Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

“…What did they do to you, Roaki?”

She didn’t know, at first, and in a way that was funny. So many years of pain, and ridicule, and shame, and yet she was hard-pressed to recall, in detail, anything specific. There were flashes in her memory, of her cramped room, of the cold stone floors of the castle. She remembered meal after meal eaten alone, listening to the rest of them above her, speaking of their futures, and their duties to the family. She could see their faces—the sneers, the disgust, the pity. She could feel the hollow pit in her stomach when they’d stopped calling her ‘sister’.

Before it all, the silence had eaten at her, but eventually she realized it was more that it was cocooning her. The burn, she knew, was her body melting away, so that it could reform again as something greater, something terrifying and beastly.

And she remembered the first night, after it was done. The silence didn’t burn anymore, because even in the dark, if she shut her eyes, she could see him sitting up there at the table, alone. Alone, because she’d made him that way.

For too brief a time, he finally knew what it was like.

Roaki looked up, not quite to Quinnlash’s eye, but close. Close as she could get. So close. “They doubted me,” she answered coldly. “And they were right anyway, but when I’m hanged it won’t matter. Nothing can undo what I did. The whole world’ll know that if I’m weak, then the mighty House Tormont, Sword of Aridea, Bane of Aridea, fell to a weakling.”

Amygdala Circuit

It was strange, the more Quinnlash spoke, the more she revealed about herself, the less Roaki felt like she knew her. There were gaps in her story, but they didn’t feel intentional, they weren’t lies like she was used to, they were omissions of…grief? Anger, maybe? She didn’t know, she wasn’t used to seeing people act like this. She’d heard them break down over comms, she knew what pathetic sounded like, and while Quinnlash certain didn’t sound like the warrior she’d been in Casoban, Roaki couldn’t bring herself to see this display as weakness.

What she did recognize was self-loathing. Roaki hated Quinnlash, instinctually in the way a hunter hated its prey, but also deeply and personally. She knew hate, she was good at hate. She’d clocked it perfectly at the Henkersmahl and she was reading it just as clearly now.

No one hated Quinnlash Loughvein more than Quinnlash Loughvein.

“So we started to lean on each other. And Besca took care of us, so we both leaned on her.”

“We're a family now, that's all.”

Roaki sucked air through a tight cage of teeth. Days in the cold, too tired and beaten to muster anything more than a glower and curt words, had dulled her. It was whole moments before she realized just how furious she suddenly was. Fucked that she didn’t have the energy—or the means, really, anymore—to do anything with it. She could still hardly sit up without the aches and exhaustion laying her out flat.

It should have been great news. Quinnlash was doomed, hopelessly and completely. It might take weeks, or months, or maybe years, but if what she’d said was true—and more and more, Roaki was starting to doubt that Quinnlash knew how to lie at all—then there was no avoiding it.

So why did she feel so compelled to warn her?

“You’re a moron,” she spat, unable to stop herself. Idiot, you’re helping the girl who killed you. But she went on. “They don’t need you. They hate you. They’ll turn on you the second they get the chance, and if you let them do it because you think you need them too, then you’re a moron. You don’t need them.”

It was true. Quinnlash Loughvein didn’t need anyone. Roaki was so sure of that.

“You’re strong. People are afraid of that—even if they say they aren’t. If you let them, they’ll take all that strength away from you. Know where you’ll be then? Six feet under. Or worse, you’ll be right where I am. Fuck's sake, don’t…” her jaw clenched so tight it popped. “If you’re gonna beat me, don’t be me.”

Amygdala Circuit

Roaki wasn’t sure what she’d expected.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. She’d expected a lie, like the one back in Casoban. Maybe that she really had lost it in Hovvi, or during training, or that someone had gotten to her young and gouged it or popped it or something. She’d expected—hoped, even—to catch a glimpse of the hidden truth that someone had managed to beat her in the past. That she wasn’t an invincible, unbreakable champion. That she was weak.

Then again, would that really have made it any better? Would she rather have lost to Quinnlash the monster, or Quinnlash the weakling?

Well, she’d rather not have lost at all.

Roaki could read people well. She was good at sniffing out fear, and even without looking her in the eye she could tell that Quinnlash was afraid even before she admitted it. Maybe this really was the truth. She didn’t know, it had just happened and that was that. It was so tempting to look, to see the proof of that fear forever marked upon her face.

She couldn’t.

When Quinnlash asked about her lost limbs, Roaki shrank back into the pillow. An old and familiar anger flexed instinctually inside her. She’d hurt people, badly, just for looking at her arm, just for seeing her slip the prosthetic on. Her teeth gritted together, an ache shot down her leg, all the way to the foot she didn’t have anymore, the one she’d lost in Casoban.

How much of her had Blotklau eaten before it died?

Not enough.

“I…” her voice withered. She squeezed the sheet so hard her nails dug through the fabric and into her palm. Speak. You lost, now you speak. “I can’t phase, she rasped. She didn’t have the strength or the will to lie, and she was never very good at it anyway.

“I tried, when I was old enough. I got in before the scars were even healed, and I tried.” She blinked, and in that darkness she felt the cold cage of the cockpit around her. “I stayed in the whole time, like I was supposed to. I never disconnected—not until they made me. They said I almost completed the Circuit.”

How disgusting.

“My arm and leg were…part of it,” she said quietly. “They had to cut me out.”

Roaki stared at the sheets, how they fell flat just beneath the stumps of her legs. How disgusting, he’d said. Only half a daughter, but a full measure of failure.

She’d almost proven him wrong.

“Why is Dragon’s pilot afraid of you? she snapped, before she could dwell on those memories a moment more. “Why does she do whatever you say? She’s one of the strongest pilots in the world. And that woman, I heard her this morning—she’s the commander. What did you do to them?”

Amygdala Circuit

“…I just don't know anything about you as a person and I never really got the chance to ask.”

Too late for that, Roaki thought bitterly. Not talking to a person anymore.

But that didn’t change anything. She was at Quinnlash’s torturously inexplicable mercy—what she thought of herself now didn’t matter. Person, pilot, worm, all of it was meaningless. She was a bundle of answers, waiting for the right questions.

These, however, did not seem like the right questions.

Was it a game? Toy with her, make her divulge her life’s miseries on her way out? That seemed appropriately merciful. But then, the girl had also offered to lay her own secrets bare. Tit for tat? Smart, if she thought about it. Roaki would be taking them all to her grave, anyway. Of course, normally she wouldn’t have given half a shit about knowing who Quinnlash was as a person. She’d never cared to know any of her enemies, and none of them had cared to know her. That was the way things were—or at least, how they were supposed to be.

But laying there, Roaki couldn’t help it. There was an almost animal curiosity within her. Quinnlash wasn’t just another enemy, Quinnlash had beaten her. She was terrifyingly strong, and bafflingly cruel in ways that Roaki didn’t even understand, ways she had never seen and never dreamed of. How could she not want to know, even just a bit?

She fidgeted, lips pressed tightly together in a last ditch effort to maintain what little dignity remained. Don’t play her game. Die silent.

“…What happened to your eye?”

Amygdala Circuit

This was a trick, Roaki knew it right away. People called her stupid, but she had nose for this sort of thing. Schemes, plots, strategies—the tools of weaklings who never knew what to do when their plans fell through.

But that was the shit of it. She wasn’t dealing with a weakling, she was dealing with Quinnlash. Roaki followed the girl’s shadow as she stalked from the doorway to the chair across from her bed. She didn’t look at her face. Couldn’t, still. It was pathetic, but she couldn’t. That golden eye burned in her mind, more monstrous than the red gaze of any Savior. If she looked at her, somehow, Roaki knew she would see Ablaze staring back at her. The muscles in her arm twitched at the thought. Her leg ached even below where it had been cut, still, despite the pills these nurses had crammed down her throat.

In the cold, at least she’d been in too much pain to think. Now with the unnatural warmth and comfort of a hospital bed, even with the exhaustion still lingering behind her eyes, all she could do was think. Think. Think.

Fuck, it felt like she could hardly breathe.

Her hand kept a firm grip on the sheet. She didn’t know why, it wasn’t like she could fight her. She couldn’t fight anyone. All she could do now, and for whatever was left of her life, was sit and hurt and fucking think.

And talk, apparently.

Roaki chewed her lip. Of course, she should have seen this coming. This must have been why she wasn’t dead yet, why they’d stuffed her in that icebox and now, why they’d thawed her again. They wanted something. Quinnlash wanted something.

“What…” she started, forcing herself to sound at least somewhat like a person, and not a frightened worm. “What do you want to know?”

Amygdala Circuit

Briefly, Follen paused, though he seemed to be considering what she’d said rather than her request. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I think that might be a good idea. Here, he reached into his desk, retrieving a small key and handing it over. “That’s a spare, her number’s printed on it—104. Feel free to hold on to that, so long as you don’t lose it. I’m not too thrilled by the idea of someone else having access.”

He smiled again, and every bit of that pride was in it. “You’re a good girl, Quinn, darling. I’m more and more certain of that every day. Good luck.”

As Quinn left his office, she could hear the artificial birdsongs chirp to life behind her.

The walk was long, but not solitary. Nurses and other orderlies shuffled by, busy with this and that, but all who passed Quinn paused long enough to look at her. The wonder was painted clearly on their faces. Wonder at their hero pilot. Wonder at where she was going. The closer she drew to room 104 the less wonder there was, and in its place was concern.

It was within her, too. A slow, low simmer at the bottom of her mind, so wary of rising, but unwilling to stay sunken. Careful, came the warning, not vicious but soft, worried. Just…be careful.

As she stood before the door, the feeling retreated. The anxiety in its wake still rippled the surface of her thoughts, but Quinn pushed through. She fit the key, opened the door and let herself in.

From after Hovvi, to after the duel, these rooms seemed so clean, so safe, so confining. The sensation of an IV pushing fluid into her veins shuddered through her. Her neural plugs itched, briefly, like they were still new. No machines beeped, no radio played and the screen on the far wall was off. The ceiling light was off, there was only the dimmed glow of a simulated overcast through the blinds of the faux window, casting the whole room in gray.

Roaki lay in the bed, covers pulled up to her waist. Her head was turned away, to the window, but it was clear she wasn’t asleep. Her fist wound in the sheets, she took a deep breath.

“What—” she began, only for her voice to wither when she turned to see Quinn standing there. Her dun eyes widened in their pits, and though her face was shadowed by a tattered veil of hair, panic passed through it, clear and quick, before it settled into a more subdued uneasiness. Her eyes instantly fell away.

“Oh… she said, raspy and quiet, but at least the shiver was gone. “It's you...again.”

She shifted uncomfortably, like she meant to sit up. Instead, she seemed to just burrow deeper into her pillow. “What...why are you...here?"

Amygdala Circuit

Follen sat back down in his seat, thinking. It wasn’t the same cold, statuesque contemplation as before; he hummed, he stroked his chin, his eyes lost focus in the air.

“A good question,” he mused. “Things have indeed already begun to…escalate, here. We had a small incident this morning. Besca handled it, and I suppose it’s been quiet since, but I don’t believe for a moment that’s the end of it. Truthfully, I fear a schism may form here without the Board having to involve themselves much more, but I don’t think that’s our biggest problem.

“I suppose you’ve heard by now, about the requests from Casoban and Helburke. I don’t understand the intricacies much myself, but when two countries want something from you, it can be hard to say no. Thankfully, if I had to guess, the Board is quite tired of being commanded around by Casoban, and will have no real qualms denying Helburke anything, ever. Still, they might cave to a national ally—there’s nothing in it for RISC to hold onto Roaki, in their eyes.

“The best bet would be to turn her, I'd say. Make her an informant. I saw that she’s wanted for some…grievous crimes, so, while she might be a pilot, I suspect she lacks the sort of fanatical nationalism we’re used to seeing in Helburkan duelists. If the Board is convinced she can give us some sort of useful information, they may grant her asylum here, and then none of us—not you, not me, not Besca—would be in any trouble at all. However...”

He leaned forward, hands clasped before him, and there was some amalgam of pity and curiosity in his eyes. “I went to check on her this morning, updated her medications, checked her for secondary growths. I even took some of those measurements you’d asked me about. She wasn’t particularly conversational. I suspect she’s aware of what’s happening planetside. I believe she means to go willingly, and if she makes that known to the Board they’ll gladly ship her out no matter what we do. ” He sighed, shook his head. “No, convincing her to turn on Helburke isn’t the issue, I don’t think. Convincing her to live, however, is. Regretfully I don't believe she has much interest in it.”

Amygdala Circuit

He stayed there, crouched, for a long time while she worked through her thoughts. In the end it seemed the guilt had not left her, not entirely. But her composure was returning bit by bit, and that was, by any stretch, a marked improvement.

“No, darling, no. You aren’t stupid at all, and you need not apologize to me, nor try any harder, for anyone’s sake but your own. The Board may see these evaluations as tests of your worth, but I do not—and I don’t report them as such. We are here for you, and no one else.”

Letting go of her hand, he stood back up and made his way back to the other side of his desk. “Why don’t we call that it for the day, hm? What you’ve said, and what I hope you’ve heard, is more than enough. You did very well—even if you won’t admit that to yourself. I’m proud of you.”

As if to make his point, he flipped the notebook shut, and smiled at her. Suddenly, all of the warmth returned to him. “Is there anything else on your mind? Anything more I can help you with? Please, never hesitate to ask.”

Amygdala Circuit

Follen waited patiently as Quinn foraged her mind for an answer, and showed no signs of surprise when she returned without bounty. She blamed herself, still, and perhaps it was easy to see why. How else was the sole survivor of a tragedy meant to see themselves? How could they be anything less than a lure for destruction?

But Follen still didn’t concede. His face betrayed no trace of anger, or disappointment—in fact it was still quite difficult to see any emotion in him, even in his eyes. But there was, perhaps, a comfort there. There was nothing to take hold of in his eyes, no warmth or safety to find, but also no threat, no storm or chill to weather that would necessitate it. He was void. Dark, empty, and very gentle.

“Things being the way they are, ‘just because’, is the logic of storms and monsters,” he said. He got up from his seat and crouched down beside her, low so that he could look up at her downturned eyes. “There is more to your life than the things done to destroy it. To them, there is not. To define yourself by what has happened to you is cruel and unfair. Quinnlash—”

He reached out and placed a hand over hers. His skin was so temperate, even in the warmth of the room, that it felt like little more than a breeze.

“We are not monsters, and we are not guilty. Decide for yourself what you are. Be what you do.”

Amygdala Circuit

Follen’s smile fell away, but as Quinn continued to speak his expression didn’t harden, nor did it seem to be particularly contemplative. No, he watched her impassively, like it was a statue of himself sat there across from her. A stone man, listening to the ravings of a frightened child. He hardly blinked, it didn’t even look like he breathed.

Then, when she had finished he got up from his seat and walked around his desk. He walked past her, to the door, and he shut it—though he did not lock it. Many moments he stood there, his back to her and his hand on the doorknob, staring perhaps, or thinking. It was very quiet. Eventually he let out a breath, and turned back around, but he did not return to his desk. Instead, he came to her side and sat down on the arm rest of the other chair, facing her.

Once again he was quiet for a long time. It was different from before; it wasn’t a waiting-quiet, it wasn’t him, inviting her to take her time and speak when she was ready. She had spoken, and now, he was thinking. He looked at her, not unkindly, not piteously, but pensively. He was trying to recall something that he had not thought about in a very long time, or perhaps that he thought about often, but could never express quite right.

Eventually he tried anyway.

“Westwel had a population of approximately twenty-three million people, divided between five major cities, and a few hundred larger towns, as well as some villages, some seaside hamlets.” he said plainly, as though he were reading off a census report. “Nineteen million were killed in the fall. Another six hundred thousand died in the immediate aftermath, then some more in the following months. Most of the continent was charred beyond saving, and what was left, or what could be healed, was deemed unworthy of the efforts. Now it sits, a blackened stain in the middle of the Carys Ocean. You can find videos from fishing vessels, and drones, and you can see that it’s like…a skeleton, with all its meat gone. Parts of the cities still stand, whole rows of sky-scrapers only half-collapsed. You can see towns collapsed into massive fissures, and hills made from the blown-apart bodies of the Gray Finger mountains. Most of it’s overgrown now—none of the vegetation looks quite right. It’s all twisted, dark, like it’s already rotted. Bits of modium in everything. Some scientists think it sprouts with the plants, now, though no one dares go to check for themselves.”

He took off his glasses, sniffed. But it wasn’t to keep himself from crying, in fact, his eyes were totally dry. He cleaned the lenses on his shirt, absently.

“For a long time I wondered why I’d survived. I’m not a particularly religious man, so I could only truly ask myself, and as I’m sure you’re aware by now, our minds are not the most forgiving things when it comes to matters of guilt. I could tell you that eventually I realized how cruel and unfair I was being, and forgave myself for a crime I hadn’t committed—but that’s not what happened.” He brought the glasses up—his eyes seemed so much dimmer without them—and put them back on.

“I did come to the conclusion that attempting to understand why these things happen is completely and utterly pointless. I was convinced that there was no answer, or at least none that would make sense to a man like me. The Modir do what they do with all the sense and cruelty of a hurricane. It is their nature, devoid of motive or reason.

“If you tell me this swordsman spoke to you, that it told you it was hunting you, Quinnlash, I believe you. But if it’s true, it changes nothing. A victim is not defined by the intent of the assailant. Whether you are struck by lightning, or a bullet, the reality is the same.”

He leaned forward, met her eye. “The Modir attacked you. Why do you believe that is your fault, and not theirs?”