Stamina is not in question. Neither is speed, neither is grace, neither is will. Redana Claudius trained for the Olympics, and under normal circumstances, not even the Owls of Athena could keep up. But this is not a normal battle[1] and this is not an Olympic track, under the lights and the eyes of the cheering crowd, sacrificial smoke lingering in the air as she opens the throttles of her heart and lets air cycle through the seven stations of the body. This is animal panic and pain and desperation not to be caught, even as every moment the Owls prove that they could, if they wanted, if she stopped being entertaining, if she proved herself exhausted, catch her. So she must not stop. She must not grow tired. She must have wings like eagles in the palace paintings, the eagles that only lived in the Imperial Menageries as art projects created by her mother's finest genetic weavers. She must be Artemis on the hunt, Hermes quick as thought, Zeus in her aspect as victor-- The claws shear through her belt, and she sheds another layer of her defenses, letting belt and tools fly behind her. There is no laughter. There is no chittering amusement. There is no mockery, save for the silent blows. They are herding her like a doe, but all she needs is a moment to break through the unseen net, a sign from on high. Until such miracle, she must simply run, and run, and not think. Thinking is impossible. Thinking will get her caught. Thinking is drowned out by the headache, throbbing, blinding, behind her eyes, as she exerts harder and harder, her skin dry and hot as she pushes hard; she is master, not water, her will is iron. Her will is nothing. It is blind momentum that keeps her from falling onto her hands and knees and begging the Owls for a time out while she fumbles for a canteen. And there's no Bella here to cheer for her from the sidelines, white tail swishing with its beautiful pink bow while she claps her hands, cheering words lost in the engine churn of muscles and the breath ringing hot and furious in her head. No Bella at all. Don't think. Don't hurt. You're not going to hurt her. She can't have caught up. And she'll... don't think about that. Don't think about her. Don't think about being held by her. Being told you're coming home. But the thoughts that break through the surface of the froth are colder, crueler: long dreadlocks and long fangs, a Strategist's robe and a spear. And here a Claudius again. No. No. No. Here, a vaulting leap, a ruined and twisted bridge shattered by starfall, but the leg buckles underneath her as the Queen's vengeance lances through her, throbbing, agonizing, and for a moment her stomach plummets as she looks down into the slit-brown waters, and then there's a hand around her wrist, cold and taloned, and the sudden stop threatens to pull the arm from her shoulder, but she's throwing herself into the pull, momentum sending her hurtling into the framework below once those sharp fingers suddenly release, and then she's moving, still moving, clambering like a golden-eared monkey hand over hand, and the shadows all around her both empty and full of threat, and if she shuts her eyes and lets herself move by instinct she's doing the bars, racing a complaining Bella whose tail drags on the sand behind her as her rounded black shoes dangle over the sand, and [i]Watch[/i] She misses a handhold and hits the duracrete rolling, vaults up on her palms, and crosses both hands in front of her chest to block the blow. Fight. Fight fight fight! Golden fire and silver shards! The three(?) leave one path open as they circle, and Redana howls as she pushes off her lame leg and launches herself between a thorn-hedge and once-gaudy brick, hearing (on purpose, they want her to know) the scrape of talons on the rooftops, her hair unfurling into a golden flag as her tie snaps, severed without her even seeing it. A belt loop catches on a protruding branch of the hedge and she slams her head into the brick wall, stars exploding behind her eyes, the Auspex's data garbled as it jars, and the soft whisper of feathers behind her, and she throws herself forward and sheds her skin like a serpent, hits the pavement on her good knee and rolls forward, head tucked in, and keeps running, the pulsing purple veins in her leg starting to glow, to glow, to shine-- And then there are more Owls, there, too, arrayed with pike in the square, and so down she goes, down, hurtling into the darkness below the city through the open access hole, where there is no light, no light, nothing but the flash-sensories of her Auspex scanning through different wavelengths, dry as bone where once there was a great moving of unclean waters, and the Owls can see in the dark, why did she come down here, but if she just keeps running, just keeps running, she'll outrace even the mirror that shone with Bella's laughter. Even that, even so. Just become motion, transcend pain, pain is for the embodied and she is become motion itself, the force acting upon a body, and if she floats over her own shoulder, the pain becomes something known and disregarded, so run, run, Redana, run. Run to a miracle. *** [1] There is no such thing.