The air tastes familiar. It is the first clean breath he’s taken in his life.

Why is that? Why does he know the chair in the breakroom is bolted to the floor without stepping a hoof past the threshold? Why can he sense the organizational web of the cubicle farm as if the walls were color-coded by team? How is it that he can automatically and completely ignore the messages on the PA after only hearing the first syllable? 

[i]“But if you're looking for it, change is everywhere in the Skies.”[/i]

There is no change here.

The Summerkind are all replaced in a month. New wings burst out of the facility haphazardly. The front line shifts. Liquid Bronze will, in time, move onto other things, and he will take command in a different command post, or research facility, or ship, and Dolce knows in his bones it will be precisely the same as it is right now. A stagnant, stable world, built for the sole purpose of serving one man, intended to run forever.

He remembers the Starsong were excellent guests. Polite, full of good cheer, praising the hospitality of their hosts at every turn, abiding by every rule and request of the Manor for the full duration of their stay. He’d first seen them when they toured the kitchens, the Majordomo’s proud, clipped voice echoing through the nearly-silent room. They smiled. They listened. They made appreciative noises, when called for.

Had they also been surprised at the calm in their own voices?

“I am [i]so[/i] sorry to hear of your difficulties, Commander.” His smile was warm and soft as a toasted marshmallow. His folded hands as still as a coiled snake. “How much more do you suppose it will take before you are finished here?”

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 6 + 2 = [b]14[/b], How incompetent is Liquid Bronze, really?]