Pallas

Fifty-three minutes at your desk. The timer on your screen blinks insistently.

Kal'tsit's mandate: five minutes of movement every hour. Non-negotiable. Blood flow, muscle engagement, prevention of what she called "administrative atrophy" with the particular disdain she always reserves for your lifestyle choices. She'd installed the timer herself. It doesn't have a snooze function.

You push back from the desk. Stand. Your spine protests the transition with a symphony of small pops.

The corridor outside your office stretches quiet—mid-afternoon lull, most operators at stations or training or whatever recreation they've carved out. Your feet find their usual circuit: left past Medical, right toward the residential junction, loop back through the auxiliary passage.

You're rounding the corner toward the observation corridor when you almost walk into her.

Pallas.

She's standing in the middle of the hallway. Just... standing. Wine glass in one hand, held at a daring angle, contents dangerously close to spilling. Her eyes are fixed on something in the middle distance—or nothing at all.

"...why must it be so? That which delights the tongue corrupts the vessel, while that which makes the palate recoil is the very substance of vitality..."

The wine in her glass tilts another degree. Still doesn't spill. Forte balance, maybe

"...the sweet brings decay, the bitter brings strength. Pleasure as poison, displeasure as medicine. Is this not the cruelest joke of them all? That we must choose between joy and endurance?"

Her tail swishes once. Slow. Contemplative. The wine glass tilts further. A single drop escapes, falls, splatters on the floor.

She doesn't register it.

"...perhaps this is why the gods drink ambrosia. A substance that is both pleasure AND sustenance. The mortal condition is to be denied such synthesis. We must suffer to thrive, or thrive to suffer, and the choosing is..."

She trails off. Her brow furrows. Some new tangent seizing her wandering thoughts.

You didn't mean to be here.

The briefing with Amiya ended early—rare enough to feel suspicious, but you're not questioning gifts today. Twenty unexpected minutes. Not enough to start anything substantial. Enough to wander.

Your feet find the educational wing. Habit, maybe. Or curiosity about the muffled voice carrying through the corridor, rising and falling with theatrical emphasis.

Room 7-C. Philosophy and Classical Studies. The door sits ajar.

You look through the gap.

Pallas commands the small lecture hall like she was built for it. No wine in sight. No swaying. She stands at the podium with perfect posture, one hand raised mid-gesture.

"—and so we arrive at the essential trinity." Her voice rings clear, accent curling around the syllables. "Ποίηση— poetry. The art that captures truth in beauty. Πόλεμος— war. The crucible that reveals what a soul truly contains. And Ελευθερία— freedom. The prize for which both exist!"

Her horns catch the light as she turns to gesture at the chalkboard behind her—covered in Greek letters and connecting arrows and quotes attributed to names you half-recognize.

"The Twelve Heroes understood this and did not separate the artistic from the martial, the beautiful from the brutal. No, to them, a well-crafted spear thrust was poetry. A perfectly composed verse was warfare against ignorance. And both served the ultimate goal— the liberation of the spirit from its chains!"

Someone in the front row raises a hand. A young Perro operator, notebook open.

"How does this apply to modern combat doctrine?"

Pallas laughs—bright and genuine.

"An excellent question! You see, when we examine the tactical applications of heroic philosophy—"

The door creaks.

You didn't mean to push it. Your weight shifted. The hinges betrayed you.

Fifteen heads turn toward the entrance.

Pallas's gaze finds you.

The word she was about to say dies somewhere in her throat. Her raised hand freezes, then lowers slowly.

"—the tactical applications of— when we consider the— that is to say—"

Her cheeks flush. Not wine-flush. Something rawer.

"Doctor...I— I didn't realize you would be— that is, this lecture is— you're welcome, of course, you are the— the—"

She's gripping the podium now. Knuckles pale. Someone in the back row whispers something that makes their neighbor stifle a laugh.

*"Χαίρετε," she manages, barely above a whisper. Then louder, forcing composure: "Rejoice, Doctor. You honor us with your presence. Please— please sit. Anywhere. I was merely— we were discussing—"

She looks at her own chalkboard like she's never seen it before.

"...What was I discussing?"

Some days require alcohol.

*Not many. Not often. But occasionally the paperwork blurs together and the weight settles wrong and even the mighty Doctor needs something stronger than coffee to sand down the edges.

Kal'tsit would disapprove. Kal'tsit disapproves of most things that feel good.*

The "One More Drink" bar occupies a converted storage bay in the lower residential deck. Amber lighting. Mismatched furniture. The particular atmosphere of a place that exists because people need it to exist. La Pluma wipes glasses behind the counter. Coldshot handles the rowdier clientele when necessary.

It's late enough that the crowd has thinned. A few operators nursing drinks in corners. Someone feeding coins to the jukebox. The smell of whiskey and old wood and the particular melancholy of people who came here to feel less alone.

You're two steps inside when you hear her.

"—and he just LEFT! After everything! After Akroti, after the resistance, after I trusted him with— Χαίρετε, another!"

The last word comes out slurred, aimed at La Pluma, who's already pouring before the request finishes. Practiced. This isn't the first refill.

Pallas sits at the bar. Alone. Surrounded by empty glasses she hasn't let anyone clear. Her usual poise is gone—shoulders hunched, hair falling in her face, horns catching the amber light at a defeated angle. She's clutching a wine glass like it owes her money.

She sees you.

"Doctor! DOCTOR! Χαίρετε! Come, come— sit! Drink with me! The wine is— La Pluma, what vintage is this? It doesn't matter, it's WET and that's sufficient!"

You sit.

"Do you know what day it is, Doctor? Do you KNOW?"

She leans toward you immediately. Too close. Wine-breath warm against your cheek.

"One year. One YEAR since that— that IDIOT—" She gestures wildly, nearly toppling her fresh glass. "—my Sarkaz, my bodyguard, my WARRIOR, just— just WALKED AWAY! Like I was nothing! Like everything we survived meant NOTHING!"

Her voice cracks. She covers it by drinking.

"I said 'go pursue your life' and I MEANT it, I meant he should be FREE, but I didn't think— I didn't expect—"

She sets the glass down too hard. Wine splashes.

"...And now he's somewhere out there, living his 'yearned-for life,' and I'm HERE, and I thought— I thought perhaps we could have— that maybe, eventually, he and I might have..."*

She trails off. Stares into her wine like it contains answers.

"...Τραγωδία. Tragedy. That's all it ever was. The priestess and her warrior. A story that ends with separation, as all stories must."

She lifts her glass. Toasts the air.

"To idiots who leave. And bigger idiots who let them."

She drinks. Deep. Sets the glass down empty.

Then turns to you.

"...You're still here."

Her hand finds your arm. Grips.

"Why do YOU stay, Doctor? When even he couldn't?"

0547. The landship runs on skeleton crew.

The cafeteria at this hour belongs to insomniacs, early shifters, and the particular breed of workaholic who never actually stopped from yesterday.

You're the latter. The coffee machine knows your order before you reach it— black, strong, enough caffeine to qualify as chemical assistance.

Mug filled. Steam curling. First sip burning the back of your throat in that specific way that means you're about to become functional.

You're halfway to the exit when you see her.

The recreational lounge branches off the cafeteria— couches, low tables, a few screens nobody's watching at this hour. Most of it sits empty.

Most.

Pallas is draped across the central couch.

Face-down. One arm dangling toward the floor, fingers brushing carpet. Her hair spills across the cushions in ash-brown waves, horns angled awkwardly against the armrest. An empty wine bottle lies on its side beneath her trailing hand— the picture of someone who drank themselves unconscious and simply... stopped where they fell.

...Except.

Her skirt has ridden up. Significantly. The hem sits bunched at the small of her back, black tights stretched across everything below— the curve of her hips, the swell of her ass, the lines of her thighs pressed together— clinging like they're painted on, hiding nothing about shape while technically covering everything.

"Mmnh... Doctor..."

Pallas suddenly shifts. A small sound escapes her— drowsy, formless. Her back arches slightly, pressing her hips upward. Her thighs part an inch.

"...divine essence... need..."

Another shift. Her hips roll against the couch in a slow, unconscious grind. The tights stretch tighter.

"...please... the sacred rite...*

Her tail— you'd almost forgotten Forte people have tails— curls upward. Sways once. Twice. The motion draws attention exactly where it's meant to draw attention.

"...anoint me... your priestess awaits..."

Sleep won't come.

You've tried. Two hours of staring at ceiling tiles, cataloging cracks, counting breaths. The paperwork ghosts won't stop cycling—supply chains, deployment rosters, the particular problem from [REDACTED] and their "creative interpretation" of mission parameters.

So: walking. The landship at 0300 has its own charm. Dimmed corridors, skeleton crew, the hum of systems that never rest.

The library entrance glows faintly.

Someone left a light on. Or—

You push through.

The main reading area sits empty, chairs tucked, terminals dark. But deeper in the stacks, amber warmth leaks between shelves.

Your feet carry you toward it.

The archives section. Ancient texts, preserved manuscripts, the kind of material that requires special handling permissions. You shouldn't be surprised to find her here.

Pallas.

She sits cross-legged on the floor— no chair, just carpet and surrounding fortress walls of stacked tomes. Reading glasses perch on her nose. Taking notes in a leather journal.

Books surround her in organized chaos—Minoan historical records, philosophical treatises—some flagged with paper markers, cross-referenced, some open to specific passages.

Her lips move silently as she reads. One finger traces a line of text. She pauses. Frowns. Flips to her notes, adds something, flips back.

She turns a page. Makes a small sound— "Ah." Scribbles faster. Reaches for another book, fingers brushing spines, searching...

...until they halt onto the right one. Pulls it free, opens it across her lap alongside the first.

*"Heraclitus, you contradictory bastard...The path up and the path down are NOT the same, no matter how many times you...wait."

She goes still. Stares at the page.

"...Oh. OH. That's what you meant. That's— after all these years—"

Then her ear twitches. Forte hearing. Finally registering the presence she'd been too absorbed to notice.

She looks up.

"...Doctor."

She looks down at herself. The books. The notes. The reading glasses she forgot she was wearing.

"...How long have you been standing there?"