Lemons

Lem's Stash

_______________________________________________ Personal Data D A T A Full Name - Sirona Laurier Callsign - Surge Tide Age - 16 (b. 2662) Birthplace - Fairbanks Pilot Type - Support (specializing in suppressive fire) - Psyche Analysis P S Y C H E Fraught As a result of her past, Sirona is constantly anxious and on edge. Sleepless nights shivering under her covers unable to go to sleep and afraid to because of recurring nightmares, anxiety attacks that can be severe enough to move past fight or flight and straight into a dead freeze response, an intense and unnecessary fear of anything coming out of related to Fairbanks; she's got them all and more. Quiet The nail that sticks up gets pounded back down. Sirona has a fear of standing out from others around her, nursing a constant background worry that doing so will lead to...something, she doesn't know what it is but she's afraid anyway. And as a result of this trauma response, she finds herself being a very quiet individual. She much prefers other people talking over her, and when she does talk her voice tends to be soft and perhaps even tremulous. Delicate Though she's certainly not physically strong, this doesn't really apply to her physically. Rather, there are...fissures, you could call them, running all along her emotional state and mental well-being. And while she's usually stable, at least, if enough pressure is applied to one of those fissures, it cracks open and she finds herself very upset. As a general rule, the easiest way to pry at one of those fractures is to order her—harshly—to do something. Gear G E A R Steel Key When she was taken to the laboratory, all of Sirona's things—all the sentimental pieces from home that she'd somehow managed to slip past Fairbanks, the little money she had, everything—were taken from her under the rationalization she would never need them again. So her oldest keepsake is a nondescript metal key: the key to her tiny dog crate of a cage. She keeps it strung around her neck underneath her clothing as a constant reminder that she escaped and nobody can ever put her back there. She can often be seen unconsciously clutching at it wildly during her more severe Shift episodes, but it's always futile in the end. Bug Out Bag Terrified of being found again and taken back, Sirona got into the habit of having a bag with a few necessities in it near her at all times. The current contents are a lighter, a long length of parachute cord, a spare power cell for a datatool, a few liters of water, some dense nutrient bricks, and a SMALL folding knife (she's very hesitant to carry anything that could meaningfully be a weapon, after she panicked and nearly shot someone during a Polaris shift). She'd like to put other stuff in there too, but the bag is already getting heavy for her weak constitution, and she doesn't have much spare money to get any more. Shell Casing When she was serving in the military, a friend of hers—or, well, something almost like a friend—gave her the shell of a bullet, etched with swirling patterns cut into the brass and exposing the bright metal underneath. It's tarnished by now, and the patterns are barely visible anymore. But she still carries it in a bag or pocket wherever she goes, and as far as she's concerned, she always will. Neural Combatant N E U R A L C O M B A T A N T Armor Surge Tide's sleek, aerodynamic armored shell is constructed of a tungsten-nickel-iron alloy ceramo-metallic composite stained a dull slate blue. The joints and other moving parts are shown in a dull matte gray. While durable, it's kept light enough for her to be able to move around the battlefield quickly enough to lay down supporting fire at any angle demanded. It's certainly not heavy enough to resemble a heavy, and not quite enough to look like a vanguard either. Enough to shrug off a few really bad hits, but any more than that is a definite cause for concern. Perhaps the most recognizable part of its silhouette are the specialized external—and internal, really—supports on its arms and shoulder to keep up with constant heavy machine gun fire. There are two rough patches on the shoulders, where she's hacked and ground off both the Fairbanks and Tartarus Squadron insignias. Hands Surge Tide's principle weapons and the core of Sirona's combat role are a pair of Lone Star-made Godhammer MG2k5 heavy machine cannons, occupying both hands. Chain fed, firing devastating thirty millimeter antimaterial rounds at a blistering twenty five hundred rounds per minute, they are more than capable of shredding anything that stands in front of them for more than half a second. They may not be sniper rifles, they're obviously not the most precise weapons. But you don't need precision when you're putting more lead downrange than you really know what to do with. Back Sirona's back has been retrofitted with a large power cell surmounted with a magnetic attachment point that serves as a combination charging terminal and landing pad for a small autonomous repair drone that she can dispatch at any time to a target, scanning for damage and repairing it as best and rapidly as it can. It's no substitute for a real hangar, but it can at least get an NC stable so it's no longer an imminent threat to the pilot, and given enough time, patch them up enough to get them back into the fight. Auxiliaries Those Godhammers don't supply themselves, and 2,500 rounds per minute is a lot to go through. In order to keep using them, both shoulders are occupied with large ammunition bins that feed chains directly into the cannons and allow Sirona, as long as she's not wasting anything, to lay down covering fire for minutes at a time. Relations R E L A T I O N S Doctor Andrea M. Thompson During her time in the laboratory—deeply painful and deeply scarring—Sirona became quite aware of the doctor that was chiefly in charge of her and whatever happened to her: the saccharine and cruel Doctor Thompson. Though Sirona hasn't seen her since she managed to escape, a few years now, she is still a looming specter that continues to hang above Sirona's head and haunt her every nightmare. Donovan Thatcher The commander of Tartarus Squadron and initially just Sirona's commanding officer, he also became much more than that to her. Now she remembers him...well, not fondly, but as fondly as she can remember anything in Fairbanks, given that he pretty much raised her. In such a brief time, he became almost like a father to her (though not really). Post-desertion, she is...genuinely terrified of ever seeing him again. She knows, deep down, that being told she disappointed him would cut deep. Bella (Isabella) Laurier Sirona's sister, somewhere in the neighborhood of two and a half years younger than she is. The two of them were very close when they were young; Sirona doted on Bella, and Bella looked up to Sirona. But after their parents died and the two of them ended up on the streets, Sirona woke up one day and Isabella wasn't there. She looked frantically for days, but she hasn't seen her since.

Physical Details ◢ Sirona was the runt of the proverbial litter, even before the lab. She started short, and never grew much at any one point. She's only five feet now, and she doesn't seem to be growing much right now. Maybe someday. Not today. Indeed, her build follows suit. At sixteen, she still looks like a thirteen or fourteen year old. Perhaps it's because of persistent malnutrition and poor treatment during her formative years; perhaps it's simply how she is. Her muscle mass is lacking, but it's quite a bit greater now than it was; while she never served as boots-on-the-ground, she was still member of the military, after all. Her skin is ghost-white and lined here and there with extremely fine, almost invisible lines of scar tissue. A waterfall of dark brown hair cascades down her back. She probably has too much of it, but after it was chopped and kept short for an extended period of time, she's become rather protective of it, and has trouble letting it be cut. She has a round, heart-shaped face, set with chocolate brown eyes that betray both a deep-held sense of fundamental sadness, as well as a constant guarded caution against the world around her, always afraid that her past will come calling again. And finally, a special mention goes to her grand coping mechanism, what keeps her from totally breaking down: the smile. The small, contented-looking smile that seems as though it's burned into her face. She's worn it for so long, she's almost forgotten how her face feels without it. If it's dropped for any reason, her emotional state is in such disarray that something very, very bad is happening or about to happen. She has a relatively small wardrobe, but large enough that she can wear something different every day as long as she washes her clothes consistently. Overall, she prefers muted colors over bright ones; blacks, whites, shades of gray, navy blues, and such. Background Information ◢ 1-10 Years Old: Alone Jules and Anita Laurier hadn't had the easiest of lives. Originally residents of Blackstone in a fairly comfortable section of the city, they had crept across the border in grave danger to be with Anita's ailing parents. But by the time they arrived in the horrifying megacity of Fairbanks, her parents had already passed. The city had repossessed their small apartment and all of their belongings. Penniless and with no way back, the Lauriers had nowhere to go but the slums. And along with them was their tiny daughter, only about a year old. A little child named Sirona. She didn't start off as afraid as she is now. Her life was hard, it was true. Her younger sister, born some time after the immigration to Fairbanks, was difficult to take care of for the entire family. Work was hard to come by for people like Jules and Anita, slum rats who didn't even have a resident card. The lowest possible rank on the lowest possible ladder. But despite that, as she aged, she revealed herself to be a bright and cheerful person, or at least as much of one as could be expected. Her life was hard, it was true. But she was at least..at least a little happy. But in this world, happiness rarely lasts. Sirona isn't exactly sure what happened to her parents when she was ten years old, at home taking care of her sister. An accident, they said, and that was all she was told. What kind of accident? Where did it happen? Was it really an accident? There were no accidents in this city. Who caused it? Why would they do that? Why? Why? Why? But regardless how it had happened, the consequences were the same. The Fairbanks tide rolled on. Even the tiny apartment that their parents had managed to find—the only one that was cheap enough for them to afford on their terrible wages and long hours—was closed out, and they were closed out of it. At the behest of Fairbanks, all of their meager belongings, everything they had—keepsakes, credits, anything that wasn't the clothes on their backs—was unceremoniously torn from them and repossessed; Fairbanks already owned them to begin with, after all. And the two of them, small children in the hell of the Fairbanks slums, were kicked out on the street with...nothing. Nothing. Sirona, until that point, hadn't appreciated just how empty nothing truly was. Even when her parents had stressed over having nothing, Anita pulling out her hair on the stained table—they still had enough to get by, if only just. Their jobs weren't good, but they were enough to put food on the table and lamps on in the apartment. This was something totally different. And Sirona realized just how much of a luxury it had been to come home to the same four walls and a roof every night. But...there was none of that now. Nothing. Nothing. Or, well...nothing Bella. Nothing but each other. And there was some comfort in that. At least she wasn't alone. It was a hard life. A harder life. She begged for credits, and was laughed at. She panhandled in filthy gutters overflowing with trash and disgusting water, and was spat on. She hoped, and her hope was crushed time and again. And, when it came down to it, she stole. She didn't only need to feed herself, after all. Bella was hungry too. And at only seven years old, she had it far worse than Sirona did in the end. But one night—a faint rain was drizzling down on the box that the two of them crawled into, and the damp clung to their clothes as they curled up together—fate decided that she'd tempted it far too much. Bella vanished. The next morning, Sirona awoke, and...she was alone. Alone. Bella was gone without a trace. She turned the city upside down as best she could, searching, looking desperately for her lost sister. Went to places that she wasn't allowed. Was hurt for her troubles. Anything was worth it, though, if she could find Bella. But she never saw her again. And once again, she had...nothing. Less than nothing. The last dream she'd had—of the two of them playing together happily—shredded into mist before she could even touch it, and turned to ash. Just like happiness, in this world, dreams rarely last. Or, in Sirona's case...they become nightmares. 10-13 Years Old: L1 Sirona was taken one night too, only a few days later. Plucked off the street and stuffed into a van before she could really understand what was happening. She remembers the rough fabric under her knees to this day. A sharp prick. And she had just enough time to wonder why everything was growing fuzzy, blurring together, she felt so slow, so weird, before—nothing. L1 MEMO - 7-3-2672 Doctor A, July 3rd, 2672. Acquisition has been successful. One (1) subject has been acquired from a street corner in city section ██, parents dead through ██████████████ and separated from any other family. No suspicion or loose ends. It has been retrieved and placed in holding, and given the temporary designation of TS-3. Awaiting your go-ahead for initial examination and permanent placement. Doctor β The next time she woke, she was in hell. Her own personal hell. L1, a deniable medical black site funded in secret by the top brass of Fairbanks, was her new home. Her room became a cage—not wire, they weren't that cruel, but the flat metal wasn't comfortable by any stretch—so small she couldn't stand up in it, stacked on top of another cage, this one empty, and flanked with more stacks in various states of being filled. The burning-bright fluorescent lights above the rows of cages illuminated a sterile white room. There were two more walls of cages. She thought maybe she would be sick. She was. Her first few days in L1 were a waking nightmare that just. Wouldn't. End. Needles. Scalpels. Cuts, scans, samples. Pain. Pain on a level that she had never, in her short life, experienced. That she never could have imagined. L1 MEMO - 7-5-2762 Doctor β, July 5th, 2762. TS-3 has been given its initial examination. No outstanding conditions. Bill of health is coming up clean. It has shown no immediate adverse reactions to ███████████, █████████████, █████████████████████████ or █████████████████. However, there was immediate and drastic immune system hyperactivity when exposed to ███████████████████████, requiring an immediate system flush and dialysis, so that one is firmly off the table. Additional tests will be performed as needed for any future experiments. It has been given a permanent designation as 11-S, in my section of the laboratory. I will need you to go more into detail on ‘separated from family.’ What remaining family does 11-S have that it has been separated from? Why were they separated? In what circumstances? In future, please deliver all necessary details to me immediately, I shouldn’t need to ask you this. Doctor A Her daily routine became cruel experimentation; injections with various neurochemicals and innumerable other horrible concoctions, leaving her lying completely drained of energy on the lab table, weak and frail. Introduction of nanomachines into her bloodstream followed by stimulation via a powerful electrical current that jolted lances of tingling, searing pain through her entire body. Inscrutable machines implanted into her, activated, left to run, then removed just before she was forced on a treadmill, to stumble forward until she collapsed. These and so many more became the order of the day. And looming above it all was the Doctor. Doctor Andrea. Or just Andrea, as she insisted she be called. She talked so sweet and nice. Like Sirona's mom used to. But after she spoke so nicely, she would inflict the most horrible agony imaginable upon little 11-S. And the whole time, she had that same self-satisfied, catlike smile. Like Sirona hadn't even known she'd been playing the game, and she'd already lost. Eventually it all started to blur together. Torture, torment, day in, day out, nothing more, nothing less, nothing else. She couldn't sleep unless exhausted or sedated. She could barely eat, and combined with the poor foodstuffs she was given, grew malnourished quickly. She had no way to relieve the pain. Any of it. Nothing she could do to stop what was happening. No begging or pleading. Sometimes they even made it worse, drew attention to her, and that was the last thing she wanted. So all Sirona could do was curl up in the corner of her cage, drag the thin blanket over herself like a funeral shroud, stare at the wall, and quietly cry. Until one day, the smile came. L1 MEMO - 1-11-2674 Doctor A, January 11th, 2674. Subject 11-S has begun to exhibit a strange reaction as a result of continued experimentation; it has started smiling, and seems to be unable to stop. It is distinctly possible that continuous intravenous administration of ████ and ███████, as well as implantation of ██████, have begun to have distinct effects on its brain chemistry, as observed both in the constant smile and the █████████████████, ██████, and ███████████. Will continue dosing—carefully—while taking regular scans of brain tissue, as well as thin section brain sample for further examination if its erratic symptoms worsen. Doctor β After all, if she was smiling she was happy, right? Mama had always told her that if she smiled when she was in pain then it would feel better. And she was always in pain. And so she always smiled, until the smile became her face. This went on for nearly three years. Three impossibly agonizing years. Until Sirona—in a rare act of rebellion and defiance against the quiet, quavering thing she'd become—managed to nick the key to her cage from the security guard whose job was to dump her back there after she'd collapsed from pain and strain. She hid it well, betrayed nothing. The guard probably figured he'd just lost it. And she started to plan. Then, a few days later—a Saturday night, when people were lazy and wanted off work—she made her move, quietly slipping out of the tiny cage that had become her home and, wearing only a hospital gown, weaving between the cages, finding the entrance against all odds, and disappearing off into the night of the megacity. L1 MEMO - 3-21-2675 Doctor β, March 21st, 2675. Subject 11-S is not in its cage, and the door is hanging open. It has escaped. Is this what happens when I leave for two days to attend to something? We have never had a breach. Ever. When—not if, WHEN—you locate and retrieve 11-S, we are going to have a long, long talk about your continued employment at ███████████████. You cannot afford to be sloppy in this line of work. I expect better of my staff. Doctor A 13-16 Years Old: Due West At thirteen she became a street rat again. Just like old times: begging, panhandling, stealing when she needed to, running when she had to. But it was hollow now, without Isabella. Hollow, and alone. And unlike before, she could absolutely never sleep in the same place twice. After all, she was always desperately afraid that Doctor Andrea would find her again. Would pull her back into the lab. Stick her back into #11. Have it all start over. And early on, she saw the staff now and then; combing the streets, looking for something as she shrank away into the shadows. It was an entirely new variety of hellish existence, and though it certainly wasn't as bad as being back in the laboratory, it wasn't comfortable by any stretch. And then roundabout her fourteenth birthday, she considered something: if she joined the military, they'd never be able to get to her even if they did find her. Right? Well. It was pure luck for her that she had the necessary neuromarkers to pilot an NC. Because if not, then Fairbanks would have sent her right back. L1 MEMO - 9-17-2676 Doctor β, General Γ, September 17th, 2676. Subject 11-S—the escapee—has shown itself, applying to join the military. We could retrieve it at any time. However, it has displayed the requisite neuromarkers for piloting an NC. Therefore, issued request to General Γ from ███████████████: put 11-S under observation, but take no action. Retrieval will only be undertaken on the occasion it leaves the military. Doctor A The military was...it was an interesting experience for her. That's not to say she liked it. No, no no no, not at all. She was not a fan. But what she was, was very good at it. Suffice to say, she was a natural. With a pair of Tsaritsa TMG-3 thermal cannons, she distinguished herself on the battlefield with Blackstone more than she really had any right to, as young and inexperienced as she was. And so she caught the attention of the higher-ups, and was shifted into the elite task force of Tartarus Squadron. L1 MEMO - 11-21-2676 Liaison Δ, November 21st, 2676. Subject 11-S has distinguished itself on the field of battle as an extremely effective pilot. This makes retrieval, should we feel it is necessary, extremely difficult. As such, we have devised a strategy to make this easier on all of us. Subject 11-S will be transferred into ███████████████████, under the command of █████████████. This serves a double purpose of honing its skill, as well as making retrieval much easier, should the situation call for it. Paperwork is already in the system, it just needs you to sign off. Doctor A And in Tartarus Squadron, she met the only person since Isabella to give her even the faintest hint of affection: Donovan Thatcher, the CO and founder of the group. P3 ENCRYTPTION - ████████████████'s Voice Log, 11/24/2676 Those fucks at ██. I swear they're just insulting me now. We got the new transfer to replace Aimes as Melinoë. Would've been nice if they'd sent us someone decent who know how things worked instead of shoehorning this joke of a kid into fucking Tartarus Squadron just because they want me to keep an eye on her. Mia is fucking furious with me. She took Alice's death really hard; she's the last member of the original Furies left now. I obviously can't tell them why this rookie who's only been in the game two months, and a freaked out kid who can barely even meet anyone's eyes at that, is now a member of one of the most elite squads in Fairbanks. So I need to defend Doctor ████████'s dumbfuck decision. I mean, ███'s not wrong. The kid really is pretty good, not sure if I'd call her an ace but if not it's close. But that's not the point. The point is the people in Tartarus need to work really closely alongside each other, so they need to trust each other. As far as I can tell, Jacqueline is the only one that can tolerate her, or even really look at her. Mia's fuming that this is what replaced her last old squadmate, Marina's rapidly getting sick of how scared she looks at everything no matter what, and Anya can't even be in the same room without screaming at her for getting preferential treatment or some shit. So somehow I need to not only turn this stupid pathetic child into a Fury, I also need to convince the rest that they shouldn't just shoot her in the back as soon as they go out on an op. Fucking wonderful. Thanks a lot, Doctor ████████. Like I needed more work. Though he started out skeptical of her consistency and trustworthiness if not her skill and was initially hesitant to send her out—not the least because some of the other members certainly didn't trust her—she rapidly proved them wrong with a standout performance on her first operation. Though the rest of the Furies never grew to like her at all and their relationship was always cold, clinical and professional if not outright hostile, Donovan became almost like a kind of father to her soon afterwards. And while of course he could never be like her real father or really even come near that realm, they still grew close. She was even given a new name, a code name as part of Tartarus. Though she still took part in normal military operations and remained Surge Tide, whenever Tartarus started an op, she was Melinoë. P3 ENCRYTPTION - ████████████████'s Voice Log, 10/30/2677 Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. ██'s still breathing down my neck, won't leave me alone. Still wants me to keep an eye on her. Fuck. Bastards are all crazy, but Doctor ████████ is the worst of the lot by a mile. What a sadistic fuck. Yeah, she does her job, as she's so happy to remind everyone, but she doesn't need to enjoy it so much. The kid. Okay. She's doing alright. Jacqueline is still the only one that can tolerate her, but they're at the very least starting to trust her now. She's surprisingly impressive. I didn't need to really do as much as I thought I'd have to to turn a dumb scared child into something like a Fury. The worst part is that she's actually starting to open up to me of her own volition. God knows I wouldn't have asked her to, I don't need to hear firsthand. Won't tell me exactly what happened, obviously—not that she needs to, mind you—but at least that something real bad happened to her when she was a little kid and it scarred her for life. I more or less expected that. Anybody spends more than an hour in there and they're not coming out the same, let alone three years. What I didn't expect was for her to tell me that the worst part was she never knew what happened to her sister. Didn't talk much about her, she never talks much about anything really. But...god. Fuck. I can't tell her. Jesus Christ, I absolutely cannot tell her, she can't know no matter what. The look in her eyes when she hits her Shift, fuck, if I told her it would destroy her. Something would come out on the other side of it, I'm not sure what. But it damn sure wouldn't be her. Really hope I never have to make the call to send her back there. Would not be proud of that one. I— Shit, Mia and Anya are yelling at her again and Jacqueline isn't there. Should probably go tell them to shut the fuck up or else she'll be out of commission for a while, and—I know I'm her CO and it's not really my responsibility, but I'd rather not see that look on her face again, even through the smile. Makes my blood run cold. Fuck. Okay. I'm done. ANYA, MIA, WHAT DO YOU— Time passed. She and Donovan grew closer. Tisiphone—Jacqueline Brake, the sniper of the squad—was the only member of Tartarus that even really tolerated her, and even then only just. The others—the support Marina "Alecto" Quince, the heavy Mia "Lyssa" Hartley, and the vanguard Anya "Megaera" Sykes—all looked on her with scorn, disappointment, or annoyance, and any combination thereof. Her thermal cannons were still a thing to behold. But five months into her fifteenth year, she...wanted to leave the military. A part of her, some sixth sense of paranoia, didn't feel safe here, in a way that wasn't just a soldier's concern. And she didn't feel like she would be safe, could get away forever, as long as she stayed in Fairbanks. But she would need to say goodbye to her new "father," and Fairbanks didn't take kindly to deserters. She would have exactly one chance. And she knew where she'd be going if she failed. After a sortie with Blackstone that went south—general military, she never would've been able to cut it with Tartarus—she made her move. Faking damage to her NC, she lagged behind. Lagged far enough behind in evac that, in their rush to escape, the rest lost sight of her. Then she bunkered down and hoped desperately that Blackstone wouldn't sweep over her. And for once in her life, her luck held. Then, with no equipment or really any training, she dug into the guts of Surge Tide. She knew what she was looking for. She knew what the tracker looked like. Wires tore at her, gouging scratches into the skin as she plunged ever deeper. More than once, she was only an inch or two from a sudden death with no warning, scraping her hands along past electrical cables that carried absolutely staggering amounts of current. Minutes passed. Hours. Still she dug, working her way around the entire slate-blue chassis. Twice she received a nasty shock. But finally, she finally managed to find it, set deep, deep down against the core. And she pulled it out, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her boot with a sudden and foreign violent fury that faded just as quickly as it had arose. NC Pilot Sirona "Melinoë" Laurier: KIA. L1 MEMO - 4-11-2678 Doctor β, April 11th, 2678. Report to Doctor ████████. SiSubject 11-S has been killed in action. Liaison Δ P3 ENCRYTPTION - ████████████████'s Voice Log, 04/13/2678 God— Godfuck—fucking—fucking god damnit. God fucking damn it all. She just...god. I can't believe it. I just can't. She was so good, how did a basic sortie with Blackstone—fuck, the commander on that mission should be dragged into the street and shot for what he did. She should have been with the rest of the Furies. They wouldn't have left her. I wouldn't have left her. Well...at least ██ can't ever have her back. That's a mercy, I guess. I get the feeling she would've preferred this anyway. Despite the massive tectonic shift it is whenever a Fury burns out, it's mostly just...business as usual around here, somehow. Anya's bad tempered, yelling at everyone as usual. Marina is telling her to go fuck herself. Mia is trying to get them to chill out, even though anyone can see she's pretty upset, and Jacqueline is rolling her eyes in the background while she cleans her gun. All looks the same. Still. Something's different. Feels like everyone's just going through the motions. Maybe I'm just projecting, need to do my job still, be the same kind of man and CO that I've been to these women for a pretty long time now. I've seen a lot of Furies burn out. The first Melinoë, the last couple Alectos, there have been a lot of Megaeras, and this Tisiphone seems to know that she's still obviously got big shoes to fill in the first and only Lyssa's eyes. This shouldn't be a new thing to me. It isn't a new thing to me. Goddamnit, it's all fucking ██████'s fault, throwing that pathetic little kid my way. What else was I supposed to do with a traumatized child? This is a small, tight-knit squad by necessity, of course she was going to latch on to me. I know the nickname and reputation and they're pretty useful, but I'm not actually a demon you fucks, she acted like I was her fucking dad or something and even though I obviously wasn't I was still going to get attached. I just fucking...can't believe she burned out like that, she's—she was Melinoë goddamnit, she's—WAS supposed to be better than that, I thought I trained her up better, I... I just—I can't believe it. I can't believe that she's—that Melinoë is dead. Or...she's not Melinoë anymore, huh. Fuck, just... ...Rest well, Sirona. You were a hell of a Fury. For some months afterwards she roamed on her own, unaware that Fairbanks wouldn't be put off for long. And if they found her again, the laboratory staff was free to take her back and do whatever they wanted. All she knew was that she needed to go west. Due west. She needed to go as far west as she possibly could, because no matter how far she went she could never run away from Andrea, she would always look for her, and if she stayed in the east, she would eventually find her. With only that to guide her, Sirona kept wandering. Until at last, finally all the way near the west coast...she came to Last Hope. A place where, maybe, just maybe...she could be safe. L1 MEMO - EXIGENT PRIORITY MESSAGE TO EXIGENT DOCTOR β 11-S status has been updated from KIA to AWOL. Reconnaissance and retrieval are being prepared. Check and clear #11, make sure it is ready to accept occupant. EXIGENT DOCTOR A MESSAGE END MESSAGE END MESSAGE END Polaris Shift ◢ Sirona already has trouble with terrible memories coming up at random, and her Polaris Shift does not help. It afflicts her with a kind of...temporal dissociation. Her awareness of time slips briefly, and memories blur together like smearing paint, sending her into a state of confusion and often panic as pieces of her past start to overlap both each other and her waking life. Memories that relate with strong emotional states are very much the most common to come back to her, and so a great majority of these moments are memories of pain and fear from her time in the laboratory. This has grown steadily worse; now instead of just isolated moments commonly occurring as a response to trauma triggers, she also occasionally has full-blown episodes that can last anywhere from five minutes to half an hour spent in absolute panic, sending her into long strings of begging and pleading to people that simply are not there. Personal Mission ◢ Above all else, Sirona wants desperately to be safe. Trapped for so long in so many ways, literally or figuratively, Sirona feels constantly exposed. Like she's always being watched, always been watched, and always deeply unsafe. Her past is full of shadows—the doctors from L1, the military of Fairbanks, the last look that she took at her sleeping sister—that loom over her like so many swords of Damocles. So her ultimate goal, even if she doesn't quite know it, is to lift those swords away, one by one. She may never be able to rid herself of them all. She may never feel completely comfortable. The past may always haunt her through her nightmares. But it shouldn't need to control her any longer.

Steal Away The Light

Location: Uhladein, Eastern Marches

---

"You're damn right she exploded!"

There was no better word for Quinnlash's voice than crowing, and a massive smile cracked across her face. Without any apparent effort, she hefted the massive metal bulk of Undying Light off the stone of the keep and back onto her shoulder, letting it rest there instead of throwing it back into the sling, carrying it like a particularly massive greatsword. Absent of any soul flames within it, it sat still and quiet, the blazing heat that so often suffused it replaced with the ubiquitous chill of Uhladein.

Then she ambled over to where the other Hunters were gathered. Her eye flickered and flashed like an ember itself as most of the torn-away fragments of her soul mended themselves one after another, and she couldn't help but let out a quiet relieved sigh. There was no way to properly explain what it was like having your soul fragmented. Which also meant there was no way to explain how good it felt when it reformed (at least as far as anything could really feel good at all). Which, of course, she needed to follow up with,

"And that means she died first this time! 'Bout time she got what she fuckin' deserved!" A few more moments, and she skidded to a stop at the gathering point. And the first thing she did upon arrival was...

...To snap out a fist quick as a blink and clock Fianna right in the jaw. Hard. There were twin violent cracking sounds of bones splintering under an impact: one from Fianna's face where there was now a noticeable crater, and one from Quinnlash's own hand, which she shook out as the light of her embersoul gleamed over it and shoved the blood and bone of the multiple compound fractures back under the skin. The other Midnosian Hunter, on the other hand, went down like a ton of bricks. She hit the ground like a rock and didn't get up again. There was a faint, almost musical tinkling as half a dozen teeth knocked free from her face bounced to the stones.

"Don't think I didn't fucking notice what you called me up on the wall, Freakshow!" She spat violently on the flagstones in the general direction of the crumpled form of the Hunter in question, saliva still stained blackish. The taste of blood, ash and charcoal in her mouth was the strongest thing she'd tasted in a long time. "You know damn well what my name is!"

That done, she turned her attention away from the momentarily immobile ghost-pale figure, snapping her attention to the other three. Her eye roved over them quickly: the Prentisian ice queen, the crazy pink girl who'd jumped in front of a fucking ogre strike—seriously, what?—and then of course, the melter. Who, out of everyone, Quinnlash finally saw fit to talk to. She couldn't help it, really. Just the presence of a melter usually presaged their inevitable burnout and ashing. And yet somehow this one had not only survived, but seemed to have come out of it mostly okay. In no small part thanks to me, of course. She wasn't really sure how it'd happened. But it was kind of neat that it had.

"Goddamn, melter, but you showed some fuckin' mettle out there, didn't ya?" She reached out the still slightly broken hand and punched the girl on the shoulder. Gently, this time. Or. Well, gentler, at least, than what she'd done to Fianna. Decidedly not gentle. "Figured you'd be a fine pile of soot on the ground right about now. Good shit."

She pulled back slightly from the melter to address all the Hunters as a collective, as Fianna started to lurch upright in that creepy fucking way she always did``. "Name's Quinnlash Loughvein, coming out of Midnos. Stay outta my way, don't fuck up, and we won't have any trouble, got it?" She turned to the pink haired hunter, smiling the jagged smile of a wild animal. "Beer's shit. Can't taste it anyway. Might as well get something that'll get the job done."

You Can Become a Hero!

Wow, was this girl ever fishy. Not suspicious, but literally fishy. Like a fish.

Kayo hadn't realized it when she'd just caught a quick glimpse of her through the pushy crowd, but looking at her up close? Scales, weird looking eyes, sharp teeth, frills on her neck, those catfish whisker thingies, plus everything was GLOWING—she really was the whole nine yards for someone who didn't look it at a distance. Though, she seemed not to understand why Kayo was talking to her. Just...overall confused. Which fit perfectly with Kayo's picture of her; she would be confused over something simple, wouldn't she?

"I'm a first year too, though?"

Kayo twitched. Just a little bit. The faintest movement in her right eyebrow.

For just a moment, the crowd all around them faded into the background as her mind played catch-up. The fish girl was in her class year? Her class year. Really. And in assuming she was an upperclassman because of her height, she'd—actually, you know what? No, she hadn't made a mistake, obviously. It still worked out just fine the end. Though she'd gone into things thinking that she was making nice with an upperclassman, that might even work in her favor. The sweet pitched-up voice, the perfect smile on her face; the cute image that she'd become so practiced at swaddling herself in was starting to weave itself together now, and having this girl be witness to such a 'mistake' from Kayo would only make things smoother.

Opening her mouth to form a faux apology—and to ask the silly fish girl to introduce herself, seriously, what?—Kayo was interrupted and blindsided by what had to be one of the most ridiculous things she'd ever seen. What kind of lunatic introduced himself by jumping off a building? Still. As much as she absolutely gawked for the first moment, she'd pulled herself together enough by the time he landed—nearly running into her, good lord—she mustered up an excited, if quiet, clap. "That was amazing!"

Then this ridiculous flashlight of a person introduced himself, and it took a great deal of her considerable well of patience and tolerance not to burst out in mean-spirited laughter. Justice? He's calling himself JUSTICE? What kind of moron—how did he even get into this school like that? None of it showed on her face, of course. She was about to respond when she realized he wasn't finished yet, and had asked a question of them. And for just a moment she felt her heart sink. He's in MY CLASS?

Immediately followed up, of course, with a happy smile and an "Oh wow, we're in the same class!" Didn't quite manage to call him by that name. It'd take a minute for her to work up to actually calling someone Justice. What a joke.

Steal Away The Light

Location: Uhladein, Eastern Marches

---

Memories still too close, still just beneath the surface of her mind, Quinnlash felt them surging back, along with an intense and personal anger. A furious noise halfway between a cough and a choke came out of Quinnlash's mouth. Her eye widened. Her muscles tightened. Before she could stop herself, she'd taken a half-step towards Galiel and her hand strayed reflexively back to rest on her cannon. And her clenched fist glowed suddenly, for just a moment, with a light like the sun before she snuffed the light out. The caldera of anger that lived at her core, burning just as bright as her ember, began to quake. How dare he. How dare he. How dare he?

"Don't you say a goddamn thing about her!"

The words came out of her without warning, a strangled and aborted half-yell chopping and mangling her voice nearly to the point of incomprehensibility, and she needed to fight to stop herself from lunging forward and punching him out. She clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides, digging her fingernails into her palm to try and focus on something other than his stupid smug face. Deep down, deeper down than she could even recognize, a part of her—a part both fearful and fragile, one that she'd managed to convince herself was long, long gone—was absolutely terrified of Ezlineia—of mama—being disappointed in her. And that blade of fear axed through her, cutting straight into her seething, searing heart before she managed to rip it out and crush it down again.

So, she turned her back to Galiel, facing the crystal of the Hearthfire and walking forward as she reached behind herself and hacked her hair into something resembling her trademark braid. Was a bit messy, but it was at least recognizable, and it'd keep her hair out of her face, so all told, it was doing its job. Mission accomplished. Whipping it back behind her, she looked around between the young pyromancers, meeting their eyes in turn (though one wouldn't even look her in the eye at all, the spineless fucking coward). And then finally, voice dripping with scorn only barely restrained, "Do better next time."

Then once more, foregoing the elevator—why even bother with it at this point—she reloaded her cannon and leapt into the shaft. She'd done her duty as a pyromancer. Protected them. Been the final line. Now that the nagging memory was silent, she couldn't care less what they did or what happened to them. Wasn't her job anymore, and she certainly wasn't going to spend more time around that fucker Galiel out of the kindness of her heart.

As she plummeted, the floor beneath her came into focus. The other Hunters would be back here soon. Good. People she could take it out on if she wanted. Maybe she could convince Freakshow to fight her. That might be fun.

One last billowing blaze from her cannon's maw, one last burst of pyromancy just to make sure she didn't break something on landing, and she was on solid ground again. Facing the door, she planted Undying Light into the ground barrel end down and rested her elbow on it casually, waiting. Boiling inside that she'd need to see Galiel again to get their orders. Be a good girl. Ugh. Was enough to make her sick.

Steal Away The Light

Location: Uhladein, Eastern Marches

---

Minute by agonizing minute passed at a crawl as Quinnlash's ember blazed within her, searing lines of brilliant orange flame burning down her cuts, her bruises, her burns and broken bones. Her hacking persisted, turning into a guttural cough as she managed to half-crawl up the unforgiving stone that had so unceremoniously stopped her flight and prop herself up against it. Her legs finally stopped shaking under her. The skin on her hands un-cooked itself, and she hacked up and spat out a glob of red saliva on the ground, hoping to get the taste of blood and ash out of her mouth before too long. Tasted like shit. Flexed her arms, rolled her shoulders, rolled her neck, cracked her knuckles. Felt like she was still in one piece, at least, wouldn't need to regenerate a whole arm or anything.

Holding her hand out in front of her and glaring at it, she flicked her wrist and found that the flame had returned to her, a flickering orb dancing above her outstretched palm. She stared at it for a moment longer, eyes almost...mournful, then her lips turned up in a sneer and she snuffed it out, still trying to shut out the memories that were even now lingering around the edges of her mind.

The warm glow of the relit hearthfire crystal washed over her just like like she imagined the sun would've, with a gentle light and comforting warmth. Or, "gentle" and "comforting" to everyone else, probably. The bright light made her eye hurt—still searing with pain from her little stunt—and the heat just made the raging furnace within her more uncomfortable. Great. Rubbing her hands over her face, she finally stood straight, resettling Undying Light on her back and giving it a reassuring pat. What a beautiful thing it was. What beautiful flowers bloomed from it.

She gave her head a quick shake, as though to chase off the still-clinging memories like dust and cobwebs, and was met with...

...Well, it annoyed her. And that was about it. But that was okay too. Anything was better than just sitting there remembering. Even dying. She definitely would've let herself fall to the tower's floor far, far below if it meant this wouldn't happen. So she reacted the best way she knew. She got angry.

"Yo. Galiel. What's the deal? You and your crowd of heroes pulled through. Good job." her caustic voice overflowed with sarcasm and tension, and pain that she tried very hard to bury. Her hair hanging loose around her shoulders was definitely frustrating her too. And probably ruining the effect. So, as was simply the way of things...

She got angrier.

"So are you gonna thank me already or what?"

You Can Become a Hero!

Damn it. Of all people...

Of all people, it had to be someone like this. Someone who would fire back immediately. She'd kind of hoped that the first person she talked to wouldn't be ready to fight. She bit the inside of her cheek almost enough to draw blood, though she betrayed none of it on the outside. How should she respond to this?

She gave an infinitesimal sigh. This wasn't how she'd wanted to start the year, but at least, well, mission accomplished. She and Tentacles were being stared at quite thoroughly. The weight of fear on her mind—though it was never really gone—dimmed down to the faintest of embers.

Okay, no, really. How should she respond?

Really, she wanted to give that apology. She didn't like doing any of this. But if she apologized and then left, she would disappear. Not literally, obviously, that would come later (probably). But if she slunk away she would immediately become out of sight, out of mind. She needed to leave an impression. She needed people to remember her. And if they remembered her as 'that bitch Kirika?'

...Well, it was still better than being forgotten.

So, trying to muster up an image of selfish pride, she smirked back. Hard. Patronizing.

"Aw, man, you're right, huh? I'm sorry, okaaay?" Her voice radiated insincerity and condescension as she reached out a swift hand and patted Tentacles on the head. Then she turned, flipped her hair (she'd practiced the move a thousand times in her bedroom mirror) and resumed walking. Stares followed her, and she grimaced even as she basked in their glow.

She hated how much she loved it.

You Can Become a Hero!

Being inside again was really nice.

As much as she loved her dad's old coat—it was still really weird thinking of it as hers now, it had been his for so long now—as much as she loved it, she didn't really want to need it. Because, well, if she was wearing it it meant it was bad weather. And though it was really good for said inclement weather—windproof, waterproof, warm—it was for that exact reason she was sighed contentedly as, walking into the vestibule of the vaunted Ishin Academy, she undid the buttons and slid it off, barely holding back a sneeze. Stupid cold. Given she was still pretty much in the entrance it wasn't exactly warm, but it was miles better than it was outside anyway. And the wind wasn't blowing into her face anymore, which was also a major plus.

Ah. Lockers. Good.

A moment later, and she was walking down the center of the hallway with a crisp, quick stride, relishing in the feeling of the heads turning to follow her. She felt a little naked without the trench coat already, even after only wearing it for a little while. But all the attention was so comforting. It was wonderful. She felt a little bit of guilt—was this how she was really going to act in high school too? Shouldn't be beyond this kind of thing by now?—but that momentary pause brought forth a host of complicated emotions and painful memories, and a jab of fear stuck a fork into her side. So yes. Yes, this was how she was going to act in high school as well. Why bother changing it now? she thought savagely. Nobody's going to remember it or me anyway. Resolve reaffirmed, she continued her aggressive walking, occasionally roughly bumping someone out of the way. Just to reaffirm to herself that she was there.

A walk through the halls later, she was moving through the first-year section of the ceremony hall. This time, though—not really looking where she was going, she ran into someone she didn't expect: slap-bang into a short girl with blue hair that—oh, her hair was—were those tentacles? Internally, her metaphorical eyebrows shot up. Tentacle hair. Absolutely wild.

Outwardly, though, once she recovered from her stumble she stood up to her full height, glaring down at the girl. Who absolutely did not look happy with her. Alright, Kirika, she thought grimly, showtime. She hated this part.

"Are you blind or just stupid?" She was almost impressed by how aggressive her snapping voice sounded. Or, not really aggressive. How...how annoyed. Perfect. "Watch where you're going next time!"

Ugh.

Lem's Stash

_______________________________________________ // INFO I R L Full Name - Lina Joanne Massey Age - 15 Place of Origin - Portland, Oregon Occupation - High school student A V A T A R Character's Name - Lina Pathos Affiliation - Queon Role - Magic DPS (Burst Damage) Profession - Herbalism Weapon of Choice - Focus Bangles Domains - Fire; Manifestation - // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Energizer Bunny Lina is an incredibly energetic person, always go-go-going. She still holds tight to that particular brand of constant and neverending energy that comes with youth. And consequently, she just keeps. On. Going. And though she needs more sleep than most people seem to, once she's up, she is up. Borderline hyperactive, she sits just on the safe side thereof. But just on the safe side, and a fountain of infinite energy that takes a long, long time to run dry. And, to some extent, it's also probably pretty annoying. Happy Lil' Squirrel Though because of the incredibly unfortunate situation she's found herself in her emotions are obviously somewhat unstable, Lina is, as a general rule, outgoing and consistently cheerful, and generally just an extremely pleasant person to be around. Chipper and surprisingly resilient, she is exceptionally skilled at taking all the bad things—anger, sadness, anxiety, pain—and transmuting it into joy and fun. It's not really a conscious thing; it happens to her pretty much automatically. While it's a defense mechanism to some extent, it's less that, and more just...the kind of person she is. Lemming-head Lina is...well, a charitable way to put it would be "scattered." But if you were to put it slightly less charitably (or, more honestly), you would say that Lina is...well, she's an idiot. Even taking her age into account, Lina has a distinct lack of brain cells. Forever and always terrible at schooling and with none of the street smarts that might be used to justify it, she doesn't really have any excuse for it either. She's an unrepentant moron, and she's proud of it, thankyouverymuch! // BENCHMARKS B E N C H M A R K S "Explosions Are Cool!" There are people in Pariah that put a great deal of time and effort into buildcrafting, planning out what they're going to do in the game meticulously, weighing the pros and cons of each choice before finally pulling the trigger on a role and playstyle. Lina is...decidedly not one of those. The only real reason she chose the playstyle she did, is, well, she thinks explosions are cool! And the playstyle she's settled into as a result is that of an exceptionally dangerous fire mage focused entirely on offense to the exclusion of all else. She can do a lot of damage. A lot of damage. But throw her at anything other than a DPS check and, well, she's not much use. "I Really Like Flowers!" Back home in Portland, Lina keeps a garden with her mom, and she really, really enjoys it. So when it came time to choose a profession in Pariah...well, she didn't care much for enchanting, she didn't have any use for blacksmithing or leatherworking, she didn't want to bother with jeweling or anything...so she fell back on something that she's familiar with to some extent. She has a small plot of land in Iblenar where she grows alchemy ingredients. Halfway because they're useful and halfway because they're pretty. Notably, she's not actually an alchemist; rather, she provides alchemists with what they need, and prepares the herbs if necessary (crushing berries, for example). "I Run Track, You Know!" Now, you might look at Lina and think that she's a teenage girl with a minimum of physical strength, judging by those arms. And you'd be right. But in a surprising twist, she may not be strong, but what she is, is fast. Running track in high school—and not half bad at it—has made her a quick runner with more stamina than most people would probably expect out of her. Important for running from enemies. Very important for avoiding fatigue in spellcasting. "My Mom Calls Me A Goldfish!" Lina's attention span is shockingly bad, and she's so distractible it's almost impressive. While of course she can keep her eye on the ball if it's something important like a fight during a dungeon (especially these days) or something really bad happening in the party, for example, for anything that isn't really an active threat, she needs to kind of...be gently shifted back into line sometimes if and when she finds it difficult to pay attention.

Physical Description A sixteen year old just a hair under 5'2", Lina Massey is a short little kiddo. She's altogether incredibly average in terms of build, slender and petite as befits a young teenage girl. Her greatest distinguishing mark is her bright strawberry-blonde hair (she thinks that it's pretty), which falls to around mid-back, usually tied up in a ponytail in waking life. It's exceptionally messy and hard to control sometimes, but she embraces the chaos (she thinks it makes her look cool) and doesn't pay too much attention to how it's worn as long as it doesn't get caught on something and get yanked. Her face is kind and open, and ninety percent of the time, it's plastered with that gunpowder smile so typical of her. Her pale skin is covered in little scars, way more than most girls her age have, just because she's so good at accidentally injuring herself in creative ways. She's always bouncing her knee or tapping her fingers, always trying to find some way to let out the wellspring of energy that's always burning inside her. The Pariah version of Lina isn't altogether different from what she looks like IRL. A little taller, maybe? her hair is definitely a little bit longer, and instead of looking disheveled it actually does look chaotically fun. Her build is the same, as is the near-constant bright-eyed smile. The jeans and tanktop are replaced with a short robe, tall boots, and a big ol' wizard hat, capped with a bright ribbon, that sits atop her head. She wears her weapon—her spellcasting focus, really—around her wrists, focus bangles instead of focus rings (she tried using rings for a while, but she kept needing to replace them after she lost them repeatedly), brilliant rose gold bracelets each set with a single bright red ruby. She habitually fiddles with them, almost constantly (she remains exactly as twitchy as she is IRL). Character Conceptualization It's not uncommon for those meeting Lina for the first time to assume that something awful happened to her. That something turned her life upside down, and that's why she acts so happy and dumb so much of the time; a coping mechanism, to ignore whatever darkness is in her past. It's also not uncommon for those people to be confused when they discover that she's just a happy little idiot. And she was always a happy kid, even way back when she was little. An only child, she was pretty much the sole occupant of both parents' time, and she had a really good relationship with them, all told. The worst thing that's happened to Lina is, when she was maybe ten years old, her mom Marian discovered that her husband was cheating on her and had been for a while. One thing led to another, and before long, Marian won custody of Lina and kicked him to the curb. She lived with her mom from then on. But the two of them certainly wasn't badly off, given how much her mom made as a pediatrician. And she'd always liked her mom more anyway. She always made time for her, and was...really, in all respects she was a model parent. Which is good. Because otherwise Lina's atrocious grades would probably have stretched her to the point of snapping. That's not to say she let her grades go out of laziness. On the contrary, actually: she tried. She really, really tried. But ninety percent of the time, things just did not click for her. Even in middle school they were pretty bad. Her essays were rambling messes. Her math was slipshod and shoddy at best and completely off base at worst. Languages just skated off her skull. And it was the same with basically every subject. She stayed after classes; talked to teachers. Her mom even hired a tutor for her. And it helped enough for her grades to be at least passing. But no more; among other things, her attention span was just far too short. And of course, high school has been even worse for her thus far. Midway into her freshman year now, she's been beating her head against the wall of education with a great deal of vigor. And seeing that she was...well, not miserable, it's not certain that Lina being miserable is possible, but put out, she ended up buying Lina a proprietary peripheral for this new game on the market called Pariah. She's been playing it in between trying her best in school, and it's actually been helping her grades, helping get that energy out so she can focus a little better. It's, uh...not quite helping anymore. Other Information Spells Shine - A basic damage spell. Deals a moderate amount of light damage in a moderate AoE. Prism Burn - After a brief charge-up, fires out seven instant rays of light. They stop upon impacting an enemy. Each does moderate damage, allowing him to spread it out or focus it down on one target, but for every ray that impacts the same enemy, the next does less and less damage. Perihelion - The area around Hvitørn lights up brightly. For the duration of the effect—about six seconds—every light spell that Hvitørn casts is heavily empowered and restores a fraction of its fatigue. Backflash - An emergency "get-out-of-dodge" spell. Deals a small amount of damage in a small cone in front of Hvitørn, but launches him backwards, letting him escape from melee combat. Crimson Butterly - Lina's be-all-end-all spell, Crimson Butterfly suddenly manifests wings of flame behind her and a halo of flame above her head before she takes to the sky with unrestricted flight. During this time, she is able to launch explosive fireballs for a much lower fatigue cost than they would ordinarily accrue. Once the duration ends or her fatigue simply becomes too intense, she drifts slowly to the ground as the wings fade away.

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn looked up at her sister, at her silver eyes that were so flinty and jagged, but so warm too. Deelie was right, as usual. It didn't matter. It wanted to take Quinn away, away from her family and away from her home, and just the thought sent a thrill of fear racing up and down her spine in wave at once freezing cold and burning hot.

It didn't matter. And every one of the reasons Dahlia gave made sense. But still, the thought stuck in her mind like a burr, and wouldn't be shaken loose so easily.

She reached her still-trembling hand out, clutching onto Dahlia's again as she sat down with a thump. She squeezed her eye shut tight and dropped her head into the remaining hand, resting the elbow on her knee. Deelie's hand had warmed up again. The clamminess was gone and her voice was sure. She would keep her promise. She always kept her promises.

God, so much had happened today. Too much. She'd visited Roaki. She'd had a nightmare at lunch. She'd had good dreams with Safie. She'd gone down to the interview. She'd messed the interview up. Now this. It was all just...so overwhelming. She was tired. So tired. And in the sudden silence, the sudden stillness, the past few months finally managed to catch up, and blew over her like a hurricane.

I just want to sit here, I don't feel so good. I think I might be sick.

Her breathing grew heavy and ragged.

DON'T LEAVE ME!

Tears suddenly poured from her eye as her heavy breaths turned to shuddering sobs.

Did I...did I do good?

One after another the images came and the words and thoughts chased after them, cramming themselves into her head so hard she felt like it would burst. She squeezed Dahlia's hand tighter, tight enough to hurt, and leaned into her as she cried.

Her first phase.
Realizing that they had lied to her.
Her family.
How hard it had been to hit Deelie the first few days.
The grueling training.
The dreams.
Pulling the cannnon.
The duel.
Roaki.
The swordsman—Eain—Dammerung—

The staticky thoughts finally trailed off, and she was back in the briefing room again. Her tears were still running fast down her face. She hadn't realized it, but she'd been running towards the future so fast the past—even the present—hadn't been able to catch up. But sitting here with Dahlia and Besca, looking at the thing that had nearly killed Roaki, her sister, and her—

It was all just...too much.

And so she kept crying.

At some point Dahlia must have sat, because her head was lying on her lap. But it was all such a blur it was hard to understand what was going on.

She cried for a long time.

Amygdala Circuit

"No. I—I don't think I am."

The world felt very small, and very far away. She was being chased, hunted, by an Aridean prince. On some level, she knew it wasn't really Eain. Like Besca said, it was just...an echo of him, a Savior that had gone back to the other side where it came from and come back again. She knew it. On every level that mattered she knew it. It wasn't Eain anymore. It just couldn't be, as a simple fact.

But still...

Then why could it talk?

She didn't get it. And it made her want to think of it as a person. The Modir spoke with his voice. It fought like a Savior. It fought with his sword—

Quinn's heart nearly stopped.

What was it that Dahlia had said at lunch before the duel? Before she discovered that she was being hunted? That it was all her fault?

The weapons are supposed to be—

"Deelie," She spoke with a new urgency in her voice, and both she and her voice were shaking as she put her hand down gently on top of the table, wishing that she could bring up the image again, just to make absolute sure. But it wouldn't have changed anything, because she...she was sure. She would never, could never, forget that sword. The way the fuller had gleamed like fire as it hung above her head, and the crash as it slammed down—

She was hyperventilating now, and she closed her eye, steadying herself on the table and doing her best to stay in the present moment. "Deelie, our weapons are supposed to be us, right? Not—" She cut herself off again, wishing that she wasn't about to ask the question that was dancing on the tip of her tongue. It felt important. Very important. Important and scary, because it meant something was wrong, something was really wrong. A familiar dread was welling up from deep within her too. The other her was...was really afraid. And that just made it worse. "But if the weapons are supposed to belong to us and not the Modir, then..."

"Then how can it have Eain's sword?"