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drabbles-n-stuff · 6 years ago

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There was something about Old Russia he couldn't quite put his finger on... Something that always kept him there.

Maybe it was the fields of white snow and the small patches of greens that one could find. Maybe it was the mountains, on which the sun set and rose, a guiding light to all those that walked under its glorious shine. Maybe it was the storms that broke out, enough to rip even the most deeply rooted plant from its feeble groud.

Maybe it was how his ships always seemed to crash here.

At least, a soft kind of crashing this time.

His fuel was at critical levels now, and the forsaken wasteland that was the Siberia... well, fuel was something it was critically lacking on. He had no Glimmer for his ghost to turn into anything, and truth be told, that hunk of junk wasn't gonna last long.

Cabal sure had to ruin everything, huh.

What he could take from the ship he did, seeing as his ghost only had limited storage space. Their vaults now burnt to ash, the auto-rifle and sidearm were his only weapons, the thick padding of Titan armor holding up steady. It could probably block out a shot or three, but sooner or later it'd be as useful as a warlock's dress... still, it also kept his coolant pumping.

"You should sleep."

His ghost, a simple ball of only Traveler knew what and city alloys serving as a shell on the shape of a sun. Intricately woven... now, battered and covered in sooth.

He had been in the front lines when the Cabal came. Down on the ground while the Vanguard smashed fist against fist up in the tower. He died, and came back, and died again and again for what seemed like days.

The ashen taste.

"Yes."

They continued walking for a long while, too long. The day became dusk, became day again, and so on for cycles and cycles. Were he Awoken, or even human, this would mean death. But all he had been suffering from was hunger...

The cold had started to seep into the thick armor, and on the distance, clouds formed. Snowstorm or Rain, he couldn't afford to let it corrode him. On the distance, a village... Golden Age. He remembered reading about the simplistic yet beautiful structures that were built thousands of years ago. Stone on stone, wood on wood. Concrete streets claimed by the wilderness, or what little 'wilderness' the Siberia had. They seemed warm enough. If he was lucky, he could even find some still canned meat or bagged rice. Ah, he hadn't had rice in weeks now. Or bread, come to think of it.

No matter.

"Please?" His ghost chimed in, appearing out of nowhere just above his left shoulder while he walked into the village. "You can't keep going like this. Lay down and rest. We can find something for you to hunt tomorrow. I know about the dreams b--"

"Then you understand why I must stay up."

"You must also not die. You know how many we lost. Please."

The man stopped on his tracks, and his breathing stopped.

"Guardian...?"

"I should've buried them."

"You did what you could. We'll take back the city. And their sacrifices will not have been in vain. But you can't be there to see the day if you keep walking so brashly. Please... rest."

Fists clenched slowly opened, breathing coming back. There was a relatively stable house compared to the others which were crumbling in on themselves, and that is where he'd rest for the night.

"Guardians, do you copy?" A familiar voice.

Oh, no.

He opened his eyes, and it was... different. Barely.

The tower was always the same. The sky was always the same, a sickly orange, though behind him it was always black as the night. The blood up to his ankles.

But the banners...

Vanguard.

"Guardians, at once. Guardians, do you copy? Any and every available Guardian, to the tower! Cancel every strike and COME HOME!"

His job was cut out for him, mostly. The bodies that littered the burning field were his friends'. Cayde. Shaxx, Centurion helmet crushed between his arms. Banshee, half-buried in a mound of fallen Cabal.

"ALL GUARDIANS, TO THE TOWER!" The sense of urgency on the voice.

In front of him, an infinite sea of Red Legion, Skyburners, Sand-Eaters, Blind Legion. Amidst them, a million fighters which he faced of in the Crucible, all donning beautiful Guardian armor. And here he was, naked, his mechanical body being seared and scorched by the burning blood.

There was no point in avoiding it any longer. The Cabal and Guardians stood still as if simply waiting for their deaths.

He knew how his mechanical insides worked... well, most of it. They wouldn't step forward and charge until he took the first one down. He had time to scrounge for a thing or two before he felt the oncoming Darkness swallow him.

The one Gladiator that fell had a knife with him still, and so that was what he would use. The handle made it feel like his metal was melting, but it wouldn't stop him.

He charged.

Cleaver half buried in a Cabal's fat neck, he took the slug rifle from his now cold hands and started firing wildly. The explosive rounds did wonders to put down some of them, but more came. His mag was empty, twenty-six dead.

Twenty-seven, his fists crashed against a Hunter's mask, and quick hands stole his knives. Forty, every single blade had finally broken inside someone, though each of them took down two, maybe three enemies. Forty-three, collateral damage from a grenade he dodged. Forty-four, he broke a Cabal Goliath's neck, and though he could not carry the massive weapon he wielded, activated the homing missiles.

Forty-five, six, seven, fifty, fifty-three. He could not see the bodies dropping but the numbers flashed on his mind, pulsating as a reminder. Sixty, another grenade. Sixty-two, a Gladiator dropped both of his knives, enough to quickly dispatch of yet another centurion and some Legionare. Sixty-three, Redrix pierced his mechanical flesh with his rifle, but he could still stand. And better yet, he could still shoot. He rushed forward, running and gunning... sixty-five, six, seven, eight...

A hundred.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Thousand.

Two.

Six.

Nine.

Ten.

Fifteen.

The sun never changed, but the oncoming darkness continued behind him, and forward, the banners of the Vanguard never seemed to approach. He had lost one of his arms and replaced one of his legs with an ammo-less Kalashnikov after having it hacked out by a pissed off Warlock. The Last Word in hands, each shot dropping a Cabal like it was nothing, even if he had to cock it with the same hand, instead of fanning it as was designed.

A titan rushed him, and he pulled the trigger... Spent.

The Titan punched him in the chest, downing him. She sat on top of his chest and started punching his face repeatedly, jaw snapping, coolant spewing everywhere, black oil from the thousands of Cabal slain staining her knuckles. A desperate punch to her chin was what it took to get her out, and it was his turn to finish her.

He stood on top of the mush that was once the Awoken's face and helmet, breathing heavily as his insides were spewed through the broken metal. He hadn't long, now. Fifteen thousand, three hundred and forty-eight Cabal, three thousand and sixty-five Guardians. Zavala yelled into his ears.

"GUARDIANS! THE TOWER IS FALLING! JOIN US FOR A LAST STAND OR FIND A SAFE PLACE. I REPEAT, JOIN OR FIND A SAF--"

A slug-rifle shot ripped through half of his head, leaving him barely standing.

Another one hit his pegleg, forcing him to fall on top of the piles of bodies, the river of blood he found himself in seeping into his body, clogging his throat. He couldn't yell if he wanted too, only pump it out in disgusting gurgles.

He didn't feel the sword that stabbed through him, but he knew another Guardian had killed him. And moments after the rage that came with waking up from one of these... 'dreams', he was simply glad it was over.

"It happened again?"

"It never stops." He got up, grunting. His stomach felt like it was eating itself... probably was. "I'll live through it."

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