The lack of an immediate answer was, one supposed, a type of answer in and of itself. Mirror's face is inscrutable. Her eyes are locked on Slate's fingers. The hands they are attached to. Do they clench? Do they raise? Do they swing about with control, or erratically? Or does she clamp them together to squeeze them as a centering exercise? When is she going to strike? Hit her, you idiot. Hit her! Get on with it and punch her in the face! Drop her to the ground, like you used to. If you still can. At least then there would be no more need to feel guilty.

She should answer. Needs to answer. Slate [i]deserves[/i] an answer. But she remains mute. There had been no rehearsal of this part of the interaction on the shuttle ride here, even though she'd predicted this reaction. But she hadn't practiced it because she couldn't know for certain. Rehearsal was tantamount to defeating the argument before it could be raised against her, and she didn't dare take that chance.

Of course she agreed with herself. Of course she did. Defending the genesis of the idea was so much simpler when the case against it was hypothetical. An imagined Slate would be picked apart with far greater ease than the real one. The shape of the arguments, the counters, all formed expressly to prove Mirror's correctness without consideration for that soft heart or those dangerous hands. And when it came down to it, she would be prepared. She would win, swiftly. Decisively. 

It was far more important to be prepared not to. She'd committed to the idea but, was it correct? How much of this was a momentary lapse in judgment? Was she fanning a spark to forge something beautiful, or because the flicker of it was burning in her brain like poison? Nobody had fooled her. She might have fooled herself. Think. Think. About the merits. About the drawbacks. About what could even be done with the project now that it was set in motion? 

"No," she snaps, her voice an icy whip, "Not on a whim. Not on a whim."

She paces now, pressing a claw against her lip as if to kiss it. Marching from one end of the room to the other and back again and wearing a line through the floor in front of Slate. This was the critical element, she was certain. This, she could explain without defending the position. It's the difference between clarification and domination: the trust extended only to her oldest friend. Most constant companion. First partner. The One Who Waits. The Gods-Smiting Whip did not belong to Mirror alone. 

"Not on a whim, do you understand? Revelation. Tools that shape possibility. A rod, handcrafted, to focus the work of the nanites. Simplicity itself, Slate. The power is in the limitation. I perceive... I, [i]we[/i] are trapped by the freedom of our own possibility space. Restriction as an infinite well of creativity. I watched her work, and saw the possibility of freedom inside of chains. I need a skilled artisan to forge them. I need a mind unclouded by what Nine-Tails [i]is[/i]. That is not a whim. It is not."

Her pace quickens, same as her heart. To the wall, and back. To the wall, and back. Stop, and stare at Slate. To the wall. Back again. Their faces are inches from each others', now. Mirror's breath is heavy and erratic. Slate's, barely perceptible. They shiver, but differently, and for different reasons. 

"And our secrets are still ours. Ours, Slate. A redacted set of schematics. That is what I offered. And I did not do it until she guessed that I was a god. Not a Goddess. The word from Zaldar, the one they use for their machines. I asked for chains to bind a God. And I was answered with excitement. A revelation, Slate. In our current state we will be left behind. But this..."

Their lips are touching now. But they do not kiss. They never do. Mirror takes a step back, and then three more. She reaches for Slate's hand, takes it in both of hers, and pulls into it's made contact with her face. Cinnamon and liquor steal her balance, and she fumbles backwards onto a nearby couch, where she leans her head back and spreads her arms apart behind her back.

"But. If that [i]was[/i] a whim. If I gave away our secrets chasing skirts and illusions. You need only say so again. I freely admit, Matty makes a very charming kitten. I had thoughts of playing at raising her with you. That could easily have pushed me off course. So say so. Honestly, say so. If the risk is worth taking, we see it together. We move forward together. Or I could simply withdraw from the tournament? You've earned the right to demand that much of me. Call it... payback. For not knocking me out again."

Her lips twist up into a drunken smile. And she watches.