Alexa has never had a fair fight before.

There have been curbstomps, yes. Knock-down, drag-out brawls where one side is desperately overmatched, yes. Battles where the chaos of Ares destroys any semblance of order, battles where she desperately wishes the other side could see how thoroughly they're beaten so they'll run so she doesn't have to hurt them.

But never an even, one-on-one duel where both combatants were the same. It's just something that she's never experienced.

Isn't that exciting, Alexa? Shouldn't this make your pulse pound, your heart race? Finally, a chance to prove your skills! A chance to show the might of Molech is superior, even in an even duel!

But it's not. And she's not. Maybe in other circumstances, where nothing is at stake, she could sink into that enjoyment.

Should she be terrified? Finally, a chance to be expunged by someone who knows her, knows her history, knows what she deserves and why? Someone who will stop at nothing to see justice done for her crimes? Shouldn't that send a thrill down her spine?

But it doesn't.

And it'd be lovely to think that it's because of friendship. Because of tea ceremonies, or shared drinks, or a wonderful afternoon with an adorable wolf-girl.

But the truth is, she's wondering. Struck dumb, almost. Staring at the robot in front of her, hearing the ring of divine ceramics against impossible, nonsensical, mass-produced, unyielding steel. Marveling at the perfect movement, the impeccable defense, the divine confidence, the sheer overwhelming threat.

What was the point? The point in the training, the long nights, the early morning, the pain, the deaths? If the touch of Athena could turn a weak skirmisher into this...

"You are amazing," she breathes.

"HA! Tell me something I don't know, why don't you? As if I trusted that stapled together piece of shit in the first place."

Bella's laughter is rippling and wine soaked, despite all of her restraint. Her whole body is filling with hot, shivering pressure that crashes across her like a wave. And just like a wave, it leaves wetness and longing in its wake. Still dripping laughter, she turns eyes suddenly sharper than her claws to the stage beneath her.

She drinks in every detail this time. Not just the pleasure and the spectacle, but everything it means to be part of the Dance. The stomp of every foot. The crashing, crumbling, crushing surge of machines and the way they tear themselves to pieces or fly into a frenzy that would rival the Ceronians in the name of their Praetor, their Bella, and the Imperial authority that she wields. The way they flood around Redana and sweep her gifts into the furthest reaches of the background, turning her from destined princess to the merest stagehand.

See it? See that? The most beautiful, most perfect person in the entire universe and just this second she isn't fit to be background music. Her role in the unfathomable game the gods are playing is less than the merest pawn. She was music! Lightning! Power! She's helpless against these mass produced shadows of a third-rate emperor. Even the legendary Pallas Rex is just a dancer in the hall, part of the game, part of the show, no nightmare of steel and inexorable death this. Molech probably didn't even know this Cavel-whatever unit existed, and look! Look! This entire stage is nothing but a testament to the crippling inferiority of space and the inexorable glory of Tellus. Nothing here could match the perfection of Nero. Nothing was... worth her love, was... nothing...

"I am in command here," she snaps across her own reverie, "And if anyone here is stupid enough to think otherwise, they won't live to see the next dawn. The only reason they've got room to be so fucking stupid in the first place is because their delusion suits my purposes right now. See what happens the second that it doesn't!"

Bella's heart is beating like it's being squeezed. She breathes as though a dark clawed demon is ripping the oxygen from her lungs as quickly as she can pull it in. Her eyes flash wild and predatory, the flexing of her claws dares her own Kaeri to speak up and try getting off the script. The wineglass in her hand sits with delicate primness in the middle of the storm, unbothered by the noise and fury because it knows that it alone is cared for. The moment passes. Bella lifts her free hand to smooth down her hair and adjust her braid as she eyes Omn with artificial coolness.

"...But you're right. I promised my Kaeri glory and here I am making them watch this farce of a play run itself out in front of them. Thank you. It feels... hmmmmmmnnnnn, good to hear some sane council. For once. Hear that, boys and girls? You've sat on your asses long enough! It's time to hunt. Get down there and show the... ehehahahaha, "Pallas Rex" how obsolete she is. Hunt the Princess, drive her from her precious guardian's side. Push her into every crack, rip her stupid clothes to bits on her back! Push her back to me, and I'll finish the job."

Bella takes a long sip of wine with a distant, unfocused look etched across her face. The taste is more sour than she remembers it, even from just minutes ago.

"Oh! And... remember to show restraint, would you? The Princess hates blood, so don't spill any. Fuck this up and I'll carve you in half. Understand?!"

“Galnius? Darling?” Vasilia smiled sweetly. “It seems you’ve bumped your head in the crash. And, I do so apologize for that, I’m usually far more precise when steering blind. If only I’d landed us more smoothly, you’d have surely remembered that Redana takes orders from me. You surely didn’t mean to imply your station lies higher than hers, did you?”

She lazily extended her claws, flicking at a bit of nonexistent dirt.

“Now then; would you care to repeat yourself?”

[Rolling to Talk Sense with Grace: 3 + 2 + 2 = 7. Vasilia wants Galnius back under her command, now.]

Redana!

Oh didn't you come on lightning?
Didn't you come in haste?
Pretender
Empress
Ignorant of power

Bella is before you, hair braided back in Molech's dreadlocks, tilting your head up on the tip of her sword. Oh how she smiles, though her face is the glass mirror of Dionysus. A droplet of saliva falls from her mouth and runs down the gleaming metal until it caresses your cheek like a lover.

Didn't you come to stop me?
Didn't you come to save them?
Stars
Empire
The long view is your weakness.

Watch.

Dionysus-Molech-Bella reached up into the sky, fingers fastening around the intact Spear of Civilization, brandishing it above her as she readied her throw. She aims not at you, but at the stars themselves.

You were too slow

And she began to cast the spear.

A sword is in your hand.

You strike on instinct. You strike because the music and the rhythm and the dance allow nothing less. You strike because Aphrodite grasped your hands and dragged them forwards in a motion so vicious it could only have come from the God of Love. You strike and your sword shatters in golden fire and (Bella)Dionysus(Molech) falls in a rain of colloidal silver as her spear shatters into ten thousand splinters.

[Lose your rapier]

Alexa!

"Well, thank you," said Cavel-4954, slipping into your grasp like mercury. She's so small and fragile that you're terrified you'll break her even as she sweeps you off your feet. "It's nice to be appreciated! After all, we all have you to thank for this."

She sets you down after her pirouette is finished, and then tries to take your heart with her spear.

"After all, Molech was the Emperor," she said, voice phonetically sharp, dripping with intelligence and danger. "Blessed by Zeus. Beloved by Athena. Paid up in tribute with every other god. Even the intervention of Hermes could not stop him. Only one god could possibly bring about all this ruin. Only one act of hubris not accounted for in his calculations."

She fell against your shoulder, sighing affectionately against your sculpted muscle even as her spear came for your back like a viper.

"You bought the wrath of Aphrodite upon him, traitor," she said like a serpent. "And not all the gods together, not Zeus herself, could stop him."

Vasilia!

"We do not take orders from -" Galnius started to argue, then stopped as she glanced around - sniffing out the almost imperceptible shadow of another unit of Kaeri moving in the distance. She's sharp - the kind of sharp that blurs the line between perception and precognition. Apollo's champions are often like that.

"We will talk about this later," she said darkly, and with a mighty strike of her spear she shatters a hole in the marble wall of the bathhouse and leads her soldiers through into the service passage. This is a confrontation deferred and not resolved, but for now she's at least not contesting you.

Stepping into the service passage, though - perhaps the battle against the Kaeri would have been less hellish. It is like stepping into the throat of a dragon - hot and wet, heavy with steam and with fire in the distance. Underneath your boots bones crunch and weapons clatter. A terrible battle was fought here, and shattered machines and slain Ceronians pave the surface.

A steady flow of hot, wet air pours past you, dragged towards that distant fiery light. One eternal breath filling terrible lungs, a breath that is trying to swallow the sky. The stories of Tartarus never seemed so immediate, not least for the fact that Hades leans against a wall staring at you with azure eyes.

Bella!

It is a different kind of power to see the Kaeri move. To unleash the machines is to command a tempest; to dispatch the Kaeri is to cast a spear. A whirlwind of shadows and feathers rush past you leaping into dark feathered glides as they cascade down into the arena. Where they must they go through the machines as though they were forged from paper, though so great is their speed and stealth that they rarely must. They progress like poison through a racing heart, and like poison no blood will be spilled as they do their work.

"Projecting nature of conflict," said Omn. "Analyzing. The Dance will deprive the Princess of her weapon. She shall be forced to disengage along controllable paths. Her path will terminate in the Aspects. If the Praetor desires, we can be waiting for her there."

Dolce had a thick coat of insulating wool, and an upbringing on a perfectly temperate and pleasant planet.

Vasilia had an entire ship to look after, a detachment of hoplites that were behaving rather rudely, a lost princess, a lost comrade, an entire voyage to plan, and a rescue operation to carry out.

Which meant that Dolce was not in the least bit uncomfortable, and that he also had to respectfully communicate with their divine employer. It was only fair.

“Good day, Lord Hades.” Dolce bowed from the waist, thinking of iceboxes and fresh snow and blustery winds and “We have stopped here to procure a machine mind, to more quickly navigate the stars in your service. Once we have it, we hope to be underway soon.”

There is a crown of pain around her head. It throbs in time with the distant beat. Distant? Still loud, but not shaking her bones. The pitted, dilapidated stone is cool against her forehead, and that coolness staves off the urge to lie down until the world steadies. Her arm hangs limply by her side. Her fingers are still locked around a twisted ruin of metal; with her other hand, she scrabbles at her fingers, pulls them away until the smoking hilt clatters onto the ground.

“No,” she murmurs. What she means is: Bella isn’t Molech. What she means is: she isn’t Nero. What she means is: take this cup of bitter wine away from my lips. Please don’t make her drink. When she pushes her left hand into her sealed pocket, the comforting weight of the golden obols is gone; she has no offering left to make.

She crushes her eyelids shut and shakes like a cat about to bring forth hair. No. Control yourself, Dany. You are watched and witnessed. The gods move behind the curtains and the world bulges and thins where they walk...[1]

She lets out a ragged sob, and then straightens, chokes back more. They came here on a mission. A core, a map, a lead. If she can find it with Alexa...

The attack is sudden, without provocation. The claws kiss her skin sweetly, tearing through the durable weave of her spacer’s coat like it was woven of cobwebs and morning dew, and for a moment she thinks that Bella has come to kill her or— but no. Black feathers and silence. Kaeri[2]. The owls of Athena. See all, say little. Her sword arm chooses this moment to throb to agonizing life, hot needles and pitch, and the sound that comes out of her hoarse throat is animal. Her balance is off; she stumbles into another, there without the appearance of movement, and vicious talons press against her chest, feathers whispering against her throat. She tears free, undershirt tattered and spilling open, and hurtles forward with the panic of prey. Her arm bounces and fills her mind with white hot agony, too slow in its recovery; her legs move independent of her, Auspex pumping raw data into her nervous system to keep her footing as she flings herself outwards, away from the dance, away from her friend, away from her Bella, into a maze of war-blasted streets and desolate monuments.

And the Kaeri follow, silent, unseen, like the Hounds of Artemis baying at the heels of their former mistress.

***

[1] Somebody smart said this. Pseudo-Dionysus? Vermillion of Amas? Seven Righteous Flame of the Pentateuch? Who cares? They all came here, to this, the lid peeled back and away, seeing the monstrous stirring of divinity as a sailor clinging to driftwood sees the intimations of a whale close below. This is a shared experience state. This is shamanism.

[2]: for more information on their cultural exploitation points, optimal deployment strategies, and uses in conflict, see Annals of Athenian Victory: Vol. XXI, XXVI, XXXIII.

"I am beneath the notice of the god of love."

The sentence comes out automatically. The words have been trained, drilled, and practiced, until they can be martialed into formation on command. But there's a quaver there, words which come out just that little bit too quickly. It's less rebuttal and more reassurance.

It's not like she's neglected the rituals at any point, you understand? Aphrodite must be respected as any of the others. She makes the demanded sacrifices, performs the expected rites. But she also understands that it's not a matter of tit for tat, of exchange of worship for romantic conquests. She cannot love or be loved, so why ask for the impossible?

But...

But there's always a but, isn't there? That gnawing pit of uncertainty, churning in her gut. Did she offend Aphrodite in pursuing Minerva?

Even worse, was it because she didn't when it counted?

No, that's... That can't be. Cannot be. It'd be insane. No, that's wrong. Has to be wrong. Can't be right.

If there's any justice in the world, it's not right.

"I want that, yes. That's exactly what I want. Take me there, now!"

Bella's lips are plastered in a permanent smirk that almost hides the twitching of her claws. She crosses her legs with liquid smoothness, but makes no motion to stand. Behind her back, her tail is curling close against her body. She clamps her hand on the armrest of her throne and squeezes until the stone splinters.

Why? She's already given the order. She should be standing, striding, sauntering leisurely to the end of the rainbow to collect her treasure and take it home. But she doesn't move. But her throat is dry in a way that doesn't call for more wine. But her head is buzzing and her eyes are carving out the lines that would reduce Omn from a model advisor to a pile of ribboned scrap metal. It's told her nothing that doesn't make sense. It's suggested nothing that displeases her.

But the overwhelming urge is there anyway: pounce. Now. Do it fast and tear it down before it's too late, Bella. Return your power structure back down to yourself and no one else. What does she need with an advisor anyway? She sniffs the air as though hubris or divine punishment were things with scents that could be plucked out of her surroundings and carried home in a jar. That would make a lovely perfume, wouldn't it? Essence of Athena's Wrath.

Bella tears her gaze away and watches the battlefield below. Redana has already fled. Her Kaeri have already melted into the shadows and stalked after her, she can just see their path by the trail of machine corpses that got too swept up in their Dance to know when to get their heads down. There's nothing of interest left down there except the divine proxy-skirmish between Alexa and the crazy piece of shit. So sorry to cost you such a nice toy, Princess. She sneers.

There is a trap here, she can feel it. Closing around her neck and choking off her air, she can feel it. Why can't she see it? Which god has she offended? Which cruel Fate is planning to snatch all the good things away from her that she's had so little time to... ah.

Her eyes narrow, briefly. The flick over Omn with new appreciation and appraisal. Ah, but it's you, isn't it? You're the bridge too far. You're where humble servitude crosses over into arrogance. You're far too nice a toy for a lowly servitor to keep, aren't you? Ah! But isn't this convenient? Redana's about to be down her own little doll. Wouldn't this one make the perfect gift? Not an... no, not an apology. A peace offering. Yes. She'll love it!

Bella lifts off her seat like a shadow melting into the spaces a probing light leaves for it. Her smile comes easily, now. She even allows herself another sip of wine. She's such a good girl. She's so good to her princess. But there is ground that must be traveled and work that must be done. Oh! But it feels good to serve!

Redana!

For all the noise of the carnival nothing has ever felt so silent.

All you can hear is your blood. It rushes in your ears so hot and loud you can almost hear the nanites clink together. All you can hear is your pain. Hot liquid forces itself into ravaged muscles and demands, demands, demands. You are carried on wings of fear and agony. Hark! The Kaeri come!

Every child knows the tales of the Warriors of Ceron; martial legends crowned seven hundred years of glory in Imperial service. Unconquered, the wolves call themselves, for it was the diplomacy of Emperor Songast who brought them to her banner and rose to overthrow the Azura at their mightiest. They are the warrior-servitors who fight in the heat of the sun and the gaze of the gods to the renown and glory of all. None such for the Kaeri.

Instead, most people simply think of the Kaeri as jokes. It is not that the Kaeri themselves are considered incompetent - quite the opposite. They are considered so comedically, over-the-top effective that implausible military coincidences are jokingly attributed to Kaeri operations. A flash flood destroys a troop convoy? Kaeri action. Our scouts somehow didn't spot the enemy army until it was right on top of us? Must be Kaeri mercenaries. Enemy dictator struck by a lightning bolt from a clear sky? Make sure to thank the Kaeri liaison.

They don't feel like jokes now.

To be amidst them is like being in the wordless, slipstream control of a cloud of starlings. They play games with your attention, each new strike coming right at the moment when your attention has locked onto the previous one. They get inside your rhythms of combat, inside your habits, inside your loops. They are warriors who know more than any other how to make victory seem impossible.



Alexa!

"The lowest bacteria in the darkest cistern on the most wretched asteroid is not beneath the notice of the God of Love," said Cavel-4954, almost absently striking out with a shattering hooked kick to knock you clean onto your back. "Aphrodite is the father of Zeus, of Poseidon, of Hades and grandfather to all the Gods who sprang forth from them. Aphrodite is the bloody womb of Cronus, torn free and staining the stars red with desire. You denied his power. And for your hubris the galaxy burned."

The Cavel unit spun her spears as though preparing the killing strike - and then spread her arms to toss them aside like child's toys.

"So it would be really dumb for me to stab you here, huh?" she said with a strange energy. "We're going to do something way better instead! Candidates, come forwards!"

A strange crashing force of unity ran through the crowd and chaos. The anarchy seemed to quell and attention began to focus on you, here, in the centre of everything - as you were approached by three machine intelligences wearing roses painted onto their carapace.

"Batchelorette number one is a Pisel class dock loader!" said Cavel-4954, catching the microphone tossed to her by a machine in the crowd. "She's a working class girl, no doubt, but with her two story height and heavy industrial lifting crane she just might be the one to sweep our contestant off her feet! Give a round of applause for Pisel-1132!"

The enormous armoured piece of construction equipment lumbered towards you to the sound of an arena full of polite applause.

Dolce!

"Well," said the God of the Dead thoughtfully. "You'll certainly find that here."

Before there was time to clarify you emerged into the fires of the Styx

A Machine Intelligence increases in mental ability linearly and with diminishing returns. A house sized construct can perform the functions of a genius astrophysicist, a prize component for a mighty warship. Building something larger would be like trying to breed a horse the size of an elephant - expensive, impractical, arguably pointless and likely to collapse under its own weight. A project for an Emperor, in other words.

From atop bones and ruin, you survey the mind of Molech. A cathedral of clattering gears and pounding abacus beads, a roaring rumble of spinning marbles and clockwork binary. Here below his beloved and utopian baths is his inverse, his hated nightmare master computer by which he attempted to derive and isolate chaos from the galaxy. Everywhere are the signs of the owl, the blessing of Athena worked into every eternal and perfect cog. Everywhere there are fires, ruin, collapse as the works of man fail to contain the burning God trapped at its heart.

It goes on for miles, this mechanical vista. This is the heart of the Palace, stained with the blood of Emperors.

Bella!

"Compliance," states the machine as it leads you to conduct your orders.

And yes... this would make an effective gift, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it be nice to have it in the house, knowing that there was a machine immune to bribery, corruption or political intrigue? Wouldn't it be nice to have something around that Mynx couldn't easily shapeshift into? Something like this could be safe. Could be reliable. Could be useful! Redana didn't yet have Nero's political nous, so something like this would make a lovely set of training wheels for a future Empress...

Almost. A frown sneaks its way onto your face, thoughtful and habitual. For all its good qualities this machine was not well tended. Its copper plating has tarnished and developed veins of verdigris, it has - admittedly perfunctory - warpaint markings, it's acquired some sort of chainmail veil thing. Some of the machine intelligences exalt in their aberration but these alterations feel resentful, minimalist, more like weathering than celebration. Your tail twitches as you start to identify Omn as, more than anything else, something in need of cleaning.

"We will reach the Aspects shortly," said Omn. "Staff assets there remain under administrative control. Time remains, if you wish any specific environment to be prepared for the target. Would a cage be desired?"

Beside him, Vasilia stifled a gasp behind her hand.

Dolce had seen starships and planets and the infinite gulf of the void, and if you’d handed him a tape measure right this moment, he’d set out to prove this was bigger than them all. For one, nobody had put a planet inside anything before, and that seemed to make it all the grander. But this wasn’t some inert ruin either. It was moving. It was thinking. It was alive, in most of the senses that mattered. And not a one of them could see to either end of it. “That.” He blinked, and rubbed at his eyes. “That is a little too big for us.”

“The mind of an emperor. And it still lives…” Vasilia murmured intently. “Interface, interface, does anyone have eyes on the interface? Oh, just think of the intelligence in this behemoth-!” She dashed on ahead, and Dolce had to tear his eyes away and follow.

“...it is too big, right? There’s not a room for this onboard we haven’t found yet? Lord Hades?”

I've never had a hubris of my own before.

It's a strange thing for her mind to latch onto, no? Such a small detail to focus on, and probably patently incorrect to boot. She, Alexa, had brought down the wrath of a god on an Empire. She, the scion of Molech and Athena, had singlehandedly destroyed an empire spanning the galaxy. She's known for centuries that she was the Warsage's downfall, but she hadn't realized that it had happened so early! Not even in ignoring the rituals, or in performing them wrong, but in believing that Aphrodite didn't--

But so long as she's focusing on that, she can put off thinking who told her to believe that in the firs--

No. Don't. There's not enough time for--just focus on the present, okay? Like the two--no, four? Call it four robots. Two. She can do two. Caval and--shit, what did she say her name was, did she say her name? You should be good at this, you got training specifically in remembering people at court, you useless--

How is a Pisel-class loader even sentient? You don't need to give a crane a big brain--just enough to move to location A, recognize target B, and figure out the best path to move it to location C. You expect her to believe that in two hundred years, she--it?--she had just, just, decided it was going to be something different? Is that even possible? You are what you are, you don't just--

Caval gives her an encouraging shove, and she staggers against the crane's dangling hook. "But I have a girlfriend," she very carefully does not say. A), it's not true. Not yet, at least. B), if it were, that's exactly the thing you should never tell somebody who has a grudge against you.

One wide-stretched eye flits to Caval, and then up, up the crane. They're really serious about this, aren't they?

She takes one hitching, heaving breath, and sits in the hook of the crane like it's a swing, lets it haul her up to eye level. "It is," she hesitantly decides, "a pleasure? To meet you?"

The wave of pressure builds up behind her eyelids so slowly she doesn't even notice it until it's too late. That moment when elation turns to raw stress. Now that she feels it, it's too late. Much too late. She squeezes her eyes shut in pain and scowls, but even the sensation of her claws against her skin isn't enough to relieve the tension. This must be fixed.

"Hrrrah!"

With a viper-quick snap of her wrist, Bella lashes her claws across Omn's space. For a brief moment there's nothing but the sparks between them and the echoes of her exertion. And then the chain-veil drops to the ground in shreds with a series of dull clinks.

"Moron. A cage is useless as long as she's got the Auspex. Though maybe if... hrrrgh, don't distract me. Just, just send for a plasma grinder. And as much solvent and cleaning chemicals as you've got on this stupid planet. We're running out of time, and you need to be presentable for the Princess before she gets here."

The tension ripples up Bella's arms and then across her back. Bile rises in her throat, and her tongue feels drier than an oven, but she sets her wine delicately on a table next to her still half finished. There is Work to be done, and she's the only one talented enough to be trusted with it.

"...Bring pillows, too. And more wine. And a strong strip of clean linen. And... and I want a good chair!"

Bella growls the entire time she's working. The bitter stench of cleaning supplies makes her heart race and her tail lash uncontrollably. Her ears ring with the sound of the grinder as it tears away bits of corroded metal from Omn's body. Her fingers stroke the smoothness that remains, catching sparks with her claws wherever she picks away a spare fleck too delicate to reach with tools.

The twisting feeling inside her stomach is confusing. Good girls do their chores, bad girls miss a spot. Bad girls are punished. The spark of fear that thought recalls is as ridiculous as it is potent. It's not her handlers she imagines in this moment, but the Empress herself. One green eye, one blue, the same as her daughter. Only... the sharpness in both of those eyes could cut a servitor to ribbons even faster than Bella's claws. Redana has none of that. And she mustn't. She mustn't ever. Bella swallows despite the dryness in her throat, and works faster.

Omn is starting to shine, surely restored to the point of glory it hasn't reached since Molech's stupidity turned his empire into a history lesson. Hera's hand is upon hers, Hera's miracle is the motion of Bella's arms as they become more rhythmic and less flustered. It's the way that her tail shifts from agitated lashing to playful swishing. The miracle of song is in the air that turns frustrated growling into the soft humming of lullabies and hymns that used to captivate a certain little princess when nothing else would hold her focus.

Bella steps away and observes her good work. The sigh that escapes her lips feels like unwinding several weeks' worth of tension in a single motion. She reaches automatically for her wine, and allows herself to lounge in the chair the machines brought for her just as she'd asked. She is a Good Girl.

In the dark surface of the wine, Bella's smile ripples back at her. She drinks the air around her with the same savor as she drinks the rich, sweet liquid. It is impossible that Redana won't see how hard she's worked. It's impossible that Redana won't realize where she belongs. Simply impossible. She's done everything right. Everything. Now the only thing left to do is open her arms in the offer of comfort for the silliest of princesses, and let that motion carry them both to the only place they belong.

It's time to go Home.

Stamina is not in question. Neither is speed, neither is grace, neither is will. Redana Claudius trained for the Olympics, and under normal circumstances, not even the Owls of Athena could keep up. But this is not a normal battle[1] and this is not an Olympic track, under the lights and the eyes of the cheering crowd, sacrificial smoke lingering in the air as she opens the throttles of her heart and lets air cycle through the seven stations of the body. This is animal panic and pain and desperation not to be caught, even as every moment the Owls prove that they could, if they wanted, if she stopped being entertaining, if she proved herself exhausted, catch her. So she must not stop. She must not grow tired. She must have wings like eagles in the palace paintings, the eagles that only lived in the Imperial Menageries as art projects created by her mother's finest genetic weavers. She must be Artemis on the hunt, Hermes quick as thought, Zeus in her aspect as victor--

The claws shear through her belt, and she sheds another layer of her defenses, letting belt and tools fly behind her. There is no laughter. There is no chittering amusement. There is no mockery, save for the silent blows. They are herding her like a doe, but all she needs is a moment to break through the unseen net, a sign from on high. Until such miracle, she must simply run, and run, and not think. Thinking is impossible. Thinking will get her caught. Thinking is drowned out by the headache, throbbing, blinding, behind her eyes, as she exerts harder and harder, her skin dry and hot as she pushes hard; she is master, not water, her will is iron.

Her will is nothing. It is blind momentum that keeps her from falling onto her hands and knees and begging the Owls for a time out while she fumbles for a canteen. And there's no Bella here to cheer for her from the sidelines, white tail swishing with its beautiful pink bow while she claps her hands, cheering words lost in the engine churn of muscles and the breath ringing hot and furious in her head. No Bella at all.

Don't think.

Don't hurt.

You're not going to hurt her.

She can't have caught up. And she'll... don't think about that. Don't think about her. Don't think about being held by her. Being told you're coming home. But the thoughts that break through the surface of the froth are colder, crueler: long dreadlocks and long fangs, a Strategist's robe and a spear. And here a Claudius again. No. No. No.

Here, a vaulting leap, a ruined and twisted bridge shattered by starfall, but the leg buckles underneath her as the Queen's vengeance lances through her, throbbing, agonizing, and for a moment her stomach plummets as she looks down into the slit-brown waters, and then there's a hand around her wrist, cold and taloned, and the sudden stop threatens to pull the arm from her shoulder, but she's throwing herself into the pull, momentum sending her hurtling into the framework below once those sharp fingers suddenly release, and then she's moving, still moving, clambering like a golden-eared monkey hand over hand, and the shadows all around her both empty and full of threat, and if she shuts her eyes and lets herself move by instinct she's doing the bars, racing a complaining Bella whose tail drags on the sand behind her as her rounded black shoes dangle over the sand, and Watch

She misses a handhold and hits the duracrete rolling, vaults up on her palms, and crosses both hands in front of her chest to block the blow. Fight. Fight fight fight! Golden fire and silver shards! The three(?) leave one path open as they circle, and Redana howls as she pushes off her lame leg and launches herself between a thorn-hedge and once-gaudy brick, hearing (on purpose, they want her to know) the scrape of talons on the rooftops, her hair unfurling into a golden flag as her tie snaps, severed without her even seeing it.

A belt loop catches on a protruding branch of the hedge and she slams her head into the brick wall, stars exploding behind her eyes, the Auspex's data garbled as it jars, and the soft whisper of feathers behind her, and she throws herself forward and sheds her skin like a serpent, hits the pavement on her good knee and rolls forward, head tucked in, and keeps running, the pulsing purple veins in her leg starting to glow, to glow, to shine--

And then there are more Owls, there, too, arrayed with pike in the square, and so down she goes, down, hurtling into the darkness below the city through the open access hole, where there is no light, no light, nothing but the flash-sensories of her Auspex scanning through different wavelengths, dry as bone where once there was a great moving of unclean waters, and the Owls can see in the dark, why did she come down here, but if she just keeps running, just keeps running, she'll outrace even the mirror that shone with Bella's laughter. Even that, even so. Just become motion, transcend pain, pain is for the embodied and she is become motion itself, the force acting upon a body, and if she floats over her own shoulder, the pain becomes something known and disregarded, so run, run, Redana, run.

Run to a miracle.

***

[1] There is no such thing.

Redana!

You might have done it.

Your body is adrenaline and instinct and data. You've never been so in tune with your Auspex. You just need to run until the gods smile upon you. The spirit of the swift messenger who carried the warning to Marathon runs with you, mother Zeus runs with you, perhaps even the touch of fallen Hermes' caduceus touches your heels. You run with Imperial grace and the Kaeri formation stretches just a little too far as it flocks to keep up with you. For a moment you see the weakness of the formation. Zeus, Auspex and instinct unify into one. You move. You might have made it.

But too late you see Aphrodite standing in the shadows.

One of the Kaeri moves impossibly. Her limbs extend like rubber, extending a meter in length to catch you by the shoulder. All your momentum goes wild. You're off your feet, falling, flying, flailing - and landing softly in familiar arms. You're being held in a princess carry far too gentle for the black-feathered Kaeri blinking at you with reptilian eyes - and yet so firm that all your strength couldn't tear you from it.

"Shh," whispers Mynx. "You're safe now, Princess."

She opens the door into the Chamber of the Aspects.

Alexa!

You stare into the optic lens of the crane. Then you let your eyes trace across to the painted on eyes somewhat to the left. Neither of these feels correct. For its part, the Pisel lets out an industrial klaxon blurt that... sounds friendly?

"Instant chemistry!" said Cavel-4954 from below, gesturing for the crowd to applause. "This sure looks like a power couple to me! But don't get your hearts too aflutter, shippers and spaceships, because we have plenty of more candidates! That's right, we're going to discover Alexa's true love even if we have to go through every single machine on Baradissar! So what do the Augurs say!?"

Spotlights are swung around to focus on a council of four machine intelligences - one of whom is a surviving member of Molch's Board of Omens, and the remainder of which are random constructs haphazardly dressed as the originals. They buzz in conference and hold up signs to express the score they're giving to the match - 9.8, 4, 7, 8. Cavel-4954 makes a disappointed sound. "Oh, I'm so sorry Pisel-1132, it looks like they just don't ship it! Everyone give her a big round of applause, and don't worry - there's sure to be someone or something out there for you!"

The crane lowers you to the ground with slight regret. Okay, so that took about... a minute or two? So if there are a billion machine intelligences left on Bardissar you'll be out of here in a reasonable 2,000-4,000 years at worst.

Vasilia!

A silhouette looms out of the dark of broken lights. A giant of wild fur and gleaming metal, a machine beast. The musculature is herculean, a warrior in his prime. The mane of hair and knee-length beard speaks of a primordial savagery, and the spanners, screwdrivers, and plasma-cutters braided into it speak of the height of civilization. He is naked but for his hair and his scars which are as plentiful as his hair. Many of them are burns, come from plunging hands deep into the flaming wreck of this half-shattered machine that you see all about you. One wound is fresh - a glowing, brilliant and golden sword fit for an Empress, broken in half and still lodged inside him. Blood drips steadily from the wound and every footstep is marked with red.

You know this face.

Empress Nero, the great humanitarian who declared war on death and denied the lord Hades with all the might of Empire, was not about to start her reign with a murder.

Emperor Molech, the Warsage, looms out of the dark. A giant of the savage future and civilized past. He grins at you with mismatched metal teeth; all the silvers, golds and coppers the stars could provide. "Ah. Guests. In the name of Zeus and Athena I bid you welcome to Baradissar. Come in peace, depart in friendship, and leave behind a little of the happiness you bring."

"It rather depends," murmurs Hades quietly, "which part of the machine you take."

Bella!

The Chamber of the Aspects is a testament to Athena. It's a great hall of sculpture where hundreds of visions of the goddess are depicted; renditions of every form she has been known to manifest in. The same face in a thousand different ways, male and female, young and old, gentle and ruthless. Here she is a craftsman, there she is a warrior, now he is a philosopher. All the faces of civilization, its magnificence and its depravity, are collected here.

The room itself is far more vertical than horizontal; a narrow cylinder, each statue in a wall alcove with an ornate balcony. The walls move frictionlessly with the slightest touch, thousands of tonnes of stone and marble rotating with a casual brush against the wall. It carries the strange impression of being on the inside of a rubik's cube, and indeed the Emperor used it as such - rearranging the placement of the statues from highest to lowest depending on what aspect of Athena he sought to invoke. Now, at the top of the chamber, the warlike aspects of the goddess are entirely ascendant, and their faces are cruel, calculating, and hateful.

Omn seems to have come into his power here, shining with an energy that is more than just its restored cleanliness. Revealed from beneath its burdens, the core machine is bright sphere of orange plasma energy, encircled by containment rings that diffuse the intense heat into a harmless glow and gentle rotation. It is not humanoid, it is an orrery of stars and assets, matter shifting so that it can provide information at a glance. As you observe, it becomes an impressionistic map of the palace as a gleaming star is driven closer, closer -

The door flies open, and Mynx carries Redana in. She sets your princess down in front of you upon a cushion laid out by a servile machine and steps back. Her clothes are torn to the point of uselessness, barely even modest, her strength and defiance tempered by exhaustion, her golden hair loose and cascading.

Everything as you ordered. Exactly as you ordered it.

Redana never wears her hair down. Even in the baths she's always insisted on tying it back or wrapping it into some little bun or hiding it under a towel. Every time that Bella's ever brushed it she's stood behind her princess with her gaze tastefully averted, even though Redana only ever had her hair tended or styled while wearing soft, clean robes or gowns worth more than nations. And she always, always complained about it.

But it's loose now, tumbling every which way down her imperial shoulders and so perfectly, lusciously golden that even soaked with terror sweat it shines like a treasure from the deepest reaches of the vaults of Olympus. And this is the detail that catches her by such surprise that her defenses all come crumbling down at once. Aphrodite takes, and takes, and takes, and gives nothing back except Redana.

He steals the strength from her legs so that she's trapped lounging on her throne with a princess sprawled on the ground in front of her. He steals sense and humility from her until nothing holds her back from draining her glass of rich sweet wine with the gluttony of an Empress. As if she believed she deserved it and had no need to revere it. He fills the liquid raining down her throat with curses that fill Bella's body with heat. He steals her words from her so that she can't offer up her gift or advance her plan or even say hello. He takes her lips and peels them up until her smile shows teeth. He takes and he takes and he takes until her eyes are hollow and hungry. And she stares.

Redana. Redana, Redana, Redana. The line of her legs, taut like a bowstring. The luster of her skin that's so smooth that looking is enough to know how it feels to touch it, how fingers would brush across it like an ocean of cream in a bowl so strong it may as well be the true Aegis itself. The twitching of those exhausted muscles that whisper of training and dedication and Olympic glory, up now, further and further and further up, Redana, Redana, Redana, Redana, to the subtle curve of her waist and the perfect bones in her hips. To the washboard across her stomach that counts up all the way to her ribs, unburdened by the merest scrap of clothing until Bella's golden eyes meet the gentle, nearly invisible rise of the tiny mounds on her chest.

That golden hair is on those breasts. Nothing is more lovely, except perhaps the grace of her neck that extends to her jaw. Her unpainted lips, the cheeks that she wants to... no. No. Fuck off, old man, Bella is good. She is a Good Girl. So she doesn't meet the eyes that even glazed over with exhaustion sparkle like jewels atop the most perfect crown ever created. She does not dare look there. She forces her gaze lower again, back across the perfection of Redana's body to drink in the loveliness and all the places where the Princess was too brave, too bright, too foolish, too stupid to keep herself from being marred even in spite of the divine miracle that flits through her blood. Little idiot, how dare you do this to yourself? Don't you realize who you are?

Bella rises.

Bella rises like a rushing tide.

Bella rises with the inexorability of a mountain.

Bella rises, and she sways as she walks slowly forward. There's hardly any space between them, but it takes eternity to cross. Her tail swishes, her hips swing seductively. There's a purring in her chest as she reaches out across the infinite space between them that's shrunken down to nothing. At last. At last.

And she reaches past her princess, as she casts her shadow over Redana with her arm outstretched with unreadable intensity drawn across her face. Her nose is full of the scents of sweat and fear... and the perfume that means everything is exactly as it should be.

"Bring me her belt!" she calls out in a voice on the verge of song, "The large one, where she keeps the pills."

The glaive froze half-formed at the name of the gods, thrumming with potential yet unrealized. The invocations of hospitality bade it retreat and retract once more. Expend not your might, tool of consequence. Sleep lightly on your master’s belt. Her hand remains near to call.

Vasilia only uncoiled to her full height. The grim focus of battle forgot itself in a disarming smile, as her other hand made the gestures of relevant awe towards the home of a host. “Then. In the name of Zeus and Athena, we gratefully accept your welcome to Baradissar. Receive in joy, remain in warmth, and give a little of the plenty of your home.” His first gift to them; the rites of host to guest. They were etched on the hearts of greatest and least alike. When you visited another in a dream, even there they were the first words on your lips. Were it not for that, there would be no words here. She had no practiced reply to a threat beyond threats. But she had her solid ground, and she could not begin to guess why he’d given it to her.

“May I say, sir,” she continued inoffensively. “That this has been the most gracious welcome we’ve received on our journey to date?” Easy. Light. A dash of humor. A testing of the waters. What more will you give her, fallen Emperor? What will you volunteer freely, and what will you make her fight you for?

Beside her, there was an inconspicuous lack of sheep, and it suited her to keep it that way for a few moments longer.

Again. Again! She runs as fast and hard as she can, and Bella’s here first. Again.

“Stay back,” she croaks, desperate. Not for herself. Not because she’s scared of her Bella. But because she doesn’t want to hurt Bella, she doesn’t want to perform this play, she can’t break her kitten[1]. Not like Mother broke Molech. “I don’t want to hurt you, Bella.” Her words are so stupid! Wheezed, directed at the floor, they come off as false bravado, not a desperate plea to end the tragedy.

Then she looks up and there are ribbons. Very cute ribbons. They bounce when Bella shifts her weight. They’re on top of cute socks and there is a skirt swishing at eye level all full of lace, and it’s so wonderfully ridiculous that Bella would come out here like this, instead of in something practical, and— buttons. When she raises her head, the world is a swell of golden buttons.

It’s the Auspex that rouses her out of a reverie of round, golden, shining full moons, straining in their parade up and down the hidden mountains. The Auspex, which overlays a tiny cartoon Bella, staggering from foot to foot, purple bubbles rising from her head only to pop one by one as she waves a pinecone staff like a conductor leading a servitor orchestra. “Bella,” Redana gasps, “of all the times to be playing dipsomaniac[2]! With the Eleutherios[3] here?? You— you— sillyhead!”

She stands up to shake some sense into her little drunk kitten, only she doesn’t, because her leg decides not to be there for her, and now she’s clinging to those loose sleeves as she makes her way back down to the ground, hitting every button as she goes. Some of them even stay in place!

***

[1]: Golden eyes gleam in a pale face, her body crammed into one corner, and she looks so scared and she doesn’t have to be—

[2]: the Dipsomaniac is a common palace entertainment: take a Servitor, dress them in bells and purple and black, and have them drink wine meant for their betters. They are under the host’s protection for as long as they find the Dipsomaniac amusing.

[3]: ”We have all unmasked save you, master of the revels. Lay aside the wreath and the mirror, I pray you; the servants’ childish frenzy has grown tiresome to us...”
“I wear no mask.”
“No mask? No mask!”
— The Bloody Masque, written during the Third Sanctristry of Nossos.

Alexa is lost and does not know the way out.

Everything is happening too fast. No conversation lasts more than thirty seconds before the augurs declare it doomed, fruitless, bereft of blessings. She manages to keep track of the first five names, at least, but faces start to blur into one another.

The only constant as she's shuffled from one failed candidate to the next are the cheerful faces of the Augurs, the friendly voice of Caval, and Aphrodite stalking behind the Augurs, ticking boxes and flipping signs.

[Damaging Sense to Speak Softly: 6.]

How long does it take to tire out two indefatigable beings? How many faces, how many names, how many beings, until it's all Alexa can do to lean on Caval for support?

"Why?" she breathes, head sagging against Caval's shoulder.

Not even how is this possible, but why? Why is she doing this? Is this revenge? Entertainment? Does she genuinely believe that by appeasing Aphrodite, they may be spared? Is she trying, gods forbid, to help Alexa?

And the world stops.

No, that's not right. It's just the noise--the ever-present, all-consuming noise--has dropped to murmurs, the crowd focusing in on the Augurs.

Oh gods, what's that number say?

Vasilia!

Molech smiles when the glave hurtles towards his face; he smiles more when it stops.

"Azura technology," his voice left no doubt as to why he was called a sage. Such wisdom and careful contemplation in each tone! Such precision in enunciation! "But that is not how the Azura use it. I should know; I destroyed the Meridian Arch after dueling each of the Cobalt Ancients, and none of them took the stance you took there. Hmm... I sense individuality about you. Individuality and a determination like few others, for few in this ancient galaxy would even dream of creating something new."

Bloody feet sizzle to a halt on burning metal. The soles of his feet are as blackened as stone but and the steady drip of blood from his eternal wound surrounds him in wisps of cigarette-fine smoke.

"I was once known to this world as Imperator Molech, as the Warsage. No longer. I am defeated and ruined, cast down and left to ceaselessly tend my wretched machine lest I be crushed under its shattering gears. I no longer deserve my grandiose titles, so please refer me to the name of my origin: Liu Ban."

He spread his arms expansively, and in that moment commanded absolute attention. It was impossible for one to become an Emperor without knowing how to be grand. "And yet I am all the more sorry for you, unfortunate stranger! For if the hospitality this wretch can offer you is the finest you have received on your voyage you must have walked a hard road indeed! Well, come then! Come and sit! Let us lick the condensation from the steam-pipes for wine! Let us chew the lice that roam across my back for meat! For in you I believe I see the Thunderer in disguise, as mighty Zeus often walks in the world of men, and she shall know that for all the burdens she has given me to bear she has not yet made me a mean host!"

Alexa!

It was never asked of you to learn the expressions of machines. Of all your studies, contemplating the hidden or subtle expressions of a Cavel unit was never one of them. Are there emotions that swim under those painted eyes? Is there a heart, a soul, a pounding tension, a manic boldness? Are you dealing with a thinking being or are you talking to Dionysus' puppet as he whirls it about on strings?

If there was a question as to Dionysus' manipulation of the situation, there was none when it came to Aphrodite's. The God of Love saw no need to conceal his good humour as one ten after another was raised by the judges.

"It seems," said Cavel-4954, "we are to be married."

The Chamber of Aspects

The Kaeri arrive in flits and starts, taking perches at random before the statues, hunching above like gargoyles. One after another they bow their heads and close their eyes. For all that they have followed their orders and achieved their aims, they now wait upon the Imperial Princess, and it would not do for them to show anything other than flawless respect.

In turn too comes the Kaeri Giatros - feathers striped ochre yellow and blue-black beneath pristine white robes. They approach the Imperial Princess without waiting for the Praetor's leave, carrying their tools and ointments and incenses atop velvet cushions. They are closely watched for any sign of deviation. Doctors are dangerous for they might see Empresses as simple girls. The rituals of care are necessary to remind them of the semidivine nature of the one they tend to, and so they silently bow and offer their sacred surgical instruments to Princess Redana for inspection.

To Bella, they pay no heed. They are under no obligation to obey her orders any more, and so they disregard her command to bring the Princess' belt. The hunt is over, and the Kaeri have never forgotten that their prey will be Empress someday.

Bella can feel the weight of nothing in her outstretched hand. It's clutched about her wrist and squeezing her like a serpent, forcing her fingers to curl atop of and crush the empty air between them. It pulls on her arm like lead so that even holding it out for inspection is enough to make her muscles start burning.

She's frozen in the moment. Her smile is still painted onto her face, not quite able to melt into the disbelief one lonely corner of her mind knows she should be wearing right now. Her tail has forgotten how to so much as wiggle, and her feet are caught in an awkward half step. It feels like she's being crushed. Her moment, her princess, her triumph... all of it's caught in her throat and she's choking to death on it. She can't move. She can't move.

Her nose is failing her: it takes in all the signals that had filled her with such elation, but now it only returns the sterilized aroma of the Kaeri. Her skin crawls with shameful goosepimples brought on by a sudden bone deep chill that even for all its awful power can't force her to properly shiver. Her ears no longer bend to search for sounds; the rushing of blood in her head pounds with the fury of one of Zeus' storms. She couldn't hear herself speak even if her tongue hadn't turned to stone in her mouth. Only her eyes seem up to moving, and then simply so that they can turn their wet fury on anything that's not the Princess.

Her world is filled with Athena. The wroth, the prideful, the untouchable, the judgmental. The single face in all its infinite aspects stare back at her without relief, and Bella's lungs fill themselves with knives. This is a new Box. That's what this is, what else could it even be? This is a new trap even more devious than the one that caught her as a child. Who could have set it? The list of patrons who can borrow Nero's ear are endless, and the list of people infuriated by her victory at the Olympics stretches twice as long. It's so clever. It's so devious. To make her think... to send her out... so dangerous, so ugly, so terrible, so endless... to send her out here and make her think... and then... and then! The Princess! With her, Bella is useless. With her, Bella is not worth keeping. They'll throw her away in the garbage.

All at once she comes unfrozen. Her eyes burn as they shrink to furious slits, her fingers squeeze deep into her palms, and her skirts and sleeves flutter dramatically as she whips about on the spot to turn her back to the entire disgusting farce happening in front of her. Is that what they think? Is that it? Not her. Bella's a Good Girl. A fucking Praetor! She stalks through the room in silence and grabs the belt herself.

They're not difficult to find. Redana would never actually think to hide anything, unless it was a secret plan to stuff her best friend in a closet and disappear forever and abandon her to the wrath of the Empire. The pocket is large and obvious, and Bella's fingers have hardly slipped inside before they find the pair of smallish, rock hard capsules she's looking for. She snatches them out with enough force to slice the belt to useless ribbons.

She is much more careful as she gingerly slides the talons off of her fingers to reveal the pair of blunted, broken claws she hides behind them. What comes next requires... delicacy.

Nobody sees the kick coming in time. Bella's foot connects with such ferocity that if her pointed heel had been aimed even a centimeter to the right she might have killed the Giatros attending to Redana outright. Her hand shoves another out of the way with no less savagery, and then suddenly it's Bella looming over the princess with a twisted smile on her face. Only Bella. Her tail flicks behind her with irritation.

"Out of my way, you inbred Athena rejects! Are you stupid? Do you only read about princesses or something, what are you doing? You're gonna ask for her opinion? Dipshits, what do you think she's gonna do? Look at these! Look!"

Bella stops barking long enough to hold the nanite capsules aloft before she slides down onto her hands and knees in a motion made with much more curve than strictly necessary. She loses several more buttons from her shirt as her chest slides along Redana's body until she's chest to chest and face to face with her princess. Her Princess. Only hers. She laughs shakily and splits her face in a drunken grin. The stench of imperial grape is heavy on her breath.

"This is not just some princess," she breathily intones, never taking her wild eyes off her quarry, "This isn't even merely Her Imperial Majesty's only daughter. She is Redana Claudius: you can't ask her if she wants to take her medicine. Noooo, no, this little idiot will have you saving it all until her last breath. You have to hold her still and make her be a good girl. Isn't that right, Your Highness?"

Bella presses her hand tight against Redana's lips and forces the nanite capsules into her mouth. Her hand stays clamped tight to keep her from spitting anything out as she brings her two clawless fingers to the princess' neck and slowly, softly caresses the length of her throat, trying to make her swallow.

"There we go, theeerrre we go," she soothes, "Just let the gods do their good work, Princess. Swallow! Swaaaaalooow, yes, there we go. No more adventures, right princess? No more hard and scary choices. Just leave it all to me. Your Bella will take care of everything..."

Her tail weaves behind her in a languid, serpentine pattern as she stays on all fours pinned atop Redana. Sharp and golden eyes do their level best to eat her best friend whole, even as her smile widens to show her perfect sharpened teeth.