Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

It had been a fraught morning on the Aerie since Quinn had left. Besca had spent just about every minute on the bridge, juggling seven conference calls, a dozen email chains, an IM thread with the marketing department, and a handful of unread texts from Toussaint that didn’t have the word “Quinn” in their preview. It had been suggested to her by the Board that she have a cot moved into her office, because she was at no time to be more than a room away from absolute availability.

So, Dahlia had done all of her worrying alone. As small as the RISC team had become since Hovvi, with Quinn here, she’d never actually felt lonely. Stressed, exhausted, anxious, and almost every other flavor of misery, but never lonely. Early into their friendship, she’d come to feel the same sort of constancy with Safie, and to a lesser extent, Ghaust and Lucis, who, even if they weren’t exactly friends, were still always around.

Now all Dahlia could do was lay on the couch in the dorms, too worried to force herself into a sim pod, or cook lunch, or watch TV out of fear that the news might suddenly alert her that the Ange had exploded, or seven-hundred singularities were opening up in Casoban and they were chucking Ablaze down alone.

The reality was less extreme, but that didn’t settle her any. Quinn was probably a wreck, she thought. Utterly lost in a strange place, without a single friendly face for thousands of miles in any direction. What if she had another episode? Who would she turn to? It wouldn’t matter to the CSC how loud she screamed or how hard she cried, they’d perched their whole treaty on her back and she was theirs for two weeks, six days, and however many hours. Too many. What if they made her duel? They had to know it wouldn’t work. Would they care? Wild conspiracies flooded her head, of plots to ruin Quinn’s reputation, and RISC’s image, to drive Casoban back into Eusero’s arms. People thought so much of pilots, but the truth was, sometimes, they really were nothing more than political pawns.

Her doom spiral was interrupted by a ding; a special ding—the one assigned to Quinn. She blinked, looked at the screen, and sure enough she saw Quinn’s name on the message. She stared. For many moments she just stared.

Then she was vertical on the couch, then on her stomach again to snatch her phone off the ground, then vertical again with a loud shriek of disbelief. The message was in all capitals, and her fears worked ahead of her eyes, warning her that something had gone wrong. She was hurt. She was scared. She was being attacked by something. Something awful something horrifying something—

Expensive.

Dahlia paused, and finally took a second to read. How much did she make? 6500 dollars? Confusing—more than confusing, baffling. Thankfully, there was a picture attached to give her the context she needed.

She screamed.

A door flung open and out flopped the irascible form of Roaki. “God what the fuck are you screaming about!”

Dahlia was reminded that she only wished she was alone. “Shut up!” she snapped. “Shut up Quinn texted me!”

“Nuh-uh!” the girl spat, hopping over to the foot of the couch, and clambering onto the cushions. “What’d she say? Is she crying? I bet she’s already crying a bunch.”

“She’s buying a dress shut up!”

Roaki face twisted with contempt and confusion. “A dress? Lemme see!”

Dahlia ignored her, typing furiously. A smile, both of relief and pure, unbridled elation, began to spread across her face. Quinn wasn’t hurt. She wasn’t in danger—at least not yet. She was…she was shopping. Besca wasn’t going to believe it.

Her reply was sent: You make plenty PLEASE buy the dress you look gorgeous!

For a while she just stood there, staring down at the picture of her sister, looking anxious in a dress that, frankly, seemed worth every cent of the price. But it could have been made out of burlap and rat fur and she’d still have urged her to buy it. Dahlia couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light. Like a feather, or a balloon.

Or like she was falling.

She was falling. Roaki had knocked her over and sent her tumbling onto the carpet, snatching the phone from the air as she fell. A devilish giggle filled the air, followed promptly by Dahlia’s own furious shouting.

Shortly, a second text followed the first.

DERSS NOT GOOD HOW U GONA FIHGT IN A BLANKET BUY SUM KNIFES INSTEAD DUMB DEADGIRL

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Panic welled within her as Dom’s cry cut short. Ionna zeroed in, dashing low across tabletops as she watched two armored assailants close in on her Scion. Alas, even at a hopping sprint she was too slow—but someone else was much quicker. Shadows fell upon one of the assailants, and shortly after, the second fell to a similar assault. Quick, gruesome work. The umbral figures of His Holiness Mirandola and Sir Chaudoir drew in close to Dom.

A smile flicked through her. She’d had a good feeling about those two, it was nice to see it proven right. That relief was short-lived however as a loud, almost mechanical whine nearly sent her tumbling to the ground. Her prosthetic arm went slack for a moment, and it took a conscious effort to wend her mana back through it, like slipping a hand back into a glove. She squeezed the metal fingers, flexed the elbow; everything seemed in order again, but…

No time. She came to a sliding crouch on the table beside the trio, head on a swivel for more attackers.

“Glad you guys are okay!” she said. On the other end of the ballroom, reinforcements finally arrived, headed by the lady of the hour herself, Dame Irina. Ionna had almost forgotten what it felt like to be glad to see her.

Civilians were channeled out, and in her ear their mentor’s voice gave them clear commands. Get the Scions out, meet at Stern Hill. She scanned the crowd, mental tally ticking, and an anxious pit formed in her stomach. She chewed her lip, looking down at Kasper and Zacharie.

Incepta, this was gonna get her in trouble.

“Dom, go with them,” she said, taking the other gently woman by the shoulders. “Stay together and get to Stern Hill, I’ll meet you there.” Her attention turned then to the Scion of Shadow and his Templar. “We still don’t have eyes on Nadine or Ulysse. I’m gonna track them down and bring them to the rendezvous point. Stay low, stay safe, stick to the…uh…well, you know.”

With a final pat of assurance, Ionna left the trio behind and dove back into the ballroom. With the light pouring in from the main hall, things were much clearer. The assailants tangled with Irina’s reinforcements, and though Ionna would have loved to stop and lend a hand, her duty right now was to find the Lightning duo. Templars protect Scions. In all likelihood Nadine was evacuated already, and she and sir Jacinth were drinking tea at Stern Hill while the royal forces prepared to eradicate everyone that looked like a gaming laptop. But that feeling in her gut, looking out at the crowd. Every head accounted for but two.

No. One.

She came across the prince and his Templar, both in one piece, but the relief was short lived. At Lucas' feet she saw him splayed out on the ground in a pool of blood. Ulysse. Her throat clenched, she knew immediately it was too late to do anything for him but choke out a quiet apology. The mourning would have to wait. Ulysse was dead and Nadine was nowhere to be found—they had her. Ionna looked back towards the doors, brows furrowed. Irina would have stopped them if they’d taken her that way, which meant…

There wasn't time to stop. The prince looked rough, but Tyler was with him, which was more than could be said for the Scion of Lightning. She found the broken window closest to Ulysse’s body and vaulted through it, shaking off glass and dust as her feet hit the ground. Her eyes scanned the dirt, searching for footprints, or blood, any kind of trail the moonlight might reveal.

“Lady Lucienne!” she shouted into the night, starting off away from the manor. Even if the Scion couldn’t respond, if she could only hear that someone was looking for her, it might be enough. “Nadine!”

---

@Scribe of Thoth@Olive Fontaine@Abstract Proxy

Amygdala Circuit

Dague was waiting outside, hand on her hip, foot tapping with anticipation. When Quinn emerged, however, she did not explode with screams of wonder or applause, nor did she bounce with delight or faint from joy. Instead, her tight-lipped smile widened just a bit, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and she let out a satisfied breath through her nose.

“Hm,” she said simply, and for a moment left it at that. Her eyes scanned Quinn’s form, traced the designs and how they wrapped around her, how the hem was high enough not to drag on the ground. She came over and adjusted her braid, then stepped back and appraised her again.

Only, it wasn’t just her she was judging. It was the dress, too. The craftsmanship. If it didn’t look good, who was that more of an indictment on? For someone of Madam Dague’s history, there could only ever be one to blame: herself.

Thankfully, however.

“Yes,” she finally said, and her smile grew just a bit more. “Yes, I believe you look quite wonderful. I would frame this moment, but I think you’ll do quite enough marketing for me, looking like that.”

She snapped her fingers, and the clerk poked her head out from the front. “Madam?”

“Ring it up. I don’t think there’s a force on Illun that could stop either of us from ensuring she leaves with that dress.”

Amygdala Circuit

As Quinn made her choice, Dague smiled self-assuredly, like she’d predicted the decision. It was the right size and everything, and whether that was a matter of professional preparation, or inexplicable precognition would likely remain unknown forever.

“Well someone should,” she answered. “And black isn’t my color. This way.”

She led Quinn to the back with the same gentle yet insistent hand. The clerk came back out, still wide-eyed and fidgety.

“Madam, should I bring those in?”

“No. Switch them out with the mauve and aquamarine. I have a feeling tastes will be shifting soon.”

The back of the shop was not much bigger than the front, with a door leading into what might have been the workshop shut tightly, and another leading to dressing room with a long, heavy curtain for a door. Dague slid it open to reveal a there was a full-mirror and a dressing hooks on the walls.

“There’s a single zip in the back, designed for you to be able to do up yourself. In you go!”

Amygdala Circuit

Dague didn’t seem surprised when Quinn said she’d never owned a formal dress. In fact, the only thing she seemed to hear at all was the note about her eye, at which point her demeanor changed entirely. She swiveled in front of Quinn, hunched, and stared deeply into that eye for what might have been the world’s longest moment.

“Gold,” she said, then she straightened and shuffled over to the front desk. “Methods change with the clients. Before I moved to Vienci, everything I made was by the mold—ah, there we are…” Producing a small glass wheel, she gave it a shake, and a screen on its front face blinked to life, upon which were slivers of just about every color Quinn could imagine, all arranged in a gradient order. She came back over and held the wheel up next to Quinn’s eye, where it spun until the selector came to rest on the exact matching hue.

“Simple, but cheap, and dreadfully boring. I didn’t even know if I’d enjoy dressmaking until someone asked me for something ridiculous. Nowadays I tend to find a client’s fame is inversely proportional to their sense of fashion.” She paused, looked Quinn up and down, and giggled. “Not meant as an insult, of course. I prefer it, honestly. If everyone who walked in here knew exactly what they wanted, I might as well be back to using a mold.”

Twirling the wheel on her finger, she b-lined for the rack of last-season’s dresses and began to rifle through them. Odd. One would have thought the goal would have been to throw the highest-priced product at her and call it a day, but Dague pulled at least three dresses off the rack, held them up to the wheel, and then looked back at Quinn. They were all stunning, at least to an inexperienced eye, but in the end she settled for nothing.

“Old for a reason,” she muttered, as she made for the other wall. “Gold is good. Yes. But not too much. Too much, and you’ll look like a butterscotch popsicle, or a honey statue, or a bumblebee—oh! Oh, yes, that could work.”

On the move again, she disappeared into the back, where there was more muted conversation, some rummaging, and at last she returned with three dresses in hand. One was white with embroidered gold vines climbing in a spiral up from the hem, all the way to the raised neck. The other two were black. One had a kaleidoscopic gold patterning along the ankle-height bottom and about the chest, where it cut off just below the collarbone. The last one had a close collar that went all the way up to the chin, like a pilot suit, and had no sleeves either, but the gold patterning rose up from the base like inverted rain, leaving haphazard trails of golden droplets leading all the way up.

“These were going to go up in a few weeks. They’re current-season, but pastel is in vogue right now—imagine why—so I was going to hold off on the darker selections. But…” She set the dresses on hooks in the wall and stepped back so she could see them and Quinn together. “Yes, much stronger this way. Tell me, do any of these catch your eye?”

Amygdala Circuit

The Miséricorde was a smaller boutique compared to some of the other stores on the Ange, but up here, real estate was at a premium. For a clothing store to secure a spot, it would need fame equal to its quality. Though Quinn might not have had the experience to know better, from the price tags to the décor, to say nothing of the dresses themselves, it would have been a safe assumption to say this place had both.

The aisles she navigated were narrow and relegated to the corner of the left side. These prices were less egregious, but the clothes themselves hardly seemed any cheaper in make. They were, however, denoted as last-season. The dresses adorning mannequins or hung behind glass displays were marked as current, and some were easily triple the price of those on the rack.

The clerk didn’t notice Quinn at first, being so consumed in her tidying. She was younger, dressed fashionably but not in a recent piece. She didn’t react at first, so focused on adjusting the dress that her tongue stuck out of her mouth. When that was done, she stood upright.

“Consultations need to be booked in advance,” she began, only just prying her eyes away to look at her. “But we offer a surcharge on all—uhhhhhhhhhh…”

She stared at Quinn like that, slack jawed and droning, for more than a few moments, before finding the mental wherewithal to close her mouth and swallow her shock. She made to speak once, stopped, then tried again, stopped, and finally said; “One moment, miss,” before breaking into a sprint behind the counter, vanishing into the backrooms of the store.

There was barely-muted and urgent whispering, followed by a full on shout of “WHAT?” before, moments later, a new figure emerged into the front.

She was an older woman, whose hair was fluffed up and styled high, a tide of gray rising on oaken shores. She herself wore a dress that might have been plucked right off the display, an absolutely radioactive pink number melded with highlights of cream and navy blue. It bulbed at the shoulders, beneath which she wore white arm covers bearing a golden floral filigree pattern that wound down all the way around her fingers. Sharp green eyes beneath long lashes, over a pointed nose and cherry-lipstick pulled into a petite smile. She studied Quinn like one of the dresses on the wall.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said, the Casobani formality in her voice strained with excitement. “The Runan hero, in my shop.”

She approached with a gait so perfect her head stayed level, then bowed in a perfect curtsy before offering out her hand. “Madam Dague. I’m told, Miss Loughvein, that you would like a dress.”

Dague gave a proud flourish towards her wall, and with a gentle but unyielding hand, brought Quinn with her. “Then let us not waste time. We must start with taste, oui? Be broad, if you must. What designs, what colors, what styles—what strikes the eye of a pilot?”

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?”