#is supposed to mimic the back alley area that he uses for all his scraps && parts. really id imagine at some point he put a tarp over it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thedistantstorm · 6 years

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A Shipwright Worth Her Salt Chapter 04

She does her best not to think of him anymore, high above her in the Tower. All it does is make her chest burn and her eyes sting. It’s a cruel world. She’s lost everyone else she’s cared for, why would he be any different? He isn’t. She’ll adapt, she always does.

It’s what she tells herself, but she still dreams of the stoic mask covering the Speaker’s face when he says that following the dedication of the watch atop the wall, civilians will be barred from entering. And worse, she dreams of his face, stoic and unfeeling, when she screams and cries and tries to pull from his grasp: because he brought her up there, he showed her the hangar and the ships, he spent time with her, he told her all that he wanted for her, he told her he - no, she thinks, don’t even think about what he said. He did it on purpose. Because he knew. He knew it would be the last time.

“My place is in the Tower. My duty is to protect the Traveler, and the remnants of humanity. I cannot bend the rules in the way I might have in the past. The Vanguard looks to me to lead them. I cannot - this cannot continue.”

It’s stupid, really, she thinks, when she wakes with tears leaking from her eyes and a hollow ache in her chest. What did she expect? It wasn’t like he was indebted to her. If anything, it was the other way around. It was hard though, to see him come through the City on occasion, a fireteam at his back, looking for all the world like the Commander he’d become and nothing like the kind man who’d bring her food, who would regale her with tales of heroism, who sent work her way when he knew scrap prices were down.

Eventually, though, the tears stop coming, and the hole he’s left in her heart is plugged by work. There’s a lot of it. Less guardians meant more smugglers, more crime. Up in their tower, the guardians watched the horizon, but lost touch with what was happening in the City beneath their feet, and Amanda Holliday grew up fast.

“Sir, I have intel from Ikora.”

He nods. “Proceed.”

“There is a crime syndicate responsible for the theft of our shipment from Hakke. One of her Hidden got eyes on an aircraft running directly from the manufacturer to their base. Apparently they sign off using stolen codes. The reason Hakke had no idea why we were missing the weapons is because their logs say we picked them up.”

Bright eyes met hers and he nodded. “We have the location of their base?”

“Yes. Hakke has been instructed not to interfere with the pickup, only to notify us on a secure line the next time someone picks our shipment. I have a fireteam on standby to intercept and obtain the shipment.”

“I see. And do we know what this crime syndicate is all about?”

“Unconfirmed, but there are a few possibilities. The Hidden have eyes on the operation, they’re greedy. It’s likely they’re selling our weaponry to guardians with a steep markup, or keeping them to incite their own wars. Either way,” She pauses long enough to look at the blurry images on the screen in front of them, “Andal says one of his Hunters has a contact that can get us in the warehouse they use as their base of operations. I’ll get a recovery team together to go in, and a containment team to stop the rest. Care to run tactical?”

“Indeed.” His posture says more than anything that he’s pleased. “Excellent work, Sloane. I’ll leave the rest to you. Let me know when I am required to participate.”

She salutes, eyes glimmering brightly. “You got it, Commander.”

She never had time to look back from the smoldering rubble that had been her makeshift home in the Last City. There was something about that, she supposed. Forward momentum. Guilds had become common amongst the citizens, and not even they were immune to the decay of crime and corruption. She’d been in her shop when they appeared that day, close to sunset, though it had been cold and raining too hard to tell.

Two of them held her down while the rest of them went through her paltry belongings, taking anything they felt was of worth, breaking the rest. They dragged her out just as the smell of smoke started making her eyes water, and just before one of the mostly empty cans of fuel exploded, likely taking with it most of the first story.

She remembered only bits and pieces of the rest, whether that was a blessing or a curse, she wasn’t sure. The names they called her faded into white noise after a while, though the burning pain of their blows and otherwise stayed with her long after. She’d kept her eyes scrunched closed, let her mind wander, and prayed for it to end, clawing and screaming until they’d pinned her to the ground from the neck down, tears stung her eyes, and breath left her lungs.

When it was over, they’d thrown her into an alley in a shameful state, threatening to repeat the process if she attempted to take work from them again. She’d laid there all night, and for the first time in her life, she wanted it all to end. There was nothing left. When she woke up the next morning and it hadn’t, she sighed, scraped herself up off the wet ground and started again.

Two months later, she took on a job from a bigger group on the other side of the city, having started selling salvaged scrap to them for far more than the pitiful rates the mech guild that dominated where she’d been living before. The area was a bit more damaged, the cracks in the wall bigger, but she’d learned how sneak around. No one was coming to save her, and she lived each day knowing the next day was the only gift she’d get. Safety was a luxury she just couldn’t afford.

The job was to recover supplies from a guild they were feuding with. She’d gone in with a sidearm she had no plans to use unless a gun was pointed at her first, and a sparrow that she repaired hastily after realizing the clutch stuck.

“It’s a suicide mission,” The old barmaid had said to her, when she first looked at the posting tacked to the counter of a dingy bar. “You’re a bit young to throw it all away.”

She shrugged, throwing her head back and looking up at the ceiling before looking back at her. She was a kind looking woman, with dark eyes and white hair. “Either I take this mission and make enough money to get a room ‘fore this winter freezes me to death, or I don’t, and I die of hunger or hypothermia, whichever’s quicker.”

The old woman sighed. She had seen plenty of others go down this same road of desperation. She poured teen a glass of ale, served her a meal she couldn’t afford, and let her sit there for a while before radioing in her acceptance. When the girl admitted she couldn’t pay, the woman shrugged.

“You can pay me if you make it back. If not, I won’t lose sleep over providing you with your last supper.”

Five years, countless missions, and one repaid meal later, Amanda Holliday had established herself under the pseudonym of Aviatrix. She knows enough about the politics to stay out of it. None of it matters, so long as she’s got enough money for a drink when she gets to where she’s going, and a roof over head when she comes back to the Last City in between.

She knows it won’t last forever, because nothing in her life ever does, but she’s got several small stockpiles of glimmer spread around and an old sparrow hidden away. This time, starting over won’t be hard, if it comes to that. She knows a thing or two about any ship she can get her hands on and can run circles around most sparrow racers, guardian or otherwise. She tinkers for fun and for personal benefit. Her friends are misfits and outcasts, who might stab her in the back, but she’ll turn on them if she has to, too. She's the only one who'll put herself first. So they’re even.

It’s not the most ideal situation, but it’s leagues above anything else she’s had since, well, let's not think about that. She even has the luxury of being somewhat selective about her work. She receives plenty of messages daily on her tablet, has her finger on the pulse of the city.

ACEOFHEARTS>>I’m looking for a pilot. You know anybody? ;)

She knows the sender. His crew ran all sorts jobs in their free time and she just so happened to know she was the best pilot he'd met, and she'd more than established herself as his first call when the good loot was at stake. That, and he was a guardian. So he’d get her out of trouble if push came to shove.

AVIATRIX<<Details.

She leans back and takes a sip of her beer, pushing her tablet back onto the clip of her cargo pants. His messages mean he’s already found her. A cloaked figure takes a seat on the stool next to her.

“Armory ship from the Tower to the Trostland. Drop two teams in. They transmat some goods back to base, secure the area and any baddies while you provide some air support.” His voice is a molten synthesizer, and he leans forward, holding a rocks glass of green liquid. “Bring it all back safe and sound and obviously you’ll get some loot and a buttload of glimmer.”

“You gonna smuggle me into the tower, pal?” She leans against his cloak as she speaks low. He smells of pine and campfire, with an undertone of gunpowder. “I don't exactly work for the Vanguard, y’know.”

“Nah. I’ll bring the ship to you.”

“That it then?”

“Just about. You’ll get me to keep you company, I’ll be going ‘bang bang’ while you’re going ‘pew pew,’” He makes finger guns and mimics the button pushing of a ship’s laser charges to correspond with his sound effects. “Andal practically left me in control of this whole thing. It’ll be great, you’ll see.”

She shakes her head at his antics. He’s ridiculous, but she likes him well enough. “You know my terms.”

He nods. “Oh yeah, I know I know I know,” He gushes, knocking elbows with her in a way that’s strangely friendly. “Sparrow at the rally point and no unnecessary questions. Anything goes wrong and I owe you a favor.” He looks at her, optics growing sceptical. “But seriously, nothing’s going to go wrong. This is, like, SO EASY of a mission. And when have I ever steered you wrong?”

An eyebrow arched. She gives him a cool glance. “When was the last time I listened to your picks for a race?”

“Oh come on! That was months ago and I paid for your dinner after you lost your glimmer. Let it go already.”

As with most things with Cayde-6, Andal is expecting there to be yelling. And there is yelling. Honestly, he can't blame Zavala, no matter how cleverly worded Cayde had been to conceal this - in Cayde's words - minor detail. Just as Andal himself had concealed who would be running tactical. Minor details all around, then.

There was a civilian piloting a trooper class Vanguard ship. Zavala was having kittens. It wasn’t a destroyer(or the basic armory ship Cayde had initially requisitioned), but it was still not a ship that the general public was supposed to have access to. Ever. The civilian said very little - actually he hadn't heard her over the comms at all, and if Cayde hadn't slipped up and spoke to her precisely seventeen minutes into the flight, he could've prevented the whole thing because other than the stellar flying, it was like no one was there with him.

“Look - c'mon, Big Blue - Commander Big Blue - erm Zavala, it's not that big of a deal.” Cayde’s voice crackles with static. “Aviatrix here has done like a bazillion flights.”

To his left, Zavala was pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing through his rage. Andal did his best to keep from invoking that rage by laughing at his friend's antics. Sometimes it was just funny.

“And how many of those have been for the Vanguard?”

Silence.

“I. See.” His words are tight lipped and highly agitated. Andal winces. Cayde’s dead in the water.

Sloane, diligent worker that she is, has already looked up the name and is handing over her tablet to her superior, muting the comms. “No intel on the actual identity - that name’s just what she goes by, but she is a competent flyer. Several of our weapon suppliers have used her to deliver sensitive cargo. It could be worse.”

Zavala flicks his eyes down at the tablet, and freezes. The face is unmistakable. Older, harder, but it’s obvious enough and explains the silence. Andal can just barely read the change in the Vanguard Leader’s body language. He looks subtly uneasy, but composes himself quickly.

Zavala’s eyes meet Sloane’s and she doesn’t flinch away from the intensity. Titans, Andal thinks with a shake of the head - always trying to prove they won’t back down.

“This is your mission, Sloane. You think they can do it, I’ll trust you.”

She nods and presses the button again to allow the field teams to hear them. “Anything goes wrong and I’ll hold you personally responsible, Cayde.”

“That makes the two of you, if the glaring I’m getting over here is any indication.”

Aside from the regular tongue-lashing song and dance he’s going to get from Zavala, Cayde thinks the mission couldn’t have gone smoother. He knew he picked the right pilot for the job, regardless of non-guardian status. Besides, she agreed to the deed, so no big deal. Wasn’t like he held his gun to her head and told her to fly.

She sets the ship down like she’s cutting into butter with a hot knife. It’s smooth and gentle, nothing at all like the lurching mayhem that happens when he tries to put one of these things back on the ground. He pats her back in celebration as she flips off the controls. She’s ready to get out of here, and he can tell. Her eyes dart all over and she’s almost twitchy.

“I know this didn’t quite go the way you were expecting -”

“Does it ever?”

He continues talking over her. “- totally do something like this again if you’re -”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Well, why don’t you think about it over a drink with me?” He jogs behind her as she exits the the vessel with an agile jump to ground level. “I could take you back to the tower and show -”

“Amanda.”

“ - hangar after. Wait, what?” The Vanguard Commander’s presence gives him pause. “What did you say? Why are you here? Actually, doesn’t matter. The mission was a success!” Cayde went to give a playful one-two punch to the commander’s arm, but immediately sensed the change in the atmosphere when maelstrom green eyes met arc blue ones. Andal swore he had good instincts, even if no one else readily acknowledged them. Or Cayde-6 in general, most of the time.

Her posture is rigid for a moment, but she forces herself to relax, shifting her eyes to look at the exo. “I’ma have to pass, Cayde. Not a big fan of knights and their castles.”

“I’m not a knight, I’m a Hunter!” Said hunter throws his hands in the air in exasperation, muttering, “Titans are way more like knights than I am -”

“I know,” she interrupts slinging the bag with her payment over a narrow shoulder. “See y’around, Cayde.” The barest nod is all the acknowledgement she gives Andal, and that’s plenty for him.

“And it’s not like I even like-” As she hops onto the back of her sparrow and it roars to life, Cayde sighs dramatically, throwing his hands out in an exaggerated shrug. “Why do I feel like that she wasn’t actually talking to me? Anybody?”

No one answers. Not that he’s expecting them to, because he’s still carrying on.

Ever vigilant, Andal watches the situation unfold from afar, withholding his judgement. He’s going to have to yell at Cayde a little, that much he’s sure of. But for right now, the clench and unclench of fists - an old tell of Zavala’s - is a bit more important.

#amanda holliday #commander zavala #destiny2 fanfiction #fanfiction #andal brask #cayde-6 #angsty but worth it #i promise #maybe kinda mostly canon compliant?#swhs fanfic

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