Yup, I did. This was written a while back, and I'm still working on it, but for now here's the "intro" of sorts. 1 14:25 Military Time December 6, 2710 [i]The Traveler was a name known by all of the Old Race, the humans. It rolled off the tongues of many, if not all, as the only alias known for their mysterious savior. IIt was a name spoken of with pride, humbleness, reverence and awe. It was a name worshiped, and it was a name used to curse. It was used in the strongest oaths to physically bind individuals to their agreement, and used by all manner of people in all manner of ways. It had replaced God as humanity’s final hope.[/i] Altos was barely past his sixteenth birthday, and personally, was skeptical. He had never observed the mysterious sphere, somehow floating a mile or so above the Last City and covering almost all of the city in its shadow, ever move or give off any sign of life. He did not understand why elders worshiped it so, to the point where they did not believe in any god whatsoever; Altos did not see the white war-torn surface as anything near to godlike. Sure, he had read the stories: Something unknown hit humanity hard, harder than any would like to imagine. We were being wiped out mercilessly and methodically, by a force greater than anyone could think of, and just before we were driven to the point of extinction, the Traveler came. Some thought it was a hero, others a machine from far away and long ago, others thought it was a god. Altos, however, was rational. He didn’t believe in magic, fairies, gods, or anything he couldn’t see with his own two eyes or down the barrel of a gun. He accepted the Traveler as real enough, but no more than that, until he saw proof otherwise. Altos was a soldier. Ever since a few months ago, he had spent his life waiting for the next fight. In a way, he was being trained for his own death. He was one of the many, a snowflake in a blizzard, who died in countless numbers in the ever-present struggle for survival. He was green, and not used to war, but already he felt each day melt and blur into the next, one skirmish here, one firefight there, and Altos did not understand why he of all people was still alive. Over only several battles, he witnessed many people, or things, die by his hand. He was not used to pulling the trigger and seeing the life leach out of a victim, even if it was some sort of monster. And just as many of his own comrades had died in the fighting. He had already seen his first commanding officer, Teryos, methodically and slowly cut to metallic shreds by a cruel, unfeeling Fallen captain in a snowy waste in the middle of a blizzard, God knew where, his systems slowly freezing or shutting down on the snow-covered ground as his tormenter stared down at him through cold blue glass. The whole time, Altos had lain in the snow, unmoving, blood seeping from his arm, hopefully enough to give the impression of a fatal wound. He had slowly felt himself going numb, but did not dare to raise a finger, lest he himself be cut open like a pig for market. The terrible scene had blurred, turned colorless, as he felt his own life blur out of shape. He lost himself in the void. Altos had awoken sometime later. Vision fading in and out, his own rasping breath magnified to the point of deafening, he had staggered, agonizingly slowly, to Teryos’ corpse and sunk to his knees in front of the mechanical body, searching for something, anything, to help him from his predicament, all morals forgotten in the face of the cold, the terrible cold. He had never forgotten that feeling. In the end he had realized that others had survived as well, by hiding just a few meters away from the victorious aliens in the white-out. It was the first time he realized he was mortal, not special, and that others had almost similar ideas to his and had survived the struggle much more safely than he. A soldier, name forgotten in the blur, had produced a distress signal and the small remaining group of beaten, cold, and pathetic survivors had been dragged onto a ship and flown back to the City. And here he was now, stuck in a bed in some place not of his choosing, assured that he would be out of the clinic in no time, and that he just had to regain his strength. Like a pot on the stove, he was slowly boiling over, itching to get back out into the fight. It scared him. He had never wanted to be a soldier, but now it seemed like he had no choice. And for some reason, he wanted to go back out into the fray. Maybe it was in vengeance for comrades dead and gone, familiar faces washed away in blood. Or maybe in his own revenge for what the aliens had forced him through. Whatever the cause, he felt that he would never be satisfied until they were all dead. He had heard of the Tower, the legendary training ground for the Guardians, those who were chosen through tests of blood and fire to carry the legacy and power of the Traveler in themselves as agents of its will (How they could carry out the Traveler’s “will” if it was dead was beyond Altos). They trained in divisions to fight the aliens, given special command over run-of-the-mill soldiers. Teryos had been a Titan, giant soldiers, almost seven feet tall at their best. They were given jobs as commanders, security, and tanks that could take incredible amounts of punishment. He heard that they were modeled after Spartans, super-soldiers of the distant past, genetically engineered to be the best from an early age. Not much was known of these Spartans, except for the few records of training and images found in ancient buildings crumbling into the ground, and in what had once been top-secret labs. Altos had heard of Warlocks, masters of the powers given by the Traveler, who could create shields from thin air. Most of all he admired the Hunters, quick, agile snipers and assassins with the trappings to survive out in the wild. A full squad could go nearly invisible to take down high-priority targets. New recruits to the Citadel were given the meager title of Cadet, and trained their lives away to be the best of the best of what humanity, Exos, and the mysterious Awoken had to offer. Altos had known a man once, who had been raised by one General Alexander of the 118th division, and had always wanted to be one of these Guardians. Raised on the streets, Altos, a mere soldier, had had no contact with him since they originally met in passing. [i]Whatever it takes, I am getting back out there. Even if I have to go through whatever it is they do there. I will be the best, if I have to. I WILL get through. For my family. My dad. He died, fighting just like I did. He was the one not so lucky. My mother, my older sister, living here, the last city on Earth... They will NOT die because I didn’t do well enough. I have to be the best, like cold steel. Or gunmetal. Gunmetal works too. [/i] Altos could never resist making a bad joke. So whaddaya think? I know it kinda jumps around and doesn't go into detail, but that's what first drafts are for, right?