Camille listened intently to Loughvein’s answer. She had done her due diligence long before the girl arrived, studied the dossiers the CSC could compile based on what information was shared by RISC, and also what had to be inferred. Especially when the alliance between their nations became tenuous, and the more anxious of their program’s numbers feared there may be conflict. But Camille knew better. War was pariah sensationalism, largely taboo but always considered; everyone on Illun feared theirs would be the generation to see the Accord crack again. Runa and Casoban had been allies for too long for that. Theirs would be the war of the modern age, fought on the fields of international law, using weapons of mass embargo. 

All this to say, she had prepared herself to fight nonetheless, be it against [i]Dragon[/i] or this newly anointed [i]Ablaze[/i]. Camille knew both pilots as well as one could through second-hand assessments. Loughvein’s combat record aside, her personal records did not impress; she was by all accounts a meek and miserable girl who should have been mulched in her first duel. Naturally, she understood that about herself, but she was also surprisingly honest about it. 

Good, it was easier to speak plainly with people like that. 

“[color=a187be]We’re afforded many things as pilots,[/color]” she said, still staring down at her in the same level, unyielding way. “[color=a187be]Money, glory, influence. We live lavish lives and our funerals are matters of national importance. Pick any day out of the year and you’ll find memorials to a dozen of us. Our pictures hang in people’s homes beside their loved ones. In their most dire moments it’s our names they call out for. We’re given trust, and hope, and love.[/color]” she sighed, shook her head. “[color=a187be]But we’re never given [i]time[/i].[/color]”

Camille looked down at the mat, to the sweat and scuffs and, if she really searched she was sure she’d find flecks of blood from raw knuckles or bitten lips.

“[color=a187be]It’s paradoxical. Few paths demand as much from someone as piloting, and yet its first steps are the most unforgiving. You can’t take them slowly. You can’t learn how to walk, you already have to know how to run. Being here necessitates talent you didn’t work for, and determination you haven’t earned. There is no time to train yourself up to par—you perform, or you die.[/color]

“[color=a187be]In all likelihood, the Derisas will be dead before the end of your first rotation here. As captain, it is my duty to ensure they survive anyway. I will push them. I will be cruel. You will not interfere. Your time here is largely unstructured because you [i]do[/i] perform, but make no mistake, should I feel it necessary I will be cruel to you, too.[/color]”

She stepped away from Loughvein then with a curt nod. “[color=a187be]I have been told in no uncertain terms that you will not be dueling during your tenure here. This does not exempt you from professional responsibility. The CSC may not hold you to a schedule, but I will expect at least a modest number of hours each week from you simming against Modir. You may train with the Derisas should you wish, but ensure that you align yourself with their routine, lest we have a repeat of today. Otherwise, you may utilize the sim’s AI, request a specific tutor from the station’s staff, or if necessary, ask me.[/color]

“[color=a187be]Put the rest of these pads away, then you’re dismissed for the evening. Loughvein.[/color]”

With that, Camille left her there, and the familiar quiet returned.