Who does she ta- ... you clearly don't get how these trips are supposed to go, do you?

This is her mother's trip, not Isabelle's. Her job is not to figure out the itinerary, accommodation or who will accompany them. Her job is to arrive at the shuttle at the appointed time (actually, 30 minutes early), sit down in her seat, stare out the window at the stars and respond only if spoken to. These trips are not intended to be fun or to include "family bonding time" or whatever normal people do. They have a purpose and they will be executed efficiently.

Besides, she already asked if Cam and Tad could come but the twins have some kind of social media engagement coming up that is consuming their attention and Luca is in business meetings for the next fortnight too. What's more, it's not like she could sneak Asil into the entourage without her mother noticing - as much as she really really wishes she could.

No, she's not likely to have any friends on this trip. It's far more likely that they will run into one of the Lozano family rivals. Maybe Alita Perez, of Perez Pharmaceuticals, and her daughter Elena. Or one of Elena's posse - Diego with his nose in the air or Rosalinda with her pink hair and nasal voice.

If she's lucky, it'll be a quiet trip where she'll just be asked to stand still and try on clothes until her mother decides what she'll wear. Maybe she'll be able to sneak away for a moment, pick out something nice for herself or to even give to Asil. Yes. Images of herself in one of the Kikuji line enter her head: maybe a kimono, or something just inspired by one - she needs to be able to dance. Long sleeves, hair up. Ceremonial sword by her side. Being held by a handsome young drone engineer in her burgundy suit, styled short brown hair and tanned skin. She'd see her across the dance floor. She'd smile. An invitation. They'd walk towards one another, raise hands and slot themselves together like pieces of a puzzle.

She takes a deep breath, cheeks warming, bringing thoughts back under control before they can dash too far down that road.

It would be nice to take Asil to the gala. Officially inviting her would be too obvious though. Maybe an anonymous ticket, tucked into the clothing she'll buy.

Yes. It could work. Maybe there was something to look forward to on this trip after all.

Solarel

“Ah, this is so rare.”

The lance has found the heart of the Makhaira and for a moment, time is frozen. You have won the match, and Akai has lost the match. There’s no more movement. Nowhere to go. The Makhaira is and always was much larger than the Kathresis. So the finishing blow leaves you held together, connected by the lance, slowly drifting through space.

“I know our raiders often choose power in their designs, but before you gave me this sword, I was almost never the stronger fighter in my matches. And after, I had so few challengers. I felt invincible. I thought…I thought I felt what it was to be you, Sol.”

Her hands loosen, she lets the sword go. It floats with you, slowly and lazily rotating over its center of gravity to point towards the Arena below you.

“But I was completely wrong. Utterly. I never knew how hard it was until now. Watching you fight, watching how good you made this look. You made the lance look good too, you made me look good. I knew that, I knew the compliment. But I…I never realized. It was so much more than acknowledgment, or even respect. It was the kind of love that made me the center of your world, at least for a while. I don’t deserve it, Sol, but I’ll make up for it.”

And then, the Makhaira puts its hand upon the Kathresis, chest to chest. Gently, softly, barely able to muster even the force for that movement. A sentimental gesture, yes. But also, it’s a place where the watching cameras have very few angles.

So right in front of your face, you see the signs flash rapidly: The Aeteline is coming here, as are both the current and former empress for the finals. She signs it with a movement that indicates laughter, a private joke just for the two of you. She’s in.

Then, the Makhaira is well and truly out of energy and it slumps, the Kathresis doing all the work suddenly to hold you both in place.

***

Mirror

“You’ve given me half your riddle. I think.” She sounds excited. “I mean, I can tell you keep trying not to let the fighting get too intense. And I think you could have finished me off if you weren’t trying to avoid that. But now you’re making me an offer and telling me all about Solarel and about l-love and, I mean, gosh.”

She blushes, you know she is blushing, it is the most obvious and sincere audio blush in the history of blushing cat-girls, second perhaps to the intense longing sort of blush that little Dolly seems to have mastered effortlessly.

“But anyway, I think the offer you’re making me is real, and it’s, I’ll get back to it but I figured if you’re going to all that trouble when you could definitely beat me, you must be under some rule not to take any risks at all. Like you’re trying not to get even a scratch on that amazing mecha of yours that you’re saving for Solarel. I got it, right? Right?”

(She waits for confirmation, but then goes right on). But I mean, like I said earlier, I’m kind of the simple one, the muscle. I believe in Hybrasil, and the Huntresses and all that. But it doesn’t feel right for me to try and drag you into that. I’m sorry I keep comparing you to my friend, she’s just like you in a way. Like you both have these strong feelings and when you talk it’s like the whole world is moving around you and there are things you want so badly that everything else gets out of your way. It’s like catnip.”

She hasn’t started another move as she’s been talking, just kept her distance. She flies in now, but then she goes down on one knee, her spear placed lovingly on the ground before her, head bowed.

“And…I don’t think you’ve fallen into as much blasphemy as you seem to think. Hybrasil doesn’t prohibit knights just because the lodges don’t have the title. So I think I want to see where this goes, and I’m not betraying anybody by doing it.”

She might be naive, but she’s sincere. What will you do with your new squire?

***

Jade and Dolly

Ada strains, but the cords hold. She understands what’s happening. Each bit of spear damage is a place where her armor isn’t as strong, where the ions can seep in and make her body tingle and go numb. But still she strains.

She’s strong, such a strong person. Someone who isn’t allowed not to be strong. Who doesn’t allow herself not to be strong. Too many responsibilities ride on her being strong and so that is how she has defined herself. She is a matriarch. In another life, she might be a queen. The one who laughs loudest, eats most heartily, and shows her people what they can aspire to be.

But you’re fast, and you’re skilled. You know the weaves and the knots, and you have her held. You’re close, and the electricity between you is a shared spark. It’s just, it can’t last. She doesn’t follow your religion and she doesn’t believe in Jade as a goddess. Nor is she willing to indulge in the way that dear sweet Angela is willing to indulge. Angela likes the game, but that’s not how Ada Smith works. So, she’s going to break it, she’s going to snap just enough of her bonds to get her hold, then press you tight, so tight, and win her victory.

Unless…Dolly, you can see the shape of it, even though Jade can’t. You have an older sister, so you know how these things are sometimes. You can’t demand that an older sister bows and begs to you. But you can beg her, you can plead and ask, and through sincerity and vulnerability, you can move her. That’s what Ada needs right now. She needs a soft touch, an admission that Jade isn’t as confident as she sounds. A sign of real, honest sincerity that she’s going to try for the Snow Geese and that she understands how hard that is and isn’t just making empty, ignorant promises.

Offer her that, and her heart will relent, just enough that you can take the match.

***

Isabelle

“Isabelle Lozano? By all the stars! I thought you were off in the arena. What are you doing here of all places?”

The high nasal voice announces Rosalinda as though she had her own bannermen with matching trumpets. She’s not here with the whole entourage though, she seems to be off doing her own dress-fitting along with a couple of her ladies in waiting. Something smaller and more private.

Actually, if you care to get a leg up on her, the fact she’s here probably means that something happened that put her behind. Elena and her family would have already had their fittings and dresses made a month ago on TC Prime and be well en route to the gala now, attending in the entourage of the great Teresio and Antonius families. No, Rosalinda is here because she forgot or was held up on some other business and now she needs a dress just as fast as you do and it’s easier to get it done en route. In fact, you’ll probably be traveling back together in the same ship convoy, you could even spend the time on the shuttles together!

When you finally do turn, you can see that she’s added to the pink hair. Now she’s got herself stylized with one side of her head cut really short, pixie style, while the other side has a medium-length section that comes down over her neck and ear and almost over one eye in front. Instead of just pink, she has a thin purple stripe about two-thirds of the way across it, running from the part to right around where her temple is. There’s pink on each side of the purple. It must have taken several hours to get the styling done like this.

“Well nevermind that. If we’re here, we should be matching dress buddies, right? We’ll both make a bigger splash if we coordinate! I think the new Serpaws designs are all the rage!” She models the tight dress she’s wearing, which as soon as she thrusts a hip, parts completely to show the fully revealed hip. On her other side, the shoulder that lines up with the close-cut hair is bare, giving the whole thing a sort of toga-style look. “I’m planning to have them do some kind of embroidery on it around half the chest and up the shoulder. Maybe a tree, I hear floral themes are in and I rather like the idea of something that grows strong, you know? Says good things about the family and all that. Plus the aesthetic balance is good, it puts the weight on my shoulders and upper chest, where it should be.” She laughs, feigns a slight blush.

Of course, unspoken here is that if you did match her dress she’d be able to tell everyone that she was the one who talked you into the design and it would reflect well on her influence on an up-and-comer. And a pilot to boot. So you’d be giving her quite a lot if you did that. Almira would tell you not to make a single concession, but consider what you actually think of her. This is a big enough deal for Rosalina that doing something for her here, even though it’s not the style you were imagining, could earn her actual, sincere friendship if you’re not deceiving her in the process.

It looked good?

Solarel stopped dead in her thoughts. Thought about that. Looked good. Looked invincible. Was... that?

Was that how people saw her?

The thought was alien to her. Yes, she knew she won... well, almost all of her fights. But she'd never once considered the idea that was impressive. It was just, like. She just paid attention to people until she figured out their weakness. And then she used that against them. It wasn't... like, that wasn't anything special she was doing. That wasn't designing and then learning how to pilot a god unbound by physical instinct. The legends were full of stories of heroes who won all of their battles and returned home in glory but that didn't mean they were invincible.

But were... were none of them watching her? Looking for the gaps in her technique in the same way she looked for the gaps in theirs? Or were they all like Akai had been at the start of this fight, so caught up in their external lives and goals or - or, or no. That was blaming them. What if she was the only one who saw the world in this way?

The Hunter of Huntresses, the girl who had defeated all the knights of the Evercity and bought Hybrasil to its knees, paused to contemplate the idea that she might be somehow unusual.

It was a scary thought. Previously there'd been a sense of frustration at herself for being a bad communicator and at other people for not respecting her. But what if they did respect her and they just couldn't interact with her? Where the fuck did that leave her?

Oh sick, she signs. Hahaha.

As if in answer to the guess, the Gods-Smiting Whip meets the Ginger Tiger's charge with bristling aggression. The spear drops to the floor. Kiriala takes a knee. Four floating tails find her neck with tips flaring up threatening lethal energy release. Two more mounted on the arms join the display with plasma blades peeling more and more paint off with every dangerous spark.

No blow falls. There is no blast of laser fire shredding apart a naive opponent in her moment of vulnerability. There is no vengeful gouging of claws or sudden motion to rip a crystal fire drive straight out of the chassis of the mecha it's powering. She holds the pose, but it is all threat and response to threat, no action. No definitive bite.

In other words, a confirmation.

"This match is... a loss." says Mirror.

Tails Three, Four, Five, and Six snap back to their neutral floating positions, and the blades created by Mirror's secret technique retract into the dangerously over-hot Tails One and Two. They detach shortly thereafter and join their sisters in a halo about the Gods-Smiting Whip. The finger's on the mech's right hand curl and tilt upward, lifting the Ginger Tiger's head with the index and middle digits.

"I gave too much away. Patronizing. Apologies. But you reached the center of my first riddle and found one of my conditions admirably. More accurate: half found it. I was also protecting the arena this entire time. Did you notice the difference in my combat technique relative to past matches? I could much more easily preserve this frame by vaporizing yours. But. This field deserves to be napped in. I have kept it suitable for such. That is all."

She smiles as she lifts Kiriala back on her feet. It's a sad expression that doesn't reach her liquid eyes, more wistful than amused. Wasted opportunities, over-simplified play. Over direct. One two three, four five six. It affected her thinking after all. Poor strategy and tactics, simple marching in a straight line toward the goal. Even in the tallest grasses only an idiot would fail to track her movement.

Solarel would... Solarel would have failed this challenge. But she would have done it while cutting Mirror in half. Which thought makes her feel worse?

"My second condition, you have not named. Nonetheless you have defeated it. The match is over and I have not triggered it. Not come close. Disaster. Disaster. Absolute misplay. Equivalent of health investment, absolute disgust. Thusly you are victorious. I will request this match be officially recorded as a draw. And I will take you into my service, but in honor of your wishes. Not mine.

"In the time that is given to me I will... show you. The difference between a Hunter and a Fisher. The way star charts map new paths if you but name them differently. I will. Show you. How something can be. Forbidden. Without, without, without... without needing to declare it. I will teach you how far I have fallen.

"But. My token of knighthood. My. Chivalry. To my new squire. I will. Choose. To believe I am already saved. I thank you. From the bottom of my heart."

It is not Dolly's place to second-guess her goddess. Not really. That's the purpose of the restraints, the guidance, the gag, the entire world inside of the mecha. All Jade has ever asked of her is to yield and receive the blessing of the goddess directly. Well, that's not technically true; Jade has asked many other things of her. But they boil down to obedience. To be passive and blushing and to accept the gifts that she is offered. You're going to be a good girl, aren't you, Dolly?

But at the same time, this time, she wishes she could speak. That she could whisper into Jade's ear that it's not working. That the rope is about to snap. That the pirate will match strength with strength, and that brute strength already overcame them working together once.

Dolly strains. She leans forward in the cockpit and moans, pitifully. Her heart is pulling taut against the net it is woven in, but not out of fear. No. Fear, but fear of not being good. Want. Want enough to bite. And, beneath it, the prayer of the girl who wanted to be swept up into the stars, desired by a goddess, preyed upon by pirates, to be constrained and owned and loved.

The lines slacken, the hands push her forward. "Go ahead," Jade says, toothful. "Tell her as only you can." And now it's her, just her, straining as Ada gains inch by inch against the throbbing ion-kissed cords, and she's still, still mouth-filled, still decorated, still exposed. The leash goes slack, trails against her fur, brushes against her bodysuit in a way that Jade knows exactly how to translate as a momentary and sensitive hitch. But she holds it in Dolly's peripheral. This is how she can keep playing the game for you, Dolly.

Dolly headbutts the queen.

Right beneath her chin, the two mecha come together with the delicacy of a ship docking. It's difficult work not to spear the throat on Jade's ears, but Dolly manages, and with her free hand, she cups the back of the queen's head. The idol was not designed for vibration, and so Jade extends herself throughout it, all of it, and demands its bones to shake. Of course it will not destroy the systems; she knows its tolerances intuitively. The calibration will be long, but let her adoring worshipers do so to show their love for her! Fingers designed to grip weapons of war brush the queen's skull with reassuring firmness, down to the back of her neck, where a mother would kiss.

"She'll hear you," Jade whispers. "And not just her. Everyone will. Everyone watching will hear you, Dolly." Her tail lifts her bride's chin in a way that will cause extensive detailing work for their opponent's pit crew. "If you want to win the fight in the precious Dolly way, you have to let them all know." And some will know, and more won't, and it's impossible to say what the consequences will be, but the thought is making her giddy, making her teeth long and sharp and wicked. And it's making Dolly's palms damp and her thighs shake and her eyes shut tight, pulse pounding through her body as she makes her choice.

Changing the output of the speakers is a flick of the ear, a twitch of the finger. Nothing to her. Everything to Dolly.

"Mmmm," Dolly hum-purrs, attaching the lead to her hip, at the magnetic clamp belt. A way to lose. If Ada pulls, she'll tear Dolly-- purring, gentle Dolly-- off her feet. "Mmmm mmmm," she continues. Her own breath washes hot over her face, pushed back by the thick layers. "Mmm, mmm mmm hmmm." An unmistakable purr, the trill of communication, of "we were play-fighting and now we are not," which every kitten knows, but... muffled. As if her mouth were packed full. Everybody can tell, probably. They all are going to know. But. But but but. They won't. Know. In person. Probably. But they might wonder. They might ask. Or they might insinuate. Or tease. Maybe Jade will change it up, leave them guessing, or maybe she'll, she'll, she'll...

The clench of Dolly's thighs requires instant weight redistribution to avoid her losing her footing in the debris. We can't have that, dearest.

The body language of Seven Quetzal is that of a little sister begging to win. The gag-speak of Dolly is that of an obedient little submissive acting as her mistress's seductress. And the entire match rests on the strength of her heart and the strength of her hips.

[9 on Emotional Support, but Jade will burn her String on Ada to add 1 to Dolly's roll and make it a full 10, because it's the capstone of the match and Dolly deserves to be spoiled.]

Isabelle turns, inwardly grimacing, but outwardly placid save for a single raised eyebrow.

Rosalinda is not ... well, they're definitely not friends, as much as the pink-haired girl might like to pretend otherwise. "Acquaintances of circumstance" probably best captures it. Two children of two wealthy families with demanding parents to boot. Rivals in name and fact, but it was a rivalry masked behind smiling faces, polite words and the ruthless poaching of contracts.

They'd often attend the same functions at their parents' behest. She'd actually been to Diego's last birthday gala on Valor with her. But that had only been to show face. It wasn't like they really spoke to one another. Isabelle would usually just contribute the expected minimum to the proceedings and then let her mind wander until it was time to go home.

That said, it was unusual to see her here alone. Rosalinda wasn't as bad as Elena - who actually enjoyed lording her power over others, pulling friends and enemies around as if they were puppets on strings. But the pinkette was still part of that group, trailing around and encouraging the behaviour whenever she thought it would score her points in the other woman's eyes.

"I haven't decided yet." replies Isabelle, turning back to regard the clothing racks.

And she hadn't, in more respects than just dress choice. If Rosalinda was just trying to use her - like practically everyone else was - then she could go take a long walk out a short airlock. But if something else was going on ...

"I had matches that only just finished - so the shopping had to wait until now." she continues, watching the other woman out of the corner of her eye. "But it's not like you to let a social engagement slip. I would've thought you and Elena would have picked out your matching outfits weeks ago."

The other woman looks away which, in their circles, is as good as a flinch. Isabelle can't help but notice it.

I caused that. she reflects, as a bitter taste forms in her mouth.

This was all their "friendship" amounted to, really. Guarded comments, looking for legs up on one another, using one another. All part of the Game their families played. It was never healthy, but it had been the closest thing she'd had to real companionship for years.

At least ... at least until Asil had come along.

She'd let her guard down there. Let the walls crack for just a moment. And just look at what had happened. She had a girlfriend - someone who would sit with her, just for company. No agenda. Not for Isabelle Lozano. Just for Isabelle.

Of all of Elena's posse, Rosalinda was the one who was most likely to actually want something different. Not just an infinite continuation of the Game. And yet here she was. Still trying to make a move, weak though it was. Still playing by the rules. Bound by family and expectation. She would never lower her walls on her own accord.

But then again. I'm the problem here too, aren't I?

Isabelle frowns.

She was still the same, in a large way. To before Asil had barrelled into her life.

But ... she'd also changed ... in a small way.

Maybe she could do for Rosa a little of what had been done for her. For someone who'd at least been there with her through all of the stuffy functions and soulless manoeuvring, it was the least she could do.

Turning, sighing, she gives the other woman her full attention for the first time in the conversation.

"I'm sorry" she says. Her expression adds: 'I know what they put us through.'

"What's wrong?"

Solarel

There is a world swirling around you after the match. Facts and details. Repair of your mecha, the blessings of your crew, now fully active for the first time since you’ve properly finished a match. Lareth laughs when she looks over the battle footage while she works. A parent’s laugh, an elderly laugh, amused at the work she has done that came to nothing but proud all the same.

Crew from the Makhaira visit you. Akai isn’t fool enough to appear in person, not this fast, but there’s information. A location within the vastness of the Hangar, a boarding location on Akar II. There are times, crew schedules, maintenance information, details on pilots, entourage, supporting mecha. Marna Kerne’s name highlighted, the Zaldarian pilot that Akai didn’t think she could beat, now in the entourage of the Empress. Nierka Stalok, your first fight. She hasn’t lost a match since facing you. A world of planned times and movements, support crews and weaponry and on and off hours.

These are the trappings of the Evercity in one of their purest forms. Where the Empress travels, the bureaucracy travels. But Akai moves in it like the great mecha on the planes, unconcerned by the lesser obstacles before them, supremely confident. She’s sharing a part of that with you, a piece of a greater whole. This information is like the skeleton of a building, the machinery of a factory. Within it are holes, blindspots, weaknesses that have escaped notice and will continue to escape notice until they burst. In all of this the theft of the Aeteline is buried if you can but see its shape.

But there is one wrinkle that stands out above all the others. The gala. The arrival of the Aeteline, the empress, the empress in exile, and so many others marking the start of the final rounds of the tournament. Festivities have already been planned for months, since before the tournament even started. Travel schedules, waypoints, outfights. It’s said that Mayze Serpaws was commissioned to design multiple different outfits for the attendees, who will span all the three empires and multiple independent systems.

The gala this time will not be held on any of the planets, but on a space platform assembled from the nanobots of the Arena custom for the experience. Positioned to offer a perfect view of Akar’s star, both planets, and the arena in concentric orbits around this, the axis of the system.

And whatever theft you may wish to attempt, you’ll need to appear at the gala. Mirror will be there. You’ll need to decide what to wear.

***

Mirror

Kiriala bows, or tries to as she’s lifted to her feet. It’s the most awkward motion the Ginger Tiger has made the entire match, a girl who’s allowed herself to be swept away.

“I…” and at first she simply can’t think of anything to say. What should she say? Matches don’t end like this except in stories for kittens! She had surrendered, she had lost, conceded defeat in a match where she felt herself constantly overwhelmed and overmatched. Even her revelation hadn’t been quite right. A technicality, a small difference that Mirror had chosen to overlook.

A blush overtook her and she could do nothing but stammer. It’s a mixed sort of blush. Simultaneously irate to be pandered to, but proud to have earned it. It’s all there in the tone of the stammer, the way she rumbles, the movement of her mecha as the movement of her body, the way her tail swishes with a pleasure that can’t quite be overtaken.

She finally manages something, “I will bring you honor in your service” and then she splutters again because holding it together for that was the most she could manage before her brain started thinking about where you touched her and the way it felt through the mesh.

When you get back, Slate’s beaming and Matty is pouting because she’s going to have to share even more of your time, but it’s a pout that doesn’t manage to reach her eyes, which are not secretly secretly full of all sorts of fantasies involving knights that she hadn’t properly thought through before.

And after all this, there will be the gala. Held this tournament on a custom-constructed space platform perfectly aligned on the axis for the system, offering a clear view of the star and each of the planets. Some people are even saying that the programmers did some particular math such that the plane of station will have an intersection point if one were to draw a straight line from each of the three capital systems to Akar and have them converge. A rather strange exercise given that space itself is scientifically confirmed not to be straight, but nevertheless.

Mayze has a lot of designs coming up for the gala. One for Adriana, quite nearly finished. One for Charon, for his cybernetics. One for Maelia Dahlia, probably, who should be arriving or already arrived at this point. And then there’s the design for Dolly, bless her. And of course, Mirror will need to wear something to the gala herself. Or nothing, but nothing counts as something.

***

Dolly and Jade

Electricity hangs in the air, buzzes through you, and then Ada Smith relaxes. Just a hair. Not the release of tension, but the stabilizing of it.

So the match ends. The Goose whose name you cannot decide is bound and disabled, held in place by purrs just as soundly as by the ionic wires of Hybrasilian cunning.

It’s a victory, of a sort. Enough to advance to the final rounds. There is also the knowledge that you may have lost. That if you are paying attention, that Ada had the winning strategy and abandoned it because she believed in…honor? Fairness? Justice? Because she believed that winning was less important than connecting and because she felt that she had connected. It is, after all, impossible to resist a purring a cat.

Ada Smith is a different sort of person from the ones you’ve “recruited” thus far. She isn’t interested in play in the same way, but she wants to stay in your orbit. She wants the connection to Hybrasil, and the reassurance of friends in a place that really isn’t terribly welcoming for her. At least most aren’t welcoming and you don’t know enough about TC politics to have a good sense of who her allies ought to be. Unless you decide to ask her about rebellions and such, in which case she’ll have plenty to say.
She is a consummate caregiver though, always paying attention to the needs of people around her before her own and conscious even before you are of things you might need. She’s the sort of person that always seems to appear with a helping hand, a drink, or just the right tool before you even thought to ask for it.

And speaking of needs, there’s the gala coming up. You’re qualified and the top Hybrasilian pilots are going to be there. Including Mirror, that odd fisher cat, and at least some of your group, though it appears that Ksharta has been disqualified and is pretty broken up about it. You could invite her as part of your entourage though, perhaps even coordinate outfits. The whole thing is going to be floating out in space staring at the many astrological features of the Akar system, but perhaps a little uncomfortable for a planetside girls like Dolly and Jade compared to some of the more seasoned space travelers.

***

Isabelle

Rosalinda stares for a moment. “I…is it that obvious? Fuck, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t, don’t know why I bother.”

Well there’s something different. But then, you’ve never really caught Rosalinda alone like this before. It’s unusual, and it can change the context of a person. Like having a friend you only meet at school suddenly appear somewhere unexpected on a day off. Her voice still has that nasal tone, of course, she’s stuck with that, but the bite isn’t there when she’s being this blunt.

“Fine whatever, it’s not like it’s a secret. My family sales have been terrible. Nobody wants heavy industry equipment for last generation mechas. Nevermind that they work just as well for non-combat purposes, everyone wants the new hotness. Our orders dropped by half over the last six months. So Elena coordinated her gala attendance with some other girls. Serves me right, I was too afraid to even ask about it until it was way too late and then oops fuck me, now I’m the butt of everybody’s joke and it’s just one more nail in the family coffin. Father’s got me here because he’s hoping against hope that I can make a good impression on somebody and use that to get us a business deal. Or at least a loan. I suppose it was a stupid hope to think you’d be interested.”

She looks at you, kind of does a double take at all that slipping out. “..who the fuck are you and what did you with Isabelle Lozano?” That would have sounded cool if she’d led with it, but it’s more like a lame joke after taking that long to realize how much you’d reached out to her and not coming up with it right away. Maybe a bit endearing though, she committed to it even though she knew it was going to sound lame. Her face is begging you to at least feign a smile before her emotions give out and her tear ducts betray her.

It’s also not a terrible business proposition if you think about it. Your mother wouldn’t like it because you’d be giving more than you’re getting. But that assumes a low trust environment. If you can rely on long-term returns, then a deal where you give now to prop someone up and then have a loyal follower later isn’t a bad one. Though, of course, putting it in those terms hurts the prospect. Human connection is and always will be better than cold economic calculation, no matter what Almira Lozano might say otherwise. Reality has a way of intruding on that sort of thing.

Speaking of, the attendants are coming soon to check how you’re doing and what sorts of fits you like, which will then determine the range of options you get for finishing this out. So you do need to make the decision here: coordinate with Rosalinda or not? She’ll follow your lead if you offer, so you can go with the sort of uneven Serpaws-inspired dress she’s trying on or push her into something more traditional. Or you can still say no, do your own thing and let come what may.

Solarel once knew a seer - a Terenian, actually. She could say when it was going to rain by the feel of the air on her skin. She knew the approach of storms by the stiffness in her joints. She could call the results of municipal elections based on not liking a politician's smile. It was miraculous each time, being able to predict the future with such effortless confidence. Some days Solarel couldn't even tell if she'd get out of bed.

That made the Imperial schedules all the more mind-bending for her. This document said exactly where everyone was going to be, down to the minute, weeks in advance. It felt unreal, a prophetic vision. Where people would stand. Where people would sit. Somehow she could look at this screen and see the future. She couldn't figure out if that was more or less impressive than the people who had decided that this would be the future. Did they not realize how impressive this was, how many instincts they were overriding? People weren't going to sit with their friends or vanish into the shadows because they didn't feel social enough, they were going to sit in their assigned places for the assigned duration and no one was going to question any of it.

Her predictions worked on the range of seconds, her plans worked on the scale of individuals. She had, like, impressions of what she was going to do going in but that was about equipment - possibilities she was giving herself, adaptive ways to experience the moment. She'd been kind of confused and intimidated the last time she'd gotten involved with Imperial ceremony, at the co-ordination of it all, but seeing this hidden substructure to it was even more terrifying. The door guy reading out all the titles wasn't just, like, doing that because he was a skald, drunk, and wanted to amp everyone else up? Wild.

She feels cold. Just the kind of cold, shivering tiredness that made her want to just layer on furs until she was invisible. Her metabolism isn't working right, her battery charge is misaligned, the clouds aren't cooperating and the heat from the fire isn't soaking in. There's so little here that's for her, that she's good at, and now she needs to figure out how to navigate this world of fabric and smiles and clockwork precision. It's not what she signed up for, can't she just come down sick? The thought is a shiver of relief. All she'd need to do is just physically fall apart and then...

... but Mirror was going to be there, and that was a Reason that prevented her from dissolving into blankets. The effort needed to be made. She could see the shapes of things in the distance - watches and leather, spiraling belts and veils, restraint in time - but she couldn't articulate the thought to the spirits. Her hands weren't smart enough to hold the idea. So she had to go to her fallback. Something she'd worn before, something she knew worked.

It was as brutally straightforwards as she could get: a skintight bodysuit in a cool grey that complimented her scales, with a vibrant fire-patterned jacket that blazed with heat and light. It was a straightforwards, raw uncomplicated kind of sexy and that was enough to provide the confidence she couldn't get anywhere else. She felt a long way from the glittering ice-planet brain, but this was a way to be she could manage from here.

Here at last. The end, and the beginning. And her, undefeated in spite of her best efforts. Well. By one metric. Point of fact winless by a different and more reliable one, but it's not her fault the witless, whisker tweaked administrators were so fixated on pointless things like whose machine was still in one piece at the end of a fight.

Mmmmmm, no. Unfair. Incorrect. Correct, rather: from this moment forward that is the only victory condition that matters. Dreams are not paid out to the one who falls if they only display a novel enough technique on their way down. No wishes are granted to the one who exits with the moral high ground or to the pilot with the fortitude to destroy themselves for the sake of protecting a valuable secret. The winner walks away, the loser is carried out by drones.

At the final point, it always seems to come back to the Huntress' way of doing things.

But regardless of the official narrative of events, she is here. Loss piled atop of loss, and her plans in ruin. More secrets traded than intended, and the perception of power has been pinned irrevocably to her ear. How much easier would her life have been if she'd managed to properly swim underneath the waves the way she had intended? Utterly unremarkable, barely slipping through qualifiers with several easily exploitable tendencies, the allure of her terrifying Gods-Smiting Whip set against the disappointment of her mediocre piloting skills.

She should be free to move as she wills, free to reveal swords as they suited her, free to surprise and frustrate without any need to rely on cheap, low quality tricks. All she would need to do is start being what she is. Instead she is here, away from her mecha, away from her team, away from her carefully cultivated circles and support.

All alone. Wearing a mask. Surrounded by dresses. With more miracles left to perform than she's got hours left in the day.

"I will admit," said Mayze Szerpaws, "Waging a war on this many fronts at once is more difficult than I imagined it would be."

The infamous fashion designer clicks her tongue against her fangs and circles slowly around the mannequins in her portable greenhouse/studio. The light and the heat in here are sweltering, but that just makes it feel like Mother Hybrasil. Just another reminder why fisher cats and their thick fur grew to love the water so much before they grew to love the cool kiss of space just as much.

She frowns at a rose and pulls a small pair of shears out of a jacket pocket. Snip snip snip, she clips individual offending petals until the arrangement of the dress stops making her tongue itch. She puts on silk gloves before she tugs the fabric into better alignment on her doll, the one that is a perfect match for the body of the most powerful woman in the Consortium, and takes five precise steps backwards to take in the new state of her work.

"This one is... a failure. It won't sing. I'll have to-- ah! Wait a moment."

The sharp and measured clacking of her heels follows her back to her workbench, where she retrieves a bottle of water and a misting attachment. She dims the headlamps over the rose dress by sixteen percent and lightly coats the dress until it drips as though kissed by morning dew. Suddenly the enhanced petals unfurl and deepen ever so slightly in color. Mayze sighs in relief.

Next.

A wooden dowel is a necessary tool to guide her tetrachromat blossoms, which are so sensitive to particular oils found in Hybrasillian skin that even through a work glove her attempt at guiding them up their robe would result in their wilting and falling to the ground dead inside of an hour. Difficult to do precise work like this, but necessary. She chose them for how they would behave alongside cybernetics, not flesh. When she pushes pins into the fabric to adjust the slack she has to do it with the anxiety-induced precision of a bomb disposal. The stitching is even worse. She jumps the brightness over this one to maximum capacity and wipes her forehead with a smartly pinstriped sleeve.

"If I ever have to do this one again I will kill myself on the spot. That is a promise."

Next.

Mayze's fingers twitch while she floats them over a lighter. The temptation to torch Maelia Dahlia's hibiscus dress into ashes (dahlias! why did she not consider working in dahlias?) grows by the second. Watching it sit there, literally perfect unless it isn't makes the blood pool inside her brain until she's sure the migraine is going to split her in half. She steps into the shadows of a corner opposite her workstation and turns the mister around on herself just for a break.

There is a flaw in the construction of this dress. Somewhere there is, she can feel it. But just to look at it is to be swallowed by the yawning maw of anxiety and, and, and -- she's never had a word for it. Not exactly. Her 'paralysis' if you must be so uncouth. The little snippets of indecision and negativity that build up in the face of uncertainty that make it so that even when she's reached a conclusion or come to a decision, her body does not move toward her goals. She could lose an hour like this. Six. Seven. A full day if hunger does not reach her in time.

"Disaster. What a terrible thing to have gambled on. Oh I regret not digging into this deeper. What would it have mattered if my other projects suffered for it? Had I not already resolved to tank those in the first place? If you do not turn up at this gala as expected I will have to hunt you down and shove this entire ensemble straight through your skull. After I've re-optimized it to make your corpse more lovely, of course."

Her hand is shaking, but it moves. She unties two stems by hand and plucks a full blossom from the chest section, opening the window to more fur, more allure, and more... the dress bounces in response, hypnotizing in its motion even without its intended wearer's particular gait to spur it along.

Mayze stumbles backwards and finds a bucket. She spits three times inside of it. Her cure to prevent vomiting. A sigh of relief. The fridge cracks open and she downs three quarters of a ginger beer before she even tastes it.

Next.

Little Dala Hunters' gift was finished forever ago, by comparison. Her lone piece of work that hadn't needed growing in this session, it was simple to put together just as she had drawn it. Inspiration hadn't moved her hands elsewhere, alterations had not been necessary, and her informant had gotten such... precise measurements that despite the relative anonymity of her subject and her total lack of awareness of what was coming that she was unusually certain every last thread was precisely where it needed to be.

"I should have held onto that one, rather than sending my courier off with it so soon. If only I could run my fingers across it one more time and imagine her inside of it... ah well. I have other comforts to slake my thirst. I only regret listening to my model's advice on a choice of delivery. This 'Matty' doesn't strike me as well suited to a task like this, but little Mira insisted. Enjoy my work, Miss Dolly, your friend has paid a pretty price for it."

A toothy, slightly evil grin splits the face under Szerpaws' featureless black mask. She turns to a nearly unadorned mannequin with a body shape suspiciously similar to her own.

"Speaking of whom. Not many miracles left for my champion. My favorite model. My Mirror. But there is a gala to attend, and your heart will be there too. I cannot let you go without a new piece to go in. It is my work that people will see when they look at your body, and maybe then they might understand it was not the flowers I wanted them to see. Sundrunk simpletons."

And yet, there are flowers in this dress. A crown of them, in fact, in red and pink and orange and above all else shimmering golden yellow. Toxic lilies for the mightiest and most fearless warrior in attendance. Yes, this is how it must be. Mirror had clad herself in the title of Strongest and so that is all that she may be given to wear.

All. She may be given. To wear.

The crown of lilies sits atop the head. A single long, red ribbon ties about the neck. The two trails of it drape down, cloak-like, against the contours of her body but these are all Mayze Szerpaws has given Mira Fisher to cover herself with. Her spots laid bare, her body a marvel, the forever fluttering ribbons covering and revealing what they will by their own whims whenever she moves, whether it be to drink at the bar or to dance with a lover.

No more masks. No more hidden agendas. Not for her.

Mayze snorts and turns her neck to stare at a camera she's set up close to her workbench. She gives it a nod.

"And soon..."

"Winter's the theme, but real mountain winter, the clear blue sky, the, you know, the bushes all green and red peeking out from beneath the snow, the kind of cold that makes you shiver but smile?"

Dolly is not wearing her (beautiful, exquisite, oh-my-stars-Jade) outfit, the one that only she's seen. Well, her and Mayze Szerpaws. And Smokeless Jade Fires. Just the three of them. Their little secret. It's the memory of that dress (how Smokeless Jade Fires draped it over her, pulled the cloak snug, kissed her cheek) that puts the bounce in her step.

This time, she's not shopping alone. That's not the only difference-- she's not shopping for herself, either-- but it's the really important one. With Ksharta and Ada and Sixes around her, she's safe from Valynia. Almost certainly safe. Probably safe. Because, goshies, if Valynia showed up with enough firepower for all four of them, and decided that they were all coming with, kittenish Ksharta and maternal Ada and teasing Sixes, and their safety depended on Dolly's willingness to do whatever she said, no matter how degrading, and--

"Hmm?! Ooh! That's some really, the lace does set it off well, do you think we can find something with pearls in the lace, though?"

"Platinum beading," Jade adds. She's trying "fashion" herself. Layers of white silk edged in her fires, burning without consuming, flowering in gold down her front, cuffed in cobalt. It's a powerful outfit for a powerful goddess. "That would fit better than pearls."

Doesn't she even see it? Not the beading. They're all looking to her, and not just because she's the mouth of the goddess. She's the rope that binds them all together. That damned pirate had good taste, stealing the most valuable treasure in the entire tournament. Each victory represents glory, and not just for Jade herself (who deserves every accolade, demonstrating that her peerless skill allows her to overcome any challenge, to confound every mortal who had the bad luck to be matched against them). No, when they win the tournament, it's going to be all for the glory of Dolly.

They will lift her on a pedestal! They will put her face on their iconography! She will look so sensual in her bodysuit, and no one will ever know how they will be broadcasting her hidden submission and restraint when they reproduce her victors' portraits! The three great civilizations of the stars will learn the name of her bride, and they will pay homage to her, and Jade will curl her tails around her priceless captive on her victor's throne and whisper: "I did all of this for you."

And then, oh, and then? She'll discover, waiting for her in Jade's idol, the two gifts that she'll be taking with her from the tournament: Ksharta Talonna and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius~! They will, of course, both be honored that they are being added to the goddess's harem on a permanent basis. Who wouldn't be? Now, the only question remaining was whether to risk using her own cult to arrange Dolly's victory present, or to contract out those uncouth Red Banders for the most effective (and arousing) abduction the cult could afford...

"Excuse me, do you have anything with platinum beading?" Dolly asks, Ksharta doing a good job of looking like she isn't hiding behind her. The tip of Dolly's tail wraps around Ksharta's ankle with a squeeze as she dives into negotiations with the sales-Terenian on how they can, together, fulfill the will of the goddess. (Ada is stalking back into the shelves, trying to find a possible third option, something to gruffly offer the "perky little thing.")

Someone might come to entirely the wrong (or entirely the right?) conclusion if they were to notice the hand held behind Dolly's back, fingers intertwined with Ksharta's own. How else was Ksharta supposed to be able to see their goddess? How else was Ksharta supposed to feel the comforting embrace of their collars, and hear the calming tinkle of their bells? And how else was Ksharta supposed to know that, victory or no victory, Dolly still wanted to be around her?

(And how could she hope to hint to Jade that, victory or no victory, Dolly still loves her?)

Isabelle does smile - and it's not feigned. It's small, and it's shy, but it's there. It's another slip in the walls, a glimpse of what she's really feeling - the chagrin at being called out, mixed with the shared embarrassment of having Rosa's worries just spill out there for all to hear.

Unexpected.

I don't think I've ever heard her swear before.

Is this sort of thing going to keep happening?

It's a lot to take in - and Isabelle feels like a child that has just discovered fireworks. The ability to make explosions in the sky, of colours and patterns she'd never before considered possible. To bring something special into the world, that would not have existed without her.

Wait, no, the comparison is flawed.

It was like she's realised she can set off those fireworks with just a gesture. A word.

It was ... it was like she'd learned a new spell - it was like magic.

"The old generation are still powerful, still good for what they do. And what they do, they do better than the Gen 3 mechs that are replacing them in the Arena. Lifting, guarding, enduring ... they've long been the rock on which Terenius was built." she says, an idea already bubbling in her mind. "It'd be a shame to see that strength go to waste ... so I guess it's a good thing you know one person who runs a mining company."

"I'll be honest, I don't know where exactly we'd use them yet. We'll need to prospect a new site. But in the meantime I'm open to an initial purchase order, paid in advance."

Those last words might earn her mother's ire. There's no better time to kick someone when they're down, after all, and with what she'd learned she could well have acquired a significant stake in Rosa's company in exchange for the bailout. But ... well, her heart's never been in that sort of thing. And for the few minutes of freedom she has while her mother is elsewhere, she may as well do things the way she wants for once.

"I think I've decided on what to wear." she says, letting Rosa process the offer she's made.

"Elena ignored you, dropped you, tried to forget you ... so let's make sure you shine too brightly to be ignored." she continues. "If we take something traditional from here as the base, I know two women who can make it into something that will glow like the stars."

The invitations invite you to the Crystal Gala. They offered information about the space station, the math done to center it on its axis, and the views it offers. But they did not prepare you for the design. The space station of the gala is built in the form of a gigantic spiral ammonite shell of translucent crystal, divided into swirls of rooms converging on the precise center of the Akar system. A golden ratio spun about the absolute center of gravity of the space, offering a glowing view of the shining star of Akar, and the light reflecting off the planets and the arena world itself. Artfully arranged so that as one moved through the space each astrological feature would have its turn as the central feature. Panels carefully adjusted for appropriate dimming for the eyesight of the inhabitants, calibrated for localized distinctions between Terenian, Zaldarian, and Hybrasilian guests. As guests enter and move deeper, they find themselves looping past guests in previous rooms, separated by circling gravity to create a dizzying impression of beings everywhere mixed with the light of the heavens reflecting and scattering through rainbow panes. The light of Akar makes it all sparkle like a gigantic spiral diamond as the views loop over themselves towards the crystal fire heart sustaining the station.

The farthest and widest end of the ammonite forms the dock of the space station. Here, several grand mecha are on display as the various guests arrive, many doing so in their personal mechas, especially the prior champions. Moreover, as the contingents arrive, the Aeteline will be on display here, the feared and cursed armor of the war, never piloted since Solarel’s banishment and so not seen in action for years. Yet it still gleams with its manufactured perfection and the powerful image of knighthood that it carries as representative of the power of Zaldaria.

The Grand Gala of the Akar is a new and unique event. There are not many shared traditions that span Terenians, Hybrasilians, and Zaldarians, but celebration with a grand feast is one of them. The Gala thus stands as a testament to the efforts of the past several years: the choice to end the large-scale wars and celebrate the fragile peace among the empires, an honor to the pilots who have excelled in competition both past and present, an opportunity for fine food and drink served to the taste of the guests and, of course, an opportunity for political power-brokering above and beyond the demands officially requested in the competition.

Except for the qualifying pilots, attendance at the Gala was known months in advance. Given this exclusivity and planning, each guest was provided with a list of attendees. There are no announcements or grand entrances lest the event waste all its evening going through the accomplishments of each guest. Yet many of the arrivals make their own entrance, choosing their style, entourage, and timing for the impact they prefer.

***

The first to arrive was Voctine XCI, the former Empress of the Zaldarians. Though banished, she has maintained a household and established a border hold. Her invitation remained, as the other empires were not entirely confident on the status of a deposed Empress and at least some of the more knowledgeable ones thought that her arrival might precipitate a fight in and of itself. Voctine XCI herself arrives dressed in a tight-fitting black bodysuit that emphasizes the curves of her long metallic limbs. Overtop it, she wears a fitted white shirt with double-breasted buttons and a black half-cape that ends at the middle of her back secured with gold epaulets and lined with just a hint of red. In banishment, she has chosen a picture of command but with a tight fit emphasizing the speed and flexibility of her entourage. Her arrival as early as the docking bay doors open ensures that she does not lose her place and can instead welcome her rival with as much of a sneer as she can manage. She will enter and proceed into the station, looking for a good place to arrange a meal and establish herself.

***

After her, the next arrivals were a mixture of Terenian families. Arriving first tended to indicate a certain level of insecurity, a need to establish place before the places were taken. Thus, these tended to be the lesser families, houses looking to climb. Almira and the Lozanos would aim to arrive near the back of these families, attempting to be at the top of the pecking order, but too nervous to give up the chance to get in and gain control of a room within the sparkling ammonite station. Almira herself has chosen a modern Kikuji fashion: purple, with embroidered white daisies carefully sewn onto it. Her neck and one arm are bare, which she has complimented with an array of topaz gems around her neck and in a lengthy series of bracelets up past her elbow. The dress is slitted to allow her leg on that side to slip out as well. She has complimented it with one of her signature shawls, unable to resist this particular affectation, colored in bright scarlet and set with glittering gems throughout to finish out the outfit. It is not what you would call subtle. In comparison, the rest of her household is dressed in more muted colors, the younger siblings wearing a more traditional Kikuji style with both arms covered and in single colors with flowers and bird embroidery. Isabelle unless you choose otherwise, your mother would press for your arrival with her here, to add legitimacy to the family. But you are free to choose otherwise, each pilot is offered the opportunity to arrive whenever and with whomever they please and they are not obligated to join the contingents from their own species or faction.

The Terenian gaggle will quickly lose coherence, splitting off into business discussions, or a few will seek to learn more about the Zaldarians and soon to be arriving Hybrasilians. Though fewer than you might expect.

***

Third in is the official Hybrasilian delegation led by Kimri Blessed Daughter of Grandmother Night, a pantheress and the current speaker of the Hybrasilian Priestess Council, the ruling body of the Empire. Kiriala arrives with this delegation unless Mirror has explicitly brought her into her household instead, as do several council members and their guests. Dolly and Mirror and their entourage have invitations to arrive with this delegation if they so desire. The speaker wears her formal priestess tunic. As an adherent of Grandmother Night, she does not dress in ways that would inhibit her movement. Rather, her garb is a short tunic in the Night’s black, designed to allow her to move silently and easily. Though she is one of the oldest living Hybrasilians, she moves with a grace that suggests she could tear your throat out if she willed it. Her high position is indicated only by a small pin worn at her collar set with a series of precious stones in all colors to indicate the unified Hybrasilian council. Other council members dress according to their worship, some in more elaborate dresses, others in more functional garb, several bedecked with heavy jewelry and multicolor striped fabrics as dresses and capes.

Also with this group is a small group of fisher cats, tailing the main entourage. Alanna Coul, the famed Hybrasilian mercenary (aside from Mirror) leads them dressed in her pilot’s outfit, perhaps the most formal thing she owns. Behind her is indeed Maehlia Dahlia, wearing the hibiscus dress designed by Mayze, with the most bemused look on her face, her mane a little longer than normal trailing behind her, and the tan fur of her chest showing prominently. A young fisher hangs on her arm protectively, and in this at last is the secret of her unusual order: she did not order this dress for herself, but it seems that her girlfriend did order it for her. One might wonder who the lucky fisher is, she’s not well-known. Perhaps someone who joined her on an expedition in the nebulas that grew together, and who preceded her to Akar to prepare things. Maehlia doesn’t quite seem to know what to do as a model for the latest fashion line among all three empires, but neither does she seem unhappy with her situation.

The Hybrasilians will seek to intermingle, speaking with some of the Terenians and forming the largest overall mass of milling guests as more arrive.

***

Fourth is the Empress of Zaldaria, Naelkai II and her full entourage, including the tribal raiders and Marna Kerne, currently believed to be the greatest Zaldarian pilot, who won the arena competition three years prior. Naelkai herself is dressed in a long, flowing gown that rolls out in a waves of pleated fabric around her, primarily in golden fabric with a black chest surrounded by white lace at the neck, hems, and sleeves. She wears a glittering tiara as well and everywhere she moves she utterly fills the space, asserting a level of confidence and control that is either genuine or extremely intentionally affected. Marna, perhaps leaning into her raider origins, has chosen a pilot’s jumpsuit, half black and half purple split vertically to match her mecha’s paint job. Though simple, it highlights her gray coloration and makes her stand out in her own way. Unless instructed otherwise, Akaithon will also enter in this section, dressed as a formal lady of the city in a green gown with a white lace collar, though shorter and narrower than Naelkai’s so as not to risk overshadowing her in any way.

The empress will enter and immediately look for her rival, two poles of a magnet bound to clash as they work their way through the glimmering crystal spiral.

***

Fifth (and last that has coherent organization, if barely) is the very large Terenian delegation, which is not so much a united group as it is the combination of the most powerful families and planetary leaders. In this group is Valentina D’Alcard, wearing a suit, a bit stodgy, should have unbuttoned it, but she looks good. Marcina Villajero enters in this group with honors. She wears a white dress, not too wide, with just a little bit of looseness around the ankles so that it shifts as she walks, sleeveless and bare shoulders showing off her shapely figure. She’s very precise as she moves in it.

Also in this contingent is Charon, who is the most powerful man on Styx and is rarely seen in public. Fully half his face is openly cybernetic, one eye completely covered and down past the ear and into the neck, indeed likely much further. While the regular eye is blue, the cybernetics glow with a particular red that matches the specifications sent to Mirror. He’s a tall man, and thickset, and he wears his cybernetics openly. His head is shaved as well. But he’s also wearing a delighted smile as he enters, and the tetrochromat blossoms on his robes glimmer in the starlight with the perfect compliment to the light reflecting from and emanating from his open cybernetics. He, is nobody else thus far with all their serious business, appears to be truly enjoying himself, in no small part due to Mayze’s design.

Finally, at the end of the Terenian group comes Adriana Teresio herself. She is, one might say, not quite herself. But she is bedecked in roses in her Mayze Serpaws dress. She refuses the arm of an attendant and walks in under her own power, smiling and waiving, though looking more than a little unsteady. The first arena champion. Her typical entrance is something flamboyant, usually with a sword, but she’s accepted something different this time. Other guests speak of it in hushed whispers, but nobody will say a word directly, at least not yet.

Marcina offers Adriana her arm, while Charon and his cyborgs look to speak with the Zaldarian empress, if they can catch up to her.

***

Then, there are all the others. The qualifying pirates: Ada Smith, dressed in a prim suit that shows off her muscles. Presumably the real Jacinta Niares, a burly lioness who’s wearing a captain’s shirt unbuttoned entirely, her neck and chest open, above a pair of functional slacks. She’s brought her own small entourage of other Banders, including Valynia, who is dressed in a center-slit short red dress that shows off her perfumed spots with every step she takes. She’ll look for Dolly as soon as she can.

Others trailing in are latecomer Terenians and Hybrasilians and independent Zaldarians (Solarel would be expected to appear here, though she has the pilot’s right to appear whenever she pleases). Heim Stockar has chosen not to come, though he would be allowed in and would typically arrive late in this situation. Quar Dilara, the imperial knight captured by Isabelle, also makes an appearance here. She apparently determined that her captive status prevented her from appearing with an imperial entourage, but she still has allowed herself to attend the party, though wearing a simple white ruffled shirt and casual pants likely scrounged from Isabelle’s closet.

***

This is the arrangement of the gala. The arrivals will spread themselves through the station, forming pockets of power and motion. There will be a clash of empresses, but swirling around that will be food and drink and merriment throughout the station. There will be solicitations and congratulations, and at some point one fool ass or another will start doing speeches. There’s even supposed to be a ceremony near the end to officially celebrate the launch of the final rounds and the commitment to peace they represent.

Tell everyone how you arrive, who you bring, and where you go!

There is arriving early. There is arriving fashionably early. There is arriving early enough to make it embarrassing because you clearly got the time wrong.

And then there is whatever the fuck Mirror is doing.

She has shown up hours ahead of the gala. Hours and hours, in fact. So incorrect that it is preposterous, so eager that there are still workers arranging the final decorations when she invokes her pilot's privilege of entry at the time of her choosing. They ask her to leave because she's making it harder to finish. They ask her to leave because they think she'd prefer the dance floor when it's finished, wouldn't she? They ask her to leave because they are, frankly, embarrassed to do their jobs while a VIP watches them with laser eyes.

She refuses. She stays. Matty, the only member of her entourage at the moment, is burning brighter and hotter with every exchange. Soon she will melt a hole in the floor, or possibly make herself into a suitable replacement for a Crystal Fire Drive when it comes to energy output. Her poor tail is thrashing about and her ears keep pressing into her skull so that Mirror has to spend another five minutes coaxing them back up with gentle, soothing pets.

This is all according to plan. This is... mostly according to plan. Ideally Matty would be less flustered, just very slightly less of a frightened kitten clinging to her mother for support. Or if she was going to be that, to have it be more intentioned and playful. But she is being brave, just like she promised to be. That earns her a kiss on the head, such a good girl. In any event, all according to plan.

Slate is with Kiriala. Both will be entering with the contingent from Hybrasil proper. Both have been asked to dress themselves, but both have been asked to stick together even if they clash horribly. Which of course they will: Slate owns exactly one dress and she's worn it to every formal occasion she's ever been forced to attend for the last ten years. Her teal and coral diving suit with the silk fringes at the hips and shoulders, and the belt of plain weights she always wears with it are a gorgeous compliment to her fur and her frame. A lovely example of Fisher chic, if exceptionally outdated. But her chances of pulling it off alongside whatever her new Squire thinks is appropriate wear for the day? Not worth considering, out of courtesy.

That is fine. It's good if they stand out next to each other, actually. Kiriala gets to feel like she is showing support for the Motherland she still believes in, and Mirror gets to show her that she trusts she still belongs too, by sending her oldest and most trusted friend to walk beside her. The Knight does not demand split loyalties be shattered. Who you are is who you are, and that should be celebrated.

Nervous staff offer her a courtesy drink. Matty takes one just to make somebody somewhere feel slightly better about themselves. Mirror refuses. Her shimmering liquid eyes are locked on the entrance, where the first people will (eventually) come trickling in, and then more and more intentionally and importantly so. She will not miss a single head that shows up, from the least powerful to the most. Her ribbons flutter majestically in the slight current the ammonite-shaped room naturally generates. The lilies on her head waver, but hold firm.

She has arrived. The first. The strongest. Able to survive any implication and any supposed embarrassment. She is there to challenge every single pair of eyes that enter this latest arena and dare them to stare back at her. She is there to witness every smile, every gasp, and every whisper that Mayze's (that her) dresses generate. She is there to note who flinches, who blushes, who leers, and who ignores her. She is there to wait for Solarel, who cannot be trusted to stick to a schedule if the lives of a planet depended on it. She is the knight that guards the bridge, and none shall pass without her approval, the most important among them least of all.

But above all else she is here with Matty even though she would surely cut a more imposing figure standing by herself. That is not the point of it. She has come with her family. She is here, before the before the before, to prove that she has something no one else does. She has let the bonds of fate grown tangled and distant. And hours from now, she will finally uncross her arms and shift her weight for the first time since she posed here to begin with.

When she does, she will be surrounded by soulmates. The true center of the universe, whatever complex math was spent on this place to bring it into alignment with the three great empires.

And I shall call you Tactics because it is all you are good for.

She couldn't stop thinking about that phrase. It had been buried on an artificial world in the frozen heart of the Kathresis and it still felt like it had been waiting for her specifically.

The Ancients had built the Spirit Realm. They created the order of divinity; the cascading waterfall of might from god to spirit to geist. They had made it first in language and the material world followed - as Zaldar wrote, the Gods exist as aspects of the Spirit Realm, and the matter of the Material flowed to reflect their purpose. Some Gods carved mountains or rivers. Some flew amidst the clouds to trigger thunderstorms. Some churned the earth and spread new seeds. All of these, according to the Sage, worked according to the common design of the Ancients; the physical forms of corrections made to the perfect worlds as they had originally written them to be.

And yes, she could walk the mountain, scale the height of the beast, fight through its guardian drones, peel away its defenses and break the physical echo of its brain. But there was nothing of purpose in that. When she had claimed the Haforn there had been exaltation, glory - but she had not fallen into it as she had fallen into the Kathresis. Was she - were the followers of Zaldar generally - the physical echoes of the will of the Kathresis and her sister machines?

What did that make the Aeteline? Manufactured. Cursed. What did that mean? Had the Empress inscribed a new Word on the fabric of the Spirit Realm, marring the design of the Ancients? Or had they found its Word and set it free to work its design once again? There had been no struggle, no breaking of it, no forcing it to fulfill a different process like the struggle with a wild God. It had been as effortless to integrate with as the Kathresis had been. It had been so complete that it had left a scar. Life outside it felt like a blur. Perhaps there had been a struggle after all, and it had broken her.

She took one last, craving look at the Aeteline and then tore her eyes away and stared directly into the narrow blue light of a quantum cryptography tube. The relief was absolute.

All of her thoughts turned and reorganized - rather than running over endless, unsolveable, philosophical problems of will and destiny instead her mind realigned around processing enormously complex but extremely solveable equations. It was a buzz, stilling her thoughts, slowing her reflexes, pushing her big slow deep thoughts into the background. It was pleasure, every few minutes getting a warm rush of endorphins as her brain reported another breakthrough success that made her want to kiss whoever was closest in satisfied triumph. It was the only way she was going to function at a social event, and she didn't want a repeat of the last gala where she'd gone into brooding obsession mode for the entire fucking time. No, this time she was going to get smashed on high quality mathematics. She was going to fucking talk to at least one of the girls she mostly interacted with through the context of - there needed to be a Hybrasilian word for high concept sex/robot battles/drama. She was going to get in a fight that had nothing to do with stealing a god. She was going to wink a lot and live dangerously.

She sees Mirror. She winks. She flexes her shoulders. Her arms were still strong despite all the time she'd spent in the cockpit but, oh - didn't they ache to hold something real and heavy? A sword. A girl. She was low to the ground and on the prowl tonight, full of a strength as blunt as her outfit, and she was going to find a way to use every bit of it before this night was done.

Mirror. More than an Empress: a Champion. Crowned in flowers and wrapped in a ribbon. Every revelation meticulously planned. Every part of this stage rehearsed. The shock of seeing her, the visual, the impact, the power, the sophistication, the meaning. So much language. So many silent words. So much planning. Oh, Mirror could be worse than Solarel when it came to overthinking, couldn't she? So much effort gone into making a mask say 'no more masks' that she'd lost sight of the basics.

She makes eye contact, locks together in that fearsome challenge stare that the Hybrasilians hate and love, forcing her into scrutinizing every flicker of her eyelashes and movement of her iris. She stares at Mirror's eyes to make sure she has her full attention.

And then she smiles and drops her gaze to stare at Mirror's tits.

[Entice: 13
Spending a string: Solarel wants to be 'winning' this - whatever you think that means - for now. Mark XP if you accept]

One glove. Two hands.

Whose hand was she going to hold?

On the one hand, Ksharta needed reassurance. A reminder that she was... appreciated. Wanted. Cared about. That she didn't need to be the winner to be... interesting. Loved? Maybe. Dolly certainly absolutely didn't mind sharing Jade with her, and wanted her to be happy, but was that love?

On the other hand, Angela had lost even harder, and had... gone to ground. Barely seen after her match with Solarel. And Dolly missed her. Really, really missed her. When she'd reached out, let Angela know that she had space in her retinue, that the Gala wouldn't feel complete if Angela wasn't there, she'd felt...

Jade first. Jade, always, first. She'd promised. But Jade wanted more, and that meant her high priestess got to share, got to be their doorway into Jade's world. But she couldn't go to Jade like this, couldn't ask. Jade might tell her to pick Angela, to make the exotic alien their favorite, to leave Ksharta to fend for herself, and how could she do that to a kitten like Ksharta? This would be her first interstellar party, surrounded by aliens, and she'd need her, her big sister (right?) to look after her. But Jade might agree, and she. She couldn't do that to Angela, either. To invite her along and then snub her the entire night isn't the right kind of rivalry. It's the kind that would hurt. Angela wouldn't want to ever, ever see her again. Wouldn't ever pick her up and smirk. Wouldn't be the bad girl to Dolly's good girl.

The closer the Gala (THE Gala, the Crystal Gala, the social event that was her chance to dazzle among the stars, to be the kind of bride that Jade deserved) got, the more of a nervous wreck she was, and the harder it was to keep it hidden. Jade didn't need to know. Jade shouldn't know. It was her problem to deal with. She had to choose. Even if it felt like she was ripping herself into two pieces.

---

"Do shuttles distress you, child?"

The miserable lump sitting between Ksharta and Angela is jerked out of her reverie. "I, um, I'm not-- I'm okay," she says, and smiles her I Am Definitely Okay smile, glove still resting against the casket in her lap. On her left, Ksharta Talonna, platinum beads draped between her ears, looking like a vision of loveliness, her shoulders shrouded in powder blue lace, looking for all the world like the spirit of the snow that lingers in summer. On her right, Angela Miera Victoria Antonius, having been "forced" into the role of the Captive Alien, all burning red and velvet black, her vulnerable midriff exposed and her eyes wreathed in smoke, bracers on her powerful arms and belled anklets on her delicious ankles, which is where anklets go.

And no Jade.

She hasn't seen her goddess since last night. Hasn't heard her, hasn't felt her. Just a message left for her saying that the goddess "would be waiting for her," and an instruction to bring the casket that appeared overnight. At least it meant that she could start falling apart about her impossible choice in peace for the rest of the morning.

Ksharta. Angela. Both beautiful in their own ways. But what is she supposed to do? Trail them both behind her, holding onto her arm, for the entire night? To her credit, the thought of not letting either of them enjoy Jade's presence doesn't even cross her mind. It's a gift that has to be shared.

Kimri (Blessed Daughter of Grandmother Night) is giving her a concerned look, but they're on their final descent, and the line of mechas is revealed in its glory, including, yes, there's Jade's idol, and the relief that floods her for a moment seeing that familiar shape should really be embarrassing. For a moment she forgets about her impossible choice and just longs to see Jade again. Being apart for the whole day has been...

Different than when she was with the Red Bands. That was knowing that Jade would come for her, and she had plenty. Plenty. To think about in the meantime. Not just the same worries looping on repeat.

---

The ache of Dolly's heart is an empty hollow in her goddess's chest.

It's going to be worth it, she tells herself, as she stretches one more time, feels out every part of the grand system. The station is a technological marvel, after all. A non-trivial system to overcome. Ever since Nine Forests plugged her in this morning, she's been engaged in a glorious hunt. It is one thing to disable a state-of-the-art cybersecurity suite; it is another entirely to tame it.

It's going to be worth it. It's going to be worth it or she'll send herself to hell for what she's put Dolly through today. The shock, the joy, the surprise, the love, it's all going to be more than enough to pay for what she's feeling right now. And she's committed now. The only way out is through, or Dolly would never forgive her.

---

Dolly clings to the casket like her life depends on it. She is flanked by her... girlfriends? Fellow concubines? Women that she wants to hug and reassure and share her goddess with, even if that means keeping them trapped right by her side, leaving her with the responsibility of figuring out what exactly they're going to do and finding ways to entertain all three of them and, and she's out of time, Jade's going to make her have to choose--

And as if the thought summoned her, Jade's idol leaks thick thundercloud smoke, and the goddess pulls herself free with a resounding laugh, and a ripple of shock and gasps runs through the Hybrasilian delegation and the observing Terenians, and

hold on, what?

The casket tumbles from Dolly's hands onto the landing platform as her jaw drops. They. They can all. Everybody can. This once, everybody. All of them. Unless Jade is faking a reaction from literally everyone, and... if she started believing that, she might as well stop believing in anything but whatever Jade wanted. (And she's not that good at people, the sensible part of her whispers. She couldn't fake everyone in this kind of fidelity, right? Ksharta still smells like Ksharta and Angela still smells like Angela, and this is happening, this is really happening, what does it mean that this is happening?)

The goddess turns and grins at the sight of her people, and then begins the walk down the line of mecha, tail insolent, teeth on wicked display, and with every step, she... shrinks. The clouds contract around her, the rumble of her footsteps becomes quieter, until she is merely an ordinary height, just a little taller than Dolly in her heels, tall as a Terenian. The clouds are solid now, gleaming black armor with glowing cobalt lines, a futurist's idea of personal armor somehow powered by a crystal fire drive, and her cloak (pinned at one shoulder) flutters behind her, rimmed in, what else, blue-jade fire which does not give off smoke.

"Honor to you, Blessed Cousin!" She is an impossible warlord, a knight from the holovids, a goddess in the flesh, and the half-bow she offers Kimri (Blessed Daughter of Grandmother Night) is the kind one offers a respected inferior, honor more to Grandmother Night than Kimri herself. "Thank you for bringing My beloveds to this Crystal Gala for Me." She turns her golden eyes to Dolly, curls one finger, and Dolly feels the pull of the leash hanging from her neck, the leash that everyone can see, and she opens her mouth, not knowing what she's going to say.

Smokeless Jade Fires pulls her into the kiss, in front of everyone, and she's careful not to unbalance Dolly, the only hint that she's not, not physically here, not embodied. Another one of her goddess's cunning tricks, but that's why Dolly, Dolly loves her. Never willing to let her lack of a body stop her from putting on the performance of a lifetime. Dolly melts into the perfect kiss.

When they break the kiss, it's only then that she notices in the periphery the giant screen, rimmed in the goddess's fire, blowing up the kiss for everyone to see in the highest definition possible. And they can see the deep breath she takes, and the flustered droop of her ears, until Jade dismisses it with a wave of her hand, lets it melt away into sparks and curls of smoke.

"I have one more gift for you, my darling birds," the goddess purrs. "Ksharta? Do pick up what My bride dropped in her ardor. Angela? Do come along." A look is shared with the Terenian, an invitation to play along; you've come this far, titan among kittens. Don't you want to see the punchline?

---

The hunting tent's drapes close behind them. (The floor is the dock, the gold-flecked black that drinks in light, and the reflections of the walls of the tent glow more vibrantly than they should.) Another impossible flourish, hiding them from sight in the middle of the dock, right at the feet of Jade's idol. Jade takes a seat on a stool in the middle of the tent, interlocking her fingers, still smiling. "Ksharta? Angela?" she says, eyes flicking between the two. "Seven Quetzal has been agonizing over trying to choose between the two of you for tonight. After all, she only has the one glove, the one sign of my favor. Whose hand could she possibly hold? She yearns to show you how much you both mean to her, but she can't! Because it is not her place to worry. It is hers to be bountiful, and to pour her love out, and to endure whatever I--"

"Out with it," Angela snaps. Her arms are folded, and her eyes are hard. "She's been worrying herself sick, and you didn't think to think to reassure her? Ai, I thought you were better than that, you peacock goddess!"

Jade opens her mouth. Jade shuts her mouth. Her tail lashes in agitation. Her tongue runs over her teeth.

"Please," she says, in her smaller voice, like she's trying to walk over a river on a piece of string. "Please open it. It was very difficult on short notice." Her eyes slide to Dolly, and they're the same eyes that looked longingly at her in the cockpit as Mirror rode them home. She reaches out and places one hand on Angela's bicep, squeezes once in thanks. And then she turns to Ksharta, who has already opened it up, and is staring wide-eyed at the inside.

Inside are three gloves: one wrapped in huntress's knives and chef's knives winding up its length in miniature, like ivy, each handle tied together by a subtle silver cord, and another decorated in owl's-feather patterns, each one framed by delicate chains, and one decorated in the feathers of the quetzal-bird, each one wrapped in neat bows by dancer's silks.

"You don't need to choose, Dolly," her goddess says, her voice slightly thicker than usual. "I'll dance with all of you tonight--"

And Dolly rushes up and lifts her goddess's illusion of a body up into her arms and squeezes, and feels a deliberate purr and a loving hand on her head as she sniffles and starts making just a mess of her makeup, but that's okay, because Ksharta and Angela are going to whisk her off to a bathroom to touch up, and Jade is going to go with them, and everybody will be able to see her but Dolly's harem-sisters can all touch her, and she doesn't need to choose, she doesn't need to choose, she can love all three of them, she can hold all three of them, she can dance with all three of them, the love she has to offer can be felt by all of them, from her little huntress-sister to her strong and teasing alien (who is going to "punish" her later for the outfit) to her goddess, and she doesn't need to know how Jade is doing all this, because it's enough that she is.

A few seconds ago.

The Lozanos enter the Gala - headed, as always, by Almira Lozano: Matriach, Noble, Climber. The titles she holds beyond that are irrelevant amidst tonight's crowd and that rankles her ... but she can't let that show. She has to use the tools at her disposal and be happy for their results.

Gabriel shuffles along behind her, a dashing figure with his pointed beard and tall stature. It was a pity his mind is not suited to Politics. He was better in his lab and would have still been there had it not been that a function this exclusive demanded his attendance.

Luca comes next, the Shard of Bellerophon on his hip signifying his status as a pilot - albeit one not as accomplished as his sister. One could spend a lifetime lamenting the roll of fate involved when his compatibility had only come out in the eighties, but Almira had known all she had to do was try and try again - until she got one whose mech compatibility was acceptably high.

Tad and Cam come next, somewhat subdued, as she had had to talk them out of making a scene just earlier. Influencers to the core, the thought of passing up a chance to make their entry was anathema. But she couldn't afford the distraction from their sister, not tonight. Not when that one was the core of their family's reason to be here.

And speaking of their sister ... her face in particular is missing. The rest of the family regroups before filing their way into the entryway crowd. Does Almira stop to see what comes next? Isabelle can't tell from where she is ... but there's no turning back now.

The drones have followed the family in. Everything is in place.

-------------------=====================----------------------------

A few minutes ago.

The Crystal Gala of Akkar ... even knowing what she knew, it didn't really prepare her for the sight of that spiral station, glistening in the black on approach. She'd been informed of the order of events at the last minute - a habit of her mother's when handling travel plans - and had had to make some fast changes.

The lack of formal announcements will make this difficult.

In truth, she was now a little worried about how it would come across. Amidst so much opulence and notability - the literal cream of the crop - would it be just a drop in an ocean? An amateurish piece of showmanship, quickly forgotten or ignored as the efforts of a neophyte? Would it hurt the family image? Would it upset her mother even more than she planned to?

She glanced across the shuttle at the other woman sitting there. Too late to back out now.

Besides, she'd made a promise.

-------------------=====================----------------------------

Earlier that day.

"And, of course, you will attend at the tail end of our family delegation. Our image will be ..." here, her mother struggles for a word. "... complimented, by the knowledge that we have at least one passable pilot to our name."

"Yes, mother." Isabelle replies.

"Bring your Kikuji dress and make sure to enter on the heels of the twins. You will be given a place by yourself, as befits a pilot, and to enforce that you chose to accompany your family."

Oh, that's not going to work.

"... actually, mother. If I might suggest a different option?" Isabelle replies, thinking furiously. "I would like to use the opportunity to showcase some of the new work that the teams have put together. Madame Toldeo in particular has been looking at the dress we purchased and is very keen to make some alterations. I think it would help us make a more memorable splash on the international scene and hopefully catch the eye of some of the notables."

Isabelle meets her mother's eyes innocently, carefully showing some hesitant pride in what they have. A calculated effort, enough enthusiasm to pique the older woman's interests, but not too eager, lest her mother worry about the scale and the potential risks involved with her daughter's idea.

" ... go on ..."

-------------------=====================----------------------------

The previous night.

"So, you'll really come?"

"Hey, with an invitation like that, how can I say no?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure you could, but you'd mostly do it just to annoy me."

"Ooof, Lozano, skewered through the heart." she replies, mock grasping her chest. "And here I thought you liked me?"

Isabelle giggles, a sound that Asil is coming to recognise from their time together in the lab. It's not one that she ever hears in other contexts - not in public, not amongst her family - it's a sound just for the two of them. It's a sound she's coming to ... well, it does odd things to her stomach, that's for sure. Different to the burning fire she'd felt in that office all that time ago, but still nice.

"You sure this thing will work? We made, like, eight of them and only two are functional." she says instead.

"I ... yeah, I think - no, I know they will."

"How can you be sure? I mean, I know you worked on them the longest, so not doubting your skills, but what we're trying to get them to do - the contextual interfaces - it's complex."

"I just know." Isabelle replies, almost shyly. "They'll work."

-------------------=====================----------------------------

A few days ago.

"So, I think that does it for the deal. The lawyers will look over the final document and give it their customary fine-tooth-combing, but for all the major points; I think we're agreed." Isabelle says, looking over the contract one last time and passing the key terms sheet to Rosa.

"You know, even looking at this, I can't believe you'd agree to it."

"Yeah, me neither. But ..." Isabelle pauses, she herself finds it difficult to believe given how they'd behaved to each other in the past. "Sometimes you have to take a risk right?"

"... You're not talking about the financials, are you?"

"No."

"Yeah, I get it. Our parents hate each other and we've not really spoken outside of things like Elena's parties. You probably thought I was always happy to go along with her shit. Or worse."

"Well, you probably thought the same about me and my mother's goals right?" Isabelle replies. "Wouldn't have been wrong, either."

"And what's changed?"

"Well, not much, admittedly." she says. "I'll have to get her signoff on this, no matter how reluctant she is and how much information I'm trying to keep from her. But she's been giving me more leeway as the competition has progressed. I'm hoping that the wins are keeping her happy and she's willing to ignore the small stuff in the name of the 'bigger picture' that the Gala promises."

"And you'd really risk it for this, of all things?"

"... You're not talking about the deal, are you?"

Rosa laughs, a genuine one.

"No."

Isabelle smiles.

"Yeah, I get it. And yes, I'm risking it. She doesn't give me much room, and I can't honestly say what I'd do if she comes down hard on the idea, but I've got a little space and I want to use it. It wasn't right how Elena dropped you just because the market turned against you. Like she didn't even care. She should know you matter."

"... she should think of you as a person, not just as an accessory. Not just as how you fit into her plans."

Rosa gives Isabelle's shoulder a squeeze.

"And you're not just talking about Elena there, are you?"

"... no."

-------------------=====================----------------------------

Right now.

It starts when the floor begins to glow.

A shimmering, rainbow haze descends over the walls and station airlock. Small pinpricks of light begin to descend from the ceiling like snow. Miniature stars, they waft and then swirl as if stirred by an unseen wind, building in speed and intensity as more and more join their number.

Just as they descend, more specks of ... well, not light ... of blackness. Start to build around the floor. They swirl in counterpoint to the light coming from above. Converging, merging, until a glowing sun takes form, backed by an umbral eclipse. There is an instant where they freeze before they begin to take the shape of ... a woman - of two women, back to back. One of yellow starlight, the other of black space.

The two shapes raise swords, tips apart, before slashing them through the air. The tips trail white and form two moons, facing outwards from the middle. The twin crescents hang in the air before everything explodes in light and cherry blossoms.

The two people thrust out arms, which shimmer in light and dark before resolving into the sleeves of a kimono. They turn, repeating the gesture with their other side and, in the process, a line of light traces out their obi. The strike a pose, swords to the sky, as their kamikazari sparkle into being. Finally they turn to the crowd and, with a final flurry of blossoms and light, the spectacle ends.

When it fades, standing in the circle, both breathing somewhat heavily, are Isabelle and Rosalinda. Their dresses match, both traditional kimonos of Kikuji design. But where Rosa's is tinged with yellow and orbited by a few of the golden fireflies from earlier, Isabelle's is tinged with silver and orbited by flakes of snow.

Rosa looks out over the crowd - uncertainty on her face, but Isabelle takes her hand, descending the steps into the crowd with the other woman. Whatever reaction they got was somehow less important than what they had done together.

The drones, a small school of them that had been hidden above and behind, obediently follow them into the crowd. Most folding up into a belt along their backs, but some still orbiting to keep their dresses' effects going.

Asil, Madame Toldeo and Chief Tomas would enter afterwards. Isabelle's personal entourage. Ostensibly there to observe the technical effects and whether any changes would be needed to the designs of dress or drone. Each had played a role in the demonstration just now.

Madame Toldeo had altered the kimonos to accomodate the swords and accessories (such as the drone control bracelets) that they now wore up their sleeves. While Tomas had worked hard to make it so that the drones would display well to the other races. That they'd actually simulate real wind, and that the 'heat' of the lights would be enough to obscure Isabelle and Rosa's entry into the station until they were in position for the reveal.

And as for Asil - well, they'd worked out the routine between them. Filled it with references only the two of them would get. The sword poses were lifted from a book Isabelle had read once upon a time, while the double-crescent was Asil's suggestion. It was actually something she recognised from the Space Witch intro movie in Fantasy Battle Online (although, Asil was the only one who knew that this was itself an homage to the anime Magica Puella Hero Acadamy).

Isabelle would find her later, when the time came for dances to be had and quiet corners to be found. For now though, she would mingle with the other Terenians and wait until other guests arrived to see if any were of interest.

Mirror

You have a front-row seat to everyone coming in from the hangar, though there’s no need to bore you with every mundane coming and going. A few of note though.

The former empress of Zaldaria is deeply surprised that she’s not the first arrival, she had tried quite hard for the honor, but you handily bested her. She will give you the most perfunctory nod imaginable and then immediately scurry past you with a flare of her cape, her entourage following.

The Terenians are extraordinarily gaudy, though you may notice the one pilot making the entrance with the drone technology. If for no other reason than the way the leader of her entourage (presumably her mother, to the extent you understand such things in Terenian culture) sniffs. It’s plain as day that she’s annoyed at being upstaged by her own daughter, and more than a little surprised that her daughter would do such a thing. Perhaps something of interest given the struggles that particular pilot has had (and the murmurings about her victory over Ksharta, which made just about everyone watching deeply uncomfortable).
Dolly arrives soon after them, with a surprise special show right at the entrance to the space. You have a front row seat from which to leer at Jade. Slate’s there too, along with Kiriala, but they’re enjoying the show and have some idea what you’re about.

Matty will briefly wander off for a break, a drink, some food around this time.

Next of note are the arrivals of Charon and Adriana, wearing your dresses. Charon’s joy is such that he pleasantly greets you, though he has no idea that you designed the dresses at all. He is simply happy enough to share it without questioning why you might be so carefully observing the entrance. It’s an odd effect for a man with imposing cybernetics, but then he carries himself with a casual confidence that says he’s not afraid to break character.

Adriana is interesting. You might have expected her to grow angry with her own unexpected weakness. That does not appear to be the case, however. She’s asked for help and appears to be carrying off the role of damsel with a certain aplomb. She swoons, but her gaze still has a certain cunning to it. A consummate actress who, faced with an unexpected role, has nevertheless vigorously embraced the part. Seeing you staring, she gestures for Marcina to bring her closer. “I always appreciate boldness” she says, and gently places a rose in your hands as she enters.

Matty returns after this with Slate and Kiriala. Still no Solarel. Matty purrs, sips her drink, and nestles into your arm. Slate will stand nearby. Not foolish enough to talk. They weren’t sure who would arrive when, whether they’d even arrive ahead of Solarel, but since they’re here and no longer tied to a delegation they’ve come to join you.

And then, of course, there is Solarel, who made you wait for nearly everyone else to enter. Not unexpected, and yet, here she is, simple, bold, her eyes boring into you. Another battle, or something else?

***

Solarel

There is little enough to say. The arrivals around you have no organization nor any particular interest in you. A few of the pirates do stop to glance, curious at one of the most renowned combatants. But finding you absorbed, they won’t linger. Not when there’s good food and girls to tease who will pay attention to them. So none remain with you while you stare and you walk in alone, late and nearly last.

And there is Mirror. But then, you already knew that, she could be the whole universe after all. She could, but there are others. She’s holding another Hybrasilian like her, if a little smaller and a little more drawn into herself. Purring and freely enjoying Mirror’s touch without getting in her way. And around her are two more, obviously with her though they’re standing politely to the side. Not just Mirror, but a family of sorts.

***

Jade, Dolly, and entourage

It is Kimri who moves first among the display. It is not a large movement, but being greeted by Jade in this manner, she bows her elderly head, and it is understood that this is a motion that is very significant for her because she is old and her bones ache. And it is also understood if you see the way that her fangs just peak out and her ears curl, that this is both respectful and just slightly amused. The bow of an elderly servant who has been with a family for many generations and is acknowledging her respect to the new young master that has joined the family. Tolerant and helpful and just every so slightly too understanding.

Then because their eldest and most reverend priestess has bowed, the entire rest of the Hybrasilian delegation has also bowed and more deeply still. Angela’s scoff cuts above the silence of the entrants. “And they told me it was difficult to herd Hybrasilians.” She laughs, and it’s haughty and warm and it rumbles through her exposed belly with a genuine joy. “Very well goddess, let us see this party through your eyes.” She slips on the glove quickly, with no ceremony, and she strides forward ahead of the delegation, pulling Ksharta with her (because she too has noticed that Ksharta hasn’t been feeling in as high spirits as she ought to). “Come girl, get your glove on, drop the box, and show me to the refreshments. I want to know which of the Hybrasilian delicacies will actually suit my palette, Terenian food is terribly boring.”

And Jade, you’ve got both of them, Angela with her glove fully on and Ksharta scrambling to get hers over her hand while Angela is pulling on her, and the whole Hybrasilian delegation looking scandalized (except that Kimri is still smiling), and holy shit is that Mirror who’s been standing there watching all the entrants the entire time just gazing at Dolly’s dress while wearing nothing but her headdress????

And then there’s Dolly, who’d better hurry or she’s going to be left at the back while your entourage makes a show of itself! Jade, Jade you’ve really given yourself a lot to do all of a sudden, even for a goddess!

***

Isabelle

The Terenians applaud. It’s a really good entrance after all! There are looks of envy, and the overall effect is enough to catch the attention of the advance guard of the Hybrasilians coming in behind you (though that’s about to be distracted thanks to the temporary materialization of an actual goddess, albeit a minor one).

The real trick with this routine is going to be who’s talking about it later. The other Terenians will do so in spades. Some despite themselves, out of jealousy or pettiness. Some few in genuine praise. Because, again, it was a really good entrance.

Doing the routine as you are, you may or may not see the brief moment of annoyance that passes Almira’s face before she composes herself. It’s hard for a mother who doesn’t want to live even a little vicariously through her children after all, and you absolutely did upstage her. No elegant, graceful entrance with Almira at the front for her, not with Isabelle putting on the fireworks. But of course, when you’re done, she congratulates you for your creativity and is the first and most vocal contributors to speaking loudly on the matter when the later guests arrive.

In the meanwhile, there are empresses to consort with, and some Hybrasilians with a goddess (not to mention the undefeated pilot who’s practically in the nude who watched your entire routine with her little entourage). And there’s the arrival of Adriana Teresio herself. The most powerful woman in the Entire Terenius Consortium. Though she doesn't seem quite herself, swooning as she is with the leading pilot and former champion holding her up. Is this what you expected? Do you think it’s an act to lull you into a false sense of security? Are you bold enough to go and talk to her, entourage and all? Or will you keep your distance and seek out some other company in the hope she hears the rumors? Perhaps a dance with Asil first and foremost. She’s been sticking close to your side the whole time. This is pretty out of her element, after all, and she doesn’t want to accidentally get banished from the Lozano household for a political faux paus. (Not that this would happen, but then again Almira does have that threatening aura down to a science.)

No detail is forgotten. All are marked. All are filed away and kept close. But none are responded to, none followed up on. Not just yet. Because these are ancillary pursuits compared with her real reason for being here. Her unpredictability necessitated covering every base. Everything needed to be perfect for her. For

Solarel!

Mirror has handed you a rose, and that is a victory. She was holding it, though it did not go with her outfit, and under the pressure of your stare she gave it away without thinking. Without even a word. Flowers as a gift is on the whole a very Terenian custom, but in Hybrasil giving away anything when you have very little is considered a declaration of love on par with a wedding proposal. And it was not planned; you can see that by her snatching fingers just after, that she covers by quickly busying them with her ribbons. Long strokes.

< Go ahead and look. It is all for your benefit. >

Now her fur darkens in her equivalent of a blush, where your eyes alone hadn't quite shaken her. She had not intended to sign in this conversation, but she defaulted to the stiff and over-rushed language she learned while she was your slave. Your comfort and your rules before her, and all because she lost a staring contest. You put your eyes where hers can't follow. She does not know what to do with that.

Speak Not, you told her. And she complied. But she has so much still to say.

< Yes. For your benefit. Because it is all your fault. What am I meant to do? I owe. I owe. I owe. I owe. I serve. I serve. I serve. I serve. I cannot seem to fit my dreams inside my hands anymore. They have grown, and I have not. >

She has surrounded herself with other cats. If you have been keeping tabs on her in any way, you will know that these are her family. But plainly, none of them understand the language she is using to speak with you. Anything she expresses will be a secret kept from them, unless you chose to break the spell. That too is a victory. You are in control. She cannot help herself around you.

That's why she's never won. Not ever, at least in her mind.

< Are you. Doing well? Are you. Excited? Or are you. Like me? Because I >

Her hands go quiet, folding themselves placidly in front of herself. Fingers tucked in, claws politely hidden, a kind of meekness that's unbecoming of the woman who calls herself Mirror. Mira Fisher, however, was like this all the time. She has a secret. Or more accurately a concern.

And she would like you to pry it out of her, if you can.

Their hands touch when the rose passes between them. The gentle force of it traces up her arm like a shiver, crackling into her spine. The barest transfer of motive force but after so much stillness it warms her bones. She hasn't been touched for a million years. An operational hazard of mastery.

< Am I. Like you? >

There's a difference to her signing when she was close. Close enough, bold enough, she could reach across and take Mirror's hand, draw it into the sign. Whispering with hands, making their combined movement form the same words. Almost dance.

< Sometimes I disassemble you. > she said, fingers touching shoulder, collar, ribs. < I think of you as maneuvers. Reaction times. Instincts. > Poetry in gesture involved choosing words where each gesture flowed into the next without need for reset. Do it right and she never had to break contact. < Sometimes you disassemble me. My thoughts are a ruin because of you. Tactics I adore torn apart. Nonviable. Unsolveable. >

There was an invitation here. She had to act on it. It was easy to think that she was bold, but in her mind she thought the reverse. Making the request, even like this, subtle and secret, was a courage she couldn't manage. Responding to a request was easy. She just needed to become, become, become -

< Are you like me? In pieces? Torn apart? Tearing apart? Barely functional, in a way that can't be expressed to anyone sane? > said Solarel. "Because. It's a [change/relief/blessing] to see you. Whole."

Maybe it's Angela's fire that quickens her step. Click, clack, click across the grand floor, and on her arm is Smokeless Jade Fires. (This is before; this is before they pass into the next chamber after Angela and Ksharta, but it's important, Jade, please, we have to thank her, she did have something to do with the dress you commissioned--)

It's clear that she's tongue-tied, and not because Jade's keeping her quiet. She stands there a moment in the heels, the ones that almost bring her up to Mirror. (Jade herself has the kind of armored stilettos that could punch a hole through steel if she could only touch the world, refusing to cede so much height to her bride.) She is a princess of the mountains, a vision in white snow and delicate silk, her cloak tied in place where Jade's billows from one shoulder. The stockings and the gloves offer flashes of her thighs and her shoulders, and the corset's framing contributes with the cloak tie to draw the eye quite naturally to her bust: the unity of the formality required to mingle at the Gala with the greedy eye of a goddess. But the headdress, now that it's not crushing her under the weight of moping, elevates her. The designer has made her a worthy high priestess of the new chic, boldly stepping forward into a contest among aliens, able to take the best elements of the Terenians and claim them for her own (as if her pet Terenian wasn't proof enough).

Even as Dolly frets and tries to figure out where to look, balancing a respect for Mirror's modesty and the knowledge that this must be deliberate and thus an act of bold fashion, Smokeless Jade Fires looks Mirror straight in those wet blue eyes. Her eyes are the halo of light around an eclipsing moon, a ring of fire that does not dim. Goddesses do not blink unless they choose to. You wounded her pride, Whispered Promise. You humiliated her, and showed her a skill she did not possess, and you brought her beloved back to her. Her wounded pride will not allow her to back down, and her debt to you stops her from pouncing. So she stares, like an aggressor, daring you to look away, the intensity of her eyes hinting at the fact that she is not like you, Whispered Promise; whether or not she is a goddess, she is something that has built her identity around that belief, and on one wrist her destroyer's will is constrained by her debt to you, and on the other she is bound by the fear that you will, somehow, defeat her again, and that is intolerable to her, and around her neck is the desire to master your magic which can bind even the gods, the effortless wielding of the sword that she has spent her entire life learning how to wield--

"I'm so proud of you," Dolly half-whispers. She rubs her own cheeks, tearing up, because she's finally figured out why. Why you would dress like this. "You're reclaiming them." The only way to love her spots is to display them proudly to the entire world, isn't it? An act of radical self-love, of courage, and it would be arrogant of Dolly to believe that it's her encouragement that led Mirror here, but the magic of Dolly is that she immediately makes room in her heart for Mirror's victory. She smiles and does an encouraging hop from foot to foot, like a kitten inviting someone to play, and manages not to stumble in the heels. "And I won't-- you've got to make everyone see, right? Come find me once you're inside, okay? You have to meet Angela, and I owe you a dance!! I don't know how you convinced Mayze Szerpaws, of all people, to let you consult, but-- I mean, it's our secret, I haven't told anybody!"

"Shh," Smokeless Jade Fires breathes in her bride's ear. The back of her free hand glides across Dolly's jaw, suggestively, and the breath that the high priestess takes fills her up from the tip of her tail to the tips of her ears, and knowing that Angela Victoria Miera Antonius and Ksharta Talonna can feel her desperate hope and terror that her goddess is going to gag her in front of the entire gala short-circuits her brain completely, and her eyes bashfully slide down off Whispered Promise's face until they catch on two protruding struts, as it were.

"I have done impossible things before, Whispered Promise," the goddess says, evenly, her smile slightly too wide. "But even I have not disarmed the entire galaxy of a held weapon in one blow. Daring." She finally breaks eye contact and crooks a finger, evoking the leash without the leash. "Come, dear. The rest of my harem awaits our pleasure inside."

"Thank you," Dolly mouths one more time at Mirror, and then lifts her head and, for the first time, walks with her wife into the eyes of the galaxy, into the cameras, into the challenge of a four-way memory weave connection, into the thoughts of Angela pulling her into a private room, into the knowledge that Angela can feel the way she feels, into a night that she couldn't have dreamed of a year ago, into the music, into the lights, into the live performances, into the ribbon dances being performed over her head, into fleeting eye contact with a former empress of the Zaldarians, into an unforgettable night.

[Dolly rolls to Emotionally Support Mirror, and... it's a 4. But she is able to burn her String from when Mirror rescued her and showed off her heart to bump it up to a 7. So Mirror can either open up to Dolly (later in the evening, even), or she can tick Feelings up to 4 (later in the evening, even). Smokeless Jade Fires, on the other hand, has triggered Mirror's Center of the Web, and may be handled as Mirror sees fit.]