Lemons

Lem's Stash

“Stay still, please, that's a good little boy. This won't hurt a bit.”

N A M E

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Perfidia Mothwax

A G E

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24

O R I G I N

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Dryadalis

V I S A G E

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Perfidia is a short young woman, all told. Not much taller than kids years younger than she is, she certainly doesn't look like she's in her mid-twenties. People have asked her, even, if she's lost, or where her parents are. And this isn't particularly improved by the waterfall of pale green hair that tumbles down her shoulders and back, reaching nearly to the floor. This frames her youthful face, which is

P E R S O N A L I T Y T R A I T S

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Calm. Collected. Unflappable. A gods-damned ice queen. These were just some of the descriptors used to describe Etoile by her subordinates in the past, and most are, or at least were, accurate. She is a cool-headed woman, thinking through the consequences of any given course of events extensively before taking action as long as she has the opportunity to do so. She is generally slow and methodical in her approach to problems, which can certainly lead to issues making quick decisions, and certainly has. She's quite a cold person as well; judgmental and disdainful, she is not afraid to let someone know exactly what she thinks about them. All that being said, she's become quite a bit more practical and pragmatic than she used to be, her worries about reputation and status having mostly been ground away over the past year or so.

Still, she's not just cold logic and practicality. Much of her personality finds its roots in a massive inferiority complex towards her elder brother, Edmund Lécuyer. She's struggled with this on and off throughout most of her life, and it's a lot of what set her along the course that her life eventually took. That leads into her final cardinal personality trait: she's stubborn. Incredibly so. Trying to alter her from a course of action that she's decided upon is like trying to stop a charging bull with a piece of tissue paper.

L I F E E X P E R I E N C E S

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Etoile was on the path of conflict with the Ecclesiae and the rest of the Inquisitors from the moment she enlisted in their military. Of course, she didn't become an officer entirely on her own merits; though they were the majority of the reason, it certainly didn't hurt being of the Lécuyer noble family. As a fairly high-ranking member of the military when the final stand of the Magi aboard Eileithyia occurred, she became suspicious. Before then, she'd not paid them much mind; as a member of the Inquisitors, she'd been authorized to use magic in the service of Iquenos by the Ecclesiae, after all. But she'd known many of those magi for many years; due to her family, she'd had connections with many of the guilds, and she'd always found them perfectly normal, nice people, with the obvious exception of their magical abilities. Nothing heretical about them; many were, in fact, devout worshippers. So, she did the one thing that sealed her fate:

She started to dig.

Over the next decade, she would ascent in rank quite steadily and, more importantly, discover that there had never been any "dark magic" within the Nsiferum. And, inevitably, she was discovered. She was stripped of her title immediately, and sentenced to death for her heretical tendencies, and for conspiring against the Ecclesiae. Before her execution, though, she managed to slip her manacles with the addition of a well-applied gust of sharp, slicing wind, and escaped from the Church.

Now she roams the countryside, sleeping in places that she obviously finds distasteful and doing her best to stay ahead of the Inquisitors, her former colleagues, pursuing her, and those stationed in pretty much every town and village, which her prideful nature makes...difficult, especially on those occasions that she refuses to remove her immaculately-kept old uniform. It is largely due to pure dumb luck that she is still alive today.

E L E M E N T A L A F F I N I T Y

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Malum

A T T R I B U T E S

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Artificem Magum - Fidia has a somewhat unusual combat style. Instead of using a rod, or a sword, or a spear, she focuses her malum magic through a series of four razor-sharp blades attached to durable ribbons attached to her shoulders.

Swordsmanship - While nowhere near as skillful as most, Etoile can hold her own against an opponent that hasn't been formally trained due to her status as a military officer. She uses a slim, curved sabre, a family heirloom known as Vent de Trancheuse, when fighting is necessary.

Learned - As described above, Etoile gained her skill in magic through long study. However, her study was not limited to magic; she was expected to be both a noblewoman and an officer at the same time. Thus, while her street-smarts are debatable, she is highly intelligent and knows a great deal of natural science and logical reasoning, as well as being a bit of a literature buff by her own admission.

Prosthetic - Several years ago, she lost an arm during a military campaign gone wrong. Since then, her right arm has been replaced by an ether-powered prosthetic crafted of silver metal and engraved with the crest of house Lécuyer, rendering it quite durable and entirely immune to pain. However, it also draws attention very easily.

Strategic - As an officer in the military, Etoile became quite skillful in tactics and strategy. She is particularly skillful at deducing ambushes before they can occur, and at large troop movements.

Lem's Stash

“Always one step ahead of death, just one step out of reach. But even so...here I stand.”

N A M E

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Etoile Lécuyer
Émilie Couer (alias)

A G E

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27

O R I G I N

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Iquenos nobility

V I S A G E

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Slim and slight and standing just beneath 5'7" with relatively undefined muscular tone, Etoile honestly doesn't look much like a soldier, and that fits her just fine. Though previous she carried herself erect and at attention at all times from her training, she's fought herself down into a more relaxed way to better blend in, and her crisp, snapping strides have gone the same way as her posture. Now instead of her hard-soled dress shoes, she wears a pair of tough leather boots, worn and patched in several places.

Her head of blonde hair, previously cut into sharp bangs, with more falling to the sides of her face in distinctive long chunks, has been chopped further, coming to rest messily at around the base of her neck. To further distance herself from what she once looked like, she tends to tie it up in a small, messy bun. Nearby are her eyes, a cold stormy-gray. They are narrow and calculating, always roving around as though she's always watchful for something or other.

Over the months following the disastrous event that removed Etoile from the Inquisition, she's piecemeal replaced every article of clothing she owned. Now she carries in her bag a set of plain green clothes, as well as a heavier set for winters and a long, cream-colored cloak. The picture is completed with her gloved hands, worn as such to hide the nature of her right arm, which is steel-colored metal all the way up to the shoulder. The joints glimmer faintly with ether when stretched, and engraved prominently on the shoulder is the crest of House Lécuyer.

P E R S O N A L I T Y T R A I T S

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Calm. Collected. Unflappable. A gods-damned ice queen. These were just some of the descriptors used to describe Etoile by her subordinates in the past, and most are, or at least were, accurate. She is a cool-headed woman, thinking through the consequences of any given course of events extensively before taking action as long as she has the opportunity to do so. She is generally slow and methodical in her approach to problems, which can certainly lead to issues making quick decisions, and certainly has. She's quite a cold person as well; judgmental and disdainful, she is not afraid to let someone know exactly what she thinks about them. All that being said, she's become quite a bit more practical and pragmatic than she used to be, her worries about reputation and status having mostly been ground away over the past year or so.

Still, she's not just cold logic and practicality. Much of her personality finds its roots in a massive inferiority complex towards her elder brother, Edmund Lécuyer. She's struggled with this on and off throughout most of her life, and it's a lot of what set her along the course that her life eventually took. That leads into her final cardinal personality trait: she's stubborn. Incredibly so. Trying to alter her from a course of action that she's decided upon is like trying to stop a charging bull with a piece of tissue paper.

L I F E E X P E R I E N C E S

---

Etoile was on the path of conflict with the Ecclesiae and the rest of the Inquisitors from the moment she enlisted in their military. Of course, she didn't become an officer entirely on her own merits; though they were the majority of the reason, it certainly didn't hurt being of the Lécuyer noble family.

But let's backtrack some, because her story starts long before she became that officer.

The Lécuyer noble house had never been a military family. And when she was young, the second child Etoile had little interest in changing that. But as is the way of siblings, she felt a constant competitiveness with her brother Edmund, five years older than she was. And when he became an apprentice Inquisitor at thirteen years old, the eight year old Etoile had no chance. Praise was heaped on him, and she became a ghost in her own house as just a child. And so with a child's logic, she decided she would become an Inquisitor too. As she aged her logic grew more sound, until at twelve years old—a year younger than Edmund, that voice inside her still whispered—she pulled the trigger and joined up.

Her apprenticeship under one Salion Cherin was uneventful for the first two years. But when she was fourteen years old the cataclysmic final battle on the Eileithyia took place. She watched it happen from a safe distance. She was too young for real combat, of course, Salion had said. So instead of participating in the fighting itself, she found herself growing curious in the logistics of a struggle like this. The organization of troops. The strategies executed. The consequences upon a success or failure. And so as she aged and this curiosity grew into a full-on interest in all things tactics, she isolated herself from most real combat. Though there were places here and there, she spent a large part educating herself and being educated in military strategy.

It was in one of those rare stints of active combat—a raid on a small village called Hellion—that she lost her arm. While she wasn't bad at fighting, per se, she was also only seventeen. And so when a malum-enhanced hulking monster that might have once been a human bore down on her, she was unable to stop it from ripping her arm from her shoulder. The injury obviously took her out of training and study for a while before she was fitted with an advanced prosthetic that drew power from the ether in the air all around her. By the time she had recovered enough to return to her study, she was eighteen years old.

Time went on as time must do, and at twenty three years old she had come into her own as a powerful scholaris magi. At one point during that year, she was tasked with leading a small group to...eliminate a small malificarum holdout. It went off easily, without a hitch, and she was given commendation on how effectively she'd performed in her duties. All the praise turned sour, though, as in her room, underneath her pillow, was a book she hadn't quite had time to read all the way through just yet. A manifesto, of sorts, and a history book she'd taken on a whim from the malificara, just before everything else had been set ablaze. And though she hadn't had time to read it through all the way, she'd read it through enough to know that something was wrong. The accounts contained therein were strange; mutually exclusive with the heroic image that Januarius presented himself with. So then Etoile did the one thing that would seal her fate:

She started to dig.

Nothing major, really; asking subtle questions here and there when she traveled, combing the stacks of libraries from Thlecia to Ordos, and everywhere in between. It took some time for her to be discovered; until the cusp of her twenty-sixth birthday. She was starting to put things together into a picture. A fuzzy picture, distorted by time and secrecy, but a picture nonetheless. Until one day she returned home and found Inquisitors waiting.

Somebody knew. They might have known from the start. And now they'd decided that she was too great a risk.

Heresy. Treason. Conspiracy. Corruption. The charges that she'd levied against others she now stared down the barrel of, and of course the punishment was death. She almost laughed. She'd been unsure who or what to believe. But execution? The ultimate "be quiet" tactic? Well. She knew what to believe now. It was lucky she was an Inquisitor—or, well, ex-Inquisitor—herself. She knew exactly where to go, and how to escape the ether-drained cell she found herself in. She sucked in the ether from her arm hungrily, leaving it dead, but giving her just enough to break the lock with a quick Acer Ventus. Then, leaving behind her Inquisitorial cloak, she returned to her old home to grab the ancestral Lécuyer saber Vent Tranchant, then fled off into the night.

For a little over a year now, she's been wandering, leaving pieces of her Inquisitor past behind everywhere she goes. Always moving on, never stopping in one place long enough to put down roots. For as much as she fought to leave it behind...one never knew when the past would come calling.

E L E M E N T A L A F F I N I T Y

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Ventus.

A T T R I B U T E S

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Scholaris Magum - Etoile's proficiency with ventus-oriented magic comes from long, dedicated study. She is highly learned about the structure of magic, but because of her rigid nature and the educated nature of her magic, she finds it difficult to improvise, relying instead on a series of predefined spells. There are several, but those listed below are her most commonly used:

Acer Ventus: Etoile directs a narrow gust of slicing wind at any object she has direct line of sight on, though the effort to use it is increased with distance. Can cut through quite a few durable objects such as metal and stone.
Densus Ventus: Using this spell, Etoile can render air hyperdense, rendering it solid. Though it remains as such for no more than a minute or so, she can also manipulate it with her mind during this state. Used often for crossing gaps with bridges of air.
Gladius Ventus: Etoile enhances her sabre using a slight modification of the Acer Ventus spell, creating a lengthy Acer Ventus a centimetre or so directly in front of the blade, enhancing its cutting power.
Impulsus Ventus: Though it looks basic, this spell is deceptively difficult for Etoile to use. She holds out a hand and forces an immensely powerful blast of wind out of it, applying concussive force to anything in its path.
Tractus Ventus: The inverse of Impulsus Ventus to some extent, Tractus Ventus applies a similar powerful force to whatever is in front of her. Instead of a push, however, it's a pulling force, allowering her to yank people or objects towards her.
Frendeo Ventus: One of the more powerful spells Etoile has at her disposal, Frendeo Ventus crushes whatever she targets with it into the ground. While it's certainly not powerful enough to be lethal and is a strain for her to keep up for more than a few seconds, it's still a very powerful tool.
Reicio Ventus: Finishing off the spells that apply force, Reicio Ventus is something of a twist on Impulsus Ventus, blasting a powerful burst of air out all around her. While it's not as powerful as a full-on Impulsus, it's still more than enough to get herself some breathing room.
Levis Ventus: Finishing things up is a spell almost useless in combat but extremely versatile outside of it. Levis Ventus raises Etoile into the air, holding her there a moment before dropping her back down. This can be held with some strain, and combined with an Impulsus Ventus, allows her to completely avoid many hazards and obstacles by launching herself over them.

Swordsmanship - Etoile was a soldier until very recently, and was quite good at her job. She is a rather skilled swordswoman; though it wasn't her focus by any means, that's not to say she isn't a competent threat. She uses a slim, curved sabre, a family heirloom known as Vent Tranchant, when fighting is necessary.

Learned - As described above, Etoile gained her skill in magic through long study. However, her study was not limited to magic; she was expected to be both a noblewoman and an officer at the same time. Thus, while her street-smarts are debatable, she is highly intelligent and knows a great deal of natural science and logical reasoning, as well as being a bit of a literature buff by her own admission.

Prosthetic - Several years ago, she lost an arm during a military campaign gone wrong. Since then, her right arm has been replaced by an ether-powered prosthetic crafted of silver metal and engraved with the crest of house Lécuyer, rendering it quite durable and entirely immune to pain. However, it also draws attention very easily.

Strategic - As an officer in the military, Etoile became quite skillful in tactics and strategy. She is particularly skillful at deducing ambushes before they can occur, and at large troop movements.

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn shivered as Besca went on, Dahlia's hand in her own a comfort, but still not enough to dispel this horror, not nearly. Quinnlash's retreat left her with a strange feeling of absence that she had trouble explaining; like even when she was alone she hadn't really been alone, but now she was and it hurt. She squeezed Dahlia's hand tighter.

She didn't like it, the idea of people being turned into Modir by completing the circuit. It filled her mind with images of Dahlia in Dragon and Roaki in Blotklau and even of Safie in Jubilee, pulled into the dark wherever through the singularities and then coming back and all she could do was fight them and kill them. It hurt. It hurt really bad, deep down in her chest, a throbbing, pounding pain that came from the furthest reaches of her heart. She didn't want to think about it anymore, but she just...couldn't stop herself. She closed her eye for a moment in an attempt to compose herself that was met with dubious success.

As soon as Besca mentioned him—it—Dammerung?—it talking to her, she knew exactly where things were headed. So she had time to tense, squeeze Dahlia's hand tighter, and brace herself before the voice poured from the speakers.

"It cannot stand..."

Despite the bracing, Quinn couldn't help it; she let out a terrified little squeak and shrank backwards into Dahlia, like she could find some way to run or hide from the voice as it filled the small room.

She didn't move or speak until the voice finally fell silent and the audio file closed, when—if her reaction hadn't been answer enough—she said quietly and oh-so-tremulously, still holding tight to Dahlia's side,

"Y—yeah. That's...that's him—it."

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn could feel it. Quinnlash could feel it too, she just knew it. Something really, really important was coming. Why else would Besca talk about this man from hundreds of years ago? Why else would it have interrupted a major interview, her first interview? Whatever it was, it needed to be big.

She hadn't learned that much about Aridea, all told. She hadn't even heard of it before she left her own personal hell, and she hadn't had much time to study up about it afterwards. She knew a little, but not nearly as much as Besca was telling her. But...why? Why was it so crucial that she—they, Dahlia was there too—know the story of a long-dead prince of a long-dead empire? It just didn't make any—

And then it did.

Quinn's perception narrowed down to the tiniest point as the image of Dammerung appeared in front of her. She could feel her heart beating within her chest like mad. Every other sound was muted, and her eye was wide with barely-restrained horror. A sound like choking burst from her as she struggled to fix her eye on what she was seeing, and her pupil shrank to a pinprick. The last time she had seen the swordsman—could she still call it Dammerung? She didn't know—it had been pulling back a fist to crush Dahlia like a bug. It had nearly killed her. It had nearly killed Roaki. It had nearly killed Quinn. And the images of that horrifying day flared before her eye as she stared.

She was paralyzed again, brain barely firing as it refused to accept what was right in front of her. She was silent, staring, and without realizing it, she dug her fingernails into the barrier of the jacket sleeves on her upper arms.

All that came from her mouth was a strangled "what?"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn had to actively fight to stop herself from shrinking away from the stares of the—of her fans. She didn't want to think about it. She couldn't think about it. So instead of waving like before she dropped her head slightly, whimpering oh-so-quietly, inaudible over the noise. But it didn't last long. The creeping fear and panic that she'd felt back in the interview room was falling away, to be replaced by the burning worry of the uncertain fate that awaited her.

As they boarded the elevator, Quinn counted the moments until they could ascend and get out of the stares. As she did, though, she heard something that quickly disrupted that count.

Tormont? Double the guards? Was something happening with Roaki?

No. Besca said everyone was fine and nobody was in danger, and she believed her. But that little nugget of unease buried itself deep inside of her and took root.

The rushed ride back up the elevator was blurred, disoriented. Quinn had ping-ponged back and forth between emotions so many times today—good, bad, good, bad, fear, pride, guilt—that her nerves were absolutely shot, and this wasn't helping matters. But what was in focus was the way Besca held her, the words that she whispered into her hair. She was proud. Even after all that, she was still proud of her. And suddenly the world felt a little bit less unfriendly.

Quinn hugged her back, just as tight, and buried her face into Besca's shoulder. There was a sob in her voice when she responded with a muffled "thank you," but it didn't go any further than that; she managed to hold back the tears that wanted to spill out so desperately, forcing them to stop until the urge abated.

When the finally arrived back in the hangar, she made a beeline—though never getting far from Besca—straight towards the briefing room, relishing the hug from Deelie. She'd only been away from her for a moment, but she'd been so worried and so stressed that it felt like years, and now everything in the world felt right, if only just for the barest fraction of a fraction of a second.

But unfortunately, it was not to last. As the two of them separated, the image of a man popped up on the big screen. At Besca's question, Quinn tried to think back. But nothing came to her. And perhaps not surprising, considering her upbringing. She she only shrugged helplessly.

"N—no," she responded. "Should I have?"

Amygdala Circuit

Everything suddenly happened so fast.

She was just barely starting to recover from her near-catatonia as Mona calmly, quietly talked her through it. It was a little like talking to Besca, the way her eyes the way she looked. No anger, no frustration, no judgement. She wasn't quite as sweet as Besca—little more jokey—but that was okay too. Her tense muscles started to slowly unbind themselves, and though she still trembled, it was no longer nearly as bad. She didn't respond, didn't want to interrupt, didn't want to hear her voice shaking anymore. But maybe she should've, because right as she was finally about to—

"WHAT?"

She jerked along with the cast and Mona, eye immediately wide with worry again as Besca nearly ran up to the set, then just as quickly started out. What? What was going on? There wasn't a singularity, nobody was in danger, but...then what was so urgent that Besca would pull her out. She looked at Mona and mumbled a quiet "I'm sorry," before following after.

It took her a moment to catch up; Besca wasn't moving slowly, and she certainly wasn't waiting. The trembling returned, and she slid her hands into her jacket pockets and clenched them into tight white fists.

"Besca," she asked softly as they approached the door, "What's going on? What's wrong?" And even though Besca had already said that nobody was in danger, she couldn't help but follow it with a shaky "Is everyone okay?"

Amygdala Circuit

Staring up at the ceiling, Quinn tried her best to breathe steadily. She was met with...middling success. It wasn't as bad. But it was still pretty bad.

"N—no, It's...not the duel," she bit out, doing her best to force her voice to come out evenly. She picked up the glass of water, swirling it momentarily before—

Have some water instead. How's that sound, sweetie?

—Before her arm jerked and she rammed it none-too-gently back onto the table where the rest of the salmon lay forgotten, staring wide-eyed at it like she'd seen a ghost. The water that had spilled over in her haste soaked into the tablecloth, and her already pale face went white as a sheet as she shrank back. "Just—I—you—they—"

She didn't know quite what to make of what was happening. Disoriented, confused, and hurting, she could only reach her hand up again to swipe the burgeoning tears out before they could spill over. How did she explain this? How could she possibly explain this? She didn't know. All she knew was that she was ruining it. She forced herself to uncoil, sitting back down in a normal posture, though she was obviously very tense. She was messing it all up. But for some reason Mona wasn't—wasn't mad at her. She didn't know why, but it made her just comfortable enough to find her voice.

"I mean—sorry. I'm s—sorry." Another heavy swallow, trying to choke back the lump. "It was—it was home."

An honest-to-goodness shiver passed through her body when she said the word, and she closed her eye again for a moment, like she couldn't bear to look. She was ruining it. She was ruining everything. Like she always did. She looked down at her hand. It was shaking. Her whole body was shaking, in a way it hadn't in weeks. "They—I don't—please—" Then she dropped to a dead whisper, barely enough for Mona to hear, let alone anybody else. "...Please. Don't—don't talk about—about home, or about—about—my—my fam—my parents. Please. Don't. Please. I didn't—I couldn't say—I'm sorry!"

As hard as she tried, a thin trickle of tears was threading its way down from her eye. She hated it. She hated herself for it. All she had to do was not do that, and she was messing it up. The taut tension started leaking from her voice, and she picked up a napkin from the table, dabbing her eye with it in a futile attempt to look like she wasn't one frayed thread from snapping.

"Just...please. Don't."

You Can Become a Hero!

Kayo gritted her teeth beneath a placid smile as not one, not two, but three different people shoved their way by her, knocking her smaller frame around a bit like a ragdoll as the crowd flexed around them. They must've been upperclassmen. Nobody else would push through like that. She almost wanted to snarl at them. If she gets me wet in this weather, I'm going to hurt her soooo much. But she didn't, obviously, because she was better than they were, a fact which was more than evident now. Obviously.

She'd gotten off the night train from Kyoto right around the crack of dawn—it had really been cold then—and spent an hour waking herself up some and privately sneering at her mom while sitting in a charming little coffee shop, sipping on a hot cocoa and nibbling on a pastry. She she didn't really know the name of it. Something French, she thought. It had been pretty good, she'd need to go back to that place after school sometime. She tried her best to remember exactly where it had been, before a particularly chilly gust of wind brushed her hair against her face and prompted a surprised sneeze. She'd think about it later. She remembered the name if nothing else.

In contrast to those three idiots from before—silver hair, green hair, fish, she would remember them for sure—she dawdled a bit in how she moved through the courtyard, very occasionally sliding by someone with a saccharine "Sorry! Excuse me! Oh, I'm sorry!" The crowd rankled her slightly. She should be out in front of them, naturally. But being out in front of them wouldn't do her any favors socially, as those three had conveniently demonstrated. And Kayo was nothing if not socially conscious. So she was in no hurry to get into the hall quite yet. It was cold, certainly, but the oversized, fluffy pale green sweater she wore over her uniform cut most of the chill.

Ahhh, there was the fish girl with the white hair, shivering like mad. Burying her disdain, she came up behind her. She was tall, wasn't she? An upperclassman, definitely. Probably a third year, if she had to guess. So why was she standing out here if she was so cold? Well, the thought presented itself easily, it's because she's a moron. Which would only make her job easier, wouldn't it? Having an upperclassman on her side would do wonders for her. Get her a nice little headstart in front of everyone else. Even though it wasn't like she needed it or anything. So she walked up behind her, and tapped her gently on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," she said sweetly, pitching her voice up to where it sat in day-to-day life. "You're an upperclassman, right? I'm Nigata Kayo, a first year. I'm a liiiittle bit lost,"—she was not, she knew exactly where to go—"so could you show me where the event hall is, please?"

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn had been so worried about being asked about the duel during the interview that she'd talked to Deelie about what to say. And it was still enough to make her twitch, certainly. But after the last line of questioning, it was...almost a relief. She clenched and unclenched her hands a few times, took a deep breath. She was proud of the fact that her hands were only slightly shaking. She opened her mouth and...

...And her mind went blank.

What was it she had talked about with Deelie? What had she said? How had she responded? She realized that the silence was starting to drag out, and she filled it as much as she could by picking up her fork again, taking a bite of the salmon. It turned to ash in her mouth. What was it? What had she said?

"I..." Her tongue was quite thoroughly tied. She had no idea what she'd say. Something about...? She didn't—her breathing started to accelerate as she fought to figure out what to say. Oh god, oh god, her mind had gone completely dead. What would she—

A memory came unbidden to her mind, then:

Oi, deadgirl. The fuck is Ablaze supposed to mean?

I'll tell you later.

"I..." She swallowed heavily, looking intently at Mona. Her voice shook like a leaf, but she managed to string words together, at least. "I guess I should explain what Ablaze means, huh?"

She closed her eye tight, trying to focus on keeping her voice contained as the previous exchange kept its hooks digging into her mind, steadily pulling it apart. "When I—during the duel—or, before the duel—I was thinking about the kind of pilot I wanted to be." Unlike when she'd spoken with Deelie before, her voice didn't stabilize as she went on. If anything, it worsened. "I want to—to protect people. I want to k—keep everyone safe around me." She pulled in a harsh, shuddering breath. Her self-control was loosening more and more as time went on. "Like...like a torch. I want to be a torch and—and pull light along after me. And—"

She opened her eye finally, looking straight into Mona's. There were definite tears that were threatening to come out; too subtle to come out on screen, but more than enough to see in person. She could only keep the eye contact for a moment before she dropped her eye again. "So that's...that's why I didn't p—pull the trigger. I want to keep people safe. I learned to f—fight to h—help people. Not to hurt them."

She looked down at her lap, voice dropping low. "So it just...would've been wrong."

She leaned back up, pressing her hands briefly into her face as she tried to get her thoughts in order, only just barely succeeding. "After that..." Her voice was muffled through her hands "Roaki got—she got—" Her voice broke off and she dropped her hands from her face, leaving her staring at the ceiling.

"S—sorry. Just...just give me—give me a second. P—please."

Amygdala Circuit

I mean, compared to what life must have been like before.

Quinn's smile froze on her face like brittle ice. "I—"

Compared to what life must have been like before.

Her voice hitched a bit, and she carefully put the fork down on the plate. "It was—"

What life must have been like before.

She started to feel a little heat building around her eye. No. No no no. She couldn't. She needed to...she needed to focus on the good things. She closed her eye for a moment, taking a long, deep breath. When she spoke, her voice had changed. Reverted. Not fully, but the almost...vacant quality to her voice tapered off. That chaotic emotion was bleeding through her now, and she couldn't quite hold it back anymore. "After—well, after—after what happened...it definitely took a long time for me to get used to life up there."

"It was...really really different. Back..." She swallowed heavily, carefully picking and choosing her words. "Back...home, I mostly just...stayed inside. Being a pilot is waaaaay different." She tried to push some of that enthusiasm back into her voice, but it was only barely effective. She let out a heavy breath that she didn't know she'd been holding and relaxed the hands that she suddenly realized had been incredibly tense. That was the hard part. The hard part was over.

"It's—it's busy up there, you know? I can't really train on the ground with Deelie—Dahlia," she hastily amended. "We both phase so fast that by the time we got going we'd have to stop again. So it's a lot of sparring hand to hand in the gym, and man it's a lot of sim training!"

"Still, it's not bad. The people on the Aerie are all really nice, especially Besca and Dahlia. It's..." She hesitated. She knew that Besca was supposed to show professionalism, and she probably shouldn't jeopardize that. But she was important to Quinn. She was going to say it!

"...It's like having a whole new family, you know?"