Chapter Text
The Craterhomes is perhaps most well known for rumors of illicit dealings and sky-high crime rates—some shadowy aura of intrigue, impenetrable in nature from the chain-link fence and the Guardian patrols that watch over the streets. City folk come to barter in Golden Age tech they have no business dealing with. Guardians come for repairs, trade-ins, and sales of the most contraband gear you could imagine. Ghost-shell composite light amplifiers (made from long-since-passed little lights), transcriptions of restricted texts ranging from the Unveilings to transcriptions of the Books of Sorrow (accuracy in question, of course), Mountaintops with their limiters removed, and even—or so says Hidden chatter—an in-development retrofit of the Red Death, fit for the less-modular and more bespoke expectations of the Guardians of today.
A black market. A dark market, some might even say. Lost or unaccounted-for splinters and bottled Strand tangles held in perpetuity in air-compressed cylinders. Just a glimpse into the sort of curio one might find in the Tower’s Civil Forfeiture Vault, earmarked for destruction and sourced from this one place.
All of it—and more—rumble in Zavala’s mind, as he stands face to face with a posse of Hunters that don’t look happy to see him.
“Not your typical course of action.” Targe, in his mind: “Are you sure about this, Zavala?”
Zavala nods. I am.
Drix and Wren-4 step forward to meet one of the Hunters. A brief conversation in hushed tones, too far away for Zavala’s helm to pick up, and the trio holster their weapons and head inside. Past the burn barrels and the spotlights, but not before Wren looks back at her commander, her helmet off, and a pained look on her face.
They vanish under the steps, leaving only the seven Hunters. River, previously front-and-center in the pack, shifts off to the side, looking towards Zavala, but obviously making space for someone else…
A lone Guardian steps up from among the ranks, a strange Eliksni wrist-borne mechanism upon their arm radiating in a bright and brilliant blue. Targe tries to put a query into the Vanguard database, but the Guardian throws their arm out before he can do so, and a spherical bolt latches onto Zavala’s armor. Immediately, it expands, cutting off all telecommunications and leaving his body suspended in mid-air.
Is this… a—
“Nifty, isn’t it?” The wrist-borne contraption fizzles with heat, and the Hunter tosses it to the side, letting it melt away on the ground. “Single-use Vex detain cartridge launcher, retrofitted onto a Splicer gauntlet.” They rest a hand on the radiolarian bubble, looking straight into Zavala’s eyes. “Keeps us safe.”
Zavala doesn’t struggle. “I am not here to—”
“We know. Thank you, Commander, for calling them off.” The Hunter chuckles. “We wouldn’t want a full-scale Tower raid on our lovely city grounds, now, would we?”
Zavala shakes his head. “I suppose not.”
“Come, then.” The Hunter turns around and beckons for Zavala to follow. The rest of the posse crowd around him and, rather hilariously, begin rolling the detain bubble forward. “One of our leaders will meet you.”
Zavala can only nod. He takes this time to observe his surroundings in more detail. The mid-rise apartments that line the outskirts of the Crater all have boarded up windows, though the shadows behind them flit about in obvious curiosity. The Crater edge is where everything ends—a sharp delineation between the City of old and the City after the Red War. The concrete they are on ends on a sharp overhang, jutting over a steep fall, with half-torn open buildings haphazardly lining the rest of the crater edge, if not already crumbled. The chain-link fence stands as a marker of this ragged border, and behind the gate Zavala sees the wooden makeshift steps, the barrels and torches lining the side, all paving a way down the gradation of the crater slope.
As they crest the edge and begin walking down the steps, Zavala finally sees it. A massive, sprawling slum, glowing a yellow as bright as day even in this most pitch black of nights, and the outlying shacks and alleys that stretch on ever-outward in an attempt to cover every last bit of the Crater. Ruin and rubble spanning from the edge give way in a gentle gradient towards urban reclamation. A city in recovery.
The first stretch of the long staircase down is flanked by piles and piles of rubble, shattered brick, and illegally dumped trash, but it soon makes way for one, and then two, and then multiple shacks. Soon, they pass two wooden poles with a banner strung in-between. It reads: “Welcom to th Craterhomes!” and badly painted stars and rainbows adorn the cloth. Children’s work.
Before long, the group find themselves surrounded by single-storey shacks. Children poke in and out of alleys and fearful parents drag them away from the convoy as they all stare in awe at this massive ball of Vex rolling down the hill. Like a funeral procession for an… esoteric… coffin.
The Hunter in lead stops. He signals a turn to an adjacent narrow corridor. They leave the descent and Zavala marvels at how the Vex bubble seems to warp to match the dimensions of the hall, though sometimes it seems to clip through the walls instead, almost as if the sphere were to permeate the structure at the most microscopic of levels.
Finally, the narrow back-alley emerges onto a clearing of compacted soil, raised a few meters above the ground, surrounded by more heaping piles of trash and rubble. Up the ramp and onto the makeshift plateau, and Zavala is presented with a surprisingly scenic lookout. And a picnic table for good measure.
An unhelmed Warlock stands over the edge, facing the crater lights, alone.
The Hunter with the Prodigal Mask approaches the Warlock. A number of whispers are traded, and then the posse leaves single-file back the way they came. The Warlock turns to look at Zavala, and with a shot of a Hand Cannon hidden under her robes, the detain bubble breaks.
Zavala falls to the ground, landing on his knees. When he gets up, he finds the Warlock already sitting at the picnic table. “Commander.”
Zavala nods and moves over slowly, taking the seat across from her. “Guardian.”
The Warlock chuckles. “Tillie Pond, at your service.” Her skin shimmers in tones of purples and violets, and streaks of paracausal energy travel from body to armor and back.
Zavala senses the immense Solar signature emanating from her. An Awoken and a Warlock, yes… but so much more. “The… Sunsinger, yes?” Zavala asks, ignoring the chirp from Targe in his comms that answers his question.
“Correct. TIL dash 011, detachment name—Seven Silks of the Hidden. It's a... say, long term deep-cover operation, Commander,” she answers, shaking her head. “But, with Targe at your side… there’s no point in keeping that hidden from you.”
“Indeed.” Zavala raises his head in acknowledgement. “Report,” he commands, waiting for Tillie to continue. He rests his arms on the table.
“I’ve been in Asset Recovery ops for some time now,” Tillie explains. “Specializing in the capture of dangerous Exotic replicas. Many an independent Guardian group have set up shop within City walls but away from prying eyes. A hundred years of seizing Thorn replicas, makeshift Guardian-suitable Hive Boomers, modded copies of Crimson.”
Tillie pulls out photographs of weapons waiting to be added to the evidence locker. Zavala glances at them in half-interest, but lets the Warlock continue.
“Just because the City’s a safe place doesn’t immediately make it an egalitarian place. The poor, the disabled, the old and widowed and forgotten—they crowd the edges, struggling to pay for food and other necessary resources, relying on Consensus aid to stay alive. Independent Guardian groups have always attached themselves to these enclaves—they represent a legal gray area in which much external contraband flows through. This is why we embed Hidden agents in these pockets. It’s why I’m here.”
Zavala takes a moment to think. A fine—if not overly extended—tangent. He decides to entertain it. “And why do they call you a leader?”
Tillie laughs. “You catch on quick.” Her fidgeting leg rocks the table gently. “Guardians and ordinary citizens don’t mix. Given time, even the most gentle and caring of Guardians feel a calling to lord over the… more mortal of us. For the longest time, from the Osirian era onward, we were on knife’s edge trying to stop more Warlord mafias from manifesting. Keeping the post-Faction War peace, so to speak.”
She rises from the table and beckons Zavala with her hand.
“Come.”
The two of them walk over to the edge of the lookout point.
Tillie sighs. She rests her arms on her hips. “The Red War was a change for all of us. Five percent of all City inhabitants perished. The homeless and impoverished population skyrocketed. And Guardians fared no better, either. Most one to two-sigma Guardians—if they survived, that is—lost all their gear, their fireteams, or their base of operations. An age of loss had smothered us like a blanket to a flame. So… we made this place.”
Zavala’s gaze trails along the view. “The Craterhomes.”
“Yes,” Tillie nods. “And it lets us consolidate our power, too. Under the leadership of a Hidden operative, many of the dangers of this market fell under control. Everything else that was ‘safe enough’, we sanctioned, per se. And, in turn, the population came under our protection. We manage this place. We keep things under control. It’s much safer than you think.”
Zavala turns to look at her, only to find Tillie staring right at his face.
“Which is why I ask this question to you, now. Not as a Hidden agent, but as leader of my people. What business does the Vanguard Commander have with the Craterhomes?” Her face takes on a stern look.
Zavala dodges the question. “I was not made aware of any of this.”
“Need-to-know compartmentalization, Commander. Even Ikora does not know the details of all we do. The Hidden are afforded significant independence, and in return, we keep all our information safe with us.” She crosses her arm. “So I ask again—why did she send you here?”
“I sent myself.”
Tillie scoffs. "Your presence here endangers the operation, Commander. And it endangers our community. Is it the new set of contraband armor? I assure you, the Mothkeeper replica and associated Hive rituals were made under the advisory of the best—”
“I’m here for the Darkness, Agent,” Zavala barks, cutting her off. “I need to know why the Hidden, like you, are condoning the use of Darkness within City walls.”
That stops Tillie in her tracks. She opens her eyes wide. Then she smirks. And then she loses it. “Hah! That’s… I— what?” She hunches down on her knees and lets the laughter run out. “I— forgive me, Commander. The Darkness? Is that it?”
“Excuse me?”
When she rises to meet the Commander’s gaze, she does so with incredulity. “Commander, it’s been three years since we went beyond light. Three years since code Europa. Nearly a full year since code Lightfall, and the discovery of Strand, and… need I remind you that Osiris was once Vanguard Commander, too? Look at him now!”
The levity rubs Zavala the wrong way. “I don’t appreciate your tone, Guardian.”
Tillie straightens up. “Commander Zavala. Open your eyes. Look around you,” she chides. “Times have changed. The Traveler is dead. We need all the help we can get. Even your favored Guardian is paving the way, what with their use of Strand and Stasis and all.” She holds her arm up and lights it in Solar flame. “The chorus of my song of flame might still stand tall, Commander, but even myself…”
Zavala watches as the fireball in the palm of her hand flares, flickers, and then dies out slowly. Tillie closes her fist and pumps her arm, and a burst of green emerges from her armor. When she opens her hand again, a miniature Tangle now rests upon it.
“Still can’t use them both quite at the same time—it’s a bit of a mindset shift.” Tillie chuckles and puts her arm away. “Not sure anyone can. All of that to say, Commander Zavala,” and she turns to look at him now, with furrowed eyebrows and a mischievous smile…
Zavala stays silent.
“The only problem I see is you.”
It’s Zavala’s turn to scoff. Targe emerges from his Guardian’s armor and stares at Tillie, equally perplexed.
“Of course, once I picked this up… I had to leave the Praxics.” She heads back towards the table and picks up a camouflaged pack from seemingly out of nowhere. “Quite unlike that Ms. Mahal of yours. Still devout as ever, is she? I’m glad I don’t have to be on a Hidden assignment with her ever again.” She grabs a red, non-descript Titan helmet and a cloak, and tosses it his way.
Zavala catches both, and then takes a good look at the helm. “I don’t see the point.”
“Are you always this stubborn? Commander, I need you disguised.”
Zavala lifts the helm to his head, thinks for a moment, and then sets it aside. “I have a helmet array of my own. This won’t fit—”
“Your armor’s massive collar, your oversized pauldron, and your battle lenses don’t count as a helmet, Sir.” She tosses a number of other miscellaneous items out the bag—a replacement Ghost shell, weapon ornamentation kits, even a pile of Synthweaves. “If I can still see that bald blue head of yours, then you are most certainly unhelmed. Seriously, you think that massive shoulder of yours can keep you from a headshot?” She ties the pack up and tosses it right back into the dark. “No offense, of course. To either statement.”
After a moment, Zavala relents. With a very audible sigh, of course. He moves to the table and swipes up the Synthweave set, the shell, and the ornament bundle. A bit of fiddling with Targe’s inventory interface and when he opens his eyes, what greets him is the heads-up display of a Survival of the Strong helmet, glowing red, and a very drab and bulky Hunter cloak. Oh, and no massive pauldron, of course—a Warlock robe, pair of gloves, and leggings, replace his characteristic custom-made fieldplate armor.
Tillie, equally dressed in simple plainclothes Warlock wear, looks at him and giggles. “Lookin’ sharp, Commander.”
Targe circles around and does a full-frontal scan. “Mm… not sure you’ll like this, Zavala.”
Zavala tries to take one step and promptly stumbles. “Ah!” He catches the edge of the table just in time to arrest his fall. “This… thing has no field drivers.”
Tillie shakes her head. “No, not at all. No field drivers, no inertial sinks, just fieldweave instead of fieldplate. Sorry, all I had was my spare undercover gear. How are the Axion condensers feeling? The sensory cortices, the neuromotors? Oh,” she adds, walking over to grab Zavala’s wrist, “and make sure your gloves are deactivated. Wouldn’t want you vaporizing anyone you shake hands with.”
Zavala pushes himself upright. “I’m not certain I can.”
Tillie shrugs. “Probably not. I don’t even think you could use the Light. I know it’s synthwoven transmogrification, but you’re still superimposing Warlock armor on top of Titan material.” She circles around him, tightening loose straps and belts and giving the armor a good once-over. “There. With the helm and the cloak, now you just look like a multiclasser.”
“Preposterous,” Zavala says, taking his baby steps in this unfamiliar gear. “Unclassed Lightbearers are nigh-extinct.”
“Which is why,” Tillie adds, nodding vigorously, “this set works perfectly. You might be a stranger, but unbound by class? Powerful. No one will bother you here.” She struts over to Targe and whispers in his visor something Zavala can’t hear. “And we just need to make one more change.”
Targe hovers over Zavala and does one more set of appearance mod applications. Zavala’s internal heads-up display suddenly turns white, and his visor grows a deep black tint. Targe finishes with a bow, and then disappears into the armor, leaving a cheeky Tillie behind.
“And… there. From Shaxx’s pre-release stores, I present to you… Superblack. Upcoming reissue. He wants to call it the BRAVE collection. I vehemently disagree, but that’s an aside.” She waves over his armor with great fanfare, and then adds, “Now you’re truly untouchable.”
Superblack. Of course. “You’re having fun, I see.” Zavala doesn’t know if he prefers a final death to this, but he truly might. A fashion disaster. They were better off without any surviving copies of it. Safiyah would be ashamed. “You have yet to explain what all this was for.”
Tillie smiles. “Commander, I’m taking you into town. There are some things I’d like to show you. Not as Hidden, but as the matriarch of this crater we call home.” She strides past him and back towards that tight, shoulder-to-shoulder alleyway, though not before calling out, “Come on!”
Zavala shakes her head. “Do we have a choice?”
“I don’t think so,” Targe replies. “Not if you want your answers.”
Zavala nods. “Onwards.”
He takes a look, once again, at the sprawl beneath him. That warm light that suffuses the sky, hiding Dark malefactors within itself and within City borders. Harbor of uncharted dangers. Tillie, Wren, River, and Drixian—their voices ring in his head, and he wants to scream at their arrogance, but there is no more energy for that in his body.
No more. Maybe even he’s learning to accept what must be accepted.
Zavala turns away from the plateau, and jogs forward to catch up with his most gracious host, the Sunsinger. Back into the forest of shacks.
River Blue slams against the lockers, and the physics damage shatters their shields and rips their bones apart. They plummet to the ground like a brick, weak and heavy, their Igneous Hammer clattering onto the ground beside them.
In front of them, a Rose replica, honed and focused for the best. Its barrel pointing right towards them. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“Conar, stop! You’ve won!” Wren’s voice echoes between the walls of the storage hall. “Tilaure won’t want a death on Crater grounds. We don’t need any more unnecessary bloodshed.”
River tries to lift their head, but finds themself unable to do so. They settle on the next best thing—creeping their bloodied right hand towards their Igneous.
“And what? Let this renegade bring every threat onto our doorstep? Next thing you know, Cyrell’s gonna show up at the gates, and your little Hunter here is gonna give him the keys!” Conar drops his foot on River’s battered hand, eliciting a strained cry, and kicks the hand cannon away. “You’re a sorry excuse for a leader, River.”
River takes off their rebreather and throws it to the ground, spitting blood out of their mouth. “So— so befitting of a Coyote,” they stammer out, in between heavy coughs. “Micah won’t be so happy with you.”
That does it. River sees the shadow of an arm raised above them, and they welcome it. So arrogant, this little—
“Stop.” Drix’s authoritative voice cuts through the clamor. He emerges from a side door with some of the Craterhomes’ leaders in tow. “It was my idea.”
From below, River can see Drix’s imposing figure stepping in between the two Hunters. They watch as Drix pushes Conar away from the two, drawing his Matador in quick succession.
“You’re out of line, Conar. This is why we don’t let you enforce the law here.” Drix steps forward, inching slowly with his shotgun’s barrel held straight. “You might be a Coyote, and you may be Micah-10’s confidante, but by the Traveler, you will not brutalize my fireteam member.”
From the edge of River’s peripheral vision, they can hear Conar’s chuckle. “Whoa, there. Easy, big fella.” A cocking of a hammer follows his words. “So it was your idea to bring Big Blue into town? Maybe I should be dueling you instead, then, yeah?”
Wren, again: “That’s enough!” She throws a small pocket singularity towards Conar, pushing him a couple of meters back. “Tilaure is meeting with the Vanguard Commander right now. If anyone’s making decisions, it’s her.”
River’s Ghost, Sine Genus, brings them back up to full. The two rise behind Drix. “I told him it was a bad idea,” River says, leaning against Drix’s steadfast armor.
Conar shakes his head in disbelief. “Tch. Fine.” He looks at the other senior Guardians in the room, all watching the fight intently. The murmurs die out. “I’ll let you three off, scot-free. But when Tilaure, Micah, or Holborn comes back… you’re all dead. Hear me?”
“Whatever, buddy,” River replies. “Screw you.”
Conar’s body tenses in flaring anger, which makes River all the more satisfied. The Coyote holsters his weapons and looks up into the sky, and then hops. The moment his feet leave the ground, he, too, disappears into thin air. Conar’s signature Vanishing Jump.
Wren saunters over to River, checking their wounds over. “Are you okay? Is Sine fine?”
River nods. “We’re both okay. I wasn’t wearing my Crucible gear, so my recovery’s a bit slow, but I think I’m fine. Though,” they add, looking towards the exit, “I’m rather hungry. Why don’t we get something to eat?”
River starts walking in the direction of the door, but finds Drix’s arm suddenly in the way. “Not yet.”
“Hey, what gives?”
“Conar is right, River.” Drix turns to look at them. “Whether we wanted it or not, we’ve attracted the attention of folks whose eyes we don’t want snooping. The Vanguard and its friends will come.”
Wren nods. “We need to link up with Tilaure and figure out what’s going on with Zavala. This has to be our problem, before it becomes everyone else’s.”
River relents. “Fine. Food after, Tilaure first.” They push past Drix’s waiting arm and poke their head out the door. The street is still packed with kids and people milling about, and Dawning crystals still adorn the ribbons that hang over the alleyways. “Looks like it’s all clear out here.” They turn back to look at their fireteam. “We going?”
Drix and Wren both nod. “Let’s do this,” Wren says.
The lone Hunter hangs his legs over the edge of a crumbled, half-exposed building. He hums Savathun’s Song to the lyrics of a ludicrous ditty. “I’m on the Moon. It’s all paneer…”
The suggestion of the song grates against Aunor’s mindshield. She whips out an Arc-sheated arm and brings it behind the guard.
“It’s all there… it’s all there— wait, what the?!”
In a flash, Aunor moves her right palm over the guard’s mask. Before he knows it, she pushes a lightning bolt out of her fingers and straight into his face. The guard drops like a ton of ingots, limp and lifeless. “Night night.”
His Ghost appears out of the Hunter’s armor. “What are you doing?!”
It meets a stunning net. The Ghost clatters to the floor, just as lifeless as its Guardian.
Aunor brushes her hands. “Sorry, little light. Your Guardian is affiliated with some… unsavory figures.” She drags the body and the shell to the side, and then takes a second to admire her handiwork by throwing a Hidden beacon onto the pile, before heading back towards the building edge.
Where she is now is four, maybe five stories above the crater edge, and a long ways away from the Craterhomes’ main entrance. This back area, towards the wall and away from City Centre and other neighborhoods, sprawls just a little bit less compared to the rest of the enclave. Just enough for Aunor to carve out a mental map of a path to travel that will keep her unseen.
She will get the Commander back. She will find the fireteam responsible for his abduction. She will discover the evidence that she needs, and at long last, she’ll be able to move into the Craterhomes with the rest of the group.
It all ends here. Impending judgment… could not taste sweeter.