The Racetrack Chronicle

By Simon J. Dodd

Growing up in bucolic Falstone, Picon, Maggie Edmondson looked up at an endless night sky and knew that no matter what happened, the Colonial Fleet was out there. Protecting her. Visits to the aging warship Galactica reinforce her association of the Fleet with a sense of safety and security.

Six years before the Fall, after a shattering personal tragedy, Edmondson flees to the Poseidon Colonial Military Academy where she is befriended by Abigail Ainslie. Their motivations and personalities seem polar opposites: Edmondson is a withdrawn, bookish, depressed country-girl, while Ainslie seems to be an effervescent, cosmopolitan, and promiscuous Marine-Corps brat. But they become mutual supporters, and after they stumble into a secret that threatens the careers of several prominent officers, they will find themselves assigned to a ship that is no one’s idea of a plum assignment... Except Maggie’s. For the next sixteen months, as the storm clouds of the Fall gather around the Colonies, Edmondson is even more blissfully-unaware than most. Sequestered on the Galactica with a ragtag collection of officers and men deemed problem-children by Fleet Command, she is busy falling in love and planning a future. The events of the Fall will shatter this happy bubble and set her on a very different, momentous path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon J. Dodd
• Release date: Mar 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370286096

Simon J. Dodd

Lt. Margaret “Racetrack” Edmondson played a key role in the events of “Battlestar Galactica.” In “The Racetrack Chronicle,” coming March 2018, find out who she was and what happened below-decks on the Galactica.

Book preview

PART ONE:

P O S E I D O N

In the beginning, man lived in harmony with the gods. Then the twelve nations left the paradise of Kobol and wandered into the stars, where they founded the twelve colonies: Picon, Caprica, Gemenon, and Virgon; Tauron and Leonis; Scorpia, Libran, and Sagittaron; Aerilon, Canceron, and Aquaria.

For centuries, Kobol’s children bickered and fought amongst themselves. But one day, a man distraught from the loss of his daughter resolved that death could not be final. To save his child, he forged life outside of its natural order. And so were created the Cylon: A race of helpers who would soon rise up against their masters, convinced that they were beloved of God—not the lords of Kobol worshipped by man, but one, true God.

War raged. By necessity, the colonies united against their common enemy. At last, an armistice was concluded, and the Cylons left in search of worlds to call their own. Since then, we have seen a golden age. Not since Kobol has mankind known such peace, harmony, and concord.

No one has seen a Cylon in over thirty years.

I. Maggie.

1.

The Poseidon Colonial Military Academy.

Ventnor, Picon.

Attention on deck!

Six years before the Fall of the Twelve Colonies.

"Good morning! I am Commander Robert King. I am the Commandant of this school, so I answer to ‘Sir,’ ‘Commander,’ ‘Commandant,’ or,"—beat— ‘Your Majesty,’ as you please."

Polite laughter meandered around the auditorium.

We have recruits here from every colony, even a recruit from Troy, they tell me. Show of hands: Who here’s from Canceron?

Lots of hands went up.

"Okay. Leonis? Excellent. Picon?"

She kept her elbow on the armrest and half-raised her hand, glancing around.

The blonde next to her was beaming, her hand thrust aloft. Hey, you’re from Picon too! Dat’s awesome, the blonde said, offering her other hand. Abigail Ainslie.

Edmondson. She hesitated a moment. She’s a cheerleader. Bless her heart. Maggie.

On the stage, King was continuing; "Scorpia? Good. Alright. I could go right down the list, but you see the point. Some of you come to us having travelled; others have never left your home-worlds. All of you may harbor some prejudices. His voice turned forceful. You will move past them. You’re going to understand in a very visceral, personal way, that we serve the United Colonies of Kobol.

About a decade ago, he paced back and forth, scratching his cheek, "I’m serving on the battlestar Bretannia, and we experience a violent decompression event. The air’s being sucked out of the compartment, it’s trying to take me with it, I’m hanging on for my life, and a Captain grabs me. I happen to recognize him. Naturally, I use my last lungful of air to shout ‘get your filthy hands off me, Sagittaran scum,’ and let myself get blown into space. Right? Forget your prejudices.

"Now, I tell recruits that story for a reason. You probably have another prejudice, and that one, you need to shed today: That our enemy is the Cylon."

Murmurs ran through the room.

King shook his head emphatically. "We have an enemy far more relentless and implacable than the Cylons. And no one’s seen them in thirty years; this enemy, we fight every day. The Fleet has a half-million men and women working in space. The Marines, almost as many again. Understand this well: Space is your enemy. It is a ravening wolf, ready to pounce the instant you make a mistake. Every day you spend on deployment, that wolf circles you, watching, waiting for you to give it an opening. It never gets tired, and it rarely gives second chances. This is a serious business that we’re in."

He paused.

"However. Those of you on the pilot track, for example—you will train in sims every day until you get it right by muscle-memory. Until you have to work hard to screw up. And you will learn: We don’t make mistakes. We don’t improvise. We do not go off-book. From today forward, the book’s the word of the gods as far as you’re concerned, because if you start freelancing, you might kill yourself, you might kill someone else, or, worst of all, you might frag a hundred-million-cubit plane. We’ve gotten very good at our people not dying because we’ve gotten very good at doing something inherently dangerous in a way that’s very safe."

Edmondson’s soul warmed at the thought. For all King’s well-practiced melodramatics—the Fleet. Safety. The Edmondson siblings had grown up surrounded by horses, guns, and the materiel of agriculture; how shall we be safe, Maggie? By doing these dangerous things safely.

Now, one last thing from me, then I’ll turn you over to the tender mercies of your deans, Colonels Caldwell and Cain. Tomorrow, those of you in the Fleet Battalion are going upstairs to experience an FTL jump. Who’s done a jump before?

Scattered hands went up. Express flights were expensive, but it took two weeks to fly subluminal between either of the Cyrannus system’s binaries; acceptable for freight, but rarely for vacations. And the voyage across the long-axis between its two pairs of binaries could take two years. To have left one’s home-system for almost any purpose other than the military or the merchant marine—operating the ships and platforms that did make the long-axis transit—was to have experienced a superluminal jump.

King made hand-motions over the crowd as if doing a rough count—purely for show, Edmondson thought.

A few, he said. "Okay. So why do we do this on day two, before you even get your warrants? Because for some of you, it may change your plans. The Fleet doesn’t do jumps often, but we do them routinely. And a half-percent of the population experiences a break in consciousness during jumps—a dream-state, disorientation, that sort of thing. Statistically, some of you are in that half-percent. That’s no good in mission-critical situations, so if that’s you, you will not be eligible to qualify in a Raptor, or for duty on combat-jumps."

Ripples of protest ran through the auditorium.

Hear me right, King insisted. "We are not washing you out. You can still serve. You can still serve deployments. You can even fly Vipers—audible sighs of relief—but, again: You will not be eligible for flight-status in Raptors."

Who wants to fly Raptors anyway? a Leonan-accented voice hollered from farther back.

Type-A asshole, Edmondson thought.

Hey, go frak yourself, Piper! Ainslie hollered back. Rap’tas rule, Vipers drool!

"Holy crap! Edmondson stared at her and leaned in, trying to stifle a laugh. Did you just you just say ‘frak’ in front of the Commandant?"

Ainslie thought about that for a moment. Uh huh! She grinned enthusiastically.

You gotta be kidding me. Edmondson flicked her tongue through her lips, anxiety rising; can you be for real?

But King was chuckling benevolently. Okay, everyone. Good to see some Raptor-love. I love my Raptor pilots, I flew Raptors for more than a decade. But, I love my Viper-jocks too. He flashed a smile in the approximate direction of Ainslie’s voice. Edmondson shrank into her seat. Thank you all for your attention. On behalf of the faculty and staff, welcome to Poseidon, and welcome to the Colonial Fleet and Marine Corps. Colonels?

After another quarter-hour of welcomes from the deans—most of them from Caldwell, redheaded, amiable, and audibly Pican; more briefly from Cain, icy, imperious, and with only a trace of a Tauron accent—the Midshipmen-to-be began draining out of the auditorium.

Ainslie tapped Edmondson’s elbow. So! Picon! she beamed. Dat’s excitin’. Where’re yeh from?

Um. Falstone. It’s— tiny, you probably haven’t heard of it...

No way! Ainslie interrupted the carefully-practiced response, tapping her thumb on her sternum. Jedburgh! We’re, like, an hour apart.

Oh, good. Great.

Wow, Falstone, huh? So you’re a real-deal country-girl, ‘weaned on horse-crap an’ cordite.’ An’ yeh joinin’ up for da Fleet?

Edmondson felt her eyebrows crinkling. Something was incongruous. "You don’t… sound Pican?"

Mam and da’ moved to Gemenon from Aerilon whenever I was real young. Den some other places. Ainslie shrugged. "Anways, landed in Jedburgh when mam mustered out a’ da marines. Say, you want some comp’ny for orien-tay’shn?"

Edmondson smiled cautiously. And she’s bubbly. Fantastic. This is all I need; I’m going to be the sidekick to a bubbly blonde. Oh, yeah, this’ll be great.

2.

Poseidon’s campus faded below them as the transport gained altitude. On the ground, no amount of landscaping could hide the collision of ugly wartime minimalism and ugly postwar modernism, grafted incongruously onto an elegant old manorhouse. Edmondson made a mental note to look up how that had come to be. To her surprise, though, from above, the complex took on an appealing geometry, cradled on a headland south of Bride’s Bay. Who’d of guessed?

Their pilot was sparing them nothing with the angle of ascent. Next to her, Ainslie remained effervescent, but even she was visibly fighting the G-force as blue sky faded to black space.

With no forward view, it was jarring when the cavernous walls of a battlestar’s flight-deck swept past the porthole.

* * *

"Listen up, nuggets. Welcome aboard the battlestar Triton. I’m Captain Appleby. You’re mine to babysit these next couple of days."

A hundred-or-so recruits were lined up, looking around the hangar-deck, some visibly nervous, most doing a passable job of hiding it.

You think Fourth Comp’ny’s on the other deck? Ainslie whispered. Edmondson shrugged.

"This is a Valkyrie-type battlestar, Appleby continued. They’re mainstays of the Fleet, so get to know ’em, get to love ’em. Triton’s a teaching-ship attached to Poseidon, so, graduate, and you’ll serve your Ensign year here. We’re going to show you around, let you get a feel for her; we like to have recruits spend a couple of days on-ship. Make sure none of you go crazy sealed inside a tin can.

But before we do any of that, I get to give you some good news and some bad news. First, the good. Like Commander King said yesterday, we’re here to screen you, so in a few minutes we’re going to make a jump out to Zeus. It’s quite the view, and you’re going to get to take it in while some of you eat lunch. Don’t say the Fleet never did anything for you.

Wow. Edmondson smiled happily at that thought. Far beyond Virgon’s orbit, Zeus—by far the largest gas-giant in the Cyrannus system—was off the beaten path. Textbooks and television were all well and good, but the idea of seeing it with her own eyes verged on surreal.

Next to her, Ainslie was absorbing the hangar-deck’s details with a broad, cheerful grin. You’re just too damned bubbly, Edmondson thought. You’ve gotta dial that back.

"Now the bad news. About that lunch."

A Specialist was going down the line of recruits, passing something out—like a piece of paper, flat, but plump.

"Commander King warned you yesterday about the half-percent. What he didn’t say is that about a third of you are going to have… Well, let’s just say a different reaction to your first jump. Appleby held up one of the paper-thingies with a thin smile; that’s what this is for. Don’t worry. This reaction, we’ll thrash out of you right quick."

The Specialist reached them.

Oh gods. Oh no. Ainslie was staring at the paper bag, a look of unalloyed horror on her face.

That’s different. Edmondson choked back a laugh. First time I’ve seen you with the smile wiped off of your face.

I don’t do pukin’, Maggie.

"You are such a cheerleader!"

You—I don’t like this anymore.

It’s okay. You’re okay, I’ve got you.

You’ve… What? Confusion and surprise seemed to fight the horror for control of Ainslie’s face.

I’ve done jumps, Edmondson hissed. I don’t get sick, and I don’t have the disorientation thing. I’ve got you.

The ship’s intercom—1MC, One-Master-Circuit, Edmondson repeated internally, trying to get the vernacular down—rang. Attention all hands: Brace for jump. Say again, brace for jump. Stand by; in five…

Edmondson put an arm around Ainslie. This is so cute I can’t even bear it.

Ainslie held the bag open in front of her, face ashen, eyes screwed shut.

Two…One…

* * *

"How can you eat that? Ainslie gazed sourly at her across the table. How can you eat anything?"

Look at it. Edmondson barely heard her, enraptured by the sight beyond the porthole. Far below, one of Zeus’ moons processed majestically across the terminator. "This is unbelie-vable. Look at that lightning; my gods!"

"Oh, I’m a cheerleader? You’re a swot. Mar’gret."

"Maggie. Edmondson smiled without looking away from the porthole. No one who knows me calls me Margaret ’cept mama. And c’mon, you can be green about the gills and still appreciate the view. When d’you ever get to see this? Gods, the scale of it!"

They sat gazing for a minute before Edmondson remembered her plate and poked at it with a fork. "If it makes you feel any better—ah’m not sure how ah can eat this." She cursed the slip in her carefully-practiced accent. Can’t get distracted. This is terrible.

The galley’s supposed to be better on the Mercuries. Never know your luck.

Ugly ships. Wow, look at that! By a trick of perspective, the moon looked like it was almost touching the cloud-tops, creating a massively-distended figure-eight with the gargantuan planet.

What, the Mercury-type?

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah; I mean, it’s a beast, for sure, but we used to go see the Galactica when she was in port—that’s a gorgeous ship."

"You are a swot. It’s an antique."

"She. And sometimes the old stuff’s the best."

Nope. Ainslie brightened; Edmondson dragged her attention from the porthole to follow Ainslie’s eye-line, alighting on a Lieutenant walking in through the hatch. "No, I like ’em fresh off the production-line. Oh, he’s cute."

"Seriously? You can’t fire down lunch but you can think about—that?"

Ohhh, let’s say things are looking up. Ainslie winked, and, catching his eye, blew a kiss.

She got no chance to do anything about it. A noise midway between a buzzer and a foghorn sounded and the 1MC rang. Action-stations! Set condition two throughout the ship. Action-stations; this is not a drill.

Edmondson and Ainslie stared at each other, wide-eyed. What do we do?

Nuggets on me! Appleby cut through the noise. Settle down and stay put; I—

The 1MC cut her off. This is the XO. We’re going to make a jump to answer a distress-call. Right now, it looks to be a minor shipping incident. We’ll put Raptors in the air as soon as we jump in.

"Hey, Piper—Rap’tas." Ainslie stuck her tongue out at him.

"Shut up, Ainslie!" he glowered back from the next table.

This may be a milk-run, the 1MC continued, or we may have work to do. Either way, let’s take it serious and get it right. More as we get it; wait one for jump-warning.

Ainslie brightened further. "Well! This is excitin’!"

You’re kidding. Edmondson stared at her in disbelief.

Okay everyone. Appleby clapped her hands together. This is more excitement than we were expecting, but it’s fine. This happens. You don’t have to do anything, and you should have a good view from here. If you popped on the jump before, just… Grab a mug or something. Do your best. It’s easier the second time.

Oh crap, Ainslie said. I forgot about dat.

You have the attention-span of a cocker-spaniel, Edmondson thought.

All hands, a different voice cautioned over the 1MC, brace. Jumping close-aboard in three. Two. One...

The visual disturbance looked like a flashbulb going off, and as it faded, they could see a passenger liner in front of them, a burning stream of fuel spewing from a gash in its engine-casing, an ersatz thruster pushing it into an erratic loop. Zeus was still visible, barely, diminished from horizon-filling giant to a reddish-brown marble basking in the sun. Rubbing Ainslie’s back and holding her hair, Edmondson watched four Raptors sweep past them from the Triton’s hangar-deck, heading for the liner.

Playing roadside assistance for some civvies isn’t what I joined up for, Piper said, unimpressed. This isn’t what we do.

No, Edmondson thought. No, this is exactly what we do. We keep people safe.

3.

None of the Midshipmen were close to breaking into a gallop around the running-track, but a hundred yards behind the pack, Edmondson loped along at a trot, Ainslie keeping pace with her but visibly impatient to move faster.

C’mon, yeh holdin’ me up. The Commandant’s watchin’! Ainslie gestured toward a figure in a Fleet officer’s duty-blues, ambling southward beside the track, holding court with a gaggle of Midshipmen. He could see me leadin’ the class here! This is the best half-hour of our days an’ I’m barely breaking’ a sweat.

Edmondson had decidedly broken a sweat. Sorry. I’m more of, a walker, than a runner. She cracked a grin. Whence takin’, the um, the Raptor-focus, I guess.

‘Whence’? Ainslie cackled. "Clio, Mar’gret, what year’s this again? How small’s Falstone?"

"What, ah, you never read, the Detective Grey Mysteries? You like this, she gestured around the track. I like books."

"I do like this. The endorphins, the sweat, the control, chasin’ the clock, gettin’ my klicks in; you get a real clarity. It’s physical. Primal."

"You ever have, any physical, primal desires, you don’t indulge immediately?"

Not if I can help it.

Edmondson gave Ainlie a sidelong glace, giggling between gasps for breath.

Get your breathin’ under control, Mags. In, control, out. Breathe.

Yep. Edmondson nodded and tried to comply. You an’ mah sister, you’ll get along great. She likes this crap too.

You don’t?

Sure. Ah love bein’, outta breath, shins hurtin’ an’ my feet sore.

Pick up the pace, Edmondson! someone hollered back. It’s a run, not a jog!

Edmondson glowered in their direction. These physical-conditioning requirements are gonna kill me.

You can slack on it a bit once we’re Majors.

"Majors? She nearly lost her stride. You’re, um. You’re forward-thinking."

It’s what we’re all here for, right? Climb the ladder?

That’s not even close to why I’m here.

* * *

"Plei-o-nē, Edmondson! So we’re saying you’ve shot before?" The instructor stared downrange.

"Sir, yes Sir! Been huntin’—um, hunting since I could hold a rifle."

He looked between her and the target. I’d say it’s paying off.

Thank you, Sir!

He chortled. Carry on, Midshipman.

"You hunt?" Ainslie’s eyebrows had crawled even further up her forehead than the instructor’s.

Yeah?

"Isn’t dat... I mean... Like, animals?"

Edmondson frowned. Yeah? I love animals. But I like to eat, too, and the gods didn’t put them here just to look pretty.

Ainslie licked her lips, looking faintly horrified. Well. Okay.

Oh, this is precious, Edmondson laughed. Now I’ve shocked you? That’s a first. Where’d you think that steak you wolfed down at lunch came from? You think it grew on a tree somewhere?"

"I’m tryin’ ta not tink about it now! Hard enough to hit the target without picturin’ Cassandra The Friendly Caribou."

Okay, look, for frak’s sake, Edmondson sighed. You won’t hit a barn-door like that. She grabbed Ainslie’s shoulders, turning her. Stand straight-on to the target. Loosen your hands, you’re holding it so tight your knuckles are turning blue. No wonder you can’t aim for crap.

I don’t wanna lose my grip when it goes off!

"You are way overestimating the recoil. Edmondson put her hands over Ainslie’s, standing behind her. Lighter. Lighter! Better. Okay, just squeeze the trigger. Don’t worry about releasing it."

Ainslie flinched, but a puff of dust flew up from the target.

Hey, I hit it!

Edmondson squinted downrange. Well, you got it on the paper. That’s progress. Now try for the circle.

* * *

It’s bin mon’ts. Yeh gotta pick a call-sign soon or they’ll give you one you don’t like. Ainslie thumbed XMIT; "Solaria, Raptor 616, Spitfire; be advised we are two minutes out."

"616, Solaria; two minutes? Pick up the pace, Spitfire."

"Roger, Solaria—but, ah, remember, I’m just the ECO today. She cut the mic. Maggie, open the frakkin’ throttle, would ya? Straight-Laced’ll lap us at this rate!"

I’m not messing this up again! The book says, as pilot in command, I’m ‘directly responsible for and the final authority as to the operation of the aircraft.’ Edmondson twisted around in her seat to give Ainslie a pointed look. You get that? It says ‘my Raptor, my rules.’

"Have it your way, but tomorrow it’s my Raptor my rules, an’ yeh gettin’ a wild ride."

Great. I haven’t died yet this week.

"Hey! I barely killed us."

Twice! You killed us twice! In a week!

You know how many times Pyledriver’s missed the trap? An’ yeh don’t hear Red complaining.

"No, you don’t hear—"

"616, Solaria; approach starb’d ventral landing-bay. Hands-on, speed one one zero, call the ball."

"Solaria, 616; wilco. Gods, shut up, Abi! Ah’ve gotta concentrate. These ugly bastards kick back a helluva wash."

"Abigail! Yeh gotta speed up, too! I told you. 110! She’s runnin’ wit’ her engines wide open, yeh won’t barely punch through dat wash at this rate!"

Edmondson ignored her and flicked her tongue through her lips. "Solaria, 616; I’ve got the ball." Straight down the middle. Riiight into the trap’s throat.

She gritted her teeth and rolled the Raptor 180 degrees, coasting into the flight-pod and hitting the trap window square on the mark. An invisible electromagnetic fist reared up from the deck behind them, grabbing the plane and trimming its forward velocity relative to the flight-deck. Edmdonson nudged the thrusters to bring them down to a delicate stop on the pad.

Hah! She grinned triumphantly and reached her fist back toward the cabin, middle finger extended, provoking squalls of laughter from Ainslie. "Solaria, 616. Skids down, mag secure, main engine stop. Standing by."

She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we do that.

Ainslie leaned back in her seat. We’re good to go again? Or—

Without ceremony, the world around them blinked out of existence, leaving Edmondson cocooned in darkness. After an instant of literal blind panic—the simulator usually gave some warning that the virtual-reality environment was about to end—she pulled off her helmet and thumped Ainslie’s arm, the latter suddenly, disorientingly in a seat next to her rather than in a Raptor’s cabin behind her.

She stretched, her back stiff; she hadn’t gotten into a comfortable position before the sim started. Stupid. Rook mistake.

"Hey, Abigail, guess what? She made her face a mask of mock-surprise. Turns out these things can be landed without turning us into a smear on the deck!"

You just tap the pedal, she didn’t add, instead of slamming it into the guard like you’re stomping on a spider.

Ainslie shrugged, bounding out of her seat. Edmondson shook her head, chuckling to herself. Cheerleader. Still a cheerleader.

Edmondson! Ainslie! My office. The flight-instructor stabbed a finger in the direction of the door. "Now."

They exchanged glances and followed him.

He slumped behind his desk, tapping his fingers on it, and looked expectantly at them. Edmondson stiffened to attention, Ainslie to a passing resemblance of it.

Midshipman Edmondson, are you waiting for the trap to buy you dinner or something?

Sir, no, that was a perfect landing. I’m really not—

The instructor cut her off with a raised hand. "I appreciate caution. We are all drearily familiar with the Commander’s opening-day speech. I value it, and I appreciate Midshipmen internalizing it. I’m not saying you have to be as aggressive as Spitfire here, and yes, Ainslie, that is a warning. Learn to poach before you fry, couldja? Look, Edmondson, I realize a lot of these guys, ’specially the ones in the Viper-focus, they come in like they’re trying to qualify for the starting-grid at the Leonine racetracks, and that’s no good either. But if you do these landings any slower, I, I—." He made an exasperated sound and waved his hands in the air vaguely.

Ainslie elbowed her in the ribs. I tink we’ve got yeh call-sign, she whispered.

"No, Edmondson hissed. Don’t you dare."

"Major, sir, I tink what Racetrack is tryin’ ta say—"

Ohmygods, I will kill you and swear you died, Edmondson said under her breath.

I know what she’s trying to say, Ainslie. And, yes, I saw what you did there. Very good. Spitfire: Land the plane tomorrow. Make the trap, leave the skids attached. Racetrack—

Sir, do I get to protest—

You. Do. Not. First, because you’re a Midshipman and I’m a Major. Second, because you were given plenty of time to pick a call-sign and you kept waiving-off. And third... He laughed. "That’s just frakkin’ funny."

Edmondson glowered at Ainslie; she grinned back impishly.

"Spitfire, trap the landing. Racetrack, do it before the LSO retires. It’s not as long as you think before you’ll be flying these birds for real."

* * *

‘Because I’m a Major,’ Edmondson parroted, as soon as they were out of earshot. You’ve been a Major for twenty minutes, asshat. Frak. She shook her head furiously as they walked out of the flight-instruction building, and jabbed a finger at Ainslie. "And you really are a brat."

"Yeah. But how much fun d’you have with me, Racetrack?"

I don’t like that!

It’s perfect, Mags. It’ll grow on yeh.

"Oh, oh, remind me: When Piper named you ‘Spitfire,’ was it because there’s just no taunt you won’t rise to? Or because you threw up on every.single.jump we