YOU SHOULD SEE ME IN A CROWWWWWN

He reaches behind him to adjust the pillow at his back. Talking about the bed and the quality of it just makes him more and more fine tuned on his focus of how soft this pillow is. It sinks where it meets his body and he can remember a time in his life when he liked that. If he can think far, far back... maybe his childhood room. Before military school, back at the estate. Even then Dolan hadn’t liked things to be too cushy, but this pillow probably would have suited him then. He’d have snuggled into it and fallen asleep so quickly. Sometimes he wishes he could go back. But some bells can’t be unrung. And at the end of the day, for many complicated reasons, he often chooses to believe that he doesn’t want to unring them anyway.

But the sudden shift in her tone and her slight discomfort isn’t lost on him. Granted, he’ll give it to her that it’s already an uncomfortable situation, for him at least, and he doesn’t have to go bringing up deep or troublesome topics to make it worse. He should be trying to make this easier on both of him. Peace of mind, that’s really why he’s here in the first place, isn’t it?

“Oh. By the way. You won the bet.”

He rubs the back of his neck, doing his best to put himself in a casual mood so that it comes out in his voice. On second thought, this might not be the best topic to bring up to her sitting in her bed either, but at least it’ll be better than the last.

“You remember when we bet on how long it would take that maid to talk to me? You were right. Happened today.”

He rolls his neck in her direction ever so slightly so he can admire the look of satisfaction her face, even if it is at his expense.

"Oho, did she now?"

Rather than just lifting an eyebrow, sparing him a glance to the side, she shifts a bit so she can look at him fully, the corner of her lips pulling up more and more by the second. He came into her "home" and expected to win a bet? No, she knows these people better than any of them will ever hope to know her in their entire lifetimes combined.

"Sooooooooooo..."

Angling her face down, she can get a better look at his, looking up at him expectantly, coyly, flicking one of her ears in the same beat someone would impatiently tap their finger.

"Did she ask you out? Did she try to get you in her room? What did she want and what did you say? She's one of my favorite maids here, but she can be pretty forward when she's really horny."

A satisfied hum drifts out of her throat at the end of her talking, mixing with some tones of curiosity, all masking her thoughts as she tries to read his expression to see any hint as to what he said to the maid before he can answer the questions.

“Forward and surprisingly strong. She tried to back me into one of the supply closets.”

Dolan wrinkles his nose up slightly, although any force of expression looks nearly dramatic on his normally even face.

“The poor girl looked like a fish trying to breathe out of water, with her mouth coming at me. I️ suppose I️’m lucky for my height or else she would have eaten my entire face.”

He shifts a little, shaking his head, sighing. He’d known when he’d taken the bet with the empress that she had home field advantage. Being out in the literal field for so long, Dolan can maybe admit now that he’s not as in tuned with all of the aspects of human behavior that he thinks he is. Perhaps its time to start focusing on more observing and less betting.

“She did happen to also see me standing her outside your room clutching my teddy bear of a pillow, so hopefully she doesn’t shrink all your clothes in spite.”

That brings the slight, wry grin back to his face for a little longer, the softest of chuckles accompanying it.

"Hmmmmmm.... I cannot wait to walk around tomorrow and listen to all the rumors. If you were standing out there clutching your pillow all nervously, they'll definitely think I summoned you to my room to keep me company for the night, not that it was some passionate agreed-upon thing. How very exciting."

Trita openly grins at her guard, over the moon by all of this. When she moved in here, she had to throw a lot of her old more mischevious ways out the window. The nation needed an empress, she had and still has a million and one responsibilities. If she ever forgot for a moment, Kvanne would remind her of them.

But. Something about Commander Fox lets her relax a bit, let's her ease back into these old coy ways she has to keep buried. Whether that's good or not is yet to be determined, but she's content to roll with it for as long as she can. It's at his expense, poor soul, but he hasn't told her to stop yet and he's had a full week.

"Empress Airin locks her guard in her room and forces a night of sexual acts upon him for her own pleasure. I can hear it now. Bored maids usually make up the best gossip. Now I'll have to think of a way to disprove the rumors before Councilman Fox hears."

Dolan opens his mouth and has to shut it again once he realizes he doesn’t actually have an appropriate response. Normally he opens his mouth and something comes out that fits and sounds decent, but whatever function that is has abandoned him now.

Rumors and salacious maids and hearsay, none of that has ever interested him. But the way she just throws all of this out there with that mischievous look on her face. The way she so calmly and casually suggests locking him in her room all night. Something about that steals all the words from him.

He shifts against his pillow again instead, brow furrowed just slightly, focusing on trying to keep the blanket from falling off the foot of the bed using only his feet under the covers.

“That’s. Kvanne wouldn’t. He probably would not. Like that, no.”

God, he’s never been one to truly fidget. Not like this anyway. It makes him feel like a child back in school again. Get it together, Fox.

“So the um. The schedule tomorrow. Is that all set to go, are there any last minute changes I️ should. Maybe be aware of, or. Anything like that?”

He can feel his face warming up a bit and he hopes the dimness of the room hides his embarrassment even a bit for him.

"Tomorrow? Let me see."

Her eyes go back to the floating screen in front of her face, swiping through to her calendar in record time, tapping her finger against the different icons that dot various times for the upcoming day.

"Breakfast with you in the morning, per usual. A meeting with Councilman Killian to discuss the details of an upcoming international ball being held here. It seems like I'm meeting with your brother after that but he hasn't told me what for yet, he can be surprisingly cryptic. Oh, then tea time in the tapestry room for lunch, always. After, we come back to citizen requests- Oh, you've never been here for that. Basically, I sit on the throne and citizens from all over the empire line up to meet with me, give me requests, voice concerns, or just to have a moment to speak. I'm glad I read my schedule just now, I apparently have a very particular outfit I need to wear for that."

Before long, she's rattling off about nothing, just reading her schedule, making comments here and there, talking about what happened the last time these events took place. Annoyances, frustrations, musings, inappropriate comments an empress should probably keep to herself, the whole spectrum of it all. By the time she notices what she's doing, she's nearly done detailing her whole day to him.

That's. Odd. What a weird, homey feeling this all is. Sitting in comfort letting your thoughts fly. Maybe this is why people get married, a captive audience at the end of the day. Unfortunately, she'll have to control herself and not do this again.

Clearing her throat, she clicks her phone off, the screen flickering away out of existence as the projection collapses.

"Then, in the evening, I've made time for us to visit the passages under the palace again. See if we can find anything else with your grandmother's name on it. That's all. That's our day."

He nods his head once, tightly, satisfied. He thinks his mind is probably back where it should be. And even if it wasn’t, at least he’s feeling calmer now.

He hadn’t even noticed, but by the time she’s done talking, he’s slid down a little further in the bed, not laying down entirely, but enough that his upper back and shoulders are rested against the headboard, the rest of his body relaxed and apparently accustomed to the cloud beneath him.

“Full days are nice.”

He says it almost to himself, words slipping out now that betray to him how tired he must be. Of course hints of his own tiredness can be terrifying in a way because it means he’s that much closer to jolting awake and unaware, starting off the nightmare that is nighttime. But here, he’s more easily able to push that aside and find some enjoyment in how heavy his eyelids are, how his body feels like it’s slipping into sleep before his mind does. How everything feels so pleasantly heavy. How he barely even feels like he’s on alert.

“Hey, tell me something. If you didn’t have all this official stuff to do with your day. If you didn’t even have to stay at the capitol. What would you do everyday. There’s just so much out there.”

"If I didn't have to stay here... I'm assuming that means I'm not an empress either."

Trita shifts further down in her pillows and blankets, shifting enough that she can stare up at the ceiling.

Her mind drifts to a table, an old tea set, half-burnt candles, the smell of pastries. A room far different than anything this palace holds. It makes her smirk falter, her eyes falling half-closed as the energy to appear awake and amused flees from her as the picture takes root. This dream wouldn't be possible regardless of her position... Has she thought about what else she'd do now that none of that matters?

"You know... I think I'd like to travel. Explore the world, cause mischief wherever I go, see what I can get away with, push some limits, but see every sight all these different nations have to offer in the process. A little bit romantic, a little bit criminal. That's my general ideal life."

Sighing, a sigh she hopes sounds content more than releasing a level of stress, she closes her eyes to pretend she's ready to settle in for the night, yanking the covers up all the way to her chin.

"Well, what about you, Fox? What would you do if you weren't a commander?"

“Guess I️ should’ve seen that coming.”

He should have, but he’s never contemplated the answer to that question before. Or even that the question is something available to him to think about.

“I️. Can really only imagine going back to the border. If I️’m not here, if I️’m not at the border, not on some other long-term mission. I️’m.”

He shrugs his shoulders the best he can in this half-lying half-sitting up position as he watches the floodlights from outside sparkle against the chandelier as the metal pieces of it sway softly, nearly indiscernibly.

“Makes sense to want to have a little fun though. Spend enough time putting out fires and I️ guess it’s natural to want to try starting them for a change.”

A yawn starts to pull at his lips but he pushes it back down his throat.

“Maybe I️’d like something like that too. Be the one to cause a little trouble for once instead of the person trying to fix it all. Fixing things can get damn exhausting, huh.”

"Winning was easy, governing's harder."

Trita laughs a little to herself, though it comes out as a few quick puffs of air out her nose, quiet hints at amusement to cover up how true she finds the statement to be.

A quiet falls for a moment, one that makes it appear as if sleep has settled on them both, but her eyes open again, staring into the darkness for a moment, blinking and breathing. She should probably just shut up and let the poor man sleep, he already has to deal with her during the day, she could at least give him the night to himself.

"Hey, Fox..."

But the words start tumbling out before she can stop them, just like times when she was younger, unbothered and unrestrained.

"Do you... Do you think the rebellion is over?"

“Okay, I️ think it’s fair to say that winning and governing are both difficult in different ways.”

He chuckles again slightly before settling into silence again, inhaling deeply at her question. It’s one he’s pondered before. It seems particularly suited to long nights when he can’t sleep, when all he can do is study the ceiling here, or the texture of the sand at the border. Seems like it something she thinks about often, too. And why shouldn’t she? Is it all worth it? Will it continue to be worth it? Or will things go back to the way they were before, once all of them are dead and gone?

“I️ think. In some ways it is over. And in other ways, it’s barely even begun.”

He knows it doesn’t come across as very helpful, or even very optimistic, so he shakes his head slightly at himself as he tries to rephrase.

“What I️ mean is that. Everything like this has phases, seasons. The phase you began, the initial bulk of the work, of getting the train stoked and moving. That part is done. You woke the dragon, you gave the people their hope back and let them see what it’s like to have a voice. There’s no going back from that, now that they know they can have a say over their lives.”

He swallows, shifts in the bed as he slips the last bit of the way down to sink into the bed fully. Something about laying down all the way feels like a huge jump from being propped up just the little bit that he was before. But something inside him can’t have this conversation unless he’s laying down, having the same talk out loud that he usually has with himself in his own mind in the middle of the night.

“But. You’ve said it yourself. There’s so much left to be done. And if it stays undone, we’ll have more problems on our hands. So I️ think there is probably quite a bit we’ll have to face that we haven’t even seen yet. But we fought to pull the curtain back, we struggled for that right. So now that it is, we just. Deal with whatever is on the other side. We have to.”

He finds himself rolling over a little so that he’s facing her, dismissing the idea that it could be a little too intimate, demanding, to be staring at her like this as they talk.

“Do you wish it was over? That the work was all done? Or is that part of what motivates you to keep going?”

"Can I be honest for a moment?"

She hears him shift to look at her first but she doesn't move to look back at him immediately, just keeping her eyes staring up, lost in her own thoughts on the matter.

"I don't really know."

Finally, she rolls over and looks at him, giving a rather animated shrug so he can still see it in the dark. Oddly enough, she's not sure the effort was needed on her part. His eyes just sort of... Glow. Like illuminated ice, snow-covered lights. Maybe it's just her, but if she can see his eyes this clearly, he can probably see her just fine, too.

"I think I've lost my own plot somewhere along the way. Peace is always my goal, seeing this through to the end is the most important thing to me. Everything I've done, the good, the bad, the morally gray sins, it's for this to be over. But."

She pauses, narrowing her eyes at his face, trying to read him for something, anything. Hell, she's not even sure what she's looking for. Whatever it is, she can't even tell if she finds it or not, but she keeps looking anyway. She's doing that often, staring at him, searching him. It has to be uncomfortable for him, but she's drawn to the action. He holds some sort of fascination for her she can't describe.

Regardless of all of that, she sighs and shrugs again.

"What do I do once it's over? This has been my sole purpose for so long... Do I just fall off the face of the earth then? Fadeaway? Will people even need me anymore once it's over? If they do, what for? If they don't, where do I go from here? I think about it often."

"I️ don't believe that's something you should ever truly have to worry about."

He takes in the way she studies him, and something about it is even more intimate than their positioning, facing each other in the bed like this. He'd thought about it humorously before, but something about it does remind him of his childhood, of sleepovers with friends and whispering in the night, speaking secret things out into the safe space they'd created simply from being together in what feels like the most sacred and otherworldly part of the night.

"Even if the rebellion were to end, every piece of it seen through to its utmost conclusion. The people would still need you. You're their symbol, their ideal. Almost like, a beacon of hope for some. An ideological mother of sorts."

He gives a nearly silent laugh to play off the look she shoots him when he uses that analogy, and he waves slightly with the hand he's propped up under his jaw.

"You know what I️ mean. And beyond that... this is something you'll carry your whole life. It will rest on your shoulders til the day you die. And I️ know that sounds heavy, and I'm perfectly aware that you know it is. But it's also a great honor. You're deeply trusted by many."

He purposefully avoids getting too intimate with his wording here, using only vague words and metaphors that are more appropriate to the topic and to this time of night anyway.

"But I️ think. I️ think the only way to have succeeded is if something can successfully continue on without you. If it keeps going in the direction you set it after you're gone. And I️ think enough people have caught your vision that that will happen. Some day very, very far away from now."

"You mean a legacy? Something I'll never get to see."

She weighs that in her head for a moment, letting the idea bounce around so it can take root and she can come to understand then in their depth.

"I suppose that's enough... But I really don't think I'm everything you think I am to the people."

They've already spoken about this, she's sure, and in detail if she remembers correctly, so there's no point in hashing it all out again, especially before bed.

"I'm very replaceable. And in a way, that's good. The Empire will outlive me when I'm gone. But. It also means that I'm just a rabbit that started a war, a war most people wanted but didn't know how to initiate. I simply had nothing to lose. Anyone even remotely similar to me could have done the same thing. I most certainly am not an ideological mother."

Trita cuts her eyes at him playfully, shooting the words back at him, scrunching up her nose in the process like they're bitter to even remember.

"So, that said, if all of this is over, I'm not really necessary. The only purpose I'd serve is to act as a symbol to scare off the Old Imperial Wave and to keep other nations at bay. And... Acting as some stationary symbol and scare tactic isn't really my idea of living. And you can tell me I'm a young twenty-something, that you in your forty years of wisdom know how valuable that is, but it sounds incredibly dull to me."

"Well. I️ won't argue with you on the dull front. But dull and purposeful are often-"

He starts to call them bedfellows, but thinks better of that.

"They often go hand in hand."

He presses his lips together and rolls back over, hands folded under his head as he returns to staring at the ceiling. This place really is a mix of new and old- very, very new and very, very old- patchwork together. It probably holds more secrets than he or the empress will ever figure out in their lifetimes.

"But I️'m not just blowing hot air at you. Anyone could have started the rebellion, that's true. But not just anyone did. You did. And that means something. If someone like me or my brother had started it, that would have been meaningless. But everyday people can look at you, and. Well. You opened up their entire world for them. Just about every paradigm their lives were built on, you shifted it for the better. You starting the rebellion gave them permission to show up and fight for influence over their own lives when that wasn't even a possibility, wasn't even a thought in their minds before. And even if you don't allow that to make you feel special or important, it's at least something to be damn proud of."

"I guess it takes a street-rat with nothing to get anything done. The only thing you can hold against us is our lives and, even then, we're not all that attached more often than not."

Trita decides not to roll back over as he had, instead staying on her side facing him but slipping her eyes closed yet again, content to sleep just like this.

"I'm sure you or Kvanne could have started it, and it probably would have gone a lot smoother. You two were trained, I was just making up everything as I went. I feel like that's probably why it took so long."

That thought brings a memory to mind, one that has her laughing to herself, though, when she's brought it up before, it had made Kvanne uncomfortable and he found little amusement in it. She doesn't even need to open her eyes to know she's caught Dolan's attention again, so she just rolls into it.

"Do you remember a man named Sam Nelson? He was a rebel, joined the cause pretty early on, but defected halfway through the war? He then went on tirades in cities and towns about how I was insane, a sociopath, possibly a psychopath, did his own campaigns about how I wasn't fit to lead. Called me all sorts of names, slandered me openly, told all sorts of stories about my gorilla and inhuman war tactics."

Trita pauses, licking her bottom lip, noticing it's dry from all the talking they're doing right now... Or, maybe trying to relieve the tension she feels building in her own shoulders as she talks about this.

"Sam Nelson was actually a very close friend of mine before the war. The most patient man I had ever met, he was from a wealthy imperial family, but he wanted a rebellion almost as much as I did."

Dolan lets out a throaty scoff.

"Yeah, that's just like people, isn't it. Want to let you do all the work, but then want to complain about how you're not doing it right. Wish I️ could say there were less of that type out there."

He shifts again. Every time he gets comfortable here, or as comfortable as he can imagine himself being in bed with the empress, some new thought slips in that steals that comfort away. But it still feels like a sleepover, like something childish and innocent and pure, and the dread of holding his thoughts in is replaced quickly with a burning in his chest, a need almost, to just let them all out.

"You've read my file, or files, I'm sure there are plenty. Either way, you know my background. I️ was raised in the old order, I️ had it seared into my brain."

He pauses, thinking about how literal that statement really is, but deciding not to expand on it.

"I️ had friends- men I'd grown up with since we were children, housed together in the same dormitories at military school, trained in all the same classrooms. We graduated and started on ops together. You know the bond you have with people you fight alongside. It's life or death, there's a level of trust there you don't get with normal people. That you really don't get anywhere else your whole life."

He's rambling now, and that's rare for him. There was a point to this when he started, wasn't there?

"All that to say. When the rebellion broke out and I️ realized I️ was on the wrong side, I️ realized all the friends that had been in the literal trenches with me, even though we were raised exactly the same. Somehow they were too afraid to stand up for what was right. Or maybe too comfortable, or they had too much invested. Who's to say."

He blows more air out through his nose, frustrated at himself for taking such a winding way to reach what he's really trying to say. He feels strangely heady, a mix of pleasantly sleepy and somehow very settled feeling. How did he end up feeling this way? In her bed of all places?

"I'm. My mind is disorganized. I'm sorry. I️ think what I'm trying to say is that I'm thankful you started the rebellion. You. Because it really laid bare what was actually inside of people. You took the prestige and the power play out of it and made it about something tangible and real and undeniably important. Something rich people in their towers couldn't just turn their gaze from. It was extremely polarizing. But it was needed."

"Well, that's me: Extremely polarizing."

Something about that fits more than anything else he's said about her all night or even the whole past week. The praise and glory never suited a girl like her anyways.

Controversial titles and opinions? That's much more fitting.

"Sorry, not sure why I brought that up. Sometimes I think about Sam. It doesn't really matter anymore, he was killed in the war, by his own parents, believe it or not. They weren't even rebels, they were Imperialists and, like I told you, Sam had defected from the Rebellion. So, I'm not really sure what the conflict was there. Parents sure are fucking shitty."

Huffing, she settles deeper into her pillows, pressing her face into the silk cases covering them. They're freshly washed, just as they always are almost every other day. It's not necessary but the staff here really deserves a raise for all their work.

"Anyways, we have a long day tomorrow. We should probably sleep, yeah?"

“Stuffy rich parents whose only goal is to keep power and not be embarrassed by their offspring. What a demographic there.”

Dolan heaves out a long sigh after an equally long breath in. He has more experience with that demographic than he’ll ever admit out loud to anyone else in his life. He’s found that not many things in life dont fall under the umbrella of kill or be killed, even parents.

But she’s right. Its getting late and the more tired he gets, the more he can feel himself slipping things into conversation that have no business there. Nothing yet that he’ll regret later, but he’d like to keep it that way.

He supposes its time to embrace the inevitable rough night that lays ahead of him.

“Right. Sleep is a thing people do. Well, if you hear me stirring, dont think anything of it. Hopefully I️ won’t wake you but I’m sorry I’m advance if I️ do.”

The next day arrives and progresses, smoothly, boringly, but successfully nonetheless. The next week goes much the same, she runs around the palace from meeting to meeting and he's never more than five steps behind her keeping pace. Then, at the end of it all, they slip into that comically large bed, always on opposite sides, together, talk about this and that, then drift off to rest for the next round of it.

By the time she checks the calendar to get a proper look at the date, it's already a few days after his one-month work anniversary here at the palace. Time really does fly when you're not allowed to stop.

Trita sits up straight in her office chair, stretching her arms up above her head, leaning away from the stupidly long proposal sitting in front of her. The light from the window behind her trickles in, the late afternoon sun washing her well-fitted burgundy suit in warm light, warming it up over her skin. It's much more of a "casual" look, though only by palace standards, and she nearly gives Kvanne a heart attack every time she wears something like this because she refuses to wear a shirt underneath, instead letting the v-neck of the blazer act as her neckline. If she's going to sit here and do work all day, she's going to wear what she wants to wear.

The room is quiet save for the patter of an artificial stream running along one of the walls, always flowing, lined by a thin swatch of plants and grass. Her eyes wander over to the small waterfall that supplies both the water and the current for the fountain decoration, watching everything move and work as if it's been there for hundreds of years.

Dolan sits in a sitting area off on the other side of the room, reading something on his phone, though she's not sure what, and by the time she thinks to disturb him to her own amusement, the large bell in the tallest tower of the palace rings in the evening officially.

"After five already..."

Sighing, she turns back to her paperwork, rolling her shoulders some.

"I don't think I'm done quite yet, could be another hour... Do you want to go get dinner from the kitchen and bring it up in here?"

Dolan jolts a little, pulling himself out of his reading. He’d been lost in it for quite some time, apparently. Keeping up with news from the border via some associates at the war office and even through the more public channels. While its true that Dolan’s gotten somewhat settled here, accustomed to his new work and the flow of things, it would be a lie to say he isn’t still invested in the work back at the border, down in the sand where he’d left his company.

He tilts his head slightly, turned, to peer at his watch. She wasn’t lying. Where had the time gone?

“I️ can bring it up for you, but I️ was hoping to still get some time in at the range this evening before we call it quits for the day.”

That was something that had helped him adjust. He had been used to staying sharp, training daily and exercising all the things he’d practiced out in the field. So when he’d discovered the palace shooting range and gym, both tucked away nicely in a wing half underground, he had jumped at the chance to add time there into his daily schedule. He jokes to the empress now that someone his age doesn’t avoid dad bod on just a wing and a prayer. A little effort is necessary.

He stands up and rolls his shoulders out a bit, slipping his phone into his pocket, awaiting her decision.

Trita watches him quietly for a long moment, thinking over her answer, checking her phone briefly to help her come to a conclusion.

"Well. I do have a private call to take in fifteen minutes... Why don't you just hop on to the range and then we'll meet in the kitchen at six for dinner."

Naemi hasn't contacted her in quite some time regarding her findings at the old Fox Manor. Last Trita heard, Dolan's second brother owns the estate and uses it like a refugee camp of sorts. Not at all what she was expecting, so she told Naemi to stay longer than previously planned to gather more intel. It's been a couple of weeks since then, so hopefully, there's something new today.

Satisfied with that, she puts her phone away, picking up her pen as she gives Dolan another look over, a smirk playing along her lips as it always does.

"Don't you dare go to the kitchen one minute before then, I'm trying to keep a mental tab on your measurements and sneaking food ruins my calculations."

“Oh, are you making bets with someone other than me now? I’m offended.”

He scoffs sarcastically, lips pulling into a tight half grin. But he sheds his outer uniform coat and folds it in half, laying it neatly across the back of the chair for later.

“Because I’ll bet you. That I’m on time, and you’re the one who’s late.”

He arches an eyebrow for emphasis, enjoying heckling her a little bit. He’s come to enjoy it about as much as she seems to enjoy messing with him. A sarcastic, wry, symbiotic relationship.


The range is the perfect place to center himself. The lights can turn down low, dim all except for the lane in which he’s shooting. The targets flicker in and out, holograms moving closer and further away, staying still if programmed to and moving in unpredictable slips if set to. Not only is it a good way to keep his skills sharp, but it’s dead silent down here safe for the muffled punch of each shot from outside of his protective headphones.

Not to mention the armory has every kind of gun Dolan could dream of shooting and then some- even some he hadn’t been able to get his hands on in the field. And although he’s not usually a frivolous person, he definitely puts in enough time with all the huge, nearly ridiculous automatic weapons to say that he’s mastered them in the event of an emergency. That’s the only responsible thing to do, really.

But the border is on his mind today. It betrays itself in how layered his focus is on the target, shooting right through the same part of the holographic head over and over, never varying his kill zone. It seems as though he’s hyper aware and focused on what he’s doing, but really he’s just on autopilot.

Ever since he’s started.. keeping watch, as they’ve come to call it, in the empress’s room at night, theyve fallen into these conversations effortless before sleeping, when people really have no choice but to be vulnerable and intimate. They talk about the fate of the empire, the state of the rebellion. What dust is still left to sweep up, what threats may lurk around every shadowed corner.

He appreciates being able to discuss things like that with someone who also seems to enjoy the strategy and the overall master plan of it all, obviously. But lately it’s burrowed it’s way into his mind on a different level.

He keeps wondering when his sins will come back to bite him in the ass. But for now, he just sinks bullet after bullet into the wall behind the hologram’s head.

The halls are annoyingly empty, no one to mess with. That's how it usually is near the range, more so when someone is actually using it.

And someone is using it today.

There, at one of the lanes near the back wall, Dolan stands, braced, positioned, ready for holographic kill after holographic kill, alert as ever, poised like the killing machine he is. Yet oh-so unaware of everything outside his sad little war delusion.

It's times like this that seem almost too easy, low hanging fruit, situations bigger men would turn away from. But not this time. This time, there is a purpose, a reason to pluck off the defenseless. A test, one may say.

And there is no better person to administer this test than Kynton Domani, in no better seat to observe it that the shielded control box, safe behind bulletproof glass. Before him is an array of buttons, some to control the holograms, others to start simulations, but the button under his hand? That's for something a little more realistic than a simulation.

His finger presses down on it, a small projection popping up, warning him of the consequences, telling him the protocol to clear and set the range before sending in the trainees, but he presses it anyway. By the time the prompt fades, he's smirking, and when the range starts to move and shift, hologram targets disappearing, booth walls slipping down into compartments in the floor, he's full-on grinning to himself.

And Dolan is still completely off-guard by the time the turrets emerge from false tiles in the ceiling. They hang lifelessly for a few seconds before animating, the large machine guns attached to them swiveling to and fro before their censors lock onto the only person in the room. The barrels of all of them swing in Dolan's direction, a high-pitched hum picks up, then the firing show begins.

He sees the light flash, the automatic flare of rain after rain of bullets, before they've even left their chambers. Things slow down around him for a split second, even the noise around him takes on a hollow and tinny quality, like it's passing through an impossibly long tunnel to get to him, or as if he's hearing it all from the bottom of the sea.

But the drawn out moment of realization is gone nearly before Dolan can come to grips with it. Bullets whiz by his head as he moves, ducks and rolls and trains his weapon skyward but to no avail- the bullets are coming from everywhere and every attempt to dodge one puts him right in the path of another.

He can almost feel the sand whipping up in the wind, grating against his face, hear the loose tarps flapping wildly against sandstorms. He can feel the wind come off each bullet as they pass by him too close. One burns through his shoulder right between his clavicle and his shoulder blade and another half an inch, and he'd be well on his way to bleeding out right here and now. But all he can think about is the sand in his face.

Several more bullets find their mark as he shoots back- at what, he doesn't know. Everything above is camouflaged against the flashing of bullets firing, over and over and over, like explosions hanging in midair, keeping the origin of this attack unknown.

There is no cover to be had in this room. He's looking frantically for some tactical advantage, some place he can crawl and hide behind to get his thoughts together for even a moment to assess this situation. But there is no such luck. He's stuck out in the middle of nothing, exposed, lucky to not be riddled with bullets at this point, but his body keeps moving, dodging, running from this threat that follows him around.

He's losing blood and he can see it on the floor behind him, feel his heartbeat in his limbs and feel it burning against his skin. He looks desperately for some kind of kill switch to shut everything down, to override whatever is going on, but the constant barrage of bullets leave him little time to visually scour the room.

The door is opposite him, so much further away seeming than it was when he'd come in here earlier. The turrets in the ceiling are positioned between him and it, making it certain death to run straight at them in an attempt at the door.

Dammit if he made it through rebellions, assassinations, black ops that would curdle the blood of grown men, only to meet his end here in the capitol in the safety of the palace.