[IC] Breathless Dead

[Balmas]

Alexa carries the initiate like a princess. One arm wraps around and stabilizes the legs, mindful of imaginary ball dresses, while another comes up to steady her upper half in case of sudden movement.

It's purely practical, she tells herself. This way, if the pursuing thugs want to try the same trick, they'll at least have to go for her first, and give Skotos few seconds to make her getaway. Yep. Certainly nothing nice about the look in her eyes or the little whoop when she leaves the ground or having someone appreciate you. Nope.

She puts up one placating hand, wary of the gravharnesses. "Please. We are mere travelers--we would only listen."

[Phoe]

"I'm not!"

Her voice catches in an awkward upward inflection that only manages not to be a squeak by turning itself into a moment of choking coughs that erase the rest of the sentence. She looks away as she walks, but even an ordinary palace servitor could catch the fresh blush rising into her cheeks for the second time in just a handful of minutes. Even they would barely have to wonder if she meant 'not one of you' or 'not fucking [a Toxicrene]', because the answer is that she's lying in both cases.

That reaction isn't embarrassment. It's shame. She really hadn't put the pieces together before now. Why she was here, why the Master of Assassins had an interest in her life, why she would have the skills and power that she does when her job and the function of her species was to be pretty and desirable. They hadn't made her an Adept, but they'd only rescued her from that hell so she could be a weapon.

She hadn't considered what all those nights in bed meant, either. Night after night of falling asleep arm in arm, just two friends warding off the loneliness and the dark together. Hadn't it been? But all of the biting, the touching, the play which had been the exact opposite of trying to find a restful night. The stubborn, irritating insistence on never being more than half a room away. Antidotes. No, impossible. XIII's eye widens in horror and surprise, before it flickers in the obvious way of someone who's thoughts have just been interrupted by a stream of memories. Tellus. The Anemoi. The Yakanov. Her teeth clench dangerously tight. She draws a breath through a single sharp sniff that makes her entire body go rigid as the dead. And this is all the reaction she allows herself.

"I don't need a name," she lies more calmly this time, "I was an Imperial Pet, and then a Praetor. I ran this ship. I broke the Kaeri here because they were being useless fuckwits. I lifted the Lanterns in their place, because they weren't. And now none of that's true, so what the fuck do I need a name for? Tredecima is an honorable distinction for a graduate of the Kennels."

Her posture as she draws herself up with a flourish isn't straight enough to indicate pride. Confusion. Stress. The impact of the previous attempt at conversation is still echoing inside her. She is telling herself it doesn't matter, that Mynx is gone forever now. She's not sure she really believes it. Her breathing is uneven. Her steps are rapid and she is closing distance quickly while trying not to seem like she's doing it at all.

But she arrives. She is not deterred by any act of cooking. She knows her way around a head of hair almost as well as she knows her way around a kitchen, or how to work on someone who won't sit still. Barely two seconds elapse before her fingers find and start to gather the first of the golden locks before her breathing starts to settle. Her body's ticks disappear. She is no longer thinking about memories or implications, or burning with shame.

She is incredibly talented. Her fingers gather hair and tease it straight with greater precision than any comb could hope for. Hera watches from somewhere and sighs for want of a helper this good. She untangles knots that had only just started forming at tips or by roots before they'd even had a chance to be noticed. She plucks up layer after layer of smooth golden hair and twists it into shapes worthy of a princess, bobbing and ducking and leaning as she needs to so she can keep perfectly level with Beautiful's head as she darts about the counter space.

"You sure that's what you wanna go with? Most people I know aren't lucky enough to get to pick their own names. And I'll tell you something else, as soon as anyone thinks they know something about you it pretty much stops mattering what you try to change later. So just... oh whatever, do what you want. Like I give a fuck."

She tugs on the braids more than she needs to as she weaves them, just for a moment. But the relaxation of the action is total, and before breakfast can finish cooking, XIII as turned her new Ikarani friend's head into an intricate scene of a golden waterfall with a mermaid's tail swimming up it to her crown, where a tight loop of hair sits like a crown of laurels as her prize for reaching the top.

She takes three quick steps backwards and folds her hands in front of her waists again, a gesture born out of years of habit. She watches with a hungry intensity that shatters the gentleness of her posture into little fragments for some hapless Azura to sweep up in a decade's time. Her tail flicks like a whip behind her.

She has made a decision just now. And it's too late for anything to change her mind anymore.

[TheAmishPirate]

A rival? Maybe. Maybe not. How can he know until he meets them? The Housekeeper may have an interest in foreign cuisine, or long to collaborate with another cook, or feel a sore need for a break. There’s too much they could be, in this place where anything may be possible, so why fret about it when he could just meet them and find out?

Though he hoped they at least still liked good food, well-prepared. It would rather complicate everything if they didn’t.

“Thank you, everyone. Please, go and mingle while I prepare. Vas-” Ah. No. That’s not the name he should use, is it? Right? “Vasilia, would you. Accompany me to the kitchens?” It. Really ought not to be a question. If he’s Captain, you see. Captains generally give orders, but, questions were acceptable sometimes. And this seemed questionable enough?

Already she stands at the ready, seeming at once poised, but in an instant she will melt into a steady march behind him, and no one will mark the transition. She remains watchful of their surroundings. She does not look at him as she answers. “As you wish...Captain.”

He cannot see the concern, gathering at the corners of her eyes.

As they left the court, Dolce clung to the one rule that must hold true, no matter the custom: Food had to be brought from where it was prepared to where it would be enjoyed, as quickly and directly as possible. The complications of grav-rails might’ve stumped another Captain. But Dolce had, perhaps, the second-most experience amongst the crew in gravitational thinking. If he could not find the kitchen, then perhaps they were never meant to be found.

[Tatterdemalion]

Oh, dearest Alexa! How heroic you look, carrying a simple initiate like this! It is, indeed, one of the traditional heroic poses; if these students had any refinement, they would recognize this in a moment and give you the honor that you deserve! All their attention is on you, after all, the woman of the hour! Swept up in a daring chase, attempting to sweet-talk a gaggle of undergraduates, carrying an object of rescue like Percy Novus carrying Queen Andromella, and looking good doing it! As for all that with Athena and the loss of her favor, well, that’s the sort of drama-preserving handicap any good story needs, and one that everyone here is quite likely oblivious to.

And yet you still acknowledge the cultist’s gratitude. Is it, perhaps, that you are not so different? You have been driven to the dregs, your identity unmoored from its shining and steadfast purpose; small wonder that you are able to see, if only slightly, beneath that anonymizing hood and the air of absolute irrelevance.

“I’m very good at listening,” Skotos murmurs, sotto voce. You might be the only one who even hears, Alexa. “You should let us stay,” she adds. Can something be unheard but still understood? Like stage directions, or a passing thought. Like the wind, unseen but felt.

[Thanqol]

Alexa and Skotos!

"Listen!?" barks the Philosopher, descending on wings of physics to spit out the corpse of yet another bird. "Here we do not listen, for the element of air is not to be trusted! Air is formless and changing, so is it any question that language formed through the shaping of it is by nature deceptive and untrustworthy? Forego the element of air! Zeus appears to us not in the form of air, but in the form of birds - and what are birds but circulating water that soars high enough to see Heaven? Abandon the lying air, sink your hands into wet birdflesh and know wisdom as nations did in ancient days!"

Her followers nod appreciatively and exchange a flurry of sign language in appreciation.

"Nonsense!" came a shout from across the square. The ancient decrepit banner-carrier Azura has spoken, and is rubbing the side of her mechanical jaw from the strain of it. "Nonsense! You denounce the shifting nature of air and instead put your faith in water? What nonsense!"

"Of course not, water itself is dumb and inert and filled with chaotic corruption," yelled the Philosopher to be heard at the proper distance. "I put my trust in blood. Blood, as organic material, exports entropy and generates true organization. Water is not shifting chaos, it is the foundation for life, and in life the Gods make their true will known."

"Nonsense!" yelled back the Banner-Bearer, and their shouted conversation from across the half-empty square is loud enough to make those nearby wince and cover their ears. "Blood is unclean and death displeases the gods! Even if you were correct, the only truth your auspexes would provide would be warning of your impending destruction!"

This debate, such as it is, is doing nothing to stop the two Azura mafiosos from making their way towards you. Compact, foldable weapons are glimpsed in their hands.

Vasilia and Dolce!

This is not a place of decorum.

You are used to kitchens that are clean and organized, communal places where dozens can work side by side. Not here. This is a place of frenzy. In the centre, suspended in the air, is an Azura with an Athenian four arms. Around her spins an orbital belt of spheres, soaring in and out, positioning themselves with perfect timing for each move and gesture.

The Apollonian form of relaxation is to reach a state of divine harmony with the world around you. Perhaps you might master a game, or pilot a spaceship, or in this case cook and prepare for a palace simultaneously but the ideal is to reach a state where physical motion is perfect and mental activity is silenced. The ancients depicted Apollo as either sitting, standing, lying or walking; technology has progressed far since then.

You are in a room where one being exists in perfect, thoughtless divine meditation, an epiphany that may have lasted days. This kitchen and the elaborate constellation of floating ingredients and dishes exist in a frictionless liminal space as a broken or transcendent individual replaces the function of an entire society of cooks.

Is her flawless technique beautiful, Dolce? Or is her isolation terrifying? And how do you approach someone who is so deeply in the zone?

XIII!

"Oh, you don't need to tell me that people's perceptions are sticky," said Beautiful, flash-fire striking as she flicks what smells like dumplings about in her pot. "That's literally a curse Artemis placed on the world. I wish I knew the story, but I can see the shape of it. Something something wouldn't know it if it killed you. I guess she was real mad at some point."

She looks around, head tilted to the side, and again the flash of those violet eyes is paralyzing. "I figured out how to murder everyone in the solar system," she said in a voice like she was dreaming.

And then she breaks the eye contact with a jolt and her hands are flying around through spices and sauces again. "Not entirely my doing!" she said in a more normal voice, sharp and quick. "It's those coins you found. The Azura are doing something incredibly dangerous with those and it's vulnerable to disruption. Now I need to work backwards until I'm only killing the correct people. Behold! Crab Rangoon!" Golden dumplings cascade from her frypan onto a bronze platter that she places in front of you.

"Problem is there's layers to this," she said, more to herself now, voice taking on a slightly frenzied tone. "Different people want different things, have different tolerances for collateral. Master of Assassins likely has a veto if I get too cute with it. But lots of names on the death list, got some flex on the crews but not a lot. System destruction would be the most elegant solution and I can't rule out that she knows that..."

For a moment her thoughts seem to run so loud that they almost twist the air around her. And then she jolts back to the present, and eats one of the dumplings. "You know," she said, "I kind of imagined that these'd be fancier, but that's what I get for basing culinary decisions off a joke I can only remember through a mindwipe. It's the smell, though. Smells are really good for memories, and you smell like someone I like. I'm... glad for that. I'm glad that I care about you, and that you wouldn't be cool with me just killing everyone. It's making my job a fucking bitch, but I like the idea that if I do this right maybe I'll be able to make everything work out for someone. It seems improbable that I've had that before."

She smiles for a moment before again switching gears and getting back into her flow. "Bag those, we'll eat on the go. You, me, and the Oratus. We need to be down on the surface yesterday if we're going to pull this off!"

[TheAmishPirate]

It’s familiar.

A Manor serves far fewer than a palace. A family may enjoy the aesthetic comfort of a tidy kitchen. A Housekeeper must remain invisible. He sees the nuances of Purpose that gave her her arms and recognizes the hands that molded his wool. He does not look for any other staff; he already knows she is alone, and has been alone. A Chef watches a Housekeeper, born galaxies apart, and sees himself, and may not see himself, and the gravity of negative space draws him ever closer.

“Vasilia?” He hears himself, and forgets that he even spoke the words. “Would you be my eyes, please?”

She has no place for him. She is enough for the task. She has been enough. She will be enough. She is a universe unto themselves. But could that universe expand? He was not born to match her, and would not dare try. Slipping between spheres, slipping almost from thought, guided by a voice of his heart, he became more than a sphere. The system gains a second sun. Orbits drift in increments to match their destined paths. Nothing disturbs her trance. And yet.

Tell me who you are, Housekeeper. He does not know if you can speak anymore. A tongue may be only for tasting, now. Broken. Transcendent. Alive. He cannot tell from without, and so he asks you from within. Who are you, Housekeeper? Tell him of you, and he will tell you of him.

For this moment, you are not alone. And the universe may never be the same.

[Rolling to Overcome with Grace to make this all possible: 5 + 4 + 2 = 11]

[Phoe]

So this is how she dies? Holding a plate of crab rangoon. XIII glances down, but even in the reflection of the brass those violet eyes follow her.

Her skin tingles. No, her entire body is throbbing, or buzzing, or who the fuck knows? It's like standing on the edge of a roof in the middle of a storm, waiting to see if Zeus will strike before she makes the choice to step off the edge and take the plunge into the chaos down below. Every breath is tinged with lightning. Her ears ring with the power of those rapid, rambling thoughts. And her hands are busy holding a meal cooked, expertly at that, for a joke she doesn't understand.

XIII plucks a dumpling off the platter and brings it to her mouth. She sniffs it in hesitation, as though expecting it to unfold and explode into a new galaxy to crush the old one underneath it. Stupid. It's just fried dough. She crunches down on it in a burst of sudden violence. It explodes after all, but into some sort of hyper-sweet cream wrapped around bits of something even her tongue isn't certain if it's crab or some cobbled together imitation. Flakes of dough grind into her teeth with every bite, which keeps it from being nothing but mush and goop. No, not fancy, not in the slightest. But it's surprisingly nice, even set against the mastery of the Azura. She chews slowly, eyes never leaving Beautiful. The look on her face says she could be contemplating murder or hugs with equal probability.

"I... y-yeah. Yeah. I'm, uh, I'm glad too. I haven't... oh fuck it, forget it. I hate explaining things to you, it feels like wasting both of our time at once."

She snarls and pivots on her feet to tuck the rest of breakfast away in a plastic container and then bursts forward on powerful, prowling legs to keep pace with Beautiful. So she doesn't have to walk backwards anymore to keep her focus. Two dumplings are sacrificed to her mouth as taxes for the labor spent before she makes it. She frowns, but her tail flicks with obvious, stupid happiness.

"Listen. If Beljani gives you any shit," she shakes her head and lets another thought drop to the ground unfinished, where she stomps on it with her heel, "Doesn't matter. Just tell me what you need. I'll... make your plan work. Whatever it is. I promise."

It's a confusing feeling, all these bands across her chest. Some are coming loose, and it's only in the absence of their pressure that she notices how much they'd been crushing her all this time. And as they pop free, new ones start squeezing her without her understanding why. All of this pressure. All of this relief. She'd commit treason for a glass of wine right now, if she didn't need her full focus for the mission.

...She's about to break a promise to somebody. The thought forms a lump in her throat like a bit of that sweet cream that just won't swallow. Somebody, and she doesn't know who. No. She mustn't. She'll simply have to work harder, is all. Her life, her dreams, her... e-everything depends on her being perfect.

For once. Please.

[Balmas]

For a second, Alexa ponders taking her shoes off to see where her stomach must have landed.

They're not hesitating at all. Drawing weapons, here, in the middle of a crowded square, full of witnesses. Granted, most of the crowd has turned to watch the argument--you know, whichever portion of the crowd was not already made of disciples--but still. To draw weapons on newcomers…

They're not going to stop coming until she does something. Run away. Talk. Stop them by force.

The spear does not leap to her hand. Does not dance in the air, warm her hands like a living being, practically aim itself at the foe's every vulnerable spot. It does nothing but sit in her hands, a length of wood with a point at one end.

Fretfully, she runs one thumb along its worn groove. That's still the same, at least. Can she swing this well while carrying an initiate? Aim, with two arms propping up someone else, and only one arm per side for fighting? Probably not the best idea to figure it out in the middle of fighting off slavers, but the smile on her face

Alexa takes a first practice swing. Awful. Terrible. Formless. Slow. Easily blocked.

"Your"--shit, titles, um--"Blessed Master!" Nailed it. Hopefully. "I crave your wisdom!

Second swing. Artless.

Can't turn to check on faces, expressions. Is the argument slowing down, she hopes?

Stab. Hmm. Potential. Amateurish, but look for pairings. Stab high, and then… where to bring the shield?

"In the course of our travels, I have lost the blessing of Athena Areia! How may I have the strength to protect my friends if I do not wish it again?"

[Tatterdemalion]

Skotos is a prop.

They must be. If they had interiority, then they would be overwhelmed with the revelation that Alexa has lost the favor of Athena, whose face she wears. If they were a person, if they had a relationship with Alexa, it would force them to reevaluate a past that has been severed from them like a lizard’s tail. How long, they would ask themselves. Then: why would Athena turn her face away from her champion?

It would force them to admit that they are not Alexa’s friend. Come to think of it, they aren’t anyone’s friend. Skotos is unmoored from the web of interconnections that makes up the universe, the thrumming strings of Aphrodite’s lute. A shadow is nothing more than a lacunae that passes briefly over the world.

Redana Claudius does not have friends, for she is too important; she has advisors, trusted companions, or loyal followers. Skotos does not have friends, for they are too unimportant; a rounding error, a loose cable, a rusting panel in a flooded corridor. They have no right to offer Alexa advice, to seek the attention of the philosophers, to be involved in a daring battle, a handicapped hero against two rogues juggling a useless cultist. They sink into themselves with a convulsive shudder, resigned to their role. Even in this sort of story, Skotos deserves to be nothing more than a prop. So they shall be. Or would be, perhaps, if not for—

Who here recognizes Skotos as a shade, a formless echo bereft of its proper place in the universe? How do they see this?

[Thanqol]

Skotos!

Who perceives shadows? Animals, of course. Dogs, specifically. Dogs are vigilant creatures, that is part of their ancient nature, preserved no matter what strange future they find themselves in or what strange sculptures have been built to capture their essence. It is a deep and profound truth that dogs can see ghosts; this is a fact that explains as much about ghosts as about dogs.

And so Rusty sees you. Alexa's strange mechanical hound, neither less nor more than any other dog. Ancient wisdom said that all dogs are good dogs, but dogs consider that ideal something to aspire to every day. And so, with the simple but irreversible logic of a good dog, Rusty takes a chomp of your dangling scarf and starts to pull you along by the neck at a brisk trot in a reversal of the traditional shape of walkies. His metal nose is pressed up against the ground, air vacuumed into the powerful sensory array encased therein, and dragged by that inevitable logic the hound pulls and pulls you with him.

He is pulling you away from the fight. You might regret leaving your... you might regret leaving Alexa behind. But while you were a prop there you are anything but now. The other truth of dogs is that whoever you are, you are the most important person in the entire universe - a powerful, beautiful, commanding, magical genius who alone will be able to unravel the mystery at the end of that snuffling nose.

A shadow is not nothing, after all. It is enough to startle a dog, make him bark. To a dog, in that moment, that is everything.

Alexa

"Oh! Isn't that a question!" said the Philosopher, clapping her hands with a wet squish sound. "There are assumptions there - assumptions that must be unpacked!"

The Azura goons are not legends of the field, not cult champions endlessly dedicated to the mastery of war. They are large and they are tough and they are armed, but so are you. The one difference is Athena herself, prowling around the edge of the duel like a drill instructor.

"The first and most important is one of identity," said the Philosopher, voice soaring above the clumsy clash of steel. "Who are you? Why must you offer protection? If someone is to be strong then why is it to be you? If you would wish upon the Gods, then why not wish for a tongue quicksilver that you might charm your foes? Why not plead for wealth immense that you might harness the strength of others? Why not pray for hearth and home that none might seek quarrel with you or yours at all? Why strength? Why you? Why judge yourself by a wish that you yourself have discarded?"

Vasilia and Dolce!

"It all depends on me," said the Azura. "It depends on me alone. Everyone left. Everyone was taken. Every corner was cut. Atlas was taken, the Skies have fallen, and now I must carry them alone."

There is no wasted effort. No luxury of inefficiency. This is not merely a mortal's idea of perfection, it's a god's as well. So it seems at first... but that's not quite right. There are still flourishes. Wasteful gestures. Little flashes of creativity amidst the grinding order.

Neither is it the limit of what she might do if she was pushed a little harder. Each act is a tightrope cast over the hole someone left behind. Her ability to perform this task is a monument as well as an obligation. The quirks, the flourishes, the little personal touches have not been excised in the name of mastery. She clings to them as the only reminders she has of friends long lost.

They're the only things tying her to this place, but they bind her as surely as chains. If you pushed her a little harder, Dolce, she will break them. She will break them, forced to do away with those painful memories at long last, and transcend. She will set down her spoons and spheres and walk from this kitchen free from the trap of love that so binds her. She will be whole and free and forgiven, allowed at last to start life again anew. Apollo sits on this side, smiling gently.

But Aphrodite stands on the other. Perhaps, says the God of Love with his ancient and tortured face, spending eternity suffering for love is ideal. Perhaps she should wait forever. Perhaps there are some things you should never get over. In this case you should ease her burden for her for a moment, slip into the steps of her industry and get ahead of the work for just a little while. It will buy you some time to talk to her, and she will listen. And when you are done she will return to her recollections.

The choice is yours then, Dolce, a trial of the gods. Move on, or dwell in remembrance? Which is better?

XIII!

Your first task is to rob a train.

It's the first of a shopping list of bizarre goals. Some are yours, some are Beljani's, some are given to the Master of Assassins, the Kaeri, even the Lanterns. The full force of the Anemoi has been mobilized behind the strange compulsive vision of Beautiful even if she can't even begin to explain how all of this will somehow end in death and ruin.

You stand atop the racing Azura vehicle as it crosses between two mountains on a rail of silken thread. You stand beneath the violet sun and stars as the Azura warden pulls herself up onto the roof, surrounded by rotating grav-spheres. There is no pretense of reinforcements, no sign that this will ever be made something larger - this society is too brittle for backup. Defeat her here and the prize is yours.

The wind rushes through your ears and your heart beats with a new kind of adrenaline. A trial, but one beneath the sun and sky, with rewards physical and immediate. The separation between ability and result has never been smaller.

[Tatterdemalion]

The need of the hound is reflected into Skotos like a beam of light being shone into a house of mirrors. For the sake of Rusty, Skotos condenses. She is solid enough for gender, at least for a moment, and solid enough for regret— but not so much that she could pull her scarf out of Rusty’s mouth (her fingers would fall limply away, like smoke over water) or even enough to call back to Alexa (the words would turn to empty night in her throat).

“I’m not very good at solving things,” she attempts to warn the hound. “Really, anyone else would have been a better choice. Unless all you need are hands?” She considers this as the hound tugs her resolutely along. “Then I am a good choice,” she concludes. “I have hands. And everyone else has more important duties to carry out with theirs. So you should use mine.”

Satisfied that she is doing the right thing and being of service to everyone (for Alexa must fight, the philosopher must teach, and the students must learn, and she is stopping the hound from pulling any of them away), Skotos begins to look around her properly, self-aware of the hollow longing in her chest. Everything here is empty even as it is grand; there is no concentration of population, and so the drift outwards continues, just like Nero’s thesis states is the natural inclination of humanity. And yet here, there, still can be seen people devoted to some grand task of their own choosing.

Just like her, if you think about it. She devoted herself to a grand task, and all it cost her is—

She blinks. Her spirit exists solely in her face and her breastbone. Her feet are automatons marching stiffly onwards, lead on a leash; her hands are too limp to raise to her chest.

All it cost Redana Claudius was the life of her childhood companion, Bella. And Redana is strong enough to live with that; she is able to accept the sacrifices that must be made to pursue a high and noble vision, just like her mother before her. Skotos is not strong.

That is why, walking down the streets of a grand Salibean city, in the shadow of high spires, on the mosaic roads, to the tune of the musician who still lives at 1397 Excellence-of-Companions Tower whose composition floats out from their open balcony and continues for hours upon end as he reiterates and seeks some refinement of the piece both as a whole and as an interlinked piece with the rest of his body of work, under the gaze of a sentinel who has fought and refought a theoretical war in his own mind for centuries so that he may know every aspect of it from every angle and from his own self-exploration thus derive an entire science of battle, stepping over carefully-swept piles of broken glass that the hound swerves around, Skotos cries. Again. As she does whenever she is enough herself to express pain.

She cries for the wasted potential of who she could have been, who Redana Claudius will now become, who she was unworthy of being. (As if standing outside herself, she remembers wanting to kill the Toxicrine, the Privateer. Redana Claudius would not, could not have done so. Another failed exam in an unbroken string.) But more than that, she cries for Bella, alone, in the cold and thin dark, an abandoned toy that was left without reassurance of love— no, worse. Toys can’t feel pain or grief or loneliness. An abandoned girl, then.

Bella, who never got to see Salib.

Bella, who never got to see Redana come home like she’d promised.

Bella, who was punished for the follies of the only person who tried and innocently failed to love her.

A footnote in the story of Redana Claudius. An Act I tragedy to tug at the heartstrings. An asterisk in the grand story of Humanity’s Salvation. A thorn in Skotos’s heel. It hurts. It hurts and it has not stopped hurting. And that is why Redana must be Redana and Skotos must be Skotos.

By the time the hound stops, Skotos has become so raw that she has wrapped back around to being numb, the pain a humming static. She stops to rub the hound’s ears before opening herself back up to the world, to see where she has been taken, blind and deaf to the world for the pain.

[Phoe]

The wind pulls her hair and her cloak in opposite directions. They flutter dramatically in a storm born out of pure motion, stinging the skin on her face and pulling her feet from where they're planted on top of the train. Underneath, the form fitting black and gold bodysuit leaves nothing to the imagination, but the material is perfectly adapted to keep the biting cold from bothering her. Beautiful's plans were strange, but they considered every detail.

The mountains rise up to meet her on either side. Tellus would never permit a moment like this. It would be an Imperial crime for something so large and majestic to be left up to its own devices. The space wasted on a mere outcropping of rock where there was space for further housing or industry. The erratic structure that made it more difficult to observe everything that might be happening at once. Even the sun in the sky could not be permitted to shine so unevenly. XIII could never have imagined a moment where she could be sped from glaring violet light into cool shadows where her sense of speed heightened by the closeness of the stone as it shoots past her.

XIII snarls as she slides low to the ground and digs her claws into the frigid metal underneath her. This is not one of Redana's adventure holos. The thin air and howling winds doesn't leave any room for witty banter, and the price for failure was far worse than a steamy new costume and a trip to the Shah's harems.

Her muscles sing a song of ecstasy and power in the moments before the fight. Her claws and talons send sparks into the air with a horrifying screech, and the roof of the train gives away under her curling fingers. More. More. More! This is what they made her for! This is why she's here! Sing, Muses, of the power of Empire and the weapon chosen for this moment!

She leaps with enough reckless strength to match the train for speed and tears a strip off of it the length of an entire car as she rises. She spins in the air and momentum more than might heaves the enormous, almost axe-like shard over her shoulders. Her ears are full with the howling of the wind. Her skin is warm and tingling from the tight hug of her new outfit. Her hands sting from the bite of her makeshift weapon, but even this is a heaven-sent sensation.

XIII rises high enough in the air to kiss the tops of mountains and slip the bonds of gravity as if she were the one riding grav spheres. She travels on the arc of a rainbow lit by a violet sun in the spaces where uneven peaks make room for it to slip through and catch her comically oversized weapon. With a howl that's equal parts fury, desperation, and triumph, she throws herself at the ground and smashes her axe into the top of the next car in front of her.

This is not a battle. This is a show of Imperial force. This is a display of Azura weakness. All their talent, all their refined strength, and they build every last bit of their crumbling home on single points of failure. Her eye glints in triumph as the car crumbles underneath her. Down in the city below, someone will note a flash of light like a bolt of Zeus' lightning without any of the thunder and fury that normally follows such displays. After, they will note the plume of smoke and wonder what might be happening.

And the mountains will never forget the train's death scream. The rending of metal on metal that sent one car spiraling out of synch with the rest of its body until the connectors sheer off from each other. XIII goes tumbling off the side with her arms flailing desperately. One set of claws tears a useless gash in the train before she can find purchase, but the next swipe bites in and all she has to do is endure the pain of her elbow and shoulder snapping dislocated to claim victory. Her gaze flicks down, and she grins.

Well, fuck. How do you like that, the thread held! The fuck did they make that thing out of. XIII winces and a whimper of pain escapes her lips when she tries to haul herself onto the top of the remaining, rapidly slowing train. She'll never learn what that snake was capable of. She'll never learn if they lived. And she'll never have to give a shit, because the only thing Beautiful wanted on this train is back here, with her.

She scrabbles over the edge and immediately drops to her knees. Her scream as she sets her arm in place again can be heard even over the rushing winds.

[TheAmishPirate]

The choice should not be his to make.

The thought does not survive the next passing of plates. Of course it has to be him. There is no one else. He is her. She is him. They are not, but they are, and there may never be another Chef to meet the Housekeeper. Forgive him for shrinking, ma’am. There is too much at stake to not make a choice. But it may be a mistake. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He knows it will hurt. He wishes he was clever enough to find a better way. But all he can think is this: The last one left should not be cursed for surviving.

Please. Don’t be angry.

The next time the Housekeeper’s cycle takes her across the gaping emptiness, it is not her hands that perform the flourishes. Dolce holds the precious motion, in his hands, in his heart, and asks a difficult question of a broken soul.

“Could you tell me about the one who worked their knives like this?”

And for the next. And the next. And the next after that. Remember, think, speak, and do not stop the work, and I will hold the monuments you no longer can. Will you tell whose names are on them? Will you let me remember them with you? May I be the first you tell?

Housekeeper. Dear Housekeeper. The universe holds too much for your love to stay frozen.

Go, and be well.

[Talking Sense with Wisdom: 6 + 2 + 0 = 8]

[Balmas]

"I!"

The philosopher probably doesn't mean her words to bite like knives, like angry wasps. Doesn't mean them as attacks that arrow past all her defenses and sink deeper than any spear, lance into her like tongues of flame.

Why does she want to defend her friends? What else could she want?

What else is she useful for? To be the impenetrable barrier, the invincible wall is the very reason for her creation! It's what she was trained for, beaten for, broken to mold her into!

A defender--no, a defense--is what she is! It's all she knows, all she's good at, all she's good for!

"I!"

But... The brass tongue feels hot in her mouth. And that's new. That wasn't part of the design. The Pallas doesn't need taste to root out traitors, to smash the enemy, to lead the charge and be the perfect soldier.

And what of the others, hmm? Dolce looks so dashing in his new captain's hat, doesn't he? But he was raised a chef, hmm? Ramses wasn't born with his tentacles, but look how hard he's worked to make them a part of himself? None of the Coherent are satisfied with the forms they were assigned at birth, are they? They move and grow and change themselves to better match that vision.

What's her vision?

"I."

The hut in the forest by the river. Domesticity. Family. Good food, good friends. A place to cherish. Safety. A place to nourish and be nourished.

"I don't know," she admits. "And if I had a choice in it, then I would not wish to fight. Do not want conflict. Want to find a place that will never face those threats, where I can be at peace.

"But... If not me, then who? We journey to Aphrodite's Rift and beyond. We face thugs and soldiers and brigands. If I do not protect them, who can? Who could I trust to step into that role? Who should I assign that burden?"

[Thanqol]

Skotos!

In this moment you have been taken to a bakery.

The Azura by the front observes you with the lazy danger of a predator that weighs its sunbeam as a greater pleasure than your flesh might provide. She wears the bonelike armour of the Path, surrounded by a wealth of roasted grains, enough to feed the city that casts this city as its shadow. In the hound drags you, in amidst the low heat of ovens whose fires have burned low.

You are in a kitchen, Skotos.

You have tried baking cookies before; it is an ancient memory that comes to you now. They burned then. Every time.

Will they still burn now, I wonder?

Alexa!

"Your wish is only for yourself," said Hades, hands dripping with avian blood. With a flick his kerchief comes out and his bloody hands are wiped. "For happiness. That is not enough."

His hand comes up, sharp. He cuts you off, and the Azura thugs and Athena with the same gesture. All three slink into the background. The God of the Dead is possessing the Azura philosopher, eyes inorganic blue - and the moment his hands are clean they plunge straight back into the body of the next bird.

"It is pointless to judge your wishes," said Hades. "You cannot intellectualize or rationalize them. You cannot reason yourselves into them or out of them. Philosophers have tried, but," he holds up a sticky handful of bird entrails, "they have failed."

Again that kerchief comes out, and with steady fingers and a sharp knife he begins to peel the flesh off the bird. Bit by bit, tossed away, inhumanly precise as he reveals the bone underneath.

"In some cases it would not matter. Your misery would not matter. I would be content to let you suffer for as long as you insisted on tormenting yourself in this way. It would be a fair punishment. But in this case it does matter, matter more than anything, because of that bastard Aphrodite."

He looks up at the sky. At the Rift. You can see it from here. A slicing knife blade across the cosmos, from horizon to horizon, endless and sparkling in red and pink and gold like the stars it bisects.

"None have crossed the Rift. In two hundred and fifty years of attempts, thirty three times the Plousios has survived Demeter's Assassins for long enough to reach it. And those are only the attempts I have sanctioned; the number raises terrifyingly if one accounts for the Azura, the Hermetics, the lost and adventuring souls who have sought to brave those awful rivers. These failures were not for lack of strength. Not for lack of skill."

He spreads his hands across the perfect bird skeleton, bloodless and picked clean of any hint of flesh.

"It was because a soul's wishes are as its bones. And if your bones are hollow enough to fly then they shall shatter within the pressures of the deeps. Even if you had all the strength you might wish you could wish for, you are ruined for my purposes. As are all the others. Ruined. Pointless. Cursed. Hermes has betrayed me yet again. If you brave the Rift you shall die."

The flesh and blood sizzles away on the brazier around that gleaming skeleton, and in that thick and choking smoke Hades starts to fade, face twisted with bitterness. "If you want to help," he said from the haze of scorched flesh. "pray for your replacement."

Vasilia and Dolce!

The cinnamon is H'san. He dreamed of music. He shook the spices because he liked the rhythm of the motion, not because he minded their flavour. He was a fool. He is yours. Carry him gently.

The coriander is Jalia. She was a researcher, a Triarch, a gene weaver in training who worked in the kitchens that she might learn the skills to impress a future wife. She is yours. Carry her gently.

The drawer of unopened white plates is Fangst. They were a criminal, an outcast in hiding, planning vengeance on the palace while gaining their trust as a chef. They never had the courage for it. They are yours. Carry them gently.

There are these. There are more. This is a place of loss, and in Apollo's light it seems like it is not so different from anywhere else. Each world aches with the loss of humanity. Each star aches with the loss of the shadows of orbiting fleets. Each heart in this dark and shadowed galaxy weeps with the same loss that the Magos Birmingham forged into a sword. Yours are no different. But you take on the Housekeeper's loss, name by name, burden by burden, and it does not crush you. All the weight of her agony and grief... it does not cripple you in the same way it cripples her.

And with the gentle click of silver, the Housekeeper at last looks down upon her finished masterpiece. Fried halloumi, drizzled with honey and scattered with peanuts. The perfect saganaki. If it is not Ambrosia it is as close as mortal hands might ever manage.

"Oh," said the Housekeeper, in a quiet kind of surprise. "I did it."

And she smiles. She bows to you. She bows to Apollo. She undoes her strange armour, letting it clatter to the ground all about her like shedding skin. And reborn in sun-kissed blue, she shucks the title of Housekeeper and leaves it behind. It is yours now, if you wish it. This kitchen is yours now.

(Ah, but what of the consequences of that partial success? The price you must pay is a simple one - Apollo has picked up that divine dish before you could, and has taken a delighted bite. He crying with silent laughter at the joy of it. Perhaps for the best, though. Problems tend to occur when mortals eat the food of the gods.)

XIII!

Could not the Empire be run like this?

Of course, it could not. The Ikarani are architects of death and disaster. Are vessels of death and disaster. Only permitted to soar this high because their inevitable collapse is part of their terms and conditions. They are the hubris that kills civilizations hidden behind a Beautiful face. Of course the Empire cannot be run like this.

But oh, is it not glorious to live within it for a little while.

Perhaps the idea of Imperial administration as analogous to the half-Kaeri girl's processes is flawed, though. This doesn't feel like taking orders. It feels more like horseback riding - either as the rider or the horse. You race with borrowed strength and speed, but still have space to flourish. You are empowered to be your best. Partnership like you've never felt it. Each mission is assigned to you specifically because of your talents, and resources are issued precisely to cover any weaknesses or limitations that might frustrate you or slow you down. Everything is where its supposed to be. Reinforcements, aid, escape vectors, all appear perfectly on cue. It feels like you are for once understood. You are asked to push yourself, to give your all at times, but not once does Beautiful ask you to do the impossible. She doesn't even ask you to do the inefficient or boring parts. She takes into account the time you need to rest, your mind's hunger for variety, even your desire for positive feedback. Despite working harder and more effectively than you ever have in your life, somehow the Ikarani Adept makes this feel like a vacation.

And on this vacation you are stealing a lot of money.

The shape of the plan is illegible, but the specifics aren't. You are moving money around. You break into vaults, museums, military facilities and ancient factories. Spectacular wealth flows through your claws like water. But, strangely, Beautiful doesn't seem to be building up a hoard. Some missions have you smuggling treasures into certain vaults, having you leave empty-handed. At one point you need to keep an Azura sentinel distracted for long enough for some Lanterns to hastily load crates full of the Azura coins onto someone else's spaceship without them noticing.

What do these forced interventions in the economy of the Endless Azure Skies add up to? You don't have time to ask, and from Beautiful's hazy look she doesn't have the time to answer. And she might not have much time, period.

The plan runs for five days. Just long enough for you to start to worry. An Ikarani can't maintain this level of mental output for long, can't hold this much raw data inside their head, even with the oversight of the Master. By the stroke of midnight tonight Beautiful needs to have her mind wiped to prevent her from going Rampant. You've got the poison in your pocket. It's an ominous and flowing thing that calls to mind the Lethe, the River of Hades that washes away the memories of the dead.

But one last mission. One last mission before the dose, after which point Beautiful hopes her plan will be able to conclude itself. And for this one she needs you looking your best. You'll be attending a fancy ball with the Azura Satrap. It's an afternoon of pampering and luxury, but that too is part of the plan - this doubles as your mandatory rest break.

Tell us of your metamorphosis.

[Phoe]

On the first day, they'd talked for hours.

Beautiful wanted every detail about the mission, and always pushed for more whenever the conversation started to die down. She preempted every question of logistics, and shut down every deflection of praise with clipped and random bursts of observations and a wave of her hand. What she wanted was stories. She kept asking how XIII felt with the wind in her hair, or if it felt good to fly so high under her own power. Was it different from riding on the train? What kind of sounds did the guard make?

Debriefings weren't normally like this. Nobody laughed this much, and definitely nobody ever used the phrase "Shut up!" when they meant "tell me more!" Praise was always reserved for the officer in charge, and even though the girl named Bella had played at sitting in that chair she'd never managed to find out what it was like to bask in the glow of her work until Beautiful showed her how.

Hours drifted into each other one after the other as the details grew bolder, fuller, and brighter, until XIII was startled from a long thought admiring the construction of Azura train systems and the sorts of things their gravity technology did that made life here different from living on Tellus by a call to dinner. The plan accounted for every last detail, it turned out. XIII cooked a sweet potato and eggplant salad with her best approximation of the the bread she'd eaten on the roofs.

For another twenty minutes, they tossed ideas back and forth about how to change it, interspersed with distant mutterings about things too big and far away for XIII's brain to catch up to. And things were never quite this nice again.

*****

Her reflection in the mirror looks back at her with the expression of a woman who expects to be punished. Her eyes dart to the back of the room again and again, seeking the hiding spot of one of the Masters, either of Assassins or the Kennels, ready with the whip and a harsh lesson. Silence greets her. She closes her eyes, and gently slides her hand across her head to feel the hair rapidly grow back where she directs it to.

Beautiful's vision is absolute. Her plan casts a net too wide to see, woven with details too small to seem important. Of course the ball requires a dress. Of course the dress requires a hairstyle. So of course XIII's hands are the only ones that can be trusted to bring it into being.

Her blue-black hair greets her in the mirror when she opens her eyes again, longer and silkier than it had been even before the Yakanov ruined it. She reaches for a box on the counter and plucks several large diamonds between the knuckles of each finger, and brings them carefully up to the glossy curtain on top of her head.

She gathers, and she weaves her hair into a complicated chain of braids. Some are tight and full of many tiny loops, while others are so loose they're only held together by a series of small bands. They all wind together into a chaotic tail, and where they cross each other she inserts a diamond. Brilliant white on the surface, every slight turn of her head rips them into prisms that throw different colors of light across her back and the floor, never quite repeating the same pattern twice.

She reaches grabs a small gun and put it to her ears. Through gritted teeth, she shoots three large emerald studs apiece into her sensitive triangles, falling down a row starting from the tips.

*****

One the second day, Beautiful wanted to talk philosophy.

It turned out she had no special insights into the nature of the universe, or of love, or of the gods or how to worship them. Mostly she didn't say anything, except to prod XIII for further comment. But she had an endless fascination with XIII's journey.

She wanted the story of Big Bone Lick told over and over again, the fall of the Kaeri and the rise of the Lanterns and the way that Hera blessed its coming. Even though it hadn't lasted long, there was a... no, not a hope. A hope would imply Beautiful hadn't understood everything properly, and it was impossible to believe that could be true. Maybe it was a flash or insight, or inspiration. XIII had no ability to read those wide, violet eyes. And it didn't matter. If it was Beautiful asking, she didn't mind talking about anything.

She wanted to hear about life aboard the empty Yakanov. She didn't press for details, but when it came to sensations she was a bottomless pit of hunger. What did this feel like? And this? Was it empty, was it sad? Did she cry? How did the fish taste? Tell me about the movie again, chan-barra-chan. What was Apollo like? And he watched you? All that time?

Every time XIII stopped and frowned when her words failed her, Beautiful lit up and nodded with even greater interest. It felt like she was drinking in the space where thoughts faltered as they poured off of XIII's head or something. Maybe she could see the shape of these memories by staring into the Auspex or something?

She asked for the feeling of the spiral and the void skiff five separate times. Each time the story came out differently. It twists from a story about panic and desperation into an indescribably peace and the feeling that everything would work out fine, and when the lid lifted off of that coffin the world rushed back in, but there would never be any return to a time before she'd become the golden corkscrew and carved her way into the Reaches.

Beautiful watched her without comment after she finished her final failed attempt to explain it all, her face getting that glassy, distant look that meant she was taking in new ideas and applying them at a scale maybe even the Empress couldn't comprehend. But then her eyes turned wet, and she smiled.

Their embrace left a scent on her neck XIII didn't think she could ever be rid of.

*****

She stands in front of Beautiful with her robe tossed carelessly onto the floor behind her. No secrets between friends, right? The Ikarani takes her awkwardly by the shoulders and turns her around to face a wall, instead. XIII's tail lashes with frustration and tension, and she's forced to tuck it around her leg to keep it out of the way.

This is a sign of trust. Beautiful is too far away to be able to explain anymore why this must be done. But it must be done. She hugs her arms tight around her stomach, and gasps when she feels the first touch of paint against her back. Beautiful moves like she's trying to paint an entire galaxy at once, but somehow the effect is delicate and precise. It takes all of four or five brushstrokes before the pattern becomes obvious.

One line, and then another, and then another after that. The gentle curves of petals, and the sharp stab of thorns. The lacquered, crimson paint is being used to bring out her scars: the ones Her Imperial Majesty ordered put on her back to punish her for disgracing the Olympic Games. Beautiful paints each silvery line of the unfolding flower into an unmissable and bold expression of Imperial power and pride.

But in bringing it to the foreground, she twists the meaning. Shame becomes pride. Submission becomes strength. The more of it she draws out, the more pride creeps into her chest until it's threatening to burst free and ruin her makeup in a sudden stream of tears. The rose unfurls across her very own back in colors that only a Praetor would be permitted to wear, and then only as an accent. In fact, to paint them this boldly is almost an act of declaring her to be an imperial princess.

She watches Beautiful work in the reflections of the mirrors all around her. XIII's tail uncurls, and flicks comfortable back and forth underneath her canvas.

*****

On the third day, they had a slumber party of sorts.

This time XIII did all of the listening. The pair of them ate junk food and wrapped blankets around themselves for no reason beyond the feeling of it, trying to squeeze a lifetime's worth of memories into a single half-hour allotment.

Beautiful was a natural gossip, if one let her be. She knew, or half-remembered at least, a thousand different stupid little details about several lifetime's worth of people and all of the people those people knew too. Most of it came tumbling out in an incoherent stream of disconnected facts shot rapidfire without pausing for more than obligatory giggle. It was like listening to a waterfall with unpleasant coworkers and a grudge against her environment.

If any of it was about anybody XIII knew, she couldn't tell. But something about the ease in the other girl's voice compelled her to stay. Compelled her to listen, and nod, and slip little "mhm?"s in where she could so that Beautiful could feel like she was participating in something normal. As if XIII knew what that was, either. Maybe 'mortal' was a better word. So she let a torrent of stories about broken walls and bratty, flirtatious Toxicrenes and the garden party where the King of such and such a planet split her pants in front of three hundred other delegates and literally died of embarrassment all wash over her without comment and without wishing for it to stop.

She forced herself to laugh where it seemed appropriate, or perhaps necessary, to continue the moment. But she watched Beautiful talk herself very nearly to death, and it was her turn to wear the blank expression of someone seeing more than was being presented. Her claws dug into her palms despite all the promises she'd made to herself that they never would again.

And on the fourth day, the Master of Assassins informed her that to delay the Rampancy, she would be permitted no more than one word's worth of exchange per day from then on.

*****

Putting this dress on is in itself an act of artistry. To call it form fitting would be like calling Aphrodite's Rift an inconvenience. It is a second skin, and such a delicate one at that only somebody with a perfect understanding of XIII's body could help her step into it without tearing it in half.

The black lace is sheer enough that it might as well not be covering anything in between the snowflake patterns of less diaphanous fabric that dots bits of her like a dark storm seemingly at random. It clings to her soft, inviting tummy and her perfect hips. It holds her breasts with the delicacy and tenderness of a lover's hands, and the plunging line between them bares her smooth skin completely from her collarbone down to her belly button in a slowly narrowing V.

The sleeves just kiss the tops of her shoulders and extend down to her wrists in clinging sheer fabric that veils her white fur to celebrate it, rather than covering it up. From the edges of her shoulders the back of the dress settles into a wider V than the front, exposing even more of her back, from her shoulder blades to her painted scars all the way down to the point underneath her tail.

It feels like wearing a whisper. But if that's true, it's a celebration of her body. Nothing is covered where it could be highlighted instead, and what is hidden is done so precisely that it's only done for the sake of making those small bits even more alluring. Today, she is not a Servitor. She is not being sent to make someone else look better. She is not to be hidden behind the trappings of a maid. She is not there to be touched or fondled, or sent to lurk in the shadows and keep a more important target safe.

Her dress clings to her thighs down to her knees, where the sheer and swirling lace finally opens up like a pool of water and spills out onto the floor behind her for a full meter in a fan. This is her. This is meant for her. It's a dress so specific it could only be worn by her; something designed with no thought in mind beyond the fact that she was born to be watched.

She is nothing more or less than the most beautiful creature in the universe.

Except that somebody else in that room is using that name. She's permitted one word. Just one. XIII glances down at the vial she's been given, and the swirling contents meant to wipe all of this away. Something that will save Beautiful. By taking her name away from her again. By taking this week and these memories and this plan and turning them into new vague phantoms for her to chase in another five years when someone needs a perfect plan again.

She gently closes her fingers around the vial. She lifts her skirt up enough to find the loop of fabric sewn into her garter, and hides it there. Beautiful's plans take everything into consideration. Absolutely everything. This is friendship. This? Is trust. Her heartbeat quickens as she takes her friend's wrists in her hands and squeezes for all she's worth.

"Beautiful..." she spends her one word on a compliment and a reminder rolled in one. She stares into those glassy, violet eyes like she's trying to see the place her friend is looking right now.

Beautiful cranes her neck. Her hazy, stunning eyes fill with XIII's face.

"...Bella." she answers in a slur.

Something somewhere slips and shatters, broken forever.

[Tatterdemalion]

The honey here is black. It fights her spoon; she stabs it in several places with the blunted end, and then leverages up a chunk that she wrestles into the bowl. It is pungent, with notes of a spice she does not know. With the edge of the spoon, she carves it, the ventricle of some strange hive’s heart, into pieces which slowly begin to thaw, to slough apart. The lid of the jar, when tapped, melts back into place; she could juggle with it and risk not so much as a drop[1].

The butter is orange, thick, and just as pungent in its own way. She takes a knife, carves off slabs, and flicks them into the bowl with two fingers. They scatter in the bowl, fallen pillars among the dark humped shapes of the honey[2].

Beat until blended. Harder to do here; Skotos sets to it with gusto and a strong elbow. In the other kitchen, the butter was daisy-yellow and the honey was golden, and they swirled together until it was all one sweet shining sea. The pestle comes back colored like a bruise, and if this is a sea, it is one at sunset, and a storm on its way.

Then the eggs, overlarge, speckled, cracked one by one and then beaten again. Then the sour yogurt and the almost-familiar vanilla, beaten again. She probably shouldn’t be setting the bowl down every time she needs a new ingredient, but she never used to need to. When she reached for something, it was right there to hand; the whisper of lace and the click-clack of heels and the creak of the cabinets[3].

Flour, powder, salt: whisk them round. Skotos hums a far-off song, meaningless without its context, most especially to her. There’s no reason to sing the verses, even if she could get at them; there’s no one here to sing the high notes, clear as crystal.

Mix all together, pour out into the greased molds, set into the oven.

And now she’s the one who has to prepare the fruit, too. The ones to hand are red as rubies and have a white, firm flesh within, but the rind is thick all around, dimpled like the surface of a moon. She is obliged to dig at the rind with her fingernails and peel it away by hand before she can cut the slices and arrange them on a platter. Dark, bittersweet berries roll into the hollows left between slices. Finally, a last step, she takes another chunk of the black honey and squeezes it in her fist.

It drips from her fingers like the blood of a king, drizzled onto the fruit. Her lashes are wet and her body is warm. She is, for a moment, alive. And this is what she chooses to do, simply because it’s what’s in front of her. Because how can she hurt someone with honey cakes and a platter of fresh fruit?

***

[1]: just like in the kitchen back home, for all that the design of the jar is unfamiliar, with the smooth curves of an organ rather than faceted sides, good beneath the fingers.

[2]: as above, so below. The ruins of what came before are inescapable even in the kitchen.

[3]: here there is only Rusty, getting underfoot, leaning heavily against her thighs, sparing glances up at the infinite distance between him and the strange glories of the countertop.

[TheAmishPirate]

Dolce lands. Or, perhaps, his hooves found the floor, and the rest of him caught up. He bows to the once-Housekeeper, bows to Apollo, and the third bow is involuntary. But before the floor can greet him properly a pair of strong arms cuts in, holding him fast. “What was that? Are you okay?” Vasilia asks from somewhere behind him.

You know, now that she mentions it, that is a good question: How is he? Do excuse him a moment, he has to sort through a dozen people to find himself again. But there, just after the finish, and beneath the pile, you’ll find him; dazed, but alive. Alive. Alive! All his heart erupts, joy mingling with shadows of grief until he cannot tell them apart any longer and he’s filled up thrice over. Out pour the tears. There shines the smile. It is done! She did it! She lives again, and he! He’s not crushed! Is this what it’s like, Hera, to bear the darkness that destroyed another? Are our burdens really so light on the shoulders of others?

No. No, his heart aches, for H'san, for Jalia, for every one of them, even as it sings. His heart strains to hold the heady river of emotions from overflowing its banks. Later, it will dry up, and what will he use then to keep himself together? The weight remains heavy. There are limits, after all. “I, I think I need a moment.” He breathes.

“Then.” Her hands are steady. Fortunes of effort are spent to prevent their moving an inch. “Would you care for me to keep holding you?”

He is silent. He is listening. He is feeling his weight settle in her hands, and he is listening. “...I think so. But. Please, just that, for now.”

“As you wish.” She says, and he lets himself rest limp in her grasp. Lots to think about. Lots to think about. Names, that he would not forget. The hole in the Housekeeper’s heart, left by humanity. How long she must have toiled around it. Who else…?

But first, food.

“We have a lunch to make.” Finally, he rises to his hooves, leaning on her arm to keep his knees from wobbling. “May I ask for your assistance?”

“You’re the captain. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

“But if the Captain wants to ask, he can. So. I did.”

Her smile shrinks to a thin, pale line. “I. Should warn you, I’m only a week past learning what a broiler is. Don’t expect any miracles.”

“I don’t know…” Dolce watches a god weep for joy at a plate of food. His hand squeezes her arm. “Miracles do seem to be in style these days.”

[Balmas]

"And what if we are?"

She stares at the departing god, spear drooping low. Is it anger that fuels her words now, or pity? Hades seems... Angry, yes. But despondent, too.

"What if we are doomed? Cursed to fail? Are we to give up? Accept it?

"You seem so certain we are not to succeed. Very well. Shall we cut our losses and settle here, with the Azura? Shall we return the Plousios? Perhaps there is a future in giving advice to the next crew?"

Two hundred and fifty years of disappointment. Of seeing crews fail to achieve your goal.

"You are wrong, I think. I certainly hope you are, because if you are not... then we will still go on, risk or no.

"But I am at least a little hopeful because... Well, you are wrong about my wish. It is not for myself."

She sighs.

"I gave up, you know. Wanted peace, and convinced myself that a niche with no fighting was what I wanted. And I could have it again, I think--Redana would probably even give me the seal, if she knew how and I asked. I could join any ship, travel somewhere, and start anew. Instant peace.

"But a niche is not good enough anymore."

It's wonderful, isn't it? Miraculous, even.

"I do not want to fight. But if I want to get my wish, my friends must also get their wishes. Their happy endings. And if that means defending them..."

She rubs the worn spot pensively.

"... I think I can be okay with that."

[Thanqol]

Redana!

Step by step, ingredient by ingredient, you claw your way up the rungs of reality. You were a shadow, but a dog made you a ghost. You were a ghost and a goddess makes you a slave.

There is no comment from Hera at first as she walks by, imperious, ringed fingers picking a single cookie and tasting it with the absence of a ruler too mighty to be ruled, even by desire. This is not a gift shared between friends as it might be if you cooked for Hestia; but neither this is nothing made by no one. This is something. Made by some one. And that, somehow, is what's required to get Hera's attention after a lifetime of failing.

Get her attention... no, that is not how the Gods work. Aphrodite does not come to those who do not love. Athena will not find you as you dance. Hera does not speak to those who stand in the light. Bella could always speak to her.

"You could stay here, if you liked," she said. Her voice is not cruel. "No one would find you."

Alexa!

"Love," hissed Hades, "is the most selfish wish of all."

And with a flare of smoke the world rushes back in, taking the form of an Azura bruiser lunging in with brass knuckles to the face. His colleague slashes behind, seven-section staff lashing out in a clattering whip to strike you as the walls come down.

You are back in the realm of Athena and Ares, the War Goddess directing your demise with pointed fingers. But there's an angle here that you're not familiar with; some strange and dark energy running below the surface. It does not empower them, but they move in tune with its hidden dictates in a way you can't quite anticipate...

Vasilia and Dolce!

It is as you cook that Thelis Thist finds you.

You weren't expecting that - expecting her, to come in here, to the kitchens. You weren't expecting her to be wearing an oily smile and dip her serpent tongue directly into a pot of broth experimentally. From her conduct before the Satrap you imagined her some sort of deeply aggrieved figure, someone intense, someone basically sincere even if strangely limited. None of that now. Now she leaves a trail of credibility behind her like a snail leaves a trail of slime.

"You went and Ascended the housekeeper!" she said, both hands filled with pastries and her mouth with a strange cigar. "You know that means this entire palace will have to be closed, the building abandoned, the court relocated? We're going to have to move the whole operation to Svant! You have just caused spectacular political chaos and personally inconvenienced the majority of the most powerful members of society. Shocking behaviour. You might need an advocate in court to defend you from the shitstorm that's about to rain down upon you. Here's my card!"

It is unclear if this is normal for the Azura, or if defending the people you are also prosecuting is a Thelis Thist thing.

XIII!

You can feel Beljani's muscles against your own. She is on your arm - you have no doubt, from her dress, that she hoped it might be the opposite. Her fashion design was more than the results of her own hobbyist weaving; like yours, she had some tweaks made by Beautiful to bring out the best in her. Her arms are wrapped with ribbon-bands, vibrant green, even down to her fingertips. It is a dress that is a cage, but it is a cage to whose bars she clings. You can feel her muscles so tense beneath your fingers, even though she would sooner eat that dress than show her discomfort on her face. She's afraid too.

You can smell it on her - the Virus, unveiled from the jasmine perfume that kept it hidden. She is the Virus; it swirls around her invisibly except for the razor scent at the edge of your nose, the Auspex's interpretation of that extreme and invasive danger. You've seen how it works at this point, and it's not the frictionless mind control novels thought it might be. The Virus does not dictate - it opens. It gently presses on the brain just enough to make people receptive, to make them inclined to listen, to dull the edge of skepticism, to fill their senses with the pleasant chemicals of love. It's barely an infection at all, so mild and benign that it does not trigger an immune response.

And that's where her true work begins. Then her voice starts, her oratory - a powerful weapon even in ancient days, honed in her to the finest blade. Paired with her gift she can step inside anyone's guard and convince them as a sister might. This is her subtle work and hidden blade. You haven't yet seen her swing it as a club.

She's at her best. Wielded to perfection, just like you. Contentedly buzzed, strong and free and reveling in getting to use the power she is made for. She does not outshine you, not quite, but that was Beautiful's decision and she has no choice but to trust in it. Like you, she should be prepared for this.

But her hands are tensed all the same. The shadows of the Master and her own Rampancy hang in the air. She's aware that she has more to give. She's aware she might be asked to give it all.

"I hardly know what to say any more," she said, voice looking for a haughty sniff that wasn't quite there. "Speaking to someone who can figure everything out at a glance leaves one... she didn't tell you what the plan here was, perchance? Or what the plan was at all? All I know is I've been asked to give a number of rather dubious economic theories makeovers for the modern day, and I can't draw the connection between that and mass death."