Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

Briefly, Follen paused, though he seemed to be considering what she’d said rather than her request. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I think that might be a good idea. Here, he reached into his desk, retrieving a small key and handing it over. “That’s a spare, her number’s printed on it—104. Feel free to hold on to that, so long as you don’t lose it. I’m not too thrilled by the idea of someone else having access.”

He smiled again, and every bit of that pride was in it. “You’re a good girl, Quinn, darling. I’m more and more certain of that every day. Good luck.”

As Quinn left his office, she could hear the artificial birdsongs chirp to life behind her.

The walk was long, but not solitary. Nurses and other orderlies shuffled by, busy with this and that, but all who passed Quinn paused long enough to look at her. The wonder was painted clearly on their faces. Wonder at their hero pilot. Wonder at where she was going. The closer she drew to room 104 the less wonder there was, and in its place was concern.

It was within her, too. A slow, low simmer at the bottom of her mind, so wary of rising, but unwilling to stay sunken. Careful, came the warning, not vicious but soft, worried. Just…be careful.

As she stood before the door, the feeling retreated. The anxiety in its wake still rippled the surface of her thoughts, but Quinn pushed through. She fit the key, opened the door and let herself in.

From after Hovvi, to after the duel, these rooms seemed so clean, so safe, so confining. The sensation of an IV pushing fluid into her veins shuddered through her. Her neural plugs itched, briefly, like they were still new. No machines beeped, no radio played and the screen on the far wall was off. The ceiling light was off, there was only the dimmed glow of a simulated overcast through the blinds of the faux window, casting the whole room in gray.

Roaki lay in the bed, covers pulled up to her waist. Her head was turned away, to the window, but it was clear she wasn’t asleep. Her fist wound in the sheets, she took a deep breath.

“What—” she began, only for her voice to wither when she turned to see Quinn standing there. Her dun eyes widened in their pits, and though her face was shadowed by a tattered veil of hair, panic passed through it, clear and quick, before it settled into a more subdued uneasiness. Her eyes instantly fell away.

“Oh… she said, raspy and quiet, but at least the shiver was gone. “It's you...again.”

She shifted uncomfortably, like she meant to sit up. Instead, she seemed to just burrow deeper into her pillow. “What...why are you...here?"

Amygdala Circuit

Follen sat back down in his seat, thinking. It wasn’t the same cold, statuesque contemplation as before; he hummed, he stroked his chin, his eyes lost focus in the air.

“A good question,” he mused. “Things have indeed already begun to…escalate, here. We had a small incident this morning. Besca handled it, and I suppose it’s been quiet since, but I don’t believe for a moment that’s the end of it. Truthfully, I fear a schism may form here without the Board having to involve themselves much more, but I don’t think that’s our biggest problem.

“I suppose you’ve heard by now, about the requests from Casoban and Helburke. I don’t understand the intricacies much myself, but when two countries want something from you, it can be hard to say no. Thankfully, if I had to guess, the Board is quite tired of being commanded around by Casoban, and will have no real qualms denying Helburke anything, ever. Still, they might cave to a national ally—there’s nothing in it for RISC to hold onto Roaki, in their eyes.

“The best bet would be to turn her, I'd say. Make her an informant. I saw that she’s wanted for some…grievous crimes, so, while she might be a pilot, I suspect she lacks the sort of fanatical nationalism we’re used to seeing in Helburkan duelists. If the Board is convinced she can give us some sort of useful information, they may grant her asylum here, and then none of us—not you, not me, not Besca—would be in any trouble at all. However...”

He leaned forward, hands clasped before him, and there was some amalgam of pity and curiosity in his eyes. “I went to check on her this morning, updated her medications, checked her for secondary growths. I even took some of those measurements you’d asked me about. She wasn’t particularly conversational. I suspect she’s aware of what’s happening planetside. I believe she means to go willingly, and if she makes that known to the Board they’ll gladly ship her out no matter what we do. ” He sighed, shook his head. “No, convincing her to turn on Helburke isn’t the issue, I don’t think. Convincing her to live, however, is. Regretfully I don't believe she has much interest in it.”

Amygdala Circuit

He stayed there, crouched, for a long time while she worked through her thoughts. In the end it seemed the guilt had not left her, not entirely. But her composure was returning bit by bit, and that was, by any stretch, a marked improvement.

“No, darling, no. You aren’t stupid at all, and you need not apologize to me, nor try any harder, for anyone’s sake but your own. The Board may see these evaluations as tests of your worth, but I do not—and I don’t report them as such. We are here for you, and no one else.”

Letting go of her hand, he stood back up and made his way back to the other side of his desk. “Why don’t we call that it for the day, hm? What you’ve said, and what I hope you’ve heard, is more than enough. You did very well—even if you won’t admit that to yourself. I’m proud of you.”

As if to make his point, he flipped the notebook shut, and smiled at her. Suddenly, all of the warmth returned to him. “Is there anything else on your mind? Anything more I can help you with? Please, never hesitate to ask.”

Amygdala Circuit

Follen waited patiently as Quinn foraged her mind for an answer, and showed no signs of surprise when she returned without bounty. She blamed herself, still, and perhaps it was easy to see why. How else was the sole survivor of a tragedy meant to see themselves? How could they be anything less than a lure for destruction?

But Follen still didn’t concede. His face betrayed no trace of anger, or disappointment—in fact it was still quite difficult to see any emotion in him, even in his eyes. But there was, perhaps, a comfort there. There was nothing to take hold of in his eyes, no warmth or safety to find, but also no threat, no storm or chill to weather that would necessitate it. He was void. Dark, empty, and very gentle.

“Things being the way they are, ‘just because’, is the logic of storms and monsters,” he said. He got up from his seat and crouched down beside her, low so that he could look up at her downturned eyes. “There is more to your life than the things done to destroy it. To them, there is not. To define yourself by what has happened to you is cruel and unfair. Quinnlash—”

He reached out and placed a hand over hers. His skin was so temperate, even in the warmth of the room, that it felt like little more than a breeze.

“We are not monsters, and we are not guilty. Decide for yourself what you are. Be what you do.”

Amygdala Circuit

Follen’s smile fell away, but as Quinn continued to speak his expression didn’t harden, nor did it seem to be particularly contemplative. No, he watched her impassively, like it was a statue of himself sat there across from her. A stone man, listening to the ravings of a frightened child. He hardly blinked, it didn’t even look like he breathed.

Then, when she had finished he got up from his seat and walked around his desk. He walked past her, to the door, and he shut it—though he did not lock it. Many moments he stood there, his back to her and his hand on the doorknob, staring perhaps, or thinking. It was very quiet. Eventually he let out a breath, and turned back around, but he did not return to his desk. Instead, he came to her side and sat down on the arm rest of the other chair, facing her.

Once again he was quiet for a long time. It was different from before; it wasn’t a waiting-quiet, it wasn’t him, inviting her to take her time and speak when she was ready. She had spoken, and now, he was thinking. He looked at her, not unkindly, not piteously, but pensively. He was trying to recall something that he had not thought about in a very long time, or perhaps that he thought about often, but could never express quite right.

Eventually he tried anyway.

“Westwel had a population of approximately twenty-three million people, divided between five major cities, and a few hundred larger towns, as well as some villages, some seaside hamlets.” he said plainly, as though he were reading off a census report. “Nineteen million were killed in the fall. Another six hundred thousand died in the immediate aftermath, then some more in the following months. Most of the continent was charred beyond saving, and what was left, or what could be healed, was deemed unworthy of the efforts. Now it sits, a blackened stain in the middle of the Carys Ocean. You can find videos from fishing vessels, and drones, and you can see that it’s like…a skeleton, with all its meat gone. Parts of the cities still stand, whole rows of sky-scrapers only half-collapsed. You can see towns collapsed into massive fissures, and hills made from the blown-apart bodies of the Gray Finger mountains. Most of it’s overgrown now—none of the vegetation looks quite right. It’s all twisted, dark, like it’s already rotted. Bits of modium in everything. Some scientists think it sprouts with the plants, now, though no one dares go to check for themselves.”

He took off his glasses, sniffed. But it wasn’t to keep himself from crying, in fact, his eyes were totally dry. He cleaned the lenses on his shirt, absently.

“For a long time I wondered why I’d survived. I’m not a particularly religious man, so I could only truly ask myself, and as I’m sure you’re aware by now, our minds are not the most forgiving things when it comes to matters of guilt. I could tell you that eventually I realized how cruel and unfair I was being, and forgave myself for a crime I hadn’t committed—but that’s not what happened.” He brought the glasses up—his eyes seemed so much dimmer without them—and put them back on.

“I did come to the conclusion that attempting to understand why these things happen is completely and utterly pointless. I was convinced that there was no answer, or at least none that would make sense to a man like me. The Modir do what they do with all the sense and cruelty of a hurricane. It is their nature, devoid of motive or reason.

“If you tell me this swordsman spoke to you, that it told you it was hunting you, Quinnlash, I believe you. But if it’s true, it changes nothing. A victim is not defined by the intent of the assailant. Whether you are struck by lightning, or a bullet, the reality is the same.”

He leaned forward, met her eye. “The Modir attacked you. Why do you believe that is your fault, and not theirs?”

Amygdala Circuit

Follen never once pressured her to speak in these sessions. Sometimes Quinn came in ready to go, and would talk almost the entire time, in her own halting way. Others, they would for minutes, quiet, while she thought and he smiled, encouraging but not insistent. Now and then he would scratch something down on his folder, even when she didn’t speak, as though he’d heard something anyway.

This time he didn’t, though when she finally did break her silence, and mentioned the dream journal, the pen did move. “Oh, well that’s alright,” he said. “‘Busy’ is certainly an understatement. I don’t think you could be faulted for forgetting your own name in all this, ah, excitement—to make an understatement of my own.”

The light in the faux-window was still early-dawn, violets and bloody oranges. No birdsongs today—he sometimes forewent those when he had something that required his focus early in the morning.

“Dreams are important of course, and I’m very interested to hear about them, but I believe the waking world has taken precedence these past few days, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled again, knowingly, comfortingly. He so rarely asked her to speak on a topic directly, but now and then it seemed necessary to offer a gentle nudge. “Perhaps you would like to talk about what happened at the duel. Or perhaps you’ve had quite enough talk about that. Tell me, Quinn, darling: what has been on your mind, really?”

Amygdala Circuit

Medical was quiet by the time Quinn arrived, but there had been a general, visible unrest in the station on her way. People in the commons were talking, muttering about Helburke, and Casoban. It was beginning to seem like relations were souring on Runa’s side of that partnership as well, though that could have just been the sentiments of the people who actually worked with the CSC.

Towards her though, the faces were all smiles, all respect. Quinn was still the golden girl of the hour. Whatever ill feelings extended into a particular room of the ward did not reach her, and it seemed like they never would. Quinn’s guilt over failing Roaki might be stuck in her mind, but it would linger in very few others. Whether they gave her to Casoban, Eusero, or Helburke, it wouldn’t matter. In a few weeks’ time her name would be forgotten. She’d be Blotklau, a footnote in Quinn’s own newborn legend.

Perhaps not a comforting notion.

Follen’s door was open, and he spotted her as she arrived. He had his feet up on his desk, scratching absently on a notepad in his lap, and when he saw her a big smile split his face.

“Quinn, darling! Good morning. Please, come in, come right in.” He brought his feet down, set the notepad down before him, and gestured to one of the seats. “How are you feeling? Here for the eval? Well, let’s get right into it, shall we?”

Amygdala Circuit

Dahlia nodded. Quinn was getting better at dealing with her anxieties, but it was still obvious enough when she had them. She balled up, her eyes found sudden interest in everything but the eyes of others. She was shivering despite the stove behind her. Dahlia wanted very much to reach out and hold her hand, or to go over and hug her, but gradually she saw how Quinn got a handle on herself. Her eyes turned upward, her brow went low. Thoughtful, not afraid. A good step to make, an important one.

She listened, and it would have been a lie to say the same worries hadn’t come to her—more or less. What would the Board do to Besca, or Follen? Quinn had led the charge last night, but everything would have fallen apart by now without them. If they couldn’t touch her or Quinn, then it stood to reason they’d go after whoever was closest.

“Me too,” she said. She didn’t lie to her sister. “But I’m trying to be optimistic. Besca has a good record. She’s from Westwel, she’s experienced, and under her leadership you won your first duel, and we survived a Modir ambush. Follen’s the same way. They’re, ah, ingrained, y’know? It’d be hard to get rid of them. Maybe harder than it’d be to just…let things go.”

It wasn’t a good answer, it was hardly an answer at all. But it was honest, and it was, if nothing else, a start. “For now, I don’t really know. We’ll just have to be alert. Make sure at least one of us is always available in case they try something. If push comes to shove I can put my foot down, maybe they’ll listen. I just hope it doesn’t come to any of that.”

Her phone buzzed, and she checked it dreading a message from Besca. Blessedly it was just an alarm. “Shoot, right. I’ve got sims today.” She hopped up from the counter, taking a few slices of toast with her as she grabbed the bright yellow jacket from the hanger and threw it on. “Late lunch, early dinner? I can meet you wherever.”

At the door she stopped, whirling on her heel and jogging back to the counter. She threw an arm around Quinn, held her for a long moment. “Love ya,” she said, and then hurried out of the dorms.

That left Quinn alone with her unfinished food, and no real help with her problem. And the TV. Low as the sound was, she could still hear the anchors talking about her. About the duel, and the upset, and how it was just so strange that Quinnlash Loughvein hadn’t made a single public appearance yet. The only footage anyone had of her were the clips from the duel, and even zoomed in the details were blurry.

“—and our sources at the Casobani parliament are suggesting that we may see a formal request for the transfer of the captured Helburkan pilot, Roaki Tormont, from the RISC to the CSC’s station. This coming only hours after Helburke’s sovereign approved House Tormont’s appeal to declare her a fugitive. Officials claim she faces charges for the murder of five other members of the Great House. These requests are expected to hit the desk of the RISC’s Board of Directors together later this evening…”

Amygdala Circuit

Dahlia saw Quinn set down her fork, breathe deeply, and knew that something was coming. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but a question of rebelliousness had not been it. Then again, why not? It was a fair question, and the answer…complex. Likely to be disappointing, but at least not in the way Dahlia feared it would be.

“No,” she said, and it was a bit like admitting she didn’t know how to ride a bike, or whistle. It felt…not quite shameful, but certainly embarrassing. “I’ve wanted to, but…there haven’t been a lot. At least, not a lot that they’ve tried to use with me. I guess I’ve never made them mad, is more like what I mean. Yeah I’ve skipped training days, or played hooky on interviews, but nothing serious.”

She knew why well enough. She never questioned things, never caused problems—though saying it like that made it sound like Quinn was a troublemaker, which, technically she was. But what Quinn was doing was good trouble. Needed trouble. No one should have been mad at Quinn for what she did, not at the duel and not last night.

They would be anyway.

“I’ve never done a lot of things. Being a pilot kinda takes more opportunities than it gives you. But just because you’ve never done something before doesn’t mean it’s wrong—you’re the proof.” She crossed her arms on the counter, laid her head down on them to be more level with Quinn. “You’re worried about what they’ll do, huh? ‘Cause of Roaki.”

Amygdala Circuit

“Mo-orning~!” Dahlia called, sing-song, as soon as Quinn emerged from her room. She quickly prepped a plate for her; eggs, sweet toast with syrup, a peeled orange. Besca had drilled into her the merits of a healthy breakfast long ago, and she’d come to find that even on the hardest and most grueling days, she never regretted a good start to the morning.

She watched Quinn’s focus shift to the TV, and frowned. She’d meant to at least mute it. Talk still hadn’t died down, and while a modest singularity in Tohoki had diluted global attention somewhat, Runa itself was still very keyed-in on their newest, strangest pilot.

“Ah…sort of, yeah. Usually it’s a couple of days, then there’s a singularity somewhere, or another duel starts, or there’s a conflict brewing somewhere, and everyone starts speculating who gets pitted against who.” Besca had showed her one of those ‘Fantasy Duel’ leagues before, where people drafted matches and bet on the winners. There was, evidently, quite a lot of money in it. It never sat quite right with her.

“But things are pretty settled right now. Casoban and Helburke aren’t happy, but we’re involved in that, so the eye is still on you.” She made herself a plate, sat down. “I mean, can you blame them? There’s a lot to talk about, and once word gets out that we’re still looking after Roaki, they’re only gonna get more interested. People wanna…know, y’know? They wanna know about you, about the duel, about all that stuff. Actually, you might have to start thinking about your first interview. The Board’ll prolly keep you in Runa, but you’ll get to choose from a few of the big stations. Besca’ll know more about that though—she had to go take care of something, said she’d be around later.”