Phoe

Breathless Dead

Two spears snap in half before anybody notices what caused it. A moment later both scouts' feet leave the ground, lifted up by the throats by the powerful arms of Mosaic. She holds them there, watching the phalanx hold position. She listens to their desperate wheezing, and feels their scrabbling claws against the back of her hands.

The seconds tick by, and the formation holds. No one approaches. The scratching moves down to her wrists, and grows rapidly weaker. Enough. Her foot slides across the stone street as she turns. Her hip twists, the fabric of her vest slips across her shoulder as it rolls forward. The muscles in her back twitch and stretch, and a crack like fireworks echoes through the town as first one wolf and then another is smashed against the road. Their backs arch as they bounce, but they do not scream, do not even grunt. There is a whuff of breath being squeezed out of the pair of them, and a low hiss as it sinks back into them. Their heads loll to one side; the uneasy breathing of the dreamer.

Mosaic sighs as she turns to face the pack again. Her god's eye gleams out from the shadow the hill casts over her face. Her arms spread wide, gesturing at either side of the wall she stands in front of as her tail whipcracks behind her.

"Daughters of Ceron," she booms, "Welcome to Beri! I am Mosaic, and though I am not the Mayor here, today I'm in charge here. Let me tell you what I told your sisters, out of respect for mine: conquering this town and conquering me were the same thing. All of you against me, or all of you here, and if Beri and I were separated that might have been enough. But girls? You fucked it. All that's left for you to take is an ass kicking."

Her arms drop. Her lips curl up in a smirk. Sour and salt is the scent on the air: the kind of mineral foulness that she knows signifies conflict, and nerves.

"We can save ourselves some time, you know. Drop your shields and lower your weapons. Strip off all that pointless, heavy armor so my friends can put it to better uses. Why not just surrender? We want the same thing, you pricks and I. The only thing we seem to disagree on is who's on top here. But we know. We all know. Do me a favor, and don't make me prove it."

She knows before the words finish leaving her lips that there will still be a fight. She hears it in the rattling of shields, shivering edge to edge against one another as the phalanx mills, but does not scatter. Leather gloves clutch tight against the hafts of spears and the barrels of rifles, and gravel keens against the street as boots push it away where they dig in to their position. Hyperventilating breaths are turning into snarls, and the notes in the air turn more and more to rust and earth and powders. Smells, in other words, of war.

But she has done her job. Neither Gemini nor Vesper could complain about the result now. Some footfalls draw closer, but others pull back. Some wolves howl, but others whine while they are certain the sound will be drowned out. Some eyes fall on Mosaic, but a great many others watch the wall. When the charge comes, it is not the phalanx stomping in its unconquerable unity. Impetuous, tempestuous, furious. A full fifteen of the bravest of them come leaping over the shield wall to shatter the stone one.

Mosaic's muscles pop when she stretches them. Her fist catches the first Silver Diver full on in the face, and she rolls her eyes at the mighty warrior crumpling like tin underneath her. She flashes forward, low to the ground. She plants her hand in front of her, and launches the heel of her foot into the chin of another, who goes sailing backwards to test the power of the battle line still waiting and watching. She lifts up and spins, lifting her spare hand to cover one ear against the report of an SP rifle. One quick breath as she steps through the cloud: her elbow crushes the lightweight alloys of another girl's armor straight into her ribcage. She grabs the same girl by the ankle before the blow can carry her away and swings her as a club into another two who have managed a whirling flank.

Spears disintegrate under her claws. A shield implodes against the might of her meteor of a dropping heel. An SP rifle chokes on its own round as it is snatched up and bent into a knot. She feels the bite of a sword as it slides into her abdomen: Mosaic turns her head and glares down at the warrior still clinging to the weapon inside of her. She grabs the hilt, and walks it farther in. Her headbutt proves itself the more dangerous attack by far. She wrenches the blade out and snaps it over her knee, and just like that two spears go clattering to the street, while the hole in her vest closes over with plates of horrible bone that see her spill not even a drop of blood.

"...You can't say I didn't warn you."

Finally, the phalanx moves, and splits as much as it can on the narrow pathway to circle and surround her and hem her in with an overwhelming abundance of weaponry. Where one sword failed, two hundred similar pokes will succeed. Too late! Too late, too late, too late! Mosaic's foot crashes into the ground and the air is made of thunder. Rocks tumble down the hill, the street splits in half. Ceronian warriors lose their footing on the ramps they hadn't seen through all of Mosaic's disguises, and with undignified squawks, yelps, and howls they tumble by the dozens into ditches dug mere hours ago to welcome them.

The good folk of Beri are not an army, not trained for war, not even led to accept it as a possibility. But never underestimate the prowess with a net of a people who live so near to the sea, and who have for as long as anyone can remember thrived off its bounties and generosities. The crab hunters cast their traps, and the builders hurl their stones. The sailors tie the knots. The Lyrii prepare more baths. Lady Mosaic has been very explicit about her distaste for the smell of dog.

Her hymn swells from every building and through every street like the heartbeat of a monster at the edge of the forgotten underworld: chan! chan! chan-barra-chan-barra-chan!

Mosaic wades into the sea of violence with a look of serenity stitched across her face. She is a demigoddess, and the shadows of the Oneiroi walk alongside her. Fists, elbows, feet, all of them fall like stars upon the ambitions of Taurus. Come out, come out, come out, little wolf. Prove to your pack how superior you really are, quickly, before you run out of pack to prove it to.

"Pointless," she spits, "If you really thought yourself my equal you wouldn't hide behind a thousand sets of teeth all sharper than your own."

Breathless Dead

There are so many ways to punish a wolf. There are the obvious, the boring, the smacks on the backside and the threats of worse. These she employs first: shackling these defeated Ceronians in the same chains they'd been given to bind her in, once they'd caught her. She makes leashes of them, binds their arms behind their backs, and according to the severity of their crimes (as she sees them), strips them of their arms and armor and more besides. Some get off relatively lightly, but others whose names are known to her will reek of Shame and Defeat for a week. Plundering Fang alone is promoted to the role of chief pet, collared and left with the only uniform appropriate to her new station, made to watch the rest of it all play out from her spot at Mosaic's feet.

And then there are the subtler, more sinister, more delicious torments. Having to watch their Little Ember roam free. Watching her, on Mosaic's orders, run off to the demigod's cottage to collect and outfit and bring Vesper safely into town. Oh, little wolves, were you not aware she had a sister you could have struck? Was that ignorance or fear that kept you at bay? But Ember, your plaything Ember, your darling new girl hazing tool, she does not react at all, other than to kiss her beloved and sneak away as asked. She has kept this confidence for a long time. Perhaps the training techniques of the Silver Divers need to be revisited? Something is clearly not up to scratch.

As they march, this tiny and defeated pack, they are burdened with heavy rocks to drag along with them. Enough each to slow even the vaunted muscles of the legendary Warriors of Ceron to a crawl, and all with the very same rocks they had just been bludgeoned, crushed, and beaten by. It is not a long trip, but neither is it quick or easy. Only in Beri, only surrounded by the townspeople they were meant to have enslaved by now, are they relieved of their burdens. And then they are left to watch as their labors are turned by Dolemon the Giant and the assorted good people of Beri and Rosedam into rough walls that will sow the seeds of defeat for the rest of their pack.

They know this, because they have been taught this lesson already. It is not that stones are strong in ways that their bodies cannot overcome. Their bones and muscles are harder, their armor is stronger, and the construction of these ramparts is easily knocked aside. But it still must be done, if a phalanx is to move forward in formation. Even crushing pebbles underfoot means taking the time to step on them. The hunting packs had been thwarted not by the strength of stone, but by being made predictable. And now they would live with enabling that to happen once again.

They must watch, as one unit, Ember return with clothes. They must watch Mosaic change, see the glory of her body and be made for once to reckon with their legends falling short of somebody else's perfection. They must watch the Hero of Beri arm herself for battle, as a Goddess might. As a Goddess should: in tight fitting pinstriped pants and lacquered black shoes, in a perfectly contoured white silk blouse and a sleek black tie around her neck, in an ash gray vest, in loose silver chains draped from shoulder to shoulder and down her chest, down her ribs, across her waist and around her hips, dotted with tiny glittering diamonds that glitter like stars next to their ugly, heavy shackles that are nothing alike at all. She makes Plundering Fang sweep her hair back, paint her lips crimson, paint her claws the colors of jewels. They styled themselves conquerors, or the resistance, but now they look upon a Queen. Revolution, true Revolution, has come at last to Bitemark, and they must sit and nurse their sore limbs and chafing wrists wondering if they will watch the whole thing as slaves.

There are many ways to punish a wolf, but the worst among them is to shine. To burn in such glory that it plants the idea of mutiny inside their brains. To fix each of them with a piercing stare and drag them all around with her while she rounds up her trusted warriors: Quajl, the Decaying Soldier, Ember. She separates the ones who can hold a spear or an SP gun from the likes of the Lyrii and the soft-hearted, if not so soft boned. These she puts in charge of her captives: bathing them, repeatedly, washing their wounds and their fur and brushing away each burst of pheromones they might have used to save the phalanx from her guerrila tactics.

Is there a worse threat she could make to the Daughters of Ceron than to tame them? Without a word, she drags her new pet with her to what will become the front line again and again and again. She does not ask them for help. Could a creature like this even need to? Who would set them on this monster and expect them to win? Is that a person to be followed? And what will be left for them when their Taurus meets Mosaic? Almost a match?

They'd regret those words forever.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Contest," Mirror shrugs as she watches the feed, "Of wills."

Silence, just long enough to be awkward. She fills it worrying at her hair with a quiet desperation, as if her ability to offer commentary relied on not looking like an overworked slob even though nobody other than Maelia was actually watching her. Delay. Delay. Stillness. Silence. Her eyes look nowhere other than the match feed.

"The inevitable result of being handed research on your opponents: tendency toward Finishers in the opening seconds of a match. This was a pair of gambits by two equally matched minds. Opening position versus a misdirection attack. Neither will result in a decisive blow; they are too dangerous to each other to commit. Counteraction, dissipation. Like the lasers fired into the water."

Mirror leans forward, as if she's just noticed something. She frowns in thought. Another long pause, cut off one more time at the exact moment Maelia opens her mouth to rescue her junior.

"[The Spear That Grows Inside The Reeds]. [The Serpent That Hides Inside The Spear]. Every move in a fight can be turned around. Jacinta can use the curtain of water to build a wall of steam; opportunity to crush two of three attack vectors. Hide the direction of her main ordinance. Dala can break off her assault in the confusion, return from an unconfirmed angle. Continued redirection of her power source to buy time for her deathblow. Whoever. Whomever..."

The broadcast suddenly catches a sharp 'click' and a crunch. Mira watches Maelia wince at the way she bites her own thumb-claw down between her teeth.

"The one who reaches for the spear first will be the loser. Thus. Contest of Wills. We are watching. To see. Who will hurt themselves more. To bury their teeth inside. The other's neck."

Breathless Dead

If there is no sight or scent of the pack that hunts her, that puts Mosaic squarely back at the beginning of her day. She walks in silence down the beach to collect her crab, and then in silence drags it to the new still-empty neighborhood she spent her morning and her afternoon constructing.

Now the walls come down instead of going up. Her angry sighs fill the air, wordless frustrations echoing off of rocks and down hills as her fists slam repeatedly into the mountain shards that bore her soul and all her best efforts. Her skin is scraped and bleeding; the slick coating on her hands is soothing as she continues to tear down the rough base. The sound of a storm, the feeling of an earthquake. The roar of a ferocious animal, the smell of sweat. And brine. And crab.

She sits among the ruins, in a fortress built of failure and a lack of foresight, breaking apart this final crab and cataloging its bounties for the Goddess of the Hunt. Now she is still. Occasionally, the crunching of a shell, the scratching of a pen. The dull swoosh of Ember's tail as she watches, and the excited patter of her breathing, contrasted with Mosaic's own slow, meditative puffs.

If there is no sight or scent of the pack that hunts her, there is no need to seek them out. The existence of a ship changed everything. Everything. These ugly houses were pointless now, but the stone had many better uses. Material for ramps, for one. Leverage for another. And...

The rock whistles as it leaves her hand, and shatters with a thunder like a cannon when it hits the armor plating of a Silver Diver. Underneath that noise a softer one; the wheeze of a wolf whose air was suddenly stolen from her, and the snapping of a rib.

Stealth and guile, patience and planning. A perfect hunt, a battle one before it's even fought. All of it ruined by the hubris of the commander, of the one who wanted to put Mosaic in chains before asking for her help. Mosaic rises from her throne of rubble and stomps her foot clean through the pile, kicking up all manner of pebbles, bricks, and boulders. Her back twists, her leg slides backward.

Her kick shatters the heavens. Her volley is artillery. Her fists rend the sky itself and her claws crack the ground. Steam hisses off her skin, so hot that even her sweat is a weapon. She laughs, and cracks her neck.

"You know, I'm insulted. Is this all you sent to capture me? Where are the rest of you? I guess you thought you were being clever, trying to capture me and Beri in the same breath. Idiots."

When she surges, she is the ocean. Onrushing tides, and heavy inevitability. She holds out her arm and clotheslines one unfortunate would-be ambusher, then spins around to catch her before she can hit the ground. They sweep low against the battlefield like a pair of dancers posing to awe the crowd. Mosaic's face splits in a wide grin that's too full of fangs to be beautiful, and she tilts the wolfgirl's face by her chin until their lips are a whisper away from touching.

"Silly girl," she purrs, "Foolish little puppies. Didn't my sister teach you any better? Maybe you do it on purpose. Your little lot just loooooves their spankings, isn't that right? Would you like to be sent home tonight raw and naked? Would that make your little heart happy?"

Fingers strong enough to crush armor into powders push and prod the girl's head, lifting it up and pushing it down again in a forced nod. Mosaic smiles, and her mismatched eyes gleam with the promise of delights for a pack of failures. Her tongue slides across her lips in invitation. Her breath is hot against the other girl's face. Her hand slides through a war braid and grips the back of her skull.

Mosaic sneers, and twists around with the force of a tornado, tossing the Ceronian girl into a pile of five of her companions. She stomps her foot and the ground shakes, burying them from the shoulders down in an avalanche of former housing. She tosses her head back and howls with laughter.

"Next time, remember! Taking me is the same as taking Beri! So don't you dare send less than the entire pack at me ever again! Not that it'll make a difference! Ha!"

[Overcome with Hope: 6, 1, 4: 10. Ember, tell us how the brave knight fights her pack and wins hard enough to let Mosaic have her way with the rest of them]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It takes a great deal of effort to look this disorganized. She has arrived mere seconds before the agreed upon time. Wearing her pilot's bodysuit, unzipped to vent heat in the exact same way as it had been when she'd first met Dolly in that bar not so very long ago. Fur matted with effort sweat, no attempt at application of makeup or fur paint or even basic spot touch ups. Her cascading silver hair is disheveled and frayed to the point of ruination - as if she'd run herself to death in a ponytail and then pulled it free at the last moment in a desperate attempt to appear somehow more 'professional' and instantly dooming her entire look.

She has several of the tablets she pilfered from Slate's desk wrapped in a bundle in her arms, and she is winded past the point of speech. Every piece of this look carefully considered, reached for, and worked toward with the deft hand of a fashion designer. She'd even run the length of the hallway outside the broadcast booth four times before entering just to wear herself down enough to sell herself as the overworked and under-prepared rookie caught squeezing too much training time in when she didn't even have a match to get ready for. Inadequate. Exhausted, so much that even her modified eyes have dulled and stilled, to the extent that they still can. Hunched and ruining the natural beauty of her body, clutching at useless and outdated pieces of tech, opening her mouth in awe at the datafeed Maelia is wearing in her eye.

She collapses into a seat and sits there in silence, making no sound or movement except to breathe with steadily increasing stillness. Staring only at the floor.

"I... wanted," she pants, "T-to. To. To... follow. Every match... if I, I could. I..."

She sets her handful of screens down and starts activating them, pushing them this way and that until she's found an organizational structure for them she seems to like, though she frequently changes her mind. She looks up and tries to smile, but all she manages is to raise her whiskers in a yawn.

"M-my eyes. Can't tolerate information processing. In the style... style you're dem, demo. Demonstrate. Ing. Demonstrating. Using, I, I mean. So I. But. Yes. No. That is fine. What you have... chosen. Presumed. Is fine. I have... interest in those two. Beyond the curiosity of, of seeing my next. Opponent. And I. Yes. Hybrasil..."

Her eyes leave the floor, only to get stuck on the ceiling for a moment. It takes concerted effort for her to move her head and straighten her posture to the point where she is simply looking at Maelia face to face. The act almost looks to be causing her pain. Flustered. Starstruck. Submissive. Embarrassed.

"The Children of Hybrasil, I mean. We are as a... as a species. A very insular lot. The chance for two cat pilots. Discussing two more... Will generate a lot of, of interesting. I think. It's a good. Opportunity to. Give something. To home. I. Um. Agree with your... assessment. Jacinta Niares is hiding something. Likely spectacular. And she will need it. To have any chance against the goddess, Smokeless Jade Fires. To say nothing. Of her priestess."

Breathless Dead

The moonlight watches Passion be fed grapes by Pleasure, as Desire fans them both. The moonlight watches Ecstasy teach a new song to the birds of the hills, and sighs when Longing wakes from a long nap to join the revelry. The moonlight watches Indulgence breathe cooling breezes up the beach from the ocean waves to kiss a pair of lovers' necks, and it watches Satisfaction plant kisses on the brow of every gathered soul.

The moonlight watches, but does not shine. Not on these two, who watch back. Watch, O Moon, but do not come. Do not shine on them, O Moon, and lead prying eyes astray until hearts have finished melding and their heat has forged fresh iron to carve a path into the future. Be kind, Moonlight, in Artemis' name we pray.

And so Mosaic's passions cool. Or rather, roll over to rest after feeding themselves filled to bursting. She is left to feel the warmth of the girl in her arms, the girl who even now snuggles her body closer into the nooks and crevices of her grip, whose tail beats a marching tune to speed around a planet in an hour's time. She feels Ember's heartbeat rolling against her arm and feels Ember's face nestle playfully into her breasts. A smile parts her lips; her fingers part Ember's hair and play with the backs of her ears.

There are whispered nothings and sweet tidings to last a lifetime, adorations and declarations and promises, tauntings and praises and playful squeezes and gentle touches that threaten to inflame a whole new turn on the hill that would beg the moon to hide them all throughout tomorrow's daylight too. But eventually even this gives way to mundanity and there is nothing left but the trivialities of the day.

"...Thank you, little Ember. It's been a longer day than I realized."

A soft grunt ripples through her body in response. The soft thwacking of a tail that kicks up scents of flowers and sweat and the sweetest pheromone thank yous.

"The village of Rosedam was abandoned, you know. They've come to Beri and there's nowhere to put them."

"Mmmmmmmmmhm?" The siren song of the half-listening, of the besotted too drunk on the sound of a voice to fully hear any of the words that it says.

"So I climbed the mountain today, and I stole the East side of it from the Stone Tribe."

Impressed whines and hot fur jammed into her neck. An eager tongue lapping praises under her chin for the demigod Mosaic, the Hero of Bitemark who needs all of her muscles kissed again, just in case any of them were missed the last time.

"And I-- mmmmm -- I spent my time building new houses before I had to return to finish my hunting."

"Wow wow wow wow wow, you did all that~?"

Soft gasps and giggles, and the greedy snuffling of a nose trying to absorb every little smell coming from this divine body as if by cataloging it she could invent a new way to love it even more. Squeezing hands sliding down her hips and hunting lower until Mosaic catches them by the wrists and pulls them to her neck again.

"Ember, I..."

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm?"

Mosaic's body pops as it rises from the ground, carrying Ember in her arms still clinging in her lap. Together they sit with their breaths each pushing into the other's chest, skin to skin and heart to heart as Mosaic's eyes lift away from these earthly pleasures to the heavens above them.

"If I. If I left here," she begins haltingly, "What would you do? Would you follow me?"

Ears perk up. Ember's head leaves Mosaic' collarbone for the first time in ten minutes, and for once not to plant kisses somewhere else. She clears her throat, and her body tenses the way it always does when she's readying herself to make an Impression.

"I'd follow you, of course!"

"You'd leave your Pack for me?"

"N-no, I wouldn't! I would take over as much of the pack as I could, and then we'd follow you. All of us would?"

"Oho? And what would I do with three little wolves, do you think?"

A wolf's indignant sputter meets a cat's roaring laughter. Ember's face wars between insult and consideration, as if inside her head an entire battle was playing out and the best and worst case scenarios were being carefully plucked free from the tapestry and set aside for the counting. Her expression is so stony serious that Mosaic cannot help but kiss her, and pin her tongue so fiercely inside her own mouth that not even a squeak of surprise could escape anymore.

Where they finally part, breath fills the hillside and moonlight finally pierces its blanket of clouds to illuminate them with a sniper's swift precision. The asked-for miracle has come and gone. Time ticks away. Mosaic sighs.

"Three wolves or three thousand, that's enough for me. I am leaving, Ember. I've given everything Beri I have to give and it hasn't really changed a thing. Whatever I'm really meant for, I can't find it here. I need to get out. I need..."

Her back arches. Her chest pushes forward. She is a bow, ready to be plucked. She is an arrow, ready to sail a thousand leagues and bury herself inside a worthy challenge. She watches the moonlight watching her, and her gaze slides past it to the stars beyond, who swirl in their prismatic brilliance inside her pupils.

On the horizon the first flecks of daylight are beginning to break over the mountains. The night birds cease their calling, and a new song signals the end of a dream. Mosaic's eyes are fixed on the sky, and though her arms do not relinquish her Ember, she can never turn her gaze back down to Bitemark. Not ever again.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

She has twenty screens lit up at every angle around the desk she's commandeered from Slate. Insufficient information density, but she's out of room. Sheets of numbers, sprawling articles, work orders for Mayze Szerpaws, correspondences with business associates both above the table and below it, a dossier on every single pilot still remaining in the competition, and several smaller bios for pilots who have been eliminated but have known connections to those still here. On her largest screen, a simulated cockpit: a crude wireframe representation, but from the way her fingers are moving on the various touchpads and keyboards she's got in front of her it's no less difficult to handle than the actual Gods-Smiting Whip.

And finally, on a smaller screen right next to it, footage from the party. The Aeteline, lifting off over the gawking faces of a pair of Empresses and their patchwork retinue. Solarel, restored. Solarel, reverted. Solarel, damned.

"Boss?"

Mirror only 'pilots' in spurts. Her eyes dart from screen to screen, but rather than trying to take them all in at once (impossible, as some are behind her no matter which way she's facing) each one captures her entire attention for minutes at a time. She reaches for a glass that only barely fits on the desk and lifts it all the way to her lips before she notices it is empty. Her tongue clicks in frustration, but she puts it down just where it was, and resumes work.

"Boss."

So much of this was not like in the animes (even the terribly boring ones) that it was really throwing her for a loop. Her fingers brush the fur on her arms out of alignment and then smooth it all back down on a cycle whenever they're not engaged in active piloting simulation. Vulnerability. Doubt. Perhaps she doesn't understand this world well enough to slaughter someone in it after all. She closes her eyes and shakes her head. Refocused. But when she opens her eyes, half of her monitors have been shut off. She is staring into the bloodshot and irate eyes of Selin Makers.

"Mira Fishers! Will at least explain what you're up to in here? I have work to do, you know."

"Studying finance."

"Stud... what?"

"I need to understand the principles of Terenian Economics if I'm going to turn my threats into proper promises. There is time now, so I am studying."

"This is... about that speech you made at the party? Mira, no one expects you to move on that until after the tournament. You know that, right? No one expects you to move on it at all. They'll just say you were drunk. And you pretty much were; you got right up in that scary woman's [Nectar] dress."

"Untrue. Isabelle Lozano does. And Almira Lozano does as well. She will already be plotting something, so I must be ahead of her. Rest assured, the first nineteen moves of my opening gambit have already been made."

"Boss you're gonna hurt yourself, you literally do not have time for this if you're gonna--"

"Shh." Mirror puts a claw on Slate's lip, "This is all for the sake of winning the tournament. I am only pushing myself as far as is required. This much really is quite simple when you approach it from the perspective of destroying or relocating value without aim for acquiring it yourself. I wonder why there are so few example texts?"

Claw or not, Slate's face tightens into a frown. She steps away and begins pacing, the way that she does when agitated.

"Mirror... Boss. Mira, please. Please. Please! You are so close to the stars right now I can hardly hear you anymore. I'm begging you, put that stuff down for a minute and talk to me. Talk. For real."

One by one the remaining monitors flicker off, all except for her piloting program and the gala footage. Slate immediately cringes and arches her back, but the direct stare of her partner keeps her from screaming loud enough to reach the next seven hangars. Mirror tries and fails for the second time to drink from her empty, perspiring glass.

"Destroying the Lozano Matriarch will take time. Beyond the scope of our stay here, I am already aware. But a noteworthy blow must be struck now, nevertheless. Even if it compromises me. Even if it costs more than we can afford."

Slate blinks three times. Too fast to show comfort or acceptance of the thought; just a simple deference. Keep talking, Boss.

"Almira Lozano's attention and wrath must be pulled off of Isabelle Lozano in a very narrow timeframe. In this way we secure the loyalty of Isabelle Lozano whom I have named the Distant Gate. And it is through that gate that the tournament shall be won. Through her cooperation, and yours. And Matty's, Kiriala's, and in short order the goddess Smokeless Jade Fires'. More names would be preferable, but I am running out of, how do they call it, capital? The Final Opponent will require at least this many swords to slay."

"And... by the final opponent you mean?"

"Solarel, of course. It will be her. And I. In the finals. Or this entire endeavor was pointless."

"Poin... point... p-point! Pointless! Pointless, she says! Mira Love-spotted Fishers you... you whisker tweaked, small headed, sunshine chasing... ass!"

Slate has climbed up onto a couch. She stays upright even as she perches on the back of it, and there are so many tears in her eyes they look exactly as liquid as Mirror's own.

"What about the promises you made me? What about our dreams? Our wish!? When I agreed to help you build this Nine Drive System you promised me that the prize at the end of the road was gonna be for both of us! And you did not mean the Combat Slut! You always do this! With your schemes and your side objectives and you never explain, not once do you ever try to let me in, do you even-- I swear to! I! You are gonna make me... no. No, no, no, no, Mira, no! Is this... tell me you're not using that?!"

"...I am."

"Goddess in a tree, Mira! We don't know what'll happen if we do that! We never tested it, we... we couldn't!"

"She has the Aetiline, Selin. What choice do I have?"

"She... what?"

"If I do not defeat her here, Selin. We will not get our wish. And if I cannot do it correctly, even if I did we would be miserable. You and I. It would fall apart like ash under our feet."

"'But,' you'll say, 'if I do this correctly then even if I don't take the tournament we will still blah blah blah blah blah.' Am I about right?"

Mirror stares at her empty cup for a long, awkward silence. All indications from her twitchy arm movements is that even watching it be empty hasn't rid her of the impulse to try and drink from it.

"I just wish you understood. At all. What it felt like playing second best to somebody you can't ever win against. Because every move you make just pushes them closer and closer to getting everything that you want. I wish you knew how much it hurt to love someone with your entire heart when she can't give you the same."

How long does the movement take? A second? Half? Does time exist at all? What were the point of those intervening frames when none of them involved two cats hugging? Slate sobs into Mirror's shoulder, awkwardly and jaggedly purring through it while Mirror's claws trace her spine in patterns of relaxation.

"If. I told you. I would give up Solarel. To be with you."

"I'd know you were l-lying."

"But. If I. Loved you. Enough to cut it off. To. Simplify my dream. Then--"

"I'd leave. Y-y-you wouldn't be my Boss. That ain't... who I signed on with."

They find themselves sitting. Every monitor switched off at last. No sound but breathing and hiccups and a pair of heartbeats. Minutes chasing hours. Matches creeping closer, windows creaking shut.

"You are. Impossible. To please."

"Nah, I'm very easy. You succeed. And you stay with me. You stay, Boss. I'll do all of Combat Slut's maintenance and upgrade work too, but the both of you come home. And you tell me every night how much I matter. That's what this costs. You got enough coins left to play your last card still?"

"That's... not how the game w--"

A pillow in her face, like the hammer of Grandmother Fire who gifted the first spears and lifted Hyrbasil up above the level of the Hunted. Mirror shrieks and spits in a profoundly undignified, uncoordinated, and uncool manner. She has nothing to shield herself but this pathetic display. It does not work. She hits the floor.

"No. Of course. I understand, Selin. I cannot. Do anything. Without you. You take point on the rest of this. Complete the plan as seems best to you, and I will come home. And tell you what is true. I should. Get to my 'proper' work by now, anyway."

"...At least match commentary will be fun. Right? You pick a partner yet?"

"Are you joking?" Mirror sniffs, "Hardly. My beloved seniors may choose for themselves whom they'd like with them in the 'Booth' as it were. And if someone should choose me I will be more than happy to assist."

"What if they don't? What if they expect you to take the initiative and you get left out entirely?"

"Then I catch up on my napping. Aren't you always yelling at me to rest more?"

Breathless Dead

One hand touches her neck. The other reaches toward the space between her and the rapidly fleeing Ceronian scamp. Fingers spread apart and twist together, ready to rend the sky itself asunder and tear open the door she will merely step through to claim her prize. But she flinches, instead. Her grip relaxes, and her hand drops to her side.

Mosaic laughs and shakes her head.

"Too easy, right Ember? We'll do this the fun way."

But even having said it she doesn't start to move. The sight of her Ember racing through the sands, building obstacles with scattered shells and flotsam as she goes, the wag of her tail perfectly complimenting the smoothness of her form. The wiry body of a true champion, born to run is something that should be drunk like fine wine, shouldn't it? She can spare this indulgence. Just a moment longer.

Mosaic does not run: she flies. Sand explodes behind her in heavy showers of grit and debris as one step carries her twenty meters through the air at a time. Her legs are long and her gait is wide and there is little enough grace to this movement that is better described as an ode to pure power. Her ears bend flat as she soars, to block out the whistling of the air. She feels her own breath in the exertion of her muscles and the impact of her bones. Every step is a long song, I have you, I have you, I have you, I am coming.

She was born for this hunt above all others /across the galaxy without ever resting.
Lavender and sweat and the bouncing of golden hair beckon her forward /the whiff of Roses bars her way back.
The thrill of her perfect little back growing closer and closer with every bound /at the last second she always escapes.
Breathless laughter floating on the breeze like a ghost /two children in a palace big enough to host the stars

At the edge of the beach there is a hill where the sands give way to sweet smelling grasses and firmly packed dirt. The north slope is filled to bursting with brilliant white Snowdrops with their heads bent in prayer, greeting the spring in anticipation of winter, ready to make summer memories in the twin moons' gentle light. Five kilometers of distance has bought Ember this prize: when she is overtaken, when the huntress grabs her around the waist and lifts her into those strong, sweaty arms it is here in the most beautiful garden in all of Bitemark.

No mortal hand has ever tended here, and neither shall it have to. The flowers bear witness to an embrace that sees only one pair of feet standing on the ground. The other dangles about her knees. Mouths meet in a kiss that swallows whatever howl is coming, whether its jubilation or warning. Whether Ember is a lover or a traitor, right now her breath belongs to Mosaic. Her teeth are mere piano keys to be played by a clever tongue, her neck and her stomach are strings plucked as one might a lyre, or bent as a bow.

Sfffft, the sneaking of a claw. It robs Ember of clothing bit by bit until she stands on equal ground with Mosaic. Arms with the power to steal a mountain seal her motion away instead, and they do it with such gentle reverence that there is no pain or push or pull beyond the loving suggestion of a leash. Be collared, Ember. Be still, Ember. Be mine, mine, mine, mine, Ember.

Her fingers, tracing along the inside of her thighs until they part. Only now do the pair of them make a bed among the flowers. More blossoms rise up from the ground to see the sight. One back pressed against the hillside so that it curves, the other bending along the opposite arc to match. Lips breathing sweet nothings along the modest little hills on her chest, tongue tracing tickles down along the waist and to the hip.

The weight of a divine creature presses down from hip to shoulder atop a wolf's. Mosaic slides up the length of Ember's body and stares into one pair of twinkling, mismatched eyes with another. Her grin is filled with teeth sharp enough to make a wolf drool in envy.

"Is this proof enough? Shall I make my claim again? Anywhere you go. I will catch you. I will have you, and I will hold you, and I will shelter you with everything that I am. Because you. Are. Mine. Little wolf~"

Breathless Dead

She does not hear the howl. Her ears lift up atop her head, but she does not hear the howl. Her eyes alight with desire and her teeth flash bright against the backdrop of the night sky, but she does not hear the howl. Her hands are full of crab. Her back is full of the sea. She does not hear the howl.

No, she hears the hunt. She hears the hand of Artemis reaching from behind her, the ruffling of a jacket sleeve against a silk button down, the susurrus of skin on skin, of fingers brushing her chin and lifting her head away from her kill to stare across the beach instead. A half-annoyed sigh and a half-amused snort. The slightest of creakings and barest shift in the winds that indicate a shrug.

Ahhhhhhhh. She hears the sigh leave her own throat. She hears her heart pulsing faster and faster. She hears the sand sloughing off of her toes as she lifts them out of the waves. She does not hear the howl. She does not need to. She already lives inside of it.

So then, this is not an act of sacrilege. So then, this is not a wasted kill. It is a sacrifice. The itch on her skin is dulling with every passing breath. The name, the promise, is fading. This last and greatest enemy will be hers to prepare as a feast. But it is for the goddess Artemis to have, to keep, and to move as she will. She has already accepted it. And the reward she offers for such a pleasing dedication is a new hunt.

Someone has seen her bathing under moonlight. There are prices to be paid for such things, little wolf.

Mosaic does not cross the distance between herself and Ember. She sniffs, and the distances ceases to be. Her shoulders blot out the moon. Her blood perfumes the sea airs. Her breasts hang in the air like the unpluckable fruits that damned Tantalus. Her smirk could doom far greater heroes than that.

"What game are we playing today, my Heart? Will you flee and make sport for me, or shall I take you right here for your little pack to finally see? I allow them their games with you. Just as I allow them to call my sister their own. But you, Ember. Precious Ember. You are mine. Mine to hunt and mine to take. How. Ev. Er. I. Wish~"

Her fingers reach for the buckles on that absurd Diver's armor. But just enough hesitation, or rather gentleness, to allow room for another game to be played. If Ember can resist the sight and sound of the invitation right in front of her.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

A sigh. A sigh. A sigh. The dance resumes, and what had been liquid motion chasing a hidden melody inside the ballroom becomes a demonstration of raw power. The stomping of her feet, the twirling of her partner, the low dips where she is above the Terenian at last, and the two can share long, soulful, meaningful looks in the shadows where their hair paints the floor without anyone guessing quite what they're about.

A sigh. A sigh. A sigh.

"Family. Is NOT. Blood."

They rise. They fly. There are no thrusters hidden in the ribbons that pass for Mirror's dress but when she leaps there is force behind it. Enough to pull Isabelle off of hers, enough to carry the pair in a small rainbow of an arc across the dance floor. Enough to crash down with an authoritative crash that is almost in sync with the percussionist. She frowns, a flicker of darker irritation passing across her face.

"Dismiss my words as an Outsider's ramblings if you must. But I. Will speak..." she pauses for a long and awkward moment as she grasps about in her agitation for the word she's supposed to be using, "Cl-clarity. Obviousness. Tru... truth. Truth. I will speak my truth. Frankly!"

Her voices pitches upward in triumph, victory that has the pair of them twirling and fanning out their ballroom gowns to capture the eyes of everyone around.

"Your mother is an idiot. She has taught you backwards, and a thousand years ago I would have killed her for putting you together so wrong. Today I will settle for simply tearing her empire inside out. I will cast her down from the pillar she is lounging on, and only then will I hear what she has to say about survival. Listen. Listen to me. Listen. Listen, Isabelle Lozano!"

Her hand is pressed over Isabelle's mouth now. Not so forcefully that breathing has become difficult, but a gesture that requires real effort to speak over, or around. There is a desperation welling inside of her, now that she's heard these things. She has an impression to make and no time to make it in. The words, the words, what are the words? Her heartbeat rises to levels associated with panic, though even now her dancing is smooth and controlled. She bites her own lip, hard enough to draw blood with her fang.

"Survival of the fittest is a fool's interpretation of the world. The strong live. The weak perish. Stupid. What is the point of strength, Isabelle Lozano? Why do you feel conflicted when you follow this natural law? The strong do not eat the weak. Weak meat makes weak warriors. No. The strong eat the strong, to become stronger.

"Why? To grow. To cast a larger shadow. To wear a larger cloak, and cast it over the weak. To shelter them from the storm. Their lot is to live, and wait. When we die, they will consume our corpses, and become strong themselves. Did I tell you that those who couldn't find new jobs would be left behind? Did I tell you they should fend for themselves? I did not! What is the point of strength? What? What?! The universe is unfair! Then we bring fairness to it! An arm! Strong enough to push against the scale! That is, that is, that is!"

A sigh. A sigh. A sigh. The dance resumes, and it is quiet and stately. Mirror is quiet, and with every breath she calms. She slips back into the mask of the perfect pilot, and her fingers squeeze plaintively against Isabelle's.

"You are not the source of your troubles, Isabelle Lozano. Your head was put together upside down. Someone else has done this to you. I remove your blindfold now. You had a choice, with Ksharta Talonna. You chose what was taught you. You chose harm, for the sake of protection. You are so close. And so far. All at once. The act of submission to another's will is a choice. You are not a goddess? Neither is your mother. Choose to save your beloved, or choose to strike back. Choose even greater cruelty, if you will, but it is a choice. You are in far more desperate need of my wish than I realized.

"...If Solarel is what pried your eyelid open first, then that is good. Smashing open doors is what she does best. But you must walk through it now. Let go. Let go. Learn what it is that makes you strong, Isabelle Lozano whose name is Distant Gate. Leave your mother to me. I will show you. How far her blunt her claws have become. How short her reach. How family... is not. Blood."