[IC] Breathless Dead

[Thanqol]

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.

[Phoe]

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.

[Tatterdemalion]

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.

[Balmas]

"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?

[TheAmishPirate]

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.

[Thanqol]

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 poisoned 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?"

[Phoe]

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.