The Ange was in motion. Days passed, things moved quickly; there was a tumult in command bleeding through the glass floors, permeating the station air with uncertainty, anxiety. They anchored their orbit to the nation’s coast, poised above the pastel deltas like a needle. Still there was silence, not strictly of confidence, but also abound was an uneasiness, an unwillingness to admit what they were doing there. Toussaint was scarce and unresponsive, save for the most brusque of responses, and the mild assurances that everything was well in hand and things were being discussed. Everyone would be informed in due time.

Ironically enough, he was right, they were informed—by Eusero.

Less than a week after the unprecedented ‘coincidence’, the Euseran media underwent an indignant conniption. In tandem step, nearly every news station began to report on Casoban’s treachery. The headlines, in amalgam, all distilled into a common sentiment:

In an act of supreme ungratefulness, Casoban has not only rebuffed Eusero’s diplomatic negotiations, but now insists on trudging up a settled, century-old territorial dispute over the province and town of Cantimine.

Naturally, rightfully, the denizens of the Ange didn’t believe a word of it. They came again to Toussaint and asked, in concerned unison, what the hell was actually going on. A week ago their relationship with Eusero was arguably better than it had ever been, and while no one had expected that to last, neither had they expected to fall into the nation’s political crosshairs with such vigor. One thing they knew for certain: if Eusero claimed this was a land dispute, then it was absolutely anything but a land despite.

And Toussaint said: “It’s a land dispute.”

Casoban and Eusero were officially engaged in Accord-sanctioned quarrel. Over a provincial zone not terribly bigger than Hovvi. There would be ostensible negotiations which would, of course, go nowhere, leading into another media frenzy, during which the area of Cantimine would become inundated with political tourism and Savior enthusiasts, because, inevitably, there would be a duel.

A blurred day and night, a few lip-service phone calls, and then Selen Dane and Olivier Moroux took to their respective airwaves.

“Since the fall of Aridea, the proud and beautiful territory of Cantimine has flown the Euseran flag,” they agreed. And then they stopped agreeing.

“Eusero liberated it from the Empire’s tyranny, protected it; we planted seeds here, of people, of progress, of a future, while Casoban was still a thrall.”

“Eusero took from us when we were at our weakest, and has since demanded we thank them for the privilege. These days, there seems to be no end to such demands.”

And so on, and so forth. They never debated, never took stock of their nations’ moods, and yet with apparent ease they whipped their populaces into a furor over a dispute most had only learned about in the preceding days. Such was the nature of the beast. There had never been the option for peaceful resolution, but, even if there were, Illun surged and cried out for justice.

So there the Ange hovered, Eusero’s station not far apart, while the town of Cantimine swelled with celebration and anticipation. Casoban, as the challenger, was to announce its champion first, and there was buzz throughout the station, as Quinn made her way to the bridge along with the rest of the pilots for their debriefing, that she would be taking her first, true steps into the shoes of a Casobani hero.

“Camille,” Toussaint said. “You’re up.”

There was a collective sigh in the room. Of disappointment from Cyril, of relief from Sybil, and of resignation from Camille.

“It’s your home, anyway,” he went on. “Makes the most sense.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, as if pretending she and everyone else in the room hadn’t known they’d choose her from the start. The twins were too inexperienced—if half eager—and Quinn was…on probation, of sorts. Camille presented the best odds; there were few pilots in Eusero’s roster with an even chance at her. Few, but not none.

“You’ll all be going down,” he said. “Cantimine may be Euseran territory now, but its people live in Casoban, and there’s a near-majority support for us among the citizens. Eusero will run its junkets, invite celebrities, but we’re going to be there on the ground, showing people why we’re better for them.” Fingers flicked across his tablet, beeps sounded from the pilots’ phones. “Preliminary schedules. Cyril, you’re due for an appearance at the town’s community theatre. I’m told the director there modeled his run of ‘L’intervention’ after your performance. Sybil, you’re donating three pieces to the town’s center for the arts, and you’ll be first judge for a portrait competition tomorrow evening. Camille, Casoban’s premiere fencing league is flying in—you’ll be giving them a demonstration. Light sparring. You’re teaching, not fighting—no injuries, and don’t get injured.”

A round of nods, duties assigned.

“Quinnlash,” Toussaint said, turning to her. “You are…tricky. Our PR team has determined that, given the current strain between Eusero and Runa, putting you front and center might push support among the locals away from us. We want you there, still, visible, but I’ve scheduled no events for you. You are, in a sense, free to do as you wish, within reason and under supervision. If you’d like, I can send you a list of places that would welcome your appearance, or you can feel out the area for yourself.”

He stood, and the other pilots stood as well, sensing the meeting coming to a close.

“You’ll depart this afternoon, make what preparations you will. The CSC will be occupying one of the local hotels, you’ll all have the floor to yourselves, just like here. Dismissed.”

And with that, Toussaint left. Camille joined him, and the two disappeared together down the hall. The twins remained. Sybil slouched back in her seat, while Cyril stretched, and an excited smile spread across his face.

“What a drag,” Sybil muttered.

“What? C’mon, this’ll be great!” Cyril said, looking over to Quinn. “I mean, it’s a little weird, but, a break’s a break!”

“She gets a break, not us. You and I have work.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “At a theatre, and a painting contest. Oh, the woes and struggles are ceaseless. Quinn! You’re excited, right? I mean, I’m sure you could use the fresh air after, ah, well…it’ll be good for you! You finally get to see the sights!”

And Quinn was excited. The last time she'd been planetside, it had only been to transfer her over to the Ange from the Aerie. And the last time she'd spent any actual time down, it had been the duel, and the less she thought about that the better. So as the elevator began its descent, she took a deep, calming breath to still her excitement.

She wasn't bringing much down with her; she didn't really even have that much to bring. Some clothes. The laptop Casoban had given her. Phone. Some snacks. And her new dress, of course; if she was going to wear it anywhere, might be down there! At the moment, she was wearing the jacket that Besca had given her before she went down to Mona's: the gray one, with the paired yellow stripes. She had her arms crossed, and her finger tapped at her her upper arm with a rapid tap-tap-tap. Her face was spread in an uncommonly wide smile.

As they left the bounds of the Ange and emerged into the hardlight sheath, she looked down, and...the smile lessened. She was excited. She really was. The bay below, the ocean reaching to the horizon; the afternoon sunlight, whipping and flashing over the waves. The patchwork of the Casobani fields stretching out one way, and in the distance she thought that maybe she could see some fraction of the Euseran cities, though she wasn't sure. It was beautiful, and she was excited. But...it felt...off. Less, somehow. Almost hollow, in some strange way, like there was a parasite eating the excitement from the inside. And as the minutes went by, and they dropped further--as Cantimine came into focus beneath them--it only grew hungrier. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

It was wrong enough that as she stepped off the elevator, it wasn't with the same steady stride that usually characterized her. It was slower, if only a bit. Halting. Almost a stumble, though not quite.

She took another deep breath. What was going on? Was she getting sick? She felt so cold. Cold like she hadn't felt in a long time, a chill that she recognized in her bones but couldn't name. She only realized that she was shivering after she heard her teeth chattering. Shook her head distractedly. She had to be sick. Something was wrong with her. It was fine. Cyril was right. She just needed to get out and get some air. That's what she'd done in the central plaza after the first time she'd gotten sick on the Aerie, Besca had led her out and she'd felt better after she'd breathed. That was all she needed. She screwed her eye tight for a second before opening it and walking with a more sure stride up to the barrier that separated the landing zone from

the street full of people the sound of music SCREAMING the smell of copper and iron SAFIE her heart throbbed in her ears as she stumbled back until she collided with someone, she couldn't tell who, face suddenly ashen, ghost-pale as all the blood drained out of it. Black fuzz encroached around the edges of her vision, narrowing it down to a tunnel of muted gray shapes as tears poured freely from her wide, terrified eye. In the distance she though she could still see the water of the lake the sun that GLARED AT HER the SCREAMING THE SCREAMING THE SCREAMING the fish full of BLADES glass in her feet glass in her throat BLOOD SO MUCH BLOOD run run RUN QUINNLASH RUN to the bay. Her head was filled with cotton, thick cotton that drowned out her thoughts and left her with nothing but the images and the deafening sound of her heart. She tried to speak, but all that dripped from her numb lips was a terrified, almost inaudible squeak. She tried again; another muted nothing-sound. She felt like she might faint. Tried again, and this time what came out was understandable, if only the barest whisper:

"Not...not...again...not again..."

Cantimine was gorgeous, in a way which was at once distinctly Casobani, and distinctly unCasobani. Distant tree-topped hills swayed with gentle colors; the ocean shimmered and shifted on the breeze; the air was cool and welcoming. Built into a small bay, the town itself stretched like a broken ring into the flanking reaches of land. Buildings in the nouveau-assembled style of Euseran cities, blocky and bubbled and asymmetrical, retro of a time period that never was, rose in a haphazard skyline and, shirking the architectural origins that would have left them unpainted and bearing their bolts and parts-barcodes to the world, instead were drenched in clashing colors and ornamentation. It looked like a town painted by synesthesia, to the tune of something grungy, futuristic, and beautiful. Bubble-chic. Culturepunk. Two countries melded imperfectly, violently together.

Ships listed, drifting in the bay or bobbing in the harbor. More trickled in from the ocean waters, here a family catamaran, there a repurposed fishing trawler, a flag-laden pontoon, a cruise ship bristling with excitement and seasickness.

The noise was an undeniable testament to the sheer size of the visiting parties. A far cry from the quiet hum of the Ange’s dorms. The closer she drew to the barriers, the thicker the air grew with it. Like hands reaching out to her head, to her throat, to plug her ears and eye and drag her. The sparse crowd of personnel split around her as she stumbled, choked on her words, and summoned only meager sounds for her effort.

She bumped backwards, hit something, someone. A hand took her by the scruff of her jacket, hauled her upright. “Walk,” came the hushed, grumbled command. She was being push-carry-pulled away, out of the CSC zone’s thoroughfare and off, sidelong behind the pop-up buildings and supply tents, to the barrier wall.

The air shed its layers of clamor, they found shade and the sort of solitude that permitted the occasional, momentary rubberneck. The grip on Quinn eased but did not let go. It held her still, not steady, and kept her facing the blank, dry-concrete gray of the barrier.

“Control yourself,” Camille snapped behind her. “Stare at the wall. There’s nothing else. Stare at it.”

The captain’s shadow overtook hers on the wall, she was blocking them from the views between the makeshift alleyways. Camille’s silhouette was sharp, armored, longsword at her hip. She did not let go, did not raise her voice any higher.

“This is your duty—lament it if you must, but do it here. You bear more than your own dignity now, so control yourself. If not for you, for them. For Casoban. For Runa. You cannot break.”

Twitching erratically, Quinn was barely able to control her breathing as she was half-led, half-dragged away. In, out, in, in, out, out, out. Shallow aborted half-gasps. Camille said something. Two words, maybe three, but it was like speaking through deep water until her voice came into focus.

"--the wall. There’s nothing else. Stare at it."

She did. The featureless gray concrete filled her field of view as she focused on it to the exclusion of all else. Gradually, like a receding tide, the black fuzz retreated from her vision, and the world bled back in through her senses again. The unseeing terror in her eye abated, replaced with a familiar horror; one that held her beneath the water, but at least let her breathe. And breathe she did, the dead parodies for breath deepened into a rhythm that, while far too fast, was at least functional, and slowing as she went. The air was no longer thick. It didn't reach into her, close around her, grasp hold of her limbs. Her unnatural stiffness and the twitching faded, and color began to leak back into her face as she stood steadily again.

The crying was the last to go, and she angrily rubbed the tear tracks from her face until she felt mostly certain that she looked...if not good, at least passable. Acceptable. Like she wouldn't be embarrassing two countries with her mere presence. A trio of long, drawn out, shuddering breaths--one, two, three--and she dropped her head, letting it rest lightly on the concrete. A few more moments like eternity passed before she stood straight again, turned, and looked up at her captain, eye nearly overflowing with misery.

But it was a quiet misery. A misery that may drag her down, but that she could hold; wouldn't crush her beneath its weight until she found herself alone, away from duty and judgement.

Her voice was thin and reedy as she spoke, then she pulled in another breath through tight teeth and repeated. And this time, it matched her eye. Desolation. Misery. Need. Guilt. But again, quiet. Placated, lurking beneath the surface, as long as she wasn't alone in a quiet place, and they didn't listen too close. Weak, but stronger. Strong enough.

"I'm...sorry, Captain." She held her hand up in a trembling salute before she let it drop limply to her side. "And...thank you."

Camille huffed, lips twisting into an ephemeral sneer, a rueful shadow in her eyes, before she was statuesque again. She shook her head, and for a moment it seemed like she would simply turn and leave. This wasn’t her duty, after all. Keeping Loughvein alive was her lot, but stopping her from shaming herself was a challenge for the psychologists, and one that was seeming more and more unconquerable.

But, she didn’t, yet. She met Loughvein’s hollow eye with a hard, indifferent stare. She’d seen looks like this, the sort of blankness she’d come to associate with people who would become statistics in this field. She’d killed no small number of pilots with looks like this, but she could not kill Loughvein. The girl was not her enemy.

“Apologizing for a mistake means nothing if you make it again,” she said coldly. She sighed, her voice lowered. “People think pilots don’t make mistakes, and pilots think they can make as many as they want. The truth is a union. We make mistakes, like everyone else, and they build. Not just mistakes in the cockpit, though those matter, but everywhere. Here, in this shade, you have made a mistake. They are stones on a pile, added one atop another. Some people’s piles grow tall, and vast, some stout. All, eventually, fall.

“You will never know when. Never know which stone will be the one you can’t afford to place, or perhaps which one, deep in the pile, will shift after who-knows-how-long, and topple over on you even when you’ve not added one in a long time. We are not our mistakes, Loughvein, but we are beholden to them, and we do, inevitably, feel their consequences. Pilots only feel them once.”

She turned away, not to leave but to look, across the military zone and over the opposite border, to the town and the bay. “If you wish to avoid people, you should steer clear of the harbor. They set up carnivals there, every year, they’ll be doing it now too. Likewise, the community center, main street, and Henn road, where all the expensive restaurants are. There are parks in the neighborhoods to the northwest, which ought to be quite empty for the next few days. There is a nature trail as well, which will be tour-guided, but sparse—most people want to explore the town, not the forest. Eat here, if you must. The food will be cheap and packaged, but you will be left alone inside the barrier.”

Perhaps she had more to say. She was precipitously silent for a moment, teetering on the edge of something. Eventually, however, she simply muttered, “Dismissed,” and walked away, back onto the thoroughfare and out, into the town.

Each one of Camille's icy words dropped like a lump of lead into Quinn's stomach, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood to avoid looking down at her feet in shame. As much of an instinct as it was, after all, she didn't think the captain would think very well of it, with what she'd just said about apologies. She felt a bit sick.

Then the ice in her words cracked, creaked, softened. Mistakes, she talked about. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. Quinn had made a lot of mistakes. Her pile of stones was a tower by now, undoubtedly. A tower of piled up mistakes. Moments she wasn't good enough, where she couldn't say the right thing, when she couldn't do what somebody needed of her. Of the shocked silence after the press conference. Of passing out in the arms of a man that wouldn't be there when she awoke. Of being. She swallowed hard. When her pile tumbled down, it would be a catastrophe. Her old Guilt began to dig claws into her sides, and her breath hitched a moment.

"If you wish to avoid people, you should steer clear of the harbor." The continuing speech knocked her out of her momentary reverie, and she gave her head a quick shake. "They set up carnivals there, every year, they’ll be doing it now too. Likewise, the community center, main street, and Henn road, where all the expensive restaurants are. There are parks in the neighborhoods to the northwest, which ought to be quite empty for the next few days. There is a nature trail as well, which will be tour-guided, but sparse—most people want to explore the town, not the forest. Eat here, if you must. The food will be cheap and packaged, but you will be left alone inside the barrier." Parks. Empty parks. She'd never been in a park.

After Camille stalked away, Quinn remained standing there for another moment more, eye screwed shut. Preparing herself. Fortifying herself. She pulled in one last shuddering breath, then opened her eye and retrieved her small rollerbag from where it had fallen when Camille dragged her into this secluded little nook. First order of business, she thought as she returned to the thoroughfare, was to drop it off. The distant sounds hammered into her eardrums and her vision briefly blurred, but she clenched her teeth down so hard she could feel the creak and it abated some, though certainly not all the way. She wasn't exactly sure when she entered the building, but there she was, mildly confused, walking down the almost cathedralesque foyer until she could catch the attention of a bellhop. She dropped the small gunmetal-gray bag down in front of him, not liking the way he looked at her. "Could you--my room is--" She didn't remember, or she was never told; then she let her head loll again and sighed heavily. "Quinnlash Loughvein, pilot floor."

He took it away, and she nervously brushed her bangs away from her face as she walked slowly, almost meditatively, back to the exit.

Parks. Empty parks. She'd go to the parks.

Cantimine moved in tides, its crowds ebbing here, flowing there, and keeping mainly to the shores. Paparazzi had set up shop outside of the CSC’s military zone, but for the most part the citizens and tourists were far too wrapped up in the celebrations to bother. After all, why rush? There was plenty of time before the duel, and either way, that was the event most of them had come to see. Perhaps they were waiting, not wanting to invest themselves too heavily into a pilot that might be dead in a few days’ time. Afterwards, one there was a victor, there would likely be a surge in people wanting pictures, and autographs, and to scream that they knew the winner would win, because it was obvious, and they never doubted.

At least for the locals that was not the case. Camille exited the zone to a fanfare of camera clicks and cheering, like some returning hero. Among the posters and signs of her, and Foudre, there were people wearing jerseys with her name on them, and the crest of the Cantimine high school, where evidently her fencing legend had begun. She met the crowd with expected temperance, but not unkindness. She spoke little, but signed and nodded and expressed quiet thanks to those who met her eyes.

The twins saw a smaller but still excited welcome, and as Quinn stepped into view there was the beginnings of a roar of appreciation for her as well. Then, suddenly, a surge of excitement, and all attentions and cameras and pointed fingers went skyward. The Saviors were coming down on the lifts. It was a brief but effective window, and Quinn was able to slip out of the zone without a crowd following after her.

Northwest. Neighborhoods. Parks. Cantimine was not terribly difficult to navigate, and even staying clear of the main roads, she was able to find that suburban delta where township trickled into residence. People were scarce, and those she passed hardly noticed her, likely thinking she was a local herself, or just out on a walk for some peace and quiet. The roads began to wind between roads of houses, narrowing and forking, looping, but distant trees towering over rooftops led the way.

Some of the parks were plain. Empty fields with one or two benches, designed more for pets than people. Others were playgrounds for children, who didn’t care much for the crowds of strangers and the loud noises. Eventually she found one empty, an amalgam of an open grove and the remnants of a metal jungle gym, with a small basketball court grafted onto it, a rainbow carousel, a pair of swings near a duck pond.

Save for the occasional quacking, and the distant festive rumble of the town, it was quiet. A whole space to herself, for as long as that would last. A moment to breathe. Rare. Cherished.

Quinn's heart was still hammering in her throat when she arrived at the park. The brief walk had nearly stretched her to snapping again; but with Camille's cold eyes in the back of her mind, she'd managed to hold on until she could extricate herself. This was nicer; not too terribly unlike the Aerie's main plaza if she closed her eye. So she closed her eye, breathed deep, and tried to figure out how she was going to make any of this work.

She wasn't naive enough to believe she could spend the duration of her stay here alone, whether in the hotel, in the military zone, or in parks like this one. It just wasn't how a pilot's life went. At some point--and likely before long--she would be called on to make an appearance. She was the vaunted Runan Hero, after all; people would want to see her, and talk to her. And like Camille said, mistakes. She couldn't afford a breakdown in public, no matter what, but she could still feel the horrible panic clinging to her.

So, again: how was she going to make this work?

Nursing that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she slid her phone out of her jacket pocket and opened her texts. A few more taps brought her to Dahlia's messages, and she hesitated, finger hovering over the keyboard. A long, long moment passed.

Then she closed the messenger app and opened the phone, and once more went to Dahlia. Another silent moment

Then she tapped on the contact, and it began to ring.

And ring.

And ring.

The seconds stretched out into yawning gaps as she waited for that familiar voice, and yet it wasn't forthcoming. The phone simply rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five--

"Quinn? Quinn--hello? Hey! Sorry I was just--I was in--nevermind, hey!" Ah. There it was. Breathless, like she'd been exercising; but so very happy.

Quinn let out a strangled noise that sounded something like a simultaneous laugh and sob, and had to check her eye to make sure she wasn't actually crying (again). When she finally brought herself to speak, her voice was...unusual. It had a cheerful enough tone; but it also had the characteristic tremble that she wore whenever she was really upset. "H--hey, Deelie, what's it like back home right now?"

An orbit away, the Aerie was as silent as Cantimine was loud. Down to a single pilot, there truthfully wasn’t much for most of the staff to do; those whose job it was to monitor for singularities were, of course, working around the clock, and every brain in PR was hard at work spinning Quinn’s absence into positive news, but otherwise…

Well, Dahlia had a lot of time to train. And she had, extensively—excessively, according to Besca—but she knew there was no such thing as being too prepared. Frankly, sometimes she doubted she was prepared at all. Complacency was poison to pilots, but so too was doubt, and for a time Dahlia thought she had found a comfortable balance between them. But then the attack had happened, and whenever she stepped into a sim, or connected to Dragon, all she could think about were the six Modir who had come to kill Quinn.

She thought of it now, too, when she heard her voice. Always when she heard her voice. Panic, as sharp as the first time she’d stepped into the cockpit, squeezing her heart like a fist. It pushed her, gave her the drive she needed to rebuild, but sometimes it made her dull, made her glaze over details she shouldn’t miss. Like the tremble in Quinn’s voice. The relief was too much, mingled too excitedly with the fear, that she barely even heard the words.

“Great!” she said, the response automatic as the rest of her caught up. “I wasn’t expecting you to call—I mean, I’m glad, I just didn’t know you could. Things are great here! Not because you’re gone or anything. Actually I guess in that way they’re kinda awful, but other than that we’re good! We’re great. We miss you a lot. Besca’s still working all the time but she misses you. She’s in a meeting right now, I think, but I can message her if you want, I know she’d…”

It hit her hard, suddenly, that Quinn was calling her. She was alive, yes, but Quinn had proven so far that she was pretty good at staying alive. It was the living part that gave her trouble. There was a big festival happening in Cantimine, and Quinn was calling her. And there was, if she thought hard, a definite hitch in her voice. Something was wrong, and Dahlia could feel the brief moment of relief wither inside her throat. She sat down against the sim pod.

“How…” she started, coughed, tried again. “How, uhm, how are you?”

Quinn closed her eye for a moment and just let herself listen to Dahlia's voice. She hadn't actually called her up to now. She'd texted her, certainly, and she'd called Besca, but she hadn't actually spoken to her sister since she left the Aerie. It brought a much-needed fragment of stability; the grasping memories retreated a bit in its wake, and she found herself breathing just a little bit easier.

“How…how, uhm, how are you?”

There was a shift in Deelie's voice then. Perhaps anybody else wouldn't have noticed it, except maybe Besca, but Quinn knew the way she spoke, and the way she thought. The way she cut herself off, and the way she coughed over her words. She was worried, and Guilt began to nip at her heels. "I'm glad things are okay back there," she offered, but it wouldn't have taken Dahlia or Besca to hear how hollow her words sounded.

She sucked a deep breath through her teeth and gazed at the broken-down remnants of the jungle gym. A sudden feeling of desolation flooded through her, and she stood and began to pace back and forth. "I--I'm in Cantimine right now." She let that sit there for a moment as she struggled to find the words. "Because of the duel, there's a celebration. Big festival and everything." Another breath, this one shakier, as the composure in her voice started to fray, and the tone began to shift to align with the trembling. "A festival with lots of crowds in a small town on the water." Her pacing stopped and she stood stock-still, eyes finding the jungle gym again as a treacherous tear slid down her face. It was a good thing Camille wasn't there, a somewhat detached part of her though, or else she'd get yelled at again. The momentary stability that Dahlia's voice had brought fled. "It's just--it's like--it's too much--"

Then she slumped back down on the bench and put her free hand over her eye, pushing on it until it was almost painful. No more crying. No. No. Remember the piled-up mistakes. No crying. Her voice's volume dropped until it was almost a whisper, a thick murmur that promised tears, yet refused to fulfil them:

"I don't know what to do."

A hollow grew in Dahlia’s stomach. Not just for the fear and panic in Quinn’s voice, but for the fear and panic she felt herself. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out what was going on; small town, big celebration, the water. For being countless miles away, every inch of Cantimine must have looked exactly like Hovvi. When she closed her eyes, she must have been able to see the fires, hear the skittering of monsters, feel the quake of the modir as they trampled her home into dust.

That’s how it was for her, at least. And that was with the benefit of being high above Illun, away from it all—though that left her with its own gnawing anxieties. There wasn’t a single day, sometimes a single hour, that went by when she didn’t think about her home. In the darkest and quietest hours of the night sometimes she opened her eyes to her father’s cold face, to Safie’s. The soft nest of blankets became the lining of a body bag, and she would watch in paralyzed silence as the zipper came up, closing over her, and only in the dark would she find the will to scream and jolt awake.

What could she say? What comfort could she ever offer someone in her position? Platitudes were balm, and lost their soothing touch the more they were used, and the last thing she wanted to hear from anyone these days was that what happened wasn’t her fault, or that she was strong, and brave. She didn’t want to be brave, she wanted her dad back. She wanted who she was before she knew how much she had to lose. Or at least, before she lost it.

Besca would tell her a story. She was good at that. She always had one, no matter what the situation was. There were times that Dahlia thought she was some kind of mystical being who had lived a hundred lives, was a thousand years old and that was why she always knew what to say, always knew how to empathize.

Dahlia wasn’t a thousand years old. She was barely an adult, and felt like less of one each day. She didn’t have stories, and it felt like she never knew what to say. All she had was herself, and the promise she’d made. She would never lie to Quinn.

“I don’t either,” she said, as much as it hurt to admit. “I…I wish I did. I really, really wish I did. It hurts enough waking up most days, I…don’t know how you do it.”

She slumped against the sim pod, the strength leaking out of her, leaving her with only a whisper. “You didn’t choose this life, but I did. You shouldn’t be the one down there, it isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But Illun doesn’t care, the modir don’t care. Whether we can do it or not, everything just…keeps going.”

A sigh worked its way up her throat, shaky and pitiful, but she didn’t try to hide it. No lying. “I miss you. I need you to stay safe. Please. I know it’s selfish, I wish there was more I could do for you from here but…but there’s not. I love you, me and Besca both love you. One day this’ll be over, and you’ll come back to us, and it’ll be better. But until then, just…” she clenched her fist, forced herself to stay composed. “I’ll always want to talk, even if I can’t help. Just to hear you’re alive. Nothing is too much as long as you’re still alive, Quinn.”

As Dahlia spoke, voice halting, Quinn's shaky breaths began to settle.

"I miss you. I need you to stay safe. Please. I know it’s selfish, I wish there was more I could do for you from here but…but there’s not. I love you, me and Besca both love you."

"I love you too," she murmured. She took a long, deep breath. A second. A third. Her racing thoughts slowed, leaving her feeling raw and exposed, yet so much more controlled. Just like always, she thought. Dahlia was absurdly good at calming her down, no matter how on fire her head was. She could cut through the static during Quinn's first phase; so she could cut through just about anything. A memory from...months ago now, thought it felt like both less and more--jostled free in her head and took shape in her mind:

It’s okay to be scared. Being strong doesn’t mean you’re never afraid of anything, sometimes it means...

"...sometimes it means being afraid of something and doing it anyway," she finished softly. The hitch in her breathing was still there. It wouldn't go away, not as long as she was in Cantimine, she thought. But she found that the idea had lost some of its dread, and...she could face this now. Nothing was too much as long as she was still alive. She stood again, but this time instead of pacing bordering on panicked, her stance was almost steady. She was still trembling slightly, could feel her legs quaking beneath her. But she could do it. She had to do it.

"...Thanks, Deelie," she said, blinking back what remained of the threat of tears. "Really. Thank you so much." She paused for a moment, then pulled the phone from her ear, brought it in front of her, and turned on the camera, staring into the reflection of a watery smile. She paused a moment, then brought her hand up in a halfhearted wave.

"Oh," she let out an actual honest to god giggle, quiet and unsteady though it was, "And could you get Besca to send me some of the chocolate pilot shakes? It's not the same without them."