The feet going out from underneath her is baffling. It takes Jade a moment to even understand what is happening, the mismatch between her expectations and her reality. This should not be happening. She was so careful, so precise! And yet the idol is dragged backwards, upwards, anyway, instead of dancing free and spinning Dolly in place for another attack. The lance, with which she would immobilize [The unrelenting grip of the stone goddess Dishai], is an unwieldy thing in an unresponsive hand. [i]She is yanked back, the fingers tight around her forearm, and then Erys (she has to remember it’s Erys, it’s not her) brings her arm up in a half-circle, and lifts, and her feet are off the ground again. She kicks and squirms and lifts her other hand to try to work free, without Jade’s permission, as she stares into her own face, brows furrowed, smile half-feral; a barbarian warlord stripped of her finery, in the body of an unassuming jaguar.[/i] Dolly is panicking and out of synch, and Jade can’t afford to soothe her, can’t afford to think about her. Alarms from the systems of the idol press in on Jade’s consciousness, informing her of high pressure strain, of the need to reduce feedback to the pilot, of the ionic gauntlet being in firing range. She’s never been [i]hit[/i] with this before. She does not feel fear. She is not just a pattern, after all. So there is no reason for her to feel fear. Concern for Dolly, maybe. Yes. What if the idol’s intricate systems, a temple for her to inhabit, are damaged? It would be impossible to destroy her, to even cause her continuity gaps. Perhaps it would bar her from direct contact with Dolly, but nothing more. Her anger is simply because the pirate is refusing to accept her defeat gracefully. There is no reason for her to feel fear. But being held like this, so disrespectfully, is not acceptable. It is beneath her dignity as a goddess. It must be undone. She draws strength into the core of her self, and roars, even as Dolly keeps scrabbling, “How [i]DARE[/i] you, you insignificant, impudent little—“ [hr] The feedback whines in her ears and everything goes white, then black, then unfolding traceries of emergency power blossom in front of her eyes. She’s still locked in place by one hand, and her mouth is panting, drooling, a mess, naked. “Jade?” Her muscles ache from how hard she clenched. Being electrocuted probably doesn’t feel like that, really, but that’s what everybody thinks being electrocuted feels like: all her nerves lighting up like lightning. “[i]Jade?[/i]” She sounds, in the clamped-close cockpit, like she’s about to cry. All around her, Erys Bander’s laughter; visuals haven’t come back online. One shot, but one shot that wins a match, isn’t that what Omen told her? She opens her mouth again— And then she shuts it, because Jade is… Jade is… [i]curling fingers whispering on her gloved arm[/i] still with her. She shuts her mouth, which the goddess, [i]her[/i] goddess, her lover, had shut for her, because she knew the secret colors of her Bride’s heart. She’ll finish this like a Zaldarian knight or not at all. Being tossed to the ground is a yawning vertigo, a jarring in her harness, that makes her whimper into her pursed lips. Her body sprawls limp, defenseless, dimmed, and she knows she’s about to be punished for all the humiliation that Jade inflicted on her— on her [i]opponent,[/i] on the Bander. She’ll be carried out like Angela was, but worse: with vulgar etchings on Jade’s body, dangling from a pole, her lance snapped in half. Seven Quetzal closes her eyes. She feels through flickering sensors, dimly, the heavy footfall of Erys Bander. She lies still, her soul in her throat, but she does not let it out. She is a beautiful trap, as baited as Irtana’s invitations. She can’t even close her hand into a fist. She can’t let Erys know how much power, how much capability, Jade’s body has left. The last step is as close as she can dare. She tenses her core (which Jade has encouraged her to, well, exercise extensively, in ways she’d only dreamed about before) and kicks out, blindly, but up, guessing, hoping that the crystal fire drive has not guttered out completely— And her ankle connects with what she has to hope is the head of the Grip of Dishai, because she doesn’t dare look. Her hand is clutched tightly to her chest, and if she listens as hard as she can, it’s almost as if she can hear Jade’s delighted purr. And just because she can’t right now doesn’t mean she’s alone. Gutters of power. Everything feels sluggish. She stands up like a drunkard (or more accurately like a Dolly who has had two shots, as Jade would smugly remind her), unarmed, and staggers over to the Grip of Dishai. When she collapses to her knees, it’s knowing that she’s not getting back up again. She puts Erys Bander in a headlock, her elbow closing against the thick neck of the false-Dolly, putting pressure on the deep-armored connections between Erys’s cockpit and the rest of the mecha, and hopes that will be enough, as one by one, the lights of the cockpit wink off, leaving her (not) alone in the dark. This is a dedication to the goddess named Smokeless Jade Fires, who dwells within the idols prepared for her, who was born running among the jackal-drones, mistress of the subservient, she who exalts the humble. [Seven Quetzal rolls an [b]8[/b] to Defy Disaster with Daring. Yes, with Daring. What’s on the table is Jade being “asleep” for the next scene, in exchange for barely forcing out a draw, or otherwise leaving Erys incapable of immediate revenge.]