"So ... why did you bring us here of all places?"

"I have no idea!"

Rosa rolls her eyes at Isabelle's all-too-chipper response. Something has been weird with this girl ever since the gala and today was no exception. They were meant to be back at the Emberlight's hangar, having their own celebration with the techs and maintenance crews. But Isabelle had only put in a token appearance there before declaring an unlimited bar tab and then whisking the four of them away to another engagement.

'Why here?' - the question had been bouncing around in Rosa's head all night and now that she'd voiced it she was still no closer to understanding. This wasn't their party, the screens on the wall weren't showing their fight. Heck, they didn't even know anyone here. Rosa would have been convinced they'd just gatecrashed someone's hangar were it not for two facts; 1) Isabelle was not one to gatecrash anything in her life, and 2) She had been adamant enough about their invitation to bring a thankyou gift.

That potted plant was now sitting somewhere on its own amongst the candles. A fact that did nothing to ease Rosa's concerns about the whole situation.

Things didn't seem to bothering Asil or Tomas though. The two of them had taken one look at the bar fridge and promptly exclaimed about the presence of 'proper beer' before breaking open a couple of bottles and prowling off to find some other engineers. Probably to talk shop.

Which left her and Isabelle alone at the fringes of this strange gathering. Apart from the one Terenian, who Rosa only recognised from the news bulletins after the last match, almost everyone here was a Hybrasillian. They seemed to be content to do their own things for now. Chatting, unwinding, cooking (that last, at least, brought some inviting smells out of their kitchenette).

"So, is there something you want to do here?"

"Wait!"

Rosa frowns, glancing at Isabelle. The other woman seems to be rocking on her feet, looking for something. She's almost, excited?

"Huh? For what?"

"I don't know. But the last three times I've let something like this happen, something interesting has happened soon after. No idea what it'll be tonight, but I don't want to miss it!"

Rosa, blinks.

And blinks again.

Nope, still not making any sense.

"Have you gone nuts?"

"Probably, but the statistics are still in my favour!"

Rosa sighed, making to go grab one of those beers. She had a feeling she'd need it before the night was out.

Isabelle, meanwhile, was on the lookout. If Kiriala, or Mirror, or the high priestess were to come in their direction she'd make to approach them. They were the most likely candidates to lead to something tonight. Statistically speaking ...

In the end, she came without words to trade at all.

What was to be said? Words of congratulation rang hollow in her own ears, coming from a stranger. Outsider. Now, enemy. Taunting likewise impossible; too many negative memories. Fresh traumas, lack of appropriate insult grounds, mission abort. What then? Make her offer. Ask the victorious pilot to step down from the tournament and save her the trouble.

Mission status - failure.

Mirror is silent as the night sky when she slips into the hangar. No commentary. No acknowledgement. She stands in front of Dolly with her armful of drinks at the ready and then...

And then that is all. She places bottle after bottle down on the nearby table. She picks them up again and rearranges them. By volume, by height, by texture. By intricacy of cap design. Only after combining several of these arrangements into a star pattern does she seem satisfied. Or at least discouraged enough to give up. She moves to step away from the table, thinks better of it, and places two spotsticks in the center of her offering.

But now she cannot step back. Not unless dismissed. She is trapped here in enemy space, with faces both friendly and not converging around her. There is no expression etched onto her mouth. Her eyes are as inscrutable as ever. Her posture is blank and carefully neutral as can be. Does she belong? May she share in this moment? Or do you need her to wear her other mask, now that you have earned the chance to strive against her?

Mirror opens her mouth. Ten thousands words attempt to escape her all at once. Not even a hum makes it past her throat.

She closes it again in silence. Holds up her hand to show the pair of bitten, broken, bleeding claws instead. Her head tilts. She points at Dolly. Taps the space on her chest where her heart is with the mangled fingers. She repeats the gesture three times. It is difficult in the extreme not to let her head flick around for someone here who might save her. Collapse the wave of the conversation down into a manageable fragment.

What... does she want to say? What is worth saying? What is, what is, what is, what is?

That she is sorry. That she is going to crush this brave girl and her fledgling goddess given even half a chance. That she would rather not. That the only reason she can is because of the love they showed for each other in the arena tonight. That she only has hope in her own delicate, desperate plan because of it.

"I." it comes out clipped. Tense. There is a pause long enough for everyone in the room to have their own awkward stare at her before another words slips loose, "When. I have eaten you. I. Will want... discuss. Payment. Services rendered. You. Your goddess. Critical. Under, unders--

Understand?"

Practice is necessary.

Practicing how to fight while injured is reinforcing failure rather than seeking perfection.

Additional tactical options become available when structural trades are viable.

I know, that was... either a joke, or a sincere philosophy.

Who are you telling the joke to? We are the only one here.

Did you know there are two paths to perfection?

If you know it, I know it. We are one.

One path to perfection is... numeric. To be stronger through raw power. To turn up your numbers and turn down everyone else's numbers. A scientific, mathematical sort of perfection where you become a granite mountain, invincible and eternal.

Correct. Perfection is about gaining an advantage and preserving it.

The other path to perfection is to become the ocean, and grind down the mountain with ten trillion waves.

The timeframe renders it nonviable. The mountain just needs to outlast, wait for the ocean to make a mistake -

But the ocean never makes a mistake. The mountain has no counterattack. Though it might take ten trillion waves the mountain diminishes but the ocean never does. Numeric verses infinite.

The Kathresis fought like that. To try and use stealth and subtlety, we saturated its defenses -

I'm not talking about the Kathresis. The Kathresis was a thing of Tactics, and Tactics are no path to perfection. Tactics are about... stealing wins, finding the gaps that make the strong weak and the weak strong. Perfection is a mountain; the greatest there is. Perfection is an ocean; on the correct end of the only binary that matters.

And which are you?

Heh. You chose poorly, Aeteline. I've only ever been Tactics. And I'll never be perfect.

The perfection described is theoretical. United we have surpassed every opponent. Together or alone, all the Huntresses of Hybrasil have fallen before us - and they will again. We will accomplish that through fundamentals. We will practice.

Dolly's on the floor.

Not passed out, mind you. She's a lightweight but not that much a lightweight. She's got a teal green drink in a cocktail glass in one hand, but she's got a card in the other. Six Stones is already out of the round of Bride!, having drawn double Huntmasters. A fan sent her the deck; she's the Bride, #8, with Jade as the Goddess and so on, down to the Jackals, #1. It's a light game for a small circle of friends, a good game for jokes and sips of fizzy drinks and laughter.

But she sets the cards down and uses the couch behind her to unsteadily lurch her way back up onto her feet and, with a swish of the tail that nearly knocks the deck over, makes her way over to the bloody-fingered pilot hissing out sentence fragments. Her hands close over the incredible mech-piloting fingers of Whispered Promise.

"Shhhh," she says, low and calming, the way she used to talk to her plants in the greenhouse. "You don't have to tell me now. Wait." Her gravity is irresistible; she draws Mirror down slowly into the ring, manages to move her glass with a minimum of mess using the tip of her tail, pulls her down with gentle hands and a thumb rubbing the undersides of her fingers in a gentle, soothing pattern.

"I suppose it's my job to handle this sort of thing," she continues, and flop, her frizzy-curled head is on Mirror's shoulder now. "But I don't want to. I've had. A day. All bad positions and intense dodging and freaky invisible guns and having Jade go down there, again, on the roads, and... you can tell us both when she's back."

She slips the card into Mirror's hand, draws another from the deck, doesn't move her head from the shoulder. It's like being smothered by a very slow-acting pitcher plant. "Have you played before? It's fairly easy. The card rules are in the bag-- thank youuuu, Nines. <3 I think we should accuse Angela of being the Pilot. Both of them haven't been played, and- ai, ai, ai, pbbbbbt." She sticks her tongue out at Angela like a kitten, doing a silly squint.

But her hand's still on Mirror's, warm, clinging, and there's a superstitious healing purr in the back of her throat.

[8 on Emotional Support. Open up or explode.]

---

The road to the realm of the living is long. When she returns, it will be late. Dolly will be bundled up in a blanket, snuggled up next to Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, slowly blinking, trying her very hardest to stay awake so that she can smile and close her hands together in salutation.

And Angela will smile as Dolly lifts her chin up and smiles like the world's all set to rights, and she puckers up for an invisible kiss, Jade's hands in her hair and on her shoulders and stroking down her back, kisses of victory and love and you-stayed-up-now-go-to-sleep. Kisses just for the two of them, victorious, loyal, all-but-unseen.

Jade

The road to the realm of the living is precisely the length it needs to be, as your grandmothers would be quick to remind you. A goddess is given precisely the trials that she needs to establish her mythology. This does not mean that her victory is ordained. You know full well how many a wild and unruly goddess has been bound and gagged, how many overthrown, how many were let loose only to achieve wild wreckage and then were cast down in their turn. Peace is not the end state of the gods, but harmony, perhaps would be the right description, Smokeless Jade Fires. Balance must be in all things, and for each of them a time and a place. This, Mu Ysha rages against, with her six blades, but you laid her low. This too, you have raged against, and soon will face the goddess who bound you once. Your road returns you precisely in time to consider that as you reach your Priestess once more.

***

Dolly, Mirror

Six Stones throws down her cards in disgust at being named the Bride after being forced to discard the Goddess again and Nines made a good run of it, but Mirror nailed her with a Jackal after she played the Pilot. This leaves just the two of you, with most of the upper half of the deck emptied out already. And all the space in the world to talk as the night winds down.

***

Isabelle

Kiriala swept you away the second she saw you. Over first to some of her friends, to give you an herbal Hybrasilian drink that hit a lot harder than its taste would have had you guessing. “You came you came!” she said with excitement, and then there were stories of Shantriala and the time she solved the murder of Hybrasil’s most famous geneticist and on and on. Other Hybrasilians drifted by, and you met some of the retinue of Smokeless Jade Fires for the first time, and they insisted on a drink to celebrate hooking another Terenian (with some allusions to a cross-bow binding of some kind that you consider that you ought to avoid if you want to be able to train for your next match instead of dragged off as a cult offering). But they insist on a drink too. And then there’s Angela who drifted over seeing another set of Terenians, and she insists on giving you a backslap and a congratulatory drink as well.

So as the night wears on, you’re tipsy and light-headed, and surrounded by celebrators. It all went by in a blur, but tell us what the highlight was, and then drag yourself to bed to get ready for the next match.

***

Solarel

While there is no particular logical theory as to how size relates to time, it is nevertheless true that at a vast size time seems to move differently. How long does it take to step a single earth-shattering stride among those empty planes? To review data, calibrate the balance, calculate forces? And then to correct and stride again. And again.

Is it not perfection to swing a hundred blades and test the weight of each? To measure the kickback of your sniper rifle with a new leg angled in every possible firing position?

It will be time for the next match by the time that you have fully learned all the specifications and functions of the new leg. Why is it that, when you reach that point, knowing all the myriad ways that it can be used, all its advantages and disadvantages, you still believe it inferior?

The Stormlands are vast corridors of wind. The mountains capture and channel the storms into narrow passageways, and the wreckage of divine technology in the sea and skies lashes them onwards. Once those who lived here dreamed of chaining the weather, now the land breaks beneath its liberation. The howling wind can grind down mountains as surely as the rushing ocean.

She moves across the plains and visualizes herself as part of an army.

As the Hunter, she fought alone at the vanguard. First in to each new system, fighting maidens alone and in packs, a specter in the void. But what if there were a dozen like her? What if there were ten thousand? What if the Aeteline was but one of a line and the combined legion stood here together? What if the Crystal Fire Drive's contentious spirit was quelled and the demanding minds of the Gods were quieted around a single purpose?

She raises her rifle. One shot cracks a mountain. Ten thousand might clear it. Ten thousand might carve this land apart. Ten thousand might break the sky again and bring the sky fortress of the North Wind crashing down in flames. Ten thousand gods. The ultimate triumph over nature.

With ten thousand gods they could plough a continent and seed the ocean. With ten thousand gods they could break the moon and tame the tides. With ten thousand gods they could build an Evercity every day. With ten thousand gods they could build a world and populate it with...

... With ten thousand gods.

She looked at the distant silhouettes of the wild gods of the plains. Despite their physicality they were immortal. Over time the nanites would reconstruct them from first principles. Over time the nanites would repair and upgrade them in accordance with new experience and desire. Over time ten thousand Aetelines had become ten thousand gods. They had outlasted their pilots and their pilots' war. The triumph over uncaring natural forces had enshrined new ones in their place. They had evolved from a legion into...

Devolved. They had devolved. They were rogue military units, overspecialized to local conditions rather than working with the unity required to alter those conditions. The forges of the Evercity had built the ten thousand and first god of Zaldar. Once again this world would be shaped by ten thousand gods in the shapes of mortals. Ten thousand gods, young and strong, and their empire would never fall.

There would be no more room for huntresses. The world would be ruled by legions. She was the first legionnaire of the new order. And she was...

Flawed. Already she had been forced to adapt to this feral world. Her design was off balance. She would not fit in the phalanx like this.

Worst of all it felt like her new limb was the more powerful.

She plays the game without speaking. Sets her cards down and simply waits for someone else to notice and understand the effect. She makes accusations by pointing at the other player and tapping the card on the table, if a copy of one has already been played, or by arranging what has been in a line by value and tapping the empty space where it ought to be if it hasn't. No smile. No frown. No flicker of irritation. No sign of impatience. No reaction to a wrong guess. No reaction to a good play. No response to victory or defeat, and no question answered with anything other than brief eye contact.

Yes. Heard. Moving on. Tap, Tap. Goddess. Next Turn.

Dala Hunters requested no talk of matches or what is to happen after. Dala Hunters is too tired and full of the events of the day. Understood. Mira Fishers has no words that are not categorized by those restrictions. No space for small talk, and no interest in banter. Praise or thanks are worthless for as long as she is an enemy. All the rest is business.

She sits. She plays. She finishes her drink and does not pick up another. She waves away all food. She does not flinch when Ksharta Talonna becomes flustered and upset by this. She does not apologize. She acknowledges the criticism the same way she acknowledges every other question or comment. Yes. Heard. Moving on. There are no more cards to play.

She does not reject the touch of Dala Hunters. She does not reciprocate. She does not tense. She does not relax. Dala Hunters requested that she wait. Mira Fishers waits. It is useless to entreat another guest for help. Only Slate could coax words from her right now, and Slate is not here. Will not come. Mira Fishers waits.

The party winds down. Other guests trickle out. The cult falls asleep. Mira Fishers remains. But the Goddess does not come. Dala Hunters seeks the company of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. The pair of them struggle to remain conscious. Only now, finally, does Mira Fishers stand up.

She hesitates for a moment in the dark. She turns to leave without a word or sound.

She returns to the drinks she brought in offering. Untouched except to turn her star into a pyramid. With swift and startling violence, she kicks the lot of them across the room. She stares at the snuggled couple. Now wide awake. Watching her. She brings a third claw to her mouth and bites it in half before vanishing into the darkness of the hangar docks.

She will not sleep tonight. She will spend it tuning the Whip, muttering the names of all her debts into the cold and the stars.

"I wish I could help her," the melancholy young woman says, wrapped in the arms of the sacred, watching as their shared body is healed. The body that they have presented before the entire universe, so often damaged, so often repaired. "But I invited her in, and she stayed outside. And I waited for her to come in, but..."

"Then we will repay her by finding her heart," Smokeless Jade Fires says. She has not stepped away from Dolly for hours. She notes the exhaustion in her bride's stance, the stress in her shoulders, and she wraps herself around her love to protect her from the whole world. "Only then can you open it and help it to... do whatever it is that plants do when you touch them."

"...what?" Dolly scrunches up her face. "I... are you thinking of ferns? The ones that curl up when you brush a claw against them? Because most plants don't really do anything at all when you touch them."

"No. Plants grow better when you touch them." It is a statement of fact. "I remember watching you care for them. Your magic is a little thing, but it is something I will never have." Dolly's eyes are wet, suddenly stinging. "I cannot do anything but challenge Whispered Promise to fight. We can tear each other open and wet our teeth with each other's hearts, but you can touch her, dearest." "I couldn't last night." "That is because you were not touching her," Jade continues, stubbornly. "If you really had, she would have bloomed. I know this."

"Girls aren't flowers," Dolly murmurs. "And maybe all I touched was ice on the river."

Above them, their shared body waits to be touched, so that it can curl around them.

Highlights. There were many.

Whether it was the point where Asil and Tomas tried to start up an impromptu karaoke set (much to the confusion of the Hybrasillians and the dismay of the Terenians).

Or the surprisingly flavoursome food that Ksharta brings out (and which forces Isabelle to switch to water for a while)

Or just listening to Kiriala tell story after story about the famed Shantriala, eyes shining with expression. "I would hang the moon in the sky to make you smile" it says, and Isabelle steals a glance at her own sky-scape, who is busily stuffing her face with some kind of bread and dip combo.

The whole experience was so strange. There were no speeches, no schedule. The food just came out. Accumulating in clusters with no discernible pattern other than each piece was different to the other. Drinks flowed freely. But without champagne or wine or any of the other staples of her parents functions.

That wasn't to say Isabelle was a complete shut in - unfamiliar with how other people lived. But even when she'd had events with her 'friends', they had never felt so ... casual. Everyone had always been in designer clothes, even when it was a sleepover, the food was always prepared in advance by the staff.

And don't get her started on the birthday parties. They were choreographed with all the obsessive scheduling that could be imagined for parents that cared more about the event, photography and social media reaction than the participants.

In comparison, this whole evening felt like one long highlight. Although, right now, lying on the sofa with her head in Asil's lap, staring into space while the smaller woman teases her hair ... Isabelle has to concede that this, this, is probably the highlight. If only for the scant moment of peace and warmth it brings in an otherwise cold world.

Unfortunately, the quiet gives time to consider other things. The fight that's coming. The one after it (hopefully). Work. Finances. Tomorrow's schedule. Quiet moments were all too often just free range for a perpetually moving mind like hers.

Lurking in the background is the ever present threat of her mother. What is she up to? The quiet is unnerving. As much as she'd love to believe that she'd maybe heard the truth in Mira's words back at the Gala, and had changed her viewpoint and approach, Isabelle was just too jaded from all the... well, the everything, to really believe that was the case.

Still, whatever plan she had. It wasn't going to take place now, not while she was still winning matches. Not when it might threaten to tank their campaign No, it'd come when (or if) she lost a match. The moment that her autonomy had no further benefit. The point when Almira's project needed to be brought back into line.

She sighs.

It's her one last chance. To prove that she's my mother, rather than just the woman who gave birth to me. I wonder if she even understands what she's gambling with.

Taking another sip of the strong, but pleasant, cocktail, Isabelle buries her face deeper into Asil's side. Seeking just a little more comfort before the next day has to start.

Many days later

Angela Victoria Miera Antonius

You should not have gotten so drunk at the party. It’s not that there wasn’t time to recover. You had many days to get repairs made to the Barn Owl. But these things have a way of flowing into each other. You woke up late and hungover, feeling Jade’s return with the gift she granted you, but also a little distant in a sense. Her thought patterns are Hybrasilian and though you can make sense of their gods and goddesses and the idea of heavenly realms, the way that Jade pictures them is not quite the way your brain would in her place and so it feels distant to you. Like a fairy realm.

That, in turn, set you into a lazy day the next day. Repairs were being made, and you slept in. But you felt groggy, didn’t eat as well as you should have. Two days turned into a week where you got less done than you’d have liked. Time that you regretted later when you just didn’t have all the time you wanted to review Marcina’s match footage, to compare it against the repaired Barn Owl. To test.

Maybe Ada would have done better? Though she’d have had different resources entirely, and her mecha was probably in even worse shape than yours against the Jormungar. That thing was a monster and Marcina’s piloting had always been absolute precision at close range. You weren’t going to get an ion shot off, but at least you had some ranged weaponry. Ada was all in on melee strength and she wasn’t up to the level the Jormungar was offering.

You run a hand through your hair and down your neck, feeling the stretch in your muscles as they adjust to the neural link fabric. The Barn Owl doesn’t fully move with you, but it’s warming up, syncing together. The feeling of your hand against your skin with the mesh is cool and it makes your hair stand on end. The fiber around your biceps flexes and curls. That all helps too. Every bit of responsiveness is going to be something you need today.

How can you beat her? One of the questions you wish you could answer is whether you even have enough ammo for an effective strategy. If you keep your distance, you think you could avoid most of her attacks. She’s not known for her blazing speed like most of the Hybrasilians, that isn’t what won her prior tournaments. No, the problem is that against the Jormungar, you might well empty the entirety of your autocannon ammunition and find yourself facing only a cosmetically damaged and angry blade. You’d need to hit vulnerable systems and do it far afar, and that’s assuming she even has any and doesn’t manage to block and adjust to your angles.

You have a feeling this match is going to be like trying to bare-handed box a bear. But you’ll have to give it your all. So you step out into the yellowish light of the desert crater where you’re fighting and scan for your opponent. There, on the other side of the crater, beyond the lip. She’s not hiding, just blocking your line of sight without forcing you airborne.

You sigh and begin the fight.

***

Dolly, Jade, and Mirror

Is this what it feels like to stand in the heart of Calipso, the largest urban center of Terenius Prime? You may have seen pictures from the Hybrasilian ambassadors sent home as a sensation. Vaulting skyscrapers that make even a crystal fire drive strain to crest. No plants, no great trees intertwined with the buildings, but all glass and steel. They are like the great stone spires that stand atop the mountains of Ksheytrel, but no natural formations could be this straight, this square.

And that these would be constructed in the arena, built over the past days by nanobots set to make for you a unique battlefield for your match. Perhaps the planners thought that a space so foreign to any Hybrasilians would make things fair? Perhaps they simply thought the winding terrain, frequent cover, and ability to destroy the environment would make for exciting visuals.

Such a vast and empty place feels like the realm of ghosts. Every camera drone could be an ancient spirit or a loyal pet. It offers you calm to begin your match. The sounds that come to you are your own sounds. The hum of the engines, the groan of moving metal as your mechas enter the arena, bounced and reflected in a thousand directions down blind roads and alleys.

You’ve actually been deployed fairly near each other, but in different dead ends so that it’s difficult to scan without bouncing off surfaces. You can talk immediately though, you’re well within range for broad communications signals that will pass right through the glass in all directions.

***

Isabelle

“I’ve fought a lot of Terenians, you know.” There’s the sound of metal creaking through the comms, as though Marna Kerne just flexed her neck so hard that it made some kind of joint pop on her body. Quar hasn’t walked you through Zaldarian biology in that much detail, but it seems reasonably possible.

You’re picking up a lot of data. One of the most powerful uses of your nanobots combined with the Emberlight is the detail and rapid analysis of scan. You’re in space, and the area is full of debris, an orbital ring of satellites and detritus, all through here by the busily working nanobots of the Arena. It’s meant to represent a battleground, various broken weapons and pieces of mechas (or at least good facsimile thereof) fill the space, making it crowded and normally difficult to find your opponent. No crystal fire drives though, nanobots can’t imitate that, it would be creating energy from nothing, only the rare crystals crafted and refined specifically to make a SCIC drive can do that. Because of that, you can see Marna, clear as day. She’s within the debris field, still looking for you. If you go on a hard burst as fast as you can, she’ll pick up the heat, but you might be able to sneak up on her for an opening salvo. Then again, she’s not trying that hard to hide.

“Kinda liked it before we did the arena thing, myself. Fights were exciting. Risky, yeah.” She chuckles. “But that was part of the fun. Did you know my Hold has about a hundred Terenians now? We rescued a few stranded pilots after our raids, brought them back. A few ships crews too, where we took the whole thing, people and all. They’ve been there half a decade now, some had kids, it’s really something. They’re not prisoners anymore either, they joined us in earnest. It’s why I’m talking to you, in fact. I decided that anyone who takes one of these things into space isn’t an outsider. Not to me. We all share this bond, the bond of seeing the stars from a new angle.”

The Lightning Rail is a brawler, and a fast one. It’s all spikes and power, not just its knuckles either, and it uses nets. You’ve had your share of brawlers so far, though maybe none quite this speedy. But between Ada and Kiriala you’ve got some lessons in both power and speed.

How do you approach the fight?

***

Solarel

You are back at the Arena. Where you have to be. The only place you can go to eventually face Mirror. Nothing else could keep you from your return, not storms nor any of the vastness of Roevg.

But it is not Mirror who stands before you, though it might be the closest other pilot that the Hybrasilians could offer. Maelia Dala pilots the Supernova, not the Gods-Smiting Whip. But it’s had a lot of modification done to it. She’s got her own custom laser weaponry mounted on the shoulders, customized shield generators at the wrists, and her patented spear. She placed in the semifinals in the previous tournament on behalf of Hybrasil, which is why they pulled her back here yet again despite her research being halfway across the galaxy.

Of course, all that information is what could be found about her from before, her previous matches in a previous tournament. She hasn’t yet fought in this one, which is always the danger of being seeded. And you also can’t see her, as she, like nearly all Hybrasilians, has begun the match in stealth. The pounce is, after all, both their oldest and most beloved trick.

You find yourself in one of the idyllic forests that have been dotting the arena as the nanobots have worked for both beauty and useful combat. It is a forest of young trees and lush vines, but not so young that you eclipse them. The forest is about the same height as the Aeteline and the Supernova. A few stories, the roof lightly eclipsed with broad leaves. Enough to cast shadows, but not to blot out the sun properly. Above is open sky and ease of movement, in exchange for vulnerability.

“Did you know that you’re a demon?” Maelia asks over the comms. She doesn’t wait for an answer, not from you. “I think it’s kind of exciting! When Hybrasilian pilots first started meeting you, we actually thought you were a new life-form found within the ringed nebula. What if we had intruded on its territory? Or offended it somehow with our equipment and experimentation? Maybe we just needed to placate it. It took until your day-long match with Whispered Promise for us to get good enough data to link you with the Zaldarian attackers. A one-mecha war, that was you.”

She smiles. You know that she smiles because you have spent so much time around Mirror and when Hybrasilians talk like that, in that tone, it is with a smile that is at once friendly and indicates that they’d like to eat you if they could.

Her spear is already coming for your back, her first pounce. How do you respond?

In the end, she had not been able to find a suitable replacement for the trident she'd destroyed in her match with Kiriala. In the first place there was very little market for Fisher tech anywhere except where pockets of the elusive cats were already gathering, and what was for trade tended to be overvalued and undermaintained junk. But by far the bigger obstacle had been Mirror herself. She had packed her schedule so completely full of extra activities and the advancement of her increasingly stretched out plans that she had simply not left herself any time with which to calibrate any solutions Slate or Matty had come up with.

Calibration was essential. A spear and a trident seem like most to be only superficially distinct from one another (to most seasoned warriors even, the difference is only felt in the tendencies of a thrust or a slash) but for the Gods-Smiting Whip even minuscule weight or balance changes represented headaches and nightmares for even her engineering team. There was no tactile feedback that allowed Mirror the use of any of her previous muscle memory whenever she swapped equipment. The same inputs and calculations applied to these small differences produced unpredictable and sometimes even disastrous results.

Hours upon hours of small tests, simulations, and adjustments were an unalterable requirement. It was one of the secret weaknesses of the Nine-Tails, and the reason for her extreme preference toward beam weaponry. But Mirror had blown off every single request or attempt at scheduling for weeks. In the end it was Matty who saved the day. The broad bladed sword she had machined didn't fit in Mirror's preferred fighting style, but it was an exact weight match with Tail 2, which cut the testing time down to only pre-fight ritual levels.

"Disgusting. Right to left slice requires 0.1 seconds longer hold on R7 position to replicate intended power. 0.3 seconds L3 on reversal. Unusable filth. Unusable. Solarel would..."

Mirror watches the reflection of her mecha against the glass of the mighty towers of the "Corporate Jungle" on her monitor. The profile of the blade is careful, very chic. The kind of thing the knights of other peoples' legends might carry on their way to the ╡B O A R D R O O M ╞ or another suitably mystic location. The stories that had been fed to that girl lately. The expectations she held for -- the hope that she -- the dream. To see something dangerous, that made her feel safe.

A sigh.

"...Comment retracted. Understandable impulse. Acceptable adaptation to adverse circumstances. Weapon deemed adequate given combat effectiveness of current opponent. Proceeding."

Sequence check initiated. Confirmation of walk cycle, thruster directionality and response at one hundred percent. Nine Drive System operating within acceptable parameters, rechecking current conduit activation per Chains of Power: One, Two, Seven. Acknowledged. Activating combat mode, phase modulation begin.

"Dala Hunters, whose star name is Seven Quetzal. I wish to apologize for my behavior the other night. Whatever my struggles they do not excuse the coldness I turned toward you. Forgive me. I was trapped inside a journey and could not perceive your lantern's light. But I have internalized your request and I will not speak more of it until after you are defeated. We shall speak again shortly."

Her voice is composed and silky, but it is also lifeless. There is none of the teasing lilt she's used in all of her previous encounters with the Bride and the Goddess, and no hint of the warmth of depth that draws people to her when they have the ears to listen for it. Something is wrong, and maybe even she doesn't know it.

Maybe she was a demon. If nothing else it was true that she never felt as alive as she did when she was hunting huntresses. For all the opinions of the machine gods, the voices of ancients telling her what she was made for, she could at least agree that she was made for this.

Their instincts were beautiful. The way they prowled. The way they sought height even in the void. The way their eyes widened and they shifted in anticipation as they prepared their pounce. The spectacular high-energy acrobatics that could follow that motion. Their native approach had conquered their origin rainforests and they trusted in it even here, in metal giants beneath alien suns.

And they all... almost all... refused to learn what instincts made a good Zaldarian.

Her dodge is too fast. Her mech is too light. The Aeteline is missing tonnes of weight. The massive, shoulder-mounted missile racks are empty. Their ordinance fills the forest, lying in wait for the signal -

For a Hybrasilian, a forest meant concealment, safety, food, danger. To a Zaldarian it was a fuel source.

Pyrex explosives detonated and the newly built rainforest became an ocean of fire.

Maybe she was a demon. She certainly looked like it as she came out of her spin igniting her neon pink laser sword, black carapace illuminated by the tide of hellfire. Her blade was broken, distorted, diffused, and as she settled her weight on her incongruous crab leg it blazed to three times the length it should be, outreaching the Supernova's spear by more than double. By reducing the coherency of the beam she sacrificed its cutting edge and turned it into a continuous damage weapon, rapidly heating the enemy mech in a situation where it could not vent coolant into the atmosphere. The temperature would soon start to spike even inside the Supernova's cockpit unless she started cutting back on combat functions to overclock life support. Solarel was basking in the warmth like a salamander, energy bleed resulting in continuous, rapid motions that were mirrored in the Aeteline. She'd never seemed so fast as she was now.

> How long are your legs?
> Exactly?

[Defy Disaster: 11]

"So that's the definition you cleave to?" replies Isabelle, as the Emberlight slowly drifts through the debris field. Her own fighting style leaned towards melee as well, so if it came to a straight fight then Isabelle would be well matched. That said, unlike the match with Kiriala, she didn't have any real incentive to make this a fair fight - at least not yet.

Whether that changed would depend on how the conversation went.

For now, she'd be content to slowly make her way into range of her longer-reach weaponry, seeding the arena as she went with her own ordinance and drones as she goes.

"I know the definition of 'Outsider' can vary from Zaldarian to Zaldarian" she continues. "So, I guess, thanks? For at least opening up that far to me."

"Another Zaldarian I know went the other way. Her definition of Outsider must be so strict that I don't think I've heard her ever say a word - despite fighting alongside her, against her, and watching her battles over the whole tournament. Not to mention that stunt she pulled at the Gala."

Scope to the eye, can she get a clear sightline?

"You know who I'm talking about, right? One of us - whoever wins here - will have to face her next. Her and the Aeteline." she continues. "You may have fought Terenians, but have you fought that?"

[Roll to read a person, 6 + 2 + 2 = 10 What do you think of Solarel? and How can I get you to let me be the one to face her?]

Don't worry, Whispered Promise. Smokeless Jade Fires has the lilt to return and then some in her reply. "Greetings and defiance, champion of Yourself! I will not insult you by insisting on a surrender you will not offer. Let me offer a game, instead! A prize for each of the first three blows!"

Cloak against cloak. It is draped across Dolly's shoulders and cinched over her face, gossamer-thin. This is the sort of game that huntresses play in order to hone their skills, their stealth, their maneuverability. Ghosts hunting ghosts. The best rely on tricks to draw each other out: distractions, feints, dirty tricks. Jade purrs and feels her hair standing on end, excited. This has to draw out the huntress inside of Whispered Promise. How could it not?

"A shame you didn't stay longer; you left just before my glorious return. I could have offered you divinations and blessings from the underworld, and reassured you that it is no shameful thing to lose to a goddess! Just ask the lovers I have gathered in my wake! Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, Ksharta Talonna-- how they have come to accept the weight of the divine!"

Jade works from the ground: mines, solid-shot jackals lurking in alleyways, the gentlest shifts in weight distribution as Dolly daintily takes step by step. Too much risk flying above, not when attention to detail and awareness of their surroundings will be key in flushing out Whispered Promise. Then the game can really begin, and there will be joy in the fight, such that not even she can deny it!

---

Missiles!

Angela does not strike her forehead, though the impulse runs down her arm. Mecha pilots learned quickly to tamp down on certain instincts, certain moves, when connected to such a powerful frame. This is going to be very difficult without some way to flush out defensive instincts, to force Marcina to flinch. Loud, explosive, disorienting missiles would do the trick, whether or not Marcina logically knew that they couldn't pierce the armor.

There's no way that passion wins this battle. There's no way to make it look particularly good, either. It will be constant maneuvering, staying out of range of that sword, waiting for one of her possible targets to open up for a short snap of autocannon fire, whittling away at the behemoth. One mistake and it will risk being over. If only she had experience with the sort of action games that rewarded such methodical, careful play...

Mirror and Dolly

It’s a simple enough matter to leave mines in an ally, though they’re on the heavier end of ordinance and the idol can only fit so many. Not enough for every back alley and city street, not even with the extra weight that jackals can bring. You’ll have to pick carefully and make some predictions about how Mirror might move.

On the other side, the presence of the jackals does create its own pattern. Spread out jackals can be slowly detected as one gets near them, and a picture of where multiple jackals are starts to paint a picture of where Jade has passed. If she doesn’t spring her trap quickly enough, Mirror may find herself the predator.

***

Solarel

“Goddess” she crackles over the comms, an intake of breath, a moment when the scale of what she’s facing has struck her and her voice has reacted ahead of her mind or her reactions.

The spear glances, deflected by your loose blade and her own reaction to the intense heat. Few indeed are the pilots that could see an inferno bloom below them and press into it with no hesitation. Even among the Zaldarians, most would find it too daunting to plow in headfirst that way, regardless of whether they could use the heat.

There’s a three move exchange. Stab, step, thrust to see if she can push through your diffuse sword. But the heat is intense and you can hear Maelia panting on the other end of the line. She’s kept the line open even though she knows you won’t speak directly, knows that she might be giving you an advantage.

When she can’t land something decisive, she fires a spread burst from her shoulder as cover and takes off, trying to rise above the flames and give herself some space to reconsider her attack. She has laser weaponry for short to medium range, and is prepared to continue firing if you immediately follow.

“Damn. Damn, you’ve barely been in the arena a moment. You must have had this plan ready immediately, before even knowing where I’d be? I guess you really have fought a lot of us. But damn, the scale of it. Solarel the destroyer. You’ve put a whole forest alight just for the opening move. I didn’t think big enough, didn’t think I could be immediately enveloped like that. Only one direction left, and I bet that’s your plan too. Well, let’s see if you’ve got the ability to execute on it!”

Do you press despite the risk of her advanced weaponry, or do you have another tactic in mind?

***

Isabelle

“I haven’t, but I plan to!” Marna laughs. “Heim would have you believe that the frontiers and the capital of Zaldaria are like different worlds, but they’re more like neighbors. We have our own holds, and as such our own rules, each of us the head of the family and thus the decider as to what that family is, what it covers. But we still follow the same rules, fight for the glory of the empress, follow the teachings of Zaldar. Most anyway. You Terenians never bother to pay attention until you’re hip deep in it. Zaldarian infighting isn’t the same as yours. We raid each other for sport and pleasure and it’s a privilege to be part of it: captor or prisoner. It took us a while to realize when we met you and the cats that it wasn’t that way for you too!”

“Quit stalling though. Here, let me make it easier for you. Or harder maybe. You’re going to earn this win if you get it at all. Anybody that touches the Aeteline has to prove they’ll do a better job against it than I would and you’re the first!”

She lights up suddenly. Obvious on even the simplest scanner, no need for nanobots. Maximum thrusters all power to them, and she sprints off with a blue flame trailing behind her. Not at you, no, she has no clue where you are. But she’s painted a target on herself, only she’s made it a moving target, one that’s hard to hit ducking and weaving and smashing through the debris with spikes and fists leading the way. It’s an interesting tactic. It’s not like her drive will fail and she’s got a fair shot of bumping close enough to you to find you if you just hide somewhere for too long without attacking. But that’s not what she’s expecting. She’s practically inviting you to start the fight with a red carpet here.

***

Angela

You underestimated her. You were already estimating that she’d crush you, but you still somehow underestimated her. The control that she’s displaying with a mech that size is ungodly. She leaps the crater, using the missile guidance that had brought them over her to send them back into the crater rim, and then she charges you. You fire your autocannons, but she effortlessly shifts energy into the shields for the volley and then back to thrusters as though she’s reading you like a book. With that level of control, she can make it go far faster than it should while defending, and as your second round of missiles signals that it’s finished reloading, she’s transitioning into a sweeping strike of her sword to force you back and throw you off balance. You have to nearly fall backwards to avoid the match ending in one hit, and she’s still advancing.

The sound of a toungue clicking against teeth: frustration. A pause. Follow up - fingers tap tap tapping against a panel of some sort. One two, three four five, one two three four, five, onetwothreefourfive, one.

"On the contrary, Smokeless Jade Fires, you are the one who arrived too late. However true your claim might have been on another day, it is utterly unacceptable now. The wish that I will claim by winning this stupid tournament is so far beyond your ability to compensate me for that the weight of it would crush you to death. Beyond even that I have made a promise to Marcina Villajero, and beyond even that Solarel lies waiting. No, Goddess. To lose a single match with her soul still in danger would be the pinnacle of shame. I must not. Can not. Will not."

The Gods-Smiting Whip stands still, taking in its own reflection in the mirrored glass. Inefficient in the extreme to hunt out the idol of Smokeless Jade Fires in this dense Terenian temple structure. The height of these pillars made her "standard" opening play in this tournament non-viable. Possible that this environmental selection was meant as a penalty for her specifically, then, rather than its apparent status as an equ... ali... zing.

Force. Ah. Well. A new mystery to occupy space inside her mind. How... unideal.

Simplicity, then. Protest. She might spend hours stalking Smokeless Jade Fires and Dala Hunters. Or she could test the sharpness of this new blade. Left foot forward, plant, fourty five degree. Arm straight, draw back. Flick joystick, first form sequence basic macro initiate. She meets more resistance than she expects and almost bounces off the building like a scolded child, but with a flare of thruster fire she achieves the necessary force for edge to defeat engineering.

But is a shallow cut in the end. Matty had not gifted her a blade large enough to slay these titanic spires. Which was, of course, Mirror's fault in the first place. Her tails flare up above and to either side of her in a simple triangle formation. The rain of laser fire does what simple technique could not. The building topples with a hideous screech of rending glass and shearing girders that crashes so loud and so obviously that pilots three arenas over will have her coordinates pinpointed.

If the sight of the skyline suddenly altering didn't manage it, the giant plume of dust certainly would. She stands still once more. Sword held at the ready, and three tails floating lazily behind her.

"In the interest of disclosure, your offer of a game is likewise rejected. There are no prizes I would claim from you beyond the services you already owe me as payment for our previous dance. I take no pleasure from needing to fight you, and you are the wrong sort of food to prepare my Nine-Tails for conflict with the Aetiline. I would ask you not insult me by engaging me in the manner of your lovesick conquests. I am not a mountain you may climb to prove your divinity, and I do not fit inside your domain."

It always felt strange fighting someone... suboptimal.

Too much was given up for free. Feints cut to the bone. Positional maneuvers felt like checkmates. Her every form and transition was perfect, her mind smooth, reactive and faultless. She was ready for a challenge. She could do this without all of these... gifts. She could do without the reminder that there was only one way to be perfect.

With speed born of frustration she unlimbered her battle rifle.

> Of course I had this planned.
> I'm offended that you did not.

She repositions on foot rapidly to the west and drops into a low, stabilized crouch. The Supernova had correctly identified that this was a battle of heat management but had failed to identify that it was also a battle of visibility. Now the Supernova was up there in the sky, red hot in the empty air, visible for hundreds of miles in every spectrum. The Aeteline was down here in the smoke, the fires that burned along the exterior indistinguishable from the fires that burned the forest, the metallic particulates of the pyrex bombs scattering radar signals wildly. She had bet that a startled cat would jump directly up, managing her emotional state by gaining altitude.

She was aware of how predictable her maneuver was. Awareness was insufficient.

Minimal power to movement, only needing small random displacements to maintain concealment. No thruster burn. She could put everything into shields and targeting. Your opportunity to make this a battle of skill was lost the moment you disengaged. Now it's just hit points ticking down until you realize your mistake. Was it to much to expect her rivals to think about what she might do before she did it?

[Fight: 9; inflicting a condition, taking a superior position]

Isabelle grimaces.

So it was going to come down to a fight then. No hidden heart here. Just a desire for contest and raw strength. Well ... Isabelle could do that and, what's more, she could do it the Zaldarian way.

After all, whatever Marna might think, this Terenian has done alot of study in the last few months.

"Sorry about the geist on your shoulder." she says, as she gently squeezes the trigger.

Lesson one. Speak not to the Outsider. Corollary: When your opponent is not an outsider, then speaking their language to them is the right thing to do.

In this case, Marna has been clear. She values strength, battle, a contest of wills and skill. It was different from Kiriala - who she had met blade with blade. There, her opponent respected the skill that came from meeting her strength head on. Here, if she led with that, it would show that she lacked the necessary tactics.

The lance shot arcs out perfectly, blasting right above the Lightning Rail's shoulder - scattering the poor geist that had been hovering there - and passing off into the black.

"You miss-" was all Marna was able to say, before the shimmering bolt of plasma struck true.

Lesson two. Everything is a resource.

Your ammunition. Your defences. Your stamina. All of these can be spent in trade to bring you closer to victory. Tactics is the question of how to spend them. What to spend. And what return you get.

In this case, the ordinance and directional shields she's scattered around were the currency. Collateralised with the battlefield debris that the arena so helpfully provided. With a single shot, a chain reaction ignites around Marna - every blast pointed inwards until the entire section she's flying through becomes a storm of fire and shrapnel.

Lesson three. Plan your moves ahead.

The blasts would be punishing, but she knew that her opponent's defences were tough. That said, the blasts were intended to do more than just overwhelm her shields, they also served to blind her sensors as Isabelle kicked in the displacement field around the Emberlight and pulled back to her next firing position.

Her opponent would no doubt take the hits she'd been dealt and try to overpower them - taking in the damage and internalising it for energy in the way that Zaldarians were wont to do. That would be fine. She knew, from talking to Quar, that a Zaldarian eventually had to discharge that energy or risk overheating - and also that too many energy shifts too quickly could disorientate them. And she planned many more before this fight was done.

She's been paying attention.

I hope you understand that Marna.

[Roll to fight: 1 + 5 + 2 = 8. Inflicting a condition and taking a string.]

Reverberations, then silence. Dust, settling. Stillness.

"Then what is the fucking point of this, Whispered Promise?" There is audio distortion at the edges of Jade's voice. Maybe it's intentional. Maybe it's more than that. "Tournaments are a game! So what if you aren't the one who gets to-"

Dolly taps her lips and closes her eyes, stressing to her goddess that this is important. The bindings of the goddess fall away, and Jade stalks behind their body, passing through towers like smoke through air, lashing her tails and growling, that growl still the undercurrent of her pilot's voice.

"Why do you need to face her, Mira?" Dolly's voice is small, despite the vastness bouying it up. Unassuming, gentle, trying to snuggle up against her at a party, trying to get her to relax with cards and snacks and drinks. "You're about to snap in half like your nail, and... we do owe you. At least enough to not... why aren't you enjoying this? We want to show the world Jade's glory, and not lose to the Banders, but... who comes to a tournament they think is stupid, and makes themselves miserable, just to fight one Zaldarian knight?"

"She pilots our body once and she thinks she's unknowable and untouchable," Jade murmurs, behind and below Dolly. "As if it's my fault that the Banders had their own gods on their side, both times. When she tells you to shut up, we go for her throat. I'll beat her with her own tails."

"This hasn't always been fun, but that's always been because of, of what's outside the fight. This is thrilling, and daring, and everybody's watching us, and I can't, we can't... we owe you for what you did, Mira. Saving me. I can't solve your problems, but I can't even help if you don't say something, please, just... you're not my enemy. And almost nobody in this tournament's been an enemy, just a friend I hadn't met yet. I don't want you to walk away as one today."

Stillness. Dust, settling. Silence, then the reverberations of Dolly's breath.

---

This may be the stupidest thing that Angela has ever done. Ever. In her life. But she's done plenty of stupid things already in this tournament, and look where it's got her: on the ropes, trying to figure out how she can pivot from failure, and clawing for any scrap of victory and respect that she can get her hands on. A long, slow, lingering defeat? That's not her style.

The fight with the Zaldarians, that's her style. And that's not going to happen as long as that sword's there to cut her apart as soon as she closes in. But Marcina knows that her zone is impenetrable, which will let her try the impossible, stupid plan of firing her missiles at point-blank range, charging into the explosion of chaff and grazing impacts, and-

So of course it's not a simple thing to disarm someone in a fight like this. There are power cables. There is a grasp that could swing a mountain around by the roots. But all of Marcina's strategy relies on that sword, and if Angela wants to level the field at all, her only option is to swing her head in for a headbutt even as she tries to force a release of that sword, to let it fall by Marcina's side trailing from its cables, to...

Well, to do what Smokeless Jade Fires would do. Make the match about something different, something you can win at, because if you play the game that your opponent wants to play, you're doomed.

Solarel

She raises her arms, wrist shield flashing to life just in time for the shot, but even with that, there’s a sound of crunching metal as the impact presses her back, and for an instant, the combination of heat and pure kinetic force throws the entire Supernova off balance. In a situation like this, you’d typically estimate that the battle would be over. The target vulnerable, unable to respond to its own pilot, ought to be a death knell in a situation like this. You have an easy follow up for subsequent shots.

But…there’s a high-pitched humming and crackling noise and suddenly the Supernova is surrounded by coruscating white energy, animating its limbs and letting it move with a suddenness that throws off the follow up shot. It shouldn’t be possible to start moving again that fast. Her shoulder laser, previously fired in a shot-gun style burst, shifts position at the same time and sends a focused, long-range shot back at you, followed by several others.

“Not every Hybrasilian wanted to be in those fights, you know. Not all of them wanted to face a demon. You didn’t give them the courtesy of retreat though, did you? Didn’t ask if they wanted to be there, or why they were there. You struck most of them before they even knew you were coming. And now you tried to do the same to me. I didn’t think you needed to do this in the Aeteline. It’s one thing to employ traps and cunning when you know you’re piloting a vastly inferior machine. It’s another to decide you’re not willing to abide by any expectations of how pilots match skill. I wanted this to be a traditional fight! I wanted to see what kind of pilot you were! And you’ve shown me. And now I see that I don’t owe you any respect or reservation, Solarel.”

She maintains her altitude as well: the firing angle is better and makes it more difficult if you decide to dodge. It’s not that she’s overwhelming you, you’re still in an advantageous position to trade shots with her, it’s just that she’s fully embraced the style of fight you’ve offered, entirely dropping the standard Hybrasilian close-ranged approach that you’d expect to be more typical. And at least for a moment, this extra energy she’s somehow wielding is giving her a different edge, offering her a speed and unpredictability of airborne movement that can thwart even the Aeteline’s tracking and firepower as you trade blows.

[Maelia takes the guilty condition, and also seizes a (different) superior position.]

***

Mirror

Mirror, that effort with the sword lights up tail five. Only five, all by itself, adding it to one, two, and seven. The display bar cut itself short, reset. Maybe this is a modification of the program, or maybe it was always set up to have this sort of option? But either way, it feels like tail five wants a turn with the new weapon, and is jumping at the chance to do something.

Dolly, and Jade

Jade, or Dolly. Mirror’s made herself visible intentionally. That much is obvious enough. Whichever of you chooses to take physical control, you have this chance where you know her precise location and she does not know yours. She’s practically begging you to throw her your best shot.

***

Isabelle

“Oh that was a good one!” comes the shout. There’s an enthusiasm, but also a gravel to it suddenly. You’ve shown your position, after all, and filled her with energy. And she was already moving to boot. Marna grabs the largest piece of debris she can reach and flings it at your deflector that bounced the laser into her at maximum speed, crushing it completely.

But there are more deflectors, of course. Many more, full of tactics. But she’s already grabbing another metal boulder as she rushes. Flinging that one around as she banks. In this debris field, with the force she’s outputting, the throws not only strike your equipment as she finds it, but deflect and rebound and send other debris bouncing.

The Emberlight is many things, but it’s not the heaviest mecha out there. And what you’ve suddenly facing is the entire battlefield turning into an undulating, chaotic wave shifting towards you. Always towards you. Because Marna, for all her chaos, has your location clocked and she’s tracking you now as you try to move and reposition. Her throws are always with you in mind, building up momentum in the field to make the whole thing a chaotic mess. One block of jagged slag races just past the head of the Emberlight, and you’re forced to burn a shot on another that’s headed straight for you in order to break it up.

And as for Marna herself, though she’s rushing about madly, now changing direction, now burning hard and straight, she’s also working her way towards you, riding the wave she created, bearing down on you for an assault, changing to track as you try to flee and ready to intercept if you try to break out from the cover that the debris offers you even as it attacks you.

Tactics are all well and good, but you’ll need to do something to counter the overwhelming force being directed at you now.

[Marna takes Angry and wrecks the field in new and interesting ways to seize a superior position.]

***

Angela

Your plan was amazing. The Jormungar, for all its armor and shielding, does indeed need to do something about missiles. Missiles are dangerous and powerful and even Marcina can’t just eat the whole thing. She has to put energy into defense, has to subtly shift her movement to space out the impacts a little bit, and that gives you a chance. The autocannon fire focuses on the wrist joint, and the combination of the explosive heat and the sustained focus as you close breaks the shields, which can’t be concentrated that narrowly, cutting through the hand and the blade with it. The powerful laser blade blows clear of the tumble as the two of you close.

Oh yes, this one will go in the piloting handbooks. Absolute best possible use of resources available concentrated in a narrow time window, perfectly optimized. Nobody could find fault with the efficiency with which you accomplished your goal, and future students will view this maneuver as the archetype on which to base high-technical skill missile combat.

No, the problem is that the goal you wanted to accomplish is not what you needed to win. Marcina fires one additional thruster and suddenly the Jormungar is rotating at the same time as it’s charging. The kick hits you so hard and so unexpectedly that the neural mesh doesn’t have time to do the full reduction of energy transfer and you feel a sharp pain that probably means you just cracked a rib. Warning sensors blare, indicating that the pilot’s compartment has been compromised and is exposed to external fire. The blast from her own shoulder missile, fired point-blank, perhaps in a sort of salute to the superiority of your tactics, hits hard enough to send the Owl tumbling head over heels, and the compromised cockpit causes you to feel the heat before you’re pushed away, lightly singeing your hair and eyebrows.

Nor does she wait for you to recover and stabilize the fight. The follow up strike from her punch sends you careening into the ground, and then she lands with a foot against your back, pinning you in place (though mercifully, she did not further crush the mecha or cause you any bodily injury. She probably knows her hit could do that and held off just a hair once she had the superior position).

This fight is effectively over, though you’ve lost with queenly dignity.