When she wakes, Bella is still there. Her lips are set in a frown, and how she smiles. Her coat is cruelly familiar, and her eyes still throb as she lights a cigarette and exhales something that stains the walls clear. Behind the mirrors are machines and masks, and every one of them is her.

“[i]Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov,[/i]” the Laughing God purrs, and the knowledge hits her hard and fast like lightning. She stumbles out of the bed, trailing the Scyllan medical tether until its jaws yield and leave her bereft of its monitoring and enhanced nutrient lines, and she begins fumbling, pushing through the mirrors, grabbing at them and knocking it down.

“Redana,” Mynx says, and she’s wearing a mask, too. [i]Princess Redana Claudius, thinking herself clever.[/i] The pink of Redana’s skin melds too neatly with the red scales of her neck. “Are you okay? The Alcedi grandmother said that there wasn’t anything wrong with you, and neither did the Magos, but—“

Redana grabs Mynx by the mask, and finds that she can’t find the seams. Well. That’s all right. “Mynx,” she growls. “Mynx. [i]I have to find the right one.[/i]”

“You... what?”

Redana pushes Mynx back, not unkindly, and continues— no, not here, not in here. She stumbles out through the decontam and lets it wash over her and Mynx, even while she checks— no, not here, either.

“Redana, you’re scaring me.”

“I have to find the right one.” The mask on the door ([i]Princess Redana Claudius, upon eating something that she had been pushing around her plate for ten minutes[/i]) glows green through its eyelids and Redana pushes through and groans at the sight in front of her, rows upon rows upon rows of masks all the way down the corridor. “I have to find the right one,” she says, repeating herself, louder, with more urgency. “Because I can’t save her without the right one.”

“[i]Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov.[/i]”

Redana starts running. She glances this way and that, and wherever she looks the mirrors crack and masks pour out of the walls. Sometimes she stops and begins to root through them, uncertain, until she stands up and hares off again, certain that the one she’s looking for is just a bit beyond.

Just a bit farther. Just a bit further. Just a few more steps. It’s around this next corner. The machinery is deafening in her ears, and she almost understands it. Maybe after she finds the right one, she’ll be ready to listen to it properly. But that’s not here. Not yet.

“Redana,” Mynx says, her face still embarrassingly smug, “I really don’t think you should go in there.” Redana stops, looks at her hands, then back at Bella, who is waiting for her. Her stone tail curls around the helm, and smoke curls in the empty places of her back. Redana pries the door open, ignoring Mynx’s squeak of terror, and marches in. There it is, hanging right where it’s supposed to be.

Redana reverently takes the mask and gives it to Bella. Bella hooks the string behind Redana’s head and settles the mask firmly on. Her fingers, clawed, crumbling, linger on Redana’s eyelids before trailing down her new cheeks.

Captain Redana Claudius sets her hand on the helm. “[i]Magistrix,[/i]” she says to Mynx, her voice calm now, self-assured, but without arrogance: “Seal the doors and inform the crew. We’re taking a Tristranian Folly. Engines shuttered, save on my mark.” It’s an elegant dance of engines, a way to kill momentum, to make a hard turn without straining the ship past what it can bear. Too slow for battle, but whispersoft if you get the timing right. She pulls the cords and messages begin their long relay down the ship.

“You are to be commended for bringing this to my attention, [i]magistrix[/i]. You will be disciplined for cowardice and desertion of a true comrade, which are high crimes, but I will take the circumstances and our long acquaintance into account in your sentencing. Phobos and Deimos make fools of us all, and I will not cut off my own nose to teach my face how to behave. Once we are on our new heading for Ridenki, you are to confine yourself to the brig. Am I clear, [i]magistrix?[/i]” Captain Redana Claudius speaks as a woman of the high seas should, her Armada accent crisp and steady, her words carefully enunciated, her passion hidden behind a stoic demeanor.

“And for the sake of the Thunderer,” she says, frowning at what she’s just received on the pneumatics, “send word to the phalanx that if they think the [i]cook[/i] is in command, they are gravely mistaken.”

With a wave of her hand, one wall becomes the starry sky far beyond, and even here she can see the gears, the levers, the turning keys, each one hiding behind the drifting colors. Perspective. That’s what she needs. With the right perspective, you could understand the entire design. Isn’t that right, Father?

Isn’t that right?