Phoe

Breathless Dead

Her bones rattle in her legs every time her feet impact the ground. Her muscles quiver, compress, coil, and then stretch out into an explosion of flame and movement on a loop. Her tail slices the air behind her each time her spine curves with the effort of the next step, and the next one, and the next after that. Her arms brush the fabric of her torn sleeves against her vest every time she pumps them, and the slick song of rustling fabric joins the heavy percussive clomping of rapid footfalls crushing the ground beneath her. Her hair lifts and slaps like wet rope against her skin. Mouth hangs open, lungs howl even as they stretch themselves to bursting to hold enough to power the effort forward.

Mosaic runs. Away from the ship. Away from the battlefield, away from flash and explosion and panicked shouting. But toward destiny. She has asked for a miracle and received it. Her eyes have beheld the impossible, and a battlefield once held in an inescapable grip has shifted before she could even add her mark to it.

The smells of the beach, of salt and rusting metals and iron-soaked sand and rotting kelp stay wrapped around her even as the drier scents of tree bark and sap, of stone kissed by the passing of five hundred different hearts rise up and try to push it out. The stench of her own effort and the heat of her body coats her tongue in a film like the end of a feast. She drags it across her teeth but it persists even through the tang of fresh blood. She spits pink. Her eyes flash with silver and the dazzling glitter of crystal pathways.

There is nothing for her to do but run. The weight of an impossible debt crushes down on her shoulders. It constricts her ribs as surely as if she'd been caught and defeated by the Crystal Knight. Her heart strains into the immense pressure, not against it. When fools or the greedy are given blessings by the gods, they trust to those miracles and lose themselves watching the ripples across the pond of their lives to not miss the beauty of the gift. But to gawk was to spit in Zeus' face. A miracle must be repaid in miracles. Sacrifice must be proportionate to the gift received. Mosaic could not let this day pass with anyone saying she had put forward the lesser effort.

Thank you Zeus, King of the Gods. Thank you red star, sword of the heavens. Thank you Taurus and the Silver Divers, once enemies who even this very moment fight and wheel to buy her the last precious moments she requires to build her tribute. Thank you Crystal Knight, for snatching at last the veil from over her eyes. Now watch her. All of you, eyes on her.

Beri rises in front of her with its twisting streets and rolling hills dotted by plain, strong houses and the large craft halls that surround the square. No song floats out to greet her today. The rooftops watch her like soldiers in formation, waiting for their scout to make her report. Waiting for their commander to order them forward. Grim and still desolately quiet, this place that welcomed her into the world. The home that was given to she who had nothing but a tiny and broken family to call her own. The town that laughed with her smile and lifted her up as its own private miracle. She came here a patchwork. It was Beri that called her a demigod and shaped her into something divine.

Her heels burn as the dig into the ground. Her claws slam into the earth to halt her momentum at the gateway she has crossed through nearly every day for her entire life since she stepped out of the water and the haze of dreams she had been built inside of. She lifts her eyes to these streets one last time, and nods.

Her shoulders roll behind her one at a time, and she rears back prepared to strike. Her fingers curl with the promise of death as her vision fills with wispy silver lines slashed across the ground all around her feet. She tears gouges out of the earth in wide, digging strokes. It rends as easily as crab flesh: her fingers grow grimy with soil, stone, detritus, and chunks of root as she burrows. The glitter of the air fades for the intense darkness and muffled quiet of //her precious dagger that tore its way across the stars the tunnels beneath Bitemark.

She digs without stopping, down and then forward, until she stands beneath the center of Beri. One breath to steady herself. One breath to prepare. Palms strike the ground above her. Shoulders push up and hips push down; the softness of the earth gives way to unyielding, slicing stone and the weight of the planet pushes back against her. Muscles tremble until they begin almost to snap in half. Her blood is magma, her body screams. She screams with it. Her face twists with pain, her teeth bare themselves to the dark when she roars.

"COME, BERI! WE! GO! TO! WAR!"

Mosaic's knees cease to buckle. Her legs straighten. With a final cry of aggression, she begins to rise. Cool air seeps into the earth and kisses her shoulders. It wraps her body in a cloak of heavy vapors. She rises higher. And the town rises with her.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

In the end, she had not been able to find a suitable replacement for the trident she'd destroyed in her match with Kiriala. In the first place there was very little market for Fisher tech anywhere except where pockets of the elusive cats were already gathering, and what was for trade tended to be overvalued and undermaintained junk. But by far the bigger obstacle had been Mirror herself. She had packed her schedule so completely full of extra activities and the advancement of her increasingly stretched out plans that she had simply not left herself any time with which to calibrate any solutions Slate or Matty had come up with.

Calibration was essential. A spear and a trident seem like most to be only superficially distinct from one another (to most seasoned warriors even, the difference is only felt in the tendencies of a thrust or a slash) but for the Gods-Smiting Whip even minuscule weight or balance changes represented headaches and nightmares for even her engineering team. There was no tactile feedback that allowed Mirror the use of any of her previous muscle memory whenever she swapped equipment. The same inputs and calculations applied to these small differences produced unpredictable and sometimes even disastrous results.

Hours upon hours of small tests, simulations, and adjustments were an unalterable requirement. It was one of the secret weaknesses of the Nine-Tails, and the reason for her extreme preference toward beam weaponry. But Mirror had blown off every single request or attempt at scheduling for weeks. In the end it was Matty who saved the day. The broad bladed sword she had machined didn't fit in Mirror's preferred fighting style, but it was an exact weight match with Tail 2, which cut the testing time down to only pre-fight ritual levels.

"Disgusting. Right to left slice requires 0.1 seconds longer hold on R7 position to replicate intended power. 0.3 seconds L3 on reversal. Unusable filth. Unusable. Solarel would..."

Mirror watches the reflection of her mecha against the glass of the mighty towers of the "Corporate Jungle" on her monitor. The profile of the blade is careful, very chic. The kind of thing the knights of other peoples' legends might carry on their way to the ╡B O A R D R O O M ╞ or another suitably mystic location. The stories that had been fed to that girl lately. The expectations she held for -- the hope that she -- the dream. To see something dangerous, that made her feel safe.

A sigh.

"...Comment retracted. Understandable impulse. Acceptable adaptation to adverse circumstances. Weapon deemed adequate given combat effectiveness of current opponent. Proceeding."

Sequence check initiated. Confirmation of walk cycle, thruster directionality and response at one hundred percent. Nine Drive System operating within acceptable parameters, rechecking current conduit activation per Chains of Power: One, Two, Seven. Acknowledged. Activating combat mode, phase modulation begin.

"Dala Hunters, whose star name is Seven Quetzal. I wish to apologize for my behavior the other night. Whatever my struggles they do not excuse the coldness I turned toward you. Forgive me. I was trapped inside a journey and could not perceive your lantern's light. But I have internalized your request and I will not speak more of it until after you are defeated. We shall speak again shortly."

Her voice is composed and silky, but it is also lifeless. There is none of the teasing lilt she's used in all of her previous encounters with the Bride and the Goddess, and no hint of the warmth of depth that draws people to her when they have the ears to listen for it. Something is wrong, and maybe even she doesn't know it.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Yellow, Beloved Pupil!

"That's, haaaaa, a nice read. You've picked up a lot more than I've even meant to tell you. Honestly, I'm... I'm so proud of you."

This is perhaps not the best in-character villain speech anybody has ever given, but to be fair to Euna she is sucking air like a vacuum right now, not to mention sweating hard enough that her hair has fallen out of its ties. Which makes it a little difficult to tell but she might also be on the verge of tears. Whatever else she may be Euna very much profiles as a sore loser even though she is as helpless against the allure of a doomed challenge as she's been accused of being. It isn't a fun combination. It's also the basis for her marriage.

Right now she's fighting to keep her body and especially her neck upright, where the lasers aren't touching her. Even now she's doing her best to at least extend her loss for a few extra seconds. Just set a better record. That's all that matters in the moment. Her heel glides across the edge of a gym mat that marks the edge of her arena and the entrance into the Foam Safety Pit of Shame.

Something flashes in her eye. Something dangerous. Her mouth twists into a wolfish grin.

"It's too bad you're wrong, o student mine."

A step back. Over the edge; the cage doesn't extend past the floor. It can't, that's not how lasers work. There's an instant where this seems like the dumbest possible follow up to a taunt like that, but then many things suddenly become clear in the same instant. Euna's gym was an empty, rotting warehouse when she was gifted the deed. Nevertheless, it has regulation-depth foam filled pits under every station where falling is even a vague concern.

This implies some amount of engineering and construction went into the place after she became the owner. The infamously fastidious Euna Kim would have watched over every aspect of that project like a hawk with anxiety. This combined with her long operation and constant use of the place means that if there's anything to know about the floor, she knows it better than anyone else. On a similar note, this is also the woman who purchased the mats she uses as the base for her floor. She has set them up and rearranged them constantly to optimize her space for obstacle courses, basic gym needs, and responses to complaints and requests to make this space as accommodating for everyone who needs it as she can. No one needs to be, generally speaking, but Euna is a god damn expert in the weight, foldability, and rough tensile strength of her floor padding.

A fun followup fact: no dojo master in any movie ever made (or at least the ones worth watching) has ever not been able to perform the fabled Tatami Flip.

Her leg lifts up to her chest independently of the motion of the rest of her body as she falls: only ever occupying the space she's safe inside of. It stomps back down with nothing but raw torque and technique, catching a board at the end of the platform and tilting the mat up, up, up. She twists her body at the waist, whipping her head under the bottom laser and giving her the momentum and surface area to win the physics battle against her own designs. It doesn't lift a lot at first, but the sudden shift is enough to get Yellow's feet to start slipping, and once her weight starts working toward Euna's plans the whole thing accelerates with terrifying rapidity.

The top of the map tilts. It wobbles. There's a window where a surprised but skilled student could bail to one side and save herself. The mat folds in on itself, clunking Yellow on the head and slamming that window shut as it wraps her between layers of padding that is now rolling awkwardly over the edge of the arena and into the foam.

Euna pushes away before it catches her, too. She doesn't aim to slide on the floor, where her profile is still high enough that a laser might catch her, but sails over the edge of the pit and catches a corner of the platform with her ankle. Mastery of body means mastery of the body. She bends her knee to give her hip more momentum in a new direction. She bends her spin so she can roll one shoulder back while counterbalancing her weight with the other arm. She catches the side of the platform with her fingers, and continues into a backflip while perpendicular to the floor before finally swinging up and over and outside the cage that had been built to hold her not a minute before.

She shuts the whole thing off a moment later.

"First of all. My tendencies are exploitable, but they are not a weakness. I resent that you would call them that. And second of all! Did you REALLY think you could attack me with my own gym and expect to get away with it?! Here's your lesson for today: Fights almost never break out in places where you're the expert of the terrain. Observation and clever exploitation of an assumed strength is a truly excellent tactical decision but if you're gonna use the Hot Dom Style as your trump card you have to at least be able to make a reasonable assessment of your opponent's threat range. If you don't understand the enemy's Zone you can't approach. That is true in one hundred percent of combat circumstances, Yels. You're good, but you're not Sarah.

So! Anybody got any questions? Comments? Dating anybody new? We don't have to just beat the hell out of each other and then wave goodbye, you know."

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Yellow of the Rebellion!

There's a flicker of genuine surprise, and then genuine hurt on her face. The idea that she's hurting her students by imposing her own imperfections on them is a deep kind of horror for her, and she can't no sell the taunt. But. You are offering her a fight. Four on one, and her with only one eye. Maybe. Stay tuned. It's not quite the dream she was too awkward to mention when she first met White, but it's so close she can't contain herself.

You're right. She is fatally flawed. But that doesn't make her worthless, even if you did cast her as the villain. She tilts her head and smirks as her arms spread wide to either side of her.

"What of it? What value hath an empire if it cannot forge a blade? What value hath a blade if it cannot slay its master? What value hath victory if it does not lead to defeat? This endless path I lay before you exists for one purpose! One goal! If you think you can end it, then..."

She clicks a button on her desk. The music changes. The surging tide of a climactic battle hymn turns into a static burst of raw noise. Strings on instruments both analog and electric are struck without regard for creating music as much as just venting raw aggression. And yet for all of the chaos, after a breath the pattern repeats almost exactly. There's something that might be a voice screaming under all of the noise but it's tinny and illegible.

Euna lifts a hand toward you, and Cinders shivers in the confines of her new leash. Her old master flicks her fingers in a gesture of command and challenge. The music has changed again. Strings are pulled to the point of screaming. The earlier chaos of the struck chords has become a steady, mechanical march like ten thousand stomping feet. Euna walks forward with the same inevitability, so in tune with the vibe that she feels like she's walking toward the fight from every direction at once.

She cracks her neck and glares at you through a single, half-lidded eye. She's so dedicated to being in character, to motivating you to try your best (or at all) that she only grins for a second. What's the approach this time, Nova? How do you get the most out of your workout before Euna finishes teaching her latest lesson?

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Yellow, From The Misty Reaches of the Recent Past!

Cinders, it turns out, has very good combat instincts. Or actually, maybe it's better to say she's got a strong approach to the puzzle. That's a bit more how Euna would like to phrase it at least. The bombast of your first sword surprises her, and what had been a quick shuffle to set up a counterattack quickly turns into a full scramble just to avoid getting clipped by the follow through.

She doesn't excel through her first round with Green so much as she survives it. She is completely on the defensive, sliding backwards away from giant kicks and sidestepping completely outside a cartwheel into jumping punch, or occasionally just crossing her arms up over her face and tanking a two-legged leaping kick with the parts of her that are metal instead of squishy flesh. It frustrates her, and that's plain to see. But everything is so fast and flashy, she can't tell if there's a followup or not. She doesn't know where the second blade comes in, and if she doesn't understand she can't commit.

But it changes as the fight moves on. Predictable, at first. She grows more confident that your two sword style doesn't allow for dual wielding and she starts predicting the shape of Green's attacks as a result. Rolls away become ducks under and then steps towards, and before she can go any farther than that she's fighting Pink instead. This is also easy to predict: now that the action is slower she throws flurries of quick jabs and a strong right hook that uses all the power of her planted foot to really knock the crap out of the air where Pink glided away. Her offense sputters against this all-defense style, and especially early on she winds up sacrificing power in her stance just to avoid getting tripped up in the tangle of footwork and ribbon.

But her punches start clipping closer, almost needing to be blocked instead of rolled through or slapped and gently redirected. And from then on the fight is never the same again. Green's return does not send her back to what she'd gotten good at - instead she meets that raw offense with pure aggression herself. No more dodge and counter routine is even attempted; now she's looking for the legendary Cross Counter, the blow that uses your opponent's momentum and simply beats their hit with a faster one on the inside of their line. Two fisted hammer blows spark in the air as they collide with flying side kicks. She leaps, grabs, throws from the ankle.

And lands with the Pink blade in her face again. Now, she doesn't attack at all: the fight becomes entirely about zone and a complicated, intricate dance of footsies. Steps back to imply a charge, steps forward to shrink the zone, moving to a vulnerable assumed blind spot and then trying to match the counter-pivot. At some point you both realize she's actually the faster one. Whether that's because she has more practice, faster legs, or just because all of her thoughts fit inside a single brain is a question for someone else to consider. Right now, the fight is the fight and all that matters is what is true.

Cinders is fully on top of this beautiful two sword style after just a few rotations, and even rapid change outs no longer fluster her. She slips between lunging, headlong rushing punches that make solid contact and dazzling footwork that tricks almost every eye in the room but one as to where her center of balance and target actually are. She finally goes from sweaty, full tryhard grim determination to an ecstatic grin when she realizes she's also got the transition game on lock. It makes her a lot prettier, like a magic trick somebody might pull with makeup and a compliment.

That's how she finally gets her opening: by catching the Pink blade and elbowing her directly into the Green one. Her eyes flash when she sees the leashes go limp. Her form is perfect as she steps one two three four five into the charge that will finally let her fell this wondrous and wonderful foe. Victory, praise, and a match with her beloved mentor all claimed with a single fist. She's sure of it. She's so sure.

She doesn't see your Secret Sword coming. The third leash. The look on your face. Her foot slips, then her posture, and finally her composure. Cinders turns full (organic) body red and crashes to the ground in a pile of flustered verbal keysmashing. When she pushes herself back up, she's at your feet, and she's only managed to get onto her knees. She is extremely aware of the implications of this position, and it's making her shake like a leaf in a... well, she has no idea what a hurricane is or was, but she's been inside one of those tubes where the wind blows money everywhere and you look like an idiot trying to catch it, so one of those she guesses.

Shitbiscuits. There's a line. That stupid movie has a line for this moment and she should be saying it right now. But she can't remember it! All that comes out is:

"A-a-a-a-a-a-are you s-s-s-sure? You, you, you mean it? I'd? I c-can??"

Cinders bows her head. She begs without words for the leash. To be made into one of your swords, if only for tonight. Even if you cut her down in playful rejection, she is going to walk away from this night with months of material for 18+ shipfics. Her old screenname burns hot against her heart.

"Daebak!" Euna calls across the scene with a single dull clap. "That was beautiful! Good ingenuity, very resourceful. That approach to combat is..."

She stops herself with a frown. Her hand reaches far enough up her head to worry at the band keeping her hair tied back.

"Actually, I'm curious. I'd love to here how all of you thought that match went. What went right? Or wrong? Like, not just for yourselves but your opponent too. Man. And you really haven't seen the movie? Because I've-- no, not tonight. That's not what you came for. Sorry. Sorry."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

She plays the game without speaking. Sets her cards down and simply waits for someone else to notice and understand the effect. She makes accusations by pointing at the other player and tapping the card on the table, if a copy of one has already been played, or by arranging what has been in a line by value and tapping the empty space where it ought to be if it hasn't. No smile. No frown. No flicker of irritation. No sign of impatience. No reaction to a wrong guess. No reaction to a good play. No response to victory or defeat, and no question answered with anything other than brief eye contact.

Yes. Heard. Moving on. Tap, Tap. Goddess. Next Turn.

Dala Hunters requested no talk of matches or what is to happen after. Dala Hunters is too tired and full of the events of the day. Understood. Mira Fishers has no words that are not categorized by those restrictions. No space for small talk, and no interest in banter. Praise or thanks are worthless for as long as she is an enemy. All the rest is business.

She sits. She plays. She finishes her drink and does not pick up another. She waves away all food. She does not flinch when Ksharta Talonna becomes flustered and upset by this. She does not apologize. She acknowledges the criticism the same way she acknowledges every other question or comment. Yes. Heard. Moving on. There are no more cards to play.

She does not reject the touch of Dala Hunters. She does not reciprocate. She does not tense. She does not relax. Dala Hunters requested that she wait. Mira Fishers waits. It is useless to entreat another guest for help. Only Slate could coax words from her right now, and Slate is not here. Will not come. Mira Fishers waits.

The party winds down. Other guests trickle out. The cult falls asleep. Mira Fishers remains. But the Goddess does not come. Dala Hunters seeks the company of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. The pair of them struggle to remain conscious. Only now, finally, does Mira Fishers stand up.

She hesitates for a moment in the dark. She turns to leave without a word or sound.

She returns to the drinks she brought in offering. Untouched except to turn her star into a pyramid. With swift and startling violence, she kicks the lot of them across the room. She stares at the snuggled couple. Now wide awake. Watching her. She brings a third claw to her mouth and bites it in half before vanishing into the darkness of the hangar docks.

She will not sleep tonight. She will spend it tuning the Whip, muttering the names of all her debts into the cold and the stars.

Breathless Dead

Mosaic walks among the Silver Divers with the calm and serenity of the divine. She wears her battered suit and whip burns like a King's robes, and the braids in her hair that have fallen loose cascade around her shoulders in a blue-black waterfall that amplifies her mystique until she is all that anyone can look at. The Slitted does not exist. She does not smile. She does not scowl. Her hand descends, and crowds part in curtains before her.

"We have done our waiting. Take the ship," her voice is softer than the sky after a thunderstorm. Her eyes glint with the power of Command, "Get the villagers inside, every last one of them. Storm the corridors, find our abusers and... instruct them in the error of their ways. The Crystal Knight could blast us into dust and gardens without even straining her tail, but once this colossus is ours her crystal wonders are useless. She will not destroy it. She will send an army to take it instead, but we will make it a fortress while she frets."

She allows a flicker of mirth to pass across her face. Her tail twitches as she chuckles at some ancient joke that just floated into her memories.

"You did not fail at Beri. You simply adjusted your plans when you realized how much you wanted an alliance. Prove it now and this will be just the first payment I'll give you."

She watches the Ceronians perk up as a single organism, chains shattering in one burst with the force of a smith's hammer on a new molten creation. Cloaks all cast off in a burst of rifle fire, and ear after pair of ears all lift up in anticipation and apparent delight. Mosaic's sigh of contentment hisses with steam that she blows away with the flair of a cigarette.

This is the solution to the riddle of weakness. It was desire pitted against desire, wasn't it? The Crystal Knight could surely butcher them all if she only came down to do the work herself. She could even just summon up the courage of Quajl to pull the trigger on her terrifying cannons and nothing would survive. But she is afraid. If not of the enemies she has down here, then of the ones she has up there. Ones too far away for Mosaic to see. Ones that fall as red stars onto her head. Ones that are, probably, exactly the same as her.

It wouldn't last. She could smell it from all the way down here; fear would eventually flip around to desperation, or embarrassment to courage, and Mosaic would have to test whatever shred of divinity she was blessed with against the raw power of an Administrator species, and an exalted one at that. That victory was surely impossible. But here she is strong. Here the Crystal Knight is weak. And with enough pressure applied here and now, by the time that wasn't true anymore it'd be too late for it to matter.

"Not you. You stay with me."

She flags down a few of the Silver Divers: Plundering Fang and her raiders that had been brave enough to attempt to capture Mosaic all by themselves, as well as Taurus. The ones she washed clean, and the one she ran through with a blade that does not kill. She gathers them in a circle around her, and shivers with relief when she notices that Ember's scent leads toward the still-dripping ship and not to here.

"I have a much more difficult job for you, or however many of you have the balls to take it. If that's too much then," she sneers and nods her head at the ship, "There you go. Go be safe like the others. But if you're cool, then look up there. See that red star? That's Zeus' promise. Our job is to earn it. We're going to fight down here and keep the Crystal Knight's eye on us, so that she doesn't see it coming. Well. You're going to do that. I'm going to use the time you buy to prove to everyone how much Beri is really worth. Sound like fun? If you don't die you'll have a story to tell your kids someday, I'll promise you that much."

She grins, wicked fangs glistening in her mouth. Her blood feels like it's going to tear her in half from raw pressure while her traitorous heart floods it from ears to toes in a raging torrent. Her golden eye flickers with manic energy as she waits to see if these chosen few are as dumb as she hopes they are.

Just as dumb as she is.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Yellow! (and friends)

"Yeah, I know what you--"

Euna cuts herself off with a jolt. Her teeth clench and her hands reach for her hair, but when they pass through empty air she sniffs and adjusts her eyepatch instead. The impulse to try and relate via superficially similar circumstances is powerful enough within her that it's often out of her mouth before the speed of thought. But usually she's wrong, and in ways that matter.

She shakes her head. Thought banished. Business mode. Business. She can't disappoint such a spirited request, and especially not from one of her best and most interesting students! One, two, three, nod! And smile, just like she practiced. After all, she's trained for this too.

"Right, yeah. Fight music? Lemme... oh! No yeah yeah yeah, I have the perfect thing. You're gonna... oh, maybe you still don't know. Here, I'll set the scene. So. Burn, My Sword right? Arguably one of the five greatest films ever produced by humanity. I think, anyway. But yeah, the protagonist of that movie, she's been dying from a then-incurable disease since before the story even starts. And after an hour and a half of action and drama, her team betrays her! She's wound up on the losing side of a war and now they're betraying their principles to secure their future and she won't compromise, so she's been cut off into the squad marked for death!

She's already coughing up blood here, she's got nothing left in all the world, but what makes the moment so beautiful is that she doesn't give up. She's surrounded by a hundred swordsman down on one knee, but she still draws her blade. There's somebody she promised to meet, see? And she always-- anyway. This is the music that plays during that battle scene. One against a hundred, body giving up, and sister they do not skimp on the details. No slash is implied, the camera pans in just this.... mmmmph! When I think of fights, I, I just. I want you to be able to picture it. You and Cinders both, try to match that energy while you're sparring. Today's lesson is in understanding this music, and what I just told you about the type of fight it represents."

She walks over to a table where she can turn the gym's sound system on. Her face is lit up like christmas all of a sudden, like none of the other things that have gone wrong today matter anymore.

"Your goal is not to win. Impress me. Whoever does the best job of that gets to fight with me next. Runner up has to learn by watching, instead."

She pushes a button, and old speakers crackle to life. A wooden flute warbles its way to life instantly, all alone in the word of music for the span of an extended cry like a bird singing to the morning sun. Various electronica notes fill underneath it, swelling wider and larger as an imagined camera zooms wider to catch a greater and greater number of drawn swords and flowing jackets (picture it, remember?).

At the crescendo, electric guitar fills the main melody, quick and heavy but steady. The grinding background of a melody. The flute drifts away and a woman's voice rises up to replace it. She sings without words, a powerful cry that evokes a world long since left behind for brighter prospects. It's as defiant as it is beautiful, and when the flute rises up to greet her the pair of them dance in battle harmony. It's frenetic and traditional, sometimes the old world notes quiet down and let the more modern instrumentation take over and thrash around like a constantly turning tide, but it always returns to that woman's voice with the ferocity of a wolf.

Cinders, for her part, is burning with determination. She's failed her mentor twice tonight and revealed her terrible disaster lesbian secrets to a rival. She's not going down without trying something big, but she's also not about to be the one to make the first move, especially with that weird velociraptor trick you've got going on. She knows to be cautious, and she knows to focus on agility. That's why her hands are raised to face level in a power boxer's stance, with her legs pulled in tight to make her targettable space as small as possible.

She's going to be relying on footwork. She'll need to step into blows to create any threat, but with her profile the way it is it's very easy for her to focus on turning, pivoting, or sliding backwards if she thinks the situation calls for it. She's trying to be shield and sword at the same time, or at least a sword inside of a shield. There's still a color to her cheeks that says she's wondering if losing wouldn't maybe lead to a fantasy or twelve coming to life and oh god please Cinders you can't presume like that you'd never have a chance with super hotties to begin with! Focus focus focus!

So that's her and her plan. Euna's jumped up onto her table and is sitting on the edge of it hunched over like a gargoyle. Her eye is laser focused on what she expects to be the battle area, and her lips are pulled tight in concentration. Rest assured, she isn't going to miss a single detail. So what's your play, Nova? How have you come prepared for a fight today?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

In the end, she came without words to trade at all.

What was to be said? Words of congratulation rang hollow in her own ears, coming from a stranger. Outsider. Now, enemy. Taunting likewise impossible; too many negative memories. Fresh traumas, lack of appropriate insult grounds, mission abort. What then? Make her offer. Ask the victorious pilot to step down from the tournament and save her the trouble.

Mission status - failure.

Mirror is silent as the night sky when she slips into the hangar. No commentary. No acknowledgement. She stands in front of Dolly with her armful of drinks at the ready and then...

And then that is all. She places bottle after bottle down on the nearby table. She picks them up again and rearranges them. By volume, by height, by texture. By intricacy of cap design. Only after combining several of these arrangements into a star pattern does she seem satisfied. Or at least discouraged enough to give up. She moves to step away from the table, thinks better of it, and places two spotsticks in the center of her offering.

But now she cannot step back. Not unless dismissed. She is trapped here in enemy space, with faces both friendly and not converging around her. There is no expression etched onto her mouth. Her eyes are as inscrutable as ever. Her posture is blank and carefully neutral as can be. Does she belong? May she share in this moment? Or do you need her to wear her other mask, now that you have earned the chance to strive against her?

Mirror opens her mouth. Ten thousands words attempt to escape her all at once. Not even a hum makes it past her throat.

She closes it again in silence. Holds up her hand to show the pair of bitten, broken, bleeding claws instead. Her head tilts. She points at Dolly. Taps the space on her chest where her heart is with the mangled fingers. She repeats the gesture three times. It is difficult in the extreme not to let her head flick around for someone here who might save her. Collapse the wave of the conversation down into a manageable fragment.

What... does she want to say? What is worth saying? What is, what is, what is, what is?

That she is sorry. That she is going to crush this brave girl and her fledgling goddess given even half a chance. That she would rather not. That the only reason she can is because of the love they showed for each other in the arena tonight. That she only has hope in her own delicate, desperate plan because of it.

"I." it comes out clipped. Tense. There is a pause long enough for everyone in the room to have their own awkward stare at her before another words slips loose, "When. I have eaten you. I. Will want... discuss. Payment. Services rendered. You. Your goddess. Critical. Under, unders--

Understand?"

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Nova!

"Bwuh?! Ack, no! Nooooooo you can't just! Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-you... ohgoshImpicturingitIcantstopsomeonehelpmeohnowhywhywhywhymeitswaytoomuchitshouldn'tbethishothandandgirlsandandandandand aaaaaaaaaaaa~"

Cinders Mayweather has a secret, and you've just unlocked it. Congratulations! See, she's a complete pushover. Zero defense. The only reason she's able to be as bold as she's been is because she hangs out with Euna all the time. She's used to someone whose main strategy in the face of abuse is to tank it, and yell at her when she goes too far.

It's her way of trying to show off for a hero. When she met Euna she was a complete loser who couldn't string two sentences together in front of anyone she considered a celebrity (or pretty). Original screen name before she got Euna'd: Cinner. Prolific author of just the trashiest and most indulgent fanfics, which you've triggered half of by the way, cries at the sad parts of cartoons and children's movies. You were supposed to get upset. You were supposed to apologize to her. You were supposed to say something that'd work Euna up, and then she'd get a pat on the back and a promise for more and better hangouts as the star pupil.

The scenario Cinders is built completely backwards for is a counterattack. She tries backing away, she tries turning around, she tries hiding her face with her arm and then her shirt when that doesn't work, but she's being hunted and this is just like the time Princess Alina got trapped in the mirror hall with KonKon bandits and no damn it don't think about it like that. She lifts her arms into a proximity of one of Euna's fighting stances because it's something proactive she can do, but she's so far gone there's no risk of her throwing a punch even if her life depended on it. She is a squeaking, shaking, slowly dissolving mess of a girl and it is all your fault.

So that's something to be proud of.

"Oh! Not a bad idea actually," with a new thought to occupy her brain, Euna's voice perks up a little more until she's close to her usual level of enthusiasm, "Let's see... Lemonade? Geguri. Aaaaaanndddd... ok yeah this isn't gonna work. Like, it's too deep a cut if I call you Rosé, right? Nevermind, I'm never gonna remember this. So Nova. Nova 1/3. Odd Eye Circl...ing My Assistant. You wanna have a go at Cinders?"

"E-E-Eunieee?!"

"Why not? I assume you came to spar, right? Since you waved me off on the whole... other thing, anyway. And you didn't come optimized for that conversation anyway. Cinders actually leads about half of my self defense courses. And I think it'd be fun to see how you stack up against an opponent with a different style to mine. As a warmup, at least?"

She looks hopeful. Cinders looks like she's about to turn into a tomato. A tomato that's on fire. A fire tomato that yearns for death. Euna claps her hands with the dull thwunk of metal on metal and smiles.

"If you're game, help me put the gym back together so we can use the whole floor tonight. Or we can, uh, try something else I guess. Hey do you guys still use those batteries? I finally got a shipment in but I have no idea if they're right. It's weird, nobody seems to want to sell these, like anywhere. Anyway come on, let's lay off Cinders for five minutes. She's no good to us until she remembers how to breathe. Maybe dunk her head in water."

"Betrayal! Betrayal! Mean to me!!"

"Yeah, well. Learn your lesson this time why don't you?"