Petals of Titanium -- My Life as a Mecha Setting Bridge Bunny Quest

You ignore the gun, leaving it where it is on the atrium floor. You reach down, gripping the thin fabric at the hem of your dress and pulling as hard as you can. Enough tears free to effectively ruin the garment, but more importantly give you enough fabric to wad up and press against the gaping wound in Anja's chest.

"Anja? Anja! Look at me. It's going to be okay. We're going to get you help." Anja's eyes, glazed with pain and shock, swivel drunkenly to find the source of your voice. It takes an agonising instant before they finally lock with yours, struggling valiantly to focus on your face. "Stay with me. Please. It's going to be okay." You have no idea whether that's even remotely true. It doesn't seem okay. The fabric you're pressing hard against her wound is already soaked crimson. Her blood is on your hands, on your knees, soaking into the ragged hem of your dress and your shoes, spreading over the floor in spite of your efforts. Her breathing is almost as painful to hear as you imagine it is for her to breath. Anja's eyes, staring up at you, are a strikingly pale blue. Like clear water. Why hadn't you noticed that before?

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the formerly sleeping man try to intercede between Mosi and the door. He's a thick, flabby slab to Mosi's lithe muscle, and he folds like a wet paper bag when the butt of her pistol makes contact with his nose. Mosi spares one last look over her shoulder at you, then she's gone, leaving only pain and violence in her wake.

Anja's hand shoots up, fumbling around for the nearest of the arms you're using to keep her life from leaving her completely. In spite of the almost pitiful expression such movements induce, she forces herself to make contact with your arm, hand slapping uselessly against your wrist. Once, then again. And again. "I can't take my hands off, Anja!" you tell her. "You'll bleed out!" Does she want you to abandon her? Would she have rather, somehow, have you leave her dying on the floor like trash and instead try to apprehend your sister?

Anja shakes her head in a minute, jerking motion. You can't be sure if she's saying no, or if she's just struggling against the pain. Finally, you see grim resignation in her eyes and she takes in a shallow, shuddering breath to speak in a voice that's nothing like herself: "Here." She slaps your wrist again, fingers finally closing around that narrowest part of your arm arm. There's blood on her hand, starker against her olive complexion than against your own. "Here, here, he--" she seizes up, letting out a series of coughs that make it sound like she's tearing something open inside herself. There's blood on her lips now too. Lung damage.

"Anja, stop. You can… you can tell me later." You have no idea how your voice is so calm. How you're looking at her with eyes unblurred by tears. You know it probably won't make a bit of difference, with a wound this bad, but somehow you need to stay level-headed. To stay strong for her.

She shakes her head again, and draws in a breath to speak once more. "Her… her. Her arm. Wr-wrist!" Her grip on your arm tightens fractionally. Seeing your uncomprehending worry, a spike of frustration shows through Anja's tortured features.

"Please, it's fine," you say. "You're hurting yourself. Tell me later."

She pays no heed to that at all. Maybe she doesn't trust that there will be a later. "I saw--" coughing again, just as bad as before. "I saw... on her wrist… she's… your sister. She's… a… she's with… A new-- she's used a new--"

This next fit of coughing finally does make the stinging tears start to form in your eyes. "Please, stop," you whisper to her. Beg of her. "Please just… just stop talking. I'm here, we'll get you help. Just… lay still. For me. Please."

Anja stares up at you in mute frustration for an instant that seems like an eternity, then she settles back into silence, her grip on your arm slackening before falling away completely. A moment later, the focus leaves her eyes. "Anja, no, no, stay with me. Anja? Please!" There's no response, but the ragged rise and fall of her chest continues: She's not dead, only dead to the world. At least for now.

The sleepy man is suddenly standing over you, one hand holding onto his bloody nose, the other the clutching a cracked communicator headset to his face. "I've called the authorities," he tells you, his voice rendered panicked by shock and pain, absurdly nasal by Mosi's blow. He's lucky, you suppose, that she didn't put another bullet into him.

"Good," you say. "I hope they hurry. Anja needs help now."

"They'll help her, miss," he tells you, trying to feign confidence. You appreciate the gesture, but the waver in his voice and the blood spilling between his fingers makes it ultimately unsuccessful. "And catch that criminal."

You don't even look at him this time. "She has such a head start," you say. Your voice is dazed, far away now. Before your eyes, Anja's breathing catches, and your heart stops along with it. An instant later, and she starts again.

He shakes his head. "Station security will catch her," he declares. "She won't get away."


The blow strikes Mosi hard in the face, sending her reeling back against the wall with bone-jarring force, even in low gravity. Before she has a chance to do more than prevent herself from falling down to the faintly scratched floor, a powerful fist closes around her collar, and slams her back against the wall. From long practise at receiving beatings, Mosi keeps her teeth clamped shut -- biting her tongue bloody won't do anything to help.

"Well, Lieutenant, you got away," Roth's voice is incongruously quiet. A mountain lake hiding a volcanic crater. Mosi can hear the impending eruption bubbling beneath surface. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

He doesn't release her, but there's a long enough pause that Mosi realises that she's expected to answer. "... Sir?" she asks, keeping the response as brief as possible. A good call. She's slammed back against the wall a third time. This time, he keeps her there.

"You have endangered this entire operation!" the Lieutenant-Commander hisses, his grip tightening enough to restrict Mosi's breathing. Calloused knuckles digging into her throat. "And this entire team! The lives of every patriot in this room. I'd ask what you were thinking, but you clearly WEREN'T!" The last is a shout, loud and close enough to make her ears ring. Hopefully, these quarters have adequate sound-proofing.

The entire infiltration team is huddled in the common area. Chief Wallace stands nearby, watching Mosi's treatment with a stony unreadability. The two specialists were eying her with something close to wide-eyed disbelief. Kim stands hunched in a corner. She winces sympathetically with each bit of rough treatment Mosi receives, but is clearly trying to stay out of Roth's sight. She had covered for Mosi, after all. Mosi had repaid her by shooting a naval officer and the ensuing uproar had been entirely outside of Kim's power to obscure.

The rooms they have at their disposal are a cramped series of maintenance worker quarters at the tip of one of the low gravity habitats. Dingey and old compared to the rest of the station, they were officially listed as closed for repairs. They are secluded and unmonitored inside and even sport their own exterior airlock. Mosi had come in that way, being forced to evade pursuit by taking a nerve-wracking walk along the station's exterior with only her emergency vacuum suit.

She was certain she hadn't been followed -- it was a mark of what an appalling rush job this station had been that security has as many holes as it does. The fingerprints of Saturn's mass influx of refugees are everywhere she goes in the system. For the first time, she is forced to really imagine Amani among them.

"You will listen to me, North!"

Mosi blinks, suddenly refocusing on the enraged man shaking her. This all seems strangely surreal. Everything had seemed surreal, since that call with Amani. Since seeing her. Since watching her face after Mosi gunned down a close friend in front of her. "I am listening, sir!" she responds, as close to respectful as she could manage, with half her airflow restricted.

He growls wordlessly, before continuing. "If we get through this alive I am going to make it my personal mission to have your head for this. You are going to be demoted back to fucking ensign for this. You'll be damn lucky if it's not a court martial. You'll be lucky if it's not a firing squad. Your name is shit after this, North." He sneers. It's not hate in his eyes, though -- it's fear. "Not that your name was ever anything else. What am I supposed to do, when they send me out here with the daughter of a fucking traitor?" Even now, her mother is, somehow, making Mosi's life just that little bit worse.

There's a sound from behind Roth. It's just a quiet sigh, but Chief Wallace somehow makes it loud enough to draw everyone's attention. Roth turns to him, glaring. "You have a comment to make, Chief Petty Officer?" he snaps.

"Yes, sir," he says, unphased by Roth's anger. Wallace is a twenty year veteran with a staggering number of boarding actions to his name. Alone among the infiltration team, he actually has more combat experience than the Lieutenant-Commander. It evidently takes more than the likes of LC Roth to rattle him. He glances to Mosi, tone somehow dry, in spite of the circumstances. "The girl you shot, who pulled a gun on you -- a bridge officer, you said, Lieutenant?"

"Y-yes," she confirms, unable to breathe enough through a sudden increase in the pressure Roth is putting on her neck. If he decides to kill her, would anyone here try to stop him?

Wallace sighs again. This time, it's the definition of long-suffering. "Sol save us all from fucking green ship officers with sidearms."

Roth considers him for a moment, then lets out a snort of laughter in spite of himself. "I know the type," he mutters, easing off on Mosi's throat. Then all at once, he releases her collar entirely, sending her sliding gracelessly to the floor. Roth doesn't even look at her. He can't look at her, she senses, or he'll start screaming again. Whatever calm the moment's humor provided is a fleeting, fragile thing. It won't stand up to much. "Get out of my sight, Lieutenant," he says. His work-booted foot twitches, as if he's physically restraining himself from kicking Mosi while she's down. Mosi scrambles out of the way before staggering to her feet. The civilian work boots aren't exactly military, but the steel toes would hurt just as badly as the polished combat boots Mosi is more personally familiar with.

"Yes sir!" she says, snapping off a shaky salute, before vanishing as fast as she can into the relative safety of her bunk. Only with the hatch sealing behind her, leaving Mosi alone in the tiny, darkened room, does she finally allow herself to curl up on the thin bed mattress provided for her. Her face burns, and her back protests in such a way that she knows moving will be painful tomorrow. Not impossible, but painful.

Mosi finds it surprisingly objectionable, Wallace's gruff assessment of the unfortunate Ensign Li. Reducing her actions to the realm of schoolgirl heroics feels unfair, even if it was Mosi who had been staring down the barrel of the gun. Still, though, she recognises that the CPO had spared her more pain and humiliation, whatever his reasons. That was more of a comfort, in an odd way, than the knowledge that Roth is terrified. Pain delivered out of fear hurts exactly as much as pain delivered out of pure hate. And one can become the other at the drop of a hat.


And why wouldn't Roth be afraid? Beyond the fate of his team, the invasion can't afford to falter or stall for any amount of time. They have to crush the pretender's forces on schedule. There are no supply lines past the edge of Saturn's orbit. No second fleet on its way from Jupiter. The sheer amount of resources it takes to field such an invasion over those distances isn't a trick that can be made twice in a hurry. If the initial thrust of the invasion is turned aside, they're very likely all dead.

So she can understand why he's afraid. She can't even bring herself to hate the Lieutenant-Commander for his harsh reprimand. Mosi is angry mostly with herself. With how quickly and easily she'd slipped back into the role of a whipped dog. How every ounce of pride and self-worth she'd developed in her time with Commander Green had vanished so quickly. She stays like that, not moving, for an indeterminate period of time, before the hatch opens again.

"Lieutenant." The voice is more subdued than Mosi has ever heard it.

"Ensign Kim," she acknowledges, forcing herself to painfully sit up in time for Kim to flick the light on, revealing the confines of the closet-sized dorm, filled almost entirely by two sets of bunks. Kim holds something in her hands -- Mosi, whose face is beginning to swell painfully, has never been more grateful to see a cold pack. She accepts it wordlessly, wincing as she applies it. "Thank you." There's a lengthy silence, where Kim just stands there, looking at Mosi awkwardly. Eventually, Mosi speaks. "You told me so?" she asks.

Kim relaxes visibly, shoulders slumping down. "I really did, ma'am," she points out.

Mosi laughs, short and harsh. It hurts. "I'm a bad listener," she admits.

"Mm," Kim nods, crossing her arms. "You might want to avoid the LC for a little… ever."

"We're living in a combined twenty square feet," Mosi grumbles. "But thank you for the advice."

"Was it worth it?" Kim asks, all at once. "Seeing your sister."

"It… was." Mosi doesn't quite meet her eyes.

"'Was', as in, 'would have been if someone hadn't pulled a gun on me'?"

"Close enough," Mosi admits, lying down on her back, cold-pack pressed to her face. Maybe it still was worth having seen her, despite what had happened. Nonetheless, it it's hard to deny that Amani would have been better off if Mosi had just stayed away. "She looked… good," she says instead. Truthfully. Her sister seemed healthy, probably happy. Someone living a good life.

"I have a kid brother at home," Kim admits. "He was twelve when I left. I doubt I'll recognise him when I get back." She doesn't say 'if', but the word hangs in the air between them.

"You will," Mosi promises, entirely certain. "I did."

If she'd destroyed The Titanium Rose with all hands lost, Mosi wouldn't have lost an ounce of sleep. She would have been fine killing Ensign Li face to face under other circumstances. It's hardly the first time she's shot someone. But Amani being there, her being Amani's friend… guilt claws at her as well as the anger. For the first time, Mosi is forced to admit something to herself. That Amani might not forgive her, for this or for the invasion or for what Mosi is going to have to do to their mother. That Mosi might just have to settle for Amani surviving, the life she'd built here around Saturn completely destroyed.

Amani isn't actually an enemy, thank all the stars. She isn't actually going to be wearing a uniform. Mosi will never meet her across a battlefield. If that had been the case, Mosi doesn't know that she would be able to keep pulling that trigger. If she gets any sleep tonight, it will be on the strength of that knowledge alone.


"--and so you, Ensign Amani North, officer of the Imperial Navy, knowingly went to meet with a criminal who was previously known to you. Correct, Ensign?" Lady Bowman hover over you, leaning over the metal table in your direction. Staring like if she can just see inside your skull, there will be something incriminating written there. The Commander's insignia on her shoulder patches and epaulettes catch your eye slightly less than the intel insignia. Or the hard stare in her dark eyes, framed by the zero gravity aura of her slate-grey hair.

"Yes, ma'am," you say. Beside her, the tacticturn station security officer makes note of your response. You're strapped in at the waist to an uncomfortably cold metal chair. They let you wash yourself, but you're still in the ruined sundress. The white fabric is a horror show of Anja's blood. "Permission to speak?" you ask, a desperate note in your voice.

"Denied, Ensign," Lady bowman replies. Her voice has a parade ground crispness that makes you feel exceptionally shabby at the moment. "You purposefully went to this meeting wearing civilian clothing, without any identifying insignia as a naval officer of any kind. Correct?"

"Yes, ma'am." You hadn't been required to -- it was shore leave, after all. You've read the regulations. Looking at Bowman, though, you know any further outburst, no matter how reasonable, will be harshly dealt with. You're not here to talk back, it would seem. A strange way to conduct a debrief. Or, more realistically, an interrogation. If it were a debrief, you wouldn't be sitting. And the room you were in wouldn't have been quite so starkly white, with a large mirrored glass window set into one wall.

"And after witnessing this criminal inflict grievous bodily harm to Ensign Li, you allowed her, still armed, to escape, taking no efforts to stop her. Correct?"

"Yes, ma'am." It seems a little much, frankly, to appeal to Anja's injury in one breath, then imply you were negligent in your duty by not allowing her to bleed to death. You have no idea even if Anja is alive or dead. The last you saw of her, she was on a stretcher attended by several quietly grim medical technicians. No one has told you anything since then.

"And I'm certain that you knew nothing about the illegal firearm carried by the non-registered station occupant identified by you as 'Mosi North.'"

"No, I did not, ma'am," you say, voice still flatly compliant. Bowman's eyes keep flicking over to the one-way wall behind you. To someone standing on the other side of it. Who is watching, you wonder, to have her so nervous? You can't help but speculate on just who was responsible for the series of security failures that allowed a 'non-registered station occupant' to bring such a weapon onto Anchiale to begin with. And if, perhaps, it would not be better off for Lady Bowman if it all turned out to have been your fault all along.

You almost think you can hear voices on the far side of the hatch. Faintly, fighting against the room's soundproofing. Almost turns to certainty as both Bowman and the security officer turn to face the closed hatch, frowning.

"--nk you," comes a familiar voice as its owner drifts into the room, catching herself on the handhold just inside the hatch. "There was no reason for that to take as long as it did."

You automatically raise your hand in salute, the same sort of attention you're always to come to when a superior officer comes on deck while you're in harness of some kind. "As you were, North." That's as much attention as Lillian Andre can spare you before being drawn to Bowman.

"Andre," she says, startled. "I wasn't aware you'd be joining us."

"Indeed," Andre agrees. There's something off in her voice. Less the weary, strained captain you're used to dealing with. "It would be hard for me to, when you go out of your way not to tell me after two of my ensigns are involved in a shooting. I only found out about Ensign Li's condition through unofficial sources." She's furious, you realise. More than you've ever seen her in your time serving under her. Positively livid. If looks could kill, Lady Bowman would be a slowly expanding cloud of irradiated plasma. "I have a right to be here," she reminds Bowman. Who, of course, knew this when she gave the order to keep Captain Andre from finding out about the incident. She's glaring openly enough to surprise you -- your captain usually knows where the line is, and what insults she has to swallow as a commoner and a mere Commander in terms of strict rank.

"Of course you do," Lady Bowman agrees, smiling as if Captain Andre were an amusing but slightly slow eight year old. She's bothered, though, you can tell. Her look promises retribution. "You were to be informed in due course."

Andre's response is oddly restrained as she drifts over to the table, grabbing the edge to pull herself down into something resembling a standing position. "'Ma'am,'" she says, simply.

Lady Bowman blinks. "... I beg your pardon?" she asks.

Andre, one hand braced against the table to keep herself from physically drifting away, slams a bony palm down on its surface with enough force to make you jump. Enough force that it must have hurt. "''You were to be informed in due course, ma'am', Commander!" she snaps.

It's then, as her shoulder moves into your view, that you realise her uniform epaulettes are different. An additional line of braid adorns them. She has, in the time you've been on leave, been promoted to the rank of full captain. And more recently than that, you suspect. Lady Bowman is staring, open-mouthed, at Captain Andre's shoulder patch. She closes her mouth abruptly. In an act that seems as though it's costing her years of her life, Lady Bowman belatedly makes a smart salute. "I apologise, Captain," she says. Then adds, in an outrageous lie: "It was not my intention to give offence."

"I'm sure," Andre says, ambiguously. There's a grim sort of satisfaction in the way she holds her narrow frame. Not happiness -- certainly not after what happened today, with you and Anja -- but an undeniable degree of pleasure at having a patronising noblewoman, a lady and a baroness, saluting the likes of Lillian Andre. "One of my ensigns needs a new lung, Lady Bowman. I am in absolutely no mood for games or childish posturing."

You feel yourself sagging in your seat involuntary, muscles bunched tight belatedly relaxing. A new lung. Hardly a good situation, but dead people don't need transplants. Mosi hasn't killed her. Captain Andre's steely grey eyes flick over to you briefly, noting your transparent relief. Her expression thaws ever so slightly. A few cracks forming in the face of a glacier.

"When did you get the step up, ma'am?" Bowman asks, unable to restrain her horrified curiosity.

"Not long ago," Andre explains. "Her highness arranged it as a token of her continuing gratitude for escorting her to Iapetus." There's a very slight emphasis on the word 'continuing.' Something about Bowman's posture changes again. Not just resentful shock. Active concern.

Captain Andre floats over to the same side of the table, strapping herself uninvited into the seat between the wide-eyed security officer and Bowman. Just as wearily prim as in the Rose's command chair. "As I've just gotten here," she says pointedly not looking at Bowman, who is pushing herself into her own seat, "I would like to request that Ensign North start over from the beginning again, in her own words." Both of the other officers look like they've just swallowed a lemon. You wonder if she knows what she's doing. If she's deliberately trying to save you.

"Yes, ma'am," you say. "At approximately 13:24, Station Time, I received a call…"


Beta Sphere,
Anchiale Station

Anja is laying on a bed, slender frame threatening to be swallowed up by an array of tubes and equipment attached to her body. Beeps and whirs emerge from the equipment monitoring her or keeping her alive. Keeping her alive because, as the nurse bluntly informs you, her ruined lung has already been removed, life support making up for the lack in preparation for the nebulous 'soon' when they locate a new one to transplant. She's separated from you by a pane of glass. It's strangely as if you're back in the interrogation room but, this time, standing on the other side of the glass.

In the end, you have not actually done anything wrong. Merely suspicious. Mosi admitted to nothing particularly incriminating prior to the gun being pulled, and the fact that she did not come with you and your mother to Saturn is a matter of public record. No charges, no official reprimand. Just a lot of unhappy glares, and instructions to make yourself available for further investigation. And there will be further investigation, with Mosi still at large somewhere on the station. Assault on an Officer of the Crown can be a shooting offence, when it involves a lethal weapon. You have no idea what you're going to tell your mother.

"You're not usually the one I'd worry about getting into trouble, North."

"... I didn't expect this either, ma'am."

You parted ways with Captain Andre following your release, as exhausted and beaten down as if you'd pulled two double shifts in a row. You're entirely convinced you have her to thank for your release, and you attempted to say so.

"Thank me by not shouting at anyone important, and not getting any more of my officers shot, North. Or, honestly, shout at whoever you want, if it's between those two things." Then she'd stopped, squeezing her eyes shut, massaging one temple under the brim of her hat. It's such a familiar gestures it's almost comforting, in spite of the wounding words. "I apologise, Ensign," she'd said, stiffly. "That was… unjust. But understand, me, North -- your fault or no, next time no one will be able to protect you."

In your heart of hearts, you haven't entirely convinced herself that she was wrong to say it, even if she did plainly feel badly for voicing the harshest part. Either way, that's one order you would be thrilled to comply with. You were free to go -- it was finally possible for you to find and visit Anja. All the way there, you were filled with the utterly irrational notion that your failure to come sooner might somehow make things worse.

You've been staring for a good fifteen minutes, you think, before a voice rumbles at your shoulder. "I don't think I've ever seen you looking worse." Lieutenant Grayson stands behind you, massive hands hanging loosely at his sides. Looking up into his face, he manages a weak smile at you. "And yet," he concludes, "you still look better than Ensign Li."

The laugh this elicits from you is high pitched, short-lived, hysterical. It echoes too loudly in observation room and out into the halls beyond. This hospital is like every other you've been in. Sterile colours, an oppressively hushed atmosphere heavy with the misfortune of others. A chemical tang in the air. Hushed voices in the distance.

"Sorry, sir," you say, running a hand self-consciously through your hair, face heating. It's less neat than normal.

"There's a tag still on that dress," he notes.

"My old one was covered in her blood," you say, quietly. "I put it down a recycler on the way here." The dress is actually identical to your old one, purchased from another print on demand kiosk with the same code. Glancing down at it, you're abruptly, irritably aware that you will never wear this dress again. New version or no, you can still remember too vividly what it looked like coated in your best friend's blood.

Grayson nods, quietly, and his eyes turn back to Anja. "She's mouthy," he says. "Inappropriate. No sense of decorum. Disrespectful." He lets out a deep, rumbling breath, closing his eyes against the sight of her.

"She likes you, sir," you offer, quietly. "You know how to work with her."

"I know," Grayson agrees, smiling sadly. His deep, brown eyes turn to you. Despite Grayson's sheer size, you've never thought of him as being slow or ponderous before. Now, he moves and talks like he's worried about breaking something delicate. Somehow, you can relate. "Thank you, North," he says.

You jerk your head back, confused. "I'm sorry, sir?" you ask.

"You saved her life," he says, bluntly.

"I got her shot, sir," you say.

"No." The denial is flat and somehow inarguable. An impenetrable barrier he's laid down between you. "You held her wound shut until help could arrive. She nearly died, North. If you hadn't done that, she'd be dead." He closes his eyes, then, running a hand down his face. "My valued, mouthy, inappropriate subordinate. Thank you for saving her."

You're silent for a long moment then, before speaking, in a voice that wavers on the edge of breaking: "She's my closest friend, sir. What else could I do?"

"I know," he repeats. His hand falls heavy and warm on your shoulder, giving you the briefest of reassuring squeezes. "If you'll excuse me, Ensign," he says, releasing you. "I think I need…" he looks around. At four white walls. At spotless floor tiles. At the uncomfortable seating. At everything but at Anja again. "... air."

"I understand, sir," you say, watching him slip back out into the hallway. He doesn't come back.


Other shipmates trickle in to 'visit' over the ensuing hours. Mostly to see that Anja isn't dead. They look at you curiously, but something about your bearing, curled up on one of the uncomfortable chairs by yourself, forbids asking about what happened. The news has only broadcast that Anja was shot, that another officer was involved but unharmed. That the assailant was a non-registered station occupant. None of them know that it was your only sister, returning from the grave to assault a fellow officer.

You try to work. There's not much left, you remind yourself. Even without J6, you can make progress. You can get something done.

"Amani."

"Yes?"

"Amani, how long have you been here?"

A few hours, certainly. You glance up at the time on your tablet, and do a double-take at just how late it's gotten. At how little you've gotten done. "... a while," you admit.

"When have you last eaten?"

"I had… ramen earlier." Much earlier. Your stomach abruptly lurches to life, rumbling hungrily.

"When was that?"

"Afternoon."

Abruptly, a slender-fingered hand seizes your tablet, and pulls it out of your unresisting grip. You stare up at Lori dumbly, uncertain how to respond. "I was just… trying to get some work done," you explain.

"You weren't succeeding," the Countess says. She glances behind her, at the sight of Anja on the other side of the glass, and sighs expansively. "Come on," she says, quietly.

"What?" you blink up at her. For some reason, nothing is quite making sense. She leans in closer to you. Her eyes are very blue -- darker than Anja's, but just as intent.

"You need food and a shower, Amani. And you need to be somewhere else." A hint of sterness enters her voice, and her free hand takes you by the arm, pulling you to your feet. You sway as you get up. You are hungry.

"What if something happens while I'm gone?" you whisper to her.

"I think the doctors can do their job for one night without your oversight, Ensign North."

"I thought you weren't going to call me that," you point out.

"I'm allowed to, when I'm teasing you." There's no force behind the flirting, no heat. She's pulling you toward the door now. Not knowing what else to do, you follow along behind her. "Come on. When she's better, Ensign Li won't thank you to starve yourself on her behalf."

That was true. "My quarters are on the other side of the sphere," you admit.

Lori is unconcerned. "We're not going to your quarters."


You can't be sure if Lori's quarters are so much larger than your own because she's a knight and a commander, or simply because she's a countess. Regardless, you find yourself standing in a spacious, openly laid out apartment, with a kitchen and a sitting area larger than anything you've had to yourself in your entire life. You waver on the threshold, uncertain what to do with yourself. The entire room has the same uncomfortably new quality that the entirety of Beta Sphere has, but this apartment in particular is so spotless it looks barely lived in.

"I've scarcely spent a night here since it was assigned to me," Lori admits. "I've been staying up near the space port. To make it easier to get to meetings and test flights." Your question answered before you could open your mouth, you feel yourself being gently steered toward the bathroom. "Have a shower," Lori tells you. "I'll have seen about food by the time you get out."

The shower stall is large enough for you to comfortably sit down. That's what you find yourself doing -- back against the tiled wall, arms wrapped around your knees, letting the deliciously warm water fall onto your head.

Anja is going to be alright. She's not dead. They'll find a match, the doctor's are certain -- her blood type isn't rare, after all. It's just a matter of a 'donor' of the right size and blood type and healthy lungs turning up.Turning up, of course, means dying themself. Lungs are not the kind of organ that are donated by a good samaritan. What will Anja say, when she finally sees you again? Or will you be dead along with the Rose's whole crew, the war simply lost? Will Anja wake up, fixed, whole… but in a version of Saturn she doesn't recognise at all?

You have no idea how long you spend in the shower. Too long, the part of you that's trained to be mindful of water waste chides. You belatedly wash as if the hot water might be shut off at any time, turn the water off, and take a towel to dry yourself with pruned hands.

The bathrobe that's hanging by the door is too large for you, sized as it is for Lori's greater height, but she has narrow shoulders, and you can fasten it tightly without fear of the garment slipping off you.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you're immediately hit by the scent of rice and curry. Your stomach growls overpoweringly and you actually feel a little weak in the knees. "I ordered it," Lori reveals. She's in a chair by the room's large window. Her jacket is put away, and her shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the delicate lines of her collarbone. Outside, the station has already slipped into simulated night. She gestures at the recently-unsealed takeout containers, their open steam vents the source of the delicious aroma. "I'm afraid the kitchen is just for show," she elaborates. "One of the disadvantages of privilege -- I have no idea how to cook for myself, or for anyone else." The daughter of a count, with servants. Then a knight aspirant and a naval officer -- you suppose Lori has never really had to cook for herself in her life. Her tone is mildly self effacing though, as if admitting to a character flaw.

"Thank you." As you open your portion, you have to exert effort to pace yourself. To not simply inhale the perfectly spiced contents inside. Lori looks on, eating her own portion sparingly. She's eying you with a mix of worry and affection, but seems to hold off on speaking up until you've finished.

"They didn't report names publicly," Lori says, finally, when you set your empty container down on the table. She's hardly touched her own, but she places it beside yours.

"I heard," you say, wondering where she's going with this. She's not meeting your eye, suddenly. Instead simply staring out the window. You shift forward in your own chair. The sitting area is grouped around a glass coffee table and a rug nice enough that it doesn't look machine printed, even though you know it is.

Lori takes in a shallow breath, then exhales. "They just said 'two junior officers from the HIMS Titanium Rose had been involved in a shooting, one seriously injured."

"... oh." Realisation hits you, soft and painful. You slowly rise to your feet, and go over to her.

"Then I heard you were one of them. Still, no one knew which one was hurt." Her arms go around you, pulling you against her even while she remains seated. Her grip is tight and secure, and you find yourself resting your head against hers.

"I'm alright," you tell her, gently. "I'm fine."

"You're not hurt," Lori agrees, pulling you down into the chair completely. There's nothing particularly amorous about what she's doing. No sign that she's intending to seduce you there and now. Just the warmth of proximity, your body moulding tight against hers in the confines of a one-person armchair.

"I'm alright," you repeat. Your head finds a spot on her shoulder, tucked partially in under her chin. One of her hands is in your still-damp hair, and when she speaks, you can feel the thrum of her vocal cords against your skin:

"Are you?" she asks, quietly.

"Am I?"

"Are you really alright?" she asks.

You let out a long breath, deflating in her arms and wondering why that's such a hard question to answer. "I will be," you clarify.

"That's not the same thing, Amani," she says.

"I've worried you enough," you point out. "I'm sorry for not calling. I should have, after. I didn't think about what you'd hear on your own."

"I am entitled to worry about you," Lori tells you, the faintest note of disapproval in her voice. "Do me the credit of not implying otherwise."

"I'm sorry," you say, mildly chastised.

"Don't be," she says, the arm wrapped around your waist tightening. "I'm just glad you weren't shot."

"Anja was," you point out.

"Yes. And I'm not happy about that." There's silence then. A long, drawn out silence where you close your eyes and your world shrinks down to the two of you. The rise and fall of her chest against yours. "These aren't," she admits, finally, "the circumstances under which I wanted to bring you back to this apartment."

"I'd hope not," you say, after a moment of extended contemplation. "If this were what you were into, I'm not sure that things would work out between us."

She seems too startled by that to respond at first. Then she laughs quietly and kisses you once on the forehead. "I'd much rather see you happy," she confirms. Then her tone turns marginally more serious again, and she asks: "Talk to me about it."

"What do you want to hear?" you murmur, breath whispering against her skin.

"Tell me what happened," she says, hand running through your hair again. "Tell me what you're feeling."

You thought you didn't want to tell this story again, that it had taken too much out of you the first time. But no one in that interrogation room, admittedly, had fed you curry and taken you into their arms. You take a deep breath, and begin to speak.


What are you feeling most intensely now?

[ ] Grief and worry for Anja being wounded, eclipsing all else

[ ] Betrayal and disillusionment over your sister shooting your friend and comrade

[ ] Fear and existential dread over everything going wrong in an escalating war

[ ] Guilt that you brought Anja there, that you couldn't somehow stop Mosi