Hunters, more than most Guardians, have their quirks. They all tend to have capes and carry knives, and are very quick on their feet... and that's about all they have in common. Her quirk was hand cannons. Plenty of Hunters used them, and some were renowned for them - Cayde-6 and his Ace of Spades, and Shin Malphur and his Last Word. But she didn't just carry one. She never left the Tower with less than three - one at each hip, and one on her back like the Warlocks typically carried theirs. Sometimes she included two more, holstered in a bandolier across her chest. And they came in all sorts of varieties - rapid fire, explosive rounds, kinetic or energy... and a couple of them, people didn't like to think where or how she got them. And she could use any one of them at the drop of a hat. Using them was something she was doing a lot of lately... and so was leaving the Tower. She wasn't sure if all of her fellow Hunters shared in her feelings since Cayde's murder; she liked to think ("hope" being too loaded a word these days) that they did. Few other Guardians understood this listlessness, this despondency. But then, their Vanguards weren't dead... and after all this time, still no one had stepped forward to replace Cayde - because no one could, and she often thought that deep down, every Hunter knew it. The remaining Vanguard's passivity after his death had not helped any, either, although rumors were that Ikora had been as thirsty for Uldren Sov's blood as the one who had eventually killed him. Not that it mattered. She still sat in the damn Tower all day, directing her little peons to do her bidding, while Zavala contented himself with huddling in his armor like a scared turtle. That had been his entire M.O. ever since the Red War, and she had no patience with it. Yes, the high and mighty Vanguard had lost their Light to Ghaul's infernal machine, as had all the other Guardians... but of the three Vanguards, Cayde had been the only one to put aside whatever fear of death he had and try to [i]do[/i] something. And now he was dead, and they weren't... and they patted themselves on the back for it. There were the memorials in the Tower, naturally - a picture of Cayde in the ramen shop, an Ace of Spades plaque on the overlook where Zavala practiced his statue impression... just the Vanguard's way of upholding his memory while spitting on it at the same time, so far as she was concerned. Her own circle of friends had dwindled since, too. Nearly all of the Guardians she'd worked with had fallen, either during the Red War or in the time since. As for those who remained... she had only brought up her feelings of listlessness to them once, just before they had left for the Moon. Ediren, typical of Titans that he had too much metal where his brain should have been (doubly so for being an Exo), had scoffed, saying that they were Guardians and had work to do, and no time for self-pity. He didn't understand what she felt. Nemiya had been far more tactful, but the look in the Warlock's glowing blue eyes had told her plenty even before the words came out: "We can't lose hope, Nyssha. Too many people depend on us." She didn't understand, either. [i]Damn them,[/i] she thought. [i]Damn them all.[/i] She spent less and less time in the Tower after that. She didn't have to go to the Moon to confront nightmares; she carried hers with her while she blasted through whatever beasts - Taken or otherwise - the old man put out in these matches of his. He often talked about how the Light just caused conflict back during the Dark Age; seeing all the forces of destruction that had come for the Traveler in recent years, she began to wonder if he was right. Which was why, on those rare occasions she [i]did[/i] return to the Tower... it was to see him. "Well, well, if it ain't the walkin' arsenal. Still got half the handguns in the Solar System strapped to ya, eh?" He laughed. "Itchin' for a fight, sister?" "Set me up and set me loose," was all she said.