"You must be insulted, little goddess. Is this all they think of you?"

It is not the numbers that draw her comment. No Hybrasilian can be blamed for thinking they alone are enough for a hunt. It is not the nature of their mecha either. Inferior models, certainly. But they come with numbers, they come from ambush, they come with superior knowledge of the terrain, they come against an opponent they must doubtless suspect has been severely weakened. No, their force was adequate. Arrogance to try and claim that it wasn't.

But their [i]tactics[/i]. Insulting. Stock standard hunting formation, zero deviation. The long-range distraction, using light and noise and just enough threat of physical harm to corral the prey into a small space. The onrushing threat charging directly into the trap box to take advantage of the prey's anticipated acceleration shift. Both technically lethal, but both in essence a distraction. The third hides behind imperfect camouflage made invincible by the chaos created by their two partners, and strikes the prey from a vulnerable angle while reacts on an instinctual level to the threats directly in front of it. 

Time tested. High success rate. Utter, clownish buffoonery. Insulting.

Mirror has not used her travel time idly. On the contrary, her fingers have been hard at work inside of Smokeless Jade Fires, learning all the intricacies of her body and how to pluck her strings until bent and twisted and turned herself from an instrument into a puppet. It was, again, an absolute necessity just to avoid falling asleep at the wheel of such a stripped down mecha. It takes thirteen inputs to move the left leg just so. Twenty seven to pivot using the torso as a fulcrum. Three to make the neck crane left, but four to go right. So on and so on, down every inch of the idol's body until the Goddess Smokeless Jade Fires was a shivering mess.

And now she gets her reward. Mirror does not take the bait and dodge the laser fire into the prepared zone. She dodges instead with miniature thruster bursts and tiny shifts in the idol's articulation points, letting sprays of asteroid splash against the armor like the teasing cracks of a whip to give her slightly more maneuvering room to weave between the more problematic shots woven in between them. They pass close enough to warm the paint. And this, O Goddess, is the candle wax dripped lovingly across your perfect body. The kiss of heat against your breasts, your back, your stomach. How does it feel?

"You see? They want to make you [i]dance[/i], little goddess. They think this is all it takes to make you their slave. Foolish. You cannot be tamed by the likes of these cretins. You came with me. This is our date, and you shall dance only for me. Who else could try. Only the Whispered Promise, my darling."

The charger halts her momentum in a sudden back vent and veers off at a new, slightly awkward angle to realign with her rudely uncooperative target. At the speed she's traveling it won't be but a spare second or two at maximum, but that's enough for Jade's sensor sweep to pick Ms. Cloak and Dagger out along her trajectory in time to respond. Preemptively, of course.

A classic trap for pirates to fall into. They get so used to preying on Mainlanders awkwardly hopping from system to system that they forget sometimes they're not the only ones who live out here as a rule. Perhaps they think Smokeless Jade Fires can operate without a pilot. Perhaps they think she would only turn to someone in her cult. Perhaps they did not expect her to offer unlimited sanction to the One Day Defender, of all the creatures on Akar she might have turned to.

But she did. And Whispered Promise did not earn her title under gravity's yoke. 

"Target takes back. Feint. Intended angle of assault is... got you! Below!"

The body-mounted cannons at the idol's shoulders whir to life, soundless in this environment. Her target is the spear wielder. Her aim is in essence not especially different from this foolish trio's to begin with. Distract, redirect, destroy. But with nobody to play allies with, her target selection is... by necessity. Superior. Guns like this are generally ineffective for chewing through even second-gen models' armor, being primarily an anti-missile defense for the poor, the lazy, and the unlucky without imaginative engineers. So that is what she uses them for. One-point-five second burst, center of mass targeting. Her bullets trigger several EMP grenades at once. Cat's Cradle. Amusing. 

But only part one. Sustained gunfire without counter-thrusters pushes Smokeless Jade Fires backwards into the void of space. The momentum is... limited, but it throws off the Sneak's aim. There will be no grand reveal of her capabilities today. She streaks up and her systems are already screaming at her to shift her attack over, over, over there you idiot, now! But momentum is so easily adjusted in space. 

Jade, you are a dancer. You are a marionette. You feel your leg pulled by the chains, and you sail upwards, back into the new field of laser fire to be kissed anew by the re-established zoning shots. Your arm. Your 'good' arm, if you must, thrusts down in the same motion. You spin like a top. Your sword gleams against the darkness of space. And it plunges, ruthlessly, through the center of the cloaked mecha. 

Total system shutdown. It slumps like a drunken date against you, as Mirror leans into the acceleration and pivots the both of you around to face the third and final would-be usurper. And you find you are no longer wielding a sword but a shield, fashioned on the fly from a fallen enemy. Those shots are no longer gentle kisses, but lethal stings. Flying directly into them as you are, you could easily lose your idol's other arm. A leg. Piloted like this, you are a whisker's breath away from being dragged down in chains to serve as some dullard's fantasy alongside your precious Dolly. Not that your pilot understands any of what's going through your head.

But you're safe, aren't you? Mirror doesn't let anything touch you at all now. The arm shifts, and the fallen mecha shudders as it loses chunks of ablative armor off its back. You see what might have happened. You are allowed to imagine what it might have felt like. But you, little goddess, are protected. This wander-eyed usurper of a pilot is keeping you safe. This may even be what it feels like to be held.

And inside your cockpit, Mirror, the Whispered Promise dances. Her fingers dance across the strange buttons and dials she's cajoled you into conjuring for her. Her fancy Fisher's dress swirls and delights your eyes, drawing them up to her tail and to the spots across her back. She swings easily to and from her console to drape herself atop you as she wills it, whenever it is necessary to keep you quiet, whenever she wants to hear you moan. 

Her teeth are on your neck. Her hands are at the impossible strings that pull straight on your heart. She bids you stop, and you do. No further attacks are necessary. Your leg kicks up of its own accord and suddenly your shield is a sword again, and nobody is shooting you at all, because two foolish mecha pilots are too busy careening into one another for anything else to matter. You disappear among the asteroids, and when you move again it is to rain your wrath upon the trio, or something rather enough like it. To hurtle stars from the sky onto their paths. Theatrical, no? 

What a shame it wasn't your idea.

"Three targets confirmed neutralized. Mmmmm, [i]such[/i] a good girl you're being for me, my precious little goddess. But you must try a little harder to listen, if you want my kisses instead of my claws. You mustn't think you've reached the level of my Gods-Smiting Whip just with this. Mhm, say, why [i]do[/i] you think I named it that, anyway~?"