[b]Shelomit![/b]

“AS-TER-EE-ON!!” Flesh, striking on flesh; ragged cries from perfumed lips; stamping heels and a wave of delight. You are drunk and delighted and The Destroyer’s fist shattered the drink alcove; sapphire wine spills out, pooling in the tile-lines (whatever they’re called) and turning your head. “AS-TER-EE-ON!!” Watching her unleash everything she’s got at this new challenger is better than being high; the angles twist your brain to watch, and you cling unsteadily to your BFF, Debrah. “AS-TER-EE-ON!!”

Then, all of a sudden, The Destroyer screams, grabbing at her Berserker Collar, and guards start swarming her in the arena. “Your excellence,” a snotty little Lynx in Marduki red says to you. “We’re evacuating the gardens on suspicion of—“

“Shut [i]up,[/i]” you say, and shove him backwards. He crumples down the stairs. “ASTEREEON,” you shout at the arena. “Win! Beat them up!”

The Lynx’s Thornback— there was more than one? She puts her unworthy little branches on you. You backhand her, head thumping full of wine, and then get distracted as someone on the other side of the arena throws an entire cooler of white sunrise and spirits onto the diamond, all of them already on fire. Yes! Fire! In honor of The Destroyer!

“Let The Destroyer fight,” Debrah screams, and breaks a bottle over the Thornback’s head.

***

[b]Canada![/b]

Oh. You’re not dead.

There was a moment when you thought, maybe, this time, you actually were, when Asterion lifted you off the ground and suplexed you head-first and you thought, wow, the ground is coming at me [i]really[/i] fast—

And now you’re staring at the top of an elevator. The roof? Or is that on the outside? Regardless, you’ll be fine in a minute, now that your brain’s not being pounded into guilty pieces. Just need a quick breather.

Somebody else is in here, too. From the vague shape in your peripherals, and the sound of their shaky breath that’s going to become crying in a minute, it’s not Asterion.

And that’s when the elevator jerks to a halt. “All non-essential services are on temporary lockdown,” Caphtor cheerfully lilts through a speaker. “Like... please wait for us to handle, you know, the problem?”

***

[b]Mra’al![/b]

Hunt! Your spinal mane stands on end; your mind is a white-hot claw. Your ancestors hunted great horned, tusked beasts on the broad savannahs so that you, in this moment, could fulfill your holy purpose. A shield slips over conscious thought like a vestigial eyelid; you react faster than thought, following the commands of your body.

There is a peace, here, without thought, without awareness. A holy emptiness. Your rod is a part of your body; you use it to push off a viewscreen and rake your claws where the prey [i]will[/i] be. She reorients, in time by a fractional second, and fires at your face; you snap your arm into place and let the blast resound from you, then duck out of the way of the shot returning. Clever tricks! You are clever too.

Your own escalation is instinct; your unconscious mind knows your armaments by heart. The pellets you scatter around the room break into choking, coiling incense.

It cuts off your senses as much as it does hers, save that humans (furless, foolish, mewling) do not have spinal manes, or tufted ears; you [i]feel[/i] her, and in her moment of confusion, [i]leap[/i].

***

[b]Heb Ur![/b]

There are supposed to be seven of you who check that the Troll is here, every quarter-hour. But because the Temple is aroused, and there is an attack from Below, you are reduced to three: yourself, your clutch-sister Mek Ah, and the twitching runt Nga’al, who is granted a measure of Rushing River by his quartermaster. His eyes are, as usual, wide and watering.

The Troll is here. One stony foot is chained to the wall so that it does not wander off. A net serves as its veil; silk would be wasted on these animals. You carry out the inspection: all is in order.

“Did you hear that?” Nga’al’s ears lie flat on his head, his eyes darting, the whites yellowed. You and Mek Ah stop and listen. There is nothing. Degraded Rush-addict. It is not your place to question the quartermaster, so you instead direct your heart’s displeasure at the weakling, too incapable to serve in his place without his stimulant. A growl gets his attention.

“Nothing. Useless [i]shak.[/i]”

***

[b]Marianne![/b]

Jerioth struggles vainly in your arms. She nearly alerted those guards: two Salamanders and a Lynx. It looks like Canada did her job, and drew guard patrols elsewhere; this is half the size of the patrol you’d normally expect here.

The Troll, however, is a problem. Silicon-based life, multi-limbed. Set would love to ramble about them, but for your purposes? They’re strong, take orders from Annunaki and only Annunaki, but don’t tattle on resistance fighters; if you avoided tripping its orders, you could do a musical number about your plan right in front of it.

Jerioth’s face is hot and sweaty under your fingertips. You lift your thumb, letting her suck in air frantically, before pinching her nose shut again. This way, even you can barely hear her frantic, furious grunts. You need those guards out, that troll neutralized, and Jerioth humiliated even more before she plays her part. (And, technically, one of the ab-Ereshkigali— but you have a plan for that, too, right?)

What’s the play, Phantom Thief?