When she was twelve her grandmother died.
(Not her real grandmother; there was never any such thing.)
She stood by the bed and watched as her father
(not her real father)
placed copper coins on the old woman's shrunken eyelids for burial. His fingers fumbled despite their care, and were so gentle that she closed her own eyes.
Later on he touched her cheek
(he seemed to find comfort in it; at the time she still believed doing her best would make a difference)
and she smelt metal clinging to his skin over the heady cloy of lilies. The scent was vivid enough to be taste, though of course she took nothing into her mouth. At the time it reminded her of blood; now it brings to mind ozone.
She's learnt better.
When they unscrew the back panel they realise no one has maintained that particular console for years. Dust billows into the shaft of light below the sky well. They sneeze, cough with unwary lungs, protest against the air. Dust settles and clings. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Zell draw his screwdriver hand over his cheek; it leaves a grey smear over the dragon-ink.
Dust prickles with static charge.
Ground yourselves, she says, voice slipping into classroom urgency. (Not a commander's voice. Too mild, then bossy when it snaps. Too late.) Don't touch that yet, those chips are irreplaceable. Where are your--? Then she realises she's standing over him, because he looks up and his mouth twists.
Maybe we should all take off our clothes while we're at it, Instructor.
That blank moment. Back into place back into place how? Control being the issue.
Too late.
Always.
Gradations of wet. Sweat plastering her top to her skin, mud weighing down her skirt, rain beginning to drench in earnest. Water running down her face, soaking through her stockings, the ends of her hair dripping down the back of her neck.
She supposes it's cold, but can't feel it.
He's leaning on his gunblade, the point deep in the mud. Not exhaustion or pain; simply catching his breath. She turns her head, checking off positions. One hundred feet of terrain remaining.
I'll take it, he says. It's one of those moments in the field where they - the team - move as one thought, directed as it were by someone other than her. She nods, raises a hand. Ionized air surrounds her and lifts the fine hairs on her body as she moves, a web of sparks that hums and burns like liquid metal. For a second she feels it coursing through both of them like adrenalin. Then it is gone from her, though she can see it in his eyes. Her throat closes on the harshness of ozone; it's like swallowing something alive.
Two hundred seconds, he says, and flicks mud off the gleaming length of his weapon. There and back again.
I'll show you, Instructor.