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[wound prompt] shindrift - "It's nothing." (It's something.)
He opens his eyes to a painful jolt like there’s a pair of jumper cables clipped to each palm. For a moment, he can’t figure out if he just came out of a resurrection or simply shot awake from unconsciousness. He has no memory of the last thing he did, but that can wait, because his entire body still hurts sharp and fresh and —
His skin crawls with Arc energy, which isn’t really a thing that happens unless…
He is holding two cables, one in his hand. Or, more accurately, two broken ends that looks like it had been one cable, once upon a time. The frayed ends crackle with electricity.
Ah, he thinks wryly, and then a more vocal, “argh!” when he finally notices another man kneeling right next to him.
“Drifter?” the stranger asks, “you alright?”
So, he’s Drifter. ‘Drifter’ to this stranger, in any case. Sounds about right. “Yeah…” he begins slowly, like he’s still trying to come to. He drops the cable, rubbing his jittery hands, keepin’ ‘em close to the gun at his belt. “Yeah, I think I’m alright.”
He fakes a dazed expression for the excuse to take a look at his surroundings. Good news; he’s on the Derelict. Bad news; it looks different. Less cluttered, more polished for a hunk of junk with an engine. Now, the ship looks more fitted out, except for the wide open space in the back. Definitely not there before.
And, there’s a giant portal leading out with what looks like tethers attached to… to a giant ball of ice.
Drifter, very calmly, with all the ease of trying not to startle a nest of sleeping thralls, looks away.
Last he remembers, he’d been halfway across the Sol galaxy, gunning away from that icy hellhole, so far away the Light felt less than a trickle. The others he’d been with — all dead. He’d been heading back to Earth, inside a gutted ship, half jokingly calling it the Derelict just to give it a callsign for when he has to land on a station.
Just behind the ice ball, there was Earth. He’s years closer than he knows, with a stranger he doesn’t know. He has no memory of anything beyond escaping the ice planet.
“You don’t look alright,” says the stranger, master of deduction, and reaches over when Drifter tries to stand.
The way the man grips at his elbow sets an uncomfortable chill up Drifter’s spine. Not a second of hesitation, too familiar, too bold. His face rings no bells to Drifter, just ordinary human features; dark-eyed with tired lines, young-looking, but that doesn’t mean much with that Hunter’s cloak. A solemn demeanor, a worried pinch at the brows.
Drifter jerks his elbow away, and the stranger doesn’t even look surprised at that either. Shit.
It’s not often that Drifter finds himself cornered with the truth. In this case, he knows, despite every instinct screaming at him, it’ll be better for him to ‘fess up now.
“No. I’m guessin’ I ain’t,” he says, “considering I don’t know who the fuck you are. My memory’s fuzzed. Did my Ghost fuck up my ressurection or what?”
Drifter opens his palm to summon it, wanting some answers. Nothing. His Ghost doesn’t show up.
The stranger blinks, his gaze sharpening into scrutiny, mouth opening to say something before he stops himself. He turns away instead, picks up something from the ground, and holds a red blinking Ghost core out for Drifter. “About that. I think there was a problem.”
Drifter stares at it. He takes the Ghost core, half-relieved to find the very basic inventory and comm functions are still working. Like a computer that’s in sleep mode, his Ghost is just silent, and not just its wordless quiet. Unconscious. But not dead.
The stranger is looking at him like he’s waiting for a reply. Drifter gives him one in the form of a boot off the Derelict; transmat set to Light-knows-where, just as far away as possible.
The Derelict creaks, frozen metal groaning. The ship ain’t moving. It’s been parked. He’s staying still in space, alone, with a broken Ghost.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Drifter mutters, shaking his Ghost, and not too happy to hear it rattle like a tin can with two pebbles in it.
And then to his immense displeasure, the stranger transmats back through a private channel Drifter didn’t know existed but apparently had created himself. He looks as exasperated as Drifter feels freaked out.
“Okay, look—” the stranger says, hands up.
Drifter decides to not do that. He starts walking towards the back of the Derelict, to his slipshod room — well, almost to his slipshod room. He makes a right turn instead of left.
“You must be freakin’ out some…” the stranger starts to say, following him. “Wait. Wait. You tryin’ to head to your room? It’s thataway.” He points left.
Fuck. Okay. Cool. So this stranger isn’t so much a stranger then. Drifter stops in his tracks.
“How much do you remember?” the stranger asks, taking advantage of Drifter’s hesitance. “You know the Derelict, so there’s that.”
“I’m a couple of years behind,” Drifter says vaguely. He heads towards his room. To his chagrin and relief, it’s still that crappy shipping container.
“During or after that ice planet you were stuck on?”
Drifter resist the urge to boot the guy off his ship again. “You know about that? I told you that?”
“You pretty much tell everyone that.”
Everyone. Great. What’s he doing nowadays? Throwing parties? Drifter laughs and stomps into his room. Did he just go nuts over the last couple of years? Can he even trust this fucker?
Drifter stares at his room. He’s always been a messy type of guy. Controlled chaos, an organized mess, a coordinated packrat. But he knows where his things ought to be.
There’s a cloak folded at the end of his cot. There are armor pieces laying around that aren’t in his size, or style, or preferred make. There’s a robe that’s definitely his, so it’s not a matter of having taken up a disguise. Two mugs on the worktable. Two sets of empty bowls, still half-eaten. A datapad with a Vanguard emblem flashing. Green snake coins scattered everywhere. The lingering warmth of Solar energy in the air.
“...Fuck,” Drifter says heavily. He sits down on a crate.
It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing.
Who knows? Maybe he picked up a couple of new hobbies over the couple of years he’s been at the Tower. A new wardrobe that leans towards being Hunter-esque. Maybe this stranger is — an assistant. Or an accomplice.
Drifter puts his head down, about to mash his hands to his face. On the floor, he sees a bottle of lube, right at his boot.
Drifter mashes his hands into his face. Hard.
The Hunter coughs. Drifter doesn’t even want to look at him. He hears the Hunter tactfully kick the bottle away. It goes rolling somewhere.
“So… no pressing questions?” asks Mister Hunter fuckbuddy.
“You live here?” Drifter feels queasy. “With me?”
“No,” says the Hunter, but in a cautious way that sounds like he’s trying to sugarcoat the word no, and, horrifically, he follows it up with, “Not exactly.”
The fact the Hunter doesn’t elaborate is both a blessing and a curse to his psyche.
“You ain’t gonna ask for my name?”
Drifter scoffs, bitterness welling up in his chest. Ironically, that’s familiar, since he’s been sittin’ on that feeling for centuries. “If y’know me as much as I think you do…”
“You don’t put much faith in names,” the Hunter finishes.
Drifter glances up at the Hunter. He sees… well, a stranger. But this stranger’s expression rings something recognizable — a touch wry beneath the solemnity, cautious, and fuckin’ sad as hell, with the way he looks at Drifter like he doesn’t want to lose whatever he’s got going on between the two of them.
It should be nothing. But Drifter already knows it ain’t. He lets out a harsh exhale and sits up.
“Fuck. Alright,” he says, slapping his hands down in his thighs. “You gonna help me remember shit or what?”
The Hunter actually looks reluctant about it, but he says, “Yeah” and touches Drifter’s shoulder, light and fleeting, and Drifter knows he’s in deep shit when his body forgets to flinch away.
It’s something.
His skin crawls with Arc energy, which isn’t really a thing that happens unless…
He is holding two cables, one in his hand. Or, more accurately, two broken ends that looks like it had been one cable, once upon a time. The frayed ends crackle with electricity.
Ah, he thinks wryly, and then a more vocal, “argh!” when he finally notices another man kneeling right next to him.
“Drifter?” the stranger asks, “you alright?”
So, he’s Drifter. ‘Drifter’ to this stranger, in any case. Sounds about right. “Yeah…” he begins slowly, like he’s still trying to come to. He drops the cable, rubbing his jittery hands, keepin’ ‘em close to the gun at his belt. “Yeah, I think I’m alright.”
He fakes a dazed expression for the excuse to take a look at his surroundings. Good news; he’s on the Derelict. Bad news; it looks different. Less cluttered, more polished for a hunk of junk with an engine. Now, the ship looks more fitted out, except for the wide open space in the back. Definitely not there before.
And, there’s a giant portal leading out with what looks like tethers attached to… to a giant ball of ice.
Drifter, very calmly, with all the ease of trying not to startle a nest of sleeping thralls, looks away.
Last he remembers, he’d been halfway across the Sol galaxy, gunning away from that icy hellhole, so far away the Light felt less than a trickle. The others he’d been with — all dead. He’d been heading back to Earth, inside a gutted ship, half jokingly calling it the Derelict just to give it a callsign for when he has to land on a station.
Just behind the ice ball, there was Earth. He’s years closer than he knows, with a stranger he doesn’t know. He has no memory of anything beyond escaping the ice planet.
“You don’t look alright,” says the stranger, master of deduction, and reaches over when Drifter tries to stand.
The way the man grips at his elbow sets an uncomfortable chill up Drifter’s spine. Not a second of hesitation, too familiar, too bold. His face rings no bells to Drifter, just ordinary human features; dark-eyed with tired lines, young-looking, but that doesn’t mean much with that Hunter’s cloak. A solemn demeanor, a worried pinch at the brows.
Drifter jerks his elbow away, and the stranger doesn’t even look surprised at that either. Shit.
It’s not often that Drifter finds himself cornered with the truth. In this case, he knows, despite every instinct screaming at him, it’ll be better for him to ‘fess up now.
“No. I’m guessin’ I ain’t,” he says, “considering I don’t know who the fuck you are. My memory’s fuzzed. Did my Ghost fuck up my ressurection or what?”
Drifter opens his palm to summon it, wanting some answers. Nothing. His Ghost doesn’t show up.
The stranger blinks, his gaze sharpening into scrutiny, mouth opening to say something before he stops himself. He turns away instead, picks up something from the ground, and holds a red blinking Ghost core out for Drifter. “About that. I think there was a problem.”
Drifter stares at it. He takes the Ghost core, half-relieved to find the very basic inventory and comm functions are still working. Like a computer that’s in sleep mode, his Ghost is just silent, and not just its wordless quiet. Unconscious. But not dead.
The stranger is looking at him like he’s waiting for a reply. Drifter gives him one in the form of a boot off the Derelict; transmat set to Light-knows-where, just as far away as possible.
The Derelict creaks, frozen metal groaning. The ship ain’t moving. It’s been parked. He’s staying still in space, alone, with a broken Ghost.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Drifter mutters, shaking his Ghost, and not too happy to hear it rattle like a tin can with two pebbles in it.
And then to his immense displeasure, the stranger transmats back through a private channel Drifter didn’t know existed but apparently had created himself. He looks as exasperated as Drifter feels freaked out.
“Okay, look—” the stranger says, hands up.
Drifter decides to not do that. He starts walking towards the back of the Derelict, to his slipshod room — well, almost to his slipshod room. He makes a right turn instead of left.
“You must be freakin’ out some…” the stranger starts to say, following him. “Wait. Wait. You tryin’ to head to your room? It’s thataway.” He points left.
Fuck. Okay. Cool. So this stranger isn’t so much a stranger then. Drifter stops in his tracks.
“How much do you remember?” the stranger asks, taking advantage of Drifter’s hesitance. “You know the Derelict, so there’s that.”
“I’m a couple of years behind,” Drifter says vaguely. He heads towards his room. To his chagrin and relief, it’s still that crappy shipping container.
“During or after that ice planet you were stuck on?”
Drifter resist the urge to boot the guy off his ship again. “You know about that? I told you that?”
“You pretty much tell everyone that.”
Everyone. Great. What’s he doing nowadays? Throwing parties? Drifter laughs and stomps into his room. Did he just go nuts over the last couple of years? Can he even trust this fucker?
Drifter stares at his room. He’s always been a messy type of guy. Controlled chaos, an organized mess, a coordinated packrat. But he knows where his things ought to be.
There’s a cloak folded at the end of his cot. There are armor pieces laying around that aren’t in his size, or style, or preferred make. There’s a robe that’s definitely his, so it’s not a matter of having taken up a disguise. Two mugs on the worktable. Two sets of empty bowls, still half-eaten. A datapad with a Vanguard emblem flashing. Green snake coins scattered everywhere. The lingering warmth of Solar energy in the air.
“...Fuck,” Drifter says heavily. He sits down on a crate.
It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing.
Who knows? Maybe he picked up a couple of new hobbies over the couple of years he’s been at the Tower. A new wardrobe that leans towards being Hunter-esque. Maybe this stranger is — an assistant. Or an accomplice.
Drifter puts his head down, about to mash his hands to his face. On the floor, he sees a bottle of lube, right at his boot.
Drifter mashes his hands into his face. Hard.
The Hunter coughs. Drifter doesn’t even want to look at him. He hears the Hunter tactfully kick the bottle away. It goes rolling somewhere.
“So… no pressing questions?” asks Mister Hunter fuckbuddy.
“You live here?” Drifter feels queasy. “With me?”
“No,” says the Hunter, but in a cautious way that sounds like he’s trying to sugarcoat the word no, and, horrifically, he follows it up with, “Not exactly.”
The fact the Hunter doesn’t elaborate is both a blessing and a curse to his psyche.
“You ain’t gonna ask for my name?”
Drifter scoffs, bitterness welling up in his chest. Ironically, that’s familiar, since he’s been sittin’ on that feeling for centuries. “If y’know me as much as I think you do…”
“You don’t put much faith in names,” the Hunter finishes.
Drifter glances up at the Hunter. He sees… well, a stranger. But this stranger’s expression rings something recognizable — a touch wry beneath the solemnity, cautious, and fuckin’ sad as hell, with the way he looks at Drifter like he doesn’t want to lose whatever he’s got going on between the two of them.
It should be nothing. But Drifter already knows it ain’t. He lets out a harsh exhale and sits up.
“Fuck. Alright,” he says, slapping his hands down in his thighs. “You gonna help me remember shit or what?”
The Hunter actually looks reluctant about it, but he says, “Yeah” and touches Drifter’s shoulder, light and fleeting, and Drifter knows he’s in deep shit when his body forgets to flinch away.
It’s something.