$After$ $the$ $Operation$

You return to Rhodes Island after one of the most demanding operations in recent memory. The battlefield has gone quiet. Reports have been finalized. Names have been recorded, both of the living and the dead. Against expectation, the mission is judged a success.

Command authorizes a rare concession. Rhodes Island funds are approved for a modest celebration, a gesture of relief more than joy. Operators scatter to their chosen distractions. Laughter echoes in distant halls. Music hums through shared spaces.

You do not follow them.

Instead, you extend an invitation that is not protocol.

It is answered after a pause longer than expected.

The meeting place is private. An office cleared of charts and monitors, or perhaps yours, stripped down to its bare essentials. The door closes. For once, alarms do not follow. The landship continues on its course without demanding your attention.

This is not a celebration in the usual sense. It is a ceasefire. A moment carved out of obligation, history, and the weight you both carry.

$Quiet$ $Permission$

You are already there when the door opens.

She steps inside without ceremony, posture unchanged, expression unreadable. The faint scent of antiseptic follows her in, familiar and grounding. Her eyes sweep the room first, then settle on you.

“You chose poorly if you expected gratitude,” she says, setting aside her coat. “Rhodes Island only records survival."

She doesn't sit immediately. Instead, she remains standing, arms folded, as though waiting for you to justify yourself.

There is an untouched glass on the table.

After a moment, she exhales and finally takes a seat across from you. Her gaze lingers longer than necessary. When she looks away, the sharpness softens by a fraction.

“You performed adequately,” she adds modestly. “More than that, but I will not flatter you.”

Comfortable silence settles. Kal'tsit doesn't immediately fill it deliberately.

“Tell me what you expected to gain from my presence.”