Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

The mood in the restaurant had changed quickly. The few early diners had either finished or ignored their food to gawk at the pilot sobbing quietly at the bar. Whispers abound, phones were drawn and videos snapped. Lucky the day was young and most of the station was on shift, or this might have turned into a much larger spectacle.

Akihiro decided it was time for a break. He apologized to the customers and told them he had to close down for a little while. No one gave him grief—hardly anyone outside of security ever did, unless it was the weekend, where everyone was equally likely to be a problem. He handed out dinner vouchers and took down names to remind himself who would receive extra portions when they next visited. Then he locked the door and went back to the kitchen.

His cook was also Tohoken, so he spoke quietly in their tongue. “I’m stepping out for a minute,” he said. “Watch her until I get back. If she asks for more, mix some tonic water in with the yuzu, she won’t notice. If she asks for food, make her whatever she likes.”

Done, he returned to Quinn at the bar, donning a jacket over his apron. “I’ll be right back, Quinnlash, I forgot something in my room. If you want another drink, or you get hungry before I get back, my cook will take care of you.”

He doubted she heard him, or if she had that she understood, but he intended to be quick. He left the Grill. Commander Darroh would be on the bridge, but considering she was likely busy, there was simply no way someone like him could get up there, and it was clear she was not going to see his message any time soon. Thankfully, he knew someone who could get ahold of her.

It was a brisk walk to medical.

“Ah, chef Akihiro,” Doctor Follen said, plainly surprised to see him at his door. “Good morning, are you feeling well?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, doctor. I need to get in touch with Commander Darroh and I’m afraid I don’t have the clearance to interrupt her during a meeting.”

“I see, what’s the matter—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s about Ms. Loughvein.”

The doctor’s interest was piqued. Akihiro relayed the situation to him, and waited patiently while he sent a message to the Commander. After that he shut and locked his door. “You said she’s in your restaurant?”

“Yes sir,” Akihiro said, though he was confused when Follen followed him out of the ward. “You’re coming too?”

“Certainly. She’s my patient, after all, and this sounds like a rather significant event.”

Akihiro couldn’t argue with that, though he felt strange bringing someone else along.

“Did she say anything?”

“She mumbled, but I couldn’t understand her.”

“Hm.” There was a lilt of intrigue in the doctor’s voice that did not sit well with Akihiro. But soon enough they arrived at the Grill.

Commander Darroh came half-jogging down the commons. There was stark concern on her face, tainted by a barely-concealed annoyance when she saw Follen. The doctor only smiled and nodded to her. She ignored him, gave her attention to Akihiro.

“How much has she had?” she asked.

“Two cocktails, not particularly strong, but she ordered no food and I suspect she’s eaten nothing today.”

Besca tried to peer in through the tinted glass door. “I’m sorry I missed your message.”

Akihiro dismissed the apology with a wave. “I will be in the back, please take as long as you need,” he said, and went back inside. The Commander and doctor Follen did not follow yet, so he left the door unlocked. As he passed the bar he took the mostly-full glass with him and disappeared into the back.

Outside, Besca paced in front of the door. Rubbernecks did their best to eavesdrop but she shooed them away. Still, even alone she dropped her voice low.

“You can go now.”

Follen scoffed. “Don’t be stupid.”

“She’s clearly dealing with something right now, you fucking animal.”

“And as her doctor, it behooves me to be here to help her through it.”

She grimaced. “You know the sooner you stop pretending like you give a single shit about her, the sooner both our jobs get easier.”

“What an unsurprisingly limited point of view.”

He reached for the handle and she snatched him by the wrist, held him there. Besca glared hot contempt into his eyes.

“We’re not in primary anymore, Aldous. I could throttle you.”

He smirked, infuriating her. “I welcome you to leave as many wounds as you’re comfortable with explaining to Quinnlash on our next meeting.”

An electric moment passed. The smug expectance left his face, and Besca knew this conversation had already ceased to interest him. Part of her wished she could be so inhumanly detached. She let him go, but shouldered past him to enter first. They made their way across the dim, quiet restaurant, and came to sit on either side of Quinn. She shot Follen a warning glance, and he sat back.

Quinn looked rough. Exhausted. Her face was wet she wobbled unevenly in her chair. Besca draped an arm around her to hold her steady, leaned in to speak softly and quietly. Easier to keep the abject worry out of her voice that way.

“Hey, hun. Hey, it’s me. Missed you this morning, just wanted to stop by to see you,” she said. “. How you doin’? You okay?”

Amygdala Circuit

Long minutes passed, quiet, as a handful of people shuffled in for an early lunch, took their seats in the dimly lit booths and ordered. Akihiro was alone, save for one other cook, and so he dipped in and out from behind the counter to serve food, or to check in thee kitchen. Quinn had finished her first glass very fast, and had politely asked for another with the same uncertain surety with which she’d ordered the first.

Then, she finished that one too.

Akihiro did not immediately refill this one, instead he waited until she asked on her own, and then delayed further by busying himself with the other tables. That took another few minutes, but when he finally returned she was still adamant that she wanted another drink.

She was the pilot, she got what she wanted. He poured her another yuzu cocktail, and continued to work. He minded the kitchen briefly as he sent his cook out to fetch bread. When he returned, Akihiro brought a small basket of rolls out and set them down for Quinn, beside the still-untouched noodles, along with a pitcher and a glass of water.

“In case you change your mind. Good for later.”

Amygdala Circuit

Akihiro hesitated. It had become very clear that Quinn had found a place among his favorite customers in her short time aboard the Aerie, and thus far things had been friendly between them. He knew her favorite meals, down to the ingredients she liked in some dishes, and others she didn’t. He had on occasion crafted specialties for her, when time and supplies allowed, or had her taste-test potential new additions to the menu. They shared few personal things—though Quinn tended to wear her emotions on her sleeve, and so was not particularly hard to read—but there was an undeniable sense of understanding there.

Besides, Akihiro had been working on the Aerie for years. He was used to being around pilots, and while the previous lot was gone, he had forged relationships with them as well, ranging from the strictly professional, to the respectfully distant, and, of course, the familiar.

All of that aside, the difference between him and them was always stark. He was a civilian, after all, and no matter how friendly they were, they were pilots. They outranked him socially, and professionally. When they asked something of him, regardless of how much it sounded like a suggestion, or how much he would rather refuse, he could not.

So, when Quinn asked him for alcohol, he followed it like an order. He picked a nice, albeit not overly-strong bottle that would mix well with yuzu, and whipped up a glass for her. He didn’t know whether or not she’d eaten today, but she looked ill to his eyes. When he served her the drink, he slid a small bowl of soba noodles along with it.

Then he bowed, went to fetch another cloth from the kitchen, and before he returned to the front, he sent the Commander a message, informing her of Quinn’s whereabouts. There was no response, of course; Commander Darroh was a busy woman and likely wouldn’t see a message from him for hours. By then he hoped Quinn would be finished, and sleeping, perhaps. She looked like she hadn’t slept.

These too were thoughts he kept to himself as he emerged back to the bar.

“Would you like a menu?” he asked, and set one down near her. “Delivery day was this morning, so everything is fresh.”

Amygdala Circuit

It was minutes before Quinnlash returned, but she’d wished it was longer. Roaki’s eyes found the sheets again, she couldn’t tell if the shame was bearing down on her from without, or bursting from within, but it was heavy and burning all the same. Was she meant to say something? Should she throw herself down and apologize for what she’d said? If she brought herself low, as she had in the cockpit with Dragon’s pilot had cut her apart, would that satisfy them? Would it end, then?

She was surprised to find she had enough pride left to refuse, but not by much. She could take isolation, she could take insult, she could take pain, none of those had ever struck her as deeply as revulsion did. She hated being looked at, she felt disgusting. Worms belonged in the dirt, why didn’t they just—

Quinnlash is speaking.

Well, Quinnlash was trying to speak. She did this sometimes, too, stuttered and stumbled and eventually gave up. Often the silence would last until she either tried to continue, or decided to call it a day. Roaki hoped for the latter. She needed to be alone. She wasn’t going to cry—never again, not for any of them, she swore—but the cold and empty inside of her was suffocating. Every breath was a bit shorter than the last, a bit more strained. It was panic, almost, or aspiring to be. Another weakness she had no desire to degrade herself showing.

“They’re gonna come draw blood at some point,” she said quietly. “Do you want anything else?”

Amygdala Circuit

Roaki jolted when Quinnlash shot up, and would have met eyes with her out of reflex, only Quinnlash was unfocused and covering her mouth like—

Oh.

She listened to the retching sounds from her bathroom, dumbstruck, staring at the toppled chair. Had that been her fault? Were the things she’d said so revolting that Quinnlash had needed to expel them immediately? Deep within her, she felt a little flame that she hadn’t been aware of snuff out, leaving behind a cold lacuna she could not ignore. For the briefest moment, she had allowed herself to believe she understood. Perhaps, she’d thought, she had actually seen something familiar in another person—in Quinnlash, her enemy, yes, but also the only one to beat her. Someone who had doubts, like she had, and who seemed close to making the same mistakes or worse. She realized dumbly that she had tried to help.

Idiot.

By what right? In what way? Here she sat, day in and day out, broken and useless, a failure, senselessly clinging to a life that would be infinitely more valuable in death. She had lost. Quinn had won. How could she ever compare them? To assume so much, to insinuate similarity was worse than insult, it was omen.

Just the idea of it sickened her.

This, Roaki guessed, was no ploy. This was folly. She had forgotten her place, and had been swiftly and poignantly reminded. Cold cell or sterile room, the Aerie was a prison, and these people, especially Quinnlash, were her wardens and tormentors. She only hoped, soon, they’d grow bored of her.

Amygdala Circuit

Things were quickly becoming complicated again. Ugh. So they weren’t dead, but now, actually, they might be dead after all? Roaki didn’t know how utterly wrecked the rinky-dink town had been after the attack, maybe they just couldn’t identify all the dead people. There was a chance still that under all that rubble were the itty-bitty pieces of her parents.

But that wasn’t the frustrating part. It was the fact that Quinnlash seemed unwilling to just fucking let go that got her heated. She had to remind herself this was all likely bullshit anyway, but the part playing along wished she had the will to scream. That was why the door was ajar? This was why Quinnlash was the way she was?

Unbelievable.

“So just fuckin’ kill’em,” she said flatly. “You know you can do that, right? You’re a pilot, you’re allowed to. Even if they’re fancy pantsy scientists, you’re still the bigger fish.”

Fuck’s sake, she almost looked up at her. Her eyes got as high up as Quinnlash’s neck before darting back down. Frustrated, yeah, but in the back of her mind, like a leash, the word worm kept her heeled.

Fine, no yelling. She’d just talk like some stupid fucking civvy.

“And it’s not totally forgetting,” she said. “It’s more like…Look, I had five siblings, and two aunts. I killed them all. And I guess, before I actually did it, I was…kinda like you. I didn’t know. Most of them were shits, couple of’em weren’t. Maybe I wanted to kill them, maybe I didn’t. But when I was done, I did know, and it was better.

“I didn’t just suddenly forget them. They’re…I…remember. But they’re the past. So, if your stupid ass parents are still alive, and you see them again, just kill’em. Make them the past. That’s when it gets easier.”

Amygdala Circuit

Modiologists. Roaki was familiar—she didn’t like them. When she was little, and weak, and had to be excised from her cockpit by scalpels rather than bonesaws, it was always the modiologists who operated on her. She glanced down at her hand, her arm, at the ghostly splotches scattered upon the skin. How many times had it been? She’d sworn she would remember every cut, but eventually there’d been so many, and they’d only hurt more as time went on. She’d lost track, it was shameful, so instead she’d just vowed deathly vengeance upon all scientists.

The idea that Quinn had spent her whole life gulping down poison was still ridiculous to her, but if someone was going to do that, it would be fucking modiologists.

Roaki felt herself getting angry again as Quinn apologized. Why did she keep doing that? There wasn’t anything to forgive, you didn’t get to have grievances as a loser—though, in her experience, that was undeniably due to the fact that dead people didn’t have grievances. Was she supposed to forgive her? Roaki couldn’t even imagine herself in the other seat, seeking forgiveness from someone she’d beaten.

Though, again, dead people didn’t forgive.

“It’s…fine,” she said. Regardless of her feelings, it was clear Quinn wasn’t going to leave it at that. This was the topic of their discussion today, and so like every other day, Roaki would bear it—and try, just a little, to sift something useful from it. “But why does it…matter? Wasn’t everyone mulched in Hovvi? They’re dead. You won. You can forget about them. The quicker you lose their names, the better.”

Amygdala Circuit

Roaki sat and listened quietly, as was her lot. It sounded like nonsense, honestly, and the more Quinnlash said, the less sense anything made. Modium? Did she really expect her to believe she grew up drinking modium? People died just being near the stuff, you didn’t just drink it. This had to be a trick, then, another ploy to get something out of her. But what? What else was there to say that hadn’t been said already? She had no crucial information for RISC, no deep, national secrets; Helburke wanted her gone just as much as everyone else, no one had ever told her anything she didn’t absolutely need to know.

She considered it might be that strange, miserable sort of cruelty she’d suspected Quinnlash preferred some weeks ago, but if that truly was the case, its purpose had yet to be made clear. IF the rest of her life was really to be spent listening to her enemy complain she wished she’d been back in that cell—at least there the cold would have killed her by now.

Failing that, she had to consider the distant possibility that Quinnlash was telling the truth—or at least that she thought she was. Roaki didn’t believe it for a second. She was well acquainted with the effects of modium, more than most people alive, she wagered. If Quinnlash had really been drinking it her whole life, she’d be dead. She was certain of it.

But, again, if it was true—why?

The possibilities to that question were fractal and endless and made her head hurt. Roaki quickly decided that she didn’t care why. If someone had done that to her, she thought, she would have ripped their kidneys out with her hands. Quinnlash wouldn’t, though. She had a special sort of weakness, and if her persona were to be taken at face-value, then it wouldn’t be at all surprising to find out that she never did anything about it.

God, fuck. But if she’d only stop fucking crying.

“…Okay,” she said, when the silence was long. “Your parents poisoned you. Why would they do that?”

Amygdala Circuit

Something was off, Roaki knew it right away. Usually Quinnlash came bursting in loud as anything, eager to talk and pretend—for whatever nebulous reasons she had—as if they did not despise each other. Sometimes it was only for minutes, sometimes it was an hour, sometimes early, others late. She didn’t know what time it was now, but as the silence, usually disallowed to last a handful of moments, stretched into minutes, she knew something was wrong.

Her hand squeezed the sheet in a fist. Is this it? she thought. Had the mask finally slipped off? Had she finally exhausted Quinnlash’s seemingly-endless patience? Or perhaps over the weeks she’d simply gotten everything she needed. Roaki knew silence, knew it well enough to know nothing good came after it. Were these people finally going to start treating her like the enemy?

Evidently not.

When Quinn spoke she sounded different. Sad. That wasn’t anything new. Quinn had cried plenty—Roaki remembered because it infuriated her every time, reminded her she’d lost to a crybaby, that she was worse. This sounded less like ridiculous guilt or sympathy, and more like…nostalgia. The pain of memory.

Roaki had become privy to many of Quinnlash’s feelings, none of which made her any easier to understand. But this—pain. Pain she could understand. Perhaps this was an opportunity, and if she listened closely, she might discover the girl’s true weakness.

Or she’s messing with you, you fucking idiot.

That, she decided, was also a possibility. Weeks spent waiting for the other shoe to drop; was this gravity at work? She supposed it didn’t matter, really. She didn’t have much use for shoes anyway.

“Okay,” she answered. “Sure. Why’d they do it?”

Amygdala Circuit

Not much had changed over the weeks in this little room. Artificial sunlight still glowed through the blinds in the window. The TV was off, as it always was, and the little table over the bed was pushed aside. Roaki had meekly, bitterly refused any sort of distraction, be it book or phone or cards. She ate scarcely, supplemented by nutrients either in the IV or through vitamins; she wasn’t quite withered, but she’d gained no weight since she’d arrived. What she did when Quinn wasn’t around was anyone’s guess, though when asked she would shrug, and insist she either slept, or just lay in silent thought.

The anger had gone from her. All of her words were blunted, either mumbled or spoken with a softness in shocking contrast to their encounter at the duel. She didn’t’ call Quinn names anymore, didn’t insult Dahlia or Besca. Still she had not met Quinn’s eyes, and rarely did she ever offer conversation of her own will. But almost dutifully, whenever she was questioned, she answered. Even to the rest of the medical staff, who it seemed had inherited her deference to Quinn by proximity.

She’d stopped asking to die. Perhaps Quinn saw that as a step forward, or perhaps it was simply a lack of will to move at all.

Today, like every day, she lay with her head turned to the faux-sun. When Quinn shut the door behind her, she looked up to the ceiling in acknowledgement, before sitting up and turning her eyes to the sheets. The fraying gray curtain of hair fell over her face.

“…Hey.”