Phoe

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The canyon walls? Bizarre. Nonsensical. She was broadcasting. That's a certainty, vocalized response after final outburst confirms. Retrace memory, activated after? Doesn't line up, definitely broadcasting. Her entire damage report was record between them. Point blank, no opportunity to dodge. Pointless to do so even if it was possible. Nine Drive confirmed incapable of further shielding. Kill shot. Kill shot. And yet, the canyon walls. Why?

Risk of damage to the Bezorel? Absurd. Superior pilot, inferior machine. But protracted battled favored tech edge. Even broken Nine Drive preferable resource to empty missile racks. One limb, slow turn speed, designed for planting and barrage, any tactician on Solarel's level would trade the Bezorel's life for the Gods-Smiting Whip's. Not paying attention, then. No, also absurd. Not her. Not clever, creative, beautiful, desperate her. She knew. Understood the flow of fight, understood the opportunity, passed on it.

Mirror blinks. She is surprised to find herself above the crumbling canyon, still lighting up with explosions as the missiles set off self-destruct mechanisms and trade the Bezorel's capabilities for pyrotechnics. Her hands carried her here on their own, as automatically as they'd dodged that awkward, lancing kick. She has no memory of either maneuver. And suddenly, she understands.

"Set piece," she mutters, "Romantic. Win condition."

She scowls. Every motion on her console is meticulously tracked this time, full focus on the battle as she rushes into the air after Solarel.

"Disingenuous! Foolishness! When have you lost? When? You think you're losing now? Explain! No, do not. Do not bother. You say 'unsolved', but I am marked, marked marked. Marked. You say 'impossible', but I am defeated. Losing, even now. You. Broken machine, broken God. Rusted relic. Me. Honed machine, partner god. But look. At us. Look. At me. Told you. Told you!"

She is a blazing star, burning through the sky. She is a tangled mess of systems built only for communication that can't find any way to bridge this infinite gap, this last impossible inch. If words and signals and expressions and displays and endless training sessions weren't enough to make her heart be heard, maybe this would do the trick. Maybe everything she had would let her touch something soft, sweet, and worth possessing. If not her fingertips then her tongue. If not her tongue then her body. If not her body, then, then... then flip her over one last time, spread her apart, and fucking take her. She'll yield. This once. Promise.

"I chased you. For years. You. Revamped. Nine-Tails. Built Nine Drive. For you. Were your. Eyes shut. Last night? Who did. I want. To see. Me?"

She thrusts her trident through the Bezorel's left foot, vaults over the top of it, and smashes her knee down on the sword arm where it couldn't reach her in riposte. The fight tilts down from the sky and the pair of them come crashing back down to the earth again. The crater they make together breaks the river wall, and floods the hole with rushing water that splashes across their bodies with a burst of deep cold that explodes all at once into scalding steam.

In the hissing, obscuring sauna built for the two of them, the Gods-Smiting Whip hurls its trident away with enough force to bury it halfway up the shaft in the crater wall. Mirror's fingers dance faster than ever, guiding her mecha through the precise and complex motion of snatching several of her Sacred Tails out of the air in each hand. Instead of projectile beams, their tips sprout focused blades, which it spirals in great crescent sweeps, brrrr, brrrr, brrrr, szzzzzt! No more arms, Solarel. No more sword. But you are not finished yet.

"You say. You want. My eyes. To see you. I can't. I can't. I can't. My focus. My attention. My mind. You cannot. Ask more. Of me. You cannot. Stop. My eyes. From wandering. I cannot. Turn off. My mind. Is seeing you. Not enough? You said. It was. Fine. Lies? Even. Now. I am. Thinking. About quilting. There is. Pattern. Want to capture. Show you. Colors. But I cannot. Be what. You say. You want. I am not. The girl. You need. I am. Broken. But you. Are the one. Who broke me. You are. Why. I see. Outside."

Two tails interlock in her hands. Tail Five floats in front of them and connects to form a full spear shaft. Mirror leaps back and plants the Gods-Smiting Whip's feet in a wide stance that hold this spear in front of her, guarding the cockpit from direct fire. There's a rumbling in the air, and blue-white arcs of raw power race across the haft, some even climbing over the Gods-Smiting Whip itself. Suddenly, the energy coalesces into a massive, unstable energy blade more than twice the size of either machine. Just existing makes it vaporize water and melt rock.

And even still, there are tears in Mirror's eyes. She grits her teeth, and tightens her grip on the controls until her fingers feel about to break.

"This is. My. Loss. But I can. Still. Give you this. Because. I love you."

She holds the blade aloft, and armor crumbles from the arm of her own mecha just from the force of it. Joints and servos glint in a sudden burst of lightning strikes the massive plasma configuration.

"Nine Drive System, Full Configuration. First Form. The Fang That Devours. The Sun."

[Fight: 4, 3, +2, +1: 10. Inflicting another condition, seizing a second advantage, and taking a string via flirting. This triggers Feelings 4, and with the Mask dissolving in the presence of Solarel yet again, Mirror makes an immediate additional exchange of strings]

Breathless Dead

'You don't have to follow me.'

Bella watches Redana's retreating back without saying a word in exchange. Her fingers pinch the cold glass, and her eyes dip to stare at the swirling dark red liquid, instead. The name on the side is visible even through the wine. All around her is the sound of panicked cries, clattering bells, and heavy feet running both toward and away from danger. Assassin, assassin is the cry ringing in her ears. Assassin, assassin say the stench of creeping mists. Assassin, assassin whisper the softly blooming flowers that creep along the ground.

'You don't have to follow me.'

She doesn't. Hi Bella bye Bella. It's so clumsy and stupid it makes her want to laugh. She sips at her wine, instead. Not so much as a smile. What would she smile about? It could technically be any of them, she supposes. Assassin, assassin. Her sisters. If Beautiful was awake again she could be capable of anything. Beljani seemed less likely. Harder to set her off, easier to contain her, but even still. Surrounded by Magi she could set off this kind of terror, too.

'I'll come back this time. I promise.'

Bella lifts the glass and drains it in a motion, as has become her custom. She smacks her lips together and winces. This was stolen from her personal stock on the Anemoi, and mulled it as part of some twisted experiment to turn it palatable. Dipshits. What the fuck were cloves and anise supposed to do for something this oily? The orange notes begged for herbs, a lemongrass or something. She should punch whoever was responsible for this.

'I'll come back this time. I promise.'

'Bella, you're okay. You're okay! Oh Hera and Aphrodite, thank you for keeping her safe!'

It won't be her. It can't be her. She's dead. Even though this feels like her, looks like her, smells like her, it's not. She's dead. Bella killed her herself. She is dead and buried and she is not to be trusted in the first place. Bella sniffs the air like an animal, and scowls.

'Pretty disciplined of me, huh?'

'You don't have to follow me this time.'

'so... I'm happy. That's all I wanted. I just wanted you to see...'

'You don't have to follow me this time.'

She's going to be sick. The memories crawl in her head like insects, buzzing and bursting with every fresh flower she notices. Bella paces. She turns back and forth, cracking her tail like a lash as she goes. No. No. No. It can't be. It can't! She can't breathe. Her chest is going to collapse. The walls are creeping closer; soon they will crush her.

'Hey, Bella! How are you doing?'

"...Mynx."

Don't have to follow? Fucks sake, Redana. Of all the times for you to try. Bella spins one final time. The pressure of the blood rushing through her body looks like it could kill her at any moment. But she glides over to Dolce with the poise of a goddess. She puts the signed glass in his hand before he can say anything.

"I don't have anyone else I can... just... make sure it doesn't break. I don't have anything else right now."

She turns her back to him immediately. That treasure was the only thing holding her in place; now that it's been safely handed off, she vanishes like she's been shot out of a cannon. Toward danger. Toward Redana. Toward Mynx. Easier than breathing to run. It's in her blood, after all. She slips between formations of soldiers and under the foot-endings of floating Magi like she was born to move. She has something to protect. Several things. There are things that need to be said.

The further she goes, the more toxic the miasma. She was an idiot to deny the obvious. Bella picks up the place and dives into the thick of it with reckless abandon, but the thicker it gets the more it feels like she's feeling behind instead of catching up. She wheels about and heaves, growling with frustration. Typical Mynx, damn her. Toxins and trickery and lies, there when you don't need her, and find when you want her.

Toxins, and trickery. And softness. Support. Best friend, the only one to ever put up with her bullshit. Toxins. And an antidote for every single one. She puts her hand to the wall, follows it to the floor, and... there! Bella plucks a small white flower from the ground, and pops it stem and all into her mouth. Fuck, it's as bitter anything. That wine would've loved this. And when she swallows, suddenly she can see the golden path unfolding before her. She rushes down it in pursuit of a princess, and a mistake begging to be set right. Whatever the cost, she...

She doesn't have to follow. But she does.

[Overcome: 9. Bella expends a use of her Clever Tricks to make it stick]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Tail one response time below acceptable parameters. Designated unfit for battle operations. Three and Six showing twelve percent list from sight aiming. Target systems unreliable. Energy Transfer Conduits, confirmed damaged. Lowering output by twenty one point three percent to compensate. Tail Five..."

She's still broadcasting. Every word of her assessment is being sent directly to Solarel. She should stop. No, fuck it. Pointless, she'll intuit just as much from the lack of comms. She should lie. No, fuck it. Pointless, accurate information flow is the entire point of intonation to begin with. Pointless. Pointless, pointless, pointless!

"Continues holding overcharge. Remains suitable finisher option, cost of use unknown. Nine Drive System assessment: forty two percent total operational capacity. Further battle not rec-- AAAAAH!"

Mirror's fingers dart across her console. Even with the Gods-Smiting Whip in idle posture her fingers are constantly in motion with stupefying speeds. In the air it resulted in continuous vector adjustments, making her sneakily hard to hit with precision weaponry. But on the ground like this those inputs had to go into smaller things. Tiny weight shifts and maneuvering her trident between offensive postures without committing her to an opening. Her functional tails shift back and forth like a small cluster of fish avoiding a predator, while the damaged ones pivot between targets from her shoulders, never resting on any one spot long enough to provoke a reaction. All to keep her busy during moments of quiet. Because reflex reactions were actually thought reads, and her mecha's response time was necessarily slower than a traditional pilot's. Well, in actual fact it was faster, but the complexity of the control scheme sacrificed macro level movements for micro ones, so moving at an actionable level required her to keep ahead of the fight nine times out of ten. Better to waste motions then to keep muscle memory engaged. It was too risky to respond from neutral.

Until the sniper round cracks across her cockpit. Mirror's eyes widen with shock, surprise, and fury. She may well be crying; even she isn't sure. She commits the cardinal sin. She takes her hands off the joysticks, and away from her buttons. She clutches at her head as if she'd taken neural feedback. She pulls at her hair as if she wants to pull it out by the sheet. When she can't take the pain anymore she reaches behind her head and squeezes the top of her chair until it feels like her fingers are about to break.

The rhythm of her breathing has become irregular and heaving. She is definitely crying; you can tell by the sniffling. And even then, her legs work at the foot pedals to shift Nine-Tails away from the angle of attack she'd just taken.

"What would I do? What would I do!?"

No more typing. No more consideration. She needs her hands for too many other things, the thoughts spin too violently to spare the shift from routine. Crack, crack, crack, crack. The sound of the shot echoes across her plans, her words, her sudden attempts at spinning up consideration for the question she'd been posed. Because she, crack, crack, hadn't, crack, thought about it at all. She seethes, and her hands tremble. She has to keep resetting the position of her hands to keep moving. A tear spatters on her console. In the video feed, it looks like her eye is leaking.

"Why did I ever try to explain myself to you?! You never listen! No matter how much effort I put in, you don't respond! You just say whatever's already on your mind, like a, like a..!"

She falters in the middle of her fury. The only words that come to mind are slurs. [Crossed Stripes], [Color Whore], [Wander Eye]. Terrible names. Her fur darkens with anger that she even thought of them. She clucks her tongue that she couldn't think of any that hadn't been used on her. Her ear twitches toward the sound of a bullet hitting her mecha again, and she cannot tell if it's a memory or a new hit.

"One?"

Her breath hitches. Her eyes flicker across a full dozen screens dumping information every which way, and the thought fizzles. Unsure, unsure. No data. Sense memory. Damn it. What was she? She needs two breaths to pick up the original discarded thought again.

"What would I do?" she asks again with the same intensity as if she'd never vocalized the question in the first place, "Why even ask me? Might as well ask what I'd want to wear if I wasn't disfigured! Ask me how I'd think if my brain worked! Ask me... I'd lose, you idiot! Obviously I'd lose! What potential? Fucking what potential! Fuck your talent. Fuck your riddle. Fuck you. You clearly already see the shape of everything. That's why you're mocking me, right? Because your eyes are clear, and I can't even see past..."

Past her. Past Solarel. That movement. That shot. That... How could? But she? Then... what had, what had, what had (crack, crack), what had been the fucking point of it all? Everything she'd given up every disadvantage of her system was meant to create a thing that only she could hold. She was trying to climb a mountain nobody else could even see. And Solarel was vaulting it blindly, on nothing but her absurd talent. She, she worked, she, but then, what was, what, there was no, no, no no no no...

There was no point to any of it. None at all. Mirror was not a genius. Not even a creative. It hadn't occurred to her to imagine a role reversal in the first place. It hadn't. And now that she was trying, all she could see was failure. Solarel would master the Gods-Smiting Whip before she figured out how to read the information screens. Mirror would still be struggling with the fear of feedback and the sluggishness of her own suddenly huge and freshly mutilated body. What would she do? What would she do, with her volley defeated and her arm cut off? Lose. Lose, lose, lose, lose, lose.

No growth. Stunted. Thinking she was clever, thinking she was unique, that had crushed her completely. Now she was like a child still trying to master basics. No, worse than that. Much worse. A child still had a lifetime to develop mastery, and few preconceptions to overcome. This was like being a machine that had been built wrong from the start. Now she was obsolete before she'd even overcome her limitations. Worth less together than she'd be as scrap. Defeated. Utterly defeated. The light leaves her eyes entirely.

But her hands keep moving. A pair of tails flip in midair and rain gargantuan laser blasts down on the severed arm of the Bezorel until it blows up into a scattered pile of superheated scrap. One weapon off the list. She couldn't understand why she was bothering. But even more than that, she couldn't stop herself. The laser arrays next. The...

A hand more clever than it realizes twists a joystick down. It takes thirty seven button presses inside the duration of the tilt to pull the maneuver off. The Gods-Smiting Whip lunges forward and thrusts its trident directly at the Bezorel's open cockpit. The plasma tips stop just short of skewering it through. It gets so close that the barrel of that sniper rifle grows warm. She follows through with another step and wrenches her weapon backwards in the same motion. Step, pivot, whip crash! She sweeps for the Bezorel's heavy legs and forces it to dodge in whatever awkward way it's capable of.

Show her. Show her. Show her! If you're going to win, then do it while you're taking this seriously!

"Stop. Exposing. Not clever. Even. Idiot. Even myself... Countermeasures. Not as. Clever. As you think it is."

[marking Hopeless]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Da da da, dadaadada, da, da, da."

Wordless. Atonal to a fault. But nevertheless perfectly on rhythm. Mirror's voice guides her fingers across her complicated control board and serenades her once upon a time lover at the same time. The first time they fought, she used song lyrics as a shorthand to guide her through the list of best-use responses and macros. The words were meant to be a focus, something to turn her hands over to a part of her brain that wasn't being used to notice stimuli or create plans. Picking familiar phrases often overhead in the background while doing work to push the movement all the way down into the realm of memory.

Total disaster. Calling to mind actual songs put the music in her mind, and the rhythm was inevitably slightly off to very off from the patterns of an actual battle. The worst thing was that none of her field tests had revealed it as a weakness! It took Solarel, with her constant shifts and rushes and the utterly impossible fluidity with which she moved her body for Mirror to realize the degree to which she was confusing pattern associations for actually being on beat. What felt like perfect responses in practice were actually woefully inadequate against the real deal. They'd fought for a full day, but the truth was that she'd barely kept up the entire time. In fact, she hadn't kept up at all. Her loss was inevitable; the only victory to be had was in the achievement.

So now she used her voice to tap out the beats she could actually perceive in front of her. She was right to associate battle with music, with dancing, but it took a superior partner to show her how deep it really went. On her own, she tried to impose the fastest rhythms and inputs possible. Even now with years of practice it was still her preference. Fast, fast, fast. Speed enough to compensate for imposing a barrier between thought and action. But this led to sloppy, inefficient movement, while the world around you spun on, uncaring and unyielding. It was not a bad thing to follow someone else's rhythm.

For example, this rain of lasers from the Archimedes Array could trick an observer into thinking they were a curtain and only a full strafe action would be sufficient to avoid it. In actuality it sprays beams in tight clusters (part of the designer's desperate attempt to make it output any damage whatsoever), so the pattern of fire could be expressed in sixteenth beats. Da da da, darara, da da.

Nine-Tails flares with the brilliant blue-white halo of thruster fire, and so begins the dance. It is unnecessary, strictly speaking, to dodge this first salvo, but warmups are an essential part of peak performance. It spins rapidly around the edge of several beam clusters, shoulder flips over another, and slides in between the middle of the final volley. Mirror dodges at the absolute edge of the attack range, letting the lasers just kiss the paint of her Gods-Smiting Whip. Enough to provide data streams for her to read, to plug into a neuromesh later and experience in privacy. She lets the sequence carry her perilously high into the sky, a perfect target for what comes next. But so what?

> i will say whatever i want to about your relic.
> what does it matter to me how many cretins you defeated with it?
> i watched your previous round.
> says a lot more about you than it.
> that thing is nothing more than a net you are caught in.
> i will

Aha. The weakness of her setup, speaking requires the same fingers she uses for dodging. Very clever to exploit that. Mirror has to stretch frantically to stomp the lower pedal with enough force to move out of the path of the first missile. That's a kiss she won't survive with her decency intact. There is dancing to your opponent's rhythm and then there is bending to their will. Foolish. She narrows her eyes and scowls. She hates feeling foolish.

"Full throttle. Keep up if you dare."

The Gods-Smiting Whip dashes over the top of the canyon just ahead of the path of the rain of missiles strong enough to blow its armor to shreds. Where'd she get access to this kind of firepower? It doesn't make sense. Purchasing goods and services was a function even Mirror could barely wrap her head around, after hours of study! How had this idiot gone and done it so easily? She zags back across to dodge another barrage, and then a third. She floats untouched as the rack detaches from the Bezorel and falls into the river with a massive spray of water. The sneer is just curling its way across her lips when Sorarel's voice hits her ears.

She's boxed in. Impossible to dodge. A true kill shot. What can she do? What can she do?? Her too!?

"Shit. Shit. Shit!"

The fireworks are spectacular. The individual explosions overlap in a truly impressive concussive and pyrotechnic display interlaced with crackling blue energy from her crystal fire drive. It's loud, bright, and hotter than the sun sweltering in the deepest part of the jungle. Even in this downpour it takes a full thirty seconds for the smoke to start clear.

And underneath it, a pristine blue glow. Eight free floating tails swirl about the last guiding tail curved up above the Gods-Smiting Whip's head. Between them, bolts of energy spark and interlock in a spherical hard light shield. The power quickly flickers and the shield shatters like glass, but mecha and pilot are untouched. Tails One, Three, and Six slump out of formation, and are quickly snatched out of the air and planted on its shoulders like cannons.

"N-Nine... Drive... System," Mirror's voice shakes with anger, "Full Configuration. Th-Third Form... Moonlight. Immemorial. Vanguard."

> your voice.
> still so beautiful.
> were you practicing?
> your intonation impressed me, well done.

"But I'm going to kill you now."

All her effort. Hundreds of hours of it. A thousand new concepts and mechanical improvements made since that day. And one beautiful dipshit eclipsed it all in the space of two words. With, with nothing! With absolutely nothing, she'd!

Her trident thrums with power as she slashes it through the air. Lightning crashes through the sky in response. One third. Her calculations said she could afford one third of her full repertoire before the major matches. Well mission fucking failure, thank you very much. A loss. There's no other thing this can be considered but a loss!

The thunder roars. Nine-Tails rockets down into the canyon at absolutely suicidal speeds that only don't shatter its legs because it burns out half of its thrusters in a last second counterburst, instead. A vicious kick to the legs knocks out several of the Bezorel's stability struts. Spin. Another kick to the chest makes it stagger. The trident crackles when it tears through the ancient mecha's right shoulder. Mirror twists it inside and slashes it free, taking the entire arm with it. One step back, two.

...It was like this in bed, too. Settled questions of power and dynamic suddenly flipped and turned into struggles to keep on top and control the flow of pleasure and vulnerability. It made her so fucking hot. Even now she twists her legs inside the cockpit, pressing her thighs together and panting like she'd just come up from a dive.

Shameful. Pathetic. This... this is a loss. What else could she call it?

[Mirror activates Center of the Web, taking +1 ongoing for the rest of the scene.
Fight: 8. Inflict a condition and take advantage in the form of literal disarming.
Mirror is Smitten.]

Breathless Dead

There is time enough for one response before the little tea party comes to an end. Two, in fact. Another smile passes across Bella's face: less amused this time, but just as genuine. This is kindness born from pain. This is warmth born from sadness. She can't use it in place of an apology, because it isn't one. What good would that do her, after everything she's done? This is resigned acknowledgement; that she's heard what she's been expecting to hear this entire time, and now she will take her permission to melt into the shadows and disappear forever.

The second response must be a thank you, then. Bella sits and waits for Dolce to meet her eyes again, even though it probably costs her a chance to escape. Even though it takes enough time to leave an awkward silence in the air, she sits patiently and watches for him to finally look up from his tea. He needs to see. He needs to watch her screw her eyelid shut tight over her Auspex until she's staring at him through just one mortal eye, looking like an exhausted traveler staring into the sun. It's important, so he'll know the reason the pressure suddenly abates. That he knows that she knows: she was too much. She is sealing herself off for his benefit.

"Hey, Redana~"

She swings that playful tone like a sword. Not even turning to look, she rises from her chair with supreme confidence. She can smell the bewilderment all over her princess, after all. This light bit of teasing is all it will take to make her freeze up long enough to let Bella disappear again. She'll do a better job of it this time. It's an empty as fuck ship, all she needs to do is bend away from the sounds of people this time. No more projects. No more tea. No more--

She feels the hand clamp around her wrist before she makes it two steps. Bella snarls, and whirls about to scream obscenities, but they die on her lips. Prion Paula smiles at her, and holds up the forgotten wine glass. She's even filled it, as if to prove that signature was stronger than any drink. In Bella's hand it feels more like a chain. She's trapped. Trapped again. If only the thought of bolting didn't make her feel sick. She sighs, and takes a tiny sip from the opposite end of the glass from her treasure.

"They're filming a sequel to my favorite movie here."

The teasing confidence is gone from her voice. She still has her eye squeezed shut like an idiot, but it's turned on the wrong target now. Her back stiffens and her tail wraps itself around her thigh. She reaches behind her to lift her sea-soaked hair off her neck for a moment, and lets it fall again with a wet slap. Her eye darts to Redana's hair again and again, no matter how many times she tries to direct it elsewhere. Red opens again, to duel with Green.

"Your captain was just inviting me to review the set. You know, to show there's no bad blood. So generous of him; if the gods had been a little kinder to me these last few months you can bet I'd..."

She lets the threat fall silent, unfinished. Her fingers play around the stem of her glass, the smooth, cool roundness only felt across her fingertips because of her lack of talons these days. She frowns, and worries at her dress.

"...You kept that braid in. You mor-- Princess, please put more care into your appearance. A sloppy thing like that doesn't suit you."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

> are you implying it's my fault you're not practiced against section staves?
> do you need me to go and beat up an empress for you?
> i think her robes would look much better on me.

She's typing, even though it's her preference to vocalize, because it was the difference between having a conversation and being understood. Because her map of Solarel showed that she required this kind of stimulus before she'd fold open. Because an open Solarel was the only target of value on this entire battlefield, once it became clear that the Bezorel wasn't an elaborate misdirection. At least not yet. There was always hope this was part of her read on the game outside the game, but even in that case reaching the layer past this one amounted to the same experience today.

Mirror's hand hesitates over the switch. Almost pulls away twice. But in the end, her thumb slides across it hard enough to flip it on, and there's a burst of static before audio/visual connection is established between the pair of... well, she supposes for this match she'd better think of them as Gods. She'd done her best to follow Valentina's logic straight down the middle of her gun barrel. She couldn't honestly afford to give Solarel any less than that. The specifications of the Bezorel made it so that there could never be less than a 10 second broadcast delay even if they were close enough to touch, but that suited her fine. She had little and less to say right now anyway.

Rain splashes across the surface of the Gods-Smiting Whip. It sizzles loudly where it hits the three pronged energy blades of her laser trident. She's configured Tails One and Eight into a wide-array energy shield over her opposite arm, so today the sounds of water crackling back into component vapors is loud enough for her ears to pick up through the cockpit. Her tail thwaps with pleasure against her seat, and she purrs with contentment.

"Position established, visual confirmation unnecessary. Chokepoint inconsistent with previous tactics, implies post-combat loadout change. Clever girl. Consideration of countermeasures, begin."

She doesn't bother turning the comms back off. Forcing Solarel to hear her voice was half the point of doing it. If she could take information scraped off of that kind of input delay and convert it into an advantage in that walking scrap heap, she deserved the victory. And more importantly, Mirror did not deserve to be here, or to dream ever again. She'd put everything she had into this tournament. That's what makes her ears stand up on the top of her head. That's what makes her spine straighten out to the point of pain. That's why she glides over every button and joystick three times before she commits to a step. She climbs to the top of a hill and digs her heels into the soil, and then she waits.

Last time they'd fought, it cost her everything she had. Was still costing her, in fact. Last time they'd fought, it had led to the most fulfilling romance of her life. It had been the most fulfilling romance of her life. Last time they'd fought, they'd blown so far apart that it had taken her this obscene span of years to even find the idiot again. There was no reason to assume this battle would cost of cause any less.

> if this is what not giving up looks like.
> i am disappointed to my core.
> i did not ask you for the Aeteline.
> but i did ask you specifically not to lose before I came for you.
> seeing you now, i'm not sure what you kept?

In Mirror's opinion, large scale tactic shifts in these preliminary rounds was asinine to the point of absurdity. Your exact record was immaterial in the face of reaching the stage with the most and most serious eyes in the first place. In the meantime, it could be assumed that everybody tracking you was an enemy. Every shadow was a predator, and every shape in the water might be prey. If you didn't put yourself in the vantage point to take advantage of knowing which was which, you'd be gobbled up before your time came. Given that, every new trick you were forced to show before the main rounds could be rightly counted as an actual loss.

"The battle extends beyond the boundaries of the arena. Predictability as armor. Standardized tactics as a sword. A thinking mind as the venom painted on the blade."

She'd solved the riddle of Valentina's hidden position by taking to the sky and positioning two tails for a multi-angle strike. The efficacy against those tactics against the Bezorel's unknown weapons loadout and the strength of its natural cover was irrelevant. The necessity of them was likewise immaterial. What mattered was that she'd done it before. What mattered is that the person who came after this would note that she has a tendency. The person who came after that would learn to late that she did not. That's what it meant to fight a war. She was sincere when she offered to upend an entire empire on request. She was sincere in believing it was within her capabilities.

> i have decided.
> seeing you in that walking museum.
> makes me ashamed to pit my Nine-Tails against it.
> i would rather get out and punch it to death myself.
> but don't worry, Heart.
> when i finish tearing in half, you can show me what it really means to not give up.

"Initiating short duration burn to visually ascertain enemy position. Tail Four, Tail Seven, release. Time to fly."

The Gods-Smiting Whip lifts up into the storm with a flash of thruster fire and a cocky twirl of its trident. Whatever projectile weaponry Solarel was using as a distraction this time, Mirror was painting a target on her chest by taking the skies above her. And that was ideal. She still lacked test data for the Nine Drive's shield configuration. And dodging the first barrage would make her hotter than anything that happened all of last night.

What a shame it'd be over so quickly. Mirror's face breaks into a smirk. Her eyes seem almost frozen over. Her teeth clench. Her hands grip the controls with unnecessary force as she angles herself for the first suicide charge.

> <3

Breathless Dead

The smile doesn't fade from her face, even as she turns the empty wineglass over in her hand. But any sense of amusement dies instantly, crushed by a monster named Anger that prowls inside her eye. But she is quiet for a long moment, watching the Captain struggle with and then finally drink his tea. She sets her new memento down on the table with the sort of precision that implied she thought the ship would instantly burst into flames if she so much as scratched it.

And she snorts.

"And how many of them have swung by since to apologize? None of them, obviously. Because it's easy to say whatever the fuck you want, especially when the call isn't yours to make. It's even easier for bleeding hearts like your lot's to try and argue that all life is precious or... whatever the fuck. I don't care. They can say it. They took none of the consequences. You did. Stand up and fight me if you disagree."

She grins, full of teeth. The gesture doesn't even reach the rest of her face. Her hands busy themselves with twisting her golden jewelry up and down the length of her forearms, letting it bite into her wrists. Her eye betrays her once again. Not anger this time, but unease. Not about what she's said, but that she's the only one who's come to say it. She glances at the wine glass one more time, and the lipstick pressed along the rim.

"...Would you really like to know what should be done with the Tides? You seem reluctant to kill the monsters you keep bringing on this ship. You might have to anyway, before long. You can leave the Assistant Secretary in charge to run his little pod as he sees fit. And his craven little ass will stay in line, because he knows just like I do that if he's ever not on your leash then the smartest thing you could do is kill him and his on the spot. So you can leave things exactly like they are and have your little collection of claws and tentacles to handle all the jobs you'd ask a slave to do, and all you'll pay in cost is knowing what they're doing to each other every day to fit inside your pocket."

Bella licks her lips, and it's comical how fast a Coherent springs up to refill her teacup, already halfway to sweetening it before that tongue is finished playing over her teeth. Another zips up with the bottle of wine, but Bella waves her off. It's her turn to stare at the surface of a liquid and not touch it. She doesn't need two glasses for that. She doesn't want to risk her prize so soon.

"Ask your little council, then. I bet they'll argue in favor of freeing the Tides, instead. And then what? You can argue with each other whose fault it is that you're all clogging up Elysium after they overrun your ship and eat the fucking thing in half. They're monsters, remember? The only thing that's kept you all alive the whole time they've been on your ship is the torture rack they've been stuck in. And if you undo that? well.

"These aren't your pirate buddies. None of them chose a life of songs and adventure. They are monsters. The Assistant Secretary, Eyes of Coral... each one of them is just a piece of a brain from something so huge and dangerous it cost Odoacer an entire flagship just to put it down in the first place. They live with the memory of that death every second of every day. And if the meditation training I'm putting them through doesn't take, the kindest thing that you could do is slaughter the lot of them. As they are, I could just manage it on my own. Might cost me an arm, but what's a limb or two between friends?"

She chuckles and lifts the cup to her lips, where she contents herself with sniffing it. Her Auspex flickers across Dolce's frame, and one more time crushes him under its oppressive weight.

"Then again, maybe a miracle will happen. Maybe one monster is enough to teach another how to be something else. But you're the one in charge of this ship. You'll be the one who has to administrate the consequences of whatever happens. And I'm the only one you'll ever be able to talk to about any of it. Lonely at the top, isn't it?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

When the show is ending, Mirror takes a bow. She pauses. On the second wave of applause, she dips down in a bobbing motion that means 'thank you' among her own people. She waves awkwardly when it's over. She does not know what to do with her hands. Where to put her feet. Whether to stand straight or curl into herself. To walk forward, backward, or stay exactly where she is?

She finds herself arm in arm with her fellow models, fingers clutching tightly around each other. Her fellow... ah. Aha. That was the mystery, then. She flashes the same sort of awkward, embarrassed, and wonderfully happy grin the others had been unable to keep off their faces. She pivots just the smallest bit to flash more of her spots underneath the petals. Yes, this was the source of everything.

Mayze's sun had set on the night. It was time to put her away. Mirror's approach, her identity and ideology, were unnecessary until later. Asleep, the pair of them. One to dream and one to wake.

What, then, was Mira Fishers to do with the handful of hours given to her?

All at once a dozen different drinks from across the evening come rushing down her throat to plant themselves in her legs. She tastes the memory of each one, the promises long deferred. When she hops down from the walkway she stumbles so hard it takes 3 people (2 Humans and a Zaldarian, she notes with curiosity) to keep her from smashing her face into the floor. She leans on them with the odd ferocity of a gelatin dessert and titters out a series of giggling apologies. She's nervous, you see. This was her first show. She's never been asked to model before and when she got the call it was Maaaayyyyzzeeeeeee~

Somebody remembers seeing her with Valentina before her turn. She thanks them each with shy kisses when they return her. It's time for good girls to get rewards, see? That's why they're, heeeee, going to a special apartment! There were promises, and she always, always aaaalllllwaaaayyyys keeps her promises! Every. Single. One.

Mira Fishers' apartment turns out to be a tiny thing, indeed. Completely devoid of furnishings or personalization. Off white walls. White tile floors without so much as a rug to make it nicer to walk on. A tiny, plain desk in the corner with a single unpadded chair and a pair of presently de-powered datapads left at the precise opposite corners of the surface. A bed with plenty of space for one person, but small enough that two people could only share it by holding each other tightly through the entire night. The pillow looks untouched. The white folded sheets are so crisp and perfect that nobody appears to have even sat on it.

She doesn't speak. Her arms sweep across her body, and the floor is decorated in flowers. She doesn't speak. Her eyes swim with mesmerizing patterns as she takes in the whole of Valentina. Her surprise, her embarrassment, the regret that almost carries her out the door right then and there, and the curiosity that makes her stay. Her excitement, her undisguised desire. The press of her thighs against each other that her dress can't quite hide. Mira slides one stub-clawed finger across the top of her chest, and smiles.

She doesn't speak. Her mouth is needed for more important things. Like dragging her tongue across that long and stately neck, and following the trail of slick wet skin back down again with little kisses punctuated by sharp fangs. Like putting her teeth to work on each clasp, zipper, and button that holds that silly dress together. Every fresh piece of Valentina she uncovers, Mira immediately plants a kiss on. This belongs to her. And this. And this. And this too. This traditional dress from the depths of the Consortium joins the most aggressive statement of Mayze Szerpaws as another decoration on the floor, piece by piece, until there is nothing left between the pair of them.

She pushes her partner onto the bed. Still sitting, slightly hunched, where her body gathers together in awkward folds that no amount of athleticism can ever quite clear away. These are the places she kisses the most. Her tongue delights across the places a model would have to pose around, each bit of softness that a photographer would carefully brush out on their machine before printing her onto the cover image of a new story they'd push across the networks. An impulse that makes no sense. What was a breast besides a pleasant lump of fat and tissue? Why should the fold of a tummy deserve any less worship? Or the inside of a thigh still imprinted with the markings of a too-tight stocking?

She is surprisingly docile, now that the moment is here. She asks questions with her tongue. Do you want me here? Or here? How do you enjoy this? What excites you? Tell me what sorts of noises you make when I lick you... aha, here. She asks these questions with her hands. She asks these questions with her soft, warm body when she slides it against Valentina's. And in every moment if the question becomes 'not here', she immediately yields. Her attentions turn elsewhere, she makes no sign of forcing anything. Valentina may push, direct, pull, or order her anywhere at all if she can manage the words for anything like that. Hours spent entirely in devotion to her pleasure, her way, at her pace.

But at the end of the night, it will all have been for Valentina. Mira controls their dance from the shadows: no part of her is touched except in the brief moments she puts those hands somewhere that she wants them, only to dance away in search of more noises to tease out of her date. No reciprocation, no moment of reversal where she allows her body to be the one that's worshipped. No kisses except directly on her mouth. No exploration of her most private, vulnerable places. None. Valentina takes her mark and waits, just like a sniper. And all that this is good for is letting the river wash her clean.

When the dawn comes and an exhausted, glowing Valentina de Alcard finally stirs, she will find her arms wrapped around nothing but empty air. All alone in that small room with nothing for company but a glass of water and a handwritten note with directions to a place with Hybrasilian breakfast options. If she's curious. Mira's attempts at human handwriting are neat in a childish sort of way. The kind of effort where it becomes obvious that the spacing and shaping of every letter is the result of enormous amounts of conscious effort to make them anything other than scribbles, that immediately renders her cleanliness into vulnerability.

But nevertheless, that's all that's left of her. Didn't you read her profile? A promise kept, to the letter. Exactly as it was made, no more and no less.

Mirror is still nude as she climbs away across the body of the Gods-Smiting Whip. Pointless to bother with clothing; there's still hours before anybody will be here to see her, and at least another hour beyond that before it's anybody she'd be especially bothered to show herself to. The neural mesh suit she wears to battle out of obligation and habit is uncomfortable and annoying; she might as well be comfortable while she works.

Every screen in her hangar is paused on some different part of Solarel's last fight. Mirror's eyes flicker between each of them and her work, clambering silently across her mecha. Her hands clench every time she looks. Should not have spent her shot like that last night. Should not. What a mistake. Rookie error.

Her jaw clenches, looking at the Bezorel. Her body tenses, thinking about the fight. Her hands busy themselves with unnecessary calibration work. Her Nine Drive System was operating at less than peak capacity. Tail Five was still at 97% functionality. Unacceptably low. She had two hours to find a missing 3 percent. No. More than that. Today, Tail Five would operate above its theoretical peak performance. It would burn out and blow up shortly thereafter, but she didn't care. Replacing it would be less difficult than losing.

"You. Moron." she hisses, voice full of venom, "Sit there. Watch me. I. Will. Catch. Up. I. Will. Free. You."

Breathless Dead

Bella sits in silence, watching the scene in front of her with the wary eyes of a stray cat long since used to disappointment. She watches Prion Paula draw the Peony Rainbow Blade with the same confidence and energy she'd done for the cameras probably a thousand times before. She watches the Captain sit in his chair and flush with embarrassment. She watches the second cup of tea sit there on the table between them, untouched. She watches her fingers circle the rim of her wineglass.

"I watched your movie," she says, "One hundred and forty-seven times. Prion Paula vs Djemento 2... the posters were all over that damn ship. And you're. Look, I... nevermind. Forget I said anything."

Her eyes fall to the table as her words fail her. The pointlessness of it all plays out as frustration on her face, and all she can figure out to do with her hands is play with the edges of her glass some more. Eventually she lifts it to her lips and takes a slow, uncertain sip. The wine sits on her tongue for several long moments before she swallows. Her eye lights up with some new realization and she tilts the liquid up into the air to view it from a new light. Her mouth opens, maybe to make a comment about something. She closes it again in a quiet frown.

Why was she bothering with any of this? All this small talk and playing nice for an enemy! She'd come looking for a fight (or at least some ointment she could steal), only to find the person she'd come to rip into was too sorry and sad to put any pleasure in the act? Now what was she supposed to do with herself? She can't leave without settling things, that would only put the ship on high alert. Her on again off again flirtation with death felt more and more permanently stuck in the 'off' position the longer she spent prowling Hade's sad joke of a vessel. And besides, she had a project now. What would happen to that if she knocked herself off the board? To them?

She pinches one claw into her hand. The thought of violence is exhausting. Her body isn't remotely recovered from Sahar, and even just the memory of blood is enough to make her stomach churn right now. It's a much stronger reaction than she remembers; just what had happened to her? What did it really cost to rip herself out of that divine armor at the peak of its powers?

Bella wets her lips with more wine, and shakes her head. She gestures, with some insistence, at the still-untouched teacup across the table from her.

"Is that how you run this ship, then? You wife makes a more convincing argument than," she hesitates reaching for a name that might have plausibly pushed to 'save' her, "Jil, then instead of giving me my name back you put a sword in Tredecima's stomach? That would've worked out great for you. Tell me, were the Tides part of this discussion? I saw them on the field. I'm curious, did they advocate for or against ripping my guts out?"

Her smile betrays genuine amusement. That's probably worse for her than if she was angry, isn't it?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

One by one, screens start to flicker. A bold but strangely quiet drum and bass line picks up across The Jungle as the screens lose picture entirely. Each of them, entirely black. Angry red lettering bursts across them all at once, reading "Audio Only" in the inefficient yet beautiful script of the human language.

Mirror closes her eyes and takes a breath. Good. Everything is proceeding as directed. This will be an important test of not only her developing fashion skills, but her planning as well. She opens her eyes as wide as they'll go, sniffs the air as deeply as her nose will let her, strains her ears until they start to hurt, and makes a series of strange facial expressions to move her whiskers through the air. There are countless eyes on that stage. She doesn't want to miss a single one.

"You were expecting me tonight, weren't you? Poor darlings, maybe next time! But I am here, in a much realer sense than you understand. Pull your eyes to the stage, and gaze upon my latest true form!"

Mayze Szerpaws has a quality to her voice that reminds a person of a diamond cutting glass. Sharp, dangerous, you can't help but want to wince. But for some reason you also know that everything that goes into it is beautiful. Mayze chuckles, seemingly in real time, as a few screens burst back to life to display the stage again. Mirror stays where she is in the crowd, and reaches behind her head to undo her hair loops. Her entrance requires four loops, not two. And more feathers. But the suit looked nicer with her hair the way she came. She works quickly, plucking dark blue, bright red, and sharp turquoise feathers out of a pocket and working them into the twists joining her hair loops together, and at the bottoms of each, where she secures them with a jade bead. She draws a knife next, and takes it to her pants. Too hard to slip them off in the choreographed time; easier to just destroy them. She ignores the looks she's starting to get. Her attention is only for the stage.

Up where eyes are supposed to be, a human woman walks shyly onto the stage. She is beautiful with her golden hair and honey eyes, with proportions fit to be a runway model from her toes all the way to the top of her head. But she walks with the confidence of someone who's never seen more than eleven people in a room once in her entire life, and as the lights catch her it's easy to see the splotches of scaled skin and discoloration that marks her rare skin condition. Treatable, of course. Little more than an inconvenience to her health at best. But it makes her feel undesirable and ugly. It has her entire life. And here she is, the tip of the spear for the most elusive, eccentric, and exclusive designer in the known galaxy.

"I took the liberty of peeking ahead at my esteemed colleagues' offerings before tonight's show. Suffice it to say they are the reason I have chosen not to show my face here tonight. Do not mistake me! I am not afraid in the slightest. I cannot be cowed with fabrics, darlings, any more than I can by drones. No. I am unimpressed. This show does not deserve my face."

The model has finished her turn up to the front of the walkway, posing stiffly in a series of clearly pre-established stances. She fights the urge to grab her arms and hide them the whole time. She is dressed in a leotard with a corset sewn in the colors of the sea. Deep, rich blues growing clearer and brighter as they approach her breasts, where the fabric halts in a burst of white foam ornamentation that slips through the middle of her cleavage and wraps around the top of her otherwise bear chest. Her neck is adorned with a sapphire-blue collar made from a single lace ribbon tied into a neat bow behind her. Her hips and thighs are bare, but around her left leg from the knee to halfway point of her calf is tied several bands of thick, shining golden jewelry binding a particularly rough patch of skin in translucent seafoam silk. The fabric is adorned with gold filigreed star charts, that tell the story of the first goddesses of Hybrasil and the founding of the star names. A more crass observer would call it a calendar.

Her right arm is similarly adorned, creating a line from one side of her body to the other that one cannot help but follow no matter where or how she moves. The delicate silver chain wrapped around her waist and the moon charm dangling at the base of it are the center of the line; the eye is pulled first up and then diagonally down across all of her as easily as if Mayze had taken her audience's heads and turned them herself. And it's easy to notice that these silk sleeves are covering the most notable patches of her scales, but it would be a mistake to say she's hidden them. Indeed, the patterns of her star story can only stand out because they have this unique canvas to shine against. The individual ridges and textures of the girl's skin are accounted for in the display of the constellations, displaying history, mythology, and beauty all at once where there had been nothing but a black pit of self esteem. Deep blue cuffs adorn her wrists, with fishnet gloves across both hands. She waves to the crowd once, twice, apparently unsure of her cue. Then she darts away with a squeak, but she can't keep the smile on her face from showing for the cameras before she vanishes.

"Not that I don't have the utmost respect for my fellow designers, of course. And there are some true gems among you, may your starlight never blink out. If you know to let my words wash over you, then good news! I'm probably not talking about you! If you're turning to your companions right and and saying some silly thing about how 'you'd never', then bad news! I probably am~"

The next model's theme is wings. Her pristine white robe is cut entirely with this single shape in mind. It hangs from her in gossamer layers connected by a single length of diamond chains fashioned into the shapes of starbursts and shark fangs draped across her shoulders. Wide swaths of fabric are simply... missing from the dress, exposing her pale albino skin and the deep purple markings painted across it, always in the pattern of falling feathers and wings. Her prominent ribs pin the fabric into place where her tiny chest and flat hips would fail to flatter it, until it gathers at her waist and flares open into a massive trailing gown made entirely of different shades of black, silver, and white feathers gathered off the ground from an aviary where Mirror happens to know a gal.

Open at the front and darkest at the back, where her thin and surely unattractive legs are the stars of the show, and yet... the way those feathers kiss her. The way those wings envelope her. The way they move behind her as she walks and turn her into a swan? She's become some manner of goddess, the kind those star stories were written to warn you about (and, in fact, they were. someone will have to review the footage to notice). Her silvery high heels would be obscene on a girl this tall in any other context, but they are necessary to force her walk into a style that makes her train properly flap. Every step is a ripple of motion that makes her seem about to take flight. The illusion is possible because of her delicate build and divine height. A more traditionally beautiful girl would move in it differently, would seem more like she's hopping rather than preparing to soar across the stars, would hide the painted patterns in her darker skin. This dress was made for her to wear it, and only her. Just like the last one.

"So much time and effort, spent worrying about the how, and the what! So much talent wasted fussing over materials. Materials! Ha! As if you could find a mesh woven well enough to cover for the tiny brains trapped inside those pretty skulls of yours. Good ideas, certainly. But you think that you are pushing the envelope? Ahaha! Idiots. You drape your concepts, your toys across the most bare and basic forms you know. Is this a fashion show or a tech demo? There is nothing wrong with seeking new frontiers, but there is not a single one of you here brave enough to think beyond the basic cuts and ideas you've kept close to you for hundreds of years. What do we wear, and why do we wear it? These are not solved equations, you dolts! There are so very many places we can go, if we can just think about the bodies were are beautifying with the same reverence we use to select our methods of achieving that. Your... cut cookie designs bore me."

The screens have all gone back to normal, except one small one near the bar. The music is fading back into the normal fare for the venue. Mayze is very nearly done making her speech. Mirror hastily unbuttons her suit jacket.

"And, when you are brave enough to put the body ahead of your own sense of cleverness? You can do this."

Mirror breaks into a run and leaps high into the air, tossing the last scraps of her suit across the trail of her flip behind her. She lands center stage, and stands there lit up in the flood of three different spotlights, arms spread, fur patterns exposed for all to see.

She is adorned in flowers. Only in flowers. Great, five-petaled blossoms spread open across her stomach and over her chest with a delicate grip as if they were her lovers. Each petal is so soft and so delicate that the eye can almost see through it without straining, painting her fur in soft purples and pinks, yellows and greens. They follow the specific contours of her body perfectly along the crossing white ribbons that hold them together like vines.

The petals spread across her body with only the barest concessions to modesty. Each of her most distinctive spot markings have been accounted for in the growth. Her breasts, her hips, her legs, and her butt are all displayed prominently, kissed around the edges by flower petals instead of being covered by them, with her ribbon-vines instead slipping just enough to keep her from needing to be thrown out of the show. Sweet perfumes waft from her with each and every swaying step she takes.

This dress has taken into account not just one body, but two. It is a piece meant to enhance her own attraction, but also lift the beauty of the natural world to this house called Fashion. Hybrasillians and especially well read aliens will instantly realize, if they can turn their brains on long enough to think, that she (that Mayze) would have needed to coax these flowers along the guiding ribbons and her models' body over the course of many dedicated months or even years. Each dress made, if you sold it, would be grown to the person wearing it. It would be subject to the whims of the individual flowers chosen for the task. It would be subject to if the person had prominent stripes or spots, if they had freckles on their skin, if they were light or dark or what manners of luster their scales were burnished with, and where that shone the brightest. No two would ever be the same.

She is wearing Home. Delicate petals flutter across her fur, seeming so delicate but never breaking no matter how she moves. Mirror flips across the stage in a cartwheel into backflip to prove the point. She lands on her black sandals and the petals all fold closed into bud, baring whole new sections of her body to the crowd to be admired. She swishes her tail behind her with amusement. Her eyes devour the crowd and its reaction. And then, with the briefest of shudders, the flowers bloom again in a new set of colors. Now they are gold and crimson, fuchsia, orange, and each one draped across a different pattern in her fur. It's not fashion for the feint of heart. Only the confident and pure hearted need apply.

But if you are bold? Then it doesn't matter the shape of your body. No matter your lumps or scars, if you are carrying too much weight or two little, short, tall, or some awkward middle, the flowers can be taught to accommodate you. All they need is time. If you are brave and beautiful inside, Mayze Szerpaws will raise your outside to match. She promises.

Mirror takes a bow, stepping into the gesture with a sweep of her bare leg. The show is ending, but the night is young. Did they see? Did they? Did they understand? The eyes looking at her. The mouths, flapping words into the air. What are they saying?