[IC] Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

[Anarion]

[Potential 4. Insecure]

Anathet stiffens in surprise. The little golden tablet is tucked into her sleeve in a flash, faster than most normal eyes can see, though not faster than you can, Marianne. Still, you might be impressed with Anathet's human reflexes, she barely even gave away the extra twitch, it's about as good as it can get.

Then her brain catches up and you get a run of little muscle twitches. A feeling as you're holding Anathet of relaxation because she hasn't been caught with stolen goods (or she has, but only by someone she wants to know about them), then her muscles tense again in...is that embarrassment, oh goodness is that a slight flush coming to her face? She couldn't possibly be remembering the last time you met and how she didn't live up to expectations (she is, and she's also feeling that you're very close to her.

And then, a little eye dart. Marianne, is that guilt? The sign of another lover for little Anathet, a bit of irrational worry at them seeing you here like this with her in such a position? Who could it be?

All those things happen in the span of a second or two. Anathet clears her throat, brings her own aura into a soft blue calm with hints of pink anticipation sparkling inside it. Then she processes what Marianne is saying about Canada and she adds some hints of uncertainty without really changing her aura. "Should I be worried? I don't think you'd be here joking with me if she needed us urgently, but it sounds like there's something wrong with her."

A pause, then she lets those pink sparks of excitement get much larger and lets the matter of Canada pass for the moment to share her news. "If...if you're free, I found this!" Anathet slides the little tablet back out of her sleeve with the rustling of her monks fabric (was there a tiny flash, did little Anathet secret the tablet in a portal rather than merely her robe? How tricky!). "The Seneschal is ruined if anything goes wrong while Shamash is here! If we dropped in on him now, we could get him to do anything to keep from being embarrassed. Isn't this great?"

[Tatterdemalion]

Shamash, Bound in Glory.

It is Ishtar who is waiting for you at the Bridge of Heaven, before the array of your chariots. It was always Ishtar who would. The curtains of her palanquin part as your priests approach their holy vessels, and one gauntlet wreathed in lapis lazuli makes an imploring gesture.

“Shamash,” she says, and she dares to use her Voice on you. On YOU. On Shamash who Breaks the Horizon. As if you did not have Dampeners worked into your helm. “Stay. I have prepared a feast in honor of your aspect as Champion of Heaven, First of the Fleet. A year has passed since I gave birth to this festival, all in your honor. Stay with us.”

“It is my prerogative and duty to conquer the proud sky,” you respond. A check. “Nothing may bind me or keep me in check.”

“Yet stay,” Ishtar pleads, stony-faced in serene radiance under her crown of many banners. “I will offer you whatever you may wish. Babylon the Great is the perfected world, and all that may be wished is within it.”

“Save for that which Shamash brings on swift wings, and Marduk with the tramp of many feet which are not his own. Are you perhaps lost in memories of the days before creation, sister, that you must be comforted?”

As direct a rebuke as you can make. The gauntlet withdraws sharply. Good. Ishtar has been getting too proud for someone who has only been part of the Pantheon for a few centuries now.

“I will bring you trophies, sister,” you say, and bow low. “Ones befitting a Queen of Heaven.” Because you will, inevitably, win.

You just hope the Zhianku makes their struggle entertaining for a little while.

***

Smoke rises and is filtered out by your helm. You could (and have) walk on the outer shell of a chariot and never for a moment struggle for breath. Struggle is for those beneath you. Struggle is for those who fear losing their lives.

...that creature is strange. It puffs and parades itself around like one of your exalted servants, taking pride in its barbarity. Yet you have held this world for years. How has its pride not been broken by seeing the ruin of its world’s champions? (It is Zhianku. It trained in their rude academies, belaboring under the useless thought-construct of a soul. There is no such thing. There must not be. When you die you will stop.)

Still. You find yourself interested in bringing it back. The way the court ogles at it is entertaining enough, and its brashness, its spirit... perhaps maybe you will not kill it. Maybe this time you will be like your brothers and sisters who do not kill, who do not glory in the fires in heaven, who do not dash chariots against the rocks and know their captains to be dead upon impact. Maybe you will bring it back and ask Ishtar to break it in, to gouge out its higher functions until it never so much as thinks (ha!) of Looking at you.

Of seeing the you inside of Shamash.

You rise with a grunt. The music stops instantly. You wave a hand. “Continue. I merely follow the wind.” That is enough to keep the idiots from panic as you take the slow path to the rear chambers where your true tribute is being made ready.

And there it is. The Zhianku student. The one who sees. The mocking trickster. It stands among your gold as if saying: I know the secret, too. This is my power now. I will take it and pry the helmet off your skull and now there will be two dead gods on this planet.

And no wild death-yearning can stop the blind horrified panic of losing your gold.

The Furnace in your chest ignites. You burn gold without thought. The distance between you is cut roughly from existence. Your fingers curl around its throat and you lift, the words of your arm an inferno branded on your being. POWER. STRENGTH. GLORY. The Furnace roars hungrily as you bring it close.

It Looks at you again, or tries to: the lenses of your helmet filter out the cognitohazard battering at you, reducing it to a smoky figure writhing in your grip. It is like holding smoke. It will be out soon. It will have your gold.

The generators in your helm flicker to life with a thought, triangulating on its head. You unleash your Voice. Let Ishtar have her irresistible commands; you have the Wind That Consumes.

The wall behind it cracks like a hammerblow from the backwash of your Voice. The creature goes limp, and before you boil the brain in its skull, you disengage the generators and toss it down to the floor.

There is silence but for the ragged whine of aftershock. The Inquisitor and her servants are on their faces, not daring to rise. You watch the creature.

Get up, you think.

You’re not done with it yet.

[Never Give Up, Never Surrender, Canada.]

[Thanqol]

He's so fast. She's never, ever met anyone before who can move like she does. She's used to being able to just be places, as smooth and quick as thinking and this is like having someone inside her thoughts. She should have time to assess this, to figure this out, to plan her defense strategically but in all of those private moments he's still moving.

And he's moving wrong.

When she moves at speed, thought and action are the same thing. She can see with him it's the reverse - he thinks, he decides, and then something happens he hurls forwards following that thought to its conclusion. He turns his brain off and attacks like a marionette, whirling and striking and grasping out its premeditated expression of hate and nobody has the power to stop it.

It's all she can do to get the shield between her and him before he screams his terrible scream.

It buckles under her fingers.

It bends.

She curls her legs close to her chest and ducks her head and curls up into a ball, neck still caught in that terrible fist, hiding herself behind her darkened mirror as the world shatters around her. It's so loud she can't breathe. The air is too fast, too violent to beg for oxygen.

And then, with a crash, she's on the floor. She finally realizes that the sound has stopped and it's just that her ears are still ringing.

Harrowed away to a single instinct, she gets to her feet and readies her shield. That reaction takes priority over breathing, over running, over shaking in fear. All of those things are happening to some degree as well - she's backing away, gasping and trembling - but they're ultimately subordinate to the instinct to defend.

[Nevery Give Up: 10]

[Phoe]

"You think that I am kidding? Is that what you think of me, mon petite lapin? Do I seem like the kidding type?"

Marianne's smile is as lewd as her hands are grabby. Every little flinch, every spark of guilt, every flicker of the eyes only draws her in closer. Her fingers possessively trace the lines of Set's collarbones as she presses her face deep into the crook of the smaller girl's neck. Her breath is steamy, smoky hot, and the golden links of her mask are icy cold in contrast. She nibbles her way up to the ear; every nip cuts like stone knives.

"Do I," she leers, with her fingers lifting Set's chin to pull them eye to smoldering eye, "like to tease you? To make you squirm? I should very much like to play with you until all the little secrets you keep tucked away from me come tumbling out onto the floor, yes~"

She darts in like a snake, but her lips touch only Set's forehead this time. She smiles, with genuine mirth, and in another moment has slipped down into the floor so she can pop back up from the ceiling.

"Alas, we have no time, the night is in its adolescence. Be calm, my sister, calm. You are not needed elsewhere. Canada will die tonight. There is no other future for her apart from death; not since she went and challenged Shamash to single combat. Be calm! Calm. All is as it should be. All is as it must be. Your wonderful plan cannot be paid for except by her corpse. Ha! She thought to seize her dreams by punching a madman in the face! You belong together, she and you: the dreamers and the damned."

Marianne rolls with laughter like a thunderstorm as she falls down to the floor. She flips effortlessly on the ride down and lands with a dramatic thud on the soles of her boots. As she rises to her full height she tosses her tattered coat behind her like a cloak and cracks her neck with several sickening crunches. And she smiles. Tenderly, this time.

"I have already laid the traps, do not concern yourself with Ca-Na-Da. I will see to it that she dies the death that best serves the Cause. It will be a better lesson for her than our long talk could manage. You must put her from your mind. There are riches only you can steal from the Seneschal, and your window is closing. Steel your heart, Set. Draw from him a treasure he will mourn the loss of, and don't give anything back in exchange. D'accord?"

[Anathet, Marianne is telling you how the world works. Shift your Savior down and Danger up, or reject her influence]

[Anarion]

"Marianne, I'm not...a...mmm....eeep!" Anathet never gets to finish saying what she may or may not be as the blush that was starting at the base of her neck works its way upward with astounding speed when Marianne gets to her ear and starts taking little nibbles. Anathet is rendered briefly speechless and she leans her neck into the shadow with pleasure.

When that's done, Anathet is left to try and compose herself, her aura all aflutter with a rainbow of colors. She in no fit state to say anything while Marianne talks about Canada's death with the same care as if she were proposing they all go out for garlic noodles after a mission. Then there's a smooth transition into Marianne's opinon on Anathet's job and she's suddenly feeling more than a little nervous. If her first meeting with Tia flashed her back to embarrassing childhood accidents, this moment is reminding her of the misery of having to explain herself afterwards to get help. She's already flushed and doing her best to keep some semblance of composure, which she uses to speak up hesitantly when Marianne is done.

"I can..." she clears her throat, starts again "I can go back there myself but...I'm not sure where the Seneschal is, my way of transporting doesn't let me see him until I get there and it's risky to jump to his office if I don't know what I'll find." She could stop there, but she has two other questions and she's sure Marianne can see her hesitating with them. "Also, I'm not sure what to ask for or...how to um 'ask' it so to speak. If you've got any suggestions for how I could do the, um, the theatrics without your help, Marianne, that would be really...nice."

[Marianne, Anathet is accepting the shift and listening to you about how the world works.]

[Tatterdemalion]

Canada!

You have an advantage in this dance, an edge of reactive speed that Shamash (for all their brute-force acceleration) does not. This fight is going to be shatteringly big; you have aroused the ire of a god. Whichever direction you go in, the two of you are going to leave a trail of destruction in your wake.

Outside, it is dusk, and far off down the Road of Shamash the arena is prepared for your triumphant battle. Is that where you want to make your stand, in the place that was prepared for the two of you? Or do you want to cause chaos in one of the Temples together? Do you want to drag him below into the tight confines of the slave-city despite the terrible collateral? Or do you want to bring him to the very palatial estate of the Seneschal?

Shamash

Drive: to flinch at the very brink of self-destruction.

Moves:
# Unleash their Voice and cause devastation
# Suddenly overwhelm with their armor’s advanced thaumatech
# Refuse to take decisive action or end a threat
# Lash out in unthinking fear and anger

Conditions: Afraid, Angry, Guilty, Hopeless.

[Thanqol]

There's been a thought in the back of her head since all of... this started. Where would she go if she had to fight Tirzah Asterion? What kind of landscape would play to her strengths and minimize the chances of collateral damage? Where could she go to gain the advantage? Perhaps it could occur in an Annunaki military base where the collateral damage would destroy enemy military assets, or on a prepared landscape with traps or hidden weapons or something. Marianne would probably do something like that, maybe even with strategically placed costume changes so she could go through the fight morphing into ever more beautiful and glamorous shapes.

One small problem, though. Every time she's tried to work through it she wound up crying into her pillow instead. And she doesn't think the process would have been any easier if she'd known she was going up against Shamash.

She's used to having time - at least enough to take a deep breath and decide to be brave. With the monstrous god bearing down on her both time and bravery are impossible to find.

[Assess: three!]

[Phoe]

It might have been possible to go your entire life without ever knowing Marianne had emotions other than "amused" and "angry". And yet, here she is with her burning eyes and dangerously glinting teeth, with her fluttering, shredded coat and the thin wisps of smoke curling off of her body, with those golden chains glinting inside the shadows of her face. And the word to describe her is... surprised. Stunned, really.

Nothing changes about her posture or expression, but her aura feels almost unrecognizable. It's like she took a sip of water and swallowed it wrong, and in the act of choking forgot for a moment how to be a demon. There's a human under all of that mystic theatricality. Somewhere.

And then she tosses her head back to laugh, and the moment shatters to pieces. The crushing weight of her presence comes rushing back into the room all at once, and she springs lightly forward to pat Set on her head and ruffle her hair.

"Is that how it is? Is that how it is, ma belle petite chose? Ah, to be young, to be a dreamer chasing stardust! This is why I do not let you reform the tyrants with literature, little bunny. But come, come! If you are so lost, Marianne will help you with your homework, yes!"

She smiles with surprising sweetness, right before she flicks Set lightly on the nose. In another breath she's slipped into the floor and comes sliding out of a corner holding a scrap of paper and an incredibly beat up looking pen. With a series of unnecessarily aggressive strokes, she quickly scrabbles out a list of names. They're nonsense, mainly: minor celebrities from before the world fell, and a few other noteworthy names like Veronica Peters, one time assistant secretary to the Mayor of Halcyon City. All pointless. Stupid. At the bottom she jots down the names of a handful of doctors, and then underlines one so fiercely it tears a hole in the page: Antoine Ravenelle. She flicks the paper with contempt at Set and crushes her pen to bits, which may well have been a mercy for the poor thing.

"You will memorize this list. These are your demands. You will steal the listed names from the petty overlord by any means necessary, and you will not fail. It is imperative that you do not. Your golden ticket expires at midnight, and this is the price it will fetch. You will do this by telling the truth. You will tell him that I am out tonight, that I am seeking Shamash, and that with the slightest motion of my lips I will spill his deepest secrets before the god themself, and all the revelers drawn into their wake. You will tell him that the price of a silent evening and a clean bill of health for his name will be these names, lifted up and freed into the care of a safe place of your choosing. You will not drop names from this list. Memorize it and destroy it. Take in every detail. Wield them like swords, Set."

Marianne unfolds her arms and steps into the shadows, more literally than most. Her presence fades from the room for one moment. Two. Three. Her head comes creeping out of the wall again, and she flashes a wide and wolfish grin.

"I have faith in you, mon petite lapin. I would not lay this at your feet if I did not. Let that faith be your voice, yes! We are invincible. Uncatchable. We are legion. And by the time they realize the truth of our great cause, it will already be too late. Bonne chase!"

She cracks her neck, which rings disturbingly through the walls, and disappears for real.

[Anarion]

As Marianne fades through the walls, Anathet is left a little bewildered, but with a smile on her face that she just can't seem to shake off. Even though Marianne had called her a little rabbit again (which she clearly had to put a stop to before it became a permanent nickname, oh gods), she had also been almost...well human for a moment there. Anathet liked that a great deal better than the scary, smoke and mirrors, constant intimidation demon Marianne. Not that the act wasn't useful, but seeing that hint of a person under there who cared about her and ruffled her hair and even flicked her nose with fondness was...exhilarating! Anathet felt like she was party to a special secret and she'd just have to carry it to her grave.

As she walked the little path back home again, she put that smile and its memory in a special little part of her mind, a memory box as she imagined it. She redressed herself as Set, and painted the image of the crocodile across her face so that it almost totally obscured her cheeks and her eyes and would appear to be striking as she leaned in towards the Seneschal. Marianne had given a good reminder that the simple, primal fears were often the most effective. The list she read over once, memorized, and immediately burned with a very small laser blast, tossing the ashes in her trash. Marianne had made no secret that Antoine Ravenelle was the key target here, but she didn't want the Seneschal to know and that made perfect sense to Anathet.

When she was dressed and ready, Set took a deep breath, setting her personal aura to a deep black-red not dissimilar from Marianne's or Tias. An aura of darkness and destruction. If she did it right, she'd come in with a burst of light and completely dominate the room.

Set took a breath, readied herself, and then took a portal directly to the Seneschal's room.

[Tatterdemalion]

Canada!

Really, you’ve got nobody to blame but yourself. You fell for one of the classic blunders: the old “snatch them up with air support while occupying all of their attention.”

You’re dangling a hundred feet in the air from one of those animal control grabber things exiting out of a port in the hull of a chariot, which buzzed down low, pulled you off your feet, and then achieved high altitudes while you caught your breath. It’s heading directly for a giant battle arena back where you first challenged Shamash.

If you break out of the grabber... well, that’s a very, very long way to fall. If you try to scramble up the grabber, good luck getting a handhold on the spaceship’s hull. (Because it is a spaceship. It’s just called a chariot because the engines that pull them are like horses. Really, they’re more like podracers from Star Wars than anything.)

This would be a really nice time for one of your teammates to pop up and explain that Shamash is in charge of the fleet and of course he’d have very skilled air support, but there’s just you, the rushing wind, and the city lights far, far below.

***

Anathet!

You interrupt Caphtor as she is relaying a message to the Seneschal and his household advisors. It looks like it’s an all hands on deck situation; the Seneschal is wearing a corset and a loose skirt, the Annunaki equivalent of a sports jacket and reasonable pants for running around to put out fires.

The crisis team here is circled around the scale model of Caphtor. It’s not a hologram or computerized; it’s practical effects, a perfect replica of the city-ship that unfolds like a flower to depict the decks below when necessary. Little figurines, like the toy soldiers nerds paint and play with, represent Shamash, Canada, and a wing of chariots. The assembled Annunaki were so intent on the model and on Caphtor that poor Shelia and Muta’al, over in the dancers’ alcove, were being completely ignored.

You step out onto the luxurious carpet, in your most intimidating form, and the Seneschal’s reaction is immediate. The jewelry on his arm shifts and slots together, crackling with power as he spins on his heel and moves smoothly into Inexorable Bull Form.

The only way to speak to the keeper of the city is by holding your own in a martial arts fight against him and his handpicked advisors in his office, the windows open and letting in the cool night breeze. Which, of course, you knew, which is why you have your staff out and ready.

Heaven or hell! Duel 1! Let’s rock!

***

Marianne!

Chariots scream overhead. Ah, poor little Canada! She’s been caught like a mouse in a trap. And now the time has come for her to die.

In the city below, slaves are herded down streets on foot, rousted out of beds; in the city above, rickshaws and chariots bear Annunaki, just as compelled. It would not do for a single seat not to be full.

How do you make it to your seat on time, o fearful demon of the night airs?

[Phoe]

It's a rare thing for Marianne to find a moment for herself. Always more to do, another face to threaten, a heart to crush. But carefully, carefully, never stepping too hard in case her shell breaks around her and Étoile loses the spark that lets her be Marianne. So many places to be, so many plans held together by her willingness to be the one in the center tugging at every thread. Always a face to present, always theater to perform.

But just now? The pieces are all in place. Her sworn sisters have assigned roles, and all she needs to do is wait for her moment to cash them out. There are no Annunaki overlords for her to step on and no citizens to awe or housebroken slaves to wash away. In this moment, she is a sphinx without a riddle to tell. A dragon with no great warriors to challenge her. And like all beasts of legend with nothing to constrain them, she takes the chance to stretch her wings and fly.

Étoile is a ball of warm, happy fire in her chest just now. Marianne runs through the city with her hood pulled off and her luxurious golden hair spilling out behind her like a banner as she passes between the cities Above and Below along the paths made just for her. Clomp clomp clomp go her boots as she runs first vertically and then across the surface of an apartment wall. Just before gravity can take her again, she tenses her legs and pushes, and oh! How she soars!

The wind whips at every lock of hair and shredded flap of her coat. It pulls at her heavy, baggy pants and ruffles them around her knees. She is sailing, soaring, cutting through the air like a knife and then she twists her body with a gymnast's precision, putting her back perpendicular with the street below and bending herself into a rainbow so that her momentum carries her body all the way around into a ponderously slow flip. If anyone were watching, they'd be reminded of a large fish playing in an ocean current. She kicks her foot down and squeezes in between the shadows of an archway and the roots of some massive alien tree planted there to bless it.

Shifting, pulling, twisting, flying. Marianne handsprings off a spike growing out of a random Noble's desire to be left alone (oho, how curious! But not tonight, non), and flips herself end over end until she's leaping and running over massive warping fronds that spread across this space in a choking canopy of neglect and fear. The slightest misstep would send her tumbling into an abyss with no concepts to find purchase on, where only angels or the most beautiful of devils could hope to take wing and find the light again. But even though the meta-leaves shift and snap horribly mere instants after she passes, they suffer Marianne to pass. Of course they do: she's held aloft on a wire named Belief, the star of her very own wuxia show.

A massive grin spreads across her face, and for once it carries nothing of savagery or sardonic disdain. There is joy and there is anticipation, and her shell feels lighter than a feather on a scale. She throws a spear-tipped chain into the side of a massive black wall the size of the night sky and swings around in a wide, looping arc before releasing and sailing deep into the warping sky to land on the smallest of a series of pillars climbing up and up forever toward a spot of blinding bright light. Ahhh, there is her Canada!

The greatest thrill of all would be to climb back into the pathways of her sworn sister's soul, where she could wrap herself around Étoile and tear through space in her true body and finally finally finally test the limits of her powers. Oh, to fight like that, yes! To run like that, yes yes! But that golden door is sealed behind a lock she cannot pick. She must be allowed back inside, and tonight is not the night for it in any case.

She climbs lightly and easily through the twisted sea of Annunaki hubris to a door leading back into the realm of ordinary minds. In one moment the stadium seating is empty, and in the next she comes bubbling up through the bottom until she's standing on her toes at the edge of a chair. Her face splits open in a vicious grin. Oh, Canada. How brightly you burn. How dazzling shall be your fall!

[Tangled Web: 13. Marianne will have an opportunity to act against Canada, and take +1 forward while doing so for the remaining duration of this scene]

[Anarion]

[Potential 4. Insecure]
[Unleash Powers 6+6+2=14]

Set appears from her portal as though bursting through the translucent Caphtor with a blinding flash of light and iridescent color. Gold gleams shine from her crown and her staff and her jewelry is so bright that it cannot be looked at directly. The Seneschal may be preparing, but nobody can approach the radiant Set, goddess of lightning, in her moment. Instead, she holds out her staff and ever so gently lifts up the Seneschal's chin. "It's too crowded in here" she says, almost petulantly, as she looks him right in the eyes. And then, with a dismissive wave and another flash, without even taking her eyes off of the Seneschal, everyone else in the room suddenly finds that the floor under them is so much less sturdy than they thought.

Do not let it be said that the goddess of outsiders has no heart! Shelia and Muta'al, those poor ignored dancers, will find themselves mercifully in the garden, their sudden movement cushioned by the lovely soft grass. The others, however, are now all sliding off the exterior of the domed roof of the Seneschal's estate, each one in a different direction.

"Much better" she says, ducking under the charged fist of the now enraged Seneschal and making a tut tut motion with her staff. "No, no dear, now that we have some private time to ourselves, we need to talk." She steps back, balancing on the model of Caphtor and kicks over the figure of Shamash, waiting to see how the Seneschal reacts.

[Thanqol]

So she's back here.

She's done everything in her power to avoid this arena. She's resisted, evaded, hidden. She's veiled herself and averted her eyes. She's tried to be a Phantom Thief and win her name back from the shadows. She's tried to play smart. She's tried to play cool. She's tried to play merciful. And she keeps getting dragged back here. She keeps winding up in this fucking place where the only thing she'll be measured by is the amount of blood she leaves on the sand when she's forced to fight people she'd like so much to save.

She doesn't want to fight Shamash, any more than she wanted to fight Asterion, any more than she wanted to fight Tirzah. To dance, perhaps - to engage like lovers, fast enough to dodge and weave in and out of embraces, able to trust exactly where the spear was going and how to make it one of the steps in her own dance. But feline eyes weigh upon her shoulders and her right hand curls around empty air. This is it, Canada Taliv, bearer of the Light of Ra. You've tried everything you could to avoid this moment and it's here regardless. How many times can you put it off?

She stands tall in the arena, waiting for Shamash. That empty air in her hand feels heavy. She doesn't trust herself to hold it. She doesn't trust herself not to drop it.

She's not smart enough. Fast enough. Cold enough. She had a soft, bleeding heart and had done nothing but bleed for it. What value were hearts in the arena? What value were hearts when they came between her and doing what needed to be done?

The fingers of her sword hand twitch.

Shiver.

Release.

Both hands come up to brace behind the shield instead.

She can't tell if it's resolve or cowardice. Both are warring still in her mind, but neither of them are triumphant, neither of them are making this decision.

Her feet shift in the sand.

She's making this decision because she can hear that music again. Distant, distant, but just barely starting to rise. The rhythm of battle, the dance steps that call to her. A song half-remembered, as though from a past life, gaining speed and pace.

She didn't know where the music was going to lead her, but she knew she wanted at least one more dance.

[Tatterdemalion]

Marianne!

Slaves and Annunaki alike are being packed into the stands. You have picked, likely out of sheer mischief, one of the University Boxes. So it is that when a gaggle of students on the Honors Track enter, whispering furtively to each other, you are there to greet them. And, ah, look who’s right there!

If it isn’t Celestine Ravenelle, staring you dead in the eyes as her classmates gasp and her Thornback minder bristles. The Thornback declares his intent to go and get the guards in his high, waspish voice, and that’s when the door slams shut behind him.

You have some of the city’s bright young minds in here with you. A captive audience, even. Give them a show, collaborators and brown-nosers and cowards all!

***

Anathet!

The Seneschal’s strikes are more measured, now. His rage is burning cold: you can feel it. He’s furious that you would dare be here. You don’t know your place. If you defy the proper order, the position he’s entrenched his identity inside doesn’t mean anything. But he’s not a rampaging blinded bull, no matter what the symbol of his master might imply.

“If you have come to speak—“ He feints, testing. You don’t fall for it, so he recovers smoothly into a high kick that forces you to bend back over the model of Caphtor. “You had better do so while you have the opportunity. Caphtor? Summon assistance.”

Caphtor bows and winks out, and it’s just the two of you, dancing. He’s not willing to damage the model, which makes it a wonderful centerpiece for your back and forth. One solid hit could send you flying into a wall, and for that reason, you do not allow him a solid hit— but you don’t have any openings on him, either.

“You are degenerate,” he adds, matter-of-factly. “You are diseased. You and Canada Taliv and Marianne.” A lance of silver-white light blows a chunk out of a window shutter, redirected by a clever portal. His glove vents energy in a backwash that makes his wispy veil flutter and his braids tremble. There’s something to remember about how that works. “The priestess of a dead barbarian god, my daughter’s oblivious tool, and anarchy. Go on. Speak!”

***

Canada!

Shamash lands in the arena with the classic superhero landing: on one knee, fist down, head lowered. The shockwave sends sand into your face. It stings.

Then they stand, lift one hand, and bellow so loud that spectators clap their hands over their ears. As if in response, a thunderclap, a blinding flash: a lance falls from heaven neatly into Shamash’s waiting grasp. They spin it almost contemplatively between their fingers. It writhes and shudders as if trying to stop being a spear, barely contained. This is a bad weapon. You don’t want to get touched by it.

“Champions! Esteemed Lord of the Upper Airs! Malicious and Contemptible Rebel!” Jezcha’s sneering voice rings out from the Seneschal’s Box. And there, beside her...

Tirzah sits, listening to all that is going on.

“By command of Most Terrible and All-Consuming Shamash, Breaker of Horses, you fight to... destruction.” Not even Jezcha can bring herself to say death. Maybe even if you lose, you’ll be spared.

You just won’t enjoy it. At all.

Horns blare. Trumpets ring out. Banners are flown. This is a production now. And here you are at center stage.

Good luck.

[Phoe]

"Hahahahaha! Tu te fous de moi? J'aime cela!"

Marianne covers her face with one gloved hand to smother her chuckling. It does very little good; her sharp teeth flash around her arm as though it wasn't there at all. Her shoulders roll with mirth as her fingers spread wider. In the gap that forms between them, she fixes one burning eye directly onto Celestine's two blue ones. She burns her gaze directly through the little sister's heart, watching and waiting for her to flinch.

She doesn't. Marianne dips into a low, sweeping bow instead. She holds it for une, deux, trois... and snap, she's gone. Une, deux, trois again...

CRUNCH!

Her boot catches the Thornback in the back of the head. Marianne snaps dramatically, and several blackened chains rise up from the floor like angry vipers and lash the broken little housepet into a more pleasing shape. They wrap and bind the limbs together, winding through all of the twisting spikes and twice around the joint of each finger, and then yank painfully until it's dragged partway into the wall in the pose of a stereotypical cactus like you'd see on tv. She grins wolfishly, and turns to the students.

"Welcome, my darling little future sycophants! Are you working hard to become the best slaves you can be? Be sure to tell your masters everything you see here tonight, don't miss a detail! This is an important night, yes! The most important night of your lives, yes yes! Tonight, Professor Marianne is here to teach you lessons your school is too lazy and too frightened to let slip. Watch and learn, my darlings! You will soon see the difference between a thief and a hero. Learn well the difference! Recapture your sparks, mes chéries, both roles are needed for a revolution."

Marianne wraps herself into a corner of the room and comes crawling out of a chair near Celestine with a low purr rumbling up in her throat. She squeezes this littlest star on both her shoulders and then lifts her bodily into a princess carry so she can march the pair of them across the box to press Celestine's face against the window.

Below, the arena crawls with shadows that give this place, already neglected and spooky, the kind of aura you'd normally associate with horror stories. Every door looks bent and broken, every bit of equipment is rusted over or dripping with some unmentionable slickness, and the ground... well, it's not normally supposed to move like that, is it? It's subtle, though, and where the eye watches it too long the shadows melt away to cover some other corner, crevice, or device. The faint howling of the wind, like a trapped animal, is just present enough to send shivers up the spine even all the way up here. But still, it's slight enough as to be mistakable for the stamping of feet, the fluttering of banners, the fervor of the crowd. It's only when you really look that you notice how many loose bits of chain are strewn about, literally everywhere.

Marianne smiles, and cups her hand under Celestine's chin.

"There, you see, little one? I have stolen the Great God's arena. Next, I shall steal his kill. Ah, ah! Not a peep, chérie. Canada Taliv will die tonight, and Marianne will kill her. Nothing shall bring her back except the hope in your heart that begs for heroes. Keep her safe, yes? That is your assignment tonight! This is how I shall steal the Great God's eyes. Do you want that, little one? Would you beg to see him blinded? Would you pray to crack the walls of this perfect city?"

Marianne dumps Celestine on the ground before she can give an answer. She barks with laughter at the indignant glare getting shot at her, then harder still as Celestine's attempt at an answer turns into an awkward yelp as a chain yanks her up by the foot to dangle her upside down from the ceiling. The hurt on her face is real, isn't it Little Star? But she won't miss the pressure those chains put on her hand as they slip the piece of paper with the note you wrote for her. Worry not, Marianne loves you both, yes.

[Anarion]

[Potential 4. Insecure]

Set laughs. Long and high and light, her aura scintillates in light colors, slipping from white to pink with high energy. "You think I'm Set's priestess?" She laughs, twirls herself into a portal and kicks the seneschal in the back of his head leg while his glove is recovering, causing him to briefly lose his balance and stumble away from her. This further adds to his indignity as he has to try and stumble his way around a tower in the model before he can recover his balance. Set laughs yet again.

"I am the embodiment of Set, come to free the weak, the slave, the outsider, from your sad little chain! And I think..." She slips sideways, almost dancing around him with her portals so that she can whisper in his ear "...that all you little Annunaki secretly want it!"

Set giggles, and slips away again, backing up. "But today, today today is a special day because I know something extra special." She sticks out her tongue at him happily, the red almost looking like an open crocodile mouth with her makeup. "You see, I know that somebody might get in a looooot of trouble if, oh, the Phantom thief Marianne caused a huge public embarrassment for you while your high god is here. And it just so happens I've already told Marianne all about this, can you believe it?" She ducks backwards. It's becoming increasingly obvious that she's simply fighting defensively, letting him swing his nasty fist about and giving him gentle hits, pushes, and kicks without any intent to truly injure.

"So, why don't you stop swinging that silly little fist around, it does you about as much good trying that at me as it does at the wind, and instead take out your tablet. Because you see, if you'd like to keep your job, then we'd like you to release some prisoners. Right now, this very second. Come on hop to it, I've got a whole list. Order their immediate releases and have them sent to the lower city markets, here, here, here and here!" She taps the model with her foot in a few different places. Essentially random, she simply commits the spots to memory, to warp there later and pick them up, or have Marianne do it. That she picked several spots is simply a matter of creating a sense of pattern out of nonsense, to send the Seneschal chasing after shadows."

"Now, you be a good little boy, take out your tablet and I'll rattle off the list. Hurry hurry, I'm sure you still want to be Seneschal tomorrow, it seems like it comes with some great model kits!" And then she waits and glares like he's a child who's been caught trying to steal cookies and knows he has to put them back."

[Provoke: 3+2+3=8]

[Thanqol]

This is a production all right, but it's not Shamash's any more.

As the world sinks into darkness and the arena into nightmare, so does she - bending low to cast her face with black sand and muck. Her light goes out and all that's left is the horror Marianne has bought. Eyes become accustomed to the light and beauty fades away into it - until the moment it vanishes. It's as shocking and disorienting as an electrical outage.

And a few seconds of total shock are lifetimes at the speed she and Shamash are moving at.

She sprints forward as invisibly as a sunbeam in space. She leaps, snatching the spear out of the sky seconds before Shamash's fingers close around it. She skids to a halt on the other side of the battlefield, feeling the twisted thing writhe beneath her fingers. She spends a few precious seconds to scan the crowd. Is Marianne here? Anathet?

She looks up at Tirzah. Despite everything she smiles. Despite everything her heart beats. Do you see? I'll never stop fighting for you.

[Directly engage: 11
- Avoid Blows
- Take the spear from him]

[Phoe]

From up on high in her box seats, Marianne clicks her tongue. She grabs her left hand in her right and rubs at the back of it as though scratching an itch. There's no time for her to make a conscious choice about what's to become of her domain, but her trap is sprung. This is enough.

The arena comes to life: shadows go skittering in all directions like a swarm of scarabs to cover everything Canada touches. Their touch is cold and slippery, and though little enough each band can do to slow the blinding rush of Canada, they are the difference between the speed of thought and the speed of distraction.

Where her feet fall, the building grows more sinister, more hostile. Patches of floor warp, and the whorls of debris drag unsuspecting ankles down and turn sure-footed sprinting into blindingly awkward stumbling. All around them the ground washes away until it's little more than rusted-out mesh hanging over a black chasm leading to the Paths Between. Chains rattle and brush over hips. The air grows stale and unpleasant.

Through it all, Shamash is untouched. He is a welcome guest here in the domain of Marianne. Canada is not. Above, Marianne's face twists into a smirk. Her chuckle is throaty and mirthful. Do not fail her, chevalier.

[Defend Shamash: 10 Canada's 11 is reduced to a 9, and she'll need to pick which of her Engage options she gets to keep]

[Tatterdemalion]

Set!

The Seneschal would have submitted. He really, really would have! But he’s furious over how you came in and made him look like a fool. He’s got that look on his face that Jezcha gets when she’s losing a game and won’t admit it, the kind that says she’s about to flip the board over or leave in a huff. With a furious cry, he executes a flying kick.

And this is it. This is your chance. Double or nothing. He’s overextended and you can punish him, show him your power, leave him at your mercy. Wouldn’t Marianne be proud?

The only trick is that if you, to quote that old movie, choose instead to stand still, get hit in the face, and roll around and die, things will be decidedly less pleasant.

***

Shamash!

Your prey stumbles around like she’s high. Where’s the challenge? Is she playing some dangerous game? Perhaps she’s simply panicking because your helm is automatically cutting out her attempts at affecting you, extended across the entire arena. The crowd screams, or cheers, or wails; is there a distinction?

She carries your spear, but you are a High God. At your signal, your chariots fire down into the arena. Your furnace flares white hot as you lift one hand and create a crown of light. Let all behold your wrath! With a twist of your wrist, your spatial drills create a path to the child, and the cannon blasts follow, tearing open the arena’s sandy floor and knocking her from her feet.

In another moment, you are upon her; now that you have the opportunity, you intend to toy with your prey. Fling her around a little bit. Hurl her into a wall. The like.

***

Canada!

Mark a Condition, and Take A Powerful Blow.

[Anarion]

[Potential 4. Insecure]
[Directly engage with littlest space bandit: 3+4+3=10. Avoid his blows and Impress him!]

The Seneschal of Marduk is angry. So angry he's stopped thinking, so angry he's going into autopilot, trying to hit as hard as he can. He's confident in his power and reckless of anything that Set can do. He's underestimated her.

As he leaps into his kick, Set simply sinks into the ground, perhaps six inches or so, halfway through a portal. He's committed, it's too late for him to course correct and just like that the fight is ending. She reaches up a hand and grabs the loose skirts around his leg and with a loud riiiiip she tears a long length of Annunaki fabric off his skirts, pulling it all the way up to the hem at his waist. Then he lands and before he can collect himself, suddenly she's reaching out of a portal right behind him and she's wrapping the fabric around and around his ankles fast as you like and cinching it so tight that he can't maintain his balance and topples forward.

Right before he would crash into his lovely model, he falls into a portal instead and Set uses the opportunity to rip another length of fabric and loop it once and twice around his upper arms, pulling them tight to his body and knotting it in the back. She slides right past him, running a hand down his arm ever so gently to his dangerous little fist and slides it right off his hand, then kicks it away with her sandal.

Then, another rip and now the Seneschal is showing quite a bit of thigh as Anathet wraps a knot around each wrist so they're held together with a thick knot in between them. And, as a last gesture to Marianne she rips one more strip off the skirt (leaving most of his leg exposed) and pulls it over his mouth and around his head so he can't talk back any further. Well a gesture to Marianne and payback for calling her Set's priestess. Please. She's his avatar thank you.

Then she topples him through another portal and suddenly he's sitting in his chair and the poor dress yields up one more to tie his waist to the supports so he can't get out of it. And when he focuses his vision after all those drops, she's sliding the tablet under his hands so he can reach.

"Now see, this is much better! I've really improved your look, and now you can do something for us and I'll leave you alone for today! Really, you're lucky it's just me, I'm the nice one and I'm being so gentle, I even left you your pretty little city model. It would have been a shame to break it, even if you made the under-city far too small and boring. You should really fix that, your little chain model is a bit off I think. But you know, Marianne would have you cinched up and hanging from the ceiling in a ball I think, so I hope you appreciate how thoughtful I'm being. So, hurry and do your little tappy tappy thing on your tablet (I'll be looking don't try and cheat) and then I'll be on my way and tomorrow you'll still get to be at the top of your little chain. Doesn't that sound great? Orrrr you could be difficult and I'll have to dangle you like this in front of the entire arena where Shamash was setting up. Whichever one you'd like really."

Set gives him her best crocodile grin and looks expectantly at the tablet.