“[color=caffbf]Oh, don’t be silly! You have to try pretty hard to be an unpopular [i]pilot[/i], at least in your own country. The circles in that Venn diagram, they’re so far apart they can’t even see each other.[/color]” He polished off his glass, then set it aside, evidently thinking better of pouring another. “[color=caffbf]Didn’t—yeah—Runa had a pilot from [i]Helburke[/i]. Ghaust, I remember seeing interviews with him. No offense, but he wasn’t particularly personable, and he was even popular [i]here[/i]. You, I mean, you’re a home-grown hero. There are probably pilots in Eusero who would kill to have your publicity.[/color]

“[color=caffbf]In fact, the only pilot I can think of who isn’t popular is that Dane lady, the president’s sister. They don’t even interview her over there. You’re a long way from that, especially now.[/color]”

The waiter returned, plates in hand, and set them down on the table. He lifted the covers, and amid the steam came the smell of cooked fowl and seasoned potatoes, fresh and hot and cooked to perfection. Cyril took a deep breath from his own plate, face splitting in a wide, toothy grin. 

“[color=caffbf]Smells delicious.[/color]”

The waiter nodded, and quickly left them alone. Cyril wasted no time; he cut right into his veal and popped a forkful into his mouth. His eyes lit up then squeezed happily shut, he seemed to be restraining himself from shimmying in his seat. 

“[color=caffbf]Every time,[/color]” he said quietly, satisfied. But despite how engrossed he seemed in his meal, his eyes found Quinn again shortly. In between bites, he kept the conversation going. “[color=caffbf]So, as your junior, I hope you won’t mind me asking—how long did it take for you to get used to it? Piloting, I mean. You make it look so natural, was it always like that for you?[/color]”