Besca hugged her tightly, and though it seemed like minutes, it still wasn’t anywhere near long enough. When she let go, Dahlia swooped in and squeezed Quinn like a buoy in a storm, and she guessed it would take a crowbar to pry her away before she was ready. Besca couldn’t blame her, they’d been given no time at all to prepare, and she doubted either of them had gotten much, if any, sleep. 

The logical part of her knew it wouldn’t be [i]that[/i] bad, and that when stacked against the alternatives, this was perhaps one of the better outcomes. She wasn’t dying, and RISC hadn’t [i]lost[/i] her per se. The point was to rebuild trust between Runa and Casoban, both ways, and if they were going to treat each other like allies again then there shouldn’t be anything to fear. 

But she was very, very afraid. 

The hangar was empty, save for the three of them. Roaki had said goodbye in the dorms, but it was clear to Besca that the girl didn’t quite understand what was happening. Not exactly shocking, and though it was tempting to tell her, not kindly, that Quinn being sent away was her fault, it wouldn't have helped anything and regardless, she wasn't even certain that was true anymore.

[i]Dragon[/i] stood stoically in its cove, but [i]Ablaze[/i] had already been shipped down and moved over to the CSC’s station, The Ange. They had requested Quinn come down separately, and a glance at the TV this morning had showed that there was some sort of welcoming party waiting for her at the landing site. She wanted to accompany her, but the Board had her shackled here managing their side of the transition, and Dahlia wouldn’t be allowed to get any further from [i]Dragon[/i] than absolutely necessary until all this business was finished. 

Speaking of.

The girls separated, Dahlia wiping her eyes, but keeping on a brave face all things considered. Besca checked the time, frowned. She went back over to Quinn.

“[color=gray]I’m gonna call you tonight, okay? Before bed, once you’re settled in. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.[/color]” She ran a hand through Quinn’s hair, forced herself to smile and even made it look real. “[color=gray]I know it’s gonna be scary at first, but so was coming here, right? Think of this like…like you’re sleeping over. That’s all. I’ve worked with some of Casoban’s folks before, alright? You’re gonna be in good hands, I promise. First few days’ll feel long, but then it’ll go by in a snap. Just…[/color]” she pulled her in again, sighed. There were words on the tip of her tongue that Quinn deserved to hear, but that just wouldn’t form. “[color=gray]Just remember everything we talked about. You’re gonna do just fine, hero.[/color]”

There wasn’t much left to say. She let Dahlia give her another long goodbye, but when the calls started coming in, they had to wrap it up. Today was not the day to push their luck. 

With its usual fanfare of lights and alarms, the elevator opened, and Quinn, alone with her luggage, descended down towards Illun. For a while there was nothing but void around her, eerily similar to the lake she couldn’t escape. Through the hardlight boundary the expanse was still, without even a ripple to disturb it. 

A longing pulled at her, reaching up back towards the Aerie, only to wilt as they plunged further and further away. It wrapped itself around her, seeking warmth and comfort. 

The world drew closer, Casoban expanded beneath her. They weren’t dropping near a dueling site, or a crater, or the ruined land of a singularity. It looked like farmland, massive squares of crop fields all knit together into an agricultural quilt big enough to drape over a city. At the furthest end, where the elevator appeared to be leading her, was a manicured crescent of trees—an orchard of some kind. As she drew near, she could see a blot sharpening into a crowd, cordoned off some ways away from the landing zone.

Eventually the elevator came to a rest, and she saw that there was a second, smaller gathering awaiting her. Thirty or so people, all in the cream and gold uniforms of the CSC, stood under a constructed arch of shrubbery and brilliant flowers. As the hardlight boundary flickered away, the morning breeze greeted her, and there was a sudden roaring.

No—that was cheering. 

They were cheering. Applauding. A banner beneath the arch unfurled, and upon the canvas was a strikingly beautiful painting of [i]Ablaze[/i], with Quinn standing on its shoulder, braid flaring in the wind. Another dropped just above it that read: [b][u]WELCOME QUINNLASH[/u][/b]. 

The unease coiled within her slackened in confusion as the excitement settled. Gentle orchestral music began to play through speaker stacks, and a familiar face stepped forward. The man was short, his hair was thin, but overall he seemed more put-together than the last time she’d seen him. He wore a sharp, more decorative cut of the uniform, and even his moustache was combed and shiny with product. 

“Quinnlash Loughvein,” Toussaint said grandly. “Casoban welcomes you, enthusiastically and with open hearts!”

The crowd exploded again, and Toussaint stepped over, guiding her off of the elevator. The hardlight boundary sprang back to life behind her, and the platform rose back into the air, homeward bound. They came to stand alongside a small offshoot of about a dozen people, some military, some wearing the patches of technicians. 

A boy and a girl who didn’t appear much older than Quinn herself stood at attention, both smiling, whispering excitedly between themselves as she walked past. They wore the same uniforms, but a pilot’s undersuit poked up beneath their collars. Another woman, who had neither cheered nor applauded, regarded Quinn more evenly. Her uniform was different, a mesh of cloth and [i]armor[/i]. Spaulders adorned her shoulders, and down her left arm were scales of metal plating leading into a gauntlet. Her right arm was obscured behind a shortcloak, but her hand rested calmly upon the hilt of an ornate rapier. 

The last noteworthy individual approached. He looked younger than Toussaint, with fuller, darker hair and a face much less lined with stress. His sharp goatee was perfectly trimmed, and his eyes were bright despite being entirely organic. His suit was an oceanic blue, lined with the same cream white as the CSC uniforms, and on his lapel were a small grouping of pins; the Casobani flag, the symbol of the Illun Accord, and finally, the sigil of the Prime Minister. 

He reached out and took her hand, shaking it vigorously. 

“Olivier Moroux,” he said. “Casoban is delighted to have you, miss Loughvein. I want to extend my sincerest thanks for your heroism. I think we can all sleep a little more soundly knowing you’re protecting us.”

There was a moment of silence. The only ones close enough to hear them were Toussaint and the three or four security personnel behind Moroux. Looking around, there were no cameras besides those belonging to the press, who were much too far away to capture anything more than their shaking hands. This didn’t appear to be a show, nor did there seem to be any expectation for her to perform, like she had in the other interviews. 

She was, however, expected to respond.