Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

Besca tried to remember if the name was familiar to her at all, but she’d never been a particularly fashionable person. Life in RISC had reduced her wardrobe to a series of nearly-indistinguishable long-sleeved shirts and button-ups and dress pants, and now and then she still found herself donning a long coat out of habit from her days in the lab. Thinking about it, she hadn’t owned a purse since she was a teenager; these days anything she couldn’t keep on her phone she kept in her office, where she spent most of her time anyway.

Quinn had been like that for a while, or really, up until now. A lot of pilots tended to eschew fashion for comfort when they were station-side. Dahlia likely wouldn’t wear anything besides sweat pants and a tank top until it was her turn on the Ange, and she suspected the change would be grudging. But now Quinn had something different, something she couldn’t train in, and that had to be kept as far away from a pilot’s regime as possible for its own sake. It was…a relief. It was hopeful. Besca wanted her to have as many opportunities to wear that dress as she could.

She tried not to think of how few that might be. Not now.

As Quinn finished the tour of her room, Besca was surprised by the view. Not that she didn’t see one just like it every day, but there was something about having it in the room. She’d spent such a large chunk of her life in space now, the void didn’t intimidate her like it used to, and she thought she might find a window like that quite pleasant.

The camera flipped back around, and Besca met Quinn’s smile with her own. “You worked hard today huh? You’ve earned some rest in a room like that. Don’t feel bad about sleeping in a bit, too. I know things are less rigid there, you don’t have to prove anything, alright? Get good sleep, don’t forget to eat, and don’t push yourself too hard. Loan or not, the most important thing is that you’re okay. Okay?”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

The burden of their failure weighed heavy on Ionna’s back as she and Sara made their way to Stern Hill empty-handed. She could see it in the Fire Templar too, and found herself hoping, hypocritically, that the woman wouldn’t blame herself. Nadine had already been gone, and if she had truly been in that helicopter, what were Sara’s options? Blast it and the Scion out of the sky? If anything, Ionna had let them down. She was the Templar of Metal, and if she hadn’t been so hopeless when it came to magic, maybe she could have pulled it out of the sky.

But this wasn’t helping anyone—it certainly wasn’t helping Nadine. The best thing they could do was regroup and hope Dame Irina could organize some sort of rescue party.

Well, actually, that seemed to be about the worst thing they could do.

It seemed like they’d been there all of two seconds before Theobald marched over. The Scion of Fire didn’t look much worse for wear, but Ionna had expected as much; he was probably a more fearsome soldier than most of the Templars. She smiled, glad to see he and everyone else seemed to be in one piece, if not a bit shaken, and left to reunite with Dominka.

She heard the slap and whirled back around, having nearly mistaken it for gunfire. Theobald was already walking away, and Sara followed quietly behind. Ionna was dumbstruck, and deep inside her a tiny flame was incensed, but it was already too late to do anything as the lot of them were ushered onto the train.

Sitting beside Dom, Ionna spent the whole ride watching the Scion of Fire. He was cold. Deceptively inhuman. Her father’s warnings needled her, a mounting dread she couldn’t shake off. Had she been wrong? Was this really what he was? Surely Incepta saw more within him, but then again, her father had always said to trust her own eyes first—not out of sacrilege, she thought, but rather because blind faith was no faith at all. What some might see as a trial to endure, Ionna might see as a challenge to overcome.

So which was Theobald, trial or challenge? She was less sure than before.

Like many others, Ionna drifted through the introduction to their new abode in a daze that she didn’t shake off until the Templars were once again separated from their Scions. Looking around at the giant stained-glass windows, she was struck with a sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t they just done this? She supposed things were a bit more protected here, but still, trading one noble’s mansion for another didn’t sit right with her.

As the Templars entered the ballroom, she handed over her crystal. The attendant paused, glancing at her prosthetic, surprised that it hadn’t come off with the armor. Perhaps they expected she might hand it over as well. It got a snicker out of her.

“Sorry, disarmored, not disarmed,” she said with a wink, and proceeded into the ballroom with the others.

Part of her wanted to find Sara, commiserate, and tell the woman Nadine’s capture wasn’t her fault. But would that really help? Maybe it was better if she just gave her some space, and tried once things were a little less…raw. For now, she decided it was better to focus on quelling her own anxiety. She had a feeling a Dame Irina wasn’t going to be happy with them.

Amygdala Circuit

The whole world drifted away as Quinn spoke, even her voice, in a way. Besca was listening, intently, but at the same time, what she was saying suddenly became so much less important than the fact that she was saying anything at all. Of course, she was glad to hear that the other pilots—or at least some of them—were treating her kindly, and that she enjoyed the amenities the Ange offered; but when it came down to it, Besca would have listened to her read the dictionary for hours without complaining.

Suddenly, she seemed to remember something, and hurried away, leaving Besca with a view of a rather lofty ceiling. Eventually Quinn did return, whisking her away hand-in-screen to a luxurious bathroom that peered back out in the room proper.

Despite the anticipation, Besca couldn’t help but feel relieved again. That was a lot of space, but she was glad Quinn had it. She deserved nice things, things beyond what the Board determined she should have. It was nice to know her time spent there seemed to be, if nothing else, comfortable.

But all of that fled her mind the instant Quinn came back into view.

Besca let out a loud gasp, rocketing up out of her seat so fast it almost toppled over. “Oh my god!” she cried, her voice a thin rasp that still managed to peak the phone’s microphone.

That was a dress. A dress. A really, really nice dress—where had she gotten a dress like that? She supposed there was no shortage of high-end shops on the Ange, but, even considering that, had Quinn really bought it for herself? Besca couldn’t recall her spending money on anything before, she’d always seemed content with whatever the Aerie provided for free. Dahlia was much the same, and it had always rubbed her the wrong way. They were kids, kids were supposed to want things, and she could count on one hand the times either of them had expressed a desire for anything.

It took her a few long moments to realize she was staring, and that she should probably stop doing that.

“Quinn, oh my god,” she said, settling back down in her seat, almost like she was bracing herself. Her heart had nearly burst in her chest when Quinn twirled around, smiling wide as she’d ever seen. “It’s amazing, I can’t believe it. You look beautiful! I don’t—I didn’t think…where did you even get that? It looks like it was made for you. Oh my god, you look perfect.”

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn smiled and Besca felt like the Aerie’s gravity had lapsed. Seeing her, seeing that she was okay brought more relief than a full night’s sleep and breakfast in bed. It had only been a few hours but to her Quinn looked…different. Not better but, not worse either. Tired, absolutely, but surprisingly clear.

It still hurt that she was gone, and that she was obviously struggling. Casoban and Runa had been allies for so long now, their identities were similar in so many ways, but there was no avoiding the lethal combination of homesickness and culture shock. It wouldn’t go away any time soon, Besca knew that much first-hand. Every morning would be weird, and every moment could turn alien without warning. This was only the start, and it would only get tougher.

But, she was smiling.

That was good enough for now.

With a rattled laugh, she leaned back in her chair. “Happy to see you too, hun’. So happy. How are you? How was…well, everything? Are you okay? Did you eat? Did anyone give you trouble?”

God, she should have written a list. She had things to run by Toussaint but for some reason, she hadn’t prepared for the calls that she herself had requested. Oh well, all that really mattered was that she could see her, hear her, and talk to her. At least for a little while.

Amygdala Circuit

It had been one hell of a week. Or day. By the time she finally found a moment to sit down, Besca could hardly tell. For the past few days she’d survived off of a combination of coffee and micro-naps, and while that had done a number on her blood pressure and mental acuity, it had at least kept her going. Today though, the worry had kept her eyes open and her stomach paradoxically empty and without an appetite.

She had been saying Quinn’s name all day to people who only cared about how it looked on a document. No one had asked what she was doing, how she was doing—beyond one asshole prodding about why they didn’t have her client-side medical update yet, and indignantly huffing when Besca explained they couldn’t shove her into the doctor’s office first thing.

Talking with her own Board about pilots was always a grating exercise in retaining her humanity, but hearing this conference call of diplomats and think-tank’s discuss them like spare parts for a car was infuriating. What worked, what didn’t, what needed tuning, what needed replacing. More than once she heard nameless, faceless accountants and lawyers and theorymen bemoan a pilot’s poor performance, and suggest in the most abstract and legalese way that they be replaced as soon as possible.

Toussaint, for his part, vehemently shut down any suggestions towards pruning his own team. Eyes turned instead to the lesser cogs in the Savior Corps machine, the technicians, the low-ranking officials. People who could be removed without fuss. Besca was disheartened by how little she cared by then.

Now it was midnight, and she had another call in…soon. She didn’t know—someone would alert her. Her dinner, a microwaved bowl of pasta, was now cold and mostly untouched as she sat at her desk, head in her hands, and prayed that a vessel in her brain would suddenly pop and bring the nightmare to an end.

Then, her phone rang.

It had been a while since she’d had to quick-draw, she wasn’t sure how good her reflexes still were. But she had that phone up to her ear before the first ring had finished.

“Quinn?” she said, or would have, but there was sobbing in her ears immediately, and the word withered in her throat. She didn’t understand what Quinn meant, but she rarely did in times like this. When she was upset, sometimes she didn’t make much sense, and it was more a task of dissecting the feeling in her words than the words themselves.

Not a particularly difficult task, to be fair. Besca figured Quinn was feeling thereabouts exactly what she was, with an extra dash of homesickness, and a different kind of loneliness.

“I’m here, hun’,” she said, winding the frayed nerves up tight. “Breathe, okay? Breathe for me. Just like we practiced.” she took a deep, exaggerated breath to demonstrate. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay. Toussaint tells me the day’s over—you did it. You made it.”

Amygdala Circuit

Under the fluorescent lights and drumming of the overhead fans, time passed quickly. She was free of the crowds, of all company in fact. Neither the twins nor her nebulous third squad mate joined her, and so she was left to train alone, in the quiet. The gym was rather spacious for a single person, with a wide array of machines and free weights, with a wall of accessories ranging from exercise balls to jump ropes and elastic pulls. Whatever routine she had organized over her time on the Aerie could be readily mimicked and perhaps even improved here.

Getting herself acquainted took time, and when all was said and done, the clock read close to midnight. There wasn’t much of a way to tell, otherwise. It was much the same on the Aerie, but here, the massive windows lining the hall, letting in the light-touched void, could be disorienting. Illun floated below, half sunned and half shadowed, but up here time was almost entirely artificial.

A soft ding sounded from speakers in the ceiling. An automated woman’s voice followed.

Curfew is now in effect. Non-pilot personnel please exit the floor.

Though, there were no other personnel on the floor. Were there? Perhaps the message was simply automated. Then, behind her, the door to the auto-walkway opened and out walked Sybil, along with two or three crew members carrying what seemed to be empty boxes of art supplies. Maybe the system did know.

Either way, she made it back to her room without incident, and as the door sealed shut behind her, Quinn stood once more in the vastness of her own living space. She had, officially, finished her first day as Quinnlash Loughvein, pilot of the Casobani Savior Corps.

Twenty more to go. For now.

Amygdala Circuit

“Miss Loughvein,” Madam Dague said, handing Quinn a bag from behind the counter. “I would be insulted if you didn’t.”

It didn’t take long for her to get everything packed up, finished by the time the clerk was finished ringing up her dress. It was that easy. A simple swipe and now, the beautiful thing was her beautiful thing. Of course, that simplicity crumbled under more than a moment’s scrutiny; she had plenty of money, yes, but why?

From a certain perspective it had come rather easily. Pilots didn’t often work tirelessly throughout the day, collapsing sore and thankless in the early hours of the morning only to wake up exhausted to do it all over again. There were hordes of people in Illun who likely assumed this was Quinn’s life. Strolling through the most exclusive places in and out of the world, spending exorbitant amounts of cash on a spontaneous shopping sprees and skipping year-long waitlists on a whim for food she wouldn’t finish. Some would deride the lifestyle as detached and wasteful, others would envy it. A few might even envy the parts that afforded her these privileges.

The truth was, plenty of pilots never got to spend the money they made. How much capital did RISC make funneling Safie and Ghaust’s accounts back into their coffers? What had the CSC done with the windfall of Chateau’s demise? Or the pilots Roaki had killed?

Was Quinn’s bank account really a boon? Or was it a grim reminder, a taunt: ‘Even if you never make another cent, you’ll probably be dead before you dent it.’

She left the boutique behind, dress donned, bag in hand, and made a quick turn back for the lift. This time there was no inconspicuous shuffling or ducking of the head or stuffing of the braid to hide behind, and a crowd formed quickly behind her. As before, no one came up close, but several people called out, cheered, some waved small posters of Ablaze. One woman wore a shirt with a cartoonish rendition of Quinn herself on it, braid flowing, with a miniature of her Savior’s cannon hefted onto her shoulder. There were likely a few gift shops scattered throughout the district that would soon sell similar merchandise.

When the lift doors shut, the quiet returned. In the dim metal, Quinn could see a hazy reflection of herself. The silhouette was…unfamiliar, to be sure, even without the details. Who was this shape with her name? Would the girl who had ventured so apprehensively from that room in Hovvi recognize her now? Perhaps she could simply ask.

Before she could though, that reflection split as the doors opened once again, and she returned to the beige silence of the dorms.

Amygdala Circuit

It had been a fraught morning on the Aerie since Quinn had left. Besca had spent just about every minute on the bridge, juggling seven conference calls, a dozen email chains, an IM thread with the marketing department, and a handful of unread texts from Toussaint that didn’t have the word “Quinn” in their preview. It had been suggested to her by the Board that she have a cot moved into her office, because she was at no time to be more than a room away from absolute availability.

So, Dahlia had done all of her worrying alone. As small as the RISC team had become since Hovvi, with Quinn here, she’d never actually felt lonely. Stressed, exhausted, anxious, and almost every other flavor of misery, but never lonely. Early into their friendship, she’d come to feel the same sort of constancy with Safie, and to a lesser extent, Ghaust and Lucis, who, even if they weren’t exactly friends, were still always around.

Now all Dahlia could do was lay on the couch in the dorms, too worried to force herself into a sim pod, or cook lunch, or watch TV out of fear that the news might suddenly alert her that the Ange had exploded, or seven-hundred singularities were opening up in Casoban and they were chucking Ablaze down alone.

The reality was less extreme, but that didn’t settle her any. Quinn was probably a wreck, she thought. Utterly lost in a strange place, without a single friendly face for thousands of miles in any direction. What if she had another episode? Who would she turn to? It wouldn’t matter to the CSC how loud she screamed or how hard she cried, they’d perched their whole treaty on her back and she was theirs for two weeks, six days, and however many hours. Too many. What if they made her duel? They had to know it wouldn’t work. Would they care? Wild conspiracies flooded her head, of plots to ruin Quinn’s reputation, and RISC’s image, to drive Casoban back into Eusero’s arms. People thought so much of pilots, but the truth was, sometimes, they really were nothing more than political pawns.

Her doom spiral was interrupted by a ding; a special ding—the one assigned to Quinn. She blinked, looked at the screen, and sure enough she saw Quinn’s name on the message. She stared. For many moments she just stared.

Then she was vertical on the couch, then on her stomach again to snatch her phone off the ground, then vertical again with a loud shriek of disbelief. The message was in all capitals, and her fears worked ahead of her eyes, warning her that something had gone wrong. She was hurt. She was scared. She was being attacked by something. Something awful something horrifying something—

Expensive.

Dahlia paused, and finally took a second to read. How much did she make? 6500 dollars? Confusing—more than confusing, baffling. Thankfully, there was a picture attached to give her the context she needed.

She screamed.

A door flung open and out flopped the irascible form of Roaki. “God what the fuck are you screaming about!”

Dahlia was reminded that she only wished she was alone. “Shut up!” she snapped. “Shut up Quinn texted me!”

“Nuh-uh!” the girl spat, hopping over to the foot of the couch, and clambering onto the cushions. “What’d she say? Is she crying? I bet she’s already crying a bunch.”

“She’s buying a dress shut up!”

Roaki face twisted with contempt and confusion. “A dress? Lemme see!”

Dahlia ignored her, typing furiously. A smile, both of relief and pure, unbridled elation, began to spread across her face. Quinn wasn’t hurt. She wasn’t in danger—at least not yet. She was…she was shopping. Besca wasn’t going to believe it.

Her reply was sent: You make plenty PLEASE buy the dress you look gorgeous!

For a while she just stood there, staring down at the picture of her sister, looking anxious in a dress that, frankly, seemed worth every cent of the price. But it could have been made out of burlap and rat fur and she’d still have urged her to buy it. Dahlia couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light. Like a feather, or a balloon.

Or like she was falling.

She was falling. Roaki had knocked her over and sent her tumbling onto the carpet, snatching the phone from the air as she fell. A devilish giggle filled the air, followed promptly by Dahlia’s own furious shouting.

Shortly, a second text followed the first.

DERSS NOT GOOD HOW U GONA FIHGT IN A BLANKET BUY SUM KNIFES INSTEAD DUMB DEADGIRL

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Panic welled within her as Dom’s cry cut short. Ionna zeroed in, dashing low across tabletops as she watched two armored assailants close in on her Scion. Alas, even at a hopping sprint she was too slow—but someone else was much quicker. Shadows fell upon one of the assailants, and shortly after, the second fell to a similar assault. Quick, gruesome work. The umbral figures of His Holiness Mirandola and Sir Chaudoir drew in close to Dom.

A smile flicked through her. She’d had a good feeling about those two, it was nice to see it proven right. That relief was short-lived however as a loud, almost mechanical whine nearly sent her tumbling to the ground. Her prosthetic arm went slack for a moment, and it took a conscious effort to wend her mana back through it, like slipping a hand back into a glove. She squeezed the metal fingers, flexed the elbow; everything seemed in order again, but…

No time. She came to a sliding crouch on the table beside the trio, head on a swivel for more attackers.

“Glad you guys are okay!” she said. On the other end of the ballroom, reinforcements finally arrived, headed by the lady of the hour herself, Dame Irina. Ionna had almost forgotten what it felt like to be glad to see her.

Civilians were channeled out, and in her ear their mentor’s voice gave them clear commands. Get the Scions out, meet at Stern Hill. She scanned the crowd, mental tally ticking, and an anxious pit formed in her stomach. She chewed her lip, looking down at Kasper and Zacharie.

Incepta, this was gonna get her in trouble.

“Dom, go with them,” she said, taking the other gently woman by the shoulders. “Stay together and get to Stern Hill, I’ll meet you there.” Her attention turned then to the Scion of Shadow and his Templar. “We still don’t have eyes on Nadine or Ulysse. I’m gonna track them down and bring them to the rendezvous point. Stay low, stay safe, stick to the…uh…well, you know.”

With a final pat of assurance, Ionna left the trio behind and dove back into the ballroom. With the light pouring in from the main hall, things were much clearer. The assailants tangled with Irina’s reinforcements, and though Ionna would have loved to stop and lend a hand, her duty right now was to find the Lightning duo. Templars protect Scions. In all likelihood Nadine was evacuated already, and she and sir Jacinth were drinking tea at Stern Hill while the royal forces prepared to eradicate everyone that looked like a gaming laptop. But that feeling in her gut, looking out at the crowd. Every head accounted for but two.

No. One.

She came across the prince and his Templar, both in one piece, but the relief was short lived. At Lucas' feet she saw him splayed out on the ground in a pool of blood. Ulysse. Her throat clenched, she knew immediately it was too late to do anything for him but choke out a quiet apology. The mourning would have to wait. Ulysse was dead and Nadine was nowhere to be found—they had her. Ionna looked back towards the doors, brows furrowed. Irina would have stopped them if they’d taken her that way, which meant…

There wasn't time to stop. The prince looked rough, but Tyler was with him, which was more than could be said for the Scion of Lightning. She found the broken window closest to Ulysse’s body and vaulted through it, shaking off glass and dust as her feet hit the ground. Her eyes scanned the dirt, searching for footprints, or blood, any kind of trail the moonlight might reveal.

“Lady Lucienne!” she shouted into the night, starting off away from the manor. Even if the Scion couldn’t respond, if she could only hear that someone was looking for her, it might be enough. “Nadine!”

---

@Scribe of Thoth@Olive Fontaine@Abstract Proxy

Amygdala Circuit

Dague was waiting outside, hand on her hip, foot tapping with anticipation. When Quinn emerged, however, she did not explode with screams of wonder or applause, nor did she bounce with delight or faint from joy. Instead, her tight-lipped smile widened just a bit, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and she let out a satisfied breath through her nose.

“Hm,” she said simply, and for a moment left it at that. Her eyes scanned Quinn’s form, traced the designs and how they wrapped around her, how the hem was high enough not to drag on the ground. She came over and adjusted her braid, then stepped back and appraised her again.

Only, it wasn’t just her she was judging. It was the dress, too. The craftsmanship. If it didn’t look good, who was that more of an indictment on? For someone of Madam Dague’s history, there could only ever be one to blame: herself.

Thankfully, however.

“Yes,” she finally said, and her smile grew just a bit more. “Yes, I believe you look quite wonderful. I would frame this moment, but I think you’ll do quite enough marketing for me, looking like that.”

She snapped her fingers, and the clerk poked her head out from the front. “Madam?”

“Ring it up. I don’t think there’s a force on Illun that could stop either of us from ensuring she leaves with that dress.”