A wind picks up on the Pacific Sea. The wind has no true end or beginning, but it did start. It blows over massive waves, sandy beaches, and through verdant forests. It blows over valleys and meadows, till it reaches a mountain range, dislodging a winter shrub, clinging to life. It continues to wind between cracks and crevices in the mountain, until it reaches a City. Not an abandoned one, like Chicago, or London, but a real city. The City. As it makes its way down, it passes through the Botza District, where it tugs on the robes of a Guardian, grim and tall, taking a stroll through the home of the Eliskni. But this was no ordinary Guardian, out to purchase some exotic armor piece forged by blacksmith of the Spider. This was THE Guardian. A godslayer of legendary prowess, famed for their silent, cold brutality. As he passes, he watches the insectoid creatures go about their day, and he asks himself, "How many in this district would still have their cousins, mothers, or sisters if not for me?" "How much deep, raw grief have I caused in my bloodlust?". Once, these evening strolls soothed him. Now, they bring only faces. The terrified visages of those he once called Fallen, as he tore them asunder with his bullets. More frustrated than when he began, the Young Wolf returned to his apartments in the Tower. As he sat on his bed, he scrolled through VanNet on his telecommunication device, trying to find it in him to laugh as a man tripped on a banana peel. He had not laughed for many a month, now. Those faces, they kept flashing through his mind's eye, the Fallen, Cabal, and those in the Tower he could not help when Ghaul came. Once, Ghost would have said to him "Stop brooding! You know I hate it when you brood." Perhaps he would have chuckled, then cleaned the most recent thing he turned into a gun. Ghost didn't say much of anything anymore. Not since the Witness went in the Traveller. At first, the Guardian thought, he tried to comfort him, but he knew it was futile. The very thing he and Ghost had been fighting their whole lives had just... Gone in. Like it was nothing. The most sacred thing in the universe to Ghost, his very creator, was dying, in a battle with its most ancient foe. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing anyone could do. They were expected to just sit and wait until the end of reality happened, or Crow opened a path. Young Wolf had always charged at the foe, charged to strike it down, and rid the universe of it. With every threat that came, he would do a little research, maybe find a special thing, then end the threat. But he could do nothing. It was excruciating, the sheer uselessness he felt. All he could do was sit and think about his journey, and the atrocities he had committed, simply because he could. The cruelty of it shocked him. He had always believed he was fighting for the Light, for the side of good and justice. But what if he wasn't? What if all the suffering he caused in "The name of the Light", seemed... Evil. That scared him. The possibility that he was on the wrong side tore him apart. Ghost knew, he was sure of it. But Ikora, Zavala, all those who depended on him, who counted on Him, to save the day. He was the capital G Guardian, who had always saved the City and it's people, even in the darkest times. If they saw how he crumbled, what would that mean for Humanity? As the Young Wolf pondered this, the wind came through a window, blowing all over the room, then out the window once more. It went straight to the sky, to Mars, where memories abounded...