"Hmph."

Her fingers wrap around Marcina Villajero's wrists. She pulls each arm down and wraps them across the Terenian's chest until they meet at her hips. This embrace, close enough to hear the nervous patter of her heartbeat with nothing but the contact of fur to flesh. Mirror closes her eyes and waits. Ten. Nine. Eight. She pushes a long breath out through her nose so that it brushes her new guest's neck. Seven. Six. Five. Her tail rises up and wraps around both of their midsections. Four. Three. Two. Her flicks around until she finds a show camera panning around them. Her smile is the grim amusement of the huntress before the pounce. 

One.

"You are the only one among all your kind I will ever grant this privilege to."

She pulls them backwards, and falls into her seat. Still holding onto Marcina Villajero. Keeping her safe in the confines of her lap as the Gods-Smiting Whip snaps shut around them. The posturing achieved its purpose: the air has siphoned off most of the terrible heat that had been cooking her at the end of the fight. It is now merely reminiscent of a hot spring or a steam bath. Her arms reach forward from either side of Marcina Villajero's waist, and her body presses closes against her back as she leans forward to place her hands on the console.

"You understand now why that is. You alone can see the truth. You alone are small enough for my world."

It is. Difficult to work the pedals with another pilot in her lap. But she is not without her practice. Her feet find their places, though it pushes her to the edge of her seat. Her hand grips a joystick while the other dances across her limitless buttons. Lights glitter in the cockpit like stars, and the Whip turns on a dime and burns its way across the arena.

She flies through the corridors, flipping upside down as she reaches the hangar and then even sailing backwards as she travels past it. Every micro movement that is endemic to her piloting style is much easier to feel from inside than it looks in combat against her. It is not a smooth journey, exactly. But it is controlled. There is nothing they experience together that does not happen at the express direction of Mirror's fingers.

Out. Out. Out. Away from the arena. Outside. Into space. Into quiet and cold. Into the place she learned how to fly. Every little motion suddenly turns to silk. The last vestiges of battle heat drain from the cockpit. Even Mirror's heart rate slows until it seems outright lazy. 

She dances. In spirals and loops, she dances. She builds hoops with her Tails and pilots them through, around and up and over, cresting in an arc behind them and through again as they separate and reform further ahead. Above. Below. She dances through an obstacle course of her own creation. The emotion is joy. The sequence is control.

But there is nothing here to feel except momentum. Nothing but her own small body and the useless mesh wrapped around soft, splotchy spotted fur. She stops. They float. For the first time, her voice betrays her nerves.

"Do you. Understand?"