A pit formed in Dahlia’s stomach as she watched Quinn struggle, not just with the thought of the interview, but with having to pick a meal, too. Part of her knew the question was coming even before it was asked, and she scrambled inwardly for the right way to answer it. Was it better to refuse, to push back against the relapse and insist she make her own decision, or at least help her make one? Or was that too much? Would that make her feel worse, make her choice harder and set her back even further than she already seemed to be sliding.

She felt so helpless—something that had become more and more common since Hovvi. Seeing Quinn struggle was hard, and seeing her struggle now, with all the wonderful progress she’d made, was much harder.

But the interview was coming, and Dahlia knew that this little slip would be nothing in the face of whatever might happen if things went poorly tonight. So, with regret in her heart and as warm and understanding a smile as she could muster on her face, she took the menu away and sifted through it.

When the waiter came by, she ordered the burger and milkshake for herself, and a chicken basket with fries and an orange soda for Quinn. She tried to phrase it as if she was just reciting what Quinn had said she wanted.

Then she turned her attention to Quinn’s interview worries. She’d be lying if she tried to say Mona wouldn’t ask about the duel; Quinn had made a very bold and unprecedented decision, and people were…well, they were confused, and curious, and in other places they were mad but in Runa she’d seen mostly support.

“Just be honest about it. Be honest, and concise, and don’t elaborate, y’know? Mona’s been doing this a long time, she can pick up when her guest doesn’t wanna talk about something. It’s not like a news interview, she won’t try to…catch you, or anything, if that makes sense?” She slouched over the table, trying to recall how she’d gotten through her own interview. “Just…talk about the things you like! No one really knows anything about you yet, and here’s a hint—people love to hear about the day-to-day stuff we do. Talk about training, and sims, and even where we eat! It’s really easy for folks to forget how normal we are, they like the reminder!

“Here! Like this. I’ll ask you a question, and I want you to give me a short answer, and then, y’know, swerve it into a topic you do wanna talk about! Ready? Here: ‘Hey, Quinnlash,” she deepened her voice, even though Mona had a higher voice than she did. “‘Everyone wants to know why you didn’t kill the Helburkan girl! What’s up with that?’”

A similar pit opened in Quinn's stomach as Dahlia ordered for her. It wasn't that she didn't like what she'd ordered; honestly, she liked how Dane's did their chicken a lot, and she didn't mind orange soda any either. The fries were just a bonus. It was to be expected, Dahlia knew her tastes pretty well by this point. It was just...that it'd had to happen at all. She closed her eye and leaned back. She felt so powerless, like the anxiety and unease she'd fought so hard to shake off over the past weeks had her by the throat again and were choking her, clinging to her heels and dragging her down. She hated it. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair!

But what else could she do? She was lucky that she had Deelie there. Really lucky. Otherwise she didn't know what she would've eaten at all.

Ah, but now the topic had shifted to something more productive.

"Everyone wants to know why you didn’t kill the Helburkan girl! What’s up with that?"

Sparing a moment to give a halfhearted grin at Dahlia's voice, she settled again afterwards, going quiet for some time. How did she swerve a topic? Deelie made it sound so easy, and for her it probably was. But Quinn barely knew how to hold a conversation to begin with, much less how to control the flow of one. What did she want to talk about? What did she like talking about? She...she didn't know. But this was going to happen no matter what she wanted, so...she needed to try, right?

"Well," she started slowly, almost halfheartedly, "That's...not the kind of pilot that I am, or that I want to be, you know?" Unbeknownst to her, her voice started to pick up a bit; more animated, more engaged, louder, warmer. "It doesn't make any sense to me; shouldn't pilots be working together instead of tearing each other apart? I'm a pilot because I want to protect people. So I just don't understand why I would need to kill someone, or be killed by someone, for something that seemed so petty at the time, you know?"

She blinked, and realized that she'd been talking for longer than she intended and she'd gotten louder than she wanted. She realized people were staring at her and snapped her mouth shut.

"...Was that okay?"

Dahlia listened carefully, realizing as Quinn spoke that she hadn’t really heard her explain why she’d done it until now. It made sense, of course, and it wasn’t a huge leap to make from the understanding she’d already had. Nevertheless, sitting there, something began to well up within her, deep in her chest. It was warm and excited, stoked with each rising word until it blazed like a bonfire. The heat rose up through her throat and to her eyes.

For a few moments every ounce of worry she had for Quinn melted away. She struggled to recall even a single time where she’d sounded more confident, more sure of herself than she did right then. Quinn might not have been happy per se, but she was certain. Pilots often had to choose between the two, and even if it wasn’t a fair choice, even if it wasn’t a conscious choice, it was one she’d made.

Dahlia realized she was about to cry.

“...Was that okay?”

Fanning at her face, utterly oblivious to the looks they were getting, Dahlia dried her eyes against her sleeve. “Oh gosh, look at me, I’m so sorry,” she said, smiling. Her voice pitched up high enough that it squeaked. “That was great and I’m just really really proud of you.”

Quickly, she leaned over the table and pulled Quinn into a hug. “You’re a lil’ light, you know that? The best. Every time I worry about you, you find a way to show me how strong you are.” She sat back as their food arrived, sniffling and blowing her nose into a napkin as the teary threat subsided. “So, once you’re past the duel questions, is there anything else you’re worried about?”

More or less dazed, Quinn sat back and started eating.

It was only then that she realized that she was genuinely very, very hungry. Sims always brought out the appetite in her somehow. Deelie had made a good choice with the chicken.

She didn't quite know where all that had come from, from what corner of her it had emerged. But it had felt...good. And it felt better knowing that her sister was...she was proud of her.

Pride had always been a bit of an unknown quantity to Quinn. She didn't really understand where it came from when it hit her; it would just pop up out of nowhere and blindside. And she understood it just as little, maybe even less, when someone else levied it to her. She didn't really get it, and she didn't know if she ever would. But that didn't stop that little warm glow in her chest when she made Dahlia so proud she cried. "Lil' light, huh," she mused to herself before snapping out of her reverie.

"Well...there was one thing." The faint hint of a smile about the corners of her mouth flickered out. And just like that, she was upset again.

"You said she wanted to...get to know me, right?"

She hesitated. She didn't really want to bring it up, especially since she'd made Deelie so happy, and she didn't want to think much more about it to begin with, especially not now. But it had come to mind a few minutes back when she was thinking about what she'd be asked. Her eye twitched at the end in a way that it hadn't for quite a while, and her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

"...Will she ask about...about them?"

For a little while there was…relief. Dahlia sat and ate happily, hardly even tasting the burger through the sweet cheeriness of her own mood. She relished in it, while she could, because in the back of her mind she knew what was coming—knew where the conversation was headed. It was inevitable, and perhaps subconsciously she’d steered it this way so they could at least face the question together.

Quinn’s parents. The Loughveins. The monsters who had done unspeakably horrible things to her for who-knew-what reasons—reasons that didn’t matter. It soured Dahlia’s mind just to think of them, she couldn’t imagine what Quinn must have been feeling.

“I think…it’s possible,” she said. No lies. “But I don’t think she’ll focus on it too much. Your parents aren’t pilots, no one else cares about them.” It was hard to keep the spiteful edge out of those words, though she did try.

“If they do come up, just…breeze through it. Quick, short answers. Don’t think about it. She’ll get the hint—like I said, Mona’s good at this, and if you’re uncomfortable, that looks bad for the interview. She won’t dwell on stuff that brings you down.”

Dahlia set her burger down, wiped her mouth clean. She hadn’t touched her milkshake; part of her felt like she hadn’t earned it yet.

“And Quinn,” she said, not solemnly, but steady. “Remember: they can’t hurt you now. They’ll never hurt you again—Besca and I won’t ever let them. So you just get through that part of the interview tonight, and we’ll put that in our rear-view mirror, and won’t think about it anymore, alright? You get back, and we’ll do a movie marathon and fall asleep on the couch. I’ll even stock up on snacks while you’re planetside.”

Offering another smile, she returned to her burger. “Anything else on your mind? Anything at all, you can tell me, y’know.”

Quinn went quiet. Her head pitched down again, looking at her feet as her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt.

Remember: they can't hurt you now.

She'd thought the same. She'd thought that she was safe from them, far enough removed that it could only get better. But that...that wasn't really true, was it?

"You're wrong, Deelie," she said, in a voice that she seldom used. She sounded resigned sometimes. She sounded scared, or worried, or in pain. These were all voices that she used, and not uncommonly. But very rarely did she sound so defeated. "They can still hurt me. They still are."

She lapsed into silence again, an awkward quiet falling over the table as she tried and mostly failed to organize her scattering thoughts. When she spoke again, she seemed almost surprised that she was talking, confused by her own voice.

"When I—" She swallowed heavily, dropping a half-eaten piece of chicken back into the basket. "When I visited Roaki that first time, I..." More seconds that felt like minutes yawned in front of her.

"I didn't want people to listen in, so I...closed the door behind me. So when I went to leave—" Her shoulders started quaking gently, her voice followed suit. "The closed door and—and the white walls and...I—" She dropped her head into her hands, and her voice cut out. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

She cried.

Dahlia’s heart dropped as she watched Quinn’s budding confidence deteriorate, gone as quickly as it had come. She felt a horrible pang of guilt run through her—she’d asked, after all, knowing where it would lead, and how difficult the topic would be. Now here she was, having all but dragged Quinn back down. The people glancing at them seemed concerned, confused, a few looked embarrassed. Their eyes flitted away nervously.

It was so frustrating, but it wasn’t Quinn’s fault, either. Dahlia had spent so long fighting enemies she could see, enemies she could grab and burn and kill when they threatened her or the people she loved. This was different. Whatever promises she made wouldn’t matter. If she got into Dragon right now, marched down to wherever the Loughveins were and stomped them into the dirt, it wouldn’t matter. Quinn’s enemy wasn’t a thing, it was fear. A Modir could bleed, and roar, and die, but the only thing they had in common with fear was that they could not be reasoned with.

It was killing her. She was failing Quinn without even knowing how. Hurting her without any way to heal.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “You’re right. I can’t protect you—not in the way you need. I can try, and I can be there for you, but I’ll never be able to stand between you and the hurt they’ve already done.”

She reached across the table, took one of Quinn’s hands from her face and held it. Looking at her hurt, terribly, but never lying meant that, sometimes, she’d have to speak awful truths, too. “We’re all broken, Quinn. Me, you, Besca, Roaki—everyone. We’re all broken in different ways, into different pieces, and all we can do is try to put ourselves back together in a way that we still recognize ourselves. And sometimes…sometimes there’s just not enough left.” she rubbed a thumb over Quinn’s hand, tried to lean enough to smile at her. “But that’s okay, too. Trust me. Cause even if you don’t have all the pieces, you can always use what you have to make yourself something…else. Something better. I lost a lot of myself in Hovvi, but you know what? I put myself back together, and maybe I’m a bit different, but I’m also your sister, now.

“Whatever they did, whatever they took from you…don’t…mourn it. A thing is always stronger when it’s whole, and you are strong. You are, even if you don’t think so. If you believe me about anything, ever, please believe that.”

It felt like there was a storm cloud in Quinn's head.

Thunder and lightning and rain and wind all mixed together into a howling cacophony that rushed through the rest of her too, locking her in place like she was paralyzed. Like she was chained down in front of an oncoming train that knew she was there and didn't stop. Like she was at the bottom of a deep, dark well and floundering desperately as she slowly, surely sank below the surface. It made it hard, so hard, nigh-impossible, to think. To articulate ideas, not just to Dahlia, but even to herself. And each individual word that Dahlia said to her was like a pebble dropped into the well. They echoed down to her as though from a great distance. A faint plop, plop, plop, as she sank further, barely even audible above the deafening thunderclaps inside her.

Broken, broken, broken.

But that wasn't right, was it? She wasn't broken. Not really. Being broken meant that something had been there before to break. She was like—she was like a puppet. She wasn't putting herself together from shattered pieces. She was trying—trying, failing, succeeding, failing, trying again—not to fix herself, but to make an entirely new thing out of whole cloth. Figuring out who and what she really was past the layers and layers and layers of trauma and pain.

Who was she?

She didn't know.

She wanted so much to hug Dahlia. But her legs had turned completely to jelly, and a part of her knew that if she tried to get up to move to the other side of the booth she'd crumple before she even made it halfway. So instead she squeezed Dahlia's hand in the one that she'd taken and gently laid her head on the table, staring with nigh-unseeing eye out at the virtually actualized beach.

When she spoke her voice was weak and weepy and hard to understand through the still-flowing tears, but that utter defeat still filled it. She clamped her eye shut. "They—they d—didn't take anything f—from me. I'm...I'm just a d—doll."

Dahlia didn’t know what to say. Seeing Quinn wither further and further was absolutely crushing, and every last atom screamed for her to do something, but she just…didn’t know. She had nothing, no answers to give, no comfort to offer. Nothing she could say or do seemed like it could ever be adequate. She just couldn’t match that fear.

You’re not enough. Again.

Stop trying. You’re making it worse.

So she just sat there, squeezing Quinn’s hand while she continued to cry. She called herself a doll, and though the mere suggestion sickened Dahlia to her core, she couldn’t bring herself to argue. Maybe it wasn’t her place to. Maybe it wasn’t the time. It was hard to know anymore. All she could really do was hope, and right now, hope seemed utterly worthless.

Whatever remained of Dahlia’s will to smile died. Burned to the roots.

“We should go,” she said softly. “Back to the dorms, or the gardens. Somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. This…this isn’t good for you.”

In the midst of a breakdown enough to eclipse nearly anything else inside her, Quinn was suddenly given direction.

"We should go. Back to the dorms, or the gardens. Somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. This...this isn't good for you."

There was something so intensely pathetic about how comforting it felt, how natural it seemed, to be told what to do. She hated it. She hated it so much, she knew that she should hate it. But in that moment, there was something so normal about it, so soothing. Like a deep breath after surfacing from the bottom of the well. She hated it. She hated it more than anything.

She loved it anyway.

So, lost and confused and head full of thunder, she latched on.

Dahlia was right. It was loud in here. Or maybe not loud, so much as overwhelming. Crowded and busy and people were staring at them. With a great deal of effort, she hauled her head up from where it sat, doing her best to wipe the tears off even as they kept flowing.

"Dorms," she somehow whimpered and whispered at the same time, squeezing her sister's hand a little harder. "Let's go back to the dorms." She was still shaking, but she managed to keep her eye open now, and she thought that maybe her legs had steadied themselves enough for her to walk now, at least enough to get back to her room. "I want to lie down for a while."

---

---

In the dream, Safie sat with Quinn at the back of the boat, their legs dangling in the water while Dahlia and her father chatted idly at the bow. She told her how proud she was, or would be, if Quinn became a pilot; it was hard to tell even in the moment whether she was speaking prospectively or of some nebulous present. The idea of working together was exciting, and Safie was absolutely certain that Quinn would love Tohoki Grill. She described dishes so vividly Quinn could taste them on her tongue, and a chef who sounded so familiar she could hear his jovial voice wishing her well.

It was a warm afternoon. The sun was silver upon the waves. Eventually Safie pointed out to the forested shore, where a great white deer rested. Its antlers were tall and branching, and trickles of blood leaked from they sprouted on its skull. It seemed to know they were looking, and bowed its head.

“See?” she said, smiling bright. “Even the stag believes. You’re meant for greatness, never let anyone convince you otherwise.”

And before that warmth could turn to confusion, Quinn woke up.

---

---

The haze of her dream faded, only a pleasant comfort lingered. There was a weight beside her on the bed, and fingers brushing through her hair. As the bleariness of sleep cleared, Quinn could see Besca sitting next to her.

“Hey, hun.” Her voice was soft, her smile gentle. “About an hour ‘til the interview, time to get ready. I brought you some new clothes—tried to pick stuff I thought you might like. Just for tonight, in case you don’t like’em. Next time I’ll bring you shopping and you can pick out the stuff yourself, promise.”

She nodded to the end of the bed. Laid out there was a simple pair of pants, a solid black shirt, and a steel-gray jacket with a pair of golden stripes angled across the back.

“Go ahead and get dressed—I’ll be right outside.”

Besca left the door cracked on her way out, but a feeling lingered within Quinn like she wasn’t alone. Even once she was well and properly awake, it stubbornly refused to leave. It came to her not like a chill down the spine, but rather, like a hand on the shoulder.

Ready or not, she had herself.

Quinn lay there for a few moments more, staring at the open door, as what had happened at CB Dane's played back through her head. She cringed as though she could cringe away from herself. With the benefit of hindsight and the comfort from her dream, no longer trapped in her own head as it careened out of control, she could vividly hear the pain in Dahlia's voice. And replaying the conversation, if you could call it that—or what was left of it in her mind—through her head, she could see why. She would need to apologize to her later on. It must have been horrible.

But she needed to make it through the daunting task that had been set out in front of her before she even thought about talking to Deelie. They weren't letting her come down to the studio, and they wouldn't have time to talk beforehand even if she saw her before going down the elevator.

Nerves dug fishhooks into her skin as she levered herself out of bed, shucked off the clothing that she'd fallen asleep in, got dressed in the new stuff that Besca had gotten her. She latched on to the jacket to distract herself from the nerves. With the dark gray and yellow, it was just like her hair. She liked it a lot, actually. She'd definitely keep wearing it after today.

Speaking of her hair, she really did need to rebraid it. As she finished dressing herself and zipped the jacket up, she grabbed a hairbrush from her nightstand, plucked the elastic from the end, and started unpicking the braid, brushing down it as she did. Shoving the door open—those few inches really did make all the difference, didn't they?—she walked out into the common room, still brushing, wincing here and there as she caught a knot that she worked out.

A moment later, she held the brush out to Besca, picking up a strand of her now loose hair and fiddling with it. She never really got used to it, and she thought it was kind of funny how strange it felt to have her braid undone. She'd do it up herself fine, it wasn't like she didn't know how to braid her own hair. Learning how was one of the only things she had to do for sixteen years straight. But...

Her voice started raspy with sleep and the remnants of tears. "Can you brush out the parts by my legs? It'd take me a long time to do it myself."

By the time she went quiet again, though, it had smoothed out enough to resemble what she usually sounded like.

Besca took the brush from Quinn with a nod, and led her to the couch. She stood behind, pulling Quinn’s curtain of hair over the end, and got to work. Long, easy strokes, pausing when she reached a knot to straighten it out gently. She still hesitated, still made mistakes here and there, she was certainly much better at it now than she had been before—even if she couldn’t quite manage the braid yet.

“Deelie told me about lunch,” she said, and her tone was very deliberate. She’d had time to think, and time to make sure she didn’t convey even an ounce of disappointment or frustration. Only measured concern, and understanding. “She wanted me to tell you she loves you, and that she’s still proud of you. I am too.”

Finishing up, Besca set the brush aside and came around the couch. She knelt down in front of Quinn and took her hands. Small, and there was a cold there that she couldn’t feel, but that she knew anyway. She’d been thinking about this, too.

“You’re Quinnlash. That’s who you are, that’s what you are. If I have to remind you of that every single day, I will, because it’s true. You are not a thing, you’re a person.” She reached up, gently thumbed the dried tear streaks on her face. Smiled. “You’re one of the most important people in the world to me. You’ll never be anything less than that.”

She wanted nothing more than to keep Quinn here, to just let her be and decompress, but it wasn’t her call. Patting the girl’s cheek, Besca got up and went to grab her coat from the kitchen counter.

“Alright hun, we’re due at the elevator in a few minutes. I’m gonna be right with you the whole time; I’ve been on the set before, it’s not too big. I’ll be right off-screen, I’ll even stand behind Mona.”

As she deftly twisted her hair into the long plait that it had become so known for on the Aerie, Quinn almost started crying again.

But it was a different kind of 'crying' than before.

Besca and Dahlia. Her family. They were so nice to her. So, so nice. She had never imagined that anybody could be like this before. Never, in all her wildest dreams and fantasies. They helped her when she was at her absolute worst. No matter what she did, how she messed up, they were still always there to help pick her up when she fell. They made her smile. Dahlia had even made her laugh. They were the best family anybody could ever ask for, anywhere.

And for one delicious, impossible moment, Quinn let herself believe she deserved it.

She was quiet as she finished the braid, bringing it around the front to check it before she snapped the elastic on the end to tie it off. Satisfied, she flicked it behind again, settling it against the jacket until everything sat comfortably. The nerves were still tearing at her. Anxiety was still bubbling deep inside her and setting her heart pounding. But Besca would be there. And she and Dahlia were both proud of Quinn. She would pin it to her chest and wear it like a badge if she could.

You're one of the most important people in the world to me.

"Um...Besca?"

She took three long, deep breath. One. Two. Three. Then she stood, moved to the door to wait, and turned, looking at Besca as she plucked her coat from the counter. And she put a smile on her face.

It took so, so much effort. It was fragile. It trembled as she tried not to cry. But it was still a smile. And it was still there.

"You're, um, really important to me too." She paused. "And...thank you. For...you know."

Besca hugged her as she walked past, quick and tight, and only mumbled a quiet: “I know, kiddo,” on their way out. She kept close. When they reached the hangar, they found only a skeleton crew at work, along with the relatively small escort that would be accompanying them down. That was Caster’s doing, she guessed. A stalemate and begrudging understanding didn’t mean he wouldn’t still skimp on her where he could—besides, his people probably expected him to retaliate somehow for her overstep.

It was ultimately meaningless—and she figured he knew that, too. Local PD would have the whole studio cordoned off anyway, and here on home soil Besca doubted there was any real danger. If he tried pulling something like this in Casoban or Eusero, then, well, there’d be words.

A smaller railing sprouted up around a smaller, inner section of the great elevator, still more than enough for the dozen or so departees. The replacement had been designed for compartmental decent, which was honestly refreshing. This way, they wouldn’t need half a mile of clearance every time they wanted to send down less than their entire force.

A series of checks from the control room. Loud buzzes, clicking. Green lights flashed along the railing, and with a decompressing hiss, they began to descend.

The hardlight channel was not red this time, but almost entirely translucent, like they were dropped through a glass tube. Mona’s studio was in Dorsey, a smaller city encircled by hills and spiderwebbed with thick runs of pastel trees. Even with so many leaves fallen, the world below them was a soft blur of pale blues and gentle pinks. Pockets of seafoam and amethyst dotted the brushy veins, wind lifted and twirled the fallen leaves, made the earth a rippling kaleidoscope broken only by the rises of a few tall buildings.

Besca leaned against the railing, smiling wistfully. “When I was little, my mom used to tell me how beautiful Runa was. Her grandparents were born here, and she always talked about taking me and my cousins to see their old home in hills outside of Queenshand.” Her eyes turned to the horizon, to the setting sun and the sky so vivid and contrasting to the pastel world below. “Even on the hardest days, when I look down here, I get a little reminder of what it is we’re fighting for. What we’re really fighting for.” She looked back to Quinn. “What you’re helping protect.”

Quinn had only ever ridden the elevator when she was on Ablaze. The only thing she'd ever seen was the cold darkness of the cockpit, and the only reason she'd ever gone to begin with was training, again and again and again.

So she was completely unprepared as the elevator platform dropped down beneath the rim of the Aerie, and the hardlight sheath opened up around them. For just a moment, she was looking through the window of the house by the lake again, and she leaned over the railing, holding out her hand, barely a foot left between her fingers and the channel, almost like should could touch the spreading colors and twirling leaves. "Woooowwwww..."

A moment passed and she regained her balance, eye glimmering as she stared out at the world that was arrayed beneath her. Another unfamiliar feelings flowed through her. She'd been afraid of so much, and for so long, that she'd almost forgotten the feeling that she'd only really felt on one warm afternoon, almost two months ago now. She was nervous, yes. She was nervous, scared, worried. But...

What I'm helping protect...

Descending into the whirlwind of pastel colors as autumn took hold, she felt the heady rush of excitement as well. The flowing, swirling, erupting colors bloomed beneath her, almost like...like...

She hugged Besca tight, and felt a warm tear roll down her cheek as she did. And there were some tears in her voice, it was true. But despite that, it was more than evident that she was undeniably, irrefutably, and deeply happy. "They're like fireworks, Besca."

As the they drew closer to the ground, Quinn could see the bounds of the area that had been marked off for their arrival. They touched down in a vacated parking lot outside of a modestly tall and very wide building that must have been the studio. One side was blocked off by a wall, and a few hundred feet away at the other end, there was a minor blockade set up with police officers behind lines of tape. There must have been a hundred people there, and the moment Quinn and Besca stepped off the elevator they exploded with excitement. Shouting, cheering, volleys of camera flashes and signs—full signs—with Ablaze printed onto them, held up above the crowd.

“C’mon, hun. Let’s head in.”

Besca didn’t hold her hand on the way, but she didn’t stay entirely distant either. There was a level of professionalism she had to maintain planetside. Her past as strictly handling RISC’s pilots afforded her some leeway when it came to how close she appeared to be with them, but as commander now, it had been made clear to her that she was to present as their superior.

It was bullshit, but like this interview, it wasn’t her call. She’d shuck that order the moment they were inside, anyway.

Two soldiers remained outside, two more at the door, and two in the hallway. The rest followed behind. Crew darted between rooms, speaking into headsets, scribbling onto clipboards; they were frightfully efficient, no one ever bumped shoulders or came anywhere close to Quinn—though a few did eyeball her as they passed. Curiosity, mostly, but an undeniable level of wonder as well.

Eventually the hall opened up into a tall room that was dark along the fringes, and further in, where all the lights were pointed, was the set of “Dinner with Mona.” Hard wooden flooring, upon which sat a small, round table and two cushioned chairs. Behind it was a backdrop of a cityscape, though Quinn wouldn’t have known which. It was framed in such a way that they might have been sitting by a window of some penthouse restaurant.

Just out of the light were an array of large cameras, each manned by two or three people. Off to one side was a long table stacked with plain food, catering for the crew. To the other was a fully functional kitchen. It wasn’t meant for the cameras, obviously, but with a moment’s thought it did seem necessary. It was Dinner with Mona, after all—it seemed they just cooked that dinner on-set.

And it seemed like it was being cooked as they spoke. The smell had been there before they’d left the hall, but now it was much clearer. Aromatic spices filled the air, the smell of seasoned oil and the sizzling pop as it cooked on the fire. It was floral, buttery, faintly heated, and familiar.

Then, a man popped up from behind the kitchen counter, aproned and sweating but his face was split with the grin of a man in love with his work. It was the chef from Tohoki Grill. He caught sight of Quinn and Besca as they entered, and waved, before returning to his pans.

“Oh yeah, Besca said, giving Quinn a wink. “They wanted to know what you’d like for dinner. I asked our friend, and he insisted he make it for you himself.”

“Oh my gawsh!”

From the dark behind the cameras, an old woman came scuttling up to them. She must have been in her sixties, small as Quinn and quite skinny. She’d let her hair whiten with age, curled and puffy, with a single black streak dyed up the side. Behind her circular glasses was a pinched face, powdered and smiling through pearly teeth and dull red lipstick. Her dress was simple and elegant, red with a black stripe up the side just like her hair, and with every step she took, her ruby heels clacked against the ground.

She threw her hands up, painted nails long and black, and put an arm on either of their shoulders as if she meant to hug them both at once.

“Wow, wow wow wow—just look at you!” she said, earthy eyes turning to Quinn. “You are just the cutest! Honey, I love your jacket, and—oh my gawsh look at that braid. That is just powerful. Wow.”

“Miss Dunway,” Besca said, holding a hand out. “We’ve met before, I—”

“Bessy!” she took Besca’s hand with both of hers and shook vigorously. “Oh a’course! I never forget a face. Hah! You were so nervous, now look at you! Feels like I oughta salute. So nice to have you back, honey.”

“Quinn, this is Mona Dunway.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Quinn—can I call you Quinn? So much better without all the formality.”

“Listen,” Besca said, still with a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go check on our friend, see how the food’s coming along. Why don’t you two take a few minutes before this gets started, get to know each other a little bit?”

Mona clapped her hands together. “Bessy, honey, you took the words right outta my mouth! Quinn,” She started off towards the set. Besca gave Quinn a confident nod, and stepped away to the nearby kitchen, making sure not to leave eyesight. “I’ve just gotta say, I am so happy you agreed to come here. You’ve probably heard this a lot recently but I am a huge fan!”

She led them to the table, taking a seat. Off-set, people scrambled like they thought the show was about to start, but she waved them down. “So please, please! This is your first interview, right? Ever? We like to take things easy here, keep it casual, nothing serious. Let the daytime suits have all that junk. Me? I just want this to be fun, so if there's anything I can do for you, lemme know!"

As they descended past the pastel trees, Quinn suddenly took note of the crowd. Tons of people, cheering, taking photos, waving signs with her Savior printed on them. It was very strange. Not unpleasant, really, but certainly disorienting. She hadn't been outside around normal people other than Hovvi, and even then, she'd been mostly invisible in the crowd. Not so here; here, all eyes were on her. The enthusiasm was almost infectious.

She took a deep breath, and as she walked with Besca towards the entrance of the building, she lifted her hand in a cheerful wave. The noise of the crowd swelled as she did. It was almost deafening, and she found her normally solemn face curving into the start of a smile, though there was certainly an element of faraway blankness on her face. It was nice, but also weird.

As much as she liked being around people to some extent, though, having so many looking at her was still just a little uncomfortable. The people on the Aerie hadn't prepared her for anything like this, not at all. So she breathed a sigh of relief as soon as they walked into the hall. People were still looking at her, but they were also going about their normal business, not stopping to cheer for her. It was a little bit more what she was used to. It was nice.

Plus, the head chef was there. And she had a hunch she knew what he was cooking. She really could eat it all week and never get tired of it. There was just something so—

"Oh my gawsh!"

A moment later, she was swept up by Hurricane Mona. Despite herself, she found that fragment of a smile growing to—well, it was small and faint, but it was still a real smile, and she almost unconsciously ran a hand down her braid.

"You've probably heard this a lot recently but I am a huge fan!"

And there was the word. As Mona beckoned her to sit down, she followed suit, taking a seat opposite her and watching as the world went on for a moment more before looking back at her. That elsewhere look in her eyes faded as she, nearly stupefied but still wearing that little smile, softly asked the question that had been on her mind since she'd walked off the elevator outside:

"I have fans?"

“I have fans?”

Mona burst into laughter, high and cackling, but not in an unpleasant way. She had the sort of laugh that people found contagious, unique but not grating—the perfect fit for a talk show host. Of course, when she realized that Quinn hadn’t been cracking a joke, and was in fact entirely serious and very visibly confused, her laughter settled. She kept her smile though, a match for Quinn’s own.

“Oh—oh wow, you really mean that, don’t you? Sweetie, you’re a pilot, you had fans the moment your name hit the net. And you know, that was pretty recent all things considered. It was impossible to find a single picture of you that wasn’t from some blurry drone—but that’s alright, people love the mystery. And you know what? You’re just cute as a button in person. After tonight that crowd out there is gonna look like a puddle compared to the ocean of fans you’re gonna have.”

She waved off-set, and a few moments later someone came over with glasses of water for each of them.

“Oh, what’ll you want with your dinner? Just that? Pop? I’d offer you something more fun but I wanna stay on Bessy’s good side.” She barked out another laugh and sipped from her glass. “Plus, I’ve got a rule—no alcohol on the first interview. I had Renny Falsam on thirty years ago. He wanted these huge steaks, I mean big as they get, and just a little bit of whiskey. Well, twenty minutes in, that boy is slurring and cross-eyed and he’s laughing at jokes he’s only said in his head. Wow! Talk about a disaster. Yep, no alcohol this time, but maybe down the road.”

Nudging her glass aside, Mona leaned onto the table, head rested on her hands. Her eyes were big behind her glasses. “So how’d you adjust to living up there? Coming from such a quiet little town and moving into space. That must have been so weird, right? Do they shut the gravity off? Do you all just float around everywhere? How do you know when to go to bed? Gawsh, that’d mess me all up.”

Quinn hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she took a long drink of the clear, cold water. God, but it was still so good. She didn't know if she'd ever fully get used to it, but she got the feeling that she took a lot more pleasure out of just water than most people did. And so, "Just water is fine, thanks!"

She was still stuck on the 'fans' thing. She supposed it made sense, really; Dahlia was such a household name that she'd even heard of her back in her—back in the room she grew up in, and she was well aware by now how many unwritten rules she'd broken by not pulling that final trigger. It stood to reason that she would have people who followed her because of that. But still, it was intimidating somehow. Like suddenly her every move was going to be watched. And she didn't know how much she wanted the whole world to see her breaking down like at lunch today.

As Mona went on, Quinn tensed visibly and reflexively at the mention of Hovvi. Her smile trembled briefly and threatened to break, but she managed to keep it on her face.

"It was..." She swallowed down the lump that was starting to form in her throat, taking a deep breath. "S—sorry. It was really, really different for sure." True enough, even if it probably wasn't for the reasons that Mona assumed it was. Her smile came back renewed as she continued, voice lowering suddenly to a conspiratorial stage whisper as she found her footing a little better, "Just between you and me, I'm pretty sure the Board speeds the clocks up at night so we're as tired as possible."

She could count on two hands the number of sincere jokes she'd ever made. Hopefully that one would land.