"Well reasoned," Mirror yawns, "But not an answer."

Her thrusters flare to life. The Gods-Smiting Whip lifts slightly before it rushes around the Jormungar in a circle to try and take its back. Ultimately fruitless. Small pivots and slight hip turns do for the pilot with the inside circle; the faster, more mobile mecha has too much ground to cover, and the maneuver is too obvious by half. Regardless. Mirror twists her armor in half at the waist and switches the direction of her circle on the head of a pin. The opening is tiny. She does not take it. She flies up and over the head of Marcina Villajero instead, tracking the response of her drones the entire time.

Immediate overhead swing with her blade. Deflected: adjust momentum, swing weapon behind back. Rising slash, left hip to right shoulder. Redirected: adjust vector. Thrust. Combination slash, ten to four, six to twelve, one to eight. Her tails have ceased shielding and likewise ceased enhancing, mimicking, or doubling the sword strikes. Instead, Mirror twists individual points of articulation to redirect dissuading fire to various different armor panels where the damage will remain negligible and cosmetic. Instead, the tails rotate around the sword in an intricate dance: always out of the way at the moment of contact, but beneath, above, and to the sides, where they punctuate the slash by firing recklessly powerful bursts that, if they connect, will melt plates of the Jormungar or scrap entire weapon systems, if not detonate missile systems outright. At this range, it's as dangerous to each of them as the other.

She tests for adaptability. She tests for flexibility. She tests for reaction speed, particularly in the drones. She tests multitasking. She tests endurance. She separates, and rockets high into the air at the end of a horizontal slash.

"Liar? Trickster. Fool. Acknowledge the difference. Are my questions unanswerable? [A creature with one head wears but a single face], Marcina Villajero. I expect much deeper rhetoric from a warrior of your stature. I expect much sharper teeth from my sister under another star."

Maintain distance, high altitude hover pattern. Auto-cannon range neutralized: within firing capability but damage capabilities functionally negated. Heavier ordinance required, but in prime range. Heavy commit, the full sky to dodge in. Another test, another tiny scratch in the war of attrition. There is only one moment she need wait for.

The rest is dancing. Play. Flirtation. Respect. A duel of this caliber should be decided by a single exchange. One strike only, pitted against the other. This is not the same. Not the same as Solarel. Her fingers twitch with anticipation. Her ears flutter with guilt. Her tail curls with shame. Her tongue trails out of her mouth with desire.

"Let us know one another, Marcina Villajero. Let us bathe together. Let us explore one another. Become acquainted with my teeth. Allow me to know your tongue. I am Mira of the Fisher Clan, whose star name is Whispered Promise. What is my name? And what is the secret of this armor?"

Her tails rain destruction from the heavens, aimed only at the water. Great plumes of mist and spray and steam erupt all around the Jormungar, caressing it like a series of teasing kisses. Foreplay.

The Emberlight turns, panels opening around the wrist, as Isabelle releases a cluster of what she now thinks of as her leech drones. Refined further after the battle with Marna, the smart cable has been augmented with single use thrusters and upgraded capacitors. Not that they are using those parts right now - the superconducting cables and contact with the ground is all they really need.

They take formation around, pushing back the storm, redirecting the lightning into the dirt of the mountain. Isabelle briefly considers pursuit, but that is simply playing by her opponent's demands. No, she wants Solarel to come to her.

She reaches a hand into the sky, a drone flies up and projects the symbol she signs. A beacon of light into the swirling clouds.

A single word in Foesign.

"Mirror"

[Entice: 4 + 4 + 2 - 2: 8]

The lightning slowly fades, electrical storm breathing away to increasingly distant aftershocks as the storm moves away. Here in the ocean of clouds it's like watching the aftershocks of a tidal wave.

As the electrical interference clears there is no sign of the Aeteline, only a spread out cluster of sensor drones, observing from a distance. There's a pressure in that observed absence, the feeling of having the attention - if not the affection - of something that was willing to step over you a moment ago. It's a cessation of initiative and strategy, a pause in the engine working towards your destruction, a cold decision to see where you thought you were going with this.

[Take a string on Solarel
Solarel attempts to Figure Out Isabelle, rolls a 5]

"This is our body," Dolly says, as if it is the most simple thing in the world. "It doesn't need to be a machine made for winning fights, it needs to be a machine that moves when we move, that runs silent, that can... do... things." Her ears droop a little bit, and she looks bashfully off into the distance, trying to avoid looking at either the idol or the engineer. "Things. Like building. Or breaking. Or chasing. Or hunting."

The thought of the chase makes Jade purr. She sits on the back of Dolly's chair, drapes her legs down, runs her fingers through her priestess's scalp. "Yes. Good girl. We need this to be a Huntress. A Huntress of Hybrasil. No one will see us coming, and no one will be able to evade us."

"Speed," Dolly says, trying not to let her eyes cross. "Speed, and, and stealth, and something that will let us, more powerful catches, disabling and not destroying, cutting out comms, like, with Angela, and..."

"And something that will be the equal of the Red Band," Jade trills. "Yes. Now that will be a hunt worthy of me, won't it, Dolly? And I'm sure that we can put their plunder away to better uses, but the glory, the victory, and..." She pulls Dolly's head back with one hand over her mouth. "And the danger~"

There's no such thing as too much victory. She's beaten the Red Band once, and now she can make sure that victory is complete, over and over again. And the thought of facing them is making Dolly's heart beat in her chest like a delicious little rabbit. What a good, loyal, beautiful girl she is.

She pushes Dolly's head back towards Slate, but not before stealing a hungry little kiss, her thighs squeezing possessively.

Isabel

The clouds part, and you see that you have indeed gained Solarel’s attention. Perhaps more even than she realized. Though she could resume the system again, and there is much danger to you from an approach, the motion of the wind, the cloud, and the swirls and eddies through the city means that one of your drones could reach close range without it being possible for it to be separated out from the fog until it’s close.

Answer two questions. First, what are you most ashamed of? Second, what are your feelings towards Solarel? Answer both truthfully. Answer one through words, and one through action.

Solarel

You stand as a goddess questioning the toy that has been held up to you in offering. Remember, however, the myths of Hybrasil that you learned from Mirror. A goddess who is too proud and unwary can still be bound, though her wrath will be fierce indeed.

The initiative is to Isabelle for the next move.

***

Mirror

“I fear I will yet fall short of your demands, Mira Fisher, whose star name is Whispered Promise, whose mercenary call sign is Mirror, whose title is the One Day Defender. These are the things I could research about you, the records of your deeds that were left from your work among my people and the tellings of your people that my staff were able to contact in the time that I realized you were entirely honest with me in the bar.”

There is a sadness in her voice at this, a feeling of fear that she doesn’t believe that simply reciting the names and titles of your people and your work will answer the question you’re really asking. But nevertheless, a sign of respect. Showing her work, offering to you the time and effort she has spent.”

At the same time, missile lock warnings start to sound. She hasn’t moved out of the mist, not yet, but she’s activating a substantial part of her payload, using her targeting software for the lock without needing to exit the water. Tricky to do, superheated water and steam would stop most wavelengths of energy. She’s probably scanning for you via high-radiation sensors of some kind, maybe specifically tuned to a Crystal Fire energy source distinct from the weapons fire.

“As for your secret. I suppose I must disappoint you there as well. It lies in my hands and yet I cannot grasp it. You are not piloting with a neural mesh interface. I know you are not. I’ve watched every one of your fights in detail. Certain actions you have taken were not merely unlikely but impossible with such an interface. Your last fight guaranteed this to me, when you defeated Smokeless Jade Fires. You’ve strained past all known physiology of a Hybrasilian body, and if you were numbing feedback to the level that would be possible without knocking you unconscious, you would not have been able to act in the reaction times required to make that fight look flawless. It crossed from something that could, perhaps, be explained with the most cutting edge technology to the realm beyond the possible. But what are you doing instead? How am I to get my hands around that?”

At last, there is the hint of a smile in her voice. “Well, I thought perhaps you’d give me more data in this fight. In my opinion, though the fight with Jade Fires was most informative, it was not the one where you were most pressed.”

The missiles have taken to the air, but as they approach you, they do not remain as one missile. Rather, each one splits into a burst of cluster missiles, some going directly at you in a cloud, others diverting to fly above or below you and then home in on you together. The exact strategy that Solarel used when she was piloting the Bezorel, but deployed much faster. While it was ssable only once on such a small mech as the Bezorel, it’s possible depending on how much space the Jormungar has dedicated to this that she could manage two or perhaps even three waves of this burst missile attack.

***

Dolly and Jade

Slate smiles. She does not speak as she watches Dolly’s head tilt and her cheeks blush. She does not speak as Jade caresses her, but she tilts her head and she watches without blinking. And she does smile.

When Dolly stops, when Jade releases her to focus, then Slate speaks.

“Are you saying that you want these things more than you already have them? That you wish to further optimize an already light chassis for stealth, speed, and ambush tactics?”

She laughs then, not hard, not long. A quick spit of a laugh that makes her turn her head and arch her neck before it comes out like a bullet. Then she turns back to you. “Which of you does this request come from, I wonder? It’s a request that requires either the highest confidence or the desire to someday lose. Do you know what the tradeoffs are for a chassis like the one you describe? Let me tell you. Acceleration is a factor of energy output and mass. Particularly in space. In an atmosphere there are also matters of aerodynamics, wind, and vectors to consider, but in space, acceleration is strictly energy output and weight. Now…”

She pauses, and gives you a serious look that suggests you ought to know this already, but she’s giving the lecture anyway. The kind of lecture she’d give a novice pilot who was first deciding on their practice specifications. “Your energy output is a fixed number, we’re not getting you a better drive than you got from Hybrasil. So we need to entirely focus on weight for your desired results. That makes the question one of trading offense and defense. If you want communications jamming software, disabling weaponry, stealth generators, and enough overall power to actually win a fight on the ambush, you’re going to be maxing out your weight on offense. So, let me spell that out for you as clearly as I can. If you run a chassis like that and you’re ever taken unawares, YOU will be the one instantly knocked out. The Red Band, as I understand their methods, usually follows that up by trussing up their prize and dragging it bound and gagged back to their headquarters. In fact, if memory serves, you’ve already experienced that once? So, let me confirm. That’s the kind of body that the Goddess Smokeless Jade Fires and her High Priestess desire?”

"It is not a question of disappointment, it is--"

Warning! Warning! Warning! The missile lock alerts blare too loudly and too numerously for the thought to stay inside her brain. Words become alarms faster than she can think them, and there is only enough space left inside her to control the fight. The rest of her is too occupied with remembering not to vocalize the noise she's hearing as conversation. Mirror grits her teeth and gives up on conversation for the time being.

Assessment: Solarel's Hellzone Grenade. A 360 degree missile barrage designed to surround and crush a flying opponent. Avenues of retreat? None found. Avenues of attack? Impractical. Avenues of Defense? Inadvisable. Impossible. When the Bezorel had done it, Mirror panicked and unveiled the Full Configuration technique of her Third Form: the philosophy of the shield. She had survived, but the Nine Drive System had suffered a capacity reduction of roughly 60% in the process. A second attack of the same technique would have destroyed her Tails entirely. A third? Death.

Assessment, Assessment. Moonlight Immemorial Vanguard deemed unsuitable defense. Additionally, Full Configuration techniques have been locked by the Chains. Second tier response, Moonlight Nightmare Cage, philosophy of the net, likewise sealed. Four out of Five required Tails presently available.

Assessment: Shit. Fuck. No time. No time. No time!

"Philosophy. Of," Mirror groans, "The. Comet."

She continues bombarding the ground, only with wide arcing bursts instead of controlled mortar style attacks. Already her fingers are angling down on joysticks and adjusting dials. Her feet twist on pedals and the Gods-Smiting Whip hurtles downward in the wake of her barrage on an apparent suicide course. As she falls, her Tails cease their assault to the main body of her mecha, along her back where they are safest, except for Tail One, which connects to her left forearm. She holds it up with the briefest flicker of shielding as she dives through the heat of the explosions.

Yes. Correct. Techniques were a trap. Her secrets were of no use here. The entire Nine Drive System was nothing but an elaborate net for her to tangle herself inside of. Unhelpful. Meaningless. How had she become so blind? The One Day Defender had no need of this toy. She bursts through. Her thrusters roar to life, hotter than ever now that her Tails have been suspended. Behind her, missile clusters bend their arcs through the air and give chase.

She falls. She twists. She holds Tail One against the hip of her armor and shoots tiny bursts of lasers to clear paths through the sky that she cannot dodge through. The alarms still scream at her, Warning, Warning, Warning! Missile Lock confirmed! Detonation immanent. The force of gravity in her cockpit crushes her against her chair at all sorts of horrible angles. Her vision starts to turn black around the corners of her eyes.

And still, she flies. The Gods-Smiting Whip dead stop hovers over the surface of the water, spraying mist everywhere before she reduces that to steam and hurtles herself back into the sky while another dozen missiles ruin themselves against the arena floor. Great geysers of superheated water join with crumbling blocks of already ruined buildings and chunks of moss and other plant matter to turn the pristine pools into a hellscape of wartime imagery. Mirror does not see it. The results of her repainting the arenas intentions are a mystery to her.

She is too busy planting the Whip's feet on the body of a missile. She cannot ride it, that is the domain of the Animes alone, but there is enough time to kick its fin in and send it wobbling off course until it detonates and opens another tiny window she can zip through to another moment of safety. Up, up, up, up, toward the arena ceiling where the still dense cluster of missiles will have less room to give chase, target lock or no. She flies as the sun does, on the back of a mighty hunting beast that must cross the whole of Hybrasil in a single day, without ever resting.

She has a moment only to hover there, twitching in the sky as even now her fingers work the controls unsatisfied with the apm of her absurd acrobatics. Her cockpit is sweltering. Her breath is ragged and there is blood oozing from her right ear. Her arms are twitching from the effort of holding her hands steady. But there is not an input out of place. She drops, with her sword held above her head as though she meant to fight through the remaining ordinance with only this.

...Predicting the path of predictive guidance systems should be simple. Particularly after being chased by them for over a minute. But it is the farthest thing from true. All flight path adjustments need to be made at the last second, even being the more maneuverable individual combatant, because early shifts offered the cluster an advantage and an opportunity to remove dodging avenues from her repertoire after she would already have had to select them.

Chunks of arena "sky" rain down upon her as she dives. Her tails spring back to life and vaporize them one by one. The Gods-Smiting Whip crashes into the hissing, murky water and drops to one knee, leaning on its sword to enable a faster rise once its pilot is capable of commanding it to.

But Mirror is slumped forward against her console. Her shimmering blue eye and a tiny bit of her fur are the only things visible on her broadcast to Marcina Villajero. The sound of her wet, overheated breathing takes up comms space for several more seconds before she is able to drag herself into an upright seated position.

"I do... admire. Your. Work. Ethic. But you... are. Frustrated. So I will. Change. My. My question. For a. For a. For a. Moment." Mirror manages a lopsided as she lifts her mecha into a battle ready position again, Tails popping off her back and returning to life, "How? Does it feel? Fighting me?"

[Defy Disaster: 2+4+3 = 9]

Of course it is. It's both: the highest confidence and the thrill of possibly losing. It's the statement. The implication. The refusal to admit that defeat, that being touched without permission, is even an option at all. The growl in the throat at the thought of waddling up to the Red Band in a body that is built for defense, that admits fear and recognition of their capabilities, and the thought of dancing through missiles and cannon fire in weightless space, of being the stealthy huntress that the goddess deserves, of showing the Red Band what it feels like to be ambushed unfairly, of having to rely on Jade completely for victory, and the knowledge that if either of them failed they'd end up in the hands of a jilted pirate, and the very threat gets her pulse racing, and because, now, backing down would mean weakness in the face of an ally, would mean acknowledging the trickster's cunning, would mean losing.

"That is the kind of body we desire," Dolly manages to say without melting into the cushion. "One where there is no room for failure. We know the stakes, um, ma'am, and... we want to prove that she, that we, can still win. That we can pick when and where to fight, now that we're not in a tournament. I believe in her."

"And I, in you."

"Also," Dolly blurts out, leaning forward as much as she can, "ferns. Embossed? I just think ferns would be a lovely motif."

What is she most ashamed of? Well, take your pick from all the mistakes she's made before. Chief amongst them is the fight with Ksharta - where she let her fear triumph and made another young girl pay the price. Tragedy though it was, the root cause of all this is that Isabelle was weak. Too weak to stand up to her mother, too weak to believe she could even try, that acquiescence was the only option she had - when in reality she had so many more.

It had taken time to see that, a collective effort of many people - from Asil's encouraging words, to the steadfast support of those like Tomas and Rosa, to even the kind advice from those who should have been her enemies; Marna and ...

[Mirror.]

[She is looking forward to her match with you.] she signs. A lone woman speaking to the storm above.

[As I am sure you are too.]

Isabelle lets some of the frustration she feels work into the signing, her gestures becoming crisper - as Quar had once demonstrated.

[You see, everyone expects you to win here. After all, who can stand against the Aeteline? The mech that singlehandedly held off two empires. Whose biggest setback was being held at bay for a single day?]

How does she feel about Solarel?

[Do you remember who I am? Do you even care? About me, or about anything other than that fight? About anyone? Even counting yourself?]

There's an anger in her tone - born of an old wound, where she was defeated, discarded and forgotten. Just as many others likely were before. She has both moved beyond it and hasn't. One foot stretching forward whilst another stays stuck in the cold, lonely, sterile corridors of that Trak'tho facility.

[This is no way to live! I've watched your matches. All of them, as I'm sure you've watched mine. You fight, but you don't connect. You see opponents only as obstacles. As puzzles to be solved and shelved once completed. You move through this galaxy, carving a one-woman wake on the way to your destination. A goal in front, no care for what's behind, and always alone in the journey. I know this! I was once the same!]

She'd come here with every intention to defeat the Aeteline. That had been her goal. But her mind was in flux - at this apex point, she could tip in any direction. What course she'd set would depend on what Solarel did next. Despite the certainty of her words, she actually isn't sure that she's made the correct guess here - after all, if there's one thing that is evident from her observations to date (beyond the fact that Solarel is a peerless fighter) - it's that she sucks at communicating.

[If I'm wrong, tell me! What is it you want? The solution to a puzzle? People are not just puzzles. Not just their mechs. People are more. They live, they love, they change. If you intend to go into your fight with Mirror only seeking a solution then you will. not. find. it!]

She stands there, waiting for a response. Watching.

There are things that only become evident to yourself when you lay out your thoughts on a topic to someone else. In Isabelle's case, she feels her own goal crystallise. Revealing itself in her mind as pages being turned in a book. A tale being told towards its inevitable conclusion.

[You are the yardstick against which all others have been measured. But too focused on the single dimension of combat. People are more. I am more. I am worth more than just a measurement. And I demand you see that.]

[Roll to figure out a person - 5 + 1 + 2 = 8 How can I get you to respect or befriend me? What are your feelings towards Mirror?]

There's a beat right before you're finished talking, when you're fully into the flow of things, that the platform beneath your feet glows white hot.

Solarel hangs on the bottom of the platform, maximally charged energy round pressed against the metal superstructure. She fires clean through the flying metal superstructure, the pinpoint precise strike ripping into the Emberlight from below. The thruster in the left foot is torn to pieces, vulnerable steering components rendered into molten slag.

The damage is limited; a lot of power was lost when shooting through the platform. But this fight was already going to be hard, and now Solarel has taken first blood. And in that surprise attack you see too late the truth, your failure to understand.

This was not a cold execution, a calculating dispatch - if she wanted to do that she wouldn't have waited this long to hear you out. This was not the act of a master of war out to prove her superiority; if that was the case she wouldn't have attacked you before you finished talking. That would have been a lot of pride to sacrifice for such a marginal advantage. No, she aimed that shot to maximize her tactical advantage, it was the most power applied at the point of your least preparedness. And you see there your failure to comprehend the alien, the projection of your own standards on someone who does not share your culture, your history, your assumptions. All the way down to your belief that you have the right to speak to the outsider on the field of battle.

Solarel wants to fight.

Not because she doesn't care about her opponents. Not because she doesn't understand that they are more than this. She understands they are more - but she isn't. This is all she is. This is all she has. These moments of battle are everything to her. You are Isabelle Lorenzo, heir to a vast family fortune, player of political games, finder of love, something more than just your mech. You have a life. You have a story. You have a future.

Solarel does not. This moment right here is her final state. Her ultimate form. The peak of her entire life. You tell her that people are worth more than that; she knows. She can see them in the distance, shining like stars. Even Mirror, weaving beautiful dresses, wrapping herself in such beauty that her clothing becomes as awe inspiring as a God - even Mirror is beyond her. She has no skills, no hobbies, no motivation, no home, no hope, no future. Nothing but this, this, this. To wear the armour. To be a God. To fight using every scrap of skill, understanding, strategy and tactical awareness available to her. Her full self, made manifest at last.

And you disrespect her. You come into her house, with your life, with your dreams, with your self-righteous reminder that the people she fought had other shit going on - that you're only playing at this. That your heart and soul is elsewhere. That all this pride shit mattered so much to you that you sacrificed the tactical initiative. Now it's her turn. Now you're in her world. Now she's going to destroy you and let you go crying back into the loving embrace of your girlfriend, your family and your stupendous wealth.

And then she'll go onto her battle with the only other person who takes this as seriously as she does. The only person who has ever given her full, undivided attention. To the Mirror who reflected the love that Solarel put into every shot, every strike, every technique. This battle is her heart.

[Fight 8
Take a condition.
Solarel takes a superior position]

Mirror

“Fighting you is like…like trying to fight a leaf in a storm!” There’s a mixture of respect and frustration in that language, and a tone that says that the image popped vividly into her head of its own accord.

“Always moving unexpectedly. Floating only to catch a new current of air and move suddenly, differently, impossibly.”

Three waves of missiles you’ve avoided. The cockpit is even hotter than before, a combination of your own exertions and the heat of nearby explosions defusing throughout the Gods-Smiting Whip in order to avoid structural vulnerability. Your tail system is delighted. Every tail except tail 9 has lit up for potential use after that sequence of dodges. Almost eager to get back out there after all being recalled to the main body save tail 1 on the arm for shielding.

“But now, the wind has died down and the leaf has settled gently onto the ground. Now is the best chance I’m going to get in this fight, isn’t it?”

There is a critical difference between Solarel’s version of this technique and Marcina’s. And not just that Marcina came with multiple waves. The Bezorel was, fundamentally, a piece of junk. Slow, weak, outfitted with an older drive that offered less efficient energy and thus incapable of multiple actions at once without sacrificing so much defense that it would end up one-shot.

But the Jormungar is a far cry from that machine. It’s the best that the Terenius Consortium can produce, constantly upgraded. The tip of the spear of all the power of a galactic civilization that valued aggressive expansion for resources. It runs the latest drive, the best materials, the most efficient defenses. With so much of its equipment load dedicated to missiles that it has now fired, the huge machine is also much lighter. Light enough that a charge with that massive sword is now possible without a fight-losing commitment.

This is the difference. Solarel fired the hellzone grenade for its own sake, a technique that would pressure its opponent with overwhelming firepower in a single moment. Marcina Villajero fired it three times because she hoped that it would limit your tactical flexibility for the follow up strike.

You are on the ground, knee buried in water and flowing rubble, your sword your only purchase for a fast change of position. All your tails are on the body of the Whip, preventing unexpected angles. And Marcina is coming at you with her massive sword faster than she’s ever moved before. This was the cost of surviving the hellzone grenade.

What will you do to turn this around?

***

Isabelle and Solarel

A huge piece of the cloud platform blows apart. While the immediate effect is a surprise attack, it also shifts the structure of the city. The primary platform, which was supporting multiple buildings and communications spires, has lost a section of its base and as a result it begins to list towards the explosion, metal groaning and buckling as it shifts through wisps of cloud. It won’t hold together long, and you’ll both find yourselves needing to react to crumbling metal and concrete or to take the fight vertical, into the rapidly churning cloud cover, sparking with lightning after Solarel’s earlier display and the rapid introduction of several energized metallic elements into the mix.

***

Dolly and Jade

“Alright, I won’t ask you twice.” Slate grins, and then she’s suddenly a whirlwind of motion. You may not have ever seen one of Mirror’s engineers properly at work before, and it’s somewhat different than Jade’s regular cult. There is no oblation before the goddess from Slate, nor any sort of ritual movement. She’s punching orders into a wrist communicator, and then scrambling past you and several startled cult members to pull open panels and check component types, wiring, and data links.

Jade, this may feel rather akin to being suddenly tickled, given that you were not expecting work to be done.

“Okay, we’ll need lighter legs, more power for the ambush when you have terrain options, including space stations and asteroids, please remember those. We’ll want to upgrade the stealth generator, which will go further down into the chassis to prevent it from being disrupted by jamming technology. All the rumors are that the pirates ended up with the best jammers somehow, you should bring one back for me, I’ll build you the countermeasure for free. Okay right, and then stronger arms, lighter chest, obviously keep the the center of the chest wide to give the pilot lots of protection, but bring in the stomach, she’s going to be thin at the center, yeah that one, get that shipped here right away, it should already be in the Hangar somewhere, yes I’m authorized, no it’s not my normal docking bay number, yes add it to the Hybrasil account, thank you.”

It’s rather like a whirlwind has descended on Jade’s idol, poking and prodding for details, information, technical compatibility, jumping around the platform past the startled crew. How do you all react?

Exactly according to her calculations.

There was nothing more predictable than the speed of this charge. The angle of it, the nature of it, the setup for it, every last little detail was an idea she had... not planted in Marcina Villajero's head, but spoken directly to her face all the same. The sword was her naked preference, and therefore the ammunition existed to serve its ends. There was no value in the Triple Hellzone Grenade other than the restriction of the Gods-Smiting Whip.

She had merely needed three times the ammunition to make up for the improvement in Mirror's tactics. Natural that she would be prepared. And natural that she would prefer this position of physical vulnerability to a simple depletion of shield integrity. For Solarel, resources were resources. Spend hers to spend yours, and then beat you with whatever was left. For Marcina Villajero it was all a plan. The box she wanted to create could not allow for wings. The power of the Nine Drive System was something she would attempt to defeat with positioning.

To this point, the fight had been perfect. Every attempt at aggression accounted for on both sides. Blocked. Redirected. Transitioned into something new. Misdirection, honesty. She had taken to the skies, hoping to burn down the missiles. She had dodged them all at the cost of this vulnerable stance with the understanding that it would invite this charge. There had been other options, other reads she might have made, but in the spaces that fit between her decisions, this is where all her thoughts bent. This was the highest chance of victory possible.

She spoke as if her victory is inevitable. It is not. The thought track in her brain spun on as though prediction is the same thing as dodging. And it is also not. The Gods-Smiting Whip is pushing off its sword to rise into a standing position. The Jormungandr has almost finished its charge in that time.

There are. Moments. Of consequence. Follow through. Reaction lag. Frame commit. Mecha exist in physical space. They move like bodies do. Or. They do not. But even then. The advantage only existed. In the air. In space. Most especially. That was. What she. Was born for. This? This. This put her on the same. Plane. As everyone else. And there? She was simply. Not good enough.

At the risk of overheat, the Gods-Smiting Whip burns its thrusters one more time. Up. Straight up. No aim other than lifting itself high enough and fast enough to swing its own sword in an answering arc to the Jormungar's. There is no time to dodge; all she can do is try to be lifting out of the water before she gets smashed down into it forever. The left arm of the Nine-Tails is cleaved off above the elbow. Mirror is already frantically shifting levers and joysticks to rotate herself along the point of kinetic impact. It costs her a bite into the opposite shoulder as Marcina Villajero's swing completes. Only then can she engage her Tails.

Exactly according to her calculations.

There is no feedback to account for in her piloting system. No pain to absorb. The loss of a limb is a math problem she had already been running ahead of time. It is not an act of grit or defiance when she activates Tails One, Five, and Eight. Brief shield burst, one point six seconds. Force the Jormungar's blade away, bounce back. Now it is Marcina Villajero's turn to be animation committed. In this moment, the Gods-Smiting Whip strikes. Right foot, lifted to the Jormungar's face plate. Thruster burn, three seconds. It blackens and cracks if only slightly as the Terenian mecha heats up to a level almost comparable to the sweltering feedback of the Whip itself. Goal: disorientation.

Eight Tails, engage. They are a whirlwind, spinning round and round the pair of them and firing reckless bursts of energy the instant they read a target lock. Fury without technique. Aggression without a name. If she is a leaf then she must create her own storm to rise up inside of. Goal: confusion. Goal: cosmetic damage. Goal: destruction of shielding drones that had thwarted previous attempt at close quarters finisher.

Goal: regain the skies. Mirror lifts away again, not enough to truly clear the Jormungar's cqc threat range, which is massive particularly given its recently reduced weight and power draw requirements. Just enough that her constant twitches are moving her once more. Just enough that her "impossible" movement only commits the parts of her armor that she requires for the movement. Just enough to lift her back off of a level playing field where victory is a distant dream.

She glances down. Goal: activation of Tail Nine.

"And I say to you that fighting you is like Walking the Mountain. Do you know this phrase? It is Zaldarian. It is the act of taming one of their Gods and rendering it to God-Armor by climbing and fighting it with nothing but your own body. Even in this custom built machine I find you a task equal to the thing that brought Solarel to the attention of her empire."

Her Tails fly up and rain one more burst of laser fire all around the Jormungar before they zip back across the battlefield to their owner, hovering in a slowly rotating circle around the destroyed left arm. Mirror glances down at her display and smiles serenely. Her hair is sodden. She is obliged to pull the zipper on her mesh suit as far down as it will go, and pull the shoulder open to vent more heat from her overloaded body.

"I would love," she says as if half in a dream, "To fight you as the One Day Defender. But I am afraid that in only another minute's time, you will understand fully the nature of how I pilot. And less than a second minute until you fully grasp how that knowledge would defeat me. I am sorry. I made you a promise, when we met."

Energy is coalescing at the tips of her Tails. It is gathering into the form of a blade that boils water into steam and melts the remains of buildings with nothing but the heat of its own existence. She does not hold this blade in her hands. She does not need to.

"My name is Mirror. And this is the first blossom of our love. Nine Drive System. Full. Configuration," her face splits in half into the wickedest and toothiest of cat grins, "The First Form: The Fang That Devours the Sun."

[Fight: 5+6+3 = 14. Mirror seizes a superior position, creates an opportunity for Tail Nine, and plucks another String from the blushing heart of Marcina Villajero]

"Motherfucker!!

Isabelle's swear reverberates across the comms as the platform erupts. Almost as quickly, the Emberlight is spinning out of the line of fire, seeking distance as the Aeteline closes in amongst the showering debris.

"Seriously?? You couldn't even let me finish? I learnt an entire language just to be able to get through to you and you still just ignored me?"

[Isabelle takes angry]

Her anger is twofold, directed at you for slapping her offer back so harshly, but also at herself. The drone she'd had in strike position had sat idle - the advantage ceded in the hopes that she could talk out the solution and, in doing so, not repeat the mistake that she'd made with Ksharta.

Y'know what? Fine. If fighting is the only language she understands, it's a good thing I'm multi-lingual.

The kick that comes from the sparking stump of her leg does not connect, but it passes close enough to spray leaking hydraulics across her opponent's optics.

The punch that comes after says, quite clearly: "I did not appreciate that"

[Isabelle inflicts a condition in response]

Maybe she should've restrained herself, but she's only Terenian - it's an instinct to swing back when hurt, and that attack did hurt. Here she is, Solarel, looking for your approval. Looking for your friendship. And yet you're too stuck in your mindset to do anything else other than what you've done all along. Cleave to your creed, unchanging.

No, unchanging is not right - burrowing deeper into it. Seeking your solution in the extreme of a path that you've been walking for some time. Chasing that sunk cost in the idea that maybe, maybe if you commit more, commit harder, the transcendence you're seeking will come.

In an instant of thought, Isabelle sees the parallel yet again - when you're conditioned in one way of thought so strongly, the options are always to either double down, hoping for a future payoff (or just despairing at the lack of any alternative), or to fundamentally reassess a greater part of your life. Whether in boardrooms, politics or on the battlefield the observation applies: that backing off that path is genuinely hard. So hard that many can never bring themselves to admit that they are wrong.

Her mother is one of them.

And in that moment of realisation, the instinct to strike back, to hurt back, fades faster than the residual blast heat.

Okay. Fine. It's like that is it? Well, if so ... let's try that again.

The Emberlight is wounded, true. But while many a mech would've been easy prey for the Aeteline in such a state, while many pilots would've given into despair and the inevitable ... those mechs were not piloted by her. And, for both her sake and yours, she will not yet give up.

The next shot meets an energy shield, deflected enough to pass over her shoulder.

It quite clearly says: "No"

The Emberlight hard burns into the colony ruins. It dodges, but only enough to evade your follow up shots, not enough to be lost amongst what is rapidly becoming ruins.

It says: "Follow me"

She turns, readying herself to meet you when you inevitably disappear. Using the Aeteline's stealth and unparalleled manoeuvrability to strike from the unexpected direction. But somehow, when your blade comes, it finds hers waiting in a ready block.

The sword strikes that follow up are met by a blazing riposte. Parries and blocks that make arcs of black and gold shimmer amongst the sky. But there are no attacks, no attempts by Isabelle to strike back.

Her stance says: "Not like this."

Her boosters fire, taking the fight up through the colony ruins. You can see her wrist launcher stay idle, the pistol that has returned to its holster. She gains distance and waits again. Were it any other pilot, they would be firing back by now, using the distance to employ their ranged weaponry or munitions.

But Isabelle doesn't. In doing so, she says: "I'm not here to hurt you."

The Hellzone Grenade that you launch in response is clinically dismantled by point defences from the swarm of drones that flit out of the colony's ruins like a shimmering school of fish. Isabelle had dispersed them immediately on entering the arena and they'd been multiplying the entire time she'd been speaking.

Together they say: "This is not the way"

The plasma lance that drills through the Emberlight's cockpit is perfectly aligned. But that Emberlight shimmers into nothing more than a smoking drone. The real one fading back into sight a few meters to the side.

It says: "This is not the way"

The Emberlight dives back towards you, but even as you unload your ballistic weaponry on her the colony shifts in response. It's the only way to describe it. Columns detach, just in time to be shredded by autocannon fire. Panels lodge in the ground in just the right places to ablate explosions.

It says: "This is not the way."

The mech hits the ground just as stone walls rise around you. Something has started the arena's nanobots building. But what? Is this part of the fight choreography? Or is something else going on.

It says two things:

"You don't have all the answers"

"Stay with me"

And the way that Isabelle moves, that the Emberlight moves, as it swings around you. The sword lunge less about striking an opponent as looking for a blade to cross. An aching reach. Looking for you to just swing back. Swords like a person's hands, looking for a partner.

It says: "Fight with me. Dance with me."

The strikes are blazing fast, but there is a lively energy in them. Not just technically perfect anymore. She blocks one strike in a bright arc, letting the momentum bring the blades into a lock between you, before winking.

It says: "This should be fun. You used to enjoy this. Why not enjoy it once again? We can be friends, rather than just opponents."

Parry. Parry. Block. Jump. Disengage.

The stone walls crumble. And the two mechs are free to move about once again.

[Isabelle rolls to fight - 4 + 4 + 0: 8 - She takes another string, and a superior position. Spending the string to encourage Solarel to speak with her this time - an XP if she does. She's deliberately not inflicting further conditions.]

The tricks run out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But only if you have the patience to see it.

“ACK! EEK! YEE!! DOLLLYYYYYY DO SOMETHINGGGGG—“

”Um, erm, is that, do you really—“

“DOLLLLLYYYYY HELP THAHAHAHATH I’M NOT EVEN OUT OF THE SYHIHISTEM DOLLLLLLYYYYY—“

"I, I mean, you’re sure you really— oh, here you go, ah, wait, hold on, that’s her—“

“AUUUUUUUUUHGH DOLLLLYYYYY WHY WOULD YOU GIVE HER THE WREHEHEHENCHHHHHHHHH BETRAYAL AND CALUMNY AND WOE IS ME TO SEE THIS DAY WHEN YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—“

"Have you, um, tried maybe just dis, dis, disentangling yourself? I’m still wearing my glove and you could just—“

“SHE’S IN MYHYHY BUFFFFERRRRRSSSS DOLLLLLLYYYYYYY I’M STUUUUUUUCKKKKKHHHH”

The mighty and powerful goddess writhes, doubles over, feet in the air, uselessly kicking, hands over her face as anguished giggles and squeaks burst out of her, with only one increasingly flustered witness to her agony, her dark night of the soul, her hideous torment. This is an impossible feeling, and really, Dolly should be the one feeling it, but shunting it over to her requires a level of fine control in a mind that is being flooded with an unfamiliar set of mechanics tinkering with her idol-body’s functions. And besides, it would be… unworthy. That’s what makes her hesitate when she almost thinks straight.

"Dampening clamps? What, um, what do those, well, I suppose they dampen, but— yes, you’re right that it would be catastrophic if she moved, but—“

It’s incredibly wildly unfair that her own weave is being used against her like this. Her sleek bob sticks to her forehead and cheeks as her legs are folded back and her arms lock in place. She can’t even double over now, not with the phantom rope between her wrists and ankles.

“DOLLLLLYYYYY WHYHYHYHYHY AAAAAAAA SHE’S A SADIST A SPY THIS IS ALL PART OF HER SCHEMES WASN’T SHE SATISFIED WITH PILOTING ME LIKE A DEPRAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAALLLLLLLYYYYYYYYYY”

"She’s, I’m, are you sure, I— well, yes, I suppose you’ve got everything on site already, and— oh, I, I didn’t, read, what she— and we do owe you, it’s just, um—“

Dolly glances guiltily at the cackling goddess arching her back, flexing her feet, incoherent and helpless given the level of meddling that Slate is innocently performing.

“And what do you— oh, that’s, are you sure you should— well, no, I’m not an engineer, and, yes, we do want the upgrades, it’s so sweet of you to do, but—“

“DHHHHLLLLLHHHYYY GMMM HMMM GRRRHMMM NNNLLK MMMMHH— MMMMMFFFF!!! UUULLLLEEEEEE!!!”

"I, uh, I, I think, the goddess, wants this done, as quickly as possible, so, so, um, how can I— oh, by, by sitting over there? And? Oh, I see, that, yes, I understand, and, um, eep, yes! Right away, ma’am!”

BETRAYAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL

“YEEEEHH GHHHH BBFFFFK MMN— MEEHEEEHEEEFFFF!!! NNNNNNNFFFFFHHH!!!”

Dolly reaches out, sitting on a bench, and awkwardly pats her goddess’s writhing form. She whispers, low and hoarse. “I, she’s really intense, and… at least nobody can, um, see, you?” Her heart is throbbing, she’s going to sweat straight through this top, and her legs might as well be made of a high-carbon polymer. She knows. She absolutely knows.

Jade’s going to be on a vengeful warpath, and there’s one target who’s going to fucking get it once Slate and her team are done. The thought of having Jade inflict holy vengeance upon her is leaving her lightheaded and giddy. Or maybe that’s just feedback from Jade, who is sounding increasingly lightheaded and giddy as she rolls and writhes around, yowling with laughter into increasingly snug muffling.

UNDIGNIFIEEEEDDDDDD

“ahreee!! —ree!! mnnnghm!! mmm!!! ——!!!!”

Dolly bites her lip, does her best not to stare at the goddess glaring up at her through a mess of cobalt bangs, folds her hands in her lap, and softly vibrates into a new plane of existence, one where her goddess isn’t getting worked over by an almost certainly innocent band of overzealous engineers, wondering if she can ever get away with occasionally having Nine Forests do something like this depending on how Jade is feeling afterwards, wishing that she was wired up fully in the cockpit during this, considering if Jade could shunt all the feedback her way or whether they’d just end up sweaty and wriggling together making the temple echo with their moans just like when Mirror—

An engineer sets a plug into place firmly, hears an indecent little noise barely over the sound of power tools, and glances back over her shoulder at the high priestess, who has her face in her hands and is doubled over making little squeaks.

oh okay okay so that. when she. sometimes when she. okay. that. wow. neat! neat!! really neat!!! incredible!!!

“I am! I’m! I’ll just! Be! In our! Room!!!” Dolly pants, shivering with the shared burst of feedback, and scoops Jade up into her arms before, shaky-legged, fleeing, clinging her groaning wife to her chest.

Dolly’s going to fucking get it. Eventually. Once the remodel’sssssszzzzfuckkkkkkk—

NOBODY CAN EVER KNOW OR THEIR REPUTATION WILL BE RUIIIIIIIINEEEEDDDDDD.

…even more than it already is, thank you, Jade, for, the dancing, though, only, Mirror’s team? Knows? For now? And hopefully, not, just belatedly, considering, the Red Band, ever? Or?? They might??? Try to set her up with an encore, and—

“MMMMP!!!”
"MEEEP!!!”

Mirror

She knows that she’s lost this fight. You can read it in her body language as you lift off, in the slightest hint of lethargy of the responding shield drones before they’re blown apart by your tails.

It’s one of the easier calculations to make. She’s used a vast amount of resources. Nor is this a Solarel style battlefield, she has not snuck into the space and filled it with hidden mines or had the opportunity to seed the field with heretofore unseen drones. Marcina Villajero is not the sort of woman to partake in such tricks, but prides herself on being able to foil or endure them. You, though, you have outlasted her in every way that counts. Perhaps in another minute she would rally and understand how to fight you with simply her sword. Perhaps she could make that realization. But in this moment, she has used up or lost nearly all of her payload, attacked you in your most vulnerable and limited position with the most speed she can muster, and the blow was not decisive. It did not even slow you nor disable your next attack. And now you have freedom of motion.

“If I am like walking the mountain, then I see that you have mounted me” she says, with a voice that sings bittersweet. “Come then, take what you have earned.”

She does not concede, but charges you again. Knowing that she cannot avoid the shot, knowing that she will not make it to you. She watched the Heim Stockar fight as well, and understands the power you can put out. But what is she to do? Dodge? Dodge and dodge and dodge in a machine that will exhaust her to do so and hope for an opening? No, she is the bulky one, the one in armor and with the sword that can end the fight in one blow all her own. She will fight and give herself completely to your hands.

Do with her what you will.

[She takes a string on you in offering her submission and will spend it immediately to offer an XP for you to show her everything you’ve got.]

***

Isabel and Solarel

The long slow dance is coming to a close. You’ve already mapped the terrain. Pieces of the cityscape were blown apart at random and no new threats have since emerged. The clouds were ionized, released, and ionized again and no new threats have emerged. The remaining structures, such as they are, present a known set of visuals. Surprising how quickly you can start to get a feel for what’s going to be at your back without needing to stop and look. A new map only challenges its players briefly and then they solve it for its particular quirks and eccentricities.

What remains to you is simply to avoid the distraction of the beautiful sunset, casting the sky in a vivid mixture of oranges and pinks.

Bring the duel to its conclusion.

***

Dolly and Jade

“Alright that will do for today. See you again same time tomorrow?” Slate’s smile is all teeth. She had fun, and she knows she had fun. She knows about your connection, and well, some things can be inferred even if they aren’t directly stated. Though surely this was a coincidence, a lucky moment that she chose to capitalize on, perhaps didn’t even realize until it was already happening and she was coming out of her technical reverie.

“I think we have all the details we need. The larger parts will come either tomorrow or the day after. We’ll need a little time to get them switched out, which I’m sure you’re familiar with, and then there will need to be some rounds of testing and tuning. I admit that I am curious how that works with Smokeless Jade Fires. Normally the AI provides raw data and then the pilot compares their impressions. A tenth of a second faster turning isn’t useful if it makes the pilot feel sick, that sort of thing. But in this case I imagine the goddess has the final say in most of these things, at least as long as the high priestess can handle it. Any questions for me?”

She does not hesitate. She waits. Confirmation of approach vector, calculation of speed. Selecting the angle of attack not to cover the possibility of counterattack but ensure a killing blow.

This is the ultimate difference between her and Solarel. It wasn't ever a question of philosophy. They did not disagree, the two of them. It was a matter of capability and the approach and mentality that unfolded from that one cruel truth. Mirror cannot pilot a Mecha using the traditional synthweave feedback system; the overload to her nervous system made her feverish, dizzy, nauseous, and could even cause nerve spasms that without proper care might kill her.

But she didn't have the mind of an engineer like Slate. She's didn't have the capacity for pure science like her mothers. She didn't even have an eye for fashion, unless one counted the sporadic fits of creative madness that overtook her from time to time. Her heart yearned to be useful, and to be loved. From kittenhood she'd known that could only happen as the heart of an amor like the Gods-Smiting Whip.

Everything was about making it work. Everything was about making it possible. A thousand books and research papers read obsessively over and over and over until she had the language to express her dream. And only one other cat had not laughed at it, but picked up a wrench and a control spike with a toothy grin on her face, and promised to make it put the dreamer in her debt forever. And once the miracle was finished, what she had was proof of her own stupidity. Her own insanity. The madness of an uncharted path across the stars. It was practice, practice, practice, failure, failure, failure, then practice again that molded her into the enigma and the legend people thought they saw now.

Mirror does not check for tricks. She doesn't run a scan for the Geist attack that took out The Fang That Devours the Sun the last time she attempted to unleash it. She doesn't wait to make sure she understands the totality of Marcina Villajero's brave charge. This is not naivete. This is not arrogance. This is not a disagreement with the woman she loved more then any other. It was simply battle philosophy born out of practicality. Out of necessity.

Buttons and levers did not move as fast as pilot-level reflexes. Decisions must be made ahead of the moment of actual action. That encouraged aggression. It encouraged reckless hyper aggression in point of actual fact. Stay ahead. Stay above. Stay beyond. Mutually assured destruction was preferable to a destined failure over waiting for the perfect blow and missing. She did not have the luxury of assuming priority in the lategame.

"This is not your failure. I simply have somewhere I am climbing. Besides..."

The heat from the Fang has boiled most of the water in the nearer parts of the arena away. More liquid rushes in to fill the void, boiling waves of froth and violence. Rock and metal melt next. Even Nine-Tails' own paint job is a bubbling, melty mess in the face of Mirror's attack. The energy blade is jagged and unstable and large enough that it seems designed for living up to its own name rather than for practical combat.

But when it swings it is quiet. The roar of the void lies outside the pair of them. When it connects it is painless: legs and hands and parts of arms and torso slice away in nanoseconds from contact and weld instantly shut after. It's too quick for feedback, even stunned shock. Inside the Jormungar, Marcina Villajero only feels... weightlessness. Calm. Freedom. She is clean, if also helpless. This is a blade of purity, and of kisses. All of its terrible violence is contained within itself.

However. Always one layer of defense. The Gods-Smiting Whip does not move except to direct the Fang That Devours the Sun with Tail Nine. It shows the cost of the move and the limitations of Crystal Fire. Sorry kids, you'll have to tune in next time to see her real secret.

In the absence of violence, there is peace. In the absence of void there is sound. Building remnants groan and topple into useless slags of scrap while stones tumble over top of them in the arms of the waterfalls Mirror had created. Eight tails float meekly back into place along the frame of the still smoldering Gods-Smiting Whip, seemingly no more power left to let them float. It touches down amidst the pooling waves and with its one functioning arm lifts the remains of the Jormungar out and to safety.

Macro programmed, walk cycle. Initiate. Open cockpit. Mirror stands at the edge of her heart and her safety with her mesh suit still dangerously unzipped and pulled open.

"Besides," she repeats, "I promised to eat you. And the pilot known as Mirror has never once broken a contract. Come. You have lost but are not defeated, are you? Come. Exit your cocoon and come to me. Rest in my arms, proud warrior, star sister, and witness with your own eyes the truth of the pilot you could not grasp in time."

There is no smile on her face. No twitch of her whiskers or even the barest flick of a tail to betray her. Her watery eyes are as frustratingly unreadable as ever. She simply stands there, victorious, offering her hand out and watching. Not hesitating, but waiting.

Solarel - for you, Isabelle has all the patience in the galaxy.

Fire thrusters, offset the limp. Step to the side, leap primed, in case of a hidden strike from loitering munitions. Drones to defence to ward off a ranged strike whilst moving.

Isabelle fights like a river, bending with the land. As you push, she retreats, but not so far as to remove the threat she poses. Her own strength is always there, as inexorable as that of the water that undercuts the mountain.

Have you ever wanted to be a hero?

In those Anime you've watched, you would have seen them. The ones that usually have to go through a trial or some such nonsense, before coming back for their own, stronger and ready to triumph? To fight the final battle and earn their Rewards. Some of them good looking, some less so, most plucky and young, others older. It's a pretty standard pattern and one that might have caught your interest.

Step back, and the land rises beneath Isabelle's feet. A pathway forming out of the dirt, taking her to the higher ground. An invitation to destruction, one you wisely avoid. It's not meant to be her finishing blow, just to give you both more time. Time to express yourself. Time to watch. Time to learn.

Isabelle fights like a flower - petals opening to the sun, waiting for your light. Turning to you as you move. Life, but also danger. Every rose has its thorns does it not?

Heroes have their own motivations, somewhat more varied than the structure of their stories. Some want to save their homes. Others the world. Some might just want to protect those around them. Others just want to be left alone, but will nonetheless do the Right Thing when the call comes.

Love. Life. Compassion. Empathy.

As the Aeteline moves, the drones swirl. Closer, further away. What are they doing? You make your advance and Isabelle steps forward as well this time - aggression that suggests some counter is at play - and you step back instead.

Isabelle fights like the wind. Formless. Adaptable. Persistent.

The values of a hero are something that Isabelle had been taught to ignore. To bury them in the name of doing what was required, what Duty called her to do. What was needed to survive in the cutthroat world of politics and money. Mirror said it best once: she had been taught backwards.

But she can learn. And in doing so, she can realise what she wants.

She wants to help. To protect. To do the Right Thing.

Isabelle fights like a Hero. She's faced her defeats, her trials, at the hands of Ada Smith and yourself. She's learned from her teachers, including Mirror. Her motions now belie compassion, hope, determination and love.

She has the skills to climb the mountain or erode it over time. But that's not what she wants. She doesn't want your defeat. She wants to help you.

Tell us how the duel goes. She came here for it. So take as long as you need. Hours. Days even. She's was already used to all-nighters even before the Trak'tho nanobots got to her and increased her stamina.

Tell us how the duel peaks. In the flashing of blades, in the bright lights of explosions or something else, something more dramatic and flashy? Or something more intimate?

But more importantly. Tell us how she helps you. What has she done for you - in sacrificing a victory in this arena for your wellbeing. Did it achieve anything?

And, finally, tell this Hero what her reward will be. If any.

She doesn't fight for that but - well, it's part of the expectations. Anime doesn't lie after all, does it?

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

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

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

And then you're not fighting Solarel any more.

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

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

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

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

Dolly's doing her best. Her very, very best. She's handling this one solo, since the goddess is a sweaty heap of mewing in her bed, and she's got to get this engineer out of their collective hair. Even so, she looks frazzled, flushed, a bit of a mess, a figure of fun for the cult to snicker about. Oh, how lovely it must be to get the goddess's attention, so on and so forth.

But the question was asked, and so Dolly stops and considers it properly, and something swims forth from the river of thought. Like any good Hybrasilian, she snatches it up immediately, lays it open, and feasts.

"What can you tell me about Mirror?" She blinks, slow, comfortable, despite her dishevelment. It's intentionally vulnerable, disarming. "Since you work with her. For her. With her?" A cock of the head: a question underneath the question. "After all, we are standing together. I thought I knew her, but the more I look, the more confusing she gets..."

Mirror

“Very well, you’ve won. You have me, and I will do as I’m told.”

Marcina takes your hand. Without hesitation or reluctance. This is not to say that there is no fear in her face. No, from what you know of Terenians, and the feeling of her pulse as you touch, she is quite nervous. Her heart beats swiftly and her brow is furrowed. Even still, she cannot read you, even still she sees the leaf that might blow her any which way. But if before she sought to cow the wind, now she has surrendered herself to it. Not without trepidation, but she has overruled it and surrendered. Utterly, completely. Take her as you please, show her what you will, in this moment she is yours.

***

Dolly

Slate cocks her own head. “I meant questions about my work, but that’s not what I said. She’d pin me for that. That’s what you ought to know about her, Dala Hunters. She is powerful and she is strict. With herself more than anyone else in the world. She has given her heart and soul to her dreams. Dreams that shouldn’t be possible. Dreams that she clings to without ever being satisfied with everything and everyone else who comes to her. But who she needs nevertheless. She needs the biggest family in the world and you’re part of it now.”

She grins again, and you get the impression that you’ve already been hunted down and devoured. And then, well, maybe you have.

***

Isabelle

Even here, help is not long away. Rescue drones fly up from below to help you down and to gather the remains of the Emberlight. Little enough remains of it. The sniper round incinerated most of the core systems. But the drive is still in its protective casing surrounded by melted slag, and the lower third exists more or less intact. So there is salvage to recover and something that can be made from this yet. Eventually. Though let’s be honest, even with nanobots assisting you, creating a new Emberlight (if that’s even what you want now) would be the work of the better part of a year.

There’s also the matter of your own numbness. The sudden daze of feeling sensation cut from your lower body, and then the shot, so fast that it felt like you were stabbed in the chest before the feed cut out entirely. No warning lights blare because there’s nothing left of the automated systems to blare them. There is instead quiet. The gentle rush of the wind through turbulent clouds alone with you as help comes to get you.

You’ve seen into the heart of Solarel, but before you could get there, you were blocked by something dark and terrible. Reflect on what you have found.

***

Solarel

Where are you?