Misery wrinkles her nose, and they share a knowing chuckle. Tank’s boundless positivity dissolves cynicism like water dissolves salt. Others, like their captain and fellow pilots-in-training, chalk Tank’s upbeat outlook to her youth. The girl has barely seen life, has never had to struggle, of course she’s all sunshine and warm seas. But Tank grew up poor, tucked in a deprived strip of duchy, therefore Misery and Spider understand that her cheer comes not from naïveté but the shape of her personality, which must have been woven from unadulterated gold. Youth is nothing; Misery was a bitter piece of shit long before she hit fourteen. Tank was born with holy opal in her mouth. That’s just how she is.

Spider ducks to check his image in the reflection wall, running a palm over his scalp. “Going to be an interesting day.”

“You nervous?”

“You’d think, but no. I’m eager to get back in the cockpit. Would never have guessed. But I’m pumped. It’s been too long.”

“Time to show the doctors they’re wrong, huh?”

Spider chuckles with an ease that Misery has worked to draw out of him. “Would be nice. But, you know, dependent on Her Royal Highness not blowing up her unit at some point in the day.”

“Come on, she’s not that bad.”

A snort. “I don’t fancy her like you do, so my assessment is automatically more objective.”

“Shut up.”

Then he’s gone and Misery’s alone, not even a delusion to harass her. From the sink Misery collects a scoop of water to cool her face with. The reflection wall shows a mirrored image of her pre-shower visage. Cracked lips. Rings around the eyes. Her hair springing outward in every direction, as if trying to escape. She likes to think that her new life isn’t as stressful as the old, but her body is saying otherwise. “You look like shit,” she tells herself.

By the time she’s showered and dressed and out in the common area, some unseen hand has delivered their breakfast in sealed packets, sitting neatly upon the common table. Because their runs are off-record, and because the seraphs of Angelsteeth have their schedules fully booked, the only time Ono Red-2 gets to use them is early, hours before mount time opens to the rest of them. Tank and Spider are sprawled on the foam ring around the table, yukking it up, with Ghost on the side watching with their customary curiosity. Over time Misery has gone from wondering when the white saint ever sleeps, to deciding that they’re engineered to not need any. They’re always awake whenever Misery looks.

Tank says: “That’s why it’s always wave dramas for me. You just lose that something-something when you do vods. You need the visuals.”