Ono Red-2 eats quietly. Even Tank’s motormouth has been silenced by the weight of the past day. The serving has been gripped by a stiffness, an alertness, ever since Misery returned with the archangel mech. Once they were comrades, but now her fellow soldiers sense a gulf between them, the mere mortals, and Misery, chosen of the Larex Forge. Diamond looks at her differently now. The balance of power in their serving is different now.

Alodia Lightning’s silence, on the other hand, sets her apart and catches Misery’s attention. She’s quiet in a way that tells Misery she has something important bottled up. A secret, only to be shared with Misery. As Ono Red-2 is leaving the dining hall, she makes use of their newfound closeness to press into her personal space. “You seem upset. Is something wrong?”

Alodia Lightning stiffens. Her gaze scans their surroundings furtively—the clamor of Angelsteeth’s greater banquet, the chatter of their servingmates. Her voice drops. “Not here. Come to my room later.”

When all has fallen still and the lights have dimmed in Ono Red-2’s quarters Misery slithers through the dark and taps twice on the princess’s door. Alodia Lightning has been holed up in there since they got back, marinating in her secrets. The door slides open for her.

Alodia Lightning’s room surprises Misery with its spareness. With the other pilots, chaos set in after weeks of habitation: the trappings of hobbies, trinkets ordered off the waves on impulse, hints of personality. Spider’s floor carpeted with unrecycled cast-offs, a miniature diorama of his home city sprouting on a shambled-together table, lights glinting from the tiny floating trains. Tank’s room choked with tubing and plastic and the half-finished shells of musical instruments she’s building. Even Ghost has accrued a modest display of things they’ve found they like. But Alodia Lightning’s room is bare. Dresser empty, her clothes all tucked into the wardrobe away from sight. Exactly like Misery’s. She prickles with delight: a kindred soul, untethered to a life of small, fussy things.

Alodia Lightning sits hands-clasped on the edge of the bed. Her eyes shine with a queer light as she looks at Misery. “When you’re in your archangel, what does it feel like?”

Misery knows where this is going. “I can’t describe that. It’s like being absorbed into something else, something bigger. I’m not Misery when I’m in there. I’m the archangel.”

“Is it like dancing? Do you feel like you could dance?”

“I do. I dance.” It’s a poor descriptor for the beauty of combat in the archangel mech, but it will have to do. “Did something happen to you?”