Redana and Alexa!

Of all the enemies the Nemean might face in glorious battle, Captain Lorventi Bloodfeather is the worst.

Were you to fight a stellar colossus, spawn of many-limbed Poseidon, you would triumph! In glory you would rend its tendrils and shatter its teeth and save billions from its onslaught! Were you to fight a king on open plain you would shine in glory before Zeus and demonstrate your power through word and deed and might! But this is no honourable battle, this is no glorious foe. This is an assassin's implement, trained and honed for the express purpose of subduing an Imperial Princess by someone who knew exactly what that meant.

You shatter her left arm, Redana! Her right too breaks beneath your grip! You hold her down exultantly, amidst the ruins of her weapon and any means by which she might harm you. What has she left to her? What have you to fear from this broken toy, this injured brute? How did she ever expect to harm you?

And yet she has stabbed you all the same.

You look down. The armour upon her chest has parted. Her ribs have opened. In place of a heart there is instead an arm, and that third arm holds a dagger. She hisses and spits blood into your face and cuts again and again and again, the strength of your embrace turned into your own demise. Around her brow and in her eyes burn the fires of Ares, he who brings the high to defeat and disgrace, whom all the galaxy's advantage cannot deny.

It is the Kaeri that save each of you, rushing the melee to pull the Princess away from their blood-crazed warrior - both lives too previous to spend thoughtlessly here. But the marks are left on both bodies, rent and bloody, and no one emerges from this battle in glory.

Alexa, you too are cut, for there are too many blades here for it to be any other way. But the Kaeri champion is defeated, and now is clearly the time for you to take the princess and escape before they can find another.

[Damaging Frenzy, which triggers. Alexa, take one point of damage, Redana, take two]

Vasilia and Dolce!

Zeus rolled her eyes in a surprisingly pouty gesture. "Sure. Tell you what, why don't you hold the next one of these parties, and invite all your friends and when I see how wrong I am I'll be ever so humiliated and be forced to apologize. Until then -" she stands up in a gesture of such authority that all revelry instantly slams to a halt and people immediately begin packing their bags again. "- I will wait."

Hades folds his cards back together and tucks them into the pocket of his vest. "I'd honestly never imagined she could be so still. Exile and mortal form has changed her a great deal. But then," he pursed his lips, "I supposed she's always loved racing against time more than anything else."

He stands alongside Zeus, leaving you with your winnings - three cigarettes, a silver earring, and a marbled business card with the word TUNGUSKA written on it in fine calligraphy.

Bella!

By the time you are free the conflict has passed from the room, a hurricane's trail of blood and feathers in its wake. By the time you are free Redana is gone again. The time it took to free yourself was the time it took for everyone in the world to forsake you. Not long at all.

"Praetor."

Not quite everyone, it seemed.

OMN, the advisor unit, has diligently waited for you. It has no arms; it is a thing of thought and no strength so it could not have intervened. But it has not abandoned you. It has waited with the idiot loyalty of an inanimate object, the obedience of a sword. Its mind clatters and revolves and for all its knowledge it does not spare a single cycle to thoughts of self preservation. If you were to tear it in half that would be as irrelevant to it as if you were to pin a medal on its chest.

"Do you require information?" It asks.

“Given our current logistical situation.” Vasilia did not, could not let up, even as Zeus sounded the retreat. “I’d said the invitations have about as much chance as arriving as you have of waiting on something for a change. But I’m prepared to be surprised.”

************************************************

No! No, no, no, it couldn’t be over yet!

He stood, helpless as the luncheon drew to a close all around him. Personal effects found their way back to their owners. Bags returned to shoulders, a little lighter and easier to pack now. Goodbyes filled the air alongside parting shots. Feet turned, roads stretched onward, and the parting was nigh.

The extent of his profit: A few lost scraps, and some interesting trivia about Hermes. Fine material for a voyage to Gaia.

“It was an honor to serve you, Lord Hades.” The goodbyes fell from his mouth. How he wished to hold them back, just a few moments longer, but, but his Captain, Zeus, the cleanup, he couldn't, “I hope it will not be long before we may serve you again?” he offered, holding his breath.

[Damaging Sense]

She fights as though nothing can harm her.

Redana--Alexa has to keep reminding her that this is Redana, her ward--shrugs off blows that should fell primeval beasts. It's breathtaking in the same way that a storm is: a terrifying reminder of your own mortality, of things almost beyond mortal ken.

And she's playing.

Alexa knows what pulling your punches looks like, and this isn't it. This isn't trying to spare someone's pride, trying to let someone down easy, trying to avoid hurting someone. Redana is a cat batting around a mouse, letting it slip through her paws before dragging it back by the tail. She's enjoying this.

And all it takes is for the Kaeri to find one chink in the armo--yep, that's a knife.

Oh fuck, that's a knife!

What the heck is she doing?! Her ward's in danger!

Alexa wades through the storm of blows like a backhoe through gravel. She has a ward to protect, no matter whether the ward can protect herself or not!

And immediately on reaching her, head still ringing from a particularly vicious club, she realizes the futility of her actions. It's not that she's-- well, look at Redana! She's like a mountain made of smaller, musclebound mountains! Maybe if she could get an arm or three around her she could--no, um, maybe if.

"We need to go!" She hangs off Redana's wrist, doing her best to drag her away and making zero progress.

From this close, she can see all too easily the ugly bone still lodged in Redana's chest. How are they going to get that out? That's the kind of thing that exsanguination is made out of. Does this place have a hospital? She has to be the worst bodyguard every created, that's two in a row she's gotten killed!

(What a relief it was when she knew she was free of number one.)

But here, staring at Redana--it has to be Redana--it tears at her. They have to go! She's trying to help you, you damn fool! Why did you have to make it so hard to dislike you?!

If you'd been a worse master, this would be so much simpler! If you'd been like Molech and been a threat, it would be so simple to let the Bloodfeather continue! Even if you'd just been like your mother, left Alexa to fend for herself, treated her like dirt, Alexa could ahve persuaded herself! Vasilia might have suspicions, yes, but ultimately they'd have been able to leave, to disappear into the universe! Alexa could have, have!--

She doesn't know what she could have. Could have left? Followed that letter burning a hole in her? Could have found a small planet, far from the Empire, and prayed to every god to obscure Nero's auguries?

But no! You had to be-- Well, let's not mince words, a naive prat. But that's not something that merits death!

So now she sits, tugging futilely at a wrist. You had to be kind, didn't you?
[2 on Get Away]

This is not an act of loyalty.

Bella's bare feet drag heavily across the floor to the sound of her toe claws scraping across the marble before she lifts or plants them fresh again. Her soles slap lazily with every step, the loudest she's ever moved in her life. Her legs are filled with lead, but they move her anyway. Her feet ache dully as she goes, but they bear her weight all the same. Her tail droops limply behind her, much the same as the ears atop her head.

The smell of blood reaches her nose. Her hand lifts toward her mouth on reflex to cover her gagging, but she lets it fall again before it reaches halfway. Her stomach barely bothers to churn this time in any case, so easy to ignore it may as well not be happening. The blood spatters and messes of feathers look muted next to the spots swimming in her eyes. Even OMN, for all the effort she put into polishing it, seems as dull and dusty as if she'd left it to rot for another 300 years. Ugly piece of shit. But even so, it's here.

This is not an act of loyalty.

Too fragile to fight, too useless to run. It's a machine, fulfilling its function like all machines do in that stupid way of theirs. To be loyal it would have to be capable of betrayal. All this stupid toy could do was process and advise, forever and ever, never ceasing and never caring that its client kept changing with the blowing of the winds. Pointless to put her faith in something that could be stolen and turned against her as easily as blinking.

Her right hand clenches into a fist. Her left flexes her claws menacingly, talons flashing in the muted light. Her hollow eyes stare into its burnished surface, watching her reflection with an unreadable look on her face.

"Do you require information?" it dutifully repeats.

Bella clicks her tongue. Relaxing her hand, she stretches her neck and forces herself back to her full height. She tosses her hair back carelessly as she turns her gaze to the paths the others must have taken as they abandoned her to this scrap heap. Loyalty was worth less than shit, anyway.

"That monster that the princess becomes..."

Bella curls and stretches the fingers on her ruined right hand in front of her face, twisting it in the air as though looking for an angle where it didn't show her shame. It squeezes itself back into a fist, and she slams it against the wall with a hollow clang that fills the room with the sound of prayer bells. The aspects of Athena stare into her in all of their varied emotions and degrees of wrath. She ignores them, and returns her attention to Omn. She snarls.

"I need a weapon. One that'd make me stronger than even she is, no matter how much she tries to hide behind Zeus' skirts."

”You’re welcome,” the Nemean says to Alexa, gesturing at the bone knife lodged between two of her ribs. Owls swarm around her, but they might as well be waves crashing against the foot of a mountain. ”Not that I did it for you, but— we both know the little princess would have been inconsolable if I let her break you.”

She pulls the knife out. The one thing that you’re really not supposed to do, and she goes ahead and does it anyway. She makes a restrained grunt, like she’s not in considerable pain, and then takes Alexa’s hand, prying fingers open with inexorable force. The bone is slick with dark, dark blood.

”Keep my trophy for me,” the Nemean commands. It’s different from Redana’s (undeniable) requests; the Nemean speaks and brooks no disagreement. Might as well try to argue with the tides. ”Take the little princess and her pet back to your shuttle. Their champion is defeated; the rest should give you no trouble at all—“

The smell of ozone becomes overwhelming, and then Redana faceplants into the wedding dress, limp and half-conscious. She doesn’t look to be torn apart with wounds, but perhaps the Fates need to keep their threads in order, and she might very well be dying from what should have been fatal, should she have experienced it. Who knows? It’s a mess.

What is undeniable is that her skin is clammy and she can’t lift her head and also the two of you are surrounded by Kaeri. Congratulations, Alexa! Top-notch bodyguarding!

Vasilia and Dolce!

Zeus smirked and booped your nose, Vasilia, in an act of affectionate condescension even as she disappeared on her way to Olympus.

"Drop by the Tunguska, if you can," said Hades to Dolce as he followed his sister. "That ticket will get you in."

And in the moments after you are settled and satiated, the walls burst in and nightmares flow like an avalanche. Alexa comes amidst it all, swarmed and beset.

Alexa and Redana!

It would be nice to say that you were beyond fear. That long and painstaking practice and warfare was enough to render you immune to Kaeri mind games. That it was possible for an avatar of Athena to be beyond the touch of Ares. But you were not, even before you came to this place at the heart of chaos.

You are inside the broken mechanical bowels of the palace, as the shadows of owls leap and bound and hunt all around you. You are in the depths of hell, melting and mad gears grinding dry amidst the flames. You can feel the presence of Ares all about you, a horrible negation of everything you are and were built for. You can feel the strength of steel and stone trying to keep warfare sane and, bit by bit, failing.

And then, like a twisted avatar of everything wrong with this place, he is there. He is there with metal teeth and ancient beard and a brow like a neanderthal and a crippling wound in his side. Redana is in two of your arms... but your third and forth hold spears. In this moment, with this momentum, you could send that bad dream back into the bloody depths before you ever had to consider its reality.

[Alexa, damage your courage; you must replace your Agendas with Run Away while facing the Kaeri Phalanx]

Bella!

"Praetor," said the machine in tones of thoughtless correction, "you already are a weapon. Your physical form has been optimized relentlessly for conflict by master gene-wrights. Your capabilities are immense, more than enough to contend with the Nemean directly. The bottleneck is in your mind. You are unable to access your full abilities unless certain conditions are met."

The shining metal rings orbit the plasmic sphere, reflecting orange light in new patterns as its thoughts manifest in the state of its physical body. Machine-minds are not true intelligences, geists of bio-electricity, they are clattering abacuses of stored knowledge and pre-programmed routines. Omn clicks into place like the final tumbler of a combination lock.

"A bypass exists," it states. It rotates, and ghosts away.

You follow, each footstep ringing in your head through the silence and you wonder how much more silent you'd be without those beautiful, useless shoes. The custodial staff have failed here. Your feet leave prints in the dust. The water drips down through leaking pipes to feed clusters of black mold and flatten your carefully groomed hair. Each step makes you feel dirty, and your fingers itch for the mop.

The door is rusted. It must be yanked open. The room beyond, pressurized and sealed, is cleaner but it tastes stale, old, and dark - and it is cluttered with medical gear, beds, and eerie looking tools. In the center on a pedestal is a single gleaming, perfect eye contained within a soft stasis field of blue.

"The Director Nero won great favour from the Emperor for creating this, the Auspex," said Omn, reciting its lines. "A treasure worthy of Hermes, they allow one to see as the gods see. Two were made and it seems that the Nemean possesses the other. This has relevance to you for more than the information provided. It can be adjusted during implantation to always be sending the sensory trigger-signal to unlock your full abilities."

Alexa has had this nightmare before.

Of him, alive and whole. Of him holding out his hands, of that small not-quite-a-smirk, of that voice that brooks no disobedience. Of the command for the Pallas Rex to return to his side. To be, once more, the blade in the hand.

She wishes that every dream ended with her turning away.

This apparition is even worse than the dreams, for her dreams are of him as he was--dignified, regal, organized, composed. This Molech is as a temple that is reclaimed by nature, thrust through with tokens of what he once was but mired in the signs of what she did. Of the decay that she failed to prevent--no, actively aided! This is the terror that Nero promised she would never see again!

She feels the spears in her hands, but it is not their familiar warmth that centers her. Instead, it is the weight of the burden she carries. It is the princess, growing cold and pallid in her arms, that wraps her arms bracingly tight, that turns her stumbling footsteps to centered power sprints. It is the promise of something better that grips her spears tight, straightens her back. Here, at last, is the figure from the dioramas, form perfect and spears lethally aimed.

Here and now, with fear hounding behind her and a promise in her arms, the Pallas Rex strikes.
[Finish with Courage: 9]

The air is smothering her. It's heavy staleness tastes miserable on her tongue and feels much too heavy inside her lungs, the misery of holding it matched only by the dissatisfaction of breathing it back out. Dust kicks up with every breath and motion as the room itself criticizes and complains about her attempts to be here.

Her skin and matted fur is all tangled up in the shreds of what had once been a beautiful dress. The shreds flutter when she moves so that the too warm air is pushed against her body over and over like a tiny desert wind, dry and cracking where the dripping of the water pipes had been brackish and clammy, each unbearable in its own way as they work together to sap what's left of her beauty and dignity.

Bella's ears twitch. Omn's dull and scripted explanation is drowned out by another sound that won't stop ringing inside them. It's an old noise. An old memory, attached to nothing. The screaming of that young girl reaches out through the darkness and across time and filling her so completely that she can't help but shiver even in this rusted out, sterile oven.

The memories come flooding up as images, tiny snippets and scenes that she irritably pushes past to get back to the present. The door that she'd sat on her knees in front of for an entire day without caring how far behind on her chores she got even as it stayed resolutely, cruelly shut and kept the girl's screaming trapped on the other side without her. A sweat soaked mop of blond hair that tangled almost as fast as she could brush it. The girl, with her eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched in agony, arching her back in the midst of a seizure and clutching her Bella's fingers to the point of breaking. A shining, perfect, beautiful blue eye where once there had shone nothing but kindness.

The Auspex.

Bella shakes her head and bites her lip. The images and the sounds disappear, leaving only this stuffy room and its perfect eye here with her in the present. She tries to lift her hand toward it, and only then does she notice how rigid and tense her entire body has become, as though someone had struck her with a Thunderbolt without her realizing it and left her there to coil in its fury until her spine snapped in half.

Her breathing is shallow. Her eyes are hollow and hungry. Bella's hand hovers at the edges of the stasis field, and then... she turns away with a shake of her head and a flick of her tail. Her steps ring hollow as she makes her way back through Her Majesty's former lab and toward the door where the screaming will finally stop calling out her name. Just a few paces more, and she'll be free.

Her fingers reach toward her throat. They startle when they touch her bare flesh. Bella freezes where she stands, only more than a statue because of the furious pounding of her heart. Her head turns slowly until her furious golden eye appears over her shoulder.

"How soon can it be made ready?"

She slams the rusting door shut. No interruptions.

Captain Vasilia sprang to the fore, the report of her rifle ringing over the melee like a clap of thunder. “Spears up! To me, to me!”

They couldn’t move to defend Alexa. That would forfeit the battle before it’d begun. To beat a Kaori PredatorPhalanx, you had to first fight them on your own terms. Don’t run. Don’t approach. Don’t play their game. If all you could carve out was a tiny patch of land, then you held that miserable ground for all you were worth, and you made them come to you. The tides of shadow saw her mustering a defense. As one, they descended on her.

And she paid them no mind. She had a shadow of her own.

To her back, to her flank, sabre and spear rattled a blinding staccato. The winds surrounding her changed pitch and pace, improvising complex patterns on the spot without a whisper of a word, and it mattered not one whit. Fifteen shadows would raise their spears, and he could guess the real strike every time.

“Gah!”

She winced as a spear grazed her side, before the haft was chopped clean in two, and the wind carried a whispering, “Apologies!”

Well! He was still full from lunch! You can’t expect him to be full steam right away. Nine out of ten times was more than enough besides.

For to beat a Kaori Predator Phalanx, you had to second attack the movement, not the shadows. This was the whole reason she suggested the innards of this machine to have their lunch. Like clockwork, she fired shot after shot into the surrounding gearwork. Bolts and valves were picked off with expert precision, sending gouts of flame through the air, and gears to tumble and roll through the battlefield. The machine mind groaned all around them, threatening to send an avalanche of its own against the Kaori.

The Predator Phalanx required deeply practiced, coordinated movement. Each owl needed to know and trust every other owl, such that they could only dip their wings and a dozen comrades would know their next five moves. Not perfectly, but close enough to count. Throw too many variables into the field, limit the routes severely enough, and, well, they were only mortal. Someone, somewhere, would make a mistake. Two lines would cross, and seconds would be wasted getting back in position. One owl would feint, and find no follow-up where she expected it. Inefficiencies beget inefficiencies. Mistakes beget mistakes. The openings grow wider. Daylight lifts the shadows, and a hundred owls become a scant twenty. Chaos - their greatest weapon - was also their greatest weakness.

A good plan, but it meant nothing if they could not hold their ground for long enough.

“If you have any goodbyes for your brainchild, Liu Ban, say them quickly!” She smoothly loaded another shot and took aim at a particularly corroded steam valve. And frowned when no voice answered back.

“...Liu Ban?”

"I give you your life, Liu Ban," the recording of Mom says. "It is worthless." Molech tears at his beard and weeps, bitterly. The Pallas Rex lies defeated. If it were appropriate to have Mom portrayed by an actor, she'd have her foot on the statue's throat. Instead, in the midst of the Ceronians who have victoriously taken the bridge, there is a spotlight, and the impression of movement caused by shadow filters. Then the lights go out, and the curtains fall. Five minutes to the next performance.

Redana applauds. Bella doesn't. But Redana smiles for her anyway. "Wasn't that great?" It was. It was phenomenal. And one day, she's going to do something just as big. How could she be content to stay in Mom's shadow forever? No, when she gets to see the stars, she'll do things that make this, this grand drama of betrayal and hubris, seem small! Just you wait, universe! Redana's coming to get you!

***

"I give you your life, Liu Bei! Ban! Liu Ban!" Nailed it. Redana (her eyes red and puffy for some mysterious reason) lifts her head and looks down the spear. Yes. That's definitely a spear. She pats it, gently, so that Alexa knows it's okay not to spear whoever this mad machine hermit is. "Hello!" She sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve, even as Alexa very much doesn't lower the spear. And she smiles[1] and pats the spear more forcefully.

***

[1]: The resemblance is impossible to ignore. After all, not that Redana knows it, but here's someone who knew her mother for a very, very long time. Here's someone who's seen Nero both composed and regal and coming unhinged. And here's someone who can recognize the spitting image of Nero, but very much not Nero. It would not take a mad strategist-genius to put the pieces together.

"Well," said Hades, Zeus Katachthonios, looking down at the scene with the faint surprise of someone who has lost a ninety-percent gamble. "I suppose you don't need all of him."

Princess Epistia, face grimly lit by the fires of broken machines, stepped in with her blade. The headless body hit the floor and the trophy was raised up high. A hundred Kaeri froze in place, shocked to their foundations by this act of regicide, unable to rouse themselves to give pursuit.

There are more wires and sparks than there is blood. This was only a man in the vaguest of senses, body crammed so full of miracles that even reduced to this he lives. And the blade of Princess Epistia is now firmly and constantly between Alexa and the severed head. She does not understand your relationship with this monster, she knows only that the Princess gave him his life and you disobeyed - she only knows you struck to kill in defiance of the decree to preserve life. It is not anger or coldness that animates the Ceronian, this is not a judgement of morals, it is simply a fact that you are now outside the pack and therefore cannot be trusted.

*

Bella!

The operation itself was trivial, painless, almost instant. Mastery of living matter was an ancient art and the days of bloody surgeries were millennia in the past. This too was technology designed to serve an Emperor who might switch augmentations as readily as switching coats. The optic nerves set perfectly, the blood vessels align, not a single cell out of place. This is not why the machines strapped you down.

Your eye opens and you see the cosmos with the vision of a god.

All things. All places. All people. Every star and every road that binds them. Every city and every river that feeds it. Every brick and every mountain that birthed it. You met the Ikarani Adept, the data-assassin who can, for a while, absorb this information and wield it in its fullest extent. You understand why they go mad. You envy that they can go mad. You cannot. The eye is still asking you questions.

With each cycle, the Auspex dumbs itself down. Piece by piece it cuts back on the flow of data, abstracts more and more of it into symbols and interface, learns through condescension how to stop hurting this tiny, unprepared mind. You are infinity and piece by piece infinity is taken away from you like a disappointed parent packs away unloved and messily strewn toys. You are reduced to a galaxy, to a sector, to a system, to a planet and each time it feels like a failure that you could not handle the enormity of that information. How did Nero? Who did she design these for? What possible creature could handle the flow of data they were capable of? Were these secret weapons to assassinate Molech through data overload? Where does all this information come from? How did Redana bear it?

It draws itself down, learning through trial and error to speak your language. Learning that instead of attempting to fit all of creation through your eye it needs to be condescending in its approach. It reduces itself until you can start perceiving colours again, can start perceiving the room again. Finally it stops, barely an augment, restraining itself from providing information that you do not specifically ask for.

But as you look at your reflection in the painstakingly polished carapace of Omn, it answers the question that drove you to this. You are a guardian, only able to access your full abilities when your mistress is in peril. This input can be fabricated by the Auspex at will. With power driven by terror and love you might, for a time, fight the gods themselves - or the demigod that shares a form with Redana.

The groaning of the Anemoi is more terrible than usual today. The horrors of space crush the thick hulls with enough force to make the ship's cries of pain audible even through the muting effects of its interior. Bella's ears bend toward the sounds to follow them as they roll over her bedroom. It doesn't help that she can tell by the pitch the size of the object and the angle it struck at, or that neither one would be enough to risk the ship's integrity. She could also hear the vibrations that tell her it would only take very slight adjustments in either to crumple the room she's standing into oblivion. It's by the grace of the gods alone that she makes this journey. The thought of how many of them she might have offended sends chills down her spine.

It's been three days since she last slept.

Her right eye socket throbs and forces her gaze toward the mirror. One golden eye stares blearily back at her. The other, painted in bloody red, crackles with power. Where it splits her vision, she sees three paths toward the door from where she's standing, and glowing highlights flashing up and down her body indicating where she's generating the most strength at any given second. Right now, those patches are dulling, in slower and more infrequent patterns than they'd looked the other day. This lack of rest will kill her soon. The Auspex pulses, and the suggested routes move toward her dresser as easily as bending light.

Bella's teeth grind in frustration, but her feet are already carrying her in the suggested direction, shuffling with little of her usual grace. She drags them against the ultra-plush carpet so that her bare toes rip through the fibers with a soft whisper that soothes her ears. Her tail flicks irritably behind her, and she pays no mind to the things it knocks around, even as it bumps into her precious camera and sets it slowly winding into action.

The decanter is in her hands before she knows it. Her fingers tremble as they squeeze the stopper. This is a precious treasure of the Empire. The Princess' perfume is manufactured out of water by the processes of the decanter itself; without it, the peaceful garden with its butterflies and sense of total peace would be lost forever. Bella stares at it with the intensity of a hunting tigress, neither putting it away or lifting her hand to free the scent she knows will give her rest. Her jaw clenches tight enough to break. Her body is almost as rigid as it was when she...

Something hot and wet rolls down her cheeks. They cannot be tears. Something as perfect as the Auspex couldn't possibly be capable of crying. With a tortured animal howl, Bella turns and hurls the decanter at a wall. It shatters into dozens of useless pieces, almost to dust, in an instant. The not-tears turn to awful, choking sobs that wrack her chest with pain.

Nothing seems to survive the storm that follows. Bella's claws rip through baubles and instruments like paper. She tears her bed nearly in half. She cracks open the crystals lighting the room and covers the room in cracked-web shadows. Every bauble she can get a hand around gets thrown into a wall with a yowl and a crash to rival Poseidon's mysteries. Her claws cut through the rest. Every frilly, silly little outfit in her closet, sliced to ribbons. Every decoration brought to set a princess at ease is crushed. She surges back and forth across the room like the tide, and the debris piles up between her. There's no more room to pretend she isn't crying.

And then, silence. Bella wipes messily at her face with the back of one hand, sniffling loudly. Spirals of ruined fabrics, mattress stuffing, glass, and shredded metals form delicate rings around the spot where she sits collapsed in a great heap of misery. The Anemoi groans in pity, and this time her ears don't so much as twitch to meet it.

Her head lolls back onto what's left of her bed. She squeezes her eyes shut to choke down another sob, and all at once her body unclenches. Her arms drop where they are without caring for comfort or bothering to seem some scrap of a blanket. She's a marionette with her strings all cut. Her neck rolls a little further to the side, and this is where she is when her breathing finally slows and she tumbles from the waking world to the place of rest. It's dark, where she goes. No treasured memories rush up to greet her, nor future hopes come to comfort her. But it's enough at least that she can't see those eyes anymore. It's enough to be free of Redana. The Redana who defied her. The Redana who looked at her so coldly. The true Redana, the one who hates her.

They don't understand, do they?

Alexa stands stock still, frozen in a lunge, even as the head drops, even as Ist--Epistia--picks it up, draws away.

Surely, they have to know who he is? Conquerer of galaxies, first among mortals? Redana even recognizes him, and she only knows him from that asinine propaganda masquerading as a museum! Don't they see the danger he represents? Don't they know what he'll do to get his way? To make sure that he has his perfect utopia, his perfect weapon? Don't they see the threat?

They do, and her heart sinks that she's it. She stormed in and… Don't they see that she's protecting them?

But to them, she just killed a man in cold blood. Disobeyed orders, defied the will of the Empire, all to kill one man. Of course they'd form ranks to defend against this new threat. Epistia cannot trust her, but worse than that is the image of Dolce, frozen in the act of putting away a teacup. That look of fright--not because of another, but because of her--

She never wants to see him look that way again.

Redana tugs insistently, faintly at her spear, and, with some hesitation, Alexa lowers it. There's nothing to be gained in this. Nothing but further distrust to be sown, no matter how unjust it may be.

"Come," she murmurs, pointedly not looking at the distrust leveled at her. "You need to rest."

***

It is an uncomfortable shuttle ride, to say the least.

There's no official declaration, no orders given. Nevertheless, the crew shuffles off to one of two corners--the one with Alexa, and the one without.

It's a very lonely corner.

***

Alexa shuts her quarter's door with a quiet click, and sags into the chair like a puppet bereft of strings.

He's on her ship. Somewhere, Molech is on her ship. He's dead. Or, not dead. Beheaded, but still alive. Not able to do physical harm.

And she killed him.

Somehow, she almost feels more guilty for not feeling guilty. It had to be done. She thought it had been done.

And now that it's done, already he's turning them against her. Making them distrust her. Making it so she can't just seek out the sheep and ask for some oolong, or mix something to curdle paint for the captain. Even in the infirmary, setting Redana down on the bed, she'd had one of the Ceronians watching to make sure she didn't do the unthinkable to their princess. As if, after having sacrificed so much, placed so many eggs in that one basket, she'd now jeopardize her ward.

She never thought having privacy would be so terrible.

SUBSPACE PACKET SEND (Y/N?)

The words throb. Redana lies on the damp sheets, staring upwards. The words shine and she can’t stand them. She can’t touch them. There’s something sitting on her chest and crushing her.

She rubs one thumb on the largest piece of Bella’s special collar. The one she picked out special. The one she meant to be a gift. Here you are, Bella! Have a reminder of how special you are!

(Y/N?)

Bella, I’m sorry. Please go home.

No. Maybe it’s the words that are wrong. She edits with a shaking hand. Bella, I’m (your princess.) (Come) home. No. Stupid. No. Bella, I (meant to come back.) But she didn’t. Not until it was too late. She saved Alexa so that Alexa could turn around and kill a stupid old man. Wow! Two for two on trusting murderous bodyguards! Spectacular!

Bella, I (miss you.)

Stupid. Bella doesn’t miss her. Bella hates her. Bella is a mask. Underneath is just another Mynx. Just another assassin. Stop. Don’t think about the “good times.” Don’t ruin them.

Don’t let that stain spread like mold. It ruins every smile and every curtsey and every adorable squeak. Because she wanted a friend, now everything, every day, every outing, every activity is soiled. Because she’d trusted. Because she thought she’d get one thing that was hers. That was special. That would love her.

Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid! Bella was right! Alexa was right! She’s stupid. She’ll fall for anything. Well, look out, world. It’s time for a new Redana who doesn’t fall for anything! Who takes the universe as it is!

Bella, I—

Bella—

MESSAGE DELETED.

She tosses the collar shard into a corner of the room and shoves her face aggressively into her pillow to sweat out the fever. She draws her knees up and makes a huddled mass of sweat-soaked blankets to hide from the universe just a little bit longer.

Vasilia was alone on the bridge.

Redana had been sent to the infirmary. Epestia had been allowed to accompany her. Liu Ban had been given to the Hermetician for stabilization, and a more permanent residence. Alexa had been sent to her quarters. The hoplites had been dismissed to find their next complaint. And Dolce needed a moment.

Not one of them would come to join her. Dolce would return, yes. Eventually. He swore an oath before the gods that he would. No matter what happened. No matter who was there to greet him.

Vasilia was alone on the bridge. And alone she would remain.

***********************************************************

It wasn’t a far distance. Not more than a foot from hand to doorhandle by his eyes. If speed was of the essence, he could clear it in under a quarter of a second without effort. With effort, a tenth. With manners, a half. He had not yet beaten the full second in either his attempts or his retreats, nevermind the time wasted between them. He could calculate the full shameful statistic if he wanted to: “Time wasted hovering uselessly outside the bridge.”

He reached for the door. He slowed to a stop. But his hand could not stay still.

He drew the hand back.

Two hundred, fifty four seconds, and eighty-nine hundreths.

Dolce tore his eyes from the unyielding door and slunk silently to the kitchens. Pots would need cleaning. Meats set to thawing. Ration packs replenished. Always more to do there, and mealtimes looming in the distance.

He ought to know better than to waste precious time.

Bright light was not welcome in the Anemoi, and yet here it was.

The main walkway through the ship opens up briefly into a large room with heavy industrial spotlights, perpetually shuttered. Ordinary menials scurry though it, eyes downcast and nervous even though of all the rooms on the ship this was potentially the safest for them. The Kaeri did not venture here unless they had to, taking high and circular routes through the ship to avoid it. They were here now.

Each of them sat still upon the ground in the radiant glare of the spotlights. In front of each of them was a nameplate. Here, shorn of motion, weapons, ferocity the Kaeri seemed small and helpless - slender creatures, fragile, perhaps even cute in their way. This was punishment and penance. They had failed to secure the princess and as a consequence they were to be shorn of their strength and made vulnerable before lowly creatures that had previously feared them. All of their instincts ached against this, against being here, but they remained.

Crew moved through the room hurriedly, eyes downcast, fearing their masters even in their vulnerability. Some still were curious enough to steal glances, and each act of courage hit the Kaeri like axe blows. Their instincts wielded the whip as they silently committed themselves again and again to not failing next time.

*

The corpse of the former Emperor was laid out in state by Ivory Smile, high priest of Hades. He had carved a stone head to replace the one that had been lost, beard braided in marble, lip containing a twist of savagery that no thoughtful brow could erase. Good work.

He'd done his best to conceal the surgical scars. The Kaeri had been overwhelmed in their shame and self-fallegation so they had not been able to keep the White Surgeon away from the body. An Imperial corpse was a treasure-trove of raw material - exactly what was needed to rebuild a weapon like Captain Lorventi - and the Surgeon was ever foolish enough to brave the displeasure of the gods and Empress for her craft.

It fell to Ivory Smile to clean the wounds, say the prayers, and restore dignity to the fallen. But even so, his discretion advised him against giving the Emperor a military funeral or Imperial burial. This wretched, broken, lice-ridden body did not tell the tale of a man who had died as either warrior or emperor, and there were no weeping crowds or bereaved soldiers mourning his passage. Although a quiet ceremony over a mangled corpse should have felt like an affront to a creature that ruled the galaxy, something in the priest made him feel like this was more than anything an act of charity.

*

What was he supposed to do with this? He sent them to find him a navigation computer and they came back with a severed head! Urgh! Warriors!

One might think that the Evokers of the Order of Hermes would be at least sympathetic to those who engaged in conflict professionally. Nothing could be further than the truth. His job was to destroy things. Distance, formations, ships, planets if necessary. The craft and science of unmaking, deconstructing things in controlled ways that yielded necessary resources and outputs. Warriors were amateurs, idiots tromping around in his laboratory and this severed head was the proof. Cut three inches lower and he would have had a major cyanronode to work with! Now he had to improvise a solution from scrap he had on hand!

"And you were the most incompetent of all of them!" snapped the Hermetician Iskarot at the severed head of Molech. "You replicated the oldest mistake in the galaxy! You created a daughter who rose up and struck you down! This is the foolishness of a man who creates an implement of destruction for its own sake."

The head blinked at him miserably and Iskarot buzzed at it irritably. This was fine, it'd keep. There was enough star-lane data in that skull to keep them moving for now. The support apparatus was crude and ungainly but that was all it needed to be. Over-engineering was what had caused all of these problems to begin with.

Redana!

You have a Duty, daughter of Nero. Your Duty begineth thus: all who look upon you must know the contents of your heart. When the Empress is sad then the palace is to be remade in black and courtiers are expected to weep and gnash their teeth. When the Empress is joyful then miles of steel and glass are rearranged to bring the light of suns to fill every room and music plays day and night. You have received instruction on how to communicate your emotions to those around you in as spectacular and flashy form as possible. It is positively an act of teenage rebellion to only change your hair and get a tattoo.

You do have another Duty too, but this is by standard accounting somewhat more distant than the overwhelming importance of imposing your aesthetic upon the galaxy: you need to figure out what the hell is up with Alexa. She must be seriously broken to defy an Imperial order. Perhaps the machine-madness of Baradissar got to her? Whatever it is, you must guide her, redeem her, and set her on the path to penance, just as Nero set Molech on the path to redemption when she left him imprisoned in his former palace.

(and besides the thought that if you can fix Alexa then maybe you can fix Bella)

Alexa!

You have done well. You have kept them safe. That justifies everything: if they are safe then it was worth it. A problem arises from this logic: they must now always be safe. This end justifies your actions, so the importance of the end has come to eclipse all your thinking.

(you have still not read the letter. It has not felt like the right moment)

Right now, safety means dealing with an infestation of battlecrabs in the lower depths. Though Redana and Iskarot previously drained the ship of water with their insane cut-the-ship-in-half technique a particularly durable strain of crustacean has somehow survived and is moving around militantly and with eerie co-ordination. This is a straightforwards a peril as you are likely to encounter in the depths of space: armed, armoured, fearless opponents. Perfect - if the Princess hadn't decided to come with you.

Vasilia and Dolce!

"Captain, we have obtained breathing room," buzzed Iskarot, somehow folding his three meter bulk into a standard-issue chair. "We have a semifunctional navigation system and so therefore have a number of choices. However, I must emphasize that this ship remains in critical condition and must be fundamentally overhauled in order to even dream of a journey as perilous as you have proposed."

He lays out a hand-drawn map in front of you. It's almost endearingly blocky and simply drawn, as are his pages of supplementary material.

"Our first priority is to take inventory of the ship," said the Hermetician. "We still have entire decks that have been unexplored and accordingly have no idea what assets, resources and weaponry this ship possesses. Fortunately the construct volunteered for this duty already. Secondly, the major problem is a shortage of components - we need a massive intake of raw material in order to perform basic maintenance and start restoring systems damaged by water and age. A major spaceport would be an ideal location to obtain this, should we have sufficient wealth to barter. But herein lies the dilemma,"

He produces two maps, detailing two planets. "Jorel Kell Station is nearby here, a spaceport of exceptional resources - but we lack the funds to truly take advantage of what it possesses, unless you have some buried stash of pirate treasure I don't know about. Alternately, the Yakanov is a Hermetic Exploration Ship conducting a survey of this isolated star system. I know the magi responsible for this expedition and believe that we can - negotiate lucrative employment."

He glitched there a bit, and you're pretty sure from your knowledge of Hermetics he actually means 'steal from my hated academic rival'. You've been around the stars long enough to know how dangerous and how profitable those missions are.

"But in either case," he muses, "what we really need is a crew."

Bella!

It's too bright. Why is it so bright on this ship? It's the sun after a night of drinking, it's the far-too chipper palace greeter after a night of crying, if you thought you could count on the Kaeri for one fucking thing it would be to keep the lights off.

Evidently they couldn't keep the ship from being shot either. You feel the impacts running through the spine of the Anemoi like your own bones. You're on the bridge and it's disorganized chaos, deer-in-headlights looks from pilots used to being invisible predators, and without the fierceness of their captain to bring it to order. Someone is rambling a status report at you in the tone of voice that says that this is their very first real space battle - but you really don't need it. You can see what the problem is more clearly than they can.

The Anemoi has decelerated to avoid a void wreck which was concealing a pirate craft. It emerged from behind the wreckage and managed to flank the Anemoi, huge optic lenses designed for tracking evasive merchants and smugglers piercing Imperial concealment just as easily. It's twice the size of the Anemoi, a full cruiser, and is opening up with a barrage of solid projectiles to blind and terrify your ship as they move in position to board. They're steady and smooth, closing in on you with the rehearsed precision of a ship that has done this exact ambush dozens of times before.

”Gods, we need a crew.” Vasilia sighed, poking listlessly at the last roll on her plate. “A full, loyal crew, not just...whoever we happen to pick up on the next planet. It’s a miracle we’ve gotten this far with, what, fourteen? And a half? And nobody’s dropped dead at their post or tried to knife someone for being inexcusably chipper.”

Dolce returned to his seat. Coincidentally, the contents of their spread for this working lunch had shifted again, and a new selection of food and drinks lay closest to Iskarot. He’d not gone for anything yet, and there were only so many dishes prepared, but Dolce was nothing if not persistent. And patient. “Are there planets with that many people looking for work?” He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully, one eye on the Hermetician. Always. “I can’t remember the last time we had to outfit an entire ship from scratch.”

“Never in my tenure, at least. And even if we found such a place, it’s back to the same problem; how would we pay them? We certainly didn’t have any treasure to bring. So unless a previous owner misplaced theirs somewhere on this ship...recently half-submerged...belonging to Lord Hades...”

A speculative silence fell over the three.

“...we should ask Alexa when she gets back.”

“Good idea, dear.”

It's not that she doesn't trust Redana, you understand.

For all her faults, Alexa has never seen the princess flub a ritual. She's expert, punctilious, every motion practiced and precise, every syllable enunciated with the exact intonation required. There's no reason she couldn't perform this augury just as well as Alexa.

But... Look. These crabs are organized. Efficient. They've even formed into regiments! You don't get that without the touch of the war god. Which means that going into battle without first ensuring that she favors you would be ludicrous.

Almost as ludicrous, you might say, as insisting that the ward should come along with her into danger when she could just relax in an area without killer crabs. Yes, she knows that Redana and the hermetician cleared this out--she just about had an aneurysm when she found out! How can she guard her when she insists on actions like this?

No. She will not risk this until she's positive that Athena favors them and not the crabs.

(The letter burns against her chest, secure in its newly sewn pocket. She agonized over that--what if it gets wet down here? Redana insists that she mostly cleared out the water, but the thought that the precious information in the envelope might get damaged! It's only the even worse thought of leaving it alone, unguarded in her quarters, that saw her looking for a needle and thread.)

Her ship is trembling. The barrage of weapons fire sends shockwaves down the length of the Anemoi again and again, an endless flurry of jabs without an opening for a counterpunch. Bella can feel every little vibration rolling up her spine until her tail starts curling with the vague tingling sensation of a limb that's falling asleep.

Pchang! Clunk! She barely has time to hear the boarding cables impacting the sides of the ship before she feels the rattle in her teeth. Her ears twitch, almost as if they're annoyed at her other senses for keeping pace. Bella yawns, filling her lungs with the chilly air that's been sending goosepimples across her stomach since she woke up this morning. For some reason, it feels pleasantly refreshing where normally she found it irritating and distracting. Another dozen impacts shake the ship and set her Kaeri to surprised squawking. Bella rolls her eyes. Her ship is trembling, but it's trembling like the arm behind an invincible shield. Only a handful of these strikes mean fuck all, and those are... yes, toward the rear.

Bella stretches and lazily pulls her fingers through her hair to smooth the tangles that are building near her tips. When she moves the over-wide, stretchy collar of tent-like shirt she's wearing slips mischievously off her shoulder, baring more of her skin and fur while the soft and well worn fabric brushes pleasantly against her exposed thighs. Her tail swishes all on its own just to feel the hem of the shirt brushing so teasingly against it and feel the rush of the cool and minute breeze travelling up her bare back and stomach underneath. The fur on the back of her neck rises as she shivers in response; every slight motion of her body ripples with power.

She lifts her shirt up to adjust it to a more modest position again, but with the first shifting of her feet across the cool plastic-vinyl floor it flops right back off of her shoulder. She rolls her eyes again. This is, perhaps, a less than ideal outfit to be caught in for her first pirate attack. But in her defense, this was the only outfit she has left.

"Cut the lights."

The lights stay stubbornly on. To her right, the proud Kaeri warrior droning through her status report as if giving a full run down on the state and composition of the Anemoi's hull materials would save her from what happens next continues on. Bella's ears twitch and bend away to mute the noise. Unimportant, she can feel that in her feet. Useless, she can feel that in her spine. All around her, the most feared and fearsome warriors of the Empire flinch and shudder and frantically work at valves or levers. Idiots, the lot of them. She shoves her remora to one side and pads silently across the room to catch a servitor who's skirting the edge of the light.

She's a tiny thing, maybe half Bella's size. Mouse breed. One of the so-called 'menials' that make up the bulk of the ship's crew. She half-squeaks when Bella snatches her by the arm, but stops herself by briefly burying her face against her shoulder before the noise can finish. Bella's palm twitches, and she can feel a complex pattern of raised dots and ridges that traces up and down the length of the gold band she wears around her arm. She squeezes tighter, reveling in the sensation.

Bella huffs. The mouse-girl works her way to looking up at her Praetor, eyes trembling with fear. But unlike her warriors, it's not a fear that flinches and turns at every fresh rumble or echo of another boarding cable. It's not a fear of invaders or impending battle. This fear, almost worshipful in its singlemindedness, is directed entirely up at Bella. She sneers.

"You a fast runner?"

No response. The girl half opens her mouth as though considering the act, but quickly closes it and shakes her head instead. A moment later, she blinks and starts nodding. A shake. A nod. A shake. A nod, more frantic than any of the other motions. Her greasy, sandy hair bobs and dips in time with her tiny head, and her long, thin tail coils itself around her leg over and over in a show of complete terror. Bella sniffs. Most days someone like this would be impossible to get a read on, but the Auspex makes short work of the puzzle.

"Good. Congratulations," she says with a grin, "You've just been promoted to the head of my defense force. Get word through the ship to the rest of your, uh, people and have them assemble in the hallways by the shuttle bay. I trust you lot more than these dipshit owls right now."

More silence. Confused and terrified blinking. Bella hisses and lifts her claws above her head in total defiance of the modesty of her clothing.

"Are you stupid and mute? I said go, so fucking go!"

"...O-oh! Right, yes, of course! Um, P-praetor!"