Canada!

Getting in to the Temple was the easy part. You just had to disguise yourself as a student returning from an errand. From there, you were able to sneak up into the gladiator cells, which are ominously close to the Academy grounds. Leaving, however? Leaving is trickier. You had to bust through a blockade on the entrance. (The trick was looking through the ominous gate, past the janissaries leveling laser muskets at you and ordering you to stop, and focusing on the statue of Ishtar Resplendent beyond, and thinking: okay, I need to get over there right now.)

But now that you're out, on the streets of Caphtor Below, under the false stars twinkling, you're not out of the woods yet. They didn't just reinforce guards on the exits to the temple, but they've already got hunting packs patrolling the narrow, winding streets. You're being pursued, hemmed in on all sides, and pretty soon you'll end up surrounded and facing down a fight that you can't win, not after being beaten by Asterion; your body's complaining, and it's getting harder to take step after step down the street as you try to figure out how to shake them.

You duck down an alleyway and try to catch your breath.

"ça va?"

Before you can so much as yelp in surprise, Marianne's pulling you through the wall and into a cramped apartment. The only light in the room's coming from a lantern sitting on the central table, and, yep, there's Anathet, too, sitting in the middle of a tablet fort, making glyphs bubble and melt from form to form as she swipes hurriedly through the one she's holding. You're the only ones here tonight. Thank goodness the Resistance came through. You'll have a little time to talk and review the mission here before the janissaries figure out you vanished out from under their noses and start doing door-to-door checks, at least half an hour or so.

Congratulations! You did it! Mission: success! Now, it's time to figure out if this was worthwhile at all.

***

Marianne!

Ah, dear sweet Étoile! She was so accommodating, was she not, setting up this little safe haven? A place where you may convene for a breath, while the cats yowl outside, and discuss what you have found. How did she go about it? What was the process of plucking strings in the web of the Resistance like for her?

(Speaking of her... you do not have much more time, no? Even if the cats were not about to start banging on doors, at their wits' end, dragging out innocents and accusing them of being collaborateurs, the Lady needs to wake to a clean room and a fresh, fortifying breakfast, and, oh, silly little Étoile has so much work to do! How does that make you feel, with your burning heart, with your new trophy proudly hanging from your belt?)

***

Set!

Or are you Anathet now? After all, both Canada and Marianne know your identity.

The tablet you're poring through is poetry, the commemorative epic that Annunaki dandies enjoy spending years ossifying into something so far up its own perfumed ass that it's technically an ouroboros. Managing to get one of these censored is legitimately impressive in some small way. But it's no surprise that The Tiameid was crushed before it could ever be published. Even mostly finished, it's... enlightening. And ominous.

Her vessel shattered, her rage uncontained...

If you unravel the flowery metaphors and unnecessary digressions, the picture that emerges is suggestive. The Annunaki are building another engine here, you know. The beating heart around which another city will coalesce. But this isn't the first engine that has been built on Earth.

"Enki, honored craftsman, keeper of the mysteries / to you I call, armorer, generator, unbegotten but fecund..."

The last time they built one, something went wrong. The poet blames the animals of Earth, brutish and wickedly cunning, for willfully disobeying the perfect work orders that were delivered from on high, such that when TIAMAT was drawn down from the High Waste of LENG into the vessel shaped for her, it shattered into ten thousand quivering shards, and the wrathful spirit reached up to drag down Babylon from the very skies. The fall of the holy city would have shattered the unworthy planet below; another extinction event.

Only, that's not what happened.

In such manner did the Protocol pierce the demoness's throat, descending through her, a burning logic which undid her sinews...

The rest of the poem is about the uprising of the Children of Tiamat, horrific monsters led by GLGMSH which...

Oh. Oh, that would do it. That would get this censored. What was the poet even thinking?

You can't say that one of the High Gods died. Even if you're flowery, even if you talk about her spirit passing into the underworld until such time as it was drawn forth in glory and splendor, even if you assert that GLGMSH did so by the most wicked means and that her death-curse undid his very heart... you can't possibly let the people know that humanity killed Ishtar.

There's a hypothesis strongly supported: if the Ishtar that your marks tonight worship isn't the same Ishtar that invaded Earth in the first place, then it's much more likely that the High Gods are masks used by the highest-ranking Annunaki rather than anomalous superbeings. Or, at the very least, that they're not literally immortal deities, but that they can be replaced if one of them meets an untimely end. Which means that it wouldn't be enough to make some kamikaze run at taking one out, you'd have to take all five down at once.

But more importantly... if you freed Caphtor, she'd die. The High Gods would take up the terrible logic of the Iblis Protocol (some sort of infohazard? an energy pattern that destabilizes Djinn specifically?) and they would kill her. Which means that if your plan has a hope of succeeding...

You're going to have to steal the Iblis Protocol itself.

She's still in her Set guise since there wasn't time to change and just in case someone bursts through the door before they're ready to leave, but Anathet is not putting on the act and instead is practically quivering with excitement! Her aura is flashing pastels if you could see it, going from one thing to the next as she thinks through different ideas. This is big, there's so much here. Oh, oh, goodness the writing here is so stilted, she was going to have to take this, polish it up, and publish it. Oh yes, yes, if this came out from the phantom thieves and started making its way through the markets, the Annunaki would find it of course. Perhaps even start questioning the truth of their gods! Oh, can you imagine, all those links in their chain suddenly seeded with a little doubt.

"This is big! Girls, this is so big. Ah! Where to start?! Okay, okay, so this story, it's like an epic, but kind of badly written retelling of the last time they tried to build a city here. There was a different djinn, this one's Caphtor, but last time it was Tiamat! Whoever was on earth back then, I can't really tell if this was, like, early humans or something, maybe it's our historical Babylon? Anyway, whoever it was they messed it up, Tiamat broke free. She was gonna, like meteor their city into the planet but they've got something called the Iblis Protocol that killed the freed djinn. So, like two important things. We need to convince Caphtor to not blow up the planet when we free her, and we need this Iblis Protocol thing so they don't kill Caphtor!"

Anathet holds up a hand and starts flipping to the other section, not even looking at what Marianne is doing or saying hi to Canada. "Wait there's more though. This story says that after all that, Tiamat's vessel shattered into ten thousand pieces and when she was gone there were, like, monsters called the 'children of Tiamat' led by GLGMSH, and they killed Ishtar! But there's another Ishtar now, so that's gotta mean that whatever's going on with the Annunaki gods, they're not really deities, or like not immortal ones. They can be killed and replaced! I think that means we need to expose them! If we take down one of their leaders and they can cover it up, they won't tell anybody and just get a new one.

Gods, this is huge. This is mind-blowing! We beat them before. Maybe the children of Tiamat are still around, or even GLGMSH?!

I think I should finish the manuscript, I can do it during my days! Then we can publish it secretly, like by the Phantom Thieves. Send it around to all the people and let the Annunaki find it. They'll freak out! And it might let the children of Tiamat and GLGMSH know that we're looking for them!"

From her voice, you might get the impression that taking down an empire with a well-written story is Anathet's perfect fantasy.

Canada staggers blearily into the room, surrounded by the refractive, broken light of a half formed shield forming in response to the sudden danger that had grabbed her in the dark. It's a device formed of pure conceptual power - the shattered reality of her own darkening reflection, her purest self, but even this legendary barricade is no defense against the crashing tidal wave of words that slams into her and pins her against the wall as securely as any chain of the Annunaki. Set is talking.

If her mighty shield is no proof against the flood, then neither are her shining eyes a deadly enough weapon to cut through the onslaught. A gaze that could stun a charging salamander glances pointlessly off of Anathet's forehead as she goes through pages like an industrial scanner. Perhaps that melodic voice is trying to get a word in edgewise but that is a mistake - what 'um' or 'er' or 'excuse me' could disturb a world where djinn are dying, gods are falling, and the earth is saved through the publication of sufficiently accurate textbooks?

And then it stops, and Canada starts like she's just realized that this is a test and she should have been taking notes instead of mentally inventorying bruises. "Uh," she gapes for a second. "Gee-lll-gee - Gilgamesh? Like the dude with the gold? Didn't he live eight thousand years ago or something?" She trails off and goes a little bit red. Thanks for your contribution, Canada! Super insightful! While Anathet was studying the true nature of the ancient alien invasion that defines this planet's history, you were studying the blade.

"I mean, uh... I don't actually -" she coughed and reddened a bit more. "Can you explain how this helps us, um, practically? They didn't, you know, beat us by pretending to be gods so much as by... you know... beating us."

Étoile. Étoile, Étoile, Étoile... precious star, precious shell, whiny brat. Sniveling, sneaking, prowling, begging, mewling...

Weak.

How do you imagine she would go about securing such a useful place as this? Fool. Of course she grovelled. Prissy little twit, playing her politics, paying her compliments, scurrying about from spot to spot making debt after debt of favors to other, still smaller cowards and passing messages between them until at last she had the ear of someone with enough clout to make arrangements. Vive la résistance! That is how they play their game.

And of course when all was said and done and all her paltry currency spent, what had little Étoile accomplished? Only that she had marked off a safe house for others more useful than she. Who would not thank her for it. Who would not credit her for it. Who would never even know that she'd done it.

And what would she do with it anyway, ah? She is a performer swallowed by her masks. She is even less than she seems! I am her truth! I am her power! I am the mover of mountains, the thief of hearts! I am her fire! I am the revolution made manifest! I am the face that haunts their opulent nightmares, and this! Is! MY! Night!

What care have I for the silly worries of darling Étoile? What concern is it of mine if her precious Lady goes hungry or works herself into such a tizzy that she dies, snap! Just like that? Good! Annunaki scum! There is more to judge their kind on than the simple beauty of their souls. Tamytha would never cut herself from her family, so she wears chains enough to drown herself. I do not need to make it happen. I need only wait and choose not to pull her free. There is no such thing as an ethical slave owner.

So I! I will not sleep, non! Marianne will not dive back into the sea of the soul until her hunger is sated, non non non! Étoile, quelle conasse, you can suffer the consequences after. You will need to endure pain tonight in any case. Injuries must be inflicted or they will never believe that Ma-Ri-Ann held you like an enemy. Suffer and be glad for it, Étoile. You are only tolerated because you make it simpler to...

***

Marianne stops mid-stride. She's been prowling in the background of this entire conversation, ever since she dragged Canada's ass back out of the frying pan. There's just enough lull to burn herself into this moment. She barks her laughter: a pair of short HAs as she tosses her head back.

"She means to rot the 'Great Chain' from the middle links outward. Our pretty Set has pinned her hopes on the truth alerting Annunaki to the depravity of their lives. She wants them to join the revolution!"

HA! She sneers, and for a second her face twists with the same theatricality she shows on a Job. It's a useless gesture; she knows her barking doesn't frighten other Phantom Thieves. She's simply angry right now, that's all. A moment later and it passes, leaving her simply cast in the obscuring shadows of her hood and her mask. She does not glow or burn at all.

"Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre, Set. They will not bend their ears. They do not wish to hear your song! The least of them luxuriate in endless comforts; they do not care if their Ishtar is the first Ishtar or the thousandth, so long as she exists. And even if they did, what then? This is not a secret unknown to the true powers of their society. They keep it in a library! They will prepare a spin, Set, and those who do not swallow their line they will disappear and re-educate. You cannot spark a fire by passing out pamphlets. I forbid it. I will not have it!"

She needs another moment to regain herself. These are precious companions, she cannot do her work without them. She must speak clearly. They must understand. She must breath. Breath, yes. Be calm, Marianne. Be still. Patient. She sighs.

"We have plenty more scandals among our spoils if we wish to spread discord among the ranks. But it is essential that they do not guess why we struck tonight. If they know what we know, they will guess what we have learned. If they know our intentions and our needs, they will take greater care to block our path. Not even you or I can walk where they do not let us, Set. They'll crush us like ants the moment we let them. Do you see? Gilgamesh is gone. There are no Children of Tiamat. Just us."

And she lunges, but it's only to draw both other girls into a crushing hug.

"Oh sisters! Be careful! Do not be seen, do not be caught! My time is up. If you need me, leave a mark in the usual places. Remember the rule! Unanimous consent! I do not give it, Set, I do not!"

And with a final squeeze, a shove, and a bow, Marianne leaps into the ceiling of the hideout, and is gone.

Set sighs, looking a little deflated, but pulls herself into a wry smile. Marianne and Canada are right, and Marianne is gone. Set looks at Canada instead. "It doesn't help us, really, Marianne is right. I just, I guess I'm an idealist of a different sort. I thought, I still think that some Annunaki wouldn't support their gods and their chain if they knew it was a lie. We don't need them to come out and found a new government with us as the leaders, we just need them to doubt, to stand aside for us. If a few even helped, all the better."

She lets out another sigh and extracts herself from her perch on the table, settling into the couch instead for a moment, her long linen skirt folding over itself as she relaxes. "Marianne is right though, it's too dangerous now. If they know what we came for, they'll be able to figure out our plans. We can release some other scandals to distract them, there's hundreds of ridiculous stories here about sisters stabbing each other for their inheritance in secret. I think I'm still going to work on the verse. We need this info and it is painful to read. The author obviously had delusions of grandeur. Maybe there will come a time when we should release it."

She settles back and actually looks at Canada. "So how about you, Canada? How was your night? You never even made it to the library, and I saw you ended up in the arena before a lynx smashed all the video screens. Everything going okay?"

One avalanche barely ends before the next begins. Marianne steps over her feeble insecurities like a queen, straight towards the harshest possible articulation of her gentle objection. Where Set speaks in visions and hope Marianne speaks in decree - the royal voice, the raised finger, the scepter that sends knights away on quests. Unanimous, Marianne? Perhaps as those who dwell within the sea unanimously consent to the operation of the tides by adapting their whole lives to those mighty flows. Do you think you do not frighten, Marianne, when you attempt to frighten? Canada has consumed the empty place behind the mirror, a void at her core that is filled with every gesture, every expression, every embrace. Once again she is swept up by those royal arms and brought to a place she did not expect...

And once again she is dumped unceremoniously to the ground as Marianne takes her leave.

And once again Set's words pile on top of her, burying her under an avalanche of data and questions before her knees have even stopped shaking.

"Fine! Things are fine!" she blurts. "It was - it was pretty fine. Everyone is fine. Except for all the people who I didn't save, which was one hundred percent of them - but apart from that it was fine. How are you?" She smiles to show that everything you're thinking about her is probably just a misunderstanding.

Anathet!

You are the transportation for Canada. Without your ability to open portals, you would find it much more difficult to sneak in and out of one of the most heavily guarded palaces in all of Caphtor. Opening the portals to come back is always a little nerve-wracking, isn’t it? Wondering if today, someone will be in the wrong spot in the wrong time, if you’ll be seen, discovered, revealed.

But tonight, there is no one. And now, you are alone. Above, the night sky shimmers through the soft haze of Caphtor’s environmental shielding; it’s raining outside, but no rain was scheduled for tonight, so if you can squint, you can see the distant flickers of raindrops burning away to nothing above the tallest spires. The breeze is dry and cool as it winds through the branches.

The gardens you now call home are opulent. There’s really no other word. The Annunaki take and take and take, and one thing they take are the lushest and most beautiful flowers and plants from every world they conquer. With a rasp of many leathery wings, tiny Bats flutter to and fro, pollinating and drinking deeply of dew.

At night, the gardens shine with bioluminescence, indigo and sapphire and violet, with the path under your feet burning vivid as opals. You can’t let your guard down completely— the gardens are open at all hours of day and night— but as long as you are attentive, you have little risk of discovery. There are few eyes painted here for Caphtor to see through.

The footsteps of the black-eyed girl are silent. She’s... different. Less substantial. You feel the ebb and flow of her thoughts, an acidic sea lapping at your toes, deliberately not overwhelming you with immersion in something so alien and strange.

Frogs (Earth frogs, real ones) croak in the pond. They’ve established a good place for themselves in the patchwork, hellish ecosystem of the gardens: eating insects from halfway across the galaxy with all the absurd stateliness only a frog can perfect. That’s where the two of you stop to talk.

***

Canada!

“You’re up late.”

God! Does she have to do that? Your heart rate jumped up to approximately seven million miles an hour with I’m caught before your heart kicked in with a sigh of longing. Even now, as you turn to face her, you’re still dealing with the physical effects of having fight-or-flight rammed directly into your veins.

Tirzah wears a blindfold. Back when you were traveling together, she spun you a sob story about how she was born blind, and now... well, now you don’t know if that’s true. It’s possible she really can see, and she only wears it because she’s trained in Ammun Vah, the art of seeing without sight, her senses so keenly attuned that she comes off as almost prescient. She can hear lies, smell fear, and fight in absolute darkness.

But it’s also possible that she was blinded, by accident or by intention, to make her the weapon she is. She always smiled when you described things to her, her fingers entwined in yours, her head on your shoulder, as you sat in a dingy diner or out under the stars you didn’t know she came from.

And that is a whole pile of worms on its own. Annunaki don’t fuck their slaves, thank goodness; it’s not just that you’re incompatible when it comes to reproduction, but that it would be lowering themselves on the Great Chain, which is a big no-no. Unthinkable, even. They prefer to ogle you and use your humiliation and debasement to get in the mood.

But, again, and this is very important as she silently walks towards you in the deserted corridor, a floor away from your bunk: Tirzah is very confusing and sends a lot of mixed signals. Maybe it’s you trying to cling onto your childish dreams of marrying her in Paris. Maybe it’s her, twisting you around her little finger and making you her weapon to bring down the resistance from within. Or, maybe (her smooth fingers cup your hip) she wants to slide down that Great Chain like it was a greased fireman’s pole.

“I wonder, why shouldn’t I tell Auntie Rose that you’re sneaking around?” Oof. Straight to “I’m going to tell your manager,” thanks, Tirzah. Well, your manager’s manager: that harsh Thornback works most closely with the domestic staff, relying on the Head Armorer to deal with the likes of you. “I think you should make it worth my while,” she says, spreading her fingers on your collarbone.

See? Mixed. Signals.

***

Ètoile!

So, let’s hear it straight: just how petulant and petty was Marianne in arranging you just so to be found, completely innocent, completely in need of salvation, to be picked up and given pats and ushered back home after a quick interrogation, in which of course you would be just a useless, overdramatic mess?

(You do not know, yet, that there is an Inquisitor here already. Perhaps that would not make a difference to you; perhaps it would make you quail.)

Out with it! When that red tide, that incandescent rage receded, in what condition, in what locale, did little helpless Ètoile find herself, knowing that she had done this to herself, that you have no one to blame but yourself?

Once again, she submerged herself in another's presence. It was so easy.

With Set she was the questioning Watson, the one who gently doesn't understand to help tease out brilliant ideas. With Marianne she was subject, kneeling before the inferno. With Asterion she was a wrecking ball of glass, breaking and broken all at once. And with Tirzah...

She doesn't know how to be. Doesn't know who to be. Please! Please, tell her! Tell her if she should kneel! Tell her if she should stand! Your whole society is based around the Great Chain and that divine promise that everyone will know their place - so tell her where hers is! Why torment her like this, her alone in all the world not knowing if she should kiss lips, hands, or feet. Damn you, Tirzah, please...

She melts, drawn out and in-between and so fragile, a mirror reflecting nothing and rendered into mere inert glass. She aches into that touch on her throat, as vulnerable as the moment she was first broken.

"Tell me how to save you," she whispers. What must she give? There must be something, there must be something of herself still to sacrifice.

Étoile has been judged and found guilty of the crime of not being Marianne. Her sentence is to continue her crime. She will be the furthest thing from Marianne, so that no one would dare to dream of connecting them.

To begin with, her hair is a mess. It's been pulled free from its high ponytail and ruffled so much that it falls every which way over her shoulders and down her back and chest. It's also slicked with sweat, but unevenly, so that some locks cling unpleasantly to her bare skin while others feather alluringly whichever way they will.

Her makeup has also been smeared across her eyes and down her cheeks, which is significant because her veil is missing. Of course it is. It has to be, or nobody would believe she was kidnapped by the wicked Ma-Ri-Ann. This is a subtler sort of humiliation; dropping her in public where expectation and social pressure will force her to act flustered and embarrassed about her situation, while guards leer and make a dozen crude remarks at her expense.

Not that it's stopped there. Marianne has taken the beautiful jacket Lady Tamytha made for her to wear, and thrown it somewhere utterly irretrievable. Her arms, her back, her stomach, most of her chest, all of it is laid bare now. All she has to cover herself as the suggestive bindings that were supposed to be an accent piece more than anything to properly clothe her. It's little better than being in a micro bikini, something she never had the courage to do in her old life. With her skin bared like this, there's also nothing to cover up the fresh lashes on her back. Marianne heated her chains over a fire before whipping herself Étoile to the point of blood. It drip drips down the contours of her back, where the impression of large chain links are burned into her skin.

This is a kindness, Étoile! This is mercy! This is proof that you are loved! With your little body on display it will be easier for you to show your humiliation! With your back in such pain, you will not have to fake your tears! Fret not; wounds like these are nothing to Marianne. This will not interfere with the next job, even if your oh-so-precious Lady doesn't get squeamish and sees you tended to. Now do your work, you lazy, useless, good-for-nothing little pet!

This was the price to get Marianne to calm herself sink beneath the surface again for the night. Étoile is in a state of utter disarray, with her head slumped down into her chest, tied to a light post with small blackened cuffs locking her wrists to her ankles. Best to hope they find you quickly, little star!

[Potential 2. Hopeless. Insecure.]

The garden is a quiet place, especially by moonlight. Artificially kept as a perfectly regulated environment (though both Anathet and the frogs might have appreciated the rain tonight). Anathet, now free of her costume, is dressed in her long robes and monk's veil mixing with her brimmed hat. She almost starts when the black-eyed girl appears, but then again she could hardly have expected anything else. Had she thought about it for more than a moment, she'd have quickly realized that she couldn't conceal her identity here. Anathet was Set and Set Anathet, not a fully separate being or spirit.

She lets her heart rate calm instead, it had sped up in that jolt of momentary panic and surprise. Anathet took out her trowel and started digging, beginning a new patch next to some bushes, just on the other side of the frog pond, perhaps fifty feet from her little hutch. She lets the motion wash through her mind. The slight springiness of the soil, the feeling of resistance turning to give as her trowel pulls it up. She's going to be planting something new here, some lush ferns ("ooh, native from the Earth" the Annunaki might say) with little leaves that coil and roll like their shepherd's crooks. Old plants that come from an age so long ago that most people have forgotten it. They need a deep bed, of course, and there's nobody around to notice when a portal opens up at the bottom of that bed and deposits a collection of black library tablets to line the base of the new hole. Then in go the ferns, roots spreading wide wide wide, and in goes the soil packed in firmly, and last of all some water so they'll grow big and strong.

Anathet's hands are dirty and a little muddy, her robe covered with soil and bits of bark around the knees, and she smells of fresh-turned soil and leaves. For her, this is a memory of fond times and distant Zhianku gardens. An escape, a ritual, and a joy all at once. For the black-eyed girl, perhaps this is something new. A mental projection entirely in the here and now, present in the feeling and strength of the space.

If she really was some kind of Annunaki noble turned into something strange and monstrous, perhaps even one of these children of Tiamat, she may never in her life have done this sort of work. She may never have felt the simple pleasure of moving the ground and placing something there to grow. So, Anathet is making this moment for herself and her new friend. She hopes that the girl will come back and watch the fern grow, it's leaves unfurl and grow broad and flat.

Later, she might project an image of a multi-color five-headed dragon to the girl and try to ask a very confusing question because her first image of Tiamat is a dragon goddess and not a Babylonian myth. But now was not the time for questioning or exploring. It was a time for just being.

Canada!

“I am already saved,” Tirzah says, her tone just as impossible to read: quietly gloating, or quietly resigned, or stating a simple fact. “And I saved you. But there is a way that you can help me.”

Her finger hooks your collar, tugs you closer. For a moment, you’re back then, when everything still didn’t make sense but “Tanya Gold” had chosen you, her lips on yours. But there are veils between you now, and not just physical ones. “It is very difficult for me, now that Canada has come back. Tirzah, they say to me, Tirzah, tell us about her. How did she survive? How can we stop her mind control? How can we find her? I am the expert on her, you know.”

She’s different than the Tanya you remember. Tirzah has different teeth, long and straight and pale under her veils. (That crooked front tooth was designed; it was grown from the gums by magic science and then adjusted with drills and styluses. You didn’t see her for days after the surgery to replace them with “proper” teeth while she recovered.) She should be wearing sunglasses and jorts, her skin blotched like a treasure map, not these stupid slinky see-through dresses that show off skin like bronze, smooth and unblemished and uncanny. Just another reminder she’s an alien.

“I think that it was a mistake for her to come back,” she says, and is that a tightness in her voice. “And that whoever helped her hide might be regretting it.” Her nails are light on your skin, for now. There is a great deal of control in her fingers. “So I would be interested in hearing your thoughts, as a slave to their better. Why do you think Canada risks everything she has been given by this fool?”

(It’s her. She’s the fool. She’s the one who hid you, who helped you, who knows who you are. Who could tell the Inquisitors who you are at any time.)

***

Étoile!

“Twenty shavings says she took it off herself,” the Janissary says to his companion. They have expertly taken control of the situation: now that one stands on either side of you, waiting for the arrival of the chain-clippers (after their commanding officer ordered them not to try shooting them off with a laser-musket, because you were obviously an expensive house-slave and needed all your fingers), you are not a revolutionary sign screaming defiance at the Annunaki, but a Bad Girl who is being punished by display in Six Wave Commons. The loss of your veil is to shame you, obviously, and in conjunction with the lashes is to show what happens when you are Bad and step out of line. And the lack of jacket is because the Annunaki don’t care about toplessness and assume all their slaves stop caring, too.

These Lynxes, evidently, still care. A lot.

“They’re animals,” the other one hisses gleefully. (Like she’s not an oversized serval herself. The hypocrisy!) “No self-control.”

A tail bats in your face. Ack! Hair! Up your nose! “Imagine owning this one,” the male growls. “Having her wake you up for morning drill! Whoops, lost her veil again... let’s look for it in the showers!”

They laugh. That tail is pressed firmly against your lips. Your back hurts. The light is pale and weak, designed for curfew hours. You can barely see the tiles in your shadow. A shiver runs through that tail from base to tip. Gross.

“Oh, human, don’t be silly! If there’s no milk in the rations, I’ll show you where to get more!” The female makes noises. Mouth noises. That damn tail is curling lasciviously against your jaw while the male cackles. Shut up! People are trying to sleep while he’s yakking it up at your expense! What if they open their windows and look out to see what woke them up? More eyes to stare at the little tableau under lamplight. And even if they don’t, slaving away another day without even the comfort of sleep is miserable.

“Don’t worry your silly little face,” the male says, his tail finally leaving your mouth, but working dangerously down your chin and neck towards that tight little band. “I’d teach you all kinds of things you could do without a veil, little slut—“

“Hssst!” The female’s tail fluffs up and smacks you in the cheek. “Great one coming!”

The two Janissaries stand at attention, tails nowhere near you, and now you hear it: clack, clack, clack. Annunaki sandals, impractically heeled. And then one of your worst nightmares looms out of the dim light of night.

The Inquisitor squats down to look you in the face. She’s wearing impractically skimpy armor, made of a silvery metal you can’t quite place, over a bodysuit of swirling, sickly color: bruise-like purples and greens and reds. Her veil is gaudy, purple and black and gold, but her eyes are grey and steady and they’re drinking you in. Be the mask. Play your part. She decides whether you go free or need to be re-educated. Or disappeared.

“She stinks of the demon,” another Lynx says, looming in the dark behind the Inquisitor. “It’s the slave that Ma-Ri-Ann stole.”

“Hmm.” There are wheels turning, delicate and fine like lacework, behind those steady eyes. “Why here.” It’s not really a question. “Marking territory, or perhaps a distraction. It’s difficult to say, yet.”

She reaches out and caresses your cheek. (She’s allowed.) Underneath the cold metal of her gauntlet, her bodysuit feels you, writhing like a worm, clammy and hungry. It wants you. It wants to eat you. Maybe those are the same thing.

“Confess,” she commands you.

***

Anathet!

[love, the deep and enduring love of holding a stuffed animal that you’ve owned your whole life]

The black-eyed girl sinks her ghostly fingers into the rich black soil and smiles. She radiates that love at this: gardening, earth, growing. Then she concentrates and thinks an image at you.

It’s ferns, growing rich and wild. You can hear the insects chirping. You can feel the humidity crushing you. You can see the ferns coiling around a ruined Annunaki outpost as it slowly decays and the sun flickers in the flashing sky. You can taste mud and sunlight, the way that a fern would, the exact way. You can smell the release of gasses from the stinking mud and the rich, subtle scent of ferns uncurling. The shadows yawn and uncurl and the world fragments—

Then you’re back, the sensory information cutting off. It took a moment for something so rich and info-packed and... dangerous. At the end. She was barely keeping control, wasn’t she? She could only avoid overwhelming you with wrongness for so long.

She curls her arms over her knees and scoots closer, like a skittish wild animal.

"Given?" she laughs a little, despite herself. "You should know this, Tirzah. There's only one gift you gave me that I care about - and that's the chance to keep fighting. I left a much nicer home than this to become a hero, and for me, the stakes haven't changed at all."

It seems like nothing's changed. There are still those nails against her throat, marking the passage of every breath. There are still the bruises from a fight with Asterion and the exhaustion from a day of peril. There are still night-time confessions with Tirzah. There's still no guarantee there'll be a dawn tomorrow.

"But you know why I'll never stop. You are the expert, after all," she said. "You know I'll never stop until you're free."

The only thing that held her cover together this long was Marianne's extremely thorough work. Alone with the Janissaries, Étoile could barely keep the glare of contempt out of her eyes. She sniffed unpleasantly as they teased her with their tails, and in one moment she was seized with an almost uncontrollable urge to bite!

But the pain made her meek. Her bindings kept her still. Her embarrassment made it possible to forget her connection to her own powers, and when the Lynx started making lewd faces and noises at her breasts, instead of igniting a fire inside of her it simply put the image of the liaison into her imagination, making her blush horribly, and squeak her feeble protests through that soft and furry gag pressed against her lips.

When she is saved, it is by the worst possible figure imaginable. But she pounces on the Inquisitor's presence like a desert traveler finding an oasis just the same.

"P-please!" she begs, "Please, please! Th-this unworthy..! I, I! Help me, please!"

Étoile fights not to gag on the tail hairs now clinging to her tongue. She dares not try and spit them out. Not in front of an Inquisitor. She tries her best, but it's so miserable! And her back screams with pain while her arms and especially her wrists groan subtler complaints underneath. And there's a hand! On her face! And it's squeezing and there's the voice and it's the same! It's so, so, so like h-her and! And! And...

It's too much to ask of a poor little slave like her. Fragile flower! Innocent handmaiden! Étoile bursts into hysterical tears, right on cue. She leans into that hand that is both salvation and destruction, and she sobs for everything she's worth.

"Sh-she took me! The demon! She t-t-took me to this, this pl-pla-place and, and, and sh-she..." Étoile sniffles loudly. Her eyes are cast down in shame, even as her head is lifted up, "It was horrible! She called me a slut and a t-traitor and she hit me! She took the clothes my m-m-most exalted and beloved Lady Tamytha asked me to wear! I thought I would die!"

She sniffles and squeezes her eyes shut at the memory. She is babbling and useless, prattling on and on about the sensation of sinking through floors and some kind of "Hell", locking on the kinds of images Jerioth ab-Ishtar is probably still dwelling on. She quails with fear to mention the threats: the drowning, the theft of her purity, the promise when Ma-Ri-Ann left poor little Étoile to be found that her shamefully uncovered face would lead to further punishments. She can't take another whipping! She can't!

"I beg you, I beg you! Do anything else! Spank me, march me down the street in shame, call me bad girl, bad slave, bad pet! I am, I am, I am! But d-do-don't hurt me, please! I only," she sniffles again, "I only wish to return to my Lady! She needs me! She needs her little star! I, I don't know anything else! The Ma-Ri-Ann only said a, a... revolution was coming! She wouldn't tell me what it meant! Please, please! Bring me back to my Lady! I am, I just want... I wanna go home~"

How to make this work? As Anathet knelt and took in the world, she knew there had to be some way. "The shadows are part of your mind' she said out loud. It was a statement, not a question. "But you're here now, and we shared the image of the ferns, so you can be in the moment with me."

Anathet tried to concentrate as she was talking. It's harder than it seems! Try to say something out loud and keep your mind focused on what you're saying consciously. You can't let it drift into the background while your mouth runs any which way without thinking and you can't be thinking about what you're going to say or what you just said or how nice the sound of the rain is and how you wish the Annunaki were less controlling when you're supposed to be thinking about what you're actually saying. She's trained though, trained to focus on her thoughts and emotions and to be calm and centered. It's kind of like putting on a coat in a way, doing it intentionally.

This is her experiment, she's hoping, fingers crossed that it will get her there.

[Assess: 6+1+3=10.
What here can I use to safely communicate with the Black-eyed girl?
What here is the biggest threat? (obviously "the girl" but a bit of the what and why perhaps?)]

Canada!

“You never do stop, do you? Idiot.” Her voice drips painful contempt; it is possible she means it. (It is possible she does not.) For a moment, you worry that her nails will draw blood, will trace strange glyphs in red on your skin. Then her hand retracts.

“Count to ten, then run to your room and do not stop. Do not let me find you sneaking around after curfew again.” Okay, look at the positive side: she probably just told you how to avoid the guard patrol, and she also told you not to get caught sneaking around, which she probably totally knows isn’t the same thing as telling you not to sneak around. Think positive!

Tirzah ab-Marduk of the House of Blue Stone (but not for much longer, not with her Inquisitorial trials fast approaching) melts into the shadows, leaving you alone in the low light of night in the House. Alone.

Mark Insecure, as she takes Influence over you and tries to shift your Savior/Superior, which cannot be done. You cannot be more of a senseless martyr.

***

Étoile!

The Inqusitor is handed a small square of white linen by her Lynx, which she unfolds in front of you. The simple veil is completely unadorned, completely opaque and unflattering, about as fashionable as a tighty-whitey, and try very hard not to think about that connection any more than you already have as she loops it over your head, lets it hide your face, acting with silent dignity.

“Janissaries. Escort this innocent home.” Yes! She’s letting you go! “It is no sin to be assaulted by the wicked, as long as you refuse their lies.” She steps behind you, and you hear the sizzling of live-wire lashes. (No, your shoulders and spine say, instantly tensing up, please, not one of those, you asked for anything else, you’ll pass out—) The links of your shackles fall to the ground, hissing, and you slump forward onto your, well, your front, sobbing in relief as the lashes of her scourge retract into her gauntlet.

The Lynxes help you up as the Inquisitor steps out of the circle of dim light around you. “I promise,” she says, and she means it, “You need not fear. I will protect you from chaos.” Then, silence and night and her absence, and you can barely stand out of the aftershocks of terror and the dread of her voice. (She meant it. You could have had cotton stuffed in your ears and you’d be able to tell. She believes.)

Then you are squeezed. Between the thong and the trousers’ waistline.

“Don’t worry, little pet,” the male says, still squeezing and kneading. “We’ll take you home safe and sound, and our little jokes will stay between us, yes?” He’s deliberately trying to keep you flustered and off-balance and meek so that you’ll agree to whatever he wants, and luckily, what he wants is for you to keep your mouth shut, play along with their harassment all the way home, and absolutely under no circumstances to tell your Lady.

He very much wants you to stay off-balance and terrorized and squeaking so that you do not realize that there is a very high chance that if Tamytha decides to take insult to the treatment of her dear, sweet handmaiden, his ass will be in the deepest shit, and you in fact have him over a barrel.

***

Anathet!

It’s difficult, but you manage to figure out why as she slaps you in the face with a feeling of [gratitude; the feeling of unwarranted grace, like being forgiven for knocking someone down] (At least it’s not hammering into you any more. Baby steps!) She’s not like you. You are centered and present; you are vast and certain as an iceberg. Or at the very least an ice cube. But a big one. She is water, moving wherever her own consciousness drifts; if you are an iceberg, she is the salt-sea. She needs to be anchored. She needs something to cling to, so that she can give voice.

Maybe a name. Or a talisman special to her. Or meditation lessons. Being her anchor, offering to be a stable point for her, would be dangerous (and risk changing both of you, like water changes the shape of the ice and is displaced in turn) but you can do it right here and now. Or you can do things slow and safe.

As for the danger? She is the salt sea all around. She is being very careful and considerate. If she wanted to crush you like a bug, you have the definite feeling she could. She might lose coherence doing it, in fact, she probably would, but she could. As easily as you could close your fist.

If your sensei were here, he would tell you that no compassionate act is ever truly wasted; that kindness, when given, enriches the cosmos. That some may act out of deliberate cruelty, but that we should first always find where someone is hurting and try to help them mend.

Reach out. Connect. Help her understand you so that she can understand herself.

Sweat drips from her forehead down into her eyes as an involuntary shudder runs through Étoile's entire body. It stings horribly, which is an extra kind of terrible because the niggling irritation only more attention to how much Marianne's price is wracking her body. It's going to be almost impossible to do all of her chores properly tonight; her only hope is that when Her Ladyship sees the state of her handmaiden she'll be too distraught to be upset at her.

The lynx squeezes her butt. Étoile squeaks like a mouse filled with helium and jumps several inches in spite of herself. Immediately, the pain of her lashes turns her legs to jelly and she winds up flopping limply in his arms. This only earns her further groping. The hand wanders up, and it squeezes. It wanders down, and it squeezes. Étoile can't keep the tiny moan inside of her mouth, and that's when she feels the fingers pinch her thong and tug!

Her cheeks burn so brightly not even this deeply unflattering veil can hide it.

"I, u-um... eep! I can't, uh, a-aahhHH~" she stammers, nearly biting her tongue, "I d-d-doo... eeeheep! Th-think I can walk all the way back. My legs feEEel ffffffunny..."

No sooner has she brought up the subject than the female lynx has pulled in close as well, squishing her between a pair of hot, furry bodies as she gets her squirming thighs poked, prodded, and caressed. Is that so? Is that so? Poor thing! Itsy bitsy little human, do you need the big strong Janissaries to make you feel aaaallll better, hmm?

Étoile's sapphire eyes flutter daintily through all of the teasing. Under her veil it's obvious that her lips are making little puckering motions, and even if it weren't no sharp eared lynx could miss the sounds they make as she presses her body tight against each of theirs, desperate for the attention, or else to take any amount of pressure off her back for any amount of time.

Incorrigible little minx. She's every bit the naughty girl they made her out to be, isn't she? Or, say this about her: she wears her masks well. Her eyes are soft and liquid to the point where even if you knew where to look you'd be hard pressed to find the resentment flashing inside of them. Even Anathet would have to stretch herself to notice that tiny moment, and then it's gone in a flash and a purr.

"Pleeeaaase? Can I pretty please ride in your beautiful, strong arms? I promise, if you tell me your names I promise to tell Her Ladyship how... gentle you were with me. I just know she'll want to reward you~"

She flashes them her softest and most soulful eye-smile as she bursts into a small and tired fit of giggles. Little doe. Kitten. Temptress. Humans really are all the same, aren't they?

[Pierce the Mask: 8 - How can Étoile get these two to give her what she needs to see them punished later?]

Canada's room is lit by crimson light.

There are exactly ten carefully placed positions for footsteps on the floor. Ten steps can take her in a full circuit of this space. It had seemed cramped when she'd first moved in, and that was before the junk had started to accumulate. Spare tires and pumps, chains and pedals and aluminium skeletons - all the paraphernalia of pushbike repair filling every available inch of floorspace. A bed that doubled as a workbench (it was certainly hard enough), that had the work-in-progress bikes removed she needed to sleep. The acrid smell of chemicals clashed with the uncomfortable heat that came from too-close proximity to the building's central heating. The sink was full to the brim with black fluid, and the bathroom had multiple large tubs filled with unidentifiable substances. Jagged black rectangles hung from the shower curtain like salamander scales. Step, step, step - and she was in bed, slumping face down, not looking at the one fully developed photo shining at her from atop the toolbox.

Photograph chemistry and bike repair. They'd always paid her way, no matter where the journey had taken her. Digital photography was the work of the devil, her dad had always grumbled - true artistry boiled within these vats. What's a collection of volts compared to something you could hold in your hands? What's a facebook page compared to something you can hold to your chest? Some part of her had always wondered if he wasn't as proud of her transformation into Canada Taliv, the Light of Ra, as he was of the fact that she'd disassembled the hated mobile phone to do it.

Her fingers brushed past the smiling faces in that photograph, tracing that same familiar line smudged into the glass. She'd turned to look at it again despite her attempt at resistance. The four of them together, close as family - shifting and unpredictable and wild, but oh, wasn't the danger so fascinating? A future that had the colours right even if the shadows had yet to congeal. And then the crashing, shattering, unwelcome white light that had washed it all away before it was strong enough to stand on its own.

It's in that state, mind yearning, heart aching, that the light bulb burns out. She plunges into the dark, fingers against the glass. The picture had been a reflection of her heart...

... but reflections had two sides.

[Potential 3. Hopeless. Insecure. Afraid.]

There's a challenge. Anathet doesn't think she should be the anchor. Maybe in another time, in which she had freedom and focus, she would help this person center herself, strengthen herself, and ultimately free herself. Her soft heart wants so much to help and she yearns to do this kind of good for someone. But the demands of being Set are...harrowing. If she makes herself an anchor, at least alone, then she is offering this girl, already troubled, a very difficult ride, one full of trauma and hardship.

Better to give her a name, a stable self that she can cling to. Anathet is here though, she's centered now and she thinks that she can be medium, like a funnel directing the girl towards a self. What she needs is a name with power. Something that's not just random, but that holds some truth for the girl and will fit her like a glove. Thoughts of famous dragons flash through her mind, or colors and precious metals. Images for goddesses perhaps. Too grand though, too large still. The black-eyed girl needs something smaller, more human for herself. Something like a gemstone or a flower.

"You know, I've always been small." Anathet smiles, almost shyly. "When I was young and growing up on Earth, people would pick on me for that. It's silly that people still judge you as a kid based on how big and strong you are. It makes some sense, parents want their child to be healthy, but I think it's awful that children will hurt other children just because they're smaller. It made me so sad and shy when I was little. Being like...like us I've always hurt more easily too. I could feel the anger coming off someone else and it mixed with my own sadness at getting hurt and just, I dunno, it kind of makes it all worse. I feel that even now, even though I've learned how to, like, meditate and focus and read other people's auras. It still hurts me when they're in pain and angry and lashing out, even if I stop them. Even if I reflect them and throw it back at them."

Anathet sighs and pulls her legs up so she can put her arms around them. Part of her hoped this was getting her somewhere, leading towards some insight into the black-eyed girl that would help her create an anchor. Part of her just liked having someone to talk to instead of just thinking about her past and being sad.

"I guess, you know one of the reasons I was so excited to go with the Zhianku, even leaving my mom, was because even when I first met them, I could tell they understood how I felt and didn't want to hurt me. In a way that people never ever did. They knew to be gentle while I was learning and since they have this ability to read anybody else's emotions, they know the way I felt and the pain I felt. Ha, gods, it must have hurt them when I first went with them. I cried the whole first night, missing my mom and my home. I was sad for days, weeks I think, even while they trained me. All my teachers must have hated that, suffered having to be near me and teach me. What a sacrifice. If I ever see them again, I'll thank them. Especially Kuliana, she was like the person who had to raise me. She used to sew me clothes and stuff too, I don't think she had to do that. But, yeah I really need to thank her, I think she suffered a lot for me."

Anathet sighs and looks at the black-eyed girl. Like, maybe this will conjure something, some gesture of reciprocation, some story of her own self that will help pin down an identity for her.

[Anathet is sharing a moment of vulnerability with the black-eyed girl. She takes Influence and marking potential and the Afraid condition.]

Étoile!

You blow Am’met and Visha’an a kiss and wiggle your rumpled rear one more time as you pass inside your lady’s chambers. The door slides smoothly shut behind you and your shoulders slump like cut puppet strings. You have been groped and rubbed and felt up everywhere. On the other hand, you have their names and even their ID numbers, so it’s really up to you whether your Lady does something about it or Marianne pays them a visit. Mmm. Now there’s a thought. See how interested they are in kissing when they’re dangling from a bridge upside-down...

Tamytha is in her bedroom. You can’t help yourself; you have to go check on her. You pad stealthily through the reception room and down the hall, down into your Lady’s chamber. (The moonlight filters in through the open casings. In the private garden outside, the fountain burbles. Breaking in would be so simple for someone who can get past guards and evade the ever-present eyes of Caphtor.)

In the bedroom, dimly lit, Caphtor is playing an instrument somewhat like a harp. She is mathematically perfect, making music so ethereal and gentle it’s hard to keep your eyes open. In the low light, you can see Tamytha tangled in her sheets, her veil hanging neatly on the bust of Ishtar by the side of her bed. Maybe it’s guilt that makes you linger there in the doorway a moment, but it’s a moment too long; Tamytha stirs, half sitting up.

“Lamassie? Is that you?” Her voice is weak. She always takes a turn after certain Salamander plants contaminate her food. This one’s... this one’s bad. Her forehead’s slick with sweat even from here. “Is it you this time?”

Oh. She’s... oh.

***

Canada!

This time (as it used to do, as it has not done since the day you betrayed the world) the mirror yields. You tumble through, yelping, like the first time you came here. The mirror place. The fortress of solitude. The upside-down. Really, you’ve got your pick of nicknames.

It’s a disorienting place. It’s like a big old house, maybe even a castle, except all the walls used to be tiled with glass. Used to be. More than half of them are broken, or fallen, and what’s behind them is peeling green-yellow wallpaper, and underneath that... you know, you never worked up the courage to dig your fingers in and keep pulling back.

It’s an imperfect place for an imperfect hero. It’s a place that sometimes has just what you need, and sometimes reflects you back at yourself. The worrying thing is that sometimes there’s movement in the mirrors, out of the corner of your eye. Sometimes there’s the intense feeling of being watched, and sometimes? Turns out you are.

Looks like you’re alone tonight (as alone as you ever get). The walls around you reflect you back on yourself, and if you get just the right angle between two unbroken mirrors...

You go on forever and ever, Canada without end, amen.

***

Anathet!

The black-eyed girl touches you with her hand. It’s like the idea of being touched, more than actual contact.

She shares with you, more gently, a sense of being vast and seeing without eyes. The infinite shades of black. The swirl of tides... but it’s as if from far off. Something you remember, but only as something that happened to someone who happened to be you. Tablets, sought; a sense of self, coalescing.

“Tia,” she said. Her lips move, but the word was already shared with you, and there is no sound. She is focusing so hard. “Name. Tia.”

Moments like these are more dangerous to the Revolution than a thousand guard patrols. If the ab-Enkiji spent a month at work on a new marvel designed specifically to de-fang Marianne, whatever they came up with, they would still accomplish less than the sight that greets Étoile right now.

The reaction is instant. In a flash, all thoughts of how she might exact revenge on her Janissary escorts are forgotten. The pain pulsing across her back fades to a dull background hum. Her back and shoulders straighten without conscious effort. Her legs find the strength to pretend they can carry her right now. And Marianne, with one last disdainful sniff, releases her hold on Étoile's heart and sinks deep beneath the surface to await the next night she's needed more than this absurd little star.

It's just Étoile now. And someone's gone and turned her mouth into a desert while she was away. She doesn't answer, except to try swallowing. It takes her several attempts to get any kind of saliva flowing again. And all she does is stand there with one foot frozen in mid step and an arm tentatively reaching out as if it could clear the space between one end of the room and the other in a single gesture. She is bounding across the room and drawing backwards to flee it at the same time, and the result is that she's frozen completely in place.

Her world is the sound of Tamytha's effort filled breathing which is somehow barely audible and yet drowns out Caphtor's music at the same time. It is the sight of the sweat beading on her forehead in the pale moonlight as if she'd been caught in the rain, as though that were a thing the Annunaki allowed to happen under any circumstances. It is the feeling of pain, until it is swallowed whole by another feeling which is called guilt. She swallows again; she's getting better at it as she goes.

Her foot decides to carry her forward after all. Étoile pads softly, deeper into the room. She makes less noise than a ghost as she bounds more than steps, and then prances more than bounds closer to her Lady. Then she freezes again, a fresh statue in the middle of the room. Her hair bobs this way and that as her head darts around the room looking for something, looking for... yes, that will do.

She trots daintily away again. Just for a moment. Just to scoop up a discarded shawl that found the floor when the evening became too hot to tolerate it. She drapes it over her shoulders, though not quite correctly. It's lopsided the way she's wearing it, so that instead of giving her an air of added modesty and decorum she looks more like a silly animal that couldn't figure out how the pretty fabric worked. Lady called for her lamassie, after all. And this way all her bloody marks are covered. They never happened. Do not let your heart tremble at the thought, Lady.

Étoile hops lightly from tile to tile as though she were on an obstacle course and needed to consider each leap to a new platform carefully lest she fall in some sort of hazard pit. Then she reaches the bed and dips gracefully (and gratefully) onto her knees. Her hands tremble as she takes one of Tamytha's in them and touches it to her cheek. And if this were a kinder world, she would cry now. But there are too many masks that need wearing, and the reaction passes by her face to settle inside her chest instead.

"It's me, Milady. Lamassie is really here, she promises. She is so sorry for losing your pretty jacket. She is so sorry for losing your pretty veil. She is so sorry she made you worry all night when you needed her more than ever. Lamassie is a bad girl, but she is here now. She promises."