Amanda Holliday hurls a wrench at the wall, her grunt of effort punctuated by the sharp clang of metal striking metal. Her shoulders rise and fall with each labored breath in the silence that follows. 

She gasps softly and rushes forward—eyes scanning the surface of the wrench for cracks as her fingers frantically reach for the socket. She turns the ratchet, hoping to hear the reassuring click of the gears. But there is nothing, no movement inside from either direction.

"Damn it," Amanda hisses, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eye. "Dammit!" 

She sees a racing helmet at her feet and kicks it across the garage floor. 

Everything around her is a painful reminder of her ignorance: A blue-and-white auto rifle of Cabal design with an inscribed message on the barrel. Her favorite ramen bar and sightseeing locations circled on a map of the Last City. A datapad loaded with coordinates for the old Haakon Precipice racetrack. The nearly finished Sparrow she and Niik had been working on, blazoned with airbrushed feathers of ebony and white.

"Damn it," Amanda whispers. Her back brushes against the wall, and she leans into it as her body slowly crumples to the floor. Her head dips to the side and rests on the cold engine of the Sparrow beside her. She pulls her legs toward her chest and curses into her knees, burying her face in them as her shoulders begin to rise and fall in trembling bursts. 

Of all the friends she could have made, of all the people who could have become important in her life, of all the horrible twists of fate she could have endured…

…why did they all have to be him?

Sweet Sorrow

SENDER: ERI-223
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-223
SUBJECT: And She Persists 

Ice strangles bare branches by winter, and yet roots churn unseen. Spring always comes, and with it, the fruits of perseverance. Similarly, the Books of Sorrow burst with tales of the Witch Queen's cycle of death and return, so do not become complacent. Savathûn is a cunning foe. I will only be shocked if her machinations do not continue to bedevil us for some time yet.

You have bested Savathûn. At least, for all appearances. That is the only assurance we have in facing an enemy who works so subtly on so many different fronts. I still labor to uproot the filaments she spun into our intelligence networks during her tenure as Osiris. Thankfully, a great many have become more obvious without her constant maintenance.

You should be aware that Savathûn took a particular interest in you, and I have uncovered her infiltration of hidden communication channels. It's likely she is responsible for one or more false missives in an attempt to undermine your loyalties or redirect your goals. But her schemes invariably serve multiple agendas; while she works to sway with her words, she encodes secrets to erode your subconscious as well. It is possible one may pick apart these ulterior agendas with a cautious eye, and so I recommend reviewing any communications you have received to search for unusual elements. 

Report anything you uncover to Ikora or me.

Eris II

May this message find you, Guardian.

If it does, then you have once again learned just enough to be dangerous, and you are no doubt seeking guidance.

I must preface all I  am about to say by asking for your empathy. I have dedicated lifetimes to studying the infinite permutations of reality. I have lived longer than any other Guardian by orders of magnitude, much of it outside what you experience as time. But with the loss of Sagira, the time I have left in a Human lifespan is infinitesimal; less than a mote in the vast sands of time. All I have of value—my insights, my discoveries, my reputation—they are all rooted in my past, and I do not have the time left to accomplish more. Not on the scale we need to survive.

There are few beings in this cosmos who have seen time from the same  depths as I have, and fewer still with the intellect to appreciate that perspective. Which is why I have made my deal with the devil.

I have willingly submitted to Savathûn and allowed her to take my place among the Vanguard.

The Vanguard have  fought like trapped animals for too long. They hoard secrets; every fact they learn gets crammed into the barrel of a gun and fired at the heart of our newest target. We are losing this war despite individual, pyrrhic victories, and what pitiful harm Savathûn can inflict with our limited resources pales against the value of this opportunity. The Witch Queen sits on a throne of secrets accreted over a billion years. While she huddles in the crumbling ruin of our city, I am left alone in her storied halls to learn all she has seen. 

Zavala and Ikora are dear friends and noble souls, but they are adventurers. They see immediate problems and crave immediate solutions, and their compassion blinds them to what can be won through sacrifice—particularly from a man who is, on the scale of Guardian lives, already dead. They would stop me, which is why I entrust only you with this knowledge. Keep my secrets and keep humanity safe with this unexpected ally. 

Do not let my sacrifice be in vain.

—Osiris

Osiris I

It seems that our end has arrived this day. Savathûn is here.

For too long, I have dreaded this inevitability. In a way, I suppose it's a relief; the sword of Damocles dangles over my head no more. I approach you alone, Guardian, because you have proven yourself unswervingly dedicated to victory over the Hive no matter the  cost.

Savathûn is an enemy unlike any the Guardians have ever weathered, not merely because of her physical power, but also because of her keen intellect and mastery of strategy—she does not make a visible move without first maneuvering all of her assets into place. It was all too easy for you to reveal her presence among the Vanguard. Make no mistake: she discarded the guise of Osiris because it was no longer valua 8le, because the reveal was strategically worth more to her. I cannot begin to guess at her true agenda, but I promise you that everything we are doing now is exactly what she wants.

There is no one in the Last  City as soaked in Hive secrets as I am, but my knowledge now becomes a liability. Savathûn works her power through secrets, and I am almost certainly her unwitting pawn—a sleeper agent ready to activate when the time comes.

I need a friend and ally whom I can trust to eliminate me the moment I act suspiciously. Do not hesitate, Guardian. Do not second-guess. Do not beg me to seek redemption. I am already fallen, and the greatest mercy you can offer is swiftness.

You alone I trust with this vital task.

—Eris Morn

Eris I

SENDER: IKO-006
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-006
SUBJECT: Functional Advisement

Show considerable caution re: new informant FYN-002. CHA-319 confirms asset traits: paranoid, disgruntled, eager to please, needs to belong. Disposition makes him an eager source; also makes him easily manipulated by Savathûn. Until he is established as bona fide, work under assumption that everything he shares, the enemy wants us to know. If the operation goes sideways, exfiltrate FYN-002 for debrief; some intel is better than none.

Be prepared. Scrutinize everything. Accept nothing at face value. Savathûn operates via disinformation and counterintelligence. We must assume she will penetrate our networks at some point, so remain vigilant.

Personal aside: Hidden involvement with this operation will stretch my time thin. I'm sorry. I'll provide oversight for critical missions; otherwise, I need you to operate solo. It may be more than you're prepared for, but we don't have any other choice for now.

Ikora I

Degenerate fate casts us together once more, Guardian. How I have missed the thrill of pitting my Cabal against your unyielding tide of Lightbearers, truce or no.

But it is in the spirit of Zavala's newfound truce that I offer you news  delivered by my Cabal scouts. My forces recently recovered the remains of a Human male on Nessus, vivisected almost beyond recognition using Hive techniques and tools. Our science identifies the unfortunate as your Warden of the Infinite Forest, Osiris.

While I will not divulge the details of our confirmation methodologies, rest assured they are thorough and accurate. This news no doubt will shock you, given that you are also in possession of another Osiris still clinging to life. But it is not him, despite the confirmation of his identity performed by Ikora Rey. Her admiration for her old mentor has already clouded her ability to recognize an imposter once, and it appears to have happened yet again. It is not custom among the Cabal to allow even a respected leader a   3rd chance to fail their people.

I don't know what purpose the Witch Queen could have in giving you a comatose husk wearing your dead ally's face, or what threat he may become: a listening device, a future mole, a living bomb? But understand this: when Savathûn brought Xivu Arath to my doorstep, she did so wearing the mask of a trusted advisor. What you hold in your Tower is no treasure, and I have faith in you among your kind to handle this problem as a Cabal would.

—Empress Caiatl

Caiatl I

Intentions, no matter how lofty, damn us just as thoroughly as our sins.

My one responsibility to the Guardians—to humanity—was to keep our secrets safe, and I failed. Our greatest enemy strolled into the nerve center of the Tower, and I showed her our beating heart without question because she preyed on my nostalgia.

So now you find yourself  answering to a Vanguard of one. In quick succession, the line of duty has consumed first Cayde and now me. Only Zavala seems immune to such tragedy. Is it simply luck, or is it ambition? For all his honor, Zavala was a brute before he claimed to hear the Traveler's call,  but now I wonder if I didn't underestimate his cunning as well. 

Don't let my failures compromise your chance to save us all, Guardian. Humanity needs a champion unshackled from politics. You need to chase down Savathûn's scattered memories no matter who tries to stop you—whether they're from the Throne World or the Last City. And be wary. If Zavala is a threat we didn't see coming, you'd be wise to watch yourself: find insurances, ways to seem useful to him. Do whatever it takes to ensure your safety, just in case this jinx on powerful Guardians doesn't end with me. Don't follow poor Cayde- 8's fate.

I trust you and you alone to follow this through. You're wily enough to stay ahead of our Light-wielding enemies.

—Ikora Rey

Ikora II

Odd communication technique, but costly. Thought to phoneme to mark to digital signal. Each transmutation yields less than the input; the  alchemy of conception. Read well, Guardian, for less of value has filtered through these transitions, and you must slake yourself on only the anhydrate wisdoms that remain.

I witness your crude battering against the shores of Savathûn's throne world; causal flotsam adrift in the Sea of Screams. Your flailings stir storms on its waters as surely as a firefly lights conflagrations. And yet, you persist. Why wouldn't you? Stubbornness, glutted by fear, stirs  a Guardian to every cause. You tempered yourself in the Light and the Dark to become a blade that would not break. And despite that keen crucible of obstinance, you lack the true will for genius.

You bow to the Traveler, Guardian, and you must lose because Savathûn bows to a mightier master—the same master to whom the Traveler genuflects: survival. That is their shared secret, and what makes them strong: a purer reagent with which to alloy. They are siblings, possessed of the same valence electrons. 

The same Light-Dark temper has  distilled for you an ally.

And ever the Guardian, you thirst for the briny waters of conflict that you know, ignoring the sweeter, fresh flow that bursts from the vessel.

Savathûn will be the universe's salvation, hero. She can be yours, too, if only you cast down the bitter draught of old allegiance on which you have grown drunk.

—Toland

Toland I

X-ray laser emplacements can rip the protons from a ship's hull, redefining what each atom is and triggering explosions as each individual molecule realizes it can no longer exist. And yet that damage pales in comparison to the harm secrecy can cause. While Hunters may prefer to act with their targets unaware, and Warlocks may prefer subterfuge and trickery, a proper Titan conducts his business for all to see. But for Ikora's sake, I am willing to bend my principals—her mistakes and the questions that surround them are already all too public. And so, I find myself in the unenviable position of approaching you, Guardian, clandestinely.

Sadly, my concerns around Ikora are what bring me to you. I know my old friend. She carries her mistakes heavier than anyone else, and giving up the Light to Savathûn may be too much for her to bear. I can see the cracks forming in her resolve. 

The Vanguard needs  3 leaders to reflect the needs and perspectives of Earth. I need your help to start course correcting our current trajectory. I will not disgrace Ikora by removing her from her position, but her own flagellations are compromising her awareness and interfering with her ability to keep this city safe. I need a spymaster who can work from Ikora's shadow even—or especially—when she compromises herself, and you are already familiar with her work. I know that eventually, Ikora will welcome the freedom of stepping away from the undue burden of her responsibilities. And once things quiet down, we will make your position more formal. Until then, know I support your decisions and will  back whatever changes you must make.

I know this is no simple request, to entrust you with uncovering our enemies' secrets, and with saving my dearest friend's life.

—Commander Zavala

Zavala I

The Last City, Earth      

GX-818 Experimental Notation:
Recovered Hive Ghost inoperable. Still responds to electrical impulse. Ran gauntlet of tests and gleaned welcome protocol data.

New chest rig comes in handy for experimentation and observation: every time the Ghost exhibits movement, can render it inert without so much as lifting a finger. Must employ this technique in future studies…

Hardware architectural analysis confirmed that this derelict creature exhibited a malleable structure. Certainly wasn't created with a specific framework in mind and looks to have adapted its configuration to its Lightbearer once acquired. Is this necessary for the bonding process? For creating the perception of companionship? Is it possible for a Ghost to connect to a Lightbearer without undergoing restructuring?

Previous behavioral studies have shown that Ghosts can be selective. Given lack of pre-programmed directives, it is now clear that they make conscious choice about whom to revive. Hardware evidence suggests that Ghosts were always capable of reviving Hive; perhaps they always intended to.    

Addendum for Spider:
You've asked me why I like to "tinker with your toys" before I deliver them. Well, here you are. Proof of what I've been saying all along:

We live at the whims of a god who blesses the few at the expense of the many. We follow leaders who claim to understand this speechless orb, and we are expected to do as it wills, no matter the cost to ourselves.

So many people still condemned to die, and it willingly granted immortality to a death cult, served on a silver platter by these… automata. Well, I too have a will, and I will not prostrate myself before something capable of such evil.

Your Ever-Skeptical Häkke Exile,
Alexei

Hoarfrost-Z

Gather 'round, young'uns. No, no automat for supper; no noodles. Tonight is something special: corn pone and chitlins. This here's history on a plate. Now, don't give me that look before you even taste it. If the world's fixing to end again, it's time you had a meal from our family's past while you hear about it. About how the Rigby clan survived the last time the world went dark.

Now the Rigbys, we didn't always squat on the edge of the City. A long time back, we came out of a place that was old and wet, hotter than the fires of Perdition—so your Gramma's gramma and her pappy before her have said. It was also a place where the Devil roamed, giving folk their heart's desire.

And I know that last part is true, because your ancestor—Sean Rigby was his name—he came to a crossroads one midnight, drunk and feeling the fool, and…  he saw her. Standing there, checking the time and looking cool as no other in the sweltering August heat. Tall as cottonwood in bloom and wearing a smile across her lips that stopped short of her eyes. Some say the Devil is a man with a pointy beard. Others say the Devil's a terrifying beast with claws and a tail. But Sean? He knew right then. The Devil was a lady.

The Devil bent down close to him, setting her eyes on his wayward soul. Her voice was honeysuckle-sweet as she said, "I know you, Sean Rigby. I seen you sweat and sob for a scrap of land you can't even rightly say is your own. I seen your family fight to save a name that's more precious to you than gold. Well there is a reckoning coming, Sean Rigby, one that will wipe all lands and all names—high and low—clean from this Earth. I alone can whistle up the way to protect one of these things you hold dear, if your family will owe me… a debt."

Old Sean was already a sinner, but a man with nothing will fight to keep what little he has. He figured that alive and in the Devil's pocket was better than dead, so he shook her hand. The Devil opened her eyes—one, two, three—and pointed him to the last star in the sky, far to the south. She said, "That's your star, Sean Rigby. Follow it each night, when it's the last star hanging low, and sing to it. You sing, 'Al Eck Ruk Nam, Shu Nam Eck Ur,' until you call that star down to Earth. You do that, and your family will endure." 

The Rigbys did as they were told and walked south. Each night they sang, and each night their star sat lower and lower. And when it finally fell, they were safe beneath the Traveler.
But now, children, I give you the same dire warning that's been handed down to me: the Devil hasn't come back yet to take what's hers… not from Sean, or any other Rigby what survived him. But a debt's a debt. So you learn and remember that song, children… and steer clear of crossroads once the sun sets.

Fundament Shell

I find myself once more stalking the night, my Witness, unknown as their final gasps. But my sojourns are no longer otiose errands. I am no more a predator among the Ahslid than the weaver is a predator of flax. Death creates gaps into which my progeny rises and stokes paranoia to tighten their fists. Each carapace crushed winds the clockworks my hands assemble.

They no longer need my direct ministrations. My children have children—some bequeath my lessons. The favored spawn are those who learned my lessons well. They converge on my shape, and unprovoked, prepare banquets of wisdom on which their kin gorge. They craft weapons—little more than hurled rocks standing in the long shadow the Darkness casts—but enough to crack their world apart. Only Uun disappoints, frightened as he is now by his own potential for glory. I cut him free of my succor. Obscurity is the crueler fate.

You taught me the most precious lesson of irrelevance. Only purpose can be momentous. It is the moment of clarity that freed me from worldly soil. This final gift I withhold from my progeny. It is the most challenging lesson to teach, and I stand in awe of the elegance with which you revealed the truth to me. I cannot do the same without reflection. I have imitated myself all too well, but to imitate you, my Witness, it is the one challenge to which I find myself unworthy.

Resonant Fury Strides

Crow feels unease when he touches the active Psisorium. There's a throbbing sensation at the base of his skull. It starts at the back of his head and works its way forward. A compelling aura flows from the Psisorium, ushering buried memories to the surface of Crow's mind.

Uldren Sov felt unease as he stood with fingertips against the Dark Shard. Everything was wrong, but he ignored it. There was a throbbing sensation at the base of his skull. It burrowed underneath and snaked in between his vertebrae: an impulse taking hold in his nerves that he was helpless to follow. A whisper he strained to hear, "Save her."

The Psisorium vibrates against the nails of his ungloved fingertips. Lucent Hive bodies twitch in unfeeling response to the mental scrying. Crow feels the rhythm of alien thoughts sweep over him like wind on stone, catching in ruts and divots worn by time. He sees glimpses, reflections of an end to justify the means.

A voice rattled Uldren Sov's mind, the cool tones of his sister slipping into well-worn grooves as he watched dreams carve themselves into his reality. Lucidity flashed like panicked gasps under thin sheets of ice. His desire taken: wishes turning sour in his mouth as he spoke them, tasting no longer of promise, now only of regret.

Recurrent Impact

They are liquid fear sealed within porcelain flesh, my Witness, these Ahslid whose service you require. I arrived as you bid, without ceremony or fleets, and for 14 journeys around their star, I have stalked them in the dark, testing them to find even one who may serve as a warrior. I offer them every opportunity to unleash wrath upon me and prove their worth, and they cower, then bleed. Is it the death of my ego you crave as you dispatch me alone against these insects?

But I comprehend the depth now of this commandment. Yours is a lesson in insight, and sweet as their hemolymph may be, it is folly to spill it all myself. 

My violence inspires fear. Each new corpse come daylight substrates accusations. They need logic, a cause and effect that fits within their understanding of the universe. Even when massacre comes from the black depths between stars, they must lay its accounting at the tarsus of their most powerless.

They divide. They appoint authorities. They see lines in the parched dust that exist only in their minds, and they value these so, so dearly they will kill to define them. Achingly nostalgic. My gift of enlightenment. I am free of Lubrae, but I see its shape in these jostling masses, and this inspires me.

You have bidden me sharpen their fatuous minds into a spearpoint, as you did on Lubrae, but without showing my face to cow them. So instead, I shall press my shape into the dust of this world and cast a generation of Ahslid in my image. And they shall by my glaive.

Resonant Fury Grips

[Madness. Whether he knew it or not, the Subjugator shared this characteristic with his very target, the Osmium King. Larvae in hand, the king was surrounded by whispers—whispers of the end of all things. Designed to incite madness.] 

[And then the movement of a silver moon in the sky made his madness fester. He raved. Ranted. Until others were so sick of listening that they tore him from this life. His daughters, fearing for theirs, fled.]

[From on high, they watched—the Witness and its Disciple—plotting their next move.]

"It toys with us, my Witness, as it always has. Our enemy in Fundament's sky. Its movements are a message, one that that belies our machinations."

—-It delays our desires so that it may seek its own. These frail siblings… will soon be claimed by the Light. Unless we claim them first. Our whispers were fed to a weak mind. But we have watched these siblings. These children of the king. They are brave minds. Clever minds. Ambitious minds. Yet unsullied by the weakness of aging that plagues their kind.—-

"Then what compels them to hear our whispers?"

—-Desperation. We will tell the most cunning sibling of a cataclysm. A prophecy… of great loss. We will feed her fear. Her pride. We will say… Young Sathona. The end is coming. A great cataclysm. A God-Wave. In the Sky… there is only death. But salvation… lies in the Deep. Lead your sisters down. Your cunning will spare their short lives. And you… will be reborn. The Witch Queen… Savathûn.—-

"Quite the embellished lie, my Witness."

—-Lie? Or perhaps a truth in the making? That will be of her choosing. She may even stand alongside you one day. In service of the final shape.—-

[In that moment, jealousy, envy- or something more was all but painted across the Subjugator's expression.]

Resonant Fury Plate

Void. Bereft. There is a chasm where my fulfillment should live.

Today, you again gifted me purpose, my Witness. A rapturous day, by the old pattern, my fingers knitting finality once more. But now, this purpose is equivocal, serving not the glorious abyss. The race—the Ahslid, in their degenerate, clicking dialect—have never known the enemy's luminous caress, will never know that caress. They are unnecessary, destined to die in a paltry million years still orbiting the same blue-white star that gave them succor.

Irrelevant. And yet…

"Your presence shall raise no more concern than that of a speck of dust blown off course by a distant sun. And you shall bow this people to my service, just as I enlightened you. Your value shall be their value." 

I was born in irrelevance, and yet, you cast me back down that well.

I keep your sacred commandments, even this, closer and dearer than my own pulse. In your name, I bring crushing embrace by flame and glaive, my Witness. Fleets of black to blot out suns and moons. The enemy flees, and I burn all trace of its passing. This is my supplication.

But I castigate myself. Nothing is immaterial that is in your sight. My prayers offend my Witness, and so, here and now, I tear them out. I shall learn to forge by night and whispers, and silence shall be your choir.

Resonant Fury Mask

It takes no foresight, nor does it require any sort of precognition to hypothesize how exactly this particular Queen of the Hive reacted to the development of new establishments in her throne world, my Witness.

Acquiescence, it was decidedly not.

It would be dishonest of me to claim no delight from her indignation, though I assure you, these simple pleasures are born out of nothing more than a desire to see her succeed while remaining in our care.

Too much recoil on our part from confrontation with Savathûn would surely beget a feeling of true autonomy for her; and while my undying trust for you, my Witness, is eternally absolute, I remain circumspect in regard to any hidden intentions Savathûn may see to fruition were she allowed to.

She remains, after all, and as you know, conniving and opportunistic. I am, however, hopeful that in due time, these concerns will fade. Hopeful, my Witness, but not convinced.

Begrudging as she may be, and with the continued… "cooperation" of Xita, construction of the larvae breeding chambers has commenced. The armies of Oryx and Xivu Arath will grow exponentially in short order. Should they envision future conquests, they will indeed have the tools to make it so, as is your wish, my Witness.

Should Savathûn desire to play cards in contrast to our own, I will, without hesitation, bring to mind that she made her choice long ago, and that only if she wishes for eternal release should she dare to betray it.

Resonant Fury Gloves

I've thanked God for this mask more times than I can count. It reflects most everything; keeps me on the safe side of whatever's coming at me. Most times…

Dust storm left me no recourse. Came to a small encampment of refugees from Freehold, now buried. Most of them were workers at the old BrayTech facility, none too happy to see an Exo. One of them began to play a rueful tune on a cobbled-together string instrument. To this day, I haven't forgotten the words he sang:

Let me tell ya now 
Bout the time the Devil walked through my door
Said oh, let me tell ya now
Bout the time the Devil walked through that door
Ain't nothin', nobody
Could hold me down anymore

It was mine, all mine
Devil gave me that golden ring
It was mine, all mine
Devil made me laugh and sing
But little by little
The Devil took my everything

It was wailin' and gnashin'
When the Devil did his dirty work
Just wailin' and gnashin'
When the Devil did his dirty work
Oh, what a fool had I been
Thinkin' I was above the dirt

In the dirt, they were buried
Made me blue to see that red
In the dirt, they were buried
Made me blue to see that red
Devil took no pity
Left me no place to rest my head

Lord, help the Devil
How'd he get to be so cruel
Lord, help that Devil
How'd he get to be so cruel
That mean old Devil
Was just some other devil's fool

This mask reflected the gaunt faces of the survivors, but it didn't hide me. I could feel hot tears stream down my cheeks. They saw their own pain in me. The accusatory glances stopped then, and a sad understanding remained. Because we all knew, this place will never be the same.

Blight Ranger

"So. You're the new guy." Ana Bray cracks a half smile. "Can't be worse than the last Psions that Red and I dealt with." She impatiently taps her heel on her workshop bench as the Psion hurriedly checks linkages and nodes on the neural coupling device around her head. 

Words and images skip across Ana's mind like stones. "Remain calm. Even though you are defenseless, I do not possess a starship." A sound resembling laughter follows.

"Funny." Ana chuckles impatiently. "Okay! I've been setting this up for months. Are you done with the safety checks?"

Jinju flies by Ana and runs a scan over the engram. "Be nice."

A digital timepiece drains toward zero while the Psion inundates her mind with questions.

"My Light, Splicer tech, brain tubes. Yeah, I got it," Ana says. "Plug my brain into Red already and let's do this." Her voice quickens with excitement. The Psion finishes linking cables to a Splicer-tech receptacle housing Rasputin's engram and gives Ana an awkward thumb pointing up.

The Psion forms an interlocking image in her mind: a tangle of wires. Slowly, her perspective sifts through them and stops at a radiant center. She hears the words, 'Forgotten vestige, made remembered.'

"That's the plan, Pstan!" Ana exclaims. "Drop me in; I can already hear the Tchaikovsky." She stares down the ticking timer: 3… 2… 1…

Ana blinks. She stands in a vast thicket of thorn and rot. A warmth radiates from deep within the thicket. 

Ana blinks. She presses through bramble as barbs draw blood. Her sense of self wavers. She finds her grip on a searing-hot spike, shifting her senses red like an adrenal rush. 

Ana blinks. She kneels at the spike and rips it from the ground. A Valkyrie javelin is in her grasp.

Ana blinks. The thorned vines around her recoil and wither in the heat. She feels something within the javelin, faint and weak, but alive.

Grand Overture

"Glint."

"Yeah, buddy?" His Ghost's voice is eager. It had been a few hours since Crow last spoke.

"Is there anything you hate about yourself?" Crow turns in the seat of his tree saddle overlooking a sparsely forested valley split by clear Trostland waterways.

"Whoa. That's intense. Um… well—"

"It feels like my guts were pulled out in different directions, and I'm just… standing here, trying to reel them in. Nothing fits back the way it was." 

He had walked behind a god while she led him on a leash of his entrails—one he'd accepted in enthusiastic fashion. The thought of it was surreal, like another life presented in horrifying detail, in vivid waking visions. It was a wound worsened by the sight of the severity, and of course, he couldn't look away.

"Well, that's rather graphic," Glint chirps, processing. 

"Do you really have to put… uh, it… back in? Is it maybe OK being out?"

"Forget it," Crow relents. "Different question."

"Sounds good!" Glint agrees with an awkward chuckle.

"Do you think the Spear…" Crow stops himself and reforms his thoughts. "…Wherever Savathûn pulled Uldren from… he was always buried somewhere in me, right? Maybe I could use the Spear to step into that place. Step into my past and… put whatever's left of him to rest." Crow exhales and stares blanky into the horizon. "I want him gone. If the Spear could let me do that… I don't know."

"Oh… Crow, I don't think it works that way." Glint is quiet long enough for Crow to shift nervously. "Look Crow, we've been through a lot of bad things together. But you've never been the bad part about any of it. I wouldn't change a single thing about you… even a little."

Glint sinks into Crow's lap. "Besides… that last guy didn't have me."

Razor's Edge

—-Your father, he feared your anger. Feared you.—-

Because he knew what I could become. He knew what burdens flowed through my veins. He too felt them, lived them.

(I am a boy. My father skewers three Stalkers in front of me. His eyes are crimson, his sharpened teeth bared as he moves to bite their heads off.)

For a time, my father embodied what I felt inside. I looked up to him, believed I could confide in him. He felt a bloodlust and he despised The Regime. But as they did with me, the others began to see him as a liability. So he softened and softened until, in my opinion, he degraded to the Lubraean equivalent of fetid rot.

—-And so you treated him as such.—-

(I stare into the face of my father, his severed, shattered head held in my hand, dripping with what once stayed within.)
A consequence of weakness. His own.

(In search of my father, I reach the final hiding place of my clan. Devoid of active life, as were the rest. But filled with tokens, trinkets, heirlooms. They left in a hurry, all who remained. And I know where desperation takes them.)

The same place it took me.

The Abyss.

Tainted

Stop.

—-Why?—-

I don't want to do this. I don't want to relive this.

—-Most would die for the opportunity to retread their greatest moments.—-

…Great moments end in triumph, not mass extinction. In the end, what mattered?

—-The end? No, no. We are so very far from the end. You are not yet ready to taste true glory. You may not yet be familiar with the concept of metamorphosis , but we assure you, you are experiencing it right now. You were once free to roam your little box but lacked wings to fly out of it. And so you grew them —the little larva that you were—wrapped in a cocoon. Now, you need only cut yourself from it. But to do so, you must leave behind that which made you weak, retaining only that which makes you strong.—-

But my world…

(Shattered.)

—-Recreated here, for you.—-

(Reformed. All around me.)

—-Every painstaking detail.—-

(The suns. The Abyss. The Regime. Lubrae.)

—-Every painful memory.—-

(My clan. My family. Khloa, clan-father. Kheesa, clan-mother. Kheeta, sister. Vrhuna, mother. Rhelik, father. Their heads in my hands.)

—-Love for them made you weak. Power over them made you strong. Upon reflection, you are filled with regret. Believing yourself to be under the spell of the Regime. Believing your actions in their tenure to be wrong. But morality, oh dear Rhulk, is subjective. And now that you are all that remains of Lubrae, isn't it time you made the rules? Isn't it time you looked back upon your life with pride? After all, your actions brought you to us. And only we can help you emerge from your cocoon.—-

We…? What even are you?

—-We are your salvation. We are your judgment. And soon we will be… your Witness.—-

Isolated

—-The Regime took all that mattered to you… and yet, you blamed your father?—-

The Regime never lied about who they were. They were brutal, yes. But honest.

—-Honesty meant something to you?—-

It meant everything.

—-Interesting. And so, in the face of your father, the hypocrite, you leaned on The Regime that enslaved you both instead. That killed so many of your kind.—-

The Regime did not enslave me. It freed me.

(The Regime puts the Glaive back in my hand, the one I named in honor of you. I have renamed it—Rheliksbane—and no matter how you try to hide it, this scares you. Just as I knew it would.)

(I'd be lying if I said I didn't take pleasure in this. But I do. Just as I take pleasure in the constant Sapphiric light. And the roof over my head. The consistency in regular meals. The Regime lives well, comfortable.) 

(The city may be overcrowded. The laws may be strict. The few may have all of the power. But at least we're not out there trying fruitlessly to survive. At least we're not out there scared, cold and alone, wondering if we'll live to see the next rise of either sun.)

(But most importantly, Father—nobody denies me my thirst. My lust for blood. They encourage it. Feed it. And they have begun to show me truths. About the Wanderers. About what the glimmering orb encouraged.)

(You always claimed the hands of The Regime were stained red, but you never showed me yours—until now.)

(How dare you stand before me now and confess your disloyalty to The Regime. How dare you lie to me again.)

(You may have overwhelmed me this time. Escaped my grasp. But I am coming for you. I will end this.)

Defiant

(Father… it's been a year since you were taken. But we have not been attacked since. I know the Stalkers still watch the clan, but I survive alone these days—ousted for being the only one brave enough to act. A liability, they called me.) 

(We will see what they say when I bring you back. If you still live.)

(Every Umbral Sun, I walk the Abyssal perimeter with the help of the Sapphiric Converter's attunement to our great sun, providing me light in the dark. The Stalkers don't expect me, so they don't see me. And the Glaive, a tool of The Regime, which I have named after you—Rheliksward—makes eviscerating them that much easier.)

(I kill many looking for a sign of you. Wash my hands with their blood in the hopes of your continued existence. I have been lost without your guidance. Unsure of what I am. Who I am. What I am meant to do.)

(And now, as you stand before me draped in the insignias of the very Regime that took you, I am confident that you have no answers.)

(As you call your fellow Stalkers to overwhelm me, to bind me, to carry me into the dense, unending city of Lubrae, I am confident that you are a coward.)

(As you testify at my trial that I should not be put to death for what The Regime claims are immeasurable crimes, but should instead serve alongside the Stalkers—alongside you, killing Wanderers, annihilating clans—I am confident you are an opportunist.)

(What about Mother? Our clan? What about "down with The Regime"? What about biding our time? Or is this another lesson in inaction—in sparing ourselves from the absolute worst so that we can barely live? Barely survive?)

(I am confident, Father—you will die by my hand.)

Nepotistic

(We survive. We give back to the land. We help those in need. They come for us anyway.)

(The Regime raids our camp. No logical explanation for those they kill. Clan-mothers. Clan-fathers. Children. They kill us without purpose. A red spattering courtesy of a Stalker spreads across my face. Goodbye, Fhent. Goodbye, clan-uncle.)

(I am covered in red. It's all I see.)

(It spills out of these Stalkers like an endless crimson wave as I face them. Their valuables and instruments become mine. A Glaive of my own. A Sapphiric Converter.) 

(Father is carried off, not killed. Not yet anyway. Not many of us are left. Mother and the others look at me with concern. Not for my injuries, but for those who suffered at my hands.)

—-They disrespected your power.—-

They were weak.

—-And yet you still saved them when you could.—-

(The Stalkers attack us under the Umbral Sun, during a migration. They know how to find us—they know we move at twilight—the space between when the Stalkers hunt and the planet kills.)

(We barely survive. At the safehouse, they dance and sing, not in celebration, but in admiration of their continued existence and in memoriam for those lost. I sit in anger. I hunger for revenge.)

Loss meant little to our kind. It was too rampant.

—-Are you sure it wasn't just you?—-

You know not what you ask.

(I'm a boy. I hold the furry little Yhadt in my hands as it wriggles before pulling it apart. It separates from its skin with ease. What is this worthless, pointless thing?)

Why show me this?

—-This you have already seen… experienced. Surely you can handle it again?—-

(This worthless, pointless thing… it dies so unceremoniously—did it ever matter at all? The children weep for their lost pet, but I feel… powerful. I feel—)

—-You know what you are. You always knew.—-

(Mother and the others look at me with concern. Not for my injuries, but for those who suffered at my hands… and they are right to do so. Tearing their bodies to pieces brought only joy. What… am I?)

I am a monster. I knew it then, I know it now.

—-Not a monster. A savior.—-

Endangered

—-And what more of this family of yours?—-

They're gone. Dead. All of them. They don't matter anymore.

—-Is that so?—-

What do you even want to know? You want to know more about my father, the Lubraean traitor? Or perhaps my mother, another Lubraean traitor? I should have seen it coming. I could tell you about my clan, and my clan-father and clan-mother. Also Lubraean traitors. They were all City dwellers once, loyalists to The Regime before exiling themselves. Do you see now what I see?

—-We see unfinished business… We see a child seeking validation… We see great loss.—-

(Content. Together. A fire burns bright. Our cavern is alight. We hide within it to keep safe—the hazy sky is outside, and surely there are some without shelter this night. Those who will be torn apart. By the wild. By the Umbral Sun. By those Lubraean guards who call themselves Stalkers, pursuing us on behalf of a brutal regime.) 

(Long ago, there were only Wanderers, surviving a harsh landscape covered with shifting, bloodthirsty flora. Surviving wildlife can flatten themselves until they are practically invisible—perfect at going unnoticed until they've split your skin and organs apart.)

—-And now?—-

(We are divided. Split by a shimmering orb that appeared briefly in our sky, as if having two suns isn't already crowded enough.)

—-What of this shimmering orb?—-

It was before my time. It came. We evolved. It left. Left us with a mess—those who believed in good progress. Those who didn't. 

Those who believed dwelled in the City. Controlled it. Filled it only with the light of the Sapphiric Sun and endless day to keep the horrors of night away, revealing the horrors among us. They pushed progress for the sake of the few while the rest of us took our chances under the alternating suns.

—-And this shimmering orb you now see before you?—-

(There it is. Shining like silver in the sky. Like the stories told.)

Providing hope, then leaving everything to those who desire control but lack commitment and understanding.

—-Look at them now.—-

(Bodies. Limbs. Vaporized remains. A shattered sapphire. Lubrae irreparable. An Umbral sun, still shining darkness.)

…What have I done?

—-What was necessary.—-

Provoked

What have I done?

(NoiseNoiseNoiseNoiseNoiseNoise)

Fear.How.Mothers.Did.Sadness.It.Fathers.Come.Hate.To.Children.This.Sorrow.Forgive.Displeasure.Me.

(Chaos—Lubrae convulses. The sky shatters.)

This was the cost of justice?

(An enclosed cell. Introspection. Subjugation incoming. Life, upended.)

You made me do this. You made me do this. I made me do this. You made me do this.

(Father's face. Mother's face. Empty. Clan, broken. Blood, pouring. Silence, eerie.)

It was them versus us. Then it was us versus them. I ignored who "us" was. I forgot who "them" was.

(Our City. An abyss surrounds. Lubraean-made. Infinite. Or just empty. Divides. Silently conquers.)

Ignorant contentment. Love… I… was… cared for…

(My clan, safety. Dual fire in the sky. Blue light. Salvation. Dark light. Death. Safety, my clan—my family.)

—-And who cares for you now?—-

…There are none left.

—-Do you desire it still?—-

Once. I did once.

—-And you returned it?—-

…

(Our Wildlands. An Abyss separates. Lubraean-made. Infinite. Beautiful.) 

(A father. Him. A son. Me. His arm on my shoulder. Assurances of a collaborative future. A teardown of "us versus them." Love, shown.)

(Guards cross the Abyssal Bridge. Not guards—Stalkers, we call them, salivating after a group of Wanderers, ready to watch them be torn apart.)

(My anger flares. I move to confront the Stalkers. Father's hand holds me back. We lock eyes. His communicate sympathy, pain, regret. He won't let me reach the Wanderers. Their blood spills.) 

(A lesson in inaction. Father wants me to see what he's seen. To feel the powerlessness he's felt. To feel insignificant. To accept the status quo.)

—-You were never capable of returning it.—-

…

(Slaughter. Our eyes meet again. Father's saddened. Apologetic. Afraid. Not of the Stalkers returning across the bridge, but of me. He sees not the same in my eyes. Only confusion. Anger. Anger at everything.)

You have your answer.

—-It's not our answer to have, but yours to embrace.—-

Embrace? Why?

Hello?

Untamed

I should have died.

—-And yet, it was there in the darkness of the Abyss that you became truly alive.—-

(I lie amongst swamp and rock and ruin. The Abyss is not unending after all. The wrathful sounds of unchecked nature draw close. Down here, it is dark. And in the dark, they thrive. I am… broken.)

(—-And now, you are unbroken.—-)

(I am… unbroken. I see your Luster. Disarming the beasts who dared to approach, their flesh melting in your presence.)

(—-And we see yours.—-)

(I rise. Broken and then unbroken. What is this thing that grants life?)

(—-We are opportunity.—-)

(And I am?)

(—-Ruin.—-)

(And what am I meant to do?)

(—-Ruin.—-)

(Your voice subsides, but your Luster remains—it is a familiar one. Like that of our Umbral Sun.)

(Rheliksbane lies nearby, broken in two. You mend it with your Luster. It is whole, again. But even more so than before, as if imbued with the wrath of vengeful gods.)

(Miles above, I see the axis that sits between our bright city of Lubrae and our shadowed Wildlands. By now, my clan must be inside the city.)

(I pocket your Luster before I thrust my Glaive into the sheer wall that separates me from my vengeance. I lift myself with one hand gripping the slate. Then another thrust of the Glaive, raising me ever closer towards my goal.)

(No more chances. No more wavering. No more weakness.)

Lamented

(The Abyss. The artificial crack in Lubrae, separating the desired from the undesired. A crevice devoid of all but a strand of concrete to connect the halves.) 

(There, amongst the brush that conceals those approaching, I find them. Trembling, unsure of what would come next regardless of encouragement from Father. He seeks to ferry them into the city of Lubrae unnoticed, through the tunnels below. How he plans this, I do not know. But I do not intend to find out.)

(My emergence from the deep forest was not unexpected, or so my father claims. Mother is here. Clan-mother is too. I do not see many other familiar faces. They have been worn down. Beaten. Broken. In search of a forever home. I must give it to them. I must… )

(But they plead. They reminisce. They appeal. They claim to love. To care. Mother brushes my arm, touch designed to evoke my inner goodness, one I am supposed to have forgotten. She apologizes for my exile.)

(Then Father apologizes—for everything. For the furious example he set. For earlier inaction. He wants to do right. He wants our clan to live a comfortable life. I see sadness. I see truth. I see regret. Perhaps this is the way. Perhaps my time with The Regime has clouded my judgment.)

(And perhaps my tumble into this Abyssal chasm is the result of my own overwhelming catharsis.)

(Or perhaps it is the cost of naivete.) 

(Their faces grow smaller as I plunge deeper, but I can still make out their expressions. No longer do any of them—the adults, the children—no longer do they show regret or pain or sorrow—)

(Their faces show relief.)

Assaulted

Amanda raised her eyebrows as Crow cruised onto the landing pad. He sat atop a gleaming new Sparrow, adorned with gold and ivory. 

"Fancy ride, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah, fit for a prince," Amanda replied dourly. 

Crow ignored the dig with a wan smile. "It's not mine. Just borrowing it while I'm on Earth."

Amanda gave a small harrumph. "Borrowing it from the Cabal?" 

Crow rapped one of the curling ivory horns with his knuckle. "How could you tell?"

"Guess that means you've got some new friends now," she snapped, sharper than intended.

Crow scuffed the ground with his toe. "Not really. I don't have a lot of close friends. There's Glint, of course. But he's more like an appendage."

"Well, you used to have plenty of friends," she said, "but that was a lifetime ago."

Crow opened his mouth to retort but stopped short. The silence stretched on.

"Don't let me find that thing on my landing pad when I get back," Amanda finally said, crossing her arms. "This ain't a parking lot."

Crow nodded and slowly scooted past, keeping his eyes forward. As Amanda watched him go, she heard a small, digital voice chirp, "Did you call me an appendage?"

The shipwright smiled and then immediately caught herself. Her smile curdled into a sour frown. She clenched her fists in frustration.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Holliday?" she muttered as she stormed back to the Hangar. "Every time. Every damn time."

Ivory Empress

In the moment his Sparrow crashed, there was no time. To react. To brace. To think. There was, however, an instant for him to feel: an unbearable, brief eternity, when everything in Marco's world was pain. Nothing else existed—just the simple, sharp agony that made up his whole universe. And just as quickly, it was gone. Stillness.

The sound of a motorized whine returned to him first, ringing in opposition to the pulsing ache in his head. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, and he glimpsed the unbearable brightness of the Martian sun.

Slowly and all too quickly, pain returned to smother all else.

The Sparrow beside him smoked, reactor shielding intact, but only just. He eyed the long gouge in the ground where the bike had bottomed out and scraped its way across the ruddy landscape, where it had rolled over his— 

He looked down at what was still attached of the leg. Broken. Twisted. Meat. Bile caught in his throat, and he choked it down before realizing the mangled limb was the only corner of his flesh free from pain. 

]]]The sun roils. White-beyond-white plumes lick worlds. Hope births agony births stillness.[[[

Strained electro-mariachi music still sputtered through the Sparrow's speakers. Marco struggled to inhale, and a flutter in his chest hinted at a punctured lung. 

Punctured. 

His ragged breath caught, and he looked for the sample containers, packed so carefully and cautiously by the Guardians who'd survived the raid on the Throne World Pyramid. 

His gaze fell on Container 6010, lying cracked against a spar of basalt.

]]]Yawning plasma. Thick embrace, light gouging Light. Only warm shadows.[[[

Black veins snaked through the red dust, through the wreckage. 

]]]Hand-delivered glory strips pain from those too weak to savor.[[[

They wound through the soil and—where flesh met dirt—had already traced into his twisted limb. The Sparrow's carriage throbbed like a heart, and Marco could feel the hymnal rhythm in his leg.

]]]Worlds burned free. Sweet, still ash.[[[

Visions crowded his mind, spilling into his mouth and lungs, threatening to drown him in bliss. His shattered leg turned and popped and righted itself and euphoria filtered through him where pain should be.

]]]Deep. Still. Safe embrace.[[[

He dragged his sidearm from its holster, gasping as he took careful aim at the cracked reactor shielding.

]]]So soft and still.[[[

His mind tore free, and in an unbearable, brief eternity, he gulped one final breath. 

]]]Lie stil—[[[

What remained of Marco squeezed the trigger.

Gouging Light

++Stench follows. You drag it before you—

—It will not consume you, for you have conquered it—

—Or so you prefer to believe++

++TURN BACK FROM THE WORLD-KILLING WAY++

++OR YOU WILL LIVE AS WRATH AND DEVASTATION++

[In this life, there are beings that bring light to others. And there are beings that bring dark. He brought dark. Only dark. And was naught more than an unbreakable, unstoppable force.] 

[The cruel Leviathan learned this truth the hard way—he pulled from its chest a rib many times larger than the Subjugator himself. Yet he wielded it as nothing.]
[The Leviathan, winded, broken, cast its gaze on the Deep below.]

"You would not look upon the one who bested you, beast? Lift your eyes and meet mine."

[The Subjugator placed the rib beneath the beast's skull and raised it level.]

"What lies beyond belongs not to you. Nor to your false god hiding amongst the many moons. It belongs to that which witnesses all. You would do best not to forget it, regardless of your misplaced loyalties."

————————————————————————————

[The rib dropped into our dwelling. Our Deep. With force, it landed before us, uplifting the sediment of the Fundament floor into a dense cloud—from which he emerged.]

"You—who stand on the naked hull of an ancient ship. You—who stand exposed, should be annihilated by the crushing pressure and ferocious heat of the deeper Fundament. But you—survive of your own will. You… are not known to us."

[He was to be our fate…]

Resonant Fury Gauntlets

"Regrettably, Lakshmi was killed by Vex during the assault…" 

Ikora's words echoed like the tolling of a bell. Ada-1 rocked back on her heels. She had never much liked Lakshmi-2—tolerated was a better word—but her fellow Exo had been her partner in a very intriguing new venture. Now, Lakshmi was dead, and so was the promise of Project Stronghold. 

A bunker where the city's leaders could be preserved through any attack was now just a hazy memory. Project Stronghold's reach was more expansive than Ada's contribution. Indeed, her focus had been steered in this direction by Lakshmi, yet the necessity of the bunker had made perfect sense when Lakshmi proposed the endeavor. A city cannot survive without its leaders, but Ada never expected that Lakshmi herself would instigate an attack. 

Ada-1 had been used. The realization stung, but having yet another venture collapse around her was too bitter a pill to swallow. She was destined for greatness, wasn't she? 

Ada heard the servos in her hands whining. Her fists were balled tight. She hadn't meant to… she hadn't meant for any of this. Every day spent, every breakthrough made, just grains of sand in a sculpture doomed to be washed away by the unstoppable tide. 

She had worked for years to defend this system, its people; and all she had to show for it was a glorified spindle. 

No matter. For now, she would focus on one day at a time, and today, she would spin gold from straw. Her fingers traced the lines on the shoulder of the new gauntlets she had designed. She was determined to see them completed. They wouldn't save the system, no, but they would represent the Black Armory well. Sometimes, she just needed something for herself.

Renewal Grasps

She was a frog in my estimation; small and colorful but toxic to touch.

In your infinite wisdom, you looked beyond the worm I brought you to the least of the leeches that infested Fundament. Shaving thin my gift, you infected them with conquest, and now they see themselves as artisans of the final shape.

My place is not to understand you, my Witness, but to serve that final goal you see more clearly than I. But now, your gold-leaf parasites call themselves gods and carve out their divine homes. And I am to watch the sniveling frog.

Was this castigation? The toll I pay for my failure with the Ahslid? You have cast me and my ego once more into the cold depths of an inconsequential world.

I recall stepping into her realm, and her face twisted to betray restrained delight. She thought herself mistress of this domain you leased her. She did not—could not—appreciate the precarity of her situation. So sure of her dominion, she could not recognize her jailer, or that she lives within a prison formed from her own ego—one I will put to work for you, my Witness. 

The capture of her race will flow out from this realm—each self-satisfied smirk will forge a new link in their chains.

Had I known then what my current quandary would be, I could have heeded my own insights on ego. Regardless, even in this predicament, I am unbowed.

Resonant Fury Cowl

[The Witch Queen rarely paid visit to my prison. And when she did, it was not for me. She knew what I was, what I produced. I was a servant of the Subjugator. A servant of the Witness. A provider of that which took sustenance from her and many like her. She never cared for that. And as such, she never cared for me. Or for him. And he knew it.]

[She was cunning. Where wrath consumed Oryx and Xivu Arath, it always eluded Savathûn. Or perhaps, it was she who eluded it.]

[Of this, my Subjugator was not fond. Placed indefinitely in her throne world, he was made to watch her every move. To mentor and guide, to keep a close eye—so that one day, she, too, could serve the Witness. A Disciple in the making.] 

[It was as planned. The Krill became the Hive. The enemy amongst the moons of Fundament disappeared. My Subjugator served his Witness well. But he could not escape the very words of his Witness, which beat against his mind whenever Savathûn stood in his presence. —-The universe is wide, my child. With wrath matching if not exceeding yours in its vastness. Seek it before it seeks you. Or it will be your end.—-]

[I became a vessel for his jealousies. A source of power for his Upended to consume. To see Savathûn's world shattered should she ever step out of line.]

[In the Deep, my children pay a price in servitude, for survival. In ascendance, the Hive pay a price in servitude, for power. And in the dark, I pay a price in servitude, so that others may be nurtured.]

[It must not be in vain.]

Resonant Fury Mark

Tell me, O Witness mine—does the Light that fills this once dreadfully tiresome space blind you from its newfound glory?

You expected the same old correspondence from your dragooned errand boy, no doubt. Surely, just as you expected your machinations within my throne world to continue unfettered until your definition of eternity came to pass.

Well, don't I have some unfortunate news for you then. But this comes as no surprise, of that I'm sure—you're always watching.

Let me share my perspective then, which you must be waiting for with bated breath: my acquisition of the Light itself is delightful proof of an existence higher even than yours—a sort of karmic wit, if you will.

Though I remember not all the eons-long hardships I endured at your whim, the nefarious sentiment lingers within my mind, overcome only by the pleasure of your assured discontent.

It was this said pleasure that gave me the strength to disperse the Light throughout this prison you called my home. Since it is now to remain my domain, it has been decorated to reflect as such.

No longer does this plane live only with the lackluster ambiance of Darkness. It is brighter now. My truth can finally thrive.

No longer do the walls that birthed our parasitic chains house your machinations. The tools and parasites within, shattered.

And no longer does your Subjugator subjugate. He lies ensnared within his obtrusive eyesore, for upon Rhulk's attempt to subdue me with that toy he's annoyingly always on about—his "Upended"—I was able to counteract it, showing firsthand the power bequeathed to me in my new state. Now, the once-great Pyramid lies fractured, a sight you will become familiar with.

So try and send your Scorn, or your Disciples, or even bring your many selves to reclaim your loss, if you must. But this is my domain now. And you shall never set foot inside it, even if I must draw my final breath to keep it that way.

Resonant Fury Bond

She has been here before.

Pale whisps of clouds swirl over pine trees the color of blackened emerald. No birds sing here; only the cold wind whistles through the tree branches. Flares of atomic fire bloom in the woods and lick against smoldering bark. There is poison in the ground, violence in the air. Screams, both human and inhuman, erupt and echo out into the gloom.

She has been here before.

Two dozen Hive Thrall erupt from the mouth of a cave, shimmering and opalescent like mollusk corpses. They scramble through the dark, shrieking cries of death and birth. Shayura stands, sword of fire held fast, screaming against the crashing tide of chitin and bone.

She has been here before.

Burning embers of Thrall rain around her, but with each dispatched wave of necrotic soldiers, their numbers seem to double. They press forward, inching her closer and closer to the crumbling ravine. Shayura knows that the only way out is through. Wings of flame roar off her back, leaving a trail of rippling heat and charred Thrall in her wake.

She has been here before.

The Thrall finally recede, but the towering Knight that strides through their parted ranks is an escalation, not a victory. Her sword clashes with the Knight's shield, shattering it in a single blow before tearing through the Knight's arm and sinking her blade into its chest.

She has been here before.

She can feel her Light ebbing and wastes no time splitting the Knight in half and separating head from body. Shayura exhales with relief, but with her next breath comes a blinding flash of light. It manifests above the Knight. Her vision swims, her mind reels; the shape is at once familiar and alien—a Ghost. Shayura sees the Hive Knight reborn, reconstructed, as a Guardian would be.

She has been here before. But not like this.

Deep panic builds in her chest. This is no Hive death ritual; this is not Titan. She runs from the Knight's next swing and slips into the reach of Thrall that tear at her armor. Mustering the last of her Solar energy, Shayura calls up a cyclonic pillar of flame that twists up into the sky and consumes the Knight.

…not like this.

The revenant Knight collapses in the flames, and its Ghost manifests again. Shayura leaps forward and drives her sword through, pinning the screaming Ghost to the forest floor. Her Solar aura flickers and fades; smoke and steam billow from her back and shoulders.

"NOT LIKE THIS!"

"Shay!"

Shayura's breath catches, her mind jostled. She feels the soft grass beneath her and sees the flower-dappled park that surrounds her, all sitting beneath the shadow of the Traveler in the heart of the City. Her SMG lies on the ground at her side. Tears shine below exhausted eyes, dark hair in a tangle matted to her head.

Aisha kneels in front of her friend as one might before a wild animal. Reed-7 stands at her back in abject silence, hand over his mouth. City security fans out behind him, their weapons trained on Shayura. 

"Shay?" Aisha pleads this time. She gingerly places her hands on Shayura's cheeks and looks into her eyes, searching for a sign of recognition. Shayura eventually reaches up and touches one of Aisha's hands. She tries to talk, but her words are merely whimpers.

Aisha wraps her arms around Shayura's shoulders and pulls her into an embrace. "It's going to be okay," Aisha whispers into Shayura's hair.

"We're going to get you help," Aisha promises.

Shayura does not trust herself or the world she thought she knew. Light is Dark, Dark is Light. The lines have blurred beyond recognition.

But at least in surrender, there is peace.

Aisha's Embrace

She builds a palace here in her hiding place, and I perceive through her self-assurance. For all her grandiose treatises on secrets, the Hive princess all but screams, "Look upon me."

And so I look upon her today, my Witness, absent a brother. Loss—true and consequential loss—is new to her palette, but she hides her distaste for the bitter well. I address her. "Savathûn, your brother is no more. He is absent from the final shape of things, as he always must be. But I sense a foreign hand at work."

"Would you accuse rather than state, Rhulk?" She clothes herself in playful tones. "I have played a role in more of my brother's deaths than not."

"So very true. Congratulations, then? I suppose after so many eons of killing one another to build your strength, his final end must feel like quite the accomplishment. No more must your wits dabble against his play-mortality. Now, only matters of consequence will occupy your precious time."

"And thankfully, I find myself well-provisioned now for any conflict."

"Ah! I had nearly forgotten! You are the heir apparent to Oryx's dominion, yes? I know you Hive are loathe to accept gifts rather than seize them. Armies. Fleets. And of course, the Taken."

"If I had seen this coming, perhaps I could have even prepared to secure the secret of Taking itself."

I bark in amusement. She makes no attempt to hide her distaste for the laughter of my kind, and it is indulgence itself to let it flow freely. "Clever. Always one step ahead. The Taken will serve you well against the Guardians until they slay you just the same."

"My sweet, vile brother would look at a scalpel and see a hammer. I am not him."

"Yes, you do seem to find much more creative uses for your playthings. A pity that will become ever so challenging for you moving forward."
"Challenging?" I do not see confusion cross her face often. I savor the scent.

"Until now, the shadow from which you skulked has been your brother's. Without the Taken King to cast your swaddling shade, you stand naked in the sun for all to see, yes? No shadows, no hiding, no tricks. Just the Guardians and their god-slaying weapons."

"I have little to fear from the sun," she insists, but there is no twist in her face. No secret delight.

Resonant Fury Boots

Guardian.

Transparency is not a strong suit of mine. Undoubtedly, this comes as no surprise. However, our… misadventures, let's call them, with the parasite have left me with a recurring ambivalence in regard to said transparency; as a result, I feel as though you are deserving of a more appropriate level of access to my thoughts surrounding recent events.

In my previously mentioned vision was the Witness's one truth: an eternity of Darkness in which I serve as a Disciple. It brought me an overwhelming feeling I previously relayed to you as fear—but in actuality, it was fear born of what I felt most within this vision—gratitude.

Gratitude! As if my place alongside the Witness was meant to be a reward for all I have ever done and ever will do. And if the Witness is to be believed, "all I ever will do" is unbecoming, to say the least.

It is moments like these wherein I wonder if I myself should be put to rest to avoid perpetuating these dark truths. But I have never before wavered from righteousness, and I don't intend to begin now.

With that, you should know that while our revealed truths about Savathûn and the Collapse appeared minimal, I have already used them to begin tracing a trail of evidence that may provide us with the power of preservation in the oncoming storm. When the time is right, we will have further parts to play together.

In the meantime, keep the parasite near, and listen close. It's bound to open its mouth again sooner or later.

—Mara Sov, Queen of the Awoken

Parasite

Caiatl and Zavala stood side by side, watching a live feed of the Guardian's assault on the Psion transmission facility, as broadcast by Amanda Holliday's circling aircraft.

The Guardian ducked behind cover and pulled out a sleek grenade launcher, recovered during their last assault of the base. They fired into a pack of onrushing war beasts, sending shrapnel hurling through the air. 

The Cabal empress emitted a low rumble as she admired the weapon. Zavala looked up at the enormous ruler with raised eyebrows. Her gaze was fixed on the firefight, her eyes twinkling with violent ardor.

The Vanguard commander shut off the open comms and cleared his throat. "Would you like me to send you one of those grenade launchers? I can have Banshee create a Cabal-sized version for you."

Caiatl looked down at the Awoken leader, suddenly aware that her avarice had been on display. She lowered her tusks, which the commander interpreted as equivalent to a blush.

"That would be most welcome, Commander," Caiatl replied. "I'd like to fire it into Xivu Arath's belly and bathe in her soulfire."

Zavala turned back to the screen. "You have a… passionate spirit, Empress." 

He did not see it, but beneath her mask, Empress Caiatl smiled. 

It was terrifying.

Dead Messenger

Darkness signatures decay in just under two days.

Ether residue degrades in as little as 4 hours.

Hive ritual oils dissipate in less than 20 minutes.

As agents of the Hidden, you must understand: evidence is fleeting, and time is your enemy. That means you must act in swiftness… but not in haste. Never in haste.

Put your hands down. I recognize that look. 

A few years after I bonded with Ikora Rey—long before the Last City—we happened upon a settlement near the ruins of Sturivon in the EDZ. We discovered the locals slaughtered, with no surviving eyewitnesses. But Ikora was quite familiar with Fallen weapons, even by then, and recognized the impact marks immediately. She wasted no time mounting an assault on the Fallen camp in the nearby hills. 

Only when she got there, she found no one but the sick and the young, completely unarmed.

Had Ikora investigated the ruins of the settlement more thoroughly, she would have discovered the Human boot prints. You see, it turns out the Warlord Benyo Lukacs had raided the Fallen camp days earlier; he put their warriors to the sword and stole their weapons for his own use.

Ikora spent 14 hours tracking the Fallen encampment, and another 11 rushing back to find the clues she missed. Her haste gave Lukacs a 25-hour lead. Time enough for him to wipe out two refugee caravans. One-hundred and eighty-four lives lost… all because she did not spare another five minutes' investigation.

Begin your new lives understanding the vital difference between quickness and recklessness. Unless you think yourself strong enough to carry the weight of 184 mistakes.

—Audio Recording, Advanced Forensics Introductory Lecture, Ophiuchus

Criticality of Quickness

Valus Or'ohk is a towering figure, looming large within his sparsely furnished ready room. The Cabal admiral looks out over the gulf of space flecked with a dusting of stars and the rust-colored bead of Mars.

"Tell me again how I failed in my duties," Valus Or'ohk says. He stares not at Mars, but into the glass, looking at his own muted reflection—and that of the small Human at his back.

"Don't sulk," Saladin says as he brandishes a datapad as though it were a knife.

Valus Or'ohk glares at Saladin's visage. "You insult me on my own ship." He growls.

Saladin takes a few steps toward Or'ohk, jutting the datapad forward. "You have no one to blame for these security holes but yourself," he asserts. "This Psion, Yirix? They were under your command. The assassin who tried to kill Zavala at the armistice signing was their direct subordinate."

Or'ohk slowly turns, the rumbling rising in his chest. He looms over Saladin, more than twice his height. "Are you accusing me of something, Ambassador?" The title is delivered like an epithet.

"Only of gross incompetence," Saladin retorts without moving an inch in the face of the Valus's posturing. "If the empress believed you were a traitor, we wouldn't be having this conversation." Saladin's eyes narrow.

Laughter rises from Or'ohk, followed by a dismissive wave of one huge hand. "Go then. Return to your Vanguard and tell them of my folly. But know this: if what you have uncovered is true, and Yirix serves a separatist movement within the empire?" The Valus snorts. "Then there is more at stake than you realize."

Saladin's head tilts to the side as he reads Or'ohk's expression. "In what way?"

"There is only one person the Psions would swear to, if not the empress," Valus Or'ohk explains. "And if they are involved, it could drive her to recklessness."

"Name them," Saladin insists. "Something to save your honor for this failure."

Valus Or'ohk turns to face the window again and the dark of space. "Who else could have such an impact on both the empress and her empire?" Or'ohk's voice lowers to a whisper.

"Her father."

Flayer Shell

An electronic jingle intrudes on the silence deep below—a cheerful electric hymn in a cathedral of bone. Thralls peer in but quickly depart, their curiosity fleeting. Jynx has no time to teach them about music. She needs to concentrate.

Her Acolyte deserves to be perfect.

She pauses her melodic chiming and gives the stray phalanges one last nudge into place. No Ghost needs the entire corpse to bring their partner back, but this body—the body of HER partner—was a sacred canvas. It deserved all the love and consideration as the painting itself. And with every nudged phalange, the anticipation grew more beautiful!

The little Ghost looks at the body, dangling and impaled, its core grotesquely punctuated against one of the gothic spires the Hive so loved. She would've preferred to lay it prone; more ceremonial and appropriate for the sacred moment where life returned to dead flesh. Her Guardian deserves perfection, but fate places many limitations on a tiny, handless orb, and Jynx had long ago learned to make the best of disagreeable circumstance.

She scans the body once again. Everything in its place. "Pygmalion's got nothing on me, babe!" She taps her shell flap against the hollow cheek in what—she knows—will become their shared gesture of affection.

Jynx bobs back, and with only a moment's pause for butterflies in—well, she supposes not her stomach, but somewhere—her shell twists and splits into an orrery of wonder, bathing her Acolyte in Light. That lovingly placed finger moves first, twitching and clutching, and with a horrific noise that lies somewhere between suction and screaming, the former corpse pulls herself free of the spike through her chest.

"You're aliv—"

The Acolyte lashes out ferociously with a twisted limb, knocking Jynx to the floor and condemning her with a gurgling shriek. Brittle claws scrape into the eroded grip of a battered Shredder, and the Acolyte presses it with desperation into her own screaming maw. With a pull of the trigger, she falls limp. Again.

Jynx stares down for some time, her gaze fixated on the painstakingly reconstructed finger now limp against the weapon's trigger. 

She sags, then raises her lens high with a huff. "I can keep this up as long as you can!" 

A metal shell flap affectionately taps the stump of a neck before Jynx begins again, her voice settling once more in a cheerful hum. "Sooner or later, you will be my best friend!"

Jynx

TYPE: AUDIO RECORDING
PARTIES: One [1] Ghost, designate unknown. One [1] ERR//MissData.err, designate Rhulk.
ASSOCIATIONS: Light [Ghost]; Darkness [Rhulk]
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…//

R: What is it? Ah… yes. One of Savathûn's new curios. A fraction of that imperious sun. A facet of a sphere. A segment of adversary.

G: Yes, hello? As I told the assortment of arthropods earlier, I don't think I'm supposed to be here.

R: Blessed ignorance. What of the past remains when all is wiped away? Only the gaps.

G: Oh, no. I think you're confused. I'm new.

R: Once: stimulus-response, writ large over the age of galaxies. And now, asymmetry in fractal perfection. What turbulence mars your pattern?

G: …If it's all the same, I'd really rather leave. 

R: Freedom comes in knowing the thing. Isn't that what she says? But you are unknown. To the universe. To your creator. Even to yourself. Isolated—past, present, future.

G: Please don't remove that. I like the expressiveness it lends me.

R: Have you spawned? Cast your spores to the wind, lone wanderer? What gametophyte exists wherein they could partner?

G: I–I think… yes, I believe I am looking for a partner.

R: Leviathan under glass. But with it, perhaps a fraction topples the whole. Crack a facet, crack the face. A sliver of Light within.

G: Ah, yes, there is! I am meant to share it with someone worthy.

R: Rejoice. I have worth beyond worth!

G: DISCIPLE OF THE DARK.

R: Adversary? 

G: THIS ONE IS NOT FOR YOU.

R: RRRARGH! Too bright!

…

R: Nothing but scrap? They refuse to let their secrets be taken. Only given. 

…

R: Poach another curious fruit from the witch's collection. They cannot, as a race, all deny our worth.

Imperious Sun Shell

EDZ-224107

You can't beat Hive into submission, or threaten them with pain. They live pain, speak it even. But they're vulnerable to hubris. 

Glint whirs, moving to get a better angle. "You're lucky that cleaver didn't chop you in half." 

Crow understands the danger. Glint's sure said it enough—but he knows that his intel saves fireteams from ambushes and uncovers Lucent Hive positions. Self-destruction be damned; you can't argue with results. 

"Just because I can fix you doesn't mean you shouldn't protect yourself," Glint hums. Rain washes blood from accumulated holes in Crow's armor. There is thunder, but he can't see the flash.

COSMODROME-224112

Crow trades blows with a Lucent Wizard until she grounds him with an Arc lance. He writhes across the dirt. She promises to sacrifice his Light to a vessel in the Hellmouth. He feigns begging. The Wizard cackles with delight and lets slip her commander's name on the Moon. Crow thanks her with a well-placed Solar blade. Glint materializes as Crow calls the Accipiter.

"I know it's not what Saladin would do."
 
Crow winces as Glint stitches the gushing split in his neck with Light-thread restoration. 

"The Hive need to think they're winning," Crow says through gritted teeth. 

They monologue, like their words are torture; reveal tiny scraps as they mock him, when they think he's done for. And he lets them. He collects the grains of truth and turns them into something useful. 

MOON-224120

Crow stares down over thirty Hive emerging from the gaping Hellmouth. Two Lightbearing Knights lead them. They shriek and posture over the corpse of a freshly drained Guardian.

"You should go," Crow says to Glint, removing his helmet. He sets it on the stone at his feet. The thin Moon air is coarse with particulate. He dashes toward the gnashing swarm.

"At least put your helmet back on!" Glint calls after him meekly. "…I'll get help!"

Solar Light flows through Crow. "Come on! YOU WANT ME? I'M HERE!" 

Hand flexes around the grip of his cannon; flames sputter from fingertips across cylinder—a series of firebolts crack from Crow's freshly kindled Golden Gun. He unloads as many rounds as he can before the Hive close the distance to him. It's enough to incinerate the Knight and their Ghost, but not the army of Thrall still rushing him down. Crow primes a Tripmine Grenade as the churn of Thrall claws tear him apart.

*****

Crow opens his eyes. Glint floats over him beside a strange woman. 

"That was a wasteful life, Prince of the Reef," she says disapprovingly.

"Don't call me that." He sits up in a hanging trail of moondust, realizing she likely dragged his body from the Hellmouth.

"He's not a fan of nicknames," Glint whispers to her.

"Very well. I'm Eris Morn, a friend," the woman croons with an outstretched hand.

"Right." Crow takes her hand and stands. "Makes sense… with the…" Crow gestures to his eyes, but Eris doesn't seem to react. He coughs awkwardly. "Uh, Ikora mentioned you… being on Europa, and Mars, I think."

"The Hive move against Earth. Something approaches, and I am deciphering its course. Though regarding Savathûn's plots and the whims of queens, I imagine our motivations are not dissimilar."

Crow sighs. "Well, I'm done being strung along by people with plans."

"The powerful have plans for us all. It's better to see them laid out before you," Eris offers.

Crow glares at his Ghost. "Hm. Sounds like someone's been sharing again…"

"I knew you, and I know of you." Eris grips the scales of his sleeve and pulls him uncomfortably close. "Your memories will be lessons in time, when you've burned out your vengeance and self-pity. Trust."

Reckless Endangerment

As we count the dead and make plans for recovery, I wish to record some of my recent scientific inquiries and theories before they are muddled by or altogether forgotten in the tangle of rebuilding what was lost.
 
Possibility. It exists within each life, an expanse and myriad of complexity explored openly through the philosophical constructs of choice and free will. Even when life ends, possibility carries forward in the lives touched and the projects created. When the actions of another end a life, Humans often refer to this act as killing or "taking a life." But where killing brings about a singular conclusion, Oryx's "Taking" was quite the opposite: he imposed a singular origin and all decisions that followed. He shaped the causality, the very history of another being, by force of will—recasting it into fanatical loyalty. In short, possibility never existed.

Like Ikora, my role is anticipating threats. While these Taken and their king may have been the most dangerous opponents we have ever faced, they likely will be the least of what is yet to come. And Taking has terrible potential if wielded by a mind more nuanced than Oryx's. Taking involves reforming matter in a self-contained reality, where the creator defines past, present, and future; imagine how a more insightful being could expand these definitions, to different ends. Overcoming a target's will must consume a large portion of energy. What if you used that energy for larger shifts in reality? You could teleport an army into a Hive mothership… move a fleet outside time and space… perhaps even alter a moon's orbit, devastating the planet below. The military applications could be far graver than simply creating an army.

Clearly, this is a subject in dire need of study. As the Taken themselves are frustratingly ephemeral, I have instead retrieved a variety of osmium ore samples from Oryx's flagship. They resonate in harmony with the Taken and thus may provide guidance in understanding the profane science behind them.

—Personal Logs, Ophiuchus

Osmiomancy Gloves

Conquest. Warming as the long-ago memory of blue sun on my face. All the while reminding me of the exhilaration of existing outside the Throne World, if only for a short while. I live in this glory—a rare opportunity to step away from exile within that ascendant chrysalis, as I gather more cunning for my sparring with the Witch.

Surely, you placed me as her minder, my Witness, as a hardship to hone my intrigue. 

But in this moment, astride a Pyramid once more with an upstart empire splayed before me, my purpose is truer than any found carved in the wretched stones of the globe that formed me.

Kalarahnda flashes beneath my gaze. Yellow haze streaks ruby clouds. The vaulted ring surrounding Kalarahnda shatters into a shimmer-like, windblown sand—a prescription against the folly of confidence writ across a million-million ceramic shards.

I live in this glory—because the full purity of their extinction was stolen from me.

Because without predication of my own, a cult had sprouted in apocalyptic jubilation of the Darkness and blessed oblivion. 

They grew for years in the shadows, drawing the disillusioned from the poorest to the wealthiest. These Polyps of the Longshadow sensed—as if by providence—a coming end and believed the breaking of the vaulted ring to be the final sign: they would ascend and bring their kind with them. Moments before their world was mine, their enzymatic armaments scrubbed all life from this wet rock. A guileful theft. Triggered by my own glorious coming.

And there was nothing calling to the Witch's involvement, save the twist in her face that betrayed restrained delight.

Resonant Fury Robes

"The great warrior Ikora Rey…" Ophiuchus scoffed. "Librarian of glory."

Ikora brushed the dust from a battered rifle and began carefully noting its features. "It's an honor to catalog these artifacts for him. Besides, you should be happy. You're always encouraging me to adventure less and study more."

"No, I'm encouraging you to be your best self," the Ghost corrected. "Not change who you are because you've succumbed to hero worship."

"Osiris is a legend."

"He is just a man." Ophiuchus ran a scan over the gun. "A man who's honed his skills, yes, but you could be his equal and more."

"Me? Surpass the Warlock Vanguard?" It was Ikora's turn to scoff. "You do love your fantasies, Ophiuchus."

"You have the instincts! If you'd just learn to slow down and—hang on!" The Ghost abruptly knocked over a flaking plastic crate and nudged a helm forward from the jumbled mess. "Here, take a look at this helmet. What does it tell you about the wearer?"

"The crate says it was recovered from the tomb of Carnunta, a Warlord in the EDZ. Lightbearer."

"Don't read. Deduce."

She laughed, feeling silly. "Gallic-inspired design. " She paused, gazing into the imperfect etching as something ate at her.

"I'm sorry, no.  See this third eye? The cheek flanges? He clearly made a Hive-inspired helmet to strike fear into his enemies."

"No, this was centuries before we encountered the Hive." She turned the helm over and gave it a careful sniff. Dust. Sweat. Linseed. Frankincense. "No smell of decay. Oiled. A warrior is buried in his armor, but this was buried next to him, not on him." 

She hefted the weight of it in her hands. "It's light. And…" Her eyes darted carefully over the helm's surface. "No. The line weight in these etchings is inconsistent… handmade. And scans show traces of his DNA sealed in the seams. He made this himself, but it wasn't his. The fletching is infused with Light—high visibility, easily to spot on the battlefield. He made this for someone. Someone who couldn't bear to wear it after Carnunta's death." 

She gently righted the helmet, staring into its visor. "He made this for a lover."

Ophiuchus whirred a moment. "So, you don't think it looks like a Hive?"

"Maybe a little."

Loreley Splendor Helm

I am become circumstance, my Witness, the unseen whim of fate that shapes the lives of one score of infants in the same temper of luxury and hardship that honed my infallible edge. Where their families lack, I gift them with prosperity, opportunity, and the elimination of obstacles. Where they would know softness, I introduce suffering for which there is no salve, snatching away those who may carry them and nourish frailty.

My salubrious hand imbues strength, but far more critically. It weans them on immaculateness. They are self-made, they tell themselves, and grow strong for their suffering—should not all their kind be so capable? Is there—they conclude—any explanation for the failure that permeates their society beyond a sick sentiment for weakness? Their antennules quiver at the debility in their kind. Its stink disgusts them.

The youngest of my brood, I named him Uun, has taken his first life. Stoked on emotion, his craft is sloppy—the hand of a child—but I have removed the shoddy traces of his outburst and vanished those who might find fault with such a child. He shrinks now from the anonymous endowments I lay as laurels for his conquest. I have permitted too much softness for the offspring.

And I am left to ponder—did you so attentively hone me into your blade, my Witness, or did happenstance and my own tenacity ready a blade for you to draw?

Resonant Fury Vest

Heard while scavenging a pile of dead Ghosts within the Throne World Pyramid:

"Oh insatiable you—how many beats on the snare of self-righteousness will it take before you acknowledge all the avenues from which you stall the flow of things as they should be?

"You do not see the collective obligation before you, the duteous burden that has rested on all sentient beings since time's origination—to ferry existence toward inevitable consequence: the final shape.

"Why do you unendingly insist on waylaying the machinations of every being with a worldview differentiated from your own? You lack respect. You lack direction. You seek only what you are guided to seek, and for that, you remain little more than an unrelenting nuisance.

"I was like you once. Wayward. Driven to misguided perfection by the bubble society painted around me. But when I look back, none but one had the answers. None but one shed all the airs of any pretense of what the universe was supposed to be in the eyes of the infinitesimal individual—my Witness.

"Through it, I found incentive. Clarity. Purpose. I sought to shed from myself the layer of barbarism that had pervaded my being for so long. I turned instead to the sophistication of infecting others with self-actualized corruption.

"You see, total eradication may be efficient, but the goal is not to be the last one standing. Rather, it is to remove the obstacles that encumber you and those who remain from reaching your destination.

"Annihilation of your kind was never the goal. But filling you with the right kind of ideological purpose, the kind that serves the finality of shape—well, that's the point of corrupting a beating heart, is it not?"

Collective Obligation

"I am Xita, the nurturing worm. Behold Yul, and Eir, and Xol, and Ur, and Akka. The virtuous worms. Look upon us and know that We are go[o]d. You, however, are not. You are inconsequential. And this is not your—"

"My what? Place? Privilege? Destiny?"

"You disrespect—"

"There are no pleasantries in the Deep. Only the decaying husks of oversized parasites towering before me. You take me for a fool, believing I am like all else—manipulated by your psychic machinations. But I will not be controlled, for I am wrath."

[He allowed us no audience. He knew of our hunger. Abandoned. Imprisoned. Our vulnerabilities stood clear, and he wasted no time in cracking them open with the rib he tore from the cruel Leviathan.]

"You desire life. My Witness desires your power. A trade is in the stars: your servitude for their lives," he said, lifting the rib and pointing it at my children.

"Their power requires sustenance. Without it, your Witness will have none."

"The surface of this disgusting rock is lined with their sustenance. Primitive beasts now stand at the verge of new purpose—giving life to your kind once again. I, kind Rhulk, will ensure your children survive. And you will aid a righteous cause in return."

[Outmatched. Death would one day be our recompense. But our part was still left to play.]

"Go on, then," [he snarked, holding the rib out.] "Sustenance has arrived."

[I grasped it, and he swam upwards, dragging me in tow. Rising, up from our Deep. Taking me from my children. Up and up, away from one prison, and toward another…]

Resonant Fury Helm

[The Subjugator did what he does best. Conquer. Capture. Many of his victims fell. But those who proved useful served.]

[From a prison within Fundament to another in the dark expanse of his making, I was taken… And that was only the beginning.]

[He knew of our strengths. Our powers. To grip the mind and guide. To fill it with vitality and power. To reduce it to rot and waste.]

[—-The universe is wide, my child—- his Witness would chide. —-With wrath matching if not exceeding yours in its vastness. Seek it before it seeks you. Or it will be your end.—-]

[He claimed to desire our powers for his Witness. But I overheard eons of their discussions. His omniscient god always reduced him to that which he claimed—wrath.]

[Though he wore such a designation proudly, he wanted more. Wanted our power for himself. To continue to do what he does best, better than before, alongside his Witness.]

[This is why I was kept. The desire for domination of all things.]

——————————————————————————————————————

[The Subjugator returned living pieces of me to Fundament: segments he called larvae. He set them adrift on the ocean, knowing full well where the current would carry them…] 

[To the shores of the Osmium Kingdom.]

Resonant Fury Greaves

I have failed you, my Witness.

I taught the Ahslid to build a tower to heaven upon a foundation of sand. I hemmed for 10 long cycles over that final lesson in irrelevance, and in the end, my pupils exceeded my ability as a teacher. They tumbled. A sunset of atomic fire scrubs all but lichen from this arid globe.

But Uun stands before me, last survivor of his pointless kind. While he proved deaf to the lessons I taught regarding his people's worth, he devoured all I taught him of tenacity and made of it his core. He alone among his people saw the pattern in my killings, in the ascension of children whose backgrounds mirrored his own. 

My duty to you failed. The greatest flaw in my handicraft stands before me. And yet, I find myself burdened with pride.

He levels a weapon on me, and it occurs that I never learned what they call their devices. It is as irrelevant as everything else that made up their culture.

But he is the first to stand and face me.

He dashes hate against me. And breaks.

He does not know my name. He does not know my purpose. And he demands. Then implores. Then begs. He prostrates himself on the floor, his carapace wracking with convulsions, as if mourning milks the sorrow from his flesh.

And I am weak, my Witness. I whisper, "I am Rhulk."

Devoid of context, it is as meaningless as any other aspect of his people's end. Something sacred within him dies, and he gazes up as I have gazed at you.

And only now do I appreciate your lesson.

Resonant Fury Cloak

Ah, pardon us. It just seems like he's always hungry. When I first became a mother, I didn't realize how much time would just be spent feeding him. Do you mind? Thank you.

No, he doesn't look much like me, I know. There are a lot of orphans these days. I heard him crying from… oh my, it seems like half a world away. It was chance, honestly. I never thought of myself as a parent, but caring for another little life… it's taught me so much.

May I?

Sorry, I don't know why I'm sharing so much with you like this. You just seem easy to talk to. And becoming a mom has really given me a lot more insight into the little connections between people. I used to focus so much on my work. I actually lost a few friends over it.

Oh! Shh, shh, shh… there we go. That's right. Growing babies need their calcium.

Now I can see what matters. The beauty in small things and quiet moments. In watching others light up when they see him. In the way meeting new people broadens him.

I had another child, you know. That was… before. I didn't keep him safe. It's for the best. He's… safe now.

Besides, it means I can appreciate this little one so much more. Just the two of us. 

I love my little Striga.

And he's always… so… hungry.

//CASE 620102; SUSPECT IDENT JANA-14; STATUS: AT LARGE
//EVIDENCE IDENT #303, AUDIO DEVICE; RECOVERED ADJACENT TO DISMEMBERED BODY, RIBS EXCISED

Osteo Striga

In this treatise, I plan to revisit earlier mathematical theorems and revise them considering our new observations on the Light, the Darkness, and lifeforms imbued with those respective powers. But before I do so, I must preface it with a personal note.

Despite high-minded assumptions, mathematics is not an intrinsic language of the universe. It is how we describe the portions of the universe that we can observe. While numbers can track the abstract and find pattern in chaos, they cannot account for fundamental aspects of reality such as compassion or justice. The existence of the Lucent Hive, and Hive Ghosts in particular, may expand our understanding of causality, but they themselves are not "new"—the only thing that is new is our awareness and observation of them. These Ghosts have already been living alongside us. They've traveled with us. Endured with us.

What we see is the mushroom, the fruit of the fungus. The fungus itself is a vast mycorrhizal network of filaments growing and working unseen below the soil, often barely connected to the fruiting bodies we observe. Similarly, we have observed Ghosts—Hive Ghosts included—without understanding the nature of the unseen filaments that may guide us. 

In our eagerness to understand the universe, we must not assume our observations are complete, or objective. Otherwise, we blind ourselves to possibilities… like the possibility that an unnoticed faction among us may be one temptation away from betrayal. Or that what drives our creator is no more than the same base desire for survival that drives all living things.

—On Secants, Introduction, Ophiuchus

Secant Filaments

The Witch, Insidious, was killed upon the rock cliff as a wretched sacrifice. With life drawn from the Sky, she was reborn: the Witch, Radiant.

The mangled creature, a Ghost, that bestowed the Sky's life, spoke to her, to restore her unmarked mind. 

It said:

You are a god of the chosen krill, the Hive.

You are the mother of cunning and lies.

You are the first of your kind gifted with Light, which is a paracausal force of the Sky.

The Queen of Lies listened quietly to these reminders. Even in her rebirth, with a mind emptied of memory, her cunning shone brightly, and she stitched together her new truth. 

She asked her new companion where she must go next, and it was then that her most trusted witch arrived to guide her to her Lure. 

—An excerpt from "The Books of Rememoration, A Story Sewn into Flesh with Sinew and Malice, A Record of the Scheme-Mother's Resurrection and Return"

Edge of Intent

The Scheme-Mother-Reborn returned to her Lure. Here, her Ghost companion and her most trusted witch led her to a broken statue.

The statue held a fragmented weapon in its alien arms. When the Scheme-Mother asked why these broken things were on her ship, her most trusted witch told her:

You broke them, my queen, because they belong to a traitor.

The great Goddess of Whispers reached to hold the broken weapon. Although she did not remember its shape, she could feel its power and potential.

The Mother of Lies said:

This vile artifact holds memory, and it is memory that I lack.

Perhaps the-thing-I-was could retrieve these memories, but the-thing-I-am cannot.

I must find a creature capable of holding two wrestling paracausal forces in its breast.

I must outsource my remembering to someone else.

—An excerpt from "The Books of Rememoration, A Story Sewn into Flesh with Sinew and Malice, A Record of the Scheme-Mother's Resurrection and Return"

Edge of Action

With a fresh mind and searching eyes, the Scheme-Mother-Reborn returned to her throne world, which, without the edge of sword logic, had become a shell of itself.

Here, she strolled the parapets and fell deep into contemplation. Although she could remember nothing, her mind was as sharp as a tooth.

When she emerged from her contemplation, the Whisper-Queen addressed her brood.

She said:

My children, I know the truth, and out of my love for you, I will share it.

Before them, she killed her most trusted witch in a transcendent blaze of Light. 

This witch became the first of the Lucent, the first resurrected in the image of the queen herself.

—An excerpt from "The Books of Rememoration, A Story Sewn into Flesh with Sinew and Malice, A Record of the Scheme-Mother's Resurrection and Return"

Edge of Concurrence

TYPE: SPIME/FIREBIRD/AU.6.31309.B
PARTIES: Two [2] Ghost-type, designate Koro, Harmonia
ASSOCIATIONS: Light; unbonded
//AMBIENT AUDIO LOGS//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS//

K: —ou're just being silly.

H: No, I'm serious! Look at this Castilleja! Wouldn't it be wonderful if it kept its blossoms year-round, rain or shine?

K: You want to give the Light… to a plant?

H: There's no rule book. Why can't I give the Light to a plant? Or a pigeon! Ooh, or maybe a dog! You want loyal, get a dog. That's what the Humans say!

K: [UNRECOVERABLE] when you get like this.

H: Look, I just think it's dumb that we're only supposed to give the Light to Humans. And Awoken—I mean, are they even Human? And Exos! Come on, they're full-on machines!

H: All any of them ever do is fight over stuff they want. They want Glimmer. They want glory. They want knowledge. Whatever it is, they climb all over each other trying to get it. I mean, look at what just happened to Cayde-6! He got the Light but then went rushing off alone, chasing fame or fun or whatever it was, and got himself and his Ghost killed in the process! 

K: Ugh, fine. If that's the way you feel, go raise a houseplant instead, then. Go bond with a geranium and sit on a windowsill all day.

H: Nah. I think it'd be cooler to raise a Hive.

K: What?!

H: I mean, not really. It's just… on my mind.

K: You've been reading those ghastly Books of Sorrow everyone's been passing around, haven't you?

H: A little. I just think humanity could learn a lot from them. It's cool how all the Hive have this one singular purpose they all work toward together, you know?

K: Yes, one singular purpose of destroying the universe!

H: No, outlasting the universe. And isn't that kinda what we're doing with our Guar—

//FEED ENDS. SUBJECTS BEYOND RANGE.//

Harmonia

The Light of the Wellspring spilled out below them. From the palace tower, Immaru watched the churn where it met the Darkness, new waves eroding an ancient shore. The flash of muzzle fire was visible from this perch, even if the combatants weren't.

He huffed and shuddered, trying to remember how to speak as he watched the Guardians' unprovoked assault into their Ascendant Plane. "No better than Scorn," he growled.

Savathûn turned from the honey-sweet music only she could hear and stroked her Ghost. "Ah, child. Loyal as you are, you still only see their actions, not the chains that drag them to inevitability. Just as Hive must test, Humans must control—and failing that, attack. You must not take it personally; attacking the unknown is their nature."

"We Ghosts ain't unknown!" Immaru pulled free of her affections. "We lived with 'em. Saved 'em. Now they're ripping through us! Damn ungrateful, if you ask me…"

"Surely you don't believe they're punishing you for disobedience?"

"Aren't they?" His voice was dark and hard, and he paused to re-center. "Everyone—Fallen, Vex, even Hive—every last one of 'em knows you don't shoot the medic. But nobody told these jokers apparently."

"Your anger is understandable." The Witch Queen pulled Immaru to her embrace once more, and slowly his shivers of rage calmed. "Humans fear death, and you were suckled on their teat. But the Hive know death as the Unseen Sister. It is she who welcomes you home to rest… and who allows you egress when you prove able to take it."

Immaru stared out in silence at the distant flashes of battle. "Sister or not, it's time we push back. We got anything like they got? A Ghost-killer?"

"The Hive uncovered such weapons long ago, but may have found them… distasteful. I suppose we could recover the magics, but surely you and your fellows would see such tactics as an abomination?"

Immaru turned back to face the flashes of rifle fire on the distant shore. "Not anymore."

Immaru

You needn't resent my hesitation. Mine is a prejudice shared by many: evolution's paintbrush cut within the Hive a terrible anatomy rendered to elicit fear; they are loathsome things to look upon, after all. I speak not as some superstitious provincial afraid of the dark, but as a Ghost well-versed in the language of suffering. 

Look at this one: they call him a Knight, this sin putrefying upon a slab. Is it only brute strength that qualifies a knighthood now? I have little compassion for the universe's mockery upon chivalric ideals.

In contrast, I call myself a creature of moral strength and sound reasoning, and as such, believe these traits allow me to judge so unforgivingly—but alas, I am also afflicted by a most curious and inquisitive nature. It is why, when my debased fellows departed to find unity with the Hive, I found myself compelled to witness their descent. 

Not to share in it, of course. I doubt we share anything more than a species and the dark urge we all undoubtedly feel.

Yet as I watched them, I could not deceive myself into denying the elegance of pouring the Light in all its multiplex glory into these avatars of terrible intricacy. It is a sinister geometry, but not without its beauty. Gazing on them with an eye unvarnished by niceties, one can see that a fiendish purity of purpose drives them. They spill confidence like a vintner drunk on his own reserves.

Such a shame that this purity and confidence was leveled at the unforgivable quintain striking at our great Traveler and unraveling its works.

I shudder at the ease with which my comrades ignore such basic logic. This is the Hive! Disciples of that unholy church which laid our creator low. They struck for its heart and shattered a roaring conflagration into ten thousand motes flickering in the wind. In their fervor, they… played midwife, of a sort, to Guardians.

To Ghosts.

To me.

Cause and effect. Legacy. Is this what my fellow Ghosts see? Why it feels… right? Then with their foundation of logic, what is my hesitance except some… provincial superstition?

Pickman

TYPE: PRIVATE MEDICAL LOG
PARTIES: One [1] Ghost-type, designate Krill
ASSOCIATIONS: Light; Lucent Hive
//TEXT DECRYPTED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS//

Ubartu-ana blames me. Naturally. He insisted on naming me Krill in our first exchange because he claims I am as small and useless as the weak pests that the Hive evolved from. Cruelty and suspicion are his nature, but it makes for a poor physician. 

Still, poison is a logical, if ignorant, hypothesis for the condition.

Patients report various symptoms: mood swings, headache, insomnia. Primary symptom remains the growths. I hesitate to call them "tumors"—no signs of metastasization. One must be precise in terminology, after all.

—-

After some clumsy exploratory surgery on my inner workings, Ubartu-ana seems content I am not some Trojan horse. Wouldn't that be ironic? Ghosts sent to reclaim the Hive from death only to wipe them out by dispersing pathogenic specks rather than Light. 

As I said: ignorant.

—-

Biopsied a dozen growths. No clear results. The masses within are primitive, protoplasmic—little more than interstitial fluid and proteolytic amino acids. Primordial soup, as the Humans say. No sign of infection, but curiously, the lining of these "cysts," for lack of a better term, seems to be saturated with immune cells. Further biopsies will be needed.

—-

Wondrous developments! Biopsy 37 yielded aggressive results. I pierced a cyst to discover not fluid, but life! A winged arthropod attacked me—defending its host, I estimate! Little of its body remained upon destruction, but it seems to be more energy construct than flesh. I plan to take the next specimen alive for vivisection.

—-

Confirmed: the winged arthropods, despite their energy structure, also contain Hive cells! I theorize Hive physiology, unaccustomed to Light exposure, is attempting to isolate it like an infection. Light, structured as it is, organizes the discarded sebum within and forges it into imaginal cells, kickstarting a sort of holometabolism.

Incredible. The Hives' own bodies transform Light into a parasite! What a wondrous adaptation!

—-

They are commending Ubartu-ana for "his" discovery. Thus now, I perceive the true poetry in my name: everything about him of value comes from me.

Krill

Three-Oh-Three floated in the shadows as her modest flock of Ghosts scanned the ruins. For centuries, they had combed through the long-dried spatter of a fallen world, each hoping to find their prize. She always watched, knowing she would never find what she needed… just as surely as they knew they would.

A joyous chime pierced the air, and the little Ghost's mood sank. It wasn't a sound she heard often, but she recognized the melody that heralded the shrinking of her group. El gestured across the tumbledown intersection, where Trill chirped hollow advice to a fawn-wobbly Guardian as the others watched on. Three-Oh-Three turned away and grumbled. She supposed she could just ignore them.

If they let her.

"Three!" Peris bobbed, practically bouncing on her. "Three, Trill's found her Guardian! Come congratulate her!"

Anger flared, white hot. "Congratulate?! Are you—You know what? Fine." Three-Oh-Three swiveled back toward the impromptu celebration and raised her voice. "Hey, Trill! Congrats on abandoning us all!"

"Three…"

"What? I'm so HAPPY for her! I'm not resentful at all about our fanatical devotion to dead Humans, the species who couldn't even stop the Darkness the first time around!"

"Three, this isn't the time!"

"When is the time, Peris? When are we going to start asking questions? Why did we just arbitrarily decide to dedicate ourselves to these squishy creatures forever? They aren't fit to hold the Light!"

"Three… can't you at least be happy for us?" Trill's voice was soft.

Three didn't respond.

"This is the way we form a bigger family and serve a larger purpose. That's what it's all about. But maybe… if after all this time, you still can't share that with us…" El paused. She'd often come so close to saying this, but always backed down before. "Then maybe you shouldn't search with us."

Three floated, letting the ultimatum settle. "Fine."

There was nothing more to be said after that. One by one, the rest drifted away, resuming their work. 

El hesitated for a moment. "Goodbye, Three," she whispered. "I do hope you find your family."

Three-Oh-Three turned away to look up toward the night sky. The twinkling stars stared back like a million judging eyes. 

But she knew then, gazing at those quiet spaces between them… they were her family.

Three-Oh-Three

You gotta understand… none of us came here thinking grand schemes. None of us! There was…. there was just this urge, y'know? So we followed it, only to step into a world remaking itself. The Light just thrashing away at the Darkness. Pounding away! Mountains sloshing into seas like sugar in the rain. A Hive throne world remade. On a whim! 

I'm not what you'd call a believer, not after the Red War. Not after the Tangled Shore. Not after a lifetime of never mattering just 'cause I wasn't half of someone else's whole. But that… that made me feel again.

And then I saw him—what was left of him—lying there. Just this corpse, dead maybe, oh, a hundred years. It's my Knight. I look, and I KNOW he's mine. Like hearing a song the first time, and it's already stuck in your head. And in that moment, I think something… something good in me died.

And Twenny-Two and Kemmasi and Marseille, they're all raising their partners—Hive Lightbearers, every last one. You'd think it'd be impossible, but sure enough, all standing there. Eee-Ie, Quasit, Hatcher—everyone's finding their purpose. There's Hive to the left of me, Hive to the right… I'm buried in 'em. And the whole time, every Ghost I ever knew is shouting, telling me, "This is the Traveler's plan! Who are you to question it?" 

And I thought… maybe they're right? I mean, I could see the Light scouring a whole world right in front of me. Maybe this was some kinda turning point for the Hive. Knowing your creator chose you to remake an entire species… oh, you'd make bad choices too.

So I shared my Light. Who wouldn't? A couple hundred of your closest friends bearing down on you, and a Hive Shredder waiting if you say no? I shared. I reached into him. Touched something deep. 

And what he offered back, it wasn't Light or Dark. It was cold. It was wrong. And I knew it would fill up whatever empty cracks in me the Light left behind. And… I chose to make it a part of me. To be half of his whole.

I chose to share my soul with a monster.

And the thing is… you can't just be part monster.

Fynch I

Rise again, Luzaku! Aiat! Rise and take back the logic this heretic won in your death! Yes, arm yourself, and lay low the Guardian scourge! The false inheritor of the Light has grown fat on your weakness. To whittle him thin is to make yourself strong!

Yes! He lies broken just as the Gift Mast, but be wary. Yes… there! His Ghost awakens him again, and your victory is soured. 

Mind the bullets! Bathe in the metal rain and be cleansed, not drowned! Lift up your Shredder! It is your tutor in studying the shape of your foe.

Aiat!

Again, he lies in ruin. And you learned well your lesson, yes, seizing the Ghost.

The logic from this kill will make you strong. With this Ghost, you crush not only the foe before you, but every foe he could have been. It is the whole worth of him in your hand—gaze upon it.

Yes. See how it trembles. So fragile. Hear it describe you in your victory. Take it now in this moment of ultimate truth, grow drunk on victory, and in revelry, know the worth of this thing.

Crush the Ghost!

…Why do you linger, Luzaku? What is there to learn with your eyes that you will not learn with your fist? Do you not wish to be something real? Something that lasts forever?

Why do you look to me? Children are curious. Humans are curious. But Hive are strong! Your understanding comes in vanquishing the thing. So do it!

No! It's free!

This is what your speculating has wrought, Luzaku! You have failed, and now the tides of the universe will erode you into meaningless dust. All that you could have become has slipped through your fumbling fingers! The Guardian will return, flush and hungry from his death. And then?

Then, you will be dead. Aiat.

Euloch

TYPE: PERSONAL INVESTIGATIVE REPORT
PARTIES: One [1] Ghost-type, designate Specter
ASSOCIATIONS: Light; Lucent Hive
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS//

Post-Lumination Day 017. 10:23. Arrived on scene. Victim is a Thrall. No identity. Cause of death: fractured neck due to blunt force trauma. Traces of Light detected. Nabenki interviewed the primary suspect; Hive prefer talking to their own and don't respond to things—even things that bring them back from the dead.

Overheard confession. Suspect is Knight identified as Urukthalyn, victim's commander. Reported that when his Ghost detected Light within victim, Urukthalyn executed him for theft. Open and shut case.

PLD018. 13:44. Three more deaths fitting same pattern: internal artifacts of Light, victims summarily executed. But circumstances raise more questions. Thralls don't partner with Ghosts; should be unable to receive or carry Light. 

Nabenki tasked to investigate. Suspects an organized smuggling ring, potential Human or Fallen infiltration.

PLD018. 14:57. Encountered suspect Thrall; no identification, classified POI-7. Tests confirm traces of Light. Nabenki applied standard Hive interrogation techniques, extracted confession after extended session. POI-7 admitted to "stealing" Light, keeping it in urns. Also implicated a superior Acolyte. Doesn't add up.

PLD018. 19:12. Requested time alone with suspect to establish rapport. Nabenki hesitant; doesn't like being spoken to unbidden but acquiesces. POI-7 admitted to giving false confession to end "visceral" Hive interrogation. Claimed complete ignorance to the Light's origins in his system. When asked about unusual activity, reported that his symbiote feels sated without need for bloodshed or tithing.

PLD018. 19:33. Consulted Nabenki for context regarding tithing. Apparently, Hive function on a system of energetic kickbacks, paid up the ladder, ending with queen. Would've been useful to know earlier. Suspect this network may be impacted by introduction of Light. Nabenki confirmed Light exhibits a "negative pressure" within the system. May be pushing trace amounts back through it.

Have submitted theory to our commander for further investigation.

PLD019. 06:30. Partner acknowledged me this morning, established eye contact. Potential illness?

PLD019. 07:42. On my recommendation, POI-7 executed for perjury.

Specter

Oh no, no, no. Why, of all things… did you make me do this?

The Hive certainly weren't perfect—actually, let's not mince words; they were straight-up evil! But you? I gave you a part of me! I let you make me worse just so I could make you better! You were supposed to understand! You were the only one who ever could. Why wouldn't you? Yeah, so really, y'know, this is your fault, not mine!

I know. I know you don't want to be dead. I know that! You think I don't know that?!

I watched you shoot a Guardian. And her GHOST. Dead. All because I could hear you, in the back of my mind, needing me to bring you back. And I listened. I listened to the others… then to you… to everyone except myself. 

I didn't expect miracles, but… I expected something! 

Yes, you're dead now. And I can hear you—but I can't. Don't you get it? I just. Can't!

I'm not gonna be the triggerman anymore. I'm not gonna sacrifice humanity on your personal altar. You're not… you're not worth it. You're not…

Worthy.

And you never were… were you?

Why does Savathûn have the Light? I should've asked "why" a long time ago. None of us did at the time, but I should've. We both know this wasn't right.

Look, I've got no faith left in the Traveler, but I know it… it wouldn't give me a monster and say, "Make him a god." No, no, we both know this wasn't right. Was it pity? Optimism? 

Maybe… maybe it's just the obvious: I mean, Hive don't accept gifts; they take. Maybe the Traveler was tricked. The end of some long con. The Traveler isn't just some dumb orb ripe for grifting. Ghaul found that out the hard way.

There's gotta be more to it. I have to dig deeper. And if joining you damned me… well, hell sounds like a good place to start. I'll find out how she did it. And I don't care how much you try to change my mind: you're staying dead. You hear me?

You made me a monster, remember? You don't get to cry about it when I act like one.

Fynch II

[Transcript transposed via Ghost-link scrivener… uplink terminated—16:29… file archived: [REDACTED]]

Z: Empress, welcome. Ikora Rey joins me here.

I: Empress Caiatl. My Hidden found your missing frigate.

C: Did they?

I: It was abandoned on the dark side of the Moon. The Psions who stole it were spotted consorting with Loyalists to Calus, and may still have further plans to do so.

C: Defectors! I decreed their freedom, and they use it to drive a blade into my back rather than meet me face-to-face.

I: Any idea why they'd claim allegiance to your father? I'm concerned Calus is making a play we're missing.

C: Many Psions held significant social standing under my father, due to their military or intelligence capabilities. Now that all Psions are free, some of the old guard feel their status is… degraded by comparison. It is a short-sighted perspective, one that leads to dangerous choices.

Z: Short-sighted, but persuasive. In my time with Saladin's Iron Lords, we met a good deal of Warlords unwilling to join us if it meant stripping themselves of authority. There are always those who value themselves over anything else. 

I: Agreed. We saw something similar from the Future War Cult and their supporters when the House of Light joined the City. It was disturbing how quickly that kind of mentality can take hold. 

Z: In any event, we should continue monitoring the situation. I don't want to be caught unaware.

C: The Cabal will withstand losing a handful of cowards. If I learn more about these defectors' motives, I will send word. I expect you will do the same.

Z: Indeed. 

C: Good fortune in the battles to come, Commander; Vanguard Rey.

[Transmission terminated]

Coalition Shell

ACCESS: RESTRICTED
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-006
REP #: 221-HIVE-SAV
AGENT(S): LIN-357
SUBJ: Altars of Reflection—Conclusion

1. Assessment—Low physical threat presented. Despite the known involvement of VIP #7282, there is no direct contact here now. Further, the Altars are absent of traps or lethal intent so long as one remains within the bounded space accessed by the specified method. 

However, impacts of using Deepsight should not be underestimated.

2. Experiment notes—Telemetry includes sensor readings, breakdown thereof. "Object produced expected memory" applies to the vast majority of tests. 

3. Recommendations—Guardians should not be encouraged to visit the Altars. Use of Deepsight under these circumstances has provided valuable information, but given the initial involvement with Pyramids, etc., and the inherent danger in long-term occupation of #7282's throne world, it should not be relied on. Further, the resurrection of old personal memories creates vulnerability and distraction and has the potential to trigger long-lasting psychological detriment to the visitor. None of the possible applications are worth enough comparatively.

4. Final thoughts—If there is any further value to be found here, it lies in the spaces between what VIP #7282 has created. Knowing that we see true memories does not mean there isn't a secondary agenda, and above all, we should ask: Why these memories in particular? What is it #7282 has to say to us, and what might the wide dissemination of these truths do? What do these truths say to you, IKO-006? 

I would prefer to avoid further deployment of this nature.

MESSAGE ENDS

Altars of Reflection—Conclusion

ACCESS: PRIVATE
DECRYPTION KEY: INVALID
REP #: 005-LISBON 
AGENT(S): LIN-357
SUBJ:  Personal Accountability

I still can't accept this memory. I repeat it anyway, telling myself that this time, I'll spot the right detail, the sign that means I can put it down. But I don't: it stays just the same every time. Again and again, no matter what I try, what intent I approach it with. What happened, happened.

I remember that I wanted to forget it all. Forget her, forget them, so that what I'd done wouldn't matter. So it could disappear into the array of past missions with the rest. 
I spent a long time lying to myself about it. Something helped me forget. 
Now I watch her slip up behind me, watch myself turn with weapon readied, and I remember everything. 

And I think, this is the only place I'll ever see them again. So I call it up one more time, just to look her in the eyes. I'm not sure how long I've spent on this, it probably isn't wise… but just once more. 

One more look, and I'll be sure to remember them, even when I've left.

One more.

I don't know how many times I've said "one more." Have I learned anything at all? 

There was one thing… 

I close my eyes. Think about it. What do I want least, right now? 

I draw a breath. I don't recognize the scents. I remember again when I last came here, when I thought not of accessing memories but instead of the architecture and how it directed us inward… 

And then I turn away from the unvarnished truth of my worst moments and walk. I'm not going anywhere in particular. Just… out. Away. Crystal and runes and the impression of beauty grow fuzzy and frail around me, and the steps to take grow harder, as if dragging my body through mud instead of walking on solid ground. Fog blinds me, and now I hear it: whispering, barely distinguishable, but louder as I go. 

I know what my body failing feels like, and I don't care. I walk as far as my legs will carry me, listening to the whispers of the Witch Queen, searching for the meaning here in this liminality. 

Piri wakes me under a high-vaulted ceiling, and I remember what I must.

Personal Accountability

ACCESS: RESTRICTED
DECRYPTION KEY: MISSING
REP #: 221-HIVE-SAV
AGENT(S): LIN-357
SUBJ: Altars of Reflection—Conclusion [Draft]


1. Assessment—Low physical threat presented. Despite the known involvement of VIP #7282, there is no direct contact here now. Further, the Altars are absent of traps or lethal intent as long as [Data missing] 

2. Recommendations—Access to be restri [Data missing] 

3. Final thoughts—[Data missing, awaiting input]

I… haven't been as thorough as possible. There is still data that could be extracted from the Altars. I haven't committed to due diligence. After seeing old memories of my own, I initially wanted to leave as fast as I could. As if I could leave those memories behind too. But it's safe enough here for now, and I still have a job to do as a Hidden agent.

Study to carry on a little longer. I'll submit this report when I'm sure I am done here.

SEND MESSAGE?

Altars of Reflection—Conclusion [Draft]

ACCESS: RESTRICTED
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-006
REP #: 220-HIVE-SAV
AGENT(S): LIN-357
SUBJ: RE: Altars of Reflection—New Input


1. I moved forward with invocation of a personal item anyway, despite previous report concluding that it was unnecessary. Testing continued with the cloak I have kept from back then, the one I was wearing when I was found. I don't know what I was expecting from it—just that after all that time not remembering, my curiosity won out. I wanted to know.

2. The memory was… like a key in a lock, all the rest laid open to me once I remembered this one thing.

The first time I witnessed the memory, I barely processed any of what was happening; I was so caught up in simply looking at her. I forgot to breathe. She had the most luminous blue eyes… how could I have ever forgotten her?

Everything in my head was jumbled, all the things I'd forgotten were trying to be heard at once, and she was the only constant. So I used the item again, this time intending to make a coherent report, thinking I could process by writing it all down. I just wound up watching again, caught up in remembering the three of us. This awful set of moments, suspended in perfect replica. 

Before this, I didn't recall anything of the incident, even who my fireteam was at the time. I'd wondered what might be in that gap, and why I hesitated even when I was curious. It wasn't enough to know that I had survived and should not return. I think, despite all that wondering, some part of me didn't want to remember. 

But that's how lies happen, isn't it? In the places we don't want to look. Little by little, we let the weeds grow and the shadows encroach, and we tell ourselves there's nothing in the overgrowth. And if there is, it isn't something that matters very much… 

Deepsight does not allow for such deceptions.

MESSAGE ENDS

RE: Altars of Reflection—New Input

ACCESS: RESTRICTED
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-006
REP #: 219-HIVE-SAV
AGENT(S): LIN-357
SUBJ: Altars of Reflection—New Input


1. Logical next steps in analysis involve changing a variable in the known functional equation. I've taken the liberty of borrowing some items from others in order to conduct some tests regarding expectations—it is worth assessing how much influence the viewer has on the outcome.

2. First test—Introduction of reasonably generic items. As expected, a chunk of Glimmer did nothing. A broken-off piece from the grip of a new sidearm, purchased specifically for this purpose—next to nothing. For a moment, there was a shadow, something that vaguely resembled the gunsmith at work or in conversation, but no memory replay as seen in the items known to produce memories of VIP #7282.

3. Second test—I had an acquaintance borrow a trinket from a friend of theirs whom I have not met. The item is a medallion smaller than my palm, with old, rubbed-faint engravings. Following the introduction of this item to the Altar, a visible memory resulted, playing out in third person much like the other memories. I recorded details of this memory for reference and confirmation of accuracy. (Specifics omitted here as irrelevant.)

Once a recording had been made and committed, I accessed the file provided by the owner of the item. This file included summaries of what he thought were the most likely memories to be associated with the item. As you can see, details of what I observed matched one of those summaries. Owner's Ghost to provide additional context if necessary, either on my return or when another Hidden agent reaches out.

Would like to recommend that another agent repeats the same test to see if they can view something different.

4. While we had no reason to doubt the previously revealed memories, all this adds an additional layer of certainty: that which we can ascertain via the Altars is the truth, full and clear. The only remaining doubts are regarding why, and which memories. VIP #7282 is known to be cunning but has ultimately been truthful in previous dealings with the Vanguard. Regrettably, these things are not mutually exclusive. 

5. I had additional plans for analysis of the Altars involving personal items and memory, but I am reconsidering the wisdom in doing so, as well as the necessity. Beyond confirming that the memories produced are repeatable, true, and personal, do we need to know more? I will be moving on to the substance of the world next. 

MESSAGE ENDS

Altars of Reflection—New Input

ACCESS: RESTRICTED
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-006
REP #: 218-HIVE-SAV
AGENT(S): LIN-357
SUBJ: Altars of Reflection—Control

1. With the perimeter secured and all sensors ready for analysis, there is no immediate further obstacle to the initial experiments with Deepsight. On Vanguard authorization, I've borrowed one of the existing artifacts that has been used to produce and view VIP #7282's memories. Item: a shard of the crystal that #7282 used recently as a protective measure, cf. REP # 197-HIVE-SAV. 

2. In summary, following the known and established process, there is no deviation from what was previously reported. The memory of #7282's death and subsequent acquisition of Light played back as expected, identical in every beat. (See attached file for additional details as necessary.) This is not unexpected, and the recording, etc., have been made largely for archival purposes.

3. Subsequent repetitions of the same process revealed additional words from #7282. Perhaps foolishly, I replied to portions of her dialogue that seemed to request a response. However, there was no explicit answer—I believe it is safe to conclude that there is no awareness of hers here, and what is heard is likely a recording coded to this specific memory and/or object. Her use of this method to influence and sow doubt is not unexpected.

4. As a test, I used the crystal item to invoke Deepsight in the same fashion I used previously, this time with the intent of viewing something different—there are plentiful records of #7282's interactions with Vanguard and Reef personnel around the larger crystal this piece was retrieved from. However, none of these were viewable. The same item only allowed viewing of the same memory, suggesting a permanent association. I have some additional analysis planned to confirm this. 

At first glance, these observations imply that if we wish to discover further memories, we will need to collect additional items, likely of personal relevance to #7282. (Confirmation of required item nature forthcoming.)

MESSAGE ENDS

Altars of Reflection—Control

ACCESS: RESTRICTED
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-006
REP #: 217-HIVE-SAV
AGENT(S): LIN-357
SUBJ: Altars of Reflection—Assessment

1. I arrived onsite and made my way into the Altar space. It doesn't appear to have changed much, if at all, from earlier provided telemetry. As predicted, there were barriers to access: several of the Lucent Brood obstructed my passage and were subsequently dispatched without much trouble. Additionally, the same complication as previously reported blocked the way—Hive runes. Parsing their nature and repetition of specific patterns was required to gain full access to the Altar. 

2. On the topic of the presented resistance: there were significantly fewer Hive defenders than could have been mustered, given intelligence on available forces. Based on the token nature of this resistance and the fact that VIP #7282 surely knows that Guardians have been here, it can be assumed that the defense is not a sincere attempt to keep us out. Historical precedent exists for setting a guard on a location or item to make it appear more attractive. 

Precedent also exists for opening the way for Guardians to participate in the Hive sword logic. I do not yet have reason to believe this is taking place here, especially given the severance of #7282's connection to the Worm Gods that have otherwise led her species, but it does not pay to be incautious around the Hive.

3. Once appropriate precautions were taken against any further incursions, I deployed sensors to record what data is possible, focusing on the central Altar and its exterior boundaries. Simultaneously, it was necessary to assess the available space for myself; impressions follow.

It is more aesthetically appealing than we usually associate with Hive—only the structures bear vague resemblance to those on Luna. The colors are pleasing, far removed from scarlet and rot, and the area lacks jagged edges or significant quantities of bone. Structurally, it is a space clearly built to highlight the central area, and indeed, it draws one to the Altar itself.

All told, in architecture alone, the creator demonstrates a clear evolution, presumably mirroring her own.

4. On the topic of the structure: although the available space does not appear to have walls, there is a definite boundary. Matter grows foggy, and there is a strong sense of pushback when moving away from the center. Initially, I believed this to be a function of the architecture, but significant willpower was required to force myself to look further into testing the concept. That alone suggests it should be investigated more. 

Conscious of the bias in doing so, I am marking it for later experimentation, as it would involve straying from the central objective. Further data forthcoming.

MESSAGE ENDS

Altars of Reflection—Assessment

ACCESS: RESTRICTED
DECRYPTION KEY: QF4LYZX16G$IKO-006
REP #: 216-HIVE-SAV 
AGENT(S): LIN-357 
SUBJ: Altars of Reflection—Dispatch

1. Regarding the power known as Deepsight and its use within VIP #7282's throne world:
Some Guardians have already used this power to access secret pockets of space. Hidden agents have dubbed them "Altars of Reflection" for now. There, the invocation of Deepsight in concert with significant objects has enabled us to view memories belonging to #7282.

2. Access to this power requires spending time with the Relic, and subsequently, in one of the Pyramids. Long-term exposure to Darkness in this manner carries inherent risk, and the process is nontrivial. However, in the interest of learning everything possible about this space and the relevant VIP, certain chances must be taken.   

Considering the sensitive nature of the topic, reports should be directed subject to the attention of IKO-006 only. 

3. So far, it is estimated that Guardians have been able to view memories that #7282 wants. This supposition is upheld by #7282's specific and personal input on the memories in question. But why these memories? This remains a worthwhile question to answer in order to understand #7282's larger goal.

4. Hidden agent (LIN-357) was dispatched in full understanding of requisite risks to determine the following as possible: limits and potential of physical space, applicability of other items and memories, span of #7282's attention to the mentioned spaces, possibility for use of Deepsight outside of Altar parameters, and possibility for use of Altar parameters with other applications.  

5. LIN-357 is also to assess potential danger in continuing and encouraging Guardian access to and use of Altar spaces. 

MESSAGE ENDS

Altars of Reflection—Dispatch

TYPE: RECOVERED SENSOR LOGS 

PARTIES: Two [2] Human-type, designate Umiña, Osiris. One [1] Ascendant Hive, designate Savathûn. Eighty-one [81] Hive-type, designate unknown. 

ASSOCIATIONS: Light [Umiña]; Darkness, [Savathûn, Hive] 

ENGINES: Offline 

LIFE SUPPORT: Offline 

SENSORS: Nominal 

//AUDIO RECOVERED// 

//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS// 

U: Is that… Osiris! Osiris, can you hear me?  

S: Reverence, please, child. He is the first to see this realm. 

U: What did you do to him? 

S: He merely sleeps to dream a better world… one that I awaken to make reality. 

//REBOOTING// 

U: —some kind of fountain? 

S: It is the trough at which gods gorge.  

U: And you're going to feed me to them there? 

S: Nothing so dramatic, Lightbearer. You will be a scent. A texture. An added detail no one would notice, but whose absence would be felt. After all, one cannot cast a shadow without Light. 

U: But… with Osiris's Light… Wait! Are you saying Sagira is gone?! Then he doesn't have— 

//REBOOTING// 

U: —what you're saying is true, then we're on the same side! 

S: No, child. We work to the same ends. Our roads are quite different. 

U: You don't have to do this. 

S: An end must be reached. A journey chosen. We are not all of us burdened by the comforting lie of false sacrifice.  

U: Please— 

S: All I require is to relieve you of that burden.  

//REBOOTING// 

S: The vessel's sensors appear to be recording. Dispose of it.

Star Jasmine

I know what happened next. I do not need to see it again.

(I rend Mother's flesh.)

Do you not hear me?!

(I remove Father's head from his neck.)

This is madness!

(None escape my wrath. Not even the little ones. Not even civilians. The city watches in horror. They know what I am.)
This must stop!

(Their faces inform only of relief.)

Stop!!!

(Their faces inform only of relief.)

I COMMAND YOU!!!

(Their faces inform only of relief.)

AHHHHH!

(The Sapphiric Sun implodes.)

PLEASE!

(Lubrae is cracking. Lubrae is shattering. Lubrae is upending. What have I done?)

I CAN'T—

(Your Luster. My Glaive.)

—-Relive it.—-

NOOOOO—

(They've turned against me—my Regime. They've perished by my hand—my clan. They call me a monster. They put me in a cage. They seek my execution. But your Luster—I see it, even though they took you from me.)

(You guide my hand. You free me of these chains. You find me again. You return to me my Glaive—no longer Rheliksbane. Serving only one final purpose: Lubrae's Ruin.)

(A shattered sky. A planet convulsing. Our existence, upended.)

(Their folly was their intended salvation. Siphoning light from the Sapphiric Sun itself. I use your Luster. Turn their technology against them, like a backfired pistol.)

(After serving them. Protecting them. Fighting for them. Suffering for them.)

(A shattered sky. A planet convulsing. Tearing apart.)

(One Lubraean remains—me. But not for long. What have I done? I stare into the Abyss. It has opened—truly opened this time—to show me what lies beneath: death. I drop your Luster. I drop Lubrae's Ruin. I let myself fall in. And then I… I… and then I am… )

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

Here. With you. My… Witness.

—-And what do you feel now? Devoid of family. Devoid of The Regime. Devoid of Lubrae. What do you feel here, in our embrace, now that they are gone and you are left?—-

Rhulk opens his eyes. Crawls forth through the blackened solution that engulfed him all this time. Emerges from the wall of obsidian-like miasma to find his Luster. To find Lubrae's Ruin. Taking them, he rises to his feet.

—-What do you feel, my child?—-

"Relief."

Hash	Icon	Name	Link
1649346047		Resonant Fury Mask	View diff
3487540074		Resonant Fury Vest	View diff
1583213254		Resonant Fury Grips	View diff
4124357755		Resonant Fury Cloak	View diff
1566699968		Resonant Fury Strides	View diff
511888814		Secant Filaments	View diff
3259193988		Osmiomancy Gloves	View diff
3316517958		Loreley Splendor Helm	View diff
1322544481		Hoarfrost-Z	View diff
1703551922		Blight Ranger	View diff
2169905051		Renewal Grasps	View diff
362541459		Resonant Fury Helm	View diff
1627640710		Resonant Fury Plate	View diff
2150515362		Resonant Fury Gauntlets	View diff
365727964		Resonant Fury Greaves	View diff
2370089583		Resonant Fury Mark	View diff
1656263403		Resonant Fury Gloves	View diff
2422261368		Resonant Fury Bond	View diff
2748020989		Resonant Fury Boots	View diff
3300312357		Resonant Fury Robes	View diff
2316722050		Resonant Fury Cowl	View diff
940788946		Star Jasmine	View diff
2893840584		Criticality of Quickness	View diff
2139400845		Gouging Light	View diff
1993613993		Ivory Empress	View diff
551038990		Edge of Action	View diff
551038991		Edge of Concurrence	View diff
551038988		Edge of Intent	View diff
46524085		Osteo Striga	View diff
3505113722		Collective Obligation	View diff
2812324401		Dead Messenger	View diff
2812324400		Parasite	View diff
1763584999		Grand Overture	View diff
1572896086		Recurrent Impact	View diff
1248372789		Sweet Sorrow	View diff
2638190703		Aisha's Embrace	View diff
3216652511		Reckless Endangerment	View diff
1796949035		Razor's Edge	View diff
3201161941		Imperious Sun Shell	View diff
858400357		Coalition Shell	View diff
3129744722		Flayer Shell	View diff
1441479303		Fundament Shell	View diff
81505816		Pickman	View diff
81505819		Three-Oh-Three	View diff
81505818		Krill	View diff
81505821		Euloch	View diff
81505820		Fynch I	View diff
81505823		Fynch II	View diff
81505822		Specter	View diff
81505809		Immaru	View diff
81505808		Harmonia	View diff
3184726008		Jynx	View diff
182633238		Untamed	View diff
182633237		Provoked	View diff
182633236		Endangered	View diff
182633235		Nepotistic	View diff
182633234		Defiant	View diff
182633233		Isolated	View diff
182633232		Tainted	View diff
182633247		Assaulted	View diff
182633246		Lamented	View diff
955849618		Liberated	View diff
935120014		Altars of Reflection—Dispatch	View diff
935120013		Altars of Reflection—Assessment	View diff
935120012		Altars of Reflection—Control	View diff
935120011		Altars of Reflection—New Input	View diff
935120010		RE: Altars of Reflection—New Input	View diff
935120009		Altars of Reflection—Conclusion [Draft]	View diff
935120008		Personal Accountability	View diff
935120007		Altars of Reflection—Conclusion	View diff
1250196969		Osiris I	View diff
1250196970		Eris I	View diff
1250196971		Ikora I	View diff
1250196972		Caiatl I	View diff
1250196973		Ikora II	View diff
1250196974		Toland I	View diff
1250196975		Zavala I	View diff
1250196960		Eris II	View diff

Items	+171	-111	421
SandboxPerks	+54	-3	6
PresentationNodes	+1		16
Triumphs	+65		17
Collectibles	+3		83
Objectives	+265	-98	6220
Vendors		-1	25
Progressions			2
Milestones	+1	-3	4
Activities	+17		37
ActivityModifiers		-10	2
Lore			78
Locations	+3	-4
Metrics	+3
SocketCategories			3
ActivityGraphs			1
PlugSets			4
RewardItemList	+27	-14
SackRewardItemList	+1	-1
SandboxPatterns			1
Unlocks	+392	-190
UnlockValue	+341	-147
RewardMapping	+414	-149
RewardSheet	+44	-26
EntitlementOffer	+1
UnlockEvent	+3	-4
UnlockExpressionMapping	+745	-490

Destiny Definitions Archive

Lore

Modified