Quinn's heart gave a painful squeeze at the mention of her mother, but she took one long, deep breath, and the pressure inside of her that always swelled when she thought about her family lowered. I am a pilot. They can't reach me ever again. If they're even alive. The urge to panic rose again, but once more, she mercilessly crushed it down to rest at a simmer, or perhaps even a low boil. But with some effort, she held the steam inside and crushed it down until it was just a painful lump of lead in her chest. They can never touch me again. There was a vague feeling from deep within her that suggested Quinnlash was helping to press it down too, but she wasn't totally sure.

She couldn't just run away from the memories for the rest of her life. So carefully, cautiously, she took the lid off the pot, and tried to remember.

"Um," she started, taking a pair of yellow hair ties from Cyril's hand and distractedly braiding it as she thought. It was nice; gave her something to do with her hands, so they weren't so obviously trembling. He was just so fast. It was hard for Quinn's words to catch up to his, especially when she was shoving everything down so hard. And shove them down hard she did. "I think my...my mom used to speak a little, here and there. I don't remember it very well, just a few things like merci, bonne nuit, s’il vous plait, that kind of thing."

She closed her eye briefly, biting the inside of her cheek until she could taste iron. Actively trying to remember was like peeling off the world's biggest, stickiest bandaid. Her voice was always kind of tense, but there was a tautness there now that hadn't been there before, and by the time she'd finished speaking she had to fight to keep a harsh stuttering tremble out of it. So she jumped at an opportunity to talk about anything else.

"Yeah, I wear it like this in the cockpit." She snapped the two elastics on at the end of the renewed, pristine braid to keep it in place and shook her head a few times to settle it. Her hands weren't even shaking anymore. "I drop it over the back of the chair and it's heavy enough that it doesn't come undone." Then, defying the heat that she could feel inevitably building behind her eye, a smile came to her face; a small, thin thing, but genuine despite the slight tremble. "You would not believe how much conditioner I go through."

“Really? You wear it loose? And nothing gets…er…nibbled on?” Cyril asked. “They made such a big deal about it in training, keeping yourself all bundled up, nothing astray. Made it sound like the brain might reach up and snag anything dangling off the chair.”

“I told you they didn’t mean it literally.”

“What can I say, I’m an impressionable young man. Besides, I have to worry about it, I’m an actor. No modium scarring for me, thank you, the plugs are plenty.”

“He wears a swimming cap when he pilots,” Sybil said with a deadpan smirk.

Cyril ran a hand protectively over his hair.

Quinn’s answers seemed to have sated their curiosity, like throwing a mostly-bare bone to a pair of hungry dogs. She could comfortably assume their appetites would return soon enough.

And speaking of…

“I’m starving,” Cyril declared, as if speaking to an audience. “They had us skip breakfast for the ceremonies this morning, and now it’s almost lunch! Ugh! I’m practically withering away. Sybil, you’ll have to wheel me to Lumière d’Or.”

Sybil huffed, not remotely amused. “I’m offstage, and I’m not dolling myself up to go back out.”

“Ordering in again, you’re no fun! There’s so many wonderful restaurants up there, and people love it when we go out! You know, if you’re not careful, Quinnlash is going to be more popular around here than you are.”

“Tragique,” Sybil said, already leaving.

“And we’re a team!” he called after her. “It’s good for us to be seen togeth—and she’s gone.” His head rolled back to Quinn, and he let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, c’est la vie. Well, my legs need stretching and my ears need sounds that aren't space on the other side of the windows. How about it? Care to hit the town with me? A little fine dining?”

Quinn opened her mouth to answer it felt like a few times, but it was so hard to get a word in edgewise through Cyril and Sybil's conversation. Well...mostly through Cyril, really. And by the time there was a break in the conversation again, the older girl had gone.

Fine dining, huh?

"Well, I've...I haven't ever eaten anywhere fancy before or anything," she admitted, feeling almost embarrassed for a reason that she couldn't really understand. "The Aerie is a lot less..." she fumbled for the proper wording and came up empty, then gave a kind of helpless shrug, "Well, it's just less. So I don't really know how."

Quinn knew very little about formal dining; mostly just what she'd seen in movies and stuff back when she was living with her parents. Too many forks, more spoons than were needed...a blurry mess that she didn't know if she would ever understand, or if she really even wanted to. it just sounded so prescribed, and it really rubbed her the wrong way for some reason. She knew that she never would've done it back on the Aerie.

But at the same time, she'd...well, she wasn't on the Aerie, because the Aerie was the RISC base, and for the next few weeks, she was CSC. She blinked hard a few times, then breathed in a long, gentle breath. She needed to get used to this kind of thing, right? She was a pilot, after all. This wouldn't be the first time she needed to be fancy.

Plus, she was still pretty hungry.

"But if you don't mind too bad, then...yeah, I'll come. I haven't eaten all day."

Cyril made a rather undignified squealing sound, big toothy grin splitting his face again. “Great! Fantastique! We can head right out, you’ll love it, it’s—no! Wait, I’ve got to change first. If I show up to Lumière d’Or in tie-dye they’ll probably call it treason. Two minutes, meet you by the elevator! Ta!”

Then he scampered off, and when Quinn followed more slowly into the auto walkway, she could still see him in the distance, jogging to the residential wing, though Sybil had already vanished. The hall was quiet again when she reached it, as was the walk back to the elevator. This was to be the new norm then, it seemed. A perpetual blanket of silence, intended for comfort, but perhaps unintentionally smothering.

Thankfully, she wasn’t left in it for long. True to his word, Cyril returned minutes later in a new outfit. He wore a thick-stitched, navy-blue sweater cut short at the elbows and the midriff, beneath which was the familiar pilot’s suit, as well as slim pants and some comfortable, if stylish looking shoes. His hair was pulled back into a high tail that looked intentionally messy, and over his eyes were a pair of small, round sunglasses with only the bottom half of their lenses.

“There we go! Comfy and just a little chic, perfect for a casual drop-in. They’ll love you there—stopping by on your first day, out of the blue, dressed like you’re on the move and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Mmh!” He kissed his fingers emphatically, then called the lift.

The ride up was mostly quiet. Cyril tapped excitedly on his phone, perhaps to warn the restaurant they were coming, though it seemed that he liked the spontaneity too much for that. He smiled at her, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet the whole way. Only when the lift came to a stop did he regain his composure, straightening up, grin mellowing bouncing halted.

“Deep breath,” he said, though it seemed like he was actually talking to himself.

The doors opened and Cyril stepped immediately out. Quinn followed close behind. They’d come to what was designated as ‘UPPER COMMONS’, which, judging by Toussaint’s introduction, was likely the floor above whatever the lower shopping section was. The lights were brighter here, the walls whiter—not that she could see much of them. The level was incredibly large, so much so that the other side tapered almost into invisibility. No wonder there was a monorail, it might have taken ten or fifteen minutes just to cut straight across, never mind walking around.

There was no tree here, as there was on the Aerie, but rather a prodigious fountain placed dead-center, built within and around an expansive marblework scene. It depicted a crowd, at least from their end, of men and women, horses, dogs, soldiers in armor with spear and sword in hand, farmer with spade and woodsman with axe, scholars in intricately-carved robes, clutching books at their sides, debating with one another, pointing onward. All were in motion, moving towards the other end of the long, stone platform, flanked on either end by jets of water that curved inwards, making it appear as though it were raining upon the voyage. At the far end, a denser stone crowd was gathered, and their details meshed together, their shoulders pressed close, almost like a single mass.

Standing above them on a platform were two figures, a man and a woman. The man held a sword in one hand, which pierced the woman’s chest, but he was turned away from her, holding in his other hand what might have been her heart. His expression was fearful, and pained. The woman’s, by contrast, was entirely serene, and the gentlest smile had been carved upon her lips. Her hands were outstretched to the sword, grasping it. Looking closely, one could see that the man’s fingers were loose upon the hilt, holding it only barely, and that the woman’s were closed upon the guard and blade, almost like she’d pushed it into her own chest. The pseudo-rain fell hardest upon them.

“These floors are open to tourists most of the time. All the work is up there,” Cyril said, gesturing up. High above them, a large section of the ceiling was glass, across which walked a plethora of people in CSC uniforms. “We’re close by, thankfully, restaurant’s right this way!”

True to his point, the shops and lounges and walkways were riddled with civilians. There were few around the lift, understandably, but it took no more than a few moments for the nearest ones to notice them. On the Aerie, Quinn’s fans were mostly quiet, and kept away with their phones out, whispering amongst each other. Here, the first person to see them dropped her shopping bag onto the ground with a glassy crunch and let out an ecstatic shriek. Eyes turned to her, then quickly found Quinn and Cyril. A whole section of the floor suddenly burst to life as people abandoned their meals, conversations, and store-going and spilled into the common walkways.

Uniformed guards, evidently not having expected them, snapped to attention and set about surveying the crowd. There didn’t seem to be a mob forming, and no one was rushing the pair, so for now there was no call to set up a cordon. Of course, that didn’t mean the crowds watched silently. Even though they didn’t come too close, they did shout and cheer. There was no small amount of applause as they passed, and amongst the ecstatic cries of Cyril’s name, Quinn could here quite a few people shouting her own between encouraging whoops and whistles.

Cyril preened like a peacock, waving, bowing, blowing kisses. A flurry of camera flashes followed them and he seemed apt at catching every single one with a sharp pose or a photogenic smile. He took a moment to run over to a small cluster, shaking a man’s hand with some familiarity before returning to Quinn and leading her the rest of the way.

Eventually they reached it: ‘Lumière d’Or’. It was built deep into the wall, and the entrance was an alcove, behind which were a pair of thick oaken doors. The desk out front was manned by a single, tuxedoed woman. She looked shocked when they approached, but that quickly melted into a pleased smile.

“Master Derisa! What a pleasure, we weren’t expecting you.”

“Few ever do. But it’s our new friend’s first day aboard and I thought there would be no better introduction in Casoban than to have lunch here. Would it be trouble to prepare our table?”

She waved him off. “Never trouble for you. Come right on in, we’d be honored.”

They made their way through the double doors, into a hallway of lacquered wooden walls and deep golden lights, which opened up into the restaurant proper. Massive, easily three or four times the size of Tohoki Grill, but with no less atmosphere. The room was comfortably dim, save for pillars of golden light, which, as she looked, Quinn would see were not pillars at all, but holograms of trees with digital roots dug into the hardwood floors, and branches that spread and interlocked and made a resplendent, flaxen canopy of the ceiling.

Round tables lined the floor, lavish booths at the fringes, and further, along the curving outer wall, were windows like the ones down in the dormitory. On a small stage opposite, a band played somber, melancholic music. Gentle piano and tender saxophone, while a man in a white suit sang quietly in Casobani. A pleasant undercurrent to the conversation-heavy air.

The maître de awaited them, expressing a similar sentiment as the woman outside. He led them through the floor, and as they walked, nearly every table in the full house turned to see. However, the mellow air was persevered; no one shouted or got up or did so much as momentarily pause before returning to their meals. Eventually they came to a small table beside one of the windows, which was given a smidgen more space than the rest. As they took their seats, he left them menus, and Cyril ordered a wine with much too long of a name while their cups were filled with water. Then, they were left alone for a moment.

Cyril exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath since the elevator.

“Now, that’s more like it. Not so loud, not so quiet, and just enough attention. You know, almost all the restaurants here have absurd reservation waitlists, but Lumière d’Or is particularly ridiculous. They have one planet-side, in Merain. Four months to get in—and they might still turn you away at the door if they don’t like you. I’ve heard some people plan their whole year around a dinner up here.” He flipped open the menu, nudging his half-glasses down. “I’ve made it my goal to try everything on here at least once. I think only the chefs have ever done that. Maybe Moroux. He seems the sort. TV pitches him as a down-to-earth, country boy but, well, you’ve seen the goatee. Not a lot of farmers with manicured moustaches.”

The menu was large, but focused. Very intensely Casobani, from its seafood dishes to its steaks, and pastas. There were a few recipes she might recognize from the cookbooks back on the Aerie, albeit they were expanded, refined, and though the prices weren’t listed, likely immensely expensive.

The maître de returned with wine, and bread, and a small plate of what he called ‘artesian bruschetta’, and then left them again. Cyril set his menu down, apparently having decided, and turned his attention Quinn.

“So, Quinnlash Loughvein. Wow. Just, wow. I’m honestly so surprised I’m sitting across from you; I was beginning to worry I’d never get a chance like this! I mean, Sybil and I, really, we sort of owe our jobs to you. I’m not sure what state the CSC would be in if you hadn’t intervened at the duel.” He giggled quietly into his hand. “It was happening during one of my performances, you know. I actually missed my walk-on cue because I was watching backstage. You were…enthralling. Really, unbelievable. You fought a Tormont and won, and that was your first time actually, you know, fighting? They tell stories about that family here to scare kids out of becoming pilots! And then the Modir afterwards, I just...how in the world did you manage it?”

The first thought Quinn had when the woman saw them, screamed, and dropped her things was not uncertainty or excitement at being seen by the civilians that were even now gathering around the two of them. It was not fear on how people in the Ange would see her, how hostile they would be after the multiple international headaches Quinn had personally caused them. It wasn't in fact anything related to piloting or politics at all. Her first thought, superseding all of it, was: that sounded expensive. She winced sympathetically, before that one shriek morphed into another, then another, then a whole crowd of people surrounding them in a blur.

For just a heart-stopping moment when the crowd gathered and the shouting started, Quinn tensed up and—forgetting just for the briefeest moment where she was and who she was with—shied back, hiding behind Cyril like she usually did Dahlia, face writ with trepidation.

Then a moment later when she realized the shouts were encouraging and not disparaging, she realized what she'd done and returned the gap between the two to normal in time for Cyril to dart off to shake someone's hand, a flush coloring her face. After the fear and shock wore off, a different yet familiar expression came to her face, one she'd worn more than usual today: stunned bewilderment, as the crowd around her cheered her name. As if from a long way away, a voice echoed back through her head: Casoban might not like her because of her association with me, but...what would she ever have to gain from that? Didn't Casoban have a grudge on her because of the whole Roaki thing? Why were they cheering for her like she really was CSC and not just on loan?

It didn't make sense, she thought, lifting a hand towards the crowd in an almost dazed wave, hearing the excitement swell as she and Cyril continued walking around the periphery, in view of the fountain. Quinn found herself peering at it as they walked, trying to make out the details of its the elaborate carvings, such a far cry from the umbrella tree back on the Aerie. It was a bit too far away for Quinn to make it out in its entirety as much as she tried, but she resolved to go back and give it a proper examination after lunch. It looked gorgeous, even from this far away.

The crowd followed them—in a reduced state, of course—until they reached Lumière d’Or, Cyril shared a few words with the hostess, and they plunged inside. Quinn exhaled right along with Cyril, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath for almost a minute now, and placed a hand on her chest as it grew mercifully quiet. They wended their way through the luxurious interior, Quinn's eye wide as a full moon as she took in the sheer fanciness of the place. Never had she seen anything quite like this. Not in real life. The tree holograms held it the most, even distracting her from the people that watched them as they moved.

When they finally sat, Quinn let slip a relaxed sigh. The relief didn't last for long, however; before she even opened the menu, the was blindsided by a place setting the likes of which she'd never seen. Three plates. Three forks. Three spoons and three cups. Two knives. She blinked at it, reaching out a tentative hand and fiddling with them like they were going to bite her. So intent was she in her examination that when Cyril started talking again, she jumped and made a soft eep of alarm before smoothing herself down again. Following his example, she opened the menu, cracking a smile as he mentioned wanting to try everything. Maybe she'd follow his example; there were more restaurants on the Ange, she was sure, than she could even imagine.

When bread and "bruschetta" were brought to the table, she took a slice and nibbled on it as Cyril talked. A lot. She waited until he was finished before she swallowed the mouthful of bread, garlic and tomato and replied, embarrassed and pleased and uncomfortable at how much he seemed to think of her, and still in some variety of shock at how much people seemed to like her. So her reply was probably not exactly what he'd been looking for:

"The crowd out there, I, um...I thought Casoban hated me?"

Quinn’s question caught Cyril mid-sip, and startled him so much that he nearly ruined the white silken tablecloth with wine. Thankfully he managed to swallow with only a dignified cough, but the surprise remained blatant on his face, starkened by the candlelight.

“Hate you?” he said, with as much emphasis as a private-tone could contain. “Why would you think—”

Then he paused, and it might seem to Quinn like his thoughts had caught up with her own. She had humiliated Casoban in their duel with Helburke, it had cleaved a rift into their union with Runa so deep it was nearly severed completely. There had been news stories aplenty calling her character into question, her allegiances, her motives. How could he be surprised?

But then he giggled again, much less restrained. “Quinnlash,” he said. “The other day, RISC stopped the Modir from turning Casoban into a Westwel encore. We watched you, specifically, fight off half a dozen of them—with, as you mentioned, a little help. But all the same, Quinnlash Loughvein and Dahlia St. Senn saved Casoban just as much as anyone in the CSC. I’m sure the news outlets in our homes will assign the weight of that accomplishment differently, but that’s just politics. Boring. What matters is what the people think, how they see you. And they saw you.”

He leaned in on his elbows, peering at her over his glasses. “If you ask me, I think this day, literally today—you stepping onto the Ange, Ablaze in our hangar—I think this is the safest anyone in Casoban has felt for a long, long time.”

The maître de returned then, notepad in hand. He didn’t need to say anything, just smiled and waited as Cyril gave one last glance through the menu as a formality.

“Oh, alright, you know what? I think this is a special enough occasion to jump the line down to one I’ve been waiting for. The veal osso buco, s’il vous plait.”

The man scratched his order down, took the menu, then gave the same expectant smile to Quinn.

As she crunched into another piece of bruschetta, Quinn closed her eye and let Cyril's words wash over her and felt a leaden ball of tension in her stomach that she hadn't known she had disappear to be replaced with that sunny feeling of pride. Pride, because she'd saved people. Pride, because people felt safe with her around. And if they felt safer with her there, it meant she was finally starting to live up to the title Ablaze.

She shook her head, flicking the last of the bewilderment away. She didn't fully smile, not really; but a faint hint of one lingered around the edges of her lips.

Her voice was quiet as she replied, "Thank you."

And of course, that was the perfect time for the maître de to come back to the table, and for Quinn to realize with a cold shock down her spine that though she'd opened the menu, she'd read almost none of it, and now he was looking at her, because it was obviously her turn to order. Five minutes ago she might've shrank down and gave a tiny "sorry," but she was feeling much better, all told, and so she just gave him an apologetic look and rapidly flipped through the menu, trying to settle on something as fast as she could and beating down the anxiety that tried to get in the way. Seafood, pastas, meats, poultry—ah, that looked good. And fancy. It was her first time eating at an upscale place, she reasoned; she could get something nice.

"I think," she started, glancing up at him and suddenly very aware that she did in fact have an accent, "the, uh, guinea hen stuffed with fois gras and truffle?" She looked across the table at Cyril, almost as though to ask whether or not she made a good choice, but, well, the choice was made. All she could do now was see if she liked whatever foie gras was. "Si'l vous plait," she added, almost as an afterthought, hoping that she at least got the pronunciation right.

The maître de bowed politely and left them, passing by the counter where the rest of the wait staff seemed to linger with their new orders and instead disappearing directly through a pair of ornate doors leading to the kitchen. Despite nearly every table being occupied, it was a safe assumption that their meals would not take long.

Cyril hardly touched any more of the appetizers, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. He would have had to choose then between talking and eating.

“So did you do much shooting, before this?” he asked, swirling his wine like it was a decoration and not a drink. “Piloting, I mean. I’ve heard that pilots who get firearm weapons sometimes find themselves spontaneously possessing an uncanny sort of accuracy. I know the cannon creates quite a generous impact but, well, you still hit a lot of your shots. I’m a little envious, really—the only swordplay I know comes from stage-fighting, and that’s done nothing for me in the cockpit. I’ve had to take fencing lessons from Camille, and…eugh,” he pulled a face, set his drink down. “Talk about brutal. Guess it paid off well enough, though, the other day. It’s just wild how naturally it seems to come for some.”

Before Quinn could answer, they were joined by a young woman. Like everyone else present, she was dressed impeccably, wearing a gown of black and gold that made her look like she was attending her own red-carpet event. But the look on her face was not one of a star, but rather starstruck.

“Master Cyril,” she said, voice a bit shaky through her smile. “I—”

“Claire!” he beamed, blinking at the shock that struck her. “Claire, right? From the ‘Lucre’ premier? You were at the signing backstage. Oh please tell me I’m right, I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“No! No—I mean, you’re right, I just…you remember me?”

“Bien sûr! How could I forget such a lovely face?”

That face flushed a deep red even for the low light. She took a moment to recompose herself, and when her eyes darted to Quinn it seemed to send her right back to the start. Cyril leaned in, smiling up at her expectantly. When she did finally find her bearings, she went on in great length about how much she was by his performance in some recent production or another. She spoke with the insight of someone well-versed in theatre, not just as a member of the audience, but also as a member of the stage.

Cyril listened intently, smiling and nodding and politely rebuffing compliments here and there. Eventually she thanked him for the time, and he thanked her for the praise, and before she left she lingered a moment longer as if she meant to say something to Quinn as well, but suddenly seemed to decide against it. Shyly, she bowed her head, thanked them both again, and shuffled off back to her table across the restaurant.

“Ah,” Cyril said once they were alone again. “Sorry, I hope you didn’t think that was rude of me, I have a hard time turning people away. I’m sure you know all about that, though. You must be the most popular girl in Runa—well, you and Miss St. Senn, I mean.”

Quinn gave an emphatic shake of the head and opened her mouth to answer, only to be hear a sudden unseen voice coming from her right and jump in her chair, whipping her head around like a startled cat to see a young woman, dressed in a beautiful black and gold dress that made Quinn swell with a new emotion after the nerves had left her body: jealousy. She still had zip formal clothing, she was reminded, and Casoban was a place where, it would seem, pilots needed a closetful.

She wanted a dress like that. She wanted it so bad.

She wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about, not really. She understood the concept of theater but she'd obviously never seen any, especially not live. So instead of trying to follow what they were talking about, Quinn instead sat back and examined how they were talking about it.

Casoban was still so new to her, there were many things she didn't understand. But she definitely knew what it looked like when people met a celebrity. It reminded her of Tillie a little bit. Not as high energy—that would be hard—but new newly-named Claire had a bit of that same look in her eyes. When she dismissed herself, it was a good thing she didn't say anything to Quinn, because she quite frankly had no idea what she would say back to her.

Still, the image of her and Cyril talking together twinged something inside her. Maybe she should learn a little modiology so she could talk to Tillie better. That was an interesting idea. Tillie was proof that there were good modiologists too.

With Claire gone, Cyril spoke to her again, and she shook her head at the assertion he was rude before he continued and she cocked her head, as though she didn't totally understand and her mind needed a second to catch up.

"I..." The words caught in her throat a bit and she had to force them out: "I wouldn't really know. The only time I've been planetside for more than a few minutes since Hovvi—" her voice shook, nearly cracked, but held, and she silently congratulated herself, "—was during the duel, and then this one talk show that I had to leave in the middle of."

Glancing around to see if anybody was nearby and thankful that the hostess had brought them to tables that weren't so close to the rest in the restaurant, she lowered her voice a bit. Cyril was one thing, he was a fellow pilot, but if Casoban wanted to casually forget about the entire messy ordeal she'd caused, then she was in no hurry to remind them. "Not even all the people on the Aerie like me. Some are still mad about...you know, Roaki, all that stuff...because they thought I'd lost us you and doomed Runa."

She gave a sad little laugh and looked up at how the golden light of the tree holograms wove together under her head. "I don't think I'm very popular at all."

“Oh, don’t be silly! You have to try pretty hard to be an unpopular pilot, at least in your own country. The circles in that Venn diagram, they’re so far apart they can’t even see each other.” He polished off his glass, then set it aside, evidently thinking better of pouring another. “Didn’t—yeah—Runa had a pilot from Helburke. Ghaust, I remember seeing interviews with him. No offense, but he wasn’t particularly personable, and he was even popular here. You, I mean, you’re a home-grown hero. There are probably pilots in Eusero who would kill to have your publicity.

“In fact, the only pilot I can think of who isn’t popular is that Dane lady, the president’s sister. They don’t even interview her over there. You’re a long way from that, especially now.”

The waiter returned, plates in hand, and set them down on the table. He lifted the covers, and amid the steam came the smell of cooked fowl and seasoned potatoes, fresh and hot and cooked to perfection. Cyril took a deep breath from his own plate, face splitting in a wide, toothy grin.

“Smells delicious.”

The waiter nodded, and quickly left them alone. Cyril wasted no time; he cut right into his veal and popped a forkful into his mouth. His eyes lit up then squeezed happily shut, he seemed to be restraining himself from shimmying in his seat.

“Every time,” he said quietly, satisfied. But despite how engrossed he seemed in his meal, his eyes found Quinn again shortly. In between bites, he kept the conversation going. “So, as your junior, I hope you won’t mind me asking—how long did it take for you to get used to it? Piloting, I mean. You make it look so natural, was it always like that for you?”

As she mulled over what Cyril said, something in particular caught her attention, something that brought a small confused frown to her face. But before she could voice that concern, the waiter returned with the food. And as soon as the cover was lifted—so fancy!—her eye went as wide as a full moon. It was like nothing she'd ever seen. Well, online or on TV, sure, but never in person, never anything like this. It was just...

So occupied was she in staring at it that she jolted when she realized Cyril had already started eating, and she hastened to do the same. She picked up her knife, and...

Which fork should she use?

She opened her mouth to ask, but Cyril seemed occupied chewing, and it would just be awkward. So instead she attempted to surreptitiously peer at the fork he was using. Okay, it was the larger one on the right. Feeling anxious about her table manners, she took care to cut a slice of the hen and get a bit of the truffle and "foie gras" on the fork, then dipped it in the "jus," that was what she was supposed to do, right? And then finally conveyed it to her mouth, looked at it one last time, and took a tentative bite.

"..."

She wasn't exactly sure what she was expecting.

Oh, it was delicious. There wasn't even room to argue with that. It really did just taste like nothing else she'd ever eaten in her life. But...that was also partially why she was almost a little bit...uncomfortable, even. She blinked a few times, staring at the newly-empty fork with her brow furrowed, then realized that Cyril was asking her a question, and was also looking at her with something like concern. Oh. Right. She was staring at her fork, and still had food in her mouth. Swallowing hastily, she gave a halfhearted "Sorry, it's just...it's a little much," and carefully placed the fork on the plate before she took a long drink of water.

Only then did she continue the conversation, voice a little clearer. Tilting her head up to the ceiling, she tried to remember the first time she'd gotten in Ablaze, the disastrous phase test, and the second time, to pull her weapon to...

Oh. Oh, wow.

She hadn't even realized that..."I, uh, my duel with Roaki was, um," she mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious, "it was, um, the third time I...ever connected. It was mostly just...a lot of sims." It really did come naturally, didn't it?

Of course it did, a feeling inside her seemed to say from deep down, it's what we were made to do. Quinn...didn't really know how she felt about that. She didn't think Besca would like it.

She gave her head a quick shake and switched topics back to that first thing Cyril had said, before the food arrived. Spearing a chunk of potato on her fork, she held it in the air for a moment as she cocked her neck, face writ with confusion. "The Dane lady? You mean Firebrand? Axan, I think it was?" She bit down on the potato, and a little smile stole over her face. Now that she could eat. Chewed, swallowed. Took a drink. And when she spoke again, her voice was pure confusion:

"But she was so good! She saved my life, she mulched two Modir like it was nothing, she even sounded like she was having fun! What do you mean, she doesn't even get interviews?"

Cyril listened intently, even having stopped eating while she answered. He seemed like a student cramming the day before a test, and though he had no paper in front of him, Quinn could assume he’d taken thorough notes in his brain, even though she’d said little.

“Sims, hm? I see…” he said, though there was a brief yet unmistakable flash of disappointment to it, smoothed over immediately with another smile as he went on eating. “You must put in quite the hours to fight like you do.”

When she changed the subject to Axan, he cocked a brow. Perhaps it was her naiveté again, reared whenever any matter of politics arose. Cyril didn’t regard her with frustration, or sneering amusement. More like inquisitive camaraderie, like coworkers gossiping around the water cooler.

“What I wouldn’t give to know! She’s a real enigma on the pilot stage, hardly anyone outside of the ESC gets to meet her. She doesn’t interview, she doesn’t attend official appearances, she doesn’t even duel. Or hasn’t in years, anyway. The only time anyone ever sees Firebrand is for singularities and there’s barely any coverage. President Dane’s gotten so good at side stepping questions about her, most everyone’s stopped asking. It’s bizarre, honestly, you’d think they were embarrassed of her. She doesn’t even have any merchandise—at least nothing branded. Can you believe that? Eusero leaving profits on the table.”

Quinn stared down at her food as she listened to Cyril. She would need to finish it, wouldn't she? It seemed like it would be rude to just not eat it all, and it was her first time at a fancy restaurant like this, after all. Maybe if she just had little bites?

But that thought was swiftly banished as Cyril finished speaking, and she tilted her head. "You're right, that is weird."

She thought a moment, trying to remember everything the woman had said to her in their brief meeting. What was that line...?

"Well, she didn't seem very...Euseran." Well, not that she really knew any Euserans, but she'd read interviews and watched their TV, and that was more than enough for her.

Ah, that's what it was. I’m a big fan of the way you blow shit up and don’t murder people. She tapped a finger a few times on the table, took a stupidly rich bite, chewed, swallowed. "She's one of the only people that told me i did the right thing by not...ending the duel," she finished lamely.

"Still," she continued after choking down another bite of food and doing a surprisingly good job at looking like she wasn't choking it down, "she was so cheerful. I can't imagine why people wouldn't want to have her on."

Another bite, and then a piece of potato to wash the taste down. She rolled her neck back and forth, trying to work out the tired kinks in it without looking too obtrusive and thinking about what Cyril had said before. God, she was so stiff. Guess that was what she got for getting next to no sleep, she thought. "We should spar sometime," she said without warning, "either on sims or in the gym. What time—"

Wait, that was right, Casoban was less tightly scheduled, right? She hastily amended herself, "are you going to the gym sometime tomorrow? Or later today, maybe?"

As Quinn went on about the virtues of the Dane pilot, Cyril could only shrug and nod along. There really wasn’t much information about her floating around, at least not that the public, or even a pilot, could access.

“Cheer is lovely,” he said eventually, taking another bite and waggling his fork. “But piloting, at least, I mean, the auditioning part, really isn’t so different from the stage. You see a lot of cheer upfront. Lot of smiling, and laughing, and bowing. You’ve seen Ms. Dane perform, but I wonder what she’s like backstage that’s got her so squirreled away. Then again, she’s Euseran—maybe she just doesn’t kick enough puppies for their tastes.”

Between the modest portion and evidently delicious taste, he made short work of the rest of his meal, and poured himself a half-glass of wine to finish things off. He seemed surprised when she asked to spar, though not unpleasantly.

“Wouldn’t that be a lovely change of pace? Believe me, I’d take training with you over Camille any day. Well, tomorrow-day, specifically. I’ve got an interview this evening, and rehearsal after. Hit me up tomorrow afternoon, say? I’ll go a few rounds with you, ring or sim, I’m eager to learn either way!”

As things wound down, the waiter came back to collect their plates. There was brief hesitation to take Quinn’s, with almost half of the main course remaining, but Cyril waved them off and they brought it with them. No bill was given, though Cyril left a tip that might have been the whole cost. They weren’t followed on their way out, but they were watched, and Cyril waved farewell to the young woman who had spoken to him earlier.

Outside, the citizenry had mostly returned to their business. It seemed that had some time before they were rediscovered. Cyril stretched and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Well that was wonderful, thank you so much! I’ve always thought sharing a meal was the best way to meet someone.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the time. “Ah, I’ve got a stylist appointment here in a few. If I don’t see you later tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow! Ta!”

And with a final, friendly waggle of the fingers, Cyril spun on his heels and walked off. It didn’t take long for someone to notice him further down, and within moments a smaller mob was starting to form in his wake. Quinn had been spared, for now, but who knew how much longer her anonymity would last.

Quinn waved back at Cyril as he walked off, keeping her voice down a bit as she replied "See you," in an attempt to keep from catching the attention of the mob again. As he departed and a crowd went with him, Quinn looked surreptitiously around to make sure nobody was watching before taking her huge braid and shoving it down the back of her shirt before coiling it up on itself to stop it from falling out. The last thing she wanted was to look like she had a tail.

That done, she set off into the upper commons of the Ange, trying her best to not look around like a tourist and to keep her bangs swept over the right side of her face to hid the eyepatch. There wasn't much she could do about the yellow, but at the very least, her clothing was unremarkable enough...

Oh.

That was probably a problem, actually.

Making sure she kept walking near the edge and didn't run into anybody, she flicked her eye around to the people around her, at their fancy designer bags and—more to the point—clothing that probably cost more than the annual maintenance of the Aerie. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants. She was definitely going to get noticed: her clothing was too unremarkable. It was so unremarkable that it wrapped right back around to being extremely remarkable. Right. People planned their entire year over visits to the Ange, right? That's what Cyril had said. These people were way rich, and they had clothing to match.

An image popped into her mind: Claire, that woman from the restaurant, and her black-and-gold dress. She narrowed her eye. She'd thought then that she wanted that dress, and...

Well, she was on the Ange. There were expensive stores all around her.

She scoped shops out as she walked, doing her best to keep her back turned to most of the people in the concourse so as to avoid being noticed as much as possible. She knew that once a single person saw her, the rest of them would too. Really, it was only a matter of time. But the longer she could go without being mobbed, the better.

Oooh, that looked good. A small shop with broad glass front, through which Quinn could see that it was mostly empty inside. And could also see a series of very nice, very pretty dresses. It looked fancy. And peering at the price tags, her eyebrow raised. It was definitely fancy. Looking up at the sign—a lovely calligraphic rendering of a dragger, over which was superimposed the word Miséricorde—she felt her interest piqued even more. So she turned in, leaving the hubbub of the plaza behind her. Once she was inside, she felt immediately better. It was quiet, but not too quiet; there was faint chatter, and soft symphonic music played through speakers in the ceiling that she couldn't see, or maybe out of the pale mauve wall paneling. Ducking into an empty aisle, she took a deep breath, then another, then a third. Then, making sure she was out of easy view of the windows, she pulled her braid out of her shirt and shook her hair out, settling it back into the way it naturally fell.

Peeking out of the aisle, she spied a store clerk arranging dresses, and nobody else. Sighing out a breath of relief, she walked over, feet tapping quietly on the clean white tiling, and scuffed her shoe gently on the floor to let the clerk know she was there.

"Um, excuse me," she started shyly, keenly aware of how inexperienced she was in this field, "but do you know if any of these would look good on me?"

The Miséricorde was a smaller boutique compared to some of the other stores on the Ange, but up here, real estate was at a premium. For a clothing store to secure a spot, it would need fame equal to its quality. Though Quinn might not have had the experience to know better, from the price tags to the décor, to say nothing of the dresses themselves, it would have been a safe assumption to say this place had both.

The aisles she navigated were narrow and relegated to the corner of the left side. These prices were less egregious, but the clothes themselves hardly seemed any cheaper in make. They were, however, denoted as last-season. The dresses adorning mannequins or hung behind glass displays were marked as current, and some were easily triple the price of those on the rack.

The clerk didn’t notice Quinn at first, being so consumed in her tidying. She was younger, dressed fashionably but not in a recent piece. She didn’t react at first, so focused on adjusting the dress that her tongue stuck out of her mouth. When that was done, she stood upright.

“Consultations need to be booked in advance,” she began, only just prying her eyes away to look at her. “But we offer a surcharge on all—uhhhhhhhhhh…”

She stared at Quinn like that, slack jawed and droning, for more than a few moments, before finding the mental wherewithal to close her mouth and swallow her shock. She made to speak once, stopped, then tried again, stopped, and finally said; “One moment, miss,” before breaking into a sprint behind the counter, vanishing into the backrooms of the store.

There was barely-muted and urgent whispering, followed by a full on shout of “WHAT?” before, moments later, a new figure emerged into the front.

She was an older woman, whose hair was fluffed up and styled high, a tide of gray rising on oaken shores. She herself wore a dress that might have been plucked right off the display, an absolutely radioactive pink number melded with highlights of cream and navy blue. It bulbed at the shoulders, beneath which she wore white arm covers bearing a golden floral filigree pattern that wound down all the way around her fingers. Sharp green eyes beneath long lashes, over a pointed nose and cherry-lipstick pulled into a petite smile. She studied Quinn like one of the dresses on the wall.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said, the Casobani formality in her voice strained with excitement. “The Runan hero, in my shop.”

She approached with a gait so perfect her head stayed level, then bowed in a perfect curtsy before offering out her hand. “Madam Dague. I’m told, Miss Loughvein, that you would like a dress.”

Dague gave a proud flourish towards her wall, and with a gentle but unyielding hand, brought Quinn with her. “Then let us not waste time. We must start with taste, oui? Be broad, if you must. What designs, what colors, what styles—what strikes the eye of a pilot?”

Quinn's eye widened—it seemed to be doing that a lot today, and perhaps for good reason—as she heard the shouting from behind the door, and then the figure bolted out.

This...Madam Dague? The word sounded familiar, like she'd heard it in a fairy tale as a kid, but she shoved that thought aside...she was apparently very excited. It was beginning to really sink in for Quinn that Cyril was right, and that people in Casoban seemed to like her. When she heard the Runan hero, she almost had to resist turning to see if Deelie had suddenly appeared behind her. But no, it was her. Maybe she wasn't the Hero of Runa, but she was a Runan hero.

When Madam Dague laid a gentle hand on Quinn's shoulder, she let herself be guided, coming to rest in front of the wall of dresses. They were all so pretty...sure, there were some that Quinn instinctually knew wouldn't look good on her. She thought. But there were just so many that were gorgeous, she didn't even know where3 to begin. So she really, honestly had no idea how to answer Madam Dague's question. She bit her lower lip in something vaguely like discomfort, then looked up at Dague.

"I don't...really know. I mean," she hastily followed, "I've never had a formal dress before." She plucked at her shirt, suddenly keenly aware of how different the pilot cultures in Runa and Casoban were and self-conscious of wearing super casual clothing out into the public commons. "Maybe something yellow or gold that goes with my eye? I was just...I don't really know what looks good on me, so I was hoping that you could maybe help me figure it out."

Dague didn’t seem surprised when Quinn said she’d never owned a formal dress. In fact, the only thing she seemed to hear at all was the note about her eye, at which point her demeanor changed entirely. She swiveled in front of Quinn, hunched, and stared deeply into that eye for what might have been the world’s longest moment.

“Gold,” she said, then she straightened and shuffled over to the front desk. “Methods change with the clients. Before I moved to Vienci, everything I made was by the mold—ah, there we are…” Producing a small glass wheel, she gave it a shake, and a screen on its front face blinked to life, upon which were slivers of just about every color Quinn could imagine, all arranged in a gradient order. She came back over and held the wheel up next to Quinn’s eye, where it spun until the selector came to rest on the exact matching hue.

“Simple, but cheap, and dreadfully boring. I didn’t even know if I’d enjoy dressmaking until someone asked me for something ridiculous. Nowadays I tend to find a client’s fame is inversely proportional to their sense of fashion.” She paused, looked Quinn up and down, and giggled. “Not meant as an insult, of course. I prefer it, honestly. If everyone who walked in here knew exactly what they wanted, I might as well be back to using a mold.”

Twirling the wheel on her finger, she b-lined for the rack of last-season’s dresses and began to rifle through them. Odd. One would have thought the goal would have been to throw the highest-priced product at her and call it a day, but Dague pulled at least three dresses off the rack, held them up to the wheel, and then looked back at Quinn. They were all stunning, at least to an inexperienced eye, but in the end she settled for nothing.

“Old for a reason,” she muttered, as she made for the other wall. “Gold is good. Yes. But not too much. Too much, and you’ll look like a butterscotch popsicle, or a honey statue, or a bumblebee—oh! Oh, yes, that could work.”

On the move again, she disappeared into the back, where there was more muted conversation, some rummaging, and at last she returned with three dresses in hand. One was white with embroidered gold vines climbing in a spiral up from the hem, all the way to the raised neck. The other two were black. One had a kaleidoscopic gold patterning along the ankle-height bottom and about the chest, where it cut off just below the collarbone. The last one had a close collar that went all the way up to the chin, like a pilot suit, and had no sleeves either, but the gold patterning rose up from the base like inverted rain, leaving haphazard trails of golden droplets leading all the way up.

“These were going to go up in a few weeks. They’re current-season, but pastel is in vogue right now—imagine why—so I was going to hold off on the darker selections. But…” She set the dresses on hooks in the wall and stepped back so she could see them and Quinn together. “Yes, much stronger this way. Tell me, do any of these catch your eye?”

It was fascinating to watching Madam Dague work, and Quinn found herself enjoying tailing after her as she bolted around, looking for dresses that she thought might fit Quinn. Equally fascinating was trying to figure out what had been wrong with the three dresses she'd pulled out of last season's clothing; they all looked beautiful to Quinn. But evidently they weren't right. A moment later, she disappeared into the back, and Quinn found herself alone for just a brief moment. She ran her hand lightly over the fabric of one of those that Dague had looked at before, a pretty pale gold midi dress with elaborate silver filigree around the hem.

She wasn't sure exactly what Madam Dague was talking about, making them from a mold, then going to Vienci. Or, well, she understood what the words meant, but she didn't quite get it. That was the hazard of being a pilot in RISC, she thought. There were only two of them, so she barely saw more of the outside world than she had back with her parents. She certainly hadn't had any time to experiment with creative stuff. And Casoban seemed so keen on fostering that somehow. She hadn't intended to indulge in it, but perhaps she should at least try.

After a bit, the shuffling and chattering came to an end, and the door popped open again. Quinn turned to see what Madam Dague had retrieved from the back room. To see...

See...

Wow.

"Wow," she breathed simultaneously, needing to consciously remember to keep her mouth closed. The three new dresses that were arrayed in front of her were simply...mind-boggling, and her eye remained glued to them even as Dague hung them up and stepped back. Quinn had never seen anything so gorgeous. She had a sudden and very keen realization that what was out on the racks and what was being proudly displayed in front of her weren't even in the same league. They were just...they were all gorgeous, all three of them. So...?

She stepped forward tentatively, running a cautious hand down the fabric again. They really were gorgeous. But she knew she couldn't just take all three. She needed to pick one. Only a moment before she took a half-step over to be in front of the two black ones. The white one just...didn't seem right somehow. So it was between these two. She tried to take a closer to look, to figure out which one would be prettier and more comfortable. They both looked...

And that's when she saw it. The one on the right; the high neck, just like her pilot suit. She imagined wearing something that reminded her of that during a fancy party, and had to stop herself from cringing. So then, that only left...

She reached out and very very carefully took the hanger with the kaleidoscoping golden patterns off the hook, trying to hold it far enough up that it wouldn't drag on the ground, and turned to Madam Dague like she was holding a pile of pure gold.

"Should I...try it on?"

As Quinn made her choice, Dague smiled self-assuredly, like she’d predicted the decision. It was the right size and everything, and whether that was a matter of professional preparation, or inexplicable precognition would likely remain unknown forever.

“Well someone should,” she answered. “And black isn’t my color. This way.”

She led Quinn to the back with the same gentle yet insistent hand. The clerk came back out, still wide-eyed and fidgety.

“Madam, should I bring those in?”

“No. Switch them out with the mauve and aquamarine. I have a feeling tastes will be shifting soon.”

The back of the shop was not much bigger than the front, with a door leading into what might have been the workshop shut tightly, and another leading to dressing room with a long, heavy curtain for a door. Dague slid it open to reveal a there was a full-mirror and a dressing hooks on the walls.

“There’s a single zip in the back, designed for you to be able to do up yourself. In you go!”