Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

An alien warmth bubbled up from the depths of Quinn’s mind when she took Dahlia’s hand. She wasn’t alone in missing her sister’s company, and though what few memories of her dreams followed her to the waking world were consistently foggy and fleeting, there had been a concerted effort to bring Dahlia to the forefront. When they reached the kitchen and Quinn let go, the warmth shrunk and dissipated.

The food was done. Besca slid the last of the pancakes onto a third plate, tongue struck out between her lips as she focused on stacking the fluffy, golden discs on top of each other. The middle of each pile was dotted with dark spots, which, as she set the plates out on the countertop, Quinn would realize were actually blueberries.

“Morning hun’,” Besca said.

Deelie retrieved a couple bottles from the fridge. Short and fat, labeled plainly as “Supplemental Beverage: Pilot,” they were made by the RISC and shipped up regularly. According to Besca, most places kept their pilots on strict diets alongside their exercise routines, but that was mainly for the sake of appearances. Westwel had done it too, and meals were miserable. Blessedly, at RISC, so long as the pilots kept themselves physically fit, and followed their training schedules, the worst their dietary regulations got were these vitamin shakes.

On a subprint beneath the label was the word: “Vanilla”, which, by now, Quinn could have determined to be more of an opinion than a flavor.

Dahlia didn’t even wait to eat. She cracked the top off hers and downed it all at once, face scrunching up before she tossed it in the trash, and got herself a glass of water. As she took a seat next to Quinn, she flipped on the TV.

A small singularity was forming in Casoban. Following their pyrrhic victory against Helburke, they’d had to replace two pilots. Enavant and Spectre had fully regenerated, and now it seemed Casoban was taking the opportunity to show off. An attempt at showing they were perfectly independent, perhaps.

The two Saviors stood in a field along seaside cliffs. In the far distance a town was so rife with people that the crowd was visible from miles away. A reporter in a corner sub-screen was rattling off the new pilots’ accomplishments in training, scrolling through photos like dogs at a show. Dahlia quickly lost interest, Besca continued to watch out of the corner of her eye.

“Sleep well?”

Dahlia nodded, already chewing a forkful of pancake. Besca knew better than that, even if she was sleeping better now than recently. She still kept a strict leash on how much time the girl spent in sims, but there was more to her exhaustion than sleep deprivation.

“How ‘bout you?” she asked, turning her eye to Quinn. She smiled—she made a point to. Quinn had done something drastic, and the consequences were going to be severe one way or another, but strangely she wasn’t angry. She thought she would be, certainly, but no matter how long she thought about it, she couldn’t bring herself to hold what Quinn had done against her. More than that, she didn’t want Quinn to think she did, either.

Amygdala Circuit

When you joined the RISC, and you got stationed on the Aerie, you had to square yourself with the fact that, as long as you had a job, you might never step foot on Illun again. If you were lucky, you might get assigned to the elevator crew, and every now and then you’d get to ship down and spend an afternoon at the loading bay, and maybe sneak off to grab some local food. Some people wouldn’t see a proper sunrise for three, five years—others ten, maybe longer. When you were dealing with the Modir, there wasn’t much room for vacation.

All this to say that, despite having come down to the RISC planet-side HQ to get fired, Besca went straight to a familiar burger-joint just outside of base, and decided to await the Board’s decision there. She’d taken for granted what an ocean shore looked like, and the smell of a cool breeze through a well-kept garden—she wasn’t about to miss out on this.

She ate slow, watched a Sim-Savior-League match on the desaturated television mounted on the wall, and enjoyed what was otherwise a rather pleasant quiet. She’d taken that for granted too. For a place floating in the silent void of space, the Aerie was loud, often, and as its commander, her job was to keep it that way.

Through the window she spotted Follen cross the street, and decided her break was over. If he stepped foot in here, it’d be ruined for her. She took her drink with her and met him outside. It was windy out—something else she wasn’t used to; she had to pull back her hair to keep it out of her face, and Follen’s was whipped out of its normal shape. Still, even now he had the same, indecipherable little grin plastered to his face.

“Well?” she asked, taking a long sip. “Should I expect a trial before they lock me up, or are they just gonna off me in my sleep?”

He chuckled, but didn’t answer. Instead he produced a cigarette from his breast pocket, and a lighter, and they stood there quietly as he took a drag. He brushed his hair back, blinked up at the sky, then took another. Through the smoke, he said: “You’re getting a commendation.”

For the sake of her dignity, Besca refused to choke on her drink, and elected to quietly gag. “That’s…an interesting response to treason.”

“It’s not treason. Not officially. The Board has decided our best course of action is to present a united front, in the face of our treaty’s inevitable collapse.”

“They’re giving up on Casoban?”

He shrugged. “Roaki Tormont was in possession of crucial intelligence relating to Helburke’s Great Houses. You acted under orders to secure her as a RISC asset.”

That was flimsy. Anyone who spent more than a minute around her would realize that the absolute last words that could be attributed to Roaki Tormont were: ‘crucial intelligence’. Then again, their relationship with Helburke couldn’t get any worse, and there was precedent for this sort of thing even more recently with Ghaust.

Difference was, Ghaust had been an asset of actual value. What were they going to do with Roaki?

“Don’t relax too much,” Follen said. “They’ve begun a new search for your replacement. You’re still listed as interim commander, after all.”

“And Quinn?”

Follen moved to take another drag, but Besca swiped the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it aside.

“What. About. Quinn?”

“Hm. The girl defies you at every turn, shelters an enemy, and plunges our country towards what will in all likelihood be its doom, or at least subjugation, and you’re worried about her job?”

“She’s sixteen.”

“Most teenagers just dye their hair.” Follen said, and retrieved another cigarette, turning theatrically away from Besca to light it. “Obviously, they want her gone, but losing her now would break the façade. There’s still two Saviors to fill before they can justifiably retire her, so I imagine she’ll be around longer than you—if not by much. Besides, they’re aware of Dahlia’s…attachment, to her. They’ve asked me to begin conditioning distance between them to help facilitate an eventual split.”

“That won’t work.”

He shrugged again. “I don’t particularly care; I wasn’t going to do it anyway.”

From anyone else, she would have assumed that to be a sign of affection. From Follen it was practically a confession that he was planning something worse.

“So that’s it?” Besca asked. “We just go back to business as usual?”

“We’re losing Casoban, Besca. Runa is about to be alone for the first time, against powers older and richer than we could ever dream of being. Sure, with Dahlia, and Quinn, and whoever else gets roped in we may be able to hold out awhile, but things like this happen in generational increments. Today marks the death of this nation in one fashion or another, and most of the world will be cheering.”

“And yet, you don’t seem the least bit worried.”

“Like I said, this is going to make a lot of people happy.” He flicked his cigarette away and looked down at her, eyes empty behind those pale veneers. “When have you ever known the Modir to let that stand?”

--

News spread quick, and outrage quicker. Casoban, Eusero, and of course Helburke, exploded with indignant anger. How dare Runa deny the Casobani people justice? Who were they to involve themselves? First their own incompetence costs them one of their most beloved pilots, and now they have the audacity to moralize?

Eusero, for their part, would never betray their allies so brazenly.

Even Runans seemed split on the decision. Most seemed to understand this meant the end to their allegiance with Casoban was imminent, and while many found within them a sudden patriotic compassion, many still demanded answers and a change of course. News began to report that investigations into the Board were to begin—which would, undoubtedly, peter off into nothing.

Still, the confusion was there, and a national effort to curb the rising hysteria was in full force by the end of the week. Certain foreign news channels were no longer aired, interviews with Euseran politicians and even pilots were slimmed down, with only a few appearances from high-profile Casobani guests who still favored the treaty.

On the Aerie however, there was no such embargo.

Morning, noon, and night they were bombarded with the consequences of Quinn’s actions, and the effects were noticeable. No one was outright mean, but the heroic air that had seemed to waft from her everywhere she went was wilted, and plenty of the staff regarded her coldly, or with indifference. Most, after all, didn’t know it had been Quinn’s call. The official story disseminated to the country and to RISC was that it was the Board’s, acted through Besca. But people blamed Roaki, and Quinn was openly nice to her, so she was caught in the crossfire.

Roaki, to the surprise of no one, didn’t care. She was in sims almost as often as Dahlia, sometimes without any opponent at all, even simulated ones. Life had returned to her overnight, and while her privileges were still limited, made full use of them. Most days, Quinn could find her exercising in her room, scarfing down whatever meals she was allotted, then pestering her for a duel or five. Rarely was she ever in that bed, and never did she stare into the faux light in the window.

Dahlia’s schedule had only slightly changed. At Besca’s behest, and then orders, she was disallowed from spending her every hour in the simulations. Slowly, her circadian rhythm realigned itself to normalcy, but the dark pits were practically stained around her eyes now, and even when she smiled genuinely, and laughed, and hugged Quinn tightly to tell her she loved her, she seemed tired.

Today was no different. Early to rise, but not earlier than Besca, she woke up to find the woman cooking breakfast.

“Mornin’ Deelie. Mind gettin’ Quinn? Pancakes’re almost done.”

Yawning, stretching, Dahlia made her way over to Quinn’s door, cracked open as was the way. She pushed in just enough to not flood the room with sudden light and made her way over to the bed. A gentle hand nudged Quinn’s shoulder, a sweet voice beckoned her awake.

At the lake, Quinnlash watched invisibly from the shore while Quinn enjoyed the company she’d made for her. She heard Dahlia’s calling, and eagerly faded the dream to an end.

Amygdala Circuit

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Amygdala Circuit

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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

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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.”