Day 21 - Do Not Touch

Don't say you love me
If it's only cause you've run out of
Better things to say
Don't pretend you know me
I haven't shown you anything
Besides the clothes I wear in the light of day

Wunderbar – Caamp


July 03, 2954, 18:20; Ikora's Library, The Last City, Earth

Ikora had to admit, Eris sleeping was oddly adorable. The lights of her eyes dimmed behind their wrappings. Her head rested on her folded arms. She looked like a cat curled up, limbs tucked neatly underneath her.

It had been a long day and Ikora was happy to let her rest. The three of them were six hours and three coffee breaks into their review of the scouting reports from the Dreadnaught. Ikora still felt sharp, eager to keep scouring the material for relevant details, but her accomplices seemed to be done for the day.

Eris had nodded off perhaps thirty minutes ago, putting her head down on the table with a sigh and never raising it again. Ikora was unsure if it she had intended to fall asleep or not. Ikora had witnessed many a Warlock napping at their desk, but Hunters usually chose more… concealed places to rest.

Her other helper, Azra Jax, was not going to last much longer herself. She was flipping through photographs, head propped against a hand, frustrated and itchy. The room had become claustrophobic to her. The mains hum from the electrical grid was irksome. Ikora couldn't hear it, but the Hunter's ears, attuned to the relative quiet of the wilds, caught every engine rumble and muffled voice that filtered through Ikora's soundproofed walls.

The Warlock hummed to herself and refocused on her reading. When Azra was ready to call it a day, she would speak up. Until then…

Something in the air shifted. Ikora looked up from her data pad and frowned.

Surface-level thoughts were easy enough to control when awake; Ikora had few scruples about eavesdropping on those around her. But peeking into someone's unconscious mind had always felt like a breach of privacy to her. Besides, sleeping thoughts were hard to parse. Yet Ikora only needed to brush Eris's mind to know she was having a nightmare. She was drowning in terror, hive-chatter screaming in her head.

Azra had noticed too, somehow. She looked up from her hologram, eyebrows coming together in concern.

Ikora reached over to touch Eris's hand-

The Warlock Vanguard's reflexes had not been dulled by the decades of inactivity. Everything still happened too fast. Eris stiffened, hand going to her hip. Azra jerked upright. "Hold-" the Arcstrider began.

There was an icy bloom of pain on Ikora's neck.


"Hey," Azra said. "Hey."

Ikora opened her eyes, flooded with the warmth and energy of a fresh resurrection. She was staring at her ceiling.

She lifted her head and half-rose from her position sprawled on the floor, only to find a standoff taking up the rest of the room. Eris stood near the corner table, a knife in her hand and a snarl on her lips. Azra stood solidly between her and the door with hands out in a defensive gesture. She spoke urgently in a low voice. "You're in Ikora's library. We were just going over reports from the Dreadnaught. You had a nightmare."

The words had no effect. Eris only saw the danger present in the other Hunter's stance, only processed Ikora as a Wizard-shape on the floor. "That's not working," Ikora counseled. "What if we-"

Eris shifted in response to Ikora's words. Azra shifted as well, now standing in range to protect the prone Warlock as well as block the door.

"Crota is dead," Azra said. "Don't you remember?"

It took a moment, but Eris did remember. She remembered a giant Knight plunging a sword through Wei Ning's chest, the sky full of green fire, deathsongs in the distance. She remembered the tunnels filled with screaming darkness. Sai Mota's last laugh. Eriana's last defiant shout.

She remembered Crota's last moments as well, watching raptly on a screen as the Titan Sylas-4 delivered the final devastating blow. She remembered the Hunter that stood in front of her now, tasting of starlight-songs and momentum. Her attention shifted to Ikora, bringing a fond likeness of quilted wool and wooden puzzle boxes to mind.

Eris relaxed and Azra breathed a sigh of relief. The knife that had cut Ikora's throat was secreted away within the folds of Eris's robe as Azra helped the Warlock Vanguard to her feet. Ikora felt the Hunter's heart racing in her palm.

Azra spoke dryly. "Yeah, if you haven't learned already, don't touch a sleeping Hunter."

"I apologize," Ikora said. "I forgot. Are you alright, Eris?"

The Lightless Hunter scoffed as she settled down into her chair but did not otherwise answer. Ikora was struck by the oddness of the situation- she had just been murdered, yet she was making apologies. She took her seat anyway, shaking her head in capitulation.

"Do you want to be woken up?" Azra asked, sitting back down. "When you have nightmares, I mean?"

"I hardly sleep without them," Eris said. There was a moment of silence. "…Do you?" Eris finally asked.

Azra shrugged. "I usually wake up before they get too bad. And my Ghost helps. It's not usually a good idea to poke me anyway." Her eyes flicked up to Ikora for a second, then back to the pictures she'd resumed flipping through. "I wake up… jumbled sometimes. Can't remember where or when I am. Giving me a sitrep helps put the pieces back together faster."

"Very well," Eris said.

Azra looked back up at Ikora again, a question held back behind her lips.

Ikora cleared her throat. "I don't know if I will ever be asleep in your presence, but if I am having bad dreams, I would appreciate being woken up. I promise I will not stab you."

That earned a snort from both of the Hunters before they turned their attention back to their paperwork.


Day 23 - Caught

It's creeping up on you
It knows your name
All that you left behind
Will never be the same
It's come for all that you hold dear
She starts to cry
And hears a song to break your heart
You're looking in the dark
I can't see, it's getting late
In the night we made mistakes

Everything Goes Dark – The Hoosiers


January 04 2881; somewhere on Venus

If there was one thing that was really bugging him, it was the dripping.

The Fallen used state-of-the-art tech in their holding cells, it seemed. Cayde had hoped on his way in here that he might be left in a physical prison- something with bars he could transmat through, or at least a lock and latch he could take a Solar knife against. But nooooo, they had to shove him in a solid rock crevice and put up an external forcefield over the exit.

So they could make barriers that could turn bullets and knives (not that he had any true weapons on him- the small metal shiv he'd scrounged up was worthless for this), even Solar discharges, but they couldn't stop the groundwater from leaking through the ceiling.

He should be grateful. The dripping was an annoying sound, but most of his cell was dry. And he was well-fed. His captors, either not realizing that he as an Exo didn't technically need to eat much (and as a Guardian could just be rezzed if he did starve), gave him regular meals. So he wasn't uncomfortable, at least not physically. He could deal with the chill and the hard ground.

It was just the dripping.

He had no idea what the Fallen planned to do with him. They would stand outside his cell and chitter at each other sometimes. On occasion they would lower the forcefield and shoot at him or throw grenades. On one memorable occasion they tossed some poison gas cannisters in. (It didn't work, of course, but it made the place stink to high hell for a couple of days). Cayde figured if they were actually trying to test the limits on his immortality, they'd send in some Splicers. These occasional acts of violence read less as experimentation and more as shows of strength or boredom.

Frankly, he figured they just didn't know what to do with him. He was an enemy combatant, they couldn't just let him go. (Plus, that would be weakness. Anyone who suggested it would probably end up docked.) But after what he and the rest of the Crew had done the last time they were captured, he doubted any Splicer or Baron would be willing to take on the risk of imprisoning him properly.

So he and the Fallen just sat there, staring at each other, waiting for someone to break. The Fallen waiting for a rescue attempt or for his Ghost to get sloppy, Cayde waiting for the right moment to strike.

Days had passed. Weeks. The boredom was broken up by the occasional bit of excitement, but only occasionally. And the entire damn time, that little trickle of water drip, drip, dripped down the side of his cell.

It left a fellow with a lot of time to think.

Cayde was not a thinking kind of guy. He preferred to blow things up first and ask questions later. Historically, it had worked out quite well for him.

Historically, he'd usually had someone to back him up. Andal. Shiro. Azra. Hell, even Larsen, despite all their back-and-forth, could be relied upon for an extra hand or a heroic rescue.

There would be no heroic rescues. Nobody was coming for him. He'd probably screwed up his chances at redemption, but even if he hadn't, he'd made himself a very hard person to find. It was likely that nobody even knew he was here.

So he sat and waited for an opportunity. And he thought. Everyone would assume he was just taking time to cool off and think things over. In truth, considering his actions had never been part of the plan. Usually after a fight he'd just run solo for a few weeks, rustle up some fun, have a couple close calls, and then he'd get lonely and drag his butt like a prodigal son to Andal's enduring forgiveness.

He had reached the point of loneliness. He wasn't above admitting that to himself. But even after these months, he was still angry. Even thinking about it now- Andal had looked down on him. Tevis had blamed him for everything, even when it clearly, actually was not his fault. And though Shiro had put a vote of confidence behind Cayde, he hadn't said a damn word beforehand.

But now it was just Cayde and his Ghost and the dripping water. He'd give damn near anything to be back in the Cave with everyone he loved yelling at him.

Truth was, he didn't think things through. It wasn't his style. And he had to admit, though it worked out fine for him, personally, it would not work out for the Pack. Andal was meticulous with his report reviews. Part of being a master tactician was knowing your playing field. Sometimes Andal would say no to a heist or a bounty, and Cayde knew in his heart of hearts that it wasn't because he was scared.

And maybe Andal had been too meticulous this past year, had said no too often for Cayde's liking. And if Mare Ibrium had proved that Andal was wrong, this whole mess had proved that Cayde was, too. How could he honestly critique someone for being overcautious when he'd gotten himself caught and imprisoned by House Winter? Not even by a Baron, just a run-of-the-mill Captain? Because he hadn't been paying attention, and he hadn't been thinking.

If he ever got out of here, he'd have a lot of apologizing to do. If they'd even take him back.

"Of course they'll take you back," Sundance said. "You're Pack. That's what Pack means."

Still, with so much time to think, it was hard to push away the insecurities.


It was Shiro who'd taught him Eliksni, so it was thanks to Shiro that he knew that the guard was alone and muttering to itself about disgrace. It was a Tevis strategy to pretend to be asleep- people were more likely to spill details and be sloppy when they didn't think you were awake- so although it made him itch, it was thanks to Tevis that the Fallen, after squinting through the forcefield at his still form, skipped the lengthy airlock security process and just deactivated the door to place his meal inside.

And Azra had taught him to seize opportunities when they came by, so when the guard fumbled just a moment too long putting the forcefield back up, Cayde was already lunging for the exit. The sharp bit of metal he'd hidden gave the Vandal a quick and easy death.

The Tevis in his head told him to hide the body. The Shiro pointed out that the command module for the cell's forcefield wasn't locked. And the Azra noted that the two problems- one extra Fallen body, one missing prisoner, solved each other neatly.

He laid the Fallen to rest in his cell, carefully tucking his own cloak around it to make it seem like he was still in his cell and sleeping. Then, donning the Vandal's blue garment, he left the cell, re-activated the forcefield, and stole away.

The voice of Andal had been bugging him this whole time, so he had a plan. He'd been blindfolded when they'd dragged him in here (and Sundance had to remain hidden), but he'd counted the steps. He knew the way out.

But, he was not Shiro or Tevis or Azra or Andal. He was Cayde-6. He slipped the Vandal's shock pistol into his belt and swore he'd get his Ace back or burn down the nest trying.


Day 24 - Two Birds, One Stone

Can you imagine us
Years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange
To be seventy

Old Friends – Simon and Garfunkel


November 10, 2721; The Last City, Earth

"Osiris!" Saint calls.

The Warlock in question leans back and wipes the sweat from his brow. He has taken up masonry duty today, using Solar light to cut stone blocks of mountain stone to his Ghost's specifications. It is hot work. The blocks, once completed, would be transported directly to the Wall, where they were set and secured into place. The stream of ferriers had died almost an hour ago- clearly work had been called off for the day. The sun is beginning to set into a notch in the mountains. Working in the dark would be to invite a Fallen attack.

Osiris has continued working anyway. There is a pile of stone next to him, stacked neat and waiting. Osiris straightens his back, feeling his aching muscles and the sweat salt crusted into his hair, and admits that maybe he has been pushing himself a bit too far.

"How are you?" Saint asks as he gets close. Osiris does not know what the Titan has been doing today, but by the soot and the dents in his armor, he can make some good guesses.

"I'm fine," Osiris says, curt. He does not have time to waste on grief. The Fallen grow bold and Humanity must fortify their defenses as much as possible. Nobody else seems to remember that in the wake of the Iron Lords' deaths. They all sit around and talk. Osiris wants to work.

Although Saint still wears his helmet, Osiris can see the concern in him. The Titan hesitates, clearly not believing Osiris, then scans the area for a place to sit.

The block is a cast-off from wallmaking; chipped badly in one corner with a crack through its heart, it will never serve a structural purpose. Perhaps it could be split into paving-stones or pounded into gravel someday. For now, it sits lonely on the broken ground. Saint-14 perches himself one corner and pats the stone next to him. Osiris rolls his eyes but nevertheless moves to sit next to his companion.

The block isn't quite big enough for both of them; their shoulders brush. Saint-14 doesn't seem to mind.

"This week has been… demoralizing," the Titan begins. It occurs to Osiris that Saint has come to talk to him, not just bother him into a confession. Saint is quite a popular hero figure- and those have suddenly become in quite short supply. It would be hard to speak his insecurities out loud when everyone needs him to be confident.

"It saddens me to hear of the Iron Lord's demise," Saint says, "and it shakes me. I know you were Lord Fellwinter's student-"

"I have not been under his tutelage for many years," Osiris states.

"It is still sad, yes? He was a friend."

"He was," Osiris says, still uncertain in the use of the past tense. He will never refer to Fellwinter in the present again. Nor Timur, nor Skorri, nor Radegast. They are dead. Only Saladin remains, shadowed and stooped by grief.

"They were a guiding force for so long," Saint continues. "An example. A beacon." He clenches a fist in front of him. After a moment he lets it relax in uncertainty. "It is hard to see the way forward without their light," the Titan confesses.

"I'm sure the Speaker has many ideas," Osiris says dismissively.

"Father…" Saint hesitates. "Father is a good man, and a wise man. But even he does not have all of the answers. We must all find our own way now." He pauses again. "It is… daunting."

Saint-14 is not a man to be daunted. He is not a man to lose sight of his path. Osiris knows this. Just as Saint knows that Osiris's stubborn refusal of sentimentality is a cover for his wounded heart. Saint may be upset, but he also wants Osiris to know that being upset is alright. If not in front of Lord Saladin or the Speaker, then at least in front of him.

Osiris takes Saint's hand, grip trembling ever so slightly. Saint-14 squeezes back, a steady and silent reassurance. No more words need to be said. Osiris knows Saint feels vulnerable and lost and scared and is there for him. Saint knows Osiris is not ready to share his hurt, but accepts the hurt anyway.

They sit and watch the sun set.


Day 26 - Pacifist

Well, I've wandered 'round and there's a code I found
Says a gentle manner and a righteous way
This pair you'll need if you follow this creed
Shall see you through until the judgement day

But there ain't no law under tooth and claw
In the nest of vipers or the lion's den
You can holler and wail 'til the echo goes stale
Ain't way nor manner gonna save you then

Heavy Hands – Ryan Ike


January 06, 2958; Undisclosed Location, Outer Rim

There is commotion in the square. A child comes to warn Efrideet, babbling something about a stranger and a ship. This is a hidden place, a secret community, so a jumpship nearby is cause for concern. A stranger suddenly appearing is cause for panic. Nobody should know that they are here.

So Efrideet puts on her helmet, dons her cape, and then after a long second of consideration, opens the chest by the door and takes out a handgun. She hooks its holster onto the back of her belt, where her cloak will hide it, then locks the chest and steps out of the door, Ghost trailing in her wake.

The stars are brilliant tonight, like every night. The air is cool. The internal lights show the time to be early evening. Efrideet walks with purpose, feeling protectiveness bring aggression back into her bones. She will not let an interloper disturb the peace here. They've worked so hard to make this dream a reality, she will protect it with death if she needs to.

She dearly, dearly does not want that need. But the Iron in her bones refuses to bend.

There is indeed a stranger in the square. Not just any stranger, a Guardian. She is equipped in Guardian fashion, guns and knives bristling out from under her long, green cloak. She wears combat armor but, Efrideet notes, no helmet. She's pulled her hood down in a Hunter's appeal for peace.

The crowd parts for Efrideet and the Hunter turns. Efrideet is surprised that she does recognize the Guardian, if only vaguely. She's one of Lord Saladin's new champions. She'd survived the Red War, it seems.

The Hunter smiles in recognition and nods, but isn't able to hide her wariness. The crowd stands at a distance, but they are all staring at her. Her weight stays on her toes. Efrideet does not miss the nervous glance the Hunter casts at a group of Eliksni residents and feels herself bristle as well.

"I-" the stranger begins, then stops to rethink her words. "…You. You're the one I'm looking for."

"My name is Efrideet," she says, strict and unwavering. A challenge.

The Hunter bows her head. "Didn't want to assume. I'm here on Saladin's behalf." She holds up a hand and her Ghost appears to transmat something into it.

Efrideet does not miss how several onlookers flinch. Neither does the Hunter, it seems, by the way she grimaces. The Guardian continues nonetheless, tension grinding in her voice. "He asked me to find you and give you this."

A letter. It's a letter in the Hunter's hand, thick parchment sealed by wax. Efrideet takes the last few steps and accepts it as the Hunter offers. She does not open it, not right now. She instead looks at the Guardian, taking her in again.

The stranger places her hands on her hips nervously and scans the crowd. "Sorry… about the guns," she apologizes. Her eyes flick from a group of adolescents to Efrideet's helmet. "I didn't know what this place was. D'you want me to… put them away?"

"Please," Efrideet says, steel still in her voice. The Hunter shifts and her Ghost appears again. A flash of light and the weapons are all gone, save for a knife at her hip. Efrideet could insist on that going, too, but she knows it is semantics. Guardians are weapons unto themselves.

"Does Lord Saladin expect a response?" Efrideet asks, holding up the letter.

The Hunter shrugs. "Dunno. I didn't open it. I can certainly take back a message if you want; Saladin's not nearly as hard to track down as you are."

"How did you find us?" a man speaks from the crowd. He is half scared, half angry. Not everyone here can expect such benign intentions from the City (or from the Reef, or the Fallen houses).

"Saladin asked me to," the Hunter says as if it explains everything. She pauses a moment, then adds, "I respect privacy. You all don't want to be found, I'm not in the business of finding you. But Saladin asked."

"That explains why," Efrideet says. "But not how."

"About two weeks of searching, several lucky breaks, and too many hours of scrolling through transmission logs," the Hunter lists. "Listen. I've been careful. Nobody could have followed me here- and I'll make sure I won't leave breadcrumbs when I leave. But I'm an experienced scout and I've been doing a lot of work on the comms system lately and Saladin asked."

"Transmission logs?" Efrideet asks.

"From the end of the Red War," the Hunter says. "There were some scattered rumors about you from the survivors in the City. Managed to find an unregistered radio ping in the transcripts, took a gamble that it was you. Then I had to hand map where it came from- not easy considering the rerouting protocols you use and the fact that half of the satellites are still down. When I reached the dead end I just had to scout around looking for signs of life."

Efrideet looks up at the dome above them, expertly hidden with cloaking tech, and to the shielded radio receivers, the radar jammers. They had taken extreme pains so that there were no signs of life here.

The Hunter taps the side of her nose, eyes twinkling in hidden pride. "The Light provides," she says- in Eliksni.

Full of surprises, this one is. "…What's your name," Efrideet demands after a moment's hesitation.

"Azra Jax," the Hunter replies smoothly. "My Ghost is Spark. Sorry he's not going to hang around outside and make your acquaintance."

The unspoken sentiment that it's not safe to have her Ghost out makes Efrideet frown behind her helmet. There had been whispers through the crowd at Azra's name- among both Human and Eliksni. The Guardian's gaze is entirely too sharp for Efrideet's liking. Her posture is tense, arms crossed, tension in her shoulders.

It is unclear whether she feels threatened or is trying to make a threat a threat. Sometimes they are two sides of the same coin, walking a thin peaceful rope over an abyss of violence. Perhaps it's best to move the conversation to a different place. There is a palpable friction ringing in the air.

Efrideet straightens her posture. "Well, Lady Jax-"

"Oop. Didn't say Lady," the Hunter corrects. She gives a pointed look at Efrideet. "And neither did you."

Fair enough. Efrideet hooks a thumb over her shoulder, down the path to her humble cottage and away from the prying eyes of the public. "Why don't you join me for tea in my house?"


Day 29 - Antique Hardware

Content warning: depictions of gore/death.

Like fireworks we pull apart the dark,
Compete against the stars with all of our hearts.
'Til our temporary brilliance turns to ash,
We pull apart the darkness while we can.

In the Embers – Sleeping At Last


Sometime in the Dark Ages, Earth

It was not a good place to die. The sandy gorge held very little underbrush for cover. The ground was mostly sharp rock and sand. It was an ugly place, made uglier by the scattering of Fallen corpses and the burned patches left by Scorch Cannons and Jaren's Solar Light. The weather was alright at least, not too hot. The clouds above cast slowly-rolling dapples of light and shadow over the gorge. The air was filled with battle-dust, gunsmoke and ether and kicked-up dirt. It turned the sun's rays into almost-tangible shafts of light. The battleground was silent, save for the wheezing gasps of the dying human.

Casey lay uncomfortably on the hard rock. They'd taken a shot to the side. Their shirt was in tatters, revealing a shiny mass of shredded skin and flesh underneath. Jaren didn't need his Ghost to tell the wound was fatal; there was too much shrapnel and too much blood and the nearest doctor was probably hundreds of kilometers away at best.

He didn't know what to do. He'd seen people die before, but Casey? It seemed like Death didn't know who Casey was. Jaren died again and again to the Fallen, to treacherous paths and falling rocks, but his mortal traveling companion had made it out of every tussle with hardly a scratch to show.

The Risen bundled his cloak up in a sorry attempt to pillow Casey's head. The mortal grunted in appreciation anyway. They finally opened their eyes, and looking up at Jaren's stricken face, laughed. It was a pained sound, their voice raspy from the dust still clogging the air. "What's got ya so down, kid?"

"I don't think you're gonna make it, Casey," Jaren admitted. His hands hovered nervously over the spreading red stain on their shirt, wanting to do something but worried he'd just make things worse if he tried.

Casey slapped his hands away like a parent scolding their child. "I'm no idiot, Ward. Not even your space magic can fix a shrapnel launcher to the gut."

Jaren settled back on his heels and looked at the mortal incredulously. "How can you be so okay with this?"

Casey coughed a few times, face going pale as they settled back to a resting position. "I mean, I knew this was going to happen eventually." They looked back up at Jaren, who was stricken with shock and the beginnings of grief. "You had to realize I wasn't gonna live forever," the mortal said gently.

"I-" Jaren never took anything for granted, not even his immortality. And Casey had always been so lucky, so quick. He'd never quite considered the day he'd kneel next to them while they died.

The mortal coughed again but continued on talking, urgent like they realized they didn't have much time left to say what they wanted. "Every time you come back, you're the exact same."

"I'm never the same man," Jaren protested. "Never. Not once."

"Every year, face as fresh as rainfall," Casey rambled. "And me, every year, knees gettin' stiffer, back stoopin' lower. I was never gonna outlive you, kid."

Jaren didn't know what to say to that.

Casey wheezed a laugh. "All things come to an end. Even me. Even you someday, I'm sure. But until then…"

Their hand fumbled for their gun. The Last Word had always appeared feather-light in their grip, drawing so easy it looked like it had a mind of its own. Now Casey heaved it with effort to rest it on their chest. "Made this gun myself. All the fancy tech in the world… will crap out on you eventually. Not this." They tapped the trigger guard with a calloused finger. "Put my blood and sweat inta her. She'll never let you down. Keep her oiled and clean and she'll be shinin' like the sun on the day the world ends."

None of this made sense. "What are you talkin' about, Casey?"

"Gun's a killing tool," the mortal wheezed. They patted their bloodstained side, a wry smile on their face. "But you… you can make it more than that. Use it to-" they broke off in a gasp of pain, grip suddenly bone-crushing in Jaren's own.

The moment passed, as all moments do. "You can change things," Casey rasped, eyes closed, face drawn taut. "Protect people. Better than I could, anyhow. Make it something more than the killing."

"I can't, Case, that's… that's your gun. It should stay with you." He couldn't image taking it. The Last Word had been Casey's pride and joy for longer than Jaren had known them. He couldn't picture the weapon without tangling Casey up in the memory: their hands lovingly polishing it, twirling it, stabilizing it as it flicked from target to target with an intuitive and deadly precision.

"You'd deny a person their dying wish?" the mortal scolded. "That's it. My last want. This gun's seen me through hell- my pap dying, my sister, findin' you… and a whole mess else between. Now it's seen me to the end. It'll see you through even more."

They slid the gun closer, nudging Jaren's hand where it gripped their shoulder. "Take it, Ward. And don't forget where it came from."

Reluctantly, Jaren took it. The gun was heavy in his hand. Smooth. It was still warm from the shootout. It felt steady, like a firm handshake, a lifetime's worth of love and tuning worked into its bones. Jaren twirled it experimentally, letting the grip slide home in his palm with a solid and reassuring thud.

Casey smiled, the pain leaving their face for a moment as pride twinkled in their eyes. "Looks good on you, kid."

Those were their last words.