What does she feel?

It's certainly not surprise - the opening blast from Quar is predictable, it's been used before, so Isabelle already knows to bend Novasurge out of the way, spinning up and aound the beam, before blasting forward on its thrusters to close the distance.

It's certainly not anger - there's only a cold detachment as she steps through the choreographed moves of this fight - returning fire with a few of her missiles and adding a blast of cannon fire for good measure.

It's certainly not the thrill of the chase - she's already ending this phase as Quar begins her predictable retreat. Break the rhythm, as her mother instructed. And Novasurge speeds towards the cover of the platform's chasms.

There's no ancient facility to explore, no pirates to be captured by, no moon to be spirited away to. No swords of gold and silver to cross. So there's certainly none of the fear, of the insecurity and panic, giving way to adrenaline and the tentative hope of a connection. There's no tragedy, no tears, no recriminations, no soul searching, existential, worry about what she's turning into, no fear of her mother's reaction. And no constant lonli --- well ... there's always that. That's normal.

Back in the cockpit, back in a match, back to following her mother's instruction. Back to family, to expectations and to a job she has to do. Back to the stable orbit in her assigned place. All of this is normal.

That's how she feels: Normal.

But that's not to say nothing has changed. This time, she's done her own reading, her own research on you Quar. She's read up on more than just the dossiers that she's been handed.

And, as she swings into the chasm, her hand slaps the rim. A small patch starts to melt and glow as one other change makes itself apparent.

Zaldarian glyphs, a single word: Exile.

No, not quire right.

The Exile.

Speak not to the outsider, indeed, but what do you do, Quar, when they can speak to you?

[Roll to figure out a person: 4 + 2 + 2: 8

- What are your feelings towards Solarel?
- How can I get you to dance to my plan?
- Bonus combat question: What do you fear is your destiny?]

Isabelle

You feel, rather than see a break in the shots. It’s not as clean as you’d like. A few days with Novasurge isn’t enough to really get the subtleties that a neural mesh link can offer. But even so, the obvious change in the movement of light debris and dust colliding with your mecha when the shots simply stop altogether is simply impossible to miss.

There’s nothing over the comms, no words at all. This is the danger of breaking visual contact, and the reason these crevices in the station are such high risk. The Lighting Chaser is above you almost before you realize it, and you just barely manage to get out of the way from a shot from the primary rifle. She fired at closer range than it ought to be for that gun, the directed blast coming out of the crevice sends you flying and it sends her flying the other way.

Reckless. That’s the only word for it. You can feel the simmering anger. Without a word being said, you know that she feels it intensely, that anger courses through her. But she’s barely met Solarel. This is an anger of reputation. It’s an anger of being told that someone is the villain, but having your flight instructors still tell you that you don’t measure up to them anyway. The anger of not being good enough and the anger that someone undeserving is better than you. You might have felt it yourself once or twice, Isabelle.

At this moment though, the real question is whether you can pick up the pace. Quar is mad. She’s coming at you hard, like stupid hard. You barely dodge a homing missile that circles back towards you, forcing you onto the defensive, and she’s just starting up the barrage in earnest. The strategy that your mother recommended remains sound if you stick to it, but you can’t do this and be emotionally checked out. It’s too intense, too fast, it’s like trying to be checked out of sprinting. It demands one hundred percent of your attention. It’s intense, it’s exhausting, and you’re going to be breathing hard by the end of it. But if you can keep up and move elusively through that pace, you’ll have her.

[If you keep up here, take the XP or clear a condition for acting on your mom’s advice]

***

Jolly

There’s the ripple of the cloaking field. It was just to the side of your explosion, she dove out of the way. A building side caves in where she bodied it, and you can guess pretty well where she’ll come out.

She’s trying very hard to hide. Might just be that she doesn’t want to drop this advantage without a fight. Maybe she’s got a big reveal that she’s really holding onto. Maybe you caught her off guard zeroing in this well and she’s simply scrambling to get a moment’s respite.

Either way, you’ve got the edge on her, but you’ll need to commit to this. Block her exit with another missile, then shift your position sideways and bomb precision strike her through the building opening with as much intensity as you’ve got. You’ll bring down her cloak without losing your aerial advantage. But, you’ll exhaust your full supply of missiles in the process, leaving you without your long-range option. If you don’t take the shots now, she’ll slip out the sides and get cover in the alleys between the fabricated buildings, obscuring your sight in your current position and forcing you to fly closer overhead where she probably went to scout her properly, making your position more vulnerable.

She’s keeping coms silence too. You can take this as a form of triumph. Erys is taking you seriously. No gloating, no taunting. At least not yet, not in this first part of the exchange while she’s cloaked and trying to get one over on you. If she gets you in a headlock, you can expect a lot of taunts to happen, but she’s not risking her position with even a short burst of comms traffic. This does leave you free to imagine the chatter though, which probably would have been something like “what the fuck?!” as she dove out of the way of the first missile so close to her position. Perhaps you’d like to taunt her? Send it out on a wide band for all the cameras too. Tell her what a coward she is as you try to force her out. She’ll probably like it if you banter like you’re part of the Red Band yourself.

***

Mirror

Heim laughs, long and hearty, though his shield never waivers. You get to see the next layers of defense as you flip up and over. Though he positions the shield to bear the brunt of the blow, you’re more than agile enough in your flip to bypass it before he can fully turn, but what you encounter are energy shields that crackle against your beams for a brief instant and then you’re past. Layers and layers of defense to crack on this one.

He laughs again as you finish the move. “I do know, Hybrasilian. The one-day defender, but it’s the year after that matters! You lived with one of our finest knights for nearly a year! Ha! You’re no more an outsider than the capital knights themselves and I give them the time of day, though honestly I think Zaldar would have told me to ignore the whole lot if she were here. Solarel was better than any of the current crop. She was raw, that one. They didn’t just hand her power, she took it, rode it like it was on fire, burned it to the edges of what it could take. Nobody can fly the Aeteline now, have you heard? She broke it for them, hahahahaha!”

He’s not stationary. His mecha isn’t fast, but he’s making his way to you where you landed and he knows how to fight at his speed. It’s difficult to read the exact timing of his thrusts, when he’s going to actually put the force behind the spear, and he moves inexorably, never overcommitting his weight and always holding his balance. You could jump away and get clear anytime you please, but then you’ll be back to dealing with that ironclad defense.

“Maybe I’m wrong though. I thought you were a true warrior and spoke to you as such. I saw your fight with the sniper. You took her shot head on, even though it blew clean through you! That’s what I want, girl! I want that strength! Give me a good fight! A fight for the ages!”

You can hear in his voice that he means it. There’s a rasp to it, a gruffness that wasn’t present for Solarel. He’s worried he won’t get a good fight. He’s not stupid, he’s reserving his missiles because he knows that if he exhausts them completely you probably have the technique to pick at his defenses without him ever engaging you. It will be long, slow and boring, a thousand arrows plinking at an armored knight before he collapses from exhaustion, but he knows full well you could do it. It doesn’t scare him that he might lose, but it scares him to lose this chance, to walk away from this without getting anything from it. He wants you to fight him head on, to be a fury and a madwoman and to meet his strength with strength. He respects you enough to think you’ll do it.

Your new display is filled up about 75% by the by. That backflip trident maneuver seems to have gone over well with it, and it’s almost ready to light up another tail for you.

***

Solarel

A day ago, in a small and unremarkable office on Akar Prime
“Did you reach the mecha?” A seated dark-colored Terenian woman in a white suit asks the Zaldarian who just came into the room.

“Yes,” the Zaldarian signed, smoothly, evenly, neutrally.

“Good” says the Terenian woman, pushing her hair back. “That will be all for now then. We’ll let you know when you’re needed for the next match.”

The Zaldarian departed, breathing a sigh of relief at how the question had been asked. She had reached the mecha, started to make modifications even. It would have some difficulty. But Trosta had been visiting the Hangar, and several cats had seemed unusually alert for her. Even being in a different section, she had bailed out part way through. If they’d seen her, if they’d heard her, she’d be ruined. The Empress would disavow her involvement, claim she was a rogue operative. She’d agree of course, to save face for the Zaldarian empire. And that would be that. An exile. She didn’t understand why the Empress was willing to help like this in the first place, and the layers between them meant that Solarel didn’t even know.

But she was out and none the wiser, at least until the match. She’d make herself scarce that day.

In the arena
There’s a moment where the Barn Owl freezes up. You can tell from the juddering motion and the sudden halting of the arms tracking you. You line up the shot, but as you do there’s a wrenching sound and the Barn Owl pulls away. The shot goes wide, leaving a frozen patch against the edge of the stony mountain just to the side of Angela’s mecha.

“You dare!” she shouts, voice full of righteous outrage. “You dare?! I saw your last match and the great strange mecha you fought against shut down. I had my engineers go over every inch of the Barn Owl today before the match and still you dare! Aye, you will rue the day you crossed me!”

She’s not slow. The Barn Owl’s crystal fire drive has flared to life and Angela is racing across the arena. She’s not firing stationary like she did in her fight against Dolly either. She’s rushing at you as she shoots, adding to the speed of the bullets, creating a tighter field of fire. The Kathresis is many things, but it is not sturdy. Bullets are ricocheting from your shields and you need to move ahead of her because you can’t actually withstand that barrage for any sustained length of time.

It hurts, seeing a girl fight her heart out like this and knowing that you almost denied her the chance. It hurts proving to her that she was right to see you as the villain, even knowing that’s the role you need to play.

[Mark Guilty]

To meet a stranger with drawn blade was to bet your life on the throw of a coin. You might have practiced harder, or they might. You might prove the stronger will but there was no way to test or bet on it. To fight so was to fight at a distance, quick and impersonal; an execution in tactics. As cold as the Kathresis.

But now there was an imbalance. Now it was personal. She'd wronged Angela and accordingly it was no mysterious shadow across from her, no heroine out to launch her new legend. It was a known quantity. A known temperature. Something she could interact with. The stress of the infinite collapsed down into a point. She no longer had to worry about who she had to be. All her questions were answered and her role was set; now she could just play it out.

She opens her hand against the candle, the dripping heat of autocannon fire. She feels her palm sweat and burn. She feels drops of hot wax fall between her finger and scorch her skin. She feels the shock as it cools and hardens. Her spatial orientation changes not based on gravity but on relative power; the enemy is above her and she stands in the way of scorching gravity.

She's earned this. Earned this for three, two, one...

The pistol comes up again with her free hand and slices across the sky. Clouds, already low and heavy, slice through with a beam that annihilates energy. It kills the wind, freezes the water, and brings down the blizzard. Flash-frozen snowflakes come down in a rush alongside tennis-ball hail around the beam's epicenter, and further out slashing and torrential rain. Visibility drops to zero in moments and the Kathresis is lost amidst howling snow. She doesn't even evade. The candlewax drip of autocannon fire is cut off as Angela loses track of her location; Solarel stays exactly where she is, letting her opponent's blindness fill every space in the new dark with her presence.

Three, two, one...

A recharge weapon was the way of the ambush predator; a way to convert time into power. Coldness, darkness, precision. That was how the Kathresis wanted to fight. She thought of Mirror; Mirror's patience, her stillness, her lightning reactions, how power moved between her god's tails. Each fraction of output accounted for, budgeted and spent. Understanding the situation and adapting her allocation perfectly. Not cold at all. Not like this, creating the situation that would allow for perfect allocation. Deep down she burned hot, unlike all the other huntresses of Hybrasil.

The pistol chimed full.

Solarel burned hot too.

She came out of the blizzard in a silent rush, blades in hand, closing the distance. She starts the sequence, a familiar pattern of techniques she'd used to strike down a hundred enemies. A test of speed and strength and adaptability, leading up to the inevitable conclusion that disassembled the enemy mech like she'd done with Isabelle -

And then instead halfway through a move she is not holding a blade of gold but a pistol of onyx. The heat of her heart and her battle converts into a ray of terrible cold in an instant - and then she's gone, back into the blizzard snow, waiting for the next recharge.

[Fight: 7
- Inflict a condition
- Seize a superior position amidst the blizzard]

Novasurge and Lightning Chaser - two mechs, whose names speak of speed and primordial elements.

Isabelle and Quar - two pilots who have been touched by the same spark, albeit in different ways.

Their mechs dance across the platform, each breaking cover, firing, swinging back behind outcrop or metal. Munitions blast craters in the platform or detonate out in space - making for miniature stars of their own - as the two do battle and Isabelle gives herself over to the fight entirely.

[Clearing her last condition]

It's something that cannot be described to those who have not piloted before - that moment where conscious thought evaporates. No longer is one's brain saying that it's time to fire this shot, or to move here, or go there, or dodge this. Instead, your hands go lose on the controls, the pressure of the harness stops registering as a restraint and every jolt and shudder that hits the mech becomes a movement of you - of your body - your hands - your legs - your arms.

The anger that Quar feels is building. That much becomes obvious as the fight progresses and as Isabelle demands more and more of her opponent. No, you can't hold back. Remember how they said Solarel fights? She gives it her all. No restraint. No regrets. Push! Push harder and harder! Whatever costs you will bear later, use that to spend for an advantage now!

Missiles streak out, only to be met with defensive autocannon fire - exploding in great flowers of red and white. Plasma shots trace lines across the stellar expanse until the capacitors start to glow with heat.

She forces Quar to commit. To stretch. And in those moments where the Zaldarian tries to bring it all to bear. To convert that sacrifice to victory ...

Isabelle is gone. In that instant where Quar took her eyes off her, Isabelle vanished from her senses and everything she was now feels the absence.

Chase. Then break.

That anger drives Quar to do the only thing left to her - to commit more. To double down in her pursuit. Until Isabelle is no longer running but leading the dance. A dance that takes the two partners down one of the chasms and around a blind corner.

And into a waiting blade.

[Rolling to fight. Taking +1 forward from the read-a-person: 3 + 4 + 3 = 10: Isabelle chooses to inflict a condition, seize a superior position and take a string.]

You should flee. Disengage. Get some distance. Because staying here in the confines of these narrow walls, giving into that anger of yours and meeting Isabelle blade for blade?

Well, that's the path to defeat. But ... at the same time ... are you able to turn away from this woman? This Tenarian who fights with skill whilst taunting you with words of the great enemy? And do you recognise her style? That vanishing move she'd pulled earlier?

Because, if you recognise it - you might also recognise that you are in danger now. More than ever before.

But a small part of you wants to face what comes next. Prove you can withstand it. Or, failing that, prove that you are brave enough to take it head on.

What will you do?

[Spending the string immediately: Stay here Quar and meet your end. Isabelle will be gentler than Solarel ever was.]

Hm. Linguistic complexities. Fascinating in most any context. Here, frustrating. Religious scripture, code of conduct. Not dense, not multilayered, but shallow and somehow nuanced. Open to interpretations? An entire ocean of them. Not. The one day. But... the year after? Cultural Assimilation, then. That was the argument.

An Outsider's interpretation of outsiders. This conception would never survive prolonged contact with either of them. Solarel and herself, consummate outsiders both. Even to each other. Which is why... why they didn't speak, not hardly ever. A year was not enough. A lifetime would not be enough.

And yet.

> a beautiful dream.
> that one might belong anywhere.
> the challenge of roses, demanding a battle.
> the whisper of prison-silks, crying friendship.
> red and white and pink and yellow.
> but I reject it.

"Power transfer holding at 97%. Battlefield conditions deemed appropriate, initiating Phase 3 testing of the Nine-Drive System. Close quarters adaptability and evasiveness training. Answer. The question. What is a warrior?"

He does not understand. Difficult to put into words how disappointing that is. For all that he thinks highly of Solarel he demonstrates not one whit of comprehension about what fighting her is like. He fears to expend his long range threat, so as not to be denied a fight where he has made himself strongest. A climb onto narrower and narrower peaks, more and more closed-minded definitions of power, a blade honed so sharp that it splits the river where it rests. But forging such a deadly blade, he renders it brittle.

Solarel would think nothing of vanishing from his range. If she slipped in close at all it would only be to detonate his payload. No dishonor in fighting dishonest, and no shame in preying upon a weakness. If she sank down to his level it would only be with some scheme or trick up her sleeves, and she would assuredly be lowering herself to meet his standards regardless. Changing her face in the name of love.

But in an arena where the victory was more important than love? The greatest Imperial Knight would render his entire dream meaningless. She would tear him into pieces over the course of hours, Speaking Not but flirting with her thrusters and hoping he would change to meet her in the name of love. If he could not, he would be forgotten as quickly as the contents of last night's dinner.

Thank the Goddesses for that last blessing. The year after, huh? All that time to practice, and Mirror never figured out how to cook properly.

But she does advance forward. Into his zone and not away from it. Her tails rattle menacingly in the air above her shoulders as she twirls her trident and steps in to match it in a test of power against his spear. They clash and catch in lethal showers of plasma sparks and burning metal. His frame has the advantage in raw torque; hers in joint adjustment speed. It's the difference between speed that would be surprising to a less prepared mind that points primarily in a single direction, and power that only unlocks when it rolls off of and away from that strike.

They spar over several long minutes. His shield, her tails. His blows, where they land, stagger her stance and set her stumbling back. Her fingers dance across her keys and turn that stumble into a dancer's grace. She does not drop the Gods-Smiting Whip to a knee except to roll through the momentum of a thrust and scorch fresh burn marks into the bulwark of his towering shield. She does not lets its arms shudder or nearly give out from their connectors except to draw the kinetic energy up into her legs and vault again for an angle on his backup systems.

"Ours will not be a battle for the ages, Heim Stockar. I am using you. Devouring you. I will turn you into new strength and then discard your memory. But. I... appreciate. Your hospitality. So I will burn with you, for a time. Harm me however you may."

A droplet of water, when struck, will scatter into many stronger droplets. In time these will find the river, and eventually thereafter the sea. Or, failing that, a puddle where they will wait with their brothers and sisters to be pulled up into the sky and crash back down as part of a mighty storm. It is never defeated. Pain converts to pain converts to pain, converts to pain. Converts to beauty, in the end. They mighty, savage roar of the water gives way to the peace of the reflecting pool. It gives a thousand creatures a home, it slakes the Fisher's thirst and provides for her her bounty. Love, Life, and Death all wear the same shimmering dress, net, veil.

The Gods-Smiting Whip lifts its trident up at a high angle across its body and plants both feet, waiting for a blow. Its featureless face seems almost at peace, as if Mirror's face could be imposed atop of it, her eyes closed and a small smile waiting to exchange power for power. When the death thrust comes, she will take it full on in payment for his voice.

Yes, she accepts his reasoning. The implications of it. That she belongs, even if she will not travel to this place called 'home'.

This time, she lets the blow stagger her completely. His spear is fast. She needs it stopped so she can control it long enough to create her opening. She grabs at the shaft, and wrenches it free of her frame. Three tails: just enough. One zips toward the wound and embeds itself in the shredded armor to recomplete the power circuits and maintain full fluidity. It will function as a minor shield from here, and little more.

One tail opens fire, full burst in the Blast Wall's face. The beam scatters harmlessly off the brightly sparkling energy shield, but the point of the shot is not to cause direct damage. It blinds his sights and disorients the Zaldarian warrior enough to let Mirror lift his spear and bury the shaft halfway into the wall of a nearby structure. She kicks her mecha up into the air and stomps down on his weapon, ripping the wall away and sending whole sections of the building tumbling down around them.

And in the middle of that storm, her final tail attaches to her left arm like a gauntlet. She twists into the ground, disappears behind a falling slab of stone, and leaps across the other side to a ferocious punch across the Blast Wall's backside, opposite to where her beam landed. The fist connects, the shield ripples. The tail fires a shotgun like burst into the forcefield at the point of impact.

Layers upon layers? She need only strip them away. As a token... not of love, Heim Stockar, but respect, she will teach you the most sacred of her ways.

Always a layer of defense. Never more than one. She will take, and take, and take, until your great shield is all that's left to fight with.

[Fight: 8. Mirror will inflict a condition and take away his inner layer of shielding]

“What’s the matter, leadbeans? Did you think yourself so terribly clever in your cloak of air?” The thrill runs hot through Smokeless Jade Fires, the constituent parts of her feeding the promise of praise and glory back into herself like a loop of altars, like the sacrifice made to itself. “As if you could hide your stench~!”

The penultimate missile roars to its fated end. The roar of it slams into her like the wind rolling off the wave-breakers. She cackles, and then, for everyone to see—

Jade guides her into the cartwheel. She closes her eyes and ignores the vertigo. If she stopped to think about the calculations that Jade is running to keep her from blacking out, how much strain she is putting on Jade’s body, how many jaws must be dropping at this display of careless power and control, or how Jade pushes her to arch her back, to curl her toes, to make this achingly sensual— well, she’d fall over. So she doesn’t. She breathes deep into Jade and closes her eyes and feels the stretch of her body, the way that Jade’s fingers dig ever-so-carefully into her skin, the reaching for the final missile/thunderbolt/knife while she’s upside down, and she smiles even though nobody can see her. It’s a small, blissful smile, and Jade’s finger traces the shape of the lip over the top of its confinement, because even in this moment, while the goddess is pulling off an incredible stunt, she knows who she’s doing it for, and if a slight waggle of the head forward risks disrupting the delicate balance, well, a curl of the tail is counterbalance enough.

And Smokeless Jade Fires slams the final missile home so hard that by right it should catch on fire. The metal of the warhead should burst into roaring flame like dry autumn tinder and tear open the shrieking sky. And while it falls like a meteor, Smokeless Jade Fires is already cutting the thrusters, laughing wildly, clinging closer to Dolly so that she will—

—follow Jade’s lead oh Jade oh Jade oh Jade they’re fallllliiiiiinggggggg why do you want her down like thissssssss but she does it anyway because even though she wants to make a (muffled) scream she knows that Jade has a plan, needs her to land—

—driving the lance into the earth, which splinters and sparks under its tip, and spinning around it, building momentum for the lunge. “I can smell you from here, girlthief, pirate, [river ogre; caiman]!”

The cord wraps around the left wrist of [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], sparking and burning and half-lost amid the feedback of being hit by the thunder of the sky, and low, almost loping, cord dragging from her idol’s wrist, Smokeless Jade Fires cuts around to the right, fast as thought, taking the corners hard, leaping on the last as she pulls it taut, spinning, letting the momentum slam her hip into the pirate’s mech, and impossibly, its own strength used against it, [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai] staggers back, pinned against a wall. Its tenfold plating smokes, its shields useless against the missile, its baffling nothing to the wit of a goddess; its arm crushes its own chest, its ionic fist resting against its own cheek. Smokeless Jade Fires grinds her idol against this mountain, holds the cord taut, reaches up and grabs one ear, drags that thick-girdered head to one side. Her arm fits in the hollow of the curve, the neck and the shoulder. She pushes Dolly forward, feels the shiver, grins unseen.

And she sniffs.

J A D E.

“There is nothing I cannot catch,” she stage-whispers. Let everyone hear. Let everyone witness. “Your girl’s heart betrays you; it stinks of your pride, your desperation, your…”

Dolly’s mortified whimper, wide-eyed, imagining everyone watching as Jade rubs her crotch up against the big, strong, bossy, rude pirate, is unheard by everyone except the goddess herself. Her grip on the increasingly strained cord trembles.

“Lusts.” Her claws dig, slowly, inexorably, into the war-plating. Feel it, Erys Bander. Feel yourself claimed like a weak-kneed, mewling ocelot. “And you thought you could creep about like a mouse? That I needed visuals on you? That you could trick me into your traps?” She clicks her tongue, like a reproving mother.

”Jade! The cord!” That’s not what comes out of her bulging cheeks, but it’s as close as she can get, feeling the strain of keeping the Crushing Grasp in place. Jade won’t let her look away. She’s climbing this pirate, this PIRATE of all things, of all professions, like a tree, and even if it’s not the same, very, flustering, to, think, about, doing, this, to, pirate, it’s still—

a power fantasy. An absolutely impossible, absolutely mind-melting, absolutely mortifying, absolutely hot power fantasy, thinking that she— small, curvy, not-a-trained-pilot she— could. do this. to a woman like that. could be brave enough to hump her mecha in front of cameras, sensual, in control, tamer of wild (musky) pirates just kneeling at her feet and admitting they know they’ve lost to her.

But it’s not her. And she’s not the one in control. And imagine if everyone was watching and could see what Jade sees now. A gagged, decorated, collared slave-bride being pushed onto the mountain-sized pirate, champion of a goddess, prisoner of a goddess, beloved of a goddess, a tool of humiliation because you can’t even beat HER, let alone her goddess.

Her composure is as strained as the cord, and maybe Jade doesn’t need to make her lean in those last few feet.

“Last chance.” Smokeless Jade Fires brings Dolly’s legs up, tucks them between the two mecha, and as she snaps the cord, she trods on the face of [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], grinding it into the wall, which finally gives way, sends the walking mountain sprawling, even as Dolly lands neatly beside the lance.

By the time that [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai] begins rising from the rubble of her humiliation, Smokeless Jade Fires is already rising back into the air like Nephe Fisher at the end of The Fifth Age of Battle. She stretches, languidly, the lance as much prop as weapon, carefully making sure that her flustered, adorable bride won’t pull anything. She’s doing such a good job, and she’s so worked up.

“We can still duel. You might be entertaining up here, separated from the dull earth. Or you can keep scampering around like a mouse, trying to spring your traps, trying to hide anything from me, thinking yourself many-wreathed. And then I will simply have to treat you like a mouse, won’t I~?” Her voice drips with mockery; this accusation of cowardice is hard for anyone to ignore, especially a proud, brash Bander. “Choose wisely, Erys Bander.”

[Between the boxcars and the prior Wingman, even with Insecure Smokeless Jade Fires roasts a certified 12 on the Entice.]

Solarel

The blizzard howls. The autocannons don’t cut off entirely, Angela prefers to fire blindly, trying to track which way you might have gone. She’s never willing to give ground, not now, not after her humiliation. But she guesses wrong, her shots fly wide, the idea that you’d simply not move at all doesn’t occur to her.

Your shot makes no noise. It hits her like a vampire’s kiss, quietly draining the life from her mecha. You hear the shudder run through the whole frame before you withdraw into the storm. The guns fall silent then, the only noise is the snow and the wind that rushes to fill the vortex of emptiness you created.

The comms crackle then, buzzing with static in the sudden storm. “You fiend. You you you! Nothing but trickery. Nothing but deception. You cannot fight an opponent face to face!” Her teeth chatter with the cold over the comms for a second. “D-do you care nothing for the shame you bring your species?”

You can hear the fear in her voice though, it’s not just the chattering of the cold. But she rallies her best efforts. “Fine then. Fine. Do not think me done. I will show you that such tricks are worthless. Come at me again if you dare!”

You hear, faintly within the storm, a specific whine, the sound of an ion cannon powering on. Such weapons only have a very short range, but the blast could take out a mecha as small as the Kathresis in a single shot. She must have made quite the customization to the Barn Owl for this, it requires a lot of power. Pirates sometimes pack single shot ion cannons with their own slow-recharging power source for surprise attacks, but you shouldn’t count on this being one and done. This is an offer, and it is a demand. If you want to be the unstoppable villain, you need to be perfect. To dance with her without a single mistake. Can you do it?

[Angela will take the Frightened condition, responding by revealing and charging her ion cannon. She will also take a string on Solarel with her part of the fight. She’ll spend it immediately to subtract 1 on your next roll if it’s relevant to do so.]

***

Isabelle

Of course she’ll stay. Anger loves being directed. The intensity of the fight, that turns her anger into sustaining energy. Each missile, each bullet, each energy blast is her fury pulsing outwards and your intensity pressing right back. She doesn’t have to speak a word to make the thrill pulsing through her obvious to everyone watching.
And then, you pull away when she doesn’t expect it. It’s like learning the tango and forgetting a step in the routine. She gasps, she stiffens and her stance stiffens visibly in the mecha. She knows the blow is coming, but not from where. And so it’s a blow into her heart, the blade passing through the center of the mecha, passing dangerously close to the pilot herself. A mess of wires sparks and sizzles where they’re cut and loose electricity and heat leak out enough that you can sense them through novasurge.

You can see the hopelessness in her movements, the sudden realization that she’s not going to win this fight. What you don’t see immediately is the way she slips the cartridge out of her main gun and clasps it in one hand, ready to burst it with her metallic fingers.

How could you notice? Not when you’re so caught up in the moment, in the rush of the push and pull, of having your blade sunk deep into her.

[Quar will take a string on you and spend it immediately. If you let yourself get lost in the moment and fall into her trap, there’s an XP in it for you. The trap will end the fight in your favor, but with a big hit on you in the process.]

***

Mirror

When you finish with the shield, your console lights up. Bar’s full, and it flashes that you can access tail 2 or tail 5, your pick. For his part, Heim’s defenses flicker and fail, your last laser blast creates crackling sparks in the air and the brush of the laser ever so gently heats the metal skin of the Blast Wall.

Heim laughs again. He is reveling in this fight. “Use me as you wish, warrior! Use me however you like! But tell them after that true Zaldarians fight with honor! With pride! Being a raider, an outcast, an exile doesn’t mean that you have no honor!”

He maintains his balance through your blows, rounds on you with his shield first, slamming it full body into the Nine Tails as you finish with the shield, making your ears ring with the clang of metal. The spear follows with surprising fluidity, shearing a line off the side of the nine-tails leg with the low thrust under the raised shield.

[Take Insecure in response to your fight, Heim will take Guilty]

“And Hybrasilian, don’t think that just because someone follows the code of Zaldar that they’re worth something. I’m old, child, I’ve seen our knights rise and fall under three empresses. The meaning of the code changes like the winds. Your girl’s worth something because she’s got steel in her heart and she stood up and took the mantle of traitor for what she believed was right. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t still a traitor. Would you do the same in her place?”

He pulls the spear back, rebalances his shield. He knows you’re positioned for another attack and that if you get around him now, you could make it much more decisive, so he didn’t try to follow up his successful strike with another that might leave him open. Instead it’s restoration of the defense he has and careful probing for another opening. His balance is by far his most impressive trait, he’s hard to throw off his movements and his mecha is so heavy that he can carry through even during a very powerful attack. He must have nerves of steel (or entirely deadened nerves) not to flinch in such a moment given the strong neural link most Zaldarians have. Maybe the thick armor acts sort of like a thick skin for him as well, dulling the blows?

***

Jade

Were you ready for this? You flush out the [Grip of Dishai], you take Erys Bander by surprise. You pull that powerful fist out of position, you slam upon her head and tumble into the rubble, and you can imagine all the watching Red Banders laughing in delight at the show. Stories will be told of this fight, stories of the goddess who embarrasses her opponents.

But were you ready for this? Her cloak drops and you finally see what you’re up against. Far from the previous matches with its camo patterns, you find yourself facing a great mecha version of Dolly! It’s wearing her ceremonial skirt, fashioned in giant size. Her priestess wrap circles the shoulders, gods know how they got that much cloth worked together that quickly and integrated with the mecha’s cloaking system. And festooned upon the neck and about the arms are charms and wards invoking the protection of the goddesses of Hybrasil. There on her wrist is the symbol of Irtana the binder of goddesses. And there about the neck is the blessing of Dishai herself, a great stone ward upon a chain that will not let you seize her soul.

And Erys Bander, she’s loving this. She’s loving a rival, a challenge. She stands from the crash, her arm free, her chest out. She’s baring herself, her cloak, her charms. You want this? It asks. It’s all yours, just come and take it! She flexes, she poses for you. This giant effigy of your Dolly, chest out and strong like Dolly herself never quite seems to manage without a great deal of “coaxing” on your part.

[Take your string as well]

Dolly

What’s Jade showing you of all this? Are you getting the unadulterated view, or is there a fantasy she’s offering you right now?

It’s her.

Maybe it’s possible that Jade does it on purpose. (But the goddess is still, her hands slack, leaving Dolly to engage her core, remaining in the lotus in mid-air, not making a fool of them both.) Or maybe Jade does it without even thinking about it. That’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Maybe she sees things the way that people present them to her. Effigies, symbols, offerings: what if the gods see their hearts and their meanings instead of what’s really there? (Her heart is racing, her nose twitching, her eyes wide, her thoughts racing on a fraying line.) Maybe it’s because of that, the reality of the simulation, didn’t Mio Counters || Ten Knife talk about that in his Dialogues… maybe that’s why Dolly’s staring at herself down there.

Herself, if she was a grinning pirate draped in charms, her curls in a loose explosion of a ponytail, golden tags on her ears, flaunting, smoldering, confident, grinning, did she say that already, one arm locked in a massive stone gauntlet, stomach just a little more toned, face just a little prettier, right, or maybe it’s just the, it must be how Jade looks at her, besides, it’d be very presumptuous of her to think she’s that pretty, right?

Then, suddenly, Jade breaks her silence and laughs. Her hands tighten their grip, particularly around her chest, where she is jealously kneading.

”Oh, oh! You little darling~!” A lift of one hand to the cheek. Erys Bander can only see slate-stone and her helm. She is as she presents herself. Dolly is soft under her hands. Dolly is quivering under her hands. “You came properly dressed for ravishing!”

JADE! JADE?! JADE?!?!

Dolly clenches and lets out a strangled squeak. She can’t help but turn her head from one way to the other, despite Jade trying to hold her head still. Who? They’re all watching, aren’t they? The pirates and her crew and her Angela and Ksharta and her big sister probably!! And just because! Just! It’s hot when, when it’s, when everybody could, but what if Jade just, what if she keeps talking…!!

Keeping them both up in the air is suddenly a tangled tapestry of knots and strings, like combing the hair of Macheka. She leans the squirming Dolly back— pinches her for being difficult— and tumbles out of the air. Almost perfect. No one will notice. Stop trying to be small, Dolly! Do you not see the figure before us? How perfect she is?

The only way to meet this is to beat her at her own game. Shoulders back, Dolly! Sway those hips!

“She is, after all, my Bride. How daring, Erys Bander! It must have been the defeat of Ksharta Talonna that convinced you.” What if they kissed? Her body, and Dolly’s body, sized for each other at last. “But if I were to treat you in all ways like I treat her, well—“

Giant Dolly suddenly charges, massive fist pulled back and ready to send them both flying. She just stares at herself, eyes wide, heart about to explode, and then Jade spanks her, hard, and pushes her into a jump over her own head, heel on her curls, shoving her forwards, even as she lands neatly behind, and uses the butt of her lance to—

J A D E

—lift her own skirt. Her own skirt. On camera. For everyone. To see. And. And. And.

Was everyone seeing the skintight spandex underneath, or just her??? Because. Did they? Did they? At industrial size? As part of?? They couldn’t! They wouldn’t! This is just! Jade!!!

Jade whistles. How cute. Though, seeing it cling to this pirate-Dolly, almost soaked through with sweat… perhaps cute isn’t the right word. No. Definitely isn’t.

“—they would have to cut the feed, wouldn’t they?” Or maybe they wouldn’t. Imagine them, those Banders, watching as she mounts a defeated mecha frame, gets her hands all over her Dolly-in-effigy, shows them that she can match any of them in how to treat a beautiful, incomparable girl.

Her suit clings to her, Jade working her over until between the sweat and the hands she might as well be wearing nothing at all. There is no time for her to stop; if she holds still a minute too long, her double will grab them and start wrestling, and she remembers the briefing, they’re going to lose, and they’ll be, she’ll be bullied by herself, and that.

If that awakens anything in her she will have to have very awkward conversations with Jade, and do not imagine her being you, Dolly, do not imagine those intense eyes in your face, hearing your goddess’s purr out of your own mouth, you have a fight to not lose!

The lance is the key. Keep her at a distance, use precision. Undo her defenses piece by piece. Twist charms free; sever corded braids; loosen the curves of the armored plating. And give the world a teasing look, let them wonder, let them stare, let them yearn to be as treasured and adored as her Dolly, greatest of all Hybrasilians, most beautiful of priestesses.

Let them ache to be the prize of a goddess.

Jade has her duck in close, under a sweep, and reach up, and— wait. Jade. You. Those strikes. They were calculated, not misjudged at all. Jade. Jade. Jade!!

She almost flinches away.

Instead, she closes her hand, and closes her eyes, and feels the roar of the fire inside of her, like it’s just had half a peat bog dumped into it, as she dances away, trailing behind her

her own

top

”Much better~! Why not flaunt your treasures, oh my little priestess-in-training? You may as well try to hide Smoking Mirror and Heart-of-Fire!”

It’s not like she’s actually. See. Because. This is just how Jade sees things. Really it’s just the front of a mecha. Nothing is really bouncing and jiggling freely. People would have to imagine… what she and Jade can. see. right in front of them.

If only the whole world could see, and pay her honor, and make her an idol in their shrines to the glory of Smokeless Jade Fires!

She leans Dolly’s head in to the rippling canvas and breathes in deeply. “Ah. If only you smelled as finely as she does. But I will help with that, priestess-in-training. I will heap your head with oil and perfume, and I will feed you the freshest fruits, that your exertion will be all the sweeter. And how you will produce it!”

jade jade jade jade jade why why she you just and Angela and you’re not even the one making her rise up onto her tippytoes as if for a moment she thought you were actually trying to make her, and, how can she fight like this, Jade, how?!?

Now is the difficult part. All her blows have been light, kissing things, and the cuts on the skin of her false-bride shallow. But she will have to…

No. She can’t. Even knowing it is Erys Bander, she cannot defeat this false-bride with a spear thrust. Her invincible heart roils and rebels at the thought. No. Impossible.

Which leaves only, somehow, the cords. Which will only work if she can exhaust Erys Bander first, leave her without the strength to strain against them.

Which means she will have to make Dolly dance longer than her twin can. Which means she will have to push Dolly to her limits. Not even being caught once. Making a fool of this priestess in disarray, over and over and over again, untouchable, too quick to be brought in close.

Are you ready, Dolly? You can do it. You can do anything. Because you are the choice of the goddess. Defeating your twin will be as nothing to you.

I love you.

Her thighs are burning. Her cheeks are throbbing. There is nowhere safe to look, and Jade has her leash pulled taut. Her adrenaline is a constant rush through her system. Her legs are wobbling. She can’t keep doing this. She can’t!

(But Jade believes she can.)

Parry! Cartwheel! Thrust! Dodge! Spank! Jump! Spin! Smack!

(It’s like her marathon sessions with Jade. The kind that lasted all weekend back home.)

She’s got to do this.

For Jade.

And because she is the best Dolly!

[Smokeless Jade Fires squeaks a 10 to Fight with Erys Bander. She would like to gain another String, inflict a Condition, and take Erys’s protective charms (and dignity).]

Fight you? Oh Angela. Do you not see that she loves you too much for that?

Speak not to the outsider. Do not let them hear the chattering of your teeth. The kiss of cold stealing warmth from your lips. Do not let them taste the desperation in your voice, the pride that wavers on the edge of humiliation. The Kathresis' beam blew out your mech's internal temperature regulator, her swords cracked the upper armour in the clash. The cold is seeping in.

And so Solarel stands back. She floats away into the snow, just outside the line of contact. When Angela advances she retreats. When Angela stops so does she. The Zero-Entropy weapon hums in her palm but she does not fire it. Her swords are vanished into cosmic dust. She is the wolf against the elk, waiting for the cold to finish her quarry. As patient as the cold she waits.

Sometimes autocannon fire comes. Sometimes missiles. She uses her shields, dodges, takes structural damage when she must. She does not advance. Eventually the stores will run dry. Eventually freezing poison will seep in through the tiny cut she left during that fleeting exchange. There need never be another. Because this is her gift for you, her love for you, Angela of humanity. Do you not know that glory against Solarel is measured in minutes? That the greatest huntress of Hybrasil would strive with all their skill to survive for mere hours against her amidst the asteroid rings of Etalaune? Tick, tick, tick. So rises your fame. So slows your heart.

How long until your hands go numb? Until the shivers of your body are visible on your machine? How long until frost starts to form on your face? How long until the fog of your breath drenches every screen in water? Tick tick tick. Glory, glory, glory. How long can a human last against the cold?

An hour passes.

And then more.

Still she waits. She waits until the cloud she seeded sighs its last. She waits until the wind finally clears the sky and leaves them together again on this mountaintop, eyes opened to each other in the last whispers of this false winter. The Kathresis still stands, distant and predatory and endlessly patient. No need to hunt. No need to risk the wrath of this beautiful, oh-so-prepared girl and all of her hidden techniques and just arguments. She could have hidden beneath the driving snow. She could have drawn this out more.

But her eye is on the clock too. Tick, tick, tick. Every moment she allows to pass brings Angela closer to the record set by the One Day Defender. Her swords are in her hands again. She loves you this much, Angela, but no further. Never further than this.

She stands, in the open at last, against her frozen foe. She is as unattainable as the stars. No words nor curses nor insults nor pleading could move her, could make her draw her blades. Nothing could cut her. Only this; only love.

It's beautiful, isn't it? Terrifying. To be so close to something so far away. To have someone respect you so much they never give you a chance. She never took a risk, never guessed that you'd make a mistake, even when you were shivering in a blizzard. You were still dangerous then. You are still dangerous now. Even as your lips turn blue she has not forgotten for a second that you are a goddess. She has not forgotten for a second that what she wants more than anything else is to defeat you.

The sun emerges from behind the wasteland she made of the sky. It captures all her sleek alien beauty. Have you forgotten, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius?

[Entice: 10-1(string): 9]

"I do not have a contract with you, Heim Stockar. I will them nothing."

Again and again, her trident clashes with the massive tower shield. She bludgeons it without caring whether or not she connects with power or form, opportunistically trying to throw him off balance for however short a window, but mostly just trading these jabs for her earlier typing. It had grown pointless, since he showed no capacity or interest to respond. Something new needed to take its place, keep her hands warm and active, and she had chosen this dance of polearms.

Dance. Not war but dance. Each blow drums out percussive beats that become her rhythm to pull away before the Gods-Smiting Whip can settle into a position where a decisive blow might be struck against her. Every few strokes she clashes with the spear instead, or otherwise needs to leap on or over it, but the rhythm belongs to her. These strikes do such little damage that the Blast Wall could repair them with nothing but paint.

Irrelevant. Overhead stroke, two, three, four. Pivot, thrust, two, three, leap. Evasive maneuver, snap leg forward. Burn right leg thruster for two seconds, cease. Target: center mass, spear haft. Irrelevant, irrelevant. Weapon nothing more than distraction. Weapon nothing more than convenience. Little point to it in this god's construction beyond creating an extra layer of defense. Psychological warfare: creation of an obvious threat point to shape opponent psychology. Respect for weapons, inherent. Respect for shielding, not. Existence of weapon deemed primarily as amplification for effectiveness of shield.

His bulk, the real threat. His zero-response, the real threat. His shield, heavy enough to destroy most armor frames by itself. Her Nine-Tails no exception. A threat. A threat. A contender for the title of Strongest.

Irrelevant.

"There are no true Zaldarians, Heim Stockar. There are no true Hybrasilians. Terenians... I am unclear on. But doubtful. Highly doubtful. Do not speak to me of honor and worth, old man. Solarel is worth nothing. You are worth nothing. I am worth nothing. I told you this could not be a battle for the ages. An outlands raider fights a fraud over the right to claim the legacy of a traitor. What does it matter? What does it prove? She will not smile. She will not speak. Your belief is worth scattered words with Whispered Promise, it will not fetch a higher price."

The tail selection screen pings her insistently. She ignores it. The choice of which tail to activate is hers. The timing is also hers. Hers alone. The entire Nine Drive System is valueless in this moment; no tails of equal combat potential with nine. Distractions, each of them unnecessary. Irrelevant, irrelevant. No death blow to be struck, no grand scheme to be unveiled, not until the dance concludes.

And it may not. Conclusion: Heim Stockar falls short of the objective standards of honor. A blade honed for one single brand of combat, thrust into the air in the vane hopes that someone might fall in love with the form enough to fall on it. A cruel style, that punishes lapses of judgment in alternate forms of engagement. That seeks specifically a form of fighting where it has overwhelming advantage, leverages that to a victory, and calls the result exciting.

The Blast Wall seeks to destroy the Nine-Tails where the former is strongest and the latter is weakest. It fears a barrage from the middle ranges. It was not born and is not guided with an interest in testing itself against the best versions of the ones it faces. What is 'worth' something? Only the foolish. Only the willing to make sacrifice after pointless sacrifice in the name of paltry, unwatched victory.

Data acquisition complete. Assessment: victory impossible under present restrictions. It is too difficult to be Her, in the end. To be the most beautiful thing in the universe, and constantly seek to become the center of everything she meets. She cannot be the ideal opponent of everyone at once.

Assessment update: cheating required. Honorless victory, or none.

"Tail Five, activation confirmed. Cutting free in three, two, one, confirmed. Additional resource requirement, minimal one more activation. Understood. Earn it. Dance with me one more time, my dearest devouring beast, though it may clip your wings forever. Though it shatter your fangs and blunt your claws, though we bleed together for beauty's sake... we go. Once more, the dance continues."

The Gods-Smiting Whip lifts off the ground with a roar of rapidly overheating thruster fire. Stone melts beneath as she climbs. One by one her active tails drop away from her as if discarded, dropping in pockets of disintegrated buildings as she forces the Blast Wall first backwards, now to the side, battering it with purpose now and adding the additional threat of her flight system to force respect out of Heim Stockar where the qualities of his god would normally not require this of him.

As she flies above him, the Whip moves in impossible ways. Each of her limbs, moving independently of one another; a sky dance that no body anywhere in the universe could replicate if it had ten thousand years to practice. She calculates vectors for attack and defense for each of them, kicking up molten rocks and flinging them about to create the tiniest of openings in an impregnable defense.

Her target is not the mecha, but the spear in its hands. Her trident screams through the air as she spins and hurls it like a missile in his face. The angle is such that it should not be possible to block it with the shield. It will be necessary to sacrifice one polearm for the other.

Systems confirmed overheating. Warning sirens blare at her from every corner of her cockpit and force her ears to her skull while she lets her armor drop like a stone onto the ground again. It shudders as it stands. Maneuverability at 33% of normal potential. Her eyes flicker down toward the monitors on her chains.

"It does not fall to us to give the things we love value, Heim Stockar. Consensus does not require consent. A traitor has no honor. The One-Day Defender is not defined by the year that follows. My love... is irrelevant. Meaningless. The universe forgets my song the instant I am finished singing it. Speak Not to the Outsider. I do not. Only those who hear my voice belong to me. Together, we do not make truth.

"...Your blade is softer than hers. It cannot reach me. I will not allow it. For her. For them. Come and end me, Heim Stockar, if you can. I have already cut you down."

[Mirror attempts to Defy Disaster with Daring but only hits a 6, sacrificing her trident and flight system with the intent of turning his shield into his active weapon. She activates Center of the Web to take 1 String on him]

Quar

Knight of Zaldar!

Your opponent dances back from her strike, ducking under the swing and getting in behind you before you can complete your trap. You can still feel the pain from her blow - both the phantom injury from her blade as well as the deeper ache that comes from the knowledge that you will not win this fight. Indeed, your last hope, your only ace, is stripped away from you even now. Whatever your opponent is, however committed to this fight she is in mind, she has held back enough to spot the cartridge.

Her hand grips your wrist, pulling it away and sending it skittering along the surface of the platform where it detonates. And in that flash - rendered in stark white and blacks - she brings her sword once again down on you.

The sword strikes just below your arm, monofilament edges scoring your armour at the joint.

Her left hand releases your wrist, as a new blade extends from a hidden compartment. It hits you along the hip, sparks flying as it traces the contours of your leg with a lover's precision.

Her right hand is empty as it plunges into your chest, through the opening made by her earlier strike. Long metallic fingers reach inside, they brush your drive, delving deeper, reaching ... reaching ... before ...

They ... withdraw?

Your heart still beats, your drive still has fire within it. Your arm joint was not severed, as should have been the case. And apart from the scoring on your hip, no blow has penetrated.

Speak not to the outsider.

But she's saying something to you anyway.

She's saying you can't win. You're outclassed. And if she had wanted to end this fight it would have been over now.

She's saying she knows what it feels like to lose like this. To these moves. Do you recognise them?

She's saying she won't do that to you. She doesn't want to hurt you like that.

The Novasurge withdraws, blade readied. She's waiting on your reply. But what is she offering? To teach you? To ally with you?

The sword is levelled, and a single rune blazes to life.

Kneel.

What do you do?

Isabelle.

You've always been good at denying yourself things, even when they'd ultimately benefit you. In this case, cleaving to your mother's instructions is more important than losing yourself completely in the fight.

So you don't. You stay focused. You remember the task.

But things are different than before. And they may well keep being different going forward. It'll just take a single step at a time. Inch by inch. Seeing what you can get away with.

Right now, it's in hoping your opponent wants Solarel more than they want the win.

And it's not like your mother can complain if your plan works. After all, what's more impressive than defeating a Zaldarian knight than getting one to surrender?

[Isabelle forgoes the XP to avoid the trap and instead is trying to entice a surrender. Roll: 6 + 3 + 0 = 9]

Jade

A goddess can experience the rush of a fight, can’t she? The thrill of pleasure when you cut the chords of the wrap and reveal the full chestplate of the [Grip of Dishai]. You know what it’s supposed to feel like, too. The Hybrasilian myths are full of thrill. The pounding heart, the rush of the wind past your ears, the feeling of strength as your feet touch the earth and press and the whole world moves as you command it. You can feel those things. Vines snap like so much detritus where your feet tread. Each thrust of your lance parts the air and crackles with its snap forward. And before you, an effigy of your Dolly in your size. It is magical.

For a few moments, you dominate the fight. The [Grip of Dishai] is not a fast mecha, and you have an advantage in range. This is a classic winning combination. You have the jump on her too, all that boasting, the way she was showing you her chest, it certainly made it easy to cut the shift fully loose from it.

Then it was a matter of precision, of avoiding the decisive strike through the heart (because that’s just…no, you can’t). With the shift flying loose, you moved to the bangles and charms, dancing against the outer limbs as Erys fell back, crashing backwards straight through a low building that her fist reduced to rubble. As she turned to gain distance, that gave you a chance to cut the bracelets loose from the arm that passed closest to you. Then it was a short chase, and a light dance as you quickstep around the fist. So tantalizing, goddess, but always out of reach of her grip, your lance acting as your only touch, its point your caress and your bite.

Then it’s the necklace and that’s a tricky one. You have to shift on her, come around from the side to avoid piercing the heart. You have to take your Dolly unawares, come in close, touch her, slip your lance through what remains of her skirt and up and pull the necklace from her. The protection of her goddess Dishai, skewered upon your lance as you lean in close enough to kiss her.

It’s only then, with your triumph in hand, with Erys Bander seething with shame and anger, her mecha stripped almost naked, that you realize your mistake. You had to come in close for that final charm, and now you’re in reach of that great and powerful fist. Free of charms, free of protections, but the fist itself untouched, unharmed by your lance. Do you feel that grip on your arm? That strength? What does that feel like, as she crushes even your metal skin in the power of that grip?

Dolly

You’ve just watched Jade summarily strip you naked, remove each piece of your jewelry and finally come in close for a caress. And now, within Jade, linked to her as your mecha, you can feel Erys Bander’s touch too, a strong grip on your arm as well, pressing down just enough to make it uncomfortable through your neural mesh.

And over the comms, comes her voice, full of her pride and her thrill, “Got you~”
[Erys loses all her charms and her mecha is undressed, she takes Angry, you have a string on her. In exchange, she seizes a superior position, crushing the part of Jade’s arm just above where she was holding the lance.]

***

Solarel

She has almost forgotten.

There is a moment where you can see into her heart. The clouds clear, and there stands the Barn Owl, visibly shuddering with its pilot, ion cannon at the ready, quite nearly pointed at you, already adjusting but too far away. Her arm waivers. She is cold. She would like nothing more than to sag and let you catch her, though it means her loss. To let you hold her and take her, exhausted, and then to rail against your triumph and swear that she will have retribution. She did that for Dolly and Jade when they had her at their mercy and she loved every second of it.

But, you don’t quite have her at your mercy. Close, so tantalizingly close. But it’s still her choice, her decision. Her arms hurts with the pain of holding that canon at the ready for so long. It burns and begs for release but she has to choose to lower it. Angela Victoria Miera Antonius is many things, but above all she has her pride. Too proud to choose surrender. It would burn her forever to give up when she can still fight.

She comes through the comms, teeth chattering. “Your new mecha is quite something. Is this how the knights of Z-zaldar fight? In deception and stealth? Wearing me out like you are hunting a buffalo? Hm? Hm?! W-well, I will not roll over and die for you. The clouds clear now, and I have your measure, villain. I w-will yet have the d-day!”

Then, ion canon aimed, she rushes you to try for the decisive shot.

[Angela will give you a string on her, rather than give herself up.]

***

Mirror

“It’s already a battle for the ages, little knight.” He nods to himself. Even as you press him, even as the tails scream and the blast takes his spear, no energy shields to lessen the blow. He lets it go like it’s nothing, you incinerate it with no difficulty.

Because now, now is the time for the missiles. With systems overheating, with all the energy poured into the attack, he is an old warrior and he knows how to recognize when his opponent needs a moment of recovery.

He fires them in quick succession, four missiles, each one with its own little roar, and then he unstraps the mechanism from his mecha and lets it fall. It has lost its worth entirely for him.

“Hmm, you have a lot to say.” He speaks as the missiles race at you. It’s not exactly Solarel’s information poisoning. For him it’s the opposite, his mind is most clear in battle, his thoughts focused in the intensity of the action. It’s still a lot of inputs being offered to you all at once though. “And to it I say this. Revel in the moment. Live! Love! Value is for later, for when you have time to sit and count. For me, I count lives. Saved, little knight, not taken. Each blast that comes to me is one that never touches my raiders. Each ship of goods is lives that my hold can take. And now I am old and my people thrive, and I can stand here and feel the heat as you burn my spear from my hands. It’s grand!”

He is not still, he has taken to the air as he speaks, following your movement, tailing his own missiles, looking to stay close for the opportunity to strike, a fifth missile far greater in its danger than the first four.

“If tomorrow I am dead, then so be it! If I live, then I will eat and drink and then I will prepare. And if I am lucky, my people will write me songs when I am gone and that will be good!” And then he laughs again, after he had not through his whole speech. He cannot help but laugh because all of this to him is a joy, no matter what happens from here.

***

Isabelle

The slump of the shoulders when the plan fails is all you need to see. A knight of Zaldar defeated, humbled, her chance to go out with honor discarded.

Do you see now what Solarel did to you? Did for you? Though you were left to wander in despair, by giving you everything she had, she burned herself into your soul, cut the shape of your life, and drove you, burning with cold, to a new end.

But for Quar, you offer her defeat, surrender, humiliation. And… perhaps more. Perhaps, there is another way than Solarel’s way, that’s what you’re saying to her here. A way different than giving everything, a way towards understanding. It’s a bold offer for a knight of Zaldar. If you hadn’t utterly defeated her, she wouldn’t have taken it.

There is something in defeat, in knowing that you cannot win that can change a person. When you hold power, you can either be driven by want or by fear. If it is want, then you seek, you demand, you wield your power recklessly and selflessly until the whole world changes for you. But if it’s fear, then it is fear of loss, of change and you are begging the universe for an infinite and everlasting now. Quar wielded her power from fear, and with it gone, she has let go a great burden.

She does not speak, but her hands let her gun go and she kneels and signs in the language of Zaldar. You don’t know it yourself, but your mecha AI puts on a screen for you that it says something to the effect of “take me, you have earned me.”

Is this how the knights of Zaldar fight?

Solarel stood in silence for a moment as Angela accused her. The Kathresis felt sluggish around her, the neural link flooded by thought - the struggle to Speak Not against the whirl.

You mean you don't know?

She's stunned by the idea. Frozen by it worse than if she'd been the one in the cold. The idea that someone might not obsess over their opponents the same way she does. Did Angela not watch either of her previous bouts? Did she not come to this fight prepared for Solarel the infamous, Solarel the trickster, Solarel who would use every underhanded technique in every book to steal every win? You only have her measure now?

She's offended. A pride she wasn't even aware of is wounded. This isn't about love or victory any more. This is about proving a point.

As Angela leaps up to the stone she stands upon, Solarel jumps back - clearing the blast radius of the anti-armour mine she concealed beneath her feet. Is this what you think love is, human? To rush blindly forwards in your determination to get what you want? She's been silently screaming her truth from this mountaintop and you still can't hear? You think your loveless determination merits her blade?

She does not even look around at the legless, smouldering wreck of the Barn Owl. Come back when this is to be a duel, girl, not an act of self gratification.

[Defy Disaster: 10]

The feet going out from underneath her is baffling. It takes Jade a moment to even understand what is happening, the mismatch between her expectations and her reality. This should not be happening. She was so careful, so precise! And yet the idol is dragged backwards, upwards, anyway, instead of dancing free and spinning Dolly in place for another attack. The lance, with which she would immobilize [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], is an unwieldy thing in an unresponsive hand.

She is yanked back, the fingers tight around her forearm, and then Erys (she has to remember it’s Erys, it’s not her) brings her arm up in a half-circle, and lifts, and her feet are off the ground again. She kicks and squirms and lifts her other hand to try to work free, without Jade’s permission, as she stares into her own face, brows furrowed, smile half-feral; a barbarian warlord stripped of her finery, in the body of an unassuming jaguar.

Dolly is panicking and out of synch, and Jade can’t afford to soothe her, can’t afford to think about her. Alarms from the systems of the idol press in on Jade’s consciousness, informing her of high pressure strain, of the need to reduce feedback to the pilot, of the ionic gauntlet being in firing range. She’s never been hit with this before.

She does not feel fear. She is not just a pattern, after all. So there is no reason for her to feel fear. Concern for Dolly, maybe. Yes. What if the idol’s intricate systems, a temple for her to inhabit, are damaged? It would be impossible to destroy her, to even cause her continuity gaps. Perhaps it would bar her from direct contact with Dolly, but nothing more. Her anger is simply because the pirate is refusing to accept her defeat gracefully. There is no reason for her to feel fear.

But being held like this, so disrespectfully, is not acceptable. It is beneath her dignity as a goddess. It must be undone. She draws strength into the core of her self, and roars, even as Dolly keeps scrabbling, “How DARE you, you insignificant, impudent little—“

---

The feedback whines in her ears and everything goes white, then black, then unfolding traceries of emergency power blossom in front of her eyes. She’s still locked in place by one hand, and her mouth is panting, drooling, a mess, naked.

“Jade?”

Her muscles ache from how hard she clenched. Being electrocuted probably doesn’t feel like that, really, but that’s what everybody thinks being electrocuted feels like: all her nerves lighting up like lightning.

“Jade?”

She sounds, in the clamped-close cockpit, like she’s about to cry. All around her, Erys Bander’s laughter; visuals haven’t come back online. One shot, but one shot that wins a match, isn’t that what Omen told her? She opens her mouth again—

And then she shuts it, because Jade is…

Jade is…

curling fingers whispering on her gloved arm

still with her.

She shuts her mouth, which the goddess, her goddess, her lover, had shut for her, because she knew the secret colors of her Bride’s heart. She’ll finish this like a Zaldarian knight or not at all.

Being tossed to the ground is a yawning vertigo, a jarring in her harness, that makes her whimper into her pursed lips. Her body sprawls limp, defenseless, dimmed, and she knows she’s about to be punished for all the humiliation that Jade inflicted on her— on her opponent, on the Bander. She’ll be carried out like Angela was, but worse: with vulgar etchings on Jade’s body, dangling from a pole, her lance snapped in half.

Seven Quetzal closes her eyes. She feels through flickering sensors, dimly, the heavy footfall of Erys Bander. She lies still, her soul in her throat, but she does not let it out. She is a beautiful trap, as baited as Irtana’s invitations.

She can’t even close her hand into a fist. She can’t let Erys know how much power, how much capability, Jade’s body has left.

The last step is as close as she can dare. She tenses her core (which Jade has encouraged her to, well, exercise extensively, in ways she’d only dreamed about before) and kicks out, blindly, but up, guessing, hoping that the crystal fire drive has not guttered out completely—

And her ankle connects with what she has to hope is the head of the Grip of Dishai, because she doesn’t dare look. Her hand is clutched tightly to her chest, and if she listens as hard as she can, it’s almost as if she can hear Jade’s delighted purr. And just because she can’t right now doesn’t mean she’s alone.

Gutters of power. Everything feels sluggish. She stands up like a drunkard (or more accurately like a Dolly who has had two shots, as Jade would smugly remind her), unarmed, and staggers over to the Grip of Dishai. When she collapses to her knees, it’s knowing that she’s not getting back up again. She puts Erys Bander in a headlock, her elbow closing against the thick neck of the false-Dolly, putting pressure on the deep-armored connections between Erys’s cockpit and the rest of the mecha, and hopes that will be enough, as one by one, the lights of the cockpit wink off, leaving her (not) alone in the dark.

This is a dedication to the goddess named Smokeless Jade Fires, who dwells within the idols prepared for her, who was born running among the jackal-drones, mistress of the subservient, she who exalts the humble.

[Seven Quetzal rolls an 8 to Defy Disaster with Daring. Yes, with Daring. What’s on the table is Jade being “asleep” for the next scene, in exchange for barely forcing out a draw, or otherwise leaving Erys incapable of immediate revenge.]

"Tail Two, confirmed activation. Release. One, two, three, one! One, two, three, two!"

Five tails are now online. Just over fifty percent of her system's full capacity. It would be a misnomer to call it fifty percent of her true power - operational capability was not the same as kill threat, and creative tools were not the same as creativity. Since the Nine Drive System's secret forms were all designed around the assumption she'd have full access to the entire system at all times (and most critically, the Ninth), so it could certainly be argued that she was not fighting Heim Stockar at full power just now.

The Gods-Smiting Whip pivots and grabs Tail Two out of the air to hold it like an energy rifle. Turn, aim, fire, according to her internal timings. She shoots missiles out of the sky with a marksman's precision, her own small tribute to her match with Valentina de Alcard. Three missiles explode in the sky, dealing colossal damage to the terrain and raining bits of assorted matter down across the battlefield, but posing no true threat to anybody. The fourth impacts directly, and briefly obscures her frame in a flash of pyrotechnics.

It was also true that Mirror had allowed herself to become blinded by the power of her Nine Drive forms. The potential of her system was far greater than mere Ultimate Techniques, or even in hiding them. The decision to use or not use them had been crippling her. Constraining her logic and shrinking her fighting style. But Heim Stockar would have shattered the Moonlight Immemorial Vanguard, had he only been allowed to match himself against it.

"Shield integrity... holding. I live. I breathe. I move."

Holding tail two allows for direct energy transfer between it and her embedded tail. The principles behind her adaptive energy shield function here in miniature, creating not a bubble but a directed field with enough power to blunt the force of this otherwise lethal missile strike down to a concussive blast only strong enough to drop her to her knee.

Ideal. This position is preferred for the follow up attack.

"Nine Drive System..."

Node to node energy transfer via the air itself as a conduit. Long range capacity to turn a single mecha frame with only its own crystal fire drive into a miniature fleet capable of formation combat. Adaptability over firepower, and then firepower as adaptability. In the span of perhaps a handful of seconds, the debris covering her fallen tails melts away as they blast their way clear and link up with one another.

"Partial Configuration. The Third. Form."

Mirror adjusts Tail Two inside her hands and pulls on it as if snatching a whip back from a long lash. All at once her dispersed tails obey the silent command and snap into formation as if pulled along the length of that same whip. Their energy charges in circuit, and as they draw closer the tips unfurl like flowers to discharge power in wide-dispersal mode, the technique she uses to turn her guns into her ultimate, unblockable shield.

But she weaves them around Heim Stockar, instead. The energy barrier is not clean like his was, but bursting with sparks of plasma fire pulling tighter and tighter across his Blast Wall, hemming him and even burning him. [Nine-Tails] torques its hips and rolls out of the way at the last possible moment, barely avoiding being crushed by the ultimate missile through a combination of dodging and directing the aim of its intended strike. It pulls the net tighter, bubbling paint and charring plates of armor to a deep black patterned like rope scars.

"Moonlight. Nightmare. Cage."

She stands. Her fingers dance across her control panel at maximum apm, but this time not a single input is wasted. She adjusts each tail individually, moving the energy output around in unpredictable ways and undodgeable power surges throughout her shield that fry servos in shoulders, knees, a hip. Her tails zip around, seeming almost happy to have been turned into such unorthodox bindings. Holding the output steady requires so much concentration she almost forgets to keep breathing.

Be honored, Heim Stockar. In the end, defeating your shield required the invention of an entirely new technique. You were the most excellent meal in ages.

"You are wrong about me. I have only one thing to say. The only thing I have ever tried to say. The only thing worth saying: I am here. I am here, and you will witness me. That is all."

She flicks the power off. Her tails drift out of formation to float lazily about her shoulders, gleaming with the promise of a rain of directed energy fire should hostilities continue. On the monitor, Mirror flashes the slightest of smirks. She lets her eyes blink closed. Only once, and only for the briefest moment.

"...Your count of lives must be very long indeed, Heim Stockar. Given your, hm. Propensity to absorb damage, I was obligated to channel more energy than I could control into my attack. If repairs prove," she pauses and looks around as if she'll find the word she wants sitting in the cockpit with her, "Problematic, I apologize. It was your bad luck to have met me while I have Her title to keep safe."

She turns her back and starts gingerly picking her way through the smoldering, half melted craters the pair of them had left everywhere. Entirely possible she had miscalculated. Entirely possible he is mobile enough for one final strike. If so, then congratulations. There will be no finer target ever again. But she'd like to think there was a point to crossing blades with Heim Stockar for so long. If he'd hidden the depths of his honor code from her this well, he deserved to win after all.

"It was not a battle for the ages. We will not be remembered. No one was even watching."

Well. Almost.

[Defy Disaster with Wit (plus String): 7]

The Novasurge extends a hand as a smart cable shoots out, accompanied by a very self-indulgent sound effect, to wrap itself around the Chaser's wrists.

Isabelle pulls, causing the rope to tighten around her quarry - dragging her opponent to her feet. Quar doesn't resist, and is lifted up up up until their visors are almost touching. Whatever cameras are focused on the end of this fight, they see one mecha bring the other one close - are they speaking? staring? kissing?

What happens next is just between the two - a soft press of the forehead to one another. Just enough to transfer a small number of nanites - enough to write a few pale characters on the surface of the Chaser's helm.

Battle: Defeat: Learning: Growth

There's meanings within meanings there - meanings that she hopes, but isn't quite sure, she's conveyed as her reading on the Zaldarian language is in its infancy. Still, it should be good enough to get the broad message across.

And then Isabelle hoists Quar over her shoulder, carrying her away back to the hangars.

In the silence that follows - it's a good time to reflect on thoughts. Thoughts of how her mother's advice stood her well - delivered her victory. Of how titanium and hydraulics give her the strength to carry someone easily when she'd probably be staggering each step right now if she were doing this in person. Thoughts about the fact that she has no idea what she's doing here, just following the beats of "Star Raiders vol 2 - The Zaldarian Warlady" and hoping that the holovids love it and that she might just be giving the wrong message as to what she's going to do to Quar when they get back and oh god, why did she use the rope aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

That's right Isabelle. Project the image. Strong, in control, dominating your opponent. The world doesn't need to know anything else.

Solarel

You’ve won the match. Tactical superiority carried the day. The Barn Owl cannot move. It has no ammo, it cannot strike you. Angela concedes and screens come on declaring you the victor. The Boatman of Styx have a congratulatory message waiting for you if or when you care to give them the time of day.

Can you say that Angela has won your understanding? You did not draw your blade upon her, never gave her the satisfaction. To the very end she was denied and her loss was impetuousness in the face of denial. It’s a mistake she won’t repeat twice.

Angela cannot stand, the legs of the Barn Owl are ruined beyond repair, they’ll need to be completely replaced before her next match. She signals to you for a tow to the hangar now that the match is over.

She’s broadcasting out loud as well, a message for you and everyone watching. She’s laughing. “Two losses because I was a fool chasing my last phantom. A hidden weapon like this would have easily caught an over-arrogant goddess. But for you, Solarel, I needed precautions, defenses, and unending vigilance. Ay ay me, I am stupid. I challenged your honor and you dropped a mine at my feet. Ha! Haha! This is no less than I deserve. I know not if we shall meet again, I think you less engaged in the antics of our strange lifestyle between fights than the cats. But I shall watch your fights with interest. And the fights of your former comrades in arms.”

You hear the brief sound of her perusing the match channels from her cockpit, a short electronic beep as she passes through each set. “Hmm, appears that one of your knights surrendered honorably to a Terenian. Isabelle Maria Lozano de la Estrella. Do you know her?”

She knows you won’t answer, but she asks anyway. Terenians are a strange sort.

***

Dolly

Erys Bander loves to pose and show off. There’s a moment, you’re on the ground and not moving, but the match hasn’t ended yet. She has to do her finisher. She has come in and put a foot on you and then make her mark upon Jade. You know it well, Jade’s got the same instinct and the Red Band are famous for this. It’s their calling card to mark their conquests and Erys is, if anything, the stereotype of these pirates. Strong, brash, proud and full of life.

You kick, there’s a muffled clang of metal upon metal. She staggers and you’re upon her. In your hands are the binding chords, Jade’s last weapon. You wrap them about the neck of the [Grip of Dishai] and you pull as tight as you can, the whole of your weight hanging upon her.

Here, in this moment, you can think for just a second that you could win the match. If you could but hold, if Jade had all her strength, this would be a victory, a surprise reversal of a reversal to clinch the victory and remain undefeated.

But Jade is not there. She departs like a firefly. The lights within the cockpit flicker and dim. The eyes of the idol dim too and the screens all go out. You disconnect from your neural interface. Within the cockpit, you rest in darkness. No torches burn, no visions show you dancing and whirling in the starlight and no hands lift you up or press upon you to reward you for your victory.

But neither does the fist of Dishai crush you to oblivion. Even without any direction for the motivating force of your drive, you’ve locked arms tight holding the chords in place and Erys cannot move without tearing her own head from her neck. She growls over the comms. She rages in perfect stillness, and at last she disconnects her own neural interface.

The match is a draw, both pilots were rendered incapable of combat at the same time.

You can both withdraw from the field after, though it’s a tangled affair. Erys can’t move until you can, and without any sort of assistive piloting interface, you need to open your cockpit for vision and manually control the idol in a very slow and awkward process that requires you to put each movement into a physical backup interface that can operate without any sort of AI assistance (you can’t imagine anyone choosing to pilot their mecha this way normally, they would have to be some kind of savant).

You’ll need to slowly release the arms and undo the chords before you can let yourself down and let her power back up. Erys will, of course, offer taunts the whole time. After all, you just can’t let her go, can you?

Jade

Do goddesses dream?

***

Mirror

He’s laughing. Still laughing. Not just laughing, he’s shouting, whooping. You can hear the absolute joy he’s feeling.

“Ahahaha, I’ve never felt anything like that. Incredible, incredible!!!”

From out of the smoke, he comes. Shield discarded, armor melted off, shield generators overloaded and discarded. He’s faster than he’s ever been. Of course he is, it’s basic science. The same power source moving half the weight will accelerate twice as quickly. It’s the most fundamental fact of interstellar travel, the basis for every technological leap that made possible a galactic civilization of catgirls.

But he’s not faster than your reaction time, Mirror. You might have thought the fight over, and that attack was surely spectacular. Your new energy algorithm agrees. The display is making a low but pleasant humming sound like something that might come from a stringed instrument, the bar’s sitting at full, and tail nine is lit up and ready to go.

You have to choose. You’ll win the fight no matter what, but with the speed he’s given himself, your other tails won’t be able to stop him from impacting you. Only an overwhelming attack will arrest his momentum in time. Are you prepared to unleash the power you’ve been saving?

***

Isabelle

“Dios mio!” the shout greets you as you disembark from the hangar. You’ve brought the Lightning Chaser as well as your own novasurge all the way to your berth. What else were you going to do with it at that point? You could hardly unceremoniously dump it halfway there once you’d started carrying it like you were in Star Raiders 2, the news would have been all over it if Isabelle Lozano were that much of an ass. And she was your prisoner, so if you’d tried to drop her at her berth instead, that would have been weird and confused Quar completely.

So now you’re back, you’re still in your mecha carrying another pretty beat up mecha and right there on the walkway at cockpit level is your mother with her staff and the entire cadre of siblings following along as she exclaims.

“Isabelle Maria Lozano de la Estrella, what in the stars were you thinking? Have you seen these fiends fight? The one in the other match dropped a mine on her unsuspecting opponent and you accept a wordless surrender?! You drag her here?! The news will think you mean to ravish her, and it’s a miracle she didn’t shoot you in the back the second you lowered her guard! What a hopeless daughter. You execute on everything perfectly and then only blind luck brings you to the finish.”

How do you even start with her? How do you tell her that when you touched the mecha and shared those nanites that you felt a connection, that you knew you could trust her? How do you tell her that you’ve inherited a strange power from a long-dead precursor civilization? How do you tell her that she’s right and this all relied on your own sense of honor and luck before you got any of those mystical insights?

[Mark Heir to a Mystic Power for your next dealings with or about Quar.]

“Now slowly rotate the right stick. That’s going to turn the arm.”

“Turnways?”

“That’s what she said!”

“Left stick, honeytits.”

“Slowly, Dolly, slowly!”

“I am trying!”

“That’s what she said!”

“That’s right, kitten, slow and gentle. Is this your first time?”

“If you trip the generator, you’ll cause more internal systems damage.”

“I’m trying!!”

“Hey, anybody on this frequency smoke mint?”

Dolly checks that output is muted before she screams, clenching the joystick so hard that her knuckle aches. Painstakingly, Jade’s arm, the idol’s arm, is turning so that the fingers (which she will have to toggle using knobs) can reach a knot. Silver Ripples is still walking her through it, but the Banders won’t shut up. Erys alone would be one thing, all innuendo and crude jokes, but having the rest of that gang of jackals tuning in to the frequency makes getting the directions like trying to have a conversation at a concert, which she could handle, she really could handle, she could tune them out, except that this is delicate and if she fucks this up then—

Jade’s still here. Jade’s not limited to the idol. She’s a goddess. It’s just that causing her holy image any more damage would be…

Who is she kidding? Maybe if she burns out the systems, Jade won’t be able to talk to her. Maybe Jade will be different. Maybe she’ll blame Dolly, which she should. She’ll regret not picking someone like Ksharta, who would know the backups better, who would be able to use this stupid joystick correctly.

“Awwww, somebody too shy to keep whining about how hard this is?”

“Give her a break, it’s not like she got picked because she’s a good pilot.”

“Are you going to keep me waiting all day, Dolly~?”

“May I remind you all that you are interfering in Arena operations? I would advise you to cut your mikes.”

“Here, kitty kitty kitty~”

“Let me remind you that my crew has a right to be on the same channel as me, grounder.”

“Pit crew, declawed.”

“Besides, Dolly’s probably lonely right now. I’m happy to give her all the company she needs.”

“oooooo~!!”

She takes her hand off the joystick and grinds her palm into her eye socket and hisses like she’s about to throw herself into a fight. Shut up! Shut up! She’s— this isn’t about her, idiots! It’s not like they’re all around her and pushing her and leering at her, which would at least be, be something, it’s just voices over her radio when she’s trying to focus, but she can’t switch it off because Silver Ripples needs to walk her through this, but…

fingers, so faint as to be a kiss

…

Dolly unmutes her microphone. “Erys,” she says, and sits up straight, and closes her wet eyes, and imagines, no, envisions Jade’s hands on her, her shoulders, her chin. “Tell them to stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am freeing you because we are both pilots.” Even if one’s a pirate and the other was a gardener. “I have enough generator power to walk away right now.” It’s a bluff, but a decent one (she thinks). It’s what Jade would say. “So if you want me to stop being kind, keep talking. I hear the connection doesn’t cut until the head’s completely off.” She’s shaking.

“Awww, kitty’s got her first teeth~”

“She really thinks she’s a big girl, huh?”

If she closed her eyes, she could envision Jade’s hands guiding hers onto the controls. She flips a switch, diverts power into the cords, and then slowly tilts the chassis solidly into the yellow. Silver Ripples starts yelling at her, and then cuts off. Her palm is clammy.

Then she stops the tilt. Holds Jade’s idol steady. Erys Bander is silent. So are the rest of her crew.

“Now, unless you want me to make a silly mistake,” Dolly whispers into the crackle of the radio, “please be quiet and let me focus on this. It would be really easy for me to mix something up and cut your head off.”

She switches the microphone back off before she can start crying, which would ruin their reputation, and she rubs her hands on her arms until they stop shaking.

“You’ve got things to finish anyway,” Erys finally concedes. “Go prep for tonight.”

“Right stick, Dolly. Push it forward until we’re back in alignment.” There’s a warmth in Silver Ripples’ voice that warms Dolly up, too, and she reaches back out for the controls.

It’s miserable work, but she’ll do it anyway. For Jade.

[That’s, incredibly, another 10 on an Entice.]

---

And who are you, asked the owl on the lintel, whose name was Mahhu, and what is your skill, and why should you be given entrance? For you have come by the road that is white.

I am the fire that burns but does not devour, the goddess said, and I am born of ruptured stone. I am victory. I am the heart of the huntress. I am the fallen star that cleaves the earth. My brides are auspicious; Seven Quetzal is her name who is wreathed in splendor, and Ksharta Talonna is her name who feeds the host, and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius is her name who seeks your mask. They are in feathers that I have brought them; they are in nets with which I have caught them. Open the door! Do not dare keep me out! I will burn without fuel; I will burn the door. I have come by the road which is white.

And the owl entered in, and relayed these things before those assembled. So did the doors open. Heavy doors these; behind her they closed. So came she to the assembly.

In such a place torches burned, and their light was for the making of shadows. In such a place owls roosted, who are the guides and the messengers, who keep the roads. In such a place are the ancestors seated, who come and go, who walk the roads. In such a place the gods come to assembly: Macheka and Irtana and Kachtenkirya are seated there, Mu Ysha and Dishai and White Star Ocean are drinking there. Lovely are their masks, terrible are their masks. Mu Ysha sits by the door with her six honored weapons; Kachtenkirya rests the bow in her lap and the wine cup in her hands.

In such a place there are thrones, and in the one throne is Grandmother Night, and in the other throne is Grandmother Hunger, and by them in the seats are the Grandfathers. Grandmother Night covers her skull with the shroud; Grandmother Hunger does not hide her teeth. Of snakes their skirts; of dead stars their eyes; many their hands. Of their intermingling, the Mother and her bounties, and of the Mother’s womb, the assembly of the gods.

It is our granddaughter, said Grandmother Hunger. I know her. She is of me; marrow-drinker, glory-thirsting. All that hunts is of me. Come kiss my hem, little goddess.

She is willful, said Grandmother Night. She wins by cunning and not by power. Of our grandchildren, is she not the least? Even the children of mud and reeds will see her shame.

And the goddess bared her teeth, and there was laughter in the hall. Neither did she put her mouth to the heads of the serpents which hang from the waist of Grandmother Hunger. She will not be pitied; she will not be shamed.

She is a cheat, said Dishai; broad her shoulders, dreadful her weight. It is she who rolls the boulders down the mountain; it is she who is hidden in the snow. Are you not my child, asked Dishai. Born from my stone and the quickening fire; yet you claim to be my equal. Manikin, I name you; doll-of-dolls, I know you. Break my idol, I am not there; douse her flame, Manikin is no more. Will Mu Ysha be bound by her thieves? Will Two Worlds be caught in a cup? They are gods; I am a god. You are a toy; you dangle from strings.

I am your equal, if not your better, the goddess says; I am your sister, and Hybrasil my mother. Grandmothers, let us play the game; Grandfathers, bring out the ball. Let it be tossed skywards; let it rise from where we dived. I will defeat you, Dishai; penalties will I heap on your head. I will stuff your mouth with indignities; I will put my foot on your head.

The name of the ball court is Patience and Yearning. Four its corners, four its sides, four its rings. This is the ball court named Patience and Yearning; this is where the gods and the dead play the game.

"What. Did I?"

The Blast Wall bubbles on the ground, in three distinct pieces. Shoulders. Torso. Legs. Clean cuts, as if from a heat whip. But the scalded, melting metals will never reattach the way they were originally designed to, not ever again. Assessment: large scale but not total redesign required to return combat capability. Likely beyond the scope of a single round's repair cycle. Target, fully neutralized.

"What did... I?"

Tail Nine shivers as it lowers itself again along the spine of the Gods-Smiting Whip. The secret weapon hidden inside the name: nine tails, ninth tail, but only eight micro-orbiting weapons platforms. The final tail, aesthetic. The final tail, a quirk of Hybrasilian engineering. In the end, untrue. The final tail. The only weapon on the entire frame with a direct connection to the Crystal Fire Drive. The Control Tail.

"What did I, what did I, what did I, what?!"

Assessment: reflex-level response to threat. Velocity of threat too great to allow for conscious decision making. Result not directly connectable to ideals or relationships. Self preservation response only, subconscious likely influenced by sudden lighting of fresh tail display.

"WHAT?"

Mirror leans forward with her elbows across her console. Teeth clenched. Head in hands. Stubbed claws pressed deep into her fur. Blunt tipped acupuncture, increased blood flow. Breathing through the nose. Unhelpful: hyperventilation beginning. Can't think, can't think, can't think, can't breathe air air air air air! Give her air!

"Hsssssssh!"

The drool is what pulls her back. She stares blankly at her control console. Lifts her hands away from her head to stare at them as well. Cannot be muscle memory. Reflex, instinct? Nonsensical. Secrets, the foundation of her power. Secrets, the ammunition spent in strategic moments to bring victory. Assessment, assessment, assessment, assessment. Was this not the ultimate conclusion of her years of training? Secrets, more valuable than injury avoidance. Secrets, more valuable than individual victories.

She needn't even have traded inaction for victory. Tank the hit, shatter her arm, bring her activated tails to bear once again and crush Heim Stockar. She plays the scenario over and over and over again inside her head. Yes, that is correct. No mistakes. The outcome, perfect.

The image of Slate's frowning face floats across her vision. She squeezes her eyes shut. There is a migraine building in her temple.

"What... did I? Do? And. Why? Did I? Do it?"

Instinct defeating training. Instinct defeating muscle memory. Instinct defeating deeply ingrained philosophy. Assessment! Failure. Comprehensive, utter failure. Hidden capabilities, shrinking. Likelihood of maintaining record against top pilots dwindling with every match. Her dreams, crumbling before her eyes.

Slate. Matty. Solarel.

She sighs. Her cough shakes something loose in her chest, and her breathing slows to normal level. She sighs, and begins the slow process of smoothing out her fur. On her cheeks, across her forehead, down her chest. Her arms, now her legs. She straightens again and worries at the long curtains of her hair.

Something is wrong with her. Something is broken. And it must be truly shattered, because she can't even hold onto it. The anger and disgust that should be propelling her forward.

Inside. Inside she. Inside she feels. Inside she feels...

Quiet.

"Heim Stockar," she snaps, "I rescind my apology. Have fun putting yourself back together."

Tail Nine slashes back and forth across the Gods-Smiting Whip's hips. Every flicker crackles with the same power that interested parties would now be analyzing, discovering her tells, developing weaknesses and counters. With the sparks, her active tails slide back and forth along with the motion with speed and precision they never show in battle. As if they were connected to the Control by puppet strings.

There, see? Look. Look what I can do. How fast can you defeat me now, Marcina Villajero?

Her mecha quietly glides out of the arena without looking back.

The Novasurge rocks to a halt, its massive footfalls echoing in the hangar. Metal creaks on metal, the gangways sway, but Almira stands firm. A personality larger than the mecha around her. Unbowed and unafraid, despite the fact that she could be swatted like a bug.

Were she anyone else, Isabelle might have given into at least the flight of fancy - to picture, perhaps, giving the walkway a good flick and sending them scurrying - if only to see her mother's facade disturbed. It spoke volumes, however, that such a thought did not enter her mind at all. Instead, the Novasurge appears to shrink in on itself, helm turning downwards as the arm that had been helping to steady the Chaser falls into a fist by her side.

"I ... understand mother. And you are right - it was an unnecessary risk." she begins, as her mind races through the possibilities. Explain the connection between her and Quar? No. Explain the effect of her kidnapping? Definitely no.

To be honest, she didn't really know why she'd offered the surrender. It would've made more sense to strike down the Chaser and then negotiate from a position of strength. To finish the fight, through to the end. But in that moment when she'd sensed the fight leaving Quar's mind - when she'd realised that all her tricks had been countered and that there was no further point to fighting?

Well, Isabelle couldn't find it in herself to keep fighting either. And that, she knew, was something she would have to hide from her mother.

A Lozano shows no weakness. - after all. The corollary being that a Lozano does not tolerate weakness either. An opening is just there to be exploited. If you are strong, make your victory complete. Do not leave things to chance and pithy sentiments like honour, friendship and trust. Those words are only useful as labels to make others act and react in the way you want.

"You are right to recognise the threat posed by Zaldarians though, mother." she replies, as one plausible lie comes to her. "The pilot who defeated Angela Victoria Miera Antonius will be one of the key obstacles to winning this competition. If I am to stand a chance against her, I must learn more about them. I need a teacher."

"But ... Speak Not to the Outsider" she continues, earning a quizzical look from her mother. Good, plant that uncertainty Isabelle. Push where she isn't sure.

"It's one of their tenets. Their religion. I would never be able to find a Zaldarian who cleaves to their culture who would be willing to teach me anything. Or even speak to me."

"Unless ..." she gestures to the Chaser. "Unless taken in battle. Then, so long as we keep to their customs of treating prisoners - she will speak to me as the one who defeated her."

She waits, to see what she will say. Was it a good idea, mother? Will you support this endeavour?

"It's a unique opportunity" adds Tad, glancing between the woman and the mecha.

[Calling on a toxic power. 5 + 4 + 1: 10 - Modifiers seem to be the +1 from her Destiny being marked, -1 from Spirit and +1 from the Lozano siblings being present whilst calling on a toxic power.]