“Welcome to Akar, ma’am! Where to?”

A lot of this plan hinges on what they’ve borrowed from the local Lodge. Not just hunting gear, but also a three-wheeled Pigeon and Ksharta’s disguise: mirrored shades, a loud flower-patterned shirt (the kind that’s rumored to be able to stun birds), and a kerchief to keep the dust out of her face. She’s got maudlin Southwestern Fisher love ballads playing over the built-in audio system, and her acting instructions are to be bubbly and rambly in that way that rickshaw drivers always are.

“Keoni’s? Sure thing, didn’t take you for someone interested in Hybrasilian cuisine, but I suppose Keoni’s is a good place for it, we’ve even got breads there, not garlic of course, there’s always got to be compromises when we put our foods together, but if you like them grilled or in long sticks, you can get all the breads you like there, and of course, you’ll want some of our specialties, you really want to try the pan-seared saddle with strawberries, it’s the house specialty, I had it back when my littermate had her reception at Keoni’s…”

And she makes a turn, ostensibly to avoid construction, but taking the Pigeon on a wider loop out toward the settlement’s industrial edge…

---

“So, how did Angela find out?”

Dolly stretches, and keeps her eyes on the road below, but her tail twitches. She’s not stupid, you know. Beside her lies a bolacaster, loaded and ready.

”How should I know?” Jade retorts, leaning back impossibly far over the side of the warehouse, mimicking Dolly’s stretching. “Maybe she’s just infatuated with us. ‘The moment I met you, my heart knew I was meant to be yours, even if my thoughts were slow…’”

“That’s not— hey!!” Dolly glances around, even though no one else can hear Jade or is even around to hear anyway. Jade grins; her memorization of her Dolly’s stories continues to be wise. “But you had a plan, Jade. You already knew where the Lodge was, and that she was coming, and…”

”Do you think so little of my knowledge, Seven Quetzal?” Her claws softly run up the back of Dolly’s thigh, and her beautiful girl shivers and curls her toes on that foot. “I am vast and lie beyond the seventh vibration. I gaze into myself and find therein all that is, was, or will be.”

“…please?” Dolly’s plea is still playful, but it’s vulnerable, too. She rolls over and sits up, glances down at herself, at her soft belly (her shirt pulled up in her own hand). Jade straddles her and stares, hungrily. Her claws dig into Dolly’s fur, trace trails on Dolly’s stomach, her thumbs rolling circles on her primordial pouch. She extrapolates outwards so that she can raise her head and stare into Dolly’s eyes, her beautiful eyes, and see as well as feel the parting of her lips… “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

”…I had your cult be careless with our location for her.” Your cult; Dolly is the High Priestess, after all. Dolly guides one of Jade’s hands up to cup her, nodding. ”I want… she deserves to be at our mercy. Under you. A trophy. She is so proud, but underneath, she is meant to be a mewling temple slave for me. For us.”

“And what if she beats us?” Dolly leans in closer. If Jade could feel… she breathes out, anyway, hoping that the meaning of having her breath on her goddess’s cheek will translate. “What if Ksharta and I are bound in our own tethers? What if she bundles us in the trunk of that little car and drives us to a hotel, my goddess?” She can hear the hitches in Jade’s simulated breath, feel the claws and their almost perfect serenity. Almost. “What if she ravishes us and invites you to wat—?”

Jade imagines the warmth of Dolly’s lips under her palm. What a prize it would be for Angela Victoria Miera Antonius to know this feeling, too. Their faces are so close that only a hair’s breadth separates them from touching. “Then it will be because I chose to let her win,” she says, and she knows she’s lying, and Dolly knows she’s lying, but she can feel Dolly’s heart hammering and she can feel her own spirit quickening, stars flashing up and down her spine, her tail flaring and flashing. “Because my priestess needed to be put in her place by an alien— an arrogant, stinking, impious alien.” The sound that Dolly makes is wet and desperate. The thought of Angela pressing her close, victorious, perspiring, threatening payback for what happened to her mecha… ”But you’re not going to make me do that, are you? You’re going to honor me. You’re going to be a good girl for me. You’re going to win.”

Dolly sits there, one hand tangled in her shirt, the other braced against the warehouse roof, tormented by the realization that she doesn’t know whether she really wants to win. Jade sits there, one hand clamped over her Dolly’s mouth, others working increasingly unsteady patterns through her fur, tormented by the realization that she doesn’t know whether she really wants Dolly to win.

Then, the sound of a Pigeon making its funny little way down the road, approaching the turn. Jade jumps off Dolly like a kitten startled by a cucumber. “She’s here,” Jade says, the stupidest thing she could say. Dolly rolls back over, fumbles her shirt back down, grabs for the bolacaster. ”I will be watching this time,” Jade says, looking away from Dolly at an increasingly stylized conception of Akar II, marked with pyramids and Hybrasilian groves and the flame-bright birds of home. “Earn my praise. Do not disappoint me.” Don’t think about smooshing your face into her. You can do that if you win. Jade would be disappointed. Don’t pick at the knot of feelings about Angela, and what she could give your Dolly, and wouldn’t you do anything to make her happy, Smokeless Jade Fires?

“C’mon, Ksharta,” Dolly whispers, coiling herself to spring down into the awning below. “Just like Jade told us…”

Solarel is hot.

Sure, there's the literal part. She just took a high velocity kinetic impact and is very politely doing her best not literally catch fire as a result. Her presence is enough to cause a list of side effects including sweating, dizziness, elevated heart rate, and stomach butterflies. The faint heat shimmers around her violet scales says 'if you touch me you might get burned', while the low cut tank top and boy shorts say 'it might be worth it lol'.

Because the far more immediate threat is her metaphorical hotness. Her eyes are a jagged pink - startling, hypnotic, changing from slitted to wide as they focus on you. Her ponytail was lost, causing her hair to cascade down around you, brushing your cheek. She's tall enough to rest her chin on your head, strong enough to lift you off the ground, dangerous enough to not be sure what she'd do after that, but kind enough to be sure that you'd be taken care of when she was done. Her personality shines through her smile, a strength there that leaves you as helpless as her actual strength. Maybe being burned wouldn't be so bad after all?

She raises her hands, flicks something out in the Zaldarian sign language. Do you know how to speak that, Isabelle Lorenzo, without the aid of computer translations? Do you know that when she ends the greeting with a boop on your nose that leaves a warm, tingling imprint of her finger, that's not strictly part of the language? Do you recognize the mrring sound she makes as the Hybrasilian word for 'cutie', or does the mix of two foreign languages skip past your thinking brain entirely?

It'd be understandable, under the circumstances.

[Entice: 10]

Hmph. Irritating, the degree to which people never think through the ramifications of a thing. Order after order after order, no specifications to speak of. Ridiculous. Absurd. Did no one realize the cost of an endeavor like this? Clearly not.

To be certain nobody who saw her show, saw Mayze's show, and understood would know how to ask for a dress that was made just for them. They weren't meant to, even having a flower in mind was silly, unnecessary, extra information from people more worried about seeming connected than they were with getting the piece that actually fit them. Certainly, little sillyheads, you may have precisely the petals you were dreaming of. Bravo to you for thinking you know what those are. You might even be right! But that's not at issue, here.

While asking her what flowers you wanted your dresses grown from, did it occur to a single one of you that these dresses would, in fact, be grown from flowers? To spec?? Was she unclear about the way this process worked? And despite this, not a single prospective client shared their measurements and dimensions. Fools, what made you think that listed dress size was enough? This is not a factory. Every mannequin needed to be built in exact replica of the client. Now she'd need to reverse engineer it from publicly available photos! Idiots!

...As soon as she finishes reading it, she deletes the Chrysanthemum mail. No actionable information. Ok, you're mysterious, so what? Goodbye, see you again later. Next time bring a degree of trackable mystery and you might actually get her attention. As things stand there's too many other puzzles to solve and this is too likely to fizzle into something useless. Pass. Next was Charon. Flowers for the underworld, is it? Difficult to know where to begin with that. Maybe she could... no, getting ahead of things here. This isn't the place to get wrapped up in design work. Play later, Mira. Mayze Szerpaws has no place in a forge.

Maelia Dala, though. Well that was a mystery worth exploring. If only for stress relief. Best to respond after a delay with clarifying questioning, tease out the details of the person behind the order. If this was some flustered assistant assuming the big name designer would only work with names she recognized... well. Again, the dress must be made to a person's exact body shape, or there'd be no point to making it at all. And if it was the great scientist after all? That would be its own sort of fun. Perhaps it would behoove her to assume this was straightforward after all? It would let her get to the design process faster, and... mm. Mm. More distractions. Flag it, put it aside.

Which left Adriana Teresio. Grand Queen of the human world. This one at least was easy to understand. She'd watched the show seen Mayze's work, and like everyone else cut straight past her attempts at expression and jumped to the big showstopper piece. Fair enough. But this one goes a step farther. Strict directions, but unlimited sanction. To 'avoid restricting the designer's creativity', that would be the public reasoning. Stupid. Anyone could see what this really was: a challenge. A slap in the face. This woman was daring her to be bold beyond any of her previous designs. Adriana Teresio thought she was a woman without flaws to highlight. You will learn, Human Queen. You will learn. She was serious when she offered to overthrow the Zaldarian Empire for Solarel, do not think yourself safer. Hmph.

It's a lot to think about, all at once. So it surprises her when she stops tuning out the pounding of the hammer and is greeted with a Hybrasilian face. Mattara... Swimmer, is it? Eight Cigni? Oh, how curious! A hybrid!

"A Worlder, working this far out? Fascinating. Truly. Mira Fisher, Whispered Promise. I am... not a customer. Not looking to buy. I don't want your services. My team is adequate. I will wait, if I must. Oh, to clarify: I seek information. Expertise, if you don't mind. My [Partner] was sabotaged recently, while my hangar was staffed. Allegedly. I simply want to understand how this is possible."

The look of disappointment on Matty's face hits like a knife in Mirror's neck. Tch. Hffff. Shocking. Irritating. She's so overwhelmed by the aura suddenly hitting her in the face that she almost hands back the ginger beer without comment. She also almost reaches into her pockets for some way to pay for it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop making that face. You knew what you were doing when you came out here to work, what made you think you'd see another cat looking to let you tinker with her life's work? You could not have recognized her, could you Matty? Or you would triply never have dared to..!

She blinks. Her eyes wander across the expansive hall, as they might have on their own. But this time, it's a retreat from that face. What she sees pulls her breath from her. She takes a loud sip of the ginger beer before she realizes what she's doing. Cold, mostly bitter, but a little bit pleasantly tingling and sweet. Not sweet like Slate's drink was, just barely enough to stimulate. And relax. Ahhhh. Home is so very, very far away. Isn't it?

What a. Fascinating place. The workings of nanobots are inscrutable. Bleeding edge tech to use them so specifically, if she understands Zaldar even a little bit. And she flatters herself to think she does. But the hammer blows ring in her ears, making them flinch and flatten, making her heart pound faster and faster to keep up with the rhythm. Archaic techniques guiding modern advancements. Here as well. Here... as well.

Is that what makes her pulse constrict so much it hurts? Is that what makes the guilt crawl over here like ten thousand prickling needles? Is that what makes her finish her drink so recklessly fast? Is it why she almost hands the glass back as if to dare to ask for another one? Is that why? Is that? What face is she making? Why is Matty looking back at her?

Mirror swallows. Her face feels hot. She wipes it with the back of her wrist. She leans closer, gestures for Matty to lean in with her. And she surprises herself when she starts to whisper:

"I do, actually. Have work I need done. There are parts I cannot produce myself. Outside consultation to finalize the design. I simply... it was not a lie. My [Partner], the Gods-Smiting Whip, was tampered with this morning. I do not know why or how. You see my issue, yes? Can I. Can I count on you? To be discrete?"

Hrn. Stupid, why did she say that? The only expansions worth making would require, to some extent, explaining the secrets of the Nine Drive System to a stranger. But now that face was lighting up. Coming to life! So earnest, serious, and guilelessly giddy. Damn it all, there was no backing out.

Mirror's tail curls behind her with apparent pleasure. She frowns and flicks it from side to side to calm the feeling welling up inside her. She cannot help that it looks just like wagging.

Isabelle offers Crescent and Lilika an apologetic shrug, smiling uncomfortably at their disbelieving stares. Inside, the tiny Isabelles are standing around a table, glasses on and stacks of papers in their hands.

We're playing it too dumb! yells one, tossing her papers down in frustration.

No, they're buying it! It means we're playing just dumb enough!

Do any of you have any idea what you're doing? replies a third, leafing through her sheaf.

I mean, there could be more than one Solarel in the galaxy. I'm just saying, it doesn't hurt to check ... says a fourth, as she leans against the wall and pouts.

As Crescent unlocks her harness, Isabelle takes care not to spill the tea as she's pushed to the shuttle's ramp. It'd be a shame to waste it after all. Stepping into the alien light, it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust.

And when they do, she almost wishes they hadn't

Are those guns?

Aieeeee! shout most of the Isabelles, throwing their papers in the air and running around the mindspace.

Oh hey, it is her. Says the fourth Isabelle. Those shorts are kind of hot.

For her part, the real Isabelle freezes up, making it all the more painful when she's tackled off her feet by an indeterminate amount of Zaldarian. Isabelle can only stare, red faced, at her assailant as they land back on the floor of the shuttle.

The tea-cup does not survive.

"HuBuh?" she says.

I think that was meant to be 'Hello'.

Isabelle and Solarel

The shuttle stays relatively low, traveling around the curvature of the planet, rather than out of atmosphere. Dipping into the clouds is an interesting experience. They’re very dense, so thick you can’t see much outside the windows, but they reflect with a wild neon of colors from the light above, and when you crest briefly above them before going back in, you see a blue sky from the odd light of the Cerulean Belt. Faintly in the sky hang Cerul and Azure, the two other planetary systems within the belt, though countless other stars, as yet unjumpable, twinkle in the odd azure sky.

Annika straightens herself, Crescent was already piloting, and Lilika busies herself with chores while the lioness works on treating her companion. This shuttle is too small for a proper medical, but it’s got cots in the back and first aid, and the other lioness was more shocked than anything because of her armor.

It’s a tight-knit crew, and you can see they know how to function efficiently together, with Annika herself the most stand-out as having nothing to do. She seems perfectly aware that the two of you are having a moment though, and busies herself reviewing a small datapad with a mesh link interface for rapid review.

Once the shuttle starts its dip back down, it keeps going down. And down. And down. You can tell because even though the shuttle’s systems dampen the inertia and the view out the windows is still pointed at sky, there’s a feeling of slanted gravity that indicates the nose of the ship is tipped downward and the “floor” is pushing on you at an angle.

You can’t be going this far down, the shuttle wasn’t that high and it would make no sense for them to slow down this much and make themselves visible below cloud level after all that effort to hide. Yet there’s the ground, this area more mountainous and rocky, coming into view and then coming right at you and YOU’RE GOING TO CRASH!

Only, you don’t, and you don’t stop either. The ground makes space for you here, and you find yourself flying down through a manufactured tunnel in the Zaldarian style. Down into the crust of the planet. Annika is looking pleased with herself.

Solarel, you can see that there are geists here, directing the nanobots. Simple but old geists, their form like flashes of electricity and color in the walls. This area is teaming, alive, active on its own in a way you haven’t seen since you were in the Zaldarian core systems. Isabelle, you cannot see such a thing, but you can feel a current of energy in these walls that makes your heart beat fast and your hair stand up a little.

Take one more moment for each other, or longer than a moment perhaps, you have a little interplanetary shuttle ride to take it all in and get your bearings, or your fluster as the case may be.

***

Mirror

You watch Matty’s face go through a ride of emotions as you speak. There’s that spike of disappointment that hit you so hard when she heard you weren’t interested in the shop, and her face lighting up. She’s got a reaction too when you mention the consult and the tampering, a more thoughtful pose, her ears twitch and a claw starts scratching absentmindedly at a spot on her cheek that she obviously worries when she’s thinking.

It’s interesting seeing an engineer like this. There’s no reason for Matty to hold in her emotions, but she’s just less guarded than most of the huntresses, not so much mystique to her, and being a hybrid and so far out of her element, you get the sense that she just kind of goes in for wearing her heart on her sleeve. Probably nobody else can even read her at all if she doesn’t outright say what she’s feeling, but she’s a volunteer for this job (she’s paid, but she had to put herself out there and wanted to do this).

“Okay, we do consults all the time, actually. Let me just…Trosta! Hey, hey Trosta! Okay, come here, this way.” She guides you to the back, shouting Trosta’s name a couple times. The Zaldarian offers a brief wave of her hand, then goes back to her smithing. She’s taken what she’s working on out of the old forge now and she’s working it carefully with the hammer. Tink tink tink in small rapid hits.

It doesn’t seem particularly complex, her current work. She’s hammering down some kind of tapering metal rod, her fine work ensuring that it tapers evenly to a point. Spearhead maybe? Seems too long for that, maybe something like a tent stake though why in all the moons would she be doing that? Well, no need to wait on that one. She finishes her last work and quenches the rod, then holds it up for inspection and finally looks at you. Unlike Solarel, she speaks directly, not bothering with hand gestures. Her voice is low and husky, matching her bronze-muscles to a tee.

“Well, what’ve you got Matty shouting across the room about?” Matty scurries up and stage whispers to her what you were discussing. She looks at you again, Mirror, and cocks her head which is something like raising an eyebrow for a being without eyebrows. “You come to me with your problem. Good, good. We’ll do fine work for you, first of all Hybrasilian pilots to grace my new shop. Matty will do work for you, materials synthesis at the least, and I will help you with your problem. You bring me this problem, it must be my type of problem. Let me show you.”

She steps away from the forge and holds the pointed rod out in front of her and begins to hum. It’s a low hum that thrums through her large, bronze body with resonance, and as you watch, a nearby table disassembles itself and shifts into a cloudy form. She lifts the tone just a hair and gestures with her…her wand maybe, her sharp wand and the nanobots form into a cloudy sculpture of you, almost a mirror reflection. They hold this pose, and then she makes a sort of stirring motion with her wand and they fade into a circular cloud. She adjusts the tone again, and the material is transformed into a pair of sitting chairs, wide with armrests for the two of you, rather than the table. She sits, folding her long bird-like legs one atop the other and gestures for you to do the same.

“It’s not the rod” she says without any prompting. “The rod is for me, so that I think the right thoughts. The sound and the thoughts, these are the things that spirits hear. On Zaldaria and Marathia, everything is like this, and because it is in everything, there can be greater things. Thus are gods born, and their empresses in turn. But their hearts, big or small, are sound and thought merged together. If this thing you think was done was by one of my people, this would have been a thing that was heard. If it was not remarked, then it was because the hearer found it unremarkable. Ask your guards what they heard when this could have happened and you will find something out of place if this thing truly did happen.”

She leans back, reaches an arm out to place her wand atop her anvil, not so far from the chair. “I’ll send your masters my bill for the consultation. But I would also know about you. Tell me your story, it will make for finer components for your armor if I know its heart.”

***

Dolly

Just Dolly. Your paw is on the bola caster, and nobody else’s. Not Ksharta, who is running her cargo around the turn in that loping run that plains Hybrasilians have for covering distance. Not Jade, who has given you this task. Not your sister or your family or anyone else deciding this for you. Just you. Just Dolly.

You can win this easily.

It’s not that Angela isn’t suspicious, how could she not be when greeted by a cat rickshaw driver wearing a loud pink-flowered shirt and mirrorshades who pulled her out of the settled area? Say rather that she is bemused, and just uncertain enough about what this all means that she’s a viable target.

She’s such a viable target! She’s dressed more casually tonight, wearing a TC pilot’s trousers, but she’s got her jacket off and all she’s wearing on top is a tight short-sleeved black shirt that accentuates the shape of her arms, her chest, and her back. There’s so much there. So much to want. So much to fall into, to squeak and reveal yourself and give her a chance to dodge the shot.

Ksharta won’t know what to do if the plan goes awry, she’s never done this before! She’ll probably freeze and Angela will take the missed shot, cover the gap and pin you down before you get a second. Imagine feeling the heat of her breath as she pants from the sudden sprint, her strength all pressed upon you.

You can lose this easily.

It’s your choice, what do you want, Dolly?

Or, here’s one more option. If you really, really can’t decide, then line up the shot, close your eyes extra tight, say a prayer to Jade, and see what fate offers you when you pull the trigger.

"But at any rate, it is possible?"

Mirror repeats the question in the sign language she picked up from Solarel. She is all at once much too fast and much too slow: her hands move with the absurd speed and precision necessary to pilot the Gods-Smiting Whip with the skill that she does, but she lingers on each word for too long and 'rewrites' several of them multiple times before moving onto the next, even though they wind up exactly the same each time she does it. But even accounting for her peculiarities, the act of moving the question to a different language changes the meaning of what she's trying to say.

<You agree, then, that many things are possible.>

The riddle of the Mirror is, is this a mistake? Has she fallen victim to bad dialectic decisions, or is she making a deliberately dense inquiry? Or is she even asking a question in the first place? Maybe she's hiding something, instead.

In any event, she frowns as she sits. Her hands briefly fold on top of her knee as she crosses her legs, but when she immediately uncrosses and flips them she switches to stretching her arms behind her head as she leans into the seat. Her stub-clawed fingers play idly with her cascading snowy hair as her whiskers twitch in thought.

"...What would it take for me to adopt your assistant?" she asks, "I have honestly felt minimal desire to ever have a kitten, but she feels like she would make excellent practice. My Slate would have a field day with her."

Liquid eyes flick over to catch the reaction. Or maybe reactions? Matty's expressions are a rapid and many-tiered thing, which is a delicious and welcome tension break in an otherwise very cluttered day. Mirror licks her lips, and allows herself a moment to hope that Matty is imagining it. She would like to know what it looks like when that face combusts.

"Not trying to poach her, to be clear. Despicable behavior. My interest in her is strictly that she is adorable. Though I suppose, since you must already know that, you might consider that a form of poaching anyway?"

Mirror's hands continue to worry at the back of her hair, and across her neck. She rolls her shoulders, straightens and curls her spine, and lets her tail flop back and forth between the armrests of the chair. She makes no effort, in short, to hide her own discomfort with the direction of the conversation.

The directness of the consultation, and the speed with which it closed. The burden shifted back onto her with the mystery left entirely intact. The implication that she had Masters who could be charged in her stead. Which was of course a moment of cultural expectation, but the thought digs into her brain like an icicle fallen from a roof. To wonder why she would have said it in the first place, and to feel ashamed for spending any amount of time not getting it. To feel angry with herself that there was still so much that needed learning in spite of all her advantages and her life, and to feel resentment that she should be the one who needs to feel inadequate.

In short, to feel defeated by Solarel all over again. Mirror sits up in her chair, and leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, her chin on her freshly folded hands. Eyes cast down toward the floor.

"I'm uninterested in armor. I have no use for it right now. I had armor, and it was pried open as simply as a shellfish. My ugliness is bared, and I will not cover it again. Do you not know who I am, even looking at me this close?"

She sighs.

"Naturally, you don't. She is the famous one; I am a name on a list of conquests. I am Mirror, the whispered promise. The One-Day Defender. I fought Solarel in her Aeteline for a full solar cycle. And then I lost, and disappeared from history for the duration of the war. My story is someone who sits and watches. Little difference if it happened staring at the stars from the port of a research station or tied up inside a war tent. The fish tastes nearly the same in both places."

Mirror plucks her tablet up and lets her fingers dance across the screen, for a moment treating it like she would the Nine-Tails. She rapidly closes her mail, calls up several data files only to close them all again, reopening and rearranging until the information is laid out in a way that would be impossible to misunderstand.

When she flips it around, what she's showing are the schematics to the Gods-Smiting Whip. Not its public specs, but its true self. Its beating heart, with only the cockpit data excepted. Even that is a kind of sharing, isn't it? There are detailed glyphs explaining the nature of her crystal fire drive and the conduits she designed herself and built with only help and resources procured by her own close-knit engineering team.

The Nine Drive System: an energy transfer device that operates on the principle of alternating current, pushing power from one output device to the next and even drawing latent, leaked energy signals into itself from competing systems in the atmosphere itself. In short, a beast that devours its prey and becomes stronger with every passing battle. In short, a family of smaller figures working in concert to take down the largest foes imaginable. In short, a weapon. One that only she, only Mirror, could operate. The system is stupendously complex and fiendishly intricate, the sort of thing it would take hours of intense study to really understand. Certainly more than the handful of seconds Mirror lets it be seen.

But for someone like Trosta, it surely says enough. Ancient concepts, expressed in novel ways. Uniquely Hybrasilian ideas, blending ideology from the Hunter and the Fisher lodges, bound together in response to her exposure to the Gods of Zaldar, both the tiny and the huge. Here, she would see, was an effort by the ugly stray to transform her body into something godlike and glorious, to rise up and over the bar she'd fallen short of.

And now she was seeking to alter it again.

"I will say it again. Armor has no interest for me. For protection, I have plenty. What I lack, what was revealed to me... is restriction. I need a system that will bind and baffle my hands, and occupy my mind. I need a system that will reduce my sum capacity so that I can overcome it and develop new techniques. Like She did. I need a system that will reward me for testing myself against it even as it seals away my old tricks.

In short, Miss Trosta, and her darling little helper... I am interested in chains."

The moment Dolly closes her eyes, the world shifts. Her ears twitch; the hum of a local insect almost drowns out the sound of the rickshaw slowing. The air is warm, almost uncomfortably so, but a cool breeze whips along her back, stirring her fur, kissing the tips of her ears.

She’s a Hunter. This isn’t what she was born to do, but it is what she was chosen to be. That means she can do it. In this moment, she can be a Hunter. She has the weight of the caster in her hands, she has put herself in the perfect position, she can’t miss.

But she closes her eyes anyway.

Behind her lids, she can see Angela sending Ksharta sprawling as she dives out, grabs the ladder, scales it using those incredible arms, straining, as she frantically reloads, winds by hand to avoid a jam, swings it up, but Angela’s already closed the gap, pushes the caster to one side, shoves Dolly down, and even though she could run, she wouldn’t, because she’d be caught, and Angela’s shirt would be clinging to her, and this wouldn’t be like what happened at the fashion show, this would be different, visceral, punishment…

But she’s not going to miss. She already knows it as she pulls the trigger, and she can’t take that back as the caster’s tension snaps and sends the bolas hurtling around Angela’s torso, pinning her arms in, throwing her off balance long enough for Ksharta to turn around and pounce. And the pull of the trigger is a rush of adrenaline, like piloting Jade’s idol, the heady high of power under control, of being the fulcrum point. The hunt is sacred, isn’t it? And Jade partakes in it just as much as Dolly does, as goddess and as huntress, a pair lost in the swell of the hunt.

Angela’s yelp sends a tremor through Dolly, eyes still closed, and she almost sways. She doesn’t give a name to the feeling in her teeth, her stomach, her toes.

”There we go,” Jade says, in the dark, eyes closed, ears drinking in the delicious sound of victory. “Good girl.” She caresses the softness of Dolly’s upper arms and revels in the tremor. What’s done is done, and her glory is her glory. And Angela will be so, so indignant.

Dolly’s the one who moves first, eyes only half-open by the time she’s bouncing off the awning, and she lands perfectly on her feet. And like this, from this angle, it’s easier to see that underneath her fluff, she has the muscles and thighs of a temple dancer. When she stalks forwards towards Angela, it’s not on Jade’s strings.

But she does have to swallow before she can get the words out.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says. Jade can feel the tensing of her gut, the nervousness racing through her. She straddles Angela’s legs, pins them down for Ksharta. “Out here on the frontier. Wild. A big lady like you might get in trouble.”

Swallows again.

“Are you— I mean— you’re our trophy, tonight, but you, it’s your choice whether you’re an offering,” she stammers, and flexes that glove, a threat, an offering. “Jade would like that a lot,” she blurts out, and then squeaks, and just like that, she’s no longer the cool huntress teasing her quarry, she’s a flustered girl unable to look the girl she’s flirting with in the eyes.

“…but we are carrying you,” she manages to add. “That’s part of the experience. We’ve got a pole and, maybe, if you ask nicely, we won’t walk you down the big roads to Keoni’s, the ones with lots of cameras~”

She wiggles in place as Ksharta cinches Angela’s ankles together. There’ll be a lot more coming when they need to secure Angela to the pole; it needs to be direct, because letting her dangle from her limbs would put her spine at risk, being such an oversized creature. But, stars above, the thought of her hair dangling down as she’s carried off like a prized catch has Dolly’s stomach doing somersaults, to say nothing of the sounds she’ll be making…

“So. Gosh. Angela, any… I can say it, I will! Any last words, Angela?”

[10 on Defying Disaster. What a lucky kitty!]

It's hard to maintain focus. Part of her is still going over Isabelle's word - a translator geist is sitting on her knee, spooling away an endless flow of words in the various TC languages, pouncing when it sees one that might work and bringing it up to her delightedly. Hubuh: 忽布, a type of hops used in fermentation, which produces alcohol, which is the human intoxicant equivalent to quantum equations. Implication: The stranger is stating she is drunk! She looks at it with an expression of gentle pity. You're reaching, little guy. But still it brightens and runs in bushy-tailed circles around on her knee when she pays it the attention; attention is a valuable commodity to these tiny entities of the digital realm.

Her thoughts stir into wakefulness as the hidden world opens up, but not because it is a matter of spirits and gods. Even elder spirits and gods don't hold a commanding place in her head. The spirits are the spirits and the gods are the gods, the galaxy is full of wonders and be she on windswept plains or palatial heights, she is used to being a tiny and insignificant part of that. Some geists rush away from her in a panic as they head into the darkened interior, but new ones swarm in, curious to see the secrets of the forgotten world. She can feel the silhouettes of two Ancestors coalesce behind her, grey-robed shadows with competing symbols for faces.

#$#: You should pay full attention. This contains secrets from our time. Weapons from our wars.
(o): make the human girl show me her feet

The distraction isn't welcome. What she's actually thinking about is the new terrain element and the effect it might have on battlefield strategy. How thick are those doors? How quickly can they be opened and closed? Would this false scenery be a good place to hide concealed missile batteries or would the sensory interference of the landscape block the needed target locks? What would be a quick way to scout for these, so that she could avoid ambush herself? Would Mirror take the landscape into account or fly above it again, ceding the earth to her?

But no, she's been interrupted. It's not always bad luck to ignore an Ancestor, but she's in their house and their spirits are all awake, so it's best not to risk it. She turns back to Isabelle and starts signing - slowly and clearly - <Please take off your shoes.> She smiles a little awkwardly, and mimes the gesture on her own feet in case she didn't get the point across. If neither of these landed she wearily turned to the translator geist, who joyfully took form as a holographic keyboard, in which she typed 请脱鞋. She smiled encouragingly and gave a thumbs up as a sign of respect.

Isabelle was currently struggling with two major problems.

The first was that she wasn't sure where to put her hands. When Solarel had landed on her, they'd been splayed to the side to try to break her fall. And this resulted in about twenty seconds of uncertain gestures before she'd settled on returning them to her sides. All the while her face was getting redder and redder, rapidly approaching the point she figured she'd catch fire.

Here lies Isabelle. Killed by spontaneous gay combustion.

At least it would be a unique epitaph.

Fortunately, The first problem soon resolved itself when Solarel finally got off her. However this soon presented the second issue, namely that she didn't speak Mandarin. It wasn't exactly a Lingua Franca in the TC, so she was reduced to simply staring in confusion at whatever noises were coming out of this Zaldarian and its weird holographic spirit thing.

"Uhh ... they're genuine Berkshires, if that's what you're asking?" she says, still not sure what is going on.

In what was perhaps a mistake, she offered her foot to the Zaldarian so that she could get a better look.

Maybe at some point she'd recognise the hand language, but that point was about fifteen minutes and a good deal of calming down away.

Mirror

Matty lets out a meep as you propose her adoption, but doesn’t further interrupt you during the story you tell to Trosta. She’s a good girl that way, and well-trained in minding the shop to boot. It’s obvious she’s flustered though, intensely so. She notices your glance for her reaction and it’s a blush, and she doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands anymore. She lifts one, lowers it, runs the other through her short light brown hair, fingers deftly smoothing it against the side of her head and down to her speckled neck fur, which seems to calm her a little. She does it again, but then realizes she’s been doing it, starts, tries to pull those hands behind her back and clasps them tightly. You can almost hear how conscious she is of every part of her body and how intentionally she’s trying not to fidget.

She’s got to be wondering if you’re serious or if you were teasing her, but either way it’s obvious you hit the target dead center.

[Take a string on Matty and she’s flustered as all get out.]

For her part, Trosta is amused, and then she is listening. She nods sometimes, in that odd avian way that Zaldarians have sometimes, her bronze skin glinting in the light of her forge when she does. She’s not confirming what you’re saying, just letting you know that she’s listening, that she thinks she’s understood when you’ve said something. She isn’t using the sign language herself as you go, she sits and considers. Rests her head on one hand.

When you’re done, she waits to make sure there are no more words to be added, and then she nods one more time, more sharply. “You are owed an apology because you are right. I know the story of Solarel and the Aeteline, and that is what the story is called among Zaldarians. You are a notable pilot in that tale, do not underestimate any stand against the Aeteline, for it is a cursed god indeed. But I did not know you, your looks or your name or your stature were all new to me, until you told me what role you had played, noble pilot.”

She offers a slight bow then, and makes a hand gesture of apology.

“As to your other things, you offered me several thoughts all together, related but not, is that not so? First, you asked to know the possibilities of the Hangar that my people made for our competition, so we will tackle that. Yes, it is possible that someone skilled with nanobots came into your private space and did your armor harm. It would be a very shameful thing for the current Empress if this is so, the culprit would be banished as Solarel is banished. Perhaps the culprit already is banished, but I do not know any artisans who reside in this system that have the talent necessary and are banished from the Empress’s sight. A new arrival then? That might narrow who you should ask after, there cannot be very many Zaldarian artisans recently arrived here, fewer still who would risk the Empress’s ire for Solarel.”

She cocks her head, thinks, and offers an apologetic sort of shrug that tells you that you’ve reached the limit of what Trosta knows about the sabotage. It wasn’t nothing, but it was speculation.

“Second, you ask to adopt my assistant. I do not understand what you mean by not poaching but maybe poaching her. If you mean to take her from my shop for your crew, I suppose I cannot stop her, but if she wants my permission, the answer is no. It took me some time to find a Hybrasilian engineer to work with me and I wish to learn from her and impart my skills to her in turn, I would be loathe to have her leave. If this is something of Hybrasilian family that would not take her from her work altogether much, then I do not know of it but it has my blessing if she wishes it.”

She looks at Matty, who is nodding vociferously, having forgotten about keeping her hands clasped and instead having one back on the side of her hair bobbing along with the nod and the other worrying little claws against her pants leg.

Trosta gives a satisfied nod to herself that you will work out the details and turns back towards you with a smile. She makes a sign of amusement with her hands. It’s noticeable that she does hand speak like Solarel does, but rather seems to use her hand gestures to more clearly articulate her emotional state to supplement her speech.

“Finally, you ask me for chains for your armor. This is a novel request for me, and an honor, if I understand it properly. Chains are a thing that Zaldarians sometimes forge for the armor of gods when the god that inhabits the armor is very strong and very unstable. The Aeteline was one such, its curse in large part due to the weakness of its chains as compared to its god. I have never heard of such a request for armor from Hybrasil or the Consortium, as I understood that your gods were somewhat more tame than ours. Further, you asked me for chains for your hands, for your mind, not for the god of your armor. And you have showed me glimpses of its function now that I might understand this properly. I think, therefore, that you are your own goddess, a divinity of both mortal and divine will warring within one body. You ask for chains to bind that side of you that is wild and fierce and cannot be constrained without help, that the other side of you may learn and grow.”

She stops, looks at you. “Please tell me if this is the right understanding. If so, I am honored that you, having just met me, would trust me to craft something so precious. It will not come cheap, and I will need Matty’s assistance and quite a bit of your time, I think. But I will do it.”

***

Dolly and Jade

“Aaaaaaayeeee” shouts Angela Victoria Miera Antonius as you fire your Bola caster and she is sent sprawling, trapped and suddenly tied.

It’s thrilling, having her, even as your brain is fracturing itself through a series of parallel universes where this goes differently and wishing there were some way to simultaneously experience each separate reality at once.

“You! Dolly! And Jade! I knew it! I knew you had a game! You taunt me, embarrass me, recruit the other Hybrasilians, and then lure me out here to be your sacrifice! Oh, oh oh! When I get free, you will pay for this! When you least expect it, oh you’ll see, you’ll see!”

She’s really working herself up here. You’ll need to gag her before taking her through the more populous streets if she keeps this up. You’ve made a double-edged threat there, in that she might well not want this embarrassment caught on camera, but you might not want her shouting and begging for help where there are lots of people around, you’re only two Hybrasilians and a bowcaster is not exactly heavy armament if someone decides to help.

Ksharta’s done a good job on the ropes. She’s grinning, her heart’s beating fast and she’s full of thrill, as well as sweating and with her fur ruffled at all the exertion. It looks like she’s made Angela fairly comfortable as well, and given her perhaps a bit more room to wiggle than is entirely safe for a bound offering, but Ksharta also seems like she’s enjoying watching it. That’s something to tuck away for later.

Angela herself seems hard to read. She’s outraged, and you don’t necessarily know TC folks all that well, but you think if she were really, truly angry and upset about this, she would be reacting somewhat differently, perhaps with less rising to the scene she finds herself in? She hasn’t said anything about your offer from Jade either, unless you count her saying that she’s a sacrifice as agreeing to be your offering, which is a stretch right?

Maybe Jade could calm her down though? She’s good with gags. But is it okay to do that if Angela’s still on her rant and hasn’t really given you a proper answer? Jade, what do you want here?

***

Solarel and Isabelle

The shuttle completes its route through this odd underground structure and comes to rest at what is functionally a landing platform. It doesn’t really appear designed for the shuttle per se, but it is flat and wide, more than adequate for purpose. The ancestor geist is still with you, and still wishes Isabelle’s shoes removed. This is a very old geist and probably is not functioning terribly well, but it is what it is.

Annika has begun talking to several of her geists. The ones she’s talking to now are small, ride-alongs like little spirit birds that are useful for communications. Though they don’t look like they’re Zaldarian in origin. If you have studied bird-life on some TC planets, the manifestation of Annika’s geists is probably closest to some kind of sea-flying hawk.

Don’t feel rushed to untangle yourselves, you have time while the shuttle settles to appease the geist, get your bearings. At this point, the crew doesn’t seem particularly rushed either, and even as quasi-kidnapees, everyone here has that easy air of people who know that there simply isn’t anywhere else to go, so there’s no reason to stress or rush about. Only Annika herself seems nervous, and that mostly because her resting state appears to be seething with impatience for a universe that does not instantly manifest her thoughts into reality.

When you do go out, you’re going to find yourselves in a connected underground cavern system, partially natural, partially bored by nanobot construction. This cavern system has some lighting, via the nanobot construction standards, so you will be able to see at least where you come out and realize that it is large. Large enough, and populous enough with geists, that there may be god spirits here.

Isabelle, this will probably be rather overwhelming. You might have heard as an educated and up to speed Consortium family member, about the countryside of Zaldaria and their strange technologies (not to mention the already copious fiction on the matter). But nobody in all the fighting over the Cerulean Belt has ever mentioned something like this as the prize. Nobody in your family knows about any place like this. Also, like, stepping away from the family politics, this is just absolutely wild. You’ve never been anywhere like this before and while it may not be a rainbow of colors or anything, this combination of natural and machine construction is wondrous and you should seriously be asking yourself if this qualifies as magic.

Solarel, here is the thing you should know when it comes to this. This space, this population, it’s big enough for gods. If you have ever asked yourself how you might find a new Zaldarian mecha without the favor of the Empress, the heretic before you has handed you one such answer, at least assuming you have the strength and skill to seize it.

“Dolly, listen very carefully. This is what you’re going to say, and this is how you’re going to say it.” Jade takes Dolly’s free hand by the wrist, pushes her fingers together, gleeful. She tilts Dolly’s chin up imperiously even as she pushes Dolly forward, clamps Dolly’s bare palm over Angela Victoria Miera Antonius’s mouth, and shivers to feel the warmth of those lips on Dolly’s skin.

”You talk too much,” Dolly says, acting like the villainess from A Weft In The Yarn, one evil laugh away from complete camp. It’s adorable how she can’t act. She’s just so sincere, so aware of her own performance that it’s tripping her up. And even Angela can probably tell. ”You sound much cuter like this. We enjoyed listening to your pathetic, garbled, helpless complaints on our way back from our hunt.” Keep your grip firm but not tight, Dolly, no matter how she squirms. ”You’re so cute, in fact, that we’ll give you one chance. If you beg us in your best simper, Princess, to let you go… we’ll do it? We’ll do it! We’ll unwrap you at the end of our walk. If you sound pathetic enough.” There is your out, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. A small bit of amusement for a goddess. A disappointment, but… important. Dolly would be disappointed in her if she pushed this gorgeous, indignant, helpless warrior too far without an out.

(Please don’t, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. Give Jade her satisfaction. Show the goddess you want to worship. Be feisty, be a fire, make your noises, the ones that make Jade’s immaterial breath hitch in her throat like a stone. How magnificent you will look, your mouth swaddled in Hybrasil cloth. All the better for when Dolly leaves nips all up and down your neck. All the better for when you meet a goddess.)

”If you say anything else— if you bluster, if you sneer, if you defy us— we will treat you like you deserve for humiliating Dolly—!!” Dolly’s tail swishes in the dust and her voice trails up into a high squeak. Jade strokes her fingers down Dolly’s throat: down, girl, down. Present strength for your goddess. ”We will carry you as our trophy, again, and you will sing the hymns of Smokeless Jade Fires. Your voice is so beautiful for that.” The villainess slips for a moment; Dolly’s register is instead sincere, a compliment. Jade’s teeth nip at her ear, tug teasingly. Stay in character, love.

“Lift your hand. Now stroke it down, like this. Lift your fingers here, at the swell of her chest, drag your claws just a moment longer— good girl. Good girl. Ksharta Talonna is watching you, too.” The word serves as Dolly’s string; she glances back over at Ksharta, a victorious huntress, and Jade feels Dolly’s flustered excitement when she locks eyes with the kitten.

But beneath her, panting, catching her breath, is Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. What a prize. What a trophy. What a wild mare. Jade licks her lips, and awaits to see how the battle of hearts unfolds. Will you fight, Princess? Or will you grovel and beg for an end to the game?

[11 on an Entice, if Angela is interested in what Jade is offering, which is being gagged by a cute Hybrasilian who thinks that your voice is pretty, and then being thoroughly appreciated by a goddess.]

It is only after Solarel has torn the synthweave of the boot clean down the middle that she notices the zipper. Oh - oh damn. Human clothes don't grow back when they get torn. It's like Hybrasilian clothes - all straps and ribbons and knots and zips and buttons and all of these mechanisms for forcing clothes into configurations. She froze in place for a moment, guiltily staring at the ruined shoe. She also took the moment to sate her own curiosity about the human foot. No claws at all, not even retractable ones? So weird.

Berkshires: 伯克希尔: Bó kè xī ěr: David Hilbert (1862-1943), German mathematician chips in the translator geist. Solarel notes it in passing. In her cultural context, a mathematician was a step off being a meth cook. That at least explained who she was and what she was doing with the pirates.

Well. No use crying over torn shoes. She should focus on what she could do to make it up - and at the very least, she could spare Isabelle having to walk half-barefoot over the realm of the Gods. So, with a simple motion, she wrapped her arms around Isabelle and lifted her easily up into a princess carry.

She couldn't remember the human reassurance tic. She tries blinking, like a Hybrasilian. She has naturally long eyelashes which draw focus to her iris' spectrum of pinks flecked with tiny shards of gold. Her arms are warm, her chest is warm, her scales still glimmer with a faint luminescent glow. She steps with you into the realm of the gods and you are safe against her - unless, perhaps, should she decide to tear more of your clothing off your body.

[Entice: Another 10]

This conversation, like ice. Held in her mouth. The unexpected shift. The surprised crunch in response. The reflexive swallow. Sharp. Cold. Sliding down the throat. Hitting the stomach. Sudden surge. Creeping chill, like ink in a bowl of water. But then? Ease. Pleasant; the desire to bite down on a new shard and feel it all again.

Stupid. Thinking herself clever enough to say so much and still hide the truth. And this was the truth, pinned as though by a needle, if expressed in culturally biased terms. Certainly Mirror did not view herself as a god. But if the gods of Zaldar were the animating forces of that people's great machine beasts, then... yes. The concept technically applied to her as well. Already in the short time she'd been here Mirror had let multiple secrets be pulled off of her like layer after layer of teasing silks.

And yet... huh. A moment of tension, and then her body relaxes into her seat. Muscles unclench almost all the way into jelly, releasing their secret toxins into her body. The secret lessons of Colony Clans' fashions: exposure would set you free. Function as an expression of form. This is... pleasure? Yes, this is pleasure. The comfort of expression reaching another soul. Nevertheless, admonishment. Successful communication when unintended had consequences. There will still many, many layers she could not afford to have plucked from her. Not here, and not by this craftsperson.

"...I will," she chirps, "Address your comments in order."

Immediately, she drops out of using the hand language to supplement her speech. Her hands are needed for more important things. She pulls her screen back onto her lap and lets her fingers resume their dance. This time the contents of the screen are not for the people in the room. She sends instructions to Slate for inquiries to follow up on. To delegate or take the task herself as she sees fit. An invitation to play with a new toy soon, though not until permission is acquired. She takes a moment to order dinner for the entirety of her crew, to reward them for working so long and so hard with so little direction today.

She switches accounts and starts making inquiries about cultivars of flower. Roses in red, pink, yellow, and white. Hibiscus, noncommittal. And perhaps... ah! Well, this would be expensive. The [Starlight Yearning], the so-called "Chroma Lotus" as humans called them. Ridiculous name. But perfect flower, absolutely tailor made. She'd need petals in #ffd217, #17cfff, and #1790ff and... ah. Ah. Designs are already unfolding in her head. She shoves them aside and turns off the device entirely. She's taken more time than she's realized.

"Your apology is unnecessary. My story is my story: I do not control who tells it or how. You do not control what you hear, and there are precious few sources you may have heard it from. My own people, on down to my family mock me for what happened. I will not say they are wrong to do so. We are speaking together now, you may decide the truth about me as you will. The conclusion you come to will do me greater good than any apology you could offer me today."

Mirror shrugs as she uncrosses her legs. She smooths her fur with her hands and a small smile directed at Matty. A playful, yet tender expression for the flustered sillyhead. This would not last. Could not last, in fact. But that did not make the girl any less beautiful, or the nervous way she claws at her pants any less soothing to Mirror's heart. She was a creature of many needs who needed many hearts to fill them. Every connection, and every kind of connection she could fill was good for her, and if she had the chance to at least leave them fuller than she found them... that was charity enough to make it worth it, surely? That was enough... to make her something other than slime.

"Your assistant," she begins sharply but with a lick of her lips, "Does not interest me in any professional capacity. I have explained this. I am... my crew is perfect. No addition, no subtraction. I told Slate I would never replace her, and under no circumstances will I break that promise. What I was referring to was. Well, Matty? Come here, little ripple. Be a good girl for me and show your boss what it is you're so excited about. There's a sweetling, come along~"

The curl of her lips is suggestive. The curl of her finger, even more so. When she pats her lap in sweet condescension she crosses from simple suggestion into demand. And promise. Come be safe. Come be loved. Come let yourself be adored, and taken to a place beyond caring who sees it happen. She pats her lap again, full of encouragement, and sets fire to the bomb.

[Mirror will immediately spend her String to compel Matty to come snuggle into her lap and accept pets while the shop talk continues, like a good kitten should]

"To the last," Her voice and face are stony and serious now, regardless of what other behaviors she might presently be engaged in, "I am... surprised. By your guess."

That's an understatement. Even now her spine tingles from the shock. Her tail tip curls and flicks unconsciously above her head.

"I will not call myself a god. I am not of my peoples' faith, not exactly, but the. Context. Of the wording. The claim. Disrespectful to people I care about very much. So I will not do it. But in the way that you mean it... hrm. Here is what I will say. The name of my armor is the Gods-Smiting Whip. And there is no one, anywhere in the galaxy, that can fight inside it but me. Fewer than one in ten could even compel its arm to move. And even if by some miracle you found someone enough like me to make my [Nine-Tails] stir... they could never, ever, dance the way that I do. The chains must be built to fit the armor. But I assure you, they are for me. My hands, my mind, my heart. Me.

If that still seems an honor to you, then cost is of no concern to me. I will move what I must to make it happen. I'll devote as much of my time as I can spare, and my Slate's when I cannot spare any. And of course, I want little Matty to take her work seriously. In fact, I'm excited to see her connect with roots she wasn't aware of. Don't work her so hard she hurts herself and we'll be fine. Is all of this acceptable?"

"Any technology, no matter how advanced, is magic to those who don't understand it."

They were, Isabelle reflected, good words to live by. Particularly as she stared up at the Zaldarian vista before her. Those colours that threatened to stretch off to infinity. The dark luminescent pools that promised so much wonder, if one were just brave enough to plumb their depths and find out. This hidden mystery, unknown to anyone in her family or TC space, one that she'd never expected to find, but couldn't wait to explore. The warmth, the strength, the comfort - it wrapped around her with promises of safety and care.

Is this ... is this what love feels like?

Oh, and there were a bunch of caverns to look at too I guess.

Isabelle was definitely feeling overwhelmed. There is, after all, only so much that a mind - even one like Isabelle's - can take before it overflows with input and reverts to a flow-state. Holding on through this sensory deluge, until a calm will allow her to regroup and figure out her next moves.

Apart from a shocked squawk as Solarel shredded a very expensive boot. And a more stunned 'meep' as she was swept up, Isabelle doesn't stop staring at Solarel.

The more rational parts of her head - those Isabelles walking around in there with clipboards and glasses and all her very important lists - keep pointing out that she can't be in love, that she doesn't know this Zaldarian. That her mother would never approve of this. That Zaldarians and TC nobility did not mix like that.

Their voices are not very loud though as they too are caught up in the watching, curious as to where this magical ride will take her.

And one tiny, younger, Isabelle lurks around the edges of the crowd to stare on with stars in her eyes, a princess hat on her head and a ruffled pink gown ...

[Isabelle is Smitten with Solarel.]

Solarel and Isabelle

The rest of the shuttle goes about their business. Lilika remains onboard along with the two lionesses (the second apparently caring for her sister who is still pretty out of it). Annika and Crescent come out together. The ancestor is with you as well.

The Ancestor appears to be enjoying what you two have going, Solarel and Isabelle. Solarel, it’s telling you to give Isabelle a back massage with the hand holding that side of her.

Crescent, for her part, snorts at Solarel carrying Isabelle, but says nothing. Annika chooses to blow past it, though she can see what’s going on well enough. “Have you realized yet that the spirits here are not like the Zaldarians?” She asks impatiently. “I think this place is reflective of a longer-past, of beings that predate the Zaldarians!” She’s excited, bordering on agitated. You can see now that a lot of the geists she has with her are for navigation in this space. You’re not linked with them, but they’re part of this facility and they’re offering her maps, directions, and possibly some amount of control over the space. A square, metallic door inset into the wall like a blast shield that leads into the next cave opens as a little hawk geist flies out from her to it and then back.

“I want both of you to see if you can understand this place. Solarel, is it different to you, than to me? What about you, uh, human, can you sense anything here?”

Following this direction, the cavern becomes more natural, but there are spirits here, strong ones. As soon as you’re through the blast door, Solarel, one of the spirits flits down to you. It’s clearly not a Zaldarian, but manifests before you in a humanoid form somewhat like Isabelle if she had soft feathers all along her arms, neck, and sides of her face.

Isabelle, you can see this spirit, it’s appearing to you as well as Solarel, but it’s clear that Annika and Crescent cannot at the moment, it’s questioning the two of you. Perhaps because you’re new?

“Visitors, public access to test wing N57E28 is restricted. Please explain why you’re here. Your companions' authorizations do not include guests and I am loathe to allow any further trespass here without instructions.”

***

Dolly and Jade

“You sham goddess, you’ll not get away with this! You’re nothing but a divine whore who seeks sacrifices for your amusement! Oh oh oh, I will make you pay, I will bend your servants over my knee when I have them, and then I will take your vessel and bend it to my will in turn. I see now this is beyond the arena, do not think to sleep safely if I find you! Do not – grrrph, mmph, mrrrwwph!”

It is here that the gag cuts her off as you pull it tight.

She wants this, she said it without so many words in response to your offer. Not necessarily this capture, this will be chalked down as another loss on her part (although she could be a really good actor who’s a secret bottom and simply wants to rant to the greatest amount possible as you rob her of all her freedoms!). But she definitely wants the game. The game is incredibly hot, and she’s loving that. She doesn’t want to be let out because she’s not having fun because oh no, she is having fun plotting her vengeance for every humiliation. Her eyes glance back and forth between the two of you, Ksharta shying away a bit at the force of her rhetoric and you wielding the gag. It’s a lot for her, though she’s not bolting just looking a little unsure about how it’s all going and whether this is how it was supposed to go. She looked scandalized when Angela called her a sham goddess and a whore.

Now you’ve got to prep your prisoner and do your little parade though! All the way back to the spaceport if you want. Possibly with some gloating and appropriate comebacks now that she can’t retort any further.

[You take a string on Angela and she tries, in her way, to give you what you want, a green light to play with your prisoner as you see fit.]

***

Mirror

“Eeep, ah, of c-course” Matty manages. She nibbles nervously on a claw, but her tail goes swish swish swish in excitement and she does what she’s told like a good girl, settling herself into your lap, legs draped over the right side of your makeshift nanobot chair, curled up with head leaning into your chest so you can easily stroke her hair. Her left claw tries to hold onto your leg, making little biscuits as she settles. She purrs even before you do it, the position itself and the warmth of being on you like this offering her that feel of contentment. You can feel it rise too as you touch her, and the gentle rumble of a warm, safe Hybrasilian in your lap is its own special slice of heaven.

Trosta seems content with all this. “I see that Hybrasilian engineering was not the only thing I should have been asking about!” She chuckles, slapping her chair with those strong bronze arms. “Yes, this is all acceptable. This is good, I understand a little more the scale of what you want. Chains yes. Something that demands your attention to work around, functioning at the scale of your armor. I will take a standard day to think and then I will come back to you with my thoughts and my questions and we will start work. The bill will go to Hybrasilian high command, yes? You fight for their faction, I thought, not independent?”

It's hard to shake a thought when it's put into your mind. The Ancestor's suggestion ignites, implication burning deeper. Is this - are we - should I? Even across barriers of language and species she can identify shining eyes and the expression of awe. She could make the time to make this girl's night and change her life, and she could go through anyone who tried to stop her. She could make dreams come true.

It's a fiery note to touch. It tastes like oblivion; removing herself from a picture and allowing good things to just happen. The logic of contact and seduction and sensuality could play itself out to its conclusion and she'd be left with the satisfying of a task well done. Was this how Mirror felt when she...?

There was a moment's hesitation when the Spirit spoke, and then she lifted up Isabelle into an over-the-shoulder carry so that her hands would be free to speak. She paused a moment to look at, and briefly pat, Isabelle's butt. This position was weirdly sensuous without a tail to cover, wasn't it?

She only then paid her full attention to the Spirit. <Honoured guardian,> she signed, <I am the true power here and my companions are prisoners or dupes. I intend to seize this warshrine for my own ends and do harm to anyone who comes between me and my goal. Neither you nor any force you can bring is capable of stopping me.>

... Was that perhaps why she didn't find it easy to slip into the human's embrace? She found everything in this moment as frictionless as the inside of a soap bubble. She herself was as small as her problems. The Bezorel had been a piece of shit and she could not honestly lament its demise, but with it she had passed again from the realm of the gods. Was she to satisfy herself, then, by satisfying others? Captured by bright eyed girls and hard eyed hunters until she faded away entirely?

Or instead she might place herself again upon the divine battlefield. Where she could wear a shape that fit her, where deception broke steel instead of hearts, where she could once again speak the only language she truly understood.

Mirror's claws are clipped short as a matter of practicality. Her daily life sees her working with too much thread, touching too many screens, and most importantly pressing too many buttons in too precise of sequence to give up even the momentary disorientation of a knife point where she doesn't expect one. For her inputs to be anything other than automatic while piloting would be terrible beyond imagination.

It's a cat's choice to trim or to grow, as a matter of course. Fashion trends come and go, as they tend to. But it was rare to see another pair of hands with claws as clipped and blunted as Mirror's, wherever she went. They barely protruded past her fingertips in the first place, and since she favored tapping on hard surfaces over traditional meditative practices they weren't even the slightest bit sharp. No one ever judged her for it, of course. Not to her face. But it was never hard to notice the moment when another Hybrasilian saw them for the first time. The little finger twitch and the sudden burst of calculus that showed in their eyes while they worked out whether or not it was ok to ask if she was sick were very difficult to miss. And when they did, she would inevitably respond 'Oh, yes. Very. Thank you for noticing.' As if the conversation was a favor to her.

But there are... advantages. Beyond the practical. Mirror's fingers are buried deep in Matty's thick hair to play at the base of her ears. She digs them deep and lets them trace circles and other, more intricate patterns on the back of her new partner's head, pressing her claw tips into the skin with gentle intimacy but nevertheless far greater force than a longer, more pointed tip could get away with. Long, soft strokes of her hair end in claws scraping the skin at the base of the neck, and instead of a sharp breath and a squeak or a tiny drop of blood, she is rewarded with the deepest and most full bodied purr.

Matty turns boneless in Mirror's lap. She has to slide her other hand around Matty's butt and hold it firmly to keep her from sliding onto the floor. She listens to the gasp turn into a moan laced through with still deeper purrs, and feels the exact moment when her stubby, blunted claws erase all useful thought from Matty's brain. Just a flicker of the ears, a slight turning of her head, and then it's nothing but the sensation of facial muscles rearranging themselves into a wide smile as they push against the cushion of her breasts. Mirror's own purr is a quiet thing that can normally only be heard in very quiet rooms, but here it's immaterial. She joins this chorus of two, and as a pair they let their happiness seep into one another.

Sometimes, a thing is simply meant to be. Sometimes, a connection forms more quickly than one could ever anticipate. Soft whispers of Good Girl and Sweet Little Willow join the purring as Mirror holds Matty safe and secure in her lap. This one, she thinks, might be worth the risk. This one can be sat down and explained to. They will both of them complete small corners of each others' puzzles, insignificant but essential. If. If, if, if. If she did it right. If she explained herself correctly, if she promised to keep this place on her routes, if she did not become absorbed in the other fragments of her life, if, if, if, if, if. If. If she could just be perfect, forever, then she would be allowed to this. A connection she had no idea she was missing, because it could only define it when it started to fill in.

But for right this moment, she lets herself look past the future and over the top of Matty's head. Trosta watches her with an amusement that reminds her of Solarel only by how much the two of them contrast. Solarel would not find this exchange amusing, or likely even cute. She would become entranced by it, asking ten thousand questions about the ritual and how it could be applied to war. If Mirror's answers resonated with her, she might even take notes. And if she were asked about the question of payment and who she fought for...

"I fight with the blessings of Mother Hybrasil, yes," she says, still stroking Matty's hair and neck, "But this is a secret project. I promised them victory in the end, but the means are mine to achieve. It is not their business how I bind or free myself, and yet they will ask. The cost may be prohibitive, but I will take it onto myself. This is my dream. My burden. I will carry it, and everyone who is part of it, by my own power.

Anything less would only prove me unworthy to be myself. Like your rod. The shape of our work will determine its end result. So I. Will preserve that. Break, bargain, or take what you will. I will not diminish. Does that..."

She trails off, and lets the question flutter away into the air around her.

There wasn't really much for Isabelle to do right now besides reflect on the current developments ... and maybe squirm a little.

The ancestor spirit! Talking to her! She was familiar with them, in theory at least - those miracles of consciousness and nanotech, preserved for generations. But she'd never heard of one out here.

As much as it was tempting to just keep clutching to Solarel and let the world continue on around her, it was time to get back in the game.

Inside, those Isabelles started getting things organised again. The thrown papers were cleared, the big table in the middle swept clean. The Isabelles that had passed out were being brought round and the glasses and checklists brought out once more. This was a mystery that would need her full attention.

The proceedings were interrupted as one Isabelle sprinted into the hall, a ream of printout in her hands. All heads turned to her, wondering what discovery warranted the display of impropriety.

Into the silence, the Isabelle proclaimed:

"She's touching our butt!!"

Bedlam resumed.

Solarel

The spirit rumbles with anger as you’re speaking, and then gestures with a feathered arm. Nanobots shift above it, and from the ceiling, a cannon turret with an elongated barrel that’s nearly as long as you are tall lowers into view and turns on you as the spirit smirks. It fires an electric round straight into your center of mass.

The feeling of being hit is one part agonizing gut punch and one part temporary blackout and amnesia. Your grip tightens automatically on Isabelle as you fall, shielding her, and when you have sensory data again, you’re a few feet backwards from your previous position and on your butt, Isabelle splayed on top of you. The spirit is suddenly on top of you. It hovers a foot off the stony ground, its Terenian-esque face twisted in its sudden fury, its feathered arms held up. Electricity arcs from its hand and presses that hand palm first hard against your chest and up into your neck, the energy pressing you downwards as it convulses through you.

“You are not authorized to make that decision!” The spirit shouts as a decisive command, crowing as though it has already won. Its voice lowers then to a soft, gravelly hum so that only you and Isabelle can hear it. It speaks slowly and deliberately as it presses. “You dare you call me ‘honored guardian’ with threats in your heart! I will bind your hands until you cannot sign and shove those threats into your mouth so that you cannot speak. I will make you regret the day you challenged my domain! I will not brook this disrespect!”

Isabelle

You’re treated to a bit of unceremonious throwing as the turret lowers and Solarel suddenly gets shot, but her automatic reactions mostly protect you, so you do not black out, you just fall, get jarred a bit, and find yourself more or less on top of her limbs all tangled together. It’s a good thing she adjusted you for butt pats or that shot would have hit you clean on (though perhaps the spirit tried to avoid hitting you and focus its ire on Solarel). Since you didn’t black out, you got a front row view of its energy flaring and electricity crackling from its hands as it rushed upon you both.

Perhaps you can salvage this? Annika is aware of the spirit now (who wouldn’t be, a defense turret just lowered in from the ceiling and fired and it’s crackling with power). She puts an arm out to stop Crescent and looks like she’s considering what to do. She’ll jump in to act if you and Solarel don’t. Or possibly if you do anyway.

***

Jade

This is your show. Everyone is clay in your hands. Angela plays the perfect villain, angry but powerless, ripe for humiliation, her pleasure escaping from her in deep moans despite her attempts to resist you. Ksharta is hesitant but learning, you’re sacred after all, and you’re treating her so carefully and so even as she’s overawed by your power and your versatility, she’s also starting to feel a little bit more comfortable, a little bit safer, offering you at least her tentative trust, even if she might still go run and hide if you shouted at her too loudly.

And Dolly, well, you know your Dolly, your first and your last, always in the place of greatest honor. This show is for her most of all, isn’t it? And you’re the consummate actor. Perhaps this is what it is to be a goddess in truth? To have power and desire and to pretend to be something greater and more sacred with those tools. Perhaps that’s why they warred so often in all the mythology if behind their grand portfolios and devout worship there were a myriad of scared people with power each wondering how they might fulfill their role and gain what they wanted without bringing everything crashing down around them. Not that you’re scared of course, you’re in absolute control here. But you still might feel reassured that the whole performance went off without a hitch and the three are rightly in your control.

Now there’s the matter of rest and recovery, proper care, and nourishment. It is this last that finds you marching the whole set of them, Angela still bound (as she will be until you leave this planet and finish your hunt) to the great feast hall on Akar II for food and water.

You are on top of the world and nothing can possibly touch you.

***

Mirror

Trosta nods. “A bold choice, and a wild one. I do not know the Hybrasilians, but my own Empress would very much wish to direct the method as well as the goals of her people. This is of no matter though. Very well. I will do the work and offer you an accounting and we will determine then how you might pay for my time and my skill. Our deal is struck. Put me in touch with your engineer at your earliest convenience and we’ll make arrangements for the Hangar work.”

And that’s that. Trosta gets up and dismisses her own chair, though she leaves yours in place so that you and Matty are not unsettled. The young engineer heard everything, but she’s well behind in processing and has nothing to say for as long as you’re petting her. Well, nothing in words, she’s got plenty of sounds to make, mostly purrs and very light moans when you’re getting to a good spot so you know where to linger.

When you’re done, whenever that is, you’ll find an interesting sight upon leaving the hall. Across the main road where the mess hall is, there is a Hybrasilian hunting process with two Huntresses (you might recognize them as Dolly and Ksharta if you’ve found time to review previous match videos) carrying a bound and gagged Terenian as their prisoner and heading to get some food it seems. Quite an oddity that there would be a hunt here, much less for a member of another nation, one would think it would be a diplomatic incident of some kind, but nobody about seems particularly perturbed beyond the interest in the spectacle.

Perhaps you’d like to take a look?