Friederika and I are unfortunate enough to not have Yuri shuttle us back to the Yilan. We didn’t see her shuttle at all, leaving me to guess that Bernie met her and was able to make it to Side Terrassa without further delay. For these slow, passing moments in the shuttle, it’s the only thing that gives me peace of mind.

It’s cramped in here. Maybe it was out of consideration, but Mazzareli didn’t want us wandering off on our own—to avoid any trouble, and avoid any confrontation with military police who might want a word with us. I wish Mazzareli would give us—or at least me a little credit for behaving, but who am I to judge his mentality?

As such, Mazzareli—perhaps as an extension of his bad decision-making—herds us into his shuttle along with the rest of the Yilan staff. It’s a scene familiar to that fateful day, us coming back to the Yilan from the Commodore’s ship for the Lucky Alphonse briefing. But, glancing around, there is a stark contrast compared to that fateful time; it’s too tense in here—there is no excitement among my peers, no shushed murmuring between the staff regarding Entebbe. Everyone weighs their opinions in collective silence—and it puts me on edge.

Even so, once I get back on the Yilan, I can’t find the willpower of going through the trouble of setting up a demonstration in protest of Entebbe. There will be no diligent rebuttal this time. Where I failed the first time at Malabo, I made up for it here. I made my presence and my voice loud and clear this time around. I made a point that a simultaneous invasion of the whole Cluster would be in vain.

To that extent, then and there, I could’ve saved thousands of lives. In any case, where would I begin with such a ridiculous demonstration? What would I be protesting against? What would others say about the Toscana Heroine, the Lady Luck of Toscana if she simply caused commotion over every little military operation we undertake? What would my father say about all of this? Glancing at the meditating Mazzareli, I can only wonder: what would Buttermilch make of this?

It makes me sick to my stomach. I should be satisfied with what I accomplished at the meeting—anyone would be relieved in my shoes, but it’s as though I left the Trinidad empty-handed. Could I be contributing to a military disaster, or will I be accomplishing bringing the League Militaire to its knees?

Friederika passes the time trying to keep us in spirits. But after a while, either from being tired or realizing it’s fruitless she stops prattling in my ear. It makes me guilty, but I’m simply too lost in my thoughts to do so much as force a smile… and that wouldn’t suffice to make Friederika happy anyway. She must’ve realized this since she looks mildly in disbelief about her feeble attempt at being a good friend… but it’s not her fault. I’m the poor sport for being a damper on our whole situation.

Friederika hugs herself, having giving up on trying to keep me—and perhaps herself—in good spirits. I don’t blame her, how could even a jokester like her put a light spin on things? You can’t. In any case, it won’t be long before she snores and the rest of the passengers throw her into the back. I keep an arm secured around her, shifting in my seat to keep myself comfortable; that what they wouldn’t dare lay a finger on my poor snoring gremlin.

I curl my toes and fingers, over and over again. The gnawing in my chest, the bitterness in my throat—it’s all too much to bear. My anxiety, which hasn’t been much of a bother after getting the chance to speak with Yuri, and very much gone after meeting with Bernie, rears its ugly face back in. Simmering, boiling. Spilling over and entrapping me once more.

Every so often, I shiver, recounting continuously the things I’ve learned from the council briefing. Mass demonstrations across Ruthenia, violent escalation of protests bordering on armed revolts. The looming yet realistic possibility of a revolution. The Prime Minister’s seemingly lack of disinterest as he looks inward to general elections. The Ruthenians taking matters into their own hands with the formation of an Emergency Council. Mental images of burning armored cars, toppled statues, piles of trampled Federation flags, and shield-wall riot police colliding with protesters weigh heavily on my mind, unshakable things I could not look away from, now etched forever into my mind.

And all top of all it all, I think, pales in comparison to the captivating glare of Jonathan Churchill; his facial features such as his strong jawline and well-defined cheekbones, supplemented by battery-blue eyes demanding submission still leaves me intimidated. Paralyzed, even, by the overwhelming presence of his projection in the conference room. I dread the idea of what his presence warrants if I come face to face with him.

We shouldn’t be here. Yet, here we are focusing on subjugating the League Militaire which seems practically trivial. We should be focusing on the greater issue at hand… and yet, leaving the Frankish Domains now would only generate a crisis—no, an interstellar incident just as huge. We cannot abandon our Frankish colleagues as the Commodore has done months ago in his quest for glory. This is what the military is for. This is our duty to carry out our orders at the behest of our civilian leaders in Sydney and our hosts in Lusatia. We’re here because we have to be; because there’s nobody else to carry out the difficult tasks laid bare.

We’re in this predicament because of the Commodore. I tell myself that repeatedly one too many times. At some point, it’s like a mantra—one occasionally broken by the jolts and rumbling of the shuttle as it appears to enter the Yilan. If commodore Hugo didn’t act in his interests… we wouldn’t be such a complicated mess. By focusing on one region, we ignore the other—and that persists no matter which route we go with.

There are so many things I wanted to say back there—things I could’ve done. But would it have made any difference? Is there truly any best method out of this interstellar quagmire? If the Admiral had split his force again—one to send to Ruthenia and one to undertake Entebbe—would it benefit Federation security?

A long sigh, taking my garrison cap off to run a hand through golden locks of hair. Even if we did intervene in Ruthenia… would it defuse the situation as it stands right now? Would we be seen as peacekeepers… or would we be seen as enemies of the state in the eyes of the instigators? I heard a humorous joke once, that if a Ruthenian was locked in a room with a Year 217 Mafia member—like Li, or the Don—and a Metropolitan soldier, with nothing but a pistol and bullet in the chamber, the Ruthenian would shoot the Aussie with no hesitation.

But I know better than to believe such nonsense. I’ve met and befriended a certain busty redhead with a mess of freckles. An individual who knows that there is trouble in this big dysfunctional family that we call the Federation of Sol. A blimey bloke if there ever was one, but one that came out of her way to attend a foreign—and maybe hostile—environment so far away from home. It’s like stepping into a portal into another reality, Alexa once said, to experience what it’s like to live in a place of peace and harmony. And yet, when given the chance, Alexa would hesitate to emigrate to Terra and live a peaceful life. She couldn’t possibly live with herself knowing that her homeland is as perilous as ever… especially now—we’re merely a few demonstrations away from a full-fledged revolution as if it isn’t one at this very moment.

This all feels like a fever dream. Yet, these are facts, events that are unfolding before our lives. And yet, we have to confront these issues in the future. And that is what terrifies me—what gives me the chills.

My train of thoughts is intruded upon when I find myself lurching forward in my seat. It’s a sudden jerk, but I don't budge much due to the freeloader resting on my lap. Before I have time to process what's happening, there's another intense rocking of the vessel—a bit more violently this time. I am certain I hear what sounds like the scrapping of metal, sending me—and even the others—into a state of mild panic. Barely a moment passes before there is yet again an aggressive thrashing of the shuttle. I can simply feel my body mass be pulled around, and for possibly the first time I am glad that Friederika is such a heavy cow of a person. I could not say the same for the other passengers, though, some of which are thrown from their seats—a valid justification to wear these dreadful seat belts if there ever was one.

What I didn’t account for, though, is Friederika bolting up to head-butt me with her thick, fat skull. “Huh—what’s going on?” Friederika murmurs, absentmindedly staring me down as she rubs her saliva slash dried tears slash what remains of her black makeup smeared across half her face. “Oh,” she continues, eyeing me down “I guess that explains why my head suddenly hurts so much.”

“I take it for granted that you have a bloody dense head,” I answer wryly, rubbing my chin to no avail. Ignoring Friederika’s protest of the comment, I glance across the aisle at Mazzareli, who is quick to awaken from his power nap and did happen to be properly strapped in, and is already swift in making his way to the overhead drum leading into the cockpit. Mazzareli peers into the drum—but backs off shortly before the upper body of a figure pops into view from it, seemingly dangling from the looks of thick straps falling around him.

“Sorry about that, sir!” The pilot says, trying to keep his helmet visor on to no avail—it clatters to the floor, revealing brown, fuzzy afro-like hair. He beams a smile, eyeing the whole compartment in front of him. “Still a bit of a new pilot, you see…”

“Yes,” Mazzareli answers, pinching his nose bridge, “I can see that we were this close to being engulfed in a fiery inferno—and possibly taking the Yilan out with us. I’m sure that a reckless maneuver inside a space filled with explosive material will cause the defense department to save face by unceremoniously writing off the Yilan as a casualty of Entebbe.” Even if it is the Lieutenant Commander’s feeble attempt at dry humor, I can’t help but struggle with clearing a phantom thorn in my throat. Part of me really wishes that we did get Yuri as a pilot. Consequently, it makes me wonder if Yuri’s comment on the lack of experienced pilots among both pilots was too spot-on…

“If what Yuri says is true,” Friederika of all people muses, “having such a lack of trained pilots readily available would be sort of disastrous for Thunderbolt, wouldn’t it?” It leaves me to wonder if the Admiral is aware of this, too. “Not only Thunderbolt… if we’re ever forced to rely on wired communications through shuttles… I can’t see things ending too well in the thick of the fighting.” It’s a concerning thought, but even so, I doubt it would compel him to rearrange or even delay the timetable for either part of Entebbe. In the eyes of the Admiral, I wonder, Entebbe would be now or never.

“Considering good ol’ DeRyck has authorized the use of Francien civvies,” I remark “there’s bound to be a few who will offer themselves up as pilot volunteers, I’m sure they’re more than eager to help their homeland in whatever way they can, even in positions like that.” Though, as much as I detest that rotten Hoffman… he does make a valid point about civilian training and readjusting to military regulations. Could it just be wishful thinking, I wonder? As I dwell on the subject, Friederika nods with a grave frown, continuing (fruitlessly) to wipe away the dried chocolate brown smear cemented to her face. It’s a goofy sight, and I wish I had a camera to commemorate the moment.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

While I’m conversing with Friederika, I lose track of Mazzareli’s interaction with the pilot. But what snaps me back to focus is the patting and slight pushing by the other passengers as everyone gathers their bearings and pushes against the crowd. “Come on, get a move on,” Mazzareli shouts from the back, “both ramps are open—slow and steadily, no need to push!” With my sweaty hands clasped firmly around Friederika, I guide the two of us out of the shuttle, readjusting to the overwhelming brightness of the shuttle bay.

But that’s not the only thing that overpowers my senses. There’s an overpowering smell that makes me nearly gag—and it’s utterly unpleasant, almost like the stench of gasoline. I remember the time my old man and I went fishing and he had to cancel it because of a leak in the artificial river we planned our trip around. The fact that I’m even remembering this now so many years later can only possibly mean one thing.

“Crikey,” Friederika mutters, “we rammed into some fuel canisters?” While pinching my nose, I follow her gaze at a team of logistic support carefully hauling away spilled over energy rods that are leaking… concerning liquids. Some of it is splashed against our shuttle, where some crew work carefully rubbing it off. If it had gotten any closer to the engines, we’d probably all be dust right about now. What a horrifying thought. Glancing at the anxiously laughing pilot, I can imagine that it is a court-martial for later.

Needless to say, most of the staff officers are quick to book it, leaving behind only a few stragglers like Mazzareli. The Lieutenant Commander concludes giving the pilot a stern scolding and approaches the two of us, and I stiffen up before realizing it. “Listen—at ease, you two, but listen,” Mazzareli starts, but before he gets the chance to do so lieutenant Plotte presents himself with a salute and addresses Mazzareli. “Plotte?”

“That was quite the nasty entry your chap did there,” Prince remarks, stealing glances at the two of us, “the Yilan would’ve been a goner for sure if the shuttle so much as capsized… I do wonder why the pilot didn’t simply stop to connect with the Yilan outside? Would’ve saved us time and trouble cleaning up this new mess—this is something I’d expect if something like Friederika or even Victoria were at the helm.”

“Hey!” Friederika says, pursing her lips together. “I’m hardly a bad pilot, you know?”

“Arcade simulations do not count in the slightest,” Prince retorts, folding his arms, “well… I do say that, but I recall Yuri saying our little blond lieutenant here did an incredible job handling the botched missile that struck our starboard that one time, so I suppose I can’t discredit them too much. Anyways, sub-lieutenant Trachenberg… lieutenant Happ-Schwarzenberger… judging from the way the two of you look like messes, I’m taking it the little picnic to the Trinidad wasn’t all rainbow and sunshine?” A sly smile from Prince as he finishes, then his gaze shifts to the Lieutenant Commander.

“Let’s just say that our beloved Happ here has landed herself in particularly hot waters,” Mazzareli says wryly, “and the responsibility of giving her corporal punishment falls on me… but as for what that punishment entails, exactly, is something I am still deciding on,” my stomach twists at those words, and I rub my stomach—which growls uncomfortably loud, accompanied by an even louder howl from the dark-haired gremlin adjacent me.

“Oh, do tell,” Prince muses, his arms resting behind his back, “but before we do that… I take it you will want your report on the Yilan while you were gone.”

“Ideally, yes,” Mazzareli says with a sigh, “I simply cannot go one place without there being a commotion elsewhere. I cannot for the life of me understand how Buttermilch tolerated this crew for so long. It surely takes the patience of a god to keep everything from falling apart… speaking of which, I take it the issue with the marines and Frankish sailors in the mess hall was resolved without issue?”

Prince gives a nod, and gestures for Mazzareli to follow him into one of the hallways. “Right, I’ll give you a rundown on the way to the bridge—it’s not too urgent, but getting it out of the way and getting the crew up to speed will be important. I’m curious about the details of the operation that the Admiral has been keeping under wraps.”

“It is concerning, indeed… and my apologies for laying such herculean responsibilities on you, Lieutenant,” Mazzareli says. He turns to leave after Prince but stops to face us. He stares us down seemingly for what seems like ages, but deflates with a sigh and turns to face us fully. “Vick, Friederika… please stay out of trouble in the meantime. I imagine our brigs must be overcrowded by now, and I would hate for you to pay a second visit to the brig so soon.”

“Hm?” Prince rests a hand on his chin, “am I to assume that the worst has come to frustration? I would sure hope that my younger brother’s sweetheart didn’t do anything irrational… like punch the daylights out of a superior officer—in front of the whole fleet’s chiefs of staff. That would project a very poor image of the Yilan, I wager.”

I clear my throat, clutching my chest as I speak. Prince’s assumption cuts deeper than I’d hope it would. “U-um… Mazzy, does that mean that I won’t face severe punishment for my misconduct on the Trinidad?” We’ve gone over this a few times already, but it makes me feel so uneasy. It’s like I’m getting special treatment simply for being the daughter of my old man. If it was anyone else that lashed out at Hoffman, the outcome would be night and day…

Mazzareli is silent for a moment before he clears his throat; from behind him, a single bead of sweat rolls down Prince’s temple. “Lieutenant Plotte,” Mazzareli muses, “from where did this bad habit of Happ originate from, I wonder? There’s only one person present among us that would know better than to blabber around a name like that so carelessly. And there’s only one specific individual who is also,” Mazzareli sighs heavily, “how should I say this? Even more by the books regarding proper addressing of officers by their rank and surnames…”

“Maz—“ Prince bites down on his lip, an intense glance at me, “it was merely a slip of the tongue is all, sir,” Prince says in a cool, calm voice. With a professional air of coolness, he wipes the lone bead with precision before Mazzareli can turn around, a soft scoff—a chuckle, rather. Mazzareli rubs his temples and takes a few steps to Prince before turning part way to face Friederika and me again.

“No, Victoria. For now, I want you to reflect on your actions and avoid confrontations with any military police. I imagine once word gets out, they’ll want to bully you into the brig in the name of instilling discipline.”

“Well,” I say wryly, “I’d like to see them try.” It’s a bold statement that even Friederika glances at me with bafflement, then back at Mazzareli, as if to wonder if she’ll be dragged into this as an accessory to the crime.

“In all seriousness though,” Prince interjects, “please refrain from giving me any more headaches than what I’ve dealt with. Those Francien chaps have caused me a great deal of misery in terms of police manpower and migraine tablets. If I have to hear one more case of a golden brat suplexing a battalion of MP—again, might I add, I think I actually get a brain aneurysm.”

“You know,” I remark, “you seem fixated on aneurysms quite a bit, Prince… maybe you should get that checked out before it does become a problem?” I smile weakly, even though Prince stares me down far too intently, “just a thought. If we were to lose a hard-working individual such as yourself, the Yilan would have so much more to mourn—it’d fall directly into anarchy, I’d say.”

“Mate,” Friederika hisses, pinching me on the side. Mazzareli smiles, shaking his head as he leaves ahead of Prince. Prince wagers a finger at me with a nasty squint before dropping his hand and shrugging.

“EnSIGN Happ,” Prince begins—or at least I thought he would. Prince crosses his arms and glances back at Mazzareli. “Listen… I’ll tell my security chief to advise any vigilance against you over any issue that may have arisen over on the Trinidad,” Prince sighs, reaching to caress his overly wrinkled brow, “that’s the least I can do… rather or not any will obey my orders is another issue entirely. That’s about as much as I can hope to do until the situation with the eccentric Franks settles down. I just ask that you uphold your part and… I’m being serious, do not have an explosive outburst attacking any superiors.”

“As usual, Prince, I can’t hold a promise so easily,” I say meekly, lightly grinning as I stroke my bangs. At this point, I’ve certainly inconvenienced a lot of people. Prince raises a finger to object but instead takes his cap off to rustle his hair. He exhales heavily through his nostrils before he begins to speak.

“Right…” Prince utters, “behaving aside… sub-lieutenant Trachenberg.” I expect Friederika to stiffen up with a gasp, but she seems too exhausted to do even that now. She merely nods and holds my hand in silence. “You look like you didn’t handle a breakup very well in the slightest—you too, as well, Happ, but more so in the way that you look like you’re going to burst into tears any moment now… Trachenberg, if it’s not too much to ask of you, I suggest you go clean yourself up before any ill-intentioned rumors spread around the ship of Trachenberg parting ways with her beloved Happ-Schwarzenberger.”

Who the bloody hell does this guy think he is, sprouting such terrible nonsense like that? Well, glancing at Friederika and stroking her soft hair, his impression isn’t too far off in her case. “Well do, Lieutenant,” Friederika says weakly. We salute as Prince does an about-face and jolts off to join Mazzareli. I have an urge to call him out for being a hypocrite for breaking his own rules, but I refrain from wanting to cause him any further migraines. He has enough to deal with already with Mazzareli.

“I think I’m going to take Prince’s suggestion and get washed up,” Friederika says after the air of silence subsides, “and after that, I’ll head to the mess hall to get some grub… you’re more than free to stop by my room too if you want.”

“Depends, am I going to get a boot to the face again? I think that’ll leave a mark nastier than your face right now,” I answer. Friederika trying to suppress a smirk is more than enough to bring me back to spirits if only a little. What a little clown she looks like right now.

“I think… I want some time for myself right now,” I say, letting loose a heavy breath as I take my garrison cap off to roll golden bangs through my fingers. “I hope you don’t mind, Kiki… mainly, I want to, um… pay Buttermilch a visit.” When I glance at Friederika, she seems a little sad, but she is quick to mask it with a grin. “I’m sorry. I…”

“No, it’s fine, mate,” Friederika says, casually slapping me on the back. “That does seem like a very Victorian thing for you to do. After all, Mazzy there did say for you to reflect on your actions, right?” A sly smile “we can meet up in the mess hall later. I remember Margot and her team started making tons of these hand-crafted lunch boxes earlier, I think around the time we left for the Trinidad. She really went all out this time around… she got hold of special ingredients unique to the northern Frankish Domains… some crispy kangaroo sausage rolls, grilled salmon, chopped squid, oh! And even marinated—“

“I think I get it, stop it before you start making my mouth water anymore” I stay jabbing Friederika on the forehead. “Blimey, I almost want to skip out on moping around to eat there now. Would she still even have any left now, I wonder?” Friederika ponders for a moment, but shrugs. “With all the riots happening over there, you’d think she would even have some leftovers for us, I wonder?” Margot likes the two of us after all. I’m surprised she didn’t drag us there herself or even delegate someone to bring us specialized lunch. Well… I imagine she would’ve been having boxing matches with those crazy Franks in her domain to bother risking her mess hall getting trashed to smithereens.

“Maybe?” Friederika muses, a shrug, “if I finish up and get there in time, I’ll try to save you one. Unless… you know, you wanted to go there right now.”

I retort, “I’m sure if we went there as-is, you’d definitely scare all the opposite sex with your sorry excuse for a face.” Friederika only scoffs, uncharacteristically being careful wiping her face with a handkerchief.

“Suit yourself mate,” her smirk turns into a slight frown, “try not to take too long, okay? I’m sure Margot would hate to see her food turn cold, you know.” We remain quiet for a while, unsure if either of us wants to break apart after all. Friederika opens her mouth to add something, but she smiles instead and gives me one intense crushing hug before she slowly backs off, and heads out of the station.

With a long, deep breath, I rub my somewhat wet eyes—true to what Prince said, I do feel extremely miserable still—and unwind a long exhale. No punishment in mind now, but instead reflect on your actions. That’s what Mazzareli said… I guess he must have figured out that I would visit Buttermilch.

I don’t know if it is the best thing to do… all it will do is further cause me to wallow deeper in regret. But I suppose it is better to get it out of my system now than later.