"Marcina Villajero? Arena champion. Pilot of..."

Intentional delay of five point seven six seconds. Implied struggle of recall, affected look of concentration. Tap finger on air as though across surface of a desk: accepted gesture of consideration among certain small circles of Fisher culture, limited in popular use to a handful of frontier research stations. Easily misconstrued among outsiders as taunting. One, two, one two three, one two. Feels almost like piloting. Single nod, smile as practiced. Lip curling toward the left side of the face, good, good.

"The Jormungar. To call out a nobody like me, on sight, in the middle of a crowded bar? That's so surprising it's almost suspicious! I wonder, could you be my mysterious saboteur?"

Pause, again. Allow the accusation to linger in the air. Gauge reactions, smile. Longer. Tap tap, tap. Long enough to make it awkward. Three. Two. One. And: laughter.

"Only kidding, of course. It's an honor, thanks for the drink."

It's natural that she would be prepared for this meeting. Any combatant with intentions to win the tournament would be an idiot not to consider interactions between key competitors, and the reigning champion stands as the most obvious of all. At the barest minimum one would hope to see profiles built detailing combat capabilities and off-field tendencies to be sufficiently prepared for what amounts to increasingly inevitable confrontations. And Mirror is vastly more disadvantaged than most. And vastly more serious than most. So her preparations are comparatively more thorough.

This is not about that, though. This [i]is[/i] a battle, but the opponent is not Marcina Villajero. Impossible to defeat an opponent of this caliber in a bar before the main show, in any event. But she represents an opportunity. The world. The galaxy. That is an enemy she can defeat. Let the crowd watch. Let word spread. Let the strengths and weaknesses of Mira Fisher be known, so she can observe who attempts to take advantage of them. 

Always. [i]Always[/i] one layer of defense. Never more or less. She sits at the table with an awkward slouch, pours her own drink from the offered bottle, and stares at it instead of drinking. Swirl. Watch the liquid. Entrancing. Terrifying. Dip little finger enough to break surface tension, but no more. Shake until nearly dry. Trepidatious lick. Immediate gag.

"Cinnamon," she spits, "Vile stuff. Poison. Did you know? The revolutionary warrior Delinata Seven Rhea would send gifts of cinnamon to enemy camps before battle? They say she liberated the Grasslands with only a single stroke of her spear. And you... [i]like[/i] this? What kind of steel-blooded queen are you?"

That is a true story, by the way. Cinnamon is used for warding off evil spirits and, more practically, for marking unsafe zones in construction zones or experiment sites, say. The smell is repugnant. The flavor, somehow worse. In high enough concentrations it might even be useful as a non-lethal incapacitation device. As a spray it would... not bear thinking about. Brr. But the nasty trick of it all is that Hybrasil culture is universal and unrelenting in its insistence that a gift is [i]not[/i] to be denied. In the ancient days it was punishable by death, and the modernization of the culture has mellowed that threat only a little. That was the true shape of Delinata Seven Rhea's blade. Perhaps it was Marcina Villajero's, also.

Deep breath. One. Two. In. Out. Grip the glass, tight. Clench. Wince, before even lifting. Drain the glass in three large gulps. Wretch. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow! Dizzy. Place hand on table, stabilize. Deep breath. Regret. Head on table.

"...Thank fuck for the fire. I might be dead without it."

Slump forward, head turn. Grin. Excellent adaptation. Mira Fisher is weak. Mira Fisher is reckless. Mira Fisher is bold enough to accuse the champion of crimes but too polite to turn down a gift she plainly despises. Mira Fisher is a melodramatic creature with an overly sensitive, easily overwhelmed body. Mira Fisher is a rookie. Has a lot to prove. Is Fierce. Risky. Willing to expose herself, in more ways than one. 

Let them speak. Let them speak beyond the limits of her own imagination. Let. Them. Speak.

"You know. You are a person many accuse of overcompensating. Small stature, large machine. A... chip on the shoulder? Is that how you say it? But. I do not think so. You know my name. You know my face. Well. Do you know what that says to me? Your talent is not natural. It is the result of drive. Practice. More than all the rest. There is an opening when you fire your main weapon, but you are not exposed. You have trained the release timing. I suspect you even have a counter prepared if someone defeats your straight thrust. It is a tragedy that nobody has forced you to show that yet. You are... an exceptional woman, Marcina Villajero."

She pauses to let out a weak, shaky little breath. It's Solarel she's really thinking of. Solarel, who will be at this exact moment sharpening herself for the next confrontation. Solarel who is preparing to slingshot far enough ahead that Mirror will never catch up again. And then... they will never be together again. Their relationship was built atop the dance, after all. That's why Mirror is fighting against the world. Anything less will result in too blunt of fangs. It will cost her the woman she loves, that fills more of her holes than anyone else. 

Someone [i]almost[/i] enough. Well. That was another reason to fight the world, wasn't it? Mirror waves a shaky hand at the bar, calling for a different drink. Something sweet, something herbacious, something the farthest thing away from fucking [i]cinnamon[/i], if you please. Anything, now. No, it does not matter how strong it is. No, she can't be more specific. No, she doesn't care. Just give it.

"Too exceptional, in fact, for Mira of the Fisher Clan, Whose Star Name is Whispered Promise. So I must ask you three questions. One, what is your interest in me, Marcina Villajero? Two, how many matches must I lose to earn you as my opponent? And three..."

She smiles, and her watery eyes are dreamlike. Cunning. Dangerous.

"Would this please you, if I did you that disservice? If I fight you, I will eat you. Is that the secret wish of your heart, that the Arena could not grant you the first time?"