"What. Did I?"

The [i]Blast Wall[/i] bubbles on the ground, in three distinct pieces. Shoulders. Torso. Legs. Clean cuts, as if from a heat whip. But the scalded, melting metals will never reattach the way they were originally designed to, not ever again. Assessment: large scale but not total redesign required to return combat capability. Likely beyond the scope of a single round's repair cycle. Target, fully neutralized.

"What did... I?"

Tail Nine shivers as it lowers itself again along the spine of the Gods-Smiting Whip. The secret weapon hidden inside the name: nine tails, ninth tail, but only eight micro-orbiting weapons platforms. The final tail, aesthetic. The final tail, a quirk of Hybrasilian engineering. In the end, untrue. The final tail. The only weapon on the entire frame with a direct connection to the Crystal Fire Drive. The Control Tail. 

"What did I, what did I, what did I, what?!"

Assessment: reflex-level response to threat. Velocity of threat too great to allow for conscious decision making. Result not directly connectable to ideals or relationships. Self preservation response only, subconscious likely influenced by sudden lighting of fresh tail display. 

"[i]WHAT?"[/i]

Mirror leans forward with her elbows across her console. Teeth clenched. Head in hands. Stubbed claws pressed deep into her fur. Blunt tipped acupuncture, increased blood flow. Breathing through the nose. Unhelpful: hyperventilation beginning. Can't think, can't think, can't think, can't breathe air air air air [i]air![/i] Give her air!

"Hsssssssh!"

The drool is what pulls her back. She stares blankly at her control console. Lifts her hands away from her head to stare at them as well. Cannot be muscle memory. Reflex, instinct? Nonsensical. Secrets, the foundation of her power. Secrets, the ammunition spent in strategic moments to bring victory. Assessment, assessment, assessment, assessment. Was this not the ultimate conclusion of her years of training? Secrets, more valuable than injury avoidance. Secrets, more valuable than individual victories. 

She needn't even have traded inaction for victory. Tank the hit, shatter her arm, bring her activated tails to bear once again and crush Heim Stockar. She plays the scenario over and over and over again inside her head. Yes, that is correct. No mistakes. The outcome, perfect.

The image of Slate's frowning face floats across her vision. She squeezes her eyes shut. There is a migraine building in her temple.

"What... did I? Do? And. Why? Did I? Do it?"

Instinct defeating training. Instinct defeating muscle memory. Instinct defeating deeply ingrained philosophy. Assessment! Failure. Comprehensive, utter failure. Hidden capabilities, shrinking. Likelihood of maintaining record against top pilots dwindling with every match. Her dreams, crumbling before her eyes. 

Slate. Matty. Solarel.

She sighs. Her cough shakes something loose in her chest, and her breathing slows to normal level. She sighs, and begins the slow process of smoothing out her fur. On her cheeks, across her forehead, down her chest. Her arms, now her legs. She straightens again and worries at the long curtains of her hair. 

Something is wrong with her. Something is broken. And it must be truly shattered, because she can't even hold onto it. The anger and disgust that should be propelling her forward.

Inside. Inside she. Inside she feels. Inside she feels...

Quiet.

"Heim Stockar," she snaps, "I rescind my apology. Have fun putting yourself back together."

Tail Nine slashes back and forth across the Gods-Smiting Whip's hips. Every flicker crackles with the same power that interested parties would now be analyzing, discovering her tells, developing weaknesses and counters. With the sparks, her active tails slide back and forth along with the motion with speed and precision they never show in battle. As if they were connected to the Control by puppet strings.

There, see? Look. Look what I can do. How fast can you defeat me now, Marcina Villajero?

Her mecha quietly glides out of the arena without looking back.