Besca watched as the pair of fresh Casobani pilots charged courageously at the singularity as it spewed forth a deluge of ink-black creatures. Most were crushed underfoot, and what surged past them was mopped up by the lines of military barricades waiting behind. Eventually a sizable beast, nearly half as tall as the Saviors, breached the void, rushing one of them on four legs, with a wickedly-horned head leading the way. A Modir clawed its way out shortly after to engaged the other one.

The news feed quickly became inundated with drone-feeds, cycling between close-ups and wide-shots, while the anchors rattled off play-by-plays like sports commentators. For a brief moment that whole country held its breath, waiting to see if the newcomers would fold in their first battle. Even Besca found herself worried, instinctually.

But there was no need. The pilots were swift, graceful, and they were obviously toying with their opponents—likely as they’d been instructed to. The pageantry of it all never failed to frustrated her; at least with someone like Dahlia, things were over quickly and without theatrics.

They’ll be in a good mood after this, she thought, but it wasn’t reassuring. This demonstration was as much for the people of Casoban as it was for the ESC. Eusero’s space station was parked right by Casoban’s, watching, assessing. This was an audition; that they would ally themselves was practically given, but the unspoken question of what Casoban brought to their allegiance had yet to be answered. They had to prove that their poor performance at the duel wasn’t a systemic weakness.

Well, good for them.

She’d been trying to ring the CSC station all morning with no luck. All week, really. There’d been no formal severing of ties, nothing in writing to say ‘You fucked up, that’s it,’ but the message was clear nevertheless. She almost felt bad for Toussaint; the man was likely still fighting for their alliance with Runa, and it would undoubtedly cost him his job. Some new Euseran shill would be at the helm soon enough, then there’d be no conversations at all.

Besca had half a mind to just leave. Why did she need to be here for this? The Board was looking for her replacement, and there was nothing she could do about it—there was nothing she could do about anything. So why not leave? Why not just go spend what time she had left up here with Quinn, and Deelie, and just enjoy herself?

With a resigned sigh, Besca started for the door. Fuck it, she’d take the girls to CB Danes, browse some online shops. They’d make an afternoon out of it.

Then she heard it—the beeping. The chatter in the room fell instantly quiet, and everyone went still. Except Besca.

“Where?” she asked, whirling back around. She pulled up the tracking map of Runa, scanning furiously for blips signaling a singularity. But there were none—at least, not here.

On the TV, news stations scrambled, their anchors speaking so quickly and anxiously that the auto-translate struggled to keep up. But she caught enough: Two more singularities were opening in Casoban.

---

“That’s scary,” one of the technicians said. “They showed up fast.”

“Happened during the duel, too, remember?” said another.

“Didn’t even have time to set up barricades.”

The crew was split, gathered into clots around TV screens across the hangar. They watched, muttering and worried, as the news showed the CSC station lowering its elevator on the outskirts of Gontiard, where already a small horde of creatures was charging towards the city.

“That’s Château,” Tillie said, pointing to the Savior that leapt from the platform. Looking down at Quinn, she realized the girl might not have been as thoroughly invested in pilots from other nations. “He’s probably their best when it comes to handling Modir. But with the new guys still on the coast, that only leaves Foudre to deal with the other singularity—she’s more of a duelist.”

Usually, whenever she went off spouting trivia, people just told her to shut up. Now, though, the eyes that turned to her did so deference, and she felt suddenly burdened with responsibility.

“S-She’s fought Modir before, though, I’m sure she’ll be fine. Plus, the others will be done soon, then they can help.”

“No they can’t,” someone said.

The news went hysteric; a fourth and fifth singularity were opening.

Static crackled overhead, then a voice thundered throughout the Aerie’s comms—it was Besca.

“Brace for redirection.”

A moment later the Aerie shuddered and lurched. The crew grabbed onto railings, the wall, or got low to the floor. Tillie was unlucky, stumbling to the ground alongside a slew of smaller, unsecured tools and devices. Before the general air of surprise could shift into anger, the intercoms sounded again.

“All hands to stations. Pilots, prepare to disembark.”

All eyes turned briefly to Quinn, but unlike some of the looks she would and had been getting from the staff in other areas of the ship, everyone here seemed to hold her in confidence. As the crew split up and hurried to their stations, she got nods and assured pats on the shoulder. Go get’em, girl, they seemed to say.

Tillie was much more forthright. “Okay! Uhm! Go get changed, I’ll finish up getting Ablaze ready for you!” She reached out awkwardly, miraculously still unsure of just how to operate her hands at a time like this, and wound up settling for a firm grasping of Quinn’s shoulders and a smile, before she darted off.

Down below, shouts of encouragement rang out as a familiar face dashed across the hanger on a full-tilt sprint for the lockers—Dahlia.

Quinn's heartbeat, so recently slowed, roared back to life again. One singularity. Two singularities. Three, four, five. And then...Besca spoke over the comms. A piece of Quinn had known what she was going to say before she said it, had known it'd happen before the loudspeaker had crackled. Speaking objectively, it was like a gift from above; if she'd learned anything political from her brief career as a pilot, she knew that this was the perfect way of extending the olive branch and mending relations with Casoban.

All that being said, though, whenever she thought of fighting a modir again--after the disastrous outcome of the duel--she could feel fear and anxiety and any number of other things tearing into her, pulling at her skin, dragging her down and trying to stop her from moving forwards. Moving anywhere. But...but...

There was something else there too.

From deep down within her, a brilliant warmth burned upwards, chasing out the shadows of doubt with...she frowned distractedly, trying to figure out which emotion it--

Joy. It was joy, and a hot and wild anticipation that nearly stole her breath away. She could almost hear the voice resonating out from inside:

This is what we were made to do.

It ripped through her like fire, purging the cloying odor of fear that clung to her and setting her veins alight. And standing there for just a brief moment after Tillie flickered away, she felt her mouth spread in a wide, fierce smile.

These were monsters.

A loud clanging noise of machinery from below, and the spell was broken. Blood still running hot, she whipped around, dashing to the lift and hammering the button, even after it had already started to descend. She hadn't come within ten feet of the ground when she leapt, barely touching the ground before she skidded off again towards the lockers, making it there a few moments after Dahlia. Her breath hissed through her tight teeth, and she near ripped her clothing, taking it off so quickly. It wasn't more than thirty seconds before she was running back up the hallway, this time sweating through the heat suit as she went. She spared a terse "good luck" at her sister before she split off again, back towards Ablaze.

The lift had never taken so long on the trip up.

She trusted that Tillie had done her job, and flung herself into the skullport, barely sparing even the vaguest through at the door as she slammed it closed and hopped into her seat like she'd done it a million times. She closed her eye, and took a deep breath.

This...is what at we were born to do.

She wasn’t alone in the dark, less now than almost ever. A shape manifested imperceptibly across from her, glinting off of light that wasn’t there before the shadows claimed it again, and left it hardly more than a smudge against the black.

But Quinn could feel it. Could feel her there. Fingers raked gently through her brain, picking at the thoughts submerged so deeply therein that she wouldn’t be able to tell if they were truly hers or nor—only that she felt them.

“Now we feel real,” she said, excitement shaking her voice. “Now we show them why.”

Besca’s voice piped up in her ear. “You girls in?”

“We’re ready,” Dahlia answered. Quinn might have seen that little shape grin at the sound of their sister’s voice.

“Good. Listen, CSC’s all occupied, so you both are gonna have to handle one of the singularities each. Deelie you’ve got the northern one, we’re lining up…now. Get into position, you’re shock-dropping in. There’ll be a town about four miles south of you, but north past the singularity there’s nothing, you’re free-range that direction.”

“Got it.”

There was a shaking outside, a heavy thumping Quinn could feel even through the cockpit as Dragon got into position. Shortly, a siren blared—the lift hatch opening, followed by the sharp hiss of the hard-light barrier keeping everything from being sucked out into the void of space.

“And…go, go, go!” A scraping sound, another blaring as the hatch resealed moments later. Besca’s voice came again, this time over the speakers. “Brace for redirection.” Again the Aerie shifted, though inside the Savior it was nowhere near as jarring.

“Quinn,” Besca said, back in her ear again on the pilots’ comms. The ways he sounded, it seemed like she’d wanted to say hun’. “We’ve got two Modir coming out of a singularity in the west, heading towards a city about thirty miles south. It’s farmland out there, lot of flat ground, not a lot of cover. You’re gonna have to shock-drop, alright? You’ve gotta get yourself through the hatch, then disconnect—don’t reconnect until you’re through the atmosphere, got it? Try to cushion your fall if you can, but if you can’t, then ball up, disconnect and lock yourself into the seat. Ablaze can take the impact, just reconnect once you’ve actually landed.”

The siren blared again.

“We’re lining up…and…good to go. On you, Quinn.”

Quinn understood the concept of shock-dropping; she'd read up a little on it after Dahlia had saved her in Sacre-Colline. But understanding the principle behind something and actually doing it were two very different things, and dropping out of orbit certainly wasn't a small thing. She felt herself waver.

But she was there. As soon as she started to flag, she remembered, and dug deep into the reserves of energy and courage that she'd been building up since the duel. She'd fought tooth and nail; against modir, and the Board, and the peoples of multiple countries all telling her that she was being a stupid kid. And now Roaki was safe aboard the Aerie, and was staying there, damnit. That was proof positive, wasn't it? She wasn't the same terrified child that had first woken up screaming in medical all those months ago. When Quinnlash Loughvein put their mind to something, nothing could stop them.

We've got this. A keen acquiescence returned to her, as though to say: Damn right we do.

"Alright. Go."

The same shuttering sound that had played with Dahlia played again right behind her, and--

Everything was suddenly and eerily silent. She was...she was falling through space. Remembering Besca's instructions, she disconnected, and stared into the darkness that suddenly held no fear for her.

She wasn't alone.

"I've disconnected, Besca. Waiting on reentry." It might fascinate Quinn to hear her own voice there, though she wasn't paying attention, of course; it was possessed with a level of confidence and surety that it nearly never was.

"Alright, you're clear."

Quinn sucked in one breath. Two. Three.

Then she blurred past herself again, and for another heartbeat moment, she thought she saw her grinning at her. Then she was flipping through the air, plummeting down towards the ground at a frankly concerning speed. She sucked in an unsteady breath, nearly destabilized and knocked out of her precious moment of confident clarity. And then she nearly laughed. It was just like the last time in Casoban, wasn't it? Hurtling backwards through the air? She might not have cannoned herself back this time, but she still felt some similarity in the wind ripping past her. And those instincts took over; she twisted in the air, righting herself just before she made contact, sending up an explosion of dirt and stone with a sound like thunder and fire.

As she pulled herself to a standing position and the curtain of earth fell, she saw them in the distance. Two modir, closing on her with a fast, loping run. She reached out, grabbed the sheet, and wrenched her cannon into existence, its horror lost on her, at least for the moment.

"Landed safe. I'm about to engage.

Ready when you are.

Born ready.

“You’re free-range, Ablaze.”

The Modir closed in, the distance much shorter than she might have anticipated. She could see them clearly, both them were already armed. The closer of the two was sleek, built for speed and agility. Its clawed feet tore into the earth and propelled it with the gait of a career sprinter. Wrapped around its forearm was a chain, leading to an orb clutched in one hand.

The second was more heavily armored, but by no means slow, and would reach them within moments of the first. Its maw was uneven, its lower jaw jutted and more plentifully-teethed. It held nothing in its massive hands, but fixed to either shoulder were a pair of modium-marbled cannons, not quite to the size of Quinn’s, but still large and already filled with white fire. Still a ways back, it loosed a barrage of missles, each trailed by comets of ivory light. A few landed early, exploding like grenades into the fields, showering Ablaze with wheat and molten dirt, but the lion’s share of them stayed true to course.

The first Modir, now closing in, poised to collide with her immediately after the salvo would hit, released the ball from its grasp. White light flared from dozens of holes bored into its surface, creating spikes of energy like the head of a mace. It whipped its arm back, and with a vicious flick, sent the ball hurtling towards her.

An anticipatory hiss ghosted Quinn’s ears, and she felt a sort of shelling around her consciousness, not unlike at the duel. A barrier ready to catch as much pain for her as it could.

Make them pay.

Quinn's thoughts raced at a mile a minute. She'd barely landed and things were already moving very fast. But that was the pilot's lot. She took a deep breath and tried to do what Dahlia'd told her to do so many times in sparring. She was too set on looking at each individual piece. She needed to focus and see the whole picture. Backing up to buy even just a little bit of time, she scanned over the battlefield, trying to see it as a single holistic entity.

Okay. Smaller modir would hit her in about three seconds, it looked like. The other modir wasn't in any hurry, not nearly as much, but it was a threat from a distance. The rockets would get there in...three, or...no, two, right before the flail modir. The world seemed to crawl by as her thoughts raced like lightning. The flail modir was like Blotklau; if she shot it, there was no guarantee she would even hit it. And even if she did, then she wouldn't have time to avoid the rockets. She somehow needed to deal with both of them at the same time, with a single shot. It was all she had time for, after all. What could she...

Oh.

Ohhhh.

Her mind flicked back to a memory; blasting Roaki's axe away with her cannon, way back at the start of their duel. If that could be shot, then...

She brought her cannon to bear, aiming at the flail modir. She saw its course change, if only the slightest bit; yeah, it was ready to dodge at a moment's notice. So she needed to hit it with something it couldn't see. Her aim went up to it...and then past it. She could swear she saw it following it. Maybe confusion; what was this Savior doing? It would never hit.

But she wasn't aiming for the modir. She squeezed the trigger. The blast of white fire soared up above the flail modir...and slammed right into the shower of missiles that hung just above its head.

She barely had time to prepare for impact before the blast wave tore the field apart around them, sending what missiles it didn't impact spinning off into the sky. The entire upper half of the flail modir was consumed in a plume of brilliant white light. It screamed, an utterly inhuman sound that ran knives along Quinn's ears, and lost all composure, its sprint turning into a stumbling crash. She stepped to the side, letting it careen past her. Its head and torso were...well, ablaze, as it struggled to regain its feet. She brought her cannon to bear again, drawing a bead on it with a fierce satisfaction. One more shot should do. Once more, her cannon kicked and roared.

One down.

As the smoldering remains of the first Modir crumpled to the fields, the second took aim again. This time the salvo was much closer and angled much lower—so low in fact, that the first round of it impacted the brief stretch of dirt between them instantly in a bright, furious explosion that engulfed the monster entirely. The next volley came barreling at her through the heat and smoke, much too quickly for another interception, but also with less care given to aim. Many of the rounds flew past her, blasting her back with earth from behind but doing little else. Some, however, did hit their mark.

The briefest shock of pain exploded from her leg as a missile landed home at her thigh, before that hissing guard took hold and numbed it to an uncomfortable heat. Another hit her in the shoulder, tearing off a chunk of bicep, and another still burst beside her, scorching her ribs.

Quinnlash’s influence strained, the venom of agony seeped through, but only just.

Suddenly the Modir came charging through the smoke, colliding head-on with Ablaze and, being much heavier, tackled her easily to the ground. It did not, however, have the mind to pin her, or get her into a hold of any sort. It simply threw itself on top of her and began to wail on her with its claws, snarling and growling like a rapid animal.

“We’ve got more Modir coming!”

Through the numbing field, Quinn could feel her fury boiling. Of course there’s more.

And sure enough, two more Modir came rushing out of the singularity, full-tilt and bloodthirsty.

Ablaze's teeth locked together, clicking and straining in their gums as Quinn tried to throw the huge Modir off. But it was just that: huge. This was a bit of a blind spot in her training, admittely. She'd fought Roaki and Dahlia, mostly; oh, there were sims, of course, but sims only went so far in preparing you for the real thing. She was wholly unused to fighting someone who was just...much bigger. Not taller, because Dragon was taller; but heavier, bulkier. Massive. And though she hissed and spat and strained and clawed, she couldn't get the damn thing off of her. It was too close for her to shoot.

Although...hm.

Quinnlash's numbing aid was already straining; Quinn could feel it in the uncomfortable heat where she'd been charred, had little craters dug out of her flesh. What she was about to do may or may not strain it to snapping, which would be...unpleasant, extremely so. But she couldn't just sit here and let it tear her up. She needed to do something. So she wrapped her claws around the grip of her cannon, and aimed down, towards her feet.

Here's hoping.

Pop. pop. pop.

Three cannon shots rang out over the field. The first shifted her back. The second rattled the Modir's grip. They soared afar, in the same direction as the new Modir, but nowhere near them.

The third was what she needed.

The force of the kick finally did its work, and though a claw tore a long shallow furrow down her side as she went, she slid out from under the Modir like she'd been greased, skidding hundreds of feet on her back before she popped back up. She could feel the static starting to well. It wouldn't be long now. Just a minute, two minutes more. She popped another shot off, this time straight at the center mass of the rocket Modir.

Minutes always felt so long.

The Modir let off one more salvo, but Quinn’s shot was dead-on, striking the missiles as they clustered and blowing the monster’s chest apart, only for it to be utterly mulched in the explosion of its own artillery.

Two... came a gutteral anger so visceral Quinn could hear clear as day.

Not so clear was her view of the two newcomers. The second Modir’s demise had left a sizeable cloud of smoke and ash in its wake. Fire was beginning to spread through the fields, catching red once it touched the wheat and turning the ground into a carpet of flame.

Aside from the thundering footsteps growing ever closer, and the encroaching static of something beyond, these moments were nearly peaceful. Nearly.

Quinn!

An alien reflex wrestled with her, and managed just enough control to lurch her sidelong as a modium spear pierced the smoke like a bolt of lightning. It had been aimed for her head, but blessedly it missed; instead, it struck her cannon, right through the barrel. There was a low whine almost like that of a living thing, and then Quinn’s weapon burst into flames and crumbled into ash in her hands.

Inside her it was like a tether had snapped, but she knew it wasn’t permanent. Already it was reforming, strand by strand, but it would be some time before she could wrench her cannon back from the void—if she was lucky, it would be as she phased.

But as the agony of combat was keen to keep reminding her, minutes did always feel so long.

The two Modir cleared the smoke and charged her. The one who’d thrown the spear manifested it once again in its hands, and lunged to stab at her. The other, whose weapons appeared to be a pair of long blades extending backwards down its forearms, skirted around to flank her before dashing in as well.

Oh fuck.

So, so much of Quinn's strategy in combat revolved around her cannon. It was how he maneuvered, how she deflected, how she attacked, how she kept space. So as it crumbled to ashes in her hand, she downright felt her options decrease. This was something new; she'd never lost her weapon for more than a moment. And at that thought, a memory from the deep mists of time crept back.

If your weapons can't be relied upon, then you need to know how to kick and punch like you mean it.

Well, here was the test. She brought her hands up in the instinctive stance that she used when fighting, blind spot kept as far away from the enemies as possible, hands up in front. The icy grip of dread started to encroach on her heart, but with a fierce shake of her head, she shut it out. No. No. She was a pilot. She could do this. This is what they were born for.

The spear came at her first, and she dipped low, then brought her arm up elbow-first, catching it on the modium scutes that ran along her arm. She took advantage of the recoil to sneak in a low kick on the spear-wielding Modir's shin, and it made a vocalization of frustration and perhaps a little pain before Ablaze danced back and out of the way...

...Only to be caught off guard and barely slide to the side of the other Modir's vicious blades. This time she had less of a reach disadvantage so she snapped her leg out hard this time, catching its arm by the shoulder. She felt a pop, but unfortunately, it didn't seem like it had broken, just dislocated. Still, it gave her time to nip in and rake it across the back of the neck with her claws before she backed off again. And again, she was nearly impaled by the flying spear. As it was, it skated along her ribs, setting her teeth to snarling. They were coming again, this time faster, more together. The seconds ticked by.

One of the blades clattered against her leg, only barely caught on the scutes. She gave a silent thanks that Ablaze had them; life would've been much harder otherwise. Even then, she was rapidly being covered in small superficial wounds. Not enough to really be a danger, but enough to slow her down, and enough to pierce much more through the numbing field.

She forsook any opportunity to counterattack now; focusing solely on dodging. The thread of her cannon was growing stronger, but not fast enough. Never fast enough.

The seconds ticked by. The clock ticked down.

The submerged anger grew fiercer, but Quinn could feel it tugging on the strings of her own panic as well. They were on the backfoot, disarmed and outnumbered, and every second that passed saw their body whittled down more and more. Her sides flamed, her ankles were cut up and her balance suffered. Blood dripped down over her eyes, stung, messed with her vision.

Surely the phase was close; the static was louder, sure, but the truth was that time protracted in such close quarters. She still needed a minute, maybe more. Too long.

The bladed Modir kept on her, swiping and slicing, and whenever it missed, or Quinn managed to deflect its attacks, the spearman slunk in and jabbed to cover it. Its point caught her twice, thrice in the gut and chest, piercing organs that only people like Tillie really understood, but linked up with Ablaze Quinn could feel they were vital in some fashion. Modium poured from her, dousing the fire and salting the earth with poison where it landed.

We don’t die! came the indignant roar from within. We don’t give!

If she could only summon her cannon.

“Quinn! Two more!”

Two more.

They emerged, one bolting forth with an axe taller than it was raised above its head. The second took a knee far back, and though Quinn might have been preoccupied, she flared with urgency.

Quinn—!

But she was too late this time. A beam of energy, fired from a rifle of some kind, blasted through the gut of the bladed Modir, who staggered but did not die, and impacted Ablaze’s hand, shearing three of her fingers clean off. Quinnlash couldn’t catch it all, and pain, true pain, shot all the way up her shoulder and into her heart.

The rifleman stayed put, perhaps lining up another shot, but the spearman obfuscated her. The bladed Modir got back to its feet with an angry growl, gaping hole in its stomach.

Thirty seconds was an optimistic count.

“Quinn get up!” Besca shouted over the comms, desperate. “Get up, hun, just run! Just buy time, you gotta—”

The comms stuttered, and then there was the ping of someone joining their channel. Was it Deelie? No, a mental glance registered the newcomer as…

“ESC? Who is this?”

And, in a voice utterly wrecked by static and volume peaking, Besca got her answer.

“WOO—o…OOO—oOOO—H…oO—HOOOOOOO!

Sort of.

The quartet of Modir all stopped, their eyes turned skyward. A meteor plummeted to the earth, consumed by fire, and impacted the field between Quinn and the two newcoming Modir. The ground erupted in a geyser of dirt and fire, and as the smoke cleared, a lone figure rose within the crater.

It was a Savior, not quite as lean as Ablaze, but sleek and powerful. Its plating was red as fire, accented ivory over the modium-black flesh. A pair of horns, not too dissimilar to those on Dragon’s head struck out from its skull, and though all Modir wore a flayed rictus, this one truly seemed to grin as though exhilarated by every breath.

It reached an arm up, and yanked down a greatsword to rival itself in height. Yet, with the grace and ease with which one might wield a baton, it twirled the thing up and let it come to rest across its shoulders. Lazily, it glanced back to Quinn. If it weren’t for the fact that Saviors didn’t have eyelids, she might have been able to swear it winked at her.

“ESC Firebrand, reporting for duty.” A woman’s voice, though there was the pep and excitement of someone Quinn’s age in it. “Hope you don’t mind sharing some of the glory with me, Sparky.”

Firebrand shrugged the sword down like she was striking a match, and, appropriately, white fire burst to life and consumed the blade almost entirely. Ducking low, she dashed towards the axe-wielder and the rifleman. The latter wasted no time, taking aim and firing a round directly for her head. But she was low then, and quick as a wick, she rose up and leapt, torquing herself around into an aerial as the bullet sailed beneath her and into the ground. Landing with all the deftness of a dancer, she spun, brought her sword around with both hands and met the other Modir’s axe with a powerful swing, cleaving straight through its haft and turning it to ash just as they’d done to Quinn’s cannon.

Speaking of.

The tether reformed as the numbing wall around Quinn shrank considerably, but she would know instantly why. All of her effort went straight to the static that had grown deafening in the meanwhile, and while Quinn felt power both familiar and unimaginable flood through her, she was also granted the precious clarity to focus it.

Quinnlash phased.

Quinn could only stare dumbly at the new arrival, her entire body trembling as she realized she was no longer about to die. It might've been ESC. But at that moment, all Quinn could do was be happy she was still alive.

Speaking of, the sudden jerk of pain reminded her of that fact as she let the barrier fall greatly in intensity. She gasped and nearly doubled over as all of her aches and injuries ripped through her and she realized just how injured she really was. If Firebrand hadn't arrived, she would be...No. That's not a good thing to think about. Don't think about it. Because alongside the pain came something that was far more welcome. Her eye ignited with blazing white light, and she ripped the cannon from the aether with a savage roar, ichor-black spittle flying from her shredded jaws. She could feel its heart beat alongside her own alien thing, and the fire sweltered, swelled, and roared in her hands.

She started off. And though it was at first halting, eventually she adapted to the pain, and she regained a measure of her speed. Strafing left, she gritted her enormous maw. Her trigger finger was gone. How was she...?

But then...She breathed deep. She felt the cannon. She was linked to it, even deeper than the Savior. It was hers. Her own, despite how terrifying it might be. It was as much as part of her as her own hands and feet.

Using the trigger was stupid.

There. The rifleman. Trained on Firebrand, not paying attention to her at all. And with the impulse of a thought...

THOOM

Her phase-empowered cannon roared in her claws and the blast cut a massive flaming hole through the already wrecked wheat, and despite the sun above, it cast shadows against it with a horrifying and magnificent light that rampaged through the field.

When the light was gone, so was the rifleman.

...Three.

THREE! A scream in chorus with her own, furious, agonized and ecstatic.

Firebrand swerved, blazing sword cleaving through the axe-wielder’s torso, and then spearing through its head when it fell in pieces to the ground. “Nice shot! Let's go, that's what I like to see!” she roared over the comms—so loud, so energetic, like this wasn’t a fight for their lives.

The singularity weakened rapidly, collapsing on itself as Firebrand spun and sprinted back towards Ablaze. The spearman broke off, charging to meet her, and the woman’s laughter rang in Quinn’s ears. Their clash was brief. Firebrand twirled her blade, batting the spear aside and, raising her weapon high above her head, slammed it down and cleaved the monster in two.

The bladed Modir, however, kept its focus entirely on Quinn, claws outstretched, undeterred by her unbound power. It snarled, leaping at her with claws soaked in both of their blood, and dug them into her sides. But this was not the burly opponent from before, and though there was sharp and certain pain shocking through her, it would be nowhere near enough to topple Ablaze now.

Quinn actually grinned at that. A harried, awkward grin, and one that was massacred on a Savior's face, but a grin nonetheless. "You're pretty amazing, you know that?" The way the Euseran pirouetted and danced through the slaughter had a way of capturing the imagination, and she caught herself watching her for perhaps a bit longer than she should, until her attention was brought back to the front again.

The bladed Modir was running at her. One Modir, running at her. Her, Quinnlash Loughvein in all the fullness of her power. And at that, she laughed. A long, loud, bright laugh, the release of a terrible tension and an intense glee at fulfilling their purpose. And instead of hanging back like it perhaps expected...she dashed at it. Fast. It didn't have the range to hit her now, and she was fully phased. She knew exactly what she was doing. As they drew together, it leapt for her.

Only to be met with the barrel of her cannon slamming into its chest like a solid metal battering ram. She felt bones crack and organ rupture under the pressure. But only for a split second. A moment later, there was another tremendous report, another brilliant searing flash of light that tore into the sky, and chunks of Modir that had been blown apart but not fully caught in the blast raining down for hundreds of feet around. She snarled her laugh into a pseudo-smiling rictus.

FOUR!

But after that, her voice dropped off, and silence fell. Because it was...

It was...

Over.

There were no more Modir coming at her. There was nothing else to fight, no other weapons questing for her guts. The singularity collapsed.

Quinn stood there a moment more, breathing heavily, holding her agonized torso and who knew what other wounds. Her voice, when she spoke to Firebrand, was choked with effort and pain and emotion. "Thanks, Firebrand. I...thank you."

She closed her eye. She'd already been phased for a little while. Anything else would be an unnecessary risk. She tapped into the Aerie comms: "I'm okay, Besca. I'm...I made it. I'm okay."

Then, Quinnlash Loughvein disconnected.

FOUR! came the echo.

And then after it, silence. Another heart beat in tandem with Quinn’s, another set of muscles not her own suddenly relaxed. She could feel someone draped over her like a blanket, exhausted, but as euphorically pleased as she was with what they had done. Together.

“God—” Besca’s voice choked over the comms. “I’m…yeah you are, hun. You are. Just—”

A triumphant holler from Firebrand interrupted her, and even that was drowned out by the bestial howl the Savior unleased with her. A brief jolt of fight or flight struck Quinn from within, and then the cockpit lurched, suddenly and with enough force to knock her onto the ground. Laying there, she could feel Ablaze being raised off its feet, into the air, and hear something squeezing it.

“Atta girl!” the woman cheered in her ear. “Bring her in!”

Was…

Was Firebrand hugging her?

Moments later the cockpit jostled again as, presumably, she was set back down. There was an awkward silence, before the woman piped up again.

“Oh, shit—did you disconnect already? Hey, my bad, you alright in there? Sorry, I get a little excited sometimes, head gets away from me. You totally killed it out there though—not that I’m surprised! You’re Quinnlash, right? Quinnlash Loughvein? I’m a big fan of the way you blow shit up and don’t murder people.”

More rustling, and even without being able to see, Quinn could likely tell what was going on—Firebrand was shaking Ablaze’s hand.

“It's an absolute pleasure to meet you. I'm Axan Dane.”

Quinn lay on the ground, almost in a daze. Firebrand. Axan Dane. The words existed in her head, but her mental real estate was a bit occupied right now as she closed her eye, letting the horrific pain that had been eating through her core fade away as her real sensations took over, and the mystery sound that she never heard but only knew that she couldn't anymore stopped feeling so odd. She talked over the comms, but sounded odd, almost a bit dreamy, mechanical, like the world wasn't entirely real.

'Uh huh. I'm Quinn. You too."

She'd thought she was going to die. She had been so certain she was going to die. That she was never, ever going to see her family again. She'd fought six Modir. She'd killed four. It just...really didn't feel fully real.

She spoke again, this time sounded a little more grounded, but critically exhausted, if filled with gratitude. "Thanks. Again. You saved my life, you didn't need to. So...thanks." She was pretty sure she couldn't reasonably sit on Ablaze's shoulder like she usually like to, given that the entire Savior was probably completely covered in ichor from countless flesh wounds. She flexed the fingers on her right hand; in absolute darkness, she had to grab it with her left before she could fully convince her mind that her body was still intact.

Then, again, to the Aerie: "Can someone come get me out? I'm really really tired." And if she connected again she was going to feel a lot of pain. A lot of pain.

So instead, she lay there on the cool metal floor, and spoke aloud into the darkness:

"We did it."

Four Modir. Four.

"We make a good team."

Dahlia vomited, again. The first time had been from the nausea, typical following protracted bouts in the cockpit. This time it was the pain, while Follen sat behind her with a beam-scalpel, excising a brand-new growth in her shoulder.

“Steady, Deelie. Almost done.”

He’d said that three minutes ago, but somehow she still believed him. He had that way about him. At least no one could see her like this—sat on the floor over a steel pan, shirt hiked over her shoulders, filthy with her own blood, sweat and sick. Or rather, at least no one unwelcome. They sat behind the massive cubby of Dragon’s holding, and the hangar crew always did a good job of keeping the looky-loos and the amateur videographers out.

A hollow clinking as a chunk of black metal fell into the pan. “There we go,” he said soothingly, though the pain didn’t stop. “That’s the most of it out, just cleaning up the edges, then we’ll get you sealed.”

“Where…” she gagged, swallowed down hot bile.”Where’s Quinn?”

“Exactly where she was five minutes ago. And the five before that.”

“There could be more…”

“There’s no more. And if there are, I’m told the Euseran Savior is waiting for her to leave first.”

He’d meant it as reassurance, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Altruism from a Euseran pilot? They’d already proven otherwise just today, when the ESC didn’t move an inch to help until RISC did. Even then, they only showed up to the singularities that seemed at the time to be the least problematic, save for whatever had happened at Quinn’s.

Now her sister was alone down there with one of them. It was almost enough to make her puke. Again. God, at the very least she wouldn’t have to see her like this.

Follen set his scalpel aside, and someone came round to carry off the pan and the modium chunk. She felt the needle prick of another numbing shot, hardly a register after being carved like a turkey. A cold, thick fluid filled the cavity in her shoulder, and it sent a shiver all the way down to her bones. Then an adhesive pad was laid over the wound, a long-term stopper to give the concoction time to rebuild the flesh and muscle.

“There, all ready for the cameras,” Follen said, standing up behind her and peeling the gloves off his hands. Her blood was all over his shirt, his pants, his arms, but he didn’t seem the least bit bothered. Fallout of being a surgeon, she supposed—it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen worse, often. “You know the drill. Few days’ rest, then minimal motion for a week until the scar fades.”

She wiped her lips, spit stomach acid into the pan and nodded. “Thanks.”

He bowed his head, then left her there. No one else came by; they knew by now to give her space. There’d be time enough for congratulations and interviews later, when she wasn’t in burning pain. When her sister was home.

---

Once again, Quinn was not alone in the dark. The cold and pulsing walls of the cockpit shifted around her as the lift brought Ablaze up through the atmosphere, and molded into the shadows was the shape of herself.

She smiled. That sense of elation, that overwhelming pride. How much was alien, and how much was simply her own, bolstered. “So perfect,” her words blurred into the air, into her ears. “We did it. They come to take and we take from them. They think we’re weak. But we’re not. We’re real! We’re real, and no one can say we’re not.

“We’re monsters’ monsters.”

Childish giggling filled the cramped space, lingering even after she retreated into Quinn’s mind. Eventually the lift stopped, followed by the familiar, muted sound of the Aerie’s seal shutting.

Light rushed her as she pushed the hatch open. Light, and the absolute thunder of cheering. The crew were scattered all around the hangar, clapping, hollering, trying to glimpse her as the scaffold platforms pushed up against Ablaze’s form.

Modious blood seeped from its wounds, flooding into the multiple drains at its feet. On the platform, a dozen or so people waited, all wearing the same orange hazard suits she’d seen before. One of them waved both her arms in uncontrollable glee, and through the tinted faceguard Quinn would still be able to tell it was Tillie.

As she stepped onto solid ground once again, another voice pierced the applause.

“Quinn!”

Down below, standing at the center of the hangar was Dahlia. She looked…rough. Smeared with blood and grim, arm in a sling, hair a mess, but the way she smiled it might as well have been the happiest day of her life. She waved with her good arm, screaming again.

“Quinn!”

Quinn blinked owlishly as she overlooked the hangar. Half from the sudden brilliant light with her pupil the size of a dinner plate, half from exhaustion, it was all a little...surreal. Not the least of which, well, the applause. The cheering. The people in hazmat suits surrounding her, bringing the cheering even closer--she couldn't help but grin when she recognized Tillie. It reminded her of that time she went down for the interview and all the fans were there waiting with signs of Ablaze. Except these weren't fans--or, at least that kind of fan. These were people she worked with, people hat she talked to on a semi-regular basis since she started her daily visits. It brought a sudden surge of warmth to her chest. She took a few unsteady-ish steps over to the railing and waved out at the people down below, and the cheering redoubled.

And then, of course--

"Quinn!"

Quinn's exhausted eye sprang open as she spied her sister, and the fear that she'd felt down there--that she'd never see her again--once again was at the forefront of her mind. But there she was. A little rough, but there she was!

Tired as she was, she still whirled on her heel in a more coordinated feat than she usually would've been capable of, then bulled straight through the technicians and onto the lift. She hopped from foot to foot, suddenly filled with nervous energy that had previously eluded her after the adrenaline had dropped. She needed to be on the ground, now!

After what felt like eons, she finally, finally stepped down on the hangar floor again. It had barely been a few minutes since she'd been here last, really; yet it felt like hours, days, in large part because of who was waiting for her. Largely ignoring the cheering onlookers, she jammed right through them as well until she eventually arrived at her destination.

Walking up in front of the injured Dahlia, Quinn felt an absurdly powerful urge to throw her arms around her and tackle her to the ground and never ever let go. But, again, she was injured, so that was right out. Instead, she walked slowly up to her and wrapped her arms tightly around her, weaving around and avoiding the shoulder and arm and burying her head in the opposite crook of her neck the same way she always did, if significantly more gentle.

"I'm home."

She was so happy she didn't even realize she was sobbing.

Dahlia cursed the fact that she didn’t really have two arms to work with just then, but she wasn’t about to let a little pain stop her from holding Quinn as close as was physically possible. Her good arm wrapped around her pulled her in so tight she felt the pad on her back straining, and her undershirt grew wet on the shoulder. She didn’t care.

“I couldn’t—they wouldn’t—all they told me was you were still fighting! Then I saw it on the TV, there were so many! I’m sorry I’m so sorry, we had another one open near us, I couldn’t get up here in time to help.” She pulled back, hand clasped on Quinn’s cheek. Her eyes flashed, scanned her over for wounds, anything bleeding, anything serious. “God I thought you were gonna die. They said six came out I thought…I thought Eain might…”

She still saw that Modir in her dreams. Saw it stalking towards Quinn, and all she could do was lie there helpless and broken. She’d tried so hard, put in so much time since then, and it hadn’t mattered at all. Quinn had been alone, and vulnerable, and…

And she’d lived anyway.

Dahlia looked at her again, really looked at her. Tear-streaked, dirty, exhausted, and yes, beaten hard by the enemy but undeniably alive. Victorious. Her sister had stood against deathly odds most pilots would never have walked away from. It struck her with sudden, incredible shame that she might have, in some way, been thinking of her as weak.

Who could have been more wrong?

Dahlia pulled her in again, breathing her lungs empty. “Love you so much,” she wheezed. “You were always coming back. Always.”

Quinn wasn't exactly sure how long she and Dahlia stood there, wrapped around each other. It could've--was probably--only a few minutes, but time felt like it had come unbuttoned from the rest of the world. Like everything was on pause, and she and her sister were the only things left moving in the whole universe; everything else just faded away, and the entire world hinged around the two of them.

"I love you too," she sobbed, clutching tighter, clinging on for dear life. "I'll always come back."

What Dahlia said might not have been as powerful--though of course, anything Dahlia did was powerful for Quinn--but not that powerful, if Quinn hadn't also thought that she was going to die. Right around the time that the rifle Modir blasted her fingers off, she became convinced that she wasn't going to make it out of there. It was only the intervention of Axan Dane--

Though she was loathe to pull away from Dahlia, she did, just a little. She kept in contact, but pulled her head back enough that she could look her sister in her equally tearful eyes. She wanted to ask about the ESC pilot, the woman that had dropped from the sky like a meteorite to save her life. But looking her in her eyes, she realized that she didn't want to talk about her. She didn't want to pull Dahlia's attention everywhere. All she wanted to do, all she cared even the slightest whit about at that moment, was getting checked up by Doctor Follen and then spending as much time with her family as was physically possible.

But that was something that could come in a bit, and she could take when it came. Because at this exact moment, the only thing she cared about in the world was hugging Dahlia.

So, only a moment after she pulled back to see the worry and relief in her eyes...that's what she did.