She does not hesitate. She waits. Confirmation of approach vector, calculation of speed. Selecting the angle of attack not to cover the possibility of counterattack but ensure a killing blow.

This is the ultimate difference between her and Solarel. It wasn't ever a question of philosophy. They did not disagree, the two of them. It was a matter of capability and the approach and mentality that unfolded from that one cruel truth. Mirror cannot pilot a Mecha using the traditional synthweave feedback system; the overload to her nervous system made her feverish, dizzy, nauseous, and could even cause nerve spasms that without proper care might kill her.

But she didn't have the mind of an engineer like Slate. She's didn't have the capacity for pure science like her mothers. She didn't even have an eye for fashion, unless one counted the sporadic fits of creative madness that overtook her from time to time. Her heart yearned to be useful, and to be loved. From kittenhood she'd known that could only happen as the heart of an amor like the Gods-Smiting Whip.

Everything was about making it work. Everything was about making it possible. A thousand books and research papers read obsessively over and over and over until she had the language to express her dream. And only one other cat had not laughed at it, but picked up a wrench and a control spike with a toothy grin on her face, and promised to make it put the dreamer in her debt forever. And once the miracle was finished, what she had was proof of her own stupidity. Her own insanity. The madness of an uncharted path across the stars. It was practice, practice, practice, failure, failure, failure, then practice again that molded her into the enigma and the legend people thought they saw now.

Mirror does not check for tricks. She doesn't run a scan for the Geist attack that took out The Fang That Devours the Sun the last time she attempted to unleash it. She doesn't wait to make sure she understands the totality of Marcina Villajero's brave charge. This is not naivete. This is not arrogance. This is not a disagreement with the woman she loved more then any other. It was simply battle philosophy born out of practicality. Out of necessity.

Buttons and levers did not move as fast as pilot-level reflexes. Decisions must be made ahead of the moment of actual action. That encouraged aggression. It encouraged reckless hyper aggression in point of actual fact. Stay ahead. Stay above. Stay beyond. Mutually assured destruction was preferable to a destined failure over waiting for the perfect blow and missing. She did not have the luxury of assuming priority in the lategame. 

"This is not your failure. I simply have somewhere I am climbing. Besides..."

The heat from the Fang has boiled most of the water in the nearer parts of the arena away. More liquid rushes in to fill the void, boiling waves of froth and violence. Rock and metal melt next. Even Nine-Tails' own paint job is a bubbling, melty mess in the face of Mirror's attack. The energy blade is jagged and unstable and large enough that it seems designed for living up to its own name rather than for practical combat.

But when it swings it is quiet. The roar of the void lies outside the pair of them. When it connects it is painless: legs and hands and parts of arms and torso slice away in nanoseconds from contact and weld instantly shut after. It's too quick for feedback, even stunned shock. Inside the Jormungar, Marcina Villajero only feels... weightlessness. Calm. Freedom. She is clean, if also helpless. This is a blade of purity, and of kisses. All of its terrible violence is contained within itself.

However. Always one layer of defense. The Gods-Smiting Whip does not move except to direct the Fang That Devours the Sun with Tail Nine. It shows the cost of the move and the limitations of Crystal Fire. Sorry kids, you'll have to tune in next time to see her real secret.

In the absence of violence, there is peace. In the absence of void there is sound. Building remnants groan and topple into useless slags of scrap while stones tumble over top of them in the arms of the waterfalls Mirror had created. Eight tails float meekly back into place along the frame of the still smoldering Gods-Smiting Whip, seemingly no more power left to let them float. It touches down amidst the pooling waves and with its one functioning arm lifts the remains of the Jormungar out and to safety.

Macro programmed, walk cycle. Initiate. Open cockpit. Mirror stands at the edge of her heart and her safety with her mesh suit still dangerously unzipped and pulled open.

"Besides," she repeats, "I promised to eat you. And the pilot known as Mirror has never once broken a contract. Come. You have lost but are not defeated, are you? Come. Exit your cocoon and come to me. Rest in my arms, proud warrior, star sister, and witness with your own eyes the truth of the pilot you could not grasp in time." 

There is no smile on her face. No twitch of her whiskers or even the barest flick of a tail to betray her. Her watery eyes are as frustratingly unreadable as ever. She simply stands there, victorious, offering her hand out and watching. Not hesitating, but waiting.