The Gods-Smiting Whip carried Smokeless Jade Fires out of the arena in its arms. Was there any reason to believe its pilot wouldn't extract and hold the priestess in the same way once they were back? This marks the second occasion that Mira Fishers has held a flustered Dala Hunters in her arms, and her wet eyes glimmer with the same light that they did the first time, as they descend toward their respective crews on the (painfully slow) lift back down to ground level.

Her snowy hair is soaked through with sweat, and her synthweave suit is unzipped even lower than usual: all the way down to her hips, just to vent heat. She may also be alluring, or eye catching, or enticing, or ridiculous. She does not know. She does not seem to care. It is hot, her body is hot, her is sweltering and damp, and all of her conversations and negotiations tonight will have to take place over copious amounts of cool drinks or she might very literally die. The cockpit of her mecha is hot. It is unbearably hot; all that equipment produces enormous amounts of energy and Mirror was never willing to compromise on her deception enough to allow it all to be directed toward the outside of the machine. The further she pushes Nine-Tails, the less comfortable it becomes. There are benefits, perhaps, but this is the second secret weakness of the Gods-Smiting Whip.

"I find it intriguing," she says through a glint of mischievous fang, "The way our people always gather around a warrior in a game like this. We were enemies, minutes ago. Now your pack and mine have both come to revel in defeat and victory at the same time. How many will be drunk before we reach the ground? I wonder. It is, perhaps, the most admirable quality of the children of Hybrasil. At least, I think so. [All Who Gather Feast After Hunting]."

Mirror's arms are strong enough to hold Dolly without trembling. She is tall enough not to let her temporary princess' feet dangle near the floor. And for as overheated as she is, she is also composed enough not to balk or retch when she brings Dolly's body close to hers, to let her feel the truth in the messily spotted fur she once called beautiful against its owners own perception. She plants a kiss on Dolly's forehead.

"You were a sublime test, O Bride of the Goddess. But now you are overcome. You are defeated. You are finished with the tournament. And you are in debt. I am a mercenary before I am anything because it allows as disgraced a name as the One Day Defender to provide for my family, and my family is everything to me. Subsequently I did not rescue you for free, Dala Hunters Seven Quetzal. Are you prepared to pay me back, as your goddess promised? Will you honor your debt by working under me? And doing just. What I. Require?"

Mirror does not smile as she steps off the lift and into the revelry. Her eyes watch the cat in her arms intently and intensely as the smell of sweat drifts in waves around them.

She had it. She had it. Perfect synchronization. Divinity in thought and body. She'd had it.

How had she lost it? Where did it go? Why wasn't she smart any more, why wasn't she in sync any more, why wasn't she calm any more? Her hands were shaking, her mouth was dry, her temples throbbed. Why? She'd had it right. All she'd needed to do was exist unchanged. All she'd needed to do was defend perfection. But now it had been stolen from her right at the most critical moment and she didn't know why. She felt tired, she felt cramped, she felt angry, she felt everything except hunger.

That was how it had always been. She remembers dimly setting a timer to remind her when to drink water, a little clockwork gadget from the TC, sold in an Evercity curio shop, shaped like some sort of jagged tropical fruit. The little bastard tyrant stood between her and the flow state. She'd absently smashed it because it had distracted her during the first fight with Mirror. The Aeteline couldn't replicate it. The concept of time was irrelevant to the perfect war machine and even maintaining an internal clock would have been a misallocation of resources.

But without the little machine's tyranny she'd needed to invent the concept of biological needs from scratch. She'd run machine diagnostics and tested her reaction time, checking to see if the fault was with the crab leg, with the structural damage she'd sustained in the recent fight, with any aspect of her true body before finally conceding to the possibility it was caused by her false one. And so she staggers out into the world, only dimly aware of what she was looking for.

Dolly’s hands are folded neatly in her lap, ankles just as neatly together. When she shifts, which she is doing her best not to do out of concern for the huntress that carries her, she keeps them together. Her eyes linger on Whispered Promise’s face, but her lips are shut. Her jumpsuit clings to her curves, and who is to say whether Jade has adjusted it for her, or whether she knows herself dressed in tatters barely clinging to her frame?

”Well, Dolly? Are you?” Jade leers over Whispered Promise’s shoulder, looking insufferable. She has pivoted like a predator-goddess. If she cannot defeat her rival, she must act as if their alliance is obvious and effortless. It is almost enough to make Dolly roll her eyes. Almost. But Jade is supporting the back of her head, and her nails are running along the sensitive scalp, a reward for a good girl.

“Mmhm,” Dolly says, nodding. And then, because it’s just the two of them, and because she’s defeated, and because it was Mira who saved her from the Red Band: “‘h hhnnssn’d,” she continues, squirming a little in those warm arms, lips pursed, wrists unable to rise from her lap (not without tugging on a very particular rope). “‘h pmmss, Mrrr’h. mh n h’gfffsss,” with a demure nod to Jade, whose grin‘s corners are close to literally meeting at the back of her head. Then she lifts her head — Jade lifts her head — and shamelessly — wonderfully shamed — she nuzzles right into that milky river running down Mirror’s front.

And then they step out into the revelry. Streamercrackers pop overhead, raining ribbons down on the crews for batting hands and snapping jaws. Members of the cult, with knowing smiles, crowd in to congratulate the blessed huntress who was given the gift of victory by the goddess (who must, naturally, be smiling upon the victor), and to play with the curls of their priestess. Further muffled squeaks and purrs are difficult to make out over the popping, the laughter, the music playing out of portable speakers. Even when Jade hooks a little finger under that rope and gives a wicked little tug, gleeful in how Dolly’s eyes cross for a moment as she tries desperately not to embarrass herself in the middle of the revelry.

Of course, that’s only the start for Dolly. She doesn’t yet know that Nines has obediently set up a pole inside of the tent, or that Smokeless Jade Fires intends to seal her alliance with Mira Fishers by having her bride perform for both bands of huntresses. She has no idea that once the flaps are closed and they have some privacy, Jade will try using holoemitters to show the chosen elect the regalia of the high priestess, as well as the reason for her silence.

You will be shown this, Whispered Promise, as a sign of alliance and as a gift to you. You will be shown, Seven Quetzal, as a reward for your loyalty and as a punishment for losing. You will writhe around the pole, linked to it with chains of shadow, gagged in the colors of the goddess for the fortunate to see, showing off the flexibility and the obedience that you have displayed for the entire tournament. And you will meet eyes with Whispered Promise, who laps at melting ice cubes, and let out the kind of groan that will have Angela Victoria Miera Antonius looking away with her darkening cheeks in one hand.

Your dream will come true, Dolly. You will be as objectified tonight as if you were in the hands of the Red Band, but you will be safe in the hands of your goddess and your new mistress. And your performance will be remembered by everyone fortunate enough to attend.

You dreamed of this once, little gardener, beneath the sheets, tail swishing, fingers tapping on the keys. But you do not know it, not yet.

You will shine as your goddess sees you shine, dearest.

[The performance will be an 11 to Entice. Those present who are appealed to may offer strings and reactions to the Bride of the Goddess.]

There isn't any doubt in Isabelle's mind where the interlock came from - there's simply no room for it. Disappointment and Sadness have crowded it out, mixing together with Anger into a burning, bittersweet, mess. Because of course her mother would install something like that in her mech. In her Emberlight. The Novasurge probably had one too. Along with any other backups Isabelle might make use of. She probably hadn't even feel bad about doing it. It was just a matter of ... protecting her investments.

As if that was all she was. An investment. A project. A ... a thing.

She'd always known. She knew this. That was just how Almira saw the world around her. But ... it still hurt. Hurt to have it confirmed. Hurt to ...

She'd just hoped ...

Isabelle reaches out, emotions roiling. A current of anger swirls to the fore, burning the others to the background. The strength of it surprises her, it feels strong enough that she could bend steel. To break something. Instead, she just places her hand on the cool black exterior of the orb. So what, if her mother had never cared? So what, if this was all she thought of her?

Well, if Almira thought she held all the cards, then she'd find out. She'd show her. Isabelle always had another card to play.

She holds her hand against it, sharpens her will into a directive - she'd been experimenting with this ever since the dance ... no, before - ever since she'd realised that the nanobots from the facility were still active within her. That they were able to help her make things like her drone interfaces. Help her see the geists and interact with the world around her. There had been a reason the mark-one interface had worked for her when the other six hadn't for Asil. There was a reason her drones had been advancing so rapidly. Why their "illusions" were so realistic now. The construction magic of the arena had been woven into each and every one.

It wasn't proprietary technology. It wasn't programming skill. It had been the Trak'tho. It had been her. It had always been her.

Taking her hand away, she hopes the nanobots work as intended.

Integrate. Investigate. Prepare to disable.

"Well, it looks like everything is in order." she says, smiling at Asil as she closes the panel. "Want to go grab a bite to celebrate? I know a good restaurant a short flight away."

"I ... sure." replies Asil, whose eyes are locked on hers. "Even though, knowing you, it's probably some six star place that costs a thousand credits per dish."

She takes her hand, leading them to the shuttlebay. Inwardly grateful that Asil is smart enough to understand what she's really saying ... and kind enough not to mention the tears dripping down her face.

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

They'd ended up at a library. One that Asil knew had private study nooks, set aside for patrons to browse or work in private.

Asil had just held her until she'd stopped shaking. Gotten her some tea. Sat in comfortable silence until she'd been ready to talk.

"It's only a matter of time ..." Isabelle finally said. "I'd hoped ... I ... well, I was wrong. If the match against Solarel goes badly, if I lose ... she won't have any reason to hold back anymore ..."

"Yeah, I know."

"No, you don't. You haven't known her for as long as I have. Haven't grown up with her. Seen what she's done. To other companies. To competitors. To people. Families, Parents. Children. I can't ... I can't let her do that to you."

"I'm guessing you have a plan?"

"I ... If it looks like I'm going to lose ... I want you to take my private shuttle and get out of the hanger complex, find a safe place to hide and wait until I contact you. We can get some money set aside. Find a new place to live."

"Isabelle."

"I- I can learn to cook - how hard can it be? It's just the focused application of chemistry after all. And - and you said I'd make a good mechanic, so m-maybe I can get a job. Fix things? And I'll dye my hair, change my name and .."

"Isabelle!!"

She blinks tears out of her eyes, belatedly realising that her girlfriend had been calling her name for the last few seconds. Asil wraps around her again and Isabelle grips on as if she'd float away.

"Breathe, come on. Count to five."

She does as she's told and the pounding in her chest starts to recede.

"You can't run from her. It won't solve anything. I think you know that ... and ... and I get that it's hella scary." she says, planting a kiss to the top of her head. Holding her tight. "But you can do this. You're stronger than you think you are. And I'll be with you every step of the way."

Isabelle snuggles into her, letting her control the situation and finding the comfort that comes from surrendering.

"Whatever comes. Whatever your mom throws at you. We'll figure it out. We'll find a way."

And in that moment, Isabelle believes her.

Solarel

This is nothing like Roevig. The street where you find yourself feels warm and close. The little table is a light, wooden thing in the shape of a circle, barely big enough to fit your bowl and a narrow tall glass with your tea. Steam still rises from the black lacquer of the bowl, and bits of some kind of green herbs and garlic and small pieces of noodle that were difficult to pick up are stuck to the bottom.
You’ve never eaten food like this. You could have on Akar, if you’d sought it out, but it’s not the mainstay there, and not what they bring Zaldarians by choice. It doesn’t taste like Hybrasilian cooking either: the herbs and vegetables don’t sit well with them, and some of the savory spices in these noodles would probably make Mirror gag.

You’ve never been in a place like this. The table is small because the restaurant seats its people so close together, waiters and waitresses expertly weaving their way between the tiny tables to serve the food. The low lights, tinted slightly reddish, make the space feel even closer and more intimate, as do the velvet curtains that cover the door. Only when someone new comes in is there a moment of white light that creeps into the space like a slash before closing up again. And yet there were so many places like this one. A street filled with little holes for any Terenian to duck into and eat, drink, or chatter if they can make themselves heard above the constant purr of background noise. None of this appears owned by any Empress, none centralized or in service of any knight nor lord.

You reached Horizon in a blind rush. Horizon, the name of both a system and its one habitable planet, stood for a long time as the edge of space for the Terenius Consortium. The Hyperlane to reach it was longer and the only exit point besides TC Prime led to a dead system with no useful resources and that still doesn’t have a name. The Consortium expanded to the galactic south instead, and only when all routes there were exhausted did they return to striking further out, eventually finding the Cerulean Belt beyond Horizon and coming into conflict with the rapidly expanding Zaldarians. But Horizon still sees itself as the edge of space, gazing out into the great unknown. It dedicated itself to making ships. Not mechas, but civilian ships for trade, transport, and exploration. Its shops fill with people, its ports bustle with trade. It is, after all, the gateway to the capital of the Terenius Consortium for the entire galactic east.

Five years ago, you wouldn’t have been allowed here. There are still very few Zaldarians at all, and equally few Hybrasilians. This is squarely in TC space, and it’s filled with Terenians. But you are allowed. The virtue of the Arena meant that raiding stopped and travelers, though rare, were permitted. The Aeteline received no more than a few low whistles at your arrival. Few people here know enough about Zaldarian designs to even realize the unique nature of the Aeteline. To them it just looks like a damn nice ship.

So you were a stranger but only remarkable as an oddity rather than a sensation. You moved yourself to one of the myriad of restaurants along this row, and you ordered the noodles that were the biggest picture on the menu, which they brought you along with hot tea. Sitting in this crowd with the constant rumble of conversation around you feels like being wrapped in a blanket of vibration and warmth. In that space, you devoured your meal before you had even known it.

As you stare into your bowl in reverie, you feel the lightning bolt of a very light tap as a Terenian girl sits next to you and tries to get your attention. Despite the heat, she’s wearing a red cape over her port jumpsuit, for no purpose beyond its look as far as you can tell. Her long hair, dyed bright pink and worn down below her shoulders, shines brightly compared to the room lights.

“Hey!” she says brightly, flashing you a Terenian smile that she’s probably hoping you’ll understand as friendly. “I saw you come in here, but I’ve never seen a Zaldarian tourist ordering noodles before. I know this is forward of me, but do you want to be in a movie?”

***

Isabelle

After the library, Asil insists on ice cream. Someplace smaller and deeper into the city of Akar Prime, further away from the port and out where there’s mostly just housing. People here all watch the matches, but they’re not catering to the pilots, and so when you go into Renaldo’s Scoop, you get simple ice cream and not fancy concoctions that someone is hoping will make it on camera.

When you’re seated, and with whatever is your favorite flavor, Asil sits behind you and massages your shoulders. Then she sits down with you and starts her own icecream, coffee flavor. “You know, since I met you, I keep seeing you how eventually come around. Isabelle Lozano is always panic first, then think of doing the wrong thing, and then figuring it out and doing what’s right. We’re gonna have to work on speeding up that cycle though.” She boops you on the nose with her spoon very gently.

“So…we’ve got time now and we’re way out of the way. So what’s the worst you think your mom could do if you stood up to her? Keeping in mind that you’ve already committed to doing all our cooking and earning our way as a mechanic.” She winks at you.

***

Mirror and Dolly and Entourage

[All Who Gather Feast After Hunting]. To always revere Grandmother Hunger, to give thanks for her reprieve, and to offer it to the pack. If there is such a thing, this was the origin of Hybrasil. To imagine the pack not as a static, tiny thing, but as a growing thing, gathered around the hunter, where those who are weak may feast with those who are strong.

Nine Forests, in her role as the head engineer and most in charge of Jade’s physical body, smiles a knowing smile that broadens to a grin as Dolly dances for the gathering and Nines gets to see the fruits of her own handiwork. In her heart, she thinks that this worship is something special for her as well because her paws worked in the name of her goddess to make it real. [Dolly takes a string on Nines.]

Six Stones, after her fourth drink, pulls her own shirt off and joins Dolly at the pole. She can’t help it. She’s always secretly envied her priestess. It’s why she teases. And in this celebration, safe and without worries for the next day (little knowing what Mirror will demand of her) she lets caution to the wind and grabs hold of Dolly’s collar and her wrists as she joins in the dance and lets Jade do what she will with such an impertinent worshiper. [Jade my take a string on Six Stones through Dolly’s entice on her behalf.]

Poor Matty Swimmer is wearing her little bell tonight just like Mirror instructed after their first meetings. After just one drink, she can’t keep herself from looking away but constantly glancing up at the dance, the blush rising in her cheeks to utterly consume her. After the third time she jingle jangles so loudly that she startles herself, she gives up any pretense and throws herself into Mirror’s chest, where she buries her head happily and looks for pets.

And Slate. Well, she’s certainly enjoying the show, but she’s not overcome. She sidles up next to Mirror instead, arms crossed, a smile on her face and a drink in hand, but with a face that says she’s thinking business. “So boss, you’ve got almost everybody you wanted, right? All the pieces lined up. The only one, besides Solarel herself, is the TC champion you met. Villajero. I watched her fight today. Outgunned her opponent in every way, but she let slip a little. She’ll change things up, but between us, I’m feeling a little reassured. The Ninetails has the firepower to beat her, even if that mecha of hers is [the beast who grew tall to eat the sun until Katchtenkirya tricked it into becoming drunk and spitting it out]. Just make sure you match her until you get your shot.” She sips and watches the dance, her other arm running over yours, her claw pressing on the skin to let you know she’s there as she runs it down through the fur.

The touch runs through her body and out into her fingers so sharp she snaps her chopsticks. She hasn't been touched in...

She's in relation to someone, physical, flinching, reactive, combat routines sent to limbs that didn't exist, small, hot, powerful, listening, attentive. The mental bubble around her body collapses and she rushes into a dazed, tense, physical awareness. Questions well to the surface, fragments of the TC language, warnings and theories, scattered remnants of perfection spilling over the floor and she doesn't have the time to pick and choose the right one.

A movie? A girl? Her, filmed? Like an anime? A... a girl?

She's conscious of her matted hair, her oily scales, all the concessions that perfection demanded from her self care routine. She gives a wide-eyed fish stare and slurps the remainder of her noodles down all at once. <Movie girl yes> she signed, barely remembering how to move her hands.

Isabelle is silent for a moment as she thinks. It's not a pleasant topic, but the massage and ice cream are really helping to subdue the panic that would otherwise be bubbling to the surface right around now.

"It's ... " she begins, hesitating. These are stories she's not proud of. Details she normally tries to avoid. Were it anyone else asking - or even if Asil had asked just a little while ago - she would deflect it with the usual litany: 'You don't know what she's capable of, but I do ...'

But this was Asil. If she didn't deserve to know, then who did?

"When I was younger, the seneschal of our estate was an older man. His name was Guillermo, but my siblings and I knew him as Momo. He was one of those people who had been in the job for generations, literally. He'd served my grandparents when my mother was young and was now raising the third generation of the household alongside his own grandchildren."

She took a bite of her objectively superior mint-chocolate, savouring the flavour, hoping it would tramp out the rising bitterness.

"I can't remember the trigger; it might've been the twins misbehaving, or maybe it was after one of the times mother disciplined me, but I remember him comforting us. Telling us that things would be okay, that our mother still loved us, and that she'd had her own difficulties with her parents growing up."

"She ... didn't react the first time we mentioned it to her. Tad had unthinkingly thrown it back at her during one of her shouting fits. I remember her face, her expression just being blank. It was like she'd just checked out midway through the fight and ... and it scared me. But she just turned and left."

"The next thing we knew, Momo was gone. We found out later that she'd transferred him to staff one of the mansions she maintained out at the fringe of the Alastar nebula. It was little more than a hacienda on a sparsely populated planet near the border with Hybrasil. Far enough out that he'd had to take his family with him as the costs to fly back regularly would've been well beyond his means."

She gulps down another bite.

"And ... and as if just getting him away from us wasn't enough, she went and sold the house soon after. Pulled out all her investments from the colony. All the staff there were just ... let go." she finished, somewhat surprised at how steady her voice still was. "Forty years of service and he was just ... We never found out if he was able to afford passage back to the core worlds and she never let us travel out there to see if we could find him. He just ... was just gone from all our lives. All because he'd crossed her."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that she doesn't try to just defeat her enemies. She destroys their lives. As completely and ruthlessly as she can, using whatever resources she has at her disposal: Political. Financial. Emotional."

"And that's just one example from many. She's not above buying out companies just to fire employees, financing competition just to put someone's dreams out of business or using her contacts, of which she has many, to close off entire markets to people she doesn't like. It's not the most efficient way to do business, admittedly, but she has the resources and means to pay the costs of these things a thousand times over. You ask 'What's the worst she could do' if I cross her? Well ... she'd do that. To her own daughter. Without a moment's thought to what it would cost her."

Here she looks at Asil, looking into those deep brown pools that she's come to l- to li -- no, no more lies. Not to her. Not to myself, either.

She looks into those eyes she's come to love. Those eyes that make up her world. Those eyes that represent her greatest comfort but also the one place that Almira knows will get to her. She's searching for your reaction,

"She could have your engineering accreditations revoked, get you blacklisted from all the major companies within TC space. You wouldn't be able to find good work anywhere. And that's just to start with. Next, she'd find out where your family lives and go after them. Your parents? Your siblings? I mean, we haven't really talked much about them, but I know how much they mean to you. She'd go after your parents' apartment building. Your mother's job. And she'd be careful to ensure every step she takes is nice and 'legal', all but taunting you to try to fight her in court as another means to drain their accounts dry. Even if they all just relocate or roll with the punches, it will cost them more, much more, than it will cost her."

"And that's the thing: We all only ever get one life in this galaxy and she'd make a point to ensure that whatever life they end up living, whatever trajectory they take afterwards, that it'd be one that is harder, dimmer and far colder than what they could've had before I got in her path. And when everything is done and all the damage has been dealt, she'd pull me aside into her office. Make me stand there and tell me it was all my fault. And expect me to fall back in line before she does even more."

Isabelle stops for a moment, unsure if she should keep going. Something about Asil's silence demands to be filled, but she doesn't want to keep on with this topic - the point has been made.

"You're right, you know, you've got my routine down pat, but there's reasons I keep doing it." she continues, looking out the windows, watching the grav-cars speed past.

"It's like my instincts are constantly wrong as to what to do. And it's not a coincidence either. I've trained my whole life to pilot a mech. Almost from the day they found out that my compatibility was sufficiently high to have a realistic shot at winning the tournament, they've had me training on how to use the neural meshes. How to walk, fight, fly, until those movements became a part of me."

Isabelle pauses, her gaze turning down memories of training centres. Teachers. Tutors. Tests. Of dark rooms. Hard rulers and the red welts they left behind. Endless nights of study by fluorescent lights. Gruelling days of practice.

"Well, mother did the same thing to my social instincts too. Paid actors, false reports, tricks, traps and these fucking tests behind everything until I couldn't help but see everything like that." she continues, ruefully. "It took me a little while to convince myself that you weren't some kind of plant too once you started showing interest in me and ... I'm sorry that my mind even went there."

"I'm .. I'm trying to do the right things. But you can't just un-learn this shit in a day. And it's harder because sometimes I just don't have a frame of reference for what's the right thing to do." she sighs, letting the frustration bleed through for a moment.

"I think I know what I have to do, but once I do it - there'll be no going back. It'll be fight or fall. Are you sure that's still something you want to take on? Knowing what I've told you about what she could do?"

In the safety of the gathering, Mirror lets her eyes squeeze shut. In the comfort of darkness she feels Matty's weight pressing into her body. She feels the vibrations of her kitten's purrs and the flustered nuzzling of that sweet face into her chest. She follows the sensation of Slate's claw as it travels along her arm. It ruffles through her fur and against her skin, only just soft enough to keep from drawing blood.

She allows herself a sigh. Contentment. One moment of bliss in the quiet after victory. When she opens her eyes again they are locked on the writhing, undulating form of Dala Hunters, whose dancing is a gift. Whose beauty is a treasure. Mirror's face creases into the soft frown that means she is at her most thoughtful, and therefore her happiest.

"...I will repeat myself from the other day, Slate. Well... no. First, I will agree: I have almost everyone I want now. But I continue to believe we cannot count on the support of Isabelle Lozano until we have first struck her matriarch, and I likewise believe my plan will fail without someone of her piloting ability and demeanor."

She sighs, neither wistful or frustrated but simply so full of a thought that she must have release. Communication feels so simple, here at the feast. Not once have her eyes left the dance of Dala Hunters. The more of her that is exposed, the more focused Mirror becomes. No possessive or lascivious thoughts occupy her expression: this is an act of much simpler love. She has been allowed into the world of the divine, a place she thought she could never be. Every sway of those beautiful hips and every roll of that soft tummy was a gift intended to honor her. To honor Mirror.

But it is also (in that deeply amusing way of hers) Smokeless Jade Fires attempting to brag. Even so utterly bested, the pride of that goddess has not been broken. The knowledge of that determination sets her heart racing far more than anything the dance itself could manage no matter how long Mirror was invited to watch. Even if she was given the gift of a night with Dolly where she could she pleased, she would do no more than talk through the long hours of the night and properly playing the card game she'd made such a mess of last time. They could do it naked for all she cared; bared bodies meant nothing to her all by themselves.

But the challenge! That sent shivers down her spine. This demand in total defeat, to be treated not as a conquered resource but an ally in full standing, it was almost more than Mirror could bear. She takes her feelings out on Matty's neck, teasing and massaging and touching all down her back and neck until she is a shivering, speechless mess in her lap. This... this... assertion, this decree! 'This is mine, Whispered Promise. The most beautiful thing I own. I share it with you, and dare you to claim I have made the lesser contribution to our partnership!'

That is the true message of this party from Smokeless Jade Fires. It makes Mirror's claws itch with longing. To take a whip and crack it against this impertinent goddess' backside! Ah! The desire to pin her, to make her understand, the thrill of challenge! It is a beautiful gift. All she can do is respect it. She sighs once more, this time in sync with Matty.

"You do not need to worry, Slate. I promised you I would no longer overexert myself during this tournament. In any event I cannot afford to if I am going to defeat Marcina Villajero. Certainly not while continuing to hold back my-- our true strength. I will be counting on you and Ms. Seven Quetzal to deliver the blow in my stead. And I will explain the process to both of you, but let's enjoy this moment. Just a while longer. For her sake. For your sake. For mine."

Everyone is watching.

It’s always been the promise, the thrill, the risk, the tug that kept Dolly scampering on. The electric feeling of eyes on her— on her— impossible, infeasible, ridiculous. To be desired, the center of attention, but with plausible deniability. How mortifying it would be if she was exposed and the reaction was just irritation, hissing, or lectures about how good Gardens wouldn’t do such a thing! Beneath the fear of bothering others, a pit of sensuality, bottled up until her goddess exploded into her life.

But this is different from having compromising images leaked to a rival pilot or being toyed with in public by the invisible hands of her lover. This is a very public demonstration for a private event. The whole station feels like it’s packed into the tent as Jade guides her through the performance, pushing at her boundaries carefully, a delectable snack dangled in front of everyone, especially—

Especially Angela. Does the Terenian catch the shy glances that her “rival” kept tossing her way, over a bare shoulder, hands guided down her stomach? This certainly wasn’t the first time Angela had seen her like this, but it was the first with this sort of… imbalance. With Angela as a member of the audience, watching as Jade guides Dolly through a prancing circle, tail lifted, wrists in the air, hips swinging exaggeratedly. Definitely not the sort of thing a Gardens would do. If she was able to speak, would she blurt out something hot-tongued and awkward to the lovely alien?

Then Six Stones pulls her top off, prances on stage, and pulls Dolly close, disrupts the dance, and suddenly it’s very hard for a silly gay kitten to look anywhere else. And it’s both their hands, huntress and goddess, which lift and peel her own jumpsuit open, wriggling out of tight sleeves, letting it hang like a train over her tail.

And it is Dolly who lifts her hands and holds them behind her head, even as she makes frantic little squeaks and huffs, even as Six Stones makes a show of leading her around the room and inviting the fortunate few to fake a closer look at Dolly Hunters, the toy of the goddess. And it is Dolly who lifts onto her toes and then drops back down right in front of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, with Jade blowing a taunting kiss at the both of them. And the courage almost makes her melt through the floor, but she’s the one who adds a waggle to her hips as she’s tugged away.

Not that Six Stones escapes, mind you. Eventually, when Dolly’s almost dizzy with heat and fluster and exertion, the dancing is exertion, the goddess has her peel that glove off and wrap it around Six Stones’ throat, and lets her stumble in a borrowed jacket and a half-undone jumpsuit to go sit next to Angela (who tugs at her curls idly and playfully mocks the goddess who would make such a pretty little thing do such things, ai, stay here and you will be safe as long as you behave, precious meow-meow), as Six Stones finds herself in the clutches of a goddess whose thirst for domination is almost insatiable.

One cannot help but wonder whether the half-hour burlesque routine about Maintaining The Idol (with Bending Over, Getting Stuck, Running Out Of Washcloths, and Incurring Wrath) was really a spontaneous invention on the part of Smokeless Jade Fires, or whether she’d been practicing it, somehow, in secret. Don’t ask Dolly, though; she’s flirting like a meek schoolgirl with an alien who’s seen exactly what drives her wild.

(And by the end of the night, she will find herself a centerpiece once more, locked in a saucy embrace with Six Stones and the pole, as the goddess reminds the audience that they should behave, should they wish to avoid becoming entertainment for a great and mighty goddess…)

Solarel

She gives herself a bump on the forehead with her own palm, which makes her hair bounce. “Ah right, ugh I’m dumb, so dumb, most of you don’t speak, I learned about that. Ugh, that was…yes, that was a yes, right? You look excited!”

She runs through a whole emotional train here in the span of a couple seconds as she grapples with beating herself up and then realizing you’re enthusiastic all at once. Her face lights up when she reaches the end. “Okay, okay, can you uh…Terenians usually nod for yes and shake their heads side to side for no, like this.” She bounces and shakes her whole body as she moves her head, her long pink hair and her cape bouncing with her. “So uh, if you can nod then I’ll, uh, I can call my guys and we can do a thing. And, oh my gosh I haven’t even. My name’s Anna Maria Alvarez. I’m a film student, I’m making documentaries and I’m so excited to get to include a Zaldarian. Oh I’ll need to get an interpreter, I bet Pietro knows someone. Okay, so, well, can you nod first and then I’ll tell show the set and everything. And um, I’ll cover your lunch too, for giving me the time of day and everything. Thank you!”

***

Isabelle

Asil, now sitting and working on her own ice cream, gives you a long, considered look. “You have had a lot of trauma” she says after a moment. She takes a considered bite of ice cream, very slowly, lowering her spoon and carving out a nice round piece. The smell of coffee rises from it as she works at it and she enjoys that while she’s thinking of what to say.

“What you’ve said is very bad, but what you’ve described is not a person, not even a very powerful and wealthy business owner, but some kind of monster shadow who reaches all around the galaxy.”

She chews again, considering. “You should meet my bisabuela sometime while she’s still around. She’s 105, did you know? Do you know what she’d do to your mother if she got kicked out of her apartment? It wouldn’t be a lawsuit or some dumb plan to make the system work for her. No, she’d come find your mother and set fire to her room with her locked in it.”

Asil stares you in the eyes. She’s grinning, but she is entirely serious. “Do you think bisabuela cares about getting hurt too, or dying? Or going to jail? She’s 105, she could fall over anytime. She would be delighted to go out spiting anyone who touches a hair on the head of one of her family members. Don’t think for a second that only the reach get to have family, Lozano.” She emphasizes the name, a reminder of the importance of who you are while also denying that importance. A dare, a challenge, and also a protector, someone who’d fight and die for you if you become hers.

“Now, you’ll tell me that your mother would never let anyone get that close. That she’s perfect and monitors everyone and everything. That she’d be entirely comprehensive across the galaxy, right?” She stops and flicks your forehead all of a sudden. “Trauma! This galaxy takes weeks to get news from one end to the other. Even in TC space, you have to be somewhere and news only comes as fast as people move. She literally cannot get word of such a stupid plan any faster than it’s put into motion. But more important than all that. Than any of that is this. If your mother were really so powerful, so confident, so utterly in control, would she really be putting so much on YOU Isabelle? No. I know, trust me. You do that because you’re afraid. She is afraid that she can lose everything she has, that it’s really possible and she can’t do anything about it.”

And then she stares at you. She’s worried. Worried maybe she pushed too hard, but also worried about you, about how much hurt is inside you. She’s looking to see if she needs to stand back up and hold you.

***

Mirror

Whenever you return and have the time to check there are some notes for Mayze Serpaws. Some new orders from various nobles, including a member of the Hybrasilian military who had attended the party. Her name is Shiva Teuru Nine Dishai, she’s the leader of one of the largest huntress lodges on Hybrasil, an imposing lioness. She apparently found your designs intriguing. Though that one isn’t a rush, she wants it for use back home, not for a specific upcoming event, and will gladly take whatever timeline you offer.

Perhaps the most notable is a letter from Adriana Teresio.

To Mayze Serpaws,

You are a rare person. When offered an opportunity to curry favor from someone powerful and of vast wealth, you took a bold risk and delivered me something that could have made me very angry. Or perhaps something I might have refused and even sought to ruin your reputation for making. Many wealthy Terenians would have declared a vendetta against you for delivering a dress that drugged them for an evening.

I am thus forced to conclude that you are either extremely analytical to have correctly understood that I am not such a person. Or that you are willing to humble those in power regardless of what consequences may accrue to you. In either circumstance, you have my deepest respect. People of your nature are extraordinarily difficult to find in my position.

As a result, I will not sully your motivations with an offer of money or power. Nor promises that I cannot truly promise to keep given my political position. Rather, I simply offer you my personal contact. The enclosed comms channel can be used to contact me personally and directly at nearly any time (save perhaps if I am in a summit that prohibits any communication device while present). I trust you will either use it wisely or for an appropriate laugh before forcing me to replace it.

There are, of course, many more orders if you’re willing to open things to them, Mayze has no shortage of customers that would simply offer money, but these two stand out from the others.

***

Jade and Dolly

When the party is over, the crews dispersed, and everyone rested (with appropriate blackmail saved for Six Stones), the question now is what comes next.

Mirror’s request is outstanding, and you wouldn't want to miss the finals anyway, so nobody is permanently leaving Akar for the moment. On top of that, Jade needs maintenance anyway after Mirror had to carry her out of the Arena. The entire connection from the central core to the idol’s legs is completely severed and the crew is going to have to rebuild that from scratch, sourcing all new components.

Jade is also not the most patient mistress. She would like to be able to fly freely at any time, and so even though there is no match approaching, the crew are all working as fast as they can to get the idol fixed. In fact, there’s simply no technical staff to spare right now.
And that is why, Dolly and Angela, you find yourselves together in the bustling Akar port with shopping lists in hand and a long list of specialized electronics and neural mesh wiring to obtain.

“...do Hybrasilians always press-gang their highest-ranked pilots into menial labor?” Angela asks, eyeing you in a way that suggests she’s seriously considering whether to lift you up and carry you over her shoulder to better navigate the crowd, Dolly.

She arrives dressed for Business. No better way to explain to a group without experience than by making a clear visual impression.

That means wearing her very best suit in the Terenian style: a fitted pants/jacket combo in the deepest blue imaginable, more serene than a lake too wide to see across lit only by the distant twinkle of stars as they wove their stories overhead. The shoulders, elbows, waist, hips, and the middle of the thighs have all been cut out in wide diamond shapes to show off her snowy fur and a selection of her very best and most desirable stripes. The back of the jacket has been trimmed down to a series of thin ribbons that wind across her in a perfect helix. She wears no shirt underneath this jacket, the better to emphasize its absolute perfection, and secures only the top button (of three): a stylized thing of shimmering, textured gold that begs to have a finger run across it to feel the stimulation of the outfit's richness.

She wears the pointed shoes of the TC upper echelons, the ones with the pointed heels that raise her a full head and a half off of the ground. She is unusually tall for her kind already; now she is unquestionably a goddess. She has gathered her long hair up around her neck and the back of her head and tied it into a severe but messy, spiky bun held in place with two black prayer sticks dangling golden bells off of their tips. She wears a necklace, a gaudy thing made not with bones and smooth stones or diving weights and bits of fish bone (like one would if they wanted to be beautiful), but threaded of minuscule golden links looped over top of one another so they cascade down her chest like a tiny waterfall. Across her neck is also a tight choker featuring some manner of jet black stone in its center. On her face she wears a pair of large, oval spectacles with an opalescent frame. Looking through them, her genetically modified eyes are even more striking than usual.

She has painted her lips. She has lined hear ears with piercings and rings. She is perfect. She is divine. It is impossible to look at her and not believe she is an expert in the field she has dressed for.

"As you are aware, the Terenius Consortium contains a variety of religious expressions across its borders. But there is one principle god to whom all of their kind pay a special fealty to above all other manifestations, no matter how misfit they may be otherwise or what walk of life they claim as their own. It is a shapeless, formless god entirely unlike the great beasts of the Zaldarians or our own Goddesses, who shape our lives intangibly but nevertheless have made their bodies and their presence quite clear to us. I speak of course of the great god known as... Finance."

In the years since first contact, many (and especially the important) Hybrasilians have received crash courses in the bizarre world of TC economics. Certainly the far ranging mercenaries needed to get very good at understanding basic bartering very quickly if they wanted to be taken seriously in negotiations. Nowadays even most kittens wouldn't tilt their head at the mention of a 'credit' or the idea that it might be exchanged for something like food or a manufactured good without interacting with the complex series of promises and social expectations that underpinned the system of exchanges in their own empire.

But to all but the most hardcore fangirls of the TC worlds the specifics and especially the deeper mysteries of how these people lived their lives was a total black box. The Hybrasilian language contains zero even equivalent words for things like 'finance', 'corporation', 'CEO', or 'profit' and if anyone wanted to express these concepts they needed to use the TC words for them, full stop. The Hybrasilian, and especially the Fisher accent is very maladapted to the sounds these words are comprised of. To the sharp ears of a Child of Hybrasil, the attempt generally sounds impressive, and it has become popular to insert them into the lyrics of popular songs. To Terenians, however, the deficiencies border on insulting.

This is to say that if the likes of Isabelle or Marcina or Angela were here for this meeting they would likely have killed themselves giggling, and Mirror might not have had the bravery to continue. Luckily, her audience was cats. Cats all the way down.

"The currency you have dealt with in your work or mine is a tool to procure hospitality and aid, true, but its true purpose is a talisman of prayer to Finance. A holy man explained it all to me when he offered to help me create a 'bank account' to house the collected rewards I had been accruing for piloting for Terenian causes and benefits: Finance is a fickle and capricious god but it is pleased by strategic applications of this resource, and with enough successful supplications it will intervene on your behalf to grant boons beyond what an individual could offer for your exchange. Essentially, as your number of prayer slips increases, you or a skilled priest working on your behalf can cause miracles to occur. The creation of a new mecha, for example, or the forging of an alliance against historical clan interests. My personal favorite is the sudden manifestation of festivals outside of marked holy days, but supposedly these powers extend far beyond that to the truly devout."

Mirror nods and pulls out several tablets from a bag she's kept at her feet this entire time. She sets them on the table in front of her, displaying a pie chart, a line graph, and a spreadsheet. Each of these were painstakingly crafted by hand, which is to say they contain absolutely zero numbers or labels or identifying data of any kind, but they are all extremely colorful and evocative in a way that Mirror knows is corroborated by several anime she's seen dealing with the subject. It is not difficult at all to make the leap from these displays to a Hybrasilian priestess, even a bride beseeching her goddess for a good hunt with these offerings to dazzle her into compliance. Nor is it at all difficult to imagine certain goddesses absolutely devouring these offerings and assigning High Meaning to them.

"The greatest concentrations of holy power in Terenian society are found inside the grand temples that Finance feels most at home inside of. You have likely heard of Companies, yes? Perhaps by another name, the concept is so important that Terenians have as many words for this single concept as we have for reeds. Corporation, LLC, Conglomerate, Subsidiary, Co-Op, and Collective Bargaining Agreement all refer to the exact same type of temple. They combine the powers of supplication of a great many individuals under a single structure, where power within the cult is determined via a new type of prayer called 'stock'. It is an ascetic demonstration wherein a devout cultist demonstrates her belief in Finance by refusing to spend her accumulated credits on material comforts and instead spend all of it on the company itself. This creates 'stake' inside the temple, and the god rewards those who can deny themselves immediate gratification by returning it to them later multiplied a hundredfold or more."

Now she switches her teaching tools to something truly indulgent, something so wasteful she actually looks around the room for a moment to see if Finance would manifest for her in appreciation for her superior insight into its machinations. She uses paper. One hundred sheets of the creamiest, most beautiful paper she's ever seen, all of which she has spoiled by drawing the exact same flower blossom on. She sighs.

"Whatever anyone may tell you, these temples contain exactly one hundred instances of this prayer. They may require greater or smaller amounts of 'investment', depending on how powerful the temple is among the Cult of Finance, but what you see is all there is. And whoever performs the ritual best and who can make the most stable alliances gains the right to be called this temple's high priestess, though they mostly use other words for it. These priestesses command enormous powers in their society, including the ability to compel behavior against the wishes of the ones they demand it of or creating oaths of loyalty among whomever they choose. They can even cause entire Skyscrapers, those enormous glass spears Smokeless Jade Fires and I fought among recently, to rise up from the ground where they live. This is the power of the Lozano Matriarch, whom I have declared war on."

She gathers the papers together into two separate lots and divides them with a line of string, then does this three more times on the right side of the division until she's created several smaller lots against the one larger one.

"But these powers are not hereditary or inherent to the priestesses' being. Their god will turn on them if they ever grow lax in their duties or prove themselves an unworthy servant by allowing another cultist to usurp their power. If nobody controls the majority of these sheets in front of us, then the temple must ask for consensus among every cultist who has performed the ritual to have one. With fifty one out of one hundred to a single name, a high priestess' power is absolute. Within her temple she may alter reality as she sees fit and her god will enable her without fail. Conversely, if those fifty one sheets align against an individual, her voice goes completely silent. The god will not heed her even if she washes herself in holy water and slays a [Creature of Ten Thousand Mouths] with the droplets still fresh upon her body. Do you understand?"

Mirror pulls the strings away from the smaller lots and lays them across a single sheet of paper on the larger one, changing the arrangement completely.

"The Lozano Matriarch has her fifty one sheets, but she holds them via alliance. Any sufficiently advanced temple usually requires too much of a demonstration of devotion per sheet for a single person to feasibly hold a majority all by themselves. This is one of the ways their great god fosters competition in their society and keeps its children strong. But this woman has held her position for long years, in part by having her children each hold a small number of the sheets she needs to control the magic Fifty One (this being the holiest number of Fiance, you understand). I have been corresponding as best I could since the party to find people with sufficient devotion or at least connections to other holy men like my 'banker' who could be convinced to help buy up the other fourty-nine from their various owners. If I am successful, which is to say if they are successful, all that we need do to topple Isabelle Lozano Distant Gate's supposedly invincible and monstrous mother is to convince even a single one of her children to bargain for the sheets that they hold and her power will be broken utterly.

She will be the high priestess still, but she will need to bargain with a collective in order to continue enacting her will as she has for these many years. I do not believe she knows how. She will sink deeper trying to cling to her rituals without the backing of her god. Even if she manages to recover without shattering herself on her own temple, she will have been taught fear. And that, I think, will be enough proof of sincerity that I will be able to trust the Distant Gate to help me defeat Solarel, even after she fails her own test of single combat. Do you agree?

Mattara? Selin? My darlings and my hearts? Kiriala, my squire? Can you sweet talk a Lozano child out of their alliance for me? I wish to compensate them fairly according to the traditions of their home, of course, but I do not seek the power it represents for myself. I have already contacted Ada Smith, Unseen Goose about the possibility of heading this new alliance within this particular cult. I have done this because I believe it is the funniest result possible, and therefore the best. And that even if she quickly 'cashes out', as they say, she will walk away from our brief partnership with more resources for her family than she could get for herself in a hundred and one raids. I think it is worthwhile, personally. Will you help me? Can you spare the time for my sake? My plans are balanced on a spear tip right now, it will be difficult to adjust without you. But if it is too much for any reason at all... say so. I will abandon my vendetta and search for another way to give you my dream."

Alright, Solarel. Take a breath. Figure it out.

She was being roped into an anime. An anime was, as everyone knew, a visually distinctive subspecies of the TC species. Just like how there was a wide range of visual difference between Zaldarian scale colours and patterns there was a broad range of skin types amongst the TC; they ranged from brown to pink, from rough and weatherbeaten to almost perfectly smooth. Many Zaldarians had initially thought that anime was just a form of makeup but Solarel didn't buy that. The eye structure was just too different.

What was clear was that the animes were the TC warrior class, with some wielding spectacular power over the spirit world. It was the threat of them that had prevented the Empress from offering peace to the Terenians without even a ritual raid. It was a true show of their power that none had attended the Tournament. They had looked at the might of Zaldar and decided they had nothing to prove, and had sent their merchants to do war in their stead. That was enough to send a chill down any Zaldarian's spine - and a thrill down Solarel's as she considered the possibility that she might get to meet one - to fight one!

<Ah of course!> she signed <I am to be the "Monster of the Week!" -> she cut the movement when she realized the Terenian couldn't understand her and instead nodded stoically. Very well then. No words were necessary, she understood her role already.

Already she was looking at the distant radio tower. That would be an appropriate first target.

Like some sort of useless herded animal, Dolly absolutely cannot ask Angela to pick her up (again). There's absolutely no signs that she wants that, to be lifted and squished. Ignore the tail starting to curl around Angela's leg on its own. No, focus on the way she's scrolling up and down the list of components and looking around, trying to find Electronics Collectives. Somewhere where the ceilings are low and the barter is... oh, no, she can't take Angela there, she'd end up on her hands and knees! Or maybe that's why she should take Angela there? No, no, on short notice... they'll have to do Terenian-style shopping, won't they? With the fixed prices and the exchange of credit?

"I'm not just a pilot," Dolly points out, standing up on her tippies to try to get a little height over the crowd and failing miserably. "I'm the High Priestess. I have to do the things that the goddess needs done, that's my responsibility. And it's not like I'm not used to menial, to work? I was a Gardens, you know. You have to start by learning a lot about plants and soil and growth rates, but we also have to keep the gardens running. Sprinklers, lights, heating... we need to know how it works, so that we can fix it, and so that we can tinker with it. I even know some of the things we're buying today, I just... don't quite know where we're...?"

She trails off, then adds, thoughts bouncing off into the weeds, "Thank you for coming, by the way. Even if, you know, we're rivals. I'm sure you'll get your revenge on Jade eventually. It's just that she didn't want me coming alone after everything with the Red Band, and you're actually really impressive? Like, Stones filled me in on you and the Zaldarians at the Gala, and, that was, wow, and, did you really throw an entire refreshments table? I could understand throwing a bowl or something, but an entire table?" The lilt in her voice suggests that she very much wants to hear about throwing the table at the Zaldarian Queen actually please ma'am.

Isabelle slowly takes another bite of the ice cream, eyes staring into the mid distance.

" ... I think I'd like to meet your bisabuela some day. She sounds ... nice." she mutters after a while, cheeks pinking at the implication of finally meeting her girlfriend's family.

"And no, my mother is not all-seeing." she says, and quashes the small, younger, part of her mind that deeply believes it. "She'd be hard to get to though, even if your bisabuela could find her. I mean, she'd need to first locate her room in either one of the mansions, or when she's travelling for work. I guess her itinerary could, in theory, be reached through public sources ... but finding out which room and what hotel she'd be staying at would be a more difficult proposition. Maybe if she bribed, or just cajoled, one of the staff at wherever she was visiting. Sweet talked them into sharing the hotel. But then she'd need to find a way to infiltrate its premises and either smuggle in or locate some accelerants. Then she'd need to find a way to lay it out at the main exit points. I'd like to think bisabuela could escape in any ensuing panic once the fire alarms go off, and --- and why the heck am I spending this much brainpower on problem solving this scenario??"

Isabelle pinches her nose, trying to bring her thoughts back on track.

Is it weird that I don't feel ... worse about the mental image of mother dying in a fire?

... is it weirder, still, that the mental image of an old lady going through so much effort to incinerate her in the name of family is kind of sweet? In a rather messed up way, I mean.

She takes a more substantial bite of the cone, chewing the minty goodness for a moment as she considers the sheer scope of mental damage she's probably dealing with here.

Maybe I just really want to set something on fire too.

"Aanyway." Isabelle continues, deciding not to unpack that just yet. "You're touching on a couple of important things with that idea. Firstly: for all her power and threats, mother really wouldn't know what to do in a physical fight. She'll threaten, she'll scheme, but she'd still be caught off guard if we just walked up and punched her in the face."

"N-Not that I'm suggesting we do that - or rather, that you should definitely not do that. She'd have a response if you did it. But if I punched her then I think she'd mostly be too surprised to react and ohgodimdoingitagain"

Isabelle hunches in on herself, blocking out the world and eliciting more backrubs from her awesome girlfriend. She takes care not to drop the icecream through all of this - she only wants to hide from everyone forever, not lose Mr Minty.

Eventually, slowly, the rhythmic circles coax her into unfurling once again. She takes a moment to look at Asil with gratitude, before continuing where she'd left off.

"Secondly: She's a bully. But she'll never pick a fight she knows she'll lose - and there are only a few people in the galaxy that she really fears. Adriana Teresio is one of them and, thanks to the factory contract we have with her, we have her in our corner. I'm also thinking Mira Fisher might also be one - given that mother hasn't retaliated against her yet after that show at the Gala. Maybe she's still figuring her out. In any case, it gives us options on how to defend ourselves once the tournament is over."

Asil - Throughout all of this, Isabelle has been deftly ignoring your last comments about how much she's carrying, or how strong she might be. Is that something you'll call her out on? Push harder? Or just lean into the denial?

Mirror

“You know this isn’t my strong suit, boss-” Slate starts to say, but cuts off when Matty raises her hand very high. Slate looks at you, back at her. “Uh, go ahead sweetie.”

Matty blushes and when everyone looks at her briefly goes mute even though she asked to talk, but then she takes a big gulp and starts going. “I um…I think if Isabelle helps, just with an invitation, I could help. I still have space at Trosta’s so it will be weird but not suspicious weird, like the normal kind of weird. Or the weird kind of normal? Like [Watching the visitor taste of new cuisine at a faraway land’s hunt]. “But if we get them there, I think I could do it. I felt like…um, like Isabelle is maybe a bit like me sometimes and if her siblings are all under the same mother who’s like you talked about her, then I think, maybe they’ll be like that too. So I can talk to them and try and I think I can do it.”

Having poured out all her words for this bit of persuasion, she instantly blushes even brighter as she waits for you all to say something.

***

Solarel

There’s a flurry of action. Your lunch is finished, and Anna pulls out a small electronic card that she briefly gives to the woman serving the food, who runs it through some sort of electronics with a primitive geist that makes a number embedded with the card go down slightly, then hands it back to her, which is apparently the signal that you should all leave as Anna gets up and makes a gesture indicating she expects you to come with her.

You quickly find yourself in a small studio, just a couple blocks off the port. There does not appear to be any magic sword-wielders jumping out of the woodwork as you follow Anna. Further, Pietro is not matching her magic cape look at all. He’s wearing pants and a t-shirt and not much else. Notably, he isn’t wearing any shoes in the studio, which is unusual for Terenians in your experience, but this doesn’t seem to phase him, being a fellow that stands nearly as tall as you, with short hair and a neat mustache.

The studio itself is not large. There’s just the one shooting area, but if you have the eye for this sort of thing, you’d be able to tell that within the limits of the space, no expense was spared on cameras or lighting. The setup is perfect, the equipment has high quality lenses capable of any shot one might and that is physically possible to achieve in a cramped studio. You can’t tell what color the cramped studio is supposed to be though because every wall is draped floor to ceiling with massive cream-colored blankets for sound treatment to block out the noise of the port. This also means that you may find the space unusually meditative: quiet like the great fields of Rovig are quiet when the wind dies down.

Pietro just got off the phone, and he’s now discussing something with Anna, but he’s shouting so you can only hear his half of the conversation while you wait. “...can’t believe you took on another project! That’s…what…five this week? Are you going to do all the editing for them too? You need to sleep sometime Anna! Or at least try! Don’t…no…no no no, don’t look at me with that pout, don’t you dare. …I’m not…look, I’m not saying you can’t edit them all, I’m just saying that we both know you can’t keep this pace forever and then you’ll drop off the face of the map completely for days and I’ll have to get everyone together to pick up the pieces. …Can we just…yes this is a unique opportunity, it’s why I already called the interpreter before we did this. …okay you win, but just remember that the last festival said they don’t take submissions longer than three hours.”

There’s a brief pause, they offer you a soda, which is extremely sweet and otherwise has no particular taste. A few minutes later, the interpreter arrives. She’s a short, mousy sort of girl, brown hair cut to neck length and worn loose, and wearing a ribbed black sweater.

“Hi, I’m Pia” she says out loud, while making the hand signs for welcoming an honored guest. “How well do you understand Terenian? Do you need me to sign with my speech for better understanding, or should I just speak your signs for the rest of the room?” She says and signs approximately the same thing.

Anna is trying very hard not to vibrate herself through the floor behind Pia and Pietro is trying very hard to stand still and not sigh or close his eyes.

***

Dolly

Angela looks where you’re pointing and then hefts you over her shoulder without asking (but while carefully untangling your tail from around her) to wade through the crowd. “I don’t think I’ve heard all your history, actually, little cat. No, a Gardens you say? Do all your people take one of their names for their job, or did you just follow in the footsteps of your family until they found you had a more important talent?”
She considers herself as she gives you the bird’s eye view of the crowd (slightly adjusting you so that your butt is just over her shoulder and you’re looking forward and just a tiny bit down without overbalancing).

“You were there, through Jade. With the table I mean. You felt lit, saw it while it was happening. But then, it was mixed with so many things. I was just thinking about moving through the space, you know little cat? Don’t you go on ritual hunts, or were you too recently a Gardens for that? I’ll need to tell the people back home that only some of the Hybrasilians do that if so.” She laughs, her long low laugh, which you can feel vibrate through you view her strong arms. “But I move through the space with strength, that is what this body is for. If you make yourself strong and then you never think to use your strength, well what’s the point, ya?”

***

Isabelle

Asil definitely picks up on your point about Mira: “Mm, also consider, just…for the sake of argument, for speculation, doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, but maybe your mother was actually thrown off by all this? Maybe some of the contingencies she planned for didn’t happen and some things that did happen were way outside her plans. Maybe she’s just feeling off her game. Maybe she just isn’t coming up with a good move, finally feeling her age, that sort of thing. Maybe she got nervous and went to shore up that factory contract? I don’t know all this rich people stuff, but Adriana is the President of all of TC and a champion mecha pilot. Isn’t it possible that the Lozanos are actually the ones that have more to lose if they strain that relationship too far?”

She gives you a look that you don’t see over the backrubs. “Anyway, that’s enough speculation, isn’t it? You’re nearly done with your ice cream, and I’m done with mine. We’ve done all our maintenance, and you’ve got a lot of your schedule freed up. But you should still train, don’t you think? What kind prep do you think you can do against Solarel?”

<You learned foesign?> asked Solarel. <Yourself? I am very surprised. Every other Terenian I have battled had a translation geist.>

She stopped. <This is weird. Let me think. The Sage Zaldar said, Speak Not To The Outsider. But if I address you using foesign and you speak that aloud in real time, am I not Speaking using your voice?> It felt perverse, somehow. Like watching someone undress in front of her. She felt heat rise into her cheeks, body temperature rising in a blush. <Do - does it not embarrass you to have my words in your mouth?> She was struggling to imagine anything more... lewd.

"Preparation. It's always about the preparation isn't it?" replies Isabelle, farewelling Mr Minty with a decisive crunch. "Marna made a good point though - which is you can't really prepare for Solarel. All you can do is make sure all your tools are up to scratch and hope that, when push comes to shove, I can understand her well enough to pull a win against her."

Isabelle sighs.

"Understanding people is ... hard. I mean, I'm pretty good at it some parts of it - I was trained in how to get people to be on side, to understand what they want, all in the name of getting them to be able to do what I want. Mother made sure I could hold my own in any boardroom or corporate setting I got thrown into."

"But that's the problem, it makes people always seem like tools. A means to an outcome. Ironically, it makes actually understanding them: how they think, what they want, who they - who they really are ... all so much harder."

She thinks for a minute, before making her decision.

"I'll need to spend some time with Quar. She's been teaching me some of the Zaldarian sign language, I think they call it foesign? I'll need to get properly fluent in it by the time of the fight. But before then, there are some tests I need to run on some of the more ... prototype equipment."

"What kind of tests?"

"You haven't flown a mech before, have you?"

"Huh? No. I'd never be able to afford one, let alone fly it. Why?"

Isabelle just stares at her, smiling.

-===-

"Are you sure this thing is really meant to be this ... ugh ... skintight?" Asil asks, nervousness lacing her voice, as she tugs at the collar of her memory-weave flightsuit.

"Oh yes." comes Isabelle's voice from over the comms. "They need to be in full contact with as much of you as they can be to ensure the connection is as strong as possible."

Asil looks across the console, watching a dozen displays that show more information that she could ever hope to get across. Isabelle had towed the two of them out into deep space before turning over control of the mech to her and, she had to admit, the whole situation was more than a little overwhelming. Despite the assurance that it would 'come naturally' she couldn't help but feel like a child taking her first swimming lesson.

And the pool is the infinite black ...

"And the ... fitting process ... is part of it too?" she says, compensating for some of her worries by dialling up the snark at the speakers in front of her. It doesn't matter that they aren't sharing a video link right now, Isabelle knows exactly what she's feeling and has the good grace to sound a little abashed when she replies.

"Well ... no. Not really, that part was for my benefit. And uh ... hey! You enjoyed it as much as I did!"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Lozano, but when we land, I'm going to enjoy every peeling you back out of your setup just as much as you did zipping me up in mine."

"What was that? I couldn't hear you? My tow cable is malfunctioning ... I'll have to come back for you tomorrow."

Asil can't keep the snort from echoing across the comms, instead opting to flex one of the arms and marvelling as the mech's motions mirror her own.

"Feels like I'm moving through molasses. Are you sure this is going to be good enough?"

"It'll be fine, your compatibility with the rig isn't the best but it's good enough for our purposes. I don't need you to be fast, I just need you to shoot accurately." comes Isabelles voice, as the Emberlight and Novasurge turn to face each other. "It's not about the mechs in this case as much as making sure the drones' functionality is operating effectively. This far out from the Arena and its nanobots, their abilities will be more limited - so we'll only be using training rounds and dumbfire projectiles."

"Okay, well, loading up the autocannon now then - I think?"

"Should be the orange button to your right upper quadrant."

"Ok thanks." Asil replies, hitting the button (and barely remembering to disengage the haptic sensors beforehand). "I do have to ask though ... if the mechs don't matter, why am I in the Emberlight? Wouldn't it make more sense for you to train in the mech you'll be piloting?"

The silence stretches long enough that Asil is just about to ask again before Isabelle finally replies.

"I ... it's just." she says, voice hesitant. Asil can almost hear the dozens of sentences that are going unsaid before she finally continues. "... It's your first flight. I wanted you to have the best experience possible. And the Emberlight is the best we have.

Asil smiles, softly, at the speakers as she levels the autocannon at the mech in the distance.

"Anyway, let's get practicing then." Isabelle says, voice all back to business. "Drone quick-fab test 1: Combat conditions. Ready on your signal."

Asil squints down the sights, sending a single thought towards the mech in their centre, before squeezing the trigger with as much care as she can.

I love you too

"Well, it depends, I had a lot of choice but some families are still- eeeheeeeheeeeeep!!"

Dolly's hands go straight down into her lap, and she balances almost right away. Her ears are all atwitch as she settles into her seat, thousands of years of evolution acting beneath the cruft of consciousness to ensure that she's bobbing up and down in time with the roll of Angela's shoulder. For all that she looks like she's terrified of being dropped, all stiff-backed and wagging-tailed, it's unlikely that Angela could manage to dislodge her if she was actively trying.

"For, well, see, I did go through the selection process for Gardens, I, I was- am? I'm good at it, actually, if Jade asked me for a garden I could make her a vibrant garden that wouldn't look ashamed of being next to one of Mayze Szerpaws' dresses, if you don't mind me saying so, I, I am good at flowers, and ferns, and fungi, and... it's just, you know, a miracle happened, and wouldn't you have done the same thing, Angie...la?"

Her natural state is timidity. No wonder she dreams of exposure. The world all around is full of things so easy to misjudge (unlike plants, which are screaming out their needs if you can just listen the right way), and bereft of Jade's grip on her scruff she is a fussy little thing, uncertain of the space she's taking up, tucking in her ankles and trying not to pay attention to the glances she's getting. (She doesn't even know that, with her bright feathered blouse, she's reminiscent of a parrot.)

She ignores the question about the hunts, however. Maybe there's a little bit that doesn't tumble out of her right away, and what if a careless comment spoiled the reputation of all Hybrasil? "...your body is really strong," she says, turning her face away slightly, tail curling at the space between Angela's shoulderblades. "But... I don't know. We're not very strong, compared to you. That's why we go around, tangle you up, pounce from the blind spots. Jade would know, but that's the experience of being in her body, and she's very good at being like us, because she's born from us, or from our hopes, or... she's the strongest I've ever been, being with her. In her. Hers. If she had a body our size, she'd be a strongwoman, she'd lift you onto her shoulder."

A flick of an ear. A kneading of her skirt. "...did you know about the prize? The wish? What was yours, Angela?" She almost manages to avoid sounding guilty, even as images of that first battle flash through her head. Bagged, Tagged and Gagged! "Because all we wanted was for everyone to see Jade like we can." The second we encompasses more than the first, which only has room for two. A multiplicity. An invitation. A hope.

Mirror looks at Slate. Slate looks at Mirror. In the silence of the moment, a battle unfolds between them that might have meant the end of nations, had they understood the concept in the first place and if they had breathed a word of it into the air. Insufferable smugness clashes with irritated incredulity and the terrifying ordeal of Being Known.

But it dissipates without a word. Each of them shifts their eyes to Matty and smiles. For her sake they set the game aside; if she thought she'd caused her "mommies" to fight it would the work of the entire rest of the day to coax another word out of her.

But still. Any idiot could see that Mirror was correct to court Matty. An essential skill that was missing had been added to the family at the perfect time.
But still. Any idiot could see that Mirror was full of herself if she wanted any of the credit for that. To be taken with a sweet young heart was one thing, but to call it strategic?
But still. There is a measure of talent in recognizing the potential of that shining heart.
But still. No one who knew her thought she was capable of being that cynical about any of this. Don't mix up who absorbed whom.
But still.
But still?
But still!

"That's my girl~," croons Mirror, sliding across the distance between her and Matty without really seeming to move.

A second later, they are face to face. Watery eyes smile as best they can, and then blink shut. Once, twice, three times. Face to face becomes head to head. Mirror's right hand slips behind Matty's neck while her left soothes flustered fingers until they unfurl and drop into her grasp. She plants the very softest of kisses on Matty's forehead and then waits for the squeaks to die down.

"That's just what I expected from you, my brave and clever heart. Of course the flower who took my simplest questions and forged them into chains of power around my armor can open the pathways between the Distant Gate and her kin. Of course she can, of course she can!"

There is a spot on the back of Matty's neck that melts every bone in her body if it is teased in the right way, and for long enough. Mirror's fingers dance through her fur with the same cleverness and determination as they manipulate the console in her mecha. She leans in to catch the suddenly unsupported weight of her kitten and sweeps her out of her chair and into her arms.

There the pair of them stay, with Mirror's arms pressing Matty close against her, feeling the patter of the kitten's heartbeat through her ribs even as she presses Matty's ear close against her own chest to share the same information in return. Strong arms hold her high, and tight enough that she can't do much more than wiggle or flick her tail. But they squeeze her gently, to say that she does not need to.

It is a long time before anyone speaks again with words.

"Any help that you require kitten, simply ask for it. Anything that will help you be brave, except for my presence. I will not be able to be present for your meeting, or it will stop being 'normal weird'. Understood?"

Matty's words are expended. Her jaw seems too loose and flopsy to form the sounds. She buries her face in Mirror's clothing and nods instead. The comforting weight of somebody's fingers in her hair just behind her ears relaxes her further, though Mirror's arms haven't adjusted enough to do this herself. Someone else has gotten involved.

"You can call me, if my voice will help you. And of course you must contact me as soon as it is done to tell me how it went. Oh, I know! I think a courageous and special girl deserves a reward for her super important mission! If you succeed, I'll let you ask for anything you want. Aaaaaannny. Thing. At. All~"

"A-a-a-a-a-anyth-thing?"

"Within reason," says Mirror, "Anything within my power, of course. You could ask me for a moon, I suppose, but it would take me quite a while to go and fetch it for you. And haven't you also been saying I don't spend enough time nearby, my heart? Even still. If you would like a moon, you have only to ask for it."

Mirror and Slate share a smirk overtop of Matty's head. Their fingers touch under the downy softness of her dangling hair.

Fine. I am very lucky after all.
Fine. You are still good at this.

Solarel

“Oh…gosh” Pia says out loud, as she flushes. “Oh gosh, oh no I’m causing an international incident! They didn’t mention this in my classes and none of the other Zaldarians were this strict!” She hastily signs <I…didn’t learn the whole culture in my classes. Please forgive me, I did not mean to offend. I can…write? Is that like a translation geist? We’ll sign and then I can use a mesh to write your words on a screen. Would that serve?> She pauses, wipes her hands on her sweater. <I’m very sorry. Is this…normal…have I accidentally made…advances on other Zaldarians?>

She doesn’t speak that last part out loud, but she’s blushing incredibly red and both Anna and Pietro are looking at her. Anna is stifling laughter and Pietro has a grin that he can’t quite keep down.

***

Isabelle

A little time after your training is done, you’re met by Matty, one of Mirror’s followers who’s working at the Hangar. She was the one that seemed easily embarrassed at the party, but she’s also dressed as a mechanic and looks very much like she’s on a mission as she comes to see you.

She marches right up to you, hands at her side. “Hi, I need you to invite whichever of your siblings might help us to come meet me tomorrow at Trosta’s Arms and Armor on Akar II. We need at least one of them for our plan, and I don’t know who would be best or how to get them there, which is what I need your help with. We’ll take care of the rest from there.”

She’s trying to sound very confident, though she doesn’t project herself the same way that Mirror does and she’s got her paws clenched as she’s speaking.

What do you say to her?

***

Dolly

“I feel like maybe you will think less of me. But…I simply want things.”

She sighs and ducks under the doorframe, being very careful not to bump you, Dolly, as you go in. She doesn’t set you down though, she’s enjoying herself as you start looking for list items.

“My last name is Antonius. One of the two great families that formed the Terenius Consortium. But I’m from a backwater planet, and I am not a child of that family. I was adopted into it. My home is called Valor, and it is not so far from your space. But it’s not right next to it either. It is a stopover. Not so large as Shiki, nor so fashionable. Not directly trading with your people, but not close enough to the capital to be truly valued. Right in the middle. When it was named, everyone thought that it was for brave explorers, but I think now it is for the bravery of the people who choose to stay.”

She kneels down so you can look at a shelf (without being let off her back) and confirm that she’s selecting the right parts to be sent to Jade’s idol.

“So, my wish is for things for my planet. Enough to become the greatest manufacturer of the latest generation mark 3 mechasuits and interstellar trade vessels. It is a selfish wish, for my people over other people. Ada chided me for trying to make such a thing happen alone in my last fight. But nevertheless, that is it.”

***

Mirror

Though you may not realize it, you have, through support and planning, squared away a great many things. Matty is out on her mission, her wish a special secret she will not share until she succeeds.

The crew is hard at work on the Whip shaping it to be ready for your battle with Marcina Villajero. They know what repairs to make, have an ample supply of equipment and parts, and have yet to receive any uniquely special instructions

Requests to Mayze are, for the moment, as sorted as they can get, and Slate has seen to it that the food and drink stores are replenished with a variety of sweet and salty flavors that might suit your whim if such a whim takes you.

And as for the rest of your assorted followers and hangers on, well, Dolly is out shopping. Kiriala is also out shopping, though strictly for her own luxury goods, she insisted after her elimination with Isabelle that she had some special jewelry to find and bring home for her crush back on Hybrasil. Isabelle should be presently meeting with Matty to get that rolling.

So, for a brief and blessed moment, you and Slate are entirely alone with nothing pressing on you.

“So, should I take my clothes off now?” she asks with a wink?