"Hmph."

Her fingers wrap around Marcina Villajero's wrists. She pulls each arm down and wraps them across the Terenian's chest until they meet at her hips. This embrace, close enough to hear the nervous patter of her heartbeat with nothing but the contact of fur to flesh. Mirror closes her eyes and waits. Ten. Nine. Eight. She pushes a long breath out through her nose so that it brushes her new guest's neck. Seven. Six. Five. Her tail rises up and wraps around both of their midsections. Four. Three. Two. Her flicks around until she finds a show camera panning around them. Her smile is the grim amusement of the huntress before the pounce.

One.

"You are the only one among all your kind I will ever grant this privilege to."

She pulls them backwards, and falls into her seat. Still holding onto Marcina Villajero. Keeping her safe in the confines of her lap as the Gods-Smiting Whip snaps shut around them. The posturing achieved its purpose: the air has siphoned off most of the terrible heat that had been cooking her at the end of the fight. It is now merely reminiscent of a hot spring or a steam bath. Her arms reach forward from either side of Marcina Villajero's waist, and her body presses closes against her back as she leans forward to place her hands on the console.

"You understand now why that is. You alone can see the truth. You alone are small enough for my world."

It is. Difficult to work the pedals with another pilot in her lap. But she is not without her practice. Her feet find their places, though it pushes her to the edge of her seat. Her hand grips a joystick while the other dances across her limitless buttons. Lights glitter in the cockpit like stars, and the Whip turns on a dime and burns its way across the arena.

She flies through the corridors, flipping upside down as she reaches the hangar and then even sailing backwards as she travels past it. Every micro movement that is endemic to her piloting style is much easier to feel from inside than it looks in combat against her. It is not a smooth journey, exactly. But it is controlled. There is nothing they experience together that does not happen at the express direction of Mirror's fingers.

Out. Out. Out. Away from the arena. Outside. Into space. Into quiet and cold. Into the place she learned how to fly. Every little motion suddenly turns to silk. The last vestiges of battle heat drain from the cockpit. Even Mirror's heart rate slows until it seems outright lazy.

She dances. In spirals and loops, she dances. She builds hoops with her Tails and pilots them through, around and up and over, cresting in an arc behind them and through again as they separate and reform further ahead. Above. Below. She dances through an obstacle course of her own creation. The emotion is joy. The sequence is control.

But there is nothing here to feel except momentum. Nothing but her own small body and the useless mesh wrapped around soft, splotchy spotted fur. She stops. They float. For the first time, her voice betrays her nerves.

"Do you. Understand?"

The numb freefall of the rescue gravs is the perfect time to ponder the Big Questions.

How does one measure success?

The tactical part of her mind, the part that calculated thrust vectors and angles of attack, was still buzzing. It didn't matter that she'd lost, this defeat was just one more factor to consider in its planning. Was it enough that she'd struck such a blow against the Aeteline, the mech that had waged such a campaign of destruction all those years prior? Would it be sufficient to have done more than any other pilot in recent memory?

For her Mother? Unlikely. Only the headline result mattered, which meant that her next battle was imminent.

What value is life?

A melelcholy topic, one that she can only contemplate in the numb calmness of her descent. She'd had an opportunity to win just then, but the cost would have been the life of another pilot. More than 'a pilot', Solarel. Some trained reflex still tried to depersonalise it, even now, to make it seem like an easier choice.

Isabelle hated that part of her.

The whole appeal of fighting in the arena - when compared to the actual fighting she'd faced in her kidnapping - had always been the inherent safety for a pilot. Maybe it was naive to think so, but pilot deaths were rare. They weren't generally part of what you had to worry about.

Solarel was worth more than the match. She was worth more than the Emberlight (even though a small part of her was shocked to hear her admit that). But the core truth was - for all it represented Isabelle's one safe place, her sanctuary in a lonely galaxy, the Emberlight could be rebuilt. A person couldn't.

What is in a word?

And here, she admitted ruefully, her mind was really starting to wander into the esoteric. Still, there had been a beauty to that fight that she held tight to. A clarity of communication that had been frustrated for far too long. She'd gotten through to Solarel, at long last. And , in doing so, had hopefully reminded her of what was important:

That there were others out there who could speak to her. That there was more to fighting, to flying, than just victory.

Isabelle frowns, remembering what had happened next. The Ateline had put Solarel in danger, simply to secure the killing blow. And then it had spoken to her. For it to so casually offer up its pilot, particularly to someone like Isabelle who had already proven she'd be willing to hurt others to advance in the tournament ... it had been ...

... insane didn't even begin to cover it.

That there had been intelligence there, so cold, so distant. Even more alien than the actual aliens she'd talked to and fought against. It stood there as a repudiation of all the things that made the arena such a wonderful place. It didn't care about skill, banter, heart or willpower. It didn't fight to express itself or communicate or to make connections.

"Peak Performance" ... at that, Isabelle could only scoff. She'd been there. Done that. And it wasn't worth it.

But as to what to do with this information, she had no idea where to start analysing it.

Thankfully, she knew someone who did.

She'd download the memory weave as soon as she could. Send it to Mirror with her compliments. Hopefully the Hybrasillian would be able to finish what she'd started and save Solarel from herself, and that prison of metal and cold fire.

When Dolly returns to her quarters, she's chewing over her own thoughts. The distance between the hangar and the door feels like it slipped away, that she didn't truly experience it. The handle's real, and the way the door slides to one side, and the lights turning on automatically, as dim as twilight back home. Her pupils widen to drink in the half-lived room, and the emptiness. It's a terrible thing to come back to an empty house, isn't it?

But she knows the secret way to make it not empty. Although maybe there's more than one way, too.

"Jade?" She takes a seat on the couch, stretches her hands and feet, wiggles into a comfortable position. "I was thinking, would you like to have Ksharta or Angela over? I'd like to watch something. With buttered corn, and blankets, and maybe we can make it one of the big historical epics, like Sun Match? Or maybe a frontier romance?"

The goddess drapes herself onto the couch, and even that seems exhausted. After all, interaction for her is something that has to be intentional, all the time. She can't not think about her body, and how it exists in relation to other bodies, and how it only appears to exist at all. It takes her a little bit to render the effect of weight.

"Mmmngh," Smokeless Jade Fires, glorious hunt-goddess, murmurs. "Why should I share tonight?" Unspoken: can I even dominate tonight? Do I have the reserves to put all of my delicious brides-in-training in their places? Do I have the reserves to even appear to them, after being so thoroughly manhandled by the engineers of the Trickster-cult?

"Because I think they'll love you as much as I do," Dolly says, and offers a hand. "And it would be nice for us all to be together for a while. With you. Here. In blankets." And she pats her lap, an open invitation. She doesn't push, she doesn't impose, she doesn't reach out; she just is, and offers her time, her space, her attention.

"...I suppose it would be good for them not to wander too far. And you clearly need it." Jade dramatically sweeps her hair back. "After all, you were so deeply affected by that... link. Whatever will everyone think?" She flashes a tired smile.

"They already saw," Dolly says, trying her best not to look away. "I. Well. I... thank you, Jade. For, for this, for these chances, for making me show off, for being here with me, for everything. For the dances. And for the future. And..." She trails off into awkward kneading, realizing too late that she didn't have anything more on the tip of her tongue. "And anyone who deserves you in your glory deserves you in, like, in this. When you're the quiet moment on the hunt, too. This can be our camp."

Smokeless Jade Fires considers this for a moment. "...as a camp. Tonight. For you."

And the high priestess blinks adoringly at her goddess, and almost bounces over to the kitchen to prepare the buttered corn.

Looking into the Mirror.

She can see Mirror's grand strategy for the tournament: She wields the Invisible Sword. Her blade is concealed behind air and so an opponent cannot judge its length, but neither can she wield its Noble Phantasm. She goes through each fight trying to conceal her secret, saving it for the battle when she truly needs it. Some opponents come close. Marcina guessed correctly, naming the control system that enabled Mirror's movement - poor fool, she saw the sword and missed the claws.

Solarel sees the truth. The Gods-Smiting Whip is the same manner of creature as the Supernova. Each tail contains a Crystal Fire Reactor. She separates them out on independent drone chassis, allowing them to burn at full effect without interfering with each other. Mirror has prepared a divine wave, an all-consuming energy blast, an attack sequence that will destroy her utterly. Poor Mirror. She kept her secret well, but it was her misfortune that Solarel had fought against someone wielding an inferior version of her idea. She was now inoculated against technology shock, knew to look for Hybrasilians attempting to win through engineering.

Solarel, too, has had a grand strategy for the tournament. Hers has been the Gate of Babylon. Every battle has seen her draw a new treasure from her arsenal. She has replaced her God twice, doing battle with forest fires and blizzards and kessler syndrome, fought with one blade and two, with lance and sniper rifle. Any of the techniques she has shown could be an entire path of mastery for another pilot. Every battle has expanded the possibility space for who she could be. And now, at the end...

No, she was not going to reach for Ea. She was not a king. She was a faker. Her true self was not a declaration of self. It was a mirror, Mirror. And you are the fairest of them all. If you truly know her you know she's not going to come prepared for you. She's going to come as you.

She has stripped the armour from the Aeteline, exposing its naked chassis and superstructure. Mirror would not engage in attritional combat, so everything must be sacrificed for speed and power.
Nine combat drones. Not beautiful, perfect vessels of crystal fire reactors - hers are pale imitations, angular and jagged interceptors with autocannons. They are shadows, useless if not hunting their true manifestations.
Likewise, she has made a poor copy of Mirror's control system, the voice control theory she speculated about long in the past. Not a dedicated path of mastery, not a primary combat technique, but enough to let her surpass the limits of the Mind-Impulse Link for key maneuvers.

Some people loved what they were not, were attracted to opposites. Solarel was attracted to what was the same as her. What felt within reach. What she felt she could become. What she could melt into. The transgression of wielding the same weapons. The same tactics. The same Gods. Some people loved the clash of civilizations, the Zaldarian against the Hybrasilian, but Solarel lived above all for the Mirror matchup. There was no beauty like symmetry, no love like reflection, no way to show someone that you understood them better than becoming them.

The Sage had said Speak Not. This, then, was the only way to show her love.

Dolly

The broadcast control center for the finals is based on Akar prime, in the heart of the spaceport, on level three (3) of the traffic control tower. Easiest way to staff it from both planets, high tech equipment, perfect broadcast location for the whole system.

Matty comes on over the comms you’ve got nestled at the base of your ear, blended into your fur so nobody can see it right off the bat. “O-okay, so you’re going to need to get Jade’s mesh into the broadcast center and i-inside the control console, along with the data uplink controller, um, t-that’s the little stick with the gold light on it. It will turn green when you hook it to the console. There’s um…two s-staff in there, both Terenians, one that’s um g-got long hair and she’s short and another one that’s um k-kinda darker and has short hair. Isabelle’s going to distract everyone else so that you’ll have a clear approach, but you’ll have to talk your way into the control room and close enough to do the thing and not have them notice. Or um…agree to it I guess?”

You’ve been tasked with giving Jade control over the broadcast equipment for Mirror’s final match. It is apparently deeply important that the broadcast be controlled to her directions and Jade has been given the instructions for that part, you’ve just got to be the physical link that gets her in. Who’s with you, did you bring Ksharta and Angela to help, or go by yourself to be less noticeable?

Jade

You’re the hacker. Slate’s finished her modifications and your idol body feels lighter and stronger than ever before. But, one of those modifications, mixed in with all the high tech new sensor equipment, is a hacking module. One that’s capable of taking over a wide array of communications equipment all at one time. One that you’ve been asked, very politely and formally, to use to control the finals broadcast at key moments as directed by Matty. You’re linked with Dolly of course. She’s got to get into the room and get you hooked into the equipment before you can start your work properly. Got any encouragement for her?

***

Isabelle

The spaceport is crowded and well-staffed. The broadcast for the Arena finals is one of the most popular programs across the entire galaxy. Staff are coming and going, there’s catering, there’s tech staff, there’s actual security, and then all the assorted randoms: the bureaucrats and supervisors, and even some interns all filling the space.

Your job is to get everyone out of the way so that Dolly can safely approach and work her way into the master control room in the spaceport on the third level of the tower. You’ve got all the engineering power of Hybrasil and the Terenius Consortium that Slate and Asil could offer you, Zaldarian nanotech, and anything else you can muster from your friends, allies, and contacts. Matty is on the communicator line for any coordination you need.

Dolly’s already on the move. How are you managing all this, and what’s going through your head as you do it?

***

Matty

You cannot believe they left you to do this alone. Alone! You can’t leave your post for anything. Well, you could, but Slate has been working nonstop for days and you don’t have the heart in you to wake her to take over your spot. Not for anything, not unless the building is burning down, and even then you’d try to carry her out without waking her. No, she gets to snore away in the next room after her hard-earned reward arranging an entire network wide communications takeover linked to the entire redo of Jade’s idol body. Which she apparently also completed in record time and did not skimp on any of the requested features in the process.

But, you’ve set Dolly up, and you’re waiting for any signals from Isabelle, and meanwhile Kiriala is in a nearby building disabling their security so that everybody else won’t be recorded doing any of this. But she hasn’t contacted you in thirty minutes and you’re too afraid to distract her yet since she’s still on schedule, so you’re just sitting on your office chair in the hangar and fidgeting your legs which do not reach the floor in this desk setup and hoping that everything goes great for Mirror’s broadcast takeover. Yeah, this plan totally isn’t crazy!

***
***
***

Mirror and Solarel

For the finals, your arena is…the planet. The entire planet.

You are starting in an arena proper. Not the one where Mirror fought Heim, which is apparently still entirely closed off and has been moved underground using the nanobots surrounding the area to do earth moving for unspecified repairs. But nevermind that, they’ve created an entirely new arena at a mecha scale. You and Solarel deploy to a vast field, surrounded by glorious marble spires ten stories tall, holding up two rows of white marble walls. The top is open, creating a vast colosseum surrounding you for the beginning of your fight.

But you are not limited. There are no boundaries and no other competitors. The nano-bot constructed planet is laid out to cover its range of terrain used over the tournament. Sections of it are arranged as Terenian cities, some in new shape, others ruined and overgrown. Vast rivers and forests cover some areas, others are mountainous and open. Above you, several space platforms and satellites float in the upper atmosphere. And the skies are clear and cloudless on this side of the mountains, the sun shining down and lighting up the arena. You could burn clear across the planet for hours and keep fighting wherever you please. Or you could stay exactly where you started and clash in close quarters.

Camera drones are deployed above you, and many, many more are secreted about the space, prepared to follow you or activate as you move about in order to get the best shots at the best angle, all broadcast back to the system for the live viewings, and then to the neural mesh recordings for mash production and dissemination across the solar systems.

The entire world is your battlefield, do with it what you will.

She has come dressed for war.

No pretense of maintaining the illusion. No more synthweave pilot suits, no more hyper specific camera angles inside her cockpit to imply she has any of the setup or the skills of a normal pilot. No suicidal leap into the air right at the beginning of things. No long con or far-seeing strategies remain. All of that is useless now. It only ever existed to get her to this moment... no. Not even that. It was all for a fragment of hope: that this moment could exist in the first place, and that she would be allowed to step into it.

And now it is here. And she is here. And Solarel. Solarel has no need for a Mirror. A Whispered Promise is useless to her. That is why what greets her is a one-day defender. Simply, for the first time since the war ended, Mira. And she has come dressed for war.

Her hair is gathered up into tails. Not the fancy, intricate braids of the Terenian beauticians, but nine simple tails that sit clustered on top of one another, four in a row then two then three that lift her impossible waterfall of frosty white hair into a halo or a great crown. Each tail is decorated with a single token: a feather, a tooth, or a scale. Her lips are painted in blue, two simple vertical slashes just slightly misaligned from top to bottom. Beneath her eyes and down into her cheeks, her fur is painted in numerous shades of red and orange depicting setting suns dipping below the horizon of her liquid irises.

Her dress is, of course, a Mayze Szerpaws original. The last ever Mayze Szerpaws original ("It. Is! Pronounced! Sure Paws!" she shrieked at the poor courier who'd delivered her a video tape, the last person ever to make that mistake), in point of fact. This one is made of crystal. Not just crystal dangling from thread to create the illusion of layers of 'fabric', but actual flowing gem in a constant sweeping rainbow of color. It wraps around her shoulders, where a pair of flamboyant spikes jut out to either side of her, and kisses her arms down to the wrist, in some places opaque and in others so dazzlingly clear that you'd swear you could touch her spots through it.

It wraps across her chest and down her stomach, only flaring into a glittering battle skirt once it crosses the bottom of her hips, and all throughout the body are cut ovals of empty space that form patterns with her fur and the stone that neither the colors nor the glittering translucent windows could match on their own. But when she moves, the dress moves with her. Not in the sense that the material follows her movement or anything base like that - the dress moves with her. That is to say it morphs and changes into new forms that highlight the new position she shifts into, changing the placement and arrangement of the openings and even outright reconfiguring itself to reflect a different idea of who she is. Here it is imposing armor, now it is the clinging, revealing suit of a mecha pilot, now it is a gentle brush of elegant color fit for a ball room or an art gallery, now it resembles a simple diving jacket.

It is her attempt at capturing what she'd considered to be the uncapturable. Incorporating Zaldarian nanotech into her attempts at bridging Hybrasillian and Terenian fashion culture not for flashy effect (...not just for flashy effect) but to grab hold of the idea of the technology and the culture sprouting all around it. Something impermanent and forever at the same time, something crafted but freely growing or shrinking or re-imagining itself on a whim. The form it takes upon her victory will be different from the one she'll wear on her defeat. It is a dress to be married in, a dress to cross blades in, and a dress to tumble down a hillside trading kisses in.

It is the loudest expression of intent she is capable of. It is both what she is and what she wants to be, though those will forever be a hundred different things. It will never be 'for sale'.

For the Gods-Smiting Whip there is only a single difference in its loadout. Its armor is the same and its Tails twitch in anticipation of a battle as they float behind the main body. It still shifts about with the restless micro-twitching of a creature that can never sit entirely still. It has not sought to avoid being mirrored, it merely wonders if it can be. But it has traded Matty's knight sword for a much larger weapon. Still a sword to be sure, but something much more akin to the one wielded by Marcina Villajero, if much blockier and boxier in its construction. All along the "blade" are thin lines that imply the speed of its construction, and that it has been built around something rather than as it. But for now it is a sword, and a colossal and dangerous one at that. A charging swing from this at Mira's full thruster burn would snap the frames of many lesser machines.

The meaning of it is obvious enough that there is no point in trying to conceal it. Always. Always one layer of defense.

Mira's lips twitch. A fang flashes out from under them.

> thank you.
> for making this worth the effort.
> it took a very long time.
> even with me screaming at the top of my lungs for months.
> i ask of you:
> was 'Nine Drive System' really too difficult of a puzzle?

The supermassive blade lifts from the arena floor with a loud crack that brings up chunks of the ground with it, scarring the battlefield before she's even made a move. The Gods-Smiting Whip holds it with both hands parallel to the ground and balanced against a hip. The form is simple by necessity, but dangerous by design.

> this is our final dance like this, Solarel.
> i have a wish and you are standing in the way.
> but i have a dream, also.
> a riddle?
> or a final promise if you prefer.
> at the end of today.
> one way or another.
> you and I will no longer say 'Speak Not'.

Isabelle stood by the table, faintly disgruntled, as Asil and Tomas stood beside her - almost like bodyguards. Her plans had been perfect, visionary even. How could it be that they would come to this?

===== A few days earlier =====

"Uh. No. We're not doing that."

Isabelle ... well, she didn't pout. She never pouted. But she did adopt a ... a sophisticated air of dissatisfaction at Asil's objection. A fully mature and non-pouting look, it was.

"I don't see why it wouldn't work ... I mean, all we have to do is station drones at every entrance, equipped with tranquilisers, and then have additional drones available to move the bodies somewhere safe until the operation is complete."

"Uh huh ... and setting aside the moral implications with drugging people, and the logistical problems with getting the dosage right for a bunch of different species, let alone individuals ... do you know how many staff the spaceport broadcast facility has?"

"Three thousand and fifty five, plus another few hundred in the surrounding buildings." Isabelle replies, trying to follow where Asil might be going with this.

"And do you have that much tranquiliser, or even know how to make it?"

...

"So you're going with the lack-of-drugs angle?" Isabelle replies, eventually. Deciding that firing back was a more viable strategy than trying to defend the proposal.

"Well, when you get that look in your eyes, I doubt normal arguments will make the cut ... so yeah, I am."

Isabelle blows some of the hair out of her face.

"Fine. Okay. Well what about the other plan. I still maintain that enough fires, strategically placed-"

"No fires!" Asil cuts her off. "We've been over this. No fires, floods, earthquakes or any other disasters and definitely no dressing up as the Stellar Queen and staging a superhero battle in the plaza. We don't want to cause a panic that can get people hurt!"

Isabelle grumbled. She'd practiced her evil laugh and everything.

"Okay, well that leaves the concert idea, but I couldn't get any performers at such short notice - they're all already booked for the Finals on other planets." Isabelle continues, turning back to the drawing board.

As in, a literal drawing board - she'd put together a good dozen ideas and had appended pictures of what some of it might look like. Sketches dotted the wall showing the spaceport and broadcast facility from a variety of angles and with a variety of scenarios playing out. She was particularly proud of the Stellar Queen costume she'd designed - it looked like something right out of the comic book.

"Well, it's official then ... I'm out of ideas."

She felt Asil come up behind her, and leaned backwards into the other woman's presence. Relaxing for a minute and hoping that inspiration would strike.

"You know ... there are easier ways to do this than a big dramatic spectacle."

"Oh yeah, like what? I mean, I did think of just buying the broadcast company. It's a bit over budget though."

"A bit." Asil deadpanned.

"Yeah?" replies Isabelle, confused at her tone.

"'Belle ... just how much money are you earmarking for this?"

"I dunno, I'm trying to keep it reasonable - I figure we don't want to go over fifty million?"

"Fifty m-" was about as far as Asil got before facepalming.

With both hands.

...

"Okay, here's what you're going to do."

=================

It hadn't taken much to bribe the security staff to alter the barricades and cordon off the entrance to the broadcast centre. As much as they cared about their jobs, each one now had a nest egg that would last them for a very long time - assuming they invested it according to the pamphlet Isabelle had prepared for them.

A bit more of the budget had been spent to lure away the drifting office workers with additional catering and drinks. As well as a spin the wheel that boasted five hundred credits per winner for the first thousand winners. The remainder of people in Dolly's way were being dealt with thanks to a random "security sweep" that would be co-ordinated with her approach.

And that left Isabelle standing at the bake stall, with both Asil and Tomas beside her. Making sure that she wasn't going to get any fun out of the whole arrangement. No chance to join in the security sweep. No chance to wave some paper around and bluff a manager that she was in charge or any other shenanigans that would let her pretend she was some kind of secret agent on a galaxy saving mission.

No. Just her. Here. At the stall. Handing out baked goods to office workers who were all too eager to abandon their posts for the promise of free food and coffee.

I'm.

So.

Bored!

"Something's wrong with the Zaldarian broadcast," the tech pants, half-leaning in the doorway. Poor thing! Given the speed with which she was obviously running over here, her messy bun is starting to come apart underneath her grease-smudged bandana and the zipper of her jumpsuit is losing its valiant battle. (A twisted knot peeks out over the top of the zipper, also fighting its own valiant battle.) "Did you not get--? The Empress's feed is stuttering and-- double-check the signal, come on!" She runs a hand across that vibrant green-and-teal bandana, zipper slipping a little more, and then squats to check the console's connections. "Something loose...?"

"More breathless," Smokeless Jade Fires says with a flick of her nails. Her outfit is Nouveau Sacrée, the half-jacket luxuriously embroidered, the skin-tight leggings trailing tassels, the top as much armor as it is clothing. "You ran up the stairs, didn't you? This is so important that they can't stop to think, and... now, get up now!"

With half an explanation on her lips, the technician suddenly straightens up and turns, colliding with the smaller Terenian and knocking her right into the console. "Shit," she hisses, only half-acting. "I, uh..." She makes a show of glancing between the console and the fallen Terenian on the floor, and then helps her up. Behind the woman's back, the technician deftly plugs a little stick into the console. Not that she'll be able to notice with those curves pressed up against her. "I'm so sorry," she breathes, looking her victim in the eye. "That looked like it hurt. Look, just take a seat, I'll get this handled. The Empress can bite my head off over this, 'kay?"

"What a delightful little actress you are, Dolly. But we've known that all along, haven't we? So good at hiding your shamelessness~" The goddess doesn't let any of her agitation show. She can focus on Dolly's senses, but Dolly can't keep an eye on both of them at the same time, and there's only so much that hearing can do. So, as usual, she focuses on what, on who she can control. "Now, get under there. Arch your back, make a show of getting in there, let them be mesmerized and never stop to wonder why~"

With a suggestive flick of the ears and quick blink, hips wiggling with long practice, Dolly turns away from her victim and starts working her way into the console, where she will discover the problem and "solve" it, leaving behind a dark crescent mesh connected to exposed circuitry. Foolproof. (And by the time she gets out, that zipper will be at her navel...)

Her analysis is perfect. Everything is within her calculations.

The feeling of writing a battleplan was transcendent; it placed her outside the field, outside her body, outside herself. Now it was a cascade of decision points. The initial skirmish. Initial advantage. Mirror pressed back, forced to reveal her first secret. Momentary advantage, overcome into reversal. Despearate at the climax, Mirror reveals her final secret. Counter and execute. She was a piece in her own puzzle - even the Aeteline was as much a slave to the inevitable, crushing logic of Tactics as she was. Perfection existed and its demands were not kind.

Strange that Mirror emphasized her imperfection, the uneven lipstick. She was as close to the heart of what battle Had To Be as anyone and yet she decorated herself in scars and asymmetry. She didn't understand the affectation. It did not square with the philosophy of One Layer Of Defense. If she was not perfect she would lose.

But, she had her own foibles.

She didn't turn on her own pilot camera. Not because she didn't want Mirror to see her but because... perfection existed, and its demands were not kind. She was worn. Ragged. Hollow. She had not found the time of capacity for dresses or beauty, or food more than in passing. Her scales had lost their shine and her batteries were drifting along a twenty percent charge to keep her kinetic reactions under control. She looked tired. She felt old. It had been a long time since she had Walked the Mountain. She wasn't sure how she'd ever done it. In contrast to Mirror's active jitters, the Aeteline's movements are precise and stable, moving as precise as a machine and holding each pose until Tactics demanded it reposition.

She is a shadow of Mirror. The beauty, the paint, the dress, the slashing patterns and glittering blade. The loving attention given by loving engineers to every aspect of her God. In comparison the Aeteline is raw and unadorned, black armour panels and magenta undercarriage, function perfected and nothing more.

A shadow and a mirror were opposites in many ways - but when they moved, they were identical.

> Tsh. That one's on me.
> I legitimately didn't think that technology had any relevance to warfare.

The Aeteline raises its hand, the golden coruscation of her digital blade warping and shifting into reality. She brings it around into an imitation of Mirror's stance. Her choice of weapon is both reflection and escalation - this blade is ethereal and cannot be parried, nor can it be parry. But, as always, the threat of the silver blade conjuring into existence could reverse the logic of combat in a second.

> The Sage Zaldar said:
> Let your actions be your voice. Let your hands fill the silence. Let your heart be manifest in the world.
> To write your thoughts on air is to ground yourself on nothing.
> A spoken vow leaves no legacy.
> Only the stones and silica remember.
> I will not give you a Whispered Promise. I will carve my words into the bones of this planet before the end.

Mirror and Solarel

The only sound is the quiet sizzle of the loose earth as it vaporizes in the air against each of your blades. It’s soft, almost more like water than earth as it passes through its phase changes so rapidly that it has no time to properly lose its shape. A gentle breeze channels in through the marble columns as the dust settles.

The galaxy waits with bated breath for the first moves.

***

Isabelle

“Okay, what the hell?” says a middle-aged Terenian woman with a ponytail, wide-rim dark glasses and a prim white business shirt covering an even wider chest. “I’ve been working on this broadcast for thirty years. Since we started as the weather channel on a forsaken mining outpost in the middle of nowhere. And never, not once, has station management splurged for free coffee, the goddamn cheapskates.”

She’s holding up the line and people in back are starting to get antsy. Always a risk with a plan that requires a line. If it gets too long, some people are going to decide that “waiting around for thirty minutes” is too high a price for free food and what will probably be burnt coffee by the time they get there.

Dolly’s already into the control room, but if more and more people start wondering around, inevitably the actual station techs will make their way in there and potentially point out that there has not, in fact, been any technical work ordered for the main broadcast control room.

She’s not moving though. She’s expecting an actual answer, this isn’t a rant, she wants you to, *gasp* talk to her.

***

Dolly

The long-haired Terenian woman who you knocked over spits hair out of her mouth. She had worn it loose, probably figuring that as a sound tech, she could be comfortable and didn’t have to worry about what she looked like. So now she spits loose strands of her out that ended up in her mouth when you pushed her over. She’s blushing, and she looks extremely embarrassed. So much so that it crosses over from her wanting to sink into a hole to instead wanting to be extremely helpful to make it for what she perceives as her mistake.
“Oh, no, no, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I’m always so clumsy, I’m only good with sound equipment, I never know what to put my hands with other people. I mean…not that I would put my hands on…I oh gosh, oh no. Here let me help, I can help you out. Oh, and um, your zipper is coming loose! No, don’t get up, you’ll just make it worse, here let me come under there, I can help, I can, I can help!”

[Whatever you do with her next, please roll to entice her.]

***

Matty

You blush furiously over the comms. You can’t see what Dolly is doing, but you can hear it and now you’re imagining a strange Terenian leaning over you pulling at your jumpsuit zipper, which has mysteriously gotten stuck. You do your absolute best to be sure that the high-pitched squeak emanating from your lips is not audible over anybody’s earpieces while they’re dealing with their problems!

Dolly is a good girl. Isn't she just? Just such a good girl. In the middle of enemy territory, surrounded by danger on all sides, in the face of peril, she does just what she's supposed to.

"At ease," she says, putting one finger on the Terenian's lips, trying very hard not to melt straight into the floor. Next to her, Jade is grinning so widely that the top of her head might just fall off. "I got this, okay? You can put your hands on me after. For now, just sit tight." And here it is. The moment of truth. The moment where she has to be, briefly, not flustery over-her-head Seven Quetzal from the greenhouses but an actress pretending to be a smouldering-eyed goddess. Confident, in control of the situation, and using her body like a sword.

She looks the engineer dead in those dark Terenian eyes, so similar to Angela's, but younger, more like Dolly herself. She looks, and does not let go. "Do you think you can be a good girl and do that for me?"

"I am never going to forget this," Jade whispers, kicking her feet in delight as she sits on the control panel, absolutely giddy.

[9 on an Entice.]

> you can be so insensitive sometimes.
> i swear.
> very well if that is the extent of your vision at present.
> it falls to me to instruct you.

The nature of the weapon in the Gods-Smiting Whip's hands is such that it cannot help but make very straightforward, predictable moves. Even a true genius (which Mira is not) is trading subtlety for the inevitability of an absolute kill stroke. So it is not any surprise at all when Mira's first move in the battle is a headlong rush at maximum speed. Her fear of the Aetiline's golden blade is nonexistent.

"In"! she screams, and writes her words in the air, "The beauty!"

The blow never falls. The Gods-Smiting Whip pivots on a pin with the kind of speed that would snap the spine of a traditional pilot but merely threatens to kill Mira with her own blood and the forces of gravity she exerts upon herself. Instead of the horizontal swing she turns her mecha's body and fires three quick blasts from three Tails at the absolute edge of melee range before she rockets around in a circle toward her original vector. One at each of the Aetiline's feet and the third at its stomach. These are not fully charged kill shots; they cannot even pierce Solarel's reduced armor. They will stun if they connect, but what is the meaning of this? Last second nerves? Improvisation? Does she not trust this glued together piece of crap death stick she nevertheless insisted on bringing to the most important fight of her life?

"In! The value!"

Again, the same charge. No alterations in her form, just the difference in implied threat caused by her previous feint. Her mecha's grip on its weapon is tighter than ever, and it pulls the blade back in such a way as to fully commit to a slash this time. The expenditure of energy is such that simple physics will commit a real strike from her even if she decides to be a coward with her Tails again. But like a stubborn fool, she pivots again before the edge of her sword can be brought to bear. Even earlier, in fact, because this time she fears an anticipatory lunge.

"Of your voice!"

This time Mira spins where she is in the air in a circle. She hurls her sword at mach speeds as a projectile. The kinetic force is equal to a railgun, only prevented from piercing by the ablative weights all over the blade. Several of them snap and crumble as they fly everywhere in the form of dense shrapnel while Mira's sword goes twisting and bouncing across the arena toward the nearby forest. A glint of something like diamond can be seen just before it rolls, for the moment, out of sight.

> by the way.
> the word Technology does not refer to the construction of new machines or engineering.
> rather the same glyph expresses the application of various concepts in novel ways.
> to use another term for it:
> Creativity.

Two Tails fly out from behind their hiding spots on the Gods-Smiting Whip's back. Mira catches both of them with her hands. Bright blue energy pulsates between them in the jagged, vaguely hexagonal patterned light that denotes her supposed 'Third Form', the technique that guides shielding and barrier adjacent concepts.

She swings the first Tail in front of her, and the other one follows as it is pulled along violently by the connective shielding. She swings again and again, twirling them in front of her chest in crossing patterns that occasionally see her complete a behind the back pass to the other side of her body to continue the momentum. She snaps both Tails together and stands in what anime has taught her is a decisive battle pose, holding this new mysterious weapon in a manner that is half shield and half sword.

"You. You, You are the one who taught me that. Twice over. It is time I repay the lesson. Starting with this: Moonlight Silver Kiss."

Oh no! They're asking questions! The plan is in danger!

Finally!!

Later, Asil would swear that Isabelle's eyes grew by a good five centimetres. Before she could stop her, she'd already vaulted over the bake stall and rushed up to the other woman.

"You've been here for that long? What was the settlement like back then? What broadcast tech did you use and how have you upgraded it since?" she rapid fires.

Laced through all this is the desperate plea. Tell me about yourself! It has to be more interesting than just handing out muffins.

[Entice with wit: 6 + 1 + 0: 7]

[>] Creativity is a null concept.

The Aeteline is remorseless in its simplicity.

Parry. Dodge. Attack. Three techniques and three techniques only, operating on the monomolecular edge of possibility. No items. Fox only. Final Destination.

Parry. If it had been trying anything 'Creative' it would have lost to the Whip's initial charge rush. Additional weight, distracted calculations - anything to stop it identifying that the Whip was not traveling at maximum possible speed. It was able to budget the exact correct amount of motive force required to evade the rush, and in so doing it had enough surplus to deploy emergency ray shields in response to the attacks of the tails.

[>] Individual techniques are irrelevant. An advanced theory of victory takes them all into account. Only in sequence can they reach full effect: priming an opponent's reactions, playing off their fears and biases, undermining the pilot's psychology.

Dodge. It was being set up for a combination takedown, it needed to break the sequence before it reached its full manifestation. It burned hard, circle strafing to the right, accelerating out of the arc of the shattering sword. The biostasis fluid immersing the pilot kept physiological damage occurring to that vulnerable computational node. Her only limit was her Crystal Fire Reactor. It meant that the Pilot would not contribute to the battle as she had in the past, but that was a small sacrifice to make for extra efficiency.

[>] And when the entire tactical space is accounted for, Creativity means inefficiency. Creativity is gambling in the hopes that your opponent is bad. Most opponents are bad, making it a viable strategy for the majority of matches. But when it comes time to fight a serious opponent...

Attack. Mirror was taking a stance, changing gear configurations - split seconds of vulnerability. It was the Aeteline's moment. It burned forwards at maximum speed, golden blade not even disturbing the air it passed through. Initiate normal attack sequence. Not a named technique, just whatever parries, cuts and thrusts fit the energy of the moment.

[>] Named attacks are unviable. Ergo speech is a tactical dead end. This is what the Sage meant when she said Speak Not.

Dolly

“I whuh…I would n-n- I mean, I…c-c-c adfkjajfkdafjk” she makes a strained squeak as her mind tries to imagine being offered to touch you, being told to be a good girl and simultaneously trying to imagine every possible scenario that this could lead into. You’ve landed a perfect lesbian stun move!

You’ve got to work fast though. You may have stunned the smaller one with the long hair, but you had to stop what you were doing for that, pose, make a mess of things, and now her friend is beaming ear to ear and watching you.

Matty crackles into your ear through the communicator “Dolly, hurry, the fight’s already going, Jade’s going to need time to carry out the actual overrides once you have her installed in there. And um…from the sound of things there’s some kind of…um…steam leak in the room you’re in, so you get out of there soon okay?”

You’d also better hurry before the tall Terenian decides you’re too lovestruck and thinks that maybe she can check the console herself to avoid getting yelled at.

***

Isabelle

“Now I know you don’t work for station management” the prim station employee says. But she says it quietly, and she says it as she steps away from the refreshment stand as you press her backwards with your eagerness. Asil resumes giving out the free food and coffee, though she’s got one eye on you and she’s doing her utmost to fight off a pout in the name of the plan. You can see it coming over the corner of your eye.

“Nobody’s asked me about my experience in years. I’m a physical signals engineering specialist, hon. We started here with the old dishes. You know how circular parabolas work? You define a parabola as y=a(x−h)2+k, then the vertex is at (h,k) and the focus is (h,k+1/4a). It’s the perfect shape for signals processing because if you build a circular dish by rotating a parabola around the Z-axis, then every bit of signal that hits the circular dish will all focus on the same point, so you can put your most sensitive receiver there even if you’re low on the expensive materials for the actual receiver and you’ll get a clear signal. We’d have the supply ships drop a satellite sometimes, and then just bounce the signals around the planet. I built the dishes, made sure that the angle was perfect, no imperfections that would cause noise in the communications.”

She actually looks at you and your eager face. “There’s no way you wanted to know any of that, is there hon?”

***

Matty

She threw the sword! She already threw the sword! She’s using Moonlight Silver Kiss! This is how heroes win fights. You had to get the hacking ready quickly, so you chat Dolly to hurry her along, especially because the squeaking sound that probably is coming from a leaking high pressure pipe of some sort.

You look back at the fight and almost scream though because Solarel is charging her, and then you cover your eyes because you can’t look!

A front on charge during a stance shift. Really. Well. Let's see the layers underneath that, Solarel. You will not, of course, have forgotten the reason your original duel took an entire day/night cycle to win. It's easy to discount it next to the flash factor of the Tails and the Nine Drive System, but you alone of anybody in this tournament should have recognized the most significant alteration to the Gods-Smiting Whip that Mira made after the war ended.

The thrusters. Arguable that the real point of offloading so much of her offensive capability into drones was not her super attacks or her multifaceted arsenal. Correct to identify those as gimmicks. Afterthoughts. Philosophical guideposts more than true teeth. Was not the proof that she had several, brand new named techniques every time she fought somebody? Her first and best trick was always the product of her being a Spacer with a disability. In zero gravity it was effortless, but here she needed the Tails to devote the full power of her frame to recreating it.

Of course you do not need reminding. This is step one of your plan to fence in her thinking. You were aware of Animation Cancelling. With her constant hovering and micro-twitch bursts there is a constant threat that she might swerve or parry from a direction that should be impossible. She abuses it constantly; either literally doing two things at the same time or dipping out of the middle/end of a committed action into a second unrelated action.

For all of that, you pierce her. But it's in a location of her choosing: next to the cockpit, through mostly armor and heat ventilation. No points of articulation or critical power conduits she'll need to concern herself with in the context of this battle. No opportunity to combine this with a tearing slash and hit a vital system, even if you swap blades. She aimed your thrust by angling her momentum during her technique's wind up.

> i see.
> you are literally blind.
> that is upsetting.

You're already caught, Solarel. The swing of the Tail you so deftly outmaneuvered continued. The Whip's hand grappled it on the downswing, and now the barrier-chain that connects the two weapons is squeezing your sword arm with a vice the envy of all crab-kind. She pulls the Tails between one another and the squeezing turns to crushing. At this moment she has total control of your melee offense.

Tactical correction is simple. Destruction of the arm returns freedom of motion. Freedom of motion is freedom of action: even Mira cannot twitch react her way out of the sudden loss of what had been tactical control, the weakness of her piloting schema requires her to anticipate all attacks ahead of time. Being even half a step ahead of her is equivalent to killing her. In fact, just crushing the forearm would be enough, and the resulting torque would pull the God-Smiting Whip far enough out of alignment that she would need to re-orient her thrusters entirely just to stay airborne. Four deathblows are possible inside that window.

"Moonlight. Lover's Nip."

This is a First Form technique! The line she tried to defeat you with the first time, that culminates in the Fang That Devours the Sun. Disruption and close range concepts. The chain shatters in a burst of light, and the tips of the Tails she's holding flare into dagger-scaled blades that connect with the Aetiline's neck and chest. Minimal piercing, superficial damage. Sensory overload only: the replication of her teeth on Solarel's body during their old lovemaking sessions. She has targeted the locations most closely correlated with drawing gasps out of her partner.

And she has used the small moment of disorientation to cross two additional free floating Tails over her head. They fire, easily dodged. But the space that is most efficiently dodged into is already being filled by her own wheeling foot. This is how it feels to get kicked in the head, by the way. Thrusters fire directly after, pushing you apart and charring the external plating of the Aetiline's face.

The final sequence, all unnamed techniques. Suppose that proves the point then. The Gods-Smiting Whip is retreating toward the jungle, burning down the Arena behind it with four active Tails all raining absolutely indiscriminate bursts of energy without caring what they hit or don't. Basic. Utterly basic. And obvious, that the cat would retreat into the jungle after only barely being able to scrape out a tiny kiss with both of her vaunted forms.

Besides, that's where her sword ended up. In the end it does come down to basics. What is she guided by?

> i will ask you two questions if you do not mind.
> feel free not to answer if it is too difficult in your condition.
> what useless trick do you think I am building up to?
> and are you aware you are stumbling into the same trap that almost cost me this nine-tails to the fucking bezorel?

In the heart of the Aeteline, Solarel stirs in her sensory deprivation tank. Just a little, just enough for the Aeteline to project that the movements served no military purpose and suppress them.

That was a trap; a stratagem that relied on manipulating the Pilot's mood and emotions. Perfection decayed into predictability and in time it would become willing prey for a blade. The Pilot had used that approach many times, the Aeteline had no desire to become a casualty of it - and more importantly, no trust that the Pilot would not become a casualty of it. It looked up, eyes glowing violet through the black scorched faceplate.

[>] The exact nature of the trick is irrelevant.
[>] That is as much an aspect of this approach to warfare as the trick itself. To condition an opponent mentally, turning their mind to paranoid overpreparedness and causing them to neglect fundamentals.
[>] Your words are such a weapon. Attempting to turn me against myself. To voluntarily step from the Victorious Path.
[>] But this too is why the Sage said Speak Not.

An opponent retreats. Expand. With the daemonic flares of chemical launches she blasts four of her own tails into the air, missiles unfolding guidance wings and gatling guns. The dogfighting equation was simple; expend energy for altitude, expend altitude for maneuverability, expend maneuverability for victory. The Shadow-Tails lance down from above, tracer rounds slashing at Mirror's extended tails. Inferior shadows, they have a purpose: they unpick Mirror's defensive array, not even seeking to kill or damage their opposites - just to drive them away.

There would only ever be one layer of defense. She just needed to unravel it - to disassemble the trap as it was forming. She bursts into pursuit, joyless haste as she casts herself forwards. Just one more projectile in her array.

'You're kidding right?" replies Isabelle, hanging off every word. "I'm an engineer by trade (among a couple of other things), so this stuff is the right up my alley."

She shifts, motioning towards the spaceport.

"What fabbing capabilities did you have to make the dishes with that kind of precision when you first set out? Any imperfections would degrade signal quality, unless your receiver was sensitive enough to compensate. Did you use the Mark 4 Chrysanthemum machining set? Or ... let me think, maybe the Mark one Neoproptic? I think that had been released about thirty five years back."

For better or for worse, these were all models that were seldom seen off the Capitol worlds, or in the hands of big corporations.

"You said this was a mining settlement right? What was the parent company?"

She pauses, as her brain suddenly catches up to her ...

"Oh yeah, I'm uh ... call me 'Belle'" she says, awkwardly failing to think of a proper alias. "What was your name?"

Dolly hesitates for what might be a crucial moment, and Smokeless Jade Fires frowns. She makes herself an aspect of concern for just a moment, as her best and goodest girl flinches from what needs to be done. But after all, why shouldn't she? There was only one cloth capable of being the hub for this moment, one line of transfer that the goddess knew better than any other.

"You can do this," Jade says, and touches her wife's shoulder. She squats, half-covering the gorgeous girl's back, reaching in there along with her, their arms together as Dolly lays the fingers of her glove into place. "I am always with you. I am here, and in the streams of the universe, and in your heart, and by your side. The Red Band themselves, with all their goddesses, couldn't keep us apart. So heed my command, and--"

Dolly lets go. The goddess vanishes, a sudden absence of heat. But there's no time to think about that, or to do anything but what she needs to do. "Okay," she says, straightening, fiddling with her zipper in initially feigned self-consciousness. She doesn't have time to actually get flustered over how low it got in front of this stranger, who was definitely looking, and, and, she, gosh, she'll have to, talk to Jade about this later. Maybe Jade will fully unzip her in front of Angela and, and, focus, on point, Mirror! "That, I should go check and see if, the broadcast! Fixed! I think I've got it, just don't mess with that any further and we should be good!"

There is no reaction from Jade, no snicker or touch or snide comment. Her neck is very bare.

Isabelle

For what are probably entirely unrelated reasons, Asil audibly groans over at the refreshment stand.

“The…parent company? Teresio space mining industries, like nearly every mining settlement. Even I’m not old enough to remember what space looked like before the corporate consolidation. I mean, I know Teresio leases out equipment deals, shipping, and supplies to all the smaller families, but that wasn’t my job and frankly, as long as the food shipment has the cinnamon rolls with the good frosting, who cares how they got there?”

She’s eyeing you again, leaning her glasses dangerously over the perch of her nose. “Name’s Vicky, which you can call me and ask all about my manufacturing kit if you tell me where you’re actually from…Belle.”

***

Dolly

“You’re in!” Matty’s excited voice echoes over your earpiece. “Jade will need a few minutes, can you um…make sure that nobody interrupts her work?” Well, nothing’s happening immediately, but it’s not like you’d want the entire console to turn blue or green to indicate Jade controls it, since that would also give it away to everyone else. Not everything can be like the Terenian animes after all.

You get everything wrapped up and you’ve replaced the cover as you come out from underneath the desk. Since Jade does need a few minutes and they could notice her before she has total control, maybe you could play the role of key distraction.

You’ll at least need to fix that zipper before you go anywhere, your jumpsuit is going to fall off your shoulders at the slightest twitch!

Jade

You’re in! This new hacking system is really something. What does hacking feel like to you? Is it like cutting through the primordial jungles of Hybrasil? Like dancing from star to star in the night sky? Like feeling your way through a cave to the underworld?

Whatever it might be, your goal is to establish control over your immediate equipment as stealthily as possible, then use that equipment to take over control of the network in time to execute on Mirror’s precise directions.

***

Matty

Oh gods, the fight exploded! Mirror could have cut off the Aeteline’s arm, but instead she tickled it! You have some idea that she must have a plan and that if she didn’t do it, it was because it was a bad idea, but you’re not really sure of the details. If you had time to sketch it out and run some tests, you’d be able to figure out that the thruster limitations from that position meant that the arm cut offered no safe exit route, but for now you’re just going on the gut feeling that Mirror’s got a plan and she’s executing on it. Why else would she start burning down the arena?

The announcers are wildly excited though. Two top of the line mechas deploying all their equipment in dueling laser light shows as they speed over the landscape surrounded by explosions is exactly what the public wants, and everyone wants to try and predict the advantage with each little display.

Okay, okay, you’ve confirmed with Dolly. And Isabelle is…not failing? You’re not really sure what she’s talking about anymore, but the area is still pretty clear from what you can gather, and yelling at her not to screw up while getting questioned will probably just make her more nervous. Which you figure is true because it would make you a lot more nervous and you wouldn’t do that to yourself. You mean, unless it was a scene you were doing and you wanted to get nervous and have the big Terenian push you further and further up to a wall. B-but probably that has nothing to do with Isabelle and she’s fine!