Fetzen
Phoe
Lurking Krog[posted in wrong window, cannot delete]
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We wouldn't be coming to him, she wants to say. She's not suicidal, not stupid, she knows that assaulting his stronghold is insane.
But… If we're talking about them being deployed against us, then we don't have to. If they're a concern, it's because we worry he might send them against us. That means that all we have to do is survive one battle in good enough condition to pick up as many as we can on the way out.
If. If we survive. Fuck, she hates that word.
If. Not survive, obviously. Survive is a great word, If is less good. If means--
Reality sucks, you know that? She always knew they were fighting a losing battle, but hearing it laid out in numbers by someone who's much better at numbers than her really highlights it, lays it bare.
They're not a threat!
But they are. Not because the crew of the Plousios is a military power, but because they're a cultural threat. They represent a chance of something different, an idea apart from empire. Let one idea grow, and suddenly people get the idea that the status quo might be possible to change.
No matter how it might feel on the other end, for the ones who have to do the changing.
Surely missing one or two is--Liquid Bronze wouldn't even notice, right? They're insignificant to him, disposable, he proves it by how he made them.
But they're also his magnum opus. Losing even one is to set loose a new, uncontrollable warrior servitor species to rival the Ceronians.
How like an Azura to make a weapon with a built-in casus belli.
Psh. Like they fuckin' need one, right now. Planet lost, town stolen, knight dead, rogue servitors in an imperial ship about to go who the fuck knows where, least of all her.
Through a star, apparently.
It's the right thing to help them. It is! It one-hundred-percent is the moral thing to do.
And it's--
It's not impossible, insists the treacherous mental censor. You could pull it off.
All it would cost you is everything, but it could be done. It's the right thing to do.
It'd be suicidal to pursue it. Destructive, not to just herself, but to everyone who follows her. All of her Pix? Gone. Her newfound friends? Dead, to no end. An angry mosquito, hurling itself and everyone they care about at a bug zapper in a last, meaningless 'fuck you' to the universe.
It still reeks of cowardice to her own mind, though.
It'd mean losing Brightberry.
"I assume we'd survive blasting through a star," she grudgingly says, at last. "Make us hard to follow, or at least worth leaving alone."
But… If we're talking about them being deployed against us, then we don't have to. If they're a concern, it's because we worry he might send them against us. That means that all we have to do is survive one battle in good enough condition to pick up as many as we can on the way out.
If. If we survive. Fuck, she hates that word.
If. Not survive, obviously. Survive is a great word, If is less good. If means--
Reality sucks, you know that? She always knew they were fighting a losing battle, but hearing it laid out in numbers by someone who's much better at numbers than her really highlights it, lays it bare.
They're not a threat!
But they are. Not because the crew of the Plousios is a military power, but because they're a cultural threat. They represent a chance of something different, an idea apart from empire. Let one idea grow, and suddenly people get the idea that the status quo might be possible to change.
No matter how it might feel on the other end, for the ones who have to do the changing.
Surely missing one or two is--Liquid Bronze wouldn't even notice, right? They're insignificant to him, disposable, he proves it by how he made them.
But they're also his magnum opus. Losing even one is to set loose a new, uncontrollable warrior servitor species to rival the Ceronians.
How like an Azura to make a weapon with a built-in casus belli.
Psh. Like they fuckin' need one, right now. Planet lost, town stolen, knight dead, rogue servitors in an imperial ship about to go who the fuck knows where, least of all her.
Through a star, apparently.
It's the right thing to help them. It is! It one-hundred-percent is the moral thing to do.
And it's--
It's not impossible, insists the treacherous mental censor. You could pull it off.
All it would cost you is everything, but it could be done. It's the right thing to do.
It'd be suicidal to pursue it. Destructive, not to just herself, but to everyone who follows her. All of her Pix? Gone. Her newfound friends? Dead, to no end. An angry mosquito, hurling itself and everyone they care about at a bug zapper in a last, meaningless 'fuck you' to the universe.
It still reeks of cowardice to her own mind, though.
It'd mean losing Brightberry.
"I assume we'd survive blasting through a star," she grudgingly says, at last. "Make us hard to follow, or at least worth leaving alone."
That--
She hasn't felt this sick since she stood from a desk and beheld Aphrodite holding her triumph.
Behold, the triumphs of biomancy!
It isn't even from the perspective of trying to fight that, although, holy shit, we gotta talk about that. It's--
When you die, is the you that's reborn the same you as the one that died? Would they need Ikarani-fast memories and learning if they did? They're servitors--Is each one a separate soul? Are you sharing one soul with hundreds--millions--of the same-but-different yous that came before?
Servitors, with lifetime measured in weeks. Weeks, instead of--
You don't have to do this! Making their lives so short is, is, is pointlessly cruel! Is it purely for the Ikarani learning? Is it so they do not realize their plight and rise? Can't be a threat if any one given leader is gone in a month!
She has to lean against something, just to catch her breath. Let her heart stop hammering, stop beating with the--
A month! A month, for real? You can't-- Fucking monstrous--
She blinks hard, and realizes tears are there, squeezing from the corners.
"We have to--"
Dyssia swallows, hard, forces the knot down her throat and tries again.
"We can't let Liquid Bronze have them."
And again, rushing, as if to clarify:
"Not because they're a threat, because holy shit are they a threat. But Liquid Bronze's made a self-destructing, self-genociding, race of servitors."
The immensity of the task ahead is--
How do you save everyone? You can kidnap some, raise them as best you can, give them happiness, give them support, raise them as people, raise them as, as, not as godsdamn weapons, not as disposable self-genociding trash, with--
But Liquid Bronze still has the mold! Still has the secret to making them! To creating people, born to die, born to explode, born to--
She swallows again.
"Eight hours. Eight hours to finish the battle, gather the eggs, escape, and start to raise a new generation. We have to try."
She hasn't felt this sick since she stood from a desk and beheld Aphrodite holding her triumph.
Behold, the triumphs of biomancy!
It isn't even from the perspective of trying to fight that, although, holy shit, we gotta talk about that. It's--
When you die, is the you that's reborn the same you as the one that died? Would they need Ikarani-fast memories and learning if they did? They're servitors--Is each one a separate soul? Are you sharing one soul with hundreds--millions--of the same-but-different yous that came before?
Servitors, with lifetime measured in weeks. Weeks, instead of--
You don't have to do this! Making their lives so short is, is, is pointlessly cruel! Is it purely for the Ikarani learning? Is it so they do not realize their plight and rise? Can't be a threat if any one given leader is gone in a month!
She has to lean against something, just to catch her breath. Let her heart stop hammering, stop beating with the--
A month! A month, for real? You can't-- Fucking monstrous--
She blinks hard, and realizes tears are there, squeezing from the corners.
"We have to--"
Dyssia swallows, hard, forces the knot down her throat and tries again.
"We can't let Liquid Bronze have them."
And again, rushing, as if to clarify:
"Not because they're a threat, because holy shit are they a threat. But Liquid Bronze's made a self-destructing, self-genociding, race of servitors."
The immensity of the task ahead is--
How do you save everyone? You can kidnap some, raise them as best you can, give them happiness, give them support, raise them as people, raise them as, as, not as godsdamn weapons, not as disposable self-genociding trash, with--
But Liquid Bronze still has the mold! Still has the secret to making them! To creating people, born to die, born to explode, born to--
She swallows again.
"Eight hours. Eight hours to finish the battle, gather the eggs, escape, and start to raise a new generation. We have to try."
Huh. It's kind of flattering to think that they count as an existential threat. You wouldn't think just one ship would merit that.
Granted, yeah, it's an imperial warship. Which means basically full access to the galaxy, without needing to stay coastal and use the regular shipping lanes. Full of Ceronians and three-quarter--
Actually, you know what, retiring that joke. The Pix are more than just tinier Ceronians. If there's anybody who oughtta know that, it's her.
Buncha clingy rapscallions. Fuck, she doesn't know what she'd do without them.
Anyway. Imperial warship with access to the entire galaxy, full of two full complements of warrior servitors, as well as seemingly half-a-planet's worth of support servitors. All led, she just knows people will assume, by a knight. Which is fair, because, you know, they still haven't spent five seconds with Mosaic.
God, she wishes--
Well, she doesn't wish she could go home. But she kind of wishes she could see the look on Merilt's face if she ever found out. Fuck, they're an existential threat.
Which means, of course, the naturally disproportionate response.
Honestly, she kind of wishes she could talk to the Oracle again. Talk about cats. She's met this super cool one recently, you know?
"So running doesn't work, then. We can't provide nearly the level of sacrifice they can. If they want to find us, they will. Do we have intel on the new drone species? How hard would it be to get someone less psychopathic into the role? Any counter-assassination prospects? What options do we have that don't end with us swarmed with drones?"
Granted, yeah, it's an imperial warship. Which means basically full access to the galaxy, without needing to stay coastal and use the regular shipping lanes. Full of Ceronians and three-quarter--
Actually, you know what, retiring that joke. The Pix are more than just tinier Ceronians. If there's anybody who oughtta know that, it's her.
Buncha clingy rapscallions. Fuck, she doesn't know what she'd do without them.
Anyway. Imperial warship with access to the entire galaxy, full of two full complements of warrior servitors, as well as seemingly half-a-planet's worth of support servitors. All led, she just knows people will assume, by a knight. Which is fair, because, you know, they still haven't spent five seconds with Mosaic.
God, she wishes--
Well, she doesn't wish she could go home. But she kind of wishes she could see the look on Merilt's face if she ever found out. Fuck, they're an existential threat.
Which means, of course, the naturally disproportionate response.
Honestly, she kind of wishes she could talk to the Oracle again. Talk about cats. She's met this super cool one recently, you know?
"So running doesn't work, then. We can't provide nearly the level of sacrifice they can. If they want to find us, they will. Do we have intel on the new drone species? How hard would it be to get someone less psychopathic into the role? Any counter-assassination prospects? What options do we have that don't end with us swarmed with drones?"
Hmm. Maybe if she--
No, no, uh, let's try--
Negative. Nope, nuh-uh, nix.
You know, she read a story once about a king who cut a sleeve off his robe to avoid disturbing his sleeping lover? Privately, it always struck her as kind of a weird story because, y'know, cutting even a nice robe is pretty meaningless when you have hundreds of robes like it? Even a minor nobody like her had a closet full of them?
How would the king escape if both arms, torso, and tail were pinned? Did the story cover that? She's pretty sure it'd be outside the scope of the tale, which is frustrating.
Also it doesn't really address the question? The answer is normally "grudgingly, at somebody else's behest." Like, if the sun wakes her up, great, she can accept that with good grace and a note to bundle the curtains tighter tonight.
Not that that actually works in, you know, space, but it still feels like--
Like, you know, for her sanity she has to pretend there's a day and a night that happens, outside of herself?
Or, failing that, if there's absolutely something that has to happen, it's normally something like a cascading series of servitors: wake up, it is two hours to the thing. Wake up, it is one hour to the thing. Wake up, it is twenty minutes to the thing. Okay, five minutes, actually time to get up and going and churning.
Fuck, she really doesn't want to get out of bed. Foxgirls, right? Who knew? Perfect blanket analogue. Warm, fuzzy, heavy, capable of licks and snuggles.
None of which makes it easier to get out of bed, and in fact judging by the deathgrip somebody--Oddja, maybe?--has on her wrist, actively makes it harder.
So. So so so. Priorities.
First priority source a new grav-rail. Be so much simpler to make her way to the edge of the carpet of foxgirl if she did not, in fact, need to make her way directly over it.
Under? Under appeals. Tunnel through, gingerly shifting through bodies without, at any point, pressing on them. Risky. Risky. Less risky than over. Work with it.
Free the wrist? Pros: easier to escape everything else with one wrist. Cons: how to free the wrist? Could dislocate the thumb, but first, ow, second, easier to just--you know--wriggle it just that--got it!
So, one limb free. Progress.
Carefully, she burrows through the pile until she's able to scrabble free from the edge. Never goes too far from the pile, though--she's not going to disappear on them again.
"I." Swallow, remuster. "I'm sorry for getting captured."
No, no, uh, let's try--
Negative. Nope, nuh-uh, nix.
You know, she read a story once about a king who cut a sleeve off his robe to avoid disturbing his sleeping lover? Privately, it always struck her as kind of a weird story because, y'know, cutting even a nice robe is pretty meaningless when you have hundreds of robes like it? Even a minor nobody like her had a closet full of them?
How would the king escape if both arms, torso, and tail were pinned? Did the story cover that? She's pretty sure it'd be outside the scope of the tale, which is frustrating.
Also it doesn't really address the question? The answer is normally "grudgingly, at somebody else's behest." Like, if the sun wakes her up, great, she can accept that with good grace and a note to bundle the curtains tighter tonight.
Not that that actually works in, you know, space, but it still feels like--
Like, you know, for her sanity she has to pretend there's a day and a night that happens, outside of herself?
Or, failing that, if there's absolutely something that has to happen, it's normally something like a cascading series of servitors: wake up, it is two hours to the thing. Wake up, it is one hour to the thing. Wake up, it is twenty minutes to the thing. Okay, five minutes, actually time to get up and going and churning.
Fuck, she really doesn't want to get out of bed. Foxgirls, right? Who knew? Perfect blanket analogue. Warm, fuzzy, heavy, capable of licks and snuggles.
None of which makes it easier to get out of bed, and in fact judging by the deathgrip somebody--Oddja, maybe?--has on her wrist, actively makes it harder.
So. So so so. Priorities.
First priority source a new grav-rail. Be so much simpler to make her way to the edge of the carpet of foxgirl if she did not, in fact, need to make her way directly over it.
Under? Under appeals. Tunnel through, gingerly shifting through bodies without, at any point, pressing on them. Risky. Risky. Less risky than over. Work with it.
Free the wrist? Pros: easier to escape everything else with one wrist. Cons: how to free the wrist? Could dislocate the thumb, but first, ow, second, easier to just--you know--wriggle it just that--got it!
So, one limb free. Progress.
Carefully, she burrows through the pile until she's able to scrabble free from the edge. Never goes too far from the pile, though--she's not going to disappear on them again.
"I." Swallow, remuster. "I'm sorry for getting captured."
Oh, this is going to end poorly, but she can't be bothered to care. She needed this, needed it more than food or air. This press of bodies, this desperation, this--
It's like, everyone is so distant. Every Azura is so distant, she corrects herself--plenty of servitors willing to touch and share, even if only incidentally. But for Azura, words and distance and formality and politics and--
She's openly weeping, hugging back, desperate to touch as many as she can, hug as many as she can.
You can only call it love, right?
Well. I mean, you could call it a lot of things. Family is actually probably a better word, now that she thinks of it. That intimacy, the easy touches, the--
Would it be weird to date one of them? Feels like it would be, with the power differential? Like, even if they put aside the relationships of Azura to servitor, it'd feel like it's taking advantage of the knight-soldier relationship?
Hold that thought. Examine it later. Unpack it, look at it from weird angles.
Right now, she has foxgirls to cuddle and reassure.
She has a family to care for.
It's like, everyone is so distant. Every Azura is so distant, she corrects herself--plenty of servitors willing to touch and share, even if only incidentally. But for Azura, words and distance and formality and politics and--
She's openly weeping, hugging back, desperate to touch as many as she can, hug as many as she can.
You can only call it love, right?
Well. I mean, you could call it a lot of things. Family is actually probably a better word, now that she thinks of it. That intimacy, the easy touches, the--
Would it be weird to date one of them? Feels like it would be, with the power differential? Like, even if they put aside the relationships of Azura to servitor, it'd feel like it's taking advantage of the knight-soldier relationship?
Hold that thought. Examine it later. Unpack it, look at it from weird angles.
Right now, she has foxgirls to cuddle and reassure.
She has a family to care for.
Her teachers would be furious. Idiotic, foolish, silly girl, to spend so much time and effort on someone who… Was she real? Did she exist? Does she exist, still, somewhere else, scrambling and recovering and checking for tigers? Silly, to work so hard and risk so much for someone who--
It's like, she doesn't even know that Composite actually is a Dyssia? If the philosophers are right?
But she can't bring herself to feel silly for it. Can't, won't, internalize that she should stop fighting, even if it's just to save herself.
(And isn't that a telling phrasing, her inner thought-checker remarks. So much easier to keep going to save someone else than it is to rest for your own good.)
Composite is out there, her gut insists. Alive because of her.
And it's like--the philosophers can't be right, right? Because she's pretty damn sure that this would be a firm memory in her own mind. Unless it's been a super-long lifetime, which, you know, could in theory happen? Not exactly likely, given the trajectory her life is taking--criminals and traitors tend to either win or have much, much shorter lives than normal--which could be a good sign? If she has a lifespan long enough to forget about this encounter, either it means that the rest of her life is so much worse than this that it wipes this encounter out of her mind, or it means that they win.
Um. Derailed train of thought. Right the cars, reassemble the rails.
Philosophers are wrong, she's almost sure of it. Can't be certain, not 100%, not without asking Mosaic to--do you think she'd--no, no, she's busy, can't grab the sword, she'd--
She starts to shoo away the shieldbearer. Can't you see she's busy, she's occuppied, she needs to help, needs a spear, give her your spear, needs to help, and--
Carefully, Dyssia fishes the knot of ribbon out of the corner of her cheek, and does her best to unfold it, wring the moisture out of it, irons out the wrinkles between her palms.
She made a promise.
Oh, she knows what the promise meant. Knows that returning the ribbon doesn't mean she didn't break her promise. Knows she deliberately broke her word and, yeah, maybe turned the right, but still.
Wants to fight. Wants to advance on the spotlight, paint her regret, paint her apology over the scene, write how much she wants to help in the sky.
But the actual apology--more than helping, more than words, more than giving back a ribbon here and now--has to start with action. She broke her word. Mosaic, she's going to start by keeping it now, making sure she gets home safe, and trusting you to come back to her so she can give you her ribbon back.
And, she thinks as she ducks under the shield, maybe things might be alright in the end.
It's like, she doesn't even know that Composite actually is a Dyssia? If the philosophers are right?
But she can't bring herself to feel silly for it. Can't, won't, internalize that she should stop fighting, even if it's just to save herself.
(And isn't that a telling phrasing, her inner thought-checker remarks. So much easier to keep going to save someone else than it is to rest for your own good.)
Composite is out there, her gut insists. Alive because of her.
And it's like--the philosophers can't be right, right? Because she's pretty damn sure that this would be a firm memory in her own mind. Unless it's been a super-long lifetime, which, you know, could in theory happen? Not exactly likely, given the trajectory her life is taking--criminals and traitors tend to either win or have much, much shorter lives than normal--which could be a good sign? If she has a lifespan long enough to forget about this encounter, either it means that the rest of her life is so much worse than this that it wipes this encounter out of her mind, or it means that they win.
Um. Derailed train of thought. Right the cars, reassemble the rails.
Philosophers are wrong, she's almost sure of it. Can't be certain, not 100%, not without asking Mosaic to--do you think she'd--no, no, she's busy, can't grab the sword, she'd--
She starts to shoo away the shieldbearer. Can't you see she's busy, she's occuppied, she needs to help, needs a spear, give her your spear, needs to help, and--
Carefully, Dyssia fishes the knot of ribbon out of the corner of her cheek, and does her best to unfold it, wring the moisture out of it, irons out the wrinkles between her palms.
She made a promise.
Oh, she knows what the promise meant. Knows that returning the ribbon doesn't mean she didn't break her promise. Knows she deliberately broke her word and, yeah, maybe turned the right, but still.
Wants to fight. Wants to advance on the spotlight, paint her regret, paint her apology over the scene, write how much she wants to help in the sky.
But the actual apology--more than helping, more than words, more than giving back a ribbon here and now--has to start with action. She broke her word. Mosaic, she's going to start by keeping it now, making sure she gets home safe, and trusting you to come back to her so she can give you her ribbon back.
And, she thinks as she ducks under the shield, maybe things might be alright in the end.
How would she cook an Azura?
It's a terrible thought to have at a moment like this, says the little bit behind the eyes that watches the other thoughts, that thinks about how she thinks, that banks the anger for later, saves it up.
Probably slow cooking. Big animal, tons of fat. Roast, spit over a fire. Break down the meat, melt the fat into flavor.
Idle thoughts. Pointless. A distraction. Shouldn't be thinking of eating, being eaten. Wouldn't want someone thinking of how to cook her. Hopes her other self isn't thinking the same thing. Hopes her other self is better than her.
Honestly, yeah, that is the hope. Because she knows that if it came down to her or herself, she--god, this terminology is confusing--if the only way she, Dyssia Prime, could survive was by shoving Dyssia Composite into a meatgrinder of teeth then… Well, she's hoping that Dyssia Composite is as good or better than she is, because Dyssia Prime would rather keep her clone alive.
Dumb. She knows it's dumb. It's gonna get her called naïve. There's no guaranteed that Dyssia Composite would even stick around, or help her friends. Shoving her to her death means she survives, means she gets to make it back to her friends, means she can help so many more people. One person, in exchange for all of that.
Is that what her clone is thinking too? The twitch in the back, that clench of muscles--are they bunched in preparation for the shove?
A ribbon drifts into the pit.
It's a false dichotomy. Kill or be killed. Feed or be fed on. A false choice. It's there, she acknowledges what it says about her, can admit what she would have done had she had to make it, but it's not the only option.
It's not her ribbon, though. She can still feel it clenched into the corner of her mouth, a knot of torn, burnt scrap, solid like an anchor between her teeth.
A second. A third, drifting through the smoke and darkness like a piece of meandering dawn. Like a messager bearing news to a besieged castle.
It's a gamble, is what it is. Is her clone thinking what she's thinking?
There's no time to verify.
She's big, is the thing. The tigers are bigger, yes. More powerful, yes. Faster? She's fat by Azura standards, yes, but that's plush wrapped around a twenty-foot core of whipcord muscle. Bunch the tail, whip it around, and the tip might as well be a hammer in its own right.
She grabs her clone by the wrist, and slithers over the stunned body of one tiger, rushes to the wall.
There's no way for one person to get out of this pit. You could boost someone else out, yes, lift and stand.
But then you'd be at their mercy, and at the mercy of however many tigers are left. You'd need to hope they turn around, offer a rope or an arm or a tail, something to lift you out as well. Hope they don't do the calculus and come to a more sensible conclusion.
Wordlessly, she points to the lip, and offers a step up to her Composite. She'll take that bet, no matter how her heart jumps in her chest, or how it takes a second to restart when her Composite bends to pull her out.
[Get Away, 5, 3, +2. Get there quickly and without harm, while bringing Dyssia Composite with her.]
It's a terrible thought to have at a moment like this, says the little bit behind the eyes that watches the other thoughts, that thinks about how she thinks, that banks the anger for later, saves it up.
Probably slow cooking. Big animal, tons of fat. Roast, spit over a fire. Break down the meat, melt the fat into flavor.
Idle thoughts. Pointless. A distraction. Shouldn't be thinking of eating, being eaten. Wouldn't want someone thinking of how to cook her. Hopes her other self isn't thinking the same thing. Hopes her other self is better than her.
Honestly, yeah, that is the hope. Because she knows that if it came down to her or herself, she--god, this terminology is confusing--if the only way she, Dyssia Prime, could survive was by shoving Dyssia Composite into a meatgrinder of teeth then… Well, she's hoping that Dyssia Composite is as good or better than she is, because Dyssia Prime would rather keep her clone alive.
Dumb. She knows it's dumb. It's gonna get her called naïve. There's no guaranteed that Dyssia Composite would even stick around, or help her friends. Shoving her to her death means she survives, means she gets to make it back to her friends, means she can help so many more people. One person, in exchange for all of that.
Is that what her clone is thinking too? The twitch in the back, that clench of muscles--are they bunched in preparation for the shove?
A ribbon drifts into the pit.
It's a false dichotomy. Kill or be killed. Feed or be fed on. A false choice. It's there, she acknowledges what it says about her, can admit what she would have done had she had to make it, but it's not the only option.
It's not her ribbon, though. She can still feel it clenched into the corner of her mouth, a knot of torn, burnt scrap, solid like an anchor between her teeth.
A second. A third, drifting through the smoke and darkness like a piece of meandering dawn. Like a messager bearing news to a besieged castle.
It's a gamble, is what it is. Is her clone thinking what she's thinking?
There's no time to verify.
She's big, is the thing. The tigers are bigger, yes. More powerful, yes. Faster? She's fat by Azura standards, yes, but that's plush wrapped around a twenty-foot core of whipcord muscle. Bunch the tail, whip it around, and the tip might as well be a hammer in its own right.
She grabs her clone by the wrist, and slithers over the stunned body of one tiger, rushes to the wall.
There's no way for one person to get out of this pit. You could boost someone else out, yes, lift and stand.
But then you'd be at their mercy, and at the mercy of however many tigers are left. You'd need to hope they turn around, offer a rope or an arm or a tail, something to lift you out as well. Hope they don't do the calculus and come to a more sensible conclusion.
Wordlessly, she points to the lip, and offers a step up to her Composite. She'll take that bet, no matter how her heart jumps in her chest, or how it takes a second to restart when her Composite bends to pull her out.
[Get Away, 5, 3, +2. Get there quickly and without harm, while bringing Dyssia Composite with her.]
The stories never talk about this, you know?
Or, you know, they do, but they never actually get across get across just how much solid projectile weapons suck. Never go into the blinding, the choking,
Otherwise, wow, right? Topless, with your own clone, in a pit which in ideal circumstances would be full of mud? Exactly the kind of situation that would make you consider how pro-clone-fucking exactly you are if you weren't, for instance, flat on your face and glad that the arena isn't[ full of mud?
Missed trick there, Tilly, very sloppy.
Growling. At least two. Four? Hard to tell with the tears choking her eyes, the smoke choking her lungs. Stripes through the fog, which shouldn't blend in but also mean she can't accurately latch onto a shape?
She locks eyes with her ghost-clone, communication through expression and flicked eyes. Or, you know, tries, inasmuch as both are pretty much face-down in the not-mud, exhausted. There are benefits to self-knowledge, you know? No need to talk to each other, because if she's thinking it, then she's also thinking it.
Either one of them would be toast right now on their own. Weak, tired, choked, easy prey. But two together can support each other--back to back, as much to cover blindspots as it is to hold each other up, occasionally wobbling as one or the other lashes out with a tail against an encroaching set of teeth and claw.
See that, Tilly? See how stupid your sword is? See what trust does? Eat shit.
And maybe one of the two of her will figure out a lasting solution in time to keep them from being eaten by tigers.
Or, you know, they do, but they never actually get across get across just how much solid projectile weapons suck. Never go into the blinding, the choking,
Otherwise, wow, right? Topless, with your own clone, in a pit which in ideal circumstances would be full of mud? Exactly the kind of situation that would make you consider how pro-clone-fucking exactly you are if you weren't, for instance, flat on your face and glad that the arena isn't[ full of mud?
Missed trick there, Tilly, very sloppy.
Growling. At least two. Four? Hard to tell with the tears choking her eyes, the smoke choking her lungs. Stripes through the fog, which shouldn't blend in but also mean she can't accurately latch onto a shape?
She locks eyes with her ghost-clone, communication through expression and flicked eyes. Or, you know, tries, inasmuch as both are pretty much face-down in the not-mud, exhausted. There are benefits to self-knowledge, you know? No need to talk to each other, because if she's thinking it, then she's also thinking it.
Either one of them would be toast right now on their own. Weak, tired, choked, easy prey. But two together can support each other--back to back, as much to cover blindspots as it is to hold each other up, occasionally wobbling as one or the other lashes out with a tail against an encroaching set of teeth and claw.
See that, Tilly? See how stupid your sword is? See what trust does? Eat shit.
And maybe one of the two of her will figure out a lasting solution in time to keep them from being eaten by tigers.
Kumquat. It's the safeword, chosen primarily for the fun way it sounds, but also because she's never actually used that fruit. Shout it out loud, and--
Well, she likes to think that would work for her. The other her is panicking, unsure, and the safeword cuts through the insecurity and replaces it with "someone is in trouble, go help them."
But there's no guarantee that one word, out of hundreds of thousands, is gonna be their safeword. Could be they like a different fruit, or use kumquat for BDSM somehow.
"You know, they only make these solid projectile rounds in one facility nearby?"
But any version of her the underworld can produce--any version of her that's enough her to be considered as truly her--is going to be distractible.
Or, you know, that's unkind. If you come at her with a weird enough fact, it's gonna derail any mental train of thought. Like, for instance, the fuck, what, where am I. Catch her interest, promise something interesting, keep talking, keep her attention focused on the new thing.
Come, friend, don't you want to listen to an infodump, and maybe be listened to in return?
Well, she likes to think that would work for her. The other her is panicking, unsure, and the safeword cuts through the insecurity and replaces it with "someone is in trouble, go help them."
But there's no guarantee that one word, out of hundreds of thousands, is gonna be their safeword. Could be they like a different fruit, or use kumquat for BDSM somehow.
"You know, they only make these solid projectile rounds in one facility nearby?"
But any version of her the underworld can produce--any version of her that's enough her to be considered as truly her--is going to be distractible.
Or, you know, that's unkind. If you come at her with a weird enough fact, it's gonna derail any mental train of thought. Like, for instance, the fuck, what, where am I. Catch her interest, promise something interesting, keep talking, keep her attention focused on the new thing.
Come, friend, don't you want to listen to an infodump, and maybe be listened to in return?
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