[IC] Huntresses of Hybrasil

[Anarion]

Valynia Bander, Once Huntress, whose star name is Gifted of Oaxacala

Today has been a good day.

Your heart beats in your chest. The jaguar priestess was so full of life. The way you feel together, you could feel the thump of her racing heart and the heat of her breath upon your face. It made your own heart race, your tail flick. It made you want to hold her close to you, to watch that whole body tense and relax as you drew your fangs along the neck, just enough to draw a drop of blood but no deeper, the scent intoxicating.

And yet, the goddess before you has threatened to crush the very stars that bless you, and you have come unprepared for such a threat. Your parents taught you to respect the gods, and though you have flown far from home and seen many suns, you have never lost that respect. The goddess of the hunt has blessed your eyes and your arms, but she is not here now to protect you and when Erys suggested this little visit, nobody thought to bring wardings.

Truth be told, the majority guess had been that they’d simply swagger in, ask the goddess her blessing, intimidate the engineering staff a little, and walk out with a good sense of the chassis and how easily the staff would be to manipulate later. Jumping up to the causeway when you caught sight of the priestess had been an impulse play. But you can’t say you regret it.

As you pad down the stairs, the taste of her hand lingers in your mouth, and in your ears echo the last words she spoke to you: I know her. Those were intimate words, words of a priestess most favored of her unique goddess. You’d take her symbolism, give it to Erys for her next match, see if they couldn’t bend that goddess in knots. If you all also sought the goddess of the hunt’s blessing of protection, then this lesser goddess wouldn’t be able to interfere spiritually either, only her body would be a threat in the ensuing combat.

Your tail flicks with the thought of it. Yes, let her rail and cry. But for all her threats she was a new goddess, lesser than the great pantheon of Hybrasil, and even they had at times been bound. The Red Band loved the story of when the goddess Macheka blessed her champion with a unique spiritual rope to surprise and bind her rival Caloa. Caloa had spent thirty nights and seven bound by the mortal before she had prostrated herself and bargained for her freedom, offering exaltation among the gods to the girl, now the goddess Irtana.

Now though, you have the unenviable task of convincing all your sisters to prostrate themselves. Perhaps if the goddess commanded it directly, they would all obey quickly enough, but this intercession is one only you heard.

You start with Erys of course, pulling her aside out of earshot in the hangar door, leaving the other four so they know you’re not leaving and explaining what was asked. Erys laughs of course, tells you not to be so superstitious, but you can see her eyes dart side to side as her instincts look for a safe place to leap to at the thought, and all it takes is you pointing out that this will give the whole Band good reason to seek “compensation” later and she’s in. She manhandles the rest for you as you return to the hangar space, and you all prostrate yourselves to the goddess, heads down, butts up, on your knees before her.

She’ll never see that you can’t quite keep the wicked grin off your face at all the fun you’re going to have with her priestess once you’ve got her. It will be you, of course. Erys may have the next match, but that means you’re free to lead the kidnapping afterwards.

Yes, today has been a good day indeed.

***

Mirror

There’s something about the tone and the smoothness as you bring her in that really gets Matty’s buy-in. Maybe she wants to buy in too, likes the fantasy and imagining the world as full of scary but also adventurous and exciting things. Either way, she meeps when you suggest the pirates, then blushes and comes in quickly and contritely, barely managing a squeaked hello. Her hand closes on the drink mechanically, and she takes a sip to help gather herself without even thinking about it.

Then she’s set up to give an introduction to Slate. She thinks for a moment, then bless her heart, offers a curtsy even though she’s in an engineering suit and holding a drink in one hand. “Um…h-hi. My name is Mattara Swimmer, Eight Cigni, but you can call me Matty. I work at Trosta’s armory on Akar II. I learned engineering back on Hybrasil, but I…um, never quite fit in there and I wanted to see more of the world, so when I heard they were recruiting Hybrasilian engineers here I thought it would be nice. And um I met…(she blushes here, remembering sitting with Mirror and being petted) Mirror earlier when she was visiting Trosta’s where I work, which um, I already said. She invited me here after I was done and also, um, since I was visiting anyway, Trosta sent me with some blueprint ideas for what she came up with. It’s pretty neat, I think. I helped!”

She grins, stopping there for a moment. She isn’t sure if she should just launch into the work stuff and is kind of hoping Slate will do a little self-intro in response of some kind. Maybe Mirror too for that matter, there wasn’t a lot of time before. She glances over, then covers the awkward silence by taking another long sip of her drink. She honestly seems like she’d be comfier sharing her thoughts from your lap, Mirror, but she’d also die of embarrassment at even the thought of suggesting it with your colleague present.

***

Solarel and Isabelle

Annika and Crescent bound their way up the floors after you. Crescent leaps on all fours and Annika bounds with great jumps that belie the strength of her thin frame compared to Solarel. You’re in the upper levels of the facility now, great holes gouged in the floors and all nearby nanobots too busy responding to Isabelle’s defense to engage in any repairs of the materials, leading the whole thing to look like a giant sheet of paper that someone punched a hole through the middle of. Bits of supercooled metal and rock are already scattered about from the ascent and initial defense.

The two watchers are barely gnats though, and they clearly don’t plan to intervene. They’re here to gather data and are enjoying themselves immensely.

[Tatterdemalion]

“Hear me!”

Dolly lifts her arms wide, and the spotlights click onto her, standing on a platform between Jade’s thighs. She’s got the cloak now, the rainbow of feathers, the brooch secured to her suit’s clasp. It’s borrowed power, borrowed authority, borrowed courage. If she thinks about what she’s doing, she’ll fall apart.

No, that’s not quite right, either. The physicality of just doing it is the solution, but it’s the fact that she’s doing it that’s dangerous, that will have her blushing and stumbling over herself. What she clings to is that this is her responsibility. This is what she agreed to do; this is what Jade has commanded her to do. She is the person who gets to speak for Jade, but she is also the person who gets to try and change her mind.

“Smokeless Jade Fires has heard my pleas on your behalf…” Supplicants? Pirates? Faithful? None of them right. She lets the thought trail, tries to make it seem intentional. “She is willing to believe that you are overexcited.” (The word she uses is closer to “overstimulated,” and is more often used to describe the actions of children.) “And because I asked her,” and in her heart she puffs herself up a little bit, draws her knees together, and tries to believe that she is a real high priestess, “she has chosen to grant my plea, and show you mercy, and withdraw her fury. Now, you must go and wash yourselves.” Ritual work; hands, top of the head, back of the neck. “Then she will allow you to take your offerings and—“

Take. She said take. She pauses, swallows. Jade leans against the railing, her back to the Banders, not looking at Dolly, but she’s here. She’s judging her Bride and making her heartbeat louder and she’s the huge immanence of the mecha behind Dolly but she’s here, too, because that’s what being a goddess is. It’s being with her all the time.

“…and offer them to her,” she continues. Is that a twitch of a smile on Jade’s lips? Is it because she said offerings and offer? Or is it because she did a good job? She doesn’t let herself turn her head. “Then you may go.” Depart. Depart would have been the better word. Augh. Augh. Augh. “And when you depart, know that you do so because she is capable of showing mercy… and because I asked on your behalf.”

Jade takes Dolly’s wrist, leans in, brushes against her cheek as she whispers. She still keeps her back turned to the Banders; she might be lifting her curse, but that does not mean they have earned her regard. Thank you, Nine Forests, for the information, keyed into a terminal while the Banders groveled.

“And Erys Bander?” Jade has lifted Dolly’s hand so that its back rests against her chin. She is the Gloating Priestess from every cheap thrilling adventure tale. Her voice is drifting into a higher pitch, which either makes her sound like a villainess or a kitten, and she can’t help it. This is almost too much. But there’s an exhilaration in being made to do something you’d never have the courage to try, and that’s the secret of why she’s standing here in the first place, at all. “Remember that I am not your opponent. I am her priestess and pilot. And when she defeats you, she will be sure to see how your inferior war-body looks strung up as a trophy.”

Erys— is that? Is that the one who— no, she’s the spotted jaguar, the one who’s glaring, the big one. Not the leopardess. That’s disappointing. It would be… it would feel really good to be Jade’s tool to defeat her.

The spotlights click off, and Jade tugs her to one side. She turns, slowly, carefully, trying to maintain dignity. She’s taking small steps because she’s being serious, Banders. They can’t see the chain pull taut between her ankles.

”What an obedient girl you are,” Jade purrs, her tail undulating as she drifts gracefully. “What goddess could ask for a better orator?”

“You honor me, my lady,” Dolly says, small, breathless, aware that she’s not out of eyesight yet. She’s still got a whole bunch of stairs to take on her way up.

”It will make it all the more enjoyable to disgrace you, Dolly. Be grateful that they do not deserve to see your beauty, or I would have you peel that garment free from your velvet-soft fur, your moon-kissed breasts, and walk as they deserve to walk.”

That is a thought. That is a thought of tugging the leopardess’s leash while she snarls and drools on herself, naked, impotently glaring, taking these mincing steps. And behind her, the rest of the Banders, mewling, jingling, trophies of the goddess— and at the very end, in those rose-colored silks, Angela, Angela, Angela, and in this daydream she’s struggling but not going to headbutt anyone because she knows she lost fair and square.

And then Dolly presents them to Jade, who decides that they are only worthy to be trophies to show off to the faithful, but that Angela deserves chief place on the altar, and Dolly, I need you to go down and kiss her clean of her defeat, be my mouth, be my words, show her how wonderful it is to surrender to a goddess, and then, oh, and then…

”Would you prefer the endurance of fire or the endurance of stone?”

“Fire,” she whispers, needily. Stone is maddening. Not in a bad way, but— but she doesn’t want to hold a position, body locked in place, on display for a temple packed with illusionary petitioners, when she could be bent over an altar with Jade’s fangs on her scruff, sating her voracious appetites. “Please. I want to undress for you, Smokeless Jade Fires; I want you to…”

The cockpit opens, and she has to fight to not glance over her shoulder. Inside awaits Jade’s punishment, and, she’s trusting, because she loves Jade, Jade making sure that she’s okay, and helping her forget that moment where she was scared of the scaffolding giving way, giving her so many treats to indulge until she’s a mess, please, Jade.

“I want you to pack my mouth so full,” she confesses, a thirsty little Bride, barely able to keep her tongue behind her lips at the thought. “And I want you to claim me.”

”Am I not generous to my faithful? But not until your regalia lies on the floor, Savior-of-Pirates, Seducer-of-Beauties, Crocodile-Mouthed, Tight-Chasmed.”

Dolly’s flustered squeal is cut off by the cockpit sealing shut behind her, and woe betide any who think to enter the holy place while the Bride communes with her goddess.

[Erys Bander is hit with Wingman; Smokeless Jade Fires takes +1 Forward to Fight or Entice.]

[BlasTech]

The swords dance and flash - a dizzying display.

It's funny, isn't it - how words can sometimes fail people - but actions can speak oh so clearly?

You can see it in the way she fights at first - with panicked desperation. Battle, real battle, is something that scares her. It's not surprising when you consider how she reacted to the pirates and their guns. What, with the potential for people to be hurt or killed, for destruction and death, who wouldn't find things at least a little bit scary? (Don't forget, she's only Terenian, and does not have your metal-hardened scales or a Hybrasillain's claws to protect her).

But as you two duel, the fear subsides. She parries and strikes with a more comfortable confidence. She presses forward. You realise that this battle, this fighting, means something different. In a world where everyone is armoured with dense alloys, where everyone stands tall on legs of steel and adamantine. When one's arms are strengthened with servos and hydraulics and where your own self lies protected in the pilot's cage - the worries just slip away.

Fighting is one time where she can be free. Free of the fear that follows her whenever she's outside the cockpit. That dogs her steps as surely as the press. Battle is a means of escape. Of expression. Of testing skill and ability. This arena of toy robots and toy fights means she can fight as she wants to be. Not as she's forced to be. By biology, position and expectation. By worries of collateral damage and hurt people. By fear of pain and loss.

Now, that answers your first question - what about the second?

Well, here the answer gets a bit harder ... In this fight, as she locks blades with you, swords sparking, you get the sense that she's trying to redirect you, keep you away from destroying more of the facility, of the history that lies unplumbed. She's fighting, in short, to protect. And in doing so, you can tell that she's fighting all the harder for it.

But still she holds back - she doesn't want to hurt you, strange as that may seem. She's only trying to put an end to the destruction.

If you want her to fight you truly - with all of her ability and heart? Then you may need to make her fight to protect something from you. Something she truly cares about. This facility and the pirates in it are not good candidates. They've hurt her too much and she knows too little about them.

(To be clear, you might both still be surprised by her reaction should you threaten harm on them. But they just do not hold the strings on her heart to motivate her as deeply as some other things may)

Perhaps if you look further afield. Something in TC space. Her siblings or her charity work might give you more insights. It won't feel great, you may have to play the villain, but if you really want that kind of a fight, then that's the price you'd have to pay. Provoke her, ultimately, to fight with all the strength of anger and fear.

But there might be a different way.

You can sense the chains restraining her as you fight - chains of fear, of responsibility, of her own guilt and anger. What do you know of her standing, family and destiny? Have you looked into them? Do you know how much they hold her back even as they shape her into the thing that they want her to be? How do you break these ideals?

Well you're already doing some of that by simply showing her this adventure. Out here, in the blue expanse of Aoi, their pull on her is weakened - a moon far away from the celestial body she orbits. But that tether is as unbroken as gravity. They will pull her in again, eventually.

The truth is she cannot escape them, those ideals that enslave her, on her own. She is just not strong enough. For her to truly break their bonds, she needs someone to help her - to give her a push and to hold her free, lest she slip back into the well.

Do that, and she may fight you with a spirit freed of its shackles. And while she will still stay the final blow, she will fight you with all that she has - from a place of love.

Tell me though, Solarel, all this fighting - one has to wonder where it leads.

Solarel, what do you hope is your future?

And how can I get you to have a place for me in there?

[Rolling to figure out a person: 1 + 3 = 4 - Will ask one of the Chosen's questions in addition to the one from Solarel's last move]

[BlasTech]

(Accidental doublepost)

[Phoe]

There are a few advantages to being taller than the average cat. For one thing, natural terrain advantage. In the language of Posture, she naturally saw the furthest and projected the deepest calm. It was easy to win arguments when by standing up straight she could drive her fellow Hybrasilians into climbing just to get a read on her eyes, which dealt a blow on the first point of rhetoric before a word was even necessarily spoken. For another thing the Terenians tended to take her more seriously than many others of their kind since their religion preached physical size as a path to piety and cleaner living. At least so far as she understood it. Strange people. By far the strangest breed in space. Nevertheless, fascinating.

But in any case these things were not relevant to the current situation. The final advantage of height, and by a delightful coincidence the only one that matters right now: leverage. No mythical goddess' body had she. And even though she trained, the fact was her muscle mass was lower than the average pilot's by dint of her control scheme and the physical realities of the motions she did not need to perform like they did. But so what? Simply having longer legs was all she needed. A bend at the knee and she is positioned. Grab, high and low. Snap to full extension and:

"Meep!"

"Up we go, cutiewhiskers! My oh my, what a wonderful introduction, thank you much. Good girl, good girl! And you brought your little art project as well? I can't wait to see it; I'm sure it will be just precious. But not just yet, ok ripple? You've been on your little feet for so long, and now it's time to rest."

Matty is actually lighter than expected. With one hand at her knees and the other on the back of her neck, she tucks almost instantly into Mirror's chest and wraps her arms around her to make this outcast engineer the easiest carry Mirror can currently remember holding. All down to the surprise of the moment. All down to leverage. There are moments where she is grateful to be herself, instead of some other happier cat. This is such of one.

She moves quickly over to the couch, before her legs can develop a tremble and shatter the illusion. She sits while she can still do so gracefully, and leans into the armrest to support her back enough that she can easily hold Matty curled up in her lap with her head nestled close against Mirror's chest. The robe shifts dangerously. It's really only Matty's ability to stay still like a good girl that's for certain keeping it on her at the moment. Too much squirming and she might get more than she's ready for, the poor thing.

The heat pouring off her body is pleasant. Muscles loosen along Mirror's back and stomach in particular, and she sighs with contentment as the shuddering, embarrassed purr starts to vibrate through her bones. Her eyes flick across the room to Slate, who grins.

"Well that's just plain unfair, Boss. You know I was trying to stay mad at you, right? How'm I supposed to do that now that I've actually seen her. Damn you. Just... damn you, you're too good."

"Don't scare her, Selin. You've only just met. For that matter, she and I have only just met."

"Yeah, and you're already like that because... ok, right right, you're right as usual. I'm sorry. Hi there, you adorable thing you, my name is... is... Boss, do I really gotta do this?"

"The crew's not here, Selin. Matty will not be joining it in any official capacity. Her master was very adamant that I do not poach her for any purpose but this one. She gave you her name, don't hide behind modernity now."

Her smile is serene as she plays with Matty's hair. Slate watches with a silly expression on her face in spite of herself, heart visibly melting in real time. She clicks her tongue, the ultimate sign of the defeated.

"My revenge is going to be swift and brutal, and that's the last I'm gonna say about it right now. Ok cutie, you'd like my name? I'm Selin Makers, Laughing Story. Please just call me Slate. 'Mom' will do fine too, if you decide you're here for that. I'm Mira's chief mechanic, so you know, and Mira's first partner. If you take her, that means taking me too. After all, I'm originally the one who pushed her to look for someone like you. Though that was years ago, and she refused. Stars and spots, did she refuse. Hahaha, you should have seen... well, anyway."

There's a spot of silence in the room. Matty's purring stops, and she even risks Mirror's robe and grip for a chance to sit up and listen. Face full of cautious curiosity. Mirror says nothing, but watches on. Slate nods, and is left to pick up the pieces.

"Yup, see, that's the thing you have, Matty. The thing that Mirror needs and can't get from anyone else she's met. You've got kind've a heart on your sleeve thing going, don't you? You're very easy for her to read. Notice how confidently she picked you up just now? You never see that with someone she's just met. But with you... well ok, here. You said you didn't quite fit in on Hybrasil? Then you'll fit in this room just fine, see? We're a couple outcasts ourselves. Even before the big incident that got Mirror her stupid nickname.

"I don't want to overwhelm you since you're new and all, right? So I'm not gonna drop anybody's entire life story on your head, you just need to understand a really important thing that Mirror's never going to be able to explain to you. She can't, it short circuits her to try. I called myself her partner, but I don't got dibs on her. We're not in competition, you and me. Mirror, she's got the biggest heart in the entire universe, got me? And she needs... a lot. A lot a lot, to fill it. You could be a part of that, if you wanted to. Casual or serious, just show up and be yourself."

"You decide." Mirror's interjection is clipped, and desperately tense.

"And that's all, really. You won't have her all to yourself, but you'll never ever lose her for as long as you stay. Easy, right? As for me, don't worry. I think you're adorable. And matter of fact I'm pretty damn interested in what you've brought with you in a professional capacity. Real damn interested. So take a sec, right? Thanks for not hopping straight out've her lap. Real decent of you. Just think over how you feel about what I told you, and what Mirror's showing you, and then let's go ahead and see what you've got to show us. Don't worry too much about putting it all into words; the way you carry yourself while you're giving your little presentation will tell us both most've what we need to know. The rest we'll settle over drinks later. It'll be fun!"

"You like dumplings? We've got leftovers. I can. Feed you. If you want it."

[Thanqol]

What's a future?

It's a question and answer in every motion. Gears whir and grind, crystal turbines silently howl and metal strains against its constraints. The fight is everything. Long term wear to the devil. She'll trade it all for a scrap of advantage in the here and now. Every moment is fire stolen from the gods and, oh, does she buy so many steps towards victory with the coin she spends.

The ice ray fires at shattering overcharge airbursts, flash-freezing gears and making metal brittle. She's close, close, close - and then gone. You take your eyes off her for a moment and she's ducked out of the line of vision and every sense that might smell the Kathresis tastes only air. It's not just ease with which she vanishes from your life, it's with craving. There's a hunger for that silence and solitude. You can feel burning eyes from every direction. It's more than absence; it's the feeling of your reactions being digested. Of your reflexes and instincts being absorbed and uploaded. Of every flicker of motion weighed for confidence, for speed, for power.

And in that bladed absence you have never felt more vulnerable. Somehow in the course of this exchange she's peeled your shell and has left you in the spotlight alone. You can hear the inaudible drumbeat of rising violence rising around you, rising in your heart, feeling breath on your neck no matter how you turn. She has your measure and will dispatch you in moments. There is no counter, no fairness. Toy robots, toy fights? You have never been in more danger, Isabelle. You can't survive this by fighting as you want. War like this has rules, cruel and absolute. If you want to express yourself you have to earn that opening.

Do you think you can earn it on this day, Isabelle? While others were running a megacorporation were you studying the blade? Can you force an opening from Solarel, the Hunter of Huntresses, on the first pass? Have you prepared enough? Have you trained enough? Have you studied her enough, the black specter who undid the champions of Hybrasil? Are you ready? Are you worthy?

If you are, so be it. Your legend will be great indeed. If not then all you need do is sigh into the embrace of swords of gold and silver. She will let you down gently. She will await your vengeance, else you must await hers. Are you the mountain or the climber?

[Anarion]

Dolly and Jade

The Red Banders listen carefully, closely. Erys smiles, really actually smiles at the special note offered to her. It’s the only time she’s smiled the whole time she’s been there in fact. She’s been the big boss, dour, almost a little glum. She hadn’t expected Valynia to steal the show from her, hadn’t been mad either, but it had taken attention off of her and her swagger. Now she was the one being taunted, dared to come hard, and she was extremely into it.

When Dolly is done speaking, they do as they’re told. They move as a group and cleanse themselves in the nearby basin offered for Jade’s worship. The crew watches them closely, some of them at least beginning to relax and return to their work. Jade has handled things, Dolly has handled things, everyone is moving according to the script they’re supposed to, so they can relax a little. Nine Forests keeps watch though, just in case.

When they’re done, the Banders bring their offerings. They noticed Dolly’s slip, but still do as instructed for the moment. They deposit them before Jade’s feet one after another. Each of them brought a different offering for a goddess, all traditional. They are Hybrasilians above their factional loyalties after all. Jade is left with several sticks of incense, a bolt of cloth in maroon with bright yellow diamonds set in two lines along its top and bottom, an offering of some kind of meat with the bone still in, and (most precious) a necklace of several pieces of lapis lazuli on a short gold chain offered by the Leopard, Valynia. This, she had not originally intended to offer, but she took it off and added it to the pile when they parted, knowing the crew would remark on it.

***

Mirror

You can feel Matty relaxing as things are explained, sitting in your lap as she is, head pressed against your chest. It’s a lot. She nods a few times. When Slate explains how her heart being on her sleeve is helpful, she makes an “rrrr” noise that’s a purr of agreement.

When Mirror speaks, Matty turns her head up, just a little, to look at her, wrinkling the robe in the process, but not enough to pull it off, she stops her head before there’s too much feeling of tug, meaning that she’s looking at you out of the corner of her eye, and at Slate out of the other, both in peripheral vision, neither centered.

“I…mmm, I like this.” She brushes her head lightly against Mirror’s chest. “And I’m glad you’re not going to try and push me out” that’s more to Slate, acknowledging that they’re not fighting over this. “I um…yeah the rest is a lot, but I’m happy to…to be here like this. And um…I’d like some…um…some dumplings and…and…”

Well she almost got through it all. Poor thing’s blushing beneath her fur, she’s warm enough to feel it the embarrassment, Mirror. She absolutely wants to be fed those dumplings by Slate before getting to the technical stuff, but in the face of actually directly asking for that she’s struggling to get the words out. She never dreamed she’d just be here and able to ask for what she wants. Utterly ridiculous!

***

Isabelle

You’re starting to get a picture of things. The facility guardian being defeated and it dropping into low power made it more sluggish to respond to you. But now you’re fighting, commanding the local nanobots, activating emergency power, activating the need for future repairs, so systems are at least in motion.

You understand Tate within the mecha somewhat more clearly than without, like it designed to enhance this kind of interface. The facility AI is relatively simple. It does not know what the Trak’tho hoped to get, it doesn’t understand intentions as such. The question is interpreted as re-showing you some information you already saw. The facility is for scientific experimentation, with sections divided into weapons testing, the mecha bays, other science facilities, and the biology and chemistry experiments being run within the caves. This is what the Trak’tho designated it for, this is what the facility systems are built to support. New races do not have relevance to this except insofar as an experiment concerns them, which none actively currently do. Perhaps if a Trak’tho returned and updated it, that would change.

As for being the facility guardian, the position is now vacant, but that doesn’t give you any special access. You could get it though. Just…not in the heat of battle. You’d need to sit down, review the designations and powers held by the guardian, see which ones you could assign, possibly move around the facility and add manually certain authorization geists to your mecha, then use those to assign additional rights to yourself until you’ve reconstructed the full role of facility guardian. It would take some time, might wreck some equipment, but the facility would be yours afterwards and other visitors your guests.

However, there’s something more pressing right in front of you. Solarel’s blades, her prowess. Can you handle her? If you are defeated, even gently, you will not have the tools at your disposal to become facility guardian, nor the time to see it done. You must be the sole master of this place. Is that a reason worth risking this dangerous fight? For that matter, do you even believe you can do it, or are you still too novice in this new form to withstand her?

***

Solarel

The next move is Isabelle’s. You are poised to strike, but how you strike, where you strike, when you strike will depend on her. You will soon see whether you face the fledgling or the falcon, and what sort of dance you’ll have as a result.

You may perhaps remark in this moment of waiting that Crescent and Annika are at last leaving. A welcome relief?

[Phoe]

"Be it. Indulgence. Or. Connection. Be you. Guest. Or. Family. I am. Happy. You feel... free. Ask. Beg. Breathe. Here, you. Are. Treasure."

"Yeah it's a lot," says Slate with a smile, "She's a lot. But don't worry your pretty little head, cutie. As long as you're here, you're among friends."

"Safe company."

"...Or that, sure. C'mon Boss, sell. Sell it! How's she gonna fall into the fantasy if you sit there all overwhelmed and -- ah."

Mirror simply smiles, and fills the quiet of the room with Matty's warm purrs via the motion of her fingers. She is gentle. She is tender. She is affectionate and loving. One hand wrapped around the little sillyhead's waist to keep her from squirming or melting her way onto the floor, the other playing circles all up and down the back of her head. Through the hair, across the ears, a pause to brush the cheeks, sliding tenderly down her throat and playing tenderly with the outline of the collarbone. Tickling the back of the neck and moving to start the cycle over again.

She motions with her head toward the dumpling packages, and Slate grins as she makes a show of picking out several of the juiciest, most densely packed treats in the entire order. The level of sway in her hips would put even Mirror to shame. Up she comes, licking her chops suggestively in sheer delight of the sights and smells. And as she crosses, Mirror switches to stroking Matty's chin and the top of her neck, gently guiding her head up, and up, and up, until she's stretched (splayed, really) as far out as she can be, helpless to speak. Ready, in other words, to eat.

"Ah, there's a good girl! Good girl, sweet kitten, let all those thoughts come tumbling out. You don't need them, do you? Of course you don't. Of course you don't! Those are for the adults, aren't they? No, all you need to worry about is sitting still and opening your mouth sooooo wide, so Slate can feed you. Can't have you starving on us, can we? What would Trosta say? There we go, there we go, good girl, darling ripple, say aahh~"

Slate hesitates a moment before closing in for the kill. It was difficult sometimes to know which end of Mirror's breakdowns and recoveries were the affectations and which were the genuine hints at her mood. Sometimes both halves of a wild swing were genuine, and other times an entire water slide's worth of twists could turn out to be an aspect of play, though that was rare. Sometimes it was about shortcuts sometimes it was about surprises. Sometimes a moment was simply deemed too important and she would put on her mask and burn through it at deep personal cost.

Even for an expert in Mirrorology, it was a lot of potential cues to have to pick up on. And this for a woman who'd cosmetically altered her eyes to make it harder to gauge her emotions. But the motion of her hands, the softness with which she holds Matty: simultaneously giving the girl enough freedom of movement to let her make a complete fool of herself without ever letting her slip away from the cradle of comfort and softness... well, there was no room to misinterpret that, now was there?

She sits down next to her Boss and dangles a dumpling just out of reach of Matty's mouth, so that she needs to strain and stretch a teeny bit to nibble on it. It's tempting in the extreme to stuff the poor girl's mouth full and lock her out of the conversation for however long it took her to recover, but nah. Well, yeah actually. But some other time. And with a toy instead of food. She's got ideas. But you only get one first impression. And she'd promised. This girl would be family before the time came to say goodbye.

So that it would never have to.

Mirror buries her face in Matty's hair and plants a tiny kiss on top of her head, between her ears. Slate dutifully feeds the precious kitten her food, and wipes her mouth clean of drippings between each bite. But her eyes are alight with mischief that will not be silenced, after all. She looks over the top of this little moment and catches Mirror's eye.

"We had to clean out several power conduits near the cockpit, thanks to the burnout and reaction to that geist-thingy, Boss. A deep clean and a scrape did for the paths to Tail 3, but Tail 5's got a line too corroded to be kept. Not a problem; we've got the parts spare and the crew's all trained for this. It's not finished yet, but it'll be done before the next match, bet."

Mirror's smile shifts, and not subtly. One moment she wears a look of contented bliss, and the next with wicked amusement. So that's the game, is it? She continues to hold Matty close and returns to her massage, but her tone of voice becomes weary and bored. Business talk. As if Matty wasn't in the room at all. As if it couldn't matter less if she overhead a status report that most pit crews would commit murder to keep secret. As if the trained and talented engineer being fed dumplings in her lap was too small, too silly, to be factored into the appropriateness of the discussion.

The adults are talking. She feels Matty grow warmer as she catches onto the implication, and gives her a soft squeeze in exchange. Her lower hand massages Matty's stomach as she swallows a laugh.

"To be expected. They have the rest of the night off, I presume? Acceptable. And the controls themselves? Have they been tested for responsiveness in the face of the new connectors? The last time we needed to rip the Whip's guts out like this it felt like I was trying to cut through a waterfall making it move at speed. Frankly I'd rather let the whole thing get hijacked again then ever repeat that sensation."

"Nah Boss, can't. We've tried this, remember? Not a single one of us born can properly test out Nine-Tails' response rating. We need you there for that much, at any rate. Was meaning to talk to you about that. Can you spare time in the... well actually, since we're talking about changing the way the power routing works entirely to prevent this kind of attack in the future we might have to hold off all in all to avoid redundancy. Gonna be a busy day, I think. If it's not too much trouble, can we get you to clear your schedule? Emergencies only, Boss. It's gonna be touch and go without any additional expertise to stabilize us."

"Tch. Unfortunate. I do need time to run the business side of our operation, Slate. This operation doesn't pay for itself. Especially with the Smith getting involved. But if you say there's no time, then there's no time. It isn't as though we have any fresh experts on hand who could speed us out of the trial and experimentation phase. I'll have to put out another loan, instead. It will be difficult: the major TC financial establishments are growing reticent to accept my collateral. I may need to take risks."

Oh no, Matty! Mirror doesn't think you can help her! And without your help she might even get hurt by pirates of Banking Goons, the very worst kind of scoundrel in the universe! Can't you speak up? Can't you save her? Don't you have a single thing to say right now, or is this conversation too big and sophisticated for your little mind to handle? And for that matter, can you master yourself while Slate is still brushing little bits of dumpling off your lips?

The clock is ticking.

[Tatterdemalion]

The hangar is half-dimmed, now. Safety lights in the ceiling, steady red and yellow, are too-regular constellations. The spotlights on Jade’s idol spill gold over her, and her darkness drinks it all in, makes her a deepness in the center of the vast hangar. Rings of lights, concentric, are almost-candles set into the floor. Hybrasil respects the night, and her children are comfortable in the dark; the 24/7 bonfire-cities of the Terenians are eyesores, attempts to make an eternal day for eyes too weak for shadows.

Dolly walks carefully from shadow to shadow, imagining the breath of cool night air on her skin. The hangar never truly sleeps, but the cult-crew is on half-strength, finishing tasks and standing vigil as Smokeless Jade Fires gathers her strength for her next challenge. So, for a little bit, she exists in the shadows, half-alone but not private, making her way to the altar.

It’s a temporary structure, half shrine, half toolshed, open on three sides. A 3D sculpt of Smokeless Jade Fires’ idol stands before the altar, doll-sized, and around it are the few offerings she’s received. The two stop to look over the contrast between what the Banders brought and what the crew has been leaving, and it’s Dolly who squirms a little bit, trying to make herself smaller despite being alone.

Artwork made in her image, drawn from the imagination of the worshippers, sacred acts of creation. Fanart, mailed in or made by the crew themselves. There’s more at the proper shrine on Hybrasil. It’s a reminder that nobody else gets to see Jade like she does. Some of it looks like her descriptions of the goddess, but others are imaginative— here she’s a jet-black pantheress, here she’s a half-bird circling around her idol, and here she’s a bigger, glowing-eyed Dolly. Here she’s gorging herself on offered dumplings, gravid; here she’s stepping on someone who might be Angela. Fine craftsmanship of the modern age, offered up by those who need a goddess most. Little twist-charm bracelets. She’d worn one in one of her first interviews about being chosen by the goddess, because she hadn’t been thinking, because she’d tried too hard to be normal, because she’d been through so many costume changes already. And even kittens can make them, and so kittens kept sending them, and kittens who pretended they were grown (like Dolly) kept sending them, too, little rounded cubes gleaming in the low light, reminders of who they represent. Lights for the dead to follow, for spirits to navigate by, and for goddesses to bask beside. Jade loves the candles; she takes several steps from Dolly’s side, takes a seat by several heavy-bottomed with shed wax, rests her head next to them. She looks small like this, but— that’s not the right way to put it. Like small makes her lesser instead of more…r.

Candles and incense are magic, okay? They just are. Old magic stuff. You’re supposed to be able to do magic with them. Keep the incense sticks by your family shrine lit and you’re asking your ancestors to keep visiting. Walk by candlelight outside a city and you might meet monsters, spirits, hunt-goddesses. And Jade is, she’s right, in the candlelight, one eye on the flickering flame, one hand on her knee, wreathed in incense-smoke, magic, special, a ghost-wife-spirit-princess-heroine, in impractical archaic armor turned bodysuit, and Dolly waits until Jade seems to notice her again and motions at the tribute from the Banders, just staring, just swooning, just trying to remember forever and ever what Jade looks like, like this, right here. She’s so pretty. She’s more than pretty. She’s numinous. She makes the world-magic so close to the real that it bleeds through.

The smell of meat; something was ritually burned here and then eaten by the crew. Nine Forests was given permission. Dolly was busy being stuffed already. There’s a bolt of cloth, one which unrolls put into her hands; she kneads, gets a sense for the feeling, the quality of the fabric, and Jade shivers and licks her lips. It’s simple enough to spin it into existence here, to run the maroon through her own fingers. Decadent sense-feedback. When she pulls it taut, Dolly looks away and tries to seem like she’s being so very casual. As if her Bride could resist temptation.

Finally, she lifts the necklace of lapis lazuli. The sun-choked sea. Success and prosperity; when crushed, sacred pigments, historically reserved for use by priestesses only. She drinks in the sight through Dolly’s eyes, and for a moment, feels a twinge of guilt. Could those pirates have been so bad if they came to bring her this? It’s so beautiful. The kind of thing that would have made her feel faintly ridiculous before, well. Before all of this. Before Jade chose her.

Imagine wearing it. Imagine her wearing it. Imagine aliens and huntresses looking at this on her chest. Imagine Dolly in blue and gold, marbled, flecked, the bodysuit clinging to her body, the light catching on the stones. Imagine—

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Dolly clutches the necklace to her chest instead of reaching for a weapon. She turns, but Jade already knows who it is. “Sure they came from a bunch of ship-jacking corsairs, but stones like those, mmm, makes me think about spitting on my hands and swearing to Mu Ysha.”

It’s just Sixes. Dolly relaxes, tries to look normal, nods, continues to look so normal as the rangy electrician stretches. Dolly doesn’t notice the curl of her lip. She underestimates the cunning of Six Stones. “What do you think about it~?”

Dolly shrugs. Too much shrug. Her noncommittal noise is unbelievable. There’s an infinity of things that she could say about this. And Sixes is going to figure that out.

“No, no, go ahead, share what you really think, Seven Quetzal! I’d love to know~!” She knows. There’s no way she doesn’t know. But if she somehow doesn’t know? Then it would be mortifying to let her know. Right?

Sixes flops next to Dolly, and slowly looks up to meet Dolly’s gaze, but she won’t find it, because Dolly is pretending to stare so very, very hard the necklace. It’s one thing. It’s one thing, okay, to know you’re not really naked. It’s another to have your fur and your eyes tell you that Sixes can see everything, particularly the golden hoops with the stones dangling from them that sway every time she shifts her weight, the only thing she’s still wearing.

“Mmmn,” Dolly whim— Dolly happens to hum, for no reason whatever. It’s her secret. Sixes doesn’t really know. Right? Jade has her tell them about “games,” but she’s really vague and also emphasizes how much trouble they’ll be in if they spread stories about “strange things.”

Jade strokes Dolly’s cheek, slowly, torturously, grinning. “Hmm, why don’t you tell her what you think, my Bride? Is something wrong?” Sixes is watching every huff, just a little too strong, as if drawn in and pushed out with effort. Dolly’s body is prickling with mortified excitement, the forbidden joy of being in peril.

Then Sixes leans in, and Dolly clenches and bites down and her knees wobble after how much she’d put them through, and Jade reaches around to tug oh-so-playfully.

“Are you feeling all right, Bride of the Goddess?” Dolly nods, trying not to implode in on herself. She can’t rub her cheeks. Don’t do it! “I apologize if I’ve offended~”

Shake shake! Jingle jingle! Huff huff!

“Mmhm, I see,” Sixes drawls. “Well. May Smokeless Jade Fires bring your voice back from wherever it’s wandered off to, seeing as it’s hers, too.”

And that’s when Jade pulls the maroon cloth, with the yellow diamonds, over her Dolly’s face, and knots it impossibly snug behind her head, seals this last layer with a kiss, and isn’t it such a coincidence that it keeps her from looking away from Sixes, the cloth brushing up against her lower lashes?

“Put it a good word for me, won’t you? When you can.”

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Sixes saunters out, with one more glance back that’s half mischief, half… unclear. Dolly would know better. Jealousy? Hope? Maybe she wishes she was Dolly. Maybe she’s just satisfied in playing her part. Ask Dolly later.

“Bride,” Jade purrs, running her fingers over Dolly’s hair. “Keep your thighs closed. We’re not passing you around the engineers yet.” Dolly buries her face in her hands and lets out the tiniest, happiest squeak as she tries to hide inside that glorious lapis lazuli.

Hmm. That should stay here, actually. She’ll have Dolly wear it after the match, but wearing it immediately after the Banders visited? She’s going to have to have Dolly escorted back to her rooms already; no sense in making her any more of a target tonight. Not when she’s sinking right back into the bliss that devoured her all afternoon long.

Speaking of which…

“You should offer me prayers before we leave, Dolly. Set a good example.” Jade offers guidance, and Dolly is all too happy to tumble to her knees before the altar. “Make sure I can hear you,” she adds, her tail wrapping loosely around Dolly’s neck, the tip wagging back and forth over Dolly’s lips.

Her Dolly. All hers. See, Dolly? See how treasured you are? How safe you are? You don’t need to be scared of anything, your Jade is here. And she won’t let anything happen to you that she doesn’t control.

[BlasTech]

Is she the mountain? The climber? Strong enough to be the victor? Can she best Solarel here and now?

Heck. No.

It's hard to understate the number of reasons why Isabelle is not up to winning this fight. For starters, this is her first time in this new mecha frame. Its body is faster but lighter and less durable than her Emberlight, and the difference is more than enough to throw her off her stride. And then there's the nanites - a new ability, but one she's running on instinct and which will take time to master. What's more, she doesn't know squat about Solarel beyond her name, the few highlights from her war record that are common knowledge, and the fact that she looks good in booty shorts. She hasn't done any of the research, planning and preparation work that would normally go into fighting someone in the arena.

The only things going in her favour are luck, nanite enhanced instinct and the fact that she did study the blade whilst others studied how to run megacorporations. (Note that she was also studying how to run megacorporations at the same time through an esoteric training regime known as Sleep Is For Those Who Don't Have Access To Unlimited Caffeine.)

Topping all that off though is the fact that she doesn't really want to fight you here, Solarel. She just wanted you to stop wrecking the installation and - so long as you're focusing on her - that goal is pretty much achieved. If she was thinking rationally, she'd just make a break for it - stop fighting and run. She'd preserve her mecha, possibly preserve her link to the station. It'd get her everything she should want.

But.

But but but.

She can see it in how you move. In how you fly. This is how you connect to your world. This fight is your world. And something about that means she can't deny it to you. It's stupid, and impulsive, but it's her decision in the end. It's a hand, extended, bladed and glinting. Come and take it in your ones of gold and silver. Let us dance. Let us remember this. Please.

Isabelle raises her arm upwards. Concentrating on the gesture.

Light spell.

Whiteness, brighter than anything, as the nanite-magnesium coating cooks off. It's light is blinding, overwhelming. Impossible to see through or miss. Come, Solarel. She will burn as bright as she can, in the hopes you won't forget.

[Roll to Entice again - 4 + 4 - 2: 6 - the curse of conditions strikes again.]

[Thanqol]

And when you strike, strike the heart.

Her swords are digital things, half there and half not, just like she is. Her left hand is empty as it catches your wrist. Her right arm drives a sword of silver into the joint. Her left hand releases your wrist and immediately it has a sword again and it is slicing through the hip superstructure. Her right hand is empty as it punches through the gap and rips out your still pulsing crystal fire reactor. It's a familiar rhythm, as beautiful as a magic trick. Dozens of girls have lost their hearts and their reactor cores to this technique, to this dance.

It's unbeatable. It's the wall. It's a dance so hypnotizing that even aliens can't help but lean into it, to offer up their hearts for her waiting fingers. Isn't a defeat and a battlemech a small price to pay for this performance? It's a once in a lifetime experience to have the undivided attention of this girl who is a goddess. In this moment you are her everything. In this moment every weakness is visible to her blades.

But this is something she does for you.

As she steps away from the broken hulk of the Enkindler you realize that you have not landed a blow. You have not shown her anything she did not already know. She gave you her love and your defeat as gifts and you haven't given her a scratch. She is not dissatisfied but neither is she satisfied; she has fought many girls this way, and while she can love them in this moment they will not linger in her memory. She is a rake, Isabelle, and though she kills you kindly you have not given her anything to remember you by.

She steps away towards the launch corridor, already done with this place and these people. You can see already her eyes lock on the next battle. Against someone who prepares for war with the same all-encompassing intensity she does. And you know, deep in your heart, what you need to do if you want to meet her there.

[Anarion]

Isabelle

You arrive back, riding second in Tad’s ship, to the sight of your mother, Almira Castra Lozano, standing in the hangar of Akar Prime with a small gray datapad in one hand. Somehow, despite the gritty browns and grays of the setting, she is wearing a purple dress that goes down to her ankles, her only accommodations to the space being that she’s wearing black flats instead of heels and she’s got a darker shawl wrapped above her back and shoulders to keep off the dust. Somehow, this does nothing to hide her perfectly shaped neckline and the gleaming amethyst necklace she’s wearing.

Tad gives your hand a squeeze of reassurance as you get off the small shuttle’s boarding ramp, the two mecha behind it piloted by two of the corporate staff for escort duty setting down at a respectful distance out of earshot. It’s been a long four days since you were left alone in that lab on Roius and probably nothing now would be better than a meal and a long bath. But that isn’t to be.

“Isabelle Maria Lozano de la Estrella” she says, in perfect cadence as you step out. “You have worried us all to death!” She hugs you, firmly and quickly, then holds you with both hands on her shoulders. Her platinum wedding band glints in the hangar light. “I came as soon as I heard the news of your last match. The Emberlight in shambles, oh my daughter, and then we receive your distress call that you’ve been kidnapped by pirates! What a life you’ve been living, hm. Going out without a party, a staff, or anyone to accompany you? To think when I learned that my precious daughter was such a fool, your poor mother’s heart cannot take it.”

Her hands are firm and pressing. “The hopes of this whole house are riding on you, my child. This simply won’t do at all. Your next match…” she holds up the datapad, which was actually addressed to you but she seems not to have had any concern taking deliveries on your behalf in your absence, “...will be against one of the representatives of the Zaldarian empire, some minor pilot named Quar Dilara, who I’d normally expect you to defeat easily. As it is, we’re going to have to have you piloting one of the extra mechas we’ve brought in while yours is undergoing repairs, and I’ve freed up your calendar of any standing appointments for the next several days so that you can train in triple shifts to get used to it. You’ve already missed over half your training time for the match, so you’ll need to put in the extra work now.”

She finally takes her hands off your shoulders, stepping back to look you over. “Luckily, it seems you weren’t seriously injured in your ill-fated escapade, and there wasn’t a trace of any pirates when we arrived, so you’ve at least saved the family a ransom payment just to be on time for the next match. Now come, daughter, we’re already late.”

She beckons and all the attendant staff fall into step. You don’t have much choice either if you don’t want to get pushed to keep up by deeply apologetic but unrelenting house admin staff.

When you get a free moment and eventually see the datapad, you’ll have this information

Opponent: Quar Dilara
Mecha: Lightning Chaser

Known statistics:
Power: ***
Speed: *****
Defense: *

Pilot profile:
Quar Dilara is one of the more junior Zaldarian knights competing in the tournament. Relatively little is known of her technique. Early matches involved mostly the use of high speed and high-firepower long-range laser weaponry, proving evasive for her opponents. Further defensive measures have not been identified. Her mecha is relatively small for Zaldarian standards and likely has lighter defensive shielding given the amount of power dedicated to engines and active offensive weaponry.

Terrain information:
Your battlefield will be fought below an orbital platform in zero G.
The platform itself will have several shafts and ravines, offering high risk cover
Drones will be on-hand to arrest the descent of any mecha that enters freefall. If this intervention is necessary, it will be counted as a loss.

***

Solarel

The flight back was quick, it barely felt like an hour to you, and to the rest of the system of Akar it was not even two full days for the return trip. The Kathresis offers nearly unparalleled rong-range speed in addition to its immediate space. It was barely enough time to even process everything, barely enough time to grow comfortable in your new skin.

The rush was there. Isabelle could be something. If there’s anything to remember from this fight, it was how she came in at first. The way she controlled the nanobots outside the mecha, how for a brief moment it felt like you would have to fight the arena and the mecha together. The seed of potential could grow from that, even though she was too inexperienced today to keep your blades from closing upon her chest and your hand from her throat.

When you get back, there will be many things due to you. You owe a debt to the Boatmen of Styx, you’ve attracted the interest of the Ebon Claw, and of course there is Mirror, surely already busy at work preparing for her next match, never standing still.

You can, perhaps, take pleasure that now that you have a new god to inhabit, the fights will come furiously. You’ll be against a Terenian, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. She previously fought and lost to a newly debuted Hybrasilian whose mecha claims godhood in a manner distinct from the Zaldarian gods. But she has since upgraded her Terenian gen 2 mecha with some new tricks and will be a fierce opponent, just as you surely will be despite your prior loss in the rankings.

You receive the following:
Opponent: Angela Victoria Miera Antonius
Mecha: Barn Owl (modified)

Known statistics:
Power: **
Speed: ***
Defense: ****

Pilot profile:
Angela learned on an older mecha and has kept to the model, upgrading the internals several times while maintaining the same chassis. Her previous loadout involved the use of multiple autocannons and a paired set of wrist blades. This proved unequal to the task of defeating a strong melee Hybrasilian mecha wielding an ionic spear. She has recently made several repairs to her mecha, which likely include weapon upgrades some of which may not be immediately apparent.

Terrain information:
Your battlefield will be fought in a mountainous bowl region. The interior is fairly flat and will provide an arena with few impediments for a direct fight. The borders stretch high and will present obstacles including potential low visibility weather to any mecha that attempts a mid-combat flight through them.

***

Dolly (and Jade)

You get to see the sunrise on Akar Prime. It’s beautiful, sitting on the balcony of one of the tall buildings. You may spend a lot of time in the Hangar with Jade, but one of the perks of being a competition pilot for both of you is the option for nice short-term rooms. Atop a tall tower, with a balcony, even various stimulant drinks in the room for you (the staff have learned enough not to poison a Hybrasilian with the standard Terenian fare, even if they’re still a little mystified).
So you get to wake up to the sunrise, the slight reddish light of Akar’s sun cresting over the stark brown cliffs that form the horizon. Though the city extends for miles and miles, it doesn’t reach the skyline, so you get to see the rich rock that brought anyone to settle here in the first place as the reddish light creeps along it, slowly painting over the swirling purples of night.

It’s a time to catch your breath and to plan. Or perhaps to thrill in secret with nobody to watch you. The Red Banders weren’t lying after all. You’re up against Erys Bander in the next match. From all appearances, she’s a brute and a bully who loves throwing her bulk around against her opponents. But you can read her profile for yourself. Of course, nothing in the profile is going to have anything in it about what the Banders might do to ward themselves against Jade’s curses. You’ll have to puzzle that one out yourself.

Opponent: Erys Bander
Mecha: Hybrasilian script: [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], shorthanded to Crushing Grasp.

Known statistics:
Power: *****
Speed: **
Defense: ***

Pilot profile:
Erys is currently undefeated in matches. Her combat style is close range although her mecha is not particularly fast. In her matches to date, she has used a combination of cloaking and terrain advantages to maneuver to short range with her opponents, then deploying extensive capture nets, a powered ionic fist, and a heavy Falchion for her combat. She has thus far eschewed long-ranged weaponry in favor of heavier defensive armor and shields, making her nearly unstoppable if trapped up close.

Terrain information:
Overgrown Cityscape. Buildings have been constructed to be covered with heavy vines and roots. The largest structure will be a multi-level garage with interior space adequate to house most mecha. Open but grassy avenues will be available between buildings, or a pilot can choose to fly above the terrain for better visibility in exchange for exposing themselves from below.

***

Mirror

For a moment, Matty doesn’t get it. She sits, being polite as she’s fed, reveling in the experience. Then it hits her and there’s a muffled gasp that she quickly snaps short. Her blush, if anything, grows even stronger in your arms. She’s still being fed and she tries to focus on that, but she’s progressively more squirmy in your lap. Slate has to give her a little tap on the head to get her to focus on finishing her food, before going back to your conversation like she’s the most expert parent in the world.

She can feel Matty fidgeting in your lap. First it’s slow, slight adjustments on your leg, trying to balance while she’s being fed but not sticking to any one position. These are the sort of little bits of pressure that you can address with a slight shift of your arm or your leg to keep her balanced without breaking any of the conversation.

As Slate finishes feeding her, she bites her lip, then has to unbite it as Slate continues to clean her off without stopping in stride, using a gentle nudge to get her to reveal the parts of her mouth she’s hiding for cleaning. She can feel her legs wiggle underneath you as it happens Mirror, but she’s a good girl who’s too little to say anything and lets herself just be handled by Slate as you talk over her.

When you get to the talk about having to replace parts on the tail because of its burnout, she lowers her head and leans forward, trying not to say anything, trying not to break the spell. But she’s so wiggly Mirror! She’s leaning forward and back, she’s rocking, she’s squirming, she’s kicking her legs, and there’s a slow whine building inside her!

Then, only then when she’s can’t hold it in anymore does it burst out of her. “Aaaaah, we can fix it!” Then she looks up guiltily and runs the hand that isn’t being held down by your armor through her hair.

“Um…I…” she wiggles her legs, hesitates, decides she just has to go for it, even sitting in your lap. You might imagine that she had something like a presentation planned, maybe some notecards in her bag somewhere, a question and answer period. Instead she’s just been fed dumplings and she starts going while looking back and forth between Slate and craning her neck up to look at you, Mirror.

“Um, the proposal that Trosta and I came up with is to install new power regulators on all the tails. They would be…um…tied to a central control unit that’s linked to your control station, but that you wouldn’t be able to directly manipulate. I mean, um, of course you could have the engineering team pull it open and change it, but this was your request for um…for limitations so so Trosta said you wouldn’t. And um…right so the way it has a simple AI that measures your actions and looks for variety. And it won’t activate all the tails at once, it will randomize three that you get at the start and the rest won’t get any power. And then as you do different um…moves it will let you know when a new tail is ready to be activated, and then you’ll need to use that to activate more. So um…s-so over a fight you’ll start with very few options and it might be really hard against a tough opponent, but Trosta thought you wouldn’t mind that, and then as you do stuff you’ll get stronger and stronger until you can do a whole big finishing move and um…aaaaaah!”

She gestures as she starts getting into it, ending with a wild lift of her arms that almost unbalances her, causing her to tilt over and suddenly grab onto Mirror tightly with a two handed bear hug around the chest so she doesn’t fall over. She blushes, but also grins from getting through it all, big and wide and happy at her cool reveal!

***

Much later, when you’ve saved the extra dumplings, washed the dishes, and Matty has drifted off to sleep, you’ll get your match details.

Opponent: Heim Stockar
Mecha: Blast Wall

Known statistics:
Power: ****
Speed: *
Defense: *****

Pilot profile:
Heim Stockar was previously a feared Zaldarian raider before the building of the Arena. He has somewhat avoided arena combat to date, sending various younger lieutenants from his hold to compete, but has personally entered this year’s tournament. Thus far, his matches have involved defensively enduring his opponent’s onslaught with a combination of armor, force fields, and a shield. He then either retaliates with missiles when they leave themselves open at a distance, or with his spear if they attempt to close and fight up close.

Terrain information:
Colosseum. Your match will take place in a constructed and enclosed arena space built above the forest.
It will form a large multi-story dome allowing for flight but limiting overall maneuvering space
The sides will have uneven stands, while the center is flat, encouraging direct combat.

[Thanqol]

It occurs to her vaguely that she has not left the Kathresis in a week.

Her eyes hurt and her legs are sore. She takes breaks, yes, pops the hood and gets out and scrambles across the surface of the machine to perform repairs or adjustments. She sunbasks on its rooftop and sips water she leans down to scoop into her black cat mug from wild rivers. But she never touches the surface. Never removes the neural link from where it connects to her neck. Almost forgets what it's like to be apart from the machine.

There is still so much to do. So many instincts to retrain. So much study of reach and distance to accomplish. She's changed her entire body, again. There's so much to learn. So much distance to cover. Mirror built the Whip from components and knows every inch of it. Dolly, the girl who fought Angela in videos that constantly loop in the corner of her eye, has some strange harmony with her machine her mind chews over in the background. And her. Set back twice. What is exotic power worth without familiarity? Where can she strike a girl who has just risen from a crushing defeat? She is on the rooftop again, purple scales glowing in the sunshine. Warmth. Were there other kinds of warmth? Now she's in the arctic, watching what happens when ice freezes.

Warfare needs to be a statement. What is hers? What does she have to say? She still doesn't know; still doesn't have that vision of the future, can't see how to grow dresses that make everyone beautiful. Doesn't know how to become the centre of the world, doesn't know how to live without being the centre of the world. She lowers her cup, attached to the end of her grappling hook, so it can be filled with hot chocolate. She can't just win, not now. She has to become the symbol of victory that all the world's warriors orient themselves around. She's one and one. She's in debt. She feels the eyes of rivals and would be rivals. That too is weight to carry. She can't let them down. She can't be mortal; to be mortal would be to disrespect their defeats at her hands.

She's on the roof again, bare against the sunlight. Time has become a single moment without break or interruption. She's half dreaming, her consciousness born anew in the balance of heat and cold, storms of summer and storms of winter. They've seen her bleed and not even the Bezorel's limitations can take that away. Rankings, rankings, rankings. Numbers changing and getting further away. Not meaningful for her, but meaningful for how they make people relate to her. Speak not to the outsider; [perfection/fragility]. She needs to be stronger. Power is a trick; something she uses against others, something she turns, something that deceives her. She's glad she killed the Enkindler. She needs the lead. She's disappointed it didn't survive. She'd suffocate with the pressure of someone else exploring this alien strength at the same time as her. She thinks she needs that.

Dreams, dreams, dreams. A sword is such a small lever with which to lift the galaxy. Even the sunlight doesn't stop her leg from kicking, claws from marking the roof of the Kathresis. The battle damage from her dreams accumulates, the sound of scratching metal as claws work out their nerves. Can she rely on tricks, stratagems, deep tactical awareness? Must she rely on fundamentals, raw invincible technique applied in straightforward hungry force? Can she survive not having ranged superiority? What about artillery superiority? How can she force an engagement? How can she force engagement? How can she engage? Dreams, dreams, dreams. Speak not to the outsider. How can she swallow all these words, digest these feelings? How can this emotion distill into the movement of blades? Is a victory with the gun too inelegant? Should she be fearsome? Should she be loving? What does Angela need from her? What does Mirror need from her? What do Isabelle, Dolly, Naelkai, Stalok, so many others need from her? So many different ways to be strong. How can she be all of them?

She drinks in the sunlight. She needs every drop. She needs it to survive the cold. She needs it to wield the cold. She needs it to be able to give everyone everything they need while not giving anything she can't give. She knows she needs to touch the ground at some point, needs to unplug at some point. Perhaps Dolly and Jade have the answer. The Kathresis is a God, it has thoughts and instincts that run deeper than her limited experience. Maybe she can steal their technique, their harmony. Maybe she can lean in one direction and let the Kathresis lean in the other. Violet eyes open sharply and all the dreams are gone. She has an answer and now she's filled with frenzied energy. She needs to test this, needs to learn this, needs to absorb it into herself. She doesn't need unbeatable strength, she just needs the strength to beat everyone. Why not steal their strength for herself? If she doesn't have anything to say why not say their words back to them, stronger and more clearly than they could say themselves? Zaldar, was this what you meant when you said Speak Not?

She's becoming the Kathresis. She is not done becoming.

[Phoe]

"Heim Stockar. Unideal opponent."

War heroes. Interesting the way they were almost exclusively Zaldarian. Wars of conquest, more glamorous than wars of defense. Though 'conquest' was the incorrect word for it, of course. In the end no territory was claimed. Resources, cats, trophies. These stolen in abundance. Herself included. Fisher colonies and fringe planets bore the brunt of the losses. Mother Hybrasil sent her huntresses roaming, but never took a blow herself. There were entire swaths of Worlders out there who knew nothing at all of the conflict except from rumors and dramatizations.

...Anyway. Even among the mighty Huntresses there were few heroes. Most were held back in reserve, or ritual, or... repose. Total lack of interest, higher priorities, an absolute certainty of eventual superiority. Eventually, arguably, that last one was even proven true. Certainly the increasingly stalled raiding lines were a critical importance in opening the negotiations between the two cultures that settled into an uneasy peace. But the damage was done. So to speak. Fisher cats came home by the netful with stories of life as a raid prisoner to rebuild their lives and their colonies, only to find their old communities had built around them in their absence, and that the empty rooms left open in hopes of their return were the only spaces that had been left for them at all.

War heroes. What a ridiculous concept. There was no beauty in war. Conflict. The duel. A thousand knives burning with the passion of a single heart set against the lance and whip of a lover. In war the lines became messy, the intimacy was lost. Even for Mirror with her roaming interests the entire scene became impossibly muddled and boring. No one to love. No one to lover her back.

No one, except...

"Priority shift. Reducing emphasis on research and information gathering to naturally occurring results. I am. Grateful. For the Chains. Trosta, Mattara. This might be impossible otherwise."

What a miserable draw. Another war hero, this one not disgraced. A perfectly prominent citizen of the Empire. A defensive specialist, a waiter. A planner. Schemer. A (sigh) male. A boring opponent, were he not so intimidating. She would almost be tempted to forfeit the match immediately to preserve what few of her secrets she could and deny him the honor. But she can't. Not against Heim Stockar. Not against a hero.

There are many reasons. The most obvious of which is her new limiter system, which needed adjusting to if she was ever going to be able to Carve the Waterfall, the way she planned. But this was also the least important. Many ways to overcome that particular deficit. Simply trying harder in the match after this one was an option. Lab testing was another. Better than both was using the normal recovery time to jump to another nearby system and perform active combat field testing, away from prying eyes to the maximum degree possible. This would, in fact, be ideal. But. But.

But Matty would be watching. For the first time, she would be paying special attention to Mirror's match and hoping with that obnoxiously adorable wishing heart of hers for Mommy to win. Even just imagining the look on her face after being dragged out of the wreckage of the Gods-Smiting Whip was enough to break Mirror's resolve in an instant. Tch. Kids. She told Slate over and over again that she never wanted any. Damn it.

But even that obstacle could be overcome, overpowered, crushed down and conquered for the sake of practicality and planning. If only the opponent was not Heim Stockar. Because she had just defeated Solarel. Because...

Because nothing was worth staining that victory. Staining the ultimate warrior's reputation with some petty transitive property bone-shard nonsense. Mirror might play off a tactical retreat here as part of her moves and countermoves, just one more feint as part of a deeper play in the great game.

But an opponent that history holds as on a level with Solarel must be destroyed. Must, in fact, be crushed outright, until history held only one such name for the rest of time. Only her. Only Solarel. The mark of the One-Day Defender burns across Mirror's soul: when it came to the champions of Zaldar, there could be no quarter.

By now, she will have recovered from the loss of the Bezorel. How, exactly, was a matter of impossible speculation. One could only hope she'd at least done better than scraping together more mafia debts to purchase another rusted Teranian trash bucket. It had been the plan to defeat her soundly. To erase her broken body thoroughly and easily before disappearing into the stars with a wink and a kiss.

It. Had been. The plan. To secure Solarel's next armor herself. To hunt down an appropriately beautiful body for the most beautiful warrior ever written into the story of the stars, and deliver it to her in dramatic last second timing. She'd had no leads on any, but at the time her confidence in her ability to pull it off without compromise in the allotted time had been supreme.

And then she'd gone and nearly lost. And then she'd gone and retreated inside herself. Selfishly. Disgustingly. Unacceptably. There had been no gift. There had been no flowers and no anime. There had been no night of ecstasy and final culmination of their beautiful dance. Instead she had retreated into the shadows to lick her matted fur and wrap new defenses around herself to prevent a hurt that even in the moment turned her on just to remember the sensation. All her plans shattered in the name of simple self improvement.

But because of that, she'd met. No. No. Fuck that, no.

"Final diagnostics, all systems green. I am bound by chains of love, and love shall set me free. Slate, call out my activations as you see them. Goal: reach a level where I notice a shift before you can. Victory or death. Victory... or death."

She could only make it all mean something if she defended the title of Strongest, while she held it. There would be times and places where she might do that while still recording what would officially be called a 'loss', but not here. Not against this man. For her sake. She would rise as high as the battle demanded.

[Tatterdemalion]

“Danger surrounds us, but won’t bring us down~ Dadadada, turning darkness to light, riiiiiight beside you, wanting to fight~”

Breakfast sizzles in a stone pan. Dolly sings, and the world around her shines all the brighter for it, notes the color of ruddy sunlight spilling from her lips, sparkling as she forgets a word but holds the note perfectly.

Jade is supposed to be planning right now, but Dolly dutifully set up cameras in the rooms, and she gets to watch her bride from the outside again, like she did on the first morning she was alive. It’s impossible to worry about the Red Banders (who will be defeated, one way or another) when her Dolly is singing again. She rests arms on a tabletop and puts her head on them, invisible but immanent, and Dolly impossibly glances back over to her for a moment, as if—

Dolly slow blinks at the way the sunlight creeps into the room on clever little paws. It helps her remember. As if her lids are the shutters of a camera, and she can keep the photograph in her heart, which stills, beats gentler, accepting her gift. And it’s more than that now. Because Jade can see through her eyes, and maybe she’s looking right now, and if you are, Jade… you think it’s pretty too, right?

Her round little face, framed by those obsidian-black curls, tangled enough to get lost in. The lace on her shoulders, white on yellow and black, as delicate as the way she touches other people with the tips of her fingers. The way that she lifts up onto her beans while she walks around alone, just like when she’s going up stairs. The confident little flick of her wrist as she tosses the stir fry to keep the browning even, and even if she’s not a chef the way that Ksharta Talonna is, she makes it look effortless, like she’s following the way that the universe curves around her.

For a moment, Jade’s one day old again, and Dolly has Bioethics with Hekha Nedels in an hour, her student jacket tossed over an arm of the couch, spices lined up along the swell of a root-shaped rack, and the only name for something like her is…

“Goddess, thank you for your part in the food before me.” Dolly stretches out in the sunlight, on the balcony, resting the bowl on her stomach. Her chewing is lazy, savoring the taste of the vegetables. Not bad, Gardener.

”You’re welcome.” Jade indulges herself, gently scritches Dolly behind one ear, and even though her mouth’s full, the happy bounce of her tail is proof enough that it’s appreciated. “Eat up. You’ll need the energy for what we’re doing today.”

Swallow, lick her lips. “From above, right?” Jade’s so smart, she’s already figured this out.

”Hmm?” She rubs that ear more firmly, smiling at the way that Dolly’s leg wobbles. Keep talking, Dolly.

“Well, well, well, if we… if you pushed me, we could try being the Hawk again.” It’s terrifying, and exhilarating, and the first time Jade walked her off a cliff into open air was… well, she tried to make a lot of noise. But then they kept walking.

And then Jade made her dance.

No one can modulate thrusters like Smokeless Jade Fires. No one. As long as Dolly trusts her, they can do impossible things in the air. Unrivaled fluidity, like they’re walking on clouds, like they are a hawk with its wings spread, and the fall of their spear is the flash of its claws.

“I don’t push you,” she says. Her claws spread through Dolly’s fur, and she drags them so softly, so carefully, kneading like she’s practiced. Dolly makes an indecent mrrp-sigh. “I tell you what you can do. And then you do it. For me.“

“For you,” Dolly manages to breathe out. There. Right there. Jade Jade Jade right there. Mmmrrrrrr~

It will work. Dolly is so, so much cleverer than she thinks, aren’t you, Dolly? Nets will have to contend with gravity, and Dishai’s Clumsy Fist is a heavy beast. Come up to the sky, Erys. Let Dolly show you her dances.

Besides, Erys should get accustomed to looking up at her betters. The sooner the better.

[BlasTech]

At first Isabelle freezes from surprise. Her mother was never physically affectionate unle --

Oh. Of course. The staff are watching ...

She quickly returns the hug, although her grasp is feather light, as if she's afraid of putting too much pressure on Almira's skin. Once she's released, her hands quickly return to the proper position, clasped in front of her. Head down, expression chastised. Sorry.

She suppresses the flinch when her mother's voice lingers on the word 'fool'. Those around her would never know, but Almira never shows her true displeasure in public, those are only reserved for more private moments in her home - her fortress that is swept safe from prying eyes and ears. For her to use such language, to emote and dance on the line between 'loving but concerned mother' and something that the tabloids could actually use against her - she must be livid. Isabelle grasps her forearms, feeling the goosebumps under her dress sleeves, and worries about what might await her once the doors are shut and the staff dismissed.

"Yes mother. I'm sorry, mother. It will not happen again." she says, rote words and supplications.

It's a flimsy shield, but it's all she has.

The walk gives her time to reflect. With all that's happened over the last days a bath and food would be great but, more than hunger and discomfort, all she feels is a tired numbness. Too long awake, too much felt and fought. Too much cried out over the moments where she was left alone in the dark in a dying facility. The aching fingers of fatigue pull on her eyelids and all she really wants is to return to her quarters to sleep.

For now, though, she can't let that show. Head straight, posture perfect, steps quick and measured. The new boots on her feet ache. She's done this before, can do it again. Riding her reserves until the moment when she passes out, face down in a book at her desk. Hopefully tonight won't be that bad, but there will be nights like that between now and the match. Practice needs to be done and reports need to be read, after all.

The zero-g combat will be a different kind of arena, but not one she's unfamiliar with. The chief difficulty is likely to be just overcoming or circumventing her opponent's advantages of speed and ranged preference. If she can be trapped, or closed with, the fight will be over fast.

Her opponent herself though, the public data that Akkar has provided doesn't tell her much. For those insights, she will wait until she reads the more detailed information that her mother's sources have provided her.

"Do you have any other specific instructions for me, mother?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral. "Otherwise, I will get to work immediately on prepping Novasurge for the match and reading the transcripts."

[Invoking Guidance from Above: Asking a superior for guidance and useful information regarding how to defeat Quar Dilara.]

Later. Much later. She walks back through the door to the quiet, dark sanctuary of her private quarters. Normally the solitude would be comforting, a safe haven away from everything and everyone else. Tonight though, just feels empty.

She'd spent the evening in the workshops, carefully avoiding her crew. One in particular. She knew she'd lashed out, she'd hurt Asil. Part of her wondered if she'd forgive her - a larger part expected that she wouldn't. She couldn't blame her. She just wasn't a good person.

Curling up around that guilt like a pillow, she laid her leaden limbs down on the bed and, without moving a muscle, turned off the lights.

[Anarion]

Solarel

It’s very cold.

The air here is thin, and above you is thick cloud cover. Before you, the terrain is nearly flat, covered with low green grasses that to the footsteps of the Kathresis might as well be carpet. A black, mournful wind swirls within the mountain bowl. It kicks up loose leaves and dust and carries the hint of snow upon it.

You enter the arena from one end of the mountain ring. Across from you at the other end of your arena stands the Barn Owl. It’s unassuming. Angela did not change the color since her previous match, it’s the same utilitarian brown as before, a simple human form mecha. It seems Angela changed very little on the surface in fact. It’s hard to tell at this distance, but the mark that Jade made upon the mecha seems to have been entirely preserved, with only a few repairs made to fix the dents and tears from the combat. Blocky shoulders steady the autocannons, the wrist blades are already drawn, and if she’s got a new trick, she’s not showing it.

She might as well have commissioned a neon sign with defiance emblazoned on it over the arena. She defies you to outdo Dolly and Jade, she defies you to force her to reveal something she has not already shown, she defies you to approach her.

The comms light up with her voice, thick and almost shouting a challenge. “Zaldarian. Do not think that I will go down as I did in my previous match. Do not dare think your new mecha will mean I am unprepared for you. I have heard your stories and I am unimpressed. Show me something worth remembering this fight!”

***

Mirror

The space feels cramped, even compared to the statistics. It’s multi-story, but you’re so used to speed, knowing that any straight flight would slam you into a wall or ceiling in scant seconds must feel confining. The floor is a sandy stone, the stands are white marble. They gleam in the bright lights, and from a bit of sunlight from the small skylight in the center of the ceiling. Too small for a mecha to fit through, unless one blew it open and collapsed the roof.

Somewhere a planet away, Matty is sitting with Trosta to observe the match, though she glances slyly over to Slate when she has the chance and perhaps Slate knows that Matty would prefer a lap seat if she had the choice.

Tails one, three, and seven are operational. All the others have no energy flow going to them. Energy efficiency in the active tails is high. 99.97%, which is the best you’ve ever seen it be. Trosta, whatever else she might be, appears to be a magician when it comes to wiring and capacitors. Your new internal display shows your current stance, with the active tails highlighted in green. There’s an unfilled rectangular meter in an outline at the top.

Heim enters the arena opposite you. There’s no hiding here. The Blast Wall lives up to its name, hefting a massive rectangular shield painted black along its outer surface. It’s taller than the head of Heim’s mecha and protects all but the very edge of his right arm, from which he hefts a short and maneuverable ionic spear. Everything about his mecha feels thick and sturdy. The legs are planted and you can see from the right side past the shield that they have extra armor plating, perhaps also housing a shield generator. The shoulders are thick, and there is a harness just visible on the chest behind the shield holding the missile launching system in place. His decorations upon the metallic Zaldarian shell are teal highlights along the borders of his armor and his helm, contrasting with the painted dark metal of most of it. Teal is part of the banner of his hold, called Heimdall, the best translation of a god who is always vigilant. The base of the helm forms a slight metallic beard, a sign of age and some protection for the neck of the mecha.

Despite his sturdy defense, you can see that he stands at ease as he enters, the spear held point up, not immediately in an attack stance. He could set his weight at any moment, he simply hasn’t done it to start things off.

“I hear you fought Solarel twice” comes his voice as the cameras circle the two of you, staying carefully distant in the stands. “Even won the second one. You won’t find me like her. Whatever she is now, she was an imperial knight, a servant of the Empress. Me, I’m a raider.”

He chuckles. Seems in no rush to do much. You might wonder if this will make for good TV or if he’s just overly confident. “If I win this fight, I’ll capture for my glory what I could never manage to hold in combat. Raiders have to manage on our own, any way we can. I’ve only ever been to Zaldaria once, an honor to hunt for my god there. But before and since it’s been about scraping together what we could from where we could. I’ve wanted to see this place, our gift to peace, to doing things differently. Every nanobot shaper in my hold contributed to it. Sent Marna the last time though and she only got second place. So I said to myself I’d better come on my own this time around!”

He laughs, long and hearty, though his eyes never stop tracking you.

***

Dolly and Jade

Erys has not deigned to join you in the sky. She’s somewhere in the city below, prowling, lurking. She has one of the better cloaking devices as well, but you can feel her out there, stalking around you, looking for an angle. Sharp eyes in a shadowed jungle.

The mark of the true huntress is said to be patience above all else. Prey needs to move, to lower its guard to eat and drink, to sleep, offering the chance to strike for a patient huntress. They had mentioned the goddess of the hunt, or at least the Leopard had, hadn’t they? Perhaps Erys is emulating the style of the goddess for protection. Perhaps she simply doesn’t want to tip her hand yet.

With Ksharta, you tried to flush her out with drones. What then this time? Will you go down to her and seek her, knowing her danger? Or will you try to lure her into a foolish strike that you can turn against her? Which of you is the more patient huntress?

***

Isabelle

The lightning chaser is a mess of purple and chrome. Parts of it look nearly like exposed wires, waist and elbow joints exposed down to their moving rotators in pure metal, and around them swirls of purple paints criss-crossing the chest, the arms, the legs, as though a river of purple went mad and chose to flow all across the machine. It’s small and thin like Solarel’s mecha, but sporting a massive rifle held in both hands, with smaller shoulder AND wrist guns as well. It seems well designed to put out a hail of bullets of various types, strong and weak. When you watched Quar’s previous matches, you saw that there wasn’t a single route to victory.

She lost her first match to Ada Smith, your last opponent, a surprise decisive beating from stealth that she wasn’t prepared for. In her other matches, different weapons proved decision for victory, some fast, some slower. One opponent went down in a hail of fire, the death of a thousand cuts. The other made a foolish mistake and took a main rifle blast straight to the head from above, completely disabling the mecha and knocking the pilot unconscious.

Of course, it’s honestly a little hard to focus on any of that with everything swirling in your head. Your mother went ballistic when you were alone.

What the hell was wrong with you, Isabelle? You went off alone, you let yourself be taken by surprise, you broadcast a distress signal. Did you think Tadeo’s line so secure that nobody else would know? Did you think your absence would be unremarked, or that of your brother rushing off to save you? Everyone knows you had to limp back. Everyone knows you have no mecha of your own now. Your last loss was a disgrace to the family, and it would be a miracle if Adriana paid you any attention now.

She considered striking you in the tirade, but didn’t because explaining the mark would simply be too much effort. She had no hesitation telling you exactly that.

Almira went over every second of the previous video with you. Pointing out the movement, calculating the speed and reaction time of the pilot herself. See how Quar fades backwards in her victories, maintaining an ideal field of fire? She’s relying on her opponents desperation, chasing harder and faster so which she responds with equal speed, always maintaining her perfect firing range until she gets an opening or they wear out.

See the way people play into her expectations? A Lozano is better than that! Almira freezes the frames on several screens in each fight, where you see the Lightning Chaser shift its movement. She goes frame by frame. See it takes one fifth of a second for it to change direction consistently. You can gain ground on that small change if you can catch her unaware. Don’t follow, break her spacing. Chase, then fade, then chase again, then fade, then chase. Switch three to five times inconsistently to throw off her rhythm, then close decisively. Create a planned pattern in advance, the brain is untrustworthy and can’t be expected to manage actual randomness in a fight, so you plan your randomness. If you don’t win in the first exchange, do only a single fake in the second and then rush her, she will be bracing herself for you to equivocate after the first time and decisive action will take her unaware. If you need a third, go back to faking her out, and then repeat on a fourth she won’t expect you to break the pattern. If you need a fifth exchange, you’re a failure as a daughter.

Once, briefly, you hear soft footsteps approach while you’re working with your mother, but they turn and leave and she snaps her fingers by the side of your head for your momentary distraction.

You never saw Asil in all the other days. Not in the maintenance crews, not anywhere. Your equipment and technology deliveries are still listed properly, all crew accounted for, she hasn’t fled. But she’s avoiding you and your mother has no interest in giving you the time or space to seek to mend things. It wouldn't’ be shocking if Almira had ordered her to stay away from you, if she caught even the slightest inkling that you cared about her based on how you blew up at the crew earlier. Strong emotion runs both ways and Almira Castra Lozano was not born yesterday.

As for the fight, well, she’s already taking aim at you as she comes around the platform, orienting herself to match your most likely dodge angle away from the platform. No words from her either, just cold efficiency to start.

So how are you feeling?

[Thanqol]

Defiance.

The hardest thing about training was not doing what you had trained to do. So many moves and techniques and ideas, it made her want to burst out into all of them at once. Anticipation is a sword, the cutting edge of flirtation, and she feels its curve against her neck already.

She stands silent and still. She was an obstacle. She was a condemnation. She was a wicked force, a reputation of terror, an opportunity for redemption. She closed her eyes. She was the betting favourite. She was the status quo. She was the darkness that a mere girl stood against, and was brave. She was an opportunity for someone to do their best. She stood at the receiving end of research, preparation and a civilization's industrial-military policy.

She was in enormous danger.

She had hunted many huntresses like this, flames against her darkness. They sought to land their cut, reveal their secret technique, demonstrate their worth. She could smell the preparation. The reason why she resisted doing what she had practiced was that Angela was determined to do what she had practiced. A heart sword was always deadly, even if there was only the will to swing it once.

She is slow. She is arrogant. She is cruel. So many ways to be and she allowed herself to be this one. A defiant girl needed darkness to stand against and she could be that for now. She lets the Kathresis breathe and lets its reactor run cold. She reaches out her hand from afar to stop the Barn Owl's crystal heart.

The shutdown, the sabotage - the same technique she used against Mirror. The technique of a tyrant. To still use such a trick when there was no fated duel at stake, when she had a unique and powerful mech, when she was already the favoured champion? A wicked act. One to be combined with a single precision zero-entropy pistol shot from across the arena, ending the battle in less than a heartbeat.

You wish to fight a monster? Then perish.

[Call upon a toxic power: 6]

[Phoe]

Even here, even now. The battle being fought requires sight beyond the opponent in front of her. These restrictive spaces make flight an extremely suboptimal and unappealing prospect, but nevertheless. Having only three active tails cuts her dynamic defensive solutions down to near zero, but nevertheless. She was carrying greater than usual risks, chasing greater than usual goals, against an opponent far more capable of punishing a stock opening. But nevertheless.

"Thrusters active, full burn. Cut short three-point-eight-six seconds early, accounting for limited skies. Tail One, detach. Tail Two... no, damn it. Tail Three, trident mount. Tail Seven, point defense. This is my dance. The music is for me, but I am helpless to follow where it leads. Therefore, here I go! Catch me if you can! Punish me if you dare!"

But even as she lifts to the skies, already peppering the Blast Wall with high-focus energy beams that rise up with her like a wave, she is reeling. And more than reeling, seething. Impossible, impossible, impossible, impossible! She hadn't miscalculated to this astonishing degree, she had not! She did not have his measure, that was entirely the point of this maneuver, but she could not possibly have read the profiles so backwards!

> i have a puzzle on my mind. heim stockar.
> i will struggle to give you my full attention until it is cleared.
> if you'd like to help.
> hexadecimal color code #ed2939.
> a heart in the darkness.
> reaches for this single shade of light.
> can they find gold?

With so few tails in motion it is easier than ever to mix in bursts of text while maintaining rhythm. It's even to some degree necessary, in order to keep her actions per minute where she needs them. Risky to leave clues to her other life like this, particularly right after being hacked, but the simple fact of the matter was that sending nonsense data was even more dangerous than that. Typing without purpose trained her fingers not to respect position. Speaking without purpose invited splinters into her mind that would destroy her focus. Ad lib invited vastly worse and more damaging questioning than this.

The thoughts need to be genuine. The vulnerability needs to be revealed. The actions, specific. The response, or lack thereof, will be revealing in its own right. These words, the second barrage of missiles hidden cleverly amidst her laser fire. She strikes at the shield from various angles, across the top, reflective shots into the back, angles that seem to be probing for weak spots near the joints, and everything else that is not directly targeting the harness structure stabilizing the missile platform.

The shots are riddles, too. Likewise the admission of split focus was a probe. An experiment dreaming of becoming a kill shot. Where are you weak, Heim Stockar? Where are you strong? What do you protect and what do you trust to your inherent being? What had she misread? What had she misread? What had she misread???

"Indeed, I find you in all ways lesser than she, Heim Stockar. Speak Not To The Outsider. Is that not your way? You talk to me, talk to me! Of glory and victory while you stain your heart bandying words with me. Who am I, Heim Stockar? If you knew, you would not dare. Are you some sort of fallen heretic? Or just a shimmering little morsel, waiting to be skewered? If you are neither, show me!"

Further flight impossible. Angling descent, target lock acquired: left shoulder plating. Three steps short of a secret technique. Strike. The Gods-Smiting Whip falls like a comet from the stars. Its tails spin rapidly about the front, shattering stones with raining light and chaotic flashes that make make immediate retaliation difficult, though not impossible. Missile lock, at any rate, slowed beneath the capabilities of hand-aimed point defense.

> angry red. prideful red.
> the fallen star.
> crashing into the waves.
> sinking.
> perhaps cyan defeats gold.
> think the terenians call it seafoam.
> i like that word.

The beam trident lashes out just before impact, combining the strike with a vaulting motion that carries Mirror and her mecha up, over, and beyond the retaliatory range of cqc. Too near for missile combat without the risk of damage to one or more crystal fire drives. In short, the maddening middle zone where her speed controls supremacy.

Mirror stalks back and forth like the great hunting cats that sing their songs into her soul. She hefts the trident to the Whip's shoulder, caught between defense and offense. Probing, even now. All to learn. All to take the measure of this impossible creature, and return him to the sum of a reference sheet again.

Not knowing Him is the same as not knowing Her. And if that's true, she'll die.

(Figure Out a Person: 11.
# What are your feelings toward Solarel?
# What are you most afraid of right now?
# bonus combat question: Who do you want me to be?)

[Tatterdemalion]

There are some mechs which come to life in zero gravity. Up there, where there is no up or down, the best pilots can shed the concepts like a snake’s skin. All directions are one direction, and the only resistance is momentum. Most pilots instead hold onto to thoughts of gravity, clinging to the grid of directions, even if there are more of them in play, even if which direction is up changes from moment to moment.

It takes a miracle to bring the effortless grace of zero-gee into a planetary atmosphere. There’s been talk about a mecha called the God-Smiting Whip that can do it, alien in its movements, unmoored by what the body can do.

What Dolly and Jade are doing is not that. They hang in the air like a stormcloud, and when they walk, it is as if they are on the ground. No part of the mecha lags; gravity has seemingly no hold over them. The combined effect is alien, perhaps even unsettling, and Smokeless Jade Fires thrills in it.

The clouds caress her; the winds dig their fingers through her fur. Whenever she takes a step, she feels unseen hands holding her up. It’s like something out of a story for kittens, every time.

Jade leans her forward, then further, then further. The ground comes no closer as she guides Dolly’s hands neatly under her chin, elbows leaning on nothing.

The microthrusters in points of articulation whine, and Jade fortifies them with her will. Her consciousness expands in rings, and each of her smiles is contained within another smile. Behold. This is what her pilot, her bride can do. This is her Dolly. Are you watching, o Red Band?

“Do not think you are hidden, Erys Bander,” she purrs, thunderously. “As small as you are.” The roads are not superimposed on the world, but they strain just beneath the surface, drawn up from stygian depths by the weight of her contemplation. She is a magician. She is a goddess. She is the huntress. She knows the prey. This is her assertion.

“Stomping around in that heavy, lumpen thing. Will the mountain come to the sky?” It would be quite the jump, and foolish besides, given the advantage obviously possessed up here. “I think it must. Because—“

There is no space for thought. There is no space to warn Dolly. It is not a calculation. (At least, it is not a calculation that she is aware that she has made. Which is the point.) It is magic. It is the power of a goddess. It is the color of the green road leaching into the world.

Together, they arm and fling a missile, as good a throwing knife as any when goddesses duel. Their supply is very limited, and throwing one by hand is hardly how one is supposed to be launched, but this is a message. This is fire from heaven. This is the lightning bolt. This is power tossed carelessly, but with impossible accuracy, and how can you deal with this, Erys Bander?

It’s a lightning bolt as it leaves her fingers, and it’s also a knife, both in one. The explosion below is enough to make her flinch, but she tries to turn it into one of Jade’s nonchalant shrugs. She can’t let her goddess down. No weakness. Not in front of a big bullying pirate and that insufferable handsy girl.

“—your silly tricks and cloaks do not work on me, little raider.” Was that a flicker of cloak? Was that a shower of debris bouncing off thin air? Not a clean shot, but surely enough to put the terror of a goddess into the skulking Erys Bander. Surely. Enough to “tilt” her. To make her sloppy. To play her hand early, or make the fatal error of joining battle in the sky, where Dolly is a coiled cloud-serpent, where they have mobility the likes of which Erys Bander and her clan have never seen before.

Her lance lolls in mockery, as if this is not serious enough for her to have it ready and level. Jade specifically has her let the head droop, but holds her fingers tightly around the shaft. It’s a fakeout. And then they’ll, they’ll use the momentum against her? That sounds right.

“Come out~! Or shall I knock this city down around your ears first?”

A second instinct: a draw, a fling, a roar as masonry crumbles and roots are exposed. The thrill of it! She is beyond you, Erys Bander! You are her toy, her quarry, her threat to scare her bride with and then overcome! How can you hope to defeat a goddess? What a grand and intoxicating innocence!

Go ahead! Call on Dishai, see if she answers you! Let Smokeless Jade Fires show how she can consume earth and stone alike in the flames of her passion! Old hag! It is the youngest goddess who burns brightest!

Smokeless Jade Fires, invincible, inimitable, unstoppable, inexorable, glorious!

[Smokeless Jade Fires rolls a 7 to Defy Disaster with Spirit and accurately, impossibly bomb Erys Bander’s cloaked position, offering her position in the sky as collateral (and also her pride). She should be given success at a sacrifice or a hard choice.]