Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

As Quinn went on about the virtues of the Dane pilot, Cyril could only shrug and nod along. There really wasn’t much information about her floating around, at least not that the public, or even a pilot, could access.

“Cheer is lovely,” he said eventually, taking another bite and waggling his fork. “But piloting, at least, I mean, the auditioning part, really isn’t so different from the stage. You see a lot of cheer upfront. Lot of smiling, and laughing, and bowing. You’ve seen Ms. Dane perform, but I wonder what she’s like backstage that’s got her so squirreled away. Then again, she’s Euseran—maybe she just doesn’t kick enough puppies for their tastes.”

Between the modest portion and evidently delicious taste, he made short work of the rest of his meal, and poured himself a half-glass of wine to finish things off. He seemed surprised when she asked to spar, though not unpleasantly.

“Wouldn’t that be a lovely change of pace? Believe me, I’d take training with you over Camille any day. Well, tomorrow-day, specifically. I’ve got an interview this evening, and rehearsal after. Hit me up tomorrow afternoon, say? I’ll go a few rounds with you, ring or sim, I’m eager to learn either way!”

As things wound down, the waiter came back to collect their plates. There was brief hesitation to take Quinn’s, with almost half of the main course remaining, but Cyril waved them off and they brought it with them. No bill was given, though Cyril left a tip that might have been the whole cost. They weren’t followed on their way out, but they were watched, and Cyril waved farewell to the young woman who had spoken to him earlier.

Outside, the citizenry had mostly returned to their business. It seemed that had some time before they were rediscovered. Cyril stretched and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Well that was wonderful, thank you so much! I’ve always thought sharing a meal was the best way to meet someone.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the time. “Ah, I’ve got a stylist appointment here in a few. If I don’t see you later tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow! Ta!”

And with a final, friendly waggle of the fingers, Cyril spun on his heels and walked off. It didn’t take long for someone to notice him further down, and within moments a smaller mob was starting to form in his wake. Quinn had been spared, for now, but who knew how much longer her anonymity would last.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

It wasn’t a great start, having her hand crushed in the soldier-Scion’s grip, but she wouldn’t have survived the embarrassment of wincing or pulling away or, Incepta-forbid, saying ow. So she grinned and bore it, and a good thing too. Theobald didn’t soften in the slightest, he had a face carved from stone that she guessed only cracked with emotions like rage, or gleeful bloodlust. Dragomir had been the same way for most of her life; maybe it was a hollowing, or pride, or perhaps it was just the way of soldiers.

But she didn’t miss the honesty in his answer, or the miniscule lilt in his words. “What do you think would be easier? Teaching a solider to dance, or a dancer to fight?”

She didn’t expect an answer, really, and when he asked after her stunt at the ceremony, she couldn’t help preening just a bit. “Oh, super, yeah. Everyone’s so nice! I mean, everyone I met, anyway. Guess I’ve gotta bake up another excuse to touch base with the rest, huh? Oh speaking of, do you like—”

Ionna blinked. Her skin prickled like she was standing next to a cold window, and for a moment she swore her vision tinted blue. Arcane instinct pulled her head, and then her attention, towards the Scion of Time as he steadied himself against the wall. Worry struck her, then confusion. Her father had a saying about coincidences—there weren’t any—but she didn’t have the expertise to put together why she thought the prince was connected to her little…glitch. Anyway, he was off in a huff moments later, and Ionna realized she had rudely left her conversation with Theobald mid-sentence.

“Sorry,” she said, snapping her focus back to the former commander. “But, yeah—cookies. So are you more of a snickerdoodle man, or—?”

The lights flickered, and this time it wasn’t a trick of the mind. That was weird, right? A place like this might have been important enough to have its own grid, or at least layers of contingencies to keep the power steady. But they flickered again, and again, and just as she made to remark on it, they went out altogether.

She got another, different chill then. When the windows shattered, hers was among the first screams of surprise—she’d never been any good with horror. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, watching from under a blanket. The panic made her acutely alert, which was good because otherwise she might not have seen the figure rushing her with a blade. She slapped their hand on a reflex, sending the weapon clattering to the ground, and for a moment just stood there, staring. The figure reached for a backup on their belt.

“Now, hold on. You wait a second, mister.”

Manalight burst to life along the blade’s edge, and they swung again for Ionna’s head. Time wasn’t her domain, but all the same, she felt it slow for her now as it often did in her duels. No time to deploy her own blade, and dodging now might put Theobald in the way, or put her in worse positioning. Like with most things, she chose to trust her gut first, and then figure out why later. Her arm came up—her real arm—to block the blade’s path, and before she could lament her own idiocy, she remembered that her armor was manawoven. With as much thought as one gave to their own heartbeat, she channeled mana from not only her armor, but also her own pool, into her gauntlet just as the blade hit—and stuck.

An inch of edge dug into the arcane metal, but stopped there. She took a strong stance, pushed to keep the rest of the blade away from her face, and then wrenched her arm aside, tearing the sword from the assailant’s hand for the second time. Despite the mask, she thought she could see the bafflement on his face, briefly, before she slammed her metal hand into it. The material cracked, the lights in the eyeholes buzzed out, and he fell to the ground groaning.

“Stay down, please!” she snapped, as her focus redistributed her mana and her armor reformed. The mana blade fizzled out and fell to the ground.

There wasn’t time to gloat, more figures approached, and a terrible worry gripped her. Dom. Ionna scanned the dark in vain, but it was useless. Rosemary’s light didn’t reach the whole ballroom, and everything else was a mass of shadowy panic. She cast a glance back at Theobald, and the attackers approaching them, and grit her teeth.

He was a fighter, Dom was a dancer. Dragomir would call it triage, but Ionna still felt guilty leaving him on his own. She slipped back towards the old soldier, metal arm snatching one of the figures by the neck. With more strength than befit her, she hefted them up into the air, then slammed them onto their back. They shouted, writhed, but didn’t get back up.

“I have to find Dom!” she shouted to Theobald. She hoped he would understand.

Ionna left him then, dashing towards the ballroom’s bulk. She leapt up onto one of the tables, hoping the higher vantage would help her spot her Scion.

“Dom!” she shouted into the dark. “Dom where are you!”

---

@Xiro Zean@Abstract Proxy

Amygdala Circuit

Cyril listened intently, even having stopped eating while she answered. He seemed like a student cramming the day before a test, and though he had no paper in front of him, Quinn could assume he’d taken thorough notes in his brain, even though she’d said little.

“Sims, hm? I see…” he said, though there was a brief yet unmistakable flash of disappointment to it, smoothed over immediately with another smile as he went on eating. “You must put in quite the hours to fight like you do.”

When she changed the subject to Axan, he cocked a brow. Perhaps it was her naiveté again, reared whenever any matter of politics arose. Cyril didn’t regard her with frustration, or sneering amusement. More like inquisitive camaraderie, like coworkers gossiping around the water cooler.

“What I wouldn’t give to know! She’s a real enigma on the pilot stage, hardly anyone outside of the ESC gets to meet her. She doesn’t interview, she doesn’t attend official appearances, she doesn’t even duel. Or hasn’t in years, anyway. The only time anyone ever sees Firebrand is for singularities and there’s barely any coverage. President Dane’s gotten so good at side stepping questions about her, most everyone’s stopped asking. It’s bizarre, honestly, you’d think they were embarrassed of her. She doesn’t even have any merchandise—at least nothing branded. Can you believe that? Eusero leaving profits on the table.”

Amygdala Circuit

“Oh, don’t be silly! You have to try pretty hard to be an unpopular pilot, at least in your own country. The circles in that Venn diagram, they’re so far apart they can’t even see each other.” He polished off his glass, then set it aside, evidently thinking better of pouring another. “Didn’t—yeah—Runa had a pilot from Helburke. Ghaust, I remember seeing interviews with him. No offense, but he wasn’t particularly personable, and he was even popular here. You, I mean, you’re a home-grown hero. There are probably pilots in Eusero who would kill to have your publicity.

“In fact, the only pilot I can think of who isn’t popular is that Dane lady, the president’s sister. They don’t even interview her over there. You’re a long way from that, especially now.”

The waiter returned, plates in hand, and set them down on the table. He lifted the covers, and amid the steam came the smell of cooked fowl and seasoned potatoes, fresh and hot and cooked to perfection. Cyril took a deep breath from his own plate, face splitting in a wide, toothy grin.

“Smells delicious.”

The waiter nodded, and quickly left them alone. Cyril wasted no time; he cut right into his veal and popped a forkful into his mouth. His eyes lit up then squeezed happily shut, he seemed to be restraining himself from shimmying in his seat.

“Every time,” he said quietly, satisfied. But despite how engrossed he seemed in his meal, his eyes found Quinn again shortly. In between bites, he kept the conversation going. “So, as your junior, I hope you won’t mind me asking—how long did it take for you to get used to it? Piloting, I mean. You make it look so natural, was it always like that for you?”

Amygdala Circuit

The maître de bowed politely and left them, passing by the counter where the rest of the wait staff seemed to linger with their new orders and instead disappearing directly through a pair of ornate doors leading to the kitchen. Despite nearly every table being occupied, it was a safe assumption that their meals would not take long.

Cyril hardly touched any more of the appetizers, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. He would have had to choose then between talking and eating.

“So did you do much shooting, before this?” he asked, swirling his wine like it was a decoration and not a drink. “Piloting, I mean. I’ve heard that pilots who get firearm weapons sometimes find themselves spontaneously possessing an uncanny sort of accuracy. I know the cannon creates quite a generous impact but, well, you still hit a lot of your shots. I’m a little envious, really—the only swordplay I know comes from stage-fighting, and that’s done nothing for me in the cockpit. I’ve had to take fencing lessons from Camille, and…eugh,” he pulled a face, set his drink down. “Talk about brutal. Guess it paid off well enough, though, the other day. It’s just wild how naturally it seems to come for some.”

Before Quinn could answer, they were joined by a young woman. Like everyone else present, she was dressed impeccably, wearing a gown of black and gold that made her look like she was attending her own red-carpet event. But the look on her face was not one of a star, but rather starstruck.

“Master Cyril,” she said, voice a bit shaky through her smile. “I—”

“Claire!” he beamed, blinking at the shock that struck her. “Claire, right? From the ‘Lucre’ premier? You were at the signing backstage. Oh please tell me I’m right, I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“No! No—I mean, you’re right, I just…you remember me?”

“Bien sûr! How could I forget such a lovely face?”

That face flushed a deep red even for the low light. She took a moment to recompose herself, and when her eyes darted to Quinn it seemed to send her right back to the start. Cyril leaned in, smiling up at her expectantly. When she did finally find her bearings, she went on in great length about how much she was by his performance in some recent production or another. She spoke with the insight of someone well-versed in theatre, not just as a member of the audience, but also as a member of the stage.

Cyril listened intently, smiling and nodding and politely rebuffing compliments here and there. Eventually she thanked him for the time, and he thanked her for the praise, and before she left she lingered a moment longer as if she meant to say something to Quinn as well, but suddenly seemed to decide against it. Shyly, she bowed her head, thanked them both again, and shuffled off back to her table across the restaurant.

“Ah,” Cyril said once they were alone again. “Sorry, I hope you didn’t think that was rude of me, I have a hard time turning people away. I’m sure you know all about that, though. You must be the most popular girl in Runa—well, you and Miss St. Senn, I mean.”

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn’s question caught Cyril mid-sip, and startled him so much that he nearly ruined the white silken tablecloth with wine. Thankfully he managed to swallow with only a dignified cough, but the surprise remained blatant on his face, starkened by the candlelight.

“Hate you?” he said, with as much emphasis as a private-tone could contain. “Why would you think—”

Then he paused, and it might seem to Quinn like his thoughts had caught up with her own. She had humiliated Casoban in their duel with Helburke, it had cleaved a rift into their union with Runa so deep it was nearly severed completely. There had been news stories aplenty calling her character into question, her allegiances, her motives. How could he be surprised?

But then he giggled again, much less restrained. “Quinnlash,” he said. “The other day, RISC stopped the Modir from turning Casoban into a Westwel encore. We watched you, specifically, fight off half a dozen of them—with, as you mentioned, a little help. But all the same, Quinnlash Loughvein and Dahlia St. Senn saved Casoban just as much as anyone in the CSC. I’m sure the news outlets in our homes will assign the weight of that accomplishment differently, but that’s just politics. Boring. What matters is what the people think, how they see you. And they saw you.”

He leaned in on his elbows, peering at her over his glasses. “If you ask me, I think this day, literally today—you stepping onto the Ange, Ablaze in our hangar—I think this is the safest anyone in Casoban has felt for a long, long time.”

The maître de returned then, notepad in hand. He didn’t need to say anything, just smiled and waited as Cyril gave one last glance through the menu as a formality.

“Oh, alright, you know what? I think this is a special enough occasion to jump the line down to one I’ve been waiting for. The veal osso buco, s’il vous plait.”

The man scratched his order down, took the menu, then gave the same expectant smile to Quinn.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

The ceremony was quite lovely, Ionna thought. She wasn’t the most devoutly religious person, per se, but it wasn’t like there was much to debate when it came to the mother. How often was faith anchored in undeniable fact? In a way, it seemed odd to her to call it faith at all; proof of the Mother’s power was evident in their lives every day, and for some, that power was their life, forever.

She supposed her only conflict came in the labeling of that power as a blessing. Her father was a cynic, he had few nice things to say about Scionhood—at least in private—and rarely regarded it with the appropriate level of social reverence besides. But Ionna admired the saints. She found them to be profoundly human, and in each one she found both virtues and warnings. Rosaria Lima blessed wealth with one hand, and unrequited love with another. Saint Durand had his scholarly gifts, but was also quite fond of the drink. And the holy lady Auriel, a figurehead in her own home nation, a symbol of stalwart power—and also the patron of dutiful wives? They all had flaws, but they also had much to teach.

That was how she viewed Scionhood; as a test. Not of strength, or piety, but rather of humanity. Could someone wield so much power without losing touch? The Church seemed wary, and perhaps rightfully so. Ionna, for now, was only curious. Some seemed perfectly capable, while others justified her father’s views.

How would Prince Lucas fare, she wondered. At least for Sir Tyler’s sake, she hoped he did well. The poor guy seemed utterly wrung out. Seeing them together at the after party did little to assuage her worries for him—for both of them.

But there was so much going on, she didn’t worry for long. Ionna hadn’t doffed her armor yet, she was much too excited for that, though she had reeled back the crown and helmet. As well, the transformation was halted at her right shoulder. She’d threaded the crystal’s mana into her prosthetic’s anchor, which felt delightfully seamless, and made controlling the armor quite easy. She spent several moments materializing and dematerializing her cloak, rolling and unrolling it almost like a rug. Blessedly, Dame Irina was not present to scold her for it.

Or maybe she was. The manor was massive, after all. Ionna wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that all of Veradis was here, mingling, gossiping, drinking champagne out of fancy little cups. She held one herself for a few minutes, just to get a taste of that one-percent lifestyle, before setting it aside untouched. Her tolerance was laughably low, and the last thing she wanted to do was get drunk in front of a mansion full of Estoran nobility.

She’d given Dom space to mingle, but kept her in view. She hoped her Scion might open up a little, let some of her colleagues see how nice she was. It had taken her all of thirty seconds to find a kindred soul in Sir Zacharie, and she was sure even with her brief interactions that a few of the other Scions would absolutely love her. In the worst case, she would swoop back in and keep her company.

For the time being, however, Ionna set herself towards being social. Not at all a difficult task for her, usually, but with a party this size she felt a bit like a dog surrounded by tennis balls, too paralyzed with choice to snatch any of them. In the end, she decided to eschew the assembled nobility for the time being, and focus on meeting some of the people she’d failed to beforehand. Keen eyes scanned the crowd, and quickly locked on to the first familiar face they saw—

The Scion of Fire.

A flash of panic sparked alive inside her. Could she be blamed? The man was frightfully large and looked like he’d been grown in a lab with the express purpose of intimidating as many people as possible. Just looking at him, she thought, her father had good reason to be as wary as he was. Of all the Scions, with all of their mystical domains, Theobald Gaumond was perhaps the most dangerous. Or rather, he could be; Ionna rather believed he could go another way. Regardless, it would be impossible to tell from just standing there, watching.

“Your Holiness!” she greeted, swooping to his side with the swiftness and grace that might be unexpected of someone in armor. A testament to the artisanship of its smith, surely. “We didn’t get a chance to meet back during the ceremony. I’ve heard so much about you! Though I guess these days it’s getting hard to find people back home who don’t know your name, huh?”

She stuck out her hand—her real one, after disregarding a worry about how strong his grip would be—and offered a grand smile up at him. “I’m sure you get this a lot, but, it’s really an honor to work with you! Or, ah, I guess ‘around you’ is more accurate. Anyway, how’s the party treating you?”

---

@Xiro Zean

Amygdala Circuit

Cyril made a rather undignified squealing sound, big toothy grin splitting his face again. “Great! Fantastique! We can head right out, you’ll love it, it’s—no! Wait, I’ve got to change first. If I show up to Lumière d’Or in tie-dye they’ll probably call it treason. Two minutes, meet you by the elevator! Ta!”

Then he scampered off, and when Quinn followed more slowly into the auto walkway, she could still see him in the distance, jogging to the residential wing, though Sybil had already vanished. The hall was quiet again when she reached it, as was the walk back to the elevator. This was to be the new norm then, it seemed. A perpetual blanket of silence, intended for comfort, but perhaps unintentionally smothering.

Thankfully, she wasn’t left in it for long. True to his word, Cyril returned minutes later in a new outfit. He wore a thick-stitched, navy-blue sweater cut short at the elbows and the midriff, beneath which was the familiar pilot’s suit, as well as slim pants and some comfortable, if stylish looking shoes. His hair was pulled back into a high tail that looked intentionally messy, and over his eyes were a pair of small, round sunglasses with only the bottom half of their lenses.

“There we go! Comfy and just a little chic, perfect for a casual drop-in. They’ll love you there—stopping by on your first day, out of the blue, dressed like you’re on the move and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Mmh!” He kissed his fingers emphatically, then called the lift.

The ride up was mostly quiet. Cyril tapped excitedly on his phone, perhaps to warn the restaurant they were coming, though it seemed that he liked the spontaneity too much for that. He smiled at her, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet the whole way. Only when the lift came to a stop did he regain his composure, straightening up, grin mellowing bouncing halted.

“Deep breath,” he said, though it seemed like he was actually talking to himself.

The doors opened and Cyril stepped immediately out. Quinn followed close behind. They’d come to what was designated as ‘UPPER COMMONS’, which, judging by Toussaint’s introduction, was likely the floor above whatever the lower shopping section was. The lights were brighter here, the walls whiter—not that she could see much of them. The level was incredibly large, so much so that the other side tapered almost into invisibility. No wonder there was a monorail, it might have taken ten or fifteen minutes just to cut straight across, never mind walking around.

There was no tree here, as there was on the Aerie, but rather a prodigious fountain placed dead-center, built within and around an expansive marblework scene. It depicted a crowd, at least from their end, of men and women, horses, dogs, soldiers in armor with spear and sword in hand, farmer with spade and woodsman with axe, scholars in intricately-carved robes, clutching books at their sides, debating with one another, pointing onward. All were in motion, moving towards the other end of the long, stone platform, flanked on either end by jets of water that curved inwards, making it appear as though it were raining upon the voyage. At the far end, a denser stone crowd was gathered, and their details meshed together, their shoulders pressed close, almost like a single mass.

Standing above them on a platform were two figures, a man and a woman. The man held a sword in one hand, which pierced the woman’s chest, but he was turned away from her, holding in his other hand what might have been her heart. His expression was fearful, and pained. The woman’s, by contrast, was entirely serene, and the gentlest smile had been carved upon her lips. Her hands were outstretched to the sword, grasping it. Looking closely, one could see that the man’s fingers were loose upon the hilt, holding it only barely, and that the woman’s were closed upon the guard and blade, almost like she’d pushed it into her own chest. The pseudo-rain fell hardest upon them.

“These floors are open to tourists most of the time. All the work is up there,” Cyril said, gesturing up. High above them, a large section of the ceiling was glass, across which walked a plethora of people in CSC uniforms. “We’re close by, thankfully, restaurant’s right this way!”

True to his point, the shops and lounges and walkways were riddled with civilians. There were few around the lift, understandably, but it took no more than a few moments for the nearest ones to notice them. On the Aerie, Quinn’s fans were mostly quiet, and kept away with their phones out, whispering amongst each other. Here, the first person to see them dropped her shopping bag onto the ground with a glassy crunch and let out an ecstatic shriek. Eyes turned to her, then quickly found Quinn and Cyril. A whole section of the floor suddenly burst to life as people abandoned their meals, conversations, and store-going and spilled into the common walkways.

Uniformed guards, evidently not having expected them, snapped to attention and set about surveying the crowd. There didn’t seem to be a mob forming, and no one was rushing the pair, so for now there was no call to set up a cordon. Of course, that didn’t mean the crowds watched silently. Even though they didn’t come too close, they did shout and cheer. There was no small amount of applause as they passed, and amongst the ecstatic cries of Cyril’s name, Quinn could here quite a few people shouting her own between encouraging whoops and whistles.

Cyril preened like a peacock, waving, bowing, blowing kisses. A flurry of camera flashes followed them and he seemed apt at catching every single one with a sharp pose or a photogenic smile. He took a moment to run over to a small cluster, shaking a man’s hand with some familiarity before returning to Quinn and leading her the rest of the way.

Eventually they reached it: ‘Lumière d’Or’. It was built deep into the wall, and the entrance was an alcove, behind which were a pair of thick oaken doors. The desk out front was manned by a single, tuxedoed woman. She looked shocked when they approached, but that quickly melted into a pleased smile.

“Master Derisa! What a pleasure, we weren’t expecting you.”

“Few ever do. But it’s our new friend’s first day aboard and I thought there would be no better introduction in Casoban than to have lunch here. Would it be trouble to prepare our table?”

She waved him off. “Never trouble for you. Come right on in, we’d be honored.”

They made their way through the double doors, into a hallway of lacquered wooden walls and deep golden lights, which opened up into the restaurant proper. Massive, easily three or four times the size of Tohoki Grill, but with no less atmosphere. The room was comfortably dim, save for pillars of golden light, which, as she looked, Quinn would see were not pillars at all, but holograms of trees with digital roots dug into the hardwood floors, and branches that spread and interlocked and made a resplendent, flaxen canopy of the ceiling.

Round tables lined the floor, lavish booths at the fringes, and further, along the curving outer wall, were windows like the ones down in the dormitory. On a small stage opposite, a band played somber, melancholic music. Gentle piano and tender saxophone, while a man in a white suit sang quietly in Casobani. A pleasant undercurrent to the conversation-heavy air.

The maître de awaited them, expressing a similar sentiment as the woman outside. He led them through the floor, and as they walked, nearly every table in the full house turned to see. However, the mellow air was persevered; no one shouted or got up or did so much as momentarily pause before returning to their meals. Eventually they came to a small table beside one of the windows, which was given a smidgen more space than the rest. As they took their seats, he left them menus, and Cyril ordered a wine with much too long of a name while their cups were filled with water. Then, they were left alone for a moment.

Cyril exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath since the elevator.

“Now, that’s more like it. Not so loud, not so quiet, and just enough attention. You know, almost all the restaurants here have absurd reservation waitlists, but Lumière d’Or is particularly ridiculous. They have one planet-side, in Merain. Four months to get in—and they might still turn you away at the door if they don’t like you. I’ve heard some people plan their whole year around a dinner up here.” He flipped open the menu, nudging his half-glasses down. “I’ve made it my goal to try everything on here at least once. I think only the chefs have ever done that. Maybe Moroux. He seems the sort. TV pitches him as a down-to-earth, country boy but, well, you’ve seen the goatee. Not a lot of farmers with manicured moustaches.”

The menu was large, but focused. Very intensely Casobani, from its seafood dishes to its steaks, and pastas. There were a few recipes she might recognize from the cookbooks back on the Aerie, albeit they were expanded, refined, and though the prices weren’t listed, likely immensely expensive.

The maître de returned with wine, and bread, and a small plate of what he called ‘artesian bruschetta’, and then left them again. Cyril set his menu down, apparently having decided, and turned his attention Quinn.

“So, Quinnlash Loughvein. Wow. Just, wow. I’m honestly so surprised I’m sitting across from you; I was beginning to worry I’d never get a chance like this! I mean, Sybil and I, really, we sort of owe our jobs to you. I’m not sure what state the CSC would be in if you hadn’t intervened at the duel.” He giggled quietly into his hand. “It was happening during one of my performances, you know. I actually missed my walk-on cue because I was watching backstage. You were…enthralling. Really, unbelievable. You fought a Tormont and won, and that was your first time actually, you know, fighting? They tell stories about that family here to scare kids out of becoming pilots! And then the Modir afterwards, I just...how in the world did you manage it?”

Amygdala Circuit

“Really? You wear it loose? And nothing gets…er…nibbled on?” Cyril asked. “They made such a big deal about it in training, keeping yourself all bundled up, nothing astray. Made it sound like the brain might reach up and snag anything dangling off the chair.”

“I told you they didn’t mean it literally.”

“What can I say, I’m an impressionable young man. Besides, I have to worry about it, I’m an actor. No modium scarring for me, thank you, the plugs are plenty.”

“He wears a swimming cap when he pilots,” Sybil said with a deadpan smirk.

Cyril ran a hand protectively over his hair.

Quinn’s answers seemed to have sated their curiosity, like throwing a mostly-bare bone to a pair of hungry dogs. She could comfortably assume their appetites would return soon enough.

And speaking of…

“I’m starving,” Cyril declared, as if speaking to an audience. “They had us skip breakfast for the ceremonies this morning, and now it’s almost lunch! Ugh! I’m practically withering away. Sybil, you’ll have to wheel me to Lumière d’Or.”

Sybil huffed, not remotely amused. “I’m offstage, and I’m not dolling myself up to go back out.”

“Ordering in again, you’re no fun! There’s so many wonderful restaurants up there, and people love it when we go out! You know, if you’re not careful, Quinnlash is going to be more popular around here than you are.”

“Tragique,” Sybil said, already leaving.

“And we’re a team!” he called after her. “It’s good for us to be seen togeth—and she’s gone.” His head rolled back to Quinn, and he let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, c’est la vie. Well, my legs need stretching and my ears need sounds that aren't space on the other side of the windows. How about it? Care to hit the town with me? A little fine dining?”

Amygdala Circuit

The twins shared a surprised look—or, as much surprise as Sybil seemed capable of expressing—and then turned their focus back to Quinn. Had she said something wrong? Insulted them somehow? Having spent the lion’s share of her life in a single room, it wouldn’t have been much of a shock for her to have made some sort of social faux pas without realizing it. Could she expect mercy if she had? Or would Casoban treat her like the Euseran media, and see her brief tenure with the CSC ruined before it even began?

Then Cyril’s eyes lit up. “Your accent!” he beamed. “We thought it was just a face! They said your mother was Casobani, but we figure the Runan accent is so strong, surely—oh! Do you speak any?”

“Con, they would have had her show it off,” Sybil said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Besides, you hardly speak any yourself.”

“Excuse you, I had to recite a ten minute monologue in Casobani for Le Prince de Solrivie. For which I won two awards from the Cultural Institute.”

“And you forgot it on the ride home,” she said, rolling her eyes back to Quinn. “Don’t humor him, he’ll never go away.”

Cyril waved her off with an exaggerated “Psh!” and then, after rummaging through his pocket for a moment, produced a small handful of different-colored hairbands, and offered them out to Quinn. “Take as many as you need, that's quite a lot of hair. I used to have mine down to my back and I found that hard enough to manage. Do you pilot with it like that?”