Chapter Two - Escape They ran through the underground complex, Verloren leading the way as best he could from what he could remember of the blueprints. The effects of the Servitor’s teleportation had mostly worn off now but he still felt weak and drained. He forced his body onwards through the dusty, dimly lit corridors, promising himself recovery time afterwards. Once we get back to the Last City, he swore to himself, we’ll get this thing into Jalaal’s hands and then we can rest. “The Kell is almost certainly still here,” rumbled the Titan alongside him. Its feet pounded the floor with a volume that made Verloren wince. Stealth was out the window, sure, but there was no need to let every Fallen in King’s Watch know exactly where they were. They could still make it out of this alive. “We should track him down and engage him,” the Titan concluded. Or not, Verloren thought. “I cannot recommend that course of action,” said Tyr’s Ghost. “We are woefully outgunned and unprepared.” “I must avenge our brothers and sisters of the Bright Fist.” Verloren thought the Titan would probably be gritting its teeth if it had any. There was a strain in its voice. “To attempt to do so now would only result in your death,” said the Ghost. “The Bright Fist do not run,” growled Tyr. “Maybe that’s why they died,” said Verloren, matter-of-factly. Tyr snarled and skidded to a halt, twisting at the waist to grab the Hunter. One hand closed around Verloren’s throat and hauled him from his feet to slam him against the wall. There’s that speed again. I need to remember that. Good thing I’m fast too. Verloren’s knife as at the Titan’s throat before his back had touched the wall. “We don’t have time for this,” advised Verloren’s Ghost. “I agree,” said Verloren. “So you should probably put me down.” He avoided the temptation to add ‘before I cut your big dumb head off’. “You are honourless!” the Titan hissed the word as though it were the deepest curse. “I’ve never seen honour save a life,” Verloren replied. “But it’s cost thousands.” “Tyr,” said the Titan’s Ghost. “We must return to Commander Zavala immediately. He needs to know the strength of this Kell of Kings and that the Ghosts of the slain Guardians were taken. The mission parameters have changed.” The Titan’s grip loosened a little and self-conflict became evidence in its body-language. It wanted to stay and seek vengeance, even if it meant death, but to do so contravened its duty as a Guardian. Veloren was glad he didn’t have any such moral quandaries. “Fine,” the Exo snarled as it released him. “We go to Zavala. But I WILL be on the Fireteam that returns to purge this place.” And I will be far, far out of the way when that happens, thought Verloren. “Let’s just get out of here,” he said out loud. “Before-” Gunfire interrupted his sentence and he threw himself to the ground as shrapnel tore the wall where he’d been standing to pieces. “Ghost!” he barked. “They must have worked out we were listening in on their comms,” the Ghost explained. Verloren rolled to his feet and returned fire before Blinking through an open doorway into one of the corridor’s rooms. The facility had been equipped with a military-style living quarters for its staff and Verloren now found himself in one of the dormitories. Dusty bunks lined the walls. The only way out was the way he’d come in. He looked back into corridor where the gunfire continued. The Titan had ducked into the room opposite. It had refused to arm itself with the weapons of the Fallen and so was still bare-handed. Its massive fists clenched and unclenched as it tried to work out how to close the gap between itself and the enemy without getting shot to pieces. A Fallen Captain, flanked by Vandals, and none of them with the slightest appreciation for ammo conservation. “This corridor is the only way out,” Verloren’s Ghost said, as though reading his mind. “I know that, thank you,” the Hunter replied irritably. The path through the living quarters led to an external yard, originally used for recreational time by the workers that ran this place during the Golden Age. “OK,” said Verloren, steadying himself with a breath. “Time to try something drastic. Ghost, I need my Sparrow.” The Ghost bobbed in the air. “I can attempt to summon it from the ship but there is still interference from the dust storm,” the little machine said. “What would happen if it doesn’t work?” “Possibly nothing at all. Possibly the Sparrow will explode. There is a possibility the interference will result in it arriving at an unintended destination.” “Right, so still too risky to try Ghosting us out. OK, give it a try.” The Ghost bobbed again and sections of its metal casing whirred around. There was a faint hum and the slight sound of static before the Sparrow materealised in a soft glow of light. “It appears I was successful,” the Ghost noted. Verloren mounted up, the Sparrow dipping slightly in the air but remaining suspended just less than foot off the ground even with his weight. The engine purred into life at his request. The panels had been painted in matte blacks and greys, all the better to remain unseen as it sped across the landscape. He’d chosen the model specifically for specifically for its sleek look and high speed. So long as he could get out of these buildings, he could lose the Fallen, dust storm or no. Even their fastest Pikes wouldn’t catch him. “The S-22 Nomad is a single person vehicle,” the Ghost reminded him. “What’s your point?” Verloren grunted, already well aware of what his Ghost’s point was. “We are to abandon the Titan?” “You said it yourself: this only carries one. Can you think of a way to get us both out?” The Ghost fell silent. “I didn’t think so,” said Verloren. He wheeled the Sparrow around to face the doorway. He was still going to be riding into fire but the element of surprise and the speed of the Nomad should carry him through. He hoped. He might even run a couple of the bastards down. From the doorway opposite, the Exo regarded him. He saw it exchange words with its Ghost but couldn’t hear them over the gunfire. He saw the Titan’s Ghost weave in the air, the same movement his made when delivering bad news. They had failed to ‘port in their own Sparrow. For a moment he wondered how similar the Ghosts were, these little scraps of the Traveler. Did they have their own personalities or did they just learn behaviours from their Guardians? The Exo looked at him again. Its face-plates didn’t move; it couldn’t form expressions, but Verloren saw the hopelessness creep over its shoulders. He’d seen it before. This was par for the course for all Guardians. Sooner or later, everyone faced their last stand. The Exo rolled its shoulders and Verloren could almost see its resolve firming up. The Titan was prepared to face its end. Of course it is, Verloren thought, looking away. Last stands are what Titans are for. It’s every one of their legends. He looked again and in his mind he saw the Titan crashing down on the Servitor. It didn’t do that to save me. It did it because it loves to fight. Another, smaller voice in his head whispered: How many more will you leave to die? He revved the Sparrow but didn’t engage the thrusters. His Ghost hovered into view, managing to look reproachful despite having no facial features. “Shut up,” he told it. “Damn it,” he cursed a second later. He leapt from the Sparrow smoothly and gave it a mighty shove, sending it rolling forwards on its anti-gravs, through the doorway and across the hall to the Exo. The machine-man tilted its head in questioning but Verloren ignored it, drawing his knives and bowing his head instead. He turned his will inwards and called to the Light, to the power gifted him by the Traveler. He called on the lightning. “Stay close!” he shouted to the Titan as his knives began to cackle and spit, arcs of blue lightning spraying from the blades. He tensed. Then he sprinted into the corridor. The Fallen were gathered less than twenty metres away, having advanced under the cover of their own fire. Two Blinks took him across the distance and denied their gunfire any chance of hitting him. He was alive with power now. He felt it thrumming through his muscles, sparking across his synapses. He was a blur by the time he hit them. The first strike cut clean through the target’s throat, from midway across the front all the way back to the spinal cord. The next severed two Fallen limbs like a precision laser through soft cheese. The Vandal barely had time to register the pain before the next cut took off the top half of its skull. Verloren danced his way through their ranks, a deadly spectre, untouchable and inescapable. Wherever they struck, he was no longer there. For him, the world moved in slow motion. He was unstoppable. He was immortal. He was bottled lightning. So sharp were his cuts that many of the Fallen did not realise they were dead at first, registering surprise instead of pain as the Arc-light burned them to ashes. The Captain surged forward, driven to fury by the realisation that his end had come. He was a scarred and war-marked creature, a veteran of his people, an Elder. He had doubtless faced Guardians in battle before, but few had seen the blade-dance and lived. He levelled his Shrapnel Launcher at the Hunter with a fearsome cry, pulling the trigger. He hit only Veloren’s after image and felt nothing as the Hunter’s blades criss-crossed his chest, searing through armour and laying him open. He screamed as his body burned away, floating apart like ash in a fire-storm. Verloren sheathed his knives as the power faded. His breathing was heavy from exhilaration and his heart hammered. He hated the feeling. For him it represented a lack of control, something that his master had tried to beat out of him at every opportunity.