Balmas

Breathless Dead

What happened here?

Not all of this mess is from the fight. Soldiers living large. There's a pile of clothing scattered across the floor, but the hamper's in the other corner, miraculously untouched. Not!Rusty noses aside a shard of shattered plate, one of dozens pilfered from the mess, and none of them clean. Thank the gods there's no blacklights.

She kneels and swipes one finger through a chunk of bowl that still has a remnant of stew in it. No, chowder--thick, creamy. Savory, with--she licks the finger, and grimaces.

"I appreciate that you have spent only a little time with the Captain, so please, understand that he would never poison soup. Or anything, really. He loves food, and especially loves sharing his food with his friends, too much to ever use it as a weapon. It'd be a betrayal to everything food stands for."

He also wouldn't completely overwhelm the delicate cream and crab flavors with that much pepper. Fwah, you can barely taste anything else!

Which doesn't guarantee it's not poisoned. It could even be used to cover the taste of the poison, though it'd be a poor poison that needs pepper to work.

No, what this room reeks of is Artemis. An expert in destruction appeared in the room, spilt no blood, and took no damage. A hunt declared? For what reason? On whom? Why are the Kaeri involved?

Somebody had a Thunderbolt. Who on the ship has a thunderbolt? Vasilia has the pistols. Who else? She would know if anybody else had one, surely? Galnius is brash and cocksure, but not to that degree.

She traces the clawmarks, compares the size and depth with those of her own hand. Traces back the clawmarks to where surely there must have been a launch. Something that big, pushing off against the floor hard enough to shatter oak, must have left a spatter in the blood. A paw? A foot?

God, please don't let this be Mynx. She hasn't seen her since the fight and, if this is Mynx, she won't. But the idea settles in her head and camps there. Mynx, with her poison. Mynx, unmasked amongst a phalanx suddenly realizing someone among them isn't who they should be. A flurry of activity--Mynx stepping along the floor, mid transformation into a lion… But the Thunderbolt. Mynx, having stolen Vasilia's pistols? Why? To what end?

No. It doesn’t make sense. She doesn't want it to make sense. There's no motive, no reason for the fight. It's the kind of twaddle you get in a mystery novel, all red herrings to throw the reader off.

Orders of business. Find Galnius. Find out why the Kaeri were in their chambers. Get more answers from them.

But first, though. Find the first spark. Find the first scattered chair, the first sign of violence. Retrace the steps of the fight, down through the layers of soldier's stink and SP scorch marks.

What happened here?

[Look Closely, 6,3,5, +1. 12. What does the play-by-play of this fight look like?]

Breathless Dead

Alexa pauses mid-stitch, and then, with the deliberation of someone who is suddenly painfully aware of what she is holding, tucks the needle back through the bolt of fabric.

There, see? Now neither of us is armed.

"Evocati Khaesh," she starts, picking her words slowly and carefully, "I have not ordered anyone executed in over two hundred years, and have no desire to break that streak. I am neither the captain of this vessel nor the leader of any group aboard it. I have no ability to order anyone executed, and do not seek that authority.

"Nevertheless. As much as you are bound to obedience in the eyes of Zeus, I am bound to be a good host. If any have harmed those who are under our roof, it reflects poorly on us. As such, I will help to locate and retrieve your soldiers. Who was the last to see Meuven Ra or any of the rest?"

And while we're at it, Hermes' tits, maybe we can find a bell for you to wear.

Breathless Dead

Please, by all she holds dear, let that be the right thing to do.

She's never heard silence so loud before. The only sound is the opening and closing of Lacedo's mouth, until eventually Alexa excuses herself and quietly click-click-clicks out of the room.

Lacedo. Fuck. Please, let her take this the right way, learn the right lesson. She's seen that shellshocked look in friends' eyes before. The last thing she wants is for Lacedo to turn around and turn this hurt into hate, to decide that Alexa is in the wrong and double down on humanity. Alexa certainly knows that there's enough space on this ship to avoid her if Lacedo decides to do it.

Please, let this be okay.

***

It starts, as things do, almost by accident.

The tulips won't bloom, is the thing. She's almost positive she's doing it right, and going down the list once more of things. Soil? Acidic, thanks to the bark. Not too moist, which is hard to get on a ship full of crabs, but she picked her niche nicely. No weeds to steal nutrients, as the dirt under her fingers and half-full bucket can attest. At this point, she's half tempted to assume that Demeter is simply cursing her tulips, which, at this point, isn't completely out of the question, but--

She turns at the noise, and for a second Arth'na freezes in the doorway as if caught doing something wrong.

"... I. Can I-- D'you mind if."

Alexa quietly lifts the bucket, and dumps it onto the compost pile as she waits for the Alced to assemble her thoughts. Heck, she's got no ground to judge there.

Arth'na swallows and blurts out, "I won't touch anything, but, um. Can I watch?"

Alexa smiles, and waves her over. "You won't get anywhere in gardening by not touching. Here, let's go over this together, let's get your hands dirty, and maybe you'll spot something I've missed."

And that's how it is. One or two, at first, popping into the kitchen, or the room she's trying to turn into a sewing room, or asking if she'd show them some of the wrestling moves she's been practicing with the Coherents. And it's not until she starts needing to coordinate room spaces, and moving quarters, that she realizes she's started to hold workshops.

She's not the leader the Fleets need. It hurts, a little bit, to think. There won't be another generation of the Fleets that defeated the Kaeri. She doesn't know the lore, the chants, the dances, cannot be the war leader who will lead them to glory and victory against Ceron. She cannot be the Pallas for the Fleets. But maybe Alexa can help the Alcedi. She can show them what she knows, give them options, simply be herself, be open, and support them as they decide what they want.

And if what some want is to stick around, then, that will be their choice. And when Lacedo wants to talk, Alexa will be there to pick up the pieces.

Breathless Dead

"What is the meaning of human life?"

Alexa paces back and forth as if sitting still would kill her. As if trying to bottle up this energy, this sudden anger, would vibrate her through the floor. She stares at Lacedo, gasping for words, before whirling and stabbing a finger at the window.

"The meaning of human life, Lacedo, is that on every planet out there, there are servitors. Billions upon trillions of servitors, toiling away against the day that their gods will return to them. Mansions full of servitors who toil and spin and cook and plant and make beds that will never see a human head. A planet full of people building more and better Plovers for the day the Armada will take them back! Rusters scavenging, cutting and dying in orbital shipyards to feed supply chains that haven't sailed for centuries! Warrior servitors playing at unending war on a decimated planet because they know nothing else!

"The meaning of human life is that after Zeus struck down humanity for their hubris, humanity didn't learn! They'd reached for the heavens, sought to push others beneath them, and were struck down and then they did it again! They built people! Thinking, breathing, people! People, with feelings and desires and souls! And humanity set them up and told them that they weren't! That they had no more right to those feelings and wants than their toaster, when even the gods will answer the prayers of servitors!

"The meaning of fucking humanity is that in one fell swoop, half the galaxy got plunged into the underworld! Our half! Us! And they still. Don't. Learn! They're a relic from the past, extinct, confined to one planet, irrelevant! They made themselves gods, told us what to be, killed us all, and abandoned us to our own devices, which is probably the greatest kindness they could have offered!"

She can feel the thought driving her along, like a spring that's been wound for a hundred years. It's like grabbing a garter snake, and finding a python in your hands. The thought's been there for years, just waiting for the chance to get out. She can't stop. Doesn't want to stop.

"Your flock scatters to the winds because however you dress it up, they made us to be slaves. And you want them to make more of you, so they can do it all again."

Breathless Dead

"… Was it worth it?"

Alexa doesn't bother trying to hide the pain in her voice. She's not being cruel or making fun of you, Lacedo. Really, she's not. She's trying so, so hard to be kind, but she needs you to understand. She's being earnest, she's hurting, and she knows that if she gets this wrong, you might not listen to her ever again. So when her voice catches, when her chest aches with tightness, when tears prickle at her eyes, she does nothing to stop it. She's not making fun of you, Lacedo. She's trying to tell you what she wishes someone had told her, all those years ago.

"You did it. You won! Generations of prophecy, of myth weaving, all fulfilled. Glorious victory over the ancestral foe. The Alcedi own the sky. The years of training, the centuries of dreaming, all of it, for this moment. How do you feel?"

Hollow, she'd put money on it. You put on a good face and smile because that's what you do. Your troops are doing their best not to notice the empty spaces, at least not in public. And you know that they need you to be smiling too, because that means things are alright. And so you take that hollowness, that exhaustion, all the aches and pains presenting the bill after the battle is done, and shove it away until you have time to yourself to process.

"You're in the right place if you want the Alcedi to serve humanity," she presses. "Here, with an imperial princess, after winning such a dramatic fight for her? Humanity will have no choice to but sit up and take noice. Wow, that Alcedi combat servitor design has more legs than we gave it credit for. The Alcedi are the hot new thing. Every aspiring warlord has an army of their own--Alcedi swarming across every planet, fighting every fight. Everywhere, Alcedi clan elders and soldiers alike are able to look back at this moment as the turning point in their species, when they made it big.

"Every fight in the galaxy. Alcedi. After every fight, Alcedi littering the field, Alcedi pyres sending Alcedi souls home. But it's alright to feel this way, because you're filling your purpose, the reason you were made, and if you die, well that's alright, because humanity can make more of you when they need you."

It's hard to keep a level voice there, and not let bitterness poison every syllable.

"Up until the point when they don't. You fight for them, you die for them, you're born, you live, and end yourself on the point of their petty squabbles, and then they replace you. They find a newer design, a better design, and then you're abandoned.

"You say it's serving humans, or dissolution and extinction, one or the other. I say that the only way to avoid dissolution or extinction is to not play the role they've given you."

Breathless Dead

There's a lot of questions Lacedo isn't asking, all swirling around that one big question. Was it worth it? Did they see? Will they hear about this? Will there be more of us--heck, will there be enough of us to even ? Hermes rebuilt us--reformed our planet, gave us our lives back. Does she want us? Have we won back the glory denied us so long?

Alexa joins Lacedo at the window, staring out into the infinite rainbow of color. Her face is painted purple and red in the reflected light of the distant nebula as she turns the thought over in her mind.

She doesn't know how to answer, she's realizing. She's never been a part of a people, a member of a race, not like the Alcedi. What advice can she even answer?

"… Do you want them to make more of you?"

God, she feels dumb.

"No, that came out wrong. Of course you do. I mean, why do you want them to make more of you? Do you want the glory of being recognized as the top combat servitors of humanity? Do you want the ability to spread or preserve your people? How do you want them made, and what for?"

Breathless Dead

It's hard not to feel that this is her fault.

She told them to choose for themselves what they want to be. To seek within themselves, as she had, what they wanted to be for, to choose what purpose they'd pursue. And truth be told, every time she sees one dressed in a red robe, or guffawing amongst the Coherent, or mingling with the other groups, it sends a little twinge of joy in her. They listened! They're learning! They're growing! Even the partings, for all the sadness, share a note of bittersweetness as well. They're seeding themselves into the cosmos.

But fuck, they're so few.

She told herself that getting to know them--becoming familiar, learning names, pastimes, wants, dreams, would set herself up for more hurt down the line. And she wasn't wrong, either--she looks out at the grouped Alcedi in the meeting and can name every gap where there should be a person. If she'd been faster, or cleverer, or more responsible!--

It's useless to stay awake and ask the questions, replay the memories, tell yourself that if you'd been smarter, or better, or something, maybe you could have saved a few more lives. It's not your job to save them--they aren't your soldiers, you aren't their commander, there's no phantom Molech waiting in the wings to reprimand you for your failures. They are their own people, they owe you no loyalty.

But they're your sisters and brothers, and every empty spot gapes with those not there. And so, there's you, and the bed at night, and feeling vaguely guilty about not wanting to ask how you could do better.

Vaguely, she notices the question hanging in the air, and struggles to replay the last few seconds of conversation in her head.

"I'm sorry, Lacedo. I remember names and faces and friends, yes. But you've grown your own culture in the past two hundred years. I can tell what I remember, yes, but it's not what the Alcedi put together for themselves."

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at the diagram, and then back at the Hermetic. "… are we not just going to repair my old body?"

There aren't any eyes to be seen in the deep, hooded face, but somehow you can just tell they're rolling. "You had so many spears and swords shoved through that body that properly filling the holes would make you more gold than stone. At this point, it's simpler, easier, and more effective to build you a new body from scratch than to try to polish out all the dents on the old one."

It makes sense. She should have expected it, maybe. But she'd survived everything else in that body. She'd been stabbed, shot, hacked at more times than she could count. Hell, there was a crater on Barassidar with her name on it.

Maybe that's the point, really. She shouldn't have expected it to last forever, but still, the thought of losing it sends a pang of grief through her.

"So, any changes you want to make before we start to carve?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You've got a chance to rebuild yourself. New body. New shape. New decisions. Never gonna get a better opportunity to remake yourself. So, any changes?"

Alexa stares at the paper and scrunches her lips in thought. "…Can I have a day to think about it?"

***

"And you're sure this is okay? I mean, you all told me how stingy the Hermetics typically are with these things, how much they demand for it normally. It feels like cheating to jump straight to getting everything I want."

There's a burst of sharp laughter in the mess. It seems like every Coherent and Alcedi has shoved themselves around the table, flocking around to see the paper in the center.

Ramses taps the pencil against the paper. "I don't think anybody here would hold it against you, especially if they have to rebuild you from the ground up. So?"

Alexa purses her lips, and stares at the paper.

"It's funny, you know? I… I didn't really mind many things about my body. The only thing I didn't like, really, was that it always felt like it wasn't really mine."

She'd been built after a pattern, after a model. She was defined by being the Pallas Rex, by being the Athena who served the King. Before anything else, she was to evoke awe and be the symbol of Molech's power, that he could even bind the gods to his side.

"But 'Not Athena' isn't much to go on. Tall? Short? Broad?"

For a time, the only sound is the tapping of the pencil and the background of jostling for position.

"I think… No, I know, that I don't want to be a fighter. Or rather, I don't want fighting to be the thing I'm built for. I was built tall, and strong, with four arms for both offense and defense and to look like Athena.

"Strong. Strong is good. I like being strong enough to help my friends. I like giving good hugs, bone-squeezing hugs. I don't want to be a fighter, but I also don't want to be the burden who can't take care of herself.

"And tall is good. I like being tall. Maybe a little shorter? Tall enough to not have issues adjusting. I'd like to keep the arms, if nothing else, and that means I have a limit on how short I can be and still be proportional."

She goes quiet again, considering, before blushing and admitting, "I'd like to occasionally be the little spoon."

More chuckles, and one enterprising "get it!" from the back.

"More than anything, though," she admits. "I want to leave the Pallas here. I'm not her, anymore. I've learned lessons she never could. Let the Pallas be buried here, along with everyone else on Sahar. I want to move forward as my own person, not as the daughter of Athena or Molech. So I think I'd like a new head. One that can taste and laugh and cry and be Alexa, all on her own."

***

It's suffocating to be in the stone again. To know that any second now, the chisel will fall, and bits of herself will flake off, until all that's left is her.

But it's okay. Because the first thing carved is her mouth to cry out, and her eyes to cry, and her ears to hear her friends talking with her, and patting her, and assuring her that this is alright. And somehow, that makes it better.

Breathless Dead

The SP grenades touch down, and everything goes to shit.

Noise! Fury! Noxious gasses blind every sense except that of having half a desert planet shoved through eyes, nose, any open orifice. Hands grope in the smoke, voices call out for friends, and find the wrong shapes and voices answering. Lanterns scuttle to escape the chaos, Alcedi and Kaeri find themselves next to each other and reach for weapons, and one startled Kaeri finds herself holding the loudest rock she's ever heard.

"HOLD!"

It's the only thing Alexa can do right now. She can't defend herself from the blasts, can't cover her eyes, her mouth from the choking smells, but here, right now, she has one chance to make herself heard.

"Hold, you blithering idiots! The fight's over! I will not have you starting it again!"

Keep talking. Keep them focused on her. Keep them puzzled, interested, anything to keep them from realizing that she's just a head. Keep them from reaching for those weapons.

And, if she's being honest, keep herself from looking at the fight. Keep the sound in the background. Allow herself the luxury of cowardice, that she does not have to watch two people she cares for tear each other apart at her own behest.

Keep it going, so that when she finally calms the crowd, she only has to catch the last blast of purple smog, and feel her heart sink into her metaphorical shoes.

She urges the Kaeri holding her forward, and topples herself into the ground in front of the pair.

"Please. Please tell me you're okay."

And just for a second, she's not sure which of the two she's talking to more.

Breathless Dead

Sometimes, experience is a terrible thing.

See those mangled ruins surrounded by feathers? In her mind's eye, she can reconstruct it--piece together how the Kaeri struggled in Epistia's jaws. See the tracks in the ground where the Kaeri scrabbled, struggled, see where the frantic wingbeats scattered dust. See, there, the deeper footsteps, where Epistia reared back, shook until bones shattered, and then shook some more for the joy of it.

There: blood, a rapidly cooling brown stain, standing stark against the sand. Carotid, based on the Lantern head nearby. They'd all drawn back when Epistia landed among them, bit the leader's throat out, and tossed the body aside. But that was their mistake--that was movement, that was the chase, that was fun, that was the hunt. None of them get more than a hundred yards.

She's felt that power before. Known what it's like to have a god coursing through your veins, to be able to move with a certainty that's not your own. She wants to believe it's Ares doing the laughing, Ares treating this like a game. It's Ares, throwing a body, and then bowling through a phalanx with the excitement of the chase. It's Ares, drinking in the heady aroma of fear like the finest Ambrosia. It's Ares, Ares, always Ares doing this.

But it's not, is it?

Alexa's victims were no less bloody than Epistia's, to be sure. Her battlefields were left strewn with just as many corpses. But she never enjoyed it. There was an enemy, an objective, and punishment waiting unless she got the job done. There was the satisfaction of a clean kill, maybe. Of thrust, parry, riposte, all played out with units.

She'd seen it, in that first dance. Seen Isty, seen that ferocity, and thought, "there's a girl who can take care of herself." There's someone strong enough that I don't need to worry about her when I'm away. I don't need to worry about coming back to an empty library, because anybody who tries that is going to lose whatever hands they use to do it. Isty, who helped see herself as more than an expendable tool. Isty, who had the cutest laugh. Isty, who glares every time she suspects she's not being taken entirely seriously.

Epistia, who shows no pity for those she cuts down. Epistia, who is so young, so inexperienced. Epistia, sitting alone in a cafeteria, surrounded by the friends of those she hurt, declaring that they are the ones in the wrong. Epistia, so faithful in knowing that the people she hurts are people, but with not enough understanding of what that means.

That they're precious. That they have wants and needs. That it's a tragedy when even one is cut short, no matter how much glory and respect it wins you. That ending them--even if they're enemies--is a terrible thing.

Could Alexa have been fine with that, once upon a time? Put that away in her head, blinded herself to it, so long as Isty came home at the end of the day? Sacrificed everybody else, damned everybody else, so long as the person she cared for was safe?

It's a pointless question to ask, because no matter what past Alexa might or might not have done, present Alexa needs to see that Epistia is taken down.

Taken down. Gods above.

She barely has time to think the thought before she's passed to a Kaeri.

"Beljani!"

Dammit, she. There's no time to think, no time to assemble the words, to get it right.

"… Please."

There are too many words to be said. Please survive, please come back alive. Please, let there be more opportunities for me to get to know you better, since I was too inside my own head and up my own ass to do it before. Please, don't kill her. Please, I don't deserve to ask you this, but please. Please, please, please.

"I need to make this right. Please, don't die."