It had been a fraught morning on the Aerie since Quinn had left. Besca had spent just about every minute on the bridge, juggling seven conference calls, a dozen email chains, an IM thread with the marketing department, and a handful of unread texts from Toussaint that didn’t have the word “[i]Quinn[/i]” in their preview. It had been suggested to her by the Board that she have a cot moved into her office, because she was at no time to be more than a room away from absolute availability. 

So, Dahlia had done all of her worrying alone. As small as the RISC team had become since Hovvi, with Quinn here, she’d never actually felt [i]lonely[/i]. Stressed, exhausted, anxious, and almost every [i]other[/i] flavor of misery, but never lonely. Early into their friendship, she’d come to feel the same sort of constancy with Safie, and to a lesser extent, Ghaust and Lucis, who, even if they weren’t exactly friends, were still always [i]around[/i]. 

Now all Dahlia could do was lay on the couch in the dorms, too worried to force herself into a sim pod, or cook lunch, or watch TV out of fear that the news might suddenly alert her that the Ange had exploded, or seven-hundred singularities were opening up in Casoban and they were chucking [i]Ablaze[/i] down alone. 

The reality was less extreme, but that didn’t settle her any. Quinn was probably a wreck, she thought. Utterly lost in a strange place, without a single friendly face for thousands of miles in any direction. What if she had another episode? Who would she turn to? It wouldn’t matter to the CSC how loud she screamed or how hard she cried, they’d perched their whole treaty on her back and she was theirs for two weeks, six days, and however many hours. Too many. What if they made her duel? They had to know it wouldn’t work. Would they care? Wild conspiracies flooded her head, of plots to ruin Quinn’s reputation, and RISC’s image, to drive Casoban back into Eusero’s arms. People thought so much of pilots, but the truth was, sometimes, they really were nothing more than political pawns. 

Her doom spiral was interrupted by a ding; a special ding—the one assigned to Quinn. She blinked, looked at the screen, and sure enough she saw Quinn’s name on the message. She stared. For many moments she just stared. 

Then she was vertical on the couch, then on her stomach again to snatch her phone off the ground, then vertical again with a loud shriek of disbelief. The message was in all capitals, and her fears worked ahead of her eyes, warning her that something had gone wrong. She was hurt. She was scared. She was being attacked by something. Something awful something horrifying something—

Expensive. 

Dahlia paused, and finally took a second to [i]read[/i]. How much did she make? 6500 dollars? Confusing—more than confusing, [i]baffling[/i]. Thankfully, there was a picture attached to give her the context she needed. 

She screamed. 

A door flung open and out flopped the irascible form of Roaki. “[color=ec008c]God what the fuck are you screaming about![/color]”

Dahlia was reminded that she only wished she was alone. “[color=skyblue]Shut up![/color]” she snapped. “[color=skyblue]Shut up Quinn texted me![/color]”

“[color=ec008c]Nuh-uh![/color]” the girl spat, hopping over to the foot of the couch, and clambering onto the cushions. “[color=ec008c]What’d she say? Is she crying? I bet she’s already crying a [i]bunch[/i].[/color]”

“[color=skyblue]She’s buying a dress shut [i]up![/i][/color]”

Roaki face twisted with contempt and confusion. “[color=ec008c]A [i]dress[/i]? Lemme see![/color]”

Dahlia ignored her, typing furiously. A smile, both of relief and pure, unbridled elation, began to spread across her face. Quinn wasn’t hurt. She wasn’t in danger—at least not yet. She was…she was shopping. Besca wasn’t going to believe it. 

Her reply was sent: [i][color=skyblue]You make plenty PLEASE buy the dress you look gorgeous![/color][/i]

For a while she just stood there, staring down at the picture of her sister, looking anxious in a dress that, frankly, seemed worth every cent of the price. But it could have been made out of burlap and rat fur and she’d still have urged her to buy it. Dahlia couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light. Like a feather, or a balloon.

Or like she was falling.

She was falling. Roaki had knocked her over and sent her tumbling onto the carpet, snatching the phone from the air as she fell. A devilish giggle filled the air, followed promptly by Dahlia’s own furious shouting. 

Shortly, a second text followed the first.

[i][color=ec008c]DERSS NOT GOOD HOW U GONA FIHGT IN A BLANKET BUY SUM KNIFES INSTEAD DUMB DEADGIRL[/color][/i]