Now usually, when Cayde found that he was lonely, which was fairly often when he went about ten or so minutes without anyone to talk to, he would get out there and find someone to talk to. But this time was different. This late-night loneliness was something that changed the definition of lonely for Cayde.
This was something that spending some time with friends might not be able to fix. Tonight, Cayde decided he might not want to reach out. He never really does when he gets like this.
It’s his own problem that he doesn’t want to deal with.
So he sits there in the dark, a little, empty glass in his fist, leaning heavily on the table he sits at with his other hand against his forehead to prop his head up. His eyes are dark, “closed” for an exo, and he’s very, very quiet.
The door’s been left open just an unfortunate crack, enough for an unexpected passerby to peer into the dimly lit room. The only real light comes from the Traveler through the window, washes over the Hunter Vanguard sitting alone in the dark. One might think he’d fallen asleep there doing something else.
Atsuko-5 doesn't operate on superstition.
She’s not a religious person. She was before she was remade into machine parts and electronics. She hasn’t been that person in a very, very long time.
She does have a gut feeling that she listens to, even if she doesn’t have a gut per se. Exominds have been created to emulate humans in many ways, but this is something that has been developed independently of Clovis Bray and their exoscience division.
Something tells her to make a detour on her way back to her quarters. Something very strongly tells her to stop by to see the Hunter Vanguard. She knows that he’s off duty and he’s not in any of his usual haunts, so she stop by his place.
The door is open. She undoes the buckle on her thigh holster and takes a look inside, her optics easily adjusting for the low light levels.
When she spies Cayde sitting with an empty glass in one hand, his head in the other, Atsuko swears she can feel a tightening in her chest. Psychosomatic, the brain jockeys in white coats would say at Clovis Bray. Operant conditioning surfacing as near autonomic reflex due to subconscious memories from the original subject’s imprint.
Bullshit. She knows what she feels. She knows, in the very least she thinks she knows what he feels. Or that he is feeling. He’s feeling too much, so much that he can scarcely move.
Atsuko carefully enters, quietly closing the door behind her. “Cayde.” She speaks softly, but clearly. “It’s Atsuko. I’m coming in, okay?” It’s not so much a question but an advanced warning. She doesn’t want to surprise him.
She takes even steps over to him and stops next to Cayde. She rubs his back with her right hand, slipping it beneath his cloak to make gentle circles against the soft leather armor, while her left hand rests on his bicep. She lays her cheek upon his shoulder and closes her eyes, the metal plating of her faux eyelids blocking out the white light from her optics. “I’m right here, Cayde. You’re not alone. Not any more.”
again he was too late. despite his promises to himself, he can’t arrive in time to keep the demons from beating down the door. he only reaches the scene once the destruction has been wrought and the bodies have been looted.
once more, he is unable to prevent the tragedy, he is incapable of avenging it.
they were in formation in a tightly controlled drift above a ketch that bore the blazon of house scar. the ketch itself was docked above the surface of luna, the earth’s moon.
he watched the topside of the eliksni vessel and monitored what their listening posts on its hull could pick up. weapons fire. kinetic weapons, the sounds of percussion pistols firing, hand cannons with their distinctive heavy leaden impact, shotguns and their scattered pellets, the plastic and brass tapping, tinkling against metal floor plating.
it was joined by a frenetic dance of heavy machine gun fire and a rain shower of casings. the telltale sizzle and pop of a fusion rifle charging and discharging. the vacuum seal of a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher being loaded. even the pull of steel against leather as a knife was unsheathed and then driven through a fail point, a join in the armor, metal penetrating fabric and skin, breaking through to tear apart muscle and strike bone.
uldren sov listened to the traveller’s lightbearers charge through the ketch on the hunt for taniks the scarred. he listened with his eyes closed while two of his crows kept watch to his starboard and aft.
the prince of the reef clenched and loosened his hands as he counted the number of bodies he heard fall to the guardians. there were three of the walking dead versus a full compliment of eliksni.
he did not envy the fallen their task.
rather, he envied the guardians theirs.
no, it was not nearly as simple as that.
it should have been his job. his and only his job all along. his job now as it should have been those years ago.
cayde-6 should have been the one to have gone on the hunt for taniks the scarred and not his mentor, andal brask. it was not a mission for the hunter vanguard. there was no call for brask to leave the tower.
it was not his kill to make.
his golden child, the favoured one, the hunter who could do not wrong in his eyes, he was spared a brutal, lonely death at the hands of a legitimate monster.
instead, andal went to face the horror alone.
uldren covered his mouth with a gloved hand to keep from shouting in anger and disgust. his death was pure folly. it was pointless. it didn’t even save lives. it was for naught, utterly, completely, for naught.
cayde-6 had hunted down taniks for the crime of murdering andal brask. he had killed the fallen savage. uldren would not have given up pursuit if he knew otherwise. he and his crows had verified the death of the scarred.
bastard. motherfucking bastard. how did he fool me?
the prince leaned forward in the cockpit, casting a scowl at the space surrounding the three galliots. he was searching the stars for a particular vessel, an arcadia-class jumpship adorned with the spades symbol, much like those found on a deck of playing cards.
no. he wasn’t watching. would he even be listening?
“the least you can do is to be here when it’s finally finished,” uldren snapped, his breathing uneven and eyes a deep smouldering orange. “couldn’t do it right the first fucking time. watch as your precious guardians clean up your mess.”
he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes tightly. he could hear the sounds of the battle reach a crescendo. the coda was approaching. if these lightbearers were as competent as their promise hinted toward, the bastard spawn would soon be dead. truly, finally, dead.
when the moment did arrive, it was a hollow feeling. hearing the death scream of taniks the scarred did not give him the satisfaction uldren had been hoping for. the emptiness was still there. the ache was still there.
he still missed andal terribly.
“asshole,” he whispered, eyes staring at nothing.
uldren took a moment to breathe before activating his comms. “the traveller’s damned should be returning to their tower shortly,” he said to his crows. “make a rough inventory of high-value, high-priority items on that ketch for the privateers to retrieve.”
a little known part of the awoken fleet, and one of the oldest wings in the armada, were the privateers. much like the naval vessels of old, their specialty was the capture of merchant ships, though in the reef this was relegated to anyone foolhardy enough to cross into awoken space without the queen’s grace.
the life blood of taniks wasn’t enough for uldren. the bastard had cheated death once. the prince would have his pound of flesh and whatever the so-called kell of scars had in his stores, every last synth, every last mat, every last piece of glimmer.
his crows flew in for a close range scan of the ketch once the guardian fireteam departed. he blew out a long sigh and cracked his neck. perhaps a decent enough bounty returned to the reef in tribute to mara would improve his mood.
a change in readings caught his attention. he leaned forward and scanned through the logs.
someone had hacked into the listening stations they’d planted on the hull. uldren and his team weren’t the only ones who were witness to the guardians killing taniks.
he bolted upright and whipped his head around, left to right, and caught a gleam off of his port side. he squinted at it, and pulled up his short-range sensors to get a better view. it was just at the edge of his unassisted vision.
he saw an arcadia-class jumpship with spades on her engines and an exo in her cockpit.
“you son of a bitch,” uldren muttered, not without a certain degree of begrudging admiration. he saw cayde-6 give a nonchalant salute and then the exo raised a flask in a toast.
the prince smirked and reached for the hip flask he carried on his gun belt. he loosened the cap and held it up in the cockpit. “to andal,” he said, eyes fixed upon cayde’s jumpship. he took a sip of the bourbon he carried with him and let it sit in his mouth a moment before enjoying the warmth as it slid down his throat.
he tapped at his instrument panel and opened a channel direct to the hunter vanguard’s ship. he then queued up a music track, one that seemed appropriate.
uldren settled back into the pilot’s chair and set his feet onto a safe corner of the the console as an english guitarist long forgotten to the rest of the system gently plucked the opening notes to a song about camaraderie and longing. he took another sip of his bourbon and gave a nod to the exo who had manoeuvred his ship alongside the galliot.
so, so you think you can tell
heaven from hell
blue skies from pain
can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
a smile from a veil?
do you think you can tell?
did they get you to trade
your heroes for ghosts?
hot ashes for trees?
hot air for a cool breeze?
cold comfort for change?
did you exchange
a walk on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?
how i wish, how i wish you were here
we're just two lost souls
swimming in a fish bowl
year after year
running over the same old ground
and how we found
the same old fears
wish you were here
“ whatever it is you’re doing, or thinking of doing, you’re not very subtle. “ she bites into the apple in her hand, swinging her legs from the walkway railing she was currently perched upon. “ if you’re thinking about doing something stupid, i want in. it’s been boring with nothing going on in the tower for a while. “ she has a sense of adventure, sure, but she enjoys his company, too ; she really did think of him as a good friend. ( it’s better than being alone, too. )
