Balmas

Breathless Dead

Brightberry is a beacon of day in the otherwise darkened apartment. The light spills out from her spot on the desk--marked out with tape, carefully calculated for best reception, kept reluctantly clear--and paints the room in shades of eyelid-purpling brightness.

Technically, Brightberry doesn't have to do any of that. It's a waste of the laser, it's lossy, it wastes energy. But it's guaranteed to pierce the lump of blankets on the couch in the center of the room, which is groaning.

Is it technically still correct to call it a couch? It started out as one, sure--one of those big plush models, oversize in every dimension, like somebody had seen a couch once and then built a yacht in its image. But by now, it's so covered in blankets, so festooned in plushies, so worn down… D'you know, some people tell her she should replace it? It's worn out. The leather has lost its grip, so you can hardly sit on it without sliding around. The padding has lost its pad, so the entire thing is less cushion than imprint, matching her coils like an extended glove.

It's perfect. She keeps telling Brightberry, throwing it out would be like throwing out a member of the family.

Dyssia doesn't remember getting into it. The last thing she recalls…

One arm snakes out of the pile of blankets, and gropes around on the desk.

Okay. Book's still there. Books. Stack of books. Did she have that many books? What time did she--

"Dawn," Brightberry helpfully adds.

Yeah, that tracks. One of those nights, chasing a wild lead, falling into bed only once--fuck, she hopes she wrote down what it was. She keeps writing tools near the desk, but that doesn't guarantee that Dyssia last night will have been kind to Dyssia today.

Today… How long has it been?

She risks a sliver of a peek out the edge of the blanket, and immediately hisses in pain.

Every time. Every time! She keeps telling people--

Well, no. No, she doesn't, because telling people gets you weird looks. No, Dyssia, we're not going to reorganize our sky to make it less of a lightshow. We're teleporting clouds to make sure the perfect lightshow can happen. The lightshow is the point.

But still! It should be illegal to send messages like that past a certain point! Past a certain time in the day! People are trying to sleep, dammit! Could we not build a communications system that doesn't rely on every house in the city having a dedicated window open? And no, Dyssia, you can't shut a window or hang curtains, that's antisocial, how will people send you messages?

Past noon. Puddle of (bright) (afternoon) sunlight, spilling light on the huddled dusty sewing machine and its spools of fifteen different textiles, sitting there, waiting for a hand to touch them.

Stop that. If the one mandatory skylight is shedding light on the sewing machine, it's past noon.

How long does she have until the Great Sage gets impatient?

With great dramatic groans--and eyes screwed shut against the pain--she rolls out of her imprints and off the couch, and fumbles for a spacer nutrient bar.

Brightberry sniffs. Yes, she knows. It's not a proper meal. Yes, she had a high-quality kitchen installed. Yes, the mixer is just begging for a hand to turn it on, the oven ready to burst into flames. She knows a dozen recipes that are quick, easy, and for which the ingredients probably haven't had time to go bad yet.

But in her defense, the nutrient bar is ready now. It doesn't take any more energy to prepare than unwrapping it and sinking her fangs into it. That's a bigger plus than most people realize, you know? It doesn't sit there and accuse you of not using it. You just open it, drain it, and--

Brightberry sniffs again, somewhat louder.

"I was throwing the wrapper away," Dyssia protests, picking the wrapper back up.

She glances at the desk, and winces. She'd written… something. With time and some dedicated archeology, she was pretty sure she could reconstruct the thoughts and piece together the arcane syllables. It'd felt important, she vaguely remembers, and all came to an equals sign.

But equals what?

Why is it that it's never as clear the day after as it is when she's in the middle of it? In the moment, it's as clear as day. She can feel a hand guiding her, touching her mind, driving her on, as if every thought is lightning and she couldn't stop for all the enlightenment in the world.

And then morning comes, and she's dumber than dirt.

She resolves that this time, it will be different. She just needs to focus harder, do better. She's smart. She can do this. Tonight, she'll figure it out tonight.

She pauses.

"How long did you wait to share that message?" she asks, hopefully.

"I didn't."

"Are you sure? You didn't, maybe, take a nap? Maybe forget to pass it on for a bit?"

"Is that what you'd like me to say happened?"

It's an olive branch, and Dyssia almost jumps at it. It'd give her a minute to adjust, to let her eyes soften, to get ready, to take her time up the hill to the Sage's pavilion.

But…

Your spiritual development depends upon this.

The Ceronians…

She stares at the bed and its lumps of comfort, waiting to drag her back down to sleep. It'd be so easy to fall back in. Just an hour.

Maybe the Sage knows something that will help her?

"Thank you, Brightberry," she swallows out, and bends to gently pet the dragon. Brightberry preens, and leans one crystalline horn into the hand for optimal rubbing. "But if you could please send back that I'm on my way?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa had thought she was all out of tears.

Nobody had told her that could happen, by the by. She'd had to quietly pull aside--alright, chase through the vents and corner--a Hermetic the second time it happened for some urgent questions. Had she broken them? Was there a mismatch somewhere? Did they need filling?

But no, they assured her, that was normal. After hours and days of feasting, toasts, songs, celebrations, and mourning, it was possible to reach a state where the tears have all been cried. You've done everything you could think of, and yet still haven't done enough. You've tried to cram a century of love into a fortnight, silly girl. Did you think you had enough tears for that?

Still, as she looks around at the newly reborn Anemoi, she's glad to find she can still feel a tiny prickle around the corners of her eyes.

It's bright and it's kitschy and it's loud, and every corner feels like a home. Everywhere, people laugh and talk--a hundred noisy conversations, echoing and rebounding, a sea of life defying the quiet-and-death-that-was. There will be no silent stalking here, no family bound into decorations, no fearful still.

And her cold stone is warm in Ramses' arms.

Without a word, she taps a wrist, and the tight--so pleasantly tight--grip relaxes just enough for her to slip free and reach out for Zagreus.

"Always, Zagreus. The ship is small, but never so small that we can't fit more people wanting happiness."

Breathless Dead

She bows, of course. Bows as deep as she dares, as deep as she can while still being polite. Bows to the precise degree that shows she is thankful for his mercy, and as far away as she can from anything that might come away as mocking.

She takes the ball, because she has to. It's the prize, the reason for the fight.
Of course she's magnanimous to the audience. You've been wonderful, Tunguska. Thank you for coming out. Be safe in your journeys, and wish me luck in mine, this one's for you, and so on.

But it's rote, she reflects later. Mechanical, leaning on skills and patterns learned elsewhere to keep her going. A fallback loop playing while her mind is otherwise occupied.

Haggard. That's the word that came to mind. Tormented, maybe. Hades had been torn in two in this, knowing the reasons and knowing even more the price.

And she can't help but feel the same way, even now. Even here, watching Cerberus gambol and chase and wrestle with herself amidst the glowing pillars, she feels as if she must be the worst person in the galaxy.

Now and then, a flash of blue is visible among the mess of steel chassis. Now and then, it's brought in to her for an extra-long throw, the whole pack baying after it as if the noise and the chase is the only thing that exists.

She had to do it. She had to, even if it hurts him. He knew it too, at the end.

But every time, when the ball comes back for a throw, she offers it up to him, first.

Taking a dog from someone--even for very good reasons--is one thing. But forbidding them to play--to get as much joy as they can in the short time life--is too far.

Breathless Dead

"You would tell me of family and duty?"

She stands at the center of the storm, never knowing which way the next blow will come from. But that is not why the mask slips. That's not why the King wavers, why now Alexa shouts into the winds, grief written on her face.

"I remember what it was like before the rift! I predate it! My duty to my family is the reason we're cursed!

"For family, I fed oceans to his planet-devourers! For duty, I executed Molech's will and Molech's people! Had I done my duty to my family--had I not turned away in hope of something better--the whole galaxy might have burned, instead of just half!

"Would you have me make the same mistakes again?

"Without love, what is duty but blind obedience? Without love, what is a family but a chain of command? Sit still! Fit in your niche! Put your neck back into the collar of hopelessness!

"And I will not!"

Breathless Dead

The King catches the first blow on her shield. Bringing it to bear is instinctual, bone deep, without thought, and it sends her ass over teakettle.

Idiot. Of course it does. The blows aren't nearly enough to meaningfully harm her, but anything that hits hard enough to knock her over will still knock her over if it's absorbed into the shield. And if she goes into that wall, it's over.

Crowd of people, and the idiot brings a sniper rifle. Use that. Force him to risk hitting--no. Unacceptable for them, and if worry of hurting the audience has slowed him down, she sure can't see it.

Six shots. One massive--OOF--hit, five smaller--oof oof oof--hits, rapid fire. Reload. Enough time to get up, but not enough to set herself, not enough to brace, block!

Not enough time. Unprepared, the bullet catches her shield at an angle, sends her spinning sideways, the ricochet digging a furrow into the arena.

Why did she leave the spear buried in the ring? Idiot!

Unless…

She's still spinning, sideways instead of down, though the next five shots to the shield fix that. But when the reload is up, she's ready.

No forwards progress, not yet. But she can use the kinetic energy, use it to shove her sideways. Angle the shield, so she vectors towards--

One iron-gripped fist lashes out, and closes around the spear, still buried point-first in the floor. The shaft bends and moans under the combined assault of statue and the follow-up shots, but holds, keeps her upright.

Never let them see you bleed. "You know," she calls out, "I'm starting to see why this crowd doesn't--"

Purple in the barrel. Wait for iiiiiit…

Six shots. Six acrobatic spins around the pole. But when next the twink reloads, she's still on her feet.

"Doesn't like you," she finishes, and dashes forward with a grin.

Watch for the purple glow. Wait for it. Bury the spear as deep as it goes, and anchor for the storm. Let the energy of the rifle whip you around the pole, and advance with the roar of the crowd.

He's not stupid. By the second reload, he's going for the spear. She scoops low, takes the energy and lets it flip her forward, spear and all. By the third, he's shooting the ground, and now she has debris to kick in his face, block his view.

"I'm not surprised you'd think she's just a dog. She was made that way! Did you never ask her whether she wanted to stay that way?"

She's inside the guard now, one hand on the barrel, one hand on the spear buried in the floor, and eyes inches from his.

"So how's about, instead of focusing on her not being safe, you give me what I need to keep her safe and happy?"

[6,5,4, +2. 13 on Overcome.]

Breathless Dead

The crowd roars, and the King subtly switches her stance. She was fully anticipating being the villain, the dark foe come to claim an unjust prize, but she can work with being a hero.

"I asked for the champion. Is it his day off? Is he hiding?"

All swagger, all smiles, all mocking. This is her arena, and you come before her like this?

"Because if you're him, wow! No wonder Cerberus is begging to come with me! I'm surprised half this crowd isn't packing into my ship! Hear that crowd?"

She pauses to let the roar rise and settle down.

"So no! I'm not here to steal your dog! After all, I can't steal what's being freely given!"

She pauses, as if struck by a thought. "Unless you're one of those space princesses. Amazing how hard they give themselves away and still want to be stolen."

"And since we both know she'll be happier with me, you'll help her go. Like a good owner would.

"But are you a good owner?"

She's not saying it now. Not in front of the crowd, not for their benefit. But behind her eyes, there's a hardness for Zagreus that says, it took a grand total of ten minutes for her to want to leave with me. It took ten minutes of listening to her talk. How long, Zagreus? How long has she been staring up with nobody to hear?

Breathless Dead

She can do this.

Just like she asked, it's dark and quiet in the tunnel. Or at least, darker and quieter. Not blinding, not pitch--the doorway at the end shines a long promise of what's to come, gives light to see by--but the halogens have been turned off. Not silent--there's no preventing the noise of the arena from filtering in--but at least the panels on the wall aren't screaming it directly in her ears. It's muffled, muted, the sounds of hundreds of people moving and jeering, of bassy music crawling through the floor, into her feet, and up her spine.

Enough, at least, to let her compose herself, to prepare, to put her face on.

Dimly, the announcer's ululations echo down the corridor--of a warrior king, traveling the cosmos, recruiting the best and brightest to her ranks, trailing honor and glory and prizes for all who follow her. Of a game for the ultimate prize.

Showtime.

It's like putting on clothes, in a way. She allows a grin to come to her face, and with each step towards the , the grin spreads until it's nearly ear to ear. She straightens, tall and elegant, a confident sway in her hips. See the cape sway, regal red, weighted. See the golden chains and studded circlet gleam.

The announcer's voice crescendoes with her name, only getting louder as it stretches out. She poses in the spotlights, and in a few swift steps, is on the central dais with the announcer.

Jeer at her, crowd. Chant her name, boo at her. She doesn't need your approval, see how she laughs, see how she waves at you for more? Bring on the disapproval. You can't hurt her, you can't take anything from her. She takes it in, and spits it back at you. She owns this ring, and you can have it back once she's done.

One gold arm--carved round with fresh silver inlays of thunderbolts and studded with fresh gemstones--snaps out and snags the microphone from the announcer's hand, and the Rex levels one finger at the crowd.

"Let me be clear! I'm not here for you!"

More jeers, more boos. She grins, and opens her arms wide as if to soak it in.

"That's right! One of your number is smarter than the average dog! She wants to leave! Wants to join my crew!

"And I care for my crew!"

With one smooth motion, she casts her cape off into the crowd and buries a spearpoint in the center of the ring.

"It is the duty of the king to care for their people! To see that they have ample opportunities to become all they can! To spread out! To risk! To grow! To bring their people joy!

"But I would not come as a thief in the night! The king does not steal away with a prize, but claims it through strength and skill! Who will gainsay the King and say that Cerberus will not be as safe by my side as anywhere in the galaxy? Who will prevent me from protecting her?

"Come! Send forth your champion! Show me your skill, that I may show mine!"

Breathless Dead

"Cerberus, to tell you the truth, I have not been the strongest in the galaxy for far longer than it took for me to admit it. "

She, the strongest warrior in the galaxy. She, the strongest, wrestled and ejected by two Coherent phalanx members. She, the strongest, outshone and outsped by two brilliant young lovers. A Ceronian princess, a dervish too dangerous to approach. The more she thinks on it, the more it brings a rueful smile to her face.

"Even among those we travel with, there are stronger than I. I cannot promise you the strongest, and will not begin this friendship on the back of a lie.

"What I can promise is that if someone is to harm you, it will be after going through me. It will be after I've exhausted all of my cunning and skill. I cannot promise the strongest fighter, but I can promise all of my strength. I can promise to use my knowledge to help any and all I travel with. So long as I am with you, you will not lack a protector."

Breathless Dead

"But that's not why you won't leave."

It's not a question. But it's also not unkind. Alexa keeps up the pets, and waits until Cerberus meets her eyes.

"You just asked to follow us across the Rift. Maybe you know something I don't about it, but I'm willing to bet that there are ELFs on the other side of there too. It would be just as dangerous to cross with us as it would to go anywhere else in the galaxy.

She's smiling now, and swings an arm as if to display all the galaxy, in all its majesty.

"I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it's all out there, just waiting for you to come see it. I'm not a tour guide. I'm also not going to tell you it's not insanely dangerous. You're incredibly right about ELFs.

"But I saw how your face lit up as you described it all. I heard the excitement in your voice at the idea of finally, finally leaving this place. You've been here for centuries, contemplating the Rift.

"And it seems to me that if you don't want to do it for centuries more, well…"

She's trying so, so hard to be kind. But still, she lets the sentence dangle, lets its implications hang in the air. Safety or satisfaction, but the dog has to choose.

Breathless Dead

Alexa leans back, stares up at the Rift, and lets her fingers work the thoughts out.

"You are wrong about the land of the dead, you know."

It's hard to directly deny the dog. Hard to look into those eyes, and tell them that hope is still out there.

"You say it is ashes and ruins, that the gods have abandoned us. If I had nothing but the Rift to keep me company, it may be that I would share your opinion.

"But in the course of a year with this crew, I think I've seen enough to believe otherwise. I have seen worlds and wonders that made me question everything I knew. Things I hadn't even dreamt of, even before the galaxy was cut in two.

"I have seen the gods intimately involved with every member of this crew, for better or worse. They show on this side, just as surely as they do on the other. They care, just as surely as they care on the other side of the rift.

"And, perhaps most important to me, is that there are plenty of people I've come to care for on this side of the rift. It's not all ashes and ruin. There is wonder and life to be found here."

She considers again, words expended, before admitting, "Where, on this side of the rift, though. That's a harder question."

"After all, following is the close to the only thing I've ever known. Where Molech went, I followed. When he needed me to go into battle, I followed his orders. The only way I found to break free from him was to attach myself to someone else. Even here, at the end of everything, I followed someone else's dreams, someone else's plans."

"And now I'm off the guiderails. I'm so used to being penned in by what someone else wants me to be that the freedom to choose a heading is… Well, it's terrifying. I can go anywhere.

"Half the universe is open to me. Pick a heading, Alexa. Where, in half of all the galaxy's nigh-infinite wonders, do you go?

She shakes her head, chuckling ruefully.

"So if you've asked me where else you could go, I think I have to turn the question on you. Where else do you want to go? You have all the worlds to choose from. Is there no other world where you want to go? No other world with people you care for?"