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Comfrey MacLeod, among many other things, is famously incredible at throwing parties. Tonight, of course, is no exception. It’s an exuberant celebration of the Zephyr Mark II’s extraordinary escape from Ramansu Power Station, rushed though it may have been. The deck is packed with crew members, dancing on tables and taking shots and playing the kind of games that usually end in friendly stab wounds. Comfrey, of course, is the life of the party — laughing maniacally with Sylvio as they recount one tale after another from their time in Gath, betting on how far down she can jump off the ship before grappling herself back on, singing louder and more off-key than anybody else by a mile. It’s exhilarating. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what she was built for.
The party winds down after a few hours; they might be wind riders, but the past several decades have not been particularly kind, and age is finally catching up to them. Slowly but surely, the crew filters out, and suddenly it’s just Comfrey standing there on the deck, fourth bottle of Disaronno in hand. It’s quiet now — too quiet. Years of adventuring, and truth be told, she’s still not used to this. She’s not sure she ever will be. No music, no drunken yelling, no bright lights; it’s her least favourite part of the night. It used to be Daisuke who brought her downstairs; some nights, he just needed to sit with her, their arms wrapped around each other, leaning his head on her shoulder until they both fell asleep to the sound of the other’s heartbeat. These days, Comfrey finds herself in this situation far too often, refusing to retreat to her cabin long after the deck has emptied because it means she needs to call it a night, and she knows what that entails. She’ll lay on her back and stare at the ceiling for an hour or two, slowly getting crushed by all the thoughts that finally have time to take up residence in her head, barely surrendering to sleep before dawn arrives and she has to wake back up again. God, she hates it. Not that this is much better, but at least the view is nice. Clear, cloudless skies. The stars are so much more visible here than they are in Gath, too, especially this far vim without Zern to overshadow them.
She blinks, and for a moment Comfrey is standing on the deck of the Zephyr Mark I with Marya, teaching her the controls as they sail through dark skies — no, she’s on the ranch in Pilby, holding baby Olethra in her arms as she points out the constellations to her young granddaughter. She feels sick, suddenly. It’s suffocating.
“Fuck it,” she mutters, taking a swig from the bottle. Comfrey walks over to the back of the ship — some crew member or the other had constructed a rudimentary radio station there almost immediately after they got back from Ramansu, thinking it useful in case they had any similar emergencies on the Zephyr. She slumps down, leaning against the railing, before starting to record.
“Hey, Olethra,” Comfrey says quietly, sighing. “Sorry about the message from Ramansu. It’s fine, we made it out, we’re doing great now. I miss you, though. You would have loved it here, I know it. Today was a close one, but that’s half the fun of adventuring, isn’t it? Dangerous, sure, but that’s what wind riding is, it’s what I signed up for. What we all signed up for.”
She sways as she stands up to look out over the railing of the ship, laughing bitterly. If she squints, Comfrey can almost make out the canopy of the jungle below. It’s beautiful, really. Monty would have loved this place, she thinks. They all would. She takes another sip of her drink.
“I don’t know, kid. Is it fucked up to say I hope you never see me again? I think I just — I always have to get to the next adventure, the next great story. On high we go, you know? I can’t just stand by and watch while the world burns. It’s a calling, really, more than anything. The others, they didn’t understand that like I did. I hope you do. I have it in my head that if I could just try one more thing, orchestrate one more event, kill one more person, then I could fix it all, and then everything will be perfect and I’ll be the one who did it. And I can’t feel bad about that, can I? I mean, I’ve saved the world a hundred times over, in Gath and in Zood. Ramansu, Katur — that was me, wasn’t it? Hell, they built statues of me. I’m the greatest fucking adventurer that either of these worlds have ever seen.
“Except that’s not really true, is it? I’m not an idiot. I know why I constantly need to keep moving, keep running. It’s because if I stop then I finally have to reckon with the fact that I keep fucking up, and what I’ve done has had consequences. I’ll collapse. And if I can realise that, then so can all of Zood, all of Gath. So can you, Olethra. I don’t want you to know that I messed up. That I might not be the hero you thought I was. I don’t know if I’ll be able to deal with the look on your face when you find out who I am, kid — shit, it’ll break my heart too,” she whispers, hearing her voice crack despite her best efforts. “Selfish, I know, but what else is new?”
She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I hope you’re doing well. Hutch and Artemisia aren’t giving you too much of a hard time? They’d lock you indoors if they could, I swear. Just a few more years with them, though — then you’ll be up in the skies, hey? Well, as I said, I miss you. Love you, kid.”
Comfrey stands in silence for a second before she hits pause on the recording, then promptly throws up over the side of the ship. This was a mistake. Fuck, she hates this. She takes out the gun from her holster and shoots at the radio station once, twice, three times, not caring who she wakes up as she does so. As she makes her way downstairs, Comfrey gulps down the last of her Disaronno, smashing the empty bottle on the deck the way that Van always used to do. It joins the rest of the wreckage left behind by the celebrations. She’ll deal with it tomorrow. Well, someone will.