tacit

The night has been quiet so far. The gentle churring of Eliksni goes on in the background, almost unnoticed, as the ones who are still awake are quietly working on various projects. Some are researching, others gardening. A few, though, are kept up by little hatchlings who simply do not want to sleep, but aren’t being too fussy.

However, one of the hatchlings, Iraliks by name, is being held in the careful hands of Sushi-3 as he patrols the borders of the Botza district. Hatchling teething periods are no joke, and Iraliks is both exhausted and frustrated, not knowing why she’s in pain, and just wants to chew on things. Sushi’s leather-gloved thumb seemed to be the best option, so he carries her while he works. She’s sleeping now, but that could change at any instant. Tucked in the crook of his arm, and holding his Ikelos sniper rifle with the other, Sushi silently does his rounds.

There are still piles of broken Vex corpses in some corners of the district, the Eliksni not wanting them thrown away, curiously wanting to pick them apart. They’re a mechanically-inclined species, and no one begrudges them that. Sushi hasn’t seen Lakshmi’s body since the day of the invasion, and he’s not sure he wants to ask for its whereabouts.

Walking near the carefully-tended gardens, Sushi makes sure not to step on any seeds or tools lying about. The few Eliksni pulling weeds give him a glance or two, but nothing more. They’re comfortable with his presence, even more so when he carries a hatchling with him, which is becoming more common these days. When the sun is up and the children are awake, he often walks around with them holding onto his legs, begging him in their own language to play with them. He glances at the soccer ball over near the far wall, with the shoddy goal nets that he helped scrap together. The Eliksni have been so removed from their own culture, how it used to be during their own Golden Age, that the children aren’t taught things like games that they might have once played all those years ago. Perhaps some things like that are simply lost to time and trials, and the Eliksni have far too many problems to think about prioritizing things like games, rhymes, and other non-essential minutiae. It’s not something Sushi would have thought or cared about when he was first assigned this patrol zone, but it’s something that haunts him now. It doesn’t feel right when he thinks about essentially substituting Eliksni culture with something like soccer, but what else can he do? He knows how to do human things, despite not really being human himself. He’s like them, in a way, and yet hardly alike at all.

He finds Cybel. Cybel-38, his commanding officer, hardly ever looks out of place here in the Eliksni quarter, with his four arms and environmental ease. He is an anchor, not just for the Eliksni to feel safe, but also for Sushi, who might have choked on the day of the Vex invasion, when he had no knowledge of where to go or what to do.

“All clear,” he signs with his right hand, after holstering his sniper rifle behind his back.

Cybel nods in response, noting the sleeping Iraliks cradled in his arm. Silence is needed, and luckily, it’s a language he’s fluent in. “You’re four hours in,” he signs, “Sit down for a few, then return the hatchling to the creche.”

There’s not much to sit on, certainly not for a big titan, so Sushi sits down on a nearby crate instead. Iraliks barely stirs in his careful hold, so he considers it a small victory. “Just doesn’t feel right without the Traveler above us,” he signs slowly, having to piecemeal-spell half of the words due to being one-handed. “The ships being in the sky doesn’t settle my nerves, either.”

As if on cue, Cybel glances up at the night sky, the fleet of Cabal and Corsair vessels being nothing more than dark shapes against the distant stars. “The Eliksni took comfort in living under the Traveler’s shadow,” he signs, his lower arms tucked behind his back in a relaxed parade rest. “I’m sure they feel more unease than we do; they’ve experienced this before. It dredges up generational trauma for many of them.”

Sushi is quiet at that, not knowing what to really say in response. He looks down at the sleeping hatchling in his arm, wondering if Iraliks might have to grow up without ever seeing their Great Machine. Sometimes, stories just aren’t enough. He idly thinks about the Red War, wondering how Guardians and citizens alike felt when they saw the Traveler caged by Ghaul. Sushi was there for that; somehow he lived through the war and its aftermath, though he doesn’t remember any of it. He wasn’t a Guardian then. It just makes him wonder what he did, how he survived. They’re memories he has, but he’s not sure if he should access them or not.

A quiet flow of exospeak reaches Sushi’s audial processors after a moment, not giving him as many words as it does elicit emotional responses from his cortex, provoking the feeling of being comforted by someone caring, someone in charge. The sensation of rallying will touches his exo bones after, pulsing gently through his circuitry. It feels good. The unshakeable dread that was settling over him feels as if it’s melting away. Cybel knows that Sushi isn’t the most proficient with exospeak, but he himself is, and knows how to use it to breach beyond the concept of spoken words. He does this for Sushi, especially in times like now when he needs it the most.

Kneeling down in front of Sushi, Cybel reaches out his arms towards Iraliks. “I will take her to the creche,” he signs, his lower arms resting gently on his knees, “Walk for a bit, clear your head. Get some coffee, perhaps.”

At this point, Sushi knows better than to argue against anything Cybel says, and why would he, anyway? If there’s anyone here that he can trust, more than anyone, it’s Cybel. He carefully places Iraliks in the exo’s arms before standing up from his seat on the crate. Coffee sounds really nice right now. Maybe a cappuccino.

“Do you want something?” he signs, feeling more in control of his speech with both of his hands being able to sign now.

“Iced Americano,” Cybel replies, his fingers practically dancing, indicative of just how badly he does indeed want coffee. “Two sugars, please.”

“On it, boss.”