Lemons

Lem's Stash

"Quinnlash, look at me. You are not a monster, and you never could be."

Something inside of Quinn cracked.

Nerves connected. Synapses sparked. Thoughts darted around her head like a swarm of bugs. She felt like her brain was foaming, fizzing and popping wildly. Things snapped into place suddenly, puzzle pieces clattering around finding their matches. She felt like she was on the verge of something stunningly important. Something life-altering, building up inside of her.

All of a sudden, she remembered her conversation—if it could really be called that—with Roaki last night. She was a duelist pilot. Someone who only ever hurt others. She took that weapon, a weapon meant to save people, and used it to end them. And right then, she realized deep in her core:

She and Roaki were eerily similar, it was true. She remembered as much from that last dream-conversation. She'd said so to that version of herself, and she still stood by it. But there was one thing that was truly, deeply different: that was not the kind of pilot she wanted to be. But then the question presented itself, naturally, whipping through her head like a desert gale.

If she wasn't that kind of pilot...then what kind of pilot did she want to be?

A pilot that fought the Modir? No. It was true—or, well, it would be true—but that was the means and not the ends. She didn't want to kill them just to kill. She didn't want to kill them for revenge. The didn't even really want to kill them. She needed to. Important, but it wasn't—she flashed back momentarily to Quinnlash's assertion: We're a pilot. We should be killing monsters. That's what we're made for. That's our purpose.

Only no, it wasn't. A purpose wasn't what you did. It was why you did it. A note of protest rose from deep within her. She crushed it back down. No. Not now. Not today.

A pilot that kept her family safe? Again, it was true. It was deeply, painfully true. She cared more about Dahlia and Besca than anything else in the whole world, and whenever they hurt, she hurt alongside them. She wanted to protect them so badly she could feel it in her bones. But again—though it wasn't wrong—it also wasn't complete. She loved them. She loved them with her whole heart, and staying there on the Aerie was why she first became a pilot.

But somewhere along the line—the training, the study, the self-reflection—that had stopped. Or...not entirely. Her caring for them hadn't waned. In fact, it had only grown stronger. But there was a whole world along with them. What would she do if she kept Dahlia and Besca safe but Doctor Follen, the head chef, the nurses that had taken care of her when she was comatose died instead? What would she think? And there a world outside of Runa, as last night had taught her. Filled with people who she was sure were just like her, hurting just as much as she had. As she did.

So no. Her family wasn't the purpose for what she did. It was the catalyst. They were why she had become a pilot. But they weren't why she was a pilot.

So again...why was she?

She looked up at Besca's eye, so grimly certain, but so kind and caring. She felt the hand against her cheek, wiping away tears that weren't even there. She felt the warmth inside her, glowing from the inside as Besca fretted over her.

This. This was why she was a pilot. These things. These feelings. And not just for her. She closed her eye, memories of cold white walls enwrapping her. How many more out there had that kind of life? Alone, lost, couldn't find a way out?

She could be their lighthouse.

She knew it as soon as she thought it. This was why she was a pilot. Not for money. Not for fame. Not for personal gain, or to protect only those closest to her. No. Quinnlash Loughvein would be a torch. A burning brand, for people like her to find. People like Dahlia. A beacon to light up the world around her and keep everyone there safe.

She opened her eye once more. Looked Besca straight on in hers. Her voice had gone through a change, somehow. It was still shaking, of course. She was still terrified, still had to kill. But there was something else there too now. Something nebulous, subtle. If she thought about it, she wouldn't be able to pick it out. But she knew it came from finding something. A purpose. A kind of pilot to be.

Someone who would drag light with her into the future, no matter how dark. Who would set the night—

"Can I still change my Savior designation in time for the duel?"

Amygdala Circuit

"Quinnlash, look at me. You are not a monster, and you never could be."

Something inside of Quinn cracked.

Nerves connected. Synapses sparked. Thoughts darted around her head like a swarm of bugs. She felt like her brain was foaming, fizzing and popping wildly. Things snapped into place suddenly, puzzle pieces clattering around finding their matches. She felt like she was on the verge of something stunningly important. Something life-altering, building up inside of her.

All of a sudden, she remembered her conversation—if it could really be called that—with Roaki last night. She was a duelist pilot. Someone who only ever hurt others. She took that weapon, a weapon meant to save people, and used it to end them. And right then, she realized deep in her core:

She and Roaki were eerily similar, it was true. She remembered as much from that last dream-conversation. She'd said so to that version of herself, and she still stood by it. But there was one thing that was truly, deeply different: that was not the kind of pilot she wanted to be. But then the question presented itself, naturally, whipping through her head like a desert gale.

If she wasn't that kind of pilot...then what kind of pilot did she want to be?

A pilot that fought the Modir? No. It was true—or, well, it would be true—but that was the means and not the ends. She didn't want to kill them just to kill. She didn't want to kill them for revenge. The didn't even really want to kill them. She needed to. Important, but it wasn't—she flashed back momentarily to Quinnlash's assertion: We're a pilot. We should be killing monsters. That's what we're made for. That's our purpose.

Only no, it wasn't. A purpose wasn't what you did. It was why you did it. A note of protest rose from deep within her. She crushed it back down. No. Not now. Not today.

A pilot that kept her family safe? Again, it was true. It was deeply, painfully true. She cared more about Dahlia and Besca than anything else in the whole world, and whenever they hurt, she hurt alongside them. She wanted to protect them so badly she could feel it in her bones. But again—though it wasn't wrong—it also wasn't complete. She loved them. She loved them with her whole heart, and staying there on the Aerie was why she first became a pilot.

But somewhere along the line—the training, the study, the self-reflection—that had stopped. Or...not entirely. Her caring for them hadn't waned. In fact, it had only grown stronger. But there was a whole world along with them. What would she do if she kept Dahlia and Besca safe but Doctor Follen, the head chef, the nurses that had taken care of her when she was comatose died instead? What would she think? And there a world outside of Runa, as last night had taught her. Filled with people who she was sure were just like her, hurting just as much as she had. As she did.

So no. Her family wasn't the purpose for what she did. It was the catalyst. They were why she had become a pilot. But they weren't why she was a pilot.

So again...why was she?

She looked up at Besca's eye, so grimly certain, but so kind and caring. She felt the hand against her cheek, wiping away tears that weren't even there. She felt the warmth inside her, glowing from the inside as Besca fretted over her.

This. This was why she was a pilot. These things. These feelings. And not just for her. She closed her eye, memories of cold white walls enwrapping her. How many more out there had that kind of life? Alone, lost, couldn't find a way out?

She could be their lighthouse.

She knew it as soon as she thought it. This was why she was a pilot. Not for money. Not for fame. Not for personal gain, or to protect only those closest to her. No. Quinnlash Loughvein would be a torch. A burning brand, for people like her to find. People like Dahlia. A beacon to light up the world around her and keep everyone there safe.

She opened her eye once more. Looked Besca straight on in hers. Her voice had gone through a change, somehow. It was still shaking, of course. She was still terrified, still had to kill. But there was something else there too now. Something nebulous, subtle. If she thought about it, she wouldn't be able to pick it out. But she knew it came from finding something. A purpose. A kind of pilot to be.

Someone who would drag light with her into the future, no matter how dark. Who would set the night—

"Can I still change my Savior designation in time for the duel?"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn dropped her eye from Besca's. She'd seen it, the pain that had just torn through her, the guilt and the pity.

Somehow the last one was the worst. Besca was in pain too. She hurt just like Quinn did. But she hid it for her sake, didn't she? Or, for theirs. She didn't think about it, didn't let it show, so she—Dahlia—everyone on the Aerie didn't need to worry about her, didn't she?

And now the guilt began to drip through her in turn for talking about it. It had upset her. She wouldn't let it show, of course. But it had. She had. And there was nothing in the world she wanted to do less than upset Besca.

"You're afraid. You...you don't know if you can do it, do you?"

Well...almost nothing.

"No," she whispered, pain and confusion and horror warring in her tone. "I can't. I mean—" One. Two. Three. Three deep breaths. "How could I? She...she's not—not like them." Her voice grew leaden, filled now with a deep, deep sadness. "She's just a kid. We're both kids. Why does she—why do I need to—"

She cut herself off harshly. No self pity. Any other day, and she might indulge herself. But not today. Absolutely not. "Sorry," she mumbled miserably, looking down at her untouched plate of food. She suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.

"I just wanted to know..." A long pause now, as Quinn built up the courage to ask a question she didn't think she really wanted to the answer to. "...How do you live with it?" Then, hopelessly, "Does it ever get better?"

Amygdala Circuit

But just as quickly, Quinn remembered her dream, and the thrum died to a distant hum. Still there, but muted, dulled. She looked at the data. She—she really could win this. She could. She could win, and go home to the Aerie, and go back to eating at Tohoki Grill and sparring with Deelie, exploring the station, talking to Doctor Follen. It was everything that everyone wanted.

So why didn't she feel better?

"Hey, um, Besca," she started, surprising herself by how level and modulated her voice was. A pain beat through her, short but sharp. She wanted so much, so badly, to call her something else. But every time she tried, the word stuck in her throat, then died there.

She stopped. She didn't even know what to ask, not really. Am I doing the right thing? It didn't matter, did it? She had to do it anyway. Do I really need to do this? Stupid question. The answer was obviously yes. That ship had sailed a week ago now. Once the gears had been set into motion there was no stopping them. And it was the day of. Why did this have to happen? Self-pity would only hurt her. It had no place today.

So, thoughts tangled, she opened her mouth again. Closed it again. Thought. She wanted to ask something. She did. She just didn't know what. Her thoughts were disorganized, jumbled about. Not panicked, but certainly not the epitome of health either. But eventually, she settled on a question that she'd had for the last week, both of Besca and Dahlia. She hadn't asked either. But this was about the last chance she'd get, wasn't it? Before she needed to deal with it for herself.

So she asked.

"...Have you ever killed someone?"

Amygdala Circuit

She stared up at the ceiling for a time. Willed herself to get up. Tried to muster everything she had.

It was hard. It was so hard.

Her conversation with Quinnlash churned in her head. Roaki was...was so much like her. So much like her that it made her sick. Did she really—

Yes. She really did. What other choice did she have?

She looked over at Dahlia, sleeping peacefully. Then, nerves tearing at her skin, she reached out and—no. It could wait. Let her sleep for a little longer. So she levered herself up, slid on her sneakers, and walked out into the pavilion proper. Her stomach was tight against itself, and she remembered with a grimace that she hadn't eaten more than a few bites at dinner yesterday. She felt sick. But she knew she needed to eat, needed to fuel herself. It would be a trial. But it certainly wouldn't be the worst of the day.

Following the smell of breakfast, she arrived at the mess. A buffet of tasty-looking foods was spread out on a long banquet-style table, people steadily shuffling down it as they waited their turn.

As she passed by the tables, the conversation quieted. She hadn't changed out of her clothing from yesterday, but it didn't matter really, she'd be wearing her pilot suit soon anyway. Eyes baggy and sore, she picked up a plate and walked to the back of the line.

It parted in front of her, and she groaned, rubbing her hand down her face. "Just take your food," she said tiredly, propping herself against the narrow end and refusing to move on. There was silence for another few seconds, but once she still made no move, the line reformed. She waited in it, glad of the momentary grip on normalcy. She knew it wouldn't last long.

Piling her plate with eggs, bacon, sausage, and a bunch of assorted Casobani breakfast foods she didn't fully recognize, she scanned over the tables, searching with a questing eye before she finally found Besca, sitting near the back corner. Plodding over, she dumped herself in the chair next to her, put down her plate, then placed her face none-to-gently against the white tablecloth.

"Morning."

Amygdala Circuit

With every word that Quinnlash spoke—each wavering of her thoughts—Quinn grew stronger in her own. She uncurled, standing up to her full height, and joined her counterpart on the bench, looking up at the void of an endless sky. The stars had flickered and died. All that was left was...

She let out a light gasp. A moment of revelation. "It's the same thing."

Quinnlash glanced at her, mouth pursed in confusion, then followed her vision. "Distorted, broken, but still the same in the end. Right?"

This time she was quiet for a longer time. Minutes passed as she looked out at the sickle crescent wavering on the black surface like a liquid mirror. Perhaps hours. She didn't know. She couldn't know.

"They were monsters," she suddenly spoke again. "They hurt us in ways that I still don't understand."

She took a deep breath. She still didn't know if she needed to. If she even was breathing, unless she did so willfully. The wind gusting by was growing stronger. "But...Roaki isn't like them. She's not an adult either. I think..." She picked up a piece of ice from the ever-full and unmelting cooler, then hurled it off into the water. It struck the moon, shattering the reflection into incomprehensible fragments of silver light.

"I think she's a little more like us. Us," her voice sharpened to match Quinnlash's and she glanced sidelong at her, "If we were angrier."

She sat down on the railing, meeting those black, infinite eyes. Her razor voice shook, but held. "She's us, once we enjoy it."

Amygdala Circuit

The black sky and the black waters rippled against each other.

Just like before, everything felt a million miles away when she was here. Even then, there was an echo of that crushing sorrow embedded deep within her. Even here. But still...

She stared out at the asymmetric moons. One above, one below. Different. The same. Shattered shards of the same coin, twisted 'round on itself.

"I...I don't want her to die."

She sat down at the edge of the boat, where she'd sat with Safie what felt like years and years ago, and dipped her legs in. They plunged out of sight, the inky waves consuming the light completely.

"I don't want to die, and I don't want her to say those things about our family." She flopped backwards, staring up at the sky, a moment achingly familiar and yet so foreign. "But I also don't—"

She stopped, collecting her thoughts. The broken stars wheeled above in a pattern that was at once right and wrong. Right and wrong. Right and wrong.

"—I don't want to kill. It feels wrong."

She sat back up, flicking droplets of black from her bare feet as she turned and pressed her knees to her chest, leaning up against one of the benches as she looked up at Quinnlash. "I know I need to. But...I don't want to need to. I might have to do it, but I don't have to like it." Her voice took on the ghost of an accusatory tone as she tilted her head at her younger self. "Why do you want me to make me?"

Amygdala Circuit

At length, Quinn's shuddering cries faded, and she released her deathgrip on Dahlia as she fell silent. Another minute or so passed. She remained still, unwilling to move. She felt...safe here. With her.

Then, still unmoving, "Dahlia..." Her voice was nearly inaudible; weak and weepy, it came out in a thin rasp. "...I ruined it, didn't I?" Of course she had. She'd lost control, said terrible things. She had been so angry. And so violent. Those thoughts, running through her head like a broken faucet, pure and potent as water. Fight. Fight. Kill. Kill. Kill. She didn't know which ones were Quinnlash's and which were her own, and it shook her to her core. Was that the kind of person she was, deep down? Violent and angry? What's wrong with me?

She shut her eyes tighter. Then, "Can I—"

The bunks were small, she'd seen them earlier, not to mention being on one right now. They were barely big enough for one person to lie on comfortably, realistically. And it felt absurd to even imagine asking it. Absurd. Stupid. Childish. But imagining herself lying there, in the dark, awake, alone—knowing what was about to come—agonizing over it—it was almost enough to draw a renewed flow of tears out of her. Instead she squeezed her sister tight again, clung to her, fighting desperately to keep the tears at bay.

"—can I sleep with you tonight?"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn couldn't breathe.

Her eye stared out at the door where Roaki had just been dragged, threats still flying loud through her brain and ringing in her ears.

"---------------------------------------------------"

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She heard Dahlia and Besca. But she didn't really hear them. Didn't really even know they were there. Everyone passed in a blurry half-light around her, phantom images that didn't quite register. And though her eye was fixed to the door, it looked past it at some faraway place, watching Roaki slaughtering everyone on Aerie station one by one. Watching her come to the pilot's quarters, tear down the door, then go into Dahlia's room—

I’m gonna start with that one, right there, and I’m just gonna keep going.

"—let her get to you. She may be loud, but she's almost as new to this as you are."

Quinn finally tore her gaze from the imagined carnage and looked up at Besca uncomprehendingly. Painting her face was a look not of tension and worry, but of utter desolation.

Dahlia grasped her hand. "I should've stepped in. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Was she okay?

No. No, there wasn't even a word for how not okay she was at that exact moment. There was no way any word, or combination of words, could describe what was running through her head. The horror. The loathing that seeped through her, choking out the last of that fierce bright urge. Loathing for herself, for that sickening urge, drive, desire to KILL. There were simply no words she could find.

So she didn't try.

Quinn's legs crumpled out from underneath her, and she collapsed into Besca, planting her face on her shoulder, and a wet spot began to form. Even then she was dead silent, like she'd had the mute button pressed on her remote.

I'll kill every last one of them!

Then Quinn shattered.

And, wail after gut-wrenching sob, the silence shattered with her.

Amygdala Circuit

At that moment, Quinn's entire body tensed all at once.

She didn't know what Roaki meant to get at by asking about Dahlia. About friends. About family. But whatever the intent, it filled her with a thrill of fear and unease. And that was vessel enough for the prickles underneath her skin—so briefly quelled by the crushing tide of grief and guilt—to blaze back to life with a new and renewed fire.

Seething anger—she didn't know if it was Quinnlash's or hers, or even a melding of the two—coursed back through her. The liquid flame pumped itself back into her veins, flowing like lava beneath her skin as her hands clenched tight and her blood roared through her ears.

She bared her teeth, only barely choking back a bestial growl as she lunged forwards. Her fist flew out before she could stop it, and she only barely had the presence of mind to pull it back, stopping it right before it hit. Then it unfolded, covering that last distance and coming to rest palm-first.

She leaned in, face only a foot from the glass now as she dragged her fingernails like claws down the barrier. "Don't you get near her," she hissed through her teeth, keeping her voice as low as she could manage. "Don't you even look at her, or I'll rip that stick from your stump and break it over your head."