Lemons

Amygdala Circuit

All thoughts of guilt were gone. At least for the moment. Her heart pounded. Oh god. Oh god. Deelie. Deelie. "Deelie!"

Her ears were ringing. There was no time to wait for someone to extract her. No time for her to rappel out, even if the rope and harness had remained in the cockpit for the duel. So what else was she to do but throw Ablaze down, resting the side of its head against the ash-and-ichor grass as she finally, finally, disconnected. The heat of her phase slipped from her, to be replaced with the frigid air of the cockpit. Her whole body was soaked in sweat. Her leg hurt like fire. Her leg, and her—her everything. It was all sore.

She'd seen Dragon get tossed around like a ragdoll.

The pains faded. The terror remained.

Yanking herself out of the seat and falling to the wall of the cockpit, she bared her teeth, struggled up to the sideways skullport, and squeezed her way out.

Half climbing and half sliding her way down the ravaged head of her Savior, her feet—tiny human feet—nearly fell out from underneath her as they stepped on soil for the first time in what felt like eons. And she did go down, stumbling, falling, cracking her knee on a rock. But it didn't matter. She ran. Frantically. Across the cracked, baked earth, hot air still rising from it. Everything was forgotten as she scrambled, barely staying upright, barely staying comprehensible. She wasn't even sure she could hear through the ringing in her ears.

"Deelie, Deelie, Deelie!" As she passed the shattered fragments of Dragon's jaw, her voice escalated to a hyperventilating squeal, the voice of a desperate child who's lost something very important. "Oh god, Deelie!"

Amygdala Circuit

There was silence in Quinn's head. Silence. Pure, dead, still, deafening silence.

Her body acted almost automatically, reforming her cannon from the beyond that it had been split into. All the roars, growls, grumbles, fell silent. The only thing that came from Ablaze was the low, ragged breathing of an injured animal.

Quinnlash. Loughvein.

It knew her name.

You.

It spoke to her. That wasn't supposed to happen.

She watched herself almost in third person as she skated backwards, ripping trees and stones out beneath her heels as she did. The cannon kicked in her grasp as one—two—three shots engulfed the air in front of her in a conflagration of white fire.

The silence ached in her ears.

I found you in Runa. I found you here.

It had come there looking—

It had come—

It—

The silence loomed.

The mace blew through the fire and the Modir came after it, voice shaking the air around it as it swung in a heavy downwards smash that, should it have connected, would have crushed Ablaze's head with no resistance, and even less mercy.

And then the silence broke. And the world came rushing back.

She dropped, whirled her leg out as she did so. The Modir, already scorched with glimmeering embers where it had run heedlessly through her salvo, leapt over it. Obviously it wouldn't be fooled by such a stupid trick, right? It brandished the mace again as it turned—

—And found itself facing a light like the sun.

Even as Ablaze lay against the ground, its eye had incandesced, lighting up with pale fire as she phased, blurring—for that one barest moment—between halves. Her jagged mouth split.

And then a horrible ragged thunder wrenched from her throat as the flame ignited again, a scouring, cleansing light that tore through the Modir like a knife parting paper. And when that light was just within the cavernous chest, as it began to shine through, there was an explosion that rocked the hills and sent whatever drones were left wheeling away out of sight and mind.

The Modir ruptured, splitting apart like a rotten fruit. Steaming, boiling ichor splattered hundreds of feet in every direction, and the thing's ghastly face plummeted through the sky, cratering itself into the dirt near the crown of the nearby hill. The ruined wreckage of the Modir scattered, ash falling to the ground like snow all around her.

Dahlia was still fighting. A half-turn over the shoulder confirmed that. She should help her—

I found you in Runa. I found you here.

—But the thought of talking to her, facing her, suddenly made Quinn—not Ablaze, Quinn—sick. Very, very sick.

She was so tired. Everything hurt so much. But the stream of frantic energy that ran through her now gave her enough strength to turn. To heft her cannon to her cheek.

Keep everyone there safe.

And to keep. Pushing. Forward.

To set the night ablaze.

Amygdala Circuit

No. It couldn't be. This couldn't be what was happening.

For the barest sliver of second, Quinn watched. The sword rose. Slowly. Slowly. No. The cameras above zipped around like flies.

What could she do?

It was her fault that Roaki was there. It was her fault that Blotklau was crippled. And it would be her fault if—

So what could she do?

A cannon shot wouldn't be enough. Even if it hit the Modir it might not even have the impact to stop the inevitable descent of the fell blade. Dahlia obviously wouldn't be down here in time. She had only seconds. The axes had been—

The axes.

A memory played back in her head then, right at the beginning of the duel: Roaki throwing an axe at her, then dashing after it. Then another: Roaki's savior, arm hanging limp, still screaming, struggling on. The threads snapped together. Only a few moments left. She and Roaki were similar, right? That's what she'd said just a little bit ago. Similar enough that Quinnlash was disturbed by the assertion.

Maybe it was time that instead of looking for the Quinn in Roaki, she needed to look for and channel the Roaki in Quinn.

So clenching her teeth and hissing out an anguished half-cry, she dashed forward.

Ichor still streamed from the wound in her leg. It still hurt like hell, but she ignored the pain, ignored it as best she could. The half-cry ballooned out in her chest into a full-throated scream, pain and anger—no, no you will NOT kill her I worked TOO HARD for this. And a second after she started running—no more, or there would be no time left, but no less, to build up that savage momentum—she twirled the cannon, holding it like a massive baseball bat, and hurled it forwards. It spun in a gleaming arc of silver metal and white light, cutting through the air with a sound like a helicopter towards the Modir as the blade reached its apex.

And she careened with it. If she hadn't been in a Modir's body, tears would be streaming out of her eye. Her Savior's scream was already starting to die to a croaking moan that presaged haunting wails. But she still pressed forward.

Nobody dies today.

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn stared. Numb. Numb again. Numb with panic. Numb with fear.

But still again...Quinnlash urged her on.

She was so tired. So, so tired. And she didn't want to plug back in, didn't want to feel those fierce ripping pains again. But...she had to.

A beacon.

To light up the world around her.

And keep everyone there safe.

So, eye still on the sword-wielding Modir—god, she'd never fought a Modir before—she ran through the still-open skullport. Slammed the door. Flashes of white walls echoed around her. She gritted her teeth. Ignored them.

Keep everyone there safe.

"I'm plugging in." A moment. "Send Dahlia up, get her in Dragon. I don't know if I—" She cut herself off. The exhaustion was still there in her voice, and now a desperate fear came with it. But it had tightened, tensed. She had to do this. She was the only one who could. But no, she knew. She remembered Hovvi. She wouldn't—

And then as she clambered into the chair, suddenly—unexpectedly—her chest filled with joy. Unfiltered, unrefined, unwelcome. But there nonetheless. Because here, she didn't need to wait for the perfect shot. She didn't need to avoid shooting, taking care not to hit anything vital. She had no need to hold herself back, play on the defensive.

Roaki wasn't a monster.

This was.

Quinnlash Loughvein reconnected.

It hurt. A lot. The pain sliced back through her. But, tearing in sharp, ragged breaths, she fought through it and stood. Faced the Modir square on. Reached. Gripped. Pulled. The cannon dropped back into her hands. Everything was quiet, for just a moment. They looked at each other. Her heart quaked. No matter what she said...no matter what she'd told herself...she was so afraid. So horribly, horribly afraid.

Then the cannon in her hands roared, and the flame seared forth. She began to circle around, limping, trying to draw the creature away from the camp as best she could. A sudden feeling of tranquility took over her as she prepared for another fight. One from which she was...pretty sure she wasn't coming home.

"Deelie, are you there? Can you hear me?"

Amygdala Circuit

Her hand trembled. Finger on the trigger. So close. So close. One shot. Clean. Pilot and Savior, both gone in the blink of an eye. It wouldn't even be painful. She would be doing her a favor. A favor.

Still she hesitated. The cacophony filled her head.

"You have to—"

KILL HER. END her. End this waste. End it. END IT—

"Quinn!"

Easy. Finish her. Just pull it, Quinnlash, and—

Her hand quivered—shook—tensed—so EASY—

KILL HER—

With a herculean effort, she smashed the cannon into the ground and let it dissipate. Took her foot off of the shattered wreck of Blotklau. And when she screamed this time, it wasn't the same roar she'd shown Roaki. It wasn't the shriek of panic, or the howl of pain. No. This was anger. Not Quinnlash's. Not whatever was on the other side of Ablaze. This was her anger alone, as she glared her one gleaming, cold white eye up at the swarm of carrion drones overhead.

"Shut up! All of you, just shut up!"

The numbness faded. The pain caught up, and she went down on one knee. Silence fell, both within her head and without. And still she carried on.

"Does she look like she can continue? Sound like it? This duel is over!" Her long, clawed fingers cut furrows in the earth as she dragged them into fists, and the burning grass around her raked pinprick burns along her leg. Her voice rippled, vibrated, like it couldn't even properly contain her anger. And she couldn't. She'd done what they asked. Fought their stupid battle. And she was done. "I am not killing her! I'm not pulling that trigger, and NONE OF YOU can make me! Do you hear me, you sick heartless bastards? She's not dying! Nobody dies today!"

She huffed. One breath. Two. Three. The anger flickered out just as quickly as it arrived, leaving her voice gray as ash; drained, hollow, and tired.

"Now get me out of this thing."

And Quinnlash Loughvein disconnected.

Amygdala Circuit

Ablaze hummed, pins and needles racing up and down her not-body, and she felt a renewed pool of power rising in her. The report of her cannon stopped. It grew bright, then brighter, then held. It was roaring. Not in her ears, not in her hands, but in her. It was part and parcel of her, and in that moment, nothing in the world felt more natural than holding that flame back.

One last effort. Once last backstep. Just far enough away. Come on. Come on. Come on—

Screaming both in her ear and in her brain, Blotklau leapt. A low thing, almost a pounce. The axe in her arm, the axe in her teeth, glinted with their sharp and wild light.

They were on even ground. Her cannon was charged. And Roaki's feet had left the ground. Perfect. Exactly what she wanted.

Now or never.

She looked at Blotklau. Not at its axes, but at her, at the whole. She was moving low, but aiming long. She expected Ablaze to keep going. Keep moving back. Only one blow landed; why would she stop going now?

So, brimming with an ocean of new energy, Quinnlash lunged forwards.

The world seemed to pause. Time slowed to a crawl as she curled, tucking for a sideways roll upon hitting the ground. Blotklau's four red eyes slid back to her. Pain. Anger. Surprise. Confusion.

Upside-down now, midway through the roll, she brought the cannon to bear. It was like an extension of her body now, a part of her as much as her own gashed arms and legs. Blotklau was fast. Too fast for her to get a sure shot in. But now? No changing directions now. And she was point blank. She allowed herself a smile then. A grim, thin thing, a twisted rictus splitting across her mauled face.

Gotcha.

Click.

With a sound to eclipse thunder, a stream of blinding light blazed forth with enough power to tear through anything in its path. And it did. When she landed, tucked into that roll, her ear nearly popped with the sheer volume of Roaki's screaming, and she knew without even looking that she'd hit her mark. She hauled herself to her feet as fast as she could, even as pain ripped through her, and dashed back with earthshaking footsteps to Blotklau. Or what was left of it. Exactly where Quinn had hoped she'd be. Face down. Screaming. Axes forgotten. And with both legs rendered into smoke and ash from the knees down.

The grass all around them caught alight, and fires rose to meet her as she planted her foot in Blotklau's back. Not hard enough to hurt. But enough to send a message. And then finally, she brought down her cannon's business end on the elbow of the Savior's last intact limb.

A duel ended when the opponent could no longer continue, right?

"Disconnect!" She roared through the microphone, drowning out even Roaki's horrified, raging, spasming screams. She bore down with the cannon's barrel until she felt something pop, grinding into the dirt. "Disconnect! Or I take the arm too!"

Amygdala Circuit

Taunts were forgotten. Plans were cast aside. The instant the axe buried itself in her, she lost her hard-won composure. It hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt. She staggered as Blotklau flew at her. She'd messed up. Went too far. Didn't go far enough. Wasn't careful. Was it over so fast? Was she—

IGNORE IT. FIGHT. She felt the pain dull. Just enough. An apology. Gratitude. Thank you.

Blotklau roared, and Quinn's mind snapped back into focus.

She abandoned her cannon, and it shattered into fading strands of white light. It would only slow her down now. Then she reached down, ducked a claw—almost, it raked across the back of her head and she bared her teeth—and ripped the axe from her leg, tossing it aside. Ichor drained in a thick stream. The pain was intense, even through Quinnlash's protection. But not quite enough.

The lessons with Dahlia came flooding back. Just like before, she backstepped, brought her hands up. The claws came faster than her sister's fists ever had. But at least now they weren't slicing her to ribbons so effortlessly. She grimaced. Dahlia. She loved her. She needed to get back to her. And she wouldn't let this cosmic joke stop her.

She ducked under a swiping claw, and found her opening. She still wasn't flexible. She still couldn't high kick without straining herself. But she knew the principle.

And she wasn't Ablaze.

As the hand soared past her, she popped back up. Backed slightly. Feinted a low kick.

Then she swept her leg up, up, over her head and certainly over Blotklau's. She roared right back, ichor flying from her mouth in viscous strands. And with all the weight of gravity, all the force of Blotklau's own breakneck advance, and the considerable strength of a Savior, she slammed it down, right on the point of her enemy's shoulder with a sickening, juddering crack.

Then she backed away. Fast. At least as fast as she could.

She'd gotten her space, at least just a little. But she'd hurt Roaki more than she wanted. And she'd been hurt so, so, so much more. Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She was lucky. Very, very lucky. If that hand hadn't gone just the slightest bit wide...

She jumped back further. Stumbled, but kept her footing. Quinnlash numbed her, just enough to keep her on her feet. She was close now. Two minutes. Less. But her whole body was ringing with pain. Those minutes felt like centuries.

She had just enough time to pull her cannon out again before Blotklau recovered. She didn't dare try to launch herself again, not in this state. But when Roaki came at her again, those shots—those little bursts of movement (not directed at Blotklau, of course)—might be just enough to keep in front.

The seconds ticked by.

The clock ticked down.

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn's right arm flew back to the cannon. She didn't want Blotklau—good GOD that thing was terrifying—to get caught in the crossfire. She hoped she had the trajectory right. Aimed at the ground. Aimed at the axe. And then, as it was nearly upon her, she pulled the trigger. There was a loud crack as a bloom of white light rent the soil, sending the axe screaming into the air. Clods of earth sprayed out, pinging uselessly against the advancing horror of Blotklau.

But that wasn't the point.

It all worked according to plan. The kick of the cannon—the sheer force of the shockwave—exploded so close to her that she was sent rocketing into the air. She spared just a moment to check behind herself and adjust for landing before looking forward again. Good, she'd only cleared a valley between two hills. Hoppping out of the crater she'd left, she huffed out a shaky breath and swore quietly off of comms. "I can't believe that worked."

She'd taken some breathing room. But she knew from the footage she'd seen that Blotklau could cover that space in the blink of an eye. And the way it had run at her had only reinforced that. She clenched her jaw tight, jagged teeth scraping against each other with a sound like falling stones. She couldn't get too far away. Not until she phased. She'd even gone too far just then. The less she did that, the better.

She tensed her muscles to dodge. Blinked. Recalled.

Remember, don’t watch my hands, watch me. 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.

"You won't be killing anybody like that, kiddo. Who taught you to throw?" Keep her talking, keep her mad, keep her predictable. She hated this, and she hated herself for doing it. But it was better than the alternative. Anything was better than the alternative. She counted the seconds as they ticked down. Phase. Phase already.

Amygdala Circuit

The words had barely finished, and Quinn was already at the skullport. She tore the door open with one hand. A distant and fragmented part of her laughed at how hesitant she'd been the first time, how long she'd taken. But there was no time for that. Only one thing mattered now. Slinging herself into the chair, she felt her plugs click into place. It had become almost comforting. Familiar. A constant in an ever-changing series of troubles and trials. Her eye closed tight. And the darkness swirled away.

Ablaze stood. Three deep breaths.

Then she reached out her hand, grasped the sheet, and tore. The enormous cannon fell into her hands, and with an almost reflexive speed she spun it up to her shoulder. The white lines blurred at the edge of her vision, and she could feel the internal fire rumbling, waiting to be unleashed upon her target.

It could keep waiting.

Her mind raced. Her plan was half-formed at best, harebrained and futile at worst. But it was all she had. As much as it scared her...she needed to stay close. She needed to phase, it was true. But she didn't know how much time it would take afterwards. So she couldn't keep that distance. She was on a tight clock, and that fact beat through every inch of her colossal body. She couldn't take advantage of her cannon's range, like she'd done in every single sim. She needed to dance just outside of Blotklau's range. She needed to keep her chasing.

And she needed to make her mad.

A voice surged up within her, an impulse so strong it stole her breath. One word. And though she knew more would come, that first word was always the strongest: KILL. It was beating through her, thick as the ichor surging through her twisted body. KILL. And she snarled back: Go fuck yourself.

Then, to Besca. Just two words: "Trust me."

And then, finally back to the pilot channel. Across to the animal form of Blotklau, already starting to move. To Roaki. She let go of the cannon with her offhand—primed and tensed to move back at the slightest need—and stroked it down a braid that wasn't there anymore. The cannon was pointed out the ground in front of her. Very, very intentionally. Waiting for her to get close.

Let's see if this works as well as it did in sims.

Then she forced her voice into a high, lilting singsong like a little child playing. She hated what she was about to say. But again...

...She needed her mad.

"Catch me if you can, little cripple girl~!"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn didn't say anything for the longest time.

Minutes ticked by as she stared across at Roaki, the newly-minted decision she'd made on the brief walk up weighing her down. Not like an impediment to moving; if anything, she felt she had more energy than before. A weight in her mind, a burden that she knew she was about to bear on herself. This was already going to be rough. If Roaki had been closer, she might have seen her chest heaving as she tried to take calming breaths to stanch the fear that was bleeding through her.

It was already going to be rough. So hard. So incredibly hard. Roaki would be trying her best to tear her Sa—to tear Ablaze apart, piece by piece. She wanted to kill. But as rough as it was already going to be...she'd gone and made it so much harder by handicapping herself. Handicapping herself in a fight that wasn't just "whoever got punched first" with Dahlia. Handicapping herself in a fight where losing meant she would never see her family again. She would lose them. And they would lose her. In the end, was it really worth it?

But she couldn't stop thinking about that last conversation with Besca, and she hadn't stopped on the way over. And as she'd reached the first hill, she realized something.

Roaki wasn't a monster. She knew it, deep down, and she finally fully realized what she saw of herself in her. Why she'd gotten so angry, so suddenly. What Roaki was, was hurt. Scarred. And she wanted to make everyone around her hurt too. So why should she die? Being mad at the world wasn't a capital crime. She didn't deserve death. Not on any metric or scale. And Quinn wasn't going to kill her. She'd heard the formal rules on the way here: the loser was whoever could not continue. Not whoever died. And that made all the difference.

So it didn't matter whether she could or could not kill someone. Because the fact of the matter was, she wouldn't kill someone.

She wouldn't kill anyone.

And she certainly wouldn't kill Roaki.

So, all those minutes later, she replied. Once sentence. Quiet, calm, self assured, filled with a newborn conviction. The sun played across the rolling hills, turning them—just for a moment—into the surface of a deep blue lake.

"I'll tell you later."