Sherman High's caste system was common-place, no longer interesting or even worthy of observation. Living it was far different from studying it.

Galaluna had a caste system, of sorts, though Ilana didn't think it very well applied to earth's definition. There were different types of people, yes, but when all their efforts were unifed for the greater whole it was difficult, and cheapening, to start allotting points of value and preference. To start a proper hierarchy.

The King was head, but still dependent upon his people. And the people had immense respect for the King. The lowest of Galaluna's society, then, were either coward or criminals.

As far as Ilana knew, there were only a few differences between being royalty and being a citizen. The King (or Queen), despite their birthright, had only as much power as the people gave them. Ilana's grandfather had been puppeteered man, but Ilana's father, well-loved and respected, had earned back the majority of power.

Ilana herself was radiant—upon Galalunan soil, anyway. Radiant in that she embodied her people's aesthetic preferences (upturned features, golden hair, dark eyes), as well as Galaluna's ideals. She was innocent and sincere in wanting rewarding lives for her people, a chance and a reason to move forward, for them to better themselves, unite. The Galalunans were both wildly romantic and practical, admiring fashion and warfare and speeches, and where Ilana spoke and moved she had proven Galalunan's two-headed philosophy. She had easy social graces, an enthusiastic beauty, and she was capable of defending herself. Everyone knew she could lead, even now, even at such a tender age. She was someone solid and simple and dependable and radiant. She was hope.

Ilana reminded herself of this when she was ensnared and pinned to the boys' bathroom floor.

She would have seen it coming, had she not been lost in the corridors of her father's castle, a couple of light-years and a Rift Gate away.

She scrambled up, more angry than frightened. The boys were laughing now, surprised at how easy it had been, and now they were making propositions. They weren't those jocks or so-called nerds, but an entirely new classification. These were the smooth-talkers, self-proclaimed pimps or something like that. The criminals of high school society. Ilana felt her dignity white-hot, her pride, her skin white-hot.

Their spoke, indulgent and almost charming. They tried to impress her, the off-beat campus crusader, by stretching their vocabulary, giving her pet names. But when Ilana returned her vocabulary, flung with perfect Galalunan idioms, their faces fell—they were a few years younger now, cornered and ashamed.

This made them angry. Here they had a 99-pound girl outnumbered in the boys' bathroom, and she was telling them off. Let's make it quick, they said, let's take turns.

Ilana knew now, what they intended. In her naivety—or innocence—she thought they were only trying to pick a fight, to mock her, trying to alienate her further. But now she knew she was not a rival, too ambitious and too unpredictable. She was not a princess, well-loved and well-prepared for nasty outbreaks. She was merely female—a target.

They weren't going to get very far—a kiss, a caress, but it would have been enough for them. They'd be back: this loomed in their eyes. They'd get her eventually, like so many other girls.

So they grabbed her wrist, the first pulled her close and all their hands came at once. Ilana was frightened now. She didn't react.

Ilana convinced herself, much later, that she had hit her communicator at some point. She just couldn't believe what perfect timing he'd had—that he always seemed to have.

Lance burst through the door, effectively taking out one of the pack. What came next was art—every target picked out and knocked out and flung off in a different way, as Lance carved his way to the middle, to Ilana. She was only aware of movement, like wind caught in a tunnel—Lance's quick hits, the gasp from each victim. Then the pack was sprawled, their sneerless faces seemingly innocent.

Lance heaved a long time, when they all lay drooling on the floor. It was the run that had first winded him, and he hadn't been able to make himself breathe while he was throwing punches and simultaneously resisting the urge to just kill them all.

Finally, after a long while of catching himself, he looked at the princess.

He wasn't angry this time. He knew she hadn't just thrown herself into a fight; he knew she had been the unwitting victim in this. But she was angry, and it took a few moments for her to figure out why. She was ashamed, and Lance was here to see it.

He watched the hall, making sure it was clear, and escorted her out. No one saw them, but all the walls-the clocks, the lockers, the posters, the fountains—they all seemed to have eyes. Ilana's hand was tight in Lance's, and she was angrier still that she couldn't let go. She didn't want to. She slowed her breathing.

This wouldn't break her. Everything else hadn't. She'd been able to deal with being on the bottom, because she believed she could work her way up. That' how life was—earning what you wanted. That's how being the princess was.

Only Ilana actually had skill at being a princess. She had no skill at being an acceptable high school student. And now—she knew she wouldn't have saved herself, not quickly enough, not before they had started.

She was not helpless. This screamed in her. Deep down, beneath fog, she knew this. But she couldn't return so swiftly, back to what she was and what she knew. She was still seeing their faces. She was still holding Lance's hand.

She wretched away from his clutch. Lance turned around almost immediately.

"Ilana, Newton needs to check on you,"

"His name is Octus!" Ilana cried, "Not Newton. And he's not even humanoid—it's all pretend. He's not my brother—and you aren't either!" You're just a corporal who cares little for his people or their ideals, for what could make Galaluna better—you've no camaraderie whatsoever, no desire to look to the future, to make the most of the day, to follow the rules, to follow my lead sometime-.

He was beneath her, always had been. When Ilana's mother had died, she hadn't turned to herself, hadn't turned cold and selfish, as Lance had done at his father's death. She had opened herself to everyone— to her beloved people, to these harsh and confusing and defenseless earthlings. She had taken life by the reins. But this boy, this impossibly gifted boy, he flaunted nothing. Cared for nothing. He chose isolation and arrogance. She was more than that.

Class was going on. The rooms were loud, the doors thick—shadows bobbed behind the little glass windows. The hall was empty, and their conversation safe. Lance found a bench, and then his hands found his face.

"I'm sorry," he said, low, still out-of-breath. When he spoke, Ilana noticed a fresh scratch, just a tiny one, at the corner of his mouth.

He had just saved her. Ilaan looked down at her communicator. Nothing indicated that it had been turned on. But that must have been it. So she stared at the watch a long time, not wanting to look at him, for she felt her face was hot. She was so ashamed. Lance had saved her from being used. But what could she do to forgive herself, which she knew she ought to do, when had no desire, when she was still angry at everyone and everything?

When Ilana spoke with generals, and withered soldiers, retired citizens, noblemen and delegates—when she had spoken to Lance's father, long, long ago—she had known what to do, and had done so enchantingly.

She walked towards Lance and found his hand again, before she could think too long about it. She second-guessed herself immediately, but she just gave his hand a squeeze and refused to take it back. She felt so shy and clumsy, so unskilled all of the sudden, and she wanted to be anywhere, alone.

He had looked up, expecting her words to flow and fill him up, as she had done with those other withered soldiers. Ilana tried to find their looks in Lance's face, but all she saw were his eyes, impossibly dark. Reflecting all light, quivering they seemed—as though he were a sinner before a priestess. Really! He had saved her.

His absurdity unraveled her, and she felt something cool pass from her head to her chest, to her hands and to her toes. Holding his hand seemed too polite, too insignificant, and so she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He was startled, childishly so, and that made her laugh. It was a small, dry laugh, because they were both still tired and disoriented. But the worst of it was over now.

"You saved me. Thanks, corporal," Her laughter, her gratitude had revived him. But when she called him corporal, so respectfully, so happily, as she had done with the soldiers she had helped, the ones she acknowledged as true Galalunan heroes—Lance felt breath return to his chest. He hugged Ilana back, quickly (he was as good with hugs as he was with words).

"Shouldn't you see the nurse?" Lance asked, when they parted.

"I'm fine, really," Ilana waved her hand, "Though I feel like taking a shower,"

"I'll drive you home," Lance stood up.

"But school's still going on!"

"It's last bell. And it's a little late to be heading in now,"

"…What about Newton, then?"

"He can get to the house in three minutes, if he really wanted to. Besides, I'm sure he has something planned with what's-her-name," Ilana laughed, a real laugh.

"Alright," she said, "But just this once. And no speeding, or running the wrong lights," He gave her a salute, and she couldn't remember him doing something so lightheartedly. She wanted to hold that hand, suddenly, again, but the effect would be lost now. She was just glad to return to herself. And Lance—she was learning about him all the time. The princess and the outcast—both fighting Galaluna's far-off war.

And if Lance cared about anything—well, he hadn't made sense of or words for it yet. He grinned, though, and followed all those inane driving rules because of it. He rode home like a Galalunan corporal.

My original for E actually was Empathy, but I couldn't think of anything specific enough. So, I remembered dear old vocab list 'echelon.' A.K.A. noun, a level of command, authority, or rank. It applies more to the military, but since the main focus here was Ilana and Ilana/Lance, it didn't delve into Lance's adventures as corporal. I had been wanting to do something exploring Galaluna's caste system anyway (I was intrigued when Lance called our high school regime 'barbaric', and as though Galaluna had long since moved past that. I believe it has something to do with uniting Heart, Body, and Mind, but I explored that in chappie 2).

Anyway, this chapter went through immense pains to get here. My USB didn't work, so I hand-copied this whole chapter and retyped it on the computer. Hope I didn't miss anything!