The Ange was in motion. Days passed, things moved quickly; there was a tumult in command bleeding through the glass floors, permeating the station air with uncertainty, anxiety. They anchored their orbit to the nation’s coast, poised above the pastel deltas like a needle. Still there was silence, not strictly of confidence, but also abound was an uneasiness, an unwillingness to admit what they were doing there. Toussaint was scarce and unresponsive, save for the most brusque of responses, and the mild assurances that everything was well in hand and things were being discussed. Everyone would be informed in due time.

Ironically enough, he was right, they were informed—by Eusero.

Less than a week after the unprecedented ‘coincidence’, the Euseran media underwent an indignant conniption. In tandem step, nearly every news station began to report on Casoban’s treachery. The headlines, in amalgam, all distilled into a common sentiment:

In an act of supreme ungratefulness, Casoban has not only rebuffed Eusero’s diplomatic negotiations, but now insists on trudging up a settled, century-old territorial dispute over the province and town of Cantimine.

Naturally, rightfully, the denizens of the Ange didn’t believe a word of it. They came again to Toussaint and asked, in concerned unison, what the hell was actually going on. A week ago their relationship with Eusero was arguably better than it had ever been, and while no one had expected that to last, neither had they expected to fall into the nation’s political crosshairs with such vigor. One thing they knew for certain: if Eusero claimed this was a land dispute, then it was absolutely anything but a land despite.

And Toussaint said: “It’s a land dispute.”

Casoban and Eusero were officially engaged in Accord-sanctioned quarrel. Over a provincial zone not terribly bigger than Hovvi. There would be ostensible negotiations which would, of course, go nowhere, leading into another media frenzy, during which the area of Cantimine would become inundated with political tourism and Savior enthusiasts, because, inevitably, there would be a duel.

A blurred day and night, a few lip-service phone calls, and then Selen Dane and Olivier Moroux took to their respective airwaves.

“Since the fall of Aridea, the proud and beautiful territory of Cantimine has flown the Euseran flag,” they agreed. And then they stopped agreeing.

“Eusero liberated it from the Empire’s tyranny, protected it; we planted seeds here, of people, of progress, of a future, while Casoban was still a thrall.”

“Eusero took from us when we were at our weakest, and has since demanded we thank them for the privilege. These days, there seems to be no end to such demands.”

And so on, and so forth. They never debated, never took stock of their nations’ moods, and yet with apparent ease they whipped their populaces into a furor over a dispute most had only learned about in the preceding days. Such was the nature of the beast. There had never been the option for peaceful resolution, but, even if there were, Illun surged and cried out for justice.

So there the Ange hovered, Eusero’s station not far apart, while the town of Cantimine swelled with celebration and anticipation. Casoban, as the challenger, was to announce its champion first, and there was buzz throughout the station, as Quinn made her way to the bridge along with the rest of the pilots for their debriefing, that she would be taking her first, true steps into the shoes of a Casobani hero.

“Camille,” Toussaint said. “You’re up.”

There was a collective sigh in the room. Of disappointment from Cyril, of relief from Sybil, and of resignation from Camille.

“It’s your home, anyway,” he went on. “Makes the most sense.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, as if pretending she and everyone else in the room hadn’t known they’d choose her from the start. The twins were too inexperienced—if half eager—and Quinn was…on probation, of sorts. Camille presented the best odds; there were few pilots in Eusero’s roster with an even chance at her. Few, but not none.

“You’ll all be going down,” he said. “Cantimine may be Euseran territory now, but its people live in Casoban, and there’s a near-majority support for us among the citizens. Eusero will run its junkets, invite celebrities, but we’re going to be there on the ground, showing people why we’re better for them.” Fingers flicked across his tablet, beeps sounded from the pilots’ phones. “Preliminary schedules. Cyril, you’re due for an appearance at the town’s community theatre. I’m told the director there modeled his run of ‘L’intervention’ after your performance. Sybil, you’re donating three pieces to the town’s center for the arts, and you’ll be first judge for a portrait competition tomorrow evening. Camille, Casoban’s premiere fencing league is flying in—you’ll be giving them a demonstration. Light sparring. You’re teaching, not fighting—no injuries, and don’t get injured.”

A round of nods, duties assigned.

“Quinnlash,” Toussaint said, turning to her. “You are…tricky. Our PR team has determined that, given the current strain between Eusero and Runa, putting you front and center might push support among the locals away from us. We want you there, still, visible, but I’ve scheduled no events for you. You are, in a sense, free to do as you wish, within reason and under supervision. If you’d like, I can send you a list of places that would welcome your appearance, or you can feel out the area for yourself.”

He stood, and the other pilots stood as well, sensing the meeting coming to a close.

“You’ll depart this afternoon, make what preparations you will. The CSC will be occupying one of the local hotels, you’ll all have the floor to yourselves, just like here. Dismissed.”

And with that, Toussaint left. Camille joined him, and the two disappeared together down the hall. The twins remained. Sybil slouched back in her seat, while Cyril stretched, and an excited smile spread across his face.

“What a drag,” Sybil muttered.

“What? C’mon, this’ll be great!” Cyril said, looking over to Quinn. “I mean, it’s a little weird, but, a break’s a break!”

“She gets a break, not us. You and I have work.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “At a theatre, and a painting contest. Oh, the woes and struggles are ceaseless. Quinn! You’re excited, right? I mean, I’m sure you could use the fresh air after, ah, well…it’ll be good for you! You finally get to see the sights!”

And Quinn was excited. The last time she'd been planetside, it had only been to transfer her over to the Ange from the Aerie. And the last time she'd spent any actual time down, it had been the duel, and the less she thought about that the better. So as the elevator began its descent, she took a deep, calming breath to still her excitement.

She wasn't bringing much down with her; she didn't really even have that much to bring. Some clothes. The laptop Casoban had given her. Phone. Some snacks. And her new dress, of course; if she was going to wear it anywhere, might be down there! At the moment, she was wearing the jacket that Besca had given her before she went down to Mona's: the gray one, with the paired yellow stripes. She had her arms crossed, and her finger tapped at her her upper arm with a rapid tap-tap-tap. Her face was spread in an uncommonly wide smile.

As they left the bounds of the Ange and emerged into the hardlight sheath, she looked down, and...the smile lessened. She was excited. She really was. The bay below, the ocean reaching to the horizon; the afternoon sunlight, whipping and flashing over the waves. The patchwork of the Casobani fields stretching out one way, and in the distance she thought that maybe she could see some fraction of the Euseran cities, though she wasn't sure. It was beautiful, and she was excited. But...it felt...off. Less, somehow. Almost hollow, in some strange way, like there was a parasite eating the excitement from the inside. And as the minutes went by, and they dropped further--as Cantimine came into focus beneath them--it only grew hungrier. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

It was wrong enough that as she stepped off the elevator, it wasn't with the same steady stride that usually characterized her. It was slower, if only a bit. Halting. Almost a stumble, though not quite.

She took another deep breath. What was going on? Was she getting sick? She felt so cold. Cold like she hadn't felt in a long time, a chill that she recognized in her bones but couldn't name. She only realized that she was shivering after she heard her teeth chattering. Shook her head distractedly. She had to be sick. Something was wrong with her. It was fine. Cyril was right. She just needed to get out and get some air. That's what she'd done in the central plaza after the first time she'd gotten sick on the Aerie, Besca had led her out and she'd felt better after she'd breathed. That was all she needed. She screwed her eye tight for a second before opening it and walking with a more sure stride up to the barrier that separated the landing zone from

the street full of people the sound of music SCREAMING the smell of copper and iron SAFIE her heart throbbed in her ears as she stumbled back until she collided with someone, she couldn't tell who, face suddenly ashen, ghost-pale as all the blood drained out of it. Black fuzz encroached around the edges of her vision, narrowing it down to a tunnel of muted gray shapes as tears poured freely from her wide, terrified eye. In the distance she though she could still see the water of the lake the sun that GLARED AT HER the SCREAMING THE SCREAMING THE SCREAMING the fish full of BLADES glass in her feet glass in her throat BLOOD SO MUCH BLOOD run run RUN QUINNLASH RUN to the bay. Her head was filled with cotton, thick cotton that drowned out her thoughts and left her with nothing but the images and the deafening sound of her heart. She tried to speak, but all that dripped from her numb lips was a terrified, almost inaudible squeak. She tried again; another muted nothing-sound. She felt like she might faint. Tried again, and this time what came out was understandable, if only the barest whisper:

"Not...not...again...not again..."

Cantimine was gorgeous, in a way which was at once distinctly Casobani, and distinctly unCasobani. Distant tree-topped hills swayed with gentle colors; the ocean shimmered and shifted on the breeze; the air was cool and welcoming. Built into a small bay, the town itself stretched like a broken ring into the flanking reaches of land. Buildings in the nouveau-assembled style of Euseran cities, blocky and bubbled and asymmetrical, retro of a time period that never was, rose in a haphazard skyline and, shirking the architectural origins that would have left them unpainted and bearing their bolts and parts-barcodes to the world, instead were drenched in clashing colors and ornamentation. It looked like a town painted by synesthesia, to the tune of something grungy, futuristic, and beautiful. Bubble-chic. Culturepunk. Two countries melded imperfectly, violently together.

Ships listed, drifting in the bay or bobbing in the harbor. More trickled in from the ocean waters, here a family catamaran, there a repurposed fishing trawler, a flag-laden pontoon, a cruise ship bristling with excitement and seasickness.

The noise was an undeniable testament to the sheer size of the visiting parties. A far cry from the quiet hum of the Ange’s dorms. The closer she drew to the barriers, the thicker the air grew with it. Like hands reaching out to her head, to her throat, to plug her ears and eye and drag her. The sparse crowd of personnel split around her as she stumbled, choked on her words, and summoned only meager sounds for her effort.

She bumped backwards, hit something, someone. A hand took her by the scruff of her jacket, hauled her upright. “Walk,” came the hushed, grumbled command. She was being push-carry-pulled away, out of the CSC zone’s thoroughfare and off, sidelong behind the pop-up buildings and supply tents, to the barrier wall.

The air shed its layers of clamor, they found shade and the sort of solitude that permitted the occasional, momentary rubberneck. The grip on Quinn eased but did not let go. It held her still, not steady, and kept her facing the blank, dry-concrete gray of the barrier.

“Control yourself,” Camille snapped behind her. “Stare at the wall. There’s nothing else. Stare at it.”

The captain’s shadow overtook hers on the wall, she was blocking them from the views between the makeshift alleyways. Camille’s silhouette was sharp, armored, longsword at her hip. She did not let go, did not raise her voice any higher.

“This is your duty—lament it if you must, but do it here. You bear more than your own dignity now, so control yourself. If not for you, for them. For Casoban. For Runa. You cannot break.”

Twitching erratically, Quinn was barely able to control her breathing as she was half-led, half-dragged away. In, out, in, in, out, out, out. Shallow aborted half-gasps. Camille said something. Two words, maybe three, but it was like speaking through deep water until her voice came into focus.

"--the wall. There’s nothing else. Stare at it."

She did. The featureless gray concrete filled her field of view as she focused on it to the exclusion of all else. Gradually, like a receding tide, the black fuzz retreated from her vision, and the world bled back in through her senses again. The unseeing terror in her eye abated, replaced with a familiar horror; one that held her beneath the water, but at least let her breathe. And breathe she did, the dead parodies for breath deepened into a rhythm that, while far too fast, was at least functional, and slowing as she went. The air was no longer thick. It didn't reach into her, close around her, grasp hold of her limbs. Her unnatural stiffness and the twitching faded, and color began to leak back into her face as she stood steadily again.

The crying was the last to go, and she angrily rubbed the tear tracks from her face until she felt mostly certain that she looked...if not good, at least passable. Acceptable. Like she wouldn't be embarrassing two countries with her mere presence. A trio of long, drawn out, shuddering breaths--one, two, three--and she dropped her head, letting it rest lightly on the concrete. A few more moments like eternity passed before she stood straight again, turned, and looked up at her captain, eye nearly overflowing with misery.

But it was a quiet misery. A misery that may drag her down, but that she could hold; wouldn't crush her beneath its weight until she found herself alone, away from duty and judgement.

Her voice was thin and reedy as she spoke, then she pulled in another breath through tight teeth and repeated. And this time, it matched her eye. Desolation. Misery. Need. Guilt. But again, quiet. Placated, lurking beneath the surface, as long as she wasn't alone in a quiet place, and they didn't listen too close. Weak, but stronger. Strong enough.

"I'm...sorry, Captain." She held her hand up in a trembling salute before she let it drop limply to her side. "And...thank you."

Camille huffed, lips twisting into an ephemeral sneer, a rueful shadow in her eyes, before she was statuesque again. She shook her head, and for a moment it seemed like she would simply turn and leave. This wasn’t her duty, after all. Keeping Loughvein alive was her lot, but stopping her from shaming herself was a challenge for the psychologists, and one that was seeming more and more unconquerable.

But, she didn’t, yet. She met Loughvein’s hollow eye with a hard, indifferent stare. She’d seen looks like this, the sort of blankness she’d come to associate with people who would become statistics in this field. She’d killed no small number of pilots with looks like this, but she could not kill Loughvein. The girl was not her enemy.

“Apologizing for a mistake means nothing if you make it again,” she said coldly. She sighed, her voice lowered. “People think pilots don’t make mistakes, and pilots think they can make as many as they want. The truth is a union. We make mistakes, like everyone else, and they build. Not just mistakes in the cockpit, though those matter, but everywhere. Here, in this shade, you have made a mistake. They are stones on a pile, added one atop another. Some people’s piles grow tall, and vast, some stout. All, eventually, fall.

“You will never know when. Never know which stone will be the one you can’t afford to place, or perhaps which one, deep in the pile, will shift after who-knows-how-long, and topple over on you even when you’ve not added one in a long time. We are not our mistakes, Loughvein, but we are beholden to them, and we do, inevitably, feel their consequences. Pilots only feel them once.”

She turned away, not to leave but to look, across the military zone and over the opposite border, to the town and the bay. “If you wish to avoid people, you should steer clear of the harbor. They set up carnivals there, every year, they’ll be doing it now too. Likewise, the community center, main street, and Henn road, where all the expensive restaurants are. There are parks in the neighborhoods to the northwest, which ought to be quite empty for the next few days. There is a nature trail as well, which will be tour-guided, but sparse—most people want to explore the town, not the forest. Eat here, if you must. The food will be cheap and packaged, but you will be left alone inside the barrier.”

Perhaps she had more to say. She was precipitously silent for a moment, teetering on the edge of something. Eventually, however, she simply muttered, “Dismissed,” and walked away, back onto the thoroughfare and out, into the town.

Each one of Camille's icy words dropped like a lump of lead into Quinn's stomach, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood to avoid looking down at her feet in shame. As much of an instinct as it was, after all, she didn't think the captain would think very well of it, with what she'd just said about apologies. She felt a bit sick.

Then the ice in her words cracked, creaked, softened. Mistakes, she talked about. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. Quinn had made a lot of mistakes. Her pile of stones was a tower by now, undoubtedly. A tower of piled up mistakes. Moments she wasn't good enough, where she couldn't say the right thing, when she couldn't do what somebody needed of her. Of the shocked silence after the press conference. Of passing out in the arms of a man that wouldn't be there when she awoke. Of being. She swallowed hard. When her pile tumbled down, it would be a catastrophe. Her old Guilt began to dig claws into her sides, and her breath hitched a moment.

"If you wish to avoid people, you should steer clear of the harbor." The continuing speech knocked her out of her momentary reverie, and she gave her head a quick shake. "They set up carnivals there, every year, they’ll be doing it now too. Likewise, the community center, main street, and Henn road, where all the expensive restaurants are. There are parks in the neighborhoods to the northwest, which ought to be quite empty for the next few days. There is a nature trail as well, which will be tour-guided, but sparse—most people want to explore the town, not the forest. Eat here, if you must. The food will be cheap and packaged, but you will be left alone inside the barrier." Parks. Empty parks. She'd never been in a park.

After Camille stalked away, Quinn remained standing there for another moment more, eye screwed shut. Preparing herself. Fortifying herself. She pulled in one last shuddering breath, then opened her eye and retrieved her small rollerbag from where it had fallen when Camille dragged her into this secluded little nook. First order of business, she thought as she returned to the thoroughfare, was to drop it off. The distant sounds hammered into her eardrums and her vision briefly blurred, but she clenched her teeth down so hard she could feel the creak and it abated some, though certainly not all the way. She wasn't exactly sure when she entered the building, but there she was, mildly confused, walking down the almost cathedralesque foyer until she could catch the attention of a bellhop. She dropped the small gunmetal-gray bag down in front of him, not liking the way he looked at her. "Could you--my room is--" She didn't remember, or she was never told; then she let her head loll again and sighed heavily. "Quinnlash Loughvein, pilot floor."

He took it away, and she nervously brushed her bangs away from her face as she walked slowly, almost meditatively, back to the exit.

Parks. Empty parks. She'd go to the parks.

Cantimine moved in tides, its crowds ebbing here, flowing there, and keeping mainly to the shores. Paparazzi had set up shop outside of the CSC’s military zone, but for the most part the citizens and tourists were far too wrapped up in the celebrations to bother. After all, why rush? There was plenty of time before the duel, and either way, that was the event most of them had come to see. Perhaps they were waiting, not wanting to invest themselves too heavily into a pilot that might be dead in a few days’ time. Afterwards, one there was a victor, there would likely be a surge in people wanting pictures, and autographs, and to scream that they knew the winner would win, because it was obvious, and they never doubted.

At least for the locals that was not the case. Camille exited the zone to a fanfare of camera clicks and cheering, like some returning hero. Among the posters and signs of her, and Foudre, there were people wearing jerseys with her name on them, and the crest of the Cantimine high school, where evidently her fencing legend had begun. She met the crowd with expected temperance, but not unkindness. She spoke little, but signed and nodded and expressed quiet thanks to those who met her eyes.

The twins saw a smaller but still excited welcome, and as Quinn stepped into view there was the beginnings of a roar of appreciation for her as well. Then, suddenly, a surge of excitement, and all attentions and cameras and pointed fingers went skyward. The Saviors were coming down on the lifts. It was a brief but effective window, and Quinn was able to slip out of the zone without a crowd following after her.

Northwest. Neighborhoods. Parks. Cantimine was not terribly difficult to navigate, and even staying clear of the main roads, she was able to find that suburban delta where township trickled into residence. People were scarce, and those she passed hardly noticed her, likely thinking she was a local herself, or just out on a walk for some peace and quiet. The roads began to wind between roads of houses, narrowing and forking, looping, but distant trees towering over rooftops led the way.

Some of the parks were plain. Empty fields with one or two benches, designed more for pets than people. Others were playgrounds for children, who didn’t care much for the crowds of strangers and the loud noises. Eventually she found one empty, an amalgam of an open grove and the remnants of a metal jungle gym, with a small basketball court grafted onto it, a rainbow carousel, a pair of swings near a duck pond.

Save for the occasional quacking, and the distant festive rumble of the town, it was quiet. A whole space to herself, for as long as that would last. A moment to breathe. Rare. Cherished.

Quinn's heart was still hammering in her throat when she arrived at the park. The brief walk had nearly stretched her to snapping again; but with Camille's cold eyes in the back of her mind, she'd managed to hold on until she could extricate herself. This was nicer; not too terribly unlike the Aerie's main plaza if she closed her eye. So she closed her eye, breathed deep, and tried to figure out how she was going to make any of this work.

She wasn't naive enough to believe she could spend the duration of her stay here alone, whether in the hotel, in the military zone, or in parks like this one. It just wasn't how a pilot's life went. At some point--and likely before long--she would be called on to make an appearance. She was the vaunted Runan Hero, after all; people would want to see her, and talk to her. And like Camille said, mistakes. She couldn't afford a breakdown in public, no matter what, but she could still feel the horrible panic clinging to her.

So, again: how was she going to make this work?

Nursing that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she slid her phone out of her jacket pocket and opened her texts. A few more taps brought her to Dahlia's messages, and she hesitated, finger hovering over the keyboard. A long, long moment passed.

Then she closed the messenger app and opened the phone, and once more went to Dahlia. Another silent moment

Then she tapped on the contact, and it began to ring.

And ring.

And ring.

The seconds stretched out into yawning gaps as she waited for that familiar voice, and yet it wasn't forthcoming. The phone simply rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five--

"Quinn? Quinn--hello? Hey! Sorry I was just--I was in--nevermind, hey!" Ah. There it was. Breathless, like she'd been exercising; but so very happy.

Quinn let out a strangled noise that sounded something like a simultaneous laugh and sob, and had to check her eye to make sure she wasn't actually crying (again). When she finally brought herself to speak, her voice was...unusual. It had a cheerful enough tone; but it also had the characteristic tremble that she wore whenever she was really upset. "H--hey, Deelie, what's it like back home right now?"

An orbit away, the Aerie was as silent as Cantimine was loud. Down to a single pilot, there truthfully wasn’t much for most of the staff to do; those whose job it was to monitor for singularities were, of course, working around the clock, and every brain in PR was hard at work spinning Quinn’s absence into positive news, but otherwise…

Well, Dahlia had a lot of time to train. And she had, extensively—excessively, according to Besca—but she knew there was no such thing as being too prepared. Frankly, sometimes she doubted she was prepared at all. Complacency was poison to pilots, but so too was doubt, and for a time Dahlia thought she had found a comfortable balance between them. But then the attack had happened, and whenever she stepped into a sim, or connected to Dragon, all she could think about were the six Modir who had come to kill Quinn.

She thought of it now, too, when she heard her voice. Always when she heard her voice. Panic, as sharp as the first time she’d stepped into the cockpit, squeezing her heart like a fist. It pushed her, gave her the drive she needed to rebuild, but sometimes it made her dull, made her glaze over details she shouldn’t miss. Like the tremble in Quinn’s voice. The relief was too much, mingled too excitedly with the fear, that she barely even heard the words.

“Great!” she said, the response automatic as the rest of her caught up. “I wasn’t expecting you to call—I mean, I’m glad, I just didn’t know you could. Things are great here! Not because you’re gone or anything. Actually I guess in that way they’re kinda awful, but other than that we’re good! We’re great. We miss you a lot. Besca’s still working all the time but she misses you. She’s in a meeting right now, I think, but I can message her if you want, I know she’d…”

It hit her hard, suddenly, that Quinn was calling her. She was alive, yes, but Quinn had proven so far that she was pretty good at staying alive. It was the living part that gave her trouble. There was a big festival happening in Cantimine, and Quinn was calling her. And there was, if she thought hard, a definite hitch in her voice. Something was wrong, and Dahlia could feel the brief moment of relief wither inside her throat. She sat down against the sim pod.

“How…” she started, coughed, tried again. “How, uhm, how are you?”

Quinn closed her eye for a moment and just let herself listen to Dahlia's voice. She hadn't actually called her up to now. She'd texted her, certainly, and she'd called Besca, but she hadn't actually spoken to her sister since she left the Aerie. It brought a much-needed fragment of stability; the grasping memories retreated a bit in its wake, and she found herself breathing just a little bit easier.

“How…how, uhm, how are you?”

There was a shift in Deelie's voice then. Perhaps anybody else wouldn't have noticed it, except maybe Besca, but Quinn knew the way she spoke, and the way she thought. The way she cut herself off, and the way she coughed over her words. She was worried, and Guilt began to nip at her heels. "I'm glad things are okay back there," she offered, but it wouldn't have taken Dahlia or Besca to hear how hollow her words sounded.

She sucked a deep breath through her teeth and gazed at the broken-down remnants of the jungle gym. A sudden feeling of desolation flooded through her, and she stood and began to pace back and forth. "I--I'm in Cantimine right now." She let that sit there for a moment as she struggled to find the words. "Because of the duel, there's a celebration. Big festival and everything." Another breath, this one shakier, as the composure in her voice started to fray, and the tone began to shift to align with the trembling. "A festival with lots of crowds in a small town on the water." Her pacing stopped and she stood stock-still, eyes finding the jungle gym again as a treacherous tear slid down her face. It was a good thing Camille wasn't there, a somewhat detached part of her though, or else she'd get yelled at again. The momentary stability that Dahlia's voice had brought fled. "It's just--it's like--it's too much--"

Then she slumped back down on the bench and put her free hand over her eye, pushing on it until it was almost painful. No more crying. No. No. Remember the piled-up mistakes. No crying. Her voice's volume dropped until it was almost a whisper, a thick murmur that promised tears, yet refused to fulfil them:

"I don't know what to do."

A hollow grew in Dahlia’s stomach. Not just for the fear and panic in Quinn’s voice, but for the fear and panic she felt herself. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out what was going on; small town, big celebration, the water. For being countless miles away, every inch of Cantimine must have looked exactly like Hovvi. When she closed her eyes, she must have been able to see the fires, hear the skittering of monsters, feel the quake of the modir as they trampled her home into dust.

That’s how it was for her, at least. And that was with the benefit of being high above Illun, away from it all—though that left her with its own gnawing anxieties. There wasn’t a single day, sometimes a single hour, that went by when she didn’t think about her home. In the darkest and quietest hours of the night sometimes she opened her eyes to her father’s cold face, to Safie’s. The soft nest of blankets became the lining of a body bag, and she would watch in paralyzed silence as the zipper came up, closing over her, and only in the dark would she find the will to scream and jolt awake.

What could she say? What comfort could she ever offer someone in her position? Platitudes were balm, and lost their soothing touch the more they were used, and the last thing she wanted to hear from anyone these days was that what happened wasn’t her fault, or that she was strong, and brave. She didn’t want to be brave, she wanted her dad back. She wanted who she was before she knew how much she had to lose. Or at least, before she lost it.

Besca would tell her a story. She was good at that. She always had one, no matter what the situation was. There were times that Dahlia thought she was some kind of mystical being who had lived a hundred lives, was a thousand years old and that was why she always knew what to say, always knew how to empathize.

Dahlia wasn’t a thousand years old. She was barely an adult, and felt like less of one each day. She didn’t have stories, and it felt like she never knew what to say. All she had was herself, and the promise she’d made. She would never lie to Quinn.

“I don’t either,” she said, as much as it hurt to admit. “I…I wish I did. I really, really wish I did. It hurts enough waking up most days, I…don’t know how you do it.”

She slumped against the sim pod, the strength leaking out of her, leaving her with only a whisper. “You didn’t choose this life, but I did. You shouldn’t be the one down there, it isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But Illun doesn’t care, the modir don’t care. Whether we can do it or not, everything just…keeps going.”

A sigh worked its way up her throat, shaky and pitiful, but she didn’t try to hide it. No lying. “I miss you. I need you to stay safe. Please. I know it’s selfish, I wish there was more I could do for you from here but…but there’s not. I love you, me and Besca both love you. One day this’ll be over, and you’ll come back to us, and it’ll be better. But until then, just…” she clenched her fist, forced herself to stay composed. “I’ll always want to talk, even if I can’t help. Just to hear you’re alive. Nothing is too much as long as you’re still alive, Quinn.”

As Dahlia spoke, voice halting, Quinn's shaky breaths began to settle.

"I miss you. I need you to stay safe. Please. I know it’s selfish, I wish there was more I could do for you from here but…but there’s not. I love you, me and Besca both love you."

"I love you too," she murmured. She took a long, deep breath. A second. A third. Her racing thoughts slowed, leaving her feeling raw and exposed, yet so much more controlled. Just like always, she thought. Dahlia was absurdly good at calming her down, no matter how on fire her head was. She could cut through the static during Quinn's first phase; so she could cut through just about anything. A memory from...months ago now, thought it felt like both less and more--jostled free in her head and took shape in her mind:

It’s okay to be scared. Being strong doesn’t mean you’re never afraid of anything, sometimes it means...

"...sometimes it means being afraid of something and doing it anyway," she finished softly. The hitch in her breathing was still there. It wouldn't go away, not as long as she was in Cantimine, she thought. But she found that the idea had lost some of its dread, and...she could face this now. Nothing was too much as long as she was still alive. She stood again, but this time instead of pacing bordering on panicked, her stance was almost steady. She was still trembling slightly, could feel her legs quaking beneath her. But she could do it. She had to do it.

"...Thanks, Deelie," she said, blinking back what remained of the threat of tears. "Really. Thank you so much." She paused for a moment, then pulled the phone from her ear, brought it in front of her, and turned on the camera, staring into the reflection of a watery smile. She paused a moment, then brought her hand up in a halfhearted wave.

"Oh," she let out an actual honest to god giggle, quiet and unsteady though it was, "And could you get Besca to send me some of the chocolate pilot shakes? It's not the same without them."

Dahlia knew what it sounded like when Quinn was putting herself back together, the quiver in her voice, the hitching in her breath. It was like plugging a hole in a boat with your hand; good enough for now, but a little water still leaks in, and eventually it fills up, or your arm gets tired, and you sink. Some days Dahlia felt she was up to her neck already. Some days she didn’t.

Seeing Quinn on the other end of the line made it one of the latter days.

She looked like a mess, but Dahlia couldn’t judge. When she turned on her own camera, the face she saw shocked her. Greasy hair pulled into a bun, eyes sunken into dark pits, lips chapped from long, dry stints in the sim pod. Her clothes were rumpled, her fingernails were jagged from chewing, and if she chanced a brief sniff at her arms, she had no doubt she might retch on the call.

Quinn laughed, Dahlia blinked, and then she burst into laughter too. Uneven and garbled and teetering on the edge of something less happy, but she could hardly control it. God, she looked like the dead.

“Yeah,” she said, when she finally got ahold of herself. “I think we can swing that. Not like we’ll miss them here. I’ll tell her tonight, after I go through every ounce of soap we have and maybe take a nap. Think I need one of those, bad.”

It was so stupid. She was so stupid. A glance at her recent sims would have told her how tired she was, how badly the spiral was impacting her abilities. Besca had said it a thousand times: it didn’t matter how much she trained if, when the time came and she had to act, this was the state she was in. She couldn’t protect Quinn if she felt like a zombie in her own skin. And right now, at least in this single moment, she didn’t have to. Quinn didn’t need saving—all she wanted was a god-awful protein shake.

“Call me again. Whenever. Okay?” She laid her head back against the wall, settled into something that might have resembled a smile in the right light. It felt comfortable, anyway. However long this moment of clarity lasted, she was glad for it. “This’ll be over before we know it.”

Maybe a little balm didn’t hurt.

Quinn couldn't help it: as soon as Dahlia turned her camera on, she pulled in a sudden breath through her teeth and her nascent giggle died. A smile stayed on her face, but it was a smile of both joy and of concern. She'd seen Dahlia pushing herself too hard before. She'd seen it plenty.

But it had never looked like this.

Her skin was pulled taut over her face. Her eyes were sunken and red; not bloodshot, but close. She hadn't washed her hair in how knew how long. And, unless Quinn was mistaken, the thing she was leaning back against was the side of a sim pod.

Well, at least Dahlia seemed aware of it. Soap and nap? Yes, absolutely, she needed soap and a nap desperately. But be that as it may, she needed more than that. Quinn knew that her sister was very good at reading here emotions, the way she always seemed to be able to see what she was thinking was proof enough of that. But, though it came into play only rarely, the opposite was also true. Quinn had seen Dahlia tearing herself apart enough times to know what it looked like when she was imploding into a spiral. Perhaps it had to do with Runa placing their entire survival squarely on her teenage shoulders from the time she was a child, Quinn didn't know. But she was obsessive--dangerously so--about always being ready to protect. And her arrival...really hadn't helped that complex.

She let Dahlia finish, let her face become something like a smile than the grimace it so often seemed to look nowadays. Then, after a pregnant silence (or at least she felt like it was) she spoke again.

"Deelie." She hesitated a moment. "Can I set you a rule?"

A lack of immediate refusal was all she needed to push on, and as she did, her voice grew stronger, more certain. More forceful. "Your new rule is, the longest you can sim is how long you slept. No more twelve hour days unless you get twelve hours of sleep. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"Promise me. Right now."

She should have expected this, really. What did she think would happen when she turned her camera on? She knew what she looked like, and she knew Quinn wouldn’t react well to seeing her this way. A reflex maybe, to seeing her on the screen—an impulse to make things feel somewhat normal again, whatever it was that counted for that these days. In truth though, a part of her wanted this. Wanted something to validate that last, sane part of her mind she’d shoved down, screaming that what she was doing wasn’t healthy, wasn’t sustainable. Besca was too buried, Roaki couldn’t care less, and Follen…well, she’d found a building distance growing between her and the doctor.

But here Quinn was, throwing her a rope she knew she needed, to climb out of a hole she’d dug for herself. She was too good, this girl. For RISC, the CSC, for piloting, for Illun, really. But Dahlia say there, and listened, and met Quinn’s budding sternness with small nods and a rueful smile.

Only the truth, after all.

“I…” she sighed. “Can’t…make that promise. I’m sorry. I know you’re right, I know I’m not handling this well. I want to do better, but I just…can’t make you a promise I might break. I don’t know what’s going to happen in a week, or two weeks, or a month. I don’t know where my head will be, or what I’ll have to do, or…” Or anything. God, she didn’t know anything. No pilot did, that was the point. That was the life. Quinn had to understand that by now, had to get that neither of them were guaranteed their next hour let alone their tomorrows.

If something happened, it was on them. It was always on them. It was always…

Dahlia rubbed her eyes. She was tired. More than that, she was willing to admit it right now, which was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to waste on being cynical and bitter. Quinn was right, and for as long as her mind wasn’t going to fight her body, she was going to follow her advice.

“I can try,” she said, smiling apologetically. “For now that’s what I can do. I can promise to try. And I’m about to fall over as it is so, I’m gonna go now so I don’t pass out in the shower. Then get some sleep.”

She turned off her phone’s camera, about sick of seeing herself in this state, and certainly not wanting to show it to Quinn anymore. Instead, she tried to put some of the life back into her voice as she pulled herself off the sim room floor.

“We’ll get those shakes out to you asap, just try to keep them to yourself. Don’t think they’ll win you any friends for their flavor.” she giggled, it felt genuine even if it was a bit weary. “Talk to you again soon, Quinn. See you soon, too. Love you.”

A concerned half-frown remained set on Quinn's face, but she was realistic enough to know that if Dahlia said that she couldn't promise something, that thing wasn't being promised. Her honesty was something that Quinn truly loved about her; but it was also something that made it hard to believe that she wouldn't spin down the drain again the second something happened to Quinn.

But as long as she was willing to try, that was the best that Quinn could've hoped for, really. She'd halfway expected that she wouldn't even give her that.

At Deelie's apologetic smile, Quinn gave one in return. One that felt unfamiliar on her face, a kind of warm comforting thing, and her voice dropped into a soft, soothing tone that felt at once familiar and not. That brief kindling of comfort, like she'd felt it in a dream somewhere before. "As long as you try. You've always been able to do anything you put your mind to as long as you don't give up, y'know?"

She held her phone out in front of her and reached in, giving the camera as best a hug as she could under the circumstances. "I love you too."

A moment more basking in Deelie's presence before the line cut off and she found herself alone in the park once more. She took a deep breath. Then another. Then a third, and then she stood and began walking. The crowd had seen her stumble back. So had the Derisas. And, it went without saying, Camille. Trepidation bubbled in her gut, and that panicked fluttering in her chest struggled to break free again as the noise drew closer. But after another set of deep breaths, it was settled enough for her to merge back into the main street of Cantimine.

The first person who noticed her screamed softly--Quinn frankly didn't even know that was a thing you could do--and jostled the person next to them. And as the murmuring spread through the crowd and dozens--possibly hundreds--of pairs of eyes turned her way, all she could do was give a cheeky wave and a smile that she really, really didn't feel before setting out again. With purpose this time, as she forced down that flutter again. It would beat against the walls of her chest the whole time she was out here, she knew. But she could not. Afford. To indulge it. Any more.

Who knew that a crushing panic attack built up such an appetite?

Time moved with liquid imprecision, marked not by clocks or alarms, but by the waveform excitement of the crowds, denoting the approximate starts and stops of scheduled events that strayed further and further from their schedules as the day went on. Quinn would find it difficult to disappear, but easy to maneuver. Always there were eyes, often there were words, rarely were there blocks.

It wasn’t until she passed behind the local community center that someone finally got in her way. A lone shadow that stepped into the light and sprouted bright colors, fluffy hair, and a relieved expression.

“There you are!” Cyril said. “Quick—come with me!”

With a theatrical wave to the passersby who saw, he led her gently but insistently through a staff door and into the back rooms of the building. The sounds of an overstuffed city quieted almost immediately, replaced by the dim and incessant hum of fluorescent lights, and the slightly sweet chemical smell of a recently mopped tile floor.

“We commandeered the offices for lunch,” he said, leading the way through the halls, past doors with empty nameplate holders, and corkboards tacked with fliers for events that had happened months ago.

Eventually they entered a faculty lounge. It wasn’t overly large, but it did, in a way, look somewhat like her living room on the Aerie. A couch, a TV, some chairs and tables, a kitchen with far less amenities, and the addition of a pinball machine in the corner.

Sybil was splayed out on the couch, a large baggie of fast food on the communal table, printed with the swooping logo of a place called ‘Benji’s’.

“Huh,” she said. “You found her.”

“Much more that she found me,” Cyril said, shutting the door behind them, only to recoil out of the way when Quinn darted back to wedge a stopper at the threshold, keeping it just slightly opened. They had been advised, briefly, that she might be given to erratic behavior. They'd seen as much, but still, it would take some getting used to. But used to it he'd get. Cyril had never met a challenge that wasn't worth giving at least a healthy try.

He stretched tall and long like a cat. There were pops, he let out a satisfied hum. “What a morning. Oh, Quinn, help yourself. Picked that up from a local spot. Apparently it’s been around since the captain was a kid.”

“So like a million years,” Sybil said humorlessly.

“She’s really not that much older than we are.”

“She is for a pilot.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “Ignore her, she’s been painting fruit all morning. Still-life makes her moody.”

“Nobody in or out of art school wants to paint a fucking apple on a fucking pillow.” Sybil rummaged through the bag and tossed Cyril a burger in paper wrapping. She picked one out for herself, then slid the bag over towards Quinn. “There’s fries too. Got a large ‘cause the captain’s not around to yell about calories.”

“God, yes,” Cyril said, snatching a fingerful of fries with an undignified noise. “They don’t warn you about the dietary stuff, when you sign on. Between us, I don’t even think it comes from Toussaint. I’m positive it’s Camille.”

Sybil took a sharkish bite from her burger and made a halfhearted attempt to cover her mouth when she spoke. “More kale and protein shakes for her.”

“Are they strict on the Aerie, too?” Cyril asked, hopping onto the counter. “What with Dragon and all that.”

The long, slow breaths that Quinn was taking as she wended through the crowd were doing a remarkable job in keeping her...well, not exactly calm, she could still feel the fear bubbling just beneath the surface, like a pot of boiling water only barely covered. But calm enough. She could practically feel the eyes boring into her from all sides, and managed to lift her hand in a wave that she hoped didn't look as halfhearted as it felt.

Then she saw a sign for the community center, and some force compelled her to seek it out. Perhaps it was because the Hovvi community center was the first place she ever met Besca, she couldn't be sure. Perhaps it was just because it was a bit more off the main drag, so it wouldn't be quite as crowded. But as she passed behind it, she was met with the welcome sight of Cyril, who urged her into the community center proper--past some crowds of people who were doing who knew what--and into a staff entrance, where Quinn finally felt a bit at ease--

And then Cyril reached out and closed the door behind them.

A sudden sharp intake of breath jolted into Quinn, and with more haste than she'd demonstrated that day--or, debatably, more haste than she'd demonstrated at the CSC as a whole--she jerked back to the door, cracked it ajar, and kicked a doorstop into place just to make sure that it didn't swing closed again. She immediately felt better, and a little foolish. The instinctual horror bubbling beneath her was still there, though it had receded a bit once she was off the street.

Luckily, it didn't seem like it had caused much, other than Cyril flinching out of the way. She took a stabilizing breath, then walked over and tossed herself down into a chair, unwrapping the burger that Sybil slid at her and taking a tentative bite. It was good. Better than CB Dane's, at any rate, and Quinn didn't have much other context for burgers. She left the fries for the siblings, walking over and slinging herself over the arm of the couch Sybil was splayed out on as she ate.

Huh. Strict diets, huh? A little grin came to Quinn's face as she remembered the brief exchange that she'd just had with Dahlia, then gave a little shrug. "Our schedule is stricter. Working out, sparring, simming, mandatory therapy once weekly...I almost feel like I have too much time on my hands here and I don't really know what to do with it." She took another bite, pondering as she chewed, then swallowed. "Food is pretty free, though. We can eat mostly whatever we want, as long as we don't exceed a certain amount of calories. Except a nutrient shake every morning."

She made a face. "They taste like chalk at the best of times. But..." Another bite, bigger this time as she really realized how hungry she was, and then another. The 'but' hung there in the air as she scarfed another good chunk of her burger down, and only once another half of it was gone did she swallow the last bite and finish. "...even if they're pretty gross, I'm still kind of missing them. Mornings feel weird without my chalk drink." She paused again, looking up at the ceiling and frowning lightly as, at Cyril's prompt, she thought back to the pilot of Dragon, and the "strict schedule" that she was holding herself to. She would call her again that night.

And the thought of that call pulled the fear closer to the surface, and she did her best to hide her suddenly tensed muscles and tightened teeth as she fought it back down.

Once she'd forced it back into the box in her head and shaken her head lightly to try to banish the thoughts--nearly-finished burger held half forgotten in her hand--she glanced down at Sybil on the couch beneath her. She hadn't spoken with the older girl much, and she'd nearly forgotten that Casoban put a great emphasis on art, even--perhaps especially--on pilots. Maybe that had something to do with the more lax schedule? Time needed for art? A part of her knew that she was thinking about it to avoid more unpleasant thoughts, but she shoved that part back into the box too. She could deal with it again once she was outside. She was safe here. Safe.

"Can I see one of your paintings, Sybil? It doesn't have to be an apple, I promise."

Sybil stopped mid-bite at Quinn’s request, hesitated, then finished up the last quarter of her burger in no particular hurry, contemplating. Quinn was polite, which was fine, but it was Cyril’s anticipatory silence that irked her. She could see him in her periphery, wide eyed, stupid smile spreading slow across his face, masking his excitement with all the guile of a kindergartner waiting for recess.

Eventually she caved, sighed, said, “Fine,” and fished her phone out of her pocket.

“Yes!” Cyril hissed, gobbling down the last of his fries and scurrying over to the couch. It almost put her off, but that wouldn’t have been fair to Quinn. Not that she was sure why that mattered; she barely knew the girl.

“Okay, uh…” she flipped through her photos, regretting now as she did every time that she had no folders, no albums, no organization of any kind. Thumbnails of paintings amidst sketches amidst scenic photographs amidst memes amidst pictures of other people’s pets. “Uh. Oh, here.”

She pulled up a painting from her first weeks on the Ange, of the Ange. Minimalist in the fact that there was really just the station, and a brushy black void, and nothing else. A sharp white shape, like an elegant spinning top, edges fuzzing into the black around it. She hadn’t even put in stars, because there hadn’t been any on the exterior cameras. Space was scary like that. Full from afar, empty if you looked too close. Overall it was exceedingly simple; she hadn’t submitted it anywhere, though she was sure the CSC could have hocked it to some pretentious collector, or at least an opportunist in search of one.

“This was sort of an exercise,” she said. “Did the black first, but left space in and kinda, like, shaped the station out of that, rather than put it on top. That’s why the spine looks so jagged, left all the mistakes in actually. Figured that’s what exercises are for.”

Cyril leaned over the cushion, pointed. “She added our rooms, too! That’s her, there, cause it’s by the lettering, and I’m one over. I think you’d be…there? No, wait, maybe you’re on the rounding side. Oh! Oh! Show her the cat! The cat!”

Sybil sighed; of course he wanted the cat. She’d been about to show that one anyway, but, still.

She scrolled and pulled up a wider canvas, another exercise she hadn’t sent anywhere, which was now collecting dust in the space under her bed. It was partially a subject of the cat, and partially a landscape. She’d caught the little thing standing on a railing overlooking the sea, at sunset, where the twilight turned its glossy black coat into an oil slick. Frankly, it looked a bit ridiculous; far too much rainbow on the pelt, and she’d taken liberties with the brightness of its eyes. But it was pretty, at least she thought so.

That had been two days before they came to the Ange. Cyril had pointed it out to her, and she knew that if he’d been faster, they would have brought the little stray up with them. Some days she wished he had caught it. The idea of a little kitten meandering around the pilot’s deck brought a little smile to her face, if only briefly.

“Her name was Truckstop,” Cyril said wistfully.

Sybil shook her head. “You’re an idiot,” she said, and turned to Quinn. “There’s a truck stop like, five feet off to the side. Worst one in Casoban.”

“Worst one in Casoban,” he agreed. “Rotisserie salmonella and rotten hotdogs. No candy. Condemnable bathrooms. Cute cashier though.”

“Sure, yeah.” She put her phone away. Sharing her work, even the good, completed stuff, carbonated her stomach. “Anyway, uh. Nothing fancy—at least that’s not already sold off somewhere—but there you go.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “There you go, she says, like she isn’t the most talented artist in the—”

“See? Idiot.”

“I don’t mind being proud for both of us,” he said, still grinning. “Back me up, Quinn. Right? Didn’t you just want to reach out and squish Truckstop’s cheeks?”

Quinn stared at the digitally-rendered image of the painting, almost entranced by the glossy iridescence of the cat's raven fur.

She hadn't seen much art in her life. She hadn't seen many cats in her life. Scratch that, she'd never seen a cat in her life outside of the censored internet that she'd been locked to for sixteen years. And she CERTAINLY hadn't seen much art of a cat, and nothing that looked like...like this. She only half-listened to the words passing between the Derisas, enough to hear it but not enough to really understand any of it. She started to lift her hand as though to reach out into the screen and scratch her fingers along Truckstop's ears, or run them through his soft-looking fur.

Then the window into the sunset vanished as Sybil clicked her phone shut, and Quinn jolted slightly as she was torn from her momentary reverie into another world. She blinked dazedly a few times as though she'd been under some kind of spell that she'd just broken free of.

“Back me up, Quinn. Right? Didn’t you just want to reach out and squish Truckstop’s cheeks?”

Another few blinks and she turned to Cyril, meeting his eyes with her own; and then to Sybil, staring at her with an expression almost approaching something like reverence.

Her lips parted for a moment as though to agree with Cyril, or to call the painting beautiful, or...to do something relevant, really. Something that would make sense within and possibly further her relationship with the Derisas, her new colleagues (and friends, hopefully). But none of those would pass her lips, and what burst from her instead, filled with utmost conviction as she looked Sybil dead in the eyes:

"I want a cat now."

And then, with more vehemence: "I want a cat so bad."