Ah, the city of the gods!

There are certain concepts that simply have not had the time to soak into Solarel's consciousness, and one of which is the concept of civilization. Her life is one of wilderness, of giants, of the void. It is a mythic place of gods and spirits and war. The tribe, the warband, close kin are the true family, the only ones who you might speak aloud to. Conversations built over shared experience in the aftermath of gods and battle, love unrestrained as deserving of comrades against the world.

And now this! A shining place of lights and colour and fabric and miracle! She compares it to the palace of the Empress of Zaldar. She was blinded then and she is blinded now. Already in her hand she's holding a Daral Box - a little holographic container containing a stupendously complex, and mostly pointless, mathematical problem. To a Zaldarian it's an intoxicant akin to alcohol - a certain amount of her cybernetic mind has shut off in order to contemplate it, resulting in an enchanting feeling of being [i]productive[/i], being [i]useful[/i]. Buzzed from Daral it's easy to appreciate yourself, to justify treating yourself to further luxuries, to lie in the sun and contemplate as warmth creeps in at the perfect pace for discharge.

She's looking for Mirror. The second the [i]Bezorel[/i] had landed she'd already been downloading the recording of her fight. She was holding that display in her left hand, the Daral in the right, mind blissfully buzzing as she contemplates equation and appreciates the flick and slash of machine tails. Part of her kicks herself - Mirror had drawn the fight out to test even more functions, while she had ended it as fast as possible with a trick that wouldn't work a second time. She could already feel the crack of the God-Smiting Whip against her armoured plating, her focusing mirrors shattering from a distance, her speed insufficient to keep up...

And then she was on her butt. 

She'd been punched unexpectedly, both of her drugs dropped and scattered on the floor. Flat footed and dazzled she'd lost her footing and gone straight down onto the ground, breathing in through a lungful of fire. She looked up at her opponent, then started snapping her fingers in memory.

[i]You[/i], she signed, getting her bearings a little. [i]Oh! I know you![/i] she let her eyes trace down her body - with interruptions - before settling on her calves. [i]How's the leg?[/i]

You don't forget a shot like that. Five kilometers through an asteroid field, timed just so to catch her opponent's god in the leg as it accelerated to max speed. She'd spun out of control and smashed through half a dozen asteroids before coming to a halt. Fully synchronized, a hit like that carried a phantom hurt that took months to shake off. 

Her intention in asking was genuinely empathic. She hoped that it had healed right! But since she was communicating through sign language and smiling and making [i]biiiiiiig[/i] eye-contact it might have inadvertently come across as mocking.

[Wicked Past: This catgirl is someone I defeated and humiliated during the war. She takes a string on me, and I ask her [i]what are your feelings towards me?[/i]. I mark XP from Talons of the Past and we can each define a vulnerability we know about the other.]