Bella!

"Aw - yeah, sure, alright," said Vesper. She laughed. "Huh! Wow, that was way easier than I thought. It turns out you can just not do stuff -"

Ropes suddenly pulled themselves tight around her, bending her feet forwards and her neck back. Suspended by her wrists she ascended, hanging from the ceiling in elegant display, completely unsurprised by the suddenness of her bondage.

"But - you know, I kind of saw that coming?" said Vesper, tone having not changed a bit. "I just kept thinking about Mynx, and that sword and I thought - what if you come at me like that? What if you make some sort of heartfelt appeal to me and it works? Well, obviously that would be a pretty big point of failure in my plan, so I kind of set things up in advance to take me out of the picture if I got compromised. So, uh..."

The unicorn stepped out of the shadows. Her armoured bone-plate glittered like silver and every surface was filled with thousands of words. Vesper's instructions - not a name, but a spiralling, mad if-then, choose-your-own-adventure novel carrying instructions for what to do in every scenario she had been able to predict. The unicorn's right arm had erupted into a gleaming, round silver shield, and her right had solidified into a reinforced metal hoof. She moved like a Knight - deliberate but capable of sudden devastating charges.

Ember and Dolce!

"He's not fulfilling the mission," growled Taurus quietly.
"Oh, hush," murmured Gemini, elbowing her. "He's having a wonderful time. Look at how into this he's getting!"
"We're performing a military operation here. You should move things along."
"Darling, I am not a puppeteer," said Gemini. "I'm more like a stiff drink. I can take away inhibitions and give a certain push, but I can't roll boulders uphill. It turns out that this just happens to be where the peaks and valleys in his mind are."
"Mm. I suppose... the pack is enjoying this too."
"Of course they are. This is as much about Ember as Vasilia, and look what a delightful little helper she is. She's hardly as beautiful as when she's making someone else beautiful."
"Mm... we should..."
"Give her a reward after this, for being such a good girl? Of course we should. I'd suggest rewarding the boy as well, but I imagine his wife will have that covered. Besides, I'm sure little Ember deserves a chance to perform for her own wife before we are done here."

Dyssia!

No Satyr could resist such a pure hearted appeal. You're taken to the goods.

They hid it well; the plans show that this is meant to be the center of a plasma exchange manifold. Through visionary genius the Order of Hermes was able to shrink the size of the manifold from the size of an apartment building to the size of a house, but rather than reporting the success of their labour they kept the excess space for the construction of a secret still. Rows and rows of glassworks, an exotic vineyard, fermentation barrels and a storage cellar. Every inch of space was precious and so the pathways were narrow and tangled, requiring frequent ducking and sometimes jumping to make progress.

And yeah, it's cool here. Nontrivially cool; keeping this place at a steady temperature is condemning the entire rest of the ship to the worst-case heatwave. But, as the Satyr suggests, 'If we all crack and drink one of those kegs now, there'll be enough space for Dyssia to join us!' which seems to go over fairly well as a suggestion.

Bella flinches as though something had just punched her in the stomach: a sudden sharp intake of breath, a slight crunch forward, and a gasp forced out of her. Her teeth clench so hard that it spoils her attempt at a smile into a death grin, and even the attempt at incredulous laughter grinds down against a horrible moaning sigh that won't stop, it won't stop, it just won't stop.

Her entire body trembles with fear. Her forehead slicks with foul smelling sweat. She almost doesn't notice the tear rolling down her cheek from her golden cat's eye. She lifts a hand to cover that entire half of her face, rather than wiping anything away.

"Go fucking figure."

No good. Her legs have turned to marble where she stands. Her heart is pounding so hard it's begun to drown out the sounds of the ship, so determined to cling to life that it might be killing her. Her head is swimming; every breath is choked by the smells of salt and sour wine. Bella cannot in this moment ever remember being more afraid. At least with her Mother there'd been a sad nobility to her last stand, but this was so fucking stupid and pathetic she can't find the anger that fuels her combat potential no matter where inside herself she looks for it. There is only the terror of impossibility.

Fuck you, Artemis.

"Spend my entire stupid fucking life getting underestimated and stepped on. And the one gods damned time it'd help me I get this. Well. Fuck me, fine. Is this what being respected feels like? Then give me more. I want more!"

Out of nowhere, she starts laughing. Her Auspex locks onto a space above the unicorn (is that a shield? What a novel fucking concept), and in the rush of adrenaline that follows Bella finds her body weighs nothing at all. It's not anger that lifts her into the air, but love. Her family is with her. Her family is against her. Her family needs her. What better cause to fight can there be?

Her legs tense. Her fingers curl, and thick, curving talons grow a full six inches out from her fingertips. Her teeth flash like wicked lightning in the dark. She leaps into the air, flying straight at Vesper. As horrifying a concept as it might have been, right now she was trapped in a war of information. But so what? Show her what you hid up your sleeves when no one was looking, Sister. Does the answer to this obvious response come from the guardian beneath her, or from a new trap? How hard is it going to hit?

If you're so much better than her, you stupid bitch down there, then bring it.

The tea is not the point. The tea is the vehicle.

The Princess Redana had very little patience for tea ceremonies, back on Tellus. Very little patience for most things, if we are being honest with ourselves, if they were not part of the eternal now, not something that allowed her to use the engine of her body, not part of her yearning to see and run and sail and reach. How did Hermes ever think her daughter would not desire to be on the move, on the run, chasing the horizon? Might as well have tried to tie down dawn.

As Ember, though, she learned. The Silver Divers, for all their hunger and ambition and predatory instincts, demand discipline. Any member of the pack that cannot tame their body in the service of the mind, in the service of the pack, is one that has failed.

Putting on a proper tea ceremony is about knowing the proper meanings and uses for everything. The color of the walls of the hut that they have erected around Vasilia and Dolce (a pink so faint that it is almost devoured), the flowers worked into Dolce’s hair (fresh plum blossoms steeped in their own scent, evoking Tranquility and Belonging), the number of breaths to hold before you pour (three, and don’t let your hand waver). It is slow, deliberate, and made to show perfect control of mood, body, and time.

The tea is not the point. The tea is the vehicle.

It is a variant stolen from a world three stops back. It spills elegantly from the mouth of the kettle, blue-green and bitter, the color of a sea. The color of the depths. The color of Poseidon’s fingernails. It does not so much as ripple as it is poured.

Goldie is on the harp, carefully plucking each string, her eyelids rich in luster. Sagetip’s flute is as faint as the color of the walls, a breath of wind to move through this place. And Redana pours as they play, not breathing as she pours, still and quiet in her heart.

Patient enough to do this right.

The third cup she pours for herself, and sips slowly as proof that she has not poisoned any part of this. (Not that this has stopped determined enough Ceronians from using these ceremonies as a gambit.) Her ears curl in slightly, just like her toes, and as she lowers the cup, her contented smile is the one point of failure. It is too happy, helpless in the face of her drink and the presence of her friends.

“Drink deep and well,” she sighs, eyes closed, joy radiating.

"And you made this all yourself? You're incredible!"

Dyssia, it turns out, is a happy drunk. And a careful one, for what it's worth! This is not a large space, and she is a large person, and even through the fog of drunkenness, there's no broken glass anywhere, which is a massive win! She's woven in and through at least a dozen barrels and glassworks, and every little thing threatens a glass-shattering giggle-fit, but she's staying strong!

The bottle in her hand is feeling much lighter than she remembers. It's evaporated away, surely--no, no, look, the cork's gone. Did she open it? She doesn't remember opening it?

Or tapping the barrel, but she must have done that too? There's the glass spigot, and she does remember nodding to herself about how yeah, glassworks makes sense, because anything metal would just get eaten through, smart, smart, very clever these Hermits.

And she must have been the one to invite Dionysus to bless the festivities, and invited friends, because how else would there be two--three? Three satyrs? Stop moving so much, you're being very difficult to count.

And it made sense in her head when she first popped the cork on the bottle as an offering. Or. You know, it probably did, or else she wouldn’t have done it, and they wouldn't have agreed. She thinks? Not entirely sure on that last bit. But the important thing, the thing to remember, right, is that the alcohol's getting drunk. And the more alcohol inside them, the less there is in the barrels, and the less there is in the barrels, the less there is to evaporate, and the warmer we can make the room!

That makes sense, right?

Five breaths between the invitation, and the first sip.

Their chests rise and fall in patient unison. They breathe the same blend of steeping tea, plum blossoms, and delicate perfumes. They sit in the same hut, sit upright in the same pink glow. They rest in the embrace of the same music. All that differs is the view they savor. For even the love in their eyes is one and the same.

Dolce sits in his same outfit, minus only the boots. Ember herself had removed them, one by one, that her guest of high honor could sit more comfortably. His fan sits safe in his pocket. There is no need for it here. The table, the tea, the breaths, they are barrier enough.

Vasilia wears a suit sharp enough to duel with, elegant enough to dance with. The shirt beneath, closest to her heart, is a creamy white. The color of his wool.

Five breaths end far too soon. Five breaths end precisely on time.

They take the same cups. Slowly, deeply, the same drink dances on their tongues, and leaves behind the same complex, bitter notes.

Dolce sets his cup down. Vasilia sets hers next to his. One breath passes.

“Sweeten my tea for me, darling.”

It is all she need say. He takes her cup, and no finer treasure has this precious sheep held in his soft hands. A ripple in the tea would be as devastating as a crack in the glass. Up, up, up, until the steam tickles his nose. Until he can lean in, and press a kiss to the rim, as gentle and lingering as a butterfly perched on a blossom. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. He parts, leaving the faintest memory of pink behind. And then. He. And then he…

Oh, how he wishes, with all his heart, to get up and carry the cup back to her. Let him sit on her lap; there is a perfect spot for him, he knows it. Let him raise the tea to her lips, that her arms may be free. Let her take his softness. Let her take his loveliness. Let her take his flowers. Let her smell them, so deeply, so sweetly! All of this is for her, is hers, let him give it to her at last!

He sets the cup down, precisely where she placed it. Bows his head. Flutters his eyelashes, and smiles with all the sweetness she could ever ask for. “Your tea, Mistress Vasilia.”

No makeup could make his cheeks glow so beautifully.

Bella!

"St -" Vesper starts to say, and then bites down the word hard.

The little glass marble, filled with a solid teutranotoxin blend, scorches right by Bella's open claw. If she'd turned her momentum even slightly it would have hit. Instead the interception comes a full second later, the bone shield interposing itself between Vesper and her in her flight. With a crash like an earthquake in the elephant's graveyard, the two assassins fall to the ground.

"Oh - oh motherfucker," said Vesper. "I wondered why past me didn't gag me. She lined up her traps assuming I'd warn you about them and then she must have microdosed Lethe water to forget the details. But - but I'm smarter than her now. Every minute expands my cognition. I just need to figure out her scheme -"

While she's busy trying to outsmart herself, Sanalessa whirls into place like a Geiger painting rendered in ivory. A spark flashes, and a section of the words on her shoulder burn smooth - a branch of prophecy closing forever. She flexes her deadly, empty hoof-fist and you can feel the shape where a weapon should be there. It would have been easy for Vesper to just write your name, but she couldn't - this entire elaborate choose-your-own-adventure novel carved in bone is her trying to capture all of the possibility space of this fight in such a way that your survival is as guaranteed as your defeat.

A new set of words come into focus. The unicorn flicks her tail and lowers her head. You can feel the charge gathering in that startip-point like an arrow readying.

Redana and Dolce!

"Just so you know -" said Vasilia, tracing one claw around the rim of the cup, "- and do not take this as criticism. It is clear that you are enjoying this, and I am definitely enjoying it as well. It is such a darling side of you. But, just so you know," she smiled as she raised the cup to her lips, "I cannot imagine this tasting any better than the tea you make while wearing only your frumpy singlet, in the quiet of our room, with no makeup or performance."

"And, I love the performance," she repeated. "But do not think that I am capable of loving you more than I already do."

Dyssia!

"There is one, one thing I demand to know from you as an Administrator Species -" Iskarot was saying. His hood was down and his robe was loosened, the aching points where his flesh had reconfigured around his re-attached augmentics still raw. "It's, I know how it all fits together. I was on the Ikarani project, and I was on when they bastardized it into the Summerkind project, and it's all like a big investigation into the nature of intelligence and how it's not bound to the physical architecture of the brain in anything more than a symbolic way, but... look, man, how do you know that you're an Administrator species?"

He took a deep drink from the wine.

"Like, what if there's another, deeper, secret administrator species out there and you Azura are just middle managers? You have the obsession with the colour blue and this whole elaborate aesthetic system justifying this galactic terraforming project, and you live and die fighting on the front lines to advance it. Is that reaaaaally what the masters of biomancy would choose as their own lifestyles? How do you know that you're not just high ranking servitors and the real, immortal intelligences are just out of sight, as invisible to you as I am to the Summerkind? Maybe this entire galactic, you know, principle is just a little ant farm to them?"

Pain. Unfathomable pain.

Bella's spine has been replaced by a bolt of lightning. Her bones and nerves are nothing but the root system of a burning tree. Every part of her exists only to communicate the idea of pain. Her lungs expand and contract without knowing the kiss of air, they simply relieve the sensation of constantly burning by replacing the fire with dozens of spear tips, instead. Her arms tremble and push without lifting her out of the dented crater in the ground she writhes inside of, just to add a slimy impression of weakness and a crawling sort of itch into the entire miserable cocktail.

When she finally does climb to her feet again, her shoulders are slumping. Her mutilated hand is twisted around its own claws as if her arm ended in a single jagged dagger rather than anything belonging to a person, or even an animal. Wet, disgusting laughter trickles from between her teeth. Fine then. Fine. Maybe she was out of shape. It should not have taken to this point to recover from Mosaic's stunt with the mountain. But she could feel it, the fatigue and the poorly stitched together muscles now freshly fraying against these new pressures, and she knows that it's a problem.

"Ves..." she looks up at her sister in spite of the danger of the fight and this trap-filled arena, "I'm pretty fucking sure there's a point where getting smarter stops meaning anything useful. And I think you crossed that line a while ago."

Bella wipes her mouth on the back of her ruined hand and watches this new Diodekoi take her stance again. For so long, ever since she'd learned she was an assassin, she'd longed to meet another one like her. Now that there's one right in front of her, she cannot for anything figure out why it felt so fucking important. There was nothing to learn from this speechless wall of bone. She couldn't be a teacher and she couldn't be taught. What was the point? To know? To see? To witness with her own eyes the harm she might have-- did cause on Sahar? Small consolation that everyone she killed was technically already dead at the time. But try asking them how they felt about it, why not?

"Just relax up there. Please. I have this. I can do this. I can do this!"

She dips low to the ground, prime pouncing position. Her eyes ache from how much she's straining them, but she doesn't dare blink. She can't find them anywhere on the unicorn. The auspex has always shown the ability to point out the weak spots, the connecting threads of the gods that she can cut to break apart anything that has ever been made. But this Diodekoi armor has no such markings. None at all. And the only possible explanation for that is...

Bella hisses. The claws on her remaining good hand snatch at the air and she lunges at supersonic speeds; the 'teleportation' technique she stole from XIII. Throwing her body into the blow without thought for useless things like further traps in the room, or counterattacks, or even landing, she thrusts with her injured hand - which has now grown over completely into deadly sharp exoskeleton.

The only explanation is that she cannot kill this thing.

Dolce says nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. He sits safe and comfortable in the company of wolves, glowing like the first, fond whispers of sunrise, but without any birdsong to accompany it. Not until Vasilia looses his tongue with a gracious sweep of her hand.

“Perhaps - long, long ago - I thought a poor chef would only deprive a noblewoman of the treatment she was due. I dreamed of a day when I could give you everything I thought you deserved and I could not provide. Perhaps by succeeding there, I would no longer feel as though I was falling short of you.”

“I do not think that anymore. Yet the dream remained.”

He holds his tea with both hands. Still, and thoughtful.

“I grew. We grew. And I think love must grow along with us. Was this the sheep you swore an oath to years ago? True, he might have been living somewhere inside me, hidden away, but neither of us knew it at the time. How could we? You are not the same either, which also is not a criticism. Every day, we wake up to see somebody who is and must be different than the person we first married. How can our oaths be fulfilled unless love, too, is a growing thing?”

“Today, we get to share an old, fond dream. Whether or not the tea we drink here can compare to the tea shared in the late and lonely hours, what does it matter? I would not dare insult your love, Mistress, and suggest there are reserves you have not or could not give to me. But if I am permitted the boldness of a wish?” It is a risk, to speak without waiting. But it is also a performance. One he cannot keep from seeing through. “I would wish, with all my heart, to share this new, old dream with you. Grant me this precious choice and chance, to love and be loved anew.”

"It's a nice thought, you know?"

Dyssia swirls the glass in her hand contemplatively, and watches the three glasses in front of her spin.

"I'm not a fuckup, barely less fucked up than the rest of her culture. I'm not a throwback or an aberration, I'm just somebody's pet project. This culture--the whole Azura shitshow--isn't, you know, billions and billions of people consistently making the worst choice in every situation, we're just. Somebody's pet mechanical intelligence, whirring and ticking away.

"It's like, I don't know what's more terrifying--the idea that there might be someone programming my actions, or that I'm actually the final word on what's ethical and right. But then I remember…

"If they exist, they're assholes, right?

"It's like, what function does…" She shakes her glass, as if to encompass the galaxy. "You know, all the wars and infighting and shit with Azura and Ceronians actually do? Is it all just a game to them? Rolling dice, prodding the little people, playing games with what happens? Moving us about like pieces on a board? 'You can't play the sexy wolfgirl faction again, they're overpowered?'

"It's like, at least the gods have the good decency to be, you know, present. To make their will known, to be imitated and seen and bargained with and befriended, if that's even the right word."

"If they exist, take my word for it: Assholes, the lot of them."

Her glass is empty, she realizes, and holds it under the spigot until more molasses-textured liquid gloops into the cup.

"Actually, you're probably a better judge of that, right? What with, you know, the. The, you know, evolution? Self-made biomancer, kinda deal. Mayflies and such. Surely you're better suited to seeing the seams in the pattern, if such can exist."

"Dolce!!" Ember is already by his side, fingers in his curls, helping him into an apologetic bow. (It doesn't yank at all, don't you worry, Dolce. This is a well-practiced and carefully trained Classical Head Guidance in the Howling Honey style. Just yield and let Ember show you what to do, the way that you've been yielding this whole time. You're doing such a good job of it.) She bows even lower, the absolute figure of Ceronian contrition.

"I'm terribly sorry, my lady," she says. (Nod nod, Dolce.) "We agreed he was going to say something along these lines, but only after we finished the Bake-Off! Oh! Now we will have to come up with some new gesture, some even grander expression of how humble his love is!" And it is, perhaps, the magic of Redana Claudius that she is entirely sincere when she says this. "Please, forgive us for disturbing the tranquility of the tea ceremony!" Head up, goofy smile, there we are, Dolce, now head back down. Oh! If we don't do this right, then surely our lovely Taurus and Gemini will be disappointed! And we have yet to thank them, too!

So do your best, Dolce! The two of you will just have to incorporate humble expressions of love brainstorming alongside the final dish design brainstorming! Now, perhaps Vasilly might realize something is off, since one team in this contest is coordinating so closely with the supposed prize, but can she resist the temptation of even more from her lamb-my-love, and how could she possibly resist the temptation of what will be baked for the two of them as the final contest? It will take all the baking prowess of Ceron[1] to meet her lofty expectations!

So do your best, Redana! And do your best, Dolce! Big smiles, wagging tails, and beams of sincerity! Sheepheart!

---

[1]: limited, but having one of the judges ensorcelled will really help with the final score.

Bella!

This is what it is to fight a God.

One move into the next. The opening parry is not even relevant; throwing her into the air is barely worth noticing, and anyone could have performed the first, second or third kicks in the sequence. But then comes the fourth, and the uppercut, and the throw - and oh. The first moment of interest comes at this moment where the bone unicorn snaps across space, a replication of the just-demonstrated teleportation technique - to catch Bella at the apex of her arc. Kick, strike, slash with the heavy weight at the end of her tail, crash with the horn. Bella hits the ground so hard she bounces, but before she can recover then a hand crossbow is firing electrified darts. Distractions, irritants, but just enough to distract attention before Sanalessa hurtles down from the ceiling with a full body kick.

Finally the combination is over. The unicorn settles back down into her ready posture. Bone plating covers her eyes, blinding her, but still she stares. She does not advance.

Bella was wrong; this is a teachable moment. The lesson is not one of strength or endurance, not how to inflict or suffer damage. It does not come from the auspex or biology, both remain dumb and mute. It comes from the single drip of blood that runs down Sanalessa's brow, staining bone crimson.

This is what it is to fight a God. Though all the universe tells you no, you can make it bleed.

Ember and Dolce!

"I shall forgive you this once, on the grounds that I am dealing with long-established sillyheads," Vasilia sighed expansively, setting down her empty teacup. "But my heart has already been moved once today, and it shall be all the more difficult to move it a second time. Fail, and I shall throw the whole raucous lot of you in the dungeon."

She sat back contentedly, happy with the stakes she has set.

Dyssia!

"Evolution is junk. It's garbage. Evolved DNA is enormous quantities of legacy, wasted space," said Iskarot, scratching furrows in the wood of the wine cast. "It's computation done by dirt. Takes forever, doesn't understand anything. That's why I don't believe in it! I think that Prometheus and Zeus built all of the optimal shapes out of clay, at the beginning. Then Zeus changed the mathematical laws of the universe that those optimal shapes would be evolutionary lagrange points, or plateaus, or destined equilibrium. Then the animate dirt all across the galaxy begins to crawl its gradual blind way forwards until it stumbles across one of the pre-set perfect shapes - the cat, the crab, so on - and then it stops. Biomancy isn't about the meat and bones, that's what Liquid Bronze never understood. It's about the mathematics and symmetry. Triangular ears overperform because Zeus changed the laws of physics so that they were optimal, and not the other way around."

"But - but what happened to those original clay sculptures?" said Iskarot. "The templates that every creature is trying to approach? The very first fox, the very first cat? They're still out there, I think. And what if they're behind everything?"

She rises. Though her body lies shattered, she rises. She pushes strength into her legs and ignores the pops of protest as she forces them to straighten. She feels her back shear like glass but the most she allows herself to acknowledge it is a hiss like escaping steam. And she rises.

Bella spares a glance at her mangled wreck of an arm and laughs with some horrible mockery of mirth to see how badly it twisted in the clash. She tries to flex her fingers; the true horror of the moment, if indeed there was horror to be felt, lay in how gentle her hand seemed to be. There is no heroic straining, no quiver of effort, no valiant trembling of digits that long to test themselves against that trickle of red. There is simply no movement whatsoever: a part of her body so far past the fight that it won't even pretend anymore. She shrugs, and lets the whole arm grow over with a thick branch of claw exoskeleton.

Standing there it is easy to see why Artemis called her outdated. The unicorn stands there in its armor, the same idea but pristine and purposed. Nothing wasted, every impervious line clean and smooth and so close to flawless that she genuinely hadn't been able to perceive it until a second ago. Bella's arm, by comparison, is hideous. The wicked tangles and thick almost bark-like spirals jut out into strange spines here and there. It isn't armor so much as a horrible spear made from the corpse of a sea serpent, or something equally disgusting. It's a difference in philosophy visible to the naked eye. Once upon a time they might have thought that monsters were the best way to kill something, but what had killed the monsters?

Knights, of course. Only instead of shining plovers this one wore its suit directly on its own body. Bella heaves with fresh, disgusting laughter.

And she vanishes. When she reappears she is in the air over top of Sanalessa aiming a downward strike. The unicorn vanishes in turn to appear behind her, but the counterstrike turns into another teleport, and another, and another, and another. They flash across the room in a strange slideshow of combat poses, all potential and promised death without any of the payoff. Only the air screams as if it's dying. But this dance cannot last forever. Eventually, at the fifteenth or so turn, Bella falls behind the pace. When she appears, she is not in an advantaged position but staring down the face of a mighty swing already in progress. She twists her body to at least draw in a counter attack but there's no time to achieve anything approaching the same kind of leverage her opponent has, and even if she could match them exactly she simply isn't as strong. The universe, the gods themselves, have spoken. Two blows connect, but only Bella hurtles backwards. Only she dents the floor and bounces out of the hole she made without moving.

And again, she rises. With even more difficulty than before, she rises. Her Auspex flutters shut, and her mortal eye beholds a suit of perfect armor that is somehow even redder and more stained than before. She cackles until she is interrupted by a wet, hacking cough. What she feels inside her throat is best not described.

This time she rushes headlong under the power of her own trembling legs. The echoes of her stomping sound through large chunks of the ship beyond her battlefield. She comes in a wide arc, using stored momentum and a high angle to compensate for the fatigue of her body. Her spear arm impales the floor and tears out a mountainous section of it that gives her a makeshift shield to call her own. She smashes Sanalessa in the face with it before it can get punched through, which does nothing to stop her ribs from turning to powder under the force of the counter uppercut. The grapple doesn't work. A headbutt only makes the room spin around her own orbit. When she vanishes into the dark she is hunted down, and when she manipulates the trigger of several traps at once, having anticipated the arc of at least a few of Vesper's preparations, the distractions prove useless and unwilling to bend to her advantage.

No matter her approach, Bella is outmatched. That is in the truest sense what it means to fight against a God. All her brute force, all her clever tricks are simply turned aside or reflected at her in a perfected form. She plates over more and more of her body to compensate, all jagged angles and pieces that don't entirely fit together, until she looks as though she is in the middle of being devoured by XIII. But there is no pull on her mind. There is no slowness to her movement. She falls again. She falls again. She falls again.

And she rises.

This is not a question of superiority. This is not a question of overcoming a trial because she deserves to. She hasn't earned this. Fuck, she never worked a day in her life for it. If she'd even known she needed to she would've curled up in her little slave bed back on Tellus and not even Empress Nero could have dragged her out of it to face the universe. This is simply that she has not given up. This is just that without all that heavy blood weighing her down she finds it easier to move a little bit faster. Hit a little bit harder.

Bella never wins a single exchange. But the rate of her deterioration begins to slow in comparison to Sanalessa. She watches the unicorn'ss armor develop cracks and even a torn out chunk at the lower left portion of their abdomen. She watches sets of instructions fizzle out. She watches that white armor turn red. And she laughs, and she rises.

It is not a pretty fight from any perspective anymore. Not the call and not the response. A tight choreography of ultraviolence becomes a ugly exchange of punches and rending stabs that aren't aimed at anything but the broadest of targets. Again, this is not a question of superiority. This is simply the moment where 'im' crumbles off of 'possible'. In that sense one might call it a punishment: calling it a possible labor robs this weary Servitor of her victory and promises a new and worse challenge on the horizon. Which one of these will finally count?

But it is still true that she no longer conceives of this as something that cannot be done. The shift to something that must be done is all she needs to keep standing, to keep lunging, to keep clawing whole sections of ship atmosphere to ribbons to traverse the sudden rift and try one more time to land the attack that Diomedes would smile at. The only real advantage she has is better motivation. That's really all it is. Her opponent had already given up, after all. Whereas she? She had a family that needed her to not only win, but return home after.

Impossible begins to turn. Though her muscles are shredded into uselessness, though the armor she wears around her legs cannot bend, she clambors back off of her knees. Though every breath brings with it a cough, and every cough turns her lips pinker, she plants her feet and smashes her fist against her breast. Though her spine should be shattered and her mind turned to mist she curls to see the ceiling and howls a battlecry that shakes stones loose from several mural reliefs. A gem encrusted skeleton, vines still creeping through its eyesockets, tumbles out of the embrace of a former lover and scatters across the ground.

Bella's boot stomps clean through it. She slumps forward, but more wicked laughter pulls her head straight again.

"Is that... all? You've got?"

Again, she lunges. This time, though she gets suplexed almost through the floor, her spear tears a proper hole in that stupid fucking armor. It's just. Hard to see that. With all the black spots crowding out her vision.

"I don't… I don't buy it, friend. Not for, not for, for, one second. Not for one second."

She's not stuttering, which is itself a victory. The speech lessons paid off! Each syllable is precise, articulate, and enunciated clearly.

Multiple times, admittedly, but small steps.

"Because, see, let's say you're right, and there do exist perfect, platonic ideals that Zeus warped the universe to make perfect.

"Then why bother with the step of making. King. Ing. Making middle managers?

"Think. If you were a perfect being, would you want some imperfect being trying to interpret your desires in the way you'd want? Would you want multiple of them? You gonna invent Azura and humans?

"One, I could. Could see. After all, if you're a perfect being, then what do, do, do the normal things even interest you at all? Your best hope is to, to be left alone, right? Make your own projects. Then yeah, you'd arrange it so that you just fade into the background and you never think about it again.

"But two? We have enough problems with two servitor species in the same ship as each other. You wanna pretend they set up two galaxy-spanning civilizations that have butted heads through their history? Naaaaaah, that. That. That's a mistake, or--"

She pauses, glass halfway to her lips.

"Or factions inside them. That's two perfect beings, thinking of different things they want, different projects they wanna build, and making servitors to do it for them so they can pursue passion projects. D'you think the Azura were built by the foxes, the cats, or the crabs? My money's on crabs. Gotta be."

The final contest is the most difficult: to win, to rig, to excel effortlessly in. The Daughters of Ceron were able to ensure that their fashion show was far and away the best, the most impressive. What use the suit and impractical hat that the Pix picked out for him? How could anyone pick the rustic chef’s apron and shapeless hat that the Beri delegation picked? No one else was brave enough to do the synnefo’s makeup. Victory would surely fall to the Silver Divers.

Similarly, the tea ceremony was perfected by Ceron, and the shameless “maid cafe” that the Pix put on? Bah. Surely the Gravrail Lioness would see right through their silly curtseys and synchronized dance breaks. The tea ceremony was always theirs to win.

But at this point, Redana is forced to admit to herself: maybe the pack was just a little out of its depth when it came to the Great Plousios Bake-Off. At the very least, maybe they shouldn’t have let everyone in the pack be involved?

The Silver Divers’ workstation is a mess of wolves, scents and opinions. The clear hierarchies of the pack are breaking down in the face of arguments over how hard to knead dough, how long to leave the biscuits in the oven, and whose fault it was for leaving that jar of toppings so close to the edge. Battle is one thing, but baking is quite another.

At least they have one of the judges on-side already! Surely Dolce will do his part! But there’s four judges for this one, and two of them are surprises. And here the Silver Divers are, falling all over themselves at the final hurdle while the Pix make biscuits in the shapes of birds in flight.

This would all be easier if Gemini knew how to bake, and whose voice to prioritize to make a pretty cake. Ah, well. As some poet or other once said:

Bake by the right method and means;
do not let sloth weigh down your thoughts,
and neither use a disorderly recipe,
else chaos will abound and all things overturn.
Bake by the right method and means,
and you shall have a cake in harmony with all things.

Bella would know who said that, probably. She’s very clever. And she’ll be so proud of her princess when she discovers how well she’s played her part in Taurus’s wonderful plan~!

“…this is still too underbaked,” she sighs. On the other side of the workstation, knives are drawn over which citrus to use as an accent note.

Ember!

A full piece of paper thwaps you right in the nose.

Or does its level best to. You’re a mighty warrior of Ceron. You may yet catch it.

However this meeting comes about, you find in your hands a piece of paper, and on it, a note written in careful handwriting; how long those cakes should stay in the oven, the right sort of consistency to knead dough, and might he suggest lime as a fine finishing touch? He’s so, so glad that everybody wants to help make this a wonderful event for Vasilia. You all are doing so good. Here, a list, of everyone’s names, and a baking achievement they should be proud of. However it turns out, he knows it’ll be lovely. He knows you all are fighting so hard for your pack. Do your best to make this a good finale.

Signed, Dolce. With a doodle of a sheep, offering you a heart in these trying times.

You look to the judges table. A Summerkind watches all of you, some ancestral memory of pies and home keeping her spellbound as she takes in your work. Iskarot might be asleep? Iskarot might be asleep. His hood is pulled up too high to tell, and it would be rude to ask. Dolce? Why, your captive guest isn’t even looking at you. He’s hard at work, pen scribbling away. He passes his work to Vasilia, who reads it over with a relaxed, unreadable smile. Her only sign of approval is to give the next piece of paper a casual flick of the wrist, and it flies on an impossible dance of gravity to tuck itself behind a Pix’s ear. The next one will go to the Beri delegation. By the excited buzzing from the other groups, their notes are just as encouraging and useful.

But you know. Technically speaking. They don’t really need the help, do they? Perhaps there’s an expert tip or two that they might not have thought of, but all your opponents are comfortable, at ease in their element. The Ceronians are the only ones floundering. Distracted. Lost, and in sore need of guidance to make up the lost ground. You stand to gain much from this aid. Far more than anyone else. But if everyone is getting regular notes, then nobody can complain about unfair treatment. Especially when every note is vetted by the chief judge herself. The playing field is leveled, and no one notices how much ground the wolves are allowed to make up.

Then again, maybe a bake-off is more fun when nobody bombs. When nobody has to present their creation with their fists clenched behind their backs, see their creation through a haze of missed opportunities and shortcomings. The wolves, the foxes, the people of Beri, when was the last time any of them tried the other’s cuisine? This voyage has been long on everybody. A good meal, shared in good company, soothes many hurts.

The beaming sheep slides another note to Vasilia. He starts another before she even finishes reading.

Who can say which is the truth? All you have is a pretty little sheep so full of joy he must keep writing or else he’ll pop. And his beloved mistress basking in the glow of his heart.

Worry not, Ember. Gemini and Taurus will not be disappointed. The bake-off will be

good.

Bella!

You know better than anyone what motivates an activated Diodekoi.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Relentless, driving pain, lashing forwards every blow, every death. You feel that pain now, all through your body, every part of you screaming in the agony that is your birthright. And Sanalessa...

Steps back. You lunge. She steps back. You lunge. She steps back again.

She turns her head aside.

The pain searing at her through the words engraved in her armour do not drive her any more.

She has weighed her options and knows that fighting you for another round would be even more painful.

An eerie stillness settles. Slowly, over the pounding of blood and breath, the sound of running water slowly comes back into focus. You are here in this forgotten underground glade together, alone. Hot breath steaming in the dark, pain screaming along nerves designed to feel every iota of it. Pain enough.

And above it - just barely above, a whisper pitched precisely for the shape of your triangular ears, Vesper's voice: "Push her three more steps to the left, then down into the water." Knowing what to look for you can see the shape of an immobilization trap waiting there. It will be no trouble to push the unicorn into it.

Ember and Dolce!

"Are you sure your mind controlly virus thing is working?" said Taurus, rapping on Gemini's head. "This doesn't need to be a whole thing, just make him get it over with -"
"Shhh," said Gemini, catching Taurus' wrist (an unbelievably cool maneuver she did not think she possessed the reflexes or upper body strength to manage). "Let him cook."
"It does smell good," Taurus admitted. "But what's the big deal? Eyes on the prize, goldie. We want the power."
"Oh, you!" Gemini rolled her eyes. "Listen you big lumpen brute, I happen to know a thing or two about the finer things in life and the power they can hold over someone. And what I'm seeing and smelling here is like something from a dream coming true. So you are going to sit down, wait patiently and beg like a good girl."
Taurus sat, staring stunned. "Gem, what's gotten -"
"And be quiet!" said Gemini. "Oh goodness, what's gotten into me?" she scratched at her neck hard, rough, wearing at the edges of the instructions written there. "You know, I'm starting to think a bird in the hand is worth more..."

Dyssia!

"Can't be crabs," said Iskarot. "Crabs are perfect already. They have no need for anything other than increasing crabmass."

He looked around suddenly. "Oh damn it," he said, standing up and deploying his ionic disintegration array. "How - how many people are here now? This is supposed to be a secret facility. I was supposed to just have one drink. This - they're drinking the wine. That's for the stockpile. I can't be having this. I'm going to kill them all." He deployed a second disintegration array. Then he looked at Dyssia. "I've got a third disintegration array in here somewhere if you want to help me exterminate the party-crashers."

There are a lot of them. More and more of the ship is crowding in here, to the hidden space where things are cool and alcohol flows freely. There might not be much of a crew left if he starts firing now.