Chapter 2: The Horn, The Hero, and the “Holy $#!%”

The Tower smelled like high-octane jump fuel, ozone, and the kind of desperation that only comes from a civilization living under a giant golf ball in the sky.

“Listen up,” Vane said, his Warlock robes snapping in the wind as they stepped off the transmat pad. “This is the Tower. Try to act like you weren’t born in a pile of rusted scrap yesterday. Jax, stop staring at the Postmaster’s frame; it’s not for sale. Kira, keep your hands out of other people’s engrams.”

“I was just checking the quality of the encryption,” Kira lied, her fingers twitching near a passing Guardian’s belt.

“The Vanguard is just ahead,” Vane continued, ignoring her. “Commander Zavala will give us our briefing. He’s the blue guy who looks like he’s perpetually trying to pass a kidney stone made of pure justice.”

They didn’t make it to Zavala. A voice like a tectonic plate grinding against a megaphone ripped through the courtyard.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT I’M SEEING!”

Jax-7 froze. His internal processors whirred loudly, a sound Kira had learned meant he was either about to faint or punch something into the sun.

Lord Shaxx, the Crucible handler—a man whose personality was roughly 40% shouting and 60% biceps—was stomping toward them. He stood a full head taller than Jax, which was terrifying given that Jax was basically a walking tank.