Balmas

Breathless Dead

Did they really have to take her gravrail?

Well. Yeah, okay, yeah, they did. Deadly weapon, utility. They'd have to be idiots to see a space wizard bending time and reality to her whim, fight another Knight to a standstill with it, and then not take it off her. She'd have done the same, if positions were reversed.

But it means that she's stuck. On the ground. On her own power, instead of slipping gently wherever she wants to go.

Honestly, the ropes are just adding… Well, the saying is insult to injury, except she's not even that badly hurt? And it's not insulting? And let's be honest, they're nice ropes! Ropes like you don't actually expect a person like the Crystal Knight to have? Silken to the touch, but somehow with the exact right level of grab to make the knots inescapable?

Like, if this whole situation weren't awful, it'd kind of be hot? A scene out of one of the better class of stories. The defiant heroine, clothes in tatters, top hanging out, bound in ropes, presented before the vile villain, for--

Hmm. Vile villain. Satisfying mouthfeel, good alliteration. Defiant heroine doesn't work as well. Hard headed? Headstrong? Insubordinate? No, no, implies subordinate in the first place, which isn't true, and--aha!

The Dissident Dyssia, versus the Vile Villain, the Nasty Knight!

In the books, it'd be a scene of sexual tension, a will-they-won't-they, an enemies-to-possibly-lovers, a place for a villain to saunter over and raise the heroine's chin with a swordblade.

But in real life, that would require the heroine to be kneeling with a bowed chin, instead of staring at the Crystal Knight with undisguised loathing.

"Love what you've done with the place. The holes in the ship have really given it a pleasant open air feel, and the bits of town bring it back to earth. A+, five stars."

Breathless Dead

Pause a second to mourn the death of the engine's electric-guitar whine. Sit with Dyssia in the cockpit as the world spins lazily outside it like the thoughts in her head.

Intellectually, the plover isn't dead, just not powered, and it's been less than half an hour since she clapped eyes on it, but Dyssia is--

Well, she bonds fast, doesn't she? You did good, little plover, and you're gonna get a name after this. Something cat-themed. Would that be offensive to the kitties on board? Not a lion or whatever kind of cat Mosaic is. Something sleek and prowling, all underbrush and treetops and sudden teeth in your throat.

So, not captured. Pretty cool outcome, all things considered. And in an unpowered plover--what's a good cat name? she can't just call it Tiger, can she? Adjective-noun? Noun-possessive? Tiger's Roar? Do tigers roar? Tigerclaw?--she's basically anonymous. A bit of space debris, to be ignored and swept up after the battle or, more likely, abandoned if inconvenient.

That means she can, if needed, figure out the new rules of the puzzle. She has time, that most blessed resource, to think and plan.

It also means that, the second she sheds the Tiger's Fang,--mmm, no, not right, too aggressive, too typical, something florid? Descriptive?--the second she sheds the plover, she's the center of attention. A Knight, surrounded, bereft of legions? A feather in someone's cap, to be sure. And let's be honest, a threat too large to be ignored.

So that just means she needs to jump out at the best time to--

She scrambles, presses her face against the cockpit glass, confirms what she'd barely glimpsed as the cockpit spun past. Hits the emergency explosives on the cockpit, pushes the plate of glass out, bellows a warcry from the top of the Electric Tiger, draws all attention to herself.

Here she is! A knight of the Publica, a beacon of sparking red against the rainbow of the night, grav-rail spinning up to whip a dead plover through a clump of enemy like skittles. Hear her! Fight her!

Pay no attention to the dead plover, spinning its way towards your reactor!

[Keep Them Busy: 2,3,+1. [6]]

Breathless Dead

So, you may not know this, but Dyssia really likes puzzles.

(Okay, you probably realized, but still.)

But it. It has to be the right kind of puzzle, if that makes sense? She's been presented with puzzles before--by some servitor or tutor or other who she's ashamed she doesn't remember the name of--where the goal of the puzzle was to figure out, from first principles, the rules of the puzzle by trial and error. Is this the solution? No. Well, how about this? Okay, yes, that works, and what does that mean the rule of the puzzle is? Shall we do another puzzle so you can solidify your grasp of the rules of the puzzle?

And it's fun, for, you know, about as long as it takes for multiple mechanics to enter the puzzle. That's the point when, whoops, sorry, all the lessons you learned about the previous puzzle mechanics no longer apply, and you're back to square one of staring blankly at a puzzle while questioning what you're doing with your life, and plugging in random solutions in the hopes that somehow it'll yield paydirt, and then having to go back and remember what the solution was so you can figure out what the new rules are, and--

Give her a puzzle where the rules are known, and explained. Give her the tools for success. And then you're free to add more mechanics, more complexity. Show her how they interact with the first. Drip-feed new mechanics in until the puzzle is a mess of thirty different interacting sets of rules, infinitely but--and this is the important part--understandably complex.

Dyssia's in heaven. She understands this game, knows how to play it, and all she has to do is keep track of a thousand different pieces all moving at the same time, while also keeping track of her own umbilical, those of her partners, and the way that her movements will whiplash the cords and cables to and fro, sending herself and others careening like pinballs in a blender.

The plover's been modified, can you tell? Some considerate servitor has emptied it out, hollowed out space, made cubbies and nests to fit an additional twenty feet of tail. It feels cozy, almost? Like being wrapped in a full-body hug, caressing and embracing from all directions. Insulation and padding both, turning the screech of howling metal and screeching engine to purrs.

Ember soars ahead of her--above her?--elegant and graceful, while Dyssia guards the cables, one long, soaring, whiplike, one stout, restrained, protected. It's a dance where one partner must mind and counter the consequences of five seconds into the future.

And Dyssia is ready--ready!--when the time comes for the reversal. For when the swarm, seeing the pattern, turns to strike, and she is not where they seek. When the time comes to surge ahead, spinning around each other's cables like a whip, like a trebuchet, to bowl into the center of the swarm, and--

[Finish with Courage: 1, 1, +1. 3.]

And it occurs to her, as the swarm closes around her, that she doesn't have the benefit of trial and error in this puzzle.

Breathless Dead

She stands in the hanger, ablaze with rubies and citrines, a wash of red and orange. She is a prince among princes, war chief among war chiefs, tall and dignified and proud, and she can barely see the gently curving horizon of the ship for the enormity of her own guilt.

How had she missed the shrine?

She'd been in there! She'd been working in it for hours! At any time, if she'd looked up! If, if, if! Could have seen the shrine, could have recognized it--

Could she have seen it for what it was? Athena and Ares are ancient. Relics, barely taught except as a, you know, a historical curiosity? It's like, you don't see the things that aren't there, but she was in charge of consecrating the temple! She should have been better at seeing the things that weren't there!

It was her job, and now everyone is in danger because she didn't do it right, and it's maddening that they're all treating her as if they don't blame her for it?

It stings, just a bit--okay, a lot a bit--that she isn't in charge of fixing her own mistake. That one of the Silver Divers is leading the action there, while she's been granted a mech of her own to help lead the fight against the enemies.

Granted a token! A symbol of trust, of value, of "come back alive," of--

She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, as if to shake off the thoughts.

Gosh, it's weird to see one of these? To find one of the behemoths, the relics, the frozen statues with hermits on their heads, shrunk down in miniature? To be given it, to customize, to paint, to name--

Slowly, as if waking from a dream, she turns to Little Ember.

"Shall we say, more people defended? That's our goal, after all. We defend this ship, we defend each other, that shall be our wager."

Breathless Dead

Fuck, it's been.

It's been.

The fact that she can't remember how long it's been is probably a bad sign of how long it's been.

Because on the one hand, it's like. Sure, she's had time? Right? Part of the perks of being an Azura is that the system is, you know, designed around making sure you don't notice how much time goes into making sure you have time? To the point that once you notice it, it's, wow, it's a lot, and how didn't you notice that before?

Actually a lot of things are like that, now that she thinks about it? It's the point is that you're not supposed to see it. It's supposed to be a background radiation of heinous shit, invisible in its omnipresence.

Like, not wrong? Not wrong at all, in that even now, even this far from home, this far from everything, she still carries home with her like… Like an anchor? Except the anchor is actually everywhere because it's in her head and--

But also she's spent the past few months learning that you can't not plan? Not planning is a good way to get yourself taken over by Pix, or for you to find out that whoops, these two species aren't compatible and are crafting their own civilization out of bones?

Honestly, not sure what she expected. 'S illuminating, innit, but there's a reason that Dionysus isn't the god of kingship.

There's gotta be an in between. She's just gotta find out what it is, or, you know, failing that, make it.

Breathless Dead

There is, of course, only one answer.

To be clear, Dionysus isn't a patron god. Like, she's not offering oblations only to him, this is a temple to all the gods, which is what a ship needs, because otherwise gods get pissy and ships get piece-y-d.

But she made a promise. That was the deal, right? She got out of this--somehow, miraculously, godsped--and in the new heart of the growing acropolis, Dyssia works with quiet intensity. It's…

It's like, if she says she's focusing, that gives the wrong impression? It's not that she's shutting out the world.

It's that the world, in this instant, is made entirely of haze. Incense, half sweet, half noxious. The grit of mortar under her claws, a pleasant warmth sitting in her gut, a burning wearing away in her throat. She works not like a machine, but like a being entranced.

What is she working towards? Here, she has the attention of a god, purple pressing in from all directions.

That's the question bouncing around her mind, really, the one she's murmuring under her breath with every brick, every sacrifice, every offering. She knows what the world looks like under Apollo. Or at least, you know, under people who think they're doing what Apollo wants, and he hasn't disabused them of the notion yet?

Apollo is a god of prophecy. Dionysus offers mad sights.

Visit her with a dream of what's at the end of this road. What does Dionysus's perfect world look like?

Breathless Dead

And you know, it'd be so much easier if she weren't also standing inside the lever, right?

It's like, if she were on solid ground outside the ship--or, you know, not actually on the ground because ew, touching down, no thanks, but outside floating in a position where she can monitor the ship's progress through the air--it'd be so much simpler to place the singularities that'll keep the ship ascending slowly and gradually, not too quickly, not too slowly, smoothly and without bumps.

Because, you know, you'd be able to see the motion as it's happening, see where you need to muster your, eheh, forces, and, and here's the big deal, the lever isn't slamming you around as you're doing it?

She's doing her best to be gentle as she coaxes it up and out of the surf. This'd be so much simpler with a battlesphere, or something of the like--you just tell it which way to fall, instead of deliberately creating microsingularities in bursts. One big thrust, powered by your own gravity, instead of trying to pilot a baby deer across an icy lake with a jetpack while also sitting on the jetpack.

But also…

In the weirdest way, it's almost fun? It's like a game, but one where everyone gets shaken about if she fucks it up.

No, no, game is the wrong word. A puzzle. A challenge of wits between herself and the forces of nature. A high-paced puzzle with enormous consequences, but one which demands her everything as she's doing it. One hundred percent focus, total immersion.

Initially, she tries to insulate herself from the shocks by flying. You know, no touching means no shakes means in theory more accurate microsingularities. But after getting thrown about a few times, it hits her: it also means no feedback.

The second she touches down, it's instantly easier. She's still guessing where to place them, guessing which direction the ship needs to be pulled--but for every movement she makes, the ship lurches one way or the other, and as she goes, she learns to listen to the ship. Listen to its groans, its movements, and give it what it needs like a protective mother tending a child.

It's strange. She spent months aboard the Firetree, and she doesn't think she knows it as well as she's getting to know this ship.

Breathless Dead

"You know, I used to think that way too?"

God, it's only been.

… carry the two.

Shit. It hasn't been years, has it? Has to be year, singular, no s. Her mind doesn't fit the s, somehow.

"In the stories, it's easy to focus on the capital-H Hero, you know? Or Heroine, or whatever. One big shining star who comes in and solves the problem, defeats the monster of the week, and sails off into the sunset triumphant.

"And it gets worse if you're facing a super big problem, right? Because if you're the only one who can solve the problem, then in the time it takes you to fix one problem, fifteen more problems spring up in their place, like a hydra!"

Except, you know, possibly thornier, in that the hydras are also making more hydras who are super into hydras, and view hydras as a good thing?

"But the thing is, there might be heroes, yeah, and diplomats and legends in every field, but all of them are propped up by people who are working just as hard for none of the credit. If I'd shown up alone, I'd have been blown out of the sky by the Knight's legions.

"All of which is a long way to say, I see you, Vasilia. I wish I'd gotten here faster, and I’m sorry I didn't, but even if Mosaic is stealing your thunder, I'm still looking at this and going, wow."

Breathless Dead

Where the hell did she get a grav-rail?

Dyssia doesn't stalk through the flooded belly of the ship, because stalking is. You know, it's a very physical word, is stalking? Has all sorts of implications about like, positioning and hunting and probably sniffing the air or something. And you can't really stalk when you're using a gravrail to hover. But it also has implications of like, you can stalk your prey, or you can stalk imperiously, and she's doing the second one while hovering? Does that count?

Orders, is the point. She's coordinating the efforts, all but feeling the ship move under her. Which is, of course, physically impossible, see above RE: floating, but still? She's leading the song, the call and return call of hauling, all while she and Vasilia work.

And, again, where the hell did she get one? She shouldn't be bothered by it. But she is?

Not because it's Vasilia, to be clear! Or because she's a servitor, though, yeah, that's kinda weird? It's not completely alien for servitors to use a rail? Ceronians use them? But also Ceronians usually take them as plunder, as treasured relics?

But Vasilia's been… It's like, she can see that Vasilia has been trained? And trained by an expert? She knows the forms, and she knows the extensions of the forms? And she's obviously practiced, the movements fluid and natural?

But also anybody who's trained knows she's doing it wrong? Doing all the math wrong, not showing her work, and somehow coming to the right answer?

She shouldn't have let Vasilia help. Like, it can only go badly to have two people of different skill levels playing with gravity in the same space? But also she can't help but want to see what the cat can do. She's fascinating.

Breathless Dead

Holy shit, she's like a hero out of the storybooks.

The demigod, to be clear? Dyssia isn't that far off from what you'd see on the cover art, right? Noble, heroic, triumphant, unscathed after a campaign of painting another corner of space Apollonian blue--except for all the ways she's not those things, and actually painting a cover art of anyone dressed in red would be a good way to get odd looks from your peers--but still, at least heroic.

But the demigod--shit, right, listening--Mosaic, fuck that's a pretty name, is. Well, it's not like she could point to anything in particular. The blood, the scratches, the ripped clothing, the--gods, she looks like shit, someone get a medic please?--the all of it? It's like. No one thing in particular screams leader, but it's only because everything about her is crying King.

She has Ceronians following her. Honest-to-god Ceronians! An entire band!

Fuck she's glad she brought the diplomats.

Bureaucrats? Diplogats! Diplodocats, the hit new series about dinosaur kitty diplomats!

Point is, she can already see about fifteen ways for this to fracture--noses sniffing, whipping tails, bristling fur--even in the midst of the chaos, and she's glad there's someone here to help to smooth things over.

Not that she's entirely sure she needs it, because holy shit? Did we cover holy shit? It's worth saying again, because holy shit, she's pretty sure this Mosaic could smooth things over by herself.

"Did I-"

And here, she pauses, because inflections are important. It's just… it's so hard to get things right, you know? A hesiation, a phrase said wrong, and suddenly it sounds sarcastic and that's not what she's going for and you have a friend who's not talking to you or maybe even don't have a friend anymore, and that's not what she wants.

"Hero of Beri," she starts again, pouring as much sincerity as she can into the words, as much of the holy shit and admiration in her brain as will fit into three words. Hero of Beri, as honest compliment and title and acknowledgement of yes you are, are you kidding me you just threw a fuckin' city through a starship don't you dare gimme that self-deprecating crap. Hero of Beri, as the start of what she's pretty sure is gonna be a much longer list of titles.

"My name is Dyssia, I'm a knight of the Publica, and I'm here to help."

She stares at the beach again, counting heads.

"I place myself at your command, Mosaic. May I suggest we start by getting this ship in the air?"