Chapter Text
“Don’t come any closer!” He sounded far braver than he felt, but any worthwhile Titan knew that was half the battle. “I swear, if you try to turn me into one of those damn crystals, the next fireteam will burn your miserable, worm-sucking race to the ground!”
The little Hunter was cornered, senselessly pleading with the Wizard that swooped toward him. “No! No—you already took my Ghost— please —”
Thrall clustered around him, swiping, burying him. The Titan roared, diving after the Hunter, punching his way out, fists cracking chitin and bursting through dry sinew.
When he surfaced, the New Light was nowhere to be seen. There was only a glittering purple crystal.
It didn't make sense. He could feel him there, feel the weight of his Light, the same as before, the same as a Ghost—
And then, he understood.
The Hunter would never get to take in the beauty of the Tower. Never feel the swell of custodial pride as he looked out over the foggy reaches of the Last City. Never find a fireteam of his own to grow with and call family. His brief and violent second life would amount to nothing more than a passing nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” the Titan whispered, hoping the message would carry somehow, to the place where words couldn’t reach. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He raised his rifle.
Click.
No. He still had his fists. He'd shatter it himself. He’d tear this entire Arcology apart if it meant denying the Hunter's Light from being used by the Hive.
But without Nightingale, his strength was sapped from him. With each strike, the Light left in him drained into the crystal. A crack he thought he’d made on one hit healed itself with the next.
In his determination, the Titan didn’t notice the grinning specter encroaching silently on him. He paused, seeming to hear something, and she struck. The Wizard's claw curled around something deep inside him, something as old and bright as the stars—and pulled.
The Titan's Light burst from him like moisture boiling in the vacuum of space. His last brief thought was that he could have swore he heard a little voice in his helmet—digitized, like an incoming transmission from a Ghost.
“That must be one of the missing Guardians,” the voice had said. “Tracing his broadcast now.”