As time made its convoluted way along, measured by the glow of the moon and the blackness of the water, [color=black]Quinnlash[/color] was a good host. They fished with blunt bait, drank pouch after pouch of melonberry, and watched as the shadowy figures of Deelie and Safie swam to and from the boat, laughing and chatting, saying things that were honey to hear but did not quite stick to the mind. Few details ever did, and often these dreams faded altogether in her first waking moments; but this one would be different. This one, Quinn would remember. As the world began to blur, and untangle, [color=black]Quinnlash[/color] smiled at her one more time. On the distant, hilly shore, the white deer rose from its rest and shambled off, casting a final look their way. As it vanished beyond the crest, to lands unreal or unmade, the dream ended. [hr] “[color=gray]This is bullshit.[/color]” Besca could feel the spirit leave Toussaint’s body over the phoneline. The man was exhausted, and she ought to have had more empathy for him—he had, after all, been perhaps the only one in Casoban fighting to maintain the alliance with Runa—but after five days of nonstop conference calls, haggard negotiations, and [i]incessant[/i] reminders that the fate of her country relied on her ability to [i]not fuck this up[/i], she wasn’t sure she had anything left to give. Even her indignation was exasperated, resigned. After five days they had a deal. It was a shit deal, but it was the only alternative to the immediate dissolution of their alliance, and more importantly, the only thing keeping Casoban from running gleefully and permanently into the arms of Eusero. And as was the way these days, even victory felt like defeat. “It’s what we have,” Toussaint said with a sigh. His voice was hoarse and quiet, he’d slept as little as she had. “It’s all they’d agree to.” “[color=gray]It’s still [i]bullshit[/i].[/color]” “You may be willing to starve for pride, Darroh, but I will gladly eat shit if it means my country survives—[i]without[/i] being cannibalized by Eusero.” She laid her head down on the table, and Toussaint let her groan and swear until they were left in silence. “Darroh,” he probed, eventually. Besca sat back upright, pulled over her tablet. “[color=gray]Give me the details.[/color]” There was shuffling on the other end as Toussaint sifted through what must have been twice his weight in papers; she had a similar stack occupying every other seat and half the table on the bridge. Neither of them had read through the finer points of the deal entirely, their job had just been to craft the mold, and prove it could be done at all. “You’ll send Loughvein first—” “[color=gray]Oh fuck off.[/color]” “It’s not negotiable,” he said, and went on before she could object further. “Loughvein first. She’ll do three weeks, then return to RISC, and you’ll send St. Senn over next. Three weeks, rotate, repeat, until six months have elapsed, or Casoban has replaced the Saviors and pilots it’s lost since the attack on Hovvi. Whichever comes second.” “[color=gray]But no more than a year.[/color]” “It’s two years—we talked about this before dinner last night.” “[color=gray]Fuck,[/color]” Besca muttered, scrolling through the notes on her screen. Indeed it was two years, though she hardly remembered agreeing to it. “[color=gray]Fine, whatever. If it takes you two years to replace a few Saviors, you’re fucked anyway.[/color]” A sigh. “Right. During their rotations here, they are, for all intents and purposes, CSC pilots. They will receive no orders from RISC and will have no direct contact with any Runan officials.” “[color=gray]Except me.[/color]” “You are almost the dictionary definition of a Runan official.” “[color=gray]You’ll make an exception.[/color]” “For the [i]Commander[/i] of RISC? You don’t think that might present an opportunity for conflict?” “[color=gray]I won’t call as their fucking Commander then,[/color]” she said. “[color=gray]But I [i]will[/i] be calling.[/color]” “Darroh—” “[color=gray]Or it’s [i]off[/i], Toussaint. Restrict the time, monitor the calls—I don’t care, but I said this the moment you pitched the idea. I get contact.[/color]” “I can…” he paused, sighed. “I can probably squeeze in some sort of wellness check. Happy?” “[color=gray]No.[/color]” “Me neither. As I was saying, while they’re here they belong to us. That means they close singularities, they fight duels, they run fucking marathons if that’s what it comes down to.” “[color=gray]You put Quinn on TV, you’ll regret it. Girl’s not cut out for the spotlight.[/color]” “Noted. Not my call, and whoever I tell will ignore it, but, noted.” “[color=gray]And the alliance stands?[/color]” “The alliance already stands. I’m told this will go a long way in ensuring that doesn’t change. That’s [i]all[/i] I’m told.” Besca swiped harshly on her tablet, then shut it off. “[color=gray]Sent you my signature. Seal it. How long do I have?[/color]” “If I can get this cleared today, they’ll likely want her here tomorrow.” “[color=gray]Goodbye, Toussaint.[/color]” “Commander Darroh.” She hung up, took a deep breath, then leapt to her feet and threw her chair onto the ground with a loud “[color=gray][i]Fuck![/i][/color]” Every cell in her body screamed for rest, but they’d been doing that for days and she could ignore them a little while longer. There was so much to do; get back to the Board, arrange transport, alert the PR department who would cram three weeks’ worth of emergency meetings into the next ten hours finding a way to spin this as a win to the Runan public. She would do none of them—not yet. Instead she bolted for the dorms, driven faster by every wasted second. It was early, she half expected Deelie to be off in sims, and Quinn to still be asleep. But as she burst into the common room, all three of them were sat at the counter, eating. The air smelled of pancakes and syrup. Eyes turned to her, happy, confused, concerned. She wished she could have smiled back. “[color=gray]Girls,[/color]” she said, finally aware of how ragged she was. “[color=gray]I’ve got news.[/color]”