowly, he stands to his feet, recounting the events of the earlier fight during the day. "Left to where?"

The Ghost looks, gesturing with a blink towards the west. "Somewhere that way. I don't know what they were saying, but they left pretty suddenly. Maybe twenty minutes later I heard fighting about 3 kilometers that way."

"The way we were headed…" he dryly states, shaking his head in as much irritation as he is able to muster. He feels so tired and sluggish. "Gun?"

"They took them. If you want to risk it, I can-"

"No, it's fine. Still got these knives." He steps to his helmet and picks it up, noticing a clean single crack right across the middle of the visor. As he puts it back on, it hums to life once more, and the ghost's light pulses briefly, sealing the crack and the tears in his suit. "I want to find out what they were fighting as soon as possible." He cracks his neck, jumps about on his toes a few times, swings his arms, and starts a quick jog, figuring if he could sprint for two straight minutes at full speed and barely feel it, a jog won't even be noticed.

Westward, they continue the journey, towards the Fallen that gave him his first experience of death.

Part 2

Zavala has been studying the evacuation route maps for nearly half an hour with a ragtag group of Guardians standing around his table, who will function as the interim leadership until order could be established. Two hunters are tasked with gathering 10-20 other guardians in the Tower and organizing a hunt for the evacuation convoys. Secondarily, Zavala tells them to find Cayde-6, who left with the largest convoy to see them to safety and establish a small temporary settlement 80 miles east of the city.
Lord Shaxx and a contingent of Titans are present, and tasked with getting as many Guardians as possible together to reorganize some sort of defensive force. Since they can't defend the entire wall, most Guardians will be posted at parts of the wall that were breached closest to the tower, as well as the City gates that would function as entry checkpoints for returning convoys.

Ikora has decided she will seek out any weapon's manufacturers that are still at least partially operational first, and then will lead a group of any willing engineers and civilians to try and restore power to get those weapons churning, as many Guardians are presently unarmed or lightly armed. Two Warlocks and several more Titans are tasked with general recovery objectives. Because the destruction was so widespread, there isn't a specific, particularly efficient strategy they can employ, so they divide several tasks among themselves. A warlock will seek out civilian and Guardian survivors in the most distant parts of the city. The other will focus on re-establishing wireless communications. The Titans all decide they will organize a basic supply chain to start consolidating food, water, and other goods near to the tower, to support the civilians in the area.

Zavala doesn't breathe easy, but he does take a deep breath – he's most at ease when a plan's in place, and Ikora has calmed down as well. The next few weeks are going to be brutal and painful, as many civilians and Guardians will undoubtedly be laid to rest. In addition, he knows that the Fallen and Hive near the City will surely spot the smoke for miles and start prodding at what few defenses they can establish.

If they show even the slightest weakness, Six Fronts will look like a picnic compared to what will come now, with weak walls, half the city in ruins, and the Guardians' forces eviscerated.

The meeting disbands, the Guardians move with great urgency, as every minute counts now. Shaxx stays for a moment. Ikora stops and looks back, tempted to listen in out of curiosity, but there's too much work to be done. Tearing herself away, she disappears out of the Vanguard Hall.

"We'll have to deal with the Red Fleet eventually," Shaxx states, and Zavala only nods. Shaxx seems to eye him for a moment before continuing. "The Consensus will want you to attack as soon as possible." Zavala can hear the subtext of Shaxx's concerns. Burning Lake. The tides of the dead and dying.

Zavala resolutely turns to him, his shoulders square, his brows scrunched in the frustration that any bureaucrat would have the gall at this time to question his authority or demand any action. "The Speaker is gone. As head of the Vanguard, I will assume the position as the head of the consensus. We will deal with Ghaul when the time is right, not when the Consensus demand it."

Shaxx looks towards the door, where the scorched City lay, largely in ruin. Looking back to Zavala, he slowly walks to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Don't bend for them again. I won't forgive you if you do." With that, he turns and walks away towards the door to begin his mission. Zavala feels a weight on him. In the empty Vanguard Hall, away from eyes, he sits in the chair at the head of the table and leans back. The ceiling, dark and distant, is the screen where he projects his memories of the battle for the City. He remembers Six Fronts. He remembers Burning Lake, and his hand in causing it. He thinks upon the Guardians whose names he doesn't know, and will not know.

The list plays in his mind. MIA, MIA, MIA, KIA, KIA, over and over he runs through it, and he can't rationalize it. The scale of it is too big to do anything but compartmentalize his guilt. He stands up suddenly out of the chair and slams his fists down on the table so hard he feels bone crack. Torge materializes nearby, and his deep voice resonates within Zavala. "It is not over. You have not failed."

Zavala looks at Torge, his eyes portraying sadness and anger, but as he stares into the Ghost's eye, he breathes deep, and his resolve returns. He nods, and Torge dematerializes.

Zavala leaves the Hall, with every cell of his body focused towards the City. They needed him.

They needed the Guardians.