"I do not have a contract with you, Heim Stockar. I will them nothing."

Again and again, her trident clashes with the massive tower shield. She bludgeons it without caring whether or not she connects with power or form, opportunistically trying to throw him off balance for however short a window, but mostly just trading these jabs for her earlier typing. It had grown pointless, since he showed no capacity or interest to respond. Something new needed to take its place, keep her hands warm and active, and she had chosen this dance of polearms. 

Dance. Not war but dance. Each blow drums out percussive beats that become her rhythm to pull away before the Gods-Smiting Whip can settle into a position where a decisive blow might be struck against her. Every few strokes she clashes with the spear instead, or otherwise needs to leap on or over it, but the rhythm belongs to her. These strikes do such little damage that the [i]Blast Wall[/i] could repair them with nothing but paint. 

Irrelevant. Overhead stroke, two, three, four. Pivot, thrust, two, three, leap. Evasive maneuver, snap leg forward. Burn right leg thruster for two seconds, cease. Target: center mass, spear haft. Irrelevant, irrelevant. Weapon nothing more than distraction. Weapon nothing more than convenience. Little point to it in this god's construction beyond creating an extra layer of defense. Psychological warfare: creation of an obvious threat point to shape opponent psychology. Respect for weapons, inherent. Respect for shielding, not. Existence of weapon deemed primarily as amplification for effectiveness of shield. 

His bulk, the real threat. His zero-response, the real threat. His shield, heavy enough to destroy most armor frames by itself. Her Nine-Tails no exception. A threat. A threat. A contender for the title of Strongest.

Irrelevant.

"There are no true Zaldarians, Heim Stockar. There are no true Hybrasilians. Terenians... I am unclear on. But doubtful. Highly doubtful. Do not speak to me of honor and worth, old man. Solarel is worth [i]nothing.[/i] You are worth nothing. I am worth nothing. I told you this could not be a battle for the ages. An outlands raider fights a fraud over the right to claim the legacy of a traitor. What does it matter? What does it prove? She will not smile. She will not speak. Your belief is worth scattered words with Whispered Promise, it will not fetch a higher price."

The tail selection screen pings her insistently. She ignores it. The choice of which tail to activate is hers. The timing is also hers. Hers alone. The entire Nine Drive System is valueless in this moment; no tails of equal combat potential with nine. Distractions, each of them unnecessary. Irrelevant, irrelevant. No death blow to be struck, no grand scheme to be unveiled, not until the dance concludes. 

And it may not. Conclusion: Heim Stockar falls short of the objective standards of honor. A blade honed for one single brand of combat, thrust into the air in the vane hopes that someone might fall in love with the form enough to fall on it. A cruel style, that punishes lapses of judgment in alternate forms of engagement. That seeks specifically a form of fighting where it has overwhelming advantage, leverages that to a victory, and calls the result exciting. 

The [i]Blast Wall[/i] seeks to destroy the Nine-Tails where the former is strongest and the latter is weakest. It fears a barrage from the middle ranges. It was not born and is not guided with an interest in testing itself against the best versions of the ones it faces. What is 'worth' something? Only the foolish. Only the willing to make sacrifice after pointless sacrifice in the name of paltry, unwatched victory. 

Data acquisition complete. Assessment: victory impossible under present restrictions. It is too difficult to be Her, in the end. To be the most beautiful thing in the universe, and constantly seek to become the center of everything she meets. She cannot be the ideal opponent of everyone at once. 

Assessment update: cheating required. Honorless victory, or none. 

"Tail Five, activation confirmed. Cutting free in three, two, one, confirmed. Additional resource requirement, minimal one more activation. Understood. Earn it. Dance with me one more time, my dearest devouring beast, though it may clip your wings forever. Though it shatter your fangs and blunt your claws, though we bleed together for beauty's sake... we go. Once more, the dance continues."

The Gods-Smiting Whip lifts off the ground with a roar of rapidly overheating thruster fire. Stone melts beneath as she climbs. One by one her active tails drop away from her as if discarded, dropping in pockets of disintegrated buildings as she forces the [i]Blast Wall[/i] first backwards, now to the side, battering it with purpose now and adding the additional threat of her flight system to force respect out of Heim Stockar where the qualities of his god would normally not require this of him. 

As she flies above him, the Whip moves in impossible ways. Each of her limbs, moving independently of one another; a sky dance that no body anywhere in the universe could replicate if it had ten thousand years to practice. She calculates vectors for attack and defense for each of them, kicking up molten rocks and flinging them about to create the tiniest of openings in an impregnable defense. 

Her target is not the mecha, but the spear in its hands. Her trident screams through the air as she spins and hurls it like a missile in his face. The angle is such that it should not be possible to block it with the shield. It will be necessary to sacrifice one polearm for the other. 

Systems confirmed overheating. Warning sirens blare at her from every corner of her cockpit and force her ears to her skull while she lets her armor drop like a stone onto the ground again. It shudders as it stands. Maneuverability at 33% of normal potential. Her eyes flicker down toward the monitors on her chains.

"It does not fall to us to give the things we love value, Heim Stockar. Consensus does not require consent. A traitor has no honor. The One-Day Defender is not defined by the year that follows. My love... is irrelevant. Meaningless. The universe forgets my song the instant I am finished singing it. Speak Not to the Outsider. I do not. Only those who hear my voice belong to me. Together, we do not make truth. 

"...Your blade is softer than hers. It cannot reach me. I will not allow it. For her. For them. Come and end me, Heim Stockar, if you can. I have already cut you down."

[Mirror attempts to Defy Disaster with Daring but only hits a [b]6[/b], sacrificing her trident and flight system with the intent of turning his shield into his active weapon. She activates Center of the Web to take 1 String on him]