Roaki listened—what else could she do? She sat and listened and every word seemed like it had been spoken in a different language. Quinn was at once the most frightful example of a human being she’d ever seen, and something completely and unrecognizably alien. Pilots didn’t think like this, [i]no one[/i] who survived thought like this. Mercy was an insult reserved family and other contemptable rivals, and to be dolled out only when absolutely necessary. 

There was nothing necessary about this. Roaki didn’t even know what the duel was fought over, no one had told her. No one ever told her, and she never asked. The needs of a fight were simple: there had to be a winner, and a loser. It ended there. [i]She[/i] should have ended there. But she’d been spared—saved, and for what? There was hardly anything left of her to save, and what remained was of use to no one. 

No home, no family, no Savior, and a ruined body. Her heart lurched as she realized that she’d been wrong. This [i]was[/i] mercy, in its truest and purest form. Punishment of the highest caliber, torture to shame a Great House Inquisitor. A great feat, a blow that would have been felt in her family for generations—had she not been so thoroughly excised from it. 

So why the fuck was she [i]apologizing[/i]? 

“[color=ec008c]S-stop. Stop s-saying that,[/color]” she hissed. “[color=ec008c]Stop saying y-you’re…s-sorry. No o-one is s-sorry. Not…me. Not y-you. Not [i]a-anyone[/i]. Never. L-look at us. You won…I lost.[/color]”

[i]You’re a pilot. I’m a worm.[/i]

The doors opened again. The woman and the pilot returned, the former wheeling a wheelchair in front of her. Roaki grimaced at the sight of them, looking away. She wanted to argue, but she also wanted to plead with them not to take her away. This cell was cold, and hard, and it was exactly what she deserved, but if they took her back to that place, if they took anything else…

But what right did she have to refuse, now? As a pilot she could boast and threaten and fight for the things she wanted, or against the things she didn’t. Now, by all accounts, she was a corpse-in-waiting. Corpses didn’t get to refuse. They didn’t get to speak, either; it seemed she was just as good at being a corpse as she was a pilot. 

She’d had it wrong at the duel. She’d called Quinn “[i]deadgirl[/i]”, and now here she was. 

The woman—Besca, she thought she’d heard—unlocked her cage and stepped in. Roaki flinched away, and she saw hesitation in Besca’s eye, along with a strange recognition. It was like she was seeing her for the first time. 

Carefully, she hoisted Roaki up and set her down in the chair. It was soft, softer than the slab and blanket, softer even than her own bed. A tension eased within her and she felt immediately too vulnerable, but kept her silence. 

“[color=gray]I can bring her to medical if you want, hand her off to Follen, then meet you two back at the dorms, or you can take her. Your call, Quinn.[/color]”