Phoe

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"You."

That single word, like a knife thrust in the air. Alone, it hangs there. She does not follow up on it, does not elaborate. Several times she lifts her glass near her lips, and several times she lowers it without swallowing any of its remaining mouthfuls. It hangs in her hand, never touching the table or anything other than her fingers for even a second. Moving back and forth between different points of commitment and never usefully reaching any of them. It is a weight. A burden. A small one, but hardly alone.

She locks eyes with Marcina Villajero, and says nothing. Though she opens her mouth as if to several times, and even takes a breath to feed the sentence, it never comes. Her answer is this single too-sharp word. And yet she stares. Her attention may wander to the lumpy steel surface of the table or the movement of her fingers on its surface, or it might flicker to the press-types and the hangers on for an instant, a moment, or even a while, but it is never truly off of Marcina Villajero.

She does not elaborate. She does not move as if to leave. She does not permit further conversation, but neither does she end it. You. That was the word she spoke. The shape of the thought that attaches to that word is a swirling dust storm inside her head. Liquid eyes dart this way and that, but her face keeps still. She holds them open without ever so much as blinking. Her tail pounds some random woman in leathers in the back and she makes no notice of this whatsoever. Not that it is happening, or what the reaction to it might be.

"Want me to be right."

Ah. Repetition, then. No true answer but simply a mirror held up to a thing said five minutes ago over drinks. Curt and vicious, and only valuable as information insofar as the nature of that reflection reveals their true meaning. Insult and anger, arrogance and injured bravado. Revelation piled atop revelation and still the gall to keep staring, keep pushing, keep pestering as though fresh secrets will come tumbling out with a poke. Breathiness, exhaustion. A failure to understand the meaning of the words until they drift minutes apart from each other, spiraling out into the depths of space desperately reaching hand out for hand even knowing those fingers will never close around one another's again. It is cold out there, and dark besides. A terrible place to die.

"You. Want an opponent."

Her fingers curl overtop the table. Clipped claws tap out messages to no one and for no one with impossible rapidity and desperate insistence. She could be piloting. She is piloting. And nobody will ever know this. She could be sewing. She is sewing. An nobody will ever know this, either. She might be comforting something, herself, a lover, an old rival in some strange ritual, and nobody will ever know.

The moment of learning. Of taking someone new inside herself and becoming more whole. The moment of teaching. Giving it all back tenfold and helping some promising new face catch up and pass her. Tethers and chains, weaving together into an inscrutable mesh holding her in place. But only in the way that gravity holds one in place. Particularly in the galactic sense, defining the boundaries of where she might roam at any point for any reason with any warning or none, scattered so far apart that she becomes invisible to each of them and yet expects the fact that the tether still exists to matter when it someday pulls her back. She is at once too caught and too loose.

"Like I claim to fight."

Always the question. The prodding. The assumption. Digging around for more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more. More. Digging for more. For more. Digging. Eyes meet eyes, and there are no smiles. The drink hangs heavy in her hand, and the clinking of melting ice slipping and hitting the glass is the only thing that counts the time or insists that the conversation move forward. She breathes, quietly. Her tail whips that same back, insistently. She does not turn around.

The failure of communication. Not of words to be understood, but a heart to be seen. Open the bag to let out some light, and a hand immediately reaches for the opening to snatch something new. To ask her what it is she loves, as if that's a question with any sort of answer. As if the answer could be held in a single palm and carried off like a heart ruby. As if there was even a heart to take as a lesser prize to make up for the gem tumbling away ages ago across some shifty chain of museums. Admired and learned from, though never actually.

Fashion. Crystal Etching. Anime. Riddles. Crafting laser arrays. Fluid dynamic study. Mecha construction. Maintenance. Upgrade. Piloting. Strategy. Racing. Swimming. Dancing. Chess. Quietly reading, but only the same handful of documents in an ever-tightening loop. Woman after woman after woman. And Solarel, who was different from a woman in some way. Different from a lover in some way. But not enough to fully escape either label. A blustering goddess straining to wear a crown before she's learned to crave the collar. A soft starlet of a priestess with a heart large enough to forge pathways in the stars. A soft and vulnerable kitten, even now catching hiccups while she tries to figure out a way to ask the wishes of her secret heart in an e-mail of all things. An older, better friend than any of them still waiting for her chance to shine as brightly. Solarel again, and the promise of her lethal, rapid growth.

Foolish. What an impossibly stupid question. Don't you know? It's bad luck to place a Mirror in your bedroom. All it can do is absorb and reflect the entire universe. It cannot love. It is a hole in the fabric of reality that rejects love. It reveals the truth of everything, but only in the way it lies. And in the end it shatters into shards so sharp and deadly that it cuts your entire being to pieces. A dangerous thing to allow so near to your heart.

Love. What does she love? How could she? To love she would have to understand what it meant in the first place. If it were possible to love, then at least one of the many things that fit the description so perfectly should have been enough to fill in her reflection and finally fucking keep her in place. But nothing ever keeps her in place. Only in orbit. And there is no answer more monstrous to the question of 'what do you love?' than everything. It is the exact. Same. Concept.

As nothing.

"You."

The word again, and just as sharp. But now, followed with a shrug of the shoulders and a turn of the head. She puts her shoulder between herself and Marcina Villajero. A shield, is what that is. For... someone. That is the riddle of the moment.

"Have no need to hope. If I am not in this moment the opponent you long for, then watch me Marcina Villajero. By the time I reach you in the arena I will have become her. Do not. Let words. Like Hope or Claim stain your lips again. You are far, far too beautiful to let that kind of ugliness stain your soul."

She sets her unfinished drink on the table at last. Reaches into her bag and pulls a large fistful of coins out before dropping them next to the glass with a clatter that draws every eye in the bar to the exchange.

"For the drinks." she says.

And even still, does not rise to depart.

[Mirror is reducing her feelings by 2]

Breathless Dead

Blood. So much blood in the air. Thick and rich, sweeter than wine. Oily, cloying, the memory of bile painted across her tongue. Also like wine, in fact. The only wine that ever came to mind when she thought of the word. The taste of home.

Bella twists her now shattered sword in a slow circle. The grip is still cool in her palm, even now. The balance is still perfect despite no more than a shard. Less an extension of her arm, but still an extension of her claws. Her bloodied face is reflected in the steel: scarred perfection is still perfection.

A sudden rush of blood pulls the strength from her leg and shakes her out of her reverie, forcing her onto all fours to push her hardened bloody claws through equally bloody mud. The slick, wet material slides between her fingers with a squelching sound that calls to mind the sighs of corpses. Sword and claw dig eager grooves in swirling patterns in the velvety soil, and flower blossoms spring with astonishing speed in their wake.

The light here is dingy and gray. Smoke and haze in suffocating clouds, and not the thinnest sliver of gold or silver spiral to be found. The smell is dirt, is wine, is sweat, is perfume, is fur, is chitin, is scale, is smoke. Love and life rule here: what was meditation but surrender? What was the hunt but nature, red in tooth and claw? The Temples themselves were nothing but monuments to the power of love. And so love was all this was. And so love was all she could do. Bella's wounds harden into uneven, ugly armor plating covering her skin and pinning the tattered remnants of her priestess' dress to her body. She drags a freshly grown, gnarled knee spike through the mud before pushing up with all her might and leaping high enough into the air to scrape the ceiling.

Redana or Mynx? Redana or Mynx? Who did she love, and how? Stupid. Foolish. She is a comet hurtling with burning inevitability toward the only conclusion she was ever built or raised to reach. Her howl splits the skies. Her knee plunges into Redana's thigh as she crashes down on top of her. Her voice cracks and gargles with fresh pain and a sword point plunged through her abdomen. She crawls up its length to deliver a crushing headbutt to the Imperial Princess' skull. Hard enough to short circuit nerve, to derive even an Auspex of the connections it needs to guide. To turn the duel, however briefly, into a contest of pure will.

"Ggghhh..!"

Foaming spittle flecks from her mouth, and she wrenches herself free from the jagged blade. She twists her leg around and lifts Redana off the floor only to grip her by the leg in one hand and drag her dazed body into the sky behind her. Up, up they rise. Toward the great chimeric dragon. Toward Mynx. Ask her to choose. She will not. She will not! She hurls Redana like a javelin and plunges down into the fray.

Claw and spine meets fang, spine, wing, burr, and pincer. She tears bloody red gouges across Mynx's face and neck. Needles the size of her arm sink into her shoulder in response. She sucks a breath in, anticipating pain, but the agony is so close to ecstasy she can't tell the difference anymore. She shudders, convulses. Toxins drip like honey into her blood and fills her with a sense of wetness so pervasive she can no longer be sure if she's growing numb or if she's actually melting into nothing.

Her smile is savagery. Her punch shatters teeth. She tears fangs free from her ribs and shoulders and plunges them like spears back into their owner, and they are falling, falling, falling toward soft welcoming mud and bright blossoming flowers growing around prism-crystal bones. For a moment they slump against each other and fill the room with the sounds of exhausted animal breathing. Already their bodies are purging their weakness, swapping it out for new weapons and armor to overcome the others. Already ears and tails are twitching in anticipation of Redana's coming counterattack. They were, after all, a trio. They would do this together, or not at all.

And this, O Aphrodite, is what it means to love. And this, O Demeter, is what it means to live. And if these are the only two rules of the universe, then so be it. She will master them yet. She will pray until the moon shines down on her again. She will pray until one of you answers.

"NOT DONE YET!" Bella howls and tears whole plates of twisted armor off her arm, ripping clumps of matted, bloody fur up with it, "YOU DON'T GET TO RUN AWAY! MYNX! REDANA!!"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Silence. In the aftermath. The question considered, the question ignored. Silence. Awaiting the replacement drink. Silence. Deep frown, sharp stare, hold for eleven full seconds, break. Retrieve tablet from effects, clear screen. Clear screen. Clear screen. Call up program: white canvas. Retrieve wand. Lines deliberate. Slow. Silent.

The question ignored. The question considered. The question devoured. Draw the glyphs. Turn attention away, acknowledge bartender. Single nod, pause. Thumbs up, slight tremble. Unfortunate. Belch, poison. Shake head. Wince. Inhale air over fresh glass, flowers, grasses, spinach. Sugar, perfect. Flavors to bury a ludicrous amount of intoxicant. Also perfect. Single, delicate sip. Soft sigh.

Turn tablet toward Marcina Villajero. Display glyphs: "The One-Day Defender".

"I do not share this with you as admonishment, nor as recompense. This is not a tool by which you may correct your ignorance. It is not how I shall reveal mine. It is a secret, told in confidence, and if you spread it beyond our talk tonight I shall find you in the night and tear secrets you did not even know you had from your brain until I am satisfied I have gotten my fair share back. This trust is offered you because we are kindred. Nothing more or less."

She places her fingers on the screen and pulls apart the layers of the glyph. Complex Hybrasilian glyphs, like the ones used for names, were constructed out of multiple simpler ones that either all or mostly built the meaning of the larger one, though not the way it was spoken. Mira lifts her hands and is left with the glyphs for 'shield', 'shelter', 'time', and 'friend'.

"War records will show that I clashed with the pilot of the Aeteline outside the territory of the Hybrasil Research Station [Dappled Sunlight, Rippling Water]. She and I engaged in single combat lasting approximately one full solar cycle. Though I failed to gain any definitive advantage over her in that time, occupying her attention was the difference between a successful raid by the Zaldarian task force and a full civilian evacuation plus data backup and excavation. I am a hero among my people, and this title is proof."

Mira grins with sadistic glee, and pauses to take a long but gentle sip of her drink. Her eyes drift shut and her ears wiggle from the sheer pleasure of it all. And while this happens, her hands blindly strike glyphs from the screen until only 'shield' is left. She turns it on its side. She plucks the wand back off the table and twirls it in her fingers before carefully adding glyphs that read 'shattered', 'food', and 'traitor'. She pauses to look Marcina Villajero in the eyes, and pushes the layers back together.

They form the same glyph as before.

"At the end of our duel I was defeated and taken captive. I spent the rest of the war as my conqueror's personal hostage. I lived in her tent, I followed behind her on a leash, though I would not have disobeyed even if she had removed it. I ate her food. I learned her culture and her way of speaking. And I watched as she tore through my people's lands at the tip of a spear of destruction, theft, and humiliation. Jewels far greater than [Dappled Sunlight, Rippling Water] were plucked and broken while I did nothing. It is debatable if I am the greatest pilot in Hybrasil. It is an absolute fact that I am among them. I accomplished a single great deed, and then I, a hero, sat by and watched my people suffer. I am. Despicable. And this title is proof."

Another sip, a slash of her tail through the air, a quiet and contented sigh. Nothing about her posture or demeanor suggests she is particularly bothered by the conversation or the memory of it, except that the liquid in her eyes seems all of a sudden to have frozen over completely. She rubs the stub of her thumb-claw around the edge of her glass, and laughs.

"Everything I do, I do to the best of my ability, be it matches, maintenance, love, or anything else that strikes my interest. But Victory is a goddess with very distant eyes, Marcina Villajero. And her name, too, can be fashioned out of many words. I do not owe my opponents the respect of crushing them. Wins and losses are irrelevant, except as a path to facing you. I desire you, Marcina Villajero. Sister from a far-distant star. You have calculated that when we fight, you will be both enriched and victorious. And this is wrong. Dear heart: I will swallow you whole. I will fashion you into a new tail for my Gods-Smiting Whip. And when I do. I promise. I will teach you every secret lesson you desire. That you do not know you desire. That you cannot even shape the words to ask for. Your power will be mine. And I will make you invincible."

Her words hang in the air again as she takes dainty sips from her drink. It is strong enough to melt her body and sweet enough to thaw her eyes. She smiles through a face soaked through with watery inscrutability. She wipes her tablet clean and puts it away again, but makes no motion toward leaving.

"And we will," she adds in a quiet voice, "I hope. Depart our battle as friends."

[Figure out a person: 7. "What do you love most?" and "What do you truly hope to get from me?" Out of respect for a superior opponent, Mirror will answer a single question in exchange]

Breathless Dead

The blade feels heavy in her hand. The loops of leather on the hilt are cool against the insistent heat of her palm. Even as she squeezes tight enough to make it groan and squeak under the pressure, it holds its temperature perfectly. The material feels smooth, but grips into her skin without shifting. It's like holding an ice cube that's been polished and then later etched into a work of fine art. The blade is long and heavy, but balanced with the kind of precision that manufactures starships the weight feels as natural as her own arm. An extension of the limb.

The blade whistles with every flick of her wrist. Bella's eyes are locked on the blade across from her in Redana's hands. She watches the way it twists, the flash of the light across its edge, the tremor running through it that proves it's being gripped too tight. The subtle shifts in the muscles holding it that are unconsciously taking advantage of that tremor, that show the saber is no less a part of Redana's arm than it is Bella's.

She cuts away her sandal straps with a pair of clean slashes at her legs, and kicks them across the floor. The soles of her feet dig into the grass as she plants them in the soil. The leaf-blades are slick against her skin and wet against her fur. It is softer than any bed she's lied on, but cuts her feet open on hidden prickles as she slips across it. A soft bed to welcome her, when she falls. A bed of knives, grinning in the dark. Demeter is everywhere.

The air is thick with perfumes of all sorts: lavender and goldenrod and seemingly every pollen known to Empire except for roses. Bella sniffs deeply, and kills each one in turn. Farewell to flowers. Farewell to crisp pools of water. Farewell to soil. She focuses all of her attention on the blend of salt and metal that tells her what Redana doing, feeling, thinking at every moment of the duel.

Her eyes flit briefly away from the plan... from Redana to behold Aphrodite watching over them. Of Artemis there is no sign to be found. Apollo is just as absent. No moon, no sun to guide her here inside this garden. She slashes with her blade through the dirt in front of her, kicking up a massive wave of dirt clumps, leaves, and flower petals.

"If this doesn't work, then just... there's no one else I'd rather be killed by. Redana."

Bella stomps her foot and lifts her sword up into a stance that's no stance at all. The blade is kept high above her head where leverage and power can turn it into a stroke powerful enough to cleave even the ship open. Her eyes burn with battle-fury. The air around her wavers from the heat pouring off her body.

"...This is the last time I will ever hurt you. One way or another, it stops with this. So endure it, Princess. And don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you fucking dare hold back!"

Bella screams as an animal would. She screams to be heard by the entire ship. She screams to split skulls open. And then her hair and dress whip behind her as if caught in a gust, and she appears in front of Redana with no intervening frames. Rather than taking advantage of her momentum, she pauses just long enough to plant her feet. Her hips twist with her shoulder, and the full power of a Diodekoi comes screaming down on top of the Imperial Princess.

The dueling swords keen horribly as they clash. This is a blow neither of them are meant to endure, but they hold all the same. The floor buckles under their combined weight; Bella's sword slides all the way down Redana's until it catches against the guard. There is a struggle: sweat against sweat, muscle against muscle, steel against steel, breath against breath. Bella's laugh is guttural and her smile is full of teeth. She lifts her sword again and the pressure abates instantly.

Every blow rains down faster than the one that preceded it. It crushes even harder, trades more and more skill for raw brutality. Each one countered more desperately, but (the scents tell her) more determinedly as well. The skill of an Olympic athlete who trained her entire life to fight with blades like these is on display, and it is enough to hold against the terrifying fury of an unleashed assassin. It is enough. You are enough, Redana. You're all that's needed. All that's ever been needed.

The ship shudders with the force of the battle happening inside of it. Swords sing their terrible death songs as metal grinds edge off of metal. And then something slips. The dull, wet sound of flesh splitting open briefly sounds through the ears of those straining to listen for it, and the pitter patter of blood dripping down follows just behind it. Bella squeezes Redana's blade in her palm, and wrenches it from her hands.

Her fist is a meteor aimed at Redana's ribs. Time seems to pause in an instant of exquisite pain met by the snap of a rib exploding into dust. Bella snarls and pounds the attack again, a knee this time with enough force to send her Princess sprawling backwards as though shot out of a cannon to crunch against the far wall. Bella twists on the ball of her foot and whirls about in a full circle and launches the sword as a thunderbolt that bites into Redana's shoulder on its way to burying itself in the wall up to the pommel.

Steam pours out of Bella's mouth in a sigh. She brings her bloody hand to her mouth and drags her tongue across the wound. Her eyes constrict with a wave of nausea that almost staggers her, but willpower or something darker conquers it. She flexes her fingers with a series of loud cracks and crunches.

Her claws have grown longer. They cover her fingers up to the third knuckle like a chitinous gauntlet covered in wicked, curving spines. She pauses to stare at it. Snarls. The edge of her sword cuts through the air with a snap and a rush that pulls air in all around her.

"Re. Da. Na. BLEED! SCREAM!" her spine curls with the effort of her war cry, "REDANA!"

Show her. Show her what she means to you. Beautiful's plans are perfect, but did you notice? They are also suicidally dangerous. Maybe no one has the power to fight against a god. Maybe it's impossible to defeat the one god among them that's wrapped the rest up tight to wear as a ring around his finger. This whole endeavor might be doomed from the start. But Bella is pushing herself to the edge of her own limits because she believes in that plan. But her body is a hideous bomb the same way Mynx's is. You're against the clock, Princess.

Do you understand?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Marcina Villajero? Arena champion. Pilot of..."

Intentional delay of five point seven six seconds. Implied struggle of recall, affected look of concentration. Tap finger on air as though across surface of a desk: accepted gesture of consideration among certain small circles of Fisher culture, limited in popular use to a handful of frontier research stations. Easily misconstrued among outsiders as taunting. One, two, one two three, one two. Feels almost like piloting. Single nod, smile as practiced. Lip curling toward the left side of the face, good, good.

"The Jormungar. To call out a nobody like me, on sight, in the middle of a crowded bar? That's so surprising it's almost suspicious! I wonder, could you be my mysterious saboteur?"

Pause, again. Allow the accusation to linger in the air. Gauge reactions, smile. Longer. Tap tap, tap. Long enough to make it awkward. Three. Two. One. And: laughter.

"Only kidding, of course. It's an honor, thanks for the drink."

It's natural that she would be prepared for this meeting. Any combatant with intentions to win the tournament would be an idiot not to consider interactions between key competitors, and the reigning champion stands as the most obvious of all. At the barest minimum one would hope to see profiles built detailing combat capabilities and off-field tendencies to be sufficiently prepared for what amounts to increasingly inevitable confrontations. And Mirror is vastly more disadvantaged than most. And vastly more serious than most. So her preparations are comparatively more thorough.

This is not about that, though. This is a battle, but the opponent is not Marcina Villajero. Impossible to defeat an opponent of this caliber in a bar before the main show, in any event. But she represents an opportunity. The world. The galaxy. That is an enemy she can defeat. Let the crowd watch. Let word spread. Let the strengths and weaknesses of Mira Fisher be known, so she can observe who attempts to take advantage of them.

Always. Always one layer of defense. Never more or less. She sits at the table with an awkward slouch, pours her own drink from the offered bottle, and stares at it instead of drinking. Swirl. Watch the liquid. Entrancing. Terrifying. Dip little finger enough to break surface tension, but no more. Shake until nearly dry. Trepidatious lick. Immediate gag.

"Cinnamon," she spits, "Vile stuff. Poison. Did you know? The revolutionary warrior Delinata Seven Rhea would send gifts of cinnamon to enemy camps before battle? They say she liberated the Grasslands with only a single stroke of her spear. And you... like this? What kind of steel-blooded queen are you?"

That is a true story, by the way. Cinnamon is used for warding off evil spirits and, more practically, for marking unsafe zones in construction zones or experiment sites, say. The smell is repugnant. The flavor, somehow worse. In high enough concentrations it might even be useful as a non-lethal incapacitation device. As a spray it would... not bear thinking about. Brr. But the nasty trick of it all is that Hybrasil culture is universal and unrelenting in its insistence that a gift is not to be denied. In the ancient days it was punishable by death, and the modernization of the culture has mellowed that threat only a little. That was the true shape of Delinata Seven Rhea's blade. Perhaps it was Marcina Villajero's, also.

Deep breath. One. Two. In. Out. Grip the glass, tight. Clench. Wince, before even lifting. Drain the glass in three large gulps. Wretch. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow! Dizzy. Place hand on table, stabilize. Deep breath. Regret. Head on table.

"...Thank fuck for the fire. I might be dead without it."

Slump forward, head turn. Grin. Excellent adaptation. Mira Fisher is weak. Mira Fisher is reckless. Mira Fisher is bold enough to accuse the champion of crimes but too polite to turn down a gift she plainly despises. Mira Fisher is a melodramatic creature with an overly sensitive, easily overwhelmed body. Mira Fisher is a rookie. Has a lot to prove. Is Fierce. Risky. Willing to expose herself, in more ways than one.

Let them speak. Let them speak beyond the limits of her own imagination. Let. Them. Speak.

"You know. You are a person many accuse of overcompensating. Small stature, large machine. A... chip on the shoulder? Is that how you say it? But. I do not think so. You know my name. You know my face. Well. Do you know what that says to me? Your talent is not natural. It is the result of drive. Practice. More than all the rest. There is an opening when you fire your main weapon, but you are not exposed. You have trained the release timing. I suspect you even have a counter prepared if someone defeats your straight thrust. It is a tragedy that nobody has forced you to show that yet. You are... an exceptional woman, Marcina Villajero."

She pauses to let out a weak, shaky little breath. It's Solarel she's really thinking of. Solarel, who will be at this exact moment sharpening herself for the next confrontation. Solarel who is preparing to slingshot far enough ahead that Mirror will never catch up again. And then... they will never be together again. Their relationship was built atop the dance, after all. That's why Mirror is fighting against the world. Anything less will result in too blunt of fangs. It will cost her the woman she loves, that fills more of her holes than anyone else.

Someone almost enough. Well. That was another reason to fight the world, wasn't it? Mirror waves a shaky hand at the bar, calling for a different drink. Something sweet, something herbacious, something the farthest thing away from fucking cinnamon, if you please. Anything, now. No, it does not matter how strong it is. No, she can't be more specific. No, she doesn't care. Just give it.

"Too exceptional, in fact, for Mira of the Fisher Clan, Whose Star Name is Whispered Promise. So I must ask you three questions. One, what is your interest in me, Marcina Villajero? Two, how many matches must I lose to earn you as my opponent? And three..."

She smiles, and her watery eyes are dreamlike. Cunning. Dangerous.

"Would this please you, if I did you that disservice? If I fight you, I will eat you. Is that the secret wish of your heart, that the Arena could not grant you the first time?"

Breathless Dead

Tatters of coattails stick to her claws. Bella's hand closes around ruin and empty air.

The rush of blood through her head roars in her ears, keeping time with the furious pounding of her heart. Joints tense, crack, and scream. She doesn't hear them. There are words being spoken, by someone. To someone. She doesn't hear those either. There is her pulse, her sickening traitor's heart, the slushing proof of her guilt. And that is all the sound that can fit inside the world.

Bella's legs shift uneasily underneath her. The weight of her body rocks one way, and then the next. Her muscles coil and then relax without picking a target, without choosing attack or escape, without even moving her from the spot where her feet have been rooted to the ground by the weight of her failure. Is she breathing? Her body is convulsing, and that might as well be the same thing.

Her claws itch. Her fingers close around them and squeeze tight, as if to tear them all off. Again, the motion of her legs: the bend, the pivot in place, the curling of her foot to put her on the ball when she can chase the silver spiral and the Hunt once more. Where she can disappear from all senses and all thoughts and all failures. Her skin itches. Like her claws do.

There is a moan escaping from her lips, but she feels it in her throat more than she hears it. Her hands open just enough to let her bury her face in them, instead. The sharpness pressing against her temples feels like relief. She can let pressure out this way. She can stop the noises this way. All she needs to do is squeeze. Squeeze until the memories stop. Squeeze until her heart bursts. Squeeze until there's no more room for love and the poisonous hurt it brings.

And she is about to, when the fingers close about her wrist and pull her face back into the open air. Bella looks blankly into the worried eyes of Beljani. The Oratus says nothing. The Diodekoi wouldn't hear it anyway. But she does shake her head, and point. Something is twisting inside of Bella. It feels like the heated point of a knife broken off inside her skin. She tries to wrench her arm free, but it's pointless. Her power is broken. Even the sound of blood in her ears has gone quiet. There is a war inside of her: half wanting to explode and the other half wanting to relax into oblivion. It hurts, to stay where she is. But Beljani keeps here there.

She feels a nudge on her back, and the gentlest of pushes. Suddenly she is free. It would be the simplest thing to disappear with the opportunity this affords her. The push wasn't enough to even shift her weight; she could turn easily and disappear through the door faster than any eyes in the room could follow. She has that power. She does. But the blade inside of her tugs in the same direction as that quiet, warm push. And at last her feet unstick. And she moves in the direction they both lead.

The knife point turns into a hiccough. Bella's face is wet. One step. Two. The room is full of sounds again. Full of breathing and the word, "center". The warmth of bodies huddling against the coolness of the air. And she...

She wants that, too. So she takes it.

Bella's arms are long enough to wrap up Redana and Beautiful together. They are strong enough to lock the both of them in her embrace. But her legs can't hold her weight, and she slumps until her face is resting in Dany's hair. Her tears are hot, and loud.

"I'm sorry," she chokes, "I'm sorry..."

She says it again and again as if caught in a loop, or seeking the absolution that only a perfect utterance of the words can bring. Not these weak, sniffling attempts but something proud and strong and invincible enough to be vulnerable. The way that everyone expects from her. And like she expects from herself. But her voice is small and weak. Only the tears seem loud enough to say what it is she needs to say.

"I just... wanted things the way I-- I just! Everything... just hurts you. I only... make it worse. But I don't want to lose you! Not either of you, not again! Not again! Not... Dany. Y-you're always... such an idiot. I never wanted freedom. Just you. Just... you."

The miracle ends, and tears steal her words from her again. Bella sobs into her embrace, only stopping to cough and repeat the words 'I'm sorry' over and over, on a loop. But she doesn't let go. Even though she doesn't deserve this, any of this, not the scent or the warmth or the feeling of being this close again, not forgiveness or to be allowed her confession, but she holds tight anyway.

And when Beljani joins them, Redana really is in the middle of it all. And everyone is well and truly trapped. Everything would be perfect, in its crazy, fucked up way, if there was only one more piece here to slot into the shape.

Breathless Dead

The aesthetic is all wrong.

Rain is supposed to be heavier than this. It should smell cleaner, full of... dust washing away and a clean wet feeling that promises purity. It should be unbearably tense, permeated with the threat of ozone, lightning, thunder, and above all the din of battle. Rain is a thing beloved of Zeus, and a place for battle and omens. It's where blood washes away as fast as you can spill it, so there's no way for it to choke her. But this is musty, city-rain. A thing so absurd it shouldn't even conjure an image. The gentle trickle is too even; it should be a downpour that demands everyone fight just to stand on their feet underneath it. It spatters on a windowpane and runs like the fountain it actually is, carrying with it faint traces of brine dragged up from the depths of the ship where the Tides overwhelm everything around them.

The neon should be loud. The buzzing should be unbearable, insectoid, insistently pressing until she is obliged to to cut it from her senses. The lights should be bright and gaudy and difficult to look at. Neon is a precursor to pain and abandonment, a weapons system the architecture of war wears as a dress. Harsh. Uninviting. Dangerous. This is... soft. Weak. It hums, but barely. The vibrations are even almost tantalizing. The little flicker and the pop when they struggle to keep shining through the power fluctuations is actually charming. The lights are soft but colorful in a way that simply shouldn't be allowed. Not enough light to see by, not anymore than could be seen in the dark. Certainly not in this "rain". Only enough to mark a presence that by all rights should be fighting to keep itself hidden.

The smell of cigarettes is also wrong. Because that surely, even if everything else about the wrongness of this place was simply a matter of caked on biases...the smell of a cigarette is supposed to be an unholy, rotting thing. It is death itself. Bones and flames and dirt wrapped inside a perfume of drunken spice that only serves to make each each breath of it more perverse than if it had been the naked intention and nothing else. But this... while noxious in its own right, face curling, carries only the tang of burning leaves. Death of a different sort, then. None of the horror of Hades nor of Aphrodite, but simply a toy to be puffed out into the air as if it aided the narration.

The sights and the smells of this place. All wrong. But the girl... the girl was just right.

Beautiful moves exactly the same as before. The intensity and lust for life of a creature who knows on an instinctual level she is never afforded much time to enjoy it, as fluid as if she could predict the flow of time and as jerky and erratic as if the burdens of perceptions cast too wide for the eye to follow had swallowed up her capacity to focus on silly things like walking. At every moment she seems at once untouchable and as though she is going to walk straight into a wall in the same moment. The promise of death, but wrapped up in paper that would tear with the barest provocation. She invokes a need to stay away and a need to protect her at all costs with every flick of her wrists and roll of her shoulders.

That perfect, golden hair that begs to be braided like royalty. Even if its owner has forgotten she should ask for it. Did ask for it. Those violet eyes... as deep as the universe and more precious than gemstones. The glimmer of genius inside of them makes them come alive that in Bella's opinion they are the envy of starlight itself. This is what stole her breath away the first time. What made her call the Ikarani Beautiful in the first place.

For five days, they'd danced. For five days, they'd spoken, less and less each time. Taking more and more from the exchanges. For five days they'd understood one another. For five days they had been best friends. Perhaps that was only possible because they both knew it couldn't last. The smile on her face says it could be again. The strut in her step says it might be better not to. The sparkle in her eye says but wouldn't it be wonderful? The theatrics of the smoke say that things will always be different now. That they should be. It's right for things to change between them.

A preview of the Lethe, then. At least in small doses. The things that might survive, and the ways someone could be completely different for all of the many ways they're still the same. Bella shivers when she's touched, and says nothing. Memories of stories and crab rangoon drip as insistently as the too-even "rain" outside the makeshift office. She brushes her palm up and down the length of her arm, feeling the softness of her own fur as a substitute for sliding back into the itch and habits her claws demanded from her.

She glances toward Redana for a moment. Even forgets to look stern or severe. They really... the pair of them truly are so very much alike. Bella sighs, and looks away again.

"Last time it was me asking you that question. I guess you don't remember it. But then again, I stuck you pretty hard with that vial. Your idea, by the way. You were very full of stupid, batshit, suicidal... fucking brilliant ideas. It was all Beljani and I could do to keep up. Do you remember at all? Even shadows? You had a bunch of those before, at least.

"You said that... you couldn't be given a name. Something about it needing to be derived from context. So I guess it's whatever the fuck makes sense to you. Doesn't matter what I say. But even so, I still. Still... think that you're Beautiful."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

There is. A lot. That could. Be said.

There is. A lot. That should. Not. Be said.

No change of expression registers on her face as Mira accepts the furstick. She does offer a deep, sweeping bow that very nearly causes her to spill out of her suit. Is that an unfortunate coincidence attached to a gesture of thanks? Is it meant to be teasing? Flaunting? If so, for which pair of eyes? Or, is she simply testing Seven Quetzal's sincerity? When she lifts out of her pose, her movement is as graceful and fluid as her eyes. There's a frown fighting with a smirk on her lips. And she turns away.

She tosses the furstick up into the air above her, not bother to watch it twirling through the air. It could land anywhere. She could let it fall or hand it back. But she catches it with a deft swipe of her hand as she walks away. She lifts that same hand to wave over her shoulder as she goes, twirling the stick between her fingers.

"Whispered Promise," she calls out without turning her head. Her voice is high and clear to be heard over the din of mealtime, "You have a right to that much, Seven Quetzal."

Because, indeed, she was right. This is not difficult information to acquire. And yet, it is better to be handed the information than to be forced to take it for yourself. A trade of star names, between cultures. And maybe, just maybe, this second name would shake some memory of a news article loose in that sweet little brain. Maybe it would draw a real reaction out of Smokeless Jade Fires, when the goddess had done such an admirable job to this point of keeping her presence... ah, "hidden". Maintaining the veil of propriety, at any rate. But if it manages anything, it is not immediate. And Mira does not wait around to see.

There is. A lot. That could. Be said.
There is. A lot. That should. Not. Be said.

Touch up her spots. Of all the things she could have suggested. She picked the one that. Well. She picked. The element. She'd assumed they'd have in common. After all, it is not as if this girl kept beauty products on hand in the off chance she met another cat who needed them. Unreasonable assumption. Too rare a brand. Too... nngh. But still. But still. As if it wasn't the first thing she tried. As if she hadn't practiced with 'touching up her spots' every day until she had become a professional in the art. As if that hadn't been the thing that had pushed her into fashion in the first place. And as if. As if any brand or style or degree of expertise had been enough to cover her disfiguration.

The mistake, in fact, had been trying to cover it up at all. The better she got at hiding it the more the stares and muttered comments followed her, and the nastier they became. One thing to be ugly. Another thing entirely to dare to fix it. She'd had her eyes treated as a response to that feedback. That, of course, made her even more controversial. Not universally despised. Merely a magnet for strong opinions. Far worse. Unignorable. An enigma. Mysterious. Controversial. Poison.

And if beauty. If beauty. Were measured. By the heart, then... yes. Inevitable conclusion. For an insatiable heart. Like hers. That demands so much. And gives so little. That forms such tangled nets. Such knotted nests. And wanders away. Expecting things to stay in stasis. Until she is no longer bored. She is. If anything. Isn't she? The things she does. Make her. Far uglier on the inside.

She could be insulted. Should be insulted. Or at least hurt. There are. Many things. That could. Be said. And yet. She does not say them. Thoughts swirl inside her mind and do not find the necessary purchase to complete. She casts them off into the void, these imperfect creatures.

Because. Her heart is swelling. Because. As she walks away. She is on the verge of real tears. Because. This Seven Quetzal. Mainlander though she is. Responded to her testing and her teasing. By opening herself up and reaching out for Mirror. To blindly touch this thorny heart. Her smile was something. Truly incredible. Beauty enough to spark no lust. No curiosity, in fact. And yet. To make her feel the attempt. Instead of the impossibility of her success. Language. The spark of someone who might speak to her. Who did speak to her.

The numbers flit through her head. Lock in place. It was good she stuck around that extra moment. Good that the silly girl lifted her breasts. Ha. In solidarity. It was good that she turned in place. The way she had. All of it was good. Because Mirror had her measurements. Enough to compare them against official biometrics. Video data.

In fact. In actual fact. Mayze Szerpaws had four dresses on commission. Time would tell where inspiration went.

Breathless Dead

"You're asking...? Uhhhhh, hmm. It's? Probably fine? Is that what you?"

Beljani has no idea what to do with her hands. Is she allowed to touch a princess? Is that a sin? Is that something you do when you comfort people? Maybe a shoulder pat or a... oh no, no no no, she doesn't know this girl well enough for a hug! What is she thinking? Gods, this is so not fair. This is, like, you could not have made her live a life that would have left her less prepared to handle the whole 'comfort and support' thing. She didn't even have her letter writer with her!

What a... man. This would be so much easier if she just spread into Redana. You know, a little. To give her a nudge. But that's... bad. That's a bad thing to do. It is bad to infect the girl your sister has been openly pining for with your pheromones right in front of her. Behind her. Whatever! She attempts the next best thing which is... reaching out and shaking Redana's hand? Ugh, kill her now, please. No wait, no no, don't!

Cringe. Cringe, cringe, cringe. Beljani sighs.

"Ok, can I be honest? I don't really know a lot about how the temples work, either. You know, when we were- when Bella, and Mynx, and Beautiful and I were kids, there were... more of us, right? We had teachers, almost. But then they got marched off on some sort of mission and just never came home again and it. Uh. It was just us. And Mother. And, you know, she's got that whole garden philosophy thing going on and, let me just say, understanding the ins and outs of how we actually work? Not a priority for her. Wasted education. Gotta... trim those leaves, so they only grow in the 'proper' direction."

She shudders, in spite of herself. Come on, 'Jani. Mother's gone now, you even found your in with Bella. You are supposed to be becoming the universe's coolest wingman right now, why are you getting flustered by the memory of someone who's out of your life forever? Because she was in your life forever, duh. Ugh, why was it so hard to know what to say? If they were going to call her an 'Oratus' couldn't they at least have taught her some basic public speaking skills?

She pinches her cheek. Not hard, mind you. Nothing about her life since Sahar has made her fall in love with pain. Just... a little thing. To remind herself that it's there. That she's there. And who all in this big empty stupid hallway she had to thank for that.

"Do I think Bella will ever forgive you? Dunno if that's even relevant. You're not... you're not the one she's having problems forgiving. If you think it sounds bad being a bioweapon just imagine being her. Nobody even told her what she was until it was too late to do anything with that information. I don't know if Mother erased it or just disguised it all or what, but she put a lot of work into Bella that she didn't bother with for the rest of us. But that kind of effort comes with... expectations."

A sigh. This feels like the sixth best version of an explanation that seemed to be taking her all day to give while still leaving out two thirds of the best or most useful information. But she couldn't stop talking. As stupid as the words were, there wasn't anybody else around to save them. And honestly, gods be damned? If she was committed to plunging through a bathtub full of Beautiful's forgetfulness potion and turning into goo on the other side? She'd at least walk into that last goodnight knowing her tongue had accomplished one good deed in the galaxy. Her tongue. Not her virus. Her.

"If you think Bella sounds like two people to you, I think... we all agree. I don't know how many people Bella thinks she is, or thinks she has to be I guess, to keep everything going, I just know she expects every single one of them to be flawless at all times. It's not a great way to be. I mean, I wasn't there but, I... heard. That she killed Mynx on the battlefield, while she was Trēdecima. Or at least, she tried to. And that'd be bad enough, but she did it thinking it was you the whole time. That's a lot, right? You think so too, right?

Just... I don't know. All I can really tell you is that Bella and I are family. We both agreed and that makes it true and I dare you to tell me otherwise. So I'm... I'm with her, until I can't follow her any further. And she's with me, until we run into the same wall. And we were, honestly, horrible people to each other before this, so... no. I don't, I don't know.

She... just. The way she chased after you. The way she dragged the rest of us into it. It was not just a job to her, even though jobs are basically supposed to be all she has. I don't know what to tell you, Princess. I just don't. I feel like... I mean, well, I wrote her a really nice letter, that seemed to work pretty nice. You want me to hook you up? Might as well, right? Not like we've got time to hesitate anymore, right right?"

Beljani does her best to smile bravely. She definitely succeeds at smiling, but whatever kind of smile it is she is much too nervous to figure it out for herself.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Ah. Hm. You know? It is..."

The smile flickers on Mira's face, on off, on off, on off, on. The complexity of the thought wars openly with her amusement at being put in this situation. And it is a complex thought. Has this squeaking priestess already pulled the mask off her persona without ever having even met her? What does the compliment imply? Perhaps her wearing of the dress was more praiseworthy than the dress itself. Perhaps she simply has nothing else to praise.

It's normal for mainlanders not to know who she is. Mira is a relatively common Fisher name, even if her armor should be famous in its own right. Well. It's a blessing and a curse. Easier to keep opponents off kilter when they don't know her history. Her entire arena strategy functions off the assumption of anonymity. And yet. The difference between a pilot and a model. Why was it that so many compliments people paid her were coded as insults? It's a worthy mystery. Perhaps she needs more training. Perhaps she needs a better, less dysfunctional mind.

"Rare, to be paid a compliment as a model. Unexpected. After all, I'm not the mind behind the dress. You are a sweet little sunspot to skip complimenting the dress just to make the butt that filled it feel a little better, aren't you? Ms. Szerpaws designed it specifically to highlight my... deformities, did you notice? And not just my spots, the structure of my ribs, as well. And can you see with this stupid suit on? My breasts are misaligned. Misshapen as well. Ah, you do see. What do you think? I'm much less attractive on person than I was on the runway, aren't I? I see it in your eyes, you want to go back to your Terenian. That's all right, I'm not insulted. Thank you. For... letting me feel attractive for a moment. Sincerely."

Her smile is not mixed this time. It is glinting with hard edges, while her eyes stare holes straight through the priestess. So this is the game they were playing? She can feel the youth permeating the aura of Smokeless Jade Fires. They really thought they were being subtle, didn't they? The pair of them. They're as ridiculous as they are clever, and their limitations only serve to make their power more apparent. Is that really how she does it? Total sensory perception without full contact. A hidden fantasy that's meant to be invisible to anyone without the password.

Well. It is at least invisible to anyone who isn't looking. But to have this darling, inexperienced thing march straight over here in direct contrast to the invitation, and to her own spoken intent and explanation, and then to become so distracted? Smokeless Jade Fires must really think that Mira is an idiot. Or... no, that's not quite it.

She's dealt with vanishingly few pilots before. This goddess, she won't be used to anticipating the observational patterns of someone both used to rapid, minute, detailed observations who is not already directly under her thumb. Or, perhaps more accurately, bound by her collar. She would have a cult, of course. There were enough Hybrasilians with ties to the old religions to take the advent of a new goddess seriously enough to worship her. Even if her manifestation was unorthodox. An expanded Pattern, perhaps? Could also have been a Crystal Fire manifestation or... no. Irrelevant to the present topic. Regardless. She had worshippers, and she clearly had her priestess and even the other little huntress presently cooing over the trussed up sacrifice on the table over yonder. These people, Smokeless Jade Fires barely needed to stretch herself to wrap them up completely.

And yet. The total need for control. The immediate response to a threat above and beyond the terms that threat had stated. The inability to let her priestess control the conversation. Presentation, according to aesthetic. Aesthetic, still identifying itself. Concerned chiefly about erasure. Confidence projected as a defense mechanism. Insecurity, defined by inexperience. Pressure, amplified by duty. Familiar.

She would learn the art of a softer touch, in time. Sooner rather than later if she had a proper teacher. Was it presumptuous to think a goddess needed a Mirror? Perhaps. But it's more fun to think about how much she could snatch from this goddess while posing as her reflection. Treasure, opportunity, respect, power. Information, more valuable by half than all the rest put together.

Mira shrugs.

"It's a shame about your goddess, though. If only I had been enough to catch her eye I'm sure I could have avoided this... misinterpretation. Alas, this is the fate of unworthy, ugly creatures such as myself. When you commune with her next, tell her. Mmm. No, you had best not. But I will tell you, as a secret between us girls: I will not fight your goddess as I am. It would not end well."

She smiles with a supreme confidence that reaches the depths of the waterfalls inside her eyes. In this tiny instant, she is a being of power. Real and terrifying power, the kind that would name her mecha something like the Gods-Smiting Whip even before she thought to test herself against the Gods of Zaldar when they came for her home. Confidence like a creature who would swallow a star the second its back was turned. And not because she thought she could, but because she had once before, already.

"But~! I am in the process of forging chains to bind my Nine-Tails. And while my armor is sufficiently bound and all of its primary weapon systems are functionally offline? I think that would be enough of a handicap that I wouldn't mind testing myself against Smokeless Jade Fires. But I-- oh, sorry. I'm keeping you from dinner. That's the one thing I explicitly did not want to do. That's why I was waiting for, no no, go on. Thank you again for the wonderful compliment. If I see Ms. Szerpaws again I will tell her what you said. I think she'll take it as an even greater praise than me. Your heart is like a treasure bright enough to be the inviting glimmer at the bottom of a lake. Goodbye. I hope we meet again, and if we do I hope this time I'll earn your name."

Mira rises from her seat and takes the priestess by her hands before there's time for any replies. She places a long, soft, lingering kiss straight on that glove she's wearing, before releasing her to her own devices.