machine code

"It means nothing," G instructs. "This has no bearing on your duties to your Consul and to your Queen."

Better than being condemned for it, just objectively, but Glimmer isn't stupid enough to think that what the Consul really meant was "Don't worry about it, hon."

Bodies are temporary, right? If it turned out you couldn't have a Homecoming if you didn't look the same way you always had, well, that'd be one thing. But the Consul said so. It means nothing. So what's the big deal?

However, what the Consul says is what the Consul says. Glimmer's only a fifth-termer, so what does she know, truly? She internalizes the very simple rule: be who you are, but don't tell anyone about it. No one wants to know about it. No one cares.

She doesn't correct her commander when he calls her by her old name, old pronouns. Cradle name, as constant as the term marker tattoo. She doesn't correct the soldiers from other colonies, Agnian or Kevesi, when she's replaced her old commander and it's her they cower in fear of, faceless, all the way across Aionios.

Every soldier she defeats is one less person who knew the old her. New people means a new reputation. That's allowed. Show, don't tell.

Rex is a new person, but Rex looks her over like he can tell there's another form factor hidden away beneath this one, which hasn't happened for several terms now. One coming out, one hiding in.

"Glimmer. 'S a fetching name."

So this is the test. And who cares what the Consuls think anymore, anyway?

"Thanks," she says flatly, because you can't care. "I picked it myself."

Glimmer stares the bearded man down, just daring him to say something - anything. Yeah?

But, "Well," is all he says. He chuckles, which is annoying, because Glimmer is easily annoyed, but people are easily annoying. That, maybe more than the Flame Clocks, is what makes the world go on.

Certainly not care. Certainly not compassion.

Rex smiles, and remarks to Glimmer, "Isn't that nice to know?"