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Eris has done grimmer work than this – gathering Darkness, befouling the Seed of Silver Wings, overseeing desperate attempts at communication again and again – but the pyramid ships provide pressure, looming and imminent. At first she finds the Drifter ill-fitting company for such dire circumstances. He jokes and cajoles and trades barbs, quick to duck even the shadow of responsibility.
But he has his moments.
“Say, Commander, while I’ve got you here, I’ve been meaning to ask –” he says, fearlessly sliding through one of Zavala’s brief but stern lectures. “You want me to take a look at those frames back there?”
A reluctant pause. “What frames?”
“There’s these three maintenance types, they drop by and sweep the street for hours. Figured it must be their map data bugging out.” She can hear the smile in his voice, insincere and jovial. “Could get that sorted in two ticks. Hell, I’d even give you a discount, since we’re being heroic together and all.”
Another pause. Eris wonders if Zavala is gritting his teeth. The Vanguard’s surveillance is rarely subtle. “That… will not be necessary. Thank you for notifying me. Tower maintenance will look them over soon.”
“Let me know if you change your mind. I just like being helpful.”
It is a poor thing to laugh at, but all humour has been sparse of late. Eris chuckles, safely muted, and updates a tally of points she hadn’t realized she’d begun keeping.
“You made… coffee?” she asks, dubious. The three mugs steam – one kept covered, for the Stranger had vanished as she was wont to do – but the smell isn’t quite right, tinged with something sharper Eris cannot identify. That the Drifter had to tinker with various settings and inputs on the synth-brewer for over five minutes, muttering to himself as he did, does not assuage those doubts.
“Not quite,” he answers with false modesty. “It’s better. Give it a try.” There’s nothing in his expression that indicates a particular trick, so she does, and hums her surprised approval as spice warms the back of her throat. He leans back against the counter, expectant and self-satisfied.
“It is good,” Eris admits, keeping the note of surprise out of her voice. “Once again you prove yourself useful company.”
His smile is sardonic, with an amused edge. “That’s all I ever aspire to, sister.”
Eris is wrist-deep in an acolyte’s torso, and does not withdraw or turn away when the Drifter arrives. By now, she knows him from how he walks when he wants to be heard, and his tendency to whistle tunelessly, making a show of just how relaxed and unbothered he is. This she has learned, over these disparate months: he is good at performances.
She also knows he would hardly flinch away from this.
“Find anything good in there?” he asks, peering over the slab.
“Nothing of note.” She has already excised the worm, kept separately to drain its accumulation of tithes. All rituals need fuel, and she does not often have the time nor the freedom to go burning through the Hellmouth for the necessary power.
“Not much good eating with the Hive,” he remarks idly as she finishes her work. “Too starved up from the worms.”
“The heart is passable. I have eaten worse.” An equally idle response. He lingers and pokes around while she scrubs her hands clean and disposes of the corpse. Bodies too have their uses, but the acolyte was too young to be worth preserving.
“It’s not a bad place you’ve got here,” he says from the back of the room. “Homey with all the bones and charms.” A gentle jibe, as if the Derelict isn’t littered with evidence of his own tools and pasttimes. “Even got a real vintage stashed away.”
“What?” she demands, whirling to face him. The Drifter raises his hands, holding a bottle that she recognizes instantly. “Do not open it.” Her voice comes out sharper than she intends, but it is the edge of slow-healing wounds. Foolish to keep the wine with her, but of course she does. The moon is littered with memories of those she has put to rest and those still waiting for the reprieve.
“Sure,” the Drifter says, and sets it back down. He tilts his head and waits.
“It is owed to someone else, though he will not return. I will not open it yet.”
“Not in a sharing mood, huh?”
“I would prefer to share Hive meat, if it came to that.”
Something flickers in his eyes – recognition, never pity. “I get it. There’s a few things I’m waiting on myself. How about I cover the drink, then?”
He fetches a smaller, darker bottle out of transmat, and Eris scrounges up something approaching a meal in the moon’s half-light.
The Drifter raises his battered glass in a toast. “To the stragglers still holding on.”
“To the stragglers,” Eris repeats, lips curling, and drinks.