Tag Archives: Traxis


This entry is part 4 of 5 in the series Destiny


The table in front of Traxis is littered with little bits and parts, spare pieces collected from weapons gathered up over the long years of roaming in the wilds, all pre-City. The weapons themselves are long gone, many damaged beyond repair during the heat of one battle or another. Others were simply sold or traded — even with missing pieces, weapons from the Golden Age are highly valued by any Guardian — or disassembled and scrapped (not without the least little bit of guilt and sorrow) for parts.

The pieces are arranged in an arc before her, bits of metal and ceramic organized into piles by type — firing pins, triggers, bolts, springs — all within easy reach. Immediately before her is a shotgun. Type: exotic. She had had to topple a titan to obtain it. The weapon is deeply rusted and scarred by decades of corrosion, and many of the working parts have been fused together from long aeons of exposure. The wear and tear is in itself somewhat remarkable. It is rare to find a Golden Age weapon so severely diminished by the ravages of time. And yet…

Traxis works a metal file over some of the more delicate areas of the gun, sandpaper and steel wool over the rest. She breaks up the rust, oils the moving parts, clears the dirt and debris from the inner workings, teasing the individual pieces apart to get at the inner workings of the shotgun. She could have had one of the weapons smiths in the marketplace refurbish it for her, but she prefers to do her own work. How else can one learn the innermost secrets of a new weapon? How else can one tease out all the history, master all the nuances of weight and balance, and determine blast radius, firing rate, and recoil? How else can one determine the weapon’s true name, the title that is defined by its legacy? No, these are things that can only truly be learned by doing the work yourself. Traxis is a master of her craft, in any event, a product of years of independence and self-reliance, and there are few smiths — within the City or without — who can rival her skill at restoring a weapon to its former glory.

It is a laborious task, and the hours fall away from her as she works. She barely notices. She is a Hunter, and she is well accustomed to the kind of patience necessary to complete time-intensive projects. Eventually, though, some of the weapon’s former luster begins to shine through once more, and Traxis is able to get most of the working parts moving again. With a practiced hand, she disassembles and reassembles the shotgun over and over, noting the places that continue to stick and filing off burs and rust that had gone heretofore undiscovered. When she is done, it will be a finely oiled machine of death — and lethal when held in any Guardian’s hands.

That done, she hefts the shotgun in her arms, pointing it at a far wall. She looks down the holographic sights, powered now by a fresh fuel cell that once nestled inside the scope of an old hand cannon. The cross-hairs are blurry and, using her multi-purpose tool, Traxis turns a couple of dials on the scope, making a few adjustments that snap the image back into sharp focus. She dry-fires the weapon several times, noting its relatively slow firing rate. She already knows the gun fires large shells that deal massive amounts of damage. What she remains uncertain of is which element is most suited to this gun. All exotics infuse elemental damage into every shot fired. She knows of rifles that crackle with lightning, hand cannons that shoot fire, and rocket launchers that incorporate stone shrapnel into their blast damage. She even owns a few of these weapons. They are hard fought for and even more jealously guarded by the Guardians who wield them. Each exotic tells a story of where it’s been, what it’s done, and what a Guardian had to go through to possess it.

She carries the shotgun to another worktable and passes it over several stones, each in turn. These stones, enchanted by one of the City’s Warlocks with a bit of the Traveler’s awesome power, resonate the aura of a different element. They are designed for one purpose — to determine which element a weapon prefers. Traxis stops when one glows a deep shade of blue — and when the barrel of the gun begins to glaze over with a thin layer of frost. The harmonics are nearly perfect, and she nods her head in acknowledgment, satisfied. “Ice, of course,” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, reverent. Handling one of these weapons is very nearly a religious experience. The gun will require a special gem that permanently imbues the element upon it. She does not own one of these gems herself — it is not usually her preferred element, after all — but it is nothing that a little Glimmer in the right hands can’t resolve.

One task yet remains. She returns to her work station and flips the shotgun over, exposing one last rusted plate set into the bottom of the stock. It is this plate that bears the weapon’s true name. She always leaves this part for last. She will touch the plate only after stripping the weapon down dozens of times, preferring instead to spend time with the weapon, to get a feel for it, and to become familiar with its identity before learning its name. Sometimes she is even able to guess it before this moment arrives. In this case, the rust on the nameplate merely gives her a good excuse to save it for the end.

With a piece of sandpaper and a small brush, she carefully works on the plate until it is shiny and polished. The surface is perfectly smooth and mirror-clear. She runs her thumb along the length of the plate, and the warmth of her skin causes a single word to rise up from the unknowable depths below. Traxis smiles. The name is appropriate, given what she had to go through to acquire it.


The Guardian and the Archive

This entry is part 3 of 5 in the series Destiny

The sun rises above the Enceladean horizon, and the small moon’s icy surface immediately begins to sublimate. Wisps of vapor rise and dance, looking for all the world like tendrils of delicate smoke. The vapor coils and writhes and is carried through the thin atmosphere by the barest whisper of a breeze.

A moment later, a figure cuts through the fog, and for the briefest of seconds, she looks as though she is wearing the mist like a cape, as though the entire surface of this little moon exists for the sole purpose of cloaking the Hunter in mystery and wonderment. Then, as she continues pacing forward, the illusion is broken, and the vapor swirls to fill the void she has left behind her. She pays the mist no mind.

Follow to the archive…

Chance Encounter

This entry is part 2 of 5 in the series Destiny

The ship is an ancient rustbucket, and it looks as though it has been here since time immemorial. It was probably a fighter once upon a time, but it is difficult to tell. Time has worn its identity away, and the foliage has overgrown it so that it is little more than scraps of sheet metal covered in vegetation. It is also, at this moment, guarded by a small patrol of Fallen — and it is these, in particular, that have caught Traxis’ attention. She watches them through a high-powered scope from her vantage point atop a grassy ridge nearly a kilometer-and-a-half away.

Her count stands at eight of the unholy aliens, six of which stand equidistantly around the lifeless vessel. The remaining two are crawling in and over it, searching…

“For what?” she murmurs. “What are you misbegotten devils looking for?” She watches them, brow furrowed in concentration and puzzlement, only peripherally aware of her finger curling and uncurling repeatedly over her rifle’s trigger. She’d like nothing better than to blow them all to Hell and back, but she knows that she’d barely drop one before the rest would be all over her, even from this distance. They are Fallen, after all, and the filthy creatures are bleedin’ fast. She could take one or two more out as they rushed her position, but she’d never get them all before they reached her.

She hears it, then, a wispy sound of moving grass, of something being where it shouldn’t be — and she is rolling over, bringing her rifle up as she does. Too slow, she thinks, and Traxis sees the Fallen scout crashing down on her even as she gets her bearings.

She has time to think, Where did he even come from? and then everything is noise and pain and survival. The Fallen is holding two of those cursed swords, and Traxis sees the lightning dancing across the blades, smells the distinctive scent of ozone, feels the crackling energy as those blades descend rapidly — much too rapidly — toward her.

She gives up on trying to bring No Quarter to bear — there isn’t enough time — and tosses it aside, catching the Fallen’s wrists in each of her hands, instead. Sparks dance between the blades and her gauntlets, and she can hear the electric hum of the swords. Then, to her horror, the Fallen’s other two arms emerge from beneath its cloak, each bearing a sword of its own. Four arms, four blades, and Traxis knows she is in trouble. The bastard got the drop on her, somehow, and now she is about to pay the price.

Then, everything is blinding, searing pain as every nerve ending in her body lights up in fiery anguish. The Fallen’s weight is off her now, but she hardly notices. She would scream if she could, but her throat is seized up, and she can’t even draw breath. A second or two of this — though it feels like it goes on forever — and the pain is gone. Traxis can do nothing for a moment but gasp, her vision swimming in and out of focus.

Finally, her mind clears, her body settles down to a dull ache, and she thinks, What the hell was that?

And then a shadow looms over her. She grabs for the pistol on her hip as the figure steps between her and the sun — and she realizes that she is looking at another Guardian, a Titan. Only…

“By the Traveler!” she breathes. “You’re enormous, even for a Titan!” His laughter surprises her, and he reaches out a hand to help her up.

“Well, I never get mistaken for Cabal,” he replies. “Name’s Dumais,” he says by way of introduction.

“Traxis,” she replies, still a little shaken.

“You looked like you needed some help. Didn’t figure you’d mind if I intervened.” He gestures, and Traxis turns to see a smoking ruin that vaguely resembles what may have once been a Fallen.

“Thanks for that,” she says. “I thought my number was up that time.”

“A pleasure.” She hears amusement in his voice but is unsure whether it is directed at her or the circumstances. Then a dark note creeps in. “I’ve never seen a Fallen wielding four of those damnable weapons before. He was either incredibly stupid or exceptionally skilled.”

Traxis remembers the way the creature had managed to sneak up on her, surprising her completely, and concludes, “My money’s on the latter. I was careful.” She turns her attention back to Dumais. “What’d you do to him, anyway? And to me?”

“This,” he says (Now he sounds sheepish, she thinks) and pulls out a short little pistol. “It’s called Bringer of Pain, and not just because of what it does to your enemies.” He hands it to her, and Traxis takes it, tentatively, examining it. “It’s not your standard ballistic weapon.”

She looks up at this. “Then…” Dumais nods in acknowledgement.

“Directed energy. It stores up a charge over time, which you can then release for an instant kill — or nearly so. It doesn’t leave much of your target, as you can see, but it also makes life rather uncomfortable for anyone else inside the blast radius — and for the shooter.” She sees him flex his fingers and wonders how much it costs him each time he fires it.

Her own skin is still singing from that encounter, though not as intensely now. She hands the weapon back to the Titan. “Where did you find it?”

Dumais takes the pistol and tucks it into his belt, and Traxis gets a glimpse of at least three other weapons clipped there. “During a little dive on Enceladus. Cost me plenty to get to it, too.”

“I can imagine,” Traxis replied, absently. Her mind is already returning to the business that brought her here in the first place. She glances back up at Dumais. “I know why I’m here, but what brings you out to the middle of Only-The-Traveler-Knows-Where — not that I’m not grateful,” she quickly adds.

That note of amusement is there in his voice again when he says, “Same reason you are, I would imagine — to investigate that wreck over yonder. Need any help with that?”

‘Over yonder,’ she thinks. How quaint. She mulls his proposal over for only a moment — two Guardians versus at least eight Fallen; it won’t even be a fair fight — then replies, nodding at his belt.

“How long does it take Bringer of Pain to recharge?”

This story was submitted to the Destiny Guardian Short Story Contest, where it won first prize!