"Ex-miss. What the -blam!- is Ex-miss? Tell me this isn't for that bitch ass Xur. Noodle-faced -blam!- robbed me for motes just last week. Gave me an engram that was the same -blam!-ing helmet I already wear. I would've went back and punched him, but I'm afraid of catching whatever the hell is coming off of his face. The -blam!- happen to his face?" Fox sighed. She was getting used to hearing Ricochet rant, at this point. The large, broody, almost always angry Titan didn't seem to approve of much of anything, and could almost certainly find something wrong with something before he even knew what it was. She knew that, if she really wanted to enjoy the ancient holiday, she shouldn't have invited him to the party. She also knew that if she didn't invite him to a party, no one ever would. And that made her a bit sad. So she invited him, along with the rest of the Lance, and he bitched the entire time while dutifully helping her string up decorations. It wasn't until [i]after[/i] they were finished decorating this rented room in the Tower that he started asking questions. "It's not to celebrate Xur. Why would the ancients have celebrated Xur?" She was looking at herself in the reflection of a punch bowl. She'd asked him how she looked, and had regretted that too. She liked her clingy purple dress, because she thought it looked nice. He thought purple against blue skin looked strange, said that it made her eyes look like traffic lights, and quoted Fault in noting that she tended toward 'birdlike' hair styles. [i]My hair does not look like an avian predator. Nor does it look like someone surprised it. They're just assholes. Why do I do this again?[/i] "Look babe, I don't know. I don't even know. He might've been around. We don't know. We don't know anything, remember? And I mean he smells like he's been everywhere and everywhen. Ever smell that dude? It's just wrong. He smells like last year had a love affair with Ogre." He was talking while straightening a table cloth for the tenth time. It was red, it was decorated with green paper cutouts of pine trees from an area of the world too dangerous to venture to now. It was meant to be festive, and he kept fussing over it trying to get it straight. The whole room was festive. String lights, ancient hymns she'd nearly died trying to recover playing softly in the background. While she couldn't get a real tree, she'd managed to transmat something which sort of smelled sort of like pine oil. It was close to how the ancients would have done it. Close. They'd celebrate over these decorations, remember the year that had passed, argue with one another, get drunk, sleep with someone they regretted sleeping with and then go home. If they had children, the children received many gifts that they didn't need, which contributed to the excess and opulence of the Golden Age according to history tomes. This was no Golden Age X-mas celebration. But it was going to be close. "That has a smell?" She straightened up. Patted the front of her dress to make sure it was clear of all glitter and tinsel. Turned to look around the room, taking in her handywork. Set her eyes upon Ricochet, who was staring at a hanging glass orb ornament like he was planning the inevitable competition for who could shoot the most of them the quickest. "Damn straight it does. You'd be surprised. When're they supposed to get here?" He wasn't in armor. For once. He wasn't dressed up either, but it was one or the other with him. He lived in his armor. She was certain that was some sort of Agoraphobic behavior on his part. But when he wasn't, it was the same outfit: Loose gray pants. Loose black T shirt. Always. She'd seen his closet. It was like he wore a uniform. [i]Maybe he was a soldier, before.[/i] "Not as though it matters. They'll be late. Lazy -blam!-s." He added, moving a chair out with his heel and flopping down to sit. The chair creaked loudly in protest. [i]The worst soldier ever.[/i] "Eagle said he'd be here around five, so---" She was moving across the room, absently levitating as she approached the table to drift up high enough to settle down on the edge. She'd at least dressed nicely, so there was no reason at all her dress couldn't be functional as well. A little bit of Hadronic Essence and a craftily hidden sync transmitter beneath the pins holding up her hair, and she was as capable in a gown and heels as she was in a helmet and holding her Multi Tool. "Eagle's already here." The voice came from the other side of the table. And he was there. He wasn't there before, but now he was. Seated, already eating a heavily sugar sprinkled cookie. "...'ey." Now speaking through a fool mouth. "...'chu floatin' aroun' foh?" "Ey. If you eat all the cookies I will punch you in the neck." Ricochet grumbled at Eagle. Eagle gave him the finger. Ricochet returned the gesture---Eagle threw a cookie at him which nailed him directly between the eyes. Ricochet stood up instantly, hands already curled under the table, ready to flip it over in Eagle's direction. "HEEEEEY!" Fox shouted, holding up her hands. "Don't you dare! Don't you da---AAAH!" And he heeded her warning, but apparently with the impression that grabbing her by her upper arms and lifting her over his head to throw [i]her[/i] at the already chortling Hunter was a great alternative! "HEEEY! PUT ME DOWN!" "You said I couldn't flip the table." He'd stopped. She was still being held aloft. [i]Why is he even this strong outside of his armor?[/i] "And that still stands. You may not." Somehow, facing down angry Knights and dodging hails of Cabal Centurion fire had given her a level of calm that bordered on comical, even to her. Being held in the air by her arms, a feather in the hands of a giant, she found the mind to calmly re assert discussed boundaries. It was really the only way to deal with this lot. "---and I can't throw the plates. You said that too." Eagle was still laughing. And was eating another cookie. Fox just sighed. "Can you put me down? I'm not an option to be thrown. Maybe---MAYBE---you go tonight without throwing anything at anyone." She suggested warmly. He frowned about it. "Can I go get one of my guns, then?" He sounded so hopeful. "No, my very unfriendly giant. You may not." She smiled softly, and gave a wiggle. Her arms were beginning to hurt. "WOAH! Put'er down, Kong." The voice came from the doorway. It was Wally. "No? Nobody gets that one? Do you people even WATCH the cool shit Rahool decodes? King Kong? Old New York? Nobody? Ya'll suck." He was moving into the room, loud as ever. Carrying two platters of...something. "Didn't know he decoded anything that wasn't... you know... shootable. Or armor. I mean it's mostly shit but---" Fault was saying, following in Wally's wake. Ricochet finally put her down. Though he set her down standing on the table, like that was okay, but at least he'd put her down. "That shit is your history." Fox cut him off as she was climbing down. "A little respect. And get away from the audio player! This is a classic! We're going to have a sing along later!" The rest had complied with not being in armor as well. Fault was in equally plain clothing, only with the addition of a dark brown duster which was almost certainly concealing some sort of weapon among it. Or it was rigged for casting, as was her dress. Wally was a black suit, polished black shoes---overall sharply dressed, if it weren't for the tie that looked like the sun had thrown up all over the center of his chest. "Ric's throwin' bitches? Man that's [i]not okay[/i] you gotta... you gotta work on that dude..." Bishop had entered, and for some reason looked like he was going on a vacation somewhere tropical. He slugged Ricochet on the shoulder on the way by after his comment, and quickly sidestepped out of reach. "...what, you said it was festive Fox." He'd commented to her when she stared at him and gave him a meaningful up-down gaze. He looked like an idiot. He wore it so proudly. Punk and his lot trickled in. Cold made a brief appearance, as did Tek---they came for food, offered assistance, then left. Titans. The evening wore on, no one knew any of the songs. Doss showed up with some he'd recently had decoded, so she added them to the rotation. She kept the festivities down to three fights, one insane bet, and wound up needing about three times as much food as she thought she would. As things settled, they spent most of the time seated around the table, slinging insults and jokes, and sharing stories of recent adventures. The alcohol went practically untouched. No one tried to use her as a projectile again. It was crowded. It was loud. And it had nothing to do with the plans she had to honor the ancient tradition, save for the exchange of presents (during which Ricochet received a Mote of Light with a note "Basically what you wanted, but also -blam!- you."---because he's been trying to get his hands on a Hardlight Auto Rifle for some time, and that gift may have been the first time she saw him genuinely smile about anything) and the rather basic enjoyment of collected friends and allies who had lived through the year in one badly decorated room. All things considered, it went over rather well. [i]They're all complete disasters. But they're all here. That's something, right?[/i]