[b]Canada![/b]

Asterion doesn’t hit you. Worse: she hugs you. It’s reassuring that she still thinks you can handle her, but even a bear would be patting her on the back and making noises of surrender. This is Asterion to a tee: if she forgives you, she tosses the wrongs aside completely...

But it’s hard to forget who failed her, isn’t it?

“Really, though,” she says, putting you down, “You’d better have something better in mind than [i]Asterion keeps it together for the rest of her life,[/i] because that’s not it, chief. Wait, are the others here? Are you getting the gang back together?” There is no getting the gang back together. “Look, even with them... if I go loco, I [i]lose[/i] it. You know they call me [i]The Destroyer,[/i] right? And space monsters aren’t all I [i]destroy.[/i]”

That’s surprisingly level-headed, for Asterion. Watch, next she’s going to insist on you leaving her behind so she isn’t at risk of hurting the old gang, or even your new “gang”. How are you going to thread the needle of getting her on board the Plan?

And you’d better hurry it up, because the gladiator fights are going to be starting sooner than you’d like.

***

[b]Anathet![/b]

A sharp stab of meaning hits you hard in the back of the third eye as you finally start to surface from that endless ocean, and it takes you a gasping, confused moment to parse that its meaning is [i][appreciation, tinged with curiosity, not an initial curiosity but the curiosity of wanting to scratch beneath the surface][/i] You look up into black eyes.

No, they’re black. They’re [i]all[/i] black. The black radiates out from them freely across the face of the girl in front of you, perhaps a year or two your junior. But the black is so absolute that there’s no sense of there being actual eyes, or even empty pits; like they failed to render properly, rather.

[i][an extension of the hand; familial bonds][/i] You probably could do something like this, but you’re capable of modulating your volume instead of swinging meaning like a 2x4 to the face on full blast. [i][Lynx; Annunaki; danger, like that of a prey animal out in the open and being silently pursued][/i]

“Are you, like, all right?” This manifestation of Caphtor tilts her head and blinks in a way that the Annunaki think is appealingly vapid. “Should I inform medical services? Estimated arrival in two minutes.” She’s! Helping! You really should tell her no, don’t call the hospital one wing over and get them to send a response team. When the black-eyed girl moves past her peripherals, Caphtor doesn’t react at all.

[i][wrongness/error; personal failing][/i] but of course the way “personal failing” is conveyed is by dragging something up from your past...

Show us, and then say something. Don’t worry, you won’t run out of time unless you ignore Caphtor completely.

***

[b]Ètoile![/b]

“A drink for the honorable slave of the House of Blue Stone,” Cellie says almost smoothly; the end comes out in a rush that would make her tutor frown. “Are you... busy tonight?” She might as well have winked loudly and nudged you. Any passing Inquisitor would have either assumed conspiracy or proposition (ewwww!!).

And here you are, staring down the barrel of the hope in your sister’s eyes as she lingers as long as she possibly can for that answer. She’s desperate to help, to [i]do[/i] something, to overturn a table and tell the Annunaki that they’re a bunch of bastards, except she is also your little sister and does not have any superpowers, which would mean a very short end to her reign of abolitionist fervor.

In front of you, the slave of the House of Latticed Ivy curtseys in a skirt that looks more like something dragged up from the bottom of the sea, albeit a very fashionable bit of shark bait, and a top that’s like Marianne’s jacket turned into a gauzy shawl with the buttons laced out in tiny jewels, offering news from her honorable and gracious masters. It’ll be your turn in just a moment.