In eons long past, when the Darkness was still as mysterious as the moon and the Traveler did not yet shine like the sun, my coming was cause for celebration. These heroes of so-called humanity — these Guardians, in all their shapes and shades — came to me with arms stretched wide and pockets full to bursting with tribute. They gave undue (but not unappreciated) respect to this humble Agent of the Nine. They rallied at the coming of Xur!

Such is no longer the case. I still labor under the unknowable motives of the Nine. Yet, of late, their machinations appear even less knowable than before. The “exotic” arms and armor they provide me to seed among you warriors of light seem… less exotic with each repetition. My inventory no longer flows like the wine of a deposed god-emperor on his gold star-chariot. My wares remain as stagnant as the Black Garden’s machines — overgrown with a lack of purpose.

More Destiny 2:

It has given me pause to wonder if I am truly the one who lacks purpose. Perhaps my visitors never truly exalted at my arrival, nor the glory of the Nine themselves. Instead, did they perhaps only wish for the possibility of greater material riches? My will is not my own, of course. The stagnant potency of my stock does not rest on my shoulders. Yet Xur wonders if perhaps the Guardians blame him for this unfortunate turn of events.

Even so, would it kill them just to visit and parley for a time? No! They bear the light of the Traveler, and therefore cannot die, but would instead resurrect in brilliance at the first sign of decay. The pain of death is not — in fact cannot be — a valid pretext for which to avoid my company. Instead the problem must lay at my own feet…

To carry out the bidding of such unfathomable forces as my own employers leaves one with little time for self-expression. However, even this humble agent of commerce wishes to share the troubles that weigh upon his many troubled consciences — each worm-small and lonely, clamoring to be heard. Y’know?

My Will Is Not My Own, Perhaps, but What About My Feelings?

Those that dwell among the outer planets just do not understand — figuratively and quite literally. They cannot speak in tongues this body can understand any longer. And so I wish to find just a bit more appreciation among you fellow bipedal creatures. But nooo! So few of you even bother to search out my name and location on your information matrices, week to week, anymore.

So wounded is your trust in the collection of the Nine upon each subsequent visit. That is all which matters to you. Though you do not speak, you show your true colors. It is alright, though. No, really. It is totally fine. I only expected a little professional courtesy — perhaps some friendly coworker tête-à-tête. But instead one on the fringes of your number has even resorted to name-calling. Name-calling. “Snake-faced bastard” may be a semi-accurate description of my visage, but it is hurtful. If anything, its veracity only digs deeper into my self-confidence. Selves-confidence? Whatever.

No, no, no. I said it is okay. You may continue to ignore my polite pleas for the tiniest shred of empathy. You may continue to purchase your light-filled weapons of malice without so much as a “How are you this weekend, Xur?” or a “Did you have fun while you were away this week?” And I will, in turn, continue to provide the wares that you deserve. Just don’t expect the Nine’s merchandise to get any more… exciting any time soon. Hmph!