A/N: I will be doing something a little different with my quotes in this story. For those who have read my other stories, I keep the quotes anonymous—because a few I use from friends, as well as different stories—but here they'll be Destiny oriented. Because why the heck not?
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The Return Home—Right?
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Name: Eos Chasma
Base: Firebase Delphi
Location: Southern part of Valles Marineris, east; north-west of Loire Valles; south-west of Margaritifer Terra
Coordinates: 15.7S/46.8°W
Length: 1,413 km/877 mi
"We have just as much to learn from our enemies as we do from our past."
—Master Rahool
Seeker hovered beside the medical tank where his Psionic Guardian was interred, watching him. The creature was floatng inside bacta-fluid, a mysterious substance recovered from Golden Age tech, healing both from his injuries sustained from the Vex and premortem trauma which had undoubtedly led to his death. Holborn, the Martian veteran responsible for the outpost, had insisted they use Cabal chemicals alongside the bacta. Psions were an awful lot like the bulkier Cabal, living inside pressurized suits full of a stinking oil composed of hundred of different chemicals—most of which were entirely foreign to human knowledge. Still, the table of the elements being as they are, many had been able to be synthesized using local materials thanks to a Cryptarch stationed at Master Rahool's behest. What good they did to the Psion remained to be seen, for so far only the bacta seemed to have any effect on him.
Now that the Psion—looking strangely at peace inside the tank—had stopped trying to kill him Seeker took the opportunity to observe him. He had no illusions about the meaning of his choice: all Ghosts were directed by the Traveler to seek out warriors full of Light, and this one was no exception. That aside, Psion physiology was remarkably similar to humankind: bipedal, bilateral, and roughly the same height as a tall man. Only Titans and Exos stood taller than they.
However there were differences—four-fingered, like their larger-counterparts; stood on their toes instead of the soles once the boots had been removed; and thinner, slighter than even Hive Thrall. There was no visible nose save for two nostril slits, no visible ears, and a small mouth currently plugged with a rebreather. According to other field intelligence, they moved swiftly and decisively, their voices were higher-pitched, and served as pilots, engineers, operatives, and psychokinetic specialists. That psychokinesis was their most dangerous asset, manipulating Arc energy freely; and other reports indicated some controlled Solar and Void just as easily.
There was where the City's intelligence on Psions ended. Most of it had come from a Ghost who spent years living on Mars, one of the first to do so, hiding inside Cabal bases, watching and observing the enemy. It was there the City learned there was some hint of division within the Cabal warmachine, but only just. In battle they worked together and with no disunity.
So what made this Psion different?
In the past there had been some false starts in reviving Fallen, but each and every one of those had collapsed before being remade wholly. It was as if something inside them—be it physical or moral—that rejected the Ghost's unilateral offer to life. No attempts had been made with living Fallen. There was not a single Dreg or Vandel, let alone the higher ups, who wouldn't jump for the chance to dismantle a Ghost. That one Fallen creature in the Reef was too… oily… for the few Ghosts who looked him over.
Underneath that purple-and-blue armor the Psion's skin was surprisingly pink, but not white at all. Either this was his natural color or there was something else that kept the skin healthy. It rather reminded Seeker of newborn puppies. He chuckled at the mental image that produced—a mother dog clustered with young puppies. Aha, that's what the Psion represented the most, a doggish-like creature. A pity his head was so humanlike as to be uncanny.
Checking the tank readings one more time (nothing significant had changed or been altered drastically) Seeker decided his time here was done, for now. The Psion wasn't going anywhere, and in his knocked-out, drugged-up state he was hardly able to anyway. His rear plates clicking Seeker turned about and left the room, feeling slightly more optimistic about the future. The Psion will fit in just right, he thought. It'll just take some time getting used to. I only hope the Cryptarchs will let the poor fellow get some rest, eat and drink, and have his own pleasure every now and then.
Having long since found the ongoing Crucible match boring to watch, Seeker went to the armory. Here was stored every single bit of technology Guardians recovered from the field and that which was too much or too bulky to carry away back to the City. Also stored was the largest collection of Cabal ordnance outside a firebase warehouse—Interceptors, sand-skimmers, walkers both light and heavy, all manner of infantry weapons and armor. Most of these were for study and reengineering, and a few for patrol.
There were many uses a Ghost had inside the armory. For one thing there was always new things to be scanned, cataloged, and stored for later usage or transport. For another there was always something broken that needed to be fixed, and required a Ghost's analysis. For the Cabal gear this last was especially true. It seemed that without regular maintenance just about after every other use one vehicle or another would suffer some kind of internal problem that needed to be investigated and repaired. For all of the Cabal's impressive feats of engineering, folk said, they were quite shoddy about keeping or even using the manual.
Locating the armory Seeker entered, the doors parting without a sound.
Over along one side, closest to the main entrance, hovered twelve Interceptors at the ready, for whenever a Guardian needed armor and weapon support. Above them were racks and racks of various Sparrow models, most of them old and outdated. Opposite them were the sand-skimmers, large transports that were the land-based equivalent of a Harvester. Not very useful for Guardians, as they both had their own methods of transport, and that the Cabal were notorious in detonating them whenever one was spotted. Looming above these were three walkers, two of them light, the last heavy. These were very useful in field patrols against Vex, and not even the Cabal seemed to care the few times a squad was engaged with them.
Ignoring all of these Seeker went over to a side chamber where the armor was stored. Inside was all of the different armors Guardians used—or, as often was the case, didn't use—kept safely stored for when needed. Also here, illuminated by Seeker's eye, was the ramshackle armor he made for his Psionic Guardian—
He halted in mid-flight. No, no, that would never do, he thought. He couldn't keep on thinking of him as "the Psion" or "that Psionic Guardian". No, that man—thing—creature—whatever was going to have a name, a real, proper name.
Hmm…
Come to think of it, he couldn't think of any names. In fact, he wasn't even sure Psions had names, let alone their own unique names. Or did they have Cabal names? Or was it just numbers for them? Well, better start somewhere…
Let's see…
Nu'uarc? Hmm, possibility, possibility…
Vuruz? No, too… Hive-ish.
Dau'uol? Eh… sit on that one for later.
Vau'uark? Too long.
Khau'uod? Was that even a name?
Well, to be fair, all of these were names pulled out of a Cabal roster, and a very mundane one at that—soldiers assigned to janitorial duties for infractions against their unit, boss, or something else entirely. Seeker didn't like any of those names, except for the the first one, and he wasn't sure what the Psion would like. Oh, okay then, his mental processes went, so a quick name? One that can be used for now while he's out until he wakes? Say, I like the sound of that. So—which of these names… ah, Traveler-damn it, let's go with the first one.
So, Nu'uarc it was.
Inordinately pleased with himself Seeker continued on, searching for the temporary armor he made for Nu'uarc. He distinctly recalled building around and modifying the old armor Nu'uarc had, the condition of which had been terrible. Just how long exactly had he been dead, anyhow? It didn't look that all decayed… wait, did these taken have anything to do with it?
Aha, here it is.
Unlike most Cabal soldiers Psionic armors were focused around the torso, with minimal emphasis placed on the legs and arms. In fact, sparseness was the watchword for Psions. Their armor was also made of very light materials, too, signifying their role as support infantry and pilots. The bulk of their body suit was just that, a suit made to protect them against the Martian atmosphere and the dust. According to bodily scans taken of Nu'uarc he couldn't survive anywhere outside an environmentally wet-and-warm place. So planets like Venus or Earth would be good choices to put him at, if there was a choice to be had. Well, he had his Ghost, and there was no finer medic.
Contrariwise to their armors, the Slug Rifle was something else entirely. Somewhat heavy these semiautomatics were incredibly easy to use and maintain, able to be repaired quickly. The ammunition was impressive, as always, something which Guardians had a shortage of. They were getting closer in figuring out how to reverse-engineer these warheads for their own usage; bounties as of late had been focused on acquiring as many of these guns as possible. This one was just another one to be added.
Seeker floated about it, observing its simple design, wondering how so light a creature as Nu'uarc could use it for long without getting tired. Or for that matter how he used it. Ammo was limited to sixty rounds, so one had to be cautious for how long and how often they fired it. Footage had shown it took about two of these to take down a Goblin, one if the core was hit. The same was true for a Hobgoblin, even with that stasis shield of theirs. Harpies were their own problem, and Minotaurs often needed an entire magazine to kill them, though that was mostly due to their Void shields than any strong armor.
How Nu'uarc took out those seven Nexūs Defenders—Precursors, right?—and that extremely quickly with those moves of his, said he knew combat, and just ordinary combat but that to rival Guardians. After reading through the base's records Seeker had a very good idea of what Legion he belonged to, but even if his hunch was correct that still didn't speak of the extent of his Guardian's abilities. Sand Eaters were about as skilled as Dancers with fighting Vex, and only the Blind Legion was the best skilled, mostly because they went the furthest into Vex temples to catch things. Still, this was a very unusual Psion.
What was he doing out in that canyon, anyhow?
Turning Seeker noted a clock on the wall—18:25—and knew it was very late. Ah well, he could always come back to ask his questions later. Perhaps Holborn would know a thing or two. Casting his gaze over the Cabal-manufactured armor and weapon one last time, Seeker vacated the chamber and went to another part of the base for rest. Even Ghosts needed time to, well, literally recharge their batteries.
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YOU.
YOU ARE ALONE.
YOU ARE A DEAD THING.
THIS IS A PLACE OF LIFE. YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE. YOU WERE MADE INTO A WEAPON BY A DEAD MASTER.
YOU OUGHT TO BE DESTROYED FOR YOUR BLASPHEMY.
YOU BETRAYED YOUR OATH. IN BLOOD AND FLESH WAS THIS OATH MADE; IN BLOOD AND FLESH WAS IT UNMADE.
BETRAYERS HAVE NO HONOR. THEY HAVE NO HOME. THEY HAVE NO FELLOWSHIP. THEY WILL FIND NO WELCOME.
BETRAYERS ARE SENTENCEd TO DEATH.
YOU ARE SENTENCED.
YOU ARE ALONE, AND WILL BE, FOREVER.
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Ismay Vulane stood watch outside, sitting upon on a crate inside one of Firebase Delphi's high towers, looking out across the dark-red landscape. Beside her hovered her Ghost, aquamarine Scholar Shell winking as fading light fell upon it, always at the ready. Her scout rifle lay unused beside her. When the fireteam had returned to Delphi there was a Crucible Rumble match already underway. Vesck, already bored with no action from the Patrol, had quickly jumped in and hadn't been seen since. Oceru-45 had gone straight to Holborn and only reappeared as the cold sun was touching the horizon. She went out on patrol again, this time with four others, moving toward Loire Valles to scout for Fallen movements. She didn't elaborate as to what she and Holborn discussed, but she seemed mighty displeased with its results.
Ismay stayed behind. As a Warlock anything new was something to be claimed for both study and protection. As an Awoken, arcane knowledge and abstruse lore came naturally to her. The Psion was both, and she intended to capitalize upon it. For instance, why was this the first time a Ghost had chosen a foreign Guardian at a time like this when everything had calmed down, and not during something, say, Crota's reawakening? And why one of the Cabal instead of the more common Fallen? Perhaps it was a mistake, like Osiris? If so, would this Psion become mad? If not, then what? So many questions. Perhaps the Speaker would have a theory, or Ikora.
"A coin for your thoughts, Ismay?"
"Nothing valuable, I'm afraid, Kit-Kat" she answered her Ghost. "Just asking questions I'll likely get answers to further down the road, and I may not like them either. At least it's better than worrying about Oryx."
"Kit-Kat", her Ghost, laughed, a tinkling melodious sound. "I'll have you know that the Tower knows already what Seeker's found. Commander Zavala is in a right pickle and Cayde is not letting him hear the end of it."
Ismay's mouth quirked. Cayde had a lot to get back at Zavala, the infamous "Dread Patrol" notwithstanding. "What of the others?"
"Oh, Shaxx is interested to learn how this Psion fights and the Speaker is anxious for an interview. It hasn't seemed to have crossed their minds that our Guardian will need time to adjust. This one even more so."
"True, that." None of the Tower factions had been alerted yet, but it was a matter of time before one of them found out. Oceru pledged herself to the War Cult and they were always looking for new advantages in fighting. Perhaps she would try to convert this Psion? Hardly likely. "But what worries me the most is how he will react when he wakes," Ismay continued. "We know next to nothing of the Cabal culture beyond vague extrapolations or where they came from or how many of them are out there total. For all we know he could be from one of the Legions here, or from another entirely."
"I am guessing Skyburners," Kit-Kat said darkly. "They are the newest here, and his armor's indicative of that."
"Aye, there's that. At least this is the only serious thing we have to worry about. Hopefully Ikora will recognize that."
"Oh, yes, yes indeed."
They watched for a time as the distant sun slipped away beneath the horizon and the air turned even colder. Martian nights were on average minus one hundred degrees, and the daytime was not much better. It was unfortunate that they were in the winter season, where the temperatures plummeted even further, but that was physics and nature. The Traveller did many things but one thing it couldn't do was ensure Mars retained its atmosphere completely. A molten core, certainty, but the rest had faded away—artificially enhanced atmosphere slowly changed back to its original composition; plants shriveled and dried up, leaving behind husks and only the most hardiest remained; and rich earth changed back into sand.
Fortunately, however, no matter how much things have changed the remnants of humanity's Golden still remained, preserved by that same sand and dry air, much like Old Egypt. Even with the Cabal advance toward the end of the Collapse nothing significant had overly changed—except Phobos, hanging low in the sky and seemingly defying gravity. But that was inconsequential.
"How will the Cabal see it?' Kit-Kat asked suddenly.
"Nothing good, that's what." Ismay grunted. "If they're as strictly regimented as I think they are, they won't take too kindly to it. Unless this Psion came from a unit that was wiped out."
"Oryx?"
"Vex, more like. Oryx hasn't stirred from his Dreadnaught, and we're whittling away at him steadily. He can't have come out here, not after his Martian Echoes' defeat. No, the Vex are using his depletion of the Cabal to expand again, and Traveller knows they are numberless."
"Yes, true…"
They were silent again. Neither spoke again concerning the Psion until Vesck, breathing heavily and wearing new armor, came to relieve them. "So how's everythin' going, mi'ladies?"
"Perfectly well until you showed up," Ismay answered. "I was just starting to feel the cold."
Vesck laughed. "As if. Lightbulb, what's the temperature?"
"Below minus eighty-seven degrees celsius," a voice echoed from the depths of his helmet. A moment later it materialized in a scattering of light. "Ready for another cold watch," it proclaimed melodramatically.
"You betcha."
"All right, boys," Kit-Kat said, "you have fun."
"Vesck, have you seen Seeker?" Ismay asked, her tone serious.
"Sure, I have. He hasn't strayed far from the medical bay," he answered carelessly. "Better that Oceru's away and Holborn's not."
"Agreed. Thank you." Ismay was sincere. Vesck simply clapped a hand upon her armored shoulder, nodded once in understanding, and moved to take her place. Ismay smiled at him. Vesck could get on her nerves but he was, at his core, a stolid warrior. He was one of Cayde's famous "success stories", except this was actually successful. Thinking deep thoughts of remembrance, mostly centered around the triple fireteam-operation into Crota's realm, Ismay trotted off, light illuminating her path, and disappeared. Deimos rose overhead, a bright speck against the night.
Then—
"Bloody hell, I forgot how much I hate Mars!"
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Holborn was standing before a hologram, watching a projection of Meridian Bay and the latest troop movements reported by Guardians. The Cabal were reinforcing their positions, yes, that was to expected, but there was a surge of Fallen from the direction of Loire Valles, their new base. Specifically the newly arrived House of Storms. They had been a minor house, a dependent of Wolves until the Queen broke them to pieces. Storms' Kell, a former Baron, took advantage of it to forge his crews into a strong House and hid away from the Reef. Then Oryx arrived and upset the balance of power, and he used that disturbance to move into Mars. Now he was entrenched in and well-nigh impossible to remove.
The aged Titan could feel another headache coming on, and it wasn't something that drink couldn't take away. No, he needed to be sober for this particular one. In fact, the last time he touched a bottle was four months ago, which was when Skolas was reported dead. Now it was Oryx this and Oryx that. Oh, and also Kell Faloriks. More of that last than anything. Even the Cabal Valuses were ordering their men to keep an eye out for the pirate leader. He just wished it was just these reports here that was his main problem.
No, it was Oceru.
That Exo had a head harder than even the legendary Saint-14. If only that damn Ghost had chosen someone a little less controversial. Wait, no, that was wrong. If only that damn Exo could forget about the past just for a little bit to see that not every single Cabal soldier deserved to be shot on sight. How was he supposed to know where the Psion came from? All anybody knew—oh, beggin' the pardon of Her Majesty Oceru—was that he was dead until very recently, and that it was apparently Vex which wiped out his unit, and so completely that very little remained.
No, it wasn't even his problem. That was Tubach's problem, not his. It wasn't his job to mollify her.
He had bigger problems. For instance Ikora had asked him specifically to keep an eye on the Fallen Storms. Not because they caused "a disturbance in the Force" as he liked to sometimes call it, sarcastically, but because there was another Fallen House poking around. They weren't at all hostile, like. No, they were pleasant as pleasant could be, keeping their men on a tighter leash of discipline than any other Fallen he knew. Only sign he'd seen of them was whenever a Skiff of Storms appeared carrying one of those envoys.
Good Traveler it better not be another Skolas.
Apparently young Ikora was worried enough to personally request that one of Holborn's Host—the originals, Lyssa the Lighthearted in fact—permanently keep an eye on them, and report back to her. Crazy Eris had a hand in this, he just knew it. Also that damn Exo—Oceru. Apparently she reported to Ikora as well as Zavala, who knew why or what. Good God, he just hoped it would be a routine report, taking care of a newly revived Guardian before transport back to the City, and be done with it. Instead it had to be a damn Psion, and one that got on a damn Exo's nerves, and on top of that in the middle of what seemed to be a damn Fallen uprising. Oh for the good ol' days when their biggest problems were only rogue Wolves running around the solar system. At least he could take consolation in the fact they had been in the verge of cracking the Cabal exclusion zone before Oryx came, that he was sure of.
"Boss? Somethin' on your mind?"
Holborn sighed. "No, Tibon, no, just an old man's headache."
The youngster came to stand beside him, looking over the panoramic projection critically. "You really should delegate more, Tubach isn't doing enough—"
"Yes, I've heard it all before, Tibon." Holborn waved him down. "I'm just tired. I should go take a rest. I don't know what to do."
"Before you go," the youngster answered, grinning, "perhaps you can tell me just what's going on?"
"If you have any suggestions on dealing with Oceru-45 the next time she appears, that'd be great."
"… Oh."
Holborn cracked a brief, weary grin in return. If there was anything that could shut him up, it would be that. "Nah, don't worry about her. She's only having old problems again."
"I do not fancy getting punched through a wall again!"
"Better you than that Flayer."
Tibon snorted. "Come off it, boss, you're tired, you shouldn't be even doing this." He cast a glance over the hologram again. "Those old things? Give them a rest, let Tubach and Bayle handle the daily reports."
"And what'll I do, huh? Rest my bones watching you youngsters blow each other's brain out in the Crucible or rot away watching the sun?"
"You will let us do the worrying for you. Lighten up, and let us do it for you. We'll even handle Oceru-45 for you. I'd even take a punch to the head a second time if it'll spare you a headache."
Holborn could only smile. "You youngsters and your blighted sense of optimism. All right, I'll take one day off, and then you can complain to me after that day is up about how hard the work is."
"Good enough for me. Ismay's looking for you."
"Not again…"
"Cheer up, you enjoy talking to her."
"It's not that, it's the questions she'll ask."
"Try her." Tibon was grinning, and Holborn was sure he liked it. "Perhaps it'll only be commonplaces."
Holborn looked at him sternly. "You assume too much."
"And you worry too much," Tibon shot back. "Go and relax, boss! That's an order!"
Laughing Holborn nodded and said, "All right, boss, I'll go and do that. But I solemnly swear that if anything goes wrong you'll be coming to me to fix it." Tibon didn't answer, a ghost of laughter flitting about his face as he continued Holborn's work—much faster too, in a way. Holborn knew work when he saw it, and turned to leave. Whatever Ismay had to talk about, best to get it over wi—
—look at you, old man, worrying again. Heh. Lighten up, will you?
Laughing at himself Holborn disappeared from the command room, leaving Tibon behind to finish up the night's work.
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A/N: So, here's to another chapter. Not like my usual, but I think short is good enough until I get my bearings in this archive. Writing for Destiny is harder than I thought, especially with all of that Grimoire lore to use.