Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Who was buried up there?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean- No offense. Just… he seemed important.”

“...You don’t know?” The Corsair eyes him, wary.

“Know what?”

She takes a moment to study his face, though it’s shadowed by his hood and the sharp light behind him. It feels like she’s trying to flip through torn out pages and looks like she cut her fingers open on the shreds— He resists drawing any further in on himself.

“...Nevermind.” She scans his disheveled outfit, “You’re a Guardian?”

“Not sure what it means, but that seems to be the consensus,” he replies, mentally bristling at the judgmental tone. How can someone tell by just the clothing? Why would he be buried in this if it was that bad?

…Oh. Right. He was buried in it.

Well, maybe buried wasn’t the right word—There was just a blanket thrown over him, laying on some stone slab. 

Not much of a burial. Could just be how the dead are treated, though.

“You haven’t spoken to any of your… lot, yet, either?” The corsair asks, some disdain in her words. He’s been hearing that tone a lot on the subject of Guardians, though not at him. If he’s one of them, shouldn’t she be disgusted by him, as well?

“Ah… no. I’ve seen some around, but haven’t gotten to speak to any. They seem awfully busy.” It’s not exactly a lie, but he hasn’t exactly tried to speak to them at all.

The thought of approaching one makes him nervous.

She snorts, “Busy is one way to put it.” There’s that resentment again.

He doesn’t think he will ever understand why. It seems the Guardians are trying to help, so why does almost everyone he talks to seem to hate them? Well, there have been a few Corsairs that seemed more thankful for the help, but… Most aren’t.

In the ensuing awkward silence, the Corsair seems to get a call in her helmet, turning away from him and murmuring into nothing. He can’t pick any of it up, though it sounds urgent, and she shoulders her rifle.

He can’t help but sigh quietly, knowing that meant no real conversations for another week or so.

She huffs after a few more moments, and sighs. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but the Crows’ feather falls that there’s enemy movement around.” She pauses, mouth pulling into a grimace, before continuing, “Your… abilities, might be… useful.”

“Oh.” She’s asking for his help, isn’t she? Even the Corsairs who didn’t mind Guardians hadn’t asked him to. He… hasn’t done this before—Helped from afar, sure, but not in the thick of it. 

She eyes him, with some mix of anxiousness and detesting having asked. “Well, I’m… happy to help.” He smiles, despite the nervous knot in his gut. “Just lead the way.”

He swears there’s a glint of familiarity in her eyes as he says it, and she relaxes some before clearing her throat. “Let’s get going, then.”

“Sooo… Don’t remember nothin’?” The shadowed figure asks from the thick branch it’s laying on, a deep and modulated voice carrying just loud enough to reach him.

He has to crane his neck to see the ominous red glow of what he assumes is its eyes. “Uhm… no. Didn’t think I was meant to.”

“Yer Ghost tell you nothing, either?” The figure adjusts some, legs now dangling. Seems he’s interesting enough for its full attention.

“Was he supposed to?”

“...Guess not.” It drops down, not a sound leaving them as they right themself, and their face comes into view. Grey metal plates and red dots for eyes greet him. ”Any idea who ya are? Where ya woke up?”

“Looked like…a cathedral, I think.” He takes a half-step back, savoring his personal space, “He must’ve been highly respected. Did you know him?” The apparently metal man—not that he hasn’t heard of Exos (because he has, if only some), but hearing of and seeing are two different things—eyes him for a moment. 

“Not personally, but knew of ‘im. An’way, strict Vanguard policy n all, can’t tell ya much.” The Exo turns on his heel and starts walking, waving a hand for him to follow.

“...Riight.” He peers around the trees and rocky terrain before deciding to go along with it. “Actually, what’s with that? A few people have told me that already.” 

“S’posedly, knowing obscures judgment… or som’thin along those lines. Never bothered to listen ver’ much. Got better things to do than listen to some raving mad Warlock’s lecture.”

“And… I’m supposed to be a… a Hunter?”

“Look it to me. Cape, dirty look,”— Dirty? Now that’s rude— “Things like that. Got that stature, too, and the slouch.” 

“Ah. You’re…”— Brutal— “forthcoming.”

“You asked. An’way, got a name for yerself yet? Like to keep track of who I meet.”

A name. His Ghost talked about those; he had seemed excited to pick them.

“...No, not yet.”

“Could give ya some suggestions, if ya like. Though, you’d prob’ly like to do that wit yer Ghost, rather than a stranger.”

“Yeah… he’s been nagging me about it. Seems important to him.”

“Might wanna get on wit it, then! Unhappy Ghost makes a’ unhappy Guardian, y’know. In the meantime, got a preference? Any topics in partic’ you like? Might wanna fly with ‘ose.”

He thinks for a moment, and the black feather on the Hunter’s hood catches his eye. “Well… What’s yours? Might give me some ideas,” he shrugs.

“Rancher!” The other Hunter announces, wholly confident.

“Rancher,” he deadpans back, deciding that whatever he picked would have to be better than that.

“Yuep.” He opts not to question how the Exo popped the P without lips. “M’ Ghost, Iridant, wouldn’t let me jus’ keep Hunter.”

“You were going to name yourself Hunter?”

“Well, it was before I knew ‘bout the Vanguard an’ their classes thing! Iri took ‘er sweet time telling me, an’ I knew I liked huntin’, so…” 

The first statement gives him pause.

Are there… are there Guardians outside of the Vanguard? Well, are not all Ghosts with the Vanguard, at least? 

“Huh.”

So, it’s not just him, then. Maybe Rancher’s Ghost kept him away from the Vanguard for awhile for the same reason his Ghost does… Whatever that reason is, anyway.

As the pair come up on an uphill, littered with stone piles and boulders, Rancher kicks some gravel rocks aside. “Soo, heh, how long ‘ave you been up ‘n about?” 

He eyes the patch of gravel for a moment, watching them resettle, “Not too long. Spent some months in the Dreaming City, but only been out here for a few weeks, I think.”

“Ahh, so yer a new Newlight, then! Yeah. Yeah! I imagine those Awoken’re a bit weird, ey?” A barking, modulated laugh brings his gaze back up, finding Rancher to be stood at the top of some larger boulder at the top of the hill now, “How’s that place, an’way? ‘aven’t had the chance to go quite yet.”

Weird was one way to put the Corsairs. So much disdain for Guardians, and yet they seemed fine with him—among other things. “Well, it’s… It’s pretty, when you aren’t under fire.” He could paint pictures of that sky, but… What were the pale things called? Scorn? “The uh… the ones with crossbows were trouble.”

Rancher laughs, again—now more entertained, rather than antagonistic, “Ooooh, big man too good for Taken? The ozone smell don’t bother you? Might jus’ be a’ Exo thing, that, but I ‘ear it makes some a bit nauseous.”

The memory of spinning around, mid combat, to be met with a Taken Knight towering over him moments before waking up—with a few Corsairs gathered around him—springs to the front of his mind. He opts to hum in agreement rather than debate it, climbing up on another slab across from the other Hunter.

The hill below drops-off into what looks to be a patched together base of sorts, old enough to have a dusting of moss and vines over it, but recently lived in and the vines cut back over computer panels and exits. 

He catches Rancher stretching (though, he doubts Exos have any need to do so) out the corner of his eye as the other Hunter sighs, “Ahhh, ‘ere’s my stop.”

“Your… stop?” Despite the lived-in look to the base, he can’t see any proof of the occupants anywhere nearby. Or was Rancher here to reclaim it? He had heard Hunters were largely meant to be scouts. Supposedly.

“Yuep!” The Exo pops the end, again. “Got an op to run out ‘ere. That base down there? ‘posed to hold some pests, an’ I’m on exterminator duty!”

And there goes the scout theory. If he went to the Vanguard, would he be put on these missions, too?

“Ooh,” Rancher stops and turns back, “‘fore I go—Careful if you see a Hunter in red an—ahh, no, that’s… That’s not specific at all. Hm.”

He’s heard this warning before. No one ever tells him why, or what that Hunter did, just to stay far away. Every. Time. Other than the vague warnings, he’s not even sure what he’s looking out for. And it doesn’t help that “red and black Hunter” is a good seventy percent of Hunters he’s seen.

“Why? What did they do?” He tries to put force into his voice, but Rancher skips over the question.

“Just- ah. Complicated. I’ll send yer Ghost a picture, heh?” Rancher’s Ghost—a foil-textured, pink colored, and green eyed… mini Servitor?—appeared with a series of trills. “You’ll want to avoid–” The Ghost projected an image, “–that one.”

He could barely study the figure before there was a blast followed by the sound of Pikes somewhere nearby, to which both Rancher and his Ghost snapped to attention, projection fading. 

“Ah!” Rancher sounded excited as his Ghost dematerialized, “That’s my que! Pleasure t’ meet ya, blueberry, but I gotta run.”

“Wh- Blue–? Hold on, what does that—” but the other Hunter is already plowing through the woods on a still-materializing sparrow, giving him one last wave, “—mean…”

He sighs, but can’t help but stare, dumbfounded, after Rancher, yet—

One thing stuck in his mind: That single, holographic, orange eye. 

The same one in his dreams.

What happened to his past life?

Chapter Text

A Hunter’s den, one of many within the City’s walls; decorated in low hanging, warmly dim lights drooping between every pillar and strings of trinkets, crystals, and bones in varying lengths. Whether it was far too early in the morning or just at sunset is lost on the small packs of Hunters scattered around bars and long tables, carved in a number of designs from each lot’s preference. Very few seats or couches were left unmarred by claiming marks, despite the low number of current visitors. 

One group, perched at their usual meeting spot at the far end of the main bar (despite the lack of a real bartender; they all just helped themselves to the drinks. In this den, who knew who restocked the drinks or when), gossip about any number of things. Today, it branched into the Prison of Elders.

An Awoken in gold and purple, with eyes and hue to match, loudly declares, “Not a commonly known fact, but the Young Wolf was very protective of their Ghost. I heard a rumor their Ghost got corrupted, and pushed them to.” He doesn’t take any notice of a few head turns—And even then, most return to their respective conversations. “It would make sense—Just think about it: If your only friend fell and you could stay with them by–” 

“What?! ” Another Awoken, teal toned and white-eyed, interrupts the first. “No. Gid, no. Cayde had how many debts? Not a countable amount, that's for sure. If it's power they were after, taking a big bribe from his enemies would've been a good start, and put them ahead of the game, reputation wise. Put them in some good graces, y’know?”

A black exo with deep red eyes raises his glass of a faintly glowing, green drink. “No no, Seph—Think I‘m with Gideon ‘ere. ‘magine the pressure an’ the amount of time they spent out on missions and patrols? Naw’ an unreasonable thing t’ think.”

“Oh shove it, Rancher. Just because you’ve got a few screws loose from the loooonely wilds, don’t mean the rest of us do.” The second Awoken, Seph, gives the exo a hard glare, and Rancher scoffs. 

“Yea? An’ whata ‘bout Lacks?” Gideon mutters something about that not being her name. “Were a deal ‘ey brokered, then what’s up wit’ the execution? Just don’t sit right wit’ me.” Rancher scowls when Seph brings a damascus knife down next to the exo’s hand, barely landing between the ring and pinky.

“How would I know?! Maybe Lakshmi was planning something! You never know until it's too late. Maybe–”

“The only thing that old bat would have been planning, was kicking the House out,” Gideon deadpans. “Did you hear her over the radios? She had lost her damn mind.” Rancher hums, half in agreement and half in consideration.

“Speaking of the House! Maybe they were the ones who made a deal with the Guardian. If she had been planning–”

“You’re a damn conspiracy theorist, Seph. A fucking conspiracy theorist.”

“If you’d stop interrupting me—”

“'It’d all make sense’? Mhm. Anyway, you think the Crow might be next?” Gideon picks up again, poorly suppressing a laugh at Seph’s indignant sputtering. “If they wanted to show off their grand power, the City’s new ‘Big Hero’ would make a good target.”

The teal Awoken grumbles for a moment, as Rancher takes a thoughtful sip of his drink, before suddenly piping up, having already shaken off the disrespect. “Oohhohoh, yeah, for sure! He would be the next best thing, wouldn’t he?” The excitement puts a foul taste in Rancher’s mouth.

“Already left behind the deal theory?” Gideon grins at Seph’s short-lived glare. “I did hear word that the exile had been spotted quite a few times in the Tangled Shore awhile back—Specifically while the new Big Guy was leading the hunt for those… rage born? Whatever. Wrathborn?” 

Seph gives him a thumbs up as Rancher gives the two of them a look.

“Hoh– Ya don’t think..?” His face twists as much as it can into an uneasy grimace, starting to take another sip of his drink before realizing it’s empty. Seph gives him a curious look at his distaste for the Crow comments, then pours him another glass. The exo gives a thankful nod.

“I think the Vanguard needs to keep a closer eye on their Golden Boy.” Gideon, almost darkly, chuckles. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Rancher’s new tone, or newly thoughtful expressions. 

“Ohh yeah…” Seph merely shrugs, before grinning. “Making that mistake again, are they?”

Rancher’s mind doesn’t move from the threat to the Crow. He stares off at the shelves of drinks, before irritatedly muttering something about ‘just a newlight’. Gideon raises a brow at him as Seph pokes the exo. “3 years? May still be a Newlight, but he’s definitely not a blueberry anymore.” Rancher only glares.

Gideon puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Look, I’m just saying—If the Vanguard wanted him safe, or didn’t want a repeat of the Prison, they would do well to keep a better eye on their shiny new weapon! The Guardian was a Newlight, too, when they took the mantle. You’d think they see the pattern, here.”

“Newlights plus power equal bad idea?” Seph chimes, half laughing.

“Precisely.”