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Quinn makes his way down the stairs, rubbing at his face with the heel of one hand. He didn't sleep too well last night, not that that's anything new for him, but when he tried the door somewhere after midnight just to see, he found that the damn thing wouldn't open. So he went back upstairs to see if a lot of bad sleep could take the place of an appropriate amount of good.

Either the answer is no, or he really and truly misses coffee, because he's sitting sullenly at one of the better-lit tables with a steaming mug cradled in both hands.

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She herself blends into the crowd surprisingly well this evening, given the very dark shade of blue that she has chosen to wear. Moiraine glides across the room toward a distant table, then spies him and changes direction.

"Quinn."

Quinn glances up from his coffee. It takes him a moment to pull himself back from whatever reverie had his attention. "Moiraine," he says, and even comes up with something of a smile. "It's been a while, hasn't it? How've you been?"

"As well as may be expected," she replies, serenely. "Since, as you said, it has been a while, and much has come to pass."

A pause, and the Aes Sedai tilts her head, studying him.

"And yourself?"

Quinn has to give that some thought. "I would say the same thing, I think, if it weren't completely unfair to expect you to know what's to be expected. We've had... it's been busy."

He indicates the chair opposite him. "Sit if you like. I haven't seen Creedy or Hero since I got here, so I'm not holding it for anybody."

"Thank you."

She seats herself and arches one eyebrow at him.

"Busy?"

Quinn exhales.

"We've got Americans. About a hundred and fifty of 'em, heavily armed, and with the first flying machine I've seen in years. They used it to kill a dragon the other day, right in front of the castle, but in the process they lost three of their men and wound up with sixteen of their people burnt to the point where I doubt they'll survive the night. Busy's as true a word as any other, and a lot less profane than I'd like."

Moiraine blinks, and then dark eyes narrow.

"How many dragons are there in your world, is it known?"

"Tens of thousands at the very least," says Quinn. "Hundreds of thousands, maybe, although I dunno if there's enough food to support that many any more. The Americans say they've got reason to believe there's only a handful of males and the rest are all egg-layers. That's why they came across the ocean. They're after a male."

"Their rate of attrition, if maintained as you have described, seems at the very least ill-considered," the Aes Sedai murmurs.

She may be referring to the Americans or to the dragons.

Perhaps both.

Quinn runs a hand through his hair at that. "The impression I got's that they don't normally lose so many to a single kill," he says. "This just puts 'em in the same category as everyone else who ever went to war against the damned lizards. They got their kills in the old days, all right, but they took half the planet with 'em. Three dead, sixteen wounded- out of a population as small as ours that might as well be half the world."

"Light preserve us," she says softly. "Light preserve you, in truth."

She is thinking rapidly, recalling what she has seen of Quinn's home.

"A hundred and fifty; how much strain does that put on your resources?"

"A pretty fair amount, but I think we can manage for a bit if I can get enough supplies out the door when it opens for me again," says Quinn. "There's still some credit left from those coins Captain Reynolds sold for me way back when. I'm more worried about their original plans... Moiraine, the last time anyone went to London was years ago. I don't know what they expected to find, but whatever they were after, it tracked them right back to their castle and burned everything at one go."

And the Americans are going to be leaving from his castle.

Silence, for several seconds.

"Are these Americans aware of this?"

Her tone is as level and dangerous as a blade.

"I told their commander," says Quinn. "Some of the others were just behind him- their pilot in particular. Some of them heard it. I don't know if they all have. The commander's one of the sixteen in the infirmary..."

"I see."

Moiraine considers, one finger tapping absently against the table as she thinks.

"And if he dies?"

"Then I've got to talk the survivors out of going to London," says Quinn. "That or sabotage their aircraft. They can't attack a dragon without one."

He's got a grimly rueful look on his face; he's already walked that particular line of thought to its logical conclusion, and it's not a pretty sight.

She nods, and the movement of her hand stills.

"Who among them is most likely to lead, in the absence of their commander?"

"The pilot, I think," says Quinn. "Alex is her name. She's the only one of the lot of 'em who spoke up on her own other than Van Zant. If there were a second other than her, someone would've come forward, I expect."

"And how reasonable does she seem to be, in your judgment?" she continues.

"Reasonable enough that if I can bring back a couple of doctors and enough supplies to put a hero's effort into saving the injured, or trying to, she might be convinced to fall back," Quinn says. "If she were anybody else, I wouldn't think we had a chance- but she's their only pilot. Even if she's not the second-in-command, she's the one I've got to convince."

"And it would not do, I suspect, for anything less than such an effort to be put forth," she muses, watching him.

"Even if it might... simplify ... certain matters."

"I've thought of that," Quinn admits quietly. "I've thought of that, believe me. If he goes, and the Americans think there was anything we could've done to save him, they're going to be angry, leaderless, and armed. We have weapons of our own. I got 'em from Lando Calrissian here. The Americans don't know about that. We could fight back if we had to. We could probably take the Americans by surprise during the night and dispatch 'em ourselves- we've got enough guns for it." He makes a sick face and adds, "Even if that weren't murder, though, that's a hundred and fifty people in a world where I can only vouch for a total of three hundred alive. I have to get 'em to see reason."

A pause.

"And I have to make their wounded's treatment last as long as possible. I don't think they'll go on without them. The longer their wounded can't be moved, the longer I'll have to talk them out of London."

By and by, along comes a red-haired man in a gray suit. "Did you collect enough stories for your world?" he asks without preamble.

"There's never enough," Quinn answers before glancing up. "I did all right with what I managed to get, though. Thank you."

"You're welcome. — I'm Michael, by the way. Michael Donighal. I don't seem to recall having introduced myself when we spoke before, and even if I had, it's been yonks since we spoke. Well, a yonk at least." Enhanced senses detect something they detected before, only now the brain they feed has a basis for comparison. "I didn't ask your name, again that I can recall, but I know you for a pre-Gen at least."

Quinn blinks a few times. "You've met Suzi," he says. "You can't be from her world, you'd have tentacles if you were and could notice that about me. How do you-"

He makes a vaguely wiggly gesture, the closest he can come to 'nice trick, zlinning without tentacles'.

"Selyn, I'm given to understand, is a chemical. Sime tentacles are probably inherently more sensitive to it, but my own senses are... considerably more acute than those of unmodified humans. When I met Whistler, after his Establishment, I could sense what had changed about him. The closest I could come to defining it was a line from Blake's Proverbs of Hell: 'The cistern contains, the fountain overflows.'"

"Ah, right," says Quinn. "Yeah, Suzi fairly jumped out of her skin when we first met, poor thing. The bar says we're the same world, only a few thousand years apart, so I supopse we haven't started mutating properly yet."

"Given what Hajene Darley's said about the nature of most Sime-Gen interactions, I'm not sure it was a natural mutation. Whether it was meant to be malicious or that was just a side-effect, I don't consider myself qualified to say. I'm just glad it starts to work out eventually."

As a side-note, the narrative wishes to mention that the Donighal's mun, based on the Sime~Gen timeline at simegen.org and Suzi's stated when, has calculated that the separation of the larities occurs around 3057 CE.

Fair enough, although the way Suzi's and Quinn's mun have worked things out, the island of Britain starts mutating ahead of schedule. The rest of the world can follow along later as they like.

"Me, I'm just glad the planet gets an eventually, given the condition things're in these days. Considering that we've had about a hundred and fifty Americans turn up on our doorstep armed to the teeth and looking for dragons to kill..."

And that's fair enough in turn.

"I'm going to guess that looking for dragons is one of those actions that's not healthy for children and other living things."

"They're going to London," Quinn says soberly. "They think the local male lives in London, and they think the females outnumber the males by a few hundred to one,s o they're trying to interrupt the cycle by trying to kill the male. Only the last time anyone went to London with the intent of killing anything, and they didn't get it right, something back-tracked them to their fortress and burned everything to the ground. I don't think there were even two stones left one on top of another."

Wince. "So your only options are to stop them going, or to hope like hell they obliterate their target." He holds out a handful of fire. "Would it be foolish of me to offer my own services?"

Quinn bites his lip. "I don't think they'll work," he says after a moment. "We've had people with powers come to my world by accident, and on purpose, and they don't work either way. At first I thought it was just the magic users, 'cos Moiraine aes Sedai got hit by it- and Lord Ostium, and Arithon, and that Malfoy kid- but then Master Dooku came, and he had about as much success with the Force as they did with their magic."

"...that bodes, yeah. I mean, neither of those are quantum powers, but a wise man once said that 'maybe' is a thin reed to hang your hat on. So I guess I'll just have to settle for wishing them, and you, luck."

"Thanks, mate," says Quinn. "I appreciate the offer, though-"

He stops and thinks a moment.

"Might have to get back to you about other possible assistance, though. You a medical doctor by any chance?"

"Not degreed, but I can get by. One picks up a certain amount of skill at most things, in two-and-a-quarter centuries of stubborn continuance. The available tools may be more relevant than my aptitude, however."

"Right, fair enough," says Quinn. "I'm gonna be looking for physicians with experience in handling burn victims soon. If you run into any, would you mind sending 'em my way?"

"Will do." He doesn't volunteer that his experience in handling burn victims comes from the wrong end of the process; somehow, he doubts that would inspire confidence. "Take care of yourself in the meantime."

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