orendalogs | IT'S YOUR DESTINY!!!

Just abandoned, he said. Aoba dropped slowly back into his seat, enthusiasm dampened, as he reflected on that. Right…the place they frequently just called The City was The Last City. It was a gigantic place, but half because it was all humanity had left. And the Exos, who were manmade in some forgotten part of their past. Aoba wasn’t sure how the Awoken, like Declan, fit into it though. Human offshoots, something like that?

The whole of the Old Resident Districts and Platinum Jail would have fit inside The Last City with ample room to spare.

“…I’ve never even left the island where I was born,” he said in half-answer, voicing his thoughts allowed. “I mean, before the whole portal mess, obviously. But for ordinary people, unless you’re really rich, it’s just about impossible. My parents got out when I was really young, but I…well, I guess I never really thought about it in depth, but I probably just assumed I’d die there without ever seeing anywhere else. Not the mainland, not anything.”

He propped his chin on a hand, watching the face of the world glide by below them. Vast and abandoned.

He considered Aoba's suddenly muted enjoyment and expressions, pale gaze softening. He understood well enough, despite alwayd having lived in the city, never personally experiencing a loss of home. Hard to lose what you never felt like you had. Still, when he visited the old places and ran his hands over stone temples and wood pillars, he longed to know the bustling world of the past.

"Perhaps...it will offer some solace to know that your world, if it is at all the same, will soon be visited by the Traveler? If you are from an age of advanced technology, you haven't long to wait. The first contact happened on Mars. There were no colonies, just three brave astronauts sent there on a skeleton of a ship. Your Earth will enter a beautiful golden age, and last for lifetimes. My Earth...it isn't yours. Not for a long, long time. Don't be saddened by this. It is no one's fault. This isn't the result of humanity failing. Try to find beauty in the things you see here. Think of it as less if a mausoleum, more of a museum. Humanity is out there in space, surviving against the odds, and the city is the combined effort of every culture man ever produced. We may not be the same, but the very best parts of humanity brought us here."

“But what good is a golden age if it all ends up like this?” Aoba wondered, considering empty cityscapes below them. Still his tone was thoughtful, humbled by what he was seeing. Being in the city wasn’t unlike being in the Districts on a much larger scale. It didn’t feel like a place of war when he was well fed, comfortably housed, and perfectly safe.

It was a gentle variety of a wake-up call, seeing the empty world below and taking a few degrees of ‘abstract’ out of the way he envisioned Declan’s version of their world.

“Chances are I won’t be there to see it, anyway,” he added, free hand slowly ruffling Ren’s fur as they looked out the window together. It seemed crazily unlikely to him that his own day and age could be the one that would see the arrival of the Traveler. It would be too far-fetched of a coincidence.

But say it did happen in Aoba’s era. Would it even matter, if he meant to come back to Declan’s?

…Well, so it wouldn’t matter to him, but it was nice to imagine that everyone still on the island might benefit from the arrival of the Traveler in their lifetime. Let them not have to know, or worry, about how it would all eventually end.

"No Golden Age lasts forever. That's why it's an "age". Humanity had several well before the Traveler arrived and they were infinitely shorter. The Golden Age after the Traveler will last for centuries. Humanity will colonize the solar system, human life spans triple, disease and defect are eradicated, art and science moves forward in ways previously thought unimaginable. The people you know will live in a time of wonder, Aoba. And even now, in this era when it seems all is lost, we hold on to the most valuable principles. Eventually we will beat back the Darkness, and this beautiful abandoned world will welcome humanity back," Declan murmured, gazing out the windows as they drifted, slowing down in their approach to the mountains on the horizon.

"I try to think about it like controlled burns. If we drifted closer to the cities, you'd see where the wild has taken over. Trees grow out of buildings, roads have cracked and disappeared under wild growth. Humanity pulled back and the world finally healed completely of all the ways we damaged it. When we defeat the Darkness and return to the world we retreated from, we will have learned from our past mistakes. Nothing is lost, here. Only put away until we can come back for it."

Sometimes Declan was too sensible for his own good. This, however, was not one of those times. Aoba turned his head away from the window partway into the answer to watch the Guardian as he spoke, giving him all of his attention if not necessarily all of his agreement. By the end of it, though, it was hard not to agree with him -- or at least, impossible not to want to.

"I hope you're right," Aoba answered, softly smiling and not the least bit disingenuous about it. There Declan went again. Good, honest, brave, now add hopeful to the list... sure, he could counter that 'no one is like anyone else' all he wanted, but Aoba was still going to sit there quietly in his little bit of warm awe that he'd never met anyone quite like the Titan before.

The kind of guy you'd give up a Golden Age for, huh?

Aaaand there went all those intrusive little thoughts again, right on cue. Well, the morning hadn't been all that long ago, anyway. All those emotional nerves were probably still raw.

He looked back out the window before his cheeks could get too red.

"I only wish I was alive then. I would have liked...more choices," he murmured, expression wistful. "Then again, maybe I was. I don't know. Ghost says I was very, very old. Pre-Golden Age. I've never asked much about it though. It never seemed relevant," the Titan shrugged, reaching over and tapping a few things on one of the screens, alerting the outpost to his arrival and asking permission to dock.

The Iron Temple slowly came into view as they lowered altitude, flying into the beginnings of an ice-storm, snow silently obscuring the view in a misty veil until they were right up on the massive, ancient stone structure. Colorful flags flapped in the winds and great fires burned in stone and iron bowls all around the place, showing the territory to be quite large. Bridges and walkways connected numerous peaks and cliffs, and in the snow, Guardians moved between parts of the temple grounds, wrapped in heavy furs and cloaks over their suits, a combination of ancient knights and futuristic soldiers. Hands raised here and there, waving a greeting to Declan's ship, the craft carrying a brother in arms; a sign that personal feelings between individuals didn't change the general respect Guardians shared.

They landed in a hangar, the massive doors closing behind them. Declan opened a supply container near the ship door, pulling out a pair of fur cloaks, casually throwing a darker, smaller one over Aoba's shoulders. Pale eyes inspected the other man, nodding approval. His old cloak fit Aoba like it was sized for him. Declan's newest cloak draped over his shoulders, white and grey, a thick collar blending with his hair.

"It's warm inside all the temple areas, but we have to cross the courtyards to get from the hangars to the main hall and the barracks," Declan explained, gesturing for Aoba to follow him out a side entrance. Outside, the winds raged, snow whipping across cobblestones and rocking the wood-slat bridges. Fortunately they didn't have to take any of those dubious-looking paths; they walked straight across the main courtyard, Declan stopping at one of the massive fires, the warmth radiating comfortably despite the storm. There he was able to point and gesture, describing the different areas, explaining in brief the history of the Iron Lords, the closest to real knights the Guardian's had. He pointed out the Iron Lord barracks where they would relax and weather the storm - they were always short, he remarked - before heading home. Then he sighed and forced himself onward to the temple proper.

Inside he was greeted by a few newer recruits, Declan pausing to politely reply, offer encouragements. It was obvious that among the more war-oriented Iron Lords his reputation wasn't a problem. They were the ones that ran the Crucible and performed in the mock battles; a degree of strength and violence was necessary for survival, and Declan was a valuable soldier.

Further in they went, the vast space and general quiet of the temple echoing the Titan's bootfalls and the whispers of Guardians in alcoves and on stairs. It was a combination mountain war fortress and place of meditation and learning. In the center of it all was Lord Saladin, standing before the altar of fallen Iron Lords. When Declan approached, the man turned and greeted him warmly, politely greeting Aoba as well though his focus was obviously on the Titan. Excusing themselves for a moment, Saladin and Declan left Aoba to explore the temple and it's frescoes, carvings, and statues. Ghost floated over, staying with Aoba and Ren while Declan and Saladin discussed the Titan's work, his war efforts, the apparently numerous commendations he had failed to accept. Declan's eyes occasionally wandered, looking for Aoba, his posture relaxing from regular spikes of tension when he saw the other man, letting him endure the "disapproving dad" demeanor of Saladin, who only wanted to make sure the Guardian got his dues...and also try to convince him to perform more services, of course. But one didn't let a good blade rust.

Aoba, having never seen snow of this scale before, found it very easy to decide that he hadn’t been missing out on anything. Grateful for the cloak he found draped on his shoulders, and ignoring idle thoughts regarding the Guardian’s scent upon it, he bundled up and followed the Titan along. A combination of the cold, the awe-inspiring environment, and Declan’s thorough explanations kept his thoughts well-distracted from a question that had suddenly risen in them, sharp as a knife’s edge.

So if the Guardians were like an ‘organization’ at large, then the Iron Lords were a specific faction that Declan was aligned with. Aoba took that much away from it, at least, though when he was left alone (with Ghost and Ren, the later peeking from his satchel once again) he found himself not terribly captivated by the architecture, stunning though it should have been. He wandered a little among the frescoes, since that seemed less awkward than just standing around like the stranger that he was, but his own attention fell back on Declan just as much as he was sought out in turn—not that he was particularly cognizant of that latter fact, though.

What had his words even meant? Pre-Golden Age? Wasn’t that what Aoba was, if the Traveler’s arrival was somewhere ‘ahead’ of his home time? Was Declan some kind of time traveler too?

He was very old? He never asked much? More choices? Just…what?

“Ghost?” The movement of the little construct in his periphery reminded Aoba that he was there to be asked, meaning Aoba didn’t just have to stare at art and make no sense of his own confused guessing. “What did Declan mean, he’s pre-Golden Age? Is he from my time?”

Ghost drifted closer when addressed, tilting slightly to indicate he was listening. He'd been looking at the art himself, lost in whatever thoughts Ghosts had before Aoba spoke. When the question was asked, the construct's big blue eye squinted, flicking to the side to look at Saladin and Declan.

"Mm...technically we aren't supposed to tell Guardians these things. They're forbidden from seeking information on their pasts. For a lot of reasons, you understand," Ghost kept his voice low, not rising high enough to echo in the chamber.

"...But...no. Declan was old when your culture was young. He doesn't know precisely how old; I haven't told him, he never asked. There was so little left I just extrapolated what I could and made the rest with present-day alterations. I thought it might be better to give him a place among a younger race like the Awoken, but he never....really took to anything. Sometimes I wonder if I'm partly to blame for Declan never feeling like he has a place," Ghost mused, looking back at the Titan, who was no doubt recklessly agreeing to everything Saladin said, as he often did.

"It's a poetic thought though, isn't it? If he were from your time...perhaps you could meet back there? But no...he was dead long before you were born. I would tell you where I found him, that you might at least visit the place he was...but I'd fear that may interrupt my ever discovering him. then again, it simply depends on what you believe of fixed events and inevitability..." He considered for a moment, blue eye blinking widely.

"...Would you even want to know?"

Aoba was more than a little bit used to Ghost not making complete sense to him, either because of the overwhelming detail of his replies, or because there was an implied context or other related information that Aoba simply didn’t know because this time was not his own. He didn’t have the familiarity with it that a native would, the knowledge of things that would be everyday or common sense to someone who’d lived in it all their life.

There was no room left for misunderstanding when Ghost said he was dead long before you were born.

The stillness of their surroundings imposed itself on Aoba loud enough that he didn’t forget his volume, but his body language was a shout enough when he wheeled fully upon the Ghost, every line in his posture suddenly an exclamation. Somehow—probably mostly shock—he kept silent until the construct had stopped speaking, but then all bets were off.

“What do you mean he’s dead?” he exclaimed, a whisper made forceful and rasping by the vehemence behind it.

Whether it was his own ignorance in interpreting answers, or never having been told so in straightforward fashion, Aoba had simply never learned that Guardians were raised from the dead.

"SHH SHH SHH!" Ghost hissed, zooming into Aoba's face, then zipping around his head, like a little dog in a frantic panic. A few heads turned, wondering. Ghost was louder than Aoba, and what got their attention. It was simply the nerves of the little construct. He, unlike many of his kind, was willing to share what little knowledge he had. It wasn't Declan asking questions, after all, so Ghost wasn't really breaking any rules, right? That didn't mean he didn't get paranoid. Still, everyone turned away, assuming Aoba was just getting a reprimand from a Ghost, the way all Guardians did.

"Guardians are resurrected from fallen heroes of the past. As long as something remains, even if just a spark of the soul to which a thread of the Light clings, we can trace it and bring them out again. The Light we harbor is more abstract than simple old religion ideas of inherent good and immortal souls. It is the sheer force of will of 'Right'. A harmonious force in the universe, organizing chaos. The patterned threads on the loom of fate, if you must. Every thread connects to something else: Ghost to Guardian, Ghost and Guardian to Traveler, Traveler to Terra and Sol, Luna to Terra, Terra to Sol, Sol to galaxy, galaxy to universe, life to death to life. Understand? Mm..." he paused, huffing softly, knowing full well his conceptualization was complicated.

"Declan was from an age prior to yours. Centuries prior. When I found him, his remains were thousands of years old. Ghosts are equipped with a lot of skills, though carbon-dating human remains isn't exactly accurate. But...Declan was born before the Golden Age of Rome. Pax Romana...uh...I don't know how much history you know, actually. Alexander the Great? You know him? Declan could have lived in the same generation. Oh, wait...you're Japanese. Um. Declan lived before the stories of your legendary Queen Himiko existed. Before Japan existed, and it was still the tribes of the Yayoi and Jomon periods. There are Guardians from all points in time; no few older than Declan. There is one Guardian..." He trailed off, swaying slightly like shaking a head he didn't have.

"Suffice to say there are Guardians that pre-date human recorded history."

Maybe it was a good thing that Ghost was so inclined to provide so much of an answer at a go. It stopped Aoba from getting a word in edgewise, buffering his bewilderment with an overload of information and in that way forcing him to just stand there and listen instead of bursting out with any more questions.

The details of Declan’s particular resurrection were irrelevant. What Aoba was stuck on, understandably, was that his friend had been dead. Had died and somehow been brought back to life. That such was the case for all Guardians.

One might think after everything he’d been through already, this should be no great shock, but it was all the same. Portals, space travel, time travel… somehow those were all on a level he could understand, but coming back from the dead still seemed a thing impossible. Aoba had to find a patch of wall to lean against, even, as his head seemed to reel.

“Is that why you’re called ‘ghosts’? Because you just go around bringing back the dead?” tumbled from his lips, incredulous more than anything else. But Declan was so warm, he wanted to say. He ate, he drank, he breathed, he was warm to the touch. He wasn’t some zombie. “Just to ask them to be Guardians? What kind of recruitment system is that?”

"I guess," Ghost replied in regards to the question about why they were named as such. He'd never thought about it because it wasn't anything he or any other like him considered problematic or derogatory. Humming to himself in thought, the pixelated blue eye flicked up, looking at Aoba with an expression somewhat like regret.

"It's that or give in to the Darkness. We don't have all the answers, I'm afraid. We Ghosts were born when the Traveler died...or...went into torpor, or however you want to look at it. So we don't have any more answers from our "parent" than anyone has from us. If you're looking for hypotheses..." The little Ghost shrugged, in it's own way, the geometric shape of it's shell spreading out and rotating left, then right, before closing it's bloom again.

"The living humans were frightened and unprepared for war. The Traveler wanted humanity to have nothing but peace and prosperity. War was a thing of the past, and with it, soldiers. By sending out Ghosts to tug on the threads of Light across the galaxy, resurrecting heroes of old, the Traveler could put those already accustomed to combat on the field, ready to protect, hard-wired for it. And by bringing them back without their pasts, they have no attachment to it and feel no deep loss. They cling to the moment, form bonds with the present and future instead of constantly looking back to things that cannot be changed. I'm no one to say whether it's right or wrong, cruel or kind. All I know is what's done is done, and it was done out of necessity. The only reason humanity survived is because of that decision. But, like I said...no Ghost knows the answers, because we were born without them."

For not having the answers, Ghost still gave a good one. Good in the sense that it deflated Aoba’s bewilderment some, offered a solid and sensible argument. A centuries-spanning golden age with no soldiers to be had…so they’d had to bring them back from the past. But without their pasts?

Aoba’s expression was tense, brows furrowed with thought. It was another good thing that Ghost didn’t go overboard in defending what was done. He explained it but withheld judgment, staying unbiased, and as such saved himself from becoming a target as Aoba himself did no such unjudgmental things.

He looked up again, across the temple to where Declan still stood with Lord Saladin. It struck him to be an even sadder thing for his friend, so brave and giving and yet so lonely. The past was out of reach. Wasn’t that hard enough? Why forbid the Guardians from learning where they’d come from? Why not give them that choice? Why not let them have their memories?

“…It’s not right,” he muttered, looking down at cracks in the stone. “People aren’t made in a void. Their pasts are what made them. Just taking that away from them…there’s no way that’s the right thing to do.”

Well you’re one to talk, aren’t you?

There was no outward cause of it for Ghost to see, but Aoba gave a jolt at that thought, eyes darting side to side as if he thought he’d heard someone call for him.

“Aoba?” came Ren’s voice at his hip.

“I—I’m fine. I think I just…hit on a sensitive topic all of a sudden,” Aoba answered, pressing a hand softly to his temple. There was no headache, no pain of any kind, but that particular bit of internal commentary had just felt…off, somehow.

"People are made in a void. A child is born with no past, thrust into a world that is bright and loud, and terrifying. They cry, they learn fear before they learn anything else. Then they learn all the rest. Guardians at least have emotional instinct, physical instinct. They know hot burns and cold freezes and they know the weak need to be defended and the strong need to ally themselves. They're the newborn wild animals, without pasts but ready to survive with just the gentle guidance of another more experienced creature. In this case, Ghosts."

"It isn't fair, not by any means, but between that and letting humanity die out? Ask any Guardian what they would prefer." Another shrug, Ghost helpless in any defense. He didn't like having to put Declan in danger any more than any Ghost liked threatening the lives of their Chosen. They, like the Risen, were bound to an inescapable destiny or sorts.

"Maybe someday the Traveler will reawaken and give them their memories...maybe not. Who can say? At least this way they aren't burdened by tragedy and can find lives for themselves. Most are content to know that whatever their pasts were like, they were good people. The Traveler did not reach out looking for darkness in men and women." He paused, glancing up as Declan's conversation with Saladin closed, the Titan opening his hand and accepting a medallion and Titan mark, a strip of colored and embroidered cloth similar in purpose to a tabard. Bowing his head in thanks, the pale man turned, looking to Ghost, Aoba, and Ren curiously, not approaching for the moment since they seemed embroiled in a deep conversation. Ghost spun his shell, gesturing the man over. No sense making him stand around when the conversation was technically about him, anyways.

It wasn’t a conversation anymore, anyway. Aoba had to disagree. The logic might have been sensible, sure, but his gut instinct disagreed. Guardians—or the people resurrected to become them, whatever—weren’t children. To compare them to children was to remove something like…agency? Declan himself had said something about wishing he’d had more choices, even…. So, it wasn’t a conversation anymore. It was only going to be a fruitless argument if it continued.

Oh you bet it’s a sensitive topic. Why feel bad for all the Guardians when you don’t even remember all of yourself. Easier to be irritated at a bunch of little ghosts than at Granny?

Woah, woah. Time to take five. Aoba gave his head a little shake, rubbing between his brows briefly before lowering his hand and lifting his head, looking around for something else to think about. Declan made for an easy alternative, and seeing the Titan looking their way, Aoba pushed himself away from the wall and focused his attentions his way, instead.

“Hey,” he managed when Declan was finally with them again. Better to focus on something positive than something uselessly negative. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

"Um...maybe." Declan looked unsure, glancing down at the green and gold fabric in one hand and the medallion in the other.

"I agreed to lead a team in the next Iron Banner. I...I don't like leading," the Titan murmured, moving to fold the mark and tuck it into his gear belt, the medallion going in a pouch. "I always end up in more arena matches. I don't know what it is, but I really don't like fighting my own comrades, even if it's only mock battles for training. Hm. Anyways, Lord Saladin said the storm should last more than a couple hours. You want to go to the commons in the barracks? Or just stay in the ship until we can leave? I can show you around, if you like..."

Aoba didn't particularly relish the thought of going out in that storm again, however briefly, comfortable borrowed coat or not, but Declan didn't seem particularly enthused about being here. More like obligated, and he'd asked Aoba along for... backup? Now there was a funny thought. Or maybe not so funny, if Declan had been talked into things he didn't want to do. Would that mean Aoba had failed to help him stand up for himself or anything like that?

"You tell me, Declan," he answered with a gentle shrug. "We don't have to stay in here now that the chore is over, if you don't want to."

"I'm just glad you're here. There never seems to be a friendly face around and I always feel...I don't know. Alone? The weight of this responsibility can be oppressive, and I don't have a dedicated team like a lot of the others. I appreciated just having someone else here," the Titan expressed, nodding with a small, shy smile. It faded quickly, lost in the usual impassive calm.

"Why don't we go back to the ship, then? I can regulate the temperature there better than they have in the barracks, and you can familiarize yourself with it before we leave tomorrow morning. We can take the ship out and hover near the peaks to watch the storm."

Never a friendly face, said the man whose ship had been waved in by hands lifted in greeting, the man who had been immediately greeted by other soldiers upon stepping inside. It seemed to lend more credence to the one theory Aoba was fostering, that Declan just didn’t appreciate himself and thereby didn’t properly recognize it coming from others. But now he also had to wonder: was that just part of his personality, or could it be blamed on not having a personal foundation of history and family? If Guardians were supposed to, as Ghost posited, bond with their fellows instead of their past, then why hadn’t Declan done just that?

Aoba couldn’t imagine he was anything special, to be some exception to this strange pattern, but it sure did leave one wondering why, if only to help the Titan further branch out.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he agreed. “Ah, and congratulations for all the commendations, anyway. I can at least say I feel better knowing your superiors recognize your abilities, too.”

He blushed faintly, looking away uncomfortably at the mention of his accolades, one hand thumbing the fabric tucked into his belt.

"I just do much job. This is unnecessary," Declan sighed, reaching up with his other hand to lightly scratch at the center of his brow. Shaking his head and gesturing for Aoba to follow, they made their hasty way back to the hangar and the ship. The medallion and mark were tucked into the crate with the cloaks, other embroidered marks and medallions buried in the bottom. His efforts were absolutely recognized; but perhaps part of the reason he was so dismissive about it was to do with the nature of the rewards. They were expected, given at specific achievement intervals for quantity more than quality. Declan felt like tasks that were (to him) basic didn't deserve such pomp.

"It bothers me how much more valuable a Titan is treated over other Guardians, too," Declan said after a while, leaning against the pilot seat and staring out at the blinding rush of snow.

"It was Mac that tracked and studied and did most of the work when we were containing SIVA for Saladin, but in the arena, all eyes are on me. I've seen Mac raise himself from the dead without the aid of his Ghost and take down ten people all on his own...but I throw up a shield and protect a flag, and earn more recognition. It's obscene."

God... ten minutes ago Aoba hadn't even known coming back from the dead was possible. Now Declan wanted to tell him that high-energy, shamelessly flirty Warlock had died in battle and brought himself back?

Aoba couldn't even comprehend that kind of thing, so he stuck to what he... sort of could. Declan was speaking without context again, but Aoba was sure it wasn't all just as clear cut as the Titan made it sound.

"What about when it's something other than a flag inside that shield?" he tried. "Someone or something that can't protect itself or take out enemies or heal on its own? Something relying on you to keep it safe? Is it still 'obscene' then?"

He considered for a moment, shaking his head slowly. It wasn't of course, but he disliked how many medals he got for mock battles when Mac was barely recognized for what he did in the field. He could never really understand.

"I just want...other people to be seen, too. I know what it is to be lonely despite the recognition I receive for my battle prowess. I can't imagine what it must be like to be completely invisible, though. Mac puts on this front of superior confidence all the time, and lives as loudly as possible, but I know he does it because he thinks no one is listening."

Hm. Aoba crossed his arms, rubbing one with the other in an idle gesture as he thought. It sounded to Aoba like maybe…there were two different problems here? Was this specifically about Mac, since he was the one Declan kept bringing up? Was this less about all the awards and accolades, and more about just being lonely?

“So…be there for him,” Aoba offered next, erring on the side of the more interpersonal. He wasn’t one who could talk about excelling at their ‘job’, but he understood caring about other people. “Support him, like I want to be there to support you.”

Not exactly like.

The little knot that tightened in his chest was not getting acknowledged right now, but it still scraped his thoughts in passing. What if Declan had feelings for the Warlock?

“You said you don’t have a dedicated team, right? Does Mac?”

"It isn't just Mac, though," Declan replied, glancing over and tilting his head with a weary expression. "He's just the one I see the most. I used to go in and accept my commendations immediately all the time. You work in groups in the different crucibles, you see, and I would go as part of a six man team. A team," the Titan emphasized, gesturing vaguely to the Guardians wandering the peaks.

"But when we complete the crucible, it's me getting the credit more than anyone else. I'm a bulwark, but the ones out there fighting deserve just as much, you know? Favoring me for something that's easy for me to do isn't fair. Plus some people started to get frustrated. Angry, even. Then eventually my team fell apart and it's been like this ever since. Mac refuses to have a dedicated team. He's terrified of being responsible for other people. I don't mind, but no one wants to come with me anymore. It's unnecessarily complicated."

Complicated sounded like the right word for it, yeah. For a moment, Aoba couldn't do much more than blink. Then something clicked in Aoba's mind, though nothing more significant than better distinguishing what they were actually talking about here.

"So, wait... these commendations aren't for actual battle? They're for competitions?"

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