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Early on, Actaeon finds that Solar energy does not treat her well. It leaves her weary from the inside out, as if the sun itself has burned through her veins and left nothing of substance behind. A Gunslinger is meant to wield their Golden Gun like any other weapon — though their particular gun is a bit more difficult to pick up than something out of Banshee-44's stocks. The effort of drawing her Light into her hand for it is not supposed to leave her with more exhaustion than she'd had before pulling the trigger.
It's no secret that her distaste for Solar energy frustrates her, seeing as that it's all she has. For others, it's something so natural. Some of the Gunslingers she has crossed paths with treat it like a party trick, cloak whipped aside to reveal the gleaming, glowing hand cannon. Even still, others are more strict, as if it is always only meant to be the final bullet to fire.
So Actaeon simply avoids taking advantage of her Light-borne affinity, unless it's entirely necessary to save her own hide. She just can't take to the burn. By far, it is the least enticing part of her new life, and she resents the Traveler itself for her misfortune.
"There are other options," Ghost says once, after Actaeon's voiced her very firm complaints.
She thinks on it as she waits for the go-ahead to move into the Crucible arena. They're on Mars this time — Firebase Delphi, apparently. She dislikes the Cabal, but she likes the Crucible; it balances out enough to make her feel wonderfully neutral about the situation.
"Yeah?" she prompts, pulling the ship into Mars' orbit when several other ships join her. If it's anything like the way she's seen Warlocks both launch Void energy across the sky and set themselves on fire for shits and giggles, she's interested. There might be something worthwhile on the horizon yet.
Ghost moves up-down and up-down again in an enthusiastic approximation of a nod. "We can look into it when we get back. If you'd like."
"I would like," she says, and then the match is about to begin, so their conversation ends.
Not five minutes later, she's dead.
A blade that sings catches her in a corner. The other Guardian, cloaked in static and sparks, drags the knife through her armor as if it's nothing more than cloth — she realizes, in the split-second remaining of this life, that the Guardian's blade has practically phased right through her chest in a single, graceful movement. Cut right through it all.
It's very impressive, she would think, if she was not already shattered into sparking bits of previously-person.
The lingering memory of pain is nothing more than background noise compared to the sudden wave of curiosity when she returns alive and well.
"I want that," she tells her Ghost instantly.
Though she can't see it happen thanks to Ghost being tucked away somewhere relatively more safe than this battlefield, she can imagine the flicker-light of acknowledgment she gets in reply.
"It is an option," comes the voice from her helmet, distinctly sounding glad.
Actaeon grins and takes off once more.
The next time the Arc-wielder leaps towards her with their beautiful knife in-hand, she's ready. She darts backwards, jumps away, raises her hand as it flares alive — and sinks a golden bullet into their head with a bang!
She watches the particles of Light and ash become nothing, feeling satisfied with herself.
Then she looks at the Guardian's Ghost, hovering in place over where the corpse would be, if Guardians didn't dissipate on death.
"Hey." She gives it a wave.
The Ghost only blinks at her and shuffles its many points, obviously sharing its Guardian's agitation.
"It isn't nice to taunt," says her own in a little, nervous reprimand as she ducks away from enemy gunfire.
"They killed us first." The Light runs empty and leaves her burned-out again, her fingers flexing on a gun that she no longer grips. "Besides, I want them to come after us. I want to see more of that blade."
One victory later — little thanks to Actaeon, who spends the remainder of her time in the match taunting and chasing down the enemy Guardian like any good, fellow Hunter — they leave the Crucible and head back to the Tower, and Ghost tells her more.
"Bladedancer. That's what you want." A few light chimes of sound follow the explanation, like her Ghost matches her own excitement. "You could do that. You could definitely do that." Another chime, this one reminding her of laughter. "The knife is called an Arc Blade."
Arc Blade. It sounds just right to her ears. Something almost reflexive coils like a spring in her chest, just eager for the chance to be let free.
Actaeon hums and directs the ship in the direction they need to go, settling back in her seat.
Electricity still dances in her mind when she closes her eyes. Blue and bright and white, fast and dangerous and personal. She can see it so easily, the flash of every graceful, calculated movement. She can taste the metal zing on her tongue, feel the weight and not-weight of a blade in her palm, crafted from her own Light. The snap-static of a kill, the current running down her spine. A live wire, always waiting to strike.
Perfect is what it is. It's perfect for her, she thinks.
"It would suit you," Ghost agrees.
She splays out, getting comfortable for the short trip back. "It's already as good as mine."
Trading the wildfire for a storm is as natural as it gets. The first time Actaeon holds the blade in her hand, she can feel the cold metal sink into her bones and the shock of warmth dance deep in her lungs, beating along with every pang of her heart. It takes no more energy than breathing. She treats it all like a second skin.
Not that any of this surprises her in the least. She always has liked the look of lightning.