MISSION: THE AI AND THE COMMANDER

[ximilian]

● ● ● M I S S I O N   1 4 . 0

SOMEWHEN • PRESENT DAY • FYI

// SOMEWHEN  

The hum of the teleportation platform is familiar, filling your ears as the bright light dissipates enough to safely open your eyes. You feel something solid beneath your feet, and the lack of scent from the asphalt and dirt in Nuhiri and Deumia marks a departure from anything resembling a planet, the space around you giving you no reason to think anything of it. You're on the Ximilia once again — finally. Another mission successfully accomplished, for whatever other hardships you and the rest of the team have endured. Hot food and hot showers await, and Newt will surely be scurrying off to prepare for the team’s usual post-mission movie night.

You’re back and you can’t wait for Viveca to greet you, and for Degar to take the orb away, back to the North Wing to join the other ones.

Except … the station’s walls appear to be peeling, and some of the equipment looks a little older and unpolished. There’s even a layer of space-dust on one of the control boards. And most importantly: no one is here to greet you. As you turn and look to your fellow crewmates in confusion, even now some of you might start to wonder at the change of routine. Ivy, who had just been handling the orb, will be empty-handed, but surely there’s nothing to worry about. The station is peaceful and still. Nothing feels amiss … yet. And then:

// 0-L1V-14

Oh, hello. You are not the team I know. Yet you are here for the orb … Good.

The sound of 0-L1V-14 — or 'Olivia' as many have come to call her — voice springs to life around you. She almost seems to sound confused for a moment, clearly recalibrating her systems for this strange occurrence, before the gentle tenor of her voice regains its composure and she recalls her mission directive. The lights in the teleportation platform seem to glow just a little brighter, as though the arrival of the crew has buoyed the AI's spirits.

// 0-L1V-14

I've located one within the station, but it seems to have fractured. The air around them appears to have some sort of temporal disturbance that I can't quite pin down. Be cautious, but bring them to me before anything happens.

Well? You heard the AI. Best to start looking.

1.0   The first thing you might think to do is return to the sleeping quarters, either to clean up and change into another set of clothes; or to take a much-deserved nap; or maybe you just need a moment to yourself to collect your thoughts. The doors to the sleeping quarters seem to stick for a moment, which isn’t worrying in and of itself, but as the doors slide open you realize that you’re looking into a dark and empty carved out space that resembles a place for storage more than anything else. The walls and doors that used to make up your individual rooms are absent, and the floors are stripped bare, with rows of perforated grates allowing the cavernous space to remain relatively well-ventilated. It’s clear that no one has visited this room in quite some time, and perhaps there had once been plans for it, now abandoned to hold a stock of random items in its place.

There are boxes stacked against the wall, and a shelving unit that holds miscellaneous supplies: cans and boxes, batteries and wires, old bound notebooks made of paper. Rolls of rough tarp are haphazardly leaning against the wall to one corner, and thermal blankets are scattered amongst scraps of loose-leaf, a sketch of a cluster of spherical shapes in different colours, and other foreign knick-knacks that seem to have no place on a space station. If you decide to explore this space you’ll have to provide your own source of light as none of the lighting above seem to work though the row of fixtures that you’re used to seem, at least, to have been installed. They’re just not currently online.

Investigating the room a little deeper might draw you to a simple metal box sitting in the middle shelf next to what looks like a half-broken lute, its strings missing. There is no lock on this box, as though it wants to be opened, and lifting the lid will reveal a bright rosy-coloured light. Reaching out towards the small sliver of light in the shape of an elongated teardrop will recall a memory of your childhood so vivid, you’ll think you were back in that time, in that exact moment, to relive it again. Whether it's a good memory or a tragic one is left up to random chance. Only someone entering the room to talk you through your memory will remind you that you aren’t actually a child any longer.

2.0   Perhaps you decide to forgo the sleeping quarters entirely, and want to revisit one of your favourite simulations in the simulation room. Familiar oceans, the futuristic bar, or the room filled with adorable puppies might be your first choice — but every preset you’re used to scrolling through seems to be different now. There are the standard, familiar pre-mission training simulations, and even the Lodgen Mountain Mines mission appears to be here, but everything else has either been deleted … or it was never here to begin with.

You might decide to go ahead with one of the already existing simulations anyway, or you might want to start rewriting the one you’d come here for in the first place. It will depend on your luck, and it will depend on the success of your mission-training, but a small shard of bright, silvery coloured light may suddenly reveal itself to you. It appears like a thin tear-shape that hangs suspended in the air. The faintest whisper beckons you close; it’s familiar. Will you reach out to touch it? Doing so will colour the simulation room around you with a memory so real it might as well be — suddenly you might recall a happy moment in your life, or perhaps your greatest victory or adventure. This can be shared with whoever enters the simulation room with you or after you, and will fade when you manage to locate the right door and leave the room.

3.0   The sunlight room that you may have walked through on countless occasions is missing the familiar bridge, the river that runs beneath it, and trees that surround it. Instead, the vegetation around you appears to be far more deliberate and practical, thick foliage like bushes planted in rows, their large leaves covering most of the ground and soil. Several small metal boxes with wires and buttons can be found planted across the space, each with a thin rotating disc that whirs and spins quietly. Each of these boxes appears to give off readings, each screen displaying a continuous green wavy line scrolling across it and text that displays the quality of the air with a percentile grade, the amount of it being produced, and that particular box’s designation zone: Mess Hall, Storage, Living Quarters, and Teleportation Platform among others. This isn’t just a room that simulates nature, but if you were to approach any of the small bushes and saplings here, it’s clear that the plants here are real and they’re currently working to provide the rest of the station with oxygen.

Further to the back of the sunlight room, a bright sliver of colourful green light seems to glitter and glint between the leaves. It feels familiar in the way that it whispers faintly, and if you concentrate you can make out the sound of your name in a voice like that of someone from your past: a friend, perhaps, or a family member. Maybe a loved one or an enemy. Or perhaps it’s a voice you can’t actually recognize. It might compel you to reach out for the light, but will you listen? Or will you turn away?

If you embrace the light and call out in answer to the voice, you will re-experience the action, the conversation, or the thought that you attribute as being the reason you are who you are today with that most important person being the key piece in your memory.

4.0   Looking for your usual snacks? Feeling peckish for that bowl of instant spicy space-ramen you saved for post-mission? You might head into the kitchen expecting the familiar foodstuffs that you’re used to only to find that the room has been rearranged, with far fewer cupboards and appliances, and more of what looks like typical space-fare: freeze-fried items and nutrition-focused meals sealed into silver foiled bags. What ‘fresh’ ingredients exist are even less, and there are a stack of dirty plates and cutlery in the sink that don’t look like anything you or your crewmates might have used. You may already suspect that this whole station isn’t the one you’re used to, or you might still be in denial. Either way, you may find through your rummaging the call to a little sliver of coppery-coloured light located behind the freezer door.

If you decide to touch the fragment of light here, you’ll feel a ghostly burning as though the glint of the light has cut your skin, almost cold enough to feel sharp — but it’s just your imagination, isn’t it? What you remember now as it comes back to life around you (and the team member or members who may have joined you) is the best meal you’ve ever eaten, whether it is something you made for yourself, something made by your loved one, or the meal that leaves your heart feeling empty and aching.

5.0   You may have become so accustomed to seeing the North Wing doors sealed that it’s your curiosity that draws you forward to the wide expanse beyond the now open wing, your feet testing the threshold as if you’re expecting an invisible wall to keep you out. Nothing happens when you step into the North Wing, though you might immediately notice the large tank that holds all of the team’s successfully captured orbs is very clearly missing. And not only that but the space appears to be well lived in, a small cluster of worn chairs and a table set to one side, and data pads and drawings on white-boards in plain view. They don’t seem to be much more than a couple of crude strategy diagrams (and a couple of silly stick figures in one corner) and as you move towards the crew quarters, some of you might instantly recognize the familiar room with its rows of beds and a scattering of personal effects assigned to each bunk. Photos are pinned to walls of a twenty-person crew, pillows and blankets are left in disarray by unfinished knitting projects, a diary written in a language you can’t quite translate, and a stuffed elephant-shaped plush doll lies at the head of one of the beds in the middle of the room. By the door is a neatly made bed. An analogue paperback novel sits on the nightstand, a bookmark set in the middle to note its progress. On top of it is a well-kept watch stopped a little after the sixth hour and a medal of service in the now recognizable insignia of the Ndiera Complex’s Federation.

By the far wall of these sleeping quarters is a bright golden starlight that seems to illuminate that side of the room as though someone had turned on a torchlight to the highest setting; it’s almost blinding. Moving closer to it, you’ll find that it’s like all the other slivers of light scattered across the station — a broken shard, like a piece of a large puzzle. Touching it may pull you — and whoever might be in the room with you — into a memory from your time with the Ximilia crew, whether it happened over a year ago, or it happened only on the last mission. It might be a happy memory, or it might be something you regret, which is poignant considering your initial raison d’etre for being here at all. It’s a vision that appears from your perspective and while you relive it, you feel outside of yourself.

6.0   The rest of the station still appears to be intact, with the infirmary, the training room, and the armoury in the same locations that you remember. Those of you who have been here for quite some time, you’ll find your way around by muscle memory alone; but even if you’re a newer member of the crew you’ll have wandered the halls enough to know what feels familiar to you … and what doesn’t.

The infirmary looks to be a little out of date, though it looks as if it’s seen its fair share of use. And it’s smaller too, the more recent addition and surgical area missing from the cozy space. The training room and the armoury share similar qualities of seeming a little older, a little more lived in, and with well-used equipment and weapons to boot. The training room is still padded with firm padded flooring and benches for sitting. Some of the racks and hooks (all empty) that had been against the wall have fallen now, and similar to the teleportation room, you’ll find that some of the paneling in this room has since peeled away, revealing some of the bare structure behind them. In the armoury, you won’t find your favourite knife or preferred staff but there are still a few choices in weaponry to arm yourself with.

Wherever you decide to explore, you might once more happen upon a bright bluish light that seems to whisper and call to you in soft, hushed tones. No specific words can be picked out through the murmurs but the feeling is all the same — it draws you forward like a moth to flame, but whether you decide to reach a hand out to touch the sliver of light that hangs suspended in the air is entirely your choice. If you do, you might succumb to a vivid memory of a significant injury you or someone important to you had suffered once, reliving that moment with too sharp clarity. Those feelings of fear or threat or maybe even satisfaction seem to come to you again as though you were there again — only this time you may not be alone as you witness this memory, and someone else has entered the room with you.

● ● ●

Present Day.

The teleportation platform hums quietly in a clean, well-maintained room. No walls or floors appear to be even the least bit dented, and now the Commander of the Ximilia stands behind the control board, staring at the screen as though doing so will bring their crew back by some wild form of magic. Degar knows magic — he’d come from a world so full of it. This, however, is something different.

Beside him, Viveca scans through the data that had sent the crew into the Ndiera Complex, as it should have brought them back the same way, with the orb in tow.

// VIVECA

“I don’t know how it happened… they should have arrived here. Everything seemed normal! But I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.”

// DEGAR

“They could be anywhere, right? Except we can’t even help them if we don’t know where that might be.”

// VIVECA

“I know. The strange thing is that it seems that we’ve located another orb… only, it states that it’s here. On the station. So even if the platform sent them straight to it… why aren’t they here?”

The Commander and the AI both turn their gaze towards the still empty teleportation platform before exchanging worried glances with each other. Degar finally heaves an exhale but the frown in his features deepens.

// DEGAR

“Keep working at it. I’m going to see what I can figure out in the station’s systems. Maybe we can trace back to the team somewhere. Or somewhen.”

Viveca nods, her voice sounding complicated when she responds next.

// VIVECA

“Yeah. We’ll find them.”

TOP

F Y I

• The events in this log take place during the first two weeks of June.

• For this mission, we have decided to run the search request mechanic a little differently. Depending on whether your character decides to touch or grasp one or any of the slivers of coloured light that can be found throughout the station, you will have the opportunity to participate in a search request. More on this is explained HERE.

• If you have questions about any of the prompts or the mission in general, please direct them HERE.

• Any in-character questions to 0-L1V-14 can be asked HERE.

• And finally, your soundtrack for this log: ♪ ♪ ♪

TOP

▶ NAV

Comments

[dispassioned]

[He continues to feel vaguely bemused, like they might be talking about two different things or otherwise misunderstanding each other. Still, he doesn’t hesitate to say:]

I trust you.

[He states it as though it’s obvious and indisputable. Why would he have shared so much of himself with her if he didn’t?]

And Jake, I guess. [Even if he’s a little salty about being stuck in this gala outfit, which is Jake’s fault.] I’m not sure about the others in general, but I don’t think any of them would host a death game. It’s the just…the situation. And the AI.

[He definitely doesn’t trust Olivia, okay.]

[peasant]

[ she blinks, stunned into a momentary lapse of silence. it's not the immediate insistence she had braced to receive. a taut knot in her chest tugs looser, by increments. ]

Is it just the situation?

[ she shifts to face him, an error of judgment she recognizes as the last bindings of her corset obstruct her. ]

Because you can't host a death game without participants. You must be at least a little worried about the others' morals.

[ they would need to want whatever prize is dangled, first and foremost. their life, their unspun regret — olivia could find any number of motivators to twist and turn them against one another. but, foolishly: ]

I don't think it'll come to that. Olivia wants the orb delivered to her, whole and intact, and we can't deliver on that deal if we've dropped dead.

[dispassioned]

[He hums softly, considering, as he pulls at the laces at the top of her corset.]

In those games it wasn’t always about morals, it was about desperation. Even a kind person can be driven to violence when they’re desperate to live. What made an opponent dangerous was an ability to keep a level head in spite of that and a certain amount of intelligence, combined with the potential to be ruthless. There are a few I’d worry about here. Notably, Natasha Romanoff, Uchiha Itachi and Aleksander.

[So, he doesn’t really trust the rest of the crew any more or less than he trusts the average person on the street. What he concerns himself with is how challenging they might be as an opponent.

However, with all that being said:]

But you’re right. It’s not a rational concern to have. It is the situation. Previous experience is telling me to be prepared for something that probably isn’t going to happen.

[peasant]

[ tension returns to her spine, forced into a taut, narrowing line. muscles bunch in her back with the same coiled readiness of a panther gone rigid in its pacing, little divots that speak to the strain as he peels her bindings away, revealing that swath of skin.

aleksander. she'd thought him hopelessly dead. a nightmare lain to rest. it should come as no great shock that he's skittered away from death once more, crawling out of one life's grave to assume another existence — but she blanches, all the same, like a ghost has been invoked.

in some ways, she supposes it has been. ]

No. [ jagged edges mutate her tone into something brittle. ] You would be right not to trust anyone you've named.

[ natasha, by proximity to aleksander. anyone in his good graces has a noted place on her own list of names she keeps note of. as for itachi — she has neither reason to trust nor distrust him. he's only a casualty among those names, caught in the crosshairs of alina's refusal to draw attention to her history with aleksander. ]

[dispassioned]

[...Huh. That's not a reaction he was expecting. Those names struck a nerve he didn't know was there. Or at least one of them did.

He decides to let it drop for now, after all, there's another matter to deal with. He pauses his hands at her back.]

It fastens in the front, right?

[peasant]

Yeah.

[ only a minuscule amount of relief seems to slacken her posture. he won't let it lie. she knows chishiya well enough to assume his curiosity will have him sniffing around her warning, eventually; for now, she busies herself with unlatching her fastening's, squirming to shove the wealth of fabric down. ]

I'll just — [ a huff of annoyed, exerted breath. ] Take the whole Saints-forsaken thing off.

[ his hoodie just might be the savior of the day. she steps out from the overwhelming lake of material as it puddles at her feet, shoving her frilly petticoat down with it, next. ]

[dispassioned]

[His eyes track the way the fabric pools at her feet, and then wander back up her body for a moment. He probably shouldn't let himself be so blatant about looking at her. It's not the time to be incorrigible. But a few hours ago he was all but convinced he wouldn't see her again. It's difficult not to drink in the sight of her.

But also, that is...so many layers of clothing. How was she able to move? Especially with the corset so tight.]

I really can't blame you.

[As impractical as his outfit is, it's not actually uncomfortable. In fact, he'd say it's much more comfortable than his last suit. The fabric is soft and loose, so he doesn't feel confined, at the least.]

[peasant]

[ his stare glides as a touch would, prickling at the edges of her awareness. gooseflesh pebbles her arms, those exposed patches of creamy skin, as much the fault of his lingering gawking as it it the recirculated air's chill. a quick zip blankets his hoodie over her petite frame, swathed in the new comfort of that fabric — familiar enough that alina can nearly taste the deja vu of naephus on the back of her tongue. a memory that fees farther away, now.

dainty fingers bunch around its sleeve where fabric overhangs, neatly drowning her hands. the advantage, she supposes, is that it strikes just enough of her leg that scandalizing the crew won't be an issue. the greater issue is —

finding words that elude her as she pivots to face him more fully. a chasm of stunted silence opens between them, gaping, until alina moves to bridge it — a declaration without much segue when she murmurs, ] I'm on your side.

[ whether that's a reassuring balm to his nerves, she can't be certain. but it's prescribed for that purpose, however sincere the sentiment is. ]

We won't plan for the worst. But if it does come to that ... [ she trails off, confidence waning by a faint degree. ] We'll find a way forward. Together.

[dispassioned]

[He blinks slowly at her gentle reassurance. It's not something he was expecting, because it's something he's so rarely received in his life. His world tilts back on its axis a little, and the fact that she's here now feels more real than it had before.]

I know.

[And it's true. He hadn't ever really questioned that she was on his side.

He steps toward her and reaches for her so he can pull her into an embrace. His arms sliding around her, his relief almost palpable now that he's allowed himself to feel it.]

I'm on your side, too.

[peasant]

[ she steps into the fold his arm creates without hesitation, as though she'd been counting the minutes in wait. with her cheek mashed into his chest, she permits herself a deep, open breath. allows herself to become smaller than the grand shadow a queen should cast, like a child seeking out comfort in the dark.

creases etch themselves into the lines of her expression, wrenched tight with alina's resistance to crumbling, collapsing — one brick away from her foundation crumbling down. it's a tragedy in itself, she thinks, how softness risks eroding it more than any mark a long-fought war has carved into her.

a long-fought war that isn't yet finished with her, as it turns out. but the strange infection inside of her, that blight of power she's inherited — her awareness of it all feels so far away as she winds her arms around his middle and squeezes, with the same clinginess of latching onto a favored teddy bear. she burrows deeper into the lair his chest creates for her, a den to hide within, her faint sniffling smothered in fabric.

to her credit, there's no tears shed. exhaustion has dried up that well; shock has evaporated her energy, made restless by fresh revelations. she drags in another breath, forces the waver that wants to enter her voice under control, stomped down when she mutters ruefully, ]

Not worried I'll sell you out for a candy bar?

[ not as concerned as she is herself, apparently. she pushes that thought aside. buries it under a new issue, in her blatant refusal to process her last few hours in ravka. the ximilia needs her now. they have to return to their own time. there's simply no time or thought she can spare for her new — predicament. ]

[dispassioned]

[One hand glides idly up and down her back as he huffs in amusement.]

Not especially.

[And then after a beat he adds, clearly teasing:]

Maybe cake.

[Though, truth be told, there isn't much in the way of candy bars or cake on this version of the station. He likes to think he is at least slightly more appealing than freeze dried ice cream.]

[peasant]

[ she huffs out a brittle breath from her cinched, waterlogged throat. yeah, she strongly suspects there's no decently edible supplies to speak of, if the rusty peels of the wall are any indication. but that's fine — she's sustained herself on first army slop better suited to farm animals. she can persevere through dirty, stale rations. ]

I wouldn't count anything out.

[ the snaking, python-esque squeeze of her arms deters him from swiveling back to gauge her expression — while nestling in the temporary den she's made of his sternum emboldens her into summoning the softer tone of those solemn words: ]

Was it true? [ her stunted pause lingers, looms uncertainly. her tongue flicks out, warring with her parched mouth. ] That you missed me.

[dispassioned]

[He hums softly, affirmative, trying to glance down at her. But of course, she’s too thoroughly snuggled into his chest for him to get a good look at her.]

Of course it was. I know people disappear from the station. I don’t know how often they come back. I really thought I wouldn’t see you again.

[It felt a little like the universe was trying to prove his negative outlook correct. Good things don’t get to last. He was braced for the worst. Thankfully, his pessimism was a little premature, as it turns out. Seems like the orbs are just determined to fuck around in as many ways as possible right now.]

[peasant]

It happens as often as it doesn't.

[ clara's round eyes pop and fizz in her vision. rhysand's treasure trove sectioned off like a circus in her quarters. the doctors. genya, who alina had railed and rallied against, only to be faced with the betrayal of genya's abandonment once again. all those phantoms that have made the corridors feel like tombs, haunted by faces and names that no longer walk among their crew.

and still she finds herself waiting for the day they return. perhaps some part of it is woven into the fabric of who she is — that sickly girl unnoticed by mal. that orphan perched outside keramzin, envisioning the mythical return of parents long dead.

she shudders out a guilty breath, now that his admission rings true. sincere. as if she'd only needed physical, tangible contact to solidify it. ]

Sorry. [ it's just a mumble, obstructed by his chest. ] I've never had the best timing. But it wasn't by choice.

[ mal can attest to that much, she thinks. life has never granted her that luxury. ]

[dispassioned]

It's all right. I didn't think that it was your fault.

[She seems invested in the Ximilia, he doesn't think she'd choose to leave on her own accord. At least not at this point in time. That could change in the future, but for now he doesn't think she's in a hurry to leave.]

But it's too bad that this is what you had to come back to.

[An abandoned mess of station with rogue orb fragments making people relive moments of their lives seems like the worst possible thing to return to. Even the snacks are garbage.]

[peasant]

[ it is too bad. aleksander still lives. nothing she's done has shifted fate off of its axis, if he pursues whatever regret he has concocted for himself. (viveca's mistake, alina thinks soberly, is presuming such a monster has the capacity for such a vast, human emotion as remorse. contrition. never mind what will always elude him, as passing fantasies do, like chasing comets in the sky: redemption.)

she has to slowly ease the tension out of a locked jaw. with quiet reluctance, she forms her face back into an artistry of a neutral arrangement. now that she's certain her expression is no longer contorted and twisted with tired pain, she slackens her koala-bear grip on him, leaning an inch back to catch his eye. ]

A "welcome back" cake and a pair of decent trousers would have made for a more pleasant reunion.

[ alas. still, she infuses a solid determination into her next words. ]

The sooner we resolve this, the sooner we can locate a way back. We just have to treat it as we would any other mission.

[ find the orb, get sent back to their ximilia. it should be a simple two-step plan. (a lie she tells her, for failure to have any other plan at hand.) ]

[dispassioned]

[He feels the tension ease out of her, so slowly that he suspects she's forcing herself to relax. Trying to compose herself to deal with this new stressor.

Not that he can blame her. He's pretty sure that's what everyone has had to do on some level since arriving here.

He looks down to meet her gaze as she leans back to look at him.]

In that case, there could still be cake, when this is done.

[Because technically, what she says isn't wrong. The mission is the same as always on the face of it. Locate the orb. In some ways it's even easier than most, considering how much smaller the station is than a planet (or three) It's the threat of breached privacy, memories being relived and exposed that makes it hard and distasteful.

But maybe the promise of cake could give her something to look forward to.]

[peasant]

[ her spoiled appetite roils in response. watching blood speckle and paint ravka's royal church has its way of mitigating hunger. but she smiles through it, just the same, wishing it were so simple. wishing she were a child that would find their problems easily fixed by assuaging a sweet tooth. ]

Maybe. If I get lucky.

[ it's an easy joke to continue. and it doesn't evade her, what that represents: home for some sliver of normalcy. a return to routine she craves more than any richness on her tongue. being with him had been simple, effortless; being with him, in this place ...

it almost feels off, the both of them unbalanced. the low hum of permanent anxiety that seems to bristle off of him, now that she's paying attention to it. her hands stroke slowly up and down his arms in an absent, subconscious motion. ]

What's our rationing system look like? [ her brows knit as she recalcuates, with dawning and uncomfortable uncertainty. ] We do have rations, don't we?

[dispassioned]

[He takes a breath and sighs at the question.]

Well, it could be worse.

[They could be stuck with no food at all.]

There’s food in the kitchen, but it’s mostly MREs and freeze dried nutritional packets, things like that. No real flavor to speak of, but packed with everything you need to stay healthy and alive.

[Astronaut food, basically. And military rations. He doesn’t expect she’ll complain about it, in spite of some of her more indulgent preferences. She’s in survival mode now, too. He can tell by the way her heart wasn’t in the joke about cake.]

A problem could arise if we don’t get this sorted out relatively quickly. Their crew was smaller than ours, so we’ll go through the rations faster than they would.

[peasant]

Wonderful.

[ the bone-dry sarcasm underlines that it is not, in fact, wonderful. burnt, desert snake will always be an appealing alternative to starvation, but they don't even have that here to sustain them. there's a reason, alina thinks, that hungry hounds are the most dangerous. even a loyal dog will turn on you, once food sources run dry; once desperation is all that's left.

men aren't so different, in the end. ravkans have killed for less, fought for less, stolen for less. a breath sighs out of her lungs, squinting out toward the hallway's flickering lights. ]

I'm assuming there's been no progress made.

[ exhaustion creeps in that pessimistic observation. surely his answers would be less pockmarked with concern, if they were well on their way to recovering the orb's fragments. her weariness resists the very concept of marching off to address it, gather what she can, without rest — but the tired determination still knits between her brows, draws her lips into a familiarly grim line. truly contemplating, it seems, the pros and cons of running herself into the dirt. ]

[dispassioned]

[Her exhaustion is obvious and he can sense the negativity in her. It's how he's been feeling for two days now, even if the reason for it is coming from a different place than his own.]

Olivia might know how we can get more.

[Like Alina had said, Olivia wants them to gather the orb fragments, and they can't do that if they're dead. Presumably she wouldn't want them to starve any more than she'd want to force them to kill each other.]

Not much yet, but there are a couple of orb fragments in the North Wing that weren't there when we arrived. So, it's not nothing, either.

[peasant]

[ an incredulous snort gusts out of her. strange that he's the optimistic one of their duo, this once. if olivia can't return her own crew to the safe bowels of this station, alina scarcely trusts her to ensure their continued survival — though she doesn't discount that, perhaps, chishiya is clinging to reassurances to mitigate her stress. a sentiment he himself might not even be convinced of, but provides to keep her faltering faith alive.

it tempers her sardonic tongue by a sliver. returns her to something ruefully matter-of-fact. ]

From where I'm standing, she doesn't know much of anything. She might not harm us, but I wouldn't count on her help.

[ maybe that isn't fair to olivia, machine that she is. but alina's tolerance for that unfamiliar presence among them is low, unable to extend the same grace to a near-stranger than she would viveca or — degar, in that comfortable status quo of leadership.

she drops her fingers from chishiya's forearms, her nod sharp with decisiveness. ]

I suppose I had best get to work on this mess, then, if we don't all want to die a horrible death.

[ ah. morbid levity as a means of coping. she's doing so well. ]

[dispassioned]

[She's not wrong, really. Optimism doesn't come naturally or easily to him, but seeing her stress made him want to offer her something like hope.

It doesn’t surprise him much that he wasn't convincing. And he can't blame her for her lack of faith in Olivia, either.

As she drops her hands from his arms, he slowly pulls back from his embrace. Though he doesn't release her entirely yet, leaving his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.]

You don't have to do it by yourself.

[peasant]

[ at another time, she may have disputed it — before nikolai, before zoya, before genya. before she had invited anyone else beyond the reclusive trust she shared with mal and mal alone, safer in their seclusion and co-dependency. but it's obvious, now; generals without an army behind them can lead nothing. a queen without supporters is merely a prop, a doll dressed on a throne. and a sun summoner without friends is asking to be extinguished and left in the dark — waning by her own hand, if not another's.

her lips quirk, soft. one hand raises, lithe fingers clapping over his at her shoulder to squeeze, a silent intonation of i know in that tender wring. what flees from her mouth instead is wry, at her own expense, and akin to dangling her own fears on stage for him to witness. ]

And invite a public audience to comment on my life?

[ an emphatic arch of her brows drives the point home. forthcoming as he has been, she highly doubts he would be so comfortable with the station spectating on his life as though it's a film in newt's collection, either. ]

[dispassioned]

[Well, that’s a fair point. He sighs a little.]

Not everyone comments. In my experience, people seem to feel as awkward about seeing them as I do about having them seen.

[Which is to say, it’s already happened to him. Inconvenient. Irritating. But his apathy is a decent coping mechanism for dealing with it. If he tells himself it’s fine and it doesn’t matter enough maybe eventually it will start to feel true.

Still, he doubts it would work for her. Secretive as she is, she’s not good at concealing her feelings. He suspects this will be harder for her.]