Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?
Olympia-4 would love to so bad. She doesn't have any though. Someone bring this girl to Build a Bear. Or just gift her one. It's one of the things she's kinda sad about with being both an Exo and a Guardian - she doesn't have anything from others, no stuffed animals gifted from loved ones or anything. Just weapons. Armor. Practical stuff.
Amanda and Sagira absolutely do. They both have their crocheted "please don't pull out your IVs or other important lines" octopuses, those are well-loved. They probably have a number of other stuffed animals from the Tower gang, too, but the octopuses are always welcome. Or just snuggling each other.
2) Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?
Already answered for Olympia... Amanda and Sagira are children, so no on all counts. They barely handled the "being alive" thing at first. Not many people would trust them with themselves, let alone anything resembling responsibility.
12) Do they like romance in the books they read (or in the book they’re in)?
Olympia likes some romance. She doesn't go out of her way to read romance novels, but she loves a cute romance that makes her squee.
Lerato better like romance in the book he's in because he's the only one who has any going on!
22) Do they like being called pet names? Do they call other people pet names? What’s their go-to?
Olympia would be delighted to be called pet names. She can't really call other people ones but she tries to address them in special ways nonetheless - waving in certain ways when she sees them, knocking on their door in a specific pattern, things like that.
29. What recurring dreams do they have?
Olympia's an Exo, she gets those Deep Stone Crypt dreams. I feel like hers specifically involve a small group of people crowded around her as she walks towards the crypt, encouraging her and telling her to keep going, it'll be fine, it's such a good idea.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Gwaargh! Labor day messed up my internal schedule. I forgot yesterday was Tuesday and I meant to post a bit more!
This week you get some post-transformation TLC (a must for every fresh new Hive god) and some Ikora/Eris hints while our beloved Vanguard accidentally murders Eris's devotee. Ah well, he'll be fine.
Next week? I got one more ficlet ready to go and an idea, so again, we'll just see what I come up with!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Two final chapters of Eris and Motok! Featuring Sloane in the first one. Love our good ol girldad and her space whale.
The second is a lil epilogue after the end of the season. Now I may not know what Bungie has planned for the epilogue but I figured Eris should get her tea, no?
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Destiny (Video Games)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Zavala & Scribe Eido
Characters: Zavala (Destiny), Scribe Eido (Destiny)
Additional Tags: Past Child Death, past parental death, Family Issues
Summary:
A dead man with a dead son talks to an orphan taken in by a lone Wolf about the families they don't have.
---
I was rereading this and I still like it so you know what? Self-promo time. Zavala and Eido finding connection in their circumstances, from (re)birth throughout life.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
So, ever since Season of the Haunted and all the story around Hakim, I have been microwaving Zavala and Eido talking about the people they've lost in my brain.
He lost his son to the Devils. She lost her parents to the Awoken.
(I said I wanted to write something quick and @roxygobyebye hucked this idea at me at mach speed.)
Misraaks peered into his daughter's room. It had, blessedly, become almost like an adolescent's ought to be; writing and recording equipment piled on a run-down desk, trinkets she had collected herself and received from various friendly parties arranged on shelves he had helped her put up, strange accessories and articles of clothing from some "shopping trip" with the Guardian Crow heaped by her closet, waiting to be put away. (In his opinion, they were much darker than her usual tastes, and he did not know if any of the skull- and stripe-heavy designs would keep her interest, but she had loved the experience.)
Eido sat curled up on the bed, feet dangling off it despite how small she had made herself. She stared at the datapad held in two hands, occasionally glancing down at the notes she scrawled with the notebook and pen the other two held. Short bursts of sound emanated from the datapad; every once in a while, she accompanied it with a giggle.
"My hatchling," Misraaks called, watching her startle. He winced at her fumbling with the datapad, laugh cut off with a surprised chirp. "Apologies."
She shook her head, glanced between him and the datapad, and tapped it so the sound went silent. When her eyes returned to him, she said, eyes narrowing in a smile, "Sorry. Hello, father."
"Dinner is ready." He nodded towards the datapad. "I see you have found something of interest?"
Her smile grew deeper, eyes bright but narrowed to near slits, the skin around them all crinkled. His heart warmed at the sight. "Yes! I was speaking to the one known as Drifter, and he shared some videos from before the Humans' Golden Age!"
All heart warming ended right then and there.
She set the datapad, notebook, and pen down (thankfully), and hopped out of bed. "Would you like to watch with me?"
He sighed. As she approached, he set a hand on her shoulder and leaned down to nuzzle her, his mandibles tapping against the tubing of her mask. "I would, beloved, but I must meet with Ikora tonight to go over what we have learned about Eramis's location and motivations."
The fact he would likely come home in the dead of night, too tired to think, went unspoken but entirely understood. Her shoulders sagged a little under his touch, though Eido reached up to return the nuzzle. "Okay. Perhaps another time?"
"Yes, of course."
___
The two of them huddled together on the shuttle, Misraaks folded over Eido, holding her secure, his head resting on her shoulder. If he tried to sit just about any other way, he would either whack his head on the ceiling or take up even more space than he already did. Granted, the Humans had largely migrated away from the two of them, only shooting them looks that ranged from wary glances to lingering gazes, touching upon things such as his hands on his daughter's back and her sleepy, contented expression.
The shuttle slowed. Rumbling a low note, Misraaks craned his head forwards. The optics of his helm zoomed in, focusing in on the text on the bright orange sign placed in the middle of the roadway.
Construction, as evidenced by the workers buzzing around behind it.
"It seems there is road work ahead," he told Eido, "I suspect we will need to take a different route, and will be delayed."
She popped up, poking her head into the gap between his head and shoulder. "Oh! I sure hope it does!"
He was not the only one giving her a quizzical look. Though someone snickered, off towards the front.
She blinked, front eyes then back then front again, then all four at once. "...I timed that improperly," she said.
He nudged her back down against his collar. "You'll get it next time."
Whatever it was.
___
Of all the places for them to end up working, an illicit bar housing a fugitive Spider and... whatever the Drifter counted as was not high on Misraaks's list of places he would enjoy doing so. But they had good information, and the Guardian kept coming around as well.
Spider leaned over in his throne; to its merit and that of its builders, it did not squeak or groan when it bounced at the movement. "Surely you've made some progress deciphering that knickknack Eramis was slavering over," he grumbled.
Misraaks waved him off. Spider's ideas of progress were of no interest to him.
Eido, however, turned to face him, eyes still on her datapad as she worked to run some formulas. "We have, actually! For example..."
She flipped the datapad around and held it up for him to see. "Look at this gra-aph," she said - or sang? Her voice cracked partway through, turning decidedly offkey.
Spider roared with laughter, slapping the arm of his throne while Eido shrunk down. "Hah! I thought you were too old for that part of puberty! I must have misjudged!"
Drifter grabbed Misraaks's wrist before he could take one of the bottles and fling it at Spider's head. With a wink to soothe his seething, he called out in response, "Better her voice than her mind, like certain parties in this room!"
Spider's sputtering made a nice balm to the soul.
___
"All right. Bring her home, Hero!"
The pirate ketch keened. Light swelled, flooding the display as, from what the readouts showed, the Guardian reduced the ketch's captain into little more than ash on the solar wind.
Eido broke her transfixion on her own cast of the display to grin at her father. "That was legitness."
He blinked, then nodded. It sounded like appropriate praise, at least from her tone. He'd never catch up with her vocabulary, he swore. "Indeed it was."
___
He scowled. Rage thrummed in his chest. Will refined it into fuel, steeling his resolve. "Eramis!" he barked, "Cease now, before you destroy what peace we have found!"
"In your so-called unity?" Each word dripped with poison. The growl to her voice eclipsed the well-trained fury kept in his heart. "Truth will crush your fantasies underfoot, cowardkel. Only when you stand shall you see the dust on your knees from groveling."
The comms clicked. Someone had unmuted. He frowned, only for horror to flood into anger's place as Eido's name came up on the readout.
"You have very... Jared, nineteen energy," she said. And, just like that, she muted herself again, as if she had not just spoken to the reigning queen of the old crews.
Eramis, in a most uncharacteristic turn, was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, it was in confusion. "I... what?"
Drifter's snickering cut through, taking the comms' focus as Eramis went quiet again.
Approximately six seconds later, she screamed, "You pathetic, Awoken-raised brat-"
Drifter's snicker became a howl.
___
Eido ran up to him, her claws clicking on the linoleum. "Father!"
By the time she was tapping his shoulder with two hands in rapid succession, he was already turning around. His eyes fell to a bundle of small green sticks - pet treats, he supposed.
She grinned. It looked eerily like Drifter's smile. "It's the good kush."
He glanced around. They were in, as far as he could tell, a grocery store with no particular rules on pricing. But still, he said, "It's the dollar store. How good could it be?"
(Whoops. Still thinking of Her, evidently. Again, I'm sure canon will throw this all right out the window, but I'm having fun.)
Weeks. I have stayed weeks. My eyes sometimes stray to the wall, only to spy fresh bread and meat. I salivate at the sight, my stomach roars with hunger. Surely I cannot escape with how I have wasted away - I must replenish myself. And for that, I need the City’s food, and the House’s Ether.
Nobody questions who I am when I refill my Ether tanks. Some stammer, embarrassed that they do not remember me. Others shoot me suspicious glares, but do not dare speak up. Not in front of me, at least. I do not have the notoriety of Eramis, Spider, or even my son.
Sometimes the Humans offer their food to the starved refugee they see. Some let me barter with my findings; the way I stumble over my words disguises how I read through their price lists, choosing what I might be able to offer that they will accept. Others, I must be careful with, and take what I need when I get the chance.
The Saint wanders the streets. One time, I am not careful enough, and he turns a corner to come into view before I can skitter away. He does not pursue me, though I am certain he must hear my heart thundering under my carapace. But no, he sighs and mutters to himself before continuing on, while I am frozen behind a building, shivering.
I must leave soon. I must.
I tell myself this as I creep through the Eliksni Quarter in search of somewhere to bunk down for the night. The evening light has gone from golden to blue, and shadows are merging together. The cooling air is still far beyond Europa’s frigid temperatures, but it nibbles at my face and hands, teasing my empty stomach. I have had no luck with charity nor barter; I cannot rest long. If I rest at all, that is, instead of just finding somewhere to retreat to should I get caught. Provided Humans offer more kindness within their city walls than without and do not annihilate me on the spot.
Only then, I hear his voice. And despite myself, I freeze.
He speaks so sweetly to his people. A father asks for a moment’s help, and my son does not hesitate before inviting his gaggle of hatchlings to listen to a story. The way he laughs as they stop scuffling to run for him leaves dozens of jokes and anecdotes on my tongue. (But each grows darker, wearier than the last. The last time I heard that laugh, it was little more than a wheeze.)
Before I realize it, I am peering beyond the edge of the rubble. The exhausted, grateful father reshuffles his things and tends to a runt - not even one of his other childrens’ age, but one just starting to burble things akin to words while their siblings play-wrestle. My son bends a knee to scoop up the older children in all four arms, grunting with exaggerated effort as he lifts them up. They shriek and giggle, and all cling to him so readily. One even cranes their neck and he nuzzles them.
He tells them their story. It’s a simple thing, just long enough to let their father tend their sibling without making them all sit around for the conclusion. Each word comes out as a deep purr, rich as the soil I’d poured through my hands as a hatchling back home, spoken with the rhythm of ocean waves lapping against the shore.
At the end, he sets the children down. One cuddles into his shoulder, tiny hand tangling in his cloak’s ruff, and whines. He and the father coo to them until they relent, letting Misraaks pass their limp form over.
I am mesmerized watching him. I cannot stop turning his words over in my head. I cannot tear my eyes away from how gently he holds the stubborn hatchling, even as they whine. Even as he turns around, I ask myself how, how can he still be alive? His mask drops as he scents the air, and how did he do all this?
He tenses, eyes locked on mine, and I ask myself, how did I let him get away?
He gets the head start, bounding for me as I shake off the spell. My blankets flutter as I scramble away, carapace scraping and clacking on asphalt. I pant. My lungs burn as much as my stomach does. My limbs wobble under me.
I tear around a corner, gravel flying. My son follows close behind. He swipes at me. A crowd shrieks. Dust fills my path, and my eyes join the burning pain.
There’s a half-demolished building ahead. A few people stand before it, but they do not matter. I just need to jump up-
I brush against someone. They scream.
A swift kick to my ribs sends me tumbling. My chest sings in pain, and I gag on the air.
My son crouches over me. He grabs my hands and flips me onto my back. When I try to pull away, his grip remains strong. Not too tight, but he does not relent. I do not receive the gentleness he gave the hatchlings.
He leans forwards, kneels on a couple of my hands so he can free one. He folks away the blankets, pulls down my rebreather so I am left gasping in the dry atmosphere.
But not for long; he draws his hand away like I burned him, and my rebreather snaps into place.
He is breathless. If there is affection left, the shock and anger drown it out. “Mother?”
