Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

“Everyone’s having a lovely time, aren’t they, Dolly?”

The pirate squeezes her tighter, closer. Dolly’s heart is racing; she awkwardly pushes against the oddly familiar assailant. It’ll come to her in a moment. With a condescending click of her tongue, the pirate (the same one from the bay, the one who pounced on her, how dare she) hip checks her against a clothes bin, leverages her position, pins her in place. One hand squeezes stuffed cheeks, fingers dimpling the scarf, just like she’d done back in the hangar. If she could just wiggle out, she’d be out of the aisle. She could run for it. Go for help.

“But that’s because this is the easy way,” the leopard says, tilting Dolly’s face up. Dolly glares furiously through sunglasses knocked askew, puts her hands on the Bander’s stomach and pushes uselessly, feels the hip grind into her stomach. She can’t even make a sound. Her breath is gone, and she’s panting into the scarf, feeling it flutter against her nose. “You and me are going to have a walk, girlfriend.” She cups Dolly’s chest, squeezes, grins at the way Dolly’s eyes widen and at the sharp inhalation through the scarf. “Nobody needs to get hurt. All these shoppers, having a nice day out… you wouldn’t want us to have to bring them along, would you?”

Her gold tooth is so arresting. A flash of metal in a hungry smile. “Because then we’d have to make such a mess. Then we’d have to sort through them, figure out who’s worth keeping, set price tags… but you don’t want that, do you?” Her head is turned from side to side, jostling her sunglasses more. The Terenian is keeping an eye out at the end of the aisle. Nobody’s coming to help her. “Not when we could have such a nice night in. So behave and everybody wins, and they all get to go home tonight.”

There’s no way of knowing how many Banders are here. There’s no way of knowing if they would take half a shopping mall prisoner to be ransomed off or added to their collections. But more than that, the thought of panic, chaos, innocent bystanders getting caught in the trap they’d laid for her…

“So are you going to be a good girl, Dolly dearest?” The Bander’s voice drips with venomed honey, drizzling all over Dolly. A thumb presses firmly against her swaddled lips. One leg threatens to buckle underneath her. Her ears flatten, and her treacherous tail curls between the pirate’s taut thighs.

“yhff,” she says, small and cute, most of the sound swallowed up by her gag. Her hands droop, and she tucks them in close to her chest, fingers tugging at the taut fabric. She wants to be a good girl. And if the only way to protect everyone here is to not make a scene, then she’ll be meek, and obedient, and quiet.

(How long was the leopardess planning this? Since before they met? Or was it having Dolly underneath her that made her have to do this? Was it even her plan? Was this punishment from Erys for humiliating her?)

The leopardess slides the sunglasses back up Dolly’s nose, hooking them properly behind her ears. “See? You are a good girl, Dolly. We’re gonna have so much fun~” She pushes a purse into Dolly’s hands, closes her fingers around the handles. “Now don’t let go of that. If you let go, even for a moment, I’ll brand you.”

Outside, there is sunlight shining through glass and the babble of fountains. There are kids running around, shrieking, giggling. Two students on leave sit on a bench and eat ice cream together. A fellow jaguar works on something behind the panel of a storefront’s display. The Bander nods to a fur-painted tiger flicking through purses across the walkway and squeezes Dolly’s hip, followed at a careful distance by the Terenian.

There are multiple Banders here, Dolly notes, and they’re casually falling in line as the leopard passes by (making her some sort of lieutenant, maybe even the pirate queen herself??). She catches glimpses out of her peripheral, on the left side, because the right side is just the leopardess, midriff bared, jacket unzipped, the subtle muscles firm when she pulls Dolly closer. Nobody else knows what’s happening. Nobody knows she’s being kidnapped by pirates. Nobody even knows she’s completely, totally gagged. The Bander, her kidnapper, is slowly kneading her hip, and an insistent throbbing is making itself known in a way that makes her shamefacedly lower her ears even deeper into her hair.

It feels like everybody is looking at her. Like she might as well not even be wearing the scarf, or her top, for that matter. That everybody thinks she’s easy. Strutting around, pretending to be a pirate’s girlfriend, melting into her side, hands in front of her clinging to the purse, and every time she feels it slip against her sweaty fingers, she clenches tighter and tries not to imagine a pattern worked into her fur by the sting of a brander slowly burning hairs down (like Jade has done for her before, Jade, Jade)— on one breast, or right above her tail, or just above her increasingly, distressingly wet—

“Here’s our ride, Bride,” her kidnapper says, and then lowers her head, and she doesn’t figure out what’s going on until it’s too late. Lips, pressed against the scarf; lifted up by the hip, until her feet are barely on the floor. The pirate’s tongue squirms out between her lips, and the squeal is only for the two of them, because someone’s going “aawwwww” in the background, and she’s such, she’s so, she’s fighting not to wrap her legs around this pirate because of how embarrassed, how humiliated, how dominated she is, and she brings one hand up just to touch—

The purse handles slip from her clumsy fingers.

Her heart stops cold.

“What did I tell you~?” The hot breath washes over her face. Someone claps for the chivalrous leopardess, already bending down, hooking her girlfriend’s purse with one claw, helping her take it back. The temptation to bolt and run is screaming in the back of her head.

But she’s protecting everyone here. Jade would understand. Wouldn’t she? So she pretends to be a bashful little sillyhead (which isn’t hard), hiding her face in her shoulder, wagging her tail, praying that she looks like a butterfly-brained girl in love, aware that now the leopardess, her kidnapper, can rub her face in this, too, can point out how eager she must be, how excited, how ready to be kidnapped.

When she gets in the waiting shuttle and out of sight of innocents, this pirate had better have backup, because Dolly’s going to brain her with the purse if someone doesn’t grab her immediately. Yes, even though her kidnapper is strong, and rude in a way that is secretly really doing it for her, and is promising to treat Dolly to her darkest fantasies made real. And isn’t that pathetic? That she’s not dreaming of escape so much as she is showing her kidnapper that she’s not a simpering, helpless, defenseless prize? Terror and arousal embrace each other and kiss (with squirming tongues) as she is pulled into the waiting, yawning mouth of the Red Band, already gagging on its hot and heavy breath.

---

Here, then, the parliament settled in the branches of the apple-tree, and picked the bones of the goddess clean; and beneath was shining stone, the flesh of the gods. The red lacquer they poured down her grinning throat; greedy she guzzled. The drink of Grandmother Hunger they offered her there, where her firefly-flickering bones hung in the tree.

Then the owl on the branches, whose name was Rojja, said: let her be crowned again. For she has come by the road that is white, and by it she must return. The mirror they hung before her, that she might count her countless teeth. This, then, was a sign given to her, for the owls protect those who come and go. The crown of plumes they placed upon her head; her bones they wrapped in the soft flesh of the papaya, as the first children of mud and reeds were by their Mother.

Then Rojja spread white-spotted wings before the apple-tree, and performed the dance of the worm and the grasshopper. The goddess leapt from the embrace of the branches, and chased Rojja this way and that, drooling the red lacquer. This she left as a trail for any who have the eyes to see, lost in the dark.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

“I haven’t even had the full-spectrum experience,” Threevee says, stepping in smoothly. “It’s sort of like how you’re a different person around different friends, but more literal. It’s also,” she continues, wrapping an arm around White’s shoulders and giving a comforting squeeze, “an amazing way to get to know someone. Every part of November is wonderful, and I think you in particular should meet Pink sometime; she reminds me of Sara at her best.”

And a little bit of you, she doesn’t add. The willingness to be silly; the sudden intense focus on things that most other people would let slide. The joy. That would be too sappy.

“Actually,” she adds, turning to Dess, turning on the smoulder just a little bit: “why don’t we set up a full-spectrum date sometime? I promise I can take it. <3”

Breathless Dead

The seat divider was in the way. Bella fixed that. Now there was just one seat, with a little dip in the middle, and the two women shared it. One bucket, too, full of the wisps of grave-food, shared between the two as if it were Zeus’s jar of fortune.

It had been difficult to find a real love story. Most performances had a moment or two, a kiss at a moment of danger, but that was all, and that certainly would not do for Bella’s purposes! Not if Dany had anything to say about it. Which meant, well, marching along, trying to find anything marked with a sign of Aphrodite. There was that one hopeful one, about the girls who fought for love, but a real one had been requested, and so they continued on their search for love, hand in hand.

(The more she stroked her thumb along Bella’s knuckles, the tighter Bella held onto her, as if afraid Dany would let go. So Dany kept doing it.)

Then, oh, that helpful shade! The perfect performance, right this way, ladies! It didn’t make much sense at the beginning, up until Bella realized that they were just showing opening acts, and tossed puffs at the screen, demanding they begin the real performance at once instead of showing them improbable chariots and previews of other stories.

And then the show really started, and somehow, Redana ended up snuggling against Bella while watching the story of a princess who meets a rascal from her home country while traveling. They bicker and go through misadventures, realize they have only fallen in love when they have bid each other farewell, the rascal must follow her back to their native country to win her family’s approval before she is married off, and the songs, ah! She can’t help but hum along and wiggle closer.

Everything’s going to turn out right in the end. It has to. It’s this sort of story, where love overcomes everything. Good hearts found in unusual people. That’s been the story she’s been in all along, hasn’t it? Vasilia, Dolce, Alexa, Lacedo, Mynx, Epistia and Beljani, and…

And her Bella.

Fingers interlace. Hand in hand. The touch of her soft fingers, the prick of her sharp ones. Each one hers. Each one loved. Bella, Bella, Bella.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The loneliness is there the whole way to Akar Prime. Her fingers run nonsense traces on her mesh sleeve until she starts to worry that she’ll somehow rub right through it, that it will unspool underneath her touch and fall apart. But it won’t. Because Jade— the part of her that inhabits the AI, that infuses it with her essence— Jade is alive. Jade is safe. Jade is…

Not with her right now. For the first time in… well, since forever. Even when Jade’s busy, she’s just a prayer away, and the sleeve’s not so much a piece of clothing as a piece of her at this point. It’s what lets her feel Jade curling up against her at night, what lets her share her whole world with her goddess, and being without, being separated, is an ache.

But Jade is alive. Jade is not hurt. Jade should probably reinforce the storage cores. But not divest herself. The thought of Jade pulling away, shedding the body that she dwells within, is intolerable. Maybe she’s selfish, but it’s true. That indwelling is probably why she’s so present in the world, and that idol is the only thing worthy of being infused with her power, so if she left… she’d be more distant. Wouldn’t she?

But her spirit dwells inside of her body, too. And if that body is pampered enough, maybe she’ll be better able to hold onto the fact that Jade will be back, and she’ll actually be able to enjoy some enforced alone time. For such a reason, her first stop on Akar Prime is a Hybrasilian full-service spa.

Soaking in warm water. Having perfume massaged into her fur. A hair trim and oil treatment. The hot stones and the cold stones. Her blinks are long and slow, and the contact with spa staff helps soothe the feeling that she’s alone, more alone than she ever was in university, with her sister and friends all around her. The body is treated to luxury, and the mind is pulled into the pool to relax.

She’s even able to smile by the time she leaves and makes for her next stop in the mall: the fabrics emporium. Well, intended to be her next stop. First, she stops by a little stall and buys broad-lensed sunglasses with a tortoiseshell frame; she stops in a store that sells Terenian sun hats, and picks one out with flowers all along the crown; she ducks into a lingerie store and comes out with some surprises for Jade, adorable and lacy and slim enough to be worn under flight suits; she applauds a Zaldarian musician playing some sort of lap-based string instrument, and leaves a tip; she eyes a mint dispensary and rocks on her beans until an employee makes eye contact and she scampers away embarrassed. She even stops to dart into a computer cafe and sends Ksharta and Angela messages, asking her fellow harem members if they’d like to get dinner, no pressure, but she’d love to see them tonight?

The thought of nuzzling the screen makes her feel vaguely ridiculous. Besides, she’ll get to nuzzle them in person (if they show up, which she hopes they will, even without Jade’s presence).

Despite those thoughts, perhaps because of them, by the time she makes it to Staszk and Jessica’s, she’s humming snatches of Blue Rain Dance, tote bags dangling from her forearm as she flits from dress to dress, display to display. Ribbons, for her hair, and to tease Ksharta with; a shawl, intricately inlaid with long-tailed Terenian myth-birds; athletic shorts tailored for Hybrasilian physiques, and—

The top is black. The cobalt is paint stamped onto the top, and its messiness is part of the aesthetic point. Beneath the idol’s head, in profile, is simply: Overcome Everything. The fabric stretches enough that she’ll have no problems with it, even if the head might end up a bit distorted.

She puts one hand to her mouth. Sniffles a little. Her tail swishes like she’s an overstimulated kitten. Then she takes it, stuffs it in her bag, and scampers over to the changing stalls in the back of the store.

---

The game is the game. The yoke settles about the hips; the bracers are oil-shining. The ball that the gods use is a painted skull. Sharp its teeth, deadly its bite. Its name is Eight Black Death.

Dishai served then the ball to the yoke of the goddess, and where it struck the ground, it crashed about the entire court, howling and biting. Light her feet; quick her leaping.

And did you learn this from your doll, Manikin, asked Dishai. Strike the ball, show us your yoke-skill. Do you show us Irtana’s first avoidance? Do you not wish to play the game?

The goddess bared her teeth; the goddess stood her ground. Before the eyes of the Grandmothers she would not show fear; before the assembly of the gods she would not be shamed.

Thus she was defeated.

By the yoke was she thrown across the ball court; by the yoke did Dishai undo her. Deep within her lodged the teeth, and her bones were sent shivering across the court. By this means did the goddess of the high mountain and the avalanche subdue the goddess.

Yet still the bones leapt up and formed her form again, and at this defiance, Dishai relented. Even dolls strive, Dishai said. Will you yet save yours, doll-of-dolls? Mu Ysha smells her incense burning on the ships; Irtana wears her peril-face. If you do not protect your doll, you will be condemned to the Six Dreadful Houses while you yet live.

So saying, she plucked up the goddess and hung her in the branches of the apple-tree, to serve as a lesson to those who came before and those yet to come.

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.