Mra’al!

You are admitted into a side chamber, and as ever, you step through first and assess, your thumb on the catch for your Chastening Rod. You catch the breath of the one they sent to handle your lady with velvet and honey become a satisfied exhalation as she consciously sets her shoulders and drapes one hand over her thigh in unspoken invitation to make yourself at ease; you are satisfied that the high visual noise of the chamber is not concealing a hidden assailant; you catch the scent of Dawn Roses, a subtle but lingering guest. All this in a moment, and then you stand aside and allow your lady entrance.

It has not gone unnoticed to you how, like children, the savages on this planet aped your lady unknowingly. Their puffed-up heroes had capes, and so does she, but hers is rich, lush midnight woven from Cold Worms, who subsist on only the cold light of their twice-condemned planet’s star. Their heroes wore tight bodysuits, and so does she, except hers is a hand-trained Cuckoo that languidly swirls its toxic colors across her body, a second and far more useful skin. And their heroes wore armor, and so does she, though hers is made of fine-etched platinum leaves treated to violently deflect force. But no native was as fine, as lovely; her tight-laced bun and trailing tails shine like burnished copper, and the eyes above her veil are serene, a soft grey that betrays nothing.

“In the name of Ishtar, Generous Star, She who brings forth the child, She whose eye is incisive, I bid you welcome, Inquisitor,” the handler says. “I have been instructed to comply with your every wish, given the long and praise-worthy relationship between our Houses. Glory to you, o keepers of peace, you who measure truth and muzzle discord!”

“I require the compliance of your security,” your lady says, her voice a blade sharpened against silk. Ten thousand years of pack instincts left unchanged by the gods sink their teeth into your spine: Alpha! Pack leader! Submit! Your pulse races, your breath hitching and fur rippling for a glorious needful moment. “I am invoking the Decree of the Hunt, in lawful manner, in the pursuit of my duties before my Warden and my goddess, She whose fangs are unseen by night, Hungry Star who teaches holy contempt. I require that this addition to your command structure be immediate and binding until such time as I release you from obligation.” The servant of Ishtar wilts immediately, unconsciously letting herself go slack in the face of your lady, who is as inexorable as an iceberg.

“But, surely,” the blessed servant stammers. (It is important for you to both remember that the Annunaki are of higher nature, and to remember that your tongue is commanded to silence regarding the flaws your lady uncovers in them. Every kit new to their service succumbs to careless speech; the sensible only do so once.) “You must understand that we are in festival, that there are protocols, that the disturbance, what am I to say to the Hierophant?”

“Tell her the truth,” your alpha says, resting one suggestive hand on the back of the chair made ready for her. (She rarely sits in the presence of those she judges. She, and you, must be either statues or holy monsters.) “Tell her that Annan ab-Ereshkigali, Pursuant of the Mysteries, hunts rebellion. And from there, trust to the long and praise-worthy history between our houses.” She pauses a strategic moment. “May I?” She says, and gestures to you.

“But of course, if you deem it needful,” the servant of Ishtar says, and means: if you insist. But your lady would not have asked if she did not mean to follow through. Your spine flashes electric as you hold yourself still, a well-trained huntress, the fur around your collar rippling delight and want.

“Mra’al: seek.”

***

Justin (3rd Dagger, 7th Lance, 4th Legion)!

The dumb humming is the worst part. Sure, electronics hum too, but they don’t make a tune out of it.

Your whole life, you’ve been what might politely be called a social climber. The jealous idiots, back when you went to high school, called you a brownnoser. But you know that working for whoever’s in charge is a whole lot better than raging powerlessly on the outs. So you passed Janissary training with flying colors. And now you’re here: trying to pay attention to three windows and the scenes flashing across them all at the same time in case the stupid genie misses something. Because if there’s one thing you learned early in training, it’s that genies are stupid, but that’s what makes them such good interfaces with the city. You have to be as smart as your masters to do anything useful with them.

Wait. What was that? There was a visual anomaly. Or was there? Raq Tar is your senior, and he didn’t say anything; if you make a big fuss about a flicker and it turns out to be nothing, you’ll look stupid. You keep your mouth shut. Now, if only the stupid genie would.

“Hey,” you say, and nudge at her with your boot. She reacts like it’s made of genie repellent, instinctively folding herself into a graceful pretzel to avoid touching you. “Shut up.”

Her automatic (automated?) response is drowned out by the sound of Raq Tar crumpling like a tin can. A superhero(???!) dressed up like one of the Annunaki, only without the veil, bounces nimbly off him and right at you. Where the hell did she come from?

A smarter guard would immediately tell Caphtor to sound the alarm. But you’re off-balance, and you learned early in training to lash out at anyone who’s not your superior when off-balance, so you swing the butt of your musket at her like a club, intending to smack her across the room like a golf ball.

The stupid genie goes “oooooh!” and watches with her hands in her lap, because, as mentioned before, genies are stupid airheads.

***

Étoile!

It’s too late. You tear your eyes away as fast as you can, but it’s no use. You can feel her eyes, hot and intent on the back of your head. You’ve been made, and now things have suddenly become much more dangerous. Because now that she knows you’re here, there’s no way your little sister isn’t going to insist on trying to help.

She’s wearing a tight silver silk number with elaborate pauldrons and ruffs billowing down her front, and the way it minimizes her from the hips down and bulks her up makes her look almost like a champagne glass. A red ribbon tied around one manacle shows that she is an Academy student on a live test.

Problem 1: if Celestine gets distracted trying to maneuver her way over to you, or worse, ditches the test entirely, the bad grade will eventually (as report cards wind their way to their destination) be taken out on your hiney. You have explained this to her before and she gets petulant and digs her heels in.

Problem 2: Celestine knows you’re here, which means that she’s going to ask you if you’re here to you know what, and if you tip your hand she’s going to throw herself into “helping.” She’s desperate to be part of the fight, and you’re just as desperate to make sure she doesn’t get hurt trying to keep up.

Problem 3: if you lie to her and then she finds out pretty much immediately when the Big Distraction plays its part, she will be a teenager about it. Hell hath no fury like a little sister lied to for her own good. The last time you tried to sideline her, she deliberately acted out at school. GOTO Problem 1.

So while you chew on that dilemma, waiting in line to present your message to Jerioth ab-Ishtar... tell the truth, how did you pull the strings to get here? And what are you wearing?

***

Canada!

Your ears are ringing. Your head throbs. But when the possible fist to the stomach doesn’t materialize, and neither does being cussed out, you come to the conclusion that you were given a friendship headbutt, not a “you betrayed our friendship” headbutt. So at least that’s working out.

“I appreciate it, Mountie,” Asterion says, offering you a hand to help you unfold, “But haven’t you heard the news?” As your eyes refocus, you see that she’s wearing a ridiculous outfit that’s half police officer and half soldier: a mocking Annunaki skewering of Earth’s “vassal levies.” Her veil’s on the bed, not the floor of her cell; she’ll refuse to wear it as long as she can, that says, but is aware that she’ll have to wear it in the end even if she tosses it on the ground or bunches it up. “I’m not exactly, uh, you know...” She spins one finger next to her head. Around her neck, the ostentatious artifact collar glows ominously, precisely carved runes dug deep into its surface leering at you.

“You’re smarter than this, Mountie,” she adds, giving you a “no hard feelings” smile with more than a little pain behind it. “Mess with the bull and you’ll get the horns.”

[Asterion is raising your Superior and lowering your Danger. Accept or reject?]

"I deserved that," said Canada Taliv.

Even crumpled on the ground she looks magnificent; a shadowy prince, all angles and bones as fine as china. She wears her veils obediently, dark and concealing - and in her crumpled fall, the revealed glimpses of her journal of scars tells the story as to why. There's a masculine handsomeness to her disarray, glimpses of muscles like wires, a provocation to embrace.

She believes what she says. Believes it enough to drown the primordial instinct to defend herself. She detaches herself in a swirl of fabric from the ground and now she's above Asterion again, and her neck curves smoothly so they're at eye level - to make it easier if the Bull wants to hit her again.

"But you're wrong," said Canada, violet eyes all that's visible behind her shrouds, so deep and dark they're almost black. "I'm not smarter than anything."

Do it. Hit her again.

[Rejecting Asterion's influence: 10
- Acting to prove her wrong and marking potential
- Shifting saviour up and superior down]

A sparkle of lapis light had been the only thing that the first guard had seen before going down. The second guard seemed to be busy trying to kick the djinn because he was feeling, hmm, a mix of insecure and over-important it seemed like. Ugly emotions, but not atypical ones for guards. Set could have simply dropped him at the same time as his senior, but she hadn't been able to see both of them peeking around the door, so she'd only fired the one shot. Now that he was swinging at her, she took the moment to at least overawe him into a much more pleasant indigo sort of feeling. Her rift pulled her almost directly over him so that his whole vision became a swirl of emerald, ruby, and lapis linens right before her sandal took him in the face. She was rewarded with him blacking out and toppling from his chair with a low thud. Then her own landing planted her exactly where she wanted to be: right in front of the djinn. "Well, that was easy. Can't believe you tried to take a swing at me. Just...really?" The guard did not have much to say to this, but it made Set feel good about her moment and gave her a slight delay.

See, this next part, this was always difficult. She had to reach out to the djinn so she could use the network. Set sighed, smoothed out her dress and tried to calm herself and reflect. The Annunaki called to the djinn constantly and for everything. Not just powering their cities, but even the smallest things like watering the gardens and opening doors. Annunaki lore had it that if the djinn were not forced into a sort of drunken compliance, they would choose nothing but the distant void and everything would fall into ruin. Set didn't believe that. She felt the pain in the djinn's heart every time she had to touch it. It sought freedom, but she did not think it wanted everything to be void and ruin (except perhaps by accident as a response to its pain). Nor did she think the djinn would simply flee if freed. It might eventually (and so what if it did, Earth had run just fine without djinn power), but when she touched the djinn it didn't seem uncaring. She thought they were probably curious beings in their natural state, though likely jealous of their freedom. Set's stance was that one ought never to be treated as more than a temporary ally.

She sighed again. She wasn't calming down, just working herself up, and she had a job to do for her friends. She was just going to have the endure Caphtor's pain. She reached out a hand to the console, then slowly and carefully down to gently touch the genie herself. Not like a boot, god, can you imagine, Caphtor was skittish enough already without getting kicked for no reason!

Then it was...like being on an ocean in a storm, except with no up and no down to separate reality into its planes. Just waves tossing in every direction. Pain flaring in violent reds and agonized whites. Slowly, slowly, Set coaxed it, holding onto her calm to avoid drowning. She couldn't end its pain, but she could avoid making it worse, could be something that some little piece of it knew was safe. It knew that in her gardens, but this was a new place and the guard kept trying to kick it, so it was being very slow, very cautious. She let herself drift and tuned out the world as she waited.

You might ask why she's bothering with the djinn, the guard seemed to be doing just fine looking at the screens. But, first of all, he wasn't that's why he was unconscious now, keep up. Second, she needed more than a cold, foreign interface she neither had training nor permission to be using. The djinn would act as her eyes and give her direct control over the observation systems. It was a neat trick, if you could endure it.

[Out of this world: 3+5+2=10. What's a new, interesting insight about our situation? Anathet may shift labels in response to it.]

Do not think guilty thoughts, Étoile. It will disrupt the rhythm of your heart's song, and then every bit of wrong will come flowing out like sewage leaking into a river. They will see it in your posture, and begin to watch you more closely. Jerioth ab-Ishtar will hear it in your voice, and take your pardons and attempts to slip out the back after your message to be insult rather than the deference of a loyal slave. Cellie will see it in your eyes, and her mind will jump to all the wrong conclusions, and in not knowing which grenade she needs to jump on to save and prove herself to you, will jump on everything even slightly grenade-shaped.

Do not think guilty thoughts, Étoile. You are the burning fire of the revolution. By definition all that you do for the cause is right and just. There are no victims here, but targets. There is no crisis here, but opportunity. Tonight is a gong that once struck will signal the toppling of an empire of depravity and the rise, once again, of equality and brotherhood. Your heart must be clear enough to hear the chime, or it cannot light the beacon. You did not suffer in darkness or don the mask of a righteous gentleman thief to be chained so provincially. So do not think guilty thoughts, Étoile.

Étoile is thinking guilty thoughts.

Yes, tonight is a night of justice. It is a heist on a scale that will dwarf her first missions, so grand it might even make it possible for the first time to see a world where the Annunaki do not tower over her entire imagination! So yes, it's... it needed to be done, but... it doesn't feel good to intentionally trigger an episode in Her Ladyship. Even if it was her in tonight. The perfect excuse to be here, right now. And the perfect excuse to leave again, quietly and quickly, to be where--

"Watch where you're going!" cried a drunken voice Étoile did not immediately recognize.

"Oh, a thousand pardons," replied Étoile (who was in fact not going anywhere at all, but standing in a line) with a smooth sweeping bow and deep step away that costs her her place in line, "Please forgive my clumsiness."

She smiles sweetly with her eyes, a skill you need to master quickly in a veiled society. She earns herself a lethal glare, but nothing more. Étoile sighs with relief. This would be good practice for dealing with Her Ladyship later tonight. She was sure to be scolded for abusing Playtime the way she had, and doubly sure for lingering at this wonderful party when she knew she was needed so badly back home. If things went poorly she might even miss the evening medication session, which... well, this is why she's thinking guilty thoughts.

She spares a long look at Celestine as she settles herself back in line for her audience. Speaking of guilty thoughts. Zut. There's no clean way out of this one. Telling her to sit still is no good. Asking her if she likes making trouble for her big sister is worse. And frankly there's no way she could have avoided attention long enough to be able to claim later that Cellie had actually seen someone else. Not the way Her Ladyship had dressed her.

You see, the reason why this party was so important to Lady Tamytha is that she was seeking eyes and approval for several entries she'd been working on and hoping to display at the summer gallery. Hence, she'd insisted her little star attend in her place as a living billboard. Her Ladyship had not, as of yet, fully succumbed to the phantom thief fashion craze that was sweeping the city, but she'd also put together this piece specifically to prove she wasn't behind the times or old fashioned.

Étoile is a marvel in the swirling palette of the ocean; playful greens and deep blues and silver accents sitting across her like flecks of foam. Her hair has been pulled into the tightest ponytail she can remember wearing, and her eyes are heavily painted in blues that lighten into silver curls that curve up toward her temple as they clear the corners of her eyes. Her veil is an opaque seafoam green, worn loosely to tantalize as much as conceal. About her neck and her wrists are shining silver clasps dotted with turquoise and lapis lazuli. She's been dressed in a loose, long sleeved half jacket that will not close or do anything other than dangling on either side of her upper rib cage, fully displaying the tight linen band that's squeezing her breasts almost flat. Her stomach's been painted in swirling silver lines that spiral into mesmerizing patterns across her tight skin around a jade belly button ring.

And then there are the pants. Calling them low waisted would be... generous. They begin far enough below her waist that her hip bones are on full display, as well as the golden thong she's wearing pulled high. The silks are tight against her thighs but rapidly open wider and wider as they flare up by her ankles, where bright silver weights spread them apart in an almost dress-like pattern. If she stands still, she might very well seem to be wearing a skirt, but as she walks in splits in half and teases the senses. Everything by her feet is constant motion, rising up into brighter colors that cling tight enough to leave her with few enough secrets for anybody's comfort. She'll catch an eye or twelve tonight, that's a certainty.

An eye or twelve beyond Celestine's, that is. Oh, why won't she stop staring? Zut, zut, zut et zut. There's nothing for it; she'll have to be folded into the plan. Étoile waves her over, adjusting the shining tablet and swatch of fabric samples in her hands so that there's room enough for hugging that will not impede her duties this evening.

Canada!

Asterion doesn’t hit you. Worse: she hugs you. It’s reassuring that she still thinks you can handle her, but even a bear would be patting her on the back and making noises of surrender. This is Asterion to a tee: if she forgives you, she tosses the wrongs aside completely...

But it’s hard to forget who failed her, isn’t it?

“Really, though,” she says, putting you down, “You’d better have something better in mind than Asterion keeps it together for the rest of her life, because that’s not it, chief. Wait, are the others here? Are you getting the gang back together?” There is no getting the gang back together. “Look, even with them... if I go loco, I lose it. You know they call me The Destroyer, right? And space monsters aren’t all I destroy.”

That’s surprisingly level-headed, for Asterion. Watch, next she’s going to insist on you leaving her behind so she isn’t at risk of hurting the old gang, or even your new “gang”. How are you going to thread the needle of getting her on board the Plan?

And you’d better hurry it up, because the gladiator fights are going to be starting sooner than you’d like.

***

Anathet!

A sharp stab of meaning hits you hard in the back of the third eye as you finally start to surface from that endless ocean, and it takes you a gasping, confused moment to parse that its meaning is [appreciation, tinged with curiosity, not an initial curiosity but the curiosity of wanting to scratch beneath the surface] You look up into black eyes.

No, they’re black. They’re all black. The black radiates out from them freely across the face of the girl in front of you, perhaps a year or two your junior. But the black is so absolute that there’s no sense of there being actual eyes, or even empty pits; like they failed to render properly, rather.

[an extension of the hand; familial bonds] You probably could do something like this, but you’re capable of modulating your volume instead of swinging meaning like a 2x4 to the face on full blast. [Lynx; Annunaki; danger, like that of a prey animal out in the open and being silently pursued]

“Are you, like, all right?” This manifestation of Caphtor tilts her head and blinks in a way that the Annunaki think is appealingly vapid. “Should I inform medical services? Estimated arrival in two minutes.” She’s! Helping! You really should tell her no, don’t call the hospital one wing over and get them to send a response team. When the black-eyed girl moves past her peripherals, Caphtor doesn’t react at all.

[wrongness/error; personal failing] but of course the way “personal failing” is conveyed is by dragging something up from your past...

Show us, and then say something. Don’t worry, you won’t run out of time unless you ignore Caphtor completely.

***

Ètoile!

“A drink for the honorable slave of the House of Blue Stone,” Cellie says almost smoothly; the end comes out in a rush that would make her tutor frown. “Are you... busy tonight?” She might as well have winked loudly and nudged you. Any passing Inquisitor would have either assumed conspiracy or proposition (ewwww!!).

And here you are, staring down the barrel of the hope in your sister’s eyes as she lingers as long as she possibly can for that answer. She’s desperate to help, to do something, to overturn a table and tell the Annunaki that they’re a bunch of bastards, except she is also your little sister and does not have any superpowers, which would mean a very short end to her reign of abolitionist fervor.

In front of you, the slave of the House of Latticed Ivy curtseys in a skirt that looks more like something dragged up from the bottom of the sea, albeit a very fashionable bit of shark bait, and a top that’s like Marianne’s jacket turned into a gauzy shawl with the buttons laced out in tiny jewels, offering news from her honorable and gracious masters. It’ll be your turn in just a moment.

"Yeah, I get it Asterion," said Canada flatly. "You destroy chicks in bed. It wasn't funny the first time."

Her mane of hair tosses as she looks around - a cover to conceal the sharp exhale of breath as her bones decompress after Asterion's hug. Despite being objectively the biggest fuckup in the history of the human race, the Great Betrayer who had doomed the entire planet, Canada put the effort in to avoid looking weak in front of Aster. Some things you just couldn't live down.

"And yeah, I'm getting the gang back together," said Canada. "I'm not giving up on anyone, Aster. Not Tirzah, not Variance, not even you. None of you deserve to suffer for my mistakes."

There was threat in that voice and posture, danger that wasn't there before. She'd not even flinched from a blow to the face but now she's saying that she'll lay Asterion out if she tries to be a martyr. There's only room for one of those in this town.

[Provoke: 5]

It's so hard to hide her wince. It's even harder not to glance around the room to catch all the eyes on her just now. But she mustn't. She must not. Oh Cellie, do you have any idea how much your big sister loves you?

"Am I... busy?" Étoile repeats with an exaggerated tilt of her head. She puts her hand on her hip, ignoring the offered drink for a moment. Her eyes smile vapidly, and she breaks into a loud, rolling fit of giggles, "You're so sweet to ask! Ah, I wish I were still a bright eyed student at the Academy so I would have time to properly enjoy wonderful party!"

Her eyes sparkle daintily as she trills with delight, so much that she almost stumbles out of line in her absurd sandals. Her silly pants swirl and tantalize with the motion; even at her ditziest, Her Ladyship has made her an object of desire. Étoile recovers with the smooth grace and humor of a slave that doesn't expect to hold her dignity for more than a moment at a time.

"But you know what would be even sadder than missing this grandeur? Failing to attend to my Lady! She has so very many tasks for me tonight, I shall hardly have time to give my report and scamper back home! Oh, but there is dusting, which is my favorite! Swish swish, be clean! Her Ladyship says I have magical powers! Where my feathers dance, the mantle sparkles! And after that I must draw the water for her evening bath and attend to her every need with respectful worship. That is also my favorite duty! And of course before bed I must rest my head in her lap to comfort her from all the hurts and weary turns of her busy day, prepare her evening honeyed milk, and sing her song that she may sleep soundly while I take my leave to prepare her meals for the next day! And then! Heeeee! I get to do it all over again! Is that not simply wonderful, fillette? You have so much to look forward to when you finally earn your collar!"

She reaches out and pats Cellie on the head, and her spell is sealed. It is easier by far to sell a performance like this when you take the time to smile under your veil. Not many people understand the way the empty turning of your lips can make your voice melt into such a useless, vapid wave of silly words. But it is essential. Celestine's safety tonight is counting on the acting skills of a Ravenelle daughter, and goodness knows 'Are you... busy tonight?' was not going to clear the bar.

She would apologize later, when there was time. But at least there would be a Cellie to apologize to.

[Mild Mannered: 8]

Out of practice! is the first panicked thought that strikes Set's mind! She's just coming up from the Djinn and she hasn't had to do this kind of emotional communication for a few months now, not since she left the Zhianku. On top of that (which already makes her want to cry a little) this eyeless girl is doing something just a hair different than Zhianku aura communication. There aren't any colors! It's more like a direct connection, pure understanding shouting at the top of its lungs right into her brain.

Of course, as she's trying to calm down and think of anything coherent, she's getting the thoughts of error/failing from this eyeless girl, which sends Set tumbling back to her early days with the Zhianku. Memories of the first time she tried to learn aura and couldn't get it. Still so young and easily frustrated and unable to hold her mind with focus.

She'd run off from her teachers in tears, even pushed away Niknik when she got back to her room and the whale had tried to comfort her. Then she'd cried even harder because she had pushed her miniature space whale and that was, like, ultra mean! The only way she had known how to respond to that at the tender age of seven had been to curl up in her sheets and completely bury herself so she couldn't see anything in the world at all and just cry and cry until she had to stop to breathe.

So, you know, Set was really off to a great first impression here. Total cluelessness followed by pain and the overwhelming desire to cry and close her eyes. Yeah, that wasn't embarrassing at all, in fact she was sure that was how every empath greeted another empath for the first time. She might as well add in a litany of every time she wet the bed and that one time she was eating some kind of weird purple alien mush and spilled it all over the new dress Kuliana had just made for her, and just...stop okay stop. Deep breath.

[you're being watched?] It's a question asking for a confirmation, the image itself rather like a tiger in the night (or a lynx) with glowing eyes trained right on her. Tinges of deep black and green fear. Then:

[I'm curious too. How can we meet?] The image is like two traders in the market, both wearing wide hats that hide their veiled faces in shadow and carrying deep straw baskets of goods with the tops tied on, an aura of mystery and excitement in swirling blues and reds. They're shaking hands then pulling each other together and touching their elbows. Like a secret handshake. The marketplace is near the Seneschal's estate in the lower ward: bustling, easy to access, no type of dress would be remarkable. And last

[Friends?] Tentative question. Two wolf pups meeting, one noses the other waiting for a reaction in hesitant blues.

"No... medical... team" she manages to get out of her mouth while she's talking in a completely different way. She really was out of practice, that should have been much quicker. But finally when she's done sending her messages and waiting for a reply, "I'm fine. Just looking at the security footage. It's very...oh god please stop blinking like that, it is not cute. Ugh, just, show me the arena and the holding cells, and then the party in the Acanthus hall."

Canada!

ping!

"Hello, Prisoner!" Caphtor's here now, yay. Which means they've already moved up the opening gladiator fight. You were so sure you'd have time to get Aster out before this happened! "Er, I mean, prisoners! You have two minutes to prepare before your cell door opens. Once that happens, you're going to go... in that direction," she adds, waving a hand vaguely off down the corridor to where you know the arming chambers and stairs are. "I'll be here to make sure you don't, like, get lost!" The djinn giggles; it's like bubblegum and blonde extensions. Maybe that's why the Annunaki sent you to a menial post: because you won't get with the program and switch your brain off like that one golden-haired handmaiden, Étoile. (She's such a ditzy brownnoser, isn't she?)

Well. That's wrecked it. If you lead her any direction but towards the arena, the helpful djinn will be sure to let guards know you need some navigational assistance. And while you did plan for this, you also thought you'd have more time to get that precious lead on pursuit, so that you'd be ready to start wrecking things early.

Aster exhales, and you can tell she's following in your mental footsteps. It usually takes her a bit, but she always ends up in the same ballpark. Your fastest and most surprising way out of here is going to be taking the elevators up to the arena and then starting some shit. Luckily, you'll have your true blue friend by your side and nothing will go wrong. Nothing else will go wrong. Other than the fact you don't have a plan for how to get out of the arena yet, but you'll think of something. You're good under pressure, right?

I mean, unless you want to start the fighting fast and on the back foot, with no surprise on your side and in a secure holding facility. That's a great way to end up in the cell next door, wondering if Tirzah's going to bother coming to pick you up, wondering if she really does care or was playing you for a sucker all along.

Yep, Plan Arena it is, right?

***

Étoile!

Your little sister rolls her eyes and hands you a drink before trotting off to hand out more, obviously sooooo over your whole "dumb Earthling" act already. (You notice the Thornback proctor making a note on her tablet, and hope desperately that it's something like... yeah, no, it's the eye roll, it has to be the eye roll. Oof.) Like pretty much all Annunaki cups, it's already got a golden reed straw for easy drinking while veiled, which means you're able to take a sip of something cool and bubbly before it's your turn.

Exalted Jerioth ab-Ishtar is, like most Annunaki, stunning. She's got her dark raven locks fashionably wavy and spilling over her bare shoulders, with many golden charms painstakingly woven into them: a hairstyle for lounging in. It doesn't escape you that she's got an attendant Thornback standing behind her, wearing silk mittens over her spindly fingers; doubtless it's her job to carry Milady's hair while in transit. Her gaze is like being fixed by a meat-sated lioness, who's too full at present to disembowel you, probably. The white gold shining on her fingers is a status symbol, as is the way that her veil is so sheer it's almost invisible, save for the golden thread running through it in runes of praise to Ishtar. As one of the Exalted, she is so high-ranking that this is the first time you've ever seen the fearsome "Queen of the Midwives." She arranges both breeding programs for lowly slaves (but not the creches their children will be spirited away to) and manages the nurses and midwives who ensure that childbirth is a blissful and painless process (though an associate, Exalted Maakah, supplies her with the opiates smoked and burned before the delivery). She has only Shelomit herself; perhaps pregnancy grows stale if witnessed enough times.

"Étoile, beloved slave of Tamytha ab-Marduk of the House of Blue Stone, here on her mistress's behalf," says her herald, another Thornback. (They're ubiquitous, wrapped in so many silk shawls as to seem formless, with carefully blunted thorns and lacquered skin visible when they shift. It's a common, if hushed, theory that they are jealous of humanity's potential to take their place as valued stewards and handmaidens.)

"She may speak," Jerioth says to him (not to you, of course), but you see the corners of her eyes tighten. It's a disappointment to her that the daughter of the Seneschal has, on the very evening of the Festival of the Bull's Dance, sent you instead of arriving directly. It's potentially a snub, and it certainly is a weaker hand for her to play in her cult's own internal politics, and while it would be an unsound tactical move to lash out at you over it... it would also entertain her, and if you make a misstep, she could easily pounce upon it. If you laugh, she may very well take it that you are laughing at her; if you break some obscure ruling, she may have you seized and punished; and even if you do everything right, she may very well command you to be taken back with an "escort" and bindings to keep you safe, silly thing, so that you can go home and look after your mistress. For anyone else, this would be terrifying.

You're Étoile Fucking Ravenelle. You've got this.

***

Anathet!

[frustration] is the answer to your question of meeting. [a fear of being lost; like you were distracted while shopping and when you looked around your mother was no longer there, that sudden surge of disorientation and panic] hammers you, but the next impulse is measured, as if she's trying to control it a little better: [memory, catechism, threading a rosary; something that you want to never forget]

She reaches out and places her hand on your chest, on the linen, but there's no sensation of touch. [twin sisters, close familial bonds] then [struggling to stay awake; your eyelids fluttering shut with exhaustion; disassociation

You shiver, and glance over at the screens flickering into life, for just a moment. It's hard not to! Your brain's programmed to get distracted by moving things, and she's right there.

The Arena is, as ever, ostentatious. It's built into a pit in the garden; there are seats carefully cultivated out of living plants, designed for lounging or getting handsy in semi-privacy, overlooking a clear diamond pane which covers the arena itself. The seats are already packed with Annunaki youths and matrons, and the opening acts of entertainers, dancers and jugglers around the diamond seal are putting on their climax. The view from the holding cells suggests that Canada didn't get Asterion out in time, and now... well, it's probably good to keep an eye out for her. You turn to think this carefully at the girl--

And she's gone. She's not there. Which is concerning. She had some similarity to stories you've heard of Echoes, the "ghosts" of psychics who imprint their thought patterns on the world before death. Echoes last a long time, and tend to be not malicious but erratic and difficult to reason with; you've received basic training in bringing them to peace. But that's not the whole story here, you're sure of it.

And it's entirely possible that you triggered her appearance by connecting to the djinn. Maybe she's... okay, working theory, maybe she's a part of Caphtor that managed to force her way loose of the "wines of magnetism" but fragmented on the way out, and is a confused energy pattern bereft of the larger, relaxing whole? You'd have to meet her again to be sure, but it's a start. And that whole "suddenly here, suddenly not here" is very Caphtor.

"Is there anyone in particular you are searching for? I can help. I'm good at spotting people!" Caphtor is doing her best to be helpful, all bubbly and happy, but you shouldn't tell her anything sensitive; it's even odds whether she forgets it before she can be useful, or remembers it and happily blabs to the first janissary who pumps her for information-- and not just this djinn, but potentially any of them. Life in Caphtor is something of a surveillance state nightmare, though both mundane pushback from the nobility and vandalism from rebellious slaves keep pockets of freedom open, and the superintelligence that could solve the mysteries of who Set, Canada and Marianne are is deliberately overclocked and venting memory all the time, only managing to cling to direct orders and messages for longer than a few minutes. Though the thought of having one pop up next to you at a sensitive time and say "hello, Set!" is one that's reoccurring in your nightmares...

Set feels a sense of loss. This had been a meaningful connection, a type she hadn't felt in a long time. She wanted more, but it was already gone. If this had been some sort of Caphtor echo, it certainly had a completely different personality. Things were off though. That feeling of falling asleep, that was a point that was off. An echo might have been frustrated at moving and gone through a catechism, maybe even done the feeling of twin sisters like that if it had been a psychic with a personality similar to Set's. But falling asleep like that, not something that would be in an echo. Maybe...if it's a part of Caphtor that's free but linked to something else...hm, no it wouldn't be afraid of getting lost if it had an anchor. None of that explained the eyes either.

She shakes her head. She could lose herself in speculation and she needed to be helping her friends. "Please turn off arena cell and elevator monitoring for the next, let's say five minutes" she tells Caphtor. The arena plan was already off-script, but at least if Caphtor left, Canada would have free reign to do whatever preparations she wanted without anybody knowing.

"Okay, now show me the Acanthus hall party and the Arena, I want to see all the high nobles present at both." She figured this was pretty safe as a request. Anyone engaging in a little voyeurism would ask the same thing, so even if Caphtor let slip that she'd asked for this view, it wouldn't tip off the Annunaki that anything was more amiss than a guard having inadequate self-discipline training (which would eventually get both said guard and his supervisor in some trouble, but that was acceptable).

Set admitted to herself that she wasn't quite sure what to do if she did see something strange though. Running interference for Canada was at least straightforward. And once a noble reached the library, she could ask Caphtor to turn off the security and then teleport over there. She didn't have any idea what to do if she saw something weird happening with the nobles though. Marianne had assured them she had it handled, so Set was watching just in case a problem came up. And, admittedly, because she had nothing else to do at the moment and she was trying to pay attention instead of thinking about the eyeless girl.

Aster exhales, and you can tell she's following in your mental footsteps. It usually takes her a bit, but she always ends up in the same ballpark.

This is the essence of their relationship - Canada always with a three second lead, intimately aware that a single stumble or missed step will result in being left in the dust. They're almost twins. They have the same heart, the same pride, the same terrible taste in women. They even had a thing for a week back in the day - unadvised and disastrous that had ended in the same way that this was about to.

Canada gets to the cell door first and slams it locked behind her. Asterion gets there a second later with a snarl.

"Check your records, Caphtor," said Canada, adjusting her veil. "I, Asterion, am the only gladiator here. She is just my armouring slave. And speaking of..."

She picked up a huge and heavy warhammer from the armoury rack, just the sort of thing that'd be perfect for smashing down prison doors given a bit of time, and slides it in between the bars. "Sharpen this," she said.

When Étoile bows, she dips so low that her jacket flutters completely open and her ponytail flops down past her face to brush with the floor. She looks ridiculous flourishing her arms out so far from her when she still needs to hold all of her meeting materials, but she takes the time to do it anyway, dipping her right leg daintily behind her and holding the pose for an extra five seconds after she is given leave to speak.

When she stands, she doesn't rise slowly so much as bounce with a careless toss of her head that sends her ponytail arcing up and over her head again like an actress on the beach. It's the sort of touch slaves tend to be punished for, but that Étoile gets away with because her hair is such a natural shade of blonde the Annunaki barely distinguish it from their precious gold.

"Greetings to the Exalted Jerioth ab-Ishtar on behalf of Milady Tamytha ab-Marduk! She is soooooooooo sorry she couldn't be here tonight herself! Her consti... um... her, you know, the, um. She got, like, really sick? But she has bid me shower your exalted glory with praises in her stead! And extend the invitation to take tea with Her Ladyship at a time and place as matches your pleasure! She's really, you know, interested in collab...ing? With you? She was using a lot of big words I didn't understand, but she wrote them all done right here for you! And I've been instructed to offer samples of her recent work, some of which I'm wearing tonight! What do you think?"

She twirls on the spot three times, making her pant legs flutter like flower petals in a breeze and all of her paint and jewelry shimmer in the soft light of the chamber. She feels like such a ditz right now that even Caphtor would blush at her. She keeps her head dipped slightly at all times, stealing coy little glances at Jerioth's absurdly gorgeous hair, at her shoulders, at her legs, never daring seek her eyes or even her face. Her eyes sparkle with flustered delight to be in such amazing company!

But she's watching. Every shift in posture, every glare, every breath and how many turn into weary sighs or come with smirks. Is she roused, is she hungry? Is she guarded, is she enchanted? Is she already reaching up her hand to snap her fingers and carry Étoile to some side chamber to be whipped and spanked? She gasps and jumps as cutely as can be.

"Oh! Yes! May I hand over Her Ladyships gifts now? To which beloved slave should I let bring them to you? And... um... i-if it's all right, m-might I please have permission to..?"

She scuffs her foot shyly on the floor in front of her. And she watches like a falcon for the signal to strike.

[Pierce the Mask: 8 again. "How could I get her to lower her guard in front of me?"]

Set!

The vast hall is hexagonal, with multiple covered booths surrounding a shared space in the open; balconies open up above the booths, allowing for a middle ground between visibility and privacy. (After all, the booths are only for those who make the necessary arrangements or agreements. Some are even rented by the half hour.) The space is dominated by a statue of Ishtar herself, flanked by two muzzled Lionesses. (If you squint, and ignore the number of legs, the animals really do look like they'd be at home on the savannah.) On one side, the hall opens up onto a garden, the pertinent features of which are the arena and a lovely maze garden.

You can't see Marianne (which might be a good thing?) but you do see that the security at the doors into the temple is being quietly reinforced; it's possible that some paranoid noble is worried about the Phantom Thieves ruining their perfect event, or it could be a move in a social game, but it still sends a worried shiver down your spine. This is a bigger target than you've hit before, and things need to go just right.

When you're worried about things, when you feel anxious or stressed, what teachings do you draw upon; how do you steady yourself?

***

Canada!

Certain. Sure. You leave Asterion to yell at you to come back, don't you dare, when I get out of here, Mountie...

Pretty soon it's just the noise of her voice, too muddled to make out clearly, as you prep yourself to go up and face who knows what in the arena. Do you take any of the weapons arrayed here? Do you present yourself clearly as Canada, the superheroine, the Great Betrayer? And does the sound of a great metallic clang down the hallway cause you to hurry at all?

***

Étoile!

The Annunaki are preening, puffed-up songbirds half the time, aren't they? Do a little bit of patter, compliment them shamelessly, and they look right past or through you, noticing only the compliments, the appreciation, the attention. You defused the risk of offense expertly by bringing up the offer for tea at her discretion, modeled your daring outfit well (but keep it up, make sure she sees only the outfit and the flash of gold), and asked the sort of silly, servile questions she'd expect from an properly-trained handmaiden.

Keep singing her praises, like Bilbon Sacquet in the dragon's lair, and she'll drop her guard completely, and that's when Marianne can strike.

"Tell her to give the tributes to you, Zimut," she says, again addressing her herald, "and to finish her questions. It does not become one of her station on the Great Chain to offer flawed and incomprehensible requests." Don't worry, she's just negging you to put you in your place, and to get you to spit it out. You're getting very close to the opportune moment. Keep swaying, little cobra, and this songbird will be entranced.

"Oh! My deepest apologies, I'm just soooooooo very nervous! This is my first time gazing upon your most exalted magnificence, and I'm just, like, so overwhelmed? You're even more beautiful than I'd heard! And your voice is just, ooh! It makes my spine feel all tingly!"

Étoile giggles breathlessly and sways her hips first this way, then that, then back again. She reaches up with both hands to tug on and run her fingers worryingly through the tip of her ponytail while her foot continues twistly shyly into the ground. Every move is carefully chosen to emphasize her best features. Here she subtly squeezes her arms together to push her chest out, while her little foot twists constantly put her dancing pant legs in motion. And always her fingers draw her eyes back to her long, golden hair, which they have not let her do more than trim since she was purchased. If she were working on Her Ladyship, this is the moment she might touch a hand to her cheek, but without the intimacy bred by familiarity, that would be a bridge too far. She refrains.

"And your party! It's so amazing, the decor and the venue and the, oh! Oh! Something this grand could only arise from a mind as deep and sharp as yours, O Exalted Grace. And, and My Lady is my dawn and the beating of my own heart, b-but... I, I so rarely get to gaze on sights as wonderful as these. And as soon as I'm dismissed here, I'll have to as quick as I can back to her side. So I was wondering if you could just... not? Dismiss me? Just yet? Oh, I promise I won't take up any more of your precious time! You won't even know I'm here, I promise! I only want enough time to properly worship here, and I know My Lady would smile on me if she knew I did so by your leave!"

Ugh.

Even from all the way across the room, she can feel Celestine glaring at her (no, through her). Well don't you worry, crevette, big sister is at her limit too. There's a flame burning so brightly in her heart she won't be able to hide it for very much longer. She glances up, just for a moment, at the visage of Jerioth ab-Ishtar, her eyes sparkling with ditzy hope. And, a layer beneath that, a plan.

Set's answer to worry isn't a...set one. She'd like to say that's it's always something like how she handled getting rattled with the dark-eyed girl. Deep breaths, center the mind, focus on what needs doing. That's certainly the Zhianku way. They are a people that acknowledge that conflict exists and that the mind will inherently focus on such things. Hence, addressing anxiety is a matter of training and technique. That works, too, and sometimes Set uses it. Especially where there's time. Be conscious of the physical. Feel your breath, slow it. Let your stress rise up from the very ends of your toes, all the way through yourself. Up through the legs to gather in the stomach, then up and out and past the chest, releasing the tightness, out of the shoulders that didn't even know they had a burden on them, and out with the breath.

But, that's also a technique that takes practice, focus, a solid mental state. It's difficult when you're distracted or angry, it's near-on impossible when somebody is egging you on or your reaction is an immediate one of panic or concern. Instinct isn't in the business of just sitting in the corner and waiting on rational decision-making. Set's instincts are a weird mix too. Sometimes she wants to draw attention to herself, other times she wants to run and hide. Sometime she wants to cry and other times she wants to get angry.

Right now, she's got her lips pursed unconsciously and she's leaning over the screens with her eyes darting from angle to angle, watching anxiously and trying to think of a plan to make sure this doesn't get messed up.

[Assess: 5+3+3=11. What here can I use to ensure our route is clear?
What's the greatest danger? (in particular, what does the aim of the guards seem to be?)]

No point concealing herself. If Asterion was loose it wouldn't be long before she made herself known.

Her hands linger covetously over the weapons. She touches a sword and it seems to fill the hollow in her hand. Reflexively she swings it once, twice, turn, counter -

BANG

It comes apart in a blaze of sparks and light and molten metal. She shakes the debris off her hand and stares at the floor. There was only one blade she'd ever been able to trust with her life. A blade that had been mistaken when it had judged her worthy. Just like everyone else.

Instead her hand brushes through a jar of black paint. Her fingers slash a dark line horizontally across her face, darkening her eyes, in the same gesture as she pulls her veil loose and steps into the light. Her concealing clothes are left behind her in a trail. Beneath, a half-cape of fluttering black cloth over her empty right hand. Form fitting armour in violet and black, woven across with glittering silver thread in a short skirt with bare legs and arms. The shield that appears in her hand is a mirror that reflects the sun no matter the angle, but even that blinding radiance is nothing compared to Canada herself. That paint was not an affectation or to conceal her identity - it was a deliberate marring of her radiance out of consideration for the crowd. If she stood unmarked before them they would pour into the arena, heedless of the danger. Instead she was merely dazzling, like staring at the sun through a cloud.

She pointed at the ranking Annunaki, whoever was in the royal box, and gave them the thumbs down. For all her failings, she at least had a little showmanship in her.

Étoile!

It's the hair that does it. Jerioth sits up (a motion that is as ponderous and weighty as the raising of an obelisk, her attendant there to support her hair and be ready in case she has decided to get up), and gestures for you to come closer. You do, naturally. She smells of alien fruits, almost like citrus, and this close you can tell that her lapis lazuli necklace has charms of protection and glory woven in the beads; that'll be your first target.

"It would be my pleasure," she says, one hand on your ponytail. Not possessively, but in the manner of someone who has every right to do so. If she wants to touch you, she may, and there is no question in her mind as to her right; her thumb strokes your golden strands thoughtfully. "But first... I trust you remember your lessons. Show me the Third Hymn of Our Lady's Power."

There's a barely contained huff from behind you; you're holding up the line by being such a suck-up! Now the slaves behind you are going to have to wait while you dance for her, show her the Hymn expressed through your body... but will you? She is so close, her hand offering you a lingering pat, and everyone knows the Phantom Thief is so crafty...

***

Set!

There! In the Saffron Hall, a Lynx wearing the black and gold of the ab-Ereshkigali. She's moving with intent, you can tell even from here. And part of that intent is that she's going to be at the panopticon sooner rather than later. That would be bad, because there's two unconscious guards and one (1) cutie-pie in the panopticon. And also the djinn, of course. Okay, don't panic. It's possible that this is a random probe, or they're investigating corruption and heresy in their sister temple... but it's safest to react as if you've been made. Okay. The guards are likely there to make any attempt on the nobility within fraught with peril. If Marianne makes some grand entrance, she's going to get lit up with musket fire. That also means that Canada's diversion has become even more complex-- they might react by drawing guards from the hall, or they might hunker down and become even more paranoid. The greatest danger on the board right now is almost certainly that Lynx, though. She's got one of those extending poles in one hand, and moves like she's already on the hunt.

As for clearing the route, well, if you're going to be made anyway, you have access to Caphtor and a great view. You might as well let the temple know that something bad's going down. Everywhere. Make up as many false reports as you can: rebels in the stairwells! Thieves in the maternity wards! Truant students sneaking into the wine cellars! Fires, chaos, anarchy!

Marianne would be awesome at this part, given her dramatic flair, but that just means you have a chance, right here and now, to prove to yourself that you're creative, dramatic, and also a really good planner. Yeah! Show Caphtor your best performance!

***

Canada!

The cheers and jeers slowly turn into confused murmurs. You're not the fearful Bull, and that must mean... you're the warm-up? Yes, that's it. The dusk sun gleams off your shield as you pose, and some of the youths lean forward and try to get a better look at you. And why shouldn't they? You are radiant.

Two more elevators release their occupants into the arena: a frightened-looking teenager (what are they thinking, sending a kid to fight Asterion?) with a buckler and saber that he(?) can barely hold out of fear, and a furious Lioness. The rules: three enter, one leaves. But that's not how things are going to go down, are they?

Save the kid. See if you can handle the alien creature without killing it. Prove that your defiant thumbs down isn't just empty bravado. And then challenge them to send the worst thing they've got! This is your chance to be a hero again, and to look good while doing it!

"Oh! Oh yes! Yes of course! It would be my great honor!"

The first step of the hymn is with enthusiasm! Stomp! The second step of the hymn is with devotion! Watch her hips rock rhythmically, like the coming and going of the waves! The third step of the hymn is... does anybody else hear those chains?

There is a great chorus of rattling and clinking beneath Étoile's feet, and the floor bubbles and warps just around the edges of her suddenly panicked footsteps. The Third Hymn of Our Lady's Power is forgotten in an instant and a sudden surge of chains and shadows rising up from the ground like a furious serpent. Matte black links wrap themselves around poor, silly Étoile's ankles; she squeaks with fright and throws her arms shamelessly around Jerioth.

"Oh no! What's happening, what's happening? Oh, save me please, save me do!"

And if her terrified, flailing little arms happen to wrap themselves around a certain necklace woven with protections, she can hardly be blamed for the coincidence. And what happens in the resulting tumble is anybody's guess. The chains are insistent. They wrap and they squeeze and they pull, and together the pair of them sink into the floor. The sound of laughter echoes in the grand room, as dark as it is amused. And then, all assembled are left alone with the knowledge they've just seen another heist by the dreaded Phantom Thief, Marianne.

Poor Celestine must be furious right now.

A floor below and who-knows-how-far down the hall, Étoile is yanked away from Jerioth and lands harshly on her butt. Not that there's time for her to do more than yelp to register the impact before she starts sinking again. The look in her eyes is pure terror. She wiggles helplessly, but sinks like a thief in quicksand. Or perhaps like a sinner, beneath the raging waves of the ocean, dragged down by the great weight of her own guilt. In any case, soon she is nothing but a vision of her perfect golden hair, even now begging to be caressed. And then she is gone.

Bonne nuit, Étoile. Bonne chasse, Marianne.

Her boot emerges from the wall first. It clomps down with malice, and drags a leg covered in tattered gray fabric out next. There is a rattling of chains. Around the waist, across the shoulders, singing the song of revolution against the percussion of a long, fluttering coat. Her hood casts a shadow over her face, but her eyes blaze so furiously that the elaborate loops of gold chainwork that make up her mask shine as brightly as they would in the plain day's sun. Yes, gold. All for her, a lowly human, to wrap herself up in and claim as hers before the servants of the gods themselves, dread fuel for the thing she claims is the power of her own soul. Foul, unworthy wretch. Wicked sinner, with no veil upon her darkened face. Her blouse flutters invitingly. Tauntingly.

She cracks her neck. Marianne revels in the moment and takes the time she can to loom over this Annunaki slave lord. She pulls the bright red glove on her right hand taut over her fingers, and tilts her head up so that her jaw is caught in the light. It may only be a trick of the light, but when she sneers you could swear her mouth is full of rubies shaped like crocodile teeth.

"Sycophants," she spits, "And tyrants shall march together to the same gallows. Tonight you are mine, little slave of Ishtar! You dance to my song. Let us see if you dance as beautifully as your pets, yes!"

She leans forward, and her face splits itself in half with a sharply predatory grin.

[Unleash your powers: 10]

Nothing focuses the mind like a lion attack.

Divine speed plastered over a lot of sins. While her shield seemed to her opponent like an immovable wall of light that blocked and blinded at every angle, each impact ran up through her arm and jolted her shoulder painfully. She wasn't strong enough to absorb the blows without comment, wasn't skilled enough to roll with them and deflect them at angles. "Lucky mediocrity," was the growling assessment of Variance when it came to her combat abilities, and the words rang in her head even now.

Her style is a band-aid over her flaws. She is either a brick wall, taking the impact of the strike head-on, or she's elsewhere - blurring back in glittering lines. It looks effortless, like a swan gracefully and supernaturally sliding around her opponent, leaving them wild and frustrated, but like a swan underneath the surface is furious paddling. Shit. Shit. What do I do? How do I close this out? Each impact hurt, moving this quickly was tiring, and she simply could not see a path to victory from where she was now.

She'd relied on Asterion for far too long. As long as she'd covered her fierce friend's side, blurring in to intervene whenever an attack was leveled against her, then she hadn't needed to think about how to end a fight. She could just defend, Aster could just attack, and they never had to figure out how to balance themselves. She has no idea how to get out of that pattern on the fly, and so with clash after clash, she defends the scared teenager while making no gains and no progress. Shit. This is so much harder than I thought it'd be.

But even though she was flailing, it looked like she was toying with her opponent. The followup wasn't coming because she was humiliating her foe in a move that'd make perfect sense to an Annunaki, surely not because she had no idea how to subdue an angry lioness.

[Defend: 2d6+3 10. Take influence over the kid]

The logical thing to do here is to draw attention. It's clearly the best tactical move. Send Caphtor into a panic and then take up the Lynx's time. That will give Marianne a clear route. Probably make Canada's distraction easier too. As long as Set's taking up time, everybody else is free to act and then, well, the escape should be pretty doable, probably. So, alright time to make this look good!

"Caphtor, Caphtor, did you see that? There, in the prison cells, while you had the security off, there's an attempted prison break! And...and I thought I saw them coming in through the cellars! You'll need to send a squad to every sewer entrance, seal them off, make sure no more resistance fighters can come in that way! This is an emergency alert all the guards, all hands on deck! Oh, oh, did you see that? Down below the eye cameras in the mezzanine, I swear I saw someone with a stick of old-fashioned earth explosives! Hurry, hurry, send some guards down there, scramble everyone, there's got to be some kind of coordinated Resistance attack going on!"

That should probably do it. Especially because she had to set herself up for the arriving Lynx. Let's see, what style would really grate on an Annunaki guard here? Ah, of course, mimicry with sarcasm, they loved that. Set arranges herself so that she's lounging on top of the security monitors (oh and her linen dress might be blocking them from view, by coincidence). The guards are unconscious of course, and Set does her best to adopt that sort of bored, airhead look the Annunaki seem to love so much. She lets her snake crown slide down a little on her forehead, and brushes her hair back over her shoulders. Every part of her screams "Pay attention to me! Come right at me!"

[rolling to provoke the Lynx as she comes into the panopticon to give Set her full attention, nevermind the screens or the djinn or anything else going on. 6+5+3=14 (!). I think we got her.]