~X~
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Pits of Wrath
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~X~X~X~X~X~X~
"What's all the sudden curiosity in the Hive? I'll tell you why. They are a sleeping giant, doing Traveler knows what up on Luna in our absence. They've been quiet—too quiet. But that is about to change. The discovery of seeders in the EDZ means they are prepping for invasion, likely the offensive we've all hoped they'd not launch. So let us get in there first. Take out whatever they're building. And come home. Good luck, Guardians. You'll need it."
—Commander Zavala
Twin Arcadia-class jumpships flew together, side-by-side, angling their orbital descent toward Luna's surface. Emblazoned on their sides was New Monarchy's sigil, the City's most staunchest defender outside the Guardians, and the Fire Victorious' emblem. Below the ships stretched small mountains, some dating back to the Golden Age, others from after the Collapse. Deeper craters divided them, opening far down below, anomalous light clearly visible even from Earth from within. There was something deeply wrong with this satellite, something which sickened it, one which risked spreading to Earth nearly three hundred eighty-four thousand kilometers away.
Since the Disaster the moon had lain abandoned to humankind, inhabited by strange creatures; by Vanguard decree no one, civilian or Guardian, was to go there. Few did, and quickly left as soon as they finished what business they had. Most said it was haunted; others thought it was some sort of elaborate prison. Nothing could be further—yet nearer—to the truth. Something was stirring, could be felt by Warlocks in their deepest meditations on the Traveler. Hunter reports spread fear throughout the Tower, and the Titans were itching to fight.
Today was their chance.
"This is SQ-1 to Tower-Actual, we're entering cislunar space, over."
"Tower to SQ-1, this is Zavala. Angle your ships to the abandoned Moonbase near the Ocean of Storms; there is a landing pad there, clear of debris. Watch for Hive bandits."
"Acknowledged, Tower," Tristan affirmed. "SQ-1 out."
"Good luck. Tower out."
The transmission was cut. Soon it would be radio silence from here on out. The Vanguard didn't know yet how much the Hive possessed in the way of intercepting radio signals, but they weren't willing to take that chance. From here on out, the Guardians were on their own.
"SQ-1 to 2, Theran, buddy, how's it going?" Tristan asked, looking over to where his twin flew alongside. His fair, Celtic face was unnaturally pale against the darkness of his cabin, green eyes contrasting marvelously, like emeralds in alabaster. He looked like a corpse; a lively one at that. His cheerful disposition however made up for it.
"As swell as it'll ever be. I'm tired of sublight speeds and quite frankly this junk ship too." Over the radio Theran was his usual gruff self; the long journey hadn't changed a thing about that. Tristan grinned.
"Well," he answered, putting some humor into it, "if you hadn't trashed your NLS we wouldn't be moving at sublight speeds."
"Don't rub it in." His brother sounded almost like an angry bear. "It wasn't my fault—the damn thing overheated on its own."
"And we had to call in another fireteam to help transmat your ship out of Siberia before Fallen could reclaim it. Next time, don't go flying that thing when Holliday hasn't looked at it in a week." Tristan grinned again. "I love you and all, but that was a damn-fool thing."
"Four boogeys, twenty-two degrees, port-dorsal."
Tristan dropped the playful attitude. "Energy emission type?"
"Unconfirmed—disguised Arc-energy with unknown radiation-type. Standby."
The Arcadias changed direction and began moving downward, closer to the jagged lunar mountains. In the absence of working cloaks the latent energy rising from the ground would mask their ships' own. Tristan checked his radar—the boogeys far to his screen's left (just barely visible, too) seemed not to have noticed them, moving away and hadn't even altered direction.
Still this could be a trap.
"August, what do you think?" he asked. The Ghost materialized, its Pursuer's Shell darker in the cabin semidarkness. "Did you sense anything there?"
"No, nothing on my Light, Master Ashkevron," Augustine replied. "I've prepared weapons."
"Thanks. Theran, bud, got guns out?"
"Yeah!" Theran said by way of affirmation. "Space dust is going to be a pain though. Better safe than sorry," he added. Then his voice changed. "Break away!"
Tristan immediately wrenched his craft hard to starboard—his brother went port. Thrusters firing the Arcadias separated; and three missiles zoomed through the gap left by them. With their target vectors broken they veered off and disappeared, one impacting the lunar surface in an explosion of dust, another slamming into a mountain.
"Fallen bandits—Privateers!"
"Don't need to tell me twice—flares, August," Tristan gritted out as he pulled his ship into a complicated sort of spin, the thin post-Golden Age atmosphere marking his passage. The third missile locked on disengaged and disappeared.
Fallen Privateers were the equivalent of Guardian jumpships—two-man, delta-winged like Phaetons, equipped with four powerful Solar engines propelling it, and armed to the teeth in every sort of ballistics and energy weaponry the Fallen had access to. Privateers were feared by Guardians not so much for their simple outclassing jumpships but for the fact they attacked in squads of four and were transatmospheric, like Ketches.
It'd be just their day if there was a Ketch behind these bandits.
Right now two Privateers were following Tristan, their wide wings casting shadows down below. Their brothers pursued Theran elsewhere, and he was out of radio-range. One released another pair of tracking missiles at Tristan, blue energy trail marking their flight. They sped forward, intent on destroying the Arcadia—right before four more flares popped out and confused them, causing premature detonations. The Vandal pilot growled and released another pair. The munitions bay opened and they dropped, igniting a moment later to fly.
Accompanying them were the other Privateer's machine-cannon Arc blasts, tearing up rock and dust with enthusiasm, as if they too wanted the Guardian's demise.
Tristan glanced at a screen, noticed the blasts flying all around him in the process, swore in a language his mother were she alive would smack him right round the head for, and twisted his craft violently, nearly sending her crashing; and whipped about a mountain to port.
A double explosion blew behind him—the missiles first, and one of the nearest Privateers, its Vandals too committed to change course. One blip died on the radar.
Grinning again, Tristan eased off the afterburners. "Let's see here, aha, scatterbomb. Opening bay-doors, August."
"Confirmed."
The bomb dropped away.
BOOM!
He glanced at his screen again. The other blip was still there. "Aww, this is just great—SQ-2, this is SQ-1 with a bandit behind, closing in fast!" He glanced at his fuel gauge. Great. "If you're there, come in!"
Pressing more buttons he discharged more flares and more missiles avoided him, though some were very near hits. Arc blasts were skimming by very close now; every now and then one actually shot over or beneath his cockpit, meaning they were very, very close to hitting the engines, great honking things that they were, easy targets.
"August, prepare for emergency transmat!" he yelled. "Sparrow, guns, me, everything!"
"Yes, sir."
Wrenching his craft vertical, Tristan dove between two almost tight wedges of rock heralding a canyon, twisting about in a barrel roll to ease out his sudden turn. The surrounding lunar landscape seemed to mock him, with its quiet greyness, inviting him to give in. Here was where tens of thousands of Guardians had died, fighting a deadly war against the Hive roughly a year ago before Tristan's resurrection; but he could still feel the residue of faded Light upon his own vibrant one.
"I will not let you," he muttered through gritted teeth, hands whitening as he clutched at the controls. A sensor started beeping—the fuel-gauge. If he didn't let up he would crash, and be stranded. Worse still was that Privateer, which was perfectly capable of vertical-take-off-and-landing all on its own. Crafty Fallen. They'd find him, kill him, take his stuff, perhaps his Ghost, and then his brother would be alone.
Not if he had anything to say about it. He still had one final trick up his sleeve—a dangerous one.
"August, prep for resurrection!" he ordered.
"What are you doing?"
"Something radical. Get this thing to that base. I can see it from here."
"Where are you going?"
An explosion rocked the ship's body before Tristan could answer, and the computer started screaming. The Arcadia began to spiral out of control, losing altitude rapidly as lunar gravity—near Earth's—pulled her down. Wrenching hard at his controls Tristan could do little to keep in control.
"—SQ-1 to 2 I've lost my right engine I'm going down!" Tristan yelled. "SQ-2—SQ-2—Theran!"
With a gut-wrenching jolt that he would be feeling for a long while after, the Arcadia's damaged, smoking engine smashed into a protrusion of rock, reducing both the rock to dust and tearing off half his ship's wing—moreover it sent the craft into a tumbling spin impossible to recover from. With finality she hit the ground, skipped once, twice, then continued in an unstoppable skid across the plain.
The Privateer's Vandal pilots cheered in their guttural tongue, and began to turn about to find the other hapless Guardian—
—to explode as a bolt of Arc lightning seemed to sail from up the surface and collide directly with the ship's underside, ripping a terminal hole through. With another explosion the Privateer disintegrated and its pieces went flying about, to scatter to unremarkable graves.
From where he stood Tristan had his hand outstretched; and with a thin roar a hammer of pure Arc energy returned. With another burst of light it vanished, and his Light was exhausted. Transmatting from out of his hiding place August the Ghost looked around. "Well," he announced. "Holliday will have our shells for this. There goes six hundred years of recovered Golden tech, smashed and totaled."
"Let's consider ourselves lucky there wasn't an NLS installed," Tristan remarked.
"True enough," August agreed. His Guardian turned and started walking. There, just nearly a kilometer from them, was the Moonbase—in fact, the ancient Accelerator that once shot transport pods to as far away as Mars long ago. Right around the corner would be the rest of the old colony; and the Hellmouth. August rotated in place, watching his Guardian's progress, before following after.
"It was just our fortune we exited that canyon before they got us," Tristan said. "Or, rather, before we went out of control." He glanced behind to where a V-shaped hole marked that canyon in a long lunar mountain range. A cloud of dust still floated, marking the spot of their terminal collision. "What on Earth have the space-demons been doing to Luna?"
"Carving it to fit their nefarious purposes and to build up an army to replace the one the Vanguard and the Seraphim devastated during the Disaster?"
"Very funny, August."
"As always, Master Ashkevron."
From then on they walked in silence. The Sparrow had been totaled in the crash and was unrecoverable; August managed to save all Tristan's guns and a fair amount of ammo packs, all of which he stored in that special pocket of space-time Ghosts had access to. Only gun Tristan had out in case a Vandal took a potshot at him was his trusty Psi Tempus III model pulse rifle, and he held it at the ready. But nothing seemed to like him much to shoot, so he didn't have to use it.
Eventually they reached the Accelerator, its long, nearly unbroken length stretching before them. Directly in front was that landing pad the Tower had pointed out. Sure enough it was clear of debris, including all the lights which marked it. "You reckon they had cargo ships land here?" Tristan asked as his boots thudded across plasteel instead of lunar rock. "It's nice and open."
"I wouldn't really know—ask Master Rahool."
Tristan waved that off. "Pshaw, that man is too dry to listen even at lectures. I keep falling asleep."
"And people say Theran is the crusty one."
"Hey, you know me, man. I'm all nice and friendly to everyone, it's my role in life. It's only when Rahool speaks I start to drop off."
August said slyly: "You never have forgiven him for that engram decoding, didn't you?"
"You had to bring that up."
"Noëlle certainly wasn't very impressed—" Tristan's armored hand punted the Ghost down. Bouncing off the ground August immediately flew higher out of reach. "What'll she think of you now, if you can't handle good-natured ribbing?" he inquired tauntingly.
"That was uncalled for." Tristan glared at him.
"You were the one who spoke ill of Master Rahool!"
"Don't play the innocent act with me, young Ghost."
"Young Ghost?! I'll have you know I was—"
A low rumbling, sounding even through the thin atmosphere, caught their attention. Both turned to look. An Arcadia flew smoothly over the lunar landscape, slowing down, its landing lights on. Strangely it showed no signs of wear or tear, as if the previous fight hadn't occurred at all. Tristan simply shouldered his pulse rifle and looked on in disdain; August was visibly confused, shell twisting.
The landing gear extended and with a grumble the ship settled down not more than ten meters from them, bow facing them. Her lights flashed off, a ramp opened, and Theran came clunking down. His heavy, a Xerxes-E model machine gun, was strapped to his back and he hefted Spirit, a SUROS PRR-11 model auto rifle, easily.
"Show off," Tristan grumbled. Theran heard him.
"Nah, just darn good luck. You won't believe what had—say." Theran paused and looked around. "Where's your ship?"
"I'll give you three guesses—an Arc missile, a Privateer, and a rock."
"All three then?" Theran whistled. "Holliday's not going to be happy."
"Tell me about it, lost the Sparrow too."
His twin flinched—both knew how angry Holliday could get if a ship or a Sparrow was lost beyond repair, and her wrath was legendary should both happen. "I'm really sorry for you, bro," he said with no sarcasm. Tristan shrugged. "I'll live," he quipped.
"So…" Theran continued. "What happened was this: I managed to get my Light to duplicate an Arcadia to get them to follow that. Only problem is I couldn't get it to leave me or stop following me—it stuck with me and so they had two targets to fire at."
"C'mon, Theran!" his brother exploded. "Void Light is damn-fool dangerous to tamper with like that! You could have died, Jerome too!"
"Not to worry," a voice out of nowhere in particular announced. Moments later a Ghost materialized. Jerome favored the Questing Shell. "I was making sure he didn't overextend himself and crash us."
"Right, so as I was saying. With two targets to choose from, they fired at both—"
His brother groaned.
"—and it was at that moment I managed to sever the connection; the Void Arcadia zipped back." Theran made a flying motion with his gun-free hand. "And collided with them just like that." His hand smacked into Spirit with a clunk. "You should have seen the explosion."
"As if the space-demons didn't already know we're coming."
"Ah, don't be a grouse, Tristan. What would Noëlle think of you?"
Tristan's fists balled and he launched a punch right at Theran
Thunk.
"Whoa, easy there, brother." Theran was grinning as he held his twin. "You can beat me up over your honor in the Crucible later—we have a mission to go on about."
"Yeah, that's right, a mission," Tristan snarled, wrenching his fist from the other's almost crushing grip. "And stop talking about Noëlle!" If one could see his face right about that moment they would swore it resembled a Shank's red and aflame chassis.
"I only said—!"
"Forget it." Tristan pointed over his shoulder irritably. "Get your Sparrow out. We're riding double."
"Jerome?"
"Certainly, Master Ashkevron."
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
They zoomed over a hill and flew for several meters before hitting earth again. "Ouch!" Tristan yelled. "I swear, if you keep doing that—!"
"—We'd be down a man, now stop your moanin'."
They had left the base long before. Theran's Arcadia was concealed as a pile of useless rubbish thanks to Jerome and Augustine, and would be undetectable to Fallen if any happened to sniff around there. Given the Accelerator's abandoned look no Fallen had been there in months, everything useful stripped away. With those Privateers all destroyed no one would be coming after them either.
Now they sped through empty streets of what used to be a semi-buried city here. Lunar rovers were still buried beneath moondust piling up thanks to light winds, along with the discarded detritus of scavengers picking over what was left. Great prefabricated habs once famous for their ability to endure now sat there cracked and broken, their domes holed. There was even a Warsat, on top of the flattened remains of a bunch of buried module-habs, a smashed half-satellite dish marking where the 'sat had barreled through during descent.
"Place is a gold mine," Theran remarked. "Good thing the space-demons keep their activities underground, and the Fallen scared away. We should come back here sometime."
"With working ships and no surprises," his twin grumbled. Theran only laughed and accelerated.
Before long they reached the great artificial crater that was the Hellmouth, a fortress seemingly carved into the face of the moon—actually, in fact marking the beginning of the long, prominent crack that could be seen from Earth. Gothic-looking, black, spiky, and all sorts of creepiness to it, the Hive base didn't seem all that impressive above ground. It was what was below that made it impressive.
And no Fallen or Hive anywhere.
Theran slowed and eventually stopped behind a large rock, where they dismounted. From here on out it was on foot. "Jerome?" The Sparrow transmatted away, to be hidden in Jerome's pocket-stasis. "All right," Theran said, "let's move!" Hefting Spirit, he set off followed by his brother, who cocked his Psi Tempus.
Both Titans advanced upon the entrance of the fortress, a hole torn into the side of another low mountain ringing the massive crater. There were no enemies there. There was no need for them. The Hive ruled this place through fear, and lowlifes were smart enough to recognize that. Still that was no reason to let one's guard down. The horror stories of Guardians doing that stunt on Earth was enough to keep both alert.
"Entrance: clear."
"Antechamber: clear."
"Sidedoors: clear." To be honest, they looked less like doors and more like massive castle gates set into rock.
"Tunnel: clear."
Quickly and methodically they advanced deeper into the Hellmouth, moving through tunnels higher than three Therans and slipping past empty rooms of almost gargantuan size. The lack of enemies was starting to unnerve them. Hadn't that Guardian's reports of Hive being active on Luna—and from the Temple of Crota no less!—specified hundreds of Hive moving? Surely numbers of that magnitude would have left marks here that could be seen; they didn't exactly keep the place clean.
"I'm getting a very bad feeling about this," Jerome said much later as he appeared to scan the massive, inert body of a seedership pointing upward. Its jagged, spearlike shape sitting in the launch-chamber was enough to send chills through both Guardians' bodies. From the reports of Guardians on Earth it buried the bulk of that body when it slammed home, and proved nearly impossible to dislodge once rooted in.
"Yeah, me too," Theran said quietly. Tristan didn't reply, only kept watch behind Theran's back.
Jerome was almost finished with his scan when a shriek filled the air.
"Demons!" Tristan yelled, whirling about and pointing his gun toward the noise.
As Theran brought up Spirit to bear, a set of doors slowly slid aside, grinding as disused mechanisms forced them open, and a swarm of thin Thrall poured out, many running on all fours, flowing toward them both. Behind scuttled taller creatures, dreaded Acolytes the Warlock orders spoke about in hushed tones. These were armed with weapons, unlike the Thrall, who had nothing but claws and teeth. These were clearly the support units.
Tristan let off several triple-bursts, and the bullets tore into several Thrall. Some keeled over, sliding as their forward momentum pushed them. Others exploded in a shower of ash while others fell disintegrating. Soon his fists were flying as they swarmed about him, gun dropping to the floor, Arc booms signaling his power transmuting them effortlessly.
Theran meanwhile had a different idea. Taking a knee he pulled out instead the Xerxes-E, jammed a full magazine, and let loose. Many Thrall blew apart howling as Void rounds blasted through them, soon clearing the area. He brought his gun to bear on the supporting Acolytes, who fired back intermittently in return but ducked back before they could lose their heads. Some weren't so lucky, their chosen refuge of rock simply disintegrating.
His brother grabbed a Thrall by the throat, crushed it, and used its body as a makeshift weapon, battering aside several others. One's arm he broke outright with a meaty crack and stunned it; another caved its head in, brains and bone exploding out. Focusing Arc energy he reared up and punched the ground, denting the metal, causing a shockwave to blow back all his enemies. While not as devastating as a Fist of Havoc it was still pretty effective.
Grabbing his gun he let off a few rounds at an Acolyte sneaking behind his brother. It fell back missing an arm and half its head. Then he joined Theran in ridding the rest.
Once the battle concluded, both relaxed.
"Status report, Jerome?" Theran asked when he had recovered enough to speak, the adrenaline slow to fade.
"Thirty-six Thrall and seventeen Acolytes attacked. You took out most of the Acolytes while Tristan killed twenty-two Thrall and one Acolyte. The rest of the Thrall are totaled."
"Any bigger baddies?"
"Negative—just a shadow," Jerome indicated beyond the open door, "in there."
"You think it might be a Mother?" Tristan asked quietly.
Theran shook his head. "No, not here. These are the upper levels, if I gauge it right. Mothers would be far down below, possibly some are where we need to go. It might be a Witcher…"
"If it is, we'll kill it. Let's go. They aren't going to be waiting for us."
Scooping up his discarded magazine Theran stood and followed his brother. Jerome took one last look at the seedership before transmatting back into Theran's armor. Together the brothers descended deeper into Hell.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
It went bad from worse straightaway.
No sooner had they reached a room Jerome confirmed as the entrance leading down to the particular Summoning they encountered a runic pentagram seal barring the doors. A lingering stench filled the place. According to the previous reports, this was where the Guardian had picked up the Sword of Crota and slew the Princes defending it. There no bodies, but the marks from that battle were in evidence.
As Jerome and August dealt with the runes, their Titan Guardians turned and stood guard. Just as fortunate that they did. "Thrall!" Tristan shouted, firing.
Screaming as a howling storm, a vast and endless swarm of Thrall—some with four arms or over-exaggerated heads—poured out from every open door and blasted hole right at them. It took all of their combined powers and nearly half their ammunition to overwhelm. Immediately after several glowing blue creatures charged them, supported by more Thrall. Theran quickly tossed a magnetic grenade upon them.
Boom!
"Look out!" Theran shouted as the room started to rumble, glowing Thrall detonating one after the other, spraying body parts and black ichor and ash everywhere. By the time the resulting explosion have subsided, the entrance had been blasted into a wider hole, weakened the pillars, and tore up the chamber's already scarred appearance.
"Never do that again."
"Heads up! here comes another." Theran unlimbered his Xerxes.
The third Hell-wave was announced by thumping footsteps.
Marching in through the enlarged doorway was a monster twice Theran's height. Humanoid, clad in red bone and chitin, and armed with a massive cleaver-like blade, it gave both Titans pause—right before they both unloaded their heavies into it, Theran his machine gun, Tristan his Thor's Hammer launcher. Unfortunately it took one look at them and a wall of darkness sprang up to consume their fire. While this happened, two more of them marched behind followed behind by more Thrall, armed not with blades but heavy-looking cannons of sorts. As Tristan reloaded he noticed them only just in time.
"Get down!" he yelled to Theran, and promptly followed his own advice.
With a sound to rival Holliday in her legendary wrath, the Knights' weapons loosed forth globules of blue-white fire, screeching as they arched toward the Titans. Tristan dove out of the way, Arc energy gathering in his hands, while Theran stood firm. Just before they reached him a Void wall sprung up, halting them with a boom. Tristan then took advantage to throw an Arc hammer at the three Knights.
The first one raised its sword with both hands and slammed it on the ground; the shockwave reflected the Arc hammer back, and Tristan had to quickly get out of its way. The others moved in, firing more of their fell weapons, Thrall screeching as they charged. Theran continued to stand, Void wall hovering before him, as they advanced. Then as one Knight passed through the Titan brought both hands together with a resounding clap—and the Void detonated.
Its severed, bisected, and decapitated body flew in all directions away from him, dissolving into nothingness, followed by a thousand particles of the floor and ash. The effect was somewhat pretty, like colorful confetti at a party.
The Hive halted, examining Theran. The blade-armed Knight gestured with its weapon, pointing at Theran; he shrugged back at it. A lightning bolt slammed into the Hive warriors, scattering Thrall like so many sticks of dynamite. With bellowing roars a Knight sank to its knee, the other flying to leave a sizable crater in the wall. Tristan ran toward the kneeling one, a warhammer in hand. As it raised its crowned head to look at him, three green eyes burning with hatred, the Titan leapt up and obliterated it with the power of Thor.
The resultant shockwave cracked the floor and broke the already sagging pillars. As the last Knight struggled to get out its self-dug prison both Guardians turned to their Ghosts, who finally managed to break the rune seal, and began running like Hell. When it finally did get free, landing on the floor bellowing in triumph, the Knight failed to realize it destabilized the only remaining pillar.
The dust from that chamber's collapse took a long time to dissipate, and by then the Guardians were long gone in the dark tunnels. Now they moved cautiously with a care to not break their legs. Jerome and August provided their own lights, moving before their Guardians, keeping watch.
"There's an awful lot of moisture down here," Tristan remarked, nudging a clump of fungus-like goo. It squelched under his boot, and gave off a foul odor. "Ugh. Don't tell me they eat these things?"
"Hive biology from autopsies—mind you, very incomplete autopsies—indicate they can consume any variety of organic material regardless of source or planetary origin," August opined. "They are therefore either completely immune or very nearly immune to most diseases and microbes. Those they are not kill them pretty quickly. If that is any comfort."
"Yeah, very comforting. I don't want to know how they deal with the common cold."
"Like how they dealt with us, you mean," Theran added. Both brothers shuddered, thinking back.
"They probably deal with it by brute and unthinking force either way," Tristan said superfluously, making a sound of disgust.
Both Ghosts looked to one another and snorted—a remarkable thing for a machine to replicate—then continued on. "We should be nearing the place any moment now," Jerome said.
"Where's that?"
"Oh, we don't know exactly. But from the increase in Darkness—"
"C'mon, August, don't be literal."
"—I am not, and thank you for letting me continue, Master Ashkevron; from the increase of Darkness, we are very close to the summoning chambers."
"I really don't want to face a Mother," Tristan said firmly.
"Nonsense, it'd be Witchers most probably. They were the ones who, according to the Cosmodrome report, that tried to go after Rasputin. If its anything, it'll be them."
"Thanks for the encouragement."
"No problem." Theran grinned from under his helm.
Eventually the dark tunnel opened out into a massive cavern. If it was a similar cavern back on Earth it'll be full of crystalline structures and rock formations of breathtaking beauty. However, it was not—platforms seemingly hung in mid air, disappearing and reappearing at intervals, some adjacent to rock walls while others were at different elevations. Far down below was a sea of green magma; well, it looked like magma, but there was no indication of heat whatsoever.
"Don't tell me—"
"Yes, we're going to cross this."
"Damn it, Theran."
Jerome flew on ahead, casting his scanning beacon across the platforms. Turning back, his voice sounded in their helms. "We can stabilize the platforms for a short time. But let's hurry."
The brothers shrugged, and leapt forward.
Halfway across the platforms a scream echoed across the cavern. A tall floating being hove into view behind them, rising up from the depths as a spirit. Clothed in crumbling finery and baneful attire of green and black, the Wizard screeched again as she lifted her arms high. Several of her sisters rose around her, separating off into their own flights, and flew after the brothers.
Tristan unlimbered his sidearm—a Thalestris-C model—and fired off three shots in quick succession at a Wizard nearing him. It screeched as the shots disintegrated harmlessly around an invisible barrier, rimmed with orange. "Oh, this is just great," he cried out, and redoubled his running and jumping.
His twin, meanwhile, was further ahead than he was. Two Wizards shot up in front of him, eliciting a yell from him as he stumbled and tried to keep himself from falling. Fall he did but backwards, landing with a thump on the platform.
"Ow," he muttered, starting to get up. A chuckling sound came from one of the floating demons; as one they raised their bare arms, hands balled into glowing fists, and let loose the fury of the Darkness upon him.
"Theran!" Tristan shouted as the other was engulfed in a cloud of ebony. Whipping out his rifle he sighted the Wizards—only to leap back as an sizzling blade of Arc energy cut it in twain. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," he shouted as another Wizard blocked his view. She hissed at him. "Yeah, you and me, sister," he snarled back at her.
His Light wasn't strong enough to summon a hammer to smash her, but it was strong enough for a grenade to form into his hand. "Eat this—!" he yelled, tossing it at her. Snarling she let off a blast to shoot him off the platform—only to painfully scream as the flashbang went off right in her eyes. Clutching her face she drifted about randomly, trying to get at him.
A shot from his sidearm caused her to drop like a stone.
Backing up Tristan took a running leap and flew through the air just as his platform disintegrated. Landing, and rolling, he came up running and continued his sprint towards his brother.
Theran had only just managed to throw up a Ward before his face, but it was barely enough. The battle with the Knights of before had taken much out of his Light, not to mention the replication and detonation of a fake Arcadia. Down here, smothered by the power of the Darkness itself, it was slow to return. He heard a voice call for him but he couldn't look back—he had to maintain concentration. As he sank to one knee his hands shook violently, the Void only a half a meter from touching. It was warping under the withering blast of the demons' assault. At any moment it could crack. He didn't want that to happened. A light appeared behind him. Jerome!
"Save—save yourself!" he croaked. "G—Get away, now!"
The light did nothing of the sort. Managing he turned his head slightly to see Jerome hovering quite a distance aways from him, shell pieces extended and glowing brightly. Behind it came a Wizard, her claws outstretched.
"No!" he choked.
Suddenly a gun transmatted into view behind the Ghost, pointing at the Wizard. Startled she halted in midair, arms raised in defense. The Xerxes hovered for a moment before all hell let loose. The Wizard only had time to summon a shield very similar to the Knights before both that and her natural protections shredded, blowing her to pieces a moment later.
Smoking, but finished, the Xerxes spun around and floated above Jerome. Theran realized what the Ghost was doing. Just then his Ward disintegrated, and with a cry he collapsed, burning energies ripping at him.
A rattling, booming sound roared, and his world appeared to rotate around him.
"Hey, Theran!"
The voice seemingly echoed, reverberating in his skull, like in a distant cave. Wha—What?
"Hey, bud, just hang on—quickly, August!"
He was hurting; everything was hurting. His arm felt like it was going to be wrenched out of its socket.
"Theran! listen to me, don't look down; I repeat, don't look down!"
How could he look down if he was lying on his back. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. He could feel the Void beckoning to him, whispering sweet things to him. Surely it would be all right to just let go and release all of his troubles. After all, Jerome would revive him and he'd be right as rain, wouldn't he? Standard procedure, right?
"Give me your arm—no, give it to me! That's it, that's it, now hold on—"
A face swam in and out of view. Tristan's—wait, why was he not wearing his helmet? His brother's straw-colored hair dripped with sweat, it looked like. Or was that his vision playing tricks on him? Why was his voice getting louder?
Suddenly reality slammed home—Theran gasped and realized where he was. Somehow he had fallen and Tristan was spending all of his energy to pull him up. Wait, what?! What did he say? Don't look down? He gulped.
"Finally awake, eh, bro?" Tristan grunted. "Don't worry, you'll be up in no time!" and he continued pulling all the harder.
At last both brothers collapsed onto solid ground, heaving. Theran quickly pulled his helm off, revealing a shock of sweaty, black hair, and breathed in huge gulps of humid air, lying flat on his stomach. His brother meanwhile laid down, resting upon his elbows, head thrown back. "What happened?" Theran gasped out.
"Your Ward-thingy exploded and sent you flying over the edge," Tristan answered. "At the same time your floating machine gun blew up both witches. Then I pulled you up. Don't worry," he added. "Funny thing—your explosion sent you closer to the other side rather than nearer to me. I don't know how I got there—"
Both Ghosts spoke at once:
"I redirected his flight—" Jerome said.
"I made you fly—" August offered.
"Yeah, whatever—but somehow I did, grabbed you, and now here we are."
"Those Witchers?"
"Yeah, they were Witchers all right. We killed about four of them. The other one flew off. If they didn't know we're coming, they do now."
"Zavala always—always said to—to—to never underes—underestimate—your enemy," Theran breathed harshly. His twin shrugged. "I think he got that from some dead Chinese general. No, not a Guardian, I checked. Still, we're not going anywhere for a while. Rest here, let the Light build up in us. There is a lot of ambient Light here," Tristan commented. "Don't know why it'd be in a place of Darkness. Atmosphere is stable regardless. Thank God."
Theran could only nod his head.
August, inspecting the platforms, swiveled about and announced: "You know, we didn't have to have run across them."
"You're kidding me, right?"
The Ghost shook its whole body in a parody of no. "Once something steps on them they stay formed, and there are more platforms in the gaps that were just permanently invisible. If you stepped on them they would appear."
"You are kidding me," Tristan answered, resigned. "No wonder Theran skipped and bounced on thin air."
"I feel awful," his twin groaned.
"Stop your moaning, and rest. I'll stand guard—oh and, uh," Tristan reached over and picked up Xerxes from where it lay. "I'll be using this for a while."
"Be my guest."
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Fully recovered both brothers continued on. Tristan carried the machine gun while Theran held out Spirit. Jerome and August continued their duty of being floating flashlights, although it was hardly needed at all as the ambient lighting was so strong it was like a sun was down in the darkness. A sun of pale lime-green light. Wait—that didn't make sense, completely unnatural! No, it was the Hive who were unnatural.
Made sense.
Tristan shook his head. Zavala was right in sending Titans here, not Warlocks or Hunters. Actually, no, now that he thought about it Hunters would make a better choice. They saw so many sorts of bizarre things out in the wild that things like near invisible suns of lime-green wouldn't faze them a single bit. Or whatever he was thinking—the battle had rattled him completely, what with rescuing his brother and all.
"How far now, Jerome?" Theran asked quietly, voice echoing. They were hugging the sides of a massive cavern, slowly descending. Tristan only hoped their destination was close.
The Ghost flew over the edge and angled downward.
"I was afraid you're going to say that."
"It's what we do, Master Ashkevron," Jerome replied with forced cheeriness.
Roars suddenly echoed from below. They were commingled with equal pain and rage, hunger. As Tristan looked below, he could see shapes in the misty green fog, distant. Huge.
"Are those what I think they are?"
"Yeah," his brother confirmed. "Just like the EDZ."
Tristan gulped. "I see why Zavala wanted Titans to spearhead this. Why oh why didn't we accept a third in this fireteam?"
"Because we're arrogant sons-of-dogs, that's what!" His brother clapped on the back.. "C'mon, brother, where's your sense of adventure?"
"It got left behind with the Witchers…"
"Well let's drag it back out, even I have to do this. We're going to finish our duty, and not even the Lords of Iron will boast of tales like it." Theran turned and continued, Jerome at his side, a spring in his step. "Sooner it's finished," he added. "Sooner you and I can go home to sleep safely."
Tristan gazed reluctantly down at the moving shapes before following. August lingered a bit longer, electronic expression unreadable, but also relented.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
"Now!"
Theran and Tristan whirled from out behind their pillared cover and let loose a torrent of Light-infused bullets, and ripped a swath of bodies. Thrall and Acolytes exploded into ash and flesh and blood, their ranks decimated; the glowy blue thingies with them let loose with thunderous roars as their magically infused bodies overloaded, leaving behind massive craters in the ground, and incidentally causing more havoc among the ranks.
Two Knights standing guard by the closed great double-doors leading into the summon chamber proper bellowed and lunged forward, lifting their blade on high—and fell, their heads holed by gunfire. One slumped backward against the wall while the other collapsed on one knee to faceplant the ground with no dignity whatsoever. The lone Witcher with them screamed as her body disintegrated into a flash of ash, leaving behind no residue except a small bone knife dropping with a clatter.
Within seconds the entire antechamber had been cleared.
Tristan nodded at his brother, saying "good shootin'" wordlessly. Theran only grinned morbidly beneath his helm, and advanced forward. They had surprised the space-demons all right, but that advantage would not last long.
As they near the door, a prickling on Tristan's neck caused him to turn. Hovering high in the corners of the antechamber were six metallic diamond-like structures. As Tristan brought his gun to bear upon them, they opened, two by two, revealing a swirling Void mass inside.
"Theran!" he yelled.
His brother turned.
With high shrieks the Hive turrets fired their Void projectiles down at them. The rattling of Tristan's Xerxes and dakaka of Theran's SUROS answered. The brothers separated to draw enemy fire, and Tristan rolled behind a pillar, Void blasts thundering at his feet. Pausing to reload, he asked, "August, how do we deal with those things?"
"Coordinating with Jerome now." The Ghost glowed for a moment, then focused on Tristan. "If you focus on the turrets on Theran's side of the room, you can destroy them with minimal hazard to yourself."
"All right, thanks." Finished, Tristan knelt, placed his machine gun upon a knee, aimed at the furthest line of turrets he could see: and let loose. Muted explosions told of his—and Theran's—success. "Nice suggestion," he commented, moving out of cover.
"I'll say. It was Jerome who suggested it initially," Theran answered, meeting him. His eyes then glazed over, and before Tristan could react, jumped on him, throwing a Ward over them.
The dying echoes of the turrets slammed home, pointlessly. Theran held the Ward for a bit longer, then let it fade away.
"That'll be something for the reports," Tristan muttered. Trust nothing in this place, his mind added.
"You can say that again."
The brothers approached the great doubledoors. Tristan examined their carven surface, noting the runic seals upon it. It seemed there were ten times as many seals as the one they broke to get in deeper. "Stand back." As Theran obliged, Tristan summoned a scintillating battleaxe of pure Arc energy and smashed it home against the obstruction before them.
Seven times he smote the doors, each time fragmenting and disintegrating the seals. At last they gave way, the doors too, and the entire structure fell in before the might of Thor.
"Hello, ladies," he said amicably, stepping over the ruins. "We're here to crash your party."
A monstrous scene met their eyes.
Seven massive creatures knelt upon the floor between tall arched pillars in a great circle, roaring with pain as Witchers flew among them, dark energies flowing into each individual beast. With their arms chained by hundreds of black chains of unnatural alloys they could do little but snap at their tormentors. Approximately fourteen Wizards were there, two to a beast, and rotating. Ringing this ritual were rows upon rows of kneeling Acolytes, holding up their weapons—some suspiciously resembling the ones carried by the Knights they had faced earlier—in supplication or adoration or whatever they did. Several Knights knelt in front of them, their swords point down. Too many to count. Just great.
In the center was a central, taller pillar, easily the biggest of the lot, topped by a glowing star—the source of the cavern's unusual light. Tethered to that pillar was a weird beast: it resembled a Thrall, but bent over double and flailing about, growing bigger. Surrounding it were four more Wizards—Mothers—obviously the leaders of this ritual. Tristan surmised this simply by noting their outrageously elaborate headdresses.
"Well, fudge."
"Buck up, bro," Theran said, his hands starting to glow with the Void and bathing his auto rifle. "We got a job. And dang it if we're going to let numbers stop us. Didn't stop the Stoneborn, won't stop us now."
"Easy for you to say. We drew the short stick."
"Time to beat them with it," Theran shot back.
One by the one the Acolytes noticed them, and broke away from their prayers. The situation didn't grow serious until one of the Knights saw them. Bellowing, it stood, lifting its sword as a challenge, and got the attention of the rest—right before its head blew apart with good ol' Xerxes' pumpin' a round through it.
Theran ran left, auto rifle blazing madly, Acolyte shots missing and hitting at his feet, their shooters falling with a number of bullets in their chests. His brother ran toward the other, spraying and praying with the machine gun, cutting down even more enemies than did his brother. One of the Witchers screamed—a round from one of the brothers (Tristan always swore later that it was Theran who fired it, while his brother denied it flatly) had missed and hit one of the monsters they later learned were Ogres.
With a roar to drown out even the Knights the monstrosity tore free of its restraints (and tearing up the pillars) and swung out madly at the source of the pain. Unfortunately another Ogre was the target, causing it to cry out, free itself, and lash in retaliation; and this started a chain reaction that got both the Hive scrambling away from them and the brothers literally up to their necks with runners.
Side-doors ringing the vast chamber opened and out ran a flood of Thrall, mutated or otherwise, to replace the falling or fleeing Acolytes—what purpose it served the brothers never learned. Meanwhile the Witchers were doing all they could to try and maintain order, which wasn't working out too well as one or another would suddenly explode as auto rifle or machine gun rounds tore through.
Tristan's Xerxes was smashed by a Knight's sword as he attempted to block—the pieces falling away, Arc Light blazed in his hands and the Titan landed a punch to the floor. Immediately a spider webbing of cracks rumbled and snapped throughout a twenty meter radius, disintegrating or annihilating every living thing made of Darkness, temporarily clearing the area of enemies. Rising, a battleaxe forming in his hands of the same Light, Tristan came face to face with one of the Mothers.
"Oh hell!" was all he could say.
Letting loose a shriek that would have melted his eardrums the Mother pulled out a writhing thing from her girdle and aimed. A report sounded, and the Titan rolled out of its way. Looking back, the ground upon which he stood had a neat little crater of about ten centimeters. Tristan gulped and looked back, preparing to fight or dodge.
Meanwhile, as his brother unleashed obliteration with the power of Thor, Theran handled things differently. His auto rifle fired too slowly to kill everything so he let it transmat back into storage and instead summoned several magnetics, which he promptly threw willy-nilly all about. Thos things detonated twice and he didn't want to be anywhere near when they blew, so he tossed them as far as he could. For those at close range he pulled a variation of the Warlock's manipulation of the Void and detonated Acolytes and Thrall wherever he placed his fist.
At last, area clear of enemies, he dropped back down from he hovered, and before him stood two Knights. Both were singed from his grenade proliferation, and both were quite angry; he quickly rolled as one brought his blade down, cracking the floor. Thrusting both hands forward, using what Warlocks labeled simply "Force Push", Theran sent it soaring high through the air before an angry Ogre swatted it to a messy death.
The other Knight lumbered forward and swung his blade, not down but across, and Theran, hands glowing, caught the blade. Immediately pain wracked his body as it cut into him, but, gritting his teeth, he persevered and pushed back. The last thing the Knight saw was its own weapon cutting it through the middle, touched by the Void, and vanished in a swirl of light.
A boom caught his attention—looking up he saw his brother deflecting several shots of poisonous green fired by multiple Witchers, his battleaxe crackling with each hit. He quickly gauged his surroundings: two of the Ogres were down, mauled to death by their brothers, a third wounded and about to collapse, the one in the center a bloody, pulpy mess (another Ogre hunched over, obviously wolfing down what was left), and the other remaining three being brought to heel by angry Witchers firing darkness at them.
His way was clear.
Snapping into a sprint Theran charged. In one hand he shaped Void Light into a shimmering sword of arcane energies, in the other a tricorner shield emblazoned with the combined sigils of the Firebreak Order and New Monarchy—a living flame supported by the three-marked pyramid. Yelling forth a battlecry, he charged in the midst of the dead and dying. With his blade he cut open the fallen, ensuring those Ogres would never rise again; with his shield he blocked and absorbed enemy shots, and bashed several foolhardy Thrall climbing up to get him.
The wounded Ogre looked at him and roared, spraying the Titan with foul breath and searing hatred unfelt by his armor. Holding his shield before him, and letting the Void cover him as magical armor, Theran charged directly into its gaping maw and burst out the other side. This caught the attention of the fourth Ogre, which had finished its feast of the chained body. Standing, this one suffered the least of its rampaging fellows, its body free of freshly made marks. Dark energy still sizzled from it. As Theran came to a halt, the monster roared and without warning, sent forth a blast of the Void from its head.
The Titan dodged it, rolling around and coming up closer. The Ogre swiveled its gaze, the long fell beam cutting a furrow in the shattered floor, tracking him. He steadily drew nearer and nearer, dashing from one side to the other, displaying a speed only Hunters could lay claim to, his body energized with the Light's fury at such blasphemy before him.
Finally reaching it he swung and cut out its leg from beneath. Howling with pain the beast sank to the floor, bringing its fist down to squash him in the process. Not deterred he rolled out of the way to cut down its other leg, then its arm, sliding as he went. Beneath its roars he mounted the beast from behind, jumped, and brought his blade down through the brain.
It collapsed with a thunderous boom, shaking dust from the floor.
Meanwhile Tristan was in trouble. Showing a refusal to stay still for longer than a moment, the Mother continued to press him, firing that fell weapon of hers. Green fire snaked out to lick at him and he beat it back with lightning's might. But she had him backing up into a corner, up against the wall with no open doors nearby, where he could maneuver his oversized blade no longer.
Two of her sisters flew to flank her. These were ordinary Witchers, small horns curving up from modest crowns, and their dresses were shorter, more raggedy. Not like her crown, which was elegant, longer; her attire was finer, longer. Whatever she was, this Mother clearly was the head boss of the bosses. Tristan took all of this in only briefly, more concerned with her weapon's fire.
His back hitting the wall he could do little but twirl his battleaxe, a skill he used often to impress the ladies back home and failed miserably both because he knew it would elicit laughs and because he was legitimately terrible at maintaining it. When his life was on the line, he wasn't thinking much about theatrics—what was clear to him is that he lost control and the blade spun away from him, fading away as its connection to his Light was severed.
With no other weapon he pulled his Thalestris and—
—immediately lost it. Hand burning he dropped the sidearm as it literally melted into a puddle.
The Mother laughed. A really horrible sound, like nails on a chalkboard. Even through his helm it hurt. Then she lowered her weapon, its fire dim, and leaned in. She spoke words incomprehensible but they burned and ate at him. As she neared he discovered, to his horror, that he could understand them—they seem to come from a place deep within. It was nothing—nothing—like telepathy of story-books, even at its most horrible.
This was quite simply the recognition a prey animal felt when about to die.
"Dear sweet thing," she whispered, her voice soft and fell in his mind, "you have trespassed upon a most holy ground, breaking the covenant your brothers and sisters paid in life and blood. Their excesses are free now because of you and your twin. You will suffer for it, knowing that you have unleashed horrors upon your little fortress of hope. The Eater will devour it, it and your brother—but you, you sweet thing, shall linger to witness."
One of the attending Witchers screamed moments before her body dissolved into a translucent matrix of energy; the other danced away, weapon firing, but too was slain by a whirl of eminence. Hissing, the leader sprang away, missing Theran's blade by inches; the lowermost tatters of her dress floated into nothingness, severed.
Tristan, free of the spell of her voice, almost fell forward before his brother caught him.
"Snap out of it!" A gauntlet clanked against his head. "We still got Ogres."
"R—Right," Tristan gasped. He was sure his face was white. Coughing suddenly he doubled over and nearly vomited. Fortunately the Light within prevented anything of his breakfast from emerging.
"Feeling better?"
"Yeah." Tristan coughed again, instinctively wiping his faceplate.
Meanwhile the head Mother had returned to her sisters, of which five remained. Screeching she lifted her weapon high and brought it down. With roars the three relatively undamaged Ogres were forced forward by their Witcher handlers; and eventually the floor began rumbling as they broke into small trots of their own accord, needing little "encouragement".
Theran turned toward them, his shield and sword of the Void still shimmering. "Still got enough Light?" he asked.
Tristan thought back to the Witcher's words, of how dark everything felt as her words one-by-one punctured his mind, leaving behind pain. He remembered the horrors conjured up by them, few as they were but potent. He felt August, silent throughout, transmatting beside him in a flash of Light. "You can do it!" the Ghost whispered. "I know you can. It's why I chose you, after so long. We can do this!"
Jerome transmatted beside Theran, hovering to where Tristan could see. "We're in this together," he affirmed.
Regarding the oncoming horde, Tristan's strained face broke into a smile. "Well by Jove we are indeed!" he exclaimed. He felt the Arc returning in a roar, the distilled Light of this fell place swirling around them as a vortex. The witch was right—their fellow Guardians, all of whom they had never known, had paid the price for this victory, and their Light was ready to exact vengeance upon their tormentors.
"By God let's show these devils how we roll!" he yelled, holding up his hand; a battleaxe of the Arc burst into being.
"That's the spirit!"
Together they charged the oncoming Ogres with cries of victory.
The first Ogre they took on together. Slamming his battleaxe down Tristan rocked it backward with a blaze of thunder and lightning, causing it to cry out. As it stumbled Theran took a running leap, propelled by the force of Light, swung his sword and cut off its head in a flash. The beast crashed down, defeated, as the brothers ran past.
Tristan chucked his axe into the ground and used its momentum to fly up into the air. As his Ogre looked up and fired its searing eye beams Tristan yelled a battlecry and sent forth a whirling storm of electricity as he spun around horizontally in midair. The whirling circle of Arc intercepted the Void blast and cleft it in twain, traveling down its length. Still continuing on over Tristan bounced through the air in a burst of Light, and spun vertically. Another circle of Arc fired forth and lanced straight into the Ogre's back. Howling, it reared its head—to have the first Arc shot cut through its throat.
Hitting the ground with a blast of Arc, he stood and took off, racing for the Witchers wreathed in lightning and power. Behind him the Ogre exploded in a shower of pure Light as the Arc energies within overloaded and detonated.
Meanwhile Theran jumped and dodged as the Ogre fired its eye beams almost immediately after the death of its forward brother. At last getting within melee range he jumped and dashed forward—landing, nearly getting roasted alive, he brought his blade down cutting off half its face. As it reared up it pain he pushed up off the head, grabbing his sword in both hands, and brought down upon the top.
Then as it swung to try and get him off Theran instead swung around his weapon, withdrawing his blade only to fly higher, and came back down the same spot. Its roars deafened him, along with the distant screams of the Witchers and the dying bellows of the other Ogre. Pushing off, not quite finished, he again utilized the same "Force Push" Warlocks were fond of using, blasting it backwards several times, forcing it off balance. As it staggered, ready to collapse, he flung two magnetics toward it—as they exploded, he dashed forward and cut off both legs at the knee. The beast was ended, and it fell dead. As it fell he took off running, roughly around the same time his brother landed, his own Ogre vanishing.
The Witchers, seeing the battle was lost—it took the brothers only a bare minute to end three Unborn Ogres—quickly turned and fled, their leader screeching with rage. The brothers, laughing, jumped again. This time Theran reshaped his weapons into a single blast reminiscent of Warlocks and let loose while Tristan sent out streams of Arc towards the fleeing Wizards. The effects were thus—the Void sphere flew and detonated violently in the midst of the Witchers; cords of eminence lashed out to bind them in place; and the Arc disks reached each bound witch and fried her to an ashen crisp.
The twins landed in silence. The smoking corpses of the Ogre abominations lay curled behind them, hundreds of lesser creatures scattered or clumped together. Heaving, suddenly weak, the Titans simply stood collecting their breath. Never before had they just cause to exercise their Light like this. It felt wonderful—and painful. Like running unprepared or not properly readying for lifting.
"Ow!"
"You can say that again."
"You two are going to be the death of us," Jerome announced, transmatting into view. "When Ikora hears of how you nearly destroyed yourselves, she'll be—"
"Pleased?" Theran suggested.
"Knowing?" Tristan added.
"Well, both I suppose, but very displeased nonetheless."
"But, on the plus side," August said, "you've got a new set of stories to tell the Hunters. And," here he looked sly, "I'll bet Noëlle will want to hear every bit of it."
Theran laughed himself hoarse as he watched Tristan angrily try to grab his Ghost but failed repeatedly by falling flat on his stomach as Light-exhaustion overwhelmed him.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
"Good work, SQ-1, Titans," Zavala congratulated. "With this victory we have begun the first in a campaign that will see the eradication of the Hive from Luna, and allow us to reclaim our worlds. You have done well. I expect you both will be out on the front-lines taking the fight to them."
"Yeah, thanks Commander," Theran said.
"What he said," Tristan added, hunched behind him. "I'm looking forward to the Blustery Brew myself."
"Yes—take the time to remember what you have done, that you have bought this City some more time to live." Zavala concluded. "Zavala out."
"Oh, and drinks are on me!" a new voice chimed in.
"Cayde, you have a job—"
"Oh don't worry, this work won't walk off on its own without me. I can take a few hours."
A sigh was all that left Zavala before the radio was cut.
"It'll be good to walk back on good ol' Terra again," Tristan said. "That lunar air was a little too thin for me. Not enough wind."
"Urgh." Theran wrinkled his nose. "Did you have to phrase it quite like that?"
"Whoopsie, sorry, bro. Anyhow, I was thinking a few days of patrol on the Wall will be what the doctor ordered, nothing to do except watch for nice Fallen and take potshots at 'em. What do you say?"
"I'll pass. I feel like I could sleep for a week. The Void does that to you."
"Well, sweet dreams—oh, and let me drive. I don't want you to crash and take out the fun if you're that sleepy."
"Be my guest." Theran stood and let his brother have the controls. "Besides, you'll have to report in anyway."
"Why's that?"
Innocently, Theran answered, "You'll have to explain to both Holliday and Banshee why an Arcadia, a Sparrow, my Xerxes, your sidearm and pulse rifle got lost on a single mission." Smiling he moved to the back of the cockpit. "Happy trails."
"Oh come on! I don't deserve any of this!"
"Then take better care of yourself next time."
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
Deep beneath Luna, in a dark cavern lit only with darker green fire upon pillars of adamantine stone, two Knights and a Wizard walked down a promenade. Lapping either side was a dark sea of inky water, lights dancing across its surface. Occasionally the tiny form of a nascent Thrall would climb out, its pupae stage falling away, and disappear; none touched the promenade, lest they be crushed by an armored boot.
Eventually the trio reached a circular platform in the center of the black lake surrounding them. Three other walkways like the one they came connected it. Upon this platform was an altar, tall and unholy—there was mounted upon it a majestic, winged statue, the sword it held facing point down. Its wings lay folded, but the semblance of strength was implied.
Prostrating itself before was another Wizard. She took no notice of the coming three until they stopped.
"Xyor…"
The Knights knelt, clanging their swords in imitation of the statue. Only the Wizard Mother remained standing, her head bowed.
The other turned and floated up. Taller, grander than even the Mother, this one was clearly marked as nobility by her green-and-yellow robe and symmetrical crown, a crown which denoted venerable age. Power gathered at her fingertips, potential waiting to be released. This was Omnigul, the Will of Crota and his consort.
"Speak, Daughter…" she said, green eyes glowing.
"Honored Mother," Xyor began. "Parasites attacked and destroyed a Birthing. Eight Unborn, lost in the Deep."
"And you have come asking forgiveness?"
"No, Honored Mother. They came swiftly from their fortress, passing through the outer halls and killing the guards. I didn't believe they would make it as far as the Birthing, but—"
"Enough. What you conceal with many words is but your apology. You were assigned a task, you and your aides, and you have failed." Omnigul suddenly darted forward, capturing Xyor's face with a claw. Restraining her flinches Xyor stood passively as the Will examined her. "Aha…" Omnigul murmured. "I see you have sworn an oath. It is written plain in your eyes."
"One of the parasites," Xyor explained. "I told it of its coming demise. I told it that I would see it suffer for its trespass, before its own death, as I did to the Betrayer."
"I see." Omnigul turned and floated back to the statue, which was dark as ebony against myriad candles surrounding it. She bowed her head for a moment before turning back to Xyor. "Know what I hold in my hand?"
"No, Honored Mother."
"It is one of those creatures' own weapons. Spawned of an unholy alliance between the Sky and the Deep. A parasite tried to abandon the Sky but not its power, and turned to the Deep for help. This weapon is the result of its compact."
In Omnigul's hand was what Guardians would recognize as a hand cannon. It looked twisted and feral, not at all clean or bright.
"Honored Mother?" Xyor was confused.
"You vowed you would see one of those parasites the fruits of their labors, our wrath upon their city and the huckster god. You have given yourself a geas. It is something not sworn lightly. You have vowed to carry it out, to the end?"
"Yes, Honored Mother."
"You lack the strength of the Knight. Your magics did nothing against the parasites. As our God has said "If you cannot beat their strengths, infect instead their weakness". Take this, then, their weakness. It is a weapon forged in Light but transformed by the Deep."
Xyor reached out and took the cannon.
"With it shall you fulfill your geas," Omnigul said. "Aiat. Thus it shall be so."
Xyor murmured the words of sealing, and her geas was accepted.
"Do not fail again, my Daughter." Omnigul warned.
"Yes, Honored Mother. I will not." Bowing, Xyor, Daughter of Omnigul, turned and retreated. The Knights stood and left, following after, leaving Omnigul to the devotions of the Hive Gods of the Deep.
Deep below, in a world carven in the abscess of reality's flesh, Crota dreamed in waking sleep.
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
~X~X~X~X~X~X~
A/N: This "Strike" is akin to The Summoning Pits, and takes place roughly after The Sword of Crota but before the Shrine of Oryx story missions, marking the first of the Vanguard Strikes against the Lunar Hive. The Guardians here are reincarnated characters from another story, and I must say they turned out quite differently than I expected and I enjoyed writing them.
Your feedback is welcome and appreciated, anything helps.
Beta-read by dogmeathasdied and Nail Strafer.
