Final Shapes: A Destiny 2 Fanzine

A digital fanzine celebrating The Witness, its philosophies, and the greater cosmology of the Destiny 2 universe. Unveiling Finality in December!

[finalityzine]

At Long Last...Finality Takes Shape!

In Final Shapes, explore the visions of The Final Shape from our artists as they offer their perspectives on just what it means to them. Through the philosophies and aesthetics of the Witness, these works investigate the coming end to the Light and Dark Saga.

[anjian]

Avalokiteśvara

My contribution to @finalityzine.

[anjian]

The Cosmic Zither

My contribution to @finalityzine.

Process document

Image detail

[knightrielle]

In revelation of the truth, in the pursuit of meaning, we must bestow the children of the Universe our gift...The Final Shape... @finalityzine

[sabbathism]

the Veriticality of Devotion

my piece for the @finalityzine ! so proud to have been a part of this and to be featured alongside so many powerhouses of art

[vargaamor]

"You have no purpose because you fear to seek one. That fear is your failure. Your fear brings you pain. We know pain. Our purpose is its end."

-- The Witness from Destiny 2.

I completed this portrait in November for the @finalityzine !!

So happy to be part of this amazing group of sci-fi creators! 🤗🌌

[bioluminosity]

Deal with the Devil

my 1st work for @finalityzine, exploring Rhulk's recruitment into the Darkness

[bioluminosity]

Purpose .

my 2nd work for @finalityzine

[rivaldi22]

The Final Shapes zine (@finalityzine) releases today, and I'm very glad to finally reveal these pieces I made for it! I also helped run the thing, as well, so it's also a relief to have it out there for people to see.💚 The Worms

For life, Sathona dove. For vengeance, Xi Ro dove. And Aurash dove to understand. The needle ship pierced the skin of the world and burrowed deep. The Subjugators

In the end, I left them only a promise of sustenance, and in return, they became chattel for our greater purpose: absolute finality. And as I walked away, their fountainhead in tow, I could hear them whisper with respect: "Subjugator." The Gardener

The Garden grows in both directions. It grows into tomorrow and yesterday. What good is a garden's growth without thesis? What purpose lies hidden in the red flowers of forever?

Go check out the full PDF at @finalityzine!

[squallorvus]

My submitted piece for Final Shapes zine! @finalityzine

It's my first time joining a zine project aaaa It was great experience and I kinda learnt a lot from seeing the progresses and works of the other artists

[kosmicwraith]

OUR SHAPE REVEALED

@finalityzine

[aghostsdestiny]

'Whether by chance encounter or not, if It sees fit to pursue you, no road is safe for you to be on.'

@finalityzine

[aghostsdestiny]

'I am not what i should be. I just dont know what i should be... but you do.'

How we all wish we could be on the outside what we are on the inside ✨️

@finalityzine

[newbabyfly]

Drown in the deep... Or rise from it.

Done as part of the @finalityzine !

[flowers-of-io]

the first knife

My piece for the Final Shapes Zine (@finalityzine) , which you can see in full here <3 // Read on Ao3

It was |supposed to be| a garden world.

All mythologies begin with a utopia. It is a universal condition, perhaps, the wanting to believe the world was, in its unblemished natural state, good—and an indication of the foolish hope it may yet in the end circle back to goodness. A dream of small minds, some would say. But you had never shared their sentiment.

Morality, of course, is subjective, and you’d known as much long before you stopped believing in your own self-created cosmology. No one outcome of a game is more noble or more wicked than any other unless you are one of the players. The propelling force of the universe is the desire to keep on existing—so perhaps, from a certain point of view, it is the drive to live which is the only moral good. Everything wants to exist, and the cessation of one life allows another to exist and thrive; life and death and life and death and life and death, locked in a dance than never ends. But for you it had never been a matter of morality; not in any critical manner, anyway. It was simple and entirely neutral, majestic in its plainness, a sharp needle-point of a compass piercing a way through the mayhem and cruelty you witnessed around you. A universal explanation for a chaotic universe. If there had ever been a tenet you could say you truly admired, it would have been this.

It was supposed to be a garden world, and a garden is no less good or evil whether it is wilted or thriving. Growth without withering is cancerous, festering and crawling out like rats to infect the outside, until it stops being a garden, until it does not resemble anything more than a putrid mass of not-even-life trapped in perpetual limbo.

It was with this thought that you set out on your celestial crusade, back when you still believed the universe had been destined for goodness. You wouldn’t have admitted it—and you certainly wouldn’t admit it now, if you still cared to self-reflect on this—but the fearful anger that would go on to guide your hand had been there already, by then; deep down, eating at your core.

You harboured no ill will toward her. That was what you told yourself.

In truth, the anger was already burning within you, and the fear festered just underneath. Words bubbling on your lips which she offered no response to, accusations you’d hurl at her silent face staring down at you with infinite patience. Her gaze, full of nothing but unalloyed hope, jeering at your questions that would bump off of her surface with a mocking echo, only stoking the fire at your core.

You had grown resentful of her silence. For once, just once, you wanted to make her talk.

You only strived to make things better. You had your great ideals and your beliefs and tenets, your centuries of reasoning and volumes of scientific proof. You wanted to bring back the harmony: to preserve the natural goodness of the world, to tend to the garden. You were noble, and right, and the fate of the universe rested on your shoulders. And you thought you were prepared.

You found it at the edges of the cosmos—a sisterly shape, a vault of answers you had been crying out through the dark after, a perfectly-balanced weight. You brought it home (because you still had a home back then, that deplorable bolthole of spears and walls, do you remember?) and all that time it sang to you, in its strange, resonant voice so unlike the hum of Light you had known. You aligned it, and it snapped into place as if pulled by the magnetism of an opposite charge—and nothing stayed your hand, not a single whisper of doubt slipping past your carefully constructed rationale. You created the link.

The scream that she let out, it threatened to turn your brains into liquid.

In the years to come, you’d rarely concern yourself with that moment. It was what came after that mattered. But at that point of contact, in those few fickle seconds, you had her laid bare like an exposed nerve, screaming blinding-white, cutting through to your core. The closest she had ever been.

In that moment, you met her there.

She was all fear and pain, sharp with a bitter undercurrent of sorrow|betrayal. For once, there was genuine emotion, something you could relate to, something mirroring your own fear. She had not expected that. It felt like victory, then, like pushing a knife into the soft underbelly of a thick-shelled creature, and you told yourself it was necessary.

You saw her eyes, sad and scared. They seemed to be saying, I loved—

The link snapped like an old mooring rope, sending you reeling. Before you could gather your bearings, she ran, a white shape disappearing among nebulas.

The Veil was still there, singing softly just under the lid of your many consciousnesses. You stood, many faces upturned to the sky and many hands flexing in shocked horror, a roar that held no meaning pushing its way past many lips. The weight of absence slowly settled, and with it your rage, stoked by the change of pressure.

In the ages to come, you would go on to learn the inherent power of emotions, these strings of the soul, and the finesse art of playing them. You would go on to learn many things, and the foundations of your philosophy would suffer many a change as you slithered across the universe on your righteous crusade. You would commit acts beautiful and monstrous, and they would each fall at your feet like pruned weeds all the same, because a garden is no less good or evil whether it is wilted or thriving. For now, this was only your first metamorphosis—the first trimming of branches.

The Veil hummed. The sky yawned empty.

You reached for a knife, and discovered you were already holding one.

[antlerlad]

today is the launch of @finalityzine ! here's my piece for it! thanks to the organizers for getting together a truly awesome group of artists. please go check out everyone else's work!

here's the zine in full!

[mechanical-artery]

Don't you recognize us? We are not your friend. We are not your enemy. We are your... salvation.

@finalityzine