Hello! This is an askblog for the fantastic trio known as Fireteam Catastrophe! This group is composed of a Titan, a Warlock, and a Hunter of varying backgrounds and motivations. One thing unites the trio though, and that's the urge to be unforgettable!
((Let’s just say this is a fan-strike, something I write up and can let you all daydream about. I got really inspired to make a strike, so... Here we are! Tell me what you think!))
"Fireteam, Operation Stormcoat is a-”
The Vanguard channels go silent after a wave of static. A gravely voice of an Exo fills the commline: “Hello, ‘fireteam,’ I’m gonna run tac-” and your Ghost gives some snappy retort.
“This is a Vanguard Official Channel, identify yourself or-”
“Shut your mouth, Ghost. Real men are talkin’ here.” The Ghost sputters out a protest, but ultimately is talked over by the Exo: “You lot happened to be where I needed to look for some... Fun. You all know the EDZ, yea? You know that it goes pretty far? Well, there’s a former House of Kings hideout that a ‘mutual acquaintance’ of ours has contracted me to get into.”
There is a raspy cough, a laugh almost, signature of Spider, as the ships enter Earth’s orbit. There is a new set of coordinates. Your Ghost quietly identifies it as... Italy? No, that can’t be right. Where’s Trostland?
“Mutual Acquaintance, Breaker-77? You do me a disservice. We’re all friends here, right? And don’t I pay my friends well? Allow me to do the... Tactical briefing, isn’t it? Ahem! You see, some of my most recently hired belligerents are telling me there is a... Unique piece of salvage in an old tower. You might not know its name, but I do,” the Spider laughs, “The Leaning Tower of Pisa. You’re going to hit a pre-Golden Age relic. It’s got some goods in it that are mine. And I’ve got cold hard cash that’s yours, if you can pull this off. Might even consider your debts!”
The area is something that would make a Cryptarch weep: massive architectural marvels in various states of decay, vines and other greenery consuming what was once proudly maintained. Infested with Fallen, these once wonderful testaments to human ingenuity are commented upon by Spider. With occasional quips from Breaker-77. One in particular stands out, as you find your fireteam standing in a decrepit old cathedral.
“What are we doing in this place?” Ghost asks.
“You say that like you don’t recognize it! The Baptistry of Pisa! A marvelous little cathedral, from what your records state. Full of great things from before people worshiped the Traveler. Always hard to imagine there were gods before the Traveler and those foul things the Hive worship, isn’t it?”
“Alright, back to tactical: you’re gonna have to get keys to actually make it into the Tower proper. Like the kind in Lost Sectors. So you have to kill big guys. And I know just how to summon them. See, the local Kell here thinks he’s hot stuff, the kind that can outdo Spider.”
Spider lets out a loud ‘bah!’ at that remark.
“So I’ve set up something rather... Special. Give me a beacon. I’m gonna transmat some rare pre-Golden Age relics that’ll summon him in.”
“You what!?” Spider shouts in disbelief.
“You want me to draw him out, Spider, or do you want to have this bozo slip? Once those relics are out there, torch ‘em. This ‘Kell of Towers’ or whatever he calls himself fancies himself a connoisseur. And, well, you know the one with the smirking woman?”
“The Mona Lisa?”
“The stolen Mona Lisa,” Breaker says with glee, “And these Guardians are gonna torch it. See, I yoinked it from this Kell.”
As an ignorant Guardian chucks a grenade on the crates, with the Mona Lisa leaning on one, the loot burns. And a roar is heard across all channels.
“Oh, that’s not good,” Ghost says with worry.
“Of course it’s not, Little Light,” Breaker laughs as Spider roars.
“You better have good reason for this, you miserable Guardian!”
A Skiff enters the field, firing wildly. Breaker advises the fireteam get into a radius of the boxes, so that the Skiff doesn’t wipe them out.
“Alright, hold your ground, he’ll come down,” Breaker chuckles.
Four waves of Fallen, increasing in strength and anger. And finally, the Kell himself. More of a Captain, but still a big one, he rushes in with blades and keeps the fireteam in short range and regularly swipes his blades as he runs, clipping any who try to backpedal.
“He was definitely mad, take his keys. The Tower itself has an entrance at the top. The Fallen created one of their teleporter things that move you from floor to floor. What you’re gonna do is smoke out the real Kell. See, an old Kings Kell really runs this joint, and has all the Glimmer on a chest he keeps with him. That Glimmer has a key to a vault in the Shore, one Spider’s after. You know the drill. Go floor to floor, burning everything you can get your hands on. Smash, grab, I don’t care. You need to get him out of hiding to confront you directly, and nothing’s gonna do it more than burning everything he owns. See, the Eliskni really hate it when you burn their stuff.”
“You don’t?!” Spider exclaims.
“Besides the point.”
The Tower itself is surrounded by a maze of Fallen structures. They all seem to be a wrapping of sorts, making a rough staircase to the top. Climbing over hazardous terrain and avoiding various things such as Spider Mines and tripwires, the fireteam finds itself to the top.
“Hold yourselves! I have a challenge. See, I loathe to see things like this burn, but... Perhaps I can up the ante. This King has been on my list for some time. I want him to burn! And chances are, he’ll find a way to fake his own death. Send a message. I hear you all like Light, right? Drink it up like wine, right? Good. Good. Breaker has secured something, and I want you to use it to clean house.”
Whatever the skulls are for that strike, Breaker will make a short quip about them. As the party moves from floor to floor, the Spider and Breaker will continue to make remarks. Players will be instructed to not only burn any Fallen they encounter, but destroy each floor’s stashes. Art pieces, massive troves of Glimmer, everything. Leave nothing standing, burn it all down. Arc Singe? Chaos Reach, Fists of Havoc, Arcstrider, all of those. Void Singe? Nova Bombs, Sentinel Shields, Deadfalls, anything that works. It’s all gotta go.
After seven floors of burning everything, the ground floor opens up. The floor itself has been widened out, with some trenchwork dug into it. Out climbs the King himself: Fareksis, Kell of Pisa.
“Kell of Pisa...” Breaker chuckles, “You... You’re not serious?” Breaker slowly breaks out into a full laugh.
“He’s named after the region he claims, Breaker! His name isn’t a play on that Human dish with tomato sauce and chee-”
“Look at him, his color scheme! Gold, with red undertones and... Oh Traveler’s Crack is that... Does he have pepperoni-red eyes?! HAHAHA!”
Spider stifles a chuckle, and the fight commences. This Kell fights like most are wont to do: large weapon, strutting about the battlefield and stomping around. You’ve burned his fortunes, taunted him with rare relics, might as well do him in.
As he falls, a chest materializes.
“Good, good, you all are pretty slick. I can work with that,” Breaker hems.
“You almost destroyed the Tower of Pisa! How is that ‘slick?!’ Not a single bit of that went according to any plan.”
“You know, Spider, almost as good as I do, that no plan survives contact with the enemy. In the line of work we’re in, that doesn’t change just because it’s involving Guardians and Eliksni.”
“Very well,” Spider says, “But you had too much fun! Too easy a heist for you! And you burned relics! I won’t consider your debts unt-”
“You think I’d really burn the Mona Lisa to get back at a measly King? No. I’ve still got it.”
“Then perhaps... Perhaps we can talk about lessening your debts...”
((I didn’t know so many blogs were made in this tag... Now I feel like the kid with macaroni noodle art projects seeing all the sick formatting. Hello world!
((Played Breakthrough as Breaker. And sweet God did I rock its shit.
((Bungie if you made that because of me please contact me with ANYTHING, I would be through the roof and would resume writing again with so much as a winky face emoji
((I’ll even draft up a strike idea for people!!!! I CAN DO THAT YES?
((This hits me with some inspiration, and I’d thought about doing this big long written arc where I make chapters of the Red War for each character, but I think I’ll just stick to writing out short scenes as the mood strikes me. This blog’s... Kinda dead anyhow. Didn’t get much interaction, as I’m convinced a lot of people lurked rather than interact. ANYWAY, here goes: this is after Breaker secures his Light on Titan, at least a source of Light: the Void Light of the Sentinel known only as “Nate.” Bonus points if you can draw the connection there! Enjoy!
The rains in Titan were frustrating. It was always raining. The water seeped into everything, and it made shelters impossible to power. The civilians though... They managed to keep everything together thanks to Breaker-77. The Exo Titan recovered some semblance of sanity, some kind of idea as to what he was and who he was going to be. The Golden Age Heister, the Hivebane, Breaker-77. He had been told by Zavala that they needed to find Cayde, and that the only transmission he’d received was that Cayde was on Nessus. Simple enough. Breaker and Cayde agreed on more things than they’d both like to admit: both were former criminals.
But Breaker was more concerned about Alice.
Alice was by far the most unique member of the Fireteam known as Catastrophe, and Breaker knew it. She wasn’t some Golden Age corpse that was resurrected, she was an Awoken from a dead timeline created by the Vex, somehow having fallen out of the gates and stealing a hand cannon from Henry to survive. Her Ghost was Henry’s girlfriend’s, or... Was it? Breaker knew. He also knew that Alice was a fucking monster, and without her Light she was four times as dangerous. Just like Breaker, she knew how to fight and terrorize and slaughter without it.
It came naturally to her, and Breaker knew it. He chased the signal on Nessus, coming into contact with a defunct AI that insisted on calling itself Failsafe and sending him around the planetoid. He didn’t care, he needed Cayde to talk about Alice.
“So, Cayde?”
“What’s up my bank robbing friend? You’re... Getting me out right?”
“Where’s Alice?”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Tell me. Now.”
“Oh my cotton socks! You gotta be ki-”
And Cayde was gone further into the Vex networks. Easy enough to fix, Breaker just needed to find the vault and crack it. He entered the networks himself, eager to break them apart one at a time. And he did so. Vex screamed as he approached, their forms different somehow. As he traveled through simulation after simulation, he felt his Ghost sputter something and vanish. He panicked initially, but then calmed himself, and walked to a mirror.
This reflection was strange, as Vex didn’t quite like mirrors. After some posing, Breaker took a moment to realize it wasn’t a reflection. He stared at another version of himself: with a book on his hip and a scimitar in his hands.
A scimitar?
The Exos looked at one another. Heads tilted, making strange gestures. Breaker reached out to touch the reflection, and their hands met. The Vex simulation turned red, screaming. The two Breakers collided into one another, and for a brief moment... There were two voices in one head.
Who are you?
“Breaker-77, the Wandering Spellblade!”
No, I’m Breaker-77, the Golden Age Heister and Godslayer.
“Well, we share that last title. Are you... Me?”
Both voices would say in unison: “Ploughin’ Vex,” then there would be a silence. Vex forms began to form, and the Breakers came apart to reach for different weapons. The Vex screamed, and the simulation ripped apart again. Both Exos, side-by-side.
“Follow my moves!” the Guardian spat, and he drew an auto-rifle.
“Can’t do that,” the Wandering Spellblade responded, and drew a scimitar that he charged with what looked like... Magic?
“Fine!” the Guardian shouted, “Then I can do magic shit too,”
The Guardian conjured the Sentinel shield, and the two used their weapons to fight back an endless surge of Vex. Nothing seemed to break the tide. But, the Guardian saw his counterpart. Steps were measured, the breathing even seemed to be something done with years of practice. The Spellblade jumped, rolling sideways through the air to land and pirouette the blade through several Vex. He spun it around him, catching Vex weaponry and launching it into the air before discharging electricity from his blade. The Vex exploded, radiolarian fluid oozing everywhere.
The Spellblade watched his counterpart, seeing the Guardian become a battering ram, that moved and flowed through the combat. Each slam and throw of the shield took more forms, cascading in destruction. Where the Spellblade was a dance of death, of grace and focus, the Guardian was a brutal fight to the death. Standing to the last, being a wall that constantly expanded and created a circle within which not even a shattered Vex part escaped into.
Both made a misstep, at the same time.
The Spellblade’s scimitar skittered across the room to land at the Guardian’s feet, and the shield flew out once too far and bounced comically in front of the Spellblade.
“Do you believe in anything, Spellblade?”
“The Dawnflower, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her,” the Spellblade walked slowly to the Shield, watching the Vex puzzle at this strange interaction.
“Could you plead to her? My Light, the Traveler... Is a little indisposed.”
The Spellblade began to recite a prayer. The Guardian did the same. The Spellblade’s sheath produced a flaming scimitar, radiant and glorious, that blinded the Guardian for a moment. The shield snapped to the Spellblade, floating by him without him needing to hold it. Both the Spellblade’s hands were on the hilt of the scimitar, which was held to his temple with raised arms. The tip aimed at the Vex, the Guardian recognized the stance as one Lord Shaxx had used: it would focus on ripostes and parries unless the enemy was too wild or vicious to need one, in which case it could easily turn into a flowing combat style that lent itself to an absurd dexterity.
The Guardian snatched the scimitar at his feet, and he felt lightning surge through him. He mimicked the movements he’d seen, and noticed with a sideways glance that the Spellblade added force to his dance. The shield would be grabbed at certain points, and slammed down into a Vex Goblin. A Minotaur tried to punch him, only to be parried by the shield and the flaming scimitar cooked away the bronze of the Vex form.
The pair of Breakers continued their dance, moving back and forth to both carve large circles into the Vex that continued to arrive. It seemed there was no end, but... The Guardian and Spellblade both incorporated new tricks. They felt a new piece of power enter their bodies. Breaker surged with electricity, the Arc Light he’d thought he would never see again... It grew! It became...
The Guardian discharged a blast of Arc energy through the scimitar, then became engulfed in it to bring about a Fist of Havoc that obliterated a Hydra.
The Spellblade launched the shield, and twirled as he lowered his body to the ground, slicing two Minotaurs and countless Goblins about as he kept in pace with the Shield.
The Spellblade’s flaming scimitar launched flames about the room, and the Guardian felt Light in them! Good, positive Light! It energized him, fueled him, and the Vex began to sputter and shake.
“It’s time to bail,” the Spellblade shouted, pointing to a gate on the Guardian’s side, “There’s a gate on my side! Say, you ever meet an Ephras in your timeline?”
“You ever fight next to a Henry?”
“Kinda?”
“You’d get along!” Both said in unison. They threw their weapons back to one another, and carved their way to respective Vex gates. The Guardian and Spellblade hesitated, looking back to one another for just a moment. One moment, where they felt as if time had stopped.
Breaker broke from the moment and fell. The Guardian was back on Nessus, in front of the ruins of the Exodus Black. A Fallen Captain charged him, swinging its right arms to punch him in his face. It got him good, and he felt his world spin. He stood up, recognizing the Captain.
[Breaker-77, Kell of House of Thieves! I remember you!] The Captain laughed heartily, [Your fists were match for Baron of House Winter, but they will not be a match for me. I challenge you, for Kell!]
“Then toss me a blade, let’s dance.”
The Captain laughed, tossing Breaker an old, battered longsword with a handguard that pointed towards the tip of the blade with both ends. He saw strange glyphs carved into it, and a weird medallion dangling off it. The medallion looked similar to a woman, her arms outstretched as a radiant sunburst pattern emanated from above her arms. He took the medallion from it, and put it around his own neck. The Captain laughed as Breaker held the hilt to his face, point aimed at the Fallen.
[You face me like that? One blade held to parry? You are no dancer, Guardian! I know your fighting style, yo-]
Breaker had sprinted with lightning at his heels, jumped, rolled sideways, and brought the blade straight down through the Captain’s skull. Falling apart in two halves, the Captain ceased to be. The Dregs and Vandals panicked, charging. The Exo used his force to dance: the blade was heavier than it probably should’ve been, which helped. The Guardian mimicked the movements he’d seen in the Vex... Simulation? Or was it... It had to have been a simulation.
As Breaker continued to fight his way into the Exodus Black, to the place where he believed he’d sent Cayde in his mad dash through Vex networks he couldn’t recall beyond that strange encounter, he found another Captain pinning something down behind a pipe. The Exo finished his dance with a spinning pirouette, one feinting swing to disarm the Captain of his Shrapnel Launcher, and then a reverse of that spinning motion to cleave the Eliksni in half. It gasped in surprise, and all Breaker could understand was a simple phrase:
[Sword Dancer.]
Cayde poked his head out of cover, and stayed silent for a moment.
“Did... Do... You need to talk about anything with me?”
((This is a bit of a backstory bit, elaborating on who gave Breaker-77 the power of a Sentinel in “Break The Rules.” I’m taking a few liberties and filling in gaps where I feel them necessary, because not too terribly much is explained about what the D2 classes come from. Only real fact I’ve been able to draw is that the Dawnblades were a lost sect of Warlocks, the Hiero Sanct if I recall correctly, that kind of just vanished. I imagine that Sentinels did something similar, as did Arc Striders. Though, I have yet to make my Hunter in D2, so there could be lore I’ve just not happened on. Eh. Enough of that meta stuff, let’s get to it!))
“Go! I’ll keep them off your backs, meet you at the safehouse!”
Those were the last words Nate would hear of a long-time accomplice. For the better part of a century the crew had knocked over dozens of high class establishments, clinging desperately to the “Golden” part of the Golden Age to steal everything that people didn’t have the sense to nail down. They would haunt the Human for centuries after, though he wouldn’t know why until he found his way to Titan.
For getting into trouble, he’d been assigned to this place. He thought it was ironically named on purpose: at least Earth had the decency to not share a name with whatever gave Titans their name. Nate shuffled down some dusty stairs, the metal clacking with his boots on every footfall. There was an uneasy familiarity of this room, as if he’d visited it before, and it crept into every perception he gathered and choked out any sensibility. He found himself fixated on the idea that he had been here before, wandering aimlessly into a cluster of what appeared to be portable homes. One was surprisingly smaller than he expected. A door he felt was much larger led to a broom closet, with a curious arrangement of furniture. Absent-mindedly, he kicked it around the room.
As each piece of furniture moved, he heard scrapes, the chattering of teeth, and a shriek. His mind couldn’t wander, as the perceptions were just beyond his ability to directly name them. The shuffling of furniture struck at chords in Nate’s soul he hadn’t felt plucked in ages. There was an uneasy familiarity in this room, and as the last piece of furniture was kicked away, the room shook gently. Something changed, and Nate felt pulled towards it. He wandered in, the chattering picking up just long enough to keep him from being comfortable.
He had his Light, he would be safe. He knew there were times when he didn’t have his Light, but there was a reason he held onto it the way he did: Victor Gonzalez.
As Nate walked down a poorly lit stairwell, the silence seemed to distort into voices. A familiar song playing on a familiar device, he hummed along. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found a well lit room, old friends, and a poker game that he needed to bet on. Or fold, he couldn’t remember his hand, just that he needed to play.
“Hey, buddy,” Nate looked over his shoulder, and found his Ghost was clutched by glowing claws. The chattering became louder, and the familiarity of a safehouse became a well-concealed Hive nest. The couch he and his crew would sit on had become integrated to the floor, a Hive growth connecting it to the floorboards. Tears filled his eyes, and he saw the skeleton he hoped wasn’t Victor.
No, Victor was one of those Clovis Bray machines. He could still be alive.
However, that meant that... No. He wouldn’t accept it. Victor being gone was bad enough, but knowing that his brother might have died here? He wouldn’t bear it. He summoned his Light, and a powerful shield of Void enveloped him. No, it was no Ward of Dawn: it was an art he was drawn to as he pondered on who Victor was. Victor was a Titan before there was any, he was the wall upon which foes broke. In this new age, even bank robbers like the Golden Age Heisters could come to the Light and thrive.
Nate charged the Wizard that held his Ghost, and he pulled his shield back to bisect its skull. He didn’t know that his fate was already sealed, but he knew one thing and held to it for three days, as he used the last motes of his Light to keep his Safehouse true to its name.
Victor wouldn’t have quit, and so neither would Nate.
When the Wizard finally outmaneuvered the Sentinel known as Nate, she found his Light particularly hard to twist. It waited for something, and she knew it would be the resolve of another Guardian that stood against the Hive in such a way.
She knew it would be unique, and would have a style of ruthless adrenaline only those who regularly flirted with disaster could muster. She also knew the name of who the Light would reach out for: Victor Gonzalez. There was another name, one she would listen for. One she would lay in wait: if this name was of something stronger than the Sentinel that almost slew her brood, she expected nothing short of a boogeyman. Perhaps, she mused, the kind of boogeyman that would give Crota pause? She could only think of how strange the name was. Not ‘Victor Gonzalez,’ which was a normal human name. No, a different one.
((This will be part two of Breaker’s experience of the Red War. In this one, we’ll see a very confused Breaker-77 struggling with his identity and the fact that he’s no longer immortal. However, that may end up being a bit more of a boon than any initially imagined, and the brightest of Lights can be found in the darkest of holes. Let’s break the rules.))
The ship lowered to the old base, and the Exo stared vacantly at the wreckage that he insisted was populated. Visions of people kept swimming through his mind, but as his eyes slid across the oceans roiling below the landing pad, the visions would fade until he looked back.
“Zavala,” the Exo spoke, “You said I’m... A what?”
“Breaker-77,” Zavala sighed, “You are a Guardian. Specifically a Titan. One of my better Titans. You slew Crota, you followed through a promise you made Crota, in his dying moments, that you would...” Zavala looked pained for a moment.
"I promised that I’d feed Oryx his failure of a son’s fucking skull.” Breaker-77 smiled, his memories returning. He wondered how briefly this would last.
Zavala rested a hand on the bulkhead, and Breaker’s hallucinations ceased. As the Titan Vanguard lifted his hands, Breaker realized he only had the memory of that incident. He didn’t remember other Guardians, he remembered _his fucking crew._ Breaker looked at his weapon, it had caught a slug through the barrel and was permanently ruined. The firing mechanism had jammed, and the bullet slammed into the slug. As he threw the gun down, he realized it was beyond saving.
No amount of tweaking would fix that gun, Victor Gonzalez recognized that some extra ingredient made it work without any-
He called himself that again. Who was Victor Gonzalez?
Who was Breaker-77?
The Exo turned, and saw refugees cowering. He had been so far gone into his thoughts that he didn’t recognize the noises behind him as something he needed to be concerned about. Memories flooded through, and he remembered everything for a brief enough moment to draw a sidearm. He didn’t know where it came from, and the small, decrepit voice in his ear was whispering to nothingness as Breaker-77 stomped from his starting point. He slammed to cover, looked to Zavala, and nodded.
“Zavala, you’re the pointman on this job? Good. Cover me!” He charged, and felt every Fallen on the helipad stare him down. He ran forward, fearless and not understanding just what he had lost. Zavala popped helmets, and Breaker grabbed one Fallen by its throat. He punched it in its respirator system, and grabbed several pipes to rip them out. The creature hissed as it scraped at his armor plating. Its second set of arms drew blades, and Breaker drew his own knife. He stabbed straight into the creature’s ribs, twisted the knife, and yanked the knife away from its spine. The spectral Ether gushed from the wound, and Breaker-77 saw it. It reminded him of Light for a second, and he realized he was on his last life.
“Oh, fuck!” he screamed, slamming his back into a piece of cover. He reloaded his sidearm, cursing himself for his insanity. Why couldn’t he keep it together? Come on Breaker, this isn’t you.
Yea, Victor, this isn’t you.
“By the fucking Traveler!” Breaker stood from cover, firing suppressing fire. “Zavala, can you do anything with your Light? I can’t remember using all of my-”
“Breaker! We lost our Light. The Cabal took it from us!”
Breaker froze, falling to cover as the realizations cascaded in his mind. He was actually mortal. He couldn’t move, he was paralyzed with fear. If he did something reckless and he died, Dallas wouldn’t be able to resurrect him. Dallas being able to heal him was a miracle enough.
“Breaker!” Zavala said, but Breaker swore the Awoken had just called him “Victor,” “Breaker, we can’t freeze! These people are counting on us!”
Victor Gonzalez felt his blood freeze, and he looked on a seven foot creature that bore a massive device that looked like a crossbow. It pounded its chest, and roared an ungodly noise from its throat. The Exo, who didn’t feel like an Exo anymore, stared at the purple-skinned stranger.
“Zavala!” he said, “What is that fuckin’ thing!?”
“What?! Breaker it-” the purple-skinned man froze, and Victor realized that wasn’t a mask. There was a degree of understanding in the stranger’s eyes, and he shook his head. “That is a Hive Knight. You killed two of their most revered gods, you and your crew!”
“Did I?! I stood up to that ugly sonuvabitch’s GODS?”
“Yes! Please, do it again! These...” The man stared at the civilians cowering, “These hostages won’t do us any good dead!” Zavala’s voice had a jagged edge that Victor felt part of himself impressed by.
“Alright,” the Exo said. He grabbed his sidearm, “Toss me a rifle or something!” As the stranger complied, Breaker put the sidearm away and reached for his mask. He couldn’t find one, instead finding a helmet that was strangely fit just for him. He spun it on one hand, and put it on. He fired the weapon at the Hive, corralling the smaller forms into cover. The large one, the Knight, laughed in defiance. He put bullets in its face, and it spun to its side before firing a bolt. The shot went wide, slicing the air above Breaker’s head. “Send the hostages into that building, we’ll hold off these fuckers from inside!”
Zavala waved at the civilians, and they hesitated. Breaker was furious, and he did what he knew would work best.
“He fucking beckoned you into that Traveler-damned building! Get the fuck up! Move!”
As Victor Gonzalez turned to the Hive, he found himself fascinated with the Knight’s face. He wanted to make a mask of it: it scared him so thoroughly that it would definitely scare the police. He and them had a tendency to be scared of the same things, he felt. They were people, and people could be broken. But what about alien monsters? Could they be broken?
“Breaker,” the weak Ghost chimed, “You can hear me? Goodness gracious! It’s about time, yea?! Look, I can’t revive you!”
Victor Gonzalez shook his head, and a migraine surged through his skull. Breaker-77 resurfaced, finding himself in a state of shock that he was mortal. He stood from cover, taking down two Acolytes and a few dozen Thrall. The gun clicked empty, and the Thrall kept coming. He took his sidearm, and began firing. That one clicked out, and he threw it at a Thrall. The creature was stunned, and Breaker grabbed its skull before jerking his hand back to his shoulder. The head disconnected cleanly, and there was a surge of adrenaline.
Adrenaline!?
Breaker made a short laugh, a kind of huff. He went to cover, and noted that the Acolytes had weapons he could take, weapons they believed kept them stronger than him. Without his Light, he had no tricks of his own. So he had to use theirs. He’d done it before: he had stolen Crota’s Sword and stolen the Sword Logic. He’d do it again. He charged from cover, laughing maniacally.
Zavala stood in cover, as the last civilian ran terrified into the building, and he dreaded the idea that the Hive had taken his bastion out from under him. This was a hideaway, a safe haven to regroup! But... What if, what if it wasn’t safe havens and regrouping that he needed? He watched Breaker bolt from cover, and he bellowed in protest.
“Breaker! What are you doing! You’ll die!”
“That’s just it, boss!” Breaker laughed hysterically as he broke an Acolyte’s arms and stole its shredder, “I’m only gonna die if these fuckers can prove they’re stronger than me! I killed their gods, yea?! That means I fucking own these things!” Breaker used one shredder to erase the skull of another Acolyte, grabbing a second shredder. He spun both weapons on his trigger fingers, then twisted himself in a pirouette that took out several Thrall. He jumped over some crates, and landed directly on the Knight wielding a split-shot crossbow equivalent. It screeched in pain, and he drove the shredders into its face.
“If they kill you, they’ll gain your power!”
“Oh, yea?!” Breaker laughed in such a way that Zavala’s blood froze, “Well looks like they’re gonna have to do quite a fuckin’ bit!” He wrenched the large weapon from the dying Knight and leveled it at the charging Knight that swung an eons old blade. Its torso vanished, and before the Blade touched the floor Breaker grabbed its handle and wielded it as if it were a toy. “You see, this is my last life! Let me show you, and these bastards, what I did before I became a Guardian!”
“What in the Traveler’s Light are you-”
“You know how I got my fucking name?!” A Knight dove on him, wielding a Boomer. He grabbed the blunt end of the blade with both hands, swinging it like a guillotine before dropping it on the aggressor’s legs, “It’s easy: I broke the police assault waves! In short, I was the one that convinced the coppers to leave my crew the Hell alone while we worked!”
Zavala could only stare with his mouth agape.
“Adrenaline is all I need for this job! Adrenaline, and a lot of dumb,” the sword bisected a Wizard, “Spectral,” a single swing of the blade negated eight Thrall, “Worm-infested,” A Knight clashed its blade with his own, before Breaker jerked one of its pain spikes from its arm and stabbed through its central eye with it, “Pieces of shit to keep this blade sharp! I stole their power not once, but twice! Let’s go for a third!”
Breaker took the second sword from the ground, stabbing his first into the metal catwalk below him, and threw it like a javelin. It impaled a Wizard, and her dying scream sounded as if she were saying the name of Breaker-77, Crota’s End, the Kingbreaker, the Golden Age Heister.
Zavala could only watch in awe. A Wizard flew from a shattered bulkhead, carrying some kind of crystal. Its mystical purple swirls captivated Zavala, who couldn’t fathom what it was.
“Breaker! That’s Light!” Dallas shouted to his Guardian, “We can use that!”
“We can?! Then it’s fucking mine!” Breaker charged with a laugh: he leaped off a crate, grabbed the Wizard by her shoulders, and began slamming its face with his fists as he straddled her waistline with his legs. She screamed, and the crystal dropped to the bulkhead below. Breaker immediately disengaged, falling onto the crystal. He felt it shatter under his weight, and his body filled with... Something.
He felt it course through him. Memories stabilized, seventy eight lifetimes collided, then broke apart, and finally made some kind of sense. Breaker knew what he’d done with his crew before dying in the Cosmodrome ages ago: he was diverting the police away from his crew. He was defending them. He had the highest bounty, was the most feared. If they had seen him, the cops would chase him off-world. His crew would be able to deliver that fucking nanite swarm to the Americans, and they’d have enough money to sit out whatever was on the horizon.
One shot hit him, right where it counted, then he woke up to the voice of Dallas resurrecting him. But, he died as an impenetrable wall that dove headfirst into the thick of danger to bear that burden. He did so out of loyalty to his crew, not solely for the greed of the payout (though that got him to that decision in the first place!), and he felt empowered by this now. This something was seeking that kind of quality to latch onto.
You, Breaker-77, you’re just the right mix of traits to pick up after I’m gone. Take this Light. Wield it well, old friend. I’ll see you back at the Safehouse, and maybe you’ll go back to being called Victor, like you used to. Drinks are on me, pal.
A shield materialized in Breaker’s hand, and it slid to his arm easily. He smiled, a familiar energy coming from it. A crewmember he’d thought lost to eternity, now leaving behind their Light. A Guardian who was probably long lost by the time Breaker came around, but this was proof. The Void energies surged through him, and he let it flow. Each bash of the shield, each toss of it, every action he did was guided by his old friend teaching the Golden Age Heister every maneuver it could recall of their time heisting in the Golden Age.
As the dust settled, and the last Hive Worm withered and died on the station floors, Zavala was on his knees. Breaker couldn’t understand it at first, and neither could Dallas.
“Breaker-77, I...” Zavala shook his head, “I’ve never been so thankful over a Guardian being so reckless. I believe you have truly saved us all.”
((As with the other two, this is Alice’s take. She’ll get some more talking down, and I’ve got “Wonderland” by Caravan Palace going. Let’s see where this goes, shall we?))
Alice had been used to dodging projectiles, debris, anything really after running with Breaker-77 and Henry Gordon, but this was ridiculous. The Last City burned around her, and she was chasing her idol around as he did... What in the Traveler’s name was he doing?!
“Uh, yea, just... That’s a lot of Cabal. I’ve only got so many shots in this thing!” he shouted, her Ghost replaying it with some expressions of distaste. A few clicks, rolling wrists, and a cracked neck, Alice rolled from cover and into the sniper nest a Psion had built for itself. The wiry thing began to panic, charging a ball of void energies. She spun the Last Word from her hip, blasting it twice: once to throw the void blast harmlessly into the wall and the second to end the Psion.
“Cayde!” she spat into the headset, suspending her mute routine to find him again.
“Oh, Alice! I knew you talked when the cards were down, darlin’, but I need a li’l help about three clicks from our last conversation.” The sounds of combat picked up from his Ghost, which probably transmitted those noises for effect.
“I’m aware,” she said, leveling her trusted Stillpiercer. Four shots, reload, repeat. Four kills, generally, occasionally more. “I’m sure you figured that out, though,”
“Yer damn right I did! Alright, this is sweet! You do that bit, I’ll do this bit,” Alice saw solar bolts streak across her scope, “And these Cabal will be packing up in no time! HEY! I NEED THAT! Ghost!”
Alice swung her scope to the source of the solar energy, and saw Cayde had his leg stomped backwards. He was firing defiantly as a Cabal Phalanx dropped its shield on his face. The Ghost pulsed, and he was up in a flash spinning his weaponry as if he’d been his own partner. There was a stylishness about it that Alice couldn’t help but admire. In her native timeline, he was something of a legend beyond what all Guardians inherently were. She was smitten immediately upon meeting him, but by the Traveler she’d never admit that to him. He was a touch to self-centered to approach, but maybe... He twisted his torso to blast some of the Cabal helmets off, and Alice decided she would definitely try and see him after this all boiled over.
If, for nothing else, a brief trip to Wonderland. She smirked at her own comment, and dragged the crosshair along his torso. She knew what she was about.
“If you’re done admiring the show,” Cayde spun his hand cannon into the holster, “Come on down, let’s dance a bit like only Hunters ca-”
Suddenly, there was a pain as Alice’s body had been ripped apart. The Ghost sagged, and then finally dropped. Cayde fell backward, and began coughing. Alice barely had the composure to hold her rifle, but she fought back the nausea to focus on the fact that there was a squad of Cabal advancing on Cayde’s position. She quickly threw her helmet off and began firing. Bracing one leg in front of her and leaning back to ease recoil, she put every bullet she could downrange. Cayde staggered, slugs peppering his position as he fell behind a dumpster. He was clutching his Ghost, and Alice detected explicit fear on his face. The Ghost twitched, and Cayde began to anxiously fumble with it.
Alice focused, however, on the Cabal after she noticed a strange creature on four legs. It charged, and she pinned its skull to the ground with merely a thought of pulling the trigger. Her armor seemed slower, arms heavier, almost as if key servos and motors were offline. She’d need to jumpstart them later. She reloaded, her mind flashing back to when she met Henry and Breaker in the Vault of Glass.
I know how to fight without Light. I can continue to do this. I can save Cayde, and show him how to do the same. I need to make it through this.
Stillpiercer clicked empty, and upon reaching for another magazine, Alice grasped at nothing. She cursed, drawing the Last Word and bolting down the street after sliding down from her covered nest. The Cabal were eager to pepper her position after she revealed herself, so she fired a few rounds of covering fire. She slammed into cover, her mind flashing violently to years spent fighting before being resurrected by her Ghost.
Oh, shit.
She’d left it in the position, expecting it to follow.
She looked back to the sniper nest, and saw the Ghost sputtering along. She focused, staring at it desperately struggling to move. It didn’t talk much, and neither did she, but they had a bond nonetheless. It abso-
Thwack!
Alice was sent to the ground, and looked up to see a Cabal with twin axes had slapped her over. It lowered its axes and bent forward to yell something in their guttural tone. Alice fired the Last Word at it, the bullets going wild. Whatever made them home in on targets was no longer there, and it clicked empty. Alice defaulted to one desperate move, and launched the weapon at the Cabal’s faceplate. It bounced off, and the creature shook its head and was off-guard just enough for a moment of vulnerability. The Awoken leaped, drawing a knife and screaming. She took the blade directly to the helmet, scraping the blade down and into what she hoped was the Cabal’s flabby neck. She dug the blade deep, an ichor spewing out. She threw weight into the handle of the blade, and the helmet popped off. The creature began to cough and hack, and as its spittle landed in her face she realized it was searching her eyes. She searched its eyes, and found something within: Respect.
She shuddered as the creature fell, her on top of it. She grabbed one of its axes, and ignored everything within her screaming in pain: she’d done this before. The Cabal had attacked the Reef in her timeline, though never like this. She knew their tactics well enough to just adapt. She turned to the cluster of troops, and spun one axe up into the air before launching it at a Phalanx that was pounding its chest. She began a sprint, forgetting that she felt heavier, weaker, and that she couldn’t conjure more knives: she had simply the ones she kept in her boots.
One Legionary howled, but she could tell its tone was different: it was scared. She jumped at it, her height not nearly as much as she remembered, but landed on its chest. She straddled its face, and a bloodlust she used back home, on her Reef, previously only seen by four Fallen uprisings and seven other Awoken who dared try to kill her, manifested itself in her desperation. She stabbed the faceplate four times in two seconds, tore the dented helmet off and drove the blade between bloodied eyes. That Legionary fell, and the Cabal began to break as a unit. One by one, they fell. All violent, all gruesome, and only two keeping their blood from falling on the pavement. A lone Psion was left, its crimson lights concealing the blood soaking Alice’s hair. She put her boot on its throat, and angled her heel to its jawline. With a sharp twist of her leg, the Psion’s desperate hands fell from her shin to the ground and its neck snapped. A gasp of air left its throat, and there was an eerie silence. Her Ghost weakly pulsed out some Light, and she felt her wounds heal. As her Ghost collapsed to the ground, so did Alice.
She didn’t wake until Cayde told her they were on Nessus.
((Continuing on from “Hard Time,” this is Henry Gordon’s take on the Red War. As far as canonicity goes, amongst the three members of Fireteam Catastrophe, Henry is “The Guardian” that everyone talks about. The other two are fairly noteworthy in that some of the things are attributed primarily to one of the other two (ex: Breaker-77 is the one who was responsible for killing Crota while Henry has credit for Atheon. Other things, but I have to write that out somewhere. >> Anyhow, let’s get to Henry Gordon’s spin on the Red War kicking off. It’s... Gonna be almost thirteen times as bad as Breaker’s.))
Fire. So much fire. Only a portion of it was from Henry’s Light, and that nudged something deep inside his chest. It was refusing to give, though. His Light topped out, flaring brightly into the hazy night as various spells were shouted with all forms of words. From song lyrics to legitimate arcane wording, the Warlock met the Cabal on the top of the Tower. He’d come back from a run around the Cosmodrome, searching for stores of old Golden Age music. Ironically, he’d found a few servers his Ghost had managed to download. It was a herculean effort, but one that paid off.
“This world can’t take on me, I won’t let go!”
A surge of Solar Light stuck to the Centurion that leaped above his platform, and the ensuing explosion was eclipsed by his leap beyond it, where a Nova Bomb followed suit. He was struck down upon landing, leaping from the death in a blaze of glory. As the music blared into his helmet, he relayed the lyrics out to the world. Giving it all he had to give, the Cabal undoubtedly felt his fury. It burned with the fire of Sol, and it was cold like the Void he drew from. The battered Tower would remain strong, because of the power of Henry Gordon. He would ensure it.
After all, this was just another Tuesday.
Henry knew his home was under siege, he began to gather that this occupying force would be moderately successful, but as he ripped the hordes apart he knew that their victory would be short lived at best. He hoped.
No, he knew the Light would prevail. He had his music, he had his power, nothing would stop that. Tonight, he felt alive.
“The Red Legion have never known defeat!” Ikora Rey shouted. It echoed in his helmet, bouncing around his skull and sticking to his vision as if it were a filter of despair. Henry had never known defeat either: not when the Vex tried to erase him, not when Breaker-77 led him into the pit and Ir-Yut sang death unto him (he sang louder!), not when Alice got him roped into helping Variks and the Queen, and defiantly not when Oryx arrived. Aksis didn’t stand a chance, either. The SIVA Crisis was nothing in comparison to Henry’s sheer determination, his willpower, and his enthusiasm.
Henry shook the burden of fear from his shoulders: he would rise, fall, and rise again until the world stopped. It’s the only way he knew, and the only way he’d follow. Drawing a custom-forged blade, “Bada Bing! Wit’ A Pipe,” he found himself at the Tower Plaza. Zavala held the line with him, saying very little more than tactical chatter that was drowned out in Henry’s singing. There was a brief moment, however, when Henry realized something.
Zavala was in cover.
The Titan of all Titans was hiding in cover, firing out with occasional pot-shots, rather than charging headlong into the fray.
“Henry! Go! Secure the Speaker with Ikora! I will see to the evacuation of the civilians!”
Henry let out a hearty laugh, “Will do, Zavala! Good to be on the front lines, right?”
“This is serious, Warlock!” Zavala sounded angry. Did... No. Zavala didn’t doubt that they would prevail. He was just angry that Henry was having fun. Though, as Henry saw the City burn below, he realized that ‘fun’ wasn’t a word to use.
Henry sprinted, mapping out a series of rifts that he could blink through to leap to the Speaker. There was always conduits of Light he was able to finagle into tunnels, things that would let him blink around and enjoy the Tower on his various errands. Now, though, the Light was... Warped. The tunnels were rebellious, refusing to hold steady and making minor changes that required constant adjustment. As Henry landed where the Speaker used to study his lore, Henry realized that he was standing above a smoking crater.
Ikora screamed, and she flew from a similar rift to drop a Nova Bomb on the first Cabal ship to approach. Henry could only float there, stunned by his mentor breaking her outward appearance of calm and collected to express true, unending fury. The Voidwalker epitomized, Ikora did something Henry could only hope to ever do: she surfed the Cabal ship into the city below.
“I’ll find the Speaker! Henry! Go!”
Henry heard Cabal blasting a wall apart, the one to the market square, and he was so shocked he couldn’t even feel the fire required to ignite the sky, nor did he have the spells to conjure the Void ready. He did however have the cold of his shock to draw upon, and so he drew it out with an exhale. The Arc Light poured from his fingers, and he glided through the Cabal battalion with a calm, collected ease. As the storm poured out unto the foes, vaporizing them with the grace of a hurricane viewed from orbit, Henry could only find his trance deepen at the trauma of what was happening.
The City burned, the Speaker gone, Zavala scared, and Ikora furious.
Henry held it all together until the Arc Light was depleted, and then he couldn’t take it any further: his eyes began to water. The first was denial, then it was bargaining. Henry took his helmet off for a moment, and ran his fingers through his hair. The scent was thick with smoke, the world was burning. Earth could be entirely on fire, Henry wouldn’t know the difference. What would he draw on? What would encourage him to continue fighting? This was everything he ever knew!
“Henry,” his Ghost asked, “Are you... You’re not alright.”
“No, Hank. I’m not. Look at this! This mess!” Henry’s arms gestured wildly, sweeping fingers across rooftops and addressing a building that had been blown apart to expose a small apartment. The apartment had a couch, a bedroom, things most peaceful homes would always have. “What am I supposed to do!? I sing, I throw magic, and I hurt bad guys. I don’t...”
“You don’t finish that sentence, is what!” the Ghost was forceful now, “You are Henry Gordon. The only Warlock I’ve ever known to walk into Vex architecture and make the entire structure rattle in fear! There might be others who did, but generally they are only afraid of Titans. You defy their simulation so thoroughly that you make them shudder at your approach! You danced with Ir-Yut, moshing to her Deathsong! You helped Alice put down Skolas not once but twice! Henry Gordon, you-”
“I’m not even Henry, Hank! I’m just some nobody that poor kid caught a ride with. We were hitchhikers!”
“But you know what you did?! You saw someone who wanted a better life, and decided to live it for them. They wanted to be a hero, a savior, someone who would see this and be only steadfast! A real-deal badass, to use a phrase you told me! You can’t have this breakdown right now, the City needs you!”
“No, they ne-”
“You shut your mouth! I don’t care what your name was before I found you, and I doubly don’t care about how you feel conflicted about every little thing that’s gone wrong, from your inexplicable cynicism toward working relationships to your strange obsession with eating pizza and plaid clothing, you are the hero that the City needs!”
There was a moment of silence, and Henry stood up from his knees. He looked up, and saw a Cabal Centurion entering the plaza. It pounded its chest, laughing at Henry’s plight. Raising its weapon, a massive shotgun-looking device, Henry could feel the Light surge. He chased forward, in a move that was too fast for the Centurion to keep up with. The shot went wide, Henry’s twisting torso making an easy dodge, and the flames of every bitter moment for three years went through the Centurion’s body. Its torso cooked, and the entire creature turned to ash. Henry drew a shotgun, and worked his way through the rest of the Cabal squad in a similar blur.
“Zavala, I found that Guardian you won’t shut up about,” Amanda Holliday spoke on a frequency Henry only barely heard.
“Get Henry aboard that command ship! Whoever is leading this, he is the only Guardian I can find in all this! Breaker-77 is with me, we’re getting these civilians out of the City!“
“You all do that! I’m out here, OW OW OW, oh, hey, it’s Cayde, Alice is on my six! Yea, I’m good never mind! We’re going to try taking out some of the command structure, maybe knock out some of the people who could pick up after you deal with the big guy!”
Henry Gordon’s mind blurred through the rest of the day. As the night dragged on, he could only think in lyrics. His fire needed to engulf the Cabal leader, and he needed to do so with as much gusto as possible. That would break the morale of the Cabal forces, and set up the Tower for a much easier clean-up. This was just a minor thing, after all! The Warlock took heart, singing out the lyrics that could only make him happy. A warcry as much as a lifeline, the music was played through his Ghost but lyrics came from his own throat. He made a mosh pit in every part of the ship, and worked his way to the command deck after exploding several pieces of valuable equipment and using the chunks as improvised weapons. He ran out through doors, and found himself on a flight deck. Staring at the Traveler, he saw a strange device attach itself to the sleeping wonder.
“How do we get rid of that?” Henry asked, panting from his lyrics.
“You don’t.”
Henry turned, looking toward a massive Cabal and two Centurions exiting from the doors he’d just used.
“Welcome to a world, without Light.”
The machine pulsed. Henry’s entire body felt as if it were pulled by a black hole, every muscle screaming at once. Henry tried to conjure up a spell, something to keep himself up. Nothing came to his hands, and his Ghost sputtered something as it fell. Henry dropped to his knees, and fumbled after Hank. Dragging the small machine toward him, Henry heard Ghaul’s approach. If Hank stayed alive, so would Henry. He prayed that the strange machine hadn’t totally cut him off from the Light, but a part of him knew that was exactly what had happened.
“Weak! Undisciplined! You’ve forgotten the fear of Death. Allow me to reacquaint you.” Henry felt an impact in his chest, and he flew to the edge of the ship. He clutched Ghost tightly, struggling to breathe. He couldn’t even right himself before he was punted again, this time losing grasp on Hank. He reached ineffectually after his Ghost, eyes watering in pain as the massive Cabal monologued.
“I’ve watched you. You are undisciplined in the extreme. You follow no code, no tactics, no order, you simply exist in combat. You are shamefully boastful, counting on your ostentatious tactics to win you the day. Your Light is all that allows you to succeed. But not against me, for I am Ghaul. And now, your Light is mine.”
Henry leaned on his feet, staring straight up at the Cabal that called itself Ghaul. A massive boot lifted up from the deck and pressed to Henry’s face. With a nudge, Henry fell. He subconsciously tried to fight the gravity, kept trying to use his magic to keep him afloat, but it all became worthless posturing after a few seconds. Before Henry passed out from the shock, he saw the roofs of the City.
Upon landing, he barely even recognized the difference. He blacked out for hours, only waking up to the sound of his Ghost.
“Hen... Ry?” the Ghost’s voice was weak, feeble, but Henry needed to get up. He willed himself out of the ground, crawling towards the voice, desperate. He found Hank, and the small machine healed him. They walked, having discovered that the City was being evacuated. The Tower fell, and the Traveler was lost.
Henry walked the streets, too injured and meek to even warrant the Cabal’s attention for longer than it took to notice him, and could only feel the despair build to insurmountable levels. People hid in the streets, cowering. They looked to Henry for help, pleading that he do something. But he couldn’t even meet their glances. The most he did was nod forward, hoping they understood his inability.
Ghaul’s words rang true, and as he staggered the mountains of Old Russia, he began to believe them.
((This begins what will turn into a bit of fic for Fireteam Catastrophe reacting to the Red War. I think this would be the best way to truly capture who these characters are: through the tragedy of the Red War. I think this has the potential to be particularly badass, but I’ll let you all be the judge.))
Breaker-77 was one of the first to hear the sirens, one of the first to respond, and the first one to have the true trauma of all Hell breaking loose enter his psyche. He watched a strange ship beeline for the Traveler, and his equivalent to a gut sank. It was with practiced precision that he took a Legionary out, spinning left to bring his assault rifle to bear. The Shadow Price feeling like a water gun in the hands of the Exo, it smote the Cabal soldier with the precision of someone who truly practiced the weapon in its entirety. However, it was a scrap he recovered from a fallen Redjack. The frames were scattered around the City, and Breaker watched former marks and protection rackets vanish into the smoke of the Cabal Stomp.
He grabbed one Cabal by its wrists as the thing charged with two axes: he was locked in place and the weapon had dropped to the floor. The giant of a creature, known as a Gladiator by his HUD, screamed through its helmet into his face. He smelled rage, pure and simple in its creation and ultimately he smelled his own death. A moment of panic lapsed, and Breaker-77′s mind snapped into the chilling flashback of a heist gone awry in a time he couldn’t remember. Dogs. Wolves.
Hounds.
The Exo was perceiving a large bank, probably one of the largest, no. It was a military complex. Russian, he remembered it by the writing. They were stealing something very specific. It was... No, was it SIVA? No. SIVA was from the Plaguelands. Breaker was holding his hands up to clutch the dropping cage that held something unfathomably valuable. His mind snapped to reality for a second, and he realized the weight of the cage had put him on the ground. He rolled sideways, throwing the ‘cage’ off his body and jumping to his feet. Doing something instinctive, Victor Gonzalez-
Who was Victor Gonzalez?
The Gladiator delivered a tackle to its opponent, and Breaker lost the wind in his lungs as he fell backward. Drawing a knife on his pauldron, the Exo stabbed into the Cabal helmet and pried something off. Smoke and oil hissed out, and the creature became belligerent. Breaker raised the knife again, and dropped it. Smiting easily, he repeated the process several times until the hulking creature fell limp. He climbed from under its weight, and screamed.
“Breaker, we need you up-” The audio was cut off as unknown Guardians met one of their many ends at the hands of Cabal artillery. They revived, and Breaker coughed himself out of another flashback. The Guardians he swore were his old crew from the Golden Age, a long lost group of rogues and thugs who saw him through many heists. Now, however, they were long dead and the warrior who defended the people he would have robbed in his past life was a wielder of the Light. He looked up, wanting so badly to know that his Fireteam was alive, knowing that the Cabal had not found and stomped out their Ghosts as they tried to do his own. Dallas, the small machine, was tucked away in Breaker’s pack. They would not take him again.
Breaker saw refugees being chased by War Hounds, and his body surged with Arc energy as he conjured his Fists of Havoc. The beasts vanished in lightning, and the survivors of their hunger were struck with awe. Breaker watched another Titan wave them into cover. The surging Titan lowered his auto rifle and pointed behind the civilian: old tricks coming into play.
“Get in line! I didn’t say stop running! Fucking move! If I have to tell you again, you’re fucking dead do you understand me?!”
Once, Breaker had used this exact tone on this exact civilian in a robbery on a SUROS exhibit. Or was it the raid on New Monarchy’s stockpiles? It may have even been the Dead Orbit Fuel Raid. Breaker had done so many illicit things for so many awful reasons, he had a moment to ponder what even made him a warrior of the Light. Why did the Traveler choose him? Why did the Ghost known as Dallas revive him? As Breaker shoved another stunned civilian, he spun around and caught a series of slugs to his chest. Several Psions were charging up the way, using thruster packs that he hadn’t seen before. He drew a light machine gun, checked the belt, and felt the arcane energies of this weapon, a custom-built weapon created from fragmented memories and decayed blueprints, whir into motion. The kathunka-thunk! of the weapon tore into the Psions, who were quickly reinforced by War Beasts - Dallas was updating names as he found them - and several Legionaries. The cover of the belt popped up, and Breaker felt various mechanisms click to guide his hands along the reloading process.
It was smooth, efficient, and deadly. The “Full Force Forward” machine gun had devices specially designed to recycle missed shots, akin to another weapon known as “Super Good Advice,” but it would also begin stripping the armor of fallen foes and cycle them into bullets. There were other features, but none of them were relevant. Each kill extended the belt, and Breaker had used this on several thousand Cabal when he began raiding their Martian outposts. It was designed with them in mind, since they held near infinite amounts of suitable metal to salvage, but it had earned its costs twenty-fold on every enemy in the Sol system. One more spin of it wouldn’t hurt.
A massive Cabal wearing a fuel tank approached, and Breaker felt the embrace of death as it cooked straight through him. He found his mind dancing through hallucinations, and an urge struck him: shoot the tank. Reviving on a roof top and letting out a hearty, demoralizing laugh, he dropped from the third story balcony and poured the lead on thick. The Incendior exploded, scorching all of its allies. Breaker found a moment of peace, and heard Zavala’s voice.
“All available Guardians! We-”
Breaker felt something torn from his body. Almost as if his very soul tore from its bindings, he staggered. Dallas sputtered, trying to speak. The voice dimmed, and slowly went silent. Cabal roared, and Breaker suddenly felt every inch of pain he’d felt the entire day. With a roar, he searched around him. This pain was only felt when cleaning out Hive nests where they sapped one’s Light. However, this was far more intense. Breaker’s mind went awry, and he was suddenly hallucinating the burning City as the highway he escaped through upon finally stealing something from a very angry, Russian someone. He felt an urge to run, but couldn’t find out why. The sirens blared in the distance, and he pounded his feet. His softcase on his thigh held something extremely valuable, something he knew was his ticket out of here, and he had to haul ass with it.
“Anyone on this frequency!? Anyone!” Breaker didn’t recognize the voice but he knew that was one of his Crew. The Exo sprinted with more intensity, police firing explosives and hurling the unfire of strange Void magics over him. Civilians were herded into the escape vehicle: a dropship. A strange design he hadn’t seen before, but one that looked like it could fly in a pinch. Could it go to Mars? Breaker had a hideout there. He’d snuck something very valuable away there. But he couldn’t help but feel like that something caused trillions of people intense pain. His mind clouded red, a strange symbol filling his eyes.
~consume enhance REPLICATE
“By the Traveler! Breaker-77!” When did Victor get that name? Who was Breaker? Victor was Breaker. Wasn’t he? “Please, help me,” Breaker didn’t know what was said by his crew, but he felt that the hostages needed to be quiet. They would get rowdy, and ruin their chance to escape.
“Ev... Everyone...” the Exo coughed, turning around and seeing the Warmind’s vaults burning... They looked like a City all of a sudden, a city underneath the Traveler. Something was engulfing the Traveler...
“Everyone! Get on the god damn floor and shut your fuckin’ mouths!” Breaker knew how to handle crowds. He was good at that: he broke their wills, after all. That was his code-name: Breaker. “We’re getting out of this joint if it kills us,” the hallucinations ceased, and the Exo realized that the lives he’d lost had saved him once again. Zavala stood there, concerned.
“Breaker-77! What the Hell is the matter with you!? These are innocent civilians!”
Breaker looked to the cinders fluttering in the breeze, and everything within him ached. His heart ached the most, however. The bank robber covered his face with his hands as the cargobay doors shut. The ship took off, hitting full-speed as soon as it could. Breaker heard women crying, children screaming, and men asking why Zavala was still bleeding, and why they were running. After all, the Guardians could take-
“I said shut your fuckin’ mouths! Lick the fucking floor, or I’ll-” he had spun and faced the crowd, his face no longer concealed by the helmet he’d been so proud to earn. He realized it, and tore the scrap metal from his head. The horns he’d had installed to simulate a demon were apparent, and his scowl was cranked to eleven. “Zavala, did you feel it too?”
“Feel... The Light vanish?”
“Yes.”
“I did.”
The Exo had - without any conscious effort to do so - dropped to his rear and sank his head between his knees. The civilians stayed quiet, quiet enough to hear the horrifying Guardian and Commander Zavala break in half.
“Zavala, I think this whole job just went South.”
“It was likely just a localized ritual done by the Psions. Ikora wou-”
“Zavala! They’re dead! We’re all that’s left! An old bank robber, a tired Awoken, a bunch of nobody civilians, whoever is piloting this bird, and at least two Ghosts that haven’t said a word since that ‘localized ritual.’ Has yours spoken?”
“Break... Er... Do we have... a Plan B?”
“No, Dallas, we don’t. The sirens finally caught up to us.”
