Phoe

Huntresses of Hybrasil

> You get headaches?

"Of varying severity. Yes."

> And that's why your God is full of all this weird stuff?

"A mechanism of control."

> Sorry you have to deal with that. But hey, have you thought about taking control of them, instead?

"...What?"

> Oh. Pain is an incredible focus tool. If you subjected yourself to it on purpose, you might be able to overcome the vertigo you were describing.

"Why? To what purpose? My system works fine. Superior."

> Sure sure, if you say so. But you can never have too many swords, right?

They'd fought until neither of them could stand, that day. And collapsed into each other's arms like never before that night. Mirror never made any indication that the incident had meant anything to her for the rest of her imprisonment. She never even acknowledged that it had happened, actually.

But she'd spent a frankly dangerous number of hours post-freedom wearing a full-mesh suit running simulated cockpits, letting the overwhelming sensations wash over her until they felt like something approaching an epiphany, until she was a creature of sweat and panting and nothing more, until she had to be carried out and carefully lowered into a pool until her body temperature returned to a safe level. Again. And again. And again.

And it did become a sword. And for the first time since the forging, she draws it. Sense of self. Sense of body. The opposite end of the philosophy that Solarel subscribed to. She piloted mecha as an opportunity to turn herself into something else completely, metamorphosing into a giant of metals and unlimited power. But Mirror could not swim in those waters. Thus, her answer: total awareness of her mortal self, using the discomfort of the sensations being pushed into her as a measuring stick.

It is not magic. But if she is aware of how much her head is throbbing, she knows where it is and what it's shaped like, no matter what her other senses try to say. If she is aware of the crawling sensation in her arm, she knows how long it is. From there, extrapolation. Her body, her build, her measurements as mantra. All that's left is finding one single detail inside her environment that will let her reliably measure it relative to herself.

She finds it in the circle. Or rather, in the flickering of the space around the circle, where Smokeless Jade Fires can't decide quickly enough what kinds of details to impart. In between the flashes of fire, of glittering treasures, of smoke, of deep jungle and pounding drum, in between each flicker is a tiny glimpse of a single interior panel. The sort of thing used for mechanics to check or alter cockpit cooling systems. Standard in every mecha these days, even Mirror's.

And with that, she knows the size of the circle. And the size of the circle tells her the size of the cockpit, because this is the control rig where a pilot is given just enough room to move about with her full range of motion to guide her machine in the natural sort of way that's meant to be the advantage of these systems. It must have been shaped to match normal perceptions so that an inexperienced pilot wouldn't get thrown out of the simulation when she noticed anything amiss. Stay in the circle in here, stay inside in the living world. And if that is true, she knows how much space she occupies inside this mental plane.

She is in command of herself. Command of self is command of space. Command of space means...

Mirror is not a goddess, whatever theories Trosta might have about her. She is not a powerful or especially complex Pattern with mastery over real-time virtual data sets, either. Smokeless Jade Fires, whether both of these things or neither, remains the entity in charge of what is shown. But if she is a God, she is a God inside a machine. And she hungers for the touch of a living girl. She demands her synthweave send feelings in both directions. This is the shape of the blade that dooms her. Never the control spike in the first place, but her own expectations.

If she is such-and-such a size, and her environment is this-and-that a size, the two must meet. The space that Mirror occupies is non-negotiable. She bares her fangs, a gesture of pain and not fury, but it's a weapon just the same. If all these things are true, and she cannot alter the world inside this cockpit, then its perception of her must flip, instead.

Mirror grows. She surges into the air until she towers against the temple walls and dwarfs the idol of Smokeless Jade Fires. She is an impossible thing, as inevitable and inexorable as Grandmother Night. Her fishtail dress flutters in the breeze, dancing madly with every tiny swish of her hips that accompany the thundercrack of her tail.

She acknowledges your power, Smokeless Jade Fires. But if you wanted a doll to channel yourself into, you ought not to have asked her to come to you as a pilot.

"You will," she says with amusement, "Make yourself smaller. Smokeless Jade Fires. Small enough to fit in here with me. Small enough not to interfere. Disobey, and you will be smaller still, if I have to drag you through the Seven Gates myself and let the curse of [Fang and Soil] take you until you fit inside my palm. But you will not disobey, will you Little Goddess?"

Mirror's watery eyes are like lakes, reflecting fire and moonlight in their surface. Her smile is confidence itself. She squeezes her own arm, to keep oriented within the sudden burst of static.

"You wish to taste victory, Smokeless Jade Fires. You, powerful but young, want guidance. And I will give this to you, exactly as contracted. I have come as a pilot, Little Goddess. You, dear mecha, are to be piloted. I will share with you the secrets of my skill. You will provide what I require. Indeed, only you can. And in exchange, you will never breathe a word of what you see and feel to anyone. And in exchange, I will move your body for you, in ways you have never dreamed possible. In short, we will dance. And then we will feast. And then, drunk on victory, we will kiss.

"If. Little Goddess. You are a Good Girl. Will you do this for me? Or must I. Punish. You?"

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

That is the same person. It is the same person. She is the same person. This is a new aspect of her focus. Not a trick. Not a trap.

Euna doesn't quite get all the way to mouthing her thoughts, but it's a very long time before her eyes leave Brown. Every pocket checked over, the fit of her vest, the comparative mess of her hair. The color of her eyes. Finally, she nods to herself. And then again two more times. It's less easy to take the unknown in stride than people say it is. Hopefully she gets credit for trying.

"Threevee, order something or I'm not telling you shit. It could be the nastiest trash on the planet, just get it here and put it in your body. It might've been a front, but you still came here and ran with me. That puts you... just, get on with it. Thank you."

She sighs. Cybernetic arms don't have the advantage of a satisfying clench when you're tense. That's probably why she touches her hair so much in these little moments: it's a gesture she can control, and more importantly feel. Not in the sense of mastering the algorithmic readouts of her limbs that she's taught herself to interpret as sense data, but as something thoughtless. Effortless. Casual. It's mesmerizing to watch in its own way, with the unbroken curtain of perfect silver hair and not a split end in sight, despite the sweat and strain she puts herself through on a daily basis. You'd be forgiven for thinking it's a wig.

"...You're going to think this is stupid," she says at last and with a nod at all three faces across from her, "But it's not. I'm fighting a war. I didn't start it, but I'm not going to lose it. I refuse.

"Right. Sorry. Not your problem. You've got your own battles. This... god. It sounds so stupid when I try to say it out loud. Threevee, I think you're familiar with Angel-IKA? At least vaguely? Rich girl, bored off her ass? Technically a professional cosplayer, she's always making all these wolf costumes and stuff. Anyway, her. She's been one of Sara's biggest fans since right near the start of her career. Constant super chats, gift subs raining from the sky, laughing way too hard at every stupid joke. You know the type. So she..."

Another glance at the tablet. She waits for 3V's fingers to start moving, however brainlessly they might be doing it, before she continues.

"I wound up running security for her for a little while after I quit my. Um. My first job. That's how we got to talking. And I mean obviously with a body like hers she doesn't have much use for a cybernetics gym, but she loved that it was my dream. I guess she, you know I, as a hobby I used to make this stupid workout videos, just hoping they'd help somebody and then I'd... yeah. So she said she'd look into it. Whatever she could do to help, she would. No big deal.

"So she rooted around in her portfolio. And I... sorry. I'm being thorough. It's easier if you know the background. Well. She found out her father had put the lease for this place in her name. She hadn't known about it, we went and looked, nobody was using it for anything. it seemed so damn old I couldn't even tell what they'd been hoping for when they built it in the first place. But it's got room enough if you're efficient with the space."

Euna stops. Clears her throat. Her eyes flick over to the VR arcade machines and she grimaces without meaning to.

"At first I offered to rent it from her, but she didn't want to be involved. 'No no, it's a gift!' she told me. And eventually I relented because it's, just, from her perspective I saw how perfect it was. The place was abandoned, and the lease was cheap as fuck. Her dad's got a bike that costs more than this place. So to her, she's helping a friend and all it's costing her is the smallest bit of her fortune that she didn't even know she owned. Easy, right?"

Euna's lips turn white. She watches the group watching her, and adjusts the collar on her suit until it's aligned perfectly with her neck and shoulders.

"I've been catching hell ever since I signed those fucking papers. Her father is furious. Turns out this place was intended as a speculative asset. He was even keeping it as blank as possible to adapt it for maximum value. These leases aren't forever, do you understand? I didn't think about it too hard until I'd already signed the paperwork, but it's all written in there plain as day. And when it rolls over there's going to be a reckoning on it. Everything that's been built up here since they finished constructing this place and filling it with people, all the... everything has just been compounding on its self since the beginning.

"Do you realize how dangerous it is to own property up here? How much fucking money land is worth? Just, literally any land. Well, they had no idea when they wrote leases like this one, but they sure as hell know it now. To be the one with leverage... it has been. Impressed upon me. Just how valuable that is. So he's claimed coercion, kidnapping, threats, cybercrime, all the, you're going to dig around on this, right? You're going to hear everything. I am a criminal mastermind the likes of which the world has never seen before. They've sent people here to trash this place more times than I care to count, and it's only a matter of time before the cops get brave enough to try their hand too."

Her hands clench into fists. She punches the desk, though carefully.

"Honestly I don't know why I'm bothering. I know what I said, but I-- there's no way this ends with my hands on this place. I don't have any of those stupid rich people resources that lets them convert on shit like this, my lease'll expire before much longer and I'll go back to owning nothing. I've been saving money where I can but there's no way I'm going to be able to buy this place back as an ordinary landowner when it rolls over back to the station and gets re-evaluated. I don't even entirely understand why it's so damn important to own it right now. There must be something I don't... it doesn't matter.

"This is all I've got. Literally, all I know how to do is punch stuff and maintain health around augs. Like, what am I supposed to do? Yeah great, back to videos, sure. But without the space, without the equipment, without supervision..."

Euna's hands hover near her hair. She doesn't commit to smoothing it or to lowering her arms again, and the look on her face suggests she's close to tearing it all out instead. But all she does is collapse backwards into her chair.

"Fuck." she supplies, very helpfully.

Breathless Dead

"Redana..."

It catches in her throat before she realizes it's coming. A choke, a sniffle, and a single surprised shudder. Why? Why did this make her cheek wet? Why does it feel so..?

Bella is rooted in place. She is one with the mannequins, unable to move, made for modeling her pretty clothes and nothing more, forever. She closes her eyes and furiously rubs at her cheek until it finally comes back dry. She snarls until her breathing returns to normal. Control. Perfection. Lifetimes seem to pass in the attempt. And yet by the time Redana pats the ground, her feet are already moving.

At first, she only stares down at Redana from on high. Her arms reach out automatically to seize the paper and the stylus. They stop before they get much beyond that first quick twitch. Enough that what she intended was obvious, but Redana doesn't even look up. Bella sinks down next to her and leans close enough to feel the little shifts and flourishes run down those lean, muscled arms. She lets her head slip close to smell Redana's hair, to smell flax and roses and feel the slow, steady rhythm of an olympic athlete's resting heart.

"...No. There's a sharper angle on that part. Do you see? It cuts... yes, more like that. And over here you, no, no, that's too dark. We'll forget the detail of sheerness of the material. Yeah, yes. Light strokes, that's perfect. I see it now..."

Her princess. Her useless, stupid princess. The one who never learned. The one who leaned on her for everything. The silly, stupid girl who insisted on dooming herself when she flung herself out into the middle of fucking nowhere with less than a prayer and nothing so much as resembling a plan... how did she grow so much? When did she find the time?

"You've been working hard."

It comes out all wrong. Her voice is unreasonable, harsh. Almost accusatory. 'You don't need me anymore' cuts across every word, sharper than her claws. Redana's body is strong and unflinching, and so, so warm. Now Bella's arm moves with a purpose that has nothing to do with taking over the gesture. Her mouth stops moving to offer advice. Arm around the shoulder, she breathes deep.

And she purrs.

"I'm impressed. And I..." she stops, as if struck in the head by a sudden thought, "Write it down, please. 'To Bella. To Redana. Make these.' And, and something about where they're from. It's gonna take a while to finish, and I don't want to forget. Not this. Not you. Not..."

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

White, 3V!

"Heroes, huh? No, I guess there aren't a lot of those going around this place."

Of course, a really hero would have something insightful to say here. Or at least encouraging. Even a stock speech would be fine, because it would at least be from the heart. But Euna simply shrugs and returns the sad look. Her eyes flick back and forth between November, 3V, and the clock on the wall. Somehow she winds up laughing and frowning at the same time.

"I do still want to help, you know. You're outside my specialty but I, yeah. I understand a little where you're coming from. I want to understand a little better. Please, consider arranging meetings for me with the rest of your colors. I don't need them all at once. It's fine if some or even most of them are hostile, even. None of them even need to talk. Honestly if the majority of your partitions hate me that makes you exactly the same as eighty percent of my clients already, just split across more bodies than I'm used to. But I have to see them if I'm gonna build a proper plan for you, ok? The difference between knowing everything I can and having to make assumptions is the same space between making you the best version of yourself and... being me."

She nods at 3V's question, but doesn't say anything for a long time. Instead she shunts the pair of you in her back office and returns to normal gym activities. Every time one of you pokes your head out she's there in a flash to push you back inside. Wait. Don't leave, please. But there are schedules that need to be maintained. Eventually, the lights start going off on the main floor. Soon there's only the lamp in this cramped office, stuffed with neatly organized but shockingly analog files, and the obnoxious neon blaring of the still-active @SARAHPHIM arcade machines.

Closing time at last. Euna appears, wiping her hair down with a towel. In her time away she's changed out of her workout clothes and into a very fitted black suit complete with a very proper tie.

"Sorry," she says without particularly sounding it, "You went and asked me a tricky question. I just needed to... Can I get you dinner? I can order whatever you need."

Euna throws a tablet at 3V's lap (already open to a delivery app) before walking across her desk and sitting down at her chair. She props her elbows on the table and lets her chin rest in her hands. Then she's quiet for long enough to make things awkward again.

"You're doing research. That's why you remembered me all of a sudden."

She is not asking a question, but there's also no sense of hurt that would imply she's taken offense either. She just looks unbearably tense. The seconds tick by. Finally she clears her throat, and it's like a spell hanging over her shatters. She shifts in her chair, perfectly upright, and breaks her stance to flip her fingers through her hair.

"I want... I need you to understand. Whatever else you hear when you go poking around, neither Sara or I did anything illegal. My documentation is triple certified. This place is mine. Hers and mine. Ours. Understood?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"I will not beg your forgiveness, Goddess. And I will not make you beg for mine. I should; you have been nothing but rude to me. Doubting me. Mocking me. This petulant behavior does not become you, Little Smokeless Jade Fires. But~"

Voice without a smile. Threat without a snarl. A low purr rumbling throughout, and a tail curling seductively. Mirror flicks the control spike on, bathing her face in sudden and haunting shadows from the pulses of light running up and down the length of it. She flips it over, her clever knife, her deadly claw, and carefully draws down the length of the memory weave. No more awkward bolt, no more bundle, no more worrying or wondering how to make this wearable. She carves it into a long strip and wraps it tight around her wrist, all the way up around her elbow until she finally runs out of material at her bicep. Swish goes the spike as she takes the tip of it to her own flesh, absolutely unconcerned about the smell of burning fur while she spot welds the new sleeve in place. There. That should do nicely, should it not?

Is the next step even possible? Her body is a confusing, seductive wave of motion as she walks closer and closer to the Goddess' projection, watching her storm and her halo of arms through half-lidded eyes. Close enough to touch. She reaches her freshly wrapped arm toward Smokeless Jade Fires' trembling face, and stretches her fingers out.

Beyond question. Beyond doubt. Memory weave is the device she had chosen to gain a sense of control over the physical world: the icon being insubstantial was (amusingly) immaterial. This is a simple contest of wills. Mirror's desire to touch warring against Smokeless Jade Fires' desire to be touched. Natural alignment. Her fingers brush that statuesque jawline, and the goddess half melts as though overwhelmed.

"There is no reason to worry, Little Goddess. You will not lose your treasure," Forceful, the way she chooses another word for what was lost overtop the one that was given, "You will not hang yourself on the apple tree in shame. You cannot drag me down, devour me, or replace me. You are desperate. You. Need. Me."

They are face to face now. Forehead to forehead. Nose to nose. Mirror's hair brushes and tickles the Goddess' shoulders and neck. Her lips are warm and wet. And daring. It is a question of control. It is a question of desire, and poise, maintaining the effort for long enough that sensory compliance is the only option. Mira of the Fisher Clan is capable of kissing a goddess. This is yet another way to Climb The Mountain, is it not? She is forceful but not (yet) possessive. Teasing. Her hand runs down the length of Jade's spine and plays with each of her tails in turn. And then, she splits them. Steps apart, and smirks.

"You have, in your wisdom, called upon a match for your own divinity. And so you have already won, dear Goddess. You need only be patient. You need only watch. You need only follow. Comply. It's not so difficult, Smokeless Jade Fires. It's not so bad. To properly care for good girls, as you so blatantly long to do, you must first understand how they feel. Understanding means becoming. But you can do that, of course. What goddess could fail to be a good girl?"

Mirror's tongue is rough and teasing against Smokeless Jade Fires' cheek, and her teeth flash bright as the insubstantial edges of her turn suddenly jagged for a moment before they refocus into something resembling clarity. Is this how you took the Aetiline, Solarel? Is this how you felt? She has to know. The secret. The rush of being you. Until she has it, you'll always slip away. Won't you? Not comfortably in one of her orbits, but far away and chasing things she has no context for or ability to provide.

Mirror brandishes the now violently glowing control spike and leaps from the Idol's shoulder, slashing it into the tarp to slow her fall. The tension in the fabric tears at her grip and nearly sends her tumbling two separate times, but her fingers relax and readjust along the lines and pockets of lesser resistance just enough to keep her held on. She reaches the ground in one piece. Smokeless Jade Fires is stripped bare and fit for combat, as is only proper. Only a few fluttering tatters still cling to the frame, but those will burn away in motion.

She laughs before she looks to see what effect this has had on Jade's conception of her own projection. How tied together are they, in fact? And is her good girl coming along at the tugging of her leash? Better hurry, little goddess, or your pilot's going to take over completely and then you'll have no say at all!

"Cut your guiding lights, if you please. They are unnecessary."

Mirror climbs the ladder proper this time, and again waits at the entrance to the cockpit. She grips her control spike tight in one hand while the other worries and plucks at her dress, which has carelessly shifted about on her body and exposed slightly different, slightly wrong parts of her. Are you enjoying the show? Her tail twitches in pleasure. You asked what the Whispered Promise loves more than anything, Smokeless Jade Fires. And here is the answer you arrive at: it is danger. This creature is addicted to it. Not so much the thrill of terror, but challenges, challenges. She longs to be tested and she longs to crush those challenges utterly. She is in mortal form the very thing you aspire to be. A daughter of fishers? It's a crime that the huntresses did not come calling for the One Day Defender.

Perhaps you, perhaps only you in all your wisdom, might understand what that name really means.

"You will. Want to make yourself smaller. Or we won't both fit inside. You won't want to miss what comes next, I am. Told. My technique is sublime."

Breathless Dead

This is not a place of honor.

The theater, the hall of paintings, the grand carnival vault, these were all monuments to things and places and works of art that pleased the Lord of the Dead. He put them in glittering displays and shone light down on them so that they stole the gaze of all who found them. He arranged them to be the envy of every traveler's eye, without exception. Those treasures, this entire temple, they were the proof that Lord Hades was the God of Wealth.

But this? This was the Anemoi. The shadows that swallow the line where the Hunt ends and everything after begins. Artemis' trash heap, in other words. Maybe she'd tossed all of these defunct fashions down here when they'd fallen out of style, or maybe Her Ladyship had planted them here as traps to defend some other, more important treasure of Hades'. The only thing she really understood was that these statues and the clothes they wore were not honored.

"It's so weird how nothing moves down here," says Bella, "After all their paintings, it makes no fucking sense. What kind've guardians could these have been if they don't do anything? Maybe they're broken..."

But the murk of this place could do nothing to hide the ancient beauty from someone who had been forced to live and work in it. And death had not robbed any of these pieces from the beauty or the certainty that once upon a time they had been loved by the Mistress of the Hunt. The mundanity of the materials could not hide their master craftsmanship from clever fingers that needed to be able to identify things even in the pitchest black to be able to work.

There are games to play in the dark. Moments to steal with Redana, touches that have nothing to do with fabric. But in between the kisses and the teasing claws and the bemused wonderings, Bella explores the dark. She explores lace. Leather. Cotton. Plastic. She explores the textures and the shapes, uncustomized and uncustomizable and therefore simply stitched together and left to hope that some day the proper body would come along and claim them. Some of these things stand out to her, while others feel strangled by the spiraling path of the Moon.

Those treasures worthy of the sacrilege, she steals. With a soft grunt, she lifts the statue-guardians full off the floor and carries each one of them toward the window and toward starlight. She takes four in all, none of them arranged with any particular artistry, but each of them at least carried into a place with real light, for eyes to see who can brave the dark but not conquer it.

One, a parody of an athletic figure garbed in soft, breathable materials that cling tightly to the body and cover very little of it. A shirt cropped just above the ribcage and shorts that barely covered the tops of the thighs with loose but flatteringly close black fabric, all of it lined with pink. Thick, short cut socks and a pair of heavy shoes with grooves worn into the bottom of them (for... grip?). It screams motion, and sweat. A monument to effort, then. A true Assassin's garb, once upon a time, possibly for a discipline that drifted too far away from the temple. It feels... special.

Another, a fluffy, long sleeved top with a knit pattern of waves and crosses running up and down each side of it that reminded her of that ridiculous sheep captain, as it it had simply been cut from his body and placed on this statue for somebody to work into a new shape. Tight black pants of some sort of toughened yarn or something. It looks warm, is all, which is a ridiculous thing for clothes to even try and be. Utterly unnecessary, when modern materials could modulate heat perfectly with just the barest swatch. The decadence of it amuses her. So it must be a treasure.

A third, a study in layers. A short, fluttering dress sewn overtop of a longer one, and a longer one still underneath that, and each of them made of such sheer material that it could neither protect modesty or guard against the elements. But as they stacked on top of each other, these greens and golds, they block off more and more light so that from the bust to the thighs it appears completely opaque and grows thinner and thinner until it reaches the bare feet of the statue. Atop its head, a wide brimmed hat with a wide train of the sheer material falling down the rim like a silken waterfall. The touch of it sent thrills down her fingers, and the look of it confuses even the Auspex. It's like a dress for a priestess, to contemplate the mysteries of the gods and sequester herself away in plain sight.

Finally, a dress that could only be meant for royalty. Delicate woven lace patterns sewn through with pearls that wind into all manner of patterns like flecks of foam breaking on the rocks of the wearer's body. The sleeves are long enough to brush the ground, the skirts even longer than that. The entire thing trails behind the statue it's worn on for over a full meter, every last bit of it the most delicate, intricate weave. A thin, silvery crown of unknowable design and origin sits across the statue's forehead, further marking it as Human garb, royal garb. No less than a King would wear this, and likely someone far more important than that. For that alone, it...

"I know we can't take them. They wouldn't fit anyway, and it'll all crumble into a pile of crap before we get anywhere with it anyway. Still, I... I wish I could see you in each of them. Can you imagine being alive, together, back when all of this was normal? I bet it was..."

Bella trails off into nothing, looking away from the dresses to gaze out the window at the endless stars. From here, the creeping edges of the Rift are impossible to ignore. She shrugs.

"I don't know. I just thought they should go somewhere nicer than the fucking dump."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The memory weave is stimulating. Not for any sensations it manages to push through her body by nature of its own design, but merely the texture of it against her hands as she kneads it in her hands and watches the goddess with a curious smile etched on her face. Rough mesh surface ripples pleasantly through her fur, supple material bends with satisfying ease. Reaction of the goddess, an amusing side note.

Explains a lot. The Priestess' glove, the relatively intimate nature of this voice, the presentation of the material in the first place. A technological goddess, as per rumors. Manifestation achieved through her armor frame and sensory input devices. In total effect, impressive. A more physical and directly present object of worship than most in cultural memory. Assessment: understandable attraction, but limited attributable utility. Explains the insistence on a pilot; probably can't animate her frame by herself.

Threat level: minimal. Mirror shows teeth, and makes a show of slowly licking them. Her head tilts first one way, and then the other. She takes the bolt of fabric and very slowly and deliberately strokes her hand along the length of it, as though she were teasing Matty. Are you paying attention, Little Goddess? Is this your desire?

Another moment spent watching the foxfire, before her eyes flick around to the hangar lighting, and finally to the manifestation of the icon herself. Smokeless Jade Fires cuts a very impressive figure, but she is far more smoke and far less fire at present than seems entirely correct. Mirror sniffs the air. Her tail twitches with apparently participation.

Her dress is a form of flirtation, and she continues to attack with it. Her heels click across the floor with every step. Sharp, like a beast's claws. Her skirts swish behind her with mesmerizing and exaggerated flutters that beg for eyes to follow and paws to chase. She is a waterfall, she is a fish leaping from the water, she is the temptress in the reeds, begging the faceless to join her for a night before their doom comes with the dawn. She begs to be touched. She is untouchable.

Even in this dim, haunted lighting, her eyes shimmer. Unreadable sharpness. Unfathomable depths. Moonlight shimmering on the surface of a lake, and the chilling, thrilling tingle of danger that come from wondering what's rushing up to meet you while you're trying to find the bottom.

Even the way she climbs is provocative. Mirror eschews the marked ladders in favor of scrambling up the length of Smokeless Jade Fire's enormous cloak. She climbs with her entire body: huge lunges that emphasize very little technique but a great range of motion in her arms, waist, hips, and especially her legs. She gains height in chunks, pouncing and then collecting herself while her pretty dress jangles and flashes her skirt and her best spots. This is malicious compliance, that's what this is. What else could it be construed as?

Mirror hesitates at the cockpit, one foot halfway in the door to the innards of the idol, so to speak, when all of a sudden she kicks away from it and pounces further up Smokeless Jade Fire's frame to perch on her shoulder. She drags her stubbed claws across the tarp as she sinks lower and lower, sprawling her body across the mecha frame and sliding it slooooooowly forward until at last she feels with her own senses what her intuition had already revealed.

She twists, lounging, and offers the floating icon a lazy smile with a wholly unnecessary and lurid fluttering of her eyelashes. She stretches, and flashes a control spike in her hand: the kind meant for working on power conduits. When did she?

"Straight away? You naughty little thing, when were you planning on letting me know? You'd have me undressed before we've even kissed! Wicked little goddess, you only want me for my body! And after I went to such lengths to comply with all of your wishes! Well. You must have done your research before contacting me so I can only assume you want a spanking."

Mirror's expression freezes over. She twirls the control spike across her fingers like a very fancy knife, with a theatricality and a precision that shouldn't really be possible with such an unwieldy object.

"I don't usually do work without a contract, you know. Even for someone as beautiful as you. Don't you want to take this chance to set terms before I set them for you? Come to think of it, where is that sweetie high priestess of yours? She'd be very helpful just about now. I should think."

[Center of the Web: Mirror takes a String on Jade.
Figure Out: [b]8[/b] "What do you hope to get from me?" and "How could I get you to keep your focus on me for a while?" Ask a question in exchange.]

Breathless Dead

Sweat. And salt. And perfume. And lust. And a thousand years of half-melted sugar.

Every breath is heaven. She smells it in the air. She feels it coat her tongue until it's all that she can taste. This cocktail of theatricality, secrets, and romance. Redana's hair is lush and soft against her face. Her skin is wet and supple against her fingertips. Their mouths are deliciously dry and their bodies are filled with warmth. A glowing ache.

Bella is a long time before she finally rises to her feet. She glides to her feet with a luxurious stretch; hands above her head and all of her sweet curves rising, stretching, rolling with the tides of her body. Every tiny pop as her muscles shift back into alignment from the cramps that were ruling her form is a tiny burst of ecstasy. Something warm and soft that reminds her afresh of the blissful ocean still lapping at her insides.

She is not quick to dress herself either, preferring to take her time sorting her clothes from Redana's in the awkward pile they all wound up in, and tossing the Princess' down on top of her. Each one draws a fresh squawk of protest that makes Bella laugh in turn, but where these exchanges should naturally be followed by flustered glaring, Redana's eyes remain worshipful. Every time, her head turns and her mouth falls open a little. She watches without comment. The flickering, constantly shifting lights of cinema splashing across her Bella's naked body. Her Bella. Her Bella. Bella Bella Bella, only Bella.

After everything they'd seen of each other, everything they'd done to each other, their whole lives and again the last two days, to see eyes like that on her can't be called anything other than a miracle. Bella's body flushes with a sudden heat and color, and she quickly pulls her dress on overtop of her head.

Her body is lighter than air. She could fly among the Azura ships the way she feels this moment. She could climb the walls of the Palace in a single bound, she could, she could, she could...

"We're gonna need a bath after this, Redana. Of all the places for you to lose your head, why'd you go and pick this one? Now I'm never going to be able to remember that movie."

Or anything else, for that matter. The thought strikes her like a thunderbolt. Her insides suddenly tangle themselves into knots trying to crawl through each other. Bella stiffens, and awkwardly pulls on her socks. The smells in the air are all the same, but they've taken on slightly different qualities. As if they'd suddenly become old and dusty. Dead things, all around her.

"Dany, I..."

She bends low, without warning. Her hands dart out faster than a pair of arrows and pluck her princess off the ground. She lifts Redana as easily as if she were a bucket of amphitheater concessions, and pulls her close enough to bury her nose in that beautiful golden hair. The warmth, rival to a star and yet more gentle than the insubstantial wings of the garden's butterflies. The smell, purity itself. Slowly, she unclenches. Slowly, she lets Redana down. Not enough to let her feet touch the ground, but free enough for them to wrap their arms around each other, and for their love-parched lips to find each other once again for one last lingering kiss in the half-darkness.

And then, to smile.

"Hurry up, you useless thing. Don't keep your mistress waiting. This place goes on for fucking ever and I don't want to miss any of it. Come on. Let's go make some memories worth forgetting."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

She presents herself as a pilot. But what does that mean?

Obvious, after a moment's consideration. Alleviation of team's concerns. Creation of alibi in case of trap; prevention of intervention. Preferable to be alone. Vastly preferable, in fact. Reasons too numerous to catalog. Moreover. More importantly. 'Present yourself as a pilot'. The command of a goddess. But to pilot a god is to conquer a god, and to conquer a god is to make yourself known to them. Impossible to spend so much time with Solarel and not understand that.

Therefore, Mirror arrives dressed for a date. With sharp talons painted in black, curling around the corners of her eyes and three lines of red slashed across her lips. With her glossy avalanche of hair woven into such an elaborate net pattern that it pulls all the way up to just underneath her shoulders, with tasteful feathers tied into a smaller braid tied in the Terenian fashion dangling by her left eye. With painted claws and high heeled sandals that lift her several extra inches off the ground and conform beautifully to the curve of the soles of her feet. With a necklace of amber and lapis lazuli beads around her neck that features a pair of blank metal tags as a pendant that sinks into the valley of her breasts.

The low-cut diving suit is not a Mayze original, but it is the picture of modern Fisher chic. The backless design plunges all the way beneath her tail, where it comes together in a sharp point. The left arm is wrapped in a water-soluble sleave extending just past her elbow, an invitation to adventure. The right arm is kept bare but for a tight-fitting, fingerless glove, a promise to be open but protective with her partner. The large triangular pattern cut open across the stomach is tastefully showy and allows her to accessorize with a large teardrop cut aquamarine piercing at her belly button. The right leg extends down to her knee while the left is bare all the way from the hip in mirror of her upper body, while the multi-layered silk half-skirt flutters down to the floor to give her that fishtail-like allure no cat can quite resist turning their head to watch.

It's the nicest dress she owns, even if it is an off the rack piece that anyone could wear if they new where to look. It hides most of her worst spots and none of her intentions. Ideal. Her hips sway seductively with every step; her tail flicks in the opposite direction her skirts swish. The blade you wear openly hides the sharpness of your teeth. Such a shame this look wasn't being shared with the person it was originally meant for...

She accepts the memory weave without comment, clutching it in one hand without making any effort to... put it on? Why would she bother? How would she bother, an unshaped bundle like this? Should she wrap it around her waist like a corset? Toss it over herself as a scarf? ...Tie it into the galaxy's most awkward, ugly scarf? She chuckles to herself and simply slings the entire thing across her shoulder like would with a spear. Well thank you very much, Goddess. Now nobody can complain she hasn't presented herself appropriately. Professionally.

Clues are spread out before her, in a tantalizing string. The lights, dimmed. The huge idol of Smokeless Jade Fires and her many cameras emit more and better light than the hangar itself. Shame, deep shame of a creature experiencing defeat for the first time. Determined to appear proud while licking her wounds. The memory weave, unfitted. Freshly purchased. A hastily assembled plan. The invitation itself, still tucked carefully into her stack of papers (destroy it? Are you joking, goddess? Do not waste paper!), could not possibly have been conceived of more than an hour before it was sent along to her. The target, herself, a person with only brief contact with the priestess girl and no (well. no "official") contact with the sender. The message delivered by a technical member of the... crew? Cult? The Priestess missing here, as well.

Something she wasn't meant to see? Or... 'rewarded as I deem fit. Until you are satisfied.' An intriguing puzzle, and the real thing that brought her out here in the middle of such a lazy, satisfying evening. How far into the confidences of Hybrasil's newest deity was she about to be drawn? Mirror's fangs flash for the camera as she offers the massive, cloaked Idol a low and flourishing bow.

"I am relieved to see you dressing up as well, Little Goddess. I would have been embarrassed to get so done up for our date only to discover you'd intended something more... casual. But fun comes after dinner and dancing, does it not?"

Mirror hefts the roll of memory weave with a smile. She punctuates the gesture with a slow lick of her lips.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

White, 3V!

If you watch closely, you can detect the moment Euna's heart turns inside out. Cringe. A terrible word, but it's what she's got. Oh fuck her to fucking fuck, how insensitive can one person be? Fuck!

She's got no manual for this, no training. Which is a shame because if she did she wouldn't fuck things up so hard all the fucking time. She watches 3V pitch the idea of a full-spectrum date to November (White), and take the time to talk up one of the non-present Colors. There, in every conceivable facet, is a better put together girl than she. It's no wonder only one of them used to be a cop.

She sweeps both hands through her hair a full three times before she can finally force her lips open enough to regain the power of speech.

"I... sorry. You up and told me how 'bespoke' you were and I didn't stop to think about what that'd mean until I! I upset you. I can tell. I'm very good at knowing when I've upset someone. Years of practice. But for the record I would love to meet Pink. Ideally I would like to meet each of your Colors. Slowly. I think I... no, I know I've changed my mind about training you. About how to train you, I mean. If you... still, you know, want it. Hey, do you think I could--"

Now she's literally kicking herself. The shock bleeds into anger and then into disappointment at comical speeds. All of it's directed at herself, no need to worry. She's just realized that her faux pas cost her the chance to ask a stupid question. And if you can put that much together you can probably figure out what that question is, actually. Like, she's left you clues, it's not exactly hardcore detective shit. But she can't say it.

She can't say it because it's rude and boorish, not to mention insensitive. And you very definitely only get away with one of those in an evening.

"...Ask you something?" she finishes with a lame ass grimace, "I mean, I, when it comes to cybernetics I feel like I'm pretty well. Well, I mean, not like an expert or anything, but I'm pretty well informed. And I didn't even know someone like you existed. At all. So I was just, and it's completely cool to just tell me to shut up, I get it! But are you, like, alone? I mean, um. Whoever, um. Made you. Did it stop there? Or are there others and I'm just super fucking blind?"

Disappointment flickers in her eyes. That was not the question in her heart. But it's about as much as she's got space left to ask.