The [i]Bezorel[/i] was easy to discount. Awful weaponry, awful maneuverability, an arm with one point of articulation. Ranged firepower was a game of math and positioning, and when it was as low damage and constant as the [i]Bezorel[/i]'s chip-damage laser array you could ignore it for a really long time before the bill came due. But just because she was piloting this old TC clunker did not mean Solarel was a TC pilot - and it did not mean the [i]Bezeorel[/i] was a TC mech. The sword smashed through the front of the [i]Sea Spike[/i], running through the torso of the distracted god, just below the cockpit. The sight was almost comical - this dustbin with guns drawing a full length combat blade and swinging it with an arm that was almost more a manipulator forklift, against a divine Zaldarian mech that stood head and shoulders taller than it. But there it was. It's got a sword! And of [i]course[/i] it had a sword. In synch with her mech, still bound by the thread of the Mind-Impulse Unit, Solarel had flipped over the Sea Spike's shoulders. She landed on the blade of her own mech and replicated its pose as she bought her blade up to Nierka's chin. The last burning shreds of clothing fell away from her body. Violet scales glittered in the sunlight, slashed through with the scar lines of scales a shallow pink. The hard lines of muscle and scale give way gently to the curves of breast and hip and tail. A golden necklace and diamond earrings cool rapidly, invisibility sculpting back into the shapes the spiritual realm held for them. She taps the bottom of the blade against Nierka's chin, lifting her eyes up to look at her, and then lets the blade fade away into mist so her hands are free to sign. [i]"You took your eyes off a [b]God[/b] to stare at me,"[/i] she says silently, grin on her face. [i]"Is that respect? Or is it something else?"[/i] she finished the sign with an affectionate boop onto Nierka's nose. [Fight: [b]14[/b]; create an opportunity for an ally (the Bezorel), seize a superior position, take a string.]