Balmas

Breathless Dead

It's strangely unnerving to fight someone who doesn't care about surviving.

She has fought people who knew they were going to die. Better people than her, who hoped to buy time for others, who stood knock-kneed and trembling. But always, they fought with... Well, saying they fought with hope would sound unbelievably trite. But they fought as if they wanted to live, as if they dreamed to imagine that there might be another outcome.

The two fight like dancers. Each movement is precise, exact. Every thrust and defense, calculated. But the calculations are wrong, and there's no other way for Alexa to think of it. Lorventi throws herself into the fight like a berzerker, takes risks that no sane person could. It should be so incredibly easy to take advantage, get in the one good thrust needed. it's what Lorventi wants!

But time and again, Alexa flinches back and is punished for it. The Aegis accumulates molten floor, scratches--does not crack, thank Athena--but each time, that willingness to die, to push beyond what is required, unnerves Alexa.

All she has to do, she tells herself, is keep at it. Keep Lorventi facing her. Keep her thinking of stabbing and twirling and not noticing the... whatever the Redana thing is.

Any day now. Take your time.
[Keep them Busy, 9.]

Breathless Dead

"Then we are at an unfortunate impasse."

The knowledge is all the worse for knowing that this is not done by the Captain's command. Lorventi is the face, the voice, the spearpoint, the champion--the designated victim, the sacrificial lamb. Briefly, she wonders what would happen should she manage to divine which in the formation was truly giving the orders, pick them out, strike them down. Would Lorventi be angry or grateful?

It's pointless to do more than wonder, she knows--her eyes are locked on Lorventi's. See? We are all friends here. We all serve the Empress. This is merely a misunderstanding. Honesty and integrity line every marble surface of this face. Never mind that while we're here meeting each other's eyes and smiling at one another, neither of us have stopped tracking exactly where the other's speartip is.

"If the throne calls her child home, then this must be directed to the child in question, for it is she that I must follow. I am sure that when she is less..."

In the distance, the child in question starts to sing. Alexa meets Lorventi's eyes, deadpan.

"...indisposed, we may sort this out."

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman groans. On the one hand, these misfortunes aren't out there befalling trains of the line. On the other hand, it's damned inconvenient to go from one misfortune to another and there's part of him that regrets not just grabbing the fox, setting Sasha on the line, and getting the heck outta Dodge. Exeunt, pursued by King Dragon, and scene.

Still, if you're operating on a scale of worse to worst, he'll take a pissed-off clown over an Angel or King Dragon. "It's good to see you again, Pagliacci! I hoped we'd find you!"

Breathless Dead

What is happening.

Dimly, she can feel the tickle of the dress smoldering, smell the acrid stink of silk starting to burn, and is sad. It may not have been a dress of her choosing, but it was... Is it wrong of her to feel sad at its impending destruction? She felt pretty.

It's a silly thing to focus on, but it's something to take her mind off of no seriously, what the fuck is happening. One second she's wrinkling her nose, assembling a sentence to try to refute Bella and then--

Did everybody know about this? Have the rest of the crew been excluding her from this, keeping her in the dark? Why would they do that?

It's the smoke from the dress causing the prickling around her eyes.

She flicks from one to the other, before grumbling and picking her spear from her belt. Redana may regret it later, but she's still her ward. And Alexa is, at heart, a defender. She'll keep the Kaeri off her back so... Redana? Still, she thinks? can have her alone time with Bella.

Breathless Dead

It's not a lack of words that pushes Alexa forward, wraps her around Caval in a tender but firm hug.

Oh, the words definitely play a part--believe her, she tries. Opens her mouth, fails, gulps, and then draws Caval in. But what even does she say to that? How could she possibly respond? What speech could properly fill that void?

...She doesn't even know what the right speech ought to be. You're not broken? But they are, just look at them! None of them are fulfilling their purpose, that for which they were made. But "you all are broken" also doesn't feel right? Broken, but that's not bad?

Hugging is easier than thinking. She can close her eyes, nestle Caval close, occupy herself with running her hands across her back. Reassure her that she's here, and here and now, so long as she holds her, the world will be alri--

The world blurs, her arms are empty, and the world is not alright. She swallows. Kaeri. Bella. This is a hell of a pickle to suddenly be transported into without warning. She can handle one or the other easily, but both?

Tell her she’s wrong, please.

"She is wrong, please."

She shouldn't be surprised, really. Molech was secure enough in himself, in his prestige, his power, that the idea of retaining people simply to reassure him of the same would be laughable. And Nero almost didn't care that Alexa existed, so long as she didn't get any ideas about leaving or rebelling or things of that ilk.

Still, the surprise hurts. Having her voice stolen, parroted, reminding her that she is not her own, hurts all the more. She'd... well, she'd almost started to think that...

The thought sticks in her throat like a lump. She was wrong. Nevermind what she thought.

"I..." Don't fiddle with the bouquet, Alexa. You're the best. You have the best poker face. No tells. Stony disposition, that's the key. "I am... unsure?"

She's being asked a question. Don't look away, that's a sign of lying. Face her, and don't let the burgeouning panic show on the outside.

"You have... brought me out of the palace, to be sure. Opened my eyes to many things. You are a better master than"--your mother--"others I have served. I do not count you among my enemies." She swallows. "So long as you hold my seal, I physically cannot count you among my enemies. I am perfectly loyal to you, can do nothing to defy your orders. If that is what you seek in a friend, then yes, I am your friend."

Fellowship: The Heart

"Dammit, get off me!"

It's not fair that somebody that skinny has that much muscle. How does somebody that far gone manage to have the berseker strength like that? He can't even take a hand off the controls to push away the wiry bastard!

"Listen, moron, I know that! But if it's shooting robots, it's not shooting us! I dunno how it was on the Weasel, but in here we try to help each other! So either pick a direction for us to run in, or start shoveling the coal! We die here, we can't get you outta this station!"

[Talk Sense, 10.]

Breathless Dead

Alexa should be afraid.

He threatens to end all that she cares for, threatens to end civilization as they know it. And, staring at that face, she believes it. Every nerve should scream, wrack her with the tension of knowing that she is in the presence of--not an apex predator, because that elevates her to the position of something he would hunt. Something so utterly beyond comprehension that whatever instincts she has should writhe with terror.

And yet...

There is nothing in the world but those two eyes. Twin wells, portals into infinity, and full of such wonder!-- She could spend an aeon reading the stories in them, and still only scratch the surface. Tales of romance spanning galaxies--daring escapes, forbidden meetings, passionate confessions, swordfights, murders, passion, and more. Alien races, unlike anything she's seen. Looking into these eyes, there's a vague part that remembers that Aphrodite, like Zeus and her family, is born of titan's blood. In those eyes, she sees all that Aphrodite has promised, and more besides.

And at the very center, in the heart of the black hole, a small twinkle surrounding those three little words.

Dimly, she feels pressure against her hands. How did she feel that, under the overbearing weight of those eyes? Everything feels... not off, but diminished, somehow. No, not diminished, not really. The sound is the same as it ever was, as is her vision. But in the presence of Aphrodite, in the midst of such a vibrancy of life and love, everything else must feel like a pallid imitation.

She looks down, wrenching herself away from those eyes to meet the gaze of one of her bridesmaids. She has to be--she bears the bumps and bruises and dented metal from the trip here. And yet, the maid is smiling. Gently. Encouraging.

They're flowers. That's what the maid is doing. Is giving her a bouquet. Of course she is, can't be a bride without-- She should thank her, right? That's what's done in this circumstance, is be...

Tenderly, the maid closes Alexa's fingers around the bouquet and withdraws back to the cluster of the other bridesmaids.

She knows these flowers. Molech didn't garden, himself. That is to say, he wasn't the one in the dirt, tending to the weeds and the watering. But he drew the plans and ordered the work, and woe betide the errant soul who dared disturb his mastercraft by picking them.

And yet, here they are, in her hands. Errant, wild, run mad with two hundred years of crossbreeding and patchwork.

Her eyes track inexorably through the crowd. Wild, free. Patchwork, run mad. Beautiful in their chaos. There's barely room to contain them all, pushing, shoving, vying for space to see... see her. To watch her get married. Is that touching, she wonders?

The sweep of the room continues to Caval, waiting patiently. Even now, she's impossible to read. Is that excitement? Dread? Eager expectation? Terror? There's nothing to read in that strange, bulging optic array. Does she want this? Is she a mere puppet to the will of the god of madness? No, no, that's. Well, it's possible. But Alexa doesn't want to consider it. Doesn't want to believe that even the gods would be so cruel as to deprive someone of...

...of the ability to choose. To decide who they are. More important, to decide who they want to be. To fix them in place, and tell them, "your lot, and no more."

Her breath hitches as she turns once more, finally, to Aphrodite, and hopes she's making the right choice.

"I... do not."

She cringes back, waiting for the smiting. When it doesn't come, she cracks her eyes open again.

"I do not marry this woman," she hesitantly declares, if for no other reason than to fill the void. "I barely know her." Slowly, marveling at her own audacity, but picking up steam, "I have not spent time with her, listened to her, held her as she cried or cried in her arms. I have not marveled at the way the sun streaks across her chassis, or found wonder in her smile. I cannot greet her at the doorway with her favorite food, or whirl her away to a romantic evening, because I have not spent enough time with her to know any of that."

She desperately hopes that's a smile creeping around Aphrodite's lips, because all the gods couldn't stop her now.

"I do not love this woman. And I admit that I am as yet unversed in the ways of love, and perhaps in your wisdom you have chosen my perfect mate out for me. If so, I am so very sorry for once more disappointing you, failing you. But I cannot marry someone I do not love, or ask her to marry me when I know that she does not love me. That is not fair to her, and it is"--her voice chokes a little, and she has to rally before continuing--"and it is not fair to me."

The crowd, for once, is silent. Alexa shrinks into herself, and soggily wipes her nose. "I... I am very sorry for wasting your time."

Breathless Dead

"No!"

Thank all the gods that Molech is dead. Just imagine what he'd say if he saw her like this?

Pushing, shoving, biting, breaking away only to be swarmed again by the wall of bodies? Sloppy, lacking technique, undignified. Fit perhaps for peasants, but reflecting poorly not just on her, but on her teacher.

And yet--she can just imagine the downwards pinch to the mouth, gods help her if ever it reached full scowl--she's still not striking the way she should. Pulling punches, misdirecting strikes. When will you understand, Alexa, that you are a weapon? You kill. It is what you do, it is what you are. You were created for this. I created you for this.

"Aphrodite!"

There's no time, she laments. No time for offerings, no proper ritual. No time to figure out how best to placate him, can't choose her words. She is not above begging, pleading, if only it will be heard.

"I was wrong![/i]" Important. First step. Admit fault.

She recognizes this passageway, and speeds up. There's no time--

"I believed myself beyond love! Unworthy! Unlovable!"

Music pours from the great hall--the wrong music, improper, mad, whirling, hypnotic, a dirge keyed for revelry.

"But I--you knew! You had to know!"

The mob surges through the great hall, carries Alexa abreast like a wave.

"There was one I--" and here, even now, the word 'loved' is choked, wrung out, demoted, commuted to "--cared for!" It's been two hundred years. He knows. It's safe, even here, in front of the crowd.

The surge deposits her at the dais before the God of love and the mad dancer, One of the bridesmaids straightens out the wrinkles in her dress.

No time!--

She thrusts the letter at Aphrodite. "I beg you," she breathes. "If not forgiveness, reprieve. If, in this letter, there be no love, then…" She shudders, and studies the floor. "Then I am a fool. Then am I a fool who knows naught of love, and more fool me for believing.

"Set me a task, ask of me what you will. I have not earned this, I know but…"

She barely dares to breath.

"If love there be in this letter, then am I still a fool for believing myself past your reach. But a fool who can be taught, and who can hope to rekindle what was."

She can't even bring herself to watch him, too afraid of what she might see.

Breathless Dead

Alexa rushes forward, hands reaching and grasping--not for the letter, but for the messenger. She's all gentleness and tenderness as she props it up, cradles it against her. Come, sit, relax against her. You've waited so long, you've done such a good job, and she's proud of you. Rest your head against her shoulder, sit, don't close your eyes just yet. We'll open the letter together, won't that be nice? I'm sure that, after so long, you want to know what's inside it too, right?

She knows it's useless. This messenger had its purpose and, now that its message is delivered, its mission fulfilled, the purpose keeping it going has fled. Already, the various subtle pumps and whirs have gone silent and the metal begins to cool under her touch. Still, long she sits, holding the dead robot close. You did well. You had a task, you fulfilled it admirably. Well done, thou faithful servant. You were magnificent. You were important. You mattered.

She's trembling, she realizes. Her first real clue in two hundred years. And for once, she's desperately thankful that Minerva never paid attention to her when Alexa told her not to write letters to her. It's a paper trail, she'd said. Alexa receiving mail of her own would be logged in every celestial bureaucracy imaginable. It might tip Molech off as to what they were doing. It's too risky, Minerva.

Thank the stars she didn't listen.

Alexa's hand lingers on the wax seal for too long. She's stalling, she knows. Putting it off. It's... What if it's bad news? If the last letter she ever received from Minerva was a breakup note? If the reason she never saw Minerva again was because Minerva didn't want to see her? She's better equipped to handle it now than she was two hundred years ago, but she's sure that the heartbreak would still destroy her.

But... What if it's not? If it's a message telling her where she went? What to expect? If there's word of what heppened to her? Could she live with herself if she didn't at least read it?

Alexa shudders, and breaks the seal.

Breathless Dead

Oh. That's. Yeah.

Alexa lays one head against Caval's shoulder, feels the engravings against one cheek, breathes in the aseptic scent, and lets out a bitter little huff of laughter.

Yeah, that's just about what she expected.

"If that's what you want."

***

This isn't what she wants.

There are a dozen thoughts running through her head right now, but they keep coming back to that.

Which makes no sense, she keeps telling herself. What does it matter if she's married? She only just found out that Aphrodite is actually taking an interest in her, which, wow, mindblowing. Is it really wise to try to turn away from Aphrodite again?

Which she'd very much like to do, honestly. Wants to stomp out of here, demand an audience with Caval, or run away, or something. Wants to rage that no, this isn't how love happens, this isn't right, how dare you?

But... what would be the point? You can't fight the gods. This is not a problem that can be stabbed, and she doesn't have the materials to do a proper augury to Aphrodite.

Alexa picks at the dress she's been given. It's not surprising that they have her measurements--she's pretty sure there must be a closet somewhere in the palace full of ceremonial garb designed to fit her. Can you imagine the shame of the Pallas Rex violating the norms?

"There must be a reason for this," she decides under her breath. Because it can't be the one that's being presented.