At first glance it might be a palace of some kind. Perhaps even a city.

Columns and spires rise to such dizzying heights that they pass beyond the limits of even divine vision. Grand, rolling arches provide easy passage through the rounding walls, though beyond these welcoming entryways the air becomes so thick with shadows that there may not be a world inside of it at all. Your feet carry you for miles around the outside of it but the curve continues on forever. All of this vast expanse is in service to a single building. 

Everything is white, white, white, white, white, white, [i]White.[/i] Glittering and painful, more pure than the fur on her body. Brighter than creation. Not a canvas waiting for a brush or a joining of every color into some unified whole but Perfection for its own sake. Uniform and featureless and forever. It suffers a single imperfection along the vast walls, the only thing that might be worthy to mar the surface of such a pure artistic vision, which is Gold. Gold is necessary to create massive, serpentine grooves that run up the infinite vastness of this place. Gold is necessary to prove that Perfection is capable of more than featureless nothing; that there is art and creativity and beauty here for anyone to love.

There are pictures painted in the gold. A crew of idiots scrambling around the Eater of the Dead, the storm inside the monster and the murder of a King. An endless sea of machines dancing around a crown, and desperate heroes just barely slipping through their broken, grasping digits. On and on it stretches until it has painted the entire journey of the [i]Plosious[/i], before it wraps back around again to tell it again as a series of endless failures and captures. Once as betrayal stacked on top of betrayal, once as timidity disguised as love and contentment, and again as nothing but a series of horrific tortures so vivid they have their own screams.

Though there is nothing here but safety. Up, and up, and up, and up stretch the great pillars of white like fingers attempting to grasp the featureless blue sky. Down, and down, and down, and down reach their opposites: the shadows made of pure pitch that sink like fangs and daggers toward the howling abyss. And through the middle of that contradiction, winding in and out of the light and the darkness as simply as though it were a game of make believe, there is laughter.

The pair of them dart around the murals and the intimidating perfection as though they cannot see it. Their small forms are wrapped in perfectly fitting silks fit for young imperial princesses. They hold hands as they dart about, they skip and they leap and they laugh and it is more beautiful and flows more clearly than a brook fed by the final snows of winter. Together they are every color this place lacks. The taller of the two twirls, and her golden hair trails like a scarf made from precious metals that have been taught to flow as water does. Her eyes are golden too, with long catlike irises that are striking against her otherwise perfect and perfectly human body. She is grace and surety and joy every time she stoops to pick up the smaller girl, the one with the short cropped cut of blue-black hair who flushes with embarrassment every time before her emerald eyes flash in renewed determination and she does something even dumber and more flashy as though to make up lost points.

The ground sometimes melts in front of them, white featureless perfection turning briefly to bubbling mud and sludge that lifts itself into new shapes for their enjoyment. First a small forest and then a mountain and then a little fortress with adorable little guns point at them for the pair of them to raid. In the span of ten minutes the girls complete an adventure that sees them save a Forest Lion from its Deadly Paw Thorn, win a race (both of them, despite running separately), punch a dragon, kiss a beautiful princess, and then ride a dinosaur without pausing to think about what came next. 

Breathless, giggling, and dirty with white dust on their colorful mosaic clothing, the pair of them finally slow down enough to notice a massive, golden door opening to their right. From the entrance and the warm light that pours out there is music so beautiful that it could only be about love. The chorus is made entirely of bells; their melodies richer than the most indulgent chocolate cream and bursting with unique chimes that are a match for any number of voices. The girls turn their heads to look at each other, and with smiles on their faces they skip inside the light before the doors slam shut behind them.

And this is how you learn that all of this towering White is for a theater.

"They're off to play with their Grandmother," says Bella, "I think she's going to share a bunch of Dany's old favorites. Fun little way to teach the kids what it was like for their parents growing up and embarrass the living shit out of us at the time time."

The voice is hers, unaltered and strong, but the mouth it is coming out of belongs to a child even younger than the two who just disappeared through the door. She is a tiny thing, smaller than she ought to be through obvious malnutrition and dressed only in bandages. Her head is covered in rough patches of her signature hair, which has otherwise been burned or melted off. Her face is covered completely in wrappings which are all the colors of misery and suffering, and the stench of her tiny body still speaks to the acid treatments she'd been subjected to in order to remove unwanted fur from her form. She flicks her tiny tail, and shrugs.

"I thought, for a while, it wouldn't be so bad to let my dream go. If it was for her sake."

This Bella is older, maybe a match for the larger of her two daughters. Her frilly gothic dress and large heeled, ribboned shoes should make her a delight to prospective buyers at the auctions. Her hair is silky smooth and braided into twintails that seem designed to make her look sweet and non-threatening, something that was evidently a problem for her in the past. If the bandages around her fingertips are any indication. She glances briefly at her younger self, still sitting in her tiny chair, before walking further into the light with her carefully practiced gait.

"I mean, I never wanted to stifle her. But endless adventure is a lot to ask for, don't you think?"

A teenage Bella is standing behind you in her finest Imperial Pet collar and the beautiful black-and-whites of a palace maid. Already in her adolescence she has flowered into the kind of womanhood that will bring a certain princess to ruin. Her every motion is velvet perfection, and the talons on her fingertips accent the perfect amount of jewelry for her station. You would have to be cynical indeed to believe they were coverings for mutilated, missing claws and not a personal touch she added to her look to please her Mistress. She offers the daintiest curtsy, and smiles sardonically.

"Every journey is supposed to end in the same place."

Another angle for the voice, another Bella to speak it. This one looks like the Praetor who hunted Princess Redana and her friends, but after some horrible disaster. All of her strength and her beauty is fallen to ruin. Her hair is matted and painfully clumped around a small braid that looks like it's tugging on her scalp every time she so much as breathes. What had once been a fetching military jacket and creamy white pants have rotted down to tatters, and the red half skirt around her waist is so full of holes and frayed spots that it might disintegrate if she tries to do more than limp forward. Which her legs look barely capable of to begin with. She stares with resentment at the empty wine bottle in her hand and lets it fall to the ground with a clatter. Another simply appears in its place.

"That is, if you want to have a real family..."

An older Bella still in her pet collar flaunts her body without meaning to. Every inch of her body is soaked from some kind of downpour. Her hair is bedraggled, but in a way that shows great care has recently gone into it, though her ears are crushed miserably against her skull. She clutches at the chain leash around her neck as if it were a weapon, while white and black and gold in very translucent overlapped lace patterns cling to her fur, the pale skin of her stomach, her chest, and her shoulders. Her golden eyes tremble with equal parts fear and anger, as hideous red drips from her beautiful talons.

"You have to come home."

Mosaic grins and ties a jacket around her waist. Her body drips with sweat from long labor, but she seems unbothered by everything. Her golden and purple eyes are turned only toward the skies.

"We have room enough for you here too," says another, more horrible Bella, "We have room for as many people as we need. Just so long as they understand."

Here at last is a Bella at the gate, plainly guarding the spot where those little girls disappeared. She is resplendent in the red and gold of the Empire. A sweeping skirt and a tight button shirt with one sleeve longer than the other. This is an affectation and not a flaw: her arm is bare to show her furless skin. The crown on her head sits without needing to make any accommodations for ugly pointed triangles spoiling the view. As if to revel in the shape of her head she has slicked back her hair to show her unblemished forehead. Her hair is streaked with molten gold. Bella, biomantically ascended into a true Administrator Species. A Human not just by some pretension of philosophy, but in real and actual fact. Bella: daughter of Nero.

She smiles, and her teeth are perfectly centered. And perfectly flat. Her eyes are still the colors of gold and red, but no cat qualities mar (//lift) them up. She opens her palm, and a wreath of flame roars to life until it takes the shape of a sword. Pointed and jagged and sickening to look at too long, this blade feels like a glitch in the universe. It's no comfort to know it is derived from the flames that once trapped the Empress Nero's corpse, now wielded in her service by her one true daughter. For the moment she does nothing more than lean on it, but just by having it here the air feels less pure and more like being in the presence of the Master of Assassins.

"My wife."
"My mother!"
"My sisters."
"My friends!"
"My crew."
"Every stupid moron who followed me this far."

The many Bellas speak up in rapid succession, the same voice bouncing from myriad angles in the expanse in front of the theater. She is every moment in time that she ever cried out for help. Every moment she was desperate enough to wish for a mother's embrace, or a parent's perspective, the stability to at least know what to do or the strength that comes from knowing there's somewhere to return to when everything is over. 

There are far, far more of her than have shown themselves yet. She has lived a lifetime of fear and regret. Here, at last, every chapter of her life has a happy ending. Here, every prayer was answered by the same god. Here, every wish led her back to the place where she could have the peace and acceptance she trembled for so many long years' worth of fear, toil, and unending loneliness. Here she is limitless, and so knows limitless delights.

"I'll accept them all into my paradise."

They all speak out at once. They all smile, in their different ways. Bemused and superior sarcasm stands with equal power next to childish fawning and the servile solitude of the perfect maid. Heroes grin with sharp teeth and tyrants flash a winning smile without a fang in sight.

"You can rest now," they all say it like a song, "Right here."

"Under my perfect, starless sky."