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grumpyhedgehogs · 3 years

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(you taught me) the courage of stars pt. 3

Summary: “I know what it is like, Ahsoka.” Obi-Wan tells her. “I know what it is to leave the Jedi with nothing more than the clothes on your back and the knowledge that you are doing the right thing.”

Or: Ahsoka Tano flees after a warrant for her arrest is issued, but not before receiving aid from an unexpected ally. (Ahsoka proceeds to go on a road trip filled with a bunch of strangers who all say the same thing: Obi-Wan Kenobi is much more than he has ever appeared to be.)

Warnings: Canon typical violence, abuse (childhood, emotional, physical, mental), mind control.

Pt. 1, Pt.2, AO3

Nautical Dusk

Coruscant’s skies open above Anakin’s head. The deluge pounds down, weighing on his shoulders even further, trickling into his collar, seeping into his bones. He is alone. He is alone. His thoughts swirl, his own storm all locked up inside his skull, a fragile pantomime of the downpour around him. The landing pad is soaked, reflecting the hazy neon lights from the buildings around the Temple as Anakin waits.

If you’d just tried harder--if you’d just protected her better--if you’d just run after her faster--

His head aches as Anakin shakes it savagely, ignoring the strain he puts on his tendons. Ahsoka is gone. She’d bolted before he could--he could--

What could you have done, my boy? Palpatine had asked gently when Anakin called him hours ago. The rain, which had flickered on and off throughout the day, provided a cacophonous background symphony to the call. Palpatine’s face was deeply troubled, even pitying. Anakin doesn’t know why he even tried talking to the Chancellor--only that Ahsoka was chased away from him by authorities and his mentor may have been able to help. It is not your fault that this has happened; it was your student’s decision to flee. You can’t expect to help her if she is gone.

Anakin’s fingertips are numb. His spine is brittle, threatening to snap under the weight of what has happened. There are no other Jedi in the hangar; they’d cleared out when he’d entered, sensing the destructive spiral of the Force around him. It wraps around the Knight darkly, seething--he can’t seem to stop it. His throat is so tight he chokes on air. It feels as if the world is crumbling around him without Ahsoka’s foundational presence to shore him up.

Usually, when someone runs it is because they are guilty. Not that I have anything but the utmost faith in anyone you have trained, of course. I’m sure not everything is as it seems in your Padawan’s trial but unfortunately this is in the Jedi’s jurisdiction, not my own. If only I had a little more pull within your Order, I may have been able to help…

Why does he always want more pull within the Temple? A voice in Anakin’s head had whispered then, but Anakin had shoved it away with a vicious snarl. That call was the only time he can remember hanging up on the Chancellor without so much as a goodbye. Palpatine could not help him, could not help Ahsoka. It was useless to try.

The sound of a speeder’s engine cutting off shakes him from his thoughts, and Anakin jerks to attention, hardly realizing how far his mind wandered. It has been hours since Obi-Wan slipped out, surrounded by Coruscanti Guards; his master’s hood is up, plastered to his head with rainwater. He moves slowly, gingerly, as if sore. He is alone, a singular miserable figure against a disgustingly empty horizon. Anakin’s chest constricts but he rushes forward anyway, crowding into his master’s space.

Over the rush of rain and sleet, his voice is weak. “Did you find her? Did you find Ahsoka?”

Obi-Wan swings himself the rest of the way down from the speeder. His hood hides his face in shadow and he shakes his head, motioning towards the shelter of the hangar. “Let me inside before we discuss anything, Anakin. This rain won’t do anything for our health.”

The hallway is too bright, light digging into Anakin’s eye sockets as they walk. His head renews its throbbing.

I may have been able to help...

Temple guards look up curiously as they pass, but from the corner of his eye Anakin catches Obi-Wan shaking his head deliberately. They are allowed back to Obi-Wan’s quarters unmolested.

The words explode from his mouth mere seconds after the door closes. “Where was she? Why didn’t you bring her back--”

“Ahsoka is gone.” Obi-Wan strips his robe off, and, in a move Anakin has never seen from him before, checks the lock on the door. When he turns to face his former padawan, Anakin really sees him for the first time tonight: Obi-Wan’s face is torn and worried, crow’s feet at his temples and wrinkles digging deeply into his forehead. His mouth is set in a thin, firm frown, and his hair hangs lank with dampness over his brow, which furrows tightly. “I tried to catch up--there were so many guards that I had to--”

Anakin feels his fists clench almost independent of his will. “You lost her! You were too busy following the rules and regulations that you lost Ahsoka!”

“No, I--”

“Why would you even bring so many guards with you in the first place? You’re treating Ahsoka like she’s some common criminal!” Anakin whirls, pacing the living room’s length. He bumps into a small coffee table as he whirls back. Quite unknowing of what he’s doing, temper piqued and red descending over his vision, Anakin lifts a boot and shoves at the table’s edge. It topples with a tremendous clatter; a forgotten mug shatters against the back wall, splattering cold tea across the floor as the table flips, crashing onto its side. The only other ornament on the table, a smooth rock which hums in the Force, scatters away in the wake of Anakin’s anger, and, like a candle, his temper blows out quite suddenly.

(He used to play there when he was young, taking apart a mouse droid only to rebuild it perfectly, Obi-Wan’s indulgent smile visible over the edge of a datapad.)

“ Anakin .”

Rather than apologize, Anakin drops his face into his hands, a sob hitching at his chest. “She ran. Why would she run from me? Doesn’t she trust me to help her?”

“She has lost faith in the Order,” Obi-Wan replies. His face is more lined than Anakin ever remembered it being. He won’t meet Anakin’s eyes: it makes the heat of rage flame in Anakin’s chest where it had been burning down to embers.

“And why shouldn’t she? The Jedi have done nothing for her! They have failed her!”

“ We have failed her.”

Anakin pulls up short. Nearly chewing the words, he spits, “What? What are you talking about?” He hadn’t--he’d wanted to help her, take her back to the Temple with him and make the Council listen --

“ We have failed her.” Obi-Wan repeats; his eyes flash to meet Anakin’s, steel in his voice. But his stance is open as he moves further into the room, standing broad-shouldered, unshakable, across from Anakin. He stands as if the sky hasn’t fallen down around their ears. “Have you forgotten that you are a part of the Jedi too, Anakin?”

Anger roils in his gut, makes him snarl. The Force rises around them, threatening, until Obi-Wan’s Force signature (cool and calm, steady as rock and soft a velvet) pushes it back, soothes the storm. It almost allows Anakin a moment of calm, but his nerves jangle in the back of his mind, refusing to let him rest.

“We are not infallible, Anakin. We make mistakes--sometimes big ones. Sometimes catastrophic in measure.”

“Ahsoka isn’t a mistake.”

“No. She is not. But what has happened to her is, and we will not be able to help her fix it if we are too busy fighting amongst ourselves. We’ll only be able to clear Ahsoka’s name if we work together.”

What could you have done, my boy?

“What can we do without her here to give her side of the story? Not even the Chancellor can help us, it’s in the Jedi’s jurisdiction and they’ve already pronounced her guilty!” Helplessness floods him, insidious. Obi-Wan’s voice sounds very far away.

“The Chancellor--?” Obi-Wan starts, but cuts himself off quickly. “Never mind that. Listen to me carefully. The trial and Ahsoka’s fleeing her sentencing is not the end of this, Anakin. The Council will listen to reason if we can provide evidence of Ahsoka’s innocence; they’ll even accept her back if she wishes to return. We can help her, but we have to work fast. She’s out there alone --”

Anakin scoffs, his hollow chest making the sound ring out around them loudly. He turns away, but before the door slides close behind him, snaps out a parting blow. “What would you know about being alone?”

He chooses to leave rather than give Obi-Wan the chance to answer.

Someone is waiting for Ahsoka before her ship lands.

The Force pulls at the young trogruta’s senses, leading her through the merry throngs, families reuniting and friends embracing. Her chest aches, skin practically crawling with need, with grief. Nonetheless, the Force calls to her, and Ahsoka answers.

Her senses pull her towards a person who waits beside the west exit, hood up and hands clasped before them patiently. The Force ripples about them, curling fondly, light with song. It’s almost enough to make her relax--until Ahsoka catches herself and tenses her shoulders again. She’d thought she was safe before, that people who raised her were actually there to protect her. She was wrong.

She pulls up short before the person and does not speak. A trick Skyguy taught her: desperate people will usually spill their souls to you if you are quiet enough.

The hooded person before her tipped their head towards her after a moment in which they both fall stalk still. The crowd unknowingly gives them a wide berth, responding to the inherent prompting of the Force.

“Hello there.” they greet Ahsoka gently. She still finches at the familiar phrase. “What brings you to our humble home?”

They are testing her. Ahsoka’s spine wants to snap straight, but she refuses to yield, to show the emotions that roil in her gut. She has to be calm. She has to be collected. Master Obi-Wan’s blank sabbac face flashes through her mind and Ahsoka’s gorge rises in her throat. She swallows it down, grits her teeth until she thinks her voice won’t shake too much. “A friend.” The words do not feel as vile as she’d have thought they would, and with a startling drop of her stomach, Ahsoka realizes she isn’t lying.

The person hums; they’ve gradually turned their back on the crowd--only Ahsoka looks directly at them now. “We as a people are not known for having many friends. Certainly not many of those who would send newcomers to seek us out.”

This time, Ahsoka keeps quiet. The Jedi are not the only Force-users in the galaxy. With how strangely this person is acting, unknown to her as they are, she’s not willing to give out any names. Her lineage is particularly good at resisting Force suggestion but Ahsoka is self-aware enough to know her shields are not at their best in this moment.

The stranger’s head tilts and Ahsoka feels eyes scanning her from head to toe. She nearly snarls. “Kenobi sent you then.”

Old protective suspicion makes Ahsoka’s hackles rise. She doesn’t mean to speak again but before she knows it, words fall from a sharp tongue. “How do you know him?”

“He is a very old friend.” They lift their hood from their face; the woman underneath is older than Ahsoka expected, with smile lines dug in deep into her skin. “My name is Wila,” she says. “Welcome to Gala.”

#sw #star wars #star wars the clone wars #the prequels #obi-wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #anakin skywalker #tcw #tcw fanfiction #sw fanfition #star wars fanfiction #jedi apprentice #star wars legends #star wars au #tcw au #anakin and obi wan #obi-wan and ahsoka

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mypassionfortrash · 5 years

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In His Favourite Sundress

Roger takes forever getting ready to head out to dinner with you, so you decide to take a nap wearing his favourite dress. When he finally gets out of the shower, he just can’t help himself.

Warnings: Roger Taylor x f!Reader; (consensual) somnophilia; groping and fingering; a little bit of begging towards the end. STRICTLY 18+ - minors aren’t welcome on this blog, and will be blocked. Notes: An oldie from the BoRhapRogerina days - redrafted and made a little better!

Roger hummed away as he emerged from the bathroom. A cloud of searing heat seeped into the bedroom, fighting the fresh evening air that billowed in from the balcony. He shivered, still clad in just a towel.

He took so long to get ready for dinner that you decided on a siesta while you waited. You were so exhausted that you didn’t mind if your dress got creased. Your eyes sagged shut as soon as your head hit the pillow.

You wore Roger’s favourite dress. Not daring by any stretch of the imagination, but he always found a way to make the most average garments absolutely filthy. The relaxed scarlet sundress sat a couple of inches above your knee and if Roger stood at the right angle, he could effortlessly slip a hand underneath it, completely undetected. That was why it was his favourite dress. It was also why he insisted you make things even easier for him by forgoing underwear when you wore it in his company.

He didn’t need to tell you anymore; you did this out of habit.

He smirked when he noticed you sleeping facedown. You had a habit of shifting around while you slept and somehow your attire had bunched up around your waist and hips. Realising this, Roger tossed aside the jeans in his hands and crawled into bed next to you. You didn’t stir.

You both had an agreement that this was okay, but Roger couldn’t help feeling apprehensive as he stretched out his hand to stroke the back of your thigh; gently caressing your skin from the underside of your knee, all the way to your bottom, fingers pressing into your flesh. He bit his lip, briefly contemplating the idea of delving lower. It felt perverse. You had no idea what he was doing. But you had an agreement.

He sighed, gently running his fingers between your legs, relishing how soft and warm you were.

Somewhere in your slumber, you felt it. Despite still being shrouded in a drowsy daze; you instantly grasped what was happening. You feared Roger might bottle it if he noticed you were awake so you lay still, granting him all the access he needed. Face down, eyes closed.

And then he stopped.

You listened intently, trying to figure out what was happening.

The sheets shuffled and the bed rose and fell. Then you heard the faint muffled sound of skin gliding over skin. It began slow, but it soon sped up. Roger’s breaths turned heavy, cursing under them. The vision of what he was doing beside you was so vivid in your mind that it set you ablaze with need.

But you couldn’t ‘wake up.’ Not when everything hinged on you remaining passive and unknowing.

Instead, you chewed your lip and silently wished Roger would bite the bullet and give you what you desired.

He groaned, tilting his head back. His hand just wasn’t enough. “Fuck it.”

He was finally going to do it. A surge of giddy excitement ripped through you, straight to your core.

Roger clamoured over you, getting into position as he pawed away between your legs again. You heard him chuckle to himself realising just how soaked you were. It didn’t cross his mind that you knew this was happening.

At last, the tip of his cock replaced his fingers; it trailed between your lips, making it slick with your arousal. The teasing was fast becoming too much for you to bear.

Roger took his time, edging his cock further inside you. It cautiously stretched you, so as not to arouse your suspicions. Eventually, he bottomed out with a hoarse grunt. He felt utterly delicious squeezed inside you like this; the position of your thighs made you even tighter around him. You sensed he wasn’t going to last long as his breathing hitched, pulling gently out of you. Back and forth in slow, deliberate strokes.

That heat in your belly spread fiercely out of control as he tortured you. You wondered how long he could keep this up before he finally lost control and pounded you into the mattress. You allowed your thoughts to trail off to whole you got lost in how mind-blowing he felt.

True to your prediction, his efforts gained momentum. You could tell he was in no state to worry about whether you were awake or asleep anymore. His hands gripped your hips to steady himself, pumping away with abandon, his skin slapping against yours.

You couldn’t keep it to yourself anymore. Stretching out your arms in front of you like a lazy feline, you gave a satisfied moan as you clawed at the sheets and arched your back against him, angling yourself so that his cock hit your sweet spot with every thrust.

“Nice of you to join me, darling,” Roger sighed.

You cursed, pressing your face into the mattress.

“I’m so close. Do you want me to stop just now?”

“No. Keep going. Come inside me.”

He needed no more encouragement from you.

When he finished, he rolled off of you. He sprawled on his back, gazing at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell softly.

You stayed on your front and turned your head to glare at Roger.

He caught you out of the corner of his eye. “What? I thought you didn’t mind?”

“But what about me?” You sulked.

Roger turned on to his side wearing a devilish smirk. He fluttered his fingers over the small of your back, making you squirm. “What was it that you wanted again, my love.”

“I want to finish,” you prodded.

Breaking into your personal space, Roger’s hand delved between your thighs. You were still wet, aided by his seed dripping from you. He slipped two of his fingers inside you with ease. “Is that what you want?”

You bit your lip, nodding sheepishly as Roger’s hand got to work in place of his cock.

His lips were close to your ear. His breathing stirred again, relishing this as much as you. He especially loved the lewd sounds you made as he fucked you with his fingers, adding another; you mewled frantically into the pillow, grinding your hips on to his hand.

“Turn over,” Roger ordered, “I want to look at you in that pretty dress, darling.”

Shifting on to your back, Roger took his place between your thighs, dipping down to concentrate his attention on devouring you with ravenous, sloppy kisses. The fingers on his free hand were still trained solely on your centre, working away inside you. His eyes were half-lidded, gazing up to admire you rolling your hips to match his efforts.

Even he could tell your movements grew stilted as he brought you closer to the edge. “Are you going to come for me, my love?” He teased, drowsily leaning his head against your thigh with a smirk.

“Yes,” you panted. You urgently hunted for something to cling on to. And then the flame inside you was doused. Put out cold.

“No you’re not,” Roger stated, eyeing you for a flicker of defiance. No longer was he focused on giving you pleasure. Instead, he wanted to draw it out for as long as possible. His fingers moved slowly but firmly. Barely enough to pull a frustrated cry from your lips. “You’re going to come when I say you can.

You whined in response. If Roger wasn’t going to give you what you wanted, you would have to do it yourself. Or at least that was what you thought, reaching down to finish yourself off.

Roger swatted your hand away. “Now, now, darling. You know how much I like hearing, you beg.”

Falling into line, you pleaded, choking out a feeble, breathless, ‘please.’ It was everything you could try to make all of Roger’s teasing count; rocking your hips, clenching yourself around his fingers.

He chuckled and made sure you were watching his next move. “Please, what?” he purred, poking out his tongue to trace a single, fleeting swirl over where you wanted him most. He wanted you to think he was giving in. You almost believed it.

“Please stop teasing me, Roger. I need that mouth of yours.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, shaking his head. His voice sent another chill through you.

Finally. Finally, Roger’s tongue delved between your folds, tenderly pulling them between his lips.

You had expected to come undone straight away, but Roger was having none of that. He took care and time. Savouring you. Enjoying every single lap of your soft, dripping cunt. Steadily ratcheting up the pressure building inside you until you were incoherent. Powerless to beg or plead. All you could do when Roger finally focused all his efforts on your clit was tug at his hair and mewl impatiently for more.

He paused the second your body was on the cusp of succumbing, Replacing his mouth with his thumb, he scolded: “Remember you need to ask first.”

You were still moving with his fingers inside you. Mind fogged, eyes closed. Still cursing his name.

“I’m going to stop if you don’t use your words, my love.” He removed his hand, punctuating his point.

Your hands immediately reached down to resume Roger’s work. “Please,” you sighed, “Roger, please make me come, I’m begging!”

Roger palmed at his cock as he gazed down at you, writhing away at your own touch. “Come here, my love,” he said, sitting beside you on the bed, his hand working over his thick, veined shaft. “I want to watch you come on my cock.”

You huffed. You were so spent that even moving to straddle Roger made you feel like your bones were on fire. It didn’t help that your dress clung uncomfortably to your skin thanks to Roger, working you into a sweat.

Roger bit his lip, hiking your dress up around your hips as you sank down on to him, letting him fill you again. A deep groan caught in Roger’s throat. There was no easing into this. Instead, Roger set a blistering pace, thrusting up into you as your fingers danced over your clit. “Good girl,” he sighed. “Let me see you come for me. God, you look so beautiful in that dress. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

His coaxing was all you needed. It hurled you right over the edge. Head thrown back, eyes closed. Intense and incapacitating, it totally consumed you. You couldn’t even sit up straight when it subsided.

Instead, you chose to cling to Roger, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent to soothe yourself. He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and, still inside you, rocked away gently.

“We’re not going anywhere now, are we?” You sighed.

Roger’s laugh rattled through both of your bodies. Then, stroking the back of your neck, he touched his nose to yours. He feigned disappointment. “I’d been looking forward to seeing you in that dress again.”

#roger taylor x reader #roger taylor #queen #roger taylor smut #queen fic

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404botnotfound · 5 years

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The Line [6]

…and where to draw it

SERIES: Destiny WORD COUNT: 7,026 SHIP: Quinn/Drifter CHARACTERS: quinn leonis (AU), glyph, kel, luke, roland, nyx-14, ikora rey

vi. noumenon

n. (in philosophy) a thing as it is, independent of any conceptualization or perception by the human mind; a thing-in-itself, postulated by practical reasoning but existing in a condition which is, in principle, unknowable and unexperienceable.

................................................

Something is wrong.

Even before her eyes open, she knows something is wrong. It’s an overpowering gut feeling, a sickening twist in her stomach that comes into her awareness long before the blaring klaxons that seem both deafening and murky as though she’s hearing them underwater.

Fire crackles nearby. Her eyes blink open, and some system within the cell blocks in her sight spurts gouts of flame.

She knows this place.

The cell blocks are a dead giveaway, the repurposed Fallen architecture utilized by the Reefborn Awoken her next clue. The Prison of Elders stretches high into the distance above her, so high it fades into a foggy haze. Funny, she doesn’t remember the Prison being this big.

Dazed, Quinn pushes herself off the rubble she’d been laying in, looking around and wondering how she’d gotten here.

The Prison is in ruin, raging fires in pockets all around her as she takes in her surroundings. Pathways in the distance and high above are collapsing or twisted in the explosions and heat—under her feet the catwalk she’s on shudders, and she dives to the next only seconds before it collapses into the open chasm below.

There isn’t an enemy in sight. The intact blocks are empty, and she can see no explosions, hears no gunfire or angry roars from the Prison’s usual Cabal, Hive, and Fallen captives. Just the fire and echoing alarms and an odd shunk, shunk, shunk through the unnatural chaotic stillness of the air.

Her throat constricts with unease. “Petra?” She calls, uncertainly, wondering why Glyph isn’t with her and why she isn’t armed. “Nik? Kel? Cayde?”

No one answers her.

They’re supposed to be stopping a massive prison break. They need to be in contact, need to be coordinating—why aren’t they answering?

With urgency, she heads for the nearest bulkhead. The door is caught on a sheet of metal driven violently through it, mechanisms still attempting to close and resulting in the odd noise she had noticed before.

She slips through the opening with a warp, moving blind without Glyph to guide her through the damaged cell blocks and levels—down, down, down. Calls go out for her allies at intervals, her voice growing more frantic with the persistent silence that answers her.

“This is a Cayde riff in 6,” she hears Cayde say from somewhere ahead of her, and her heart jumps into her throat for a reason she can’t identify, “watch for the changes and, uh...try and keep up.”

The teasing statement that’s just so Cayde should make her laugh. An echo of her own laughter rings off the walls that blur past her, but her mouth doesn’t move, and all she feels is an inexplicable dread. Her skin prickles with déjà vu.

All but sprinting through the halls now, she recklessly leaps down through gaps in the block levels to reach the end faster—the end? Why does she think it’s the end? Why does it feel like one?

Her footsteps make no sound as she runs. The blaring klaxons have faded. Fire roars silently around her, explosions devoid of riotous noise.

In the massive chasm that spans the center of the Prison, the command center from the top of the structure, spouting fire and leaving shattered debris falling after it, plummets so quickly and so silently she only knows it happens because it’s happened before.

Her panic spikes, realization crashing through her like a tidal wave.

She’s not moving fast enough, and her muscles are already straining with how hard she’s pushing herself.

The block ahead of her is barricaded with flame and rubble, so she changes course and dives through a break in one of the cells into the innards of the Prison. Ahead of her is an open gap between rows and rows of cryopods and individual cells tower above and below, the grated bridge she’s on collapsing into the dark below.

Without hesitation, she throws herself off of it and she falls,

falls,

falls.

The drop should break her legs, shatter every bone in her body and leave her crippled or dead, but instead she falls to her knees with shaking limbs, swearing at herself for the time she spends stunned. She needs to keep going.

“Cayde?” She calls out, frantic now as she pushes herself to her feet and stumbles forward.

Turning down a long hallway, she sprints directly for the bulkhead that strikes her with dreadful familiarity. Faster, faster—but the hall stretches and stretches and for every step she takes it seems she only moves an inch ahead.

Muffled sounds of a raging fight reach her from beyond the door, the familiar cadence of an unmistakable gun and feral shrieks and howls making her heart pound with terror.

She’s so close. She can make it this time.

A silent sob bubbles in her throat at the sound of a guardian’s explosive burst of charged light.

“Help me out here, little buddy,” Cayde’s voice, unsteady and weak, comes after a delay.

The door opens as she reaches it, time seeming to slow as she takes in the sight before her. Fiery rubble of the central command station from the top of the prison, the destroyed cell blocks, the eight hulking figures of the Scorned Barons on the landing above, and all the scrap-armored bodies of what had once been Fallen.

Cayde, standing in the center of it all. His back is to her and his shoulders are slumped with exhaustion. He holds his left hand out as his side; Sundance appears in a flicker within his upturned palm, her white and yellow shell shimmering like a beacon in the dim light.

Quinn bolts forward, opening her mouth to cry out in warning, but no sound leaves her.

A single, deafening shot echoes.

Sundance shatters.

Light explodes outwards from her destroyed shell. Quinn skids to a halt, holding her arms up to block the blinding light that washes over her and leaves her sick with despair.

When the wash of light fades and she lowers her arms, she’s met with another dim interior, fluorescent lights lining the edges of sharp angles, grated metal catwalks, and solid bulkheads. It’s some kind of bay, stretching into the distance, so far she can’t see the end.

She’s in a ship. It feels familiar, but she can’t place why.

Farther down from the raised catwalk she stands on is technology she’s also familiar with—a Vex gate, altered from what she’s seen on Io, Nessus, Mercury, and Venus. It’s empty, but she feels a power radiating from it that doesn’t belong.

What’s it doing here, on a ship?

“You gonna go or not, darlin’?” The Drifter’s voice cuts through the low thrum of ship engines muffled by the hull of the ship, and though he hadn’t been there a moment ago she’s somehow not surprised when he steps up next to her.

Go? She thinks, Go where?

But she knows what he means. She’s not sure how, but she does.

Anger pulses through her as Sundance’s death replays in her mind, as the distant feeling of Cayde dying in her arms brushes like a phantom over her skin. If she jumps through that gate, will it take her to Uldren? Why does he have it?

“Don’t let his death weigh on you.” He says, voice echoing more than it rightfully should within the acoustics of the bay. “Somewhere out there, someone’s got a bullet with your name on it.”

She frowns and looks to her right, but the Drifter is gone as though he’d never been there at all.

Orange light flickers from a hall near the rear of the bay behind her, warm and almost inviting. It’s tempting to go that way instead, but—

—her eyes return to the gate, and with clenched fists she takes a step forward. Then another, and one more, until she breaks into a full run down the catwalk and leaps through.

Space dissolves around her and the ship vanishes, her vision going blank and the feeling of nothingness gripping at her limbs and pulling, pulling, trying to stop her from moving forward. Trying to trap her in the empty in-between of existence and nonexistence.

She fights it, and with an eruption of color and sensation reality coalesces around her.

The new space she finds herself in is a direct contrast to the dark interior of the ship, open and blindingly bright.

She’s standing in a flat open desert of pure white, hard and unnaturally geometric stone, dusty ground bleached of all color and spanning far and wide. The sky is clear, dark blue and sparkling brilliantly with stars. On the horizon is a massive planet, almost entirely eclipsing a star that peeks over its edge.

It’s utterly, unsettlingly silent around her. Even when she steps forward, expecting the sound of sand sifting or stone crunching under her boot, she hears nothing.

Ahead of her is a massive spire, an inverted pyramid made of the same snow-white stone that makes up the thin path before her. A thin sheen of gold cuts a sharp line through its rigid geometry, odd circular symbols with lines cut through them engraved into the surface.

It floats above the ground, and Quinn finds herself drawn towards it.

how did it come to be here?

WHAT A THIN LINE IT TREADS.

Her steps falter, the words an amalgamate of voices within her head that sends a violent shiver up her spine. Whatever spoke feels vast and unfathomable, beyond her understanding. Incomprehensible, speaking in tongues that she shouldn’t but somehow does understand.

The whisper of claws, so razor-sharp she imagines they can cut through the very fabric of reality, brushes across her back, and she goes rigid.

Run.

Inhaling sharply, she moves forward and puts on as much speed as she can, trying not to think about how whatever it is following her easily keeps pace. Faster, please, go faster, she needs to go faster.

c a n i t s e e?

++NO, IT IS STILL BLIND++

A massive pit appears before her, right below the point of the inverted spire. What is she running from? What is she running towards? Her chest heaves with exertion, boots still utterly silent in the empty landscape.

The only sound she hears, save for the terrifyingly eldritch voices in her mind, is the howling vortex coming from within the pit ahead.

W H A T W I L L I T C H O O S E?

She leaps from the edge of the pit and falls into the hungry whirlpool of light or darkness below, the current dragging her violently under, filling her lungs and drowning her with viscous eternity.

Her eyes open and she sucks in a desperate gasp of air, her heart racing and skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Above her is no roaring flame, no broken Prison, no ship bay, and no impossibly silent alien world—just the bland, familiar sight of her bedroom ceiling. A fan rotates lazily, the soft whirr of it only noticeable thanks to the quiet of the room.

She stares at the spinning blades and counts her heartbeats until they’ve slowed to a normal pace, letting her eyes close; her hand lifts from under the warmth of her blanket and fingers thread into her hair.

Is she going to open her eyes to the sight of a beaten and battered Cayde again? Will he be standing in her room, blaming her for not reaching him in time? For not helping him? For not doing what she should be doing—for not hunting Uldren down?

Her stomach churns.

This isn’t the first time she’s dreamt of the Prison of Elders and not the first time she’s relived Cayde’s death, but it hurts just as keenly as the first. She swallows and fights to push away the despair curling like black smoke in her lungs.

Don’t cry. You’ve cried enough.

She still hasn’t decided whether or not watching Sundance’s final operational recording had been a good idea. Was it better to have never seen how bravely and how hard Cayde had fought in his last moments, or having seen it and knowing that in the end it had all been for nothing?

The nightmare always ended there, right as Sundance died. This is the first time she’s ever experienced more beyond that bright flash of a dying ghost’s light, and she’s not sure she likes it any more than the rest.

It’s just stress. She’s driven herself to the point of exhaustion between weeks of restless sleep and unhealthy loss of appetite and weight—combine that with Gambit and willingly subjecting herself to the Taken while competing in it, all of it is nothing more than stress induced delirium.

Already the Drifter’s words and the faceless voices she had heard are fading, the images growing indistinct and murky. Just nightmares, nothing more. Kel had told her to ignore them, and so she does.

She doesn’t even remember getting back to the Tower after leaving the Drifter’s ship yesterday, let alone making it back to the team’s apartment or even into bed. Is she still—yep, still wearing her pants and the sleeveless undersuit from her armor. At least she’d had the sense to ditch the armored coat and boots before climbing into bed.

The hope that driving herself to the point of exhaustion with Gambit would keep her nightmares at bay is apparently falling short. She’s already pushing herself beyond her limits, and if even four Gambit matches in the three weeks since the first isn’t doing it, how much harder is she going to have to force herself before it does?

Arriving home with no memory of the trip and more than a handful of mortal close calls in just five matches; Glyph would have a fit if she tries to push for more frequent matches. It hasn’t stopped trying to talk her out of participating, but its efforts had gradually lessened over the last few weeks.

It doesn’t like the game or the Drifter, and she knows that every time she steps onto the Derelict it’s terrified for both hers and its own life, but every time she tells herself that she should stop—if for no other reason than for its well-being—she can’t bring herself to do it.

It’s helping, even if not in the way she had hoped.

While she’s never been a slouch in the field, she’s starting to see why Shaxx utilizes his Crucible as a training ground in addition to the morale-boosting spectator sport. After just a few Gambit matches, she can feel her skills honing. She’s getting quicker at thinking on her feet, her reflexes improving through necessity, her aim sharper and more instinctual.

She still hasn’t figured out how to recreate the intoxicating rush of power from her invasion in the first match, or even what it was, but aside from all of that, the competition was helping her feel better.

Her smiles are still paper thin and nowhere near as bright as she could manage before, but they’re coming more frequently. The Taken, too, are bothering her less and less with every match. They no longer send her into fits of panic, and she’s able to brush off the skin-crawling discomfort of their presence easier.

The latter two effects are likely the only reason Glyph’s attempts at talking her out of the game had lost their vehemence and it had stopped threatening to tell Nik or Kel.

“Was it the same?”

Her eyes open and she turns her head to the side, seeing Glyph floating above the surface of her nightstand and blinking at her worriedly. Letting out a breath, she sits up and swings her legs off the side of the bed. “Yeah. I never make it in time.”

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” It says, drifting closer. “There wasn’t anything any of us could have done.”

“I guess.” She winces at the flat response. She wishes she could at least fake not being so cynical for her ghost’s sake, but she disagrees—she could have been faster, could have gotten there quickly enough to shield them and maybe Cayde would still be here.

It stays quiet, waiting, but when she doesn’t offer more it fills the silence. “There was more to it this time, wasn’t there?”

She hesitates before answering; telling it outright that the Drifter had shown up likely isn’t going to do much more than provoke its ire at him. “After Sundance died I was on a ship. Then I jumped through a Vex gate and was on...I think a different planet. Some kind of big, white desert with a huge floating pyramid and a pit that I jumped into. And voices.”

“Voices?” It blinks, shell spinning in surprise. “You mean aside from—?”

She nods.

“What did they say?” It asks.

Would’ve been a great question to ask her a few minutes ago when the nightmare was still fresh in her mind; her brow furrows, and she strains to think of what she had heard as she ran through that strange, alien planet. “Something about being blind, I think. Probably just my subconscious telling me to knock it off, right?”

It lets out a disapproving beep at the wry smile she gives it, flitting over to the other side of the room when she stands to change out of her armor and into something casual. “You already know I don’t like what you’ve been up to lately.”

“Do you have any better ideas for how I should kill time while Prince Fuckwit is out causing problems we could easily put an end to?” She demands.

It says nothing for long enough that she shakes her head and resumes dressing. “The Festival starts today.” It says, quietly.

Her breath catches. She’s seen the banners and decorations being strung up over the past few days, multi-colored string lights and altars of candles set up around the Tower. She’s been trying to avoid thinking about it. “I’m really not in the mood for cider and jokes.”

“You can at least participate in the events and games.” Glyph follows her as she leaves the room, its voice insistent.

A haunted forest is usually set up within a large garden down in the City, and many guardians and civilians alike participate by running around with gaudy or funny masks. There are parties, contests, and hunters gather to tell scary stories to small crowds. Candy and laughs are traded, and sometimes a game of ‘keep away’ happens when a hunter appears with one of the soccer balls that keep inexplicably popping into existence in the Tower.

Or engrams—Cryptarch Rahool had been sent into a fit a few years back when he’d found a group of hunters and titans playing hacky-sack with an engram he had yet to decrypt.

None of it sounds palatable to her, and at the very least she knows she’s in good company. Kel hadn’t ever shown interest in participating in the Festival for as long as she’s known him.

“I don’t want to.”

Glyph huffs. “Cayde wouldn’t want you to mo—”

Someone leaps out in front of them, yelling and waving their arms wildly, with a ghastly mask of a Fallen vandal covering their face. Both Quinn and Glyph freeze in surprise, blinking silently at the figure.

“Hi, Quinn.” Luke says from behind the mask, voice cheery as he wiggles his fingers. His blue-shelled ghost, Gibson, bounces and laughs at their reaction behind Luke’s shoulder.

Her expression falls flat. “Hi, Luke.” She steps around him and proceeds into the living area.

Kel sits on the couch by the coffee table, one of his sniper rifles partially disassembled and parts set in an orderly fashion on the table’s surface; he’s still the only one on the team that manually cleans and cares for his guns, and they had yet to figure out why.

Near the front door stand Nyx and Roland, the former fiddling with what looks like a mask featuring Rahool’s face and the latter standing near her looking surly.

“Festival starts today!” Luke falls into step with her as she moves into the kitchen, voice muffled until he lifts the mask onto the top of his head. “You’re coming with, right? We’re gonna try to spook Ikora. Well—I am. And then we’re gonna go check out the forest.”

“I’d like to avoid a bigass shotgun to the face, but thanks for the offer.” Quinn replies, ignoring him as she looks for something to eat. An apple’s good enough, right? She doesn’t feel like putting forth the effort to make anything.

She probably should—she’s tiny enough already without the unhealthy weight loss. It’s gotten better over the last few weeks, but she’s still too thin for her own tastes.

Her shoulders lift in a shrug at the thought and she bites into the apple, still studiously ignoring Luke as she leaves the kitchen. She’ll find something to eat out in the commercial area later.

He follows her, looking dejected by the response, and she tries not to feel bad. “C’monnnn. Even Roland is coming!”

“Not by choice.” The aforementioned hunter grouses, leaning away from Nyx when the exo swats at him.

Nyx huffs with a flash of her jaw light and returns to putting the final touches on her mask with Kessler’s help. “Don’t be such a grouch. You’re worse than Kessler.” Her ghost, in retaliation, smacks into the side of her head with a metallic tink, and she laughs.

Quinn drops down into an armchair near Kel. “I don’t really feel up to it, Luke.”

Across the room, Roland’s dark eyes narrow on her at her response, and she silently begs him to not mention that she’s been borrowing his ship to leave the City. A sigh of relief is barely bit down by her when he drops the suspicious look.

“Okay,” Luke sighs dramatically, slouching as he steps over to where Nyx and Roland wait. “But if you change your mind, you have to let us know!”

“Sure.” She has no plans to change her mind.

Satisfied with the bland answer, Luke leaves. Nyx slips her mask on, grabs hold of Roland’s cloak—he’s just like Kel, never seeming to enjoy being out of his armor—and then drags him out the door with her, leaving just her and Kel alone in the now quiet apartment.

Echo, with her black and pink-spotted shell, appears next to Kel after that, floating down towards the weapon parts Kel is meticulously putting back together; she catches sight of Glyph floating next to Quinn’s head.

Both ghosts freeze—and then with a bright chirp, Echo darts towards Glyph. The two of them take off, flitting rapidly around the apartment in a ghost version of a game of tag.

Kel pauses with his hand hovering over a piece of his rifle, joining Quinn in watching the two ghosts play with an air of amusement. “They’re more in the holiday spirit than you are,” he says after a length.

She looks over at him, watching him work. He’s quiet, patient, and much warmer and more open than he had been once upon a time, but his entire demeanor is still reserved and careful. She frowns. “I don’t really have a lot to be spirited about.”

“You’re alive,” he points out, glancing up at her with an inscrutable look. “You’ve got friends. Your team. A companion that cares about you even though it’s under no obligation to be yours. That’s nothing to be spirited about?”

“Cayde’s dead.”

He hums low in bitter agreement, slapping the rifle’s magazine into place. “He’s dead, and nothing’s going to change that. Not dwelling on it, not hunting down the man that killed him, and not hiding from people that care about you or hoping that something else will erase the fact it happened.”

She goes still at the look on his face. Does he know? It shouldn’t bother her if he does—it’s not like he handled Gil’s death any better, from what she’s heard.

“I’m just...I need the space, Kel. You should know what that’s like better than anyone,” she finally says, using the excuse of throwing her finished apple in a nearby waste bin to break his stare.

Hadn’t he disappeared for a month after Gil was killed in action? Longer than that, still, since he’d left immediately after helping rescue her from the Dreadnaught. It had been two years since anyone had seen or heard from him when he finally returned during the Red Legion invasion.

His lips twitch as though he knows what she’s thinking, and he reaches for the last remaining piece of his rifle. “Distance can be more self destructive than reaching out for help. There’s a difference between isolation and grieving. Took me almost two thousand years to learn it.”

Glyph and Echo stop their game and drift back into the room. Echo flits down to Kel when he props it up on the floor for her to scan and return to his inventory. She lets out a soft trill and then flashes out of sight.

“Take my advice as your friend,” Kel stands, looking down at her with an expression that softens the usually hard edges of his face, “and don’t wait that long to figure it out yourself.”

She blinks at him as he moves for the door, speechless not only because she has no idea what he means but also because of the open display of emotion. Even when with her, that doesn’t happen. “Does the Vanguard need your help again?”

He pauses at the question. “No. I’m going to go enjoy the Festival.” His features are obscured by the helmet Echo transmats over his head, and he leaves without saying anything else.

She’s not sure how long she sits there in stunned silence, trying to process everything that had just happened. Between his advice, the studying look he’d given her, and then admitting he’s going out to enjoy the festivities—

In all the years she’s known him, Kel’s gone out of his way to avoid nearly all social events within the City, to the point where he grabs as many solo operations as possible to get away from the City during them.

He still keeps his distance from people, disappearing at infrequent intervals to be alone—where the hell does he get off, telling her to stop avoiding people?

Why is everyone so insistent that she just stop being so upset that Cayde is gone? That she needs to stop dwelling on it and go laugh and enjoy things as they are, as though nothing is wrong? How can she when the bastard that killed him is still on the loose?

“Quinn.” Glyph’s voice draws her out of her suddenly furious thoughts just in time for her to realize that her face is wet.

She lifts a hand and swipes away the tears that had fallen, upset with Kel and upset with this stupid fucking Festival and pissed at herself for crying because she’s angry—who the fuck cries because they’re angry?

“I was doing it again,” she snaps, her voice cracking. “I know.”

Damnit, and she told herself that she would stop lashing out at her friends. Inhaling deeply to try and steady herself—to no avail—she opens her mouth to offer it yet another apology.

Glyph is only staring at her silently, shell twitching slowly without any indication of agitation or hurt, and the apology dies in her throat. She sniffs and blinks away the tears threatening to build up in her eyes as she stares back, not sure what to say and unable to guess what it’s thinking.

It looks away from her for a moment as though in deep thought. “Open your hand?”

The request catches her off guard. Frowning, she lifts her hand and holds it out in front of Glyph. A vision of Sundance briefly overlays Glyph’s white and blue shell, and she closes her eyes to force it away—they open again when a light, solid weight drops into her open palm.

It’s the Drifter’s jade coin.

“I can’t force you to stop playing Gambit, and I don’t know how to make things better or help you move on.” Glyph says quietly, open warmth and support through their odd bond accompanying the earnest look it’s giving her. “I don’t think Gambit or the Drifter have the answers you’re trying to find, but it seems like it’s at least helping to clear your head. I’ve got your back. No matter what.”

Her anger fades entirely, and she presses her lips into a thin line to fight back an equally powerful but opposite swell of emotion. She’s so tired of these ups and downs, but she’ll gladly take this softer melancholy over the restless fury. “I don’t deserve a friend like you. You know that, right?”

Glyph’s attitude lifts and it bobs once, shell spinning with cheer. “Yes, well, you’re stuck with me. So, deal with it.”

“I’d give you a hug right now if I could.” She laughs weakly.

“It’s the thought that counts,” it says, upbeat demeanor dimming slightly. “Just...try to let your team back in, okay? They’re all worried about you, like I am.”

The small smile that had made its way onto her face fades. Her eyes drop to the coin and she twists it between her fingers, trying and failing not to question the statement.

If they’re so worried about her, they certainly aren’t acting like it. Luke is as optimistic and cheerful as ever, Nyx hasn’t bothered to ask her how she’s doing, Nik is wary of her, she doesn’t expect Roland to change enough to ever feel comfortable checking on her state of being, and Kel had just lectured her.

They’re all carrying on as though nothing had changed after the Prison of Elders. Any initial upset they’d shown when Zavala had first put his foot down is gone. It’s like none of them care that Cayde’s killer is running around, well-deserved retribution and justice completely ignored.

Is she the only one that won’t shrug and put it behind her?

If they’re so worried about her but won’t do a damn thing to bring justice to Cayde’s murderers, then they’d damn well find a way to convince Zavala to allow her to join Petra in the hunt for Uldren and the Barons. She’ll do it alone.

The Vanguard hiding his death from the City is insult enough before letting his killers run free without consequence. Ikora had been right—refusing to do anything is nothing but cowardice.

She stops worrying the coin in her hand and pinches the edges between her thumb and index finger, lifting it up to the light and staring at it with her thoughts twisting. The Drifter had made an appearance in a dream that, until now, hasn’t changed since she’d first begun to have it.

Is something significant about that, or is she just a lost idiot desperately searching for more meaning to keep herself occupied? She’s not sure.

Curling her fingers around the coin, she stands. She’d like nothing more than to avoid going out into the Tower for the next week straight until the Festival ends, but just as it had when she’d gone hunting for the source of Gambit, her mind had fixated and she needs to get it out of her system.

Glyph blinks at her as she moves past it, following her out as she leaves the apartment behind and makes her way down the stairs to the exit. “Should I let Luke know you changed your mind?”

“No.” Her steps falter when she steps out of the block and a small breeze alerts her to how quickly winter is approaching—she had apparently slept all day, as well, the sun having already fallen and doing nothing for the rising chill.

The fact that the others had left to join the festivities should have been her first clue how many hours she had wasted asleep considering most Festival of the Lost events didn’t occur until later in the evening.

She adjusts her jacket and continues onward. “I don’t want to participate.”

“Then why—?” It blinks, then, when it realizes where her sudden energy and drive had come from, it flits ahead and keeps pace with her, floating backwards so it can stare. “You’re going to talk to him?”

“You said you weren’t going to stop me from doing it,” she points out.

Its facets retract around its eye in a sour look. “I said I couldn’t, not that I wasn’t going to try.”

“Why are you so sure I should be avoiding him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” it replies dryly, slowing and flashing out of sight, ‘maybe because he runs an illicit activity without Consensus approval that can and probably has gotten guardians killed. You didn’t trust him when you first met him, why do you now?’

When had she ever said she trusts him?

The grouse remains a silent thought that she’s sure Glyph can still read within her, but she also has no answer for it.

At some point over the course of a few weeks and a handful of Gambit matches and short interactions, she had decided that—weird and smarmy attitude aside—the Drifter has no malicious intent. A bit detached from things he shouldn’t be, but she doesn’t get the sense that he’s got some kind of evil archvillain plot schemed up like Glyph seems to think he does.

It doesn’t press the issue when she remains silent, but it does leave a few pointed blips of clear disapproval in her head as she makes her way through the Tower towards Drifter’s hidden corner of the bazaar.

No one pays her any mind as she weaves through the crowd gathered for the Festival and ducks into the dark alley.

Drifter’s not in his usual spot when she arrives, and the doors that usually stand ajar behind him are closed. “Glyph, is he in there?”

‘We’re in a light-cloaking field.’ It replies flatly.

Her nose wrinkles. “You could tell he was a guardian when we first met him.”

A huff is its response. ‘No, he’s not in there.’

She knows he can’t be here all the time—unlike Shaxx, he doesn’t have 55-33 frames to monitor his matches. Still, he’s never been absent any other times she’s stopped by to check in for match. Gee, she thinks to herself, tone deadpan even within her own head, it’s almost like he’s hiding from people.

Alright, so Glyph may have a point.

She leaves the alley, stopping when back out in the bazaar and looking around at the people, guardians and civilians alike, happily chatting with each other and horsing around under the influence of the event’s good cheer while masked figures run amok, occasionally stopping to trade candy or jokes with others.

She’s not sure what to do. Go look for the Drifter? He may be back on the Derelict and hosting another match of Gambit somewhere in the system for all she knows. She can return to the apartment and just go back to sleep, but she’d already slept for what had likely been more than ten hours.

Candles and multi-colored lights bathe the Tower and festival decorations in cheerful atmosphere. Eva Levante had once told her that the Festival of the Lost and the Dawning are meant to commemorate lost loved ones and lift spirits, a reminder to all that in the darkest of times, a smile and some cheer can make all the difference.

Everyone else seems infected with smiles and cheer. Quinn is not.

Glyph hadn’t finished its statement earlier, but she knows what it had been about to say—and she knows that it’s right. Cayde wouldn’t like seeing her mope like this, but she honestly can’t seem to find her good cheer.

If she was a moon, Cayde had been her sunlight.

“I was never fond of this particular holiday.”

She twists around, startled, and finds Ikora Rey standing next to her. The tails of her white and purple robes shift in the autumn breeze and her dark skin shimmers in the light of the festival decorations. She stands tall, her hands clasped behind her back and her dark eyes roving over the gathered, happy crowd with a muted kind of contentment.

“Perhaps it’s just me,” she continues, the words she speaks smooth and carefully selected as with nearly everything else about her, “but trying to pay respect to those lost with pranks and candy seems… irreverent. And we have lost so many this past year and a half.”

Quinn says nothing, standing next to the Warlock Vanguard and crossing her arms to ward off the chill.

A small smile appears on Ikora’s face. “But everyone honors death differently. This was Cayde’s favorite holiday. ‘Best way to honor someone is to keep smiling,’ he’d say.” She pauses, the smile turning impish. “The year before last, I believe he gave Eris a box of licorice, but it had celery inside instead. She didn’t think it was nearly as funny as he did, but then again he had been wearing a mask of her at the time.”

Her expression twists in bittersweet humor; she remembers him telling her about it. He’d been laughing uproariously as he recounted it to her and a few other hunters down at the Tipsy Sparrow. It hadn’t been that funny, but his joy over it had been infectious and they’d all been laughing, too.

Cayde had that effect on people.

And she’ll never hear his laughter again.

Swallowing thickly, she tips her head back to stare up at the lights strung around the higher levels of the Tower, pretending the sting in her eyes is from how bright they are. “Did you need something, Ikora?”

Ikora steps forward and turns so that she’s in Quinn’s line of sight, projecting authority that tells her it’s time to pay attention. “I’ve been made aware that you’ve been breaking lockdown to leave Earth.”

Quinn goes deathly still.

“Zavala has yet to find out.” There’s no threat in her stance or tone. Just cool, detached fact. “I won’t tell you not to disobey the Vanguard Commander’s direct order, but I want you to be aware that the Vanguard cannot offer you aid should your ventures off-world go beyond… what it is you’ve been up to.”

She looks away, but Quinn gets the feeling that she isn’t quite finished yet, so she stays quiet.

“I meant what I said when you and your fireteam returned from the Reef. Refusing to do anything about Cayde’s death is cowardice, plain and simple. I’m bound by my duty, but I want justice for him as much as you do.” She says, fixing her with a heavy look. “Should you choose to seek it out against clear orders, just know it will be without the support of the Vanguard and the City.”

In other words, Quinn would be completely on her own. She’d be going rogue, and if Uldren’s death brought with it the threat of war with the remnants of the Reefborn Awoken, she wouldn’t be offered refuge within the City’s walls ever again.

She’d figured as much already, but having it laid out so plainly…

Unable to find words, Quinn simply offers Ikora a nod of acknowledgement.

Ikora returns it, her expression softening around the edges and her eyes turning contemplative. After a lengthy pause, the words she speaks are given with a melancholic, motherly tone. “Be careful of how far into your grief you fall, guardian. Some lines, when crossed...you can’t come back from them. There are those that will take offense and won’t care what your reasoning is for taking that step.”

Silently, she watches as Ikora steps away and disappears into the crowd.

Then her eyes blink wide and the crowd falls out of focus.

Should your ventures off-world go… beyond what it is you’ve been up to. Ikora’s words imply that she knows exactly what Quinn hasn’t been getting up to, despite the fact that she has no way of knowing that she isn’t high-tailing it to the Reef to hunt the Awoken Prince.

Does she have one of her Hidden assigned to her and reporting back?

“Glyph,” she speaks up quietly as her ghost flashes into sight, “have you noticed anyone following us lately?”

It blinks in confusion. “I don’t think so. Why?”

She doesn’t answer, her mind whirling with confusion. There’s no way what Ikora said could be mistaken—the Warlock Vanguard’s speech is always methodical and carefully constructed, even when steeped in emotion and not cold logic.

But if Ikora knows she’s been breaking Vanguard protocol and orders by bypassing her lockdown using another guardian’s ship, the question becomes: why hasn’t Zavala been made aware of it?

“Earth to guardian?” Glyph says, bobbing within her line of sight.

“Sorry, buddy. I’m…” She blinks her daze away and looks at it, but her mind is elsewhere. She needs to talk to the Drifter, still, but it’ll have to wait until she can find him. “Can you get in contact with Luke and find out where I can meet up with the others?”

Its shell spins with joy and it floats alongside her as she wanders into the crowd.

Whatever affirmative it gives her is lost as her focus dips out again, her sudden change in plans having less to do with how she feels about it and more to do with wanting something to pass the time while she sorts through her thoughts.

If Ikora knows about her leaving the planet, does she also know about the Drifter and his illicit competition? If she does, why hasn’t the Vanguard already put a stop to it?

There are those that will take offense and won’t care what your reasoning is for taking that step.

What is that warning even supposed to mean?

#v: destiny #f: the line #sh: embrace the dark #c: quinn leonis #c: kel #c: luke #c: roland #c: nyx 14 #c: glyph #ch: ikora rey

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