[b]Solarel[/b] “What are you?” the spirit asks. Fury still burns in its voice, but there is a sense of wonder, of curiosity in it as well. It doesn’t wait for an answer though. It points and power arcs from the back of the Kathresis. Engines that you could not see flare to life, the white fire of its drive so near the surface that behind it the metal blast plates seem to twist and warp like a heat mirage. In a single heartbeat, the Kathresis dashes across the room towards you. It’s beautifully fast. Its crystal fire drive system, set in such a small frame and absent any weaponry that needs to be actively ready, is going entirely towards speed. It's nearly upon you before you even have a chance to test your newly acquired weapons stock. However, the spirit tries to direct it to avoid the sensitive scientific instruments, giving you a moment as it diverts around those tables towards the lockers. It banks left of you, passes through a gap in the space and comes for you at a partial angle as it runs along the wall, its right hand outstretched to grab you, the spirit perched on the right shoulder staring you in the face, one arm still upraised. “You threaten my domain, and now you dare to claim a titan as your own. Even this small one will show you the truth of your weakness.” The spirit shakes its head. “But be assured, you have intrigued me. When I have crushed you properly, I will keep you here for interrogation and study.” It's over if locks you in its grip. What do you do? *** [b]Isabelle[/b] Crescent laughs, but Annika nods in a way that tells you that you are not the first and will be far from the last to imagine making love to an AI in a sturdy robotic frame. It’s odd though. What you said about the security actually seems to be right. It wasn’t right [i]before[/i] you said that. You were quite sure you were bullshitting on that point, at best a data spike inserted into the control panel should have offered you a new interface if you could bypass the security, but it shouldn’t affect the security itself, at least not without some kind of virus loaded into it. The beautiful advantage of direct hardware access is that at the end of the day you can put anything you want onto it if you know enough detail about where to put it. But what’s happening now is that the controls seem to be offering you an interface that’s got nothing to do with what was on the data spike directly. Instead, it’s responsive to how you made up the way it should function while the recording continues to play. [i]“No Amber” Iralina called. “I want no stars for my own, and I would not see you go so far. I want only you, your strength, your touch. Please, stay here with me.” “Of course my dulcet heart, If it would please you, I shall never leave your side again.” [/i] There’s an insight here, lurking just under the surface in how all this works. You might blush at the thought that Asil would probably already have it figured out. But you’ve done a lot of work on mecha plans, AI reactions, all the things that one could justify to themselves they ought to know as a pilot if they really enjoyed the engineering aspect of the work to a debatably obsessive degree. So, try something and see if you can grab at it. *** [b]Dolly (and Jade)[/b] It takes a moment to bring your head back to reality. You sit down, sure, but even when Jade lets off enough of her tantalizing to let you eat a bit, your head is still spinning with thoughts of Mirror and Mayze, of dress designs and Jade’s combats and mysterious thoughts of girls whose spots didn’t form the right pattern and what that ought to mean. The food’s half done before you even realize what you’re eating. Ksharta got you some of the meat in the soup broth. It’s good, very salty with a hint of Hybasilian herbs that give you just the slightest hint of euphoria to go with the meat and salt. Ksharta’s been scurrying off and back. She wasn’t sure what to get for Angela, initially brought her the spicy food because it was being made by Terenians but she hadn’t liked that one bit and Ksharta had raced off for water and settled on just bringing her the roasted meat, which she had busied herself cutting into small pieces to feed to Angela. The latter was bearing it with dignity. Ksharta notices that you’re noticing her for the first time in a few minutes. “So, uh, is this how your evenings u-usually go?” She’s trying to sound cute and light, but she hitches a bit on it. You know enough to know she’s really saying [i]this was a lot, right, it’s not just me?[/i] It’s a processing kind of question, but she’s already grinning and trying to move past the awkwardness of it. “I mean, not that you’d need to answer that or anything. I mean, I’m not sure if I’m even asking Dolly or Jade or um, should I be posing it formally to Jade’s high priestess maybe? But I mean, well, I guess it doesn’t matter because it’s a dumb question. And I mean, this was fun, is fun, we could do more! But um, also what do we do with our um…prisoner after dinner?” So many questions for you Dolly! Some of them maybe even good ones! *** [b]Mirror[/b] It seemed right to leave the planet after that whole exchange. Eventually you need to question your hangar crew, go back over anything they heard, even sounds that might have seemed innocuous. And you’ll need to get Slate up to speed on all the information you just shared and your new…acquisition. That will be fun, probably. But going back to the Hangar is work and you have time before that. Even so, it somehow seemed right that you leave the planet. So you find yourself on Akar Prime, not at the jungle but at the Saloon by the spaceport. It’s an interesting place and steeped in Terenian aesthetics. Well, if you could call them that. The spaceport and the saloon were part of the mining colony and that meant cheap, functional, and quick to build. So you get a lot of exposed pipes, open radiators, and square shapes with hard corners. Even the bar itself, built as a sort of central hub into the space, is square with four distinct counters and staff only entrance/exit sections on two of the four sides. They did try to decorate to counter this somewhat. The tables are small and round in contrast to the surrounding walls. This makes them look almost a little sad, like they didn’t get the square memo and showed up dressed in the wrong style to the decor. The bar is doing a bit better. It’s lined with five tiers of shelves in its center, with hundreds of differently shaped and colored bottles with all sorts of interesting drinks in them. Some of them are tall and lithe, others squat and wide with big stoppers set into them. Some seem to have a bit of their own animating energy from within the bottle, and a few even glitter and shimmer in the dim light that shines translucent through them. The attraction, aside from the scenery, is that Marcina Villajero is staying here for the present. Her actual quarters are upstairs, somewhere in the third to fifth floor of the building, probably higher up and in a fancy room. She is the champion of the last arena season, after all. Yet despite whatever fame or fortune her victory and previous wish may have brought, here she is fighting again. She won’t actually be competing in the round robin you’ve been in, of course. She’s seeded into the elimination matches as the current champion. Which, perhaps, explains why she has time to enjoy a drink and entertain some hangers-on. She’s established in a table near the bar, a tall bottle at her table with something bright red about one third already emptied out. People are packed around it, a few sitting, most standing or squatting nearby. And the champion herself…well the rumors are true. She’s absolutely tiny. You’re actually taller than she is, she barely crests five feet and if she weighs more than a hundred pounds, it would be shocking. The short hair in a pixie cut really makes you think of ancient Hybrasilian myths of small forest-dwelling spirits who would waylay the unwary, and the bust-revealing short black dress she’s wearing does not dissuade. She looks like she’s enjoying her drink though. She’s conversing with a man who’s kneeling next to her chair about something. The party seems to have been here for some time and some of these folks might be security for her. If not, people are being damn respectful all on their own. Nobody is going up and trying to demand her attention, they’ve simply gathered around her and have now started mostly conversing among themselves in a general din of noise. Despite her distraction, she sees you when you come past the bar, pauses with the man, and calls out to you. “Hey, you, Hybrasilian. You’re Mira Fisher, right? Pilot of the Nine-Tail God-Smiting Whip? Come have a drink, my treat! Whatever this is, it tastes like cinnamon and fire.” And she grins and holds up her glass to you.