Even here, even now. The battle being fought requires sight beyond the opponent in front of her. These restrictive spaces make flight an extremely suboptimal and unappealing prospect, but nevertheless. Having only three active tails cuts her dynamic defensive solutions down to near zero, but nevertheless. She was carrying greater than usual risks, chasing greater than usual goals, against an opponent far more capable of punishing a stock opening. But nevertheless.

"Thrusters active, full burn. Cut short three-point-eight-six seconds early, accounting for limited skies. Tail One, detach. Tail Two... no, damn it. Tail Three, trident mount. Tail Seven, point defense. This is my dance. The music is for me, but I am helpless to follow where it leads. Therefore, here I go! Catch me if you can! Punish me if you dare!"

But even as she lifts to the skies, already peppering the [i]Blast Wall[/i] with high-focus energy beams that rise up with her like a wave, she is reeling. And more than reeling, seething. Impossible, impossible, impossible, impossible! She hadn't miscalculated to this astonishing degree, she had not! She did not have his measure, that was entirely the point of this maneuver, but she could not [i]possibly[/i] have read the profiles so backwards!

> i have a puzzle on my mind. heim stockar. 
> i will struggle to give you my full attention until it is cleared.
> if you'd like to help.
> hexadecimal color code #ed2939.
> a heart in the darkness.
> reaches for this single shade of light.
> can they find gold?

With so few tails in motion it is easier than ever to mix in bursts of text while maintaining rhythm. It's even to some degree necessary, in order to keep her actions per minute where she needs them. Risky to leave clues to her other life like this, particularly right after being hacked, but the simple fact of the matter was that sending nonsense data was even more dangerous than that. Typing without purpose trained her fingers not to respect position. Speaking without purpose invited splinters into her mind that would destroy her focus. Ad lib invited vastly worse and more damaging questioning than this.

The thoughts need to be genuine. The vulnerability needs to be revealed. The actions, specific. The response, or lack thereof, will be revealing in its own right. These words, the second barrage of missiles hidden cleverly amidst her laser fire. She strikes at the shield from various angles, across the top, reflective shots into the back, angles that seem to be probing for weak spots near the joints, and everything else that is not directly targeting the harness structure stabilizing the missile platform. 

The shots are riddles, too. Likewise the admission of split focus was a probe. An experiment dreaming of becoming a kill shot. Where are you weak, Heim Stockar? Where are you strong? What do you protect and what do you trust to your inherent being? What had she misread? What had she misread? What had she misread???

"Indeed, I find you in all ways lesser than she, Heim Stockar. Speak Not To The Outsider. Is that not your way? You talk to me, [i]talk to me![/i] Of glory and victory while you stain your heart bandying words with me. Who am I, Heim Stockar? If you knew, you would not dare. Are you some sort of fallen heretic? Or just a shimmering little morsel, waiting to be skewered? If you are neither, show me!"

Further flight impossible. Angling descent, target lock acquired: left shoulder plating. Three steps short of a secret technique. Strike. The Gods-Smiting Whip falls like a comet from the stars. Its tails spin rapidly about the front, shattering stones with raining light and chaotic flashes that make make immediate retaliation difficult, though not impossible. Missile lock, at any rate, slowed beneath the capabilities of hand-aimed point defense. 

> angry red. prideful red. 
> the fallen star.
> crashing into the waves.
> sinking.
> perhaps cyan defeats gold.
> think the terenians call it seafoam.
> i like that word.

The beam trident lashes out just before impact, combining the strike with a vaulting motion that carries Mirror and her mecha up, over, and beyond the retaliatory range of cqc. Too near for missile combat without the risk of damage to one or more crystal fire drives. In short, the maddening middle zone where her speed controls supremacy. 

Mirror stalks back and forth like the great hunting cats that sing their songs into her soul. She hefts the trident to the Whip's shoulder, caught between defense and offense. Probing, even now. All to learn. All to take the measure of this impossible creature, and return him to the sum of a reference sheet again.

Not knowing Him is the same as not knowing Her. And if that's true, she'll die.

(Figure Out a Person: [b]11[/b]. 
# What are your feelings toward Solarel?
# What are you most afraid of right now?
# bonus combat question: Who do you want me to be?)