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The Vanguard’s annual Solstice of Heroes party is tonight. A grand outdoor gala, held in one of the largest parks in the Last City. Or is it more of a work event all of the conscripted Guardians are forced to attend?

Ms. Rey invited him. She made it clear he was fully welcome, but not obligated to attend, in case he found it all too much to take in at once. And it is too much, sometimes. Dr. Davis. She was Dr. Davis to him just three months ago. Now she’s Ikora Rey, Warlock Vanguard, Sigma 5 Guardian, Voidwalker… and whatever else she’s been called. 

Lodi intends to go. Sometimes he tries to talk himself out of it, but he wants to go. Maybe just for an hour, if it’s not his scene. He hopes it is. The Vanguard, as far as he can tell, is essentially a modern military… that holds political control of the Last City. Unelected and self-appointed, governing by the fact that Lightless plebians like him have a very difficult time taking out one Guardian, much less an entire unified army of them. It’s fortunate for everyone that the foundations of the Vanguard - many of whom he understands are still around - are benevolent. 

He dons his new Emissary duds and then hesitates. What’s the dress code for a shindig like this, anyway? Black tie? Suits and gowns? Casual, khakis and sundresses, more like a company picnic, if it’s in a park? Come as you are? Armor? His white and blue robes will have to do.

IX wants him to go. Solstice is named in its honor, after all, celebrating its radiant warmth and its longest days illuminating the Last City. It would like to see the festivities, through his eye. Attending will do him some good. Orin was very certain he can never go back, and this is his new normal. His new home. Settling in to the environment, ascertaining more of a read on things, meeting more friendlies. All important if he’s going to keep moving. Sometimes he wants to let himself get stuck in a rut. All his loved ones are stuck centuries ago. But. That’s not helpful.

So he goes.

It’s impossible to miss the park. Golden and orange decorations are strung up everywhere, fairy lights twinkling between the trees faintly. Posters showing armored heroes of various conflicts line a bulletin board. Opposite it, at the other edge of the park, is a more solemn board, candles lit, burning slowly. A memorial to the fallen. That’s nice. He appreciates the reverence for soldiers who gave their all to defend something bigger than themselves. 

Tables with some snacks that, despite the distance, are so familiar, and some he can’t recognize at all, tended to by, he presumes, anyway, Lightless waiters and servers. All smiling and happy to be here. Everyone is so cheerful. They nod welcomingly at him as they pass by him, not stopping to introduce themselves, probably not even sure who he is, but they want to be pleasant. 

He looks around for someone he knows. He doesn’t want to be That Guy clinging to the VIPs of the party because they’re the only people whose phone numbers are in his rolodex; he hopes he can be introduced to more members of the Vanguard. Phone numbers. They seem mystified by the concept. Ghost names, now. If you want to reach a Guardian, you put a call through to their Ghost.

His ears are drawn first to a little commotion behind him. Saint-14 and Ana Bray drag the Guardian into the park, through the grand welcoming arbor and its sunflowers and flickering lights.

“Please,” begs the Guardian, straining against their hold, “Let me go back to Caldera. I never want to leave. I need to farm. I love Caldera. The air here doesn’t taste right anymore.”

Intriguing. Lodi honestly thought the Weapon might be mute. Maybe Mr. Ghost is simply one of those doting, overbearing partners who always speaks over them, under the guise of speaking for them. He does give off a sort of sitcom mother-in-law energy.

“You may go back tomorrow,” Saint guffaws, his grasp tightening in response, “For tonight, we must party!”

“I just want to Matterspark again. Ball is love. Ball is life!”

“Tomorrow, Guardian,” Ms. Bray shakes her head and looks behind her at Devrim, bringing up the flank. He smiles knowingly at the Guardian.

“A feeling I’ve become all too familiar with. Never wanting to leave your post. But! Breaks are necessary, old sport. Marc will vehemently agree.”

The fight leaves the Weapon with a final whimper of, “Caldera…”

Lodi watches them go, unnoticed as the trio in charge of monitoring Solo Ops missions escort their wayward Guardian. They deposit him in front of a holographic projection of something that reminds him of HAL 9000. There’s no way there can be any connection, right? Nobody’s going to have seen that movie, not here, not so far into the future. The projection speaks, and the illusion to the Heuristically Programmed Algorithmic Computer is immediately broken by her cheerful, almost alluring voice, “Hello, Captain!”

The Weapon relaxes and leans onto the table that supports her projection device. Lodi wonders how it works. The pair begin speaking, and the Weapon actually laughs at something she says. Her core light flashes in delight. 

His gaze scans the rest of the park. Ms. Rey speaks with a bulky man with pale blue skin - Mr. Zavala, the name comes to Lodi. They’ve met twice, once for his debriefing meeting upon reaching Earth. He can’t quite call it ‘returning’ because the planet as he knew it is gone, and what he’s come back to is something entirely unfamiliar.

Mr. Drifter stands near one of the food tables, scarfing down hors d'oeuvres, surrounded by three Guardians Lodi recognizes. The ones who run the Sieve every time Mr. Drifter is ready for them. They fuss and fawn over him, their eyes lingering on his gray hair with hints of worry. Their luminous armor glows with flame-like orange particles and Lodi marvels, wondering how such an effect is accomplished. A channeling of their Light for aesthetics, perhaps? He’s curious who he can inquire with about how it’s done. They look very much coordinated and put together amongst themselves; Mr. Drifter is the outcast with his bashed-together, somewhat-bedraggled garb. They giggle at something he says all the same, like they don’t notice how scruffy he looks in comparison. Maybe they simply don’t care.

Lodi sees a man with an Egyptian bird motif going on and blinks, trying to remember the connection. Something to do with Mr. Fourteen. Ah. That’s Mr. Osiris, partner to Saint-14. The older man meets his eye and widens his gaze slightly, then beckons him over. A little self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Ah, Camrin, have you made our new ambassador’s acquaintance yet?” Osiris turns to the woman he’s speaking with, who fondly watches Ms. Bray trying to keep Mr. Fourteen from piling his plate too high. She refocuses on their new guest and shakes her head, extending her hand to him.

“Camrin Dumuzi,” she introduces herself, “Ana’s told me a little about you.”

He wishes he could say the same, but he hasn’t had too many opportunities to speak directly with Ms. Bray; certainly not about her personal life. They only really have a chance to interact when discussing the logistics of the Caldera mission the Guardian is so dearly fond of - perhaps too devotedly.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Dumuzi,” he dips his head politely, shaking her hand, “Lodi.”

“I’m glad you were able to attend,” Mr. Osiris’s tone betrays his pending questions he knows could wait for later, “Saint would chide me for talking business during a pleasure event, but, there are serious matters to be delved into here. I have heard of the emergence of a particular Vex individual known as,” he pauses and huffs as if the name is undignified to say, “Sharp Cheddar.”

Ms. Dumuzi laughs, “Is that really its name?”

Mr. Osiris scowls in affirmation.

“Yes, sir. Sharp Cheddar is living with the Aionians, under their protection. The Guardians who do tours on Kepler check in on it every so often,” the Goblin is a peculiar creature with a limited capacity for conversation at the moment, but gaining in its fluency every day. 

The other man nods, “I am interested in meeting this, ah, Sharp Cheddar, as swiftly as possible. Perhaps you have heard, but I am the Vanguard’s leading Vex expert.”

“And if you hadn’t heard, Osiris will tell you in your first conversation,” Ms. Dumuzi cheekily smiles at him. His eyes narrow momentarily but he accepts the good-natured ribbing.

“Kepler’s a bit of a journey, but I’m sure something can be arranged if you speak with Ms. Rey,” Lodi doesn’t want to insert himself into their chain of command and act like he can approve off-world missions, but he certainly can accompany someone to Kepler if someone else authorizes it. 

Mr. Osiris scoffs to himself, the aged lines on his face softening with amusement, “I shall speak to Ms. Rey then. Peach,” he turns to the side and waits for a Ghost to drift her way over to him from a cluster of other Ghosts, “Please make a note to find a time for a trip to Kepler with Lodi. Coordinate with Ophiuchus.”

The little drone’s shell expands in delight at being given the task, and she bobs her affirmation. 

Someone across the way catches Osiris’s attention, and he pursues them without another thought. Lodi’s left slightly reeling from the abrupt departure. Was that rude of him? It was rude, but was it intentionally? Or is Mr. Fourteen’s other half simply a little quirky? He decides to be charitable to the other man and assume he’s just an interesting character.

Camrin takes a step closer to speak better, her eyes watching a Titan with glowing blue armor, similar to the trio with Mr. Drifter, stalk past. His stride is wide and powerful, confident and ominous. Whispers stir up in his wake, and Lodi glances to her for clarification.

“They call him the K1 Killer,” she laughs, “He can break the Hive Wizard’s shield with just his Light. Ana loves watching him clear out K1 Logistics.”

Lodi blinks. He’s still learning what all a Guardian can do. What’s reasonable, what’s commonplace, and what only elite ones like the Weapon are capable of. “Is that particularly impressive, then?”

She nods, “Eris says the Lunar Hive have had to divert thousands from other areas of the Moon to try and counter him.”

In the silence as Lodi absorbs that and tries to understand its meaning - he isn’t exactly familiar with what’s going on with the Moon, only that something is up, she excuses herself to speak to an old coworker. ‘Eris’ - he’s heard that name before. Think. Think. Ah. Mr. Drifter mentioned her as his new paramour. Then Orin laughed.

He wanders the crowd for a bit, swirling a half-filled glass in his hand every so often to look busy. Taking it all in. They look human, most of them, but he’s aware the Guardians could kill him without a second thought. He feels so small. Even though he’s special, in his own way.

Speaking of, he feels the familiar tingle turning his stomach. Someone wants to talk. He retreats away from the central hubbub and leans against a tree. Somewhat reluctant to let it in, but also eager to hear what it thinks. 

.not having |too| much fun with|out me, are you. .my litt|le snack.

No, IX. Just absorbing the ambiance.

.we c|an have fu|n later. .for |now| bask in th|eir celeb|ration of |me| and my lig|ht. .as i |am. .as th|ey soak in m|y radian|ce, i| soak the|ir prais|e.

One could never understate your importance.

He feels its laughter reverberate through his body like he’s recoiling from touching an open flame that doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as he expects it to. Then it goes, and he dry heaves only once this time. Nothing comes up, and with any luck, nobody saw. If they did, he can play it off as his drink going down the wrong pipe. Maybe. He hasn’t taken a swig in a few minutes.

Lodi pulls around the tree and slips back into the party seamlessly. Mr. Zavala stands with a grizzled old veteran in well-polished dark green armor and furs and a… well, there’s no delicate way to describe her. A fifteen-foot tall rhino? There are a few others of her species, the Cabal, he recalls, in attendance, but she is the tallest and the most richly-ornamented. The Titan Vanguard’s weariness breaks into happiness every time she speaks. 

Eliksni thread their way through the crowd, mingling with the Guardians freely. He’s happy that the ones here have found peace with humanity. He mourns for the ones on Kepler, the Exiles led into ruin by the Archon. If they’d just listened, there was proof it didn’t have to be the way the Archon claimed. One Eliksni in particular seems to know everyone and spends a moment talking to each individual she comes across. She makes almost no progress in getting anywhere, but Lodi can see the delight shining in her eyes at the chance to speak to her friends.

“Hey! Mr. Government!” Lodi’s head turns a little too sharply at the familiar voice and he winces, the lingering traces of IX inhabiting his body threatening to overwhelm him. He stills himself in the time it takes Mr. Drifter to reach him, and he’s ready for socializing again. He thinks.

A woman stands at his side, heavily armored in what almost looks like an exoskeleton. She still manages to look a little out of place, her aesthetic very different from the gilded, shining armor loadouts of most of the Guardians. Especially today, at this party, with all the radiances and special effects. When Lodi meets her eyes, he’s surprised to find she has three.

“Moondust, this is Ikora’s old- old coworker, can you believe that?” Mr. Drifter drapes his arm around the woman, leaning into her as he looks at Lodi. She sniffs, amused - this isn’t news. Someone’s told her. Word about him gets around, doesn’t it?

Lodi’s still reeling a little from IX’s visit. All he can think in the moment is what gets blurted out, “I thought you were seeing someone named Eris.”

They both still for a moment, looking at him. Then they laugh. She elbows Drifter’s side playfully, and scolds him, “You use my nicknames far too often around the uninformed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Got Thunderguns good with it, too. Lodi, this is Eris Morn,” Lodi can only assume that ‘Thunderguns’ is yet another nickname of someone’s, and that Mr. Drifter entirely misses the irony of using it in a conversation about his overuse of such. Ms. Morn’s sharp inhale indicates she caught it. Mr. Drifter’s grip on her tightens a little as he winks, “My girl.” 

“Somehow,” deadpans Ms. Morn, a mischievous little upturn to her lip. 

Lodi takes her in. Mr. Drifter is an eccentric character - he’s been curious what sort of personality might attach herself to him. She’s got a peculiar air. Powerful but also just sort of… alien. Might be the three eyes. Or the very unhuman, uh, is that skin, around them. He hopes he isn’t staring awkwardly. They’re so green.

“Hey,” he blurts again before he can stop himself, “We both have glowing eyes!”

Mr. Drifter flinches a little, his attention flitting to his companion to check how she feels. Perhaps the eyes are a sore spot? If she takes offense nothing in her demeanor betrays it. Maybe she’s understanding he’s merely trying to form a connection, find similarities. She offers, “Hmm. We could start a club.”

“That’s the spirit, Moondust! You get to be the president, ‘cause you have the most glowin’ eyes,” Mr. Drifter appoints her, despite his complete lack of authority to do so. Lodi supposes his reasoning is sound. He’s only in possession of one glowing eye, and he doesn’t think it’s quite as impressive. “And the cutest glowin’ eyes.”

“Ugh,” she tries to act disgusted but she’s unable to wipe the affectionate grin off her face.

“Although,” Lodi’s brain is running now, “There are a lot of Guardians with glows here. More than usual.”

Ms. Morn nods, casting her gaze out onto the party, “Their glows are part of the Solstice regalia. Guardians gather in their seasonal finery to honor heroes of the Red War, both living and dead. They do so largely by killing our adversaries while wearing their luminous livery. Outside of this gala, it is a violent affair.”

That explains why the Weapon was so reluctant to leave Caldera. 

“Speakin’ of the Red War,” Mr. Drifter pulls away from her a little, leaning to yell into the crowd, “Thunderguns!”

He waits as another woman approaches, looking like she doesn’t yet know whether to smile or frown at whatever Mr. Drifter wants. This one has glowing limbs, and he gets the feeling the effect isn’t just a part of her armor. There’s a weird - not bad, no, not unpleasant, just strange - scent in the air, as the blight wafts off her.

“You two should get along real nice,” the woman comes to a stop on the other side of Mr. Drifter from Ms. Morn, crossing her arms. Lodi’s seen her before in the Tower once. “Lodi, this is my girlfriend’s former tithe worm’s psychic link’s recipient, Deputy Commander Sloane.”

Ms. Morn blinks at the description, bewildered by his needlessly-long introduction, as Sloane barks a laugh, “Did you hurt your brain coming up with that one?”

“Nope, and I came up with it all by myself!”

“Impressive. Eris must be rubbing off on you,” Sloane smirks, shifting to reach a hand out to Lodi. He takes it but only shakes half-heartedly, watching Mr. Drifter and Ms. Morn bite their lips at her wording.

Under his breath, Mr. Drifter mutters, “I mean…” before Ms. Morn elbows him silent.

Peculiar couple. Somehow nothing like who Lodi would have pictured Mr. Drifter with, yet she makes so much sense. He gets the feeling the glowing eyes and the glowing limbs are not natural, and these are two humans otherwise changed. Like going too close to III aged Mr. Drifter. Do birds of an altered feather flock together naturally?

“Nice to meet you, Lodi. Feel sorry for you you’ve had to spend so much time with this joker,” Sloane - ‘Deputy Commander’ is clearly her rank, does she have a last name? Is ‘Sloane’ her last name? Would she prefer ‘Ms. Sloane’ or ‘Ms. Commander’ - or perhaps ‘Deputy Commander’ would be best? - ribs Mr. Drifter, but he senses no malice in her words. She sort of feels like a sister messing with her brother, as she asks, “Did he at least cook for you guys out there?”

Not to be rude, but Lodi’s nose scrunches uncontrollably, “I, uh, can’t say what he cooked smelled very appetizing.”

Ms. Morn’s glare immediately lands upon Mr. Drifter, and he withers, seemingly knowing exactly what she is abruptly upset about. She hisses at him, voice low, “Are you not preparing proper meals for yourself again?”

Like a scolded puppy, he hangs his head after he shakes it to the negative. Concern flashes across her face, and she firmly informs him they will speak about this later. Then, she returns her attention to the others, and to Lodi’s incredulity, enlightens him, “Drifter is an excellent chef, when he applies himself. Which he will be doing henceforth.”

Mr. Drifter obediently capitulates to her. Fascinating. The guy seems like such a free spirit, marching to the beat of his own drum, actively shunning the other beats. Has a thing against authority, from what Lodi’s gathered. He offers no pushback to Ms. Morn. Her stature is not physically imposing yet she clearly wields significant power and influence. 

On the other side of the park, a rich bassline ripples out as someone cranks up the music. Spotlights shine onto the ground, searching for something. Lodi watches the crowd surge to life, numerous Guardians making their way over.

“That’s our time,” the Deputy Commander winks at Mr. Drifter, who brightens back up and rubs his hands together.

“You should c’mon over and watch the dance-off. Crazy what these maniacs can do on the dancefloor. Just don’t bet against us,” Mr. Drifter detaches himself from Ms. Morn and comes next to the Deputy Commander. They set off to the hubbub together. He blows a kiss over his shoulder to Ms. Morn, and then they vanish into the crowd.

She can sense Lodi’s confusion at what is happening, and offers an explanation, “A side effect of heavy usage of the Light is an inexplicable compulsion to dance. At such events as this, Guardians compete in raucous, rowdy dance-offs. Drifter and Sloane are going to bet on the strongest Guardians, competing incognito, and attempt to encourage gullible drunkards to bet against them.”

Lodi sucks in a breath - rigged gambling? “That sounds… very illegal. Is the Vanguard okay with this?”

“The Vanguard does not need to know,” Ms. Morn’s ambivalence surprises him. She seems so… grounded and disinterested in shenanigans like this. “They donate their sizable earnings to an orphanage. It is their largest donation of the year - anonymous, of course. I do not usually attend these events, and if I do, I depart around now, before the din becomes unbearable. If you will excuse me. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

She nods her head and turns to go, lingering a moment in case he has any additional questions. He doesn’t, that he feels comfortable asking to someone he just met, so he bids her farewell, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Morn.”

Her eyes flicker at the name, and then a devilish glint comes to them. She departs with a final suggestion, “Next time you have the chance, refer to Drifter as ‘Mr. Morn’ and see what he does.”

Lodi isn’t sure he wants to see that through. He feels like it’s a setup. For what, he doesn’t know. Mr. Drifter and Ms. Morn both strike him as enigmatic. A lot lurking beneath the surface. He’s curious to know about all of it. ‘How did you get three eyes’ is probably a rude question to lead with.

He meanders around the dusky park for a bit, avoiding the dance floor. ‘Rowdy’ was right. He can see a Servitor with spikes coming off it at the back of that area, vibrating as music comes from speakers installed in it. The bassline sounds crazy. Those are some good subwoofers. He hopes the park’s neighbors don’t need to sleep early. There’s no hope of that tonight.

Finds a few people to talk to, for a few moments each. Just casual. It’s a little too loud now for deep conversation. He’s thinking maybe it won’t hurt to go watch the dancing and see just what kinds of moves Guardians have when another familiar voice catches his ear.

“Lodi!” it’s Mr. Crow, the Hunter Vanguard. Also seemingly the reigning one on Earth, what with Ms. Rey on or around Kepler so much, and Mr. Zavala, to his understanding, taking a leave of absence after some traumatic events. 

The Awoken strikes him as always friendly, albeit a little naive. Seems a bit young to hold such an authority position, and he again wonders about this entire organization’s election processes. Someone like the Deputy Commander, who has an aura of authority, seriousness, and sincerity, he can understand. He holds a great deal of respect for military members, and Mr. Drifter implied she served in this Red War he hears about but nobody pauses to explain. Perhaps he can catch her for lunch, learn about it from someone who was there.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Crow,” Lodi smiles as he turns. The man isn’t alone. He’s also brought a female companion to meet him. Another Awoken, her nose upturned a little, regal, aloof. Her white hair shifts smoothly as her stride stops before him. Interesting. He didn’t know Mr. Crow was seeing anyone. Funny. He can spot quite a few similarities in their faces.

“This is my sister, Mara. Queen of the Awoken,” ah, well then. Good thing he didn’t put his foot in his mouth again, like he did about Ms. Morn, thinking Mr. Drifter was seeing a different woman. The way the man hung off her, adoringly. And she seemed like she desperately wanted to stop smiling so much at him but couldn’t. “Mara, this is Lodi, the new Emissary of the Nine.”

Something tells Lodi that Queen Mara was already aware, and Mr. Crow is simply being polite. Likely spotlighting some machination his sister has regarding Lodi’s position. She seems like the scheming sort - and he doesn’t mean that disparagingly. Just. She seems like she has plans.

She doesn’t extend her hand, nor does she tip her head in acknowledgement. Her piercing stare is acceptance enough. Her form softens, just a little, when she catches Mr. Crow looking at her imploringly, and she speaks, refined, elegant, “Emissary. I have several matters I wish to speak with you and your, is ‘employers’ the right word, about. But, my brother insists I not sully the festivities. Know that these are matters of great importance to me, and arrange a time for us to discuss.”

With her directly? He’s got a line to a Queen?

Mr. Crow senses he’s perplexed and points at another Awoken woman, speaking with Ms. Orin, “You can get Petra’s contact information,” then, with a smile, “Ms. Venj, I suppose. Careful calling her that. I can’t guarantee she won’t cut you.”

“Petra… Venj? Her name is ‘Pet Revenge?’” Lodi’s fascinated by where that etymology came from. Did her parents bestow that upon her, or is it a name she took herself? 

The siblings stare at each other. Queen Mara speaks slowly, unwilling to let how puzzled she is show, “No. Her name is Petra Venj.”

“Lo siento,” he apologizes - that certainly sounds like ‘pet revenge’ to him, no matter what speed or affectation the Queen takes to say it. But, he doesn’t wish to cause offense.

“Anyway, how do you like the party, Lodi?” Mr. Crow pivots smoothly to another subject. The pride in his voice shines through - he likely took on a large role in organizing it this summer, what with the aforementioned circumstances of the other two heads.

It’s not as corporate as he was expecting, which is a compliment, but he suspects Guardians living on this Earth aren’t going to understand his meaning if he says that. So instead, he smiles, “You guys sure know how to throw one. Great drinks, great ambiance, that music is really loud. Great sound quality, though.”

“Yeah, that’d be SCUR-V’s speakers. It’s very proud of them,” the affection in Mr. Crow’s voice is clear. He seems to hold a lot of love for a lot of different creatures. Lodi’s not sure he’s ever seen the other man look distastefully on anyone, and there are numerous aliens with some imposing, foreign appearances. Not that there’s anything wrong with how any of them look. It’s just a lot to take in for a guy used to the diversity of the Midwest, not the whole Milky Way. 

“We have a lot of things to be proud of in the Coalition,” he continues, looking around warmly. Mr. Crow’s eyes linger on the Eliksni, the Cabal, the humans, the Exos, the Awoken, all in turn, “It’s a beautiful melding of cultures and species. I’m glad to be a part of it.”

Queen Mara remains silent, but Lodi senses a poignant understanding between them as she nods her agreement. Then, reluctantly, but he can tell it’s not because she doesn’t mean it, but because it’s painful to admit, she professes, “Guardianship has done you far more good than the Reef ever could have.”

He smiles sadly. Not a sadness of regret, but of acceptance.

Behind them, lights flicker from the dance floor. Solar energy courses through the air, dancing and moving to the beat. Firesprites, Lodi thinks they’re called. The crowd roars, amped up by the display. He thinks that’ll be a clear winner of whatever dance battle’s going on.

“Parlor tricks,” he can hear Mr. Osiris scoff from somewhere nearby, “A waste of the Light.” 

Mr. Fourteen laughs at his love’s grumpiness. 

Mr. Crow looks pleadingly over at the dance floor, and Queen Mara nods, moving away to go speak to someone else. The Hunter comes up alongside Saint-14 and nudges him. Together, they race off to join the crowd. Lodi will enter the fray as well, for a bit. Once they’re at the semifinals, maybe. So he can watch the best of the best, but not for too long. He wonders if the Weapon competes. 

He lingers at the edge of the party, willing his socialization meter to not cap out before the fun ends. He’s certain things will devolve into a wild mosh pit once the organized event ends, and he doesn’t think he’s up for that. Maybe next year. No. Definitely next year, he’ll mosh. This year, though. It’s a lot.

Are non-Guardians allowed in the competition? Do they stand a chance, he wonders. Only one way to find out - watch the dance-off and see what kind of moves they do.

As he decides maybe it’s time to go watch, a stern voice stops him in his tracks.

“Emissary. We have arrangements to make.”

“Oh, Petra, he’s enjoying the whimsy,” Orin scolds, and he’s appreciative of hearing another familiar voice. The most familiar one. Well. Ms. Rey’s voice, he knows. But it’s not Dr. Davis’s voice anymore. It’s Ms. Rey’s now. And Orin’s is a different sort of familiar - a shared occupation they were both perfect for, and only they can understand. 

Ms. Venj’s nostrils flare, nose tilting up a little, just like Queen Mara’s. She only has one eye, he observes, an ornate eyepatch covering the other. He’s sort of the same way now. One normal eye. One Ninetouched, as Mr. Drifter spitefully calls it.

“It’s alright, Orin. Ms. Venj, I would be delighted to make arrangements… to make arrangements after the party,” God, he hopes that joke lands. 

It doesn’t. 

Maybe on someone else.

Her face crinkles in mild disgust. Orin offers him a cheery laugh. 

He decides he wants a snack before he goes to watch the dancing, and invites the Awoken to accompany him to one of the picked-over tables so he can set up a time to coordinate with Ms. Venj. She sneers subtly every time he calls her that, and he wonders if perhaps she doesn’t see it with the respect he puts into it.

“If you want a title to call me, I am the Queen’s Wrath,” she eventually corrects, and thankfully he’s holding an oyster shooter that he can tilt up and use to block his face. The shell masks the bewildered twisting of his lips. That sounds ridiculous. Queen’s Wrath? Trying too hard to be imposing. The fashion and the positions these people of the future have. 

Yet. It rings a bell, somewhere in his mind. A bell that makes his stomach threaten to reject the oyster sliding down his throat. That title has relevance elsewhere. Something Queen Mara wishes to speak to his employers about. He wonders if IX will give him a straight answer, if he asks about it, or if they will go round and round in half-truths and vague evasions. 

No. For now, he resolves to enjoy the rest of the party. He invites Orin and the Queen’s Wrath to join him in watching the dancing. The latter peers over the crowd, eyeing who’s currently competing. Satisfied by who she sees, she nods her approval.

Off they go.