Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

It didn’t make sense. Roaki was so sick of nothing making any sense.

Quinnlash was her enemy, that was true the day she was born, and it would be true until the day she died. Only, that should have been weeks ago, and then it should have been every moment afterwards. Now, it was supposed to be in less than a week. It was going to be over.

She was so, so ready for it to be over.

Since her defeat, more than the grief, and the humiliation, and the abject self-loathing, what Roaki felt most was tired. Fifteen years of cold, lonely pain had wrung her dry, and the only thing keeping her going that whole time had been the lust for revenge, and the thought of her father’s face when she burned his legacy to ash. All she’d wanted was to take House Tormont with her to the grave. She’d dug the hole, she’d butchered the name. All she had to do was get in.

That driving fury was cold now. It lingered soul-deep within her, but she could feel it was lost, meandering without focus, or purpose. What was she without it? A worm, small and broken and unfeeling, meant for the dirt.

Only she wasn’t unfeeling. She wasn’t broken, not now. Not like this. Two feet beneath her, two arms to dig claws into the world and rend it how she pleased. She’d found what parts of her had been lost to the Modir in the Modir and now they were hers again. This body was hers.

This was her.

Blotklau looked up from her hands, looked up at Ablaze. Roaki looked her dead in the eye.

Then she ran.

Heavy, excited breathing broke through Quinn’s comms as Blotklau tore off, not towards her but away. She flattened forest underfoot, every step a quake that grew faster and faster. She reached the river in a full sprint and the breathing stopped as she leapt into an arc over the water and came crashing down on the other side with all the ferocious grace of a wolf, and kept running. Running for the plateau. She ran low, nearly on all fours, just as she had in their duel, and that heavy panting turned quick and elated and giddy, even.

She leapt again at the base of the waterfall and slammed into the rockface behind it. A torrent crashed down on her shoulders, cold heavy shock jolting her from scalp to heel and Roaki let out a vicious laugh. She clawed her way up the surface, tearing down outcroppings, rending stone like clay. At the top her joyous wrath rent the waterfall’s mouth wider, sprayed it like rain to the earth below and pulled herself up, up onto her feet.

There at the apex of this little world, Roaki let out an ecstatic roar that pushed the comms to static. Anger, agony, pure animalistic excitement. When she was finally done, she panted over the mic once again, and while she was certainly exhausted from so long spent inert, what she wasn’t was tired.

“Alright, Quinnlash,” she rasped, and even from digital miles away, Quinn would be able to hear the toothy grin on her breath. “You asked for it.”

Amygdala Circuit

Roaki spent the entire trip clutching onto the wheelchair’s armrest with her one hand, stiff and with her eyes wide, too surprised to even speak. People parted the walkways like they were a runaway horse, and she might have cherished their dumb, baffled faces if she didn’t look just like them. The whole way her mind raced for answers and found only more questions, until somehow between blinks she found herself being lowered into one of the sim pods.

The sensation of her plugs connecting to the seat sent nostalgic shudders down her spine. She hadn’t dared hope she’d feel that again. She hadn’t dared hope for anything—that wasn’t the privilege of worms.

But here she lay.

Quinnlash was gone before she could ask her what the hell all this was. But…did she want to know? It could have been a trap, or that stupid commander taking pity on her. Maybe once she booted herself in, the system would fry her and that’d be it; no wasting time rotting in a Casobani cell waiting to be paraded around like a trophy, no nonsense trial, no being ripped into however many pieces they wanted to pass her around as. Was that mercy?

Fine, she thought. Kill me, then.

The pod sealed around her, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

She was almost disappointed when she didn’t die. At least then things would have made sense.

Roaki hadn’t done many sims in her brief career as a pilot. Her first duel was also her first day in Blotklau’s cockpit, and despite House Tormont having access to state-of-the-art equipment, she was obviously not allowed anywhere near it. What she’d run were closer to bootleg VR games than military sims, with low visual fidelity and janky tactile feedback—things which had been described to her, which she didn’t understand, but the thing had looked and felt like shit. This was much different.

The world unfurled around her like a topographical map of a place she’d never seen. Woodlands stretched out beneath her, miles upon miles of crisp greens and autumn warmth. A wide river cut the land in two, and ran rapid from a high plateau misted by the cascading waterfall at its face. Mountains ringed the distance, a marriage of natural and digital boundaries, but more sprung up along the raised earth, ranges of five and six with flat tops trailing into jagged heads.

The sun shown above her, so much more real than the dull light that leaked between the blinds of her room. Wind touched her. Roaki had been told that Saviors were dulled to physical sensations, and that the only thing that really reached the pilot was pain. But on her first day and every day after, she swore she could feel the wind kiss her modium skin, and touch the rain inside the lowest clouds, and sweat beneath a high noon sun as sure as she would in her own self.

Some vast distance across from her, Ablaze took shape. Small but potent panic shot through her, and she stared death at the other Savior.

The other savior.

She realized then she was in Blotklau. It wasn’t…exactly right; she could tell certain details were off, but that was how it went with recreations, right? It was still undeniably the same Savior. She closed her fists tight, felt sharp claws dig into her palms. Life hissed through her razor maw. A comms channel was already open, populated by an administrator, herself, and Quinnlash Loughvein. Blotklau’s teeth grated together. She was still waiting for the other shoe to come crashing down.

“What is this, deadgirl?”

Pariah Online: A Voyage into the Intangible Aether

Location:The City of Thorinn, Aetheria

---

Despite the caution and care with which Alja touched her, Seele still jumped like a startled cat, and could only be thankful that she’d already let go of Graves by then, or she might have accidentally headbutted him. It seemed her nerves were still a tad high from the ordeal, but she still found the energy to be embarrassed about it.

“Oh! Alja, sweetie,” she said, clearing her throat, smoothing out her robe, and generally just trying to avoid looking at her until she’d gotten her composure back. “No no, you’re not late at all! In fact, it’s probably for the best that you’re here when you are—things might have gotten…difficult. I’ll fill you in, just one moment.”

She turned back to Graves, taking him gently by the shoulders. “Why don’t you head inside for now, hun? We’ll join you in a bit. Unless you want some time to yourself.”

She left out that if he was gone too long she’d come hunting after him, figuring that was implied.

That done, she led Alja away from the scene. With a girl her size, it was impossible to be inconspicuous, but they were at least out of the way, and with the guards’ business handled, things would hopefully be dying down soon.

“You might hear some excitable chatter around the Worg for a bit, but it’s really not as bad as all that. Graves and Siegfried had a disagreement over our plan to find the missing wayfarers. Things got a little heated, a little emotional, but we managed to get everything under control before it became a huge problem.”

It wasn’t a lie per se, but Seele still felt a little guilty sugaring things so much. What choice did she have, really? It wasn’t her place to lay Graves’ struggles out to others, even to his friends; besides, it seemed clear to her that Alja meant to speak with him later anyway.

“And that’s about it! What about you? How did your errands go? I can’t help but notice you’re alone—is everything alright?”

Amygdala Circuit

The room was as dim and lifeless as it always was, and like every time she’d shown up before, Roaki was still laid out in the bed, turned toward the faux window like she might be sleeping—which she never really was. Usually it took minutes of awkward silence and prodding to get her to even turn around, let alone to speak, but this time was different. Somehow, despite having made herself a clockwork fixture of Roaki’s day, as reliable as the fake sunlight would turn to fake moonlight, Quinn had managed to surprise her.

“Huh?” She bolted upright like a bomb had gone off down the hall, voice bereft of any wilted stoicism. “Fuckin—what? Huh? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Her eyes jumped from the wheelchair, to Quinn, who she rarely even looked towards. Now she was scanning her intently, as if she were looking for whatever wound must have been making her delirious. Seeing none, she decided to take Quinn’s words as they were, which made just as little sense.

“I can’t go to sims. Didn’t you hear? I’m already dead, Casoban’s got dibs.”

Amygdala Circuit

“That…” Follen started, and in his voice was the same tone Quinn had heard many times before. The tone used with children, to ease them into the cruelties of the world and remind them, gently, that reality wouldn’t abide their every fantasy. But it flagged, and he sat quietly for a few moments, staring at her. Then brow went up, and he shrugged with his lips.

“…Technically not against the rules. If you can convince her to go, I don’t see any legalities preventing her from joining you in the sims.”

He got up out of his seat and came around, picking his coat up from the stand. “In fact, why don’t I head down there, and see if I can’t convince whoever’s on duty that I’m trialing some sort of therapy. I doubt I can keep them from telling anyone, but as long as you’re willing to face the consequences.”

A hand found its way onto her shoulder, as soft in touch as his tone had been. “Which there will be, Quinnlash. However this goes, even if it doesn’t work. There will be consequences. Are you okay with that?”

Amygdala Circuit

Follen seemed pleased that she’d agreed to try. It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested a more analyzed approach, and he wasn’t the only one, either. Besca and Dahlia both seemed convinced that the truest, most lasting damages done to Quinn in her childhood were internal—literally, yes, but also figuratively. While knowing she wasn’t in immediate danger of keeling over as a result of whatever horrific experiments had been performed on her, it did little to assuage the pain of watching her fall apart in every other way.

Of course, even having told them about it, looking inward wasn’t the easiest feat when the guiding voice in her mind urged her to give in to her angriest impulses. Quinnlash seemed to want what was best for her—best for them both, really—but some days it also seemed like she didn’t want to be happy, that she wanted to keep them both trapped in a cycle of desperate fury.

If we understand these things, won’t they go away? the question radiated from within her, not mocking, not angry, but almost confused. The edges of her vision darkened ever so slightly. What are we without them?

“Pardon?”

The room returned, and Follen’s voice pushed Quinnlash back beneath the pool of their mind. He looked concerned, though not like she’d been thinking out loud, and more that she wasn’t making any sense. He considered her briefly, but intensely, and then quickly leaned back in his chair as if all was normal.

“I don’t believe that’s possible at this point, Quinn. Apologies, I thought you already knew—the deal was made. We’re delivering her to Casoban within the week.”

The Shattering of Aegis

---

Lilann was beginning to think restful sleep was beyond her. Between her nerves, that eerie dream, and the music, she could hardly bring herself to shut her eyes for fear that something might be waiting for her the moment she opened them again. It was embarrassing. Years spent living in cave towns, sleeping in alleys where she ran the very real risk of waking up to a knife in her gut, and here she was, exhausting herself over fairy tales.

Except they weren’t fairy tales. The smell of death had been real, the Rancor had been real, and the godsdamned music was so real she’d be hearing it in the back of her mind for the rest of her life. However short that seemed it might be.

Truly, she was tempted to retrieve her lyre and play along. That duet from her little excursion hadn’t been so bad, and while the melody sweeping through the trees was lovely in its own right, it really did want for a partner.

Then again, if she woke the brute he might just kill her.

The choice wasn’t left to her in the end, though, as there was a commotion not too far from their camp. Something falling, someone shouting angrily. She sat up and saw she wasn’t alone in noticing; Kyreth was motioning for Esvelee to be silent—not an idea she found disagreeable.

She ran the gamut of possibilities in her head. Thieves were likely, as were fellow merchants. The idea that it might be the necromancer crossed her mind, briefly, but she figured if they were looking to pick up where they’d left off, they wouldn’t announce themselves like this. Likewise she put the thought of the Rancor from her mind—there was still color, and the smell was wilderness, not rot. These were people, she decided.

Getting to her feet, Lilann pulled her mask over her face, and donned her hat. “I’ve had about enough of being snuck up on.” she mumbled, and motioned to get Kyreth’s attention, before pointing towards the voices.

She found a modestly-sized rock and touched it, flooded it with her aether, and picked it up. As she walked towards the tree line she let it go, and with a quiet hiss and a twist of her wrist, it floated up beside her. She kept one hand in a rigid form, almost like she was knocking back an arrow. A fast rock might handle a thief, and if it was something more sinister…well, she had suggested being on the front lines.

Casting one look back to her companions, she drew up to the trees, trying to peer through them at whoever, or whatever, was making all that noise.

The Shattering of Aegis

---

Between the job offers, the lack of outright targeted violence, and the copious amounts of indiscriminate violence, Lilann had managed to briefly forget how awful of a place Finnagund was. With the burdens of the day shucked to the ground, she had nearly started to feel, dare she think it, relaxed, around these people.

Honestly, thank the shit-eating gods for sending Esvelee to remind her. How would she have gotten any sleep without someone reminding her about the good old days? A perfect little rage lullaby.

She made a mental note—Esvelee Buckman, the Red Fern Fool. A good start to a good story, she thought. Lilann’s was a petty soul, born of a life that afforded her little opportunity for more visceral vengeance. She didn’t know much about the woman, yet, but there was still a long road ahead of them left to pick her apart, to scrutinize her every flaw, every embarrassing mistake. And what she didn’t learn, well, she’d never shied away from taking artistic liberties with her fictions.

Within a few months, the people of Soft Haven would be saying some very entertaining things about Miss Buckman.

At least Kyreth seemed to take it in stride, or at least he seemed no more anxious than usual. The others also ignored Esvelee’s comments, either out of silent agreeance or disdain. Part of her wanted to hope for the latter. She erred to healthy skepticism instead.

Pulled from her machinations by the gloomy boy, Lilann took a few moments to process. What could she do? Well, she would have liked to say ‘more than what you saw back there’, but without her sword, and with their payment dependent on the cart remaining intact, she’d have been hard-pressed to prove it.

“I could…” throw the client at it. “…Oh, you know, throw a few rocks, sing a few songs. If we survive, I assure you the story will be enthralling. I doubt we’ll have to worry much about sensing the Rancor, though. We’ll know if we stumble into its territory."

Amygdala Circuit

“An emphatic answer. The idea of losing it seems to upset you, perhaps part of you feels this place is yours now, too. ” Follen said, and in a flick of his wrist pen touched paper and then was set down again. He waited a moment, observed her, gave her the opportunity to speak further if she wished.

When she did not, he went on. “Despite what I said before, the prescription is time. Time to develop your empathy. Time to make good memories—and forget them, for new ones. You spent your life alone, all you have right now are traumas and isolation. Your feelings towards your parents are natural, and they will fade, though the memories of what was done to you may not. Use that to right yourself. Once some time has passed, all you’ll have left of your mother and father will be the truth. Hopefully by then, you’ll have found enough happiness in your new life, that you won’t mourn your old one.

“But, that’s only my hope. I can’t make you promises that aren’t mine to keep—all I can do is help you keep the ones you make to yourself. For now, you need to sit with these feelings, think on them, try to understand them. It may come slowly, you may find no answers at all for quite a while. We’ll continue to keep track, together.”

Amygdala Circuit

Follen listened quietly while Quinn talked. He didn’t interject, didn’t motion for pause, his face never betrayed an ounce of judgement, or sympathy—or no more than was inherent to his naturally kind expression. This was his way in almost all of their sessions; he would sit in silence, or scratch notes in his journal without more than the quickest glance away from her, and simply listen. When she stopped talking, he waited, because often she simply needed a moment to catch her breath and collect her thoughts, and if she ever looked at him with uncertainty, he would nod encouragement, perhaps smile, and let her continue. He seemed to know when she was truly done, perhaps even before she did.

He set his pen down, cleared his throat and folded his hands. “Empathy is difficult, Quinnlash. If you’ve learned anything since Hovvi, I’m sure you’ve learned that. Some people are can feel the sadness of others simply by stepping into a room with them. Some people understand, but choose to ignore it. Some people spend their whole lives trying to build up that sense of connection and humanity, and never quite manage. But you’re in a particularly unique situation, aren’t you? You’re incredibly empathic—between your actions and interactions, I don’t believe anyone would contest that—but you haven’t gotten to develop it. You spent your whole life alone.

“It’s a tragedy of the human condition that time takes our happiest memories away, but our traumas remain. You, I’m sure, remember many of the terrible things that were done to you with perfect clarity. Perhaps, effectively, they are all that you had, and if your parents are truly dead, then, in some ways, now you have nothing. It is a natural reaction to cling to something, good or bad, rather than lose it—because it’s yours. And in that panic you might forget about the things you’ve gained, or might gain.

“Tell me, since you found out about them, have you wanted to be here any less?”