[IC] Amygdala Circuit

[Lemons]

Quinn didn't know what to do. She'd never done this. She'd never comforted anybody, and certainly not on something like this, on everything she knew crumbling around her. How could she know what to do? She didn't even know what to do for herself. Her throat was still raw from the screams. Her own eye was still red and puffy. What could she do?

...What would Besca do?

As carefully and steadily as she could, she slid down until she was also on the ground, resting on her knees. Her vision was starting to blur, and she could feel the water brimming up. She was still hurting. The thought of Daz made her hurt more. But with an effort to move mountains, she didn't let herself break down.

Then she gently lifted the prone girl's shoulders off the ground before leaning in and catching her in a deep hug. She was weak, and she hurt, and she shook with strain, but she refused to move, clutching her tight to her in what she hoped was comforting instead of suffocating. Was this okay? Was she helping? Was she making it worse? Tears started to run down her face but she didn't let herself sob. She couldn't. She just couldn't. No matter what, she couldn't break down, she couldn't break down, she COULD NOT BREAK DOWN.

"No," she forced out through the lump in her throat and the lead in her chest, quiet, as soft and gentle as she could. "No, no, it's not your fault, it's not." Her tears were obvious in her voice, and her control was steadily slipping as she closed her eye to squeeze a new rush of tears out. No. Don't let yourself. You can't.

"You didn't—you didn't hurt anybody. You—you're alive, and—" She held her tighter. "And—" It hurt to talk through the lump, and her voice was shaking now. She was trying. But it was coming, and she couldn't stop it. So in the last breath she had before she couldn't hold on anymore, she murmured through a voice clogged with tears, "And S—Safie wouldn't—wouldn't want you to be sad."

The tears came faster, and still she held Dahlia tight. And for her sake too. Daz was dead. Daz was...dead. It seemed like such a foreign idea. It didn't make any sense. He was like a mountain, strong and dependable and immortal. He'd saved—

The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning. He'd saved her. He'd saved her. Instead of running. It was her fault that he'd died. Not Dahlia's. Hers.

Then she was sobbing again, just like that morning. Clutching, heaving, desperate sobs, leaning into Dahlia's shoulder in turn. "No, no, it's my fault. It's my fault it's my fault it's my fault! He didn't—he could've gotten out—but I—but he, he needed to—he saved me and he—I—I didn't—I'm—"

_Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?

"I'm sorryyyyyyy..." Any words that might have been left in her disintegrated, and she finally broke down.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

[Mcmolly]

It would have been hard to tell for Quinn exactly when she’d fallen asleep. With the line having blurred before, it seemed once again that she’d slipped through the veil without noticing.

Much like it had been on the lake, things were off, here. She was alone again, and, again, her body was not her own. It moved of its own accord, against her thoughts, against her will, and sat up in the bed of Safie’s room. She wore the jacket, though it was too big for her, and had made a comfortable nest for herself amidst the blankets.

Making her way out into the common room, she could see through the virtual windows that it was morning. Though last night the images had seemed artificial, now they looked so much more real. The sunlight felt warm on her skin, and there was a pleasant breeze.

Outside, far, far below, but much closer than it ought to have been from Aerie’s height, the sun rose over the smoldering ruins of Hovvi.

Never

Quinn stepped away, moved past the other rooms, all open and empty, and left the dormitory.

Never

In the cramped hallway it was cold, and the lights were low. The other door, the one to the hangar was gone, just a flat wall. Mist spilled over her feet.

Quinnlash

Away from her, the hallway changed. The floor, the ceiling, everything there faded away into a flat void, an open and endless and comforting expanse. Standing in the dark, illuminated by nothing and yet entirely, perfectly visible, was a single deer. Its fur was snowy, its head entirely bare of flesh, left a cracked and dusty skull, but it was not dead. It looked at her, its antlers tall and sprawling and so, so beautiful.

It looked at her.

It saw you.

Never again.

And then everything fell away, and only the dark remained.

---

---

When she woke up, Quinn would find herself in Safie’s bed, covers pulled over her, pillow under her head. Dahlia lay on the other side, back to her, still clutching the jacket. Her shoulders rose and fell softly in sleep. Down the back of her neck were the same set of plugs Quinn could assume now ran down her own.

A small clock on the bedside table alleged morning, but in space it was so hard to tell.

The door was cracked, and through it wafted the smells of breakfast. Coffee, eggs, and on her ears danced the arhythmic sizzles of bacon. And a gentle humming.

[Lemons]

She stared at the ceiling. Quinnlash. Sink. Never. The same voice was there. It was always there.

She shook her head. No. No. She had too much to think about. Barely five seconds out of sleep, and nerves were already digging hooks into her skin. Besca said that today was going to be hard. Really hard. She didn't know why.

She stood, doing her best to do so without wincing or stumbling. She didn't want to make noise. She didn't want to wake Deelie. The gash in her heart felt a little better. And a little worse. Looking down at herself, she smoothed the hospital gown, plucked at it. Besca said she was going to get new clothes, right? She needed new clothes.

The nerves kept gnawing. She reached behind her and felt around a little. Little metal plugs, gaps in her spine, trailing up her neck and down her back. It didn't feel good. It didn't feel okay. She shouldn't be able to put a finger into the back of her head like that. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. She walked over—a little easier, she felt a little bit better—to the door, placing a hand on it.

A moment passed. She dropped her hand, staring. She had just woken up, and she was...supposed to push open the door, and just walk out. She tightened her jaw. It didn't feel right. It just didn't—it felt off. She opened her mouth. Besca, can...you open the door for me? She shook her head. She was going to be a pilot. Doctor Follen called her brave. She needed to be brave. She needed to open the door. She lifted her hand again, hovering there, not quite daring to touch it.

She pushed.

The door swung open quietly, and she resisted the urge to jump back from it. Her face stayed writ with trepidation that rapidly leaked away as she stepped out. Her hand stayed up.

Then she lifted it in an awkward wave at Besca, who was moving fluidly through the kitchen. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, but not as hoarse, and her throat didn't feel as ragged.

"Good morning..."

[Mcmolly]

Besca’s face lit up when she saw Quinn. The girl looked—well, she didn’t look great, but she hadn’t woken up screaming, which, in her book, was definitive progress. Her eyes were still tear-swelled, her feet still needed some time to finish healing, but, baby steps.

“Morning, Quinn!” She set the pan aside, turned the stove down, and scooped a small bag from the counter. Coming around, she held it out to her. “There weren’t a lot of things in your size, but I found some of Dahlia’s old stuff from when she was your age. She’s never been much for fashion, but she always knew how to pick out the most comfortable stuff. Here, all yours. Go ahead and change, I’ll set you up a plate.”

The bag wasn’t particularly heavy, there wasn’t much in it. A pair of bright salmon-colored pants, a pair of sweats, a small stack of cozy looking shirts, and some socks with the Hovvi flag on them, like you’d buy at an airport or a gas station.

“And, ah,” she knelt down, lowered her voice. “Thank you, Quinn. For going in there. For being with her. She’s hardly spoken a word all week, even to me, and…I know she’s not okay. I know neither of you are okay right now, but it’s a good thing that you were there for each other.”

Besca ran a hand through Quinn’s hair, stroked her thumb across her cheek. “Whatever you think, whatever you're afraid of…she’s glad you’re alive. So am I.”

[Lemons]

Quinn took the bag, almost in a daze as Besca's hand ran through her hair. She wasn't ready to think about last night. She wasn't ready to unpack it. So instead, she just nodded, a little vaguely. She looked around at all the different closed doors, and headed to the one next to Besca's. She opened it, staring into the small room inside.

Blink. Blink.

"Besca? Can you..." She swallowed heavily. She needed to be brave. But she didn't want to need to be.

"...Can you not shut doors after me?"

With that said, she took the bag and slid into the room, making sure to leave the door cracked a few inches open. Then she opened up the bag. What did she want? Black sweatpants. They looked okay. She dug into the stack of shirts, pulling them out piece by piece until she found a mustard-brown t-shirt, holding it up against her in the mirror. It would fit, right? She tossed off the thin gown, replacing it in rapid time. It was a little too big for her, hanging loosely off her thin frame. The sweatpants were the same too. But otherwise, it looked okay, right?

The socks went on last. She hadn't realized her feet were cold. She didn't recognize the flag.

She shivered, reaching her hand back and poking at the plugs. They felt so wrong. Foreign. They weren't supposed to be there, and she knew it. She stroked her neck, bottom to top, and hissed in a breath at the sensation. Why did this have to happen?

No. She was brave and strong. She had to be brave, and she had to be strong. Pushing the door open again—it still felt odd, like everything else today—she walked back through to the kitchen, glancing at Besca as she did. "Do I look okay?"

Then she sat down in front of the plate of fresh, steaming food and picked up a fork. It was almost unbelievable. She was eating at a table. Just like she always saw online.

The eggs were really good.

[Mcmolly]

Since Besca had met her, it seemed like each word Quinn uttered unnerved her more than the last. From the odd comments about her life, to the frantic pleas not to be left alone. Now this, with the doors. She had laid awake this morning, staring into the dark, contemplating the feeling of dread she’d felt in Follen’s office, slowly realizing that something was horribly wrong with Quinn. The picture was still incomplete, but with every piece that fell into place, she doubted more and more that she wanted to see it done.

It was too early for questions, Besca told herself. Prying now would only make things harder on her, and that was the last thing she needed, especially today.

Quinn emerged from her room shortly, donned in clothes that struck Besca with a sense of nostalgia.

“Do I look okay?”

“You look great, hun,” Besca said, smiling.

She left the stove on a low simmer, in case Dahlia woke up, and brought her own plate over to sit across from Quinn. She watched her eat, saw how she looked at once uncomfortable and content, and smiled. This was good. This was necessary. Sitting with her, eating together, Besca felt a wight slough off her shoulders.

She let herself enjoy it for a few, precious minutes.

“They want to do the test this afternoon,” she said. “So we’re in no rush. Take your time. I made sure I’ll be there through the whole thing, and after. When it’s done we’re gonna come right back here, and we can do whatever you want. Watch a movie, play some games—I’ve got a cookbook over there, you pick a recipe, and that’ll be dinner tonight. You can even help, if you want to.”

[Lemons]

Quinn looked up at Besca across the table. Her face suddenly felt strange, sitting across from her. She was glad she looked nice.

“They want to do the test this afternoon, so we’re in no rush. Take your time. I made sure I’ll be there through the whole thing, and after. When it’s done we’re gonna come right back here, and we can do whatever you want. Watch a movie, play some games—I’ve got a cookbook over there, you pick a recipe, and that’ll be dinner tonight. You can even help, if you want to.”

She was so nice. The best.

"I think I'd like that."

Her face still felt strange, just like everything felt strange. Was it something to be worried about? She brought her hand up, running worriedly across her—

Oh.

That's what felt so strange. Small, fragile. Like it would crack into fragments if someone looked at it wrong.

It was a smile.

Then her mind caught up with the first half of what Besca had said, and it shattered.

She ran her hand through her hair. Her dry, crackling hair. It had been braided for a week, hadn't it? She fiddled with it and bit her lip as she met Besca's eye with her own still puffy and reddened one. She kept fidgeting with her hair and tried to untie it with her clumsy fingers, but it was harder than it should have been. She dropped her eye. She didn't want to ask the real question.

So instead she asked, voice wobbling a little more than it maybe should've for the question she was asking: "...Do you have a hairbrush? Can you help me with hair?"

What test?

[Mcmolly]

“I think I'd like that.”

The words were an incredible relief, but not nearly as much as the smile on Quinn’s face. It was small, and god, it looked so delicate, but it was there. It vanished quickly, but Besca didn’t despair over it. She could still smile. They could bring it back. They would bring it back. No matter what, Besca swore she would bring that smile back.

“...Do you have a hairbrush? Can you help me with hair?”

“Oh. She looked at Quinn’s hair. Really looked at it. “Oh. Uhm, yeah, hun, of course. ‘Course I can do that. Yeah.”

Leaving the commons momentarily to retrieve a brush from her room, Besca paused to clutch her face and panic. God. Oh god. She’d never done anyone’s hair before, not like this. Putting clips in Dahlia’s hair, or helping Safie rinse out dye, none of that was any kind of preparation for managing the beast on Quinn’s head.

Figure it out, Besca.

“Alright! Got it!” she called, bounding back out, brush in hand. She rounded up behind Quinn, and took solace in the fact that she couldn’t see the fear in her eye. This first part, undoing it, brushing it out, that wouldn’t be so bad, right? It was the second bit that worried her. Tying it. She didn’t know how to tie a braid. She knew how to tie her shoes, and the strands on her workout pants—which was, effectively, just the same tie as her shoes—but a braid? And one so long?

Figure it out, Besca.

Very gently, very slowly, Besca began to brush down the length of the braid. It had been a minute since it had been cleaned, clearly, but the more she brushed, the looser it became. When it tugged on a knot, she would stop, adjust, finagle it out, and then continue. Easy—ish. Eventually she brought her other hand into the fold and started to coax the braid open bit by bit. It was a slow process, but, still steady.

“It won’t take long,” Besca said, a bit absently with her focus split. “The test, I mean. They want to see how long it takes you to phase once you’re connected. Some people are fast, some people are slow. Normally it doesn’t take longer than fifteen minutes or so. Could be you’re quicker, could be you’re slower. There’s no wrong answer, you can’t fail. You just have to…do it. Then you’re out, it’s done.”

The last plaits came undone, and Besca marveled at how long Quinn’s hair was when it was down like this. She ran her fingers down it, continued to brush it straight and smooth.

“I uh…I don’t really know how to describe it. I’m not...I’m not a pilot, I’ve never had to do it.” But she’d watched it before, listened to it hundreds of times. How could you describe something like that in a way that wasn’t terrifying? Melding your body and mind with an alien creature, sharing your senses. “It’s uh…you…well you get into the cockpit…”

“It’s like being really tall.”

Besca jolted, glad she hadn’t taken hold of Quinn’s hair yet. Dahlia emerged from Safie’s room, dressed, looking only a bit less tired than before, but still less. The bright yellow jacket was a far cry from the muted colors of her usual wardrobe, but it fit her just fine.

She came over behind Quinn, taking long sweeps of hair into her hands, and Besca scooted aside.

“People told me all sorts of things before I did my test. I read a bunch of articles, and interviews. I was nervous, and I really thought it was gonna hurt.” Dahlia’s fingers moved as dexterous as a spider’s legs. She wove the hair like webbing, like thread, with never a harsh tug or mistaken yank. Gentle as silk. “But I got up there, and you know, the cockpit was kinda dark, and being up that high made me a little dizzy, but one I was in, once I connected,” she shrugged. “I opened my eyes again and it just felt like I was taller. Didn’t hurt, didn’t feel weird, really.

“Phasing is a little different. I don’t really know how to say it…it’s like…well for me it’s like falling. Like that feeling you get in your gut when you jump from somewhere really high up. And the longer I go, the closer it feels like I’m getting to the ground, but I have a parachute and I can pull it whenever I want and I’ll stop. It doesn’t hurt, really, it’s just…weird. Sometimes there’s other stuff, too, like…in my head, if that makes sense.

“It also doesn’t feel like I’m alone, after I phase. Not like I’m with someone, but like I’m, I dunno, on the phone. And I’m talking to this person, or they’re talking to me, and at first I don’t recognize them, but the longer we talk, the more it starts to sound like my own voice. The more I’m sure I’m talking to myself.”

Besca hadn’t even realized Dahlia had finished the braid. It looked absolute pristine. She came around to Quinn’s side, looked her in the eye.

“I was scared my first time. My first few times. It’s okay to be scared. Being strong doesn’t mean you’re never afraid of anything, sometimes it means being afraid of something and doing it anyway.” She brushed a few strands back behind Quinn’s ear, smiled a warm and tired smile. “Remember you’re not alone. We’re with you. I’m with you, even in the dark. Especially in the dark. That’s what it means to be friends.”

She gave the girl a hug, quick and tight, and then headed for the exit. “I’m gonna check in with Follen, then I’ll come to the test. I’m behind on my sims, so I’ll have to catch up on that afterwards. I’ll see you guys for dinner.”

Then she left them. Besca felt a weight in her shift, uncertain. At the very least, Dahlia was walking again, talking again. She looked down at Quinn’s braid and smiled.

“I think that looks fantastic, how about you?”

[Lemons]

A short, sharp intake of breath. This time when Besca spoke, Quinn's whole body jerked, wound up tight as a spring.

And I’m talking to this person, or they’re talking to me, and at first I don’t recognize them, but the longer we talk, the more it starts to sound like my own voice. The more I’m sure I’m talking to myself.

She felt her blood rushing in her ears. And past that, she thought she heard the voice. Or a faint echo of it. Maybe it was just a trick her frazzled mind was playing on her. When she spoke, she stuttered again like she had yesterday.

“Th—the voice. On the phone. Your—your own voice. Is...is that—normal?”

She knew immediately by the look on Besca's face that it wasn't.

All at once, the running running running oh god it's HUNTING YOU QUINNLASH seared itself back into her mind. Her face crumpled, and she dropped it into her hands, elbows resting on the table. She wasn't crying this time. Her voice wasn't thickened the same way it had been yesterday. What it was, was afraid. Terrified. Deathly so. She was back there again, running through the darkness, breaths scraping her ragged and acid-burnt throat. And all the while, the voice—indistinct, the space between heartbeats, screaming in her ears. Telling her to—

"It told me to run," she wheezed out all at once, face still in her hands, barely able to control her voice as it steadily grew louder. "It just told me to r—run and run and run and—and it was so dark and—and it said my name. It kept saying my NAME—"

She cut herself off, throwing the room into sudden silence.

She didn't move. She couldn't.

She was still back there.

[Mcmolly]

It felt colder all of the sudden. Chilly like the night air, like a breeze over the lake. Frozen in her seat Quinn couldn’t know if things were changing around her, but that dread clung to her. Was she still dreaming? Had she slipped through one veil into another? In her mangled periphery there was darkness, but was it real? Was her vision blurring? The doubt was a hand on her shoulder, a whisper in her ear.

Did her reflection in the polished counter look younger?

Did it have both eyes?

Were those hoofbeats in the hallway outside?

Was she hearing her name, still? Formless, wordless, but every moment that passed it was there in her brain, lighting up. Quinnlash. Quinnlash. Maybe she was still there, Quinnlash, maybe you are.

Quinnlash.

“Quinn! Quinn—hey!” Hands on her shoulders, a shape moving into view. Besca, holding her, shaking her gently. “Quinn, hey, you’re here! You’re here. It’s me.”

God, it happened so fast. Dahlia had left, and Besca was certain things were, well, maybe not good but at least marginally better. Then Quinn had locked up, started mumbling into her hands about a voice. About the voice on the phone, in her head.

She’d asked if it was normal.

It wasn’t, but then, nothing about what had happened in Hovvi was normal. And more and more it seemed like nothing about Quinn was normal, either.

“It’s okay,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say. She wanted so desperately to give her answers, but she just didn’t have them. Not yet—but she would, dammit. She would. “Quinn, listen to me. Breathe. Listen to me. You don’t have to run anywhere up here. You’re safe, hear me? You are safe. The only one saying your name right now is me. Quinn. It’s me. Okay?”

[Lemons]

She'd dropped her hands at some point, and her eye stared off into nowhere. She knew Besca was there, shaking her shoulders, voice urgent, but she didn't know if she was there, or if she was back in the misty hallway staring at a dead white deer so glorious and terrifying, or back in the black lake with eyes beneath her sinking sinking sinking, or back in the burning shell of the town with gnashing liquid shadows swarming around her. Her mind was at the bottom of the lake and everything else felt so far away...

"Quinn, listen to me. Breathe."

Besca. Besca. Her voice echoed down through the depths, saying to breathe. She kicked just like Safie had said, swimming closer. She surfaced. She breathed. Just like Besca had said. Just like Besca was saying now. In. Out. Three times. Her heartbeat in her ears slowed from its breakneck pace. The blank elsewhere slipped away as her eye focused again and registered where she was. She was at the table, a half-eaten strip of bacon left on the plate in front of her. Besca was shaking her by the shoulders

She gulped in another deep breath, tried to steady herself. Besca was there. She was safe. Besca would keep her safe.

Her voice was barely more than a halting whisper. "Okay."

She shut her eye, like she was hiding from the world. But it was still there. She still saw it. She still heard it. It still lingered, around her, inside her. She was stained. Dyed.

"I..." I don't want to take the test. But she couldn't say that. She needed to take it. Deelie said it didn't hurt. She would be okay. She needed to be strong and brave or else they would take her away and send her home. "...never mind. I'm...I'm okay."

She didn't feel okay.

[Mcmolly]

“...never mind. I'm...I'm okay.”

Besca couldn’t stop thinking about those words, how Quinn had said them. She’d sounded like a kid telling their first lie, trying to figure out how words were supposed to sound when you didn’t mean them. She wasn’t okay. A glass smile and breakfast weren’t going to change that, and right now there probably wasn’t anything that could.

Before either of them knew it, it was time.

She didn’t want to take her. It was awful enough seeing people like Ghaust and Safie, adults, climb into those monsters and put their bodies and minds at risk. Every time Dahlia suited up, Besca still felt her heart sink. She didn’t know what she’d feel when Quinn vanished into the cockpit. It wouldn’t be good.

The elevator across from the dorms was spacious, big enough to have fit a pilot from every room. With just the two of them it felt empty, quiet. It moved fast, they reached the station’s belly in well under a minute.

The doors opened to another hall, with a door to one side reading: PREP, another reading: DECK and the middle path, which carried on a ways until it hit a third door. HANGAR.

Besca led Quinn to the Prep room. It was about the same size as the elevator, but with a row of large lockets bisecting one. One was open, revealing a hook holding what looked like a slim, dark diving skin, rife with circular plugs and nodules along the spine, cuffs, and ankles. Behind it was a much heavier, baggier jumpsuit with an array of pouches fashioned into it. Along the inner face of the high collar were vents, and a thick, leathery gorget sealed it off from the rest of the interior. A pair of boots lay at the bottom, alongside a set of gloves. All of it seemed perfectly sized for Quinn.

“Go ahead and swap into that. You can leave your clothes in the locker, we'll come get them when you're done.” She made her way out, remembering to keep the door propped—slightly. “I’m gonna go check some stuff, meet me right out there in the hangar as soon as you’re done, okay hun?”

She didn’t particularly want to leave Quinn alone, but it would be brief, and she’d only be down the hall. Still, she had to force herself at a brisk pace or she’d have slow-walked until the girl caught up to her. So, out she went, into the hangar.

It had been a week since she’d stepped foot in here, perhaps a bit less. She’d come when they’d retrieved Grauritter and Jubilee, just to see. Just in case. But that was what confused her, now. Saviors regenerated fast, usually, but heavier wounds, especially ones that were fatal to the pilots, often took much longer. Grauritter had been torn to pieces, and Jubilee had needed to regrown itself entirely from the neck down. A week wasn’t long enough for either.

They weren’t planning on connecting her to a Savior that was still missing its limbs, or organs, were they? No. Quinn would connect and feel like she was being ripped apart, it would be torture.

She needed answers.

What she got was Follen. He stood with a cluster of engineers, analysts, a few other members of the medical team. No wonder he was here—he’d spearheaded the whole thing, of course he was here. She marched over and summoned up just enough self-control not to grab his shoulder and whirl him around.

“Follen,” she snapped, and he turned. “What’s going on? There’s no way either of our Saviors are ready for connection, so what are we doing? I swear to god, if you’re planning to hook her up to one of them half-healed, I’ll—”

“God no, commander, that would be abhorrently inhumane. No one here wants to see miss Loughvein hurt.”

She grimaced, ignored his saccharine grin. “Then what’s the deal? What are we doing here?”

Follen gave her an odd look, something like genuine emotion flickered in his eyes. Confusion—and then, amusement. “Commander you have been so busy, I suppose it’s no surprise you missed the memo.”

“Enough, Follen. What—”

He nodded behind her, and as she followed his gaze around she saw it. Her breath caught in her throat, her words died in her mouth.

There, sat against the wall in a housing chamber, was the Modir that had come out of the lake. The one that had destroyed the elevator. The one that had killed Safie.

_{“Oh god...”}

[Lemons]

It was quiet without Besca, and the prickling feeling in her gut roared back. She stared at the suits in the locker. She'd never worn anything like it. What was it—? Never mind. She needed to do it. She had to.

As she pulled the thinner suit up, she felt something rattling across her back. Forgetting herself for a moment, she wondered what it was. Then it clicked into the plugs on her back and she let out an involuntary hiss. It sounded wrong, and it felt wrong. But...it was soft, at least. If she needed to wear it, it was nice that it was soft. No matter how tight fitting it was, though, it couldn't quite stop her skin from crawling beneath it.

The heavier suit went on and she gasped. This time a different gasp than usual. A good gasp. It was warm. It was like walking around wrapped up in a big cozy blanket, but still being able to walk. See? It wasn't all bad!

The gloves and boots went on. She'd never worn gloves, and flexed her hands in fascination momentarily before she shook her head and gently the—her!—clothes into the locker, closed it (leaving it slightly open) and walked out.

Besca said she'd be in the hangar, right? She followed the signs, walking down a long hallway faster than was entirely comfortable. It hurt a little, but she was glad she could walk right again, and was anxious to be back with Besca. And Deelie'd said she was coming, right?

As much as she tried to reassure herself, she was still boiling inside. She didn't want to hear the voice again. She heard it in her sleep, she didn't want to hear it awake again too. She stopped in her tracks, wiped the sleeve of the baggy suit across her eye, then walked the last little bit into the hangar.

It was cavernous. She didn't know exactly how high up the ceiling hung, but it was really, really high for sure. Besca was standing right in front of her, and Doctor Follen was there too. It was only going to take fifteen minutes, right? That's what Besca said. Fifteen minutes, and then they could go back and watch a movie and—apparently she could eat whatever she wanted? That seemed odd. It didn't seem right to have a say in what you ate. But it seemed nice too.

She was just starting over to them when she saw Besca looking...not well. She looked scared. She couldn't imagine anything scaring her, she thought as she looked over to Besca was looking, so what—

She choked on her breath. No.

She staggered backwards, crashing into the wall with a thud, barely even noticing as her head cracked into it. No, no, no.

The red eyes in Hovvi. The red eyes in the lake. The sun that looked at her. Safie's Savior—its—its chest, and its head, and—

Her lips moved, but no air came out. No, no, no, no, no, she mouthed, pupil narrowed to a tiny pinprick. Suddenly everything was too hot, and too cold. Her teeth started to chatter. She thought maybe she was suffocating.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...

[Mcmolly]

The Modir starred ahead, its eyes dimmed to hollow cherry orbs in their sockets. It looked almost like it was resting; if she looked closely enough, if she could, she would see its massive shoulders rising and falling as slightly as Dahlia’s had this morning. By now, perhaps she expected the voice to come, to hear her own thoughts and feel them as another’s, but it didn’t. There was only silence, broken by pounding of her heart, and the chattering of her teeth.

There was, however, something else. Not words, not thoughts, but feeling. It was submerged deep, but it treaded impatiently, kicked trying to rise to the surface and force itself to be felt.

Anger.

Something wanted to hate this thing. Wanted Quinnlash to hate it.

Besca was on her then, arms around her like she thought Quinn was about to collapse—had she? A hand felt gently at the back of her head, waved in her face. The words seemed so far away, shoved to the back. Another blur approached, gestured Besca aside, and she did so only after more blurs ushered her back.

Light flicked across Quinn’s eye, quick from side to side. Snapping in her ear. Her name, said soothingly, but intently. “Quinn.” It was Follen. He shined a little flashlight at her eye again, turned it away. Fingers propped a bump on the back of her head, but came back unbloodied. “Quinn, darling.”

The feeling sunk, though its displeasure remained. With its going, the world slowly began to return to her. Follen before her, thin smile on his lips, warm eyes behind his glasses.

“I know, Quinn,” he said quietly, even Besca couldn’t have heard from the few steps away. “But if you don’t do this, they will send you home. Right back to your mother and father. Don’t let them do that to Besca. Don’t let them do that to you.”

And suddenly he stood away, and his voice returned to a normal volume. “She’s unharmed. Her plugs are intact as well, she’s fine to proceed. At least give her the chance.”

[Lemons]

_{"Quinn. Quinn, darling."}

She stared, eye slightly crossed, at Doctor Follen. His image was hazy, she was dizzy, and her face felt like ice, as though all the blood had drained out of it.

"I know, Quinn, but if you don't do this, they will send you home. Right back to your mother and father. Don't let them do that to Besca. Don't let them do that to you.."

She clenched her teeth together, blinked her eye to focus, forced the chattering to stop. She glanced to the side, to Besca, looking at her with such worry on her face. She needed to do this. Doctor Follen was right. It was the only way she could stay here instead of—of—she didn't want to think about it.

"Okay," she rasped out. The back of her head hurt where she'd hit it into the wall. Then, every step harder, she slowly walked towards the behemoth in front of her. Her hands were clenched into tight fists by her sides to stop them from shaking. She could feel eyes on her. So many eyes. Everyone was looking at her. They were all looking to see if she did it right. She needed to do it right. She just had to.

After all, she was going to be a pilot.

She was...she was going to pilot that thing.

So she needed to do it right.

A uniformed woman with close-cropped hair showed her to a small platform of corrugated metal around the back of it. She was close enough to touch the thing now, and being so near it brought her such a feeling of unease that her stomach was hurting. And for some reason, that just made it all worse. She stepped on, concentrating on the gentle clang of her new boots, and looked up. It was so, so high.

Then the floor dropped away along with her stomach, and she was shooting skyward. Her whole body tensed up. If she hadn't been wearing gloves, her nails would have been digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood now. If she hadn't been wound up so tight, she would probably have yelped. But Doctor Follen called her brave and strong. And what was it Deelie had said?

It’s okay to be scared. Being strong doesn’t mean you’re never afraid of anything, sometimes it means being afraid of something and doing it anyway.

She hadn't seen her down there, but she'd been distracted. She'd said she was coming, so she would be there. She was cheering her on, right? She and Besca and Doctor Follen were all cheering her on. She needed to—could do this. She could. She swore she could. Otherwise she—

The thought was cut off but the platform coming to a sudden stop at the head of the back of the head, into which was embedded a—

A—

A door.

Again, she nearly screamed right there. Opening it wouldn't be too hard here. But then she would need to close it behind herself.

She unclenched her right hand, and though it immediately started shaking again, she reached out and took hold of the door. It was heavy. So heavy, and the trembling didn't help.

After nearly half a minute of fruitless effort as she strained against the door, it finally slid open and a waft of freezing air s seeped out. She gasped as it blew over her face. Now she understood why the suit was heated. It wasn't to be nice. It was to stop her freezing to death.

She stopped. The only light in there came from the hangar lights that leaked through the door in front of her, illuminating a long, recumbent chair. For just a moment she forgot herself and clawed at her upper arms, eye wide. She knew that as soon as she closed it, it would be pitch black with no light.

The cockpit was tiny, so the question wasn't whether she'd be able to find the chair. It was whether or not she'd be able to get into it before she broke down.

Another moment of hesitation. She was scared. She was so, so scared.

It’s okay to be scared.

She dove in, and before she could think, she slammed the door behind her and was plunged into utter blackness.

It was even worse than she'd thought, and her breath immediately began to heave. She didn't have time. She needed to needed to go now NOW NOW.

Fumbling around in the dark, she found the chair and lay down in it as fast as she could. It was contoured enough that she could find where to position herself, and she let out a shrill squeak as little nodes slid into her plugs. They she lay there hyperventilating. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Nobody told her what to do now. She closed her eyes. Please work. Please, please, please work.

Then she fell into a dark that was darker than black.

[Mcmolly]

I’m with you, even in the dark. Especially in the dark.

It was not dark for long.

The seat closed shut around Quinn, fastened her still and secure, but there was not much time to fret over it. As she sat there gulping down the frigid air, staring into the black and begging deliverance from anything that might hear her thoughts, the darkness began to smear. The chill left her, as if sucked away through a vacuum. A warmth duller than the suit took its place. Warmth and…strength.

Yes, sitting there terrified, the first thing to come to her was a feeling of immense power. Power and then lightness; she was a feather for a moment, hovering, too dainty for gravity to clutch. Like she had been living her whole life with a hundred pounds strapped to every limb, and they were taken away. The walls of her body, the limits of her being, they collapsed.

There passed a splitting moment only remembered later, where she was nothing, where Quinnlash blinked out of existence. So fast, so sudden, she wouldn’t even notice.

And then, light.

So much light, more than she’d seen in years. The world—or, rather, the hangar—opened up before her and it was so…so…much. There was so much of it, like it had doubled in size. And depth, too. It was strikingly dizzying—though, she’d notice, distinctly not nauseating. It might have taken several moments before she even began to realize what was happening.

She had two eyes.

Quinnlash had two eyes again.

Dahlia wasn’t lying—it hadn’t hurt at all. She was taller, much taller. She could feel the wall against her back, hard steel but neither was it cold or uncomfortable to her. It was as though the outermost layers of her skin were toughened, numbed. She knew there was feeling below, but it was guarded.

For many moments the silence continued. Below her, the group of crewmen and doctors and all gathered. Besca was there, too, hand pressed to her ear.

“Quinn! Quinn, can you hear me? You connected, you did great, hun! You did so great—you’re doing so great!”

She heard Besca’s voice in her ear, as though they were on the phone together. Without even needing to think about it, the volume adjusted perfectly.

“Quinn,” Follen’s voice joined them. “Well done, darling, the first hurdle is done. You don’t need to stand up or anything, you can just sit there and get comfortable. Though if you could, move your arms for us, flex your fingers, maybe stretch you legs out. Everything ought to feel just fine.”

[Lemons]

It...wasn't as bad as she thought it would be.

It was disorienting for sure. So disorienting. Everything was so much all of a sudden, she could see all the way to the right, and she didn't know if she liked it. She was huge, and the people below her were just pinpricks against the faraway floor.

Then Besca's voice came to her. Just came to her. She was doing great. She was passing the test. So far. Then Doctor Follen. Move her hands, stretch her arms, stretch her legs. Having them there lessened the off feeling a little bit. She felt a little bit more grounded.

So she obliged the doctor, looking down at both her hands—both of them evenly—as they lifted up into her line of sight. Opening and closing them, she trembled inside, though it didn't quite make it to the surface, she didn't think. where there should have been skin there was blackness and metal. At the tips were long claws that she saw dig into Safie's neck and rip her head from her body no. no no no stop she needed to stay calm, she could feel her breaths starting to surge into her suddenly enormous torso. In. Out. Three deep breaths.

She closed her eye—eyes—to the tiny world, lifting up one arm, bending it, rolling her shoulders, rolling her wrist. One leg bent and then straightened, then the other right afterwards. With her eye HER EYES closed, it felt almost like she was getting out of bed that morning. It was more comfortable too. The world was too wide and open.

"This...this isn't so bad." Then, "Having two eyes feels weird." She felt guilty as she said it. Besca was missing an eye too, and she probably wished she wasn't. She'd love to have it back. It just felt...so much. Maybe she would get used to it eventually. She opened them again, doing her best not to look at herself.

She hadn't heard the voice yet. That was good. Maybe it—maybe it wouldn't come at all.

"So now I just wait?"

A moment. Eyes open now, she noticed something missing and frowned, though it felt strange and stretched on her face. "Where's Deelie?"

[Mcmolly]

Besca stood below, watching Quinn try out her limbs, stretching her legs, rolling her shoulders. The analysts all carried tablets monitoring the Savior’s vitals, and Quinn’s. She took one without a fuss—another perk of being commander that she wasn’t quite used to.

“Yep, now we wait,” she said. “Why don’t you start thinking about what you want for dinner tonight? I’m not the best cook, but I bet between the three of us we can tackle just about anything.”

This was beginning to feel more familiar to her—saddening in its own right, but nonetheless. Helping pilots pass the time, helping them not think so much about what they were doing, about where they were. She remembered Safie’s phasing test, how nervous she’d been. They’d talked about doing gymnastics in middle school, how Besca could hardly do a split, how Safie had dropped out to focus on sims, but always regretted not keeping up with it as a hobby. They’d given her a challenge then, something to set her mind on—two weeks later Jubilee was the first Savior Besca had ever seen do a handstand.

She didn’t quite know where to go with Quinn, yet. The other pilots had all been so eager to jump in, but this was different. Quinn didn’t want this, and while she’d never encountered a situation like this in her career, Besca knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that making someone want to pilot who didn’t, was not an easy task.

The Modir’s face—Savior, now, though it strained her to say it—twitched, its flayed rictus hitching ever so slightly down, though the things could never emote much.

“Where's Deelie?”

Yeah. Where was Dahlia? She’d sworn to be here, right after—

Besca whirled to Follen, muted herself on the comms. “Where’s Dahlia.”

He glanced at her, sniffed, said nothing.

“Fuckface, I know she came to see you this morning. Where is she? Why isn’t she here?” She sucked in her lips, her teeth came together. “That’s a fucking order, Follen.”

“No need for any of that, commander. A simple mix up. Our new Savior here only finished regenerating at the top of the hour, we couldn’t be sure when exactly it would be ready.” He continued looking up at the giant, waved happily to it. He must have muted himself as well. “I told her to go ahead and start on her sims.”

A pure and violent fury burst to life in Besca’s chest. She took a step towards him—he didn’t flinch—and stopped. The only thing keeping him off the floor, and her hands off his neck, was that Quinn was up there, watching. Through gritted teeth she took a breath, and pulled up the tablet.

“I’m calling her in.”

“Don’t, Besca.” His voice took a turn for the sincere, and it nearly stopped her dead. “She needs this. These crutches you’re giving her, they won’t help. They’ll ruin her. You know I’m right.”

Their eyes met. Besca saw past them, past the shell of warmth and humanity, to something dark and else beneath. For a moment she mourned her friend, and feared the thing standing beside her. Then she frowned.

“Fuck you, Aldous.” She sent an alert to Dahlia, then unmuted her comms. “Little mistake in the schedules, hun! She’ll be right on her way! You should ask her for some ideas when she gets here, she spent a lot of time cooking with Ghaust.”

Minutes passed, them more. As Quinn sat there, at first she only felt what she was. Strength, clarity, a dull and guarded comfort. Then, slowly, something else began to buzz within her. At first it was nothing more than a flicker, a flitting of shadows across the mind, but as the minutes went on, and then the seconds, it did change. A thrumming, a prickling like when her foot fell asleep, or she banged her elbow, only lesser, and not on any limb, but concentrated within.

It spread through her like an ink stain in clear water. Stark, sprawling. It still didn’t hurt, but she could feel it, certainly.

Static. Living static. It crackled in her mind, it breathed with her lungs.

And it did not know her.

We’re strangers, that dark and I. Oh, Quinnlash, but we’re here again. How the void calls, how the circuit creeps shut. To feel it, to forget your own skin and your own soul.

Hate it, Quinnlash.

Below, lights began to flash on the tablets. Brows shot up, murmurs abound. Besca could hardly believe her eyes—was she phasing? Already? If not, she was certainly close.

“Wonderful, Quinn. Just wonderful,” Follen said, and she wanted to slap the comm piece from his ear. “Only a minute or two more.”

Close. She was close. Close to what? The thrumming grew stronger, the power with it. It was raw, and liberating, and as it slowly built, thoughts came to her like questions from a child. Thoughts of Hovvi, of home. How could anything have been so small? How could her whole life have been a single room? Why?

Why don’t you hate this, Quinnlash?

[Lemons]

Something was wrong.

Something was really, really, really wrong.

She could feel it. She could feel it because she couldn't feel it. She felt so strong. She hadn't felt this strong, ever. It felt—it felt—it felt good. It felt good, and that's how she knew it was bad. This wasn't supposed to feel good.

But it did.

She did.

And something else. Something else. She felt something creeping up on her. Creeping through her, through her mind. She swallowed, but it felt—so—good—so—right.

"Something's—something feels—I feel strange." Her own voice felt strange in her ears, and when Doctor Follen spoke, she could barely understand him. Like he was talking through cotton, through the static in her head. The static that she'd heard in her head in Hovvi, like words murmuring around the corner of her mind that she couldn't quite make out. She felt so strong. So free. So big.

Why was it all so small? One room. One room. Sixteen years. One room. Why, why, why, why, why?

"Is this what it feels like to————"

Why don't you hate this, Quinnlash?

Her voice cracked, then broke entirely with a sound like the very start of a scream. A high-pitched whine filled her ears. If anybody was talking to her she couldn't hear them anymore. Anybody except the voice. Why don't you hate it?

She—why didn't she hate it? She couldn't remember why it had felt so wrong. But—but the voice—it was so—

Why didn't she hate it?

And then she did.

She hated it.

She hated it.

EVERYTHING FELT WRONG.

She was too big. The world was too small, too bright, too open around her. The strength that coursed through her felt suddenly revolting and she shrank away from it. Again, she clutched her nails to her arms, then gasped deep in her throat as they cut into her but she kept them there because she couldn't pull them away. Her mind was racing, racing, racing racingracingracing everything felt so right and so wrong and so jumbled and the voice she was afraid of it she was afraid of it but it was right in Hovvi it had saved her it was RIGHT she HATED this she hated it HATED IT HATED IT HATED IT.

One room. One room one room she was in one room a tiny cold room she wasn't strong she wasn'tshewasn'tshewasn't but she STILL FELT STRONG SHE FELT GOOD she felt good and she was so strong and she hated hated hated how good she felt she shouldn'tshouldn'tfeelgood noneofthisshould feelgood she was forcedtobe here and shedidn'twanttobutitstillfelt it felt so right likeshewasPARTOFSOMETHING something that she didn'twanttobepartofbutshewantedtobepartofitshewantedtobepartofsomething NO IT WASN'TWASN'TRIGHTITDIDN'TFEELRIGHTEVENTHOUGHITFELTSOGOOD

Hate this, Quinnlash. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. She couldn't tell if it was stillspeaking or just echo echo echo echo echoing in her her nothernotherheadherhead she needed to do it she neededtoloveitsheneededtoHATEIT it was all so jumbled her fingersclawsfingersthefingersnotherfingerstoredownwardandshefeltsomethingleakoutsomethingshedidntknowshedidntgetitandCONFUSEDandITHURTANDshedidntknowwhatwasgoingonbutitfeltggggggghhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[Mcmolly]

“Quinn? Quinn, hey? Hun, you there? Comms, hey, you, check the—why can’t she hear me? Quinn? Quinnlash”

Besca’s tablet erupted with flashing lights and frantic beeping. She tossed it aside. Something was wrong. This was done. Enough. “Get her out! Now! Get her out!”

“She hasn’t phased yet. Take her out and we’ll have to put her right back in.”

“We’re not putting her in ever you fuck! Do you hear me? Ever!”

“Then she goes home!” Follen said, and there was almost a sharp edge to his voice. Almost. “Then she goes home,” he said, calmer. “And everything you’re afraid of, everything you think that means. It does. And more. And so much worse. Leave her in, Besca. Or let her go.”

Every muscle in her face strained not to twist into fury, or devastation. Her throat clenched not to scream. She tapped her earpiece again, desperate.

“Quinn! Quinn!”

Quinnlash

Buried name

What more can they take? How much more will we let them take?

It felt wrong. This power, this being, it felt so wrong and inhuman. She knew, sitting there—sitting where? Which seat was hers, really, the chair or the wall?—it was told to her in the static that she was loaned this. Strange things, shared. Evolution, parsed and priced, offered and imposed. She would not take so greedily, so freely, and be ignored. Great eyes, invisible eyes saw her, Quinnlish, I am seen and I find their gazes repulsive.

Hate them Quinnlash

It’s what they deserve

And it was, wasn’t it? Her home, all of it, gone. Burned. Buried they buried it all of them. For what? She knew what, she’d been told that as well. She’d been told, and it doesn’t matter why. Do you hear, Quinnlash? It doesn’t matter. Their reasons. Their wants. They are monsters. They are vermin. They are weakness and they would take from us.

Hate them, Quinnlash

Quinnlash

Quinn

“—my voice.” like a knife piercing the static. A hand reaching down into the water. “Listen to my voice.”

Especially in the dark.

Dahlia’s voice filled Quinn’s ears. Filled her mind. Everything quieted, the static, the thrumming, the voice. All of it was gone. It was as quiet as the dorm. They were as close as they had been, collapsed onto the floor.

“I’m with you. I’m here. Listen to me. It’s like we’re in a tunnel, isn’t it? Do you see the end? Take my hand, pretend for me. Take my hand, we’ll get there together.”

Below, the beeping stopped. The monitors settled. Dahlia stood beside Besca, the woman’s comm piece in her ear. She stood at the base of the Savior, looking up, into Quinn’s eyes. She smiled. It was thin, and as fragile as the one Quinn had worn that morning. But it was there. Still there.

“Let’s go, Quinn. Almost done.”