Quinn hadn't known what to expect from the CSC's pilot captain. From what little she'd heard from the Derisas, or the ever-so-brief snippets she'd caught now and then online, she'd thought she was going to be absolutely [i]draconian.[/i] A cruel taskmaster, ever-ready to crack the whip out of sadistic glee. Possibly—probably—with horns growing out of her head to boot. And since the first time Cyril had mentioned her...was it at dinner, yesterday? She couldn't quite recall...Quinn had been building her up in her head as a figure of terror.

In reality, though, the truth was...

...[i]weird.[/i]

She spoke in such a matter-of-fact way it was throwing Quinn off. And not just her tone of voice: Quinn understood very well that tone of voice didn't necessarily dictate emotion, especially if the person was a good actor. No, what she was saying at its core was extremely level and balanced. Not an admonishment, but a [i]warning.[/i] So all she could do—and, she was pretty sure, all she SHOULD do—was nod.

And as Camille strode out of the gym, lift her hand up in a salute that wasn't [i]quite[/i] right and say, quietly, "[color=ffe63d]Captain.[/color]"

She would need to ask Sybil and Cyril for their schedules, she thought as she busied herself putting the pads away and carting the container against the wall. Maybe not now, though. She had a feeling Sybil would punch her in the face if she tried, combat training notwithstanding. 

And she also didn't want to see either of them right now, she thought as she finished her work and stared out into space. She barely knew them, so it wasn't like talking about Dahlia. But she still found it difficult to square herself with the idea they might die. Despite being a pilot and thus working closely together with death, and despite the [i]vast[/i] exposure to death she'd had on that October night, it was still mostly a stranger to her: something she knew about, she'd seen, but didn't [i]think[/i] about, ignored as best she could. But after that conversation, such as it was, she found herself staring the idea in the face, and a well of bottomless anxiety yawned open inside of her as it stared back.

Sober and pensive, she walked over to the door and smacked the switch, then walked back to her room, deep in thought.

...Only to be [i]blindsided[/i] by the dresser that was suddenly next to her bed. Right. She'd ordered that. Because she was a pilot.

[color=a187be][i]We’re afforded many things as pilots, but we're never given[/i] time.[/color]

Well, she had enough time for [i]one[/i] thing, at least. Letting the door slide shut behind her, she sat down on the bed, put her head in her hands, and softly cried.