Freaking Out Somewhat in Season of the Chosen

[triplejumpstart]

So, here's the thing. I don't have anyone I can talk to.

Soft scratching. Nib and paper. Fingers with little occasion to hand-write trace unpracticed shapes.

I could talk to my Fireteam, but they're all as exhausted as I am and have their own problems.

I could talk to my Ghost, but I wouldn't be telling him anything he doesn't already know. Or making him any less worried than he already is.

That's it. My list of people I can confide in is, as it turns out, very short. My list of options is also pretty short in general, but I do have one more.

I used to know a guy who wrote a lot. I think it helped him understand things. I don't know. He's dead now and I can't ask him.

That's not what this is about.

The pen hovers for a moment as Nike hesitates. She tips it backward to keep a bead of ink from dropping to the page, lets it run back up into the barrel where it belongs. She continues.

Well, maybe it is, partly. I don't know how much. Everything's connected. If I start talking about that, though, I'm not going to be able to stop. Then I won't get to what I actually want to say.

And that is: I am scared.

It feels wrong to write it down, shameful and secretive and bad and crying out for some attempt at justification.

Being scared is part of this whole experience. You're scared when you first get back up and have a Ghost talking at you. You're scared the first time you cross swords with a Knight. You're scared to die. You're scared to dive back into the fight that killed you and do it again.

Eventually, you can look death in the eyes and you realize you're not scared about what's going to happen to you or how much it's going to hurt. You're scared about what's going to happen to the person next to you when you fall.

That's normal scared. I can live with that because I'm a Guardian, and we're all scared. It's the secret we pretend we keep from one another so we can keep on doing what we need to.

But this? This is different. Things are different. And I know some of it's the things, but some of it has to be me.

This is the worst idea Nike has ever had. She wants to get up. Walk. Move. Clear the hangar mechs off her jumpship and get back out there. But Nike suppresses the urge.

She's been going non-stop because it keeps her from thinking, and it's time to think.

I used to feel like there were people smarter than me who knew what was going on, and things would be alright if I just listened and ran fast and shot straight.

It worked out, for a while. Things would get bad, but then we got back to

Another pause. A drip. Shit.

not good? But as close as we ever seem to get to good. Stable. I don't know what else to call that.

And that's the thing: There's stuff I don't know. But there's a lot less of it than there used to be.

It almost hurts, somehow. Physically. Artificial muscle tenses in her legs and the right starts bouncing rhythmically.

Words pour out, little inky tails connecting them together, letters arched sharply with haste.

I'm not new. There are so many Guardians who haven't been around as long as me, now. They look at me like I should know what's going on, like I'm one of the smart people who can tell them what the right thing is just because I was up and running during the Towerfall a couple of years ago and they weren't.

But I'm not.

I didn't get smarter, okay? I ran faster and I shot straighter. I had problems I could solve with a knife and I did.

Now I don't.

The Darkness is here and it's in me and I still don't completely know what it wants.

I have a new friend who thinks I'm better than I am and it kills me every time.

You know what else kills me every time? The Commander's face. He's exhausted and he can't convince us all he isn't anymore.

The Cabal lost their world to the Hive and are telling him to kneel. Saladin can say whatever he wants about revenge for the Red War, but I've had revenge before and all I can think about is how I couldn't stand to look at how I don't know if we can stop that from being us in three months. I just get sick to my stomach every time he talks about it and the only thing I can do is just try not to think about it.

I don't even have a stomach. I'm an Exo. As if I needed more things I'm trying not to think about: we found the Deep Stone Crypt on Europa, we found Clovis Bray, of all the things for us to find right now, and we found more than any of us ever dreamed we'd know about why people like me are here.

I haven't been able to slow down to unpack any of that because the solar system is on fire?

Everything is coming apart?

Question marks don't even belong there and she cannot care.

All I can do is keep eyes up and keep fighting. Because I don't know! No one knows!

We need answers.

I have knives.

And I am terrified.

Nike slashes the last words into the page.

Exos can't cry. The Hunter cannot remember what it's like to cry, but she can slam the book shut on the still-wet ink and throw it across her quarters. She can get to her feet and leave this room.

She can go out there and fight again.

"Falchion? Check the strike protocol, see who needs an extra gun."

"Checking."

Falchion, mercifully, says nothing else.