[i]"I've had a dozen Hunters ask me why it's so hard to summon a Dusk Bow. I asked 'em what they thought of the Void, and their eyes told me everything. You can't be afraid. That's the secret. No fear."[/i] —Tevis, Log Entry 19338 Inorganic guttural sounds. The hiss of energy discharge. Radiolaria drenched hands driving a knife into a red eye. Screams. Limbs made of circuits and metal scattered across the ground like seeds that would bear no fruit. Broken images. A torn mind. These came and went when an Exo dreamed, if you could call it that. Sometimes it was more peaceful depending on who you would ask. Most others, like Iris-9, would tell the opposite. Battles. War. Worlds collapsing around everything. The tower where they were made and where they ended everyone they had ever met. Weren’t they made for war after all? Exo’s, like the Awoken on Earth, were enigma’s to humanity and themselves. Yet the three all were intertwined in a struggle that none fully comprehended. It was odd to dwell on the unknown and the extreme measures often taken to try and understand. Thanatonauts purposely dying and seeking answers, Exo’s recreating the process by firing particle beams into their skulls to dig out scattered memories. It was all so curious, all so disturbing. Iris wondered a great deal about what she was, what she had been, like most other Guardians. She was no Trinary Star cultist by any means, but there were questions she sought answers to. Questions she was afraid to ask. Being one of Ikora’s Hidden had its advantages to finding them, allowing her to travel anywhere without seeming to have an ulterior motive. She was loyal, fought the Darkness with all the Light she could bring into the world, yet how long must they battle the unknown? She wasn’t afraid, the trophies from foes she had slain were proof enough of that. She was tired. Tired of not knowing what she was, what she fought was, what everything around her was. Tired of the fighting and losing. One thing Exo’s were good at though was pushing exhaustion aside. To accomplish anything, they first had to live. Centuries after the collapse and that was still a struggle. Iris was well versed in survival when it came to eluding foes, singling them out and eliminating them. The harsh environment of Mars, however, was a foe she had not expected to be so formidable. She sat in silence inside of a darkened room of the Buried City, waiting for Cayde’s contact. There had been stories about the man, just like the tales of older legends. In times like these, it was hard to believe them all. Did Saint-14 actually cave in a Kell’s skull with a head-butt? Was this renegade Guardian she about to meet really a marksman to rival Efrideet? Some skepticism never hurt anyone. During the debriefing, Cayde had given her a list of armor calibrations his contact recommended for the scorching sands of this barren wasteland. They had proved valuable, even if a little off due to the changes being intended for a human. The tweaks had been made and now coolant was pumped into her body to combat the heat, wind guards were fitted, and a clear protective film was placed over the lens of her helmet. The [i]Ghost Angel[/i] armor set was one perfect for espionage and assassinations. Her line of work. Triple-weaved rubber-plasm, light, durable, and above all, silent. The armor itself wasn’t bulky and only covered the vital areas with extra wired plating, or along the forearms and legs. The rest was a tight camouflaged suit, shader programmable to match the surroundings. Instead of an open visor, the helmet had a large lens mounted near the forehead, capturing the view and displaying it inside the helm for her to see. The plated respirator around the mouth was shaped like a sideways [i]‘X’[/i], with the top half fluidly molding into the cheekbones and the shorter bottom half pointing outwards. Covering the headpiece was a hooded cloak, twin pieces of fabric hung down the back like a tapestry, connected by three diagonal pieces of hard leather sewn into the cloth. Embroidered along the side of the cloak was a saying, [i]“We are an army of the chosen dead.”[/i] The leather housed metal clips that held up one of her weapons, a shotgun called, [i]The Invisible Hand M7[/i]. In her lap as she sat on an old storage crate was a rifle called, [i]The Saterienne Rapier[/i]. At her side rested a silenced side arm, [i]Havoc Pigeon[/i]. A sheathe held the Exo’s most used and deadliest weapon. A knife that was a few inches longer than the standard issue, made with the same utilitarian design and materials that allowed it to be charged with Light. She called it, [i]Knife[/i]. Let the gun and armor smiths come up with nonsensical names, Iris didn’t need those. Just her Light surrounding her, bending the visible waves to hide her from sight, and an exposed throat. Or radiolarian core. All depended on what she was killing. Due to the nature of this mission, she had decided against having a heavier weapon at the ready. Worst case, Veil could transmat a launcher and synth. The Cabal were big after all. Veil, her Ghost, floated around the room as if pacing, a faint buzz among the howling winds outside. Her shell was a smooth black color and had sharp points sprouting out diagonally in a backwards angle from the center. “Where is he?” Veil asked in her motherly voice, as if worried. Iris continued to wipe the sand off her rifle and gave no response. Veil floated over to the wall and gazed out of the nearly closed metal shutters. “I’m rereading the debrief now. Done. It clearly stated that we would make contact here, at this specific room. In…excuse me, I’m bad with Martian time.” Iris only chuckled as she worked. “Oh you hush!” her Ghost scolded. “Two minutes! I don’t see anyone out there at all.” “He probably doesn’t want to be seen. I imagine he isn’t called [i]The Desert Fox[/i] for no reason.” Veil floated from the window but continued to do her equivalent of pacing. “I’m sure he’s fine,” Iris reassured. “We’re early.” Minutes passed. The remainder of what time was left was coming to an end. Veil began to count down the last few seconds. “Three, two, one-” I n the corner of the room a small squared section of the floor rose up on a hinge. Iris rolled over the crate she was previously sitting on and made a grab for her rifle, only to find a hooded Guardian climbing up from the hatch with a large hand canon already leveled at her. “No need for that.” He said, voice cold and serious. Her hand halted over her weapon, the other discreetly moving behind the cover of the crate to the side arm holstered at her hip. “You seem to need yours.” The hatch behind him closed on its own, a soft series of clicks sounded as it secured itself shut. “Unnecessary noise is something I try to avoid. One shot is all I need, not sure about you.” Iris’ eyes narrowed as slowly drew out the sidearm from cover, the rest of her frozen under gunpoint. Veil floated over. “Looks like the Fox finally came out of its den. It seems grouchy.” The Ghost teased. “I wasn’t late.” He replied, turning his head. “And grouchy?[i] Eh…[/i]” “We still were waiting on you.” The man shrugged. “Not my problem. I was monitoring the target you’re both here to help me with.” Iris sized the man up. He was of average height, thinner build. No other visible weapons on him besides a knife at his side and his gun pointed at her. She recognized the design of his armor, [i]Dustwalker[/i], because it was remarkably similar to her own. His was a more appropriate color to blend into the sand of Mars, while hers was the original bright red. The materials in his were less about stealth, focusing more on survivability in the Martian sands by having a hardened shell design with shiftwire-lining. The helmet still had the same breathing respirator as hers on the bottom. A noticeable difference on the helmet was the thin line visor instead of a seeing lens. A simple but durable cloak covered his back, sporting three plain red stripes. At first glance those appeared to be a vague symbol of the New Monarchy, but what would a renegade have to do with them? Pushing the inquiry aside, Iris’ pointed her silenced sidearm at the momentarily distracted Fox. “Drop it.” She ordered. He [i]clicked[/i] his tongue in annoyance a few times. “Let’s not tell the Cabal where we are.” “Oh this little one won’t stir the giants. You’re brains, however, would be a different story.”