Mona laughed along with Quinn, it seemed, sincerely. She leaned back in her seat, daintily yet expertly picking out pieces of the salmon with her fork. The wine glass had taken up permanent residence in her other hand, swirled gently around when it wasn’t brought to her lips. If she noticed the change in Quinn’s voice, she didn’t show it. Besca did notice though. She was used to the frayed nature of Quinn’s laugh, never quite right, like she didn’t really know how to keep the other emotions out of it. This was [i]much[/i] different. It was clean, happy, almost [i]curated[/i]. On the one hand it was elating to see her in such control of herself. On the other, it was so blatantly unnatural—at least to her ears, though no one else seemed to notice—that it almost didn’t sound like Quinn at all. “So, honey,” Mona went on between bites. “You know I’m so curious—before RISC popped up, I talked to all sorts of pilots, from all over. Now, some of those programs run things pretty strict, pretty hard. When I had little Dahlia on her she said things were definitely a little high-energy for her. And that I get, you know, she’s the [i]Dragon[/i] and all that—but what’s it like for you? What do you do all day up there? Do you like it? It’s gotta but such a jarring change of pace for you, I’m sure. I mean, compared to what life must have been like before. I guess—what's the biggest difference been, joining RISC, becoming a pilot? Me personally, I get anxious whenever I have to change hairdressers. I couldn't imagine upending my whole life like that, it [i]must[/i] have taken a little getting used to, hm?”