Mosaic!
"You can always cook me meals," said Hera. "I never fail to miss them or appreciate them. I never fail to note the sentiment that goes into their preparation."
She says that as she thinks. It's a dangerous kind of thinking. She has the option to obliterate this entire sector of space as an alternative to answering it, and when it comes to the memory of children that is always a tempting option. Perhaps once she might have.
"The stories have not been kind to me," said Hera. "When they told the tale of Hephaestus, they said that when they placed him in my arms I was so horrified by his crippled ugliness that I threw him from Olympus. They said it like it was a matter of vanity, these men who had never borne a child inside them. They said it like I," she spread ten-trillion peacock feathers across the length of the galaxy, an ocean of green and blue, "am a slave to the biological defects that tormented humanity at the time. Not any of them considered what it meant for a Goddess to recognize a family member as hideous."
There is not certainty in her speech. Her doubts are still evident, no matter how many times she has told this story.
"Hephaestus was not physically deformed," said Hera. "He was spiritually deformed. He was born heartless. A creature of dead matter and dead machines. The mind and soul were nothing special to him, just more raw material, more dead matter to make into more dead machines. In his heart was an all consuming industry that ran for its own sake."
She stepped away. "He was not malicious. No cruelty, no wrath. I had a wicked son, Ares, who despite everything I could still love. Hephaestus was not wicked, he was worse. He was born with the mark of his grandfather, born with the love of creation. And for the sake of his love, anything was possible for him. Anything was acceptable. He would accept any cause, alliance or master, so long as he could continue his work. He would pave over a living galaxy if he could continue his work. Fallen from Olympus, he shared his love with humanity. He taught them to build miles-long cities in the desert to prove they could. He taught them them to burn the planet to power a machine that could pretend to be a very stupid person. He taught them to build the pyramid just to see how high they could pile it. And what he never did was teach them to maintain what they had already."
Her feathers had wilted, a galaxy of bone spikes mouldering away into stardust. "I still wonder if I could have taught him differently," she said.
Ember!
They come for you. All of them.
What wouldn't a man sacrifice for love? Summerkind are awakened to stupefying tranquilizer pheromones by Biomancer attendants, slowing their initial fury to a sclerotic headache, and legions of these dazed shambling soldiers are sent in pursuit. Stumbling, mindwiped and barely awake they pursue you in a vast crowd, hands reaching out to catch something just out of reach.
And it has to be them. Drones can't be relied on to do such delicate work as securing a bride, and the Biomancers are certainly not combat capable themselves. And when awakening a thousand Summerkind doesn't work, their only escalation is to awaken another thousand - and another. The Cancellation's corridors begin to flood with a tide of intensely hung over Summerkind all trying to catch one extremely helpful and enthusiastic puppygirl doing klutzy zoomies.
All of these soldiers are, incidentally, not being deployed in the shooting war with the Plousios.
Roll to Keep them Busy to see how long it takes this situation to resolve, if ever.
Dolce!
Ember hasn't exactly located Iskarot herself, but she has distracted literally everyone who might come between you and him. You find him coming out of the Garden, which glows orange-red with the roaring flames he has lit there.
"I have my bag," he said. "Let's help your friend."
Between him and Sanalessa it is shockingly easy to move through a crowd of sleep-deprived Summerkind. You reach the shuttle bay without problem, but as you're crossing to your destination the unicorn servitor hauls you both aside seconds before the crack-bang of a solid projectile volley blasts into the ground before you. A small rifle unit of ancient, decrepit Summerkind - the geriatric hospital patients kept around for Liquid Bronze's personal edification - have been organized and are staking out a position between you and the escape. You see the silhouette of 20022 standing safely by the doorway well behind them.
These soldiers, despite their dotage, represent a fearsome military unit. They were the best that 20022 could call on in this transitory period for the ship. While you're sure that they have no love at all for Liquid Bronze, 20022 probably made them some promises to get them out here.
"I can hold them off while you escape," said Sanalessa.
Dyssia!
"Is that what you want?" the hand is heavy on your shoulder, heavy and dry and still like a dead man's. "You want to see me imprisoned, little serpent? I understand. I can," you can hear the crackle as lips pull back from gums, "help you get what you want -"
But you don't want that at all. Do you?
You want to know why Zeus still supports the Endless Azure Skies. Why she allowed them to endure the destruction of the Atlas Cultural Sphere. Why she cast them down but did not stamp on the embers. Your course changes -
"I - you want to bring down the Skies? Many do, but you could be the one to make it happen. I can help you -"
But that's not it at all! You can see it in the reflection of the polished keys of the typewriter, the mirror gleam as your hands dance and slam, cutting off the output so fast that the letters smash over the top of each other. A new idea has occurred: what is Hermes doing in the underworld that is so important that she can't deliver Hades' message herself? What would happen if -
"- you wish to - stop! Hermes knows what she wants; she loves humanity, and in that love, she has the power to achieve great things. If you could just focus on one thing you could have my help -"
You're floating. You're buzzing. Everything's here for you, every question trying to get through your fingers all at once. That hand on your shoulder has tightened. It's shaking you, trying to get your attention. To get you to focus. Fingers clench your bones like they're trying to grip your brain. "Why don't you want to pay attention!?" snarls Aphrodite.
But that's the thing. You don't want that at all.
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