Dahlia vomited, again. The first time had been from the nausea, typical following protracted bouts in the cockpit. This time it was the pain, while Follen sat behind her with a beam-scalpel, excising a brand-new growth in her shoulder. “[color=lightblue]Steady, Deelie. Almost done.[/color]” He’d said that three minutes ago, but somehow she still believed him. He had that way about him. At least no one could see her like this—sat on the floor over a steel pan, shirt hiked over her shoulders, filthy with her own blood, sweat and sick. Or rather, at least no one unwelcome. They sat behind the massive cubby of [i]Dragon[/i]’s holding, and the hangar crew always did a good job of keeping the looky-loos and the amateur videographers out. A hollow clinking as a chunk of black metal fell into the pan. “[color=lightblue]There we go,[/color]” he said soothingly, though the pain didn’t stop. “[color=lightblue]That’s the most of it out, just cleaning up the edges, then we’ll get you sealed.[/color]” “[color=skyblue]Where…[/color]” she gagged, swallowed down hot bile.”[color=skyblue]Where’s Quinn?[/color]” “[color=lightblue]Exactly where she was five minutes ago. And the five before that.[/color]” “[color=skyblue]There could be more…[/color]” “[color=lightblue]There’s no more. And if there are, I’m told the Euseran Savior is waiting for her to leave first.[/color]” He’d meant it as reassurance, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Altruism from a Euseran pilot? They’d already proven otherwise just today, when the ESC didn’t move an inch to help until RISC did. Even then, they only showed up to the singularities that seemed at the time to be the least problematic, save for whatever had happened at Quinn’s. Now her sister was alone down there with one of them. It was almost enough to make her puke. Again. God, at the very least she wouldn’t have to see her like this. Follen set his scalpel aside, and someone came round to carry off the pan and the modium chunk. She felt the needle prick of another numbing shot, hardly a register after being carved like a turkey. A cold, thick fluid filled the cavity in her shoulder, and it sent a shiver all the way down to her bones. Then an adhesive pad was laid over the wound, a long-term stopper to give the concoction time to rebuild the flesh and muscle. “[color=lightblue]There, all ready for the cameras,[/color]” Follen said, standing up behind her and peeling the gloves off his hands. Her blood was all over his shirt, his pants, his arms, but he didn’t seem the least bit bothered. Fallout of being a surgeon, she supposed—it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen worse, often. “[color=lightblue]You know the drill. Few days’ rest, then minimal motion for a week until the scar fades.[/color]” She wiped her lips, spit stomach acid into the pan and nodded. “[color=skyblue]Thanks.[/color]” He bowed his head, then left her there. No one else came by; they knew by now to give her space. There’d be time enough for congratulations and interviews later, when she wasn’t in burning pain. When her sister was home. [hr] Once again, Quinn was not alone in the dark. The cold and pulsing walls of the cockpit shifted around her as the lift brought [i]Ablaze[/i] up through the atmosphere, and molded into the shadows was the shape of [color=black]herself.[/color] [color=black]She[/color] smiled. That sense of elation, that overwhelming pride. How much was alien, and how much was simply her own, bolstered. “[color=black]So perfect,[/color]” her words blurred into the air, into her ears. “[color=black]We did it. They come to take and we take from [i]them[/i]. They think we’re weak. But we’re not. We’re real! We’re real, and no one can say we’re not.[/color] “[color=black]We’re monsters’ monsters.[/color]” Childish giggling filled the cramped space, lingering even after [color=black]she[/color] retreated into Quinn’s mind. Eventually the lift stopped, followed by the familiar, muted sound of the Aerie’s seal shutting. Light rushed her as she pushed the hatch open. Light, and the absolute thunder of cheering. The crew were scattered all around the hangar, clapping, hollering, trying to glimpse her as the scaffold platforms pushed up against [i]Ablaze[/i]’s form. Modious blood seeped from its wounds, flooding into the multiple drains at its feet. On the platform, a dozen or so people waited, all wearing the same orange hazard suits she’d seen before. One of them waved both her arms in uncontrollable glee, and through the tinted faceguard Quinn would still be able to tell it was Tillie. As she stepped onto solid ground once again, another voice pierced the applause. “[color=skyblue][i]Quinn![/i][/color]” Down below, standing at the center of the hangar was Dahlia. She looked…rough. Smeared with blood and grim, arm in a sling, hair a mess, but the way she smiled it might as well have been the happiest day of her life. She waved with her good arm, screaming again. “[color=skyblue][i]Quinn![/i][/color]”