u/Cade_Mercer

**VANGUARD SECURITY NETWORK // FIELD RECON RESPONSE**
**LOG ID:** VSN-894-EDZ
**STATUS:** EYES ONLY // COMMAND ARCHITECTURE UPDATE
**SOURCE:** VANGUARD STRATEGIC OPERATIONS // OFFICE OF THE COMMANDER
**RECIPIENT:** REGIONAL OUTPOST OUT-4B // DEN

**1. LOCALIZED ENVIRONMENTAL DATA CORRECTION \[TRAVELER ANOMALY\]**
Data packet received and fully authenticated. However, orbital scans confirm severe regional anomalies. Sector 4-B rests directly within the geometric emission wake of the **Shard of the Traveler**.

The severe, ambient paracausal distortion leaking from the Shard—combined with dense mountain range interference—has completely blacked out deep-space links, orbital imaging, and standard Tower telemetry. Direct high-orbit tactical management is impossible. Mission control must be established via an un-networked, hard-wired **On-Ground Tactical Command Center** situated at the base ridge near the cavern entrance.

**2. COMMAND PERSONNEL ATTACHMENT**
Because of the specialized, volatile nature of this Xivu Arath brood and its proximity to the Shard's raw energy, Vanguard Command has deployed a localized field-command asset team:

**Devrim Kay \[EDZ Tactical Liaison\]:** Managing local geographic routing, ballistics, and physical perimeter coordination.
**Eris Morn \[Hive Cryptarchy / Logic Specialist\]:** Embedded to monitor localized brood architecture, Hive sigil oscillations, and to prevent any nascent Hive-seed ascension rituals leveraging the Shard's proximity.

**3. FIRETEAM DEPLOYMENT OMNIBUS**
Designated **Fireteam Vanguard Aegis**, a high-priority Tower Strike Team is currently inbound via dark-flight jumpship insertion to serve as the kinetic hammer.

The insertion fireteam consists of three high-priority Tower assets:

**Commander Gunnar-9 \[Titan\]:** Heavy Breacher / Frontline Siege specialization.
**Jarek Vox \[Titan\]:** Deep-recon Stasis Killer.
**Veronika Sola \[Warlock\]:** Void/Solar tactical support specialist.

**4. AUXILIARY DIRECTIVES \[LOCAL SECURITY REQUEST\]**
Because the tactical command unit will be physically exposed at the cavern's lip, Vanguard Command requests that local outpost assets provide localized logistical guidance and establish a dedicated perimeter guard to secure the forward operational base.

Independent local security assistance is requested from **Ihag Von** and **Azuul Vus** to volunteer for forward line defense and protect Devrim Kay and Eris Morn's mobile terminal block against sudden flanking maneuvers from the surrounding tree line.

*“The City remembers the silent watchers. Secure the perimeter, Guardian, and watch the hammer fall.”*
**— COMMANDER IKORA REY**

We move slow on the trek back up the ridge. By the time we hit the upper mountain paths, the rising winter sun is softly kissing the eastern horizon, bleeding purple and cold gold across the snow.

The den is hidden well. It is an old, post-Collapse bunker cut directly into the sheer stone face of the mountain. Its heavy blast door is orange with rusted scale and age, but the steel remains solid.

Inside, the bunker spreads deep through the dark interior of the rock. The main throat is a single, long concrete hallway with heavy doors spaced evenly throughout its length. Out of the seven rooms, three function as sleeping quarters. One is the comms room. Another serves as the ammo depot. There is a bathroom where the running water only flows during the summer—the winter freeze locks the pipes completely, forcing us to melt ice by the furnace just to clean our skin.

The final room is an old Golden Age mess hall. We turned it into a lounge and a bar.

Six Hunters call this buried box our home away from home.

There is Trix, a human Revenant whose icy Stasis-wrought exterior masks a remarkably pleasant wit. When she’s around she helps with maintenance alongside her joking Ghost, Jackal. There is Tellem-5, an Exo Nightstalker who refuses to sugarcoat the truth, constantly monitored by his Ghost, Spector, who tells him to stop being a drama queen. There are the Awoken Arcstriders, Ihag Von and Azuul Vus—one skin tone purple, the other deep blue. They swear they were brothers in their past lives despite looking nothing alike. If they are in the bunker, they are drinking and losing glimmer at blackjack, egged on by their female Ghosts, Truth and Dare.

Then there is Emma.
They call her Heartless. She looks barely twenty, but she’s been running the perimeter just as long as I have. We’ve spent a thousand freezing nights on patrol together. Her Ghost is named Heartfelt. She and Baron don't always see eye-to-eye, but the tactical respect between them is absolute.

We protect each other out here. No Vanguard medals required.

Baron and I step through the threshold, our boots thudding against the concrete hallway. The heavy doors to the sleeping quarters are propped open, the beds empty.

Laughter echoes down the corridor from the back of the lounge. The Awoken "brothers" are trading loud, creative insults over a deck of cards.

Emma is sitting alone at a corner table, quietly nursing a glass of blue Clovis-brand liquor.

Behind the crude wooden bar stands Handler. He’s an old, salvaged industrial worker frame that Emma dragged back from a scouting run years ago. He’s missing his entire left arm. To make up for it, Trix used a piece of white chalk to draw a massive, hyper-muscular comic arm on the wall directly behind his chassis. Handler stands perfectly inline with the drawing, as if pretending the silhouette belongs to him.

"Welcome back, Sevchenko," Emma says without looking up from her glass, her sharp eyes catching my reflection in the window. "Glad you're not dead yet."

I give her a small, tight nod in return. It’s all the greeting she needs.

Baron and I walk straight to the counter. Handler turns his mechanical head toward us, his optical sensors clicking in a chipper, synthesized tone.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" the frame chirps.

"Give him the telemetry, Baron," I murmur, my voice sounding raspy even to myself. "Handler route it directly through the secure Vanguard comms arrays." I say pointing at the data engram.

I reach into my tactical belt and toss a few loose, glowing Glimmer cubes onto the scarred wood of the bar. "And get us two glasses."

"Processing!" Handler sings. He pours the blue liquor with his single working hand, slides the glasses across the counter, and turns to march down the hall toward the comms terminal with the Hive data core.

I grab the drinks, walk over to Emma’s table, and slide into the rusted metal chair across from her.

Emma’s face instantly twists into a sour, disgusted grimace. She sets her glass down with a heavy click, her eyes dropping to the dark, scorched edges of my tactical pack.

"Damn it, Sev," she says, her voice dropping into a hard, quiet hiss. "You smell like fresh soul-fire. What have you been doing?”

“Information is glimmer, Emma. You know that,” I reply, sliding the second drink across the table to her and removing my helmet, placing it on the table.

Emma scoffs at me and grabs the drink, tipping it ever so slightly as a gesture of thanks. She tells her Ghost to throw 500 glimmer at me, and her Ghost does so.

Sweeping the glimmer up and putting it in my pocket, I proceed to tell her the whole story from top to bottom.

“Oh, that will be a nice payout on the back end when the Wonder Warriors come from the Tower to deal with it,” she says, laughing.

“Maybe. I’m truly hoping it’s just a Wizard-of-the-week deal. I’d rather deal with that than another invasion front,” I reply dryly.

We sit in silence and share our drinks together. Our glasses run empty by the time Handler comes back in, and I wave him over. From the pouch where I just stashed Emma's glimmer, I order two more drinks for us.

Handler nods his mechanical head. “Thank you for your service,” he chirps. He turns and walks back to the bar.

“Heard from Trix or Tellem?” I ask Emma, leaning forward onto the table.

“Haven’t seen Tellem in five weeks. Last I heard, he was protecting a cargo shipment heading for the City.” Rubbing her chin, Emma leans back in her chair with her arms outstretched. Before continuing, she brings her arms back in and onto the table. “Haven’t seen her in about six months. She was running around the old Black Armory forge last we spoke.”

I nod and raise the glass Handler just sat in front of me. “To health and good fortune,” I say.

Emma returns the gesture, and we sit in comfortable silence together into the late morning.

I excuse myself. Baron and I head toward the furnace. I grab a bucket of melted water and head out of the lounge and to the shower area.

My armor is covered in dried mud and blood—human, Fallen, Hive. I can’t even tell whose it belongs to anymore.

Baron watches in silence as I remove my armor plates and hang them up to be cleaned later. My body needs to recover first. I take a damp cloth and wipe the grime from my face. My hair has become completely matted. I take my hands and scoop out a handful of the cold water, using it to wash my hair and free it from its greased captivity.

Feeling better, I turn back to my gear. Using the same cloth, I start the slow process of washing my armor. The metal plates will never shine again after the years they’ve been through. But the blood and dirt are gone now, washed down an old, rusted drain. I rub the heavy fabric of my cloak together to remove the dark muck that has deeply stained it.

In the corner of the room, Handler has placed a dunk tank. I take my under-clothes and push them completely under the water. The water turns instantly dark as the elements seep from the uniform. I hang it to dry next to my armor after I ring it out.

I wear nothing now but my tactical belt holding my hand cannon and a basic, skin-tight base layer.

“I’m going to lay down, Baron. I’ll catch up with you later.”

I push through the heavy door and head down the dark concrete hall to the sleeping quarters. Baron bobs his shell at me, following behind until he makes it back to the lounge. He flies off to talk to Truth and Dare.

Rest finds me in the small bed I crawl into. I hang my belt on the frame of the bed and tuck my hand cannon beneath the yellow-stained pillow. My body finally relaxes, and I feel the stress leaving me as I fall deeply asleep.

We move slow on the trek back up the ridge. By the time we hit the upper mountain paths, the rising winter sun is softly kissing the eastern horizon, bleeding purple and cold gold across the snow.

The den is hidden well. It is an old, post-Collapse bunker cut directly into the sheer stone face of the mountain. Its heavy blast door is orange with rusted scale and age, but the steel remains solid.

Inside, the bunker spreads deep through the dark interior of the rock. The main throat is a single, long concrete hallway with heavy doors spaced evenly throughout its length. Out of the seven rooms, three function as sleeping quarters. One is the comms room. Another serves as the ammo depot. There is a bathroom where the running water only flows during the summer—the winter freeze locks the pipes completely, forcing us to melt ice by the furnace just to clean our skin.

The final room is an old Golden Age mess hall. We turned it into a lounge and a bar.

Six Hunters call this buried box our home away from home.

There is Trix, a human Revenant whose icy Stasis-wrought exterior masks a remarkably pleasant wit. When she’s around she helps with maintenance alongside her joking Ghost, Jackal. There is Tellem-5, an Exo Nightstalker who refuses to sugarcoat the truth, constantly monitored by his Ghost, Spector, who tells him to stop being a drama queen. There are the Awoken Arcstriders, Ihag Von and Azuul Vus—one skin tone purple, the other deep blue. They swear they were brothers in their past lives despite looking nothing alike. If they are in the bunker, they are drinking and losing glimmer at blackjack, egged on by their female Ghosts, Truth and Dare.

Then there is Emma.
They call her Heartless. She looks barely twenty, but she’s been running the perimeter just as long as I have. We’ve spent a thousand freezing nights on patrol together. Her Ghost is named Heartfelt. She and Baron don't always see eye-to-eye, but the tactical respect between them is absolute.

We protect each other out here. No Vanguard medals required.

Baron and I step through the threshold, our boots thudding against the concrete hallway. The heavy doors to the sleeping quarters are propped open, the beds empty.

Laughter echoes down the corridor from the back of the lounge. The Awoken "brothers" are trading loud, creative insults over a deck of cards.

Emma is sitting alone at a corner table, quietly nursing a glass of blue Clovis-brand liquor.

Behind the crude wooden bar stands Handler. He’s an old, salvaged industrial worker frame that Emma dragged back from a scouting run years ago. He’s missing his entire left arm. To make up for it, Trix used a piece of white chalk to draw a massive, hyper-muscular comic arm on the wall directly behind his chassis. Handler stands perfectly inline with the drawing, as if pretending the silhouette belongs to him.

"Welcome back, Sevchenko," Emma says without looking up from her glass, her sharp eyes catching my reflection in the window. "Glad you're not dead yet."

I give her a small, tight nod in return. It’s all the greeting she needs.

Baron and I walk straight to the counter. Handler turns his mechanical head toward us, his optical sensors clicking in a chipper, synthesized tone.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" the frame chirps.

"Give him the telemetry, Baron," I murmur, my voice sounding raspy even to myself. "Handler route it directly through the secure Vanguard comms arrays." I say pointing at the data engram.

I reach into my tactical belt and toss a few loose, glowing Glimmer cubes onto the scarred wood of the bar. "And get us two glasses."

"Processing!" Handler sings. He pours the blue liquor with his single working hand, slides the glasses across the counter, and turns to march down the hall toward the comms terminal with the Hive data core.

I grab the drinks, walk over to Emma’s table, and slide into the rusted metal chair across from her.

Emma’s face instantly twists into a sour, disgusted grimace. She sets her glass down with a heavy click, her eyes dropping to the dark, scorched edges of my tactical pack.

"Damn it, Sev," she says, her voice dropping into a hard, quiet hiss. "You smell like fresh soul-fire. What have you been doing?”

“Information is glimmer, Emma. You know that,” I reply, sliding the second drink across the table to her and removing my helmet, placing it on the table.

Emma scoffs at me and grabs the drink, tipping it ever so slightly as a gesture of thanks. She tells her Ghost to throw 500 glimmer at me, and her Ghost does so.

Sweeping the glimmer up and putting it in my pocket, I proceed to tell her the whole story from top to bottom.

“Oh, that will be a nice payout on the back end when the Wonder Warriors come from the Tower to deal with it,” she says, laughing.

“Maybe. I’m truly hoping it’s just a Wizard-of-the-week deal. I’d rather deal with that than another invasion front,” I reply dryly.

We sit in silence and share our drinks together. Our glasses run empty by the time Handler comes back in, and I wave him over. From the pouch where I just stashed Emma's glimmer, I order two more drinks for us.

Handler nods his mechanical head. “Thank you for your service,” he chirps. He turns and walks back to the bar.

“Heard from Trix or Tellem?” I ask Emma, leaning forward onto the table.

“Haven’t seen Tellem in five weeks. Last I heard, he was protecting a cargo shipment heading for the City.” Rubbing her chin, Emma leans back in her chair with her arms outstretched. Before continuing, she brings her arms back in and onto the table. “Haven’t seen her in about six months. She was running around the old Black Armory forge last we spoke.”

I nod and raise the glass Handler just sat in front of me. “To health and good fortune,” I say.

Emma returns the gesture, and we sit in comfortable silence together into the late morning.

I excuse myself. Baron and I head toward the furnace. I grab a bucket of melted water and head out of the lounge and to the shower area.

My armor is covered in dried mud and blood—human, Fallen, Hive. I can’t even tell whose it belongs to anymore.

Baron watches in silence as I remove my armor plates and hang them up to be cleaned later. My body needs to recover first. I take a damp cloth and wipe the grime from my face. My hair has become completely matted. I take my hands and scoop out a handful of the cold water, using it to wash my hair and free it from its greased captivity.

Feeling better, I turn back to my gear. Using the same cloth, I start the slow process of washing my armor. The metal plates will never shine again after the years they’ve been through. But the blood and dirt are gone now, washed down an old, rusted drain. I rub the heavy fabric of my cloak together to remove the dark muck that has deeply stained it.

In the corner of the room, Handler has placed a dunk tank. I take my under-clothes and push them completely under the water. The water turns instantly dark as the elements seep from the uniform. I hang it to dry next to my armor after I ring it out.

I wear nothing now but my tactical belt holding my hand cannon and a basic, skin-tight base layer.

“I’m going to lay down, Baron. I’ll catch up with you later.”

I push through the heavy door and head down the dark concrete hall to the sleeping quarters. Baron bobs his shell at me, following behind until he makes it back to the lounge. He flies off to talk to Truth and Dare.

Rest finds me in the small bed I crawl into. I hang my belt on the frame of the bed and tuck my hand cannon beneath the yellow-stained pillow. My body finally relaxes, and I feel the stress leaving me as I fall deeply asleep.

With daylight still fighting for dominance in the early morning hours, my Ghost and I wait patiently. He had been on watch when the movement was first heard. Branches and leaves breaking beneath heavy footfalls. The unmistakable sound of Chitin drawing near.

From our vantage point on the seventh floor, we watch the dark tree line.

Three glowing, green eyes scan the open field between the city boundaries and their forest cover. I sit deadly still as I wait for their move.

“It’s the Hive,” my Ghost hums quietly over my shoulder.

“No… it couldn’t be,” I reply back, a small, bitter chuckle escaping my lips.

These wicked, dark creatures don’t see us yet. Their brown, jagged hide helps them blend perfectly with the muted colors of the trees. They move into the clearing before the city block. Five in total lumber forward—one Acolyte with their heavy Boomer rifle held high, surrounded by four Thralls waiting for something to kill.

I take a slow breath. I steady my weight and aim my rifle at the Acolyte’s jagged head. Right for its stupid third eye.

I pull the trigger. My muzzle flash illuminates the ruined concrete room I’m in for just a fraction of a second.

It is enough. In the dark hours of the morning, they see the flash.

The Acolyte falls, its body instantly collapsing into toxic soul-fire and burning ash. The four remaining Thralls turn on a dime. They break into a dead sprint straight toward my position, screaming and shrieking in a blind fury. Their claws drag through the clay and mud as they run.

The first Thrall falls almost as fast as the Acolyte as squeeze the trigger.

“They’re fast!” Baron warns me.
My only response is another round fired.

The second falls. Its twisted corpse lies sinking into the wet mud below. The third and fourth are closing the distance faster than I would like. They make it to the base of the apartment complex and begin to climb the bare concrete wall, their sharp claws striking the stone like pickaxes.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I drop my rifle, allowing its sling to catch it; my hand reaches and draws my heavy hand cannon. I lean out the broken window frame and fire a blind shot, completely exploding the head of the third creature.

I’m not fast enough.

The fourth Thrall bursts through the fading ashes of its comrade, wildly thrashing as it leaps through the window frame. It crashes directly into me, knocking the hand cannon from my grip. It clatters uselessly across the floorboards.

As I dodge backward, I reach down to my belt and draw my blade, readying myself for a raw fight of sharpness and quickness.

The Thrall hasn’t stopped its frantic momentum. It continues to lash out at the air, hissing. I drop the rifle entirely and move in for the kill.

With one swift, devastating cut, I remove the Thrall’s head.

The screaming finally stops.

I let out a long, ragged sigh. I move across the dark floor to collect my rifle and pick up my fallen hand cannon. Baron floats down lazily from the ceiling tiles.

“Your movements were sluggish and ugly,” he chirps at me.
“Thank you for the helpful insight,” I say, sticking my middle finger straight up at him.

“Come on, we need to see where these Hive came from,” I tell him, wiping my blade as I make my way toward the broken staircase.

“The Hive aren’t usually in this area,” Baron replies, his single blue eye scanning the dark as he floats alongside me. “This is Fallen and human territory.”

The scent of evaporating toxic soul-fire is fading, replaced entirely by the iron tang of spilled blood and cold, stale ether vapor.

I step into the center of the decimated camp. The human transporter isn't a civilian refugee vehicle; its rusted chassis is bolted with crude Eliksni scrap metal, armor plating, and spiked cargo nets.

Baron floats in tight, methodical loops over the wreckage, his single blue eye casting a pale scanning matrix over the dead. That flickers in the dying light of the sun.

"Sev, look at the insignia on these crates," Baron chirps softly over the comms. "It's the mark of the Dusk Raiders. But the forensics are messy. Half the biometric signatures in these tents are human."

I crouch beside a turned-over footlocker, my greasy gloves dragging through a pile of discarded tactical gear. He’s right. Mismatched human flak jackets sit tangled among Eliksni shock-daggers and empty ether canisters. Out here, the hunger and fear bridges the gap between species. They didn't care about the Vanguard or the old houses. They just plundered together to survive.

"I'm pulling the camp's local terminal logs now," Baron hums, his faded cracked shell spinning as he jacks into a smoking terminal frame. "The data is fragmented. Sev... the Hive didn't stumble onto this place. They’ve been running probing attacks against this ridge line for three weeks. Small packets. Testing the perimeter lines, counting the active barrels."

"A reconnaissance-in-force," I murmur, my voice flat inside my helmet. "They weren't trying to conquer the camp. They were harvesting intelligence. And this morning, they got the final numbers they needed. Though it looks like the raiders took just as many,” I say with a smirk.

"Worse," Baron’s eye blinks red for a fraction of a second. "The raiders knew they were being watched. They managed to track the Hive's routing vectors before the terminal went dark. They found the Brood's hiding hole. Deep in the dark sectors of the valley ridge."

I don't waste time processing the dread. Out here, information is currency, but resource management is life.

I strip the camp of anything useful. I forage through the footlockers, shoving dry civilian ration bars into pouches on my chest and belt, two dented canteens of water now hang on my belt, and a handful of loose hand cannon rounds slip into empty pockets and pouches.

I walk back to the clearing where my sniper rifle lies shattered in two jagged pieces. The barrel is ruined, but the optic housing is intact. I pull my blade and carefully unbolt the cracked, dirt-streaked long-range scope from the metal frame. I slide the scope into my tactical belt. My long-range fire is gone, but I refuse to be blinded.

"The Hive hole is down the reverse slope," Baron states, projecting a flashing waypoint on my visor. "Opposite direction of the valley village."

"Thank the Traveler," I exhale, a small puff of steam misting my visor. If the Brood was marching toward the civilians, I'd have to buy them time with a handful of rounds. Moving away from the innocents means we have a chance to map the threat and get a Strike Team to catch them off guard.

We slip over the lip of the ridge, moving down the steep, rocky incline into the dense, unmonitored shadow of the valley. For an hour, we move like ghosts through the freezing brush until a view point where we can see the coordinates.

Through the salvaged sniper scope held tightly in my hand, I see it.
A massive, jagged tear in the base of the mountain, choked in heavy, calcified Hive webbing. Green, sickly bioluminescence pulses deep within the cavern walls. It isn't a temporary shelter. It is a localized breeding ground. Hive infestation is systematically gestating an army right under the Vanguard's nose.

Its green glow haunts the dark forest around it. Casting lurking shadows and monsters about.
It sends a chill down my spine.

"Grid coordinates locked," Baron whispers, his shell clicking close to my ear. "We have enough telemetry to prove the infestation. But the signal density down here is completely blacked out by mountain interference. We can't broadcast."

I slide the scope back onto my belt and stand to my full height; my back pops and I groan.

"Then we move back to the den," I say, turning my back on the pulsing cavern. "The Vanguard can keep their celebrations in the City. We're about to drop a nightmare into their channels."

The scent of evaporating toxic soul-fire is fading, replaced entirely by the iron tang of spilled blood and cold, stale ether vapor.

I step into the center of the decimated camp. The human transporter isn't a civilian refugee vehicle; its rusted chassis is bolted with crude Eliksni scrap metal, armor plating, and spiked cargo nets.

Baron floats in tight, methodical loops over the wreckage, his single blue eye casting a pale scanning matrix over the dead. That flickers in the dying light of the sun.

"Sev, look at the insignia on these crates," Baron chirps softly over the comms. "It's the mark of the Dusk Raiders. But the forensics are messy. Half the biometric signatures in these tents are human."

I crouch beside a turned-over footlocker, my greasy gloves dragging through a pile of discarded tactical gear. He’s right. Mismatched human flak jackets sit tangled among Eliksni shock-daggers and empty ether canisters. Out here, the hunger and fear bridges the gap between species. They didn't care about the Vanguard or the old houses. They just plundered together to survive.

"I'm pulling the camp's local terminal logs now," Baron hums, his faded cracked shell spinning as he jacks into a smoking terminal frame. "The data is fragmented. Sev... the Hive didn't stumble onto this place. They’ve been running probing attacks against this ridge line for three weeks. Small packets. Testing the perimeter lines, counting the active barrels."

"A reconnaissance-in-force," I murmur, my voice flat inside my helmet. "They weren't trying to conquer the camp. They were harvesting intelligence. And this morning, they got the final numbers they needed. Though it looks like the raiders took just as many,” I say with a smirk.

"Worse," Baron’s eye blinks red for a fraction of a second. "The raiders knew they were being watched. They managed to track the Hive's routing vectors before the terminal went dark. They found the Brood's hiding hole. Deep in the dark sectors of the valley ridge."

I don't waste time processing the dread. Out here, information is currency, but resource management is life.

I strip the camp of anything useful. I forage through the footlockers, shoving dry civilian ration bars into pouches on my chest and belt, two dented canteens of water now hang on my belt, and a handful of loose hand cannon rounds slip into empty pockets and pouches.

I walk back to the clearing where my sniper rifle lies shattered in two jagged pieces. The barrel is ruined, but the optic housing is intact. I pull my blade and carefully unbolt the cracked, dirt-streaked long-range scope from the metal frame. I slide the scope into my tactical belt. My long-range fire is gone, but I refuse to be blinded.

"The Hive hole is down the reverse slope," Baron states, projecting a flashing waypoint on my visor. "Opposite direction of the valley village."

"Thank the Traveler," I exhale, a small puff of steam misting my visor. If the Brood was marching toward the civilians, I'd have to buy them time with a handful of rounds. Moving away from the innocents means we have a chance to map the threat and get a Strike Team to catch them off guard.

We slip over the lip of the ridge, moving down the steep, rocky incline into the dense, unmonitored shadow of the valley. For an hour, we move like ghosts through the freezing brush until a view point where we can see the coordinates.

Through the salvaged sniper scope held tightly in my hand, I see it.
A massive, jagged tear in the base of the mountain, choked in heavy, calcified Hive webbing. Green, sickly bioluminescence pulses deep within the cavern walls. It isn't a temporary shelter. It is a localized breeding ground. Hive infestation is systematically gestating an army right under the Vanguard's nose.

Its green glow haunts the dark forest around it. Casting lurking shadows and monsters about.
It sends a chill down my spine.

"Grid coordinates locked," Baron whispers, his shell clicking close to my ear. "We have enough telemetry to prove the infestation. But the signal density down here is completely blacked out by mountain interference. We can't broadcast."

I slide the scope back onto my belt and stand to my full height; my back pops and I groan.

"Then we move back to the den," I say, turning my back on the pulsing cavern. "The Vanguard can keep their celebrations in the City. We're about to drop a nightmare into their channels."

The early morning air blows a cool breeze through this quiet neighborhood; there’s a storm coming. I sit in front of you, the air between us stagnant and heavy. The sweat on your forehead would make someone assume that it’s 100 degrees in here, but it’s a nice comfortable 72. I stand and stretch, shifting my weight on my feet before walking away from you.

“Have you ever heard of the trolley problem? This hypothetical question given to the online population. No? It’s supposed to show someone’s thought process, or true colors—whatever you wish to call it. You stand at the intersection of a rail system with five people on one side and one person on the other. There is a trolley approaching quickly; you can feel the vibrations in the tracks near you. In front of you, there is a lever. You can switch the rails the trolley will go down, or not. The decision is up to you. Will you sacrifice the one for the many? Or will you sacrifice the many for the one? And no, you can’t just untie them, that’s not the point. Okay fine….. fine, let’s move away from this online question. Let’s get in the dirt.

Did you know that militaries will take the weapon away from the lowest ranking or less important personnel? To find out if an environment is safe and the air is breathable—you know, in a chemical or biological environment. They strip this person of their weapon so they can’t fight back, and tell them to remove their mask. It’s insane to think about. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t like that it’s all a decision about human life? Okay, what about animals? Oh yes….. we do it with animals. A purebred hound is valued so much higher than a mangy mutt. So I ask again!”

I stand between two little souls, mouths bound with tape; their muffled cries are all that leaves them.

“Which do you value more?”

The early morning air blows a cool breeze through this quiet neighborhood; there’s a storm coming. I sit in front of you, the air between us stagnant and heavy. The sweat on your forehead would make someone assume that it’s 100 degrees in here, but it’s a nice comfortable 72. I stand and stretch, shifting my weight on my feet before walking away from you.

“Have you ever heard of the trolley problem? This hypothetical question given to the online population. No? It’s supposed to show someone’s thought process, or true colors—whatever you wish to call it. You stand at the intersection of a rail system with five people on one side and one person on the other. There is a trolley approaching quickly; you can feel the vibrations in the tracks near you. In front of you, there is a lever. You can switch the rails the trolley will go down, or not. The decision is up to you. Will you sacrifice the one for the many? Or will you sacrifice the many for the one? And no, you can’t just untie them, that’s not the point. Okay fine….. fine, let’s move away from this online question. Let’s get in the dirt.

Did you know that militaries will take the weapon away from the lowest ranking or less important personnel? To find out if an environment is safe and the air is breathable—you know, in a chemical or biological environment. They strip this person of their weapon so they can’t fight back, and tell them to remove their mask. It’s insane to think about. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t like that it’s all a decision about human life? Okay, what about animals? Oh yes….. we do it with animals. A purebred hound is valued so much higher than a mangy mutt. So I ask again!”

I stand between two little souls, mouths bound with tape; their muffled cries are all that leaves them.

“Which do you value more?”

The early morning air blows a cool breeze through this quiet neighborhood; there’s a storm coming. I sit in front of you, the air between us stagnant and heavy. The sweat on your forehead would make someone assume that it’s 100 degrees in here, but it’s a nice comfortable 72. I stand and stretch, shifting my weight on my feet before walking away from you.

“Have you ever heard of the trolley problem? This hypothetical question given to the online population. No? It’s supposed to show someone’s thought process, or true colors—whatever you wish to call it. You stand at the intersection of a rail system with five people on one side and one person on the other. There is a trolley approaching quickly; you can feel the vibrations in the tracks near you. In front of you, there is a lever. You can switch the rails the trolley will go down, or not. The decision is up to you. Will you sacrifice the one for the many? Or will you sacrifice the many for the one? And no, you can’t just untie them, that’s not the point. Okay fine….. fine, let’s move away from this online question. Let’s get in the dirt.

Did you know that militaries will take the weapon away from the lowest ranking or less important personnel? To find out if an environment is safe and the air is breathable—you know, in a chemical or biological environment. They strip this person of their weapon so they can’t fight back, and tell them to remove their mask. It’s insane to think about. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t like that it’s all a decision about human life? Okay, what about animals? Oh yes….. we do it with animals. A purebred hound is valued so much higher than a mangy mutt. So I ask again!”

I stand between two little souls, mouths bound with tape; their muffled cries are all that leaves them.

“Which do you value more?”

The early morning air blows a cool breeze through this quiet neighborhood; there’s a storm coming. I sit in front of you, the air between us stagnant and heavy. The sweat on your forehead would make someone assume that it’s 100 degrees in here, but it’s a nice comfortable 72. I stand and stretch, shifting my weight on my feet before walking away from you.

“Have you ever heard of the trolley problem? This hypothetical question given to the online population. No? It’s supposed to show someone’s thought process, or true colors—whatever you wish to call it. You stand at the intersection of a rail system with five people on one side and one person on the other. There is a trolley approaching quickly; you can feel the vibrations in the tracks near you. In front of you, there is a lever. You can switch the rails the trolley will go down, or not. The decision is up to you. Will you sacrifice the one for the many? Or will you sacrifice the many for the one? And no, you can’t just untie them, that’s not the point. Okay fine….. fine, let’s move away from this online question. Let’s get in the dirt.

Did you know that militaries will take the weapon away from the lowest ranking or less important personnel? To find out if an environment is safe and the air is breathable—you know, in a chemical or biological environment. They strip this person of their weapon so they can’t fight back, and tell them to remove their mask. It’s insane to think about. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t like that it’s all a decision about human life? Okay, what about animals? Oh yes….. we do it with animals. A purebred hound is valued so much higher than a mangy mutt. So I ask again!”

I stand between two little souls, mouths bound with tape; their muffled cries are all that leaves them.

“Which do you value more?”

The early morning air blows a cool breeze through this quiet neighborhood; there’s a storm coming. I sit in front of you, the air between us stagnant and heavy. The sweat on your forehead would make someone assume that it’s 100 degrees in here, but it’s a nice comfortable 72. I stand and stretch, shifting my weight on my feet before walking away from you.

“Have you ever heard of the trolley problem? This hypothetical question given to the online population. No? It’s supposed to show someone’s thought process, or true colors—whatever you wish to call it. You stand at the intersection of a rail system with five people on one side and one person on the other. There is a trolley approaching quickly; you can feel the vibrations in the tracks near you. In front of you, there is a lever. You can switch the rails the trolley will go down, or not. The decision is up to you. Will you sacrifice the one for the many? Or will you sacrifice the many for the one? And no, you can’t just untie them, that’s not the point. Okay fine….. fine, let’s move away from this online question. Let’s get in the dirt.

Did you know that militaries will take the weapon away from the lowest ranking or less important personnel? To find out if an environment is safe and the air is breathable—you know, in a chemical or biological environment. They strip this person of their weapon so they can’t fight back, and tell them to remove their mask. It’s insane to think about. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t like that it’s all a decision about human life? Okay, what about animals? Oh yes….. we do it with animals. A purebred hound is valued so much higher than a mangy mutt. So I ask again!”

I stand between two little souls, mouths bound with tape; their muffled cries are all that leaves them.

“Which do you value more?”

**Journal Entry 1**

The Vanguard will tell you that the war is won.

They will point to their theatre maps, to the Pale Heart, to the dead paracausal beings who have been slain, and tell you that the system is safe. What they don’t tell the public is that it’s still just as dangerous out there in the wilds as ever before.

I don't slay gods. I don't carry the fancy Exotic gear that glows with the light of the Traveler. My armor is not shiny and polished. It’s a mismatched patchwork of different metal alloys, and my clothes underneath are faded shades of green and brown. My oil-stained cloak hasn't seen the Tower's laundry in three winters. I bear no mark showing allegiance to a pack or group.

My back is stiff, aching beneath the weight of an old blue-tier kinetic sniper rifle that misfires every fourth shot. My belt carries a heavy purple-tier hand cannon. Its weight makes my belt lean heavily to one side, digging deep into my hip with every step. My blade is the only thing sharp about my appearance.

My Ghost doesn't give me grand speeches about destiny. He just hovers silently over my shoulder, occasionally throwing tactical advice or dry one-liners at me, like *“watch out, incoming fire!”* while we are actively engaging the enemy. His shell is as worn as my attire—chipped at the top from a stray Vandal shot, casting a dim, flickering blue light over my ledger.

I sit on the hood of a rusted, half-buried jumpship, watching the horizon fade from purple to gray. My gloves are greasy, caked with mud and dried ether; I haven't taken this helmet off in days. The radio on my tactical belt is quiet. The Vanguard channels are filled with victory broadcasts and celebrations in the City, but out here on the perimeter, the silence is deafening.

I slide down the jumpship’s hull and pull my hood over my helmet.

“It’s going to be a cold night in the EDZ, Sev,” my Ghost chirps to me.

We move to a small apartment building. The years have not been kind to it; its concrete frame is littered with ancient bullet holes and missing structural pieces. It is the perfect spot to lay my head at night. No one—and no thing—will expect me to be there late into the night.

We move up the stairwell as far as the broken concrete allows. I jump the rest of the way, clearing the gap to the seventh floor. Just high enough to be completely out of sight.

I take up my post for the night. I sleep on and off through every hour, always followed by a quick, once-over through my sniper scope. It isn't a glamorous assignment. It won't be written into the chronicles of the Iron Lords or told to the children of the Coalition. But if I don't clear the Fallen pirates and raiders from this ridgeline, the settlers down in the valley won't make it through the winter.

They deserve a quiet tomorrow, even if they never know my name.

Hours pass. The early morning arrives with freezing dew still lingering thick on everything.

My Ghost twitches, his single blue eye turning sharply toward the dark tree line below. The dead leaves are rustling, but not from the wind. A soft, familiar click-clack of Chitin skitters across the frozen mud.

I drop. I use both hands to pull my hood down, checking the environment through the seal of my visor.

The Vanguard says the major threats are gone.

But out here in the blind spots, something is still crawling.

We make our way down the broken stairs and step into the small clearing where the Acolyte’s ashes lay, entirely disrupting the natural order of things.

The pile still smolders with hot Soul Fire embers. Baron has done this thousands of times. He moves over the black remains without a single second of hesitation, his eye snapping open as he begins to scan.

“What are we working with?” I ask, keeping my eyes locked on the edge of the forest.

“Offshoots of Xivu Arath's horde,” Baron says dryly.

“Must be upset and lashing out on their own since the hierarchy fell,” I reply back.

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s find their hole and get that information to the den,” Baron says mechanically, a low, functional hum vibrating behind his words.

We head off toward the thick tree line. The massive ridge line hovers over us like a dark shadow. Inside my helmet, the visor flickers to life, highlighting the Hive’s unnatural footprint trails across the mud. I move silently through the woods, watching my footing to not make a single sound. My head swivels in all directions, making sure I don’t walk straight into an ambush.

Baron’s faded red shell floats quietly through the tree tops, giving me blind-spot overwatch and streaming live data to my HUD.

The daylight begins to return to the world, small glimpses of pale dawn falling down through the canopy. The trees are getting denser by the footstep. For hours, we track the scouting party’s path deeper into the valley. There is sound all around us, but it’s all just nature—the chirps, the hisses, and the quiet footfalls of deer and other small creatures running through the underbrush.

My old black boots are white with wear, becoming increasingly heavy with each step I take forward.

“I can’t wait to sit down and eat something,” I mumble to myself.

We are approaching the base of the ridge line now. It looms over us like a giant to an ant.

As we creep our way to the rock face, we begin to hear the sudden, violent sounds of conflict tearing through the forest. Wire-rifles and kinetic fire rounds echo loudly through the trees.

Screaming and shrieking. Fallen, Human, and Hive.

Boomers and Shredders are exploding in the distance, shattering the morning peace into a million pieces.

We hasten our pace, but remain completely covered in our movements. My breathing quickens. My lungs expand with air that is rapidly growing dense with toxic smoke and ash. Thank the Traveler for my helmet's internal filters.

Baron has flown above the tree tops and is feeding a bird’s-eye view directly to my visor. Hive, Human, and Fallen are spread out across the rocky opening of the ridge line.

“Multiple targets are engaged in a crossfire,” Baron warns over the comms. “Multiple dead on all sides. Sev, I’m currently seeing a human and a Vandal standing side by side, firing at a Hive Knight moving fast towards them.”

I force my way through the thick clearing. Through the smoke, I see the Knight’s massive, jagged frame charging the poor souls. It lumbers unsteadily forward, carrying a massive Cleaver in its right hand. It closes the distance in six terrifying steps, swing its sword to one side and back in on its prey.

I hear it laugh wickedly.

The blade comes crashing down on the Vandal and the human. It rips both apart in a single, devastating blow. I hear the bones snap cleanly. Both of them are torn completely in half. Blue ether flees the Fallen’s face, and the human lays limp and broken on the ground.

Baron calls me over the net. “That Knight is the only moving thing left on the field, Sev. End it.”

I take a knee. I fire three rapid sniper shots into its thick, armored side, rounds meet armor and cracks fracture across the bone chitin. I pull the trigger for the fourth shot—

*Jammed.*

The Knight turns heavily to its right. It hisses, pointing its sword straight at my chest.

“Hurry up, Sev! That thing is only ten yards from you!”

I reload my weapon with lightning precision and take aim once more. This is my last magazine. I take a steady breath and pull the trigger. The first shot rings out, covering the distance between us. It bounces harmlessly right off its heavy chest armor.

The creature begins to lumber toward me. With each step, it gains speed.

My next two shots, I aim directly for its right and top eyes. The soft, glowing tissue allows my rounds to pierce true. The Knight howls in agonizing pain but never stops its momentum.

It closes the gap. Not even breathing room remains.

It lifts its mighty sword above its head with both hands, taking the final step to crush me. I bring my sniper rifle up defensively between us. The heavy blade meets the metal barrel. It cuts clean through my rifle, but it buys me just enough time to dodge violently to the right, slipping out of its direct path.

I draw my hand cannon. I unload the entire cylinder into its cracked, fractured side. The heavy rounds break entirely through the bone armor, ripping into its delicate internal tissue.

The Knight lunges forward and falls heavily to its knees, using its massive sword as a temporary brace.

I reload my hand cannon with the swiftness of a western ranger. As it turns its hideous head back to face me, I place the tip of the smoking barrel directly between its three disgusting eyes.

I pull the trigger.

The Knight smiles as its head explodes. Its body turns entirely to Soul Fire, evaporating into the cold morning air. The heavy sword it just used as a crutch falls flat and heavy into the dirt.

“All clear,” chimes Baron as he floats down to my shoulder.

“Let’s start the data recovery. We have a lot to get through,” I say, turning away from him to stare blankly at the ground.

My sniper rifle lays in two jagged, useless pieces.

I let out a long, ragged sigh, and move past the debris to the center of the dead camp.

We make our way down the broken stairs and step into the small clearing where the Acolyte’s ashes lay, entirely disrupting the natural order of things.

The pile still smolders with hot Soul Fire embers. Baron has done this thousands of times. He moves over the black remains without a single second of hesitation, his eye snapping open as he begins to scan.

“What are we working with?” I ask, keeping my eyes locked on the edge of the forest.

“Offshoots of Xivu Arath's horde,” Baron says dryly.

“Must be upset and lashing out on their own since the hierarchy fell,” I reply back.

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s find their hole and get that information to the den,” Baron says mechanically, a low, functional hum vibrating behind his words.

We head off toward the thick tree line. The massive ridge line hovers over us like a dark shadow. Inside my helmet, the visor flickers to life, highlighting the Hive’s unnatural footprint trails across the mud. I move silently through the woods, watching my footing to not make a single sound. My head swivels in all directions, making sure I don’t walk straight into an ambush.

Baron’s faded red shell floats quietly through the tree tops, giving me blind-spot overwatch and streaming live data to my HUD.

The daylight begins to return to the world, small glimpses of pale dawn falling down through the canopy. The trees are getting denser by the footstep. For hours, we track the scouting party’s path deeper into the valley. There is sound all around us, but it’s all just nature—the chirps, the hisses, and the quiet footfalls of deer and other small creatures running through the underbrush.

My old black boots are white with wear, becoming increasingly heavy with each step I take forward.

“I can’t wait to sit down and eat something,” I mumble to myself.

We are approaching the base of the ridge line now. It looms over us like a giant to an ant.

As we creep our way to the rock face, we begin to hear the sudden, violent sounds of conflict tearing through the forest. Wire-rifles and kinetic fire rounds echo loudly through the trees.

Screaming and shrieking. Fallen, Human, and Hive.

Boomers and Shredders are exploding in the distance, shattering the morning peace into a million pieces.

We hasten our pace, but remain completely covered in our movements. My breathing quickens. My lungs expand with air that is rapidly growing dense with toxic smoke and ash. Thank the Traveler for my helmet's internal filters.

Baron has flown above the tree tops and is feeding a bird’s-eye view directly to my visor. Hive, Human, and Fallen are spread out across the rocky opening of the ridge line.

“Multiple targets are engaged in a crossfire,” Baron warns over the comms. “Multiple dead on all sides. Sev, I’m currently seeing a human and a Vandal standing side by side, firing at a Hive Knight moving fast towards them.”

I force my way through the thick clearing. Through the smoke, I see the Knight’s massive, jagged frame charging the poor souls. It lumbers unsteadily forward, carrying a massive Cleaver in its right hand. It closes the distance in six terrifying steps, swing its sword to one side and back in on its prey.

I hear it laugh wickedly.

The blade comes crashing down on the Vandal and the human. It rips both apart in a single, devastating blow. I hear the bones snap cleanly. Both of them are torn completely in half. Blue ether flees the Fallen’s face, and the human lays limp and broken on the ground.

Baron calls me over the net. “That Knight is the only moving thing left on the field, Sev. End it.”

I take a knee. I fire three rapid sniper shots into its thick, armored side, rounds meet armor and cracks fracture across the bone chitin. I pull the trigger for the fourth shot—

*Jammed.*

The Knight turns heavily to its right. It hisses, pointing its sword straight at my chest.

“Hurry up, Sev! That thing is only ten yards from you!”

I reload my weapon with lightning precision and take aim once more. This is my last magazine. I take a steady breath and pull the trigger. The first shot rings out, covering the distance between us. It bounces harmlessly right off its heavy chest armor.

The creature begins to lumber toward me. With each step, it gains speed.

My next two shots, I aim directly for its right and top eyes. The soft, glowing tissue allows my rounds to pierce true. The Knight howls in agonizing pain but never stops its momentum.

It closes the gap. Not even breathing room remains.

It lifts its mighty sword above its head with both hands, taking the final step to crush me. I bring my sniper rifle up defensively between us. The heavy blade meets the metal barrel. It cuts clean through my rifle, but it buys me just enough time to dodge violently to the right, slipping out of its direct path.

I draw my hand cannon. I unload the entire cylinder into its cracked, fractured side. The heavy rounds break entirely through the bone armor, ripping into its delicate internal tissue.

The Knight lunges forward and falls heavily to its knees, using its massive sword as a temporary brace.

I reload my hand cannon with the swiftness of a western ranger. As it turns its hideous head back to face me, I place the tip of the smoking barrel directly between its three disgusting eyes.

I pull the trigger.

The Knight smiles as its head explodes. Its body turns entirely to Soul Fire, evaporating into the cold morning air. The heavy sword it just used as a crutch falls flat and heavy into the dirt.

“All clear,” chimes Baron as he floats down to my shoulder.

“Let’s start the data recovery. We have a lot to get through,” I say, turning away from him to stare blankly at the ground.

My sniper rifle lays in two jagged, useless pieces.

I let out a long, ragged sigh, and move past the debris to the center of the dead camp.

With daylight still fighting for dominance in the early morning hours, my Ghost and I wait patiently. He had been on watch when the movement was first heard. Branches and leaves breaking beneath heavy footfalls. The unmistakable sound of Chitin drawing near.

From our vantage point on the seventh floor, we watch the dark tree line.

Three glowing, green eyes scan the open field between the city boundaries and their forest cover. I sit deadly still as I wait for their move.

“It’s the Hive,” my Ghost hums quietly over my shoulder.

“No… it couldn’t be,” I reply back, a small, bitter chuckle escaping my lips.

These wicked, dark creatures don’t see us yet. Their brown, jagged hide helps them blend perfectly with the muted colors of the trees. They move into the clearing before the city block. Five in total lumber forward—one Acolyte with their heavy Boomer rifle held high, surrounded by four Thralls waiting for something to kill.

I take a slow breath. I steady my weight and aim my rifle at the Acolyte’s jagged head. Right for its stupid third eye.

I pull the trigger. My muzzle flash illuminates the ruined concrete room I’m in for just a fraction of a second.

It is enough. In the dark hours of the morning, they see the flash.

The Acolyte falls, its body instantly collapsing into toxic soul-fire and burning ash. The four remaining Thralls turn on a dime. They break into a dead sprint straight toward my position, screaming and shrieking in a blind fury. Their claws drag through the clay and mud as they run.

The first Thrall falls almost as fast as the Acolyte as squeeze the trigger.

“They’re fast!” Baron warns me.
My only response is another round fired.

The second falls. Its twisted corpse lies sinking into the wet mud below. The third and fourth are closing the distance faster than I would like. They make it to the base of the apartment complex and begin to climb the bare concrete wall, their sharp claws striking the stone like pickaxes.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I drop my rifle, allowing its sling to catch it; my hand reaches and draws my heavy hand cannon. I lean out the broken window frame and fire a blind shot, completely exploding the head of the third creature.

I’m not fast enough.

The fourth Thrall bursts through the fading ashes of its comrade, wildly thrashing as it leaps through the window frame. It crashes directly into me, knocking the hand cannon from my grip. It clatters uselessly across the floorboards.

As I dodge backward, I reach down to my belt and draw my blade, readying myself for a raw fight of sharpness and quickness.

The Thrall hasn’t stopped its frantic momentum. It continues to lash out at the air, hissing. I drop the rifle entirely and move in for the kill.

With one swift, devastating cut, I remove the Thrall’s head.

The screaming finally stops.

I let out a long, ragged sigh. I move across the dark floor to collect my rifle and pick up my fallen hand cannon. Baron floats down lazily from the ceiling tiles.

“Your movements were sluggish and ugly,” he chirps at me.
“Thank you for the helpful insight,” I say, sticking my middle finger straight up at him.

“Come on, we need to see where these Hive came from,” I tell him, wiping my blade as I make my way toward the broken staircase.

“The Hive aren’t usually in this area,” Baron replies, his single blue eye scanning the dark as he floats alongside me. “This is Fallen and human territory.”

With daylight still fighting for dominance in the early morning hours, my Ghost and I wait patiently. He had been on watch when the movement was first heard. Branches and leaves breaking beneath heavy footfalls. The unmistakable sound of Chitin drawing near.

From our vantage point on the seventh floor, we watch the dark tree line.

Three glowing, green eyes scan the open field between the city boundaries and their forest cover. I sit deadly still as I wait for their move.

“It’s the Hive,” my Ghost hums quietly over my shoulder.

“No… it couldn’t be,” I reply back, a small, bitter chuckle escaping my lips.

These wicked, dark creatures don’t see us yet. Their brown, jagged hide helps them blend perfectly with the muted colors of the trees. They move into the clearing before the city block. Five in total lumber forward—one Acolyte with their heavy Boomer rifle held high, surrounded by four Thralls waiting for something to kill.

I take a slow breath. I steady my weight and aim my rifle at the Acolyte’s jagged head. Right for its stupid third eye.

I pull the trigger. My muzzle flash illuminates the ruined concrete room I’m in for just a fraction of a second.

It is enough. In the dark hours of the morning, they see the flash.

The Acolyte falls, its body instantly collapsing into toxic soul-fire and burning ash. The four remaining Thralls turn on a dime. They break into a dead sprint straight toward my position, screaming and shrieking in a blind fury. Their claws drag through the clay and mud as they run.

The first Thrall falls almost as fast as the Acolyte as squeeze the trigger.

“They’re fast!” Baron warns me.
My only response is another round fired.

The second falls. Its twisted corpse lies sinking into the wet mud below. The third and fourth are closing the distance faster than I would like. They make it to the base of the apartment complex and begin to climb the bare concrete wall, their sharp claws striking the stone like pickaxes.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I drop my rifle, allowing its sling to catch it; my hand reaches and draws my heavy hand cannon. I lean out the broken window frame and fire a blind shot, completely exploding the head of the third creature.

I’m not fast enough.

The fourth Thrall bursts through the fading ashes of its comrade, wildly thrashing as it leaps through the window frame. It crashes directly into me, knocking the hand cannon from my grip. It clatters uselessly across the floorboards.

As I dodge backward, I reach down to my belt and draw my blade, readying myself for a raw fight of sharpness and quickness.

The Thrall hasn’t stopped its frantic momentum. It continues to lash out at the air, hissing. I drop the rifle entirely and move in for the kill.

With one swift, devastating cut, I remove the Thrall’s head.

The screaming finally stops.

I let out a long, ragged sigh. I move across the dark floor to collect my rifle and pick up my fallen hand cannon. Baron floats down lazily from the ceiling tiles.

“Your movements were sluggish and ugly,” he chirps at me.
“Thank you for the helpful insight,” I say, sticking my middle finger straight up at him.

“Come on, we need to see where these Hive came from,” I tell him, wiping my blade as I make my way toward the broken staircase.

“The Hive aren’t usually in this area,” Baron replies, his single blue eye scanning the dark as he floats alongside me. “This is Fallen and human territory.”

Journal Entry 1

The Vanguard will tell you that the war is won.

They will point to their theatre maps, to the Pale Heart, to the dead paracausal beings who have been slain, and tell you that the system is safe. What they don’t tell the public is that it’s still just as dangerous out there in the wilds as ever before.

I don't slay gods. I don't carry the fancy Exotic gear that glows with the light of the Traveler. My armor is not shiny and polished. It’s a mismatched patchwork of different metal alloys, and my clothes underneath are faded shades of green and brown. My oil-stained cloak hasn't seen the Tower's laundry in three winters. I bear no mark showing allegiance to a pack or group.

My back is stiff, aching beneath the weight of an old blue-tier kinetic sniper rifle that misfires every fourth shot. My belt carries a heavy purple-tier hand cannon. Its weight makes my belt lean heavily to one side, digging deep into my hip with every step. My blade is the only thing sharp about my appearance.

My Ghost doesn't give me grand speeches about destiny. He just hovers silently over my shoulder, occasionally throwing tactical advice or dry one-liners at me, like “watch out, incoming fire!” while we are actively engaging the enemy. His shell is as worn as my attire—chipped at the top from a stray Vandal shot, casting a dim, flickering blue light over my ledger.

I sit on the hood of a rusted, half-buried jumpship, watching the horizon fade from purple to gray. My gloves are greasy, caked with mud and dried ether; I haven't taken this helmet off in days. The radio on my tactical belt is quiet. The Vanguard channels are filled with victory broadcasts and celebrations in the City, but out here on the perimeter, the silence is deafening.

I slide down the jumpship’s hull and pull my hood over my helmet.

“It’s going to be a cold night in the EDZ, Sev,” my Ghost chirps to me.

We move to a small apartment building. The years have not been kind to it; its concrete frame is littered with ancient bullet holes and missing structural pieces. It is the perfect spot to lay my head at night. No one—and no thing—will expect me to be there late into the night.

We move up the stairwell as far as the broken concrete allows. I jump the rest of the way, clearing the gap to the seventh floor. Just high enough to be completely out of sight.

I take up my post for the night. I sleep on and off through every hour, always followed by a quick, once-over through my sniper scope. It isn't a glamorous assignment. It won't be written into the chronicles of the Iron Lords or told to the children of the Coalition. But if I don't clear the Fallen pirates and raiders from this ridgeline, the settlers down in the valley won't make it through the winter.

They deserve a quiet tomorrow, even if they never know my name.

Hours pass. The early morning arrives with freezing dew still lingering thick on everything.

My Ghost twitches, his single blue eye turning sharply toward the dark tree line below. The dead leaves are rustling, but not from the wind. A soft, familiar click-clack of Chitin skitters across the frozen mud.

I drop. I use both hands to pull my hood down, checking the environment through the seal of my visor.

The Vanguard says the major threats are gone.

But out here in the blind spots, something is still crawling.

Journal Entry 1

The Vanguard will tell you that the war is won.

They will point to their theatre maps, to the Pale Heart, to the dead paracausal beings who have been slain, and tell you that the system is safe. What they don’t tell the public is that it’s still just as dangerous out there in the wilds as ever before.

I don't slay gods. I don't carry the fancy Exotic gear that glows with the light of the Traveler. My armor is not shiny and polished. It’s a mismatched patchwork of different metal alloys, and my clothes underneath are faded shades of green and brown. My oil-stained cloak hasn't seen the Tower's laundry in three winters. I bear no mark showing allegiance to a pack or group.

My back is stiff, aching beneath the weight of an old blue-tier kinetic sniper rifle that misfires every fourth shot. My belt carries a heavy purple-tier hand cannon. Its weight makes my belt lean heavily to one side, digging deep into my hip with every step. My blade is the only thing sharp about my appearance.

My Ghost doesn't give me grand speeches about destiny. He just hovers silently over my shoulder, occasionally throwing tactical advice or dry one-liners at me, like “watch out, incoming fire!” while we are actively engaging the enemy. His shell is as worn as my attire—chipped at the top from a stray Vandal shot, casting a dim, flickering blue light over my ledger.

I sit on the hood of a rusted, half-buried jumpship, watching the horizon fade from purple to gray. My gloves are greasy, caked with mud and dried ether; I haven't taken this helmet off in days. The radio on my tactical belt is quiet. The Vanguard channels are filled with victory broadcasts and celebrations in the City, but out here on the perimeter, the silence is deafening.

I slide down the jumpship’s hull and pull my hood over my helmet.

“It’s going to be a cold night in the EDZ, Sev,” my Ghost chirps to me.

We move to a small apartment building. The years have not been kind to it; its concrete frame is littered with ancient bullet holes and missing structural pieces. It is the perfect spot to lay my head at night. No one—and no thing—will expect me to be there late into the night.

We move up the stairwell as far as the broken concrete allows. I jump the rest of the way, clearing the gap to the seventh floor. Just high enough to be completely out of sight.

I take up my post for the night. I sleep on and off through every hour, always followed by a quick, once-over through my sniper scope. It isn't a glamorous assignment. It won't be written into the chronicles of the Iron Lords or told to the children of the Coalition. But if I don't clear the Fallen pirates and raiders from this ridgeline, the settlers down in the valley won't make it through the winter.

They deserve a quiet tomorrow, even if they never know my name.

Hours pass. The early morning arrives with freezing dew still lingering thick on everything.

My Ghost twitches, his single blue eye turning sharply toward the dark tree line below. The dead leaves are rustling, but not from the wind. A soft, familiar click-clack of Chitin skitters across the frozen mud.

I drop. I use both hands to pull my hood down, checking the environment through the seal of my visor.

The Vanguard says the major threats are gone.

But out here in the blind spots, something is still crawling.

The night hangs over the sky with absolute authority. The ground is wet from a storm that swept through during the day, and a strong breeze kicks leaves and trash across the dead city street. Dane Miller leans out the window of his decrepit apartment. Not a soul moves on the pavement below, but I observe.

He’s tired. He leans too heavily into the window frame for someone who acts jovial during the day. He sighs, blowing another cloud of smoke from his lips; it no longer stings his eyes. There is no emotion left on his face, but I know he wants to go to bed and never wake up. He looks at his watch—it's 2 AM. I know he always stays up late.

He finishes his cigarette and goes to close the window. His apartment is cramped: just a single room with a dresser and a television. His bathroom is a communal setup at the far end of the hall. This sad space practically leaks with self-doubt. Another restless night comes and goes, but he still does not see me standing right here.

The alarm on the floor next to his bed is going off, but it didn’t wake him. He’s already been lying in bed, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. It’s 6 AM, and Dane has heard his neighbors fighting through the walls again. The harsh ringing of his alarm halts his neighbors' anger toward each other, redirecting their shouting toward the paper-thin wall separating their small rooms. He frowns and breathes in deep, slowly forcing himself to roll over and turn off the noise.

I observe.

I stand over him, watching him go about his morning routine. He walks down the dark hallway toward the communal bathroom. Trash and mouse droppings lay scattered along the baseboards. He steps into a stall and turns on the water, hoping it will finally get hot. We stand in silence for minutes. He sighs, then takes another freezing, cold shower.

After the shower, he fixes his face. There is no need for the world to see who he really is; if they did, it would strip away the last bit of “life” he has left. With his hair slicked back and his teeth brushed, Dane fashions a tight, practiced smile onto his face.

“It will be a good day,” I hear him whisper.

He walks down the stairs of his apartment building. I follow ever so closely behind. Overcast skies and biting wind match Dane’s internal thoughts. He moves down the street toward his place of work. Soon, he’ll clock in and sit in a small cubicle; everything in this office is a dull shade of brown, and stale cigarette smoke hangs just below the ceiling tiles. Dane will deny people their insurance claims. He does this without fail—every single day. He hates his job. I observe.

Lunch is "sleep." He pushes his chair back from the desk and leans his head down onto his folded arms. But sleep does not find him. Another cigarette will have to suffice. The taste is bittersweet. It was his last lucky, meaning he’ll have to buy a new pack on the way home today.

I’ll be there—waiting.

The workday drags on like his last cigarette, eventually burning down to his fingertips. He does not care. As the clock runs out, his coworkers invite him out for drinks. He makes a halfhearted excuse about having to feed his cat. They smile, uncaring, and walk out the office doors. We stand in silence together in the empty hallway; he doesn’t want to walk in the same direction as them. A minute passes, and we finally leave through the heavy metal doors.

The sun is setting now; it will be dark soon. The troubles of the world won’t leave him, though. The walk to the convenience store is short. He steps inside, and I am right on his heels. He stands at an empty counter, waiting for the clerk. After Dane taps the service bell multiple times, a man finally emerges from the back room. Dane gets his cigarettes and whispers a quiet "thanks." If the clerk heard him, he doesn't care to reply.

I watch as Dane tears open the paper, flips a lucky cigarette upside down, and packs the box against his palm. He grabs one and lights it. Standing on the corner just outside the store, he finishes the cigarette completely before beginning the quiet walk home.

I’ll meet him there.

The entrance to his apartment building is dimly lit. He goes to open the door, but the frame is jammed. He kicks it, using his shoulder to forcefully shove the warped wood open. The stairs and hallway are stained with unknown materials—his only welcome home.

He unlocks his apartment door and walks into the dead center of the dark room, where a lightbulb pull-string hangs from the ceiling. He yanks the cord, and a sharp pop echoes through the space. Shattered glass rains down over him.

Dane cries-I listen.

The tears dry, and he uses an old newspaper to sweep up the mess. He changes out of his brown suit, hanging it on a lone hook by the door. On the windowsill, his fresh pack of smokes and his lighter are yelling at him. He moves to open the window, leaning dreadfully against the frame. There are still people walking on the street below, but they pay me no mind.

I am here.