Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Lovely weather,” Maya mutters, slogging through the remains of Campus Nine. In the back of her head her Ghost buzzes, half-amused. Her boots are soaked through with red mud and cold water, and even with the protection her armor affords she can feel it weighing her down. If it’d do anything to stop the rain, she’d have stuck a knife in the gap where the seal of her helmet meets her chestplate an hour ago. But the storm is relentless, and her walk isn’t getting any shorter just standing in it.

The comm line hums, and Maya realizes Chioma’s laughing. She smiles, tired; at least one of them is someplace warm and Legionless. It’s one more of them than it was a month ago, when they were both sleeping under trees and in caves.

“You’ll be under a blanket soon enough,” Chioma says after a moment. “But for now, you’ll have to deal with Legion patrols. Two scouts up ahead?”

Maya hums an affirmative, even though she knows Chioma’s got an eye on her helmet feedback. The other eye’s probably on some long and complicated math, because Chioma has always been one to multitask. “Two and a Warbeast.”

Guards first, her Ghost thinks. No alarms. More than enough Light to heal you if the dog gets a bite in.

It’s the same plan she’d been thinking of: Legionaries, then Warbeast; nothing difficult. Running two analyses always makes her feel better, though.

She tucks the end of her cloak into her belt to keep it from drawing the dog’s attention. Then two knives-

Seven feet, one thrust, just the right amount of Arc to send systems popping and Cabal frying. She pushes the body off of her knife, ducking as the other Legionary takes a swipe at her, blade extended, trying to remove her head from her body. The first knife in the chest, the second in the neck. No Light necessary, although it pools in her wrists like the rainwater collecting on her gauntlets.

The Warbeast figures out what’s happening and charges at her. Maya pulls the second knife out- helmets are always easier than those weird, thick Cabal ribs- and spears the dog’s upper jaw. Her blade snaps against the thing’s metal faceplate but she’ll take it if it means avoiding those teeth.

“Beautiful,” Chioma says, and Maya can tell she’s smiling the same way she does when she proves herself right. Like the solar system is one big equation and they’re solving it piece by piece.

“I try,” she replies, teasing, and Chioma laughs again. Maya finds a small alcove where she can regroup in relative peace, undisturbed by the Vex or the Red Legion or the tattered remains of House Winter turned Dusk. She puts her knives back on her belt, switches out the one in her boot for the broken one in her hand. She untucks her cloak, wraps it around her shoulders the same way she does when her helmet’s off and she’s wandering around the Bazaar waiting for her scout report. “Alright. Out of the Campus and into the Vault.”

“Not into,” Chioma says. “There’s probably a you already in there somewhere. We can’t have a second one wandering in and getting lost.”

Her Ghost outputs a small wave of caution mixed with nervousness. After everything, neither she nor Chioma is quite comfortable fighting Vex- they did it once, and they won, but that was four scientists and a warmind against one simulation. They’ve both read the Vault transcripts, Praedyth’s fall, what happened at the Pyramidion.

“I’ll be fine,” Maya murmurs, half to her Ghost and half to her wife. She draws a smile in the dew on her faceplate before wiping it all away. Chioma snorts.

“I know you will be.” There’s static on the line as she shifts in her chair, types something into her rickety computer. “You know the way. Once you reach the plates, we’ll go from there.”

The walk is quiet, the stone above dampening the thunder and gunfire. For all it has been through, Venus is still beautiful; in the quiet moments, she can see why she fell in love with the planet. The Academy’s too dangerous to visit, now, with the Cabal tearing the Commons to shreds in their quest for knowledge. Maybe she can run up to the Citadel when she’s done scouting-

When she comes to the opening of the stone-metal corridor she finds the Legion. For a moment she’s reminded of the first great battle on Earth, with the land tanks and threshers and hundreds of hulking Cabal. The crack of artillery fire stills her movements, makes her crane her neck to see up the cliffs. There’s only one thing to be using that much ammunition on, out in the middle of Venus’ wilds.

“They’re trying to blow a hole in the Vault door,” she says. “Like the Wolves.” The Wolves, with a bulldozer instead of a hammer.

Chioma’s too busy trying to get a message to Ikora to answer. Maya starts toward the mossy stone outcrops, climbs onto one of the blocks of stone littering the ground. She jumps from it to the column of rock, boots skidding more than she’d like on the wet grass.

The second jump takes her to the upper level, a few yards away from the third sync plate. Three Legionaries flank a half-dead Colossus, Warbeasts piled up at their feet. A sea of Goblins separates them, keeping the plate inactive. Behind them Praetorians rain devastation.

Maya cloaks herself, cautious. She slips through the crowds of Vex, knifing any Warbeasts that she meets in the throng. The middle plate is even worse than the first, a crew of Cabal with a battering ram against a dozen Praetorians, Hobgoblins laying down cover fire in packs. Most of the Goblins aren’t even firing, now; their directive seems to have shifted to keeping the plates off at all costs.

“Colors?” Chioma asks, breathless. Maya can hear other people talking behind her; Ikora and Zavala and Asher, maybe.

“Hezen Protective,” she says, “a few Corrective. Virgo Prohibition too.” The blast from a torch cannon explodes at her feet and she rolls, moves towards the stone walls. “Don’t know how they got here from Mars.”

Another blast shakes the ground, but the Vault door remains closed. A few dozen yards away a Gladiator is ripping through Vex. It starts for the middle plate, taking the commotion at the door as an opportunity. The Hobgoblins are too busy disabling the ram to turn their attention to the fighting, and the Goblins are crumpling like they’re made of tin foil instead of brass.

Maya sighs, takes her scout rifle from its sling on her back. “Tell me when,” she tells her Ghost, slinking along the wall for a better angle. The Gladiator’s armor is half-gone, the Warbeast hide on its arms torn through. At the far plate, a Colossus’ slug thrower sends brass and dust and conflux light into the air.

“Now,” her Ghost says.

She drops her stealth, glassy blue fading into the warm brown of her armor. Four bullets- head, arm, chest, head. The Gladiator drops a few feet from the plate.

Her corner spot’s useless now so she runs, jumps over the sync plate and down onto the lower level, landing in a muddy puddle. Dragonflies buzz away as she sits up.

“Is there a plan?” Maya asks, waiting as her Ghost flits around her, healing bruises and the ankle she twisted in the fall.

Three voices answer at once, all with different strategies. As Maya reaches up to mute them the line cuts, silence bleeding into the fight above her.

“I moved them to another channel,” Chioma says tiredly. “It’s been like that since they came in. Zavala did enjoy that last maneuver, though- approved of the footwork.”

Maya laughs. She thinks of going back to the plates and watching the fight, but until she knows what she’s supposed to do she doesn't want to end up in another corner. Where the sky opens up in front of her she can see lightning flash, watch the strange reptiles in the air dive and whirl.

“Hold on,” Chioma says to someone that isn’t her, and the comm channel flares to life again.

“Three fireteams are en route,” Zavala tells her. “All of them have knowledge of Venus, so you shouldn’t have to wait long. Once the Legion has been taken care of, we’ll deal with the Vex.”

Maya allows herself a sigh of relief, gets to her feet. The newest Guardians are brave, yes, coming into this harsh new world, but if she had to give directions in the middle of such a large firefight she’d throw herself off of the cliffs and not come back until every Cabal on the planet was gone.

“I’m staying home, unfortunately,” Chioma yawns, “too many new questions to answer. It might be an all-nighter for both of us.”

A Psion skates into the underpass and Maya cloaks, watches it peer around nervously. It goes back the way it came, and she holsters her rifle, moves to leave her quiet shelter.

She heads back to the coastline, where more stone spires jut from the earth like buildings. She climbs the one closest to the cliff wall that leads to the Campus, gloved fingers dug into the moss. The view is better but she still can’t shoot, not with the threshers more than ready to knock her off her perch.

Instead, she sets her camera to save the last hour of footage, then starts a new file for her current position. Her Ghost pings her HUD with all the available information: three threshers, cycling between here and the Shattered Coast, one tank firing from the back line, and a few scattered interceptors, most of them broken and burning. A different type of science than she’s used to, she thinks.

The blue-grey haze of the Vex appears near the left plate, and when it dissipates a Cyclops stands in its place, shooting cannons of Void at the Cabal tank. Two Hydras flank the machine, floating towards the door with cold purpose.

Maya’s local comm channel crackles, the loud static making her wince. “Fireteams Bloom, Knife Squad, and Totally Void reporting in. We’ve just landed, so we’ll be at the Vault in a few minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” she says, biting down her laughter. All this war, and still the one constant in their lives is how ridiculous Guardians can be. “Be careful.”

The Guardian on the other end laughs. “We’ll try, but a group named Knife Squad can only be so cautious. See you soon.”

She settles down to wait, occasionally pulling out her rifle to sight in and get a better view of the fighting. The Tank manages to put down the Cyclops, and in return the Hobgoblins have chased off all but one thresher.

The Guardians pour through the stone hallway a few minutes later, armor dirty and guns raised. Maya climbs down from her vantage point and joins them, dropping her stealth before she arrives in case one startles and puts a bullet through her chest.

“Lovely weather,” one of the Titans says, and Maya smiles. Through her comm she can hear Chioma sigh good-naturedly, mutter something about don’t encourage her and you’re too late, the joke’s been made.

The first group through- the Knives, another Hunter informs her proudly- sets about finishing off the land tank, dancing around it gracefully as they empty bullets into the covered treads. The other fireteams take the right and left plates, working slowly towards the middle. Maya follows the third team to the left side, transmats in her shotgun. There’s no use being quiet now, not with nine other Guardians shining as bright as the flares they used to send up at the Farm.

One of the Warlocks pulls the Sun down and turns a pack of snarling Warbeasts to ash. A Centurion charges the plate and Maya’s shotgun barks, buckshot blowing its shield apart. She pulls out her boot knife and digs it into its chest; when the blade breaks off even further she throws the handle into the grass.

“One way of getting rid of that,” her Ghost says.

Both teams arrive at the door just as the third finishes off the bottom level, the last Thresher now sinking into Venus’ ocean. The Colossi fall to the Golden Gun and the Legionaries tear apart like paper under a Fist. The comms are lively and loud, Guardians trading jokes and half-remembered pointers and nicknames.

When the last Cabal is dead the ten of them pause, expectant. Everything goes silent and still as the Praetorians wink out of existence, as the Hobgoblins duck into self-repair and then vanish. Then the blue-grey static surrounds them and half a dozen Goblins are standing in front of the Vault.

“Don’t,” one of the Warlocks says, grabbing a Titan’s half-flaming arm. “It’s not enough of them to kill us.”

The Goblins watch them for another moment, then pivot, setting upon the Vault door. All ten of them sigh, some relieved, some disappointed that the fight is over so soon. One of the Warlocks gets a slap rifle to the arm for venturing too close, but after that they’re all on their way back to the Tower, the Vault still closed behind them.

The fireteam she’d been with- Bloom, she thinks, a nice name- offers her a ride back. She takes it, because she’s not set for pickup for another two hours and the sooner she can be home the better. As much as she loves Venus, there’s nothing here for her anymore, nothing beyond relics and dust and brassy construct.

Four of them cram into a ship made for three and set off. The trip back is as lively as the firefight, eager questions and explanations of in-jokes, curiosity and kindness blurred into one. Maya tells them what she remembers of Ishtar, gets in return excited retellings of strike missions and patrols gone awry.

When they climb out of the ship she finds Chioma waiting in the hangar, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The other Guardians scatter, off to talk to the Vanguard or Rahool before they disembark again.

Maya undoes her helmet and sends it off into transmat, her Ghost hovering beside her head. “Long day?” She asks, grinning.

“It was,” Chioma replies, half-asleep. Maya’s Ghost buzzes the time into the back of her skull: 2:15 A.M. No wonder the hangar’s almost empty. “I wish they’d do scout missions in the morning, it’d do wonders for our energy levels.”

Maya hums. “We have to be back here in twelve hours,” she says, leaning over onto Chioma’s shoulders. “Let’s go get some sleep.”

“You’re flying tomorrow,” Chioma says, smiling. She leans her head against Maya’s arms, her eyes closed. Classical music is playing from some ship’s radio and it makes Maya feel like they’re in college, again, like the two of them are back in their dorm room and one of the astrophysics majors is on another Bach kick.

“Of course, love.”

There are still things she needs to do: she needs a knife to replace her broken one, and her armor is still muddy and bloodstained. But the armory will still be open in the morning, and her Ghost will still be there to mend tears and lift dirt from fabric.

Chioma shifts, dragging Maya out of her mental to-do list. “Bed,” she says. “Thinking is for the morning, when you’re awake enough to process.”

Maya laughs, lets Chioma lead her out of the hangar and into the apartments block, blanket trailing behind her like a cloak. She picks up the edge to keep it from dragging and thinks, this is better than Venus alone.