"It's nice to be noticed. Even if it's only now, before the end."

Mira lifts her eyes away from the rapidly encroaching Solarel for just long enough to make eye contact with a side camera in her cockpit. For these two seconds, all of her attention is on Matty, watching her. She lifts a hand up and makes a fist, back two fingers pulled out to be held level with the ground: the Hybrasillian gesture for 'ok'. The countdown has begun. 

There is a secret to Mira's Rain of Starlight technique, of course. Why wouldn't there be? It's not a thing anyone should feel bad about not thinking about, there's been plenty enough to deal with just dodging the increasingly tight rings of lasers in their beautiful curtains. But now that it's come to it, what [i]way[/i] did she have to get those rings so tight at the end? 

Tail One slips into the circle, unscathed, and locks into position at the tip of the spear. Tail Two attaches just behind it, then Tail Three to the other side. In the end, this was the sum total of her scheming. Nothing more and nothing less than exactly what Solarel predicted. An idiot will always be an idiot. She can be as convoluted as she likes but at the cutting moment her creativity is just a really big gun.

Four, Five, Six, click click click. One thing she'll give herself credit for, even in this moment, is that she has bought herself one hell of a shot. She literally cannot miss. The Aeteline is rushing straight on through the final curtain and already the blinding polychromatic beam is charging at the tip of what is increasingly obviously an oversized sniper rifle. Seven, eight. The arrangement is clockwork precise. 

Tail Nine reaches up and plugs into the butt of the rifle. Mira opens her mouth to say something before the end, and --

*************

"Oh. I'm sorry. Were you watching that~?"

Pounding drumbeats in the dark, tinny synthwaves with the treble turned up way too godsdamn high and hardly any bass to speak of, the insistent hum of a very artificial trumpet? That's! That's Mayze Szerpaws' music!!

One, two, three, spotlights click on in the studio from center left and right. Click click click the echo of her high heels on the marble floor. The pinstripes on her pants are visible first. She has chosen an exceedingly plain (though well tailored) Terenian style "power" business suit with no alterations whatsoever. The same pattern on the pants, vest, and blazer: midnight blue with powdery white vertical stripes. A black button up shirt, a blood red pocket square, and the heavy black and white mask she always wears over her face.

Of course. Mayze never puts herself in her own creations, nor anyone else's. Fashion is for others' sake, she wears cheap off the rack ensembles to save on mental energy. That's what the lore says about her anyway. Today she stands alone in her lights, no models or mannequins or even canvas on an easel. Just one woman standing in the confluence of three lights, contrasted against the darkness.

"I do apologize," she says in the middle of an amused tail flick, "But after observing your behavior post the Akar fashion show..."

There is a subtle arch to her back. Her gloved hands visibly strain at the fingertips from pressing claws. Her left ear flutters without control, and she chirps several times through pursed lips. The language of frustration, screamed into absolute silence.

"Flower dresses. Order after order after order, and nearly all I see is [i]flower dresses[/i]. Was that the point I was making? Was that what you were told? I spoke [i]words[/i] at that show you lackwits! You saw none of the beauty. You saw nothing of my soul. You saw that I could grow flashy dresses out of plants, and you skipped past my star charts and transformations and bid me turn myself into a horticulturist. After the three hundred and twelfth order, I knew. Knew I could not trust you impoverished dreamers with the finale of your little, nnnnnn, 'tournament'."

Mayze sniffs the air with as much raw contempt as that kind of gesture can allow. She takes a moment to compose herself, smoothing out the layers of her suit and adjusting the links of a simple chain necklace so that it drapes perfectly centered down her chest.

"You would have misunderstood. You would have watched and seen the weapon. You would have wanted more [i]flower dresses[/i], and missed the message behind it. I do not know whether it would be worse to see you panic and destroy that work in your fear, or to watch your eyes grow wide with hunger and demand this work for yourselves. It is of no consequence now. I will leave the truth of this battle for those who have proven to me they have ears. The rest of you get the kittens' version."

"You are. Wondering. No doubt you are wondering why a fashion designer should care so much about the outcome of our lovely little empires' beloved proxy war. Do I have some new line to unveil? Do I want you all to see it so much I do not mind going to prison to do it? Hardly. Mayze Szerpaws will never make another dress again. Her time has come. Her time has gone, in fact. Though she, that is I, has had more of a hand in this tournament than your realize."

Normally the moment of a Big Mazye Reveal would be accompanied by a dramatic change of lighting and a fresh surge of somehow even more tasteless music than her introduction. Today there is nothing. She isn't bothering, because she's arranged it already that she'll be the only thing that anyone even [i]can[/i] watch. What point in showmanship when it's not possible to lose your audience?

She simply smirks in the dark, barely visible through the facial opening in her heavy, absurd mask.

"I designed the Nine Drive System used by the finalist mecha, the Gods-Smiting Whip. Designed. I did not, of course, build it, nor can I claim credit for it working so well. For that I leaned heavily on my accomplice, but nevertheless Nine Drive is my child. And in order to facilitate its birth, I created a persona that would attempt to excite the world of fashion and draw the interest of the rich and powerful to her. I learned to create dresses, spread rumors, and lied my way onto the publication [i]la Plataforma[/i] to give myself opportunities to steal numerous resources until an outcast nutjob like myself could build a technological edge I could win a war with. I poisoned diplomats and politicians, accrued fame and favors, and continued apace with my work both alongside and against some of the most notorious pirate groups in the galaxy."

"Have you guessed my secret yet? Must I explain it, even at this final juncture? You idiots. There never was a Mayze Szerpaws. I made her up! I have only ever been..."

Without fanfare, Mayze grabs her mask and pulls it away. She tosses it across the floor from her with a loud clatter, and looks into the camera with her flowing, liquid eyes. Her whiskers twitch, anticipating a kill.

"Mira of the Fisher Clan, whose star name is Whispered Promise. Or Mirror, in the modern alphabet. I am a finalist here in this tournament and I am the pilot of the most unique mecha anywhere in the galaxy. Much has been speculated about the nature of my 'impossible' movement so far. I will explain now. This is the moment I wish to be seen for who I am. I was born with a neurological disease that makes feedback from the standard synthweave input system potentially lethal to me. I was cursed with a brain that saw mechas and dresses were the same thing, and dreamed of wearing both anyway."

"I pilot with a system of levers, pedals, joysticks, and buttons that control each of the individual servos and thrusters in the Gods-Smiting Whip. This implementation is the brilliant work of my partner, Selin of the Makers Clan, whose star name is Laughing Stone. She requests that you refer to her as 'Slate' for the remainder of our conversation. Testing of this system had only just been completed when contact between the Zaldarian and Hybrasilian empires resulted in war. It was the shock of seeing someone who did not, who could not pilot the way a mecha should move that enabled me to become the One-Day Defender."

Mirror's eyes flicker over the camera, never staying still long enough to meet even an imagined gaze. Her hands clench into fists now. Her neck tilts up with pride. She stares the camera down at last, so intensely and for so long that the recording device itself must be blushing.

"It is important for you to understand. That is why I tell you. I am not to be emulated. I am. In every way. A fraud. My reaction times are slower than the most novice pilot's you could name. My tactics are absurd and it is an insult to your honor that they have worked this well. My movements are inefficient. I lie. I deceive. Constantly. If I do not I am crushed outright. What I have is a crutch that allows me to pretend that I have wings. If I ever design another outfit, it will only be to give myself the same feeling when I am not sitting in the seat of that absurd machine."

"Nevertheless. I am a schemer. And if you can hear my voice, then all of my strategies have paid out to this moment. From here my victory in the tournament is inevitable. I have left no evidence. No proof. Of how I have settled things with Solarel. I will allow you to witness the result only. Thus, my final trick. My ultimate. Distraction. I will tell you why. I have dedicated so many years. Of. My life. To winning a war I do not approve of for a civilization that does not like me."

Mirror's expression softens, and her posture relaxes. She is smiling now. Her eyes squeeze shut as she imagines the payoff of relentless, exhausting effort.

"The winner of this tournament is granted one wish, to be paid out by no less than all three governing authorities of this galaxy. Well. My wish is for the creation of a planet. It is to be built on what is currently the frontier of the known galaxy. It will not be part of any current government, and its sovereignty is to be guaranteed by an alliance of the [Three Great Mothers]. I will build this planet as I wish, as sanctuary for every outcast who can't find somewhere else to go. There we will create. And there we will fight. And there we will love. I will prove to you the pointlessness of your childish shadow wars. True. Coexistence. Of all three peoples. You will bear witness, and you will hang your heads in shame."

"I do not whisper this promise. I scream it to the stars. You. Will. See. Me. And you. Will. Understand. Solarel. I. Love. You. We will. See each other. Soon."

Feed end. Gray screen. Static. Returning control in Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven...