Roaki grimaced when Quinnlash mentioned asking another question. A part of her wanted to point out that wasn’t fair—it was supposed to be her turn now, even if she didn’t quite know what she wanted to ask. But that was stupid. Somehow, she had almost forgotten that this was anything but a brand of interrogation, and that she was not a prisoner waiting out the last of her days on enemy turf. 

So she shrugged. Really, what did it matter? Quinnlash could ask whatever she wanted, and Roaki had no right to refuse her an answer. 

Then she went and looked at her. 

It was brief, but there it was—that fiery golden eye. Roaki gasped, fixed there like Quinnlash had her by the throat. Her hand went numb, the sheet fell from her fingers. 

“[i][color=ffe63d]What is it you want?[/color][/i]”

She had felt the scorching barrel of the cannon against her arm and knew she had no choice. She had screamed with her own memory when her legs were blown away, and then screamed again when [i]Dragon[/i]’s pilot had cut her from the cockpit, and knew she had somehow chosen wrong anyway. 

What did she want? She wanted her body back. She wanted her life back. She wanted to be Roaki the pilot again. She wanted to have been born as anyone else, and failing that, she wanted not to have been born at all. She wanted not to cry in front of Quinnlash Loughvein. 

She got nothing. 

“[color=ec008c]I…[/color]” Roaki’s voice shook, her throat burned but not as hot as her eyes. She tore her gaze away to stare back at her lap. Everything still hurt, but she knew it wasn’t sweat dripping from her face. “[color=ec008c]I want to be alone now.[/color]”