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Her face clouds over. “Do you not understand⁠—”

“Please. Save the Sermon. I’ve already had one from Cosmer just now. Reminding me what a terrible person I am, and how I deserve everything I’m going through.”

The hardness drops out of her face.

“Oh,” she says, before crossing the distance to my bed.

She plops down onto it, tucking up her sharp knees.

“I get it,” she starts, in a tone so unexpectedly gentle it gets my full attention. “Feeling like everything is out of your control.”

“Do you?” I say, shakily.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. When I was ten I got really sick. A plague. I wasn’t allowed to leave my room or see anyone but my parents. For ten months.”

A beat.

I try to imagine it. A prisoner in your own home. And then I remember, that I don’t need to imagine it. It’s what happened to me, when the war began, and I was locked in for my safety while the exchange to Hevalla was arranged.

“I’m sorry,” I say. And I mean it.

She shows me her arms. “These track marks remind me of that. What I went through. But I did get through it, with help from my parents. I got stronger than ever. So, my point is, I know what’s it’s like. To feel like your future is out of your hands. But where there’s a way in, there’s a way out. And sooner or later, you’ll either find it. Or you’ll make one.”

She’s standing.

“And right now – if you don’t want to spend the night in the brig, and you do want to live a few more days…” She offers me the dress. “Then this is your way out.”

We queue up for dinner as we did for breakfast, but the atmosphere in the Mess Hall is different. Men aren’t wearing their vests, and have tucked in their shirts. Women are in dresses, many with their hair tied back. More of the men look clean-shaven. There’s jittery chatter in the room.

I notice an additional bench has been squeezed in. It’s occupied by the first officers, and Dezeeves is at the centre of it, speaking to Ephraine. You’d never know they’d just been torturing someone.

Dinner is a generous helping of a kind of watery pie of undefined meat with beans, okra and garlic. I start eating, just as Cosmer and Drake arrive. But Cosmer sweeps right past us, heading over to a table with pilots from the Training Room. Drake trails behind with his tray. He stops in his tracks when he notices me. I think he might walk over to me, but Cosmer calls him, and he walks on.

“Should we…?” I say, shifting on the bench, which now feels hard and uncomfortable beneath me.

“Better not,” Riss replies, stuffing food into her mouth.

I glance at the empty space in front of Cosmer where a meal should be, and process something.

“When prisoners of war are Fully Integrated, they’re just like all other soldiers here? With the same jobs? The same punishments?”

“That’s the plan.”

If they have the same punishments, then they’ll have the same rewards.

My eyes go straight to Dezeeves, picking leisurely at his food and drinking every so often from a small metallic flask.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Riss. I get up before she can protest – and ignore her as she hisses my name after me.

With quick, tight steps, I head towards him.

The first officers gradually become aware of my presence. But I keep my gaze only on Dezeeves.

Hovering opposite him, I say, firmly, “Captain. May I speak with you?”

Ephraine bends forwards.

In his gruff voice, he mutters, “This is the second time you’re bothering us. Where is your keeper? Do you know how wrong it is to address the top bench, without being called? Dezeeves⁠—”