Luminescence
Rating: T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).
Disclaimer: Bungie, you own this, and stealing is wrong, but my little fireteam is too adorable to ignore so. . . this happened. Sorry, Bungie.
Summary: Newborn, they call her. As a baby Guardian - in more aspects than one - Cyra's got a lot of growing up to do if she ever hopes to be a full-fledged Guardian. But the Hive have taken an interest in these Newborn as well. . .
Warnings: Mild gore, some mild language, and kickassery.
Author's Notes: I like silly names, so you get this.
Not too much to say this time, except whew, glad we got over the initial prologue hump. I enjoyed writing this chapter a lot, and I didn't mean for it to get so long, so. . . LOL. That happened. The characters I introduced this chapter will be explored later on in the story, but poor Cyra was paying too much attention to them at the time so. . . yes.
Anyway, read and enjoy! And thanks to Karehen and Valkyrie for their reviews. I hope you like!
I can't breathe.
Clench.
I can't breathe!
She heard the fabric around her throat creak as bits of leather and armor rubbed against each other, and she felt a warmth spread over her neck as the talons pierced her skin.
I can't breathe!
Whatever stupid haze had fogged her lucidity was long gone. Fear, adrenaline, and terror were rushing through her veins, sharpening everything to a crystal clearness. She kicked her legs, trying to gain some leverage, some foothold to escape the monster's grip, but she only met empty air. Her fingers pried and clawed at the hand that was wrapped around her throat, and she felt the fabric rip and give away as it caught on rough edges of its hand. As if curious about her struggle, the red creature slowly moved her toward, closer to it, and a shiver crawled down Cyra's spine as she realized it didn't have one eye - it had three.
A low, menacing growl rumbled from it, and whether it was bravery, sheer stupidity, or just the human desire to want to breathe, Cyra cocked her fist back and punched it in the face. And, to her utter amazement, she actually connected, striking a glossy faceplate that acted as a protective cover to the eyes. For a moment, there was silence, but then the creature roared - a sound filled with more indignation than pain - and Cyra discovered in short order that she'd done something very, very stupid.
The creature released her - and Cyra sucked in a noisy, grateful breath of air - and she dropped to her feet, swaying, about to collapse onto the ground. The next moment, however, and Cyra found herself uttering a sharp cry as a massive arm swiped across her stomach, body checking her with more force than she could have believed. She wheezed, feeling like her throat was closing all over again, and taking advantage of her stun, it decided to punch her. A solid fist dove right into her solar plexus, nearly so big it could wrap around her whole waist if it wanted, and Cyra went tumbling over the ground.
It felt like it had driven her stomach up into her throat, and her lungs couldn't decide whether or not they wanted to remain open or closed. She sucked in a few, tiny sips of air, and a lance of fear wove through her as she actually tasted blood on her tongue. What the hell had that thing done to her? Caused internal bleeding just from punching her? There was no way that was possible.
Something hissed next to her head, and she stiffened, craning her neck back. Something looked back at her, reeking of rotting meat (she had to resist the urge to gag, the smell was so strong), but look wasn't quite the right word. She wasn't sure how it even looked - it had no eyes. Just a glossy, somewhat smooth skull. It inched closer to her, skeletal and reminding her of death itself, and Cyra got to her hands and knees, ready to jump up to her feet and finally run - but the larger, pissed-off monster reached her first.
From that point on, Cyra wasn't exactly sure what happened. She just remembered the silver flash of a blade as it swept up, neatly cracking her breastplate and flipping her over - and then another punch. And another. And another.
She was absolutely positive that she heard another crack, this one not from the armor - it came from inside. A sharp pain sliced through her chest, and when she coughed, blood bubbled out onto her lips, dribbling down her chin. She laid there, body wracked with agony, her breaths a wheezing pant.
I'm going to die like this, she thought, somewhat deliriously, . . . but wasn't I already dead? Is this a nightmare?
Whatever it was, she was ready to give up on it. She just wanted that peace back, the blackness, the nothing. It was better than this, the blood, the pain. The nightmare. She just wanted it to be over, because, in truth, she'd forgotten just how damn hard it was to be alive, to try and survive. Dying was so much simpler. . .
Through her hazy attention, she found the red hulking beast easing away, as if satisfied with her work. Something screeched in the air, and more of the skeletal monsters tried to rush forward, as though excited at the prospect of slicing into her - but just as quickly backed away. The screeching stopped, and a thick, oppressive silence laid over the air, weighing Cyra down. Something drew nearer, something that made her very skin crawl, and she blinked as something else came into focus.
It was hard to describe it - but it floated in the air, and also shared the sharp talons that the rest of the monsters did. Something dripped from it, and Cyra jumped as molten hot goop splashed onto her arm, singeing it, scalding her through her clothes, and she tried to flinch away from it, but she was too tired - too pained. She laid there, breathing shallowly, feeling the little ball of metal shivering against her chest, and she realized, far too late, that it wasn't cold. It was terrified.
Thunk.
Cyra frowned, not at all understanding why her chest had just jerked, and stupidly, she looked down, and found. . . a hand. A hand, dripping with the dark sludge, sticking out her chest. Well, no, that wasn't quite right - it was trying, but the talons were having a hard time breaching through the surprisingly durable armor. But. . . But it already had. She could see more blood, mixing up with the black crap, oozing out around the creature's fingers.
Under her breastplate, her skin felt like it was on fire, acid and steel wool scrubbing against it, but the tiny metal ball let out a small, mechanical shriek as the goop finally hit it.
And then the agony hit.
If Cyra thought she'd screamed before, she was so, so mistaken.
In the air above her, over her screams, she swore she heard the thing let out a mirthless chuckle.
"They're avoiding the area today." He said, shouldering his scout rifle.
He didn't have to worry too much about the last Dreg that was trying - not very successfully - to sneak up behind him. He let it think that it was, it was the kind thing to do, after all. Poor Dreg hadn't yet realized that the rest of its crew had already been wiped off the face of the earth. Below him on the plains of the Mothyards, Valore walked over to a nearby airplane and peered through its interior. He knew he was heard, but he only received a noncommittal hum in reply from Valore.
". . . There's nothing here that Holliday would want. Fallen have picked it clean."
"Then what the hell are we standing around here, wasting our time for? Let's go! There's a Crucible tournament coming up soon, and I want us to sign up, thank you very much."
The Dreg decided it would be a good time to swipe. He almost felt sorry for the alien when he caught its wrist, spun around, pulled out his own knife and buried it deep into its throat. Ether pulsed out of the wound, and he calmly picked out his knife and wiped it on the Dreg's arm before it collapsed into a twitching pile on the ground.
"I've no need to prove myself in another one of Lord Saxx's escapades. The Iron Banner holds nothing of interest for me." Valore continued, his voice calmly deadpanning on the commlink.
"What?!"
"Now the Trials of Osiris. . ." Valore continued, "In honor of my Warlock bretheren, you may find me participating in."
Terry, their fireteam's only Titan, had had quite enough of the matter.
"We're all entering!" He demanded, striding up fearlessly to the Warlock.
Valore simply turned to look at Terry, who was fuming like a child. "The crucible is an honorable past time-"
"It. Is. Sacred!" The Titan hissed.
"-but I have responsibilities in my Vanguard. Unless you would like to explain to Ikora that I could not go the moon for scouting purposes?"
Terry gave a low growl, and then spun around and pinned him with a look.
"Kesh! Kesh, I need you for this! We can do it, you and me. We don't need any stupid Warlocks."
Kesh stood there, weighing his opportunities. Finally, after a moment deliberation, he nodded. "I don't see why not. I'll even bring Kade this time."
At that, Terry perked up. "Kade's back?"
Kesh nodded again. "Fresh out of the jungles. He was charged with escort duty for a fireteam to the Archives. He'll be happy not to return to Venus again soon - the Vex seemed to irritate him."
Valore and Terry made their way back over the plains, to Kesh, and when they rejoined, the trio opted to walk back to the transmat point. While a Guardian could technically transmat back to their ship from anywhere on-world, Kesh knew he enjoyed taking his time, walking around, and soaking in the decayed glory of Old Russia. It was where they all belonged - in the thick of the fight, looking for trouble. Amanda Holliday had posted a bounty for fresh ship parts, and Kesh, who had been enjoying some leisurely down time, had received a very eager request from Terry.
Before long, the Titan had wrangled a fireteam together, and they'd been back down to Old Russia.
But the firefight that Kesh had been looking for had been suspiciously absent. The Fallen had left the Mothyards oddly empty, and the Steppes had echoed the same. Still, the Fallen couldn't leave Old Russia alone for very long, and Kesh knew that they'd be back soon. And when they were, he'd be back in the thick of the firefight again, the Exo knew himself too well - the need for a good fight ran through his circuitry.
Within a few minutes, the fireteam had made it back to the original transmat point, and Valore offered a gusty sigh. "I don't think Holliday will appreciate Guardians coming back empty handed."
Kesh offered him a shrug. "Not much that can be done, unless you'd like to donate glimmer?"
"I need all of my glimmer. . . broke my armor last week." Terry grumbled.
Kesh smiled. Terry, being brash and irrational - as usual - had decided that dropping down on a Fallen Captain and punching him in the face had been the best course of action. He hadn't expected the Captain to punch him back - or to break his armor. And armor repairs, as everyone in the Tower knew, were always an expensive glimmer bill. As they hiked up the short hill, Kesh summoned his Ghost, who blinked and shuttered an optic up at him.
"Maybe we'll have better luck tomorrow." His Ghost offered.
"Maybe."
Terry summoned his, but Valore, Kesh noted, was busy staring at a rotting building on the other side of the Steppes. The Warlock seemed enraptured by it, unable to look away. He took a few steps forward, and Kesh looked down at his Ghost, who immediately transmatted back into his armor.
"Valore?" Kesh prompted.
For a moment, the Warlock didn't respond. But finally, he did, pointing to the building.
"On the other side of the Divide. There's something there."
"What is it?" Terry asked.
Valore went quiet before replying, "I don't know. But we have to go there."
Terry and Kesh shared an exchange, before Kesh unslung his rifle and held it. "Let's go."
Terry grumbled again, but without protesting, shouldered his shotgun. Making their way down the hill, the Guardians trekked across the Steppes without much trouble. They entered the building, but the farther in he walked, the more uneasy Kesh felt. There was something heavy and weighted in the air, and Kesh didn't like it. His grip on his gun tightened, and several of his battle programs began to activate, anticipating some kind of ambush. Next to him, the humans were undergoing the same change - their muscles were tensing, their heart rates rising. . .
And then a shrill, female scream split the air. For a moment, the three Guardians stopped, and looked at each other, but Valore's Ghost sprang into the air, shell spinning at a rate that made it blur.
"A Newborn!" The Ghost exclaimed, "A Newborn is with the Hive!"
Newborn? Kesh thought, jerking his head to the snow-covered exit of the the building. A ruined truck sat there, but beyond that, Kesh saw the telltale silver body of a Thrall sprinting away from them. The scream sounded again, making Kesh's circuits shiver. For a moment, just a quick, small flash of a moment, the Divide dissipated, and he was back in the worst firefight of his life. Everywhere he looked, shots were bouncing off of Fallen and Guardian alike, and he kept seeing his brothers and sisters in arms falling, Ghosts dying, Saxx's voice yelling out across the battlefield-
But then he was back.
"Let's go!" Valore barked, running forward. Terry was right next to him, and Kesh hesitated just a moment before he followed at the tail end of their party. As they popped out of the building and into the Divide, Kesh saw things that didn't quite make a whole lot of sense. A ring of Knights stood by impassively, as if curiously spectating, and just a small bit away there was a Wizard - a type of which Kesh hadn't run into before - was hovering over a Newborn, who was frantically clawing at its arm, which was sinking further and further into the Newborn's chest.
Terry didn't waste any time. He sprinted forward, Light gathering around his armor, and with a powerful jump, launched himself into the air and struck the ground with enough force for the air to crack. The ground crackled and pulsed as Arc Light sped forward, enveloping and destroying the nearest ring of Acolytes and Thralls. They died, screaming, as their bodies turned to ash and burnt away to nothing. Kesh was quick to snap his rifle up, lining the sights with the nearest Knight, who thought it would be intelligent enough to try and attack the Titan as he got up again. The Knight's head snapped back as bullets cracked through its tough armor, and stunned it. Terry did the rest, running up to it and punching the Knight, who also went down in a blaze of ash.
Valore ran forward, Void energy gathering at his fingertips as he took to the air and thrust his hand forward, channeling a Nova Bomb. More Acolytes, Thralls, and Knights fell as the veteran Guardians waged their assault, breaking their ranks. Kesh sprinted forward himself, sliding right between the Titan and the Warlock as they began firing, creating a path for him. The scout rifle was no sniper rifle, but Kesh was handy with both. Coming up in a crouch, the Hunter brought the scope to his optic and took careful aim before he fired.
The Wizard jerked as the bullet struck her in the shoulder, and she screeched, an unholy sound, but refused to disengage from the Newborn. Instead, it swiped its arm across, summoning a poisonous bubble of miasma that surrounded them both, concealing them from view. Kesh cursed - the Newborn wouldn't last long in the bubble.
It was no secret that the Hive had taken a keen interest in the Traveler and its Light. There were records of Ghosts being taken, and pumped for information. Even further, there were records of heinous experiments on Guardians. . . It was little wonder why they were tormenting the Newborn. They probably want to dissect it.
In response to the Wizard's cry, balls of acid-green transmatter formed in the air, quickly dispensing Thralls and Acolytes. This time, Terry cursed, and the Titan took to sprinting to and fro in the battlefield, pumping Hive full of lead with his shotgun, and finishing those survivors off with a quick punch. Valore was close behind him, and Kesh offered the Warlock cover as he weaved and danced through the hordes of unnatural enemies, getting closer and closer to the Wizard and her prey.
When he was close enough, the Warlock summoned another ball of Void energy.
"Newborn!" He shouted, "Use your Light! Break free!"
"Valore!" Kesh cried out, finger hovering over the trigger. There was no way to shoot the threat, but as Valore's head snapped up, he knew it was obvious the Warlock had seen it.
Kesh watched helplessly as a Knight jumped through the Wizard's miasma, sword raised and brought down in a quick silver flash. Valore let out a pained cry as the sword damn near split him in two, and he collapsed onto the ground, blood leaking onto the snow. Kesh sprinted forward, firing at the Hive stupid enough to try and approach him, and as he drew closer, watching as the Knight raised the sword to slaughter the Warlock, he drew his throwing knife and planted it squarely in the Knight's cracked visor.
It roared in agony, stumbling backward, affording Kesh enough time to grab the wounded Warlock and heft him back, away from the Knights that were trying to close in around them. Terry was there a moment later, Light crackling around his arms as he thrust them out, conjuring a Ward of Dawn. Satisfied with their momentary protection, Kesh laid Valore out on the ground, and was relieved to find the Warlock's Ghost rapidly repairing the damage, reconfiguring the human's body.
"The Newborn won't last much longer." Kesh said, taking precious moments in the Ward to reload.
The Exo could see rage filter across the Titan's frame. "Bastards." He seethed.
The Hunter turned to the Warlock, who was groggily coming to. "Valore, how much longer?"
"Just need a moment. . ." The Warlock said, weakly.
A moment we don't have, the Exo thought with a heavy heart pump. Already, the Newborn's cries of pain were growing weaker as the miasma darkened, their forms blurring out entirely.
Cyra was trapped in a hazy twilight of agony and fire.
When she breathed, it felt as though acid had been poured down her throat, flooding her body with poisonous sludge. And in return, it made everything burn. But the real pain radiated from her chestplate, where the talons kept driving down deeper and deeper, as if searching for her heart. Above her, the beast trilled, in some strange sort of pleasurable way, as if her suffering brought her joy. And Cyra wanted to cry, all over again. She was scared shitless. Here she was, not really sure if she was really alive or dead, but she was fairly certain she was going to die again if this continued.
She'd lived through worse than this, hadn't she?
. . . Hadn't she?
Would it be so bad to give up? She'd fought once, and she'd only lived a handful of years. And now, here she was, on the cusp of dying a second time. Life is a precious gift, taken from so many, but gifted to those who have the courage to last. Courage. . . If she died, would that make her a coward? In her chestplate, she heard the little ball whimper.
"If I die, so do you. Again." It whispered, voice barely audible.
Yes, Cyra realized in a strange moment of clarity.
Giving up would make her a coward.
Inexplicably, she was momentarily removed from her body. And Cyra realized she was sick of being afraid. She was tired of always living with fear in her heart, of being terrified of looking into the darkness and waiting to see what would jump out and try to kill her. Most importantly, she hated that she didn't have the power to defend herself. Here she was, just laying down and taking it. She was just waiting to die. When she sank back into her body, her fear evaporated as sheer, unadulterated rage replaced it.
Above her, the creature quirked its head, as if sensing a change, and Cyra glared up at it. Outside of the black bubble surrounding her, Cyra was sure she heard voices, telling her to fight, to struggle, to survive. And goddammit, that was exactly what she was going to do. Energy rushed through her, crackling through her veins and making her feel alive. Instinctively, on her hip, she knew there was a small, simple knife just waiting for her to grab it. Abandoning the hope of pulling the claws of the monster out of her chest, Cyra reached down, grabbing the hilt of the knife, and as soon as he hand connected, bright, beautiful blue light flashed around her.
And her body knew what to do.
She reared her arm back as much as she was able and thrust the knife forward, into the neck of the creature. It screamed in agony, but Cyra yanked the knife out and plunged it in again, making the wound worse. With every strike, light flashed and cracked around them both, until finally it exploded, shattering the dark bubble. Cyra channeled everything she had - all of her grief, her confusion, her pain, her rage, and with a battle cry, gathered her feet underneath her and kicked. The monster dislodged, the claws finally coming free, and her body moved without her permission, survive and fight taking control. She moved, sprinting forward, the knife hilt clenched tightly in her hand, and she struck out at the creature, and one final blow was all the monster could take. It burnt away, disintegrating into dust, but Cyra didn't revel in her victory.
More monsters were already pressing in around her - and she rushed forward to meet them, swinging her knife. Every struck made the light explode, sending out jolting electric currents that pushed the monsters back. The one that had punched her, made her bleed - she got him next, along with a few of the smooth-skulled ones, and she had just enough energy for one more before the light - the power - began to evaporate inside of her, leaving her standing there, and breathing heavily.
In her chestplate, the little machine breathed out a shaky sigh of relief, murmuring words she didn't hear before going quiet.
Something dissipated with a noisy crack, and Cyra jumped, startled.
Three more armored shapes stood there, looking roughly human - but so had the ones in red. One of them took a step towards her, and Cyra glanced down at her knife. It wasn't covered in the blue light anymore, and she doubted she could make more. She was exhausted, running on fumes of fumes, and already, more of the screeches were drawing closer.
Where's Captain? He'll know what to do. I have to find a safe place to contact him. . .
The person took another step closer, and with a decisive action, Cyra holstered her knife, spun on her heel and ran the other way. She didn't know who they were - didn't know what any of this was - but she'd be damned if she stuck around. She had to find Captain. Voices called out to her back, but she ignored them. Blood dribbled over her chestplate, and Cyra clapped a hand over the round holes in a futile hope of stemming the blood.
The ammo hut was right in front of her - the last place she'd seen Captain. A red-armored creature tried to strike her, but she ducked under its blow and dashed inside of the building, plunging into the wreckage of it. Captain had been there, she was positive of it. When she found him, she'd get an explanation, an order - something. Moments passed before Cyra realized she'd stopped moving. . . because there was nowhere else to go. The roof had collapsed long ago, creating a small hole she'd been able to shimmy through. It was quiet, finally, but the Captain was nowhere to be found.
With a wet sound, Cyra finally collapsed onto her knees, her shoulder pressing against a steel beam.
Tears built in her eyes, also to Cyra's confusion - why the hell should she cry? She was finally resting, and she was sure she'd find Captain soon.
She heard a noise behind her, and sluggishly turned her head. There, in the small hole she'd shimmied into, was. . . A machine? Well, yeah, she supposed, it had to be a machine. Human eyes didn't glow. He didn't have hair, just a smooth skull (or what she supposed was a skull), and complicated-looking machinery combining together to form a face that passed as roughly human.
"Hey." It said, sounding male, "Hey, it's alright. Here. Come here."
She stared, not moving.
Go back out of the safe house? No, she'd rather just stay there and watch as her blood continued to drip onto the ground. She was alright in the building. Captain had to come back eventually, didn't he?
"I understand. You're afraid. When I was a Newborn, I was scared, too. But I know you can be brave. I just saw you do it."
Newborn?
He stretched a hand in, and Cyra looked at it, momentarily relieved. There was five fingers, no talons, just gloves covered with small armor pieces.
"I need you to trust me - you're among friends now. I'm a Guardian, just like you. But I have to ask you to be brave - for me."
Behind him, she saw more of the red armor, and a purple bullet impacted with his shoulder. He jerked, but he didn't make a sound or move. He just crouched there, one hand reaching out for her, gentle blue, glowing eyes staring at her. And for some inexplicable reason, Cyra felt like she could trust him. He reminded her of Captain. With a shaking arm, she pressed it forward, and it felt like an eternity before she managed it, but she slipped her hand into his own.
And quicker than she could blink, he latched onto her and dragged her from the small hole the wreckage had provided, crushing her against his chest. A roar - promising pain and revenge - made Cyra's ears ring, and she squeaked as she saw more of the red armored beasts charging them - three in total. More than she knew she could handle. One of them sliced down, and the man took them both down to the floor. Cyra laid there, watching as he crouched, hands grasping at a hilt that began to materialize out of thin air. A bright, golden light burst from the robot man's body, and he lined up a gun to the monsters, taking careful, precise aim before he fired.
One shot was all he needed. They all died, one at a time, as he killed them with ease, and his gun fizzled away out of existence.
More monsters charged them - these ones bearing guns - and the robot man cursed as one of them fired, making Cyra's ears pop as it exploded overhead. He dove down, crouching over her and covering her. Cyra watched in muted disinterest as the monsters came closer, sensing victory. . . and then bright, beautiful sunlight began to fill the room. It grew warm, just a tick over uncomfortable, but the monsters didn't fare so well. They burned, screeching in agony, before they fizzled away to dust.
And as the sunlight faded, darkness finally began to cobweb over Cyra's vision.
"Newborn? Newborn!" A hand shook her shoulder, trying to wake her, but the peace that sleep offered was a much more enticing offer.
She continued to fade, only remaining partially awake as she felt, more than saw, more people approaching.
"No, Kesh, you're wounded. Valore, you're just as bad. Willow, page the medical deck for me. Tell them we have three incoming, one a Newborn."
A mechanical chirrup.
"I'm fine-"
"Shut up and move. Newborn Hunter or not, your right ligament got severed. Valore, damn you, you nearly got sliced in half. Move, both of you. this is what I get for not creating a Titan fireteam. . ."
Arms slid under her, effortlessly picking her up, and Cyra breathed shallowly as a twinge of pain in her chest made her wake up slightly.
"Kesh, subspace her helmet. Her Ghost is offline - see it there, under the breastplate? - let's see if we lost any vital parts of the face. Helmet was cracked to hell and back."
She felt fingers at the back of her neck, a small pressure, and then cool, winter air struck her face. For a moment, there was silence, and then somebody let out a sound rather like a humorless chuckle.
"Been alive a long time," The voice said, "But I'll admit it. . . this is a first."