When the show is ending, Mirror takes a bow. She pauses. On the second wave of applause, she dips down in a bobbing motion that means 'thank you' among her own people. She waves awkwardly when it's over. She does not know what to do with her hands. Where to put her feet. Whether to stand straight or curl into herself. To walk forward, backward, or stay exactly where she is? 

She finds herself arm in arm with her fellow models, fingers clutching tightly around each other. Her fellow... ah. Aha. That was the mystery, then. She flashes the same sort of awkward, embarrassed, and wonderfully happy grin the others had been unable to keep off their faces. She pivots just the smallest bit to flash more of her spots underneath the petals. Yes, this was the source of everything. 

Mayze's sun had set on the night. It was time to put her away. Mirror's approach, her identity and ideology, were unnecessary until later. Asleep, the pair of them. One to dream and one to wake.

What, then, was Mira Fishers to do with the handful of hours given to her?

All at once a dozen different drinks from across the evening come rushing down her throat to plant themselves in her legs. She tastes the memory of each one, the promises long deferred. When she hops down from the walkway she stumbles so hard it takes 3 people (2 Humans and a Zaldarian, she notes with curiosity) to keep her from smashing her face into the floor. She leans on them with the odd ferocity of a gelatin dessert and titters out a series of giggling apologies. She's nervous, you see. This was her first show. She's never been asked to model before and when she got the call it was [i]Maaaayyyyzzeeeeeee~[/i]

Somebody remembers seeing her with Valentina before her turn. She thanks them each with shy kisses when they return her. It's time for good girls to get rewards, see? That's why they're, heeeee, going to a special apartment! There were promises, and she always, always aaaalllllwaaaayyyys keeps her promises! Every. Single. One.

Mira Fishers' apartment turns out to be a tiny thing, indeed. Completely devoid of furnishings or personalization. Off white walls. White tile floors without so much as a rug to make it nicer to walk on. A tiny, plain desk in the corner with a single unpadded chair and a pair of presently de-powered datapads left at the precise opposite corners of the surface. A bed with plenty of space for one person, but small enough that two people could only share it by holding each other tightly through the entire night. The pillow looks untouched. The white folded sheets are so crisp and perfect that nobody appears to have even sat on it. 

She doesn't speak. Her arms sweep across her body, and the floor is decorated in flowers. She doesn't speak. Her eyes swim with mesmerizing patterns as she takes in the whole of Valentina. Her surprise, her embarrassment, the regret that almost carries her out the door right then and there, and the curiosity that makes her stay. Her excitement, her undisguised desire. The press of her thighs against each other that her dress can't quite hide. Mira slides one stub-clawed finger across the top of her chest, and smiles. 

She doesn't speak. Her mouth is needed for more important things. Like dragging her tongue across that long and stately neck, and following the trail of slick wet skin back down again with little kisses punctuated by sharp fangs. Like putting her teeth to work on each clasp, zipper, and button that holds that silly dress together. Every fresh piece of Valentina she uncovers, Mira immediately plants a kiss on. This belongs to her. And this. And this. And this too. This traditional dress from the depths of the Consortium joins the most aggressive statement of Mayze Szerpaws as another decoration on the floor, piece by piece, until there is nothing left between the pair of them. 

She pushes her partner onto the bed. Still sitting, slightly hunched, where her body gathers together in awkward folds that no amount of athleticism can ever quite clear away. These are the places she kisses the most. Her tongue delights across the places a model would have to pose around, each bit of softness that a photographer would carefully brush out on their machine before printing her onto the cover image of a new story they'd push across the networks. An impulse that makes no sense. What was a breast besides a pleasant lump of fat and tissue? Why should the fold of a tummy deserve any less worship? Or the inside of a thigh still imprinted with the markings of a too-tight stocking? 

She is surprisingly docile, now that the moment is here. She asks questions with her tongue. Do you want me here? Or here? How do you enjoy this? What excites you? Tell me what sorts of noises you make when I lick you... aha, here. She asks these questions with her hands. She asks these questions with her soft, warm body when she slides it against Valentina's. And in every moment if the question becomes 'not here', she immediately yields. Her attentions turn elsewhere, she makes no sign of forcing anything. Valentina may push, direct, pull, or order her anywhere at all if she can manage the words for anything like that. Hours spent entirely in devotion to her pleasure, her way, at her pace. 

But at the end of the night, it will all have been for Valentina. Mira controls their dance from the shadows: no part of her is touched except in the brief moments she puts those hands somewhere that she wants them, only to dance away in search of more noises to tease out of her date. No reciprocation, no moment of reversal where she allows her body to be the one that's worshipped. No kisses except directly on her mouth. No exploration of her most private, vulnerable places. None. Valentina takes her mark and waits, just like a sniper. And all that this is good for is letting the river wash her clean. 

When the dawn comes and an exhausted, glowing Valentina de Alcard finally stirs, she will find her arms wrapped around nothing but empty air. All alone in that small room with nothing for company but a glass of water and a handwritten note with directions to a place with Hybrasilian breakfast options. If she's curious. Mira's attempts at human handwriting are neat in a childish sort of way. The kind of effort where it becomes obvious that the spacing and shaping of every letter is the result of enormous amounts of conscious effort to make them anything other than scribbles, that immediately renders her cleanliness into vulnerability.

But nevertheless, that's all that's left of her. Didn't you read her profile? A promise kept, to the letter. Exactly as it was made, no more and no less. 

Mirror is still nude as she climbs away across the body of the Gods-Smiting Whip. Pointless to bother with clothing; there's still hours before anybody will be here to see her, and at least another hour beyond that before it's anybody she'd be especially bothered to show herself to. The neural mesh suit she wears to battle out of obligation and habit is uncomfortable and annoying; she might as well be comfortable while she works. 

Every screen in her hangar is paused on some different part of Solarel's last fight. Mirror's eyes flicker between each of them and her work, clambering silently across her mecha. Her hands clench every time she looks. Should not have spent her shot like that last night. Should not. What a mistake. Rookie error. 

Her jaw clenches, looking at the Bezorel. Her body tenses, thinking about the fight. Her hands busy themselves with unnecessary calibration work. Her Nine Drive System was operating at less than peak capacity. Tail Five was still at 97% functionality. Unacceptably low. She had two hours to find a missing 3 percent. No. More than that. Today, Tail Five would operate above its theoretical peak performance. It would burn out and blow up shortly thereafter, but she didn't care. Replacing it would be less difficult than losing. 

"You. Moron." she hisses, voice full of venom, "Sit there. Watch me. I. Will. Catch. Up. I. Will. Free. You."