His eyes snapped open, his blurry vision making his surroundings unrecognizable. He tried to grab a hold of something and steady himself, but that only made his head spin further as he tried to regain control of his body.
As weird as it was to think about, he hadn't used it in a while.
As his vision cleared and his sense of touch and smell returned to him, he realized that he was laying on muddy ground in a suit of armor that felt very familiar to him.
He blinked hard and cleared his vision, ready to face the world.
His newly opened eyes were met first by blinding light, and then a near perfect representation of the image he had seen before his awakening, the cold Russian landscape stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Before he could take in the scenery in full, however, he was startled by a mechanical object that zipped into his vision, startling him and causing him to backpedal along the muddy ground with his hands.
The object was angular and had eight, small, polygonal shapes sticking off from a center section that rotated, and a mechanical eye that peered at him intently.
It moved closer to him, and let out a small laugh, wiring and clicking and spinning its small limbs aimlessly.
"Titan, you're awake. Good," it said happily.
The object's words brought him into the stark reality that life was no longer a dream, and snapped his brain into overdrive. He analyzed its words. Titan, was that his name. What was this thing, had it killed him? How?
Pit didn't matter, he couldn't take any chances, or at least some part of him believed he couldn't.
He instinctively reached to his side, knowing for some reason that he would find a rifle laying there. He stood rapidly, shouldering the rifle and aiming its barrel directly at the mechanical object's eye.
Another set of words invaded his memory as he yanked the weapon's charging handle and set his finger on the trigger. This time, the memories were about the rifle.
Khvostov 7G-02, automatic rifle, caliber 5.56x45, he thought rather cryptically, only half knowing what any of that meant.
As his hands griped the weapon tighter, memories of this rifle began to flood back to him. Several images of himself lying prone flashed back to him. He was wearing camouflage clothing and firing this rifle at targets in one memory, and wearing the same armor he wore now, stuck in the middle of some kind of battle in another.
He wasn't sure what all of it meant, but he knew that this rifle was his, and he had been trained to use it.
"Whoa there Titan," said the mechanical object, "that's no way to greet a your brand new Ghost."
"Ghost?" He asked, keeping his rifle trained on the object.
He had heard that word before, and he remembered it having nothing to do with the kind of object that now floated in front of him. He stepped closer to the object, keeping the rifle's barrel aimed at it as he approached.
"Who are you?" He questioned, "what is a Titan? who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?"
The Ghost retreated, wiring and clicking. It seemed equal parts scared and frustrated by his reaction.
The Ghost let out a mechanical sigh, and floated to his side, but he tracked it with the weapon all the way.
"I suppose you have questions, that's fair," deadpanned the Ghost, "you are a Titan, a soldier, and a Guardian of the last City. Your armor is proof enough of all of that."
He glanced down briefly at his armor. It was painted woodland camouflage and covered in pockets containing ammunition for the rifle he held. On his chest piece was a painted on inscription that read U.S. Army, and a small insignia that consisted of a sword interlaced between lightning bolts resting over an arrowhead, and a tab that read Airborne in gold letters.
The meaning of all this had been lost on him, but if he was a member of an Army then the training he possessed and the memories he had would make sense.
That was it, he was a soldier, and if this "Ghost" knew more about him, than he had no choice but to follow it.
He lowered his weapon, keeping it at the ready just in case, and let out a breath he hadn't mean to hold.
"Tell me more," he said less forcefully, "please."
The Ghost whirred and clicked. It looked as though it was searching for information. It scanned his armor with an odd blue light before shooting a blue beam of energy at him, grabbing hold of something that rested on his chest.
It was a stamped piece of metal on a chain wrapped around his neck.
"Dog tags, I believe these are called," said the Ghost as he brought the metal into his vision, "your identity should be on here somewhere."
He raised an eyebrow and studied the tags, trying to discern what they said.
"Kelly, Mark, C, SSgt," he said aloud, reading the tag's inscription. He recognized the first inscription as his name, but what could SSgt. mean?
The Ghost dropped the tag back to his chest, looking at him intently.
"Find the answers you were looking for?" Inquired the Ghost, circling around him.
Mark shook his head, looking down at the ground in front of him. He fought to gain any recollection of who he really was, and how he had ended up here, but so much of his memory was simply blank and only gave him a headache when he tried to think about it.
He figured knowing more would only confuse him further.
He surveyed his surroundings and rested his rifle across his chest. Hulks of cars surrounded him on all sides, skeletons eerily resting in each one of them. A wall to his right towered over him, and in the distance he saw enormous spaceships on launch pads, rusted and ready to fall apart. It looked as though the entire world had deteriorated to the point of collapse in his absence.
This was one big, dangerous world he had forgotten about.
"What do I do now?" He asked the Ghost, who still rested at his side.
As if on cue he heard a sound in the distance. It was a strange, high pitched howling that he found all too familiar. He couldn't place his finger on what it was, but he knew he had heard it all too many times before. He turned to the line of cars where he as heard the sound and leveled his rifle, backing up slowly.
"Well," said the Ghost, "if you want to survive the next ten minutes, I'd advise you follow me."
Mark nodded and shouldered his rifle, following the Ghost as it floated towards the wall, floating, whirling and clicking aimlessly.
"We'll need to find you transport," continued the Ghost, "I'm tracking a military jump ship docked in one of the wall's hanger bays, it's this way."
Mark nodded, and continued following.
It lead him to a small opening just beyond a rickety old set of stairs that lead into the wall.
Mark entered slowly, checking his corners and making sure nothing had followed him, his reactions based on mere training and instinct.
The Ghost lead him to a cavernous, open section of the wall, consisting of little more than an abyssal pit and a small catwalk that lead over it, with virtually no light whatsoever.
The Ghost floated quickly towards the ceiling.
"Hold on, I'll get the lights," it said.
A moment latter, the lights flicked on, and revealing a crowd of alien looking creatures and small, flying drones clustered about the catwalk. The creatures varied from mid-sized, four armed, rifle wielding humanoids to thin, two armed, pistol wielding creatures, and the drones appeared to be little more advanced than floating guns.
Another flash of memories came to him. Images of hundreds of these creatures clustered about the outside of the wall flashed before his eye. They were leading large, six legged armored vehicles, all coming to kill him.
"Fallen," exclaimed his Ghost, "take them out."
Mark didn't need to be told twice. He shouldered his weapon and opened fire, letting lose a string out rounds and chewing through most of them with ease.
They fired back, bolts of blue energy racing towards him as he ducked behind the cover of a low, metal wall. The energy slammed into the wall, shaking the already rickety catwalk and making Mark question wether or not it would continue to hold up.
He stood and fired back, calmly settling his crosshairs on the Fallen, as the Ghost had called them.
He dropped them slowly and methodically, using short bursts to knock them out until only a few remained. He leaped over the wall and advanced towards them slowly; firing, moving, and forcing them back.
They fired at him, but he let his armor and shields absorb most of the impact, allowing him to drop most of the offending Fallen with ease.
When the last one fell he sprinted forward, moving off the catwalk as quickly as possible and into a small tunnel.
It was eerily empty, and he advanced with caution, slowly scanning for any signs of more Fallen.
"The hangar bay is just a little further," commented his Ghost, "I'd advise you move quickly. I'm tracking more Fallen."
Mark picked up the pace, still keeping an eye out for any more Fallen.
The tunnel ended quickly at a ledge overlooking a dimly lit room. The room was littered with shipping crates, and work lights near the other side illuminated a jump ship that was docked on a refueling platform in the center.
It had a flying-wing style of design and was painted in the same camouflage pattern as his armor, a three striped flag was painted on its side with an inscription in a foreign language that his armor automatically translated to Russian Airforce.
He jumped off the ledge and into the dimly lit room, allowing his Ghost to light his surroundings. The Ghost cast a light on several Fallen in the room around him, all taking aim at him and readying for a fight.
He ducked behind a nearby corrugated steel box and took aim, trying to take out the larger, four legged ones first.
From his left, one of them began to fire at him with some kind of sniper rifle, slowly chipping away at his already limited cover and forcing him to duck down further. He tried to return fire, but the sniper fire combine with fire from the rest of the Fallen kept him from placing any effective shots.
He cursed, and decided to make a run for the ship.
He vaulted over the top of the box, running as fast as he could towards the ship and staying behind cover as best he could.
Rounds struck his shield with increasing pace as he neared the spacecraft, bring his shields down to a critical level as the Ghost started the ship for him.
He dove behind another stack of shipping containers near the ship, letting them absorb the rounds fired by the pursuing Fallen.
Behind him, the ship roared to life as the Ghost began to start up its systems, its thrusters firing and bringing it slightly off the ground.
"This thing is barely holding together," said the Ghost over the radio, "the transmat system is broken, you'll have to board manually."
Mark cursed once again, and dashed towards the ship, his shields having recharged only moments ago. The Ghost dropped the boarding ramp, and he jumped on, barely catching onto a handhold as the Ghost fired the ship's thrusters, jet washing the remaining Fallen off their feet as the ship flew low out over the horizon, freeing him from the wall.
He entered the boarding ramp, closing it behind him and moving to the ship's small cockpit.
The Ghost was already there, wiring and clicking and steering the ship through small, curious beams of light it used to manipulate control surfaces.
"Where are we going?" Asked Mark simply.
He should have had so many more questions than that, but he couldn't think of any. Dying had knocked just about all the wonder out of him.
"The Last Safe City on Earth," said the Ghost simply, "You were brought back to life to defend it by the Traveler."
Another flash appear before Mark's eyes at the mention of the Traveler. A white orb, easily the size of a city. He remembered it floating over the earth, firing beams of light and energy at something. He couldn't remember what it was attacking, or where he had seen the traveler before, but he knew it was important, even before his death.
He looked up and saw the Ghost facing him slightly, its mechanical eye studying him as it simultaneously steered the ship, clearly sensing, or expecting his confusion.
"If you remember the Traveler from your old life, then you may not recognize it now," he continued, "it used the last of its energy to defend the city it built. Now it brings Guardians like you back from the dead to defend it. Each has their purpose, now you just have to find yours."
Mark nodded. He'd love to know the reason he had been brought back to life, and start to get back on the path he had started some untold years ago, but right now, he'd settle for fitting the pieces of his old life back together.