Chapter Text
Piotr turned the knife over between his fingers, cursing softly as the hooked blade slipped between his forefinger and thumb and fell to the floor, clanging several times as it connected with whatever he had thrown beneath his bed. He glanced toward his desk, lips pursed as he watched Cassandra sleep or wait in stasis—whatever Ghosts did—and when a full ten seconds had passed without her fins rising and her eye brightening as she cracked some joke at his expense, he let the air leak from his lungs. Summoning the icy cold shadows of the Void, he drew the blade out from under his bed and back to his hand, wreathed in purple flames.
“Damn Hunter makes it look so easy,” he mumbled and began the exercise again.
It was one of a few new things he had begun to teach himself since . . . well, since he had stopped leaving the Tower every few days to go on missions and generally clean up after his Fireteam. He found that it was better to keep his hands, and his mind, occupied. Focused, and not wandering back to the moment he had heard only silence over the comms, the very air around him crackling with static and the ebbing energy waves of the pulse that had destroyed his queen’s Dreadnought. Both Martyr and Seraph had dragged his ass through the rest of that mission, though he had come clear of the fog the moment they stepped into Oryx’s chamber. He had yet to thank his team for allowing him the final blow to the king, the self-satisfied vengeance cooling swiftly when he realized it would not bring his beloved Mara Sov back.
He scowled and stood, setting the blade atop one of the shelves amidst the eclectic collection of Fallen, Taken, and Vex that lined nearly every flat surface within his room. Moving toward the one window, he brushed aside the curtain and blinked as the afternoon sunlight stuck his eyes. The Tower was quiet; they still remembered and worked to rebuild what damage the Red Legion had done.
“You have messages,” Cassandra said from his desk. He did not have to look to know that she was drifting over her station, pretending not to monitor him. “Shall I play them?”
“Go ahead.” His gaze wandered over the streets as various messages played through his small living quarters, but he heard none of them. As the ping of an incoming call echoed in his ears, he sighed and turned, giving his Ghost a look.
Her outer rim spun. “Oh no. If you want to tell your Vanguard that you’re refusing messages, be my guest. I won’t be the one dealing with your corpse afterward. Oh wait—I will.”
Drawing in another slow breath, he transmatted one of his cleaner shirts over his bare chest and lifted both hands to work through the tangles of his fiery copper hair. “Go ahead,” he said dryly, and stepped closer to hide the view of his room. “Ikora,” he greeted with a bit more added emotion.
“Guardian.” Her dark eyes narrowed, but he did not let his expression shift. She was waiting for that, he knew that well enough. “I heard from Squall that you did not show up for training with the younger Guardians today.”
He bit back a curse by quickly clearing his throat. “My apologies. I must have had my days mixed up.” Ignoring Cassandra’s knowing hmph, he cracked a sheepish smile at his Vanguard. “Did Squall manage without me?”
“She did, but she should not have to, as you well know. I have given you the time you requested, Piotr, and I gave more when your teammate came to me and kindly asked for it. But it has been weeks now and you have duties to fulfill.” She paused to take a breath, her stance relaxing as she continued to hold his gaze. For a moment, her form wavered and he could hear the faint sound of another person speaking to her, but when she returned, she was alone. “Squall found someone to replace you this morning, but I expect you to come tomorrow, and every day after. Grief will only guide you for so long.”
It was easier to hide his response over the comm, he simply clenched his hands into fists and ignored the sharp prick of his nails against his palms. “Thank you for your patience, Ikora. I will be at the lessons tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” Her expression softened marginally. “And Squall says you owe her a favor.”
Allowing himself to wince, he congratulated himself when Ikora gave him a swift goodbye and asked no more questions. But his relief quickly faded as Cassandra gave a faint whir and a video appeared between them.
Martyr and Seraph were on—he squinted—Mars, and they were currently dashing back and forth on a series of staircases, punching Cabal and generally looking like a pair of fools. He smiled and motioned for Cassandra to turn up the volume. “LUCY!” one of the Ghosts wailed, trailing along after a Hunter dressed in copper-hued armor and currently wielding a shotgun. “Please, please, please wait for me to get your shield back up before you—” the rest of his words faded into a static-filled warble as he transmatted away while she slid beneath a Legionnaire's sword.
The sharp ra-ta-ta-ta of an auto rifle covered whatever response she gave, but Piotr could see from the sudden shift of the camera that Martyr had laid down cover fire as Seraph ducked behind a wall and summed an arc grenade. It took only a moment for the two to take control of what remained of the battlefield, and as Martyr turned to give his Ghost (who had recorded the whole fight), a thumb’s up, Seraph mimed swinging a baseball bat, lifting one hand to shield her gaze as the imaginary ball left the field.
“Hey, Herecy!” she shouted, skipping to Martyr’s side as the Exo held out his hand to allow his Ghost to hover above. “Lot of crazy shit out here—Rasputin shit. You’d love it.” Her gaze suddenly shifted. “Ooh, loot!”
Martyr chuckled. “We’ll send you the coordinates the next time we come out this way. She’s right; you’d love it.”
The connection cut short and he stared at the blank wall across from him, finding that a hint of a smile still played about his lips. Cassandra gave a little hum and floated closer, nudging the line of his jaw even as he lifted his hand and let her rest in his palm. “Sounds fun,” she mused, short chirps escaping her as the coordinates came in. “Wouldn’t hurt to at least visit.”
“No,” he murmured, looking around his dimly lit room again. “No, it wouldn’t hurt.”