[IC] Amygdala Circuit

[Lemons]

Quinn stilled.

When she'd heard that the eye was gone—oh no—she'd expected panic. More panic, more blinding nightmarish panic.

But instead, everything went completely and utterly quiet in her head, but for a high ringing. She felt for a moment like she was back there on the lake, back in the dream. And she thought.

She'd felt something when she pressed her hand deep into her eye socket, she'd thought. Something hard. Something that shouldn't be there. She didn't know if she wanted to ask. She didn't know if it was there at all. So she didn't touch it again. But the thought burrowed into her mind, taking root all the way in the back. And what was displaced, what came forward through that—floating like a bubble in water to the surface—was a simple thought. One that she hadn't ever expected to think. It felt wrong to even entertain it; but it didn't make sense anymore, her eye breaking from looking outside. It had never made sense. It wasn't just wrong. It wasn't just stupid.

Rotten place, full of rotten people.

The thought crystallized then, into five words:

They had lied to her.

And then, another thought. And this one carried with it the bitter smell and dark tint of water. The twisting of a sick stomach. The image of a door with no knob and four white walls and only a screen for sixteen years. It carried an echo of the wonder she'd felt stepping out for the first time. That first talk with Besca. The clarity and sweetness of...of normal water. The terrible feeling of terror that she'd felt as she'd emptied herself in the lake, the first RUN that had beaten through her head. The giant with the cannon, staring at her. Hunting her. HER.

Rotten place, full of rotten people.

She stared at the ceiling still, as all these images played behind her eye. Her voice had lost all inflection, all emotion, blank and toneless. Hollow, as the thought rushed through her.

And that thought, she spoke.

"What did they do to me?"

[Mcmolly]

There was quiet, without intent.

What had they done to her?

A vague question, and Besca could only sit there and think. She thought about Hovvi, about the interview, and the feeling that something wasn’t quite right with Quinn even though they’d only just met. She thought about her questions when she’d woken up. Her panic, so much panic, so much fear and all of it made sense viscerally but logically, emotionally…

She thought about Follen, and their talk in his office. He had known something that she had only just begun to piece together—a puzzle she was too afraid to complete.

She was still too afraid.

“They hurt you.”

Hands came to rest on Quinn’s cheeks, guided her head back down to meet Dahlia’s eyes. The girl knelt in front of her, holding her gently by the face, not firmly, but unyielding. She could not look away.

“They lied to you,” Dahlia said. Her lips quivered, but with how still her face was, it was impossible to tell if it was the grief or the anger that touched her. Her eyes glistened, but no tears spilled. “And they hurt you.”

They hurt us.

A chill bristled Quinn’s skin, not sharp, it was almost comfortable in fact. The hollowness that had enwrapped her cooled, eased into a pervading calm.

In the doorway a small figure stood, too shadowed to see much but the glinting of the metal horns on her head. She watched impassively, but Quinn could feel something radiating from her, touching her, or perhaps it was trying to escape from her own depths.

Anger. It wanted her to feel angry. But below that was something else, something…curious. Probing. It wanted to know why she was so resistant.

It’s not fair. They locked us away. They hurt us.

“They can’t hurt you anymore. Quinn.” Dahlia sounded so sure. So certain. “We won’t let them.”

The shadow’s head turned down in thought. The light caught her, illuminating the barest hint of confusion on a strange face.

Then in a blink she was gone. The chill went with her, and warmth found Quinn again.

It was just the three of them. Dahlia before her, Besca besides, cleaning her up. Just them. Safe. That feeling came next, and it was foreign, but it was the first one to come to her as a suggestion, not a demand. An acquiescence.

Safe…

[Lemons]

Safe.

She was...safe.

She tried the word out in her mind. She was safe. Right here, with Besca and Dahlia—people who cared about her, people who would never yell at her, or lock her in her room, or give her another drink of bitter dark angry water that she needed to drink—she was safe.

And the voice—Quinnlash—it—she—had said that...that they were trying to turn them into them, it was true. The dream was still crystalline in her head, she remembered perfectly. But she also remembered Quinnlash saying that she—that they were stronger. And Doctor Follen had said she was strong, right? She needed to be strong to pass the test, and she'd passed. That meant they were strong, didn't it? So they weren't going to turn them into them. They were...

Safe.

Safe.

She looked still into Dahlia's glinting silvery eyes. She was fierce, and strong, and nice, and she was always there when Quinn needed her. She did her hair, she'd helped her through the test, she could get through to her when nobody else could. She would keep her safe. She'd never had anything like any of this. She was almost like...

Her eye flickered down to Besca then. She was kind. She was caring. Quinn knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Besca would never hurt her or leave her, she would always be on her side. She'd promised. She would help her through the dark days, she would be there to share the bright ones. She left the doors open when Quinn asked, and she wanted to make what Quinn wanted to eat instead of just putting a plate through the door. She was even helping Quinn right now, cleaning up the rips she'd clawed into herself. She would always keep her safe. All things that her parents would never, ever do. She was just like...

"Um..."

Her voice was small. It was small and thin and tore at her throat, and she could feel tears creeping into it already. She was afraid. Terrified they'd say no, even though she knew they wouldn't. But...strength was about going on even when you were afraid, right? She leaned forward into Dahlia's arms, doing her best to speak loudly enough for both of them to hear.

"I—I don't—"

It was a lot to take in. It was a lot to ask. But...she had to do it anyway.

"I don't...have a family now. And I—I don't think—I don't think...I ever d—did. So can—"

She was holding the tears back now. It was hard. They wanted to come out. But she needed—she wanted to ask.

She lifted her head laconically from Dahlia's shoulder, looked between the two of them. The tears were still beckoning her, thickening her already barely functional voice, but she wrestled them back. Slowly, slowly, she fought the last sentence out through that painful lump:

"—Can you be my family instead?"

[Mcmolly]

It was a hard question. Not for its answer, but for the journey to it.

For Besca, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d used the word for herself. A part of her had always considered the pilots king of a sort, and when it came to people like Dahlia, and Safie, and for a time even Ghaust, there was a pull, like the tugging of a fishing line.

Lana. Tayson. Bosco and Gilly. Natt Jr. Little Dora. Her own mother and father.

Besca hadn’t had family in a long, long time. It was so close to the word home for her, which only conjured up flashes of fire, the smell of blood and char. Faces in flame-cast shadows. Her heart grew leaden. No, when you lost your family, that was it. You weren’t borne another. Wasn’t supposed to work like that, not for anyone. Not for her.

For Dahlia, the wound was at once older than her own memories, and fresher than anything she’d ever remember again. The people she’d lost in Westwel were ghosts to her, distant as ancestors but still so real that she bore their presence in the color of her eyes, the softness of her face, the wave of her hair. When she mourned her old home, she often mourned it for the sake of others.

Hovvi she mourned for herself. She had known family there, as truly as anyone else ever had. And as she looked at Quinn she knew she’d lost it in those fires in a way the girl never had, and likely never could have. She’d never known the safety and comfort Dahlia had with her own father, and while her home had always been a fond place she longed to return to, Quinn’s had been a cage.

Dahlia pulled her in and hugged her tightly. Besca ran a hand through her hair, rested her head against Quinn’s. They held her for a long time, and though they didn’t speak, their answer was abundantly clear.

That nudge in the back of Quinn’s mind, that gentle suggestion that she was safe, faded. Not for danger, not for despair, but perhaps for the hope that she would feel it all on her own.

[Mcmolly]

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[Mcmolly]

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[Mcmolly]

The earth shook with the footsteps of giants.

Enavant vaulted the mountaintop, coming down hard on the forest decline. He slid, the trees snapped beneath his hip and he flattened a wide swath on his way to the base. Desmon Solier’s body sweat through the chill of the cockpit, but for now all he could feel were the seconds clawing for hold as they ripped by.

Twenty to go.

The hills opened up before him, miles and miles of shallow rises and river-marked valleys. Plenty of space at a glance, but was it really enough?

Behind him a low, bestial howl pierced the wind.

It would have to be enough. He hit the mountain’s bottom and kicked off into a sprint. His Savior was larger than the average, but still fast. Desmon had run track as a boy, he had the form, and the beast had the lungs. Even if he wouldn’t win out in the long run, he only had to last fifteen more seconds.

“She’s just left Spectre,” Toussaint’s voice came through the comms. Normally a composed man, Desmon could hear the barest hint of revulsion in his voice. “You’ll have time but you need as much distance as you can get.”

Enavant pushed harder, ran faster. He didn’t think about Spectre, about the sound of Lousei’s screams before control had cut her comms. She was already dead when he’d left her, or as good as. Mourn later, win now.

Five seconds.

He stomped through the narrow valleys, the courses of centuries-old rivers changed underfoot. Hands digging into the hillside, he pulled himself up onto a level stretch of the plain as another howl reached him. He froze, whirled. In his hands he held a wing-tipped spear as long as he was tall, and as he clutched it tighter, a coil of white light spiraled up the blackened shaft. The tip burst into pale fire.

Enavant phased.

He felt a static tingling on the back of his brain. He heard his own thoughts in stereo, layered with the thoughts of something else that was trying to be him as much as it was trying to undo him. As long as it had taken him to run out the first clock, he now raced a second. Three years without a growth, but today he feared he might walk out of the cockpit and into the operating room.

If he walked out.

“She’s coming,” Toussaint said.

Enavant held his spear across his body, as though he meant to slash out with it, and waited. Waited. He did not need to wait for long.

It cleared the mountain he’d come from, a Savior silhouetted by the sun. It fell upon the side gracelessly, righting itself partway down and then leaping into the air and crashing down onto a low-rising hilltop. Earth and rock exploded beneath it, the hill caved into a storm of dust.

Enavant swung his spear out, the light on its haft and the fire of its tip left a white-hot trail that lingered behind as an after image, then two, then three. They hovered before him, spears of burning light. With his free hand he clasped one, twirled it ready and reeled it back.

Moments passed. The dark edged his vision, his Savior had no eyelids to blink it away.

A shape pulled a plume of dust to the side like cloth. Enavant stepped and launched the fiery spear forward. It soared like a bolt of lightning, the air shattered at its tip, and it connected with the dirt in an explosion of white flame that blew the dust away and replaced it with a gout of silvery smoke.

The shape carried on, buried itself into the earth. Desmon felt a spike of confusion as the smoke cleared and he saw that it was not a Savior.

It was an axe, and in the next moment it vanished.

She came charging from the ruined hillside. Smaller than he was, but more for the thinness of its limbs than its height. In one hand she clutched a second axe, a mirror to the first; its hilt was short and its blade curved wickedly down almost to the curled pommel. Her other hand reached out, clawed fingers clutching into a fist. The air bunched in her grasp, tore like paper, and with a sharp swipe she ripped her first axe back into being.

Blotklau ran at him, not like a person, but like a beast trying to mimic one. Her mouth was a fanged, panting grin, her eyes a foursome of red fury. She was drenched in ichor, and though there were a number of gashes on her body, Desmon knew that most of it had come from whatever was left of Spectre.

What would she leave left of him?

“Solier!”

Desmon snapped back, snatched another spear from the air and hurled it at her. Blotklau ducked low like a dashing wolve, digging her axes into the earth for leverage as the bolt passed over her, only managing to sear her shoulder. He grabbed the next one—god, she was close—and took a moment to aim, to try and anticipate. With as much force as he could muster, he loosed the spear, and with her drawing ever closer he was certain she couldn’t dodge it.

And he was right, she couldn’t. She didn’t. Instead, she whirled one of her axes up with incredible speed and slapped it by the haft, sending it spiraling out and unwinding into smoke.

There was no time to make more. There was hardly time to grab his spear with both hands. He wasn’t primed for a melee, he was meant for support. He’d done so well when it was two versus two, when he and Spectre had pinned the second opponent down and pierced its heart. Alone, what was he meant to do, really?

Blotklau opened her mouth wide, roared so loudly Desmon thought he could feel his real ears pop. She leapt into the air, axes raised high over her head, and all he could do was scream back and bring up his spear.

Then she was on him.

---

---

Dahlia was on her, throwing fast but telegraphed hooks at Quinn’s head with her kick-pad gloves.

“Remember, don’t watch my hands, watch me,” she’d said. “Watch my body, watch my eyes. Don’t try to figure out what I’m going to do, I’ll tell you. You just have to listen.”

This had been their routine for the past month. Dahlia couldn’t really practice with her in Dragon, so when Quinn wasn’t getting adjusted to moving around in her own Savior, she brought the girl here, to the pilot’s gym.

When she’d first started, Besca had told her that CQC was the bedrock of all Savior combat. The giants moved as fast and felt as responsive as their own bodies, and if weapons couldn’t be relied upon—or in some cases, especially if they could be relied upon—then you had to know how to kick and punch like you meant it.

Dahlia still had trouble swinging at Quinn like she meant it. But they’d been rigorous, their hours were long and hard, and once they’d gotten her over the initial aversion to hitting back, Quinn picked up fighting pretty quick.

Besca came by when she could. Today she couldn’t, but she’d promised to meet them for lunch when they took a break. There was no window in the gym, but a wall clock promised that once this set was finished, they could be done until their evening session.

[Lemons]

Quinn's breaths came hard and fast as she moved, backstepping out of the way of Dahlia's punch. She'd had a lot of catching up to do as far as her physique was concerned. Still did, by quite an extensive amount. Turned out that staying in one room for your entire life did very little to prepare you for fighting.

Who knew?

Those first few days had been...deeply unpleasant. Both for the aforementioned issues with fitness, and for the very strong aversion to actually hitting her frie—her sister. She was still getting used to the concept, but the more time passed, the more and more right it felt to call her that.

But after a month of long, grueling, and oftentimes somewhat painful practice sessions, she was starting to feel like she could...well, obviously she couldn't actually keep up with Dahlia. But she could at least feel the impact of her hits, and that was a kind of satisfying all its own.

Warding another punch off with her own forearm, she snapped her leg out in a quick roundhouse kick and it slammed into Dahlia's padded hand. The report was like a gunshot in the relatively small gym, and it was a satisfying reminder of the progress she'd made in what felt like an exceptionally short time. The advice she'd just been given (again) in mind, she tried her best to see the whole of Dahlia, engaging proactively in the fight instead of reactively, moving in closer.

Dahlia'd noticed fairly early on that she was favoring kicking rather heavily. But, she'd said, it wasn't always going to be feasible to space yourself to the point that kicking was practical. She was right, of course. And so every training session, Quinn had to throw some punches too. She even managed to hold her own for a bit on a good day.

Today was evidently not one of those days.

She kept her eye focused as best she could. But a momentary lapse let a fist into her blind spot, and telegraphed and eye-catching as the pad may have been, she couldn't stop what she couldn't see, and took a shot right to the side of the helmet. Straining to keep her composure, she closed the distance as fast as she could, trying to take advantage of her slightly smaller size and Dahlia's momentarily extended arm to sneak a punch in. But it was not to be; she just wasn't fast enough, and she struck only air. And though she recovered as quickly as she could, it wasn't quite quickly enough to stop the foam from thwacking into the ribs midway down her left side.

She hopped back a ways and brought her fists up again, then straightened before opening them and holding up her hands in the universal 'time out!' position.

"Gimme a sec," she gasped out as her shoulders heaved, "need a drink."

Her muscles ached as she jogged over to the—her!—hard plastic water bottle by the wall. But it was a good ache these days. The kind that let her know she was getting better, not worse. Shucking off a padded sparring glove and unscrewing the cap, she resisted the urge to lean against the wall as she took a long drink.

It hadn't stopped tasting sweet yet.

[Mcmolly]

Dahlia joined her, panting, and showed no qualms about using the wall for support. She leaned back and slid down to a sit, peeling the helmet off her head. Hair was sweat-stuck to her face, she blew strands out of her mouth and took long draws from her own water bottle. It seemed like she was even more winded than Quinn was. Perhaps that shouldn’t have come as such a surprise; Dragon wasn’t a marathon Savior after all, it was a sprinter.

“Good,” she breathed hard between gulps. “You’re getting quicker. S’good. Gotta watch the blindspot—if I hadn’t caught you with that hook, I think you would’ve gotten me.”

These sessions had been good for Dahlia, too. Teaching was more difficult than she’d suspected it would be, harder than Besca or Ghaust made it look, and she was always anxious that she might explain something poorly, or unintentionally help foster bad habits. Her lessons weren’t perfect, and were far more about instinct and reflex than anything else, but seeing Quinn improve so much in such a short time—especially with her particular background—gave her confidence.

It also reminded her that one day, perhaps sooner than not, Quinn might have to put what she’d learned to use. That was much harder to square herself with, but she tried, if for nothing else than to make things for Quinn easier. There was enough stress in this job already.

“We can call it for now, what are you feeling for lunch? Tohoki Grill? CB Danes? We could always grab whatever’s in the mess, or something from the vending machines. Your call—I’m starved, I’ll eat anything.”

It was true enough, but Dahlia and Besca had both been making efforts to give Quinn choices where they could. They kept the schedule as strict as the higher-ups commanded, but when it came to things like meals, or movie night, or even just what she did with her spare time, it was important that she felt she could choose.

She got up off the ground, tossing her gloves and pads into the hamper. She gave her sister an expectant smile. “So? I’ll text Besca once we’re settled down.”

[Lemons]

Ah. They were done. God, she couldn't chug down the water fast enough. She pulled the helmet off, readjusting her eyepatch strap where it started to slip, and spiked it into the ground—not the most comfortable, was it?—before shaking her braid back to the center. Her chest was still heaving, sucking in long, deep breaths. Still, she couldn't help but huff out an almost scornful amused breath, which was about as far as she ever came to laughing these days.

"Hah, you and I both know that's not true. I'm still a looong way from beating you." She took another long drink. "Definitely gettin' closer though. Almost tagged you with that last one." She was...mostly satisifed with how she'd done. That kick had strained her a little more than she wanted it to, though, and it wasn't even a particularly high one. She penciled in train flexibility more on her mental docket.

One last pull from the bottle and she'd drained it, dropping it to the ground and knocking it into the wall with a gentle tap. She always tried to catch it with her foot, but it almost never worked. One day, she thought.

"Your call."

As always, being able to choose sent both a warm thrill and a cold shock down her spine. Being able to choose meant being able to choose wrong, after all, and the last thing she ever wanted to do was disappoint anyone, especially her new family. As time went on, though, the feeling was starting to drop, and making decisions was starting to come more easily to her.

"Been craving some noodles," she said, tearing the last of the pads off and sending them after Dahlia's, "and we've been eating at Dane's a lot the past few days. You okay with Tohoki?"

Walking over to the exit and wiping off her forehead, she fished her phone out of the little mesh pocket by the door and slid it into her own. She still marveled at the sleek little dark gray thing sometimes. She owned a phone. Quinnlash Loughvein owned a phone! A month ago she never would've dreamed of having one, and now she slid one into her sweatpants pocket every morning. It was didn't even seem real.

Kicking out the improvised doorstop, she yanked the door open—it was getting easier every day—and stood in the frame, propping it open. "Lead the way, Deelie."

It wasn't just to be polite. Something about leading people somewhere, she'd found, dropped a ball of anxiety into the pit of her stomach. She was trying to get better about it, she really was. But today, she just wanted to follow.

[Mcmolly]

“Lead the way, Deelie.”

And Deelie did. She’d picked up early on how Quinn didn’t much like spearheading things, which was, again, entirely reasonable. Her having picked the place was an accomplishment itself, so today, Dahlia would lead the way, hold the doors, bring them to their seats, and Quinn could breathe a bit easier.

The garden commons were bustling. This month had seen RISC’s numbers bolstered again, not quite to its strength before Hovvi, but enough that the Aerie didn’t feel like a ghost station anymore. Those had been hard weeks; Dahlia would come here now and then, to sit under the center pastel and imagine herself under the shade of the woods near her home. It was so quiet. What crew had remained worked in tight shifts, only a few dozen were ever around, spread so thinly around that for a while the only faces she saw besides Besca and Quinn were Follen, and the janitorial staff.

Now the tables and benches were full. The cafeteria on the floor below was packed, and Danes above sounded much the same. Tohoki Grill was a proper sit-down place, with an “outdoor” patio umbrellaed by scarlet tsubaki trees. Dahlia led the way inside. Lamps hung from the ceiling, their bulbs covered and set to flicker like dim candles. False windows were set into the wall, and behind them were digital screens that pushed artificial noonsun light through the slats.

It smelled good in here. Like fresh fish and spices, and meat cooking on open fires through the wide-windowed kitchen. The head chef was a heavy-set and absurdly happy man from Tohoki, who made a point of putting extra servings on the plates of his skinnier customers. Quinn often found herself a lucky recipient.

A waiter brought them to a corner booth, secluded but not isolated—Dahlia never sat them somewhere where they were entirely alone. They ordered their drinks, and took a third menu. Dahlia texted Besca where they’d settled.

“So what’re you feelin’? I might try the sake-saffron chicken—Besca says it was all she ate for a month once and she never got sick of it.”

[Lemons]

God, Quinn loved this place.

She tried to bounce around as much as she could with her food choices—eating in any one place for any length of time started to make her feel nervous and twitchy—but if she was honest with herself, Tohoki Grill was definitely her favorite. She could smell it from way out at the entrance to the commons, the food was obviously godlike, and the handful of times she'd met the head chef had put him pretty high up on her list of favorite people, after Besca and Dahlia (she couldn't imagine choosing on over another) and Doctor Follen.

Quinn looked around at the nearby people, and especially at their food. "You know, I always forget how big the portions are here." Still relatively hot and thirsty, she drained half the water in one go (though she at least had the grace to look a little embarrassed about it).

She was always floored by the amount of options she had at Tohoki. All the different tastes to try! She'd been here a month now. And though she was starting to run low on new dishes, she still hadn't repeated anything yet. They hadn't all been good. But they were definitely interesting, and she was starting to learn what she did and didn't like. "I'm almost to the end of the seafood now, so..."

She scanned down the menu with her finger running along it, and every single word she read—all the food she'd eaten—reminded her how good everything tasted here (well, not everything, but close enough). And how much better everything tasted in general when she wasn't eating it alone.

"Ah, I'm up to the seared salmon with mirin and ginger. I've been wanting to try that one for a while now!"

She hummed tunelessly as she flipped to the back of the menu, checking out all the drinks this time, especially the ones she hadn't tried yet. Her eye lit up. "...Aaaaand I think I'll try the yuzu soda. Whatever yuzu is."

[Mcmolly]

“Mm! Good choice, I love how they do salmon here. You know, you’d think with us being about as far from the water as you could get, it wouldn’t taste as fresh as it does, but, here we are.”

Her phone buzzed, and she checked it to find Besca had gotten back to her.

-something came up cant come down for lunch sorry :( :( tell Quinn i said hi and will see her tonight. think dinner ! youre treat ? ;)-

Dahlia frowned, and sent back a quick: -What happened?-

-*your-

-casoban junk. wouldve been done but they brought eusero in and now its a whole thing.-

-*it’s-

“Besca got caught up in work,” Dahlia said, setting her phone down on the table and showing the texts to Quinn. Transparency had been another important point to make; she didn’t keep secrets from Quinn, even little ones, if she could help it. “Guess it’s just you and me today. What do you wanna do after this? We should try to squeeze in another session before dinner, but anything on your plate besides?”

There was, actually, but nothing exactly urgent. She had a check-in evaluation scheduled with Doctor Follen for “this week”, but there were still days left. She was also expected to log in a few more hours in the sim rooms, but having yet to draw her Savior’s weapon—or name it, really—there wasn’t much to do there that she couldn’t do in practice on the ground.

Both were options—both could be put off. She had the rest of lunch to make that decision.

[Lemons]

Quinn frowned, but not much, and not for long. She was disappointed that Besca couldn't join them for sure, but she was the commander, after all. However busy Quinn thought she was, Besca was definitely busier, and it always amazed her to no end.

“Guess it’s just you and I today. What do you wanna do after this? We should try to squeeze in another session before dinner, but anything on your plate besides?”

Quinn hmmed, lightly tapping the rim of her glass with her fingernail and tilting her head up to look at the ceiling. "I've gotta do some more sim work, but..." Tap. Tap. "I'm not really sure what I'm s'posed to do in there right now without a weapon."

She sighed and dropped her hand, the faint ding falling silent. "I should do that soon, I really should. I'm just..." —scared, she finished in her head. But it sounded a little ridiculous to say even to herself, so it would certainly sound totally nonsensical to Dahlia. "...Kind of worried about what it's gonna be. 'S a big thing, y'know?"

That wasn't a lie, either. She really was deeply apprehensive of the whole thing. After all, once a pilot pulled a weapon, that was their weapon, and no force could change that. She knew, academically, that the weapon was supposed to represent a pilot, so it would be something they clicked with no matter what. But that didn't stop the nerves from burning a hole in her gut.

And though it was obviously absurd, the hidden fear of seeing that cannon again wasn't a rational thing. She couldn't even begin to think about it without her hands clenching into tight fists under the table.

Still, she needed to do that soon. She was a pilot now, she really was. And a pilot needed a weapon. It was past time. "Either way, I'll probably wait as much as I can on those, see if I draw that thing soon."

She sat up straighter in the booth, looking back down to Dahlia. "So I should probably go knock out my eval with Doctor Follen. No sense putting it off, right?" And really, she was looking forward to it. He was just the nicest, and whenever she talked to him she felt better for the rest of the day. Hence the #2 spot on the Quinn's-Favorite-Person list.

"If I've got any free time after, I'll probably head back to the gym anyway." Her mental docket flapped for attention. "That last kick stretched me a little more than I'd like, so I need to start really working on flexibility." She idly toyed with the hem of the familiar mustard-brown shirt she was wearing as she spoke.

"But first thing's first, checkup for sure."

[Mcmolly]

The waiter came back with their drinks while Quinn talked. Dahlia listened, clinking the ice around absently in her glass. She thought about Dragon, and how strange it had been to draw her out own weapon the first time.

“Yeah, I feel ya. I mean, we connect our brains with the Saviors, but the weapons are supposed to be us, right? So it feels like a big deal. Don’t worry tho’, I’m sure whatever you end up pulling out will be super cool!”

Quinn mentioned Follen next, and Dahlia couldn’t help but feel a slight unease. She’d always enjoyed the doctor’s company, and he’d never been anything less than nice to her as long as she’d been at RISC. She trusted him with her medical care, her psychological care, and so far he’d never given her a reason not to. But when she’d heard that he’d been the one to sign Quinn on as a pilot—to perform the surgery before she was even awake no less—it…didn’t settle right with her.

She’d never given much credence to the things Besca said about him, and over time the vicious warnings dried up. Until a month ago though, she wouldn’t have thought him capable of entering a room without permission. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Then again, her own evaluation had gone perfectly fine. She was probably just overthinking it; he’d say she was searching for answers to statements, not questions.

“Sounds good to me!” she said. “I’ll run a sim or two while you’re off, then I’ll meet you back at the gym.”

The food came soon after, and Dahlia felt her hunger’s dying roar as the waiter set their plates down. Sweet, floral smells, the fishy twinge of Quinn’s salmon. Hot soup on the side. Yes, Dahlia thought. Quinn makes very, very good choices.

[Lemons]

The salmon was really good. That one would get penciled down on her mental docket—and then her actual physical journal later—as one to come back to. The yuzu soda was good too, if a little odd. Kind of like sparkling water and lemonade with maybe a little grapefruit? She'd found so far she absolutely hated grapefruit, but if something that tasted like it could be good then it couldn't be all bad, right?

They talked for the rest of lunch. Little things, meaningless things. Quinn talked about her favorite spots on the Aerie so far. Dahlia listened, then responded with suggestions of other places she'd like. Favorite foods came up too, Dahlia's firm preferences and Quinn's ever-evolving palate.

As they wrapped up, Quinn's phone started to vibrate. That was one of her reminder alarms. Perfect timing, wasn't it? She slipped it out of her pocket, turning it off and taking a deep breath.

Then she hopped up, sneakers squeaking a little against the lacquered floor. "That's my cue, I think. Sorry to cut lunch a little short!" Slurping down the last of her water, she jogged towards the entrance, waving at the head chef as she passed out from under the lamplit ceiling. He waved back, smiling widely. Why don't you ever smile? he'd asked her a week or so ago. She didn't really know how to answer him why she'd stopped smiling. It just didn't feel right anymore.

Her jog carried her out of the commons and out towards medical. Over the past few weeks she'd started to learn her way around the labyrinthine interior of the Aerie, and now she could find her way pretty easily without checking for signs everywhere. But of all the places she went, the medical wing was probably her least favorite. Her flashbacks had steadily decreased with the course of time. But if there was anything most likely to trigger them, it was probably the sterile smell of those clean white hallways.

As she entered, she slowed to a quick walk so as not to get in anybody's way. A few courteous nods greeted her, but she hadn't really gotten to know any of the medical staff. Well, with the exception of Doctor Follen, obviously.

Speaking of, his office was right in front of her. Through the window she saw him bent over his desk, looking over some papers. It was admirable, she thought, how seriously she took his work. If Dahlia was her sister and Besca was—well, she supposed he was a bit like an uncle, right?

She opened the door with a careful touch, rap-tap-tapping her hand on the jamb as she walked in, footsteps suddenly muffled on the cream-colored carpeting. Just like that first horrible day, this office always made her feel a little safer, a little more at ease. And his smile, even moreso.

"Hey, Doctor Follen!"

[Mcmolly]

Follen’s office was just as she remembered: safe, comfortable, small but in a way that didn’t feel constrictive. In fact it was deceptively open. There were half-drawn blinds on the back wall, behind which a long, tall screen simulated daylight. He had the window partially ‘cracked,’ and from small speakers there was faint and arhythmic birdsong in the imaginary distance. Warm arm flowed in from the vents. Stepping in felt like donning a morning blanket.

Doctor Follen looked up from his work, smiled just as warmly as the artificial sun behind him. “Ah, Quinn, what a pleasant surprise! I had a feeling you’d be by today, came to me while I was putting syrup on my waffles this morning. Come! Come, sit! We’ll get started.”

He pulled a drawer open on his side of the desk, thumbed through a row of files and produced hers. It was already a finger thick, but Follen had assured her that it was because he found her so fascinating. And he did seem intrigued every time. Everything she told him, from her grief to her worries, to the stranger things, he never seemed judgmental, and he never treated her like she’d made a mistake.

These are great, tangled knots, he had told her. Your complexity is not a curse, it is a gift, marvelous and beautiful. Never feel sorry for feeling, Quinnlash.

Flipping the file open, he pulled a pen tucked behind his ear and clicked it.

“So,” he said. “First of all—tell me how you’ve been this week. How have you been sleeping? Eating? I’ve been monitoring the records from your piloting sessions—I’m very impressed. How have you felt these past couple times in the cockpit?”

[Lemons]

Quinn slung herself down in one of the comfy padded chairs, enjoying the warmth—both literal and metaphorical. She had quite the file. She'd asked him what was in it once, but he'd just said "notes." She was okay with that. It made her feel...seen, that might have been the word.

How had she been the past week? It was a bit of a loaded question; so much had happened in the last month that each week felt like it dragged for a year.

Kicking back, she half laid down. The chair was so comfy, god. It was her favorite.

"Well...the cockpit's been alright, I guess. I feel like I've made a lot of progress for sure, so that's nice." A brief pause. "...The tug-of-war is still there, though."

She'd described her first phase in detail last session. Mostly the "you love this/you hate this" dichotomy that she'd been slammed with. Or the tug-of-war, as she'd started calling it. "It's not as bad, obviously, I feel like I've mostly gotten a handle on it, but it's still happening, and the voice is still there."

And here, she paused again. This time for a much longer time.

She'd been exceedingly reticent about her dreams, and Doctor Follen had definitely noticed. She didn't want to talk much about them. She was ashamed. Incredibly ashamed. She didn't remember much, but she remembered them being treasured memories at the time, each and every one. And it made her ashamed.

"And, um..." And she didn't want to mention Quinnlash either. She wasn't sure why, but she didn't. "You remember that voice that I've been hearing? Outside of the cockpit, I mean?" She took a deep breath.

Still. She wanted to talk about it, at least a little.

"It's been following me into my dreams now too. It's harder to escape it."

She didn't mention that it had been in her dreams since the beginning, or that it wasn't just "the voice." Doctor Follen didn't need to know that, right? And she didn't want to say it.

[Mcmolly]

“Mhm. Mhmm,” Follen muttered as she spoke. He did that often, nodding along, humming affirmative now and then, not obtrusively, but enough that she could tell he was engaged, listening. Sometimes he didn’t make any noise at all though, just conveyed his attention in his eyes, hardly affording himself a blink as though he might somehow miss something in that split moment.

When she brought up the voice, he was silent as the void outside the station.

It had clearly been of particular interest to him—and, he insisted, it ought to be to her as well. At first he had tried to be reassuring, telling her that connecting to a Modir, ‘taunting the circuit’, could lead to some strange side effects. It was not the first instance he’d seen of a pilot hearing voices and feeling alien thoughts even after they’d left the cockpit.

But when she mentioned that voice had been with her in Hovvi, his explanations fell flat. Normally that might have been cause for alarm, but the sheer enthusiasm with which Follen approached that information, the way he made it seem like she had nothing to fear—it was almost like she did have nothing to fear.

As she described the voice following her into her dreams—her hesitation poignant enough that even she could tell he’d noticed—Follen’s pen halted, and he gave her his complete, undivided attention.

“And what is it saying to you in your dreams?” he asked. “You used the word ‘escape’. Do you feel as though it’s chasing you? Threating you? Does it seem to want something from you?”

[Lemons]

"Chasing? I...wouldn't say that, not really. It's not threatening me either. I guess I don't really feel the need to escape. It's...how do I put it..." She swallowed. Doctor Follen didn't usually stop the pen unless something was happening that was of particular import. She hoped he'd take what she said at face value.

It was such an instinctual feeling in her dreams, even when Quinnlash wasn't there, that it was difficult to explain once she got down to it. "It's more like...there's something else in my head with me. And it wants to push its feelings and emotions into mine. Sometimes it bleeds a little too, and it's hard to tell where it ends and I start. But I don't know if it really wants something. It feels like she's just...studying me."

"I've been sleeping well, though," she added hastily. "The last time I woke up screaming was almost two and a half weeks ago now."

She wasn't sure whether that was because she was beginning to settle into RISC proper, or because of the hauntingly beautiful dreams that she could never quite remember.

She could feel a sudden surge of disgust for Doctor Follen bubble out from nowhere and she stiffened. No, she begged, please not now. And besides...she liked Doctor Follen. What reason did Quinnlash possibly have to tear through the front of her head so suddenly? She shook her head. She was probably being skittish. She did have a tendency to overreact to things a lot.

Don't worry, he's a friend. We can trust him!

She didn't know if Quinnlash could hear her. She hoped she could.