Mcmolly

Mol's CS Thing

I O N N A
I O N N A

^{“Nothing that can't be fixed over a hot meal and some trust exercises.”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Ionna Rielle is a hopeful up-and-comer hailing from a family long embedded within the Order of the Glade. Raised on the compassionate teachings of her older sister, Ionna believes wholeheartedly in the chivalric ideals of knighthood; unity, companionship, selflessness, and the drive to protect those in need. Perhaps there is a place for her in the Lacorron of today, or perhaps she's spent her life lashed to antiquated codes and fanciful stories, hoping beyond hope that people like her can do good in the world. Compassion, after all, is nothing without forgiveness. Age: 19 Race: Human Nationality: Atutanian Weapon of Choice: Longsword Elemental Affinity: Thunder Spiritual Affinity: Dark

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ Ionna was born with knighthood in her blood. For centuries, the Rielle family has served the Order of the Glade with loyalty, dignity, and an unwavering commitment to duty. While certainly not the oldest of the Order’s noble lineages, from their first knight the Rielle’s wasted no time in establishing themselves as worthy. Tracing their family line one finds no shortage of military achievements, diplomatic settlements, and martial renown. Some of the most famous duels in recent history were fought and won by Rielle knights, and to this day they are often among the first to be called upon when a matter would have to be settled with more pointed negotiations. Ionna was shaping to be no different. Her mother and father, both accomplished knights, started her training early. The Rielles were a large family and so they often tutored among themsevles, having developed a combative style over the generations that served them well. Ionna happened to win the lottery; they assigned her older sister, Liura, as her mentor. Of every Rielle branch, Liura was the most promising. She was only thirteen—eight years Ionna’s senior—when they were paired, and she was already outclassing the squires of other families within the order. She was talented, outgoing, always striving to better herself, but most of all she was kind. She never gloated, never condescended, and always took others at their word whether they deserved it or not. Friends came easily to her, even and especially among opponents. Liura Love, they called her, and it stuck. When Liura ascended to knighthood—one of the youngest in the Order’s history to do so—she took Ionna as her squire, and their training continued. Ionna accompanied her sister across Lacorron, settling disputes from Itenaire to Hahral, and seeing first hand why their family was revered. Though she had yet to awaken an elemental affinity, she watched with awe when Liura would harness the power of the storm itself, moving like lightning, striking like thunder. But confrontations like that were rare. When it came to a fight, Liura settled most everything with just her sword, but the lion’s share of their work, Ionna came to find, was diplomatic. Violence was a last resort, and if it could be helped, it was always better to handle matters with words. You made more friends that way. Everywhere they journeyed, Liura seemed to leave more beloved than before. By the time Ionna was seventeen, she hadn’t seen her sister duel for almost a year. They traveled, they negotiated, they made friends where they ought to have made enemies, they learned dances and songs and recipes that neither of them could execute particularly well. Ionna had put off her own trials for knighthood—much to the annoyance of her father and mother—content for now to stay with Liura. The titles and glory, she realized, meant much less to her than the duty itself. In her eighteenth year, Liura was killed. It happened on the road from Itenaire, in an ambush that only Ionna survived to recount, though poorly. She said that Liura sacrificed herself heroically, and when pressed, said nothing more. She returned to Atutania with her sister’s sword, and her affinity awakened. She went on to squire for a cousin, who had not much cared for Liura, noting often and with annoyance how much Ionna reminded him of her. She was not deterred, and continued to spread her sister’s cheer and camaraderie wherever they traveled, until he eventually went to her parents and demanded she be dismissed. She obliged, and agreed with them that she had put off her duty long enough. It was time to live up to her family name. It was time To Become a Knight. Even if she didn’t quite know what that meant anymore. C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ Social ⬗ Empathetic ⬗ Trusting ⬗ Optimistic ⬗ Driven ⬗ Dense A B I L I T I E S A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ Like all Rielle children, Ionna could keep a sword steady before she could properly hold a fork. Her first blanket was an oil-stained blade cloth, her first toy was a whetstone. Very normal. Under her sister’s tutelage, her family did what it did best—fostered prodigy. Now Ionna wields a sword with the ease and grace of a seasoned knight, which is fitting as she’s spent most of her life fighting them. From friendly spars and duelist training, to the settlement of squirely disputes, she has a habit of seeking out challenges and an aptitude for conquering them. Untested in a proper battlefield, Ionna abhors chaos and much prefers the Order’s penchant for smaller-scale, more delicate conflicts, which she has seen ended with words as often as she has with blades. Though her spiritual affinity is inexplicably dark, she approaches her magic with a stifling level of control. The arcane arts are relatively new to her, and even with the Rielles’ continued mentorship she’s skittish to use it. When she does, it manifests in much the same way as her sister, which is to say, inwardly. Rather than hurl bolts of lightning, Ionna focuses on herself, infusing her body with elemental authority. This grants her incredible speed and thunderous power, making a veritable living storm out of her. Or it could, perhaps, with time and training. As it stands, Ionna will hardly allow herself to tap her awakened affinity. She can manage some quickened steps, maybe a charged blow or two, but quickly her hold on the power tightens into a stranglehold and chokes it away. Like any weapon, it must be used to be learned, and until Ionna pushes through her own blockade, she’s unlikely to make any progress.

---

Amygdala Circuit

Besca hugged her tightly, and though it seemed like minutes, it still wasn’t anywhere near long enough. When she let go, Dahlia swooped in and squeezed Quinn like a buoy in a storm, and she guessed it would take a crowbar to pry her away before she was ready. Besca couldn’t blame her, they’d been given no time at all to prepare, and she doubted either of them had gotten much, if any, sleep.

The logical part of her knew it wouldn’t be that bad, and that when stacked against the alternatives, this was perhaps one of the better outcomes. She wasn’t dying, and RISC hadn’t lost her per se. The point was to rebuild trust between Runa and Casoban, both ways, and if they were going to treat each other like allies again then there shouldn’t be anything to fear.

But she was very, very afraid.

The hangar was empty, save for the three of them. Roaki had said goodbye in the dorms, but it was clear to Besca that the girl didn’t quite understand what was happening. Not exactly shocking, and though it was tempting to tell her, not kindly, that Quinn being sent away was her fault, it wouldn't have helped anything and regardless, she wasn't even certain that was true anymore.

Dragon stood stoically in its cove, but Ablaze had already been shipped down and moved over to the CSC’s station, The Ange. They had requested Quinn come down separately, and a glance at the TV this morning had showed that there was some sort of welcoming party waiting for her at the landing site. She wanted to accompany her, but the Board had her shackled here managing their side of the transition, and Dahlia wouldn’t be allowed to get any further from Dragon than absolutely necessary until all this business was finished.

Speaking of.

The girls separated, Dahlia wiping her eyes, but keeping on a brave face all things considered. Besca checked the time, frowned. She went back over to Quinn.

“I’m gonna call you tonight, okay? Before bed, once you’re settled in. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.” She ran a hand through Quinn’s hair, forced herself to smile and even made it look real. “I know it’s gonna be scary at first, but so was coming here, right? Think of this like…like you’re sleeping over. That’s all. I’ve worked with some of Casoban’s folks before, alright? You’re gonna be in good hands, I promise. First few days’ll feel long, but then it’ll go by in a snap. Just…” she pulled her in again, sighed. There were words on the tip of her tongue that Quinn deserved to hear, but that just wouldn’t form. “Just remember everything we talked about. You’re gonna do just fine, hero.”

There wasn’t much left to say. She let Dahlia give her another long goodbye, but when the calls started coming in, they had to wrap it up. Today was not the day to push their luck.

With its usual fanfare of lights and alarms, the elevator opened, and Quinn, alone with her luggage, descended down towards Illun. For a while there was nothing but void around her, eerily similar to the lake she couldn’t escape. Through the hardlight boundary the expanse was still, without even a ripple to disturb it.

A longing pulled at her, reaching up back towards the Aerie, only to wilt as they plunged further and further away. It wrapped itself around her, seeking warmth and comfort.

The world drew closer, Casoban expanded beneath her. They weren’t dropping near a dueling site, or a crater, or the ruined land of a singularity. It looked like farmland, massive squares of crop fields all knit together into an agricultural quilt big enough to drape over a city. At the furthest end, where the elevator appeared to be leading her, was a manicured crescent of trees—an orchard of some kind. As she drew near, she could see a blot sharpening into a crowd, cordoned off some ways away from the landing zone.

Eventually the elevator came to a rest, and she saw that there was a second, smaller gathering awaiting her. Thirty or so people, all in the cream and gold uniforms of the CSC, stood under a constructed arch of shrubbery and brilliant flowers. As the hardlight boundary flickered away, the morning breeze greeted her, and there was a sudden roaring.

No—that was cheering.

They were cheering. Applauding. A banner beneath the arch unfurled, and upon the canvas was a strikingly beautiful painting of Ablaze, with Quinn standing on its shoulder, braid flaring in the wind. Another dropped just above it that read: WELCOME QUINNLASH.

The unease coiled within her slackened in confusion as the excitement settled. Gentle orchestral music began to play through speaker stacks, and a familiar face stepped forward. The man was short, his hair was thin, but overall he seemed more put-together than the last time she’d seen him. He wore a sharp, more decorative cut of the uniform, and even his moustache was combed and shiny with product.

“Quinnlash Loughvein,” Toussaint said grandly. “Casoban welcomes you, enthusiastically and with open hearts!”

The crowd exploded again, and Toussaint stepped over, guiding her off of the elevator. The hardlight boundary sprang back to life behind her, and the platform rose back into the air, homeward bound. They came to stand alongside a small offshoot of about a dozen people, some military, some wearing the patches of technicians.

A boy and a girl who didn’t appear much older than Quinn herself stood at attention, both smiling, whispering excitedly between themselves as she walked past. They wore the same uniforms, but a pilot’s undersuit poked up beneath their collars. Another woman, who had neither cheered nor applauded, regarded Quinn more evenly. Her uniform was different, a mesh of cloth and armor. Spaulders adorned her shoulders, and down her left arm were scales of metal plating leading into a gauntlet. Her right arm was obscured behind a shortcloak, but her hand rested calmly upon the hilt of an ornate rapier.

The last noteworthy individual approached. He looked younger than Toussaint, with fuller, darker hair and a face much less lined with stress. His sharp goatee was perfectly trimmed, and his eyes were bright despite being entirely organic. His suit was an oceanic blue, lined with the same cream white as the CSC uniforms, and on his lapel were a small grouping of pins; the Casobani flag, the symbol of the Illun Accord, and finally, the sigil of the Prime Minister.

He reached out and took her hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Olivier Moroux,” he said. “Casoban is delighted to have you, miss Loughvein. I want to extend my sincerest thanks for your heroism. I think we can all sleep a little more soundly knowing you’re protecting us.”

There was a moment of silence. The only ones close enough to hear them were Toussaint and the three or four security personnel behind Moroux. Looking around, there were no cameras besides those belonging to the press, who were much too far away to capture anything more than their shaking hands. This didn’t appear to be a show, nor did there seem to be any expectation for her to perform, like she had in the other interviews.

She was, however, expected to respond.

Amygdala Circuit

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Amygdala Circuit

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Amygdala Circuit

As time made its convoluted way along, measured by the glow of the moon and the blackness of the water, Quinnlash was a good host. They fished with blunt bait, drank pouch after pouch of melonberry, and watched as the shadowy figures of Deelie and Safie swam to and from the boat, laughing and chatting, saying things that were honey to hear but did not quite stick to the mind. Few details ever did, and often these dreams faded altogether in her first waking moments; but this one would be different. This one, Quinn would remember.

As the world began to blur, and untangle, Quinnlash smiled at her one more time. On the distant, hilly shore, the white deer rose from its rest and shambled off, casting a final look their way. As it vanished beyond the crest, to lands unreal or unmade, the dream ended.

---

“This is bullshit.”

Besca could feel the spirit leave Toussaint’s body over the phoneline. The man was exhausted, and she ought to have had more empathy for him—he had, after all, been perhaps the only one in Casoban fighting to maintain the alliance with Runa—but after five days of nonstop conference calls, haggard negotiations, and incessant reminders that the fate of her country relied on her ability to not fuck this up, she wasn’t sure she had anything left to give. Even her indignation was exasperated, resigned.

After five days they had a deal. It was a shit deal, but it was the only alternative to the immediate dissolution of their alliance, and more importantly, the only thing keeping Casoban from running gleefully and permanently into the arms of Eusero.

And as was the way these days, even victory felt like defeat.

“It’s what we have,” Toussaint said with a sigh. His voice was hoarse and quiet, he’d slept as little as she had. “It’s all they’d agree to.”

“It’s still bullshit.”

“You may be willing to starve for pride, Darroh, but I will gladly eat shit if it means my country survives—without being cannibalized by Eusero.”

She laid her head down on the table, and Toussaint let her groan and swear until they were left in silence.

“Darroh,” he probed, eventually.

Besca sat back upright, pulled over her tablet. “Give me the details.”

There was shuffling on the other end as Toussaint sifted through what must have been twice his weight in papers; she had a similar stack occupying every other seat and half the table on the bridge. Neither of them had read through the finer points of the deal entirely, their job had just been to craft the mold, and prove it could be done at all.

“You’ll send Loughvein first—”

“Oh fuck off.”

“It’s not negotiable,” he said, and went on before she could object further. “Loughvein first. She’ll do three weeks, then return to RISC, and you’ll send St. Senn over next. Three weeks, rotate, repeat, until six months have elapsed, or Casoban has replaced the Saviors and pilots it’s lost since the attack on Hovvi. Whichever comes second.”

“But no more than a year.”

“It’s two years—we talked about this before dinner last night.”

“Fuck,” Besca muttered, scrolling through the notes on her screen. Indeed it was two years, though she hardly remembered agreeing to it. “Fine, whatever. If it takes you two years to replace a few Saviors, you’re fucked anyway.”

A sigh. “Right. During their rotations here, they are, for all intents and purposes, CSC pilots. They will receive no orders from RISC and will have no direct contact with any Runan officials.”

“Except me.”

“You are almost the dictionary definition of a Runan official.”

“You’ll make an exception.”

“For the Commander of RISC? You don’t think that might present an opportunity for conflict?”

“I won’t call as their fucking Commander then,” she said. “But I will be calling.”

“Darroh—”

“Or it’s off, Toussaint. Restrict the time, monitor the calls—I don’t care, but I said this the moment you pitched the idea. I get contact.”

“I can…” he paused, sighed. “I can probably squeeze in some sort of wellness check. Happy?”

“No.”

“Me neither. As I was saying, while they’re here they belong to us. That means they close singularities, they fight duels, they run fucking marathons if that’s what it comes down to.”

“You put Quinn on TV, you’ll regret it. Girl’s not cut out for the spotlight.”

“Noted. Not my call, and whoever I tell will ignore it, but, noted.”

“And the alliance stands?”

“The alliance already stands. I’m told this will go a long way in ensuring that doesn’t change. That’s all I’m told.”

Besca swiped harshly on her tablet, then shut it off. “Sent you my signature. Seal it. How long do I have?”

“If I can get this cleared today, they’ll likely want her here tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Toussaint.”

“Commander Darroh.”

She hung up, took a deep breath, then leapt to her feet and threw her chair onto the ground with a loud “Fuck!”

Every cell in her body screamed for rest, but they’d been doing that for days and she could ignore them a little while longer. There was so much to do; get back to the Board, arrange transport, alert the PR department who would cram three weeks’ worth of emergency meetings into the next ten hours finding a way to spin this as a win to the Runan public. She would do none of them—not yet.

Instead she bolted for the dorms, driven faster by every wasted second. It was early, she half expected Deelie to be off in sims, and Quinn to still be asleep. But as she burst into the common room, all three of them were sat at the counter, eating. The air smelled of pancakes and syrup.

Eyes turned to her, happy, confused, concerned. She wished she could have smiled back.

“Girls,” she said, finally aware of how ragged she was. “I’ve got news.”

Amygdala Circuit

Dinner was…strange. Not bad, but certainly off. The girls had no doubt grown used to the relentlessness of Besca’s work stealing her away some nights, but after such a momentous day, the dorm felt distinctly lesser without her to eat with them.

Dahlia tried her best with the recipe, but was still a learner and with Lombardi cuisine she was treading new ground. The sauce was a bit thick, the noodles a more standard spaghetti, and the garnish decidedly past its expiry date, but with Quinn beside her at the stove, eventually, dinner was served. She even haphazardly threw some leftover chicken in the microwave for Roaki’s plate. It was unseasoned and practically bone-dry—Roaki didn’t care, she ate it with the same ravenous vigor that she ate everything she’d eaten since leaving the medical ward.

Together they all sat at the counter, eating in intermittent silence. The TV stayed off, but Dahlia put on some music from her own playlist—an assortment of smooth, jazzy piano numbers, and what might have been acoustic covers of metal songs. They talked briefly about the singularities, but Dahlia quickly turned them to lighter, mundane topics. Roaki quite literally licked her plate clean, sparing them whatever horrific contributions she might have made to the conversation.

As they finished up, Quinn handled the dishes while Dahlia found a movie to put on, and set up the couch. An old romcom she’d watched a few times with Safie—something she elected not to mention as Quinn nestled into the pillows and blankets. Unsurprisingly, Roaki hobbled herself back to her own room and shut the door, which didn’t bother Dahlia in the slightest. She curled in beside Quinn under the blankets, happy as could be.

Neither of them stayed awake to the end.

---

Calm waters on the lake. The boat floated upon the moon’s perfect reflection, so bright it seemed the light was rising up out of the lake. In the distance, Hovvi was alive with the same ambiguous activity that, normally, Quinn would never have paid mind to. Tonight, though, she was aware of it—of the slight but pervasive offness that reminded her she was asleep, and this was a dream.

On the shore, the towering form of Ablaze sat with its legs dangling in the water. The pale deer sat at its side, a white smudge comparatively.

A soft, excited giggling filled the air.

“We’re real,” came her own, familiar voice, as Quinnlash appeared sitting across from her on the boat. Her face beamed with childish glee, in her hands she held tight onto a pouch of juice—melonberry. Between them was a small cooler filled with more. “Look what we did. We protected everyone. We killed the monsters. We did it and it felt so right!”

She took a long sip from her drink, squeezing the pouch empty with a contented sigh, before breaking into another fit of giggles.
“It’s our purpose. Helping. Saving. Protecting. We did it. We did it together.”

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

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Mio smiled, but a part of her was sad to have given up so easily. She’d become so accustomed to spending these festivals alone that, the idea of not only attending, but attending with company seemed so strange, so outlandish, but also so enticing. She knew better of course, but she couldn’t shake feeling that she ought to have put up more of a fight—not with Haruhi, just with herself.

It didn’t matter though, shortly after, a strange voice filled the front of the smithy. Mio didn’t pay it much mind; most of the village spoke to her as little as possible, and she wagered she knew only a handful of voices well enough to remember. Haruhi’s curiosity however was piqued, and like an observant squirrel, poked her head out of the back to see. That didn’t last long. She retreated almost immediately, so suddenly that she dropped the freshly-fixed hoe—which thankfully held up to the fall—and tripped over herself.

Mio wasn’t the fastest person in the village, but when you worked with hot metal and roaring flames, it paid in flesh to have good reflexes. With a lurch she caught Haruhi by the arm as she fell, and held her without much trouble; the young farmer was toughened by a life of hard labor—made notably harder by her own self-imposed limits—but was still smaller, and nowhere near as heavy as the anvils and steel pipes and pallets of work that Mio moved around on the daily.

Of course, once she’d pulled Haruhi upright, she realized she was not only touching her, but grabbing her. When was the last time she’d grabbed anyone? Haruhi’s arm was…well, not quite thin thanks to her farmwork, but Mio could feel flesh and muscle yielding under her fingers, felt, she thought, pulse and bone deeper down. She’d bent metal rods thinner than this with her bare hands.

How would Haruhi bend?

Mio breathed sharp, and let the girl go with mortified shock.

“Sorry,” she muttered, mind threatening to tilt into a whirl of guilt and self-loathing. She was spared only by the reminder that they had guests—guests who had, apparently, spooked Haruhi.

Peering out into the smithy, she took stock of the crowd. Keiko was still here, along with Fumiko and, of course, Tsubasa, who was face to face with their guest. He was…well, even Mio could recognize that he was a stranger here; scarred and weathered like beaten leather, he wore an outfit of metal over his clothes, painted red with a fiery hand on his chest.

He handed Tsubasa what could only be described as a weapon. It made Mio’s heart race in a dangerous way, as did the strange device at his other hip. She listened to him speak about a lord, about negotiations—he said 'we' which surprised her, how many were there?—and then about—

About…

Who was this man? She peeled her eyes away from the things he held, looked to the others. Over the years she’d become very good at picking up people’s discomfort, even, and especially, when they tried to hide it, whether out of politeness or fear. To Mio, this looked like fear. Keiko especially seemed to be angling for a retreat, and for a moment she wondered if their guest would let her leave.

She decided not to wait to find out.

“One moment,” she said quietly to Haruhi. She didn’t want to leave the girl alone, but she also wasn’t sure if it was best she follow. In the end, she decided to trust Haruhi’s instincts, which were surely much sharper than her own.

Mio made her way out into the smithy proper, emerging from the smoke and shadows to stand with Tsubasa. She tried to make a subtle barrier between the man and Keiko, who she hoped would take the opportunity to slip away, and studied the stranger in silence.

---

Tags: @Lemons @Asura @Hero @Maxx @Queen Arya

Amygdala Circuit

Roaki flinched again. Well, Quinn wasn’t crying anymore at least, but, was this better? Anger, grief, even merciful vengeance, she had tasted all of them. But gratitude? A wholly alien dish, whose flavor she didn’t know if she wanted to swallow, or spit back out like the poison she figured it was.

The list of things you did to your enemies was short and simple: you killed them. The list of things you did not do was much longer, and complex—a frustration she had expertly avoided by following the Do list. You didn’t spare them, unless you meant to torture them. You didn’t talk with them, unless you meant to insult them. You didn’t eat with them, unless it was their last meal or you meant to poison them. And you most certainly didn’t thank them, unless…

Well, she couldn’t even think of a reason.

Quinn had to be careful. If she stopped treating Roaki like an enemy, she’d lose sight of the fact that they were supposed to kill each other.

“Whatever,” she said with a click of her tongue. “Better than crying all over my sheets, I guess. Just don’t forget about it—you need to act while you’re still mad. Otherwise you’ll get yourself all worked up, then bitch out at the last second. And that blows.”

Eventually Dahlia emerged from her room, calmed but exasperated. “I’m cooking tonight,” she called. “Gonna try to get the smell of my laundry out of the kitchen. What’re you feeling like?”

“Meat!” Roaki shouted.

“There is no world where that question was ever directed at you,” Dahlia said. “Quinn? What’s your stomach rumblin’ for?”

Amygdala Circuit

Roaki snarled, flinching back and swatting at Quinn’s hand. Humiliation was familiar to her now, and while she couldn’t let it slide from the lizard, she had no choice but to take it from the girl who’d bested her. Their spars in sims were one thing, but to actively fight back? The lion’s share of her knew she was unworthy of something like that.

Still, just because she was done trying to kill Quinnlash for the moment, didn’t mean she would blindly follow her commands, especially something so ridiculous as apologizing.

“I’ve torn out hearts for lesser slights,” she spat back. “Consider it a favor that she still breathes”

Across the room, Dahlia opened the fridge, where three pairs of shoes came tumbling out onto the floor. She muffled a furious shriek behind her teeth.

“Seriously?!”

Roaki bit her bottom lip, thinking hard. “I had an insult about cold feet, but you two took too long and I forgot it. Just—hey! Just pretend I said something biting! Maybe cry—you’re good at that!”

Dahlia held a shoe over the sink, shaking out handfuls of ice cubes. “What is the matter with you? Who does this?!”

“Next time maybe you’ll think twice about throwing me out of my own room!”

“Next time I’ll just throw you into the washer!”

“Then you can grab all your clothes from space after I airlock your whole closet!” Roaki snapped. “You don’t want to play vengeance with me, lizard. I'll win.”

Scooping more clothes off the floor, Dahlia went about replacing her things with a grimace and a flurry of grumbles. Roaki sneered victoriously and hobbled back to the couch.

“Well, did you figure your shit out?” she asked Quinn, entire debacle already forgotten. “All that blubbering better have been worth something.”

Amygdala Circuit

She didn’t know? Dahlia could have slapped herself; of course Quinn didn’t know what to do—how could anyone be expected to know what to do in a situation like this? Putting Follen’s apparent deception aside, there was modium in Quinn’s head and, apparently, it had been there a long time, perhaps since she was little. A nugget of the what was perhaps the deadliest material known to man, lodged inches from her brain and she was still breathing.

Dahlia disabled the scan, the constant warnings were making her anxious. She sat back on the bed, staring blankly as the dark returned.

What should they do? Follen was still held up in the hangar, and would likely be bogged down with paperwork and meetings for the rest of the day. Besca would be lucky if she saw the dorm before the weekend, but would most likely be spending her nights catching powernaps on the bridge until whatever new international storm was brewing passed on.

That left the two of them—well, technically the three of them, but damned if she was gonna count the creature. They’d have to weather this on their own for now, which was, well, unideal, but that was practically the definition of their job.

‘Well, you can’t just sit here.’ She thought. ‘You’re the big sister, act like it.’

Dahlia pushed herself up off the bed. Whatever the plan was, they couldn’t just coop up and cry in the dark until Besca came home.

“C’mon,” she said, taking Quinn gently by the wrists to get her to follow. “Lets have something to eat, give ourselves some energy to think with.”

She pushed the door open, letting the light back in. It did make things a little better, a little more open, and—

Her foot caught on something and she stumbled to the floor, managing to catch herself with her good arm. Kicking back, she saw it was…her…shirt? A little graphic T-shirt with the faded name of a band she listened to when she was little. But this had been in her closet, hadn’t it?

Crumpled up before her were a pair of shorts, which she was certain had also been in her closet.

So had the long-sleeve shirt on the table, and the four or five pairs of pants tossed over and around the couch. The dozens of socks. The undershirts. The sweaters, the coats, all twisted inside out or crumpled and strewn over the common area, the TV, even the kitchen—where the microwave was on and through the light she could clearly see at least two pairs of underwear rotating on the popcorn setting.

Across the dorm, another shirt came flying out of the open door to her room. Dahlia stared slack jawed as Roaki hopped out, holding a bundle of socks in her hand, and an expensive dress in her teeth.

“Oh my GOD!” Dahlia shrieked. “Roaki! what the hell?!”

Roaki spat the dress onto the floor and tossed the socks up to scatter across the room like rain. She held herself upright, and met Dahlia’s eyes with a fearsome glower.

“No one picks up Roaki Tormont without consequence!” she declared. “Mark my words lizard, your suffering will be long and brutal!”