Alas, poor drink umbrella. You were destined for tropical climes, but you’ve flown too close to the sun now. Tissue-thin paper curls as the naked flame of your death approaches, when from the heavens descends a hand of wispy clouds. At its gentle insistence, the flame comes no closer, sparing you a fate most ironic as its owner pleads mercy with the Princess of Skull and Flame.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think you should bring a molotov cocktail to a bar fight.” The little flame reflects in his wide eyes, illuminating great caverns of worry. “I don’t think it’ll get you anything you want. Unless you want the entire bar to ally against you and throw you out the nearest window.” On account of the fact that this particular bar didn’t have a swinging door to throw disreputable miscreants out of.

But what cares the sun for such trivialities? Weigh all the clouds in the sky against the heart of the Skull Princess, and see that clouds are cowards, actually. Heed well her words, oh rebellious ones of the sky, and by her cry of “come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn” will you just! Let her! Set a little fire!

The clouds remained, unmoving and uninebriated. “No, yes, I’m quite serious. It’s true. There are hundreds of disconnected worlds out there who have figured out bars, and also that people like to come to them to get into fights. The forms are a little different, but in the customs, there’s a surprising amount of overlap. Chief among them; no one is to bring a real, serious weapon. You may bring your body, and the odd improvised weapon, provided it doesn’t cause grievous pain or significant bother, and nothing more. You could win the fight handily if you were the first to pull a knife, sure, but it wouldn’t make you the winner. It would…it would be like surviving a battle by covering your Lantern to hide.”

And you’re better than that, aren’t you, Princess? You’re strong, you’re tough, you don’t take nonsense from anybody, and you would never betray your heart like that. It would break his heart to see you in such dishonor.

“If I may,” he adds, arm only shaking a moderate amount with the effort of holding back the lighter. “Have you considered a tactical advisor? Someone who knows the territory, who can help translate your strategies into action?” Up he rose in his chair, as straight-backed as one could sit while still wrestling with a mouse. “I am recently out of a job, after all. I’d gather a list of references, but they are all very far away, and you’d have to push me all the way back across the galaxy to get them."

"But that's not why you won't leave."

It's not a question. But it's also not unkind. Alexa keeps up the pets, and waits until Cerberus meets her eyes.

"You just asked to follow us across the Rift. Maybe you know something I don't about it, but I'm willing to bet that there are ELFs on the other side of there too. It would be just as dangerous to cross with us as it would to go anywhere else in the galaxy.

She's smiling now, and swings an arm as if to display all the galaxy, in all its majesty.

"I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it's all out there, just waiting for you to come see it. I'm not a tour guide. I'm also not going to tell you it's not insanely dangerous. You're incredibly right about ELFs.

"But I saw how your face lit up as you described it all. I heard the excitement in your voice at the idea of finally, finally leaving this place. You've been here for centuries, contemplating the Rift.

"And it seems to me that if you don't want to do it for centuries more, well…"

She's trying so, so hard to be kind. But still, she lets the sentence dangle, lets its implications hang in the air. Safety or satisfaction, but the dog has to choose.

Alexa!

"It... just seemed like it'd be easier to go forwards with a clean slate. I wouldn't know what I was waiting for..."

Cerberus trails off. She was still talking but her heart had already decided.

"I mean, as fragile as I am I'd need the greatest warrior in the galaxy to protect me," she said.

Dolce!

"Oh!" said Jil. "Shit! It's a god thing? Why didn't you just say so. It's a god thing!" She took a swig of her molotov cocktail and grimaced. "Okay. So there are rules, you say? I don't want to offend any gods, so just like... lay out the rules... so I can lay out that bitch." She bites her sleeve to avoid giggling at that. Serious face! This is a god thing and she needs to take down that idiot by the book! "So, tactician, how can I make sure that she regrets ever being such a (unintelligible) basically forever? And also remembers me basically forever? You know, scars are good for that, right?"

The statues are draped in night, and milk-white pearls, and the stones of the underworld. They stand guard, faceless, with their courier’s satchels hanging from one shoulder. This one covers its head with rose-colored satin; that one has blue canvas fitted tight against its frame. Beneath their eyeless watch are relics from a bygone age: untailored clothes, unfitted to a specific body, their hues and compositions permanent and unchanging.

Well, except for this dress, which changes its hue depending on where you look, from what angle. And this dress, which Dany swears is blue and Bella swears is yellow. And this, here, where— pass your hand over the sequins— there is one image, and then another. Creativity. Problem-solving. When all that creators had were base, simple materials, and so they had to use tricks to make the most out of what they had available to them.

It sprawls on and on, stairs rising into the glass-partitioned higher levels, and here and there there is a change, something different, something out-of-place: a chamber full of trays containing mechanical cartridges, a display of ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOLLAR plates and small decorations of the Tunguska, a bubbling fountain, a room full of empty cages.

Once there were lights here, presumably. But they are all gone. It is as heaped in shadows as a Kaeri feast. It is a world of sound, and texture, and outlines provided by Auspexes. It is a world of exploration, of hide-and-seek, of sudden discovery. Not “come look at this,” but “come feel this.” And then, stepping out into the grand corridor, where faint starlight trickles through a high vaulted ceiling, and revealing what was hidden.

(The statues do not look away from their changing. They do not blush at what the girls get up to in this dark, in lace, in a fortress of last defenses. But even they can only debauch so much, these two, when there are more treasures to be found. Is this, then, yet another of the vaults of Hades?)

"Cerberus, to tell you the truth, I have not been the strongest in the galaxy for far longer than it took for me to admit it. "

She, the strongest warrior in the galaxy. She, the strongest, wrestled and ejected by two Coherent phalanx members. She, the strongest, outshone and outsped by two brilliant young lovers. A Ceronian princess, a dervish too dangerous to approach. The more she thinks on it, the more it brings a rueful smile to her face.

"Even among those we travel with, there are stronger than I. I cannot promise you the strongest, and will not begin this friendship on the back of a lie.

"What I can promise is that if someone is to harm you, it will be after going through me. It will be after I've exhausted all of my cunning and skill. I cannot promise the strongest fighter, but I can promise all of my strength. I can promise to use my knowledge to help any and all I travel with. So long as I am with you, you will not lack a protector."

• All initial participants must have the clear opportunity to retreat before the fight begins in earnest
  
  • After blows are exchanged, anyone is welcome to leap into the fray, provided the matter is not one of personal honor.
    
    • It is considered polite to formally announce a duel if the fight is meant to be closed to further participants.
  • Clear communication is a must. If a person does not understand they are being threatened with a fight, they do not have the ability to consent to the fight.
  • Arguments are an acceptable introduction to a fight, provided there is enough body language to make it clear an escalation to blows is imminent.
• No one is to bring a weapon to a bar fight. Improvised weapons, such a stools, pool cues, etc. are allowed, provided they are not wielded with intent to kill, maim, or otherwise inflict grievous injury.
  
  • If an improvised weapon should break across an opponent, the broken bits may not be used as a shank.
  • Bottles may be used, provided:
    
    • The bottle is mostly empty.
    • The bottle is constructed of a material that may shatter into small pieces on impact.
    • The shattered bottle is not then used as a knife.
    • The current style of dress includes shoes, boots, or other such protection of feet.
• Musicians, performers, and other such artists of ambience are automatically excluded from brawls, unless they themselves decide to join.
  
  • Participants may hide themselves in instruments, pieces of the set, particularly bulky costumes, etc., provided their presence does not interrupt the performance.
• Victory is primarily determined when enough participants retreat, become too injured or intoxicated to fight, or are thrown out, such that an overwhelming majority of the remaining participants are too occupied with cheering, dancing, or drinking to their triumph to continue.
  
  • If the fight is still ongoing at closing time, then the fight must be moved elsewhere.
• Any violators of these rules are to be immediately and bodily thrown out of the bar by all other patrons.
• The above rules may trend lower or higher in the standards of acceptable violence in a manner directly proportional of the respectability of the bar.
  
  • If you have to ask if something is appropriate for your current level of respectability, the answer is likely no.

“As you can see,” Dolce taps his pen on a well-scribbled cocktail napkin. “The average bar fight is not the sort of place where one collects or inflicts grievous injuries.” This particular bar was adorned in many rare, ancient curios. Posters painted with an ink so light and faint, the pictures might just dissolve to nothing at a glance. Warnings to patrons to watch their glasses carefully, lest they be stolen by birds, lions, and all manner of creatures. A most intricate phonograph in the corner paused its playing only for a marvelous working of mechanical arms to switch one record for another. “And this is a very respectable establishment. Not so much that a fight is out of the question, but certainly enough to prohibit serious violence. It would be a grave disrespect to the hospitality of Hades to cause trouble.”

“So if you want to give her a scar, it must be one she accepts from you willingly. Cuts and scrapes are common in this sort of thing. You have to leave the right impression, so that when she gets herself patched up afterwards, she chooses to keep a memento of you. How you might do that will depend a great deal on what she’s like.”

He stirs his drink, the gentle clinking of ice soothing against the hum of conversation, the rum tum tum of the gramophone. “Could you tell me a little more about her? Be as thorough as you can; any little detail might be key. And. You should tell me about her face, too.” A serious, tactical nod. “In case I have to pick her out of the fog of battle, you see.

This is not a place of honor.

The theater, the hall of paintings, the grand carnival vault, these were all monuments to things and places and works of art that pleased the Lord of the Dead. He put them in glittering displays and shone light down on them so that they stole the gaze of all who found them. He arranged them to be the envy of every traveler's eye, without exception. Those treasures, this entire temple, they were the proof that Lord Hades was the God of Wealth.

But this? This was the Anemoi. The shadows that swallow the line where the Hunt ends and everything after begins. Artemis' trash heap, in other words. Maybe she'd tossed all of these defunct fashions down here when they'd fallen out of style, or maybe Her Ladyship had planted them here as traps to defend some other, more important treasure of Hades'. The only thing she really understood was that these statues and the clothes they wore were not honored.

"It's so weird how nothing moves down here," says Bella, "After all their paintings, it makes no fucking sense. What kind've guardians could these have been if they don't do anything? Maybe they're broken..."

But the murk of this place could do nothing to hide the ancient beauty from someone who had been forced to live and work in it. And death had not robbed any of these pieces from the beauty or the certainty that once upon a time they had been loved by the Mistress of the Hunt. The mundanity of the materials could not hide their master craftsmanship from clever fingers that needed to be able to identify things even in the pitchest black to be able to work.

There are games to play in the dark. Moments to steal with Redana, touches that have nothing to do with fabric. But in between the kisses and the teasing claws and the bemused wonderings, Bella explores the dark. She explores lace. Leather. Cotton. Plastic. She explores the textures and the shapes, uncustomized and uncustomizable and therefore simply stitched together and left to hope that some day the proper body would come along and claim them. Some of these things stand out to her, while others feel strangled by the spiraling path of the Moon.

Those treasures worthy of the sacrilege, she steals. With a soft grunt, she lifts the statue-guardians full off the floor and carries each one of them toward the window and toward starlight. She takes four in all, none of them arranged with any particular artistry, but each of them at least carried into a place with real light, for eyes to see who can brave the dark but not conquer it.

One, a parody of an athletic figure garbed in soft, breathable materials that cling tightly to the body and cover very little of it. A shirt cropped just above the ribcage and shorts that barely covered the tops of the thighs with loose but flatteringly close black fabric, all of it lined with pink. Thick, short cut socks and a pair of heavy shoes with grooves worn into the bottom of them (for... grip?). It screams motion, and sweat. A monument to effort, then. A true Assassin's garb, once upon a time, possibly for a discipline that drifted too far away from the temple. It feels... special.

Another, a fluffy, long sleeved top with a knit pattern of waves and crosses running up and down each side of it that reminded her of that ridiculous sheep captain, as it it had simply been cut from his body and placed on this statue for somebody to work into a new shape. Tight black pants of some sort of toughened yarn or something. It looks warm, is all, which is a ridiculous thing for clothes to even try and be. Utterly unnecessary, when modern materials could modulate heat perfectly with just the barest swatch. The decadence of it amuses her. So it must be a treasure.

A third, a study in layers. A short, fluttering dress sewn overtop of a longer one, and a longer one still underneath that, and each of them made of such sheer material that it could neither protect modesty or guard against the elements. But as they stacked on top of each other, these greens and golds, they block off more and more light so that from the bust to the thighs it appears completely opaque and grows thinner and thinner until it reaches the bare feet of the statue. Atop its head, a wide brimmed hat with a wide train of the sheer material falling down the rim like a silken waterfall. The touch of it sent thrills down her fingers, and the look of it confuses even the Auspex. It's like a dress for a priestess, to contemplate the mysteries of the gods and sequester herself away in plain sight.

Finally, a dress that could only be meant for royalty. Delicate woven lace patterns sewn through with pearls that wind into all manner of patterns like flecks of foam breaking on the rocks of the wearer's body. The sleeves are long enough to brush the ground, the skirts even longer than that. The entire thing trails behind the statue it's worn on for over a full meter, every last bit of it the most delicate, intricate weave. A thin, silvery crown of unknowable design and origin sits across the statue's forehead, further marking it as Human garb, royal garb. No less than a King would wear this, and likely someone far more important than that. For that alone, it...

"I know we can't take them. They wouldn't fit anyway, and it'll all crumble into a pile of crap before we get anywhere with it anyway. Still, I... I wish I could see you in each of them. Can you imagine being alive, together, back when all of this was normal? I bet it was..."

Bella trails off into nothing, looking away from the dresses to gaze out the window at the endless stars. From here, the creeping edges of the Rift are impossible to ignore. She shrugs.

"I don't know. I just thought they should go somewhere nicer than the fucking dump."

Alexa!

"Listen, Alexa," said Cerberus. "I can't believe I have to tell you this, but if somebody asks you if you are the galaxy's most powerful warrior, you say yes. The gods are no more immune to reputation than the rest of us. But you do make a good point in that I am sufficiently precious that you probably want to go above and beyond to keep me safe, so here is my challenge: Confront Hades in a challenge for some blessing so you can protect me through a perilous galaxy!"

"Plus," she added, "he might get mad if you stole his dogs without asking him."

Dolce!

"Nah," said Jil, like she was winding up for something. "Forget her. Have you ever thought about biomancy? Like, really thought about it? Nothing is an accident, we are created life forms, so we have to ask ourselves the real questions..."

It was a dramatic shift in conversational tone and rhythm, but Jil was extremely drunk and you successfully stalled out a spur of the moment impulse to start a bar fight. By formalizing all the spontaneity out of it you successfully redirected the mousegirl's wrath into nothingness. It's a strange kind of power you feel in that moment and -

"Hey," said Mars.
He was glorious. Radiant. White armour with sculpted muscles, intricately trimmed in gold. Dark skin and shock white hair and a grin like the superheroes on the Tunguska's moving screens. He was unbelievably swole and incredibly balanced at the same time, a level of raw physical aesthetics that surpasses easy description.
"Jeepers creepers, little guy, it's been a while since someone called me down here," said Mars. "But you're doing right by me, little sheep. Here, let me -" he leaned across to the napkin, picked a crimson red feather from behind his ear, and signed at the bottom of the list. "Approved. Love your work."

You have the terrifying impression that you just changed the divine laws of the cosmos with your napkin list.

"- there's no other explanation," Jil was saying, deep into her rant. "Teeth are bombs. A last resort in the event of a full servitor uprising, all they have to do is add fluroide to the water supply and - blam! Blam! The final ingredient to the explosive compounds built into our very skulls! Game over man!" Mars leaned over and patted her on the shoulder in a masculine way and she slumped down into an inebriated doze.

"Let's take a moment and chat," said Mars. "You're coming up topside? I could use a champion like you."

Manners. When all else fails you, you can always count on good manners to point you in the right direction.

"My thanks, sir, it is most kind of you to say so," for instance, was much more likely the right thing to say than, say, screaming, or saying nothing at all and screaming on the inside. No matter how sensible either of those options seemed at the time. Was that a problem back when gods first made themselves known to mortals? Perhaps Olympus had to wait until they’d developed passable etiquette before they introduced themselves. Unless they were wiling to accept terror as a form of awe? Maybe it was the style at the time. And if it wasn’t for manners, he might’ve put voice to any of that, when it had absolutely nothing to do with the unknown god sitting before him! Ha ha ha ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes, he has been quiet for too long, thank you for noticing. “I had been wondering, since Jil first brought it up, who was responsible for the development of bar fights. It did not seem to fall neatly under any divine umbrella, but it was much too uniform across too many disconnected cultures to be completely up to chance.”

In absence of...well, in absence of any cue or clue alike, he chances to press his hands together, palm to palm, and decline his head in respect. Not every god shared the gesture, but more than enough to make it a guess as reasonable as it was inoffensive. "It is an honor to meet you, Sir Mars." Mars. Mars. His name was Mars. He knew that, and he shouldn't have. Truth of the divine neither from study nor experience. Which was, perhaps, how this sort of thing worked in the aforementioned introductions between gods and mortals? That might make a lot of _Prelude_ by Someone-Or-Other a bit, ah, problematic. And he stuffs the rest of that thought in a box with many of its cousins, to be chewed on…later. Much later. "Indeed, sir, I and some of my companions will soon attempt to cross the Rift into the land of the living. Your consideration of my services is a great honor, though I must admit ignorance to your domain, along with nearly all that awaits us beyond the Rift.”

Another bow of his fluffy head. Deferential. Humble. Ruthlessly noncommittal. All the proper ingredients for a safe return of the conversational initiative. Under the circumstances. Manners assures him that no god would dare risk the wrath of another, and harm a guest under their hospitality. Myth whispers that harm was a rather flexible term.

“Of course we can’t take them,” Redana says, busy in the dark. “You can’t take anything from Hades. You have to bargain for it, or experience it.”

Out she comes with two of their prizes, which had been buried underneath all the sharks. A writing stylus with a treble clef as a counterbalance, doubtless made in honor of Apollo’s blessing upon those who write beautifully. A collection of sheets, bound in yellow and pierced by metal rings, each one of them cool and crisp. With one in either hand, she sits down (in front of a perfectly good bench) beneath the four dresses.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t see me in them,” she adds. She’s always like this, isn’t she? The yellow cover folds back with a sigh, and she rests the stylus against the virginal page, white as the moon.

She’s not a good artist, but she tries. She’s a better designer than Bella might remember, however. She’s had over a year to practice with her own clothes, a year alone without a maid to look after the particulars. And halfway through her first sketch of the athletic gear, she glances up and pats the ground next to her.

Not a command. An invitation. A way to tell Bella that she’s welcome to come and rest her head and help her with the design work. These relics might not be usable after so long, but that doesn’t mean two girls can’t remake them with modern materials, modern adjustments, and carry the meaning of them across the Rift.

All context for them has been lost, and yet they’re still here. Redana doesn’t have the thought formulated that clearly, but the shadow of it is over her fingers as she works and perched on the tip of her tongue as it parts her lips. What was there can be found, or made new. Even here, in death, there’s something worth interpreting.

Won’t you join her?

"Redana..."

It catches in her throat before she realizes it's coming. A choke, a sniffle, and a single surprised shudder. Why? Why did this make her cheek wet? Why does it feel so..?

Bella is rooted in place. She is one with the mannequins, unable to move, made for modeling her pretty clothes and nothing more, forever. She closes her eyes and furiously rubs at her cheek until it finally comes back dry. She snarls until her breathing returns to normal. Control. Perfection. Lifetimes seem to pass in the attempt. And yet by the time Redana pats the ground, her feet are already moving.

At first, she only stares down at Redana from on high. Her arms reach out automatically to seize the paper and the stylus. They stop before they get much beyond that first quick twitch. Enough that what she intended was obvious, but Redana doesn't even look up. Bella sinks down next to her and leans close enough to feel the little shifts and flourishes run down those lean, muscled arms. She lets her head slip close to smell Redana's hair, to smell flax and roses and feel the slow, steady rhythm of an olympic athlete's resting heart.

"...No. There's a sharper angle on that part. Do you see? It cuts... yes, more like that. And over here you, no, no, that's too dark. We'll forget the detail of sheerness of the material. Yeah, yes. Light strokes, that's perfect. I see it now..."

Her princess. Her useless, stupid princess. The one who never learned. The one who leaned on her for everything. The silly, stupid girl who insisted on dooming herself when she flung herself out into the middle of fucking nowhere with less than a prayer and nothing so much as resembling a plan... how did she grow so much? When did she find the time?

"You've been working hard."

It comes out all wrong. Her voice is unreasonable, harsh. Almost accusatory. 'You don't need me anymore' cuts across every word, sharper than her claws. Redana's body is strong and unflinching, and so, so warm. Now Bella's arm moves with a purpose that has nothing to do with taking over the gesture. Her mouth stops moving to offer advice. Arm around the shoulder, she breathes deep.

And she purrs.

"I'm impressed. And I..." she stops, as if struck in the head by a sudden thought, "Write it down, please. 'To Bella. To Redana. Make these.' And, and something about where they're from. It's gonna take a while to finish, and I don't want to forget. Not this. Not you. Not..."

She can do this.

Just like she asked, it's dark and quiet in the tunnel. Or at least, darker and quieter. Not blinding, not pitch--the doorway at the end shines a long promise of what's to come, gives light to see by--but the halogens have been turned off. Not silent--there's no preventing the noise of the arena from filtering in--but at least the panels on the wall aren't screaming it directly in her ears. It's muffled, muted, the sounds of hundreds of people moving and jeering, of bassy music crawling through the floor, into her feet, and up her spine.

Enough, at least, to let her compose herself, to prepare, to put her face on.

Dimly, the announcer's ululations echo down the corridor--of a warrior king, traveling the cosmos, recruiting the best and brightest to her ranks, trailing honor and glory and prizes for all who follow her. Of a game for the ultimate prize.

Showtime.

It's like putting on clothes, in a way. She allows a grin to come to her face, and with each step towards the , the grin spreads until it's nearly ear to ear. She straightens, tall and elegant, a confident sway in her hips. See the cape sway, regal red, weighted. See the golden chains and studded circlet gleam.

The announcer's voice crescendoes with her name, only getting louder as it stretches out. She poses in the spotlights, and in a few swift steps, is on the central dais with the announcer.

Jeer at her, crowd. Chant her name, boo at her. She doesn't need your approval, see how she laughs, see how she waves at you for more? Bring on the disapproval. You can't hurt her, you can't take anything from her. She takes it in, and spits it back at you. She owns this ring, and you can have it back once she's done.

One gold arm--carved round with fresh silver inlays of thunderbolts and studded with fresh gemstones--snaps out and snags the microphone from the announcer's hand, and the Rex levels one finger at the crowd.

"Let me be clear! I'm not here for you!"

More jeers, more boos. She grins, and opens her arms wide as if to soak it in.

"That's right! One of your number is smarter than the average dog! She wants to leave! Wants to join my crew!

"And I care for my crew!"

With one smooth motion, she casts her cape off into the crowd and buries a spearpoint in the center of the ring.

"It is the duty of the king to care for their people! To see that they have ample opportunities to become all they can! To spread out! To risk! To grow! To bring their people joy!

"But I would not come as a thief in the night! The king does not steal away with a prize, but claims it through strength and skill! Who will gainsay the King and say that Cerberus will not be as safe by my side as anywhere in the galaxy? Who will prevent me from protecting her?

"Come! Send forth your champion! Show me your skill, that I may show mine!"

Alexa!

"Show me yours and I'll show you mine?" said a voice like a slouch. An eye like the devil burned in the depths of the opponent's tunnel. "How could I refuse an offer like that?"

He steps out onto the field, a twink on twinkletoes, cracking his knuckles together before hoisting his long rail rifle over his shoulder. He wears a black butterfly earring and a smile like imagining the coming pain is the most relaxing thing he might ask for. A wreath of gold and fire crowns his head, and Hestia and Poseidon walk in his trail, scattering petals of fire and rainbows beneath his glowing feet.

The crowd booed him. They have come with banners showing your face, Alexa. You have either a great reputation or your opponent a terrible one for such an outpouring of affection. Only one amidst all the stands has a banner unfurled with the name ZAGREUS, and to him the demigod pauses and salutes in passing.

"But obviously you're not serious," he went on, a hardening threat to his voice. "You're here to steal my dog? You really think I'll let you get away with that?"

Dolce!

"My domain?" Mars looked flattered, rather than wrothful as he might have. Evidently he considered the invitation to talk about himself desirable and did not hold it as a slight. "My domain is peace itself, little sheep. Take your little bar fight. Imagine how the bar might adapt if the last such brawl had left ten people dead on the floor. Imagine the imprint it leaves in memory, in society, in art, in culture. I am the shadow of terror. I am the hand on your shoulder reminding you that none of this is a game. I am the voice in the head of every president and daimyo. I am the one thing that a trillion people can agree on, the common ground upon which civilization is built. What could unite the warriors of Ceron, the knights of the Azura, the murderers of the Kaeri, and a thousand other cultures if not the memory of me burning their worlds and devouring their children?"

He picked up Jil's drink, swirled it, raised it in casual salute and then took a sip. "Though I do not need to tell you the consequences of failing to heed me," he said. "Rather, that is why I think you would make a marvelous adjunct. You were born and raised within the graveyard of those who dared forget my name."

The crowd roars, and the King subtly switches her stance. She was fully anticipating being the villain, the dark foe come to claim an unjust prize, but she can work with being a hero.

"I asked for the champion. Is it his day off? Is he hiding?"

All swagger, all smiles, all mocking. This is her arena, and you come before her like this?

"Because if you're him, wow! No wonder Cerberus is begging to come with me! I'm surprised half this crowd isn't packing into my ship! Hear that crowd?"

She pauses to let the roar rise and settle down.

"So no! I'm not here to steal your dog! After all, I can't steal what's being freely given!"

She pauses, as if struck by a thought. "Unless you're one of those space princesses. Amazing how hard they give themselves away and still want to be stolen."

"And since we both know she'll be happier with me, you'll help her go. Like a good owner would.

"But are you a good owner?"

She's not saying it now. Not in front of the crowd, not for their benefit. But behind her eyes, there's a hardness for Zagreus that says, it took a grand total of ten minutes for her to want to leave with me. It took ten minutes of listening to her talk. How long, Zagreus? How long has she been staring up with nobody to hear?

“I never imagined this.”

Her jacket is spread out on the black stone. There is a story of a queen who won a kingdom by claiming as much as her shawl could cover, and then unraveling it to threads. Her jacket does not need to cover more than the space around the two of them, but it is the same principle of fashion. Clothing, for the children of Tellus, is a wonder which may do anything.

“Stars. I imagined them.” She gestures at the lantern-lights flickering in the sea of color, each one tinted pink by the gash across the sky. Pink is a nice color in moderation, but here it is oppressive, almost painful. “I didn’t know how many colors there would be, though. I thought it would be like velvet studded with diamonds, and instead the sea is drenched in Uncle’s colors. And I never could have imagined this… this wound. Not healing. Not relenting. Not…”

She nestles into Bella, hugging the pale blue-and-white shark closer to her chest. “I knew there was going to be peril. But I didn’t think the gods could have… would have done anything like this. Would have left it here raw. Would need us to go through. And Hades won’t give us any treasure to protect us, and Poseidon won’t split the rift with a torrent, and once we’re in there… it will just be us. Alone. Hoping we remember what we need to do.”

She does not ask Bella to stay. Not again. Not ever again. And she does not imagine staying here, telling her other uncle that he was right, that some injustices are just too big to make right. Impossible. She cannot back down and remain Redana.

But will Redana come out the other side?

Hands folded in prayer now rest on the counter. Fluffy ears flick here and there, to catch the many words of Mars. His eyes welcome in every gesture of his sculpted arms, the swift dance of expressions playing out across his face. Mars speaks to a captive audience of one, undistracted by thoughts of what to say next or what he might petition for. The more he talks, the more little lights he leaves behind. What was once a void of total nothingness and infinite threat, now winds a dimly-lit path. Star by star, tracing out a vision of the divine to mortals far below.

So long as he keeps talking, Dolce can follow the path.

“It is as you say, sir.” He raises his glass without missing a beat. “I have traveled far with the Starsong Privateers, yet farther still on this journey, and I have still found no peace in these worlds. I don’t just mean war and bloodshed, either. I have met so few who seem to desire it at all. Her Highness a notable exception, of course, and thank goodness for that. But for many others, it always seems to be thrones, power, control, but never peace. Never what comes after.” War leading to war, coup leading to coup, conflict to conflict to never ending conflict. Too few to keep the warlords away from peaceful worlds trying only to rebuild. No one to stop the cruel whims of the Armada. A galaxy growing quieter and quieter, heading always towards a final, deathly silence.

He takes another bracing sip, and stares long into his bitter drink. “This may be a silly question, given that I may forget it all anyway. And, if we succeed, we should see it ourselves, but…what’s it like? The land of the living? Where people know you and remember you, Sir Mars?

It's less painful to look up at the sky than she remembers. The jacket on the floor is her anchor. The girl nestled into her arms is her light. The warmth of her, the weight of her, the scent of her (now half smothered in Bella's own), the sound of her breathing all make up the difference. The ugly pink blotch doesn't steal the floor out from under her legs. It doesn't threaten to pull her into it or promise death in its thousand horribly creative ways. It is huge and ugly, but that's all.

"It's not that surprising, Dany. Why would Hades give us treasure? Why would Poseidon clear a path? They don't care. They're not here to help us. The first god who ever answered my prayers wasn't a god at all, and the nicest thing any of the real ones have done is sit there staring at me without saying or doing anything. Bastard."

Her arms wrap themselves tight around her princess, as she pulls the other girl into her lap and envelopes her in a protective wall of fur, muscle, and fabric. Her head pivots on instinct, disguised by the sudden motion of her body. First this way and then that, looking about for signs of retribution due to her blasphemy. But no face appears, smiling or otherwise. She does not feel the grasp of disease in her body. She swears in relief.

"While I was... alone, I spent a lot of time watching the rift. I hated it, but I had to. I couldn't stand looking at that backwards, broken, fucked up space station all the time, and there was nothing else for a break besides Prion Paula. Which I... look, don't judge me. You can't know what it's like. I don't want you to. In fact, the less you get it the better.

But I looked, ok? Every day, I looked at that ugly fucking mouth in the middle of the ocean. Gods, this close it looks even more like the jaws of some monster or something. Makes me want to reach up there and just tear it to pieces, fuck. Because I, Dany I... your stars. I looked out at this sea of polychromatic puke and it burned me alive because I wanted you to be right. I wanted the stars to be just like you imagined when we were kids. And they weren't, and I wanted to kill them for it."

Her arms pull tighter around Redana. Bella bends her neck to bury her face in the spot where Dany's shoulder meets her neck. Her breath is hot against the skin. She plants the softest kiss there, and when she uncoils she is Strength. No tension fills her muscles, but they are as starship alloys anyway. The beating of her heart is slow, and even. No nerves, no doubt. She has her princess, and she isn't letting go.

"But in the end I'm glad it's here. Because of that I knew where to find you. I just had to point my skiff at the giant scar and hope that when I finally crashed, it'd be somewhere useful. And once we're on the other side of it, I'll never have to look at it again. So, there's that."

Confidence pulls Bella's face into a smile. No god stands behind her or lights her path, though back on the Plousios a certain sword grows slightly warmer to the touch. What has she to fear from the Rift? Let it take what it will. If there is no Bella on the other side... whoever takes her place would at least be a better person. It's a choice. To believe the little girl who got pulled from that box was more real than the woman who'd murdered her way across the rotten carcass of the galaxy.

Bella and Redana!

Once upon a time, steel was stronger than sinew. In dark and medieval ages, war was not fought between spear-armed kings and queens, but between mechanized titans of steel and electricity. Plovers still see the field in the modern day and age, of course, but they are to true war what the plover was to the bayonet before it.

They stand in their hangar bays, idols to false pantheons. They speak of times when war was the clash of champions standing atop mighty pyramids of scientists and engineers, rather than the butchery of armies and oceans of blood. In ancient days these giants were all that stood before the Tides of Poseidon, swords of laser light carving through the ocean storms that threatened to drown humanity in its cradle. Once they were glorious. The space that would become Empire was built upon their strength. And the Empire remembers.

The wars of the Mecha, before they would evolve into the stunted Plovers of the modern age, was a time of glory and legend. Tales were told of their strength and conviction, their heroism and sacrifice, their passions and betrayals. Those legends wrap through the fabric of Imperial popular culture. Films and games and glorious what-if alternate histories surround these machines that seemed for a time to be able to seize the stars themselves.

Fewer stories are told of their fall.

The discipline of biomancy grew inside the system of knights like a cancer. In the beginning it was a thing of enhancements at the edge, helping pilots find more perfect union with their machines. It advanced into entire mecha design, creating bio-mechanical synthetic machines, terrible and uncontrollable. The new realm of humanity was rocked by frontier knights whose constant battles against the Tides of Poseidon had resulted in them learning too many of the Earthshaker's secrets. They returned changed, enhanced and twisted. A new age of apocalyptic wars broke out between these twisted knights and the kingdom that had sent them into the chromatic void. For a time it seemed like civilization itself was on the brink.

In the end, it was the biomancers of the core that solved the problem of the Knights. This era of history is unsung. It is most commonly dealt with in documentaries, tragedies and stageplays. The simple fact of the matter was that the new form of war that the biomancers had developed was horrifying, but it had been something Poseidon had been trying to teach for a long time and the nascent Empire was finally ready to listen. The giants could be drowned with numbers and so conquest was simply a logistics game. And so civilization invited the darkness of the void into itself and became a mirror of the enemy it had spent so long fighting.

The age of the glorious champion drew to a close. In its place came the first swarms of combat drones - barely sentient biological machines, decanted in prodigious numbers and triggered into superhuman frenzy by pheromantic cocktails. These were followed in turn by the first servitor legions, early refinements of the drones at first intended for special forces operations in support of the blood-crazed swarms. In time the drones lost in popularity and the legends of the first legions began to grow, but by that point it was too late. The glory of the earlier age had been consumed in an avalanche of teeth and claw and lifespans measured in weeks. The knights were dead and so were the things that had killed them. The galaxy was swept clean for what would become the Atlas Cultural Sphere.

It is an uncomfortable question to ask, 'what happened to the Knights?' Better to remember them in the eternal summer of their golden age, where even the villains were heroes. But here, in the House of Hades, that summer still shines.

You watch as they clash. These are late stage designs, glorious in white and gold, smooth curves and radiant blades and the size of buildings. These are not the early designs, weighed down with cannons and missiles, but the designs from the pinnacle that move and fight with a fluidity almost like a living person. They whirl and strike and blades of light send waterfalls of stars whenever they clash.

And beyond, the hangars. The gallery, the ranks of them standing tall in an archaic demonstration of military power. All of them surround the central ziggurat of the Tunguska, what is called the Bank. A beautiful tree-lined bridge runs amidst the hangars, shoulder height to the giants, and over the open training fields where the eternal champions fight. It is something out of a fairy tale.

And there, under pavilion in the middle of the bridge, were a cast of legends. Sir Aeon, the fair-haired champion whose forbidden love had doomed her kingdom. Princess Ortji, who had lost three kingdoms without losing a battle. King Anjia, the unmoving icon of righteousness whose genius was in convincing the immoral to destroy themselves. Ikari, who had never wanted to take up the blade but found a way to master it despite everything. Odysseus, who was here from the wars of an earlier age and had never felt the need to move on. They toast you and cheer as you approach as in the background giants wage war.

You'd think they'd be taller, these legends of bygone ages. In truth they are short and fragile, and even the ones with defined muscles have the unhealthy aroma of heavy metal deficiencies. All the weight that they carry is in the fact that you've seen multiple actors wear their faces and tell their stories. Some wear armour, some the skintight jumpsuits of the ancient piloting order, and some wear flowing dresses and gowns that catch the light and make them shine like flowers. And they are flowers, these girls and boys, the shining decorations of the Underworld.

"Of two hundred and fifty voyages to the rift, fewer than twenty five have reached the Tunguska," said Sir Aeon with a smile that made the destruction of her realm worth the price. "And of those, fewer than ten passed into the Rift in anything resembling working order. You have accomplished a task worthy of celebration."
"Gods and assassins defeated by your hands!" grinned Princess Ortji, the warrior of such skill it had almost - almost - overcome her equally legendary lack of diplomacy, tact or strategic understanding. "Come, sit, feast with us! Anything less would be an insult!"

Alexa!

"Cerberus is a dog, Alexa," said Zagreus flatly. "I once watched her follow a mechanical chariot for thirty two city blocks, barking all the while. She'd follow anyone with a sack of unidentifiable rat meat. That does not mean it's a good idea for her to head out into a galaxy where getting into the same city as an active bar fight could result in her destruction."

And as far as he seemed to be concerned, the debate was over. The rail comes around in an arc and Hestia claps her hands and smiles as it does. You can see the flash of ancient violet magic and the detonation like a star -

The force of the impact is shocking, enough to knock you from your feet. Immediately after comes a pummelling sequence of heavy body blows, lighter than that first shock but forcing you back even further. These were not piercing impacts, each one was a shove physically hurling you back further and further towards the distant wall. The closer you get to it the more you can see swirling chromatic hands reaching up out of it, infused with twisted energy, looking to grab you and pull you into their depths.

He needs to pause to reload. An opportunity to regain feet and regain your ground - but it hardly seemed like enough. In moments he was firing again. A simple but brutally effective strategy: fire at you with a ranged weapon whose impact was so great it prevented you from closing the distance.

Dolce!

"Yes, you see?" said Mars. "This realm of the dead falls into entropy, as you said. Sooner or later Hades won't be able to hold it in check and it will destroy itself the same as it did when it was on the surface. He's trying to preserve a moment of time, unwilling to admit it is lost."

"The surface, though!" he grinned and raised a finger. "Peace! Prosperity! The Ceronians rule, yes, but as one of many. A council formed of great servitor legion representatives discusses matters of galactic administration and trade. Enormous slipway gates allow rapid and safe travel across the void. Macroengineering projects are run to restore devastated planets and shattered biomes! Technology advances through alliance with crystal dragon supercomputers! Everywhere is prosperity and abundance and an eternal, smiling summer!" He laughs heartily. "What's not to like? What's not to love? Even your kind, little sheep, have found their place as administrators and functionaries, overseeing entire star sectors! I can not imagine a more perfect world than the world above! That should be reason enough to hope you survive the Rift, I think!"

The King catches the first blow on her shield. Bringing it to bear is instinctual, bone deep, without thought, and it sends her ass over teakettle.

Idiot. Of course it does. The blows aren't nearly enough to meaningfully harm her, but anything that hits hard enough to knock her over will still knock her over if it's absorbed into the shield. And if she goes into that wall, it's over.

Crowd of people, and the idiot brings a sniper rifle. Use that. Force him to risk hitting--no. Unacceptable for them, and if worry of hurting the audience has slowed him down, she sure can't see it.

Six shots. One massive--OOF--hit, five smaller--oof oof oof--hits, rapid fire. Reload. Enough time to get up, but not enough to set herself, not enough to brace, block!

Not enough time. Unprepared, the bullet catches her shield at an angle, sends her spinning sideways, the ricochet digging a furrow into the arena.

Why did she leave the spear buried in the ring? Idiot!

Unless…

She's still spinning, sideways instead of down, though the next five shots to the shield fix that. But when the reload is up, she's ready.

No forwards progress, not yet. But she can use the kinetic energy, use it to shove her sideways. Angle the shield, so she vectors towards--

One iron-gripped fist lashes out, and closes around the spear, still buried point-first in the floor. The shaft bends and moans under the combined assault of statue and the follow-up shots, but holds, keeps her upright.

Never let them see you bleed. "You know," she calls out, "I'm starting to see why this crowd doesn't--"

Purple in the barrel. Wait for iiiiiit…

Six shots. Six acrobatic spins around the pole. But when next the twink reloads, she's still on her feet.

"Doesn't like you," she finishes, and dashes forward with a grin.

Watch for the purple glow. Wait for it. Bury the spear as deep as it goes, and anchor for the storm. Let the energy of the rifle whip you around the pole, and advance with the roar of the crowd.

He's not stupid. By the second reload, he's going for the spear. She scoops low, takes the energy and lets it flip her forward, spear and all. By the third, he's shooting the ground, and now she has debris to kick in his face, block his view.

"I'm not surprised you'd think she's just a dog. She was made that way! Did you never ask her whether she wanted to stay that way?"

She's inside the guard now, one hand on the barrel, one hand on the spear buried in the floor, and eyes inches from his.

"So how's about, instead of focusing on her not being safe, you give me what I need to keep her safe and happy?"

[6,5,4, +2. 13 on Overcome.]

The sound that Redana makes is a breathless gust of wind, the fall of a hungry hawk, the mousegirl that finds the cheese. When she rushes forward into their midst, it is only her color that makes her distinct, the healthy glint of her wheat-gold hair— and the solidity of her build, a weight that seems to draw them all towards her. Half a dozen heroines of similar stature sit together in the shadow of the pavilion, and already a faint silver tea has been poured for the Imperial Princess. Come, Bella, if you dare, and sit surrounded by your girlfriend’s people.

“Of course! We’re the ones that are going to pass through,” Redana says, without a hint of irony; the bones of her mouth are a flash of clean white, solid as ice. “Our captain is the cleverest— no offense, Nobody— our champions the boldest, our cause the most righteous. Even if we break our arms in the process,” she says, nodding to Ortji, “we, we are going to know victory.” She sips, and for a moment she’s actually serene, a warrior-queen surrounded by her peers. But she can’t stop her smile. She is life and death cupped in one hand; she has affirmed desire in the shadow of infinity. Her past lies behind her, notable only in how it allows her to recognize the notables assembled all about her, and the future is one shining ribbon-road that cuts through the awful Aphrodisian gash across the beautiful sky.

When she looks back to Bella, it is with implicit invitation. You deserve to be here, too, among the heroes, she almost says out loud, and the pat on the stone bench is impossible for any of them to miss. Come meet your peers, Bella, even if all of them barely come up to your shoulders. Here are champions that shucked their old selves, their old skins, their old names. Here are those who have gone through transformation and survived. Here are the blessed, and Bella—

You belong here, too, as much as Redana does. She will fight you if you dare to suggest otherwise, this girl who meets the impossible head-on, just like Sir Aeon, just like King Anjia. Bring the sharks, too, so Ikari may marvel at their softness and their innocent smiles.