Mcmolly

The Shattering of Aegis

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As this was by all accounts the most important information she’d hear for who-knew how long, Lilann listened with intent as Aleka and Cerric continued their song and dance. They were an interesting pair, as stark against one another as night and day. Part of her couldn’t help but wonder if that was intentional. Not that they had rehearsed these lines, or that they wore masks of a sort, but rather, had the good lord Mystralath placed them here on purpose? Like foils, in a play.

The longer she listened, the more characters she saw enter and exit from the wings, the stronger the sense she felt that this place was a stage all its own.

And just when things began to wind down, there came a hook. The stately woman returned, and called Kyreth to the lord’s study. Lilann decided then that she’d have to reevaluate exactly how much she liked surprises. Her fingers twitched. Were she tall enough to keep her sword at her hip, she might have thumbed the pommel raw.

‘Don’t like this,’ she wanted to say to him. ‘Makes my teeth itch. Don’t go.’

But she knew that wasn’t an option, not really. He couldn’t come this far and refuse a summons from the lord, not as he was. Though apparently, the elven woman seemed to think he wasn’t fit to accept it as he was, either. Lilann eyed her as she shed her cloak and offered it out. More itching, more twitching—why did this place set her off so much? She normally wasn’t this jumpy.

It was Finnagund, she told herself. Being here, it was meddling with her.

Nevertheless, Kyreth seemed happy. Whether the woman had meant it as a slight, or her intentions were inexplicably genuine, Lilann supposed it didn’t matter. She gave him a wink, smiled reassuringly.

“I’ve told stories about lords who didn’t dress this sharply,” she said. “Go wow the pants off our boss, hm?”

She held her smile until he was gone, then let it fight with the worry. It didn’t last long, the shadowy boy, Ermes, scuttled over to her right away. Despite being a fair few inches taller than she was, he somehow managed to lurk, like a peasant child searching for scraps in the shadows of a dinner party he’d not been invited to.

He asked after Lady M, and she figured he meant the soldierly woman, Marta. Lilann had spotted the glance she’d gotten; had her attentions not been divided, she might have shot her back a smile just to see what would happen.

Did she know her? Nothing came to mind, and Lilann was good with faces—better with names. It could have been that…well, she tried thinking back further than she normally would. Before the cart, and the cold. To grassy roads. To char. Finnagund—

But her mind swiped at her, hissed like a cornered cat, and she retreated. No, you couldn’t turn a book any further back than its cover.

“Look at me,” she said flatly. “I’m blue, and I wear a hat big enough to shade a giant’s eyes. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’m a tad hard to ignore.”

It wasn’t a particularly good answer, but it was the only one she had for him. She didn’t know Marta. She didn’t know anyone in Finnagund. Lilann Storyborn was a stranger here, and that was that.

She turned her attention to Ceolfric, eager to think about anything else. Agatha Hawthorne, a name she did recognize. Yes, Aleka had been right to suggest she knew stories, all sorts of them. None of her own weaving, of course—it was startling less fun to meddle with legends she hadn’t helped grow herself—but it never hurt to listen and admire.

“Without the embellishments?” she chuckled, good spirits returned. “Do you want to hear stories of battle? Torrid love affairs? I could tell you she wrestled a bear, once, or that she’s bedded every lord and lady in Othard. I could tell you she’s brought entire armies to a standstill all on her own, or that, in heretical rituals, she’s summoned fierce demons and made them kneel to do her bidding. All of these things I’ve heard, and all of them, I promise, are embellished, as everything is. Perhaps there are seeds of truth sown in there—I’m afraid you’d have to ask her to find out how many.”

---

_{@Scribe of Thoth@Trainerblue192}

Amygdala Circuit

It was a long, convoluted walk from the medical wing to the dorms. Aerie station was big, partially from contracting accords with Casoban, and partly from the inheritance from Westwel’s program. They passed through the long, curving hall of full of patient rooms, all of them occupied—even Quinn’s had been filled by the time they’d finished their meeting with Follen. Soldiers, all, the scant few who had managed to hold out until Dragon’s descent. It didn’t smell like blood, here, but it did smell like the sterility that came from cleaning it.

They passed through the garden commons, a cavernous oval room of four stories, all connected by a tiered central platform of discs. They surrounded a tree reached from the earthen basin at the bottom, all the way to the ceiling, where its branches fanned out and down like the hood of a parasol. Its leaves were Runan pastels, fanned and intertwined such that they seemed painted on.

People stopped to stare at them as they went. Whispers, muted shock. Their words were incomprehensible, but there didn’t seem to be an ounce of vitriol among them. Pity overwhelming, and then the gasps of concern by those who caught sight of the plugs on her back.

The platform branched into walkways and stairs and escalators. They passed lifts labeled Engineering, Command, Hangar. There were rows of vending machines, a few shops, even a trio of restaurants. Windowed walls showed large rooms for exercise, recreation, a sodded hall filled with tables and benches, shaded by smaller pastel trees.

It was almost a town in its own right. Which made sense in a way—plenty of these people spent years at a time up here. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t particularly close, either, but it was a shade of civilization.

Besca led her down a hall long hall labeled: Dormitories, and then through a door that needed her to swipe a card before it opened, labeled: Pilot Quarters. This was much smaller, a fairly narrow walkway that branched left and right. The right path led to a lift that read: Hangar. The left to a door.

She stopped, there, and knelt down next to Quinn. Without a word she drew the girl in close and hugged her, tight, almost as tightly as Quinn had. She didn’t let go for some time.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this, you don’t deserve any of this, and I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of it without sending you home. I promise. But until then you have to do this.” she sighed, long and deep. “This is gonna be hard, Quinn. It’s gonna be so hard, and it’s gonna be scary, and sometimes it’s gonna hurt. I’m sorry. It’s…it’s just how it is. I’m sorry. But you’re not gonna be alone, you got it? Not for a second. Even when it seems like it. Even when it’s dark, and cold, and you feel like there’s no one else in the world—I’m gonna be there. I’m gonna be with you. Remember that.”

Then she got back up, took another deep breath, and led them in.

The outside was deceptive, the inside was spacious. They entered a large common room, easily as wide as a house on its own, with a high ceiling and windows on the walls. Windows? Behind them was a faintly-clouded, star-studded virtual sky. Gentle moonlight spilled in through the glass, diffused when Besca turned the overheads on.

Off in one corner was a kitchen with a wide array of equipment, rows upon rows of drawers and cupboards, a pair of refrigerators, an oven, and on and on. In another were TV screens, entertainment systems, and beside that, a glass door leading to a small exercise room. An array of plush couches and chairs took the center, around a wide, circular coffee table.

There were still cups on it, plates with crumbs at least a week old.

Along each wall were a trio of doors, some of which were blank, three of which had little signs posted to them.

H. GHAUST

*~SAFFY~*

DAHLIA ST. SENN

There was an almost palpable silence.

Dahlia’s door was cracked open. The inside was dark, but even from here it was clear there was no one inside.

“I’ll be right in there,” Besca said, pointing to a door on a wall without any signs. “I’m gonna leave my door open, and I’m gonna leave the lights on in here. If you need anything, you come right across and get me—doesn’t matter what time it is.”

She gestured to the other doors. “You pick any room you want, you can change to another one any time you want. Tomorrow we’ll worry about settling in more, get you some real clothes. Okay?”

She put a hand on Quinn’s cheek, rubbed off the tear streaks with her thumb. She smiled sadly. “Try and get a little rest. I know it might be hard, but it’s important. Goodnight, hun.”

Besca went to her room and, true to her word, left her door open as she flopped down onto the bed.

Quinn stood alone in the common room, and for a while it was just her, and the quiet. This was her home now. Her new home, a thousand miles above the ruins of her old home. Tomorrow she’d have to fight to keep her place in it, but for now there was nothing to fight. Nothing to run from. Nothing, it seemed, to fear.

But there was something. It was faint, and she’d have to strain to make it out, follow it to hear it clearly. But it was there, coming from behind the door labeled: *~SAFFY~*. Soft, quiet.

Crying.

Amygdala Circuit

Besca gritted her teeth when she figured Quinn wasn’t looking, tried to keep herself calm as the girl began to shiver apart again. Follen’s eyes heavied with perfect, reptilian sympathy, that left no trace of the smugness he’d shown her.

“I wish very much that there was, Quinn. I would have gladly opted to simply hide you away here, but, with Besca’s new position of authority…well, it could get both of you in a lot of trouble. And then you’d just get sent home anyway.”

He shook his head again, as if he’d tried to consider it. “No. No, I’m afraid this is the only way we can keep you here. And…well, I’m afraid I don’t even know if it’s certain to work, yet.”

“Aldous…” Besca said, embarrassed by how close it sounded to a plea.

“Besca,” he replied evenly. “We should be honest with her. She deserves that from us both, don’t you think? And besides, friends are honest with each other.”

Follen got up, walked around the desk and crouched down beside Quinn’s seat. Besca fought the urge to pull her away. Even harder she fought the urger to lash out and swat him.

“Quinn,” he said, in a soft voice she knew he’d picked up from her, from how she talked to Dahlia. “You see, I’ve done what I can. I pushed you to the front of the line, and together Besca and I can get you into the seat—but you have to perform. I know it sounds cold, it is, and it’s not fair, either. I want you to know I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t have every confidence in you.”

He reached a hand out, stroked her other shoulder. The hair on the back of Besca’s neck bristled.

“You are a strong, brave girl. You are sitting here with us right now, because you are meant for this. And I know, I know it deep in my heart that you will fight for what’s important to you. Besca and I, we’ll both be right there with you, every step, no matter what. You will have our undivided support. The only thing we want you to do is your best.” His eyes turned up to her, smile unflinching. “Isn’t that right, commander?”

She swallowed hard. She didn’t know what to say. Again. God, it seemed like she never did. There was too much to think about, between the horrific secret of Quinn’s past, to the potentially catastrophic future awaiting her. A sword dangling over the girl’s head, bound by so many threads but every one Besca tried to untangle seemed to loosen two more, and if she wasn’t careful the thing would plunge.

She had to tell herself again that she’d lost. That Follen had won at a game she hadn’t even known she was playing.

“He’s right,” she said, finally. The words were acid in her throat. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. This is…this is the only way.”

Besca squeezed Quinn’s hand back, tight. “I’m sorry…”

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn gripped her hand, hard, and Besca stroked her arm worriedly. She was afraid again, or rather more afraid. Her outburst when she’d woken up had been concerning, of course, but given what she’d survived, it was easy to write off as hysterics. Or it would have been, had she not had a frankly staggering amount of modium in her system.

That happened now and then, especially when the singularities were so close. Had anyone else survived, Besca was certain they’d have had a mass-poisoning to manage in the aftermath.

But Quinn hadn’t been poisoned. At least, the singularity hadn’t put that much modium in her. She had a growth in her eye socket, small, filed. Those sort of symptoms only popped up in two kinds of people: pilots, and those with severe, or chronic exposure.

“Just don't...don't send me back!”

Something was wrong. Oh god. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. A hundred puzzle pieces scattered themselves on the floor of her brain, and as she scrambled to fit them together into that atrocious picture, she saw Follen’s eyes shift to her, and his smile thinned, ever so slightly and so briefly it would have passed before Quinn’s blink.

He already knew.

This was over. It had been over before she’d walked into his office—before the surgery, even.

“Quinn,” he said, and his jovial tone turned serious, but no less comforting. “That is the absolute last thing I want. That’s why I did this—for you.”

He sat up in his chair, upright, authoritative. “I saw how good of friends you were, how important you seemed to each other. I wanted to protect that. And I thought of other ways, internships, secretarial work, but considering how much of a…toll this tragedy has taken on the RISC, that all simply isn’t viable. Legally speaking, we’re obligated to return you to your parents as soon as possible.” He shook his head. “I don’t want that. Besca doesn’t want that. Quinn, I don’t think you want that, either.

“So I did the only thing I could, the only option left to us. If we’re going to keep you here, we have to tie you to RISC, indelibly. We have to make you so important to us that no one can take you away.”

Besca frowned. She could have begged him not to say it.

“You’re going to be a pilot.”

Amygdala Circuit

“That’s right,” Besca said. She felt a bit guilty that she hadn’t stepped in sooner, but if Quinn was feeling up to speaking, it was best to let her. “There must have been some kind of mistake on the patient list. Someone, and she tried her best not to overemphasize that word, “Performed a modioscory on her, gave her the implants. She’s not an applicant, we don’t know even know if she’s compatible—”

“Oh, she is. Yes, I had her tested first thing.”

“…So you operated on her?”

“I most certainly did.”

Besca paused, stumped, and though his face didn’t change she could tell he was infuriatingly satisfied with it. He’d just admitted to performing a life-changing surgery on a child, without any consent. To his boss. Granted, as interim-commander she could only recommend canning him, but still, this was bold, even for him.

Follen leaned forward, hunched to be at-eyes with Quinn. “Miss Loughvein—may I call you Quinn?—we’re strangers, you and I. I’d like to be friends, of course, but for right now we’re only just getting to know one another. My mother, you see, she told me that you don’t have to be friends with someone to do nice things for them. To help them.”

“You’re not—” Deep breath. Even tone. “A modioscory isn’t a gift, doctor Follen.”

“Oh, I disagree,” he said, still not taking his eyes off of Quinn. “Very much, yes, very much. No, Quinn, you’ve been through so much, and you’ve been so brave. And commander Darroh, Besca, here, you know, she came to visit you every day, for hours. Once or twice I’d come by in the morning to check on you, and there she’d be, asleep in those dreadfully uncomfortable chairs. She cares about you a lot, Quinn, and I think you care about her, too. I think you're already very good friends.”

He dropped his head down onto hands, almost playfully, smiling still. “Do you want to stay here, Quinn? In the Aerie? With Besca?”

Amygdala Circuit

Besca had to temper herself. She knew what she wanted to do, but if she walked into Follen’s office with Quinn in tow and just laid into him…no, that wouldn’t be any good for her. The last thing the girl needed right now was more violence, more yelling, or any more reasons to be afraid. Which meant she’d have to do something she absolutely hated.

She’d have to be cordial.

Follen headed medical’s pilot department, oversaw all of their maintenance, their evaluations. Theoretically there wasn’t a single person on the Aerie she should have been working more closely with than him; they were both crucial to the program, and both deeply vested in the wellbeing of their pilots. But it wasn’t Follen’s investment that burned her, it was his maddeningly nebulous motivation.

And, of course, when he pulled shit like this.

They came to his office door, but before Besca could even finish her first knock it swung open.

Aldous Follen was a year older than Besca, and while the years had been kind to him, a few graying strands had begun sprouting up by his temples, and in his short beard. He wore glasses, and a tie, but his coat had been shucked and his sleeves were rolled up casually.

His eyes lit up when he saw them, and he smiled in a warm and welcoming way. Everyone bought that smile, they bought pretty much everything he sold, and with enthusiasm. Besca had long given up trying to convince people of what he was—what he’d been for years, now. He was too good, it was a waste of time, so she’d settled for just avoiding him.

She wished she could now. “Doctor Follen,” she said, as politely as she could. His brows shot up.

“Commander Darroh! Wow, yes, how pleasant—I was expecting you!” His warm, green eyes turned down to Quinn, and his smile broadened. “And miss Loughvein! I thought I heard you wake up. Look at you, on your feet already! You’re a fair bit stronger than I gave you credit for—and I wasn’t stingy with it! Please, come in, come in, both of you.”

Besca took a deep breath. She wasn’t used to putting on acts, and in a contest of hiding one’s thoughts, she was hopeless against him. But it was necessary nonetheless. Smiling to Quinn, she nodded and led them inside.

Follen’s office was entirely as expected, as if ripped from the pages of a hospital pamphlet. Desk, computer, two comfortable chairs across, with bookshelves to either side and a display against the far wall with framed pictures. Follen didn’t have any family—none living, anyway—so he filled them with photos of past pilots, and the staff. He was in some, smiling, arms around his coworkers, blending in. That’s all this was, really. A room of camouflage with a chameleon at its center.

He walked to the far side of his desk, sat down while Besca led Quinn to one of the seats. She stayed standing, so that she could keep a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. She didn’t particularly want to break contact with her in a place like this.

“So,” he said, and though it looked like he meant to address Besca, his attention suddenly shifted to Quinn. “How are you feeling, darling?”

Amygdala Circuit

And just like that the word-well ran dry. That was okay, Quinn’s had, too.

Besca held on silently, raking sharp nails through her brain to think of something, anything to say that might make this better, or at least just a little more manageable for the girl. Perhaps she’d never lost anyone before. That was fairly uncommon these days, but for a place like Hovvi—a small town that was the same each morning as it was each night—maybe it wasn’t so strange.

In a way she wished she could as open as this. Losing pilots hurt every time, and she’d let herself fall into a comfortable lull with Dahlia and the others. Losing Ghaust was like losing someone you respected, someone who valued the way they lived their life, and what they lived it by, rather than how long they lived it. Losing Safie had been like losing a little sister; unprecedented, unshakable optimism, gone in the flick of a candle.

It hurt, it hurt a lot, but Besca hadn’t cried since Westwel. It was a guilty feeling. They deserved more than she could feel anymore. For only having known Safie a short time, it seemed to her that Quinn hurt enough for both of them. Strange, but not—

She paused as her fingers brushed something on the back of Quinn’s neck. Hard. Cold. Her brow furrowed, she traced it with her fingers. A circle, small, metallic—not one, but a series. They ran down her back, on her spine.

Her eyes widened.

Besca let go for a moment, pulled Quinn’s chart from the end of the bed and scanned it. Pain killers. Supplements. Antihistamines. Neuromarkers. Page, flip. Immunosuppressants? Tech salves? Modioscory. Oh god, an entire post-op’s worth of Modioscory.

Follen.

“Quinn, hun,” she said. It took effort to keep her voice steady, but she managed. “Listen, you’re gonna…you might feel something on your back. Some little dots, little plugs? Those aren’t—they’re not bad, they’re not gonna hurt you. Someone made a mistake, put’em on you by accident. Easy fix, don’t even worry about. I’m gonna set it right myself, okay?”

She hadn’t noticed—how hadn’t she noticed? Follen had been assigned to her, that rat fuck, and she hadn’t noticed. Besca’s signature had been waived, he’d moved before she’d even been approved for interim-commander.

He wanted to make her a fucking pilot.

Besca might have stormed out right then to drag that fucker out of his office and throw him into the airlock. But, looking back to Quinn, she remembered she’d just made a promise. An impasse, then. This couldn’t wait, every second that passed would make it harder to undo. And she had to undo this. Now.

“Hey, actually, do you want to take a walk with me? You’ve been laying down for days now, it’s…probably for the best if we get you moving. Just a bit, just down the hall and back, real quick while I take care of something. You’ll be with me the whole time. Sound good?”

Amygdala Circuit

Besca was stunned. She stood there frozen stiff while Quinn held onto her like a life raft in a hurricane. The girl spoke a hundred words at once, so fast and so garbled that she only really heard them in retrospect, and even then, the raw panic made it impossible to focus on them.

She’d counseled pilots whose Saviors had left them shriveled, calcified wrecks who had more composure than Quinn did. Who were less afraid to die. God, it was like she was being stabbed, or dragged underwater.

The last, violent shriek snapped her out of it, and Besca finally put arms around her. She held Quinn close, tight, like she meant to force her steady. She breathed quietly onto the top of her head, “Shhh….shh shh shh…” and stroked fingers through her hair. Her own hands shook, but she realized it was Quinn’s hypothermic shivering resonating through her.

“I…I’m not. I won’t. Quinn, listen to me, I’m not leaving you. I’m not…taking you anywhere.” Where could she even take her? Put her back? Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. Hovvi was gone. But the way she said it made it sound like going home would have been a threat.

Then again, there were reasons now to think it might have been.

“Quinn, it’s over. It’s over. Look at me,” She pulled back, angled herself to look down at her. Quinn’s face was a teary ruin, Besca gently wiped it with her sleeve. “All of that…stuff, that happened. It’s done. I’m here, it’s just me. You made it. Breathe for me, okay? Just like before—do you remember? Breathe.”

Besca demonstrated again. One, two, and three long, deep breaths.

“Don’t think about anything else right now. Just think about you. How do you feel? I know you’re scared, I’m not gonna go anywhere, alright? But how do you feel? Do you feel sick? Not tired, I mean sick. Your feet got a little cut up, but they’re healing just fine. Do you hurt anywhere else? Anywhere inside?” Besca moved, trying to get her propped up right in the bed without yanking any of the IV lines. “There’s no wrong answer, alright? I’m not mad, no matter what, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Amygdala Circuit

Besca’s smile shriveled instantly, along with her budding relief. Quinn’s screams filled the room like a keg poured into a shot glass, spilling out and flooding the halls. She dashed over to the bed, afraid for a moment that the girl was ripping out her hair or beating at her skull. Instead she clutched her head like she was trying to hide, like she was in pain.

A nurse came running in, frantically checked the monitors and machines with a bewildered look.

“What’s happening?”

“I—I don’t know! Heartrate’s elevated but everything else is fine! She’s fine!”

“She’s not fine she’s screaming, she’s—” And as Quinn’s screams withered into choking sobs and mewling apologies, Besca felt a pit in her gut. “Give us the room, please.”

“…I’ll tell Doctor Follen she’s awake,” the nurse said, and shut the door on her way out.

Besca stood there for a while, letting Quinn shake and mumble. She felt it again, that same inadequacy that had kept her from comforting Dahlia. She had no idea what Quinn had seen, what she’d been through in the attack. They’d found her out in the fields, with Daz, bloody but mostly unharmed save for some cuts on her feet.

Judging from the wounds on Daz’s body, they must have met the beasts on their way out.

This girl had waded through monsters, and the dead, and was by all accounts the only person from Hovvi still breathing. And she couldn’t offer her anything? Not a single, conciliatory word?

Get it the fuck together, Besca.

“Quinn…” she whispered. She put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, if for nothing else than to try and calm the shaking. “Quinn, hey. Hey, you’re safe. You’re safe you’re on, uh, you’re on the Aerie. You made it. You’re okay. Nothing’s here, it’s just me. You’re not hurt, it’s just soreness, you’ve been lying down for a few days. Just….just try and relax. Try to breathe.”

Amygdala Circuit

“—mourning the deaths of over ten thousand people, killed in the singularity at Hovvi last week.”

“—has refused to comment—”

“—resignation of former commander Wal—”

“—three pilots—”

“—have confiscated all footage recovered—”

“And, Thom, we’re getting—you know, it has to be asked at some point, right? How? How does something like this happen? How does RISC lose three pilots, a small army’s worth of soldiers, and billions of dollars of military equipment to one singularity? And still resolve—”

“—as it was fished from the wreckage in the lake. Experts arriving on scene claim the damage to Magnifique was, quote: ‘irreparable,’ compared to—”

“—Euseran President Selen Dane voiced her sympathies the next morning, and offered to open negotiations for aid—”

“—at the feet of the people running this circus!”

“—interview with former RISC analyst who says: ‘over-reliance on Dragon has been an issue that higher-ups have consistently refused to acknowledge—’”

“—Calhan—”

“—Insisting there was no time—”

“—Still burning—”

“—Bodies—”

Besca shut the TV off, tossed the remote onto the couch behind her. She sat on the floor, head in her hands, and tried to let the silence soak in. It didn’t take. She hadn’t had a quiet thought all week, even in her sleep. With every day that passed, bringing new waves of speculation and outrage, it became harder and harder not to believe.

Then again, what was there to deny? She’d fucked up. She’d let a second singularity slip under the radar, somehow, and now she had the largest tragedy since Westwel laid at her feet. Thousands dead, a town laid to waste, the RISC crippled.

Lucis. Hadrian. Safie. Daz.

A knock at the door. “Commander Darroh?”

She still wasn’t used to it. The title was a fly in her coffee.

Besca walked across the vacant quarters of her former boss, trying very hard not to throw up the breakfast she’d only just finished drinking. At first she’d hoped the haze would make things easier, or at least harder to remember. She’d been wrong. Now she was painfully sober and sick.

A secretary was waiting for her. Her disheveled appearance didn’t surprise him, he’d worked with her plenty before the promotion.

“Your call with President Dane has been rescheduled for this evening,” he said. “Technicians are still calibrating the new platform, but they expect similar functionality by tomorrow at the latest. Scans across Runa have doubled per your orders, but readings are normal.”

“Okay,” she rubbed her eye, her head throbbed. “What’s the bad news?”

“Helburke has made a formal demand for the return of Ghaust’s body, and they’re still seeking restitution for his initial acquisition.”

“They did the same thing after they lost their duels, too. He wanted to be buried here. Tell’em to blow me—diplomatically.”

“Right. Minister Toussaint finally responded.”

“And this is bad news?”

“Casoban also wants restitution for losing Magnifique.”

A dull ghost of anger tightened in Besca’s chest. “I’ll talk to Toussaint later. You can assure the defense board we won’t be paying a chip.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and scribbled on the pad in his hands. “Lastly—St. Senn has yet to report for her psychological evaluation, nor has she attended sims. Considering she’s our only pilot right now there’s…not much we can do about it.”

Besca frowned. “I’ll talk to her.”

It wasn’t a surprise, really—she hadn’t seen Dahlia since the morning after the invasion. Partly because of the tidal wave of responsibilities she’d been inundated with, but also, guiltily, because she just couldn’t face her yet. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what she could say.

God but she should have tried anyway.

“I’ll be down in ten. Give me time to brush the booze off my tongue and take something for my head.”

“Should I tell medical to expect you again?”

“She awake?”

“Not yet, ma’am.”

“Then yeah,” Besca said. “Tell’em to expect me.”

---

---

She wasn’t in control.

When she opened her eyes, it was daytime again—how many times was this? She was on the lake, in the boat. Daz had brought them to a stop right out at the middle, where the sun seemed to shine brightest and the air was a warm.

A breeze brushed against Quinnlash’s cheek, soft and comfortable. Were they going to fish? A twinge in her gut told her she shouldn’t, but something else clashed with it, something strange—a desire to try it anyway. It wasn’t her desire; she felt it, but she felt it like an idea someone else had given her.

“Quinn!”

She turned, followed the voice to the back of the boat. Safie was treading water there, eager smile on her face.

“You wanna learn to swim or not? Can’t teach you anything if you won’t get in the water, silly!”

Swim? Weren’t they going to fish? She didn’t know how to do either, and while that same anxiety tried to tug her away, her body refused to go. It wanted to jump in, it wanted to swim. It wanted to try.

She noticed it then, subconsciously, that the water was night-black. It didn’t alarm her, it wasn’t alarming. Couldn’t water be black? Sometimes the day just didn’t touch the lake. Sometimes the water reflected the moon when it should have reflected the sun. Just a little mistake, an accident. Nothing to worry over. Who could get all the details right after so long? Sorry. It’s always black here, you know.

You want to swim, Quinnlash. Jump in.

“Heads up!” Dahlia shouted, shucking her jacket and dashing past Quinn. She curled up and landed like a cannonball, splashing Quinn with water that was so warm—too thick, smelled like iron, copper on her tongue.

See that? Now you’re the last one in. You’re a rotten egg. You want to swim and Safie’s right there, she’ll hold you up.

Jump.

Smiling against herself, Quinn jumped into the water. It raced up her, a flash of cold in the gentle heat. It got up her nose. Panic bubbled up in her stomach, homegrown, fighting the confidence that had pushed her. But, just as quickly as she’d been submerged, she surfaced again.

Safie had her by the armpits, holding her above the water. “Hey lookit that! You’re in! Don’t worry, I gotcha, just kick your legs like I’m doing. See? Back and forth. Use your arms, too.”

She’s so nice. Why? That word keeps coming to Quinn, over and over, and it wouldn't go away. Why? Why is she nice to you? And Besca, and Dahlia, and Daz. Why? Where were these people so long ago when she needed them? There’s no one here. It’s black, here.

In between blinks, Quinn noticed it had suddenly become night. The water was still pitch, but now its surface shimmered with the reflections of daylight.

She kicked her legs, she moved her arms. Before she knew it, Safie had let her go, and she was treading water all her own. Something like pride came to her, but couldn’t quite root.

“Alright, now try this.” Safie took a deep breath, and then sunk into the water. Bubbles trickled up and then stopped.

Moments passed. A minute. Hours.

She didn’t come back. Dahlia hadn’t come back up either. Looking to the boat, Daz was gone too. All across the lake there was no one. No boats, no swimmers. On the shore, Hovvi was dark, and quiet. Everything was so quiet.

You want to sink.

Her feet slowed.

You want to sink, Quinnlash.

Her arms stopped moving. The water climbed up to her chin. She looked down.

A great shape loomed beneath her, darker even than the furthest depths of the lake. Two red eyes, orbs of pure malice. The raw, murderous intent was enough to get her kicking again. She didn’t want to sink. But it was okay, she didn’t have to be afraid. The eyes sank, sank, and the red glow faded into the blackness and she was alone again.

“Like always.”

Quinn turned and there, sitting on the edge of the boat was…her. Herself. It was Quinnlash, perhaps when she was ten or eleven, sitting bored with her head on her hand. Watching. Her eyes—both of them—had lost their bright yellow shine, and were black. Blood trickled thinly down from the top of her head, and looking closely, she could see two glinting nubs sprouted from either side of her scalp, almost like horns.

“Sink, Quinnlash.”

And you did.

---

---

The monitor beeped rhythmically, reliably, comfortingly. These rooms always smelled so sterile, and the white walls were so plain that having the lights dimmed was the closest thing to variety one could give them.

Besca sat beside Quinn’s bed, reading, as she’d done every day for the past week. Shock, one of the doctors had called it. Trauma. A self-induced coma. Normally, not waking up would have been considered somewhat alarming, but considering what else the doctors had found upon examining her, it was arguably the least concerning thing on the docket.

But none of that mattered, really. Nor would it, ever, if she didn’t wake up first. No one seemed to have an estimate for that. Precedent was shaky, indeterminate—the best they could do was sustain her and hope she opened her eyes before atrophy set in. Could be weeks, they’d said. Months. She might never wake up.

And so, later, when she got the chance to consider it, Besca would kick herself for not having placed bets.

Because right then, Quinnlash Loughvein opened her eye.