#Cayde is a pain to draw though

[emmster]

Hey look it’s Andal Brask

[lizzieraindrops]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Destiny (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eris Morn/Ikora Rey Characters: Eris Morn, Ikora Rey Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Hello destiny sapphics; allow me to introduce myself, Femslash, if nobody is going to write the content i want to see then i will create it myself, listen. it’s about perceiving the weak and wounded places in someone you love, and lavishing love and care upon them even when they won’t admit they need it, it’s about the Mutual Support, it’s about being kind to them even when you don’t know how to be kind to yourself, Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, oh and ikora has the most Distinguished Bisexual energy i’ve ever seen so jot that down, it doesn’t come up but you needed to know, this is all just a bunch of softness and tenderness don't @ me okay, Grief/Mourning

Summary:

Five storms Eris and Ikora weathered and one they didn’t need to.

The Shadowkeep weblore lives in my head rent free. Set post-Taken King and mostly during Shadowkeep.

“As I told Asher, there is a storm coming…” “Oryx is dead. We’ve weathered the storm.” Ikora is upset. She has yet to understand the bigger picture. “Yet his sisters would see his will done. There will always be another storm.” “Then let’s weather it together.” -Shadowkeep Narrative Preview #1

Chapter: |  1  |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  +1  |

Set early Shadowkeep. Happy Ikora returns day!

As the afternoon sunlight sweeps across her study in slow motion, Ikora thinks on time, and distance. Their immensity and insignificance are so deeply, paradoxically interwoven. Leaning over the many strike reports on her heavy wooden desk, she thinks on decades passing, centuries, and the way the earth still turns under the sun every day the way it always has. She knows that even without encouragement, the sun has always been running down to eventually collapse into darkness. Yet the process is so slow that she has not witnessed the slightest telltale change to indicate it in all her long life, and unless they are all very unlucky, she likely never will. 

She considers the great stretch of space from her desk chair in the Tower to the near reaches of the Oort Cloud at the edge of the solar system, the pitted stones of which her own eyes have beheld in her youth. That great span is not so different from the kind of invisible gulf that oft forms between people. Ikora will sense that spaceless distance yawning wide even between herself and someone mere paces away. With some time and thought, she can often close it again. Compassion and carefully chosen words, thoughtful gestures; they hold more power than most people credit. But other times, no matter what form of communication she employs to attempt to bridge that void, people cannot or will not hear her. It is endlessly galling. It can happen with anyone from intractable faction leaders during a Consensus meeting to dear friends she does not want to lose to her own Traveler-forsaken ghost.

Despite any physical separation, she knows that felt distance would collapse if only she could understand and make herself understood to those she cares about. If only she could find the right way to reach them. Then she remembers all over again: the too-frequent sensation of reaching and reaching and reaching and not even being met halfway.

Ikora thinks about the universe’s tendency toward entropy, and the way time and space have torn people away from her again and again, be it by kilometers or eternities. She cannot forget the way she lost her mentor, her closest thing to kin, to his obsession with the mysteries of temporality long before he physically left the City. She remembers the way someone she could have loved was already leaving before Ikora could ask her to stay, vanishing to parts unknown. She considers her own time on Io during the Red War: Lightless and lost, desperately seeking a connection to anything that would give her hope or answers. All she found was herself even more alone, feeling farther from everyone than she ever has.

Then, Ikora recalls the way Cayde and Zavala seized her in a doubly crushing hug the moment she returned to Earth and stepped onto the unexpected refuge of the Farm. There she was, weaker than ever and harshly humbled by her own insufficiency in the face of insurmountable odds. Yet they not only reached out to her, but caught her as she fell into their arms broken. Maybe, in their own way, they had been reaching all along, and she had been turning away unknowing. She didn’t know how she’d gone so long without letting herself lean on them.

Now though, with her closest friend ripped out of her life and buried in a few years of grief, she still doesn’t know how she’s going to do it again. There’s only so much of each other’s pain and weariness that she and Zavala can hold. 

She thinks of the way it felt when Eris returned, feeling their separation in time and space draw to a close while a buffer of uncertainty remained. Truly, after the years of silence following their painful parting, Ikora had never expected to see the woman again. Yet Eris came back. Now she lingers at the edges of Ikora’s space, in the back of her mind; sometimes closer. Ever drawn back to the Moon, Eris comes and goes; but now, she remains within reach. 

Eris has always been hard to keep up with. Impelled by her immense grief and rage and pain, she drives herself so hard in pursuit of vengeance or closure. Ikora has always admired her tenacity in reshaping her suffering into a knife of purpose, one effective and deadly beyond even the means of most Lightbearers. Eris’ knowledge and sacrifices are what enabled them to defeat two gods of the Hive. And still she strives to further eliminate the possibility of her cruel fate ever befalling another. But it pains Ikora to see her still flinging herself into the fight with fury while foregoing her own healing.

It feels different, though, to be around her now. While as fierce and focused as ever, something has gentled some of her edges while sharpening others. It’s evident that Eris’ return to the Moon has spiked her dread with memory. Sometimes she is as wary as she was when she first returned from the Hellmouth, hissing at shadows. But her conversations with Ikora turn soft and halting far more than they ever did before. Perhaps she has found some measure of peace, given a few years with the defeat of Crota and Oryx to turn her avenged grief over and over in her hands. Or — as Ikora distinctly suspects — she, too, regrets the harsh words of their previous parting and thinks of reconciliation.

Maybe it’s just that Ikora is hearing her more clearly now. Or perhaps Ikora herself has just finally learned how to listen. What she hears is something that could be, not an answer, but the beginning of a conversation.

Shadows grow longer and Ikora moves from her desk to one of the soft chairs in her little library of an office. Ophiuchus compiles in a small flurry of Light, and she brushes a hand over his shell as she passes by. He watches her settle into the chair to watch the setting sun through the window. They do that sometimes: just watch each other. It has only been a few years since they started speaking to each other again after many decades. It’s still hard. But now that they have, their silences are friendlier. Ikora isn’t sure that they’ll ever be as close as they were before they pulled away from each other. But she’s still glad for what they have now. This is the kind of thing she promised herself she’d do better at after the Red War, so she’s been trying even harder. If she’s going to rely on anyone, her own ghost should be first among them. All the time they spent so far apart right next to each other has left its mark. But this is one of the few rifts that Ikora has been able to even begin to repair, and she treasures every rebuilt link.

Ikora thinks about the way Osiris tore time and causality itself apart to breach one of those unfathomable distances and bring back someone precious. With a little help, he saved someone thought irretrievably lost beyond a thousand layers of temporospatial distance. And yet, Ikora cannot help but see the way Osiris still struggles to close that gulf even when Saint is right in front of him, impossibly alive. As guardians, they are given so, so many second chances, but they are still far from infinite.

Ever since the day she formally became Vanguard, Ikora has been telling herself she’s not going to let herself repeat his mistakes. She keeps a firm grip on her emotions, leashes her ego, puts the City and its people’s safety first. She has failed many times, but succeeded more often; the Last City stands yet. But it’s been so hard to reconcile those imperatives with the harsh lessons of the Red War: sometimes, she is not enough; and sometimes, having others in her corner with her makes them enough, together.

Perhaps she should have paid more attention to those smaller lessons before then. Losing her Light, however temporarily, showed her just how fragile the greater ones are without that groundwork. No matter how mighty, a tree that does not anchor its fine roots into the ground will bow before a stiff wind. 

When the dust had settled and her Light returned, she swore to herself that she’d learn to let herself need other people. Intellectually, she knows it makes her stronger, even when she feels weaker. But losing Cayde so soon after that decision demolished what progress she had made. Time and again she ends up trapped in her own attempts at self-sufficiency, alone whether or not anyone else is there.

Ikora already knows what she wants, what she needs. She knows she needs people. And she knows she wants someone.

She just doesn’t know how to go about it yet.

[poorlytunedukulele]

Day 18 - Rift

Nadim Patel: This will be a tournament to remember, folks!  Never before has the Second Crucible League seen such triumph, such spirit, such drama!  We sit on the eve of what is sure to be a historic match.

All week fans have been watching in awe as the reigning champions, Fireteam Bash, has juggernauted their way through the bracket!  Though suffering some early setbacks, including a down-to-the-wire overtime win in round 2, the Pride of the Peregrine District seem to have found their stride, capping off the Semifinals with a devastating victory!

But our defending champions are only one half of the story.  On the other side of the bracket, a contender no-one saw coming!  Fireteam CPO was originally a wildcard pick, but they’ve become quite the darkhorse in this race, taking win after win against incredible odds.

By the time you will be watching this, we’ll be only half an hour from the starting whistle.  But tonight, it is Final Round eve, and tonight we are lucky enough to have none other than Andal Brask, leader of Fireteam CPO, in the studio with us.  Welcome, Andal, it’s great to have you here!

Andal Brask: Thanks, Nadim, it’s good to be here.

N: Now, Andal, before we begin, there’s a question I have to ask, one the fans have been begging us to ask all week.

A: Ah, I think I know.

N: What’s the deal with CPO?

A: It’s an in-joke, actually.  In the world of Vanguard operations, the five Hunters on our team are known as ‘The Crew’.  That’s me, Cayde-6, Tevis Larsen, Shiro-4, and Azra Jax.  But you can’t compete in Crucible tournaments with only five, so we brought in an extra.  So CPO stands for Crew Plus One.

N: And what a plus one he has been!  Redrix-3 has been making a very big name for himself.

A: What can I say?  Kid’s a natural.

N: Ah, but this is your interview, Mr. Brask, your time to shine.  Every team is only as good as its leader.

A: Leader has to work with what they’ve got.  Not gonna lie, I’m lucky to have a big pile of talent to work with.

N: That last round in the Semifinals- what a nailbiter!  Can you tell me what was going through your head going into it?

A: Oh, I can tell you exactly what was going through my head. 

The Hunter jumped high, eyes flashing, then there was a whir and a snap and the sky fell.

Chayam had been on the receiving end of Shaxx’s Fists of Havoc enough times.  This was a bit different.  He should be dead.  But only Carlo’s Ghost chirruped.

Strike that.  With a spin, Joy-4 was down, too slow in fumbling for her shotgun.  The Hunter rounded on Chayam.

He leveled his Auto Rifle on her and let loose.  She spun her Staff in a circle, creating a forcefield of Arc that deflected his bullets.  At least it kept her from advancing, for now.  Until his magazine ran out.

Then he took a bullet to the shoulder.  There, in the hallway, another Hunter was taking careful aim with his Hand Cannon.

Chayam spun to the side, reloading his gun with practiced efficiency.  “Inside!”  he cried into his comms.  “They’re coming inside!”

The Hand Cannon barked again, then he was dead.

A: Azra Jax is very useful as a distraction.  She was the only one with her Super up, but she pulls that Arc Staff and everyone just loses it.  So we send her inside, close-quarters, to draw their focus.  Throw in Cayde for some mid-range support- he’s also very flashy- and you’ve got yourself a very convincing diversion.  They couldn’t stand against a whole fireteam, but if they had to deal with a whole fireteam, that means we’d be in a good position to score.

Cyril peered down his scope.  There were calls for reinforcements on the inside lanes, but he had a feeling there could be a second prong of the attack headed for the outside.  The opposing team had shown some pretty unique tactics so far.  He wouldn’t put it against them.

There!  Movement at the end of his lane.  He shifted the rifle against his shoulder, ready to fire at the first thing that came around the corner-

A bullet tore through his thigh.  The deep boom of another Sniper Rifle echoed through the arena.  Cyril faltered and turned for cover, but it was already too late.

Kovac paused to catch his breath.  If he could flank a group of them, he’d be able to pull his Super and take their momentum away.  Already his palms itched with Solar, ready to take the Gun and reduce his foes to ash.  All he had to do was find them.  There was red in his motion tracker ahead-

There was a stabbing pain in his back, then the cold steel of a knife at his throat, then nothing.

A: Tevis is good enough to outsnipe the snipe and outsneak the sneak.  So he had our backs for the first phase.  Hopefully if everything went wrong, he could have his Tether up by the time the other team recovered the Spark and made it his way.  The plan was then to have Azra and Cayde fall back on defense.  Didn’t happen, obviously.

Joy-4 ran out of spawn.  “It was a feint,” Carlo announced.  “They’re already here!”

Too late for that announcement. 

A hail of Pulse Rifle fire took down Carlo.  Cyril was also hit and had to dive back into cover.

As soon as the clatter of bullets stopped, Joy-4 turned back around her corner and aimed down her sights.  But there was nobody there-

Up, her brain told her.  She had just enough time to look up and see the Titan flying above her let go and drop.

A: Shiro-4 was our spark carrier, with me as backup.  Didn’t really need me much in the end, I was just there in case Shiro got taken down, provide extra covering fire until then.  But that didn’t happen.

‘Bedlam’ seemed too calm a word.  There was screaming, there was gunfire, and behind all of it, the crash of armor against armor.  Their fireteam was being pushed back relentlessly- it was give ground or die.  Three of their party were still tangled up with the Arcstrider and the Gunslinger, too far away to help.

Cyril would normally take a 3v3.  Even odds.  Even odds didn’t matter when you had a battle-mad Titan charging through your spawn.  He was fast and he hit brutally hard.  Even the bullets Cyril piled into him didn’t seem to slow him.  The Titan leapt into the air.  Cyril saw death.

It all happened too fast.  Unseen, unnoticed, a short Exo slid in and deposited the tiebreaker point.

The rift ignited behind Redrix-3, turning him into an imposing silhouette as the victory announcement played.

A: Like I said, kid’s a natural.  I just let him do his own thing most of the time.

AO3 Link

[starlightkniights]

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2019. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

tagged by the wonderful @bledenmarks​ thank you!! 💕

there wasn’t many gifs/edits in 2019 i actually liked so there’s gonna be some drawings and writing i did last year thrown into the mix (though everything is destiny haha)

1. The Vex Offensive - Aperture (gifset) - this set means a lot to me...  first time i sharpened gifs and spent hours messing with adjustment layers. this gifset is a good startpoint of when i started making content more seriously and consistently. sentimental feelings aside, it’s one of my fave colorings and the scenery for the vex offensive was gorgeous

2. LGBT Destiny Month: Petra Venj (edit) - the first time i tried playing around with typography and fonts, it was probably the most fun i’ve ever had working on something. despite being very new/unfamiliar with doing edits like this, i'm still happy with the overall result

3. dredgen!vik (drawing) - nothing really to say except it’s the least bad of the seven corvik drawings i did last year lol. also put the most time/effort into this piece in particular 

4. you’re in pain (writing) - god i wrote 27 fics in 2019 and 21 of them were smut one of the few angsty fics i wrote, it focused on how cayde’s death really put a strain on corvik’s relationship with sarina, ghost and his overall stability. it was great character development to actually explore his emotions and see strong contrast from the usual upbeat confident attitude 

5. European Aerial Zone (gifset) - i ended up with so many different versions for this, but i wanted to try a coloring where the colors are more muted with less contrast. still wish i did some things differently but alas, it’s a nice memento from the solstice event and the coloring turned out how i wanted it

i tag @cryptorat + @tictoclullaby + @ae0n + @felwinter + @tevintery + @halseyim and anyone else who’s interested!

[thedistantstorm]

Close Proximity

The Vanguard | Hurt/Comfort | Nightmares | Friendship | Grief & Mourning | Mid-Shadowkeep (no real spoilers)

"She's trying to practice what she preached," Ophiuchus informs him.

He understands. Moving on is hard.

-/

In the aftermath of the Cabal's assault on the Last City, the Vanguard made a conscious decision to set up a residence for themselves and as many of their fellow Guardians who wished to reside atop the Tower. As such, the Vanguard themselves currently entertained living quarters slightly offset from the rest of the Guardian housing.

It's both ideal and stifling. Never far to go for a few hours of blessed rest, but sometimes it was hard to check work at the door when it's all around, all the time, and the people with whom they spend arguably too much time with already are only separated by too-thin walls.

Tonight, Zavala does not mind the close proximity of his fireteam, though he enjoys his peace and quiet and solitude. Tonight, his sensitive hearing is able to pick up the beginnings of distress from his partner. Tonight, he is through Ikora's door before Ophiuchus can call upon him, not that the mostly silent Ghost would, until things escalated much further. Tonight, proximity is a blessing.

Ikora sleeps even less than Zavala. She always has, her unmatched intellect and the blessing of Light keeps her going. Or, at least, that's what people thought. Ikora, at her core, is an insomniac of the highest order. Sleep, rest, while she argues that it keeps her from work, the reality is that she cannot switch herself off for a few hours to recharge, no matter how much she tries to. And when she does, usually she finds herself in waking visions, puzzling things out in her unconscious mind.

Never, in all his lives, would he be vocal about her fragility. That is not his way. But she is a Warlock, and a cataclysm of a woman in a glass case.

And sometimes, glass breaks.

The last time he'd been in here was in the week after Cayde's death. She'd woke screaming and he'd let himself in. They had access to each other’s quarters for emergencies. She cried and cried and wouldn't let him touch her, console her, and he knew better, at that point, didn't try to speak. When she'd gathered her wits about her, she'd cast him out, uncaring for what she called pity in his eyes, and unwilling to help him shoulder his grief in a similar way.

She had been selfish, and he, though disappointed and hurting himself, understood. Empathy was never her strength. She excelled at holding a grudge, which was way he’s surprised to find the door accessible to him at all, exactly as it had been before.

She does not like to be touched, and in this state she is far more dangerous than she would be if she were awake. He hears what might be words cross her lips - quiet, restrained (in her mind's eye, he's sure she's screaming) - sees how her fists glow beneath the covers (she's feeling threatened), the way her legs make tiny, stilted jerks (she's running).

Her head shakes from side to side, as if trying to avoid what she's seeing. That much happens far faster, is indicative of her subconscious' torment.

He sits on the edge of her bed, carefully. "You're dreaming," He tells her, loud enough that it's not a whisper, but not the echoing boom that his voice can be when instructing others. "It's only a dream."

That does not work. He repeats it several times, but the sharp, staccato sounds she makes aren't indicative of someone being roused from sleep. Whatever she's dreaming will not release her from it's clutches.

Which means it can only be one person. There is only one thing that can rattle her so, these days.

And, like clockwork, she forces out his name in a pained, guttural utterance. 

"Cayde-"

"She's trying to practice what she preached," Ophiuchus says, a soft, matter-of-fact voice at his right shoulder, when she jerks again - as if to shield herself from something - but does not wake. "The effort is-"

Zavala nods. He understands. Moving on is hard. Taking that first step may seem harder than the journey itself. He has lost much, but she does not build relationships like he does. Her social circle is brittle and complicated.

"The Moon did not help. She's," Ophiuchus bobs up and down with a sigh, "Incredibly sensitive to the energies there. Cursed for being so gifted."

When she cries out again, it's not to be ignored. Zavala does not bother with yelling. Her mind is strong - that too, is a curse. She likely believes herself deserving of the torture. Knowing he may very well regret it, he places a hand on her shoulder and her entire body seizes.

He feels the crack of her latent ability, the icy creep of the Void, ready to consume, but it’s inhibited. She hesitates. Another storm-crash of their fallen third’s name falls from thin lips, raw and pained. The Void lingers, though. But she could blow the both of them into the Void for all he cares right now. He will not allow her to suffer alone.

“Wake up, Ikora,” He bids her, sliding his left hand hand against the pillow to cradle her head, the right to her left shoulder, pulling her upright.

She wakes like she’s come up from icy water for air, eyes rocketing open, jaw unhinged on a harsh gasp, body rigid in his hands.

Before he can get the first syllable out, even begin to tell her that it will be alright, she’s sagging forward, hands brought up to her chest like it hurts. He doesn’t catch her so much as she slumps against his chest and the way she holds back her sobs, forces herself to swallow them down hits him hard.

But when he locks his arms around her, more aptly pulling her into an embrace, that restraint crumbles into high-pitched breaths that crest and break against him, desperately seeking release.

Zavala tries not to act surprised, tries not to tense himself and give it away. This is a first. Ikora has, to his knowledge, never sought out comfort before. Not like this. Not with anyone.  The shock wears off quick though, burning into a deep-seated affection for this woman. They fight, they are flawed, they do the best they can. They might not see eye to eye on everything - or even much at all - but, they are family and will always be.

He draws her in closer and her arms come around his back, slim, elegant fingers clutching the back of his shirt for dear life.

“I tell them that it’s time we move on,” She says, voice shaking from emotion, hitching on a sob. “I’m trying,” Her voice dips low, desperate. “But-”

“I know,” Zavala agrees. She doesn’t have to push herself. “There was just something about him. Even if he drove me crazy.”

Ikora sighs through what might have been an amused breath, sniffling and pulling back. For his part, Zavala does not try to keep her caged in an embrace any longer than she’ll allow. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but it feels like an entire lifetime. “I woke you, didn’t I?”

“I was up.” He rises from the side of her bed, not wishing to impose upon her personal space any more than he already has. “I apologize for letting myself i-”

She holds up a hand, drawing back the covers and slipping from the bed in her night clothes, heavy robes to hold back the chill of the cool air. “Thank you.” She looks down, and away. “Even if you might have-”

“I knew what I was walking into,” He says, not quite smiling but amused. It bleeds into his tone. “I could suppress most of it, I’d hope.”

“You should get some sleep.”

“You should, too.”

“That was… enough,” She says, softer. Smaller. Still shaken. Her golden eyes flick up to his own, aware that she’s hardly convincing.

“Do you still keep chamomile tea in here?” He asks, innocently enough.

Her brows furrow. “Yes, but I don’t really-” He shrugs, almost imperceptibly. He knows she doesn’t like chamomile. It’s a thinly concealed tactic. “I’ll probably just watch some nonsensical programming until I nod off,” She admits, though she’ll certainly not fall back asleep tonight, of that she seems convinced.

“Would you like company?”

It takes her a moment to decide, but Zavala’s patient in a way that does not make it seem like she’s being put on the spot. Eventually, she gestures for him to go ahead, so he removes his shoes in the hall and heads to the lounge. An agreement, in not as many words.

He’d made her a beautiful violet blanket for the Dawning, the first one after the War. A piece of comfort, something to curl up with that lasts longer than a single book or a canister of tea. Something fond warms him to find it draped over the chair she reads in, not perfectly folded.

Used.

“May I?”

She nods, and he settles at the far end of the couch. For the second time tonight, he’s surprised when she pulls the blanket off the chair and brings both it and the tiny remote with her. “May I?” She echoes, informing him, “The couch reclines, if you’d like to get comfortable.”

When he’s leaned back, not quite laying down but comfortable, a pillow is pushed against his side and he can feel the weight of her head resting upon it. She drapes the blanket over herself and curls up. His hand finds the middle of her back, rubbing in soothing, even circles.

The weight of his hand grows heavy, and after a while, his sluggish motions stop as he nods off. But Ikora’s been snoring quietly for a while yet, one hand clasped over his knee, the other barred against his leg beneath the pillow. For the rest of the night she doesn’t dream.

[caffeinated-artist]

Crimson Day:

The tower was brimming with a crimson hue. Rose petals raining from above, given the wreaths and strings that had been lined with the apple red cluster.

It was Adsila's first experience.

 Crimson Day. A time to celebrate friendship, togetherness, and Love. If one had been fortunate enough to find it. 

"Ah! Guardian!" Shaxx called, "How nice to see you." 

"Hey Shaxx," Adsila responds, only to realize she had been holding a breath, "So, this is Crimson Day?" 

"Yes," Lord Shaxx had a voice that simply resonates within you. A sound thunder, yet somehow, it ensued a calming effect. "This is the first for you, is it not?" The titan queried. 

"Yeah," The corners of her lips curve, in slight. "It's beautiful." 

"Hmm?" 

"The decorations." Adsila had never seen anything like it. The vibrancy, the seldom warmth, even with the shift in fronts, as the seasons were slowly changing. 

It felt as though she were in an entirely different world.

She recalled the locals and fellow Guardians exchanging their excitement about the Dawning. Although, she hadn't the chance to witness it.

If it were anything like the Crimson Day Celebration, she could only imagine the beauty that surrounded the tower, during that time, nor could she blame their enthusiasm. If anything, It's to be admired. 

"Come to the exchange, tonight." Shaxx encourages, "It'll be a grand experience!" 

Adsila couldn't help but smile, given Lord Shaxx's gesture. He had always been one to welcome new and old Guardians with open arms. His personality was simply one that no one could ignore. His voice held certain confidence and he was never shy when it came to events.

. . . . .

Entering the hangar, she'd scan the area, in search of a certain someone. 

Only to find that the area had been vacant, "Looking for Cayde?" Holliday's inquiry snatches the Guardian's attention, "He ain't here. Left about 5 minutes ago." She proceeds, yanking the stained-ridden cloth from her back pocket, as she'd wipe the oils from her current project onto the rag. "Said somethin' about a nice surprise." 

"I don't even want to know." Adsila begins, rubbing her forefinger and thumb along the bridge of her nose. "Are you coming to the exchange?"

"Thought about it," Amanda grunts, removing a piece from the Jubilanos Sparrow, before tossing it aside. "these Sparrows aren't going to put themselves back together." 

That was Amanda for you. 

While she enjoyed the thought of Celebrating, she was never one to partake in it, herself. Always convinced that she had little time to enjoy it, or she'd throw her job into the mix,  "I can think of a few people who'd like to see you there." 

As though she were convinced by Adsila's statement, she flashes the woman a mere grin, "I'll see what I can do." 

. . . . .

Given Holliday's previous statement, there was no telling where the Hunter may have run off to. Adsila had a few short guesses, but she had been aware that there was little time to search the Tower. 

The only thing left to do is to wait. 

. . . . .

The Crimson gift Exchange arrives and the pressure against Adsila's chest expels the air from her lungs, "Welcome, to all Guardians. New and Old."  Zavala's greeting earns him a wave of galvanic cheer. "Today, we are here for the celebration. To exchange gifts with those we consider friends, to express the bond, the connection we harness within. To express gratitude, for those who have always been there for us. Whether it is a friend, a lover, or maybe even an acquaintance, who expressed an act of kindness. Now, enjoy."

The tables were filled with a variety of exquisite meals and desserts, an assortment of colors. 

The delicious aroma, filling Adsila's senses. That is until her attention is drawn elsewhere, "What's this? Partyin' without me?" 

It was the one voice that she'd never mistaken. Hesitant in her gaze, she notes the familiar Exo front of her, "It wouldn't be a party without me now, would it?"

A squeeze in her chest ignites a stress signal within her gut, similar to that of butterflies. His cerulean optics analyzing her, "Cayde." Her stale greeting earns the Guardian an odd expression, "Merry--Happy Crimsmon Day." 

Shit. 

Adsila cursed herself, silently. 

"Yeaaah... You too." Cayde's response, left Adsila dumbfounded, at a loss for words. 

That's it? 

Or maybe, It was just her. 

A simple wave in the opposite direction, as Cayde excuses himself, ensued a sharp pain within, a lingering doubt.

On any other given day, the two of them could converse without a shred of discomfort or awkward silences, even if she'd fumbled with her words. 

But today, was different.

And even though she had been aware of that, she couldn't quite comprehend the reason why. 

. . . . .

What had been a few minutes, seemed more like an eternity, as Adsila's eyes followed Cayde-6 around the room. Witnessing his freewheeling personality toward fellow Guardians, as well as the locals who chose to attend. He had a knack for drawing a crowd. Whether it was for the right reasons or the wrong ones. 

"What are you doing over here? The party's on the floor." Holliday's voice flutters into her ears. 

"I'm just--" 

"Making up excuses?" Amanda interrupts, allowing a brief silence to settle between. "Get out there, mingle! Live a little." 

Adsila scoffs, "I'm pretty sure I'm living a little, each day we're out there on the field." 

She'd roll her eyes, in response to the Guardian's declaration, "This isn't a mission or a patrol. This is a celebration. One that doesn't happen very often and if you continue to mope against the wall, you're going to miss out."

It was unusual for Holliday to encourage this type of thing. While she was more than happy to tell someone to 'have fun', she never truly showed an interest in these situations, or that of the sort, "Get out there, have fun." 

Perhaps, that was the pep talk she needed. 

Amanda's words lift the weight against her chest, instilling certain confidence within. She was right. This wasn't the time to be moping around and feeling sorry for oneself. Holidays are meant to be celebrated and Adsila didn't want to spend her entire evening, sulking.

As the evening progressed, the energy within the room, escalated. 

Between dancing, drinks, and conversation. Adsila had little time to think about the Hunter. Her focus on the music that encouraged the sway of her hips. Although, she was aware that she had no rhythm. 

No one cared or no one paid attention. They were simply enjoying the time of their lives. 

The music shifts. A slow tempo, a dulcet melody. Encouraging Guardians and Locals alike, to pair up with that special someone, or someone in general.

 However, the moment she brushes against the silhouette, an apology slips from her tongue, "Tell me that you weren't just thinking about passing up the time of your life." His sarcastic inquiry elicits a slight chuckle from the girl's throat. 

"That depen--" The words, caught in her throat, the second her gaze is met with arctic blue orbs, she swallows,  "Cayde." His name falls between her lips, similar to that of a mere sigh. 

With his hand extended in her direction, the pounding against her ribcage, drowning out the commotion that surrounds them.

She had been far from hesitant in accepting his invitation.

Her small hand, in comparison to his large one, only promoted the solid thumping against her chest. Although, the air was clear, calming. 

Cayde had been aware of Adsila's two-left feet, so-to-speak.

His hand against the small of her back, as he'd shift their palms, compressing her being against that, of his own, "Follow my lead, Addy." The orange hue flickering in the corner of her eye, nearly halts her beating heart. 

He was much closer than she presumed.

 Perhaps, a little too close. 

He steps forward, taking the lead, and Adsila follows, entrusting her body to the man towering above. She felt safe, warm.

She couldn't possibly imagine a moment better, than this one. She didn't think she'd ever feel these arms around her. Holding her, guiding her. 

It was usually his voice, on the opposite end of the radio.

But this, this was different. 

As the gentle symphony comes to an end, the crowd gives a round of applause, and merry cheer, "And now," Ikora speaks. "we will begin the exchange."

This was the moment that everyone had been waiting for, to receive their gifts from that special someone. 

"Happy Crimson Day, Adsila." His mellifluous tone sends a pleasant current down the woman's spine. 

"Happy Crimson Day, Cayde."

[nightstalkerhunterguardian]

So I’ve had some writer’s/artist’s block lately and it’s been killing me but the Guardian Headcanons from @guardian-headcanons made me decide to write down headcanons for my Hunter, Kano, and its kinda helping me get outta my funk, so thank you for the help 👍🏼

-

Her nails bent inward in her gloves against the metal of Cayde’s head as she clinged desperately to his motionless body, heavy tears tapping against his face as they fell. She couldn’t hear her own screams. Couldn’t hear how hurt and blood curdling and pain filled they were bouncing off the metal walls of the prison or how KillShot could only whimper her name before becoming silent and disappearing into a gentle fizz of light.

The weight of his body didn’t even register to her as she pulled him up into her arms and sobbed into his hood, soaking the black fabric and turning it blacker, making the red stand out brighter. Her hand rested against his chest and the fray of the bullet wound caught her glove, making her cries heavier.

Petra clenched her eye shut and turned away, holstering her sidearm.

She should’ve seen it. She should’ve known not even this place would hold the Prince of the Reef, as cunning as he could be. He knew exactly what he was doing and he did it well. He succeeded.

The crackle of a comm link interrupted her thoughts and her teeth sank into her lip upon hearing Zavala’s voice come in.

“Cayde, Guardian. Report”.

Now was not the time.

-

The memories of that day played clearly through Kano’s head as if it only happened this morning, when in reality, months had passed.

Months had passed and it still made her heart sink to acknowledge that Cayde-6 was gone for good, that there was no way he was coming back, and that all she had of him was a cloak made in his memory and his most prized gun, Ace of Spades.

Perhaps it was the way her throat clenched any time she attempted to speak that made her resume her silence or how her eyes would water anytime she walked through the hangar to see the spot he once stood in taken up by Colonel’s water bowl.

On the other hand, maybe it was the frustration at herself that made her feel as though nothing she said mattered since it wouldn’t bring back their beloved Hunter Vanguard. The regret of not getting to him in time, of not staying by his side in the prison.

Regardless, her silence resumed. Her words were ever only heard by KillShot and even then, there were days she didn’t even speak to him, but then again, she didn’t need to. He knew what she was thinking and feeling, sometimes better than she herself did. The simple act of being there and sitting with her in the quiet as if fresh tears weren’t running down her cheeks and reflecting moon and starlight in the glimmering night was sometimes all she needed of him, aside from another hot cup of tea that didn’t hold the taste of bitter tears in it.

Not long after Cayde’s passing, a member of her own fireteam passed as well, only serving to feed into her despair and making her almost shut down completely were it not for her inability to die. The pages of her drawing book were almost completely barren save for a few pages that had been inevitably scribbled over in what looked like frustration and all attempts she made to try again ended with pages being torn out and tossed aside.

A small pile of crumpled papers sat beside the book at her side and KillShot sighed. He didn’t know what to do for her and he hated it. He could bring her back to life countless times over and over again but he couldn’t manage to heal her broken heart and it almost made him feel useless, so he did all he could do and curled up into the hood of her cloak, leaning against her cheek affectionately.

And maybe one day, she’d use her voice again.

-

I’m also dedicating this to a member of my fireteam that actually did pass away in October. Rest easy, Speedy. We miss you 💜

[likemesomesalads]

All of the grey shades for Soleine!

Grey/Gray - Introvert, Extrovert, or Ambivert?

“Uhm… I think I’m the kind of person you’d call introvert…“

Shadow - What is your biggest regret?

“Well…Probably that I haven’t tried to save Cayde more…I mean in the lab I couldn’t do much but maybe after Canach got me out of there…“ 

Silver - What do you imagine the future to be like?

“Peaceful. And Canach could stay home too and we could live happily…THough I think he would get bored staying in one place for long.“

Graphite - Do you like to draw? If so, do you draw often? What do you like to draw?

“I do. I’m not very good though. But it’s fun from time to time. I usually draw the animals I take care of. I have a lot of drawings of Isonos.“

Smoke - Have you ever taken any drugs?

“Not willingly. But in the inquest lab, they gave me some. I hated it.“

Fog - Was there ever a period in your life when you were confused and lost? how did you get out of it?

“I think…When I realized that Cayde can’t be saved… I so wanted him to be himself again… Though… Did I know the real him at all? I mean we spent maybe a few hours together outside the Dream… In the Dream, he always was so cheery and curious and he wanted to go see the world and make friends and things like that… SO yeah I was a little lost when I figured out that I can’t save him.“

Fossil - Do you have any older relatives other than your parents? If so, how many? Do you like them?

“Well…I don’t have parents, to begin with. Other than Cayde my family is Canach, my beloved and my fern hound, Isonos. And I love them both dearly.“

Slate - If you could erase any memory from your life, would you do it? If so, which memory would you choose?

“Well..I’d gladly forget the time with the Inquest…But then that would mean I’d forget when Canach saved me and I wouldn’t want that…So…I guess not… My memories made me who I am, whether it’s bad or good. And I wouldn’t want to experience something painful again just to learn from it…“

Cloud - What do you spend the majority of your time thinking about?

“Canach and the animals I work with.“

Ash - Is there something or someone from your past that you miss?

“I miss Cayde…The happy and kind one from the Dream, my pod twin.“

Iron - Have you ever used a weapon? Do you own one? If so what is it?

“Well Yes. Canach thought me to use a sword and a bow…well he tried at least…Currently, I own a little dagger. Just to have something to protect myself with if I really must.“

[404botnotfound]

The Line [1]

...and where to draw it.

SERIES: Destiny WORD COUNT: 7,586 SHIP: Quinn/Drifter CHARACTERS: quinn leonis (AU), cayde-6 (mentioned), the drifter, kel, luke, nyx-14, glyph

i. dead reckoning

n. to find yourself bothered by someone’s death more than you would have expected, as if you assumed they would always be part of the landscape, like a lighthouse you could pass by for years until the night it suddenly goes dark, leaving you with one less landmark to navigate by—still able to find your bearings, but feeling all that much more adrift.

All around her people are moving, and Quinn feels like she’s at a standstill.

The air is chilly, heralding the rapidly approaching winter season in the Last City and bringing with it a rapid shift from lighter clothes for civilians (not guardians, though—maybe it was the undeath thing, maybe they just had really well insulated armor) to heavier coats and scarves.

The regular hustle and bustle of the Tower hadn’t been impeded by the shift, guardians moving to and fro, visiting the Cryptarch with secrets uncovered out in the wilds or Banshee for a tune-up of their favorite weapons. Techs rushed from the hangar to the new Vanguard hall, carrying urgent news to Zavala and Ikora, and other civilians that helped keep things running smoothly gathering around the newly placed heat lamps or sitting at outdoor café booths while on breaks.

The shopkeepers, likewise, were busy as ever. Tess in particular seemed flustered for once with how many people were running by to purchase gloves and scarves thanks to the sudden cold snap.

Quinn tugs at the hood of her armored jacket, and thinks that maybe she needs to buy a scarf as well, but she can barely feel the cold; whether it’s from the suffocating numbness she’s been fighting for the last several weeks or her body simply not registering it after enough exposure, she has no idea.

Her head had been foggy as of late. Save for the small handful of people she regularly talks to—rather, talked to until recently—she barely sees passing faces, has a hard time recognizing voices, and by extension struggles to realize when someone was trying to get her attention. Time passes without her even noticing it.

It’s not that she wants to be so distant, but try as she might her connection to the moving world around her had snapped, leaving her adrift and dazed.

Ikora has tried to speak with her several times since her team had returned to the Tower from the Reef, Cayde’s lifeless body cradled in the arms of their team leader. Tried to bridge the unintended gap that had formed between her and the Vanguard after their return.

No one knows he’s dead. No one but her fireteam, the Vanguard, and the small group of people Ikora and Zavala trusted to keep the loss secret.

‘We can’t afford the hit to morale,’ Zavala had said, while Quinn struggled to not reach out and slap him for being colder than the weather had gotten, ‘the people are still afraid, thanks to the Red Legion assault. They need to know their Vanguard is unified and whole and keeping them safe.’

Well, the Vanguard wasn’t unified and whole, and now there’s a hole punched through her chest, growing larger and threatening to swallow her with the few people that recognized her as Cayde’s girl. ‘Why isn’t he in the tower?’ They ask her, and she has to swallow around the stone that finds its way into her throat every time, ‘The Commander said he went out scouting, but it’s been a while.’

Her tongue always feels heavy with the lie when she tells them that he’s just keeping radio silent for the safety of the people here.

And so, the activity in the Tower keeps moving, blurring around her while she finds herself losing time, wandering with no true destination or goal, from one end of the Tower to the other and sometimes getting herself lost venturing down into the still rebuilding City itself. No matter where her feet take her, she never finds a place she feels comfortable in for longer than an hour at most.

Her fireteam was in nearly the same place she was—unsure of where to direct their focus, of what to do after the fall of the Prison and the loss of the Hunter Vanguard. They’ve gone out on a few tactical strikes, done some minor system housekeeping, but they all agree nothing felt satisfying about it anymore.

But none of them were feeling the same kind of pain she was. The deep, aching loss of someone she had begun to see as her other half, someone she’d given her heart to only for it to die with him. Kel, perhaps, understood it best, and it was probably why he spent as much time as he could tracking her down in whatever remote spot she’d found to hide in and sat quietly with her just so she wasn’t completely alone.

Of course, it probably wasn’t his only reason for doing so—he also understood that right then, she didn’t want to be comforted. She wants to take her ship and haul ass back out to the Reef, to hunt down the Scorn barons and put them down, to corner the disgraced Awoken prince and plant a bullet in his skull for what he’d done.

She doesn’t want sympathy and comfort. She wants Uldren Sov dead.

She isn’t the only one, her entire team vocally expressing their desire to return to the Reef to exact retribution for the cruel, slow, and painful true death the Barons and Uldren had given Cayde.

But Uldren Sov was the crown prince of the Reef, and the City couldn’t risk a war with the Awoken, not so close on the heels of the Red Legion’s assault and takeover of the City. Nevermind that Uldren had lost his mind and gone rogue, nevermind that the Reef’s structure had crumbled after Oryx decimated their fleet and killed their Queen.

No, nevermind any of that—they still couldn’t risk it. Zavala had forbidden retaliation, told them all to focus on the safety of the City and the People they were meant to protect, and when Quinn had let him know exactly what she thought of that decision he had placed a system lock on her ship and effectively, infuriatingly, put her on house arrest.

Glyph, the ghost that had claimed her as its own a while back, materializes in the periphery of her vision. It doesn’t understand what she’s going through, not really, and because of the unique relationship between them—it hadn’t risen her from the grave, and so their light wasn’t one and the same—it couldn’t feel what she did. Regardless, it’s worried about her, and it’s made that known many times since her lockdown had begun. “You’re doing it again.” It says plainly, glowing purple ‘eye’ blinking at her and concern coloring its tinny voice.

Quinn rearranges her expression, figuring she’d probably looked something bordering the line of murderous. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask if you were.” It points out, the blue-, white-, and black-colored facets of its diamond-shaped shell flitting around in what she recognizes as agitation. “But you’re clearly not.”

No, she definitely is not, and she’s far too proud to admit it.

There’s still so much she doesn’t know about herself, but she can already feel that she doesn’t and never has handled raw emotions like this well, and she knows that sooner or later, she’s going to snap. Though her memory was so foggy, she’s pretty sure she’s never felt this bad before in her life. It was almost funny that losing Cayde was affecting her this badly when she was decently aware of losing something in the past—her home? Her family? Her purpose?—and yet whatever caused her to wake up from stasis, alone, with few memories and in a world she didn’t recognize paled in comparison.

How was her snap going to take shape, she wonders morbidly. Was a passing comment, regardless of what it was, going to be too much and send her into a violent frenzy? She’d had an infrequent nightmare of nearly beating someone to death with her bare hands, and with the way her mental state was lately she was beginning to fear it was less a nightmare and more a memory.

Was she going to throw herself off the Tower and plummet the handful of miles to the ground to her death, knowing that she, unlike her fellow guardians, couldn’t be revived? Probably not—she knew enough about herself to know that killing herself wasn’t in her playbook. Too stubborn for it.

Would she end up like Uldren? Rogue and thrown to rot in a cell, losing her mind after losing someone she loved dearly and taking it out on those she counted as allies?

She shivers at the thought.

She loves the City. Loves the Vanguard and its consultants, loves Amanda and the new addition, Hawthorne—Shaxx as well, and even Banshee, gruff and antisocial as he was, was someone she counted as a close friend.

But she feels other now.

Rather, she feels other once again—the same way she felt before Cayde had poked and prodded her into opening up and drawing her into the fold of guardians, made her feel welcome and home rather than just a strange anomaly no one could make sense of. She knows in truth it’s more likely just because she knows Cayde is gone for good and everyone else around her has no clue, but the darker parts of her heart are telling her it’s because Cayde was the first and closest tie she had to feel like she belonged here.

Traveler damn her, she needs to find something to do before she spirals further.

Heedless of the steep drop off the Tower before her, Quinn uncrosses her legs and stands, hopping down from the thick concrete railing she’d been sitting on onto the tile of the courtyard in front of the Tower’s guardian housing. To her right is the gaudy, over decorated pavilion that Executor Hideo had claimed for his faction—conveniently located right in front of the apartment block so he could pester people into supporting him.

“I swear, that last Gambit match was rigged.”

The statement catches her ear as she passes by the pavilion, and she stops; Glyph, hovering behind her shoulder as she walks, absent-mindedly bumps into her and then in a fit of embarrassed energy flits around her head before settling again.

“We almost had them,” another guardian says, voice muted and difficult to catch through the rest of the chatter around the plaza.

The first guardian that had spoken waves in the corner of her vision. “No, we had it, but it’s apparently as rigged as competitive Crucible, I guess.”

Dropping her eyes from the pinned notice on a nearby board she’d been pretending to read, she looks over at the pair of guardians, and both of them cease talking immediately, staring back at her. Glowering, really. She’s not surprised. New Monarchy supporters tended to be haughty and standoffish in her experience—a reflection of the arrogant wannabe king that ran the faction.

Rolling her shoulders, Quinn continues through the arch on her way to the main plaza.

Gambit.

It’s something she’s heard other guardians mention over the last few months, always in secret, always hushed. It was like they were trying to keep it from being widespread knowledge. She’d been wondering what it was considering it seemed to be happening under the Vanguard’s nose—definitely confirmed, now that she knew it was some type of competition.

The only guardian-versus-guardian competition in the City was the Crucible, and Shaxx hadn’t ever mentioned a match type called Gambit. Maybe it was something he was testing out before making it a part of the official Crucible lineup, but Shaxx hadn’t ever been good at keeping secrets about his pet project, and she’s sure the only playtesters he’d allow were the elite of the Crucible—those guardians that devoted their time almost exclusively to engaging in a battle royale for sport and entertainment or for training newly risen guardians. None of the guardians she had overheard speaking of it were recognizable or decorated with Crucible emblems.

She changes direction and passes directly through the bazaar without stopping.

When she reaches the Crucible pavilion in the main plaza and mentions it to Shaxx, he confirms he has no game type called Gambit and has no intention of making one at the time. He does, however, tell her that he’s overheard mention of such a gametype as well, but has no idea what it is or who might be running it. As he speaks to her his tone takes on something frustrated, and it becomes obvious that he has concerns about its existence.

It’s understandable.

Guardians fighting guardians was a subject that made almost everyone uncomfortable, the Dark Ages of warlord guardians and light-fueled massacres such a black stain on the history of humanity post-Collapse that even she knew of it and many older guardians refused to speak of it.

There was a reason the Crucible was the only accepted form of it—it was heavily regulated, every match was monitored constantly by Shaxx’s quartermaster frames whether it was professional competitive Crucible or unaired training. Certain weapons were banned because of a danger to ghosts, certain people were barred from participating (herself included) due to either skill imbalance or a demeanor that threatened participants.

So what the hell was Gambit? Why did she keep hearing about it? And why did only a small number of guardians seem to even know about it?

She can feel a fixation start to form, her mind desperately latching onto it in an effort to avoid the things that had been consuming her for weeks. She needs to know what the hell this is, a gnawing pest in her brain telling her to take the diversion while it’s in front of her. Something about it felt dangerous and she can’t put her finger on why, but she dismisses the instinct.

She hears nothing else of this secret competition throughout the Tower as she wanders, though she keeps her eyes and ears trained and focused. Glyph isn’t sure why she wants it to keep an ear out for encrypted discussions on closed channels, but it does it anyway.

She’s descending the steps to the hangar when Glyph blips in surprise, its voice in her head. ‘Hold on, I’ve got something.’ It says. ‘Someone’s ghost slipped, I caught a mention of it.’

“Who?” She asks quietly.

‘That group at the bottom of the stairs. I’m cracking their encryption now—they’re talking about putting their names in for some kind of big match and picking up bounties for extra payout.’

So, there it is. She’s not sure what exactly she’s planning, but at least she’s got something. She continues descending the stairs as though nothing had happened and steps past the group Glyph had pointed out. “Back out before one of their ghosts catches you.”

‘Already did. You want me to tag them?’

Her brow furrows. “Yeah. I’m gonna follow ‘em.”

Another blip, this time of disapproval. ‘What exactly do you plan to do?’

She shrugs as though Glyph could see it, though it probably feels the motion without the visual, and crosses the floor of the hangar, weaving around techs organizing newly delivered equipment and supplies and heading for the station Amanda had set up shop in.

She holds her breath and forces her eyes forward as she passes another one, this one decorated with maps and littered with knives and partially disassembled handguns.

A plan isn’t something she’s got the energy to come up with at that point in time—this was just a spur of the moment fixation, a way for her to do something, anything that wasn’t wallow in the light she had lost.

Amanda’s face brightens when she spots Quinn heading for her; Quinn has to stifle a brief flash of despair that she has no idea her best friend is dead. She probably shouldn’t have bothered, because she then has to bite down on a swell of indiscriminate rage instead. It wasn’t right of them to keep Cayde’s death quiet, to wait for the right time.

There was no ‘right time’ to acknowledge or deal with death, and keeping someone from grieving a loss of a loved one was despicable.

Her and Amanda strike up a conversation over a partially disassembled sparrow, talking about everything from the upcoming Festival of the Lost (her stomach twists at the thought of officially saying goodbye) to the sparrow racing league she’s in talks with Zavala to strike up again now that the City had been reclaimed.

When the group of guardians Glyph had indicated turns to leave, Quinn excuses herself and tells Amanda she’ll stop by again later, and then follows.

She keeps her distance, shadowing them as they make their way through and breaking off as they do, stopping at different shops in the main plaza and striking up her first conversations in weeks to waive suspicion should the guardians notice her. Even Banshee, for all the old exo’s memory problems, had noticed her scarcity and is surprised when she stops by and says hello.

She feels a spark of guilt about that considering she’s only using him as a means to an end for her ultimate objective.

Which…was what, exactly?

It wasn’t like she had enough authority to just shut down an illegal operation herself, and she wasn’t feeling particularly endeared to Zavala to blow the whistle to him or Ikora. Shaxx, maybe, but he had discouraged a hunt for Uldren as well, and she rules him out.

She’ll figure it out as she goes.

‘There,’ Glyph finally says as they pass a corner nestled between the corridor she had just stepped out from and an open-air restaurant with a few patrons sitting and chatting with the owner, ‘their signatures disappeared in there.’

“’Disappeared’?” She asks, making her way over to the restaurant and taking a seat. She flags down the owner for some coffee to ward off the deeper chill descending on the Tower with the falling sun while she waits.

‘Yes. It’s…’ Glyph is silent for several seconds and then lets out a stream of beeping and blips that Quinn thinks almost sounds like the ghost’s version of swearing a blue streak. If her heart wasn’t feeling so heavy, she might have found it amusing. ‘How have Ikora and Zavala not picked up on this? It’s some sort of light-cloaking field. It’s like nothing is there at all!’

Leaning back slightly as the owner sets a mug of coffee in front of her, Quinn eyes the corner and notices an alley, damn near hidden between hung banners and overgrown plants and stacked crates and supplies. Now that she’s looking closer, she can see some sort of wrought-iron gate blocking the alley itself.

How had they entered it? Usually blocked areas in the Tower required specific passcodes from one of the Vanguard’s ghosts.

She turns back to her coffee and sips at it gingerly. “Maybe it’s discreet enough they haven’t noticed.” She speculates, ignoring the strange looks she receives from the civilians sitting next to her; apparently they’re not used to guardians that speak to their ghosts when they’re intangible. “That’s probably the point.”

The group she had followed reappears shortly after initially disappearing and heads out into the plaza, then makes the turn to head back through the courtyard and main plaza.

She waits until she’s finished with her coffee a little over fifteen minutes later before heading for the alley, Glyph materializing briefly to transfer glimmer to the restaurant owner for the coffee. No one pays her any mind as she slips between the stacked crates and under draped banners and decorative string lights.

The gate she had noticed earlier is only partially closed, and there’s some sort of thin, green banner roped through the bars. Her eyes narrow at it before she ducks down under the gate and into the darkened alley beyond; an exceptionally dim running light is strung in the edge where the floor meets the wall, and it leads the way farther in, turning down a corner she can just barely see.

Against the better judgement she feels as though she lost weeks ago, she follows it.

Glyph points out when they pass into that cloaking field it had mentioned, but Quinn feels no difference in either the air or the energy around her. She wonders if the difference was because of the divide between her and her fellow guardians, or if it’s part of the field being so discreet it goes unnoticed despite being next door to the bazaar Ikora regularly spent time in for fresh air and perspective.

After turning the corner the light leads her around, it takes her a fair distance farther down before the alley begins to lighten up more; she can see another corner up ahead where a brighter light originates from. Her pace slows as she approaches it and steps cautiously into the new light.

She’s not sure what, exactly, she had been expecting, but it’s still just an alley, albeit one that was occupied. There’s stacks of crates, supplies, haphazard piles of machinery and what looks like trophies—the helmet of a Fallen captain, a scorch cannon, Cabal flak rifles, and what even looked like a dismembered Vex arm poking out of a crate settled on the floor next to a pair of booted feet.

Blinking, Quinn lifts her eyes away from the various things stashed with no apparent care for consistency and up to the man standing in the center of the organized chaos.

He’s leaning awkwardly, one gauntleted arm thrown out to one side, as though to block something he’s standing in front of. He’s watching her through narrowed eyes, though there’s a friendly smile on his face framed by a short, dark beard and scars on his jaw. His hair is short, and a dark cloth band is wrapped around his head.

Green seemed to be his favorite color, between the banner on the gate outside, the large ones draped from the ceiling behind him, and the earth-green getup he wore. His clothes reminded her of the robes warlocks wore—was he a warlock, or did he just like the style? Fur pauldrons rest on his shoulders, and the gauntlets on his forearms look as though they’d seen better days, scratched paint and what even looked like rope twined around them.

There’s a gun tucked into the thick belt around his waist, and some kind of green pendant featuring two coiled snakes dangles from a string around his neck.

Quinn meets his eyes and decides she doesn’t trust him or the easy smile still on his face. Her instincts where people were concerned were usually a dead aim, but she’s unable to pick up on anything behind a friendly demeanor that doesn’t feel quite right. At the same time, she feels like the longer they size each other up he’s flipping through her like she’s his longtime favorite library book.

He finally shifts, leaning away from whatever he had been trying to keep hidden and gesturing in her direction. “Think I recognize you, sister—you’re Cayde’s lady, aren’t you?” He asks, voice somehow both a honey-smooth twang and a gravelly rasp that slithers up her spine like ghostly cold fingers.

“Am I that recognizable?” She asks, brow furrowing. Sure, she and Cayde had never hidden how they felt about each other, especially after the fall of the City, but romantic entanglements weren’t really paid much attention to in the Tower, most guardians more preoccupied with their fight against the forces plaguing humanity.

“Ah, ol’ Drifter sees a lot. Hears a lot more. You and him? Real sweet. Shame he ain’t around anymore, gotta admit the guy deserved a bit of happy, all he’d been through.”

Her blood ices over at the statement, suspicion and distrust spiking—how did he know? How did he know when everyone else had no idea? None of the Vanguard’s inner circle would have revealed the secret, and even the resident motormouth of her fireteam wouldn’t have. “Who are you?”

Not once has his smile broken, and Quinn hates that she still can’t figure him out. Her eyes briefly follow as his hand dips into a pocket on his waist and he pulls out a coin—again, green—flipping it idly between his fingers and rolling it over his knuckles as he watches her in turn. “Call me the Drifter. A name ain’t what you’re here for, though, is it?”

The way he asks the question implies he already knows what she’s here for—despite the fact that even she doesn’t know what she’s here for. Curiosity? Distrust? That much was a given; was he the one organizing this Gambit she kept hearing about? Or was he just someone running dirt under the Vanguard’s nose? Were the guardians she had followed accomplices?

What was going on? And who was he? In the years she’d spent in the City and the Tower since waking up, she’d never once seen him, not until right now.

‘He’s a guardian.’ Glyph tells her, voice a whisper despite it speaking in her head. ‘But something feels…wrong.’

She itches to ask Glyph what it meant by that, but she doesn’t trust talking to it with this…Drifter in earshot.

Her eyes follow the coin as he continues fiddling with it, almost mesmerized by the fluid motions. He’s good with his hands, clearly. “What’s ‘gambit’?” She finally asks, unsure of what else to say. She doesn’t want to admit she has no idea why she’d chased her leads here, much less that now that she was here she’s still not sure what she intended to do about it.

His grin doesn’t falter—doesn’t his face get tired smiling all the time?—but his motions stop, the coin disappearing somewhere into his sleeve with a deft motion of his hand. “Last I checked it meant some type ‘a play to get an edge.”

A light rush of irritation rolls through her. “I didn’t ask for a definition. It’s some kind of competition I keep hearing about.”

“Shoulda specified, darlin’.” He replies easily, brushing off her aggravated tone as though it wasn’t even there. “I got no clue about any ‘gambit’. Dunno where you heard it, but I ain’t got anything to do with it.”

Her skin bristles at the use of the pet name; she hated them, and Cayde had been the only one she’d ever let use one to refer to her. She swallows down a kneejerk reaction to say as much, but the slight uptick of Drifter’s lips tells her he probably picked up on body language that spoke the same words she hadn’t said aloud. “Are you sure about that? Because I followed a few people talking about putting their names in for a big match and some payout back here.”

“Maybe they were headin’ a different way,” he mimics her, crossing his arms over his chest, and she can’t decide if it’s meant to be mocking or not. “Can’t a guy prefer workin’ away from all the noise out there?”

“Not in conspicuously dark alleys hidden behind a whole bunch of junk.”

He laughs at the sarcastic observation and nods, gesturing idly in acknowledgement. “Fair enough, fair enough. Promise, I ain’t up to anythin’ bad. Just doin’ a bit of…discreet work for the Vanguard. Cayde, specifically.”

Her eyes narrow. Ikora’s Hidden did discreet work for her, but none of them hid in dark alleys with a bunch of equipment and weaponry that looked like centuries old designs. Quinn had even spoken to a few of them working out in the open, and met with a few out in the field on assignments. Was he name-dropping Cayde just to put her at ease, since he knew her connection to him?

“Uh-huh. Is gambit a part of that ‘discreet work’?” She pours as much blatant skepticism into her words as she can—he can play games, but so can she. Question was, could she play them at his level? Cayde had taught her how to play poker, once, and this guy had one hell of a poker face. She couldn’t even begin to tell what cards he had on the table, to the point she wasn’t sure he was playing at all.  “I keep hearing about it, and it doesn’t seem to be something anyone wants to—or is supposed to—talk about in the open. Why the secret?”

“Couldn’t begin to guess. But I’m gonna humor you, sister,” he says, and she feels his eyes on her back as she boldly steps around him to eye the handful of guns lined up against the wall, “say I am the guy runnin’ this ‘gambit’ business. If I’m keepin’ it close to the chest, I imagine I couldn’t go ‘round talkin’ about it with just anyone. Why’re you so interested?”

She takes a moment to admit that the guns he was holding onto looked damn nice and wonder how they handled before turning around to face him again, fighting to keep her face neutral; she’d never won a game of poker against Cayde, and he’d joked almost constantly about the fact she couldn’t hold her tells to save her life. “You know I love you wearin’ your heart on your sleeve, sunshine,” he’d say, “but you’re down a few thousand glimmer and I’m startin’ to feel bad.”

She doubts this guy would feel half as bad about playing her under the table.

No answer comes to her, both because she doesn’t trust herself to keep her cards hidden and because she still doesn’t know why she’s interested. It’s a fixation. A distraction, if only a brief one. It’s something shady, something under Zavala and Ikora’s noses.

Her eyes drop to the side and her brow furrows at the thought.

Is that what her interest is? Is she pissed off enough at Zavala forbidding her and her team from hunting Uldren to participate in and hide something unsanctioned just to spite him?

If that was the case, then why didn’t she just cut ties, hijack a ship, say damn the Vanguard and the City, and track Uldren down anyway?

Because she feels indebted to people that gave her stability while her foundation was crumbling, gave her the home she imagines she lost, long ago? Or maybe she was aware of the fact that Zavala was right—the City couldn’t afford another war so soon on the heels of the Red Legion’s, and even the smallest percentage of chance was too much to risk. She was just so lost in grief she was trying to ignore it.

She can feel the rage burning just under her skin at the thought of Uldren, feels the restlessness prickling at the edges of her senses; she needs to get it out of her system before she does something stupid.

Like punch Zavala in the nose, which she was already tempted to do.

“Lemme ask a different way: what is it you want? Money? Reputation? A good fight?”

The last option strikes a chord in her and her eyes snap back up to meet his instantly. Glyph chirps in warning, and she can feel without its input how dark her expression had gotten. How full of anger and hate her eyes were.

Does she want a fight? No. She wants Uldren fucking dead, and that want is leaving her drifting and unsure, apart from her fellow guardians, something black coiling around her mind like the snakes in this man’s pendant. She wants Uldren’s blood for taking yet something else from her after she’d already lost so much, but she can’t, and being kept from that is eating her from the inside. What she wants is a way to burn that away before it can consume her.

The longer he stares into her eyes, the wider his grin grows. “Alright, alright,” he says, voice slower and smoother than before. Seductive, almost. She wonders if it’s intentional. With a flick of his wrist, that coin he’d been fiddling with before is in his hand again, and he flips it over to her.

She catches it, turning it over in her fingers with a furrowed brow. “Is this supposed to mean something?” She asks, thumbing the emblem engraved into the coin; it was a mirror of the pendant he wore. Between it, the pendant, and the banners behind him she wonders what the significance is. Maybe just an aesthetic.

Snakes. Not very trustworthy creatures, if fables Quinn had read from pre-Collapse archives were anything to go by.

“Ha! Maybe. Your ghost should figure it out. Lookin’ forward to seein’ you again.” Is all he says with a shrug, stepping back over to his equipment in a clear dismissal.

Quinn stares at him for another moment, the smooth coin warming between her fingers. Glyph is quiet. She’s confused. Interested, off-balance, and confused all at once. What the hell had just happened? Who was this guy?

‘Drifter’ didn’t exactly give her much to work with.

She’s still standing there dumbly when he looks back over at her and grins again, both wicked and amused. Her back straightens and she immediately turns and beats a hasty retreat, that smile raking up her spine just as easily as his voice had before.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that, tacking just one more bullet onto the thus far incomprehensive list of ‘what the fuck’ that meeting had left her with.

The fresh, cold air back out in the bazaar does nothing to aid in the effort to help her decide whether or not her momentary fixation had wound up turning into a good or a bad thing. She still has no intention of blabbing to the Vanguard or their immediate confidantes, but…

She glances down at the coin in her palm again and squints at it as though it’d give her the answer, but it just shimmers in the dimming twilight innocently.

Someone walks by and she instinctively curls her fingers around it, glancing around quickly before pocketing it and heading for the apartment block. She wasn’t sure if she relished the idea of being in her team’s shared living space at the moment, but the only other option she had was Cayde’s place.

And she definitely didn’t want to be alone there.

Strangely, though usually she’d happily play the petty bitch and just try to figure out the secret to the token the Drifter had given her out in the open where she was obviously not supposed to, she’d already decided to head to her own room, lock it down, and let Glyph pick it apart away from prying eyes.

She tells herself it has little to do with the potential promise of blowing off steam and entirely to do with her wanting to know what she was getting into before blowing the whistle to…someone.

That was the root of her problems, again. She had no idea what she was doing anymore. The rest of her team was still out taking the fight to the forces that would joyfully see them all exterminated, and she couldn’t even say for sure that, should Zavala lift her house arrest, she would be wanting to do the same thing.

She’s going stir-crazy. It’s definitely not helping curb her anger.

So get a fucking day job, she thinks to herself bitterly as the door to the team apartment slides open and she steps inside.

“Hey! You’re back just in time,” Nyx greets her with a wave from across the room, standing in front of a flat screen that her ghost is hovering near. Her jaw lights flash in a pattern Quinn recognizes as cautiously warm and welcoming, and she feels her chest tighten. “I managed to dig up some old movie things from way back in the Golden Age. We were gonna watch some.”

“You dug them up?” Her ghost, Kessler, beeps at her in aggravation, his facets twirling as he worked on transferring data to the screen’s system. “Sure, take all the credit.”

Nyx lets out a soft pfft at her ghost’s crotchety response, face plates pinching into an amused scrunch. “Grouch.”

Once again, Quinn finds herself wishing she were in the kind of mood to find the banter amusing. Glyph materializes next to her and blips consolingly, but it does nothing to lift her mood.

Luke’s head and shoulders pop out from around the corner leading into the apartment’s kitchen, and he beams at her, causing her mood to drop even further conversely. “It’s gonna be so bad. I can’t wait.”

“You don’t even know what Golden Age movies were like, Luke.” Nyx responds.

“So?” He says. “They’re old.”

“You gonna say that about your music?”

“Hey! Zepplin is a classic.”

“Yeah,” Nyx replies, deliberately slow, “because it’s old.”

Exhaling through her nose and closing her eyes, Quinn tunes Luke’s indignant response out and moves past them. Halfway down the hall to her room she nearly runs face-first into Kel as he steps out of his own room, and she swears under her breath. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He says. He’s looking down at her in a very patented Kel way, intense and yet completely unreadable. If it weren’t for the fact she was used to dealing with Kel’s consistent nature of being aloof and distant and hard to read—both before and after he had started showing his face to his teammates—she’d be more irritated at her instincts once again failing to do her any favors.

He watches her for a moment, brow furrowing as he, like the Drifter before, reads her like a book. “Don’t let yourself get lost.” He says, finally.

She blinks at the statement, watching as he steps around her.

Classic Kel.

For once, his strange, distant way of showing he cared didn’t feel endearing. Instead, she just feels frustrated. She’s already lost, and all things considered he should know what she’s going through better than anyone twice over, considering how she’d heard he’d responded to Gil’s death years ago.

As she opens her door, she hears Luke protest Kel leaving the apartment without watching a movie with them. Kel mumbles something noncommittal in response, and the front door slides shut shortly thereafter. She wonders if Zavala had asked for his input again in directing the City’s hunters, as he had been doing frequently—apparently Shiro-4 had declined giving up fieldwork, no one could get in touch with Marcus Ren, and Kel was the next closest hunter with seniority in the Tower.

And Cayde hadn’t ever told Zavala and Ikora what his Dare had been, or if he’d ever even decided on one, so they had to make do.

Something dark and ugly twists her stomach at the thought. She wishes the doors weren’t automated for ghost access—she wanted to be able to slam hers shut, childish as the desire was.

She drops down onto her bed heavily and runs her fingers through her hair, digging them into her scalp until it stung, and desperately wills the despair and boiling rage at war in her chest to go away.

“Are you…sure you don’t want to watch a movie with the others?” Glyph asks her quietly, flitting down into her line of sight, the facets of its shell twisting around its center orb. It’s even more worried than it was before.

Quinn almost laughs thinking about how much more worried Glyph would be if it saw what she was like when she actually got mad; though she’s not exactly sure, herself, but she knows in her gut that ‘ugly’ was a tame way to describe what she became when truly enraged and upset. “I’m sure.” She wouldn’t be able to enjoy it anyhow, no matter how nice the thought sounded.

Glyph doesn’t respond.

She stands, reaching into her pocket to retrieve the jade coin she’d gotten from the Drifter and setting it almost gingerly on the stand next to her bed. “Think you can figure that out?” She asks, eager to shift the subject away from socialization as she steps away and reaches for the zipper of her jacket.

“Giving the ghost version of a huff, Glyph drifts over to it and its facets whirl around with activity, a probing beam of light striking the coin as it got to work. “I don’t know if there’s much to figure out,” it replies, “it’s a coin made out of a material that’s been rare ever since the Collapse.”

“Jade.”

She can feel Glyph blink up at her with surprise. “How’d you know?”

Her mouth opens to answer, motions halting as it occurs to her that she, again, isn’t sure. Seems she’s not sure of a lot these days save for wanting Uldren Sov’s head on a pike. “I…think there may have been some of it where I came from, too.” She finally says, hesitantly. Her coat slips from her shoulders and she tosses it haphazardly over the footboard of her bed.

She remembers so little of her life before waking up from stasis here. While it wasn’t exactly uncommon (and, in fact, was the norm) for guardians to not remember their first life, the particular way she woke into this world and the stark difference between her light-given abilities from her peers made it stand out a bit more. The significance of that sudden knowledge doesn’t slip past her.

She should probably tell Ikora—but that would require divulging how, exactly, she came to that little morsel of a clue, which she had no plans to do before she finally found out what the deal was with this Drifter guy.

Her ghost doesn’t say anything to that, but she can hear the thin fweem as it went back to work on the coin. She’s down to the tank top she wore under her coat and armor and her underwear before she finally hears a noise of success from her ghost.

“This is amazing,” it says, its facets flitting about wildly in excitement when she turns around and makes her way back over to take a seat on the bed, “it looks like it’s just a coin made out of a gemstone, but it’s actually a compact encryption key and transponder encased in the gemstone. All in one! Do you think he made them himself?”

She picks the coin up and stares at it, thumbing the emblem again and furrowing her brow. Gesturing idly, she shrugs her confusion and declines to offer her opinion on its question. “Which means what?”

A pause. “I, uh. I don’t know.”

This actually startles a choked laugh out of her, and the reaction results in an energized ghost. She’s sure that if Glyph were capable of it, it’d be beaming at her. “Well,” she says, “so much for ‘your ghost should figure it out’.”

“Hey! I did figure it out!”

Her eyebrow lifts.

It blinks, facets withdrawing around its core almost bashfully. “I mean, sort of. Look, the point is whatever he gave it to us for, we’ll just have to wait until we get a signal from it to find out for real.”

The coin twists and flips in her fingers as she thinks before she realizes that she’s fidgeting—at least it wasn’t braiding her hair, but she’d always hated displaying her anxieties so openly. Pursing her lips, she holds the coin out. “You should probably hang onto it, then. I won’t be able to tell when it gets one.”

“Good point.” It says, hitting the coin with another flash of light and dematting it into whatever light-fueled pocket dimension ghosts had access to. It looks at her long and hard, then, and she squints back at it. As she’s about to ask what the look was for it cuts her off. “Are you sure you want to do this? We could—we could just tell Zavala. Or Ikora. You’re still friends with Ikora, right?”

Whatever shift in her expression occurs it causes Glyph to recoil from her and she feels terrible. Her face drops to her hands and she takes a deep breath to calm herself. “Sorry,” she says. She feels like she needs to say more, but the words won’t come and so she sits there on her bed stupidly, her gaze going long and distant.

“You know, spending time with the team might be good for you.” Glyph says softly.

Silently, she agrees, but while she does want to spend time with her team, she also really doesn’t. In spite of the fact she hadn’t done much that day—meeting with the Drifter being the only moment that truly stuck out, strange a meeting as it was—she was exhausted. Glancing to her side where a clock is projected above the surface of her nightstand, she notes blankly that it’s barely past sundown.

Shifting, she settles onto her bed and pulls the covers over herself, rolling so her back is to Glyph. “You can go ahead and watch the movie if you want, Glyph. I’ll be okay.”

The room is quiet, but she eventually hears the hiss of her door opening and then clicking shut as Glyph leaves her alone with the silence.

[blitzherzen]

“One delivery for you, Guardian!” The nearly monotonous voice of the Postmaster rings out in the air as it places down a single paper envelope very neatly on the counter, the writing on the back clearly addressed in neat handwriting to a certain green-clad Hunter.

( I know only one person who’d send me something in paper and ink like this. )

Keylime signs whatever needs to be signed and takes the envelope into his hand, inspecting it for a short moment as he walked back towards his flat. He gets his claw under the lip of the fold, tearing it open in one motion. He carefully reached inside and removed the contents, unfolding and reading what it says.

Coordinates on Titan and a short message, signed with a simple spade.

'Hey there, 'Lime. If you're reading this, there's a cache in the Archology waiting for ya. It's important, so go grab it before those slimy Hive do.'

The trip from the hangar to the methane moon was made with great haste, and his arrival without warning.

His ship swoops in through the thick Titan atmosphere, descending through perpetually raining clouds and soaring over the gargantuan ruins of the moon's great cities. He wastes no time closing in close to a platform near the entrance of the specified structure, transmatting down and making the trip on foot into the depths of the Hive-infested ancient city.

( Cayde loved to hide his caches in the most unusual places. )

He doesn't wait for the Hive to run away when he fires his gun, emptying clip after clip of his Huckleberry into the bodies and heads of the creatures without a second beat. ( Thank the Traveler for self-reloading guns. ) He was determined to find this cache, find whatever Cayde may have left behind for him after the prison incident. He needed to find it.

An hour's worth of trudging through gross Hive infestation and mowing down what was probably a hundred Thralls by now, he believes he had reached the dark, damp place that this cache was left. ( I thought he hated gross things. Why here? ) The submachine transmats away and he climbs, he put it quite a ways up and out of prying claw's reach.

And just as the letter said, the contents that he found inside once he cracked open the code were addressed to him and him only. A small note on a tablet were all that was inside, and so Keylime gingerly picked it up, dusted it off with a few light brushes of the hand, turned it on and watched the screen flicker to life, and now he found the special recording waiting for him.

A familiar voice crackles to life from its speakers, playing from where it was held in his hands.

hey. there’s one of my favorite guardians. probably been a while since you’ve heard my voice? ah... i’m sorry, ‘lime. i really am.

He pauses it. For a looong moment. Leans back onto the cache as he draws in a deep, pained breath and tries to determine if he is really emotionally ready to listen to this. It hasn’t even been six months since his death and yet it feels like it’s been ages upon ages that he hasn’t been able to get over. ( If time flies when you have fun, the polar opposite is certainly true. )

He stares at the device in his hands. Optic lights flicker with the grief welling in his chest, seizing his throat as his emotions wrap their hands around his neck and make him choke out a small whine. But... This is the last thing that Cayde left for him. He has to at least hear what it has to say. A single finger, shaking, lifts to the tablet screen and allows the audio to continue rolling.

well, uh. y’know the drill. i’ve.. probably told you about these at some point. whether i told, you found out, or you felt it somehow, i’m pretty sure you know all about my doomsday planning. it’s... a bit obsessive, yeah, but hey. when you’re a hunter who’s lived as long as me, who’s done an awful lotta shit, upset a lotta people, y’gotta be prepared for just about anything.

It’s something he knew. Cayde always had a plan, had a way to get out even when he’s between a rock and a hard place. Though every Hunter needed to have a way to get themselves out of a hairy situation if it so happened to rise, Cayde always tried to be a hundred and one steps ahead of everything. As much as it may have worried Keylime sometimes, with all the planning ahead that Cayde did for situations like the one that stole his Light, he always knew that there was good reason behind it.

But when you try to run like that, you just might end up tripping.

He tries to not focus too much on the sound of Cayde’s voice, but rather on the words that are being said by him. ( It hurts too much now to hear you now, liebe. )

so, uh... that being said. i don’t really think you’d be the one to kill me. so, this isn’t for you based on that. this is for you based on the fact that you deserve this, to hear my voice one more time, to have happiness. 

( I wish I could be happy listening to this, I wish I could be happy just for you, but the pain is still so, so fresh and too much... )

His fists tighten on the tablet.

not to say sol, or ikora, or anyone else doesn’t, but i feel like if they’d have to kill me, it’s for good reason. and they’d be able to do it. you? i don’t think you could ever. and hey, that’s not a bad thing. it makes this... incredibly easier.

It was true. He never liked killing other Guardians, even in relatively recreational activities like the Crucible. He never liked the idea of bringing harm upon an ally for any reason unless provoked, and that went doubly for the people that he held close, for the people that he loved. 

Cayde left these recordings mostly for people who he thought would kill him under the needed circumstances. Whether that was him being seized by a greater force, his mind going awry, or whatever may be the endless number of reasons that would probably be listed away in journals a many, he could always find a reason for someone having to kill him.

But not for Keylime. And that simple fact only added gasoline to a pot mix of burning, grieving emotions. He knew that he was able to pull Cayde back together in ways that sometimes neither of them even realized. He was a lighthouse to a lost ship floating in circles, guiding Cayde away from the deep, dark ghosts of the past in only the softest and sweetest ways. He could never destroy something that he’s worked so gently and meticulously to love, piece by piece.

The lighthouse has gone dark now. A small sob flashes green in his throat.

i suck with words. but you knew this already.

 but, ‘lime... if it ever happens, just wanted t’ let you know that i’m proud of ya. know you’re gonna be upset, but... that’s the price of being a guardian. death happens all the time, and we’re left to pick up the pieces of what once remained. that’s how it was for me, once upon a time. lost a dear, dear friend... my partner in every sense, someone i trusted wholeheartedly with my life. he was murdered, and i outlived him. i had to pick up the pieces.

( I know. I know so, so well, and now it hurts so much. )

He hasn’t felt this shattered since the Red War, and that whole shebang wasn’t even that long ago either. He laid there in that Farm for its duration, weakened and distant from the world around him, not knowing if the people he loved were even alive until he either saw them face to face afterwards or was informed of their deaths. 

He thinks that he’s not gonna let himself lose anyone else, and yet here he is. ( What a pitiful delusion, that thought. ) Here he is, tired and broken and grieving for something he’s had for so long and then it was suddenly lost. Just like that. And he knew he could’ve done something more. Anyone could’ve done something more. And that’s where the guilt festers between the cracks of the wounds.

He smells of upset ozone. He curls up more from where he sits.

i think you’re gonna be going through that now, but i just wanna let you know, as long as you lean on others, lean on ikora, and sol, and rocket, and let them lean on you, then, really, what am i leaving behind? you all have such unique strengths so individualistic to yourselves. i believe... this won’t douse the love that burns so bright within you. i believe you’ll hurt for a while, but i know you’re never gonna fall down and let yourself stay there. just another bump in the road, darlin’, and at some point we all have to love and lose.

forget the horrors, ‘lime. forget the horrors here, don’t fall prey to the darkness just waitin’ on our doorstep. i know you won’t.

Knees up to his chest and he can’t hold it in. Quiet, stifled crying echoes throughout the vast walls of the Archology’s vast interior, reflecting back to him in the very Darkness that the ghost of his love’s voice now tells him to not let himself fall deep into. ( It’s too early to tell if it’s too late, liebe, but this sorrow is swallowing me. )

There was some logical part in him, some voice of reason in the back of his mind poking out through the sludge of depression and grief that told him he can’t wallow like this forever, that as much as this loss may have torn whole chunks out of his soul he cannot forget who he is in the midst of it all. He may not have to pick up everything right now, no, but there will be some point where he must start to move on. Maybe he’ll need help with it, and he figures hey, that’s not so bad. The more the merrier, after all, but things aren’t very merry right now. He can’t let himself be consumed by this, consumed by the pain and depression and anger and every other little thing that’s been picking him apart piece by piece since that day. 

Because he knows that Cayde will be wrecked seeing Keylime turn into the same masked, broken man that he became after Andal’s death.

i love you, keylime. you flourish so much as a hunter, and i was so proud to be your vanguard. keep your head held high, honey. 

i’ll see you starside.

The recording ends. The tablet slips out of his hand and clatters to a hard floor and he curls up into a ball, his limbs barely muffling the agonized noises choking out of his vocalizer into the vast, dim chasm of a once great city now long lost. They echoed in a mirror of pain that he’s been forced to look into this whole time since then, and oh, it fucking hurts It still hurts so much, and it will continue to hurt for a long, long time. Hearing that voice, those words that Cayde never got to say to him in person before losing his Light to the clutches of the Darkness.

But at the same time... A small but now slowly growing part of him was comforted in knowing that Cayde made sure that he went out with a proper goodbye to everyone he loved. The pain in his heart did not falter, not one bit, he still grieved as much as he did before. But now... It seemed like things were going to be a little bit better in the future.

( Ich liebe dich auch, mein sternenherz. )

[fox-fic-and-ink]

If you’re still doing that prompt thing, maybe could we get a sfw cayde/zavala in #3? No pressure at all if you’re not feelin it though. Also its good to see you posting again!

Cayde/Zavala and “Iv’e got you.”

“Damn, Zavala, you going for arecord for most broken ribs or what?”

Zavala wheezes his disapproval forthe joke as he struggles to straighten up with Cayde’s arm slung over hisshoulder and manages to rumble a counter. “Are you aiming for Vanguard with thefewest limbs?”

“Touche,” Cayde grumbles as theremains of his leg swing against Zavala’s thigh.

Maybe it’s stupid to move giventheir injuries, but they’re also not doing any good atop this empty rooftop nowthat the Guardian has used the Vex device to jump to Ghaul’s ship. At the veryleast, the Vanguard should make themselves less of a target by heading forinside cover. Ikora has gone ahead to make sure the way down is clear, spentshotgun at her side and likely concussed but still faring better than theHunter and Titan Vanguards. The two struggle at the door, Zavala putting extrastrain on his chest as he tries to balance Cayde and step through sideways.

“You wanna know the best thingabout being an Exo, Zavala?” Cayde muses to distract them both and mask thenerve-fraying sound of the Awoken’s labored breathing but doesn’t wait for anykind of a response. “The best thing about being an Exo is having pain receptorsthat shut off in response to bodily trauma.”

Cayde waves his sparking elbow.

Zavala’s brow scrunches and theypause for a second as the Commander tries to shunt aside the feeling of his ownblunt force beatings. First a Cabal fist to the ribs, then a foot, then a bladedulled by thick armor. Zavala’s counts himself lucky his lungs seem to have goneunpunctured.

“That’s…nifty,” Zavala grits outwith just an unavoidable hint of envy as they slowly start the journey down thefirst set of stairs.

Cayde stiffens and Zavala forceshis eyes open to make sure everything’s alright. He meets wide, lit blue lensesand a heavy jaw gaping in surprise.

“You said ’nifty.’”

Zavala blinks.

“Nifty!” Cayde crows. “This day just got a thousand times better. Ikora, did you hear that?”

Ikora’s response echoes fromseveral stories below and a hint of a laugh bounces up the stairwell. “I heard,Cayde. Now, hurry. There’s an elevator down here that still has power.”

“Heh. Ikora thought it soundedfunny too.”

Zavala ignores the entireexchange. If Exos can block pain relays, maybe they block other brain functionstoo.

“Hey, you ok?” Cayde suddenly whispers,close and louder to Zavala than he supposes it really is. “We stopped moving.”

“So we have,” Zavala realizesand then tracks the holdup to his own legs which seem to have started shakingnow that the last of adrenalin has run its course. “My apologies. Just…a momentplease.”

Cayde senses this is not the time for a joke and keeps his voice low so as not to draw Ikora’s attention. “Hey, hey, Big Guy. I’ve got you.”

It could be debated- who has who.But when Cayde wraps his functioning hand around the back of Zavala’s neck andguides the Awoken in to rest against the Exo’s shoulder, Zavala does findhimself exhaling a ragged breath heavy with all the anxiety built up over thecourse of their infiltration of the City. Thirty seconds to center himself isall Zavala allows but the sure grip and comforting squeeze to his neck promiseas much time as he needs whenever he decides to take it.

*prompts currently closed*

[arrogance-is-my-middlename]

Vanguard Legacy

My take on how the Vanguard fits together, and what it means to take that position. 

******

“You’re really making this dare?”

Andal smirked. “Gonna turn it down?”

Cayde chewed on that for a moment before slowly shaking his head. “Since when have you known me to turn down a bet? Just don’t see why now you’re throwing this one at me. Thought you loved your job. Sitting at a desk, ordering greenhorns about, all that jazz.”

“I do,” Andal replied, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “The Vanguard is what keeps the Tower from collapsing in on itself, and we make sure the Consensus doesn’t turn on each other every week.”

“So why call it quits now?” Cayde pressed.

Andal’s smile took a slightly more somber form, and Cayde got the terrible feeling that Andal desperately wanted to say something, but couldn’t. He got like that sometimes, always telling Cayde that “Someone who can only understand by doing wouldn’t get words.” It was the truth, Cayde knew that well enough not to take offense. He wasn’t stupid, not by any means, but things didn’t really click with him until he saw it for himself. Still, Cayde missed the days when the two would laugh and joke easily without that look crossing Andal’s face. Cayde had always been the wilder (by quite a long shot) of the two, but Andal was still a joker and a gambler at heart. Now though, even his jokes had a bit of an edge to them. Their conversation about Cayde being Rasputin wasn’t just for laughs, and while the two of them had been in stitches about it afterwards, Cayde suspected Andal had more than just absurdity on his mind.

“Look, Brask, I don’t really get what you’re doing here, but I just wanna ask one more time before we do this. You sure I’m the right choice for this?”

Andal laughed at that. “Six, you’re the only the choice.” Cayde wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

***

Andal still remembered the first time he met his Vanguard. Osiris had spared him a terse nod and launched into a discussion about where the next strike would be most effective, and what subclasses would prove best for the job. Saint 14 had welcomed him aboard warmly, and then immediately pulled Osiris back to the reality that the City was still reeling too hard from the Battle of the Six fronts for an effective series of off planet strikes.

Neither of them had noticed a fireteam walk in, bruised and battered from the wilds, and ready to hand in a report.

Andal had quickly realized that the Vanguard wasn’t a collection of a Hunter, Warlock, and Titan meant to represent each class and their strengths, but rather the Vanguard was a careful balancing act of personalities that would best balance the needs and wants of the Consensus with the military duties of the Tower Guardians. Osiris was wild but forward thinking, and he responded to every threat with action and fire. He could see consequences of consequences, and wanted to act in advance to manipulate events into their favor, but he had no tact and little care for the matters at home. Saint 14, infamous for his crusades against the Fallen, was intend on protecting Earth above all else. They were a good balance for each other, certainly, but they still struggled. While they were both heroes and figures so mighty that they had been defied among the Tower, neither understood the importance of interpersonal relationships. Osiris would go on for hours about the proper combination of subclasses in a strike, but it was Andal who knew which Guardians by name would best fit that task, and how their dynamics would affect the fireteam. Saint 14, in all his eagerness to protect the City, thought that the best approach to any situation was direct confrontation and had the subtlety of a bared handcannon, so it was Andal who personally dealt with the Consensus, and maneuvered faction politics. Saint 14 and Osiris were names whispered in awe amongst the Tower plaza, but it was Andal who met with the fireteams and debriefed them. He picked up on the details that Osiris would analyze and fully understand, even when the Warlock failed to notice them in the first place, and it was Andal who put together the fireteams that Saint 14 would have patrol the walls so that they had the best compatibility to work together.

Their system worked, and while Andal was never as close with his fellow Vanguard as they were with each other, both of them knew when to defer to him on certain matters.

When Osiris left, and Saint 14 when to chase him, things changed for both the better and the worst. Andal knew Ikora personally (he had met her plenty of times as she trailed behind Osiris, and he had personally assigned her on missions with Cayde 6 more times than he could count because of how well they worked off each other), and she had all of the restraint and in the moment wisdom that Osiris had lacked. She didn’t have her predecessor’s foresight, but she was committed, and never showed the slightest inclination of forsaking her duty. She was fierce and aggressive when she needed to be, but her many years spent as a renegade had taught her when to act and speak, and she was humble in a way so few Warlocks were.

Zavala had an uncanny work ethic, and he was easily able to work on both protecting the City and advancing the front. The newly minted Vanguard Commander never struggled in choosing between the two biggest draws in this war of theirs, and instead fully comprehended the importance of balance between the two. He commanded respect from his part in the War of the Six Fronts, and where Osiris had garnered the title of Commander through power, Zavala had earned the title through respect.

Ikora balanced out Zavala’s tendency to leap into action with the information he needed to properly adjust his tactics to achieve victory, and perhaps most impressive of all, both of them were deeply invested in knowing the Guardians under their command.

In short, Andal provided assets to the two of them that they already had in spades. He came to understand that Ikora, for all her brashness and temper in her younger days, had tempered that side of her with a sense of duty and patience (no doubt a necessity after working under Osiris for as long as she had). Zavala and Ikora rarely struggled on knowing when to act and hold back, but Zavala’s tactics (while effective and by the book perfect) lacked the all too important ability to improvise, and Ikora’s improvisation were too much of a shotgun approach—all power and force but lacking nuance. And both of them were by far too serious, and Guardians, known for being best when they were wild forces of nature given a direction to wreak destruction, struggled under their somewhat overly disciplined leadership. They needed that wildness in their leadership, that ability to improvise any situation and wreak havoc in every movement. In short, they needed someone like Cayde, or better yet, Cayde himself. Andal Brask was many things, but he was no Cayde 6, and he was smart enough to know when it was time to step down for the better of all. He just hoped his age-old friend would understand when the time came.

***

The Titan and Warlock Vanguard passed on their seat when it was time, when they either died or left, and it often went to a rising star amongst their ranks or a personal apprentice. Hunters did things differently. All Guardians had a streak of madness and illogical daring in them (comes with looking death square in the eye on a daily basis and being yanked back by a talkative sprite of a robot companion), but Hunters were infamous for it. Oh, Warlocks were obsessive in their passions and would lose their minds to the depth of the secrets and power they pursued, and Titans would become so drunk on combat that they would lose themselves to the thrill of it all and ditch firearms in favor of fists and headbutts—even against the imposing might of the bloodthirsty Cabal Gladiators, but it was the Hunters that spun legends of infamy and madness amid their ranks. Stories of walking into enemy territory with nothing but their telltale combat knife and walking out with a cloak made from the torn skin and flags of their enemies. Hunters, who were known to walk into combat laughing and shooting from the hip and landing every shot perfectly just because they could, Hunters, who were assigned assassination missions because only they could walk in and out of a room unseen and leave nothing but the cold grasp of death in their wake. It would follow that their manner of succession would have to entice their wild “sensibilities”. Thus came the Vanguard Dare, the only bet where victory could be dreaded by the winning party. There were no rules, as a dare between Hunters would of course be full of cheating and trickery (all Hunters were known cheats), but it relied upon the peculiar code of honor that all Hunters held onto: always repay your debts, and always honor your word when it came down to it.

It was that very code that Cayde now cursed, looking at the cloak in his hands. Andal hadn’t supposed to die on this damn Dare, that duty fell to Taniks. Taniks who still lived and had driven a blade through Andal’s Ghost when the little thing had tried to bring back the fallen Hunter. Cayde didn’t want the duty, the responsibility, the pain that came with being the Hunter Vanguard, but Andal Brask had thought he could do it for some reason, and Cayde was an exo of his word. He would take the position, and he would make sure his friend would be proud.

***

Andal had told Zavala that Cayde 6 was a wild card, an idiot, and a loudmouth. Zavala had quickly realized that all of these things were dreadfully true, but it was the second half of what Andal had said that Zavala now understood were so much more important. He remembered his last conversation with the man all too well.

“He’s gonna drive you up the wall, and I really don’t recommend sending him to deal with the Consensus unless you need to buy time or piss them off. Which, you’ll need to eventually, just saying.”

“He hardly seems Vanguard material,” Zavala had grumbled.

“Just hear me out,” chided Andal. “Yeah, he’s a moron, but do you know why he’s so successful in the field?”

Zavala stayed silent.

Andal continued. “He can always puzzle himself out of anything. It might not be instant, it might not be pretty, but if you have Cayde, you’ll never face a situation you can’t get out of. We’ve faced down hell before Commander, you’ve been at the front lines for it. But we both know the Fallen aren’t packing the same heat that the Cabal, or even the Hive have at their beck and call. Cayde has solo’d expeditions into the Hellmouth and come out whistling, with fully detailed maps of areas we didn’t even know existed and the heads of several commanders tied to his belt. You need that kind of thing here. When your clip runs dry, it pays to have a boot knife, and Cayde’s the best we got.”

Zavala frowned, turning towards Ikora. “You’ve worked with him on several sorties, and you used to run with him in the Crucible. What do you think of this?”

Ikora was silent for a long moment, appearing to have simply ignored Zavala while she read whatever was scrolling across her tablet. Just as he was about to repeat his question, Ikora spoke, still not looking up. “He’s come up with plans I’d never even consider, and they’ve always been successful in one way or another. Besides that,” she looked up with a small grin. “Cayde 6 makes me laugh. He’s a good morale boost.”

Looking back on the conversation, Zavala realized all of his doubts had been so very, very misplaced. When Oryx had attacked, it was Cayde who got them on the Dreadnaught. Cayde had went after Ghaul himself, and it was Cayde who so very often kept their Guardians smiling and gleefully blowing their enemies to Hell and back. Andal had been right, and while the man would be a presence that could never be replaced and always be missed, he, Osiris, and Saint 14 had left them the legacy of the Vanguard. A Legacy that could not have been as proud, or as successful, without Ikora and Cayde standing by Zavala’s side. The Tower would always miss their fallen and lost comrades, but their predecessors had left the City in good hands, and the future was all the brighter for it.

This particular topic has been touched on so often by the community that it’s practically an old hat, but this is my take on it regardless. Third fanfic in a week, I’m on a roll huh? Message me if you’ve got questions on why I wrote anyone the way I did, trust me I’ve got my reasons. Also it’s 5 am.

[jetfuel-cantmeltsteelbeams]

RD

With a soft chuckle, Rue Demmekke felt the pressure that had been building and building over the past couple of days easing away with every step he took. Caydin had only showed up half an hour ago on the compound with a greasy bag of Five Guys, one large Super Slurp from the gas station up the road, and that casual grin fixed firmly in place. Rue cleared the board room immediately in favor of stuffing his face while the blond filled him in on everything he'd missed in the past few weeks.

Soon after he finished his lunch- or was it dinner? He was losing time fast in the walls of the compound, falling into a nonstop flow of meetings. They'd left the rooms and halls behind to walk the grounds, giving Caydin a chance to smoke as they talked.

"Wait." His hand tucked deep in the pocket of his black uniform cargos, Rue shook his head. "Since when has Daniel played poker? Just tell me that."

Beside him, Cayd shrugged as he let out a laugh of his own. Drawing the cigarette from his lips, he let the smoke coil on his words as he answered. "I have no idea. I've never even seen him touch a deck of cards."

Reaching for the smoke, Rue took a deep inhale before speaking. "So, what you're telling me is, Daniel- our Daniel- won an all-in game of poker with his bet being his inheritance of the Throne of Creation, after losing seven straight rounds of strip poker, butt ass naked with his balls on the seat, and still managed to lose his keys at some random woman's house that this championship was being held at and had to walk home. Is that right?"

Caydin laughed. "I think that's it, yeah. I didn't even believe her until Rizzo showed me pictures."

"Riz was there? Why?"

"Irine was playing."

"Ah. How're they doing? Is Kai taking summer classes or is he just gonna graduate on time?"

"He's still got a week to make up his mind. Rizzo's pushing for the classes, it would be easier on her if he graduated early and moved out. Irine is draining her checks as soon as she gets them."

Rue shook his head, handing the cigarette back to Caydin. Though the grounds were normally deserted this time of day, a single dark haired angel dressed in uniform stood just up ahead. "It's crazy that she's supporting all three of them. Do you think she'd accept if I-"

Offering a polite smile to the stranger as they came closer, Caydin cut him off. "You know Rizzo doesn't take hand outs. She'd just avoid us forever and, no offense, but personally I live for Irine's house parties."  

The silverette stuffed down his annoyance at having to cut their conversation short as the stranger came close enough to greet. It was obvious he wanted some time with the Dark Leader, and Rue had to put his individuality aside to accept the raven's greeting. "Dark Leader."

"Brother. What can I do for you?" The man was shorter than most, with pretty standard features. If it came to a lineup, Rue wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd.

"I have a question."

Despite his annoynce at never being able to have a second for himself, Rue was glad Caydin was beside him. At least he could see that Rue didn't purposely blow off the blond's texts or calls- his time wasn't his own anymore. So he nodded the other along, hoping it would be something they could work through quickly so he could get back to their walk.

"Vla auo rai ka tvoax au klo Larr Daklou?"

His brows furrowing, Rue struggled to interpret quickly, despite the angel's native dialect. "I'm sorry, I don't- What about the Holy Mother?"

"Vla auo rai ka tvoax au klo Larr Daklou?" he said again. This time, something akin to rage began to burn the words, "Rai, klo tar a ra aro."

His studies came flooding back, and Rue's pulse quickened when he begun to understand. "‘Ba rak tvoax au klo Larr Daklou. I speak for no one." Danger. Something inside Rue shifted, and his Instinct screamed to put himself between this stranger and Caydin. "Why do you-"

Pop.

The sound didn't exist this close, but his ears rung with the gunshot. Rue waited, but the pain didn't come. Lifting his hand to his chest, he pulled his fingers away to find warm blood already leaking onto his palm.

My chest. Major arteries, too many. I'll bleed out in seconds. Too far from the buildings. Caydin- protect Caydin.

But the extra strength he'd shared his body with these past few months only flickered, as if it, too, had been wounded. Like a television being shut off, the edges of his vision began to darken.

I can't leave Caydin with him, alone. He doesn't know yet. I have to tell him.

Rue turned to face the blond beside him, but only a golden haze formed before everything disappeared.

The world was gone.

I'm dying.

-

Pain. Dear Gods, the pain. He struggled to keep his chest still, to hold his lungs steady to keep from spreading the fire any more. But someone was on his stomach, holding a lump of wet cloth to the hole in his chest. Someone else was running beside his head, holding a mask over his mouth that forced his lungs to keep working. The ceiling was too bright, the light assaulting his eyes.

He was alive. Damn the Gods, he was alive.

-

Karsyn's head snapped as the double doors flew open, and her eyes met those of her husband's. There was fear there, real fear- and fury. Gods beware, there was fury burning in her husband's blue hues.

"Where are they?"

"They're taking Rue up to surgery now. He's... Dy-"

"Where's Caydin?"

"They couldn't pull him off Rue. I tried, but... Dy, he was shot. Rue was shot."

The raven god's gait didn't pause at her pitched words, his eyes finding the red emergency doors on the other end of the room and his body following.

She put herself between him and the doors, stopping the God of Creation with her small form. "You can't. We both know the consequences." If he interfered in Rue's timeline to this level, the backlash from The Balance would be severe.

[vanguardbled-a-blog]

❝ I can’t believe you’re alive! I saw you die. I mourned you. I cried for you. ❞ (hewwo its angst time)

          He must look like a mess. Cayde hasn’t changed at all - that’s the first thing Andal finds when he’s put face to face with his old friend. He’s not sure what to say, even when the Exo speaks - teeth worrying the inside of his cheek as green hues shift from Cayde to the floor at his feet. There’s no guidelines on what to do when this happens - nothing to fall back on to help when his mind draws a blank. 

          “I--I can’t believe I’m alive.” His voice is small, aimed at the ground rather than at Cayde. Andal’s chest hurts with all of this - he’s not sure what he’d prefer; to have everyone think he’s still dead or come back like this after so long and expect everything to go back to how it was before. Hands comb through tangled, too long strands - Andal gave up caring about his appearance somewhere out there. He may as well have been dead - what with Jett barely functioning and his communications cut off completely. He thought he was dead at one point, though all Andal remembers now is blood and pain - a lot of blood. 

          “Six. I’m... I’m sorry--that I didn’t--that I couldn’t get back. That you had to do... This.” Green hues flit up to fix his friend with as meaningful of an expression as he can manage in his state - this was the last thing he thought would happen when he ended up in the center of his worst nightmares at the old Tower. Does he feel guilty about everything he’s clearly put the Exo through in his prolonged near death experience? Absolutely. It’s all he could think about through the darkest times alone out there. 

          “But I’m back now--and I ain’t going anywhere.”

                                                                                              >ʀᴀɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʀᴏᴄᴋ /a./ @aceslinger.

[spookgeist]

'Monster' for Circe?

This is eternally long, and for that I am sorry! 

                                                       “Monster”

It was a crisp autumn day, Circe reveled in the quiet whisper of the leaves under her boots. The thin air of the higher altitude had a chill to it that threatened to freeze her lungs every time she breathed in. She puffed out clouds of breath to amuse herself while Ganymede scanned the area.

She often went on recon missions, at first for Zavala who had caught her sobbing in a corner of the tower after a fight with the Vex. She was not made to kill, that he had known for a while, and he pitied her kind heart. After a few more than successful missions, news of her intel gathering had then passed on to Cayde, Ikora, and Eris and before she knew it nearly the whole tower was sending her on fact finding missions—not that she minded. It gave her a chance to get outside and spend time with her little Ghost, but still feel useful.

A shrill cry cut through the quiet and both she and Ganymede froze.

“Circe, did you hear that?” Ganymede asked, whirring with anxiety, his little blue glow pulsating slightly from inside his mossy shell.

“I’ll check it out.” She pulled her Suros sidearm from her hip, checking the magazine. “Just keep doing what you’re doing so we can get out of here.” Her voice was no more than a whisper as she snuck away.

Circe was careful to make little sound as she descended the hill. Her brows furrowed as she heard more of the screeching and whimpering.

“Stop!” A small voice mewled in Eliksni.

Circe felt the blood drain from her face. She was in old House of Kings territory, but they had not been seen since right after the SIVA crisis. There was no way they were still here, was there? She continued forward, clutching the grip of her sidearm painfully. ‘Deadman Walking’ it was called—she prayed that wasn’t some sort of sad irony.

When she came around a switchback she could see something in the distance. A familiar skittering motion of Eliksni, but too seemingly too small compared to the human shape looming above it. Something was very wrong here.

“You’re a good Scout. You act more like a Hunter than a Titan, Little Lady, you know that?” Shiro’s voice echoed in her head. “I’ll teach you the first rule about being a good Hunter, but don’t tell Cayde I did or he’ll chew me out. Look first, then leap.”

Circe pulled D.A.R.C.I. from her back, suddenly glad Xur had talked her into buying it from him only a few days prior.

Through the scope she saw something she would never forget. A human man pinned a small Eliksni, likely no more than a few years old, facedown to the ground. The man twisted one of the little creature’s primary arms behind it’s back and pulled a knife from his hip. His mouth was moving, twisted into a snarl.

“Monster.” She read on his lips.

The small Eliksni screamed and tried to twist out of the way, two if it’s friends cowering in the distance, unable to help—but Circe was. Her blood boiled and she pulled the trigger without even thinking twice.

The man sunk lifeless to the ground, but not before embedding his knife in the Eliksni’s shoulder. Circe jumped, her boosters barely cushioning her fall, praying all the while that Ganymede hadn’t seen what she had just done. To kill another human, to save an enemy nonetheless, was unheard of. But, it wasn’t an enemy, it was just a child.

The small Eliksni cowered when he saw her, clutching at his shoulder, trying to pull the knife out. She moved towards him slowly, but he clawed at her making unintelligible noises. He was in pain and afraid, she couldn’t very well blame him. She removed her helmet, hoping him seeing her face would make him understand she wasn’t going to hurt him.

“I help.” She said, her Eliksni was rusty. It had been a long while since Detrhys had died his final death, and she hadn’t seen Variks since before the Cabal invasion.

She crouched near him and opened her arms to the boy. He eyed her warily at first before relaxing into her arms, his little body shaking, leaking his strangely colored blood all over her armor. She looked for the others, they were still there.

“Adult, go get.” She knew the phrasing was wrong but the two other Eliksni skittered off, trusting this strange human who spoke their launguage with their friend.

“It hurts.”

The small boy cried against her, clutching at her and burying his face into her neck. She tore a piece of her mark and used it to tie the knife in place, partially to block the bloodflow and also not wanting him to bleed more if it moved around.

“I know.”

She rubbed his back soothingly, trying to quiet his cries, afraid of what kind of attention it might draw. They waited for seemingly an aeon and Circe became very aware that Ganymede must be wondering where she had gone. A sense of dread filled her as she heard a rustling in the distance. She shifted the weight of the child so that she could free an arm to once again pull the sidearm just in case she needed it.

The other two small children came running back into view, pulling the lower hands of a Captain, a scorch cannon in his grip, his gaze fierce. Sure enough he wore the familiar yellow cloak of the House of Kings, though it and he looked worse for wear. As he approached they locked eyes, his face contorting in confusion as he assessed the situation. His eyes flickered between Circe, to the child, to the knife and then finally to the dead human on the ground beside them. He lowered the scorch cannon and Circe stood to meet him.

“You saved him.” He reached his arms out to take the boy who clung to Circe. “You killed one of your own to save him, why?” His eyes flickered over her armor, covered in Eliksni blood.

“Because it was the right thing to do.” She looked to the man on the ground, his face twisted in a sick grin, it made her skin crawl. Tears of anger prickled at her eyes, threatening to spill over. “He was not one of my own.”

The Captain took a thin rope from around his neck and handed it to her. From it hung  a piece of scrap metal, carved with the House of Kings symbol, the same as her friend Detryhs had worn. The metal charm seemed too big in her hands compared to how small it had been in the Captain’s.

“I am indebted to you, as is my son, and his son after him.” He walked closer to the small-to-him human woman, reaching a spare arm to clasp her shoulder. “Thank you.”

From up above Ganymede had watched. He knew the guilt Circe would feel over what she had done, but he knew his Guardian had made the right decision. For he, as well as Circe, knew that monsters could come in any shape.

[thedistantstorm]

The Morning After

A Kinderguardian wakes up on a couch, in a nice apartment in the Last Safe City, with no idea how she got there, and the Vanguard Commander makes her some coffee. He’s wearing regular clothes. Lilith is intrigued, hungover, and also regrets everything.

Roughly two weeks after the events of Phoenix Protocol:

-/

The lights in the flat are dimmed when he enters. Only a single candle is lit in the living room. On their loveseat - he doesn’t even blink at the thought of it being theirs, though this is technically still his residence and she does keep her own apartment - his beloved is curled up, focused. Her tablet casts ambient blue light across her features. He can tell she’s reading for pleasure based on how relaxed she is, Tamashii nestled into the collar of her robe, optic dimmed and resting. It isn’t that late though, so he's a bit surprised she has the lights off.

“Long day?” He asks, and stills when Miyu immediately puts her finger to her lips to shush him. She smiles when he heeds her request, staying silent. Tamashii shimmers away as she rises. She crosses the room as quietly as he’s ever seen, and she pulls him by the forearm into the kitchen.

Her lips press against his in greeting, and she turns on the single light over the sink instead of the main ones. “We have a guest this evening,” She murmurs gently. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“A guest?”

Miyu jerks her thumb toward the living room. “Lilith’s on the couch." From this angle, he can see the lump of small Warlock, the strip of light created from the one she's turned on illuminating her blanket-covered legs. "That fireteam she teamed up with on Titan invited her out. She’s never been drinking before.”

His eyes light up with something soft, almost amused, and his voice drops to a whisper. “Hopefully she didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“I don’t think she’ll do it again,” She murmurs. “Got a little philosophical with me on whether or not an Exo is technically a human being and cried herself to sleep.”

Zavala’s mouth twitches into a frown. “You should-”

“Yeah. I’ll talk with her about it when she’s sobered up a bit.”

He nods. “Cayde had his moments. The adjustment was… well, I think most Exos struggle with it.” He looks at the girl on their couch and back to Miyu. “If I can help, let me know.”

She squeezes their combined hands. “I appreciate it. She’s a good kid. Wish she’d have asked me to take her out though.”

“You can barely control your own drinking, if I remember correctly-” She flushes in the dim light and pouts.

“You came to get me one time,” She hisses.

“Shaxx seemed to think it happened more than that.” The smile that blooms on his face is more teasing than judgmental.

"It only happens when I'm with him. You can't tell me he's never subjected you to peer pressure!"

He chuckles low, pursing his lips and holding a finger to them, reminding her to be quiet. She blushes harder. He kisses her again, slow and sweet. "Shall we take this to the bedroom as to refrain from disturbing our guest?" 

Miyu hums something in the affirmative and lets him lead her with a hand on the small of her back. For the first time, when she closes the bedroom door behind them, she locks it with a quiet snick. Nizana will alert Tamashii if their guest needs anything.

-/

Her optics take longer than normal to boot up, to fully orient. She smells coffee before anything and blinks herself into focus silently. There's a blanket over her. It smells like sandalwood and jasmine, floral and fresh. She needs to stretch. She's sleeping on a couch, and though it's comfy, she feels like she's been dragged behind someone's Sparrow through the EDZ.

Nizana churrs quietly in her head. Washroom is to your left, the second door down the hall. Freshen up, you'll feel better.

She listens to her Ghost, feeling like she's still lacking a touch of her normal equilibrium. She wretches into the toilet for several moments, and if she had the ability to do so, she's certain she'd be blushing or crying out of embarrassment. She doesn't even know where she is.

You really did a number on yourself, Lilith, Nizana chastises through their link, but waits to do so until she's almost finished. Lilith splashes cool water on her face.

I remember being at the bar, Lilith thinks back to her Ghost. Morgana and Bertie and I were having a good time.

Yes, but you tried to show off and outdrink them.

Did I win?

Nizana shimmers into the space between her and the mirror, then scans her with a blue beam. Lilith recoils.

"'S too bright," She slurs, her own voice feeding the hollow pounding of her rapidly worsening headache.

"Do you think you won?" Nizana replies at normal volume. "You're going to be mostly functional today, but I wouldn't suggest fieldwork. You will likely feel dizzy and uncomfortable, at least until this afternoon."

Lilith sighs. 

Nizana relents, "You did win, but you were very intoxicated afterwards. My scans showed your alcohol levels to be nearly three times the limit to be considered safe to operate a Sparrow. You conducted yourself rather… outlandishly as well."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes," Her partner chirps right back. 

The Exo puts a hand on her forehead, looking at herself in the mirror. Even the ambient lights of her mouth made little fireworks go off in her head when she appraises herself. She didn't know she could feel like this. "I think I need to sit down."

"That sounds like a smart idea."

When she returns, there's a mug of coffee sitting on a black coaster waiting for her. On further inspection, the coaster itself looks handmade, with durable yarn. She takes note of a loveseat adjacent to her, a comfortable looking recliner, and a modest sized screen across the room. The blinds are drawn, so she can't tell exactly where in the City she is. That bothers her a bit, but not enough to subject herself to seeing what's beyond the window. The natural light will likely hurt her head, as well.

The sound of soft, measured footfalls makes her still. She doesn't know anyone who sounds like that.

Did I… go home with a stranger?

Nizana doesn't answer her. 

Lilith sighs and draws the blankets around herself. She feels cold. Hopefully she didn't. She doesn't think she'd be that unintelligent, even if everything after that super cute fruity drink was a blur. Maybe this is Bertie or Morgana’s home, although everything seems rather well lived-in and high end, considering the comfort of the furniture.

"Quietly," Comes a low voice from the kitchen. "Surely-" Their words get lower, and Lilith's sharp hearing cannot pick up what they're saying.

A very tentative, muffled trill is the reply. It still hurts her to hear. Then, she notes that a small, white shelled Ghost flits into the doorway. When Lilith makes eye contact, it shimmers away.

The footsteps grow louder, but not unbearably so. 

"Good morning," Commander Zavala greets politely, and Lilith gapes at him, jaw hanging. She's glad she's leaning over the coffee table with both hands around the mug. If it was in transit to her mouth she's sure she would have fumbled it.

"Uh…" Nizana provides zero assistance. Lilith supposes she deserves this. Weakly, when the Commander drops into the recliner near her and her brain errors on the innately casual nature of his movements, of the fact that he's wearing a simple tunic and pants, not full armor, she hangs her head and mutters, "Sorry for the trouble, Sir."

He shakes his head. "I believe I've conducted myself similarly plenty of times. We've all been there," He offers sagely. When she looks at him, surprised she's not being lectured, he gives her something almost like a smile. With his mouth. She doesn't - she must still be asleep, she thinks.

"Not to sound rude, Commander-"

The Awoken sips at his coffee. "Zavala is fine. We are not at the Tower, you are not on assignment, and it is well before working hours."

"Did you bring me home," She blurts, and she's certain some part of her face is surely overheating. Perhaps the ground will swallow her up.

He leans back, coffee in hand. "No, I did not. Miyu retrieved you. She's currently asleep in our bedroom, I suspect she'll be up shortly."

"What." The word is thrown out like a thunderclap. "She - you…" She sags dramatically against the couch.

"For all your projecting, I suspected you knew."

Lilith blinks at his eyes, then focuses on his forehead because his irises are so bright. "I mean, I do," She sighs. Her outburst doesn't help her head stop hurting. She flails dramatically despite it. "But she's never come out and told me!"

Owlishly, Zavala blinks back at her. He has more coffee and thinks before responding. "Miyu trusts you," He finally says. "Therefore I do, as well. I would hope your exercise discretion."

There is silence between them until the sound of quiet footfalls comes from the far end of the flat. Adelaide pops back into existence with a quick spark and zooms through the air. Lilith watches as deft hands reach out and bring her close, initiating a strange version of a cuddle.

"Good morning, Addy," Miyu whispers, Tamashii hovering over her shoulder. 

It's a party in here, Lilith thinks to Nizana.

Nizana sighs. I think it's nice, she answers in her distant, cool tone, and Lilith holds out her palm immediately, summoning her into the physical realm. Though seemingly childish and self-centered herself, Lilith is not dumb. She knows that answer means Nizana is lonely or jealous, maybe both.

With her Ghost in front of her, Lilith strokes her fins gently and cups her between her palms. Adelaide, upon seeing the newcomer, immediately introduces herself, Tamashii floating over as well. 

“Sleep well?” Miyu inquires of their guest.

She looks down. “I feel like I’ve been put through a blender.”

“Death by turbine is rather annoying,” Zavala quips and Miyu swats playfully at his shoulder before perching on the arm of his chair. “What,” He asks incredulously. “I was simply empathizing with her pain.”

“Mhmm,” She hums, yawning with a cute little yowl. He blinks up at her in a secretive kind of smile and she returns it, nose scrunching as she looks down at his face.

“Oh, you two are gross,” Lilith crows, looking at her own reflection in the blackness of her coffee. “I’m going back to pretending I don’t know about this before you make me sick.” 

"You being sick is on you, Lillie," Miyu informs her, in a volume just above a whisper. "Neither of us drank themselves silly last night."