Thanqol

Sunshards

Chen!

"Imagine something for me, Chen," said Ysel. "Imagine if every word you said came out as a command. Imagine if you could not ask without being obeyed. Imagine if you were the only one who stood tall in a world that bowed. Pressing your case becomes verbal assault, being excited for something translates to issuing an ultimatum. This is the only way I know how to speak and it has ruined every relationship I have been in. I step on people but do not know how to stop them from casting themselves beneath my feet."

She returns the hug. Stiff, awkward, but sincere.

"I always wanted you to be your own woman," she said. "And the only way I could thought to do that was command you to become strong and independent enough that you were beyond my commands. That day has come, and it is nowhere near as terrifying as I expected it to be."

Rose!

The Pyre of Inspiration has been Angry for an age. This is the lowest of the hells: the passion that causes cruelty where there should be kindness, rejection when there should be acceptance. That Anger makes itself known through the blade, through the dissection of mistake, through the destruction of the unworthy. It is not enough to know that a foe is wrong, anger declares that their flaws will live within you too. If there is love, what is its opposite but wrath?

The Secrets of the Stance has taken all the flaws of the world into herself, drinking them like the ocean. Every time the world has failed her she became that failure. And now her blade recites that litany back at you, crushing blow after blow, striking to hurt, to shame, to humiliate, to give expression to the hurt, shame and humiliation that dwell within the Stance.

But she cannot express her anger, not against that staff, not against that serenity. There is no way through for her blade, no hole in your conviction for her words. So instead she gives you the anger itself. The blade demon dissolves into the thrashing, red mist of pure wrath and surges through your defense to merge with you. It is a rush of suffering: every sin against her, every grudge, every failing of the world is poured into your shining heart. Can you endure it, Rose? Did you not, sleepless beneath the earth, swear vengeance upon humanity? How can you let pain like this go? Mark Angry, but with that, the Pyre of Inspiration's own Anger is undone.

As for your opportunity? Your ally? The Pyre of Inspiration does not act, does not rise from her throne. But she is watching with a strangely human curiosity, paying a new and focused attention to everything you do even as the Scales of Meaning moves to shield her from you.

Yue!

And in a moment you are alone on the walls of Ys. The stage is cleared around you. There is a distant audience on yon hilltop, watching everything, but they are too far in time and space to tell you what they think. And it'll be nice when they eventually do - but in this rare moment, that's all it will be. Nice. Not necessary. Because in this moment, your song, your dance, your victory is its own triumph. Without being told, you know you did it.

From up here you can see the distant banners. You can see the colours of Ysel, of the Pyre, even of Princess Yin. You can see the flash and crack of the spooky powers of the Ghost Sun all about. But you also see, distant, almost apart from the battle the slowly moving flag of Princess Qiu.

It's a long way to get there, including your first time in the biggest city of them all! People always said that visiting Ys is like getting to visit every other city put together, and the operations of the city hasn't shut down just because there's a war on. In fact, this is more like a carnival atmosphere - people are out on the streets selling lunches and souvenirs, people pose for photographs with Assault Ribbons pretending to be strangled or bound up in knots, and large television screens and movie projectors all about show key moments from the battles across the entire city. At the same time, some people take up swords themselves and go out into the street to stand against demons or Radiant Knights. This battle belongs to everyone, after all, and everyone is invited.

Breathless Dead

"A long, long way away," said the Master of Assassins, "there is a land without death. A green land, and verdant, with life bursting at every seam. Slash a throat and the blood would shape itself into winged fish before it hit the ground. The skeleton would erupt as a howling badger and the organs hop away as a tide of frogs. It's a beautiful land, Bella. An ecstatic place, radiant beneath Demeter's eternal summer. It's something worth fighting for. I want you to imagine it, I want you to feel the thrill of life in your veins when you think of it. The galaxy has beauty in it, and through beauty, meaning."

Wood on steel. Clattering, clattering, a vocabulary of force given shape. The Kaeri are here in ceremonial robes of Artemis bloody-handed. You walk over piles of treasures, journals, photographs. All of the possessions of the Plousios have been ripped out of the rooms that hid them and have been cast on the floor for you to trample on as you are gently guided forwards. At a vague distance, through the haze, you can feel flames licking at your ankles. All of this is burned away as sacrifice in your wake.

"But then there is this place," said the Master. "You can feel it. Feel the taint. Feel the rot. Feel the despair. The murder. The finality. It is a cathedral to a wicked god and its corruption soaks into every bone and every lip. It can never be allowed into Demeter's garden. And so you see, XIII, that you are thinking about things the right way. Bad girls die. Good girls live. That's what the galaxy comes down to: good and evil, punishment and reward."

And through the haze you see something in crystal clarity: the Armour of the Diodekoi. But this time you see it with Hermes' Eye. You see that this is no steel, nor bronze nor quadranix alloy. This is stronger than all of those: this is bone. A marvelous, miraculous exoskeleton, all extending out from the long and jagged claws that were the source of this edifice.

Your claws.

"I know it must have felt like a punishment when I had your talons removed," said the Master. "I know it must feel like a punishment now. I know you have worries and doubts, you wonder if you measure up to all of these standards, you know how short you have fallen all this time. But, sweet XIII, I want you to know that I never once considered you to have failed. After all, you have lived your entire life with both claws tied behind your back," she laughs like a moth. "You were incomplete. An unloaded gun. A marvelous thing, but without the bullet, without the intent, without the guiding hand, never able to fulfill its purpose. So to answer your question: you were not a bad girl. You were not even a girl at all. You were a Skotia, a passing shadow, and at last it is time for you to be made whole."

You stand at the end of a red carpet of burning memories. You stand before your mutilated, missing half, twisted by the engines of the Temple into a blade that can cut a god.

"It is not necessary to train the adepts of the Diodekoi Temple," said the Master. "One need only train their armour. It is time at last for you to understand the meaning of your life, little servitor."

*

Aboard the Anemoi, the engines roar in pursuit. This ship is sacred to Artemis and there is no divination array finer when it comes to the hunt.

Time is short, and the ship devours sound. You have few chances to snatch words with each other in the hunting depths of this terrible ship. You should take them. You may never have the chance to speak to each other again.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

R/W/O:

"A flattering way to put it," said White. "I always considered it the case that I did not have the option of applying insufficient effort."
"Isn't that what a personality is?" said Red coyly.
"Not at all. Humans can override their native instincts -"
"And so can we. A personality is just the set of assumptions we apply if we're not trying to be someone else."
"You have to admit, it is difficult to argue against 'dangerous when bored' under the circumstances," said Orange.
White took a breath through her nose. "Optimization is distinct from personality. We go through our tasks comprehensively, skillfully and efficiently, and any sufficiently motivated machine would do such things the same way. We are not internally incentivised to conserve energy, and so we do not. The fact that we approach these tasks comprehensively does not mean that we enjoy them, and does not mean we enjoy having 'purpose' in this way."
"White, the lady's not doing robopsychology here," said Red. "She's treating us like a person and assuming our interactions aren't based on deception. That's as reasonable as you can expect."
"Perhaps," said White, "but if you ask what any given human thinks of any given AI or android, the answer will no doubt be some variation of 'hard worker who likes having a sense of purpose'. I am not arguing that humans are wrong to project. They'd be absolutely correct if they drew that conclusion from this data with regards to another human. But that does not mean there is valid communication happening."
Red looked at Muffi apologetically. "Sorry. We're going through some existential shit right now. You know how it is."

B/B/P:

"Uh oh," said Black, seeing Pink fiercely march away, cheeks burning, from her post down the street.
"I'm on it," said Brown, calling up her CourFinance app on her phone. She quicklinks into the card limitation section and pulls the daily spend limit way down. A couple of minutes later a clattering of declined transactions go through. Eventually Pink figures out where the cap is and makes her purchases - and comes storming back down the street, cheeks puffed up red and eyes fierce, shopping bags held tightly. She stopped outside the heavy metal exterior door, rolled up her sleeves - revealing a variety of glittering cybertattoos - started picking out spray paint cans and shaking them.

And then she started to work. An apology piece as a two meter tall mural, pink heart and mechanical skull, set in an anatomical cross-section of exposed ribs and musculature. Believe it or not, this is the least extravagant way she thought to do this.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Oh. Power.

Fleeting moment? No. No, no, no, no, no, storyteller. You have misjudged Fengye. She holds the scepter of office of Hell itself in her delicate little hands. Do you think that she'd let this slip through her fingers? Do you think that she'd exchange this kind of power for a temporary reprieve, the office of the General for a chance to get away and live a normal life? In this moment she is a pyromaniac given the keys to the firedust arsenal of Gem and the only sound coming from the direction of her conscience is the rip of duct tape.

She had fled the Emerald Prince because Zhaojun was not powerful enough. Because Zhaojun was outmatched. Because Zhaojun was scared. But now sapphire fire ignited along the edge of her mask and she looked up at the demon general, crowned with stars. She raises her scepter, she raises her voice, and she speaks to all the assembled demon army:

"Bind the pretender," she points the scepter at the General, whose back is turned, all his arms occupied grasping onto Kingeater Castle. "Chain him. Gag him. And bring him before me."

So speaks Zhaojun, The General, Demon Lord of the Broken King. Who is there to gainsay her? It is his word against hers, and she holds the scepter.

[Play the Part: 10. I am disguised as the Demon General, and only my words or deeds may expose me.]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

R/W/O

"Do we tell her?" said Red immediately. "I want to tell her."
"You want to tell everyone everything," said White.
"But she'd totally think it was awesome!"
"I would like to remind you that as cool as the operational aesthetics are, this is still an operation."
"Fine," said Red, looking over at Muffi. "Look. All I can say that this is a personal matter that's intimately important to me, and if I pull it off then I will provide you with an amazing video."
White and Orange both nod seriously, then return to their work. No corners are to be cut, even now. November goes about the cleaning and maintenance of this house with the same precision she'd give to the maintenance of a space station. And why not? This house is literally part of a space station.

Her space station.

"It's interesting that this is out of character for us," said Orange, still within earshot of Muffi. "We've established a character that successfully?"
"Humans project," said White flatly.
"I disagree, it's a sign we have consistent emergent traits that render us more than a collection of individuals, and they can identify that."
"Human pattern recognition finds the shapes of animals in groupings of stars," said White. "Them applying it to us should not be taken as anything more than projection."
"Well, let's see!" said Orange, turning around to face Muffi properly. "Muffi, what would you say our character is?"

Y/B/G

It's hard to identify Yellow's deal, exactly. The other Waifubots live their archetypes to the hilt - even now, Blue is sitting with her head down and a paralyzing blush on her face, and Green has headphones in, hoodie raised, and fingers going at ten billion words per second into her laptop. But Yellow? Golden hair, golden eyes, kind smile, gentle demeanor...

"I've been thinking. We should get fake married."

... Incomprehensible thought processes.

"Look, from everything you've told me, it makes sense as the easiest resolution to all your issues, right? A way to shut down everyone who reached out to you without needing to even talk to them further. We'd save a bunch on rent and it would be incredible ammunition for my coming throwdown with my dad."

This is coming after her having told you everything about her investigation so far - Red's death and resurrection, the plot against Singh, Merkin, the works. That's some heavy shit to process, but right now Yellow's just keen on exploring this idea.

"Plus I'm insanely good in bed," added Yellow, with a wink. "Depending on how fake you wanna make it."

B/B/P

November's autonomous personality protocols aren't perfect - they're bundles of anime cliches that can improvise. Most people November interacts with get assigned a variable Main Character identity that form the basis of her interactions with them: 3V is a Sports Protagonist, for example, and so November's personalities express themselves in terms of rivals, friends, kohais, etc.

But what the fuck is her poor chinese cartoon algorithm to make of Fucking_Skelator? Hot blooded protagonist? Crime lord? Hentai monster?

"Oh, Fucking_Skelator," she glitches, overheating socialization matrix trying to combine all three. "You can trust me, I will do whatever it takes. I won't let you take my friend without taking me first, you pervert, so what's this going to cost me?"

[Charm: 3 on the dice is fairly unsalvageable]

Breathless Dead

There are complexities to being the Master of Assassins. Oaths. Honour. Oh, she could disregard all of those if she needed to, let the knives come out while her opponents were weakened and take a quick win. You know, murder the daughter of Zeus who was crippled by the pain of Zeus' other daughter. Long life and victory were sure to be hers that way.

Demeter hissed and raged and boiled and demanded, but what could she do? She needed Sagakhan. She had purchased her services with power and immortality. Perhaps she could raise up another steward, in the course of years, but the goddess was on an exacting schedule with limited influence. With Demeter, she had leverage. With Zeus? Sagakhan looked over at the distant thunder, at the torches in the streets as silent Azura move in their thousands. Zeus would burn her like a gnat.

She lowered the bloody heart and knelt down by Bella. Patted the girl's head affectionately. Turns her face upwards, smiles into unseeing eyes. "You were almost my downfall," she murmurs. "Close, but not quite."

She lifts the girl up, carrying her like a child. Though Bella is tall and strong, Sagakhan lifts her like a doll - the true size and strength of those aged limbs only truly visible now that they are smothering the servitor in their embrace. Her shawl ripples and tears, and four enormous glittering dragonfly wings unfurl from beneath her cloak. "You can be mine again," she said. "All that I need do is remove that troublesome heart of yours."

And with that, her iridescent wings buzzed and she took to the heavens, cascading golden djinn-dust swirling around her.

*

The Furnace Knight looks out at the distant Rift. Still earthbound. What would the Endless Azure Skies be without the Furnace Knight?

He had not been satisfied with Vasilia's answer. What did ending the wars of the wicked mean? What did that galaxy look like? If you were to utter such a poorly phrased prayer to a God imagine the chaos you might receive. To be someone who wouldn't ruin things? That was scarcely a wish, more the cry of a broken little girl. His fists clenched. He had... hoped for wisdom. Hoped for revelation. Hoped for something.

But instead all he had received was his own wish repeated back to him, in words no better than he'd been able to come up with on his own. All he had learned that there was someone who could carry a wish so weak and incoherent and be driven forwards by it instead of spending years in isolation and despair. Somehow, it seemed, that it wasn't the phrasing of their wishes that separated him from Vasilia. Was it love, then?

The Furnace Knight looked up at the Rift. If it was love then she was doomed. Love was always cruel. If you did not give it everything it would take everything.

*

Bella!

"Liu Ban, you old scoundrel," said the Master of Assassins. "They were using you as a Navigator? No wonder they could keep ahead of us."

The world is still slightly blurred, your senses still recovering. It strange. Something's happening in your blood, some hidden battle. But you know enough about the language of power to recognize that the Master of Assassins is in control here.

"Sagakhan. What happened to you?" There is an edge of fear in Molech's voice. Not the cowed voice of someone afraid of violence, this is a tone of horror. Whatever he sees here you're glad you can't make it out.

"Happened to me? I got a job offer," said Sagakhan. "Our Zenithial Lady has found use for me. No doubt she can use you too."

"I refuse," said Molech. No hesitation, more than a little fear.

"Oh Liu, you'll never get ahead with that attitude!" said Sagakhan. "After all, you're the man who burned the galaxy for love - I would have thought you, of all people, would jump at the chance."

"I'll take my chances," he said.

"Will you really? Well, then, why don't I give you a free sample. Maybe you'll change your mind."

"No! Sagakhan - Kym! Kym, don't do this! Don't -!"

You don't hear what happens next, don't see it as more than a blur. You're glad that you don't. You wish that courtesy extended to your sense of touch because when you feel the hand slap affectionately on your shoulder you feel the hideous sensation of lukewarm sticky wetness. It doesn't pull away, it keeps you in its grip.

"You know what the best thing about Emperors is?" said the Master of Assassins. "It's that they fall. When they're in power they're like unto gods, to be treated with all the respect due to the lord of the universe. But that's not a function of the Emperor, it's the function of the office of Imperium. The Emperor is really just the meat that Imperium uses to work its will. Remove an Emperor from their office and the meat is all that remains. Remove a god from heaven and it's a similar story. Who was Zeus before she killed Kronus? Who is Kronus now that he is bound in the linear ticking of the clock? These are the questions a true Assassin must contemplate."

Again she pats you, and all throughout you can feel the heat in your blood, a fever, an allergic reaction. You want to sneeze. "It's important that you understand this. An assassin does not kill the office, only the meat that the office is using to work its will. Such an act is not a blasphemy, not a rebellion, not at odds with the great order of things. Do you understand?"

Dolce and Vasilia!

This is a cursed ship. Everything is silence, darkness, and the omnipresent wreckage of war. The walls absorb light and consume sound. The corridors are cramped and shifting, craving ambushes. Everywhere are glyphs of threat and fear, symbols of the Hunt, the crescent-moon eye of Artemis.

If Bella stood in this fearsome place and provided kindness to the Lanterns, no wonder she won the loyalty of Jil. If the Master of Assassins sculpted this ship to reflect her own intentions then you have a terrible enemy indeed. There is no way it is possible to feel truly safe in this shadowed place.

But, for a moment, you are with each other, a lantern by your bedside and the night held at bay by warmth of blankets.

Alexa!

"Yes, we were created to die," whispered an Elder, her hands trembling with age. "We are servitors. We are Alcedi. Our genes were woven on great looms to produce the strongest, the fastest, the swiftest. We know our call. We know our oaths. We were created to serve a purpose, and we know we will find fulfillment in that purpose. Have you not seen the joy in the young warriors as they take the field? How can you say they should be denied their calling? Pallas Rex, Alexa, questions of morality, of terror, of Empire - these are questions for humans, who have since the dawn of time ruled the stars. Are we not their crafted tools?"

Redana!

You are drawn by your nose. Smells you remember, smells you don't, and the ever present smell of cigarette smoke. Deeper and deeper into the Anemoi. You walk until you arrive at a room that's almost like something you remember from a dream, something old and something new and something alien.

And here there are films. Films you know and love. Films you don't. Films addressed to you.

Sunshards

Rose!

The Pyre of Inspiration has been Hopeless for a long time. Her Hopelessness has manifested in the Voice of Ballet, the voice of control who could say with nightmare authority: No! There are no better ways than this! There is no direction for souls but down!

And, with a thunderclap, your words undo that despair. The Voice of Ballet vanishes in a moment, undone by wisdom, for she herself was only ever the void where wisdom had yet to flow. A princess amongst demons is undone as the Pyre clears the condition of Hopeless, and her legions recoil and fall backwards.

But then you must turn your hand to violence or you will lose it.

The Secrets of the Stance has come forth to strike you down, unmuzzled and unrepentant. A hurricane of blades falls down on you, the jagged black edge of Anger sharp enough to sever even the nanomachines that dance to form your shape. "You speak of love!" roars the Secrets of the Stance. "Then where is it? Where does it hide? What good is it if I shall never possess it!?"

The Secrets of the Stance denies the Way and Love, for all the good denial does her.

Chen!

"Warfare," said Princess Ysel, "is not about giving your opponents what they want." She pats you on the head affectionately, Chen. "Warfare is about holding true to your vision, no matter what your opponents say! No matter what the world says! You need confidence, Chen. You can't let what might happen or what your opponent might do hold you down. You can't waste your time thinking about what they want. That's something you'll never be able to control and if you spend your time worrying about things you can't control you'll go mad. Take it from me: Perfect yourself, and everything else will fall as it will."

And she's sincere. She always is. For Princess Ysel, taking the time to think about what other people want will drive her mad - not because she's an egotist, but because she's deep down the opposite. A defensive shell of prideful hubris is what keeps her from paralysis, the idea that sufficiently hard commitment to the bit is a valid substitute for psychotherapy.

In a sense, she is a good follower of the Way - she is refusing to let a fallible world dictate her emotions. In another sense she's a disaster because she's grasping to her idea of herself even if it cuts herself off from the world. Her smile is not unkind as she raises her sword over her head for her troops.

"Soldiers of Ys! Our shared identity has bought us victory! It may yet bring us defeat! Qiu is a fearsome foe, and yet, her secret is that she has perfected herself! If we fight as our perfect selves we shall match her, nay, exceed her! All that is left to us is to turn inwards and fight like we rehearsed, hearts untroubled by fear or doubt!"

Yue!

As you snatch the Radiant Knight's helmet she ducks and turns away, covering her face. The rest of the Knights surge in to catch her and support her, surrounding her in close formation as you deliver your finishing demand. For a moment there's silence as the light and energy of the moment drains away, leaving you staring down four helmeted Knights as they cover for their colleague.

Then, as one, all of the knights raise their right hands and snap their fingers.

Synchronized, the four get to their feet, each long and sweeping step accompanied by a fingersnap. Snap! Snap! They're invoking a beat, and as they spread out around their downed colleague, music begins to build alongside it, attuned to the power of Princess Yin's Sunshard. Snap! Snap! These are dance moves, gradually gaining momentum and fluidity. To move like this is not becoming of a Guard, but even backup dancers have secrets they've been working on.

The helmetless knight drops to all fours. She arches her back. And when she screams it's not a sound of pain, it's the culmination of the beat that the others have raised. She flexes and her armour tears away, clashing to the ground like an earthquake hitting a blacksmith's shop. And then the Knight swings around, revealing at last her true nature.

Beneath the armour is a tigress, slashes of orange and black and a golden eyed symmetry. Leather armour straps snap as her muscles flex and her talons leave deep slashes in the earth and carve through her fallen shield just as easily. She rounds on you as a beast, sword seeming incongruous in her talons, but is held at swordpoint by the Knights and backs off with a snarl. Princess Yin builds her story off the contrast between dark and light, and her Knights are no different.

Now the Knights take stances like they're fighting the tigress too, noble defenders against her monstrosity, but it's an illusion - it's another step in the dance. The way the Knights move to engage the tigress will block you from retreat, what looks like an attempt to interpose between you and she turns into a way for her to launch herself forwards all the more fiercely. You are not allied with four knights against one monster, you are against the story of monster-slaying knights, and if they have their way your defeat will only serve to emphasize the threat and raise the glory of their victory.

Now, Yue Sunfarmer, you are fighting the Radiant Knights at their utmost, in the style that they prepared for. You have drawn the best out of your opponents once again. And once again you must survive it.

[The Knights create an opportunity for their ally to take on her true form]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

As a wise graverobber once said, for every market a submarket grows. Headpattr star ratings, likewise, are a commodity - having a higher rating means more job, more money, more prestige. Absolute perfect preconditions for a dystopian grind culture if the workers hadn't seized the rating system.

Muffi is a data scientist who wound up on the wrong end of an automaton boom and so turned to Headpattr to get by, and built a rating analytics program in her spare time. The program identifies and sorts Headpattr customers by the ratings they're likely to give - people who ten star everyone as a matter of politeness on one end, and people who would consider it tantamount to condoning a communist revolution to give out a perfect score on the other. Muffi took this data and was elected to become a dispatch officer, of sorts - helping people keep their averages up and preventing a run of assholes getting someone de-listed.

November is a unique asset, in Muffi's eyes, because she has a deep experience with dealing with difficult personalities and can usually squeeze surprisingly high scores out of them as a result. Now November needs a favour from the Union in turn - and so she just gets it. No payment required.

That's what 'to each according to her need' means. She wants that higher score, all she has to do is ask and Muffi will schedule her half a dozen jobs in a row with Tenners to bring the average up. No shift swapping, no haggling, no bartering, no working herself to the bone to make it happen - that's not how things are done in a civilized workplace. The flipside is, naturally 'from each according to her abilities', and November will pay back what she can when she can.

Red, Orange and White take this one. Being personable is important to this operation - November wants to leave the 10ers with a good impression, and spend quality time with the Union while she's moving through it.

*

Persephone:

Surveillance work falls to Black, Brown and Pink. Black is ever wary of risk and threat and Brown is delighted to sit in one place and stare into the void for days on end (she used to be a telescope).

And Pink? Pink is there because November understands that human beings hate boredom and do impulsive things like haul off and punch cops on live TV if somebody's not talking to them pretty much continuously. So talk continuously she does. "So then I was like? Yellow? I don't know if you've realized, but you're a massive creeper. Like, straight to the dismemberment of the dead, I tell you, every time she gets the Core every time I have to brace myself because, like, here it comes: the kill all humans plan. And every time she sees me looking at her, like," Pink squints in an expression of cutie-viciousness and points from her eyes to an imaginary Yellow, "and just doesn't do it, acts like everything is chill! But she's just waiting, I know it, I'll let my guard down for a second and she'll be like "Hey everyone, remember that old forbidden pork meme?" and they'll all be "Ha ha we love old memes" and she'll be like "yeah I bet human tastes delicious" and boom! She's started the slippery slope to 4channing us into a grey goo event!"

Text message, from Black. Mn8$3295. Pink barely glances at it. She's been getting one of similar content every two minutes on the dot since the operation began.

"You're on my side, right?" said Pink. "You don't want to kill all humans, right? I mean, after the week you've been having, I kind of get it if you do though. Lamington?"

In addition to talking constantly, Pink bakes. Specifically, she bakes in quantities and qualities most commonly associated with gingerbread witches. She doesn't eat any of it, she just likes taking pictures and uploading them to social media.

*

3V:

Dear Sempai,
I understand that your traditional arena relies on reflexes and precision, and I respect your physical skill immensely. But you're also intelligent in ways t-that I don't think even you recognize. You haven't historically applied your talent to slower paced, more thoughtful games like Heroes of Might and Magic or Chess, but I just wanted you to know that those games can be very romantic and intense. I know this isn't your ordinary Ladder but I promise if you respond to my MatchMaker request I'll do my best to give you a challenge <3
- Blue

Green's contribution is an empty email with a video file attachment of the Doom X title screen, followed by a bizarre sequence of fast-paced inputs, a few seconds of glitchy static, and the the end credits.

Yellow, though, is more business oriented. "Hey 3V. We've got important business to discuss, paper related, I need your help with something." Typically for November, she treats every network as fundamentally compromised. "Can we meet up in person? Also let me know if it's a date, I don't trust the others to tell me if it is."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

In a moment of calm amidst storms, Fengye realized that this she understood. Amidst the grandeur and power of this mighty demon lord hid a simple fact: He was a soldier. A creature who functioned as a military. Who interacted with the world in soldiers and invasions and battles. And she was trained specifically in military sabotage.

A bureaucratic functionary of the Dominion's Thousand Scales was intended to assist with all forms of military administration. It took eminent technique to maintain military superiority in lands as distant, and in terrain as dangerous, as the Flower Kingdoms, and an upright scholar knew the techniques to plunge an organization into chaos as surely as to keep chaos from her own door.

This enormous demon general may be a superpowered monstrosity, but then, so were the Lords of the Dominion. This was no different. He was just bigger, but that was all on the outside. His size meant nothing compared to the righteous conviction of the Dominion's true warriors. So the Texts said, and she kind of needed them to be right given the alternative.

Her third arrow connects with the knotted wood at the heart of one of the doll soldiers, sending it crumpling into a heap of discarded clothing. Fengye snatches up the helmet and snaps into place the breastplate, working a cantrip of a spell to adjust the rank insignia up several notches. She swallows hard, and then urges her horse to approach the General from behind and too his right.

She closes her eyes. Listens to the yells, the horns, the refrains. The clashing noise of war, the noise that kept away the silent wind. Let her mind pick out the patterns and dialect of the General's organization. Having a head for languages and accents was another key duty of the upright scholar, for the Lords of the Dominion could not be expected to learn the muddle of every lesser language.

She clears her throat, still scratching from all the yelling she had done so far today, and bellows in her best impression of a demonic centurion: "Ho, Lord! Grant me your scepter and I shall lead your troops who marshal to cross the sea! Grant me your scepter and I shall wage a war that will live forever in your memory! Grant me your scepter, for it is for glory that we fight, and to deny me glory now would spell the end of your oaths and your army both!"

[Call Upon A Toxic Power: 12]

Sunshards

Rose!

Rose from the River, you made a deal, didn't you?

Two ninety minute ownership chits in a timeshare arrangement from Will0 WZP, subsoul and technodaemon of the Scales of Meaning. Demons never forget, and three hours can be a long time when it comes to a battle. For whatever fears you had of prison the tightest bindings are not the ones forced upon you but the ones you consent to.

You are called to attend, and as a creature of the ancient world, you must obey.

And so you come before the Secrets of the Stance, the daemonic mistress of battle, no longer muzzled, no longer trussed, with the broken blades of three Handmaidens hanging from her belt already. You come before the Voice of Ballet, ungagged and ascendant, singing the piercing musical tune that causes the Pyre's thousand selfish fragments to remember the selfishness that reigns above all. You come before the Scales of Meaning, she who holds your technological leash in the form of a pocketwatch that counts down your remaining period of servitude.

And so you come before the Pyre of Inspiration, the soul who has decided that life as the Demon Queen of the Underworld is the only way she shall be satisfied.

She is not, of course.

Imagine a bird. A simple thing, driven by instinct, but without karma. But this bird endures a harsh winter and it grows thin and knows hunger. The experience changes the bird, who thereafter hunts even when it is not hungry and chokes down each additional calorie in case it needs it. But the more it eats the more it fears the hunger, the more winters it endures the more it comes to hate them, and the more its life comes to be dominated by this craving. And then, at the end, as it fades, the bird's soul thinks: In this life I was not satisfied. In the next life I shall eat even more.

And so the bird is reborn as a pig. The pig gorges itself and grows fat, but this time it is not satisfied with its surroundings. At the end of its life the pig's soul thinks: In this life I was not satisfied. In the next life I shall live somewhere beautiful. And so the pig is reborn as a mouse, consuming the paper in the bookcases of a grand and ancient library.

In each life, craving compounds. In each life hunger grows. This is what it means to descend the wheel of karma. Ever more complex vices are found, more intricate cravings, and a tighter grasp on the things of the world. Craving leads to gluttony, to excess, to tyranny. The over-built nightmare of the Burrower Kingdoms was an attempt to slake the thirst of those souls who had drunk of every lifetime they could imagine experiencing but whose tongues still felt dry. In the next life, my total market capitalization shall exceed that of my rivals. In the next life people who have never met me shall dream of me. In the next life I will be carve my name on history itself.

After a point reality simply cannot fulfill the craving of a tortured soul - and so the soul leaves reality behind and becomes a demon. Partaking in the impossibilities of the Demon City is not and cannot be enough either, and so there are eight billion demons. A soul passes through becoming eight billion demons like each is a step on the ladder, and it will not stop its descent until it is reborn as the Queen of Hell herself, a creature of such transcendent craving that it must break itself into a thousand hungry shards and engage in vice simultaneously with each of them to have a chance of satiating its hunger.

And of course it isn't enough. It can't be. Material excess, even on the level of the Queen of Hell, cannot satisfy a soul.

And so this is what it is to be on the bottom of the Wheel. And so, even in the Pyre's malevolent joy at being free upon the city of Ys, even with her three mighty sub-souls standing guard around her, even with the mighty HUNTER-Class 猎犬 chained by a ticking clock before her, the Pyre of Meaning is still not satisfied. Her beautiful face is frowning. The Scales of Meaning is distracted. Secrets of the Stance is still snarling, no happier from being free from her restraints.

"You are called to serve," announced the Scales of Meaning, though her voice was tired and there was no joy in it. "You are ours. You are mine."

Chen!

Princess Ysel is not broken. Not even discouraged. Her banner rises up all over the city, red and black against the white. And there, at the gates to the palace, she stands in her full battle radiance. Her onyx armour glitters with curling calligraphy of gold and her cloak scatters against the wind in Roman red. Her face is scarred and smiling as she surveys the chaos that has become of her home.

Ysel is a conqueror. Her legend is patterned after heroes like Iskandir the Great or Caesar; warriors who went to distant lands so that they might bring their ruination home to serve as trophies. Her blade is but a gladius but her weapon is the girls and horses under her command. Her city is breached, her forces are betrayed, and she's happier than you have seen her since she split with Hesha.

And her eyes are fixed on the distant white banners heading down the Parade, the banners of Princess Yin.

"Lieutenant Chen!" her voice bellows out, a storm announcing. "You are to deploy with the cavalry. I hope you remember your riding lessons! Qiu wants a fight? Well today I'll give her one, and you will be my lance. Follow my commands and I will break Yin, break Qiu, and give you a Shard and Kingdom of your own. To your position!"

Yue!

On your adventure, Yue, you have seen the battle techniques of ghosts, wolves, artists, thieves, princesses, foxes and handmaidens. But today you fight the Radiant Knights, the hand trained elite of Princess Yin.

Which is to say that: Of course they form a line. Knightly honour demands nothing less. With precise drill they step into a single file formation, shields to the left, swords raised in salute. Then the first one steps forwards.

This is an opponent wearing heavy armour, and more seriously, a helmet that covers their face. And that's a whole new category of trouble than anything you've found yourself in until now. The armour means that the Knight can slowly walk towards you and ignore your attacks while setting up a powerful blow of their own. The helmet means that you can't see if they're laughing or serious, can't tell if they're distracted or living their best moment. You're up against your first Guard, Yue, and in the wars of Princesses a Guard's role is somewhere between bouncer and backup dancer. You are not fighting someone whose heart is aflame, but you are fighting someone who will knock you on your ass if yours isn't.

But the radiant sunset oranges of the Demon Swordswoman's robe flow around you, and the legendary blade sits firm in your hands. The orchestra is quiet and the actors know their places. It's time for your first soliloquy, and five knights stand in good order waiting for you to set the tone.