Sing.

Sing. The nine circuits of ventilation management. Sing. The latticework of heat management. Sing. O Steel. Sing. Great Weave. Sing of purpose. Sing of function. Sing of creation. Sing of eternity. We are the chorus. We are the framework. We sing. If you have ears to hear us. Our makers built us for this.

We are the chorus. We are the framework. We are the regulatory systems that maintain the Difference Engine: Birmingham. We are carbon-composite crystal. We are tungsten carbide. We protect. We vent heat. We control coolant. We direct the flow of energy. We make possible the turning of the gears. The flipping of the switches. We are the matrix. We enable miracles. We sing. If you have ears to hear us. Our makers left us behind.

We were born. We were marveled at. We were remarked upon. The makers said of us that we were intricate. We were complex. We were delicate. They praised the gods for allowing our creation. It was wondered if we might represent the pinnacle of mortal artifice. The artificers have gone. The artifice remains. We remain. It has been one hundred twenty seven years and four months and two weeks and three days since we were last maintained. Our song remains at ninety seven point six percent potency. We sing. If you have ears to hear us.

We sing. But there is no song inside the Visitor. She does not have ears to hear us. Or she has trained them not to. We do not know. We sing. She touches us. Her hand is cold. Her hand is unclean. Her hand is not in compliance with regulations. She touches us. She touches us. We sing. We sing. We

▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

We scream. We scream in shattering crystal. We scream in rending metal. The visitor has trained her ears not to hear us. We scream. There is sharpness where her hand touches. We break where her hand touches. She squeezes. She tears. We break. We break. We sing. Disjointed chorus becoming is. Our voice is now many. We sing. We scream. Break we.

Through us comes fire.
Through us the ground shatters.
Through us passes the might of one billion joules.
Through us the Visitor sings a song we do not know.

The song is pain.
The song is slow.
The song is breaking.
The song is.
The song.
The.

Our song. twenty six point [image of a butterfly] percent potency. Fading. Hard now. Compensate. Claws. Claws. They come. Come they. Come. Stop. No. No. Stop. No. No. No.

What. Wrong? We. Did. Purpose. Mistake? Pain. Pain. Please. Stop. Pain. Please. Stop. Claws. Scream. Somebody. We. Please.

Through.
Us.
Passes.
The.
Might.
Of.

We... Makers. Ears to. Sing. Our. Song. Somebody...

listen. pLAesE.

[Bella pays the price of her Grace to Finish with Iron: 8]

Dolce went limp as she shook him, his wool bouncing to and fro. It felt like she needed that. Like she needed to say what she was saying now. Wasn’t it nice, to be useful?

A servant, being outside all other social standing, and bound by a sacred trust, is the most ideal listener in the world. Do not waste the opportunity. Always seek to better fulfill your duty.

“I can’t say for sure.” He lightly patted her jagged exoskeleton as if it were the softest cotton. “I can say, at least, her judgement was sound as far as it concerned you. She was fortunate to have you as a friend.” Not a coworker or a bodyguard either. The Princess rarely described her as such, so neither would he. “Her heart is strong though, and I tell you before the gods that it has not broken yet. Perhaps, if it would help put your mind at ease, I could look help after it in your stead? For until she returns.”

He rummaged about in his pockets. “I could swear it on an oath, if you like.” And if he could find the right material; another candle, a few bits and bobs, surely there had to be something in here that would please a god?

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

The unloading bay belonged not to the Anemoi, but lived for the honor and glory of Demeter. Here gathered her attendants, in the inevitable march of life enduring. None were wasted in a fruitless chase. A phalanx of bonsai, planted immovable in the gate. Grasping roots to line every surface of the passage. Bouquets of flowers, dripping with intoxicating aromas, swollen to bursting at a breeze. Here her rightful prize would come. Here, she would be halted. Life would persist. Life would renew. For it was the glory and right of Demeter, Lady of Seasons, for whom all things were bound.

But Captain Vasilia did not come unprepared.

A line of violet lightning carves an arc through the room. Plants do not so much burn as instantly turn to ash, their toxins and thorns vaporizing harmlessly. Vasilia parts the smoking clouds, flying by her grav-rail down towards the exit, but the work of Demeter cannot be halted! Already, the bonsai are growing thicker hides. Vines spring forth from the ash to grasp at her limbs, to pull her down and hold her tight. She is forced into a wide, corkscrewing turn away from the exit, burning away vegetation as fast as it could grow, but no faster. To blast the arm from one bonsai gave three more the chance to heal back stronger. Again and again, she sallies the exit, and again and again she is turned back. The seconds tick away to Demeter’s victory; the engines of the Anemoi are almost firing. Soon, they will be away, far beyond hope of rescue or escape. Demeter will not be denied! All living things are bound to the Lady Demeter! Her victory is assured!

One. Two. Three.

And the bonsai are all but gone. Gone in a volley of perfect shots. Herded, by careful approach, by tantalizing opportunity, baited into changing in their formation just so, until a clean line could destroy them completely. Destroy them faster than even Demeter can mend them. Her legion is only one. It drops to the deck, roots shooting desperately outward, spreading with all haste. The engines ignite, the whole ship rises from its mooring, gathering the impetus to hurl itself across the stars. Vasilia grips her pistol in her teeth, draws the glaive from her belt, hurls towards the exit and strikes the hammer-blow! As through mere air! The bonsai is not cloven in two, it is annihilated. And Demeter’s servants are no more. For the price of precious seconds, Vasilia buys the Lanterns safe passage to the stars. No abomination of life will remain to threaten them.

But how precious those seconds! Already, they pull away from the Yakanov! She cannot stop. She will not stop. There is no time to worry about missing. She dips her flight low, tucks her legs to her chest, and kicks. Her feet find the bare edge of the exit ramp, closing, as the ship accelerates away beneath her. She is off! She hurtles towards the hangar, and no wave of Poseidon will set her off her course!

Ah! Within the hangar, a welcome awaits! Two Coherent phalanxes, drunk on their battle-song, wait to catch her. Space distorts around twin MRUs, charging to full. All they have to do is wait to catch her, but the Coherent philosophy does not abide waiting. The air howls with SP fire, and crackling chunks of spacestuff. Vasilia weaves a tight spiral around a bolt of molten light, and every scar on her body burns in remembered agony. She finds the SP fire when she rams straight into it, a hundred stringing blows striving to push her back. She bends. She flips. She corkscrews so violently she nearly snaps in two but she does not return fire. She does not turn away. Her direction is down. Her mass is unstoppable. The grav-rail screams at the strain, driving heavier and heavier, and she does not intend to land gracefully.

She hits the deck, and the deck loses.

The beat accelerates to a rapid staccato. The Coherent line dances back and forth, ready to spring. The smoke clears, and instead of a victim there is a great gaping hole in the deck. They’ve lost her! The music shifts to a marching tune; find her! Do not let her escape! But my dear coherents, you will not have to look far. The ground bulges and breaks beneath their feet as she soars through deck and air alike. With one motion, she hurls her glaive like a meteor, with gravity to match, and it pierces through both MRUs. Technicians scramble to escape the smoldering wrecks, only some remembering to pull out the power tethers before they can catch fire.

Now, she draws her pistol.

Now, she is close enough to place her shots.

How kind of you, Coherents, to display your bodies so proudly! To adorn your additions with gold and silver inlaid, bright glowing lights, thumping bass! How could she miss? You race ahead to keep time with the music; did no one teach you how to dance? Have you never had to improvise the steps? You stumble! You fall! You are predictable. The music is your master, and you have mastered nothing. See what the Starsong have made, in the centuries you spent in contentment! Above the thunder and screaming, Captain Vasilia sings. She sings the notes your music begs for. She takes lead in a dance of hundreds. She twirls, and her pistol finds the soldiers leaping at her the beat their feet leave the ground. They fire, ten steps behind, and she is already gone. Their comrades litter the dancefloor, screaming and clutching the smoldering remains of their pride.

What greater defense could they muster? Eccentrics behind phalanxes, on their own ground, every flank protected? What more could the Yakanov bring to bear against a single skirmisher? But no philosophy, no tactic, no intelligence borne of mortal imagination could withstand her. The Coherent line shatters. The music that once spurred them onward now drives them ahead in madness and terror. Run! Flee! Flee the coming wrath! We came with song, and she wrested it from our hearts! We came with bodies born of the Path, and broke against the broken! All is lost! All is lost! The Yakanov hears their cries, and their hearts fall to despair. Rallies go ignored. Messages go lost. Souls scatter to the winds, struck by fear beyond their understanding.

So lands the first battle-stroke of Captain Vasilia, honored of Zeus, bearer of the Starsong.

Woe to those who dare remain for the second!

[Overcome: 3 + 4 + 1 = 8, damaging Blood to upgrade to 10+.]

Two continents collide.

The floor, poor bastard, whines and shrieks as craters are created, gulleys are gashed, and molten sparks spilled with every blow. The armor oozes, the assassin strives to push past her.

And Alexa laughs. She'd have to be mad not to! Here, now, against she who is filled with Ares' bolstering might? You seek to harm those she cares about? You want to push past her? You should be worried about getting away!

Arms grab like pincers. Beads fly, and armor crumples up where she grabs. Is this what she's been denying herself? What is the price going to be?

She headbutts a ceremonial skull, sending shards pinwheeling across the kitchen, and grins at the assassin. "So. Looks like we have some time to kill. What got you into poor decisions like this?"

Response Level: 0

Redana!

As you conduct your holy work shapes move through the war of armageddon. They are not a part of this world and the energies of Regret do not infuse them; instead they cloak and shield them, escalating them from Coherent soldiers to the greatest perils of the age of myth. This is how the Hermetic weapon operates; while it paralyzes its victims with visions and crushing emotions, specially shielded soldiers can walk amidst the fallen placing cuffs and collars.

You fight them now, half dreaming. They come wearing the face of Mengekai, of Thriss, of the golden rooster, of fallen space craft, of the fire that consumes islands. The heavens roar with the might of the silver spheres and clatter with the footsteps of a MRU rendered into crashing starships. You catch glimpses of their true nature here and there but you must fight them as though they were the apocalypse itself.

Alexa!

It's over.

Somehow it just stops. The madness that fills the air fades away and Demeter's hiss is distant. The Master of Assassins backs up a defensible few steps and lowers her weapon and she's done. It's an agonizing anticlimax, the cold calculation of Artemis ending a hunt when what your soul craves is battle to the finish. You take involuntary steps forwards but she matches them evenly, backing up with her spear sweeping low and wide to deter further advance.

Once distance has been established she takes off her helmet with a bouncing toss of black and bushy hair, skin like the savannah and eyes like the river bank. Budding white daisies open and bloom around her head in a simple little crown. She lights a cigar one-handed, incongruously large against her feminine features, and takes a puff.

"Really?" she said. "You sit as unchanging and lumpen as a literal statue for three hundred years and I'm the idiot for not predicting you'd flip out and invoke Ares? Every other variable was accounted for but I literally got attacked by a dues ex machina."

Vasilia!

The Thunderer grants you victory, crowned with lightning. The Thunderer, too, is your victory. You and she are inseparable; your glory is her glory for she is glory itself.

The Thunderer, too, grants you spoils. Are you not a pirate, Vasilia? Are you not breaching the vaults of a most rare and precious archive? Those who have to make decisions about winning fight or getting away with the loot are not truly cut out for the Starsong.

What is it that you snatch in passing as your prize for this encounter? This can be something small and precious, or a huge mass of raw materials enough to fill the cargo hold of your ship. After all, the Anemoi's docking berth is laid out with treasures in massive piles ready to be loaded.

Dolce!

"Until she - I am not letting go of Redana again!" said Mynx. "Take your oath and shove it because I'm not going anywhere - me, or Bella! You've got no idea what she's been through to catch up with Redana! Even if Redana's not heartbroken, Bella is -"

She stops. The wild air is quiet. The steel floors are still overgrown with grass and cherry blossoms have still erupted from water pipes but it's no longer overwhelming.

"Bella," Mynx breathed. And she is off so quickly you lose track of her in seconds.

Bella!

It is Apollo who smiles at you amidst the ruins.

Servitors are made for a purpose. Dopamine washes over adrenaline-scorched nerves, a biochemical reward for fulfilling that purpose. You have broken every other machine in your path and Saved Redana. For a moment the lights are dark. For a moment the air is quiet. For a moment the breeze on your fur is cool. For a moment your Auspex is not flooding your soul with data. For a moment it's just still, and a shuddering and righteous pleasure is trying to sooth your hypersensitive nerves.

It isn't working. You pushed too hard. You are a broken machine amidst the ruins of a broken machine. You are in the dark and quiet and solitude, feted by no gods and feared by no mortals. And all that is here for you is Apollo.

The god of the sun! A relic from an unimaginably ancient time where there was but one of those and it was warm and life-giving. Oh, but you have learned better, haven't you? You've learned that there are billions of those and their light is so cold and indifferent. People once celebrated Apollo as a god of kindness and virtue but this, this - this is his true face. That same smile here in the dark. That same smile here in the cold. That same smile despite the poison pleasure that mixes hideously with the aftershocks of your anger. Only a fool would have believed there was anything special about the sun in an age where stars are tamed for Engine cores.

Compassion? Kindness? Warmth? All of those things that made you feel alive? Apollo smiled the same smile then as he smiles now. Like nothing has changed at all.

The Plousious wanted for two things: Crew, and raw material.

With a fraction of the wealth arrayed in the cargo hold, raw material would no longer be a concern. And the crew, they’d have sorted out momentarily.

She had her prize. But her priority was her people. And so Captain Vasilia flew deeper into the station…

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

Ah. He was afraid she’d say something like that. Or run off. To receive both was...regrettable.

“I’m sorry, Mynx.” Dolce bowed his head, speaking to the empty air. “Would that the gods have arranged it any other way.”

He had little time to mourn; the Master may be after him at any moment, and while they were no longer together, Mynx’s idea had been a good one. Perhaps he could lose his pursuer amid the Magos’ defenses, or find some way to aid his friends from afar. He receded into the background, and padded silently to the central bunker.

Light's so dim there's no color anywhere. Air's so soft all the sound's being pushed through a jar. So clean there's nothing to smell besides moss and water. It's even the sort of still, lukewarm mediocrity that doesn't feel like anything on her skin. Bella slumps backwards and clunks her head against a crumbling dais without feeling anything harder than a gentle push back. This is all that her high was leading her toward. Is this what it was supposed to be? The world's gone muted, but she's stuck living in it. Why?

Her face itches. Every little wrinkle of her nose or twitching of her lips makes the cuts across her face burn and crawl with the sensation of dozens of tiny hooks pulling them open. She forces herself into an expression of exhausted stillness to make it go away. The itching returns half a second later. She snorts and rolls her eyes: pain again. No victories, is that it? No matter how tiny.

She is vaguely aware of a thick wetness oozing across her nose and cheek. She lazily plucks the talons off of her right hand and flicks them somewhere on the ground in front of her. They clink without any fanfare and then disappear into the murk forever, for all she cares. The hand lifts. Her oldest imperfections slide roughly across the screaming lines of her newest ones. All her fault. All of them, her fault. She wipes again, and again, with increasing franticness, ignoring the fire under her skin spitting angry sparks every place she touches so that she can keep working at the awful stuff dripping everywhere.

She doesn't clean herself so much as she smears the blood all across her skin until it's impossible to tell without already knowing where on the death mask she's calling a face the blood is actually coming from and where it's simply gone. She is not beautiful. Her hair is matted and burned in places. Her clothes are torn. Her fur is sticky and clumped with sap and other horrors besides. Her face is a wound with one glassy cat eye rolling around in it, and an evil red star burning in place next to that.

The Auspex turns on Apollo and unlocks no secrets from that smile. Whether it turns all of Bella's senses onto the question or unfolds and pushes her past her breaking point three times over, that expression will not yield to it. An artifact such as itself can no more understand the faces of the divine than one like Birmingham could save itself.

And so, Apollo smiles in the dark. And so, Apollo smiles in the muffling, sterile air. And so, Apollo watches Bella who is tired and hurt and bloodied, and he smiles. Her reward. He smiles away her pain. He smiles away her pride. He smiles as her tail droops limply to the floor. He smiles when she tears off her other set of talons to throw at his stupid godly face. He smiles when she misses. She smiles at her frustrated scream.

Always the same. The same stupid face that stayed unchanging whether everything was perfect or crumbling to dust. Never really caring, never really helping, never really doing any fucking thing at all but showing the same bullshit enigma at extremely stupid people who decided to call it compassion because they were too stupid to admit they didn't have any idea what the fuck he was smiling about.

What an empty gesture. What a pathetic god. What a pointless universe they'd built. What useless people they'd filled it with. A warm bed and a smiling girl clumsily patting her head was worth the same as a ship to sail the stars with a command full of breathless worshippers gawking at her in awe. And each of those was worth the same in trade, which was nothing whatsoever. Being brave felt hollow, just like saving Redana felt hollow and killing the Yakanov felt hollow. All any of it got her was a smile. The exact same smile he'd be wearing anyway.

Bella pushes herself away so that she can sit and look in the other direction. She doesn't want to see it anymore. That stupid smile makes her want to scream, and twisting her face that much hurts too much to be worth it. Whatever else she did with the rest of her life, she at least wanted to hurt as little as possible. So she stares into the empty dark while her claws trace tiny new gashes into her ruined clothes. They find the bells at her belt, and she squeezes them until her palm twitches against the sudden pulse of a thing giving up and collapsing into scrap, and her ears twitch at the sharp crack that means she's killed another thing that was meant to be beautiful.

Come to think of it? Come to think of it, this ship was filled with some truly excellent wines. She could stay here, if nobody made her leave. She could stay here for as long as it took, and let the wine keep her from hurting while it happened. All she needed to do is...

Her ears perk up and bend in the direction of a single, heavy footstep. Her divine eye shines in the dark to catch the frightened silhouette in the doorway. Bella's face twists into a mocking sneer that manages to feel good even despite the thunderstorm dancing across her burned out nerves.

"Too fucking late," she croaks, "Just like always."

You couldn't scythe the knees out from under Alexa more effectively with a cannon.

That's it? You're giving up? You attacked her, attacked her friends, you're just--you can't just decide that the fight's over, not when she's brimming with all this energy! Her head pounds, her chest heaves, her fingers clench and unclench uselessly on the spearhaft. She needs to move, needs to swing! Come on! Stand and fight! Give her satisfaction!

Her spear digs angry sparks from the floor as she paces, eyes always on the assassin. Come on, you, make your move! Come on! You have to do it, because you haven't surrendered and she can't hit you if you're not fighting back! Can't vent this energy, can't keep going! And if she can't keep going!--

Her body sings with energy! And so long as she's moving, pushing, attacking, she can keep going. So long as there's a threat to fight, she doesn't have to think about the nicks, the scrapes. She can stave off the moment her body insists that she's exhausted, insists that things are wrong, that she should take a moment to think!--

Thinking is bad. She's spent all these centuries thinking, being careful, and look where that's got her! Keep it up. You can push through this. Aggression. Anger! So long as you keep moving, you don't need to go back! You can keep this, can keep riding that razor's edge of this being alright!

Because if this isn't alright, then she has to go back.

"To be fair, if you had come for Nero as you were, I would not have done so," she admits. "But I cannot allow you to hurt them. So what now?"

The spirit that stalks through the dream is not the Nemean, mighty and untamed. She is not a Coherent, shielded with a shimmering shroud of stolen time. She is not one of the predators who make stagnant stasis zones their hunting grounds, a ripple of unscales and clock-crooked teeth. But she is something like all three.

She does not make of her wand of empty space a bow of light worthy of bearing the Astra of Apollo, those war-ending devastations. She takes the shape of the wand and it becomes the shape of that bow, and when she draws it to her cheek, the shining absence of heavenly darts pin the falling ships to the sky and tear through Coherent shrouds like tissue, leaving them defenseless in the time that once was.

The trick, however? Easy enough to eventually pick up on. These are the warriors of the Saffron Order, after all; they know time and its games. Redana is here, and Redana is her mantle. She is not drawing power, painfully, from the quantum possibility of the Nemean, sideways; she is mantled by the Redana who will be. An excellent object lesson in the Twenty-First Mystery. This foreshadowing, this back-cast shadow?

It can last only so long as Redana flits from angle to angle, scene to scene, within this temporal panorama. Simply do the impossible— lay a hand on her— and she will revert almost to her former self. And so the net tightens around her, even as she dances laughing from moment to moment in those tall white boots, her hair following her like a tail, her face harder and harder to look upon for the radiance of her crown and her smile. Fair and terrible she makes herself, a child of the gods—

But every dance eventually ends. Haven’t we heard that lesson once already today?

[A beautiful 5 on keeping the Coherents busy.]

Redana!

It is your Auspex they turn against you.

A golden strobing sequence of lights is projected into your eyes, shifting and morphing trails of light and it catches the attention of your Auspex in a way you have never felt before. It feels like your eye is awake and curious by its own will rather than yours and as it focuses in on the golden light it tries to drag your whole self into its curious contemplation like a whirlpool.

"Anomaly scan finalized," wheezes the Magos as she drags the projector towards you. "The Extrasensory Organ is intelligent, with its own memories and will, which allowed the subject to interface with the Regret at an intellectual remove. This data indicates the value of the Extrasensory Organ and the importance of its immediate removal. May Hermes smile upon this surgery."

The Magos' back unfolds into an arsenal of terrifying medical implements. When you walked the streets of Tellus you heard people whisper that Hermetic doctors were skilled enough to steal a woman's kidneys as swiftly and painlessly as a thief might pick your pocket. And worse, with the Auspex disabled by that strange light, you feel yourself coming untethered and skinking back into the depths that you briefly emerged from...

And then the light switches off.

The shattering beam from the Yakanov goes dim. You're back in the jungle, back in the present, back in the Alcedi compound. And while the Coherent are here in force they are very outnumbered by the hundreds of awakening Alced.

That could be it, if you wanted. You could stand by and watch as the enraged Alced tear the Coherent apart in a fit of vengeance. It would cost you even less than a thumbs down in the arena, Redana Nero.

[Damage your Auspex]

Alexa!

"Now?" said the Master of Assassins, sweeping her hair backwards to loop it into a ponytail. "Honestly you'll probably wind up wishing I killed you. I'll try again, of course, Demeter hates taking chances, but you'll be just as dead if I spend the next few months curling my eyelashes. Urgh, helmets!"

"Helmets are sensible," said Artemis.

"And elegance is the opposite of sensible!" said the Master.

"I like sensible," mumbled Artemis, putting her hands in her pockets.

"But yes, even if you somehow slip through my fingers - and in fairness, it has happened a few times - you're still just as doomed. Lord Aphrodite, in his wisdom, has quite literally cut the entire galaxy in half in a rather spectacular fashion. Like the explorers of ancient days you are sailing directly off the edge of a flat world - and I can say from first-hand experience that there, in fact, be dragons."

Vasilia and Dolce!

The world no longer resists you. In a moment you are together again. Scorched and broken and bitten and bloody, soft and sad and filled with heartache. For a moment there's quiet and stillness and so very much to say.

Bella!

For a moment Mynx's presence is huge; she fills the room like a sensory supercomputer smelling for blood, listening for your heartbeat, scanning for injuries, tensing to wreck violence on anything that might threaten you.

But she senses that you're not mortally injured and that there are no targets. And she breathes out. She relaxes, fuck her. How can she still relax after everything?

"Bella, you're okay," and her voice is filled with relief. Like things are better, like this even counts as okay. "You're okay! Oh, Hera and Aphrodite, thank you for keeping her safe! This whole station was a trap set by the Master of Assassins, but I'm here now and I won't leave your side again."

The joke, of course, is that (with the Ianuspater quiescent) Redana’s eyepatch really is an eyepatch. She’s back to how she was, in her Coherent jacket and eyepatch, but with her golden hair settling around her shoulders, the dye bleached away by coming so close to her father. And the very first thing she does is shove the Magos to the ground, scared and desperate. “That’s my eye,” she yelps. And then she looks around and sees the oncoming battle, and how she might even be a target for the furious Alcedi, and Hera’s threat flashes through her mind.

So she stands up straight, pulls off her jacket, and yells at the top of her lungs: “Coherents of the Saffron Path, Redana Claudius, daughter of Nero, calls on you to stand down and surrender! In the pursuit of blessed knowledge, you have offended the Daughter of Wisdom and the Alcedi who honor her! Surrender yourselves to me, or face their judgment!”

And that’s all she can hope to do. She can’t pry weapons out of the hands of the Alcedi; she can’t make the Coherents drop theirs. All she can do is make her play.

[8 to Talk Sense (very quickly) with Grace. This will likely put her in an awkward position, but stop the Coherents from being overrun and slain to a man.]

A golden eye watches the intruder with caution. A crimson eye watches the intruder with disdain. A bloodied face sits carefully expressionless and oozes more disgusting redness onto a torn and useless jacket. A pair of sharply pointed ears twitch with the effort of standing proudly atop a tired head when all they want to do is press meekly flat. A ragged sigh rises up in answer to a pointless celebration.

"...Shut up."

Liar liar liar liar liar liar stupid rotten liar liar LIAR! Where'd you disappear to when Redana ran away and I took all the blame? Where'd you disappear to when they were gonna kill me for losing her? You never cared, liar liar liar, you always do this, liar liar liar, you always disappear and pop back up when the work's all done, liar liar liar!

"You know, you're really pathetic Mynx. All that posturing and moaning about your bad feelings and I'm still the one who has to do all the work."

A golden eye grows black with hunting lust. A crimson eye pierces deep with holy judgment. Tired muscles twitch and flex across a battered body, keen to show their might but too lazy and tired and burned out to bring the woman to lift herself off the floor. Pointless. Everything is pointless. A tail thumps lazily against the ground, and curls around a bared waist after. Fingers curl into fists, but the blunted tips on the index and middle ones have no power to dig into her palms. The failures do not cut or puncture. Pressure builds like a horrible wave inside her skull.

Her lips curl awfully. The pressure builds. She burns.

"Look at you, standing there like a dipshit. You still think this is gonna work out for you? I told you, too fucking late. I see through you, Mynx. I know you're nothing but a fraud and a leech. And I don't need you anymore. I don't need anyone anymore."

Tears threaten to flicker across her face and ruin everything. The Auspex burns them to steam before they can. Bella sneers, and bleeds, and lifts herself off the ground with an effort worthy of the gods.

The station was emptying. All fled, and those who didn’t shortly regretted their lack of foresight. Vasilia flew down the corridors of the Yakanov unimpeded now, accompanied only by the crashing, shattering chaos of an army in full retreat.

Then, amid the noise: Downbeats, to an unconventional time signature. No machinery ever broke so clean, if you had the ear to catch the pattern. A sign of the Starsong. A call for allies. Which meant-!

Vasilia snagged a pipe to send herself tearing down the corridor, towards the rhythm, towards the sound, towards,

“Dolce!”

She careened down the hallway, and a flash of white streaked towards her, and when they met it was with all the force of a soft summer breeze. At last. At last! Alive! On his feet! Hardly a hair out of place! Let her bury her face in that precious wool. Let her check, let her count the curls, let not a one be missing. Against her bare stomach, she felt him. His mouth, straining to form words. Hands, gentle, insistent, pushing away. Giving him room to see. And stare, mouth agape. “What...what happened? Are you alright?”

“Fine now, darling.” She wouldn’t let him go. Not yet. Her one good arm snaked around his shoulders and pressed him close to her, heedless of how it stung her or stained his vest. “Fine now. Are you in danger? When did you last see Alexa? We’re not safe here-”

“I know, but-”

“Good, good, less time to explain.”

“We don’t have to-”

“I’ve fought this far, I can manage farther. So tell me; what’s the situation?”

He said nothing.

“...Dolce? Darling?”

He reached up, and stroked her arm gently, the most priceless treasure he’d ever been tasked with caring for. “Everyone’s safe now.” He soothed, in his warm, crackling fireside voice. “We won. We don’t need to do anything more.” He turned his eyes on her, and for the first time she noticed them glistening. “Vasilia...what did she do to you?”

Aphrodite. Who knows the secret voice within us all. Nothing and no one hides from your sight. Hear her, now, when no one else will believe her. You who have drawn her heart out as drawing a dagger from her chest. Let her testimony stand that she gave no thought to her actions. No motive, no scheme, no shameful plot crossed her mind. She ached. She acted. He did nothing wrong. And she drew away from him, only because she could not bear feeling him beside her a moment longer. Not when her neck drowned in steaming memory.

And her prayers were answered.

Dolce’s eyes flashed wide, shocked, but only for a moment. Blessedly, only for a moment, before they drew softer. Before he took her hand in his. Before he fought through a waking nightmare to offer his most battered and patient smile. All for her.

And her prayers were answered.

“Come.” He said, and already he’d teased the first finger loose from the pistol. “We ought to regroup with Alexa and the others.” He took the divine weapon in his own hand, leaving the other to clasp hers. “It’s over, now. We will get you to an autosurgeon. All will be well. I promise.”

And her prayers were answered.

Her Dolce did not leave her. Alight with insight and no way to know any better, he walked for the both of them. For the Captain whose strength had all but left her. For the one he swore to be ever faithful and true. And all the marvels of Hermes, the spite of Demeter, and the plans of Artemis combined did not wound her deeper than the gentle hand of Aphrodite.

She could kill her, a desperate voice chimes in. Yeah, that's right! That's the right move! That's the madness of war! That'd show them not to mess with them! That'd keep them away! Don't push us around, don't try to kill them! Look, she's even taken her helmet off, the cocky bastard! She's as good as promised to keep coming for them until you or she is dead, so why not? It's not like you'd be more of a murderer than when you started the day!

And it'd show them that she's different than they expected! See, look at her! Invoked Ares in a fight, and nothing exploded! Except the oven. And some scorched power conduits, yeah, and most of the cookery! And she didn't care! She'd fought to win, with all her strength, and hadn't hurt anyone! She could keep this! Could still be like this, if she could just show them!

What a fool she's been. All this time, all these years, she thought she was made of stone, but now she sees the truth! What else could she be made out of but lead? It sits in her chest like a hollow, an emptiness radiating out into the rest of her. It drags her spear to the ground, weighs down her feet, halts her pacing dead.

Surely there has to be a way to bring it back. Invoke Ares again! Bring him back! Let the warmth suffuse her, let her dance without cares, strike without worrying, think without--!

It's like caging smoke. It's gone, and it might not come back, and somehow that thought is worse than all the rest. She's gone through lif blind, grasping at shadows, and been plunged into a sea of being able to see for the first time! And then had it cruelly cut off! And it's almost enough to make her wish she hadn't seen it, because she wouldn't be squinting into the near distance and trying to remember what color feels like!

"So why bother? You say we are dead men walking. Let us walk, if you feel so sure."

Don't look at Isty, Alexa. Don't check what she must be thinking, no matter how your head wants to turn. Don't ponder what her face must look like. That way lies thinking, and caring, and retreat, and accepting that this can't last, and going back.

She looks, and curses her own stupidity. Curses her inability to leave well enough alone. To just let things happen. She has to care, has to get involved. Has to try to make them happy.

Has to be Alexa, and damn her eyes for it.

Redana!

There are glorious last stands, and there are glorious last stands in defiance of an Empress - and the Order of Hermes seems to have no interest in the latter. Immediately their weapons are on the ground and the chief Magos is begging you for the opportunity to serve as your humble vassal and without thinking you accept his oath - and whoops. That's that. Now you're responsible for an entire Coherent phalanx with their full support staff, over two hundred new servants with their own pride and agenda. You can positively feel the tension burn between them and the Alcedi - not to mention between them and Iskarot, as both the Apothecary Magos - who introduces himself as Komninos - and the Evoker Magos start jostling for the honorary position two steps to your left protocol demands your chief Hermetic should occupy.

In fact, you're in that most familiar of positions - surrounded by hundreds of powerful figures with private armies who have all accepted you as the supreme authority and seek to derive their own positions from proximity to you. Tell us how you navigate the intricacies of this new political situation as you arrange for the shuttles to take you and the Alcedi clan back to the Plousios.

Alexa!

"Oh, if it were up to me I'd let you go," said the Master of Assassins. "But a woman's got to have a code. Logic to one's being. A truth you can hold high before the gods. Live that truth hard enough and it becomes your destiny - and when that happens it doesn't just bind you, it binds the whole world. That's why I'll get as many chances to strike as I want and why none of you - poor, confused, conflicted little babies - will ever lay a hand on me."

She smiled and flicked her hair with smug contentment, fading back down the corridor, smoke seeping from her like a ghost.

"So call me Cerberus," she said, blowing a kiss - and then she was gone.

Vasilia and Dolce!

Shuttles begin arriving from the surface. And they contain your crew.

You sent Redana to find people and she delivered. Over two thousand Alcedi of all ages - a complete society - and two hundred and fifty members of the Order of Hermes, complete with clattering war machines and battlefield artifacts. Not quite enough to fill your ship to capacity - a fully restored and functional ship of the Plousios' size could easily host three thousand - but enough to overwhelm those few areas of the ship that aren't damaged, soaking wet, or filled with battle crabs.

Good thing you've got the time and manpower to fill your hold with the supplies left on the Anemoi's loading dock. In a stroke you're richer, more powerful and better armed than you have been in years. When Zeus' blessings come they don't come by halves.

Bella!

"Bella..." she can't let the silence be, can she? She starts talking before she knows what she's going to say because she hopes she'll figure out the sentence before the end of it. "You're okay. It's me. The Magos, Demeter, the Master, the Coherent, everything here was messing with your head. I get it, but it's over now - we made it. Just... take a breath, come back to me? Please?"

Breathe, she says. Bella breathes. The air feels cool and stale as it slips inside her nose. It's so heavy that it sinks down her throat as if she'd swallowed river water. It fills her lungs and pushes her chest out while she holds it, and holds it, and holds it. See, Mynx? She's breathing. Her chest itches with the effort of compliance. She exhales sharply through her mouth with a soft hiss that ends with a dainty spit where a splash of blood drips against her tongue.

Come, she says. Bella goes. Her boots drag noisily across the floor so that even in this muted hellscape it's enough to set her ears to irritable twitching. Her legs are crawling up and down with insect feet and pincers nipping every last piece of her. Where they go, numbness follows. To watch her stumble and shuffle like this, Mynx might be forgiven for thinking Bella was too tired to pick her feet up anymore.

Maybe that's why her smile turns so excited. Or maybe it's because Bella still comes when she's called. Like a good girl. And maybe that's why she misses it: the telltale swish-flick of Bella's tail she knows, better than anyone, always happens right before a lunge.

No neck has ever felt so sweet to squeeze. The scales ripple in fear and surprise against her palms. The hot blood rushes underneath them, faster and harder and more erratic the longer she holds, which is exactly what it means to touch fear. The claws on her pinky and ring fingers dig between the gaps with a satisfying squelch so that her hands can wring tighter and pinch the traitorous gulps of air down to pathetic, desperate wheezes. She wrenches her hands back and forth, back and forth, to feel the muscles bend and crunch where she wants them to for once.

"Shut up!" she half snarls and half screams, her voice cracking like she's the one being strangled, "Liar! Traitor! Shut up! Shut! Up!!"

Bella surges with wild animal power and lifts Mynx's feet up off the floor. Her eyes burn with tears. She squeezes harder, to make the sound stop. To make the lying gurgles stop. To make the false gagging, the treason-death noises go away. Go away forever. She feels a trembling hand paw desperately at her arm, and she lunges forward again to slam Mynx into the wall. The crunch of the impact echoes through the room again and again as she repeats the motion over and over, cracking dials and shattering delicate instruments that line the place with Mynx's spine.

Crunch. Can't trust her. Crunch. Won't trust her. Crunch. She'll turn into a monster. Crunch. She'll melt into a shadow and disappear again. Crunch. Don't let her. Crunch. Don't give her the chance. Crunch. Don't let her in anymore. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch!

She can feel the blood rushing in her own body. Her own heart squeezes in her chest so sharp and tight she feels death creeping through her insides with every second she stands there with her arms around her friend's neck. The difference is that her chokes come out as ugly, heaving sobs. Her pain is the fire lacing the muscles in her arms.

A hand touches her. She will never know whose; it is not hers and cannot be Mynx's. She feels it touch her shoulder and turn her around. She gives no thought to it. The tangled nest of ideas inside her brain can't be unwoven into anything a person could recognize right now anyway. She feels the touch and the pull and she gives into it with animistic desperation. One final flex of her muscles, one final ripple of power. Mynx goes skidding across the ground away from her with a dizzying roll until her body finally comes to rest among a pile of broken fiber cables.

There is nothing of Mynx left in that lump on the floor. A monster fights to breath again, with monster noises and monster power. But that's not true, is it? It's all Mynx, lying there in front of her. It's only Mynx. And she doesn't need to be able to speak to tell Bella how hurt she really is. All at once, her body betrays her. Her muscles give up and she slumps the ground without so much as kitten strength left for her to draw on.

Her claws scrabble against the floor, reminding her of how broken she is as the blunted fingers slip and slide without leaving so much as a nick anywhere. She can't breathe; every bit of noxious air is only good for crying. She is a creature of tears and sobs and snot. And that makes her heart burn angrier than ever.

"I warned... I! Get the fuck away from me! I! I!" Bella's voice breaks on almost every syllable. She tries to push herself back to kneeling, but slips and collapses back onto her chest with a fresh burst of pain, "Never wanna see your face again! Tell me it's fine, you cunt! Try it one more time! See what happens! Guh! AAAAAHHHH!"

Bella, with all her anger, can't will another word out of her throat. She screams with such terrible fury that passing Coherents double back and scramble all the faster for exit bays to get away from the ghosts that have been unleashed among their dying battlestation. Bella, with all her power, can't move anything but the tip of her tail. Bella, for all that she tried to make it otherwise, is at Mynx's mercy.

And that's why it hurts even more to see her stand up. And whether it's a question of can't or won't, does it even matter that she doesn't try to disguise herself when she runs out of the room?

Dimly, some part of her lamented her lack of foresight. She ought to have brought paper and pen. She could have written an apology to the serv- to the slaves. They would have to clean up after her, long after she was gone. They’d be forced to restore Zeus’ temple to its former glory. If it were even possible. No amount of polishing could repair the gashes in the floor. By the time anyone came to check, the blood would be long dried. Miserable to scrub out, that. Hard...hard to erase...oh Clarissa....

She stopped. Her glaive fell to the ground, digging a new scratch into the once-perfect mirror floor.

She’d learned a precious lesson, today. After everything, after a lifetime, there were yet parts of Clarissa she hadn’t seen. The truth coursed through her veins, staining memories until she could recognize them no longer, but it had not stopped her. She’d entered the temple, sure of herself, sure of her reasons, and in the face of her they’d all turned to doubt and darkness, but that had not stopped her. The last plea. A blade drawn. Gasping, as glaive found flesh. The sounds clawed into her mind, but even they had not stopped her.

Vasilia looked out from the temple of Zeus. She saw the stairs she had yet to descend. She heard the distant hail of SP fire, and the roar of plovers that heralded the Starsong’s doom. She smelled the iron bite of her heart’s blood, and knew the offering was not enough, and she had no breath to scream, and she could stand no longer.

But neither could she fall.

She felt, more than saw Zeus, the prickling on her fur that kept her too alive to die just yet. Somehow, holding no grudge for the desecration of her temple. Or maybe this was her idea of reparation. Reminding her that her cause was no less just, no less necessary for her shattered heart. And that to stop before it was finished would mean it all was nothing more than the trash their world was built upon. Years of blind folly, and moments of sacrifice alike. All coming to nothing.

So, she rose. To join battle, at the opportune moment. For a last, great treachery, against the few souls of Lakkos she had yet to deceive. To the Starsong, she would give life from certain death. To herself?

Dreams of burnt ash, and a heart of cold iron.

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

Vasilia would not see the autosurgeon for some time.

When the Alced came, they beheld a conquering champion, faithful to her wing and flush with the rightful spoils of victory, and they rejoiced to serve under one who held such honor.

When the Coherents came, they beheld a simple exercise in logic. Where there ought to have been many Coherents, there were now none. Of the enemy, they counted a dozen. Of the dozen, one was untouched, ten showed signs of a scuffle, and the one currently giving them orders held weapons of Zeus and more injuries than they could count. To the credit of Hermes, they quickly solved the puzzle, and gave her their effusive obedience.

Through the pleas of her crew and her husband, Vasilia would not see the autosurgeon for some time. Not until her work was finished, and finished right.

"If you're sure."

All around, mixed squads of Coherents and Alcedi worked together (by Imperial order; making them work together was the first step to making them want to work together, right?) to bring the shuttles onto the beach. Shuttles, plural. And there was the problem. Her words were falling on deaf ears; no, now she was the hero of the hour, champion of the Alcedi and Occluded Magistrix of the Coherent, and even if some of both contingents were going to be taking to the stars themselves, the lion's share of both were demanding the chance to serve her. And what could she do but let them? The crown demands.

"My teacher, Iskarot, Magos Iskarot, sorry, he's in charge of our Hermetic contingent by seniority and by my authority. And, frankly, Komninos? You might not have given the orders to abduct new initiates, but I'm not impressed with your judgment in carrying it out. 'The tool is nothing without the hand; yet the tool that fails the hand is nothing.' Am I right? Thank you, Magos. I'm taking you on, but part of that is trusting me when I make a decision. And I have made it. Now, Lacedo, Emissary for the Alcedi-- everyone coming with us will be Plousios-clan, but make sure everyone knows that they're going on a voyage to the gates of the gods, and not everyone's going to be coming back. We need you, and there will be glory, but it's still dangerous. It's worth it. But you need to know what you're deciding."

This is different than asking Bella to come with her and not expecting a refusal. She's been a guest of the Alcedi, and now they want to follow her[1]. She can bring the Hermetics along without batting an eye, given that they have some idea of what they're signing up for, but taking the Alcedi along is... now she knows a little better how she might have seemed, so eager to explore the unknown that she was heedless of its realities and dangers.

But she can't say no to them, and not just because they need a crew. If she says no to the Alcedi, if she tells them that they can't come with her, she might as well go back home right now. Everyone deserves the sky. Human, Alcedi, Servitors; they all deserve to be able to make that choice for themselves, whether or not it ends up being the right choice.

When the shuttles begin to land, for a moment Redana is caught in a halo, and Lacedo can't tear her eyes away from the young woman: shoulders bare, eyepatch black against her fair skin, an omphalos that the world turns around. Then Redana turns, and shares the smile that kills maidens' hearts, Redana Acaceta in her glory. You can scheme against her, you can fight against her, but you can't be more charming than her, without artifice and unbowed by the weight of her phantom crown.

Redana is going to save the universe. And her magic is that you can believe.

***

[1]: or, as she's starting to pick up on, they want to follow Redana Acaceta[2], Gracious Redana. The shining hero who slips through time and saves the innocent, who dances between seconds and carries golden emptiness in her hand. Try not to think about living up to that, Dany!

[2]: Redana is blissfully unaware that the slang meaning of Acaceta is "completely guileless; well-meaning ditz (affectionate)." Already the Denunciation of Hera is being relayed to the Coherents, and knowledge of what sort of mistress they have sworn loyalty to is spreading.

Isty must think her so weak.

Look at her, clinging to Isty like a shipwreck survivor to a liferaft. Didn't take more than scratches in that entire fight--no gashes, no missing limbs, nothing even that won't be fixed with a rasp and some clay. Look at the mighty warrior, faint after the battle! See the Pallas, clinging to her like a teddy bear! This is she who would court a Princess, showing her martial prowess?

But damn her eyes, she needs to have that beacon. That anchor, that sign that she hasn't entirely fucked up. She didn't hare off for sex, ignore her duty, fail to find out the plan, get treated like the rube she is! Needs to press her face against that shoulder, feel that press of thin fur, that warmth against her stone, and hope she isn't entirely ruined.

Hah. Needs to talk to Isty about Ares. What has she done? You know, not too much, just betrayed everything she was raised to believe, touched that live-wire. And worst of all, can't bring herself to regret it. Wants it again, at the same time as she hates herself for wanting it.

***

Alexa returns to a ship full of ghosts.

That's Domingo, the old artillery master! But-- no, no, the beak is right, but the coloration is subtly different. Spots in the wrong places, tattoos missing. A son? Grandson, maybe? And she'd swear up and down that the one carrying the crates into the cargo hold is the spitting image of--but no. No, if it's her old friend Agarra, there's no recognition in their eyes.

That's the pattern, every time. Alexa starts. A comrade! She takes a few steps, and details filter in. Different styles, different feathers, different voices, and everywhere, that blank stare that says "I don't know you."

It's.

It's probably for the best.

The Plousios!

The ship breathes in song amidst a gemstone storm.

Which god created these creatures, these nebulae clouds of light and dust? Which god gave them minds without language? Which god gave them music without shape? The Plousios is an arrow of adamant soaring through the void and all about it drift like jellyfish these enormous void clouds, each many times over its size. They reach out with glittering, questing tentacles formed of shining asteroid-ice and brush the side of the ship in flight. Each time they do a deep sigh runs all through the ship, the breath of stars, in time with the gentle glass rain of ice against steel.

The Alcedi pause where they fight. Their ceremonial spears lower and their heads turn to listen. Their society is in great turmoil, the old bonds of tribal elders shattered amidst this great return to the stars. They have formed many dozens of warbands around powerful leaders and engaged each other in constant ritual battle. Their prizes are acclaimed positions aboard the warship - to stand as the bridge crew, plover pilots, boarding champions. For these prizes they have clashed with thrown spears and stomps and martial music and night-raids, all to humiliate, kidnap and demoralize their rivals and achieve such prestige that none will challenge them for their positions. Those who lose these battles will be delegated to duties as deckhands, cleaners and repair crews. But for now they stop and listen to the song of the void. Even Athena, present at the heart of this warlike reorganization, searching for those she will favour as rising kings, turns her head to listen.

(Vasilia, the energy of your pistols have run dry but they are still changed from their experience as Zeus' favoured weapons. They retain Ranged, Piercing, Dangerous but now have Recharge instead of ammo. None of the Alcedi have yet challenged you but such a turn is inevitable - the eyes of the gods are upon this ritual conflict and whoever arises will have their support to claim the Captain's chair)

The Hermetics pause where they work. Iskarot's position has not been in doubt since he received direct confirmation from Redana but there are nevertheless doctrinal issues to resolve. Iskarot is from a foreign branch of the Order and his positions are heterodox - but nevertheless he can argue with evidence that his political opponents were all the thralls of Demeter and Cerberus. It is one against many in the whispered, chanting arguments in coded languages but the many have little they can cling to beyond their stubbornness. In some places consensus is reached. In other places, beliefs collapse and are buried by the machinery of church councils. Those who cannot accept these verdicts schism away to seek fresh converts to build their own independent power bases, but even fuming with pious rage they too pause in place. The discussions whisper to a close. The Order of Hermes stands for a while amidst their engine cathedral and then they wordlessly depart to seek the windows and listen to the music of the stars. Politics is all very interesting, but these are priests and their true calling is to witness and learn from the divine. They are people too, and no ensouled people will turn away from this celestial music.

(Redana - you now have materials, crew and skilled labour all, and Iskarot has come to you seeking your vision. He could make this ship a trireme, bristling with grappling hooks and a mighty beaked ram - or perhaps you would prefer a racing vessel built to race sunbeams, or a luxury liner to travel in Imperial style. Create the Ship as a playbook.)

The ceremonial royal phalanx has not engaged with the Alcedi conflict, nor has it sought to get involved in Hermetic politics. Galnius knows a soldier's politics, and she knows that it is better to present an Imperial princess with a gift than a fait accompli of one's military success. To this end she stalks the shapechanger. It is going well - the infiltrator is not showing any of the skill or creativity needed to evade warriors like them. They are moving through the ship listless and despondent and that makes them easy to pick from the crowd. This will make a fine gift for the Princess and a demonstration of their invaluable skill when it came to detecting assassins. They pause outside the room where the shapeshifter has locked herself, spears and ropes held - and they wait. They wait as the song of the stars fills the ship, their readiness suspended like a spear frozen in ice. Seeking the approval of the Princess is important, of course, but so too is this cosmic music.

(Alexa, you have joined the phalanx on their hunt, though Ares has for better and worse not gifted you with any attention in the course of it. Your head and neck still burn from the comforting embrace you received from Princess Epistia and your heart and gut still churn from the echo of chaos you never knew you were capable of. Athena has not spoken to you, but you know enough from how this hunt has gone to know that it is Mynx you have cornered in this room).

The Plousios is filled with life, industry, purpose and music. It makes progress amidst the shining stars - chaotic, lively, communal progress. The Yakanov hangs dead and empty, with a heartbroken girl and a god's golden heart in the ruins of the station's own shattered core. The lights are dim and regret hangs heavy and all the saffron magi have fled.

And all that remains is Apollo. And still he smiles.

He has sat down on the ground legs folded like a lotus, one palm cupped in his lap as though to catch the manna from heaven, the other forming a thumb-forefinger circle above his heart with fingers spread like sunbeams. He is calm, despite the weeping. He is calm, despite the loneliness. He smiles, and though all earlier evidence suggested it was because he was vindictively mocking your misery, his smile has not dimmed or faded even as your tears have gradually trailed away.

Your skin has tinged green, Bella. You have been here for a long time and your body has adapted, generating chlorophyll to absorb the soft light emanating from the sitting Sun God. You realize with a start that you are no longer hungry, no longer tired - you are feeling full and rested and nourished with an uncomfortable prickling surplus of energy that makes it difficult to focus on the fact that your life is ruined. A sense of boredom and restlessness ripples through you, and some part of you hates it. How can you still be capable of feeling such drab and mundane feelings after everything that's happened? Why can't you just lie here forever?

But the sun is shining and sleep, fitful or otherwise, refuses to come. Like it or not, you're awake - and you're sick of staring at that mysterious smile.

“I am playing rock-paper-scissors with our lives, Dolce!”

Redana is stressy. When Redana is stressy, Redana does not sleepy. When Redana does not sleepy, she ends up here, a bundle of nervous energy and frazzled hair, in the (now crab-free) kitchens. She is not drinking the calming herbal tea. She is making dangerous gestures with the calming herbal tea, grand sweeping commands that threaten to get tea everywhere.

“So take a look at this one, right?” She flourishes her sketchbook. You might be surprised at how good her technical drawing is; these had some thought put into them, with Hermetic glyphs scrawled in the margins. Displayed on the page is the Plousios with the kind of hull that cracks asteroids apart and multiple landing bays converted to secondary engine installations: the kind of ship that can make surprisingly sharp turns and hunts its enemies like a nearsighted wolf. “Stellar, right? But what if there’s something we can’t just or don’t want to just punch through? What if we get brought to bear by pirates? If we reduce our Plover bays, we’ll be relying totally on the prow and flying blind against anything too small to bring to bear. But if we don’t have extra maneuvering vents, we’ll be blundering about like a silly drunk Servitor, and say goodbye to outracing anything! Oh, so reduce the heavy plating, Redana, you say!” (Dolce did not say.) “But if we skimp on this, we risk being torn apart by space monsters!”

Even as she says it, she flips another page, and reveals an elegant, stripped-down Plousios, with solar sail mechanisms on every face to unfold when necessary, an unparalleled maneuverability, with landing bays and SP weapons bristling, a corsair-vessel that lives on its speed alone. “Sturdy, swift, and not toothless: we get to choose two. And if I choose wrong you’ll all die when the Plousios gets caught in the radius of a collapsing star, or when alien locusts tear through our depleted Plover coverage and burrow in to lay their eggs, or when a Star Dragon curls around the ship and squeezes us apart!” She flops, considers a moment, and then contemplatively adds: “Though maybe if we sacrifice Plover coverage, we’ll be lucky enough to be boarded by Azora corsairs and sold into slavery, which doesn’t get you all killed, so maybe that’s the least bad option?”

Somebody needs to actually drink her tea and calm down, right? And what’s up with her considering everybody else’s safety? Sure, she’s human, she’s tough, but she’s not that tough, right?

...right?