In the heart of the Aeteline, Solarel stirs in her sensory deprivation tank. Just a little, just enough for the Aeteline to project that the movements served no military purpose and suppress them. 

That was a trap; a stratagem that relied on manipulating the Pilot's mood and emotions. Perfection decayed into predictability and in time it would become willing prey for a blade. The Pilot had used that approach many times, the Aeteline had no desire to become a casualty of it - and more importantly, no trust that the Pilot would not become a casualty of it. It looked up, eyes glowing violet through the black scorched faceplate.

[>] The exact nature of the trick is irrelevant.
[>] That is as much an aspect of this approach to warfare as the trick itself. To condition an opponent mentally, turning their mind to paranoid overpreparedness and causing them to neglect fundamentals.
[>] Your words are such a weapon. Attempting to turn me against myself. To voluntarily step from the Victorious Path.
[>] But this too is why the Sage said Speak Not.

An opponent retreats. Expand. With the daemonic flares of chemical launches she blasts four of her own tails into the air, missiles unfolding guidance wings and gatling guns. The dogfighting equation was simple; expend energy for altitude, expend altitude for maneuverability, expend maneuverability for victory. The Shadow-Tails lance down from above, tracer rounds slashing at Mirror's extended tails. Inferior shadows, they have a purpose: they unpick Mirror's defensive array, not even seeking to kill or damage their opposites - just to drive them away.

There would only ever be one layer of defense. She just needed to unravel it - to disassemble the trap as it was forming. She bursts into pursuit, joyless haste as she casts herself forwards. Just one more projectile in her array.