Ah. She can think clearly at last. 

The beings of the Spirit Realm wear every shape. Their preferences and trends crackle through the invisible world like lightning; beings with aspects of animals, of geometry, of aliens past and future. It is a world of art and lies, a realm where geists claim to be foreign princes so they might pick a pocket that they only imagine you possess. Challenge is necessary. Challenge is life. Only through the crackling, daring spark of conflict can truth be forced. Who has the ability to back up their words? Who is but a shadow on an infinite canvas?

Truth, then. This creature is violent. It is cruel. It is proud. It is an imposter. This is not a warlike aspect, not a grim military mind, not bound by protocol, not infused with the artistry of battle. It did not follow an escalation process. It did not ignite an alarm. It did not shoot to kill. It did not shoot to incapacitate a Zaldarian. This entity is a child wearing parent's clothes, a creature that demands respect because its original function was not worthy of respect. 

Capabilities. The facility lives, reconfiguration is too quick. There can be no cover here, no point of safety if every wall might hold a blade. If it can move the walls then it can seal windows and doors. It can turn an advance into a labyrinth by which it might indulge its cruelty with traps and puzzles until its superiority is demonstrated. She has seen warriors fight buildings and lose before, and those weren't even alive. But Seval Halfmind always did have poor form.

The stone beneath her melts to lava. Electricity runs through her body and turns into heat. Pain, discomfort, muscle spasms, lack of co-ordination. Discharge flare possible - but no. Humans don't regenerate. She feels the energy in her body overflow out of her. Just because a Zaldarian can channel this power does not mean that it does not hurt. Power cores running this hot for this long risk cracking, becoming incapacitating internal injuries that need surgery to repair. She sets timers and numbers, counting hyperaccelerated heartbeats, feeling molten golden saliva drip from her mouth. 

Authorization. It thinks in those terms still. No matter what pride it might papered over its broken soul with it is not a power unto itself. It knows it can be enslaved. Judged. Held to account. All its words fear this. It could have granted access but was afraid of the consequences of acting without instructions. It is already out on a limb. Already labours under guilt from previous failures and concessions. It squats on this throne. Does Annika hold its leash? Is one of the geists in her orbit the critical node, or is it a physical possession? Where is the leash? How firm is its grip? Where is it weak? Scrapergeists whisper secrets in her ears, automated hacking protocols in progress as they collect secrets. A tyrant on a borrowed throne will have no end of enemies and she opens herself to their collected spite.

She cannot sign through the electricity. Will not speak. She will make her answer known through motion and when she does she will return every joule of energy she was given.

[Figure out a person: 13
- How could I get you to grant me authorization?
- What are your feelings towards Annika?
Infamous: How could I get you to betray your ideals?]