Never take your eyes off the stars.
Not even when the knife is pushed into your back.
Horacio DeLucia opens his eyes on a new day. No fuss or fatigue mars it, almost as simple as a computer changing a zero to a one. For his vision, that's a very literal metaphor. He even checks the time with one blink and dismisses it with the next.
The importance of today flashes into mind almost as soon as that. If events play out just right—and they will, he's certain of it—then today will be the next step of his career, the ever-so-important advancement anyone should strive for. As he looks at himself in the mirror near his bed, taking in that hazel hair, that dashing smile, and those electric-blue eyes, he can already see himself in an upper executive's office.
The first parts of his morning, the dressing and workout and so on, are almost automatic, inconsequential while his mind is focused on the important parts of the day instead. And first among those is expanding his advantages over regular people. For that, he has his technician Octavia. The trip to her office is short and uneventful, but necessary. He's considered having her come to him, but decided he'd rather not have this sort of work in his home.
So, as he does every few months, he walks into what's halfway between a clinic, a dentist's office, and a machine shop. Augment technicians all have some things in common, and where they work always ends up looking similar as a result. Music is playing as he steps through the door. Schedule Breaker. A good album, one he enjoys. Taste in music was one of the reasons he picked her.
"Good morning, Mr. DeLucia!"
Octavia's voice rings from out of sight, the next room over. As cheery as ever, if a tiny bit raspy today. Perhaps she's been working for some hours now; he truly appreciates her work ethic.
"Good morning, Octavia," he replies.
She comes around the corner, carrying tools in hand. She beckons, as she always does, for him to follow. Humming along to the song, Horacio makes his way to the patient's chair.
"Do you have any complaints? Have your eyes had any problems?" she asks, already raising a diagnostic tool to his left eye.
"None. They've been working well. The gazeplotter is perfect."
Octavia almost beams at that, her own ocular augments still fixed on his. It makes sense, of course; the gazeplotter, a tiny addon to his vision that points out where other people are looking without him needing to focus on their eyes, was her idea. By magnifying microscopic eye movements born from uncertainty or deliberation, it's already given him an edge in more than one negotiation, a preternatural ability to sense moments of weakness.
"I'm glad to hear that!" She's already scanning his other eye for miscalibrations. "I have something else you might like: an emotional highlighter. It calculates what whoever you look at is really feeling from their body language, much faster than a normal person can, from much smaller cues."
An advantage like that? Horacio's answer is simple, accompanied by a smirk. "Do it."
She raises a cord with a needle-thin connector obligingly. He looks to the right, letting her access the tiny port in the side of his left eye. The data inload drags on for uncomfortable seconds, until a success icon flashes across his vision and she disconnects it. Doing the mirror action for his right eye is much the same, but this time he doesn't quite hide a small shudder as the needle approaches his vision.
"Is something wrong?" Octavia asks.
He would shake his head if he could do so with the cord sticking out of the side of his eye, but right now he can't even blink. Actually, no, he can probably do both, but the habits of protecting organic eyes die hard even after they've been replaced by superior hardware.
"It's nothing."
"Are you sure? If direct connection is uncomfortable, we can set up something remote instead. It'll be secure, so I can—"
"No," he snaps. "Absolutely not. I've told you this before, I don't want anyone spying on me because they managed to hack into my eyes."
"That's not…" she starts, trailing off quietly. The gazeplotter draws a line from her eyes to her tools as she looks away. For a moment she hesitates, perhaps trying to think of another way to sell him on it. "Of course, sir."
"Good. Don't bring it up again. Now how long is this going to take?"
She glances back up, eyes wavering in the characteristic way of someone reading off projected information in their augments. "Just a moment longer, sir. It's a big package."
Then, finally, she retracts the needle from his eye again. He takes the opportunity to blink repeatedly, another holdover instinct of flesh. On the fifth, a new program loads into his vision, automatically highlighting Octavia and listing small text under her face.
77% Confident, 18% Anxious, 5% Relieved.
"Oh, good, it works."
She smiles. 60% Confident, 36% Relieved, 4% Anxious. "I'm glad! You can turn it on and off just like anything else, so don't worry if it's a little distracting at first."
Sure enough, the option is right there. A confirmatory blink and the highlight disappears as quickly as it came.
"Is that all, then?" Horacio asks.
Octavia nods. "They're in perfect shape. You've been taking good care of them."
"Good." He rises from the chair, brushing off his suit. "I'll see you in six weeks."
The appointment ends as quickly as it began, with a little negotiation on the date of the next. Before long, Horacio is back out the door, leaving Octavia's smile behind on his way to work. He's fond of her.
When he arrives at work, the truly important part of the day is imminent. It begins with a little prep in his own office, coordinating others and reviewing data, all to rehearse. Before long, however, he's sitting at the side of a long table, waiting for others to file in. Waiting for now.
Giles Bourne comes in first, ever the most punctual among the major players. Five years Horacio's senior, already head of the Expansion Department. Outwardly unmarred, but always listening with ears far sharper than he had at birth. A powerful ally. He and Horacio nod at each other in acknowledgement.
Samia Chamas is next, entering with three others. As the head of Finance, she has far more control than her laid-back demeanor and unkempt bun would suggest, and she knows it. Giles may already be on Horacio's side, but Samia is who he needs to sway or defeat today.
More trickle in, their positions or stances irrelevant to Horacio's ambitions, even those who sit and work directly alongside him. Some talk quietly to each other, distracting themselves with side conversations, but Horacio's gazeplotter confirms that the major players remain focused only on each other or their notes as they wait.
The murmuring dies away the moment Valentina Rios Branco walks in. She would have that effect even if she wasn't in charge. Something about her intimidates most people. Horacio picked the color of his eyes to unnerve, giving another slight edge in negotiation, but she doesn't need augments for that, managing it with entirely mundane steel-gray eyes and a well-cut suit. Everyone in the room instinctively knows to pay attention to her.
"You all know why we're here. Let's begin," she says the moment she sits down. Curt, matter-of-fact. This is a woman in full control of herself and everyone around her, an apex to strive towards. "Mr. Bourne, your report."
Giles clears his throat, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he leans forward. It's a tic Horacio knows well, a gesture in anticipation of attention rather than actual nervousness. He silently blinks until the emotional highlighter activates, letting him compare it to something he's already confident of.
51% Composed (Artificial). 22% Ambitious. 15% Contemplative/Recall. 12% Anxious.
As Horacio expected, then. Giles begins to speak.
"As most of you have heard already, there was a disaster over the Jovian moon Callisto this week. Another large colony ship attacked and disabled. Reports of heavy loss of life. Our condolences to the deceased, but…"
"An opportunity," Horacio finishes the sentence for him. They hadn't actually practiced a speech together in the slightest, but overlapping aims lead to similar lines.
"Indeed," Giles continues, only briefly looking his way. "There will be more uncertainty and reluctance for a while, but the demand for colonization will continue anyway. I doubt the original actors will want to try again so soon."
"And can you back up that doubt with numbers, Mr. Bourne?" Valentina asks. 70% Assured. 20% Patient. 10% Inquisitive.
"Yes, uh, well, Acquisitions is somewhat better suited to internal reconnaissance on the attitudes of other groups." Despite the hesitance of his words, Giles' eyes remain focused. "But we've been able to confirm the demand. Pricing is only down a few percent, with more details in my report."
"If it's only down a few percent," Samia cuts in, "then that's still expensive to capitalize on. If you can't actually confirm that it's ripe for the taking, all you're going to do is cost us."
Horacio raises an eyebrow. Samia coming out swinging is more aggressive than he'd expected, discarding the relaxed attitude almost immediately. Does she have a stake against this that he didn't know about? Could that tip the scales? Neither his acumen nor the emotional highlighter can tell right away.
"Peace, Mrs. Chamas." Valentina waves her off. "We're all aware of the general stakes here. Mr. DeLucia, can you confirm Mr. Bourne's doubt?"
"Of course," Horacio smiles. "We have been investigating attitudes. Several of the partners involved have had their trust shaken in the Orders after a blunder like that, and they're looking for reassurance. Even if they're willing to try again right away, they'll be receptive to us stepping in instead. A fresh partner without recent failures."
Samia rolls her eyes. "Your reassurance is that we might be able to bribe some corporate defectors away from the Orders? That doesn't solve any of the problems here."
Giles opens his mouth to respond, but a single look from Valentina silences him, the gazeplotter's vector swinging around like an imaginary rapier. "Orders aside, Mrs. Chamas brings up an important point as well. Do you already have a plan to avoid the same problems?"
64% Patient. 25% Calculating. 11% Bored.
This part is all a test, and an easier one at that. The augment only highlights this. Horacio's smile grows.
"Mr. Harper, does Security have the resources to work with us?"
John Harper, head of the Security branch, sits up. Horacio has had no doubt in his stance or his responses, so he has been a non-variable, a constant. Anything that will expand Security's purview and budget, he'll sign onto.
"Of course," he rumbles. "Our Security arm is well equipped. An expansion to Callisto would, eh, significantly increase our Jovian presence and reach, so it pays for itself there."
Samia's hand twitches on the table. There's a pattern to it as she composes her thoughts, as if it's a mnemonic, or perhaps an actual input in an invisible system. Samia has an augment as well, one she doesn't advertise, but he's seen the flash of silver on her wrist and palm before. Her eyes, organic eyes, unfocus slightly until she speaks again.
"Large-scale security reduces the risk of disaster, but roughly doubles the cost. It's still safer to keep current investments."
Safer to keep current investments? The sentence is logical, but something about it seems off, even ulterior. She meets his scrutiny without wavering.
42% Calculating. 41% Defensive. 17% Anxious.
Ah. Ah-ha! The mere confirmation that she was hiding another motive is practically the same as telling him what it actually is. A slight rush of satisfaction goes through him at how the new upgrade has cut a back-and-forth of discovery down to one line. Were it not unbecoming, he would let his smile become a smirk.
As it is, he leans in, as if telling a joke. "The translunar markets are stable, Mrs. Chamas, but stagnant. We don't have to give up your investments there, but we have to keep growing. Make sure they're not an obstacle to our success."
On the other hand, he doesn't need an external program to tell him that Samia is resisting the urge to glare daggers at him. He even focuses on that, keeping his satisfaction aloft, because everything he just said was in fact a complete gamble. His composure never slips, but he can feel his heartbeat in his chest as the silence stretches into seconds.
"So, Acquisitions, Expansion, and Security are united in this?" Valentina asks. It's more of a declaration with a question mark at the end, honestly. Her eyes are boring into the side of his head.
"Yes," Horacio answers, taking the opportunity to look away from Samia without seeming to back down. John and Giles give quiet echoes of assent.
"Mrs. Chamas, neglect the risk. How much is the payoff if we succeed here?"
Samia twitches again. "Around 20% higher than present," she sighs.
Giles clears his throat again. "Not counting the long-term benefits of expanding, of course. Or what else we can in the process."
That's their case, one quietly prepared in advance. "Let's seize the opportunity and push out the competition ASAP," in plainer terms. Always a gamble, particularly with who the competition is, but one tailored to business. One he just needs Valentina to accept. If going in against such influential opponents is risky, she needs to see the benefits as too sweet to ignore. A serious advantage over the rising power of machine cultists is exactly that.
Once again, the silence stretches on. She has a habit of inflating the quiet, letting those present shift uncomfortably in their own thoughts, waiting to see if anyone cracks or tries to fill the silence even after she's made up her mind.
"Your decision, ma'am?" Horacio asks after the pause. It would seem like a calm, patient question to most people present, but for her discerning eyes he has to hope it betrays none of his nerve.
Valentina folds her hands on the table. "We'll do it," she answers. "Mr. DeLucia, you'll be paving the way. Harper and Bourne, you'll prepare our existing resources and anything DeLucia turns up. Mrs. Chamas, I want your backing on this, but do moderate it. I want a formal plan in two days."
That's it. The decree handed down. Permission to prove himself further, to seize the stars. Horacio tempers a sigh of relief down to mere breathing exercises as Valentina looks them all over one more time.
"Dismissed."
The hours of work that follow are a footnote, the inevitable execution of a success that has already happened. By the time Horacio walks out at the end of the day, the elation still hasn't worn off. Stopping on the sidewalk, he looks up into the sky. Jupiter is lost in the sea of blue enforced by the Sun every moment it remains above the horizon, but his eyes project and focus on that pin of light anyway. I see you. The first rung on his ladder to the stars.
It's as he stares upward that a message comes through, a familiar musical sting on his far more mundane aural transceiver. Nothing like the advantages his eyes or Giles' ears give, but it lets him take calls.
"Speaking," he subvocalizes, looking back down to the street.
"Hora!" exclaims an equally-familiar voice on the other end, "Te vejo a uma hora?"
Horacio almost laughs out loud, certainly chuckling enough for the other to hear it. Rafael Moura Ramos is the only soul in the world with the self-confidence to know how important today has been and tell him to spend the afternoon racing anyway.
The confidence, however, is not misplaced. Rafael has known him since they were teenagers, having gone through much of school and their early careers together. They no longer work at the very same place, but their bond remains all the same. And besides, after today, he's earned a little relaxation.
"Entendo," he replies. No other words need to be exchanged before he hangs up; they've known each other much too long for that. The destination is a local speedway, the time is an hour from now. More than enough time to prepare and have his speedbike driven there.
Horacio gets there a few minutes before Rafael does, enough time to inspect his speedbike and confirm that it works just as he wants it to. No need for time-consuming preparations on that count, at least not this time. As a result, he's already kitted out and waiting on his speedbike when Rafael pulls up on his own.
"You're late," Horacio declares. A blink confirms that Rafael is actually still a good ninety seconds ahead of an hour, but it's something one has said to the other many times, bordering on a joke between them.
"Ah, you know how it is," Rafael replies, scratching the side of his helmet. "I couldn't go as fast as I wanted to, yeah?"
Horacio laughs again, lowering his own visor. "Then I guess I'll win."
"In your dreams!"
With that, they both kick off, immediately vying to get ahead of the other. They've done this kind of race more times than Horacio cares to count, ever since they were kids, even into their careers, so this in particular can be more of a greeting than anything else. If pressed, he would probably consider racing his one vice.
But what a good vice it is! Churning and burning, pouring through turns with reckless abandon, feeling the acceleration, the bike growling and roaring beneath him, the wind blasting him. It brings freedom and exhilaration. If he gets that in his job from risks like contending with rivals and Orders, he gets it in his life from this.
He can hear Rafael laugh like a madman as he advances, gaining a lead through wild positioning and beginning to pull ahead. He always has been better at corners than Horacio, but it's only a temporary advantage; there's a straight section coming up. The moment that it does, Horacio takes his chance and twists the accelerator.
One-ninety. The air swirls around him.
Two-twenty. He's catching back up.
Two-fifty. He leans into the turn, cornering in the same way as Rafael without wasting distance.
Two-eighty. He peels past Rafael. He's nearing the fastest he's ever comfortably gone, but not the fastest the bike can ever go. An urge whispers to him, to press it further, to prove what he's really capable of. He'll see any disaster coming in time to brake, so why not? This isn't actually much more dangerous than business.
Two-ninety. He can no longer tell whether the bike or the wind is screaming louder. His own adrenanline-fueled laughter is snatched away in the roar of noise.
Three hundred. The track is moving so fast now, but he can keep up. His heartbeat gives percussion for what is going to be his most dramatic race win against Rafael. All he needs to do is keep his eyes on the roadway, and get through a few more corners.
Three-oh-five. This time he almost throws himself into the turn, trusting centrifugal inertia to keep him steady. All he needs to do is—
Horacio's vision goes black. It's instant, as simple as a one changing to a zero. And it could not be more poorly timed. He jerks back, careful control of the bike disintegrating without input to guide it. One hand jerks on the brake, and he tries to pull out of the turn, but misjudges it based on feel alone.
What the—Octavia?!?!
What happens next takes perhaps a second, but it feels like an eternity. The bike wobbles and pitches, tipping and bucking with the knee-jerk responses and loss of control. He feels himself lift off the seat and tumble through the air, momentum ripping his hands from the handlebars. He is weightless for nauseating moments, lost in a void of sound with neither sight nor feel to guide him. He feels nothing.
When Horacio hits the wall an instant later, he feels it, very very much. The one mercy is that he doesn't feel it for long. Slamming into an obstacle at nearly three hundred kilometers per hour, with only a helmet and protective suit? He's dying of a dozen breakages before Rafael can even slow down, let alone turn around to reach him.
The last thing he sees is his vision returning, once again as simple as zero-one, now that he's stopped. Then it fades in a much more organic way as he loses consciousness. He never even hears Rafael's shouts, let alone when called medics come get him.
Investigation of the death of Horacio DeLucia reveals no defects in his augments, nor any features that he hadn't asked to have installed. The same goes for his speedbike; no sabotage can be identified, nor even a mechanical failure. As many possible motives as one can expect in the death of a rising star, but no proven means or witnesses besides his own, deeply shaken, best friend. As far as investigators can tell, the only blame lies in Horacio's own recklessness.
Of course, Horacio's technician is singled out as a possible suspect, either of murder or at least malpractice, second only to Rafael Moura Ramos, but the actual analysis of the augments is decisive. He was equipped with exactly what he asked to have equipped, and nothing that he asked to have equipped could have plausibly caused this accident. The most damning thing investigators can muster up is unused storage space in the computers of both eyes, which is exactly to be expected for a client who desired an ever-changing, ever-improving suite of software tools.
It is also, of course, exactly to be expected if certain programs were present and deleted themselves, but no amount of searching can find that. Not even a single trace of a digital footprint to base such an accusation on. It seems she really is blameless, unlucky only in coincidentally close timing.
So, only a week after being let go from the investigation into her client's death, Octavia lifts to orbit. A paranoiac might see that, too, as an admission of guilt, but scheduling some emergency time off after such an experience is quite reasonable for anyone.
One public trip brings her from Low Earth Orbit to geostationary. A second transfers to a layover at a distant station. A third brings her to the L4 Selene Station. In terms of public records, her trip ends there, in that vast void-city situated squarely in the point of equilibrium between the planet and satellite. It truly is a destination unto itself.
But, nestled among the countless vessels clustered along its docking terminals, she slips onto a private, if unremarkable, cargo-passenger multipurpose transport. Official records call it the Skybloom, but its passengers and crew know it by a much more fitting name: 永遠の警戒. Eien no Keikai. The Eternal Vigilance. For all the time she has spent away from it, it is the first place Octavia has learned to truly call home.
The docking corridor is a long, window-paneled hall on the skin of the ship, serving as both a scenic vestibule and a bulk airlock. Strolling along it, Octavia hums the melody of the song "Remote Working" to herself. Hm. It's not usually her taste in music, but Schedule Breaker as a whole has grown on her ever since she picked it up to ingratiate herself to her target. Perhaps that will be the detail from this job that she keeps for the future.
Halfway down, she pauses to look up. Save for the traffic soaring to and fro, the window panels offer an unobstructed view of the dappled marble that is Earth as the Sun rises across the face of Asia.
She's contemplating the view from Lagrange when the door at the far end of the hall hisses open, the tiny sound quite clear to her own enhanced ears. However, there's no need for enhancements to notice the ensuing rush of footsteps and a voice she knows quite well as it shouts, "Tavi!"
Octavia turns just in time to catch the voice's owner mid-jump. She has the experience now to steady herself against the momentum, but the sensation of arms wrapping around her is as affectionate as ever.
"Hello, Vee," she smiles. When the hug does end, she finally has a chance to look her assailant over.
Avery Arafa, Octavia's best friend within the Order and one of her first friends in the world. Almost instinctively, Octavia finds herself evaluating all the little ways in which she has changed since they last saw each other face-to-face more than nine months ago. Hair a different shade of brown, now cut short around the fresh, intentionally-inflamed scars of a memory implant at the back of her neck. Left iris a different texture—so she finally did get the zoom lens installed. A new freckle. Still that same beaming smile.
"How was it? Did you meet anyone interesting? See anything cool? Did you get to see much of Kinshasa before you left, or did you not have time to explore? Oh! Did you hear about what happened over Callisto?"
And, most definitely, the same curiosity, so boundless it's a wonder Avery doesn't burst from trying to contain it. Octavia could use thought-dictation and still not keep up with the verbal torrent of questions. As ever, she can only wade around it instead of matching.
"It was good practice, for infiltration and augments. I'm afraid the only half-interesting guy I met is dead. Kinshasa was just for the lift, sorry. And how could I not hear about that? Don't answer that."
The last bit is hurriedly tacked on, catching Avery a moment before she can spitball a dozen hypothetical ways to be out of the loop. The other woman deflates in disappointment, making an exaggerated pout before they both laugh.
"It's good to see you again," Octavia admits. The "not calling your friends and allies while on a job" part of opsec is basic discipline, and she's more used to the loneliness than most, but she really did miss Avery.
"We should totally catch up tonight!" Avery says. Her smile fades right after. "But the Overseer wants to talk to you first."
"Of course." That much Octavia had known without needing to be told, but she's not going to disappoint her friend with the obvious.
Avery hugs her again, then steps back. "Come and find me right after, okay?"
"Okay."
Octavia waves as they both withdraw, going deeper into the vessel and toward the Overseer's sanctum while Avery returns to her own workspace. The path winds through the labyrinthine halls until, very suddenly, she's right outside the door.
"Come in."
The virtual voice doesn't actually pass through her ears, entering her mind directly as if telepathic. Such is the silent speech of the truly augmented.
She enters to a digital spider's web, a sea of monitors and projections orbiting a central chair—nearly a minor throne in its significance, despite being quite plain—and, of course, its occupant.
Sitting before her is, perhaps, the most beautiful person Octavia has ever seen. The human form, already handsome, augmented to near perfection by delicately crafted and engraved rhodium hardware. An ideal union of flesh and steal. The kindest person Octavia has ever met, who took her form nothing to become what she is. Octavia is sure she would die for them. That is the shape of her loyalty to Verdan Zure, Overseer of the Order of Vigilant Steel.
"Octavia," Zure hums. Their real voice has the slightest mechanical whirr to it, adding a quality like a cat's purr rather than detracting from its smoothness. "You have done well."
Octavia bows deeply, letting herself smile. "Thank you, Overseer."
"You have done well," Zure repeats as she rises, "The rising star of a potential threat dead in an accident of his own making, with nobody to blame but himself, save possibly for the friend who goaded him into such a dangerous stunt. His work will be left incomplete and rudderless, breaking apart under bickering and politics without him forcing it along. And so, the potential threat to us will not become a real threat. Very nearly perfect."
There it is. At the tail end of a small speech of praises, the catch, the flaw. As much as she has run through this scenario in her head, as many assignments as she's done well at, Octavia can't help but long for the day when "very nearly" will become "perfect" without a catch, when she will finally exceed her mentor's expectations.
"How could I have made it perfect?" she asks.
"You tell me," Zure answers. This is an old call-and-response between them, a prod to self-reflect and analyze her own strengths and weaknesses, which they have been doing since her very first assignment. As a result, her first suggestion is preplanned, something considered the entire time since DeLucia's death.
"An additional delay before the sabotage program activated? That way it couldn't happen the same day as an appointment even if the conditions were met," she suggests. "But the investigators found no evidence."
Zure raises a single tapered finger. "It was simple and standalone, activating once and erasing all trace of itself afterward. If it was regularly checking the time, or being reset every time you had an appointment, there would be more to conceal, more chances to leave a trace. Success there comes in less evidence."
She's silent, contemplating.
"…But I had no control over when he would do certain activities. How could I?"
Zure's smile is at once reassurring and unnerving, proof that they knew what she would say. They always do. Their eyes, a soft shade of amber today, glitter like they're about to let her in on an amusing secret.
"You focus too much on the technological, Octavia. Admirable, but I don't need more proof of your devotion."
Octavia frowns, the slightest twitch of her lips practically screaming her confusion to one so observant. Her own emotional highlighter blinks on, checking if there's a detail her brain is missing.
90% Composed. 10% Amused.
None. Zure shows only what they want to show, and not a stray microexpression besides that. She truly cannot predict their suggestion beyond the broadest strokes.
"Overseer?"
"You must broaden your net. Learn to weave a web of influence over many people, not just the one. To be unseen but control every factor through effects on people who don't even realize you exist. With that, you could decide, or at least learn, exactly when a target will act, and plan accordingly."
They talk about a masterwork of manipulation as if it's effortless, something they could do in their sleep. Perhaps they can. But it's far beyond anyone else, and Octavia knows it.
"How long did it take you to become so skilled at it, Overseer?"
Zure laughs. "You don't need to flatter me, either, Octavia. Also, one hundred twenty-six years."
Given what she knows about their age, there's no telling if that's actually true. That particular number could be a lie, a lesson in embarrassment if she takes it uncritically. As ever, there are layers to discern even in the honest conversations.
But then Zure's expression softens, and their tone matches it. "I am proud of you. It's rare we get an opportunity to eliminate a potential rival while making it look completely accidental instead of merely shifting blame, and I'm glad I could trust you with finding and executing it."
She bows again, even deeper this time. No more words can convey her gratitude to them.
"Thank you, Octavia. We will speak again of this soon."
"Your will be done, Overseer."
"But it need not be done tonight. I believe Miss Arafa wanted to spend some time reuniting with you, yes? Don't let me detain you."
A release from conversation. She finally rises to take her leave, breathing once she's back out in the hall. The entire ship to explore once more, and an entire night with her best friend? It is good to be home.