Petals of Carbon Steel -- You're a Pilot, Not an Ace. Try your best.

"You know what? I'm good." You flash Kitty a grin as you swipe 'minimum bet' on your tablet.

"Afraid of giving the rest of your money to me, huh?" Kitty's smile is trying just a little too hard. You can't begrudge her that much — she's got a lot not to smile about, and sometimes you just need to fake it hard enough that it eventually becomes real.

"Something like that." You watch Azara as she makes her own move, continuing to let Kitty think she's on the cusp of winning. Like the little one-eyed demon that she is.

Kitty takes her next turn, going all-in with a cocky sort of air. "Sorry, Azara," she says, safe behind the walls of her unassailable hand.

"I'm not!" says Azara. Then, with a single token, she crushes you both, cackling as Kitty's money transfers over to her own cracked-screened tablet.

Kitty groans, letting herself loll in zero-gravity. "You tricked me on purpose!" she accuses.

"Yep!" chirps Azara.

"And you let it happen," Kitty says, rounding on you next.

"Why, yes I did," you reply, smirking. "Sometimes, you have to just let the baby bird fall out of the nest, or she'll never fly. Or at least, learn that the ground is hard."

"What does that even mean, Pirate?" Azara asks. "Have you even seen a baby bird?"

"Yes, I'll have you know," you say, loftily. "Troy has a feral songbird problem."

"And what happens if a baby pigeon falls off of something at Ganymede gravity, exactly?" Azara looks deeply skeptical of this whole analogy, still.

"Well," you admit. "It... gently floats to the ground, more or less. And is fine. Like Kitty."

Despite how admirably you pulled that comparison around to working again, Kitty seems unimpressed, based on the unfriendly look she's sending you. You're all in the pilots' module, the three of you in a loose cluster around the compartment. The only other occupant at the moment is Ryan in a far corner, also on a tablet. No doubt he's watching more trashy, pre-war fantasy animation. He's ignoring your game with the help of a pair of headphones, swiftly becoming just another part of the background.

"Aw, don't be like that, Kit," Azara says. "Me taking your money is how we're welcoming you to the squad!" Her smile turns a little wicked as she adds: "Well, one of the ways. But, you remember—"

"Yes, yes, I remember!" Kitty goes bright red, covering her eyes with one hand to avoid seeing your smirk. "Where did you even learn to bluff like that?" she asks, desperate to change the subject.

"I used to play with the militia I was with," Azara says, shrugging. "I wasn't with them too long, before we got rolled up into the AIJ, but long enough for them to teach me. You don't seem like you have much gambling experience, huh?"

Kitty gives a self-effacing sort of smile. "That obvious, huh? Dad didn't care for it, so much. And I just... haven't, since he and mom died."

"Awful stodgy, for a couple of lifelong rebels," you note.

"They were dedicated to the cause," Kitty says. "That doesn't mean they liked losing money."

"Well, I, for one, am thrilled to know I'd be disapproved of," Azara says, brightly.

"Well," Kitty says, cautiously. "I'm sure they'd..." she can't quite deny it. "Oh, stop smirking, Kana."

You do not stop smirking. "Let this be an important lesson in leadership, Squad Leader," you say. "Don't give an order you know won't be carried out."

She groans. "What about yours then?" she asks Azara. "You never talk about your family."

Azara shrugs. "Haven't had anything to do with any of them since I joined the militia, and I'm really okay with that. I'm where I want to be now, doing what's right."

The expression Kitty gives her, then, is enough to make your teeth ache. You really are going to regret facilitating this relationship.

/////PoCS\\\\\

Time is arbitrary in space. Late or early is always relative. But, for all practical purposes, it's very late right now, considering that most of the ship is asleep for this shift. It's a good opportunity to corner Nazaret alone, though.

"Knock-knock," you say, drifting through the hatch to the bridge.

"Works better if you don't just come in anyway," Nazaret says, craning their neck around to smile at you. They're strapped into their workstation on the bridge, tan features illuminated in the display's glow. They're alone, here to sound the alarm or take emergency action if something unlikely turns up.

"You know me better than that, though," you say, snagging the back of one of the other workstations to keep yourself in place near to them. You don't strap yourself in, though. That would look bad, given your recent escapades with other peoples' workstations.

"So," Naz says, eyes still on their display, "I assume that my being graced by your presence means that you've had a chance to read the book?"

"I did," you say. "You sure like period pieces."

"Guilty as charged," Naz says. "I know it wasn't a mystery, but this one, the protagonist reminded me of you, a little. I thought you might enjoy that."

"... Really."

"She's a former highwaywoman with a heart of... let's say silver, turning her life around," they point out.

"Oh, please. My heart is bronze at best," you say. "Based on what I've read so far, though... so glad to know that you're imagining me seducing a handsome prince in order to con him out of his fortune, while you're reading."

Naz laughs. "Honestly, he's not that interesting a love interest."

"He's really not," you agree. "You realise, of course, that I am now going to continue reading with a mind to finding anything at all that might make your comparison offensive to me, right?"

"Hey, as long as you're reading it!"

There's a moment of companionable silence then, as Nazaret checks some entirely-expected readouts on their display. You're the one who breaks it. "Why do you like this stuff so much? Me, I go for period mysteries because they're... simpler. Their little world is smaller, has less technology, less complicating factors. It lets me focus on the puzzle without the outside seeping in, if that makes sense. You, though, you don't seem to care much about what you're reading, as long as it's set back in time."

Naz shrugs. "Yeah. I like how space doesn't really exist in them."

"Doesn't 'exist'?"

"Well, it does, sort of. It's a thing, obviously, but it's not really a place, in stories like that. People talk about it, look at it sometimes. They don't actually go there, though. Everything's on Earth."

"And that's a good thing?"

"Have you ever thought about how neither of us are going to ever see a planet?"

You raise a dark eyebrow, glancing at the visual display where Jupiter's distant brownish dot can be seen in space.

"No," they say, waving that off impatiently. "A real planet. One with a surface and an atmosphere, and a climate you can exist in, and air you can actually breathe. The kind of place where if you step outside, it doesn't kill you. Out here, we're going to live and die going from one pressurised container to the next. Some bigger, some smaller. But all of them are still a sealed box."

"You've been thinking about this for a long time, huh?" you ask.

Naz shrugs. "Only all my life. Haven't you?"

"I'd be happy enough just to get back to Troy again," you say. It's surprising even to you — you haven't exactly been letting yourself feel homesick for your rabbit-warren of a hometown. "The dome sections on the surface have space enough."

"You'll have to show me one day, when we win," Naz suggests. "See if it's actually a decent standin — I've never been to Ganymede."

You smile. "I can think of worse ways to waste some time."

/////PoCS\\\\\

This time, you really do knock, rapping several times on the hatch leading to Commander Milo Owusu's quarters. After a long moment of you drifting there like an idiot, his voice comes in over the comm. "Yes?"

"It's Kana," you say. "Do you have a moment, or are you still having a snit?"

There's a mildly affronted burst of laughter. "A snit?"

You shrug, unseen. "What's a better word?"

The hatch snaps open. Owusu looks at you, beautiful features incredulous. "Justifiably disappointed? Understandably displeased by the losses we took recently?"

"Those are all words," you agree. "Is there still a problem?"

"It's good to see you've appointed yourself as ship therapist, Kana."

"Oh, well, see, I'm incurably without tact. So. I'm actually perfect for breaking down barriers and asking these awkward questions."

Owusu pinches the bridge of his nose, torn between amusement and actual irritation. In spite of himself, he drifts back, admitting you into the small office space beyond. "Honestly, I had hoped for better," he admits. "And I'm sure you've noticed, but, Lieutenant North in particular is... an officer I'd be sorry to lose. I'm the one who recommended she be assigned to that ship all the way out here."

"Because you know her fiancée, right?" you venture. "Probably someone important back on Saturn?"

He looks at you very neutrally. "What makes you say that?"

"A feeling. She seems like an expensive sort of girl, you know?" From his look, you know he's not buying that. "Well, and Mystery Fiancée has access to firearms. And her getting away with shooting you is a joke, but one that's uncomfortably close to true. So. I figure... what? Military officer? Rich? Noble? Am I in the right ballpark?"

"Why is this relevant?"

You shrug. "Oh, well, you know. It's interesting! I wouldn't have thought they'd send someone like that all the way out here and expose her to dangerous rebels." You know, at some point during this sentence, that you've crossed a line without meaning to. It's a normal enough experience for you. The longer you go on, the colder and colder his expression grows.

"Ms. Himegami," Owusu says, crisply, "I would remind you that it is unwise to pry too deeply into SRI business."

"Sol, I wasn't threatening to kidnap her!" you say. This doesn't seem to help. "Sorry, sorry! I'm not here to cause problems, honestly. I just wanted to see if there's going to be a problem with us going forward."

"I hope not," Owusu says, regaining some of his ordinary cheer. "Of course... I hope you'll remember that you owe me."

"Yeah, hard to forget that."

He smiles, thin and not necessarily overly friendly. "Good."

Odd to think that in moments like these, you can tell he's showing you more of himself than he ever could with all the cocky smiles and affable jokes in the world.

/////PoCS\\\\\

First Officer Booker looks at you with a hard-to-read stare. You've managed to avoid her entirely since the incident with her workstation. Now, it's a little difficult, as the two of you regard each other from across the brig module.The space the two of you are in is small — a narrow tube, cells ringing it at regular intervals, two prisoners to a cell. You have four currently occupied. Everything is in a supposedly-calming, industrial beige.

"Booker! You look lovely this evening," you say, grinning at her. "But, don't you always?"

"Stow it, Himegami," she says, pale eyes narrowing. She's wearing a sidearm, today, the weapon obvious against her hip. It doesn't make her presence seem any warmer than usual. "Are you here to actually make yourself useful, or just to annoy me?"

"I'm a woman of many talents," you assure her. "I can do both at once."

You can take a hint, when you choose to. You get to work. You have seven prisoners — four from the boarding party that so badly mauled Lieutenant North's squad, another three pilots. No survivors from the ships themselves; pirate vessels are not precisely built for crew safety under combat conditions. Your objectives here are simple enough — get them to tell you who they are, and what they can do. What's going to happen to them in the long term isn't your concern, but some of them might have skills useful enough to be put to work, at some point. You doubt the SRI would like that much, as displeased with you as they already are. Neither would Ryan, for that matter. As much as you think the two of you are fine, you doubt that understanding extends to pirates in general.

"Himegami Kana? I think the Captain mentioned you."

"Oh, me? How flattering." You pretend not to be avidly interested in what Ohara was saying about you to his underlings.

"Well, it was just you and that other guy who walked away after the Imperials hit your old crew, right?" He's a lanky, nervous looking pilot named Publicover, dark hair cropped short over wide-eyed features. Young. You're entirely certain that you weren't this young at his age, when you were piloting cobbled-together pirate mechas. You're talking to him through the currently-unsealed pass-through slot in his cell. He occupies the cramped space with one other man, who is considerably less chatty than the boy.

"Oh, is that all? Nothing personal?" You examine your nails, the picture of boredom.

"I mean, it was personal, but it wasn't exactly... you know, nice?" He looks apprehensive. Reasonably, given the position he's in.

"Oh, go ahead. I'm sure I've heard worse. And I promise not to shoot the messenger. After all, I already killed Ohara."

Publicover flinches. Beside him, his companion sends you a glare. "Right. Right," the boy says. "Uh... that you're a smug, scheming snake and that he was going to wipe that smirk off your face, someday? Yeah, that one, I think."

You make no effort to hide the smile in question. "Turned out to be a little optimistic on his part. Ah well, we can't all get what we want."

"Is there a point to this?" Publicover's cellmate growls. He was part of the boarding party, a stocky, grizzled slab of a man.

"Well, I'm here primarily to get your names and your skill sets," you admit. "Oh, and communicate that we're not just going to space you all immediately." The last word is calculated to not set either of them at ease, and it works more or less as planned. "What was your training?" you ask Publicover.

He looks suddenly panicked. "I mean, I... I knew how to move a construction unit before I hired on, I'm not... most of us aren't ex-Imperial, like Beryl!"

"Shut up," his cellmate hisses. But it's too late — you definitely heard that.

"Beryl, huh?" your smirk grows a little wider. "Thank you, that's been very helpful." You leave Publicover to the glaring recriminations of his cellmate.

As luck would have it, Beryl's the one who ended up in a cell by herself. The first thing you notice about her is her size — if she were standing, you'd peg her as only slightly over a metre and a half, tops. It lends her a slightly childlike appearance, for all that you're sure she's older than you are.

"Naiya Beryl?" you ask, politely.

She regards you with a flat, green-eyed stare. "May I help you?" She's dark-haired, with a medium brown complexion. Despite her short stature, she's toned and compact more than she is delicate. The kind of body that comes from long hours of work, when you spend your time in zero-gravity.

"Himegami Kana." At the faint look of recognition in her inexpression, you can't help but laugh. "Sol — how much did he rant about wanting to kill me?"

"Often enough," Naiya says, shrugging.

"I have that effect on people," you admit. "So! Your boy, Publicover — he tells me that you're ex-military."

She tenses up, gaze suddenly very wary on the far side of the window separating you from her. "I... was," she says, in the kind of reluctant tone that makes you think she very much didn't intend to volunteer this information. You were right to go after the clear weakest link first.

"Which one?" She visibly hesitates. "Oh, relax. We're not going to shoot you just for having been a jack-booted Imperial thug. We've all served with your type before."

Naiya averts her eyes, and sighs. "Divine Navy. Six years active service."

"How'd you wind up here?" you ask. The usual story is either burning out, or being thrown out. You feel like the latter is slightly more likely than the former, given where she wound up.

"... Saturn," Naiya admits, closing her eyes against whatever memories this conversation is stirring up.

You frown, confused. "What do you— oh, shit, you were there?"

"Battle of Iapetus," she says, with the resigned air of someone who is having a conversation she hates, but knows it won't be the last time. "Barely got out alive."

You tilt your head. "How'd you get back here?" Iapetus had been a massacre, both in terms of civilian casualties and Divine Navy's own losses. Nearly an entire invasion fleet wiped out.

"With a lot of difficulty," Naiya says. She doesn't elaborate further.

"And what, first thing, you join up with Ohara?" the skepticism in your voice is evident.

Naiya messes up her hair with one hand, almost irritated now. "If you'd gone through that, not much would matter to you on the other side either." It's probably as much as you're going to get out of her, for the moment.

At the end of the session, you send Booker an audio copy of your interviews. "So, all of the boarding party and two of the pilots are like me," you say. "Nothing like formal training, just the kind of skill you pick up along the way, if you live long enough. We have one who was Divine Navy, though. Survived Saturn."

Booker whistles. "Trauma case?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely," you agree. That wasn't even a question, after that conversation alone.

"More trustworthy than our current pirate?" She asks this as if you're not the one she's talking to.

"Ha. Ha." You roll your eyes. "We just killed most of her crewmates. In a fight they picked, sure, but... especially with her background, I wouldn't rush to trusting her much, even if we are low on pilots."

"Your evaluation is noted," Booker says. "We had not exactly planned to simply turn over a mecha to a prisoner, regardless."

"Very sensible," you agree. "Are we done, here?"

She gives you a hard look, as if searching for the mockery. Not finding it, she sighs. "Yes, Himegami. You're excused."

/////PoCS\\\\\

The HDMS Sunspot
Disguised Divine Navy Transport vessel

"I'm worried about her," Alvin admits, looking at the sealed simulator pod with frowning concern. He's no younger than the rest of them, but boyish features render the stark white of his Divine Navy uniform slightly incongruous. A child playing dress-up, rather than a young man pressed into His Divine Majesty's service under dire circumstances.

"We all are," Sevda says, shooting him an exasperated look. Her sharp features and blunt tone has a tendency to always make her seem displeased. Her friends try to be used to it. "Who wouldn't be? She didn't get training for any of this."

"None of us did," says the third of the apprentices-turned-naval-personnel. Ava, in contrast to the other two, is perfectly calm. That's how she looks when she's trying very hard not to be a complete mess. It's how she's looked the entire time they've been onboard the Sunspot. "We're all doing our best with what we have to do. For Mari, that's flying a mecha."

"In combat!" Alvin hisses. "Against terrorists trying to murder us all. You can't just drop a trainee engineer into that, have her kill people and everything, and have it work out alright. Does she even do anything apart from eat and sleep and train, anymore? Is that healthy?" He gives a little yelp of alarm as a hand claps down on his shoulder from behind.

"It's not healthy, in the normal course of things," the hand's owner admits. Sir Salimus, thin-featured and dark-haired, has a terrible habit of catching people by surprise like this. He watches with some amusement as they all scramble to salute him. He returns it with considerably more finesse than they can manage, valiant efforts or no. The older pilot regards them all with a ruefully lop-sided sort of smile. "As you were, specialists. Right now, she's the only one who can pilot that thing — prepping it for my brainwaves again would put it out of commission for longer than we want. So, she's doing the best she can with what she has."

Mari's friends all nod, still looking deeply uncertain. Salimus has found the three of them crowded into the corner of the mecha deck where the simulator unit has been set up, in this moment where all three of them are spared the shipboard duties they've been assigned in order to talk. Doubtless, they'd hoped that Mari would be able to at least say hello to them. Instead, they'd been left disappointed, awkwardly floating in this space that half resembles a Verdant-class transport's interior, half the Divine Navy warship that it really is.

"Will she really be alright, sir?" Alvin asks. "She's barely talked to anyone since that battle."

"There aren't that many people who are alright after a first action like that one," Salimus says. "Give her some space. If she needs to work that out in the simulator, let her."

Within the thin, metal shell of the simulator, unseen by the others, Tanaka Mari sits, the screen in front of her blank. She'd stopped running simulations very shortly after her three friends arrived, but for some reason, she doesn't have the strength to unseal the mock-cockpit and go talk to any of them. Instead she's just curled up in the harness, staring at her hands.

She isn't okay. That's reasonable, she's been told... although with an undertone implying that she will need to immediately become okay if the ship enters into anything like more combat. It's the thought of doing all that again, of fighting and killing and trying her best not to let anyone who matters to her die, that has her paralysed.

Physically, it had been shockingly easy. A combination of that prototype weapon and some bizarre, innate talent in Mari have come together to make something truly terrifying to face in battle. But emotionally, there's a lot to unpack. One thing far more than any other aspect, though, is gnawing away at her about her reaction to it all. It's not, she's deeply sure, normal to feel this way about combat. About killing people.

/////PoCS\\\\\

Article:

What is the most disturbing part of Mari's reaction to the skirmish with the Esther Strova, and the thought of having to fight and kill again?

[ ] Excitement
[ ] Fear
[ ] Rage
[ ] Nothing at all

This choice will help determine what kind of an opponent Mari is going forward. And affect her mental well-being, but that's not your biggest concern right now.