At Quinn’s approach, the twins perked up. Cyril grinned wide and bounced away from his sister, who remained seated against the wall. Like Cyril she was dressed for exercise, but she didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm, and in fact if it weren’t for the almost fixed look of detachment on her face, she might have appeared [i]anxious[/i]. 

“[color=caffbf]Hey![/color]” Cyril greeted, stretching on the mat while Quinn geared up. “[color=caffbf]Hope you don’t mind, but I invited Sybil to join us. We could both use the practice, and if it means a day off training with Camille…[/color]”

They shared a frightful look, and Cyril shook out his shoulders like he’d gotten a chill. 

“[color=caffbf][i]Hoo[/i]…Anyway! Are you alright to give us both a round or two? We can swap out, or take some breaks—whatever you want. We’re both just excited to see what you got![/color]”

“[color=55cbcd]Yeah…[/color]” Sybil muttered.

Cyril refastened his pads and got into place across from Quinn. Even with a mouth guard in, he managed to keep his smile on. He stopped bouncing, but that energy coiled within him like a spring. His stance was good, he seemed focused, but there wasn’t a trace of genuine aggression in his eyes. He probably looked out of place doing something like this, but then again, Quinn didn’t look much different to him. He wondered, briefly, how many pilots were naturals to violence. Surely some had to be, just watching them tear through the Modir, or even each other. But outside of the Saviors, how many looked like outliers?

He put up his hands, winked. “[color=caffbf]Ready when you are![/color]”