Valiant

[Valiant #14: Worth It]

Log Date: 11/15/12763

Data Sources: Feroce Acceso, Kiwi, Lucanthiline

Event Log: Rewind: 20 years ago

Sunthorn Bastion: Library

10:53pm SGT

Echo was perplexed.

He had assumed, and not without good reason, that 5377’s interest in mech piloting would fade when he realized how much was required of pilots, and how long it would be before he’d be allowed to pilot, if at all. It was a story he’d seen a hundred times before; some cocksure Challenger, usually a fresh recruit, decided that mech piloting was for them, that it couldn’t be all that different from, say, strike fighter piloting. Most of them were dissuaded once they realized the sheer volume of what needed to be learned. Of those rare few that weren’t turned away by the volume of training and knowledge intake, the rest had all eventually lost interest by three months, once reality set in and they realized it would be years before they would ever be allowed into a Titan cockpit. He had seen it a hundred times before, so he assumed he’d see it at least one more time before he retired.

But six months in, and with 5377 blazing through the piloting benchmarks, Echo was starting to realize this Challenger was different.

At first he had been impressed. 5377 demonstrated a resolve that was uncommon even among Challengers, a drive to strive, to reach beyond his clearly human limits. Nothing stopped this recruit; if he saw something which might benefit his ability to become a better Challenger, then he would reach for it. He would take it, learn it, apply it on missions, all while slowly moving towards mastering it by accrued experience. From infiltration, to stealth, to close-quarters combat, to Jai Te, to strike fighter piloting, to marksmanship, this Challenger just didn’t stop. Despite his apparent lack of any technological, arcane, or biological edge, he seemed determined to be the equal of those that were naturally gifted by magic or biology or cyberorganic advantage.

Yet the more he watched, the more Echo became unsettled.

There was something desperate, almost maniacal in his unstoppable determination. He couldn’t quite place it, but there was something about 5377’s ruthless drive to achieve that didn’t seem entirely based within the logic of a reasonable individual. It took him a while to pin it down, but the revelation finally hit him one day when he caught a glimpse of 5377’s schedule for a day.

Between missions, training, classes, and studying, the young Challenger had only left room for two meals and six hours of sleep. There was not a single minute of relaxation built into his schedule. Not so much as five minutes set aside for socializing or leisure activities.

As Echo was a scientist and engineer first and foremost, his natural instinct was to question why this was. There had to be something fueling this brutal schedule, this unrelenting drive. It was true that the rate at which 5377’s skills were growing was astounding, but at what cost? He didn’t seem to have any friends. His existence seemed to be entirely measured within the context of his aspirations as a Challenger. He didn’t seem to have a personality, unless you could call ‘relentless working’ a personality. What could be fueling this unbridled hunger for continued improvement?

It took Echo some time to realize that he had actually been given the answer some time ago, when he first met 5377. Ratchet had said it straight to his face in that first meeting and even done him the courtesy of explaining it to him. And the answer, as is so often the case, was simple and really quite stupid:

It was a girl.

The particular girl was 5371, apparently an acquaintance from 5377’s childhood, and someone of considerable importance to him. There was much to be said about the girl, and a good deal of it was not positive, but that was a topic for another time. The fact was that her existence alone seemed to drive 5377 into a state of obsessive overachievement, and while it made for spectacular results on the personal improvement front, Echo was concerned for the cost it had to be inflicting on 5377. He’d be of no use to the rest of the galaxy if his unrelenting drive to achieve sent him to an early grave.

So on one of these jampacked days, when he knew he would catch 5377 pulling an all-nighter, Echo went to the library to track down the young Challenger and have a talk with him.

Being that it was but an hour from midnight, and the library was largely empty, it was easy to find 5377 at one of the tables. Most of the lights in the library had been cycled to their rest phase for the night, turned down and pale shadows stretching long across the shelves. As there was a relative lack of people to overhear any conversation they might have, Echo did not hesitate to go straight to the table where 5377 was struggling to stay awake, and sit down across from him. The first words out of his mouth were:

“Feroce, she’s not worth it.”

To his credit, it had been a long day for 5377 and he was exhausted, so it took a moment for the words to penetrate the cloud of fatigue hanging over him. It was probably for the best, since Echo immediately realized thereafter that he had taken the wrong tack in opening up the conversation. Unrequited love was not a reasonable thing, and he had just opened with telling 5377 that the object of his yearning did not deserve it. If 5377 were more awake or lucid, it might have shut down the conversation then and there.

As it is, 5377 merely rubs an eye and mumbles, “What?” giving Echo a second chance to frame the conversation in a different way.

“All of this.” Echo starts again, motioning to the manual that 5377 was grinding through. “You are pushing yourself beyond what is expected, beyond what is healthy for you. I’ve been watching; I’ve seen your schedule a couple times. You don’t get as much sleep as a young man like yourself needs; you skip meals to squeeze in more training or study time. You are literally working and training yourself to death.”

5377 merely gives an abashed smile and a shrug to that. While it was meant as a reprimand, it could also be taken as a compliment. Perhaps he felt that if he was being told to ease up a little, then he knew he was doing things right. “It’s fine.” he says, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “I knew what I was getting into. I’ll see it through.”

“No, it’s not fine.” Echo replies firmly. “What you are doing is beyond what is expected of you, beyond what is reasonable. It is unhealthy. You need to scale it back some.”

5377 shook his head. “I can’t. I need to keep training, keep working. I need to become a better Challenger, to stay level with the others.”

“Yes, you do, but not like this.” Echo counters just as quickly. “I admire that you have this kind of drive, but you cannot keep this up.”

That prompts a derisive snort from 5377. “Oh trust me, I can.”

The response gives Echo pause. “You don’t have to push yourself like this.”

“No, Echo, I do.” 5377 says, swiping a hand across the glass surface of the table and closing the manual he’d been reading. “This is good for me. It keeps me busy, gives me something to focus on. It helps me control my emotions, helps me put them to good use instead of letting them eat me up.”

“So this is about 5371.” Echo says, looping back around to his initial suspicion. He knew the way he was doing it was inelegant, but at this juncture, he didn’t thinking mincing around it would get him anywhere. 5377 would just keep dodging the topic if Echo kept skirting around the edges of it.

It was clear from 5377’s expression that directly addressing the issue wasn’t something he was comfortable with. But he doesn’t shy away from it. “Fine. Do you really want to get into this, Echo? If I explain it to you, will you leave it alone?”

“I would like to know why you’re pushing yourself like this, yes.”

“Fine.” 5377 says, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s keep it simple and short. I like Cherri. I know she doesn’t like me. I can accept that, but even so, it still burns me up, seeing her with someone else. She means a lot to me — she taught me how to be brave, how to have conviction. A lot of what I am now is because of her. That’s why it hurts so much to see her with somebody else.” He leans forward at this point, resting his arms on the table. “And rather than letting that eat me up, I use that as fuel. I put it into action. I use it to drive myself, to train harder, to work harder, to become a Challenger that can stand as her equal. This is what I do to take the ugly emotions inside me and turn them into something positive, instead of letting them eat me alive with envy and jealousy.” He stops, his brown eyes searching Echo. “Do you understand now?”

Echo doesn’t answer right away. What he wants to do is reiterate to 5377 that the girl is not worth it. Generally speaking, no girl was worth working yourself to death over, but this was especially true of 5371, whose quick ascent as a popular Challenger and hero masked something else. It was hard for him to pin down, but Echo could tell the difference between the two in a heartbeat. On the surface, both of them strived to become stronger Challengers, but 5377 strived to become a better Challenger, while 5371 strove to become a more powerful Challenger. Her concern was for herself, and the fact that she was able to help other people and gain popularity by doing so was merely collateral of that quest to seek out more power.

But at any rate, 5377’s question demanded answer, so Echo leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I suppose I do understand. And I can respect that you want to take your negative emotions and build something positive out of them, instead of letting them eat you up.” Hitching an arm over the back of his chair, he looks across the bookshelves and the layout of the library, arranged in the calming, curving aesthetic that defined so much Challenger infrastructure. “You got time for a story about emotions?”

5377 checks the clock, then gives a shrug. “I mean, so long as you’re not preaching to me…”

Echo shakes his head. “S’nothing like that.” he says, reaching in his labcoat and digging around in the pockets. “Just a little factoid I thought you might enjoy. There are some religions, particularly the Quills, that say that humans were created by a forgotten deity called the Inkling. He created women first, and then men after that. The women were designed as creators, to mold and shape new things, and fill worlds with creatures and life. The men were designed as monsters — engineered for combat, struggle, hunting, endurance, and guardianship.”

Pulling a bag of gummipops out of the inside pocket of his labcoat, he waves it around as he goes on. “Now, I’m probably butchering the myth since I’m giving you the abbreviated version, but things like envy and jealousy were part of the protective instinct that was ingrained into these monsters so they would remain dedicated to the task of guarding their counterparts. The thing about these emotions is that they are, of course, corruptible. What was intended to provide a loyal, protective impulse instead sometimes became a threat both to themselves and others.”

5377 rubs an eye, a clear indication that the lateness of the night and the brutality of his schedule are taking their toll on him. “I’m not quite sure where this is going.” he admits frankly.

Echo pries open the bag of gummipops. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that jealousy and envy are natural emotions. As a scientist, I recognize that though they induce stress in an organism, they serve a purpose. They spring from loyalty to an individual, and reinforce that loyalty — fidelity, some marriage counselors would tell you — when the organism thinks a relationship is threatened. Your emotions spring from the fact that 5371 is important to you. From what you told me, she had a positive effect on you, inspired you to become a better person, and so naturally, you are attached to her. Whether you like it or not, she is part of your identity.” Taking a gummipop out of the bag, he holds it up and examines it. “And I respect that you control those emotions, and put them to use, driving yourself to become a better person instead of letting your emotions make you bitter.”

Reaching over, Echo holds out the gummipop to 5377. “I know I can’t convince you that she’s not worth it, so I won’t. But I will say that you are worth it — you are worth a small break, a little rest, treating yourself a bit gentler. Don’t run yourself into the ground for her sake if you’re not going to go out there and challenge the competition.”

5377 rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to go out there and beat up her suitors. She’s not interested in me.” Reaching up, he takes the gummipop, looking it over.

“Exactly. So treat yourself a little better. You don’t have a girl worth fighting for, so stop putting yourself through the wringer.” Echo says, rolling the bag shut and standing up. “I expect you to be late to your fusion core mechanics class tomorrow, got it?”

That appears to confuse 5377. “Be… late?”

“Late, 5377. You slept in past your alarm, had a nice breakfast, watched a funny video of a cat fighting with a mirror. If you’re not late, I’m going to kick you out of my class and tell everyone that you’ve gone to challenge 5371’s current SO to a duel.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll be… late, then.”

“Good. And make sure you brush your teeth tonight. Those gummipops are damn good, but they’re packed to the gills with sugar.”

“Yes sir.”

“And 5377?”

“Yes sir?”

“Sometimes it’s okay to kick someone’s ass if you’ve got someone worth fighting for. It’s not the right thing to do, admittedly… but sometimes it’s an okay thing to do.”

“Yes… sir.”

“Have a good night, 5377.”

“You too, sir.”

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

The Bulwark: Intelligence Center

10:52am SGT

“Songbird?”

The voice jerks me back to the present. Shaking my head a little, I look around to find Ridge staring at me. Given the look on his face, I get the feeling that he asked me a question, and I completely spaced it. “Come again?”

“The Commander asked you a question.” Ridge says, tilting his head towards the others.

I look around. We’re in the intelligence center for another briefing; Sierra, Commander Dussel, Forecast, Kiwi, and Legaci are all here, watching me expectantly. Legaci’s currently loaded into a holoarray hoverdrone, which projects her image out into the air around it; she’s wearing an avatar that looks like a young woman with short blue hair, wearing a hoodie and jeans. In the middle of the room, projected into the air by the room’s holoarrays, is what looks like a system map, a jungle world, and a bunch of other documents swarming around that I can’t make sense of.

Blinking a little, I sit forward in my chair. “Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind recently. What was the question?” I ask, avoiding looking at Kiwi as I say it.

“We asked if you’d ever been to the Challenger Valiant outpost.” Dussel says, sounding largely unamused by my distracted demeanor. “And if you had, whether you remember what sort of work was done there, and if there’s anything we should watch out for when we go to investigate it.”

I rub my brow, then refocus on the images in the middle of the room. It was data that had been pulled from the second layer of the backup archive, which Legaci had been able to access with the permissions Echo had built in for her. However, the third, fourth, and fifth layers remained locked; Legaci was working on a way to break into them, but it would take time. And in the meantime, we were doing what we could with the second-layer data — much of which included the locations of low-level secret outposts and research facilities, and the access codes for many of the civilian vessels in the Challenger fleet.

“Uhhh, the Challenger Valiant facility.” I say, squinting at the globe slowly turning in the air in the middle of the room. “Mm. Yeah, I’ve been there a few times before, once on a long assignment. There were a lot of biological experiments carried out there, and some other types of research, though I don’t know what. I wasn’t a scientist, so I wasn’t really privy to the specifics. As you can see, the facility’s on a tropical world; a lot of exotic organisms to work with and research. Nothing there was really super secret or real dangerous, at least that I’m aware of. Things might’ve changed in the couple of years before the program shuttered, though.” I look at Legaci. “Doesn’t the archive include a listing of the outpost’s purpose and assets?”

“General data is listed, but there is a lot of information that is site-specific and not stored on a wider network. For security purposes, obviously.” Legaci explains. “As an example, the name of a given experiment, its associated researchers, and the assets involved are usually listed, but none of the data collected from the actual experiment would be contained within a catalogue listing on the archive. That’s information that would usually be retained on-site.”

“Alright then.” I say, looking back to the world that the outpost is located on. “Well, as far as I can remember, there was nothing major going on at the Challenger Valiant outpost. A nice outpost, but out of the way, located pretty far into dark space, from what I can remember. Why, is there something there that’s important?”

“Based on what Legaci’s pulled from the archive so far, the Challengers had a research group dedicated to Masklings at the outpost.” Dussel explains. “The group was classified under anthropology, meaning they researched Maskling culture and history.”

“That’s odd; I thought most research on Masklings was biological or arcane in nature.” I say, sitting up a little.

“It usually is.” Forecast says drily. “There are many parties with a vested interest in figuring out how Masks work, and they usually pursue those interests by experimenting on captive Masks or Masklings. With this research group, however, I can only imagine the Challengers were trying to get a better cultural understanding of what they viewed as a potential enemy at the time.”

“There’s a fair number of Maskling relics listed among the outpost’s assets.” Sierra says. “So it stands to reason this research group was probably pretty thorough. We’re thinking about taking a visit to see if the outpost’s servers might hold the location of the Masklings’ missing arkship. If not, we can at least give the Masklings their dusty old junk back.”

“Sounds good to me.” I shrug. “Is there a reason we haven’t done that yet?”

“Thing about secret outposts that have been abandoned or forgotten for fifteen years is that sometimes things malfunction or break loose.” Sierra says. “And we all know that the Challengers messed around in some things they shouldn’t have in those last years. We just wanted to know if you remembered anything about the outpost, in case we run up against unwelcome company when we get there.”

I shake my head. “Like I said, biological experiments, but it’s not like they were breeding organic weapons or anything. The outpost wasn’t locked down too tightly, and most of the security measures I remember were to keep native fauna out, not keep something in. It should be fine.”

“I say we go, then.” Legaci says, looking at Dussel. “Even if something did break loose, we’ve got a mobile fortress full up with mercs and coilguns. We’d probably be able to handle any problems that crop up.”

“We’ll start making plans for it, then.” Dussel says. “Who knows, we might find something there that can help us fend off CURSE, or that we could sell off to cover some of our bills.”

I don’t say anything to that, but I do look to Sierra and raise an eyebrow. I hadn’t known that finding and selling Challenger tech had been on the table, but her only response is to shrug. Not feeling wholly reassured by that, I file away my distaste in the back of my head, and stand up. “Right then. Looks like we’ll be planning for a visit to dark space. Anything else need to be taken care of in this meeting?”

“You got somewhere to be?” Kiwi says, speaking up for the first time since she stepped into the room. There’s a challenge in her wildfire stare, daring me to give an excuse for leaving.

“Yeah, actually.” I respond with a little more force than I’d been intending. “Junior’s been keeping up his grades, so now I get to hold up my end of the bargain and teach him Jai Te. Don’t you have someone better to be screwing around with?”

Dussel’s the first one to speak in the stunned silence. “Well, I’m sensing some hostility here.” he says mildly. “Songbird, why don’t you take a walk and go pound sand.”

“I was already on my way to do that.” I mutter, turning and heading for the door of the room. “C’mon, Ridge.”

Ridge is quick to scoot out of his chair, following me as I head for the door. The others are more than happy to get out of my way so I can leave, but on my way out the door, I catch sight of Kiwi.

Her mouth is curled up in a little smirk as she watches me go.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

The Bulwark: Mess Hall

1:08pm SGT

“I still don’t know how you manage that high kick. Like, you’re basically doing splits. I feel like I sprained my groin trying to kick high like that.”

I don’t say anything to that. I heard the words, but I’m too busy chasing an edamame bean with my fork, batting it around in the square in my lunch tray. I’m trying to keep my head empty right now, and playing fork hockey with a bean is doing the trick pretty nicely.

“Dude, did you hear what I said?”

I take a deep breath in, straightening up a little to find Ridge is looking at me. “Mm. Yeah. Flexibility will come with time and exercise. Nobody drops and does splits on their first day in the gym; that flexibility is built up over time.” The words are half-hearted, though; a recitation that could’ve come from any gymnastics text.

Ridge sets his fork back down in his potatoes, still watching me. “You okay, dude? You’ve been distracted ever since that morning, and it’s been a few days now. I mean, I don’t mean to pry or anything, but you’re taking it pretty hard.”

“Drop it, Ridge.” I say, setting my fork down and turning my attention to the rest of the mess hall. The lunch rush has tapered off some, so the battered rows of tables and benches aren’t as full as they would be right at midday. There’s still a fair number of mercs in here, picking at the less-than-impressive offerings by the kitchen; for once, I’m glad that I’m a vampire, and that I don’t need to eat food like other organics. Most days I come to the mess hall just to keep Ridge company; I usually only fill my lunch tray halfway, and then shuffle my food onto his tray once we’ve sat down to eat. He’s a growing teenager, so his appetite’s insane; kid can put away food like it’s going out of style.

“Okay, fine.” Ridge says, shrugging as he picks up his fork again. “You just been real distracted, is all. You were zoned out for most of that meeting in the intelligence center, and everybody could tell.”

I don’t reply, resting my head against my hand. Even though I continue chasing the edamame bean across my tray, I feel my mind drifting back to the morning that Ridge had mentioned. We’d left our quarters in the living sector, and were headed to the mess hall so Ridge could get breakfast; a commotion echoing down the corridors had caught my attention, so I’d paused at the intersection of halls, glancing down the corridor where the Maskling quarters were. What I’d seen was Cahriu stumbling out of Kiwi’s room with a grin, then Kiwi following shortly after with a giggle, hooking a hand in the neck of his shirt and pulling him in for a long kiss.

Thus began a relapse back into a state of mind that I’d tried so very hard to claw my way out of during the time I’d known Cherri.

More anything than not, I was irritated. I mean yes, there was the whole envy and jealousy thing and all that jazz, but I was irritated by that. I was irritated that it bothered me at all, irritated that I even cared enough to be bothered in the first place. The envy and jealousy felt stupid and juvenile, and yet I couldn’t shake it off. I couldn’t get it to go away. And more than anything else, it meant something I wasn’t comfortable with:

I still felt drawn to Kiwi, even after she’d manipulated me the way she had.

So I’d spent the last few days fighting the battle to ignore it, and largely losing that battle. And when I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about it, I tried to think my way through my feelings, to dissect them, trace them back to their origins, analyze them and make sense of how they came to be. Hoping that maybe I could simply explain away my feelings and that would neutralize the hold they had over me.

Which never worked, but I figured I’d try anyway.

But that had been the source of my distraction over the last few days, something that was inconvenient both for myself and the people that expected me to be functional. It was getting to the point where I was getting impatient for the next mission, just so I had something to focus on instead of stewing in my envy. And for the first time in almost twenty years, I was considering reverting to the workaholic state that Echo had caught me in before telling me to take a chill pill. Maybe I could pick up a mechanical engineering manual and start reading up on some of the thousands of mechanical systems within a mobile fortress, and learn how to fix some of them.

“Ah shit.” Ridge mutters. It’s mostly the profanity that pulls me out of my ruminations; I find the reflexive response on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it in for a bit, turning my head to see what’s prompting the curse. Ridge is looking over his shoulder at a group of four or five, chatting and walking down the row, searching for a stretch of seats that’ll fit their entire group.

It’s Cahriu and the Maskling handlers.

Ah shit indeed. I think to myself, looking back to my tray and hoping they’ll pass by. Instead, their footsteps slow to a halt, and I can hear them settling into the table that’s across from Ridge and myself. I can feel Ridge looking at me, but I’ve gone back to playing bean hockey on my lunch tray, hoping to keep myself preoccupied.

“…yeah, I can’t say I’m impressed with the place. Secondhand everything here.”

“What did you expect? They’re a midrank mercforce.”

“Yeah, but have you seen the place? It’s rusting to pieces at the edges.”

“Hate to admit it, but she’s right. The internal tram seems like it’s gonna come flying off the track on some of the turns, and don’t even get me started on the bathrooms.”

“Oh my god, the bathrooms.”

“See? She agrees with me.”

“Personally, I can survive the bathrooms. It’s the soundproofing that’s killing me.”

“What’s wrong with the soundproofing?”

“There isn’t any.”

“I haven’t really noticed, honestly.”

“You don’t bunk next to Kiwi’s room.”

“Aaaaaaahhhh right. Cahriu, put away that smug grin.”

“He looks way too pleased with himself. Something you want to share with the rest of us, hound dog?”

“Sorry, I don’t do open relationships. I’m not the sharing sort.”

“Oh shut up. You know how I meant it, you little shit.”

“C’mon, Cahriu, spill it. We’ve seen you leaving her room pretty often over the last week. Does she kill in bed the way she kills ‘em on the battlefield?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

There’s an audible click as my fork stabs through the bean I’d been chasing around my tray. Ridge’s muddy green eyes look concerned as he stares at me. “Hey Songbird, c’mon. Let’s go ahead and—”

“Hey, you guys mind dialing it back a bit?” I say abruptly, swinging my legs over the bench and turning to face the group of Masklings seated across the way. “You’re setting a bad example for the kid.”

It takes them a moment to realize I’m talking to them; the ones on the other side of their table look up, and ones closest to us look over their shoulders. Cahriu’s brown-furred ears perk up, before the rest of him turns on his bench to look at us. “What’s the problem, bluebird? Is this a little too salacious for your Anayan upbringing?”

“If you’re looking for the model of Anayan virtue, you should look somewhere else.” I say. “But seriously, have some class. Find something else to talk about while you’re around the kid.”

Cahriu smirks. “Seems to me like it actually bothers you more than it bothers the kid.”

I can feel my temperature shoot up, in part because he’s right. I’m sure that Ridge has heard this sort of crassness before. It’s me that this talk really bothers, but Ridge’s age makes a good pretext for asking them to cut it out. However, it looks like Cahriu’s seen right through that.

I’ll admit, he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.

“Suppose we’ll just find somewhere quieter to eat, then.” I say, turning back around to pick up my tray and stand. “C’mon Ridge, we can probably finish lunch in one of the observation lounges.”

Ridge doesn’t question it, packing in his utensils onto his tray as he grabs it and stands, quickly following me as I start down the row towards the doors of the mess hall. I’m still aggravated, but at least I can tell myself I’m taking the high road by removing myself from the situation.

At least until I hear Cahriu try to get the last word in.

“No shame in running away, Songbird.” he calls. “I get it. You’re not one of us, and it never would’ve worked — you’re not strong enough to handle tangling with a Maskling, and that’s not your fault.”

That stops me dead.

“Songbird?” Ridge says, slowing to a stop ahead of me and looking around. “C’mon, dude, don’t do it. You know he’s baiting you, man. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it.”

Those words echo in my head, taking me back two decades when Echo had told me the same thing about a different girl. He’d told me back then, rightly so, that I didn’t have a girl worth fighting for. But the way that Kiwi looked at me before I’d left the intelligence center today, that little smirk…

Cherri had never looked at me the way Kiwi did.

Turning, I set my tray down on the table to my right, then roll my shoulders, my hooded longcoat falling off them. Shrugging it off, I drape it over Ridge’s shoulder. “Hold that.”

“Songbird, don’t do this—” Ridge hisses urgently, struggling to keep my longcoat from sliding off his shoulder. Heads are starting to turn towards us; mercs across the mess hall are starting to perk up, and those that are arriving for their scheduled lunch begin to steer clear of our row.

“Aw, did I hit a nerve?” Cahriu chuckles. “Whatcha gonna do, bluebird? Challenge me to a fight to defend your honor like the good boy you are?”

I turn around, idling my way back down the row. “No. You couldn’t win a straight fight with me anyway.”

The murmuring the mess hall starts to rise as Cahriu pushes away from his table and stands up. “You wanna bet?”

“It wouldn’t be sporting to bet on stacked odds.” I reply, tucking my hands in my pockets. “To make this fair, I’m going to give you three chances to knock me out. Three hits, as hard as you want, any way you want. I won’t hit back.” I come to a stop about ten feet shy of him. “If you don’t knock me out by the third hit, then I’m going to put you in the infirmary for a week. No powers, no cheap moves — I’ll just take you apart with my bare hands and hand you over to Valkyrie so she can put you back together.”

Cahriu smirks at that, shaking his head as he steps towards me. “Bareknuckle brawling, no fancy magic or tech, just duking it out like a couple of normal guys? I can respect that.” Cracking his knuckles, he sizes me up. “I’m gonna love telling the story of how I beat the galaxy’s most notorious Challenger like a bass drum.”

He holds out a hand as he reaches me, as if to shake — but when I pull a hand out of my pocket, his hand curls into fist, swinging into an uppercut that catches me under the jaw. My head jerks back my tongue gets caught between my teeth, and I go flying on my back, grunting as I hit the metal floor.

I can hear the other mercs in the mess hall shouting, some of them climbing on benches and tables to get a better view. Behind me, Ridge sets his tray down and moves towards me. “Songbird!”

I push myself back up on my elbows. “Ridge, if you interrupt, I’m going to break your arms.” I cough, wincing as I feel the tang of blood in my mouth. Cahriu got me good with that sucker punch. Standing back upright, I roll my shoulders as he walks up on me, and even though my instincts tell me to turn and bring my arms up to block, I don’t.

He goes in for another uppercut to the gut, and it hits hard — he may be be a touch shorter than me, but he’s stockier by a good margin, and he’s got a lot of muscle behind the punch. It doubles me over, knocking the wind out of me with a grunt, and while I’m doubled over, he takes a step back, and grabs my head.

Oh, that’s gonna hurt.

A second and a half later, my head is flying back again, this time with an arc of blood going through the air and my nose good and firmly broken. I stagger back, stumbling against the table to my right, catching myself on it and collapsing on it a bit. Ridge rushes up on me, grabbing me by the shoulders as I try to shake the sprinkles of light out of my field of vision. Cahriu lowers his knee, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Don’t think you’re gonna be sending anyone to the infirmary, staggering around like that.” he remarks idly. “You’re welcome to try, though.”

I let out a bit of a grunt as I brace myself on the table, still waiting for the splotches to fade from my vision. Reaching up, I brush Ridge’s hands off my arms, and use the table to push myself upright to the catcalls of the mercs in the mess hall. He tries to pull me back towards the doors, but I push him away, reaching up to wipe away some of the blood dripping over my lips as I stagger back to the middle of the row.

“You gonna take me apart now?” Cahriu says skeptically.

I cough up some blood and spit it to the side. “You didn’t knock me out, so yeah.”

“I’ve got my doubts.”

“Tell you what.” I say, taking in a deep breath as my vision starts to steady and straighten out. “I’m feelin’ generous today. You can try a fourth hit.”

“I’m not a sadist, bluebird.” Cahriu says, leaning to one side. “I’m not into that, so if that’s what you’re looking for…”

“Nah, it’s nothin’ like that.” I say, waving dismissively. “You just weren’t trying.”

“Excuse me?” he says, perplexed.

“You heard me. You weren’t putting your back into it.” I say, pacing back and forth a little to get the blood flowing.

“Oh, you want me to put my back into it?” he demands, taking his hands out of his pockets.

“Yeah. You think you can handle Kiwi, but you’re gonna need to try a little harder than that to keep up with her.” I say, stopping in the middle of the row again. “Take it from someone that’s tangled with her before.”

I can see the irritation in his orange eyes, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “We’ll see about that.” he says, fingers curling into fists as he heads for me, business-like now. I reach up with my right hand, wiping away more blood from my lips as I watch him approach. The way he’s timing his steps, the way one shoulder starts to move back as one of those fists starts to rise and move backwards.

Right-fist haymaker, aimed for the center of my face. Probably trying to capitalize on my already-broken nose.

I don’t move until his fist has started to launch. Instead of ducking away, I jerk my head to one side and lunge forward, his fist going over my shoulder at the same time that the hand I had raised to my mouth goes over his shoulder. I use that hand to grab the underside of his punching arm, getting the back of my elbow hooked behind his head, and plant my other hand over the first one underneath his arm. Without sparing a moment for mercy or warning, I shove his arm upwards at the same time that my elbow shoves down at the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

There’s a grisly, grinding squelch as his shoulder is wrenched out of its socket.

Cahriu lets out a strangled sound that’s akin to a gasp that doesn’t have enough air going into it. He instantly goes slack, trying to slither his arm out of the hold with as little resistance as possible; I let go of his arm, but only so I can leverage my elbow against the back of his neck, keeping him in place and bent over as I kick my right leg off the ground, rocketing it straight up into his midsection.

The thud is solid, and the crunch of breaking ribs is muffled, probably only audible to him and me.

He folds the moment I drop my leg, slumping to the ground limp. As I take a step back, I see him make an attempt to roll over, but even that seems agonizing to him, with his ribs crunched and one arm popped out of its socket; his breathing is in short, sharp gasps, as if each breath was painful - to be expected, with broken ribs.

Wiping my bloody hand off on my jeans, I huff out a breath, then look up when I see a flash of light further down the row. The other Maskling handlers are pushing away from their table, rune circles flaring to life around their wrists as they start down the row towards me.

Looks like I’m locked in for a few more rounds after this.

Event Log: Lucanthiline

The Bulwark: Living Sector Corridors

1:23pm SGT

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sierra mutters, her boots thudding against the floor as she marches down the corridors with her Challenger dress jacket flaring out behind her.

“What happened?” I ask, skipping a little to keep up with her long stride. “Songbird doesn’t seem like the type to start a brawl.”

“He isn’t. He likes to keep to himself and get along with everyone.” Sierra growls as we come up the main corridor leading to the mess hall. “But he’s got a couple of very specific berserk buttons, and it looks like someone’s managed to find one of them and push it.”

“Can’t be that bad, can it?” I ask. From what I’ve seen of Songbird up until this point, he tended to be chill and withdrawn in most instances.

Sierra’s answer is to tap her badge to the access pad, the doors of the mess hall clunking to either side to reveal a heaving brawl inside. Food everywhere, lunch trays being used as weapons, every merc using the chaos as a pretext for settling scores and grudges that couldn’t be settled civilly. And in the middle of it all, Songbird is getting dogpiled by three Masklings, discernible from everyone else by the glowing rune circles around their wrists.

Sierra holds out a hand to me. I pass her the sonic grenade she’d asked me to carry, and both of us take a moment to put in our earplugs. Once they’re in, Sierra primes the grenade, and chucks it into the mess hall. The multitonal, high-frequency screaming it puts off has me wincing even with the earplugs; in the mess hall, the effect is nearly instant. All fighting grinds to a halt as everyone rushes to cover their ears, crouching down and trying to cover their heads to drown out the head-splitting screeching.

The grenade runs out of battery about thirty seconds later. Taking her earplugs out, Sierra steps into the mess hall, pulling out her earbuds as she steps over people and kicks others out of the way. I follow after her, prying out my earbuds as Sierra’s shouting replaces the screeching of the sonic grenade.

“What the everloving hell has gotten into you all?” she bellows, making her way to where Songbird and the Masklings are. “Someone starts swinging and the rest of you lose your goddamn minds? If I had the ability to do so, I’d do the rest of the galaxy a favor and revoke your right to contribute to the gene pool!” Noticing some of the mercs trying to slink away through the other doors leading into the mess hall, she shouts up into the air. “Legaci! Seal the mess hall! Nobody gets out, nobody gets in unless I say so! Everyone that made this mess gets to help clean it up!”

All the doors around the mess hall slam shut, locking and sealing. I continue lightfooting my way around reeling mercs still recovering from the disorienting effects of the sonic grenade; as we near Songbird and the Masklings, I notice one wolf-eared guy that’s not doing so hot. “Hey boss, we might need a medic team in here. This guy looks like he’s having a hard time breathing.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Sierra says. “Legaci, put the infirmary on notice and get a medic team with a couple of stretchers down here, I’m sure some of these idiots are going to need it.” She comes to a stop where Songbird’s sitting on the floor, splattered with blood and with one eye swollen shut, his shirt partially sliced open, and a couple of nasty gashes beneath it that are starting to seal up. Despite all that, he’s got one arm hooked over his knee, looking generally calm. “Bet you’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you.” Sierra demands, hooking her hands on her hips.

Songbird looks around at the disarray that the mess hall is currently in. “Dunno why everyone else joined in. I didn’t ask ‘em to.” he says, pausing to hawk some bloody spit off to the side.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because you’re a CHALLENGER, and Challengers set the example?” Sierra snaps at him. “Get off your ass and down to the infirmary. Once Valkyrie has you patched up, go straight to my office. We’re gonna have a talk.”

Planting a hand on the floor, Songbird pushes himself up with a grunt. “The wolf Maskling’s got a dislocated shoulder and a few broken ribs. In case the medics are wondering when they get here.” Limping down the row, he pauses to help Ridge up and take his longcoat back from the kid. “The other Masklings I just roughed up a bit. Bruises and scrapes, but nothing major.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Forecast will be real happy to hear you ‘only’ roughed up some of his people.” Sierra snaps. “Luci, you mind running and telling the Commander that I’ve got the situation under control?”

“Can do, Boss.” I say, turning and jogging back the way we came. I slow down as I catch up to Ridge and Songbird, giving the latter a long look. “What happened, Songbird? It’s not like you to get into this kind of trouble.”

“I had my reasons.” Songbird says tersely, leaving it at that.

“It was over a girl.” Ridge grumbles, still rubbing his ears.

I glance between the two. “…you mean Kiwi?”

“I had my reasons.” Songbird repeats.

“Bad reasons.” Ridge mutters.

I look over my shoulder as we reach the doors. Sierra’s gotten up on one of the tables in the mess hall, shouting at mercs as they start to recover from the sonic grenade. Anybody that isn’t injured is being ordered to roll up their sleeves and start cleaning up the mess of trays and food in the room. The Masklings, those of them that can still move after getting kicked around by Songbird, have clustered around the wolf-eared Maskling who’s laid out on the floor, twitching in pain.

“Well, I hope whatever it was, she was worth it.” I say as we reach the sealed doors. “Legaci, Sierra’s ordered me to go loop in the Commander, and she’s told Songbird to report to the infirmary, then to her office.”

“Yeah, I heard her.” Legaci’s voice comes from the access pad as the door unbolts and hisses open. “Scootch-a-bootch. I don’t want anyone trying to sneak out with you three.”

We hurry through the door, which hisses shut behind us. Out in the hall, Songbird pauses, looking around for a moment, as if he couldn’t remember where to go. “Infirmary’s that way.” I say, pointing down to the hall and to the left.

“Yeah, yeah. I just needed a moment.” Songbird says, starting in that direction. “I took a knee to the face, and I think it might’ve taken a couple brain cells with it.”

“Not like you were using them anyway.” Ridge mutters, following behind him.

“Big words from someone that doesn’t know how to ask a greeter girl for directions to the nearest restaurant, Ridge.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! That was because you forced me to talk to her and you know it!”

“You need to learn to socialize with the other gender even if you’re not interested in them, Ridge. Can’t be a galactic defender if you’re only willing to talk to half of the galactic population.”

“I know, but it’s so awkward…”

Their voices fade away as they turn the corner, though I can’t help but smile at their back-and-forth. I hadn’t expected it when we first brought Ridge onboard, but the two of them get along pretty well — like a couple of brothers. It’s been nice to see them become more than just mentor and student.

Tucking my hands in my pockets, I start walking now that the pressure of their gazes is off me, the hall around me melting and blurring as I head off to fill in the Commander.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

The Bulwark: Lieutenant Commander’s Office

2:31pm SGT

It’s been a while since I felt like I was being sent to the principal’s office.

This is one of those instances, though. Sitting in one of the plastic chairs in Sierra’s office, I sip from a small bottle of blood while I wait for her to arrive, my wounds mostly sealed up by now. Valkyrie had to set my nose and straighten it out, but that was the only real work she’d needed to do with me. And it was just as well, because I think I pissed her off. My discharge from the infirmary had come in the form of her shoving a blood bottle into my hands and pointing to the door of the infirmary, scowling at me the whole time.

The message had been pretty clear: you’re a vampire, you can regenerate, take this blood and get out of my sight, you little shit.

While it was pretty rude, I could understand where she was coming from. I was the reason her infirmary was filling up with people that needed medical attention, so I’d basically created unnecessary work for her.

Now I was here, slouched in one of the chairs and sipping from the little hand-sized bottle every now and then. It was human blood, nothing impressive; generic, bottom-of-the-barrel stuff. Normally I wouldn’t have minded getting human blood for free, since it was so expensive for Orphans, but after the virgin pureblood and the Dalayu blood I’d gotten on Sierra’s account, it was a letdown to be sipping on regular old human blood. I’d been spoiled, and it was going to be hard to go back now that I’d had the good stuff.

Letting the bottle rest on my knee, I look around Sierra’s office. It’s decently sized; there’s a main desk, a couple couches against the wall, a dead plant in the corner of the room, and the walls are a steel-grey color, instead of the usual rusty shitstain brown that pervades the rest of the Bulwark and the Accatria. A number of holoposters have been mounted on the walls, their bright colors popping out from the rest of the room. Most of them are vintage posters that were sold as merch before the Challenger program was shuttered; they have a lot of the old, popular Challengers striking bold poses while standing atop rubble or while on missions. There’s one with Jackrabbit and her signature red scarf billowing in the wind; one with Ratchet in her plugsuit, standing on the shoulder of the Firefly Blue; one with Nova powered up in her Dark Star regalia, which is really just a corrupted Starstruck uniform. The colors on the last one jump at me, pinks and reds twined elegantly with blacks and greys that help bring out the contrast.

I lean back in my chair a little, my lips pursed as my gaze wanders along the other holoposters hanging on the walls. There’s a couple of group shots up there of the famous teams, and a poster with Nova posing cutely for a clothing sponsorship she’d taken on before the fall of the program. This is part of the reason I don’t like digging through through old Challenger memorabilia; everywhere you look through the last-gen stuff, you’ll see Nova cropping up. In those final days, she got more attention than even Jackrabbit.

“Everyone’s favorite Challenger.” I mutter to myself, raising my bottle of blood and sipping from it again.

The sound of the door sliding open draws my attention, and I look to see Sierra stepping in, the door snapping shut behind her. I sit up in my chair, opening my mouth, but she just holds up a hand as she walks to the side of the room, grabbing the other plastic chair and dragging it over to the space opposite me. Flipping it backwards, she sits down in it facing me, with her arms folded over the back of the chair.

“When most guys get in a fight over girl, they just trade a few swings and some nasty insults, and they leave it at that.” Sierra starts, fixing her crimson eye on me. “They don’t usually dislocate the competition’s shoulder, break their ribs, and put them in the infirmary for a week or more.”

“Yeah, I know.” I sigh, leaning forward and running a hand through my hair. “I messed up—”

“Are you kidding me? I was tryin’ not to bust out laughing!” Sierra interrupts.

I look up, surprised. Sierra is grinning from ear to ear. “I… you… what?” I say, confused.

“It finally happened! Oh my gods, I’ve been waiting for this for months.” Sierra says, rocking in her chair giddily. “You finally quit the good guy act, grew a spine, and stood up for yourself and what you want instead of letting someone push you around! That’s some real progress right there. Lemme tell you, I got a kick out of watching that footage. Some wolfpunk picking a fight with a bona fide Challenger, as if he thought he stood a chance. And you absolutely destroyed him! Oh man, I was having a hard time trying not to giggle while I was watching the replay with Forecast.” She reaches up, wiping at one eye as she chuckles. “Man, I needed that. That made my day.”

I just stare at her, dumbfounded. “You’re… not angry?” I say slowly.

“Are you kidding me? I got your back all the way!” Sierra grins. “The dude was asking for it, going on like he was. He was pushing your buttons, he knew he was pushing them, and he kept pushing them, even after you asked him to stop and after you tried to leave. There is nothing more satisfying than watching a cocky little bint get put in their place, and you put him in his place and slammed the lid shut afterwards. I ain’t even mad, Feroce. Watching you take out the trash gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.”

“Uh… you’re welcome?” I say, not quite sure how to respond to that. “I thought you would be mad, because we’re trying to get along with the Masklings, and this probably didn’t help…”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, that’s a good point.” Sierra says, ceasing her rocking in her chair. “It wasn’t really the best as far as team-building goes. But part of it came about because Kiwi and wolfboy are deliberately playing games, trying to mess with you. That’s a problem on their side; Forecast needs to straighten his people out, and I’m gonna tell him that. If his people are gonna try to play mind games with galaxy’s most notorious Challenger, then they better be ready to deal with the consequences.”

I look at the blood bottle in my hand, then at Sierra. “So I’m… not gonna be disciplined for this?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Sierra says, standing up. “Wolfboy should know better. You tug on the tiger’s tail, you’re gonna catch the claws.” Picking up the chair, she moves it back over to the side of the room. “Formally, I’m required to tell you not to let your temper get the better of you, and to report any harassment to your commanding officer instead of taking it in your own hands. But I’m only saying that to you to say that I said it. Informally, I’m telling you to punt that bastard’s ass across the ship next time he brags about taking a roll in the hay with that cute little Mask Knight.”

I scratch the side of my head, squinting. “I feel like you’re trying to get me to walk away from this with the wrong lesson.”

Sierra raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying you wanna be punished, instead of getting off scot-free?”

I consider that, then lean back in my chair. “Nope. I’m fine. I have my doubts about whether I should’ve reacted that way, but if you’re not going to punish me, I’m fine with that too.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sierra says, moving around behind her desk and sitting in her swivel chair. “I’ll tell the Commander and Forecast that I reprimanded you, but that if his people keep provoking you, you’re going to keep handing their asses back to them. That way you can continue handing asses if you need to.”

“Well, I don’t plan on making a habit of it, but that’s good to hear.” I say, peering at my bottle of blood. “Do you want me to stay away from the Masklings for now? Give things some time to cool off?”

“What? No.” Sierra says disdainfully. “Keep doing whatever you were doing before. Don’t let this change the way you go about your daily life. Avoiding them is like admitting defeat. Make them be the ones to avoid you, if they’re uncomfortable with it. I’ve got a feeling that’s not gonna stop your crush; she’s a stubborn little bitch, from what I’ve seen.”

I give her a long, measured stare. “I feel like you’re deliberately trying to whip up unnecessary drama.” I say after a moment.

Sierra just grins as she turns on the screen embedded into her desk. “This is what life’s about. It’s not about saving worlds or changing the galaxy. It’s about these little moments, these petty little fights and small, daily adventures that keep things moving between those big, world-saving battles. Don’t run from it. Embrace it. These little battles might be meaningless, but that’s how you know you’re not just some mindless tool of fate.”

I think about that, and reflect that despite Sierra’s largely careless approach to everything in general, she does have a good point. “That’s unusually profound, coming from you.”

“I can be wise when I want to be.” she says, lifting a hand and making a shooing motion. “Now go on, get out of here. I’ve got shit to do in preparation for our visit to the Challenger Valiant outpost. Go teach Ridge how to do what you did to the wolfpunk, or whatever it is you do in your spare time.”

I get up, turning and heading for the door. “Well, I appreciate your support, Sierra. Thanks for having my back.”

“I support you finally getting laid. Now get out of here. You’re making me sick with all this gratitude.” she say, repeating her dismissive wave.

“You got it.” I say, raising my bottle to her before turning and stepping through the door as it opens for me. Once I’m outside in the hall, I take a look down at the blood bottle in my hand, then check the time on my phone.

Guess I’ll go find somewhere to finish the rest of this in peace.

Event Log: Kiwi

The Bulwark: Infirmary

2:31pm SGT

I don’t look as I hear Forecast’s footsteps come to a halt beside me outside the window of the infirmary. “I don’t want to hear it.” I say, hoping to head off the ‘I told you so’ that I know is coming down the tubes.

“I haven’t said anything.” he says, turning to face the infirmary window.

“You were going to.” I reply.

“And I still might.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

“Tell me, what did you expect would happen?” he asks anyway.

Despite not wanting to have this conversation, I still consider the question seriously before answering. “Honestly… I didn’t expect this to happen.” I say, nodding to where Cahriu’s laid up in one of the infirmary’s beds. None of the damage was permanent or bloody; it was all very calculated and sanitary, meant to put someone out of commission for a while without leaving much that needed to be cleaned up. I was starting to have a bit more respect for what Songbird was capable of. “I thought they’d throw hands, I kinda figured that much… I didn’t expect Songbird to do all this.”

Forecast lets out a small, amused sound, and I look to see that he’s smiling. It’s the sort of smile that irritates me, because it’s the one he always wears when he foresaw what was going to happen, but didn’t tell me.

“Oh great. You’re going to tell me that you forecast this outcome?” I demand.

“I didn’t need to forecast it.” Forecast replies mildly. “You worked hard to earn the jealousy of a Challenger, Kiwi. Did you think he would respond as other men would?”

“You’re insufferable sometimes.” I mutter.

“For better or worse, you have now ascertained that he still cares about you despite the fact that you have taken advantage of and manipulated him.” Forecast says, looking down as he fiddles with the cuffs of his suit. “All it cost you was the functionality of one of handlers, who will likely be out of commission for at least a month. So what are you going to do now?”

I fold my arms. “…honestly I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought about it beyond getting to this point.”

Forecast narrows his eyes. “So your plan was to tangle with one of your handlers, make Songbird envious, let them fight each other, and then… what, did you think he would come crawling back to you?” he asks with no small amount of incredulity. “Kiwi, did you honestly think that would work?”

“Well, evidently I did, otherwise I wouldn’t have tried it.” I retort.

“Clearly you don’t think very highly of him.” Forecast says, shaking his head. “Is he just fodder to you, like all the rest of your handlers are?”

“Songbird? No, he’s… more than the others. He’s stronger.” I reply.

“Then treat him with the respect he deserves.” Forecast says, folding his arms behind his back. “You take it for granted that you can have any handler you like among the Masklings, but Songbird is not a Maskling. He will not be handed to you on a silver platter, like the rest of your handlers are. You use them up and throw them away, but if you really believe that Songbird can endure where your other handlers cannot, that needs to be reflected in your behavior. You cannot treat him like he is disposable if you want to keep him around.”

My fingers curl into the sleeves of my shirt. I know what he’s working towards here, and I don’t like it. He’s going to tell me that I need to apologize to Songbird. And if I refuse, he’s going to tell me that my pride is going to be my undoing.

And honestly, I can’t really disagree.

“I thought you didn’t want me to tangle with Songbird.” I say, trying to change the direction of the conversation. “Every time I’ve brought it up, you keep pushing me towards tangling with one of my Maskling handlers. Did you change your mind recently?”

“I came to realization, perhaps later than I should’ve, that you had already firmly committed to the idea of Songbird being your handler, despite the obvious taboos and the fact that it would likely get him killed.” Forecast replies coolly. “And I know, all too well, that once you have an idea in your head, you refuse to let it go until you either get what you wanted, or it blows up in your face.”

I take a moment to parse that. “You still don’t believe that he can survive tangling with me.”

“Correct.”

“You want me to tangle with him, because you think that it’ll eventually kill him, and it’ll prove you right, and teach me a lesson at the same time.”

“A lesson you refuse to learn by advisement, so it must be learnt by experience.”

I shake my head in disgust. “Yeah. That’s great. Real supportive, Dad.”

“There’s an easy way and a hard way to learn this lesson, Kiwi. If you insist on learning it the hard way, I will not make things harder on myself trying to turn you from a path I know you won’t turn from.”

I turn to face him. “And what if I prove you wrong? What if Songbird can survive me? Are you going to swallow your pride and admit you were wrong?”

He smiles. “I won’t have to. Because Songbird’s not going to tangle with you again until he trusts you, and part of that requires you to swallow your pride and apologize for what you did to him. For what you’re still doing to him. And like me, you have a very hard time swallowing your pride.” He turns and starts walking away. “Like father, like daughter, after all.”

“Oh, you think you’re so clever!” I fume as he walks away. He is clever, though. Smart, manipulative. Just the same as I manipulated Songbird and Cahriu into trying to get what I want, Forecast has manipulated me into making a choice between sticking with the Maskling orthodoxy, or swallowing my pride so I can tangle with Songbird again.

Like father, like daughter indeed.