Ambition’s End: https://docs.google.com/document/d/15ew1g89oxjEj5mZRFvv94Ht2Td6lVWkc-Lk7nwplUgg Tales of a Mars Sentry: https://docs.google.com/document/d/144IRfDG9AviY3S_e_URepsj3FbaLAzJpj_SnYMs1qaI Hi there. I’m the author of another series, Tales of a Mars Sentry. Ambition’s End is based off of the characters here, but you don’t have to have read it to understand Ambition’s End. Without further ado, here we go. I hope #lore doesn’t murder me. [b]Prologue[/b] His name was Saiph. He didn’t know what his real name was, but “Saiph” was good enough. He and his mechanical friend had come up with it together the moment he was rezzed, so it had to be special, in a way. His ghost had a knack for trivial matters. Saiph made do on his own for a while, building himself a suitable reputation. Though there was something about his work that unsettled him at times. Perhaps it was the fact that he worked alone, or that he wasn’t sure what he’d accomplish. He never let it trouble him too much, though. He kept at his patrols and expeditions, slowly improving and growing. Everything changed when he was approached by a titan that would change his life: Zahir-2. He couldn’t remember exactly what had happened the day he was offered a role on the titan’s scouting team, but it had filled him with determination. From his very first strike operation, a new vigor had entered his mind. He owed it all to Zahir. If he hadn’t joined, he would never have known the value of camaraderie. He would never really have had fun as a guardian, as much fun one could get from their line of work. He assumed he would still be on his own, in the Cosmodrome somewhere, or perhaps the EDZ, collecting scraps from his enemies to send to the city. Saiph had never been one to express himself. He thought to himself often that he needed to show his gratitude in words. He had to repay Zahir somehow. And that’s why he couldn’t die. Not now. Saiph, laying on his back, finished with his pondering. He ran his hand down to his belt. He felt at a knife. His last knife. A creeping dreg stepped through the shadowy veil that the blight surrounding them exuded. Its four eyes met the hunter, causing it to click in excitement. It believed Saiph was down and out for the count, or hurt beyond his capacity to fight. That was the dreg’s first mistake. Saiph pushed himself up with both arms, plunging his knife into the surprised dreg’s neck. His movements were slow due to the blight, but he worked around it. The dreg, leaking ether, fell to the ground, prompting a booming roar from another Fallen deeper in the cave. The cave he was in posed an odd question itself. Saiph wondered to himself: why was he in a cave? Why was there blight? He was sure he had been in a Fallen lair… He felt at the rock surrounding him, unsure of its color due to the blight’s desaturation of everything around it. He felt his fingers meet the ridges of a spiral shaped fossil. He had to be on Io, but how he had ended up on another world was beyond him. He went back to the dreg and knelt, examining its cloth. No use. He couldn’t make out its colors either, but they weren’t dark enough to be purple. Odd. His confusion was interrupted by the sound of a small device being thrown near him. He looked down to his left. A small, cylindrical object had made its way near him, clattering as it rolled along the rock. It burst open, sending a mysterious black substance into the air. It curled within the tendrils of the blight, making the air even thicker. Saiph felt the gas tear away at his body. He weighed his options: He could stay where he was, or move out of the room he was in, facing inevitably more Fallen. Before he could decide, he heard the tight, stringy noise of a wire rifle being charged, and saw its bright blue energy building up like a beacon from the darkness beyond the room he was in. The hunter’s head slammed against the ground. The impact ringed through his skull, sending him into a daze. The wire rifle shot had pierced his side. It stung, more than any other rifle the Fallen had used on him. He clutched his side, writhing in agony. He could barely see through all of the black wisps that danced across his visor. The blight. The gas. It was too much. He had no choice. Regular regeneration speed wouldn’t cut it. He summoned his ghost out of desperation, shielding it with his body. Its familiar pyramidal shape pressed against the fiber covering on his stomach. He heard a large Fallen make his way over, likely the bearer of the wire rifle. The footsteps were heavy, grinding pebbles into dust with each step. It had to be at least Archon sized. He had to hurry. “Quick. I need my side repaired, now!” He whispered, but he realized it was futile. No blessings of the light made their way to him through the layers of oppression he was under, instilled by the blight and the mysterious gas coating the area. His vision became even more clouded. That Fallen was really going to kill him. He dragged himself across the floor. He shivered. He could feel the blight licking at his wound like a poison, as if mocking his condition. His ears were filled with the ominous pulsating of darkness. He felt three claws grasp his shoulder. “No-” He was flipped onto his back. An array of symmetrical red lights swept into view, peering at him through the darkness that covered his vision. An archon’s helmet. He was right, but it was a helmet that no Dusk Archon bore. There was no mistake. He was face to face with Tivik, Guardian Killer. The hunter saw a warlock bond adorned arm come into view and go past his head, grasping his ghost. Tivik tapped the shuddering ghost across the canisters lining his bandolier playfully, spinning the back half of the shell. He wouldn’t lose his ghost like this. Saiph brought himself to sit up with the last of his energy. Tivik looked down on the hunter, taking his attention away from his new toy, amused. Saiph weakly raised his sidearm. He could barely see, but all he needed to do was aim for the red lights that signalled where Tivik’s head was. The Fallen laughed, breaking Saiph’s arm with a swift blow from his lower fist. The sidearm clattered to the ground, far beyond him. As Saiph fell back down in pain, Tivik tossed the ghost into the air, blasting it with a mysterious weapon. It let out a crack that echoed through the hunter’s ears and rang off of the walls. His ghost was shattered with a single shot. Saiph felt his ghost’s death, both inside of him and physically, as a part of the dead ghost fell upon his stomach. He felt sick. However, the loss of his light was not the only thing bringing him down. Tivik knew he had completely and utterly defeated the hunter, and gloated on it. He didn’t let it get to him. He couldn’t see anymore. His eyes were trapped in a swirling maelstrom of shadow. Tivik laughed. Twisted and maniacally for a Fallen. The hunter’s affinity for reading one’s voice and expression were, sadly, last used to read the Guardian Killer’s deep, guttural chuckles, which conveyed that of a broken, lost soul. He didn’t care for whatever this Fallen had gone through, though. He began to put together the pieces on how he’d ended up here. How Tivik laid the perfect trap for his assassinations. He had to tell someone. He needed to let a guardian know how Tivik operated before another died. He needed to talk to Zahir. Saiph sighed, his breathing erratic. He was done for. He couldn’t feel, see, or hear. He’d been bested by only the most cunning of Fallen. Figures. He’d spent most of his life doing the same to them. He closed his eyes, waiting for the end that Tivik’s wire rifle would bring.