They touched down at the Tower, or what was left of the Tower after the Almighty. For a new Guardian with no money, registration or name, the Hunter got a surprisingly warm welcome.
"You must be fresh blood, name's Holliday." Said a blonde lady, covered in grease. She had finished securing the late Maeve's jumpship to the hanger dock. She offered the Hunter her hand.
She extended her tattooed arm. He gave her a firm handshake, the kind of grip which inspires confidence without issuing a challenge. The handshake of an expert negotiator. Amanda felt the power before her. She smirked, this one was interesting. She was also an old 'hand' at greeting new Guardians. She returned the shake with equal power.
It lasted too long for the Ghost's comfort. Not having hands, he was unable to understand the nonverbal communication which occurred between palms. As much as he was glad he didn't have legs, and the associated kneecaps, he now wanted for hands. From her firm grip alone Amanda Holliday became one of only five persons that the Hunter would ever respect.
The little machine's tiny mechanical heart burned with fiery jealousy, this was the first time he'd seen his Guardian engage in any remotely prosocial action! Dammit, it was the only time the Hunter had acknowledged the existence of another being! His precious moment of bonding was stolen away by this… HARLOT.
Oh how he wished he had hands!
"Just for you Guardian, I'll cover the docking fees and fix up that bucket of bolts." Holliday said. She liked the silent type. Thought they'd make better Guardians than those braggarts running the show. Plus, she had bad experience with some of the A-listers. One in particular made her sick to her stomach, but that was neither here nor there. That Guardian was away on a high end mission, he wouldn't be back for another few days thank the Light. She remembered the wise words Zavala had told her in reference to the man. "Never meet your heroes Holliday."
To her offer the Hunter shook his head and held up a hand. He respected Holliday, and wouldn't be taking her charity.
"No Guardian, I insist," she said. "I'll indefinitely defer the normal payment system I use for newbies. I like your style. Just pay me back by making it big in the Crucible."
The Hunter ruffled through his inventory. He flipped her a kneecap.
"..." Holiday caught the disc. It was slippery in her fingers and she had no idea what it was. The Guardian gave her a thumbs up. He left the way he came, without a word.
She fiddled with the thing between her fingers. Perhaps it was valuable? Guardians often came across strange loot on their adventures. She bit it as one would a coin, but got nothing for her efforts other than a wrinkled nose. He's odd. But I sense great things from him. She pocketed the thing, hefted her toolbox and started to work on the ship. It was for people like him, quirky, capable recruits that she continued to work so diligently despite the long hours and sleepless nights.
"It's time you met up with Ikora." The Ghost told his Guardian. He was still bristling with envy. "She's the one that introduces recruits to the hustle and bustle of the Tower." His Guardian shook his head. The Ghost's electronic heart lit up. He was finally acknowledged! For the first, sweet moment the Guardian recognized his presence. A shot of simulated dopamine coursed through him, and the Ghost buzzed with happiness.
"Oh, you must be tired. It's been a long day and I didn't even think about it." The Ghost was elated. I shouldn't be too hard on him after all, my Guardian can take things at his own pace. The Guardian walked through the Tower. It did not take him long to find a bench. He set his rifle on it, marking it as his own. "Leaving unattended weapons around here's not a good idea Guardian." The Ghost did not think even for a moment that someone might try to steal the auto-rifle, it wasn't even worth the extra weight. "You don't want a civilian accidentally hurting themselves. Children often tour the Tower, so… What are you doing?"
The Guardian was chasing a newspaper that was being blown away in the breeze.
The Ghost huffed. Ignored again! Could my Guardian be any less friendly? The machine thought. But he remembered the rush of finally being acknowledged just a moment ago, and he softened. "Guardian, are you perhaps interested in the news? I can explain whatever you need about the world or current events, I am hooked up to the battle-net!"
After a minute of chasing the newspaper in circles Guardian claimed his prize and held it aloft with pride. "I'm a thousand times more informative than antiquated paper media! Please feel free to ask me any questions." The Ghost said without thinking. That's right, my Guardian is mute! I hope I haven't offended him. He was terrified that he had stepped on an eggshell with his nonexistent legs and drove a new wedge between him and his already disinterested Guardian.
"I, I mean you just have to nod your head if you want to hear about the Tower, or the Fallen. I can give you a brief history of the predicament Humanity finds itself in, though much of the record is lost." The Guardian plopped himself down on the bench and pulled the newspaper over his shoulder as a makeshift blanket.
"Guardian, there are barracks available at low cost, we can pay on credit for now." The Hunter simply tucked his legs in to give the newspaper as much coverage as possible. He must be really tired. The Ghost found the behavior almost… cute. I'll give it a rest for today. The Ghost disappeared into the Guardians inventory. The man slept throughout the night.
But Ghosts don't sleep, they can only reduce power functionings to make the passage of time more bearable. But the Ghost was too excited. He ran simulation after simulation on possible interactions between the two of them. He would be ready to solidify their relationship tomorrow!
The next morning the Guardian again 'declined' to visit Ikora. His declination took the form of turning his back on the Ghost and stealing a hot-dog from a nearby vendor, but the Ghost, ever the wishful thinker, seized the moment as an opportunity.
"Ikora is very friendly. But if you're too shy and don't want to meet up with her I can take you around the Tower instead!" He said to the Hunter, who was leaning back against the bench enjoying his stolen breakfast.
The Ghost desperately tried to weasel in on the Guardian like a used car salesman. He was grasping at anything that could bring them closer together. He thought of the things they could bond over. The Guardian has expressed interest in several domains… the Hive for one. But when the Ghost began to speak of the Hive he was met with zero response. No affect crossed the Guardian's face. His biometrics showed brain waves that were approaching sleep at a concerning pace. Kneecaps? No. I'm a paracausal entity of the Light! I can't do that to myself.
Hmmmmm. He sized up the Guardian, inspecting him for shared interests. The Hunter was a pitiful sight. The bits of his armor which weren't rusted over were covered in mud and Fallen ichor. His weapons were not better off, the crack on his auto-rifle had grown from the full day of abuse. It stretched from stock to the grip. It was only a matter of time before the thing would shake itself to pieces.
The Guardian had an apt for slaughter, but like most rookies he was limited by his starting gear. Following tradition, to join the ranks of the greatest Guardians the second step of their adventure should be to modify and magnify their Light through better equipment. I know how much he loves slaughter. Traumatic flashbacks wracked the Ghost's mind. By extension he must love weapons.
The Guardian was scratching his bum, uninterested in anything the Ghost had offered up to this point. "Would you like to visit the Gunshop?" The Ghost asked hesitantly. The Guardian stopped mid-scratch. The Ghost started hovering slowly in the direction of the Tower's best weaponsmith. Please please please. The Guardian sighed, sat up and heaved himself off the bench. Yes! Finally something goes as planned.
The Ghost led his Guardian to Banshee-44, the Tower gunsmith. The Guardian had only shown interest in monsters and instruments of murder and torment, much to Ghost's dismay. But he was compelled to help the Guardian. Perhaps there was a path back towards light, goodness, and righteousness?
"Banshee-44 is our gunsmith, he's been here from the beginning! A great exo, but his mind… well, just be patient with him. I'll introduce you." The Ghost said. This might be troublesome, a mute trying to communicate across Banshee's advanced cognitive decline. The Guardian didn't react. He just walked in an unnaturally straight line, bumping into every single pedestrian smaller than him from here to the gunsmith kiosk. Most were children.
"Banshee!" The Ghost said. "I want to introduce you to my Guardian! It finally happened! Not exactly… how I thought it would happen, but still!"
Banshee looked up from his work, screwdriver and pulse rifle in hand. "Huh?" He grunted.
"This is my Guardian."
"Who?"
The Ghost shined a light on the only man standing in front of the kiosk.
"Oh," Banshee uttered, "hey, nice to meet you. Sorry, memory's not what it used to be. What's your name?"
"He's mute, Banshee." The Ghost said, a tinge of sadness in his robotic voice.
"Who is?" Banshee asked.
"My Guardian."
"Who's your Guardian?"
The Ghost sighed and shined a light again.
"Oh! Sorry, memory's not what it used to be. So, you're mute?"
The Guardian's voice dribbled out of his lips "Yes, but I don't like to talk about it."
Banshee's broken, ancient mind collapsed in on itself as the silicon neurons chugged to exhaustion like an obese hamster on a treadmill in an attempt to understand the oxymoronic statement. The Ghost turned to his Guardian, light bursting out of his mechanical frame in rage.
"YOU CAN TALK?! IT'S BEEN DAYS!"
The Guardian ignored his flustered Ghost. "So about those parts I bought the other day."
"What parts?" Banshee asked.
"The parts, Banshee, the upgrade modules. I paid extra up-front as a token of goodwill." The Guardians voice trailed off in mock disappointment, "you said I'd have them by today."
The Ghost had no idea how the Guardian knew about upgrade modules, or what he was talking about with Banshee. The Guardian had never met the exo before, and certainly had never placed an order. Besides, the Hunter was flat broke.
"What do you -ooof!"
The Guardian stuffed his Ghost into an old sock to silence him. He swung the sock around like a bolo for good measure to disorient the poor machine. The Ghost wailed as it spun about, unsure of where the sock had come from.
"The modules Banshee, surely you have them? I paid so much." The sock turned so fast it made the sound of a desk fan.
Banshee began to sweat oil. He didn't remember any contract with the man. But he was a Guardian after all, a man of honor and good will.
"Ahhh yes, the, the modules." He said, guilty about his poor memory. He shuffled around in his inventory and placed two modules on the kiosk counter.
"Thank you Banshee, I'm so glad to have met you in that alleyway."
"Umm, alleyway? There are no alleys in the tower…"
"THE ALLEYWAY BANSHEE, HOW CAN YOU NOT REMEMBER?"
Banshee flinched. He could not compete with the sheer intensity of the claim. The Exo was so uncertain of his memories, over the years he had begun to lose confidence and doubt himself more and more. And the man was so certain, so sure.
"S… sorry my memory's not what it used to be."
"Do you not remember the alleyway?" the Guardian shook his head in disdain. He had quickly identified a source of shame. All that remained was to twist the knife. "After I nearly died rescuing you from those thugs?"
"I'm sorry, I just… umm…" Banshee struggled against the new, false reality as it was forced over his own, like a sock over a snitching Ghost.
"Don't worry about it, just thank your stars I was there! I'm sure Zavala will catch those highwaymen soon. Those rogues can't harm MY gunsmith and get away with it!"
"Thank you… I guess." Banshee needed to sit down. He hoped the man would leave soon.
"I'll be seeing you Banshee." The Guardian smiled, waved and turned to leave. Banshee was embarrassed, and although he was grateful to the Guardian for apparently saving him, something in his machinery was just glad the encounter was over.
The Guardian paused then turned around.
"Oh Banshee, I hate to say this, but I paid for three modules. I know your memory isn't… what it used to be." The Guardian smiled his dangerous smile, like a lion licking its chops at a sick, elderly gazelle.
"Oh yes, of course." Banshee gave him another module. "Guess I need to build some more then…."
The Guardian finally left Banshee to his shop, throwing the sock to the floor. The old gunsmith stared at the sky for an untold number of minutes. A customer came up to him and asked for some bounty or other, but got no response from the feeble minded clerk. Banshee flipped over the smithy sign from open to closed, and walked despondent back into the workshop.
Although he would certainly forget the incident, the complex feelings he experienced during his first encounter with the Hunter would stay with him forever. They were ingrained in the primordial, fight or flight areas of his mind. It would be days before he would reopen.
The Ghost had finally wriggled itself free. He managed to cobble together his senses. He tried to follow the Guardian when he was 'let free' of the sock. Oh how he would come to fear the dreaded sock. But he flew in discombobulated loops, too dizzy to keep up with his Guardian.
"Wait! Wait for me!" The Ghost pleaded desperately. The Hunter disappeared into the throngs of merchants and Guardians who populated the Tower. Darn it! I can't lose him!
The Ghost lost him.
For two days and nights the Ghost could not find his Chosen. The machine's mindstate grew progressively manic as he asked Guardian after Guardian if they had seen hide or hair of the new Hunter. Unfortunately there was not much to go on.
I can't even find him through our neural-symbiosis. The link allowed Ghosts insight into their Guardian's emotions and feelings, but it also gave them a sort of pracausal GPS, once their Chosen was resurrected that is. It's like he dropped off the map! He looked out over the Last City. His Guardian could be anywhere in that vast network of infrastructure. The Ghost was calculating possible routes the Guardian may have taken through the hustle and bustle of the metropolis. He stared at highways and skyscrapers all under the shadow of the Traveler. The Ghost could see for miles with how high up he was.
...Dropped off the map… Oh god.
The Ghost spent most of the afternoon zooming around the base of the massive Tower, searching for the corpse of his Guardian. Nothing. There were an odd number of jumpers listed over the battle-net lately. It was a highly discouraged, but relatively common practice for more gritty Guardians to relieve their stress by launching themselves into the City below. Primarily they were exos wishing to experience just a moment of their previous lives. The numbers in the past few days were significantly higher than average, and disproportionately human, but none of the reports seemed to match his Guardian. So the Ghost gave it no further thought.
If he's shut off the neural link, either he's the first Guardian able to manifest such an ability, dead, or off planet. He spun in circles, his mania reached levels of panic he'd never experienced before. Not even in lonely moments when he had considered that his partner's corpse would never be found and that his quest would be left eternally unfinished. After all, having something given to you and then taken away was worse than never having it at all.
He visited the hangers on the horrible off chance his Guardian had chosen to leave the Tower without him. Thinking back on the Hunter's complete disregard for him, it was a possibility.
"Ain't seen him since he dropped off the jumpship. Got her fixed up proper, so when you do find him let him know Holliday sends her regards, but not her bill." The handshake thieving wench told him. She smiled comfortingly.
No dice.
He searched the dark corners of the Tower for the rest of the day, going so far as to talk with the last person he ever wanted to meet.
"Be careful little lightbulb," The Drifter warned, "there's darkness that's come to this Tower these past few days. And I'm not talking about my harmless self." The Drifter chuckled ominously. The Ghost did not like the Drifter. His miasma of Darkness made the Ghost sick and the words about a recent arrival of evil in the Tower just increased his paranoia.
He continued to ask around through the night, but few Guardians utilized the Tower in the wee hours. Most were asleep. The Ghost checked all the benches until the first light of the sun crawled over the far walls.
A massive, horned warrior took his place bright and early at the edge of the Tower. His chest was puffed out, with one hand on his hip and the other clutching a cup of coffee. He sipped the beverage through a long straw sewn through the bottom of his helmet.
"YOU Ghost. Lost your newly awoken Guardian eh? WHAT A BLUNDER!" Shaxx's laugh nearly blew the Ghost away with his enormous customary volume. "I put up with a lot for my job, so I don't have time to look for the new blood." The Ghost pointed his single eyeball to the floor.
"That's alright Shaxx, I—- I guess I'll keep looking."
Shaxx was at his heart a kind soul. He couldn't let the Ghost down completely. "I like you Ghost, pitiful, not unlike my dodgeball team." The Ghost couldn't see through the helmet but a smile came to his face, thinking about the team of orphan children he'd coached to oblivion. "So I can make time to scour the Crucible registry for new Hunters with low Light levels, unfortunately we don't allow unregistered Guardians participate. So I'm not likely to find him."
"You… you would?!" The Ghost perked up. It was a possibility that his Hunter had gone to Ikora or Zavala and registered behind his back. OOOOOHHHH he'd better not have! The Ghost's worry turned to insecure anger.
"Of course, CHUM! Though you should check with Ikora or Zavala. She tries to welcome all the new recruits on an unofficial basis, and his office handles all the paperwork.
"I'll ask around the Vanguard, thank you, thank you so much!" Shaxx smacked the Ghost to the floor, forgetting that the Ghost had no back to slap. He bounced pathetically.
"Oh, sorry CHUM! Don't know my own strength!"
He found Ikora standing in a circle of yellow tape, dusting for footprints. Over a half dozen frames stood guard over the crime scene. He felt a sinking feeling. What if he's been killed!
The Ghost was a stickler for rules, but his mounting anxiety forced him to buzz over the yellow boundary.
"Excuse me, Ikora?" He said, his voice shaking without confidence.
"What is it Ghost, you're trespassing on a crime scene."
"I'm so sorry, but I've been missing my Guardian and was searching for you. He's a new recruit and when I saw you at a crime scene…. Well I was taken with fear at the chance something might have happened to him!"
"I'm sorry to hear that." She said. The Ghost could see dark rings under her eyes and the slight jitter of a caffeine addiction. "But I haven't had time to meet recruits for the past few days. I've been tied up with this investigation."
"I hate to— "
"No Ghost, none of the victims were new recruits. Other than being AWOL, seems like your Guardian's safe. At least from The Tower Pusher."
"Wait, victims? As in more than one? And what is a Pusher?"
Ikora rubbed her temples. She hadn't slept last night. "Since you're new here I suggest you check the battle-net for security updates."
"I'm sorry, I was only searching the net for suicides and lost connections, I was embarrassingly focused." The Ghost felt a degree of shame at harassing the clearly drained legend.
"What? Suicides? And lost connections? … Like on the romance channels?"
"My Guardian is… a bit odd. I wasn't sure what he might do to himself being lost and alone. And yes, the romance channels. I was… desperate."
Ikora laughed, feeling a bit sorry for the machine.
"Alright I'll fill you in, just once." She winked. "Since the day before yesterday, we had reports of people falling off the Tower. Unfortunately this is not uncommon, but these cases were different. Every single one of them was pushed."
The Ghost shivered. Perhaps this was the Darkness the Drifter was talking about? "That's horrible!"
"It's very disturbing. Sure, all of the victims were Guardians, so no harm done… but what type of monster gets off on tormenting others like this?"
"Surely there are clues, something on the Tower's security cams or one of the Guardians can tell you who pushed them? A serial murdering case where victims could report their own murderer should be cut and dry!"
"YOU WOULD THINK." Ikora side eyed a Guardian at the edge of the tape. He waved to her.
"It was here, right here I was pushed!" He yelled.
"Yes Toby, I am FULLY aware you utter buffoon." She glared at him as he looked down in shame.
"Nothing on cams," she said to the Ghost, "and all the Guardians who were pushed were either facing the other way, drunk, or in one case," again she looked to Toby, "had a large sock shoved over their head from behind."
"Blinding them and then pushing them to their deaths, how awful." The Ghost knew the horrors of the sock treatment. Perhaps due to his fragile mental state and heightened emotions, he had not put the evidence together. There was only a smidgeon of fear looming over him as his unconscious processes crept ahead in detective work.
Her eyes narrowed at the crime. "The worst part is, many of the victims were skilled veterans. Not your average warriors. Even Toby has over a hundred wins in the Crucible. A fool, but a 'sweaty' fool. The killer had to be a Guardian with great talent and a psych profile of extremely low empathy. Probably stacked in mobility."
The Ghost felt a sudden and desperate need to leave the conversation. He began to speak rapidly "Yes, it has to be a great and powerful, very experienced Guardian. With lots of combat hours. Nobody could do such a thing without, at least a thousand Crucible wins I'd say. That should narrow it down for you. Yes, yes yes only those who have killed for many, many years would be capable of such a heinous crime."
"That's what I was thinking, but why now? Why start killing only now? If they've been around for years…"
"... I have to go." The Ghost turned from Ikora and slowly began speeding up. She called to him, and he stopped in his tracks.
"Good luck finding your Guardian, spirit of the light."
"Yes… thank you." The Ghost said without anything that resembled spirit, and fled.
He bumbled along without much thought or in any general direction. The data matched up. The Ghost added but another firewall to his memory system. All his knowledge of The Tower Pusher was put under lock and key.
Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not, he had aimlessly made his way to Zavala's office. The massive stores of Light which emanated from the great Vanguard warrior may have been the culprit. In times where Ghosts were in need of comfort, they often turned towards the Light.
And the Light did not fail him.
There, before him in the registry line was his rusty, blood covered Guardian. His Chosen. He zoomed forwards unable to believe his luck, and nuzzled into the Guardian's neck.
He was swatted away like a fly. Like a fly… The Ghost whimpered internally.
Still, the Guardian was alive. And in slightly better condition than before! He sported new, shiny grieves and a large bow. No vendors sold armor at the Tower. The Ghost chose to quit while he was ahead and did not question where the gear had come from.
"Huh. You've been busy, I see. Correction: you've been busy without me. I don't know how I feel about that." The Ghost said. He was acknowledged, but for a moment, with a thumbs up. Why you! "I have been searching everywhere for you, I was distraught! And this is the thanks I get for worrying myself sick?! After reviving you from death?! After the eternity we spent in the Hive nest? After the Fallen? AFTER THE KNEECAPS!? After you abandoned Shaw Han?!" The Guardian rolled his eyes, but put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.
"As long as you understand, and make an effort to treat me with some respect!"
The Ghost huffed and puffed, still upset. His anger was abating however, as he saw that his Guardian had taken active steps to solidify himself as a legitimate defender of humanity. He was in Zavala's registry office and was holding both a clipboard of paperwork and a numbered ticket in his hands. How angry can I be? He's clearly remorseful— the Guardian scratched his bum — and perhaps he was just as lost as I was?
"Number 88" a secretary called out.
The Guardian walked to the counter.
The secretary smiled at him. "Have you figured out your name Guardian?"
The Guardian spoke to the secretary. Actually spoke to her. The Ghost's strong feelings of inadequacy pushed him back into a manic depression.
"Try this on for size. Last name D, first name Langston. Middle initial, Huge."
The secretary began typing then stopped. She took a moment to comprehend the Guardian's phrasing, her eyes searched for meaning that she was sure she had missed.
"So…. Langston. Huge. D?"
"Exactly Miss." Langston said, smiling and waving a finger emphatically. If Langston's Ghost could raise a single, disbelieving eyebrow, he would. The name was a misnomer at best. The Ghost knew his Guardian's full… capacity after the many post-mortem… well. After the incident in space.
The secretary scrambled for words. "Ummmmm… let me talk to the Commander."
Out came an enormous awoken, pale as he was bureaucratic. His voice as seductive and sultry as his shoulders were broad and powerful.
"My name is Zavala Guardian, hail and I'm pleased to meet you. Always a pleasure to meet a new champion of the light. What seems to be the problem?"
The secretary pointed to Langston's form. Zavala read. He raised his eyebrows. "Oh… I see. This is listed as a censored name. Unfortunately Mr… D?"
"Please, please Commander. Mr. Huge is fine."
"Unfortunately Mr. Huge, we Guardians have to set an example. We're the last bastion holding humanity safe against the powers of darkness. Against the immense alien threat that keeps civilians afraid at night, we are their light. We must be dignified. Strong. You'll have to pick a different name. As luck would have it, Langston Hughes was a renowned old earth poet, who strove for equality in the days of…."
Langston snatched up the form and scribbled in a new name, pen jammed in his fist the way a toddler holds their first crayon. He handed it triumphantly to Zavala.
Zavala sighed "Ok… Mr. …. Hugs. Langston… Hugs." He took a moment to size up the Guardian. "Welcome aboard."
Zavala's radio buzzed. It was Shaw Han.
"Commander, we need a strike team! Quickly, we had a plan, a plan I swear. There was superconductor we could have used to kill Navota—"
"Slow down Guardian, you have a lot of nerve calling the Vanguard after what you did to your fireteam. What's this about Navota?"
"He left us behind! The newbie! We've died, so MANY TIMES." Shaw's sanity was clearly undone. "We need that superconductor!"
Langston stood there, watching the Tower's dirty laundry aired before him. He felt not an ounce of responsibility.
"Ok Guardian Han, this is your last chance. I'm sending the best of the best. Madame Secretary, call up… Jabes."
"Heh, you mean 'Fire Wolf' Commander?"
Zavala groaned, visibly cringing. "Not the time Doris."
"Right away Commander. Connecting… Fire Wolf is on line 2." For whatever reason, she also put HR on speed dial.
"Shaw I'm giving you the Guardian. He'll kill Navota for you. All I need from you is to give him the details. I'm not sure you can do even that anymore. Don't. Fail. Again."
Langston spoke up. "This Shaw fellow certainly sounds like an irresponsible, punishable individual."
Zavalla felt no need to mute the radio, Han deserved ridicule.
"He is indeed Mr. Hugs. Very punishable indeed."
They could hear Shaw gulp through the radio. Line 2 crackled to life. The robotic voice of an exo came from the phone. "What was that? Punish? Punish Shaw Han? Well Zavala if you say so!"
Zavala turned paler than before, his whiteness only rivaled by cave dwelling fish. "No, Jabes! We need you to kill a Hive wizard named Navota in the Cosmodrome."
"Yes, and then punish Shaw Han. I understand."
Zavala shouted into the phone, panicked, "NO! PLEASE, I WAS ANGRY, I DIDN'T MEAN IT! HE'S JUST A BOY!"
"Too late, no backsies, hands tied. Don't worry your pretty bald dome Zavala. I'll handle everything. Won't I, Shaw?"
Shaw wished that he had muted the mic. So did everyone else. They heard the unmistakable squelch of freshly soiled trousers.
Langston took his leave. The Tower was better than he had expected.