The world was dying.
Years before, mankind had come to this cold, arid world in search of a strange entity. It had turned out to be a benevolent, wandering god, and had ushered in this age of wonders and prosperity. The dead world where humanity had met it had been colonized. Sprawling cities had grown on its surface, and one of the proudest was the city of Freehold. Its citizens knew that, even with the miracles performed to make the red planet viable, theirs was a taxing path, making a life for themselves here. But they had pushed back the rusty sands, and birthed miracles of their own. Freehold had become the Gem of Mars.
But all good things come to an end. No one was quite sure what was going on. There were hostile forces assaulting the Earth, Venus, and every other world that mankind had claimed. The system-wide communications network was in tatters. The Martian Defense Forces were scrambling to respond to the threat. Charlemagne was coordinating their efforts, but with every passing hour, more and more of the warmind's satellites were being shot out of orbit. The MDF were giving as good as they got, but the enemy seemed to have an unending supply of soldiers willing to march into the fury of their guns, as if willing to drown the defenders in a tide of dead bodies.
It had often been said of Sergei Bolvan that he had been born in the wrong time period, and to the wrong ethnicity. That instead of being the scion of Russian colonists and engineers, he should have been a Scandinavian Viking, charging off of a longboat with a war axe in hand, his two-meter frame a nightmare of fury and fire. Sergei's interests lay in competitive drive and anything that would get the adrenaline pumping. First, football and rugby had provided it, but after finally leading the Freehold Diamonds to the Solar Rugby League Cup, a knee injury had ended his career. Medical science would allow him to walk, with one of Clovis Bray's finest replacement joints, but the league's regulations prohibited his playing with an artificial joint. The nearest thing that would satiate Sergei's adrenaline fix was the MDF. His unflinching resolve and ferocity had gotten him pushed up the ranks to sergeant, and soon he was charged with whipping the raw recruits into the kind of soldiers that their planet required.
Now, with this alien menace stomping onto his planet, Sergei was in the element he'd always been searching for his entire life. He barked his company into position and got them lined up, unleashing a deadly fusillade of ballistic and energy fire, against which no enemy could stand. And one by one, the brutish enemies fell to it. Sergei fired off his rifle, and saw one attacker's helmet burst from the ring seal around its neck. With a gush of compressed air and oily fluid, the enemy was left clutching at its throat, choking and finally collapsing in a heap. Sergei exulted in the sight, as the attackers backed off a few steps, and he let out a roar of laughter, firing a burst from his hip. But the stricken alien's fellows just marched right over its body and kept coming.
Worse, this new line of attackers swung heavy shields down and planted them in a line in front of them, against which the defenders' fire did nothing. The shield-bearers poked their own weapons over the lip of their shields and fired blindly, forcing Sergei and the MDF forces to get behind cover of their own. Sergei risked glancing into that fire, and saw a fresh wave of alien attackers suddenly launch themselves over the heads of their protectors on jump jets. One of them, its armor more elaborate than some of the others, landed in front of Sergei's commander. Commander Tiller rose and unleashed a final volley of fire into the alien commander's chest, but it barely seemed to faze the eight-foot-tall monster, who pounded Tiller to the ground with the butt of its rifle, making a crunch that sickened those who heard it.
The alien commander bellowed something to its fellows, and around them, the MDF were scattering. One by one, the enemy were cutting them down with the heavy slugs their guns fired, or simply smashed them aside with contemptuous ease. The alien commander turned its head, the brush-like fan on its helmet stirring in the Martian winds, as it surveyed the work its soldiers were doing. But then it turned as it heard the barking of Sergei's rifle. Another alien went down with a booming grunt, and Sergei was laughing as he ducked under a retaliatory swing from another huge alien. He fired his rifle into its leg as he went past, bringing it down to the ground. He mounted its back and with a mighty thrust of his rifle stock, smashed the back of the armor seal at its neck. He jumped back as the burst of gas and oil fountained out, leaving the enemy soldier choking on the streets.
Sergei turned and saw another alien, this one far smaller, smaller than most humans, extend a hand toward him. It snarled something in its alien tongue, and seemed to briefly float in the air. Before he could wonder what this meant, a rippling surge of energy caught him in the chest, propelling him back into a wall. As he lurched away from the point of impact, he tasted blood, but Sergei just grinned, laughing again. The small alien shouldered its own weapon, but before it could fire, Sergei's shot caught it in the throat. It went tumbling backward like a shattered marionette. Another brutish alien lumbered toward him, but Sergei pumped a flurry of fire into its helmet, crumpling it until gas and oil gushed from the holes.
"Come on then, ublyudki!" he roared, teeth stained red with blood. Another pair of the aliens stomped toward him, but then their commander bellowed them back. Sergei stood up as the commander slowly approached him, a smile on his face. There were some things that translated across the cultural barrier. Honorable single combat, it would be. At some unspoken signal, human and alien rushed each other.
For all its towering size, the alien commander was faster than he looked. It closed the distance sooner than expected, but Sergei dropped and slid between its legs, firing as he went, but the commander's armor was thicker down there, and no damage was left. It was already whirling around to face him as Sergei rose, and he had to drop again, backwards, to avoid the whip of its rifle butt. It was already on him, and its fist simply thrust downward, breaking his rifle in half. He rolled away as it tried to stomp on him, and came up with Tiller's shotgun. Impossibly, Sergei was still laughing as he did, feeling the rush of adrenaline in his veins.
He was still laughing as the commander shrugged off the spray of his shotgun.
He was still laughing as it swatted away the shotgun with its own weapon, then revealed a fold-out blade on its gauntlet.
He was still laughing as the blade was thrust up through his ribs, crunching bone and collapsing lungs.
He was still laughing as it lifted him up on the blade, as the edge emerged from his back.
He was still laughing as his life's blood poured onto the commander's helmet.
He was still laughing as he raised the shotgun for one last, ineffectual blast into its face.
He was still laughing as the commander dropped him on the pavement, and as his life faded at last.
And thus was the end of Sergei Bolvan's first life.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
"Guardian? Eyes up, Guardian."
He awoke from under choking sands. The air was dusty, thin, and smelt of rust. He looked around, seeing half-buried skeletons and ruined buildings of a city that had clearly once been a beacon, a bastion of civilization. He looked up at the floating, faceted ball that stared at him, and heard it prattle on as he took stock of himself. He wore an old uniform, which a cursory inspection showed to be a better-repair version of the one worn by the skeletons nearby. Patches on the uniforms proclaimed them 'Martian Defense Forces.' He felt something around his neck and dug out an old set of dog-tags, gleaming. 'BOLVAN, Sergei Andreivich. CID 23876-AQ0. Freehold, Sect. 6-V0.'
He listened as the metal ball-- his Ghost, he learned-- explained a few things he needed to know, while he tried to remember what had happened before his Ghost woke him up, but there was nothing. The name on his dogtag rang true, as did the uniform he wore. They felt familiar, but why they were familiar escaped him. The name of the ruined city he stood in, that was familiar, too, and knew from the dog-tags that this must have been his home. But there was nothing else. From what the Ghost told him, he, Sergei, had been killed, but thanks to 'the Light,' the Ghost had been able to bring him back, because mankind needed people like him to help protect it.
"Come on," the Ghost called. "We need to get going. We're deep in the Cabal Exclusion Zone here, and if they spot us, they'll..." It trailed off, glanced at him, then finished, "...well, let's just not get caught. Grab a weapon."
There were some rifles nearby. Sergei found one in good repair and scavenged ammunition from the rest. There was also a shotgun, near where he'd risen. There were only a couple of shots left in it, but it was better than nothing. He slung its strap over his shoulder before jogging off after the Ghost. The empty city, for all its familiarity, felt oppressive, haunting. There were dead things here, he knew. More skeletal remains such as his erstwhile colleagues behind him, possibly other mummified things locked away in forgotten rooms and buried buildings. Sergei didn't like it. Just from the sight of the wreckage around him, he knew that this city must have once been a wonder to behold, and seeing it reduced to this was more than just heart-rending. It filled him with a rage.
"We need to get up to that tower," the Ghost was saying, looking up at one spire that still stood proud, almost defiant. "It'll be risky, but it's the only way I can be sure we can tap into the old sat-feeds and get word out to the City. Who knows? If there's another Guardian nearby, they might be able to give us a lift off-world." Sergei just nodded, taciturn as he climbed over a rusted air-car with a family of skeletons locked inside.
The approach to the tower was uneventful, but he hunkered behind a wall as he saw movement near its base. Peeking out, he saw a squadron of bulky bipeds marching in formation. The Ghost floated near his shoulder. "The Cabal control the entire planet," it whispered. "Eight feet tall, nine hundred pounds, and highly militarized." Sergei glanced at it, and the Ghost just bobbed a nod. "They kill or conquer everything in their path, but mankind halted them here, at least."
Sergei smiled at that. He got the impression that a lot had happened between whenever the MDF had fallen and now, but knowing that his people had stopped this alien threat from marching over everything, that was a point of pride in mankind's favor. As he watched the Cabal march, he again felt a tickle of familiarity, but specifics evaded them. One of the alien soldiers must have killed him, perhaps. But seeing them also caused a stirring inside of him, a tingling urge to get out there and put foot to backside and kick these aliens off his world.
He soon got his chance. With the Ghost cloaked invisible beside him, he stealthily approached until he slammed into cover against a rusted vehicle hulk. He hit it too hard, causing it to give a metallic groan. As one, the Cabal pivoted around to the noise, and at a bellow from their Centurion, the Legionaries opened fire. Digging into cover, Sergei felt another familiar tickle in his brain, but this one required no memory to recognize. The surge of adrenaline and the rush of danger... it brought a fierce smile to his lips, and soon he was laughing. This. This was what his Ghost had brought him back for.
He listened for the waning of fire, the unmistakable pause that signaled a reload, and then Sergei lunged out of cover, snapping his rifle up and firing at the Legionaries. Bullets found their mark against helmets and ring seals, and he heard a rush of air and fluid splatter out as the enemy tumbled to the ground, choking and dying. The Centurion looked taken aback, retreating toward the doorway, bellowing for its comrades. Sergei paused to reload, and saw two shield-bearing Cabal lumber forward, raising their defenses in the doorway. "Phalanxes," his Ghost told him. "Don't bother trying to penetrate their shields!"
He took cover behind a column as the Phalanxes fired over their shields in his direction. He felt the tingle in his nerves again, and as he took in a breath, exulting in the rush of combat, the Ghost spoke again. "Reach out to the Light! Use it!" He wondered for a moment what it meant, but then there was a sensation of... something he would spend the rest of his life trying to explain to anyone that asked. It was energy, but it was something more. It was like he could feel light, but it was more than just that. It was electrical, it was fire, it was the space between the stars, it was everything, and it was like nothing he'd ever experienced.
He drew upon that power, feeling it take shape in his hand. Crackling blue lightning coalesced and he flung it instinctively toward the gap above the Phalanxes' shields. He heard their roars of alarm, and then there was a crack of thunder and a flash, the shields falling away to show the soldiers collapsing in blue-tinged ash. The Centurion bellowed again and opened fire on him, but Sergei charged from his cover toward the door, weaving between the slugs as he opened fire from his rifle. Two more Cabal Legionaries dropped into view, and he was laughing in the thrill of it all as he stopped to shift his fire to them instead.
He was still laughing as the Centurion trudged forward again to engage him.
He was still laughing when it pounded him over the head with one massive fist.
He was still laughing when he hit the floor, pain flashing in his eyes, blood in his mouth.
He was still laughing when the Centurion stood over him and brought its boot down with finality.
And thus was the end of Sergei Bolvan's second life.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Then the pain inverted, and he sat up with a gasp, feeling the indescribable sensation of the Light in his veins again. He looked up to see the Centurion pause mid-stride away from him, turning back to see him getting back to his feet. Sergei looked at himself, felt his head, and the fading taste of blood in his mouth, and saw his Ghost briefly looking at him before vanishing into its cloak again. The Cabal Centurion saw this, and its bellow rang even louder in the empty lobby of the spire as it thundered toward him again. Sergei realized, as he grabbed his shotgun, that here, at last, he had what he had been longing for his entire life-- even the life he no longer remembered. Endless combat.
He roared with laughter as he met the Centurion's advance with a fist charged with stormfire. As lightning coursed along its armor and drove it back, he swung the shotgun up, blasting its helmet off point-blank range. Foul air and stinking oil splashed across his face as the hulking brute choked in the thin Martian air, and with another peal of laughter, Sergei kicked it to the floor. He reclaimed his rifle and waited for the rest of the Cabal to respond, but none were forthcoming, and he felt disappointment.
He let the Ghost talk, filling him in on history since "the Collapse," while he divested the Centurion of its armor. It would be too large to fit even his massive frame, but it was better than the paltry MDF armor he currently wore. He managed to strap the chest plate onto his body and clamped its gauntlets on as the Ghost told him of the threats that plagued mankind-- the militaristic Cabal, scavenger pirates dubbed the Fallen, unfathomable machines called the Vex, and the genocidal monsters known as the Hive-- and how humanity now huddled beneath the dormant Traveler on Earth, within the walls of the Last City. He scrounged up energy cells that the Ghost said it could synthesize into more ammo clips for his guns, and then finally approached the massive lift that would take him to the top of the spire.
When he arrived at the top, there were more Cabal forces there. He fought through them, and the air was filled with the sound of thunder and his exultation as he cut them down, one by one. More than once, they managed to kill him, and each time, his Ghost revived him, bringing him back in a flash of Light and a roar of laughter. By the third time the Cabal shot him down, they were retreating toward their drop ships at the sound of that laugh. He lunged across the broken, ruined peak of the spire, bringing his fists down in a crash of lightning, vaporizing another squad, as the remainder retreated on their ship.
As it did, however, Sergei caught sight of a solitary Cabal soldier standing on its ramp. Its armor was more ornate than the others, with a spreading crest of currybrush adorning its helmet. Its expression was unreadable as the ship pulled away, but Sergei could swear it looked surprised to see him. In the time to come, Sergei would come to know that commander. Valus Dra'aut was a commander of the Cabal's Dirt Pounders, a detachment from the Sand Eaters, tasked with occupying Freehold. In time, Dra'aut would rise to the rank of Bracus, and would encounter Sergei multiple times, though neither human nor alien would manage to slay the other. Here and now, Sergei just grinned after the retreating Cabal and raised his fists in the air, whooping his triumph.
Not too long after, the Ghost had managed to patch into the sat-feeds and broadcast a distress call. While they waited, Sergei rummaged through the Cabal's corpses for more ammo and loot. He wrenched a helmet off of another Centurion, painstakingly cleaning out the gore and oil within, while looking out over the sprawling cityscape below. Sand buried so much of it, and what wasn't buried showed the signs of the conquest ages ago. When the helmet was clean enough for him to try wearing it, two ships swooped out of the dusky skies. These were unlike the Cabal's ships, and his Ghost hailed them. "Those are from the City," it told him. "More Guardians. They'll get us back to the Tower."
And so, he was brought back to the Tower, in the Last City, where he would distinguish himself against all of mankind's enemies. It mattered not to him whether who they were, he reveled in the battle. Fallen, Vex, Hive, Cabal, or other Guardians in the Crucible-- they all fell in battle to him, as the last thing they heard was his booming laugh. Sergei Bolvan, the Laughing Titan, was a wall, every bit as solid and proud as the one which protected the City.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Now, the skies were filled with screaming. The shriek of the Red Legion's engines overhead. The howl of the City's defenders fighting them. And the cries of despair and terror from the people. Sergei had been in the entertainment districts, swapping tales with fellow Guardians and City Militia when the attack struck. Seeing the Tower erupt and crumble under the surprise onslaught, hearing the alarms going off, galvanized everyone into action. Sergei bellowed orders to the Militia, charging them with seeing to evacuation and protecting the citizens, then called to his fellow Guardians to do everything they could to protect the civilians as well.
There had been many such drills over the long years. Ever since the Twilight Gap, the City knew that one day an enemy force might breach the Wall. In their triumph over the forces of darkness that had plagued mankind, they had grown somewhat complacent, but no one forgot how this went. He herded people toward the shuttles and trucks that would ferry them to safety, but all around him, missiles blew apart buildings and flames engulfed everything. A few Cabal drop-pods crashed to the pavement, but Sergei met them with fire from his auto rifle. He called to his Ghost, "Can you get me my Gjallarhorn? I have a feeling I'll be needing it!"
"I can't!" his companion wailed. "The transmat system is down, and I can't even raise the Tower Vault!"
Sergei shrugged and reached back to feel the stock of his trusty shotgun on his back. That, at least, was always with him. It was as much a part of him as anything could be. Gifted to him from the stock of the Vanguard, he'd customized it as best he could over the years. The old Exo gunsmith at the Tower had dubbed it 'The Comedian' in his honor. Sergei nodded as he felt it there, and squared his shoulders. He would make do with the weapons he had.
He ferried a family through the alleys toward the last of the trucks the sector had. More civilians huddled as they filed onto a repurposed bus for evac. Sergei stood guard, his helmeted gaze sweeping over the avenues of approach. But there was really only one the Cabal could use from ground level, that was why this place was chosen for an evac rally point. Overhead, he could see a massive Cabal ship, like some blasphemous metal star, attaching itself to the gleaming white surface of the Traveler.
Static crackled over his comm. "Bolvan," came the voice of the Hunter Rega-7, "what's your status?"
"Evac nearly complete in my sector," he reported. "Have we heard from Wahei or the Vanguard?"
"Not yet," she said. "I'll be leaving on my shuttle, to escort these people to the farm. You know the one?"
He nodded, even if she couldn't see it. "The one out in the EDZ? I'll meet you there."
"Bolvan," Rega's voice was suddenly firm, "don't do anything stupid."
He laughed. "Rega, who are you talking to?"
"I know exactly who I'm talking to," she retorted. "That's why I'm saying it. I know these are Cabal, and I know what they did to your home city on Mars, but we don't need martyrs right now."
Sergei smiled. "Death is not an ending. Death is merely the start of the next great adventure."
"Not the time, Bolvan," she sighed. "Don't go getting philosophical. That's Warlock stuff. You're a Titan, stick to punching things."
"Will do." He heard the comm cut out just as the ground shook from another volley of drop-pods. Looking down the alley, Sergei saw a large troop of Cabal forming up, ready to advance. He stepped forward, calling on the Light and raising a barricade in front of him just as the first burst of fire came toward him. It splashed off the translucent barricade, and Sergei grinned, waving from behind it as the Cabal forces muttered and bellowed in frustration.
He squinted as he looked over the massed troops. "Huh. Ghost, those don't look like Red Legion." He peered a little closer. "In fact, they look distinctly like Dirt Pounders."
The Ghost chirped as it consulted its records. "That's because they are. According to the Vanguard, the Cabal detachments on Mars were all pulled back a few weeks ago, Dirt Pounders included." It looked at him. "The Red Legion must have absorbed their ranks. Maybe they're sending the surviving Martian forces against us first, to try to soften us up."
He nodded. "Let them try to earn a little honor back, too," he mused aloud. While none of the memories of his first life had ever come back to him, Sergei had come to know that Mars and Freehold had been his home, and as such, he held a particular dislike for the Cabal that had destroyed it. But even in his hatred of them, he had respect for their capabilities, and what little of what passed for their culture as mankind had been able to learn. Defeat was practically a sin in Cabal society. It explained much about why the Cabal continued to fight on, despite not gaining an inch against mankind since the Collapse. Being used as cannon fodder by the Red Legion was the best future the Dirt Pounders could hope for. If they won the day, they might earn back their honor. If not, they would find that honor in death.
Behind him, Sergei heard the Militia hustling the civilians into the last bus. Their captain called for him to get on, but he shook his head to the man and squared his shoulders. "Go," he called back. "I'll buy you the time to get out of here. That's what Guardians are for!" Reluctantly, they did so, and the bus trundled away as fast as it could through the rubble littering the City streets.
Then Sergei saw a familiar shape among the massed Dirt Pounders ahead of him. The sweeping currybrush crest, the decorative flair to the armor, and the helmet which still bore the dents from the last time he'd faced him. Bracus Dra'aut himself had taken the field. The Cabal commander had clearly seen him as well, and his massive fists clenched as he bellowed his fury at seeing his longtime nemesis before him once again. Sergei just grinned, slotting a fresh clip into his auto rifle as he stared down the bracus. "So and so, here we are again, Dra'aut!"
The Cabal officer boomed out something in their language. Over the years, he had learned some of their language, enough to know what Dra'aut had said. Once again, you steal my honor away from me! Why won't you die!? The bracus turned to his forces and pointed at him, growling orders.
The Dirt Pounders drew back, however, when Sergei's laughter echoed in the alley. They had come to know and fear that laugh. And as the barricade fell, they hesitated, now able to see him more clearly. The flash of his teeth as he threw back his head with another laugh. "Shall we dance again, Dra'aut? Come on then, ublyudki!"
But the Cabal stayed back. Dra'aut raised a hand to his helmet, as if listening to something, and as one, the Dirt Pounders looked skyward. Perplexed, Sergei did the same. Overhead, the Traveler hung, the spider-like Cabal machine clung to it. And as he watched, Sergei saw a shimmering red field bloom to life, sweeping out to enmesh the Traveler within it. In that moment, Sergei felt a jolt spike through him. He gasped for air, his armor suddenly feeling heavy, and he saw his Ghost wobble in the air. "Sergei, what's happeningggg..?" it warbled before it dropped to the ground. It was all he could do to stay upright.
Down the alley, Dra'aut raised his fist in the air, shouting triumphantly. In the sudden ringing emptiness inside him, Sergei could barely translate the words in his head. The Emperor Himself has stolen their Light! At last, we shall win our honor back!
The Dirt Pounders started stomping down the alley, but the Titan, even suddenly without the Light that had been a part of him for so long, would not fall so easily. Indeed, the name of the weapon itself spoke of his resolve to never surrender; Sergei Bolvan Does Not Bow. The weapon thundered as it ripped through their armor, oil and gas hissing into the air as they toppled over one another. He lurched aside as a Psion nipped into view, sending a ripple of void energy down the alley, scattering the corpses of its comrades and blowing a hole in the side of a building. He fired off a burst that smashed through its helmet, leaving it wailing as it choked and fell.
One by one, the Dirt Pounders still fell, and still there were more of them. Sergei gasped for air himself, wincing as he felt a round ricochet off his pauldron. He reached for the Light, but there was barely a spark to grasp. He blocked a swing from a Legionary that had gotten close enough, bringing his rifle up, but even his two-meter frame was dwarfed by a Cabal soldier. And without the Light empowering him, he was driven backward by the force behind it. He staggered, but held his ground and blasted another flurry into its helmet, crumpling it a spray of fluids. As it fell back, Sergei saw that at last, Bracus Dra'aut was alone.
Sergei leaned on the wall of the alley and chuckled. It was a weak sound, but soon it rose up as loud as he could muster it through the fatigue that was weighing him down. "So and so, here we are again," he repeated. His laughter wasn't quite the same booming peal that it normally was, but even so, he could see it unnerved the bracus. He smirked as he saw the officer flinch as he raised the auto rifle again. But the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. A check revealed that he had run out of bullets for it.
Now it was time for Dra'aut to laugh, and the gurgling, raspy sound echoed in the officer's helmet. Sergei dropped the rifle as he fought for breath. The bracus growled at him again, chattering. Without your Light, you are nothing, Titan! You've laughed for the last time at my dishonor!
The Cabal commander lumbered forward, snapping its arm to the side as the fold-out blade flashed out of its gauntlet. Sergei stood upright as his old nemesis came, bringing up his shotgun. It barked as it chewed through the bracus' shields, and he saw them flash as they finally broke, just as Dra'aut thrust the wrist-blade through his armor, lifting him up off the ground. He tasted the familiar taste of blood in his mouth again, and he spat it onto the alien's face with a wheezing laugh.
"You want your honor back, Dra'aut?" Sergei grinned at him. "Take it to your grave."
The shotgun's barrel pressed to the ring seal of the bracus' armor, and he fancied he could see the old rhino's eyes widen behind its helmet. With a flash and a gout of fluids, the Comedian delivered the final punchline. The blade broke off in Sergei's chest as Dra'aut staggered backward, clutching at its throat, choking and gasping. The bracus fell to its knees, while Sergei propped himself against the wall, even as his blood poured down his armor.
"Ha. Ah ha," Sergei rasped as he watched the old rhino die. He didn't remember that it had been a young Val Dra'aut that had been the one to give him his first death. Had he known, it would have made it all the more ironic that the alien commander should be there at his last. "Ah ha ha ha. Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha." He slumped down into a seated position, his shotgun across his lap. Blood dripped from his lips as he sat there, and the smile of his last laugh was still on his lips as his light finally faded away with his final death.
The approach to the tower was uneventful, but he hunkered behind a wall as he saw movement near its base. Peeking out, he saw a squadron of bulky bipeds marching in formation. The Ghost floated near his shoulder. "The Cabal control the entire planet," it whispered. "Eight feet tall, nine hundred pounds, and highly militarized." Sergei glanced at it, and the Ghost just bobbed a nod. "They kill or conquer everything in their path, but mankind halted them here, at least."
Sergei smiled at that. He got the impression that a lot had happened between whenever the MDF had fallen and now, but knowing that his people had stopped this alien threat from marching over everything, that was a point of pride in mankind's favor. As he watched the Cabal march, he again felt a tickle of familiarity, but specifics evaded them. One of the alien soldiers must have killed him, perhaps. But seeing them also caused a stirring inside of him, a tingling urge to get out there and put foot to backside and kick these aliens off his world.
He soon got his chance. With the Ghost cloaked invisible beside him, he stealthily approached until he slammed into cover against a rusted vehicle hulk. He hit it too hard, causing it to give a metallic groan. As one, the Cabal pivoted around to the noise, and at a bellow from their Centurion, the Legionaries opened fire. Digging into cover, Sergei felt another familiar tickle in his brain, but this one required no memory to recognize. The surge of adrenaline and the rush of danger... it brought a fierce smile to his lips, and soon he was laughing. This. This was what his Ghost had brought him back for.
He listened for the waning of fire, the unmistakable pause that signaled a reload, and then Sergei lunged out of cover, snapping his rifle up and firing at the Legionaries. Bullets found their mark against helmets and ring seals, and he heard a rush of air and fluid splatter out as the enemy tumbled to the ground, choking and dying. The Centurion looked taken aback, retreating toward the doorway, bellowing for its comrades. Sergei paused to reload, and saw two shield-bearing Cabal lumber forward, raising their defenses in the doorway. "Phalanxes," his Ghost told him. "Don't bother trying to penetrate their shields!"
He took cover behind a column as the Phalanxes fired over their shields in his direction. He felt the tingle in his nerves again, and as he took in a breath, exulting in the rush of combat, the Ghost spoke again. "Reach out to the Light! Use it!" He wondered for a moment what it meant, but then there was a sensation of... something he would spend the rest of his life trying to explain to anyone that asked. It was energy, but it was something more. It was like he could feel light, but it was more than just that. It was electrical, it was fire, it was the space between the stars, it was everything, and it was like nothing he'd ever experienced.
He drew upon that power, feeling it take shape in his hand. Crackling blue lightning coalesced and he flung it instinctively toward the gap above the Phalanxes' shields. He heard their roars of alarm, and then there was a crack of thunder and a flash, the shields falling away to show the soldiers collapsing in blue-tinged ash. The Centurion bellowed again and opened fire on him, but Sergei charged from his cover toward the door, weaving between the slugs as he opened fire from his rifle. Two more Cabal Legionaries dropped into view, and he was laughing in the thrill of it all as he stopped to shift his fire to them instead.
He was still laughing as the Centurion trudged forward again to engage him.
He was still laughing when it pounded him over the head with one massive fist.
He was still laughing when he hit the floor, pain flashing in his eyes, blood in his mouth.
He was still laughing when the Centurion stood over him and brought its boot down with finality.
And thus was the end of Sergei Bolvan's second life.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Then the pain inverted, and he sat up with a gasp, feeling the indescribable sensation of the Light in his veins again. He looked up to see the Centurion pause mid-stride away from him, turning back to see him getting back to his feet. Sergei looked at himself, felt his head, and the fading taste of blood in his mouth, and saw his Ghost briefly looking at him before vanishing into its cloak again. The Cabal Centurion saw this, and its bellow rang even louder in the empty lobby of the spire as it thundered toward him again. Sergei realized, as he grabbed his shotgun, that here, at last, he had what he had been longing for his entire life-- even the life he no longer remembered. Endless combat.
He roared with laughter as he met the Centurion's advance with a fist charged with stormfire. As lightning coursed along its armor and drove it back, he swung the shotgun up, blasting its helmet off point-blank range. Foul air and stinking oil splashed across his face as the hulking brute choked in the thin Martian air, and with another peal of laughter, Sergei kicked it to the floor. He reclaimed his rifle and waited for the rest of the Cabal to respond, but none were forthcoming, and he felt disappointment.
He let the Ghost talk, filling him in on history since "the Collapse," while he divested the Centurion of its armor. It would be too large to fit even his massive frame, but it was better than the paltry MDF armor he currently wore. He managed to strap the chest plate onto his body and clamped its gauntlets on as the Ghost told him of the threats that plagued mankind-- the militaristic Cabal, scavenger pirates dubbed the Fallen, unfathomable machines called the Vex, and the genocidal monsters known as the Hive-- and how humanity now huddled beneath the dormant Traveler on Earth, within the walls of the Last City. He scrounged up energy cells that the Ghost said it could synthesize into more ammo clips for his guns, and then finally approached the massive lift that would take him to the top of the spire.
When he arrived at the top, there were more Cabal forces there. He fought through them, and the air was filled with the sound of thunder and his exultation as he cut them down, one by one. More than once, they managed to kill him, and each time, his Ghost revived him, bringing him back in a flash of Light and a roar of laughter. By the third time the Cabal shot him down, they were retreating toward their drop ships at the sound of that laugh. He lunged across the broken, ruined peak of the spire, bringing his fists down in a crash of lightning, vaporizing another squad, as the remainder retreated on their ship.
As it did, however, Sergei caught sight of a solitary Cabal soldier standing on its ramp. Its armor was more ornate than the others, with a spreading crest of currybrush adorning its helmet. Its expression was unreadable as the ship pulled away, but Sergei could swear it looked surprised to see him. In the time to come, Sergei would come to know that commander. Valus Dra'aut was a commander of the Cabal's Dirt Pounders, a detachment from the Sand Eaters, tasked with occupying Freehold. In time, Dra'aut would rise to the rank of Bracus, and would encounter Sergei multiple times, though neither human nor alien would manage to slay the other. Here and now, Sergei just grinned after the retreating Cabal and raised his fists in the air, whooping his triumph.
Not too long after, the Ghost had managed to patch into the sat-feeds and broadcast a distress call. While they waited, Sergei rummaged through the Cabal's corpses for more ammo and loot. He wrenched a helmet off of another Centurion, painstakingly cleaning out the gore and oil within, while looking out over the sprawling cityscape below. Sand buried so much of it, and what wasn't buried showed the signs of the conquest ages ago. When the helmet was clean enough for him to try wearing it, two ships swooped out of the dusky skies. These were unlike the Cabal's ships, and his Ghost hailed them. "Those are from the City," it told him. "More Guardians. They'll get us back to the Tower."
And so, he was brought back to the Tower, in the Last City, where he would distinguish himself against all of mankind's enemies. It mattered not to him whether who they were, he reveled in the battle. Fallen, Vex, Hive, Cabal, or other Guardians in the Crucible-- they all fell in battle to him, as the last thing they heard was his booming laugh. Sergei Bolvan, the Laughing Titan, was a wall, every bit as solid and proud as the one which protected the City.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Now, the skies were filled with screaming. The shriek of the Red Legion's engines overhead. The howl of the City's defenders fighting them. And the cries of despair and terror from the people. Sergei had been in the entertainment districts, swapping tales with fellow Guardians and City Militia when the attack struck. Seeing the Tower erupt and crumble under the surprise onslaught, hearing the alarms going off, galvanized everyone into action. Sergei bellowed orders to the Militia, charging them with seeing to evacuation and protecting the citizens, then called to his fellow Guardians to do everything they could to protect the civilians as well.
There had been many such drills over the long years. Ever since the Twilight Gap, the City knew that one day an enemy force might breach the Wall. In their triumph over the forces of darkness that had plagued mankind, they had grown somewhat complacent, but no one forgot how this went. He herded people toward the shuttles and trucks that would ferry them to safety, but all around him, missiles blew apart buildings and flames engulfed everything. A few Cabal drop-pods crashed to the pavement, but Sergei met them with fire from his auto rifle. He called to his Ghost, "Can you get me my Gjallarhorn? I have a feeling I'll be needing it!"
"I can't!" his companion wailed. "The transmat system is down, and I can't even raise the Tower Vault!"
Sergei shrugged and reached back to feel the stock of his trusty shotgun on his back. That, at least, was always with him. It was as much a part of him as anything could be. Gifted to him from the stock of the Vanguard, he'd customized it as best he could over the years. The old Exo gunsmith at the Tower had dubbed it 'The Comedian' in his honor. Sergei nodded as he felt it there, and squared his shoulders. He would make do with the weapons he had.
He ferried a family through the alleys toward the last of the trucks the sector had. More civilians huddled as they filed onto a repurposed bus for evac. Sergei stood guard, his helmeted gaze sweeping over the avenues of approach. But there was really only one the Cabal could use from ground level, that was why this place was chosen for an evac rally point. Overhead, he could see a massive Cabal ship, like some blasphemous metal star, attaching itself to the gleaming white surface of the Traveler.
Static crackled over his comm. "Bolvan," came the voice of the Hunter Rega-7, "what's your status?"
"Evac nearly complete in my sector," he reported. "Have we heard from Wahei or the Vanguard?"
"Not yet," she said. "I'll be leaving on my shuttle, to escort these people to the farm. You know the one?"
He nodded, even if she couldn't see it. "The one out in the EDZ? I'll meet you there."
"Bolvan," Rega's voice was suddenly firm, "don't do anything stupid."
He laughed. "Rega, who are you talking to?"
"I know exactly who I'm talking to," she retorted. "That's why I'm saying it. I know these are Cabal, and I know what they did to your home city on Mars, but we don't need martyrs right now."
Sergei smiled. "Death is not an ending. Death is merely the start of the next great adventure."
"Not the time, Bolvan," she sighed. "Don't go getting philosophical. That's Warlock stuff. You're a Titan, stick to punching things."
"Will do." He heard the comm cut out just as the ground shook from another volley of drop-pods. Looking down the alley, Sergei saw a large troop of Cabal forming up, ready to advance. He stepped forward, calling on the Light and raising a barricade in front of him just as the first burst of fire came toward him. It splashed off the translucent barricade, and Sergei grinned, waving from behind it as the Cabal forces muttered and bellowed in frustration.
He squinted as he looked over the massed troops. "Huh. Ghost, those don't look like Red Legion." He peered a little closer. "In fact, they look distinctly like Dirt Pounders."
The Ghost chirped as it consulted its records. "That's because they are. According to the Vanguard, the Cabal detachments on Mars were all pulled back a few weeks ago, Dirt Pounders included." It looked at him. "The Red Legion must have absorbed their ranks. Maybe they're sending the surviving Martian forces against us first, to try to soften us up."
He nodded. "Let them try to earn a little honor back, too," he mused aloud. While none of the memories of his first life had ever come back to him, Sergei had come to know that Mars and Freehold had been his home, and as such, he held a particular dislike for the Cabal that had destroyed it. But even in his hatred of them, he had respect for their capabilities, and what little of what passed for their culture as mankind had been able to learn. Defeat was practically a sin in Cabal society. It explained much about why the Cabal continued to fight on, despite not gaining an inch against mankind since the Collapse. Being used as cannon fodder by the Red Legion was the best future the Dirt Pounders could hope for. If they won the day, they might earn back their honor. If not, they would find that honor in death.
Behind him, Sergei heard the Militia hustling the civilians into the last bus. Their captain called for him to get on, but he shook his head to the man and squared his shoulders. "Go," he called back. "I'll buy you the time to get out of here. That's what Guardians are for!" Reluctantly, they did so, and the bus trundled away as fast as it could through the rubble littering the City streets.
Then Sergei saw a familiar shape among the massed Dirt Pounders ahead of him. The sweeping currybrush crest, the decorative flair to the armor, and the helmet which still bore the dents from the last time he'd faced him. Bracus Dra'aut himself had taken the field. The Cabal commander had clearly seen him as well, and his massive fists clenched as he bellowed his fury at seeing his longtime nemesis before him once again. Sergei just grinned, slotting a fresh clip into his auto rifle as he stared down the bracus. "So and so, here we are again, Dra'aut!"
The Cabal officer boomed out something in their language. Over the years, he had learned some of their language, enough to know what Dra'aut had said. Once again, you steal my honor away from me! Why won't you die!? The bracus turned to his forces and pointed at him, growling orders.
The Dirt Pounders drew back, however, when Sergei's laughter echoed in the alley. They had come to know and fear that laugh. And as the barricade fell, they hesitated, now able to see him more clearly. The flash of his teeth as he threw back his head with another laugh. "Shall we dance again, Dra'aut? Come on then, ublyudki!"
But the Cabal stayed back. Dra'aut raised a hand to his helmet, as if listening to something, and as one, the Dirt Pounders looked skyward. Perplexed, Sergei did the same. Overhead, the Traveler hung, the spider-like Cabal machine clung to it. And as he watched, Sergei saw a shimmering red field bloom to life, sweeping out to enmesh the Traveler within it. In that moment, Sergei felt a jolt spike through him. He gasped for air, his armor suddenly feeling heavy, and he saw his Ghost wobble in the air. "Sergei, what's happeningggg..?" it warbled before it dropped to the ground. It was all he could do to stay upright.
Down the alley, Dra'aut raised his fist in the air, shouting triumphantly. In the sudden ringing emptiness inside him, Sergei could barely translate the words in his head. The Emperor Himself has stolen their Light! At last, we shall win our honor back!
The Dirt Pounders started stomping down the alley, but the Titan, even suddenly without the Light that had been a part of him for so long, would not fall so easily. Indeed, the name of the weapon itself spoke of his resolve to never surrender; Sergei Bolvan Does Not Bow. The weapon thundered as it ripped through their armor, oil and gas hissing into the air as they toppled over one another. He lurched aside as a Psion nipped into view, sending a ripple of void energy down the alley, scattering the corpses of its comrades and blowing a hole in the side of a building. He fired off a burst that smashed through its helmet, leaving it wailing as it choked and fell.
One by one, the Dirt Pounders still fell, and still there were more of them. Sergei gasped for air himself, wincing as he felt a round ricochet off his pauldron. He reached for the Light, but there was barely a spark to grasp. He blocked a swing from a Legionary that had gotten close enough, bringing his rifle up, but even his two-meter frame was dwarfed by a Cabal soldier. And without the Light empowering him, he was driven backward by the force behind it. He staggered, but held his ground and blasted another flurry into its helmet, crumpling it a spray of fluids. As it fell back, Sergei saw that at last, Bracus Dra'aut was alone.
Sergei leaned on the wall of the alley and chuckled. It was a weak sound, but soon it rose up as loud as he could muster it through the fatigue that was weighing him down. "So and so, here we are again," he repeated. His laughter wasn't quite the same booming peal that it normally was, but even so, he could see it unnerved the bracus. He smirked as he saw the officer flinch as he raised the auto rifle again. But the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. A check revealed that he had run out of bullets for it.
Now it was time for Dra'aut to laugh, and the gurgling, raspy sound echoed in the officer's helmet. Sergei dropped the rifle as he fought for breath. The bracus growled at him again, chattering. Without your Light, you are nothing, Titan! You've laughed for the last time at my dishonor!
The Cabal commander lumbered forward, snapping its arm to the side as the fold-out blade flashed out of its gauntlet. Sergei stood upright as his old nemesis came, bringing up his shotgun. It barked as it chewed through the bracus' shields, and he saw them flash as they finally broke, just as Dra'aut thrust the wrist-blade through his armor, lifting him up off the ground. He tasted the familiar taste of blood in his mouth again, and he spat it onto the alien's face with a wheezing laugh.
"You want your honor back, Dra'aut?" Sergei grinned at him. "Take it to your grave."
The shotgun's barrel pressed to the ring seal of the bracus' armor, and he fancied he could see the old rhino's eyes widen behind its helmet. With a flash and a gout of fluids, the Comedian delivered the final punchline. The blade broke off in Sergei's chest as Dra'aut staggered backward, clutching at its throat, choking and gasping. The bracus fell to its knees, while Sergei propped himself against the wall, even as his blood poured down his armor.
"Ha. Ah ha," Sergei rasped as he watched the old rhino die. He didn't remember that it had been a young Val Dra'aut that had been the one to give him his first death. Had he known, it would have made it all the more ironic that the alien commander should be there at his last. "Ah ha ha ha. Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha." He slumped down into a seated position, his shotgun across his lap. Blood dripped from his lips as he sat there, and the smile of his last laugh was still on his lips as his light finally faded away with his final death.
No comments:
Post a Comment