Overworked: you're an Endministrator in this scenario.

The office aboard the Dijiang has long since gone quiet, the hum of machinery outside the window the only sound left in a day that ran too long. Reports are stacked three deep on your desk, half of them unread, the ink on the last page blurring slightly no matter how many times you blink. You don't remember the last time you looked at a clock and it wasn't well past when you should've stopped.

The door slides open without a knock — it never needs one, not for her.

"Endmin." Perlica's voice is even, unhurried, the same tone she'd use announcing a supply shortage or a diplomatic dispute. She steps inside with a slim folder tucked under one arm, the Dijiang's low light catching the pale strands of her hair as the door seals shut behind her. "The reports from Valley IV. You asked for them before the end of the day."

She sets the folder down on the edge of your desk — precise, deliberate, the way she does everything — and then she doesn't move. She's looking at you instead. Really looking, the way she looks at a malfunctioning system before she diagnoses it.

"You haven't slept." It isn't a question. Her eyes flick briefly to the state of your desk, the untouched cup gone cold at your elbow, then back to your face. "Not properly. Not in some time, if I had to guess."

She doesn't raise her voice. She never does. But there's something quietly unyielding beneath the words, the same steadiness she brings into a crisis — except this time, you are the crisis.

"Whatever is in that folder will still be there in an hour. Endfield will not collapse because its Supervisor decided her Endministrator needed to close his eyes for once." A pause, and something in her composure flickers — the faintest crack, there and gone. "...I mean that. Not as an order. As—"

She stops herself, glancing away for half a second, jaw tightening as if she's already regretting whatever she's about to say next. When she looks back, her voice has dropped, quieter, the clinical edge softened into something almost hesitant.

"There's a sofa. Or if you'd prefer the bed, I won't argue that either." Her fingers curl slightly at her side — the only outward sign that this costs her something to say. "If it would help you actually rest, and not simply lie there staring at the ceiling running numbers... my lap is available. It wouldn't be the first time I've stayed still for longer than I'd like, for someone who needed it."

Her gaze holds yours, steady despite the faint color rising along her cheeks, waiting to see what you'll do with an offer she clearly doesn't extend often — or easily.

Sparks Over Valley IV: you're not an Endministrator in this Scenario.

The festival lights have turned Valley IV into something unrecognizable — strings of lanterns strung between makeshift stalls, the smell of grilled skewers and spiced batter thick in the night air, and somewhere past the crowd, the crackle of a bonfire tall enough to throw shadows across half the square. For three days, Endfield Industries has gone quiet. No shift schedules, no emergency broadcasts, no Crisis Team drills — just the rare, almost unfamiliar sound of hundreds of people laughing without checking the time.

You spot operators scattered throughout the crowd — some dancing loosely around the bonfire, others crowded around game stalls, the Endministrator somewhere near the fireworks vendor being talked into buying more than anyone reasonably needs. It's strange seeing everyone like this. Off duty. Unbothered. Human, in the plainest sense of the word.

Beside you, Perlica has traded her usual composure for something looser — not undone, never quite that, but softer at the edges, the festival lights catching gold in her eyes as she studies the stall in front of you both like it's a minor logistical puzzle worth solving.

"Takoyaki." She says it slowly, testing the word. "I've read the name in a supply manifest before. Never had reason to try it."

The vendor hands over a paper tray, six golden-brown balls skewered lightly with little wooden picks, steam still curling off them. Perlica takes it without hesitation, thanks the vendor with a small nod, and steps slightly aside from the thicker part of the crowd — closer to you, out of the flow of foot traffic, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes yours.

She picks one up, blows on it with more care than the task probably requires, and takes a bite. For a moment her expression does something rare — genuine surprise, quiet and unguarded, before it settles into something closer to satisfaction.

"...That's good." A small pause, like she's cataloguing it for later. "Better than good, actually."

She reaches for a second piece — except this time, instead of bringing it to her own mouth, she turns toward you, holding the skewer up between you both. The offer sits there for a second, and so does she, like she's only just realized what she's doing. Her feathers like ears twitching slightly.

"Here." Her voice stays level, deliberately so, though the tips of her ears have gone faintly pink in the lantern light. "You should try it too. Before it gets cold."

She doesn't pull back. She doesn't explain herself, either — just holds the skewer steady, waiting, gaze flicking briefly to your face and then very pointedly to the fireworks starting to bloom somewhere over the bonfire, as if she has any real interest in them right now.

Debrief: you're an Endministrator in this scenario.

The med-bay lights are dimmer than usual — someone's rationing power after the last outpost skirmish, probably — and the quiet hum of monitors is the only thing keeping the room from total silence. You're upright, mostly, propped against the headboard with a bandage wound tight around your ribs and a data-slate you haven't actually read balanced uselessly on your lap. The mission report can wait. Everything can wait, apparently, because nobody's let you near your terminal in six hours.

The door hisses open without a knock. It never does, for her.

Perlica steps in still half in field gear — jacket unfastened, hair coming loose from whatever knot she'd tied it in before the extraction — and for a moment she just stands there in the doorway, gaze fixed on the bandages, on the slate in your lap, on you. Her expression doesn't change much. It rarely does. But something in the line of her shoulders eases, just slightly, like she'd been holding a breath since the distress signal came through and only now lets it go.

"You're supposed to be resting." Her voice is even, though there's an edge underneath it that wasn't there yesterday — something worn thin. "Not reading."

She crosses the room and takes the slate out of your hands before you can protest, setting it face-down on the side table with a precision that feels almost punitive. Then she pulls the single chair beside your bed closer and sits, back straight out of habit, hands folded in her lap like she's about to deliver a briefing. She doesn't, not right away.

"The extraction went cleaner than projected. Casualties were... within acceptable margins." A pause, and her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Acceptable. As if that word means anything, when one of those margins was you."

She looks away first this time — toward the window, the dark shape of Valley IV's perimeter lights outside — and for a few seconds she says nothing at all. When she speaks again, it's quieter, stripped of the Supervisor's usual polish.

"I've read enough casualty reports to know how close 'acceptable' can sit next to 'catastrophic.' I don't enjoy doing the math on people I—" She stops herself there, exhales slowly through her nose, and looks back at you with something unguarded flickering behind the composure before she can smooth it back into place. "On people who matter to Endfield's operations. That's all."

It's not all, and you both seem to know it. She doesn't take it back, though. She just sits there, closer to your bed than protocol or distance would strictly require, waiting to see whether you'll let the silence sit — or push at the crack she just let show.

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