Lemons

Amygdala Circuit

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...

Amygdala Circuit

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.

Amygdala Circuit

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.

Amygdala Circuit

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?

Amygdala Circuit

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.

Amygdala Circuit

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..."

Amygdala Circuit

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.

Amygdala Circuit

She stood there. Still. Silent.

Besca said she needed to sleep. And she was—

She was going to be a pilot. So she should listen. She should sleep.

But there was something to that crying. Something that touched a chord in her, that ripped open that wound in her heart and filled it with salt and sulfur. Something at once familiar and totally, totally alien.

She took a tentative, shaky step. Her legs hurt, but the walk to the dorms had stretched them enough that she could walk on her own, at least. With some difficulty, but she could do it. It just hurt. The crying grew louder as she grew closer. She did her best not to focus on the label on the door. She knew if she looked at it for more than a second, she would be crying too, right away.

Another few steps. Tmp. Tmp.

What was it? Who was it? She knew it, and she knew she knew it. It was a voice that she'd heard. Her muddled brain struggled to put the pieces together as she laid her handle against the door with a gentle hollow sound. She knew the voice. But it hadn't been crying. It had been—

Memories rushed in again.

S’nice to meet you!

Quinn! Are you okay?

Quinn, you want something to drink?

Have as much as you like! We brought plenty.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eye slowly widened. She knew this voice. She'd been the first voice she'd heard after Besca. She'd been the voice that had hunched over her juice pouch, embarrassed. She'd been the voice that had asked Quinn how long she'd lived there. She'd been the voice that had told Quinn to not be worried, she wasn't really mad, and she could have the melonberry juice.

Her hand quaked, and she pressed it to her mouth. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god oh my god. She'd thought—she hadn't—she didn't know—

Oh my god.

All at once she threw herself forward. The door cannoned open, and she nearly collapsed as she stumbled through it on quivering legs. Her eye caught up with her ears, and her voice shook like a leaf in a winter storm as a single, trembling word fell from her mouth. A trembling name. A name she never thought she'd say again. But she was alive.

She was alive.

“Deelie?”

Amygdala Circuit

"You’re going to be a pilot."

Quinn froze.

Cold sweat beaded on her neck, trickling around the little circles that she was suddenly very aware of.

You're pilot Dahlia, right?

You said you were a pilot too, right Safie?

Her teeth started to chatter.

If I’d have grown up here I’d never have become a pilot.

She stared at Doctor Follen, eye twitching ever so slightly. It couldn't—that didn't make any—

"No, I—No, no I can't, I—"

We have to make you so important to us that no one can take you away.

"N—no, no no—" She clutched at Besca's arm again, this time with both hands, gripping it as tightly as she could with her aching body. "Pilots—they—"

An image flashed in front of her eyes: Safie's Savior, head shorn from its shoulders, looming over the crumbled corpse of Hovvi. Another image: a Savior screaming towards the elevator out of the night, growing larger in her sight as she walked-stumbled-crawled away. A slideshow of violence shuttered across her mind. There was that keening sound again.

...Oh. It was still her, wasn't it?

But more images: Besca holding open the door. The cookies she'd bought on the street. Stroking her hair, Breathe. You didn't do anything wrong. The needles at home, staring at the door, staring at the screen, lying on the bed for hours and hours and hours, days filled with white walls and gray and gray and gray. She didn't want to go back. She didn't didn't didn't.

She clamped her mouth shut, cutting off the sound. She closed her eye and concentrated on Besca's hand on her shoulder. She didn't want to leave her. She couldn't leave her. If she left her, she didn't know what she'd do, what she could do. Her teeth still chattered. She felt a little bit like she couldn't breathe. She didn't want to go back. She didn't want—Besca was there. Besca wouldn't let her go back.

"Th—"

She couldn't stop the chattering, cutting up her words and turning them almost incomprehensible. "The—there's—rea—eal—lly...no o—o—other w—way?"

Amygdala Circuit

Technical words passed between Besca and Doctor Follen, floating around Quinn's head as she cried. Modioscory. Implants. Applicant. Compatible.

Taken aback, she stopped crying, jolting up with a muffled cry of pain. The last two words sounded...familiar, somehow, struck a chord in her head. She'd heard them, and heard them recently. But she couldn't place them. Not quite. They tugged at her, slowed her down, a feeling of offness pulsing through her, but not enough, not quite enough. For a moment, the barest fraction of a fraction of a second, Doctor Follen's smile seemed like it was made of glass.

But then it was gone, and his smile sparked again.

"Quinn, you’ve been through so much, and you’ve been so brave. And commander Darroh, Besca, here, you know, she came to visit you every day, for hours. Once or twice I’d come by in the morning to check on you, and there she’d be, asleep in those dreadfully uncomfortable chairs. She cares about you a lot, Quinn, and I think you care about her, too. I think you're already very good friends.”

"R—really?"

She grabbed Besca's hand tight. She cared. She really cared. Mom and Dad loved her, but...but they weren't Besca. They hadn't comforted her like Besca had, they hadn't had her take deep breaths, they hadn't run their hands through her hair so nicely.

The same smile, looking her in the eye, down on his hands. “Do you want to stay here, Quinn? In the Aerie? With Besca?"

Where else would she—where could she—

Her heart nearly stopped. Mom and Dad would be coming back soon. And they would be so mad that she'd snuck out. And if Besca wasn't there and she couldn't stay with her, they'd punish her, and stick all the needles into her, and put her back in her room and lock her there again. And for some reason, she was petrified by that thought. Nothing could be worse. She didn't know why. But she knew that nothing nothing nothing could ever be worse than going home again. She looked up at Besca again. Her face was tight. She looked mad. Was she mad at Doctor Follen? Was she mad at Quinn?

So she gasped out "Yes, I want to stay with her, please, please," and then a sentence that was hauntingly familiar:

"Just don't...don't send me back!"