Balmas

Breathless Dead

How had she gotten to this point?

Above her, a Pix is thrown through the Coherent line like a bowling ball, hurling invectives and blue-tinged epithets all the while. Make a note, follow up on those, she thought she'd been taught most of the swears, and some of those are creatively interesting.

It's like, at no point in the night had she made a decision that, looking back, she wouldn't--

Hmm. Okay, yeah, no, the kegstand was dubious, but--

Behind her, the Summerkind reload.

Would "Belay that order" work? She could try pulling rank, right? Might work on some of them? Probably not enough, right? She could--

She considers trying to thread the needle with a second beam. In between the arms, the shields, nail the knee, drop Iskarot--

Was it the satyr where things went wrong? The bottle? The vents?

No, no, she's impossibly drunk, far too much risk of hurting one of the Coherents.

No, no, the sun. The sun was the fuckup. Like, everything here, the coolant, the vats, the everything, the war at the center of the ship, all because of the heat.

Iskarot's shouting something about nukes? She should do something about that, she's pretty sure.

The heat. The coolant. Her eyes pan across the battle and then up, up. Coolant. Pipes. Veins, pulsing with trapped potential. The prize of prizes.

She takes the deathray, lifts it as if in a dream, and fires it into the heart of the Hermetics' hoarded cooling.

"Withdraw!" she bellows, to as many people as will listen.

Breathless Dead

… Ah.

D'you know, somehow, she didn't see this coming?

Like, obviously, she wasn't fooling herself or anything. Ares, right? As much madness in those bloodshot eyes as there is in her own familiar purple, that same pulse-pounding drive, the same drumbeat-chested urge. He's not gonna hug it out.

Also the wet, sticky trickle down her neck is probably her ears bleeding? It'd explain why the world is fuzzy, instead of a roar--why all that surrounds her is her heartbeat, singing faster and faster.

But yeah! She totally fucked this up! The entire ship was too small for everyone to coexist peacefully, and she packed them all in one room and added turbo-cohol!

Whoops!

Still, she finds herself whooping with laughter as she rises, scythes one leg of the tripod with a sweep of a death beam, and starts tossing people bodily through the holes in the walls left by Iskarot's deathbeam. Hell, let's get some more! Wide setting, aim where there's no people, and tszhoom another barn-sized hole to toss people through!

After all, the faster the party leaks out into the rest of the ship, the faster people get a bit of space, and the faster the fighting stops, like sparks tossed far from a flame!

In theory! She hopes! Unless it actually spreads it further, like sparks landing in fresh tinder! Let's roll those dice!

Breathless Dead

She takes the proffered array instantly, because when someone who you're about to fight offers to disarm themselves and arm you, you let them do it.

She pushes the barrel of one array up with a finger, towards the ceiling and away from the partying masses.

"I'm choosing to believe that you are drunk, Iskarot, which means you didn't actually just promise to hurt people I care about to protect the secrecy of a project. Because A) If you try, I'm gonna reluctantly have to stop you, 2) if you start shit in here, the still is gonna get destroyed anyway, so why bother, and D) I'm pretty sure that murdering guests in your home is a good way to get the entire ship cursed even further."

Around them, the world parties. Servitors wind around the glassworks and each other. The satyrs demand kisses traded for wine, and get them gleefully. The wine doesn't slosh, because it's much too thick for it, but were it more of a liquid, then sloshing would definitely be occurring.

It's a very noisy silence.

"So please, friend, put the weapons away. There will be time for rebuilding later, and you have my word I'll help you do so to your satisfaction."

Breathless Dead

"I don't… I don't buy it, friend. Not for, not for, for, one second. Not for one second."

She's not stuttering, which is itself a victory. The speech lessons paid off! Each syllable is precise, articulate, and enunciated clearly.

Multiple times, admittedly, but small steps.

"Because, see, let's say you're right, and there do exist perfect, platonic ideals that Zeus warped the universe to make perfect.

"Then why bother with the step of making. King. Ing. Making middle managers?

"Think. If you were a perfect being, would you want some imperfect being trying to interpret your desires in the way you'd want? Would you want multiple of them? You gonna invent Azura and humans?

"One, I could. Could see. After all, if you're a perfect being, then what do, do, do the normal things even interest you at all? Your best hope is to, to be left alone, right? Make your own projects. Then yeah, you'd arrange it so that you just fade into the background and you never think about it again.

"But two? We have enough problems with two servitor species in the same ship as each other. You wanna pretend they set up two galaxy-spanning civilizations that have butted heads through their history? Naaaaaah, that. That. That's a mistake, or--"

She pauses, glass halfway to her lips.

"Or factions inside them. That's two perfect beings, thinking of different things they want, different projects they wanna build, and making servitors to do it for them so they can pursue passion projects. D'you think the Azura were built by the foxes, the cats, or the crabs? My money's on crabs. Gotta be."

Breathless Dead

"It's a nice thought, you know?"

Dyssia swirls the glass in her hand contemplatively, and watches the three glasses in front of her spin.

"I'm not a fuckup, barely less fucked up than the rest of her culture. I'm not a throwback or an aberration, I'm just somebody's pet project. This culture--the whole Azura shitshow--isn't, you know, billions and billions of people consistently making the worst choice in every situation, we're just. Somebody's pet mechanical intelligence, whirring and ticking away.

"It's like, I don't know what's more terrifying--the idea that there might be someone programming my actions, or that I'm actually the final word on what's ethical and right. But then I remember…

"If they exist, they're assholes, right?

"It's like, what function does…" She shakes her glass, as if to encompass the galaxy. "You know, all the wars and infighting and shit with Azura and Ceronians actually do? Is it all just a game to them? Rolling dice, prodding the little people, playing games with what happens? Moving us about like pieces on a board? 'You can't play the sexy wolfgirl faction again, they're overpowered?'

"It's like, at least the gods have the good decency to be, you know, present. To make their will known, to be imitated and seen and bargained with and befriended, if that's even the right word."

"If they exist, take my word for it: Assholes, the lot of them."

Her glass is empty, she realizes, and holds it under the spigot until more molasses-textured liquid gloops into the cup.

"Actually, you're probably a better judge of that, right? What with, you know, the. The, you know, evolution? Self-made biomancer, kinda deal. Mayflies and such. Surely you're better suited to seeing the seams in the pattern, if such can exist."

Breathless Dead

"And you made this all yourself? You're incredible!"

Dyssia, it turns out, is a happy drunk. And a careful one, for what it's worth! This is not a large space, and she is a large person, and even through the fog of drunkenness, there's no broken glass anywhere, which is a massive win! She's woven in and through at least a dozen barrels and glassworks, and every little thing threatens a glass-shattering giggle-fit, but she's staying strong!

The bottle in her hand is feeling much lighter than she remembers. It's evaporated away, surely--no, no, look, the cork's gone. Did she open it? She doesn't remember opening it?

Or tapping the barrel, but she must have done that too? There's the glass spigot, and she does remember nodding to herself about how yeah, glassworks makes sense, because anything metal would just get eaten through, smart, smart, very clever these Hermits.

And she must have been the one to invite Dionysus to bless the festivities, and invited friends, because how else would there be two--three? Three satyrs? Stop moving so much, you're being very difficult to count.

And it made sense in her head when she first popped the cork on the bottle as an offering. Or. You know, it probably did, or else she wouldn’t have done it, and they wouldn't have agreed. She thinks? Not entirely sure on that last bit. But the important thing, the thing to remember, right, is that the alcohol's getting drunk. And the more alcohol inside them, the less there is in the barrels, and the less there is in the barrels, the less there is to evaporate, and the warmer we can make the room!

That makes sense, right?

Breathless Dead

She's not!

Slithering straight, that is! To either! Slithering! Or straight!

She is, in fact, orbiting! Orbiting a point that is, in her experience, the perfect level of gravity to let her slowly cartwheel around it like a ringworld made of snake

A ringworld surrounding a bottle, which itself is tumbling in and through the center of the gravity field. Occasionally, she pokes it with the tail, sending it spinning in interesting--

"Oh, yeah, that'd explain it! Where's the still, friend?"

She watches the satyr rotate, spinning against the rotation of the bottle.

"Because I know it's gotta be somewhere in the ship, but I didn't see it before when I was doing my exploration, which means either it's new and exciting or, and this is the more exciting bit, since it's been distilling and distilling takes time that means that there's a part of the ship I haven't seen yet so spillllllll, bestie!"

And also if it's cold there, then that means the still itself is below freezing, which means it is exactly the best place in the ship to nap after they're out of a star, which is like triple reasons to find out!

Breathless Dead

Dyssia takes the bottle, and immediately feels foolish.

It's like, she just wanted to feel it, right? Run her fingers down the bottle, sniff at it, feel her sinuses clearing from the amount of alcohol wafting through the cork. It's heavy, and the liquid doesn't quite follow gravity like you'd think it oughta.

But now it's in her hands, and it's heavy because it's the kind of thing you can't--

It's not like you can just press it back in his hands and go "oh, sorry, I just wanted to look at the bottle, it's such a pretty color," right?

Well, that is, theoretically she could, but also it would mean losing face in front of Iskarot if she can't do it gracefully, and words are hard at the best of time and right now she just took a bribe when people's safety was on the line and--

Oh fuck, people are still on the line.

She stares at Iskarot a second longer, mouth agape, before rushing past him. She has to warn, has to let them know!--

She freezes, panting, halfway down the hall. In her white-knuckle fist, the liqueur in the bottle sloshes gently.

No, no, she has to be smart. She could run herself ragged running to each vent, checking for the yellow marks, persuading each of the people clustered around them to vacate the premises for somewhere hotter but safer.

But she has friends. She has people she can rely on.

She sprints down the corridors, recruiting poeople as she goes.

Because she's not in this alone.

Breathless Dead

"… Why do you have a stencil for this?"

No, seriously, that's. How many times are you going to have exactly this need?

No, actually, wait, hold on--

"How many areas have you marked like this?"

She's reaching for it--how many layers of yellow smoke? Can she tell that by how marked it i--and it's back in the robes. Somewhere.

Fuck.

He's doing his job. Or, you know, not his job, but the job he's decided is his job. That's good. We encourage that. We encourage people to think for themselves and cultivate skills and actually this is pretty similar to his. No, no, wait, no it's not, biomancy. His job is to evolve, which, apparently, means telling her what to do on her ship!--

No. No, don't be dumb. Push it down. Yes, it's instant, yes, it's instinctual--Cultural? Is there a difference at this point?--and it's dumb and it's stupid and you're better than that, Dyssia.

Besides. He's not. Not wrong, necessarily. Just unnecessarily an asshole. Cooling things here means cooling everywhere, just. Not for her and--

"Excuse the fuck out of me, but this is a ventilation shaft. For, you know, air. It's a main ventilation shaft. And at every terminus, there's a pile of people who're gonna get pretty well done when you run plasma through it.

"So here's what we'll do. I'll surrender this ground to your plasma cooling for the good of the ship. And for the good of the crew, you can show me your plan to make sure nobody gets hurt by this."

Breathless Dead

As much as she loves the Pix, they are a bit much.

That is to say, she loves them so much--loves their smell, their feel, their competition, the way she can be on top one moment and under someone else's heel the next--but also they run incredibly hot. Being in a cuddlepile of Pix is to have several miniature furnaces purring into you from every direction. Restrictive in the best way, normally her favorite way to sleep but...

She's not so much hiding from them as, you know, temporarily avoiding them.

(They'll recover, surely, and she'll make apologies later for not being in the room which is currently more shed fur than bunkhouse. Ropes may be involved, depending on how adeptly she apologizes.)

The ones clustered around the vents are smart, you know? But the smarter ones--like, say the ones that had a couple years of redshifted time to poke around and unscrew and put things back together--know that there's a magic spot near the ramming prow of the ship, yeah? The armor of the ship's thicker there, with more insulation. It's about as far as you can get from the Engine, which itself puts out a not-inconsiderable-amount of heat. And, most importantly, the vents widen out enough to be comfortable, instead of just tolerable. Less airflow, but it's all hers.

She, admittedly, didn't expect anyone else to know about it. And yet, here Iskarot is, tucking the glowing-edged section of cut-out ventilation shaft back into place behind him.