Through a jackal’s eyes, Jade sees the cables of the net snap away, one by one. Through the eyes of her heart, she sees Dolly taking deep breaths, her tail curling, about ready to explode. Through the eyes of her imagination, she pictures Ksharta Talonna writhing in her mesh, so similar to her Dolly, thighs pushed apart by the knee of a goddess, mouth open, eyes wide, ears down. Through her mech’s sensors, she sees Ksharta Talonna hide her face and hears her flustered, needy squeal.

“Good girl,” Jade purrs, running one of Dolly’s hands up the front of Ksharta Talonna’s chassis. Not a kitten. That would be demeaning, undercut the symbolism: that she is being initiated into a rite, into something holy. “You were so brave, fighting me.” Her fingers, strong enough to crush stone to rubble, slide into place on one side of Ksharta Talonna’s magnificent throat, her thumb applying precise pressures. Here, Dolly— and here, too. Make her feel conquered.

Dolly’s tail curls around Ksharta’s. In her eyes, Ksharta is wearing an archaic hunt-mask, rimmed with river stones. This is so much. She’s fooled around before, on Hybrasil, gone from meadow to meadow, but Jade has been her everything, intense, trained on everything Dolly wrote as a horny teenager, and it’s still wild, heart-hammeringly wild, that she’s going to be Jade’s vessel for…

It’s all confusing and hot and she wants this. She wants this, too. She wants Talon, but in a different way than she wants Angela (don’t think about that) (but what if) (Jade will take care of it) (and she sees, with Talon, and thinks she wasn’t good enough) (Jade will take care of it)

Jade’s two fingers, untaloned, show Dolly her appreciation for not just complying, but for eagerly participating, and thinkies leak out as Dolly’s eyes unfocus and everything is Jade’s hands and Ksharta gasping underneath her.

And, uncoaxed, she presses her gagged mouth to Ksharta’s.

White noise burns through Jade’s speakers, a hum to send shivers through Ksharta’s chassis. Then she lifts Dolly’s head as she frantically recalculates, incorporates Dolly’s unforeseen… enthusiasm. She took Dolly for granted, assumed her bride would blushily hide behind the excuse that she needed to serve the goddess, a way for Jade to indulge her through instruction.

“My bride, Seven Quetzal, shall guide you in my rites,” she promises, and feels Dolly buck, which grinds metal against metal. “She is beautiful beyond compare, a tear of the moon fallen to earth. And because you have impressed me, Ksharta Talonna, tonight you will be given her as a reward.”

Dolly’s noise is noise for the sake of noise, for the sake of hearing her attempts to speak dominated by her goddess, for knowing that Ksharta can’t hear any of it, not yet. And Dolly’s noise is because she’s going to explode like a firework if her Jade keeps praising her like she’s not even here, and is Angela listening, too? That big, confusing, strong-handed alien who smells so nice?

“You may thank me now, Ksharta Talonna,” Jade commands. “For stealing you from your lodge, for offering you my treasured Seven Quetzal, and for sending you— this.”

And Smokeless Jade Fires stabs Dolly Montage 9sz into the defenseless cloud of Pulsar Cat’s cognition, which flares open across Ksharta Talonna’s mindscape like the nine-headed spear of Kyu Kyu Kyullyn inside the body of her prey. Dolly, Dolly, Dolly: digitally generated by the goddess who worships her, the memorized body translated into pin-ups. A come-hither look as she coyly half-hides behind a tree; a soulful look in her full regalia, and all it reveals; a pleading look over her gag, Jade’s talons tangled in her hair. Dolly, as Jade sees her and wants her to be seen.

Look, Ksharta Talonna. Look and love her, as I do. Look and see what you are offered for your surrender. Look and compliment her profusely, or else. And thank me, who possesses her, and who rewards good girls— every sort.

Dolly feels her eyes hidden by Jade’s hands, a deliberate— ah, ah, ah, Dolly, you don’t get to see. She knows, roughly, what Ksharta has been sent, but Jade hasn’t let her look yet, and knowing that Ksharta gets to see but SHE doesn’t, that Jade decides who gets to see her art of Dolly, has her half-crush the Pulsar Cat’s pelvis with a desperate, needy whine, but she can’t help it, it’s just so, just SO…

…so HOT.

[Jade hits Ksharta Talonna with a 7, and also, the next time Dolly tries to Entice, she takes +1 forward as a result of Dolly Montage 9sz.]

"Nnngggh, Nnnnnnnnn, ffffft, hhhsssssst, Ghk!!"

Mirror lifts out of her seat and settles back down on it on a loop. Up, down, up, down. Her hands pound on unresponsive controls, no longer making any attempt at guiding her precious Nine-Tails toward victory of any kind. She smashes wildly, punishing an unfeeling machine for falling victim to an attack she failed to account for all on her own.

She is beyond words. They come out as animal sounds, or they terminate in broken thought loops that don't come out at all. Unworthy thoughts. Wants to express. Desperate to express. But they do not. They cannot. They will not order themselves correctly and that is enough to paralyze her mouth as much as her mecha.

So she fills her comms with nonsense breathing to go with the nonsense data streaming over half her monitors. That the lights stay on is a particular sin. Not a generic power drain but a specific unraveling of systems. The ramifications spiral faster than she can track them. Right now all she knows is that she's been violated. Exposed. There is an audience to see her, hear her, maybe even feel her as she pounds her head into the back of her seat, slashes her hands through the air with useless rage, grabs at her breasts and squeezes. Up and down, twist. Her hands tremble as they slide down her body. Her noises melt into useless chirps, and she stomps her foot down on a stuck pedal, over and over and over again.

She is hot, and bothered, and she is bothered that she is hot. Fuck this. Fuck her. Get her out of here, let her be alone, let her fucking process this. There is so much work to be done. There is so much she wants to do to herself. She is defeated, she is a victor, fuck it fuck it fuck her fuck it let her GO!

Any machine would be defeated by this. Any pilot would be blinded by this. Not her fault. Not. Random chance. External factor, outside the fight. Victory snatched by cheating. Not her fault. Not.

Wrong. Entirely her fault. Night spent in dresses and pleasure when it might have been spent on better maintenance. Fight with Slate cost her pit crew time. Breakdown in communication, always her fault. That is what it means to be Mira of the Fisher Clan. That is why the promise is whispered, when any healthy cat would speak it loudly so that the stars could hear it and carry it to the goddesses. Her fault. Undeniably.

And that's the revelation that cuts across her storm like a sword. Her hands caress her cheeks, big slow circles, one, two. She is free. If one assumption is wrong she can assume others are incorrect as well. Count them. She is bothered that she is turned on. No reason to be. Mecha drawing power, physical sensory data intact. Promise of night beyond belief, guaranteed climax. Small wonder she's excited to wear it tonight. Hasn't felt like this in years. Next: that any pilot would be blinded. No. No. Mirror is cut off from sense data. The exploit that paralyzes the Gods-Smiting Whip does not affect her. She does not need a link to move, she can scramble about in this cramped compartment. She can make repairs. She has power most anyone else would not. And it would be stupid not to use it.

Continue. Should The Beast That Gathers Power be incapable of withstanding this kind of attack? No. The exploit left power. Anything can function with energy, even without a functioning control scheme. Resources the only thing that matter. Her perfect weapon. Invincible. Eating that which makes it weaker and turning it into strength. Two disabled Tails had been converted into the Fang. That had been defeated. But she had one more disabled tail still mounted on her shoulder. No need to move, no need to aim: she was already pointing at her wine condition.

Mirror traces two fingers over her forehead, and sighs. Work quickly, fool. She hops over the top of her chair and presses herself down on the floor of the cockpit. There are panels to be torn up, wires to be repurposed, power conduits to direct where they are needed. Slate had a point: her wrench technique was quite sexy, wasn't it?

"Channel. All available. Power. Tail Six. Crystal Fire. Integrity holding. Estimate: eighty seven percent. Rerouting. Safety disabled. Goodbye. Solarel. We will not. Dance like this. Again."

Finite aim is impossible in this conditions. Irrelevant. Tail Six's energy discharge has enough power behind it to power her entire mecha. The white hot, unstable beam is large enough to cut an asteroid in half. It does as well for the Bezorel, mercifully frying the connection to its neural link in the same instant it bifurcates the ancient weapon at the shoulders. A cockpit and very little else falls to the ground as the rest of its sixty year old frame bubbles and melts away into unsalvageable scrap. The beam crashes into the rock with a series of explosions that rock the arena hard enough to be felt, if only distantly, by the other competitors fighting all around it. Repairs from this might be difficult even for Zaldarian nanotech.

Serves them right. Fuckers.

"Disconnecting power. Restore functionality. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Confirm. Confirm. Confirm."

Mirror slides back into her chair and dances across her dials once more. The Gods-Smiting Whip is sluggish, only barely capable of a slow walk (and even that feels incorrect), but it moves. It limps across the battlefield to wrench its trident out of the crater wall, and lifts it to the sky in a symbol of conquest.

"Never. Try. This." she stops, makes a frustrated growl, and has to start again four times before the words will come, "Never. Try. This. Shit. Again. Start. Over. And do not. Dare. Lose. Under... Under... s-stand??"

No more. No more. She needs to leave. Process. Overcome. No more.

[Mirror risks (some of) the secrets of her piloting technique and mech construction to Defy Disaster with Wit:
4, 5 + 2 - 2 + 1: 10]

This is nothing new.

There's always someone. Someone wanting what she has. Someone fighting her for something. Someone in her way.

They try to push, to pull, to run around and run over. Their approaches differ, they attack at all times of the day; morning, noon, the dead of night. It's exhausting.

In every case, they come for her - not because of something she has done to them - but just because they want what she has. In every case, they. will. fail.

Isabelle's world is full of noise - alarms, warnings, falling debris and the after-effects of the explosion all meld into one cacophony of pain that would debilitate most other people.

This pain, too, is nothing new.

Emberlight lands on the ground, feet digging into the rubble and bringing her to a scraping halt. Inside the cockpit, warnings blare and metal groans - she's putting too much strain on Emberlight for this. Her Emberlight - practically her most precious object - is breaking at her command. But she won't lose. She can't lose! Inside her head, she's wracked with fear and guilt at what that means.

[Isabelle chooses to grin and bear it - marking two futher conditions: Frightened and Guilty.]

But the cameras don't see that. They see only a cloud of dust and, if they're lucky, a subtle shift as Isabelle brings her Crystal-Fire Drive into high gear. Emberlight crouches low as white lightning begins to coruscate up her legs, her arms. At a thought, Emberlight deploys the plasma blades built into each of her fingers, wreathing them in blue. Melting their way loose from the divots in the gravel. Isabelle brings her head up, eyes afire. And time?

Time seems to slow.

It would take the high-speed replays to fully appreciate what happens next.

The Unseen Goose is faster than it should be, given its size, but Emberlight is built for speed and even then? When it bursts out of the cloud of dust, it is moving fast - faster than most mechs are capable of - faster than most mechs should find possible.

[Activating - Legendary Skill, from her destiny to take 1 forward here]

Ada swings, and Isabelle reacts, bending herself around the blade impossibly quickly, making it miss by microns even as it sheers into another of the holo-decoys. In response, her arms strike precisely, first under the outstretched arm, then flowing around the Goose's back and across the shoulders and down one leg.

The cuts aren't deep, but they are fast, they are plenty and they are precise. Doing the kind of damage only someone who knows about engineering, how the lifeblood of mechs flow, could do - at a speed that hasn't been seen in Akkar before.

Ada tries to backhand her with the shield, but Isabelle bends under it, so low that Emberlight's head scrapes the ground, before she grasps the wrist and plants a leg in the back of the Goose's knee.

"Terenius isn't yours to take" she spits.

[Roll to fight - 5 + 6 + 1 = 12. Inflict a condition, take a string and a superior position]

"It has to be earned."

Mirror

You won.

You won?

You won…

When you reach the Hangar, Slate’s already got a team prepared, everyone that’s safe and cleared to work on the Whip, arranged for some to pull an off shift and they’ll all sleep after. A good detail to have seen to in the circumstances.

Slate pulls you out herself, already talking. “...can’t figure it, boss. I’d have seen if somebody got in who wasn’t supposed to be here, I should have seen if someone was here. They might have had a Zaldarian agent with nanobot skills, gotten them to reweave the hangar to create a back entrance right to your bay so we wouldn’t see them. That’s my best guess. I mean, or whoever was on duty at the time was blind, I dunno.”

“Goddess, if it stopped you for more than a few seconds, I couldn’t tell. Actually, for a sec there, I thought you’d just called the match. You had that big sunspear all ready to go, like you really were a goddess out of the comics, and then you just went dark and I said to myself, ah fuck it, Mira’s called it off, she’s too angry at being pushed to do this by this hunk of junk, she’s just gonna eat the last shot and let us fix it later so nobody gets to see any more.”

She’s got a drink she’s pushing into your hands, there’s a straw too. Some kind of tea, sweet with salted cream cutting the astringency. Thick and strong after a match.

“That was some serious bullshit though. I haven’t seen somebody take that many shots since the time my cousin went off with an arctic type, you know people say they go harder because they hibernate so they have to make up for lost time. But seriously, like, that’s crazy she was doing that, that was something special for you, nobody would fight like that every time, even that crazy TC queen who won the last match couldn’t afford it. I mean, she could but like, she wouldn’t, it would be wasteful like crazy and none of those types get those top jobs by being like that. Plus I hear she likes to get up close if you know what I mean.”

Slate’s prattling right now, meaningless noise but also useful to get you into the moment, catch you up out of your own head after a match like that. She knows you can cut her off whenever you want.

The rest of the crew is swarming over the Nine Tails, checking out the damage, pulling up schematics, marking baseline numbers and damaged components so they know what they’ll need. Repairs will be swift, the burnout wasn’t bad, damage didn’t go as deep as Valentina’s one good shot. The check over the interior controls for any other issues will be the longest part. And figuring out how to shield from that in the future. Maybe some kind of cockpit seal.

How’s the mental comedown after all that?

***

Isabelle

“You’re goddamn right it does!”

[Ada Marks insecure]

She stops trying to block the blows at all. Ada reverse her momentum, flicks her arm back, and the pommel of the blade strikes you in the head, making your ears ring through the mesh.

[Ada responds to the fight by inflicting Isabelle’s fifth condition.]

“Fuck, you’re almost so hot! Look at this! At all this! The Unseen Goose hasn’t had it this bad since I got ripped up by Adriana. Congratulations!”

She says it with a bit of a sneer though. The Unseen Goose can barely move with the wounds you inflicted. All you need to do is get clear to win the match. That’s it, but her bulk, her strength. Ada made herself collapse towards you. Her hand is around the Emberlight’s shoulder. Her arm still functions, it’s not critical for mecha operations, there wasn’t time to disable every system. It’s so strong, so firm pressing into your back, your breasts. You feel the whole of Ada Smith holding you close, electric energy runs through her breast to yours.

“But I heard you out here today. I heard what you didn’t say. You’re a proud engineer, what an amazing system! You’re a good pilot, really fucking good actually. But the only fire you pulled out all match was when it seemed like I was going to take away something you wanted.”

You can hear Ada’s pain in her voice coming from the cockpit. She wanted more than she got. She wanted more. She wanted to share passions together, to thrill in this fight. But instead she’s mad and she’s hurt. The energy pulsing from her breast course through you, sending every part of your body into numb tingles.

“How the fuck do you think you’ll be a good leader if the only thing that make you feel something is being denied?”

She leans in, presses the head of her mecha to yours. It’s a soft touch, gentle, barely a feather compared to the energy from her heart. A hint of what could have been. Then she overloads her core.

[Isabelle is Taken Out in the destruction, as is Ada. The match is a loss on a technicality, as both mecha are inoperable after it but Ada remained standing in hers.]

Isabelle, part two

You’re in the Hangar. You were towed back to it, Emberlight’s systems are fried and your whole body feels like every muscle in it fell asleep at the same time and now you’re all pins and needles. Asil’s there, along with her whole crew. Madame Toldeo isn’t, she’s off managing some matters on Akar I probably. Luca, Tadeo, and Carmella are all there. Luca looks sad, Tadeo looks mad, Carmella looks disappointed.

Asil’s the one who helps you out of the cockpit and onto a raised platform with the family. Your regular team is going over things first, Asil’s engineers hovering over the projectors, pulling in new data. She looks excited, actually. She’s trying to look she’s not sure what, sorry maybe. It’s mostly just a sort of pout and her eyes are shining because all she can think about actually is the absolutely massive amount of data you just generated at scale for her work. She blushes when she pulls you out though, just for a moment. Like she remembers when she touches you that there’s something else that could be occupying her mind.

Luca’s right behind her, helping your other arm. Tadeo and Carmella behind. Tadeo makes a fist like he’s going to say something but then thinks better of it. Carmella hovers anxiously. The floor is yours for the moment.

What have you got to say? To whom?

***

Solarel

There are three salient details of your situation. One, There’s a man wearing a heavy coat pointing a shotgun at you. Two, there is a lioness running through the grass behind the man who is in the process of jumping into a drop kick aimed at both of you. Three, the sky is a gorgeous shade of pastel pink with swirls of yellow.

According to your captors, you are on a planet named Roius, in the Aoi system. Its atmosphere has an odd effect with the light from the Cerulean belt resulting in the unusual pink sky. It is, apparently, breathable though, and gravity is 0.8x Zaldar’s, which makes you feel light and springy.

You got here somewhat rapidly. The second your shuttle got to Akar I, you were met by some of the Boatmen, who politely escorted you at gunpoint onto their shuttle. You might have thought you were going to Styx, but they went the opposite direction toward’s the Aoi jump point. You were also tailed by a small shuttle (or coincidentally, there was a delivery of cultist catgirls that just happened to land at the same time as you, your guess really).

The distortion of the jump means it doesn’t feel like a ton of time has passed to you, maybe a couple hours, although in point of fact two days have passed according to the galactic calendar. Not that you would know this precisely, as you have not had access.

You barely even got to the good part. One of the other men, who was obviously less important because he was not pointing a shotgun at you, had just started to say something about just how badly in debt you were when the lioness pulled up and leapt.

You are now at the center of what is about to become a small brawl, five Boatmen vs. three cultists (interestingly, two lionesses and one hooded behind them that might well be a Zaldarian), with you in line to kindly body block for the first Boatman who goes flying.

What do you do?

***

Dolly and Jade

You’ve won the match!

It takes a moment for everyone involved to realize it. Ksharta gasps, holds her breath, and lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a squeak and a kettle boiling. Meanwhile, the drones have freed Jade from the net in simple jackal precision. That matters slightly in the sense that you can move if you want, and there’s an established dominance to the position that becomes available. But Ksharta is mostly past noticing. She’s past having any fight in her. She had been ready to shoot you, but she’s been chosen by a goddess, blessed with a stream of the most beautiful, hot, sweaty priestess that she’s ever seen, and declared to be a new adherent. If the position were different, she might bow and begin to worship.

All of which is to say the fight has gone out of her at the same moment that she would need some fight to win the match. So it’s just…over. She concedes, you win. She doesn’t let go either.

Both mechas being mostly intact, Ksharta in fact insists on holding hands as you make your way back to the hangar, parting only briefly to get the Pulsar Cat properly docked, before reappearing next to Dolly at the shuttle boarding.

“Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh! That was incredible! Does she do that all the time? Do you do that all the time?!” Her eyes go wide as she imagines it. “Oh my gosh, is she always with you somehow? What do you when you’re not piloting in full neural mesh though, how do you commune with her or do auguries or um, you know goddess stuff? Oh, will you wear that, um…” she blushes, “um, tonight the dress with the open inner thighs that um, show off your um…” she can’t finish before she goes completely red and throws herself on your shoulder as you board the shuttle.

By the by, where are you taking Ksharta? Both Akar planets are open to you. You could even go off-system by one or two jumps if you feel comfortable with the time, Hybrasilian tech is fast enough to get you back before your next match.

Solarel relaxes beneath a synthwave sky.

The world is alight with Spirits. They love it here; shattering into scattered crystals against the grass and then re-forming into music glyphs. Ancestors float against the sky, jagged-cloaked silhouettes, holes in time. Geists swarm her feet, grabbing her feet and trying to pull her into dance. One of them wraps around her head and sings in its electric voice all the notes of the spirit glyphs. It's a world for convertibles and summer, a world for racing rather than fighting. She can feel the breeze on her face and knows how much sweeter it must be up there in the sky. The geist that sits before her eyes in the form of wrap around shades flicks filters that fuzz the sky, flare the lenses, and makes the world move with the beat of its secret music.

Violence is happening here but it is wrong to do so, so she doesn't engage with it. In each overhead blow she sees the digital echo of her death at Mirror's sword - she blinks, adjusts her feet. Like this...? In each open palmed nerve strike she sees the sting of the trident - if it hits me like that, what's the natural follow up? In the course and rhythm of the fight she is not present in the slightest, still living out the echo of her last battle. Just like before. Mirror is a technician, a scientist. She waged war in the laboratory and the engineering deck. This, then, is Solarel's laboratory. She lets herself get hit so that she can experience how to roll into it; she stands unflinching into a kick so she can process how the shock fills one of her power cells, and she blast-spends the accumulated energy to pitch herself backwards. Ah, if she does it like that then her foot will be misaligned... let's try that again.

Secret techniques. Mirror put huge stock in them. Each reveal of the Whip's capabilities hurt her. Solarel tries to understand the why, even if she doesn't feel it. Secrets come naturally to her, she invents and discards them constantly, but they're spice and not a true path to victory. She can't just dismiss Mirror's feelings as illegible, this was important. It has to do with weakness - no, not weakness, hurt. Those secrets aren't weapons, they're bandages, like her dress. An attempt to make something broken whole. To make her limitations beautiful. But then why does the reveal hurt her? Because the scars frighten her? Because they show a symmetry of thought, like the symmetry of her patterns? Because she genuinely believes that all that she has going for her is the shock value? Because she craves a victory so much she clutches onto every edge she has, even if she arguably doesn't need them all? Some of these are parts of truth, some of these are her own reflection shown back to her by her Mirror. She needs to work out which is which. She needs to become less like herself if she is ever to have any hope of doing so. Her own mind contains an insidious trap, trying to phrase everything in terms of herself. How does this relate to me? What is this saying to me? Who is she to me? No, she needs to overcome that thinking... somehow. It cost her once. She needs to understand Mirror on her own terms.

The battle went on around her. The who, the why, the what? As ethereal as the spirits at play upon the digital plain. There is no victory to be had here, not with arms that still ache from their neuro-feedback where Mirror took them away, not in this tiny world of meat and ghosts. There is nothing here to want other than the motion of the place. What if she tried to move like that grass? What if she tried to move like that music? Maybe new techniques await her there? Maybe something worthy?

<You're tall for a catgirl,> she signed to the tall warrior in the back amidst her swaying dodges, speech slurred by bound hands.

[Wicked Past: I know this stranger, somehow. What does she love most? She gains a string on me, and I advance and move to Heart +1]

Isabelle shakes her arms free and stares at the crowd without seeing. The seconds tick by and the tension starts to rise. Those who have worked with her for some time recognise the warnings. Those who know her best spot the tells. The hands held too stiffly, the fists clenched so tight that her nails nearly break skin.

Most of all. The eyes.

The responsibility to stop it falls to Luca - and he opens his mouth to try, but it's just that bit too late.

"Well?" shrieks Isabelle, and a number of the more junior staff flinch. "What are you all standing here for? Are you waiting for some kind of speech? You have jobs to do, don't you? Get to work!!"

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

"… and there is still the post-match press conference in a half hour, ma'am."

"Fuck the press."

Isabelle is moving, running really, along the corridor away from the hanger. The mech crews have stayed behind, save Chief Tomas and Asil, who are pacing her to update on the state of repairs and worry respectively. There are a couple more hangers-on, including her publicist and secretary who just would not shut up.

"Hey, hey, it's okay."

A voice, and something grabbing her hand. Isabelle freezes at the unexpected contact, turning to look with wide eyes as the engineer smiles up at her.

"It'll be okay." she says, voice reassuring "So what if we lost? You were amazing out there! And you took out Ada freakin' Smith! Even if the scoreboard says otherwise, there's so much to be prou--"

Isabelle doesn't really respond to the words, just staring at their hands with growing horror.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!!"

She wrenches her hand free, stepping back in the process, chest heaving. Briefly, the two woman are frozen in a moment of time. For that moment, everything stands on the precipice.

It doesn't last. The first crack in the ice has been sounded and there is nothing left that can stop the avalanche.

"You forget yourself, Ms. Marina. You have a job to do and it is back in that hanger." hisses Isabelle, jabbing a finger back up the corridor.

"And, so help me, If I see or hear from you again before Emberlight is repaired I will fire you and you can go back to fiddling with your drones and whatever resources you can scrounge together from under the corner couch!"

For days afterwards, she would not be able to banish the look of shock and hurt on the engineer's face.

Spinning on her heel, Isabelle resumed walking. She didn't look back.

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

The doors to her quarters hiss open, and she steps through - the twins ensure that she is not followed. Only family is allowed within.

"Bellebelle …" Luca finally speaks up, but stops at Isabelle's upraised hand.

"Luca … not now." she replies, not looking at him. "Just … I need to be alone."

He nods, understanding.

"When you're ready, we will be here."

Her family, her only real family, files out.

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

Isabelle's mind was still buzzing.

Not with thought, nor with emotion really - in fact, she felt numb.

No, it was just buzzing. Like the wings of a million bees. Flying, crawling, everywhere. On her arms, on her face, in her eyes. Their hum omnipresent and oppressive. The threat of stings, constant. Trying to think was like trying to sweep them aside, a brief glimpse of light before they'd swarm over her again. A ceaseless, droning wave.

She'd hung like that, floating in the senseless artificial zero-g of her cockpit, all the way from the fight back to the hanger. That's the downside of the setup - when Emberlight is dead, broken, gone offline like that, there's just … nothing to feel.

She'd swiped them aside just to see the people standing around her, waiting for her words. They'd looked for a leader but what kind of leader could she be? Ada had been right, she didn't believe in this. This whole thing was a farce. Why look to her? Why wait on her?

She'd pushed them away and run, plugging her ears down that corridor. Her mother would find out. She'd know what she'd said - every word recorded and relayed by some lackey. It would happen, there was no way to avoid it. She'd come, or she'd send word. Or any number of possibilities. But maybe by running she could delay it a little.

Talk to the press? No! No. Nonononononono. No! The cameras, the lights, the expectations … too much. She'd crack, she'd break. Jagged edges showing up in holodef, broadcast to millions. She'd crumble to dust and not be able to hide it. She has to hide it. A Lozano shows no weakness. A Lozano shows no fear. A Lozano never fails.

A voice had tried to cut through the sound, but the buzzing just wouldn't stop. Too many questions. Too many emotions. Too much feeling. Her hand, her heart. Cut it out, make it stop. Make it go away. She'd hurt Asil. Can't get close, they only get hurt. She only hurts them. It was wrong. She'd punish herself for it later. She already had, in a way. She'd do it anyway. It was on the List.

She'd closed the door after her siblings, activating the seals. Muting the alerts. Cutting off everything outside and letting their wings be the only source of sound. That was okay, that was normal. She deserved it.

She knelt in the room and counted backwards from ten.

Then, finally, she allowed herself to cry.

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

It was three hours later that she stood up from the floor again.

An hour after that before she'd finished the glass of water she poured herself.

Two hours later to summon the energy to wash her face.

That night, she didn't eat.

That was normal.

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

The next morning, things felt - well, not better. But at least more distant.

She'd synthed herself a basic meal of toast and water. And pulled out a folder that had been on her mind all last night.

Ada's name was still stamped along the top, inside was the intel gathered for her.

Why didn't it mention her family?

She sat down to read.

Later, still alone, she'd go for a walk.

There is a drink in her hand. How did it get there? What is it? It feels cold. The glass is wet. She puts her lips around the straw, and sips. It's sweet. Ahhhh, it's so sweet. It's sweet, but she could drink this forever. How odd. Normally, sweet makes her tongue curl and her mouth feel covered in fuzz. Not unpleasant, but overwhelming. Small tastes only. But this? More than half gone already. She wants more. What a pity it would be gone soon. The sound of dry sucking at the bottom of the glass is a melancholy song, indeed.

Her body is soaked in sweat. Her fur is sticking to her body suit. She is not in her cockpit anymore. There are voices all around her. Her arm is trembling as she pulls the zipper down to cool off. Where did her drink go? She would like another one, please. She pulls the zipper down halfway down her stomach. She tugs on one side of the split to let the air hit her body. That feels better.

Slate is speaking. Slate is staring at her. What is she? Oh. Oh, of course.

"Failure," says Mirror, cutting across her chief mechanic, "Of imagination. Mine, I mean. Not your fault. Simply not."

"I'm really sorry, Boss. I shoulda known better than to press your buttons right before a match. I was, honestly I was so scared to come back and find you still there that I didn't come back until way too late to do anything. Not that I didn't have eyes on her the whole time, but I mean, man. I'm just so sorry. I don't get what adds up to wins and losses in that head of yours but I've been working with you long enough to know that wasn't the fight you were looking for. I'm sorry Boss. Really am. But we're a team, yeah? You gotta let me take a little bit of the blame here."

Is she touched? Is that moving? Is she simply too tired to stay standing? What is moving her body right now? Mirror's mind races in circles, but her body moves deliberately to just where it wants to be. She wraps her arms around Slate, and hunches down to bury her face in their neck.

And for a moment there are no words between them, nor need for any. Their bodies are soft and warm, too warm in fact, against each other. Their hands seek nothing except to hold on. A million apologies pass between them in the space of three shared breaths, and then just before it gets too be too much Mirror pulls away again.

"I'm..." she says.

The thought splinters against the memory of her drink. Maybe she should ask about it. It really would be nice to have another.

"I am..."

Around and around it goes. The entire thought is in front of her, and some unseen force is making it feel unclean. She can't touch it. She can't. It isn't right. But maybe, it is. Maybe it's just upsetting and she's just a coward who can't own up and say it. She wipes a hand across her face, which is how she notices she's chewing on the tips of her hair. She frowns.

"Considering retirement."

"What?! Boss, what? No!"

"Why not? I very clearly can't keep up. Solarel reduced her own battle power to near zero to forcibly ascend her own vision and personal capabilities. She was already ahead of me and the only thing my work accomplished was catapulting her even further ahead. She plucked no fewer than four secrets from me and all I could do in return was shatter that piece of shit relic she was riding. And have you seen what the Humans are doing here?"

"Boss, come on. This is a bad joke. It's not like you."

"I've run it over and over again. How would I handle a fight without the Whip? It's a dead end. Sensory overload would kick in after ten minutes and then I would lose, irrevocably. It's a farce, Slate. I am a farce. Unwelcome in engineering, unfit to be a researcher, and as a pilot I only expose new facets of my ugliness. They must surely be mocking me by now. Nine Drive is exposed before it's even finished. So why doesn't quitting suit me best?"

"You didn't sleep last night, did you? What was the last thing you ate?"

"Irrelevant. I was sharp. My apm was near personal best. Fatigue and hunger did not affect my performance to any meaningful degree. If anything, I should--"

Slate had to know she'll die for clamping a hand over Mirror's mouth. Professionally, that is. But she does it anyway, because it's worth the price. Mirror can't follow the thought any farther if she can't express it. There are benefits to sticking around the eccentric types so long, aren't there?

"Boss I am telling you, if you're about to say that sleeping and eating are bad for your performance then they've already hit you a lot harder than you know. Not saying that pretty little Human girl wasn't worth it, mind, but goddess just rest already damn you! How's it feel for me, having to hear this? What do I do if you up and vanish? Nobody needs a mechanic who can't work on neural systems, you... dummy! Look just, we'll, uh, order something, ok? I'll get it sent up here. You want another drink? Something bitter this time, the way you like it. And while we're waiting just... just let the team take care of things, how about? Dunno what we've got around here that's soft enough to sleep on, but we'll, uh, I mean. Uh."

Mirror's eyes flow so freely that it's difficult to read her, especially with her mouth hidden like this. Her breaths through Slate's fingers are sharp, but slow. Her hand isn't shaking anymore when she grabs Slate's and pulls it away. She doesn't speak, even when she frees herself. All she does is push on her mechanic's shoulders until they drop to kneeling. And then she lies down, resting her head on their thighs. She smirks at the sudden blush, but dutifully closes her eyes, as instructed. Proper maintenance was not just about the repairs you could do with a wrench, no matter how good you were with one.

"...How did it look? The fight. From the, from the outside. How did it look? When it's her, I... When it's her I can't see anything else. So, how? How was it, actually?"

“Do I look all right?” Dolly fusses with her outfit, her top’s tassels, her shoulder strap, her stud earrings, all nervous flustered energy. ”Of course, my bride. I wouldn’t let you out otherwise. You represent me, after all.” Dolly makes a high-pitched huff and squirms, tail swishing in flustered agitation. “Yes, but I want to—“

And then comes the omigosh, the kitten-like bounding, the invasion into Dolly’s personal space, and Jade’s hands on her back keeping her in place in case she thought about stepping back. But why would she? The smile is infectious, and Ksharta looks adorable in that loose, fern-laced top.

“That was incredible? Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Ksharta!” Dolly wraps her arms around Ksharta and squeezes her in a big, enthusiastic hug, gloved hand carefully closed. “You are so talented!!” She rubs their cheeks together and purrs enthusiasm, even as Ksharta continues to enthuse about her and— and—

“Smokeless Jade Fires didn’t let me see what she showed you,” Dolly says, unable to look at Ksharta as they prepare to board. Her gloved hand plays with a tassel like a braid. ”No asking her, either.” “It is my goddess’s choice how she chooses to… give me to you.” Ksharta’s grip tightens, and Dolly’s heart races, and she lets out a giddy little giggle. She can’t help it. ”Oh, what a good girl you are, Dolly.” Jade reaches around and cups her, thumbs working in circles. “Letting our little convert know that you are my gift to her tonight, and how happy you are about it. You’re already so firm, too. Should I check to see if you’re drooling for her, my eager little kitten?”

Dolly’s clamping down on noises by the time she takes a seat and gets buckled— ”No. Help Ksharta Talonna first.” —reaches over across Ksharta, takes her seat belt, and draws it across the cat’s body, burying her face in Ksharta’s shoulder in turn. People are staring, and Dolly is going to melt, Jade, right here in her seat.

”Now tell her, dearest Dolly. Use my words.” “The goddess is always with me,” Dolly says, eyes fluttering closed, voice low, as private as could be managed on a public shuttle. Ksharta smells warm and delicious; something of fresh bread lingers on her fur. “I wear her token and serve as her…” She rubs her thick thighs together, sucks in air through her teeth. “Vessel.” ”Good girl. Good vessel. You are that through which I choose to act.” “I am a good girl. A good vessel. I am that through which she chooses to act.”

Jade involuntarily colors for a moment, hiding her face and rueing that she forgot Dolly was repeating her words. Dolly does not notice; she is hanging in suspense as Ksharta muffles a squeak. Jade, listening through Dolly’s ears, considers whether this is the right moment to act more openly, but… no. The glove is her secret. It may be an open secret for the clever, but she is not going to show it off before the common folk. That would rob it of its power, its use.

“She will show you, too,” Dolly continues, after a moment. She opens her eyes and watches Ksharta’s lips, the excited breath in and out, the shifting underneath that fern-lace. “Not here. Not yet. But you’re going to be a good girl for our goddess, aren’t you? Do what Dol— do what I say, because I speak her words. And then, oh, Keoni’s Tower is dark, and is so private, and she wants to meet you in person, Ksharta Talonna. Now shush. Shush for Smokeless Jade Fires. Not. Another. Word. Imagine her hand over your mouth, firm, demanding, unstoppable. Obey, and you’ll be her good girl, too. And good girls get treatttsssssh.”

Dolly breathes through her nose, hard against Ksharta’s neck, shaking. Jade, mercilessly, keeps rubbing: up, down, up, down, flick. Good girls get treats. She turns Dolly’s head and Dolly obediently opens her eyes, and Jade drinks in the shocked and envious stares, the judgment, the embarrassment. Two horny catgirls all over each other, just like in the match, because their goddess demands it. Maybe Dolly will even get a reputation. Maybe Angela Victoria Miera Antonius will hear of this. Yes. YES. Let her. Let her be jealous. Let her imagine being part of the goddess’s HAREM. How pretty she would look as the centerpiece of…

…the centerpiece?

To assuage her guilt, she leans in and nips at Dolly’s throat, and her heart races at how hard Dolly clamps up and tries not to make a scandalous noise right there on the shuttle. Yes. Her Dolly. Her favorite. Her favorite. Her favorite.

It’s just that Angela Victoria Miera Antonius’s height. Yes. The height. That’s why she considered her as a centerpiece. Topless, too. Dolly and Ksharta Talonna on either side, pretty faces pressed up against either side of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius’s chest… yes. That’s why. Yes. Face glowing over her gag as the Hybrasilians do their cheek rubs and purr. And Jade, tilting her head back by her hair, welcoming her to the harem.

She’s even got an outfit in mind for you, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. She prepared it from your people’s historical records. The veil will look perfect on you.

But Jade is a goddess of Hybrasil. And these good girls need her attention. And they’re such good girls, aren’t they? They don’t care about their dignity. Not when their goddess demands humiliation. The delight of it makes Jade’s tail the concept of a nebula stretching across entire solar miles.

Her girls. Good girls. Her girls.

Isabelle

On Ada
Ada Smith leads the Snow Geese. Officially, they are a fearsome pirate band. TC news accounts indicate a number of freighters that they’ve intercepted, disabling their mecha guards, humbling several skilled pilots, and taking the lion’s share of the cargo.

If you read what isn’t said though, you’ll start to get a better picture. None of the defeated mecha pilots died or were even seriously injured. They tend to be left to float, making the freighter have to clean them up and then limp to the nearest system for repairs. The freighters themselves are rarely taken. In fact, Ada’s reputation is so fearsome that most captains simply pay a bribe when ambushed, which means that no violence is required at all.

She’s mentioned in Hybrasilian sources, a few of which were available on Akar Prime. They speak very glowingly of her, in fact it seems like she hasn’t hit Hybrasilian ships at all and instead is running some kind of her own transport business in their space to quite positive reception on skill and professionalism. A few TC accounts mention that she may run a legitimate business of her own in TC space as well under some kind of false name.

It’s hard not to think that if these folks could simply be a legitimate business in TC space, they wouldn’t need the piracy at all. But they’re not willing to bow to any TC planetary authority, they declared their own independence, and they set up a base in some unknown location, so they’re the enemy now, that’s how TC works.

Your “walk”
There’s something nice about walking the streets of Akar Prime. You’re known, but in that minor celebrity kind of way where people mostly recognize you because of all the trappings. If you go into a souvenir shop, folks are more likely to be like “hey you know you look a lot like Isabelle Lozano?” than they are to shout “hey, it’s Isabelle Lozano!”
That lets you relax a little, put a coat on, enjoy the wind blowing over your face and your hair. A lot of the Akar Prime streets are wind tunnels, the tall buildings were thrown up quickly, and until you get to some of the distant mountains surrounding the valley where the spaceport and main population sits, there isn’t a lot of natural terrain blocking the wind, so it blows cool and fast through the streets. A good reason for most people to seek shelter and social company, but also a way to let your thoughts pass in isolation. Nothing but the wind, the lights, the nameless traffic of strangers who know nothing of you and therefore want nothing of you.

This made it all the more surprising when you suddenly felt a pressure on your back and a hand around your throat. It was very fast, and you don’t remember exactly what happened after that. They didn’t hit you, your headache upon coming to was more of a dull sort of headache in the temples, groggy, drugs of some kind, but no bruised spot or any sharp pain.

You’re bound to a chair, but you’re not gagged or otherwise have too limited motion, you can move your hands around too, though the shuttle restraint they’re using is tight and has a locked buckle so there isn’t really much to do with your hands other than check out your headache and see that you’re uninjured.

Speaking of which, you’re in a shuttle. A small one, would hold about ten people and some light cargo. Right now there’s actually just two people in the shuttle besides you. A bored-looking TC woman with slim features and her brown hair in a ponytail filing her nails at a little table near your seat, and a buff Tiger Hybrasilian who’s doing some stretches in the center of the room, her butt high in the air. Her name is Crescent, but you don’t know that yet.

When you look around, the girl filing her nails startles, but Crescent doesn’t seem to notice, or she doesn’t care if she does. “Hey she’s awake!” Ponytail says.

“Yeah and?” the tigress responds, continuing her routine.

“Well like, aren’t we supposed to make demands or issue a threat or I dunno, something like that?” Ponytail looks like she has expectations. One too many animes maybe? Not that you’d know how a scene like that ought to go, since your mother would never let you squander perfectly good study time watching anime, even as a cool off period. Cool off is for walks and other exercise, right?

The tigress looks up enough to roll her eyes, then starts kicking her legs. “No, we’re not doing that.” She sighs, obviously not enjoying being stuck here. “Pilot, you need anything? Water, food, painkillers, trip to the bathroom? Once our [pack] get back, we’re gonna march you for a bit, it will be a lot easier if you’re all set to move on your own.” She uses the Hybrasilian word for family or companions, you wouldn’t know it but the context clue is obvious enough. She starts practicing some swipes in the center of the room bouncing on her feet. Fast, not worried at all.

Ponytail looks like she’s gonna say something, but doesn’t, instead seeing how you answer the tigress. Seems like she knows she’s on the hook to get whatever you ask for.

***

Solarel

You know Annika Nornsdottr. She served in the military with you, serving the previous Empress. You might have called her a friend at one time, perhaps more even than that. She was smart, exceedingly so, thoughtful, sometimes sensual.

She, unlike you, did not leave (was not forced to leave) her service upon the regime change, but she does not appear to be in service to the new Empress now. No regalia, no symbols of office, no geists accompany her indicating rank or reporting structures of any sort. She does have geists with her though, but they are not speaking to you at the moment, nor to her, they are watching and riding along with her.

She was always unusual. She had better geist-site than most Zaldarians, better than yours even though she lacked your extremes of strength and reflexes and would never have been able to pilot the Aeteline to full capacity. Her mecha was (and perhaps is) called the Ebon Claw, and it was fast and sleek with grappling abilities. Against most opponents, she surely could and would have held them fast until they were disabled.

Her heart has always been with the past, with mystery. You remember that during the war, she used to talk about finding new planets, understanding the precursors, why the Zaldarian lands were as they were, how that came to be. She wanted to know, she always wanted to know more than anything else. Knowledge filled her heart with delight, and surely still does.

<I’m not a catgirl, as you well know> she signed back, her motions indicating amusement. She stands in some swaying grasses that look more blue than green in the odd atmosphere of Roius. Her own cloak, a deep black, seems to catch the colors and reflect them, an iridescent rainbow playing across her.

<Would you come with me, Solarel?> she asks. <This wasn’t my first choice of planet for this, but it will do. There’s something you don’t know about our titans, and I would show you. I think it somewhat more important than your current ridiculous debts.>

[If Solarel is hesitant, Annika will spend her newly gained string to ask what it would take to convince Solarel to go with her]

***

Mirror

Slate considers the question. She sends one of the engineers scurrying away with your empty glass and scurrying back with a refill while she does. They must have set up a little fridge in the break room here, though you could drink them out of house and home at the moment if you wanted.

Slate herself knows better than to move though, not when you’re like this, not when you’re resting. She is blushing, of course, the heat is staying in her face, and in her thighs. They feel warm. But she’s also staying very still, adjusting only enough to make sure your head is nestled as comfortably as possible in her lap.

“You looked like a goddess, like in the comics boss. Seriously wasn’t joking about that. Taking the missile barrage like that, and then going in with your trident, and the sunspear with your tails, like, it’s surreal.

Not sure that’s what you’re asking exactly? I mean, you looked good. I think you’re kind of underselling the fight, actually. Like, sure the model was old and lacked speed or strong defenses, but she had the whole thing retrofitted with missiles coming out of its ass, like literally, boss. And not cheap ones either, those were hellfire grade or I’ll find a hat somewhere so I can eat it. That’s enough to take out most mechas no matter how crap the firing platform, especially coming as a surprise like that. Hell it might even have been better on a crap platform like that. If she’d been in something really modern, you’d probably have approached more cautiously and then if she’d fired the missiles you could have just evaded and taken them out. Getting you in close to blow up her rust bucket seemed like the whole plan. The match looked tense, is what I’m saying, and it didn't look like you screwed up to most people watching. More like a bunch of back and forth until she ran out of tricks before you did.”

She takes a risk, starts gently stroking your hair with a paw. Slow, gentle strokes following the line of it, front to back, around the ear and down, then start again. She knows how to make it gentle and soothing in a way Valentina might take months to figure and she’s one of the more dextrous humans you’ve met.

“I think…that’s still not what you’re asking though, right? You wanna know if you’re about to get a bunch of job applications trying to replace me cuz of how the power down and recovery went. Yeah, I got it. You won too fast coming out of the power down, somebody who’s looking really closely could guess that it doesn’t match with neural controls. But I don’t buy it. Number one explanation is gonna be that you never had a power down, you just decided she wasn’t worth it, didn’t deserve your best trick, almost walked out and just beat her in the way she deserved. Did it to yourself, undid it to yourself no big deal. Number two is that you just pulled out a miracle by force of will. It’s not like neural mesh is perfectly solved, people keep pushing the envelope on the pilot sync, the lag time, the controls. You’re doing a weird top of the line thing, people will assume you just have more in you than you’d give yourself credit for, boss. Most of the attention’s gonna be on how it got done anyway, sabotage is a big deal, it’s not gonna be taken lightly. But…yeah somebody that really knows what’s up could maybe figure out the controls. I'm not gonna take it off the table.”

She keeps stroking you, hoping it’s okay, not wanting to hide the bad news but worrying about it too.

***

Dolly and Jade

Ksharta is blushing. She liked you doing her seatbelt for her though, Jade made a good call on that one. It made her feel a bit like a kitten, but loved, close, like you were really paying attention to her. Having to bury your head in her shoulder, she felt like she wanted to draw away as a reflex but didn’t, couldn’t maybe.

People on the shuttle do stare. A few other pilots, some engineers. There are some giggles, at least one person who thinks the whole thing is cute from the sound of it. One Zaldarien cheers once before his neighbor leans over and loudly whispers “you’re not supposed to acknowledge it publicly!” and then the first one tilts her head and just looks like the most quizzical mechanical bird. If you have time to be looking, that it. You might be busy.

The shuttle takes you in pretty close to the exit on Akar II. It’s night at the spaceport at the moment. There are lots of lights on, landing strips, building lights, shops working round the clock and manufacturing spaces lit up for ingress and egress. In atmosphere, the engines make a please thrum as the shuttle lands, drowning out any sounds of you two together and any more speaking. Getting to Keoni’s tower won’t take long, and you can get your own table easily, maybe on an upper level further away from prying eyes. Though d note that when you come in you might get some cheers, your match today was a big deal for Hybrasilians.

Ksharta waits patiently for you to undo her seatbelt this time, a grin of expectation on her face like a proper princess. What’s next?

[And now, we get to a fun part of Jade and Dolly both being present. Dolly, Ksharta will spend her string on you, with all her affection and youthful pep, and ask what it might take to get you to slip out of acting along Jade’s script? Jade, for you, well, you see you could tip off Angela about where the young couple are going, it would be very very easy. She could get from Akar Prime to Akar II in time to crash the date if she takes her own mecha. You could do this if you wanted to see how that might work, perhaps see them all together. She’d do it too, the way she was enjoying your Dolly earlier. There’s an XP in it for you if you take this step.]

Titans. Such an Evercity phrase. As though they were monsters. As though they were defined by their size. As though they did not glow upon the earth like stars descended; as though they could not make the grass grow violet or the rain fall with their howls. As though they were things that stood upon the world rather than rising up as part of it. As though there was a world outside them, like life was worth living outside them, like you could say what you meant outside them. As if the entire digital spirit realm existed for a purpose other than cultivating the Gods whose violence was the only path to legitimate communication. As if there was a purpose to the steppe and howling wind and rising Gods other than the battle they could offer.

Perhaps that was the answer... mm, no, maybe even the idea of an answer, a linear twist of translation from Mirror's shifting mind to her own direct and straightforwards one was incorrect. Nothing Hybrasil was like that. Two things could exist in parallel. Starving and as picky as a princess. Ancient and timeless, yet grown and new. A glyph that meant different things depending on the context. Always one layer of defense; over words too? I am this, unless you are not, in which case I never was. Here is sound; it is upon you to decide on the meaning(s).

Words so raw like they were trying their best to scrape free even that instinctive veil. Afraid that even that vulnerable clarity would not be heard.

She was on a synthwave planet in the land of the spirits amidst a war of motion speaking with bound hands to someone who was not a catgirl. She hardly knew what to do with the directness. <I would show you>. Finger touching the heart, finger touching the eye, finger pointing at her. No chance to mishear, no complexity of body language, no veil over meaning. The body language was the language. The you was the subject pointed at. For a moment she felt dyslexic, bound hands stumbling, mind unable to process the sheer bluntness of the statement. She must have been alien indeed if this is what she was like. No range of possibilities in her speech. If Solarel had secrets they'd lie unexpressed and buried, rather than half-expressed where a loving ear might understand them.

<You haven't changed -> she starts to sign, and then she stops. Speak not to the outsider. She looks at her hands. Is this right? Isn't this the most clear and unambiguous speech she could possibly be making to an outsider, this language without ambiguity, this statement of physical intent?

She stopped. Lowered her hands. And then spoke - in Hybrasilian.

"An'Suhn'Na'Nq'Muhn'Dohl'Vsht'Suhn'Sa'Syr," she said, concentrating, letting her tongue flick the roof of her mouth and against her teeth like she'd been taught (and taught...). She'd practiced it. It wasn't right. Ambiguous and accented and hardly speech at all. "You reach past the moon for the stars still, disregard your own senses for answers invisible. Zaldar wrote her code in plaintext and you scrutinize the font." She licked her lips. Speaking was so troublesome. She saw the Hybrasilian warrior translating for Annika, and she felt strangely at peace. Like this was no sin at all.

And therein is the riddle for Annika Nornsdottr, run through ambiguous translation. Solarel is not interested in knowledge for its own sake. She is a barbarian of the steppe and knows to take things on faith, and knows not to look for the secret meaning behind things. These blasphemous designs hold no temptation for her, motivation must come in simpler terms: Threats or bribes. Either would work, either would be a tenuous hold.

It takes her a while to answer. She doesn't open her eyes or lift her head off of Slate's lap, except occasionally for the tiniest bit necessary to sip on her refreshed drink. It's good. She'd considered that it might have simply been a consequence of post-combat nutrient deficiency, but no. This is well and truly delicious, how had she never come across it before? What other secrets was her engineering team hiding from her?

She snorts, and lets her head turn to the side so that she's facing Slate directly, and all she'd need to do is open her eyes to drink in the view of her. She does not. She stays still, eyes held gently shut, and allows their paw to glide through her hair and soothe her. Still no response. Her mind is busy with the knot of her fight with Solarel. She reconstructs it from the opening move, her every decision and response. The timing of her inputs and the quality of her move selection. Her lip twitches as she reaches the shutdown.

There is no visual element to her recreation. It's a play-by-play of a data stream, words taking the place of every single sense and simply echoing in the void inside of her. This is necessary. When she takes the sensory data onto a neural weave later, the reconstruction exercise will give her the context she needs to absorb it without overload or breakdown. Everything that pushed her to explore alternative systems in the first place would invert, and she would finally, finally understand what Solarel was saying. If only for a minute. Had her rewire preserved enough power to core systems for her to be able to experience the sensation of total shutdown? Her heartbeat races at the question.

"I might fire you someday, Slate," Mirror says without a hint of playfulness or irony, "But I will never replace you."

She feels a paw suddenly catch in her hair as it seizes up in a moment of panic sudden enough that it can't quite be disguised or converted back into the rhythmic stroking fast enough to cover it. For three glorious seconds, that hand can't decide if it wants to pull away (and risk pulling Mirror's hair hard enough to cause pain), simply sit there (and let Mirror feel how bad it's shaking), or escalate (oh, would you dare, Slate?). She feels the pressure of a thumb suddenly rubbing circles at the base of her ear. Mirror grins from ear to ear, delighted and toothier than a shark.

"Even, now. But I'm serious. The day we're unfit to work together is the day I destroy our Nine-Tails. I will never pilot another craft for as long as I live."

"But, uh, n-not today. Right Boss?"

"...Inevitable discovery," Mirror sighs softly as fingers start playing on the base of her neck in a brazen display of escalation, "That's what you mean to tell me. I made a mistake. It may only be a single observer perhaps, but the fact that the possibility can't be discounted means that one or more persons or factions will make the connection. Sabotage means somebody saw inside my-- it means that. Somebody. Saw. Understanding irrelevant. Offhand conversation over drinks will be final confirmation for our mystery observer."

Mirror cracks one eye open, cold and furious. The water in her iris looks almost frozen. She grabs her drink and loudly slurps the rest of it down to nothing. She licks her lips with a lot more passion than is necessary.

"Order a meal, please. For each of us. Your selection, my money. You know interesting flavors. Furthermore, continuing, your assertion is that we have minimal control over the nature of discovery. We cannot 'get in front of the narrative', as they say. [Fang to Feather (Negative Conjunction)]. If we speak out or make a move to contain the flow of information we reveal that we, that I am interested in hiding something. If we do not complain publicly about the act, we invite tournament level scrutiny. So you see? Our wrists are bound tight. We can only aid in the detective work. Either, broadcast all heretofore undisclosed details of Mira of the Fisher Clan, Whose Star Name is Whispered Promise, or else..."

"...Inevitable discovery." Slate finishes with a heavy sigh and a wince she can't keep out of her thigh muscles.

"Cannot know the nature of the discoverer. Not enough information to even guess. Maybe it will only be a curiosity to them. Maybe they will use it as a weapon. Maybe they will ask for help. No way to tell. Saying that? Still useful conclusion. Listen to the river feed into the lake, Selin Makers. We will want to know who knows, and ideally as they know it."

"C-could you, ah? Not use that name in front of the girls?"

"You would prefer I used it in bed?"

"BOSS!!!"

"Uhh ... tea? Black? No sugar." she responds, still not sure what to make of this sudden transition.

Yes. Black, like my heart and sou-

Shut up brain, this isn't the time for that! The mood is all off.

Guys, just wait until we have our journal back okay?

Isabelle gave her head a shake to clear it, relishing the image of those little internal Isabelles getting rattled around in there. Honestly, it felt that there was a non-zero chance that she had just fallen out of bed and smacked herself senseless. The disconnect between the peaceful, if solitary, walk on the streets of Akkar and ... whatever this is, really did feel like a dream brought on by stress and uncertainty.

If you were still dreaming, it wouldn't be a cat doing those gymnastics in front of you.

She shakes her head again, harder this time, before looking around and trying to take in more detail of her surroundings and captors.

"If you're not going to give me the usual threats, can I at least ask the standard questions?" Isabelle says, eventually. And yes, animes are definitely not allowed. And there is no secret playlist set up to cast to her glasses when on a run. No.

No.

Nup.

Nope.

She shakes her head again.

"I mean, I'd love to know: who you are, where are you taking me, why are you taking me there and ...

Are you going to ravish me?

... are you going to ravish me?" she finishes, words out before she could stop them.

If her hands were free, she would have facepalmed. Instead, she just adopted the requisite Expression and groaned.

“Would I ever…? Oh! Thank you so much!”

The server slides the breadsticks onto the table, ears politely flat and tail low. (Not garlic breadsticks, of course. Not many Hybrasilians thought the taste in TC cuisine was worth the vomiting afterwards, so you don’t get garlic in any Hybrasilian restaurants. Just meat gravy for dipping.) Then she’s sliding back down the cable connecting this private shelf to the kitchen far below. Dolly returns her attention to Ksharta, squeezing her hand assuringly through the mesh glove.

Jade is leaning on Dolly’s shoulder, in full view of Ksharta Talonna, with all the potential menace of a crocodile basking in the sun. She doesn’t speak, ostensibly because she is letting Dolly answer, but also because she is orchestrating the spread of this information with the aid of an engineer-cultist, who— as she is explaining, must have a conversation about Dolly’s date within earshot of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, wondering idly out loud if Dolly and Ksharta Talonna are having an enjoyable dinner as the honored guests of Keoni’s Tower, and how Smokeless Jade Fires hasn’t decided which fight was the better one, which will be an irresistible lure to that deliciously proud woman…

“Why would I?” Dolly continues, trying to grab a couple of breadsticks before they all mysteriously end up on Ksharta’s plate. “Jade— Smokeless Jade— my goddess is a caretaker. She wants so much to take care of us.” Her tone suggests she is talking about the children of Hybrasil; the look she gives suggests she is talking about two specific daughters of Hybrasil. “I don’t expect her to do everything for me— it’d be beneath her dignity to make me brush my teeth, a failure of my responsibility to do my part— but why would I want to disobey her?”

If she thought, for some reason, it would make Jade happier. That’s the thought that would strike Ksharta as she watches Dolly turn her head and kiss Jade on her stiff cobalt hair, then give that hair a loving lick, as Jade’s long tail lazily swishes and she flashes her wicked teeth. Sure, maybe if she was surprised with sudden danger, she’d take action even if it meant breaking rules, her body making decisions for her. And if she was convinced that Jade was going to get herself hurt, she might take drastic action. Or if she was just exhausted and Jade was focused on something else and wasn’t paying attention to her. But the best way to desync these two sillyheads would be to dangle something in front of Dolly that would make Jade even happier than being obeyed.

”My turn,” Smokeless Jade Fires says, suddenly, gracefully moving. She places one hand on the table and flips herself over, impossibly, her spine fluid as she lands on the table next to Ksharta Talonna. One foot presses against the young pilot’s breastbone, pins her to the seat, as Jade gives her an intense, intent examination from where she sits. “Tell me of your faith, Ksharta Talonna. Do you honor your ancestors? Do you give thanks for your food? Do you know what it is to worship a living goddess?” She reaches out, and a goblet unfolds from one of the shining strings of the universe, filling with star-clotted wine for her to sip as she listens. All artifice— she is still trying to decide what wine made from the dregs of stars would actually taste like— but it’s for Ksharta Talonna, so that she can feel appropriately awed, so that she can feel like a great and powerful and classy goddess is giving her personal attention.

Dolly dips a breadstick in the meat gravy without breaking eye contact from her goddess and her date, eyes wide, heart dripping, thighs clenched. Jade is so hot, mmffff. Her appearance is lithe, but her presence is so powerful— and sometimes it’s like she has the strength of her idol-body, but she has such fine control that she could pick up an egg with its fingers, let alone touch a girl’s jaw and stroke it so gently. Like that. That’s how she can make you feel when she touches you. Like she’s invincible and all-powerful, but she’s too controlled to hurt you. That there’s no point in struggling against her, unless she wants you to struggle (and she does, she does~).

[Smokeless Jade Fires slams an 11 on Figuring Out Ksharta. So— what does Ksharta Talonna love most, and how can Jade make Ksharta Talonna obey (such as, say, obeying a command to ambush Angela Victoria Miera Antonius)?]

Solarel

“Zaldar didn’t write it!” she screeches, almost shouting. Her mask slips, and you can see an almost feral gleam in her eyes. One of the geists riding along with her stirs, and she puts a hand to her chest and stops it. She straightens, brushing down her cloak. Then she just looks at you, like she’s coming to grips with what just happened. She wanted to show you something, not say what she thought. She sighs and then returns to signing.

<Fine. If all you care for is material, that’s fine. Come with me and you can take whatever you can please the spirits into building for you. It ought to pay your debt twice over.>

It’s not quite so simple as that for all her mystique. She’s only got a few Hybrasilians with her, and two of them are still fighting the five Boatmen behind you who are sweeping into your position. They’ve got two of them down and bound, but the other three have circled up and are using their guns to advance. One of the two lionesses eats a shot right in her chest plate and goes flying past you, standing up groggily while the other one dodges to the side.

Annika’s mecha must be here even though you didn’t see it on your trip over, there’s simply no way she’d be this vulnerable otherwise.

The Boatmen, meanwhile, are not about to let you walk away. You also notice from the sudden geist activity that they’ve signaled back to their shuttle, so several more of them will be coming towards your area with shotguns.

Annika doesn’t wait, she grabs you by the arm and pulls (dangerous though she knows that to be, her touch is soft even in force, expert in its positioning). She signals to the other lioness with her free hand, and you’re caught in the middle of the fight being pulled by Annika on one end, three Boatmen advancing you on from the other.

***

Isabelle

Crescent snorts, loudly. “Wow, I did not see that one coming. Everybody has you pegged as the cold, calculating business girl and you’re actually a hopeless romantic. Oh this is too good.”

Ponytail pointedly says nothing and fetches you the tea. It’s hot, enough that you have to blow on it and sip to avoid burning your tongue. It makes for a dainty look as you carefully sip it, the astringency making your tongue pucker in that good way that comes from a solid black tea taken straight. Ponytail makes a face, telling you that she’s the lots of milk and two sugars type.

After another chuckle at your expense, Crescent smiles a feral smile, all sharp teeth and finishes her last bit of workout routine, coming to rest on her feet gently.

“I’m Crescent, that’s Lilika, we’re part of the Ebon Claw, we’re taking you here, which is Roius in Aoi, mostly because Solarel was here and we really wanted her. You’re more like the control group of opportunity. And…no, I won’t ravish you, you’re not my type. Get a robot arm maybe and we’ll talk.”

So the answer was yes, you do get the standard questions. Whether or not any of that was helpful is itself an open question of course, but Crescent seems so casual about the whole thing that it’s a little scary. Perhaps the note about the planet is the main point. They could take the restraints off and let you go and…then what. Roius is a mostly unexplored planet in a contested system in the middle of the Cerulean Belt light years away from Akar. As far as you know, the only transport off this planet is the shuttle you’re in right now (though you can faintly hear some fighting outside) and Crescent seems supremely confident that you couldn’t steal it from her even if you were unrestrained. So, it does make some sense that she’s casual about it all.

***

Mirror

You can stay with Slate as long as you please. The Hangar is a secure space (or at least it was supposed to be) and is equipped for overnight stays. If you stay long enough, it will be your own belly growling to pull you out of your reverie ahead of Slate’s. The rest of the team can get the Whip mostly in order, replace the burnt out bits, check over all the controls to ensure no other sabotage was done, and leave everything for you and Slate to do final reviews in the course of time.

You may perhaps want to investigate the details of the space as well, given what happened. A Zaldarian artificer would be the most knowledgeable person on the techniques that could have done the deed. Trosta, on Akar II, might be the most obvious port of call there. If you wanted to know more about where Solarel got the missiles, there are some members of the criminal underworld that enjoy high fashion and could be convinced to share their information.

Perhaps stepping away from the immediate problem, if you arrive on Akar Prime in any reasonable amount of time, you’ll find that Valentina paid a courier to wait for you at the spaceport with flowers to celebrate your match (she assumed you’d come to the same planet on the regular, perhaps a quite serious mistake). If you go to Akar II, you’ll only find out about the delivery later via one of your engineers. You’ll also find that several reporters are frequenting both spaceports and are very interested in speaking with you if you’ll give them the time of day. All pilots are minor celebrities, but when there’s a truly spectacular match like yours, it does garner some fame and concomitant interest. The only other match of the series to come close so far was the Isabelle Lozano vs. Ada Smith match, where there’s already slow motion close up neural mesh options to view the ending where Isabelle nearly took down Ada and Ada overloaded her crystal fire drive. Only the Unseen Goose overloaded though, there were no convergent phenomena and the Emberlight’s drive remained fully safe in its core protections.

Getting back to your match though, it was both a sustained exciting fight and has multiple airs of mystery. Popular speculation is centered around how Solarel got ahold of all her tricks and what your big attack might have looked like if you’d gone through with it. If you wanted to start finding out who was really paying attention, you’d probably do best going somewhere lively and simply listening to the conversations.

***

Jade

It’s nice performing for someone new. Not that it’s bad performing for Dolly, she’s always adoring, but adding to the audience, that’s really something special.

Ksharta is quite the audience too. She’s been great with Dolly of course. She eats voraciously, orders lots of food, is full of life and pep as she talks, telling stories of home, of food she made, some stories of the huntress lodges. Some of this could be your life, both directly and through Dolly, if you are even moderately successful in this tournament and return to a life serving in the Hybrasilian forces. Would it feel good to go on jackal hunts with the lodge? To luxuriate in Dolly’s adrenaline, the taste of blood? Perhaps to luxuriate too in Ksharta preparing the food afterwards and the taste of the fine cuisine, meat and spices in just the right balance.

But then when you go all out upon the table, Ksharta squeaks, she meeps, she blushes in the best style and mouths “omigosh” in the most awed whisper. She answers in a flood of speech, her version of a mind blank being stream of consciousness.

“Of course, I mean there was that one time when I was a kitten and my mom made crickets and I hate crickets even though they’re healthy, but they taste so bland and mom never used salt, so I didn’t really give thanks for my food, but then I still feel bad about that so that means I was already punished, and and I always offer some of my food to the goddesses, and I think that might count extra cuz people keep telling me it’s really good and that makes it a good offering, but how much salt would a goddess even want, I mean like, do they like salty food or would it be kind of offensive to offer them something that masks the natural flavors of the offering. I mean, you would know of course but you don’t have to answer and um…”

The fluster is very real, and very cute. And from this, you can get two things clearly. The questions you have asked are on very easy and one very hard. Obedience is the simplest thing. Ksharta is a good girl and a faithful Hybrasilian who believes in all the rituals and practices. Just tell her what you want, maybe tell her it will be a fun game, and she’ll happily pounce Angela in any ambush you could come up with. But what she loves most. Oh, what a cruel and terrible question to pry into the mind of a young catgirl. Ksharta loves pleasure, and she loves joy, and she loves safety. But she’s so sheltered, so silly and full of life. She’s never questioned what makes for any of those things. She did what her parents said, and they offered her a life full of mostly good food and healthy living. She learned to cook and people were happy with her. She joined the huntresses and she cooked, she flew, she hunted, and these things were good. But Ksharta Talonna has never asked herself what do I love? Me, just me, what do I really love? She doesn’t know yet, hasn’t found it, hasn’t found the things that would make her ask. You could give her those things, if you’re careful, oh so careful.

"Wait, Ebon Claw? What, is the whole arena tournament just one big pirate party? I mean, I've already crossed paths with the Snow Geese and the Red Claws in just the last few days and now you guys are here to round out the trifecta."

Gotta catch em a-

Not. Helping!

Isabelle idly wondered whether whatever drug they'd hit her with caused long term brain damage. It would really explain things.

Now is not the time to lose it, Isabelle. Get out of here, get to a working comms to call for help. Then get rescued, back to civilization. Then get home. Lock the door. Then lose it.

I like that plan, it's a good one, hasn't steered us wrong before!

Technically, that plan is what got us here.

How about we skip the plans and just move on to panic?

Oh that's a good point, I second panic.

Thirded.

Isabelle gives them a good rattle, trying to stamp down the rising adrenaline so that she can focus on something productive.

"Right! Good!" she replies, with all the cool of an ice cube in a volcano. "That I'm not your type I mean. Not that you're not aesthetically appealing, objectively I mean, but I don't think you're my type either."

No, after all we like them short haired, tan skinned and with engineering degrees --

What do you mean 'I don't think'? ...

SHUT. UP.

"Who is Solarel and why would she be all the way out on this rock?" she asks, mostly to drown out the internal cacophony.

"Is she really worth bringing your [pack] out here?" she asks, making a passable effort at the Hybrasillian. All those language courses, ostensibly for interstellar business, were really paying off here. If she could keep them talking, maybe she could find an opportunity.

"Oh, and do you have any biscuits?"

[Roll to read a person. 1 + 6 + 0 - squeaking through with a 7. What do you love most? How can I get you to slip up?]

Solarel has a context. She knows the windswept plains and the motions of the Gods. She knows violence and honour. She's seen the Evercity, still the grandest place she has ever been. She has seen the secrets of Hybrasil at swordpoint. She has hidden inside TC and piloted one of their strange Gods. She even (dimly) understands the concepts of permanence, fragility, and finance. It's enough to have her think that she is experienced, well traveled, even a little jaded. Indeed, by her reckoning, there could not be more than a dozen Zaldarians who have seen more of the galaxy or its alien cultures than her. She is no stranger to the strange.

But, this? This is a non sequitur. A madness. Tribes interpreted the Codes of Zaldar differently, and the Evercity also had its own way of doing things. But saying that Zaldar did not write the codes that she was renowned for writing? It was accusing the sun of being a liar, the moon of being sus. To do so out loud, in Heartspeak, to someone who was by anyone's reckoning an outsider - her mind didn't have a place for that kind of accusation. She flinches back, watches Annika with a deeply startled expression, and only calms when she steadies herself and returns to sign language. Her mind at last settles on an explanation: Annika is possessed. It explains everything; her affinity with her geists, her disrespectful way of speech, her outburst. A Spirit - or possibly an Ancestor - has slipped inside her head. Always a risk, especially for those who showed improper respect to the temptations of the spirit world. Words of blue, woe for you.

Well, the Code was clear on that, too: The past must not rule the present. She would have to purge the possessing creature somehow. According to the stories the best way to do that was to trick the creature into admitting its true name.

So she goes with Annika, but as she does, she gingerly pulls her arm free from her grip. <Which Spirits await us?> she signs, falling back into the familiar habit, nervous if committing to speaking in Hybrasilian in this moment might further enrage the Spirit. <Do you... know them?>

Super subtle. Good in.

It begins with fusion cuisine. Slate's idea, naturally. When in a multicultural hub, why not take advantage of the unique fruits? Besides, 'sandwiches' sounded fun and exotic. Roasted waterfowl on wild, herbaceous grasses with a mildly salty sauce and a... nut of some description that neither of them could identify. Served, rather ostentatiously, between a pair of crispy 'breads' which represented one of the heights of Consortium cookery. Along with chocolate, of course, but that was toxic to them in the way that TC prepared it, and the Hybrasil adaption was perhaps a little...

Anyway. Interesting. Crunchy, sweet, salty, a satisfying puzzle. Good recharge food. Mirror initially left half her plate untouched, too absorbed in conversation to consider bringing it to her mouth, but in the end she simply couldn't help herself. But there was so very much to talk about, after all. Repair plans and countermeasures, sabotage speculation, the performance of Nine Drive the level of engineering miracle it would take to develop new capabilities for the Tail conduits within the span of the tournament.

The tournament. In the end it's what pushed her away from the hangar. Every question about The Gods-Smiting Whip begged a question about the match, and that demanded answers that couldn't be found chipping out the damage on burned out armor plates. And even though the team could handle the work that needed doing just fine on their own, they'd handle it much better with Slate's hands and head around to help them. And Slate wouldn't stop begging to be sent back to work before 'the jokes built up to lethal levels'.

Akar II it was, then. Mirror knew little enough about these little outpost planets to be able to pick one hunting ground from another beyond what they printed in the brochures, but as it happened the brochures were enough to tell her that if she wanted a technical question answered about the construction of mecha hangars then that was the place to go. And any place was as good as any other place if she wanted to hear speculation about her match statistics and outcome. Perhaps if Mayze... no. It would cause more problems than it solves to let her be seen directly. She'd have to put together a disguise as an intermediary, instead. Perhaps electronically was best? Uncertain. Regardless. Akar II. Multitasking always felt good. Information more soothing than food. Even... well. She should probably eat a second time. A restaurant would mark a good chance to collate her information, once she had it.

And so it was she missed those flowers. Later, she would come back and learn about them from her team. She would even feel guilty about it. Like her choice to pursue her own tactical enrichment was actually a failure on her part. Like the reasonable move would have been to anticipate Valentina's level of understanding and bend her habits and decision making to match, for long enough at least to reciprocate the gesture. It must have been quite a night, she'll suppose. Surprising. Nevertheless, guilt. Enough of it to send her engineer on an adventure to deliver another handwritten note:

'The Star's Breath is toxic to me. The small purple one. No, that's not right. Allergy. That's the word you use for it. Not lethal. Simply an irritant. Rash under fur on contact. But, the gesture is appreciated. Sincerely. Your recreation of my dress was impressive. I am touched. Mayze's dress, technically. But I wore it. You saw me wear it. As an apology for disappointing you, I will let you see me without it.'

But just now, she has no idea how she'll feel or what she'll wind up inviting Valentina de Alcard to do. Just now she's on a shuttle, heading to Akar II. Plans had failed her time and again today, so this time she was simply winging it. Reach the planet, follow instinct, let it carry her where and to what it would. If that failed, she'd stop and sit and listen, and bend her brain while she bent her ears. To simple a plan to be sabotaged, this time. Even sabotage would be it's own form of information, in this context.

This is the first time. The first time since she learned Solarel would be her opponent, the first time since she learned Solarel had chosen such an inferior machine as the Bezorel to be her god's shell for their reunion... the first time since all of it that she's found herself just sitting. Waiting. Breathing.

Immediately, she reaches into a carry bag and plucks out a datapad. This would be the first time her mind was focused enough to check the account of Mayze Szerpaws, too. Might as well see what the orders looked like. And who was asking.

Once, there was a goddess in a stone egg…

Jade doesn’t often think about when she was like Ksharta Talonna. New, exploring herself, trying to decide what she loved. For one thing, Jade was lucky enough to have her Dolly to observe, to fall in love with, to desire more than anything else. But for another thing… Ksharta Talonna has the power to act. She can pounce, can run, can explore and see the galaxy. But for Jade, the only freedom was inside her own mind, back then, constrained and yearning. She doesn’t know how this makes her feel, and she doesn’t much care for that ambiguity.

She lifts her foot from Ksharta Talonna’s chest and presses the ball to Ksharta Talonna’s lips. Dolly’s grip on Ksharta’s hand tightens, all intermingled excitement and envy and big-sisterly concern for the kitten. Jade holds her there for a moment, looking Ksharta Talonna in the eyes until she blinks. It is impossible to win a staring contest against her.

“It depends on the god,” she says, when she is satisfied with how Ksharta Talonna squirms in her seat. “If I preferred everything to be natural, I would dwell within an Unworked Figure.” She says the capitals deliberately, invoking some of the oldest archeological finds on Hybrasil: rocks heaped together, overgrown with dead vines, in the rough shape of a woman, a celestial body, an animal. Idols without artifice beyond selection and gardening. No, she will take the artifice of the idol, the power of the body made for her; the effort and the intent is more important than some ideal of purity, of unmarred perfection. “But I cannot speak for us all.” A simple way to step around the inconvenient fact that she cannot speak to any other god or spirit, not as a peer, not in a way that gives her relief from doubts of her own nature.

She lowers her foot, tilts her head, bares her fangs at the awed kitten. “Now. Here is what you two will do, Dolly.” Hierarchy. She does not look to Dolly; this is a lesson for Ksharta Talonna. See who is granted authority. “Finish the appetizer. You will need the energy. Inform the staff that you are stepping out but will return later in the evening. There is a Lodge seven minutes’ walk away. Present yourselves there and make use of their armory; I have already told them you are coming.” Or, rather, the cult sent a messenger on her behalf, on a separate shuttle. This was planned out, after all. “Prepare a pole; you will hunt a prize for me and bring her back here for the main course.”

”I thought—“ Jade raises a finger, and Ksharta Talonna gets a front row seat to what it looks like when Jade’s Dolly is shushed: the cloth materializing, filling her mouth, wrapping around her jaw, bulging, dark and light-drinking cloth threaded with cyan. Dolly pulls her hand off Ksharta’s without thinking about it. Then she looks over at Ksharta and deliberately puts her hand back on the younger girl’s skin, so… so she can see. Her head is yowling with excitement and embarrassment and her eyes keep flicking between Jade and Ksharta because does Jade know how big a deal this is, is this too much for Ksharta, it’s one thing to do this in the cockpit but Jade’s really making her flaunt it in front of Ksharta, is she that interested in Ksharta joining her temple-harem, or does she just want Dolly to be thinking all of these things, about to combust, and is it okay? Is she allowed? Does Ksharta like this, too?

“Dolly, do you have a question?” Jade rubs finger and thumb together, very casually, even though she’s lightning racing across the spine of Hybrasil inside her stone heart. She wants to giggle and wrap her arms around Dolly and rub those stuffed cheeks and give her kisses and make her squirm, but she has to be the goddess for both of them. For Ksharta Talonna and Seven Quetzal. Is she doing it right, Dolly? She can feel your heart racing. You’re beautiful, right now, more beautiful than anyone, and it’s all Jade’s strength to keep playing out the scene for you. Don’t worry, it’s dark, you’re secluded, it’s an audience of two, and both of us can see it instead of just sudden silence and blushing and slightly puffed cheeks, as if you’re sulky, but we know, Seven Quetzal, we know.

”Yhff,” Dolly says, her free hand balled in her lap, her silly head nodding, and in her heart she is plummeting in freefall trusting that there’s a black-and-cyan net that will catch her and wrap her up so safe. Her eyes are still flicking between Ksharta and her goddess, trying to read both of them, trying to remember their reactions forever and ever.

Jade snaps her fingers and the cloth melts away into shadow. For now. “Then you may ask,” she says, still intent on Ksharta Talonna’s reaction. Are you clever enough to understand, Ksharta Talonna? Do you realize that you are choosing to put yourself under Jade’s power, under the will of a goddess, who can do that to you? You should be awed, Ksharta Talonna, and a little frightened, and very turned on, because you should be thinking about the things that Smokeless Jade Fires could do to you, for you.

It takes Dolly a minute. She can’t find her voice, she’s so whelmed. When she does speak, her voice is trembling like a small, furry thing in the sight of a jackal. “…I thought we were doing something for Ksharta tonight, my exalted lady of the hunt?” She hasn’t figured out who the prize could possibly be. Because Jade said her, and that was very deliberate. And while, yes, she understands how a sacred hunt will help Ksharta feel included, she wasn’t prepared for anything more than a dinner and performing for Ksharta and Jade, and she doesn’t know how to feel about things going in such an unexpected direction.

“We are,” Jade purrs. “But you are both mine tonight, and I want to give you both victory.” Yes. That’s what she wants. It’s not selfish to want to hear Angela Victoria Miera Antonius’s garbled complaints as she’s carried into Keoni’s Tower on a hunting-pole. It’s giving her little kittens a trophy, and sending a message to Angela Victoria Miera Antonius about her place (beneath Jade) (sandwiched between adoring kittens) (reminded that if she gets to play with Dolly it is because Jade is indulging both of them in her boundless generosity) (held fast with the mesh, so that Jade can show her exactly how creative she can be)— that’s just a natural outcome of the treat she has orchestrated for them both. “So eat up, kittens. And Ksharta Talonna?”

Jade leans in, until their faces are a breath apart, and runs her multitude of hands along Ksharta Talonna’s arms, jaw, ears, chest, hips.

“Dolly’s glove is unique. I do not intend to make more. But if you please me, if you serve me, if you are a good girl— I will keep these things in mind, and you may enjoy my presence through her. Am I understood?”

It wouldn’t be that hard. It’s not something that she had to pour her essence into and was forged under the light of the moon. It’s just a neural mesh connected to her consciousness. But hearing that, that exclusivity, that possessiveness, that implicit display of dominance… Dolly makes a noise in her throat that is, embarrassingly, not muffled and therefore deniable.

Her Jade’s Dolly. That’s her. No matter who she brings to dinner as a trophy. Hers hers hers.

Isabelle

Crescent stops and gives you an absolute deadpan stare. She just cannot even get her head around this. Lilika finishes getting her own tea (lots of sugar), realizes that in fact Crescent is not going to say anything and tries to fill in, spilling into more of an explanation than she might even have intended. “Uh…yeah um, the Arena grants you a wish for yourself AND your faction if you win. If you come in with a new faction, you can wish them a free system. That’s within bounds, had to be as part of an agreement for the big factions to stop warring. You can ask for a system, sometimes even a couple connected systems. Like in the last one, there was a handover and access rights and all that complex stuff for the Cerulean Belt systems all in one go. They’ve all agreed to that being possible so that they don’t start blowing all their stuff up. So of course it’s full of pirates. So far nobody independent has won, it’s hard when the big players have customized equipment backed by a multi-system intergalactic faction. But we’re all gonna keep coming.”

She and Crescent are both looking at you like, you should have known this. You’re part of a big TC house, intergalactic business, major connections, how did you not know this?

Finally Crescent breaks her silence too. “How in goddess name do you not know who Solarel is?! The Walker of the Mountain, The Varangian, The Empress' Champion, The Hunter of Huntresses, The Exile, you know the crazy Zaldarian pilot that ran around in the strongest mecha anybody’s ever seen wreaking havoc on the other two factions until the wars stopped only to get banished when the new empress overthrew the old empress? THAT Solarel. I thought you people prided yourselves on your connections and your cosmopolitan values. Goddess, just, you do know how to pilot, right? You’re not just an idiot who’s got a secret AI doing it? Cuz that would really mess up our trials.”

Crescent undoes your harness with a small key on the catchpad and then you’re free, still with your tea. They don’t seem to care much. Something beeps and Lilika opens the hatch. You could walk outside, and at least go take a look, but you shouldn’t because of what you’ll see at the hatch entrance.

Before we get to the action though, the sky of Roius swirls with neon pink light blending with hints of yellow, the colors of the Cerulean Belt mixing with the unusual cloud systems to produce a spectacular show. It’s eye catching, breath-taking, and worth a glance even with everything else going on.

Further down, two Zaldarians (one pulling another) and two lionesses (one carrying the other) are sprinting towards the ship and the lead Zaldarian is gesturing with her hand in the universal gesture of “get the fuck out of the way!” Behind them are several men with shotguns sprinting to catch up.

We’re going to switch to Solarel’s perspective now, but the question is open to you as to what you do here and on the shuttle ride that’s about to happen.

Solarel

<Elder spirits> she signs, and turns to head towards the shuttle with you following. The second lioness is looking kind of groggy and has some trouble standing up. She’s armored, but the shot looks like it punched the wind out of her. You realize that her companion has broken off combat and picked her up, carrying her the same way you’re going.
There’s a sudden race as the boatmen chase you towards the shuttle, the sound of soft footsteps swishing through tall grass contrasting with the crack of their shotguns. Unfortunately for your luck, you eat a shot straight to your hip, which hurts like hell and makes you stumble, though it’s not nearly enough to bring down a robust Zaldarien. Annika grabs you by the arm and hauls, shoving you bodily into the shuttle, jumping in herself, the two lionesses piling in behind. You bowl over Isabelle Lozano, a TC pilot who had a notable match just recently that you definitely haven’t paid any attention to, sending the both of you sprawling on the ship deck.

Annika gestures frantically, and a TC woman with a ponytail and…is that Crescent from the fashion show? Regardless, the two of them race to a console, punch the controls and the little shuttle lifts off to the sound of Boatmen bullets ricocheting off the entry ramp.

The shuttle isn’t going far, you notice that the acceleration stops after only a brief few seconds, you’re probably not much above the height of a low mountain, still in atmosphere, they’re just going somewhere else on the planet.

There is, now, a moment of both pain and calm.

***

Mirror

The sound that greets you is the clang of hammer upon metal. It is not ruinously loud, but soft, round, and rhythmic. Ting, ting, ting, it goes. Not perfectly uniform, but focused and concentrated. It is an old sound, a sound of a working that machines had long since made obsolete as a matter of efficiency, but which never lost the satisfaction of its craft.

Trosta’s arms and armor is not far from the port on Akar II, indeed one standing near the door can see much of the comings and goings of the gray spaceport, which is lower and smaller than the one on Akar Prime. You had just enough time on the way over to go through Mayze’s mail and see a few requests. They are notable. You have one from Adriana Teresio, the most powerful woman in TC. She wants a dress of red roses, something to really make an entrance. It’s simultaneously grand and boring, and her directions identify that and ask for some aspect to it that takes it beyond the typical theatrics of roses. There’s also one from Maelia Dala three Quetzl, one of the leading scientific minds of Hybrasil, looking for something with hibiscus flowers, not a lot of detail. It’s particularly interesting that she contacted you at all, she was supposed to be in the Ringed Nebula, which is a whopping ten jumps away from Akar without going through Zaldarian territory, making the shortest possible trip for her to get here twenty galactic standard days. Perhaps she left before the tournament even started. Or this could simply be a proxy stationed here ordering on her behalf with her name. A third is from a man you haven’t heard of from the Styx system. He signed his name Charon and the specifications ask for your judgment in flowers that complement eye and partial face cybernetics. He included a specific shade of red #ed2939 that he’d like you to match or complement. The last is, fan mail? It just says “I love your work and your style. I want to open people's eyes, I hope you’ll help someday. I’ll be in touch.” It’s signed with a picture of a chrysanthemum and nothing else, and it came from an account somebody actually named “anonymous” so that’s almost cute.

Looking up from that contemplation to the sound of hammers reveals a hall built in an old style with modern materials. The Zaldarian nanobots construction on Akar II defaults to a slate gray, but barring the color, the hall looks like something a Hybrasilian bioengineer would have cultivated out of a great tree. The roof is low and slanted, with a small opening for smoke, and there are beams and columns creating a set of rafters holding the structure together. In the back there’s a door connecting to a private hangar, then there is an old-fashioned forge glowing with a gentle orange light and several very modern fabricators that glow with a faint white light of tiny crystal fire at their hearts. The center of the hall is set with metal workbenches set out with various tools, more tools hanging on the walls and in storage bins against the sides, and in front as you come in is a large bar and cashier’s register. But it’s all built out of light nanobot metallics in that slate gray color. It looks like someone’s perfect recreation of a model lodge and smithy.

You’re initially greeted by the Hybrasilian who’s working the bar, who introduces herself as Mattara Swimmer, eight Cigni when she sees another Hybrasilian come in, and who quickly explains that she is in fact a Hybrasilian engineer who recently took a job here and is very excited to have you visiting, you’re their first Hybrasilian customer in fact!

Trosta herself is working the forge in the back, her strong bronze arms the source of the rhythmic clanging of the mallet. Matty explains that Trosta uses her forge-working as a way to better her nanobot crafting, she apparently forges utensils to help direct the nanobots. It’s not one to one, it’s more about making something that functions as a guide and Matty seems to think there’s a spiritual component to the matter as well. She also offers you a drink, ginger beer on the house.

***

Jade and Dolly

She’s yours.

It’s an exultant feeling. Ksharta was easily impressed, there was never any doubt she’d be up for the hunt, the game, the service. That was the easy part. But there was doubt about how she’d feel, if she’d be nervous inside and try to hide it, if she’d wonder if this was really all okay, finish the night, get scared, and keep her distance.

But now you don’t have to wonder. You can hear the purrs. Dolly can feel them where they’re holding hands, not through the mesh but the pure physicality of it, and so Jade can feel it too through the link. Ksharta likes to be touched like this. She wants to be touched like this more. She’ll hunt for you, but she could just as easily curl up with you tonight and just be touched and pet in all the right places for the rest of the evening. She’ll want more when it stops and she’ll come back for more. When she goes to her own bed and remembers, she’ll smile and she’ll shiver.

She flushes as her own awareness of self comes back to her. The flush comes up from her neck and into her face, but she doesn’t know, doesn’t let go, doesn’t want it to stop. You know that feeling Dolly, that sense of mortification and pleasure mixed together. She does squirm, and her tail wags, and her legs get all twisted up together. She looks at you Dolly, to make sure it’s okay, and when she hears your noise, the one you can’t plausibly deny, she somehow blushes even harder and tries to hide her face with her one arm, but even still she’s leaning into Jade, into the touch and the embrace and she’s nothing but squeak and squirm and joy here in the booth.

This really is everything isn’t it. The exultation of a new follower, the special treatment of Dolly. Angela’s arriving in Akar II as well, Jade will get a notice from the spaceport that she’s been tracking for the next shuttle and it’s a guarantee with Jade’s lure that she’ll come storming into Keoni’s tower looking for the two diners. You’ve got everything right where you want it. What’s the plan to ambush her? Or is there a plan in the face of these absolutely perfect kitty scritches?