Portugal!

It's like being in a world made out of cardboard.

Everything here is fragile. The buildings are made out of barely treated stone. The people are made out of calcium and water. The trees are uncondensed carbon. The streets are heavy with the discarded paper-mache pages of newspapers, cheap ink smudging and fading in the sunlight. The music that plays from hidden speakers is tinny and tuneless, the images that flash on archaic plastic screens would pale in comparison even to the museum of the Tunguska. It would be very nice to be able to romanticize an alien civilization - it is all very impressive when you consider they built all this themselves after starting out as water slime - but it's hard to appreciate it. It makes the amenities of even a backwater like Beri stand out.

As an example, it might be tempting to compare them to ants. But the ants on Beri were a useful aspect of the ecosystem - they would swarm over cliff faces, carving away edges that had been blunted by ocean wind erosion, creating impressively sharp angles and deepening shadows. The waste rock was then used to create aesthetically placed islets, which would then be tended to by birds genetically engineered with gardening instincts. The birds would fly to the ends of the earth to collect rare and aesthetically pleasing seeds and deposit them in elegant configurations. Swim to any of them and there would be honey and peaches waiting ripe on the vine, each one a unique delight designed to resist boredom. That was normal. Here - you've seen the same restaurant five times on the walk here. They just built the same structure, with the same colours, staff and menu five identical times. It's not even a beautiful building; it's just a grey stone box and the people inside have attitudes of resignation. Even your disguises regularly turn heads in the streets given the universality of drab, muted, clashing and mass-produced clothing on display.

They're trying their best, bless them. But this would be a hard sell even with just Beri as a point of comparison, let alone memories of the Imperial Palace. You have been on the inside of a civilization dedicated to universal beauty for so long that the jarring contrast of this moment makes the arrogant reaction of the Endless Azure Skies to outsiders at least comprehensible.

Dolce!

Oh, he's real dumb.

You can see it in the way the eyes of the Summerkind glitter when he confidently explains things to them. This is a man who surrounds himself with kids who don't know anything so that they'll think he's cool. You can see it in the eyes of the aged veterans on the fringe of the room, how they're just barely starting to wonder if none of this adds up. He's optimized the species to die at about the instant they become disillusioned with his bullshit and the turnaround for that is measured in weeks.

He doesn't see it that way of course. This is a guy who was born so correct he never needed to check anything. Speaking of, he tells the story about how he was so strong when he was newly born that he broke the doctor's finger - and how that was his inspiration for making the Summerkind hatch combat ready. He explains how he had to invent new martial arts because none of the existing ones could keep up with him and that's why he made the Summerkind so adaptable, so they could do the same thing. He spends like forty five unprompted minutes talking about ways he'd improve Doctor Ceron's genecode - not that he would, dead end design - and then suggesting that all the problems were caused by her 'emotions' which was 'typical'. Unlike him. Only Facts and Logic for Liquid Bronze, which is why he only drinks these protein shakes he invented.

And the cigars. Deep breaths of those, Aphrodite draped over the back of his chair, running his fingers through Liquid Bronze's hair as he turns to smirk at himself in the mirror-shine reflection of his bodyguard's breastplates. It's a good smirk. He practiced it for a long time.

"All that to say - who knows?" finished Liquid Bronze. "But that's the problem. My time is valuable because there are so many problems only I can solve. So, let's hear it! What do you need my help with this time?"

"What is this place?"

Bella's face has been tensed since landing, as if she were in a permanent state of readiness to wrinkle her nose at some indescribable foulness. But she's smelled foulness before, and this isn't it. She's seen horror in her time. She's felt sweltering heat and humidity crawl down her neck on the Eater of Worlds, she's listened to the desperate songs of the forever-dying machines of Baradissar, seen the fruits of passion and artistry hidden inside the Yakanov, tasted the impossible, obsessive mastery of the bakeries on Salib, smelled the siren song of blood wafting up through the torrential rains on Sahar. This is nothing like any of that.

It isn't even the proper muteness of the Anemoi, or the stifling aura of Death and Majesty that covered the Tunguska. Everything is at once too loud and too quiet. There are abundant smells in the air but none of them are full. Bella sniffs as deep as she dares without giving herself away but it's all like trying to pick flowers out of a dried bouquet in another room. The grave goods of ancient humanity were impossibly bright, almost gaudy (if such a thing were possible from such magnificent creatures), and though their foods were wispy and insubstantial from a point of nutrition they were astonishingly complex in flavor.

She is walking out of the fifth identical restaurant now, with a round sandwich stuffed with meats and vegetables that somehow all manage to smell like the same kind of grease and nothing else. Even the bread is made from the same material as the filling for all that her gods-gifted nose could make of it. She takes a bite and frowns. Water. She is eating water that somebody waved a cut of steak over at some point. The potato wedges at the previous place were the same. Somehow. And the little hand pie in the one before that, the exact same sensation and flavor. The shake in the one before that managed to be both lumpy and watery, but it also tasted like this same vague memory of flavor. Just. What the fuck? How?

Everywhere she looks is too much and too little at the same time. The bricks and stones are featureless, shoddy slabs with paint that's too bright to have been ancient but too dull to be interesting. There are no frescoes or crumbling monuments or acts of artistry and intention, at least that she can recognize for these things. Everything, every building and every road and every outfit on every person looks and smells and feels (though she is too afraid to do more than brush her fingers across the corner of one restaurant on her way out, for fear of shattering it) like it was spit out of the same factory that made the sandwich in her hands.

Omn was right about one thing, at least. She couldn't possibly pass as someone from this place for more than a minute or two. And even that only because of the exhausted malaise that seems to have settled on all the people walking down the streets. Dead eyes, listless faces, all turned in every direction except in front of them, looking past the day and into the doom or salvation they must imagine are lurking in the skies above. Or maybe just to the end of the day and collapsing into their equally tired square beds. Not that she can blame them if that's the case.

None of it is their fault. They're trying their best. But fuck. She thought at least the struggle to live a life free of the prison of Biomancy would have yielded some kind of beauty for her to marvel at. But it hasn't. This place is a shithole. Fuck, this place is the shithole. There's never been a bad thing she's had to say about any of the places beyond the wonders of Tellus that she'd even be comfortable applying here for fear of insulting all the deathtraps and trash heaps she's stepped over on the way here.

...You know, this would have been the ideal vacation spot to take Dany. Get that wanderlust out of her system in a nice, safe way. Then they'd have rushed home to watch movies and eat toast. Nothing could have worked its way up to being dangerous to her here. Suddenly Bella has to hide her face in the crook of her elbow, because a grin has taken over her visage and its wholly inappropriate to the moment. She chokes with laughter she refuses to let build enough momentum to break into a full giggle. But gods. Gods. Gods! If she'd only known!

"Think they've got a museum at least?" she asks with a helpless shrug toward Dyssia, "A theater? A garden? A... gift shop? I dunno. I'd settle for a factory tour. I've seen some weird shit but I don't even understand... this."

She waves the half-eaten sandwich in her hand. Her nose manages to wrinkle after all. Hera help her, why does she have to finish it?

Dolce smiles. Dolce listens. Dolce makes noises, appreciative or understanding, when called for. He does this for like forty five minutes and change, which is a long time to listen politely. That’s long enough for blinding, deafening screams to cool into discernable thoughts. That’s long enough for deep, steady breathing to convince the rest of the body that it’s not about to be in terrible danger.

The only thing Liquid Bronze can do effectively is the basic craft of Biomancy. Everything else, he has bumbled his way blindly into efficacy. None of what he has done here has been on purpose, but he is here, on purpose. By design. Because everything in the Skies is there by design, even the people who can’t do things by design. What he can do is make hordes of Summerkind to throw at problems until all of the above are dead, and this is enough to make him Regional Commander. Somewhere, there is a desk, with a drawer to only be opened in case of dire emergency, and Dolce has a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that the name Liquid Bronze was in that drawer.

He wants to scream. He wants to explode. He wants to leave. He has to leave. But standing in the seat of Liquid Bronze’s power, the air suffused with the favor of Aphrodite, a thought takes root:

If. If he could leave. Would a warning to the people of Bitemark even be enough?

The song of Mosaic springs to mind at once. For a moment, he’s back home, giving her a fresh loaf packed with savory crab and hearty vegetables as she passes, and he won’t see her act but he’ll hear the stories over dinner tonight. Then he’s coughing on cigar smoke, begging the pardon of his host, and the problem seems rather too large for a good lunch to help. Perhaps he can’t imagine her losing, but neither could he figure out how she was to win.

No. No, he’s got to do something. He’s got to do something. But what?

…come to think of it, what was he expected to do here in the first place? There’d been so much happening, he’d almost missed it, but 20022 hasn’t made a sound the entire time they’ve been here. Casting his mind back half an hour ago, he’d only spoken up because nobody else had. That…that had to have been deliberate, didn’t it? 20022 held back, to see what he would say, given the chance. And when Liquid Bronze finally got around to stopping, he would probably do it again, yes?

So. Perhaps he ought to solve that problem first, and work out the rest…later. Breathe. Listen. Don’t be a spy. Don’t explode. Whatever you do, don’t explode. And think.

20022 can’t expect him to behave. Of everything he could do, 20022 can’t expect him to willingly go along with the murder of his family and friends and meekly submit to the job he’s picked out for him. In fact, it might be so surprising, it’d catch him completely off guard. He’d spend hours pouring over his work, looking for mistakes and sabotage that wasn’t actually there. Not a horrible idea. Except that he’d then have to hide his movements, when they came, so invisibly as to be undetectable, or else they’d stick out like a sore thumb. That was no good. And as he learned on Bitemark, any obvious deviations from protocol will be swiftly corrected, as many as could be caught and fixed. If he were to behave truly outrageously, then he would probably be locked in a small room until the operation was complete.

He needed to at least appear helpful. He needed to show enough opinion to not be labeled a spy. He needed to act without being countered. He wished he’d taken the Starsong’s offer to sign on with them, but it’s a little too late to regret a road not taken.

At the least, when at long last Liquid Bronze asks for him again, he’s had ample time to prepare his response. At once he replies, “A great number of servitors broke free from their work camps, soundly defeated the local governor, and took off in an ancient Imperial warship to parts unknown. Incredibly, the Crystal Knight has completely failed to handle the situation, and now we must seek additional aid.” He heaves a sigh. “And she seemed so strong too…”

It is the truth, plain and simple. Presented in such a way as to invite another half-hour - at least - lecture on the Crystal Knight’s inherent deficiencies compared to present company. But the rest. Not an “insurrection.” An escape. A defiance. A story of hope still alive, for now. And as Liquid Bronze talks, Dolce minds the audience.

How do they react? Who is hanging off of Liquid Bronze’s every word? Who reacts in disgust, who clucks their tongue at the shame of it all, who is busy working out how they would, ah, deal with these servitors if it were their job?

Who here likes the story? Who here is disheartened to hear of what fate awaits those who defied the Skies? Who here wishes that they could fly away on a spaceship?

Where is the sheep from the kitchens, wishing for something he can’t put words to yet?

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 1 + 2 = 9. Who here might become a friend?]

It's important to remember, here, surrounded by--

Well, let's be real, calling it drab and uninspiring is giving drab and uninspiring far too much credit. It's like someone sat down and said, "what's the single most soul-crushingly ugly thing we can build I the name of functionality? Great, do that a dozen times."

Does it even count as something being functional? Like, in a situation where there just aren't resources to go around, she could maybe understand making something to do just the job it needs to be, but that's--

Honestly, even in the survival stories, you don't think about things just being ugly. Like, for no reason! The landscape is beautiful all on its own, everywhere you go. Everywhere but here, where even the things the Portuguese have deliberately made are--

They're people. She has to keep repeating it to herself, keep telling herself that, because no matter what they've produced (ugh) or how they've built (yuck) or how they're dressed (why even bother), they're still, you know, people.

Delicate people. People who she doesn't want to hug because, you know, what if they squish under her? People with eyes that--

Honestly, she wants to scoop them up even more when she looks at the eyes. It's like they're all waiting to die. Like they've given up on improving their situation, like hope is just another thing that hurts, and so they've resolved to work every day for the rest of their lives until they blessedly keel over dead from old age.

Still a weird thought, that.
She wishes they didn't look at her like that. Like she's a god, or a curse, or a reincarnation, or worst, hope. Not when she knows they've gotta get out of here as quickly as possible, not when she can't meaningfully help.

Still, she flags one down, and asks, quite gently, if she could be shown to--what was that, a factory? Yes a factory would be delightful, off you pop.

Unwashed bodies. Toxins. Animal fat. Toxins. Sewage. Toxins.

How do these people live on this planet? No, scratch that: how do they live on this planet without toxin filters in their respiratory systems?

The air is choked with the chemical byproducts of the reactions they use to power their machines, the reactions that their factories use to make crude polymers as basic as the materials she could make in kindergarten, and the reactions that they put very directly into their own lungs. And that man had been offended that she slapped the stick of burning tar out of his hand!

They don’t have anything between them and this world that they have made for themselves. No wonder their lifespans are barely one century long. The moment they’re born, they start the process of poisoning themselves. This would be an unpleasant enough world to live on as a Ceronian, but the Portuguese…

Ah. This is what Cash Money saw, isn’t it?

She shadows Mosiac, as if trying to throw her body between this world and someone who should remain unblemished by it. The large sack for the Lantern is heavy in one hand, gripped death-tight by the shoulder straps, and the Shield strapped to her arm is covered in a canvas sheet to disguise it as an example of Portuguese artwork.

The pack moves with her, badly suppressing the urge to whine, to flinch, to growl. Tension and Unease are draped about them, stringent underneath the toxin air. This world is worse than walking through the Underworld, because at least then, you’re dead. How can the Star Kings stand to be here? Advanced filtration?

And more importantly, how can they witness this without joining with Cash Money to try and save as many of the Portuguese from the slow death of poison, of rot in the lungs, of creeping cancers? How can they not give these creatures ships— no, not ships, not yet. Not when they’d just spread this way of life. They would need engines along with the ships, and medical intervention, and maps. Maps to places untouched by toxins, places where they could run with fresh lungs and jump over rivers and learn what living is. Because being crowded into one overstuffed and dying world…

That can’t be living.

Portugal!

It is one thing to be told that these people are half-blind, half-deaf and completely without the sense of smell. It is another to see the work of art that the Warriors of Ceron have made out of their ignorance.

The Portuguese simply can't see colours the same way civilized people can. They can't see the ultraviolet or electromagnetic spectrum with their naked eyes, their hearing is too weak to allow them to echolocate or hear noises in certain pitch frequencies, and the only creature on the entire planet capable of perceiving something remotely close to the true colour spectrum was a certain kind of shrimp. "Don't blame me," Demeter shrugged, aglow in a verdant laboratory cloak made of white flowers. "When I started all I had was some contaminated water."

But the drab, thoughtless ignorance of the Portuguese is fading away as you get deeper into the heart of the city. Here and there buildings are painted in vivid, ultracolour gashes of pink and violet, like the rents of massive claws. The locals can't even see these colours, have no idea their grey buildings have been redecorated so. Real music starts to clatter above the tinny din of mechanical speakers, fast moving and complex patterns that speak of relaxed violence, inaudible to the teeming masses but perhaps as a whine that the most sensitive of them might manifest as a purposeless headache. Everywhere there are scentmarks, some too complex for the locals to perceive, some reaching down as incomprehensible compulsions or aversions.

And in the centre of the city, the tallest skyscraper - no longer an unremarkable glass box but a criminal palace hidden in plain sight, painted floor to ceiling with the refined violence of the Shogunate's warsign. Endless spools of text runs by, honouring fallen warriors and recounting legendary deeds; invisible vanity. A swirl of optically camouflaged cables spread out from the building in a mad weave, connecting to nearby buildings. At the highest level of the building the burning pulse of a small Engine - enough to power this entire continent and have enough left over for the Star Kings to run their esoteric weapons to deadly effect. The Ceronians have hooked their device into the local power grid, stabilizing the electrical grid enough that a stray ELF strike won't cause a city-wide blackout. From atop their tower the Star Kings look down at their new subjects and begin remaking the society to suit them.

Psuedowolves lurk in the shadows, blended in amongst the crowds, aware and awake with the senses of hunters, deadly knives hidden under their shirts. They move like gangsters, like predators - brushed with the beginnings of biomantic ascension so they can serve as agents for the Ceronians. They are the beginnings of a new dark age, a supernatural mafia from beyond the stars, the heralds of death for whatever society has grown here. In its place six billion people will be remade into the instruments of banditry, their civilization militarized until it can be traded for a greater prize.

Dolce!

"The Crystal Knight defeated," said Liquid Bronze, nodding. "Defeated. Impervious? Where is Impervious?"

The oldest Summerkind you have ever seen is wheeled out. He looks like a skeleton, beard down to his ankles, eyes faded in his sockets, hooked up to multiple external symbote organs that are pumping and filtering his blood. He blinks awake blearily. "Lord Bronze?" he rasps. "Why... why have you kept me alive?"
"Impervious!" said Liquid Bronze. "You remember when you said, and I quote, 'I think the Crystal Knight is an up and coming political figure, with a bright future in the Skies'?"
"Lord... Bronze?"
"And you said I should worry about her?"
"Yes... her focus on the underworld crystals... I remember, it was so long ago..."
"Well," said Liquid Bronze, "I just thought you should know that she went and got herself killed. In a servitor riot! Olympus above!"
"My lord..."
"And I hate to say I told you so, but I thought you'd appreciate me closing the loop on that little theory of yours," said Liquid Bronze as the bunker rattled under direct cannonfire. "Because, as I said at the time, I am fairly confident that Biomancy will never be usurped as the ultimate technology."
"... her death does not mean... the concept she represents..."
"My goodness, man!" said Liquid Bronze. "You're still arguing with me? Don't let me say that I don't respect it, but when I get new evidence I change my mind - do you?"
"... No, I take it back..." the old Summerkind bites the words. "You were right."
"Oh!" said Liquid Bronze. "Did I get through to you at last?"
"Yes, lord," said Impervious. "Now may I please... respawn?"
"In a minute," said Liquid Bronze. "Just, I'd like you to elaborate a bit - we're not the only people present here after all."
Impervious sighed raspily. "You were right. I was... wrong. The Crystal Knight was never a threat to you. Biomancy... will never be surpassed. May I please die?"
"What?" said Liquid Bronze. "I'm not going to kill you. Who do you think I am? We had a respectful disagreement and I finally located the right facts to convince you that I was right. That's what a healthy culture of debate means, Impervious. You're free to speak your mind whenever you want."
Impervious sighed. "May... may I request a tour of duty on the front lines, Lord Bronze?"
"Of course!" said Liquid Bronze. "Men! Take my friend to the armory, get him a gun and suit of armour. See, Impervious? The bigger man doesn't hold grudges."
"Yes... sir," rasped Impervious as his hospital bed was wheeled out.

So the direct answer to your question is: Impervious. Even if he himself is not long for this world, his coming reincarnation will likely share some of his attitude towards Liquid Bronze on an instinctive level. The broader answer to your question, though, is any of the older Summerkind - the older the better. The young ones are too lost in the awe of seeing Liquid Bronze outdebate one of their kind's greatest warsages that they haven't fully processed how fucked that encounter was. They just don't have anything to compare it to.

20022 politely clears his throat and looks at you. Liquid Bronze seems to have lost the thread, and 20022 wants to know if you'd prefer him to finish the thought from here.

Bella's neck cranes to take in the full effect of the skyscraper in front of her. Every gash of gleaming paint, Every trill of proud music, every twist in the precise knot of cables connecting the power of the Star Kings to this bland and unfortunate thing that passes for a city. Her face twists into a scowl that deepens with every new detail she takes in.

What pisses her off is that it's legitimately beautiful. Not a match for the great works of Tellus, but in terms of composition the backdrop was a work of artistic genius. The Portuguese understanding of materials was so underdeveloped that they didn't even have proper grays or beige tones. Walking around their civilization and eating their "food" gave off such an overwhelming sensation of fading that it was easy to lose oneself in it, until it... no.

It isn't that it felt more dead here than the palace of Hades. This is not a place of death. The problem was that too long here and Bella could easily imagine nothing ever feeling real again. Even the Anemoi's murk was at least intense. Here there's plenty of light and warmth to spare, but everything still felt like it'd been left to soak for a year or six in dingy water. Against that kind of backdrop even a tiny splash of proper red or a single note of real music exploded to life in a way that would make a master with fifty times the ability cry with envy.

That it sang with pride and the weight of history on top of that lifted this pilfered tower to a level Bella could not remember seeing in her lifetime. The idea of secret art and secret infrastructure placed out in the open for all to see, knowing that only a comparative handful could or ever would... it's romantic. Redana would have loved this. Not the perfect Princess that wound up here, but the silly girl who stayed up all night in the palace so she could pine after the stars her mother had cut off from the sky. She would be head over heels if she could see this for herself.

Bella's hands clench into fists that bite with claw against the palms of her hands. Yeah. She'd love it so much. If it wasn't a fucking indoctrination scheme. Clever, arrogant fucks. Plucking people from out of their drab little lives and giving them eyes for the first time. Revealing a layer that was "always" painted on top of their city, this first breath of real oxygen. Building lines of stratification, themselves above and these... Lifted below, climbed just high enough to detach themselves from the people they'd known their whole lives. A secret army like a secret clique that might form among a maid staff, nothing more than that but so high off their first taste of the universe that they'd suffer delusions of grandeur anyway.

These fucking plunderers. They're no better than the Azura biomancer. At least she could lie to herself about her arrogance being painted with altruism. The Star Kings were building a weapon. Nothing more. Worse than that, the name of that weapon was a concept so horrible she hadn't even known to hate it until she felt the tension in her spine.

"Sub-Servitors..." she hisses.

Her body burns hot enough that her feet have started melting grooves into the fragile "pavement" in the streets. Her muscles tense, and her tail lashes with enough force that it might crack the foundations of several major buildings in the area, if only she managed to touch them. The urge to scream, to rush forward, to tear down this entire absurd installation herself with her bare hands is almost more than she can handle. But she bites it back down. A hard swallow and a deep breath after. She wrenches her head away before it can surge back up her heart and into the city.

Fucking sucks relying on others. She's never trusted them in her life. But there are questions that dragged her down here. Questions she can't answer if she gets herself stuck in a fight.

"Ember," says Bella as she turns her back on the building, "Crush them. I don't care how you do it, but make it hurt. And tell the girls that Engine is our prize today. No matter how you settle this, we're not leaving here without it."

It’s worse that he’s safe.

Dolce fusses over the straightness of his vest, and no one who’s not a sheep can hear above the noise of a healthy debate culture, but his breathing is hardly professional. Might even be construed as a little huffy. At what? Of whom? No one will question him. Tonight he will be provided with ample quarters, a decent meal, and the respect of the Endless Azure Skies.

He is supposed to say something here. How did it go? A little veiled injoke, wisecrack, something for the benefit of the audience? To communicate what wavelength he is on? Some of the Summerkind here, in the command center, do look rather advanced in days. If they don’t hear him now, then, they may hear him soon, because Liquid Bronze will surely give him more opportunities to speak his mind.

He grips the fabric tightly, clutching an inside pocket where a letter goes.

A distant explosion shakes the ground beneath his hoofs.

He nods, just slightly, to 20022. And he can say nothing.

It’s worse that he’s safe.

The centrality is a surprise, is the thing. If Ember were, hypothetically, doing this sort of thing, attempting to conquer a people through subterfuge, hidden amongst the prey, she'd be up in the mountains, hidden in the forests, sprawling fortresses invisible in the wilderness. But not the Star Kings. Hiding in plain sight for those with eyes to see, a swirling maelstrom of sudden color and life in the middle of this world of sickness. It's daring.

Well. They'll see daring, won't they?

"This won't be able to knock out their entire network." Courage. The sharp tang of facing down a giant. Ears alert underneath hats. "But it will keep their eyes on us." Challenge. Acrid, heady, impossible to ignore. "Stoneribs, you will hold back half. Go to ground, watch for them to commit, then hit their weakest point." Cunning. A shiver at the base of the tail. "We will meet them where they dare to come out. And if they do not dare, we will walk up to that Engine and signal for its extraction, then deal with them without their arms." Eagerness. Bright, flowery, a twitch in the fingers.

So marches forth the anglerfish's lure, bag in one hand, art project in the other, flanked by women who move like the gods of this world. How far will they be permitted to penetrate into the heart of the Star Kings?

It's worse that it's beautiful.

She sits, drinking in the scene with eyes closed. Air, dripping with scentmarks, heady, strong. Music, tickling at her ears. The electric whine of a charged esoteric.

And she knows that opening her eyes will bless her with--

It's like, she doesn't have the words to describe it? Like drinking nectar after chewing cardboard your whole life. An insane burst of flavor, of texture, of meaning made more potent by the surrounding drabness.

It's only been a few hours, and already it's a relief.

It's worse that it's beautiful, because how can she stare at this and not make the comparison? How can any of the new, uplifted, not make the comparison?

How is it fair--no, wrong word. How can it be right that they--the Azura, humanity, servitors, anyone with biomancy--can stand on the precipice of this, and determine who is or is not worthy?

At the same time, Mosaic's words ring strong in her ears.

That's the issue, then, isn't it? Is that somebody's sitting on the gateway, opening the door only in the way they imagine right.

But--

But the alternative, right, is--

You can't demand that someone be given free access to the tools to destroy themselves, and at the same time demand that they only use them in the way you approve, right? Not in any kind of self-coherent way.

She doesn't want them to biomance themselves into servitors. Or to biomance themselves into what Aphrodite showed her--into eternally happy seekers of bliss. What's the middle? Is the middle even the answer? Is the answer to let people do what they want, or is that just the lotus eaters again?

For now, she resolves that, even if she doesn't have the answers, it's important to ask the questions. And, you know, more important to focus on the immediate, the esoteric, the presence of the shadow-hunters.

She tastes the scene again, but this time for a different presence--of the shifting, the invisible. She's looking for the partially uplifted, the ones who are able to see, able to smell, able to see. There will be more than a few, she's sure.

The Psuedowolves!

Svex Mitch had been a politician once. You could still see it in the green and blue striped suit jacket wristbands that reflected the flag of their nation. You couldn't see it in their torn open undershirt, revealing a singular musculature and meaningless ultracolour tattoos. They were trying their best to imitate the symbols of their Ceronian masters without knowing what any of it meant. Once they had been a force for political change and reform; now they were down here on the streets with fist and axe, exalting in the pack.

Kirin Dalton had been a doctor. Obsolete knowledge now, all of it. They had been useful for a while as a vector to spread the new miracle cures to the rich and influential but the temptation had been too strong and they'd dosed themselves. Now they were down here on the streets filled with the mad epiphany of someone whose life work has been solved and rendered irrelevant. One axe in either hand and a manic hawaiian shirt open to reveal the hanging stethoscope, no more than jewelry now.

Bailos had been an outcast. Persecuted due to a poorly understood imbalance of brain chemistry, they had spent a lifetime on the streets, unstable and abused. Now they walked like a young god, so tall and broad of shoulder that their romantic partner rode on their shoulders, filming the maneuvers of the pack with their handheld camera. Their hands were stained with dried blood and their lips with ten thousand dollar wine.

They come, these and a thousand more, stalking their prey through the streets, encircling them from all sides, stepping out of luxury vehicles parked to block the street. Everywhere shine the axes - exotic star metals worth a fortune to this planet, items that if understood could revolutionize production and travel. Not for sale; now they represented something far more valuable than the financial system their society was founded on. These weapons were badges of membership, a ticket to join an unimaginable future. The pack closes in.

A spotlight slams down from the top of the Ceronian tower, arcing down to bathe the entire intersection in radiant light. The War Gods told of your coming and of this battle, and now the Pack looks down from their high throne to see the shape that fight will take. Pseudowolves stand atop buildings looking down, kick out glass windows for better views, line the streets. Numbers alone ensure this will not be a trivial battle.

20022!

"General Bronze," said 20022. "I understand that you are as concerned with the Servitor rebellion as anyone, but the Service will need your help with an additional matter."
"Oh?" Liquid Bronze looked around lethargically.
"The Crystal Knight," said 20022. "Her death threatens to destabilize Beri further, especially if news of the fallibility of the Skies' defenders is allowed to spread. That could result in decommissioning and reculturization that might take a century."
"That doesn't sound like my department," said Liquid Bronze, shrugging. "Well, part of it does. But work is work."
"It is," 20022 conceded. "But if I might offer a suggestion: you possess the skills to engineer a replica of the Crystal Knight, and the Service is sufficiently interested in the stability of this sector to offer you the authorization to do so."
"Is that right?" Liquid Bronze swung around, full attention. "You're aware that I'd make some tweaks?"
"Of course, General Bronze."
"Because the source material - kind of mid if you ask me."
"As you will, General. The short term crisis forces our hand."
"Oh, well then," said Liquid Bronze. "And your opinions on the politics of the whole thing are..."
"Irrelevant," said 20022. "This is an apolitical decision. The best interests of the Skies are what is relevant here."
"Well now," purred Liquid Bronze. "Well... for that I suppose I could cut my campaign here short."

He reached across to a shimmering silver microphone that sat by his left hand. He picked it up, cleared his throat, and spoke into it. "Testing, testing. This is Liquid Bronze addressing all units. The war is over. Congratulations! You're all winners! Over and out!"

He put the microphone back down. Every eye in the room was staring at him. Not one of his Summerkind seemed able to process those words. You could hear a pin drop.

You could hear the quiet of shells no longer dropping.

...Fine.

If that's how it is, fine. Everything was pointless from the beginning. That's just what she got for hardly ever praying. Of course a Ceronian pack would augur them. She should have seen the ambush coming before she'd even come out of her first restaurant. Fuck, she should have seen it coming before she made planetfall. That'll be the plovers gone for sure, then. Bunch of assholes.

Fine. Whatever, fine. All she'd wanted to do is see a fucking museum. It was a stupid idea in the first place, wanting to learn enough to make her own conclusions about a people she still intended to abandon to their own horrible deaths. Better not to know. Then she could sit inside a star and cook herself stupid lamenting the color vision shrimps like a normal person. Too late now; the Star Kings were simply too far ahead of her.

The air has turned sharp enough to sting her nose, as if it sensed a storm and had begun to fill with electricity and anticipation of rain. Bella snorts, and reaches over to pluck a sword from out of a nearby Silver Diver's (don't ask her which one) bandoleer. She twists it in her hand, and watches the crowd of psuedowolves pack ever closer without quite coming in range. She can taste the saccharine bite of excitement dripping off the lot of them, but underneath it are the familiar sour notes of nerves and even a bit of deeper vinegar soaked fears.

Bella smiles.

"Figures."

She lifts the claw on her right index finger and presses it down on the blade. She glances up with an air of casual disinterest and shrugs at nothing in particular. A handful of her sharpest companions catch the hint and their ears flatten slightly as they dull their senses in anticipation of a noise they absolutely do not want to hear. She watches the response roll through the pack in a small wave.

"Feeling good about having ears and eyes now, guys? Wonder how well they trained you after they finished jabbing you with the needle."

There are noises you can create only if you have a proper understanding of the materials in front of you. To read the molecular structure and see the pattern in your head of exactly what types of pressure and what amount of damage will create specific levels of friction and breakdown, and how to elongate the moment of contact precisely to cause maximum pain. It's a form of torture Bella knows well.

She slides her claw along the tang of the blade. Up and down in soft, loving strokes. The sound the shivering metal makes is a death wail that no living thing should ever have to hear. A keening tinnitus that slips above the range of the unenlightened and into frequencies that only proper ears can channel. It's a vibration that can be felt in the skull. A headache so insistent it erases the memory of ever not hurting. After that comes the scream. It shatters glass. Bella's own ears trickle blood.

She snaps the sword in half, and tosses it on the ground. Her back stays turned to the tower. This will not be the worst of it for any who have come here to revel in their sense of artificial purpose and their newfound sense of invincibility. That will happen when Ember's pack begin smashing shields and shining lights brighter than the star above this planet. It'll bring the first circle to their knees, and that's if they're lucky.

After that? Well, whatever. It's really none of her business. She told herself she wouldn't fight down here on this world of wet paper. If the children wanted to throw themselves at her, she'd deal with it. But until then it's not her fucking problem. She closes her eyes, and feels the response in the pavement beneath her instead.

The scream's still ringing in her skull (even muted, it must still be witnessed) when she sends the first one flying back into their own pack. They've tried to make themselves more Pack with ornaments, studs and fangs and manes, but they aren't Pack. Look at how they get in each other's way as the Silver Divers take the plunge.

Ember likes swords. They're heroic. Romantic. A length of shining metal made only for battle. But she doesn't have a sword right now. All she has is the dervish-whirl, the momentum, the resonance that sends these half-wolves flying back when she strikes them with the Shield, and if they were not half-wolves, the trailing macehead of the Lantern would kill them. But they are half-wolves, and Ember flings herself into their midst.

Beside her, Goldie has trident-knives. She catches hafts between their prongs and twists; axeheads fall like leaves in the harvest. Beside her, Gemini has a needle of a blade which hisses as it splits the air; no one can pass by it without being stung. Beside her, Velvet Heart's caestus are spattered with Portuguese blood, and she howls defiance. Make it hurt, the lar said. Well, we can do that, can't we, girls?

Even so...

"Get out of our way!" The words spill out of her for those who cannot hear the command roiling off her. "Drop your weapons and run! None of this has to happen to you!"

Because they're pathetic, don't you think? Trying so hard to be wolves, to be Pack, aping the forms and the functions. Maybe that's her own weakness as a new member of the pack, relatively; to see herself when she drops the one standing and the one riding, and their obsolete electric-powered technology shatters on the pavement.

"RUN, idiots!"

But they're not running. They're closing in, bloody-eared and furious, and when the Alpha's pulling her punches, Gemini's the one who picks up on that, and now everyone's flinching away from risking the worst: an explosion of songbirds, a melting of serpents, a haggard cry coming up from the throats of these children.

So when the next one comes, Ember sends him straight through the glass doors of the tower, with a howl and a charge after.

That's the worst thing, right?

It's like, look at them. Look at the variety here. Politicians, outcasts, mothers! Sons, stoners, salesmen! Hundreds--thousands!--of walks of life! People, people, people, in every shape and color! A cacophony, an explosion!

Subsumed!

Swallowed, extinguished, samed!

They clutch their axes as if the axe is what makes them special! As if--

She's doing her best not to look at the paint, because if she looks at the paint she's gonna try to read what it means and she's gonna be disappointed again, because--

They act as if they've been let in. As if a hatchet, mass produced and airdropped from a supply center a million lightyears away, is proof that they're part of something. That they're trusted. That they understand. They've been let in.

That they're not being deployed like chaff so the real people don't have to get involved.

Well, that ends now.

The pseudowolves get the kindness. When they're picked up and hurled, they land somewhere soft. The painted palace of the Ceronians, on the other hand? They get the building-rumbling impacts, the targeted implosions.

They'll come down from their building and face them properly, without sacrificing their minions, or they will not have a building to sit in.

In the long, building whistle of a falling shell is the promise of an explosion. The silence is far more perilous. It took seconds to create. It will last as long as it lasts. Anything could happen in its wake.

Does anyone notice Contribution give a twitch? Not likely. The silence is too suffocating. And however it smothers Dolce there will always be a department dutifully working at questions of sightlines. No one here sees him grip Contribution’s arm. Firmly. From wool to carapace, a command. A plea. Stay here. Stay put. Stay by my side. If you are standing here, you are doing your job. You are doing enough.

You are safe.

The Star Kings!

Psuedowolves stumble. Bleeding, broken, shattered. Psuedowolves fall - noses and wrists break as easily as overconfidence. Psuedowolves fall, thrown by twisting gravity, undermined by their augmentations, broken by their lack of unity.

It's all fun and games until somebody shoots at their building. After that it is an inconvenience to be ended immediately.

Crystal lenses lock into place and scorch down in a blistering array of reality-bending diamond-glittering rays. This is the power of the Wolves of Ceron: while the Endless Azure Skies was still experimenting with the basics of crystal technology, the Star Kings had already sniffed out direct military applications with ruthless efficiency. When these rays struck they did not summon dimensional duplicates - they shunted a soul's destiny retroactively down into a dead end, a failed timeline filled with deadly peril. As the lights come down...

Bella!

You have come to a different world; one offset by ten thousand years - no time at all when it comes to geological formation and evolutionary timeframes, but an incredible amount when it comes to the growth of civilizations. The Portugal you see here now is not the flimsy, primitive world of an industrial civilization, but the shining gemstone world that an alien species might have come to in its own isolated splendour. Orbitals glitter in the heavens above and the buildings form fractal pentagon patterns. The people smell healthy, their weapons look deadly. You have been greeted not by inert governments, but a reactive group of diplomats and soldiers who wish to address you, the first visitor from a distant civilization.

"We greet you in peace," said their uncrowned monarch, nose twitching in high-intensity processing. "May we please speak to your administrator species?"

Ember!

The Lantern holds strong, burning against your arm. You are still here, and you are still you - alone now in the shadow of the Star Kings, surrounded by dozens of groaning psuedowolves. You hear the howls of the rival pack. In the distance you see the dark spots against the backdrop of a neon ultralight as the Star Kings descend from their throne to hunt you.

Your weapons are filled with oceans of stolen energy.

Dyssia!

Yours is the world where the Generous Knight has her way.

You see the space elevators breaking through the endless smog, advertisements burning on every inch of their long, silvery surfaces. You see a city of night and electricity, every head crammed full of electronics in defiance of Zeus' law. You see Aphrodite exalting dark kings who can never be for an instant free of desire. You see Apollo's sun overhead burning hot and black and three times its size, as though it is ready for supernova.

You see the fleets overhead. Vast shipyards churn through every mote and atom of matter in the system in prayer to Mars, reconstituting it into a fleet of galactic conquest. You see it all from the Generous Knight's throne room. It is beautiful in an ancient way, the centre of a thriving oaken forest, filled with endless schools of fish in every shade of blue that eat the acorns from the verdant trees. The magnificent silver-green dress of the Generous Knight connects her flesh in a thousand places to this thriving ecosystem that extends throughout the entire structure of her ship.

This is her weapon, her artistic project, her legend in the Skies: Shared Life. Through Hera's generosity she can take the damage of any of her injured upon her own body, a martyr for the Skies. Through Demeter's dark genius, she has shared her body with this entire ship-wide ecosystem. Her blood circulates through every tree, fish and microbe. To kill her means killing this entire place; to kill her servants means killing this entire place, to kill this place means overcoming the ship worth of biomantic doctors dedicated to ensuring its rapid regrowth and healing.

"Is it not magnificent?" asked the Generous Knight as the first distant flashes of plasma fire began. "To see a civilization remade in more perfect service to the Gods. To see them with the strength required to challenge the Skies at last - and perhaps, if they are clever, to overthrow us. Is this not what you of the Publica desire? An end to our tyranny, a sop to the lesser species, the death of Knights? Is not this moment a necessary step on the path to your perfect galaxy?"

Dolce!

You emerge into the daylight.

Summerkind are standing up from their trenches. They are walking across No Man's Land, looking at their duplicates on the other side. They are picking up the bloody and ruined, staunching bleeding and cleaning wounds. Overhead every now and then there is a detonation as the last few fighter spheres finish their dogfights, far out of range of any communication. Stunned army formations watch the beauty of them as they swoop and dive and descend in flames.

Liquid Bronze's bunker unfolds like a puzzle box, every panel sliding apart and reconfiguring, pushed by Summerkind labourers. The acrid smell of solid projectile smoke is pushed from your nose by a cool breeze. Millions of eyes raise up to look at the Biomancer-General as his bunker reconfigures into a massive walking palanquin. He waves like the pope down at the little people. One by one they wave back.

Unit after unit, legion after legion, formation after formation comes to crowd around him. Millions and millions coming from miles around to stare up in awe at their creator. Long lost comrades recognize each other and embrace. Disbelieving laughter and cheers are infectious. As Liquid Bronze blows kisses into the crowd shock resolves into joy. Cheering starts more wildly. Music is started. Dancing. A spontaneous party stretching for miles. This repeats itself half a dozen times across the planet, clustered around different Liquid Bronze clones on their different palanquins.

(Already these decay. With the war over these copies of Liquid Bronze have a lifespan measured in days. "A good leader never asks anything of his men that he wouldn't do himself," Liquid Bronze explains to 20022.)

The sun shines. The war is over.

Ah, fuck.

That's what you get for taking your eyes off the battlefield, Bella. What, was it not exciting enough for you? It didn't involve you because you promised yourself you wouldn't rip anybody in half this time? Well good job you moron. Now you're dead. You know, again. Your mother would be so proud.

She lifts the hood off of her face to expose her eyes and ears to the light once again. What was the point of concealing her nature from people who might have lifted themselves up enough to become her betters? Not to mention they were just as dead as she is; she might not have any idea what the fuck just happened but it didn't take a genius to understand what a sudden burst of light and heat followed by a total alteration of your surroundings actually worked out to. So off it goes. Her ears stretch luxuriously in the open air, and the crown of the Imperial Regalia glitters on her head in the reflected light of the Portuguese spires.

She takes a breath, and it is full of life. Ironic, but there it is. The whole place tastes of desperation, but not misery. The vibrant pop of flowers, of heavy metals, and the heat of noses almost as inquisitive as hers are all around her. The fact that this place felt alive to her for the first time just wrapped the sensation tighter around her neck: that this place was a dead end. An impossibility under the true direction of the gods that strove with every waking moment to deny that fact.

"Administrator species?"

Bella blinks. Her tail twitches in obvious discomfort. Why do they know that term? Were Servitors just an inevitability? Which god had written that into law? Why did, what-- nnffff.

Before too much surprise and alarm can register on her face, she dips into a low and careful bow. Right hand pressed tight against her chest, left swept far out to her side with her claws held carefully toward the ground. She dips low enough that her luxurious blue-black hair brushes across the ground underneath her. Her tail lifts above her back and holds as still and as graceful as she kept it back when she was a kitten trying (and failing) to get adopted by some aristocrat family somewhere.

"I'm sorry," she says, still in the bow, "But I can't do that. My Empress forbids her citizens from travel. In her wisdom she... believes it's for the betterment of the galaxy as a whole. At least I-- that's how I see her. But I'm alone. They didn't send anyone else with me for my mission. I was told I... was enough."

Bella lifts herself back up again, as if on the power of those words. Her chest puffs out with old pride. Imperial pride. She casts her eyes once more over the people here in front of her, and the trappings of their perfected civilization behind them. She wanted to learn, and here was her chance. What did they look like? What did they smell like? What had food come to mean for them, and art? What made them bring weapons here, and what did they consider deadly enough to turn on her as she popped in out of nowhere? If the truth of the Portuguese had been the mud-soaked crapsack of vaguely industrialized misery, what kind of creature had been struggling to be born underneath it?

"Be at ease. Before I left, Her Imperial Majesty Empress Nero IV Acontecimento Azurius conferred upon me the title of Praetor. My ears listen on her behalf, and my voice carries her authority to the far ends of space. Say whatever you'd like to say to me. In the end it'll be the same as saying it to the Throne."

A lifetime's worth of practice keeps her face inoffensively neutral while she is turned toward the delegation in front of her. But the tip of her finger twitches, and with it the corner of her mouth lifts an imperceptible fraction on the right side. Her maids' version of a smirk. If she'd already been killed, what harm was there in playing at her oldest dreams one last time?

Have you forgotten her, Your Highness? The Praetor you commissioned will keep your banner aloft, however long her arms can stand to hold it.

You know, normally Dyssia hates touching the ground.

It's not a sensory issue, you understand? Not a matter of germs, or of the feeling of pebbles grinding to dust beneath her. It's just that touching down binds her, grounds her, feels like swimming through molasses.

And here, she can't help but do it anyway.

It seems appropriate, you know? Like here, in this breathing, pulsating heart of the ship, listening to the flow of ichor and sap, it's only fitting to-- Well, not to become one with the ship, but to let her thoughts slow. To let the moment soak over and through her.

Dyssia sits under a tree.

"The worst thing is, you're not wrong," she admits. "I want the end of the Azure Skies."

And that stings. It feels like--like admitting defeat, almost? Even though it's not her project, even though she's taken step after step away from the Skies?

"I can't stand the way we treat others--abuse them, uplift them, always with that self-assured magnanimity that we have the correct way of doing things.

"But also it's terrifying to think of what that looks like. They'll have figured out new and better ways to become closer to the gods than us--what does that say about our own? What do I do when what is comfortable and safe and known is demonstrably not the best way? There's a part of me that wishes that the new way will be close enough to the old way that I won't have to change who I am to fit into it."

Outside the window, a flash of plasma splashes against the ship, and she watches as a gash opens in the Generous Knight's elbow, watches as it starts to knit together again.

"It terrifies me," she admits, "that the better way will be so alien to me that I cannot help but fight against it too."

“Bring them back!”

She stands, alone, bereft of pack. Her teeth are bared, and her eyes are full of tears. She would be a morsel to be snapped up, but for the fact that she carries enough power to snap the foundations of their tower like twigs. But for the fact that she refuses to give in to her training and run. Not when there’s still a chance she can convince them to… to undo whatever they have done.

It’s not a killing weapon. That much is obvious. (Her shield flickers, the design changing from moment to moment: a laurel wreath crowned with stars, a Shogunate mon, a gaudy tricolor flag, the jaws of a terrible wolf, three hounds chasing each other around the rim, the rainbow surf, a gleaming pearl.) They would leave traces of the body, even seared instantly into ash. This is a weapon that makes someone be not here. So bring them back.

“I will level this city,” she growls, trusting in her training as a scout to sell the bluff. She hefts the shield, ears at attention, staring up at the descending huntresses. “Wherever they have gone, return them, or I will tear out your clan’s name from history!”

Maybe she can win this, but she doesn’t want to. She wants Mosaic back (what if they are out in space, scattered like pearls) and she wants her pack back (what if they are buried within the earth without even space to howl) and she doesn’t want them to call her bluff (they could lift the shield off her arm before she would use it in anger against a city full of Portuguese).

So she demands, and lets them look at what she carries, and she makes herself believe that she, alone, can frighten an entire pack into submission. After all, if she doesn’t believe it, how will they ever believe in turn?

Contribution barely survives the party.

Few other Summerkind get to stand this close to the real Liquid Bronze in his moment of triumph. It’s like receiving the salute - the previous highlight of his life - every waking moment. He has no ceremonial weapon, he has no uniform for the occasion, but he can stand to attention like the best of them, and no force can move him from this spot without killing him.

Down below is the last chance he may have to find if any of his clutchmates survived the war. The party will last for as long as Liquid Bronze wishes it, and everyone in attendance will then do whatever he decides next. A month gives no time for shore leave.

Leaving means interrupting Liquid Bronze to ask to be dismissed. Worse, it means moving further away from Liquid Bronze. Either is impossible.

Dolce is a guest of Liquid Bronze. Dolce has the right to speak, and Contribution is expected to speak back. He asks him about the music. He asks him about the dancing. He asks him about the novel construction techniques that could make a bunker that becomes a palanquin. He asks him about anything and everything that crosses his mind. When Contribution looks fit to burst, Dolce takes extra long to think of his next question as the Summerkind basks in the presence of his creator, and speaks up before he can be torn in two again.

By this, they barely survive the party.