orendalogs | IT'S YOUR DESTINY!!!

Aoba was more than a little bit used to Ghost not making complete sense to him, either because of the overwhelming detail of his replies, or because there was an implied context or other related information that Aoba simply didn’t know because this time was not his own. He didn’t have the familiarity with it that a native would, the knowledge of things that would be everyday or common sense to someone who’d lived in it all their life.

There was no room left for misunderstanding when Ghost said he was dead long before you were born.

The stillness of their surroundings imposed itself on Aoba loud enough that he didn’t forget his volume, but his body language was a shout enough when he wheeled fully upon the Ghost, every line in his posture suddenly an exclamation. Somehow—probably mostly shock—he kept silent until the construct had stopped speaking, but then all bets were off.

“What do you mean he’s dead?” he exclaimed, a whisper made forceful and rasping by the vehemence behind it.

Whether it was his own ignorance in interpreting answers, or never having been told so in straightforward fashion, Aoba had simply never learned that Guardians were raised from the dead.

"SHH SHH SHH!" Ghost hissed, zooming into Aoba's face, then zipping around his head, like a little dog in a frantic panic. A few heads turned, wondering. Ghost was louder than Aoba, and what got their attention. It was simply the nerves of the little construct. He, unlike many of his kind, was willing to share what little knowledge he had. It wasn't Declan asking questions, after all, so Ghost wasn't really breaking any rules, right? That didn't mean he didn't get paranoid. Still, everyone turned away, assuming Aoba was just getting a reprimand from a Ghost, the way all Guardians did.

"Guardians are resurrected from fallen heroes of the past. As long as something remains, even if just a spark of the soul to which a thread of the Light clings, we can trace it and bring them out again. The Light we harbor is more abstract than simple old religion ideas of inherent good and immortal souls. It is the sheer force of will of 'Right'. A harmonious force in the universe, organizing chaos. The patterned threads on the loom of fate, if you must. Every thread connects to something else: Ghost to Guardian, Ghost and Guardian to Traveler, Traveler to Terra and Sol, Luna to Terra, Terra to Sol, Sol to galaxy, galaxy to universe, life to death to life. Understand? Mm..." he paused, huffing softly, knowing full well his conceptualization was complicated.

"Declan was from an age prior to yours. Centuries prior. When I found him, his remains were thousands of years old. Ghosts are equipped with a lot of skills, though carbon-dating human remains isn't exactly accurate. But...Declan was born before the Golden Age of Rome. Pax Romana...uh...I don't know how much history you know, actually. Alexander the Great? You know him? Declan could have lived in the same generation. Oh, wait...you're Japanese. Um. Declan lived before the stories of your legendary Queen Himiko existed. Before Japan existed, and it was still the tribes of the Yayoi and Jomon periods. There are Guardians from all points in time; no few older than Declan. There is one Guardian..." He trailed off, swaying slightly like shaking a head he didn't have.

"Suffice to say there are Guardians that pre-date human recorded history."

Maybe it was a good thing that Ghost was so inclined to provide so much of an answer at a go. It stopped Aoba from getting a word in edgewise, buffering his bewilderment with an overload of information and in that way forcing him to just stand there and listen instead of bursting out with any more questions.

The details of Declan’s particular resurrection were irrelevant. What Aoba was stuck on, understandably, was that his friend had been dead. Had died and somehow been brought back to life. That such was the case for all Guardians.

One might think after everything he’d been through already, this should be no great shock, but it was all the same. Portals, space travel, time travel… somehow those were all on a level he could understand, but coming back from the dead still seemed a thing impossible. Aoba had to find a patch of wall to lean against, even, as his head seemed to reel.

“Is that why you’re called ‘ghosts’? Because you just go around bringing back the dead?” tumbled from his lips, incredulous more than anything else. But Declan was so warm, he wanted to say. He ate, he drank, he breathed, he was warm to the touch. He wasn’t some zombie. “Just to ask them to be Guardians? What kind of recruitment system is that?”

"I guess," Ghost replied in regards to the question about why they were named as such. He'd never thought about it because it wasn't anything he or any other like him considered problematic or derogatory. Humming to himself in thought, the pixelated blue eye flicked up, looking at Aoba with an expression somewhat like regret.

"It's that or give in to the Darkness. We don't have all the answers, I'm afraid. We Ghosts were born when the Traveler died...or...went into torpor, or however you want to look at it. So we don't have any more answers from our "parent" than anyone has from us. If you're looking for hypotheses..." The little Ghost shrugged, in it's own way, the geometric shape of it's shell spreading out and rotating left, then right, before closing it's bloom again.

"The living humans were frightened and unprepared for war. The Traveler wanted humanity to have nothing but peace and prosperity. War was a thing of the past, and with it, soldiers. By sending out Ghosts to tug on the threads of Light across the galaxy, resurrecting heroes of old, the Traveler could put those already accustomed to combat on the field, ready to protect, hard-wired for it. And by bringing them back without their pasts, they have no attachment to it and feel no deep loss. They cling to the moment, form bonds with the present and future instead of constantly looking back to things that cannot be changed. I'm no one to say whether it's right or wrong, cruel or kind. All I know is what's done is done, and it was done out of necessity. The only reason humanity survived is because of that decision. But, like I said...no Ghost knows the answers, because we were born without them."

For not having the answers, Ghost still gave a good one. Good in the sense that it deflated Aoba’s bewilderment some, offered a solid and sensible argument. A centuries-spanning golden age with no soldiers to be had…so they’d had to bring them back from the past. But without their pasts?

Aoba’s expression was tense, brows furrowed with thought. It was another good thing that Ghost didn’t go overboard in defending what was done. He explained it but withheld judgment, staying unbiased, and as such saved himself from becoming a target as Aoba himself did no such unjudgmental things.

He looked up again, across the temple to where Declan still stood with Lord Saladin. It struck him to be an even sadder thing for his friend, so brave and giving and yet so lonely. The past was out of reach. Wasn’t that hard enough? Why forbid the Guardians from learning where they’d come from? Why not give them that choice? Why not let them have their memories?

“…It’s not right,” he muttered, looking down at cracks in the stone. “People aren’t made in a void. Their pasts are what made them. Just taking that away from them…there’s no way that’s the right thing to do.”

Well you’re one to talk, aren’t you?

There was no outward cause of it for Ghost to see, but Aoba gave a jolt at that thought, eyes darting side to side as if he thought he’d heard someone call for him.

“Aoba?” came Ren’s voice at his hip.

“I—I’m fine. I think I just…hit on a sensitive topic all of a sudden,” Aoba answered, pressing a hand softly to his temple. There was no headache, no pain of any kind, but that particular bit of internal commentary had just felt…off, somehow.

"People are made in a void. A child is born with no past, thrust into a world that is bright and loud, and terrifying. They cry, they learn fear before they learn anything else. Then they learn all the rest. Guardians at least have emotional instinct, physical instinct. They know hot burns and cold freezes and they know the weak need to be defended and the strong need to ally themselves. They're the newborn wild animals, without pasts but ready to survive with just the gentle guidance of another more experienced creature. In this case, Ghosts."

"It isn't fair, not by any means, but between that and letting humanity die out? Ask any Guardian what they would prefer." Another shrug, Ghost helpless in any defense. He didn't like having to put Declan in danger any more than any Ghost liked threatening the lives of their Chosen. They, like the Risen, were bound to an inescapable destiny or sorts.

"Maybe someday the Traveler will reawaken and give them their memories...maybe not. Who can say? At least this way they aren't burdened by tragedy and can find lives for themselves. Most are content to know that whatever their pasts were like, they were good people. The Traveler did not reach out looking for darkness in men and women." He paused, glancing up as Declan's conversation with Saladin closed, the Titan opening his hand and accepting a medallion and Titan mark, a strip of colored and embroidered cloth similar in purpose to a tabard. Bowing his head in thanks, the pale man turned, looking to Ghost, Aoba, and Ren curiously, not approaching for the moment since they seemed embroiled in a deep conversation. Ghost spun his shell, gesturing the man over. No sense making him stand around when the conversation was technically about him, anyways.

It wasn’t a conversation anymore, anyway. Aoba had to disagree. The logic might have been sensible, sure, but his gut instinct disagreed. Guardians—or the people resurrected to become them, whatever—weren’t children. To compare them to children was to remove something like…agency? Declan himself had said something about wishing he’d had more choices, even…. So, it wasn’t a conversation anymore. It was only going to be a fruitless argument if it continued.

Oh you bet it’s a sensitive topic. Why feel bad for all the Guardians when you don’t even remember all of yourself. Easier to be irritated at a bunch of little ghosts than at Granny?

Woah, woah. Time to take five. Aoba gave his head a little shake, rubbing between his brows briefly before lowering his hand and lifting his head, looking around for something else to think about. Declan made for an easy alternative, and seeing the Titan looking their way, Aoba pushed himself away from the wall and focused his attentions his way, instead.

“Hey,” he managed when Declan was finally with them again. Better to focus on something positive than something uselessly negative. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

"Um...maybe." Declan looked unsure, glancing down at the green and gold fabric in one hand and the medallion in the other.

"I agreed to lead a team in the next Iron Banner. I...I don't like leading," the Titan murmured, moving to fold the mark and tuck it into his gear belt, the medallion going in a pouch. "I always end up in more arena matches. I don't know what it is, but I really don't like fighting my own comrades, even if it's only mock battles for training. Hm. Anyways, Lord Saladin said the storm should last more than a couple hours. You want to go to the commons in the barracks? Or just stay in the ship until we can leave? I can show you around, if you like..."

Aoba didn't particularly relish the thought of going out in that storm again, however briefly, comfortable borrowed coat or not, but Declan didn't seem particularly enthused about being here. More like obligated, and he'd asked Aoba along for... backup? Now there was a funny thought. Or maybe not so funny, if Declan had been talked into things he didn't want to do. Would that mean Aoba had failed to help him stand up for himself or anything like that?

"You tell me, Declan," he answered with a gentle shrug. "We don't have to stay in here now that the chore is over, if you don't want to."

"I'm just glad you're here. There never seems to be a friendly face around and I always feel...I don't know. Alone? The weight of this responsibility can be oppressive, and I don't have a dedicated team like a lot of the others. I appreciated just having someone else here," the Titan expressed, nodding with a small, shy smile. It faded quickly, lost in the usual impassive calm.

"Why don't we go back to the ship, then? I can regulate the temperature there better than they have in the barracks, and you can familiarize yourself with it before we leave tomorrow morning. We can take the ship out and hover near the peaks to watch the storm."

Never a friendly face, said the man whose ship had been waved in by hands lifted in greeting, the man who had been immediately greeted by other soldiers upon stepping inside. It seemed to lend more credence to the one theory Aoba was fostering, that Declan just didn’t appreciate himself and thereby didn’t properly recognize it coming from others. But now he also had to wonder: was that just part of his personality, or could it be blamed on not having a personal foundation of history and family? If Guardians were supposed to, as Ghost posited, bond with their fellows instead of their past, then why hadn’t Declan done just that?

Aoba couldn’t imagine he was anything special, to be some exception to this strange pattern, but it sure did leave one wondering why, if only to help the Titan further branch out.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he agreed. “Ah, and congratulations for all the commendations, anyway. I can at least say I feel better knowing your superiors recognize your abilities, too.”

He blushed faintly, looking away uncomfortably at the mention of his accolades, one hand thumbing the fabric tucked into his belt.

"I just do much job. This is unnecessary," Declan sighed, reaching up with his other hand to lightly scratch at the center of his brow. Shaking his head and gesturing for Aoba to follow, they made their hasty way back to the hangar and the ship. The medallion and mark were tucked into the crate with the cloaks, other embroidered marks and medallions buried in the bottom. His efforts were absolutely recognized; but perhaps part of the reason he was so dismissive about it was to do with the nature of the rewards. They were expected, given at specific achievement intervals for quantity more than quality. Declan felt like tasks that were (to him) basic didn't deserve such pomp.

"It bothers me how much more valuable a Titan is treated over other Guardians, too," Declan said after a while, leaning against the pilot seat and staring out at the blinding rush of snow.

"It was Mac that tracked and studied and did most of the work when we were containing SIVA for Saladin, but in the arena, all eyes are on me. I've seen Mac raise himself from the dead without the aid of his Ghost and take down ten people all on his own...but I throw up a shield and protect a flag, and earn more recognition. It's obscene."

God... ten minutes ago Aoba hadn't even known coming back from the dead was possible. Now Declan wanted to tell him that high-energy, shamelessly flirty Warlock had died in battle and brought himself back?

Aoba couldn't even comprehend that kind of thing, so he stuck to what he... sort of could. Declan was speaking without context again, but Aoba was sure it wasn't all just as clear cut as the Titan made it sound.

"What about when it's something other than a flag inside that shield?" he tried. "Someone or something that can't protect itself or take out enemies or heal on its own? Something relying on you to keep it safe? Is it still 'obscene' then?"

He considered for a moment, shaking his head slowly. It wasn't of course, but he disliked how many medals he got for mock battles when Mac was barely recognized for what he did in the field. He could never really understand.

"I just want...other people to be seen, too. I know what it is to be lonely despite the recognition I receive for my battle prowess. I can't imagine what it must be like to be completely invisible, though. Mac puts on this front of superior confidence all the time, and lives as loudly as possible, but I know he does it because he thinks no one is listening."

Hm. Aoba crossed his arms, rubbing one with the other in an idle gesture as he thought. It sounded to Aoba like maybe…there were two different problems here? Was this specifically about Mac, since he was the one Declan kept bringing up? Was this less about all the awards and accolades, and more about just being lonely?

“So…be there for him,” Aoba offered next, erring on the side of the more interpersonal. He wasn’t one who could talk about excelling at their ‘job’, but he understood caring about other people. “Support him, like I want to be there to support you.”

Not exactly like.

The little knot that tightened in his chest was not getting acknowledged right now, but it still scraped his thoughts in passing. What if Declan had feelings for the Warlock?

“You said you don’t have a dedicated team, right? Does Mac?”

"It isn't just Mac, though," Declan replied, glancing over and tilting his head with a weary expression. "He's just the one I see the most. I used to go in and accept my commendations immediately all the time. You work in groups in the different crucibles, you see, and I would go as part of a six man team. A team," the Titan emphasized, gesturing vaguely to the Guardians wandering the peaks.

"But when we complete the crucible, it's me getting the credit more than anyone else. I'm a bulwark, but the ones out there fighting deserve just as much, you know? Favoring me for something that's easy for me to do isn't fair. Plus some people started to get frustrated. Angry, even. Then eventually my team fell apart and it's been like this ever since. Mac refuses to have a dedicated team. He's terrified of being responsible for other people. I don't mind, but no one wants to come with me anymore. It's unnecessarily complicated."

Complicated sounded like the right word for it, yeah. For a moment, Aoba couldn't do much more than blink. Then something clicked in Aoba's mind, though nothing more significant than better distinguishing what they were actually talking about here.

"So, wait... these commendations aren't for actual battle? They're for competitions?"

"It's for both," he clarified, pacing around the pilot seat and sliding into it to tap the ship screens, drawing up bounty lists and ranking systems.

"The Crucible and Iron Banner are mock battles and training circuits. There are still real dangers, we use live ammunition, we can die - and do, often. Strike teams are the groups we go out with on bounties. Missions to reclaim territory, covert ops, things like that. You can go solo on any if it, but if you want to ensure success, you tske a team. Three man at the minimum; Hunter, Warlock, Titan. These are my commendation records," Declan flicked a finger across the screen, then up, scrolling through hundreds of accolades and rewards. Bravery in service, valor, sacrifice, all manner of words praising Declan...but repeated ad nauseam. A button-press recognition. Good job, soldier, here's your cereal-box toy medal.

"Mac has gone on more missions than me with a higher success rate, greater accuracy, higher body count - not that it's anything to be proud of, but less Darknesss I suppose...Still, look at this..." He opened another profile, Mac's face featured on the identification. At most the Warlock got a third of the recognition for the same amount of work.

"It's all so meaningless this way," Declan sighed, lesning back in his seat, staring at the side by side comparison.

"They praise me because I'm a shield. Because I'm a Titan. Whether I do better than someone else or not. They don't even know who I am."

Another reference to dying, this one so casual that Aoba felt immediately sick. Dying in training exercises... he was able to read into it enough to grasp that resurrection wasn't a one-off thing, then. The Ghosts could bring back the Guardians repeatedly.

It sounded like an incredible advantage in a war until Aoba heard that it was trivialized to the point of space-age Capture the Flag.

The side by side comparison was shockingly disheartening, too. Aoba had assumed, naturally for his experiences, that special recognition came as a rarity. Now it didn't look special at all -- which almost begged the question, why did Declan care that he got more than Mac if it was all just lip-service, anyway?

Standing half behind Declan's chair to observe the screens, Aoba was silent for a time. 'I know who you are,' he considered saying, but dismissed. That wasn't the point. Aoba was a friend but also a nobody, and this wasn't about him, anyway.

Eventually he just reached to the side, putting a hand on Declan's shoulder to offer support that demanded nothing in exchange. A thought was shoved forward from the back corners of his mind.

"... You sure you don't want to come with me?"

There was a long stretch of silence, pale eyes drifting to the hand on his shoulder, then up. Lips twitched almost imperceptibly, some complicated emotions being swallowed and regurgitated. Painful though it was, Declan opted for complete honesty, both with himself and Aoba.

"I would be honored, Aoba. That you would invite me at all is...moving..." He inhaled, sighed, considered a moment, then reached up and oh so gently cupped his hand over the other man's, moving his thumb in a gentle rubbing to mirror how Aoba had once treated him. It...was alright, wasn't it?

"...But I haven't the slightest notion what my leaving might do. What if a life I could have saved is lost because I was selfish and ran away with you? These numbers don't mean anything to me," he nodded towards the screen.

"But the fate of this world and the whole of humanity does. I'm not arrogant enough to believe that I'm any sort of lynch-pin, that something left undone by me would lose the whole war, but I do believe that my absence means the loss of life. No matter how happy I would be following you, I would have that guilt hanging over me. Forever."

He did consider what him going into the past might do; what if he could warn the Traveler of the coming days? Give everyone that leg up? But then, if he had done it or if it could change anything at all, they wouldn't be having the conversation they were just then. He wasn't as smart as Mac - or any Warlock - but he understood the theory of time paradox and fixed events. If it were possible to go back and fix things, then why were they still at war? This life was inevitable.

"Besides," he added after a moment, turning his eyes up to Aoba's face with their ever so deep sincerity. "It is just as great an honor to be here, fighting in your future. It may be long after your time has passed, but this is a world that your era lived on, entrusted to us. I intend to protect it."

It was an answer he expected. Whatever the Light really was, Aoba saw it as an inherent goodness, and even he could see the strength of it in Declan. For the Titan to make his quietly frustrated complaints and then opt to stay and fight anyway…it just sounded perfectly him. Aoba couldn’t really be disappointed when he hadn’t had hopes up in the first place, the words having been more a wording of commiseration than anything else but—he liked hearing again that Declan would have been happy to go with him under different circumstances.

Aoba didn’t know how much of that happiness would have been for going with him over just leaving this troublesome future to its own ends. The hand over his own confirmed a closeness of some kind, but nothing certain enough to muster Aoba any further. He would have been happy enough to bring Declan with him just so that the man could find a more normal life away from war.

An urge pressed at him very strongly, a nagging that made him want to do something more that just stand there at an intimately platonic distance, but he lacked the courage to do anything more than shove it away. He cursed himself a little for it, almost in words that he could hear, but resisted just the same.

“Then keep it safe until I get back,” he said only, hand warm and still where it rested. “It won’t be my future when it becomes my present.”

Glancing at his own hand, feeling as though it had overstayed it's welcome, Declan drew away, licking his lips and turning his gaze back to the window, watching the snow. He felt heat creeping up the back of his neck, though he didn't understand why. Aoba's words garnered a small smile though. Wistful, yet with a twist of hope.

"There will always be a home for you here, Aoba...but I don't imagine you'd want to return to all this when you're back with the people you love. Why come to a war-torn land when you have everything there? Family, a blessed future where you can be and do anything you wish. I will miss you. Sorely. But I'll always rest well knowing you're safe somewhere. Your happiness is so important to me." And why would Aoba be happy there with him?

“Then don’t go trying to convince me not to come back,” Aoba countered, voice as warm as his hand even though he pulled the latter away a couple moments after it was freed.

Aoba slipped into the other seat (did that make him the universe’s most useless copilot?), removing Ren from his bag and settling him on his lap. The Allmate was still alert despite his silence, pointed little ears gently going flat as Aoba idly petted him. He wasn’t feeling sad or homesick this time around, thankfully. His newly-learned upset with the real situation that Declan faced as a Guardian shifted his thoughts so they were central to how he felt, rather than Aoba’s own.

“I won’t have ‘everything’ back in Midorijima. I won’t have you. So you just let me worry about the time I spend between my two homes, okay? You only have to be responsible for looking after this one.”

He was elated for a moment, in spite of himself. That Aoba wanted to return still pleased him, but it brought to light other issues and Declan still had to cast a worried look the other man's way, even as he leaned in and logged the autopilot back to the Tower.

"Am I worth the warmth and safety of your home?" the Titan asked dubiously, though he felt dizzy, giddy with the simple implication that he held that much meaning in Aoba's list of people. That the man would cross time and space to see him? Leave his family behind for any length of time, when he'd already been through so much? It was unthinkable, and yet there it was said, clear as crystal.

Okay, Aoba couldn’t help but chuff an amused sound at him for that one. “Two homes, Declan,” he repeated, easy thing that it was to say it as many times as it took for the Guardian to believe him. “Two. So yes, that’s exactly what I said.”

He leaned over, stretching an arm across the space between the two chairs, and tapped Declan’s breastplate. If repeating the Guardian’s own words and gestures of the morning back to him were also necessary, then that too, Aoba could do. “Right here, right? Home number two. My second place of warmth and safety. You look after it, and you look after the world you can’t leave the way I can.”

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