Modiologists. Roaki was familiar—she didn’t like them. When she was little, and weak, and had to be excised from her cockpit by scalpels rather than bonesaws, it was always the modiologists who operated on her. She glanced down at her hand, her arm, at the ghostly splotches scattered upon the skin. How many times had it been? She’d sworn she would remember every cut, but eventually there’d been so many, and they’d only hurt more as time went on. She’d lost track, it was shameful, so instead she’d just vowed deathly vengeance upon all scientists. 

The idea that Quinn had spent her whole life gulping down poison was still ridiculous to her, but if someone [i]was[/i] going to do that, it would be fucking modiologists.

Roaki felt herself getting angry again as Quinn apologized. Why did she keep doing that? There wasn’t anything to forgive, you didn’t get to have grievances as a loser—though, in her experience, that was undeniably due to the fact that dead people didn’t have grievances. Was she supposed to forgive her? Roaki couldn’t even imagine herself in the other seat, seeking forgiveness from someone she’d beaten. 

Though, again, dead people didn’t forgive.  

“[color=ec008c]It’s…fine,[/color]” she said. Regardless of her feelings, it was clear Quinn wasn’t going to leave it at that. This was the topic of their discussion today, and so like every other day, Roaki would bear it—and try, just a little, to sift something useful from it. “[color=ec008c]But why does it…matter? Wasn’t everyone mulched in Hovvi? They’re dead. You won. You can forget about them. The quicker you lose their names, the better.[/color]”