---

---

A crowd was forming in the medical ward by the time Besca arrived. Nurses and orderlies, and even a handful of people from other divisions who’d yet to start their shifts. But chief among them was a station security officer. RISC’s military police, plucked from the soldiers that had been steadily replenishing since Hovvi.

They were all gathered outside of a room she could only guess was Roaki Tormont’s. There was a general murmur filling the air, but the loudest sounds came from the officer demanding to be let in. Standing there with his back to the door, refusing him calmly, was Follen.

Security didn’t usually come out this way—really, there wasn’t all that much for them to do, and Besca had heard the shift referred to as a paid break. With how frequently the soldiery rotated in and out of the Aerie, it was entirely possible he didn’t know who Follen was. By his own design he was disarming and unremarkable, and he tended to eschew his coat and badge in favor of the normalcy of his own clothes.

So, when he put a hand on Follen’s shoulder and shoved him aside, it shouldn’t have been surprising. It also shouldn’t have made Besca upset, considering how many times she’d wanted to do that and worse to him.

But, it did.

“Hey!” she barked, and the whole crowd turned, the officer included. He might not have recognized Follen, but he would her. “What the everloving fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The officer paled for a moment, but collected himself quickly. “Ma’am—commander—the Helburkan pilot was removed from custody last night against orders, and relocated here.”

“I’m aware. I ordered it.”

He blinked. “Well, I’m here to return her to holding.”

“On who’s orders would that be?” She asked, stern, but she knew the answer already.

“Ma’am, the Board.”

She’d expected this, but not so soon. Stupid. There’d likely been videos and articles on the Board’s desk before the sun had come up in Runa, the real surprise is that they’d waited at all. In truth, she should have conceded, that really was the end of it. The Board’s orders were absolute, even over her own, and if she stayed this course it was likely to end poorly for just about everyone involved.

But she glanced at the door, and imagined Roaki in there, having had barely enough time to shut her eyes let alone recover from her stint in holding. Despite what she’d said to Quinn last night, it was still…difficult to separate the girl entirely from the duel, and who she represented.

Nevertheless, she stepped closer to the officer, then past him, and stood in front of the door. “As commander of this station, it is my direct order that the prisoner remain here. If the Board has a problem with that, they can get ahold of me directly.”

He hesitated, and she could tell he was thinking of what to say—what he’d likely been told to say when she resisted. “Commander,” he started. “You do not have the authority to refuse a command from the Board.”

“I’m telling you to leave.”

“You don’t—”

“You’re fired.”

He blinked again. Then, confused, he began to repeat: “You don’t—”

“I’m not refusing a command from the Board. I’m firing you. As of this moment you are no longer employed by the RISC. You are a civilian onboard at my pleasure, and as such have no authority to carry out anyone’s orders.” She stared up at him, unblinking, and nodded down the hall. “Go. This ward is for personnel only. You can stay in the commons until we schedule a time to ship you planetside.”

The murmuring erupted around them, and though the officer stared hard at her for a long time, eventually he relented. “Talking to the supe about this,” he grumbled, and stormed off down the hall.

Besca looked to the crowd, frowning. “Anyone who isn’t sick, dying, or attending to the sick and dying, get out of here and back to wherever you’re supposed to be.”

They did, slow and uncertainly, but they did, and eventually it was just her and Follen left at Roaki’s door. He brushed himself off, regarding her in the plain, direct way he did when it was just the two of them.

“That was interesting,” he said, all trace of warmth gone from his voice. “Whatever will you do now?”

“No idea,” she sighed. “No fuckin’ idea.”

---

---

Dahlia had breakfast cooking when Quinn awoke. The smells of cooked eggs, honeyed-toast and cinnamon drifted through the cracked doorway to her bedroom, along with sounds from the TV. She could hear people talking, newscasters. Their words were fainted and garbled, but now and then there was a familiar word or two.

“Quinnlash.”

“Casobani conflict.

“Soon.”

Though Dahlia’s humming wove in and out, there was no hint that Besca was around. She’d said she’d be back in the morning, but perhaps work had called her away. Regardless, it was a new day. Whatever it had in store for her, Quinn would do well not to meet it on an empty stomach.

The first thing Quinn did after her eyes cracked open was yawn. Cavernously.

The second thing she did was stretch, grunting quietly in satisfaction as her joints made pleasant popping sounds.

The second thing she did was frown, still a little muddled from sleep. The TV? Why was the TV saying her name?

Throwing on a gray t-shirt and the same black sweats she'd worn for her phasing test (she'd grown quite attached to them by now, given that they ranked among the first things to really belong to her), she padded over to the door and pushed it open. It was getting easier and easier every day. And her focus was elsewhere anyway.

What??

She was on TV.

And not just her Savior. Her, leaning tiredly against Ablaze's neck. A memory of the exhaustion she'd felt at that moment echoed through her and she flinched. Then it cut to a clip of her backpedaling frantically away from Blotklau as ichor sprayed from countless wounds. The newscaster was saying something about potential hostilities and certain political tension between Runa and Helburke, and she stared for a moment longer, horribly fascinated at seeing her Savior moving in third person. Even now, it still gave her chills.

She turned her head then to Dahlia, cocking her head with an expression of vague worry on her face.

"Why am I on TV, Deelie? It's been days, right?" She looked back at the news. There she was again, making that...surprisingly graceful, now that she looked at it...roll as her cannon blazed. "Is this normal?"

“Mo-orning~!” Dahlia called, sing-song, as soon as Quinn emerged from her room. She quickly prepped a plate for her; eggs, sweet toast with syrup, a peeled orange. Besca had drilled into her the merits of a healthy breakfast long ago, and she’d come to find that even on the hardest and most grueling days, she never regretted a good start to the morning.

She watched Quinn’s focus shift to the TV, and frowned. She’d meant to at least mute it. Talk still hadn’t died down, and while a modest singularity in Tohoki had diluted global attention somewhat, Runa itself was still very keyed-in on their newest, strangest pilot.

“Ah…sort of, yeah. Usually it’s a couple of days, then there’s a singularity somewhere, or another duel starts, or there’s a conflict brewing somewhere, and everyone starts speculating who gets pitted against who.” Besca had showed her one of those ‘Fantasy Duel’ leagues before, where people drafted matches and bet on the winners. There was, evidently, quite a lot of money in it. It never sat quite right with her.

“But things are pretty settled right now. Casoban and Helburke aren’t happy, but we’re involved in that, so the eye is still on you.” She made herself a plate, sat down. “I mean, can you blame them? There’s a lot to talk about, and once word gets out that we’re still looking after Roaki, they’re only gonna get more interested. People wanna…know, y’know? They wanna know about you, about the duel, about all that stuff. Actually, you might have to start thinking about your first interview. The Board’ll prolly keep you in Runa, but you’ll get to choose from a few of the big stations. Besca’ll know more about that though—she had to go take care of something, said she’d be around later.”

Quinn watched the TV for a moment more before shaking her head vigorously to both chase the cobwebs that lingered from sleep out and divert her attention. Instead she turned and plonked herself down in the chair closest to the oven and stove, which she had steadily begun to consider hers and where Dahlia had put her food. Which, she reflected as she ate, was just tasty as usual. Dahlia had learned how Quinn liked her eggs roundabout the same time as Quinn had herself, and it had rapidly become one of her favorite foods.

The main drawback to her post next to the range, however—well, not usually, but right now, certainly—was that she could see the TV just as clearly as before. The scene that was playing now was one that she knew, if she could still had nightmares, would appear in them: the swordsman impaling Blotklau, her own Savior roaring bloody murder as she dashed towards the two of them.

A shiver passed through her body as Dahlia mentioned the Board. Anxiety was still burning deep within her, lighting a fire and setting her stomach to boiling. How they would react to her blatant disregard for their rules last night was a thought that she'd gone to sleep with, and it hadn't disappeared with the morning.

She delicately placed the fork down on the plate, looking down blankly at the half-eaten toast and eggs (she'd eaten the orange first, because she loved them).

Deep breath. One, then two, then three. If she'd learned one thing yesterday, it was that she could tell Dahlia anything, no matter how trite or awful, and be taken seriously, answered with honesty and compassion.

"...Have you ever broken the Board's rules, Deelie?"

Dahlia saw Quinn set down her fork, breathe deeply, and knew that something was coming. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but a question of rebelliousness had not been it. Then again, why not? It was a fair question, and the answer…complex. Likely to be disappointing, but at least not in the way Dahlia feared it would be.

“No,” she said, and it was a bit like admitting she didn’t know how to ride a bike, or whistle. It felt…not quite shameful, but certainly embarrassing. “I’ve wanted to, but…there haven’t been a lot. At least, not a lot that they’ve tried to use with me. I guess I’ve never made them mad, is more like what I mean. Yeah I’ve skipped training days, or played hooky on interviews, but nothing serious.”

She knew why well enough. She never questioned things, never caused problems—though saying it like that made it sound like Quinn was a troublemaker, which, technically she was. But what Quinn was doing was good trouble. Needed trouble. No one should have been mad at Quinn for what she did, not at the duel and not last night.

They would be anyway.

“I’ve never done a lot of things. Being a pilot kinda takes more opportunities than it gives you. But just because you’ve never done something before doesn’t mean it’s wrong—you’re the proof.” She crossed her arms on the counter, laid her head down on them to be more level with Quinn. “You’re worried about what they’ll do, huh? ‘Cause of Roaki.”

Quinn pulled her feet up onto her chair, wrapped her arms around her knees, and held them tight, making eye contact with her sister briefly before looking away. Even though the stove behind her was still warm from Dahlia's cooking, she suddenly felt cold, and she found herself shivering. It was a hard thing to feel, that frigid wind. It reminded her still of her first few days here, a blur of panic and screaming and tears and she felt her breath hitch before she quickly shut it down.

But she was quickly knocked out of her reverie by Dahlia being...well, correct. But that just made sense, if she thought about it for more than a split second. Of course Dahlia would know what Quinn thinking, 'cuz Dahlia was the best. They'd spent so much time together that they were—well, that wasn't quite true. Dahlia was starting to read Quinn. Quinn, on the other hand, wasn't able to quite put together how other people thought in general. Not yet. But if she was close to doing so with anyone, it was definitely Dahlia, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

She looked up at the ceiling, and her brow furrowed. "...Yeah. I don't think they'll do anything to us, I'm important now and you already were." She sounded almost dazed, still. The idea of her being important on the world stage would take some getting used to. She swallowed. "But what about Besca, or Doctor Follen? What about Roaki?" She sighed, long and deep, and a feeling of fear and anger that she was quite familiar with by now welled up within her.

"I'm just afraid they'll take something from us that we can't get back."

Dahlia nodded. Quinn was getting better at dealing with her anxieties, but it was still obvious enough when she had them. She balled up, her eyes found sudden interest in everything but the eyes of others. She was shivering despite the stove behind her. Dahlia wanted very much to reach out and hold her hand, or to go over and hug her, but gradually she saw how Quinn got a handle on herself. Her eyes turned upward, her brow went low. Thoughtful, not afraid. A good step to make, an important one.

She listened, and it would have been a lie to say the same worries hadn’t come to her—more or less. What would the Board do to Besca, or Follen? Quinn had led the charge last night, but everything would have fallen apart by now without them. If they couldn’t touch her or Quinn, then it stood to reason they’d go after whoever was closest.

“Me too,” she said. She didn’t lie to her sister. “But I’m trying to be optimistic. Besca has a good record. She’s from Westwel, she’s experienced, and under her leadership you won your first duel, and we survived a Modir ambush. Follen’s the same way. They’re, ah, ingrained, y’know? It’d be hard to get rid of them. Maybe harder than it’d be to just…let things go.”

It wasn’t a good answer, it was hardly an answer at all. But it was honest, and it was, if nothing else, a start. “For now, I don’t really know. We’ll just have to be alert. Make sure at least one of us is always available in case they try something. If push comes to shove I can put my foot down, maybe they’ll listen. I just hope it doesn’t come to any of that.”

Her phone buzzed, and she checked it dreading a message from Besca. Blessedly it was just an alarm. “Shoot, right. I’ve got sims today.” She hopped up from the counter, taking a few slices of toast with her as she grabbed the bright yellow jacket from the hanger and threw it on. “Late lunch, early dinner? I can meet you wherever.”

At the door she stopped, whirling on her heel and jogging back to the counter. She threw an arm around Quinn, held her for a long moment. “Love ya,” she said, and then hurried out of the dorms.

That left Quinn alone with her unfinished food, and no real help with her problem. And the TV. Low as the sound was, she could still hear the anchors talking about her. About the duel, and the upset, and how it was just so strange that Quinnlash Loughvein hadn’t made a single public appearance yet. The only footage anyone had of her were the clips from the duel, and even zoomed in the details were blurry.

“—and our sources at the Casobani parliament are suggesting that we may see a formal request for the transfer of the captured Helburkan pilot, Roaki Tormont, from the RISC to the CSC’s station. This coming only hours after Helburke’s sovereign approved House Tormont’s appeal to declare her a fugitive. Officials claim she faces charges for the murder of five other members of the Great House. These requests are expected to hit the desk of the RISC’s Board of Directors together later this evening…”

Love you too," she echoed as Dahlia left for sims. She was left alone in the dorms. As always, being suddenly alone came with a sudden spike of anxiety, though she'd learned how to manage it by now. Breathe in, breathe out, just like Besca had taught her. It always helped. So letting that anxiety fade away, she rested her elbows on the table and placed her cheeks in her cupped hands, trying and failing to figure out what was going to happen before it did.

"...These requests are expected to hit the desk of the RISC’s Board of Directors together later this evening..."

And just like that, the anxiety came screaming back.

Quinn wasn't an expert on international law. Her only education therein thus far had been a brief crash course on Casobani and Helburkan pilot culture in advance of the duel. But if Roaki were arrested and taken to Helburke for murdering five people...she didn't need a college degree to know what the punishment would be. And if the CSC got ahold of Roaki, well, there was certainly no lost love between her and Casoban. She'd just end up in Helburke in the end anyway. Eusero would use her as a bargaining chip and get her there too, if a little bit later. Just about the only safe place left for her was RISC.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Quinn felt a sudden knife stab down through her chest. She'd thoughts that she'd been taking a risk just taking Roaki out of holding, and had been worried what the Board would do to the people she cared about as a consequence. But the stakes had suddenly become so much higher.

What would they do in the face of an international incident?

She stood so abruptly that she knocked over her chair and it clattered to the ground behind her as she started pacing.

What should she do?

What could she do?

She didn't want to fail Roaki. She wanted so desperately not to. The girl's haunted eyes from yesterday, her stammering speech, the horror that had visibly shot through her as soon as Quinn had touched her hand and her resignation towards death, they all played back in her head. If she let her go back to Helburke and be killed, she knew right away that she would never be able to forgive herself. The wound would remain within her for the rest of her life. She couldn't, she just couldn't.

But it was becoming increasingly obvious to her how little choice she had in the matter. Her pacing slowed. She stared at the floor. Some hero she was turning out to be. Besca wouldn't be disappointed in her, would she?

She jumped as her reminder alarm rang. Ah. That was right. She had to have her weekly evaluation with Doctor Follen in the next few days, since a few days of the week had been lost from the whole proceedings of the duel. It was almost funny to her, what with all the examining that he'd been doing of her in the past few days. She'd gotten out of the ward just yesterday, after all. But she'd already deferred the last one from her frantic training, and the absolute last thing she wanted to do today was to make the Board angrier by blowing off the schedule that they set for her.

But she didn't mind, and she didn't want to miss it anyway. Doctor Follen was super smart. He would come up with something, maybe. And...he was important, wasn't he? Had some pull with the Board? Maybe he could talk to them somehow.

She didn't know, but it was worth a shot, right?

So mind made up, she picked up that chair, slid on her shoes, turned off the TV, and started off to medical.

...Again.

Medical was quiet by the time Quinn arrived, but there had been a general, visible unrest in the station on her way. People in the commons were talking, muttering about Helburke, and Casoban. It was beginning to seem like relations were souring on Runa’s side of that partnership as well, though that could have just been the sentiments of the people who actually worked with the CSC.

Towards her though, the faces were all smiles, all respect. Quinn was still the golden girl of the hour. Whatever ill feelings extended into a particular room of the ward did not reach her, and it seemed like they never would. Quinn’s guilt over failing Roaki might be stuck in her mind, but it would linger in very few others. Whether they gave her to Casoban, Eusero, or Helburke, it wouldn’t matter. In a few weeks’ time her name would be forgotten. She’d be Blotklau, a footnote in Quinn’s own newborn legend.

Perhaps not a comforting notion.

Follen’s door was open, and he spotted her as she arrived. He had his feet up on his desk, scratching absently on a notepad in his lap, and when he saw her a big smile split his face.

“Quinn, darling! Good morning. Please, come in, come right in.” He brought his feet down, set the notepad down before him, and gestured to one of the seats. “How are you feeling? Here for the eval? Well, let’s get right into it, shall we?”

Entering Doctor Follen's office was like stepping into a warm shower after a long, sore day, and Quinn immediately felt more at ease. The walk over was...weird. Being looked at like that was still so strange; she wasn't used to having any kind of notoriety. Of course, she was a pilot, but being nodded at by hangar staff occasionally was a whole different ballgame from what it was like now.

Closing the door (almost) and settling down in the seat, she found herself in a strange predicament. One that she'd been in only a handful of times that she could remember. She was tongue-tied with Doctor Follen. The question that she wanted to ask was stuck in her throat, and though she tried to force it out, the harder she tried the less inclined it seemed to be to emerge.

So instead she diverted her attention with one of the other things that had been bothering her. Deeply. Yesterday had been a whirlwind. She hadn't had time to think at all after being released, so she hadn't had time to thing of bad things. But now that things weren't so frantic, the guilt was beginning to seep back. So, she just needed to take it one guilt at a time. One that she'd only just remembered when she was already entering medical.

A part of her was aware that she was just diverting herself away from the real things that were bothering her, but still. This did merit being said. And besides, the silence was growing too long, and Quinn had never been great at hiding how she was feeling. Her face had already twisted the same way it always did when she was thinking about something really unpleasant.

"...I'm sorry I didn't do the dream journal." A deep, shaky breath followed. "Things got really busy and I just...forgot about it. I'll start one after today, I promise."

Follen never once pressured her to speak in these sessions. Sometimes Quinn came in ready to go, and would talk almost the entire time, in her own halting way. Others, they would for minutes, quiet, while she thought and he smiled, encouraging but not insistent. Now and then he would scratch something down on his folder, even when she didn’t speak, as though he’d heard something anyway.

This time he didn’t, though when she finally did break her silence, and mentioned the dream journal, the pen did move. “Oh, well that’s alright,” he said. “‘Busy’ is certainly an understatement. I don’t think you could be faulted for forgetting your own name in all this, ah, excitement—to make an understatement of my own.”

The light in the faux-window was still early-dawn, violets and bloody oranges. No birdsongs today—he sometimes forewent those when he had something that required his focus early in the morning.

“Dreams are important of course, and I’m very interested to hear about them, but I believe the waking world has taken precedence these past few days, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled again, knowingly, comfortingly. He so rarely asked her to speak on a topic directly, but now and then it seemed necessary to offer a gentle nudge. “Perhaps you would like to talk about what happened at the duel. Or perhaps you’ve had quite enough talk about that. Tell me, Quinn, darling: what has been on your mind, really?”

Of course Doctor Follen would know that she wasn't being forthcoming. Even if she didn't wear her heart on her face, he always seemed to figure it out. Sometimes it hurt, because he knew how to get to what she was trying to avoid. But there was a kind of happiness that came with unburdening herself to him, even if saying what it was made her feel awful. And...she really did have a lot to talk about. It was just hard.

"W—well," she began haltingly, nearly forcing herself to go past an almost inaudible murmur. She knew that Doctor Follen wouldn't blame her, just like Dahlia and Besca hadn't. And even though she'd told them, it was still burning a hole through her and she didn't quite know why.

"When the swordsman Modir had the sword in the ground next to me, I—he—it—" She was stuttering now, struggling to get the words out. A part of her thought that he wouldn't believe her. That he'd call her crazy. She was half convinced that she was.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Doctor Follen would never do that. He'd never hurt her so deeply, she knew with the utmost conviction. If there was anyone she could tell outside of her family, it was him. Another deep breath. And finally, the inevitable third.

"...It s-spoke. To m—me.

"And—and you can ask Besca too!" She sounded almost frantic now. Despite everything, that feeling that he wouldn't believe her was still there. It still clung to her. And it just made it all that much more worse. "it joined the comms! She heard it too! You have to believe me!"

A moment passed. That sudden energy deserted her, and she pulled her legs up onto the chair, just like before. This would be the hard part. The really hard part. It was like picking at a scab. It wasn't that bad to start, but it would just hurt more and more, and once it was done it would bleed for who knows how much longer.

"It...it knew my name, Doctor Follen. It called me by name."

One final deep, deep breath. And then the scab came off.

"It said it—it was h—hunting me. That it had found me there. And that...that it had..." Her voice dropped to a whisper in earnest, hoarse and grating though it was. "That it had found me in Runa." She started shaking violently, more than usual, as the guilt tore back through her. "...It was at...at Hovvi." Her heart turned to lead in her chest and she squeezed her eye shut. Her voice steadily escalated, eventually building up to a pale imitation of a yell:

"It's my fault, Doctor Follen. It's all my fault. They all died because of me. Just because I was there! It's all my fault!"

Follen’s smile fell away, but as Quinn continued to speak his expression didn’t harden, nor did it seem to be particularly contemplative. No, he watched her impassively, like it was a statue of himself sat there across from her. A stone man, listening to the ravings of a frightened child. He hardly blinked, it didn’t even look like he breathed.

Then, when she had finished he got up from his seat and walked around his desk. He walked past her, to the door, and he shut it—though he did not lock it. Many moments he stood there, his back to her and his hand on the doorknob, staring perhaps, or thinking. It was very quiet. Eventually he let out a breath, and turned back around, but he did not return to his desk. Instead, he came to her side and sat down on the arm rest of the other chair, facing her.

Once again he was quiet for a long time. It was different from before; it wasn’t a waiting-quiet, it wasn’t him, inviting her to take her time and speak when she was ready. She had spoken, and now, he was thinking. He looked at her, not unkindly, not piteously, but pensively. He was trying to recall something that he had not thought about in a very long time, or perhaps that he thought about often, but could never express quite right.

Eventually he tried anyway.

“Westwel had a population of approximately twenty-three million people, divided between five major cities, and a few hundred larger towns, as well as some villages, some seaside hamlets.” he said plainly, as though he were reading off a census report. “Nineteen million were killed in the fall. Another six hundred thousand died in the immediate aftermath, then some more in the following months. Most of the continent was charred beyond saving, and what was left, or what could be healed, was deemed unworthy of the efforts. Now it sits, a blackened stain in the middle of the Carys Ocean. You can find videos from fishing vessels, and drones, and you can see that it’s like…a skeleton, with all its meat gone. Parts of the cities still stand, whole rows of sky-scrapers only half-collapsed. You can see towns collapsed into massive fissures, and hills made from the blown-apart bodies of the Gray Finger mountains. Most of it’s overgrown now—none of the vegetation looks quite right. It’s all twisted, dark, like it’s already rotted. Bits of modium in everything. Some scientists think it sprouts with the plants, now, though no one dares go to check for themselves.”

He took off his glasses, sniffed. But it wasn’t to keep himself from crying, in fact, his eyes were totally dry. He cleaned the lenses on his shirt, absently.

“For a long time I wondered why I’d survived. I’m not a particularly religious man, so I could only truly ask myself, and as I’m sure you’re aware by now, our minds are not the most forgiving things when it comes to matters of guilt. I could tell you that eventually I realized how cruel and unfair I was being, and forgave myself for a crime I hadn’t committed—but that’s not what happened.” He brought the glasses up—his eyes seemed so much dimmer without them—and put them back on.

“I did come to the conclusion that attempting to understand why these things happen is completely and utterly pointless. I was convinced that there was no answer, or at least none that would make sense to a man like me. The Modir do what they do with all the sense and cruelty of a hurricane. It is their nature, devoid of motive or reason.

“If you tell me this swordsman spoke to you, that it told you it was hunting you, Quinnlash, I believe you. But if it’s true, it changes nothing. A victim is not defined by the intent of the assailant. Whether you are struck by lightning, or a bullet, the reality is the same.”

He leaned forward, met her eye. “The Modir attacked you. Why do you believe that is your fault, and not theirs?”

The long period of silence shook Quinn.

His smile had gone. He'd stopped talking. He'd shut the door. She was getting really nervous now. Nervous that she'd done something wrong. That she'd given him the wrong answer. Her heart began to race as he walked over to her and sat down just next to her. Her eye was wide and scared.

And then he'd started to speak.

She'd never really heard much about Westwel. Besca had talked about it a little every now and then, but it was obvious that she didn't ever really want to. That it hurt her to talk about it. And the last thing Quinn wanted to do was make Besca upset.

It was awful. Horrible. So terrible she almost forgot to breathe. Nineteen million people. It was no wonder Doctor Follen had taken some time to work up to it. It no doubt hurt him just as much as it did Besca; he was just better at covering it up, wasn't he?

But it was fitting he'd mentioned a lightning bolt. Because the final question he'd asked..."The Modir attacked you. Why do you believe that is your fault, and not theirs?"...it hit her like that selfsame bolt.

"Because I—"

She paused. Thinking over the question. Why? Why? Why did she believe it was her fault? Well, because...because...because it just was. Her face was drawn and pale by the time she spoke again. "...They...they were only there for me. If I hadn't..." She trailed off again, voice miserable. Why? Why? Why?

"If I..."

She dropped her head into her hands, muffling her voice. "I don't know," she finally said, almost as though it had been dragged out of her. "I don't know why it's my fault. It just..." She grappled desperately against herself and the guilt that infested her, trying to force herself to understand what Doctor Follen was talking about, what revelation he'd found after the fall of Westwel.

And, evidently, not succeeding very well at it.

"...It just..."

But still, she was...shaken. Why hadn't she blamed the Modir? She didn't understand. Shouldn't they have been the first on the chopping block?

But they weren't. Ablaze wasn't. The swordsman wasn't. Because she knew deep down—deadly certain, as sure as she'd ever been about anything, that the one to blame was her. Maybe the Modir had done the damage, it was true. That, at least, wasn't her doing. But if she hadn't been there, they wouldn't have either. And Modir that weren't there didn't destroy a town and kill all of its inhabitants.

She took her hands from her face, but refused to meet Doctor Follen's eyes in favor of staring shamefaced at the ground, wishing she had a better answer.

"...It just...is."

Follen waited patiently as Quinn foraged her mind for an answer, and showed no signs of surprise when she returned without bounty. She blamed herself, still, and perhaps it was easy to see why. How else was the sole survivor of a tragedy meant to see themselves? How could they be anything less than a lure for destruction?

But Follen still didn’t concede. His face betrayed no trace of anger, or disappointment—in fact it was still quite difficult to see any emotion in him, even in his eyes. But there was, perhaps, a comfort there. There was nothing to take hold of in his eyes, no warmth or safety to find, but also no threat, no storm or chill to weather that would necessitate it. He was void. Dark, empty, and very gentle.

“Things being the way they are, ‘just because’, is the logic of storms and monsters,” he said. He got up from his seat and crouched down beside her, low so that he could look up at her downturned eyes. “There is more to your life than the things done to destroy it. To them, there is not. To define yourself by what has happened to you is cruel and unfair. Quinnlash—”

He reached out and placed a hand over hers. His skin was so temperate, even in the warmth of the room, that it felt like little more than a breeze.

“We are not monsters, and we are not guilty. Decide for yourself what you are. Be what you do.”

Quinn was quiet for a long time as she looked into Doctor Follen's gentle eyes. Her own eye betrayed the storm inside her, mind churning and grinding like a broken machine, filling up with sparks and smoke.

Things being the way they are, 'just because', is the logic of storms and monsters.

To define yourself by what has happened to you is cruel and unfair.

She opened her mouth, trying to find something to say. She couldn't; the smoke was just too thick. She closed it again. She knew he was wrong. She knew he was wrong so deep in her gut. But she just...couldn't find a way to explain or justify it. A distant and buried region of her mind clogged with smoke and sparks knew that meant something, but the rest of her overwhelmed it, crushing that part of her beneath an avalanche of renewed guilt.

We are not monsters, and we are not guilty. Decide for yourself what you are. Be what you do.

The smoke cleared, just a little. The sparks spat out the smallest bit less furiously, and that distant, muffled piece of her whispered into her ear as though from a great distance: be what you do.

And then again, still just that frail whisper, but persistent, insistent. Drag light into the future, no matter how dark. Set the night ablaze.

She took in a slow, shuddering breath, completely oblivious to the fact that tears were starting to creep down her cheek as her brain collided with itself. She knew she was at fault. That feeling of being at fault—that knowledge that she was at fault—crashed into that idea that what had been done to her and to Hovvi didn't reflect on her, but on the Modir that were hunting her. It seemed so easy. If she thought of it logically, she knew it was true. But still, that guilt bit into her ankles and dragged her down into the muck.

She suddenly realized she was crying almost dazedly—when had that started?—and as she sat up straight, or at least straighter, she swiped an arm across her eye. The crushing despair loosened. But...it still hung over her. Not as lethally, but more than enough to keep the weight pressing down. Like a wire around her neck that was still choking her, even if she could breathe now.

"I'm being stupid, aren't I," she mumbled through the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry...I'll—I'll try harder."

He stayed there, crouched, for a long time while she worked through her thoughts. In the end it seemed the guilt had not left her, not entirely. But her composure was returning bit by bit, and that was, by any stretch, a marked improvement.

“No, darling, no. You aren’t stupid at all, and you need not apologize to me, nor try any harder, for anyone’s sake but your own. The Board may see these evaluations as tests of your worth, but I do not—and I don’t report them as such. We are here for you, and no one else.”

Letting go of her hand, he stood back up and made his way back to the other side of his desk. “Why don’t we call that it for the day, hm? What you’ve said, and what I hope you’ve heard, is more than enough. You did very well—even if you won’t admit that to yourself. I’m proud of you.”

As if to make his point, he flipped the notebook shut, and smiled at her. Suddenly, all of the warmth returned to him. “Is there anything else on your mind? Anything more I can help you with? Please, never hesitate to ask.”

He was proud of her.

That thought was enough to headstart Quinn on the process of collecting herself again. It took her some time after that torment of a conversation for sure. When she finally checked back in to reality, she was sweating bullets, and the tears had drawn thin, then stopped. She exhaled slowly, doing her best to slow her racing mind and heart. This had snowballed so far out of control that she'd nearly forgotten the thing that she'd wanted to ask him to begin with. And, encouraged by the warmth in his voice flooding back, she pressed on, voice stronger than it had been before:

"Well, there's...there is one more thing I wanted to ask about." She rapped her fingers nervously on the armrest of the chair, and the series of sharp clicks from her fingernails seemed to be helping her a surprising amount. Something to keep in mind for later, she thought.

"...I'm sure people have started yelling at you about Roaki by now, right." It wasn't spoken like a question, and it wasn't meant like one. Her voice steadily began to take on a bit of a rarer tone than most: she was fretful. She was worried over Roaki, and she certainly sounded like it. "I just wanted to ask..." She stopped her fingers' steady staccato, "...what do I do?"

Emboldened by having finally asked and Doctor Follen's renewed warmth, she forged on with a hint more confidence. "I'm afraid that the Board will do something to Besca, or to you, because I'm not listening to them. So...is there anything I can do?" Nerves boiled in her gut as she waited for a response. After all, if Doctor Follen couldn't think of something—Quinn thought he was the smartest person she knew—then things were really, really bad.

Follen sat back down in his seat, thinking. It wasn’t the same cold, statuesque contemplation as before; he hummed, he stroked his chin, his eyes lost focus in the air.

“A good question,” he mused. “Things have indeed already begun to…escalate, here. We had a small incident this morning. Besca handled it, and I suppose it’s been quiet since, but I don’t believe for a moment that’s the end of it. Truthfully, I fear a schism may form here without the Board having to involve themselves much more, but I don’t think that’s our biggest problem.

“I suppose you’ve heard by now, about the requests from Casoban and Helburke. I don’t understand the intricacies much myself, but when two countries want something from you, it can be hard to say no. Thankfully, if I had to guess, the Board is quite tired of being commanded around by Casoban, and will have no real qualms denying Helburke anything, ever. Still, they might cave to a national ally—there’s nothing in it for RISC to hold onto Roaki, in their eyes.

“The best bet would be to turn her, I'd say. Make her an informant. I saw that she’s wanted for some…grievous crimes, so, while she might be a pilot, I suspect she lacks the sort of fanatical nationalism we’re used to seeing in Helburkan duelists. If the Board is convinced she can give us some sort of useful information, they may grant her asylum here, and then none of us—not you, not me, not Besca—would be in any trouble at all. However...”

He leaned forward, hands clasped before him, and there was some amalgam of pity and curiosity in his eyes. “I went to check on her this morning, updated her medications, checked her for secondary growths. I even took some of those measurements you’d asked me about. She wasn’t particularly conversational. I suspect she’s aware of what’s happening planetside. I believe she means to go willingly, and if she makes that known to the Board they’ll gladly ship her out no matter what we do. ” He sighed, shook his head. “No, convincing her to turn on Helburke isn’t the issue, I don’t think. Convincing her to live, however, is. Regretfully I don't believe she has much interest in it.”

With a sigh, Quinn rubbed her eye with her index and middle fingers. "Yeah. She was like that last night too."

She lapsed into a brief silence while she thought over the issue before she spoke again. "Winning is important to her, I think. It seems like the only thing she thinks is important. Winning and being a pilot." Not for the first time, she wondered what it was that had been done to Roaki for her to think like that, and who had done it.

She immediately jumped to how she'd stayed on the Aerie away from a bad family. But a moment later she dismissed the idea out of hand. The Board would never let Roaki be a pilot, not in a million years. And...it made her feel bad, but the idea of her in a Savior made Quinn a little uncomfortable too. So if that couldn't happen, then...what?

Maybe should could ask Besca or Dahlia, but they wouldn't be back for a while and she was too antsy to just sit around and wait when the clock was steadily ticking to the Board receiving the notices. "Could I..." Hesitation again. She knew that the two of them had been seen by a lot of people walking through the Aerie, but it might still cause problems if she were seen—

No. That was stupid. Roaki's life was more important than whatever reputation she'd started to garner. And the only people that would see her would be medical staff that had probably seen her last night anyway. The only worry was that Roaki still didn't like her, and Quinn being there would only make her more upset. But their...conversation last night had been both upsetting and eye-opening. Maybe she couldn't ask her family about her yet. But she could ask the girl herself.

"Do you think I could see her?"