Chapter Text
Life rushed back into the man's body. The first breath of helmet-recycled air came as a shock. The voice that came from the speakers inside his helmet as the initial shock dissipated was high and tinny. "Thank the Traveler! I thought I'd never find you!"
"Find me?" How long were you looking? I've clearly not moved.
"Yes! You're my Guardian!" the voice almost chirped. The man let his eyes scan the area for its source. A hovering plus-sign-shaped machine was just to the left of him at eye-level. It had a glowing blue eye-like structure. The man assumed that was where he was supposed to look in order to maintain a polite level of eye contact. "Hello, Warlock! There's so much I have to tell you. And show you."
"Warlock?" the man asked, though his tone almost made it a statement instead.
"Yes. You see, I was looking for someone who could use the Traveler's Light as a weapon. You can make a huge difference in the fight against the Darkness!"
The man shrugged, still confused. "I don't know how to fight. You've got the wrong person."
"You've got a lot to learn, but you can do it fast, I bet!"
The man took a long moment to stare at the machine. It looked like it was actually composed of multiple pieces--two pale halves that glided over a dark, spherical interior piece that housed the glowing blue eye-structure. Its silhouette was not unlike that of a star seen from a distance, though emitting far less ambient light.
"What are you, exactly?" the man asked.
"Oh. I'm a Ghost. Your Ghost, now. It's my job to help heal you and bring you back to life, if I can. There are some conditions under which I'll be incapable of doing so unassisted, so try not to die. We are very alone here." The Ghost paused. "Do you want to try out your abilities, Warlock? There are things you can do with the Light to help keep yourself out of the worst trouble. We should also try getting you some guns. They'll have more range and accuracy than your abilities, typically."
The Warlock nodded. "Both. I don't wish to be vulnerable." He paused considering something the Ghost had said. "You mentioned we were 'very alone' here. Is that actually true?"
"I didn't want to alarm you, but there are hostiles very near to our current position."
The Warlock groaned. "And when were you going to tell me this?"
"Eventually."
"Ugh. What about these abilities you mentioned?" Awaiting the Ghost's answer, the Warlock took a look around the space he was resurrected in, if this Ghost was to be believed. It was a dreary, dusty base of sorts, with a few scattered crates and an interior style that leaned a little too heavily into chrome and greys where it wasn't utilizing a now-dull charcoal that was probably originally black.
"You have an affinity for solar energy. As such, you can use the Light to make grenades, throw fire at your enemies, and summon a healing energy for yourself and anyone you choose to include. Keep tabs on your energy. Every so often, you'll be able to reach for more power to either lay waste to your enemies or provide a substantial boost to yourself and your allies."
"Thank you," the Warlock said. "Now, how do I do it?"
"Reach out and envision what you want."
The Warlock nodded, trying a grenade first. He slammed it against the wall of the building they were in without exactly meaning for it to be so close to himself. Some of the splash-back hit him, burning holes in his long robe clear to the skin beneath. He yelped in pain, backed away from the grenade's sun-like globe in the wall and reached for the healing energy his Ghost had mentioned. His relief was immediate. The wounds healed and his Ghost resynthesized the fabric that had been damaged.
"Let's not do that again," the Warlock said, the memory of pain straining his voice.
"Agreed." The Ghost floated back in front of the Guardian. "Do you want to try tossing some fire, or would you rather save it until we get you a gun?"
"A weapon would be best," the Warlock said. He felt terribly vulnerable with nothing but solar Light to defend himself.
"Scanning for weapons now," the Ghost responded. "Hmm... Okay, there's a rifle over there, in that crate. You should be able to open it."
An indicator light, white and triangular, appeared to the left-most portion of the Warlock's helmet display. He turned his head accordingly and the indicator hovered over a large metal crate laying on the floor. As his gaze more accurately fell on the crate, the indicator took on a diamond shape. He walked over to the crate and, after fumbling with the clasps a little, opened it. Inside was a long-barreled, black gun with a long stock, likely intended to nestle against the meat of a humanoid's shoulder, just before the start of the armpit.
"It's a Khvostov," his Ghost said. "An automatic rifle. Give it a try."
"Won't the noise alert those hostiles you mentioned?"
"We're on the Moon--Earth's moon, Luna. There's no atmosphere. No atmo, no sound. You'll be fine. Just as long as they don't see you. Brace for the recoil. Some Ghosts don't tell their Guardians that just because they find it funny to see their Guardian flail around with a loaded weapon. I'm not one of them."
"Okay," the Warlock said, clearly not convinced. He hefted the weapon out of the crate and planted its stock against his shoulder to brace himself as best as he could for the recoil. The Ghost didn't stop him, so he assumed he was doing it right. He aimed it tentatively at a computer terminal along the wall. "This isn't important, right, Ghost?" he asked.
"No. Fire away."
The Warlock did as instructed and felt the expected recoil. It was intensely eerie in the soundless environment. The bullets he fired tore through the old terminal, grouped closer together than the Warlock had initially hoped for.
"Nice! Looks like you'll be a force to reckon with as long as that's in your hands!" the Warlock's Ghost exclaimed.
"Thank you," the Warlock said, the "k" and "y" sounds mingling just a little. "Now, about those hostiles..."
"Yeah. Uh... I can track their movements and keep a basic radar system visible on your helmet's viewscreen--like I made that marker over the crate for you. Enemies will be in red. Friendlies are in blue. Fireteam members are in green."
"Fireteam members?"
"Guardians you choose to work with or who are assigned to help you with strikes, raids, or Crucible matches. Some Guardians prefer working with a Fireteam. Others prefer to lone wolf it."
"How many members does the average Fireteam consist of?"
"Typically three, but they can be as numerous as six. Crucible matches and raids are most successful when six Guardians go in together. You all can be terribly frightening in the right settings."
Blue energy crackled into the room. The Warlock's Ghost dipped down into the Warlock's robe pocket. The Guardian backed away, putting cover between himself and the enemy's curling blue bolts of energy, patting the pocket containing his Ghost gingerly. He pulled the Khvostov up, aiming down its sights and trying to locate the hostile creature.
"I can only mark hostiles when you're not aiming down sights," the Ghost said, the tinny voice coming through the Warlock's helmet speakers very quietly. "Some guns let me track while you aim. This is not one of them."
The Warlock nodded, finally noticing the creature who'd fired at them. It, too, had taken cover, but had leapt from behind it to fire another volley of bolts. The Warlock had just enough time to see that his Ghost had tagged the humanoid as a "Dreg" before his panicked fire found its mark and a burst of pale blue gas erupted from the Dreg's face. "What was that?"
"Ether. All the Fallen need it to survive. It nourishes them. They used to have the Traveler, but it left them to choose humanity, ultimately."
"Fallen..." the Warlock said, testing the name out. "Are they all... like this one?"
"No. Vandals are bigger and have four arms--Dregs have been docked, two of their arms get cut off as a symbol of their dishonor. They tend to do riskier things in order to re-prove themselves. Servitors generate and supply ether. Shanks are somewhat similar to Ghosts in that we both hover and are fairly mobile, though that's where the parallel stops. They can and will shoot you. I cannot and will not. And then there are Exploder Shanks--as implied, they're not much more than hovering mines. Captains have shields made of arc energy and are basically bigger, stronger Vandals. Archons are like Captains, but again, bigger, hardier, and typically unshielded. Don't worry if this doesn't fully sink in yet--you'll become familiar with all of them in time."
"Thanks," the Warlock replied. It was as if his Ghost had seen into his mind. None of the information was taking hold, it felt like. "You'll keep tagging everything I see?"
"Yes."
"That'll help me learn better than an infodump, I think. Thank you," the Warlock said.
A Vandal peeked out at them from behind a crate across the room as a Shank floated out from the opposite side. The Warlock raised the Khvostov's sights to his eyes again, aimed, and fired a spray of bullets at the enemies. The Shank exploded. The Vandal snapped off a sloppy snipe to the Warlock's body. He flinched, readjusted his aim, and fired. The Vandal fell, leaving the Warlock and his Ghost alone.
"Let's get out of here," his Ghost murmured, already healing the Guardian. "It's not terribly safe." It paused a moment before saying, "This way--follow the white arrow--like with the crate. We may be able to find a ship for you off that way."
The Warlock nodded, heading off in the direction his Ghost had indicated.
The Warlock and his Ghost spent most of the day trying to avoid hostiles and, when absolutely necessary, testing their abilities against them. They'd found a semi-sheltered ridge with large chunks of lunar rock providing some cover and, more importantly in the tired Warlock's opinion, back support. The Ghost's marker still glowed in the Warlock's vision; the Ghost had assured him that they should be able to get more information the closer they got. The Warlock slumped against one of the larger rocks and tried to get some much-needed rest. His breathing had just settled into a slow, comfortable rhythm when a sudden, sharp pain tore through his belly. On the heels of the pain was a slow rumbling sensation.
"I suppose I still have to eat as a Guardian, then?" the Warlock groused, his voice raspy.
"Yes. I'm sorry."
The Warlock stared at his Ghost, hoping it would prompt an explanation, since the machine couldn't see the scathingly sour expression he was making.
"Uh," the Ghost said awkwardly, its pieces shifting rapidly against its spherical interior. "I can't synthesize food for you. Or water, for that matter." It paused a moment. "Not that you'd be able to take your helmet off to eat it here, anyway. I can synthesize armor that'll give you enough oxygen to keep you going, but I can't create atmospheric pressure--explosive decompression is painful, even for a Guardian." Even if the little machine looked as apologetic as it could, it did little to assuage the Warlock's justifiable annoyance.
"You mean to tell me that I'll be stuck in a cycle of starving to death, only to be resurrected long enough to do it again?"
"Unfortunately, yes." At the Warlocks fingertips, an orange flare gathered. "Though, it'd likely be thirst that got you first... Look, I haven't stopped scanning for space-worthy ships since I found you. The sooner we get off Luna, the better for you. I'm sorry."
The Warlock's growing rage flickered, and upon cool analysis of the Ghost's words, died. "I suppose this arrangement doesn't help you or your Traveler, either."
They were both silent a few moments before the Warlock said, "I'm sorry I got upset with you. I'm not exactly handling all of this very well."
"Apology accepted," the Ghost said. "I've got access to several studies that suggest that hunger, thirst, and tiredness affect organic beings poorly. I don't blame you. Circumstances are not on our side, here." After a short span of silence, the Ghost said, "I don't want to get your hopes up too much, in case my sensors are wrong, but it's possible that a workable ship is less than a day's travel from here. You should probably try to rest. I can keep watch."
"Thank you," the Warlock said. He tried to sleep, he really did, but the intermittent pain in his stomach made it incredibly difficult. He tried to focus on something else, something peaceful, but it didn't stop the pain from returning and distracting him. Eventually, he resolved himself to counting. After an hour's worth of deliberately-slow counting, he drifted off to sleep.
Throughout the next day, the Warlock's head pounded. His voice was painfully raspy when he spoke to his Ghost, so he spoke little. The pain in his stomach had, at least, faded to a near-constant, dull ache. His accuracy when fighting the Fallen that were still tracking him was poor. If not for quick use of his healing ability, he would have died many times. As it was, he was up to three deaths. His Ghost had been quick to revive him, but it hadn't kept the Warlock from tasting the pain of the lost fights. It didn't affect him after his revival, but he still felt terrible each time it happened. His Ghost reassured him that it was fine--it was part of his duty as a Ghost, after all. It helped, but only a little. After his first death and re-resurrection, the Ghost seemed to pay extra close attention to how many shots hit his Guardian, healing the injured man quicker to try to compensate for his weaknesses.
At roughly midday, he was able to rest on the dark side of a large dusty dune.
"That ship I picked up," his Ghost said quietly, mindful not to worsen his increasingly intense dehydration headache, "should be fairly close now. Unfortunately, it's already registered to a Guardian. His Vanguard records indicate he's off-duty. While this isn't an active patrol zone on Luna, that's highly irregular."
The Warlock nodded, reluctant to croak out an opinion and put himself through another burst of throat pain.
"If we're exceptionally lucky, we'll be able to ask him for safe passage to the Tower before you die of dehydration," the Ghost said. "It's the Guardians' home, but there are regular lightless people who live there, too, seeking the safety that so many Guardians provide below the Traveler Itself."
The Warlock nodded again, slowly--his head had started pounding harder after the first nod. Grateful for the Ghost's watchful lens, he closed his eyes in an attempt to relax.
He was startled awake by his Ghost--doubly startled, in truth, by the realization that he'd fallen asleep--yelping out a warning about Hive. The Warlock internally groaned as he stood. His headache had returned with his consciousness and he was starting to feel nauseous. He raised his Khvostov, but didn't aim down sights because he had yet to actually see any hostiles. His thoughts were slow and seemed to stick together. His focus on his hostile-tracker flickered in and out with the heartbeat-synchronized pounding in his skull. He wobbled on his feet and caught himself before he fell.
"You're barely suited to move..." his Ghost said so quietly the Warlock almost swore he'd imagined it.
A roar tore through them, vibrating the Ghost's shell and the Warlock's armor uncomfortably. A jolt of fear ran through the Warlock, adrenaline kicking in seconds later. The adrenaline steadied him and, arguably, saved him from a terrible fate.
"Ah, hell," an unfamiliar voice came through the Warlock's helmet speakers. "Hey, Warlock, eyes up! I kinda pissed off the Hive, so I hope you're ready to fight!"