Lemons

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn's eye widened—it seemed to be doing that a lot today, and perhaps for good reason—as she heard the shouting from behind the door, and then the figure bolted out.

This...Madam Dague? The word sounded familiar, like she'd heard it in a fairy tale as a kid, but she shoved that thought aside...she was apparently very excited. It was beginning to really sink in for Quinn that Cyril was right, and that people in Casoban seemed to like her. When she heard the Runan hero, she almost had to resist turning to see if Deelie had suddenly appeared behind her. But no, it was her. Maybe she wasn't the Hero of Runa, but she was a Runan hero.

When Madam Dague laid a gentle hand on Quinn's shoulder, she let herself be guided, coming to rest in front of the wall of dresses. They were all so pretty...sure, there were some that Quinn instinctually knew wouldn't look good on her. She thought. But there were just so many that were gorgeous, she didn't even know where3 to begin. So she really, honestly had no idea how to answer Madam Dague's question. She bit her lower lip in something vaguely like discomfort, then looked up at Dague.

"I don't...really know. I mean," she hastily followed, "I've never had a formal dress before." She plucked at her shirt, suddenly keenly aware of how different the pilot cultures in Runa and Casoban were and self-conscious of wearing super casual clothing out into the public commons. "Maybe something yellow or gold that goes with my eye? I was just...I don't really know what looks good on me, so I was hoping that you could maybe help me figure it out."

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn waved back at Cyril as he walked off, keeping her voice down a bit as she replied "See you," in an attempt to keep from catching the attention of the mob again. As he departed and a crowd went with him, Quinn looked surreptitiously around to make sure nobody was watching before taking her huge braid and shoving it down the back of her shirt before coiling it up on itself to stop it from falling out. The last thing she wanted was to look like she had a tail.

That done, she set off into the upper commons of the Ange, trying her best to not look around like a tourist and to keep her bangs swept over the right side of her face to hid the eyepatch. There wasn't much she could do about the yellow, but at the very least, her clothing was unremarkable enough...

Oh.

That was probably a problem, actually.

Making sure she kept walking near the edge and didn't run into anybody, she flicked her eye around to the people around her, at their fancy designer bags and—more to the point—clothing that probably cost more than the annual maintenance of the Aerie. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants. She was definitely going to get noticed: her clothing was too unremarkable. It was so unremarkable that it wrapped right back around to being extremely remarkable. Right. People planned their entire year over visits to the Ange, right? That's what Cyril had said. These people were way rich, and they had clothing to match.

An image popped into her mind: Claire, that woman from the restaurant, and her black-and-gold dress. She narrowed her eye. She'd thought then that she wanted that dress, and...

Well, she was on the Ange. There were expensive stores all around her.

She scoped shops out as she walked, doing her best to keep her back turned to most of the people in the concourse so as to avoid being noticed as much as possible. She knew that once a single person saw her, the rest of them would too. Really, it was only a matter of time. But the longer she could go without being mobbed, the better.

Oooh, that looked good. A small shop with broad glass front, through which Quinn could see that it was mostly empty inside. And could also see a series of very nice, very pretty dresses. It looked fancy. And peering at the price tags, her eyebrow raised. It was definitely fancy. Looking up at the sign—a lovely calligraphic rendering of a dragger, over which was superimposed the word Miséricorde—she felt her interest piqued even more. So she turned in, leaving the hubbub of the plaza behind her. Once she was inside, she felt immediately better. It was quiet, but not too quiet; there was faint chatter, and soft symphonic music played through speakers in the ceiling that she couldn't see, or maybe out of the pale mauve wall paneling. Ducking into an empty aisle, she took a deep breath, then another, then a third. Then, making sure she was out of easy view of the windows, she pulled her braid out of her shirt and shook her hair out, settling it back into the way it naturally fell.

Peeking out of the aisle, she spied a store clerk arranging dresses, and nobody else. Sighing out a breath of relief, she walked over, feet tapping quietly on the clean white tiling, and scuffed her shoe gently on the floor to let the clerk know she was there.

"Um, excuse me," she started shyly, keenly aware of how inexperienced she was in this field, "but do you know if any of these would look good on me?"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn stared down at her food as she listened to Cyril. She would need to finish it, wouldn't she? It seemed like it would be rude to just not eat it all, and it was her first time at a fancy restaurant like this, after all. Maybe if she just had little bites?

But that thought was swiftly banished as Cyril finished speaking, and she tilted her head. "You're right, that is weird."

She thought a moment, trying to remember everything the woman had said to her in their brief meeting. What was that line...?

"Well, she didn't seem very...Euseran." Well, not that she really knew any Euserans, but she'd read interviews and watched their TV, and that was more than enough for her.

Ah, that's what it was. I’m a big fan of the way you blow shit up and don’t murder people. She tapped a finger a few times on the table, took a stupidly rich bite, chewed, swallowed. "She's one of the only people that told me i did the right thing by not...ending the duel," she finished lamely.

"Still," she continued after choking down another bite of food and doing a surprisingly good job at looking like she wasn't choking it down, "she was so cheerful. I can't imagine why people wouldn't want to have her on."

Another bite, and then a piece of potato to wash the taste down. She rolled her neck back and forth, trying to work out the tired kinks in it without looking too obtrusive and thinking about what Cyril had said before. God, she was so stiff. Guess that was what she got for getting next to no sleep, she thought. "We should spar sometime," she said without warning, "either on sims or in the gym. What time—"

Wait, that was right, Casoban was less tightly scheduled, right? She hastily amended herself, "are you going to the gym sometime tomorrow? Or later today, maybe?"

Amygdala Circuit

As she mulled over what Cyril said, something in particular caught her attention, something that brought a small confused frown to her face. But before she could voice that concern, the waiter returned with the food. And as soon as the cover was lifted—so fancy!—her eye went as wide as a full moon. It was like nothing she'd ever seen. Well, online or on TV, sure, but never in person, never anything like this. It was just...

So occupied was she in staring at it that she jolted when she realized Cyril had already started eating, and she hastened to do the same. She picked up her knife, and...

Which fork should she use?

She opened her mouth to ask, but Cyril seemed occupied chewing, and it would just be awkward. So instead she attempted to surreptitiously peer at the fork he was using. Okay, it was the larger one on the right. Feeling anxious about her table manners, she took care to cut a slice of the hen and get a bit of the truffle and "foie gras" on the fork, then dipped it in the "jus," that was what she was supposed to do, right? And then finally conveyed it to her mouth, looked at it one last time, and took a tentative bite.

"..."

She wasn't exactly sure what she was expecting.

Oh, it was delicious. There wasn't even room to argue with that. It really did just taste like nothing else she'd ever eaten in her life. But...that was also partially why she was almost a little bit...uncomfortable, even. She blinked a few times, staring at the newly-empty fork with her brow furrowed, then realized that Cyril was asking her a question, and was also looking at her with something like concern. Oh. Right. She was staring at her fork, and still had food in her mouth. Swallowing hastily, she gave a halfhearted "Sorry, it's just...it's a little much," and carefully placed the fork on the plate before she took a long drink of water.

Only then did she continue the conversation, voice a little clearer. Tilting her head up to the ceiling, she tried to remember the first time she'd gotten in Ablaze, the disastrous phase test, and the second time, to pull her weapon to...

Oh. Oh, wow.

She hadn't even realized that..."I, uh, my duel with Roaki was, um," she mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious, "it was, um, the third time I...ever connected. It was mostly just...a lot of sims." It really did come naturally, didn't it?

Of course it did, a feeling inside her seemed to say from deep down, it's what we were made to do. Quinn...didn't really know how she felt about that. She didn't think Besca would like it.

She gave her head a quick shake and switched topics back to that first thing Cyril had said, before the food arrived. Spearing a chunk of potato on her fork, she held it in the air for a moment as she cocked her neck, face writ with confusion. "The Dane lady? You mean Firebrand? Axan, I think it was?" She bit down on the potato, and a little smile stole over her face. Now that she could eat. Chewed, swallowed. Took a drink. And when she spoke again, her voice was pure confusion:

"But she was so good! She saved my life, she mulched two Modir like it was nothing, she even sounded like she was having fun! What do you mean, she doesn't even get interviews?"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn gave an emphatic shake of the head and opened her mouth to answer, only to be hear a sudden unseen voice coming from her right and jump in her chair, whipping her head around like a startled cat to see a young woman, dressed in a beautiful black and gold dress that made Quinn swell with a new emotion after the nerves had left her body: jealousy. She still had zip formal clothing, she was reminded, and Casoban was a place where, it would seem, pilots needed a closetful.

She wanted a dress like that. She wanted it so bad.

She wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about, not really. She understood the concept of theater but she'd obviously never seen any, especially not live. So instead of trying to follow what they were talking about, Quinn instead sat back and examined how they were talking about it.

Casoban was still so new to her, there were many things she didn't understand. But she definitely knew what it looked like when people met a celebrity. It reminded her of Tillie a little bit. Not as high energy—that would be hard—but new newly-named Claire had a bit of that same look in her eyes. When she dismissed herself, it was a good thing she didn't say anything to Quinn, because she quite frankly had no idea what she would say back to her.

Still, the image of her and Cyril talking together twinged something inside her. Maybe she should learn a little modiology so she could talk to Tillie better. That was an interesting idea. Tillie was proof that there were good modiologists too.

With Claire gone, Cyril spoke to her again, and she shook her head at the assertion he was rude before he continued and she cocked her head, as though she didn't totally understand and her mind needed a second to catch up.

"I..." The words caught in her throat a bit and she had to force them out: "I wouldn't really know. The only time I've been planetside for more than a few minutes since Hovvi—" her voice shook, nearly cracked, but held, and she silently congratulated herself, "—was during the duel, and then this one talk show that I had to leave in the middle of."

Glancing around to see if anybody was nearby and thankful that the hostess had brought them to tables that weren't so close to the rest in the restaurant, she lowered her voice a bit. Cyril was one thing, he was a fellow pilot, but if Casoban wanted to casually forget about the entire messy ordeal she'd caused, then she was in no hurry to remind them. "Not even all the people on the Aerie like me. Some are still mad about...you know, Roaki, all that stuff...because they thought I'd lost us you and doomed Runa."

She gave a sad little laugh and looked up at how the golden light of the tree holograms wove together under her head. "I don't think I'm very popular at all."

Amygdala Circuit

As she crunched into another piece of bruschetta, Quinn closed her eye and let Cyril's words wash over her and felt a leaden ball of tension in her stomach that she hadn't known she had disappear to be replaced with that sunny feeling of pride. Pride, because she'd saved people. Pride, because people felt safe with her around. And if they felt safer with her there, it meant she was finally starting to live up to the title Ablaze.

She shook her head, flicking the last of the bewilderment away. She didn't fully smile, not really; but a faint hint of one lingered around the edges of her lips.

Her voice was quiet as she replied, "Thank you."

And of course, that was the perfect time for the maître de to come back to the table, and for Quinn to realize with a cold shock down her spine that though she'd opened the menu, she'd read almost none of it, and now he was looking at her, because it was obviously her turn to order. Five minutes ago she might've shrank down and gave a tiny "sorry," but she was feeling much better, all told, and so she just gave him an apologetic look and rapidly flipped through the menu, trying to settle on something as fast as she could and beating down the anxiety that tried to get in the way. Seafood, pastas, meats, poultry—ah, that looked good. And fancy. It was her first time eating at an upscale place, she reasoned; she could get something nice.

"I think," she started, glancing up at him and suddenly very aware that she did in fact have an accent, "the, uh, guinea hen stuffed with fois gras and truffle?" She looked across the table at Cyril, almost as though to ask whether or not she made a good choice, but, well, the choice was made. All she could do now was see if she liked whatever foie gras was. "Si'l vous plait," she added, almost as an afterthought, hoping that she at least got the pronunciation right.

Amygdala Circuit

The first thought Quinn had when the woman saw them, screamed, and dropped her things was not uncertainty or excitement at being seen by the civilians that were even now gathering around the two of them. It was not fear on how people in the Ange would see her, how hostile they would be after the multiple international headaches Quinn had personally caused them. It wasn't in fact anything related to piloting or politics at all. Her first thought, superseding all of it, was: that sounded expensive. She winced sympathetically, before that one shriek morphed into another, then another, then a whole crowd of people surrounding them in a blur.

For just a heart-stopping moment when the crowd gathered and the shouting started, Quinn tensed up and—forgetting just for the briefeest moment where she was and who she was with—shied back, hiding behind Cyril like she usually did Dahlia, face writ with trepidation.

Then a moment later when she realized the shouts were encouraging and not disparaging, she realized what she'd done and returned the gap between the two to normal in time for Cyril to dart off to shake someone's hand, a flush coloring her face. After the fear and shock wore off, a different yet familiar expression came to her face, one she'd worn more than usual today: stunned bewilderment, as the crowd around her cheered her name. As if from a long way away, a voice echoed back through her head: Casoban might not like her because of her association with me, but...what would she ever have to gain from that? Didn't Casoban have a grudge on her because of the whole Roaki thing? Why were they cheering for her like she really was CSC and not just on loan?

It didn't make sense, she thought, lifting a hand towards the crowd in an almost dazed wave, hearing the excitement swell as she and Cyril continued walking around the periphery, in view of the fountain. Quinn found herself peering at it as they walked, trying to make out the details of its the elaborate carvings, such a far cry from the umbrella tree back on the Aerie. It was a bit too far away for Quinn to make it out in its entirety as much as she tried, but she resolved to go back and give it a proper examination after lunch. It looked gorgeous, even from this far away.

The crowd followed them—in a reduced state, of course—until they reached Lumière d’Or, Cyril shared a few words with the hostess, and they plunged inside. Quinn exhaled right along with Cyril, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath for almost a minute now, and placed a hand on her chest as it grew mercifully quiet. They wended their way through the luxurious interior, Quinn's eye wide as a full moon as she took in the sheer fanciness of the place. Never had she seen anything quite like this. Not in real life. The tree holograms held it the most, even distracting her from the people that watched them as they moved.

When they finally sat, Quinn let slip a relaxed sigh. The relief didn't last for long, however; before she even opened the menu, the was blindsided by a place setting the likes of which she'd never seen. Three plates. Three forks. Three spoons and three cups. Two knives. She blinked at it, reaching out a tentative hand and fiddling with them like they were going to bite her. So intent was she in her examination that when Cyril started talking again, she jumped and made a soft eep of alarm before smoothing herself down again. Following his example, she opened the menu, cracking a smile as he mentioned wanting to try everything. Maybe she'd follow his example; there were more restaurants on the Ange, she was sure, than she could even imagine.

When bread and "bruschetta" were brought to the table, she took a slice and nibbled on it as Cyril talked. A lot. She waited until he was finished before she swallowed the mouthful of bread, garlic and tomato and replied, embarrassed and pleased and uncomfortable at how much he seemed to think of her, and still in some variety of shock at how much people seemed to like her. So her reply was probably not exactly what he'd been looking for:

"The crowd out there, I, um...I thought Casoban hated me?"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn opened her mouth to answer it felt like a few times, but it was so hard to get a word in edgewise through Cyril and Sybil's conversation. Well...mostly through Cyril, really. And by the time there was a break in the conversation again, the older girl had gone.

Fine dining, huh?

"Well, I've...I haven't ever eaten anywhere fancy before or anything," she admitted, feeling almost embarrassed for a reason that she couldn't really understand. "The Aerie is a lot less..." she fumbled for the proper wording and came up empty, then gave a kind of helpless shrug, "Well, it's just less. So I don't really know how."

Quinn knew very little about formal dining; mostly just what she'd seen in movies and stuff back when she was living with her parents. Too many forks, more spoons than were needed...a blurry mess that she didn't know if she would ever understand, or if she really even wanted to. it just sounded so prescribed, and it really rubbed her the wrong way for some reason. She knew that she never would've done it back on the Aerie.

But at the same time, she'd...well, she wasn't on the Aerie, because the Aerie was the RISC base, and for the next few weeks, she was CSC. She blinked hard a few times, then breathed in a long, gentle breath. She needed to get used to this kind of thing, right? She was a pilot, after all. This wouldn't be the first time she needed to be fancy.

Plus, she was still pretty hungry.

"But if you don't mind too bad, then...yeah, I'll come. I haven't eaten all day."

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn's heart gave a painful squeeze at the mention of her mother, but she took one long, deep breath, and the pressure inside of her that always swelled when she thought about her family lowered. I am a pilot. They can't reach me ever again. If they're even alive. The urge to panic rose again, but once more, she mercilessly crushed it down to rest at a simmer, or perhaps even a low boil. But with some effort, she held the steam inside and crushed it down until it was just a painful lump of lead in her chest. They can never touch me again. There was a vague feeling from deep within her that suggested Quinnlash was helping to press it down too, but she wasn't totally sure.

She couldn't just run away from the memories for the rest of her life. So carefully, cautiously, she took the lid off the pot, and tried to remember.

"Um," she started, taking a pair of yellow hair ties from Cyril's hand and distractedly braiding it as she thought. It was nice; gave her something to do with her hands, so they weren't so obviously trembling. He was just so fast. It was hard for Quinn's words to catch up to his, especially when she was shoving everything down so hard. And shove them down hard she did. "I think my...my mom used to speak a little, here and there. I don't remember it very well, just a few things like merci, bonne nuit, s’il vous plait, that kind of thing."

She closed her eye briefly, biting the inside of her cheek until she could taste iron. Actively trying to remember was like peeling off the world's biggest, stickiest bandaid. Her voice was always kind of tense, but there was a tautness there now that hadn't been there before, and by the time she'd finished speaking she had to fight to keep a harsh stuttering tremble out of it. So she jumped at an opportunity to talk about anything else.

"Yeah, I wear it like this in the cockpit." She snapped the two elastics on at the end of the renewed, pristine braid to keep it in place and shook her head a few times to settle it. Her hands weren't even shaking anymore. "I drop it over the back of the chair and it's heavy enough that it doesn't come undone." Then, defying the heat that she could feel inevitably building behind her eye, a smile came to her face; a small, thin thing, but genuine despite the slight tremble. "You would not believe how much conditioner I go through."

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn blinked a few times at the hand that was thrust down at her, staring first at it, then at Cyril, an odd, almost apprehensive expression on her face. Another blink or two, though, and she shook her head, grabbing his hand and letting it pull her to her feet. So these were the two siblings that had been there, the ones that were whispering to each other. She looked between them. It was kind of hard to believe they were actually siblings. They just could not be more different. And she couldn't really liken them to anyone—maybe Cyril was a bit like Tillie? He seemed energetic and friendly, but she didn't really know what to make of Sybil.

She winced as her back suddenly popped; a few assorted aches and pains were reverberating through her, and she grimaced as she felt a particularly tender spot around her collarbone where she'd smacked into the padding extra hard maybe twenty or so attempts ago, and just continued aggravating it with each further attempt. That's going to bruise for sure.

Another moment of silence before she realized that she was being rude just staring at the two of them and jolted. "Oh! I'm—uh, sorry about that, it's been a bit of a long day. I'm, um, Quinnlash Loughvein—but you knew that already, I, um," she grappled with her words for a moment more before she finished with a quiet "You can call me Quinn." She reached back to stroke her braid nervously, then suddenly realized it was feeling...loose.

She looked down and behind herself, and her eye widened slightly when she realized her braid was already half undone. The elastic was gone. She must not have even noticed while she was bonking her face against the padding. It wasn't completely unplaited yet, but it was already starting to lower; she could feel it starting to brush along her thigh. This was not how she wanted to introduce herself to the station. Not bad, just awkward. A quick glance showed no trace of her hair tie on the mats.

She glanced back at the Derisas, with a kind of lopsided, hopeful half-smile. "Sorry, really, it's not much of an introduction. But do either of you see my elastic anywhere? Or, maybe have a spare?" Another one of those silent moments as she started over towards the course to look more thoroughly, trying her best to keep her hair in some semblance of order so it didn't fall all the way down to her knees, as well as keep her eye mostly turned to them. "It's, uh, nice to meet you! And sorry, again!"