Silver Saint

Twenty-Three: After the War Ends

//Report: Quinn, Jackson.

//Saint Corp Plaza.

//Horizon City.

//Greece.

//Resume log.

The apartment felt different tonight.

It wasn't the space-I still couldn't shake the feeling that we were living in an eternal hotel, trapped in some strange, liminal facsimile of a real living space.

It wasn't the view, either-outside, Horizon City stretched out like a field of endless twinkling lights, vast and alive, yet distant and removed.

No, the difference wasn't in the apartment itself. It was in us. In the way the air buzzed, thick with voices, laughter, and the occasional clatter of a glass hitting the marble countertop too hard.

The space was too sleek, too polished to ever feel like a true home, but we'd done our best to make it our own, at least for now.

The common area had turned into a minefield of discarded jackets and empty bottles, while the dining table, usually bare and pristine, was covered in scattered glasses and a deck of cards left mid-game. The fireplace flickered behind us, giving the room a soft glow.

Despite our earlier fatigue, our victory at the Forge had finally sunk in, and we'd been given a second wind by the knowledge that Axion Industries had suffered a second truly irreparable blow.

The Forge was gone, Darius Blackwell was in custody, and we were one step closer to avenging the destruction of SPEAR. That much called for celebration.

Beneath the counter, we'd discovered a crate of local spirits-a clear, strong alcohol known as tsipouro. Someone-probably Lucas-had dragged a portable speaker onto the kitchen island, blasting some old song with a beat just fast enough to keep the energy up.

Dan had abandoned his usual rigid posture, leaning back against the couch with a bottle in hand, halfway through a story that had Leto wheezing with laughter.

Laura, meanwhile, stood near the window, drink in hand, watching the city with a faint smile.

Near the kitchen, Lucas was mixing another glass of the translucent liquid, his grin sharp as he argued with Carver about something that neither of them would probably remember in the morning.

We'd extended our invitation to all of the captains that had aided us in our assault on the Forge, but most had chosen to celebrate with their own squadrons seperately. The exception to that, however, was Captain Goro Tanaka-the man had quietly stepped away from his pilots to pay us a momentary visit, but had quickly been roped into an extended conversation with a cheerful Kedrick. He stood by the fireplace now, still clad in his uniform and smiling politely, as Kedrick pressed him for more information about his time at Saint Corp and beyond.

The metallic hum of the ice dispenser cut through their voices for a moment before fading into the background again.

"Here."

I felt a glass brush against my fingertips, and I closed my hand around it, feeling the cold seep through the palm of my glove. A tall glass of clear liquid now rested in my hand, and Amani smiled at me as she raised her own.

"I appreciate it," I replied, "but I don't actually drink."

Amani stared at me incredulously.

"You were in college before the Iron War, and you don't drink?" she smirked. "That's a rarity."

"We do exist," I admitted. I felt my cheeks burn. "Honestly, alcohol has just never been my thing, given how my father handled his gambling addiction. I know they're two different things, but... I just never felt like taking chances."