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Good girl?

… no good girl?

Mid good-girl?! Now you look here, missy, she is the best girl and she will do anything to have you acknowledge it!

Even if, admittedly, things here are. Are, um.

No, no, see, this was her plan! She's here, she's in the way, she saw them shoot some kind of net out of one rolling massive eye, she's helping!

Even if, you know, this is, uh, you know, uh. She's fine, right? You can't hyperventilate as a whale, scientific fact, probably. Not wearing a collar, check, so so long as the police don't have a collar big enough to fit a whale this will, this will, you know, it'll wear off, and she can--

Come on already and shapeshift shapeshift change--

Right. Right.

She's here, and she's in the way, and that guard's shouting something? She doesn't want to be in this pool anymore. If she can get, you know, up on the edge, then that'd at least let her use her tail, right? Splashing isn't much, but it's more than just sitting in a convenient pool.

All she has to do is get some uppies, right up onto the edge of the pool. She's got this.

It's not that this hasn't happened, right? S'like, you gotta stretch a bit, keep practicing, be ready to go big, have a spotter ready to pull you out and talk you back into your own shape and murmur appreciatively about how big that was, you're doing so good!

But it's the first time since, you know.

You know.

She's pretty sure it wasn't this scary before.
No. Don't.

Leave her.

She just.

Why are you helping--

Brightberry. Where is Brightberry. Brightberry's okay. Brightberry has to be okay. Where's her friend?

She's fighting them--poorly, weakly, no strength left in her. Should be fighting like a demon possessed, with the fury of a madman unconcerned for her own safety. She should howl, surge, thrash.

But that's fled, leaving her to cry, to struggle, to weakly demand that they put her back, leave her, she's dangerous, you can't, she's sorry, she's sorry

she's so sorry
Oh!

Right!

Right, the. The other things! The important other things! Important other people!

She's in the air in seconds, but not before tapping the little girl she's comforting on the shoulder and making a meaningful gesture between the two of them with one cinderbrick paw. This isn't over, got that? You're gonna need to cry later, because even if you're calm now, you're gonna have nightmares tonight, right? And she's got ears that need scritches, and you’ve got a lap that's crying out to be sat in by a fuzzy critter. You, her, later, okay?

Okay.

[Shift Accepted]

Flying is another thing heaven could use more of, you know? It's like--you feel bad, right, because you're letting down your friends, and they need you, and wow Foxpearl sounds angry, she could really use some cuddles, she should cuddle her later, that always fixes everything--and then you take a step into the air, and the worries peel away like--

Like. Um. Something that peels quickly. Paint under a breath attack? A potato in a mechanical peeler?

She's been meaning to get one of those. So much easier than peeling it by paw or hand, you know?

A-ny-way!

You can't be unhappy when you're flying. Physical impossibility, 's a scientific fact you know. You just soar up, and up, and--

Yeah, this oughtta be enough space.

The blue fire wraps her from head to toe and spreads.

And spreads.

And spreads some more as she starts to fall, fire trailing after her like a comet.

Now, if you were in a bad mood--or inclined to blame someone else for your own feelings--you might call pulling an orca out of a comet showboating. But Shifu doesn't have a boat, and she wouldn't know how to show it if she did!

It's just the joy of the shape that sends her through the somersault, that's all! Honestly! If more people could fly and then turn into a whale, everyone would be doing this! It's fun, dangit!

And at least she's just going for an orca, right? Now a sperm whale, that'd be showing off. Orcas are more fun--rounder, with a lovely two-tone pattern that lets her get both of the best colors in.

With startling abruptness--fifteen feet above the pool level, just when it seems the whale must turn into a splatter on the tile--the whale stops midair, gently moves a few feet to the side, and drops heavily between the two heroes and the people with all those nasty guns.

Shifu grins, and turns a toothy grin on Foxpearl.

C'mon, that was good. Admit it. She did good. There's a good girl in there for this.

[4,1,+3, 8 on Unleash Your Powers.]
Did you know you don't get headpats in heaven?

Unbelievable, right? Immortality and demons and nature spirits, yes, but the simple idea of--of--oh my gosh right there don't stop--of scritching someone behind the ears because she did good, oh so good, yes she did?

Not a trace of ear scritches, bellyrubs, or headpats to be found. It's dignified this, and growl that, and stern the other one.

What do you need if there's kids frightened by a fire, huh? What good will a fanged grin the size of a dinner plate do there, huh?

Shifu is cute, a crowd favorite, and she is weaponizing it viciously. She's new, she's weird, but she's also an orange-maned dog thing the size of a pony? And adults do this weird thing when they're confused, right? Like, it cuts through the panic and terror, short circuits their brain, and the new thing is so interesting they forget they're scared?

Humans are so cool like that.

It feels so good to be able to help like this, even if she's not able to do the same thing her guardians can, you know, the thing where they can talk without moving their teeth?

Oh. Right there. Rrrrrrright theeeeere oh my gosh

She grins--not the full threat display, but enough to make the kid perk up, and gives him a sloppy lick up one side of his face. Laughter. That's her reward, right there. Headpats, scritches, and to move onto the next terrified, shniffling kid.

It feels good to be a hero.

[Shifu accepts the shift.]
SHIFU
THE OUTSIDER
Real Name: ???







LABELS:
Freak: +3 (Unleash Your Powers)
Danger: -2 (Directly Engage a Threat)
Savior: +1 (Defend Someone)
Superior: +1 (Assess the Situation, Provoke Someone)
Mundane: +0 (Comfort or Support, Pierce the Mask)

Conditions
[ ]Afraid (-2 to directly engage)
[ ]Angry (-2 to comfort or support or pierce the mask)
[X]Guilty (-2 to provoke someone or assess the situation)
[X]Insecure (-2 to defend someone or reject what others say)
[ ]Hopeless (-2 to unleash your powers



Relationships:
Hsien’s been teaching me about earth. She’s one of my mutuals, and I love reading her discourseposts.
I have a crush on Rain, but I keep it under wraps.

Influence:
I have a cheerful demeanor, and therefore everyone has influence on me.

Moves:
Elemental Powers: When you alter a human device with your magic, roll + Freak. On a hit, you create a device that can do something impossible once and then fizzle. When you roll a 10+, choose one:
- it works exceptionally well
- you get an additional use out of it
On a miss, the device works, but it has a completely unintended side effect that the GM will reveal when you use it.

The Best of Them: When you comfort or support someone by telling them how they exemplify the best parts of Earth, roll + Freak instead of +Mundane.

Not So Different After All: When you talk about your home, roll + Freak. On a 10+, choose two. On a 7-9, choose one. During the conversation, you:
- confess a flaw of your home; add 1 Team to the pool
- mislead them about your home; take Influence over them
- describe the glories of your home; clear a condition
On a miss, you inadvertently reveal more about yourself than you planned; tell them a secret or vulnerability you haven’t shared with Earthlings before now.



Inspirations: Beast Boy, Animorphs, Nimona
Which orifice does that count for?

Probably ass.

She didn't mean to tell Aphrodite to stick it up his ass!

Or.

Well. She did. She absolutely did and wouldn't take the words back for all the crystal dragon treats in the galaxy, on reflection, but it still wasn't smart!

… Maybe for all the crystal dragon treats in the galaxy. Not for her, you understand, but because Brightberry deserves nice things, and she can be humble one (1) time if it means seeing Brightberry's face light up.

Airdrop a dragon onto a planet-sized ball of delimshus shinies. Oh, she'd get so fat so fast and it'd be glorious.

And it'd give her time to clean the house in the meantime, so she can do two nice things at once and--

And she just told a god to go fuck himself, didn't she? The energy keeping her going is draining away, and after this long in the lab there wasn't much to begin with.

But Zeus was onside? Maybe? How do you translate the thunder there--like, you can't touch her? Leave her alone? He left after so maybe so but also it's probably a bad idea to assume either of those things are true? There are worse ideas than assuming you're untouchable, but it's hard to think of one at the moment.

Hard to think, period. Sure as hell doesn't feel untouchable. Feels empty.

But…

She's felt the energy rising around her before. Like the electric, heart-palpitating feeling you get when you're riding the wave just before the crash. If you can just keep running, keep ahead of the darkness, you'll never find out about the crushing weight chasing you. It's a ride, but when the darkness catches up…

It's a bad idea. The last time she embraced this, Brightberry…

Well, it takes a lot to get Brightberry to yell.

She's super nice, you know? Too good. Too nice. Too forgiving. And even when she was yelling, it was. She was shouting about how Dyssia'd been gone for two weeks, and she didn't know what had happened, and she'd been worried, and have you eaten anything since I forced that food down your throat, and food, now, bed, now, talk…

And then she didn't talk to her for a month.

Her pulse pounds in her ears. Bom. Bum. Bom-bum-b-dum.

She's hollow. No food, no sleep, no thoughts, and the purple crawls in--fills her, fills the emptiness, crackles through her veins, fills her with promises.

She can practically see the energy--a pulsating purple sphere, at eye height, pressing against her consciousness. A promise, a threat. Somehow, it's the size of a pea, but also bigger than her head.

Behind it, the puppet slowly raises its head, and turns a fearful, hoping expression on her.

Thoughtfully--dreamily--Dyssia plucks the bean from the air, turns it this way and that. Brings it up to one eye, sees, as it were, herself, from outside, from above, sees the bean staring at her staring at the bean staring at.

Flicks it in the air with a thumb, catches it in her mouth--

Bom. Bum. Bom-bum-b-dum.

And it turns out, it's super easy to make sure a ship can't be used, when you think about it.

I mean, what was she thinking? Slowly convincing all the Pix to abandon a perfectly good ship, serving under a psychotic abuse golum, making an equally psychotic abused golem?

Nonsense. Slow. Useless. She's full of fire, full of lightning, and the images dance in front of her.

Bom. Bom. Bom-bum-b-dum. The drums push and thunder, urging her along. The chasm yawns behind her, but it's not important. It's behind her, and she's running, and all she needs is what's in front of her, and what she needs…

All she really needs is for the ship to stop being a ship. And there are so many ways for that to happen, right? There are all these systems dedicated to making sure that a vaguely ship-shaped blob of astral metals today will be a ship-shaped blob of astral metals tomorrow. And you just--you just reach out and turn them inside out, right? You've got a star that can go nova, which is less helpful than you might think, but not as not helpful as to be totally useless?

Engine room. She doesn't remember getting here, but she's here now. There's a badge on her chest. Is that real? Smells real. Smells purple.

The whole world smells purple, somehow there and not there more real than real. It's like the veil that held her down, kept her here--there?--has been lifted and she can see the world the way it is for the first time.

Except it's not the first time?

Unreal clarity. She can see the whole ship--see the coursing of the flame, see how it writhes in her hands, see where it flies and vents and roars. It's all so simple--vent here, and the ship turns this way, and vent there to turn that way, and she could just laugh!

Nudge the star. Bump it between her claws like a top. Spin it around, arcing fire and electric radiation into the engines until they flare red, white, purple--

But laughing takes energy, and she's running, and the darkness is following, and the roar of bom, bum, bom-bum-b-dum is chasing her through the ship, full of thunder and roaring and teeth and--

Ritual. Rituals. She's acquired the robes of the navigator, and the augury is before her. Pix stare at her, stare at her badge. Poseidon rumbles and points and she's full of light and laughing and grabs the augury and wrenches and--

The Pix are arranged before her now. They've realized what she's doing and they chase her, jetpacks trailing plumes and unreal formations and wild scents and the bridge is before her and the captain is shouting orders but she's lightning and violet and bom, bum, bom-bum-b-dum is behind her and around her and is her and she is it and the drums fill the universe with their--

Bom. Bum. Bom-bum-b-dum.

Screeching. Tearing metal.

Bom. Bum. Bom-bum-b-dum.

Falling. Screaming?

Bom. Bum. Bom-bum-b-dum.

Blackness.
You know, in the better class of play, this would be the moment where the heroine tells the villain exactly what they think of their monologue, and in which hole they can stick it.

I mean, you know it won't work, right? Hero doesn't know it, but it's only been twenty minutes since the play started. Nobody actually believes that the Comtesse de la Rue is going to give up on her web of manipulation and deceit--she's been, in her own mind, helping people find love and happiness for twenty years, and no jumped-up pipsqueak can give a speech that's gonna change her mind.

...Which does, now that she thinks of it, beg the question how much time has passed in her "play." A month, at least, since that day.

Possibly two. Time a little fuzzy at the moment, like it always is after emerging.

Brightberry will know. Note to self, once she's out of the lab and cleaned up, ask Brightberry what day it is.

Subtly. There's gotta be a way to subtly ask what day it is in a way that does not communicate you've been on an unspecified number of all-nighters? Ask how long it is until. No, no, that doesn't work, the servitors will just change the schedule because she asked for something.

Post script to note to self, with the neon glitter pen that stands out: do something nice for Brightberry. She puts up with a lot and it's been while.

Right. Time and plays and such. Twenty minutes into the play, nobody actually believes that the heroine can make a speech and convince the antagonist to turn over a new leaf. The plot couldn't happen that way.

Two hours in, after the Comtess has had a chance to see her web crash around her ears, and to see the effects of her actions, then maybe she'd accept an impassioned plea, have a plot-appropriate change of heart. But this early in the play, everyone knows that she's just going to scoff at Valerie's speech about how she will love her Ceronian, and she will help her become Shogun, and nothing will stand between her.

And damned if she actually knows what the monologue she needs to give right now is? Because he's not making any friggin' sense?

Fuck, please don't let this be one of those things where nothing makes sense until after a night's sleep. Or worse, one of those things that is perfect and absolutely makes sense until you have a night's sleep.

The Azura cling. He hates us for it. Wants us to. To be happy and die? To let go of those emotions so we can be content with what we have? To let go of the emotions that keep us unhappy?

But the emotions behind this are also his gift? They keep us here instead of being happy?

His endgame. He wants her to. Too broken to be happy. Could be happy if she let go? Let go of the Pix? Too broken to let go. Too set on trying to help. Help the Pix who are, you know, arguably also her enemies?

Endgame is filtering that out? Getting rid of the people who meddle? People who want empire, who aren't content to just be happy until they.

If this were a comic, there'd be a steam cloud forming above her head. And already, she can feel the effort of thought smoking neurons.

... You know, smoked neurons are probably pretty tasty. Like barbecue. Delicious, crispy grey matter, with a crackly skin you can scrape with a fork, but with a smoky, fatty center.

"I would like my puppet back, please."

Fuck. Already, she can imagine a playwright pacing back and forth in front of the stage, swearing at her star actor for forgetting her lines at the emotional climax.

Not prompting her what they are, though, the imaginary jerk.

"You see, I need to go overdose on being a good person before I get filtered out of the gene pool. If I'm gonna get filtered out, might as well do what I can first."
This is important.

She is afraid.

The two thoughts swim around her, like shadows in the deep, invisible except in the shadows they cast, inaudible except in the electric thrill that fills the entire sea. They push her from the shallows, hound her to the depths, give her limbs the death-delaying chest-heaving strength of adrenaline.

Body cries hollow in multiple ways. Her eyes sag as she lifts her head from the workbench. Her stomach claws at her back, gnawing and empty. Brain empty, thoughts slow, like wading through a river.
She should have given this up when the creativity failed. Should have run when the thoughts failed to leap, had to be mustered and ordered and fought. Refused to work as they should, fled to greener fields, with saner--

But this is important. And she is afraid.
She stares at the god like a butterfly at a pin. He is the first person to talk to her in.

Time is. She's pretty sure that time happened, at some point, here in the dark.

It must have. Couch wasn't here before, and she can't remember when it got here. Can't remember it arriving. Didn't order it? Doesn't think she ordered it.

Spies. Probably the spies, noticing her and doing it for her. Noticing and caring and not asking whether maybe she shouldn't be--

It's perfect. Simpering, beautiful. Aching to be abused.

A masterpiece, she notes with. It's not pride. It should be pride. She did it, finally did it, finally did something right.

It's sin incarnate. Hideous. Dangles from Aphrodite's threads like a mockery. Stares at her with exactly the right expression, the one she slaved over and crafted to purpose, mouth open and whispering and echoing in the silence that

You did this. You did this. You did this.

Because it was important, and you were afraid.

"Why?" she breathes.

She does not touch him. Some lessons are burned in early. But he is here, and he is the first to talk to her in too long, and the question cannot be bound, cannot be restrained, comes with its own movements. To beg, to plead, to let her go back, try it again, do something different.

She knows why.

"Why? What had we done, to so earn the hatred of love?"

She knows why.

But here, it is important.

And she is very, very afraid.
In the end, she decides against the broadsword.

She hates that broadsword is an option here.

It's like. On the one hand, Yaji isn't a person. Which is a terrible sentence and one that feels dirty in her mouth. It's a seven-syllable horror story that someone out there--someone on this ship went out of their way to create a walking, talking, laughing thing to--

They aren't friends, to be clear. Dyssia sees what Yaji does--what Yaji makes those around her do, what she does to keep herself in the good books of this automaton.

But at the same time, you can't spend any amount of time with someone without. Well, not liking. Definitely not liking. Nothing this side of loathing.

But it's like, the second it twigged to her what Yaji was, Dyssia also couldn't help but pity her?

Which is the weirdest feeling, by the by? Yaji was created to cause harm. She takes no joy in it. Joy does not exist. She was created for one purpose, and it was to control a population of pix through incredibly violent suppression.

You don't pity a broom for being dirty. But the idea of doing it with--

Not a person. Not a people. Easy to see, once you've asked the question and can instantly see the answer, but so hard to internalize.

Somone out there figured out the optimal way to cause harm. Somebody asked themselves how to police the pix, came to the conclusion that bullying was the answer, perfected bullying, and loaded it onto this chassis that would go out there and cut someone down with a well-placed word. Someone could have figured out the optimal way to do, you know, not that, to do the opposite of that, to build people up and do something constructive with a highly-customized drone chassis, because that's what Yaji is, and instead they made her--

She doesn't feel like not a person, is the thing. The illusion is so perfect that you only spot it once you're there, once you've been accepted, once she's. Decided is the wrong word. Once whatever process behind the eyes has optimized for you as an element of bullying, rather than a target.

The books never tell you what it's like to see someone as a target, incidentally. It's all well and good to tell herself that she's not a person. That she's a thing, and one designed with harm in mind. That if she doesn't get rid of Yaji, somehow, all of her efforts to save the Pix will be frustrated and come to naught.

Or possibly nought. What a fun word.

But none of that prepares you for holding the knife. Will she make noise? Will she even know it's happening? Slit the throat, or jam it between two important vertebrae?

How will the Pix react to her straight up murdering one of them? Can't tell them "whoops, you don't understand, she wasn't actually real."

But…

Ignore the reasons for and against, for a second. Is that something she can do, something she can bring herself to do? Can she stare at this not-a-friend-not-a-person-pitiful-thing and end it?

She's been seeing it in her dreams already. How much worse if she actually does it?

But!

But but but!

She's decided against it! Because there's a better way, and one she's actually really damn proud of figuring out!

See, there's this theory one of her teachers taught her about. About ethics, right? Some old bastard wrote about how the best thing was about maximizing goodness for the most people, right? If you have one option that benefits twenty people a lot and one that benefits thirty by the same amount, you maximize goodness and choose the thirty person option, right?

Not a very convincing theory of goodness, she admits, because, like, how do you quantify goodness, and who's picking the measures of goodness, and who's doing the measuring, and so on, but! But there's the idea--rather applicable in this case--of the monster, right?

Figure there's a monster, right, who derives infinite pleasure from somebody else's suffering. The good in the world is always higher if the monster gets to carry out their torture than if they don't, right, because the pleasure the torturer derives from it is greater than the pain it causes the torturee.

It's meant to be a big ol' gotcha to the theory, right, that the greatest good in this system could logically be to torture someone for a monster's satisfaction.

But hey, even if the theory is bogus, the exercise…

Because, and here's the genius thing, right? Yaji is a drone. Or something similar enough to it that it doesn't matter. A drone evolved not to need food, to take satisfaction--no, wrong word, no mind. Pleasure? Purpose? Instinct. Yaji acts on [/i]instinct[/i] to be cruel. There's some kind of prioritization there, which is why Yaji jumped on the malcontent pix first.

So, if she can reverse engineer Yaji, and figure her out, it should be possible, then, to engineer an equally built-to-purpose drone of her own. Something that can't think, can't feel, definitely can't feel hurt by the abuse golem pointed at it. Something absolutely irresistible to the arcane process inside that empty head. Three days base, but she's sure this one could last at least a week--maybe even two.

Which isn't a lot, and she's doing her best not to think that she's creating a life for the sole purpose of being attacked and degraded and eventually blessedly dying, and how different does that make her from whoever made Yaji, but.

But it's gotta be worth it, if the Pix live, right?
Have you ever worried which version of you is actually real?

Because you're never one hundred percent unfiltered around anyone, right? Pure you is raw, unfiltered, chaotic, dangerous. The kind of brain that spits out the wrong thought in the wrong way at the wrong time to the wrong person, and suddenly the entire room is staring.

Faces, that's the ticket. You put on different faces around different people, carefully crafting each mask to mirror those around you. Oh, these people don't get why anger is--

Well, not good, not really, but also not purely negative?

Anyway, that group can't handle Angry Dyssia, so you shave the anger off, tuck it away for when it's needed.

And it works in reverse! Yeah, Dyssia loves some close personal contact--hugging, squeezing, biting. And wow, this group is really accepting of that!

Bad example, really, hard to find people who like that, but follow the metaphor please.

And it's just such a relief to be able to express that bit of herself that Dyssia finds herself embodying that face even more than she normally would? Like, to the point that sometimes she finds it more exhausting to be true to herself than it would be suppressing it?

It's like.

All the time. Literally, all the time.

Every second, there's a little Dyssia sitting behind the eyes, watching the world. Assessing, watching, stressing, deciding which version of herself gets let out.

Do other people do this? Is there a little Merilt, watching out at the little Dyssia, and privately just as terrified of getting it wrong?

Do other people feel the relief when they get home and can take the mask off? When the door shuts, and they're alone--or as alone as you get when apparently your support staff numbers in the double digits and includes emotional support spies--do they also heave a mental sigh when they get to take off the weight of managing other peoples' emotions?

The point is, Dyssia is lying all the time. She is pathologically good at it.

Which would be less frustrating if she were confident in being deliberately good at it? It's nerve wracking, sends her heart into palpitations, like there's a voice screaming they know two inches from her ears.

But she's always best at doing something when she is afraid or when someone is in danger. When it's lie or suffer, oh, how the lies flow.

Like melted butter, or perhaps chocolate. Some liquid substance that tastes good.

Sweat?

Don't say sweat. People look at you weird if you say sweat tastes good. Could have said other stuff, but sweat's bad enough.

A-ny-hoo.

She's been smart about this, she hopes. Avoided proselytizing to the mimetic spies, which she really should have considered when she started propagating a mutiny. If nobody knows she's the source of the rumors, it's gonna be child's play to insert herself into Yaji's inner circle.

Well. Not.

Not child's play, not exactly.

Or maybe yes, child's play, but only for the right kind of child? The playground bully kind of child. The kind of child who can relish in emotional suffering, in bullying, in ensuring that she's on the top of her own private empire--you know, the kind that doesn't actually threaten the status quo, like a playground bully doesn't threaten the school, but lets the bully hold court over anybody smaller than her?

The point is, it's exactly the kind of child's play that is anathema to Dyssia. It's taking all the normal masks--how to notice emotions, how to care for others, how to avoid causing harm, how to celebrate and cultivate the weird--and decapitating them, inverting them, wearing their skin as a trophy.

Suck up to Yaji. Tell herself that the harm she's causing is less than the harm of genocide. Ignore the looks of confusion and pain--ignore them, damn you!

Cultivate that acquaintance. Yes-girl the shit out of her. Laugh at her jokes, goon for her. Ignore the creeping, gnawing panic of how long this is taking, how long it's taking for her to let her guard down in a species that does not let their guard down. Be the perfect mirror, plus one. Collapse in your bed at the end of every day emotionally drained and aching because tomorrow is gonna happen.

It'll all be worth it once you claim her crown, once you steal her badge, once you recruit her cronies and move against her at that big event.

Don't think about what happens next, once you sit atop the new power vacuum, become the new mean girl.

Whatever you do, don't think about which version of Dyssia is real.
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