Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

“Yeah!” Tillie beamed at Quinn’s conjecture, and inwardly exhaled a little sigh of relief. Okay, so she could explain things without tripping over herself and getting it all wrong—that was good! But it still wouldn’t do to leave things half-correct, or only partly described. She chewed her lip for a moment, contemplating how she could convey herself without sounding like a graduate thesis.

“Well—kinda. Uhm! You got the right idea, phasing is definitely tied to your connection. See—and forgive me for getting a little more complex—phasing is like a secondary thing, and we’re not…actually super sure how it works. The way you said it, y’know, with everyone having different sized bridges, that’s more or less one of the prevailing theories, revolving more around the idea that everyone has a different baseline connection. The other one is more like…everyone starts with the same connection, and the variance is just how fast the bridge expands.

“I lean a bit more towards that one cause it makes phasing a bit more concrete. Uhm! Everyone phases differently, right? So I like to think of it like, everyone’s connection clears at different rates, and also, everyone phases at a different point in that clearance. It also stands that once you do pass that point, your clearance rate speeds way up! And we don’t really know why that happens, either.” She flipped the cover over, tapped the title. “That’s where the ‘meta’ part comes in, I guess. And the ‘human’ bit.

“‘Cause Modir, y’know, they don’t phase. That’s a Savior thing—a human thing. But it’s also clearly something the Modir are inherently, physiologically capable of. There’s something unique about your place bridging the Circuit, some way you fit in, that allows it. Isn’t that so cool? It’s like our species were made for each other!” She blinked, and her excited smile withered a bit. “Eugh, uhm! Now that I say it out loud, actually, it sounds kinda creepy. Maybe don’t think of it that way.”

Tillie was grateful when the subject veered, though she did find the change odd. No phasing? She didn’t dismiss the idea outright, but she did spend several moments racking her brain, searching for anything she might have read that would support Quinn’s question.

Eventually though, she shook her head. “Hm. No, I…hmm. I don’t think so. At least as far as I learned, phasing is really a yes-no thing. Granted, some people are really small bridges—or slow-growing bridges, if you prefer—uhm! But those people generally don’t get cleared to pilot even if they technically can. I guess it’s theoretically possible for someone’s phasing point to be so close to the Circuit closing they would never know, but, I’ve never heard of a pilot who couldn’t phase.”

Amygdala Circuit

“Oh,” Tillie chirped, face pinching quizzically as she hunched down and danced her fingers down the spines of the bookstack. She plucked one vertebra free, a thin book titled: ‘Metamortality: The Human Link’, and popped up with the wide smile back on her face. “That’s a good place to start! Easy enough, too. Uhm! Here,”

She flipped through the various dog-eared pages, colored tabs, and post-its scribbled over with illegible shorthand, and turned the book to her opened to a diagram of a Modir’s head. The skull was cross sectioned to depict the brain, which, for the most part, resembled what anyone might think of when they pictured one. The only anomaly, aside from the size, was a dark, spherical object at the back, bridging the fissure between the hemispheres. A tally marked it quite clearly as: cockpit.

“So,” she said, plopping down beside Quinn with the book on her lap. “I think a funny way to look at it is like this: when you’re in it, it’s a Savior, and when you’re not, it’s a Modir! ‘Cause, see, you know how Modir can regenerate basically anything, right? Well, they say brains are the exception, but that’s not really true. A Modir’s brain can regenerate, if it’s conscious, it’s just that usually any real damage is enough to put it out for good. Disrupts the Circuit.”

She tapped the cockpit on the diagram. “That’s where the tricky part comes in. We can’t cut too much, or it’s actually dead and it’ll just melt, like what happens when one loses an arm or a leg. So, we cut just enough to fit the cockpit, and then that’s where you come in!

“Pilots can actually slot in to the Modir’s brain, and neurologically close the little gap we make for the cockpit. See, Modir can’t function without the Circuit, so think of yourself like a drawbridge that’s a little bit thinner than the rest of the road. When you’re connected, the bridge is down and traffic can get across, just a lot slower than usual, then when you disconnect, the bridge is up and traffic stops! Sort of.” She giggled anxiously—metaphors were never her forte, and she found herself suddenly thankful she wasn’t doing this in front of a class. “Basically you’re a buffer for the Circuit, and the longer you’re connected, the clearer that signal gets. That’s why you don’t stay in for too long at a time. Completing the Circuit is pretty much just like bringing the Modir back to life.”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

As Asher went on describing the situation, and the shape of their mission here began to sharpen, Ionna grew excited. This was by all accounts new territory for her, both figuratively and literally. Having spent her whole life in Rodion, she was no stranger to stories about monsters, but her own experiences were severely limited. She’d fought nobles, peasants, up and coming duelists, even a few soldiers—and recently, mysterious magic terrorists. But she couldn’t recall having ever raised her blade to a monster. Did that make her a bad knight?

Well, technically she supposed she wasn’t any kind of knight. Still, she couldn’t help but feel just a bit anxious. People she got, people could be read and reacted to and when everything was done you could grab coffee and laugh the bruises off. Monsters, though…no emotions to read, no strategies to discern, and certainly no laughing after the fact. Then again, she supposed you didn’t have to feel bad after you beat them. That was a plus, right? Justinian certainly didn’t seem to feel bad, and she wagered he had more experience than most.

Between him and Theobald, this place didn’t have much to worry about. Two hours. If she had to guess, her Scion would want to charge in rather than wait, but she didn’t know what Bianca and Justinian would suggest. Her own mind wandered to the tent of supplies, and a little pit formed in her stomach to think that they might be expected to use firearms. Harpies flew, after all, and she couldn’t very well shoot them down with a sword. But if they gave her a rifle, she’d bring unparalleled shame to both herself and anyone unfortunate enough to witness.

Well, she’d burn that bridge when she got to it.

“So, what do y’all think? We going hunting, or we setting up here?” she asked. “Not that I don’t have confidence in you, but, uhm, I’ll say I’m a little worried about staging an attack this close to the town. Fire, rocks, fiery rocks, y'know like Asher said.”

---

_{@Hero@Xiro Zean@Raijinslayer}

Amygdala Circuit

Tillie had said evening, but as she rode the lift down to the pilot’s floor, she still felt anxiously late. How could she not? Quinnlash Loughvein had asked her to teach her about modiology! No one had ever asked her to do that without a grade or paycheck on the line. In a way that was how most professions were, but to Tillie, the study of their invaders had always been more akin to a passion. So, while she’d long since squared herself with keeping her excitement to herself, this opportunity had her practically vibrating with excitement.

The doors opened to a wide, warm, and very quiet hall. Tillie adjusted the small stack of books in her arms and scurried on. She couldn’t help but marvel, not that she knew what a pilot’s quarters should look like, but if anyone deserved so much space it was them. As she made her way along though, the faint but omnipresent thrumming sank bone-deep, and she thought the silence might suffocate her if she had to live here.

Thankfully she didn’t—was that bad to say? She was perfectly happy to visit, more than happy in fact. Eventually she came to Quinn’s door, and after mustering enough courage—and shimmying an arm under the books—she knocked to the beat of ‘Walking Solstice`.

When Quinn answered, Tillie beamed, but her greeting yawned when she looked past her into the room.

“Wooooah…” she mumbled, entering in a daze when Quinn stepped aside. It was like the royal suite of a palace, with the ceiling of a cathedral, and staring up Tillie nearly dropped her books to the ground. “Oh! Uhm! Sorry, wow, got a little distracted. Thanks so much for inviting me, what an awesome place!”

She set the books down with a quiet “Oof!” and whirled back around to Quinn. Once again she couldn’t help herself, and a wide grin split across her face just imagining all of the fun science they had to explore.

“So! Uhm! Don’t be intimidated by all the material. I didn’t know what you might be interested in so I just brought a bunch of different stuff. Actually, where did you want to start? You don’t have to know anything specific, but if you have any vague ideas of what you might like to know, it’ll help me sorta, uhm! Steer, y’know?”

Tillie stopped then, and actually looked at Quinn. “Oh wow,” she said. She was wearing a dress—a really, really nice dress. That shouldn't have been too surprising, after all pilots were usually expected to dress sharp. But for most of Tillie's admittedly brief tenure at RISC, she'd really only ever seen Quinn in casuals, or in her pilot gear. Turned out she cleaned up pretty well!

“That's gorgeous!” she beamed. “You look so pretty! Ohmigosh, is there some kinda event coming up?”

Amygdala Circuit

Camille listened intently to Loughvein’s answer. She had done her due diligence long before the girl arrived, studied the dossiers the CSC could compile based on what information was shared by RISC, and also what had to be inferred. Especially when the alliance between their nations became tenuous, and the more anxious of their program’s numbers feared there may be conflict. But Camille knew better. War was pariah sensationalism, largely taboo but always considered; everyone on Illun feared theirs would be the generation to see the Accord crack again. Runa and Casoban had been allies for too long for that. Theirs would be the war of the modern age, fought on the fields of international law, using weapons of mass embargo.

All this to say, she had prepared herself to fight nonetheless, be it against Dragon or this newly anointed Ablaze. Camille knew both pilots as well as one could through second-hand assessments. Loughvein’s combat record aside, her personal records did not impress; she was by all accounts a meek and miserable girl who should have been mulched in her first duel. Naturally, she understood that about herself, but she was also surprisingly honest about it.

Good, it was easier to speak plainly with people like that.

“We’re afforded many things as pilots,” she said, still staring down at her in the same level, unyielding way. “Money, glory, influence. We live lavish lives and our funerals are matters of national importance. Pick any day out of the year and you’ll find memorials to a dozen of us. Our pictures hang in people’s homes beside their loved ones. In their most dire moments it’s our names they call out for. We’re given trust, and hope, and love.” she sighed, shook her head. “But we’re never given time.”

Camille looked down at the mat, to the sweat and scuffs and, if she really searched she was sure she’d find flecks of blood from raw knuckles or bitten lips.

“It’s paradoxical. Few paths demand as much from someone as piloting, and yet its first steps are the most unforgiving. You can’t take them slowly. You can’t learn how to walk, you already have to know how to run. Being here necessitates talent you didn’t work for, and determination you haven’t earned. There is no time to train yourself up to par—you perform, or you die.

“In all likelihood, the Derisas will be dead before the end of your first rotation here. As captain, it is my duty to ensure they survive anyway. I will push them. I will be cruel. You will not interfere. Your time here is largely unstructured because you do perform, but make no mistake, should I feel it necessary I will be cruel to you, too.”

She stepped away from Loughvein then with a curt nod. “I have been told in no uncertain terms that you will not be dueling during your tenure here. This does not exempt you from professional responsibility. The CSC may not hold you to a schedule, but I will expect at least a modest number of hours each week from you simming against Modir. You may train with the Derisas should you wish, but ensure that you align yourself with their routine, lest we have a repeat of today. Otherwise, you may utilize the sim’s AI, request a specific tutor from the station’s staff, or if necessary, ask me.

“Put the rest of these pads away, then you’re dismissed for the evening. Loughvein.”

With that, Camille left her there, and the familiar quiet returned.

Amygdala Circuit

A huff escaped Camille when Loughvein called her Captain. Uniformity and discipline were not the virtues of most pilots; the twins hadn’t been keen on the idea themselves at first, until she had Toussaint’s authority behind her. She had expected similar resistance from Loughvein. Was RISC’s program stricter than she’d come to believe from Abroix’s reports. Or perhaps this was just an act of sarcastic defiance.

No, from her answer, Camille could tell it was something worse. It was fear. Troublesome. Respect was integral to keeping order in the unit, and in turn, keeping the unit alive. Fear, on the other hand, did nothing. Less than nothing. It made people give half-answers to questions they were more concerned about answering correctly than honestly.

She had been told more than once that she was an intimidating woman. Fair enough. But looking into Loughvein’s eye, Camille saw fear that spread further than this one room, this singular moment.

She sighed. “Your dishonesty does no one any good. They’re hopeless. All these hours today but I’m sure you realized in the first five minutes that neither of them has any business being a pilot. They would have better served Casoban on the stage or in the gallery. It would certainly be safer.

“Familial pilots are rare outside of Helburke. Not just for their literal rarity, but because everywhere else it’s caused nothing but problems,” she stepped closer, but made an active effort to soften her voice. “Do you believe passion is enough to make a pilot? This time, answer like you’re talking to a mirror.”

Amygdala Circuit

By the time Quinn called it, it was almost evening. Hours had passed in a blur of fists and kicks and sweat. Sybil lay splayed out beside a plug-in fan, which, blasting at high-speed still couldn’t budge her wet, matted hair. She spat out her mouthguard and lay exhausted, gasping in and out while the lightheadedness of her exercise high set her skull abuzz. Quinn was speaking, she could tell, but it felt like they were separated by a whole pool’s worth of water.

Cyril sat beside her, not quite as worn out. He listened intently, worried that if he didn’t, she might grow upset with him again. She seemed leveled now, but somehow he’d managed to flub what had seemed to him like a good first impression.

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to,” he said, giving Sybil’s knee a shake, which she responded to by throwing him a middle finger for as long as she could keep her arm up. “She loves trying new things. We both do—it would be great to do this again.”

The door opened behind them, and Cyril jolted. With how quiet and isolated the pilot’s floor could be, arrivals often took him by surprise.

It was the woman from the platform, the third pilot, Camille. Rather than a suit of armor, she wore a uniform of the CSC colors, with an ivory shoulder-cloaked draped over her right arm. Cold eyes found the three of them instantly, and she marched over with a sure and rigid pace. She stood taller than the lot of them, hair tied back into a short tail, hand resting on the pommel of a rapier sheathed at her hip.

“Uh oh.” Cyril muttered. He got up to his feet and brought his hand up in a quick salute. “Captain.”

Camille looked between him and Quinn, before finally turning her attention down to Sybil. “Derisa,” she said, her voice like a wolf’s growl.

Cyril nudged her gently with his foot, breaking her from her exhausted stupor and dousing her sober the moment she saw who it was staring at her. “Shit,” she wheezed, and scrambled up to her feet. Her thighs burned in protest and she found herself leaning against her brother for support. “Captain.”

She stood there in silence for a moment, watching Sybil tremble and heave pretending like she wasn’t barely able to stand. Finally, she said, “Tonight’s sims are cancelled.”

They balked.

“Really?” Cyril beamed.

Sybil was more skeptical. “Why?”

“You’re exhausted,” Camille said, talking directly to her. “You aren’t conditioned enough to go from physical exercise to simulations. The strain would ruin you for days, and we can’t have that. This is why we alternate.”

Cyril winced. “Sorry, we’ll make it up—”

“You’ll make it up tomorrow.”

“I have the gala tomorrow,” Sybil snapped. “I’m presenting three paintings, one of them is a collaboration for Cyril’s show.”

“You will call them now, before they close, and inform them that you cannot attend. Ask them to reschedule, if you wish.”

A reinvigorating anger sprung to life in Sybil’s chest. “We arranged this weeks ago! Can’t I just make the sims up the next day? Or tomorrow night?”

“No, you can’t,” Camille said, and when Sybil opened her mouth to protest, she cut her off. “This is an order, Derisa. I’m giving you the opportunity to handle it on your own terms. I suggest you do so.”

There was seething rage in Sybil’s eyes, but it never made it past her lips. Gritting her teeth, threw off her pads and stormed off, wobbling at first before forcing herself to walk straight. Cyril swore under his breath but didn’t dare look up at Camille, instead shooting Quinn an apologetic look before hurrying after his sister.

The door shut, and suddenly the two of them were alone. Camille walked onto the mat, kicking Sybil’s pads to the basket. Again there was a quiet moment before she turned her attention fully to Quinn.

“So, now you’ve seen them first hand,” she said, face stony and impenetrable. “What do you think of Casoban’s heroes?”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Renault watched the Kaudian man keenly as he went, noting how his interest seemed piqued when he saw Lucas. Scandalous theories flooded his brain on instinct, but he repressed them. No magic in the world could cover up a rendezvous between Estoran royalty and what was most certainly Kaudian nobility. Good. Affairs were pedestrian, boring. It baffled him to no end how brazenly powerful people would risk their careers over lustful impulses. Not that he doubted the prince wasn’t given to a plethora of vices, but he was not, despite what the tabloids might convey, that stupid.

But he had been right—this was interesting. He committed the red-haired man to memory, and determined that, given the opportunity, he would seek him out for conversation. For now they had business.

As the lot of them stepped into the room with Rhaveus, Lucas cocooned them in silence. Renault’s attention went to the chalkboard initially, eyes scanning the arcane arithmetic with a sudden, renewed academic vigor. He was no stranger to the scholarly pursuit of magic, and though his lessons had been cut short with his pivot into politics, he never stopped studying. The steady rise of his career had afforded him a generous salary, and he’d found no shortage of tutors eager to trade it for their knowledge. Rhaveus was, of course, advanced beyond his own measure, evident in the way he wrote. Shorthand, scratches, highlights; it was very much like peeking into someone’s diary, or the notes of a savvy journalist—which was to say, it was chaos. The sort of chaos that came with deep understanding.

He clicked his tongue when it was wiped clean. Shame. You could tell a lot about someone from the way they expressed their passions. As Rhaveus began an explanation of the basics of mana however, Renault’s attention wandered. He chose to peruse the room, keeping one ear in the conversation. He brushed the books left on the podium, were they materials for his class, or was there personal reading as well? With a man like Rhaveus, the two likely overlapped.

As the topic evolved, shifting to the ambush, Renault tuned back in. Mana negation. He was familiar with the concept, and like most he assumed it was merely the demesne of monsters. The idea that someone might be able to lock him out of using magic did not thrill him, as his capacity for physical violence had suffered greatly from his incarceration.

“Oh, I wasn’t present,” he said, stepping aside to resume picking through the room. Time had been tricky in prison, he hadn’t even been aware of the day until his release. “But please, do share. Firsthand accounts can be so enlightening.”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

_{@Raijinslayer@Hero}

---

Ionna spent the entire trip with her face pressed to the window. She couldn’t help it, she’d never seen anywhere quite like this, not in person at least. Rodion was beautiful in its way, of course; it was cold and harsh, but also statuesque and resolute, instilling a safety that was in itself a form of beauty. But Riva del Garda was breathtaking in a very traditional way, the kind that left her with starry eyes and mouth agape. Several times she pointed out pretty things that jumped out to her, be they forested mountaintops or colorful birds flocking into the air.

She was just as amused by the city itself, though they never stopped to see it. Quaint, lovely, she could imagine having a house on one of the cliffs, spending her days walking on soft, warm grass and watching the sunrises and sets. Maybe she’d keep a farm, or at least a little coop of chickens. Or maybe just one or two chickens, as pets.

The outpost was more familiar. She’d never been on a warfront, but rustic militarism was common all throughout Rodion, and uncle Dragomir’s home didn’t look much different from a command tent.

“Asher!” she gasped, waving excitedly to the man in charge. “I would’ve made something, but the trip was a little long. Don’t you worry though, I’ll find an oven somewhere.”

She couldn’t help smiling at the look he shot Bianca—and her reception to it. It occurred to her then that she didn’t know much about her fellow Templar outside of, well, the obvious stuff they all knew. Maybe this would be a good chance to start getting acquainted with her coworkers.

Hold on, did Asher just say the harpies were dropping monsters into the city?

“Dang, and I left my umbrella back at the castle,” she said, resisting the urge to nudge Bianca with her elbow. Professionalism and all that. “But, uh, yeah—definitely weird that they just started acting all different. Hey Justinian, you ever see anything like that before?”

She turned her attention to the Scion of Earth, who, among the four of them, doubtlessly had the most experience with monsters. Asher was probably the leading authority, but then again, the city had reached out to the Scions for a reason, right?

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

_{@Obscene Symphony @Hero}

---

Renault breathed deeply. There’d been no time to, after his release; the Church’s goons had thrown him on the first transport to the Prince’s castle almost as soon as they’d gotten the shackles off. Now that he was back—properly back—he was reminded of just how much sweeter the air in his homeland was. Like sugar, or antifreeze. Enough of either would kill you, and that, he thought, fit Doumerc just as well.

The academy hadn’t changed drastically, but like all things in academia, it had changed minutely in many ways. New rugs, brighter bulbs, nigh-undetectably-different hues of the same color paints. People saw scholars and imagined meek, doddering bookworms, but few minds worked faster than those of mages. These fields of study required a keenness, a decisiveness, that most would expect to find in Rodion duelists or Lorenzian gunslingers.

Rhaveus’s room was suspiciously empty. It was indeed strange for someone to stand up not one but three Scions, one of them being royalty. Renault smirked, he suddenly found the professor quite respectable. It didn’t surprise him to hear some of their group was impatient, and he was glad the madam of gravity took a more sociable approach.

They followed her to a hallway where, unprompted, she did her best impression of a startled cat.

Renault craned his neck around the corner while Maya snapped quietly at her Templar. His initial assessment was proving more and more correct, it seemed. The line between paranoia and cowardice was thin, and blurry, and she appeared to have crossed it from one direction or another.

Those were undeniably Kaudians, but they were also undeniably set dressing. Fancy uniforms, military attention, and a cleared hallway. This wasn’t an invasion, it was babysitting.

More than that, it was interesting.

“Lets not embarrass ourselves, dear,” Renault said, throwing Maya an amused smile. He rounded the corner into the hall, clearing his throat and slipping into a more welcoming tone. “Dobar dan, gentlemen, hello!” he said to the guardsmen. “My friends and I were looking for a professor Rhaveus, would you happen to have seen him? We’re told he may be around here.”