"We are what we survive. They will not be the Guardians." —Lord Saladin
The huddled Guardians fell into shocked silence as Commander Zavala's silhouette loomed over the table.
A hooded figure sat, suddenly enveloped by the shadow, and leaned backward until his head bumped against Zavala's chestplate. He tilted his chin up and craned his neck to fix Zavala with an upside-down smile.
His hood fell back. "What's with the face, Big Blue?" Drifter said. "Somebody's gotta teach 'em how to play offense."
"Get this out of my Tower." There was iron in the Titan's voice.
An old fear split Drifter's face. He leaned forward, swept the contents of the table into his knapsack—tangled cables, a red lens, shards of bone, a green eye spinning madly in a jar of thick fluid—and left without a word.