Modiologists. Roaki was familiar—she didn’t like them. When she was little, and weak, and had to be excised from her cockpit by scalpels rather than bonesaws, it was always the modiologists who operated on her. She glanced down at her hand, her arm, at the ghostly splotches scattered upon the skin. How many times had it been? She’d sworn she would remember every cut, but eventually there’d been so many, and they’d only hurt more as time went on. She’d lost track, it was shameful, so instead she’d just vowed deathly vengeance upon all scientists.

The idea that Quinn had spent her whole life gulping down poison was still ridiculous to her, but if someone was going to do that, it would be fucking modiologists.

Roaki felt herself getting angry again as Quinn apologized. Why did she keep doing that? There wasn’t anything to forgive, you didn’t get to have grievances as a loser—though, in her experience, that was undeniably due to the fact that dead people didn’t have grievances. Was she supposed to forgive her? Roaki couldn’t even imagine herself in the other seat, seeking forgiveness from someone she’d beaten.

Though, again, dead people didn’t forgive.

“It’s…fine,” she said. Regardless of her feelings, it was clear Quinn wasn’t going to leave it at that. This was the topic of their discussion today, and so like every other day, Roaki would bear it—and try, just a little, to sift something useful from it. “But why does it…matter? Wasn’t everyone mulched in Hovvi? They’re dead. You won. You can forget about them. The quicker you lose their names, the better.”

Quinn closed her eye as Roaki spoke. When she responded, it stayed shut, and it took on that same melancholy that it'd carried earlier, something that was becoming more common to hear from Quinn. But it was a bit different this time; it was underscored with a taut, bone-deep tension.

"The problem is..." She didn't want to admit how she'd felt before, that awful feeling of hoping they were alive. Hopefully she'd just forget it with enough time. "...They weren't in Hovvi that morning, the only reason I could leave cause they left my door open by mistake. They'd gone to do some...science thing in Queenshand."

She sighed heavily, then leaned forward and opened her eye. "Until today, I was sure they were alive. But the stuff I read said they were going back when they learned the singularity would hit. So I don't actually know if they were there or not."

She smiled lamely. "And not knowing is so much worse. Dumb, right? But," she went on after a beat of silence, "what do I do about it? Now that I know, I wish I didn't."

Her voice dropped to a whisper then, and she pulled her legs up, resting her feet on the edge of the chair as she curled her arms around her knees. "And...I don't think I can forget them. Could ever forget them. They'll always be...there. They're, like, burned into my head." She made a muffled sound of distress, but didn't start crying again. She'd promised herself that. No more crying today. "See?" She motioned towards the door, held slightly ajar, forgetting Roaki wouldn't look at her. "I still can't do doors."

Things were quickly becoming complicated again. Ugh. So they weren’t dead, but now, actually, they might be dead after all? Roaki didn’t know how utterly wrecked the rinky-dink town had been after the attack, maybe they just couldn’t identify all the dead people. There was a chance still that under all that rubble were the itty-bitty pieces of her parents.

But that wasn’t the frustrating part. It was the fact that Quinnlash seemed unwilling to just fucking let go that got her heated. She had to remind herself this was all likely bullshit anyway, but the part playing along wished she had the will to scream. That was why the door was ajar? This was why Quinnlash was the way she was?

Unbelievable.

“So just fuckin’ kill’em,” she said flatly. “You know you can do that, right? You’re a pilot, you’re allowed to. Even if they’re fancy pantsy scientists, you’re still the bigger fish.”

Fuck’s sake, she almost looked up at her. Her eyes got as high up as Quinnlash’s neck before darting back down. Frustrated, yeah, but in the back of her mind, like a leash, the word worm kept her heeled.

Fine, no yelling. She’d just talk like some stupid fucking civvy.

“And it’s not totally forgetting,” she said. “It’s more like…Look, I had five siblings, and two aunts. I killed them all. And I guess, before I actually did it, I was…kinda like you. I didn’t know. Most of them were shits, couple of’em weren’t. Maybe I wanted to kill them, maybe I didn’t. But when I was done, I did know, and it was better.

“I didn’t just suddenly forget them. They’re…I…remember. But they’re the past. So, if your stupid ass parents are still alive, and you see them again, just kill’em. Make them the past. That’s when it gets easier.”

Quinn knew already that Roaki had killed her family. She'd fought duels against them, after all, and duels (almost) always ended with someone dying. But still, the plain admission had her hiss in a breath through her teeth, and a part of her wanted to yell at the younger girl for it. Her own family—the real one, at least—was so important to her that just the idea of killing family drove a stake into her side.

But Roaki was talking, and she shouldn't interrupt, she'd asked the question after all.

...And besides that, there was a part of her—not Quinnlash—that yearned, that urged upon hearing Roaki's words, to beat her parents black and blue before squeezing their throats until they stopped struggling and turn them into past tense if she ever found them alive. But every time she tried to picture it, tried to want it, all she could see was

Her mom looking lovingly down at her as she pricked the IV into her arm.

Sitting with Quinn and smiling as the little girl excitedly talked about all the places she wanted to see when she was a grown up.

The way she gently stroked her hand down her braid when she had a nightmare.

I love you so much, Quinny.

Then, before she even realized it, she was on her feet with a sudden burst of dry-mouthed panic. The chair crashed to the ground behind her as she lurched violently upward, eye wide in horror as she held a hand over her mouth with a vague panicked gagging noise, using the other to steady herself against the wall. Bile crept up in her throat, and she thought she might be sick.

"I—" she choked out as her stomach churned, "I—I didn't—I—she—it's not—"

And she got no further before she turned, stumble-ran into the bathroom, and emptied her guts into the toilet.

Roaki jolted when Quinnlash shot up, and would have met eyes with her out of reflex, only Quinnlash was unfocused and covering her mouth like—

Oh.

She listened to the retching sounds from her bathroom, dumbstruck, staring at the toppled chair. Had that been her fault? Were the things she’d said so revolting that Quinnlash had needed to expel them immediately? Deep within her, she felt a little flame that she hadn’t been aware of snuff out, leaving behind a cold lacuna she could not ignore. For the briefest moment, she had allowed herself to believe she understood. Perhaps, she’d thought, she had actually seen something familiar in another person—in Quinnlash, her enemy, yes, but also the only one to beat her. Someone who had doubts, like she had, and who seemed close to making the same mistakes or worse. She realized dumbly that she had tried to help.

Idiot.

By what right? In what way? Here she sat, day in and day out, broken and useless, a failure, senselessly clinging to a life that would be infinitely more valuable in death. She had lost. Quinn had won. How could she ever compare them? To assume so much, to insinuate similarity was worse than insult, it was omen.

Just the idea of it sickened her.

This, Roaki guessed, was no ploy. This was folly. She had forgotten her place, and had been swiftly and poignantly reminded. Cold cell or sterile room, the Aerie was a prison, and these people, especially Quinnlash, were her wardens and tormentors. She only hoped, soon, they’d grow bored of her.

Seconds passed like they were minutes.

Minutes like they were hours.

The stream of awful acid muck poured from Quinn in a way that was horribly, blindingly familiar, and, when it finally finished with her—when her stomach finally stilled—tears were pouring from her eyes again. And the memories were still there.

She wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball in her bed now and do nothing for the rest of the day. But she couldn't. She just couldn't. She had so much to make up for. She had sims to do. She had to help Dahlia, whatever happened. She had to try and cause as little trouble for Besca as she could, and ignoring her training wouldn't do that at all. So she just had to...she just had to keep going.

She stayed kneeling there for a few moments longer, closed her eyes to the world.

Then she spat the rest of the stuff into the toilet, blew it out of her stinging nose, flushed, wiped her eyes, and slowly walked out back into Roaki's presence like there were a thousand pounds on her back. She righted the chair just as slowly, like all the energy had been sapped out of her. Sat down heavily, and placed her face firmly in her hands. Her voice was muffled when it came out, but it was clearly not happy. Not miserable, perhaps, but if not, then very close. And filled with pain.

"Sorry," she mumbled, pulling her hands away, sitting up straight, and looking at Roaki, trying to distract herself from the memories that were still lancing through her head."I was just remembering—something—I—"

She dropped her head again.

"Never mind."

It was minutes before Quinnlash returned, but she’d wished it was longer. Roaki’s eyes found the sheets again, she couldn’t tell if the shame was bearing down on her from without, or bursting from within, but it was heavy and burning all the same. Was she meant to say something? Should she throw herself down and apologize for what she’d said? If she brought herself low, as she had in the cockpit with Dragon’s pilot had cut her apart, would that satisfy them? Would it end, then?

She was surprised to find she had enough pride left to refuse, but not by much. She could take isolation, she could take insult, she could take pain, none of those had ever struck her as deeply as revulsion did. She hated being looked at, she felt disgusting. Worms belonged in the dirt, why didn’t they just—

Quinnlash is speaking.

Well, Quinnlash was trying to speak. She did this sometimes, too, stuttered and stumbled and eventually gave up. Often the silence would last until she either tried to continue, or decided to call it a day. Roaki hoped for the latter. She needed to be alone. She wasn’t going to cry—never again, not for any of them, she swore—but the cold and empty inside of her was suffocating. Every breath was a bit shorter than the last, a bit more strained. It was panic, almost, or aspiring to be. Another weakness she had no desire to degrade herself showing.

“They’re gonna come draw blood at some point,” she said quietly. “Do you want anything else?”

Quinn stared hopelessly down at the floor. If Roaki could've met her eye, she would've found not revulsion, not hatred, but pain. Deep, burning pain that ate at her newly-empty stomach and withered her lungs before breaths ever found them.

"...No. I'll...I'll come back later. I don't—I don't feel..."

She let herself trail off, and hauled herself to her feet, plodding to the door, pushing it the rest of the way open, and sliding out before shutting it behind her. As soon as she did, she fell against the wall, making her way wearily back through medical like she'd just been awake for fifty hours.

I'm sorry, Quinny. You can't go outside, you know it's dangerous out there! You can go when you're all grown up, okay, sweetie?

Her breathing hitched as memories kept seething up from the depths of her mind. She closed her eye tight and just stopped for a moment. This was a new pain. A different pain. A pain that stole her breath away. A moment after, she opened her eyes again and kept moving, managing to resume her feet proper this time.

Aww, Quinny, it's summer! You're going to get dehydrated, sweetie! Drink it all up, okay?

All these memories. They wouldn't go away. They kept playing back, over and over and over.

We're just worried about you, sweetie! Dad and I just want to keep you safe, make sure you healthy! So lie down for me, please?

Quinn had never, even right after Hovvi, wanted to forget something so badly as she did in that moment. So...how do I forget?

If she thought about it for more than a moment, the answer jumped out at her. She'd read online that people drank alcohol to forget. Besca wasn't drunk often, but...when she was, she always seemed so happy. Quinn didn't know exactly what the process was, but she knew that it couldn't be too hard. Just drink something alcoholic, right?

For a moment, she paused, and wondered if this was really a good idea. But then another memory tore through her mind, this one of her mom telling her a bedtime story. A painful twist jolted from her heart. And then her mind was made up.

Skulking around the edges of the station—she didn't want people to see her in this state—she passed through the commons, and eventually found herself at one of her favorite haunts: Tohoki grill. It wasn't noon yet, so it was completely empty, as far as she could tell. Everyone was at work, or at CB Danes, which was a bit less of a sit-down place. Chef Akihiro turned to her with a smile, but it quickly turned into a confused frown at the way she was carrying herself. And, as she slung herself down, the frown grew a little more concerned.

"I'd like a yuzu soda," she said tonelessly. And a moment later, she waved behind the counter, where a dizzying array of bottles was pressed up against the wall.

"And put one of those in it, please."

Akihiro hesitated. It had become very clear that Quinn had found a place among his favorite customers in her short time aboard the Aerie, and thus far things had been friendly between them. He knew her favorite meals, down to the ingredients she liked in some dishes, and others she didn’t. He had on occasion crafted specialties for her, when time and supplies allowed, or had her taste-test potential new additions to the menu. They shared few personal things—though Quinn tended to wear her emotions on her sleeve, and so was not particularly hard to read—but there was an undeniable sense of understanding there.

Besides, Akihiro had been working on the Aerie for years. He was used to being around pilots, and while the previous lot was gone, he had forged relationships with them as well, ranging from the strictly professional, to the respectfully distant, and, of course, the familiar.

All of that aside, the difference between him and them was always stark. He was a civilian, after all, and no matter how friendly they were, they were pilots. They outranked him socially, and professionally. When they asked something of him, regardless of how much it sounded like a suggestion, or how much he would rather refuse, he could not.

So, when Quinn asked him for alcohol, he followed it like an order. He picked a nice, albeit not overly-strong bottle that would mix well with yuzu, and whipped up a glass for her. He didn’t know whether or not she’d eaten today, but she looked ill to his eyes. When he served her the drink, he slid a small bowl of soba noodles along with it.

Then he bowed, went to fetch another cloth from the kitchen, and before he returned to the front, he sent the Commander a message, informing her of Quinn’s whereabouts. There was no response, of course; Commander Darroh was a busy woman and likely wouldn’t see a message from him for hours. By then he hoped Quinn would be finished, and sleeping, perhaps. She looked like she hadn’t slept.

These too were thoughts he kept to himself as he emerged back to the bar.

“Would you like a menu?” he asked, and set one down near her. “Delivery day was this morning, so everything is fresh.”

Quinn eyed the glass that Akihiro had set in front of her. She'd seen him pour a bit of a clear liquid into it from one of the bottles, she couldn't read it from here. Picking it up, she swirled it a little, watching detached as the pale green liquid sloshed around the sides. It looked just like the usual stuff, really. Didn't look like anything had been mixed with it. So, just like those months ago when it had been a bottle of crystal-clear water, she lifted it to her mouth and took a tentative sip.

She blinked.

It tasted like...like yuzu soda.

There was a vague burning aftertaste to it that she couldn't place, but it wasn't too bad, and it wasn't strong either way. So by the time Akihiro had come back with the menu, she'd already drained half the glass. Nothing happened. Maybe she hadn't had enough to drink, or maybe she needed to wait. Maybe both.

Either way.

She picked at the noodles, idly wondering whether or not she should, or could, eat them. Took another drink.

Idly flipping through the menu that Akihiro had set beside her, she closed her eye gently to his gentle gaze. She felt like she was suffocating. Drowning inside her own head. Falling back down in that well that she was trying so hard to crawl out of, and had been for so long. Enough that stringing words together came with some effort. "No, I'm—I can't—" A long pause.

"I—she—"

No more words came out. Her head dropped.

She took another drink.

Long minutes passed, quiet, as a handful of people shuffled in for an early lunch, took their seats in the dimly lit booths and ordered. Akihiro was alone, save for one other cook, and so he dipped in and out from behind the counter to serve food, or to check in thee kitchen. Quinn had finished her first glass very fast, and had politely asked for another with the same uncertain surety with which she’d ordered the first.

Then, she finished that one too.

Akihiro did not immediately refill this one, instead he waited until she asked on her own, and then delayed further by busying himself with the other tables. That took another few minutes, but when he finally returned she was still adamant that she wanted another drink.

She was the pilot, she got what she wanted. He poured her another yuzu cocktail, and continued to work. He minded the kitchen briefly as he sent his cook out to fetch bread. When he returned, Akihiro brought a small basket of rolls out and set them down for Quinn, beside the still-untouched noodles, along with a pitcher and a glass of water.

“In case you change your mind. Good for later.”

Quinn kept sitting there, looking at the bar, as the memories bit and snapped at the back of her mind. Akihiro's noodles—usually a point of love for Quinn, she'd never pass up an opportunity to scarf a bowl or three down—sat in front of her, glistening in the light of the faux lanterns. She'd just finished her second glass of soda, and a third one had been brought to her. She heaved in a long, sighing breath.

Then, as she looked up, she found her eye seeming to...lag behind itself. She blinked suddenly at the strangeness of the situation, putting the glass back on the counter after a long drink. Her blinking felt suddenly...clumsy? Was that the word to describe it? She somehow didn't know. She shook her head suddenly, like she was trying to shake cobwebs loose from it. Once. Twice. Her eye didn't seem like it was focusing right, and she blinked rapidly a handful of times. Nothing came of it.

She picked the glass up, took another—smaller—sip from it. Was this what being drunk was like? If it was, then it wasn't working. Her mom stayed lurking behind her, rubbing her hand slowly on her back to calm her down when she was upset. Her sharp inhalation echoed around her head.

Blink. Another moment passed. Or...was it a moment? The people around her had shifted around, she though. Someone hadn't been sitting in that booth, had they? Maybe they had and she was just...remembering it wrong. She felt...off, somehow. Slower, muddled. Like waking up after a long, long sleep.

But...

Blink. Blink. It seemed brighter, somehow. Like the lights were blurring together into a bigger light above her. She was swaying in her seat now. Why was she swaying? It felt like her thoughts were passing through deep water to get to her head. It felt like something was wrong. Something was really wrong, though she didn't quite know what it was. She tried to stand, but lost her balance and slumped back down into her seat before she even really got to her feet.

And yet...

She lay her head down on the bar. She might've groaned. Had she? She wasn't quite sure. Her hand was wrapped loosely around he half-empty glass as she stared down at the wood. She couldn't see quite right. Everything had gone vague and...and blurry. Not just what she was looking at, but everything. Everything in her eye, in her ears, and in her head were all mixed around and together, blurring into each other like smudged paint. The memories shifted and melted in her head, and she was left only with a background of pain and fear, horrible and awful but mercifully free of any specific image.

Or...less free of the images, and more...every time she thought of one, it skated off her mind. Though they were still there, and she could feel them, she couldn't really see them.

And everything felt like she was hearing and feeling and thinking it through cotton, so she didn't know when she'd started crying, or how loud it was.

She didn't much care.

The mood in the restaurant had changed quickly. The few early diners had either finished or ignored their food to gawk at the pilot sobbing quietly at the bar. Whispers abound, phones were drawn and videos snapped. Lucky the day was young and most of the station was on shift, or this might have turned into a much larger spectacle.

Akihiro decided it was time for a break. He apologized to the customers and told them he had to close down for a little while. No one gave him grief—hardly anyone outside of security ever did, unless it was the weekend, where everyone was equally likely to be a problem. He handed out dinner vouchers and took down names to remind himself who would receive extra portions when they next visited. Then he locked the door and went back to the kitchen.

His cook was also Tohoken, so he spoke quietly in their tongue. “I’m stepping out for a minute,” he said. “Watch her until I get back. If she asks for more, mix some tonic water in with the yuzu, she won’t notice. If she asks for food, make her whatever she likes.”

Done, he returned to Quinn at the bar, donning a jacket over his apron. “I’ll be right back, Quinnlash, I forgot something in my room. If you want another drink, or you get hungry before I get back, my cook will take care of you.”

He doubted she heard him, or if she had that she understood, but he intended to be quick. He left the Grill. Commander Darroh would be on the bridge, but considering she was likely busy, there was simply no way someone like him could get up there, and it was clear she was not going to see his message any time soon. Thankfully, he knew someone who could get ahold of her.

It was a brisk walk to medical.

“Ah, chef Akihiro,” Doctor Follen said, plainly surprised to see him at his door. “Good morning, are you feeling well?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, doctor. I need to get in touch with Commander Darroh and I’m afraid I don’t have the clearance to interrupt her during a meeting.”

“I see, what’s the matter—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s about Ms. Loughvein.”

The doctor’s interest was piqued. Akihiro relayed the situation to him, and waited patiently while he sent a message to the Commander. After that he shut and locked his door. “You said she’s in your restaurant?”

“Yes sir,” Akihiro said, though he was confused when Follen followed him out of the ward. “You’re coming too?”

“Certainly. She’s my patient, after all, and this sounds like a rather significant event.”

Akihiro couldn’t argue with that, though he felt strange bringing someone else along.

“Did she say anything?”

“She mumbled, but I couldn’t understand her.”

“Hm.” There was a lilt of intrigue in the doctor’s voice that did not sit well with Akihiro. But soon enough they arrived at the Grill.

Commander Darroh came half-jogging down the commons. There was stark concern on her face, tainted by a barely-concealed annoyance when she saw Follen. The doctor only smiled and nodded to her. She ignored him, gave her attention to Akihiro.

“How much has she had?” she asked.

“Two cocktails, not particularly strong, but she ordered no food and I suspect she’s eaten nothing today.”

Besca tried to peer in through the tinted glass door. “I’m sorry I missed your message.”

Akihiro dismissed the apology with a wave. “I will be in the back, please take as long as you need,” he said, and went back inside. The Commander and doctor Follen did not follow yet, so he left the door unlocked. As he passed the bar he took the mostly-full glass with him and disappeared into the back.

Outside, Besca paced in front of the door. Rubbernecks did their best to eavesdrop but she shooed them away. Still, even alone she dropped her voice low.

“You can go now.”

Follen scoffed. “Don’t be stupid.”

“She’s clearly dealing with something right now, you fucking animal.”

“And as her doctor, it behooves me to be here to help her through it.”

She grimaced. “You know the sooner you stop pretending like you give a single shit about her, the sooner both our jobs get easier.”

“What an unsurprisingly limited point of view.”

He reached for the handle and she snatched him by the wrist, held him there. Besca glared hot contempt into his eyes.

“We’re not in primary anymore, Aldous. I could throttle you.”

He smirked, infuriating her. “I welcome you to leave as many wounds as you’re comfortable with explaining to Quinnlash on our next meeting.”

An electric moment passed. The smug expectance left his face, and Besca knew this conversation had already ceased to interest him. Part of her wished she could be so inhumanly detached. She let him go, but shouldered past him to enter first. They made their way across the dim, quiet restaurant, and came to sit on either side of Quinn. She shot Follen a warning glance, and he sat back.

Quinn looked rough. Exhausted. Her face was wet she wobbled unevenly in her chair. Besca draped an arm around her to hold her steady, leaned in to speak softly and quietly. Easier to keep the abject worry out of her voice that way.

“Hey, hun. Hey, it’s me. Missed you this morning, just wanted to stop by to see you,” she said. “. How you doin’? You okay?”

Quinn's mind was full of fog.

Thick, sticky, sickly black fog, crawling down her throat, choking her from the inside out, smelling of brine and metal. The world swam in front of her eyes. Akihiro was gone. Everyone else in the restaurant was gone. Everyone was gone. She was alone. So awfully alone. Alone with the fog in her head. She dimly realized that she was still crying.

The door opened behind her. She wanted on some level to check why and who, but for some reason the thought couldn't quite cling to her mind, and her body wouldn't cooperate anyway. When she blinked, her eye felt thick, gummy. Then a warm arm wrapped around her shoulders. Quinn—jumpy as she tended to be—usually would've jerked at the unexpected contact. But instead she just let it hold her tight, steady her. She didn't feel quite right, and it was...nice, to let someone else hold her up instead.

"Hey, hun. Hey, it's me. Missed you this morning, just wanted to stop by to see you. How you doin'? You okay?"

Her head moved laconically almost without guidance, and she found herself staring blurrily into Besca's face. Her eye wasn't quite focusing properly, and it was plain to see in how she squinted up through her tear-stained face. The devastating loneliness that had been festering at her core for the past few weeks slowly began to wither. Her voice, when she spoke, was slurring, and wobbling with unrestrained tears.

"...Beshca...?"

She stared for another moment. Just stared. And the pain was more than evident in her eye.

Then she heaved a long, drawn-out, agonized sob and collapsed into Besca, wrapping uncoordinated arms around her and grabbing on like a life raft in a hurricane. Things that sounded like they were supposed to be words rushed out along with the crying, but they were half-formed mumbles at best and totally incomprehensible through the slurring.

Here and there, though, and infrequently, some things managed to be coherent, just enough to understand.

...dn't wann' rem'ber...

...hurt her...

...feel...shick...

...cn't go 'ome dn't wanna...

Besca braced herself on the bar to keep from toppling to the ground, but kept one arm around Quinn. This was, at least, somewhat familiar to her. Quinn was an understandably emotional girl, and by now she’d lost track of how many times she’d held her like this. That was a dismaying thought on its own, but what weighed it down, made it worse, were the parts that weren’t familiar.

She had, in years past, handled drunken pilots many times. It was a hassle but never surprising; piloting rewarded people with no shortage of reasons to drink, or smoke, or otherwise remove themselves from their horrid reality. It had been true of the hardiest sort, like Ghaust, and of the most seemingly-well-adjusted, like Safie. She had, on more than one occasion, had to pick both her and Dahlia off of the dormitory floor and bring them to their rooms. It had taken time, but eventually she’d learned how to handle them.

She did not know how to handle Quinn.

“S’okay, hun,” she said softly. She ran a hand through Quinn’s hair and shot a hard, expectant look at Follen. He only shrugged—useless fucker.

Slowly, carefully, she stood up out of her seat and guided Quinn down onto her own. She didn’t let go though, instead holding her close. She wove her arm under Quinn’s, around to her other shoulder, and helped her stay upright.

“Not goin’ anywhere, just to bed. Gonna feel better after a little sleep. Come on, lean on me, just like that hun, there you go. Easy now.”

Follen got up as well and went to open the door for them. They took unsteady steps, their progress slow, until they were outside again. Most of the station was still at work, but those who’d managed to get breaks this early, or weren’t on shift yet, were gathered in faux-happenstance not too far from Tohoki Grill. Some tried to be subtle about their interest, others brazenly recorded with their phones. None of them dared approach though, so Besca ignored them.

“Alright Quinn, good work so far. Little bit further.”

Quinn's head spun like a top.

As they approached the door, she found it difficult to walk, difficult even to stand. She didn't really know what was going on as they walked—or, well, as Besca walked, and she stumbled alongside her. She understood, in the loosest sense, that they were going back to the dorms to sleep. That was fine. Sleep sounded good. She felt sick, and the tears were still dripping down her face for reasons she didn't fully comprehend. So she just leaned her head into the crook of Besca's neck and let herself be guided. The familiar sights of the Aerie were weird, distorted, seemed a little bit unfamiliar and...off.

At some point after they left the commons but before they made it to the dorm, she found herself talking. Or, at the very least, what could be passably assumed as talking of some kind. Really, less talking and more mumbling into Besca's neck as her brain spun in her head. Her voice was a soft, piteous thing, still clogged with tears, as well as heavy with the anxiety and pain that she couldn't seem to hold down anymore.

"Beshca, 's...ish Dahlia mad a' me?" She fell silent for a moment, burying her face in Besca's neck again as they traversed the hallway that led to the pilots dorms. A part of her dimly realized that's where they were, and her crying grew suddenly louder and heavier.

"Are...are you mad a' me?" Her tears quickly devolved into hiccuping sobs as her thin, shaking arms wrapped clumsily around Besca. "I don' wanna be 'lone anymore, wha'ever I did I'm sorry!"

Besca had to steel herself. Had to. It was like listening to a pilot die over comms, just hammer blows of helpless misery and if she didn’t mute that voice inside telling her to shut down, she’d crumble and that’s all that’d be left. She didn’t have that luxury anymore, hadn’t long before she’d become Commander. Before she’d even come to Runa. There was a sizeable portion of herself still buried in the modious smolder of Westwel, right beside her old life—probably not too far from where Follen’s own self was; difference being, she still had the humanity to look back and miss the things she’d lost. Right now, she wished she didn’t.

“No, hun,” she whispered, dragging the words up her throat. “Neither of us are. Never. You didn’t do anything, don’t be sorry. C’mon, almost there.”

Follen opened the door for them, lingered a moment. She fixed him with a glare that was too muddle to be as threatening as she wanted.

“Pilots and approved personnel only,” she said.

He smirked. “These would certainly be extenuating circumstances. She is my patient, after all.”

Cross that threshold and I’ll fucking gut you.

If he could read her thoughts, he didn’t admit it. But he did reach out and pat Quinn’s head with perfectly manufactured affection. “Sleep well,” he said, and then he left them. The doors shut and locked.

There wasn’t time or effort to waste. Besca righted herself, and walked Quinn gently across the commons. She noticed Dahlia in the wrong room, which wasn’t surprising, but figured the last thing she needed right now was a drunk bunkmate. She changed course for her own room instead. On the way she noticed Quinn’s phone discarded on the ground, but decided to leave picking up for later.

“Here we go,” she said, leading Quinn to the bed. “Made it, easy-peasy. Lets get you nice and comfortable.”

As if she were handling an infant made from glass and pipebombs, Besca lowered Quinn onto the sheets, head to pillow, and then crouched down beside her. Tohoki Grill was moody, but this proper dark would do her good. She brushed fingers through Quinn’s hair, traced them down her cheek and back up again.

“Look at that, you did great. I’m not goin’ anywhere, so you just close your eyes and sleep. I’ll make sure you’re safe and sound, yeah? Be right here with you.”

Lying down was nice. And the darkness was nice too. As the door to the pilot's dorms had closed behind them she'd flinched like she'd been struck, and that flinch seemed to reverberate around her body like a shiver. By the time she'd lay down, it had become a shiver, and tremor that ran through her. She felt the covers dip and turned to see what it was, even though it was dark and she couldn't see very good right now. But she was still coherent enough to realize after a few moments that it was Besca, that Besca was next to her, was stroking her hair, rubbing her hand on her cheek.

"Look at that, you did great. I’m not goin’ anywhere, so you just close your eyes and sleep. I’ll make sure you’re safe and sound, yeah? Be right here with you."

That's right. Besca was there. Besca was there. Besca would make it all better.

Quinn curled in on herself, almost wrapping herself around Besca. She was still crying, and crying hard, in that deep, raw way that came with all restraint being torn away. Her eye stung like fire by now, and as she lay there, her quiet, disoriented slurring continued, growing more and more distressed as she went on.

"Beshca, why did they leave me? Why do they hate me? Ish it 'cause I was bad? Did I do shomethin' bad?"

She reached up and grabbed Besca's hand on her cheek, pulling it down to her chest and holding it in both hands as she wailed quietly, piteously:

"'M I a bad daughter?"

Besca felt hot iron in her gut. The heat welled in her chest and made her throat ache and close. Unable to speak quite then, she shook her head to buy time and gripped Quinn’s hand tightly. A bad daughter. The words were nonsense, they’d be lost quicker than it had taken to speak them, no doubt, but they stuck to Besca like paper-mâché. A bad daughter. Quinn knew a lot of things—more than she thought she did, about things no one ought to know about—but she had no idea what it mean to be a bad daughter. She never would. Just wasn’t the kind of girl she was.

A sigh let the air back into her lungs. “No,” she said as soon as she could. “No, hun, you’re not. You’re a great daughter.”

It made her almost sick to say it. The Loughveins had done unspeakable things to this girl, and from day one Besca might have been absolutely certain they had no right having any children, and they certainly hadn’t deserved Quinn.

But that didn’t matter now—not right now, anyway. What mattered was getting Quinn to sleep, and making sure she survived the ridiculously terrible hangover waiting for her once she woke up.

“All you gotta do now is close your eyes, yeah? Just close your eyes and breathe, and it’ll get better. You need a lil’ rest, that’s all.” She let Quinn hold onto one hand, and brought the other up to keep brushing through her hair. “Go on, you’re all safe now. I’ll make sure.”

You're a great daughter.

Slowly, gradually, Quinn's crying slowed, then abated altogether, as Besca kept on talking.

"Jus'..." she mumbled, suddenly feeling like the weight of the world was laying on her eyelid, "Jus'...closhe my eye...'n breathe..."

Her body stopped trembling, and she seemed finally to relax, uncoiling her body and leaning her head a little close to Besca's hand as though to keep it there. And that eye, the one that felt suddenly like it had the weight of ten thousand oceans pressing down on it...it flickered, like she was blinking it a hundred times. The huffing hyperventilation of a mid-freakout Quinn slackened off, to be replaced with the deep breathing that Besca taught her how to do, months ago now. Not yet the slow deep breaths of sleep, but a marked improvement nonetheless, and she could feel sleep bearing down on her like a freight train regardless.

You're a great daughter.

The last of the tight muscles in her face relaxed, and she let her body go limp now, but for one hand that kept clutching Besca's. Her eye drooped lower, and she less mumbled now than murmured ever so softly.

"G'night Beshca."

And then, even more quietly, barely more than a whisper

"I love you."

Then her eye slid shut, and her hand fell limp.

You're a great daughter.

And Quinnlash slept.