Thanqol

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

> Be Diaofei
> Get tossed into a bathtub full of ice
> Request status update

The Body:

In the past 24 hours I have obtained the following inputs:
6 packets of salted snacks (chips, peanuts, twisties)
4 cans of beer
2 bottles of wine
1 bottle of mead
Some water from melted ice cubes
3 hours sleep

I have the following outstanding issues:
Weird burning pain in the back of head
Blood loss
Kidney stolen
Limited hypothermia
Muscle cramps
Dehydration
Hangover starting to manifest
NEW: DROPPED INTO FREEZING WATER

Recommended course of action: sink into the soothing embrace of death <3

The Brain:

I have been betrayed. Nobody has ever felt this way before in the history of the world, except maybe Linkin Park.

What's worse is that I was warned, repeatedly and at length, that exactly this would happen. Friends, colleagues, supernatural entities - my entire social circle told me that this was a terrible idea, that she was only flirting with me because of my status as River-Guardian, that foxes could not feel love. I was not humble when I told them they were small minded bigots and that Actia and I were destined to be together forever. I was wrong in the most dramatic, grating and public way possible, and despite being trained in universal compassion I wouldn't forgive me.

So I have spent the past few hours marathoning the Kill Bill movies while trying to summon enough magical energy to engage a ritual circle. I know my path forwards: It is to be a cool, confident badass who punishes the wicked spirit, regains her chi, and buries the wicked spirit under a bridge for 1,000 years. I need this spirit to realize that I am deadly serious and so highly trained that mere physical deprivation means nothing to me.

Recommended course of action: Stand up, unamused and unaffected by the ice, and stare the shark goddess down to establish the depths of my conviction.

The Soul:

I'M SO SAD
OH NO SHE'S HOT
I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE
SHE COULD PIUT ME ON THE SHELF
JUST TELL HER YOU FORGIVE HER SHE COULD HAVE MY OTHER KIDNEY IF SHE ASKED
I'M LETTING HER DOWN I HAVE A RESOPNSOTISNTMBITLIY TO NOT LET HER DOWN AND ALSO NOT DIE
WHY DIDNT THTEY WARN ME THAT ALL THE ANCIENT SPIRITS WERE GIRLS THAT I'D HAVE TO TALK TO

Recommended course of action: Say something really poetic, honest and meaningful, to impress her with my sincerity and build a relationship of trust and increase the number of girls who like me from 0 to 1.

The execution:

Daiofei hits the bathtub and sinks into it. The ice is old, partially melted, and so she slides through to the chill bottom almost without friction.

Then in one sudden motion she stands up, feet set against the tub. With poise and grace she says, "Like the swan said to the tiger, I may have failed every responsibility I've ever had in my life, but -" she didn't know how to close that out. "- but I... can't get fooled again. Won't let you down again. Hey by the way are you a campfire because -"

Actually, now that she thought about it, she was going to go with the Body's plan, that seemed way better than whatever this was.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Looking into the Mirror.

She can see Mirror's grand strategy for the tournament: She wields the Invisible Sword. Her blade is concealed behind air and so an opponent cannot judge its length, but neither can she wield its Noble Phantasm. She goes through each fight trying to conceal her secret, saving it for the battle when she truly needs it. Some opponents come close. Marcina guessed correctly, naming the control system that enabled Mirror's movement - poor fool, she saw the sword and missed the claws.

Solarel sees the truth. The Gods-Smiting Whip is the same manner of creature as the Supernova. Each tail contains a Crystal Fire Reactor. She separates them out on independent drone chassis, allowing them to burn at full effect without interfering with each other. Mirror has prepared a divine wave, an all-consuming energy blast, an attack sequence that will destroy her utterly. Poor Mirror. She kept her secret well, but it was her misfortune that Solarel had fought against someone wielding an inferior version of her idea. She was now inoculated against technology shock, knew to look for Hybrasilians attempting to win through engineering.

Solarel, too, has had a grand strategy for the tournament. Hers has been the Gate of Babylon. Every battle has seen her draw a new treasure from her arsenal. She has replaced her God twice, doing battle with forest fires and blizzards and kessler syndrome, fought with one blade and two, with lance and sniper rifle. Any of the techniques she has shown could be an entire path of mastery for another pilot. Every battle has expanded the possibility space for who she could be. And now, at the end...

No, she was not going to reach for Ea. She was not a king. She was a faker. Her true self was not a declaration of self. It was a mirror, Mirror. And you are the fairest of them all. If you truly know her you know she's not going to come prepared for you. She's going to come as you.

She has stripped the armour from the Aeteline, exposing its naked chassis and superstructure. Mirror would not engage in attritional combat, so everything must be sacrificed for speed and power.
Nine combat drones. Not beautiful, perfect vessels of crystal fire reactors - hers are pale imitations, angular and jagged interceptors with autocannons. They are shadows, useless if not hunting their true manifestations.
Likewise, she has made a poor copy of Mirror's control system, the voice control theory she speculated about long in the past. Not a dedicated path of mastery, not a primary combat technique, but enough to let her surpass the limits of the Mind-Impulse Link for key maneuvers.

Some people loved what they were not, were attracted to opposites. Solarel was attracted to what was the same as her. What felt within reach. What she felt she could become. What she could melt into. The transgression of wielding the same weapons. The same tactics. The same Gods. Some people loved the clash of civilizations, the Zaldarian against the Hybrasilian, but Solarel lived above all for the Mirror matchup. There was no beauty like symmetry, no love like reflection, no way to show someone that you understood them better than becoming them.

The Sage had said Speak Not. This, then, was the only way to show her love.

Breathless Dead

Bella!

"One day a dream came to me," said Princess Redana. "It came unexpectedly from someone I never thought would drop it. I had never had a dream before. There had never been anything I had thought to pray for. And yet, once I picked it up, it somehow became so important to me I could not imagine setting it down again." She turned her head to look at Bella. "I need this, Bella. All my life all I have known is whim and law and craving. I did not know what it was to imagine."

She gently placed her fingers on Bella's fingers. "You may, of course, accompany me," she said. "But I do not think what is between us will change. Princess Redana must chase her dream, and even though you are closer now you will still be chasing after her." Her fingers raised up to brush Bella's cheek gently. "You may chase as long as you like. But in my heart, I will always hope that you find a dream as I have - one that can carry you into your own future."

Ember!

There is no better answer. Not only have you returned in victory, but you have transformed an earlier defeat into a triumph. The question of command cannot be asked for you have answered it. Another pack may be different, but the Silver Divers cannot help but respond to plunder.

One last question, before you have the chance to present your triumph to Mosaic: What are your initial acts of leadership? A King's first decree is always the most important, as are the choices of advisors and deputies. Do you trust your rivals, Plundering Fang and Sagetip? Or is it time to replace them with fresh eyes? Will you honour the name and traditions of the Silver Divers? Or is it time to forge a new identity in void and voyage?

Dyssia!

You are buried underneath fluffy tails and cute girls.

The emotions of the moment have passed. The foxgirls have gone to sleep. Warm and heavy, like weighted blankets. Everything is peaceful and contented. You have slept and you have recovered.

And now you are a little bit hungry. A little bit bored. And Brightberry is sitting over in the corner, reading a book, and flashing a small, blinking pattern on her scales that indicates that she has a message waiting for you.

Your hardest question, then, Dyssia: How do you get out of bed in the morning?

Dolce!

"I understand," said the galaxy's most deadly warrior. "I appreciate you giving me time to think."

She is beautiful in her singularity. She does not need Empire or Skies to illuminate her. In her mythological affectation she shines as pure as a single moon, crafted and timeless at once. There is no tension to her in these moments; she does not need it to be ready.

"You are unusual," she said. "You are clearly a creature of fear. I know many such. You anticipate disaster, and yet you do not take the steps required to avert disaster. There are a great many and to miss any of them would guarantee calamity. Yet you are not even on the path. That gives you freedom."

She leaned forwards. "There is a way for us to be friends. It will require trust and sacrifice from both of us. Blood and virtue will be spilled. It shall not be beautiful. Nothing about me is."

She offered her hand. "My own path leads me through blood, bone and shadow. It is inevitable. All I can promise is that it will be swift and afterwards I shall be unbound. Will you walk with me a while?"

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"A wife?"

The priestess' eyes sink into shadows. Her hand reaches to her side to touch the bloody wound there, underneath the surgical bandage. Her hand reaches across to touch a wooden staff, bent and curled, heavy with flasks that shine like gemstones in the dim light.

And then she stands. It does not come easily to her. She is crippled. It is more than the missing organ, it is her entire circulatory system - her chi, her magical essence, her very spirit is gnawed. The injury is fresh, the teeth marks are bloody, her power is stolen. Once, there was a great deal. Now there are but shadows.

"I had a wife," said the priestess. "For her, I broke my vows. For her, I left my post. For her, I forgot every warning. She promised me love eternal. But a fox loves nothing."

She wrenches herself to her full height. Against the pain of a broken body, she stands.

"I am not your king," she swears by the moonlight. "I have no desire to be your master. Spirit! You speak of war? I need your war not!" she declared. "I am nothing, and nothing to you! But you..."

She slumped forwards, gripping the edge of the bathtub, looking down at you with eyes filled with fury, tears, heartbreak.

"... you will be my vengeance," she said. "That alone I ask."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

For most people, the most shocking thing about waking up in a bathtub full of ice was the ice.

For you, though? That part is refreshing. Familiar. Reminds you of home. Reminds you of war. Reminds you of the gales on the North Sea, the cracking glaciers of the fjords, of leaping from the prow of your longship into the frosting water of home. You carried the bite of that ice all through your life.

No, what gets you is the bathtub. They had bathtubs in your day of course, but they weren't like this. A digital control panel (you know what all of those words mean?) with automated temperature modulation (you mark a rune and the tub never goes cold?) with a full bonus feature selection? You could ask it with your voice to fill the bath with bubbles or brightly coloured soap powder or herbal remedies and it would mix it on demand instantly. You know how to use this miraculous machine and you know, too, that this is not the luxury of a sorcerer king. Anyone could obtain such a thing following a brief barter with a Technomancer. It's more disorienting than being called to fight frost giants on the battlefields of Ragnarok. You might have imagined, before this day, how to kill a frost giant. You have not imagined that the art of bathsmithing had come so far.

But even with this strange knowledge of the modern world you cannot imagine why the bath might have come to be filled with bloodstained ice.

The answers lie with the young... you almost thought she was a boy, or less than a boy: one of those halfmen priests, who slaved in dark crypts in service to their dead god's book. Her baldness, the robes, the unhealthy slouch, the way she is holding the mead bottle as though ashamed of it - but no. Her robe is as bright an orange as ever seen in the locks of Ireland, her muscles are as wiry and thick as any shieldmaiden, and her knuckles have the scars of a great many brawls. You have heard tales from the Varangians about the exotic Turkic warriors who served the Emperor of Rome, and just like you knew the mystery of the bath, you too know that she is something of that lineage. A warrior priestess, an exorcist of devils and spirits, marked with the stigmata of mastery carved in bloody lines along the back of her shaven head.

Yes, this wretched and broken thing is your Master. She stares at you with shock, drunkenness and exhaustion. There was nothing deliberate here, even though it is her blood that stained the ice that called you. All across the floor are the traces of blood as she dragged herself, injured and shivering, out of the cold. One bottle is broken and one bottle is empty, the white... refrigerator where they were stored hanging open.

And outside the window, over verdant lands dressed in the dying days of summer, silver towers reach into the sky like ladders to the glorious full moon.

You have arisen.

Breathless Dead

Bella!

Noise and blood and industry.

The world is a cacophony. Everywhere the screeching of power tools. Everywhere the disassembly of Heaven. Perfect lights are wrenched from their sockets. Ancient trees are pulled by their roots and dragged away. Ancient chains are shattered and terrified choices are made. Everywhere you around you the pounding of fire and claw and freedom. Everywhere around you the stripping of the Slitted for parts.

The Plousios is in poor shape. The Slitted is one of the most advanced warships built by the Endless Azure Skies. All around the warriors of Ceron and their allies wrench mechanical flesh from the bone and carry it away. Youth and beauty has died to renew age and experience. The dead are stripped of their armour. The father consumes the son. So it always was.

You are guided through the verdant mayhem of your Wolves, through the toxic plasma fires and nerve gas aftershocks, through the sack of Beri. You are wrapped in an Imperial cloak, thick and warm, arms around your shoulders as you are guided home. Your Empress shields you as best she can from the victory of the Legions.

Ember!

You return from the silent void to the howls of victory. The Wolves have fallen to pillage, in accordance with the ancient laws of war.

But even though victory is won, it is limited. Morale broken, the crew of the Slitted has retreated - but they are still twenty thousand or more. This is a populated system; they can be abandoned, and they will make their way back to safety - but they cannot be ignored without this turning into a war. The raid must be completed swiftly, lest their retaliation find you drunk, glutted and helpless.

You have authority here; you lead the van, and your rivals are still aboard the Plousios. It is your prerogative to determine what to loot from this vanquished foe, how to return with it, and how to announce your triumph. What draws your hungry eyes?

Dyssia!

You are swarmed by the Pix.

It might not have fully sunk in how much they have come to love you. You saved their species, you gave them purpose, you are their unifier and their leader. Much of the time they are professional and ferocious as their duty and nature demands, playful in their suggestions of overthrow, in their baits and barbs. But they thought they lost you and that has a way of bringing out people's true emotions.

This is to say: You are being mobbed by a thousand foxgirls, all of whom want to hug you and cry, and all of whom are prepared to bite each other for the opportunity. Out of the frying pan and into the ζαχαρωτό Άδης, as they say.

Dolce!

The Diodekoi has lowered her hood and taken off her mask. She makes no attempt to conceal herself again once you enter, still holding the wine glass she has been using to follow her meal thoughtfully.

In aspect she is a unicorn, one of wild mane and bladed horn. Her eyes, though marked with dark circles, are full of starlit intelligence. Her fur is white with coal black patches, particularly around her hands and the cascading hair that runs up her arms to her wrists. She has a sense of... righteousness, to her. Like she could kill the world and it would objectively be the world's fault.

"Enter," she said. Her accent was old, even to the ears of someone who had been on a backwater like Beri. Removed from her mask there was an edge of archaic formality to to her that hadn't carried at cross during her concealed persona. Not an affect, something that came naturally to her. "I would hear an explanation."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

For a moment it is perfect. The possibility space condensed to a single shining thread. The rhythm of war entirely condensed to solved possibilities. Risks and checks and escalation, everything known and accounted for. There is quiet enough in this moment to for Solarel to speak.

But what she has to say is twisted and toxic. It is only in these moments of stillness that you can see how far from calm she is, how intense and boiling her micro-motions are, the isolation and confusion and inferiority and pride and jealousy. A soul cut off from connection for so long, hidden behind so many barriers, unable to believe that anyone was capable of crossing them. Even the act of being a hero is itself a blow against someone who only ever knew themselves as the villain.

But for a moment you're getting through. For a moment that trembling blade calms. For a moment the absolute intensity of the battle stills those compounding wicked voices, the pit of despair and negativity fills with gentle rainwater. For a moment she has mind enough to think, and peace enough to be free of thinking. For a moment you reach her.

And then you're not fighting Solarel any more.

The Aeteline steps into your blade, opening its chest up to you. You have the finishing strike - directly into Solarel's cockpit. Every variable is accounted for: there's no way to take advantage of the move without hurting Solarel. It learned this technique from its last two battles. The Kathresis and the Supernova had both fought this way, forcing Solarel to rescue their pilots from their machines. The Aeteline had long contemplated afterwards the tactical ramifications of biological morality: How to identify when it was a limiting factor, and how to apply it for maximum impact.

Your blade stops short. The Aeteline's doesn't. The cursed sword of the cursed armor tears through the Emberlight's torso, carving off a third of its mass. Stepping into the breach, the Aeteline fires its sniper rifle point-blank into the shattered metal. Explosive penetrator rounds tear through metal and electronics, gutting the rival machine.

It spares your life. It does not need to take it to confirm this victory. It can save that card for a future battle.

In its remorseless violence, already stepping away from your ruined chassis, you hear it speak instead. "You may not like it," it says, "but this is what peak performance looks like."

Breathless Dead

Mosaic?

Mosaic?

Are you feeling okay?

Someone's usually there to ask you that. Someone usually cares. You're the centre of a web of light, hope and dreams and desire. You're seen and known and looked after. Even if all you have to give is a charming smirk, it's enough to make the shadows fall away.

But shadows don't work like that in this room. In the centre of those beautiful spotlights there is not a single one. What look like shadows at first are in fact painted; every crease and curl of hair has its colour perfectly controlled. No mess or darkness here in the centre of this lightbox. All that darkness falls on you instead as the Crystal Knight rises ascendant. All the light falls on her and her glittering sword. All the light except -

The flash of a blade. She reels back.

A princess stands before you. Haloed in golden hair with a blazing eye of gold. She wears regalia of an Empire long beloved and long buried, an angel summoned forth from the underworld. You know her name. It touches your name in three syllables... or perhaps four characters. You don't remember her properly. They say scent is the key to crossing the Lethe, but hers is not right...

She spares a moment to smile at you. Like a hero. Don't worry. She's got this.

And then there's nothing but the blaze of warfare. The Princess and the Knight in a storm of silver and thunder. That prism-sword slashes at her, tearing dimensional fragments of her away, but they resolve into nothing. It's like it can't figure out what to copy, amorphous and distorted fragments of girls, of wolves, of twisted basilisks, all amounting to nothing. She fights the Crystal Knight as an equal. She drives the Crystal Knight back.

But the Crystal Knight still has some sins left in her. With a hand raised to the rooftop - to your home - she summons her bodyguard. The Armatii champion swoops from ambush, from behind, talons extended and trailing blades like autumn leaves. The Princess is still smiling.

But how far can you trust that smile when it is unbound by your ribbons?

Ember!

When one hears of the ocean, one thinks of leviathans. Horrors. Crabs. The vast and monstrous menagerie set forth to darken the depths between stars. One thinks of the worst the ocean can produce.

But the ocean too has horses.

The creature that snuffles against your hand is cold and hard, long nose like reinforced starship plating. It has only simple black eyes but huge radar projection ears that allow it to sense the signal distortions of ELF strikes from worlds away. From its nuzzling snout comes a long, striped, black and white tongue that pokes and tickles. It tries to open your belt pouch with the frustration of a creature that can't understand why humanity insists on such tricks.

It is after your food.

Dozens of smaller ones, bubble sized against this one's equine bulk, float around it; eggs newly hatched and equally curious. They lick their little tongues at your face and scatter behind their mother when they realize they have sent you into a spiral spin. The adult voidhorse ignores them and continues its single-minded determination to get at your ration pack, holding itself steady and graceful in the deep.

Dyssia!

And just as you've gotten to know her, Composite starts to dissolve.

The Crystal Knight's sword was not even meant to keep her half as long; it was a weapon for a disorienting strike in battle, not this prolonged process of teamwork and shared destiny. She fades back into the cubic distortion that conjured her before you've even finished hauling yourself out of the pit. There's no time to say goodbye, no time to ask questions - it's unfair how quickly it ended.

You went through all that trouble to save her and now you'll never see her again. You don't even know if she was real. Transported here from some other place, a copy of your spirit cast like a shadow against the wall, a trick of magic and mind? There are no answers for what just happened. Does that cheapen it for you? Or do you think she's still out there somewhere, facing the same questions you are?

You can't contribute to the battle; you don't have a weapon, don't have your Rail; you'd be a detriment. A warrior races up to cover you with her shield and escort you to the exit, past the Crystal Knight's spotlight servitors. You're done here... unless you can think of something you could add to the lighting.

Dolce!

"This was an easier problem when I thought you were mad," sighed 20022, pulling the biscuits from the oven. He was helping prepare the meal too, accepting your direction as a simple matter of fact and courtesy. He could hardly lounge about when there was hard work to do. His contribution was rather uninspired, though. He had produced a dazzling variety of biscuits, some with cream, some with icing, all of which somehow tasted both dry and identical. He had prepared a fruit platter that somehow seemed to be 90% water by flavour. Finally he'd produced a bowl full of boiled sausages - and even those were trivial to make without actual meat, he'd somehow made them taste like they had no meat inside them. Utterly unobjectionable food.

"When you were mad I could assume you'd get bored and give up," 20022 went on, "but now I have to face the very real possibility that you'll succeed at this. And then - what? You'll have the loyalty of a warrior assassin without parallel? Would you mind my asking, what do you plan to do with -" he caught himself. "No, that's not my business. As a member of the Service you are entitled to collect assets."

There was a little hitch to how he said that. He knows your feelings about the Service but is rudely ignoring them. But he can't have it both ways - pretending that you are with the Service means pretending to extend you all the privileges of the position he's selected for you. Sometimes that will cut against him, like here where he considers himself as not actually having the authority to stop you from doing this, even though he'd be well within his rights to do so if you were actually just a civilian.

That's an interesting fact about 20022. He can be rude, but he can't be double rude.

"I apologize," he said. "No, my question is more specific, and it relates entirely to my own mission. Do you plan on using the assassin against Liquid Bronze? That would be... inconvenient, but I couldn't in fairness stop you. He'd likely survive the attempt and likely consider it excellent sport. If he survives it would make our mission much easier, but it's more risk than I am personally comfortable with."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The tricks run out.

They were bound to eventually. They were disrespect, weaponized. But now that Solarel has at last drawn her blade you can see the anger that drove them.

The way she fights here, at the end, is different. It's restrained, cagey, slothful. It's poor form by professional standards. She moves slowly, each step coming gently down onto the ground, almost slow motion. She moves like a samurai, blade raised, patient. Patient, patient, patient, letting the shoulders of the Aeteline roll and shift. The change is profound, from an all-out blitz into a serene, zenlike anticipation.

And now that you have survived her onslaught you can at last understand.

She fights like this because this is the only way to fight. All of her tricks, all of her tactics, all of her techniques: all of these are punishes. She never wanted to win the fight that way, with those instant hard counters. But she had to. If she was fighting this slowly then someone fighting at normal speed would destroy her instantly. She fights this slowly because she is taking into account every possible trick and tactic. She fights this way to be safe from all of them.

She shifts her stance, adjusting back two steps. She's doing this to be safe in case you have a hidden secondary blade. It costs her position. She doesn't know that you don't have that weapon. She adjusts as though you do. She assumes infinite competence on your behalf and that constrains the possibility space. The second blade leaves play as a factor because she never takes that risk. A shift of posture takes her out of the line of a sniper round fired from the cockpit; barely any movement at all. An outside observer would miss it. She assumed you had that weapon and that skill. She performs the check and the deflection and then adjusts her stance forwards.

And you step back. Anything less would put you at risk of a surprise flamethrower all in. You're ninety five percent sure she doesn't have that... but she might. All being safe costs is time.

The battle slows to a crawl. Time starts to bleed away. The dance is slow. But that's just how long it takes. The last time she did this properly it took a whole day, start to finish.

How could she enjoy it after that? Fighting against casuals. Opponents who weren't ready. People who weren't speaking the same language as her. People who thought that expressing yourself in battle meant being free to do anything you wanted! No, the fight had grammar. It had logic. It had a common vocabulary and a baseline of understanding that needed to be reached before it could be used to truly say things. It's only here, on this level of vibrating subtlety, that she can truly speak. Everything louder than this was the shouting of children.

She shifts and lowers her blade aggressively, steps forwards. A risk - if you had seeded the area with land mines she would have been vulnerable. It gains her an edge - an almost imperceptible one, freeing her to move just a little bit faster. But it adds to the damage of your foot, putting her into the lead. In a move as subtle as a chessmaster moving a pawn you now see boldness and confidence, a subtle read: I do not think you would bring land mines to a battle in the clouds. With the possibility ruled out the fight can accelerate slightly, and it will continue to do so moment by moment until it reaches its crescendo.

But only if you have the patience to see it.

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

A priest rushes to the Crystal Knight's side. Her eyes are wild with fear and her lips are heavy with prophecy. She sees the truth in your words, the violent application of the Law of Hospitality to the structure of the Slitted. She comes with a warning.

But the Crystal Knight is too proud to listen.

There's something spectacular in that moment. You can see her draw her blade and seal her doom, exactly like a character from a story. And you see in that Zeus' final riddle of Empire.

How do we know the will of the Gods? Through history, through ritual, through philosophy.
Who teaches us history, ritual and philosophy? Priests, writers, scholars.
Who are priests, writers and scholars? But mortals.
Who can stand before the wrath of the Crystal Knight? No mortal.
Only the Gods.

You feel your aching bones crackle with a divine spark.

The air before you bends and warps. The Crystal Knight's Grav-Rail has conjured a microsingularity ahead of her lunge and she curves around it, bending impossibly, blade of light striking from angles no mortal mind or reflexes could be prepared for. Acceleration is her plaything, distance is at the mercy of her technology, direction is meaningless. In the strike of this blade is warfare as abstract and alien as the interplay of camouflage and guided munitions, as mud and wire, as titans of steel and cobalt. The next frontier of Mars' ever-expanding spiral of violence.

But for all her skill and power, she is a guest in your home. And she has drawn her blade.

Ember!

Though all the world breaks.

She breaks Beri. She shatters the stone. She rends the doors. She whirls through memories and gifts, upends the hearth, tears the trees, tramples gemstones so they break like glass. A storm passes through the town and rends rooftops into stone dust. Lifetimes of labour and love shattered into material for the dying Warsphere.

In the end, she tires of it first.

In a fit of fear you fling yourself out of the ship entirely and into the wine-dark void. She glances at you, then turns her back. This is the leash that binds the Armatii, the mechanism by which the Skies keep such perfect killers contained: they are territorial. Even as she destroyed your home, she was bound to hers and can not leave it. To follow you into the black would imply an emotional investment in your destruction she simply does not have; you were an intruder, and letting you depart having learned the error of your ways was no different from converting you into molluscs.

And so instead you float out for a moment in space, with no suit or protective equipment, exposed to the trackless void of Poseidon's great ocean in all its enormity. You have come close many times before, in dreams, but never like this. Never so tiny, and unprepared, and mortal in the face of shipwreck. The hungering depths and dominating currents of gravity and tide pull you on invisible channels and you experience the cosmos as the tiniest speck.

Alive.

Dyssia!

Tigers are big, you know? An avalanche of muscle and talon that kills with a single strike on the pounce, and these ones are horse-sized so that an Azura might get the feeling of a human being up against one. You don't win a sustained fight against a tiger, them killing you is an event and not a battle. You and the other Dyssia both understand this.

And so, too, do you both understand that the easiest way out is for one of you to die. There's a lot of meat on an Azura.

Would you go for that, Dyssia? And if it's between you and your copy, how would you decide which one is going under the talons? Or is that not even on the table?

Dolce!

It's not your fault.

This might take you a minute, so I want to put that up front first. You're not dealing with someone who has ever been thought of as a person before. You're dealing with someone who wore a person as a deployment mechanism. Compassion and sympathy weren't unexpected or things that they'd never experienced, they were just another way to get close.

They didn't know that at the time. They know that now, though. Now their blood is up, their mission is active, and they got a taste of the absolute alignment of Purpose that came with being in the process of killing the Architect. This assassin's creator-god built the Meaning of Life into her and she got a sip. The motivating force behind a mother bear protecting her cubs, a starving dog biting its master, a yobbo on stage in front of six thousand cheering people as they encourage him to do a full kegger - all these instincts and more have been re-wired to pass through a part of her brain dedicated to killing the Royal Architect. The most mentally destroyed methamphetamine addict would be downright reasonable in comparison.

When she leaps across the table, bone talons ripping out from under her robes, she does it for love - and Aphrodite is right behind her, surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke that gives you the smell of what that kind of love means. There's nothing she values higher than even heading in the direction of that experience, even if it means killing everyone on this ship for a maybe.

The phantasm dissolves inches away from you, bone claws barely tearing a scratch in your shirt collar.

"Well, that was a bust," said 20022 from the doorway, distastefully jiggling his teabag. "Shall I have the crew throw it out the airlock?"