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He was thankful that stability had finally been brought back to his Light. There was enough he had to pay attention to as he Blinked through the throng of angry Vex, without having to worry about staying anchored to this reality. However, the anchor in question was distraction enough on its own.
He swung his twilight claws into the hobgoblin's radiolaria tank, coaxing a few extra Motes of Dark from the wreckage.
The safe play would be to let the Reaper do their job, then swoop in afterwards to pick through the carnage. But safety was off the table today. He was on edge, overwhelmed, and hungry for blood. He'd consider it a personal failing on every Mote that hit the ground before he could pick it up. It did concern him how easy it was becoming to key his Hunger into such frivolous things.
What was one more concern on the table, though?
He didn't know his teammates’ names, and hasn't spoken a single word to them. Merely flashed the silvered serpents coiled about his armor, then bolted for the enemy almost before the transmat had even ended. Even his heavily shielded Light-sensitivity was able to pick up the notes of distaste directed towards him. But he wasn't here to give a fuck about the opinions of others. He was here to Collect. He was here to pick fights.
He was here to figure out how many times a Minotaur the size of a Gate Lord could slam him into the wall before he couldn't get back up.
There had always been rumors that people had faced their Final Death in Gambit. ‘Inattentive. Stupid mistakes,’ he thought, Sensing the whine of a fusion rifle and twisting out of the way of the brilliant bolt. The Invader was close, and he twisted once more into the Void, closing the gap. He never made contact, as five cold cracks heralded a shattering pain in his chest, then darkness.
Leshya said nothing as Avin shook the resurrecting Light from his helm, but Avin didn't need words to Sense the concern and disapproval. Even resurrected, the cold ache in his chest persisted, and he snarled behind his cervine visage out of pain and annoyance. He hated that damn gun.
[ Seems like you still haven't learned, Runt. I know you can tell when someone is carrying around one of my little toys - act like it. ]
He didn't grace Drifter's teasing tone with a response. No response beyond the Void-caused destruction of the monstrous Hydra, and the following feast of Motes, that is.
[ Someone's sure touchy today. ]
The Primeval's appearance always rattled his balance. Dark that strong called to Hunt, triggered the unspoken commands always lurking in the Starved Hunter's mind. But it wouldn't do to let that slip here. The manipulation of Motes of Dark were one thing...a Hunt was another.
He was thankful his teammates at least seemed to know how this worked. He wasn't sure he could handle a loss today.
He got his revenge on the Invader that brought him down. He was perhaps too focused on that need, if the Sentry's biting remarks in his ear were anything to go on. But every bullet from that Dark gun just fueled his rare anger. Anger at the Invader. Anger at his situation.
Anger at himself.
His team won the Gambit, by the skin of their teeth, but the restless confusion still remained sunken deep into his bones. Drifter raised an eyebrow when Avin stayed in the transmat zone after the match, after everyone else had gone on their way, tense and pacing. “You wear a hole in my ship and you'll be the one paying for it. Something's eatin’ you up. Why not tell me your little tale.”
The statement-phrased-question gave him pause, could Sense Leshya's uncertainty from the Ghost's otherspace pocket. “And give you ammunition? Play into your hands more than I am? I don't think so. Just drop me in the next match.” There was cold metal and lonely starshine in the anxious notes of his voice.
Drifter sighed, leaning against the railing of his little walkway, absently flipping one of his coins. Avin was certain the Lightbearer could tell the sound was grating on his already frayed nerves. “This'll be your third match in a row. Judgin’ by how many times you took those Malfeasance rounds to the chest, I reckon you'd be dead dead before the second spawn, if I were to drop ya again.”
The coin disappeared as he turned to properly face Avin, that snake-like grin plastered on his face. “If I'm gonna have dead Guardians in my arenas, I want it to at least be a fight . Besides, I've got enough people gunning for me. I'd rather not have your little... handler after m--”
“I'm not a Guardian. Drop me in the next match.”
“Oooh, you really are touchy today. "I'm not a Guardian ”, oh that's a good one, Runt.” Drifter sobered slightly when Avin's steely aura didn't waver in the face of his laughter. “So that's what's chewing you up. Look. You're gonna run yourself in circles looking for an answer that doesn't exist. You're not gonna find out what you are getting shot to pieces. I ain't gonna take part in your little crisis of self, no matter how much or how little I may or may not relate. Come back tomorrow. There's only room for one game here, and it's not playing nice with you right now.”
There was no more argument to be had. None that Avin could win, anyway. Not in his scrambled state.
Leshya was thankful when Avin, grudgingly and bitterly, took the transmat back to his jumpship.
He slunk back to his apartment, robes tattered and licking his wounds. Leshya's multiple attempts to heal the hurts were waved off, Avin eventually snapping "I'm fine. It'll heal fine. Don't waste your effort" as his twisted shoulder was trapped in half removed robes.
Leshya knew Avin would apologize once he'd cooled down...but that didn't make it sting less.
The Taken essense trapped in that old Void scar had long since given it the appearance of something necrotic. It didn't take much in the way of mental gymnastics to draw a comparison between that and his own thoughts as of late. Dressing his wounds was difficult, to say the least. The obvious side effect of every bend and twist causing some wound to gape, or some strain to pull farther. It wasn't poison, wasn't a knife, wasn't death...but the pain was at least a temporary reprieve from the racing thoughts.
Maybe that's why he kept going back until Drifter threw him out.
Did he deserve these bangs and bruises for the uncertainty that’s plagued him as of late? Perhaps. He apparently doesn’t know himself, so what right does he have to know the worth of his punishment? He just wanted answers. That’s all he’s ever wanted, even before all...all this .
He limped from the bathroom, wounds as bandaged, and in some cases stitched, as best as he could manage. He should eat. Should sleep. Neither option sounded particularly appealing, but the soreness of his body still drove him to the nest of blankets that he called a bed, feeling guilty at the brief note of comfort that the softness gave him.
‘I haven’t earned my rest yet.’
Maybe that was the purpose of the Light. Some arbitrary judgement of whether or not someone has done enough to get whatever rest their beliefs dictated. Maybe those that were Chosen had done done something so heinous in their first life that this conditional immortality was some twisted form of punishment . Maybe the Light was just a forge for tools. Easily swayed, loyal tools.
A hand went to the bitter, sense-dead scar at his side, absently stroking the long since mapped textures. Loyal, indeed.
When did a Guardian stop being a Guardian and started being a mere Lightbearer? Was there anything “mere” about being “just” a Lightbearer? Or was it the opposite? When did a Lightbearer stop being a Lightbearer and started being a Guardian? Where was the line in the sand? What was the line in the sand?
The pained groan was more from the sharp twinge at his side than the mental conundrum.
Numb fingers rubbed at the cold and pinched skin with futile care. The pain long since stopped being one of the physical. Dark. Light. Warring paracausal forces taking up residence in the body of one, small Warlock. Perhaps it wasn’t the conditional immortality that was the real punishment.
But that only brought another thought back to the forefront. Regardless of the subtle distinction between “Guardian” and “Lightbearer”...could Avin even really call himself one or the other? No matter how he spun himself, there was just no way to avoid defining himself as some “Dark creature”. He has used the Dark as surely as he has the Light. Does that cancel out all he’s done in the name of the Light? If not, then where was that line in the sand?
Did his Dark state make him merely some pawn? Some fodder to be cut down one day in a training exercise?
He couldn’t help the snort of laughter at the memory of Drifter calling Zak his “handler”. It was a correct definition, regardless of if Avin wanted it or not.
The Sense-memory of the Dark Captain ( his Dark Captain ) crooning quiet praise into his ear made him shiver. He wasn’t sure if the shiver was of fear, distaste, or want .
That want was a whole other issue entirely.
He wanted nothing more than to scream in frustration, but all he could manage was a ragged sob.
He just wanted to know what he was. Guardian. Starved Hunter. Dark Creature. Pawn. Puppet. Guard Dog. Loyal Beast. Lightbearer .
It was too easy to tear the bandage from his arm and pick open the gash beneath. Too easy to watch the blood drip down to his fingers.
Too damn easy.