What's true is like a sickle
It'll cut you to the middle
That your rose is without a thorn
But no, my mouth don't taste of metal
From the pot here to the kettle
I think we got a lot we gotta learn

Rose – The Oh Hellos

March 26, 2961; The Last City, Earth

Drifter was surprised, to say the least, when Azra Jax strolled into his space. He'd only seen her in newsfeeds, so it took his brain a half-second longer than usual to place the identity. Unannounced entrances were common, but he didn't usually recognize people.

It wasn't the fancy-patterned cloak or the long gun on her back that sparked his memory- it was the scars. They were small (a rippled patch on her chin and a line cutting off the end of one of her eyebrows), not too remarkable for a mortal and far less obtrusive than Drifter's own scratches. But Drifter spent his time talking to Guardian-perfect faces these days, and blemishes stood out clearly.

"Well, well. If it isn't Sleeping Beauty herself," he drawled.

The Tower was all abuzz with the news of Azra Jax's recent awakening. (Restoration? Revival? Whatever.) Drifter had not been expecting her to come visit his little annex. She was supposed to be off entreating the masses or touring the Dreaming City or something. From the tales spoken by passers-by (and several long, rambling stories from Cayde-6), she didn't seem like the Gambit type.

"Drifter," she said curtly. Her eyes were sharp and aware, her stride holding that kind of lethal self-assuredness that came with combat experience. "Word is, you have Ghost modding tools."

This wasn't pleasure, then, it was business. And she wasn't wasting any time on small talk. Drifter crossed his arms, meeting her gruff with his own. "Even if I did have something like that- and I'm not saying I do- they wouldn't be for sale."

Azra plonked something onto his table. It was bulbous, about the size of a loaf of bread and not quite spherical. Its core glowed a dull purple.

Drifter raised his eyebrows in surprise. From what he could see, the piece was whole, not even scorched or dented. Refurbished Servitor CPUs weren't easy to come by, much less original intact ones. Servitors tended to explode when they were killed. It would take a lot of time and effort- not just to figure out how to kill one while leaving the core intact, but to do it while its Fallen crew were gunning for you? That thing was worth a couple hundred thousand Glimmer to the right buyer.

Drifter was the right buyer. "How'd you know I was looking for one of those?" he asked, staying casually aloof. He leaned closer to inspect the part, but the Hunter's fingers tightened and she dragged it an inch back, scraping on the table. He looked back at her face to find her eyebrows raised in a silent challenge.

She had him good. The part was too rare, too expensive to pass up. Especially not for a few tools he could reproduce from schematics. "They're in the back," he said diplomatically. "I can go rustle 'em up, but it might take a couple minutes."

"I'm not in a rush," Azra said easily.

Drifter shut the door behind him. "The back", in reality, was just a supply closet. Drifter kept his living arrangements on his ship. The closet was just a place for the strange or valuable goods he couldn't leave sitting around the annex. The tools were right there, sitting neatly on a shelf at shoulder-height. Drifter didn't really need time to find them. He'd just wanted a few minutes to dig up information.

He grabbed a data pad and tapped away at his records for a moment. Finding nothing useful, he then did a quick trawl of the Vanguard database. Azra Jax had a shining track record, as far as the City was concerned. Obviously her heroism in the Red War came with quite the accolades- but even before that, she had a long, dependable history of work. SIVA. Oryx. She was a veteran of both Burning Lake and Mare Ibrium. It took major guts to spend half a day pummeling a squad of Hive into the ground, see several casualties, and then think it was a good idea to go face off an army of them. She'd even received some commendations at Twilight Gap. There was not a single blemish on her record- not one abandoned mission, not one reprimand for excess violence in the Crucible. What was a goody-two-shoes doing haggling for illegal Ghost modding tools with rare Fallen components?

On that train of thought, how had she even known he was looking for a Servitor CPU? How did she know who he was? Who had she had time to talk to in the few days she'd been back?

Thoughtfully, he exited the closet. Azra was exactly where he'd left her, leaning on the CPU and looking slightly bored. Drifter's Ghost helpfully materialized the requested tools on the table. Azra's own Ghost floated over to look at them.

In the silence, Drifter cast a question. "Can I ask what you need Ghost modding tools for?"

Azra's attention was still focused on her Ghost. Her voice was dry. "Ask all you want, but I'm not gonna answer." Her eyes flicked over to him, not belying one inch of diplomatic give. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Actually, yeah," Drifter decided. In all honesty, he'd be more at ease if some Gambit Junkie or Shore low-life was asking around. Azra Jax had no place walking in here and poking her head into this. Something about this situation screamed sketchy in a more dangerous way than normal. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable lettin' these go if I don't know what they're gonna be used for."

Azra maintained a long second of eye contact with him. Drifter held firm. It was Azra who broke first, shrugging in a what-are-you-gonna-do gesture. Without a word, her Ghost set down the tool he'd been inspecting and zipped back over to her side. The pair turned to go, CPU still in hand.

Drifter let them get all the way to the door, looking for hesitation. When he saw none, he grit his teeth and called out, "Now wait a minute."

The Hunter turned back. She was exasperated, to Drifter's shock. She'd been talking the talk of an experienced haggler, posturing and prodding with smooth bravado. When she turned, she should have been smug or sly for having called his bluff. The walking away from the table- that should have been an empty threat to take her goods elsewhere. But she was annoyed, which meant she'd been serious about leaving and was frustrated with Drifter for flipping his opinion so lightly. She really was just here for a simple transaction.

Drifter wondered again: why the hell was someone so square looking for these tools? Why was she putting a component up for them even Spider didn't dare ask for? There was too much mystery here for such a straight actor. It seemed Azra Jax had learned some lessons from her brother about being an open book with the pages taped together.

He needed more information. "Share a drink with me and I'll sell 'em to you," Drifter announced. "Share two and I might even give ya a lil' discount."

Azra cocked an eyebrow.

Drinks meant going back to the ship. Drifter would have felt guilty for the mess- he never had been one to keep his kitchen clean- but the clutter did help keep up his shady appearance, so he shrugged off the embarrassment.

He bustled, hastily washing two glasses and turning out his freezer for the last few ice cubes. Azra sat in a chair and watched. She was being Hunter-polite, lounging in an unthreatening and unthreatened way, but there was a core of rigidity and mistrust in her she either couldn't hide or didn't want to.

Drifter knocked about in his cabinet and came up with a pilfered bottle of Spider's finest. He plonked himself down at the table, gave each of them a generous pour, and slid Azra's glass across the table. She caught it automatically. Drifter watched as she swirled the liquid, peering into the glass before taking a small sip. Her eyebrows jumped momentarily in surprise, but she didn't grimace as she placed it back on the table.

"Been a minute since I've had Reefway swill," Azra said.

Which already said loads about her. She had been to the Tangled Shore, or perhaps the seedier parts of the Reef. She didn't consider that a secret. And she was used to partaking in Fallen drink. Drifter mused on the implications as he took a swallow from his own glass.

They sat in silence for a moment. The Hunter didn't seem particularly interested in introducing new conversation. She remained an intense presence, not relaxing, not taking her focus off Drifter to inspect her surroundings.

"How have things been with you?" Drifter asked. "You've only been back, what, two weeks? A lot's changed since you… went away."

The Hunter shrugged. "It's been busy. But it's always busy."

Drifter nodded. "You seem like the type to things busy even when they don't need to be."

"What gave you that impression?" she asked neutrally.

Drifter snorted. "You Arcstriders are always getting up to somethin'."

Azra's gaze went sharp, and then she looked away- too quick for her look to have been a purposeful tell, but too slow to hide it. Either he'd struck a major nerve, or she had a bad poker face.

"What?" Drifter drawled, keeping a playful tone in his voice. "I was Raised in the Dark Ages, kid. I've been dealin' with Arcstriders for longer than you've been alive."

Azra scoffed at that but shook her head. "I'm a little too used to people knowing what I am and thinking it's who I am," she said. "You would not believe the dumb ideas people get sometimes."

Drifter let that line of conversation die. Azra, once again, didn't seem much inclined to start another one. She took another swig out of her glass, leaving it almost empty.

Okay, Drifter admitted. I'm in a pickle. Either Azra Jax was an incredible actress with a convoluted long game nobody had figured out yet, or she was a good person. Good people were unpredictable. A selfish person you could rely on to hold their interests first- figuring them out was all just angling to see what they wanted and what they were willing to do to get it. But someone looking to do good could come up with all kinds of reasons to do all kinds of things. Usually the goody-two-shoesness came with a solid helping of naiveté to balance out the unpredictability. Selfless people tended to assume everyone else was selfless, too. That made it easier to work information out of them- they just trusted people more. They didn't think twice about spilling small details.

Across from him the Hunter, practically a shining paragon of responsibility and service, was shut tight as a clam. That meant she was strong enough to have gotten burned a few times and survived. That meant she was powerful enough to face some tough situations and not have to compromise on her ethics to get what she wanted.

Azra was eyeing him just as much as he was eyeing her. She blinked, and her shoulders tensed, and she took a deeper breath. "To hell with it," she muttered. She downed the rest of her glass- Drifter followed hastily, not sure what was going to happen next. They had technically sat down and shared a drink together, and she could technically call their deal done, but that didn't really seem fair, to him. It had been about three minutes since he'd poured their drinks.

Maybe the alcohol would loosen her up, just a bit. Drifter reached for the bottle. Before he could unscrew the cap, the Hunter snatched both of their glasses off of the table and stalked over to the sink.

His worries about her bailing were unfounded, it seemed. Back still to Drifter, Azra held out a hand. Her Ghost materialized a crystal bottle half-full of amber liquid. She rinsed their cups matter-of-factly, drying them with the clean corner of a towel. She didn't even bother hunting down more ice- she returned to the table, doled them each out a double-pour from her bottle, and dropped back down into her seat.

Drifter waited for her to take a swallow before he brought the glass to his lips. The scent was strong- some type of earth-made grain alcohol. He held it on his tongue for a second before swallowing. Oakey, smokey, with a strong hint of vanilla, and incredibly smooth. Bourbon, and expensive stuff at that.

He leaned back with a (slightly exaggerated) sigh of appreciation. "I don't think I've had bourbon like this since I sold my bar," he said.

Azra's eyebrows were raised. "You used to own a bar and you decided to serve me Reefway slosh?"

"Ain't nothin' wrong with a good stiff drink every now and again," Drifter defended. "Reminds you you're alive."

Azra snorted at that and took a drink from her own glass.

"I'll trade you the tools for the bottle," Drifter haggled. Yes, it was funny serving swill to his guests, but nice liquor like that was hard to come by, especially after the Red War.

Azra's face closed just a little bit. "Not for sale," she said. "Bottle's only for sharing, I'm afraid."

"At least tell me where you got it," Drifter pried.

"Let's just say that raiding Cayde-6's liquor stash is a hobby of mine," Azra drawled.

"Now I know that can't be true! That guy has terrible taste in whiskey." Drifter had shared a few drinks with him these past months, and a few more before that, and the Hunter Vanguard had never failed to produce some truly terrible liquor to test Drifter's resolve.

"He keeps around some bad stuff to mess with people. I think he likes giving it out for the shock value." Azra's head inclined slightly to the bottle of swill still sitting on the table.

"Still doesn't tell me where he got it," Drifter muttered.

"Cosmodrome," she said. "But that was back in, oh, two-eight-seven-five? Seventy-six? Shipment's long gone by now."

Drifter shook his head and took another sip. It was good, and old, probably Golden Age or just afterwards. A shame.

And a show of good will, if she was sharing it. "Why the hell did you give me this?" he asked.

"Maybe I just didn't want to drink more of your swill," she replied. Her eyes held a spark of humor when he met them.

Fuck. Generosity. Even if she was just trying to get on his good side, there were less expensive, less meaningful ways to do it. He didn't know whether to be assured of some altruistic motives or to be even more concerned.

She had been walking the walk and talking the talk of an experienced ne'er-do-well, at least she had been earlier. Surely she realized that unfounded kindness was just not a move you made in this game? The pieces on the board could be lenient or cruel, but the criminal underside of the system was played as a zero-sum game. You gave no gifts, you only made investments. You took every bit of pleasure you could get and held it fierce. You were not kind.

But she had dunk Reefway Swill before- enough to recognize it on taste and down it unflinchingly. She knew he was looking for a Servitor CPU and had dangled it in front of him with all the unsaid subtleties of a regular supplier. And then she took his swill and repaid him in Golden-Age bourbon. None of this made any goddamn sense.

He needed to know more. "So," Drifter said conversationally. "Whan's the last time you were on the Shore?"

The wall is dingy, crusted with oxidation and dust. Dirt and small piles of debris have gathered in the corners. Nobody cleans this place. There's no point.

"I've given you everything you need," Mara Sov hisses. (It's not Mara Sov. It's Riven. There is, somewhere, a pit of dread in your stomach. It is far too distant for you to feel it.)

"They're hunting for me," Uldren says. He is the picture of mania, pacing back and forth in the confines of the small room, pulling at is hair. You sit on a dirty metal bench and you watch him.

"Oh, Uldren," not-Mara coos. "You have everything. Allies, power, protection." Your hands close into fists. Arc sputters messily within them, showing through your bones. It casts harsh shadows in the Eliksni-dim room.

Uldren stares at you, haunted. "We have to wait. Until they're distracted," he says.

Not-Mara's voice has a dangerous edge to it. "I am growing impatient, Brother." The Arc in your hands has not stopped.

?

A choking noise reached her ears.

Drifter's face was beet-red, turning purple. He clutched at her forearm but could not dislodge it- Azra's grip was too strong, locked in place. She had him on the ground, knee in his gut, hand around his neck. Her other hand held a knife. It was her nice one, made from Titanite, and it buzzed like a small Bolt-Caster in her grip.

"Azra," Spark insisted.

She felt the blood leave her face. Her heart was pounding in her chest still. She glanced around and yes, she was in Drifter's ship. They'd been sharing a drink. And now Azra was strangling him.

She let go and stood up. Drifter was on his feet in a heartbeat, hacking and wheezing. Azra's body still hummed with Arc. It clung even as she rolled her shoulders and let out the breath she'd been holding.

She stowed her knife. Drifter was leaned over the sink, coughing. His Ghost had already whizzed out from the back of the ship to heal him.

Azra elected to give them some space. The table hadn't been disturbed, but her chair had been knocked over. She righted it and sat down, slouching. The glass she'd left was mostly empty. She downed the remains and poured out another dose. She hesitated only a moment before downing that, too.

Drifter gave one last cough and finally breathed easy. Azra saw him glance at her as she poured another round into her glass, re-corking the bottle afterwards. Azra just sighed. "It's times like these I understand why Tevis smoked," she muttered. "Sorry."

"Nah," Drifter drawled, sounding no worse than normal. "I should know better than to poke at a hardcase like yourself when they're down." Azra raised an eyebrow at the term hardcase, but didn't otherwise comment as he returned to his own seat. "You just… keeled over," Drifter said. "That happen often?"

Azra already regretted the drinks- they took the edge off, sure, but her limbs were unnervingly loose and she felt giddy when she turned her head. "Since I woke up," she admitted. "I don't remember what happened when I was… gone. Then sometimes, I do."

"Choking's not something I'm usually into," Drifter joked. "Let's at least get a safeword next time."

Azra recognized the schmooze. She was very not interested in Drifter flirting with her. "I'm asexual," she said flatly.

Drifter shrugged. "Your loss."

"And I have a girlfriend."

Drifter looked up from his glass, peering at her suspiciously. "You're drunk?" he asked.

Whoops. Azra took stock of her body. The room seemed a bit too far away. Her face was a getting numb. But her balance wasn't too affected- she could fight well, if needed. "Tipsy," she clarified. "My alcohol tolerance is terrible. I never stay alive long enough to build it up."

"What are you talking about?" Drifter said.

"My Ghost," she said, "is a fucking narc. He's all like, 'Oooh, drug tolerance is a kind of organ damage. You never complain when I heal your lungs from all those toxic chemicals'. And I can't seem to go two weeks without getting shot or blown up, so I'm constantly on Baby's First Drink level of tolerance."

"It makes going to bars significantly cheaper," Spark pointed out. The cheeky bastard. Azra swatted at him half-heartedly.

"Makes me look bad," she complained. "Suraya Hawthorne can drink me under the table."

Drifter was looking at them with something approaching alarm on his face. Azra swallowed and tried to get a more firm rein on her tongue. She was supposed to be acting professional, here, not snarking at her Ghost.

She briefly considered bailing, but she still hadn't gotten the tools yet. However embarrassing it was to suddenly become a blabbermouth, it was more embarrassing to run away. Besides, she couldn't find herself to care all that much. Dumb alcohol.

But Drifter just seemed to accept that this was the conversation they were having now. "How in the nine hells did you get Suraya Hawthorne to go drinking with you? She's a tight-ass."

"She's a tight-ass if you flirt with her," Azra clarified. "And it was the last time I was at the Shore. One of the last times. I guess. Gods, it's all so complicated." She shrugged. "Anyway, me 'n Cayde brought a crew out to Spider's Palace and got some drinks. But we didn't end up drinkin' em much before the bar got trashed, so Hawthorne managed to puppy-dog-eye me into going out to a City bar. And she drunk me under the table."

"Hol' up," Drifter said, putting up his hands to stop her. "You were involved in that brawl? Hah! I heard about that one. Spider musta been furious."

Azra opened her mouth, and she was definitely too drunk to be having this conversation. She almost said 'He was still holding a grudge about it when I saw him last'. In this timeline, she hadn't talked with him since trashing the Palace. The last thing she needed was to slip up and invite a nosy rogue Lightbearer to poke around in her affairs.

She settled for obfuscation instead. "I have on good authority he's still pissed about it," she said. That was the right amount of coy. If Drifter saw her false start, he didn't mention it.

"…Those tools ain't for you, are they?" he said, abruptly changing topic.

"…No, they're not for me," Azra replied. It was the truth; she didn't want any part of this. It was an act of service. She could have tried to cover the fact, but it didn't seem worth it. If she were sober, she could- well, she couldn't pull off a lie, but she could just refuse to talk about it again. But the alcohol made it too hard to hide her facial tells.

"I mean, I knew when you proposed drinks you were going to try to get me tipsy so I would spill things," Azra complained. "I just didn't expect it to actually work."

"Neither did I, to tell you the truth," Drifter said. "I just wanted to talk. See what you were about."

"Gods," Azra declared, putting her head down on the table. "Everything's so fucked. I can't even. Like. Get drinks with a stranger without passing out and strangling them and then getting too drunk."

Drifter just chuckled. Azra looked up and narrowed her eyes at him. "Look at you, laughing at me," she accused. "See if I give you any more of my nice whiskey. You're a bad man."

"And you ain't," Drifter decided. "The person you're doing this for… they worth it?"

Azra's face must have said enough, because Drifter raised his hands before she could speak. "You ain't no fool… uh, current circumstances notwithstanding."

Azra glared at him again, and Drifter coughed. "I'm sayin' is, maybe you've convinced me these ain't gonna get used for nefarious purposes." He finished his drink and set the glass down with a sigh. "The tools are dangerous. But you won't let anyone get hurt, will ya? You're a big softie."

"You're one to talk," Azra shot back. In all honesty, Azra hadn't thought Drifter cared too much who got hurt or who didn't. He hadn't been pulling her leg about his moral reservations.

"They're yours," Drifter announced. "Free of charge."

Azra's eyes narrowed. "Oh, no you don't," she said sharply. "No gifts. I'll buy them."

"Fifty Glimmer," Drifter offered. "That's about the materials it'd take to make 'em."

"You will take your goddamn CPU and use it to further enshittify your Gambit games, and I will owe you nothing," Azra insisted.

"You could get a lot of money for that part," Drifter warned her.

She shrugged. "Who the hell am I gonna sell it to? The Praxics and the Scribes have all the Servitor blueprints they need. Spider can go fuck himself with a rusty Ether tank, I don't need him getting any ideas about how useful I can be. There may be some hobbyist mechanics out there looking to, I don't know, refurbish a Ketch or some shit, but I really don't need the Glimmer as much as I need your mouth to stay shut about this."

"The strangling part or the getting drunk part?" Drifter asked.

"The 'buying illegal modding tools' part," Azra said. "Though now that you mention it, it would be nice not get teased into oblivion by Cayde."

"We had a nice conversation, you were very slick and impressive, and there was no strangling involved," Drifter offered.

"And also you just found an intact Servitor CPU just sitting around," Azra agreed.

Drifter held out a hand. "Deal."