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: Drama. . kinda. And by drama, I mean normal life activities. Nothing much this chapter. c:

Author's Notes: Alright, another chapter up!

The more I play Destiny, the more this starts to take shape. I love the Destiny universe and the Destiny lore. Everything I've been doing has been Destiny, Destiny, Destiny. Everybody I know is sick and tired of hearing me talk about what happened in my game. . . but I know they'll eventually buy a copy themselves if I keep up the pressure.

In any case! Not too much to say about this chapter. And while I do plan on spending some time during Cyra's training days, don't worry, well be hitting the fast forward button. I don't like long training arcs. In any case!

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Cyra got a lot of impressions while she was sleeping. At times, she felt arms holding her, and at others, she felt like she was floating, nothing but air supporting her. Pain reverberated through her entire body, a fierce, anguishing reminder to her that no, she was not dead. In fact, she was the furthest thing from dead that there ever was. She was very much alive. Even then, trapped in the hazy lucidity of sleep, it was utterly mind blowing for her to even consider. She remembered death - she knew she'd been dead. But then, just like that, a hand had forced its way into the black and had yanked her from the abyss.

She'd been dead. The pain had been over - dying had freed her from the trials of life. She'd been liberated of. . . everything. And yet, there she was, trapped in a fleshy body again, slave and prisoner ro her own heartbeat.

Another impression interrupted her thoughts: arms again, touching her, brushing matted hair back away from her forehead.

"All my years a Titan, and I've never seen one like you." A voice murmured. She faintly recognized it, but she couldn't put a face to it. The voice continued, "We've arrived at the Tower, disembarking now. No transmatting for you, yet. . . I think you've seen enough excitement for one day."

His arms moved, sliding under her, attempting to be gentle, but pain speared through the left side of her chest, pulling her from the stony grip of sleep. She made a pained noise, wriggling halfheartedly in his hold, attempting to break free. In return, she heard a guilty hum.

"Sorry, Newborn. You Hunters are so fragile - Warlocks, too, for that matter. Both Valore and Kesh have been blowing up my comm feed to find out how you're doing. Don't worry - we're about to give you to the Warlocks, and they'll get you fixed up. No interrogation sessions for you today."

Cyra cracked open her eyes, although the effort sapped most of her strength. Beautiful, warm sunlight filtered over her, leeching heat into her bones and chasing away the bitter cold of the snow and ice. She didn't think she recalled a time where it hadn't been cold. . . did. . . did she? Cyra paused, and realized she didn't remember much of anything, now that she thought about it. Sure, the short talk with Captain Byron, and the lights of the plasma shots as they raced towards her. . . but that was it. Other than that, there was nothing but yawning blackness, much like the blanket of death.

"Haha, I see those eyes. You're awake - that's good, Newborn, means the world hasn't killed you yet. Hold on - Valore? Valore, you're running low on LIght. Leave my comm feed alone and go to medical. I will personally knock you out if you don't. . . Sheehs. You'd think a Warlock would listen. Kesh decided he was feeling neglected and wanted more repairs, too, so he's going to medical deck. And you? You decided it would be a good idea to jump into a meat grinder. And they say Titans are a stupid bunch. . ."

It was hard to focus on his voice for very long, primarily because it sounded like it was coming to her through a long tunnel. Still, she struggled to stay awake, and tried even harder to concentrate on what was going on. She heard more voices, the sound of footsteps, and blurry shadows fell into her vision.

"Thank you, Titan," A cool, calm voice said, "We'll take over from here. The Newborn will be in the medical deck-"

"What if I want to know her status?"

"Then file a status inquiry with NURS-447, or speak directly to Ikora. Now, Titan, please give us the Newborn. Her Light is low, and her injuries are grievous. She will need time to heal. . . Oh, I believe you mentioned her Ghost in the comm?"

"Yeah, it's right there, under the breastplate - see it? I'm not sure if it's damaged. . . We weren't there for the whole altercation."

"The Hive are responsible for this, you say? Odd."

Hands fluttered over her chestplate, searching for latches to release it. Cyra tensed, her mind hearing the voice of the little machine again. Run, it had said. If it died, so did she. And here it was, dormant under her armor, cracked and probably broken. Who were these people? And why were they trying to get to it? Just the thought of somebody touching the metal ball sent a lance of panic surging through her. Somehow, the hands succeeded in their quest, and the tight, protective, reassuring embrace of her armor fell away.

"Damaged," The calm voice assessed, "But not beyond the point of salvaging."

Fingers brushed against her chest, wrapping around something. . . and then it was gone.

Anxiety flooded her, giving her enough strength to move, to struggle against the arms holding her. Give it back!

She didn't know why the absence of the little metal ball terrified her, but it felt as though somebody were trying to take her heart away. Somehow, impossibly, Cyra managed to shove at the person holding her, and probably because they weren't expecting her to act out - she actually managed to fall. Though it was impossible at that point, Cyra landed on her feet, breathing heavily as she tried to orient herself. She swayed, feeling drunk and weak, but staggered forward anyway, looking for the metal ball. It was close, she could sense it, feel it like it was an extension of herself. She just had to get it back.

As much as she hated it from pulling her from death, the thought of dying again was not appealing. . . not yet, anyway. Not with so much undiscovered.

There.

Through the little flashes of light and color, she saw it, broken and its light flickering weakly, supported by a black-gloved hand.

A hand touched her, trying to pull her back, and she violently shook them away.

"No." The calm voice said, "We will take care of this."

She ignored everything, everyone, and shambled forward, intent on getting to that ball. It felt like it took an eternity, but she managed it, and reached for it, relief pouring through her when she finally laid her hands on it. The world felt a little more right with it in her grip again. The gloved hand, however, refused to relinquish it, keeping it from her.

She tried to speak, and at first the words didn't come out - but finally, she remembered how to talk again.

"Give it back," She rasped, her throat feeling like sandpaper, "Let go."

A chuckle. "Spirited. You'll make it through this yet, Newborn."

Lethargy was washing over her in waves, but she fought it. She hadn't taken back the metal ball yet. It seemed important that she should have it - vitally important. Darkness cobwebbed over her vision, and she tried harder, the world blurring as she kept prying at the black gloves, trying to get them to give her the metal machine. As her legs refused to support her, she swore she heard an amused chuckle as the world blinked into darkness, sleep claiming her again.

She blinked, the world slowly coming into focus.

Muted lights illuminated a stereotypically gray room. For a minute, Cyra was completely content to just lay there, somewhat surprised to feel a soft, contouring surface under her back. It had been so long since she'd slept on an actual bed, she'd almost forgotten what it had felt like. . . right? She didn't. . . Cyra shook her head mentally. She couldn't remember. She frowned, and closed her eyes, concentrating. In her mind, her memories were like hazy motes of light, lazily flickering back and forth, refusing to make any sense. For the most part, there wasn't much she could remember. She could replay the moment of her death, over and over again - the moment of Exodus failing, Captain Byron telling her to save as many as she could, the Fallen skiff. . .

And those creatures.

What the hell are they? Just thinking about them made shivers crawl down her spine. She'd never seen anything like them before, and she swallowed against a thickness in her throat as she remembered the one that had hovered in the air, stabbed her. . .

The memory continued, flashing in disjointed pieces in front of her. She could hear the voices, and then the light, the way it had poured liquid power into her veins. . .

The metal ball!

Cyra sat up - and immediately fell over. She caught herself on the side of the cot just in time, body already aching. It felt as though she'd been running for miles without stopping, and had then proceeded to run herself ragged in a firefight. . . Which was kind of what happened, in a roundabout way. Miraculously, however, there was no pain. Finally noticing that, Cyra looked down at herself, and she shifted in surprise when she found. . . nothing. No bandages, no hasty field dressings. She was covered by something light and airy, with ties down the side for easy slip-on and slip-off. Her hand shook as she lifted it and patted herself, checking for gaping wounds, but there were none.

"Claws," She murmured, her voice hoarse and raspy, "There were claws."

She could see the blood and the black goop pulsing out of the holes on her chest, the acid and the fire. . . Dropping her hand, she took in a steadying breath, and finally looked around her. She was sitting in the middle of a room, a gray room, but speckled on the walls were strange symbols. They pulsed and glowed, giving off the muted light she'd noticed before. As she looked at them, she realized she didn't know what the hell they were. She couldn't read them - they were alien to her. That should have alarmed her, should have frightened her, but Cyra had reached the end of her tolerance. She was tired of being afraid of the unknown.

She wasn't dead, so whatever the symbols on the wall meant, it had to be somewhat friendly. . . maybe. Still, it gave rise to other ideas: had she been kidnapped by aliens? What was up with the writing - was it a new system of letters in order to communicate so the Fallen couldn't understand what they were saying?

She'd never know unless she went out exploring.

Though fatigue was making every one of her muscles shake, Cyra forced herself to slide off the bed, and using it as a support, stood there as her legs shook and threatened to dump her on the floor. She swore under her breath as she peered around, looking for a door - oh. There.

The compulsion to find the little metal ball grew inside of her, along with Captain Byron. In all honesty, she couldn't discern which one was stronger - but she knew which one was more likely. The little metal ball was somewhere, she didn't know where, but an invisible tugging was telling her that it was nearby.

Alright, Cyra thought, steeling her resolve, Just have to get through the door and follow the tug. I'll get there.

If her body would support her. Cyra shifted her grip, hand-over-hand, on the bed, and began to shuffle her way to the edge of it. From there, she was planning on making a brief dash for the wall and having that take a brunt of her weight. . .

Well, that had been the plan.

What happened was the door opening, admitting a. . . an alien.

Cyra stood there in stupefied shock as she stared at the woman. Well, she hoped it was a woman, anyway. She had absolutely gorgeous lavender skin, and short, glossy, impeccable black hair that fell to her chin. Her bangs were pulled up and clasped in the back, to keep them out of her face. Glowing, piercing blue eyes stared at her, and Cyra was fairly certain that those eyes could see right through her soul. Strange markings looked tattooed onto her face, and they crinkled as the woman smiled.

"Ah, I figured you would be awake. Veleth always underestimates Newborns. He believed you would be unconscious for another three days."

Without waiting to invite herself in, the woman crossed the room with an ethereal grace Cyra was instantly jealous of. She looked at the purple-skinned alien, blinking in shock at her garb. Robes, fitted tightly and spotted through with armor, covered the woman, bearing crests and symbols that looked the same as the ones on the walls. Up close, her beauty was even more enchanting, and Cyra was simply content to just stand there, gawking at her.

The woman came to stand next to her, and after glancing at her another time, gave her a quick once-over. The smile morphed into a knowing nod.

"I see. It will be at least another day before those tremors subside. Your Light is still weak - you were lucky to escape the Hive as you did."

Her voice was soft, light, lilting, enchanting. . . Cyra was sure she could go on for decades describing it. As it were, it almost made her stand still and stare at her more - but Cyra shook her head, regaining some of her wits about her. Clutching the bed tightly, she did her best not to fall over, and shivered when the woman grabbed her, steadying her.

"Who are. . . Who are you?"

"I am Ritasky."

"Rita. . . Rihat. . . Rita?"

"Ree-ta-sk. Humans always have difficulty pronouncing Awoken names."

"Rita?"

". . . Rita functions fine."

"You're a. . . an Awoken? I don't. . . Alien?"

She laughed, the sound something like chiming bells. "I suppose. Awoken are human. . . Evolved humans, but human still at heart. We've merely been exposed to space longer than you, to the Darkness. . ."

Awoken? Darkness? Evolved humans? Cyra shook her head again, a headache forming.

"I don't have time. . . Ball. Captain. Find."

The words came out staccato, and it hurt to try and talk. Her throat was already aching, matching the one growing in her head. More than that, it was just. . . It was like, in the time since she'd been asleep, her brain had somehow forgotten how to correctly form sentences. She was grasping at a half-empty dictionary, and it was hard for her to string together full sentences.

"You're talking - that's a good sign," Rita said, giving her shoulder a squeeze, "But let's lay down on the cot again-"

"Ball." Cyra said, shaking off her hand, "Captain. Have to find."

"Ball? Oh, your Ghost. Still in recovery, I'm afraid. It's somewhere close to the Traveler - it will be back with you soon, I promise."

"Captain! Captain Byron!" She said, becoming exasperated.

At that, Rita's face changed, a guarded look coming over her eyes. "Let's lay down on the cot-"

"Captain." Cyra said, refusing to move.

For a moment, the two stood there, at odds with each other, and finally, Rita offered her something of a sigh. "I don't know how to tell you this gently, Newborn. But your Captain is long dead. We can't access the records - most were destroyed with time - but we guess that he's been dead for roughly four or five hundred years. Our estimates are rough - it could be longer."

Liar.

Cyra shook her head. "N-No. Lies."

"No lies, Newborn. Only truth. Think - when you were Reborn, you woke in the exact place you died. Blue Exodus. The buildings were rusted, the ship broken in half, the walls torn apart. . ."

Cyra wanted to deny it. She wanted to laugh in her face. But her words made her pause, and just like that, one of the hazy motes finally approached her, memories growing clearer. When she'd blinked, and the world had come into focus, she could see the ammo hut, the walls. . . all decayed. With time. Shock rippled through her, and as she remembered more, she realized the woman was telling the truth. She'd been so concerned with dying back then, that she hadn't really looked at her surroundings. But she had time to think about them now.

And somehow. . . She just. . . She just knew. She wanted to say no, the woman was clearly mistaken, but Exodus was right there, in her mind, for her to examine.

"D-Dead?" She echoed, her voice trembling.

Rita's face softened, and she squeezed her shoulder again. "Yes. But you are Reborn - your second life awaits you. All is not lost. The battle you waged in Exodus gave life to those who survived the fight."

Rita's words rolled right over Cyra. Captain Byron. . . Dead. The man had been something of a father to her, taking over when her parents had died. He'd been the one to teach her how to break down a gun in thirty seconds, clean it, strip it, how to carry it and aim it, how to sneak about, how to hide in the shadows. . . He'd taught her how to live. In her chest, her heart squeezed, and before she'd known what was happening, tears burned in her eyes and dripped down her cheeks.

She wanted to scream, wanted to sob and scream. It felt like her pain was ripping her apart, shredding her to pieces on the inside. Next to her, Rita shifted, as though she wasn't sure what to do, but then she patted the cot.

"Want to lay down?"

Cyra shook her head. She knew if she laid down, her lethargy would drag her into sleep, and if that happened, she'd dream. . . and she knew exactly who the focal point of those dreams would be. Rita sighed next to her, and then took her hand, and wrapped an arm around her waist.

"Then no bed. How about a bath?"

Anything sounded better than going to sleep. Taking her silence as a yes, Rita began to walk, supporting all of Cyra's dead weight as she moved them out of the room. Cyra hardly noticed - the tears continued to crawl down her cheeks, and every now and then in sucked in a choppy breath of air. Her entire body shook, but if she were being entirely honest with herself, she wasn't sure if it was from the effort of keeping her sobs contained, or if her body was just ready to give up on her.

Rita guided her a short distance down the hallway, and entered another room. Sitting Cyra down, she rummaged around in a few cabinets before she was back at Cyra's side, her fingers working at the ties of the robe. Cyra let it happen, ignoring some tiny voice in the back of her head as it screamed, 'don't look at me! Don't look at me when I'm naked!' Her body? She didn't care much about it. Her scars, on the other hand. . . Any notions of modesty were shoved aside as grief for Byron grew again.

Rita didn't let her stew in misery too long. She stood Cyra up, letting the robe slip off her completely, and then wrapped her up in a large swath of fluffy fabric. Tying it around her a few times, Rita guided her into another room, where hot steam washed over her. With the woman's hands guiding her, Cyra let herself be led into a pool of comfortably-hot water, and was guided to sit down on a ledge.

Cyra cried in silence as Rita sat behind her, her bare legs pressing against both sides of her. The purple-skinned woman began to talk, her voice echoing in the bath-chamber as she filled the silence. She washed Cyra's hair, taking time to massage her fingers through the lanky brown strands. In another time, another life, Cyra would have enjoyed the luxury, would have adored somebody taking so much time to pamper her.

As it were, her heart was heavy as a stone in her chest, and her sorrow kept her silent, her mind filling the voice with images of Byron.

"Ritasky has sent an update stating the Newborn is awake." Ikora spoke, dismissing the holo feed with a wave of her hand. Next to her, Invective shuttered an optic in the air, looking to the Vanguard leader.

"So soon?" Cayde asked, perking up.

Next to him, Kesh straightened from his work on the map, looking at the Warlock. The Newborn was awake already? A good sign. It meant that they had to have retrieved her before her Light extinguished.

Zavala looked up from his own maps, but merely offered a shrug. "The Newborn Titan we received less than two weeks ago was awake within three hours."

Kesh glanced at the Vanguard leader - everything always had to be a competition with Titans, didn't it? Still, the Exo looked down at the map, and satisfied with his handiwork, slid it over to Cayde, who looked troubled as he read it.

"I'd like to request to see her, if at all possible." Kesh said, looking at Ikora.

"I'll log it with Ritasky. . . She favors you too much, Hunter."

Kesh grinned at the human. "A perk of being her Mentor, no doubt."

A whisper of a smile glimmered on Ikora's face, but she called attention to the table by placing her hands down on its surface. Cayde shook his head, dismissing the map, and turned to Kesh.

"Alright, Hunter. From the beginning. Tell us everything."

Kesh did, leaving nothing out of his story. As he finished his story, he examined the faces of the Vanguard leaders - Ikora looked thoughtful, Zavala appeared troubled, and Cayde looked angry.

"The Hive have never been this bold before." Zavala said as Kesh grew quiet.

Cayde shook his own. "A Newborn. They attack Newborn. That's as cowardly as striking a human child! She hadn't been Reborn for more than five minutes!"

"More troubling," Ikora said quietly, "Is the purpose for such an attack. What have they to gain from attempting to kill a Newborn?"

Kesh shook his head. "Your guess it as good as mine, Ikora. Perhaps it was to get her Ghost?"

"Even so, such measures have never been taken before." Ikora returned. She finally looked up to Kesh, nodding her head. "Thank you for your report, Hunter. We will discuss this matter at length and report our findings to you and your fireteam. If this proves the same as the other cases. . ."

Kesh grinned, excitement speeding up his heart pump. "I've no doubt. And you know what my answer will be."

Cayde gave him a hearty whack on his shoulder, striking the cauldron there. "You know who our top choice will be, Kesh. Now, get some rest. You look like you could use it. We'll be in contact soon."

Kesh nodded, and respectfully taking his leave, he turned and strode out of the Hall. While he was concerned with the Newborn's status, it was excitement he found overshadowing it.

The Tower had been getting dull as of late.

Now?

Now, things were about to become interesting again.