Phoe

Breathless Dead

This is not a place of pleasure.

She has to keep reminding herself as she crosses the party. She is here to do a job and if she lets even one extra thing into her heart she's going to wind up breaking all of them into pieces. She is here to find Mynx. Put right just one of the hundreds of things she's done wrong. Any more distractions can only hurt her, can only cost her everything she's trying to protect.

But. The drumbeats pound thunder inside of her bones. Echoes ache in her lungs, pull at her brain, rattle through her body until she can't possibly help but adjust her steps to follow the rhythm.

But. The smoke lives inside her lungs now. Bella is trained against the corrupting influence of Oratus pheromones, but she has no defense against drugs fit only for hedonism. This is a haze of celebration made to enhance the pleasures the victim is already feeling. Evil. It could even be one of Mynx's poisons, she doesn't know. She doesn't care. She can't care. The taste on her tongue is sweeter than flower wine, her arms pulse after every heartbeat with a fresh surge of power in relaxation in intoxicating tandem. Every flick of her tail behind her tingles with strange warmth that demands she touch something soft so she can spread it.

But. Her eyes are filled with the sight of Redana. Redana, in her silks. Redana, with her softly singing bells that Bella's ears insist on hearing overtop the chaotic music. Redana, swaying her hips with the sultry confidence of a temptress. What happened? Where did that awkward little princess go? The sight of her bare back pulls Bella helplessly forward with every ripple of those Olympian muscles. She would follow this plan of the Princess' whether she agreed with it or not.

The smell of her. Lust and nerve and determination painted over perfumes of several warriors of Ceron. Bella grimaces, and her claws stretch in warning as she glides silently behind her prancing princess. She forces herself closer, and closer still, pushing through the crowd until their bodies are near enough that the wrong step will send them tumbling into each other.

The wrong step happens over and over again. Bella's hands are gentle on Redana's soft skin. Wrapping around her shoulders, stealing touches, stealing squeezes, stealing precious seconds of contact under the guise of putting the silly girl back on her feet with a tiny growl of admonition to go with each. This little act of theirs is pathetic. If Mynx were her usual self she'd fall out of hiding just to roll on the floor laughing at the pair of them. Just fuck already, she'd say if the two of them were alone on the Anemoi. And then her scales would ripple in her equivalent of a blush she wouldn't be able to hide in the time it would take her to say she was kidding, she was just joking, gods, Bella.

What the fuck was she thinking? This is not a place of pleasure.

Mynx isn't her usual self. Only an idiot didn't know what Rampancy looked like, and what cure was anything she had to offer against that? All she can do is offer her neck in penance, and even that would only push her further down into ruin. She needed a miracle far beyond forgiveness to fix a single fucking thing.

And Redana... doesn't say a thing about Bella's touch. All she does is look away, adjust her veil, and return to her search. Those little glances back are reprimands, checks to make sure the former handmaiden is sticking to the plan. And she knows this with certainty, because every time, Redana steps away. Every time, she chooses to be a hero.

Instead of Bella's. A lifetime's worth of dreaming and hinting and carefully worded questioning with nothing to show for it should have been enough to teach her that. How was she supposed to overcome that? How many times was she going to forget she had nothing to offer a woman who could snap her fingers and have anyone in the galaxy she desired, whenever she wanted? What was she supposed to say to compete with that? I love you?

Ridiculous.

The true form of the toxin reveals itself. Pleasure turns to paranoia. Ease turns into unbearable tension. Bella sniffs deeply and loudly, trying to find a scent, literally any scent, that isn't Redana's. But there are none, apparently, in the entire room of full of Bacchanalia. Her claws strain at the end of her fingers. Mynx is coming. And Bella still can't find her.

She needs Redana for that, too.

Breathless Dead

The first sound she hears is a dull clunk: an awkward and atonal thing that's as far from beauty as this rusted, dying crapsack of a ship is from the heart of the Empire. It's a stunted noise, nothing more than a tiny bit of rubber striking a piece of pinched metal. It is the sound of a dancer catching her foot on a scrap of silk and falling on her face. One brief moment of attempted beauty cut down at the knees by poor execution.

But it bends her ear all the same. Bella half turns her head to put sight to the ugly noise. And she sees the bell flick loose from the collar it got caught in. The sudden symphony of chimes puts her heart straight into her throat. Her ears flutter stupidly with each new jingle. Her fingers squeeze Beljani's hand hard enough to turn it into dust; the only way she has to acknowledge the two moments pinching her together in their vice at the same time.

There are three bells, two small and one larger than any that she'd worn in her time. They have their own distinctive tones and pitches, high and clear or low and soothing, and when they blend together it sends the kind of tremble down her spine that pulls her foot around with her consent and moves her a full step closer. The call of them. The smell of silver and leather and silk. The smell of sweat and brine and nervousness. The feeling of organs crawling around inside her.

"What... the fuck?"

Bella's eyes seek the floor, instinctively searching out protection. She tries to pull her head away to search for the spiral and save herself in the depths of the hunt, but gold and silver paths both are hidden under clouds of cigarette smoke. The party falls away as if the whole of the Plousios was toppling over and crumbling into a great bottomless pit that leaves only this tiny, smoking platform left to stand on. The only important place in the universe.

So looking to the floor only helps her see the pair of dainty bare feet begging for attention and painted toes. When she retreats, muscular calves and thighs expertly not covered by triangles of diaphanous silk are the only road she has to run on. Up the thighs, and between, to the colors held there. Soft blues, purples, and golds that make her body melt and freeze at the exact same time.

Her breath hitches. The Auspex traitorously records every bare millimeter of Redana's body. The twitching of her abs as she sways and rolls, the princess not quite able to stop herself even as the reality of her situation catches up to her. Nervousness and confidence circle each other like twin hawks, and between them drops of sweat trickle down her royal skin in patterns that make Bella's tongue press itself against the backs of her tightly clenched teeth.

Dizzy. Hot. Her body sways in mirror to Redana's. She only barely remembers to let go of Beljani before her feet carry her forward again in a daze. Her face must be crimson just now. Fuck it. Just... fuck it. Her eyes travel up, over the soft and tiny breasts that haunted every dark, lonely night and terrified her at every bath and oil massage. Her tongue is turned to lead. Her mind along with it. She sniffs, and there's not a smell in the room that is even the slightest bit tolerable, let alone appealing. But she drinks deep of them like a woman dying of thirst, deeper, deeper, deeper. It is the most beautiful thing in the galaxy.

Up, up. Past the perfect collarbones, to the collar with the beautiful bells. To the bouncing, dangling silk that covers the neck. Up. To the face. To the eyes. Mismatched, just like hers. Staring, just like hers. Gems. Stars. A universe worth of treasure, locked all on her.

She steps forward. Closer. Closer. Again. Tiny steps that use her entire body, send the motion through her hips and waist and arms as if to show her princess an example. Like this, you moron. To set someone's heart on fire, you move like this.

The tip of her tail brushes Redana's stomach and across her waist as she passes. Anything more would have been impossible even if she wanted it. But on this day of treasures and miracles, this might stand as the sweetest of them. Bella's face betrays equal parts embarrassment and confusion, but her body is heat, power, and confidence. She steps forward again, farther away this time, and stops.

She runs her fingers over the scale in her palm, and plants her feet on the ground. It's her, between the princess and the party. No entry without permission. Bella sniffles once, barely audible. Just a leftover reflex from a moment before. The joy of gaining a sister. Nothing more.

She is being greedy enough already.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It begins with fusion cuisine. Slate's idea, naturally. When in a multicultural hub, why not take advantage of the unique fruits? Besides, 'sandwiches' sounded fun and exotic. Roasted waterfowl on wild, herbaceous grasses with a mildly salty sauce and a... nut of some description that neither of them could identify. Served, rather ostentatiously, between a pair of crispy 'breads' which represented one of the heights of Consortium cookery. Along with chocolate, of course, but that was toxic to them in the way that TC prepared it, and the Hybrasil adaption was perhaps a little...

Anyway. Interesting. Crunchy, sweet, salty, a satisfying puzzle. Good recharge food. Mirror initially left half her plate untouched, too absorbed in conversation to consider bringing it to her mouth, but in the end she simply couldn't help herself. But there was so very much to talk about, after all. Repair plans and countermeasures, sabotage speculation, the performance of Nine Drive the level of engineering miracle it would take to develop new capabilities for the Tail conduits within the span of the tournament.

The tournament. In the end it's what pushed her away from the hangar. Every question about The Gods-Smiting Whip begged a question about the match, and that demanded answers that couldn't be found chipping out the damage on burned out armor plates. And even though the team could handle the work that needed doing just fine on their own, they'd handle it much better with Slate's hands and head around to help them. And Slate wouldn't stop begging to be sent back to work before 'the jokes built up to lethal levels'.

Akar II it was, then. Mirror knew little enough about these little outpost planets to be able to pick one hunting ground from another beyond what they printed in the brochures, but as it happened the brochures were enough to tell her that if she wanted a technical question answered about the construction of mecha hangars then that was the place to go. And any place was as good as any other place if she wanted to hear speculation about her match statistics and outcome. Perhaps if Mayze... no. It would cause more problems than it solves to let her be seen directly. She'd have to put together a disguise as an intermediary, instead. Perhaps electronically was best? Uncertain. Regardless. Akar II. Multitasking always felt good. Information more soothing than food. Even... well. She should probably eat a second time. A restaurant would mark a good chance to collate her information, once she had it.

And so it was she missed those flowers. Later, she would come back and learn about them from her team. She would even feel guilty about it. Like her choice to pursue her own tactical enrichment was actually a failure on her part. Like the reasonable move would have been to anticipate Valentina's level of understanding and bend her habits and decision making to match, for long enough at least to reciprocate the gesture. It must have been quite a night, she'll suppose. Surprising. Nevertheless, guilt. Enough of it to send her engineer on an adventure to deliver another handwritten note:

'The Star's Breath is toxic to me. The small purple one. No, that's not right. Allergy. That's the word you use for it. Not lethal. Simply an irritant. Rash under fur on contact. But, the gesture is appreciated. Sincerely. Your recreation of my dress was impressive. I am touched. Mayze's dress, technically. But I wore it. You saw me wear it. As an apology for disappointing you, I will let you see me without it.'

But just now, she has no idea how she'll feel or what she'll wind up inviting Valentina de Alcard to do. Just now she's on a shuttle, heading to Akar II. Plans had failed her time and again today, so this time she was simply winging it. Reach the planet, follow instinct, let it carry her where and to what it would. If that failed, she'd stop and sit and listen, and bend her brain while she bent her ears. To simple a plan to be sabotaged, this time. Even sabotage would be it's own form of information, in this context.

This is the first time. The first time since she learned Solarel would be her opponent, the first time since she learned Solarel had chosen such an inferior machine as the Bezorel to be her god's shell for their reunion... the first time since all of it that she's found herself just sitting. Waiting. Breathing.

Immediately, she reaches into a carry bag and plucks out a datapad. This would be the first time her mind was focused enough to check the account of Mayze Szerpaws, too. Might as well see what the orders looked like. And who was asking.

Breathless Dead

She'd read a book about snowflakes, once. It was Redana's book, one of her school things left carelessly out when she'd decided she was done with studying and couldn't be bothered to think about who would have to clean up after her decisions later. It wasn't even a textbook as she'd come to know them, more a collection of poetry that claimed to be from the ancient world and talked about the wonders that had long since vanished from the galaxy.

She'd been behind on her chores that night. But the way the light hit that paper, she hadn't been able to help herself.

A tiny thing, a fleeting thing. A cold, precious, beautiful thing that lands on your outstretched palm and glitters in the light before your passion turns it into... she can't remember how it goes. And this scale is hardly cold like the words said it should be. It wasn't melting or vanishing in her hand. It wasn't fleeting at all, this smooth and brilliant thing. But even still it calls this word to mind, from out of the depths of her memory. For the first time, she has a picture to go with the idea. And even though she'll never see one, with this she's sure she never needs to.

...What a day for treasures.

Bella's eyes narrow as she folds her palm closed over the scale. She pulls her hand away from the strange computer creature, to a neon flash of protest. Her spine straightens, her shoulders lift, her neck stretches. In contrast to Beljani, she looks directly forward; focused and intense in a way that either means she is deeply touched or deeply offended with no space for feelings in between. Her expression is stony and severe: lips only barely pursed and parted with her jaw set firm. Her eyes gleam in murderous red and gold.

She lifts her hand, still closed around the scale, up to shoulder height. She squeezes the little treasure tight, and it grows warm inside her tightly curled palm. It is warm and smooth, and the light it gives off is just strong enough to give off a faint glow that just barely breaks through her skin. And it does not disappear. She turns suddenly, and spits.

"I", she says with the graveled voice of a huntress, "Am going to find Mynx."

Her hand lowers. She lets it drop limp down to her hips, though she keeps that fist clenched tight. Her tail flicks behind her as she walks, and her sandaled feet make soft tak-tak-tak noises with every step. Tak-tak-tak, the foot meeting the cold metal floor. Pressing down, springing off, the sandal following foot a split second after. Tak-tak-tak. She sways her hips. She tenses her legs into things of steel. Power, purpose, drive. The invincible assassin with no time or patience for feelings. Tak-tak-tak. She approaches. Her will is iron. Her gaze is distant.

"I am going to save Mynx," her voice has gone so quiet now that it's as if she's speaking on the Anemoi, I don't give a single worthless fuck what it costs me."

She is close now. Close enough to smell the person under the pheremone and discern the sting of nervousness smothering her. The slight twitch her arm trying to reach forward for her "sister" only to think better of it. But too late, and too far back. Beljani's entire body is draining of heat as quickly and surely as though she'd been cut in half on the spot. Bella snorts.

"And you." she says. Her voice trembles worse than her fingers around the scale.

It is the speed of an attack that cannot be guarded against. No amount of training, self discovery, or improvement could prepare her for the strike of a Diodekoi in the full might of her element. Bella's arms are vices around Beljani, and they squeeze tight enough to trap her in place forever. All she's got left is the use of her forearms. Just enough, if she tries, to return the hug.

"And I want you to help me. Sister."

Bella's voice gives way to tears. Warm, wet relief stains her face. A hundred nights or more spent worrying, spent wondering, spent hating herself for hoping. For feeling the connection and never knowing how to hold onto it. And even now, she knows she doesn't deserve it. The rooftop on Salib was the best that she was capable of, and all it had resulted in was a not quite lethal mauling. Crushing one sister to try and save another. The last left broken and forgotten, and in the end she'd collapsed anyway and delivered them all into the hands of the Master.

Self loathing didn't begin to cover it. Of course that was the real shape of the leash, you idiot. But here you, but here you, but here you..!

Bella shakes, and holds onto her temple sister firm enough to keep her here even if she melted into mist and tried to float away on the air. Family. Family. The only ones who understood what it meant to be herself. They walked a path just one step to the side of hers, and that's why she can't push these feelings away. If she deserves it or not, it's beyond her power to turn it away.

It's fine to be selfish, isn't it? It's fine to take, and take, and take until she can't even stand. It's fine to hope. To hope for at least one more impossible thing, and not deserve it. It must be. It has to be. Or the snowflake would have melted in her hand. Right?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It takes her a while to answer. She doesn't open her eyes or lift her head off of Slate's lap, except occasionally for the tiniest bit necessary to sip on her refreshed drink. It's good. She'd considered that it might have simply been a consequence of post-combat nutrient deficiency, but no. This is well and truly delicious, how had she never come across it before? What other secrets was her engineering team hiding from her?

She snorts, and lets her head turn to the side so that she's facing Slate directly, and all she'd need to do is open her eyes to drink in the view of her. She does not. She stays still, eyes held gently shut, and allows their paw to glide through her hair and soothe her. Still no response. Her mind is busy with the knot of her fight with Solarel. She reconstructs it from the opening move, her every decision and response. The timing of her inputs and the quality of her move selection. Her lip twitches as she reaches the shutdown.

There is no visual element to her recreation. It's a play-by-play of a data stream, words taking the place of every single sense and simply echoing in the void inside of her. This is necessary. When she takes the sensory data onto a neural weave later, the reconstruction exercise will give her the context she needs to absorb it without overload or breakdown. Everything that pushed her to explore alternative systems in the first place would invert, and she would finally, finally understand what Solarel was saying. If only for a minute. Had her rewire preserved enough power to core systems for her to be able to experience the sensation of total shutdown? Her heartbeat races at the question.

"I might fire you someday, Slate," Mirror says without a hint of playfulness or irony, "But I will never replace you."

She feels a paw suddenly catch in her hair as it seizes up in a moment of panic sudden enough that it can't quite be disguised or converted back into the rhythmic stroking fast enough to cover it. For three glorious seconds, that hand can't decide if it wants to pull away (and risk pulling Mirror's hair hard enough to cause pain), simply sit there (and let Mirror feel how bad it's shaking), or escalate (oh, would you dare, Slate?). She feels the pressure of a thumb suddenly rubbing circles at the base of her ear. Mirror grins from ear to ear, delighted and toothier than a shark.

"Even, now. But I'm serious. The day we're unfit to work together is the day I destroy our Nine-Tails. I will never pilot another craft for as long as I live."

"But, uh, n-not today. Right Boss?"

"...Inevitable discovery," Mirror sighs softly as fingers start playing on the base of her neck in a brazen display of escalation, "That's what you mean to tell me. I made a mistake. It may only be a single observer perhaps, but the fact that the possibility can't be discounted means that one or more persons or factions will make the connection. Sabotage means somebody saw inside my-- it means that. Somebody. Saw. Understanding irrelevant. Offhand conversation over drinks will be final confirmation for our mystery observer."

Mirror cracks one eye open, cold and furious. The water in her iris looks almost frozen. She grabs her drink and loudly slurps the rest of it down to nothing. She licks her lips with a lot more passion than is necessary.

"Order a meal, please. For each of us. Your selection, my money. You know interesting flavors. Furthermore, continuing, your assertion is that we have minimal control over the nature of discovery. We cannot 'get in front of the narrative', as they say. [Fang to Feather (Negative Conjunction)]. If we speak out or make a move to contain the flow of information we reveal that we, that I am interested in hiding something. If we do not complain publicly about the act, we invite tournament level scrutiny. So you see? Our wrists are bound tight. We can only aid in the detective work. Either, broadcast all heretofore undisclosed details of Mira of the Fisher Clan, Whose Star Name is Whispered Promise, or else..."

"...Inevitable discovery." Slate finishes with a heavy sigh and a wince she can't keep out of her thigh muscles.

"Cannot know the nature of the discoverer. Not enough information to even guess. Maybe it will only be a curiosity to them. Maybe they will use it as a weapon. Maybe they will ask for help. No way to tell. Saying that? Still useful conclusion. Listen to the river feed into the lake, Selin Makers. We will want to know who knows, and ideally as they know it."

"C-could you, ah? Not use that name in front of the girls?"

"You would prefer I used it in bed?"

"BOSS!!!"

Breathless Dead

The spiral leads her to the center of everything. And there it, they end. Abruptly. The command is so fierce it almost frightens her. Halt, halt! Stop what you're doing right fucking now!

And so she does.

Bella drags her claws through the first available object (a banquet table overladen with toxic smelling liquors) and pulls herself from full speed to dead stop in a fraction of a second. Wood and metal shavings spray everywhere, splinters pound the floor like darts, bottles crash every which way and fill the room with a truly toxic miasma that even the very greatest of assassins would struggle to replicate, and her dress is almost certainly ruined forever. But she has obeyed; the innocent is spared.

Her shoulders sag with the fatigue of a creature that could only maintain its power through its constant expression, suddenly brought to a halt all at once and forced to comprehend how tired it truly was. She glances to her left, and there is nothing but variously stunned and angry faces. To her right, the same. The Hunt has abandoned her. No, that's not quite right. The Hunt has commanded that she wait. Cut off from the path, there is nothing else to do but look.

It is a strange creature that looks back at her. Its scales are beautiful and shimmering even in this murky light, but to her they seem more like facets on a jewel than anything that belongs to a living creature. Every ridge and crest is fascinating to look at. Its wings remind her of nothing so much as her old camera. Well, no, it's the eyes that call to mind the camera. But from there it's hard not to think about projector screens, about taking what she'd made and daring to let it blow up to the size of a wall and seeing, for once, the actual shape of her journey.

It is colorless. Almost odorless, she has to specifically look to find the faint tinge of silicon and glass. And then suddenly it is anything but colorless. Not blood, but living light, a prism with no need for outside help to split the colors. It shivers with bursts of firework light, all of the flash with none of the heat or sound. It cranes its neck and flashes rainbow waves, as though it were exalting Zeus and Poseidon in the same luxuriant motion. It flaps a wing, and in that gesture are the ideas and words of long dead or dormant civilizations Bella has no names for.

She calls it Gaia, because nothing else will stick. Her breath catches in her throat. In this moment, in spite of everything, the rest of the world slides out of view. Her feelings recede from her heart, and this time there is not even the incoherent joy of Motion to bring her outside of herself. The little creature opens its mouth, and sparks tumble out instead of sounds. She is barely aware that her face is growing warmer in response.

There is wonder, trapped inside her eye. Wonder, waging war with the sharp, predatory instinct of a beast still desperate for a name to devour. Her mouth hangs open, only slightly, showing fang. She is wary, but she is spellbound all the same. Her finger shakes almost uncontrollably as it reaches for the beast's neck. Just a little more. A little more. That's it, just one moment farther and she'll have it.

It is warm to the touch. But it's a soft and gentle heat when compared to the inferno even now threatening to devour her. It feels like a wine glass when she strokes it. Even the bumps and ridges along its surface only feel smooth, stimulating, fascinating. She strokes one fingertip down across the length of its back and all the way past its tail. When it shivers, she smiles.

A deep throated purr escapes her, but for this single moment, she's too fixated to notice it.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Solarel!

She insisted on getting the bed, despite being the guest. Despite it not being large enough for the pair of you. She insisted you take the floor, too. Fought you for it. Won. Cheated like a fiend, but who were you to complain about legitimacy?

She didn't smile at you, but the posture of her body (the lift of her tail, the unnecessary arch of her butt into the air, the curl of her spine, and the way the sheet was one quarter flopped over her bare back, the only "clothing" she had on at all) left the impression of an unbearably smug aura just the same. She stretched her arms out onto the pillow in front of her, and lazily rolled onto her side so she could peer down on where you were seated from the safety of her glorious perch.

She made no secret of her bare chest. Wasn't it softer than what you'd seen before? Didn't it seem decadent? She stretched, turned, curved, flaunted. She lifted one leg up to her head and held it there. Her eyes smiled like a river, though even now her face was nothing but curt frowns. At best, pursed lips. In some ways she was very careless with her secrets. But if she was an open book, it's because every page was written in glyphs. Of course she was. Her whole stupid language operated on glyphs. Dense and information rich. Too rich, actually. The more a person looked at one the more unfolded out of it, and there were so many layers of interpretation that even masters could only guess as to the intent.

That was Mirror. In every way the perfect Hybrasillian, and yet content as anything to stay here as your prisoner, cut off from the lot of them. Turn your head one way, and one truth would fall out of her. Blink, and another would take its place. Ask her which was real, and a third laid down overtop of both.

"What's your interest in that word?" she asked, "That's literal children's tales. You are beyond this, I think. I say you are, so it's true. I would rather you... nnnnf. Mmmmm. Hm. Well. If it really means that much to you."

She relaxed back down into the bed and rolled herself tight into the sheets. Now that she was wrapped up, her lips curled into a giddy smirk. You might have realized it then. One layer of protection, always. The shape of it was immaterial.

"An'Suhn'Na'Nq'Muhn'Dohl'Vsht'Suhn'Sa'Syr. [The Moon Reaching Stars]. Very simple concept, very very old story. The language is different now, much smoother. I can tell you many stories much better than this one. And faster, too. But we call this one by its name, and let the children sing it before they've learned to read star names, because..."

She sighed. Turned her eyes away from you to stare wistfully at the ceiling.

"I wish you would stop pretending to care. Let me go already. You can't cook a fish to save your life. Even the ones you bring me are some kind of fucked up. What am I supposed to do with these? I'll starve in another day or two."

Untrue. Demonstrably untrue. She was eating you out of house and home, pushing the boundaries of prisoner/guest rights to their maximum. She'd put on a fair bit of weight since becoming your prisoner, which was an incredible relief to see because she came to you emaciated almost down to her bones. Still, she complained about it daily. The fat, and the starvation both. The only point she stuck to consistently was that fish was overdone.

"Old things are large things, do you understand? The moons of a planet, the stars themselves, watch them chase and frolic and play. They were here before us. They will be here after. To be old and not discarded, it means you have grown. It is why we cultivate. It is why I have not forgiven you for shattering my cup. That crystal had been coaxed day on day since the minute I was born. It was mine. How many... no. No. No. Nevermind. No. I say, no!

"The lesson is over. I am not interested in your voice right now. Not your signs, either. I have thought of a better use for your tongue. Climb up here and unwrap me. When we're finished, I tracked down a new anime. They call it the Garden of Sinners. I am very, very curious~"

And that was it. This one time, and no other, she gave herself to you without needing to be wrestled into submission first. She took everything you had to give her, and she yowled loud enough to wake new Gods the entire time. Her hands on your head, holding you without guiding you. Always one layer of protection, right? Never less, but never more either.

Maybe she hadn't asked you to give her a new scar that time because in her mind, she'd already taken one. She had highly specific interpretations of winning and losing, after all. But the flip side of that was that she was never not playing games.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

There is a drink in her hand. How did it get there? What is it? It feels cold. The glass is wet. She puts her lips around the straw, and sips. It's sweet. Ahhhh, it's so sweet. It's sweet, but she could drink this forever. How odd. Normally, sweet makes her tongue curl and her mouth feel covered in fuzz. Not unpleasant, but overwhelming. Small tastes only. But this? More than half gone already. She wants more. What a pity it would be gone soon. The sound of dry sucking at the bottom of the glass is a melancholy song, indeed.

Her body is soaked in sweat. Her fur is sticking to her body suit. She is not in her cockpit anymore. There are voices all around her. Her arm is trembling as she pulls the zipper down to cool off. Where did her drink go? She would like another one, please. She pulls the zipper down halfway down her stomach. She tugs on one side of the split to let the air hit her body. That feels better.

Slate is speaking. Slate is staring at her. What is she? Oh. Oh, of course.

"Failure," says Mirror, cutting across her chief mechanic, "Of imagination. Mine, I mean. Not your fault. Simply not."

"I'm really sorry, Boss. I shoulda known better than to press your buttons right before a match. I was, honestly I was so scared to come back and find you still there that I didn't come back until way too late to do anything. Not that I didn't have eyes on her the whole time, but I mean, man. I'm just so sorry. I don't get what adds up to wins and losses in that head of yours but I've been working with you long enough to know that wasn't the fight you were looking for. I'm sorry Boss. Really am. But we're a team, yeah? You gotta let me take a little bit of the blame here."

Is she touched? Is that moving? Is she simply too tired to stay standing? What is moving her body right now? Mirror's mind races in circles, but her body moves deliberately to just where it wants to be. She wraps her arms around Slate, and hunches down to bury her face in their neck.

And for a moment there are no words between them, nor need for any. Their bodies are soft and warm, too warm in fact, against each other. Their hands seek nothing except to hold on. A million apologies pass between them in the space of three shared breaths, and then just before it gets too be too much Mirror pulls away again.

"I'm..." she says.

The thought splinters against the memory of her drink. Maybe she should ask about it. It really would be nice to have another.

"I am..."

Around and around it goes. The entire thought is in front of her, and some unseen force is making it feel unclean. She can't touch it. She can't. It isn't right. But maybe, it is. Maybe it's just upsetting and she's just a coward who can't own up and say it. She wipes a hand across her face, which is how she notices she's chewing on the tips of her hair. She frowns.

"Considering retirement."

"What?! Boss, what? No!"

"Why not? I very clearly can't keep up. Solarel reduced her own battle power to near zero to forcibly ascend her own vision and personal capabilities. She was already ahead of me and the only thing my work accomplished was catapulting her even further ahead. She plucked no fewer than four secrets from me and all I could do in return was shatter that piece of shit relic she was riding. And have you seen what the Humans are doing here?"

"Boss, come on. This is a bad joke. It's not like you."

"I've run it over and over again. How would I handle a fight without the Whip? It's a dead end. Sensory overload would kick in after ten minutes and then I would lose, irrevocably. It's a farce, Slate. I am a farce. Unwelcome in engineering, unfit to be a researcher, and as a pilot I only expose new facets of my ugliness. They must surely be mocking me by now. Nine Drive is exposed before it's even finished. So why doesn't quitting suit me best?"

"You didn't sleep last night, did you? What was the last thing you ate?"

"Irrelevant. I was sharp. My apm was near personal best. Fatigue and hunger did not affect my performance to any meaningful degree. If anything, I should--"

Slate had to know she'll die for clamping a hand over Mirror's mouth. Professionally, that is. But she does it anyway, because it's worth the price. Mirror can't follow the thought any farther if she can't express it. There are benefits to sticking around the eccentric types so long, aren't there?

"Boss I am telling you, if you're about to say that sleeping and eating are bad for your performance then they've already hit you a lot harder than you know. Not saying that pretty little Human girl wasn't worth it, mind, but goddess just rest already damn you! How's it feel for me, having to hear this? What do I do if you up and vanish? Nobody needs a mechanic who can't work on neural systems, you... dummy! Look just, we'll, uh, order something, ok? I'll get it sent up here. You want another drink? Something bitter this time, the way you like it. And while we're waiting just... just let the team take care of things, how about? Dunno what we've got around here that's soft enough to sleep on, but we'll, uh, I mean. Uh."

Mirror's eyes flow so freely that it's difficult to read her, especially with her mouth hidden like this. Her breaths through Slate's fingers are sharp, but slow. Her hand isn't shaking anymore when she grabs Slate's and pulls it away. She doesn't speak, even when she frees herself. All she does is push on her mechanic's shoulders until they drop to kneeling. And then she lies down, resting her head on their thighs. She smirks at the sudden blush, but dutifully closes her eyes, as instructed. Proper maintenance was not just about the repairs you could do with a wrench, no matter how good you were with one.

"...How did it look? The fight. From the, from the outside. How did it look? When it's her, I... When it's her I can't see anything else. So, how? How was it, actually?"

Breathless Dead

Every footfall is a symphony. The soft clatter of sandals stamping down onto the ground and the springy crackle of them curling and tensing to spring forward back into the air again. The ecstatic shiver of impact climbing up her legs. The pressure that shakes her knees and rolls her hips. Each motion carries her forward, explosive and liquid smooth at the same time. The harmony of raw power, directed at a purpose. Uninterrupted, perfect rhythm. The feeling of total invincibility that urges her forward faster and faster and faster.

The ship is alive with all manner of scents, but each one falls away in turn as though she'd swatted it into the wall and stepped over its corpse on her way ahead. The Plousios becomes a funnel with a curious void at the bottom of it, faint and astringent chemicals painted overtop delicate alchemy that takes a host of other smells and twists them into a knot where each layer cancels out the next one perfectly. A chameleon odor that could convince any mind that it couldn't smell anything at all, but for that tiny nip of something like floor polish. The signature that the world's greatest forger couldn't help slipping into the masterpiece. She takes great, noisy sniffs and feels as much as smells that painted knot lurching ahead of her, skittering through vents and walls that refuse to hide anything from the great huntress.

Her chest heaves. Her shoulders roll with every clawing stretch in balance with the crushing pistons that are her legs. Her spine compresses and curves, and with every fresh snap back to a full upright posture she is rewarded with the tingling rush of a fresh breath of air laced through with adrenaline. This perfect speed is not effortless. On the contrary, it feels and is the maximum level of exertion her body is capable of. This is ecstasy. All her physicality is bursting through her nerves in every direction, building and building and building in intensity until the heat rolling off her body becomes a tangible thing on its own.

She is blind. Sight is worthless to her, so she discards it. The entire ship and all its many visions and obstacles melt away into less than an indistinct blur. There is nothing to run through except the golden footfalls curving up and over and around and through a pair of sharp spiraling lights. One in soft gold and the other in shining silver. And for the first time, she recognizes this presence for what it is. Who it is. This light has been everywhere with her for her entire life, and only her own tiny mind kept her from recognizing it sooner. Artemis beckons. She follows, faster still. To the crabs and kingfishers, the wagons and the lanterns, she must seem like nothing. A bolt of danger, there and gone before it can register.

Except.

It's an accident of her own running form that she turns her head at all. The slightest shift of her neck to accommodate a flying leap over some part of the gold-and-silver path. That's all. The first is only a flash. She ignores it, to sink back into the raw bliss that is motion. The Hunt.

Except.

Bella sees her clearly. The sharp edges of her joints. Her awkwardly jutting hips and her short but powerful legs, that tiny nose that looks too prim and delicate to belong on the rest of her diminutive yet iron frame. The bouncing of her sweat soaked ponytail trailing behind her.

There's nothing regal about her, just now. She couldn't seem less like a princess if she tried. She doesn't look kind, either. Not panicked, not stupid, not brave, not clever. Her unsupported breasts jiggle with every lunge of her body, as tiny as they are. The muscles in her stomach roll and stretch into all kinds of exotic patterns as she hurtles down the same path as the one beside her. In this moment, she doesn't even have a name. She's not even the girl who opened the Box.

She just is. Clear and just as distinctive as The Path. Keeping pace with the same huge and obvious effort that was turning her own body into song. Is she beautiful? Desirable? Distracting? These things all require thought to pick apart and identify.

All Bella knows is that she's there. She's as much there as Mynx and Artemis. Bella breathes a little bit more freely. Her legs feel a little lighter than she remembers, if she could remember anything to begin with. So she runs. Alongside a girl who can keep up.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Nnngggh, Nnnnnnnnn, ffffft, hhhsssssst, Ghk!!"

Mirror lifts out of her seat and settles back down on it on a loop. Up, down, up, down. Her hands pound on unresponsive controls, no longer making any attempt at guiding her precious Nine-Tails toward victory of any kind. She smashes wildly, punishing an unfeeling machine for falling victim to an attack she failed to account for all on her own.

She is beyond words. They come out as animal sounds, or they terminate in broken thought loops that don't come out at all. Unworthy thoughts. Wants to express. Desperate to express. But they do not. They cannot. They will not order themselves correctly and that is enough to paralyze her mouth as much as her mecha.

So she fills her comms with nonsense breathing to go with the nonsense data streaming over half her monitors. That the lights stay on is a particular sin. Not a generic power drain but a specific unraveling of systems. The ramifications spiral faster than she can track them. Right now all she knows is that she's been violated. Exposed. There is an audience to see her, hear her, maybe even feel her as she pounds her head into the back of her seat, slashes her hands through the air with useless rage, grabs at her breasts and squeezes. Up and down, twist. Her hands tremble as they slide down her body. Her noises melt into useless chirps, and she stomps her foot down on a stuck pedal, over and over and over again.

She is hot, and bothered, and she is bothered that she is hot. Fuck this. Fuck her. Get her out of here, let her be alone, let her fucking process this. There is so much work to be done. There is so much she wants to do to herself. She is defeated, she is a victor, fuck it fuck it fuck her fuck it let her GO!

Any machine would be defeated by this. Any pilot would be blinded by this. Not her fault. Not. Random chance. External factor, outside the fight. Victory snatched by cheating. Not her fault. Not.

Wrong. Entirely her fault. Night spent in dresses and pleasure when it might have been spent on better maintenance. Fight with Slate cost her pit crew time. Breakdown in communication, always her fault. That is what it means to be Mira of the Fisher Clan. That is why the promise is whispered, when any healthy cat would speak it loudly so that the stars could hear it and carry it to the goddesses. Her fault. Undeniably.

And that's the revelation that cuts across her storm like a sword. Her hands caress her cheeks, big slow circles, one, two. She is free. If one assumption is wrong she can assume others are incorrect as well. Count them. She is bothered that she is turned on. No reason to be. Mecha drawing power, physical sensory data intact. Promise of night beyond belief, guaranteed climax. Small wonder she's excited to wear it tonight. Hasn't felt like this in years. Next: that any pilot would be blinded. No. No. Mirror is cut off from sense data. The exploit that paralyzes the Gods-Smiting Whip does not affect her. She does not need a link to move, she can scramble about in this cramped compartment. She can make repairs. She has power most anyone else would not. And it would be stupid not to use it.

Continue. Should The Beast That Gathers Power be incapable of withstanding this kind of attack? No. The exploit left power. Anything can function with energy, even without a functioning control scheme. Resources the only thing that matter. Her perfect weapon. Invincible. Eating that which makes it weaker and turning it into strength. Two disabled Tails had been converted into the Fang. That had been defeated. But she had one more disabled tail still mounted on her shoulder. No need to move, no need to aim: she was already pointing at her wine condition.

Mirror traces two fingers over her forehead, and sighs. Work quickly, fool. She hops over the top of her chair and presses herself down on the floor of the cockpit. There are panels to be torn up, wires to be repurposed, power conduits to direct where they are needed. Slate had a point: her wrench technique was quite sexy, wasn't it?

"Channel. All available. Power. Tail Six. Crystal Fire. Integrity holding. Estimate: eighty seven percent. Rerouting. Safety disabled. Goodbye. Solarel. We will not. Dance like this. Again."

Finite aim is impossible in this conditions. Irrelevant. Tail Six's energy discharge has enough power behind it to power her entire mecha. The white hot, unstable beam is large enough to cut an asteroid in half. It does as well for the Bezorel, mercifully frying the connection to its neural link in the same instant it bifurcates the ancient weapon at the shoulders. A cockpit and very little else falls to the ground as the rest of its sixty year old frame bubbles and melts away into unsalvageable scrap. The beam crashes into the rock with a series of explosions that rock the arena hard enough to be felt, if only distantly, by the other competitors fighting all around it. Repairs from this might be difficult even for Zaldarian nanotech.

Serves them right. Fuckers.

"Disconnecting power. Restore functionality. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Confirm. Confirm. Confirm."

Mirror slides back into her chair and dances across her dials once more. The Gods-Smiting Whip is sluggish, only barely capable of a slow walk (and even that feels incorrect), but it moves. It limps across the battlefield to wrench its trident out of the crater wall, and lifts it to the sky in a symbol of conquest.

"Never. Try. This." she stops, makes a frustrated growl, and has to start again four times before the words will come, "Never. Try. This. Shit. Again. Start. Over. And do not. Dare. Lose. Under... Under... s-stand??"

No more. No more. She needs to leave. Process. Overcome. No more.

[Mirror risks (some of) the secrets of her piloting technique and mech construction to Defy Disaster with Wit:
4, 5 + 2 - 2 + 1: 10]