Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His cloak billowed with the wind and dust as he stared up hard at the small, black machine in front of him, it’s blue light casting light shadows over his furrowed brows. His eyes whispered murder and his hands were clenched into fists near the knives on his belt, his whole body shaking with his fury.

“I hate you, Neo,” he told the machine plainly.

"I know,” came the dark, metallic reply.

Kit sat up violently, clawing at his hair and arms, the image of blood and dust burned into his retinas. He screamed, trying to scrub the memory flash from his skin. His heart beat a bloody pattern across his chest, marching its way up his throat until the air from his lungs was stuck in his chest as his pulse pounded through his body. He gasped for air, searching for the cool relief of oxygen in his lungs. His body instead answered him with a twisting sensation in his gut and the burn of acid in his throat. He scrambled about the bed searching for the edge, his sweat covered, pale skin slipping about the sheets.

Kit clawed at his throat, his gut and lungs heaving as he vomited violently over the edge of his bed onto the wooden floor below. Sickening sounds emitted from his mouth as his gut twisted again and again, stomach acid burning up his throat and in his mouth. He held his mouth open, letting the rest of it drip into the puddle on the floor as he tried to regulate his breathing. He sighed heavily and spat, attempting to be rid of the rancid, burning taste in his mouth before he collapsed onto the silk sheets underneath him, his head hanging off the edge of the bed. He screwed his eyes shut, laying there as spasms of pain shuddered across his body from his manic clawing and the violent expulsion of fluids. He tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the flashes of images behind his eyes from the nightmare. But it was no use. It was never any use. His voice always made sure of that.

“Every time.”

Kit opened his eyes, his blurry gaze searching for the dark, metallic voice that had interrupted his ruminating. It took only a second for his eyes to focus in on the black shelled Ghost floating in front of him, the blue light of its eye illuminating the puddle beneath him. It sighed, shaking it’s small body as it turned to face him. It glided through the air, it’s eye taking in the sight of his ruined skin. Kit closed his eyes again, letting the silence envelope him as the dark Ghost searched for words. Eventually it spoke again, it’s voice matching the quality of it’s shell.

“All that does is get more blood on the sheets.”

Kit clenched his teeth as his eyes shot open. Guilt and rage bloomed across his body at the small comment, and his fists twisted in the sheets underneath him as a deep growl emanated from his throat. The Ghost glided back into his field of vision, it’s eye staring at him with what seemed to be a pitying gaze. Kit sneered in response.

“I hate you,” he snarled.

“I know,” came the same cryptic reply. It was always devoid of any emotion, and every time it grated on Kit’s nerves. The Ghost flew towards him, nudging his body lightly as it quietly tried to convince him to roll back over. He complied begrudgingly, pushing himself up and crawling his way back to the center of the bed. He curled into a cold, sweat covered ball on top of the silver sheets and blankets, taking a moment to breathe before stretching out his limbs and reclining his head against the pillows. His breath came out of his chest in small shudders. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, trying to will himself to relax. He focused on the quiet of his room, letting his muscles become slack as he watched the Ghost float towards him. It lowered its body onto his chest, the cool metal of its shell sending small shivers up his spine. It gazed at him in the dark, the blue light of it’s eye dimming as it settled against his skin.

“Go to sleep, Guardian,” It said quietly.

Kit gave a small, tired nod in response as he rested his hands on his chest. He closed his eyes and exhaled a deep, bone weary sigh, letting his exhausted soul be dragged to the oblivious planes of sleep.

He stood like a quiet wraith, the black and white of his armor standing out against the green, plant covered landscape. Strong gusts of wind blew down the empty street, causing the leaves to rustle and his cloak to whip back and forth. It was times like this that the Hunter’s mind was quiet, the strange concept of his silent consciousness causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. It was unnatural, the way he changed, and it caused him to become even more unhinged. He hated it. He hated everything.

He glared up at Sol, searching through his head for the familiar pains that would wrack through his chest. Instead he found emptiness. Nothing. He grit his teeth. He fucking hated it all.

He glanced back down at the street in front of him. It led to an empty church, one that had long since been forgotten and covered in the uncontrolled growth of green life. He snorted. Another day, another meaningless job. Another group of lives to take.

The Hunter’s black gloved fingers clenched around his rifle, his boots slowly rising and falling as he quietly stepped towards the building. His Ghost materialized next to him, it's empty gaze scanning over the stone building as it matched the gait of its ward.

“How many, Neo?” The Hunter asked, his voice modulated by the black and white Endling helmet he wore. The Ghost turned to face the Hunter, the sunlight reflecting off of it’s black shell. It let out a small chuckle, before it turned back to the church. It flew ahead of the Hunter, it’s blue lit eye continuing to scan the walls. It stopped to regard the Hunter again.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather be surprised, Guardian?”

The Hunter glared at his Ghost, his trigger finger twitching as he brought the auto rifle up to bare. The Ghost stared emotionlessly as the end of the barrel came to be pointed at it. The Hunter growled, his teeth clenched tightly.

“You do remember how this ended last time, don’t you?” The Ghost asked. The Hunter growled again, not caring that the many times he had shot at the little machine, it had dematerialized before the bullets had been able to strike it, and all he had accomplished was giving away the element of surprise. The Ghost sighed as it stared down at the barrel before dematerializing.

“There’s eight this time,” It told the Hunter, it’s voice echoing within his empty skull. He lowered the rifle, walking towards the entrance of the old world building. He smiled, his lips curling into a vicious snarl that promised violence. A dead soldier on a dead world, fighting for a dead god and a dead cause. Death followed where he tread, its wake causing nothing but despair. He was no Guardian. He knew that. Did they?

Kit glanced around the empty apartment, his gaze drawn to the shattered, blood stained mirror that lay in the center of the living area. He could see himself in it; a pale, scar covered man. He looked haunted. He was haunted. There was nothing he could do to change that, though. He had tried plenty of times. The blood stained walls and strong scent of bleach that permeated the air were a testament to that.

A ruined man living in a ruined home. The irony. He scoffed, leaning over to pick up a shard of glass. He stared at it, the crusted blood on the edge muddling the crisp reflection of light. It was so simple, so tantalizing. A simple press and he would bleed again. But it wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t die. He dropped the piece of glass, watching as it shattered again against the hardwood floor. He felt ice well in his chest, the urge to draw blood corrupting his empty skull. It was times like this that he wished he wasn’t ashamed to have Amanda over. She would talk and his demons would leave. The feeling of poison flooding his veins would dissipate. But he was prideful, and he didn’t want her to see him or his home this way, even though she already knew the demons that plagued him.

During the day, he could feel the poison in his heart. He could feel the blood staining his hands, the hate and rage filling his head. The need to cut open his chest, to rip out the Light that poisoned him, that had caused him this insanity and sorrow. He knew it was no use, he had tried before. But that never stopped him from trying again.

The monster in him raged, the storm in his heart building as he squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the glass and ice in his veins fracture, only to reform and freeze again as he clenched his jaw. He felt his stomach churn and twist, the animal screaming for blood. He sighed heavily through tightly clenched teeth. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

Chapter Text

Chapter Summary:

Welcome to the world and all the land in it was wasted
The blood upon your hands and the wickedness that made it
Sing or scream it all and the memories keep fading
See the exit wound, dear God, what have we taken?
Guess I’ll say a prayer and I’ll kiss into the air
I’ll look into the sky, send them straight to nowhere
We all dug the grave can’t shake away the shame
Quiver in the sky but you’re shaken all the same
You left us with the guns and all of them unloaded
Teach us how to shoot but you taught us how to hold them
All the weight of all the world is right between your shoulders
Heavy is the heart when the world keeps growing colder

…

Two sides to every story, here’s a little morning glory
Breakfast off a mirror, dying slow, seems a little boring
Burning like a flag, walking straight into the breeze
Cause there’s two types of people, you are weak or you are me, yeah
What’s another lifetime? Like mine?
We all die a little sometimes, it’s alright
Did you come to say your goodbyes to this life?
We all hurt a little sometimes, we’re alright
So mothers hold your children don’t you ever let them go
There is weakness in your grip and they are holding all the hope

-Outside, by Hollywood Undead

So many names but only one is real
Lost in our madness
Dreaming blood and steel
I see a mirror or does it see me?

Can you hear
The panicked wings above
Coming from somewhere else?
Is this my own end they tell me of?

-Dead Ended ft. Clark S. Nova, by Kevin Sherwood

She remembered seeing him when he first arrived at the Tower. He hadn’t transmatted to the courtyard like the others that had come before him. No, instead he had ridden the old, falling apart ship into its docking port within the hangar. She had watched with intrigued eyes as he stepped out of the cockpit, a curiously black shelled Ghost trailing behind him as he stared in open awe at the large, spacious area around him. He had unnaturally blue eyes that shined with curiosity and wonder. It caused butterflies to dance in her stomach, and she found herself unable to pull her gaze from the beautiful man in front of her.

She watched as he drew closer, studying his features as he walked with a stiff gait from years of disuse. He had short black hair, his pale skin covered with small burns and scratches. He wore a skin tight black bodysuit with accompanying combat boots, his torso and shins protected by thin metal plating. There was a rip on the left arm of the suit, and a burn on the right of his abdomen, most likely from a Fallen shock pistol or rifle, while an old Golden Age glock nine was comically duct taped to the outside of his right thigh.

Despite the rugged condition he was in, a wide smile was plastered across his face, and it was his smile that did her in. She couldn’t see anything but blue eyes and shining, white teeth. He stopped in front of her and stuck out a gloved hand, the odd knuckle sticking out of a rip on his third finger.

“I’m Kit,” he said with a big grin. “At least, I think that’s my name.”

She smiled and took the Hunter’s hand with her own, giving it a firm shake.

“Amanda Holliday,” she told him. “Shipwright, and a regular daredevil.”

Kit chuckled as he let go of her hand, his voice sending little delightful shocks down her spine. She smiled even wider, finding his natural happiness infectious. Her gaze followed his own as he motioned to the orange and white ship behind him.

“So, what’s the verdict, doc?” He asked playfully. “Think you can fix it?”

The shipwright stared good and hard at the rust covered ship, mentally evaluating the parts and engine as well as it’s age, before she turned back to the Hunter with a sad sigh and a big shrug.

“Sorry to tell you,” she started while waving a hand towards the ruined ship, “but I think you’re lucky that thing didn’t explode.”

The Hunter’s smile fell slightly as he appraised the aforementioned ship, his gaze distant as he thought, a small muttered “Oh,” falling from his full lips. He shook his head after a moment, the smile reappearing as he turned back to her.

“Well, thanks anyways,” He said, flashing a small grin towards her.

“Of course,” she said with a grin. “It’s what I’m here for. I could sell you one for pretty cheap, if you want.” She paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face as she quickly added, “Well, that is when you’re approved by the Speaker and Vanguard, of course.”

“Speaker? Vanguard?” He asked, his pale face scrunching up with confusion. She nodded her blonde hair bouncing slightly with the motion.

“Yep,” she responded nonchalantly, waving a hand towards the set of stairs behind her that led to the lower level. “If you follow those stairs, you’ll see a bunch of signs leading to the courtyard. You’ll be able to find where you need to go from there.”

The new Hunter nodded, absorbing the information as he started walking towards the set of metal stairs. She trailed behind him, her hand curling around the protective railing as she stopped when he froze at the edge of the first step. He turned abruptly, the warm smile back on his face and a spark in his ocean colored eyes. He stuck out his hand again.

“Thanks,” he said, hesitating a little before following with a soft, “Amanda.”

She smiled, liking the sound of her name with his voice. She took his hand and shook it again before watching him turn and descend the stairs. He looked over his shoulder and smiled back with a smile that caused millions of butterflies to flutter in her stomach. She couldn’t help but smile back, watching him as he walked down the metal catwalks, his gaze focused on the signs on the black and white concrete walls. He followed them to another set of stairs which he quickly ascended, disappearing from her sight.

She didn’t see him again until late into the next night. She had found him in the closed club hidden beneath the hangar level, his form hunched over the bar nestled in the dark, far left corner, his fingers wrapped around a glass of ice water. His face was illuminated by flashes of pink and blue lights that had been left on. He had looked so sad, so lonely.

She was covered in the grime, oil, and sweat from a hard day’s work and had sought to relax with a nice glass of scotch. She found herself instead sitting next to Kit and stealing a sip from his glass of water, her throat parched. He didn’t even look at her, his fingers easily slipping from the small glass as they rested against the bar. He just stared off into empty space, his form defeated and devoid of the happiness she had seen the day before. She put a gloved hand on his shoulder, concerned.

“They told me I died…” He whispered, staring into his lap. She quietly squeezed his shoulder, meaning for it be a reassuring gesture as she patiently waited for him to share what was on his mind. Eventually he turned to her and her eyes widened in concern as she saw the red rims around his now pale eyes. They were slightly puffy, and she immediately knew he had been crying. She stared into the pale blue orbs of his eyes, searching for the spark she had seen, the same one that had given her no small amounts of butterflies, but it was gone. She raised a hand to his cheek, her thumb caressing his skin softly before she ran her fingers through his hair. He let out a sad sigh, his eyes tinted with a dead grey color as he leaned into her hand. The small sound caused a piece of her heart to break, and she kissed his cheek as she ran her hand through his raven colored hair again and again, her thumb brushing over the edges of his ear.

“They told me I had this thing called Light,” he continued. “They told me it was used to resurrect me. That now I’m a Guardian, a defender of the city.”

She watched anxiously as his eyes began to flood with tears, his whole body shaking with his sorrow. She quickly wrapped her arms around him as a broken sob emitted from his throat and wracked his whole body. The sound tore a hole in her chest and she raised a hand to the back of his neck to slowly stroke down his back as she murmured sweet things to him, trying to comfort him while tears continually cascaded down his face and into the fabric at her shoulder.

“I don’t want to be this,” he whispered in between broken sobs, his voice filled with anguish. “I already had my life. Why couldn’t I be left to rest? I never agreed to this.”

She hugged him tightly and held him as he mourned his newly forced life. She had continued holding him even when his tears had dried and his body had stopped shaking, her voice a constant soft murmur in his ears and his arms tightened possessively around her. She didn’t know how long they spent sitting there with their arms wrapped around the other, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the man in her arms, the man she had fallen for when she first saw him.

It wasn’t until her eyes refused to stay open that they reluctantly parted and he quietly demanded that she get some much needed rest, to which she agreed after he had promised to get some rest of his own. She stood from the bar, her movements filled with fatigue as she slowly walked back to the bar’s entrance. She looked behind her, casting Kit a concerned look as she watched him drain the glass of water. He slumped against the bar, his fingers pressed against his temples, and it was with reluctant steps that she left him alone.

The next day she had learned that she had been right to be concerned, and she cursed herself for leaving him to find his own way to the dorms. He had ran into Arach Jalaal, Dead Orbit’s liaison, and the Arach’s faction had quickly gained a new disciple through the form of another lost man looking, searching for a purpose in a ruined world. It was after that fateful event, that every time Kit left the Tower, he came back covered in blood and ether, and her heart was damned to break piece by little piece every time she saw the now truly broken Hunter.

The Hunter stuck to the shadows at the edges of the door, his gaze focused on the eight shadowy figures shuffling to and fro inside the dead church. He kept to the shadows clinging just outside the edges of the stone brick walls, his movements similar to that of a wraith stalking it’s prey as he stepped around the edges of their vision. His fingers tightly clenched the rifle in his hands as he thoroughly studied the scene in front of him. Four large, black crates sat in the center of the abandoned and derelict church. They were surrounded by ruined pews in the form of a half circle facing the opposite side of the church, the ruined furniture stacked on top of one another in the form of a makeshift barrier. A small Dead Orbit symbol was spray painted on the upper right corner of each black crate, and an even larger one was plastered high up against the stone wall behind a broken altar at the end of the abandoned religious site. One of the crates was open and white light bled from the inside, creating more shadows within the dark and damp building. Two of the figures, a bearded man and a woman, were looking inside it, gesturing wildly to each other as they spoke quietly.

The Hunter watched in sour distaste as a third figure, a Fallen Vandal, stepped into his field of vision. He watched with derision as the four-armed pirate frantically searched through a pile of trash and paper, one of its clawed hands resting on the shock pistol at its hip as the others tore through the junk like butter. White wisps of hissing ether occasionally leaked through the metal mask on it’s face, it’s chest heaving with every heavy breath. Eventually it’s movement ceased as it completely froze, it’s only movement the occasional nervous twitch of it’s claws. It raised it’s head slightly, the loud audible sound of it’s sniffing echoing against the walls, as the star-like brightness of it’s six blue eyes searched the shadowed edges of the building. It turned towards the Hunter, it’s gaze zeroing in on him as it let out a signature howl before drawing the weapons on its belt. It quickly backed away, pointing two shock pistols at his chest.

“Light wielder!” It barked to the others in broken English and all eight figures immediately moved to the center of the church. An assortment of rifles, pistols, and knives were brought to bear as their nervous gazes scanned the dark corners of the building. The Hunter sneered behind his helmet. He had lost the element of surprise, but it was no matter. They would all die regardless. He stepped from the shadows and let the light illuminate him, watching in satisfaction as all eight figures froze and stared in horror, their guns aimed at his chest.

The Hunter slowly stepped towards them, the sounds of his boots on the wooden floors echoing off of the stone walls ominously. As he grew closer, the Hunter was better able to make out group's features. He studied them, committing each individual to memory. There was a second Fallen, a Dreg, standing with the Vandal, it’s own shock pistol raised and aimed at his heart as it’s maw of teeth snarled at him. With the two Fallen were an assortment of humans, both male and female, as well as one Exo. Each stared at him with a mixture of nervous fear and awed curiosity. The Exo stepped forward, it’s rifle lowered and it’s white lit gaze cautious as the antennae above it’s ears twitched. The Hunter glanced at the rifle in it’s hand, a small Dead Orbit emblem nestled within the black and white paint on the barrel of the Suros manufactured weapon. He glanced at the others, noticing their own stolen weapons before nodding towards the rifle clutched in the Exo’s hands.

“Those don't belong to you… scavenger,” he told them, his tone full of condescension and derision. The last word was spat like a bitter taste in the mouth, his contempt for those in front of him more than apparent. They were little more than insects under his boot. They all shuffled uncomfortably, their silence an admission of their guilt. The Hunter raised his own rifle, the barrel pointed at the head of a bearded man standing at the edge of the group. He pulled the bolt on the rifle back, smiling cruelly behind the mask of his helmet as the first bullet was chambered. It was then that the Exo chose to speak.

“Please,” it begged him. “We have no quarrel with you, Guardian.”

The Hunter snorted and pointed his rifle at the Exo’s chest.

“Your quarrel,” the Hunter spat in response, “started with me the moment you took up arms with those insects.” He motioned towards the two Fallen standing with the group. They shuffled about nervously, wisps of ether escaping their ether subs. The Hunter snarled, pointing his rifle at them as he growled lowly, “Now run along, little Dregs.”

“We’re not dr-” The Exo began speaking but never finished as blue fire erupted from the barrel of the viscously bucking rifle in the Hunter’s hands. The bark of gunfire and panicked screams echoed against the stone walls of the ruined church as electrically charged bullets tore through flesh, bone, and metal. Seventeen bullets were fired before the rifle jammed, and the end result was three corpses and five injured bodies lying inside growing pools of crimson blood and black ether. The Hunter snarled with frustration as he slung the incapacitated weapon across his back, his fingers deftly clicking at the button straps of his belt before his hand gripped the handle of a large knife and drew it’s gleaming blade from the scabbard at his hips.

He stepped towards the nearest bleeding body, his gloved hand shooting out and grabbing at a greasy mop of unwashed, dark brown hair. The woman shrieked and desperately tried to crawl away but she was unable to break his grip as he tugged harshly at her dark mane. The Hunter yanked her head back, the razor-edged metal of his knife viciously biting into her skin as he dragged it across her throat. She gasped, her breaths becoming labored as blood slowly flowed down her chest and pooled at her knees. Small, frantic hands sought out the wound, hoping to staunch the flow, but the Hunter’s hands immediately restrained her. He held her hands with one of his large ones, the hand holding his knife running through her hair in the form of a mocking caress as a quiet, slow shhhh was whispered into her ear from the mouth of his helmet while she gasped and cried in agony and fear. Her struggles grew weaker and her eyes fluttered shut as her body became still.

The Hunter let go of her small body, watching dispassionately as it slumped forward, lifeless. He stood, his helmeted gaze zeroing in on another survivor. Three more executions followed, and three more corpses joined the others in a growing pool of crimson and black. By the end of it, all that was left was the Exo, it’s flickering gaze meeting the blood covered Hunter as it clutched at the bullet wound in it’s chest. It sat on it’s knees in the midst of the pool of life-bloods, the oil and electrical fluids pumping from it’s chest adding to the morbid mix. The Hunter took a step towards the Exo, his hand still tightly clutching the now soiled knife.

“But… but you're a Guardian,” the Exo gasped pleadingly. “You're supposed to be one of the good guys.”

“I'm no Guardian,” the Hunter responded emotionlessly. “And you're no Dreg. Funny how that works, isn't it.” The Exo opened it’s mouth to respond, but was silenced before it was able to speak once again as the Hunter drove the knife into it’s head, splitting it’s robotic skull. He watched emotionlessly as the lights of it’s eyes and mouth flickered before going dead, it’s jaw going slack as it died. The Hunter tugged on the knife in order to pull it out, satisfied with it’s death as oil and electrical fluids sprayed from the wound, coating his gloves and the front of his trousers. He methodically flicked the knife towards the nearest wall, watching as the excess fluids of blood, ether, and oil splattered across the stone brick wall until he was satisfied and convinced that it was clean. He slid it back into the scabbard at his belt and planted his boot on the Exo’s chest, giving the robotic body a solid shove. It collapsed and slid a little across the wooden floor, before softly slamming head first into a collapsed pew with a quiet thunk .

The Hunter glanced dispassionately at the group of corpses around him, surveying his work, before he stepped forward and slammed the open crate shut, clicking the locks into place.

“Neo,” he called, watching as the black shelled ghost appeared out of thin air, it’s beady blue eye focused on him.

“Yes?” The Ghost asked emotionlessly. The Hunter nodded toward the closed crate.

“Record a message to the Arachs,” he responded. “Message details: Hunter 24-01 reporting in. Dead Orbit territory and assets defended, all hostiles eliminated. Objective achieved.”

Kit sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the northern platform, his arms folded over the railing as he watched the Guardians in the courtyard below. They called it the Hall of Champions, a place where Guardians mingled and ran amok regularly. The sun was high in the sky, shining down on the surface of the Tower’s outer courtyard, it’s light reflecting off of the limestone tiles of the paved paths. The grasses and leaves of the trees swayed with the winds, and the constant chatter of dozens of Guardians filled the air. Guardians flocked to the Cryptarch’s tent as well as the three pillar like vaults next to it, while others gathered around Banshee-44’s armory and occasionally descended the stone steps leading to the Hall of the Vanguard. They were like an army of flies flocking to the nearest light. It was the perfect image of normal.

It was all a lie and it disgusted Kit. He saw them as an army of slaves to a dead god who never spoke. They all knew the Traveler hadn’t spoken to the Speaker since the time of Yor, and the lie they spread about its revival fooled no one, especially not Kit. They were just biding their time now, fighting for a dead cause. A cause he never believed in.

Kit refused to be like the Guardians below. He refused to be another slave. He would never fight for the dead god, would never slave away the forced life it had given him in it’s servitude. He would never fight for the deceiver that had whispered to them with empty promises of hope. They hated him for it, despised him for his rebellion, and he hated them back, his self hatred reflected towards those who would have called him brother. But he would never follow them.

The Hunter landed in a crouch on the limestone tiles at the edge of the Tower’s main plaza, the toe of his boot inches away from the bold, golden letters spanning the tiles before the center set of stone stairs. He stood, glancing at the letters briefly before slowly making his way up the steps and towards the dorms on the left side of the tower. He trotted past the vaults and Cryptarch, ignoring the other Guardians around him, his mind focused on the sole idea of being alone with his demons. He felt the burn of poisonous Light in his veins again, it was always strongest here, and he always prefered dealing with the sickness inside him in the quiet darkness of his apartment, away from any soul that could bother him.

He didn’t get far, however. He had reached the corridor leading to the hangar when he felt a gloved hand grip his bicep and give a strong yank on his arm. He stumbled backwards and snarled, his hand flying to the knife at his hip. He turned, slashing at whoever had dared to touch him. He watched in satisfaction as the very tip of the knife bit into the top a white eyebrow before he dragged it downwards, cutting a path down through a closed eyelid and the cheek below until the tip slipped from flesh. The Titan howled, letting go of the Hunter in order to clutch at the bleeding cut on his face and the Hunter sneered, lifting his knife defensively and pointing the bloodied tip at the orange and white colored chest plate of the Titan.

“Touch me again,” he snarled, “and I’ll take your hand.”

The Titan lowered his hand, glancing at the blood on his hand. A crowd had begun to form around the two, more and more Guardians being drawn to the commotion. They stared warily at the pair as well as the knife clutched tightly in the Hunter’s hand, each waiting to see if they should intervene or if the situation would resolve itself. The injured Titan glared at the Hunter, his purple eyes meeting the pale blue orbs of the crazed Bladedancer.

“Every day,” the Titan said, his voice low. “Every day I watch you leave, and every day I watch you come back covered in blood.”

“What does it matter to you?” The Hunter growled back and the Titan’s hands curled into fists, his face flushing red with rage.

“What does it matter?” He retorted, his tone filled with anxious rage, as his voice rose with each word. “You’re murdering our own! You're no Guardian! You're an animal!" 

The Hunter laughed cruelly in response, his eyes shining with an empty soullessness. He took a step forward, his hand flicking the razor sharp knife towards the injured Titan in the form of a silent challenge. He quickly froze, however, his gazed focusing on a hulking, blonde haired Titan that had just shoved his way through the crowd. The newly arrived Guardian stepped forward, his hand curling around the angered and injured Titan’s arm in the form of a quiet warning, as his green eyes focused on the Hunter. He was much, much taller than anyone the Hunter had seen before, and this alone caused the Bladedancer to shift nervously and back away slightly.

“Sorry about the trouble, Hunter,” the towering Titan said. “He won’t be bothering you again.” The last word was punctuated with a strong tug on the injured Titan’s arm as his large friend dragged him away from the angered Bladedancer and the accompanying crowd. The Hunter watched them go, his hand clenching the handle of his knife as he bit down the bile in his throat, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as something inside him screamed for more blood. He shook his head, trying to ignore the dark whispers, before he noticed the still gathered crowd. Irritation bled into his veins and he clutched the knife even tighter as he stepped towards the gawking Guardians in a fit of rage.

“The fuck are you looking at?”

Kit stared at himself in the mirror, his eyes wandering over the pale image of his scarred and bruised skin. He gingerly pressed at a purple and yellow spot on the bottom right of his ribcage, a low hiss escaping between his teeth as pain sparked across his nerves. The bruise was new, blooming weakly across his lower abdomen until it would eventually cover most of his lower right side and back. He turned, following the blooming tendrils of broken blood vessels to the edge of his spine. He had no problem with the new contusion. It was just another addition to a constantly growing collection, a collection of stories that he would never forget, especially the one that accompanied the long pale scars that ran diagonally across his spine in the shape of a large X.

He stared hard at the crossing scars, his gaze burning into the mottled blemishes while the phantom hum of electricity haunted his consciousness as he remembered the searing pain of two electrically charged blades cutting into his skin and ripping through the muscle underneath. His fingers curled into fists and his hands turned white as an all too familiar rage built inside his chest. He would never forget how he got those scars.

Chapter Text

I apologize for my large absence, and for this brief note.

I have recently experienced some hardships and will not be able to continue this work for an unknown amount of time. I ask that you forgive and bear with me, as this fic will be placed on hiatus for an unknown time. Again, I am deeply sorry, and hope that I'll be able to return soon with a large update and explanation.