[b]Zhaojun![/b]

That was touch-and-go for a moment, wasn’t it? But there’s nothing better than the rush of seeing everything click into place. The General is perilous, powerful, and potent, but you have turned his army against him, a child of the dragons has rebuked him, and at the end of the day, he [i]is[/i] of Hell. They lost the war. Their days of glory are far behind them.

So down he crumbles, bleeding ichor from his hewn limbs, as Wrack-dolls climb all over him with rusted chains and frayed ropes, and when he tries to sink beneath the Waste they dig in their heels and slow him down. They will not last forever, and even now vambraces are snapping free and broken lines are sawing through the air, but he is not acting at his full strength and he is unable to simply dive and then burst out from beneath you, as he would like.

He is vulnerable. You may strike with the authority of Heaven and the law of Hell. And you should do so quickly, before the advantage is lost, and he marshals his strength and turns to the work of unmasking you.

***

[b]Piripiri![/b]

“My savior! My heart! Kindest of mortals! I am Naji, daughter of the Laema, sworn to torment those who cast aside true beauty in the Revolution and to provide loyalists with the ageless finery of the true aesthetes, and yet, I want nothing more than to yield to the iron command of a mortal, so long as she is you! Please, let me be yours, yours, yours! Let me be your slave, let me slither upon my pride and my mother’s war, let me be a filthy little traitor to the cause, if only I am yours!”

…is what the serpent-girl is trying to say. Even as you shush her, even as you trace a thumb over her drool-sodden gag, even as she grows more and more mortified, even as she squirms and writhes needily in your arms, cheeks flushed, top heaving, eyes bright, slithering neatly into the archetype of the Traitorous Demoness (who denounces the Demon City for the sake of love, despite the terrible punishments that may well be inflicted upon them when their lover dies and they must return home).

Her words are muffled, incomprehensible, and you can feel how the more she tries to talk, the faster her alien heart beats, the more she strains her muscles against the ropes, the more she huffs through her neat little nose, the higher-pitched her stopped-up voice becomes, and the more adoring the looks she gives you through her lashes.

This serpent has it [i]bad[/i] for you. Just absolutely tumble-down-a-flight-of-stairs catastrophic. She associates you with the blissful neediness of suspension, the erotically charged transgression of dallying with a mortal, the shock of sudden relief as she’s plucked right out of the sky and held reassuringly close, and your fondly condescending smile as you listen to her just dig her own horny grave. Tell her how pretty her voice sounds like that and she’d shamelessly arch her back and [i]moan[/i]. And keep reassuring her, tell her that you’ll keep her safe, and you’ll have earned the loyalty of a competent demon operative.

And also she has a long, powerful, clever tongue, if that is relevant at all.

***

[b]Kalaya![/b]

Color rises to Ven’s cheeks. She tries to say something, but it comes out as a little squeak. Her eyes dart from your boots to the collapsing demon monster far off, and then she stands up and starts pacing. So that she won’t start sinking into the sea, that is.

Then she pulls her top off.

Beneath, her body is hard. Scarred. The simple wrap over her chest doesn’t hide the place where her arm meets her body. It’s not pretty; the metal was hot when the fusing process began. The arm itself is gleaming brass, of strange design, impossible to mistake for a human’s arm: ornate, fluted. The fingers, articulated, are more like claws.

“Well?” She snaps. “Look at me and say that. Look at [i]this[/i] and say that. The Green Sun gave me this instead of my [i]useless[/i] one. It was mangled, Kal. I couldn’t even open my fingers anymore. I would have spent the rest of my life as a cripple, forgotten by the world, left on some backwards little farm, pitied and unloved and [i]weak.[/i]”

(You know this Ven, too. The Ven who’s too proud to admit she needs you to agree with her.)

“So are you still happy? Because I’m not going to give up. The Broken King promised me the Flower Kingdoms. I’m going to march into Golden Chrysanth at the head of an army. I’m going to bring the kings and the princesses into line. I’m going to make my family proud and free again; Snapdragon will blossom, and there will be peace throughout the kingdoms, and all because of [i]me.[/i] So don’t you—“

She gets in close. Touches you, before she realizes what she’s doing. Her brass hand on yours, her eyes shining with challenge and bravado and something more. She freezes up. She’s very close. You could reach out and touch her flushed cheek. Trace your fingers against the pulse beating in her neck. Bring your lips to hers.

“Don’t you try and stop me,” she breathes. “I don’t— I— you— you won’t—“ Her eyes snap down hotly from your face, and her grip tightens on your hand. “Shut up! Shut [i]up![/i]” You haven’t said anything. “I’ll! I’ll [i]kill[/i] you! You stupid, beautiful—“

Her voice cuts off into a choked strangle of rage and… not rage.

***

[b]Giriel![/b]

You squeeze your eyes tight when you land. Not because you are afraid, but simply because the body has its own reflexes.

Even so, you see the world light up in searing emerald. Your skin prickles with sudden sunburn, red and sensitive to the touch. There is a sound of hissing, of settling ash, of the wind carrying off death.

And when you open your eyes, Peregrine is not offering you a hand to help you up, or comforting Azazuka, who is curled up and whimpering with the pain of that green fire touching her skin. She is watching the battle of the two Generals with delighted awe on her face, drinking it in greedily, even as a soft halo of Hell’s sunlight plays around her head.

“[i]Fascinating,[/i]” she breathes. “What’s going to happen if she wins, removes him from play, allows Title to collapse? Diminishment? Scarring? Competition to fill the role? Old accounts from last war unreliable, biased. Contradictory. Implications… momentous. And her! Actions sanctioned? Risk of censure? Possibility of deep cover agents? [i]All of Hell is Heaven[/i] unlikely, but… ha! Tell Giri later.”

Also, take a Condition. Being sunburnt hurts.

***

[b]Han![/b]

Mark Hopeless, too, as the fire wanes inside you, as the relentless green light of Hell’s sun beats down on you. Sure, you did it, you really showed that asshole, but the battle was harder than you maybe noticed at first. Gashes from the swords of dolls, ignored in the moment; bruises that will hurt more and more when you dwindle down into a smaller shape; and the question slowly sinking in of what you’re supposed to do now. There’s a second one, after all, and the sea all around you is swarming with the dolls.

But ignore that for a moment. Ignore all of it. Because Melody is nuzzling into your body in relief, and her dorky little smile is dazzling without her veil, and she’s shaking in that snug ribbon with the aftershocks of excitement, and when she looks up at you it’s like the first sunrise in the whole damn world.

“You came for me,” she says, and she’s still smiling even as tears well in her soft brown eyes, her glasses crooked on her nose, her body pressed up against yours like she wants you to never let her go.

Ignore your impending doom. Ignore the pain. You gave her a little more hope, gave her a reason to smile. You came back for her. Lower your head and nuzzle her and let that be enough, no matter what happens next to the two of you. Just let that be enough.