In the Mahdist village at the far end of the Shimii Wohnbezirk, the flag of NGO “Kamma” waved over the little motorized drone accompanying an elven visitor.

She appeared suddenly, and she caught everyone’s attention immediately. Homa stood back while the villagers crowded around the woman and her pack drone with a great and inexplicable cheer. Baran moved to the head of the little crowd alongside Sareh, both looking eager to meet the visitor as well. Despite the crowd forming around her, the elf took every hand that was offered with a smile, everyone was friendly to her.

“Greetings, greetings! I’m glad to see you all well! I’ve brought goodies!”

With a wave of her hand, the elven woman commanded her drone to open up its cargo.

Inside the drone were several bottles of a white fluid with colorful flecks, that according to the label was a doogh with rose petals– a fermented milk drink popularized by Shimii culture. Alongside the bottles of doogh were vacuum-sealed round filets of beef without any labels or even nutritional information except for a packing date. Homa’s eyes fixed on them from afar as if she could eat them with sight alone. They were not the best cuts; almost no fat and with meat fibers that would be visible across the Wohnbezirk. These were probably tough, cheap meats, but with a good, long cook, they would be mouth-wateringly delicious.

“Mashallah! Conny, thank you!” Baran said, beholding the gifts with a sunny expression.

“Don’t mention it!” replied the elf, Conny, “I heard that you would actually be holding the Tishtar festival this year again. I knew I had to make time to help in any way I could!”

Baran turned from Conny and scanned the crowd briefly, before finding Homa.

She waved for Homa to come closer. Homa hesitated, despite Baran’s excitement.

At Homa’s side, Kalika gently shoved her on the middle-back, urging her to step forward.

Homa reticently advanced through the crowd until she was face to face with Conny.

“Homa, this is Conny Lettiere! She’s helped us out a lot over the years!” Baran said. She waved her hand from Homa to Conny. “Conny, this is Homa, she is a special guest of the village! She’s a very generous and courteous traveler in search of her roots!”

Immediately Homa had a series of conflicting thoughts.

Special guest?! She felt entirely out of place being anyone’s special anything.

Though she would not complain, if it meant a place of honor (and meat) at the festival.

Lettiere?! Wasn’t that the surname of the loud elf student who was always in the cafeteria on the communist ship? Were they family? Did all elves know each other? Not that this was any of her concern, but it still piqued her interest in that brief moment.

She had met very few elves in her life and they felt– exotic.

“Nice to meet you.” Homa said, awkwardly reaching out her hand.

“Pleasure is all mine! Thank you for lending these folks a hand!” Conny replied, taking it.

They had a quick and courteous handshake. Conny pointed over Homa’s shoulder.

She lowered her voice to just above a whisper as if not to draw attention.

“Then, I take it that the lady in the splendid coat, whom I don’t recognize, is with you?”

Homa looked over her own shoulder, saw Kalika, felt foolish for looking, and looked back.

“Yes, I hired her– you know, it’s dangerous in the Imbrium lately.” Homa said.

Conny smiled and nodded. If she was thinking of anything dire, it was not evident.

With the pleasantries taken care of, Baran urged everybody to return to what they were doing and led Conny to her house, where they had an electric plug that they could hook the drone up to so it could continue to chill the food until the festival, in a few days time. While Baran and Sareh took Conny, Homa returned to Kalika’s side with a glum face.

“Look at you, so gloomy! You’re getting a whole feast of meat! Perk up!” Kalika said.

“I’m not like, a little animal that just gets happy at feeding time.” Homa grumbled.

“Of course. Just– bear with this for a bit longer, Homa. You’re doing great.” Kalika said.

She patted Homa on the shoulder, and Homa hated how much she enjoyed the praise.

Maybe she was a little animal chirping for food– in this case, for Kalika’s attention.

While the village leadership welcomed Conny, Kalika and Homa hung around outside of the village gate. Kalika had just put out a call to the Volksarmee, summoning someone to repair the village’s oxygen system. Most of the troops had been given their own missions, just the same as Homa and Kalika. But they could spare Chloe Kuri, who was allegedly pretty handy with machines and was already out and about and could make a stop at the village.

“Chloe is always running around. You can count on her to show up anywhere needed.”

“I thought we would be getting one of the engineers. Can she really fix that thing?”

“She’s a reliable jack-of-many-trades. Anyway– who was that woman?” Kalika asked.

Clearly switching gears on Homa– not that Homa minded or could say anything about it.

“Apparently she’s ‘Conny Lettiere’, an NGO worker. Friendly with Baran.” Homa said.

“‘Lettiere’ huh?” Kalika said. “The Pandora’s Box has a guest with that surname.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen her in the cafeteria. She’s always talking about random things she learned from communist textbooks. She’s an elf too. They might be related.” Homa said. “Maybe our elf can come to an agreement with their elf for a supply of meat.” She added as a joke.

“Homa, don’t call them ‘our elf’ and ‘their elf’.” Kalika said, patting Homa on the head.

“Hey, I was just kidding– and leave my ears alone.” Homa grumbled.

She made no move to resist the continued petting. Not even the feeblest resistance.

When she was satisfied, Kalika lifted her hand from the fluffy ears with a contented sigh.

“Kalika, what is ‘Kamma’? Do you know? You’re better traveled than me.” Homa asked.

“They are an organization funded by donations. They distribute free food to poor folks.”

“With how Baran talked about them I thought they would be like you all.”

Homa pressed Kalika for more details since she had never seen Kamma around Kreuzung.

Since they still had time before Chloe arrived at the Wohnbezirk, Kalika continued.

Kamma was a non-governmental organization that was established by former legislators from local but well-funded Liberal parties– because of this, Kamma and the All-Rhinea Liberals could never escape undue association with one another. All Kamma did was buy whatever was cheap or even unwanted, leveraging bulk purchasing of goods directly from suppliers or from distributors about to either slash the prices of or liquidate certain items. Then they would cook soups or hand out cans and frozen foods. It was that simple, but even that was controversial, and led to conspiracires and witch hunts. There were allegations that the Liberals employed Kamma for various criminal activities, anything from vote buying to ballot fraud to trafficking children. Alongside the political ascension of the Volkisch, Kamma began to draw less attention to itself, to avoid being used as a political cudgel.

Such things were pointless now that the Volkisch had fully ascended, of course.

“You have to understand Homa, public feeding of the poor is a compassionate act to us because we are compassionate people. There are a lot of people in the Imbrium, both ordinary and powerful, who would rather the poor and homeless receive no help and disappear. They are seen as a problem. Their continued existence takes up space. It is inconvenient that Kamma helps them to live.” Kalika said. “Kamma is actively banned from public feeding in a few different stations, Kreuzung being one of these.”

Homa’s ears folded. “That’s horrible.” She said, and it was all she could say in response.

Her mind flashed all of the different times she had been struggling with food recently.

Those last awful days in Kreuzung where it was a battle to get even a bit of meat.

Had the situation dragged any farther, she might have struggled to get any food at all.

She thought of all the ways that powerful people engineered that entire situation.

From the prices to the supply, to just not allowing people like Kamma to help anyone.

They wanted it that way– they wanted Homa to struggle and even starve.

In contrast, she recalled her recent stay on the Brigand– where she just ate for free.

And where, even at her most useless and difficult, nobody would allow her to go hungry.

“I guess that’s why Baran is not surprised to see communists.” Homa mumbled.

“That girl is a lot more learned than she seems. She is being discrete with us– I bet she knows more than she lets on.” Kalika said. “Don’t judge her by outward appearances, Homa. Mahdist religious schools teach history, rhetoric and logic, not just scripture. Not only that, but the Mahdists in the Imbrium have a history of political struggle. It’s likely she’s developed an understanding of the ideologies and situation of the Imbrium of her own accord.”

Homa did not recall receiving any religious schooling herself– her upbringing that she could remember was rather Imbrian, thanks to Leija’s investments in her education. So she could not have known what Baran did or did not learn in the little village madrasah they must have ran out of the masjid. But she also wondered whether Kalika thought of her as a Rashidun Shimii, and a part of her did not like the idea of being judged that way. Nevertheless, she kept quiet– she did not know what she wanted to or could even say about that.

Her feelings were too conflicted to assert a stable position any which way.

It was impossible to say ‘I am not a Rashidun’– because she also wasn’t a Mahdist either.

She was nothing, no one– a configuration of parts uselessly novel to the mean.

Whoever heard of a half-Shimii, half-Imbrian; who hardly even knew her own religion.

“Oh dear, you went silent on me again.” Kalika said. “Jerky for your thoughts?”

From her jacket, Kalika withdrew a small, foil-wrapped piece, a meat snack.

Volwitz-branded, salt and pepper flavored. A little cylinder of cured processed beef.

“Kalika, I said I’m not a little animal who responds instantly to food.” Homa grumbled.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to cheer you up.” Kalika said.

“No– I’m not mad. Sorry. I’m just being difficult.” Homa said. She averted her gaze.

Feeling suddenly pathetic at how quickly she snapped at Kalika, practically her only friend.

Kalika handed Homa the meat snack with a smile. Homa accepted it with some hesitation.

“Where did you get this, anyway? It’s Volwitz grocery store junk food.” Homa said.

“Sareh gave me a few pieces before the Kamma lady arrived.” Kalika said. “She wanted to show her appreciation for us saving Baran from those thugs. I told her we did not need any rewards other than the things that we already agreed upon, but she was so stubborn about repaying me. Instead of arguing I just accepted her gift to absolve her of her debt.”

Homa held the bit of meat between her fingers, turning it over. Feeling– pathetic.

“Must have reminded you of somebody.” Homa grumbled, thoughtlessly.

“The real Kalika is much less judgmental than the Kalika in your mind.” Kalika said.

She smiled and poked Homa in the cheek playfully as if to diffuse any tension.

Homa thought of apologizing for being so quick to misread her– but held her silence.

Slowly, she unwrapped the meat snack and raised it to her lips.

Taking a bite, breaking the processed, molded meat into chewy strands. Releasing salty-sweet flavor that made the insides of her cheeks tingle and contract.

It was tasty.

It was not what she wanted, but it was tasty and meaty and provided a momentary comfort, and she silently thanked Kalika for the offer. That thanks would remain silent, however– there was a silly, petty little pride in her that refused to air this childish gratitude.

She wished dearly that she would never have to say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘thank you’ again.

And even more she wished she could say such things without feeling so stupid.

On and on turned the maelstrom of feeling and desire in her chest and gut.

Not knowing what she was anymore, where she was situated, what she even wanted.

Thankfully she would not remain in such a suspended state for long.

Two hooded figures came into view, prompting Kalika to step forward from the gate.

One a short and cute-looking Katarran and the other a slim and pretty young elf.

Chloe Kuri and Elena Lettiere from the Nationale Volksarmee, carrying a few plastic bags.

“Oh, I did not know we would have another visitor.” Kalika said, smiling at Elena.

“I was– showing her around some places.” Chloe said, gesturing toward Elena.

“Yes, I insisted upon her, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.” Elena said.

“It’s not a problem. There’s not much to be in the way of.” Kalika said. “We’ll introduce you to the village and you can savor some of the local color while Chloe works. I’m sure they’ll love you. Just don’t expect a lot in the way of amenities– and remember to mind what you say.”

There was a bit of sharpness to Kalika’s voice near the end. A warning.

Elena nodded. She looked at Homa and smiled.

That sunny, care-free demeanor kind of reminded Homa of Baran too.

“You’re Homa Baumann right?” Elena said.

“Homa Messhud, here.” Homa said, trying to contain her sudden irritation as she spoke.

“Oh, sorry! Right, cover identities.” Elena said, averting her gaze awkwardly.

There was a voice in Homa’s head calling her a bimbo– but it was unkind and unearned.

It was not like Homa herself had proven a mastermind infiltrator either.

“Maybe you should let Kalika do the talking.” Chloe said. “She’s good at that.”

Elena looked embarrassed but smiled and nodded her deference.

Kalika looked more amused than bothered by the whole scene.

She led through the gate, taking one of the bags from Elena and leaving the rest with Chloe.

In the village, things had settled back down and there was no longer a huge crowd.

The villagers went back to what they were doing. It was a bit noisy in the street, with children playing a boisterous game of tag and some of the women congregating in the town’s bakery singing and joking around by the windows. Sareh, Imam al-Qoms, and a few of the bigger middle-aged women in hijab had assembled on the stage were the taiza structure had once stood. They cleaned up, arranging the pieces that remained. Teenage girls approached the stage, bringing tools and a handful of containers, probably fixing gel.

Baran sat on the porch of the hair-dresser’s place along with Conny, trying to talk above the level of the noise, probably catching up with the friend-of-the-village. That little salon was one of the most prominent plastic buildings on the main street of the village and had a long front, hosting many people. Baran had her walking stick on her lap, and a piece of bread in hand. She waved when she saw Homa and Kalika, all smiles. Kalika nodded her head toward her and led the party to the salon. She gestured toward Elena and Chloe.

“Baran, and Ms. Lettiere, these are companions of ours who have come to help with the oxygen generator problem, just as we promised before.” Kalika said. Upon giving that introduction, Elena immediately stared at her, and at Conny, and looked a bit lost for words. Thankfully, she was not the one talking. “This is Elena Rossi.” Kalika put a hand on Elena’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Elena stiffly nodded, playing along. “And this little fish is Chloe Kuri, who will take the lead on the repairs. We hope to done by tonight.”

“Pleased to meet you!” Baran said. “I can’t thank you enough for your help!”

Conny looked at Elena for a moment while Baran spoke.

She then reached out a hand to her with a big grin on her face.

“Buongiorno, paesan!” She called out with a sudden cheer.

Elena quietly returned the handshake, visibly going cold.

Homa so rarely heard any elvish spoken, but that was definitely elvish Conny spoke.

There was a pizzeria in Kreuzung Homa indulged in whenever she earned the rare bonus at work. Big beautiful pies with seasoned crusts, bright marinara and velvety cheese. The management played up that it was authentic elvish cuisine, and that the chef was an elf, bright-eyed, pale-skinned, with green hair and sharp ears– but of course, the chef was just in the marketing graphics, and Homa never once actually saw her. Everything else was just music and green-and-red flags and elvish herbs on the pies. That was the greatest extent to which Homa was exposed to the exotic and passionate culture of the elves.

Perhaps this was also the case with Elena, who clearly did not understand High Elvish.

Not even that stereotypical phrase that Homa heard at the pizza restaurant every time.

Homa began to feel some compassion for her, watching her suddenly blanching.

“May I have the pleasure of an introduction? I was busy making a call before.”

Kalika also reached out a hand to Conny and addressed her. Conny shook with her.

“Concetta Lettiere, call me Conny. I’m the Chief of Field Operations with Kamma, an NGO that gives out food to the needy.” Conny said. Kalika made no reaction upon hearing, neither the name nor the title, but Conny seemed to leave just a bit of space for silence, as if fishing for one. She then continued to speak. “But I’m not here on an errand for Kamma, at least not officially– if I was I would have brought a crate of cans instead.” Conny smiled. “I’ve come and gone from this village before and befriended the locals. I really love the culture here.”

“It is very hospitable.” Kalika said. “I’m Kalika Loukia– just an honorable mercenary.”

She winked and laid her hand on Homa’s shoulder as if to appear chummy.

Homa, with the aim of also looking chummy, laid her own hand atop Kalika’s–

And it was her metallic hand, so it was gloved, and neither warm nor soft to hold at all.

So much for even that briefest of fancies. Homa’s ears briefly folded.

“Piacere, straniera. I’m so grateful you could help these folks out.” Conny said.

Comparing their elf, with her elf, Homa could see the resemblances in certain places. Conny’s hair, blue and twin-tailed, had a truly outlandish sheen, and when she did not dye it black to hide its luster, Elena’s hair was similar in its bright purple color. Both of them were slim women with gentle curves, though Conny was even shorter than Elena was. Though they both had ears situated in the same place as an Imbrian, rather than a Loup or Shimii’s raised ears, elven ears were longer and pointed. Elena’s had a slight curve to them still. Conny’s ears were longer and sharper, terminating at an angle rather than curving off.

Both of them were very pretty and had a certain timelessly girlish appearance. Their soft and gentle facial features and the shapes of their faces were almost a dead-on match. Their noses had a similar length and narrowness and Elena’s indigo eyes matched the size and shape of Conny’s green eyes, and the colors of both were similarly intense. Conny’s skin was a bit paler than Elena, who had a touch more pink on her face and hands.

Elena was usually modest, wearing her uniform and traveling clothes– meanwhile, Conny had an outlandish tasseled bra top and bell-bottoms that she only barely covered up with a white blazer jacket. That boldness was also readable in how she carried herself. Always smiling, with her head high, making direct eye contact with whoever she spoke to. Her stride was easy and confident, and she never stumbled over her words.

In that sense Elena was nothing like her– but Homa suspected they were indeed related.

Homa did not miss how awkward Elena immediately became when she heard Ms. Lettiere.

Kalika had a good eye for problems– she subtly clued Elena into what was happening and introduced her under an assumed name before Elena could possibly put her foot in her mouth. They avoided exposing Elena to any unwanted attention from Conny and Baran that way, even though Elena’s body language had been completely shaken. Homa made a note of that trick for later. In case her spy career continued to take off after this trip.

Her career as a busybody continued unabated, however.

She was very curious whether Conny had any inkling about Elena.

“Baran, I’ll take Chloe and get started on the oxygen machine. Before the air here gets any thinner.” Kalika said. “If I can ask for a favor, can you perhaps treat Homa and Elena?”

Homa would have shot Kalika a look, and wanted to raise up a fuss– but did not.

Mustering a titanic effort not to speak her mind and say something difficult.

Though she disliked how often Kalika parted from her she was curious about Conny.

“Absolutely! I’d love to have them. We can talk more over some breakfast.” Baran said.

“Homa and I will cover anything for you.” Kalika said.

She knew that just meant the communists would cover it– but it still gave her a bit of fright.

Playing the part of a generous and well-funded traveler did not suit her penniless self well.

Nevertheless Homa continued to act the best she could by keeping completely quiet.

“Don’t worry about that! We’ll be getting some more food in soon.” Baran said.

“Oh, is that so?” Conny interjected. “Do you bring it in from the Volwitz subsidiary?”

“Right, the councilwoman, Ms. Jašarević, helped us set up a weekly delivery.” Baran said.

“The councilwoman, huh,” Conny said, her eyes briefly wandering toward the gate.

“There’s a couple families that make good money outside, so they help pay for it too.”

“I do know about the remittances.” Conny said. “I’m glad you have some means here.”

Baran looked a little proud of herself. Homa felt a fresh sting of pity for the village.

Elena, meanwhile, remained tongue-tied as before but nodded her head rapidly in response.

Kalika and Chloe bid their temporary farewells and then headed for the rough, rocky areas surrounding the village, where they would work on the oxygen generator. Kalika left one of the bags that Elena and Chloe had brought in as part of her contributions to Baran’s household. When Baran unwrapped the bag, and took a look inside, she gasped, took another look, and alternated between grumbling a bit and smiling. Homa took a step forward and looked inside the bag as well, wondering what drew such a reaction.

Inside the bag, were cans of tomatoes, a jar of eggs, and jarred sweet and hot peppers.

There was enough for a big breakfast or lunch but not much more than that.

“She did not have to do this.” Baran said. “But I’ll repay her by feeding all of you.”

“Ah– you don’t really have to repay anything, it’s really fine.” Homa said.

“Then I will treat these gifts with respect by making a delicious meal.”

Baran took her walking stick and leaned on it to stand from the porch, wincing with pain from her injuries. Homa offered to take the bag, but Baran insisted on carrying it herself. She lead the way from the salon, behind the masjid, and to her own house.

While they walked, Elena looked around the village with wonder and a clear, growing concern for her surroundings. Homa thought she must have looked the same yesterday as Elena did now, seeing the humble old plastic houses, the rocky terrain, the poor lighting and limited electrification and breathing the slowly worsening air. Life was colorful in this hospitable village certainly– but it wasn’t easy, and anyone could see that.

Conny must have been used to it. Her little grin never vanished from her face for an instant.

“Welcome to my humble abode! Make yourselves at home.” Baran declared.

Through the blue and green curtain-door into Baran’s house, greeted by the little table and chair and the accompanying kitchen accoutrements as Homa had last seen them. This morning there was a bit of fragrance in the air. A lavender-scented smokeless aroma-pod, Raylight Beauty brand, had been set on Baran’s window, perhaps to help her relax after the past day’s ordeals, where the village had been attacked and Baran herself stricken.

Baran bid everyone to sit, and then declared that she would work on the meal alone.

Taking one of the chairs, Homa watched her cook.

It reminded her of her own apartment back in Kreuzung. All Baran had to cook with was an electric pot and a small water kettle, but she was not deterred in the slightest.

First, she took the tomato cans from the bag. They had tabs that allowed her to open them without tools. Once opened, she dropped the tomatoes into the pot. Without skipping a beat, as if a practiced motion, Baran broke off the top of one of the cans. She used the can top to crush the tomatoes. Careful, sliding motions of her hands– Homa was not standing but could picture in her mind that the tomatoes were crushed to a thick but wet consistency. She already knew the sort of dish those ingredients and methods would yield. Once the tomatoes were crushed up, Baran placed the empty can in a bin nearby but kept the lid in hand. She then took the jar of peppers and twisted the top open without struggle.

Silently, Baran picked a pepper out of the jar. She looked at it, turned it over in her hand.

Taking it into her fingers, she took a bite. Nodding to herself, she dropped it into the pot.

A second and a third pepper each received a bite; a fourth caused Baran to shut her eyes.

That one, too, went into the pot with the tomatoes.

Turning the can top sideways, Baran used it to cut and scrape and mash the peppers.

Homa felt a bit of awe watching Baran cook. She must have done this a million times.

No tools in reach but the top of a metal can and the pot to heat it all in.

She looked almost entranced as she cooked. Tail swaying, hands dancing.

There was a smile on her face, an automatic one arising as if from meditation. It was not the sunny, cheerful, girlish look that she directed toward villagers, guests and strangers. It was a gentle and slightly tired look that struck Homa as more mature, as revealing of more experience than Homa had thought. Watching Baran cook seemed to expose a notion of time– the sense that she must have lived like this for long enough to not only become comfortable with it but to have mastered it as technique. She was young and she looked young, she was just Homa’s age, but her expression as she cooked, reminded Homa of something, a face of a woman that she could not place. Someone with a family and a home and a place in the world. Someone with responsibilities to uphold, people to care for.

Motherhood, maybe? Whatever it was, the image came and went as rapidly as the thin air.

With the tomatoes and peppers cut up, Baran knelt down.

Wincing visibly as she tried to access the small refrigerator on which her pot sat.

Baran had been attacked the night before by the thugs that tore down the village’s taiza monument. They had hurt her leg, but despite the pain she was in, she did not ask for help nor stop what she was doing. She barely slowed down– physically and emotionally. How must she have felt about such a horrible thing? Despite frequent evidence of her pain, it seemed she would not allow it to trouble her. Baran moved as if not entirely conscious of her pain. Barely acknowledging it before initiating the next elegant movement of her body that would also, inevitably, trigger it. Wincing– but standing, moving, unbowed.

From the refrigerator, Baran withdrew a blue container with a yellow label familiar to Homa– Zlatla seasoning with a Volwitz foods branding. This staple seasoning was a mixture of finely grated dried vegetables, herbs and spices with some glutamates to enhance the flavor of anything. Homa loved it. Baran stood back up, winced, and shook a small amount of the seasoning over the tomatoes and peppers, before setting the pot to start cooking.

Homa had to fight back an urge to weep at the scene playing out before her.

It was not just that it harkened back to her own life. But rather, the quiet dignity of the scene despite everything that Baran lacked, all the unacknowledged cruelty, it made Homa so angry and so sad and helpless about things. If she saw any of those bastard thuggish boys again in that moment she would have done something monumentally stupid with the gun Kalika entrusted her. If she could have shot the walls to make them more habitable, shot the ceiling to bring light, shot the food to bring abundance, she would have, in that moment. All she had was a violence so potent that it festered in her heart and became tears. She felt incredibly stupid and ashamed, and it took every bit of her self control, every bit of her strength, to squeeze her heart dry and avoid letting out her melancholy.

She knew the dish Baran was making. It was a common enough breakfast for Shimii.

Next she would crack the eggs inside of the paste and cook everything in the pot.

Runny, soft eggs would set into the juicy, savory-sweet, spicy veggies.

Leija had made it once for Homa.

She remembered. Leija knew– Leija taught her to cook. Leija used to do those things.

She remembered–

Leija Kladuša still an upstart gangster, when she had to deal the heroin herself in the alleys and pay tribute back to the old boss Ekmečić. Dealing drugs was one of the few ways a Shimii could make it big in Kreuzung and Leija must have had big dreams to have taken on such a shame and such a risk. Homa remembered— the plastic walls, the instant pot, the treasure box with Leija’s good clothes and makeup– Homa sometimes wandered into it out of curiosity. Why hadn’t she remembered this before–? Then she recalled too– Leija’s drunkenness, the rages, leaving bags of drugs around. Cursing that she had to take in a kid– but begging, crying, for Homa to never leave her, for her little kaidaf to hug her tight–

And she remembered– a blond woman coming in one day and

changing everything,

Leija hiding Homa in the treasure chest–

“We can do each other a favor, Leija. How about it? I take care of Ekmečić–”

That voice– in the resurfacing memories of her addled brain– it sounded–

Like it came from a machine– from the communication equipment of a diver,

“N-Nasser?” Leija had said to the stranger.

Nasser–?

“Leija– someday, I’ll come back to collect. At that time– be prepared.”

That blond woman– and boss Ekmečić dying one day–

Vesna Nasser–?

Then– the ascendancy, and the privileges– then the inescapable Destiny—

VESNA NASSER?!

“Homa, what’s wrong?” Baran asked suddenly. “You’re crying?”

Conny and Elena looked at Homa with surprise also.

She realized where she was again. In time, in physical space–

Homa felt the cold tears trailing down her cheeks and her heart thrashed with panic.

“It’s nothing, sorry– It’s the chili vapor– I’m not used to it.” She said, a poor excuse.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I’ll put on the lid.” Baran capped the pot, responding in earnest.

Nobody suspected a thing, but Homa felt like her brain was being stabbed.

She focused on her breathing, trying to steady herself and calm down her rushing thoughts.

It was stress, she was worn out, she was so poor managing it. That was it, that was all.

Hiding her vast internal struggle under deep breathing and a few tears.

Homa sat on the chair feeling hollow and trying to refill herself with humanity.

Thankfully nobody pushed her, and the moment passed without further incident.

Baran continued to cook, the guests continued to sit, and the tears and fog began to fade.

“Umm, excuse me, Ms. Lettiere–” Elena slowly lifted her hand up like a kid in classroom.

“Call me Conny, paesan!” Conny said. She had been watching Baran cook too.

“Yes, Conny– are you by any chance related to Leda Lettiere?”

Conny smiled, but with less of her prior unreserved gaiety.

“My, oh my– is she still such an icon for young elf girls after everything that happened?”

“Um, well, I kinda– I guess I just–” Elena’s head looked to be sinking into her shoulders.

“I’m just teasing you. Yes, Leda Lettiere was my little sister, believe it or not.”

“Conny, can you tell me more about her? I– I’m like a– a big fan and I– her story is–”

“What is it, are you afraid of being kidnapped and bethrothed to a demon king too?”

Homa was tired out and somewhat disinterested in the conversation, but upon the mention of a demon king, a staple in the sort of fantasy stories she loved, her eyes briefly raised from the table and wandered over to the elves. She saw Elena’s flushed and surprised expression and the hesitation that appeared to grip her and Homa felt, for a moment, as silly as it sounded, that maybe Elena was worried that a demon king was after her chastity. Conny meanwhile seemed to be savoring the moment as she watched Elena squirm.

What was it with older women and teasing whoever was around?

Conny sat back in her chair and let out a sigh, her first display of anything less than cheer.

“You must know how the story ends, don’t you? It’s not tea table fare.” Conny asked.

“I do– I’m sorry.” Elena said. “I shouldn’t have gotten– starstruck. It was silly, I–”

“No, it’s fine. There’s no point in avoiding it.” Conny said, and she turned back to Elena, leaning forward on the table. “Lettiere did not mean anything to anyone when I was born. Leda was a high-achiever and gobsmackingly beautiful, but she was still just a student and still just a woman for most of her life– until Konstantin von Fueller saw her.”

Homa’s ears stood up and though she pretended not to be, she listened with rapt attention.

“We both attended the Palatine Royal Institute for our higher education. Leda was actually studying something kinda brainy– was it applied mathematics? Or maybe higher principles of classical philosophy? Could have even been both, I forget the specifics as a lowly liberal arts student. But she was a genius. Anything she wanted to do, she just did it. She would tell me that she would help me learn this or that, whether it was dancing or public speaking or even languages. She learned a bunch of High Speech like she was becoming a damn lawyer, but it was just for fun! And she would always say that all you needed to do was commit to it and then find an efficient method for learning. Completely insane girl.”

Conny leaned forward on the table, resting her head upon it. Still grinning at Elena.

“Baran, can I curse in your house?” She asked.

Homa sensed a change in the way she was grinning but could not place it.

Still cooking, without turning her back, Baran replied, “I’d prefer you did not.”

Conny sat back in her chair with a little sigh.

“Fine. Anyway. That knave Konstantin von Fueller was inspecting the institute one day, but all he checked out was my little sister that day. At that time he must have been in his fifties! Over twice her age, the nerve. Had he not been the Emperor I would have knocked all of his teeth out.” Conny said. Given the Emperor was dead, saying this sort of thing did not matter, and it would hardly have mattered in present company, even if he was alive– but Homa was still a little bit shocked to hear it. “They had a child maybe two years after. Horrible! He took Leda and in return he gave our family lavish gifts and accommodations. He made the Lettieres something— except for me. I refused any such things. Last time I saw Leda, she talked about being the wife of an Emperor like it was learning a language or learning to dance. With the right method and commitment, she could do it. Awful!”

Conny sighed and put her head to the table. Elena still did not seem to know how to react.

“You said you know the end? Well, he killed her. End of her story. Not too pretty, huh?”

“I–” Elena stammered over her words again. “I– I guess I never understood– why she–”

Conny completed her sentence with her own presumption–

“Why was she killed? For treason– the thing Emperors say about anyone they want to kill. He must have been bored of her. Though, I guess if any woman on Aer could have killed that bastard it would have been Leda Lettiere. I will certainly never know the truth now.”

Elena looked down at her lap. Homa felt that Elena was keeping back from crying too.

But, if they were related– what was Elena to Leda Lettiere, late wife of the late Emperor?

Homa wasn’t anybody, so she just knew about Elena from things she heard off-hand.

Wait– wait a minute– Homa’s head started to race in an entirely different direction.

“It’s not a great story and I’m not a great storyteller. But you asked for it.” Conny said. “Maybe if Norn the Praetorian and Samoylovych-Deepestshore had never been born it could have been a heroic story on my part– but I simply lived my life while my sister disappeared. There is only so much I can say. It is more than anyone will ever tell you, and I am telling you because you are a fellow elf and under the care of an esteemed person like Baran.”

“Thank you, Conny. It does help me understand a little better.” Elena said sheepishly.

After an awful story like that, what could Elena have been feeling? Homa felt pity for her.

“Don’t mention it. You should have a better role model, like me. I’m successful and alive.”

Even Conny seemed to realize as soon as she made that joke that it was very distasteful.

So she quieted and waited, as did Elena, for Baran to finish cooking and serve the food.

“Honestly Conny, you told that story in such an insensitive way– I’m sorry, Ms. Rossi.”

“I’m insensitive? I’m the one here that this stuff happened to, you brat!” Conny cried out.

However, she did not let her mood sour long, and Baran did not take it personally either.

Homa felt that the two of them must have known each other long and had a rapport.

On the table, Baran put down a big plate with all of the food on it. She had gracefully slid the eggs and the vegetable sauce out of the instant pot and managed to set it on the plate, making for a pretty display to the guests. There were six eggs, crisp-edged, with soft yolks like liquid gold, set into the sauce and flecked red. It was a strange number of eggs for the amount of people assembled, but when Baran sat down, she explained.

“This is all for you. I’ll be fine– I already had a bit of food earlier.” Baran said.

“Um.” Homa interrupted, now made uncomfortable. “I’d really like you to join us, though.”

“Baran, absolutely not. I’m on a diet– I’m not going to eat much. Eat from my share.”

Conny spoke up and insisted, even shifting her seat to be closer to Baran so she would eat.

Baran sighed, but Conny had a look on her face that suggested she would not yield.

So in the end, Baran joined everyone else at the table and they tucked into the dish together.

Homa felt much less awkward. She would have hated eating while Baran simply watched.

As she turned over this feeling, a thought came to her vulnerable mind unbidden.

That must have been how the communists felt when she tried to refuse their charity too. Homa thought she had taken just a step closer to understanding them, in that moment. There was something demoralizing about looking at someone deprived of everything and also then depriving themselves of assistance. Someone subjected to so much cruelty and yet continuing to make sacrifices of her own comfort for others. It made Homa feel– helpless herself. Like any little kindness she was capable of would not matter. Little things like sharing a meal with someone were all that she was able to do against the cruelty of the world. If she was not allowed even that then she felt like she would be useless to the world.

Baran should eat the meal she worked so hard to cook, even if the ingredients came freely.

Because the kindness of Kalika and the communists was repaid by living happily with it.

And maybe Homa ought not to refuse any more help from the communists in the future.

Perhaps all they really, actually wanted was to see her just a little less deprived too.

Homa took a plastic fork and gathered a bit of egg yolk, tomato and pepper and tasted it.

Of course, it was delicious. Sweet and savory, just spicy enough, with a creamy texture.

Made all the better because Baran savored it herself and looked so happy with the result.

“Thank you, God, for this meal, and for these companions.” Baran said in a small voice.

---

“There you are. How was your day? How are you feeling, Homa?”

Kalika parted the curtains into the little house they had been given to stay in, peeking her yellow and black eyes before crossing the threshold. She slid the curtain closed behind her and took off her jacket and pulled her hair loose. It was night and the meager and semi-functional system of lights in the village had begun to dim. There were no additional lights on inside the house, no torches, the television was off. Homa lay in bed, in the dark, on the mattress with the blankets half pulled over her body, grumbling to herself.

She looked up at Kalika and then her eyes wandered away without making contact.

Homa did not respond. She had been spending all day thinking about how she felt.

“Taken a deep breath lately?” Kalika asked.

When prompted, Homa breathed in, and then felt foolish for doing so on command.

“I guess you must have fixed the oxygen generator.” Homa mumbled.

“Chloe did. I just handed her tools and tried to keep her enthusiasm in check. She offered to stand watch so I could rest. Elena is staying for the night too, she’s one house down from us. It turns out there’s more than one little abandoned house in this village.” Kalika said.

“Baran looked happy to have new guests.” Homa said, raising her voice a bit more.

Kalika sat down on the mattress beside Homa, her long legs half-curled up.

“I was away all day– how were things in the village? I take it there weren’t any problems.”

“Everything was peaceful. When the food order came in I helped Baran distribute provisions to the villagers. She even got flour and sugar for the bakery and coffee grounds for the little cafe. I actually did a lot of work, you know. It wasn’t just you keeping busy.”

“Good! You’re going to have so many women feeding you meat during this festival.”

“Hey–!?”

Kalika laughed and Homa glowered. They sat together in silence for a moment.

“How do you think Baran is doing?” Kalika asked.

“I think she’s fine. She’s strong– and she’s used to how awful things are.” Homa said.

Unlike her– Baran was someone who remained standing in the middle of turbulence.

She must have had complaints, every human being had them.

Her outward appearance was always smiling and courteous and optimistic, however.

Homa felt weaker for not being able to control her emotions so well.

Kalika dropped back from a seated position, coming to lie beside Homa with arms out.

One of her hands, her biological hand, laid a warm ungloved touch on Homa’s shoulder.

“Homa, it’s not shameful to talk about your feelings. I’ll listen.” She said.

“I know.” Homa said. Kalika’s warmth, so near her, helped stifle Homa’s irritation.

Laying side by side in the dark together, in this underground hovel.

Katarran mercenary with a blade dripping red with history; and some useless girl.

The two frauds who had done what they could for this village.

Homa wished Kalika would ask to hold her; wished that she would have accepted it too.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling or what to feel.” Homa finally said, when she could not bear the silence anymore. Her heart was pounding. She was nervous and turning over every word she thought to say. Everything felt so difficult and came so suddenly. “I guess– I am angry. I think I am really angry Kalika. I just– I really hate that these villagers are living like this down here. I hate that they get abused by the people outside. That if they stopped receiving charity the station might just watch them all die and do nothing or make everything worse or even come and kill them. I hate that Baran has to thank God for this.”

Her voice dropped to an almost whisper, feeling that she was speaking something evil.

Even if she had never grown up very religious, the influence of God suffused her.

For the Shimii, religion was essentially inseparable from their culture and identity.

“It’s not the fault of God that this is happening. People are the real devil here and God is not without his blessings for these folk.” Kalika said. “Baran has a lot to feel grateful for. She has clung on to her home with all of her strength. Homa, you saw those boys from the other night– people can make the choice to leave. It’s an evil choice to force on them, to tempt them with– but that also makes Baran’s resistance very meaningful to her.”

Homa understood what she meant and lacked the strength or desire to argue.

But she wished she could argue against it.

“I almost wish– I could take them all way somewhere. Like I got taken away.”

“I understand that impulse.” Kalika said. “But to them, this is their home, Homa.”

Home was such a bitter-sweet word for Homa that it almost made her mad again.

“Home? I always wanted to leave Kreuzung. It was horrible. I wanted to see the Ocean.”

“I get it.” Kalika said. She squeezed Homa’s shoulder a little bit. “It’s a bit rich for me to talk about a home too, but I think that’s also why I sympathize with the villagers. I’ve been rootless all of my life. I would never look back to Pythia or to Buren and think of them as home– but I wish I had a home. Hell, for a time, I thought I had found a place like that. So I guess– what I want for the villagers is for their home to become a place that they could thrive in. I’m curious, Homa, do you have anyone back in Kreuzung? Friends? Family?”

Leija–

“No.” Homa said, fighting back tears. She could not fully disguise her pain in her voice.

“I’m sorry.” Kalika said.

She turned on the bed and wrapped her arms around Homa, who did not resist.

Pulling her tight against her chest, holding her so close, like Homa had never been held.

Homa felt Kalika’s rapidly beating heart at her back. Kalika must have felt hers too.

She had not asked and Homa had not accepted, not audibly; but it still happened.

And Homa was happy to be held. In the dark, where no one could see– she smiled.

Reminding herself she wanted to become more accepting of kindness.

“We’ll figure it out, Homa.” Kalika said. Her voice sounded a bit sleepy. “I’m here.”

Homa knew she had barely slept the day before and been so active throughout.

Kalika deserved to rest and deserved whatever kindness Homa could give.

Bob tail fluttering, ears folded, Homa nestled back against Kalika.

And took Kalika’s hands into her own, fingers intertwining.

“Good night, Kalika. Thank you for everything.” Homa said.

“Good night, Homa. I– I really– you–”

Kalika yawned and rested her head closer to Homa’s fluffy cat-like ears.

Her breathing grew steadier, and her grip started to slacken.

“I need you Homa.” She mumbled, her voice slurring. “You are my–”

Soon, she was sound asleep.

Homa, herself a bit sleepy, wondered whether she had heard that correctly.

She must have just been babbling out of exhaustion– but it was very cute.

On the night of the attack on the village, Kalika had looked so intense, so powerful.

Her sword swing cut the air with an audible whistling. She was so strong.

But in the center of all that thunder and fury there was a woman with a soft heart.

In her own soft heart, Homa had a childish little feeling of satisfaction.

So much had happened– but she wasn’t alone.

Though she still felt so doubtful about what Kalika saw in her, she still savored the moment.

Her mind wandered away from the troubled memories it had unearthed.

There was nothing she could do about Leija– or about Vesna Nasser.

At least not right now.

But she could at least help Kalika and do what she could for the people here.

Maybe she wasn’t completely useless after all.

With the soothing rhythm of another’s heart at her back, Homa soon fell asleep.

---

Three days passed since the Brigand arrived in Aachen, and the second round of United Front deliberations was underway– but that was a distant, unrelated concern to a particular silvery-white haired, indigo-eyed girl in an often dour mood. On that day, she had reason to smile instead. A reason that had nothing to do with politics or missions.

Her tasks were now finally behind her.

“Alright, the afternoon is yours, Maryam. We have limited funds to spend though.”

“Hmm-hmm! I already know what I want to do Sonya! I want to crush you at games again!”

“Crush me? When did you become so bloodthirsty huh? Come here, you cheeky–!”

Sonya Shalikova reached out and pinched Maryam Karahailos’s squishy cheek as payback. In turn drawing out a series of sounds from her girlfriend suspiciously like cuttle, cuttle, cuttle, while they play-struggled in Aachen’s entry lobby. Both of them were smiling and laughing, and though the sunlamps were the same and the oxycyclers had not changed, in Maryam’s company, Shalikova felt like the station was brighter, and its air cleaner.

It did feel like the perfect day.

Though Shalikova did cherish their previous date in Kreuzung, this time, Maryam was able to walk around Aachen station as her ordinary, purple and marshmallowy self. Her cuttlefish always looked happy to be running around, but Shalikova could feel that Maryam was a bit looser and freer when she did not have to wear as much of a façade around the station. The pair dressed the same as they had back at Kreuzung, their nicest clothes.

Maryam wore her long, dark blue dress and matching beret, but her tentacles rested on her shoulders rather than hiding in her hair, and her charming w-shape eyes and purple chromatophoric skin could shift freely to accommodate her many moods.

Of course, if Maryam was dressed as she had been in Kreuzung, and so was Shalikova–

this meant that Shalikova was dressed like a showy delinquent again.

However, she was just a bit less mortified about it than on previous ocassions.

She looked good, damn it– even though she did not want to, it was still a bit uplifting. Even though the red track jacket was too bright and the ACE on the back was somewhat embarassing; even though the pants were too tight for how humble Shalikova’s butt was; even though the shades made her look like a stereotypical curfew-breaker problem kid. Maryam liked it and that was what ultimately mattered to Shalikova.

It wasn’t like she was dressing up for anyone else!

No– actually– it was still basically as embarrassing as it always was.

“Illya– someday I’ll get you back for this–!”

“Sonya, you’re mumbling with such a fierce look on your face!”

“It’s nothing, Maryam. I’m just thinking of where to take you.”

Because of the activities of the past few days, the Brigand and her crew had gotten pretty familiar with the layout of Aachen station. They had cased the place and ducked into practically every nook and cranny, but more importantly, Shalikova herself had gotten a look at all the stores. She knew there were a few arcades strewn about the first tier. There was one particularly flashy establishment that she thought of bringing Maryam to, but it also played host to alcohol and gambling. She was not sure how that would go over.

“Maryam, do you drink at all? Or like– do you gamble?” Shalikova awkwardly inquired.

Thinking about her answer for a second, Maryam rubbed her chin with one of her tentacles.

“Fortune telling and street hustling is kinda like gambling I guess.” Maryam said.

“There are no technicalities here, do you like slot machines and beer or don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say I like it, but I’m not offended by that. I’ve been curious to drink actually.”

Shalikova thought of a drunken Maryam and the puns that might result from that.

She would take her to the flashy gaming parlor– but maybe dissuade her from drinking.

All of the smaller arcades were more slanted toward kids, and Shalikova thought bringing Maryam to one of them might have looked too silly. The largest arcade in the first tier, located near the middle ring of businesses, was essentially a barely disguised gambling parlor and bar that had a substantial and eclectic collection of video game machines. Standing outside of it, the gaudy decoration was evident on the enormous façade.

Arcade Dorado, one of the biggest overall venues in Aachen’s commercial spaces.

A little slice of Stralsund here at home, the sub-header read, a promise of hedonism.

Stralsund was the northeastern station complex famous for its unfettered pleasures.

“Let’s try to avoid having too much of a Stralsund mindset today.” Shalikova advised.

“Of course! I’ll be on my benthic behavior! A truly squidnified dame!” Maryam said.

“Right.” Shalikova said. “I shouldn’t have imagined any different.”

As she led Maryam under golden archways, greeted by the rapid sound of jingling coins.

Shalikova would come to find avoiding gambling was a difficult proposition at Dorado.

Even the gaudy façade, with its glowing signage, gold-tinted windows and golden arches, could not prepare Shalikova for how outlandish the interior was. Gold and coins were predominant colors and themes no matter where one looked. Every arcade machine had a golden chassis, so there were long, long rows of gold machines sitting under a gold-foil ceiling from which dangled fake gold coins that served as lamps and decorations.

Underneath their feet, the false carpeting was red but with gold trimming and when Shalikova looked closely, the little pops of gold that formed a pattern on the carpet were themselves false gold (they could not possibly have been real!) coins. Red was the secondary color, but gold lorded over the scene with an iron fist. There was a gold front counter, golden doors to the bathrooms and VIP lounge, the bar area had gold seating, the staff had gold vests and pants with red shirts. It was an unholy eyesore impossible to escape.

Apparently it was also an exceedingly popular eyesore.

Set into the very rearmost wall of the Aachen core station to account for its space, the venue was packed. Most of the slot machines were occupied, the bar counter was full up and many of the tables around it were taken, and there were briskly-moving lines in front of every token machine near the venue’s front counter. Despite the occupancy, the staff kept the patrons under control, and there was security on standby to intervene if needed.

Strangely sensual jazz sounded from overheard and melded with the garish sound effects from the games, the laughter and cries and cheerful hollers of the visitors, the authoritative announcements from the staff. There was a scented mist piped down from overheard to try to contain some of the other odors, but it only barely lent a minty note to the predominant smells of smoke, alcohol, sweat and aluminum. Together with the large occupancy, the scents blended into a strange and almost cologne-like aroma. Shalikova had barely stepped into the building, and it already felt warmer than the outside too.

She began to regret the decision to come here– until she turned to look at Maryam.

And found her girlfriend looking at everything with a wide-eyed, beaming awe.

“Sonya! This place is so deluxe! Look! Everything is made of Gold!”

“Maryam– you know the gold is fake, right?”

“But it’s still the right color! Come on, let’s get some tokens and play!”

Maryam grabbed Shalikova’s hand, and there was no resisting her pull.

As long as she was happy, Shalikova would put up with it.

They waited in line for tokens until they got to the front of a gaudy gold machine. Shalikova plugged a credichip she got from the captain into an exposed serial port on the machine and used a touchscreen to purchase a number of tokens. The machine gave them some indication of how many tokens were required to play the average game, so Shalikova had some idea of how many she wanted to buy. Her tickets were disbursed in the form of a polymer card with a nanochip that could be written to by the lasers on the machines. Dorado’s machines would scan the nanochip on the card with lasers to access Shalikova’s token count.

Despite having the means with which to play, Shalikova was still unsure what to do next.

Not only was the venue so large, but the amount of machines was also daunting.

There were two dozen long rows of machines, and the variety of machines was astonishing. It was not so easy to discount the “gambling” machines from games that she and Maryam might enjoy. Almost every machine was some sort of LCD display and a set of controls; but in addition to the slot machines that were pure luck, there were “skill games” that also paid out, such as digital shooting galleries, fishing games, digital versions of whack-a-mole and prize redemption games. Besides these there were also more traditional video games such as scrolling ship shooting games, gun games, speedboat racing games, falling brick puzzle games, and fruit-stacking puzzle games. The selection was overwhelming.

As they wandered the halls, they encountered a commotion in one of the slot machine rows.

Onlookers and staff formed a small crowd around a beautiful woman who, upon closer inspection, had some heinous symbols in her eyes– she was taking up three slot machines for herself. One to hold a basket of wine bottles and another to hold a plate stacked high with roast meats slathered in what looked like fruit preserves. Between eating and drinking she would bet big on the machine in front of her. The staff pampered and encouraged her.

“Hahaha~! This is why Madame Waldeck calls me her prize pig!” she shouted shamelessly.

Along with Shalikova’s reticence to try the slots, this mess ruled out doing any gambling.

Shalikova gently but insistently coaxed Maryam away from the slot machines.

Into the less over-crowded rows of video game machines.

However, even the ordinary-seeming video games had opaque gambling elements built in. All of them could pay out tokens in different circumstances, and several of them had slot machine elements for acquiring in-game advantages. Maryam was immediately drawn to a game with a tall, vertical LCD where the objective was to stack fruits, which when combined would become bigger fruits. As soon as Shalikova handed her the token card, the screen lit up asking if they wanted to roll on a slot machine to acquire random special fruits that provided larger potential points, and therefore, larger payouts on a win.

“Maybe we should’ve gone to the little kid arcades.” Shalikova mumbled.

“It’s okay Sonya! I will buy exactly one special fruit, just to see what happens!”

Maryam proceeded to quickly lose the game after that.

“Huh? But I stacked the fruits up really high. I thought that was what you did.”

“No I think you are supposed to keep the fruits from getting over the lip of the basket.”

“So when do you win?”

“I kinda doubt the game is winnable. But now that you understand, give it another try.”

Shalikova put the card back up to the scanner and gave Maryam another game.

Despite the opaque nature of the games and the overbearing monetary demands they made of the player, Maryam smiled brightly and laughed with triumph. Learning quickly, her humble strawberries and mangos started to become mighty oranges and gargantuan watermelons, expertly stacked while avoiding a “game over.” Shalikova watched and supported Maryam and felt a sense of relief at how much fun Maryam was having. That was all she wanted– as long as Maryam was happy, nothing else mattered. Shalikova was someone who could live shut up inside her room forever if necessary. That was just what being a soldier was like sometimes. But Maryam deserved every opportunity to get out and have fun and live her life. Shalikova wanted to give her that.

It only began to dawn upon her recently, after spending days cooped up with Maryam.

If she wanted to have a life with Maryam, long term, could things stay as they were?

Their romance had been an unconventional one.

They had met in the middle of Shalikova’s infiltration mission to the Imbrium. There was no guarantee she would survive. As much as everyone was optimistic, as much as they all believed in each other and in victory, their luck could run out any moment. Every battle was an invitation out of living, into permanent exile from everything she held dear.

In her mind she saw the image of that demonic mecha from Goryk’s Gorge.

Selene had come so close to taking her life. She would not be the last to have that chance.

Shalikova had to make the most of every day she had with Maryam– but she also had to change a little herself and change how she interacted with the world. She could not remain withdrawn from everything anymore, because she could not ask Maryam to hide too.

As much as it irritated her to expose herself to the eyes of the world.

Maryam deserved that world of peering eyes, and it was up to Shalikova to support her.

This time it was not Maryam who had begged Shalikova for a date–

Shalikova had taken her out instead– insisting on it, in fact.

She also had a mind to ask Murati out somewhere to establish a friendly rapport.

None of this came easily to Shalikova, but it was important, and she was committed to it.

So even if it was not to her liking exactly, she could watch Maryam play all day.

After everything they had been through, they could munch a few marks.

“Maryam, for the next game, can we look for something we can play together?”

Shalikova asked, and Maryam turned her head from the fruit game machine with a smile.

A big, goofy grin with wide open eyes. “Sonya! Of course!”

In response, Shalikova smiled back almost as excitedly as Maryam had.

Maybe it won’t be that hard to change anyway– in fact I think she already changed me.

Eventually, Maryam had racked up what Shalikova thought was a massive score, but it was physically impossible to continue stacking after the two huge watermelons became a truly colossal jackfruit. Maryam eventually lost and the machine congratulated her and asked Shalikova to scan the polymer card again to update its balance. Maryam won enough tokens to cover the cost of her two plays at the game, thus ending up even.

Shalikova supposed this was the best outcome.

“Sonya! Let’s go play the racing game!” Maryam declared.

She pointed out a pair of machines down the same lane, just past the fruit games.

Unlike the fruit machines, which were played standing up, the paired racing game machines had adjustable seats, with the wheel and pedals affixed to the seat rather than the chassis with the LCD screen. Shalikova followed Maryam to her chosen machine, paid the tokens, and took the seat next to Maryam. The LCD in front of them displayed a first person perspective of the cockpit with a scrolling foreground. Judging by the ocean surroundings, demarcated by buoys and too brightly-lit to ever be real, this was a game about speedboat racing.

Small, extremely quick submersibles were raced everywhere in the Imbrium, and even the Union. Daredevil speedsters sacrificed everything to get even one additional knot out of the machine, making the best racing submersibles extremely fragile and dangerous.

In the Union, Shalikova recalled there were attempts to organize clubs for racing drones instead of manned craft to try to create a safe alternative– but many racers still wanted the thrill and organized underground leagues, using leftover and discarded parts, repurposing decommissioned rescue boats and observation bathyspheres to create their own small machines that they could launch out from disused maintenance areas. Small but dedicated audiences followed their favorite racers to clandestine events. Eventually the Union relented and worked to regulate a public league with purpose-built craft that were a bit safer than the craziest racers wanted. Now, she and her girlfriend could experience the pulse-pounding thrills from the safety of an eye-searingly gold arcade inside a sturdy station.

“Sonya, this is your chance! This is a game where I can’t use my strength to beat you!”

“Was that a hint of cockiness? You’ll see– piloting a Diver isn’t that far off from this.”

“That’s the spirit! Give it your best knot! Or you’ll be stuck following my squid-marks!”

Shalikova’s eyes fixed on the screen. A count-down appeared.

Her fingers gripped the wheel, feet braced against the pedals, her body tensed–

On the count of zero–

Maryam blasted out of the starting line and–

brutally rammed into the side of Shalikova’s boat

and sent her sailing away.

“Maryam! What the hell kind of sportsmanship is that!”

“Hah! Sonya, I am a villain of the race track! I’ll stop at nothing to win!”

Shalikova was speechless as Maryam charged brazenly forward in a way that would at the very least make her look bad on a track– and would very likely have killed someone or herself! Taking advantage of the fact that it was a video game, Maryam drove like a hellion. Bashing into the track limit buoys to corner, whacking Shalikova whenever she got near, squeezing Shalikova out of the track when she tried to pass her– it was pure mayhem.

She was so aggressive that even when Shalikova tried to play equally dirty Maryam was simply much quicker on the attack! There was no opening at all!

Even when the contest did not entail her strength, Maryam was still too strong!

“Waha! Sonya, the undefeated of the sea has once again completely scuttled you!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Maryam laughed and laughed, the color of her skin strobing with joy.

For more of that sight, Shalikova would have easily lost a hundred games.

Even if her pride did sting a little bit.

After a few rounds of the racing game that had the same results, Shalikova moved the competition over to a pair of machines that each hosted an instance of a very popular falling brick puzzle game. Invented in the Union, this video game represented one of a very few pieces of crossover culture between the Nectaris and Imbria as far as Shalikova knew. The object of the game was to drop blocks on a vertical board to form clean lines. Completed rows were eliminated and tidied up the board. Of course, the shapes that were given to each player to assemble complicated the matter. In this competitive iteration, clearing a line put junk in the other player’s board as well as forcing their bricks to accelerate.

To avoid any confusion, Shalikova explained these rules to Maryam.

“That’s all? I’m looking forward to yet another victory!”

“Someday that hubris will come back to bite you, Maryam!”

Shalikova played along, pretending to be invested in Maryam’s defeat.

When the first blocks started to drop into the digital boards, complete with flashy effects, Shalikova did begin to earnestly believe in victory. Maryam was sticking to her rather kinetic style of playing games, dropping her blocks as fast as the game would allow in rapid succession. At first, on an uncluttered board, it meant she got the first few combos of the game, putting junk in Shalikova’s board. Soon Shalikova’s slow and steady playstyle allowed her to control her board while Maryam failed to adapt as the game sped up, and began to clutter her board, make mistakes and ultimately, become overwhelmed.

Finally, Shalikova took her first victory. Maryam puffed up her cheeks with indignation.

“When it comes to puzzles you’re a real cuttlehead huh.” Shalikova said.

“Huh? Wow– that was a good one. You’re really getting into the spirit, Sonya!”

Maryam smiled and the fins on her head stood on end and then made a little flap.

Shalikova could not help but smile and laugh alongside her.

They tried a few other games once Shalikova had avenged her racing game losses.

Rather than compete, however, they found a few they could play together.

There was a flashy light gun game with 3D graphics where the two players fought off a horde of fleshy, mutated beasts to escape from a derelict research station–

“You’re holding the gun wrong. Try it like this.”

“Oh! Thank you, Sonya!”

A shooting ship game in an artsy limited color palette with very abstract enemies and landscapes, where where one player could shield the other player from bullets–

“Maryam! Switch to white shield while I attack!”

“Got it Sonya! I’ll protect you!”

And a trivia game where players could confer to answer questions about the Imbrium–

“–I was never taught any of this back in Katarre.”

“–I think I might have fallen asleep in class when learning about this Emperor.”

With some surprising twists–

“Phooey, who would have thought there was a homosexual Emperor? That’s nonsense!”

“I know, I could have never imagined it. Well, at least we’re losing together.”

Eventually the pair was almost out of tokens, the vagaries of their fate rarely yielding enough winnings to make up for the amount of games they were playing and ultimately losing or earning nothing on. It had been a few hours of good fun and Shalikova felt completely satisfied. She had even gotten Maryam’s mind off of drinking or gambling, two vices she hoped dearly her cuttlefish would never experience. Once their tour of the two-player games was complete, the pair started to walk out from the nest of machines.

Maryam poked Shalikova on the shoulder with one of her tentacles.

“Sonya, could you hang around for a bit? I want to use the little cuttlefish’s room.”

“Sure. I’ll just go poke at something with our last tokens.” Shalikova said.

Smiling, Maryam skipped away momentarily.

Shalikova turned back around to the machines, wandering back toward the fruit game.

Reaching into her pants pocket for her card and looked down at it idly while walking.

Her personal guard slackened completely; she was much less aware of the world than usual.

Such that her sharp eyes hardly detected a similarly distracted person on a collision course.

Shalikova had such confidence in her stride and so efficiently converted this into force against this foreign body that she nearly dropped back onto the floor after striking the stranger in what seemed to be both their center masses. Shalikova would not have been surprised to hear that she had butted heads with this individual– she braced herself on a stool seat in a panic and barely stayed upright. Her victim would have fallen had there not been a machine right behind her. It was such a shock, Shalikova was so embarassed.

“Whoa! Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m such a– HUH?”

“What the fuck?! Watch where you’re going you fu– OH~?”

In front of Shalikova was a young woman, much like herself,

perhaps near to her exact age.

A little shorter than her, a bit fuller in figure with a dazzling appearance. Dressed in a long, off-shoulder ribbed sweater that quite flattered her, low enough to bare a lot of collarbone and some of her cleavage, with a skirt and tights and heeled shoes. Fashionable, wearing a bit of makeup. Her bright eyes adorned a pretty face twisted into a grin that immediately projected unremitting malice. Out of her long, flowing purple hair, sprouted a pair of rainbow-shimmering translucent antennae resembling biomechanical rabbit ears.

Selene Anahid, in the flesh, just as Shalikova had seen in her mind’s eye.

Judging by her expression, she was making a similar conclusion.

“Sonya Shalikova! You are Sonya Shalikova, aren’t you? You stupid oaf?! I found you!”

“Hey! I said I’m sorry! And– I have no idea what you’re talking about! Who are you?”

“Don’t lie to me! You miserable little rat! I can see right through you!”

Selene’s eyes briefly glowed with red rings and Shalikova feared for the worst.

But there was no attack either on her person or mind– Selene stopped with a grunt.

“Hmph, that stupid aura of yours! Show it to me! Stop hiding it from me!”

“I can’t! I’m not doing anything!” Shalikova said on impulse. “I mean– I don’t know–!”

“Quit acting stupid!” Selene said. Her lips spread into that grin again. “Sonya Shalikova!”

There was no getting away from it– this was Selene Anahid.

And she knew it was Shalikova in front of her. It was not about bumping into her, as rude as that was, and as much as Shalikova wanted to take responsibility for it. Rather, Selene and Shalikova had come to blows in a military operation in Goryk’s Gorge and were now face to face in the civilian interlude before wherever the wind of war blew them next. Shalikova had come away from that battle with an understanding of Selene as a reckless, unsympathetic person, arrogant and condescending, reveling in violence to assert her superiority. Those were the emotions Shalikova got in her fleeting visions and even more tenuous connection to Selene’s mind during their last bout. And now, here was Selene again.

In the ample flesh, able to see her and be seen without armor and without weapons.

She had become almost demon-like in Shalikova’s mind, a haunting presence.

Nothing but a promise of the violence that might befall Shalikova if she was not careful.

Here that violence stood, with a heaving bosom and an impish grin.

What would happen?

What could Shalikova possibly tell her to defuse this situation?

Her head felt so heavy.

She did not want to come into conflict with Selene.

Not only for the mission– but because she felt some measure of empathy for her.

“Selene– I– look, right now it’s my day off! You and I have nothing to do with each other.”

“Hah! Your day off? Destiny has brought us together! Your defeat won’t take time off!”

“God damn it, I don’t want to fight you! I never wanted to fight you! Just leave me alone!”

“Well, you should have stayed home if you didn’t want to fight! It’s too late now!”

Selene paused and looked at Shalikova up and down with such a sudden vehemence that Shalikova raised her arms as if to defend herself. She did not recall anyone ever checking her out with such an intensely tactless and almost lascivious gaze. Selene even leaned to the side to try to catch a look at the rear of Shalikova and continued to snicker to herself the entire time. For a moment Shalikova felt she would have preferred killing each other to this awkward surveiling. Immersed in the quarreling, her head began to fog up even more.

“Wow, what the hell happened to you? Did you fall into a textile press?” Selene said.

“What– what do you mean? I look fine. What do you mean by that?” Shalikova said.

She was shocked, her heart pumped strongly, and she did not process well what was said.

“I mean that clearly in terms of female aesthetics I am your obvious genetic superior.”

Selene raised a hand to gesture over the curve of her breasts as if to demonstrate, grinning.

“Huh? Aesthetics? Genetics? So what? You’re– you’re not even that much bigger!”

Selene was a slender girl– but compared to Shalikova she had curves like a fertility idol.

“Hah! Nothing but pure denial on your part! How do you even sit with no ass like that?”

“Are you serious? Is this really what we’re doing? People might see and hear this!”

“Flattie~!” Selene taunted, uncaring, raising a hand to her lips and laughing behind it.

Shalikova glowered and grunted. “You had a head start on me for growing all that fat!”

In her head that had been a much more devastating blow. She meant to argue that it was disingenuous for a cis girl to flaunt such things against her. But even just this level of insult made Shalikova feel horribly awkward and childish for stooping to Selene’s level. So what came out of her lips was by comparison near incoherent and seemed to take Selene a moment to process as it contained perhaps half the words Shalikova meant to say.

Selene put her hands on her hips and leaned forward with a matching friendless glower.

“Such a convenient assumption! But I’m the same as you– blame yourself, not the meds!”

What was she even talking about then?! Were they both transgender? This was a mess!

“Why the hell are we competing over our three sizes then anyway! You’re ridiculous!”

“And you’re still a flattie flat flat flattie.” Selene said without a hint of self-reflection.

Despite acknowledging it as ridiculous Shalikova was immediately aggravated to hear it.

In all of her life, nobody had ever confronted her like this, not since she was a little kid.

Other children could sometimes get rowdy at school, but they were always reprimanded.

Shalikova had grown up a polite and reserved girl among mostly polite and serious people.

Even Khadija was just teasing her and would not stoop to frustrating childish insults.

Illya non-withstanding, but that was different– Shalikova was unprepared for Selene.

That combination of arrogance, childishness, boldness– brought out the worst in her.

Her fingers crackled with electricity– she wanted to hit her! But she had to control it!

As much as correcting Selene might fill her with temporary satisfaction, opening up the avenue of violence for this mad woman would have invited a disproportionate reprisal. Shalikova had not yet learned all the psionic tricks Selene likely knew. And who knew if Selene had a weapon hiding somewhere (like in her fat stupid tits). If she had a gun on her all hell would break loose! There had to be another way to defuse the situation–

–maybe one in Shalikova’s hand all along.

While Selene was in the middle of gloating, Shalikova raised her polymer card.

In her mind, she was striking a cool pose. Selene just stared at her, however.

“Selene! We’re going to settle our grudge right here and right now!” Shalikova said.

Selene grinned, understanding– she produced her own polymer card from her pocket.

Perhaps in her mind, she was also striking a cool pose, trying to wave her card.

“Well, well, well. Now you’re speaking my language. I will destroy you. At video games!”

“I’ll completely flatten you– at video games! And then you’ll leave my sight for good!”

“You’ll never flatten me as flat as yourself, flattie. But if I win, you will bark like a dog!”

“Deal! Now shut up and put up! Or is all the silicone in your body slowing you down?”

“Why you–?! I’m all natural, just like the beating you are about to receive, vermin!”

Shalikova was beginning to forget this was a scheme to make Selene go away peacefully.

Not the actual rivalry she was allowing it to become by stooping to Selene’s exact level!

Locked in place like coiled snakes the two of them traded barbs and growls–

“Sonya, who is your friend? Are those real rabbit ears on her head?” Maryam asked.

–until the illusion shattered.

Those simple and sudden words sent a jolt of electricity down Shalikova’s spine.

She turned around in an instant and saw her girlfriend right behind her, smiling.

Her heart sank, her throat felt drier, her sunglasses almost dropped from her nose.

Caught in the throes of Selene’s temerity, Shalikova had completely forgotten Maryam.

“She’s NOT my friend!” Shalikova shouted suddenly. “She’s a sociopathic maniac!”

Maryam then crossed her arms and leaned toward Shalikova with a stern expression.

“Sonya– that’s not very nice. Friendly ribbing shouldn’t get into harsh details like that.”

“Hear that, Sonya? You are not being very nice to me right now!” Selene interjected.

Laughing uproariously. Her eyes darting with excitement between Shalikova and Maryam.

Who knew what was going on in that twisted brain of hers?

Worse– if they were both aggravated, the possibility of psionic escalation–

“Maryam, this is Selene. We have a bit of– friendly competition.”

Shalikova turned to Selene and somehow maintained a saintly calm while introducing her.

“Selene– this is Maryam, we’re– we’re together.” She said with a monotone voice.

As if Selene was anyone worth introducing Maryam to, or worth any courtesy.

Maryam looked at Selene and the purple on her chromatophores darkened a bit. Her eyes narrowed, she raised a hand to her chin, the fins atop her head flapped slowly. Scrutinizing Selene for a moment, her tentacles swaying in the air. Selene seemed just as curious about Maryam, so Shalikova had to put up with a long and strange silence.

“Sonya, I understand.” Maryam finally said. “I will step aside and cheer you on!”

Did she understand? Could she really have understood any part of this chaos, at all?

Shalikova nodded her head with a glum expression and awaited Selene’s response.

Selene grinned, shrugged, and silently pointed out a nearby racing game machine.

Together, the pair took their seats in the machine. Selene swiped her card to start the game.

“I commend you for having some shame in front of other people.” Shalikova mumbled.

“I just don’t want to sully my total victory in front of your girlfriend.” Selene whispered.

Was that some dignity and understanding? From this fiend? Shalikova sighed.

In front of them the familiar first-person perspective of the speedboat game appeared in front of Shalikova. She got ready to drive, when a notification appeared on her screen that Selene had “rolled the slots for a premium ship”– and was now the proud owner of a sleek and screamingly purple submersible with an additional hydrojet.

It was almost certainly faster than Shalikova’s own ship.

“Can you really call this a fair competition at this point?” Shalikova said.

“Who called it that? I didn’t say that. I said I was going to crush you.” Selene replied.

Fair enough. Sighing again, Shalikova grabbed hold of the steering wheel.

With materiel superiority on her side, Selene blasted out of the starting line.

And Shalikova struggled to keep up at all. She was solidly behind on every corner.

She expected Selene to be insufferable throughout the process but instead–

“Hah! It’s so fast! Look, Sonya! Look at whose coattails you follow behind!”

In the middle of the game, her malice seemed to melt away into the thrill of a young girl playing a game, and her gloating sounded much more good-natured and even amusing. She laughed and hollered and tried to show off for the audience of one trailing permanently behind her, taking weird lines on the corners and even slowing down at times so she remained on Shalikova’s screen to show off a trick. Despite herself, Shalikova found her manic energy somewhat infectious and laughed a few times at her antics.

“How much did that thing cost you?” Shalikova jabbed in the middle of the race.

“Whatever it was, it was worth it!” Selene jabbed back.

After the race, Selene practically dragged Shalikova by the hand, running to the next game.

Was that a smile on her face?

Maryam followed behind them and Shalikova could hear her giggling faintly.

They stopped in front of the puzzle game machines– which again, Selene paid for.

“Next stop on my tour of overwhelming superiority!” Selene said.

“What premium items are you going to buy for a puzzle game?” Shalikova said.

“Shut it and play, pentomino.”

Much like Maryam, Selene had a very aggressive style of play, dropping blocks as fast as possible and tolerating a few mistakes as her lines built up. However, she also had much better awareness of her board and upcoming blocks than Maryam, and she actually set up boards in order to create multiple line clears at a time, making for a more challenging match for the careful and deliberate Shalikova who obsessed with her placements. Junk blocks traded screens several times, and each salvo prompted pops of color on the screens to quickly indicate the attack to each player. Such effects happened in vicious succession as Shalikova and Selene were quite evenly matched in the battleground of blocks.

“You have guts! I acknowledge you as a worthy opponent, Sonya!” Selene said.

“Quit calling me Sonya! It’s Shalikova!” Shalikova said.

Despite her best effort not to, she was actually having fun with her rival.

Selene seemed to gradually forget the virulence with which she had begun the contest.

Even when she lost, her response was a girlish pout rather than a demonic scowl.

“Oh! I’ll get you next time, cutting board! This is the final round! Tie-breaker!”

Once again, Selene grabbed Shalikova and dragged her to a new set of machines.

Ones that Maryam and Shalikova had not played during their visit to Dorado.

However, they had experienced this style of game before.

Selene took them to the very back of Dorado’s game space, where there was an area full of table games. Every table looked initially barren, but with different accessories the tables could host an array of digital games with physical interaction. There were a few people here, playing pool and holographic ping pong. By placing a pair of plastic mallets on the board, the table would recognize and configure itself as a game of air hockey. Selene grabbed one of the mallets and she pushed the other one to Shalikova’s side of the table.

She grinned with anticipation.

“Oh, Sonya is very good at these!” Maryam said, standing to the side of the table.

“Oh really? Then she’ll have no excuses when she loses!” Selene said.

“No, because I’m more mature. But I am going to win regardless.” Shalikova said.

The pair took up their mallets and waited on their ends of the table.

In the center of the table’s LCD, the display rendered a little hatch opening.

Releasing a digital puck that by random chance flew to Shalikova’s end of the table.

Selene got herself ready in a defensive stance.

On the underside of the mallets there were lights that the table tracked for movement.

Shalikova wondered how much of her strength and control could transfer into the game.

She drew back her mallet a few centimeters and struck the digital puck.

It went flying against the opposite wall, near the corner, and bounced.

Selene responded quickly, striking the puck back.

The game was on–

but Shalikova had made note of Selene’s pose, how she held the mallet, how she reacted to the puck, her movement. How she swung from the forearm and had a restless grip on the mallet that she satisfied by turning it in place, a few millimeters side to side.

Now Shalikova understood better how the video game board reacted to her swing.

And how her opponent moved.

So she gauged the strength that she needed to launch a serious attack.

Drawing back and pushing in from the shoulder, hitting the puck dead center.

Sending it hurtling to the wall, behind Selene’s guard and into her goal at an acute angle.

Shalikova scored her first point.

“Dumb luck.”

“If it helps you cope.”

Shalikova grinned and Selene grinned back at her, remarkably composed.

When the next puck popped out of the board, it soared toward Selene instead.

She quickly threw a feint and Shalikova did not react, standing her ground.

Her gaze and reflexes were too sharp, she was not just acting on pure impulse.

With her feint read through, Selene settled for attacking the puck.

Unbalanced by her previous movements, she clipped the side of the puck–

But the computer registered this as a full-on, dead-center strike.

Shalikova, who had been watching Selene’s arms to determine how to attack and defend, misjudged how the puck would move and struck it far too softly, essentially serving it up to Selene for the perfect counterattack. She was unbalanced herself and failed to control her mallet properly, giving Selene an avenue to retaliate with a brutal strike on Shalikova’s largely unguarded flank. It happened too quick, and Shalikova lost the point.

She could only laugh at her own clumsiness.

“Good arm.” Shalikova said. She was having some fun.

“Good eye. You are indeed my worthy opponent. But I know your game now.”

No, now that Shalikova knew how the game worked and that it was somewhat glitchy, she could easily make the next few attacks in ways Selene could not possibly have predicted or reacted to. Selene did not have a lot of experience with air hockey and was playing a bit clumsily– she had a brief advantage because Shalikova was not used to the eccentricities of the digital machine and how it treated the physical inputs. However, seeing the sunny look on Selene’s face, and how much she had lightened up from calling her a flattie and threatening to destroy her– she became much less invested in winning.

Letting Selene win and preserving that smile was the best possible outcome.

It did not take much convincing to look convincing for Selene’s win.

Selene was favored by the digital puck, made her attack, and Shalikova defended it wrong.

Breaking the tie, giving Selene the victory.

Upon seeing the 2:1 in her favor, she burst out into laughter, softer laughter, girlish.

All of the demonic evil Shalikova had seen in her seemed to have been exorcised.

Shalikova walked around the side of the table and extended a hand for her to shake.

Selene, still smiling and gloating, took her hand and shook it vigorously.

“It was decided long ago! Of course, I was always destined to be the best here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shalikova said. She had some rough edges, but– she wasn’t all bad.

“You really put up a fight, Sonya Shalikova! We were truly fated to meet were we not? Do you know how surprised I was to see you here? But I knew immediately that I had been handed an opportunity to prove to myself once and for all that you were nothing but some girl in the end. And now I am in the victor, and I will take my spoils!” Selene said.

It was easier to let her grandiosity play out than to try to interrupt her with sense.

“Yep, you win. I guess I will bark like a dog for you now.” Shalikova said.

Trying to accept her punishment with a smile. At least she had resolved the situation–

Selene averted her gaze and crossed her arms. “Ew, no! You weirdo! Don’t do that!”

“But it’s what you asked for!” Shalikova replied, suddenly feeling desperate again.

“I’m changing my mind. Instead, you have to take me out around town!” Selene said.

She paired this with a haughty laugh but continued to avoid Shalikova’s eyes.

“HUH?!” Shalikova felt like a pair of cymbals had been clapped on her head.

“That’s a great idea!” Maryam said, clapping her hands happily. “Much better than trying to humiliate poor Sonya just because she’s so bad at games! I appreciate Selene’s magnanimity. It’s fun when friends are competitive, but you were both getting heated– you need to relax!”

Selene looked confused by how genuine Maryam was in her excitement.

“Uh, yeah–? Magnanimity– pssh, yeah, I mean, I got that in spades!” She said.

“I– I just–” Shalikova’s head was spinning. “I don’t– She’s not– I’m not–”

“You lost, and you admit you lost, so you have to acquiesce to the winner.” Selene said.

“Sonya, it’s okay! I don’t mind, and I think it’ll be good for you to hang out with a friend!”

Maryam cheerfully patted Shalikova in the back.

Did she actually understand anything?!

Maybe she was happy her Sonya ‘made a friend’ other than her–?

The same silly worry Shalikova sometimes had about Maryam becoming too dependant on herself? But it was ludicrous for her– because Maryam was a stowaway with not a soul in the world and Shalikova had an entire ship of people to befriend! Regardless, that would explain why she was suddenly so happy about Selene’s miserable proposal.

“Maryam, she’s not– oh whatever.” Shalikova sighed in surrender. “Selene, I’ll take you out around town tomorrow, but you have to agree, right now, that your–” If she called it a grudge Maryam might start to suspect something– so she hoped Selene understood– “You have to agree that our rivalry and debts are settled and that you’ll stop with– your particular brand of nonsense. Only then will we be able to go out together, okay?”

Selene’s eyes wandered slowly back toward Shalikova.

“Yeah. Totally. I mean– duh. I know how to protect my public image, you know?”

“Great.” Shalikova said. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow at the lobby. I’m broke by the way.”

“Of course you’re broke. Whatever. I’ll pay. See you tomorrow before noon.” Selene said.

Smiling, still smiling, after everything. Selene was smiling.

What a mess– but Shalikova supposed it wasn’t all bad.

After all, they had avoided fists flying, psionic or otherwise.

Maybe they could bury the hatchet.

Selene turned around and walked peacefully away.

Shalikova was filled with relief– until she heard a voice in the back of her head.

At first like a static-filled radio channel, until the words came into sharper focus.

You’ll be fine if you stay out of our way from now on. We are not going after you. I never even thought I would see you again. But if you do interfere– just remember I will have my orders.

Selene’s voice. She was speaking to her psionically, so that Maryam would not hear.

In that instant, she rekindled Shalikova’s fears and regrets.

Out of our way– meant her crew too.

Alongside that psychopath Norn the Praetorian and her crew.

Shalikova glared at Selene, but it wasn’t up to her whether or not that happened.

She did not want to fight her, she never wanted to– but she might still be forced to.

From my perspective there’s no more quarrel. I want to keep it that way!

She tried to reply to Selene in the same way as she had been spoken to.

Focusing her mind on pushing those words and on Selene being able to hear them.

Unsure at first whether she had succeeded, until–

I can’t guarantee that. But at least, there doesn’t need to be, tomorrow. Ciao.

Selene waved mockingly with the tips of her fingers as she walked away.

Watching her go, Shalikova sighed. She palmed her own face.

A mixture of frustration but also pity overcame her. It was so stupid, so pointless.

Selene was just an idiot like her– both barely adults, and both in such dire situations.

It was so unfair– and there was nothing Shalikova could do about it.

If their captains butted heads again then both would have their orders.

“Sonya, are you okay?”

Maryam took Shalikova’s hand into her own and rubbed it for comfort.

Shalikova met her eyes. Just looking at her brought comfort to her overburdened heart.

She tipped her head forward and kissed Maryam suddenly.

Surprised at first, her marshmallow accepted. It was a quick but healing gesture.

When they parted, Shalikova tried to smile, despite everything.

“I’m a bit troubled. Selene and I actually have a lot of bad blood.” Shalikova said.

She did not want to lie to Maryam, but it was hard to admit the fullness of how she felt.

“From my perspective, the two of you seemed to be getting along.” Maryam said.

“I know, but I fear that things could get worse with us. Far worse.” Shalikova said.

“Sonya, if that happens, trust in yourself. You are strong, and you know what’s right.”

Maryam smiled.

That confidence she had in Shalikova made everything sound possible.

Even if Shalikova herself worried about the worst possible outcomes.

---

“Welcome, welcome! Oh, what a pleasant surprise indeed– my balcony has seen so many illustrious people of late. It has been a fine week. Please sit down, and avail yourself of anything. Hospitality to guests of the Kleyn household means everything to me.”

“Thank you, Madam Kleyn. Such lovely accommodations. You know your tea parties!”

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg took her seat, one of only two around the tea table this time.

Across from her, Herta Kleyn offered her sweet black tea and fluffy little pink cakes.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Herta asked. “I didn’t even know you were in Aachen!”

“I apologize for coming up so suddenly. I just happened to learn of your predicament.”

Gloria lifted a tea cup to her lips, after having spoken, recusing herself from elaboration.

Across the table, Herta smiled. “My predicament, dear? I am not sure what you mean.”

It had not gone unnoticed by Gloria how many Katarrans were handling security for the Kleyn estate now. Aachen contracted the Rheinmetalle-sponsored Uhlankorps for local policing and VIP security for the government– so why was Herta Kleyn dressing up mercenaries in her little suits and ties and having them screen everybody and patrol the grounds? Of course, she knew much more than that in her clandestine capacities, but that was the simplest surface-level excuse. There was anxiety in the air up here.

“Madam, these are trying times, are they not? Times of instability and scandal?”

Herta met Gloria’s eyes but remained guarded. “I am afraid they are, indeed.”

“I have a proposal for you that will solve a few problems I know you must have. You may have your own solutions, but you will have to sacrifice far less of your own position with me.”

“Is that so, Madam Luxembourg? I must admit, I am intrigued. I have had a lot on my mind recently, you are right about that. There are heavy decisions I must make that I will not be able to take back. However, I must ask whether this business is in my capacity as a station governor, or a private citizen. I have done business with megacorporations before– but not their leaders directly. And never as a civilian. So I have to look out for the optics, you see. Anything that I do will be judged heavily– my political career is part of my concerns.”

“I’ve never done business with a station government, but I have done business with private individuals from them. This concerns yourself primarily, but it also concerns Aachen, Madam Kleyn. We both know there is a black current that is pushing this way; we both know that navigating this current will be complicated and difficult in the coming weeks. It is getting fiercer, more turbulent. You will not be able to withstand it by caring about optics.”

Gloria fixed wicked eyes on Herta, upon whom the true topic of discussion began to dawn.

Herta lifted her own cup of tea at that point. Permission to continue speaking, perhaps.

“Katarran mercenaries won’t be very reliable when the tidal waves roll in.” Gloria continued.

“I am not displeased with my personal security, frau Luxembourg.” Herta replied sharply.

She clearly did not appreciate the advice. Herta Kleyn had been in liberal government all of her life. From consultant to campaign manager to councilwoman and now Governor. She had done everything there was to do, done it properly. For Gloria to suggest anything to Herta Kleyn must have felt quite annoying. Like a child telling the parent how things worked.

“I have more to sell than personal security.” Gloria said, a conceited little grin on her face. “And there are more people at stake here than merely you yourself, Madam Kleyn.”

Herta Kleyn looked, for the first time, openly disconcerted in the discussion.

Gloria laid a portable on the table without saying another word.

On it, were the excruciating details of a deal Herta would not be able to refuse.

---

Elena had a rough night of sleep at the Mahdist village.

It was difficult to regulate her own temperature, and the mattress she was given was tough and uncomfortable. Even the Brigand’s accommodations were a bit softer on her delicate body. In addition to her physical ails, she also had to contend with disquieting thoughts. Conny Lettiere– and what little information she parted with about Elena’s mother. All of the possibilities haunted her. There was so much that Elena could learn from Conny about her mother, so many things she had never known and thought lost forever.

Her mother had died– no, she had been killed when Elena was five or six years old.

In her teenage years, Elena had mourned plenty that she knew so little about her mother but also accepted that there was nothing she could do. Her father Konstantin von Fueller barely even spoke to Elena, much less about her treasonous departed wife. All of the imperial courtiers and noblewomen hated Leda Lettiere and were not worth talking to. Her brother knew very little about her. Bethany had always been too careful about what she said, embellished too much, Elena had always known it. She would not have told her the whole ugly truth– not like Conny, a member of her family, could have told it.

Elena still had family, right here. After she thought she had lost everything.

Family who knew all of the story of her mother that Elena could have never known.

But there was an inseparable wall between her and Conny Lettiere.

To out herself as Elena Lettiere– was to out herself as Elena von Fueller. Missing Imperial Princess; and why she was missing, who was responsible, what had happened. Elena wanted to help the crew of the Brigand. She sympathized with the communists so much. That ship had begun to feel like home. Their mission felt righteous. So she feared mightily that to admit her identity was to jeopardize their mission and even all of their lives.

Attracting unwanted attention, bringing untrustworthy outsiders into orbit–

it was unacceptable.

Despite this, Elena’s heart could not help but beat rapidly with fascination about Conny. Her aunt, an elven relation, someone who spoke so irreverently about her mother. Maybe in another life, Conny might have been able to take care of her. To give her a home and family and a place to build a new life, without the precarity and violence of military surroundings. It might have made her soft, but perhaps, it would have been more of a home.

Alas; oh well. Such soft thoughts, she already had too many.

It was hardness, toughness, that she needed more of. So she steeled herself.

Conny Lettiere would simply have to pass her by for now.

With her head filled with worry and yearning, Elena slowly fell into an uneasy, fitful sleep–

Dreaming of indigo hair swaying in the wind under the light of an artificial moon–

–and infinitely tall trees making up the sky,

“Paesan, wake up. I’m afraid you and I have some business. Quick sticks; I’ve not all day.”

And awakened just as uneasy to a voice she was not expecting to hear.

And to the face of Conny Lettiere, hovering over her, hands behind her back, a mischievous grin on her painted lips. Looming, with a great pressure building up around her.

“Paesan, I’m afraid you remind me of someone, and it has been weighing on my trust.”

Her eyes glowed– bright red rings traced the outline of her retina, indicating power.

Floating above her shoulder, a small metal rod like a conductor’s baton pointed at Elena.

“Did you know Elena, that Elven Medeis, Loup Volshebstvo, Katarran Mageia and Volgian Kudo, all reference sticks as an implement with which to divine? Directions, insights– safe passage in caves, finding graves and treasure, and of course, the direction of the truth? Fascinating, no? Such different cultures clinging on to similar remnants of a dead past.”

Elena, paralyzed in bed, felt the pointing of the stick to take an accusatory note.

“So tell me, Elena– what was your surname again?” Conny said.

Overhead, the stick stirred and glowed with a myriad colors.

---

When Homa awakened the next morning, Kalika was still sound asleep behind her.

Perhaps more because Homa slept lightly, than Kalika sleeping heavily.

It was still much too early. However, the day called to the once-sleeper.

As good as it felt being held, Homa was feeling restless and wanted to get moving.

Perhaps this was her chance to do something good for Kalika. Maybe bring back breakfast.

Regardless of what she did, her legs demanded of her to get up and move about.

Gently, carefully, she extricated herself from Kalika’s grasp–

and sat beside her a moment.

Kalika looked quite beautiful, sleeping so peacefully. Her makeup had begun to run a little bit, her hair was tossed about a bit, and her lips were spread slightly open as she breathed. Her ungainly pose in the bed was very charming. When she was awake, she was so composed and so elegant, in control and never betraying weakness. Homa felt grateful that Kalika trusted her enough that she might be seen like this, unwound, without façade. She sat for a minute watching her, before feeling like she was being voyeuristic, and departing.

In her mind’s eye, the image of Kalika at peace would not soon leave Homa, however.

Outside the curtains, the lights were still pretty dim. It was early morning.

There were people out, however, and Homa became one of them.

At the front of the village, the pieces of the broken taiza monument had started taking shape again. Sareh and Baran had also brought out a big metal pot and a large alcohol burner and dropped both near the stage and a stack of plastic benches. The layout of the festival was beginning to take concrete shape just like the taiza. There were already aunties singing and talking in front of the salon and the little café and bakery, recently stocked again with flour and tea from outside. Homa wondered whether they had competitive prices out of respect for their unique situation– but she didn’t want to find out anyway.

Slowly, more people began to awaken and to come out. Little kids met up around the front of the village and started to play and make noise. Young women assembled near the masjid, maybe waiting for school. Homa could not see a single man around. There was the Imam, and she had some recollection of a few elderly men in the crowd the past few days. Maybe some of the kids were boys, Homa did not know and could not tell, they were too little for that. No young men stood out at all, however. Maybe they had really all given up Mahdism and abandoned the village, starting their own families outside and forgetting it all.

Bastards. Homa was making herself mad just thinking about it all over again.

Then, as her anger started to simmer down again– it resumed a furious, instant boil.

She saw someone approaching the front gate that sent her heart pounding.

Her body tensed.

A tall, brown-haired Shimii woman, smiling, greeting the villagers as she entered.

At her side followed a dour blond Imbrian woman, her gaze falling sharply on every face.

Both wore black uniforms, and armbands with symbols of the Volkisch Movement.

And despite Homa’s wide-eyed fury, the villagers greeted Rahima Jašarević like a friend.

---

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