As Dahlia, clearly as shocked as she herself was, stumbled out questions, Quinn could only nod dumbly along, eye wide. 

Yes, she should be dead. By all rights, from everything she knew of modium--which was more than a lot of people--she should've died a [i]long[/i] time ago. [i]Years.[/i] Modium [i]did not pull its punches,[/i] and the idea of a growth sitting benign [i]in her head[/i] for that long was--as far as she was aware--unprecedented. That she was alive at all was a [i]miracle,[/i] and not a small one; and the fact that even her existing growth had never swelled after sessions in the cockpit just added another layer of unreality to the entire surreal thing.

And...yes. Yes, Follen had to know. He was the one that had come up with the idea for the surgery; and the one who'd prepared her for the surgery, cleared her for operating; and the one who'd [i]performed[/i] the surgery, without ever telling Besca until it was already done. The idea that he [i]didn't[/i] know was, frankly, [i]impossible,[/i] especially since he'd [i]tapped her on the growth[/i] just earlier that day. Why? Why did he--he had never done that before, why did he? And why didn't he ever [i]tell her?[/i]

"[color=ffe63d]I--[/color]"

Quinn's thoughts--dropped from their earlier racing babble--slowed in her head like molasses. The eyepatch in her lap felt suddenly like it weighed a hundred pounds, all pressing down on her. She wanted to run and hide but there was no way to run or hide from your own head, so she instead curled up against the wall again, staring down at her knees as she pulled them up to her chest. Her voice shook as she spoke:

"[color=ffe63d]I don't know.[/color]"