Roaki flinched again. Well, Quinn wasn’t crying anymore at least, but, was this better? Anger, grief, even merciful vengeance, she had tasted all of them. But gratitude? A wholly alien dish, whose flavor she didn’t know if she wanted to swallow, or spit back out like the poison she figured it was.

The list of things you did to your enemies was short and simple: you killed them. The list of things you did not do was much longer, and complex—a frustration she had expertly avoided by following the Do list. You didn’t spare them, unless you meant to torture them. You didn’t talk with them, unless you meant to insult them. You didn’t eat with them, unless it was their last meal or you meant to poison them. And you most certainly didn’t thank them, unless…

Well, she couldn’t even think of a reason.

Quinn had to be careful. If she stopped treating Roaki like an enemy, she’d lose sight of the fact that they were supposed to kill each other.

“Whatever,” she said with a click of her tongue. “Better than crying all over my sheets, I guess. Just don’t forget about it—you need to act while you’re still mad. Otherwise you’ll get yourself all worked up, then bitch out at the last second. And that blows.”

Eventually Dahlia emerged from her room, calmed but exasperated. “I’m cooking tonight,” she called. “Gonna try to get the smell of my laundry out of the kitchen. What’re you feeling like?”

“Meat!” Roaki shouted.

“There is no world where that question was ever directed at you,” Dahlia said. “Quinn? What’s your stomach rumblin’ for?”

With the laundry situation over and done with and Dahlia calm, Quinn sank down further into her chair, throwing the crook of her elbow over her face as she tamped down the entire nightmarish half an hour she'd just had. Really, it would be so much better to completely forget everything that had happened after she'd hugged her sister in the hangar. All the complicated junk that everyone (her included, of course) had to deal with now. At least for a while.

All the while, she pondered what Dahlia had asked. What did she want to eat? At that exact moment, she was pretty sure that she couldn't stomach much, but she knew as well as anyone that she'd need to eat eventually. She heaved a long sigh, trying to think back to things that she'd seen made, or seen in cookbooks and coming up with very little. She sighed again, then dragged her arm away from her face and hauled herself to her feet, making a beeline towards the kitchen. If she couldn't remember any of the recipes she'd seen or anything she really wanted to eat, then she'd just need to scan the cookbooks until she found something.

Plucking a book from the small shelf on a whim, she found herself looking at a book of Lombardi recipes. Plunking it down on the kitchen table, she popped it open to a random page, but found nothing interesting. She let her cheek rest on her hand, turning the pages as she tried to find something she wanted to eat.

Oh, hey, that looked good!

She perked up, instantly paying more attention to the picture, then the name, then glancing over the list of ingredients. Without looking up, she called out,

"Hey, Deelie...? Have you ever heard of something called 'fettucine alfredo' before?"

Dinner was…strange. Not bad, but certainly off. The girls had no doubt grown used to the relentlessness of Besca’s work stealing her away some nights, but after such a momentous day, the dorm felt distinctly lesser without her to eat with them.

Dahlia tried her best with the recipe, but was still a learner and with Lombardi cuisine she was treading new ground. The sauce was a bit thick, the noodles a more standard spaghetti, and the garnish decidedly past its expiry date, but with Quinn beside her at the stove, eventually, dinner was served. She even haphazardly threw some leftover chicken in the microwave for Roaki’s plate. It was unseasoned and practically bone-dry—Roaki didn’t care, she ate it with the same ravenous vigor that she ate everything she’d eaten since leaving the medical ward.

Together they all sat at the counter, eating in intermittent silence. The TV stayed off, but Dahlia put on some music from her own playlist—an assortment of smooth, jazzy piano numbers, and what might have been acoustic covers of metal songs. They talked briefly about the singularities, but Dahlia quickly turned them to lighter, mundane topics. Roaki quite literally licked her plate clean, sparing them whatever horrific contributions she might have made to the conversation.

As they finished up, Quinn handled the dishes while Dahlia found a movie to put on, and set up the couch. An old romcom she’d watched a few times with Safie—something she elected not to mention as Quinn nestled into the pillows and blankets. Unsurprisingly, Roaki hobbled herself back to her own room and shut the door, which didn’t bother Dahlia in the slightest. She curled in beside Quinn under the blankets, happy as could be.

Neither of them stayed awake to the end.

---

Calm waters on the lake. The boat floated upon the moon’s perfect reflection, so bright it seemed the light was rising up out of the lake. In the distance, Hovvi was alive with the same ambiguous activity that, normally, Quinn would never have paid mind to. Tonight, though, she was aware of it—of the slight but pervasive offness that reminded her she was asleep, and this was a dream.

On the shore, the towering form of Ablaze sat with its legs dangling in the water. The pale deer sat at its side, a white smudge comparatively.

A soft, excited giggling filled the air.

“We’re real,” came her own, familiar voice, as Quinnlash appeared sitting across from her on the boat. Her face beamed with childish glee, in her hands she held tight onto a pouch of juice—melonberry. Between them was a small cooler filled with more. “Look what we did. We protected everyone. We killed the monsters. We did it and it felt so right!”

She took a long sip from her drink, squeezing the pouch empty with a contented sigh, before breaking into another fit of giggles.
“It’s our purpose. Helping. Saving. Protecting. We did it. We did it together.”

Quinn took a long, deep breath, staring up at the perfect night sky that hovered above them. The faraway Hovvi moved with a dreamy blur, and her heart squeezed with what in the waking world might be pain, as vague, scattered memories of a sunny day months back passed behind her eye. But the memories were quiet, and the pain was eclipsed; not only by the deadening effect of the dream, but by her own pride alongside Quinnlash's. And her each word rang true: Quinn nodded and stretched, taking another deep breath.

"Yeah.. Her voice was quiet and warm, and she looked down on the little her with a smile that was gentle, but no less happy. "Yeah, we did it." They'd done it. They really had. They had lived up to what it meant to be Ablaze. Screw all the people telling her that she'd done something wrong by crediting someone with saving her life. The same people had told her to either kill Roaki outright, or leave her for dead. Sure, Axan Dane was a Euseran, and from what she'd seen, the Euseran Reputation was well-earned. But as far as Quinn could tell, Axan had dropped into danger, saved her life, and asked for nothing in return.

Plus, she also didn't like dueling, it seemed, and in Quinn's book? That was a win right there.

She stood from her seat, ambling over to the cooler and pulling out a pouch of melonberry juice. Popping the straw in, she took a long drink, and the nostalgia and memory of that day that felt so long ago--the good parts--filled her up like nothing else. Looking up at the stars again, she smiled softly.

"It's so beautiful."

As time made its convoluted way along, measured by the glow of the moon and the blackness of the water, Quinnlash was a good host. They fished with blunt bait, drank pouch after pouch of melonberry, and watched as the shadowy figures of Deelie and Safie swam to and from the boat, laughing and chatting, saying things that were honey to hear but did not quite stick to the mind. Few details ever did, and often these dreams faded altogether in her first waking moments; but this one would be different. This one, Quinn would remember.

As the world began to blur, and untangle, Quinnlash smiled at her one more time. On the distant, hilly shore, the white deer rose from its rest and shambled off, casting a final look their way. As it vanished beyond the crest, to lands unreal or unmade, the dream ended.

---

“This is bullshit.”

Besca could feel the spirit leave Toussaint’s body over the phoneline. The man was exhausted, and she ought to have had more empathy for him—he had, after all, been perhaps the only one in Casoban fighting to maintain the alliance with Runa—but after five days of nonstop conference calls, haggard negotiations, and incessant reminders that the fate of her country relied on her ability to not fuck this up, she wasn’t sure she had anything left to give. Even her indignation was exasperated, resigned.

After five days they had a deal. It was a shit deal, but it was the only alternative to the immediate dissolution of their alliance, and more importantly, the only thing keeping Casoban from running gleefully and permanently into the arms of Eusero.

And as was the way these days, even victory felt like defeat.

“It’s what we have,” Toussaint said with a sigh. His voice was hoarse and quiet, he’d slept as little as she had. “It’s all they’d agree to.”

“It’s still bullshit.”

“You may be willing to starve for pride, Darroh, but I will gladly eat shit if it means my country survives—without being cannibalized by Eusero.”

She laid her head down on the table, and Toussaint let her groan and swear until they were left in silence.

“Darroh,” he probed, eventually.

Besca sat back upright, pulled over her tablet. “Give me the details.”

There was shuffling on the other end as Toussaint sifted through what must have been twice his weight in papers; she had a similar stack occupying every other seat and half the table on the bridge. Neither of them had read through the finer points of the deal entirely, their job had just been to craft the mold, and prove it could be done at all.

“You’ll send Loughvein first—”

“Oh fuck off.”

“It’s not negotiable,” he said, and went on before she could object further. “Loughvein first. She’ll do three weeks, then return to RISC, and you’ll send St. Senn over next. Three weeks, rotate, repeat, until six months have elapsed, or Casoban has replaced the Saviors and pilots it’s lost since the attack on Hovvi. Whichever comes second.”

“But no more than a year.”

“It’s two years—we talked about this before dinner last night.”

“Fuck,” Besca muttered, scrolling through the notes on her screen. Indeed it was two years, though she hardly remembered agreeing to it. “Fine, whatever. If it takes you two years to replace a few Saviors, you’re fucked anyway.”

A sigh. “Right. During their rotations here, they are, for all intents and purposes, CSC pilots. They will receive no orders from RISC and will have no direct contact with any Runan officials.”

“Except me.”

“You are almost the dictionary definition of a Runan official.”

“You’ll make an exception.”

“For the Commander of RISC? You don’t think that might present an opportunity for conflict?”

“I won’t call as their fucking Commander then,” she said. “But I will be calling.”

“Darroh—”

“Or it’s off, Toussaint. Restrict the time, monitor the calls—I don’t care, but I said this the moment you pitched the idea. I get contact.”

“I can…” he paused, sighed. “I can probably squeeze in some sort of wellness check. Happy?”

“No.”

“Me neither. As I was saying, while they’re here they belong to us. That means they close singularities, they fight duels, they run fucking marathons if that’s what it comes down to.”

“You put Quinn on TV, you’ll regret it. Girl’s not cut out for the spotlight.”

“Noted. Not my call, and whoever I tell will ignore it, but, noted.”

“And the alliance stands?”

“The alliance already stands. I’m told this will go a long way in ensuring that doesn’t change. That’s all I’m told.”

Besca swiped harshly on her tablet, then shut it off. “Sent you my signature. Seal it. How long do I have?”

“If I can get this cleared today, they’ll likely want her here tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Toussaint.”

“Commander Darroh.”

She hung up, took a deep breath, then leapt to her feet and threw her chair onto the ground with a loud “Fuck!”

Every cell in her body screamed for rest, but they’d been doing that for days and she could ignore them a little while longer. There was so much to do; get back to the Board, arrange transport, alert the PR department who would cram three weeks’ worth of emergency meetings into the next ten hours finding a way to spin this as a win to the Runan public. She would do none of them—not yet.

Instead she bolted for the dorms, driven faster by every wasted second. It was early, she half expected Deelie to be off in sims, and Quinn to still be asleep. But as she burst into the common room, all three of them were sat at the counter, eating. The air smelled of pancakes and syrup.

Eyes turned to her, happy, confused, concerned. She wished she could have smiled back.

“Girls,” she said, finally aware of how ragged she was. “I’ve got news.”

Besca hugged her tightly, and though it seemed like minutes, it still wasn’t anywhere near long enough. When she let go, Dahlia swooped in and squeezed Quinn like a buoy in a storm, and she guessed it would take a crowbar to pry her away before she was ready. Besca couldn’t blame her, they’d been given no time at all to prepare, and she doubted either of them had gotten much, if any, sleep.

The logical part of her knew it wouldn’t be that bad, and that when stacked against the alternatives, this was perhaps one of the better outcomes. She wasn’t dying, and RISC hadn’t lost her per se. The point was to rebuild trust between Runa and Casoban, both ways, and if they were going to treat each other like allies again then there shouldn’t be anything to fear.

But she was very, very afraid.

The hangar was empty, save for the three of them. Roaki had said goodbye in the dorms, but it was clear to Besca that the girl didn’t quite understand what was happening. Not exactly shocking, and though it was tempting to tell her, not kindly, that Quinn being sent away was her fault, it wouldn't have helped anything and regardless, she wasn't even certain that was true anymore.

Dragon stood stoically in its cove, but Ablaze had already been shipped down and moved over to the CSC’s station, The Ange. They had requested Quinn come down separately, and a glance at the TV this morning had showed that there was some sort of welcoming party waiting for her at the landing site. She wanted to accompany her, but the Board had her shackled here managing their side of the transition, and Dahlia wouldn’t be allowed to get any further from Dragon than absolutely necessary until all this business was finished.

Speaking of.

The girls separated, Dahlia wiping her eyes, but keeping on a brave face all things considered. Besca checked the time, frowned. She went back over to Quinn.

“I’m gonna call you tonight, okay? Before bed, once you’re settled in. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.” She ran a hand through Quinn’s hair, forced herself to smile and even made it look real. “I know it’s gonna be scary at first, but so was coming here, right? Think of this like…like you’re sleeping over. That’s all. I’ve worked with some of Casoban’s folks before, alright? You’re gonna be in good hands, I promise. First few days’ll feel long, but then it’ll go by in a snap. Just…” she pulled her in again, sighed. There were words on the tip of her tongue that Quinn deserved to hear, but that just wouldn’t form. “Just remember everything we talked about. You’re gonna do just fine, hero.”

There wasn’t much left to say. She let Dahlia give her another long goodbye, but when the calls started coming in, they had to wrap it up. Today was not the day to push their luck.

With its usual fanfare of lights and alarms, the elevator opened, and Quinn, alone with her luggage, descended down towards Illun. For a while there was nothing but void around her, eerily similar to the lake she couldn’t escape. Through the hardlight boundary the expanse was still, without even a ripple to disturb it.

A longing pulled at her, reaching up back towards the Aerie, only to wilt as they plunged further and further away. It wrapped itself around her, seeking warmth and comfort.

The world drew closer, Casoban expanded beneath her. They weren’t dropping near a dueling site, or a crater, or the ruined land of a singularity. It looked like farmland, massive squares of crop fields all knit together into an agricultural quilt big enough to drape over a city. At the furthest end, where the elevator appeared to be leading her, was a manicured crescent of trees—an orchard of some kind. As she drew near, she could see a blot sharpening into a crowd, cordoned off some ways away from the landing zone.

Eventually the elevator came to a rest, and she saw that there was a second, smaller gathering awaiting her. Thirty or so people, all in the cream and gold uniforms of the CSC, stood under a constructed arch of shrubbery and brilliant flowers. As the hardlight boundary flickered away, the morning breeze greeted her, and there was a sudden roaring.

No—that was cheering.

They were cheering. Applauding. A banner beneath the arch unfurled, and upon the canvas was a strikingly beautiful painting of Ablaze, with Quinn standing on its shoulder, braid flaring in the wind. Another dropped just above it that read: WELCOME QUINNLASH.

The unease coiled within her slackened in confusion as the excitement settled. Gentle orchestral music began to play through speaker stacks, and a familiar face stepped forward. The man was short, his hair was thin, but overall he seemed more put-together than the last time she’d seen him. He wore a sharp, more decorative cut of the uniform, and even his moustache was combed and shiny with product.

“Quinnlash Loughvein,” Toussaint said grandly. “Casoban welcomes you, enthusiastically and with open hearts!”

The crowd exploded again, and Toussaint stepped over, guiding her off of the elevator. The hardlight boundary sprang back to life behind her, and the platform rose back into the air, homeward bound. They came to stand alongside a small offshoot of about a dozen people, some military, some wearing the patches of technicians.

A boy and a girl who didn’t appear much older than Quinn herself stood at attention, both smiling, whispering excitedly between themselves as she walked past. They wore the same uniforms, but a pilot’s undersuit poked up beneath their collars. Another woman, who had neither cheered nor applauded, regarded Quinn more evenly. Her uniform was different, a mesh of cloth and armor. Spaulders adorned her shoulders, and down her left arm were scales of metal plating leading into a gauntlet. Her right arm was obscured behind a shortcloak, but her hand rested calmly upon the hilt of an ornate rapier.

The last noteworthy individual approached. He looked younger than Toussaint, with fuller, darker hair and a face much less lined with stress. His sharp goatee was perfectly trimmed, and his eyes were bright despite being entirely organic. His suit was an oceanic blue, lined with the same cream white as the CSC uniforms, and on his lapel were a small grouping of pins; the Casobani flag, the symbol of the Illun Accord, and finally, the sigil of the Prime Minister.

He reached out and took her hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Olivier Moroux,” he said. “Casoban is delighted to have you, miss Loughvein. I want to extend my sincerest thanks for your heroism. I think we can all sleep a little more soundly knowing you’re protecting us.”

There was a moment of silence. The only ones close enough to hear them were Toussaint and the three or four security personnel behind Moroux. Looking around, there were no cameras besides those belonging to the press, who were much too far away to capture anything more than their shaking hands. This didn’t appear to be a show, nor did there seem to be any expectation for her to perform, like she had in the other interviews.

She was, however, expected to respond.

On her trip down the elevator, Quinnlash cried. How could she not?

How long ago had she told Dr. Follen that she never wanted to leave the Aerie? That it had really become her home? She wasn't exactly sure, but she knew that it wasn't very long ago at all. Up there, in that hanging station that she watched recede into the darkness of space above her, was the only real home that she'd ever had, and the only people she'd ever really loved.

And now she was leaving. Being made to leave. So how could she not cry?

But still...she was about to do something incredibly important. So, as the trip down dragged on and her final hug with Dahlia and Besca stayed fresh in her memory, she grit her teeth, wiped her eyes, and dried her tears. By the time she reached the surface of Casoban--for the third time, she realized, once she'd gotten on the Aerie she'd been to Casoban more than she'd been to Runa--all that remained of the tears that she cried was a faint, vague redness around her eye that could easily be excused as nerves or sleeplessness, or even dismissed entirely.

And it was a good thing too, as she was led through the unbelievably loud crowd by Toussaint, the only Casobani person that she recognized in person, to a small cadre of the Very Important People. Toussaint, commander of the CSC. Pilots, new and veteran. And...the Prime Minister of Casoban. As he reached forward to shake her small hand, a small part of her--not Quinnlash, but her--was suddenly filled for the barest moment with a searing rage that this man had taken her away from her family.

But it only lasted a fraction of a fraction of a second before fading into gray ashes as she shook his hand back.

“Olivier Moroux,” he said. “Casoban is delighted to have you, miss Loughvein. I want to extend my sincerest thanks for your heroism. I think we can all sleep a little more soundly knowing you’re protecting us.”

As the handshake stopped, Quinn found her voice locked again. Just like it had been at the end of Mona's--like somebody was throttling her throat closed, strangling the air from her body. She felt suddenly like she couldn't breathe as the first fragments of a blinding panic started to rise within her...

...before she shut them down. Hard.

This was the only chance she had. The only way she could make things right after the disastrous fallout of her first, and so far only, duel. She had to do it, and she had to do it right, because EVERYTHING was riding on it. So she punched the rising hysteria down within her mercilessly, and forced a smile that was almost genuine out to her face.

I know you hate me, but...

"Thank you, Prime Minister Moroux," Her voice was quiet, but at least reasonably steady and self-assured, enough that she was almost surprised, though if you listened carefully there was still a noticeable quaver she couldn't quite shut down. "And thank you for this opportunity." What else should she say? Should she say anything else? Having all these unfamiliar eyes was taxing already. What was she supposed to say in front of them?

"I hope I can live up to the standards of your amazing Savior Corps, and I look forward to working with all of you."

The ceremonies didn’t last much longer; there was, undercurrent to everything, an urgent air, not pronounced enough to notice, but present enough to feel. After the recent, sudden attacks, it seemed like having the pilots separated from their Saviors, even so briefly, caused a degree of anxiety amongst the commanding officials. In the same way Dahlia was now all but glued to the Aerie and Dragon, it seemed like Quinn would seldom be away from Ablaze unless there were other pilots available.

So, when the lift landed once again, Quinn and the denizens of the Ange bid goodbye to the crowd with a fairly tame farewell. Toussaint positioned himself beside Quinn, who he sequestered towards the edge of the lift, so that he stood between her and the rest of the crew. Commander Darroh had made it quite clear to him that the girl was easily flustered, but even without the warning, he’d seen that well enough for himself at the duel.

Thankfully, aside from some wayward glances, everyone kept their distance. He’d instructed as much, but, with pilots you never could know what they would and wouldn’t listen to. Especially with the new blood. Camille had always followed orders well, but Sybil and Cyril were young celebrities—which, after Hovvi, was not a sort he would blindly trust any longer. Even now they stood shoulder to shoulder, glancing back at Quinn with poorly-hidden intrigue, muttering to one another like school children in the back of a classroom. He did not envy Darroh the daycare RISC had become.

They drew closer to the Ange, now visible through the hardlight barrier above them. Unlike the utilitarian Aerie, built around the stripped corpse of Westwel’s old station, the Ange was an original work, and like most things from Casoban, it was a work of art. It was easily twice the size of the Aerie, wide, disc-shaped, like a tiered dessert saucer awash with lights and viewports as tall as houses. Curving buttresses swept out from the base, around the entrance to the elevator, and encircling the whole station was a ring housing what appeared to be a monorail system. If the Aerie was a town, then the Ange was a small city.

With a smoothness like butter, the elevator eased into the hangar. Even for a place that was ostensibly entirely practical, it was still beautiful. The ceiling was vaulted like a cathedral, and the alcoves for the Saviors—all close to the platform—were shaped like stone pillars, though they were undoubtedly metal. Tiny trucks and forklifts scooted about on roads painted onto the floor, elegant and organized. A small cluster of workers stood about nearby, pretending to be busy. Toussaint had made similar orders that they not be crowded upon their return, and this was…close enough. Stargazing he could permit, especially considering many of the crew had families not too far from where Quinn had been fighting.

The platform sealed beneath them, and the barrier flickered away. To his relief, the crew—twins included—wandered off immediately to leave him and their newcomer alone. Only Camille lingered a moment, casting an impassive if appraising look at the young pilot, before marching away.

“Well,” Toussaint said with a long breath. “I suppose this has been a rather exciting day for you, and it’s hardly lunch. Speaking of…” he retrieved a small satchel from atop a nearby cargo box, which he offered to her. “Your onboarding package. Inside you’ll find a map of the station, complete with the operating and visitation hours—the Ange’s lower shopping floor is open to occasional tourism from the public, but mostly private, sector. You’ll be expected to make yourself visible—though not necessarily available—during these every now and then. If you’d like to allow interviews and autographs, I’d recommend scheduling a time and location, unless mobs are your thing.

“The floor directly above us belongs entirely to the pilots. Your dorms are in the western radius, recreational and private facilities are in the east. No other personnel aside from medical, security, and myself have access unless granted by you. The lift connects there,” he pointed to a hallway just beside the alcove Ablaze was stationed at. “And there is a second lift in the eastern radius that leads to the station’s upper floors. It’s quite a walk from one end to the other, so I’d suggest acquainting yourself with the monorail. There’s a smaller auto-walkway in the dormitory floor as well.

“There is a curfew. Pilots must be on their floor by midnight, but everything therein will remain open, and a small catering staff will be on call in the event you find your amenities to be insufficient. You are welcome to any of the Ange’s restaurants, but private chefs are available, and eager.

“I suppose this goes without saying but, you and all the pilots are always on call. That goes for singularities, yes, but also for public events. At your commander’s request I’ve seen to it you have no mandatory appearances for your first two weeks, but I can make you no guarantees after that. If I might offer my advice, I would try to attend something before that point, whether you interact with the public directly or not.

“Other than that, you are, essentially, free as you please. I’ll do my best to make myself available to you should any concerns arise, but I do beg your understanding for any delays, as things have been…hectic, as of late.” He gestured to Ablaze then, entombed in scaffolding, upon which men and women in lab coats scurried about like ants. “As you can see, your Savior was transported safely. My people are running tests as a formality, and they will, of course, see to any emergency issues, but your own technicians should arrive tomorrow to do their part.

“Do you have any questions? Is there anything I can clear up for you, or do to make your settling here easier?”

Quinn stared out into space and blinked.

When the elevator had docked into the Ange, a part of her had truly expected the hangar to be, if not almost exactly like the Aerie's, at least something she was used to: functional, utilitarian, spartan. Metal girders, exposed struts, a ceiling that, though cavernous, was plain. The familiar air of...not chaos, that wasn't the word. Some kind of friendly disorder. The sound of people chattering, the smell of oil.

That was decidedly not what greeted her.

She had never in her life seen anything like this, not even remotely. This enormous cathedraline space, the stone facades, the almost eerie order, this...she didn't exactly know what to call it, she knew what she thought it was, but she didn't think she knew exactly the word to describe it. Was this what all the other nations' Savior Corps looked like? It was like being fancy, but it was the fancy version of what something fancy would be. Double fancy. Fancy squared.

She was so occupied staring openmouthed at the sheer volume of stuff all around her that she barely noticed when Toussaint started speaking, and had to blink a few times and backspace herself through his sentence, barely managing to grab the "onboarding package" in any kind of timely manner. Even then, even as he spoke to her, her eye kept straying to the area around her, wide as a moon. Only once he was finished did she manage to find her voice at all, and it was quiet, a bit far away, and...awestruck, perhaps, was the word.

"This place..."

A moment passed as she blinked dazedly, Then looked down at the package in her hands. "Catering staff? Private chefs?" Her voice became something almost squeaklike. Not from panic, but because In the moment, she was simply overwhelmed. "Visitation hours?"

She blinked a few times again, shook her head, and when she looked properly back at him, she was a bit more focused. And mildly embarrassed. She was a Runan pilot, after all; she needed to act like it. She settled her voice back into her normal register. "I...Thank you, Toussaint." Toussaint? Should she just call him Toussaint? Mr. Toussaint? She blinked again. What would a pilot call him? What would a pilot say here at all?

A pilot would—Dahlia would say..."Is there anything I should do first, before I start moving in? Introductions with any staff? Medical examinations?" That was better. That sounded like something Dahlia would say. "I don't want to cause any more trouble than I already have."

Toussaint waited while Quinnlash appeared to recalibrate herself. It wasn’t unusual for newcomers to be awestruck by the Ange’s beauty; most would not have expected artistry in a place like the hangar, which was what set the CSC apart from other programs. There were no ‘low points’, no ‘crude machinery’, no concession of craft for practicality because there was no distinction between them. Casoban did things as beautifully as it did expertly, equal and excellent.

But he had the feeling that she wasn’t stunned in the way most people were. This was more like a deer caught in the headlights of an incoming semitruck. It was like the mere idea of luxury was foreign to her. Darroh hadn’t lied, the girl really didn’t get out much.

Nonetheless, he accepted her thanks and was pleased by her graceful recovery. She seemed eager to get all the formalities out of the way, which he sympathized with, having long grown tired of them himself. Unfortunately their customs were fairly settled.

“Not today, no. Medical will check you in tomorrow, and introductions are left to your discretion. For now you’re free to settle in, explore as you like, or don’t. Your room is pre-furnished, however you’ll find a catalogue on the wall-screen—feel free to peruse, and should you find anything you like, we can have it moved in. That will come from your stipend, which you will receive every cycle.

“For the most part, though, your amenities are free. Food is covered anywhere on the Ange, as is entertainment and the like. Should you require accommodations for any passions or hobbies, they may be covered as well. You'll find the CSC is quite flexible when it comes to fostering talent. If you find yourself drawn to something, don't hesitate."

As Toussaint continued, Quinn nodded, half to him and half to herself. Digital catalogs on wall screens, moving furniture however she liked it...the more she saw and heard of the CSC, the less she thought she understood. Not so much conceptually; she obviously knew how digital catalogues worked, and she'd looked at them on her phone once or twice before. But this was different. This was...this was furniture that she could get any time. How much furniture were they reasonably expecting her to fit? And that, of course, lead into the important question: if they were expecting her to fit all that furniture in there, how big were these rooms?

She didn't want to be rude after the man had been pretty much the only one pulling for their alliance for who knew how long, but her luggage was heavy and she was getting hungry. Shooting a single furtive glance off to the side, she returned her gaze back in front just in time to catch the last thing he was saying.

"Of course," she replied, dragging luggage onwards and gingerly picking her way across the hangar floor towards the pilot lift; best not get in the way, at least not until she knew how the hangar worked around here. Ducking behind Ablaze, she walked down the hallway as fast as she could manage until she arrived at the elevator.

...Was there nothing about this place that wasn't shining? Just like in the hangar, the overtly utilitarian elevator platform, fit for about nine people that she remembered was absent. Now, that wasn't to say that the elevator was encrusted with gold or anything, but the clean white did lend it an air of refined sensibility. At least, as far as she could tell. She'd been called many things, but refined was never one of them.

The mouth of the elevator opened wide, more than enough room for Quinn to pull all of her luggage out without trying to cram anything through. After she left, it slid closed again behind her without a sound. She almost wanted to laugh as she stepped out into the hallway and peered around for directions exactly where to go.

Because even their corridors were pretty.

On the ride up, Quinn was engulfed in a benthic silence, heavy and humming and all-encompassing. Beyond the gentle whirring of the lift’s motors was an inaudible but not entirely intangible hum, like one might hear pressing their ear to the hull of a submarine. Despite the fact that she was ascending, there would be an inescapable feeling of sinking into the deep, until, with a ding! she came to a gentle stop, and the doors slid open.

Warmth greeted her, like the air was made of silk. Before her was a wide hallway built along the hanging slope of the Ange’s edge. Its walls were an even beige, and looked almost soft, as if the panels were made from some dense foam. A single, narrow rail of light ran the length of the ceiling, vanishing behind the distant curve of the hallway. It was dim, but the visibility was perfect, perhaps in part to the natural lighting.

Beside her was a window as long and tall as a school bus, reaching halfway to the ceiling. Though logic told her the glass had to have been unbelievably thick, the clarity it gave made it seem paper-thin, as though she could step right through it into the void. Faint starlight filtered in, not in a thick beam, but in an even diffusion that maintained the sleepy ambiance. There was a small coffee table set up before it, and further down, a blanket lay in a bunched-up heap at the base, as though someone had slept leaning against the curved window.

A sign on the other, inner-wall, pointed onward with the words: ‘PILOT SUITES’ printed upon it. There really was nowhere left to go but forwards, and a suddenly awakened inner curiosity spurred her on.

The tender quiet filled the hall like floodwater as she went. She passed doors in the paneling, leading further inward. ‘RECREATION’ they said, or ‘LOWER COMMON ROOM’, and ‘LOWER KITCHEN’, ‘GYM’ and ‘LAUNDRY’. One she passed was marked: ‘TALENT SUITE: Sybil’, but with no viewports in the doors, there was no way to see inside, and an access panel beside it showed that it was locked.

Not too far was another locked door, this one on her left, curved and built into the outer wall. It read simply: ‘Camille de Lile’. This, she could guess, was a dorm room.

Another sign informed her that she was entering the Suite’s ‘middle’ section, where a door labeled: ‘AUTO WALKWAY’ seemed to sit in the dead center of the wing. But before she could go much further, she came to one more. ‘Quinnlash Loughvein’. Just like Camille’s it was built into the outer wall. Another access panel awaited, and while there was a keypad and a scanner, upon looking directly into the tiny glass dome at the top, the red light swapped to green, and a mechanical click sounded. The door slid open on its own.

The room was…big. Ridiculously so. In size alone it had to be at least half the size of the Aerie’s entire dorm house. The curving ceiling had three rails of lights, all as dim as the hallway, with the same beige paneling. Soft carpet ran underfoot, covering the whole floor save for a hardwood section beneath what must have been a small dining area, complete with a table that could have easily seated six, a kitchenette equipped with a squat fridge, a toaster and a microwave, as well as a hotplate, and likely more tucked into the cabinets.

Beside it was an open door leading into a tiled bathroom that was nearly the size of the Aerie’s common room, where within she found a milk-glass shower with a normal head, as well as more seemingly built into the ceiling. There was a bath as well, or perhaps it was a hot tub. On the counter were an array of beauty products, makeup kits, shampoos and conditioners, a variety of toiletries, all lined along a wide mirror. What must have been a year’s worth of toilet paper sat stacked inside a glass cabinet beside the toilet itself.

Across from the bathroom was her bed, king-sized and draped with a comforter quilt that looked stuffed with featherdown, and sheets as silken as the air. A desk sat beside it, like a workstation you could find at an office, topped with a computer, an assortment of books on Casobani culture and history, and a printer.

A massive screen sat built into one wall, while a great square seam in another had a button beside it. Pressing it, the seams shuttered and slid away, revealing a window much like the ones in the hall. Dark starlight seeped in, and as she stood in the vast open space in the middle of the room, she could still feel that silence with her.

For the next three weeks, and for at least some time after that, this was going to be her home.

The door slid shut behind her, and—forgetting for a moment that she was carrying luggage—Quinn simply stared.

This was insane.

She understood now why she could choose to ship furniture up here. Because this room was so huge that, frankly, Quinn had no idea what to do with it. It was almost incomprehensible to her that the entire space was hers and hers alone.

Then she remembered she was carrying heavy bags, lugged them over to the unbelievably massive bed, and plunked them down next to it. She heaved a long sigh as she realized that there was no dresser. Well, at least it was a way to test how the furniture ordering worked. No longer burdened by the weight of her bags, she explored the room more fully now, diving into the bathroom and simply...staring. Again. Then she turned, looking back and forth between the bathroom and the main room. With these two combined, it was like the entire dorm facility as a whole back on the Aerie was now hers.

Oh, there was another room next to the bathroom? Peeking in, she realized it was a closet. One closet. One closet the size of pretty much her entire room back home. All she could really muster looking at it was a stunned astonishment. Oh, wait, that was right; she'd put her bags down next to the bed, but why bother have them there when there was this enormous closet? She trotted back and picked the handles up again, dragging them over until she could get them entirely in the ridiculously huge closet before dropping them again.

As she went back into the main room and across to the wall with the big seam dominating it, she pressed the button curiously. Then she jolted backwards as the entire wall opened up, revealing a window into the gaping void of space.

In her room back home, that jolt backwards might have taken her almost halfway across. But here, it was barely a step into the enormous cream and beige cavern. Squeezing her eye shut a few times as though not believing what she was really seeing, she eventually turned, walked back across the massive area, and walked over to the kitchen. It wasn't as fully featured as the kitchen in the lounge back home, but, then again, this was in her private dorm. She'd seen a sign pointing directly to a kitchen back in the hallway, meaning that there was an entire room dedicated only to cooking. The idea filled her with both dread and wonder.

She fiddled with each of the devices as she passed by; beeped a few of the buttons on the microwave, pressed and unpressed the toaster, flipped on and off the hot plate, and opened up the fridge—

—in which she found a four pack of bottles, liquid inside a colored a dusty pale green. She knew what it was, even before she saw the label: yuzu soda.

In ordinary circumstances, she would have immediately grabbed and popped open a bottle. But in this particular circumstance, she just closed the fridge, stood up, and stepped slowly backwards, trying to breathe. It was like one of those fancy high class hotels she used to see on the Internet, only even more luxurious, and she was living here.

As she stood there in stunned silence, she noticed...just how quiet it truly was. It had been quiet before, everywhere here was quiet, but the rustle of her bags, the drone of their wheels against the floor, and her footsteps had distracted from it, stopped her from realizing how it truly all-encompassing it was. Her jaw tightened, and she felt a new anxiety stirring inside her. Even when the dorm back home was at its quietest, there was always something, some level of white noise in the distance. But here...

She was choking on the silence.

Then it was shattered by her stomach making a loud, angry rumble. She nearly jumped at the sound of it, and then nearly laughed. Oh. That was right. Hungry.

She walked over to the door and found that it had shut completely behind her. Her stomach curdled. The space was so big that she didn't feel that same kind of trapped, not really, but still, being closed in like this when it was just so quiet...

She noticed a button beside the door, and pressed it, hopeful. To her muted relief, the door slid open in front of her. At least she wouldn't have to shove it open on her own every time. She beat a hasty retreat, and heard it slide shut again behind her. Only when she stopped to take a breath did she realize that her hands were clenched into tight white fists by her side. Another long sigh as she forced them to relax.

She retraced her steps a little way, until she returned to the door labeled AUTO WALKWAY. She paused again, still shaken, and took three long, deep breaths. Toussaint had said that the recreational rooms and stuff were beyond this, right? There was no point not exploring them now; she'd come back to see that gym and stuff later.

Breaths taken, she slid open the door and stepped inside.

The transitional area between the wings of the pilot’s floor was slightly wider than the hallway, but the length made it seem much narrower. Shooting down the center was what looked like a sidewalk, only in motion. An escalator laid flat, split into one path moving forward, and another moving back, towards her. As she stepped on, it carried her dutifully forth at a modest but steady pace, but a few exploratory steps would show her she could walk just fine to speed things along if she wished.

On either side were windows into a few of the inner-walled rooms, some shuttered, some open. The gym was decently sized, and filled with a variety of machines and free-weights, not too dissimilar to the Aerie’s setup, if a bit more expansive. One of the talent suites was partially shuttered, but she could make out what looked like a messy art studio through the slats.

The trip was, like the rest of the floor, rather quiet. Waiting for her at the end was another door, unlabeled, but when she walked through it became immediately clear that this was the recreational space Toussaint had mentioned.

Massive, at least two-thirds of the wing. The room was a giant half-circle of open space, with its farthest curving wall paneled with a brighter, off-white color, like cream or eggshells. A window easily three times the length of the ones on the other wing sat in the center, facing out into space, and with so much width it was easier to see that the station was set into a gentle rotation, and before long, Illun would come into view below.

Scattered throughout the space were a variety of miniature activity ecosystems. Furthest was a decently-sized boxing ring, followed by what appeared to be an electronically-regulated fencing piste. Further down there was a flood of plastic mats laid out on the ground, upon which was an expanded easel holding a long banner-canvas. The painting was mostly finished, depicting what appeared to be an old royal court, with the king at the center, surrounded on either side by a row of knights and nobles all vying for his attention, all with one hand behind their backs, clutching knives or daggers. It seemed the last section on either side was yet to be completed. Furthest to her right, flush against the wall, was what looked like a theater stage. There were props scattered on its floor, swords and cloaks and a gleaming silver goblet.

Finally, behind it all, closer to the window, was something akin to gymnastic gauntlet, but what might have been more accurately described as an obstacle course. Raised platforms over padded floors, elevated strips meant to be crossed on grip strength alone, segmented balance beams that would have to be leapt across, and more still. It ran the entire length of the room, and could hardly be seen from one end to the other. It seemed designed to test every aspect of a runner’s balance and technique, and of all the things present here, it also seemed to be the oldest.

As soon as she walked into the rec room, Quinn's mouth fell open. It was just...so much more. Quinn's standard for a large space was the Central Plaza of the Aerie; the big tree sprouting in the middle, the restaurants off of it, it was just the largest open place that she could think of at that moment.

This was nothing like that. Or, more accurately, that was nothing like this.

Twice the size? More? It was insanely enormous. She could barely even see the whole way down it. Boxing, fencing, Painting, theater...she paced through it, oddly conscious of the echoes of her footsteps as she went, looking back and forth, taking notes of the things that she was interested in. Mostly the boxing ring. She didn't know any real rules of formal boxing, but she did like sparring, and having that there suggested that it was at least a possibility.

And then, as she passed through these compartments, she finally came to the installation that dominated the room: a tremendous obstacle course. She stared, entranced; she'd never actually run an obstacle course, there was just no space on the Aerie. Still, she'd always wanted to. Her stomach growled again, and yet she found that it held no sway over her anymore, as she paced down further, trying to find the start of the course.

It took her almost ten minutes to walk all the way to the end of the room, and finally to find the first obstacle: a sloping ramp that led up to a hanging rope with which to swing over a broad gap. Beside the entrance stood a white bucket full of equally white dust: chalkdust, she realized, for grip. Patting her hands in it, she brushed them together until she felt about right. Then, walking back, she aligned herself up for a nice, solid run up. She took a deep breath.

Then she dashed forward, leaped from the ramp, grasped her hands around the rope, and...

"Oof!"

...Landed an epic faceplant on the platform in front of her before falling to the padded mats underneath.

Well, that didn't work.

Rubbing her nose and shaking her head, she scrambled to her feet again, walked back, and prepared for another run, eye narrowed and jaw clenched in determination. Hopping a bit to get her blood flowing, she ran, jumped, and...

"Oof!"

...Faceplanted again. Well, at least this time she got her arms over the edge, saw the fragmented balance beams that composed the next obstacle. That was progress right? Once again, she leapt up, ready to go again.

She was going to make this rope jump if it killed her.

Minutes or hours passed, but Quinn’s determination seemed unbreakable. At some point, the degree of numbness afforded to her by Quinnlash’s aid lessened, perhaps out of frustration, or perhaps as a way of pushing Quinn’s own tolerance for pain. It didn’t slow her down any, though her progress was little improved. Clearly it would take time to master a course like this, but time was something she now had in abundance.

What she did not have any more was privacy.

Midway through a leap sabotaged by ill-footing, the door to the rec space slid open. Quinn had just enough time to see two blurred smudges of people enter as her face smacked into the cushioned platform, and she fell back onto the matted ground.

A sharp hiss and a sympathetic, “Oooh!” when she landed. As the world spun back into focus, she could see clearly that the newcomers were none other than the twins who had been present at her welcome. With how hectic the morning had been, she hadn’t really gotten a chance to look at them.

They were the same height, and shared a similar lean build, but from there the similarities were scarce. Their uniforms were gone, and the girl now wore a black sweater bearing the faded logo of some band, which was too large for her, with one sleeve rolled up to her elbow, and the other hanging a few inches past her hand. Black pants, black shoes, black nail polish, black lipstick, black eyeliner which made her seafoam eyes pop. Her hair, which had been pulled into an elegant flat tail earlier, now hung long and straight like an ebony curtain, covering half her face completely.

The boy had seemingly stolen all of her colors. In place of his uniform he wore a tie-dyed shirt that looked handmade, and a pair of pale salmon-colored pants. His nails were painted as well, though rather than black, each finger was a different color. He had a rather poofy and ineffectual scarf draped over his shoulders, and his hair, which reached just past his shoulders, was fluffy and voluminous where his sister’s was flat and dense. Even their expressions seemed entirely opposite; he wore a wide, toothy grin that reached well into his eyes, and she seemed almost muted, though not outright scowling.

“Told you,” the girl said, voice flat. “Straight to the playground, just like you.”

“Never so happy to be wrong!” said the boy, marching over with his sister in tow. “It’s real nasty right off the bat, isn’t it? You’d think they wouldn’t make the beginning so hard. I made it right about…there,” he pointed to about halfway across the segmented beam section right ahead of where she’d fallen. “Before I had to call it quits my first day. Heads up—they move. Chipped one of my teeth falling down.”

“It was hilarious.”

“She hasn’t even tried it.” he said, jutting a thumb back at her. In response, she flipped him the bird, and he stuck out his tongue, still grinning. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he turned back to Quinn and offered a hand to help her up. “Rude! So sorry! I’m Cyril, and this—”

“Sybil,” the girl said.

“We’re the Derisas, and your new coworkers! It feels a bit strange welcoming someone who’s technically our senior, but…welcome!”

Quinn blinked a few times at the hand that was thrust down at her, staring first at it, then at Cyril, an odd, almost apprehensive expression on her face. Another blink or two, though, and she shook her head, grabbing his hand and letting it pull her to her feet. So these were the two siblings that had been there, the ones that were whispering to each other. She looked between them. It was kind of hard to believe they were actually siblings. They just could not be more different. And she couldn't really liken them to anyone—maybe Cyril was a bit like Tillie? He seemed energetic and friendly, but she didn't really know what to make of Sybil.

She winced as her back suddenly popped; a few assorted aches and pains were reverberating through her, and she grimaced as she felt a particularly tender spot around her collarbone where she'd smacked into the padding extra hard maybe twenty or so attempts ago, and just continued aggravating it with each further attempt. That's going to bruise for sure.

Another moment of silence before she realized that she was being rude just staring at the two of them and jolted. "Oh! I'm—uh, sorry about that, it's been a bit of a long day. I'm, um, Quinnlash Loughvein—but you knew that already, I, um," she grappled with her words for a moment more before she finished with a quiet "You can call me Quinn." She reached back to stroke her braid nervously, then suddenly realized it was feeling...loose.

She looked down and behind herself, and her eye widened slightly when she realized her braid was already half undone. The elastic was gone. She must not have even noticed while she was bonking her face against the padding. It wasn't completely unplaited yet, but it was already starting to lower; she could feel it starting to brush along her thigh. This was not how she wanted to introduce herself to the station. Not bad, just awkward. A quick glance showed no trace of her hair tie on the mats.

She glanced back at the Derisas, with a kind of lopsided, hopeful half-smile. "Sorry, really, it's not much of an introduction. But do either of you see my elastic anywhere? Or, maybe have a spare?" Another one of those silent moments as she started over towards the course to look more thoroughly, trying her best to keep her hair in some semblance of order so it didn't fall all the way down to her knees, as well as keep her eye mostly turned to them. "It's, uh, nice to meet you! And sorry, again!"

The twins shared a surprised look—or, as much surprise as Sybil seemed capable of expressing—and then turned their focus back to Quinn. Had she said something wrong? Insulted them somehow? Having spent the lion’s share of her life in a single room, it wouldn’t have been much of a shock for her to have made some sort of social faux pas without realizing it. Could she expect mercy if she had? Or would Casoban treat her like the Euseran media, and see her brief tenure with the CSC ruined before it even began?

Then Cyril’s eyes lit up. “Your accent!” he beamed. “We thought it was just a face! They said your mother was Casobani, but we figure the Runan accent is so strong, surely—oh! Do you speak any?”

“Con, they would have had her show it off,” Sybil said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Besides, you hardly speak any yourself.”

“Excuse you, I had to recite a ten minute monologue in Casobani for Le Prince de Solrivie. For which I won two awards from the Cultural Institute.”

“And you forgot it on the ride home,” she said, rolling her eyes back to Quinn. “Don’t humor him, he’ll never go away.”

Cyril waved her off with an exaggerated “Psh!” and then, after rummaging through his pocket for a moment, produced a small handful of different-colored hairbands, and offered them out to Quinn. “Take as many as you need, that's quite a lot of hair. I used to have mine down to my back and I found that hard enough to manage. Do you pilot with it like that?”