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community_ghost_theatre“Two hours ago, we lost contact with Fireteam Inca Dove.”
Sloane looks worn down, pepper and salt brows set into a perpetual frown and sleepless lines etched into her face. The roar of rain against the hull of Siren’s Watch is near deafening, methane stink seeping through all but the most well-sealed suits.
“They’d been sent to investigate the signs of a potential Hive ritual in the Archology. Now I’m sending you in to find out what happened to them.”
Blights are swelling up all over the European Deadzone.
Devrim shows you his cup of tea with the same, bland bemusement he seems to treat most other-worldly horrors happening on his doorsteps. The water swirls oily black and glowing blue under the warm smell of earl gray.
“That was my favorite mug too,” Devrim laments.
“Find the source of these blights,” Zavala says over the comm. “And snuff them out before the Taken can establish a beachhead.”
“I’ve heard whispers of the Prince’s return at the edge of the Shores.”
The words are spoken through tight lips, strained and hushed. Awoken, dressed in browns, carefully unaffiliated and so far from the Reef.
“Has he come to claim the throne?”
“Why not announce it then?”
“Maybe the queen really is still alive.”
“Please, no, no-”
Silence, the press of a hand against mouth. The station they’re on is barely neutral grounds. There aren’t a lot of neutral grounds left after the Red War.
“Come on,” says the shorter one, their eyes glimmering in the shadow cast by the half wall they’d slid behind. “Let’s go talk about this somewhere quieter.”
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