Brother Vance's smile fell as the Titan entered his sanctum. The smell was unmistakable: ancient gunpowder, burnt oil, scorched Vex fluid, the burnt tang of steel overused through a hundred lifetimes.
"You have the Perfect Paradox," Vance said, his voice as steady as he could manage. He extended his hands. "May I?"
The Titan shrugged, then dug into his pack for the Shotgun. He placed it in Vance's waiting hands.
He ran his fingers over the barrel and tested the weight of the stock. "Ah," he said. "Not the original Perfect Paradox, is it?"
The Titan stood in confusion. Vance waited for a moment with his head tilted before he continued.
"You did not claim this weapon from the tomb of Saint-14, but instead through some Fractaline-powered tesseract, yes?"
The Titan nodded, then stood for a long moment looking at the blind man. "That Sundial made it," he said finally.
Vance's grip tightened on the gun. It was heavy, loaded with seven—no, eight shells. Tactical mag. Getting this one had taken some time.
"And how many timelines did you thoughtlessly tether to our own for this weapon? Our world now bears the strain of how many additional realities in exchange for this hollow abomination?"
Vance's mind swam at the thought of the infinite web that pulled on the Shotgun. "How much Fractaline did you sacrifice for this? Four hundred fragments?" He paused, aghast. "More?"
"It's got a trench barrel," said the Titan helpfully.
"Remove yourself from my sanctum," Vance said, placing the Shotgun down like a dead animal. "You have accelerated the end of all things, and I must update my prophecies accordingly."