Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

Camille listened intently to Loughvein’s answer. She had done her due diligence long before the girl arrived, studied the dossiers the CSC could compile based on what information was shared by RISC, and also what had to be inferred. Especially when the alliance between their nations became tenuous, and the more anxious of their program’s numbers feared there may be conflict. But Camille knew better. War was pariah sensationalism, largely taboo but always considered; everyone on Illun feared theirs would be the generation to see the Accord crack again. Runa and Casoban had been allies for too long for that. Theirs would be the war of the modern age, fought on the fields of international law, using weapons of mass embargo.

All this to say, she had prepared herself to fight nonetheless, be it against Dragon or this newly anointed Ablaze. Camille knew both pilots as well as one could through second-hand assessments. Loughvein’s combat record aside, her personal records did not impress; she was by all accounts a meek and miserable girl who should have been mulched in her first duel. Naturally, she understood that about herself, but she was also surprisingly honest about it.

Good, it was easier to speak plainly with people like that.

“We’re afforded many things as pilots,” she said, still staring down at her in the same level, unyielding way. “Money, glory, influence. We live lavish lives and our funerals are matters of national importance. Pick any day out of the year and you’ll find memorials to a dozen of us. Our pictures hang in people’s homes beside their loved ones. In their most dire moments it’s our names they call out for. We’re given trust, and hope, and love.” she sighed, shook her head. “But we’re never given time.”

Camille looked down at the mat, to the sweat and scuffs and, if she really searched she was sure she’d find flecks of blood from raw knuckles or bitten lips.

“It’s paradoxical. Few paths demand as much from someone as piloting, and yet its first steps are the most unforgiving. You can’t take them slowly. You can’t learn how to walk, you already have to know how to run. Being here necessitates talent you didn’t work for, and determination you haven’t earned. There is no time to train yourself up to par—you perform, or you die.

“In all likelihood, the Derisas will be dead before the end of your first rotation here. As captain, it is my duty to ensure they survive anyway. I will push them. I will be cruel. You will not interfere. Your time here is largely unstructured because you do perform, but make no mistake, should I feel it necessary I will be cruel to you, too.”

She stepped away from Loughvein then with a curt nod. “I have been told in no uncertain terms that you will not be dueling during your tenure here. This does not exempt you from professional responsibility. The CSC may not hold you to a schedule, but I will expect at least a modest number of hours each week from you simming against Modir. You may train with the Derisas should you wish, but ensure that you align yourself with their routine, lest we have a repeat of today. Otherwise, you may utilize the sim’s AI, request a specific tutor from the station’s staff, or if necessary, ask me.

“Put the rest of these pads away, then you’re dismissed for the evening. Loughvein.”

With that, Camille left her there, and the familiar quiet returned.

Amygdala Circuit

A huff escaped Camille when Loughvein called her Captain. Uniformity and discipline were not the virtues of most pilots; the twins hadn’t been keen on the idea themselves at first, until she had Toussaint’s authority behind her. She had expected similar resistance from Loughvein. Was RISC’s program stricter than she’d come to believe from Abroix’s reports. Or perhaps this was just an act of sarcastic defiance.

No, from her answer, Camille could tell it was something worse. It was fear. Troublesome. Respect was integral to keeping order in the unit, and in turn, keeping the unit alive. Fear, on the other hand, did nothing. Less than nothing. It made people give half-answers to questions they were more concerned about answering correctly than honestly.

She had been told more than once that she was an intimidating woman. Fair enough. But looking into Loughvein’s eye, Camille saw fear that spread further than this one room, this singular moment.

She sighed. “Your dishonesty does no one any good. They’re hopeless. All these hours today but I’m sure you realized in the first five minutes that neither of them has any business being a pilot. They would have better served Casoban on the stage or in the gallery. It would certainly be safer.

“Familial pilots are rare outside of Helburke. Not just for their literal rarity, but because everywhere else it’s caused nothing but problems,” she stepped closer, but made an active effort to soften her voice. “Do you believe passion is enough to make a pilot? This time, answer like you’re talking to a mirror.”

Amygdala Circuit

By the time Quinn called it, it was almost evening. Hours had passed in a blur of fists and kicks and sweat. Sybil lay splayed out beside a plug-in fan, which, blasting at high-speed still couldn’t budge her wet, matted hair. She spat out her mouthguard and lay exhausted, gasping in and out while the lightheadedness of her exercise high set her skull abuzz. Quinn was speaking, she could tell, but it felt like they were separated by a whole pool’s worth of water.

Cyril sat beside her, not quite as worn out. He listened intently, worried that if he didn’t, she might grow upset with him again. She seemed leveled now, but somehow he’d managed to flub what had seemed to him like a good first impression.

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to,” he said, giving Sybil’s knee a shake, which she responded to by throwing him a middle finger for as long as she could keep her arm up. “She loves trying new things. We both do—it would be great to do this again.”

The door opened behind them, and Cyril jolted. With how quiet and isolated the pilot’s floor could be, arrivals often took him by surprise.

It was the woman from the platform, the third pilot, Camille. Rather than a suit of armor, she wore a uniform of the CSC colors, with an ivory shoulder-cloaked draped over her right arm. Cold eyes found the three of them instantly, and she marched over with a sure and rigid pace. She stood taller than the lot of them, hair tied back into a short tail, hand resting on the pommel of a rapier sheathed at her hip.

“Uh oh.” Cyril muttered. He got up to his feet and brought his hand up in a quick salute. “Captain.”

Camille looked between him and Quinn, before finally turning her attention down to Sybil. “Derisa,” she said, her voice like a wolf’s growl.

Cyril nudged her gently with his foot, breaking her from her exhausted stupor and dousing her sober the moment she saw who it was staring at her. “Shit,” she wheezed, and scrambled up to her feet. Her thighs burned in protest and she found herself leaning against her brother for support. “Captain.”

She stood there in silence for a moment, watching Sybil tremble and heave pretending like she wasn’t barely able to stand. Finally, she said, “Tonight’s sims are cancelled.”

They balked.

“Really?” Cyril beamed.

Sybil was more skeptical. “Why?”

“You’re exhausted,” Camille said, talking directly to her. “You aren’t conditioned enough to go from physical exercise to simulations. The strain would ruin you for days, and we can’t have that. This is why we alternate.”

Cyril winced. “Sorry, we’ll make it up—”

“You’ll make it up tomorrow.”

“I have the gala tomorrow,” Sybil snapped. “I’m presenting three paintings, one of them is a collaboration for Cyril’s show.”

“You will call them now, before they close, and inform them that you cannot attend. Ask them to reschedule, if you wish.”

A reinvigorating anger sprung to life in Sybil’s chest. “We arranged this weeks ago! Can’t I just make the sims up the next day? Or tomorrow night?”

“No, you can’t,” Camille said, and when Sybil opened her mouth to protest, she cut her off. “This is an order, Derisa. I’m giving you the opportunity to handle it on your own terms. I suggest you do so.”

There was seething rage in Sybil’s eyes, but it never made it past her lips. Gritting her teeth, threw off her pads and stormed off, wobbling at first before forcing herself to walk straight. Cyril swore under his breath but didn’t dare look up at Camille, instead shooting Quinn an apologetic look before hurrying after his sister.

The door shut, and suddenly the two of them were alone. Camille walked onto the mat, kicking Sybil’s pads to the basket. Again there was a quiet moment before she turned her attention fully to Quinn.

“So, now you’ve seen them first hand,” she said, face stony and impenetrable. “What do you think of Casoban’s heroes?”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Renault watched the Kaudian man keenly as he went, noting how his interest seemed piqued when he saw Lucas. Scandalous theories flooded his brain on instinct, but he repressed them. No magic in the world could cover up a rendezvous between Estoran royalty and what was most certainly Kaudian nobility. Good. Affairs were pedestrian, boring. It baffled him to no end how brazenly powerful people would risk their careers over lustful impulses. Not that he doubted the prince wasn’t given to a plethora of vices, but he was not, despite what the tabloids might convey, that stupid.

But he had been right—this was interesting. He committed the red-haired man to memory, and determined that, given the opportunity, he would seek him out for conversation. For now they had business.

As the lot of them stepped into the room with Rhaveus, Lucas cocooned them in silence. Renault’s attention went to the chalkboard initially, eyes scanning the arcane arithmetic with a sudden, renewed academic vigor. He was no stranger to the scholarly pursuit of magic, and though his lessons had been cut short with his pivot into politics, he never stopped studying. The steady rise of his career had afforded him a generous salary, and he’d found no shortage of tutors eager to trade it for their knowledge. Rhaveus was, of course, advanced beyond his own measure, evident in the way he wrote. Shorthand, scratches, highlights; it was very much like peeking into someone’s diary, or the notes of a savvy journalist—which was to say, it was chaos. The sort of chaos that came with deep understanding.

He clicked his tongue when it was wiped clean. Shame. You could tell a lot about someone from the way they expressed their passions. As Rhaveus began an explanation of the basics of mana however, Renault’s attention wandered. He chose to peruse the room, keeping one ear in the conversation. He brushed the books left on the podium, were they materials for his class, or was there personal reading as well? With a man like Rhaveus, the two likely overlapped.

As the topic evolved, shifting to the ambush, Renault tuned back in. Mana negation. He was familiar with the concept, and like most he assumed it was merely the demesne of monsters. The idea that someone might be able to lock him out of using magic did not thrill him, as his capacity for physical violence had suffered greatly from his incarceration.

“Oh, I wasn’t present,” he said, stepping aside to resume picking through the room. Time had been tricky in prison, he hadn’t even been aware of the day until his release. “But please, do share. Firsthand accounts can be so enlightening.”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

_{@Raijinslayer@Hero}

---

Ionna spent the entire trip with her face pressed to the window. She couldn’t help it, she’d never seen anywhere quite like this, not in person at least. Rodion was beautiful in its way, of course; it was cold and harsh, but also statuesque and resolute, instilling a safety that was in itself a form of beauty. But Riva del Garda was breathtaking in a very traditional way, the kind that left her with starry eyes and mouth agape. Several times she pointed out pretty things that jumped out to her, be they forested mountaintops or colorful birds flocking into the air.

She was just as amused by the city itself, though they never stopped to see it. Quaint, lovely, she could imagine having a house on one of the cliffs, spending her days walking on soft, warm grass and watching the sunrises and sets. Maybe she’d keep a farm, or at least a little coop of chickens. Or maybe just one or two chickens, as pets.

The outpost was more familiar. She’d never been on a warfront, but rustic militarism was common all throughout Rodion, and uncle Dragomir’s home didn’t look much different from a command tent.

“Asher!” she gasped, waving excitedly to the man in charge. “I would’ve made something, but the trip was a little long. Don’t you worry though, I’ll find an oven somewhere.”

She couldn’t help smiling at the look he shot Bianca—and her reception to it. It occurred to her then that she didn’t know much about her fellow Templar outside of, well, the obvious stuff they all knew. Maybe this would be a good chance to start getting acquainted with her coworkers.

Hold on, did Asher just say the harpies were dropping monsters into the city?

“Dang, and I left my umbrella back at the castle,” she said, resisting the urge to nudge Bianca with her elbow. Professionalism and all that. “But, uh, yeah—definitely weird that they just started acting all different. Hey Justinian, you ever see anything like that before?”

She turned her attention to the Scion of Earth, who, among the four of them, doubtlessly had the most experience with monsters. Asher was probably the leading authority, but then again, the city had reached out to the Scions for a reason, right?

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

_{@Obscene Symphony @Hero}

---

Renault breathed deeply. There’d been no time to, after his release; the Church’s goons had thrown him on the first transport to the Prince’s castle almost as soon as they’d gotten the shackles off. Now that he was back—properly back—he was reminded of just how much sweeter the air in his homeland was. Like sugar, or antifreeze. Enough of either would kill you, and that, he thought, fit Doumerc just as well.

The academy hadn’t changed drastically, but like all things in academia, it had changed minutely in many ways. New rugs, brighter bulbs, nigh-undetectably-different hues of the same color paints. People saw scholars and imagined meek, doddering bookworms, but few minds worked faster than those of mages. These fields of study required a keenness, a decisiveness, that most would expect to find in Rodion duelists or Lorenzian gunslingers.

Rhaveus’s room was suspiciously empty. It was indeed strange for someone to stand up not one but three Scions, one of them being royalty. Renault smirked, he suddenly found the professor quite respectable. It didn’t surprise him to hear some of their group was impatient, and he was glad the madam of gravity took a more sociable approach.

They followed her to a hallway where, unprompted, she did her best impression of a startled cat.

Renault craned his neck around the corner while Maya snapped quietly at her Templar. His initial assessment was proving more and more correct, it seemed. The line between paranoia and cowardice was thin, and blurry, and she appeared to have crossed it from one direction or another.

Those were undeniably Kaudians, but they were also undeniably set dressing. Fancy uniforms, military attention, and a cleared hallway. This wasn’t an invasion, it was babysitting.

More than that, it was interesting.

“Lets not embarrass ourselves, dear,” Renault said, throwing Maya an amused smile. He rounded the corner into the hall, clearing his throat and slipping into a more welcoming tone. “Dobar dan, gentlemen, hello!” he said to the guardsmen. “My friends and I were looking for a professor Rhaveus, would you happen to have seen him? We’re told he may be around here.”

Amygdala Circuit

Sybil listened closely, relieved she wasn’t about to get flattened by the resident hero. It was strange to her, almost unimaginable, that someone like Quinnlash was once ‘way worse’ than her at anything. If there was one thing Sybil had grown accustomed to in her short period of training, it was being mediocre. Mediocre test scores, mediocre phasing speed, mediocre output, and, of course, mediocre combat results. Had Quinnlash really dealt with that? Had she stepped out of a pod and seen broad disappointment among her superiors, and embarrassment among the ones who weren’t high enough rank to be disappointed?

Surely not. Not after the display she’d put on planet-side. Some things could be taught, but some things were just natural. Had to be. All day, every interview, she saw people laud the pilots that were “born with it”, while the ones who weren’t, didn’t stick around long enough to get interviewed much.

Still, Quinnlash made a good point. Learning through cruelty was pointless, and for all the grief they gave their captain, Camille had expressed similar sentiments. Sybil just hoped she would still be able to walk after training.

Briefly, she saw Quinnlash’s eye flick to Cyril. It wasn’t a particularly kind look, and he seemed a bit surprised by it. Sybil felt her fist clench reflexively. She popped her mouthguard back in, and when the invitation came to pick things up where they’d left off, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped in and swung. It wasn’t quite as wide, but still nothing like a practiced fighter. What she lacked in technique this time though, she made up for with intent.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

_{@Obscene Symphony @Hero}

---

It seemed the prince was eager to divide them, which left Renault with a sour taste in his mouth. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Lucas was displeased with his current selection of Scions, and might have been making an effort to, say, spring clean a few of the less desirables. Rather church-like, and Renault had never taken the royal blemish to be overly devout; perhaps that was just what prophecies did to you.

Either way, Renault wasn’t about to let himself be pruned so early or so easily. His aunt was last to be taken, and he assumed if given the chance, her assailants would gladly snatch up the new Scion of Lightning.

Hunting monsters on the Garda seemed like a complete waste of his time; setting aside it would make him look like the High Cardinal’s bloodhound, when it came to combat he was…rusty. Despite his skill with magic, a year and change in captivity would warrant a little warming up from anyone, to say nothing of the Scion abilities he’d yet to tap beyond meager testing. The trip to Croia was equally unappealing. Renault dealt with the mortal, and he was quite good at it too, but spirits? He could think of few things he wanted less than to doll himself up like a saint for the ethereal.

As little as the prospect of being in Lucas’ company excited him, he would be lying if he said he wouldn’t relish the opportunity to step back into politics. A high-class place like the academy? His mind bristled to think of all the familiar names and faces that might be in attendance. Much of his network had been dismantled during his incarceration, but the information remained, and that was plenty for now. Reconstructing a base of spies and useful idiots would take time, but if there was one thing he’d hammered into the minds of the Doumercene aristocracy, it was that he kept his word.

The Scion of Gravity offered herself up to go along with prince, and Renault hesitated. Instinct told him she would cause problems—too eager, too blood thirsty, too cowardly. She reasoned homesickness and practicality, but he wondered if there was something more. Perhaps, like him, she figured proximity to Lucas would make it more difficult to have her removed. Tricky, to an extent few celebrities were. If only he’d been there at that gala, to see for himself if the mask had slipped.

Well, in the worst case, having the whole of Doumerc swoon at her return would hopefully keep the paparazzi busy while he refamiliarized himself with his home.

“A trip to the academy sounds lovely, Your Highness,”” he said, making his intention to join clear. “I was never a student myself, but I’ve visited plenty of times. I’m well acquainted with several alumni and even a few of the professors. Unfortunately, even a place so devoted to the scholarly arts is still steeped in bureaucracy, and it can be rather stifling.”

His eyes flicked over to Maya, and lingered a moment longer on her guard dog, Silvaine. It hadn’t escaped Renault how a few of the Templars had tensed at his arrival. He doubted the man would be happy with this arrangement.

“In addition to our beloved Scion of Gravity, it may benefit you to bring someone along who’s used to navigating Doumerc’s deceptively turbulent political scene,” he said, looking to Maya once again. “Vous n'êtes pas d'accord, madame?”

Amygdala Circuit

Sybil’s swing met air and the momentum nearly took her onto the ground. Part of her was annoyed at how easily she’d been dipped, and that part whirled around to put her hands back up and prepare to swing again. Thankfully, the rest of her saw Quinn calling for time and was glad she’d missed. The idea of practically introducing herself with a sucker punch twisted her stomach into knots.

Still, it was weird. It was weird, right? She glanced over to Cyril, whose brow was cocked, and he gave her a small shrug with his lips. Yeah, weird. But that was the rumor about the RISC crew, that they were all off in little ways. Not like the Helburkans, but from the interviews and appearances over the years, it had become clear that Runa employed the unique. Cyril found it charming, but Sybil had always been wary. After all, looking at someone like St. Senn, it was obvious the little eccentricities belied terrible power. They’d all seen as much from Quinnlash recently, too.

She waited while Quinnlash drank, and when their younger senior asked a question, she waited again, and pondered what strange double-meaning it might have. Eventually she gave up and popped out her mouthguard before answering.

“Yeah. Mid to long, I think, is what they classified it as,” she said, once again looking to Cyril, but getting nothing helpful in return. “Why?”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Prophecies. Renault was glad he’d had a light breakfast, otherwise he might have been ill.

Surely Incepta hadn’t freed him from his imprisonment for the sole purpose of protecting a child. A royal child at that, who had at her disposal every ounce of strength Estora could muster, and then some. His eyes wandered to the girl, preoccupied with Lucas’ phone while the lot of them discussed the future of, he supposed, the world at large. The edge of his smile curled slightly, and briefly. It wasn’t like he could be disappointed with her; she would probably find the burden of heroism as unappealing as the rest of them. That didn’t make her any less hopeless.

Well, it was this or the cell, wasn’t it?

He took a quick stock of the rest of the room. Princess aside, the assembled royalty left much to be desired. Lucas was an outcast, and a loser by every metric his surname didn’t pass for him. Princess Isabella had, to his knowledge, been a vapid if harmless figurehead, until the attack at Giles’ manor had evidently turned her into a vapid, bloodthirsty figurehead. The warhawk lived up to every Rodion stereotype Renault had ever heard in any bar, which, while he respected the predictability, surely hindered them here and now. The Scions of Gravity and Wind, if the reported drastic reduction in their public appearances was anything to go by, had been reduced to cowardice; the latter at least had the good sense not to demand war as retribution for the attack. The Scion of Earth was an impetuous idiot, and the Scion of Metal wilted like a wallflower, but at least their interests aligned. Honestly, there’d been more reason shown by the church’s armored dogs than the Mother’s favorites, pained as he was to admit it.

Where did that leave them?

“A united front is most wise, my prince,” he said, obsequious. “But much easier said than done. I’m sure you of all people are aware of how fickle the court of public opinion can be. It will take quite some work to convince even our supporters—to say nothing of our detractors and even less our enemies—that the Scions of Incepta stand resolute against the coming storm.

“To hear it said, following the attack, everyone fled to weather all matter of PR disasters. Though, the less generous were more biting with their criticism. Some, through misunderstanding surely, might have mistaken these actions for fear. All of this hearsay, of course, but all the same, sometimes hearsay is all it takes.”

He rounded up by the head of the table, glancing between Lucas and the rest of the Scions. “In my humble opinion, scattering again so soon would only set the rumor mill churning. And besides, with some manner of threat still present within Estora, it seems like a quick way to put targets on our backs.”