Exactly according to her calculations.

There was nothing more predictable than the speed of this charge. The angle of it, the nature of it, the setup for it, every last little detail was an idea she had... not planted in Marcina Villajero's head, but spoken directly to her face all the same. The sword was her naked preference, and therefore the ammunition existed to serve its ends. There was no value in the Triple Hellzone Grenade other than the restriction of the Gods-Smiting Whip.

She had merely needed three times the ammunition to make up for the improvement in Mirror's tactics. Natural that she would be prepared. And natural that she would prefer this position of physical vulnerability to a simple depletion of shield integrity. For Solarel, resources were resources. Spend hers to spend yours, and then beat you with whatever was left. For Marcina Villajero it was all a plan. The box she wanted to create could not allow for wings. The power of the Nine Drive System was something she would attempt to defeat with positioning. 

To this point, the fight had been perfect. Every attempt at aggression accounted for on both sides. Blocked. Redirected. Transitioned into something new. Misdirection, honesty. She had taken to the skies, hoping to burn down the missiles. She had dodged them all at the cost of this vulnerable stance with the understanding that it would invite this charge. There had been other options, other reads she might have made, but in the spaces that fit between her decisions, this is where all her thoughts bent. This was the highest chance of victory possible.

She spoke as if her victory is inevitable. It is not. The thought track in her brain spun on as though prediction is the same thing as dodging. And it is also not. The Gods-Smiting Whip is pushing off its sword to rise into a standing position. The Jormungandr has almost finished its charge in that time.

There are. Moments. Of consequence. Follow through. Reaction lag. Frame commit. Mecha exist in physical space. They move like bodies do. Or. They do not. But even then. The advantage only existed. In the air. In space. Most especially. That was. What she. Was born for. This? This. This put her on the same. Plane. As everyone else. And there? She was simply. Not good enough.

At the risk of overheat, the Gods-Smiting Whip burns its thrusters one more time. Up. Straight up. No aim other than lifting itself high enough and fast enough to swing its own sword in an answering arc to the Jormungar's. There is no time to dodge; all she can do is try to be lifting out of the water before she gets smashed down into it forever. The left arm of the Nine-Tails is cleaved off above the elbow. Mirror is already frantically shifting levers and joysticks to rotate herself along the point of kinetic impact. It costs her a bite into the opposite shoulder as Marcina Villajero's swing completes. Only then can she engage her Tails.

Exactly according to her calculations.

There is no feedback to account for in her piloting system. No pain to absorb. The loss of a limb is a math problem she had already been running ahead of time. It is not an act of grit or defiance when she activates Tails One, Five, and Eight. Brief shield burst, one point six seconds. Force the Jormungar's blade away, bounce back. Now it is Marcina Villajero's turn to be animation committed. In this moment, the Gods-Smiting Whip strikes. Right foot, lifted to the Jormungar's face plate. Thruster burn, three seconds. It blackens and cracks if only slightly as the Terenian mecha heats up to a level almost comparable to the sweltering feedback of the Whip itself. Goal: disorientation.

Eight Tails, engage. They are a whirlwind, spinning round and round the pair of them and firing reckless bursts of energy the instant they read a target lock. Fury without technique. Aggression without a name. If she is a leaf then she must create her own storm to rise up inside of. Goal: confusion. Goal: cosmetic damage. Goal: destruction of shielding drones that had thwarted previous attempt at close quarters finisher. 

Goal: regain the skies. Mirror lifts away again, not enough to truly clear the Jormungar's cqc threat range, which is massive particularly given its recently reduced weight and power draw requirements. Just enough that her constant twitches are moving her once more. Just enough that her "impossible" movement only commits the parts of her armor that she requires for the movement. Just enough to lift her back off of a level playing field where victory is a distant dream.

She glances down. Goal: activation of Tail Nine.

"And I say to you that fighting you is like Walking the Mountain. Do you know this phrase? It is Zaldarian. It is the act of taming one of their Gods and rendering it to God-Armor by climbing and fighting it with nothing but your own body. Even in this custom built machine I find you a task equal to the thing that brought Solarel to the attention of her empire."

Her Tails fly up and rain one more burst of laser fire all around the Jormungar before they zip back across the battlefield to their owner, hovering in a slowly rotating circle around the destroyed left arm. Mirror glances down at her display and smiles serenely. Her hair is sodden. She is obliged to pull the zipper on her mesh suit as far down as it will go, and pull the shoulder open to vent more heat from her overloaded body. 

"I would love," she says as if half in a dream, "To fight you as the One Day Defender. But I am afraid that in only another minute's time, you will understand fully the nature of how I pilot. And less than a second minute until you fully grasp how that knowledge would defeat me. I am sorry. I made you a promise, when we met."

Energy is coalescing at the tips of her Tails. It is gathering into the form of a blade that boils water into steam and melts the remains of buildings with nothing but the heat of its own existence. She does not hold this blade in her hands. She does not need to.

"My name is Mirror. And this is the first blossom of our love. Nine Drive System. [i]Full.[/i] Configuration," her face splits in half into the wickedest and toothiest of cat grins, "The First Form: The Fang That Devours the Sun."

[Fight: 5+6+3 = 14. Mirror seizes a superior position, creates an opportunity for Tail Nine, and plucks another String from the blushing heart of Marcina Villajero]