Phoe

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

3V, November!

"You really shouldn't frame a workout like a price you have to pay," Euna frowns, "You'll only make it harder to stick to a routine, and routines are how you lock in gains. I've told you this before, Threevee, don't you remember?"

There's a sharp glint in her eyes when she looks the pair of you over. Her hand worries at her cheek for a moment and she stands there in silent contemplation. Until at last, something in this impromptu staring contest breaks, and her face lights up with a wide grin. She claps her hands together, a gesture that results in a dull, metallic clunk. Her limbs are dense and engineered for performance and especially toughness over fidelity. But if she's at all bothered by the supposed inhumanity of this extremely human gesture, it doesn't show.

"So! November. Do I have that right? I love your outfit, by the way. Daebak! Anyway, thanks so much for coming today! I'm very excited to get to work with a full android, I don't get this opportunity very often. I understand you're skeptical, but stick this session out with me and you'll learn a lot, I promise.

"Alright, first of all! Industry regs say I need a full on-site registration of your specs before I let you onto any of the equipment, which'll go faster if you don't mind my getting a little handsy. If any of this bothers you, say so and I'll stop immediately, ok? Or you can signal Threevee if you still don't wanna talk to me, I'm getting the sense you're a little overwhelmed here? I've got a machine that can do this in the back, but with software inefficiencies we'll lose close to an hour. Don't worry, ok? I'm a professional."

Euna Kim is, in fact, a dorkass loser. The last thing she can handle is proximity to a pretty girl, even after being married to one for several years at this point. But in this context, she's actually telling the truth. Her hands glide across White's frame with almost clinical detachment. Her fingers are gentle when she lifts your chin to stare closely at the dividing lines that cut across your face.

"Ok, great! You're doing great, we're done for now. I do have to cover some warmup stretches before we can actually begin, but since Threevee here's an existing student who needs to be punished for her woeful attendance record, I'm actually going to put her in charge of that part. Got that, cutie? Setting Sun, into Leg Lifts, down to Mermaids. Go ahead and re-read my notebook so you're doing it right, and while you're getting a handle on that I'm going to run through a demo for your girlfriend so she doesn't get bored and wander off."

It's not a long walk to the cargo nets, not by a long shot. Euna clears the distance in just eight strides, and beckons you over with a motion that transitions seamlessly into a series of quick arm stretches. Each of them works the muscles in her shoulders and her back as much as her arms, and you can watch her body roll, ripple, and flex into itself as she pulls... release. Pull and release. She smiles.

"I know what you're thinking. You're watching the way my movements emphasize my, erm, organic bodyparts and you're expecting all of this to be useless because you're full machine. Not true! Awareness of your body is integral to maximizing its performance. You may not technically limber up but there's still a mental element of, for lack of a better word, laziness that settles in after you've been sedentary for long enough. Essentially, you and I, we're piloting our own bodies. You get me? This doesn't just get my muscles engaged and loosened, it also tells my brain what my arm's up to, how it's responding, tension, extension, all kinds of information. Your specs are your specs, and you can't exceed them, right? Heh.

"I outperform my factory maximums by over forty percent, depending on the parameter you're checking for. I mean, I'm pretty ridiculously kitted out by civilian standards but even still I've got a faster sprint speed than the engineering team that put my legs together ever anticipated. It's because I'm able to predict and calculate my own movements. I can, as long as I work at it, control my full natural range on a conscious level. And if I'm aware of what that is... I can do it wrong on purpose. But that's advanced stuff. 'You cannot cut metal without first cutting wood, Okita. And you cannot cut wood until you make the sword into your own limb.'"

She smiles for a moment, but it breaks into a blush.

"Oh. That's uh... do you watch movies? Burn, My Sword. It's an old-timey period piece about... you know what, never mind. Forget I brought it up. Right. So you understand what we're trying to do, ok? That's why we're focusing on net climbs right now. Studies say you should be climbing things like this from a very young age, actually. Not only is lifting your own wait very good for developing and maintaining musculature, but a constantly shifting mass like this requires both deep and micro-level adjustments of your grip and your weight just to stay where you are, not to mention building hand-eye coordination and basic motor skills. And, you know, the cool thing is, even if you're the type to go in for upgrades? Work on a level this fundamental is centering. You'll get more out of any alterations you make and faster just by mastering the frame you've got today. So don't neglect it, got me?"

Euna takes the net in her hands and lifts herself bodily several feet up it by way of demonstration. See? This is the basic technique. One hand over the next, take the time to plant your feet on the squares beneath. One, two, three, four. And repeat! One, two, three, four! Feel the shift, move with the net, not against it. Maintain your core, November! You can't do a thing when your center's out of alignment.

Her demo increases in speed, as it often does when Euna's in a good mood. She reaches the top, spins around, and climbs down the other side upside down. And from the floor she swings around and repeats the process. This time, she allows her arms to swing up higher, and purposely doesn't engage her legs until absolutely necessary to stick to the net. This way she's able to scale three to four squares in a single sequence, and her rotation is commensurately faster.

The third and final time looks like she's got a point to prove. All at once, her motions stop resembling anything like what a human being would do to climb a net. Her shoulder swings wide around behind her back, looking like it's detached from the socket. It hasn't. There's a strange, absolutely inhuman efficiency to her movements as she climbs. She catches weird parts of the net even as she pushes it to wobble dangerously in a way that forces her legs into alignment to push off the ropes beneath her. With a pivot of her hips, she actually cartwheels up a straight net. It's using the weight of her limbs and her pre-existing momentum to do the climbing for her, a sort of high effort but low energy climbing method that's pushing her brain more than her body.

It's a little bit zen. Stuff like this is only possible because she put in the work to know how the rest of it would work for her. Even an idiot can see that the slightest misalignment would send her plummeting to the floor down onto her head. She touches down feather light on her feet, instead.

"Right, ok! I'd love to see you try it next. Just focus on the basic forms for now, as soon as Threevee gets you through your stretches. Threevee! Come on hon, it's time to work your magic! Get good and close to your hot robot girlfriend so she can climb the net for me. While we're young!

"And, November? This is harder than it looks, I promise. But don't worry, I'll be spotting you the whole time. If you fall at any point I'll catch you before you even know you're dropping."

And she winks. Does she look cool? Well, that's really in the eye of the beholder, isn't it?

Breathless Dead

"...Who even told you I didn't like Batrachomyomachia?"

Bella glances at Mynx, but she's so close to sleep that all she does is smile. Useless. She lets her own eyes drift shut and leans her head back against a pipe and lets the sounds of the ship drown out the rest of the world, if only for a moment.

Water and steam slosh through her hearing with a powerful, thrumming beat. The heartbeat of the ship. It pulses and gurgles; bubbling water that pushes first one way and then pulls back in the other. The ebb and flow... maybe all ships carry the ocean inside of them. Stars and the sea were never very far apart, were they? Maybe that was how the Tides managed to exist in both. Maybe if fate carried her back down there, she could ask them. Maybe...

Her senses pull her away from the larger ship, back into the room. She listens to the venting air pushing a too-even and yet stuttering breeze across the room. The warmth of a light that puts Apollo to her mind splashes across her face. Fluttering leaves cast speckled shadows overtop, and the miracle of this struggle is that is pleasant warmth wrestling with pleasant coolness. No extremes at all: even the act of contrast seems more of a playfight than a true contest.

Bella relaxes into herself. Her breaths fall not more than once a minute. She feels Mynx shift against her, just to nestle deeper into her arm. Their heartbeats are synched with each other. The soft, slow drumbeat of the tranquilized. No tension, no power, just soft and slow and deeply steady. One sound, the two of them. Each the shadow of the other. On the other side of her, Redana's heart thumps a little bit brighter, perhaps a bit more proudly, but it's no less relaxed. Two pound out and one shrinks in. Two shrink in and one pounds out. This is a different way to be matched with someone, after all. The completion of a melody. Beljani's breathing and pulse both rush against Bella's tired legs, still full of energy and the rush of play even after her body has collapsed from the exertion. Only Beautiful stands apart from the group still, but her rhythms can't escape Bella. Curiosity. Those violet eyes are on her, she can tell without looking.

Curiosity. Maybe she'll even settle in with the rest if the answer is correct. Bella sighs.

"Princess..."

"I liked the first one fine. When I was nine. But even you have to admit they didn't make any sense after..."

She stops. The defensiveness falls out of her voice to be absorbed like rain into the grass beneath her body. Too much effort to finish the argument, so she lets it roll off of her. She shifts, if only slightly, and pulls the Princess in until her head is resting against Bella's stomach. Her eyes flutter open, and find Beautiful's above her. For now. Soon, Bella will be the largest and the strongest of them all again. Soon. She's so sure of it.

"It really never occurred to me to say anything about it. Did you never notice? I never..."

Bella's body flushes with sudden warmth. Her fingers curl carefully against scales and skin and her tail wriggles free enough to flick with erratic, patternless motion that ends with the tip curled up around herself. And even then, the sound that follows comes welling up from the depths of her. It escapes with surprising speed and power that she has neither the ability or the inclination to prevent.

The deep, healing vibrations that only a cat is capable of.

"All I wanted," she says through her purr and a yawn, "Was to watch you. Would you have cared what movie we picked, if you felt the same way?"

Her eyes fall closed again, and sleep takes her before the reply can come.

Breathless Dead

She feels the pain mostly by its absence, now. Her body feels as though it's floating on the floor. But she can still tell. Her legs can barely be moved, except to clumsily pull her knee in closer to her body, but it's heavy. Full. Across the general opioid buzzing she is hyper aware of the shape and weight of the appendage. That tells her it is functionally undamaged. Her arm, by comparison feels limp and dotted with motes of total nothingness that would be screaming agony but for the blessings of her own healing process. That's less good.

Her chest and stomach aren't even worth discussing. The only feeling in her core at all is a welling sense of hunger. Sooner or later, the children would need to stop playing fetch with the pretty new stick and bring food. Or bring them to food. Otherwise it'd turn out that three of them would turn out dead anyway.

Bella smiles in spite of it. Not a full smile, or a particularly bright or happy one, but it takes less energy than scowling, somehow. She is tired. The anger makes her tired. The longing makes her tired. The scheming, the planning and the betrayal, all of it took energy she didn't have anymore. Even worrying about being on this ship was too much effort.

She tries to lift her arm, just to... feel it. To touch someone. It doesn't move. She sighs.

"...I don't know. Whoever they are, they made the thing. Didn't they? That means they must need it for... something."

It takes more effort than it should to turn her head. To look at Mynx. To see her with her own eyes. She sniffs at the air, looking for signs of a certain someone's venom. But if it's there, she's too dulled right now to tell. With a small stretch, she turns her head all the way to see the person who should have always been there beside her. And on the other side, she shifts her leg until it's crossed overtop of Redana's. She squeezes it, to make sure that girl's still there too. To check for signs of flinching away. Probing for forgiveness.

"I don't think it matters," she says with a strange serenity, "All we have to do is bring it back to them. It's not hard to guess where they'll be."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Apologies. It's not even the alcohol that's doing it. It has been a busy night. Today I..."

Mirror pauses to sip from the bitter beverage without complaint, taking long draws from the glass in between periods of letting her head roll around on the couch just to feel her hair tumbling around behind her. Back and forth. Her legs might have betrayed her, but she still needs to move. The clarity it brings is... necessary. She takes another slow sip.

"Details later. The relevant bit is that I was made to drink cinnamon.. Legends do not do it justice, Slate. I would sooner request actual poison."

She shivers and spits as the memory spreads across her tongue. Another long moment of head rolling follows, this time accompanies by a massaging of the couch with her fingers. The glass in her hand twirls as if compelled to dance. Slate says nothing, in the wake of her admonishment. She is hooked.

It'd be simplicity itself to return to the point and attack it fresh. Reinforce her classic point about information being more important than victory. She could press it even farther, in this case: information of greater value than even safety. The shock value of the statement, strategically walked back a moment later before the objection could be raised. Naturally she values her life. Naturally she does not want to make unnecessary work for Slate. Naturally she recognizes it will not be possible for her to skill check her way past a series of new constraints. This will result in risk, damage, and likely even injury she otherwise would not incur. She's not stupid, after all.

But. If there is value in the exercise, and they both agreed that there was, then what safer environment for experimentation could there be than a tournament? This was not war. Death was an impossibly unlikely outcome. They were here in pursuit of a dream, yes, but even multiple consecutive losses could not threaten that, particularly if the development project bore fruit. Nothing was on the line. They could adjust as necessary at any point. And it would, in any case, be fun.

But she does not say this. She doesn't try to imply the argument with her eyes or a strategic cough or any other secret body language she might have developed with her mechanic. She's too busy feeling the swish of her hair swaying across the back of this excellently soft couch. She wishes Slate would join her here, but of course that isn't going to happen. She's still upset. Still working through the possibility in her own mind. The kindness she can be offered is trust. It's Slate's ultimate choice that will determine how they proceed. And there was no point in extending her that responsibility if she immediately worked to crush the free thoughts from her head before they could arrive at an independent conclusion. And it would not do to stay in a relationship if she could not be secure enough to hold off from seeking instant reconciliation.

...She would ask later. Check back in a calmer moment, even if she had to be awkward about it. But she would, of course, frame it as a clarification. But the waiting. The waiting, in any case. Slate was signaling for a pause on the whole thing. And Mirror would give it to her, whether she got credit for that or not.

"Well, we can only have her for so long as she is a good girl and gets her work done at the Forge, but: Matty is a very sweet little thing. I am absolutely certain you will love her. One of those earnest, heart on her sleeve types. Never difficult to tell how she feels about something. She can snap from full droop to full perk in a breath, and when I told her I had a mind to adopt her she turned colors you could observe even under her fur. I had her in my lap nearly without prompting, and her purrs..."

Mirror's smile fades for a moment, and her gaze shifts to some object in the far distance. Well beyond the reaches of the hangar, and probably even Akar.

"She is a hybrid, do you know. Child of a starfarer and a mainlander, markings of one and the signatures of the other. It's a curious mind that works a trade so different to anything that either might have offered her. And I believe she is enjoying herself. But the way that she looked at me, I. Hm. If I were asked to describe her in a single word, it would be 'lonely'. We will need to be very careful. Gentle, especially. But we could do so much good for her, Slate. And if we do, then..."

(I forgot to note it but, Comfort and Support: 8)

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The lack of an immediate answer was, one supposed, a type of answer in and of itself. Mirror's face is inscrutable. Her eyes are locked on Slate's fingers. The hands they are attached to. Do they clench? Do they raise? Do they swing about with control, or erratically? Or does she clamp them together to squeeze them as a centering exercise? When is she going to strike? Hit her, you idiot. Hit her! Get on with it and punch her in the face! Drop her to the ground, like you used to. If you still can. At least then there would be no more need to feel guilty.

She should answer. Needs to answer. Slate deserves an answer. But she remains mute. There had been no rehearsal of this part of the interaction on the shuttle ride here, even though she'd predicted this reaction. But she hadn't practiced it because she couldn't know for certain. Rehearsal was tantamount to defeating the argument before it could be raised against her, and she didn't dare take that chance.

Of course she agreed with herself. Of course she did. Defending the genesis of the idea was so much simpler when the case against it was hypothetical. An imagined Slate would be picked apart with far greater ease than the real one. The shape of the arguments, the counters, all formed expressly to prove Mirror's correctness without consideration for that soft heart or those dangerous hands. And when it came down to it, she would be prepared. She would win, swiftly. Decisively.

It was far more important to be prepared not to. She'd committed to the idea but, was it correct? How much of this was a momentary lapse in judgment? Was she fanning a spark to forge something beautiful, or because the flicker of it was burning in her brain like poison? Nobody had fooled her. She might have fooled herself. Think. Think. About the merits. About the drawbacks. About what could even be done with the project now that it was set in motion?

"No," she snaps, her voice an icy whip, "Not on a whim. Not on a whim."

She paces now, pressing a claw against her lip as if to kiss it. Marching from one end of the room to the other and back again and wearing a line through the floor in front of Slate. This was the critical element, she was certain. This, she could explain without defending the position. It's the difference between clarification and domination: the trust extended only to her oldest friend. Most constant companion. First partner. The One Who Waits. The Gods-Smiting Whip did not belong to Mirror alone.

"Not on a whim, do you understand? Revelation. Tools that shape possibility. A rod, handcrafted, to focus the work of the nanites. Simplicity itself, Slate. The power is in the limitation. I perceive... I, we are trapped by the freedom of our own possibility space. Restriction as an infinite well of creativity. I watched her work, and saw the possibility of freedom inside of chains. I need a skilled artisan to forge them. I need a mind unclouded by what Nine-Tails is. That is not a whim. It is not."

Her pace quickens, same as her heart. To the wall, and back. To the wall, and back. Stop, and stare at Slate. To the wall. Back again. Their faces are inches from each others', now. Mirror's breath is heavy and erratic. Slate's, barely perceptible. They shiver, but differently, and for different reasons.

"And our secrets are still ours. Ours, Slate. A redacted set of schematics. That is what I offered. And I did not do it until she guessed that I was a god. Not a Goddess. The word from Zaldar, the one they use for their machines. I asked for chains to bind a God. And I was answered with excitement. A revelation, Slate. In our current state we will be left behind. But this..."

Their lips are touching now. But they do not kiss. They never do. Mirror takes a step back, and then three more. She reaches for Slate's hand, takes it in both of hers, and pulls into it's made contact with her face. Cinnamon and liquor steal her balance, and she fumbles backwards onto a nearby couch, where she leans her head back and spreads her arms apart behind her back.

"But. If that was a whim. If I gave away our secrets chasing skirts and illusions. You need only say so again. I freely admit, Matty makes a very charming kitten. I had thoughts of playing at raising her with you. That could easily have pushed me off course. So say so. Honestly, say so. If the risk is worth taking, we see it together. We move forward together. Or I could simply withdraw from the tournament? You've earned the right to demand that much of me. Call it... payback. For not knocking me out again."

Her lips twist up into a drunken smile. And she watches.

Breathless Dead

This is the first strike she truly feels. The first one that makes her feel sluggish instead of powerful. The first one that makes her crumple, and not immediately rise with a fresh howl. Bella's head strains as if it wants to split in half. Her vision strains through bursts of high-noise static and bleeding, misaligned colors. The room slurs together and she just manages to make out the sound of a dull thud before all she notices are the grasses growing out of the floor.

Yes. She is a broken camera. And this time there are no hands to lovingly put her back together.

The smell of dirt and cigar smoke is everywhere. The stench of blood lingers inside of both, but there is no call to react to it. No surge of disgust, no fiery energy driving her to spill more of it. It is simply there. They gave her these senses to notice everything; it is not up to her that she does. There is... no more point to having feelings about it. Thoughts hurt too much to have, so she discards them as quickly as she can.

Her body strains for something she can focus on that might be able to push her to her feet again. There is more to do, her blood whispers even as it pours out of dozens of oozing wounds, you must stand up. You must. But the acrid haze that drew her here had always been a trap. The bite of honey and the twisting of her ear had never been motherly advice. And the smell of ozone, the sensation of the thunderbolt remained a source of fantastic, ultimate terror because chief among all the tools of the universe it wanted her dead the most.

No sunlight shines down to force her eyes open. The forms of meditation fall uselessly from her tired mind. If she fell asleep now, it would be forever. But even the sound of the shovel does not whisper her lullaby. The salty air wafts without care from the bowels of the ship, too consumed with its own troubles to even notice her. The fluttering of peacock feathers is nowhere to be heard. No ringed hand lifts her chin to point her through these impossible Games.

And now, a new sound comes rolling over the room, audible over her own useless snarling and the pounding of someone scrabbling through the vents. It is the sound of pen on paper. The tip strikes the page with the fury of a thrown spear. Every letter is dotted or crossed with unnecessary, violent force. As if... conflicted. But no more than that. Moonlight does not light the way. The names do not settle on her skin. They go on the paper, that smooth and creamy paper, stacked in pristine piles (they must be) on a flawless wooden desk. The pen clicks shut, with finality. There is no salvation here.

The room goes dark. The smells trail into indistinction. Sounds snuff out like candles in the night. Even pain flickers out into numb nothingness, except for one thing. The stubborn rush of her blood. The frenzied heart pumping it, harder, harder, harder still. Her body is furious. Her clawed hands twitch, and dig through the dirt. Cracking plates of bone fuse into new armor as she pushes herself off the ground. Blue-black hair falls across her face in messy, matted sheets. Her spine pops as she whips it back, rising to full height in the same motion.

"If..."

Her voice is a hoarse croak. She coughs. Sputters. Pulls the poisons up her throat and spits them on the flowers. Her hand rises to her mouth and she flicks her lips with the tip of her thumb. Bella snorts. It is a proud, and angry noise.

"If the gods have rejected my prayers, so be it. If even everything I am isn't enough to please just one of them... that's fine. I always knew. I was nothing in their eyes."

Her voice is sharp and prideful. She swings it as a whip. Her muscles strain, and carry her heavy feet forward one step, two, then three. With a boom, the Thunderbolt fires off again on lethal reflex to the return of the threat. Bella pivots on her feet and punches the bolt out of the sky. Her hand smolders and twitches uncontrollably. The arm it's attached to falls limp at her side. And still she steps forward.

"Did you hear me? I said so be it! So what?! So what!? If I have to fight all of Olympus, that's what I'll do! We're not done here, Mynx!"

The heat rises in her body until it cauterizes her wounds. Shards of armor splinter off every joint and fall to the ground as she moves. In this singular moment, even the moonlight shrinks from her. She is free to speak, to pound her chest, to stomp her feet until the ship itself rattles with her fury. Bella curls downward and slams her claws into the ground, driving up great sprays of mud. Her mismatched eyes burn with the heat of stars. All this power, she uses... to reach her hand through the air. Toward Mynx. She strains her fingers with longing.

"If no god will answer my prayers, then I! I will pray to No One! I will cross this fucking rift for no one's sake. I will finish whatever mission is left to me on the other side, with no wish on my lips except an end to this curse that's plagued them all their lives. I will do. Whatever it takes.

"But give her back! Even if she kills me, make her do it as herself! GIVE ME BACK! MY SISTER!"

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

3V!

The first thing people tend to notice about Gym Euna (...get it? eh? ehhh???) is that it is sparkling and immaculate. The smell of sweat permeates the air, but of stains or signs of wear and tear there's just... nothing. It's so pristine looking that it takes a second glance to notice that most of the equipment inside is far from state of the art. There's brand names aplenty, no helping that, but all of it is multiple product generations out of date.

That hardly matters, though. Weights and benches don't exactly benefit from "smart" technology, after all. So even though the air's as saturated with wireless signals as it is with workout sounds, most of those are coming from the clientele. The only ones that can be sourced to the building itself are coming from the upstairs office and the VR booths near the back of the room, which are connected to the official @SARAHPHIM bullet curtain rhythm game servers.

But, distractions! Immaculate. That's the word for this place: immaculate. Not just for cleanliness standards, but in terms of organization and arrangement, too. No space on Aevum is especially expansive, so a lot of care and attention has been spent optimizing useable space, with an eye for balancing saturation of equipment with safety. Every gym mat and dance pad is arranged to double as a landing zone for the various bits of climbing gear (there's a cargo net, ropes with varyingly worrying levels of sway to them, a simple rock wall, and even a salmon ladder). Only the balance beam and its associated foam pit are part of a one hundred percent specialized area, and even that seems connected to some other purpose.

The walls are lined with mirrors that are splitting time and space with a meticulous schedule that glows blaring lights in various colors, depending on where you're looking, announcing the active portion of the roster that indicates what equipment or courses are on offer. At 1700 hours almost everything shuts down for something called 'The Gauntlet'. Whatever that is, it needs the entire gym.

Is all of this impressive? Is any of it? It depends on who you are. Depends on how close you're looking. At first glance it's nothing more than a glimpse into the mind of a person who seems to live for nothing but fitness in a world that increasingly has no particular use for the label. But it's here. The equipment is rated for the output levels of some of the highest grade cybernetics in the world, and there is absolutely no charge when you enter. Just a hand painted sign explaining that, if you like what you found here and have the cash to spare, feel free to contribute what you thought the space is worth to help keep it going.

...There's a second sign beneath it that looks much newer, with different and angrier handwriting. It looks like burn etching, actually. It simply reads, "And if you don't I will FUCKING get you, nerds."

"Cinders!" barks an authoritative voice, "Cinders I swear to god. Both hands. Both! Hands! If you don't distribute the weight evenly you're going to tear something! Yes, I know it looks more impressive but don't-- for the love of! No! You are setting a bad example for the students! Even distribution, Cinders! Even development! Your back is literally begging you to take better care of it! Just because your arms are rated Class III doesn't mean the rest of you is! Now come down and lead the cooldown stretches, please. Do we need to repeat the lecture?"

Euna Kim sighs and runs both of her matte black hands through the pristine sheets of her silver-painted hair. As casual as the motion is, her feet are planted as if she were trying to draw power from the ground beneath her and convert it into some kind of bone-shattering martial arts strike that connects from multiple angles at once. That's the kind of aura she's got around her. In her black biker shorts and neon yellow crop top, it's hard not to notice all the little details of her body. Four artificial limbs shine with golden lights embedded in the surface like an attempt at wearing jewelry. At the corners of her waist, there's a thin, crossing line of black mesh that weaves underneath the skin. And the rest of her... is muscle. Not bulk, per se, her frame doesn't really allow her to be massive, but the overall impression of her body is extreme density. When she moves, her back ripples with a clarity most people find off putting.

When she spins around, her abs come into view and... woof. Wow. You could sharpen knives on those things. Seems like they extend up forever until her chest takes over and whoops ok it's time to look higher now before something bad happens. Euna's face, at least, is soft and smooth with a quality that makes it very difficult to tell how old she is. But right now it's taken on a sharp quality that's down to the anger in her eyes. She snorts and zips across the length of the gym to meet you at the front.

"Hey, hey! How many times do I have to tell you, she's NOT HERE! No loitering! No photos! I don't know when or if she's coming again so either pick a station and get busy, or get the fuck out of my-- ohmygosh, EEP!"

Her hands fly up to her face in a mortified gasp. Her honey-brown eyes open wide with equal parts shock and shame. She leaps a solid six feet in the air and lands, bouncing nervously in the air. And just like that, if she had an aura of iron or intimidation, it's gone. She laughs, a tittering and nervous sound that ends with an undignified snort. November, meet Euna Kim, the world's strongest nerd.

"Threevee I'm so sorry! I'm so, so-- I didn't recognize you! I thought you were another one of those! I mean, it's just, the other week Dami was spotted in here and... yeah, like, that Dami and just-- oh, sorry, no, you don't care. Of course you don't! Hahaha, of course you, ahhhhhh god, I'm so sorry. It's just, like I said, and every day since there's been all these fucking paparazzi types sneaking in here trying to get photos like it's anybody's business what she--

Oh, but what am I saying? It's been so long! I'm so sorry! I keep meaning to turn up at your place but Sara's just been exhausted lately and if I go alone she'll kill me. But you're here! And oh!! Oh gosh! Look at you, you're dressed for a session! Ha! I thought I scared you off! This is amazing, I'm so happy! I, but, oh! Hold on, hold on, I don't know this one! Hi, hello, welcome! Threevee, introductions! Who is this? Did you bring your girlfriend here with you? You look adorable together!"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"...Interesting. Very interesting. Is that how I come across to you, now that you've met me? Hm. Does it surprise you to learn you're the first person to accuse me of being cautious? In my life, in fact."

A ridiculous question with an obvious reply. Naturally she is not surprised in the slightest. To say she was would be to break the sanctity of her read. It would mean that Marcina Villajero respected the perceptive powers of the average pilot to match her own, when plainly she did not. And in the absence of that respect, it would mean that the observation was not significant. And it needed to be significant. That was a requirement.

Because it was not an accusation in the first place. It wasn't acceptable to laugh this off as a joke or let it melt into another misunderstanding or misfire. 'I see through you'. That was the intended message of this casual aside. 'I see through you, where others have not. You are a layered and subtle creature and I respect you enough to reveal that I recognize that.' It was meant as a challenge, to give optimal time for Mirror to add new and ideally unreadable layers to her performance before they met in a match. It was a seal of confidence, that they would inevitably meet in a match. And it was an apology: revealing the insight negated a strategic advantage and reciprocated a similar concession Mirror had already made earlier in the conversation.

But Mirror laughs, as if she'd been told the funniest joke in her life. She laughs, knowing Marcina Villajero will not be fooled into thinking Mirror doesn't understand what she did. She laughs as she reaches for her drink, and drains the remaining portion with a grin and a firm slam on the table, the kind you see in Terenian movies. Because in the end, this last move in the game had been the one that impressed her the most. Because her heart was pumping blood through her veins as swiftly as if she were a Huntress, finally blessed with worthy prey. Because this is the least and only kindness she can offer Marcina Villajero in such a strange and crowded setting.

"You have a way with words, Marcina Villajero! You should have been born a Fisher. We might even have been sisters! Extraordinarily careful, hahahaha. I'm going to tell my mechanic you said that. Does yours charge overtime? Because mine..."

She whistles, a noise she is not particularly adept at producing. She can make one note, an upward slide that desperately wants a downwards follow to complete it. But her lips can't make the shape. She can't adjust her air inflow. And not for lack of practice. This is simply... beyond her. She smiles and shrugs it off.

"She is... expensive. I should try harder to live up to your idea of me."

Why do this? Because the exchange would end unequal, otherwise. Because Marcina Villajero was surrounded by hangers-on with varying levels of sharpness and curiosity, and some of them would start asking bothersome questions about one or both of them. It would, in the end, say things about Marcina Villajero that would harm her. Her advantage in the arena did not deserve to be eroded by a conversation in a dive bar, and certainly not by a random failure of a war hero worth a quarter of the attention due to an arena champion.

So here you are, then. A joke, told to a silly cat who held on through cinnamon poison just long enough to get drunk and debase herself. Let them say that Mira Fisher is a fool with delusions of grandeur but a hot enough ass to make up the difference. Or let them say that a pair of strangers met by chance and exchanged puns across language barriers before departing as friends. Let them say that each has found a worthy rival, if they much. So long as they are bored. So long as the talk that spreads is no more than bar gossip.

You may not appreciate it until much later, Marcina Villajero. But you will at the very least not misinterpret it. Mirror is confident of that much. She rises with an exaggerated sway that hits at least ten people with her fluffy tail, and gives several others that turn around a brief but memorable glance at the body of a model. A girl of many, but not ubiquitous talents. What a shame she can't stop getting in her own way. What a shame Hybrasil culture is so... limiting. What a shame, what a shame, what a shame.

She waves behind her as she sways her way to the bartender, and whispers something in their ear. In the end, it was her account that would be credited for the drinks. In the end, it was Marcina Villajero that would have to decide how she felt about the service. Proactivity wins wars, didn't you know?

Breathless Dead

Her jaw hangs open, loose and bloody against her slumping neck. Bella lifts her sword arm to her mouth and squeezes it until the bones crunch back into place. Already the sinews and fibers of her skin and muscles are stitching themselves back together. Already fresh teeth are growing in over the broken ones, as sharp and lethal as ever. Already her joints are spitting out glimmering shards of metal and bone. Her body hurts. Her body twitches and crackles with power, power, power. Her body sings a song of ecstasy that demands she speak it aloud.

Bella tosses her head back and laughs. Guttural, wet, mirthless. She drags her tongue across her bloody claws. Ever the cat, concerned with cleaning herself in the middle of a battle. Do you see how far she's fallen, Mynx? This is why she needs you. The elongated knives at the ends of her fingers whistle as she stretches them in front of her face. Whip-crack, the thunderbolt of her tail. One, two. The slow ramping of power that is her trademark. Whip-crack, the warning of her flesh. With every drop of blood spilled she grows faster. Each fresh injury grows into new swords.

She lashes out at the shield in Mynx's hands, and the air itself cries in pain in her wake. Her claws catch against its gummy surface, sinking where they should tear. She tilts her head in surprise, and a moment later drives the thrust deeper until it carries the pair of them straight into the wall with enough force to shake a hundred tendrils of fresh ivy loose from a badly worn bronze mural. A woman with her face worn down to blurry, anonymous indistinction appears above them, shedding fresh shards of her shoulder, dress, and bust as Demeter's desperate, clutching grasp withers at their feet. The face has no lips, though it must have once. But it seems to be smiling just the same.

Bella snarls and grunts with every strike; the sound almost more terrifying than the force of the blows. Each strike tears her other hand free from the consequences of the one that came before it. Each strike Rips large chunks of the shield away into sticky blobs of protective mass, necessitating more blood to replace it. Her fingers flex, and with brutish strength she pulls the fibers free and leaves a hole large enough that her eyes have space to meet Mynx's for the first time in a long time. She couldn't see at all, back then. But this time there is no mistaking it. Her sister is not here. She snarls, drooling with evil animal hatred, and raises her fist to strike a deathblow.

It does not fall. She grunts with surprise, instead. Her head turns to behold Redana's sword buried deep into her chest, the notches on the blade catching against her ribs.

"Re... Da... Na..."

She does not pull the blade free. Bella drops an elbow like the wrath of Zeus down onto Redana's forearm, and knows before the sound reaches her ears that she has shattered it. A battle of regeneration, then. She twists around and smashes her knee into Redana's stomach over, and over, and over, and over again. Her claws rake down Redana's back and she kicks the Princess into the air before grabbing her by the hair and slamming her against the ground.

The sword slips free of her body against her will. A knife joins it; Redana has claws aplenty, too. She takes a cut across her face, only barely flinched away from in time to avoid cleaving her demon-red eye. A bloody gouge rips across her thigh all the way down to her knee. She plants her feet and howls her challenge anyway. Something strikes Bella in the head and sends her spiraling to the ground, where her shoulder blades tear open on a nest of fresh thorns.

Thorns. She sniffs, above all the blood. The honey scent of Beljani's venom. The sweaty reek of battle that should have long since ended. Rising above it all, the perfume of perfect, red roses. Bella chuckles the way the Master of the Kennels used to before whipping her. It is, even now, the most evil sound she can think of. She grabs fistfuls of the gaudy flowers and scatters them like darts. Their scent hangs heavy in the air. Their petals drift across the room like Imperial rain, sensory confusion at defies any attempt at identifying any sort of complex information.

Her fingers close around a hardened and gnarled root the size of her leg. She pulls, and it struggles against her. Her! Bella screams as she pulls with all her might, spattering blood everywhere as the efforts of her body push the stuff through every wound in terrifying quantity. But roots snap free and soil crumbles under her might. Bella trembles and, with shuddering breaths, snaps free this hymn to the infinite power of Demeter. She hefts it in both hands and lunges high into the air.

Her spear thrust catches Redana full in the stomach. She twists, plants her feet, and lifts. Redana dangles from the end of the root like a doll. But a doll that, even now, has fight in it. Is already grasping at the sharp surface to pull herself free, or even down its length to smash Bella's skull open with cries of Avaunt!

But for a moment, the pair of them simply breath. Sway. They pour their heavy scents into the air, among the roses and death. Eyes over here, Mynx. Your attention is called. What was it you were trained for? What did your heart desire, once? Think! Open your eyes, your true and beautiful eyes!

"MYn...XXX..."

[Keep Them Busy: 11]

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]