She has twenty screens lit up at every angle around the desk she's commandeered from Slate. Insufficient information density, but she's out of room. Sheets of numbers, sprawling articles, work orders for Mayze Szerpaws, correspondences with business associates both above the table and below it, a dossier on every single pilot still remaining in the competition, and several smaller bios for pilots who have been eliminated but have known connections to those still here. On her largest screen, a simulated cockpit: a crude wireframe representation, but from the way her fingers are moving on the various touchpads and keyboards she's got in front of her it's no less difficult to handle than the actual Gods-Smiting Whip. 

And finally, on a smaller screen right next to it, footage from the party. The Aeteline, lifting off over the gawking faces of a pair of Empresses and their patchwork retinue. Solarel, restored. Solarel, reverted. Solarel, damned.

"Boss?"

Mirror only 'pilots' in spurts. Her eyes dart from screen to screen, but rather than trying to take them all in at once (impossible, as some are behind her no matter which way she's facing) each one captures her entire attention for minutes at a time. She reaches for a glass that only barely fits on the desk and lifts it all the way to her lips before she notices it is empty. Her tongue clicks in frustration, but she puts it down just where it was, and resumes work.

"Boss."

So much of this was not like in the animes (even the terribly boring ones) that it was really throwing her for a loop. Her fingers brush the fur on her arms out of alignment and then smooth it all back down on a cycle whenever they're not engaged in active piloting simulation. Vulnerability. Doubt. Perhaps she doesn't understand this world well enough to slaughter someone in it after all. She closes her eyes and shakes her head. Refocused. But when she opens her eyes, half of her monitors have been shut off. She is staring into the bloodshot and irate eyes of Selin Makers.

"Mira Fishers! Will at [i]least[/i] explain what you're up to in here? I have work to do, you know."

"Studying finance."

"Stud... what?"

"I need to understand the principles of Terenian Economics if I'm going to turn my threats into proper promises. There is time now, so I am studying."

"This is... about that speech you made at the party? Mira, no one expects you to move on that until after the tournament. You know that, right? No one expects you to move on it at all. They'll just say you were drunk. And you pretty much were; you got [i]right[/i] up in that scary woman's [Nectar] dress."

"Untrue. Isabelle Lozano does. And Almira Lozano does as well. She will already be plotting something, so I must be ahead of her. Rest assured, the first nineteen moves of my opening gambit have already been made."

"Boss you're gonna hurt yourself, you literally do not have [i]time[/i] for this if you're gonna--"

"Shh." Mirror puts a claw on Slate's lip, "This is all for the sake of winning the tournament. I am only pushing myself as far as is required. This much really is quite simple when you approach it from the perspective of destroying or relocating value without aim for acquiring it yourself. I wonder why there are so few example texts?"

Claw or not, Slate's face tightens into a frown. She steps away and begins pacing, the way that [i]she[/i] does when agitated.

"Mirror... Boss. Mira, please. Please. Please! You are so close to the stars right now I can hardly hear you anymore. I'm begging you, put that stuff down for a minute and talk to me. Talk. For real."

One by one the remaining monitors flicker off, all except for her piloting program and the gala footage. Slate immediately cringes and arches her back, but the direct stare of her partner keeps her from screaming loud enough to reach the next seven hangars. Mirror tries and fails for the second time to drink from her empty, perspiring glass.

"Destroying the Lozano Matriarch will take time. Beyond the scope of our stay here, I am already aware. But a noteworthy blow must be struck now, nevertheless. Even if it compromises me. Even if it costs more than we can afford."

Slate blinks three times. Too fast to show comfort or acceptance of the thought; just a simple deference. Keep talking, Boss.

"Almira Lozano's attention and wrath must be pulled off of Isabelle Lozano in a very narrow timeframe. In this way we secure the loyalty of Isabelle Lozano whom I have named the Distant Gate. And it is through that gate that the tournament shall be won. Through her cooperation, and yours. And Matty's, Kiriala's, and in short order the goddess Smokeless Jade Fires'. More names would be preferable, but I am running out of, how do they call it, capital? The Final Opponent will require at least this many swords to slay."

"And... by the final opponent you mean?"

"Solarel, of course. It will be her. And I. In the finals. Or this entire endeavor was pointless."

"Poin... point... p-point! Pointless! Pointless, she says! Mira Love-spotted Fishers you... you whisker tweaked, small headed, sunshine chasing... [i]ass![/i]"

Slate has climbed up onto a couch. She stays upright even as she perches on the back of it, and there are so many tears in her eyes they look exactly as liquid as Mirror's own.

"What about the promises you made me? What about our dreams? Our wish!? When I agreed to help you build this Nine Drive System you promised me that the prize at the end of the road was gonna be for both of us! And you did [i]not[/i] mean the Combat Slut! You always do this! With your schemes and your side objectives and you never explain, not once do you ever try to let me in, do you even-- I swear to! I! You are gonna make me... no. No, no, no, no, Mira, no! Is this... tell me you're not using that?!"

"...I am."

"Goddess in a tree, Mira! We don't know what'll happen if we do that! We never tested it, we... we couldn't!"

"She has the Aetiline, Selin. What choice do I have?"

"She... what?"

"If I do not defeat her here, Selin. We will not get our wish. And if I cannot do it correctly, even if I did we would be miserable. You and I. It would fall apart like ash under our feet."

"'But,' you'll say, 'if I do this correctly then even if I don't take the tournament we will still blah blah blah blah blah.' Am I about right?"

Mirror stares at her empty cup for a long, awkward silence. All indications from her twitchy arm movements is that even watching it be empty hasn't rid her of the impulse to try and drink from it.

"I just wish you understood. At all. What it felt like playing second best to somebody you can't ever win against. Because every move you make just pushes them closer and closer to getting everything that you want. I wish you knew how much it hurt to love someone with your entire heart when she can't give you the same."

How long does the movement take? A second? Half? Does time exist at all? What were the point of those intervening frames when none of them involved two cats hugging? Slate sobs into Mirror's shoulder, awkwardly and jaggedly purring through it while Mirror's claws trace her spine in patterns of relaxation.

"If. I told you. I would give up Solarel. To be with you."

"I'd know you were l-lying."

"But. If I. Loved you. Enough to cut it off. To. Simplify my dream. Then--"

"I'd leave. Y-y-you wouldn't be my Boss. That ain't... who I signed on with."

They find themselves sitting. Every monitor switched off at last. No sound but breathing and hiccups and a pair of heartbeats. Minutes chasing hours. Matches creeping closer, windows creaking shut.

"You are. Impossible. To please."

"Nah, I'm very easy. You succeed. And you stay with me. You stay, Boss. I'll do all of Combat Slut's maintenance and upgrade work too, but the both of you come [i]home.[/i] And you tell me every night how much I matter. That's what this costs. You got enough coins left to play your last card still?"

"That's... not how the game w--"

A pillow in her face, like the hammer of Grandmother Fire who gifted the first spears and lifted Hyrbasil up above the level of the Hunted. Mirror shrieks and spits in a profoundly undignified, uncoordinated, and uncool manner. She has nothing to shield herself but this pathetic display. It does not work. She hits the floor.

"No. Of course. I understand, Selin. I cannot. Do anything. Without you. You take point on the rest of this. Complete the plan as seems best to you, and I will come home. And tell you what is true. I should. Get to my 'proper' work by now, anyway."

"...At least match commentary will be fun. Right? You pick a partner yet?"

"Are you joking?" Mirror sniffs, "Hardly. My beloved seniors may choose for themselves whom they'd like with them in the 'Booth' as it were. And if someone should choose me I will be more than happy to assist."

"What if they don't? What if they expect you to take the initiative and you get left out entirely?"

"Then I catch up on my napping. Aren't you always yelling at me to rest more?"