As Quinn left medical, she very briefly considered explaining herself: she'd only discovered it herself a couple days ago, and she'd forgotten. Then she realized how insane that would sound. How ridiculous. And, furthermore, how suspicious. She didn't need her new commander not being able to trust her. That would be bad.

Quinn hadn't quite gotten used to the anatomy of the Ange over the Aerie, but she managed to find her way down to the hangar eventually, walking quicker than she had for the rest of the day. Her technician had arrived. And, as, she briefly looked over Ablaze as she walked, the ever-familiar orange jumpsuit began to move towards her in an ever-familiar way.

Quinn didn't stop.

Quinn didn't even slow.

In fact, she matched Tillie's jog pace for pace, sped up, and cannoned into her at frankly concerning speeds before wrapping her in a crushing hug. "TILLIE!!!"

And just like before, for just that barest moment of Tillie Hugging, everything felt a bit right with the world. Which was a bit of an impressive feat, considering.

But then that moment passed, and Quinn realized that she was being...very much stared at, and she gave a self-conscious cough and released Tillie once more. After a little bit; she didn't want to stop the hug quite then and there. But the impression she'd gotten from Casoban thus far had not been "pilots hugging their technicians." When it was finally over, Quinn rubbed the back of her head and let out an embarrassed half-laugh as she released Tillie, taking a step or two back. "Eheh, sorry about that. It's just...nice to see a friendly face." She had, after all, had quite the morning.

Right. People were staring. Another quiet cough. "How, um. How does Ablaze look?"

"_{I missed you.}"

Tillie was thankful she’d taken up exercising again, because a few months ago Quinn’s impact might have thrown her onto the floor, and that would have just been so embarrassing. But, she kept herself vertical and threw her arms around Quinn as well with an absolutely delighted laugh. She’d been warned that things might be tense, or a bit dreary, but Tillie knew better; she knew an unbreakable spirit when she saw one. That’s why Quinn was her favorite!

When they parted, it took Tillie’s suit a few moments to re-inflate. “Same!” she beamed. “I was so worried at first, cause I don’t know any Casobani and, I know everyone speaks Common but—oh! Uhm! But everyone’s been so nice!”

She really had expected worse. Plenty of techs back on the Aerie still treated her like an undergrad, and weren’t too thrilled about her getting selected for duties she got. Her senior assured her she’d earned the spots, but what if the Casobani techs didn’t think so either? But, the whole team here had deferred to her pretty quickly, especially after they saw the face.

“Oh!” Quinn’s question and her own memory collided at once. “Ablaze is great! Uhm! Transport seems like it went fine, and all the readings came back as even as ever! Yeah. When I showed up though, there were so many inquiry reports about the, y’know, eye deal. I told’em what we know—which is basically nothin’, but…”

She gestured up to the Savior, and the field study being conducted on the scaffolds around its face. “They wanna keep running some tests. Uhm! I don’t blame them! I wanna run tests too. We’ve never seen a partial regeneration block like this before, it’s so cool! Is it even a block? What if it’s a genetic anomaly with your Savior? Or some kind of mirroring adaptation? It could be a mutation! Or—oh! What if we could replicate the effect, and spread it to other Modir?” Tillie giggled excitedly, but caught herself before she went on rambling anymore.

“But yeah! Uhm! As far as I’ve been told, I’m just supposed to treat this like business as usual! So, is there anything you need?”

"Uhh..."

She looked up at the scaffolding, blue-suited Casobani engineers swarming over her Savior's face like ants, and shook her head. "I was thinking of looking at the cockpit to see if everything looks okay, but I get the feeling they probably wouldn't be happy with me going up there right now."

She tilted her head up to the grand cathedral of a ceiling, pondering if she had anything to really ask Tillie. Really, she was just happy to see her. She gave a little frown. Something from yesterday...she strained, trying to bring whatever it was back again. It was while she was at lunch or in the concourse, she thought, something about Tillie, about...

Ahhh, right. She wanted to learn a little bit about modiology, so she could talk to Tillie more easily about it. And that moment right there had just solidified it, because as excited as Tillie seemed, Quinn really didn't have much of an idea what she was talking about. Genetic anomaly? Mirroring adaptation? And if there was any time to ask about it, it would be now, right? When Quinn still some measure of free time, before the Casobani media got their hands on her and ate the rest of it up.

Still, it was kind of a strange question to ask, she thought. Could she really just ask her point blank to be her teacher? That seemed kind of weird.

Then again, them being in Casoban was weird to begin with, wasn't it?

"Um, do you think...maybe sometime you could teach me some modiology?" She looked down a bit in something like embarrassment. "I pilot Ablaze, but I don't know very much about it at all. So maybe...?"

For a moment, Tillie worried her hearing had gone. Surely, she thought, Quinnlash Loughvein wasn’t asking her for lessons. Why would anyone want to learn from her? Moreover, what did she have to teach anyone? Teaching was…well, she’d been told often and firmly how inane her ramblings were, and judging by her own experiences as a student, that was unideal for a teacher. She didn’t know if she could explain how to make a sandwich simply, how on earth could she possibly convey the field of modiology in a way that was at once palatable and, importantly, not annoying. Impossible, surely.

Then again, if there was ever a reason to find a way…

Tillie beamed, releasing a squeal high-pitched enough to alert the dogs down on Illun. “Ohmigosh yes! Uhm! I mean! Absolutely I can, totally, yes—ma’am. I’d love to, that’d be awesome. I could, well, no I don’t have a real lunch break for the next few days. Actually I’ll probably be stuck here ‘til after dinner—but! Uhm! After that, if you want, we could meet up, I could explain some of the things we’re looking at.”

Maybe that was better. Rather than just vomit modiology at her, she could focus on Ablaze, and work backwards from there. It wouldn’t be the most comprehensive syllabus, but Quinn was right; it couldn’t hurt if pilots understood the actual mechanics behind their profession a little better.

“We couldn’t really have it in the labs, the sorta bolt everything shut after dark, and I think if we tried to meet on the shop levels you might get swarmed,” she giggled. She’d already heard stories about how excited everyone was to have Ablaze’s pilot here. “My room’s too small, and I’m not really unpacked yet anyway. Oh! I know there’s a curfew for you guys, but maybe we could meet in the dorms, and I could just slip on out before then!

“Uhm! Oh gosh, I mean—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. We don’t have to do it tonight if you don’t want to. I was just sorta, y’know, ugh, new environment and all that. Has me a bit frazzled. Seeing a friendly face is just kinda calming.”

Quinn smiled, happy that she was going to get to talk to Tillie more, and also, very excited to have someone in her room! Her dresser might be up by now—oooooooh, she could show off her dress! A part of her realized that it would probably be a bit weird, but she just really loved that thing, and she wanted to show it off as much as she could to as many people as she could. Well, people that she knew, at any rate.

She took a step back in, winding up in hugging range of Tillie, and nodded her head twice. "Uh huh, you can come to my room after dinner. I needed to see a friendly face too." She paused, muttered to herself: "...Will I need to let her in?" She didn't know whether she would need to let her in manually, or if she could just tell the system to let Tillie Tomm in, or...who knew what, really? Maybe she could ask—

OH! That was right! She was going to fight Cyril! She spied a large ornate clock sunk flush into the wall: afternoon, later than she'd thought, definitely time by now. He'd be at the gym now, right? Maybe after they sparred she could ask about letting Tillie in. He seemed like the kind of person to know. On that note, she also needed to get his contact information, and the other pilots' too.

She nodded to herself, then turned her attention back to Tillie, face writ with gentle regret. "I forgot, I have a place I need to be soon, I gotta go. See you after dinner, okay?" Leaning in to give Tillie one last squeeze, she disconnected, then departed, aiming for the lift. As she slipped into the door and it closed silently behind her, the silence was suddenly broken by her stomach growling menacingly. Ah, right, she hadn't eaten, and she didn't really have time to go out and eat. Hadn't she seen a vending machine somewhere, maybe the rec area?

A couple minutes later, rapidly disappearing protein bar and her retrieved water bottle in hand, she finally took that turn down the hallway and dove into the huge gym.

And yep, there Cyril was, decked out in sparring pads, already ready to go. And Sybil was there too, which she didn't expect; no pads on her, at least not yet. Swallowing down the last of the protein bar, she took a long drink, made sure her braid was nice and set so it didn't come undone again (how embarrassing would that be?).

That done, she gave a little wave and jogged over to the fabric basket with the rest of the sparring stuff in it, quickly donning her own. It was a little different; she had her own personal set at home, after all. But it would do fine. Cracking her neck, she tossed her water bottle over towards the wall, stretched, and stepped on to the mat. A part of her was definitely nervous; he was taller than she was, and he was probably stronger too. He would probably beat her at first. A hint of that anxiety was evident in her voice when she spoke:

"Ready?"

At Quinn’s approach, the twins perked up. Cyril grinned wide and bounced away from his sister, who remained seated against the wall. Like Cyril she was dressed for exercise, but she didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm, and in fact if it weren’t for the almost fixed look of detachment on her face, she might have appeared anxious.

“Hey!” Cyril greeted, stretching on the mat while Quinn geared up. “Hope you don’t mind, but I invited Sybil to join us. We could both use the practice, and if it means a day off training with Camille…”

They shared a frightful look, and Cyril shook out his shoulders like he’d gotten a chill.

“Hoo…Anyway! Are you alright to give us both a round or two? We can swap out, or take some breaks—whatever you want. We’re both just excited to see what you got!”

“Yeah…” Sybil muttered.

Cyril refastened his pads and got into place across from Quinn. Even with a mouth guard in, he managed to keep his smile on. He stopped bouncing, but that energy coiled within him like a spring. His stance was good, he seemed focused, but there wasn’t a trace of genuine aggression in his eyes. He probably looked out of place doing something like this, but then again, Quinn didn’t look much different to him. He wondered, briefly, how many pilots were naturals to violence. Surely some had to be, just watching them tear through the Modir, or even each other. But outside of the Saviors, how many looked like outliers?

He put up his hands, winked. “Ready when you are!”

Quinn settled into her stance as well, and began to edge towards Cyril, keeping her left side and thus eye forward as always. The instant she could, her slow pace burst into flurried motion as she delivered a powerful straight kick directly towards his waist. He'd backstep, and the momentum would be hers, along with the fight. She could see it plain as day; she'd used this exact tactic on Dahlia a few times before, and it had always been pretty effective as an opening gambit. He just needed to dodge, and then—

—His elbow swung down, and he blocked it instead. Her eye shot wide. A quick jab came straight at her, cracking her on the chin. If he didn't have padded gloves on, that would hurt. Another followed, this one a slow haymaker that would've hit like a truck. But thanks to its speed, she was able to recover from the first hit and slide out of the way just in time. It turned out that she was the one backstepping, teeth clenched, ready to get whacked a few more times for her carelessness.

He pressed his advantage, and she did take another hit, though whether it counted was debatable since it only grazed her helmet, she thought. Her breaths came quick and harsh, and she was having trouble reading his motions. She was too used to Dahlia, wasn't she?

Well. What was one of Dahlia's first lessons? Don't focus on his arms. Focus on all of him. She took a deep breath. He was throwing long punches to try and force her back, keep her past a comfortable reach so she couldn't retaliate. She was just about at the edge of the mat now, she was reaching a limit to how far back she could dodge. But it seemed like every time—she threw a quick punch of her own as he was mid-punch, catching him on the armguard. Yeah, that confirmed it. Because he was trying to keep her at a distance, every time he threw a more impactful punch at her, he would throw his arm way out, so it took him some time to pull it back. She needed to find the right moment...

Ah, there it was. His eyes were flicking to the right half of her face. He was trying to catch her blind spot. Smart. So the next hit would—THERE! His left arm shot out in a hook that she was pretty sure would knock her flat if it caught her. For just that crucial moment, he was exposed. Couldn't block since his arm was out, couldn't dodge since he was going forward. She ducked under the punch, briefly gathering strength in her legs like coiling springs. Going right for the side of her head, huh?

Two can play that game.

Then in a blur of motion, she whipped out a savage high kick that caught him right in the side of the head, and he dropped like a bag of rocks.

Cyril’s whole world spun, and for a moment it felt like he’d been flipped rather than simply dropped. Camille had taught him early on that if you’re gonna fall, fall correct, or you could do more damage to yourself than whatever had hit you. So he crumpled, and then when he came close to the mat he rolled onto his back and slapped himself down. It sounded much worse than it was, but he still took a second to lay there while his vision refocused.

“Mon dieu,” he wheezed, spitting his mouthguard out onto his hand. Look at that, a little trauma knocked the Casobani back into him, their parents would be proud. He propped himself up on his elbows and held up his palms in surrender, in case she came in for a finisher. “Felt like you had a metal bat strapped to your leg.”

“Camille warned you,” Sybil said, though she seemed a bit shaken herself. “She trains with Dragon, what’d you think was gonna happen?”

Cyril got back up to his feet and shook himself off. Truthfully, he hadn’t known what to expect. Obviously Quinnlash was an experienced combatant, in her Savior, but he’d found that to be a poor benchmark. Being in a Savior felt powerful, immensely so, but it was different face-to-face. He supposed he’d expected it to be the same for her; not weaker, per se, but different. Evidently that was not the case—Quinnlash was exactly as fierce out of the cockpit.

“Well, that’s me for the moment,” he said, peeling off his helmet and tossing it at Sybil. “Your turn!”

“Uh…” Sybil looked between, to Cyril, to the helmet, then to Quinn. “Pass.”

“No. No pass. Do you know what happens if Camille hears we called out just to ditch? I'd rather spend all day getting kicked in the head, thank you. Besides, this is a fantastic opportunity! She’s our teammate, we get to learn from Ablaze!”

Cyril hopped over to her, taking her by the hands and pulling up. Sybil groaned reluctantly, but eventually resigned and put on the helmet, along with the rest of the pads from the basket. When she was finished, she made her way onto the mat, popping the mouthguard in, and raising her hands. She seemed to be trying to mimic Cyril’s stance, but there was something off about it. Was she shifting her weight strangely? Holding her hands too low? Too high? Perhaps she was facing flat forward for a reason.

“Watch her legs!”

Sybil did, eyes darting down to Quinn’s feet briefly before they shot back up to her face. Rather than wait at the start as Cyril had, she elected for a different strategy and rushed Quinn right away. There was a nervous, inaccurate energy to her movements, and she came out with a wildly wide haymaker aimed to take Quinn somewhere between her head and her shoulder.

As Cyril got back up, Quinn relaxed her stance. Her shoulders heaved as her breaths came in sharp gasps. He wasn't as good as Dahlia, but he was certainly pretty good. She let out a little chuckle when he and Sybil had finished speaking, and she reached up to rub her chin. "Shot to my chin hurt, don't you worry." She paused for a moment, choosing her words to give him advice on how he left himself open and that let her close the space she needed. But before she could say anything, they started again. She was going to fight Sybil now, she supposed.

She blinked a few times at hearing Cyril talking about the terror of Camille's training again. It seemed as though it afflicted him with some primal terror. The whole thing was a little bit absurd, and she found herself muttering, "is it really that bad?"

But shaking her head, she dismissed the thought from her mind, and squared up for Sybil to step on the mat. Though something felt kind of...odd, about the whole thing. She really seemed like she didn't want to spar. And she could see why, she hadn't started looking forward to her training sessions with Dahlia for a good long while after they'd started. But at the same time, she'd been a...special case, given how she'd never really exercised in her life.

And the instant Sybil stepped out in front of her, she immediately understood why. Cybil was new to piloting, but clearly not to combat. She wondered if maybe that boxing ring out on the rec center had something to do with that. But clearly, Sybil was new to both piloting, and to combat. Which seemed strange to Quinn at first; in order to fight Modir you needed to fight, but she'd been deployed, and she was still here and alive. So—

—Aaaand she was running at her now, swinging a punch so wide and slow it seemed like she was trying to punch a Savior, not its pilot. For that split second, Quinn wondered what she should do. Should she just do it, knock her to the ground? No, that would feel awful, for both of them. Grab the punch and start talking? No, that might be even worse. So...?

As the punch swung wide, Quinn stepped out of the way, holding her hands up in the universal 'time out' T. "Wait wait wait, time time!" She held her hands up, ready to dodge any more poorly aimed shots that came her way. "You mind if I get a drink?" Truth be told, she was feeling a little parched. She'd had a weird day so far, and somewhere along the way she'd stopped drinking. And she could feel it now, in the hoarseness of her throat.

Stepping off the mat, she jogged over to her water bottle, mulling over what she was going to say as she took a long drink, savoring the sweetness of the water. Somehow it never got old.

She capped the bottle again, and a moment passed.

"...Is your weapon ranged, Sybil?"

Sybil’s swing met air and the momentum nearly took her onto the ground. Part of her was annoyed at how easily she’d been dipped, and that part whirled around to put her hands back up and prepare to swing again. Thankfully, the rest of her saw Quinn calling for time and was glad she’d missed. The idea of practically introducing herself with a sucker punch twisted her stomach into knots.

Still, it was weird. It was weird, right? She glanced over to Cyril, whose brow was cocked, and he gave her a small shrug with his lips. Yeah, weird. But that was the rumor about the RISC crew, that they were all off in little ways. Not like the Helburkans, but from the interviews and appearances over the years, it had become clear that Runa employed the unique. Cyril found it charming, but Sybil had always been wary. After all, looking at someone like St. Senn, it was obvious the little eccentricities belied terrible power. They’d all seen as much from Quinnlash recently, too.

She waited while Quinnlash drank, and when their younger senior asked a question, she waited again, and pondered what strange double-meaning it might have. Eventually she gave up and popped out her mouthguard before answering.

“Yeah. Mid to long, I think, is what they classified it as,” she said, once again looking to Cyril, but getting nothing helpful in return. “Why?”

Quinn nodded, half to Sybil and half to herself. "Mhmm, I thought so." Dropping her water bottle back down, she stepped back on the mat, wearing a smile that she thought might've been comforting, though she wasn't exactly sure. She wasn't used to wearing comforting smiles and was mostly imitating the rest of her family and Safie. She paused for a moment before she answered Sybil's question: "'Cause you're fighting like I did." She left out the part about growing up in isolation, of course.

"When I first started fighting, I was really bad. So bad. Way worse." She pulled her leg back and made an intentionally sloppy wide kick, the kind she hadn't made in a long time. She was so unused to it she overbalanced, tottered, and fell on her ass with an oof! She laughed a little in embarrassment, scraped herself off the ground, then continued. "If Dahlia had just punched me in the face and knocked me down every time we sparred," she gave Cyril a sidelong look, something like a glare. Sybil had clearly expected her to hit back, and hit back hard. "I wouldn't have learned much at all. Before I started fighting I needed to learn how to fight."

She let that hang on the air for a bit, then looked back at Sybil, unable to help seeing herself from a few months back now. She hoped she didn't sound condescending. Then, trying to remember what Dahlia had done when she'd first started, she held her hands out, not as fists, but open: an invitation.

"So hit me!"

Sybil listened closely, relieved she wasn’t about to get flattened by the resident hero. It was strange to her, almost unimaginable, that someone like Quinnlash was once ‘way worse’ than her at anything. If there was one thing Sybil had grown accustomed to in her short period of training, it was being mediocre. Mediocre test scores, mediocre phasing speed, mediocre output, and, of course, mediocre combat results. Had Quinnlash really dealt with that? Had she stepped out of a pod and seen broad disappointment among her superiors, and embarrassment among the ones who weren’t high enough rank to be disappointed?

Surely not. Not after the display she’d put on planet-side. Some things could be taught, but some things were just natural. Had to be. All day, every interview, she saw people laud the pilots that were “born with it”, while the ones who weren’t, didn’t stick around long enough to get interviewed much.

Still, Quinnlash made a good point. Learning through cruelty was pointless, and for all the grief they gave their captain, Camille had expressed similar sentiments. Sybil just hoped she would still be able to walk after training.

Briefly, she saw Quinnlash’s eye flick to Cyril. It wasn’t a particularly kind look, and he seemed a bit surprised by it. Sybil felt her fist clench reflexively. She popped her mouthguard back in, and when the invitation came to pick things up where they’d left off, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped in and swung. It wasn’t quite as wide, but still nothing like a practiced fighter. What she lacked in technique this time though, she made up for with intent.

Quinn couldn't help but feel a wide grin spreading over her face as Sybil threw another punch at her. Her form was already better. Maybe she wasn't overthinking it so much? Standing at least a little bit side-on instead of uncomfortably stiff full forward. The punch wasn't as wide, and when it cracked into the glove with a sound like a gunshot she was pleasantly surprised: that fist hit a lot harder than she thought it would, though she didn't actually have many benchmarks to measure it against. She couldn't keep the genuine enthusiasm out of her voice as she gushed, "that was a solid hit! Throw me another one!"

---

By the time Quinn stepped back off the mat again, a good chunk of time had passed. She wasn't quite sure, since she didn't know exactly when she and Sibyl had started; but it was long enough that the palms of her hands were throbbing from repeated hits, and she was sore in a few more places. She grimaced as she rubbed her collarbone where she'd bruised it against the obstacle course yesterday. That was gonna sting for a while.

Still, she was better off than Sibyl was. The girl looked super drained. Quinn couldn't blame her, of course, when she'd started she could barely go for half an hour with Dahlia without taking a break, and she thought it must have been at least three times that. She'd given her some advice on how to throw a solid punch (complete with demonstration on Sibyl's glove), where to keep your hands to make sure you had your guard up, how to stand to make sure you wouldn't get taken aback and overbalance yourself, and so on and so forth. Things like that: stuff that Dahlia had told her those months ago. It was her first foray into being the teacher, and she found it...surprisingly fun, actually.

Shaking out her hands with a hiss, she popped the top on her water bottle again, mildly surprised at how much she'd chugged over the course of only a few drinks. Must've been more dehydrated than she thought. She nearly drained the thing, then she gave a long breath as she looked back at the older girl, organizing her thoughts.

"I think your biggest problem is that you're trying to fight like him. Similar stance and all. Which isn't inherently bad, he is a good fighter." She nodded to Cyril off to the side, somewhat surprised he'd actually stuck around. "But, different people do better with different ways to fight. Like how I use my legs more because my depth perception isn't so great," she tapped her eyepatch lightly, "or how Dahlia—er, St. Senn weaves in and out more than most so she doesn't take unnecessary hits since Dragon is kinda fragile." She gave a little shrug. "I'm not psychic, obviously, but it feels to me like it just doesn't super fit you."

Flexing her fingers—they were a little stiff—and cracking her knuckles, she gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "Try something new next time you spar. Not something anyone can really teach you, just gotta figure it out on your own. Might be worse at first, but I'm sure it'll pay off when you find what you're looking for!"

She took another long, deep breath—which, after the day she'd had, transmuted into a yawn—then turned over to Cyril, looking at him a bit apologetically—he'd stuck around this long, he clearly cared and she felt bad for assuming the worst—and finally taking the time to address his own major error. "You probably would've gotten me, honestly. Just got a little too aggressive, and it left you just open enough for me to get a kick in." She leaned against the wall, then slid down to sit on the floor, shucking the gloves off and tossing them over towards the basket. And missing. She'd pick 'em up later. "If you'd kept your hands closer in and your guard up better I'd prob'ly have been on the floor."

"This was fun. We should do it again soon."

By the time Quinn called it, it was almost evening. Hours had passed in a blur of fists and kicks and sweat. Sybil lay splayed out beside a plug-in fan, which, blasting at high-speed still couldn’t budge her wet, matted hair. She spat out her mouthguard and lay exhausted, gasping in and out while the lightheadedness of her exercise high set her skull abuzz. Quinn was speaking, she could tell, but it felt like they were separated by a whole pool’s worth of water.

Cyril sat beside her, not quite as worn out. He listened intently, worried that if he didn’t, she might grow upset with him again. She seemed leveled now, but somehow he’d managed to flub what had seemed to him like a good first impression.

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to,” he said, giving Sybil’s knee a shake, which she responded to by throwing him a middle finger for as long as she could keep her arm up. “She loves trying new things. We both do—it would be great to do this again.”

The door opened behind them, and Cyril jolted. With how quiet and isolated the pilot’s floor could be, arrivals often took him by surprise.

It was the woman from the platform, the third pilot, Camille. Rather than a suit of armor, she wore a uniform of the CSC colors, with an ivory shoulder-cloaked draped over her right arm. Cold eyes found the three of them instantly, and she marched over with a sure and rigid pace. She stood taller than the lot of them, hair tied back into a short tail, hand resting on the pommel of a rapier sheathed at her hip.

“Uh oh.” Cyril muttered. He got up to his feet and brought his hand up in a quick salute. “Captain.”

Camille looked between him and Quinn, before finally turning her attention down to Sybil. “Derisa,” she said, her voice like a wolf’s growl.

Cyril nudged her gently with his foot, breaking her from her exhausted stupor and dousing her sober the moment she saw who it was staring at her. “Shit,” she wheezed, and scrambled up to her feet. Her thighs burned in protest and she found herself leaning against her brother for support. “Captain.”

She stood there in silence for a moment, watching Sybil tremble and heave pretending like she wasn’t barely able to stand. Finally, she said, “Tonight’s sims are cancelled.”

They balked.

“Really?” Cyril beamed.

Sybil was more skeptical. “Why?”

“You’re exhausted,” Camille said, talking directly to her. “You aren’t conditioned enough to go from physical exercise to simulations. The strain would ruin you for days, and we can’t have that. This is why we alternate.”

Cyril winced. “Sorry, we’ll make it up—”

“You’ll make it up tomorrow.”

“I have the gala tomorrow,” Sybil snapped. “I’m presenting three paintings, one of them is a collaboration for Cyril’s show.”

“You will call them now, before they close, and inform them that you cannot attend. Ask them to reschedule, if you wish.”

A reinvigorating anger sprung to life in Sybil’s chest. “We arranged this weeks ago! Can’t I just make the sims up the next day? Or tomorrow night?”

“No, you can’t,” Camille said, and when Sybil opened her mouth to protest, she cut her off. “This is an order, Derisa. I’m giving you the opportunity to handle it on your own terms. I suggest you do so.”

There was seething rage in Sybil’s eyes, but it never made it past her lips. Gritting her teeth, threw off her pads and stormed off, wobbling at first before forcing herself to walk straight. Cyril swore under his breath but didn’t dare look up at Camille, instead shooting Quinn an apologetic look before hurrying after his sister.

The door shut, and suddenly the two of them were alone. Camille walked onto the mat, kicking Sybil’s pads to the basket. Again there was a quiet moment before she turned her attention fully to Quinn.

“So, now you’ve seen them first hand,” she said, face stony and impenetrable. “What do you think of Casoban’s heroes?”

Quinn was still rather winded for her part, pulling her hand through her bangs to get some of the sweat off of them. Reaching out for her water, she pulled the cap off again, tried to take a drink, and then remembered that she'd just drained it, and only the finest rivulet of water ran into her mouth. As Cyril began to speak, Quinn gently unplaited her braid. It had gotten messy, and demanded to be tied again. It was something that she'd gotten in the habit of doing after rigorous exercise, lest her hair get kinked. But she'd barely managed to get it down to her neck before the door shot open. Quinn jerked, yanking unpleasantly on the strands of hair she was holding, and turned her head to see...

...The vaunted Camille, wearing quite the uniform, and quite the expression. Quinn could practically smell the ice that she carried in her wake.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cyril...salute? Huh? Was that normal? Should she—

...Well, when in Casoban. After a moment, she lifted her own hand in a clumsy imitation of his salute, cringing internally as the nascent braid unspooled into nothingness with no hands guiding it. She must be an absolute sight. Should she say something now? Address her somehow? Should she call her Captain too?

But for the moment, at least, the question was dodged. Before Quinn could think about saying anything, Camille had started to redress Sybil. Tonight's sims were cancelled? There were sims? There was a schedule to keep? Anxiety shot cold and quick through her blood. Nobody had told her. She was beginning to understand why Cyril had seemed so happy to not exercise with, or even spend time around, this woman. There was something so crushingly intimidating about her.

A few moments later, she dropped the unnatural-feeling salute, and winced as Camille shredded Sybil in the most matter-of-fact way. Almost before she knew it the Derisas were leaving. When Cyril sent her an apologetic glance, Quinn matched it with one of her own. This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't showed up. Sorry.

And then she and the Captain were alone. A silent moment stretched out as Quinn nervously fiddled with the fringe of her unbraided hair.

"So, now you’ve seen them first hand. What do you think of Casoban’s heroes?"

"I—" There was a telltale nervous tremble in her voice, and she took a moment both to crush it down and to collect her thoughts before she continued. Camille seemed like the kind of person who you didn't want mad at you, so she did her best to sum up what she thought as concisely as possible. "...Cyril's fun. People seem to like him. He has to learn to keep his guard up better. Sybil..." God, what was she going to say about Sybil?

"...I didn't talk to her much until now, but..." ...she should be spending more time in here. But her voice caught in her throat before she said that last part. Camille was training them. And she didn't want to make Camille mad at her. So after an awkward moment of silence, "...she keeps trying to fight like Cyril and it's not working." Another silence that stretched out for longer than was strictly comfortable.

"...um, Captain."

A huff escaped Camille when Loughvein called her Captain. Uniformity and discipline were not the virtues of most pilots; the twins hadn’t been keen on the idea themselves at first, until she had Toussaint’s authority behind her. She had expected similar resistance from Loughvein. Was RISC’s program stricter than she’d come to believe from Abroix’s reports. Or perhaps this was just an act of sarcastic defiance.

No, from her answer, Camille could tell it was something worse. It was fear. Troublesome. Respect was integral to keeping order in the unit, and in turn, keeping the unit alive. Fear, on the other hand, did nothing. Less than nothing. It made people give half-answers to questions they were more concerned about answering correctly than honestly.

She had been told more than once that she was an intimidating woman. Fair enough. But looking into Loughvein’s eye, Camille saw fear that spread further than this one room, this singular moment.

She sighed. “Your dishonesty does no one any good. They’re hopeless. All these hours today but I’m sure you realized in the first five minutes that neither of them has any business being a pilot. They would have better served Casoban on the stage or in the gallery. It would certainly be safer.

“Familial pilots are rare outside of Helburke. Not just for their literal rarity, but because everywhere else it’s caused nothing but problems,” she stepped closer, but made an active effort to soften her voice. “Do you believe passion is enough to make a pilot? This time, answer like you’re talking to a mirror.”

Quinn visibly cringed backwards at the first few words of Camille's response, expecting to be met with a reprimand the likes of which had been levied at Sybil. She hadn't really even been fully conscious she was being dishonest.

And so she was rather surprised when she didn't receive a dressing down. More just...a gentle warning. Was this the terrifying trainer that Cyril had been so frightened of? Yes, she seemed very critical about the Derisas. But something about her put Quinn at ease more than anything else, enough that, after another spate of silence while she wrestled with her thoughts, she was able to get herself together and reply, sincerely.

"I think passion is important," she began carefully, "and I don't think someone can be a good pilot without it. But on its own...Mmm. You need passion, but you also need..." Another hesitation, but less trying to avoid speaking. Simply trying to find the right word.

"...Determination. You need determination. You have to train hard for a long time. Being a pilot takes work. And..."

She took a long, deep breath as she imagined herself looking in the mirror back in her room on the Aerie. Camille was still looking at her in that same way. Not unkind, but not particularly kind either. Level. Appraising. Quinn met her eye to eye.

"...sometimes you just get lucky. I didn't work for my phasing speed or weapon. They just...happened."

Another deep breath, then a third, before she finally summed up what she was trying to say: "No. Just passion isn't enough."

Camille listened intently to Loughvein’s answer. She had done her due diligence long before the girl arrived, studied the dossiers the CSC could compile based on what information was shared by RISC, and also what had to be inferred. Especially when the alliance between their nations became tenuous, and the more anxious of their program’s numbers feared there may be conflict. But Camille knew better. War was pariah sensationalism, largely taboo but always considered; everyone on Illun feared theirs would be the generation to see the Accord crack again. Runa and Casoban had been allies for too long for that. Theirs would be the war of the modern age, fought on the fields of international law, using weapons of mass embargo.

All this to say, she had prepared herself to fight nonetheless, be it against Dragon or this newly anointed Ablaze. Camille knew both pilots as well as one could through second-hand assessments. Loughvein’s combat record aside, her personal records did not impress; she was by all accounts a meek and miserable girl who should have been mulched in her first duel. Naturally, she understood that about herself, but she was also surprisingly honest about it.

Good, it was easier to speak plainly with people like that.

“We’re afforded many things as pilots,” she said, still staring down at her in the same level, unyielding way. “Money, glory, influence. We live lavish lives and our funerals are matters of national importance. Pick any day out of the year and you’ll find memorials to a dozen of us. Our pictures hang in people’s homes beside their loved ones. In their most dire moments it’s our names they call out for. We’re given trust, and hope, and love.” she sighed, shook her head. “But we’re never given time.”

Camille looked down at the mat, to the sweat and scuffs and, if she really searched she was sure she’d find flecks of blood from raw knuckles or bitten lips.

“It’s paradoxical. Few paths demand as much from someone as piloting, and yet its first steps are the most unforgiving. You can’t take them slowly. You can’t learn how to walk, you already have to know how to run. Being here necessitates talent you didn’t work for, and determination you haven’t earned. There is no time to train yourself up to par—you perform, or you die.

“In all likelihood, the Derisas will be dead before the end of your first rotation here. As captain, it is my duty to ensure they survive anyway. I will push them. I will be cruel. You will not interfere. Your time here is largely unstructured because you do perform, but make no mistake, should I feel it necessary I will be cruel to you, too.”

She stepped away from Loughvein then with a curt nod. “I have been told in no uncertain terms that you will not be dueling during your tenure here. This does not exempt you from professional responsibility. The CSC may not hold you to a schedule, but I will expect at least a modest number of hours each week from you simming against Modir. You may train with the Derisas should you wish, but ensure that you align yourself with their routine, lest we have a repeat of today. Otherwise, you may utilize the sim’s AI, request a specific tutor from the station’s staff, or if necessary, ask me.

“Put the rest of these pads away, then you’re dismissed for the evening. Loughvein.”

With that, Camille left her there, and the familiar quiet returned.

Quinn hadn't known what to expect from the CSC's pilot captain. From what little she'd heard from the Derisas, or the ever-so-brief snippets she'd caught now and then online, she'd thought she was going to be absolutely draconian. A cruel taskmaster, ever-ready to crack the whip out of sadistic glee. Possibly—probably—with horns growing out of her head to boot. And since the first time Cyril had mentioned her...was it at dinner, yesterday? She couldn't quite recall...Quinn had been building her up in her head as a figure of terror.

In reality, though, the truth was...

...weird.

She spoke in such a matter-of-fact way it was throwing Quinn off. And not just her tone of voice: Quinn understood very well that tone of voice didn't necessarily dictate emotion, especially if the person was a good actor. No, what she was saying at its core was extremely level and balanced. Not an admonishment, but a warning. So all she could do—and, she was pretty sure, all she SHOULD do—was nod.

And as Camille strode out of the gym, lift her hand up in a salute that wasn't quite right and say, quietly, "Captain."

She would need to ask Sybil and Cyril for their schedules, she thought as she busied herself putting the pads away and carting the container against the wall. Maybe not now, though. She had a feeling Sybil would punch her in the face if she tried, combat training notwithstanding.

And she also didn't want to see either of them right now, she thought as she finished her work and stared out into space. She barely knew them, so it wasn't like talking about Dahlia. But she still found it difficult to square herself with the idea they might die. Despite being a pilot and thus working closely together with death, and despite the vast exposure to death she'd had on that October night, it was still mostly a stranger to her: something she knew about, she'd seen, but didn't think about, ignored as best she could. But after that conversation, such as it was, she found herself staring the idea in the face, and a well of bottomless anxiety yawned open inside of her as it stared back.

Sober and pensive, she walked over to the door and smacked the switch, then walked back to her room, deep in thought.

...Only to be blindsided by the dresser that was suddenly next to her bed. Right. She'd ordered that. Because she was a pilot.

We’re afforded many things as pilots, but we're never given time.

Well, she had enough time for one thing, at least. Letting the door slide shut behind her, she sat down on the bed, put her head in her hands, and softly cried.

Tillie had said evening, but as she rode the lift down to the pilot’s floor, she still felt anxiously late. How could she not? Quinnlash Loughvein had asked her to teach her about modiology! No one had ever asked her to do that without a grade or paycheck on the line. In a way that was how most professions were, but to Tillie, the study of their invaders had always been more akin to a passion. So, while she’d long since squared herself with keeping her excitement to herself, this opportunity had her practically vibrating with excitement.

The doors opened to a wide, warm, and very quiet hall. Tillie adjusted the small stack of books in her arms and scurried on. She couldn’t help but marvel, not that she knew what a pilot’s quarters should look like, but if anyone deserved so much space it was them. As she made her way along though, the faint but omnipresent thrumming sank bone-deep, and she thought the silence might suffocate her if she had to live here.

Thankfully she didn’t—was that bad to say? She was perfectly happy to visit, more than happy in fact. Eventually she came to Quinn’s door, and after mustering enough courage—and shimmying an arm under the books—she knocked to the beat of ‘Walking Solstice`.

When Quinn answered, Tillie beamed, but her greeting yawned when she looked past her into the room.

“Wooooah…” she mumbled, entering in a daze when Quinn stepped aside. It was like the royal suite of a palace, with the ceiling of a cathedral, and staring up Tillie nearly dropped her books to the ground. “Oh! Uhm! Sorry, wow, got a little distracted. Thanks so much for inviting me, what an awesome place!”

She set the books down with a quiet “Oof!” and whirled back around to Quinn. Once again she couldn’t help herself, and a wide grin split across her face just imagining all of the fun science they had to explore.

“So! Uhm! Don’t be intimidated by all the material. I didn’t know what you might be interested in so I just brought a bunch of different stuff. Actually, where did you want to start? You don’t have to know anything specific, but if you have any vague ideas of what you might like to know, it’ll help me sorta, uhm! Steer, y’know?”

Tillie stopped then, and actually looked at Quinn. “Oh wow,” she said. She was wearing a dress—a really, really nice dress. That shouldn't have been too surprising, after all pilots were usually expected to dress sharp. But for most of Tillie's admittedly brief tenure at RISC, she'd really only ever seen Quinn in casuals, or in her pilot gear. Turned out she cleaned up pretty well!

“That's gorgeous!” she beamed. “You look so pretty! Ohmigosh, is there some kinda event coming up?”