Alive

Chapter One - Bolts-3

The scribes are familiar with their own tales and ancient warnings speaking of misadventure, and the more she recalled, Bolts would always notice how each sailor, each pirate long before the Golden Age, every greedy or well meaning human man had a goal to keep to their own little guidelines. Guidelines, varied and vague, that sometimes simply were ‘obtain the treasure. Abstain from this, complete those steps.’ Get to a point in life where the treasure would be searchable. It wasn’t always treasure. Sometimes, it was a woman. Others, it was power or relations with a fairytale that layered so thick in a tapestry of history that they were considered factually existing entities. Women with fish tails, their organs and nervous systems unable to remove waste from an otherwise unlikely resemblance to human females themselves, yet still their voices, their focus, was on men who thought themselves targets. Paranoia was a natural human trait. Paranoia was fear bridging through the thinly lined veil of caution, ingrained in the mind of its changed host.

Her sister was the perfect candidate for paranoia, who acknowledged and valued its presence for wary readiness. Even the unexpected could be met with unshackled, brutal even mindedness. “So long as you are not lost to it,” Rivet had once said, “fear will keep you alive and thinking. Socially, tactically, over great lands, in the stars, it changes what you are ready for. If it consumes you, you are lost to a life of unneeded terror and the irritable wrongdoing of your capability as an efficient Hunter, Warlock, Titan, or warrior.” School children with care but rejection for participating in the completion of their studies and the warrior, the argument compared, had equal opportunity for expectations around themselves. Out of context, it was a pathetically strange and weak saying, but the anecdote surrounded everyone. For most, it was minor. For those that noticed it, they’ve already the grip of opportunistic, blind visionaries.

In short, the situations of day-to-day life will never be the same regarding education and self indulging danger, but to be ready for anything, even if it was your fault, even if you do not have the capability to remove the misconvenience that will befall you, considering all possibilities of anything without even the earliest of warnings can act as the stepping stone to readying for the unseen.

Philosophy is argued by those that wish for the best outcome, and the slightest difference could change the argument of a bored or interested engagement. Frustration could tilt and curve the importance of something away from what was originally being aimed, no matter how much it sounded as though those involved had changed their course or remained dead center on whatever they’d started on. It didn’t take two people in direct or distant contact with each other to continue an argument, either. Such as right now, where everything built up somehow in different and similar contexts that were difficult to piece together, and impossible to completely match up.

Paranoia, as more commonly stated by Bolts and many other older Risen, is essential. At the very least, it’ll expand the thoughts and shift what’s expected from a stiff, singular motive to something flexible enough to adjust. Without context, without full understanding on all accounts on how things are interpreted, understood as, or even the true understanding of the opposite side’s thoughts and feelings on a matter, for instance, anything said could lead astray.

Paranoia. It is good, except for when it isn’t. Unstable and stronger pressing, paranoia and the demand to come to a standstill with all her biases and thoughts loomed over Bolts in even her louder hours of the day, where she didn’t sit in the silent company of her Ghost or sister or brother and think. No silence, no noise, no bullet or ravaging claws settled it, and the constant notice of its presence and different than usual effect was a cause of concern.

While not related by blood or flesh, Rivet was her sister. Aryeh, Rivet’s lover since the trio’s shared young age and first years, her brother. And still, Bolts did not share this with them. Without full understanding of her mind, they could never truly help with what plagued her conscious hours. And she accepted this as fact that could be wrong, or incorrect, for in the event that they could, she shouldn’t reject it.

Paranoia for being wrong. It created enough leeway for the wise to find help and seek counsel.

A small chuckle vibrated and flashed orange in her throat. This all made her sound like an old king. Sassy Dassy would find it amusing and tease her to no end if she heard what went on in her Chosen’s head.

Quick and lean, the figure joining her at the bar table had been one she’d expected. “Awful quiet there for a Warlock. Ain’t you supposed to be chatty?”

There’d been no plans to meet here, nor at this time on this night, but it’d been a possibility to happen, and she’d joked to Dassy about how unlikely it was, but Cayde was still a welcome, more direct addition of background noise and company, especially in compared to the regulars that recognized but barely spoke to her. It wasn’t one of those buddy-buddy nights.

Bolts rose the cylinder glass, swishing the half inch of whiskey in greeting despite the lack of seats between them. “Hard to talk when I’m alone.”

Dassy suddenly appeared between them. “Not true!”

“Hey Sassy Dassy,” Cayde nodded. It was hard not to notice the humorous mannerisms he carried with his every act. “How ya doin’?”

“Stuck with a Guardian that never talks,” Dassy chipped. Bolts barked a singular laugh at the irony, drawing an astounded ‘wha-buh-what’ from the Ghost. “I practically haven’t existed lately! Sheeesh, you neglect me!”

“Just because I’m quiet,” Bolts sipped at the whiskey, absentmindedly noting how she was glad for the simulated burn Exos were given, “doesn’t mean you don’t exist.”

Blue optics drew themselves to Dassy, and after a moment, Cayde opened his palm before him. Sundance came to, nodding at Dassy. They shared some clicks, and with the former inching toward the latter, they both dematerialized together. Cayde promptly inched to the edge of his seat, lowering his voice. “So, what drives a Warlock to think. Wait, don’t tell me - it’s ‘cause you miss me.”

“Not by a long shot,” Bolts cooed. Cheek plates shifting slightly like that of a smile, she playfully wiggled her shoulders. “But it might be part of it.”

He gave a dramatically offended gasp, putting a servo to his chest. “Whaaat? Dassy’s right, you are neglectful!”

Shaking her head, Bolts felt the stimulating warmth from his arrival drift back down with the joyful nature of her grin. “Cute.”

Now, she wasn’t in a bad mood by any means, but the untamed, normally settled nature of her scattered thoughts made things difficult to focus on and get into. Even what was in front of her. Rivet and Aryeh had taken notice, and Aryeh, with his quiet, straightforward nature had been the first to implore about these changes. It’d been obvious she didn’t have an answer, and the two no doubtedly share their vague awareness of just how changed she was. It was a cause of concern for Rivet, and for Bolts, but who knows? It could just be one of those changes every Risen goes through.

Cayde must’ve noticed too, because his face settled out of the light hearted nature he usually put on. It wasn’t fake, per se, just exaggerated a bit sometimes.

Soft fingertips pressed to her back, gently dragging alongside the ridges that made up a mechanical spine. “What’s wrong? Sister doin’ alright?”

“She’s fine,” Bolts briefly murmured. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s fine.”

The fingers softly retreated, and she followed the hand with yellow optics as it placed itself on his knee. “You want to walk with me?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Both Guardians made a gesture to their respective Ghosts, the two wishing farewells and goodbyes to the Ghost of a Hunter leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table staring up at the three with tired, tipsy eyes. At the leave of its newfound acquaintances, it’d returned to its Chosen, nudging at the dark, coal colored disheveled hair on his head.

That dude needs to get more sun. He’s almost as white as Aryeh’s shoulder plates.

Aryeh’s shoulder plates! Damn things were bright as Hell. Their bright, reflective shapes were enough to make even Rivet complain to him in the high sun, and Rivet didn’t care about vanity. He’d always give a big smile when it was mentioned, proud of his armor and the traits that accompanied him wearing it. Rivet’s complaints were enough to sway him, however, to at least wear something else when he could. Aryeh was no fool seeking to seethingly annoy those around him. He could be loud in his excitement or when having fun, but he was a respectful, respected man for a reason, and would change his armor when needed.

His looks and voice also factored in how people took to him, but the man with dark brown skin and kindly proud eyes was unwavering in his faithfulness to Rivet. Even in the Dark Age. That’d bought Bolts’ respect since. Even when she’d been young, foolish and trusting, she still had standards regarding others.

They paid off a multitude of times, morphing her overtime into who she was today.

Having once again retreated to her thoughts, she’d almost missed Cayde mentioning how he had to help Quil-13 again earlier. Poor thing was slowly losing her mind. Slower than her husband Banshee - honestly, it really was a nice pair - but even Exo who inevitably faced resets more slowly reached a point like that of madness. No object permanence, no ability to maintain memories. It was best to simply let them pass on when they get to that point. If she hadn’t been Risen by Dassy, she’d have just rusted away, intertwined with Rivet’s body just as she and Rivet had spent their first moments. Their Ghosts had been traveling together since the Traveler had shed them, a semi-common occurrence for Ghosts at some point in their searches, and it’d been an almost perfect miracle they’d Chosen the both of them at the same time.

I’m glad I got Dassy. I don’t think I’d have been able to handle not having another chatterbox, and I don’t think Rivet would’ve much enjoyed having Dassy as her Ghost.

Ugh, why is she thinking so far back? She already knew all of this! Bolts tried to tune into what Cayde was saying.

“-so yeah, Quil’s prolly gonna lose it soon,” Cayde murmured. Bolts had met Banshee through Cayde, and met Quil through Banshee. Her quiet nature went well with the gruffly loving sniper-turned-gunsmith.

Bolts nodded a bit at that. The woman used to make armor and clothes as a business until she’d realized she’d forgotten she even had the job so often that she’d shut the shop down entirely. Nobody needed to ask why. Many Guardians still miss her craftsmanship. “Do you think… Banshee realizes?”

“He has to,” Cayde muttered. “I think he just won’t admit it. You know someone that long, and they’re falling apart in front of you, and they’ve forgotten the extent they’ve seen you fall apart over time… Thanks, by the way, Sundance.”

“And you, Dassy,” Bolts quickly added.

Neither needed to explain the reference to both their immortality and lack of need for resets. Scary stuff.

Most would probably find talking about their deteriorating friends to their significant other as the first order of business every time they saw each other as awkwardly morose, but they always updated each other on how the Gunsmith and his bird loving wife were doing. It was always nice to hear Quil was still alive, or that Banshee wanted to play poker.

Cheating at poker against Banshee is damn near impossible. Cayde may be slick and quick fingered, but Bolts is a Warlock and loose sleeves were practically expected. She didn’t even need the sleeves, just the right moment and thwip, oh look, the winning card. If it weren’t that it made her feel bad, Banshee having immediately taken her wrist and yanked the false card out of her fingers definitely would’ve been the leading cause to her ceasing that practice immediately. At least against him. She had too much respect for Rivet to do it to her, and Aryeh was usually uninterested in poker, but at that moment she’d wanted to just see how it went. Still, it usually worked against random people. Usually drunk ones that didn’t notice she wore an armband marking her for what she was with its fancy little projections. But other Guardians when she’d pull her little trick? It was usually a 50/50. Titans normally found her ‘little tricks’ funny. Other Warlocks would give her a look that asked if she was dumb, and would either leave or one up her in switched out cards, and Hunters? Hunters took Poker fucking serious. One woman demanded a knife fight for the pot upon her Fireteam member calling out what Bolts had done, and they ended up settling for whoever could stab a knife the fastest between their fingers the fastest and longest without losing a joint. By some miracle, Bolts won at that middle table surrounded by chants and yelling by two dozen other Guardians, and was promptly locked into a fist fight with a very pissed off Hunter. Aryeh ended up yanking the rabid chick off of her, and the end result had been a banning from the establishment and red jacks issuing warnings about Guardians fighting in physically violent ways outside of the Crucible.

So yeah, that’s how she got harassed with a month’s worth of pings in a single day from a pissy-

“Bolts?” A hand waved before her face. “Hell-oooo?”

Crap. Now she felt bad. “Before you ask, I spaced out. Say that again?”

She didn’t need to look to hear the frown in his voice. “I wasn’t talking.”

Oh. Well, it’d been a possibility, and she felt grateful for her random expectations. Paranoia. Socially, it helps prevent embarrassment. Wait, this is going off track, too. Bolts stopped it before she could doze off into that, too. The fingers placed to the temple of her head, she took a moment to realize, were hers. With a jolt, it dawned she’d done something without realizing she’d done it. It’d been so long since she’d done something like that, that it hadn’t been expected. Add that to something to work on. Bolts was no child. She didn’t toy around with lies and dramatics when those lies weren’t fought against like the teenagers of the modern day. If it weren’t for that and his own trust in her nature, there’d no doubtedly have been some form of ‘okay, I’ll just go’ or sarcastic comment. Personal and involved matters like these, though, were different. They spawned different reactions from everyone, because they actually mattered more to the individual than- stop thinking!

“You wanna uh, you wanna- wanna add to the wall?” Bolts asked. It came out stuttered and jumbled, but it made its way through eventually.

Cayde looked out into the distance, making a sort of hum. “Bolts-3 wants to vandalize the walls belonging to the last safe haven for an almost extinct species. And right under the Traveler. What a Devil.”

Ha-ha. “Not that wall,” Bolts groaned, “the wall. Y’know, the slab that all the Warlocks add to in the study?”

“... The Warlock only study hall? That even Zavala’s not allowed into?”

It was more of a statement than a question. Cayde moved his hands as if to emphasize each and every addition of detail at her lack of denial. “The one sponsored by Ikora that’s slap dab in the middle of the tower? Where there’s nowhere to run and full of snooty, silence demanding Warlocks?”

“For a Hunter, you seem quite familiar with it,” Bolts commented. It wasn’t the best idea to get herself focused and it’d undoubtedly not work, but if she had something to do and get into, maybe that’d help.

“I’ve had enough experiences with TWESH regulars to know that not all Cryptarchs are passive,” Cayde waved her off. “Besides, Ikora doesn’t like it when I go in there. I swear, you can breathe in there and you’re ‘too loud’.”

Sounds about right. At least it was quiet.

The Warlock Exclusive Study Hall, abbreviated as the TWESH, had been created after numerous complaints from the city’s Warlocks regarding a lack of quiet, information filled places to meditate and study. The Wilds were dangerous and filled with random nuisances otherwise embraced and beloved by Hunters. Even simple birds annoyed enough Warlocks just trying to find somewhere quiet to meditate that Ikora herself suggested reforming the usually unoccupied library into something even the pickiest of Warlocks would consider ‘adequate’ enough for their time. While not all Warlocks were like that - well, obviously, look at Bolts - it was better to help those that were. A snooty Guardian was still a Guardian, and it was important to have all hands on deck.

United, we are strong. Not as strong as the God Slayer, but still strong enough to make what remained of the Red Legion quiver. The army’s name left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Bolts would never forget those months of agony and fear. The God Slayer had personally taken the task of slaughtering the Cabal he came across in his quest of enraged vengeance, and the distant Light and its sheer power could be felt for miles. Flames so hot it warmed the cold, Arc so powerful generators popped, Void so entrancing even a Nightstalker felt the cold nerves once shared amongst nearly all Guardians regarding the controversial use of its power. Only when the Traveler woke did Dominus Ghaul get what he deserved - absolute annihilation, but the God Slayer did his best with what he had. Meanwhile, Bolts had felt like a child, held sacredly close in Rivet’s gentle embrace as the two had pressed against Aryeh for warmth. Aside from his size and naturally radiating heat, even without his Light he ensured at least decent nights under the thinnest of furs.

With his Light, Aryeh had a special touch for Solar that complimented his warm body. Rivet’s Light leaned more toward Void, so it’d been especially crucial for her and Aryeh to embrace. Exo or not, they still felt cold, and even without their Light the slight effect of their specialities affected just about every Guardian. And it hurt.

Thank the Traveler for Aryeh. It hadn’t been the first time he’d acted as an improvised heater, but it certainly had been the most important time he had to take the responsibility. She hadn’t been completely helpless, but the fear and helplessness she felt for herself, for Dassy, for her Sister, her Brother, just the completely alien situation…

Stop thinking about it. Back to the present.

Bolts you dumbass, you can’t even focus on what’s in front of you even after acknowledging it was a problem!

Okay, recount it all… It hadn’t even been a few seconds! And Cayde clearly knew she’d spaced out again. Well, not necessarily spaced out. Got lost in her thoughts. Yeah, got lost in her thoughts, totally different. That’s what it is.

“Y’know…” Cayde drawled. Her optics snapped to him, and she straightened the lacking posture. “We can do this another time if you want.”

Huh? “Do what?”

He spread his hands in a ‘see’ motion, and it finally hit her he was offering to add to the TWESH board when she had a day she was more collected. How did that slip through so easy? Why was she thinking so negative about such minor inconveniences? “You’re not well.”

As mentioned earlier, she was no school girl. And he didn’t associate any of those traits with her. So it was surprising- why is it surprising? Why is it that she keeps, keeps not expecting these things right after listing off how expecting everything was good?

This was what Rivet and Aryeh noticed. A negative change. And they wanted her to be okay. Bolts already knew this, but it seemed to repeat. Why? Why why why why?

Why, there’s a why for everything. Why?

Clinging to the rarity of such an opportunity, Bolts took to forming a way to enthuse the idea back to him. To make it appealing, and fun, as it was clear though he’d still be willing to do it, but the uncertainty of whether he’d feel obligated at that point caught her tongue. Without careful consideration of what to say, anything could happen. She leant toward wanting to pull off the stunt, but swayed at the concept at the strange pressing, degrading the security of his opinion on her. Thinking, thinking, no matter how much she told herself to stop.

Paranoia. If you let it consume you, it’ll be your ruin.

Everything locked in place.

“Like I said,” Cayde pulled on his hood, bringing it over his horn. It slid down. “We can do it another time.”

“Look, I’m sorry-“

“I’m not mad,” he insisted, “you just look like you need some time to yourself. Thought I’d stop by and see you, but Bolts needs time to herself… well,” he shrugged. “I’m not in charge of you. ‘Sides, I got Vanguard duty.”

Once again, Bolts was reminded of how rare an opportunity this was for him. For the both of them. This whole situation was so stiff, and it made her feel guilty- wait. Her jaw dropped. Bolts slapped his shoulder, eliciting a laugh at her delayed realization. “You sunuvabitch!”

“That reverse psychology finally getting through?” Cayde teased.

It’d all been to get her thinking, just to suddenly have a break of a more positive stimuli. And dammit, it worked. Bolts offered Sundance an almost exasperated sort of half bow and spread of her arms. “Congratulations on rezzing the most manipulative Hive God to ever ascend.”

“Wouldn’t you know it,” Sundance gleefully purred. She’d been awfully quiet until now, Bolts realized. That or Bolts had been so focused on Cayde she hadn’t been paying attention to the pair of chatty Ghosts.

Dassy bumped the blue fin of the exotic shell she oh-so loved to show off against Sundance’s. “That’s my Guardian’s title, thank you very much!”

“Hey! Inheritance is a marriage thing!”

“Last I checked, I rezzed my Guardian first!”

“Don’t matter, read the legal papers. It alllll belongs to him!”

“What does?”

Sundance rolled her optic in a large motion. “Surviving Hive God titles,” Sundance quipped. “Ones the God Slayer hasn’t gotten mad at just yet.”

Cayde piped up at the mention of the God Slayer. He had many titles, but that was the first he’d earned and the one the God Slayer with no name was more known for. “Ohhhh, we’re talking about my friend now, are we?”

“Friend?” Bolts scoffed. “He doesn’t even talk, Cayde. You’ve spoken to him, what? Five times?”

“He stops by every so often,” Cayde shrugged. A finger aimed its way at her. “I don’t see you getting visits from a fellow legend, now do I?”

Bolts crossed her arms, quaking an optic ridge in an attempt to raise it. The slight motion spoke volumes for the motion it only partially resembled. He seemed to realize his error, or what she considered to be one. “Hey, now, don’t get me wrong. I’m legendary, but I’m not a fellow legendary. See, when you take things out of context-“

“Sure,” Bolts drew out. “Sure, sure, sure. That’s what you said.”

“It is!”

“Sure.”

“Oo, oo, lover’s quarrel!” Dassy shouted. The pair froze, and the looks started directing themselves their way.

The whispers started. Most notably, between a tall woman with muscle and a banner hanging from her hip, representing a Clan she was proud of. “Is that Cayde-7?”

From a short woman wearing a hood, “His name is Cayde-6 dumbass! S-I-X, six!”

“Don’t call me a dumbass, short-ass!”

“Don’t call me short!”

“You… are literally... a FUCKING dwarf- OOF!”

Needless to say, a short Hunter punching a Titan in the gut and knocking the wind out of him hadn’t been expected today, but that was okay. The pair hurried their pace, the unmistakable recognition in some of their faces promising gossip. Let them gossip, then. It ought to entertain someone.

Okay, Bolts couldn’t lie. She herself was guilty of enjoying gossip whenever it was heard. She spared her Ghost a glare and hissed out, “Really?”

“Someone had to hurry you up,” Dassy defended.

Sundance pipped in her piece. “It was better than what I wanted to do.”

“And that would be?” Cayde asked. Bolts couldn’t help the humor in his voice spreading to her, lowering her helm to hide the little grin.
“Two words: Piss-Donkey.”

What. At the equal silence of the Warlock and Ghost before them, Cayde slowly raised a finger. “I… don’t think they’d get the reference.”

“Exactly,” Sundance hmphed. “That’s what makes it funny.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not listening that again,” Cayde shuddered.

Huh? At her stare, Cayde groaned. “See, ‘bout round the time my sparrow went out of commission in the Red War, I kinda… picked the wrong donkey. Out of a whole group of them, I picked the wrong one. Don’t get me wrong, it still ran pretty fast. It just... had... an issue.”

“And I saved the clip,” Sundance proudly stated. The silent stares got her almost sounding defensive, voice rising a pitch. “What? It was funny! If you heard the cussing and that donkey’s weird breathing screeches enough to want something to mock the damn thing, you’d find it funny too!”

More weird than funny, but Bolts supposed Sundance was right at least in some sense. Finding humor in a situation that otherwise got under the skin like an irritating itch was usually the best option. Rivet drilled it into her when they were still young, and it’d undoubtedly been invaluable advice. Bolts gave a shrug, shoving the thought of a whining donkey with a weak bladder to the side and stepping out of the lift she couldn’t even remember stepping in. “To each their own.”

Sundance spun her shell, snapping it suddenly to her core and pointedly staring at Cayde accusingly. “See? She gets it- oh hey, the TWESH!”

“Might not wanna call it that when we go in,” Bolts warned.

Even with the high ceiling, the entrance was grand enough to be eye catching. The impressiveness did not come with the architectural design, but rather in how it practically radiated sophistication and silence just by looking at it. The lack of cracks offered no peek inside, and the lack of knob would deter most unwelcome visitors.

Normally, entrance would be impossible aside from the tight turns of vents, but Cayde had a companion that always carried extra robes for when the occasion or temperature demanded it. The inside was even more impressive than what the outside would ever suggest, but the chilly air would not draw questioning stares to warm, full body attire. “In fact, you might not wanna talk at all in there.”

A simulated, fake, long sigh came from Sundance. “Hey, all I’m gonna say is if someone’s lonely enough to be willing to stick their nose in a volume on the history of seeds for twenty hours straight then they deserve a laugh.”

The reference to the novel Bolts had taken to reading some years before prickled an almost nostalgic vibe in her chassis. While she hadn’t been that dedicated to the novel, reading it in short bursts when she could, the book had been all Sundance had seen her put down for a month. A relatively calm month long to be seen again where Cayde came to visit her apartment often, so more than enough time for Sundance to take notice. That month had also been host of many notable Twister games before they’d shredded the game pad and its faint coloration. It’d been an ‘ironic’ seeing off for the two colors that’d faded so much that the blue and yellow were indiscernible. Okay, that hadn’t been the only reason. The pad had also ripped from age after some games of locked and unsteady metallic limbs that lead to the two of them falling and dragging both ends in separate directions with the straightening of legs, but it was funnier claiming the aforementioned lack of colors to be the true culprit.

Inside of the study hall wasn’t the only ‘sacred’ grounds. While not forbidden to walk outside of the door’s boundaries, Warlocks that came to visit would wear their best and cleanest attire - or at least, just kept clean for the ones that didn’t find it necessary to dress up. There wasn’t a dress code, it was just how the place was normally occupied. The walls were white and marble, the air cool and softly pleasing the body when warmth was applied, but not draining most out of their comfort zones. Dassy circled Cayde, pale light pressing at his body in intermittent intervals. “You ready to be my latest victim?”

“Uh, that depends,” Cayde warily eyed his body as the weight of his chest piece and clothes disappeared with Sundace’s transmat and replaced by long blue robes with white lining, heavy fur of the purest white thick and large hanging at the ends of the thick hood. Similar thick fur filled the ends of his sleeves and lines started at the short slit at the feet that allowed freer movement. Slowly, he pulled the hood over his horn. He slowly shook his head solemnly, eliciting chuckles from all three at his dramatics. “Oh, my poor horn. My poor, glorious horn. To think nobody can see it in my moment of glory.”

Bolts rolled her optics as her own robes glittered and shifted from their usual moving blue interlocked triangles to a clean, awe inspiring white. It took some movement on her part, but the sparkles under the light only added to the great robes with their golden lining. A silver belt shone bright under the long rectangular ceiling lights. Unlike the all-thick nature of Cayde’s, her robes were thin and comfort based, more for style and showing off wealth. She wouldn’t need to hide her face - at most, if the worst came to fruition, the only consequences would be the obscene use of the arc slab. While there was another like it, Guardians making marks and indentations over each other’s work was so common that it was practically expected. Only fine art made up the slab in the TWESH. “It’ll be fine.”

The staring was less than subtle, trailing up her form. He suddenly met eyes with her. “You still have that?”

“‘course I do,” Bolts quipped. “I’m wearing it aren’t I? Why would I get rid of something you bought for me?”

A few more seconds of silence. Then, “You really are a snooty Warlock! I should’ve known!”

Bolts rolled her optics, but the smile was still there. “Ready?”

“Since when am I not?”

She didn’t miss how he quickly felt through his horn to ensure it was covered when she turned. He wasn’t the only Exo with a horn like that, but blue faced, horned Exo impersonating a Warlock just to get access to an otherwise restricted area weren’t exactly common. That, and he had to be the most recognizable Exo to live right now. Even Saint-XIV was recognizable only by his armor when he’d been alive. Aryeh had been crushed at the extraordinary Titan’s disappearance and declared demise. He’d expected it once it became widespread knowledge of how the legend had went on a rampage through the Infinite Forest in search of Osiris, but the official declaration really hit his morale for some months. After a week it had been subtle enough for Rivet, Bolts, and his Ghost Motu to notice, but it had been a truly depressing experience.

Light danced along her arms and form, taking visual form through the silky white that covered her servos. A display of light admittedly flared for Cayde’s viewing danced reminiscent of Awoken tattoos and birthmarks amongst her fingers. Pinching at the door, hands in a vertical line and separated from one another, she shut her optics, searching for the energy making up the door.

There.

A thin white line piercing straight down like a perfect crack snapped into existence, and Bolts freed her fingers from the pinch they’d taken, throwing her arms open wide and opening the largely oval tear. The Light danced like white flames at the ends, a clear space peering into a finely made library acting as the gateway through.

Bolts brought her foot over the bottom edge and stepped in, heeled boots lightly clicking from the angle at which she stepped her boot. Cayde smoothly stepped through, angling his head down to keep his face from being seen. Cold travelled downward, not up, so it was a behavior perfectly excused. Bolts brought her other foot through, waving her knuckles across the door, taking with them the open status to the library-study hall.

Immediately, the serene silence felt illegal to disturb. A promised, ever changing land it felt to be, wide and and long yet only a room. Aside from the truly temperature sensitive or those who sought the pleasure of additional warmth, the conditioning did little to affect the senses in comparison to the general air and personality of the room itself. While not sentient, nor even mechanical, the impression was simply… alive. Made greatly with integrity and love, the TWESH was a perfect place for study.

Perfect, at least, for those that didn’t mind the occasional mishap from mischievous Warlocks and their friends. This wasn’t the first time something like this would’ve been done, but by the Traveler did it ‘rightly anger’ the more snobbish regulars.

Let no one say otherwise that, at least regarding sophistication and knowledge, Warlocks were sensitive. Bolts even had a twinge of ‘this is wrong’, and she shared nothing related with the scholars with their conceited glares.

All jokes from both sides aside, chances are most of the Warlocks that get so pissy simply get irritable when a good opportunity for reading in their rare free time becomes disturbed. If not that, even the broken promise for a calm and persistent environment to relax in was more than enough to frustrate even the calmest of- well, anyone really. Rivet’s given her the stink eye for bugging her before. With that thought, the feeling of ‘this is wrong’ grew, but screw it. They’re already this far, they might as well continue.

Blue hue giving her away before she even went past Bolts’ peripheral vision, Dassy went ahead, not even bothering to attempt peeking over the bookshelves as tall as the ceiling. “I’ll look for the slab with Sundance,” Dassy whispered. Even listening to her talk felt bad to do. Maybe she was just a snobby Warlock. “Don’t lose him.”

“Yeah,” Sundance playfully emphasized. “Don’t lose him. If I have to search for another Chosen I’ll cut you.”

Both dematerialized, leaving the two not necessarily alone, but still the only two in each other’s sight.

The quiet grew on them with a fine elastic rope, equally as enticing, at least to Bolts, as the curious want to understand the inner workings of the TWESH. To find a comparison would mean that the library in all its glory resembled something quietly, unspeakably Awoken, dangled right before them and asking, still and smooth, to be noticed without asking to be noticed all the same. A clearly human quality, no matter the elegance… but inspired. Bolts slowly leaned her head against Cayde’s now padded shoulder, bunching up the forearm of a thick sleeve in her palm, gently pressing her body to his side in a sort of hug. Fond optics meeting with his own, she separated when she felt the need for such affections pass, nuzzling the neck of his hood briefly and disappearing amongst the bookshelves as her own way to go, inviting him to get his own proper eyeful of the place without her weighing him down. Besides, she might find the right way at the other end.

A silent exchange for a silent place.

Pressing into the spines of preserved literature, some worn, some loose, some relatively new, her tips rose and fell with each curve they romanticized with their passing by. Want, there was want, and she was alone again with her thoughts, but she had to pay attention because of what they were doing. Yet… she was by herself right now. So who’s to say she couldn’t…

Bolts giggled a little bit, gently removing a coverless novel from its squeezed place in between many others. “I’m such a nerd…”

Four thin yellow lines crossed the border separating spine and body, acting as the only filler in an otherwise blank design. Oddly enough, the front lacked any form of a title. Turning it to its side, the spine was blank as she rechecked it. A book lacking a title. Gently opening to the first page, there was a subtle frown at the blank nature within. Turning a few pages, Bolts finally found what she was looking for.
Hiragana, absolutely mind muddling without the proper context of the previous pages, filled the faintly yellow pages, preserved in an oddly crisp way that kept it from falling apart but allowed the holder to feel the age in the movements of the body in every sense of the word. The symbols were old, really old, almost nonexistent old. Familiar, Bolts shut the book and turned it around, bound to peak into the story right to left this time. A title in bright scarlet revealed itself to have simply been on the other side from where she’d started. Honorless. Ha, Aryeh would probably avoid it from the title, but she’ll read some to see if he’d like her to read it to him - wait, no, she can’t take any books. Only the most trusted regulars could do that.

Bolts wished Dassy was still at her shoulder. Aryeh would’ve liked her reading to him… He enjoyed deep feeling novels. In truth, the Titan stereotype of being a meat head didn’t apply to him. Simply speaking to the tall man of unwavering virtue and love let a glimpse into how his mind worked, and it’d throw off even the most expecting of persons speaking to him. It was a deep fall into something more smart, complex and well thought than to be expected from even the oldest of Titans with their short fuses and selective, limited manner of thinking. PTSD was bound to affect everyone of those times, but the Titans were most obviously moved given their high numbers in the City in comparison to the Hunters.

His quiet nature hadn’t been the only thing Rivet had fallen for long ago. Nothing could ever shift the notion that Aryeh was a good man, impressive in more ways than one - and that wasn’t considering his gear.

Shifting the pages with relative quickness, Bolts slowed after some minutes to take in the personality of the writing. Not just the fancy curves reminiscent of kanji either, but the personality of the pen. It spoke lovingly, the filling passion and knowing in every page forcing her back to page one to appreciate a good book before she even got halfway. However long she’d been there, Bolts didn’t notice. The only thing to rouse her passed in a glowing blue.

Realization crashing down, Bolts slammed the book shut, shoving it back where it came from. Where was Dassy and- “Cayde!-“

Coming face to face with an Awoken woman in a blue jacket, both stared still and wide eyed, the shock shared regarding one another for entirely different things. Deep plum slowly filled out the pink woman’s face, laughter rose from her throat as the cyan lights danced erratically at the edges of her eyes and down her cheeks. Bolts hadn’t expected this. Sheesh… this was part of the issue that was steadily growing with her. And now, she was being laughed at by an Awoken woman and her Ghost for having the strange reflex to squeak ‘Cayde’ out of surprise. Maybe the woman wasn’t laughing at Bolts, but simply the unexpected experience. The blush of her face definitely suggested it. Offering a lowered helm in apology, Bolts made her way out of the surrounding bookshelves.

Now, Bolts wasn’t dense by any means, but the walking space between shelves seemed quite unfamiliar. She couldn’t argue that she had just walked through given her loss of focus. Would they have found the slab? What if they’d added to it and left her?
Paranoia, paranoia, it will be your ruin, she told herself. Shush.

Stepping out of the maze of living shelves - or at least, what felt like such - Bolts was vaguely aware of a small collection of Warlocks bunched up together, silent in a different way than what was expected for a library as they stepped out of the library, the tear snapping shut more abruptly rushed than anything. What came across as more attention grabbing however stomped by, one stopping right beside her and grabbing her arm. Bolts just about popped the Redjack with her Light before realizing that a Redjack is in the TWESH. Its singular optic was red, but the color wasn’t what put her off. It was that it was grabbing her. “What-“

“Please remain within The Warlock Exclusive Study Hall until further notice. You will be informed when you can leave,” it simply said. Twisting her neck to view the door, the tear had been once again reopened by the Awoken she’d just left. She looked suddenly more firm, leading to the hypothesis that the previously leaving group had been her friends. The group was unsettled, shifting all disturbed and irritable-like under the helmet covered gaze of a Redjack.

“What happened?” Bolts breathed.

The Redjack simply repeated itself, releasing its hold on her arm and walking off to rejoin the symmetrical square of four it’d broken off from. Guardians were slowly shuffling themselves out from the shelves to get a look at the disturbance, and some looked completely baffled. What would Redjacks be needed for here of all places?

“Dassy,” Bolts slowly gasped. Dassy would know.

Murder, theft, assault, threats, kidnap, infiltration, an exiled Guardian being caught within the Tower, all of these were possibilities. Redjacks normally oversaw the boundaries of the Crucible, but were sometimes lent out by Lord Shaxx for matters regarding Guardians that needed eyes or reliable guards. A form of security themselves, they could act as a sort of police when needed.

But why? Why were they needed? What happened?

The small group of Warlocks were shepard back into the TWESH, and the way they were so close to each other, one holding the other’s arm with the other two bumping into their friends….

With a jolt, Bolts was reminded of… of… the time…. the time she’d been in hiding, squashed beneath the metal ruins of an old car clutching Dassy in hopes to hide her after the visit-gone-wrong, a quad of Lightless Guardians kicked or slammed onto hurting, bleeding, broken knees. One by one, the Fireteam that’d wandered not all that far with her own were killed. And the scream of anguish unable to be kept in from the last to go, no doubt the one that’d caused the most trouble, torment, haunted, ruined by the slaughter of his friends, splattered with brain matter and soaked in blood and- and- by the Light- and-

“Bolts?”

Shaking in Rivet’s hold, shaking in Rivet’s hold, shaking in Rivet’s hold scared, Lightless, unable to shake off the massacre, she’s in the Dark Age again, she’s young again, she’s alone, she’s-

It processed that she was being spoken to, her helm snapping to Dassy. “Bolts,” Bolts copied. Like she’d been wanting Dassy to elaborate. Suddenly realizing Dassy was speaking to her, not about her, she quickly shook her head. “Bolts- yes, Bolts, that’s me, yes? Yes, what do you want? What do you want?”

How had she gotten so off track from looking for the arc slab, one of stone unlike the wooden one? How had she gotten so distracted? Why was the problem with no name raising its head? Even processing what she was doing, she’d only realized the full ridiculousness of the situation now, and she felt utterly foolish and ridiculous and dumb and- helpless- in Rivet’s arms, in Rivet’s arms, safe with Aryeh, in Rivet’s arms-

Dassy gently pressed herself to Bolt’s forehead in the same manner Rivet would. A whimper left the Exo, and the Ghost spoke softly. “Cayde’s at the slab… you wanna see him before we all get round up?”

Rounded up in groups and shot. Rounded up in groups and brutalized. Rounded up. “I don’t wanna die,” Bolts choked. She felt horribly small, small, small. Small small small, easy to grab by the legs again, easy to be nearly crushed before Aryeh would pry open the Cabal’s fist with the sheer force of his will and pop the legionary in the face with its own gun. Squish, crunch. Rounded up, squished, crunched. Her modulated voice was small and meak in how it squeaked. “I don’t wanna be rounded up, Dassy, they’ll kill me.”

“It’s just the Redjacks,” Dassy whispered, “it’s just the Redjacks.”

An image of the Redjacks being grouped up and torn apart for their scrap metal disturbed her, their weapons yanked from their hold as they attempted in their last stand to defend the Guardians and civilians trapped in the City like cattle.

Paranoia. Expect everything, and you won't be surprised. If you’re not taken by surprise, you’re far less likely to end up like this.

What had happened here, exactly? With false and real images fighting to make themselves her dominant focus, her problem proved useful in the refusal to keep her mind solely on monsters that thought themselves superior. It was otherwise just as troublesome as before, providing forced bias toward everything that popped up.

She couldn’t focus for eleven hours, went to the bar on her way to the TWESH. Got equally trapped in her thoughts and absence of correct execution through decision. Cayde showed up, wanted to spend time with her, and she ruined it just as she knew she would by doing something unwanted - by doing something unrelated to the original goal, even when reminders of how she was supposed to be adding to the arc slab, and then she embarrassed herself but refused to admit it, and then she did it even further even though a Redjack wouldn’t care for her lack of attention forcing it to notice and get her attention, and- and now- Red War. But that was a few years ago. A FEW. But it was still in the past. But why is it active right now?

It’s not right now, Bolts just is.

Why is it such a mess?

She thinks on how expecting everything is better, then she can’t. She subconsciously focuses on something, and then suddenly she can't focus on one thing at all. It was her problem. It needed to go, she needs to focus- no, wrong word, what’s the word?
It’s just the Redjacks. The image of them being used in a defiling context of the word counteracted with the cold, harshly simply present, where they stood at attention and unrivaled by waves of Cabal, replacing each fallen legionary with three more. Like how the Ahamkara, the Wish Dragon, had taken the form of a Hydra when faced with the learning of its dwindling race, and made up for being outnumbered by literal Gods by creating its own numbers and had taken weeks to slay.

Ahamkara were a dangerous race, feeding off of the wishes and desire of the very people Guardians were meant to protect and draining the Risen who sought their goals in greedy risks that left them drained and forever changed.

Bolts hadn’t noticed the different train of thought, but it helped. The less negative influence on her scattered mind made things easier to process.

Reality mercifully came back, and Bolts found relief in the group having long passed her. Remembering the closely clutching pair threatened the reminder of the Red War again, but its influence weighed itself back down before she had to address it.
Bolts hadn’t always been like this. The problem was born some weeks ago, and it now had its own distinguished identity as an influence to her. Oddly enough, she knew what caused it, she knew when it happened, she knew where, but this sense of knowing was blocked out and it was causing issues. It was like imagining a new color. You knew what it was, yet you could never imagine it. It would never come to fruition, but you had a knowing for what’d it be. It was as if it were redacted information, on the paper but seen only by a certain part of her, and it was irritating.

Wrong word. Debilitating. Paranoia, in the sense that there was none, and it ruined her. Even when it didn’t affect anything around her, it was paranoia’s fault. The accusatory nature of these thoughts didn’t go unnoticed, but she couldn’t change them. It felt as natural as the problem. And she kept noticing it, kept blaming it, acknowledging what it’s doing, and it forced itself into her focus after just about anything. No, not focus. If she was focused then it wouldn’t keep popping in and out. In and out, in and out, on and on and on and on.

The problem was here, now. The problem has always been here, but the problem is equal in similarity to- this made no sense. Just like yesterday, she’s speaking- no, thinking nonsense. Nonsense. It had a meaning, a purpose, but it was entirely wrong and it needed to stop. It needed to stop. Dassy knew something was wrong, but Dassy could never feel it, too. Even if they were spending intimate time with each other.

That sounded wrong.

… She’s struggling with a brash mental change, and she was making immature jokes? Wait- no, encourage, don’t criticize. That’s what the problem wants. Criticize the problem, come back to reality.

Bolts forced everything in front of her to be what she needed to pay attention to. A sort of mediation different from meditation itself, it’d been so long since she resorted to the nameless act, but a final struggle lifted. Maybe it was Light that allowed it, maybe she was simply good at it, but everything wrong was righted. Bolts was no fool, it wouldn’t last forever, but at least she had ‘normality.’

Besides, the TWESH was no place for something like this. Not her internal struggles, not the Redjacks being called in for whatever reason.

The step she took was, in that moment, one of the best she ever had. Not ever had, but the relief was amazing in that moment. Describing it that way undoubtedly would sound odd if voiced aloud, but it was true and that’s what mattered in her new search for Cayde. Given the lack of continued unsureness, Dassy seemed to notice the new air in which Bolts carried herself.

All is good.

While Bolts had been idling and visibly unnerved, a lot of the Warlocks in the TWESH had been gathered and creating quiet murmurs that would otherwise be rejected from the ‘offenders’ and create cause for being pulled aside for a stern warning from one of the yellow clad deans. The deans were just about the only ones aside from the Redjacks not amongst the groups of finely dressed, layered up suspected Guardians, instead speaking hissed words that carried a bite despite the uncertainty to what was said. No doubt regarding whatever had transpired in the TWESH. Jury Hold - yes, that was his name - looked pissed, the aged Awoken man’s yellow eyes shining fierce and wide to go with the stern grimace that dragged thin cobalt lips into a stretched scowl, elongating the already long, flat cheeks. His nostrils flared, reminding her of a bull snorting before it’d decide to charge. Jury Hold was one of the more serious Cryptarchs she’d ever personally met, and he wasn’t pleasant by any means, but he wasn’t rude or stuck up like Asher Mir. He wanted to teach, he wanted to learn. Nothing else. The other deans of the library-study mix also consisted of Awoken men, but there was a middle aged human Warlock amongst them in the identifying yellows meant to be worn by the deans. Were it not for the armband, Bolts wouldn’t have realized Ikora hadn’t simply chosen mortal Cryptarchs for the task of monitoring and assisting Warlocks in finding whatever they may be looking for, be it a room or even a scroll. That’s how Bolts had caught Jury’s name. Without speaking to the man, Jury often came across as self absorbed. He’d no doubt seem unbearable given the stress of whatever had happened, but he was the first dean Ikora appointed for the TWESH, and when one of three leaders personally gives you a job, you take it seriously, dammit.

Regardless, Bolts silently wished she hadn’t loitered around the bookshelves as tall as dragons, because now there was no way she’d be able to pass the dozen or so Guardians and Redjacks without notice. Jury’s piercing eyes bore into Bolts, and the sudden thankfulness that she didn’t have to see them angry at her specifically hit like a truck. Maybe the interruption to her obscene, harmless vandalism of the arc slab had been a good thing. “You! Come here! Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Bolts-3, come here! Sit, sit!”

Oh, did she forget to mention his photographic memory? Damn Cryptarch remembered anything he as much as glanced at in perfect detail. That’s probably why he was the first picked for this job.

Without complaint - expressed, at least - Bolts plopped into one of the comfy chairs that’d been retrieved from the TWESH’s other spaces to supply the growing number of Guardians being summoned to the spot. Crossing her arms and setting one leg over the other, she set herself to tapping her heel and wondering where Cayde was.

Wait- Bolts snapped her head to Dassy, hushly rushing out, “Is Cayde alright?”

“Yeah,” Dassy whispered back, “I told you, he’s at the slab… or was, rather.”

“Where’s he at now?”

“I don’t know,” Dassy hissed, “maybe he’s in prison. How would I know? I just found you when the Redjacks got here. What were you doing, anyway?”

“Don’t get sassy with me, Dassy,” Bolts hissed back.

“You literally named me Sassy Dassy.”

Fuck. That was true.

Bolts took notice of the stare of a younger looking Warlock. Well, younger in the sense he appeared more new. His age was more so in his twenties. “What?”

He looked awkward, gesturing lightly to her. “What kind of name is Bolts-3?”

WELL- well. Ha. Ha! Not the first time she’d been asked that. Judging from the sudden snap of its gaze and the hurried murmurs, his poor Ghost was appalled that he’d ask that. Not offended, just deeply embarrassed. The guy’s face went red and he looked away. Eh, she could understand. “It’s pretty funny, actually. I didn’t have any ideas when I was rezzed, so I just figured, ‘I’m metal, I’m surrounded by metal - oh look, a bolt. I’m just like that bolt. My name is Bolts.’”

Dassy seemed to take pity on the newer one, too. “At least her name had been thought to it. I got told not to be Sassy and… then we learned she liked to rhyme when fresh out of the grave, apparently.”

Given his red face and continued averted gaze, it didn’t help. Eh, it was a learning experience. He’ll be fine.

“Warlocks.”

Stern and commanding, a voice belonging to none other than Ikora Rey had all heads or bodies turning or spinning ‘round to view the Warlock Vanguard. The collective sense of oh fuck unsettling everyone became immediately obvious to everyone in the room, with all but the newer Guardians understanding in full as to why. Standing tall and clearly unhappy, the naturally restrained nature of such a wise and powerful woman, once Osiris’ pupil and long since established in her own right, created major unease. Whatever had happened had been serious. Serious enough to summon Ikora, who was undoubtedly going to make someone regret their decisions in the TWESH. The previous murmurs went dead quiet, and Bolts noted the younger Guardian’s Ghost inching close to him.

As the tense air became the norm, Ikora slowly clasped one palm over the other, searching eyes slowly carrying over each and every individual and their gear. Testing resolves to hide, but hide what? A sort of ‘hmph’ carried from Ikora. The sense of power in the air was met with no challenge, and the look in her eyes suggested she knew she’d been disrespected by someone. Otherwise, her face and strong voice revealed nothing. “I will not insult your intelligence and pretend it isn’t obvious you’ve all been summoned for a reason. Each and every one of you are to have you and your belongings subjected to a search. Unless… someone wants to come clean?”

I wonder what was stolen. Whoever did it better take the easy way out and fess up, or there’ll be hell.

Ikora’s gaze passed over the many Guardians, suddenly aiming for something else. Bolts twisted in her seat, following the Vanguard’s gaze along with everyone else. The Redjacks brought forth a sheepish Cayde, and Ikora’s brows raised. Someone demanded why Cayde-6 was in here, but they were so quiet Bolts had barely noticed it herself.

He slightly raised his hand from its place at his sides in a sort of wave, fingers moving rapid for a few seconds. “Hi, Ikora,” he quietly greeted.

“Cayde,” Ikora returned.

The Hunter Vanguard glanced around, and the seriousness of the situation had no doubt dawned on him before he’d even been brought forward. “So. Someone stole from the great Ikora Rey. Ouch.”

“It would appear so.”

“You’re not mad at me, right?”

The tiny rise to her lips went unnoticed by all but Cayde. “Given the circumstances, I think I have something else in need of my attention.”

T’sking all disappointed like, Cayde shook his finger at the Warlocks gathered. “Doing things you aren’t supposed to. And I thought we were in a new Golden Age!”

Sparing another glance to the Redjacks, Bolts noted with a twinge of amusement Cayde had definitely tried to hide and got caught due to the glowing robes. That was Bolts’ guess. At the look he sent her, it seemed they both knew he’d be preoccupied by quite in the days to come. He brought his hands together. “Riiiight… well, since you’re so busy now, let me lighten the load.” Cayde gestured to Bolts. “I can vouch for her.”

After a long look of consideration onto Bolts, a spark of recognition almost went unnoticed in the woman’s critically steady eyes. Ikora must recognize her to some extent. Bolts wondered what from. “She’ll still need to be searched.”

“Well… don’t say I didn’t try to tell you,” Cayde shrugged. Even now, he invited humor into the environment.

Next thing she knew, Bolts was first selected for the search, and Ikora’s Ghost somehow conveyed the lack of contraband within Dassy’s storage without even speaking. Bolts wasn’t quite sure how he even checked in the first place, theorizing on what in the TWESH could’ve been taken if he was going off energy waves or something she’d yet to consider, but she ended up being let go pretty quickly.
Awwww. Bolts could practically hear the silent tease from Dassy as envied eyes fell on the white robed Exo. She gave a tiny little wave to Ikora.

“My Fireteam is gonna be wondering where I am….”

“Mine, too.”

“Wait, you guys have Fireteams?”

“You don’t?”

“What’s a Fireteam?”

Ikora slowly shut her lids, no doubt influenced from the sudden burst of conversation. Cayde waved a bye to Bolts as she passed the Redjacks that parted from their mini blockade of the tear, still wondering just what’d been stolen.

——————————————————————————-

Rivet and Aryeh shared a space of their own, but that didn’t mean Bolts wasn’t welcome. Rivet herself rarely settled into it, though, and half the time Aryeh was just about the only occupant. The poor man was more than a little lonely, and if it weren’t for that then Bolts doubted Rivet would even spend time there at all. Many of the older Guardians had homes directly in the Tower, like Bolts, but Rivet had disliked inhabiting such a full place as a way to get R&R and Aryeh was more than happy to be further down on the same level as most of the inhabitants of the City. He felt it to be more homely, like an embrace beneath the Traveler that made him even more enthusiastic to serve after its awakening in the Red War. Still, the place was a bit away from the streets and the majority of activity. Her sister was bothered by all the people. Just a little nervous, but for the most part it was just what most would call a Hunter thing. Given her older status, Rivet had secured the place easily as her own, and Aryeh had spared no complaint, happy to have a nice home with his love no matter where it’d be. Another reason for some of Rivet’s disliking for staying in the house, or any for that matter, is the open space. In the Dark Age they’d all be close together wherever they chose to hide and sleep, sometimes semi-comfortable and sometimes cramped, always concealed with what was needed only. Bolts still remembered the first time she got to use a pillow, got to sleep without the old, worn robes. She’d been awed. Rivet had been jarred and disturbed, even if she liked it to some extent, too. The house, however, was very wide and open, but not huge. The living room and kitchen had nothing to separate them, long windows supplying plenty of light. Behind the couch some feet, stairs lead up to what made the upstairs, exercise equipment and some bookshelves joined with an old crate still holding weapons Aryeh had wanted to rework but still hasn’t got to, lacking the valuables they simply stored on their Ghosts. On its top, an award from the Crucible when it’d been at its meanest stood with polished golden pride, touched by none other than Aryeh. The bathroom was a large square, acting as one of two walls hiding his shared bedroom and meeting up with the ceiling. That’d been a mandatory addition. A room closed off was better than one that left little to hide. Aryeh didn’t quite like whatever added her aversion to the double height living room, and was more than willing to make adjustments for Rivet’s comfort, just as he didn’t mind the placement of the home itself.

A half wall hid the body when first entering the house, and Bolts heard the unmistakable sound of boots suddenly slamming themselves onto the floor as she made her way up the steps. The harsh, fiery glare and tense clenched fists immediately relaxed as his expression faded to his softly kind nature, and Motu reappeared at his shoulder. Aryeh never took kindly to the thought of intruders ruining a safe haven, but Bolts had seen him ready to kill and maim enough to know that it’d never be turned onto her, even on accident. His gentle smile and relaxed posture joined at the same time as he cooled off from his readiness to hurt, and his lips turned up a little extra as Bolts hugged his waste. “Hey, big guy. Rivet been home?”

His head slowly lowered in quiet disappointment. “No,” Aryeh murmured. His voice was deep, lacking much gravel as it rumbled in his chest. His large arms would always give comfort, no matter how much she was reminded that all he had to do was squeeze and he’d crush her.

“It’s just been us for three weeks,” Motu said. He and Dassy shared a look, and some clicks of greeting were shared as Aryeh pulled his arms from her and slowly sat back into his place on the cushioned couch, retrieving the novel of a story from many years before.

The absence wasn’t surprising. It’d been expected in more ways than one, and that was good. She should be back within the week, though. Rivet never went off on her own for more than a month. This had been especially true in the Dark Age, where Bolts had only Aryeh for warmth and a sense of companionship aside from Dassy and Motu for only a few days at most, where Rivet would return with deer or canned foods that she didn’t dare ask where it’d been stolen from. Or rather, from who. Bolts had learned botany, and while she no longer took to the practice in the same measures as before given the lack of need for a false sense of fullness, she still had some plants in her apartment.

Remembering her old practice of botany had her looking to the pink flowers and their pale ends. While she wasn’t surprised he kept them alive, Bolts still nudged her elbow into his side to direct his attention toward them to tease him in an ironic way. After all, he’s always been decent at caring for flowers and fruits. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill the foxglove.”

“I like it,” Aryeh said simply, returning to his novel. “Rivet likes it, too.”

Bolts reached up and ruffled the hair on his head to regain his attention, a slightly fluffy rectangle in the middle with shaved sides. It fit well with his square jaw and pretty much all other aspects. While he wouldn’t be all that happy with someone else besides Rivet or her touching him like this given it’d be an invasion of his personal space, Bolts was one of two others in his Fireteam for a reason, drawing a pleasant close of his eyes and little playful shake of his head adding to the ruffling.

He wasn’t one to get angry at others, but Traveler have mercy when he does. It’d be for a good reason, and when Aryeh had reason, a drive, he was a terrifying force of nature, moving even the oldest to defeat. That didn’t mean he never lost a fight, but still. Again, Aryeh is a very respectable and respectful man even to those who had just met him. Brute force wasn’t needed to diffuse any disrespect or mistreatment of his loved ones. His presence alone prevented it.

Given how she hadn’t been noticing how she’d think, it was all quite pleasant.

And now, contrary of what she’d accomplished for the past hour or so, that was ruined because she noticed her lack of notice. The problem ruined everything. Eh, as long as it wasn’t going strong she didn’t care too much.

They sat in silence, enjoying each other’s company as he went back to reading. Recalling the novel she thought he’d like, Bolts told Dassy to search the network on old stories from Japan to see if any matched the one she’d looked at. When nothing came up, Bolts silently thanked her lack of successful slab-disrespect. Nothing serious, but still anger rousing.

What’s with her and constantly degrading her own class with jokes like these? Mmm… prolly because the jokes are true. Source, trust me bro.

“That’s a good book.”

Interested, Bolts leaned over to peer at the pages. Unbroken, an old story of a soldier in what was known as World War II some years before the Traveler had arrived. Aryeh loved the story and kept it with him as much as he could, preserved by Motu when not in Aryeh’s direct usage. He wouldn’t even lend it to Bolts for fear of his favorite story and piece of history being robbed from him. After all, if he liked it so much, Aryeh had once argued, then Bolts might possibly keep it for herself if she liked it, too. It was a little silly, but hey, everyone had their quirks. After taking in the scene of the three lost at sea men ripping open a shark out of frustration for their attacks, Bolts slowly nodded. “You’ve told me.”

“Honorless,” Aryeh corrected. “The book Dassy couldn’t find. It’s a nice read. A little difficult, but once I started I found the translating easier. I never finished it.”

It must drag on him if he liked it enough to remember. “Why not?”

A little frown drew his lips for a few moments. “Warlord.”

So it got destroyed before Aryeh could get Motu to transmat it. Aryeh doesn’t fight with his books unsafe, meaning he’d gotten jumped. It all sounded familiar. “The cold spring? With the Warlord that shot people in her territory?”

Aryeh nodded. That must’ve sucked. Oh wait, yeah, it did. Aryeh was so pissed his super ended up burning half a forest, and he’d been regretful for years over the Ghost he ended up having to smash when the Warlord refused to back down overnight. Come to think of it, that was probably why he was frowning. He could get over being disrespected, but the burst of blue Light had left the Fireteam and their Ghosts in collective silence. Back then, Aryeh had also been more of a hot head. Not in a major way, but he definitely had allowed himself to rage more easily and hatefully when it came down to it.

It still wasn’t as bad as the Red War. In the Dark Age, they still had their Light. In the Red War, even in the wilds, they were cattle.

Unhappy with how her thoughts already were trying to go off track, Bolts tried to establish a mental reminder to revisit and ask about Honorless. Even if she couldn’t take it, she could have Dassy take a look at it this time and remember every detail. At the least, Dassy would be able to tell it to Motu, who would relay it to Aryeh. Wiretix also enjoyed reading, the sweet thing. The only reason she doesn’t that much is because of her loyal following of her Chosen, always in the wilds, always this place or that. When Aryeh was near, however, usually meaning there was downtime or idle time in a ship in between planets, Aryeh would read to her or they’d both read it in silence, the pages lingering longer than normal just in case Wiretix needed to catch up. All three Ghosts had nice shells, each from their lovingly grateful Guardian. The models had pretty interesting names, like weapons or armor pieces. Motu had ‘The Right Choice’, a white shell with gold designs at the ends and around his core. Wiretix adorned the ‘Sanctified Vigilance’, a black shell with gold lining and patterns, three jewels above and below her core. Dassy had the one worded ‘Mythological’, and Bolts sometimes liked to joke how she was the one with the most love for her Ghost given the exotic nature of the fins and thin glowy tentacles that cost upward a few thousand glimmer. Dassy hadn’t demanded it, but it was so pretty that Bolts just had to have squandered her savings at the time just to show off her Sassy Dassy. Rivet enjoyed something simple, while Aryeh also took to something a bit fancy.

Ugh, she’s thinking about something unrelated again. Bolts scraped her digits against the back of her helm in a motion meant to scratch one’s scalp, creating a metal scratching sound for a couple seconds before she abruptly halted the practice. That weird little habit came with the problem too. Bolts would probably leave to meditate in complete solitude and silence if it weren’t for how she’d feel guilty leaving Aryeh already when she’d usually stay a few days at a time whenever she visited. Guess the upstairs would have to do in a bit.
After some time simply in each other’s company, Bolts figured she might as well mention the incident in the TWESH. Normally, there’d be zero hesitation, but leaning forward with her crossed legs, Bolts chalked it up to the problem. “You have no idea how much your unfinished book kept me from getting into some serious shit.”

Aha, he was interested. Bolts acted out pinching and removing a book, exaggerating the motion of moving her head all confused like before ‘flipping it over’ and reading right to left. “So there I was with my fiancé - not, not really,” Bolts rolled her optics at Aryeh’s slight display of surprise, “though I wish he was - ready to annoy anyone stuck up residing in the TWESH. But alas! Pain! I got distracted somehow and found a delicious story! Oh, then the Redjacks came and Ikora had them round everyone up. Thought I was gonna get executed. Sheesh.”

Aryeh’s furrowed brow and slight frown drove Bolts to explain further. “Something got stolen. Don’t know what, but it’s probably gonna make public news soon. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ikora was actually mad.”

Motu seemed to have been reminded of something. “An Official Vanguard Announcement for the bust of Ra’Shedon went out a few hours ago.”

“Statue got stolen, mystery solved,” Dassy chipped in, spinning her glowing shell.

Bolts nodded a bit jokingly, but the frown on Aryeh’s face only grew. What’s with everyone and deep frowns today? He set his novel back down, tapping the corner of the table. It flashed green, and a screen lit up an inch above the wood as he searched up the incident. Immediately, the table screen was practically flooded with dozens of pictures peaking into the scene. Redjacks outside the TWESH, Redjacks inside, the deans with their unhappy-to-say-the-least faces, even one of Ikora mid shout leaning on the table at a Warlock clutching his Ghost to his chest. He must’ve refused a search if she actually got mad. And of course, articles questioning why Cayde-6 was wearing a fancy Warlock robe in the TWESH when even Zavala hadn’t stepped in as seen from previous pictures. Cayde looked unamused and serious. Zavala looked an inch away from being mad himself. Other images consisting of the bust of Ra’Shedon and questioning titles as to where it was or if anyone sees it on the black market to report it also swamped every space in between. The only unrelated one pictured the Tower and how the majority of it had been rebuilt, and it’d be some months before it, along with the Wall, would be completely fixed, but Bolts trusted it’d be fairly quick. If the collective effort of Guardians and construction workers managed to rebuild all the homes and living spaces in the Tower within barely a few months, they could get the Tower done within a few years at most. “Disrespectful.”

“Yeah,” Motu seemed to nod at that. “Look at Cayde-6. Even he’s taking it seriously.”

Cayde hadn’t looked so downright almost scarily calm since the Red War, or at times when he’d been mad. Was the bust so important that even he felt disrespected regarding its theft? That didn’t sound like Cayde. That didn’t sound like Cayde at all. There was a difference between how he was for Vanguard duty and actually stern, and this was it.

Was he worried? Was that it? It couldn’t be Zavala’s clear frustration or Ikora’s demanding and searching eyes lit up with anger dragging his spirit down, that wouldn’t really personally affect him that much.

New pictures and articles appeared by the second. Aryeh tapped off the table screen, and there was silence again.
The bust of Ra’Shedon had been stolen, and even the Hunter Vanguard notorious for his more upbeat and boldly exuberant nature didn’t need to pretend to be more than annoyed.

With a mysterious air and majestic creation, the woman who’d immortalized such a strange Hive wizard had taken to the craft until the very last day of her life. Even the unfinished nicks meant to shape the jutting ribs beneath robes radiated a sense of power and sentience. A mastered craft, honed after a century and seventy years more of life by a woman with no name, haunted by the being that had ripped her family from this life and left her forehead jeweled with impossible to remove reflective diamond. With just one touch, the wizard that’d immortalize itself through memory alone would mark those it deemed unfit for slaughter, whatever that categorized a survivor as. While the source of the bust’s appearance itself had been far from respected, the craftsmanship, quality, and reminder of history so finely put through the process of physical form made it a valued, awed wooden statue. A statue, for many artists would argue that bust was too unrefined a word for such a great work with eyes that still felt moving. Soul sucking. Hateful. Ready to mark those unfit to kill just to hex them with a life of ruin. Another reason the bust was so famous - it’d been an impossible deed, and yet the sculptor’s zeal alone had bested a curse that refused her even a name beforehand.

Bolts personally thought it was a pretty creepy thing to steal, but to each their own. If the thief somehow managed to sell it without being turned in for a reward twice as big as the bust’s worth itself, it’d be more than enough Glimmer to retire for seventy years. That’s about as long as a human lifespan used to range!

They talked for hours, reminiscing of Rivet.

—————————————————————————————

Perfection. Everything was perfection, and that was a flaw. Without perfection, nothing is perfect. If nothing is perfect, nothing is good. It was a weird thought that’d debated in her head since she’d taken a look at the bust of Ra’Shedon. Pronounced Rah-Shay-den, Bolts guessed she shouldn’t be surprised that the problem would add to the many thoughts the bust would spawn in every viewer, no matter how many times it’d been observed, no matter how long. The bust was perfection, and without it, nothing could be perfect. But given it’d been perfection itself, didn’t that leave room for new perfection? Hive were perfection. The problem loved to be agreed with regarding that. The Hive were perfection, absolution, great and terrible. Worthy, and they deserved it. The only monument of Hive that didn’t violate every means of their dignity in an insulting manner was the bust of Ra’Shedon. Specifically that bust, always that bust. Only that bust. It was a craft made through the hands of a mortal, from the hands of a God, unseen, unheard of, disappeared. The problem told her this, allowing her to learn, to know, while also having the matter-of-fact knowledge that Ra’Shedon had been slain long before the God Slayer himself had come to be. Eyeing the little bugs creeping up her metal body, Bolts concluded them as insulting to pair with the Hive. With Royalty. Royalty was to be served, and it was disgusting she thought so. It all came with the problem. Knowledge, certainty, belief, all of it not hers and acting as natural as her own thoughts. But they were her own thoughts, and that’s what made the problem so dangerous. That’s what wanted her to take her mind off of anything else but the Hive, scattering her thinking until it would recognize them as her only source of attention. Not for study, not for serving. To be. And it was intermingling, changing. Dancing with something else.

Thank the stars for her many years of experience, or like paranoia, it’d go unnoticed.

It all revolted her. These were her thoughts, her own will, and the insults went to herself. The insults, the degrading nature of every negative reaction to her own actions. But it was the problem that caused it, and that was her only saving grace from thinking she’d gone mad. Eris Morn was not mad, and still everyone thought her so because of how she spoke so self taught, so deliciously knowledgeable. Only the recognition of truth and sanity in her words had saved her from being Exiled any further than her own self imposed one, meant to warn others, meant to educate. Delicious, because it was about the Hive, and no other knowledge or time should be invested in anything else. Except that wasn’t her thoughts, that wasn’t Bolts’ will, it wasn’t and Bolts knew it wasn’t.

She wondered how Rivet would think of her foolish lack of mention of this, but how would Bolts explain the problem? Rivet would know, Rivet would deduce, but the problem clarified it’d never happen even when Bolts knew it would. Or could. It was a possibility.

Even simple thoughts spawned doubt. The problem ensured that.

“What’s the song?” Rivet asked.

Bolts knew Rivet wasn’t there, but she was, in a way, even when the acknowledgement of her as an actual person and the knowledge that this Rivet, right here, was fake, clashed. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I have forgotten.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“The song and name won’t come to me.”

Bolts continued to hum a simply familiar tune, slowly swaying side to side with her head. The orange flaring with every sound from her modulated voice served as a little illumination of her person, and Bolts came to notice her subconscious, specifically noted as ‘metallic’ limbs as ‘Rivet’ was no more. Yes, Bolts is made of metal. Hard not to be when one was a human mind implanted into the perfect war machine. Still, she’d only thought of it as a body before hand, not associating it as a separate metal one. Like her skin was still there. Her skin, no, the Earth’s skin, because her body was long gone even before Dassy had Chosen her.

When did she change clothes again? Before Aryeh, she concluded. Before visiting Aryeh. In shorts and a baggy tank top revealing a featureless metal torso when she leaned forward as she did now, their intended comfort had been lost to her attention grasped by other things. Once again, the scattered nature of her thoughts proved useful in paving the way out of the worst of them.
Meditation proved futile when moved ‘purposefully’.

Bolts palmed the holographic band on her left arm, clicking tiny buttons on the sides. Semi solid material suddenly boosted her up, and she was lounging in pale pink neon a few feet off the side of the front yard tree and its thick roots. Emotes had always been popular, no matter how unnecessary many of the older Guardians found them to be. The coming of Eververse further increased the already widespread use of compressed data material. Rivet had a few she never used, and Bolts still wasn’t sure if Aryeh even expressed interest in one yet. Guardians weren’t the only ones to use them, but they usually had the most Glimmer from their travels and explorations, and many got paid anyway for their efforts in missions, so a broke Guardian was known as either a big spender or just not much of a trooper.

Even with its massive size, the Traveler didn’t block out the stars at the edges of the City. Whenever a chunk of its body passed over part of her view, it’d be some minutes but the stars were still there. She lifted an unmotivated hand, sticking the tip of her finger over the moon and its distant quarantine zones.

“Where did I go wrong, Dassy,” Bolts asked. The Ghost was spending time with Motu and Aryeh, leaving Bolts to her own. “What did I do?”

What triggered the problem?

The moon, the moon was the problem. The Hive. There was more to it, but nothing past those vague senses of recognition and knowing allowed for any form of exploration.

I miss the silence.

The emote ran out of charge, neglected for a month. Bolts hovered on her own, still sitting back. After a little while, she lifted her thumb over individual stars. ‘Ha! I’ve got you!’, a fun little thought. Over the moon, a sliver of white free from her childish slammed the statement back in equal volume regarding her.

Maybe… maybe there wasn’t a problem. Maybe she should talk to someone about PTSD. There was definitely some leftover from the Red War. A lot, actually. But she was fine, she didn’t need it. Yeah, she didn’t need it. It won’t change reality.

Her name is Bolts, and she is in control. There’s no denial of anything, and her thoughts were her own. Nothing else. Everything is fine.

Was, fine.

‘Admitting you have a problem is the first sign of healing.’

The speech of a knowledgeable person sometime after the Red War, maybe a few months. Guardians of all Classes had been summoned for the occasion, a wide space with microphones unable to contain the mourning Gods of love and loyalty. The ones that chose to arrive, at least. Many had been shaken and left the City out of fear. The voice carried through many speakers, inviting Gods of Light and civilians in need to listen.

‘The first step is most important. When you accept your projection of negativity, your problems won’t go away, and they won’t fix themselves, and the memories of what happened this year will forever be with you. But you can move on. We as a City, a Community can move on. We’re all affected differently by trauma, all see it differently, all know it differently. No two Titans share the same Helm, no matter how the miniscule the difference in design. No two adolescents will share the same manners. No two Guardians, no two peoples, will share the same outlook. But help is patient, and ready for you when you need it.’

Bolts doesn’t need help. Was this the problem’s doing? Was this projection? No, she doesn’t need help. She’s fine. She knows her problems for what they are. Nothing was wrong, and she didn’t come to notice it suddenly, and she didn’t- didn’t find something to project anything on, she’s fine when she isn’t hurting which is normal, so she’s fine. She’s fine. Staring down into the grass and unmoving, the scars panged in her metallic chest. Something was wrong. Wronged than feeling wrong, that had to be, it was something and there was no excuse for the fakeness that was so true. No, not true, that’s the whole thing! It’s not true, so therefore the realness is fake. She’s just projecting - no, no. Embarrassment crept up. The only one hearing her backfiring argument was herself.

Not everything was fine, but that was okay so long as it didn’t affect her life. Even though she’d spoken to Dassy less, her loving Ghost, her fucking annoying Ghost, always harassing her with are you okays and noticing everything painfully true and real Bolts wanted to be lies, everything was fine.

Debating, debating, debating reality. There was nothing fake with how her blatant denial struck what she already accepted as truth. And she wanted to reject the acceptance, and it hurt, because being okay means she wouldn’t have to talk about it and could blame what definitely is the problem and not have delusions.

Something felt wrong again. Wrong, and it wasn’t just all this- fucking arguing.

The debate on the problem existing or being a projection had been a subconsciously present feeling, but noticed, it was an entirely different experience. Notice, notice, notice, expect, expect, expect. Maybe all this thinking was just paranoia. Maybe this was just her, completely capable of changing her thoughts around but feeling stuck to the point nothing was changing because it convinced her and it was just- just- everything is wrong. Everything is wrong. Bolts tried diverting her attention elsewhere, but the pressing repeat continued, continued, and FUCKING CONTINUED and it FUCKING SUCKED. It’s not projection, it’s real! It’s all- all really real!

It felt dirty, like a lie, like something petty, but a technical truth was technically true even if it was a lie, and Bolts reached out for that mentality. Reached out for how it was reality she was thinking these things, so therefore, it existing was true, and therefore it was true and nothing could change that and everything was okay and everything was fine and everything is okay-fine and everything is never nothing and therefore she’s fine because she’s normal, she’s a machine but she’s normal, and that was okay. That was okay because she needed it to be okay, but she searched for reasons anyway, to justify it and convince herself even though she knew it wouldn’t, so if she was asked about it she’d be able to convince someone of it because talking about any of it was scary.

‘A thinking trap can be escaped,’ the person speaking continued. ‘All it takes is a willingness to escape it.’

Bolts isn’t a fucking idiot, a fucking idiot would not know that and wouldn’t be smart enough to acknowledge it, even though she does that and equally rejects it despite knowing what it’d do like one. Yeah, she tried, and she’s willing, but she’s fine. She knows it’s there, she knows what it is, but she’s fine because it’s not there and by the Light this was frustrating, off putting, something’s throwing her off of something that had to be it she’s okay she’s okay she’s okay…..

Crying. It was a little annoying, but she lifted her head up to find the source, even reverting to her pedes - feet, just think of them as feet - to spin and find who was feeling bad. She wanted them to feel okay, and they were annoying, and by the Light the one crying was her, it was Bolts, that’s why it was annoying, that’s why she wanted to feel better, because she found herself annoying because she knew she was the cause for many things that ‘ARENT MY FAULT’ and made her irritated and affected her view on things. Wandering the yard, Bolts was suddenly thankful for the quiet, where she could relax the tightly suffocating clashing in her mind and chest. Exo didn’t need air, but simulated breathing helped to prevent Resets, and her body was her own so of-fucking-course it’d do that. Orange flickered in intensity and strength, and she lifted her hand, tilting back her head and gently spinning with a tiny smile at the thought of stroking her fingers across large leaves. What if the leaves were flowers? Even better. Even better, big soft leaves and flowers, but flowers were softer so she imagined just them. Maybe she could grow some giant verbena, make their petals as thick and long as jungle grass while being as soft and pinchable as they would’ve been when small. Except she can’t, because there wasn’t any verbena variant that evolved that way, not by the Traveler nor time, and that was okay but even though they weren’t really there, they were calming and smelled sweet, and she should start carrying some in her pocket like she used to. Not for verbena flowers, but she used to bunch up a lot of nice smelling petals, and it made her pocket smell like that for a long time and it was so cool and- Bolts choked up, letting herself stumble with the drag of her spins. That was okay. Dumb, but okay.

The problem was just a projection, wasn’t it? No, no it was true. It was a projection and that was true. It just described a feeling. That was it. That gave her comfort. It was natural. Natural, she wasn’t a fool for letting it stay. The invisible guilt lifted off raising shoulders as she slowly made her way across the grass. Great, this was great, this is great. The problem wasn’t great. It still had its own identity. She was okay, but she wasn’t, and that’s okay because she can get so one day.

That… sounded absolutely silly, actually. If I’m already fine, why would I need to BE fine?

She is. She’s not.

It’s fine.

“I want Aryeh,” Bolts suddenly blurted out. She stopped, facing the window. Dassy looked away, but Motu stared freely. Observing, rather than a childish wondering. Bolts shook out a rattled breath as she made her way to the door. “I want Aryeh,” she repeated. That sounded like a good idea.

Hurrying up the steps, Aryeh moved natural and easy as she hopped onto the couch and snuggled into his side of safety and warmth and assurance. It didn’t need to be intended, nothing from him had to be, for her to get that sense of safety and warmth. She felt like a child, but in his gentle hold and under softly worried eyes, that was okay because it was good here. The nerves rattled off, still there but lifting ever still slight. It didn’t take tears to cry for Exo, but it was still obvious.

The night was silent as she fell asleep embraced in safe radiant warmth and company, and Bolts distantly thought of how nice it’d be to feel Rivet’s embrace comforting her along with Aryeh’s.

—————————————————————————————-

Chapter One - Aryeh Lev

Staying awake hadn’t been needed, but his habit of keeping watch when needed never broke in all his years. The possibility of an unwelcome guest disturbing the gently grasped calm that eased the woman seeking comfort from him was more than unlikely, but it was better safe than sorry, no matter where they were. Aryeh would prefer Bolts waking to the feeling of protection if that was what she needed. He didn’t mind. She was always the more sensitive one, and as his teammate, his family, he had a duty to be there in their times of need, no matter the time of day.

He liked helping. His Ghost understood and so did hers, so the night was spent in still silence.

It was the wee hours of morning when the door clicked, and Aryeh was ready to get angry until the familiar smooth quickness of his love came into few, Wiretix at her shoulder. The scowl on his face returned to his usual calm, and he offered a full smile as her helmet was removed, welcoming the metal face with the diagonal yellow paint stroke that he loved with all his Light. He received one in return, in her own way. A small little smile that would’ve turned up at the ends if she had lips. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared, but that’s just how she was.

Rivet sat directly across from them, sparing the briefest of glances to the window before her focus trained on her twin. Their models were similar in just about every way, so it wasn’t wrong to call them that. Aryeh’s silent joy crinkled at the eyes in a more sad way, no words needing to be exchanged as to why. Rivet looked to him, the lingering question she’d ask every so often in rare messages during her patrols of the wilds being answered with a shake of his head. Bolts hadn’t spoken to him about ‘it.’ Her yellow optics immediately flicked back to her twin.

The greasy clothes beneath the elbow, shoulder, and knee pads disappeared at the same time as her chest piece, cargo pants and a dark hood taking its place along with combat boots. Rivet wasn’t a woman of vanity. She didn’t need it, as far as Aryeh was concerned.
Wiretix inched close to Bolts’ sleeping face, looking her over before returning to Rivet again. The two shared a silent exchange of sorts, the optics falling onto Dassy in search of answers. Dassy readjusted her shell a bit. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she whispered. “She doesn’t tell me anything.”

Rivet’s whole body slumped, face falling into hands propped up by knees. Rubbing her face, tired, but still wanting to be awake. Aryeh didn’t like how defeated she looked. It reminded him of civilians awaiting news of their missing family and friends, shut down by a lack of answers or even officially announced deaths. Instead of a death, or a missing child, they both longed for the previously happy Bolts that didn’t feel forced. Bolts was happy still, don’t get him wrong, but… just not the same, and it worried both of them. Rivet took it the hardest. The Red War affected all of them, but Bolts had changed most, and the more recent addition of ‘not quite right’ made it more obvious. In bed, when taking on duo patrols, in loving glances, the worry always lingered. It was a constant stress, and Aryeh needed to be there with his family until the weight of their collecting, shared stresses and problems was lifted off their shoulders. Aryeh would be lying if the stress didn’t irritate him, too. Aside from the tenseness of his lover, which he could handle, his own concern brought a different sort of effect overtime. It didn’t negatively affect any of their relationships, but the strain at least changed their moods enough to alter their daily lives. He wasn’t the best at helping when the issue was more mental than emotional or in physical form, but whatever he needed to do would be done. Right now, he just knew he needed patience with the both of them. Patience for Rivet, affected by the drag of her sister, and patience for Bolts, haunted by unseen memories with an effect that was always shutdown when brought up. Bolts had become their main focus even when not present with the invisible troubles she thought they both didn’t notice whenever they got too strong and she retreated to her apartment in the Tower, and rightfully so. Again, she was family, and he’d stand by her side no matter what it was that she needed. Even if she didn’t realize it herself.

Wiretix got his attention, drawing him to the moving hands. ‘Did she do anything new?’

‘No. She spent the afternoon, then came inside crying.’ Aryeh signed back. Rivet slowly shook her head, clearly annoyed that couldn’t even get a hint. ‘Just like before.’

A scoff left the Hunter. It had no direction, nothing to point at. ‘Just that today? Completely?’

‘The bust of Ra’Shedon was stolen,’ Aryeh shrugged. He relayed what Bolts had told him of her experience in the Warlock Exclusive Study Hall when Rivet expressed surprise. She didn’t need to check the network to get a grasp of how it probably looked right now. A master craft residing in Ikora Rey’s public-but-selective study hall, stolen, would spark controversy and shock.

‘So there was a stressor,’ Rivet signed. Aryeh gave a bit of a nod. ‘Was there one a few weeks ago?’

‘I still don’t know,’ Aryeh shrugged again. Dassy, too, always insists she doesn’t know what started the progressively stronger, spaced out mini freak outs, just letting them know whenever Bolts had one.

Dassy hasn’t shared much, but the occasional nights lacking sleep was one thing they got to know about. They couldn’t ask Bolts about it until they had more to go on than what she was doing out of sight. Or wasn’t, rather.

The annoyance bristling on Rivet’s shifting face struggled to not direct itself toward him, leaving her unsettled and quiet. Void Light gently danced across and covered her body, and Rivet took to striking the blades against one another in place of her own knives. They’d make a sound, and given how an increased amount of sleep often helps, it was clear neither wanted to disturb her.

Rivet stepped around the couch, leaning over as she stroked Bolts’ face. Gently, softly, afraid to wake up her delicately loved sister. “Thank you.”

“She’s family,” Aryeh humbled, carefully readjusting his arm on the sleeping body against his side. “I don’t need thanks.”

“I know,” Rivet sighed. It seemed they came to accept whispers as a sound they could make.

They looked to each other, and the intricate ‘I miss you’ of a single gaze stilled the both of them. Just for a moment, all in mind had been for each other, and that hadn’t quite been the case for some months now. Slowly, Rivet moved along the couch’s side, and the lovers touched heads, silent, eyes shut. Aryeh moved his lips to her forehead, gently placing a little kiss as she moved back to her original lean.

Similarly to moments prior, both had the collective thought of their Ghosts, as if they’d just remembered their presence. Wiretix faced away, and Motu seemed a bit awkward. Dassy, however… “Ooooo. K-i-s-s-i-n-g!”

At least the tease was quiet. Rivet played along, rolling her eyes and unable to help the warm smile. “Oh, shut up, Sassy.”
The Ghost was still. More curtly, Dassy gained an attitude, the abrupt annoyance shining through even in the way the little tentacles on her shell moved. “Sassy Dassy is the name.”

“We know,” Aryeh quietly chuckled. “Trust me. We know.”