RECORD 343-CHASM-7891 Forty-seven human subjects; [b]eleven report timelines in which the Darkness has already prevailed[/b], [i]thirteen report timelines in which the City has [b]fallen[/b][/i]. [u]Twenty-three babbled madness. Hopeless. Trapped.[/u] No wonder the Device was abandoned. The human mind is too weak for it. Too weak to look into the Future, or to understand what it sees. [b][i]What the situation calls for, little Ghost, is a better sort of witness. We found you in pieces in Siberia, and repaired you as well as we could.[/i][/b][spoiler]external observations on reality??? Osiris???[/spoiler] What do you say? Are you well enough to travel? END RECORD

[spoiler]even when the Concordat claimed to have records proving you were a Golden Age experiment mis-incarnated as a human by an inept Ghost.[/spoiler] [spoiler]And then it got worse, dabbling in thanatonautics, Ahamkara-lore, chasing after Xur and the tricks of the Nine. Launching expeditions into the Reef and beyond at a time when ships were irreplaceable. Your quest split Guardians along ideological lines. This was your greatest crime: Hunters chose to pursue your visions instead of protecting refugees, Titans assembled teams to chase the legendary Vault of Glass instead of striking the Fallen, and Warlocks turned away from the study of the Traveler in favor of your ultimate obsession... learning the exact nature of the Darkness.[/spoiler]

RECORD 0-CHASM-52 I heard you, my love. I was at six, oscillating on the event axis, coordinated with a known manifold. I heard you. You were talking to me — not me, but another me, another Maya Sundaresh. You said, my love, so many strange things have happened, and it’s been so long. We’ve come so far. Do you ever want to go home? And I said, not me but the other me, I said, my love, I am always home. I’m resigning, my love. I’m done with this work and I’m done with being apart from you. I’ll see you again soon. I can’t take this journal out with me, so I’ve left it for the others, and asked them to continue the log. Maybe it’ll become a tradition. The gospel of our little cult.