BurningCold
op2024
Ladypug
Lemons
Carlyle
ScreenAcne
Score1
Noctis
wintersoldier
JJ Doe“Is it on? I don’t—there’s no light. There’s no red light on the—no. There? Why is it—never mind, shit, sorry. Can we start again? Alright. Yeah, Tobey, cut it—international addresses don’t have fuckin’ blooper reels. Do I have time for a—forget it, let’s just go.”
Besca ran anxious hands through her hair while the small filming crew reset. The last time she’d given a speech had been at her graduation—high school. All anyone had expected out of her then were a few jokes and some fallacious remarks about she and her peers carrying Westwel’s future with them.
She wondered how many had survived the fall.
There’d been a speech after Hovvi, though it was small. More of an official condolence, and a promise to do better than those that came before her—not so different, thematically, from that high school speech, now that she thought about it. They had been calls for strength, and unity, and the only opposition were the silent Modir.
This was different. This, she knew, was the opening statement of what was going to be a long and arduous debate.
The red light came on. Tobey gave her the thumbs up from behind the camera. Besca stood upright at the podium, and glanced down at the papers before her—PR had decided that reading from a teleprompter would seem too ‘mechanical’. At least they’d let her write it—or, most of it. Parts of it.
“Good evening, my name is Besca Darroh, operations commander of the Runan Isles Savior Corps. I’d like to briefly address the recent duel in Sacre Colline, involving the Helburkan pilot Roaki Tormont, and our pilot, Quinnlash Loughvein. Many of you who watched saw, and perhaps by now have heard via communications leaks, Ms. Loughvein refuse to complete the duel. By now the results have been voided, and as proxies in the conflict between Helburke and Casoban, we have no right to dispute that decision.
“However. Allow me to be perfectly clear when I say that the RISC completely and unequivocally supports Ms. Loughvein’s choice. We have neither the obligation nor the desire to apologize for mercy. No laws were broken, and no lives were lost. There will be no punitive actions leveled against her, and the RISC will entertain no demands for compensation or rematches on the basis of that duel. Thank you.”
Besca swallowed, but kept herself from sighing so noticeably while the camera was still rolling. She could see Tobey preparing to cut, and in that moment something grabbed hold of her.
“And,” she said, unable to stop herself. “If a pilot is supposed to represent the will and convictions of their people, then, you know, I’d like to say that Quinnlash Loughvein did Runa proud. Thank you—again.”
There was a brief, awkward silence, and then the camera cut. Quiet murmurs bubbled up among the crew, but Besca was already out the door.
As the hours wore on, and the artificial windows in the station cycled into evening, the Aerie quieted. In the dorms, Dahlia prepared dinner, watching the news on the common room’s big screen. Quinn’s fight was still playing on repeat on just about every channel. The political pundits speculated on how the duel had apparently impacted relations between Casoban and Eusero, who by all accounts had been entirely uninvolved in the dispute until the last minute. There were talk shows debating the ethics—not of the lethality, but rather, whether or not it was ethical for Quinn to have shown mercy to a pilot with such a violent streak. Despite not being particularly fond of Roaki, Dahlia found that an odd point to make; didn’t all pilots have violent streaks?
They had Casobani speakers on, and their stance was clear: Quinn hadn’t made a decision for herself, she’d made one for Casoban. The matter of mercy was theirs to settle, and as a proxy, Runa had no right to make such a decision.
On other channels, combat specialists and even a few former pilots—some who had only ever been hopefuls—analyzed the duel. There was general praise for Quinn’s ingenuity, and extreme scrutiny applied to every mistake Roaki had made. Some made it sound as though the fight would have gone completely different had they been the ones in the cockpit.
“See here,” they’d say, and point to where Blotklau’s foot was positioned on a hill, or how low she hunched when she ran. “This is how you can tell she’s not comfortable in the Savior.”
“I’ve had my shoulder crushed before, in sims. You gotta fight through the pain. It’s one of the first things they tell you, you know. You have to just grit your teeth. She doesn’t even try to lift her arm here.”
“This call to roll low like that—see? Just brilliant. It’s snap-decision-making like that, that sets Ms. Loughvein apart from even Euseran gold-league starters.”
“And she holds it in her mouth! Props to Helburke for figuring out a way to make dogs compatible with a Savior, I guess.”
Dahlia switched the channel. Some night-show personalities were starting to look more closely at Quinn. They knew she was from Hovvi, now. Knew she was the sole survivor of the invasion. There was an outpouring of scripted sympathy, and baseless speculation about what it must have been like to see everyone she loved taken by the Modir. They equated it to Westwel.
She turned to a music channel and left it there.
She didn’t want to be upset. She wanted to make dinner, and eat with her family, and be happy that Quinn was alive. So that’s what she was going to do.
