“We are [i]not[/i] doing an Andromeda,” Ember repeats, arms folded, projecting as much Authority as she can. Plundering Fang, idea rejected, scowls at her. “Not even the Fisher’s Andromeda; that backfires as often as it works. Instead, we are going to jettison all of our loot from—“ “83.7%.” Ember stops and looks to Sagetip, who pushes her glasses up her nose. “The pack, across its history, has achieved an 83.7% success rate whenever we have had to use an Andromeda. Traditionally, the Alpha volunteers for the role. We have [i]traditional regalia[/i] we synthesize for the event. And as long as the Alpha puts all of her faith and trust in Poseidon, making sure that there’s absolutely no way for her to influence the outcome… 83.7%. Damage to our vessel is inevitable, but our monster [i]will[/i] arrive, usually with ravenous harbingers proceeding it. The time is auspicious, the circumstances are amenable… this is not only the favorable action, it is the [i]prescribed[/i] action.” “But I’m, I’m not rare [i]or[/i] treasured,” the Princess Alpha stammers, touched with Mortification. “Princess Alpha,” Sagetip says, with the greatest of patience, “our [i]lar,[/i] Mosaicbella, clearly finds you to be both. Today, she was observed squeezing your hand and telling you to ‘knock us all dead’ at this very meeting, before kissing you for an indeterminate amount of time. Also today, this morning. she just so happened to have made more tea than she needed to drink, an obvious ploy to give you a gift and to spend time with you. [i]Yesterday,[/i]” she continues, smiling in the way she does when she senses the kill. [i]"Don’t let’s talk about yesterday,”[/i] the Princess Alpha squeaks. “So what’s it going to be?” Plundering Fang cracks her knuckles. “Are you going to be the Alpha or not, Little Ember?” Both of her challengers look at her, watching for weakness. For selfishness. For failure in the eyes of the pack. But Ember’s not looking at either of them; she’s looking to Bella, unseen but not unfelt. “…tell me about the regalia.”