Tatterdemalion

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Euna Kim fights like she’s really Himiko from Doomed Hand: someone who’s capable of chaining devastating combos together as long as they keep moving, who (when played by someone who knows what they’re doing) makes her way through ridiculous, impossible boss fights and makes them look easy. And, yeah, your average player is going to screw up the timing and get her hit, but the fantasy, the promise that the game dangles in front of you, is that if you’re good enough, you can be like Euna.

Except that Himiko doesn’t hold back the way that Euna does. All that terrifying potential just remains bubbling under the surface, in a way that strongly suggests that the restraint is a recent development. There’s more than one reason this place has an ACAB policy, and 3V hasn’t quite figured out the deeper ones. (Not that she will. Not until Euna’s ready to open up.)

White, intriguingly, fights like a roguelike enemy, albeit one with some degree of self-preservation instinct. But the way she methodically focuses on the attack, relentless, pushing forward, adjusting only to get a new angle…

Timing. She needs to get into a game with timing mechanics, one where you need to dodge roll. The kind where you are small and the world is big but, sister, you have a big stick to whack knees with. Morémi: Shadows of Ilé-Ifè. Yesssss. As long as she can handle Obàtálá’s spider aesthetics. It’s the best Eldenlike of the past two years, after all.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

“The wheel-turning king,” the witch says. Or maybe those should all be capitalized. The Wheel-Turning King. “Heaven under one hand, Hell under the other. In total control of the destiny of their kingdom.”

“Which means,” Ven continues, “receiving assistance from the enemies of the world as it exists. The fairies are too treacherous; they’ll stab you in the back because they must. But the Old Lords keep their promises.”

“The hero-queen. A new identity for the kingdoms. Unification. Uusha’s plan less… elegant. Messier.” The gleam in Peregrine’s eye suggests that this is her reason for supporting Ven. Not because Ven’s cause is more just, but because the process of making her the cakkavatti is more interesting. It also suggests she has not slept in some time. “The culmination of cultivation.”

Ven colors, ever so slightly. “Look. Set the cultivation aside. This is the most peaceful way to handle… everything. The Legion consists of a pack of rabid dogs who will kill indiscriminately if Uusha starts her war, and she doesn’t have the support she needs to win. The Red Wolf will sail into Chrysanth and seize control for the ‘good of the Kingdoms.’ And we’ll cheer her. And then we’re just like An-Teng: another colony for the Empress to squat on.”

Politically? What she’s saying is solid. She’s just leaving out the fact that the Kingdoms will be unlikely to accept a new queen with backing from Hell itself. There’s every risk that even if she goes into this with good intentions, she’ll end up sliding into the tyranny of a witch-queen.

But she’s right about how bloody a war will be, and about Uusha’s chances. If the Flower Kingdoms, as they are now, go to war? They will lose. Your options are to accept Cathak Agata as the inevitable colonial governor of the Kingdoms, or to back Ven’s play.

But there’s still one person who might know more than you, who might have opinions about this, and might be able to help you (or to imprison all three of you forever).

The Sapphire Mother herself.

Whatever you say, know that you, in this moment, have the power to sway Ven. You, and only you.

[Ven accepts, and chooses to gain insight.]

---

Fengye!

The Maid squeals, and then headbutts Jazumi’s chin. It’s a shocking, primal sort of violence— but the N’yari can take it. It dazes both of them for a moment, but then Jazumi pins the Maid’s head down into the mud with one forearm. The Maid thrashes helplessly underneath the weight, hissing and trying to bite and unable to get leverage.

“Looks like I still won,” Jazumi says, and then plants a big, sloppy, rude kiss on the Maid’s cheek. And that’s it! You’ve lost! Time for a new career as a N’yari maid!

…unless you were to cheat. To make an opening for the Maid to put on that mask. You’ve put fire in her belly, but the limitations of the body that you gave her are just too much for her to win like this. Not without a thumb pressing down on the scales.

---

Giriel!

“Glad to see someone is having fun,” Azazuka says. She’s red-cheeked, out of breath, and looming over you. It’s possible that she has Opinions about being the host for the celestial Hound. This is, after all, quite a lot of adventure, and a N’yari camp isn’t exactly the sort of accommodations she’s used to. “But we should be going. While they’re still distracted with… them.”

“Why the rush? Treat you right,” Hanaha purrs, tail thumping against your butt. “So much girl <3”

“This is exactly what I mean,” Azazuka says, flushing in a way that’s not from exertion. She’s realizing, just as you are, that a curvaceous Chrysanth girl is prone to be the center of attention once the fight with the Maid is over. The minute you let Hanaha up, she’ll be bounding over to Azazuka with a lusty purr and a coil of rope, and if you don’t, another N’yari will beat Hanaha to it. And Azazuka herself probably wants to go back to find Piripiri, right? Even if she’d probably quite enjoy a N’yari vacation.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

“Now slowly rotate the right stick. That’s going to turn the arm.”

“Turnways?”

“That’s what she said!”

“Left stick, honeytits.”

“Slowly, Dolly, slowly!”

“I am trying!”

“That’s what she said!”

“That’s right, kitten, slow and gentle. Is this your first time?”

“If you trip the generator, you’ll cause more internal systems damage.”

“I’m trying!!”

“Hey, anybody on this frequency smoke mint?”

Dolly checks that output is muted before she screams, clenching the joystick so hard that her knuckle aches. Painstakingly, Jade’s arm, the idol’s arm, is turning so that the fingers (which she will have to toggle using knobs) can reach a knot. Silver Ripples is still walking her through it, but the Banders won’t shut up. Erys alone would be one thing, all innuendo and crude jokes, but having the rest of that gang of jackals tuning in to the frequency makes getting the directions like trying to have a conversation at a concert, which she could handle, she really could handle, she could tune them out, except that this is delicate and if she fucks this up then—

Jade’s still here. Jade’s not limited to the idol. She’s a goddess. It’s just that causing her holy image any more damage would be…

Who is she kidding? Maybe if she burns out the systems, Jade won’t be able to talk to her. Maybe Jade will be different. Maybe she’ll blame Dolly, which she should. She’ll regret not picking someone like Ksharta, who would know the backups better, who would be able to use this stupid joystick correctly.

“Awwww, somebody too shy to keep whining about how hard this is?”

“Give her a break, it’s not like she got picked because she’s a good pilot.”

“Are you going to keep me waiting all day, Dolly~?”

“May I remind you all that you are interfering in Arena operations? I would advise you to cut your mikes.”

“Here, kitty kitty kitty~”

“Let me remind you that my crew has a right to be on the same channel as me, grounder.”

“Pit crew, declawed.”

“Besides, Dolly’s probably lonely right now. I’m happy to give her all the company she needs.”

“oooooo~!!”

She takes her hand off the joystick and grinds her palm into her eye socket and hisses like she’s about to throw herself into a fight. Shut up! Shut up! She’s— this isn’t about her, idiots! It’s not like they’re all around her and pushing her and leering at her, which would at least be, be something, it’s just voices over her radio when she’s trying to focus, but she can’t switch it off because Silver Ripples needs to walk her through this, but…

fingers, so faint as to be a kiss

…

Dolly unmutes her microphone. “Erys,” she says, and sits up straight, and closes her wet eyes, and imagines, no, envisions Jade’s hands on her, her shoulders, her chin. “Tell them to stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am freeing you because we are both pilots.” Even if one’s a pirate and the other was a gardener. “I have enough generator power to walk away right now.” It’s a bluff, but a decent one (she thinks). It’s what Jade would say. “So if you want me to stop being kind, keep talking. I hear the connection doesn’t cut until the head’s completely off.” She’s shaking.

“Awww, kitty’s got her first teeth~”

“She really thinks she’s a big girl, huh?”

If she closed her eyes, she could envision Jade’s hands guiding hers onto the controls. She flips a switch, diverts power into the cords, and then slowly tilts the chassis solidly into the yellow. Silver Ripples starts yelling at her, and then cuts off. Her palm is clammy.

Then she stops the tilt. Holds Jade’s idol steady. Erys Bander is silent. So are the rest of her crew.

“Now, unless you want me to make a silly mistake,” Dolly whispers into the crackle of the radio, “please be quiet and let me focus on this. It would be really easy for me to mix something up and cut your head off.”

She switches the microphone back off before she can start crying, which would ruin their reputation, and she rubs her hands on her arms until they stop shaking.

“You’ve got things to finish anyway,” Erys finally concedes. “Go prep for tonight.”

“Right stick, Dolly. Push it forward until we’re back in alignment.” There’s a warmth in Silver Ripples’ voice that warms Dolly up, too, and she reaches back out for the controls.

It’s miserable work, but she’ll do it anyway. For Jade.

[That’s, incredibly, another 10 on an Entice.]

---

And who are you, asked the owl on the lintel, whose name was Mahhu, and what is your skill, and why should you be given entrance? For you have come by the road that is white.

I am the fire that burns but does not devour, the goddess said, and I am born of ruptured stone. I am victory. I am the heart of the huntress. I am the fallen star that cleaves the earth. My brides are auspicious; Seven Quetzal is her name who is wreathed in splendor, and Ksharta Talonna is her name who feeds the host, and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius is her name who seeks your mask. They are in feathers that I have brought them; they are in nets with which I have caught them. Open the door! Do not dare keep me out! I will burn without fuel; I will burn the door. I have come by the road which is white.

And the owl entered in, and relayed these things before those assembled. So did the doors open. Heavy doors these; behind her they closed. So came she to the assembly.

In such a place torches burned, and their light was for the making of shadows. In such a place owls roosted, who are the guides and the messengers, who keep the roads. In such a place are the ancestors seated, who come and go, who walk the roads. In such a place the gods come to assembly: Macheka and Irtana and Kachtenkirya are seated there, Mu Ysha and Dishai and White Star Ocean are drinking there. Lovely are their masks, terrible are their masks. Mu Ysha sits by the door with her six honored weapons; Kachtenkirya rests the bow in her lap and the wine cup in her hands.

In such a place there are thrones, and in the one throne is Grandmother Night, and in the other throne is Grandmother Hunger, and by them in the seats are the Grandfathers. Grandmother Night covers her skull with the shroud; Grandmother Hunger does not hide her teeth. Of snakes their skirts; of dead stars their eyes; many their hands. Of their intermingling, the Mother and her bounties, and of the Mother’s womb, the assembly of the gods.

It is our granddaughter, said Grandmother Hunger. I know her. She is of me; marrow-drinker, glory-thirsting. All that hunts is of me. Come kiss my hem, little goddess.

She is willful, said Grandmother Night. She wins by cunning and not by power. Of our grandchildren, is she not the least? Even the children of mud and reeds will see her shame.

And the goddess bared her teeth, and there was laughter in the hall. Neither did she put her mouth to the heads of the serpents which hang from the waist of Grandmother Hunger. She will not be pitied; she will not be shamed.

She is a cheat, said Dishai; broad her shoulders, dreadful her weight. It is she who rolls the boulders down the mountain; it is she who is hidden in the snow. Are you not my child, asked Dishai. Born from my stone and the quickening fire; yet you claim to be my equal. Manikin, I name you; doll-of-dolls, I know you. Break my idol, I am not there; douse her flame, Manikin is no more. Will Mu Ysha be bound by her thieves? Will Two Worlds be caught in a cup? They are gods; I am a god. You are a toy; you dangle from strings.

I am your equal, if not your better, the goddess says; I am your sister, and Hybrasil my mother. Grandmothers, let us play the game; Grandfathers, bring out the ball. Let it be tossed skywards; let it rise from where we dived. I will defeat you, Dishai; penalties will I heap on your head. I will stuff your mouth with indignities; I will put my foot on your head.

The name of the ball court is Patience and Yearning. Four its corners, four its sides, four its rings. This is the ball court named Patience and Yearning; this is where the gods and the dead play the game.

Breathless Dead

“I think you are like the monkey,” Redana declares, in the middle of a fight scene against big burly tiger-demons. (They have clubs. The monkey has a magical stick.)

“My face doesn’t look like that,” Bella rumbles back. It’s hard to tell how seriously she means it. She doesn’t look away; her eyes aren’t still, chasing after every true-to-life feat of motion, the ones that the real actors couldn’t match. Maybe this is where it all started. The dream of being like the monkey.

Either way, Redana keeps going, because if she leaves it at that, it will just sit in her stomach fermenting for the rest of the movie how stupid she is. “No, because— look, he’s protecting the monk. And he didn’t want to at first, but… there’s something there. And I think at the end of the story he’s going to decide he wants to keep going even if that crown ends up broken. Because it should be.”

Which is idiotic. The crown is the only thing stopping the monkey from using his incredible skill at violence against the monk. Without that inbuilt leverage, the monk’s journey would be over before it began.

“And even though they started out at odds, I think there’s something there. The looks they keep giving each other.” Which could be anything. Tension, but not necessarily romantic. Could any romance blossom without that crown being broken? “They should kiss,” Dany declares. On screen, the fight is over, and the monkey steals a jacket from one of the tigers, pops the collar, sneers at the fussy little monk. The size difference is palpable. Maybe that’s part of why Redana opened her mouth in the first place.

“And besides,” she keeps going, nuzzling into Bella’s shoulder, feeling both hot and like she’s edging across creaking ice, desperate to try to get the words to come out the way they should, for once, “he’s obviously the most interesting character. The monk just keeps getting in trouble.” (Maybe he’ll be tied up later, her brain unhelpfully suggests.) “Maybe he’ll get tied up later. And need rescuing. And then the monkey will save him, because that’s this sort of story, and— you can fight like him, too. I don’t fight like that. Like you’re the weapon. All that power’s in you, and you don’t even need the stick to let it out. And—“

Bella’s hand cups her mouth. Careful, but firm. “Watch the film,” she says. One of them talks too much, the other is too used to keeping her words inside. However are the two of them going to make it all the way across the demon-infested wasteland?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The feet going out from underneath her is baffling. It takes Jade a moment to even understand what is happening, the mismatch between her expectations and her reality. This should not be happening. She was so careful, so precise! And yet the idol is dragged backwards, upwards, anyway, instead of dancing free and spinning Dolly in place for another attack. The lance, with which she would immobilize [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], is an unwieldy thing in an unresponsive hand.

She is yanked back, the fingers tight around her forearm, and then Erys (she has to remember it’s Erys, it’s not her) brings her arm up in a half-circle, and lifts, and her feet are off the ground again. She kicks and squirms and lifts her other hand to try to work free, without Jade’s permission, as she stares into her own face, brows furrowed, smile half-feral; a barbarian warlord stripped of her finery, in the body of an unassuming jaguar.

Dolly is panicking and out of synch, and Jade can’t afford to soothe her, can’t afford to think about her. Alarms from the systems of the idol press in on Jade’s consciousness, informing her of high pressure strain, of the need to reduce feedback to the pilot, of the ionic gauntlet being in firing range. She’s never been hit with this before.

She does not feel fear. She is not just a pattern, after all. So there is no reason for her to feel fear. Concern for Dolly, maybe. Yes. What if the idol’s intricate systems, a temple for her to inhabit, are damaged? It would be impossible to destroy her, to even cause her continuity gaps. Perhaps it would bar her from direct contact with Dolly, but nothing more. Her anger is simply because the pirate is refusing to accept her defeat gracefully. There is no reason for her to feel fear.

But being held like this, so disrespectfully, is not acceptable. It is beneath her dignity as a goddess. It must be undone. She draws strength into the core of her self, and roars, even as Dolly keeps scrabbling, “How DARE you, you insignificant, impudent little—“

---

The feedback whines in her ears and everything goes white, then black, then unfolding traceries of emergency power blossom in front of her eyes. She’s still locked in place by one hand, and her mouth is panting, drooling, a mess, naked.

“Jade?”

Her muscles ache from how hard she clenched. Being electrocuted probably doesn’t feel like that, really, but that’s what everybody thinks being electrocuted feels like: all her nerves lighting up like lightning.

“Jade?”

She sounds, in the clamped-close cockpit, like she’s about to cry. All around her, Erys Bander’s laughter; visuals haven’t come back online. One shot, but one shot that wins a match, isn’t that what Omen told her? She opens her mouth again—

And then she shuts it, because Jade is…

Jade is…

curling fingers whispering on her gloved arm

still with her.

She shuts her mouth, which the goddess, her goddess, her lover, had shut for her, because she knew the secret colors of her Bride’s heart. She’ll finish this like a Zaldarian knight or not at all.

Being tossed to the ground is a yawning vertigo, a jarring in her harness, that makes her whimper into her pursed lips. Her body sprawls limp, defenseless, dimmed, and she knows she’s about to be punished for all the humiliation that Jade inflicted on her— on her opponent, on the Bander. She’ll be carried out like Angela was, but worse: with vulgar etchings on Jade’s body, dangling from a pole, her lance snapped in half.

Seven Quetzal closes her eyes. She feels through flickering sensors, dimly, the heavy footfall of Erys Bander. She lies still, her soul in her throat, but she does not let it out. She is a beautiful trap, as baited as Irtana’s invitations.

She can’t even close her hand into a fist. She can’t let Erys know how much power, how much capability, Jade’s body has left.

The last step is as close as she can dare. She tenses her core (which Jade has encouraged her to, well, exercise extensively, in ways she’d only dreamed about before) and kicks out, blindly, but up, guessing, hoping that the crystal fire drive has not guttered out completely—

And her ankle connects with what she has to hope is the head of the Grip of Dishai, because she doesn’t dare look. Her hand is clutched tightly to her chest, and if she listens as hard as she can, it’s almost as if she can hear Jade’s delighted purr. And just because she can’t right now doesn’t mean she’s alone.

Gutters of power. Everything feels sluggish. She stands up like a drunkard (or more accurately like a Dolly who has had two shots, as Jade would smugly remind her), unarmed, and staggers over to the Grip of Dishai. When she collapses to her knees, it’s knowing that she’s not getting back up again. She puts Erys Bander in a headlock, her elbow closing against the thick neck of the false-Dolly, putting pressure on the deep-armored connections between Erys’s cockpit and the rest of the mecha, and hopes that will be enough, as one by one, the lights of the cockpit wink off, leaving her (not) alone in the dark.

This is a dedication to the goddess named Smokeless Jade Fires, who dwells within the idols prepared for her, who was born running among the jackal-drones, mistress of the subservient, she who exalts the humble.

[Seven Quetzal rolls an 8 to Defy Disaster with Daring. Yes, with Daring. What’s on the table is Jade being “asleep” for the next scene, in exchange for barely forcing out a draw, or otherwise leaving Erys incapable of immediate revenge.]

Breathless Dead

A shade, well-accustomed to toil, turns his arms to the wheel. The machine does not roar to life so much as it purrs; within its guts, arms flex and retract, and the well-oiled mechanism begins its work as it was intended.

The rings (which are painted in stygian blues, flecked with golden stars, strange symbols of goats and centaurs and rams traced and luminous, an anachronism among anachronisms) begin to rotate. This is an old way of imagining the cosmos, and thus dead, and thus here. And yet, beautiful, singular, it awakens, and each hole (which are given both value and assigned to one of the gods, which is an ill-advised decision) begins its journey around the luminous neon sun in its heart.

Some (Hermes, Aphrodite, Gaia) are small, quick, running on the inner track; some (Kronos, Poseidon, Hades himself) are stately, gliding like swans on the outer bounds of night. This is no trick; it is a forgotten mystery, something that would spell out secrets lost to time if only it was known for what it is.

But to the two girls, laughing in delight, watching wide-eyed, it is just a challenge that is as beautiful as stomping their feet in time to the falling arrows several tents down. This is a challenge worthy of two Olympians.

“Watch, Bella,” Dany says, hefting a ball and tossing it up and down, getting a feel for its weight, its nature, its use as a tool of victory. And she means it. Watch this, Bella. Let me show you what I can do. “I’m going— I’m going for Mom.”

And she tosses for Hermes, whirling, clicking, on winged feet. And the ball arcs, and perhaps it’s the auspex, but perhaps it’s just Dany’s other eye, her timing (as she danced among the revels, as she ran on Baradissar, as she threw the discus in the training arena while Bella cheered from the benches), her arete—

The ball catches the lip, rolls wildly in it like a horse’s eye, and then rolls in. Lights flash above in long-lost constellations, and Dany laughs loud and free and joyful. “See? You try!” And without pride, without guile, without anything but a shining hope, she tosses the next ball to Bella and rocks on her heels to watch her match it, without any doubt in her heart that Bella can, too.

Breathless Dead

Redana’s laughter is innocent, guileless, even now. It’s a laugh bursting through a smile— but not Apollo’s smile. The difference might be that Apollo’s smile is satisfaction at the beauty of the world, but Redana’s smile is an almost baffled joy at how the world can be so beautiful as to have fussy, gleeful, irreplaceable Praetors in it. It is a loud smile that tastes of sunlight, and her laughter is like, perhaps, a bough of golden bells being shaken.

“Of course! Please, Bella, help me!” How many times had that been said between them? Often. How many times had it been said in that light, joking tone? Perhaps never. “I need, um… they’re part of a shrine to Uncle Poseidon! Just imagine! Sharks in priestess outfits, carefully guarding a shrine to Polychromatikí, even as more crowd up around its foot, a whole herd of sharks. A flock of sharks? A swimming of sharks!”

She swings the sharks in her arms back and forth, and ducks her head down to give one a little kiss. “There! Now they’re all mine! Thank you, Bella!”

It really is a shame that she wouldn’t think to blackmail her Praetor, isn’t it? Imagine all the concessions she could win by threatening to reveal such a secret to Vasilly! Truly, she’s in desperate need of a spymaster to help her leverage her secrets appropriately. She’s hardly acting like the future Empress of humanity should.

And is that such a bad thing?

Look at her as she squeezes sharks to her sides, balances a shark on her head, starts looking for some more bags to carry— “Oh, Bella! Look! A thousand tickets for a chest!”

It’s the same size as the one that was on the Anemoi. Not that Redana ever saw it. Maybe she’ll never know about the chest that was assigned for her down in the depths of the ship, after what happened on Baradissar. A box for shutting a girl inside and then sitting on. No room for her to stretch her limbs, no way for her clever eye to see out, no hope of escape from her extremely thorough confinement.

“And if we get some straps, the kings can ride on top! And— oh, look, Bella, Bella, it’s got wheels! Little wheels! Right there! And there’s a button! Bella, we have to know what the button does! We’ll go mad if we don’t ever find out what it does, I know we will! But… how are all of us going to get a thousand more tickets?”

(By all of us, she is including the sharks. As if they’re going to pipe up with an idea for how a princess and her maid, or a praetor and her pet, or two girls who might get up to some embarrassing business behind a tent later, might just be able to win a thousand tickets with their help.)

And she looks to Bella, because Bella always, always has a clever idea, or asks a question that makes you realize what you need to do. There’s nobody like Bella for helping her through thoughts, not in all the worlds.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It’s her.

Maybe it’s possible that Jade does it on purpose. (But the goddess is still, her hands slack, leaving Dolly to engage her core, remaining in the lotus in mid-air, not making a fool of them both.) Or maybe Jade does it without even thinking about it. That’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Maybe she sees things the way that people present them to her. Effigies, symbols, offerings: what if the gods see their hearts and their meanings instead of what’s really there? (Her heart is racing, her nose twitching, her eyes wide, her thoughts racing on a fraying line.) Maybe it’s because of that, the reality of the simulation, didn’t Mio Counters || Ten Knife talk about that in his Dialogues… maybe that’s why Dolly’s staring at herself down there.

Herself, if she was a grinning pirate draped in charms, her curls in a loose explosion of a ponytail, golden tags on her ears, flaunting, smoldering, confident, grinning, did she say that already, one arm locked in a massive stone gauntlet, stomach just a little more toned, face just a little prettier, right, or maybe it’s just the, it must be how Jade looks at her, besides, it’d be very presumptuous of her to think she’s that pretty, right?

Then, suddenly, Jade breaks her silence and laughs. Her hands tighten their grip, particularly around her chest, where she is jealously kneading.

”Oh, oh! You little darling~!” A lift of one hand to the cheek. Erys Bander can only see slate-stone and her helm. She is as she presents herself. Dolly is soft under her hands. Dolly is quivering under her hands. “You came properly dressed for ravishing!”

JADE! JADE?! JADE?!?!

Dolly clenches and lets out a strangled squeak. She can’t help but turn her head from one way to the other, despite Jade trying to hold her head still. Who? They’re all watching, aren’t they? The pirates and her crew and her Angela and Ksharta and her big sister probably!! And just because! Just! It’s hot when, when it’s, when everybody could, but what if Jade just, what if she keeps talking…!!

Keeping them both up in the air is suddenly a tangled tapestry of knots and strings, like combing the hair of Macheka. She leans the squirming Dolly back— pinches her for being difficult— and tumbles out of the air. Almost perfect. No one will notice. Stop trying to be small, Dolly! Do you not see the figure before us? How perfect she is?

The only way to meet this is to beat her at her own game. Shoulders back, Dolly! Sway those hips!

“She is, after all, my Bride. How daring, Erys Bander! It must have been the defeat of Ksharta Talonna that convinced you.” What if they kissed? Her body, and Dolly’s body, sized for each other at last. “But if I were to treat you in all ways like I treat her, well—“

Giant Dolly suddenly charges, massive fist pulled back and ready to send them both flying. She just stares at herself, eyes wide, heart about to explode, and then Jade spanks her, hard, and pushes her into a jump over her own head, heel on her curls, shoving her forwards, even as she lands neatly behind, and uses the butt of her lance to—

J A D E

—lift her own skirt. Her own skirt. On camera. For everyone. To see. And. And. And.

Was everyone seeing the skintight spandex underneath, or just her??? Because. Did they? Did they? At industrial size? As part of?? They couldn’t! They wouldn’t! This is just! Jade!!!

Jade whistles. How cute. Though, seeing it cling to this pirate-Dolly, almost soaked through with sweat… perhaps cute isn’t the right word. No. Definitely isn’t.

“—they would have to cut the feed, wouldn’t they?” Or maybe they wouldn’t. Imagine them, those Banders, watching as she mounts a defeated mecha frame, gets her hands all over her Dolly-in-effigy, shows them that she can match any of them in how to treat a beautiful, incomparable girl.

Her suit clings to her, Jade working her over until between the sweat and the hands she might as well be wearing nothing at all. There is no time for her to stop; if she holds still a minute too long, her double will grab them and start wrestling, and she remembers the briefing, they’re going to lose, and they’ll be, she’ll be bullied by herself, and that.

If that awakens anything in her she will have to have very awkward conversations with Jade, and do not imagine her being you, Dolly, do not imagine those intense eyes in your face, hearing your goddess’s purr out of your own mouth, you have a fight to not lose!

The lance is the key. Keep her at a distance, use precision. Undo her defenses piece by piece. Twist charms free; sever corded braids; loosen the curves of the armored plating. And give the world a teasing look, let them wonder, let them stare, let them yearn to be as treasured and adored as her Dolly, greatest of all Hybrasilians, most beautiful of priestesses.

Let them ache to be the prize of a goddess.

Jade has her duck in close, under a sweep, and reach up, and— wait. Jade. You. Those strikes. They were calculated, not misjudged at all. Jade. Jade. Jade!!

She almost flinches away.

Instead, she closes her hand, and closes her eyes, and feels the roar of the fire inside of her, like it’s just had half a peat bog dumped into it, as she dances away, trailing behind her

her own

top

”Much better~! Why not flaunt your treasures, oh my little priestess-in-training? You may as well try to hide Smoking Mirror and Heart-of-Fire!”

It’s not like she’s actually. See. Because. This is just how Jade sees things. Really it’s just the front of a mecha. Nothing is really bouncing and jiggling freely. People would have to imagine… what she and Jade can. see. right in front of them.

If only the whole world could see, and pay her honor, and make her an idol in their shrines to the glory of Smokeless Jade Fires!

She leans Dolly’s head in to the rippling canvas and breathes in deeply. “Ah. If only you smelled as finely as she does. But I will help with that, priestess-in-training. I will heap your head with oil and perfume, and I will feed you the freshest fruits, that your exertion will be all the sweeter. And how you will produce it!”

jade jade jade jade jade why why she you just and Angela and you’re not even the one making her rise up onto her tippytoes as if for a moment she thought you were actually trying to make her, and, how can she fight like this, Jade, how?!?

Now is the difficult part. All her blows have been light, kissing things, and the cuts on the skin of her false-bride shallow. But she will have to…

No. She can’t. Even knowing it is Erys Bander, she cannot defeat this false-bride with a spear thrust. Her invincible heart roils and rebels at the thought. No. Impossible.

Which leaves only, somehow, the cords. Which will only work if she can exhaust Erys Bander first, leave her without the strength to strain against them.

Which means she will have to make Dolly dance longer than her twin can. Which means she will have to push Dolly to her limits. Not even being caught once. Making a fool of this priestess in disarray, over and over and over again, untouchable, too quick to be brought in close.

Are you ready, Dolly? You can do it. You can do anything. Because you are the choice of the goddess. Defeating your twin will be as nothing to you.

I love you.

Her thighs are burning. Her cheeks are throbbing. There is nowhere safe to look, and Jade has her leash pulled taut. Her adrenaline is a constant rush through her system. Her legs are wobbling. She can’t keep doing this. She can’t!

(But Jade believes she can.)

Parry! Cartwheel! Thrust! Dodge! Spank! Jump! Spin! Smack!

(It’s like her marathon sessions with Jade. The kind that lasted all weekend back home.)

She’s got to do this.

For Jade.

And because she is the best Dolly!

[Smokeless Jade Fires squeaks a 10 to Fight with Erys Bander. She would like to gain another String, inflict a Condition, and take Erys’s protective charms (and dignity).]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

“What’s the matter, leadbeans? Did you think yourself so terribly clever in your cloak of air?” The thrill runs hot through Smokeless Jade Fires, the constituent parts of her feeding the promise of praise and glory back into herself like a loop of altars, like the sacrifice made to itself. “As if you could hide your stench~!”

The penultimate missile roars to its fated end. The roar of it slams into her like the wind rolling off the wave-breakers. She cackles, and then, for everyone to see—

Jade guides her into the cartwheel. She closes her eyes and ignores the vertigo. If she stopped to think about the calculations that Jade is running to keep her from blacking out, how much strain she is putting on Jade’s body, how many jaws must be dropping at this display of careless power and control, or how Jade pushes her to arch her back, to curl her toes, to make this achingly sensual— well, she’d fall over. So she doesn’t. She breathes deep into Jade and closes her eyes and feels the stretch of her body, the way that Jade’s fingers dig ever-so-carefully into her skin, the reaching for the final missile/thunderbolt/knife while she’s upside down, and she smiles even though nobody can see her. It’s a small, blissful smile, and Jade’s finger traces the shape of the lip over the top of its confinement, because even in this moment, while the goddess is pulling off an incredible stunt, she knows who she’s doing it for, and if a slight waggle of the head forward risks disrupting the delicate balance, well, a curl of the tail is counterbalance enough.

And Smokeless Jade Fires slams the final missile home so hard that by right it should catch on fire. The metal of the warhead should burst into roaring flame like dry autumn tinder and tear open the shrieking sky. And while it falls like a meteor, Smokeless Jade Fires is already cutting the thrusters, laughing wildly, clinging closer to Dolly so that she will—

—follow Jade’s lead oh Jade oh Jade oh Jade they’re fallllliiiiiinggggggg why do you want her down like thissssssss but she does it anyway because even though she wants to make a (muffled) scream she knows that Jade has a plan, needs her to land—

—driving the lance into the earth, which splinters and sparks under its tip, and spinning around it, building momentum for the lunge. “I can smell you from here, girlthief, pirate, [river ogre; caiman]!”

The cord wraps around the left wrist of [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], sparking and burning and half-lost amid the feedback of being hit by the thunder of the sky, and low, almost loping, cord dragging from her idol’s wrist, Smokeless Jade Fires cuts around to the right, fast as thought, taking the corners hard, leaping on the last as she pulls it taut, spinning, letting the momentum slam her hip into the pirate’s mech, and impossibly, its own strength used against it, [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai] staggers back, pinned against a wall. Its tenfold plating smokes, its shields useless against the missile, its baffling nothing to the wit of a goddess; its arm crushes its own chest, its ionic fist resting against its own cheek. Smokeless Jade Fires grinds her idol against this mountain, holds the cord taut, reaches up and grabs one ear, drags that thick-girdered head to one side. Her arm fits in the hollow of the curve, the neck and the shoulder. She pushes Dolly forward, feels the shiver, grins unseen.

And she sniffs.

J A D E.

“There is nothing I cannot catch,” she stage-whispers. Let everyone hear. Let everyone witness. “Your girl’s heart betrays you; it stinks of your pride, your desperation, your…”

Dolly’s mortified whimper, wide-eyed, imagining everyone watching as Jade rubs her crotch up against the big, strong, bossy, rude pirate, is unheard by everyone except the goddess herself. Her grip on the increasingly strained cord trembles.

“Lusts.” Her claws dig, slowly, inexorably, into the war-plating. Feel it, Erys Bander. Feel yourself claimed like a weak-kneed, mewling ocelot. “And you thought you could creep about like a mouse? That I needed visuals on you? That you could trick me into your traps?” She clicks her tongue, like a reproving mother.

”Jade! The cord!” That’s not what comes out of her bulging cheeks, but it’s as close as she can get, feeling the strain of keeping the Crushing Grasp in place. Jade won’t let her look away. She’s climbing this pirate, this PIRATE of all things, of all professions, like a tree, and even if it’s not the same, very, flustering, to, think, about, doing, this, to, pirate, it’s still—

a power fantasy. An absolutely impossible, absolutely mind-melting, absolutely mortifying, absolutely hot power fantasy, thinking that she— small, curvy, not-a-trained-pilot she— could. do this. to a woman like that. could be brave enough to hump her mecha in front of cameras, sensual, in control, tamer of wild (musky) pirates just kneeling at her feet and admitting they know they’ve lost to her.

But it’s not her. And she’s not the one in control. And imagine if everyone was watching and could see what Jade sees now. A gagged, decorated, collared slave-bride being pushed onto the mountain-sized pirate, champion of a goddess, prisoner of a goddess, beloved of a goddess, a tool of humiliation because you can’t even beat HER, let alone her goddess.

Her composure is as strained as the cord, and maybe Jade doesn’t need to make her lean in those last few feet.

“Last chance.” Smokeless Jade Fires brings Dolly’s legs up, tucks them between the two mecha, and as she snaps the cord, she trods on the face of [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], grinding it into the wall, which finally gives way, sends the walking mountain sprawling, even as Dolly lands neatly beside the lance.

By the time that [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai] begins rising from the rubble of her humiliation, Smokeless Jade Fires is already rising back into the air like Nephe Fisher at the end of The Fifth Age of Battle. She stretches, languidly, the lance as much prop as weapon, carefully making sure that her flustered, adorable bride won’t pull anything. She’s doing such a good job, and she’s so worked up.

“We can still duel. You might be entertaining up here, separated from the dull earth. Or you can keep scampering around like a mouse, trying to spring your traps, trying to hide anything from me, thinking yourself many-wreathed. And then I will simply have to treat you like a mouse, won’t I~?” Her voice drips with mockery; this accusation of cowardice is hard for anyone to ignore, especially a proud, brash Bander. “Choose wisely, Erys Bander.”

[Between the boxcars and the prior Wingman, even with Insecure Smokeless Jade Fires roasts a certified 12 on the Entice.]

Breathless Dead

Redana Claudius does not know what a carnival, strictly speaking, is.

She’s familiar with parties, mostly somber affairs in her mother’s palace; she knows about gatherings of people, certainly enough. She’s been social on the Plousios with all sorts. But this is new. Performers, not for the sake of a party but seemingly for the sake of the performance, and games quite actively waiting to be played, and everywhere, an invitation to come and try, or to participate, or to test her mettle, or to sit for a caricature, or to have tasteless white corn-snacks, or to see if she can keep track of where the icon of Hermes is, or to—

“Bella, Bella, look! Oh, let’s!”

—or to heft up a hammer and take turns with Bella seeing who can ring the bell harder, until it is knocked from its high perch completely, tumbling down at their feet as both of them jump back like startled kittens, and, oh, how the tickets are heaped up in her arms then!

The bag is finely-woven, patterned in the manner of a civilization that once burned bright, one that revered Iris as their patron, the messengers who would look upon the entirety of the Plousios’s voyage as a feat worthy of their epic courier-heroes. Into it is heaped more tickets, and more prizes, and more laughter. The first caricature hugs one side of the bag, Redana’s smile shaped like a striped bean, Bella’s ears a perfection of triangles. The second is slightly crumpled, slipping underneath the towel, bearing a picture of an elegant cat and an exuberant puppy.

Tickets are fed into the latest machine, prizes from the animation dance (the floor flickering between colors and scenes impossibly fast as Dany kept time and managed to score high than the somewhat distracted Bella), as the servitor stares with wide, bright eyes at the plush sharks (some sleek, some hammer-headed, some mammoth, some palm-sized, some blue and grey, some grey and brown, some red and black).

If this was a trap, it could keep Dany here for a long, long time. There is no day and no night here, where the lights hang criss-crossed over the stalls, trapped in lamplight globes, and everywhere she turns there is something new and wonderful and new.

But the other part of the trap is who she is experiencing this with. Because even Dany’s beginning to notice that the bestest part of the whole thing, from start to finish, is who she’s getting to do this with. And as her Bella, her friend, her girlfriend, her girlfriend, makes an adorable noise under her breath as she tries to choose from the wonders in front of her for the ones that need her the most, palms pressed against the blue-white glass, Dany looks at her with an expression of adoration written plain across her sea-touched face.

This. This is what she’d wanted the whole time. This is what she’d hoped would be her reward after going to the end of the universe and back. This is what she dreamed about when she stared up at that one star, glittering like a solitary diamond, when the clouds broke. This, forever and ever, and every day after that.