* * * “I can't say that I'm easy with the direction in which this little adventure could be going,” Dorianna says, in the nest again, in her own flesh. “I played along, back there...and I'll continue to do so, but I just want you boys to know that this scares me more than having a bomb lobbed at the back of the car I'm riding in.” She is pale in the quasi-marine wash of bluish-green light from the monitor screens and holography tanks arrayed along the curving, brick-worked walls. She hugs herself, as if the air carries a pronounced chill. Perched on the foot of her couch, she surveys the chamber, then meets Ilya's gaze with a look of frightened entreaty. Her expression, Ilya thinks, is an open, non-verbal cryfor reassurance. And now, it's his turn to feel the subjective chill in the air. It prickles down his spine―oh! So softly!--one vertebra at a time. He can say nothing. As long before, and on so many occasions, he is an awkward kid, confused at her presence. Thoughts that should come clearly are a mud-swirled disorder of tongue-tied worry. Perched sideways on his couch, feet planted firmly on the floor, he hunches forward, elbows on his knees; he cradles his head as if it aches, as if to shield himself from twinges of vertigo. Aleo, straddling the lower half of his own modified flight couch, touches Ilya and then Dorianna with a clear, unblinking gaze. “Ilychka and I are your protectors. Neither he nor I will utterly promise that this'll be easy...but we'll get through it. All of us.” His words, though directed at Dorianna, are pitched in such a way as to encompass Arkady, Ivanna, and Mihail: Ilya hears this clearly, and though the moment forestalls any true comfort, he's at least able to see the seed of its potential. “So,” Ilya begins, cocking a sideways glance at Aleo. “How do we make good on this promise?” * * * Aleo's answer comes slowly over the course of a bell, and with few words. In Arkady's flesh, he'd challenged Jonathan Zandt to a meeting in the deep bowels of the Black City, and Ilya, staring at a map of the region, understands―with chilling clarity―Aleo's choice, and the advantages they may claim. “I don't understand,” Dorianna says. “What's so special about this place?” It is Ilya who explains, while Aleo wrangles through a call to the Cloister-house itself. He sits with Dorianna in the small space between their rooms: familiar space―as he judges it―for Dorianna, and thus (he hopes) something of a comfort. On one side of the small table, she considers the steam rising from her mug of tea. Ilya sits forward, cradling his own drink in both hands. “Hades,” he says, “is the darkest place in the entire Black City. It's a maze. The perfect place for a defector-fugative to hide out.” He tries to sound reassuring; he tries to smile, but Dorianna's expression of worry gnaws at him and chips away at the conviction that he can say anything that will comfort her. He nips at his own tea, then shifts in his seat, toes clawing at the insides of his boots. “Before the war, there was another city here, smaller. A bid for independence took place in the old city. Riots sparked. Most of it was destroyed.” Ilya gestures upward and around, encompassing all of Fyodorov. “This all grew up around the ruins, and now those ruins…almost completely buried…are the perfect place to ambush an assassin. “ It is then, that he senses a subtle, but complete blunder. Dorianna flinches, then rakes through her hair with outstretched fingers; he feels the subjective impression of her heart skipping a beat and catching the rebound. “I'm sorry,” Ilya says, focused--now--on the furrow of her brow, and the vague tightening of her lips. Her body speaks eloquently of quiet unrest. “For what?” “For what I've just said.” “About ambushing an assassin?” “About ambushing Jonathan.” He pauses. He inhales. “You flinched when I said that...I should have been more sensitive.” “I didn't flinch.” “Your pupils dilated, your pulse quickened. It's all involuntary, but I saw it. It's been happening every time Jonathan is mentioned.” “You...saw that?” “Any Cloistered-bother would.” Dorianna says nothing in response. She steals another sip of her tea, and then falls into wordless contemplation of what remains in her mug. She doesn’t look up. “You still have feelings for him?” Ilya asks. “It's been a long time since I've seen him...and it's obvious that we're different people with different agendas.” “You're not answering my question.” “How can I?” There is incendiary anger in her voice. “You're asking for a one word answer, Ilya. You want me to condense everything I'm feeling into a yes or a no, and I can't do that.” It takes everything she has in order to keep her voice calm and level. Ilya hears the tension, the force she’s using to keep the quakes she feels from manifesting behind each of her spoken words. But the quakes are there, like popping arcs of electricity spewed from jagged fragments of metal in a wash of virulent microwaves. Yes. She still has feelings for him. Yes. The pattern of her answer speaks more clearly than any overt words might. Yes. Her ex-fiancée has come after her with explosives and probable weapons of incredible subtlety, and even if things have changed to this degree, she still holds a common past with him. --Him-- Ilya forces himself to think the name: Jonathan. Jonathan. Zandt. “Stop looking at me. I'm not some interesting book for you to read and analyze!” “I'm sorry.” His gaze drops. His fingers clench more tightly around the dense ceramic sides of his mug. He relaxes his grip and keeps his focus downcast. For a long moment, there is silence: a void, Ilya imagines, between two strangers. “I thought I'd left everything behind,” Dorianna says, quietly. “Things couldn't work between him and me, but I wanted them to. I had my work. He had his; that put us at odds with one another―him with his corporate contracts and ambitions. Me with a head-full of my father's idealism; I wanted to see places for the sake of seeing them and maybe learning something...but all he could understand were market surveys and profit extrapolations.” She laughs, bitterly. “The Centralist Worlds aren’t hospitable if you’re an idealist.” Ilya keeps his focus on his fingertips, though he nods to show that he’s listening. “I hated interstellar Nemaea when I was here last,” Dorianna says. “New Ruthenia was such a boring, backwater little spit of a planet. I couldn't wait to get back home to my friends and the kid-concerns I had when you last saw me. As an adult though, I found myself wondering what exactly it is that you have here. Corporations and government are still two different things in all of Interstellar Nemaea. There's comfort in that. And it's something I thought I needed.” She falls silent again. She steals another sip of her drink, and then sits back, arms stretched before her as she claps her mug, sliding it back and forth across the table face. Ilya holds his silence. “It's something I need, Ilya...but I'm not sure that it's really worth risking my life for.” “You want to go back?” “I can't go back...and even if I could, the answer's the same. No. This isn't about going back, Ilya. It's about facing...I don't know―…this!” She gestures around, an errant lock of hair falling before her face. She tucks it back behind one ear, then drops her gaze into the pit of her mug. Ilya closes his eyes. He nods. He opens his eyes and holds Dorianna in long, unblinking focus. His hands find hers across the table face. “I cannot pretend to understand all of what you're feeling, Dashenka. But I'm helping you. Aleo is helping too.” Dorianna jerks a swift nod, then smiles in a way that speaks of pained self-consciousness. “I know.” She laughs, and the noise is all nervous tension breaking in the confines of her throat. She laughs again, then shakes her head. “It is good to see you smile,” Ilya says. And Dorianna's small laugh blossoms into something bigger, something fuller. She sobers after a moment, clasping Ilya's fingers. “I didn't say it when I first arrived here. You and I were too busy arguing and not trusting each other, so I'm gonna say it now. I'm glad to see you again. I'm glad to see what you've grown into. And I'm glad, as well, that you and Aleo, are helping me.” Ilya shrugs. “It's our job.” Again, Dorianna laughs. “I know. And it could be anybody's job; I'm just glad you're the one who drew the short straw.” And again (after how many times today, alone?) Ilya feels a blush reddening his cheeks and the crests of his ears. He bluffs his way through it, masking all he can behind a sip of his tea. After a moment, he peers into Dorianna's eyes. “We have work to do, and I've just thought of something that can help this situation.” The thought: he holds it at the forefront of his mind, but he doesn’t risk speaking it aloud. Sobered, Dorianna nods. “Are you ready to face Aleo and more of his plotting?” Dorianna inhales. Deeply. “I'm as ready as I can get,” she says, finishing the last of her tea and scooting back from the table. She steps to her feet, apparently making some ritual of the gesture and stealing comfort from the simple action itself. She straightens her shirt, grabs her empty mug and places it in the washer. She steps past him, to the entryway and stops short of the threshold when Ilya calls her name. He takes one step--two, and then three--in her direction, reading the look of curious expectation on her face. She’s changed a lot since that year of their long-vanished adolescence back on New Ruthenia, but she’s also the same person. More experienced now. But there are remnants of that petulant and impatient young girl in her eyes, and in the lean/firm set of her features. He smiles at that, clasping both of her shoulders as gently as he can. “We’re getting through this,” he says, leaning forward and planting a soft/delicate kiss onto her forehead. She closes her eyes. With his hands still on her shoulders, he takes half a step back. She opens her eyes. She smiles, but tension remains in her shoulders and along her neck. “Let’s go,” Ilya says, and for once, the gentleness he tastes in his words feels nearly right. Nearly. **** And yes, there is a bit more to come! Thank you for reading and commenting, and rest assured, Ilya and Aleo and Dorianna have quite a bit more to do!