They don't understand, do they?

Alexa stands stock still, frozen in a lunge, even as the head drops, even as Ist--Epistia--picks it up, draws away. 

Surely, they have to know who he is? Conquerer of galaxies, first among mortals? Redana even recognizes him, and she only knows him from that asinine propaganda masquerading as a museum! Don't they see the danger he represents? Don't they know what he'll do to get his way? To make sure that he has his perfect utopia, his perfect weapon? Don't they see the threat?

They do, and her heart sinks that she's it. She stormed in and… Don't they see that she's [i]protecting[/i] them? 

But to them, she just killed a man in cold blood. Disobeyed orders, defied the will of the Empire, all to kill one man. Of course they'd form ranks to defend against this new threat. Epistia cannot trust her, but worse than that is the image of Dolce, frozen in the act of putting away a teacup. That look of fright--not because of another, but because of [i]her[/i]--

She never wants to see him look that way again.

Redana tugs insistently, faintly at her spear, and, with some hesitation, Alexa lowers it. There's nothing to be gained in this. Nothing but further distrust to be sown, no matter how unjust it may be.

"Come," she murmurs, pointedly not looking at the distrust leveled at her. "You need to rest."

***

It is an uncomfortable shuttle ride, to say the least.

There's no official declaration, no orders given. Nevertheless, the crew shuffles off to one of two corners--the one [i]with[/i] Alexa, and the one without.

It's a very lonely corner.

***

Alexa shuts her quarter's door with a quiet click, and sags into the chair like a puppet bereft of strings.

He's on her ship. Somewhere, Molech is on [i]her ship.[/i] He's dead. Or, not dead. Beheaded, but still alive. Not able to do physical harm.

And she killed him.

Somehow, she almost feels more guilty for [i]not[/i] feeling guilty. It had to be done. She thought it [i]had[/i] been done.

And now that it's done, already he's turning them against her. Making them distrust her. Making it so she can't just seek out the sheep and ask for some oolong, or mix something to curdle paint for the captain. Even in the infirmary, setting Redana down on the bed, she'd had one of the Ceronians watching to make sure she didn't do the unthinkable to their princess. As if, after having sacrificed so much, placed so many eggs in that one basket, she'd now jeopardize her ward.

She never thought having privacy would be so terrible.