"Alright, I don't get it. It's nice to be alive again and all, that's cool. But I don't get it. And Diss is -blam!-ing useless, man! We've been shooting at things since we woke up, I now know what space smells like, and we still have abso--blam!-ing-lutely no idea what's going on. Do I care? Do I honestly care? I dunno, jury's kinda still out on that. But I just want you all to know, I want everyone to know, that I haven't got a clue what's going on. Also, dibs on the next gun one of these jackholes drops. I think I just broke mine." This particular line of dialogue? This confused, hyper aggressive tirade? This wis par for the course. This just seems to be how the one they called [i]Ricochet[/i] communicates. I don't really like being called useless, but they've all developed this habit of speaking about me like I'm not even there. At that, they interact with most of the universe around them as though it isn't really even there. Just sort of... a collection of set pieces for whatever it is they're doing, rather than having any real context. He was shouting over the constant repeat of his own gunfire. Voice raised apparently not out of excitement for the battle they were currently in the thick of, but out of a need to be able to hear himself over the destruction he was causing. Thirty two rounds, a negligible pause to reload, and another thirty two rounds. They come from a time before field fabricated, dispensable ammo---this one in particular took to it as though he had fought with that convenience his entire life. He never stops shooting, unless he's punching something. "Right? I mean I'm not complaining. Shit needs shooting. These dudes kind of suck though. I mean shit, they've got like a billion arms---why not just hold a gun in each arm and be like [i]badadadadadadadadada[/i] instead of jumping out with this weak shit and getting domed for it all day." Their speech patterns are odd. Their way of communicating is odd. But they seemed to work well together. Ricochet had already armed and armored himself as a massive arms platform. He favored the thickest plate, the most menacing helmet, and favored volume of fire over all. He didn't seem to know how to use a gun aside from holding down the trigger and waiting to reload, and more than once I've seen him give up on bullets entirely and just take to cudgeling a target to death with what should have been his advanced tool of war. I thought the melee focused equipment of the Titans would serve him well---so long as I could keep them all alive long enough to earn enough reputation to have them outfitted correctly. The one who'd responded to him with an incorrect assessment of the number and possibilities of Fallen appendages was called Fault. They'd all had these names, which still sound curiously like code names or call signs to me, since the moment I reanimated them. They don't seem terribly concerned about recovering whatever identities they've lost from previous lives. Fault operates almost inverse of Ricochet, had immediately found a Hand Cannon to use, had soon after discovered the dangerous spacial warping capabilities of the gauntlets I'd improvised for him, and soon after that decided that what he really needed was another Hand Cannon to balance him out. He doesn't shoot as often as Ricochet does, but when he does it is from both hands and while abusing his apparent natural talents with the Light to do things like reloading while sliding between the legs of an Archon without needing to stow even one of his weapons. That was [i]not[/i] what I had in mind, honestly. I suppose his talents predispose him to the learnings of Warlocks, but I cannot not imagine his almost frantic pace and strong desire to shoot at things going over well in more studious company. I watched Ricochet vault over a railing to drop to a landing two floors below, crushing a Dreg under his armored boots. He shouldered his Auto Rifle, sprayed most of his clip into another unfortunate Fallen nearby, and I heard what was unmistakably a huff of satisfaction as it began to vent Ether from its neck and crumpled twitching backward. He then cued this thrusters to launch him in that direction, whirling to kick the corpse through the air, crashing its remnants into a startled an now onrushing comrade. This attack did nothing at all, of course. The Captain swatted the body away with its lower right arm, leveled its already charged Arc Rifle and--- Then its head evaporated into a silver puff followed by a lazily swirling spray of Ether. "You're welcome." I was surprised. Even existing in all of their armor simultaneously, I was surprised. That Captain may have been surprised. Its body fell in a manner which somehow betrayed surprise. Ricochet was not. Nor was the Guardian who took the shot. Eagle was already panning to a new target, lingering on Fault through his scope for a moment while he watched him jam both hand cannons under a Vandal's chin and fire before turning and obliterating a charging Dreg with a flick of his wrist. Eagle helped out by plucking the head off of another Dreg from his perch on the topmost level of the atrium with an eased trigger squeeze, because that is how Eagle helps. "Stole my kill!" Fault griped loudly in response. "You're. Welcome." I could hear the grin in Eagle's tone. "Diss, help me make the blinky thing stop blinking babe." The fourth voice among the chatter commented about that time. Requesting my aid---they had tripped alarms set up by the Fallen on the station. I was allowing them to thin the numbers of the most eager respondents before deploying to do my much more complex work. "My name is not 'Diss'. My name is Narrative Dissonance. Ghost One-Three-Three..." He interrupted me. This one is called Bishop. Ricochet brawls, Fault dashes and disrupts, Eagle strikes from afar, Bishop gets the objective done. "...seven, yeah yeah yeah we know. But babe, I can't stop this blinky. And we're going to call you Diss, because you diss everyone. All the time. You're a sassy little floating lantern thingy. It's cool though. I think it's cool. You're alright Diss. Now stop the doom blinky before we get doomed." He seems to feel as though he has a way with interacting with me. He doesn't. "I do not 'diss' everyone. I haven't a clue of the context there, but I will work to stop the alarm. Remain near the terminal. As I am spread between all of your armor systems, more of you nearby would speed the process." A suggestion, though they never take them. "And I have agreed to the fond moniker 'Narra' if there must be one." "Kay Diss. Get to counter blinking the blinking. Thanks babe. Also---you -blam!-ers hear that? She said [i]get the hell over here[/i] so she can stop the blinky from blinking its doom signal at everything on this floating trash can. Dude, Ricochet, where's your gun?" "I told you I broke it." Ricochet replied offhandedly. Bishop shook his head. Eagle sighed. I felt the same way, whatever those feelings conveyed. Fault was busy poking a dead Captain. "Are you going to tell us why we're here in the first place yet, Diss?" Ricochet spoke up again. "I mean this is good fun. And a hell of a view. Venus is as yellow as I thought it would be. Pretty sweet. But..." "We are here to attempt retrieval of Golden Age artifacts, Guardians." I clarified. This was not the first time I had said so. "Anything you can't manage to destroy, that is." I was trying to make a point. "Is that a challenge?" Eagle quipped in reply, as he joined Bishop and I was able to dedicate more attention to disabling the alarms. I didn't reply. I was busy, and there wasn't really a point. These weren't the Guardians I [i]wanted[/i]. They weren't here to plumb mysterious depths for knowledge, to restore the glory of the Traveler. They [i]were[/i] very good at certain other tasks, though. "The Fallen have certainly learned to improvise. It turns out that this particular orbital installation was designed as a defense platform. Rendered inoperative during the collapse. The Fallen are attempting to re purpose it in order to create a definitive foot hold on Venus against the Vex. And Guardians, of course." I had spread through many of the station's systems, and learned. I did still hold out hope for recovering something useful. But Fallen acquiring orbital bombardment capabilities... "Chyeah boy. Current weather on Venus is...toxic with a chance of orbital strike." Fault commented immediately. They all laughed. They didn't seem to care about the possibly disastrous implications. "Looks like a problem we can solve. Diss, get us a map." He sounded eager at this point. "...alright." I, of course, haven't much choice but to go along and attempt to help them survive. "... armory ten levels down. Fallen seem to be attempting access as well. A Warmind has kept them out of other systems, so they've given up on the direct approach." It was supposed to warn them away from this course of action. It didn't. With the air in the atrium still stinking of vented Ether, they reloaded and descended further into the station.