[i]“—mourning the deaths of over ten thousand people, killed in the singularity at Hovvi last week.” “—has refused to comment—” “—resignation of former commander Wal—” “—three pilots—” “—have confiscated all footage recovered—” “And, Thom, we’re getting—you know, it has to be asked at some point, right? [i]How[/i]? How does something like this happen? How does RISC lose three pilots, a small army’s worth of soldiers, and billions of dollars of military equipment to one singularity? And still resolve—” “—as it was fished from the wreckage in the lake. Experts arriving on scene claim the damage to [i]Magnifique[/i] was, quote: ‘irreparable,’ compared to—” “—Euseran President Selen Dane voiced her sympathies the next morning, and offered to open negotiations for aid—” “—at the feet of the people [i]running[/i] this circus!” “—interview with former RISC analyst who says: ‘[i]over-reliance on Dragon has been an issue that higher-ups have consistently refused to acknowledge—[/i]’” “—Calhan—” “—Insisting there was no time—” “—Still burning—” “—Bodies—”[/i] Besca shut the TV off, tossed the remote onto the couch behind her. She sat on the floor, head in her hands, and tried to let the silence soak in. It didn’t take. She hadn’t had a quiet thought all week, even in her sleep. With every day that passed, bringing new waves of speculation and outrage, it became harder and harder not to believe. Then again, what was there to deny? She’d fucked up. She’d let a second singularity slip under the radar, somehow, and now she had the largest tragedy since Westwel laid at her feet. Thousands dead, a town laid to waste, the RISC crippled. Lucis. Hadrian. Safie. Daz. A knock at the door. “Commander Darroh?” She still wasn’t used to it. The title was a fly in her coffee. Besca walked across the vacant quarters of her former boss, trying very hard not to throw up the breakfast she’d only just finished drinking. At first she’d hoped the haze would make things easier, or at least harder to remember. She’d been wrong. Now she was painfully sober [i]and[/i] sick. A secretary was waiting for her. Her disheveled appearance didn’t surprise him, he’d worked with her plenty before the promotion. “Your call with President Dane has been rescheduled for this evening,” he said. “Technicians are still calibrating the new platform, but they expect similar functionality by tomorrow at the latest. Scans across Runa have doubled per your orders, but readings are normal.” “[color=gray]Okay,[/color]” she rubbed her eye, her head throbbed. “[color=gray]What’s the bad news?[/color]” “Helburke has made a formal demand for the return of Ghaust’s body, and they’re still seeking restitution for his initial acquisition.” “[color=gray]They did the same thing after they lost their duels, too. He wanted to be buried here. Tell’em to blow me—diplomatically.[/color]” “Right. Minister Toussaint finally responded.” “[color=gray]And this is bad news?[/color]” “Casoban also wants restitution for losing [i]Magnifique[/i].” A dull ghost of anger tightened in Besca’s chest. “[color=gray]I’ll talk to Toussaint later. You can assure the defense board we won’t be paying a chip.[/color]” “Yes ma’am,” he said, and scribbled on the pad in his hands. “Lastly—St. Senn has yet to report for her psychological evaluation, nor has she attended sims. Considering she’s our only pilot right now there’s…not much we can do about it.” Besca frowned. “[color=gray]I’ll talk to her.[/color]” It wasn’t a surprise, really—she hadn’t seen Dahlia since the morning after the invasion. Partly because of the tidal wave of responsibilities she’d been inundated with, but also, guiltily, because she just couldn’t face her yet. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what she [i]could[/i] say. God but she should have tried anyway. “[color=gray]I’ll be down in ten. Give me time to brush the booze off my tongue and take something for my head.[/color]” “Should I tell medical to expect you again?” “[color=gray]She awake?[/color]” “Not yet, ma’am.” “[color=gray]Then yeah,[/color]” Besca said. “[color=gray]Tell’em to expect me.[/color]” [hr][hr] She wasn’t in control. When she opened her eyes, it was daytime again—how many times was this? She was on the lake, in the boat. Daz had brought them to a stop right out at the middle, where the sun seemed to shine brightest and the air was a warm. A breeze brushed against Quinnlash’s cheek, soft and comfortable. Were they going to fish? A twinge in her gut told her she shouldn’t, but something else clashed with it, something strange—a desire to try it anyway. It wasn’t [i]her[/i] desire; she felt it, but she felt it like an idea someone else had given her. “[color=green]Quinn![/color]” She turned, followed the voice to the back of the boat. Safie was treading water there, eager smile on her face. “[color=green]You wanna learn to swim or not? Can’t teach you anything if you won’t get in the water, silly![/color]” Swim? Weren’t they going to fish? She didn’t know how to do either, and while that same anxiety tried to tug her away, her body refused to go. It wanted to jump in, it wanted to swim. It wanted to try. She noticed it then, subconsciously, that the water was night-black. It didn’t alarm her, it wasn’t alarming. Couldn’t water be black? Sometimes the day just didn’t touch the lake. Sometimes the water reflected the moon when it should have reflected the sun. Just a little mistake, an accident. Nothing to worry over. Who could get all the details right after so long? Sorry. It’s always black here, you know. You want to swim, Quinnlash. Jump in. “[color=skyblue]Heads up![/color]” Dahlia shouted, shucking her jacket and dashing past Quinn. She curled up and landed like a cannonball, splashing Quinn with water that was so warm—too thick, smelled like iron, copper on her tongue. See that? Now you’re the last one in. You’re a rotten egg. You want to swim and Safie’s right there, she’ll hold you up. Jump. Smiling against herself, Quinn jumped into the water. It raced up her, a flash of cold in the gentle heat. It got up her nose. Panic bubbled up in her stomach, homegrown, fighting the confidence that had pushed her. But, just as quickly as she’d been submerged, she surfaced again. Safie had her by the armpits, holding her above the water. “[color=green]Hey lookit that! You’re in! Don’t worry, I gotcha, just kick your legs like I’m doing. See? Back and forth. Use your arms, too.[/color]” She’s so nice. Why? That word keeps coming to Quinn, over and over, and it wouldn't go away. Why? Why is she nice to you? And Besca, and Dahlia, and Daz. Why? Where were these people so long ago when she needed them? There’s no one here. It’s black, here. In between blinks, Quinn noticed it had suddenly become night. The water was still pitch, but now its surface shimmered with the reflections of daylight. She kicked her legs, she moved her arms. Before she knew it, Safie had let her go, and she was treading water all her own. Something like pride came to her, but couldn’t quite root. “[color=green]Alright, now try [i]this[/i].[/color]” Safie took a deep breath, and then sunk into the water. Bubbles trickled up and then stopped. Moments passed. A minute. Hours. She didn’t come back. Dahlia hadn’t come back up either. Looking to the boat, Daz was gone too. All across the lake there was no one. No boats, no swimmers. On the shore, Hovvi was dark, and quiet. Everything was so quiet. You want to sink. Her feet slowed. You want to sink, Quinnlash. Her arms stopped moving. The water climbed up to her chin. She looked down. A great shape loomed beneath her, darker even than the furthest depths of the lake. Two red eyes, orbs of pure malice. The raw, murderous intent was enough to get her kicking again. She didn’t want to sink. But it was okay, she didn’t have to be afraid. The eyes sank, sank, and the red glow faded into the blackness and she was alone again. “[color=black]Like always.[/color]” Quinn turned and there, sitting on the edge of the boat was…her. Herself. It was Quinnlash, perhaps when she was ten or eleven, sitting bored with her head on her hand. Watching. Her eyes—both of them—had lost their bright yellow shine, and were black. Blood trickled thinly down from the top of her head, and looking closely, she could see two glinting nubs sprouted from either side of her scalp, almost like horns. “[color=black]Sink, Quinnlash.[/color]” And you did. [hr][hr] The monitor beeped rhythmically, reliably, comfortingly. These rooms always smelled so sterile, and the white walls were so plain that having the lights dimmed was the closest thing to variety one could give them. Besca sat beside Quinn’s bed, reading, as she’d done every day for the past week. Shock, one of the doctors had called it. Trauma. A self-induced coma. Normally, not waking up would have been considered somewhat alarming, but considering what else the doctors had found upon examining her, it was arguably the least concerning thing on the docket. But none of that mattered, really. Nor would it, ever, if she didn’t wake up first. No one seemed to have an estimate for that. Precedent was shaky, indeterminate—the best they could do was sustain her and hope she opened her eyes before atrophy set in. Could be weeks, they’d said. Months. She might never wake up. And so, later, when she got the chance to consider it, Besca would kick herself for not having placed bets. Because right then, Quinnlash Loughvein opened her eye.