AN: I originally posted this right after Taken King came out and gave us some juicy backstory on Cayde, and now that the Destiny 2 trailer just hit I'm all obsessed with the lore once again. This has been edited and updated (mostly for grammar), and I HOPE to have some sort of update on chapter 3 soon.


06:14. She's sleeping in again.

He hears her hit the snooze button twice. The third time she simply turns it off without resetting the alarm before falling asleep. She's in a deep sleep, so he resets it for her. She doesn't hear him slip into her room or slip back out.

It worries him. If she can't hear friendlies, she won't hear foes. He checks his pistol, recounting the chamber twenty-six times. Full. Always full.

He hopes it'll stay full.

When she finally wakes, quiet and calm, he's where he always is. She doesn't say good morning, but that isn't out of the ordinary; she never does. Neither does he. He checks his pistol again instead. Full.

He ghosts her like a shadow throughout the day, weaving between equipment and keeping a close eye on her. The lab is small, but so many things are dangerous, harmful. She doesn't notice, so he keeps following. Humans looked so incredibly fragile.

She twirls her ring a lot, the one in her third left finger. She's done it forty-seven times since waking up six-point-four hours ago. The metal has been smoothed with the worrying, dull spots breaking up the gleam. It's a constant daily ritual, and it's been a long time since she's seen the owner of her ring's partner.

He tries not to listen to the logs, but his hearing is too good. He hears her whisper words into a small microphone, filled with ache. Loneliness.

He knows about those things, too. But he doesn't have a microphone to talk into. No one on the other side to listen. He stays silent instead, shuffles the deck he keeps in his pocket to stay occupied. The smell of the old paper cards soothe him. Quieter than talking, too.

Eight-point-two hours. She hasn't eaten. Two coffees and a twenty-two minute nap. Not enough to sustain a person. It's become a habit with her more and more frequently. He thinks to get her food but then she'd be alone, and he doesn't know if she'd finally notice him in the room if he brought her food. Can't have that. Then she might send him away. She doesn't like it when the other doctors hover. She likes space. (Bullshit, and you know it. You just like prancing around hershhh.)

He checks his pistol. Clean, stable, loaded.

Nine-point-eight hours. A colleague brings her food instead—a cheese sandwich and a can of soda. She thanks him, gives him a smile, and nibbles on the sandwich, still working.

He pushes down the anger. That smile was his. He'd thought of it first (I always think of things first) but he has to protect her. She's never smiled at him before. She's looked at him a total of four times.

Not her fault. She has bigger things to think on. He just has to point and shoot when needed.

She falls asleep at her desk after recording another log. The sandwich is half-eaten. Not enough calories to maintain a proper weight, but it's better than nothing.

Goosebumps flush across her skin. He checks the temperature—only eleven degrees (284.15 Kelvin—more accurate, more accurate) in the lab. Too cold for a simple shirt.

He spies a spare lab coat hanging by the door. She is fast asleep (always such a deep sleeper), so he grabs it and places it gently around her shoulders, careful not to touch her. His hands are colder than the room (metal's so much colder than flesh, even with gloves. Doesn't hide the facts).

He dims the light and turns off the monitor flashing in front of her closed lids. She works long hours, sleeps in positions human bodies were not meant to stay in for long periods of time. A desk is not an ideal resting place, but she looks peaceful.

He checks his pistol.


She sleeps in until 06:32 today. Long time for her.

Today is a good day. She's eaten a full meal, and he heard her cheering to herself in the middle of her work earlier. A breakthrough, though he has no idea on what.

Good things, but they weren't responsible for his current mood. (Mood? something other than hollow is a "mood" to you nSHHH.)

She spoke to him for the very first time today.

"It's... er..."

Different. Her voice sounds different. She'd been recording another log (so many logs, so very lonely), but now her voice has broken off from its loving whisper. She is no longer speaking to Chioma.

When she looks in his direction, he realises she is speaking to him. No one else in the room but him. He wants to look around to verify it's him she's looking at, but his scanner tells him this information with hard numbers. (Need to get the human out of me.)

"It's... I'm so very sorry—" Her eyes pass him over (but what does she see?), then she speaks again. "I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"Cayde." If he still had a heart it would have thundered in his ribcage. The cords in his neck seize instead.

"Yes, Cayde." She pauses. "I need a favour from you."

(Anything.) "Yes?"

"I..." She lets out a small shaky laugh and scratches at her hair. It sticks out from the side of her head, but she doesn't notice. "It sounds silly, but I'd like to move the setup of this room around." She looks around, glaring at the furnishings. "Need to change up the environment. Forming contingencies with negative emotions and whatnot, environmental tolerance, blah blah. Classical conditioning, you know?"

He nods and pretends he knows. He's heard the term before, probably to do with psychology. He doesn't follow those sorts of things. She gives him a smile for the quiet understanding—or at the very least humouring her—and if he knew how to smile in this body he'd give her one back.

"Okay, good. Can you help me move this desk, for starters?"

He relishes every command she gives him, and feels a weighted sense of joy when she nods in approval. The movement is effortless (so light when you're built from iron and tempered steel), and yet she appears so grateful whenever he shoves some table and chairs around. He doesn't know the intended floor plan of the room, but she's making the office less crowded; more central floor space.

Claustrophobic. That's what she's described it as. He doesn't share the affliction, but then again he's allowed to leave the building and she isn't. He sees sunlight on a regular basis.

It lasts for thirty-eight minutes and then he's finally done. She gives him a final thumbs-up, looking around the room again.

"Much better. Thank you for your help."

(Do exos stumble their words?) "It was nothing." It comes out harsher than intended, and she looks less happy now.

She nods her head nervously. (Should have said nothing, nothing NOTHI—) "This'll help, I'm sure. Liven things up a little." She darts her eyes away, coughing politely to show the conversation is over and sits back down at her desk, now at the opposite end of the room.

He pushes her from his mind for a moment and recalibrates exit routes and defensive positions. She's given him less cover when aiming at the door, but she's too happy with the setup for him to say otherwise.

Besides, that's not her job. It's his problem to configure safe cover positions and exit strategies. She does all the math and the saving-humanity type of work.

He just shoots.

He moves back to his old spot before realising that now he can't see her from that angle in the room. He adjusts and shifts eighth-nine degrees west and takes two steps forward.

He spies the crown of her head over the small divider on her desk. Good enough for now. He'd find a better position tomorrow. She looks anxious again and he doesn't want to upset her any more than he's managed already by moving around the room.

He checks his pistol, replaying the sound of her voice in his mind. It's the most he'd ever heard her speak outside of those logs she records, and it had all been directed at him. (suck it, Doctor Nguyen.)

"And Cayde?"

He looks up from his piece and sees her eyes staring him, just over the divider. (More than a physical barrier.)

He waits for the follow-up in silence, looking back at her.

"Thank you for the lab coat," she concludes, then waves a sleeve at him. It's too big for her arms and covers her hands, making her look even smaller. She begins to roll them up, breaking eye contact and looking down at the cuffs. "It can get pretty chilly in here."

How does she know? It could have been a colleague. She has many friends, all clamouring for her favour. Dr. Sundaresh is the kind of scientist that inspires and impassions. He's seen the others compete to show off around her. All more likely candidates.

Whatever the reason, she's guessed right.

"It was nothing," he says again, but this time gets the inflection right (why is it so much more difficult in this body?), and she gives him a bright smile, one he tries to return. The joints in his face creak, but he manages what he hopes is a small grin.

She returns to her work and he slips his hand into his pocket, pulling out the deck of cards.

Queen of Hearts is the card face-up in the deck. He tries to smile again, his fingers brushing over the card for a moment before plunging it into the middle of the deck and shuffling it, not seeing it again for a long time.