Lore:Sightlines

Sightlines is a Lore book introduced in Lightfall. Entries are unlocked by progressing the Country Radio Season of Defiance Triumph. It follows Devrim Kay's experiences through the Invasion of Earth. The coordinates on the cover of the book point to the city of Munich, Germany.

I—From Great Distance
Devrim Kay leaned out the broken window of the Trostland church and fixed his eyes on the sky.

The Traveler and the Witness were up there somewhere, with most of the Vanguard and all the fighter pilots the Last City could muster. The comms were filled with static. All Devrim knew for sure was that they were fighting for their lives.

The orbital combat was barely visible in the daylight—an errant streak of weapons fire, the twinkle of an explosion. From the ground, the conflict was silent and beautiful, the deaths of his friends sparkling as gently as the light of long-dead stars.

Devrim tried, and failed, to shake the thought from his mind.

There was a faint corona of fire, and the exosphere shimmered with a cloud of sparkling debris. It was impossible for Devrim to tell if he was looking at the remains of the Pyramids or the Traveler.

Wire rifle fire crackled against the stone wall of the old church, and he cleared the field of threats with eight precise shots.

Devrim steadied himself against the window frame and pulled a pair of binoculars from his vest. He focused on a single distant speck that flashed in the sunlight as it tumbled to Earth.

He held his breath as the debris drew closer, and he was able to make out a strangely clean-cut slice of fuselage bearing Vanguard livery.

Devrim felt his hands go numb.

"Mayday," he said into the EDZ comms channel, his voice somehow calm and clear. "Our birds are coming down."

Far below, his binoculars shattered against the Trostland cobblestones.

II—Countback
Crow sighed. "You ever going to fire that thing?"

The crack of the sniper round rattled off the tree line. Crow squinted at the small sapling he'd pointed out as a target. Devrim's shot had split it in half.

"Nice shot!" Glint said cheerfully.

Devrim gave the ghost a polite nod. Crow rolled his eyes.

"All right," Crow said, ignoring Devrim's amused smile. "One more for you."

The two of them had agreed on this rocky plateau for their little competition. They began with makeshift target dummies, posted out at various distances. When that quickly became monotonous, Glint helpfully agreed to transmat the targets into the air. Eventually they simply started calling out challenges to each other. Devrim took ages to line up his shots, but he hadn't missed yet. The man was frustratingly efficient.

Devrim stepped down from the boulder he was using as a perch.

"I don't know that you're the best marksman," Devrim said, "but you make a fine spotter."

"Ouch." Crow grinned. "Try to pick something difficult this time, old-timer."

Crow crouched into a firing position, bracing his rifle against his shoulder. He heard footfalls on the gravel nearby and felt at once that peculiar sensation of stepping sidelong into an old recollection. The past superimposed itself over the present like a veil: another hillside, another target.

Crow glanced aside to find Devrim watching him silently. Patiently. If Crow decided not to explain, he suspected Devrim wouldn't say a word about it. They could just get on with the game.

"In… my past life, I had a friend who could give us both a run for our money. We did this sort of thing all the time." Crow smiled to himself. "I think I missed it."

"I didn't think Prince Uldren had many friends," Devrim said. "But then again, you're not terrible company at present, so I suppose it follows."

Crow let out a startled laugh. "As compliments go, I'll take it."

Devrim turned away to face the rocky slope. "There's a House Dusk symbol on that scrap of metal out there. Just shy of the old transmission tower."

Crow thought for a moment.

"First one to land three shots gets two points?"

"Playing to your strengths, Sir Crow?" Devrim was already lining up his sights.

"Just keeping things fun, Sir Kay."

III—Thrysiks
Devrim heard the Skiff break through Earth's atmosphere before he saw it. From his elevated post in the church steeple, the whine of the Fallen engines was unmistakable.

The aging scout put down his thermos and turned off his datapad, which displayed the week's Crucible highlights. He sighted the Skiff through the scope of his Golden Age rifle and unmuted his comms.

"All parties, this is Devrim. I've just spotted a Skiff entering the atmosphere two klicks north of Trostland. Looks like Salvation colors. Do you copy?"

"Yeah, I see it." Crow's languid reply betrayed an exhaustion Devrim could relate to. "Looks like they're headed for what's left of the checkpoint."

The Guardian had dismantled a Shadow Legion blockade during a rescue mission earlier in the week, and the area was littered with armor, weapons, and scrap—all common targets for Fallen scavengers.

"Looks like a mid-sized scav crew," Crow continued. "What do you think?"

Devrim recognized a note of reluctance in the Hunter's voice.

"As long as they stick to scavenging, I say we leave them be," Devrim replied. "But let's keep eyes on. I don't want any more surprises."

"Copy that," Crow replied with audible relief. "I'm on recon. I'll keep you posted."

A half hour later, Devrim's comms squawked back to life. He roused himself from the anxious, semi-alert doze that pervaded his long days.

"Something strange here, Devrim." Crow sounded intrigued. "One of the scavs slipped away while the others weren't looking. A Dreg. He's headed your way."

"Roger that," Devrim replied. "I'm in position, awaiting contact. Standby."

Devrim nestled behind his scope, sighting the northern tree line. After a few minutes, he spotted rustling bushes.

"His crew just realized he's gone. The Vandal in charge is yelling his head off. Think I just learned some new Eliksni vocabulary," the Hunter chuckled.

Devrim watched the Dreg emerge from the tree line. He disengaged the safety on his rifle and sighted the scavenger's head. But something stayed his hand.

"Crow, this chap is… he's unarmed," Devrim whispered. "He's got his hands up, and he's walking right toward me."

"You always were a popular guy," Crow quipped. "Must be the accent."

Devrim squinted over the top of his rifle. The Dreg spotted him and started chittering. "He's shouting something. Listen."

Devrim went silent, allowing Crow to pick up the Dreg over comms.

"He's saying, 'I am Thrysiks. Peace to the Great Machine. Honor to the Kell of Light,'" Crow translated. "He's defecting."

The scrawny Dreg knelt in the rubble beneath the church tower, malnourished and frightened. Devrim felt a lump in his throat. The Dreg reminded him of the scared kids who had volunteered during the Red War. Devrim took his finger off the trigger.

"I'll be damned," he said to himself, voice thick with emotion. "Let's bring the poor bastard in."

IV—Over the Water
Mithrax stood among the trees at the edge of the Farm and looked out over the water. His Splicer faceplate, still connected to his chestpiece by a tangle of wires, hummed quietly on the ground behind him.

He turned to pull a ragged breath from the rebreather at his collar and noticed Devrim Kay sitting quietly on a stone outcrop at the edge of the tree line. The man acknowledged Mithrax with a nod.

"Devrim. Forgive me." Mithrax pulled his mask up by a fistful of wires and fumbled with the delicate clasps along its edges.

Devrim put a hand out to stop him. "It's quite all right. I didn't mean to interrupt."

Mithrax stopped, his mask held in his hands, and turned back to the water.

"I understand if you'd rather be alone," Devrim said softly. "But I wouldn't, in your place."

"You may remain," Mithrax said, his voice thinner without his vocal processor. He scratched absently at the old scars along the side of his face and winced as his claws found the fresh injuries caused by Eramis's Stasis blast.

"Seems you came through just fine," Devrim said, and the ease of his tone made Mithrax turn as if struck. The pain was bare on the old Eliksni's face, and Devrim blanched.

"No, terribly sorry, I didn't mean that as a slight," Devrim said, hand to his heart. "I am relieved you survived. Genuinely."

Mithrax took a shaky pull of Ether and fastened his faceplate into place. He walked wordlessly away through the trees.

"Excuse me, Mithrax."

Devrim's voice felt uncomfortably close over Mithrax's in-helmet communicator. The Eliksni leaned against a tree, suddenly deeply tired.

"Sorry about the intrusion—I know a bit about piggybacking on Eliksni comms signals. That sounded horrible earlier, fantastically poor choice of words on my part. Mea culpa… ah, that's 'my fault' in an old Earth language. I do hope I'm not making this worse."

Mithrax resisted the urge to send a deafening spike of feedback over the signal. He held his arms to his abdomen as if to soothe the knot that formed there. "I only live because of the sacrifice of a friend, and the pity of an enemy," Mithrax said sharply.

"If I may, from what I know of Amanda and Eramis, you live because you earned the respect of both," Devrim replied.

"Amanda protected my life with hers," Mithrax said, his voice wavering. "I would not have agreed to such a trade."

"You told me 'our lives are not for us alone,'" Devrim said gently. "I think Amanda, of all people, would have agreed with that."

A long silence fell over the comms.

"Mithrax," Devrim finally said, "I've been thinking. With all this Queensguard business… is there a Kellsguard?"

There was a soft hiss of static, a click, and silence. "A kell does not need protection," came the grumbled response from behind Devrim, nearly startling him off his seat.

Devrim turned and looked up into the pulsing pink lights of Mithrax's faceplate. "'Protection' is the wrong word for it," he said. "Perhaps simply 'help'?"

Mithrax stood motionless for a moment, then waved Devrim to the side with one of his lower arms.

The man made room, and the Eliksni sat down beside him. The two sat in silence, looking out over the water together.

V—Brevity Code
Marc was still half-asleep when he reached out to silence the shrill chirp of an incoming transmission. Private channel, low urgency, heavy encryption.

"Devrim?" he said, drowsily.

"Evening, dear." The comms amplified Devrim's low murmur to audible ranges. "I'm waiting for this Psion to come and pay me a visit, but he's being shy. I thought you'd be better company."

Marc couldn't help but picture it: the single watchful eye, waiting in the dark. He felt, abruptly, wide awake. "Do you need help?"

"No, no. I wanted to talk." A pause. "Rather, to hear you talk."

Marc took a deep breath. "What should I talk about? Work? What I'm planning for breakfast?"

Devrim's quiet laughter came through as a gust of static. "You can say anything at all."

"Well…" Marc rose out of bed and strode aimlessly across the room. "You might have noticed there's a lot going on."

"Certainly."

"I was patching up one of the generators yesterday morning and I got swarmed by the neighbors." Marc laughed quietly. "Everyone wants news. They're pretty freaked out. I told them, all I can do is fix things. I don't have a line on the Traveler."

There was a sharp buzz from the comms. Marc wondered if there were jammers wherever Devrim was. Just out of effective range.

"Actually," Marc continued, "I told them that you're some kind of Awoken Paladin now, so they have nothing to worry about."

He found himself moving toward the window, pointless as that was. He looked out over the dark street just below before letting his eyes wander up to the clouded night sky, where the Traveler used to be. "I told them Sir Devrim Kay is going to singlehandedly chase the Legion off-planet and bring everyone back home safe. Traveler included."

There was warmth in Devrim's laugh. "He's going to do all that?"

"Sure is." Marc smiled to himself.

The silence stretched on. He braced his free hand against the windowsill. "Devrim—"

The communicator dampened all but the first few milliseconds of the rifle's retort, but all the same Marc would have sworn that the shot rang in his ears. He held his breath and started to count the seconds. To chart out the gap between the shot's terrible potential and its final resolution.

One.

Two.

Three…

Until Devrim spoke again. Until Marc could breathe again.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

"It's done," Devrim said.

And then: "I'll be home soon, Marc."

"I know," Marc said.

He stood there at the window, watching the horizon, and waited for the signal to cut out.

VI—The Battle Within
Guardians and civilian functionaries bustled past Devrim as he made his way toward Zavala's office in the Tower. The greying scout took a deep breath and was discomforted by the assault of body odor, pollution, market spices, and the sharp sting of aerosolized Ether. He suddenly yearned for the clean forest air of Trostland.

He knocked sharply on the office door and opened it tentatively. Zavala beckoned him in.

The scout sat beside the commander's enormous desk, which was cluttered with minimized displays and blinking holographic reminders. Each, Devrim assumed, was an urgent communique awaiting orders.

"Thank you for stopping by," Zavala said. "I know you're busy."

Devrim arched his eyebrows. "I suppose that's relative, Commander." He gestured to the field of demanding messages.

Zavala dimmed his desktop display with a wave of his hand. "That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. As the Vanguard has grown over the decades, leadership is getting further and further from the civilians we're protecting."

"I can imagine," Devrim replied sympathetically. "It seems as though the Tower grows taller every year."

"Indeed." Zavala fixed Devrim with an inscrutable look. Was it fatigue? Regret? Resentment? The moment passed.

"We need a fresh perspective from the ground," the Titan continued matter-of-factly. "Someone who understands both the Vanguard's missions and the civilian populace. An attaché of sorts, who can help us coordinate with local governments. I'd like that person to be you."

"Ah," Devrim replied. He had feared something like this was coming. "Marc would be thrilled. He's been hounding me to get out of the field."

"Then perhaps it's time."

"I appreciate the offer," Devrim replied tactfully, "but I'm afraid I'm not ready to put my rifle down just yet. My knees aren't what they once were, but with age comes clarity. I used to think working recon made me reclusive. But now, I rather believe it's the other way around."

"What you're describing is public relations," the scout continued, "and I couldn't imagine anyone less qualified than myself."

"I understand, but… recon is risky work," Zavala objected. "The longer you're in the field, the greater the chance that something will go wrong."

"That's true," Devrim admitted. "But as dangerous as it is in Trostland, no battlefield frightens me more than this one." He gestured again to the barrage of unanswered messages. "I'll take my chances with the Shadow Legion, thank you."

Zavala leaned back in his chair and frowned. "I'm disappointed." He turned his attention to the array of messages. "But… I understand. Not a day goes by that I don't miss the field. Actually seeing results, instead of just reading about them."

The commander sighed. "I accept your decision. But if Marc ever asks me why you're still in the field, I won't lie," he cautioned.

Devrim chuckled nervously. "That's a different mission altogether."