All furnish’d, all in arms;
All plumed like estridges that with the wind
Baited like eagles having lately bathed;
Glittering in golden coats, like images;
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
-Shakespeare, History of Henry IV, Part I

Among all the stars in heaven, there is nothing quite like the feeling of sitting in the pilot’s chair as you start a mecha. The power of the crystal fire races through the machine, causing the metal to thrum deeply with it. The feeling rises up through a pilot, starting in the legs and the thighs and surging through their chest, until the heart wants to beat in time with it. The systems come to life and the pilot receives a rush of data. It feels like growing, or perhaps like the world shrinks. It feels as though nothing could really offer a threat. Not through iron skin and thrusters of blinding white light powered by the crystal fire.

In private, the temptation is equal parts desire to do nothing and to race. To bask in the power, to sit and experience it all, yet to sprint, to set the thrusters to max and fly as hard and as fast as possible to feel no less than the full thrill that the experience offers.

Now stack on the desire to pose for a cheering public, the thought of loved ones back home, and some pre-match jitters to get a slight taste of the feelings of each pilot at the start of an arena season.

The Arena is bejeweled for the beginning of its fifth season. The nanobots have been in constant buzz working upon Hybrasilian bio-engineered seedlings and the result is that the oft-sandblasted arena planet of Akar finds itself covered with the emeralds and sapphires of a lush forest dotted with rivers and lakes. The trees are massive, easily ten stories tall with layers of thick canopy that would allow an enterprising mech to set an ambush without even using a stealth generator. Travel is slow and limited with such low visibility though, causing command of the heights and the waterways to offer a pilot clear lines of sight for combat.

This is how things are arranged for the start of the season. A thousand hidden cameras with mobile AI are placed strategically throughout the forest and accompany every pilot to capture the action. With all new combatants, a hundred small fights will soon by breaking out across the planet. Word has spread not only in TC space so near to Akar, but all the way to the homeworlds of Hybrasil and Zaldaria that the season is starting!

The luckiest, wealthiest, and most cunning patrons of all species are here in Akar, packing the bars and the hotels of Akar Prime and Akar II so that they can watch the live feed ahead of the recordings being sent out by couriers and container ships across the jumps lanes. Word is also spreading that upon Akar Prime, a high fashion house is recruiting pilots to sponsor their clothes and that the competition has brought more than a few illicit interests out from hiding to participate.

Welcome, one and all, to the Arena!

Mirror

You bring the God-Smiting Whip out from a small cave where you were deployed and take in your surroundings, nine tails searching for any threats. Heavy rainforest. You’re in the wettest part of the biome. Huge leaves and vines hang from the trees over multiple layers. Perfect cover, but the ground is a wet slog to move through and a careless flight will snag your tails and give away your position. There’s a river system nearby with an open canopy and bright sunlight reflecting off it, but you’ll be exposed if you venture into it. No sign of your opponent. She could be right next to you or miles away and you wouldn’t know it.

Here’s what you do know. Pilot matchups are announced a day in advance to offer some time for mental preparation and planning. Your opponent Valentina De Alcard pilots the Lonely Star. She’s a new pilot, not known in the scene, but you know she’s an independent originally from a consortium planet called Alcard (you don’t know all that much about TC naming, but being the same name as a planet you’re from probably means that you were one of the first people there, so maybe she’s from an important family or something?).

You might have been to Alcard before if you’ve been doing fashion work in the Consortium for a while, since it’s a stopover to reach both the Outlast and Nadir systems, but you may have just flown past it. It’s not a very big planet and it has a dim sun, but it’s rich in rare earths and manufactures good munitions.

All you know about the Lonely Star from the new pilot info you received is that it’s relatively small even for a gen 3 mecha and that it favors ranged weaponry. You can guess that being so small probably means that it gave up hull space that could have been used for a variety of weaponry and defenses in exchange for being able to put the maximum possible energy from its crystal fire drive into one gun (and possibly into speed now that you think of it).

So, how are you starting off your match?

***

Solarel
Today has been a rough day.

First off, you woke up late and immediately saw that your opponent is another Zaldarian. You’re going against Nierka Stalok, who pilots the Sea Spike. You met her once before leaving while she was a pilot in training. She seemed enthusiastic and high energy back then. Now, she’s a hardcore loyalist for the new Zaldarian Empress Naelkai II, and all she’s really got on you is that you’re the villain and she’s the righteous hero.

So that sounded like waking up to a fight where you’re going to get yelled at a lot for being a traitor without much listening. Then to make matters worse, one of the mechanics bumped into you in the prep hanger and you ended up blowing a hole in the wall next to him that didn’t repair itself so that probably left you a bit spooked and feeling drained before you even got in the cockpit.

Also, your current mecha is also a hunk of junk (does it even have a name?) and syncing yourself with its body makes you feel slow. Not exactly slower than normal, but you’ve experienced the top of the galaxy in Aeteline, cursed though it was, and it’s really hard for “normal” to compare to that sort of high.

When you come out, you’re on the sunset side of the planet, casting everything in deep reds and oranges. The rust tone actually reminds you a little of home too, as many a Zaldarian is naturally this color. Nierka isn’t trying to hide herself at all either. She’s come out of her spot near a small lakebed and is moving herself about ten meters in the air to stand clear and lit by the sunset, her own rust-red god seeming to meld with the light as she shouts a challenge over the comms.

What in the Empress’s name are you going to do?

***

Isabelle

Well, this is awkward. Your matchup is with the famed pirate queen Jacinta Niares, leader of the Red Band Pirates. Except, only kind of maybe. You see, Jacinta is very very wanted. So wanted that even with the protection and diplomatic immunity extended to participants in the arena, she would need to worry about idiots taking a shot at her anywhere she went if her location were publicly known.

It seems, however, that she really wanted to enter this tournament and so she got a lot of people to enter the rookie round under her name. So you’re up against Jacinta Niares number six. Which could be the real pirate queen. You don’t know! It’s also possible that Jacinta herself hasn’t entered at all and plans to take the spot of any of her proxies who advance. Or that statistics just aren’t with you and she’s off elsewhere being Jacinta Niares number eleven or something. But you have to consider that you may be facing off against the famed pirate queen and her berserker gatling style, so you need to be on the edge of your toes here.

Just think about the jokes that the girls back home would make if you get wiped out in your first match. It wouldn’t even disqualify you, but it sure will set the tone. Even if you advance later, it will be “oh Isabelle, I heard your nerves got the best of you,” “Oh Isabelle, try not to trip coming in,” “Isabelle, everybody says you’re slow out the gate, but don’t worry big sister’s got your back!” Before you got in the cockpit though, Luca, Tadeo and Carmella Lozano all gave you a big hug and hopefully that support is carrying you forward as you go in here.

Speaking of going in, you’ve got a dual puzzle to figure out for your match, both identity and terrain. If you really are against Jacinta and her mecha Roar, you need to figure out how to engage without getting blitzed, but you also have to consider that this might not be her and it might have a different loadout (Roar is extremely custom, you’ll know once you engage seriously if you got the real one or not unless she intentionally holds back and throws the match). The second part of the puzzle is how to work this complexity through the terrain. You’ve come into the arena already up high through an elevator that dropped you into the middle of the second canopy layer seven meters in the air. The upper trees are light enough here that you can see the daylight sky partially obscured, but no sign of Jacinta number six yet, and no way to know if she’s above or below you.

She does, however, come over the comms with a voice that sounds like it comes from someone very muscular: “come and get me little mink!”

What do you do?

***

Dolly

Jade absolutely set you up for this arena. There is no way, absolutely no way that this is a coincidence. You cannot come up with any other explanation for why your combat zone would be a stone village cleared out of the forest, in the middle of the night zone, lined with ritual torches along an open if mossy causeway almost ten meters wide that leads to a stone dais set above a reservoir. Almost exactly like a scene in a Hybrasilian pulp novel, in fact. You may or may not even have written a story that used a setting like this for religious rituals…or sacrifices.

At least the stars are beautiful here. You can see both Akar Prime and Akar Secundus high in the sky above you, Akar Prime looking like a gray shadow sprinkled with lights, and Akar Secundus with a slightly red tint to it as it reflects the light of Akar’s older sun. Beside them is a vast sea of stars sprinkling the sky. You’re near the Cerulean Belt here, nearer than you’ve ever been before, and you can see how it got the name as it offers a blue tint like water filled with diamonds to the night sky in a long wide slash of the horizon. It makes you think of old stories about hidden treasures on planets deep in nebulae and signs of the distant gods from ages long past.

But there’s no time for thinking, you’re exposed out in the open like this and you can see your opponent! The Barn Owl, piloted by Angela Victoria Miera Antonius deployed on the opposite side of the causeway. This is actually a really advantageous range for her, not too far away for her guns, but not so close that you can instantly close. The torches paint a clear target too.

You know, if you had time to think, this might make you even more suspicious of Jade. She had expressed disappointment yesterday when you drew an opponent who was piloting a modified gen 2.5 TC mecha instead of the newer gen 3s. The Barn Owl is blockier and less pretty than many others, and someone craving the greatest challenge the Arena has to offer probably wouldn’t look here to start. Though if you underestimate Angela, she’ll surprise you!

So, how do you start your match?

On the outside: Smokeless Jade Fires emerges from the night like the ghost of an unfulfilled rival on the road, here to make one final challenge. Her colors are sepulchral in the torchlight, black and cobalt blue; the golden tributes on her breastplate and braids gleam like the fires of the Hot House, now that she has let her cloak fall. It is a statement: I do not even need the advantage of striking out of the many-periled night for the likes of you, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius!

“Greetings and defiance, champion of the Consortium,” she declaims, bowing with a flourish of her long electrolance; the water ripples at the force of her speakers, despite the hiss of her sibilants. “I will not insult your people by insisting on a surrender you will not offer. Indeed, I will take mercy upon you. Take your shot; hit me if you may; show your mettle. Even a captive may earn glory from the word of a fine strike.”

It’s grandstanding for three audiences at once: Angela herself, the watching audience, and Dolly safe within her chest. For the first, she presents herself as full of confidence, self-assured, deliberately ceding advantages to rattle her. For the second, almost but not quite an afterthought, the feeling of awe, of seeing the self-aware mech in its very stone. For the third, of course, the archaism; she would appreciate the cadence of the ancient warriors who vied for control of the city-states.

Naturally, she does not intend for allowing the shot to strike home. Perhaps a deflection with the lance, perhaps ducking low to the causeway and loping close, perhaps simply allowing her armor to take brunt of the blow if it is too swift.

---

On the inside: Dolly slowly surfaces from submerged space, feeling the chill of water roll down her spine as she blinks slowly. Behind her, hundred-handed Jade cups her arms, her thighs, her chest, her cheeks, and guides her into position.

Inside of Jade is an entire world, which is the gyroscopically balanced pilot’s capsule, from which a pilot may see the world and act upon it, in which their every move controls their perfect warrior body, constructed to move as they move, act as they act; tlacpac, nehuintlani.

But Dolly does not decide what Jade does. She is the medium, not the message; she is what is acted upon, not what acts. Her hundred-handed goddess pushes and she yields, pulls and she follows, squeezes and she melts. She is a dancer on a grand stage, a puppet on a hundred strings, a beloved doll who must trust the command of her owner.

The hand between her shoulderblades pushes, and Dolly bows low, one hand swept out; typical of Jade to grandstand. One ear twitches, and in response, Jade’s fingers curl inside and begin to massage the sensitive inside of her triangle. And that’s far from the only part of her being given attention; Jade’s hands on her chest rub in circles before firmly clenching, then releasing and continuing to rub, just as they have been all night. An invitation to submerge again.

As if she would, when Jade went to the trouble of lining the streets!

In Jade’s world, Dolly stands as tall as the trees, but she’s not wearing her bodysuit. Her limbs are heavy with tribute, feathers wreathe her hair, and her skirt is knotted at one hip. The streets of the village are thronged with worshippers of the goddess, the roll of drums and the tremor of bells and the chant of prayers. Dolly is the temple dancer, her collar engraved with the icon of the goddess, her fur painted in dreamy swirls of paint writhing about her rosettes, and her mouth filled past what she could ever really manage, her burning cheeks covered, her face held tightly beneath bead-fringed scarves, knotted firmly behind her head by a hundred hands.

While her goddess fights, Dolly will not be fighting; she will be proving her skill as a dancer, blessed with silence, guided by the demands of her goddess, rewarded for every lunge that becomes a graceful blow and every nimble step that moves them out of danger, every way in which she shamelessly moves her body for the glory of Smokeless Jade Fires. Everyone is watching her. Everyone can see her. Her heart races.

Well, Jade? She can feel your hands tightening, possessive, ready to show her what she needs to do. She doesn’t need to awaken her heart, not for a fight like this. Let her be your temple dancer, your bride of the gods, beheld by everyone, marked as yours, in the waking dream you unfold before her.

The Bezorel had a face that not even a committee could love.

There were mechs that one procured because one was cheap - and then there were mechs that one procured because one was cursed. The Bezorel was a human design, the Warcrusher-class: an unholy marriage of a designer who foresaw the future of mecha as armoured personnel carriers and a military who didn't trust bipedal locomotion and demanded the use of a backup set of treads on its feet. It has the aura of a militarized garbage can on roller skates. It's also a hangar queen, uses an experimental dead-end of a weapon system, and explodes in such a satisfying way that it improves the morale of enemy forces.

The weapon system is an Archimedes Prototype Laser array - imagine a pair of large and glittering solar panels that hang off the side of the Bezorel like a set of elephant ears. These crystal panels focus energy into low-grade prototype laser array. The one upside to the Archimedes is that it can manage a "Hella" rate of fire, a factoid most popularly cheered by the infantry carried within the Warcrusher's bulk until they reached the bunker it was failing to burn through.

The Bezorel is the final, tragic manifestation of the Warcrusher. It limps onto the battlefield as though hungover, and even the vaunted rapid-fire capabilities of the Archimedes are stuttering. The volley comes constantly but ragged, missing beats, pewpew pew pew - pew pew pew...

It's a tragic sight.

*

SYSTEM: Pattern identified.
#$# Pattern? What pattern?
SYSTEM: The pattern of the laser array.
!!@: Why are you examining the pattern? It is manifestly failing to overcome Dame Stalok's shielding.
!!@: It is failing even to optimize for the limited capabilities possessed by the TC design.
!!@: Such a technique possesses no military value.
SYSTEM: Correct. The attack pattern deployed by the Bezorel possesses no military value.
!!@: As I thought.
#$#: ...
#$#: SYSTEM, does the pattern possess cultural value?
SYSTEM: Define "Culture".

*

The Sea Spike draws closer. Oftentimes it can weave paths directly through the lasers, letting them glance harmlessly off its armour. Nierka feels the rumbling pulse of impacts but proceeds unbothered; shields may have been dropped but armour is barely getting warm.

Abruptly, the Bezorel changes its attack pattern. A volley of missiles is launched abruptly and the machine opens up with a volley of wildly inaccurate autocannon fire. Spent shells crash into the ground, the deep and percussive rumble added to the intensifying laser array fire.

*

#$#: You are hearing this too, right?
!!@: There is no way.
#$#: SYSTEM, confirm origin of attack pattern.
SYSTEM: Attack pattern confirmed to be musical in nature. Relevant song identified as classic TC electronic piece "Megalovania".

*

Amidst the blinding lights of the Archimedes array and the hideous aesthetics of the Bezorel, it would take a razor eye indeed to notice that the cockpit was not closed. A thick black cable runs out of it, down onto the ground, where it is buried under a thin layer of dirt and pinned to the ground with rocks. So hidden, the cable runs all the way across to the leg of the Sea Spike. And then up that leg. And then all the way to the cockpit of the enemy mecha.

And then, BANG!

Pressed against the glass exterior of the Sea Spike, at the end of the long cable, is Solarel. She wears a manic grin, her Mind-Impulse interface headset still connected back to the Bezorel, and fire. She lay in wait for the Sea Spike to get closer so she could board it, and has been specifically aiming at herself with her distant mech as she climbed its leg. The low powered lasers were absolutely perfect for building up a massive store of Motive Force without triggering a spike. Dressed now only in the ragged and burning remnants of her clothing she literally flares with power as she raises her right fist to punch right through the cockpit window of the Sea Spike to take her rival by the throat.

Did you miss her, followers of Zaldar?

[Fight: 6]

"Cat in the jungle. Ah. Jokes. Do I watch playback on mute? Mm, no. Can't resist. Besides, it's more instructive in the event of a loss."

Stub-clawed fingers glide over a series of switches and dials, clicking the row on the top-left of the main panel into the proper positions with a chorus of extremely satisfying clunks. The smooth palm and spotted fur of the hand glow in the harsh cockpit lighting, rippling with motion as they grasp a large lever and tug it forcefully into a neutral position.

Her spare hand takes a moment to pluck at the skintight jumpsuit clinging to her body like it's trying to merge with her. She shifts the fabric a bit so it pinches her tummy a little less, but her muscles tug it right back the second she shifts. She shrugs. The material's amazing at keeping sweat off her skin so she can't really mind it too much, as hot as it gets in here. Her leg stomps down on a foot pedal as two liquid eyes flit over information displayed across a dozen different screens and pop ups.

And in the jungle, Nine-Tails takes a single cautious step. The lithe frame of the mecha tightens its grip around the trident in its hands, while its eight free floating "tail" units hover quietly behind it, with only the occasional pink spark from the energy matrix that keeps them linked with the main machine.

"Systems check, all green. Input delay measuring at seven milliseconds; within expected parameters. Beginning first live combat test... now."

Mirror's face scrunches into a light frown. It tended to do that when she was happy, and in particular when she was happy about being presented with a challenge. In a less cramped environment she might also stretch her spine and stand up on her tiptoes, but inside the confines of her mecha all she can do is hunch forward in her chair to grip the joysticks tighter. The great secret of the Gods-Slaying Whip: it had no neural link of any kind. Consequently, that made her one of only a tiny handful of people in the known galaxy who might be able to pilot it at all.

But this was not the time for self congratulation. The value of the systems hadn't proven themselves yet, except on paper. Over a year's worth of obsessive thought, sleepless nights, and long arguments with her family, and so far all she had to show for it was what she referred to as a Pattern Puzzle. Each layer of the riddle unfolded to reveal a new dependency in the pattern, such that you couldn't simply brute force a bunch of colors together on a cube and call it good. Every piece needed to be arranged just so in order to get the shape of the puzzle on the next level to reveal itself, and even a correct seeming solution could only show her parts of what was underneath it. She wouldn't know if she'd done it properly until she got down to the core and received her reward. It reminded her of the way AI logic was woven out of such dense tangles of visual information that spoke to artistry almost as much as systems mastery, and how without any given piece of seemingly pointless data the entire thing would become so much inert sludge. Hence, the name. Satisfying.

"Layer one: disadvantage."

For as much as the... preliminary matches still had commentary teams, right? They didn't save that for the later, more important rounds? That would be a disappointment to learn. Regardless, while any hypothetical commentary team would doubtless be wasting infinite air calling this her home territory, the truth was that it (to use a popular human expression) 'hardcore sucked'. The true power of her Nine-Tails was in its adaptability, but that required space she didn't have in all this dense foliage for her tails to move about freely. Additionally, since her rig used camera feeds instead of pushing sensory information directly into her head, any sort of information dense battleground would naturally take her longer to process than a sufficiently talented opponent using a more traditional control scheme. The difference would be measured in fractions of a second, if that, but smaller windows had cost her more.

"Moreover, can only make assumptions. Moreover, minimal confirmation of enemy combat tactics. Moreover, determining position amounts to determining weapon capabilities."

Mirror nodded to herself. These would be good logs to have for later. She should install an audio recorder later if she found the time. But in the meantime, the shape of the Pattern was still becoming known to her. If the Lonely Star was a... what was the word again? In her native tongue it would be a [Far Seer] but with a human opponent it felt important to think in human terminology. A sharp shooter, perhaps? Regardless. If it primarily operated on the principles of long range, high precision marksmanship, then Valentina would respond to a threat-level response with a full power kill shot, ideally from the edge of her viable range. But if that tiny frame were focused more exclusively on maneuverability, she'd already be using the tree cover to slip in closer.

In either case the solution was to close distance and establish her Zone overtop of the Lonely Star's, but without knowing the exact size and shape of her enemy's Zone it would be impossible to properly manifest control. If she prepared for the wrong angle of attack then her own lightly armored unit would fall before it got a chance to gather any useful data. Unacceptable risk.

"Information wars cut both ways," she clicked her tongue while musing, "Must remember that."

This was the hidden layer of the challenge: victory was irrelevant in the face of learning. As far as the tournament was concerned, the only important thing was to qualify out of the preliminary matches and enter the main rounds where she'd actually be able to do everything she needed. A perfect record beforehand was excessive. If others mocked her for dropping an early fight... well, they mocked her plenty as is. Irrelevant. Of vastly greater importance was disguising the full capabilities of Nine-Tails. The less others understood the functionality of her tails, the greater her advantage would be when it mattered. As such, she'd already calculated she could only afford to use one third of her full capability in qualifications.

"Establishes a baseline response anyway. Important work."

In any case, it was a question of understanding enemies, understanding spaces. Understanding the biome reached a distant third. Based on publicly available information, it could reasonably be assumed that if Mirror took the river safely, she would win without question. At least, no one reasonable would question it. The answer to the riddle, then, was to establish reason and position at the same time.

...She's spent this long standing still in reasonably exposed space without being attacked. That's an answer in and of itself, really. But even still, one could never finish a puzzle using only negative information. Two tails shouldn't make for too big a strain on her concentration, right?

"Nine Drive System is active. Initiating full burn. Come and get me, if you dare."

The Gods-Smiting Whip shares no tactile data with Mirror as it first crouches low into the wet ground and then leaps high into the air on a burst of thruster fire, but that only makes the G-forces feel more potent as they force her back into her chair. It brings a knee up without her needing to, it twists it's back and arcs into a high flip as it clears the trees and hangs in the open air for three glorious seconds. Six tails follow as if on strings. Two more, hidden and waiting at the edge of the canopy. Mirror jerks her joysticks hard and her mech twists in the air, flourishing its trident with menace and purpose. Six buttons in sequence, and her hidden tails lock together like the barrel of an oversize rifle.

Her heartbeat quickens. This is what it truly feels like to fly.

The stress of their first matches might have gotten to other people. There are countless instances of how it could - whether through butterflies in the stomach, sweaty palms, or just plain old nerves.

But those concerns were for lesser fighters.

Some others might succumb to a different temptation. As the crystal fire infuses you, as you become one with your mecha, the thrill, the rush, it all comes to a point of adrenaline and rash decisions.

Those concerns were for lesser pilots.

There would be no such mistakes here today. Not from her, not after all her training, not after all her research and definitely not after all the jokes otherwise from the Terrible Trio. Some pilots might take consolation that the qualifiers are not knockout territory, but Isabelle Lozano was not just "some pilot". She meant to ace the qualifiers, no matter what. It was time to put on a show, and part of that meant not just waltzing into her opponent's trap.

And most definitely not after such low-bar trash talk. I mean, come on, give the commentators something interesting to speak about!

"You know, "Jacinterina", I would have expected at least a better opening shot than that." she says, injecting her voice with just the right balance of snark and venom to play well on the holos, as well as to get the other woman off balance. Most definitely emphasising the air quotes too. Those were important.

"Is all that time running from the law finally taking its toll on your banter? Or is this just another one of your decoys? I mean, I understand wanting to hide after everything that happened to you."

Mentally, she took a breath, hoping that the research would pay off as she moved Emberlight into cover, waiting for the inevitable reaction. On her face was a half-lidded smirk for the cameras. She was in control of the situation, after all.

"I mean, it's not every day you get a hunt called on you by your own tribe. Such a pity. It's going to be a long time before you can be around someone and blink."

[Know your place: 4 + 5 + 2 : 11 - word spreads of her sharp wit and she takes +1 forward against 'Jacinta', who now has to pick an option from the move. (Back down, Make a fool of themself, Attack her]

Dolly

"Ai, Ai! You insult me! You offer me mercy?!" Angela's voice comes over the comms as the hum of the gatling guns mounted on her suit's shoulders fills the night. Air flying off from their rapid spinning makes the torches dance in mad gyrations. "I won't let you make that mistake twice!"

A hail of bullets fills the air. Angela understands that Jade could in fact dodge, and her pattern is not to fire both guns directly at her target. Instead one gun is aimed straight for the chest and the other is leading her target matching Jade's leading shoulder.

Without a doubt, Jade's offer of mercy has made your opponent angry and she's letting loose with everything she has using her advantageous range. Jade (and Dolly!) you're going to have to do more than duck to get past this hail of bullets! After Angela's closeup and a sweeping shot of her guns warming up, the cameras have all turned to you and how you'll handle the situation! Show off some dancing!

***

Solarel

"Aaaaaaah!" screamed Nierka as your hand suddenly grabbed her by the throat within her cockpit! "AAAAAAAAAA" screamed the Sea Spike's internal AI, expressing its opinion on the sudden hull breach using a series of klaxons. "aaiaiaiaiaiaiai" screamed one of Nierka's smaller spirits animating some aspect of her coat on her person and trying to wrap itself around your arm to no avail.

The camera drones, structured to capture the full sweep of mecha combat, are all rushing to get a closeup of this personal combat happening in the middle of the duel. Lasers are still flying thick through the air, some from the Sea Spike, some from the Bezorel. This trick was so unexpected that you might have had the whole match right here. Nierka is flailing and screaming, but you've got her. Except for the poor, unfortunate challenge of Culture. The Bezorel really does have a limited tracking system and it's still following you. And now you're in the cockpit. An errant laser strike, still active, blows past your current angle and hits directly onto Nierka. Her flailing becomes more animated and spreads through the Sea Spike itself, which begins gyrating, the screams of its AIs and its pilot spreading louder. The sudden and intense centrifugal force finally breaks your grip and sends you flying out of the now backwards tilting mecha. You land on an upraised knee and you find yourself clinging on for all you're worth as the Sea Spike topples and pulls the attached Bezorel with it.

Don't suppose you've got a backup plan?

***

Mirror

There!

At the head of the river, where it begins to slope upward towards a small hill, you can see the Lonely Star! It's well-positioned: it's been painted a deep purple-gray that blends with the stone and the water. If you weren't above it, seeing it stand out in contrast to the glare of the sun upon the river's surface, it might have been extremely difficult to find before getting shot. But you see it!

With your sudden burst of speed out of the canopy, you've turned this into a game of reflexes. The Lonely Star's long-barreled laser rifle (longer than the mech is tall) was pointed down the river line, but she saw your flare as you burst from the canopy and she's already brought it around and is lining up her shot. You hang poised like a diamond of fire, the sun's rays the only protection left to you as she finishes her calculations and your own tail gun pivots.

The fight may not end on a single shot, but whoever makes the quicker draw here will have complete control of the tempo and an overwhelming advantage.

***

Isabelle

Look at all these collapsing quantum realities. Jacinta 6 snarls an angry snarl over the comms and rushes you. But just that has dropped the myriad of options down to only two: fake Jacinta or holding back Jacinta. There's no gatling rush, no insane pinwheel top of lasers and fury coming at you. This Jacinta is all in on the more classical close combat. Claws pulsing with an arcing electromagnetic field extend from both hands of the mecha and her engines roar to life as she tries to hit you hard in a straight line without any thought to her own safety.

Also, you may be wondering how you know all this. It's because those claws and that engine are chewing up the trees and vines beneath you, which you realized the second you heard the thrusters roar to life. You're going to want to readjust your position ASAP!

Puzzling.

Isabelle allows her eyes to tighten slightly, mostly to show the cameras she's paying attention. Inwardly, she's frowning. It doesn't make sense. Of the two probabilities, one is favoured; that this is the real Jacinta after all. The insult was directed at her, and wouldn't have had as much of an impact on one of her ring-ins.

On the other hand, this is very much not her typical fighting style. So what, is she still holding back? That doesn't make sense either.

Still, an opening is an opening. And it would be a shame to waste it.

Emberlight twists out of the way of the oncoming opponent, scant moments before its claws blast through the trunk behind her. Despite herself, Isabelle can't help but acknowledge the readouts on their discharge, assessing the risk they would pose if they actually connected.

Normally she wouldn't indulge in such daydreaming during a fight, but she was confident that the surprise left behind on that tree would buy her the time.

Indeed, her opponent would have only had just enough time to realise two things. The first; that she'd missed her intended target. The second; that the one particular shard of the tree trunk was still attached to her mech's hand, and it was beeping.

With the blast taking the opponent off balance, Isabelle struck. Block high, duck low. And bring her own EMP gauntlet into a crushing grip around those claws. A crackling blue discharge later, and - even if they weren't immediately knocked offline - her opponent's ability to use them in the fight would be crippled.

Holding the smoking mecha with one hand, she lifts it off the ground slightly.

"Do you yield, "Jacinterina"?" she asks, bringing the second arm back over her shoulder "Or am I going to need to pry you out of there?"

[Roll to fight. 6 + 6 + 3 = 15. Taking away their use of the electro-gauntlets. Inflicting a condition. And gaining a string.]

The Bezorel activates its thruster skates and charges, autocannons blazing, skidding past the Sea Spike while activating its flamethrowers. It needs to get as close as possible because with the Sea Spike flailing rapidly there is the constant danger of the Mind-Impulse cable plugging Solarel in to her distant cockpit going taught and snapping. And then it really will be one against a mountain.

But through the storm of gunfire and literal fire, Nierka gets a text message, flashing on the broken holodisplay of her cockpit.

SoL: So you ever think that we're not using Mind-Impulse technology correctly? In this essay I will 1/52

Clinging to the exterior of the Sea Spike, Solarel flexes her fingers. Nanotechnology swirls and the Geist responds, distilling the air and burning matter into the shape of a pickaxe of shining silver. She swings it down, digging into the hull of the mecha she clings to, letting her pull herself up like a mountain climber. As she pulls, another pick - this time of gold - forms in her fingers.

SoL: I mean, is the height of our ambition really to be ourselves but big and metal? Is the outcome of merging with a god really just shaving a couple of milliseconds off our combat reaction time? 4/52
#$#: Is this prerecorded?
!!@: Why would you think that?
#$#: Isn't she doing a lot right now? Piloting a mech, climbing a mech, targeting a laser array, giving a monologue about transzaldar ideology?
!!@: Why would that be difficult?
#$#: Don't descendants have difficulties with multitasking?
!!@: Why would they have difficulties with multitasking?

Solarel swings herself around to the back of the mecha this time. Hand over hand, gold and silver, she surges with all the power that fire can give her up towards the centre of the Sea Spike's back. She's aiming to be out of range of swatting hands, and ideally force the Spike to face its front towards the Bezorel. While a Zaldarian could pull the Motive Force out of a direct laser strike, it was an important distinction that did not make them immune to laser strikes. It hurt like hell and converting that much power into energy risked blowing a capacitor.

SoL: I once fought a genius. Greatest warrior of her species. She didn't even use a MIU. Regarded it as a limitation. 45/52
#$#: Clearly we should test the hypothesis.
!!@: Understood. Descendant! Do a trick!

Solarel paused mid climb, raising a hand and frantically snapping her fingers until a deck of cards materialized in them. Immediately the wind and a sudden jolting turn sent them scattering, burning, down below her and she frantically gripped back onto her climbing picks. Wrenching the golden pick up into the air, it catches the sun and so converts into a blade of concentrated golden plasma fire. Solarel begins to press it into the Sea Spike's back where it hisses and burns and sends relatively thin rear armour melting away.

SoL: And I think this is what she meant. Are you going to bring shame and defeat to a God just because you can't imagine bending your arms backwards? /thread
!!@: Okay I have selected my card
SYSTEM: No pattern identified.
!!@: Oooh, even SYSTEM doesn't know this one!

[Defy Disaster: 10]

Something most people don't understand about puzzles is that they are actually weapons. The ultimate weapons, in fact. The faster you solve them the harder they hit, especially in warfare. Technically speaking this arena-level play fighting wasn't that, but the principle applied in equal measure to kittens testing the sharpness of their precious little teeth on each other's ears as it did to holding back a Zaldarian battle line. Information was power. Data was a sword and a shield. If you understood the nature of your opponent's strike, then...

"Evasive maneuvers, shifting power to left leg rear thrusters. Flip and flop, run and drop, as they say."

The first strike was irrelevant. The second was largely immaterial as well. The Gods-Smiting Whip bent at an impossible angle: one leg dangling in the air as if broken while the other drags the main back down toward the canopy in the direction of the river bed. The blast from the Lonely Star is enormous, more than powerful enough to puncture Mirror's frame clean through if it landed a direct hit. But Valentina's aim was perfect, which is to say incomplete. She led her shot to compensate for humanoid reflexes, humanoid movement capabilities. When Nine-Tails moved like a machine it converted a kill shot into so much superheated air.

"Excellent! Very well done, Milady!"

That was the proper way to speak to human nobility, right? The Consortium's society was enormously complex and consisted of a frankly nonsensical crisscross of ladders with ascending and descending hierarchy that seemed immune to common sense adjustments for familiarity and physical closeness. They each had social roles (defined as birth traits? Bizzare.) and defaulted to the assumption that everyone they met would automatically treat with them with according levels of respect or disrespect depending on myriad cues they simply refused to signal. It was even possible, though unlikely, that Valentina de Alcard was not qualified 'nobility' at all, in which case Mirror was committing a major taboo just now. But then, to what purpose was the designation if the visitors to a planet weren't afforded the distinction?

Well, that would be a puzzle for the Kiss and Cry, she supposed. In the meantime she made a spiraling dive for the tree cover, twisting out of the way of a second shot that was only slightly less accurate than it needed to be. Oh, beautiful calibration! She'd figured out the nature of the movement in just one demonstration! Mirror couldn't have asked for a more fun playmate to open her time in the arena with. It was only a shame they were operating on such different layers of the same puzzle together.

"Target lock acquired. Synchronization levels holding. Stabilizing. Destruction rains from the heavens."

The Gods-Smiting Whip takes the river, landing in a three point stance on its right knee as it plunges the beam trident into the rocky riverbed with a rush of boiling water and the soft shuddering of earth accepting a temporary scar. Just as it crashes, tails one and two unleash a barrage of energy bursts from their original position in the canopy above.

The first clips the side of the Lonely Star's giant weapon barrel. The second passes a whisker's breath away from its face plate. The next twenty two are total chaos. Rocks split clean in half as gleaming coal-like embers and dirt sprays in every which direction as shock after shock after shock of energy churns it up and spits it in the air like a great beast crawled out from mythology itself. The air turns to muddy steam that's quickly whipped into a whirlwind by the pattern of extreme heating and cooling happening to the poor air all over. But this level of assault is only sustainable for a few brief moments. The tails slink quietly down toward the ground, out of sight. The wind dissipates.

And the Lonely Star is completely untouched. Not a single shot fired from the entire barrage did more than mar its paint job a teeny little playful bit here and there, like cutting little scraps of clothing from a duelist to show your admiration in a much more ancient sort of ritual. Instead, Mirror has carved patterns into the ground on every side of her opponent. She's painted the Lonely Star into a box and dotted the entire thing with stylized heart symbols. As if that was the entire point of the exercise.

Nine-Tails rises to its full height, as two more tails float off of its back and seem to lock onto the mech's left forearm. It lifts its trident to the skies.

"I want to commend you for your choice of positioning. You claimed your territory with the precision I would expect from a huntress, I can't pay you any higher compliment than that. All the same, I'm sorry. I need a favor from you, cutie! See, my Nine Drive System is missing a lot of combat data. Data I need to finish it, understand? Of course you understand, good girl! So if you wouldn't mind..."

Mirror smashes her trident against Nine-Tails' forearm with an explosion of multicolored sparks. She settles into a deep stance and braces for impact, raising the arm like a shield in front of her.

"Full power, please. And don't forget to aim~"

[Defy Disaster: 5]

For Dolly, the world is full of fireflies, a storm of them, roiling and humming and streaking through the night. Her heart races as she realizes that her goddess is going to hold, is going to make her wait for the very last second, and only then will she let her Dolly move, show her the right moves to make. A thought flashes through Dolly's head as the fireflies streak fearfully close, and she strains slightly, offering a suggestion. Smokeless Jade Fires' attention alights upon her like a halo, like the sun that cuts through the treetops, and then she is pushed, tumbling into the motion she offered.

Dolly does the splits: heels out, palms on the earth, fireflies streaking through her headdress, back low, head up. She brings her heels back behind her, toes digging into the stone, and lunges forward on all fours. The storm tracks her movements, descends to meet her, but Jade already knows what they need to do. Dolly does a headstand on one hand, lets the momentum flip her over and carry her back onto her feet, and now she's up on her arches at the very edge of the water, heels up, as much hopping as running, and Jade's laughing for her, and now the fireflies are setting the very ground beneath her feet alight.

Dolly drives her dancer's stave, hung with feathers and bangles, onto the stone and vaults up into the air. There's a moment where her stomach lurches, even though the hundred hands are holding her tight, pulling her up into the sky, as if Jade means to make her a constellation, or as if she's going to be one of the bird dancers, soaring down to earth with the rest of her flock, making the thirteen circuits around the heart of the world. And there, hung in furs, her rival: one of the Dead Wolves, the tzitzi, her ribs all lit up with fireflies. Dolly knows better than to compare Jade's enemy designs to Starless Skies bosses again unless she really wants to get it good, but she can still think it: the baroque and over-the-top arms and armor, the skeleton iconography straight out of late-Kaliko temple art, the reverb on their laughter as they point up higher than Jade thought they could and--

Oh.

The fireflies are like hot embers washing over her bare fur (and, more to the point, her bare chest) and she lets out a muffled, mortified squeal as she tumbles backwards, but Jade's hundred hands have her, cradling her spine and head, slowing her tumble as much as Jade can without breaking their connection. Dolly lets those hands spin her around, loosening her grip on the pole, and then snatching it back out of the air as she hits the ground on one knee. Her front throbs with the feedback, and Jade's fingers are rubbing her in soothing circles, almost shyly, almost apologetically. Almost.

Not that her Jade would show weakness when she knows her Dolly needs her to be strong, needs encouragement and bravado.

"Is that all you have?" Jade roars, cackling. "I barely felt it!" One open palm cracks on Dolly's rear to get her moving again, and Jade excitedly guides her through flinging the pole straight at one of the tzitzi's arms. Her choice whether to let it get hit or to twist out of the way, buying Jade the time she needs to close. Sure, Jade's down one weapon, but that's why she has two. Dolly looses the thongs at her hip, the cords of a huntress, and spins them to life, taking deep heaving breaths from her exertion (which are translated into the fluid, organic shudders of Jade's body, just as any other mech interface would). "You must want to pay homage to a true goddess." The hundred hands tighten their grip. "Well, I already have a bride, but I might accept your pathetic prayers..."

[Dolly and Jade, working together, manage a desperate 7 on Defying Disaster, and are willing to give up their electrolance and any hope of winning without wrapping up the foe. Or, you know, it could turn out that Jade's once again underestimating Angela Victoria Miera Antonius.]

Isabelle

This is going to be one for the highlight reels. Jacinta 6's feral growl fills up the comms, but you smoothly sidestep like you were dodging a bit of dust or falling rock, and then you've got her. She struggles and twists, but your grip is strong, and you can feel that strength coursing through you in the form of your own empowered gauntlet. It feels like nothing could stop you, like you can mold the world however you want. EMP pulses collide in a crack of white light, smoke, and the smell of ozone, and with that the claws on Jacinta 6's mecha are crushed and worthless for the remainder of the fight. You smile with your victory and you offer her honorable surrender. In this moment, you are the height of nobility, grace, and poise.

Now, if you were cutting the clip for the highlight reel, this is where you would stop. Because the thing that you have forgotten in this fight is that the opponent you're holding is an angry cat and she has claws everywhere. With a wordless snarl, she wrenches her own arm in your grip (that had to hurt, good chance it's completely useless now and her own arm inside the mecha probably just went completely numb within her neural mesh). She uses that momentum to kick off the last remaining bits of the tree branch and send a foot to connect with your stomach. There is one more EMP claw in those foot talons, and it cuts right past your shields and makes you feel rather like you just got kicked in the solarplexes. The branch snaps the rest of the way and both of you fall.

You shouldn't let this take away from your victory though. This is an act of angry, snarling defiance with no regard to true victory. Even as you crash to the ground, your grip never breaks and you've still got a firm hold on her, nor is the kick really threatening you with decisive damage. It's just that what went from a cool, suave, noble victory is now going to be nothing but kicking, snarling, and fighting until she can't move anymore and that's pretty frustrating for how you wanted the match to end.

How do you finish her off?

[Jacinta 6 inflicts the Angry condition on you in response]

***

Solarel

"Listen here, Traitor. First, you disrespect this contest. Then you disrespect my god, and now you disrespect Zaldarian culture!"

She's trying to figure out how to get around to you, but she's also still recovering from how hard she was being thrown and you're moving in a way that her god hasn't ever dealt with in combat. She probably could have just started attacking the Bezorel in earnest, flames be damned, and ignored you in order to cut off your strategy, but she's not thinking straight. You've thrown her.

"I will not let this injustice stand!" A hand tries to grab for you and misses as you use the flame-empowered momentum and your pick to hurl yourself upwards. The Sea Spike flails again and tries to stand up straight and regain its balance as the Bezorel circles it.

"Your depravity knows no bounds, traitor! I will defeat you for the Empress!" She's trying something different now, bringing her own longspear around in a circular cut that's designed to hit you by cutting all the way up her own leg, the shallow surface damage be damned.

Every camera drone from the twilit jungle has flown out and they're doing their absolute best to zoom in on you without getting in the way of the match (which is programmed into them as an absolute imperative, nobody wants to invalidate a result or lose expensive camera equipment to a stray explosion). Every Zaldarian watching the live match right now is focused on you, Solarel, as you ascend an impossible mountain. So is Nierka.

You get this one free moment before her own mecha AI points out how dumb she's being and that she could just blow up the Bezorel at close range. Make it count.

***

Mirror

You can't hear it, but the audience gasps. A planet away in Keoni's Tower, a fisher cat is proudly being handed money by a collection of huntresses gathered by a screen at the highest table in the tower. "She should have gone for the finish immediately" grunts a tiger with an annoyed pout. "She's gathering data idiot. You should try it sometime" the elated fishing cat responds as she counts her new stack of coins.

You're really going to let her take this shot though, huh? You're lucky. She doesn't trust it any more than the audience does, and some part of this seems to offend her honor. She comes over the comms for the first time this match. It crackles once, and you hear her deep baritone voice whisper out "you can't be serious" before it clicks back off. She's been all business, but she wanted you to know how she felt, and perhaps understand a little bit of why she took a fast shot in response and not a fully charged, fully prepared shot.

The shot itself hits hard. You're lucky you don't control with a neural mesh, this is the kind of hit that can shock someone and throw off their reactions even if it cuts off before they'd experience pain. Instead, you get a frontrow seat to an arc of purple light that snaps out and turns all the colors negative for a moment as it impacts the arm of the God Smiting Whip. An arm that now has a hole in it. The shot cuts clean through it and for just a moment, you consider what could have been if she'd gone for her strongest, slowest hit, imagine it hitting the cockpit and knocking you out completely, blowing through your mecha all the way to the crystal core. It's terrifying.

And then it's done. The heat dissipates, you're still there, and it was all over in a flash. You've got the cooldown of her weapon and an opportunity, but you cut this much closer than you might have realized and you might be playing this bit of data back over for a while.

[Take the Afraid condition]

***

Jade and Dolly

You dance through a storm of fireflies. It would be harrowing if it weren't so beautiful. Both of you together feel the swaying, the heat, the gentle caress as the bullets fly so close. In the light of the flames, each one shines like a little molten spark of gold, and you sway with the wind and the flames as you avoid the assault. The motion is natural, a perfect dancer as a goddess of steel. Crowds would pack a stadium just to watch a dance like this without even the combat contest.

"No. You. Do. Not!" Angela speeds up her tracking, the first autocannon continuing to make you dance as the second picks up its pace to lead you. But it is here that you begin to spin the spear, bullets flying and deflecting until the throw, when latches itself to her shoulder and cuts off the fire from the second autocannon.

That's what speeds things up for you because with just one cannon to dance around, you can control the pacing, you're only fighting one AI at once, not two, and that makes beating out its prediction algorithm child's play. You know you can get close. Close enough to hug. Close enough to cut. You just need to dodge one more thing, that last moment when Angela will give up the fire and switch to her last-ditch wristblades. Navigate that last hurdle, and the match will be yours.

The head of the Gods-Smiting Whip pivots to point its cameras at its own shattered arm. If lifts that arm up and pulls its fingers into a fist one by one, testing how many of the individual servos and signal transmitters remained functional through the damage. One... on and a half fingers' worth. Her tails detach from either side of the arm, shuddering as they hover from the tremendous amount of power that just routed through them. They almost seem droopy as they glide back to their neutral positions behind the main body.

"...I see."

Mirror pivots the trident in her mech's good arm and, pivoting on a dime, lobs it high into the air. A moment later her ambush-tails come rocketing back to her, and she snatches one out of the sky without turning to check her position. All of her focus is on Valentina de Alcard and the Lonely Star.

"Compensating for lost power and combat capabilities. Get it right this time."

She takes the tail and rams it through the hole in Nine-Tails' arm, which sends bits of armor plating crumbling to the ground below. There's a nauseating screech in the air as she rips open several more connectors to make room for this bizarre addition, until after one horrifying moment she finally sees the hand shut down completely and go limp. A twist of the arm, a sharp thrust toward the ground: with a rush of blue light, the lodged tail fires an unfocused burst of light from both ends of its rifle-like structure. The light show flickers and extends into the shape of a massive kite. With a new shower of sparks it transforms, now a solid thing of raw light and power. No longer an arm, but a shield.

Utter disaster. She rockets forward with her arm extended out in front of her, twisting at odd angles as she flies to stay out of the direct path of that deadly barrel as it winds back up for what would surely be the victory shot from this range. Utter, utter disaster. This shield functionality was what she originally meant to test in the first place, it's why she baited the shot. She simply hadn't considered the possibility that she wouldn't finish the configuration sequence in time. She planned for a full power burst, she wanted it... she'd caught her mouth on the barbs of her own pole.

Sequence one: shield slam. No more room for error. She entered this fight as a scientist, fought like a scientist, and then very nearly died like one. A prideful opponent. She'd expected patience, an opportunistic mindset. The sort of guileless cleverness you found in someone skilled enough to solve puzzles by slicing them in half, but then let that make them forget how to do it the more useful way. Somehow the reality of the woman in front of her was even cuter than that. Well, know what's good balm for an injured pride? A demonstration of the skill that gave her the space to conduct tests like this in the first place.

"Enemy targeting array: offline. Initiating close combat sequence, type three."

What follows is a demonstration. What follows is a dance. What follows is a lesson in what happens when you fight someone who has studied the properties of neural mesh much more diligently than you have. The Gods-Smiting Whip slides smoothly through the river and pops up underneath the Lonely Star. It kicks both feet into the riverbed and whips its shield-hand up into the face plate of the enemy mecha, and then lifts with its back to force the Lonely Star up into the air.

A flurry of punches and kicks. She pauses, poses, as if smiling, and in that precise moment her trident comes hurtling back down from the heavens. She catches it perfectly. Now her shield batters the colossal length of that deadly rifle first this way and that, and every time the momentum of the strike carries her off step she lights a thruster and spins around to slash with her beam weapon. She takes one arm, then the next. A leg. The chest, the stomach, the chest again. And again. And again.

Every strike looks brutal to the cameras, there is no doubt. And the damage she causes is readily apparent. Her whirlwind cuts the Lonely Star's fighting capability in half without so much as needing a napkin to confirm the math on. But these strikes are calculated much more precisely than that. Where Nine-Tails strikes, it does so with an eye for how Valentina's mesh suit in her own control rig will respond to the shocks. Hard enough to trigger a sensory mute, but careful not to let any one strike numb her completely.

This is a form of dance that Mirror has tested extensively. A thousand hours of training to create this one specific skill, shown only to worthy opponents with superior talents of their own. Valentina's world is transformed into a song of teasing fang bites and flicking swords. Slicing off her armor, piece by piece. Exposing her. Admiring her. And in the spaces where she's bared, the shield touches her and sends waves of energy rippling through the Lonely Star that her suit will interpret similarly to fingers on her skin. Touching. Caressing. Squeezing. Pinching.

It's over. The only question is how dignified her opponent is in defeat. The Gods-Smiting Whip pins the Lonely Star in among the rocks of the riverbed, pressing its lithe frame against the torso of the TC mecha, slowly sliiiiiiding along it with a shower of sparks and a scraping of paint. Her shield arm is planted deep into the earth, and her weapon arm is bend impossibly behind her, pointing that trident straight at the cockpit. Half threat, but half invitation.

"Well fought, Little Warrior," Mirror purrs over the public comms, "Would you like your reward now, or later?"

Floating behind her, seven tail modules spread out in undulating patterns. They ripple in what might be amusement or might be pride. The tip of each pivots toward the Lonely Star, and gleams with the promise of untold pleasure. The kind that only comes from submission.

[Fight w/ Daring: 9. Mirror flirts and takes a string, and seizes superior position]

The Bezorel was easy to discount. Awful weaponry, awful maneuverability, an arm with one point of articulation. Ranged firepower was a game of math and positioning, and when it was as low damage and constant as the Bezorel's chip-damage laser array you could ignore it for a really long time before the bill came due.

But just because she was piloting this old TC clunker did not mean Solarel was a TC pilot - and it did not mean the Bezeorel was a TC mech.

The sword smashed through the front of the Sea Spike, running through the torso of the distracted god, just below the cockpit.

The sight was almost comical - this dustbin with guns drawing a full length combat blade and swinging it with an arm that was almost more a manipulator forklift, against a divine Zaldarian mech that stood head and shoulders taller than it. But there it was. It's got a sword! And of course it had a sword.

In synch with her mech, still bound by the thread of the Mind-Impulse Unit, Solarel had flipped over the Sea Spike's shoulders. She landed on the blade of her own mech and replicated its pose as she bought her blade up to Nierka's chin.

The last burning shreds of clothing fell away from her body. Violet scales glittered in the sunlight, slashed through with the scar lines of scales a shallow pink. The hard lines of muscle and scale give way gently to the curves of breast and hip and tail. A golden necklace and diamond earrings cool rapidly, invisibility sculpting back into the shapes the spiritual realm held for them.

She taps the bottom of the blade against Nierka's chin, lifting her eyes up to look at her, and then lets the blade fade away into mist so her hands are free to sign. "You took your eyes off a God to stare at me," she says silently, grin on her face. "Is that respect? Or is it something else?" she finished the sign with an affectionate boop onto Nierka's nose.

[Fight: 14; create an opportunity for an ally (the Bezorel), seize a superior position, take a string.]

The wristblades were a mistake, actually. If this were a more brutal hunt, there is little that they could hope to do to fend off the spear’s hungry head, and now that it is close, intimate, the wrestling of kittens, they are an irresistible target.

The mechs crash to earth heavily; torches shake and threaten to fall, trees groan out their wounds, and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius finds herself pinned down beneath the weight of a Hybrasilian huntress, tail lashing in delight, breastplate specked and dented from autocannon fire. Her wrists are forced against the ground, and one knee keeps her from rising.

Inside, Dolly holds a pose, tail raised, back arched. Without, Smokeless Jade Fire chuckles. “You chose the wrong name, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius,” she says, using the full name very intentionally, mockery dripping from her self-satisfied voice. “A [Barn Owl] is a quiet creature. It comes in close and quiet, even silent.”

“You know all about silence,” she stops to purr in Dolly’s ear, the hands rougher now in the delight of victory, her Dolly being such a good girl, holding the pose, letting her gloat. The shivers of delight as Jade’s hundred hands work her tail over!

“A [Barn Owl] is motion. Grace. It moves as the wind and with it. You sat and hoped that your little gnat-stings would stop me. Me! Smokeless Jade Fires, the goddess hatched from the stone egg, who watches over the hunt and deems it good. But perhaps it’s not all your fault, is it? After all… who wouldn’t stop to watch my pilot’s form?”

The Cords wrap tightly around the mech’s wrists, pulsing, coursing energy through the mech, locking them in place. Inside, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius will find herself helpless to lower her own arms. Smokeless Jade Fires lazily rolls her over, pulls her legs up against themselves.

“But you still need to give this engine of battle a fitting name, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. One worthy of your prowess together. Perhaps… Trophy?”

With one nail, she traces it, lightly; there is no need to gouge, to cause Angela Victoria Miera Antonius to scream and thrash and disconnect. Let her feel the relentless tickle, let it make her try to stand up on the arches of her feet, let her be aware that she is being marked. “Good girl,” Smokeless Jade Fires purrs, patting the glyph etched on the mech’s flank. “See? Am I not a merciful goddess? Am I not— Angela Victoria Miera Antonius~! That is language hardly becoming of a noble representative of the Consortium, now, isn’t it?”

Smokeless Jade Fires luxuriantly pulls the mesh over The Barn Owl’s speakers, seals either end shut behind the mech’s head, runs her fingers over it just to feel the charge, the slight numbness it causes her. It’s not the sort of fine work that she can do with her Dolly, but the feedback on the pilot, that thick and stifling pressure, will keep her quiet as much as the actual speaker interference.

Those fingers find the mech’s strong chin, tilt it upwards, and Jade purrs as she hears the stifled, crackling audio being forced out of the speakers anyway. Inside herself, she clenches Dolly tighter, nips at her, grinds against her, pants with half-delirious excitement.

“I look forward to seeing you earn the name, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. To move like one of my worshippers should. To strike with those wicked little gnat-stings from a dozen different directions, one after another. To strike from ambush, from the silence of the owl. She means death to us, did you know? She cries for the dying, but is silent on the wing. And then I will beat you again, but I will enjoy the game, and I will give you my respect, Trophy.” One final cord links the wrists forced behind the head to the ankles, and with a very satisfied purr, Smokeless Jade Fires hoists the Trophy onto her shoulder, then retrieves her spear.

This will be the shot that is remembered: Smokeless Jade Fires, with an insouciant glance over her free shoulder at the cameras, the very image of an ancient Hybrasilian warrior-huntress. On the outside, her fingers work on Trophy’s thick armor, the small of, yes, Angela’s back, a glorying in victory. On the inside, she takes Dolly by the chin and kisses her hard, the gag dissipating as her goddess wills, leaves her breathless, even as she holds Dolly still in her victory pose for the cameras.

“I love you,” Jade growls in ecstasy, and starts using her teeth.

[Smokeless Jade Fires hits an 11 on a Fight. She seizes a dominant position, takes a String, and inflicts a Condition on the poor, emotionally confused thing. She’s not going to like the headlines: Bagged, Gagged and Tagged!!]

Nothing is ever easy.

It was a lesson drilled into her from a young age. Even when you've found that toy you want, watch out that it doesn't get stolen. Even when you think you've passed the test, you need to start studying for the next. Even when you think you've won, don't take your eyes off the opponent.

Right now, as they fall, Isabelle's mind shoves those lessons aside. Yes, they've been learned. Ingrained, even. But right now, right here? They are just distractions. As is the frustration.

A brawl is not something she can settle for - it's too messy, too dirty, and poses just too much of a risk to her image coming out of this primary. Winning isn't enough, she needs to do it with style in order to secure the right kind of headlines tomorrow. Otherwise ... well, it doesn't even bear considering.

Of course "Jacinta" wouldn't just give up. Isabelle makes a mental note to check her pride with her next match. She'd come into this one too fast, possibly too eager to end it when the opportunity arose. A new take on the old lesson.

Speaking of lessons ...

The two mecha twist in the air. Grappling as they fall to the next layer. Jacinta swings wildly and Isabelle spots her chance. It's risky, requiring her to briefly let go of the grip she has, but it's the only way.

She can't see the expression on "Jacinta's" face when Emberlight releases her. Is it surprise at the sudden freedom? Or triumph? Or, more correctly, suspicion? Did her opponent ever learn these lessons properly? Regardless, the two mechs drift slightly apart as they fall, a sliver of distance that allows Isabelle the space to maneuver.

Step one, catch a branch with her leg, at just the right angle to push off without losing control off the spin.

Step two, parry the strikes. One, two, three. Arms, leg and tail. Lessons of a different type taking the fore.

Step three, bring Emberlight up and over "Jacinta". Use the momentum from their fight to take the high ground. Well, as high as you can in free-fall.

Step four ...

The mechs crash to the ground in a cloud of dirt that momentarily shields them from the cameras. When it finally clears, Emberlight stands tall, a knee planted on the back of its opponent, and arms and legs firmly pinned. A halo of leaves and branches cascading down - testament to their passage through the canopy.

"Yield!" Isabelle commands, exerting enough pressure on "Jacinta's" arms to reinforce the message.

"I've given you one chance, you will not get another."

[Defy Disaster. Risking her hold on Jacinta to avoid the potential damage to her image. 5 + 4 + 3: 12]

Mirror

As you finish the fight, Valentina respects you by turning on her comms. You can hear the sudden gasp of surprise as you take her, and the grunts as your strikes connect, never hard enough to cut her off. And then most satisfyingly, the murmur of pleasure as your work continues that lets you know that she’s enjoying being dismantled just as much as you’re enjoying doing it.

When you have her pinned down at last, there is a pause as she simply breathes. Then the comms crackle one last time with her deep voice. “Well fought, Hybrasilian warrior.” You can tell by how she says it that she’s not as studied in your culture as she wishes she were, there’s that tiny hitch that lets you know she paused on “warrior” not quite knowing how to properly address you, but she’s shouldering on.

“I surrender, and I’d like my reward in the post match evening. You’ll be attending the fashion show on Akar Prime, I hope? Would you allow me to…accompany you to the show?” Again, it sounds like she almost asked you to be her date, but then switched it at the last moment in light of your win here.

There’s a juicy XP in it if you take her, despite the complications of your other identity also showing her dresses in the show.

***

Solarel

You’ve short-circuited poor Nierka for certain. The boop is the moment where she just can’t maintain the righteous fury any further, and instead she’s suddenly a cadet pilot being trained by the imperial ace from all those years ago. You can see it in the features, in the way her face changes, in the stance of both Nierka and the Sea Spike itself even as it finally recovers its balance. She wants to hate you because she’s supposed to, but she also had years of admiring you first, of wanting to be just like you. And now here you are showing her up, showing her a way of fighting that’s equal parts genius and sacrilege to everything she knows and you got her with it.

This is, perhaps, a lesson you already know all too well. Combat is a psychological battle first and foremost. If she truly had the will to fight, all her wits about her, and just a hint of creativity, what she could be doing here is commanding her own god to put resources into rapid sealing the cockpit as though you were experiencing a hull breach in space, cutting off your tether and then turning all weapons full force via AI autopilot on the Bezorel. If she did that, even if you overpowered her within the cockpit, your own ability to fight would be lost and you’d be stuck alone against Nierka and all the resources her god can direct within its own AI core, a losing fight even if you briefly got the upper hand.

But that’s not happening because her mind isn’t in the fight anymore. She’s embarrassed, shy, and more than a little dazzled. And so rather than risk this immediate defeat, she taps her fist twice and discharges her remaining power through the floor and away from you. A sign of surrender. And thus does the match end, all cameras on you and your blade as the Bezorel circles her. You probably didn’t expect to be standing on the top again, but for a brief moment here you are.

How does it feel?

***

Jade

Angela Victoria Miera Antonius is defeated utterly, completely, and without a doubt. But she has one last little trick in defeat and you might find it interesting as you work. For such an old mech chassis, she moves so well, so naturally to your touch. She protests as you expected, but so too she squirms and she shudders. The groaning metal contrasts with the imagined softness of the pilot within, even though you know through the indignant crackling of the speakers that she still fights you. It is a special delight and pleasure to work your magic upon such a subject as Angela Victoria Miera Antonius.

You claimed that you wanted to teach her to move like one of your worshippers, but as you carve the new name you’ve decided befits her mecha, even as she protests and you cut off the sound, you wonder if she could move that way already. You wonder if there was more here than you got. You wonder if she held back in this match or if her training was deficient somehow and if only she could let the natural instincts of her body take over, as they are so clearly doing now, whether she has much greater potential within her.

This is a tiny little wonder, a distraction in your triumph, barely even something worth registering to Dolly who you are busy entertaining as she properly deserves for her performance. But you have this wonder all the same and it won’t quite leave you alone.

How does that leave a goddess for her departure?

[Angela takes a string on Jade.]

***

Isabelle

She growls. She yowls. She curses through the comms and tells you all the myriad ways that you were sired from whores, and gosh she’s really going to do a lot of things to you if you ever manages to have you alone and tied up without diplomatic immunity. Things with whips and chains and, well, she’s just going to keep going on about this but her heart isn’t in it, especially as you press your hold and she can feel the pressure arch through her body, to hold and lock her arms in place, make them start to tingle and burn.

And so, at last, Jacinta six burns out with you on the top and taps out with a final “fuck you, your mother, and your family!” even as she signals her defeat. So there you are the victor, cool calm and collected against an opponent who lost her temper and lost the match with it. The headlines will be all about the TC heiress who kept it together under fire. Sure, some of the more keen analysts will note your moment of naivete, but they’ll praise your flexibility and creativity and offer their assured confidence that you grew from this match and have the potential to go far.

It’s very nice being on top, isn’t it? Being the heir ascendant. It probably never even crossed your mind how enjoyable Jacinta six’s tender ministrations might be in the right circumstances.

Smokeless Jade Fires is young. She does her very best to hide it behind her laughter and her pride and her love, but she is astonishingly young, even for an immortal hunt-goddess of rushing, cascading thought coursing through the systems of a mechanized idol. She is young enough that when the thought begins to run through her, it frightens her enough that she pounces on it and wraps it up and hides it until that thought is entirely unrecognizable, and she can sit back and smugly accept the thought that it has become, squirming in layers of defensive lying: I think she would make Dolly a good rival.

Because stories are full of those! Dolly’s stories loved the figure of the brooding, dark-furred rival, exiled from their clan for unforgivable but perhaps understandable sins, dangerous and nimble and difficult to predict. Even if Angela Victoria Miera Antonius doesn’t have fur, perhaps she could be worked into shape. For Dolly’s sake. And if it so happened that the rival ended up repeatedly humiliated by a mighty and powerful goddess, well, that’s hardly without precedent!

And imagine the crossover. Imagine the two of them squirming together. The comparisons. The contrasts. Cupping Dolly’s face and lifting it up, seeing the blissful serenity of submerged space in her wide and placid eyes, and then forcing Angela Victoria Miera Antonius’s head up, her ears twitching, her eyes slitted and furious, because she might as well be Hybrasilian in this daydream, chewing uselessly on whatever Jade chooses to fill her mouth, squirming, struggling, uselessly, defeated, owned, tagged, and on the other side of her Dolly soft and inviting and moaning like she’s in heat as she pushes herself against Jade’s hands, and Angela refusing to stop trying to enunciate some petty defiance, and both of them showing Jade’s power and control and glory, Dolly through her eager surrender, Angela through her completely impotent indignation. And isn’t that beautiful?

The conception of Jade’s self shoves her knuckles into her mouths and swishes her tails giddily, imagining it. Girls. Girls. For Dolly, of course. It’s important she have some brooding firebrand to antagonize for the glory of her patron goddess. That’s why she’s even considering this. Her High Priestess is irreplaceable.

Even if she’s a goddess, her whims are sacrosanct, and there is nothing Dolly could do to stop her except cry, if Smokeless Jade Fires wanted to take on new pilots, new concubines, to form a harem. That thought alone is why she must wrap even the possibility of doing something that might lead to Dolly crying up in lies to herself, so that she does not fall into the terrible passions of a goddess unshackled. Just imagine it! That soft, beautiful face falling, crinkling, all of her emotional defenses crumpling as she fails to hold it back; the gulping breaths as she sobs, trying to understand why she wasn’t good enough. Because, and this is the terrible truth that stops Jade from collecting every pilot she defeats and cackling wildly about it, if Dolly was replaced as Jade’s pilot and slave and lover and polestar, she would blame herself. She wouldn’t rightfully call Jade out for being an insatiable demon tyrant; she wouldn’t even consider it.

Jade clings closer to Dolly, digs her nails in, drags tongues rough up her fur, nearly makes her drop the Barn Owl. Let the cameras speculate on the shakiness of the victorious mech, of its unsteady footing; she cares not. Her sweet, selfless, indulgent Dolly must be rewarded and reminded of her place in Jade’s heart.

…but the prize. Angela Victoria Miera Antonius encouraged to fight her again, in a better body, to make it more of a fight. The tangle of limbs, the lock of pistons, the terrible destructive wrestling of these vast bodies. Angela Victoria Miera Antonius ambushed, caught in a net, outsmarted, raging, screaming in that staccato— ai, ai, ai! Tagged again, and again, and again. And then Dolly ambushes her with a memory circuit blindfold, and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius finds herself in Jade’s clutches, dressed appropriately, and it would be worth the effort to allow Dolly and Angela to interact with each other in the simulated reality she constructs for Dolly, and then— oh— yes— mmmmh— to the victor, the spoils— the best for her Dolly— teach her to dance, to sing praise, to grovel fuming before the High Priestess—

“We’re going to the fashion show tonight,” she declares, her excitement a rumbling purr all around Dolly. “I’ll pick out your costume. Your reward for being my good girl…”

Spirits and ghosts swirl around her, the cosmic shockwaves of minds that learned to hide themselves in the spaces between atoms. Heaven is empty and the gods are all here.

She reaches out with crackling fingers and the world shapes itself to her need. Oxygen crackles and the air runs thin as it is dragged out of the air. Carbon disassembles into its component parts. The flames still licking at her scales run dry as their breath is stolen and concentrated into the point of her fingers. All this broken matter forms together into a flask made of blue ceramic, decorated with the white figure sketches of early 2000s webcomic artists. It uses a single boar tusk as a stopper, attached to the neck of the flask with a string, and when it is uncorked the pop is almost as satisfying as the grapelike smell from within.

Solarel tosses it to Nierka. Drink! she signs enthusiastically. You'll cramp otherwise!

And with that, and an enthusiastic thumbs up, she's gone.

She follows her own advice as she clambers down the side of the Sea Spike. Each time she has a spare moment a new flask forms in her hand - this one white tropical wood inlaid with rhinestones, this one a silken waterskin still bearing scars from lion's talons, this one reinforced plastic hard enough to endure a napalm strike... - and takes a single sip before letting it fall so that she can use both hands to leap to the next section. Each time the flask dissolves before it hits the ground and reforms in her waiting hand, shape and contents unique each time.

Zaldarians have between two and five power cores in their bodies. Fewer cores mean shorter discharge cycles, quick to fill and quick to empty. Twitchy girls. Five cores gives you the aspect of the bear; slow and deliberate and unstoppable when you get going. Solarel has three - one at the back of her neck, another above her tail and a third above her heart - and in the aftermath of a fight they ache.

She's not built like a human or catgirl, with their weird artificial seawater circulation. Her blood consists of a thick, golden lubrication/coolant nanofluid that forms into fatty deposits on breasts, thighs and most extensively in the tail. It's a multifunction compound - it can supercharge the nervous system, enhancing reactions and senses, it prevents muscle clusters from drying out and accumulating friction damage, it contains repair and modification naites. A Zaldarian with a big, magnificent tail is a Zaldarian ready for war. After running hot in a fight like that she's lost an inch from her tail she's gone down a cup size.

All this to say, Solarel isn't really thinking about the fight or the concept of victory or anything such right now. She's mostly just thinking she's insanely hungry and needs something more substantial than flaskposting to get her through the afternoon.

It is nice to be on top.

It's where Isabelle knows she should be; on the podium, on the precipice, on the peak. When she's standing here, with the world at her feet, things feel right.

It feels nice. Very nice. It feels satisfying and natural and correct, like this is how it's meant to go. How the story is meant to be played. Every piece of the puzzle is in place, all the joints connect and every readout is green.

But ...

But that's where it stops.

Don't get her wrong, being the heir ascendant is what she wants. She will take over Terenius, she will cement Adriana's favour and, through that, help her family and shape the galaxy for the better.

But shouldn't all that feel a bit more ... I don't know ... more?

Maybe that's the problem with success. After a while, even a victory like today stops feeling special. I mean, take the other half of your question for example: would she spare a thought for Jacinta Six and her 'ministrations'?

The short answer is no.

The cat she's caught, whether it's the real Jacinta or not, is just one more step along the path she must take. And not even a memorable one at that. The invective that her opponent spews? She's heard it a million times before, and worse. Another angry little person in a big galaxy just lashing out because they've lost. It all blurs together into grey static after a while.

Just like the post victory fashion show will too, she bets.

Still, appearances must be maintained. She works a smile for the cameras, and hauls her prize to its feet. Tomorrow will be another busy day on the job.