[IC] Huntresses of Hybrasil

[BlasTech]

Matty

It's about twenty minutes after the Emberlight and Novasurge returned before Isabelle and another Terenian exit the private hangar. The scents of sweat and grease intertwine them both, clearly the results of a very vigorous training session. You might recognise Isabelle's companion from the party - the one that had the love of craft beer and karaoke. Clearly a trusted confidante who you can speak freely in front of.

They both stop short as they notice you waiting for them. Pink tints Isabelle's cheeks and she glances sideways at her companion. Is she surprised to see you or something? Embarrased to meet you in this informal setting perhaps? No time to worry about it though, you have your message to deliver, so that's what you do. After all, Mirror is counting on you!

In the awkward silence that follows, Isabelle seems confused.

Oh no, did you not do it right? Is there a problem? This isn't how the script is meant to go!

"I ... uh. I thought my deal with Mirror was just involving me. Why does she need my sibling's help with Solarel?" she replies, adjusting the legs of her coveralls, seemingly a little distracted still.

"I mean, don't worry; I'm not going to back down from my part, but given the uh ... questionable legality around this I hope you'd understand if I'm not keen on exposing my siblings to any potential fallout of my actions."

Oops. It sounds like she's just got the wrong idea. What will you say to bring her back onto track?

[Thanqol]

<I don't know,> she signed. <I've never even heard of anyone doing that before. It's foesign to the outsider and speech only to family and intimates, so to mix the two is...>

It felt like more than that, somehow? The clarity of understanding in two languages at once, at an idea garbled by incompatibility but emerging stronger from the journey? The way the mind had to follow specific paths to try and imagine how to express an inexpressible idea, not just listening to what someone else said but reconstructing their thoughts, their meaning.

She imagined how that would mix with Hybrasilian words. Their words had such ambiguity to them, never requiring full commitment, allowing safety in implication. Even their words for 'I love you' had a subtext that implied it was a choice, a moment of weakness, a smug certainty in the knowledge that they knew enough about their opposite to feel fundamentally unthreatened, so much that they could allow the weakness of a blink.

But... to translate from the directness of foespeak into Hybrasilian? How could the Hybrasilian add ambiguity where there was none? How far would the language have to reach to express unguarded intent? How would -

She was daydreaming. She was blushing even harder. She had left the poor girl in the midst of a meltdown. <... it's fine, probably. Um. It might just be a me thing?>

[Phoe]

Mirror watches Slate in silence. Her eyes drift shut. She turns away, and takes several steps toward the wall with a heavy breath.

"Boss. I was kidding, you know. Kinda. It's fine if you don't feel like--"

"Yes."

"Huh?"

"My answer is an emphatic yes. You should take your clothes off. Or rather, you should take off mine. I. Will remove yours."

She turns around, wielding a smile and a pair of ornate curved ritual daggers.

"With these~"

"Hssstffffftht-- what?! Boss, what? I can't fight worth a damn, that's why I'm a Maker in the first place! If you want training, wait for Kiriala!"

"No," says Mirror, gently pressing the handle of one of the daggers into Slate's hand and curling her fingers around it, "I want you. Right now, only you. I have burned with want for you since the moment you pulled me out of my spiral. I could barely see straight in my fight with Dala Hunters Seven Quetzal for how much I wanted you."

"Yeah but, this? I can't give you... this. And I don't wanna be used as a surrogate for Combat Slu--"

She's halted by a kiss. Mirror is in her face in the blink of an eye, lips to lips, punctuating each lift for air with a soft brush of her tongue across Slate's lips. Mirror does not watch for the reaction, her eyes are practically welded shut. The dagger she did not give away plays with the shoulder of Slate's right sleeve, slicing tiny breaks into the fabric until her shoulder fur tufts through it.

"Not a surrogate. Promise. This is about you. And me. But I need... this. I need. To know. How it feels. I want. To share it. With you. With the one. I trust. My life to."

Mirror backs away again and settles into a loose combat stance, dagger held in front of her. She twirls it playfully, and her eyes burn as she locks them with Slate's. The mechanic's fur ripples in a blush, and the argument is over. Instinct and desire take over, and she pounces.

Their dance is not graceful. It is not delicate. But it is intimate, and it is dangerous, and it is theirs. Mirror fights the same way she did against the Red Band, patience and redirection and control, but as much of that control is about bending her body to take attacks this time rather than overwhelm them. Slate's dagger thrusts are clumsy and aimed too directly for easy cuts, to expose the parts of Mirror she wants to see too quickly and too much. So when she bends to stroke her own blade down Slate's thigh, she twists her body to accept her lover's kiss along the waist of her coat instead of across the chest.

And so on. And so on. And so on. The ritual lasts longer than most mecha fights. With each pass they wear a little less, or a little less well. Extremities and hints at first, then favored spots and stripes, the best places to kiss or to knead, the artifice of exposure that dominates Hybrasil fashions giving way to actual exposure until their stances grow sloppy and their tatters hang as little more than the suggestion of modesty.

Mira tosses her weapon away. It clatters across the ground and sticks in a pile of what had been her business suit. She leans forward, pressing into Selin, and slowly drags her tongue across her partner's collar bone, up her neck, and along the length of her jaw. Selin shudders and clings to Mira to avoid toppling over. Her spine is tingling so much it's made her knees weak.

"This, haaaaa, doin' it for you?" she gasps.

"...More than I imagined. Thank you, Selin."

Her body flushes with intense heat at the sound of her own name. Even alone, she's always struggled with it. It makes her feel exposed and vulnerable in a way that she is simply unprepared for. Alone like this is the only context she can hear it and not instantly melt through a floor, but today, but right now even that is!

"D-d-do you, mmmmmmf, ha, have to say my name?"

Mira spends a long moment doing nothing but stroking Selin's hair. She plants a kiss on the top of her head that presses their bodies close enough together that their fur starts to mingle.

"I do," she says at last, "Because I have stripped you. Nudity is nothing to either of us. Our names are what bare our feelings. My. Desire. Your..."

"I. I know, M-Mira. I know. But now that you've said it..."

"Now that I've said it?"

"Now that you've said it," she repeats, lopsided grin half flustered and half horny, "You're not leaving this room until I've gotten all of what I want, too."

[Tatterdemalion]

“Your heart is not selfish,” Dolly declares, her hands balled up into tiny fists against her shoulders. “Your family comes first, right? With the right family, there’s nothing you can’t do! Alone, mmhm, alone one is small and vulnerable.” Her tail sways like a metronome. Do you understand her, Angela? Dolly can barely comprehend the idea of doing something so big alone. That is a job for many Hybrasilians working in concert. So the place to start is always with the dream, with making the case that together, this thing must be done.

“…what is it like on Valor, Angela? Do you miss it?” She should miss Hybrasil, but being with Jade is like bringing Hybrasil with her wherever she goes. She could be in the heart of the Consortium and never be lost as long as the goddess was with her. All places are one place to her. “Please tell me.”

There is meaning bursting out of that request. And she is so prim and proper, ears tilted forward to listen intently, trying to imagine an alien world that gives birth to creatures like an Angela…

[Anarion]

Isabelle

“Illegal? No no no, just the opposite. Exactly the opposite!” Matty floofs up her fur and runs a hand through her hair as she’s speaking, doing her best to look up at you so that she can try to understand if you understand. “We need their help so that we can help you without doing anything illegal. You have your um, your stock prayers, each of you, and we need at least 51 of them. You don’t have enough, but Mirror believes that if even one of your siblings chooses to help then it will be enough. So we just need to talk to them. I’ll explain, we’re not asking you to put yourself in any danger, just to invite them to meet with me.”
She looks up at you with her big wide saucer eyes. “We’ll take care of things, we just need you to um…” she says something in Hybrasilian, “ah, what’s the translation, to um kick a single pebble to collapse a mountain.”

***

Solarel

<Okay…okay> she signs it a few times. Probably a Terenian speech tick that she’s using directly in foesign, since typically that would be confirmation but she hasn’t actually said what she’s doing yet so it’s unclear what’s being confirmed.

<I’ll go ahead with the writing. It will be extra work for me, but they’re…providing me food and lodging for all the time I spend> she looks chagrined at this, though you have no way of knowing that she struggled with coming up with a word for “paying” in foesign.

<And…you are cute…I didn’t mean to imply that you I wasn’t…> she starts blushing, stops signing, shakes her head. <wait just a moment.>

“Okay, Anna, Pietro, get me an auto-tablet with a neural mesh. If you have to buy it, it’s part of my expenses, but she needs us to write her answers instead of speaking, so I need something to do the transcribing.”

“Oh, I have one!” Anna shouts and instantly leaps out of the room, coming back with a small screen and a sleeve for Pia to wear on one wrist. She slips it on, blushes yet again and discreetly closes the romantic fiction about the two cape-wearing space explorers furiously making out while trying to get the treaty of Murzon signed, then gives her attention back to you.

<okay, we’re all going to sit in front of those machines where the lights are pointing, and then Anna’s going to ask some questions out loud. I’m going to sign them to you and then you’ll sign the answers back.>

She moves you all to the chairs. There’s extra ambient heat from the lights, but they insist that all of them are turned on because apparently it’s important for the machine that Pietro is pointing your way, which has started making a low clicking sound to indicate that it’s running.

“You set it to retro again, Anna?”
“I like knowing it’s running, makes it easy to time the takes, it’s comforting!”
“Sure, okay okay”

Anna turns to you and says “okay let’s get started. Formalities first, who are you, where are you from, what brings you to Horizon? Then, what kind of ship do you pilot or are you part of a crew? What’s it like for a Zaldarian visiting TC space? Do you like it? What’s the most fun thing here? The weirdest? Can you tell us about where you grew up? How do Zaldarians usually live? Do you get date? Get married?”

Pia furiously begins signing questions to you, doing the best she can. So…how do you respond?

***

Mirror

Some time later, you are both breathless, pressed together, Slate resting her head half on a pillow and half against your neck.

She signs, her eyes closed. “Why do you think Hybrasil wants all this” she whispers, unable to muster an energy to raise a hand in a gesture that would encompass the whole of the galaxy with a finger. “I know why a person would. Why [every kitten wants to pounce a thousand things a thousand times.] But Hybrasil? [Hunger never sleeps through the night], yes, but [one who tries to swallow a waterfall in one drink is only drenched] you know?

She breathes out. It warms your neck before the breath in chills the tips of the fur, so close is she to you. “Feels like [Mu Ysha using six arms all to hone blades and polish spears] but then she always ends up using all of them in every story. [A claw cannot pierce the storm, but that does not mean a storm cannot be hunted.] Is that what we are?”

Her breath is on you with every word, but her words are the words of parsecs. The words of everything, the breath of nothing, and the world never stays still for long.

***

Dolly

“You did not watch my fight against Smith then? Not surprising, you had already beaten her by then, it would only have mattered if I didn’t win. But she too said ‘family family family’ and I shouted at her that I had done things alone. Valor is not my family, and the Antonius family does not truly love me, I think.”

She sighs, giving you a shift to make you squeak, Dolly, and then grins. “But family is not the only thing one loves. Is that not so? I can have a people, can I not? I can stand for a place, for its conditions, for its pride, even if there are not so many people who I share my time with from there anymore. It matters to me. Valor is full of wide land. Farms for the great silks of much of the Terenius Consortium. They grow best on a planet and it is one stop from Shiki where they use many of them. Easier for them to build up for population, us to build for fields. And then for that, there is manufacturing, work mechas. The drives we do not make, those come from the capital, but we make the shells, the pistons, the hydraulics. Machines to work the planet, machines to haul the things, great space elevators to reach the floating transports that are too large and ungainly to ever land in atmosphere. Like giant hippos. You know what a hippo is? It is a great fat water beast with a huge backside and a large mouth that swims in great rivers and eats the plants and the unwary both.

I do not make it sound hospitable, ia, no I do not. But it is beautiful in its way. A planet full of growing things and the machines to work them. Covering flatlands and rolling hills, while those who wish rest go to the mountains and look upon it all. It is a stark beauty, the beauty of something that feels large, that your eyes can take in but that yet exceeds you vastly in a way that gazing upon the stars does not feel vast no matter how much greater the expanse it represents.

What then of your home little cat? You hail from the greatest of your planets, why should I think it a match for Terenius Prime?”

[Phoe]

[Going to sleep on a branch and waking on the ground], [Daylight creeps into a cave and the shadows stretch their legs]," says Mirror, "[A Goddess devours she who cannot hunt.]"

Mirror's arms are too buried under the weight of another body to make any gestures either. She closes her eyes instead, and simply breathes. Draw in as she feels Slate's whispers on her neck, draw out when she draws in. She feels the weight of a head rest on the top of her breasts, and breathes into her chest so she can drift away in the sensation of that weight rising and sinking, and the ear pressed close to listen to the beating of her heart.

Slate's fur is different from her own: coarser, stiffer, and shorter than the soft wintery coat it's pressed against. Her fingers stretch across one of Slate's wrists and across her back, just brushing the tips of each strand to delight in the sensation of it pushing back against her. Stimulation. That is the word. She pushes deeper, massaging muscle into bone, and the stiff fur envelopes her hand. It is bliss.

Seconds tick by, until they become minutes. Minutes gather in handfuls and then tens, with no feeling but what their bodies experience against one another, with no sounds but the beating of hearts, whispered little sighs, and a duet of rolling purrs. Slate shifts her weight, and Mirror shifts with her to maintain the position. Legs wrap around legs. Tummies brush against tummies. Tails wriggle free and curl next to one another to form the shape that Terenians claim is a heart. Text form, less than three.

A mystery.

"The mainland is a mystery to me. The so-called High Command moreso. But we lost a war, didn't we? [Sunlight withers grass, prey begins the pilgrimage]. [Fangs in famine bite through stone]. Why? Are you frightened? Do you think that we should quit?"

[BlasTech]

In the silence that follows Matty's last spiel, the two women share a glance.

Asil mouths 'stock prayers?' back at her.

Isabelle gives a helpless shrug, before turning back to the enthusiastic Hybrasillian.

"O-kay." Isabelle says, quickly trying to parse what could be their plan. The ask, at least, seems straightforward, but fifty-one stock prayers ... it was either something relating to corporate finance, or they were going to ask them to sign up to a new-age religion.

Honestly, the latter was probably more believable.

"If you're sure about the legal aspects, and that it will be safe for them ..." she continues, taking a breath as she weighs up the benefits of taking a chance here. The maths isn't hard. They hadn't steered her wrong yet after all.

"... then I'll speak to Luca. He's the one most likely to listen to me given the twins always seem to be busy with some project or other. My advice though? Make it the day after tomorrow. I'm chairing a charity function for the New-Worlds, which means the media, and my mother, will most likely be focusing on me."

Isabelle pauses.

"... and please say thank you to Mirror for following through. I admit I thought she might have forgotten about it, given how the Tournament is going. She has a lot on her plate too, so I would have understood. But, still, it's ... nice to be remembered."

She gives the mechanic a wave farewell before Asil and her head back to their quarters.

After all ... two days from now is still plenty of time.

-===-

48 hours later

"... return to ongoing coverage of the gala event which is funded by Akanis Mining, a subsidiary of Lozano enterprises ..."
 
The spaceport on Akar is bustling as normal, its slate grey buildings broken by occasional splashes of colour from news vids or shops advertising their wares. The weather has turned the same as its architecture, with a steady patter of rain muting out the sound of hammers striking iron.

A cloaked figure strides through it all. His destination: a traditionally structured forge and smithy. It's clear that a sword hangs at his side, clenched in one hand, as the other pulls the cloak shut against the water falling from above. As he enters the shelter of that low-slanted roof, he pulls back the cowl, revealing a Terenian of striking features. Blue eyes beneath short-cut auburn hair, a strong jaw and smooth skin make up features that many within TC space would think of as handsome. To those beyond the borders though, including many Zaldarians and Hybrasillians, he is simply one face amongst a race of many.

After all, for all that he's the eldest heir to one of the richest families in TC space, Luca Lozano does not spend his time in the limelight as much as his sister.

No, unlike his sister, who is thrust into centre stage, he is far more likely to take a back seat to the goings on of politics or mecha combat. Which makes it all the more remarkable that he's here, out on a foreign planet.

And what's more, he's not alone.

Two more figures flank him, walking with the same purpose and destination. They lower their cowls at the same time, revealing a younger girl with long brown locks, and a boy with dyed blonde hair slicked back.

Not one, but three Lozano siblings are here. Watching for the one they were supposed to meet.

[Thanqol]

<I am Solarel, the Hunter of Huntresses.>

Even after everything she's never flinched from her name. To hide, to turn away, to pretend to be someone else... despite all the pressure that came with isolation and infamy, she couldn't see any way to be the person she wanted to be that didn't lead through being the person who she was.

<I am from the Stormlands of Roevg, the hurricane valley where only the Gods can walk unbowed.>

Home. An existence of crawling, masks, dust, power scraped from chinks of sunlight and the overflow of divine battle. A world of dust she would never feel compelled to return to.

<I am here because... I was hungry, and lost. I needed space to think. To prepare.>

Had she found it? What did she think now? The tactics, the calculations, an understanding of the world of her next foe, Isabelle Lorenzo. Everything here was the logic of cities.

<I pilot the Aeteline, the purified God of War.>

There was no way in foesign to de-emphasize into the word 'Mech', that curiously barbaric sense that a God was the same manner of being as a mechanical pencil. Though perhaps that was the genius of the Terenians? In understanding the unity of all things, perhaps they saw the Spirit World as one with reality. Perhaps they exalted the pencil rather than denigrated the God.

<I do like it. I have -> there was no word for 'barter' in foesign <- taken a tribute of idols. This one is Mordred of the Round Table, a wicked and noble knight raised from death to do battle as the Saber of Red. I think she is very relatable.>

She held up her prize, a polysynth figurine. She liked the bulk of the armour and how it could unravel to reveal the girl underneath. Something about that duality felt... important in a way that she could feel slipping away.

<But what it's like... strange. Zaldarians engage in physical reciprocity; power must be met with power, force with force. As I understand it, Terenians reflect invisibly through spirit world systems. You allow people to steal from you, but then you inflict retributive violence to their spirit number. It makes you seem like cowards at first, but in truth your battles happen telepathically and if you lose the battle then an army is mobilized against you. It seems complicated and dangerous until you realize the army is not particularly dangerous, though they are very loud.>

She'd punched out at least half a dozen cops and security guards already in her short stay here. But the sirens! Perhaps because their warriors were so unworthy they tried to scare their foes with extremely loud noises.

<For fun... I like those magical moving roads. The enchanted stairs are especially entertaining.>

She presumed that they were for the purposes of exercise - to allow warriors to double the effort it took to cross the city. She saw most people going with the flow, but she also saw warriors using the enchanted roads and stairs in dedicated rooms to simulate crossing vast distances, so they must have different uses for different castes.

<I grew up in a nomadic band of subsistence scavengers, a tribe not even powerful enough to raid, barely even wealthy enough to be worthy of raiding. We stalked the Gods and picked over their wreckage when they fought. It is not an entertaining story.>

These people could watch Gods fight nearly every day on their anime planets. She couldn't imagine that would be worth anything to them.

<No. If we desire someone we take them captive and integrate them into our household. From there, it is the host's challenge to make sure their prisoner is joyful. We do not reproduce genetically like you; upon the breakdown of our internal batteries we spend our days contemplating the spirit world until we sever our connection to physicality entirely and become an Ancestor. When an Ancestor tires of the Spirit World then they conjure a new frame for themselves and forget their immortality so they can experience the world again.>

Immortality broken by longing, by craving. Everywhere she looked she could feel the drive that must have filled her when she decided to be reborn; everywhere it felt like she somehow hadn't reached what she was yearning for. The only times she'd felt close had been with Mirror. The only times she'd been with Mirror had been in battle... sometimes after battle. Sometimes before battle. But the battle was surely the everything in each case.

So she'd do battle. As many times as it took.

[Tatterdemalion]

It is important to understand that when Dolly nods her head in agreement that she knows what a hippo is, what she is actually picturing in her mind’s eye is some sort of omnivorous crocodile. There is absolutely no doubt in her heart.

“Well,” she says, hesitantly, “I should argue for our hunting, right? Our behemoths, big enough to feed entire villages. Our deep-water leviathans. We are small, and everything else is big, and we had to be the best at catching big things.” She plays with Angela’s curls for a moment, trying and failing to work up the courage to tug on them, to convey the message, to remind her of being caught by two clever kittens. “But. It’s not? Not for me. It’s our biodiversity. There are still species of insect and sub-genuses of plant on our world that remain undiscovered simply because there’s so much to catalogue. To discover. From the tallest trees, like your skyscrapers, to the smallest fungi caps hiding in cave systems, and we still don’t know everything about them, either, no wonder that early religious practice focused on caves as places where it was possible to commune with the world herself, and once our ancestors were down there far enough, tucked into a niche in the rock, covered from above and behind, they would cover their heads with a blanket and fast in order to understand the powers that are older than the world, in darkness and hunger, and all around them, not even perceptible through their cheeks, rich veins of crystal and moss and— actually, did you know that there’s been a breakthrough in growing moss for mass consumption based on Yellow Bean’s research in the X’mot Complex? She’s been able to hybridize strains that should be able to thrive in orbital gardens, looking for both nutritional value and production output, and we’re talking vacuum-sealed, bottled, dried and seasoned, and as viable in a personal garden as on prefab satellite gardens orbiting new colonies! And that’s just scratching the surface! I’m really excited about Doctor Gentleness’s work in synthetic proteins that might be able to replace the need for meat in the diet, which is, as you know,” she says with complete sincerity and faith, “a major logistical issue, because it limits our ability to be self-sufficient on planets with completely alien biospheres if we have to import prey species or rely entirely on the flash-dried stuff you get on stations. I’d bet that one of the Red Band might go an entire year without eating something that hasn’t been cured, dried, frozen, or otherwise prepared for long-term travel, which means they also need iron supplements on a semi-regular basis because they’re just not getting the full nutritional spectrum without having it fresh, and that’s why that soup they gave me was so unbearably spicy, they have to add strong flavors to compensate for the fact that we’re not getting any of the blood, and…”

Moss, blooming in the dark where nobody sees it, brought up into space. Made crucial, made more, hybridized with other strains, thriving, glowing. Beautiful if you understand it. Capable of growing anywhere.

This might be the most that Angela has heard from Dolly in a while. So often she wants to be stopped from being like this, breathless, lost in her own thoughts— but it’s not hard to imagine what that looks like when the topic isn’t so wonderful. When she’s worried, thinking just as fast as this, or when she’s flustered, trying to navigate what’s expected of her, or when she’s feeling small in the shadows of titans. Small wonder, too, that she dreamed of being made interesting, of being put on a pedestal, of being obsessed over, of someone putting her on display just as she might cup a handful of moss and explain why it should be loved.

And then she met her own gardener.

[Anarion]

Mirror

Slate turns her head a hair, a sleepy quizzical expression. “Of course. I’m terrified, Mira. Terrified of winning, terrified of losing. We’re doing this instead of war.” She lets her gaze linger, looking up at your face, her neck craned backwards to make the angle.

“[Sunlight withers grass, prey begins the pilgrimage] yes, exactly. But who’s the prey and where are they going? That’s what we don’t know. And that’s terrifying.”

She smiles and breathes, long slow breaths that evince a serenity that doesn’t match her words. “But then, none of that will make us quit, will it? It doesn’t matter who we’re pawns for, won’t matter when it’s over. We get something unique, something you can’t buy, and you of all people are one to stretch the limits of what’s possible even among all the people of the vast stars. [The shadow of the smallest kitten can devour the stars.]

***

Lozano siblings and Matty

The interior of Trosta’s isn’t empty. That would be too weird, and anyway Matty finds the sound of metal being worked comforting. It’s a place that’s easy to relax in, to get lost in the sound and forget that you’re there. To be confident that nobody else knows you’re there or can hear anything you’re saying.

To the gathered siblings, she speaks. “You’re probably a little confused why I called you here. I um, didn’t thinkI was getting all three of you either, just one would be enough. But since you’re all here, your sister needs help. She needs help about your mother. And because we’re…um…well…we live in a strange time and everyone is together here where our peoples are not normally together. So…because of that, I am helping, and my…friend is helping, and all her crew are helping. We just need a little bit of help. Each of you has a piece, a little portion of the Lozano family, the stocks that you hold. I am not the expert in Terenian prayers or um…f-finance…and that’s not why they sent me to talk to you. I’m here because…w-well because we Hybrasilians have a plan, and we can help all of you live better lives. Lives with less fear and doubt and worry in them. We need a little bit of your help to do that, and we’re asking for your trust that we can make it work. And I want you to know that we mean it, that we’re really here to help. I hope that meeting me here, in this unusual way, s-somewhat off the path that you normally tread, will help you understand. I’ve felt so much of that fear in my own life, and the people who I’m with now, they help me feel better, feel safer. I really think we can do that for you too. So, we’re asking for you to trust us and believe in us. That we’ll take the little pieces of Terenian things you have, and put them together, and help bring all of you, and Isabelle especially, to a world where you can all feel less afraid.”

She stops and she waits. There is a moment of tension, of baited breath. Who knows what might have been running through the minds of the Lozano siblings in this moment. Plans and calculations, fear of tricks and traps, of informants and spies and all the myriad tactics of the Lozano family over the years, perhaps.

But at last, Luca steps forward, cloak and dagger and all. But he does not hand Matty a ceremonial dagger, or make some grand gesture. Rather, he pulls out a pen. “You’re right. When I think to myself ‘why do I hesitate to do this’ it is all from fear. Fear that I do not know you, that my sister has asked me here to take a foolish risk. Fear that whatever plan you may have will fail. That each thing that happens is under the control of my mother. These are the reasons I can think of not to act. But I am already living this way. Isabelle is living this way, we are all living this way. What then, do I lose from acting? Nothing, I say to all of you. If our sister believes this was worth hearing out, then you will have my support.”

He allows Matty to show him what to do, where to sign, provides some of his own guidance on the particulars of such a document. And so too do Tadeo and Carmella, each in their turn.

And when it is done, Matty holds a set of papers and a specially coded mesh with their intentions, easily copied but impossible to forge. A sign of power, but more importantly, of trust.

***

Solarel

As you sign, there is a screen for the Terenian that slowly brings the words on a screen. It’s something like a translation geist, but with Pia as intermediary: it’s reflecting her mind, her understanding, rather than a mechanical spirit doing so. In a sense this is much simpler: the geist, if you can even say there is one, is merely a scribe for her rather than engaging in a direct interpretive effort. But no words are spoken in any part, save by Anna as she peppers each question in turn.

“Oh my gosh, you’re an arena pilot! And you came here because you’re hungry. And, Pia, you’re the student, is all that stuff about the ancestors and spirits and everything new? Did anyone have that on file?” Pia’s shaking her head, eyes sparkling.

“This is incredible, what a system, my god. And you just stalked gods in your tribe? Like in anime?! I didn’t think anyone really did that!”

She looks incredibly smug at the other two. “See, and you said that all I’d ever get picking up subjects in the spaceport restaurants was a punch in the face. Like that would even hurt. Okay, wrap up this footage, let’s package it up, do a voiceover of some kind, but like, respectfully, Pia will look at it and we’ll make sure it’s respectful and doesn’t violate any customs. We can do commentary or something if we have to. Pietro, stop looking at me like that, you know perfectly well that if I wanted to cause a diplomatic incident I’d do it on purpose, nobody half-asses a diplomatic incident, that’s just incredibly boring.”

When all is done, the last thing they ask is this: “so…uh, when it’s done we’ll send you a free copy of course. Our expense paid, even if we have to get it shipped by courier across the galaxy. So…where should we send it?”

***

Dolly

“You are a beautiful soul. Too beautiful for shooting people in the face, I might think.” Angela adds that almost sadly as you complete the shopping trip. “But then, no, perhaps there is nothing in the whole galaxy that would make you so happy as where you are now, hm?” She accentuates this by flexing the arm that’s holding you, pinching you tightly between the various parts of her arm wrapped around you.

“Still, ask yourself if you wish to fight. There are many ways for you and your goddess to greet the world, are there not? If this is not the only way to achieve your wishes, I would be loathe to call it the best way.”

And with that, she hefts you and the order slip, passing it to the store to have all the parts delivered to the hangar faster than you can even get back. After all, it is the duty of the high priestess to deliver everything timely, is it not?

[Thanqol]

She smiled. No fixed address. Not once in her entire life. Across the Stormlands and Evercity and the void between worlds, she had never even had a tent she could pitch. Home was the cockpit. But... not just the cockpit. Right now the thought of returning felt like going back into the summer heat.

It hadn't felt like home except when there was someone else sharing it with her.

Of everywhere in the galaxy, she could think of only one place she was truly destined to return.

"Send it to Mayze Scyssorpaws," said Solarel.

[BlasTech]

"I heard what your leader said to Isabelle during the Crystal Gala."

The statement comes from Luca as he tucks the pen back into his suit jacket. His motions are fluid, but not rushed. Those of a person who has all the time in the world to consider what comes next.

"That Family is. not. blood." he continues, quietly. "Sure was a moment, to hear someone say that to your little sister."

Pen secure, he tugs the jacket closed before looking Matty up and down.

"Do you have siblings, Miss?" he continues "Any younger ones, in particular? Do you know what it's like to have someone grow up in your footsteps. A shadow; following you around for almost your entire life ... always just a few steps and years behind. Simultaneously the most annoying thing in the galaxy and the most comforting presence you've ever known."

"I'm not a very good brother." he admits. "I was always meant to lead, to protect. But somewhere along the way Isabelle started shining brighter than I ever could. And I, fool that I am, convinced myself that I should stand back and let her live the life she was meant to."

"I never questioned, never really thought about whether she had actually chosen the path she was on. And I am very grateful that you and yours have helped her find the strength to start finding her own way."

Luca pauses, noticing that Carm and Tad are suddenly leaning closer. They grin up at him, punching his arm and ruffling his hair.

"Speak for yourself, bro ..." says Tad.

"We're only here cause this'll mess with mum."

"But yeah, she's still our sister." Tad continues. "And if this'll help her, we're on board."

"And, bonus points. If this works out, I'm telling her we're finally square for that time I smashed her nerdy space diorama when we were, like, twelve."

Luca pulls away, giving the twins a level glare that does nothing to dampen the smiles on their faces.

"Your contribution to the moment is appreciated." he deadpans, straightening his hair. Before the two of them round on poor Matty.

"Just remember; if this screws our sister over ..." says Tad, as the twins turn those implacable smiles on the Hybrasillian.

"... we'll hunt you down." finishes Carm.

[Phoe]

Mira watches Selin with a curious smile on her face. Her sigh is contentment and resignation both at once.

"If terror is our future in victory, in defeat, and in flight then I suppose victory is the only viable path forward is it not? We may as well extract our toll from the great machine they have built to play at war for them. Let's prove our worth, Selin. Won't it be fun to see what kind of new terrible name they think up for me after this?"

She purrs through laughter, and wraps herself around Selin like a shield and a ribbon all in one.

"Do you know my favorite interpretation of the One-Day Defender? That I have yet to truly defend anything. 'Perhaps one day she shall'. It is delightful. And correct. Soon the galaxy will understand what it looks like when I have something precious to protect. Maybe they won't be brave enough to call me anything other than what I am. Well. Either way.

Are you ready to go home?"

[Tatterdemalion]

It would be a crime not to acknowledge the squeak that Dolly makes as she is squeezed. It is by turns surprised, admiring, scandalized, and breathy. No wonder that she is the prize of a goddess, the desired trophy of a band of infamous pirates, and the heart of a harem, when she can make noises like that. And the way she bushes up, and her eyes go wide! She's lucky Jade isn't here to torment her over it. Or, no, she does make a glance to one side as if expecting her wife's smug smirk, fingers winding about the length of a leash.

But underneath, that sharp little mind is working and worrying at the thought of what the three (four? more?) of them could do together that isn't fighting, that isn't hunting down pirates, that isn't using Jade's strength and her grace to do things that other people can't. (But Whispered Promise, she can. Maybe it's all right to trust her.) Maybe Jade could go on circuits of the colonies, use her strength to perform great feats, dispense justice, and... oh, no, that just goes right back to fighting, doesn't it? But how else could the two of them create change, really create change, while also seeing the universe? What lies outside of fighting?

And would Jade be happy without fighting? The thought of becoming a little botanist again seems laughable, not when the universe is wide open and waiting for them. (And not when, she selfishly must admit, the thought of being a, an icon, an artist's model, the subject of attention, grows more and more. Would it be the end of the world if she dressed a little more... desirably? Accepted that she wants to be seen, to be wanted, to be... that even now, she still wanted to hear that the Red Band had posters up of her?) But that's hardly the sort of thing that you can choose to do as a high priestess, because surely Jade's will is what really matters? (But Jade... would do whatever made her Dolly happiest.)

So what Dolly eventually ends up doing is creating a cult-wide poll on what she should propose to the Great Hunting Goddess, Smokeless Jade Fires.
[ ] Hunting down the Red Band
[ ] Roving force of justice
[ ] Return to Hybrasil and make a temple complex
[ ] make garden paradise planet??
[ ] add ideas below please??

[Anarion]

The Semifinals

Mirror

The pieces are falling into place. Matty came back with a delighted smile and not one but three signed pieces of paper representing the lion’s share of the Lozano family’s prayer holdings. And a piece of neural mesh that assured you of their intentions: the true Lozano family hope in you enshrined in a little gray slip, capable of being copied a thousand times to ensure it can’t be covered up or denied, but impossible to forge. Nobody has ever managed to perfectly mimic the neural signals of another person.

Jade’s idol is being repaired with Slate’s help. It will be shining and glorious, fully capable as a dancer and a warrior as the need may be. She will soon stand ready for you to call upon her, or at least insofar as Jade would admit that a goddess can stand ready for anyone to call upon her. Dolly stands ready as well, in her way, as does her cult, many of whom have also befriended your own engineers now that you’re not in competition.

The Gods-Smiting Whip is repaired, fine-tuned, even the grip strengthened on the sword after your last fight. The crew is well aware of Marcina Villajero’s eye for detail and Slate in particular committed to going over every frame of your last fight and ensuring there was nothing to exploit. At least, nothing to exploit that’s within Slate’s power to change.

And Marcina herself. Well, what you’ve heard after her fight with Angela is that she decided to retool her support setup. The vulnerability to the rush screened by missiles was too obvious. So while she’s kept the huge sword that represents the core of her power, she’s adjusted the type and placement of her guns and missiles. Several likely hidden. You have some sense from the view as you enter the fight that she’s gone for more physical ammunition: explosives and autocannons with less emphasis on energy defenses. Perhaps she thinks it will be more effective than trying to match the variety of energy generation techniques that the Whip has already demonstrated.

Speaking of the fight, your final arena seems to have been imagined as though centuries had passed in the arenas of the previous fights. You are in a city like your fight with Dolly, but sunken and overgrown. Standing on the “ground” means standing with your mecha knee-deep in water. Buildings are skewed and slanted, many held in place by vast vines that have tangled with them. Several have holes through them as though hundreds of fights had occurred and powerful explosives had blasted straight through them. The water is not still, but flows from somewhere and to somewhere, so that the city has become a basin in a much larger system. In the distance, the city slopes upward and water runs down low hills and ridges as the buildings move away from the tall buildings of the city center and instead shift to what once were residences now entirely overgrown with lush greens and browns amid the flowing water.

Marcina is deployed across from you in the city center. No surprise, though many opportunities to hide or shift the fight.

“I have been thinking” she says, without any formalities. “About when we first met over drinks. You told me that everything you do, you do to the best of your abilities. And yet that you do not owe everyone, or at least not your oppressors the respect of crushing them. From me, you drank the cinnamon drink even though you knew it would harm you. You suffered, I believe, to make a more effective point to me, that would be etched in my memory. I did not deserve this respect from you. I have been foolish again and again in evaluating you, and you have been nothing but correct.”

Then she says something in Hybrasilian. It’s not a traditional saying, but the words make sense in order. “[To know an opponent is to defeat them. To learn their hopes and their dreams, to know precisely how to serve them, this you use to cut them down.] But you…I still do not know you. And so…I want you. I desire you. I will have you.”

***

Solarel

The return to the Aeteline was at once more and less than your memory could do justice to it. It is more in that your body is strong. Refreshed with food, rest, your mind focused, new routines of information to consider and calculate, the interface with the Aeteline feels sharper and faster. You could move and lift the stars themselves with the right lever.

And yet, you return with things entirely outside of the Aeteline etched in your heart. The furnace at its heart knows nothing of noodle bowls and cinema lighting. It has not heard of a documentary and it does not have any consideration of the fashion dos and don’t for cape wearing. It does not consider how it might be to deal with a manic director or an easily flushed translator because these things are outside the parameters of its operations and it would not function for a pilot whose mind was not able to synchronize with its automated processes.

You face now the other Terenian pilot, Isabelle Lozano. The one from that strange Trak’tho planet who you called not worth your time. Yet she has come back. She has won her matches, restored her preferred machine, and added to it in new ways. The dynamic nature of Terenian technology once again at play. Her mechanical body has not remained constant and this is not merely due to making repairs with inferior parts. She has chosen to add new functions, chosen to make modifications, chosen, for no reason but her own preferences, to change how it works.

You fight amid a city of clouds. A series of orbital platforms, lower than your previous battle on a space platform, and far larger. This must be a recreation of an entire Terenian mining city, replete with small buildings and roads, all built for upper atmosphere mining operations and gas collection. It offers unusual angles, is still subject to gravity (and thus to falls should an engine be disabled or overtaxed), and glows a gentle orange-pink in the sunrise that lights your match.

***

Isabelle

Well, here you are. The control device is removed with Asil’s help, and your family have placed their trust in Hybrasilians you just met at their encouragement and a little persuasions from the tiny mechanic. Is it not freeing, in a way? Your girlfriend is the superior mechanic, your fate entrusted to others. The only thing left for you to focus on here is the fight. Oh, and your Zaldarian prisoner, who left the estate a few days ago with a carefully written apology note in Terenian indicating that she appreciated your hospitality but did not feel that she could remain given your opponent.

So, really all that’s left is to focus on the fight and not the thousand things swirling around it that you could worry about but that you have no control over. Keep trying t remember that.

You fight amid a city of clouds. A series of orbital platforms, lower than Solarel’s previous battle on a space platform, but much higher than the elevated ruined city or the open plains where you fought earlier matches. This is a recreation of an entire Terenian mining city, replete with small buildings and roads, all built for upper atmosphere mining operations and gas collection. It offers unusual angles, is still subject to gravity (and thus to falls should an engine be disabled or overtaxed), and glows a gentle orange-pink in the sunrise that lights your match.

***

Dolly and Jade

“So, what are the specs on this thing?” Slate’s head is cocked to one side as she gazes at the idol in the hangar. Not fighting this round. But Mirror still insisted that she be in tip top shape. In fact, she sent her own chief engineer to assist you.

“It’s been a few years since I was home, maybe longer with the travel distances. So did they make any breakthroughs that you just weren’t using right? You kept up with the Whip on a regular chassis, so you’ve gotta have something under the hood there. Though if all they managed for you was a more efficient processor, that would still be plenty I supposed.”

“If you ask me, it looks more like a dancer than a fighter though.”

And that one might cut a little. Because little does Slate know that your poll results included one write in for “start a pole dancing business” (obviously from Six Stones) and one write in for “dance in the sacred ceremonies of the gods” who you’re not sure would have sent that as a write-in. The rest are fairly evenly split between hunting the Red Band and temple complex. Doesn’t seem like there’s any support for the roving justice thing, people either want a clear goal or a clear base. Garden Planet has two votes, tying for the dancing routine if you count the joke vote.

Also Slate’s staring at you for a response.

[Phoe]

Perhaps this is Marcina Villajero’s way of admitting that she had actually been expecting Smokeless Jade Fires here, after measuring their matches against each other. Or perhaps it was more that, now that she was staring down the barrels of the Nine-Tails in person -- no. Not that. Phrase the thought with less arrogance. Less self centered. Remember the immanent possibility of your own defeat. This is a superior opponent. With a superior loadoat.

So. What, then? Ascertain nature of confession. An all powerful generalist with omnipotent fundamentals, now matched against a technique specialist using piloting prowess as a cloak to cover a frankly atrocious battle form. A realization about the nature of the match up, then? A taunt from someone who had seen through her vaunted "one layer of defense" mantra? Unlikely. Acknowledgment of the difficulty of the dance that had been woven, then. A declaration of lust. If not outright love.

That, she could respond to. That matched her hopes. That made this a meal worth savoring, and not just a chore she had to swallow to keep Slate or someone like her from yelling. Acknowledgment. Recognition. Desire. She'd scoffed at the Priestess and her Goddess when they'd told her as much but in truth Mirror's hunger for these things was even more voracious than theirs. Nothing this close to Solarel should feel fun or exciting. Certainly not tantalizing.

But here she is, licking her lips in view of the camera she had broadcasting herself to her opponent. And not performatively, either. She feels her heartbeat accelerate and her fur ripple with such obvious desire she almost chokes on it. That's another fact about herself she'd have to learn to live with, eventually.

"Assessment: index on ballistic weaponry considered ideal for current terrain conditions. High concentrations of water make diffusion of beam weaponry likely; range reductions a fact of life. Missiles, cannons, rifles subject to none of this. Addendum: observable design philosophy present in the Jormungar prior to current engagement. Tactical application likely not related."

She grins, knowing Marcina Villajero is listening directly. Knowing she is watching. Knowing that she is getting this as a response to admitting her passions, and her dazzling display of the results of her research into the culture of Hybrasil. It is a wicked sort of teasing, to test her like this. Did your books have anything to say outside of mainland culture? Did your personal research turn up nothing, or merely enough to frustrate you?

"Destructive potential of kinetic firearms places minimal strain on Crystal Fire Drive. Primary power draws from firing mechanism and targeting systems, plus movement considerations for excessive weight. Observation: design philosophy of enemy mecha compatible with emphasis on physical capabilities over power of armaments. Shadow of the blade: if worn down at range and ammunition depleted, opponent will become more powerful. Preference for cqc obvious. Therefore, tactically advisable solution is to finish fight prior to expenditure. Here. I. Come~"

At the start of every fight save one, Mirror's God-Smiting Whip has entered into a crouch and shot off into the sky to rain beam weaponry down on the opponent as cover for a charge with a melee weapon. She is armed with a knight's sword now instead of her traditional trident, but her stance is unchanged. Her thrusters flare and her attack vector becomes obvious as soon as she lifts up from the water.

Immediately, she deviates from her flight pattern. No sooner has she lifted off toward the sky than does her thrust vector shift suddenly and violently forward instead of upward. The Whip's shoulder rolls forward into a charge while both hands grip her comparatively smaller and lighter blade. Three tails fly up and cover the pointed shoulder with a triangle shield formation that covers the front of her mecha's body from the counter-offensive as she closes distance.

The strain of the sudden shift on her body is brutal. The speed of her charge is not only faster than the strength of her shield suggests, it is borderline suicidal to begin with. She is in this moment less the pilot of a machine or a warrior than she is a comet, and one with dreams of becoming an extinction-level event at that. Hers is the smaller, lighter, and generally faster armor and she has chosen to treat it as the largest for the sake of her attack plan. The water warps underneath her as she passes, as if pooling around gravity.

The impact rattles bone, even through the finest dampening hardware and software in the galaxy. It sends both mecha threatening to topple over in the water from the outset of the fight, and it buries the arena in a shower of sparks and steam that buy the duelists a moment of privacy. The Gods-Smiting Whip slashes with its sword as it careens forward, aiming for center of mass where Mirror has the highest chance of causing generic systems damage without needing to guess where the precise best target will be.

It is also the most likely vector along which she will be parried. And when she is, her tails seamlessly flick over from defense to offense. They envelop the sword and burn with a painfully bright blue cutting edge that slices and then dissipates like a burst of lightning. Her thrusters roar to life again having pivoted in the opposite direction, and her Whip manages to hover injuriously over the surface of the water inside the zone where ballistic retaliation is only possible (or at least safe for either of them) if Marcina Villajero reveals some of her new hidden attack vectors here and now.

"Nine Drive System, Partial Configuration. The First and Third Forms: Moonlight's Plunging Fang. Marcina Villajero. I acknowledge your desire. I return it, even. If you truly believe that knowing me is the path to defeating me, I ask you two questions: What is my name? And what is the secret of the Gods-Smiting Whip?"

[Fight: 6+3+3 = 12. Mirror takes a string, a superior position, and an opening for her tails to exploit later. Until she fights Solarel at the very least, she will never inflict a Condition in battle again]

[BlasTech]

This is it.

There is indeed something freeing about piloting. The feeling of strength, where one has the ability to leap a building or crush a boulder in the palm of their hands - of feeling your self, writ large, and carried aloft on wings of crystal fire.

For Isabelle, the worries outside the arena fade away. For now, there is only her mech, her opponent, and the fight.

This won't be like last time.

When last they fought she'd been afraid of everything - the guns, the guardian, the idea that she could feel things. She'd had her first glimpse of things outside the tightly controlled world that had been all she'd ever known ... and she'd never been able to let that go - not even when it had been torn from her.

She'd been lonely too - and the gulf that had been left after the destruction of Tate, in that eternity when Solarel had walked away, leaving her alone in an abandoned station with only the smouldering wreck of the Enkindler for company ... well, that void had now been filled by care, consideration and a love that she'd never dreamed she could find.

I'm as ready as I can be.

The Emberlight is in peak condition. Her mastery of her drones and the esoteric Trak'tho nanite technology is stronger than ever. And she, herself, has grown. No longer afraid. No longer alone. She stands with real family at her back - Asil, Tomas, Luca, Tad, Carm. With friends and allies at her side - Rosa, Quar (a friend, even if no longer a prisoner), Madame Toldeo, Mirror and Matty. People who would risk themselves just to help her, just to see her happier. Not because she asked for it - but because they cared.

This is the Isabelle that faces off against you and the Aeteline, Solarel. Were this one of your YA animes, she'd be the character that has completed the trials of their protagonist's journey; forged through the darkness and the flames, climbed the mountain and who now stands triumphant ... no ... Ascendant, atop the ocean of clouds, ready for the final battle.

She's different. You can tell that much.

Have you changed like her? Or are you still trapped in the stasis of a cursed God?

Hi Solarel. Remember me? - she foesigns, before whipping a pistol up and sending a beam of coherent light straight at your head.

[Tatterdemalion]

"She was a hunting model," Dolly says, a bit dreamily. One thumb rubs the other as she looks up at the body which has defined her lover since her birth. "Originally. Speed, stealth, comms. It was meant to pair with jackals, and when they birthed the goddess, they thought they were making a jackal weave. It's a terrible model for this, isn't it?"

The laugh bursts out of her like a knife-toothed fish. "That's awful! But it's true? I shouldn't have... but you know it, too, don't you? We should have had something that had firepower, given how important that is for these fights, but she's so stubborn when it comes to this." Her tail baps longingly against one ankle. "I should be able to get Forests to send you some of our specs, but I don't really know much about that sort of thing, how much engine power one of these frames has against another one, and Jade always said that she'd provide the motiffff."

Her ears flick up. Her eyes glance to the side. She settles back in her seat, hands in her lap, makes a shaky little biscuit.

"It's a Gen96 Lifuens, Fifth House, Cloud Aspected. Do you think you can remember that, dearest?" Smokeless Jade Fires is wearing an oversized jacket, a pair of striped tights, and jade-rimmed sunglasses. This is the entirety of what she has chosen. Her thumb rubs against Dolly's jawline, and her teeth are numerous as she watches her silly little bride struggle to keep her composure. "Gen96. Lifuens. Fifth House. Cloud. Aspected."

"It'saGen96LifuensFifthHouseClouded," Dolly blurts out, then takes a deep breath- then squeaks. "AsPECted! Cloud Aspected!!"

Jade turns the key and rests the padlock between Dolly's palms. "There we go. Good thing I picked a kitten with brains and beauty. Now, try not to squirm too much. Whatever would Whispered Promise's engineer think if she knew how much of a feast for the eyes you are right now, Dancer of the Sacred Pole, Seductress of the Faithful, Little Miss Stuffswell?"

"It's so funny that you think it looks like a dancer though because that's how Jade trained me to be good at piloting her the way that she wanted me to and after the um the performance you remember because you were there obviously well it's one of the votes for what we do next and it's not like anywhere near fighting the Red Band or building a temple but it's just so funny that it, and you, and pointing out?" She doesn't break eye contact, though her ear does a little proximity twitch. "I suppose! That's meaning something? Anyway! Do you have questions? More questions? Yes? Maybe? I can. Think? About the answers??"

[Thanqol]

Her head is in the clouds.

From the ground they have such different meanings. The wind. The storm. The constant, crushing pressure. They seem like such solid things from down there, breaking metal thunder and gusts filled with talons of razor dust. But from up here...

She does not look at her opponent. She reaches out her armoured fist to touch the first wisp of cloud...

Danger. With a blurring duck and leap she vanishes into the mist.

Not once does she turn to look.

The Aeteline's signature does not vanish into the cloud - it expands into it. The cloud boils and crackles, darkening and coursing with electricity. The Aeteline is everywhere inside it all at once. She has gone somewhere you should not follow without paying you the respect of her attention. You stand on the platform alone as all around the storms of Zaldar rage and boil.

[Anarion]

Mirror

Marcina’s combat style is often characterized as one with the minimum of wasted effort. A machine as massive as the Jormungar has a lot of momentum. If she tried to dive aside from every attack, she would find herself outpaced and outmatched. While novices might assume that a massive, heavy platform is simple to operate, it’s actually the opposite: in an era of high-speed mechas with deadly weaponry, piloting a heavy machine is an act of supreme skill.

The parry is a shift of one foot a few meters and an adjustment of the angle of her primary sword by approximately 13 degrees. She doesn’t so much stop your blade as she adjusts it, using the force of your momentum against you as though she were a matador at what you’ve seen in the holovids as a bullfight.

But then, that’s not quite good enough, is it? Of course, she had already fired a visible autocannon at you as you charged, if nothing else to ensure that you maintained the shield and punish a feint. But once you got close and that option was no longer available, she understood as well as you did that your tails represented as much threat as the sword. She calculated immediately that she couldn’t leave them unaccounted for, couldn’t accept an unknown variable.

The drones deploy immediately, accounting for the fact that your breakneck speed requires a response without hesitation. In Hybrasil, you would call these jackals, but they are not operating on the sort of jackal logic that produced Jade. Nor are they like the complex drones that Isabelle Lozano seems to enjoy for weaving illusions. Both of those coordinate as a group for a singular aim (typically simple, occasionally dazzlingly complex as in Isabelle’s case). These, rather, are each independent, directed by Marcina’s will. There are two on each side and they don’t stray far from the Jormungar. Two of them form an energy shield, pressing the energy blade of the tails off their trajectory. The other begin to rain fire on you from a slight vertical angle, allowing for the safety of the Jormungar itself even at close range.

The autocannon fire is annoying, but it should be emphasized, not overly dangerous unless you just sit in it for a prolonged period. It’s most effective for throwing off your balance, rather than doing anything like serious damage to the Whip. But, they now place the onus on you to respond before she uses the opening for a much more powerful attack.

As you each draw a breath, she answers. “You ask for a name and a secret as though they were singular. Liar. If I have learned anything, it is that. What does it mean to be the One Day Defender? To be known among your people as Whispered Promise? A whispered promise can be both heard and unheard. A secret kept even from the girl it’s about, or a secret shared from the start. And then, there are times that a whisper is louder than a thousand shouts and just as well heard, are there not?”

***

Isabel and Solarel

What you’re seeing isn’t entirely inexplicable. Ionized electrical energy is a hallmark of crystal fire-powered weaponry, and applied to a stormcloud that already had electrical charge, it wouldn’t even take a particularly large amount of electricity properly directed to create the effect that you’re seeing.

That said, the fact that it has an explanation hardly makes it less impressive or creative. She’s channeling enough energy into that cloud that anything running in there is going to get massively electrocuted. Think constant lightning strikes, so if your machine or your nanobots aren’t built to handle constant lightning strikes don’t go in there. Energy shielding can certainly handle that, of course, that amount of energy is nothing compared to a hyperjump. But it’s committing you to a particular course of action and a particular distribution of energy usage if you go in there to get her. And that means she’ll know more about what you’re doing than you might like.

Then again, perhaps a strategy that forces you to limit the strategies you choose is, in truth, a sign of respect?

It is Isabelle’s move as to how to respond to it.

***

Dolly

“96, huh? Let’s see, that’s three steps since I last checked. Usually one number means they advanced something meaningful, but they were getting sloppy about it before I left. Back in the 70 series, if they went up a full number, it meant a comprehensive improvement in energy efficiency and processing capability together. Now…mmm, I’d guess with three that’s still true, but it might be more like one number used to be.”
Slate’s grinning while she thinks, her eyes never going off you, Dolly. She doesn’t see like Mirror, but she sees with her own eyes all the same. “She passed you that info, I take it. The way you spouted it off, cadence was all wrong. Knew I’d know that too, didn’t she?”

She blinks, once, twice. “Well, if the goddess wanted to talk to me directly, I’m sure she’s got plenty of ways to do it, so I’ll go through her priestess. Her dancing priestess.” She grins again, just a little bit feral behind it, showing you her teeth.

“More questions. Well, not about the specs unless there’s something specific the goddess wants me to know, in which case feel free to just cut in with that when she relays it. I think my questions are about the why. I’m an engineer, a very good engineer, I’ll have you know. I deliver on the technical goals that someone wants. With Mirror, that means a machine that wins her fights. But with you, with a goddess who teaches her priestess to pilot by dancing. Who, as you said, eschewed a more firepower heavy loadout because of goals unrelated to maximizing combat performance, I need something different. I need to know what you want to be able to accomplish, and how you want to accomplish it. Tell me what you want to actually be able to do.”

You might think she’d be frustrated over this ambiguity, but her tail lashes with excitement.