[ There's something awful and uncomfortable about seeing himself that way: resplendent and full of authority, confident in it in a way that Flynn himself never has been. He thinks about a voice yelling Captain and the sick sense, dawning in the heat of a desert somewhere else, that he's gotten everything wrong.

He thinks about his double, full of ice-cold anger tempered into a blade, snapping and stabbing Yuri through the heart.

The rack of weapons awaits them. Flynn shifts through grass that doesn't smell quite right, close enough to Diluc to brush against his elbow, and pulls his attention toward it.

Carefully, just for Diluc's ears, he says, ]

If they're anything like our doubles, beating them in a simple test of skill won't go well for us. Going for swords is what they want.