Valiant

[Valiant #33: The Gift of Hate]

Log Date: 11/2/12764

Data Sources: Feroce Acceso, Kiwi

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Sunthorn Bastion: Overlook

10:19am SGT

“Are you worried about him?”

Kiwi’s question comes as we’re sitting at one of the overlook tables on the Bastion’s Rim. We’re currently having brunch — or rather, Kiwi’s having brunch while I alternate between sipping on blood and fizzwater. I’m watching over the railing as Ridge and his new boyfriend stroll along the Rim road, hanging out with each other during the downtime between basic training.

“Yeah. No? It’s… I just.” I mumble, trying to find the words, and watching how Ridge smiles at his boyfriend. The way he laughs when he tells a joke. Even from afar, and three stories up, I can read the emotions, the simple and uncomplicated thrill of first love, of new love. The way his head tilts a little when Quincy is talking, the slight bounce in his step as they walk side by side. I’ve seen it before, and it’s familiar, and yet so distant. “He seems happy.”

Kiwi raises an eyebrow over her sandwich. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No.” I say quickly, and just as quickly fall silent. I spend another couple moments trying to gather my existential thoughts before I speak again. “Do you remember what it was like to be young and in love?”

She shrugs. “I’m still young and in love.”

That throws a wrench into what I’m trying to get at; I can’t help but give a small smile at that. Still, it doesn’t chase away what’s sitting on my mind as I watch Ridge and Quincy. “Yes, but… do you remember what it was like when you were young and inexperienced? When you were a kid and didn’t know anything about the universe, and you were just trying to figure it out. Do you remember how that felt, falling in love at that age?”

Kiwi’s chewing slows as she looks at Ridge and Quincy, then back at me. “…yeah. Sorta.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Is that what you want to feel like?”

I can sense the unspoken question buried under the spoken one. And again, I need a moment to think about my answer before replying, because I don’t want her to get the wrong idea. “I want to feel like that again. Not because I’m not happy with what I have right now, but because… I want to be that different version of me. The earlier version, the one that wasn’t so guarded.” I look at her now. “You remember what it was like the first time you fell in love when you were a teenager, really fell in love? Not just saying you liked someone because it was cool or because they were a really good friend, but when you actually felt it, realized something was different about it that time?”

She’s stopped eating her sandwich now, simply sitting there holding it as she looks at me, then looks down, thinking about it. Really thinking about it, reaching back into the halls of memory and pulling up those decades-old memories. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember it. It wasn’t something you wanted to tell to your friends, because it actually mattered that time, and you didn’t want them to make fun of it, or tell the person you liked.”

“Yeah. That.” I say, rocking my fizzwater flask a little. “And it made you feel vulnerable and exposed when people found out, and that’s how you knew it was real. Because all of the sudden it had the potential to hurt in a different way than you’d ever been hurt before, and that’s how you knew it was real. Because it was thrilling but also scary at the same time.”

“And you don’t feel that way with me?” she asks, looking at me now.

“I don’t, but it’s not because I don’t love you. Just because I’m… older, I think.” I say, glancing back down to Ridge and Quincy, who are start to pass beyond the point where I can easily make out their body language. “You get older, and you get hurt, and you get hurt, again and again and again over the years. And it builds up this… emotional scar tissue, if you know what I mean? If you get hurt enough times, it just starts hurting less and less when people do stuff that hurts you. You just get used to it, and it makes it easier to shrug off the abuse when it happens. But it also takes you longer to get attached to people, to really care about them.” I fall silent for a moment, absorbing my own words. “I don’t like being that way. That’s why I wish I could feel the way I did when I was younger. Excited but vulnerable. It feels like it would be easier to connect with people if I could still be that kind of person.”

Kiwi sets her sandwich down after a moment. “Yeah.” she says quietly. “I get it.”

“You do?” I’m a little surprised at that; I’d been sitting here thinking I was digging my grave by saying any of this. That she’d somehow come away thinking I didn’t love her as much as I loved someone else when I was younger.

“Yeah.” she says, turning in her chair to glance at Ridge and Quincy’s shrinking outlines. “You just build up defenses over time. It’s what you do to get by, just to survive. Emotional scar tissue, like you said. I’m the same way; I’ve had relationships over the years, but each time they ended, I’d add another layer to keep myself from getting hurt.” She grabs her drink, sipping from the straw before going on. “Eventually I was just sleeping with my handlers to get the thrill, without any of the attachment. Since I knew they were going to die anyway, and I’d be the reason they got killed. I wanted to feel alive, to be close to other people, but I never let myself get attached to them because I hated getting hurt whenever they died or left. And I kept doing that until… well.” She smiles at me. “Until you told me to stop.”

“Yeah. I suppose I did.” I say, finding myself faintly amused as I think back to one of the two instances when we’d shared a mindscape back on the Cradle. “We never really did talk about that, did we.”

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“I honestly hadn’t thought about it until just now.” I admit. “Most of the time you were gone, I was thinking about how aggravating you could be. And how much I missed it.”

She grins at that. “Somebody’s gotta be there to push your buttons and make you have fun.” Setting her drink down, she gives a last look at Ridge and his boyfriend. “Sorry I can’t make you feel the way you felt when you were younger.”

“Don’t apologize.” I say without hesitation. “I’m not asking you to make me feel that way. I’m just… frustrated at myself, I guess. That I can’t make myself feel that way. That too much has happened to me to feel that exact way again. There’s benefits to being a cynical vet that’s seen too much, but… I dunno. I’d give it up if I could get back some of the things I know I’ve lost along the way.”

Kiwi’s quiet for a bit, then swivels her head back towards me. “Let’s spend some time together tonight.” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t we do that every night?”

“We sleep together; we hang out with each other. But let’s spend some time with each other tonight. Getting to really know each other. Talking and learning more about each other. Getting around some of that scar tissue each of us has built up.” she says without taking her wildfire eyes off me. “I want to feel that way again. Like you could hurt me if you wanted to, and desperately hoping you’ll never break my heart. Breathless and vulnerable and thrilled all at once.”

“You really think it’s possible to feel that way again?”

“I don’t know. But I want to try.”

I glance down at my flask, then nod.

“Alright then. Just you and me tonight, for as long as it takes.”

The Myrrdicato Dispatch (Galactic)

Opinion Section

The Kids Are (Not) Okay

The recent report from the Galactic Health Organization has gotten a lot of attention for stating the obvious: kids across the galaxy are not okay right now. We knew this, of course; everyone knew this, and parents especially knew this. Mental health diagnoses have been creeping up in the youth population for the last two decades; just the other day, my teenager told me she’d gladly trade her anxiety for something a bit more manageable, like a peanut allergy. And I couldn’t help but think to myself:

Was it always like this?

Whenever I think back on my own childhood, in the 12730s and the 12740s, I don’t remember mental health being a crisis, not among kids, not among teenagers, not like this. Yes, we had our problems; absolutely we had our problems. Children are nothing if not one problem after another, the necessary process of making mistakes and learning how to be functioning members of society. But those problems were usually just that: problems. Things that came and went, phases of misbehavior or maladjustment that smoothed out with time, guidance, and maturity. When I think back on my youth, problems were like colds, or a bout of sickness. It came, it made life miserable for a while, and then it went away.

Problems today are much different.

They linger, persist. Sadness when I was a teenager meant that I was having a meltdown after getting rejected by my 10th-grade crush; sadness for my daughter means existential despair over the state of society at large. Anger when I was a teenager meant that I was pissed that a friend had been trashing me on socmed behind my back, or that my parents had imposed a curfew and told me I couldn’t go to a party I wanted to go to. For my daughter, anger means fury at the inherent inequities of capitalism and a nihilistic rage at the wealth inequities that she knows will define the struggle of her early adulthood.

You may observe — and rightly so — that it sounds like my daughter was a good deal more intelligent than I was at her age. But I don’t think intelligence entirely accounts for this disparity. I have heard some say that awareness is the hinging factor, that with the modern tools of the galaxynet and social media, kids today are now more aware of the galaxy around them than they’ve ever been, but that still doesn’t sit right with me. We had socmed when I was kid; granted, it’s changed since then, as it usually does, but we still had access to the tools we needed to know about the galaxy around us, and we were never this anxious, this depressed, this apathetic, about the galaxy we lived in.

And maybe, maybe that’s what it boils down to: our kids aren’t growing up in the same galaxy that we grew up in.

We grew up in a different time, the time of the Challengers. We grew up in a time of heroes and idealism and a galaxy that was charting a course to a better future. I’m not going to speak to the end of the Challenger program; I’m not here to argue that and I’m sure there are other people that are better equipped for that debate than me. But I do remember the years before that, when the Challengers were still this shining beacon. In those days the galaxy was bright; it was filled with that light. In those days, we had the security of knowing someone else carried the burdens of guarding all that was good in the galaxy, of knowing that there were people out there that would fight for it and advocate for it.

Those people aren’t there anymore, and our kids know it. They know that they’re on their own; they don’t have people that will stand up for them, that will stand up for the right thing. To me, that’s what this newest report from the GHO proves more than anything else. Everybody knew the kids weren’t okay; we didn’t need number-crunchers in a distant office to tell us that. The report just puts numbers to the problem everyone already knew about. I get why the numbers are important, but numbers don’t change the fact that this isn’t the same galaxy we grew up in, and our kids know it, because they’re living it.

The kids are not okay — and perhaps no one knows that better than the kids themselves.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Sunthorn Bastion: Proving Grounds

11:16am SGT

“Is there a reason you’re late, recruit?”

Quincy winces as the door to the room spirals shut behind him. Doubtless he’d been hoping he could slip in at the back, but given today’s module, I was not beginning until everyone was here, and had made sure the rest of the recruit class knew it. They’re seated in front of me in rows, four across and five deep, sitting on hexagon columns that have raised themselves out of the floor of the room. A single column has been left empty on the front row.

“Sorry sir, I lost track of time.” Quincy say, slinking to the unoccupied column and sitting on it. He’s a decently handsome kid, brown hair and warm blue eyes; I can see what Ridge sees in him, at least physically.

“Don’t let it happen again.” With that, I turn my attention to the rest of the class. Renchiko and Ridge are seated among the group; at the back, leaning against the wall, are Kiwi, Tarocco, Cahriu, Tony, Midnatt, and Sol. “You all will notice that we have guests for this training course today. They are attending as a matter of understanding the Valiant’s perspective on the use of firearms, which is derived from the Challenger policy that preceded it. Much of today’s course is pulled from the old Challenger module on firearms; while I have modified some parts of it, most of the original structure remains intact.” I turn and motion to a group of columns raised to table height, with the standard firearms of the Bastion laid on them. Unloaded, of course. “You will eventually be learning how to use these weapons. Before you do, however, we will be covering the principals of basic firearms safety.”

I can see eyes immediately starting to glaze over the moment firearms safety leaves my mouth. A couple of the vets that already have firearm principles ingrained into them fold their arms, and others who get the idea lean forward and rest their forearms on their knees, as if they were bracing themselves for a lecture. The younger recruits are still attentive, some of them clearly itching to get to the part where they actually got to handle the guns.

“Are there any questions before we begin?” I ask.

No responses. Just a bunch of people staring back at me, waiting for me to get on with it.

“Very well. System, run the module.” I order to the room. The lights dim somewhat as the holoarrays come on, projecting a large recording into the center of the room. It’s a video recorded from the perspective of a worn body camera, involving two soldiers — the one wearing the camera, and the other one currently in frame. The background shows them at a guardpost, and the audio makes it clear that they’re shooting the breeze to pass time. Complaining about barracks inspection and the quality of the food in the mess hall — simple, banal stuff. It goes on this way for about ninety seconds.

So when there’s a sudden crack in the audio, everyone jumps when the soldier’s head jerks to the side and part of his jaw is torn off with a splatter of blood.

The recording becomes incredibly shaky after that part as the soldier wearing the camera immediately crouches down, getting behind the wall of the guardpost. As the camera jerks and sways around, we catch a shaky view as the second soldier on his knees, hands up to his face as he tries to hold in a dangling piece of his jaw and half his tongue, all while making panicked, high-pitched noises that gurgle past the blood collecting in his mouth. The recording freezes on that image, leaving it up for the entire room to get a good, long look at it.

Glancing at the class of recruits, I can see that many are fidgeting and finding other things to look at, some shifting or rocking uneasily on their columns.

“This is what you will be doing to other living things when you pull a trigger.” I say. No tone, no inflection, no drama. Flat and factual. “This isn’t a holo, or a movie, where coilgun spikes leave neat little holes on a body. These are military weapons. They are made to kill, maim, and injure. Many spike types are designed to deform and expand on impact to increase stopping power and maximize damage. Spikes that mushroom on impact often deform on their way through the body to the point where you get a hole in the front, and it rips a crater in the flesh when it comes out the back. Other spike types fragment upon impact and send chunks of metal tearing through multiple organs, and lodging in difficult-to-extract places. And we haven’t even begun to talk about what plasma weapons do to a body. But perhaps it would be better if we showed you instead. System, roll the next slide.”

The frozen recording dissolves, and reforms into another one that start playing as soon as it loads. It’s another bodycam recording, this one from the view of someone helping carry a stretcher with an injured soldier into a tented field hospital. There is mostly shouting and orders in the foreground, but in the background is the distant sound of artillery and rocket explosions. The soldier on the stretcher is covered in a blanket, but crying out — sharp, ugly, pained cries. Once they get him transferred to one of the beds, one of the triage doctors comes over and pulls the blanket off.

Underneath, there is a blasted waste of exposed, burned flesh over the soldier’s left side where he was struck by a high-caliber plasma bolt. It looks like the bolt seared right through his armor, blowing a crater in his side deep enough to expose two of the ribs, with a black ring of burned muscle around the crater site, fading to a cooked brown as it gets further away, and then an angry red that has spread across the surrounding skin in inflamed splotches. Beyond that, the edges of his uniform have melted into his burned skin from the heat of the plasma bolt he was struck with. A pair of nurses have to hold the soldier’s arms down, then strap the rest of him down to keep him from moving too much as the doctor starts to work on damage control for the injury. The recording freezes at that point, with a full view of the sizzled crater in the soldier’s torso.

I return my attention to the recruits to see that only a few of them are still looking at the holoarray. Most of the others have turned aside, or are looking down, avoiding staring at the images playing out in front of them. Those that are still watching have only stony or grim looks on their faces.

“What,” I ask softly. “is the difference between a weapon and a tool?”

It’s silent. Nobody answers.

“What is the difference between a shovel and a gun?” I ask.

The group remains silent. Some of them furtively glance at each other to see if anyone else plans on answering, but nobody speaks up.

“The difference is in purpose.” I say when no one answers. “A tool is made for a utilitarian purpose. A shovel digs holes and can pry things open. A wrench is made for loosening and tightening bolts. A pen is made for marking things as a form of communication. These are the primary purposes of their design. Now you can, if you so desire, use them for something other than what they were designed for. A shovel can be used to bludgeon someone to death. The same can be said of a wrench. I have even seen a pen used to kill someone by shoving it through their eye and into their cranial cavity. But that is not what these items were designed for, or intended for.” I pause to let this sink in. “Now tell me, what is the purpose of a weapon?”

They can tell where I’m going with this. I know they know the answer. But nobody wants to speak up and say it.

“The purpose of a weapon is destruction. It is designed specifically for the sole intent and purpose of inflicting harm, injury, and death. Guns, and firearms in general, are weapons. They exist for no other purpose except injuring, harming, or killing someone or something. And every weapons designer will tell you the exact same thing: that all advances and improvements in the field of firearms are towards the convergent goal of making a more effective, efficient, easier path towards killing or destroying a target. To kill faster, and with greater certainty, than the previous generation of firearms. There is no other goal, no other purpose, no other reason, for continuing to create and improve upon previous generations of firearms. A gun cannot dig a hole; it cannot be used for mechanical repairs; it cannot be used to write messages. It is designed for one thing and one thing only: catastrophic damage, delivered as quickly, efficiently, and accurately as possible.”

The room is silent. Nobody says anything, possibly because there’s nothing to be said.

“Our purpose here in the Valiant is not destruction.” I continue, looking at each of the faces in the room. “We are not here to carry guns and destroy lives. Our job is to protect and defend those who have no one to protect and defend them. We carry firearms because they are necessary in this line of work, but for us, an ideal mission is one where a shot is never fired. When you can take a life — when you can ruin a life — with a twitch of your finger… anyone that seeks to use that power when it is not absolutely necessary should not be part of this organization.”

I turn and wave to the holoarray, which finally leaves the still image of the soldier with a crater in his chest — only to be replaced one of a child’s mangled corpse sprawled out on the sidelines of a skirmish, within a house strafed by an anti-armor gun. It stays up for five seconds, then blurs and reforms into an image of soldier cradling a leg that’s nearly been severed and is hanging by a single bloody tendon. Another five seconds, and it’s an image of civilian with an upper arm burned and blackened by a stray plasma bolt. Each image in crisp, nauseatingly high resolution.

“While this class is for firearms safety, what I say here applies beyond that to magical abilities. To natural abilities. To technology and machines. To anything we might wield which has the capacity to harm and destroy.” I say, moving to the line of raised columns behind the holoarray, and picking up the coilgun rifle as I move back towards the front. “In the Valiant, you will have access to gear, equipment, and knowledge that can do terrible things to people. We expect you to use it in defense of those who cannot defend themselves — and only when the diplomatic avenue is no longer an option. When we must resort to violence, we will avoid lethal damage where possible. And when we cannot avoid lethal damage, we will minimize the number of casualties as much as we reasonably can.” I turn about to face the group again. “Are there any questions about the Valiant’s stance on the use of lethal force.”

Nothing but a tense, deafening silence.

“Then we will begin.” I say as three columns rise in front of me to about waist height, forming a small table that I can place the rifle on to display it to the group. I flick one hand, the carousel of grisly images behind me disappearing. “We will start with the anatomy of a coilgun rifle, in this case the KDCGR46 Reliable, as the design is an industry standard that can be seen in most other military rifle designs across the galaxy. Many of the basics you learn from this rifle will be applicable to other rifles, plasma variations included. We will start with the basic body of the rifle, particularly the stock, grip, barrel, and muzzle…”

Encyclopedia Galactica

Coilgun

As the most common firearm design in the galaxy, coilguns are the first choice of weapon for many groups, ranging from private owners to mercenaries to national militaries. As a descriptor, ‘coilgun’ refers to any weapon which uses a magnetized coil to launch a projectile at a target. There are countless branches in the coilgun family, with sidearms, firearms, hunting guns, military weapons, and nonlethal options being major groups within the category.

Coilguns are generally less expensive than their plasma-based equivalents, and their manufacturing requires less in the way of exotic materials and internal electronics, making them easier and cheaper to produce at scale. This has made them especially appealing to large organizations, such as militaries or professional mercforces, who must equip hundreds, thousands, or millions of soldiers, and often buy in bulk. While the quality of a coilgun is dependent on the manufacturer that made it, and on receiving regular maintenance, coilguns are generally accepted to be more prone to mechanical failure, and to require more maintenance, than their plasma-based equivalents.

Unlike many of their predecessors, coilguns do not rely on a chemically-propelled round to launch a projectile. The hammer-strike function exists within a coilgun, but rather than igniting a chemical payload, it instead magnetizes a chambered spike, which is propelled forward into a magnetized coil, which accelerates it down the barrel and out of the muzzle. Speed and force of the projectile are determined by the weight and size of the spike, the length of the barrel coil, and the strength of magnetizing current running through the coil. Coilgun sidearms tend to have lower penetration and stopping power than coilgun firearms, which typically have longer barrels, and more acceleration time relative to sidearm barrels.

Magnetic acceleration removes the need for a chemical propellant component in each individual projectile, considerably reducing the weight and size profile of the projectiles fired by a coilgun. As a result, coilguns enjoy a much higher ammunition density than chemically-propelled rounds, and can go much longer between reloads. However, increased efficiency in ammunition density is exchanged for the constraints of a gun that relies on a powered element; coilguns require power cells to function, and it is common for mercenaries or professional soldiers to carry one or two spare power cells, and one or two additional loads of ammunition.

Event Log: Kiwi

Sunthorn Bastion: Overlook

4:28pm SGT

“So I’m not gonna lie, that was kinda… intense.” Cahriu says past a mouthful of sandwich. “Like damn. I know we get taught firearms safety in the Knight Corps, but Songbird was just brutal in that module.”

“It’s almost like he wants them to be scared of the weapons they’ll be using.” Tarocco says, stirring her soup around a bit. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I totally understand it. Everything he said about firearms being designed to kill and maim people… he’s not wrong. I’ve just never seen a weapons safety module get that blunt and graphic with it before.”

“What do you think, Kiwi?” Cahriu asks, finishing his sandwich. “You’re sleeping with him, so I suppose you probably have a better idea of what’s going through the bluebird’s head.”

“Mm?” I say, pulling out of my reverie. I’d been staring out across the forest-speckled grounds of the northern hemisphere, lost in thought. “Oh, the safety module. Yeah, that was… a side of him I don’t see often. It’s prolly because of his past in the Challenger program. Y’know. Hiring standards slipping in the final years, more incidents with civilian collateral, yadda yadda. I think that stuck with him in a big way. The collateral damage stuff. It’s prolly why he’s so averse to violence.”

Cahriu snorts at that. “You’re tellin’ me that the man that took apart a CURSE convoy with just two swords and his workout playlist is averse to violence? I’m not buying it.” He pauses to take a bite of his quickly diminishing sandwich. “I bet he secretly enjoys cutting loose.”

“He does. But he doesn’t like admitting it. After what happened with the Songbird Incident, he was conditioned to feel guilty about… like, everything.” I say, picking up my canteen and sipping from it. “We’re working on deconstructing that. It’s gonna take a while.”

“Isn’t he, like, Anayan too?” Tarocco asks.

“Yeah, sorta. It’s complicated.” I say, checking the fizzwater level within my canteen. Looks like I’m almost out; I’ll have to visit the Spice for a refill. “You know how it goes when you’re raised in a religion. It’s hard to completely leave it behind, even decades after you stop regularly attending.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised he fell for you. Don’t Anayans hate Masklings?” Cahriu says, his wolven ears tilting forward a little. “From what I’ve seen, the orthodox ones get all wiggy about interspecies relationships and mixing races, and Masklings are like. The epitome of that.”

“Like I said, it’s complicated.” I repeat as I set my canteen down. “Like… look, I know I’ve been happy to trash religions in the past, but being with Songbird, I can see it’s… well, it’s complicated. I’ve never really been a religious type, and Songbird… honestly I wouldn’t really say he’s religious? Definitely spiritual, but not religious…” I wave that away. “Anyway, the point I’m getting at here is that I used to see religion as, like, a kind of on-off switch, a yes-or-no type of thing. But it turns out it’s not like that, it’s more like a series of switches, and depending on the kind of person you are, some of them will be flipped on, others will be flipped off. The more religious types have more of their switches flipped on, while the less religious types have more of theirs flipped off.”

“So what do you mean by switches?” Tarocco says, lifting her bowl and drinking the last of her broth before setting it to the side. “Are those supposed to represent something?”

“Sorta? Like… ah, Ink, how do I explain this.” I say, rubbing above my brow. “So imagine the switches as ideas or principles or whatever you want to call it. A lot of religions believe in a core family unit. If you agree strongly with that, that switch is on. If you don’t feel like a core family unit is needed for a fulfilling life, that switch is off.”

“Okay okay. Yeah, I get you now.” Tarocco says, wiping her mouth. “So stuff like traditionalist beliefs, heteronormative relationships, belief in a grand order or a higher power, so on and so forth.”

“Yeah. A sense of duty, community over self, blah blah blah.” I say. “From what I can tell, Songbird had most of his Anayan switches turned on when he was a kid, but a lot of them have slowly been flicked into the off position over the years. A lot of the stuff, like a sense of duty, willingness to make sacrifices, and being a hard worker — those switches are all in the ‘on’ position. But stuff like an aversion to race-mixing, belief that certain species are abominations, and belief that the Anayan clergy has a right to dictate how other Anayans manage their relationship with their goddess — those switches are all in the off position. It’s a mix of on and off switches; he keeps the stuff on that he agrees with, and he switches off the stuff that he feels is wrong or morally inconsistent.”

“So basically, you’re finding out what everybody with a functioning brain already knew: religion is measured on a sliding scale, not a yes-no split.” Cahriu says, popping a chip in his mouth. “There’s room for grey between the black and white.”

“Look, it’s not my fault!” I protest. “I was never raised with the hokey-pokey end-of-times nonsense that a lot of other people are raised with. Plus, most of the people I was in relationships with — they weren’t exactly the Sunday sorts. Getting my head around this stuff ain’t easy for me.”

Tarocco leans back in her chair, smirking. “Well, now you’ve got a pristine, disillusioned altar boy to help you understand it.”

Cahriu sets down his water bottle, shaking his head as he waves a hand. “Whoa, hold up, no no no no no. When you get an altar boy — or an altar girl — it is a moral obligation to corrupt them, Tarocco. Everybody knows that.” He swings his head to me at this point. “You destroy that twunk, you hear me? Corrupt that dat ass like it’s judgement day and you need a travel buddy for your roadtrip to hell.”

Tarocco snorts at that, and I choke on my fizzwater, bracing an arm on the table as I try to cough the carbonation out of my windpipe. “Ink above, Cahriu. You been spendin’ too many nights in Sierra’s bed; she’s startin’ to wear off on you.” Tarocco chuckles.

“Look, I know everyone dunks on her for being permanently horny, but she’s actually pretty smart!” Cahriu says, holding his hands up. “She calls things like they are. Always honest, and doesn’t care what other people think about her opinion. It’s kinda refreshing. You can mock me for it, if you want, but I think other people could learn a thing or two from her.”

“How’s that work, anyway?” I rasp, still trying to clear my throat. “I thought the horny vampire and the catboi twink were a thing. Did they fall out, or…?”

“Ah, it’s non-exclusive.” Cahriu says, waving a hand. “They’re not a thing thing, it’s just that Luci’s her go-to. Sierra’s allowed to go prowling; same thing with Luci. The vampire needs some variety in her diet, and I am more than happy to provide that variety.”

Tarocco smirks. “Ah. So you’re just the flavor of the month.”

“It’s been a couple months now, thank you very much.” he says, hooking an arm over the back of his chair. “More like… I’m the weekend treat. She lives on a diet of catboi sex toy, but I provide a little bit of that wolven spice that keeps things interesting. Kiwi can attest.”

I drain the last of my fizzwater before clunking it down on the table. “Hate to break it to you, big guy, but you ain’t my first wolf hybrid. I’ve had others.”

Cahriu plants a hand to his chest, affecting a wounded look. “Through the heart. Yer killin’ me, Kiwi.” Dropping the pretense, he goes on. “But on that note, how’s you and the bluebird doing, if you don’t mind me asking? I haven’t seen any bite marks on you.”

“C’mon, Cahriu. Just because he’s a vampire doesn’t mean he wants to get his teeth into her.” Tarocco said. “Contrary to what the popular media portrays, vampires don’t always want their lovers to be their dinner as well.”

“Ooohh, pardon me!” he says, putting his hands up again. “All I’m saying is that Sierra did get her teeth into me, so I kinda figured might be the same deal for Kiwi.”

I roll my eyes. “Like I’d tell either of you. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“And Songbird doesn’t bite and tell.”

“Oh, hush.” I shush him, screwing the cap back on my canteen. “…we’re doin’ okay. Takin’ it slow. He’s… kinda adorable. He likes to snuggle and nap together. A lot more affectionate than a lot of the guys I’ve been with.”

“Gods, melt my heart, why don’t you.” Tarocco sighs. “That sounds so sweet.”

“Really?” Cahriu says skeptically. “I wouldn’t have thought it, with how stiff he is everywhere else.”

“He lets his guard down when we’re alone. He’s been hurt before, which is why he’s got the walls up all the time.” I say, pausing a moment when I remember that Songbird and I were supposed to spend time together tonight. Standing up, I push my chair in, giving my canteen a shake. “Anyhow, I need to go grab a refill. You two stay out of trouble.”

“I refuse.” Cahriu says lazily. “How’m I supposed to have fun if I can’t get into trouble?”

“Y’know, I don’t like to encourage him, but he’s got a point.” Tarocco shrugs.

I grin at that. “Fine. If you have to get in trouble, make sure it’s good trouble, then.” With that, I head off, waving over my shoulder. “Oh, and Cahriu?”

“Yeah?”

“Give that vampire a good dicking next time you bed her. We’re the Republic’s elite; we gotta represent and live up to our rep. None of that weak shit you see from the rank and file.”

“Hell ya! You can count on me, Kiwi!”

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Sunthorn Bastion: The Reflection House

5:20pm SGT

I’d avoided coming back to this building.

Not because I disliked it, or what it stood for. It wasn’t a bad building, and I actually believed in what it represented. It was more of a complex; a series of buildings linked together by covered walkways, with gardens and pools between them. Within the buildings, there were places for meetings and worship, designed to accommodate a wide range of religions and belief systems. The Reflection House represented the diversity of the old Challenger program. Showed that we could believe different things, but still stand in the same places.

And yet, when I stand in front of it, all I can think about is the religion I was raised in, and what it had cost me.

The church had raised us with a gift we had never asked for.

The gift of hate.

Hate for vampires. Masklings. And those who mixed races. It was wrong, the church elders reminded us from time to time; it was not right. It was not Anaya’s way; we were meant to be with those of our own race. Those that dated outside of their race invited the judgement of the divine.

I had never really questioned it. It had made a certain amount of sense to me — similar things belong together, like matching colors, or keeping the darks and the lights separate in the laundry. That seemed logical. So it followed that creatures should seek companionship within their own races. It didn’t help that this had been taught to me from the time I was a child, relentlessly reinforced year after year. Ingrained so deeply that I regarded it as a fact, assumed that it was a commonly-accepted truth.

So when I fell in love with someone that happily dated outside of her race, it shook the foundations of everything I knew.

That was the start of the unraveling. The start of many long years of questions, and doubts, and self-loathing, as I struggled to be a good Anayan, but also struggled with my conscience. To love another person is not just to love how they look, or who they are, but to reckon with, and sometimes accept, what they believe.

Everything that the Anayan dogma had taught me told me that this girl was wrong; she was an anomaly, a heretic, an affront to the natural order of the universe. That I should hate her and what she stood for: the intermingling of things that were never supposed to be mixed. The elders had always implied that these kinds of people lived in sin; that they were deviant, and in this deviance, there was intentional malice towards the divine and the natural order of the universe. We were taught, both subtly and overtly, that these people were out to destroy us, our beliefs, and our way of life. We were taught that they hated us because Anayans stood for an immutable truth that others had chosen to reject.

But this girl, she did not hate me.

Cherri was kind to me. She saw how lonely, how awkward, how naïve I was — and she chose to be my friend anyway. And it was not just me. She was kind to others as well. She was gregarious, and she stood for the right of others to have equal rights. To love who they may, regardless of their race or gender. Perhaps it was selfishly motivated on her part, because she was one who loved so often outside her species, and she loved many, though I was never one of them. But it did not matter, because I loved her, and when you love someone, you want to see them happy. You want for them what you wish they would grant unto you. And though it would not come immediately, and I would struggle with it over the years to follow, I let go of my prejudice, piece by little piece, as I realized that following the Anayan dogma so mindlessly would deprive others of what I so badly wanted for myself:

The chance to love, and to be loved.

“I didn’t take you for the worshipping sort.”

The words jerk me out of my reverie. I don’t recognize the voice, and turn halfway, stopping when I see who’s edging his way closer. It’s Koriah Nagatain — Renchiko’s uncle.

All of my pensiveness evaporates in an instant. “What do you want, Kori?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. This is my first time talking to him since he was hired on with the Valiant. He’d steered clear of me since then, perhaps understanding that he was now on my turf, and he couldn’t pull the same shit he pulled back on Shanaurse.

He reads the look on my face. “I’m not here to make trouble.”

My jaw clenches. The anger rears up within me, and I can’t fully keep it down. “Spit it out, then. Staring at you is testing my patience.”

His mouth draws into a tight line at that. “Songbird, I don’t want to pick a fight with you. We’re both going to be here on the Bastion; we’re going to run into each other; we might have to work with each other. I came here to bury the hatchet.”

“Funny how you’re only coming to bury the hatchet now that you’re on my turf and you don’t have a gearshop full of rednecks at your back.” I growl. “I’m not particularly smart, but I’ve been doing this long enough to recognize self-preservation when I see it. And you should know better than to expect sympathy from me after what you did to me.”

“I did what I had to in order to protect my niece.” he says firmly.

“I’ll give you that. You had a shitty way of doing it, but at least you were trying.” I say, turning to fully face him now. “And the part that you’re leaving out is that in order to do that, you threw me under the bus.”

“You were a Challenger. You knew how to take care of yourself—” Kori begins.

“I’m not talking about that, Kori.” I interrupt him. “You’re right, I was a Challenger. I can take care of myself even when I’m kicked offworld with no money, no resources, and no friends. I’m talking about you destroying one of the few family relationships I had left. You could’ve told Renchiko that I had to leave. That CURSE chased me away. That I needed to go work somewhere else so she could be safe. Instead you let her think that I ran away after her mother died. You let her heart break twice over, and you kept the truth from her, and let that wound fester for a decade.”

I can see his jaw tighten. “I… should not have done that. I was angry, and I made some choices I shouldn’t have. I can see that now.”

I just stare for a moment. “That’s it, then. I miss out on Renchiko’s entire childhood, and all you can say ‘oops, shouldn’t have done that’?”

“You were a Challenger, Songbird.” Kori says. “Even if I hadn’t kicked you out, you would’ve left eventually.”

“I would’ve stayed if you hadn’t forced me to leave.” I snap at him.

“Something would’ve pulled you away. It always does with Challengers.” Kori says, motioning a hand to the grounds around us. “You would’ve left to go defend some planet or another, because it’s what Challengers do. You can’t stop yourselves. You go find trouble and get tangled up in it. Even if I hadn’t kicked you offworld, you would’ve left on your own. People like you don’t stay to raise children.”

I peel back my lips in a snarl that bares my fangs. “Don’t TELL me what people like me do!” I bark at him. “You know nothing about me, and in all the time I was on Shanaurse, you never bothered to learn anything about me! You have no idea how much I—”

I cut myself off at that point, biting back what I was about to say. That aching yearning for family, a yearning I’d had ever since I had stopped talking with my own family. He didn’t need to know that, and he didn’t deserve to know that. I close my mouth, hiding my fangs as I fight the urge to grind my teeth together.

Kori presses his lips together and looks away. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I guess I know how you feel now. You kidnap my niece, I sell I have everything I have to buy a ticket, leave my home, come out here, and find out that she hates me. You happy?”

I don’t look away from him. “I told her not to be angry on my behalf. That what happened was between you and me, and it wasn’t her job to be angry for my sake. I told her that what you did, you did to try and protect her, and even if I didn’t agree with your methods, you did it because you cared about her. So if she’s angry at you, it’s because she’s angry at you, not angry because I’ve tried to turn her against you. You piss me right the hell off, Kori, but not to the point where I’m going to stoop to your level. I’m not going to tell lies to try and destroy your relationship with Renchiko. That’s not the kind of person I am.”

I shake my head at this point, throwing an arm out. “And no. I’m not happy. I don’t enjoy this. Renchiko being pissed at you doesn’t give me back the ten years I lost. All this is to me, is watching the lie you told swing back around and hurt someone else — in this case, the person that told the lie in the first place. Nobody gets anything out of this except more hurt.”

Kori’s brows furrow a little, the first sign I’ve seen that he’s feeling regret. “I’m just here to protect her, Songbird. That’s all I came here to do, and it’s what I owe Ichai. If you could tell her that…”

I stare for a moment, then tuck my hands in the pockets of my pink hoodie. “I’ll tell her. But we’re getting to the point where she’s an adult now. She’s going to be making her own choices, taking her own risks. The protection we can give her will be limited, and it’ll only get smaller over time. You know as well as I do that there’s only so much you can do to protect someone from their own choices.”

“Yes. I know.” In that moment, I can tell he’s thinking about Ratchet. Her refusal to settle down and stop running missions, even after the Challenger program collapsed. And she was probably the reason he thought I would never settle down either. “You’ll watch out for her when she starts going on missions, right?”

I give him a flat look. “That’s a dumb question, Kori.”

“I had to ask.” he says, lowering his hands and slipping them into his pockets. “Is the hatchet buried, then?”

“So long as you’re supporting her and helping her work towards her dream, I don’t have any beef with you.” I say, making a half turn back towards the Reflection House. “I don’t like you, but I’ll work with you. We’ll only have a problem if you start trying to control her or block her progress towards becoming a Titan pilot. And if you try to justify it by claiming you’re trying to protect her again, we’re gonna have problems. Is that clear?”

Kori frowns. “There are plenty of legitimate reasons to pump the brakes in Titan pilot training—”

“Then if you bring it up, you better make a damn good case for why you’re doing it.” I say. “You know I was a Titan pilot. I will be able to parse the bullshit from the legitimate concerns, so do not test me.”

It’s clear he doesn’t like that, but he’s not in the position to argue it. “Okay. So long as we have that understanding.”

“Agreed. Now was there anything else you needed?” I ask, itching to end this conversation as quickly as possible. I just want to go back to my apartment, curl up with Kiwi, and soak in her warmth and heartbeat.

“If there’s anything, I’ll let you know.” Kori says. “And Songbird… I am sorry for what I did.”

I weigh all the things I could say to that. All the things I want to say. Many of them are spiteful. Many of them are biting and witty. Many of them sound good, and would give me a little bit of vindictive catharsis. But that is not the sort of person I want to be, even if it would feel satisfying. And besides, all of this affects someone who’s not part of this conversation, but is the whole reason for it.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to. You know that.” is all I say in the end. I turn and take my leave with that, following one of the paths that winds around the Reflection House. Perhaps I’ll visit again at some point.

But for now, I’m going home to be with the person that can make my worries and cares melt away.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Sunthorn Bastion: Songbird and Kiwi’s Apartment

7:02pm SGT

“Hard day?”

I can’t fight back the gusty sigh that escapes me. We’re on the reclining portion of the apartment’s couch; I’ve got the footrest up, trying to let the tension seep out of my muscles and into the leather cushions. Kiwi’s curled up at my side, her head resting on my shoulder.

“Yeah. Sorry if I’ve been quiet. It’s just…” I bring a hand up, rubbing at my face. “It’s been a day. Between the firearms safety module and having it out with Kori, I’m just emotionally worn out.”

She’s quiet for a bit. “You’re an introvert, right?”

“Yeah. I can do the social stuff, put on a smile, socialize with people, but it just drains me so much.” I admit. “And it’s not like I want to be drained. It’s just how it is, just the way I am. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I wasn’t like this, how many times I wish I could be like my sister, or my dad… or you. Extroverts that are good with people and can hang out for hours without being completely exhausted or drained by the end of it.”

“I mean, I’m not completely an extrovert. I get tired of people eventually.” she says.

“Yeah. It’s a spectrum, rather than a black-and-white thing.” I say, turning my head to rest my cheek against her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I had more to give you tonight. I don’t like coming back to you being wrung out like this.”

“You’re good.” she says, tapping her fingers over my chest. “You do a lot of stuff I can’t do, and I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t have taught that module you taught today. Don’t have the patience to stand there and walk people through stuff I already know how to do. And the whole introduction part…”

I’m quiet at that. Teaching that part of the module is always the hardest. “Was it too much?”

“It was a lot.” she says. “I’ve never seen firearms safety taught that way before.”

Words mill around behind my lips, disorganized thoughts and justifications. But a lot of it would just be rehashing things I already said in the training module. Things that Kiwi already knows. In the end, I push it all away and say the only thing that can sum up all the power we have at our disposal: “It’s so easy to ruin a life.”

Kiwi’s fingers stop tapping against my chest, hesitating.

“Was that too much?” I ask.

I can feel her take a deep breath. “Don’t you ever think about all the good our power can do?” she says, reaching down to take my hand and pull it up so she can lay our hands side by side, the runemarks on our wrists faintly glowing in green and blue. “I know you focus a lot on all the destruction and damage we’re capable of if we misuse our powers or our resources, but it can do good things too. We saved a lot of Masklings during the Wisconsin riot. We saved people from assimilation on Mokasha. And it’s allowed us to be tangled. For me to feel your emotions, and for you to feel mine.” She laces her fingers through mine. “I know that you’ve known a lot of people that have abused their powers, which is why you’re so cautious about it. But it can be used for good things. And I think if you stopped being so scared of it, you could learn to use it for happy things. To improve your life, and make other people smile.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. On one hand, I want to argue — not for the sake of argument, but because I carry the burden of this truth with me. Of knowing what access to these resources and powers can do, of having seen the gruesome consequences of their use. Of having watched those effects play out afterwards, of seeing ruined lives that can never go back to the way they were before. And having seen horrors, only made all the worse, by careless or vindictive use of power, and weapons, in the hands of those that no longer deserve them, or should never been given them in the first place. That burden is always with me, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get rid of it.

Yet Kiwi’s words reach into me, tug at some part of me that’s been buried under that burden. The younger version of myself that never really left, that had the dream of doing exactly what Kiwi described: using my powers and resources for good, to defend and protect, to improve my life and the lives of those around me. To use my powers to change the galaxy for the better.

I want to be that person again.

I want to believe I can be that kind of person again.

“You’re right.” I quietly admit after a moment. “It’s hard getting past how I’ve been conditioned against it, but you’re right. It’s not even that I don’t have proof. I know I can use my power to make people smile, to change lives, to help people keep going. It was what I was doing before CURSE finally caught up with me and forced me into the resettlement program.” I go quiet for a bit while I reflect on that. “I used to sing for people. And it would give them hope. It helped them believe that they weren’t alone. It helped them get through the day. And that felt good. I was happy when I was doing that.”

“Wait, you were a singer?” she says, turning her head to look at me. “I knew you were a sonic sorcerer, but I didn’t know you were actually in a band! When were you gonna tell me?”

“Ahhh. It was just a cover band.” I demur. “Just did covers of existing songs. We rarely did original stuff.”

“Well covers are still good! Hell, some covers and remixes are better than the originals!”

“I guess.”

“Don’t I guess me! C’mon, cough it up! What was your band’s name?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“After everything we’ve been through? You being in a band is easily the most believable thing. C’mon, tell me!”

“What, so you can say you’re dating a bad boy in a band?”

“Yes! Girls love bragging about those sorts of things!”

“I’m not so sure about that…”

“Ferooooooce! Why are you such a tease?”

“What if I sing for you instead?”

She pouts from where she’s leaning on me now, hands perched on my chest. “You have to sing two songs for me if you’re not going to tell me what band you were in.”

I tilt a hand up, combing a couple of fingers along one of her trailing sidelocks. “I’ll sing two songs for you any day. Are there any songs you want in particular?”

“Mmm…” she says, chewing on her lip. “Well, what can you sing?”

“Technically I can sing anything.” I say, clearing my voice, taking a moment, then speaking back to her in a perfect replication of her voice. “I’m a songbird, after all. I can sound like whatever I want to.”

“Oh! God! That’s creepy, don’t do that.” Kiwi says, rearing back and using a hand to cover my mouth. “Hearing my voice come out of your mouth is weird.”

I grin behind her hand, my voice returning to normal. “I know. It usually freaks most people out. But the point is that I can sound like whatever I want to. I can even synthesize a new voice, if you give me enough time. I can sing anything you ask me to sing, so long as I’ve heard it at least once. Whether or not I’ll like singing it… I mean, let’s be honest. Not every song is a banger.”

She takes her hand off my mouth, leaning back down. “So you could sing both pop songs or black hole metal band music?”

“Yeah. Although I’ll prefer the pop songs. I’m not really a fan of screamo.”

“That’s fair. Death metal isn’t really my thing either.” she says, growing pensive again. “I like Plastic Birds. Amoransia is pretty good too.”

“Oh? Amoransia? You didn’t strike me as the romantic sort.” I say, somewhat surprised.

“What? I’m plenty romantic!” she protests indignantly. “Look at our entire relationship! You can’t say I’m not romantic!”

I chuckle at that. “Okay, yeah, fair enough. I suppose what I meant to say is… I didn’t really think you were the sentimental sort. You’re plenty romantic; you’ve got lots of passion and enthusiasm. But Amoransia is more of a rainy-day singer, y’know? Likes to sing about breakups and lost loves and that sort of thing. Slow songs. Lots of melancholy.”

“Yeah, why do you think so many girls love her music? Amoransia is in every girl’s breakup playlist.” she scoffs. “You can’t throw a proper pity party without inviting Amoransia to the event. You really don’t know anything about girls, do you?”

“Well, now I do, thanks to you.” I say, going back to combing one of my fingers along her sidelocks. “You want me to sing you a rainy-day song at some point, then? Something soft and wistful and moody?”

She shifts her weight on her hands a little. “…yeah. I’d like that.”

I reach up, tapping the tip of her nose. A little ripple of blue light echoes away from the contact, letting off a single piano note. C flat. “Alright. I’ll trawl through my coffeeshop playlists and see if I can find something slow and easy to sing for you this weekend.”

“Thank you.” she says, sliding off my chest and back to my side, getting comfortable with her legs hooked over mine. “I caught up with the other Masklings today. We ended up talking about you.”

“Oh?” I say, turning my head a little. I’m faintly surprised, but not worried. I know most of the other Masklings well enough to be on good terms with them.

“Yeah. They know you’re Anayan, so they were kinda curious about how you ended up falling in with a bunch of people that contradict Anayan tenets. Like, in terms of lifestyle, or just the fact of their existence.”

“Ah. Yes. The paradox of an Anayan vampire.” I puff. It’s a conversation Kiwi and I have had a few times. “Did you tell them…?”

“I gave them the simple version of what you told me. That it’s complicated.” she says, reaching out with one hand and making grabby fingers for the blanket that’s over the back of the couch. Reaching over, I snag it and pull it over us. “They were surprised an Anayan would fall for a Maskling, since your religion thinks we’re mixed-race abominations.”

I’m quiet, thinking back on my visit to the Reflection House today. “Yeah. That makes sense, considering what the orthodoxy believes.”

“Why did you fall for me?” Kiwi asks, getting cozy beneath the blanket. “It just seems like a really extreme turnabout. Going from thinking Masklings are abominations, to dating one. Even for someone that’s discarded misguided beliefs.”

For a moment I consider giving her a generic answer, or something sentimental. But then I recall the conversation we had earlier today, about getting around the emotional scar tissue that each of us has. About getting to know each other better, about allowing ourselves to be truly vulnerable. And I decide that I should be honest with my answer.

“That’s because of Nova.” I say slowly. “Before we grew up, and she went bad. I loved her, and when you love people… if you really love them… you learn to accept the parts of them that are different from you. You have a reason to try and see the universe differently, see things as they see them. So you can understand them, and love them better.” I take a moment to gather my thoughts, and go on. “Nova often dated outside her species. By the Anayan teachings, she would’ve been defying the natural order of the universe, rebelling against the divine. The elders would’ve said she was a bad person, but I could see she wasn’t a bad person. She was kind to me, and caring to others. At least when we were teenagers.”

“And that changed when you two grew up?” Kiwi asks, watching me intently.

“Everyone changes when they grow up. You never become quite the person you thought you were going to be.” I say just as softly. “But even after what she became… I couldn’t throw away the things she taught me. She helped me become better person. It wouldn’t have been right to throw away the perspective I had gained, and go back to what I used to be, to what I used to believe in. So I held onto the things I learned from her when she was still a good person. It was my way of honoring the person she used to be, the hero she wanted to be. And if she could no longer be that hero, then I would try to be that hero instead.”

Kiwi puffs a breath. “You don’t hate her as much as I wish you did.”

“My friendship with her was complicated. And it often hurt because of that.” I say, reaching up to brush the hair from her face, and tuck the blanket a little around her neck. “But I wanted to share this with you, so you knew why I fell for you. Nova may not have been a good person towards the end, but she did teach me how to love people that were different from me.” Leaving the blanket alone, I cup my hand to her cheek, giving Kiwi a warm smile as I feel a swell of affection and felicity bloom in my chest. “And that gave me the chance to love you. My little starfreckle.”

Across our link, I can feel a riot of conflicting emotions from Kiwi as her brows furrow. There was indignation and embarrassment at being called starfreckle, because she was sensitive about her freckles even if you could barely see them most times. But there was also a sense of being pleased and giddy at having a lover’s nickname. There was aggravation at the nuance in my friendship with Nova, but also relief at knowing that I wasn’t hung up on her. And there is happiness when Kiwi senses how much I love her.

“Don’t call me that.” she mutters, turning her head and gently biting my hand. “It’s a dumb name. It sounds stupid.”

I tilt my head a little, nuzzling my face into her hair before saying it again, this time as a soft, intimate murmur. “Starfreckle.”

She squirms a little beneath the blanket. Resisting or pleased, it’s hard to tell — maybe a little bit of both. Burying her face into my shoulder, she mumbles “You can only call me that when nobody else is around. Promise?”

“I promise.”

She releases a soft little sigh with that, hooking an arm across my chest beneath the covers as she looks up at me. “I think I love you. A little too much.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask, tilting my head a little.

“For you, maybe. You know I’m never gonna let you go, right? You’re all mine now. My darling. This is the first time in thirty-five years that I’ve loved someone like this.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“…good.”