Here at last. The end, and the beginning. And her, undefeated in spite of her best efforts. Well. By one metric. Point of fact winless by a different and more reliable one, but it's not her fault the witless, [i]whisker tweaked[/i] administrators were so fixated on pointless things like whose machine was still in one piece at the end of a fight. Mmmmmm, no. Unfair. Incorrect. Correct, rather: from this moment forward that is the only victory condition that matters. Dreams are not paid out to the one who falls if they only display a novel enough technique on their way down. No wishes are granted to the one who exits with the moral high ground or to the pilot with the fortitude to destroy themselves for the sake of protecting a valuable secret. The winner walks away, the loser is carried out by drones. At the final point, it always seems to come back to the Huntress' way of doing things. But regardless of the official narrative of events, she is here. Loss piled atop of loss, and her plans in ruin. More secrets traded than intended, and the perception of power has been pinned irrevocably to her ear. How much easier would her life have been if she'd managed to properly swim underneath the waves the way she had intended? Utterly unremarkable, barely slipping through qualifiers with several easily exploitable tendencies, the allure of her terrifying Gods-Smiting Whip set against the disappointment of her mediocre piloting skills. She should be free to move as she wills, free to reveal swords as they suited her, free to surprise and frustrate without any need to rely on cheap, low quality tricks. All she would need to do is start being what she is. Instead she is here, away from her mecha, away from her team, away from her carefully cultivated circles and support. All alone. Wearing a mask. Surrounded by dresses. With more miracles left to perform than she's got hours left in the day. "I will admit," said Mayze Szerpaws, "Waging a war on this many fronts at once is more difficult than I imagined it would be." The infamous fashion designer clicks her tongue against her fangs and circles slowly around the mannequins in her portable greenhouse/studio. The light and the heat in here are sweltering, but that just makes it feel like Mother Hybrasil. Just another reminder why fisher cats and their thick fur grew to love the water so much before they grew to love the cool kiss of space just as much. She frowns at a rose and pulls a small pair of shears out of a jacket pocket. Snip snip snip, she clips individual offending petals until the arrangement of the dress stops making her tongue itch. She puts on silk gloves before she tugs the fabric into better alignment on her doll, the one that is a perfect match for the body of the most powerful woman in the Consortium, and takes five precise steps backwards to take in the new state of her work. "This one is... a failure. It won't sing. I'll have to-- ah! Wait a moment." The sharp and measured clacking of her heels follows her back to her workbench, where she retrieves a bottle of water and a misting attachment. She dims the headlamps over the rose dress by sixteen percent and lightly coats the dress until it drips as though kissed by morning dew. Suddenly the enhanced petals unfurl and deepen ever so slightly in color. Mayze sighs in relief. Next. A wooden dowel is a necessary tool to guide her tetrachromat blossoms, which are so sensitive to particular oils found in Hybrasillian skin that even through a work glove her attempt at guiding them up their robe would result in their wilting and falling to the ground dead inside of an hour. Difficult to do precise work like this, but necessary. She chose them for how they would behave alongside cybernetics, not flesh. When she pushes pins into the fabric to adjust the slack she has to do it with the anxiety-induced precision of a bomb disposal. The stitching is even worse. She jumps the brightness over this one to maximum capacity and wipes her forehead with a smartly pinstriped sleeve. "If I ever have to do this one again I will kill myself on the spot. That is a promise." Next. Mayze's fingers twitch while she floats them over a lighter. The temptation to torch Maelia Dahlia's hibiscus dress into ashes (dahlias! why did she not consider working in dahlias?) grows by the second. Watching it sit there, literally perfect unless it isn't makes the blood pool inside her brain until she's sure the migraine is going to split her in half. She steps into the shadows of a corner opposite her workstation and turns the mister around on herself just for a break. There is a flaw in the construction of this dress. Somewhere there is, she can [i]feel[/i] it. But just to look at it is to be swallowed by the yawning maw of anxiety and, and, and -- she's never had a word for it. Not exactly. Her 'paralysis' if you must be so uncouth. The little snippets of indecision and negativity that build up in the face of uncertainty that make it so that even when she's reached a conclusion or come to a decision, her body does not move toward her goals. She could lose an hour like this. Six. Seven. A full day if hunger does not reach her in time. "Disaster. What a terrible thing to have gambled on. Oh I regret not digging into this deeper. What would it have mattered if my other projects suffered for it? Had I not already resolved to tank those in the first place? If you do not turn up at this gala as expected I will have to hunt you down and shove this entire ensemble straight through your skull. After I've re-optimized it to make your corpse more lovely, of course." Her hand is shaking, but it moves. She unties two stems by hand and plucks a full blossom from the chest section, opening the window to more fur, more allure, and more... the dress bounces in response, hypnotizing in its motion even without its intended wearer's particular gait to spur it along. Mayze stumbles backwards and finds a bucket. She spits three times inside of it. Her cure to prevent vomiting. A sigh of relief. The fridge cracks open and she downs three quarters of a ginger beer before she even tastes it. Next. Little Dala Hunters' gift was finished forever ago, by comparison. Her lone piece of work that hadn't needed growing in this session, it was simple to put together just as she had drawn it. Inspiration hadn't moved her hands elsewhere, alterations had not been necessary, and her informant had gotten such... [i]precise[/i] measurements that despite the relative anonymity of her subject and her total lack of awareness of what was coming that she was unusually certain every last thread was precisely where it needed to be. "I should have held onto that one, rather than sending my courier off with it so soon. If only I could run my fingers across it one more time and imagine her inside of it... ah well. I have other comforts to slake my thirst. I only regret listening to my model's advice on a choice of delivery. This 'Matty' doesn't strike me as well suited to a task like this, but little Mira insisted. Enjoy my work, Miss Dolly, your friend has paid a pretty price for it." A toothy, slightly evil grin splits the face under Szerpaws' featureless black mask. She turns to a nearly unadorned mannequin with a body shape suspiciously similar to her own. "Speaking of whom. Not many miracles left for my champion. My favorite model. My Mirror. But there is a gala to attend, and your heart will be there too. I cannot let you go without a new piece to go [i]in[/i]. It is my work that people will see when they look at your body, and maybe then they might understand it was not the [i]flowers[/i] I wanted them to see. Sundrunk simpletons." And yet, there are flowers in this dress. A crown of them, in fact, in red and pink and orange and above all else shimmering golden yellow. Toxic lilies for the mightiest and most fearless warrior in attendance. Yes, this is how it must be. Mirror had clad herself in the title of Strongest and so that is all that she may be given to wear. All. She may be given. To wear. The crown of lilies sits atop the head. A single long, red ribbon ties about the neck. The two trails of it drape down, cloak-like, against the contours of her body but these are all Mayze Szerpaws has given Mira Fisher to cover herself with. Her spots laid bare, her body a marvel, the forever fluttering ribbons covering and revealing what they will by their own whims whenever she moves, whether it be to drink at the bar or to dance with a lover. No more masks. No more hidden agendas. Not for her. Mayze snorts and turns her neck to stare at a camera she's set up close to her workbench. She gives it a nod. "And soon..."