[IC] Amygdala Circuit

[Mcmolly]

Besca caught it early, like she’d glimpsed Quinn’s mind the moment before she broke, and grabbed hold of her. She felt the tears on her shoulder, saw the looks of the few brass and the Board’s dumbstruck representatives. They pulled out their phones, dialed with unmasked and quickly-growing panic. Part of her was glad—they were about to tell the Board exactly what she had tried to tell them before, that this was a mistake. Part of her wished she could stick around to hear the shrill screams from the speakers, too.

The rest of her wanted to get Quinn away.

“Come on, come on, let’s go. I got you,” she whispered, walking her hastily to the exit. They made it out just as the sobs started, and Quinn’s jellied legs nearly brought them both to the dirt. Dahlia came to her other side, helped how she could.

“It’s alright,” she tried, but must have realized how shaky her voice was, and went quiet.

They got back into the pavilion and all eyes whirled on them. Besca let Dahlia guide Quinn to the small, sectioned-off bunks as Toussaint came running over.

“What the hell happened? Is she okay?”

“No she isn’t okay!” Besca snapped. “She’s fighting a deathmatch tomorrow, and she only drew her weapon for the first time last week!”

A look of shock came over Toussaint’s face, and Besca found it absolutely enraging. “Don’t you dare. This is your fault, Jaime.”

“My fault?” he spat, incredulous. “You’re the one who insisted RISC couldn’t afford to pay restitutions for Magnifique! You’re the one who told me to find another way to keep our countries from splitting!”

“Which I expected you could do without getting duped by your own people! Or do you think Casoban plans to pass up on Eusero after we get trounced here? I’d think you did this on purpose if I didn’t know you were an idiot!”

Toussaint’s face screwed up in fury, but Besca only stepped closer.

“I want you to send a message to your PM, Jaime. I want you to tell him that if he gets what he wants, and Casoban partners with Eusero, and RISC leaves here without Quinnlash Loughvein, that we’re not allies anymore.” She leaned down, so close she could feel his breath shallow. “I want you to ask him if this deal is worth every Savior you’ve got—because I promise you Dahlia isn’t gonna be satisfied until she’s mulched every last one of them. And neither will I.”

---

---

Dahlia had squared Quinn, sitting with her on one of the bunks. She hugged the girl tightly, mind racing. She should have been like this—broken, sobbing, dreading the fact that she was about to lose Quinn to something so absurd.

But instead she was angry. Afraid, but also furious. Indignant. No, no she would not lose Quinn. She couldn’t. Besca had been so adamant about the consequences of interfering but faced with the alternative, she was prepared to cut down every pilot and Savior on Illun if it meant keeping her sister safe.

“Shh,” she whispered. “It’s okay. Quinn. It’s okay—I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Look at me,” she gently nudged the girl’s face up. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I’m not letting her kill you. I…I might have been too slow at Hovvi. I won’t be this time.”

[Lemons]

At length, Quinn's shuddering cries faded, and she released her deathgrip on Dahlia as she fell silent. Another minute or so passed. She remained still, unwilling to move. She felt...safe here. With her.

Then, still unmoving, "Dahlia..." Her voice was nearly inaudible; weak and weepy, it came out in a thin rasp. "...I ruined it, didn't I?" Of course she had. She'd lost control, said terrible things. She had been so angry. And so violent. Those thoughts, running through her head like a broken faucet, pure and potent as water. Fight. Fight. Kill. Kill. Kill. She didn't know which ones were Quinnlash's and which were her own, and it shook her to her core. Was that the kind of person she was, deep down? Violent and angry? What's wrong with me?

She shut her eyes tighter. Then, "Can I—"

The bunks were small, she'd seen them earlier, not to mention being on one right now. They were barely big enough for one person to lie on comfortably, realistically. And it felt absurd to even imagine asking it. Absurd. Stupid. Childish. But imagining herself lying there, in the dark, awake, alone—knowing what was about to come—agonizing over it—it was almost enough to draw a renewed flow of tears out of her. Instead she squeezed her sister tight again, clung to her, fighting desperately to keep the tears at bay.

"—can I sleep with you tonight?"

[Mcmolly]

Dahlia didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” she said, nodding into Quinn’s shoulder. “I’ll stay right here all night. And tomorrow, I’ll walk with you all the way to the Savior.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. She would stay with Quinn, she’d stay with her as long as she could, as close to the start of the duel as possible.

Then she was taking the elevator up to the Aerie, and she was getting into Dragon.

She couldn’t tell that to Quinn, though. She couldn’t tell it to anyone, not even Besca. Getting up there would an ordeal all on its own, as would talking her way into the cockpit. But she was determined now, and more with every passing second, that she was not going to let Roaki kill Quinn. She was not going to lose her sister.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she said. “Someone was awful to you—that’s not your fault. It isn’t. Everything she said to you, you just ignore it. Ignore it, because it was all nonsense. None of that is gonna happen—not to me, not to you.

“I won’t let it.”

---

---

Sleep came much more quickly to Quinn than she might have expected, as if it had been waiting for her. As soon as she shut her eye, it came for her, wrapped her in its gentle embrace, and then she sank.

The boat was still.

When Quinn opened her eye, the sky was dark, and this time the lake reflected the moon and not the sun. Its image was imperfect—a crescent where the one above was full—but a step closer to real than before. The water, however, was still pitch black.

Distantly, on the forested shore, she could see the umbral form of her Savior sat down, with its legs mostly submerged in the water. Beside it, the white, skull-faced deer lay resting.

“How dare she,” said Quinnlash, standing on the edge of the boat, peering angrily out at the water. There were no familiar shadows around. Tonight, it was just the two of them. “How dare she threaten us? Threaten our friends? A taker, Quinn, that’s what she is. A mangy dog, and a taker.

Quinnlash turned to her. For the briefest instant her hair seemed brighter, almost as white as the deer’s fur, but it must have been a trick of the moonlight, because in that same moment it was oaken again. She stared hard at Quinn, incensed—not at her, but incensed nonetheless.

“She doesn’t get to hurt us. She doesn’t get to kill us. And she does not get to say awful things about our family. Our real family,” she spat. Her eyes softened, barely, and just for a moment. Then they were sharp as knives again. “She dies tomorrow, not us.”

[Lemons]

The black sky and the black waters rippled against each other.

Just like before, everything felt a million miles away when she was here. Even then, there was an echo of that crushing sorrow embedded deep within her. Even here. But still...

She stared out at the asymmetric moons. One above, one below. Different. The same. Shattered shards of the same coin, twisted 'round on itself.

"I...I don't want her to die."

She sat down at the edge of the boat, where she'd sat with Safie what felt like years and years ago, and dipped her legs in. They plunged out of sight, the inky waves consuming the light completely.

"I don't want to die, and I don't want her to say those things about our family." She flopped backwards, staring up at the sky, a moment achingly familiar and yet so foreign. "But I also don't—"

She stopped, collecting her thoughts. The broken stars wheeled above in a pattern that was at once right and wrong. Right and wrong. Right and wrong.

"—I don't want to kill. It feels wrong."

She sat back up, flicking droplets of black from her bare feet as she turned and pressed her knees to her chest, leaning up against one of the benches as she looked up at Quinnlash. "I know I need to. But...I don't want to need to. I might have to do it, but I don't have to like it." Her voice took on the ghost of an accusatory tone as she tilted her head at her younger self. "Why do you want me to make me?"

[Mcmolly]

As she looked up at the sky, the unruly stars whirled, it seemed, in tandem with her own doubts. They tilted, unlocked from the great void, and followed her eye like they thought they might find an answer in it. When she sat up, they all winked out at once—though the night did not get any darker.

Quinnlash stared back at her, small face wrinkled in confusion, like Quinn had started speaking in Tohoken.

“Because…” she started, and stopped, and started again with more certainty. “Because that’s the way it is. That’s what we do. We’re a pilot. We…”

She paced back, stood up on the bench and looked out over the water. “We should be killing monsters. That’s what we’re made for. That’s our purpose,” she said. “But they won’t let us do that. Now they want us to do this and…and maybe we don’t have to like killing always, but some people…deserve it. Some people deserve to die. Takers. People like Roaki, people like them.”

She didn’t need to point it out. That cliff in the distance was still bare.

“They’re monsters. They’ll hurt us, they’ll hurt the people we love. And they’ll like it. Killing them…we’re doing the right thing. We’re helping. That’s why we should like it. If we don’t like killing monsters, then…what’s the point?”

[Lemons]

With every word that Quinnlash spoke—each wavering of her thoughts—Quinn grew stronger in her own. She uncurled, standing up to her full height, and joined her counterpart on the bench, looking up at the void of an endless sky. The stars had flickered and died. All that was left was...

She let out a light gasp. A moment of revelation. "It's the same thing."

Quinnlash glanced at her, mouth pursed in confusion, then followed her vision. "Distorted, broken, but still the same in the end. Right?"

This time she was quiet for a longer time. Minutes passed as she looked out at the sickle crescent wavering on the black surface like a liquid mirror. Perhaps hours. She didn't know. She couldn't know.

"They were monsters," she suddenly spoke again. "They hurt us in ways that I still don't understand."

She took a deep breath. She still didn't know if she needed to. If she even was breathing, unless she did so willfully. The wind gusting by was growing stronger. "But...Roaki isn't like them. She's not an adult either. I think..." She picked up a piece of ice from the ever-full and unmelting cooler, then hurled it off into the water. It struck the moon, shattering the reflection into incomprehensible fragments of silver light.

"I think she's a little more like us. Us," her voice sharpened to match Quinnlash's and she glanced sidelong at her, "If we were angrier."

She sat down on the railing, meeting those black, infinite eyes. Her razor voice shook, but held. "She's us, once we enjoy it."

[Mcmolly]

The moon never reformed after Quinn shattered it. The water stilled, but the countless rippled-apart pieces remained with an inexplicable void between them. She could feel her words sinking into the lake, and if she peered down into it, might have for a moment noticed something odd—that it was not black. It was just a very, very dark blue.

Quinnlash’s hands balled into fists, but she turned away from Quinn’s gaze, contemplative, almost ashamed. Instead, she looked out at Hovvi, and for a long time she was silent.

“No” she said, and her hands were squeezed so tightly her shoulders shook. “No, she’s nothing like us! Not broken! Bad!”

With a sharp wince, Quinnlash curled. A hand flew to her head, clutching at a horn that had seemed to grow ever so slightly taller in those angry blinks. In the distance, a great shape loomed over Hovvi. Not a Savior, but much greater, much grander. It was the silhouette of a mountain.

“Stupid Helburkan mutt! Taker! she shouted, and pulled her hand away. Blood like ichor dribbled down her face. “We’re good! She’s evil! Good kills evil! Good kills evil and we’re gonna kill her! We’re gonna kill anyone who wants to take our friends away from us!”

Standing as tall as she could, the girl glared hard at Quinn. Quinnlash’s voice boomed within her, as if it rose up from the lake itself. “Now wake up! Wake up and protect my friends!”

And she was awake.

An alarm beeped softly somewhere far away. There was movement outside the bunk’s doors, and the sound of people.

Dahlia was beside her, back turned with her neck-plugs exposed. She seemed to still be asleep.

The realization hit Quinn—was given to her, without request: today was the day she would kill, or she would die.

[Lemons]

She stared up at the ceiling for a time. Willed herself to get up. Tried to muster everything she had.

It was hard. It was so hard.

Her conversation with Quinnlash churned in her head. Roaki was...was so much like her. So much like her that it made her sick. Did she really—

Yes. She really did. What other choice did she have?

She looked over at Dahlia, sleeping peacefully. Then, nerves tearing at her skin, she reached out and—no. It could wait. Let her sleep for a little longer. So she levered herself up, slid on her sneakers, and walked out into the pavilion proper. Her stomach was tight against itself, and she remembered with a grimace that she hadn't eaten more than a few bites at dinner yesterday. She felt sick. But she knew she needed to eat, needed to fuel herself. It would be a trial. But it certainly wouldn't be the worst of the day.

Following the smell of breakfast, she arrived at the mess. A buffet of tasty-looking foods was spread out on a long banquet-style table, people steadily shuffling down it as they waited their turn.

As she passed by the tables, the conversation quieted. She hadn't changed out of her clothing from yesterday, but it didn't matter really, she'd be wearing her pilot suit soon anyway. Eyes baggy and sore, she picked up a plate and walked to the back of the line.

It parted in front of her, and she groaned, rubbing her hand down her face. "Just take your food," she said tiredly, propping herself against the narrow end and refusing to move on. There was silence for another few seconds, but once she still made no move, the line reformed. She waited in it, glad of the momentary grip on normalcy. She knew it wouldn't last long.

Piling her plate with eggs, bacon, sausage, and a bunch of assorted Casobani breakfast foods she didn't fully recognize, she scanned over the tables, searching with a questing eye before she finally found Besca, sitting near the back corner. Plodding over, she dumped herself in the chair next to her, put down her plate, then placed her face none-to-gently against the white tablecloth.

"Morning."

[Mcmolly]

Quinn had been right—the normalcy didn’t last. As soon as her back was turned she could have felt the eyes return to her, and without much strain she could hear the whispering. Indistinct and worrisome, anxieties she might very well have felt herself, manifesting around her on the lips of people who were meant to be cheering her on.

A screen overhead played the daily news. The volume was low, but the anchors spoke Casobani, so no one was listening so much as they were watching and reading the subtitles. A pair of minor singularities were set to open this morning, and Casoban’s remaining pilots were split to tackle them one-a-piece. That at least explained why most of the Casoban crew were gone now—shipped out in the middle of the night, most likely. Toussaint remained, which was odd, considering he was allegedly the commander. Perhaps he wasn’t anymore. He didn’t look particularly happy.

To be fair Besca didn’t appear to be doing much better. She looked utterly exhausted, which, she was. She hadn’t slept a wink, had spent all night online, searching desperately for anything that might help them.

By the grin that split her face when she saw Quinn, she must have been successful.

“Hey, hun!” she said, voice scratchy but her enthusiasm didn’t suffer for it. “Listen, hey. I’ve been reading all night on this—on Tormont. Not a lot of publicly available information on the Great Houses, even less is translated, but some of the folks here—never mind, not important. Look.”

She slapped her tablet down onto the table between them. On it were dueling records. The first two Quinn had seen; they were Roaki’s official duels as Blotklau’s pilot. Besca pointed to some lines beside the word Synchronir. They’d been highlighted manually.

“Know what that says? Sorry, dumb question, neither of us read Helburkan. It says, ‘Subject was not observed phasing.’ Remember how our info listed Roaki’s phasing time as ‘unknown’? I assumed that was just cause she was too new, and because neither of her duels reached the average phasing thresholds, so, you know, I figured she just phased average. But then I found these.”

Following the two duels were…more duels. Five. They were unregistered, unofficial in the sense that they hadn’t involved a dispute with another nation. In fact, they weren’t even duels with another Great House.

Roaki had fought five duels against her own family.

Besca’s hands flew to the same word. Synchronir. “These duels were all over the place. One was minutes long. Two reached the average threshold. Another went way past the average, slower than Ghaust’s. Way slower. And the last one…god, I’ve never seen anything like it before. She was connected for thirty minutes. And what does this say? ‘Subject was not observed phasing.’”

Besca’s grin grew teeth, she tapped the screen manically. “Quinn, I don’t think this is flubbed. I don’t think she’s slow, either. I don’t think she can phase at all. That’s why her duels are so fast. That’s why she’s so aggressive. She has to win before the other pilots phase because she can’t just stall ‘til she does too.” Her voice dropped low, conspiratorial. “Hun—I’ve seen how you’ve been practicing. I think, seriously, I think if you can just get yourself phased, you can do this. You can actually beat her.”

Something in Quinn’s chest thrummed excitedly.

[Lemons]

But just as quickly, Quinn remembered her dream, and the thrum died to a distant hum. Still there, but muted, dulled. She looked at the data. She—she really could win this. She could. She could win, and go home to the Aerie, and go back to eating at Tohoki Grill and sparring with Deelie, exploring the station, talking to Doctor Follen. It was everything that everyone wanted.

So why didn't she feel better?

"Hey, um, Besca," she started, surprising herself by how level and modulated her voice was. A pain beat through her, short but sharp. She wanted so much, so badly, to call her something else. But every time she tried, the word stuck in her throat, then died there.

She stopped. She didn't even know what to ask, not really. Am I doing the right thing? It didn't matter, did it? She had to do it anyway. Do I really need to do this? Stupid question. The answer was obviously yes. That ship had sailed a week ago now. Once the gears had been set into motion there was no stopping them. And it was the day of. Why did this have to happen? Self-pity would only hurt her. It had no place today.

So, thoughts tangled, she opened her mouth again. Closed it again. Thought. She wanted to ask something. She did. She just didn't know what. Her thoughts were disorganized, jumbled about. Not panicked, but certainly not the epitome of health either. But eventually, she settled on a question that she'd had for the last week, both of Besca and Dahlia. She hadn't asked either. But this was about the last chance she'd get, wasn't it? Before she needed to deal with it for herself.

So she asked.

"...Have you ever killed someone?"

[Mcmolly]

Besca’s excitement waned when it became clear that Quinn wasn’t as thrilled by the news as she was, and before she got much of a chance to contemplate why, she was hit with a question that withered her mood instantly, and entirely.

“...Have you ever killed someone?”

How does she mean? was the first thought that came to mind, which was a guilty feeling. She ought to have wondered why, first, or considered how she must have felt to ask such a thing. Instead, Besca found herself wrestling with her conscience for a real answer. If she thought about it for a moment, put her own selfish self-pity aside, no, Quinn likely wouldn’t count Safie, and Ghaust, and Daz, and the rest of Hovvi as someone she’d killed. Nor would she likely include the pilots before her.

She carried those deaths all the same, but for this, she would carry them quietly.

Instead, she addressed it how she imagined Quinn actually intended.

“Yes.” A hard lump had formed in her throat, and swallowing it took effort that almost choked her. “Four. I’ve killed four people. Three before you were even born. One the day Westwel fell.”

Even saying it out loud felt…odd. Like she was drawing on someone else’s memories. She recalled them all through a haze, but at the same time they felt entirely, ineluctably real. Years of separation and callouses helped her to keep the pain from twisting her face, but it was still there, in her eye.

She looked at Quinn, and felt again the unbearable weight of what she was being put through. The injustice. Why else would she ask that question? Why else would anyone ask it?

“You’re afraid. You…you don’t know if you can do it, do you?”

[Lemons]

Quinn dropped her eye from Besca's. She'd seen it, the pain that had just torn through her, the guilt and the pity.

Somehow the last one was the worst. Besca was in pain too. She hurt just like Quinn did. But she hid it for her sake, didn't she? Or, for theirs. She didn't think about it, didn't let it show, so she—Dahlia—everyone on the Aerie didn't need to worry about her, didn't she?

And now the guilt began to drip through her in turn for talking about it. It had upset her. She wouldn't let it show, of course. But it had. She had. And there was nothing in the world she wanted to do less than upset Besca.

"You're afraid. You...you don't know if you can do it, do you?"

Well...almost nothing.

"No," she whispered, pain and confusion and horror warring in her tone. "I can't. I mean—" One. Two. Three. Three deep breaths. "How could I? She...she's not—not like them." Her voice grew leaden, filled now with a deep, deep sadness. "She's just a kid. We're both kids. Why does she—why do I need to—"

She cut herself off harshly. No self pity. Any other day, and she might indulge herself. But not today. Absolutely not. "Sorry," she mumbled miserably, looking down at her untouched plate of food. She suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.

"I just wanted to know..." A long pause now, as Quinn built up the courage to ask a question she didn't think she really wanted to the answer to. "...How do you live with it?" Then, hopelessly, "Does it ever get better?"

[Mcmolly]

She’d been right. Of course she’d been right—Quinn was a kid, and for a brief and humiliating moment Besca had forgotten that. She didn’t deserve to be here, fighting for her life against…god, another kid, who she’d been more than happy to spend all night planning the death of. If she had the time to allow herself to feel sick, she would have. But she didn’t.

Quinn cut herself off. It tore Besca’s heart to shreds to hear her apologize, to feel guilty for having a conscience. But it was worse when she asked her next questions.

...How do you live with it?

Does it ever get better?

Besca froze, and this time the pain did reach her face. It was, without a doubt, the closest Quinn had ever seen her come to tears. It was also the quickest she’d ever recovered from it. She reached across the table and took Quinn firmly by the shoulders.

She didn’t know how she lived with it. She had no idea how anyone else could.

But she did know one thing.

“No,” she said, and a hand came up to stroke her cheek. “No, honey. It doesn’t get better. It never gets easier. And it shouldn’t. If something like this has to happen, it shouldn’t be easy, and it shouldn’t feel normal. Maybe there are people out there who do like this, maybe Roaki is one of them. I…I don’t know if I believe that, but maybe she is. What I do know, is that is not you. It never will be. You would never let yourself become that. I know that no matter how much it hurts to do this, no matter how sad it makes you, it won’t make you a monster. Quinnlash, look at me. You are not a monster, and you never could be.”

[Lemons]

"Quinnlash, look at me. You are not a monster, and you never could be."

Something inside of Quinn cracked.

Nerves connected. Synapses sparked. Thoughts darted around her head like a swarm of bugs. She felt like her brain was foaming, fizzing and popping wildly. Things snapped into place suddenly, puzzle pieces clattering around finding their matches. She felt like she was on the verge of something stunningly important. Something life-altering, building up inside of her.

All of a sudden, she remembered her conversation—if it could really be called that—with Roaki last night. She was a duelist pilot. Someone who only ever hurt others. She took that weapon, a weapon meant to save people, and used it to end them. And right then, she realized deep in her core:

She and Roaki were eerily similar, it was true. She remembered as much from that last dream-conversation. She'd said so to that version of herself, and she still stood by it. But there was one thing that was truly, deeply different: that was not the kind of pilot she wanted to be. But then the question presented itself, naturally, whipping through her head like a desert gale.

If she wasn't that kind of pilot...then what kind of pilot did she want to be?

A pilot that fought the Modir? No. It was true—or, well, it would be true—but that was the means and not the ends. She didn't want to kill them just to kill. She didn't want to kill them for revenge. The didn't even really want to kill them. She needed to. Important, but it wasn't—she flashed back momentarily to Quinnlash's assertion: We're a pilot. We should be killing monsters. That's what we're made for. That's our purpose.

Only no, it wasn't. A purpose wasn't what you did. It was why you did it. A note of protest rose from deep within her. She crushed it back down. No. Not now. Not today.

A pilot that kept her family safe? Again, it was true. It was deeply, painfully true. She cared more about Dahlia and Besca than anything else in the whole world, and whenever they hurt, she hurt alongside them. She wanted to protect them so badly she could feel it in her bones. But again—though it wasn't wrong—it also wasn't complete. She loved them. She loved them with her whole heart, and staying there on the Aerie was why she first became a pilot.

But somewhere along the line—the training, the study, the self-reflection—that had stopped. Or...not entirely. Her caring for them hadn't waned. In fact, it had only grown stronger. But there was a whole world along with them. What would she do if she kept Dahlia and Besca safe but Doctor Follen, the head chef, the nurses that had taken care of her when she was comatose died instead? What would she think? And there a world outside of Runa, as last night had taught her. Filled with people who she was sure were just like her, hurting just as much as she had. As she did.

So no. Her family wasn't the purpose for what she did. It was the catalyst. They were why she had become a pilot. But they weren't why she was a pilot.

So again...why was she?

She looked up at Besca's eye, so grimly certain, but so kind and caring. She felt the hand against her cheek, wiping away tears that weren't even there. She felt the warmth inside her, glowing from the inside as Besca fretted over her.

This. This was why she was a pilot. These things. These feelings. And not just for her. She closed her eye, memories of cold white walls enwrapping her. How many more out there had that kind of life? Alone, lost, couldn't find a way out?

She could be their lighthouse.

She knew it as soon as she thought it. This was why she was a pilot. Not for money. Not for fame. Not for personal gain, or to protect only those closest to her. No. Quinnlash Loughvein would be a torch. A burning brand, for people like her to find. People like Dahlia. A beacon to light up the world around her and keep everyone there safe.

She opened her eye once more. Looked Besca straight on in hers. Her voice had gone through a change, somehow. It was still shaking, of course. She was still terrified, still had to kill. But there was something else there too now. Something nebulous, subtle. If she thought about it, she wouldn't be able to pick it out. But she knew it came from finding something. A purpose. A kind of pilot to be.

Someone who would drag light with her into the future, no matter how dark. Who would set the night—

"Can I still change my Savior designation in time for the duel?"

[Mcmolly]

---

---

Dahlia had not kept her promise, she had not stayed with Quinn up to the last moment. It ate at her, but only a bit—she didn’t have a choice, after all. The elevator was making its last trip up to the Aerie before the duel began, and so she broke one promise to keep another. She would wait in the hangar, and watch from the screens, and if things turned ugly she would connect.

And she would save her sister.

It was a good thing a bulk of the station’s engineers and hangar staff were at the pavilion. If there’d been actual security here, she might not have been able to make it to Dragon unquestioned. She got a few odd looks on her way up, and made a show of leaving to go to the dorms. By the time she’d circled back to the hangar, no one even noticed her.

So she sat in the open cockpit, tablet in her lap. Between the heating units in her suit and her intense focus on the screen, she hardly felt the cold. The back of her mind was field of worry, sown with the waiting seeds of guilt. If this went wrong, if she did go down there, she would be breaking the Illun Accord. In the best case she would hang. In the worst, there’d be war.

Besca had seemed renewed with confidence that Quinn could do it, that she could beat Roaki. But when Dahlia had said she was returning to the Aerie, there’d been a knowing look shared between them.

Besca knew what she meant to do, and she hadn’t stopped her.

Among those guilty buds in her brain was a sprout of regret for how harsh she’d been. How she’d doubted Besca’s dedication. She’d never apologized for that, but she would. She just hoped they wouldn’t be her last words.

On her screen, the Saviors moved. Blotklau shook to life behind Helburke’s camp, rolling her shoulders and wiping the black slaver from her mouth. She stomped out over the mountainous wall and into the dueling plains and hills.

On Runa’s side it took a bit longer. She watched Quinn ride the lift up, suit donned and looking down at the camp below. With a sudden sting, Dahlia realized she’d never asked Quinn if she was afraid of heights. She didn’t know why that thought had come to her, but it was suddenly the most important thing in the world that she didn’t know, and she had to physically stop herself from logging over to the comms channel to ask her. Now wasn’t the time, and besides, she’d just broken a promise to her. Maybe hers wasn’t the voice Quinn needed to hear right now.

Minutes later, RS4 shuddered and her posture straightened. Dahlia watched as its giant chest heaved in a deep breath, then another, and a third, and couldn’t keep herself from smiling just a bit. Sometimes it was easy to view the Saviors like…cars. Like things that she technically knew had people inside them, but it never felt that way in the moment. Now and then though, the personality bled through. It already had the eyepatch, she wondered what it might look like with a giant braid slapped to the back of its head.

Quietly, shiveringly, Dahlia giggled to herself in the dark.

Then, as Quinn began her own march out onto the field, she noticed something odd on the register. At first she thought it was a glitch, or a typo, but on a second glance she noticed it was intentional. Changed. Her name had changed.

And just like that, the giggling stopped.

---

---

Quinn sat on her Savior’s shoulder, the sun to her side. The day was calm, and even up here the breezes were gentle and soothing.

Some distance away Blotklau stood, facing her. They’d both walked out onto the hills, far away from the camp, and as per the rules that had been explained to her more or less on her way up to the cockpit, they’d both disconnect and wait another ten or so minutes, in order to negate any phasing advantages from the travel. An odd specification to make, but then, if she thought about Dahlia’s speeds, it made a little more sense.

So there she sat, waiting to hear the green light from Besca. Across from her, if she squinted, she could see Roaki standing on Blotklau’s shoulder as well. A candleflick of white hair blowing in the wind.

Her comms squeaked to life. Was this it? Was it time? It certainly couldn’t have been ten minutes already—

“Oi, deadgirl.” Roaki’s voice was rough in her ears. If she checked, Quinn would see that she was connected to an open comms channel labeled: Pilots. Most of the time it was abandoned—what purpose was there in communicating with someone you were about to fight to the death with? Given it was her first time though, she must have been connected to it automatically.

“The fuck is Ablaze supposed to mean?”

[Lemons]

Quinn didn't say anything for the longest time.

Minutes ticked by as she stared across at Roaki, the newly-minted decision she'd made on the brief walk up weighing her down. Not like an impediment to moving; if anything, she felt she had more energy than before. A weight in her mind, a burden that she knew she was about to bear on herself. This was already going to be rough. If Roaki had been closer, she might have seen her chest heaving as she tried to take calming breaths to stanch the fear that was bleeding through her.

It was already going to be rough. So hard. So incredibly hard. Roaki would be trying her best to tear her Sa—to tear Ablaze apart, piece by piece. She wanted to kill. But as rough as it was already going to be...she'd gone and made it so much harder by handicapping herself. Handicapping herself in a fight that wasn't just "whoever got punched first" with Dahlia. Handicapping herself in a fight where losing meant she would never see her family again. She would lose them. And they would lose her. In the end, was it really worth it?

But she couldn't stop thinking about that last conversation with Besca, and she hadn't stopped on the way over. And as she'd reached the first hill, she realized something.

Roaki wasn't a monster. She knew it, deep down, and she finally fully realized what she saw of herself in her. Why she'd gotten so angry, so suddenly. What Roaki was, was hurt. Scarred. And she wanted to make everyone around her hurt too. So why should she die? Being mad at the world wasn't a capital crime. She didn't deserve death. Not on any metric or scale. And Quinn wasn't going to kill her. She'd heard the formal rules on the way here: the loser was whoever could not continue. Not whoever died. And that made all the difference.

So it didn't matter whether she could or could not kill someone. Because the fact of the matter was, she wouldn't kill someone.

She wouldn't kill anyone.

And she certainly wouldn't kill Roaki.

So, all those minutes later, she replied. Once sentence. Quiet, calm, self assured, filled with a newborn conviction. The sun played across the rolling hills, turning them—just for a moment—into the surface of a deep blue lake.

"I'll tell you later."

[Mcmolly]

Quinn was too far away to see the way her words effected Roaki, but the silence was enough. The other girl grumbled over the comms, then scoffed.

“Don’t think you’re gonna be doing much talking,” she said. The cruel grin was almost audible. “But you’ll scream plenty.”

Above them, like a hundred holes poked into the sky, there hovered a swarm of drones. Some were doubtlessly from the camps, but most had been sent by news organizations. Casobani, Helburkan, Runan, likely even Euseran. This duel had stretched on for days, three pilots dead, with one more to follow. It was impossible for Quinn to know if the people of Casoban were aware of how new she was, but it was likely, and right now they must have been wondering why their Ministers hadn’t taken Eusero’s aid. Eusero as well must have been watching with a mix of dread and, perhaps for some, a sense of schadenfreude. They should have taken the hand. Now they drown for it.

But if she thought back, thought about the Board, and the Prime Minister, and the Euseran higher-ups, Quinn would know that in the grand scheme, the only true loser was Runa. That Eusero was waiting, circling above the carrion of this field, ready to pull Casoban onto its deck, and let Runa struggle and sink until they took the hand as well.

On the smaller scale, on the one that faced her now, she and Roaki Tormont were playing a game with no winners. If she meant to change that, first, she’d have to survive it.

A beep in the comms, Besca’s voice in her ear.

“Time to roll, hun.”

Across from her, Roaki dashed for the cockpit. Quinn could hear a brief, discomforted straining in the Pilots channel, and moments later, Blotklau shuddered awake.

[Lemons]

The words had barely finished, and Quinn was already at the skullport. She tore the door open with one hand. A distant and fragmented part of her laughed at how hesitant she'd been the first time, how long she'd taken. But there was no time for that. Only one thing mattered now. Slinging herself into the chair, she felt her plugs click into place. It had become almost comforting. Familiar. A constant in an ever-changing series of troubles and trials. Her eye closed tight. And the darkness swirled away.

Ablaze stood. Three deep breaths.

Then she reached out her hand, grasped the sheet, and tore. The enormous cannon fell into her hands, and with an almost reflexive speed she spun it up to her shoulder. The white lines blurred at the edge of her vision, and she could feel the internal fire rumbling, waiting to be unleashed upon her target.

It could keep waiting.

Her mind raced. Her plan was half-formed at best, harebrained and futile at worst. But it was all she had. As much as it scared her...she needed to stay close. She needed to phase, it was true. But she didn't know how much time it would take afterwards. So she couldn't keep that distance. She was on a tight clock, and that fact beat through every inch of her colossal body. She couldn't take advantage of her cannon's range, like she'd done in every single sim. She needed to dance just outside of Blotklau's range. She needed to keep her chasing.

And she needed to make her mad.

A voice surged up within her, an impulse so strong it stole her breath. One word. And though she knew more would come, that first word was always the strongest: KILL. It was beating through her, thick as the ichor surging through her twisted body. KILL. And she snarled back: Go fuck yourself.

Then, to Besca. Just two words: "Trust me."

And then, finally back to the pilot channel. Across to the animal form of Blotklau, already starting to move. To Roaki. She let go of the cannon with her offhand—primed and tensed to move back at the slightest need—and stroked it down a braid that wasn't there anymore. The cannon was pointed out the ground in front of her. Very, very intentionally. Waiting for her to get close.

Let's see if this works as well as it did in sims.

Then she forced her voice into a high, lilting singsong like a little child playing. She hated what she was about to say. But again...

...She needed her mad.

"Catch me if you can, little cripple girl~!"

[Mcmolly]

There were few words more terrifying to hear from a pilot than: “Trust me”, but Besca didn’t object, because there also few words that could make her feel as helpless. Trust her, she thought. Well I don’t have much of a choice.

She watched as Blotklau took a few starting steps forward, only to stop as Quinn…taunted her? Besca balked, she wouldn’t have thought Quinn capable of insult. Then again, up until last week, she wouldn’t have thought her capable of swearing, either. It was a crass jab, and, frankly, about as blatant a play as she’d ever seen anyone make.

And it seemed to work like a charm.

“Oh, I get it,” Roaki growled in her head. “You think making me mad’ll get me to kill you quick?”

Blotklau hunched, her hands flew out wide and her claws tore unreal holes into the air. Swiping her arms across her chest, the axes flew into being, blades bursting to life with white fire.

“Tough fucking luck! I’m gonna pull you apart slow and careful! You’re not gonna die ‘til I say you can die!”

The girl screamed fury, but even with her voice in the comms, Blotklau’s roar was louder. The Savior broke into a mad sprint, low and nimble, closing the distance with frightening speed. With only a hill between them, she reeled back one of her axes and threw it in a whirling arc for Ablaze’s leg, poising to lash out with the other.

[Lemons]

Quinn's right arm flew back to the cannon. She didn't want Blotklau—good GOD that thing was terrifying—to get caught in the crossfire. She hoped she had the trajectory right. Aimed at the ground. Aimed at the axe. And then, as it was nearly upon her, she pulled the trigger. There was a loud crack as a bloom of white light rent the soil, sending the axe screaming into the air. Clods of earth sprayed out, pinging uselessly against the advancing horror of Blotklau.

But that wasn't the point.

It all worked according to plan. The kick of the cannon—the sheer force of the shockwave—exploded so close to her that she was sent rocketing into the air. She spared just a moment to check behind herself and adjust for landing before looking forward again. Good, she'd only cleared a valley between two hills. Hoppping out of the crater she'd left, she huffed out a shaky breath and swore quietly off of comms. "I can't believe that worked."

She'd taken some breathing room. But she knew from the footage she'd seen that Blotklau could cover that space in the blink of an eye. And the way it had run at her had only reinforced that. She clenched her jaw tight, jagged teeth scraping against each other with a sound like falling stones. She couldn't get too far away. Not until she phased. She'd even gone too far just then. The less she did that, the better.

She tensed her muscles to dodge. Blinked. Recalled.

Remember, don’t watch my hands, watch me. Watch my body, watch my eyes. Don’t try to figure out what I’m going to do, I’ll tell you. You just have to listen.

"You won't be killing anybody like that, kiddo. Who taught you to throw?" Keep her talking, keep her mad, keep her predictable. She hated this, and she hated herself for doing it. But it was better than the alternative. Anything was better than the alternative. She counted the seconds as they ticked down. Phase. Phase already.