Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

As Quinn made her choice, Dague smiled self-assuredly, like she’d predicted the decision. It was the right size and everything, and whether that was a matter of professional preparation, or inexplicable precognition would likely remain unknown forever.

“Well someone should,” she answered. “And black isn’t my color. This way.”

She led Quinn to the back with the same gentle yet insistent hand. The clerk came back out, still wide-eyed and fidgety.

“Madam, should I bring those in?”

“No. Switch them out with the mauve and aquamarine. I have a feeling tastes will be shifting soon.”

The back of the shop was not much bigger than the front, with a door leading into what might have been the workshop shut tightly, and another leading to dressing room with a long, heavy curtain for a door. Dague slid it open to reveal a there was a full-mirror and a dressing hooks on the walls.

“There’s a single zip in the back, designed for you to be able to do up yourself. In you go!”

Amygdala Circuit

Dague didn’t seem surprised when Quinn said she’d never owned a formal dress. In fact, the only thing she seemed to hear at all was the note about her eye, at which point her demeanor changed entirely. She swiveled in front of Quinn, hunched, and stared deeply into that eye for what might have been the world’s longest moment.

“Gold,” she said, then she straightened and shuffled over to the front desk. “Methods change with the clients. Before I moved to Vienci, everything I made was by the mold—ah, there we are…” Producing a small glass wheel, she gave it a shake, and a screen on its front face blinked to life, upon which were slivers of just about every color Quinn could imagine, all arranged in a gradient order. She came back over and held the wheel up next to Quinn’s eye, where it spun until the selector came to rest on the exact matching hue.

“Simple, but cheap, and dreadfully boring. I didn’t even know if I’d enjoy dressmaking until someone asked me for something ridiculous. Nowadays I tend to find a client’s fame is inversely proportional to their sense of fashion.” She paused, looked Quinn up and down, and giggled. “Not meant as an insult, of course. I prefer it, honestly. If everyone who walked in here knew exactly what they wanted, I might as well be back to using a mold.”

Twirling the wheel on her finger, she b-lined for the rack of last-season’s dresses and began to rifle through them. Odd. One would have thought the goal would have been to throw the highest-priced product at her and call it a day, but Dague pulled at least three dresses off the rack, held them up to the wheel, and then looked back at Quinn. They were all stunning, at least to an inexperienced eye, but in the end she settled for nothing.

“Old for a reason,” she muttered, as she made for the other wall. “Gold is good. Yes. But not too much. Too much, and you’ll look like a butterscotch popsicle, or a honey statue, or a bumblebee—oh! Oh, yes, that could work.”

On the move again, she disappeared into the back, where there was more muted conversation, some rummaging, and at last she returned with three dresses in hand. One was white with embroidered gold vines climbing in a spiral up from the hem, all the way to the raised neck. The other two were black. One had a kaleidoscopic gold patterning along the ankle-height bottom and about the chest, where it cut off just below the collarbone. The last one had a close collar that went all the way up to the chin, like a pilot suit, and had no sleeves either, but the gold patterning rose up from the base like inverted rain, leaving haphazard trails of golden droplets leading all the way up.

“These were going to go up in a few weeks. They’re current-season, but pastel is in vogue right now—imagine why—so I was going to hold off on the darker selections. But…” She set the dresses on hooks in the wall and stepped back so she could see them and Quinn together. “Yes, much stronger this way. Tell me, do any of these catch your eye?”

Amygdala Circuit

The Miséricorde was a smaller boutique compared to some of the other stores on the Ange, but up here, real estate was at a premium. For a clothing store to secure a spot, it would need fame equal to its quality. Though Quinn might not have had the experience to know better, from the price tags to the décor, to say nothing of the dresses themselves, it would have been a safe assumption to say this place had both.

The aisles she navigated were narrow and relegated to the corner of the left side. These prices were less egregious, but the clothes themselves hardly seemed any cheaper in make. They were, however, denoted as last-season. The dresses adorning mannequins or hung behind glass displays were marked as current, and some were easily triple the price of those on the rack.

The clerk didn’t notice Quinn at first, being so consumed in her tidying. She was younger, dressed fashionably but not in a recent piece. She didn’t react at first, so focused on adjusting the dress that her tongue stuck out of her mouth. When that was done, she stood upright.

“Consultations need to be booked in advance,” she began, only just prying her eyes away to look at her. “But we offer a surcharge on all—uhhhhhhhhhh…”

She stared at Quinn like that, slack jawed and droning, for more than a few moments, before finding the mental wherewithal to close her mouth and swallow her shock. She made to speak once, stopped, then tried again, stopped, and finally said; “One moment, miss,” before breaking into a sprint behind the counter, vanishing into the backrooms of the store.

There was barely-muted and urgent whispering, followed by a full on shout of “WHAT?” before, moments later, a new figure emerged into the front.

She was an older woman, whose hair was fluffed up and styled high, a tide of gray rising on oaken shores. She herself wore a dress that might have been plucked right off the display, an absolutely radioactive pink number melded with highlights of cream and navy blue. It bulbed at the shoulders, beneath which she wore white arm covers bearing a golden floral filigree pattern that wound down all the way around her fingers. Sharp green eyes beneath long lashes, over a pointed nose and cherry-lipstick pulled into a petite smile. She studied Quinn like one of the dresses on the wall.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said, the Casobani formality in her voice strained with excitement. “The Runan hero, in my shop.”

She approached with a gait so perfect her head stayed level, then bowed in a perfect curtsy before offering out her hand. “Madam Dague. I’m told, Miss Loughvein, that you would like a dress.”

Dague gave a proud flourish towards her wall, and with a gentle but unyielding hand, brought Quinn with her. “Then let us not waste time. We must start with taste, oui? Be broad, if you must. What designs, what colors, what styles—what strikes the eye of a pilot?”

Amygdala Circuit

As Quinn went on about the virtues of the Dane pilot, Cyril could only shrug and nod along. There really wasn’t much information about her floating around, at least not that the public, or even a pilot, could access.

“Cheer is lovely,” he said eventually, taking another bite and waggling his fork. “But piloting, at least, I mean, the auditioning part, really isn’t so different from the stage. You see a lot of cheer upfront. Lot of smiling, and laughing, and bowing. You’ve seen Ms. Dane perform, but I wonder what she’s like backstage that’s got her so squirreled away. Then again, she’s Euseran—maybe she just doesn’t kick enough puppies for their tastes.”

Between the modest portion and evidently delicious taste, he made short work of the rest of his meal, and poured himself a half-glass of wine to finish things off. He seemed surprised when she asked to spar, though not unpleasantly.

“Wouldn’t that be a lovely change of pace? Believe me, I’d take training with you over Camille any day. Well, tomorrow-day, specifically. I’ve got an interview this evening, and rehearsal after. Hit me up tomorrow afternoon, say? I’ll go a few rounds with you, ring or sim, I’m eager to learn either way!”

As things wound down, the waiter came back to collect their plates. There was brief hesitation to take Quinn’s, with almost half of the main course remaining, but Cyril waved them off and they brought it with them. No bill was given, though Cyril left a tip that might have been the whole cost. They weren’t followed on their way out, but they were watched, and Cyril waved farewell to the young woman who had spoken to him earlier.

Outside, the citizenry had mostly returned to their business. It seemed that had some time before they were rediscovered. Cyril stretched and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Well that was wonderful, thank you so much! I’ve always thought sharing a meal was the best way to meet someone.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the time. “Ah, I’ve got a stylist appointment here in a few. If I don’t see you later tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow! Ta!”

And with a final, friendly waggle of the fingers, Cyril spun on his heels and walked off. It didn’t take long for someone to notice him further down, and within moments a smaller mob was starting to form in his wake. Quinn had been spared, for now, but who knew how much longer her anonymity would last.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

It wasn’t a great start, having her hand crushed in the soldier-Scion’s grip, but she wouldn’t have survived the embarrassment of wincing or pulling away or, Incepta-forbid, saying ow. So she grinned and bore it, and a good thing too. Theobald didn’t soften in the slightest, he had a face carved from stone that she guessed only cracked with emotions like rage, or gleeful bloodlust. Dragomir had been the same way for most of her life; maybe it was a hollowing, or pride, or perhaps it was just the way of soldiers.

But she didn’t miss the honesty in his answer, or the miniscule lilt in his words. “What do you think would be easier? Teaching a solider to dance, or a dancer to fight?”

She didn’t expect an answer, really, and when he asked after her stunt at the ceremony, she couldn’t help preening just a bit. “Oh, super, yeah. Everyone’s so nice! I mean, everyone I met, anyway. Guess I’ve gotta bake up another excuse to touch base with the rest, huh? Oh speaking of, do you like—”

Ionna blinked. Her skin prickled like she was standing next to a cold window, and for a moment she swore her vision tinted blue. Arcane instinct pulled her head, and then her attention, towards the Scion of Time as he steadied himself against the wall. Worry struck her, then confusion. Her father had a saying about coincidences—there weren’t any—but she didn’t have the expertise to put together why she thought the prince was connected to her little…glitch. Anyway, he was off in a huff moments later, and Ionna realized she had rudely left her conversation with Theobald mid-sentence.

“Sorry,” she said, snapping her focus back to the former commander. “But, yeah—cookies. So are you more of a snickerdoodle man, or—?”

The lights flickered, and this time it wasn’t a trick of the mind. That was weird, right? A place like this might have been important enough to have its own grid, or at least layers of contingencies to keep the power steady. But they flickered again, and again, and just as she made to remark on it, they went out altogether.

She got another, different chill then. When the windows shattered, hers was among the first screams of surprise—she’d never been any good with horror. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, watching from under a blanket. The panic made her acutely alert, which was good because otherwise she might not have seen the figure rushing her with a blade. She slapped their hand on a reflex, sending the weapon clattering to the ground, and for a moment just stood there, staring. The figure reached for a backup on their belt.

“Now, hold on. You wait a second, mister.”

Manalight burst to life along the blade’s edge, and they swung again for Ionna’s head. Time wasn’t her domain, but all the same, she felt it slow for her now as it often did in her duels. No time to deploy her own blade, and dodging now might put Theobald in the way, or put her in worse positioning. Like with most things, she chose to trust her gut first, and then figure out why later. Her arm came up—her real arm—to block the blade’s path, and before she could lament her own idiocy, she remembered that her armor was manawoven. With as much thought as one gave to their own heartbeat, she channeled mana from not only her armor, but also her own pool, into her gauntlet just as the blade hit—and stuck.

An inch of edge dug into the arcane metal, but stopped there. She took a strong stance, pushed to keep the rest of the blade away from her face, and then wrenched her arm aside, tearing the sword from the assailant’s hand for the second time. Despite the mask, she thought she could see the bafflement on his face, briefly, before she slammed her metal hand into it. The material cracked, the lights in the eyeholes buzzed out, and he fell to the ground groaning.

“Stay down, please!” she snapped, as her focus redistributed her mana and her armor reformed. The mana blade fizzled out and fell to the ground.

There wasn’t time to gloat, more figures approached, and a terrible worry gripped her. Dom. Ionna scanned the dark in vain, but it was useless. Rosemary’s light didn’t reach the whole ballroom, and everything else was a mass of shadowy panic. She cast a glance back at Theobald, and the attackers approaching them, and grit her teeth.

He was a fighter, Dom was a dancer. Dragomir would call it triage, but Ionna still felt guilty leaving him on his own. She slipped back towards the old soldier, metal arm snatching one of the figures by the neck. With more strength than befit her, she hefted them up into the air, then slammed them onto their back. They shouted, writhed, but didn’t get back up.

“I have to find Dom!” she shouted to Theobald. She hoped he would understand.

Ionna left him then, dashing towards the ballroom’s bulk. She leapt up onto one of the tables, hoping the higher vantage would help her spot her Scion.

“Dom!” she shouted into the dark. “Dom where are you!”

---

@Xiro Zean@Abstract Proxy

Amygdala Circuit

Cyril listened intently, even having stopped eating while she answered. He seemed like a student cramming the day before a test, and though he had no paper in front of him, Quinn could assume he’d taken thorough notes in his brain, even though she’d said little.

“Sims, hm? I see…” he said, though there was a brief yet unmistakable flash of disappointment to it, smoothed over immediately with another smile as he went on eating. “You must put in quite the hours to fight like you do.”

When she changed the subject to Axan, he cocked a brow. Perhaps it was her naiveté again, reared whenever any matter of politics arose. Cyril didn’t regard her with frustration, or sneering amusement. More like inquisitive camaraderie, like coworkers gossiping around the water cooler.

“What I wouldn’t give to know! She’s a real enigma on the pilot stage, hardly anyone outside of the ESC gets to meet her. She doesn’t interview, she doesn’t attend official appearances, she doesn’t even duel. Or hasn’t in years, anyway. The only time anyone ever sees Firebrand is for singularities and there’s barely any coverage. President Dane’s gotten so good at side stepping questions about her, most everyone’s stopped asking. It’s bizarre, honestly, you’d think they were embarrassed of her. She doesn’t even have any merchandise—at least nothing branded. Can you believe that? Eusero leaving profits on the table.”

Amygdala Circuit

“Oh, don’t be silly! You have to try pretty hard to be an unpopular pilot, at least in your own country. The circles in that Venn diagram, they’re so far apart they can’t even see each other.” He polished off his glass, then set it aside, evidently thinking better of pouring another. “Didn’t—yeah—Runa had a pilot from Helburke. Ghaust, I remember seeing interviews with him. No offense, but he wasn’t particularly personable, and he was even popular here. You, I mean, you’re a home-grown hero. There are probably pilots in Eusero who would kill to have your publicity.

“In fact, the only pilot I can think of who isn’t popular is that Dane lady, the president’s sister. They don’t even interview her over there. You’re a long way from that, especially now.”

The waiter returned, plates in hand, and set them down on the table. He lifted the covers, and amid the steam came the smell of cooked fowl and seasoned potatoes, fresh and hot and cooked to perfection. Cyril took a deep breath from his own plate, face splitting in a wide, toothy grin.

“Smells delicious.”

The waiter nodded, and quickly left them alone. Cyril wasted no time; he cut right into his veal and popped a forkful into his mouth. His eyes lit up then squeezed happily shut, he seemed to be restraining himself from shimmying in his seat.

“Every time,” he said quietly, satisfied. But despite how engrossed he seemed in his meal, his eyes found Quinn again shortly. In between bites, he kept the conversation going. “So, as your junior, I hope you won’t mind me asking—how long did it take for you to get used to it? Piloting, I mean. You make it look so natural, was it always like that for you?”

Amygdala Circuit

The maître de bowed politely and left them, passing by the counter where the rest of the wait staff seemed to linger with their new orders and instead disappearing directly through a pair of ornate doors leading to the kitchen. Despite nearly every table being occupied, it was a safe assumption that their meals would not take long.

Cyril hardly touched any more of the appetizers, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. He would have had to choose then between talking and eating.

“So did you do much shooting, before this?” he asked, swirling his wine like it was a decoration and not a drink. “Piloting, I mean. I’ve heard that pilots who get firearm weapons sometimes find themselves spontaneously possessing an uncanny sort of accuracy. I know the cannon creates quite a generous impact but, well, you still hit a lot of your shots. I’m a little envious, really—the only swordplay I know comes from stage-fighting, and that’s done nothing for me in the cockpit. I’ve had to take fencing lessons from Camille, and…eugh,” he pulled a face, set his drink down. “Talk about brutal. Guess it paid off well enough, though, the other day. It’s just wild how naturally it seems to come for some.”

Before Quinn could answer, they were joined by a young woman. Like everyone else present, she was dressed impeccably, wearing a gown of black and gold that made her look like she was attending her own red-carpet event. But the look on her face was not one of a star, but rather starstruck.

“Master Cyril,” she said, voice a bit shaky through her smile. “I—”

“Claire!” he beamed, blinking at the shock that struck her. “Claire, right? From the ‘Lucre’ premier? You were at the signing backstage. Oh please tell me I’m right, I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“No! No—I mean, you’re right, I just…you remember me?”

“Bien sûr! How could I forget such a lovely face?”

That face flushed a deep red even for the low light. She took a moment to recompose herself, and when her eyes darted to Quinn it seemed to send her right back to the start. Cyril leaned in, smiling up at her expectantly. When she did finally find her bearings, she went on in great length about how much she was by his performance in some recent production or another. She spoke with the insight of someone well-versed in theatre, not just as a member of the audience, but also as a member of the stage.

Cyril listened intently, smiling and nodding and politely rebuffing compliments here and there. Eventually she thanked him for the time, and he thanked her for the praise, and before she left she lingered a moment longer as if she meant to say something to Quinn as well, but suddenly seemed to decide against it. Shyly, she bowed her head, thanked them both again, and shuffled off back to her table across the restaurant.

“Ah,” Cyril said once they were alone again. “Sorry, I hope you didn’t think that was rude of me, I have a hard time turning people away. I’m sure you know all about that, though. You must be the most popular girl in Runa—well, you and Miss St. Senn, I mean.”

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn’s question caught Cyril mid-sip, and startled him so much that he nearly ruined the white silken tablecloth with wine. Thankfully he managed to swallow with only a dignified cough, but the surprise remained blatant on his face, starkened by the candlelight.

“Hate you?” he said, with as much emphasis as a private-tone could contain. “Why would you think—”

Then he paused, and it might seem to Quinn like his thoughts had caught up with her own. She had humiliated Casoban in their duel with Helburke, it had cleaved a rift into their union with Runa so deep it was nearly severed completely. There had been news stories aplenty calling her character into question, her allegiances, her motives. How could he be surprised?

But then he giggled again, much less restrained. “Quinnlash,” he said. “The other day, RISC stopped the Modir from turning Casoban into a Westwel encore. We watched you, specifically, fight off half a dozen of them—with, as you mentioned, a little help. But all the same, Quinnlash Loughvein and Dahlia St. Senn saved Casoban just as much as anyone in the CSC. I’m sure the news outlets in our homes will assign the weight of that accomplishment differently, but that’s just politics. Boring. What matters is what the people think, how they see you. And they saw you.”

He leaned in on his elbows, peering at her over his glasses. “If you ask me, I think this day, literally today—you stepping onto the Ange, Ablaze in our hangar—I think this is the safest anyone in Casoban has felt for a long, long time.”

The maître de returned then, notepad in hand. He didn’t need to say anything, just smiled and waited as Cyril gave one last glance through the menu as a formality.

“Oh, alright, you know what? I think this is a special enough occasion to jump the line down to one I’ve been waiting for. The veal osso buco, s’il vous plait.”

The man scratched his order down, took the menu, then gave the same expectant smile to Quinn.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

The ceremony was quite lovely, Ionna thought. She wasn’t the most devoutly religious person, per se, but it wasn’t like there was much to debate when it came to the mother. How often was faith anchored in undeniable fact? In a way, it seemed odd to her to call it faith at all; proof of the Mother’s power was evident in their lives every day, and for some, that power was their life, forever.

She supposed her only conflict came in the labeling of that power as a blessing. Her father was a cynic, he had few nice things to say about Scionhood—at least in private—and rarely regarded it with the appropriate level of social reverence besides. But Ionna admired the saints. She found them to be profoundly human, and in each one she found both virtues and warnings. Rosaria Lima blessed wealth with one hand, and unrequited love with another. Saint Durand had his scholarly gifts, but was also quite fond of the drink. And the holy lady Auriel, a figurehead in her own home nation, a symbol of stalwart power—and also the patron of dutiful wives? They all had flaws, but they also had much to teach.

That was how she viewed Scionhood; as a test. Not of strength, or piety, but rather of humanity. Could someone wield so much power without losing touch? The Church seemed wary, and perhaps rightfully so. Ionna, for now, was only curious. Some seemed perfectly capable, while others justified her father’s views.

How would Prince Lucas fare, she wondered. At least for Sir Tyler’s sake, she hoped he did well. The poor guy seemed utterly wrung out. Seeing them together at the after party did little to assuage her worries for him—for both of them.

But there was so much going on, she didn’t worry for long. Ionna hadn’t doffed her armor yet, she was much too excited for that, though she had reeled back the crown and helmet. As well, the transformation was halted at her right shoulder. She’d threaded the crystal’s mana into her prosthetic’s anchor, which felt delightfully seamless, and made controlling the armor quite easy. She spent several moments materializing and dematerializing her cloak, rolling and unrolling it almost like a rug. Blessedly, Dame Irina was not present to scold her for it.

Or maybe she was. The manor was massive, after all. Ionna wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that all of Veradis was here, mingling, gossiping, drinking champagne out of fancy little cups. She held one herself for a few minutes, just to get a taste of that one-percent lifestyle, before setting it aside untouched. Her tolerance was laughably low, and the last thing she wanted to do was get drunk in front of a mansion full of Estoran nobility.

She’d given Dom space to mingle, but kept her in view. She hoped her Scion might open up a little, let some of her colleagues see how nice she was. It had taken her all of thirty seconds to find a kindred soul in Sir Zacharie, and she was sure even with her brief interactions that a few of the other Scions would absolutely love her. In the worst case, she would swoop back in and keep her company.

For the time being, however, Ionna set herself towards being social. Not at all a difficult task for her, usually, but with a party this size she felt a bit like a dog surrounded by tennis balls, too paralyzed with choice to snatch any of them. In the end, she decided to eschew the assembled nobility for the time being, and focus on meeting some of the people she’d failed to beforehand. Keen eyes scanned the crowd, and quickly locked on to the first familiar face they saw—

The Scion of Fire.

A flash of panic sparked alive inside her. Could she be blamed? The man was frightfully large and looked like he’d been grown in a lab with the express purpose of intimidating as many people as possible. Just looking at him, she thought, her father had good reason to be as wary as he was. Of all the Scions, with all of their mystical domains, Theobald Gaumond was perhaps the most dangerous. Or rather, he could be; Ionna rather believed he could go another way. Regardless, it would be impossible to tell from just standing there, watching.

“Your Holiness!” she greeted, swooping to his side with the swiftness and grace that might be unexpected of someone in armor. A testament to the artisanship of its smith, surely. “We didn’t get a chance to meet back during the ceremony. I’ve heard so much about you! Though I guess these days it’s getting hard to find people back home who don’t know your name, huh?”

She stuck out her hand—her real one, after disregarding a worry about how strong his grip would be—and offered a grand smile up at him. “I’m sure you get this a lot, but, it’s really an honor to work with you! Or, ah, I guess ‘around you’ is more accurate. Anyway, how’s the party treating you?”

---

@Xiro Zean