Steady hands pull your hair. Twist and spin and tie - release. Again.

You lie on the table, topless, face down. Machia straddles your back like a masseur. Sometimes her fingers are intense, deliberate, feeling muscles, working diligently through the details of your augmentic neural-interface ports, hands gripping the back of your neck where the data-connection unit to your Cube rests. Sometimes she wears what she affectionately calls the 'pain glove', an acupuncturist's oven mitt crackling with electricity, that for all its unsettling appearance gives the feeling of a bone deep warmth soaking into your muscles.

(Well, it does now. Now that she's calibrated it correctly.)

You can't see what she does. You can only feel her hands and her tools moving across your skin. Sometimes she's gentle. Sometimes she's cruel. Sometimes she's absolutely indifferent, and that's the best time of all. When she is so deep into her focus that she forgets to even pretend to care about you. When she's like that your body has her full and absolute attention. That's when she sees the future in you, and with fingernails, micro-scalpels and chemical pulses she tries to drag it out of you. Sometimes the focus is so intense it lasts multiple days, and any moment when you're not on her table, to eat or stretch, she's looking at you as though she's thinking about strapping you down.

But that focus isn't there right now. She's playing with your hair, performing the rehearsed motion that pulls it away from the Cube-interface port in your neck and releasing it, again and again. In the distance, the stream is on, the talking heads are chattering. Hexadome legend Titanomachia announces her retirement. Taowu sighted haunting the streets in a widow's dress, tears of blood wandering down her face. An interview with Maxima where the square-jawed superheroine defends Machia's decision and privacy, driving the conversation relentlessly back to what the situation is going forwards. Talking about the new star, Sammy, and her bare-knuckle fighting style.

And then they're talking about you.

Madeline. Scorer. Wasn't going to make the cut for Season 55 before Titanomachia's retirement. Unexceptional base chassis, increasingly unhinged speculation as to what you're going to spend your energy budget on, or who you're going to train with. Without knowing enough about you to talk much the conversation quickly moves on to a discussion of Group One more generally and the threat that Xoxic poses.

"I don't want you training with her," said Machia, hand closing into a fist in your hair. "I don't like her work. It's sloppy. You need better."

Madeleine. Her name is pronounced Madeleine. Madeleine Cross if you wanted to get technical (which she very much did). There is a lot of power in a name, which is to say that there are energies surrounding every syllable, like incantations in a magic spell. There are any number of ghosts and demons you can hold at bay or even outright defeat just by saying their names.

But it must be done correctly. That is the key. Say it wrong and the spell goes awry. Say it wrong and you lose your miracle. Say it wrong, and you get cursed.

It won't be a problem. They probably won't remember to say it at all, once they see me play.

She can feel Machia's thigh press into her hip. The hairs of her sleek, black tail lift and swish in response. She needed to learn how to control that. It made it too easy to read her, and the one thing she could not afford to do if she wanted to survive this... partnership was hand Titanomachia any ammunition.

She couldn't be allowed to know how good any of this felt. How much Madeleine looked forward to some of her sessions just for the sake of having them. If she let this, this, this... woman know in certain terms how talented her fingers really were, it'd be the same as handing her binding magic. The whole thing would rapidly grow intolerable.

Those talented fingers wrench her hair, pulling her neck until she feels the restraints biting into her body. Madeleine clenches her teeth as her tail slaps the inside of Machia's thigh.

"I don't know," she sighs, "Who most of these people are. But if they... want to train when I am active, I'm going to say yes. I don't care if they're sloppy. If they can see me and say 'come over'..."

One long, flexible ear twitches from on top of her head. It bends away from the nonsense on the stream toward the nonsense of the woman on top of her. To listen to her breathing. To listen for the cluck of disapproval as it strikes Machia's teeth. Or maybe she was about to start that condescending chuckle of hers that marked the descent into one of her theory lectures on the nature of Aristea! Either way, the words would do what they were meant to.

Madeleine smiles into the table, a little magic just for her. It wasn't fair. To take this woman away from the sport she loved. She couldn't make it worth it. But that didn't make it not fun.

"And if you're just going to braid my hair all day, at least untie me first. I could make us coffee..."

"Hmm?" said Machia, taking your phone out of your pocket. She leans down over you, hair brushing your cheek, as she uses it to scan your face. With a chime it opens and she sits back up, free hand still gripping your hair.

"Well, she has asked for you. And you're telling me that if I untie you now you'll go right over there and let her do whatever she wants to this body I've worked so hard on? Some would call that ungrateful. Some would be jealous. All that for a coin flip. If you draw the wrong team after letting her work on you, you will lose. If you don't - then do you think that her work will give you more of an edge than mine?"

She pats your head. "I'm going to enforce some thinking about it time. That means coffee will have to wait. Try to stay awake for me, okay?" She pinched a nerve on your shoulder, an electric little reminder.

She flicked through the next message. "Li Teng, Kias and Musashi are all training together and have asked you to join them," she said. "Low energy offer. That's Musashi sizing everyone up for her sword, she'll get more out of that than anyone else will. You can accept, if you'd like, even if that might make some people jealous. You can ask me nicely to untie you. Maybe I do, and you walk right out that door. Or... you could get comfortable and trust that I know what's best for you."

"You are a tyrant. When the revolution comes for your head I will be there. Laughing."

Cause for concern. Had she allowed these modifications to go too far? Which alteration was responsible for the lingering warmth where her head had just been pat? She could be haunted, she supposes. Possessed? It's unlikely though: Machia has such minimal spiritual energy that most mystics just shrivel up and die in her presence.

She'd have to review the notes later. Her notes, her journal. Machia's logs didn't make sense to anybody but her. Which was either the proof that she was a genius, or an idiot. The type you'd have to be desperate to ask for help.

Madeleine's entire body is tense. It is also flushed with heat; her skin is electric and prickling even where nothing is touching it. Especially, in fact. No, this is not a haunting. This heat is very different from the frozen joints and the weight stomping on her chest that makes it impossible to breath or move. Here she can strain against her bindings just fine, it is simply pointless to do so. Here, some deep impulse inside of her is making her squeeze her legs toward one another, though that does nobody any good.

Her tail is dancing without permission. Still, she says nothing. Seconds creep past her into minutes and there is only the sound of a computer running off in the corner and the small haptic buzzes of her phone as Machia continues to play with it without permission. Continues to play with her without permission.

Her hair, lifted. Twisted around, this soft and delicious feeling like there are fingers brushing up against her soul. It all pulls taut and then is released again, unwinding so she can go through it all again. She still doesn't say anything. Minutes become half an hour.

"I am rescinding my offer."

She has to clear her throat. Her back feels stiff, she's been letting it stay pulled for so long. Wandering, winding waiting...

She relaxes.

"When... you let me up. I will not make coffee. You will take me somewhere we can have a cup together."

She lets her amber eyes drift closed and lets the waves inside the room wash over her.

A moment later, she opens them again.

"...Somewhere... nice. Where they serve it... in a real cup. If you bring me to a vending machine again I promise... they will never find your body."

"Oh?" said Machia. She locked your phone and slipped it back in your pocket. "Well, that's a problem, isn't it? I only promised to untie you if you asked nicely. But now we're both stuck, because I need to test what you're capable of, and you need me to buy you a cup of coffee, but I can't go and give out freebies." She tapped her finger against her lips, looking up at the roof thoughtfully. "Well, there's a way."

She slid down off your back. The cold air shocked skin that had been warmed by her thighs. A moment later that cold was redoubled as Machia roughly slapped down a handful of cold cream right into that warm spot and began to massage it in with both hands. She worked her way from bottom to top, firmly and methodically rubbing the cold substance. As it soaked into your skin it started to radiate a deep and warm glow, a healing refreshment after the strain of her construction. The alternation between warm-cold-warm became hypnotic, so hypnotic that it slowed your reactions when she grabbed your hair, yanked it back, and slipped the bridle over your head. She got the bit in between your teeth before you could react, then pulled the straps on the back of your head tight.

"I've been thinking about head-locks," said Machia. "Sammy likes neck-strikes, you know? Synskin goes all the way up your neck, right to here," she ran her fingers along your jawline. "And if it gets struck then it clenches. That can lock your head into a certain position. Like -" She pulled your reins, wrenching your head hard to the left. "- this. And then you're stuck with your head in this awkward position for an extended period. Very disorienting. A lot of neck strain."

She stepped back, walked around to a counter and rummaged inside it. "And while it is within my capabilities to spend the entire walk pulling your reins myself, your group has multiple opponents known for fast and unpredictable movement. I've done what I can with your neck musculature and center of balance, but now the challenge is for you to keep your balance when your neck is pulled hard in a random direction and held there. So..." she produced a remote from the drawer. "I've got this! When I push this button -" The bit in your teeth pulls your head sharply to the right. "- or this -" you're yanked hard back.

She leaned forwards, putting a finger on your nose playfully. "So your challenge for now will be to go to the cafe with me and drink your coffee without spilling a drop. Do you think you can?"

Her eyes bore holes in Machia's face. Sweet, satisfying holes. But all she gets in response is a stupid, smug smile. She can't even grimace in turn; the bit and bridle take that from her. She closes her mouth around the bit with as much dignity and poise as she can muster, and flips her hair back over her neck as she finally rises from the table.

She glides like a shadow across the room, not sparing a glance for her companion. She cannot help but touch her fingers to her harness straps, has to brush a nail across her chin to know whether or not she is drooling. She shudders, and straightens her back. If she isn't at least taller than Machia for this whole affair then it really will become impossible.

Madeleine presses her fingers together until the motion feels smooth, and then she calmly and quietly reaches for the chair with her bra. Her neck very suddenly jerks to the right hard enough to make her stumble a half step, but she doesn't so much as turn around as she positions the hooks of the black, lacy number around the front of her chest. She spins it around with her neck suddenly pressed into her chest and wiggles it up until the cups are covering and lifting her petite breasts.

A deep breath. One step down.

Her white, button up blouse is pure torture. Even getting the pearl buttons on her cuffs done is the work of long minutes and makes her look like a technician attempting to disarm a bomb more than a grown woman dressing herself, and getting everything done down the length of the ribbed, delicate top requires more retries than she cares to count. Her arms are jerked away from her once, twice, again, and when her eyes flash in celebration to see a finished fasten she is immediately forced to mutter around her "mouthpiece" and undo it when she realizes it had gotten misaligned and wouldn't properly fit her if she continues.

Even still it is only another five minutes before she has it to her satisfaction (she had to give up on the top collar button completely) and she tucks it into the waist of her black slacks and tugs back out and in again until it is appropriately flattering against her waist and hips, such as they are. She tightens her wide black leather belt and flips the thigh-length half skirt into place where the gold spiraling accents will best compliment her finishing number.

The long black coat slides onto her shoulders like an old friend. It doesn't matter that every fresh jerk of her reigns takes her balance. The steps she needs to recenter herself are shrinking nearly every time it happens, and now with her coat on it adds a pop of dramatic, flowing shadow to the whole affair that is very nearly enjoyable. Gold chains and gold thread form patterns of a flower on a light background of what might be gears, split across the two halves of her chest.

She bends down to pick up her shoes. She glides again across the room and shoves the high heels into Machia's hands, settles herself into a chair nearest the door, lifts her delicate foot up and points as aggressively as she may.

"Yhh do th'sh pr'rt."

Her heart is pounding. Her blood is racing. Her ears are high and rigid atop her head. She has to force herself not to blush. She has to fight to keep her eyes calm. Is she really going out like this? Is she... is she really? She really is. Machia is actually sliding her shoes on for her, clipping the buckles into place around her ankles and then pulling her onto her feet again.

"...Rhhmemb'rr. Sh'mwhhre. Nnissh."

Her ear hits her left shoulder as she tries to open the door.

"As the princess..." said Machia, rolling her fingers around the remote, focused on getting the motion so smooth that your head is pulled in one uninterrupted motion. "... demands~! While you were thinking I was looking through your location history. There's one luxury cake shop in the Lhotse Strand building that you've stopped outside a couple of times and not gone into. Well, I am flush with prize money, and if you can get through the coffee I'll have something to celebrate."

She yawned and stretched as she walked out to the street with you. "You know, someone else might have gotten jealous that thing was sending all that marketing information to someone that isn't me," said Machia. She was in that state again - when she was focused on her work, she talked more honestly and openly than she ever did otherwise. Right now her fixation was entirely on your neck and how it interacted with her remote. She was constantly experimenting with it, how the bridle fought against your muscles and how it changed your balance. She was quickly learning how to pull in longer, slower and smoother motions rather than the sudden jerks. "But that someone would have been ill prepared. I went through some paperwork to classify you as my personal biomedical experiment. Paid some fees. Did all the digital consent signatures with your phone just now. So good news! Now I am now the only person allowed to legally spy on you."

She had changed her approach to the bridle. Now she was trying to use her remote to anticipate the normal movement of your head, to make you look both ways before crossing the street, watching the movement of your eyes and turning your head for you at the same time you would have done so naturally. Sometimes she still pulled you up hard, such as when she decided that she needed to stop you before a traffic light.

"That does mean that legally you require my written permission to go out on your own," she hmmed thoughtfully. She turned your head, gently but firmly, to look at her. Her labcoat had one sleeve black with a line of bright yellow hazard stripes, her eyes were a deep magenta, her hair was a mess. "But I won't be a stickler for that. You can make good decisions on your own, can't you~?"

She nodded for you.

Madeleine watches Machia in silence. Not glaring, not sulking, not fuming, not even really staring. Just... watching. As best she can. Even when her head is turned to one side in imitation of a shy maiden (she does blush, however briefly, when she feels it happen) her eyes follow back to the center of attention so she can watch the light dancing in those pools of wild magenta.

Her ear flicks: the crosswalk is lit for them to pass. She spins on her heels and continues forward as though nothing had happened.

"Yhh r're... shho wh'eer'd."

Her tail flicks once, sharp and elegant beneath her coat. She lifts her head high, for one brief moment by her own will and not a result of the bridle. This would get weirder before it was over. No matter how hard she fought to keep her poise, Machia would find a way to ruin everything in the end. She always did. But...

There were eyes following her. Following them. Before long she had no doubt there would be cameras. In a way it was exciting to wonder what the headlines on the news feeds would manage to put together come morning. Worth the laughter to know. Worth the scrutiny. She would show them all.

Because... the very annoying, very stupid fact was that Machia was a magic spell. A Mystic Code to be specific, something you kept with you that rewarded you with unusual somethings if you were brave enough to trust in it. In her, rather. It didn't mean she wouldn't be out for revenge. She would. She was already eyeing the streets for her moment, just as surely as she was relishing the coming flavor of a truly excellent cup of coffee.

It is just that. As much as she would like to complain. As much as she should be humiliated to be out in public like this... she is not. Giving up control of her mouth and neck has freed up her brain to think about how her muscles are moving. She is paying attention to tiny things, shifts in the weight of her heels and the sensations of her jawline, and yes her teeth against the metal of the bit, and the more she focuses the smoother and more wraithlike her walk becomes.

She is becoming a shadow. That is the truth. It is almost enough to make her believe that everything is worth it.

"...I mm. Tr'shtnng yhh... whff my rr'drr. Bhht pleash yu'sh my nhhme. Shey it r'ght."

"Please use your name?" said Titanomachia. She didn't absorb it as a request, she took it as training data. "Oh, I see. That must be irritating you, huh? Working this hard, climbing all this way, qualifying for the regionals - even if barely - and people still don't acknowledge you?" She looked up, at you, biting a knuckle thoughtfully, watching the movement of your eyes even as she opened the door to the cafe for you.

Inside is beautiful. Gold and silver wire, flooding natural lights, flowers and cakes cascading together like rainbows. The women here shine with intricate jewelry patterns and radiant dresses. Maids await in every corner, eyes both downcast and alert, moving quickly to answer desires before they arise. There is already a table laid out for you two, set with cursive handwriting on marbled paper - Titanomachia and Pet.

She slams you down into the table. She'd let you become so used to the idea of her controlling you with the remote, moving your neck, that you've lost track of the basic fact that she is incredibly strong. She twists your arm behind you with one hand and takes your reins and pulls your head back, pinning you down amidst the silverware. She holds your face up against the paper. Every eye is on you.

"You have not earned that pride," she said, placing her knee firmly on your back. "You are weak. You are the weakest person in the tournament. Every player only knows you only insofar as they are hoping that you do not wind up on their team. All the beautiful ladies and diligent handmaidens in this cafe can hide their weakness behind the conventions of polite society. They can call on people to protect them if they are threatened. But you?"

She pushed her weight down harder on your spine. She leaned down to your ear and bit it.

"You are going into the ring," said Titanomachia. "Everyone will see you. Everyone will see you lose. Everyone will see stronger bodies grip," she gripped your neck. "and tear," she tore open the first few buttons of your blouse, revealing your neck. "and break you." She pulled your hair, standing and pulling you back to your feet with her. Her arms wrapped around your waist and suddenly the force was gone. She was holding you gently from behind, head nestling into your back.

"You are going to be humiliated worse than anything you can imagine, and all of these elegant ladies will laugh about it with their handmaidens. None of them are bothering to learn your name because they do not think they will have to remember it for longer than this stolen season, this accident of placement, this tournament you got into because of my mistake. That makes you my shadow, one that is already passing."

The grip tightened. Possessive.

"And I can't stand that," said Machia. "If you are my shadow then I would have you blot out the sun and stars. I will make of you a nightmare that my fall unleashed. I would have everyone speak your name with respect."

She released you. Straightened the silverwear, piece by piece.

"You are not a lady like these ladies. You are an animal, to be used for entertainment in the arena. Animals earn people's respect because they are beautiful and strong. Every child learns to sing of tigers and horses because they are too powerful to ignore. Let go of your illusions. Respect will follow."

She pulled out the chair for you.

"Now, sit."

Madeleine sits as though pulled into the chair on marionette strings. She is breathless and heaving, plainly terrified in the eyes of everyone looking at her. And rest assured, everyone is looking at her. She trembles in her seat and clutches at her wrist where the muscles were pulled too tight, hiding behind her arm as a shield.

But her eyes... her eyes are bottomless. And hungry.

It takes her several minutes to compose herself, to convince herself to let her own arm go and begin the quiet, dignified task of putting the buttons on her shirt back in order. One of them was ripped clean off, but that is no matter. She restores herself to presentability and places her hands demurely in her lap while she waits for her treat/test/trap.

"...Nho." she says, not... not clearly, but for all to hear. And as importantly, with pride.

"I dhn't chrr uh'bhht thhm. I kn'ww Ih'm whheek. I kn'ww Ih'lrl l'huse. Yhh dhn't nhrd to t'lll mhe. Bht..."

She crosses her legs where she sits and straightens her spine. She lifts her hands to smooth out her glossy black hair and muss with her bangs until they sit perfectly to the side of her right eye. If she is to be a pet then at the very least she refuses to let anyone say she isn't a high-class enough one to be here. There is a creeping cold spreading through her veins, but she cannot afford to pay attention to it right now. The coffee will save her. Even if she slops most of it down the front of her gorgeous blouse, it will still save her from this.

No haunting. No failure. She watches; a hungry ghost.

"I whhn't bhrehk. Th'shey... w'lll shee mhe sht'nnd. Yhh. w'lll shee. H'ff I nr'vrr hee'hr itt fr'mm th'resht... th'tt sh'fhine. Bh'utt yhh, Muhk'eea. HI'll mhk yhh shey my name. Th'tt ish a phr'mish."

She waits. Her darting eyes at long last perceive a cup on the periphery, and even from here she can smell the rich, dark roast coming towards her. No sugar and no cream to despoil it. She smiles through the bridle, in spite of everything. Just the tiniest flash, and then it is gone.

"Nh'tt tr'dhey. Bht sh'un. I w'lll phhl h't fr'mm yhh'r lhipsh. Wh'n I shwww yhh... we h'rr prt'nrrs whff fuh sh'aym drh'eam."

The eyes have settled. You are still in the center of this - this arena. That's what it is, you realize in a moment of clarity. Machia did not book a single table, she booked the entire center of the room. The women in their beautiful dresses are not where they are because of their own decisions; they are props. Placed where they are so that they would all have perfect sight lines through to you, surrounding you with a ring of eyes, transforming this cafe into a stage.

A maid comes and sets the coffee in front of you. It shines, a black so depthless it can only be seen in the shadow. From that void, Machia's reflection watches you - a relaxed and thoughtful curiosity.

The maid sets a cake in front of her too. A dark chocolate base, almost as rich as your coffee, but crowned with cream and set with alternating oranges and lemons. She doesn't touch it. "We're playing by the same rules, you know?" she said. "I don't get my treat unless I earn it either. But I'm not testing my performance at this table, I'm testing my performance back when I had you tied down and was working on you. Past Machia is fighting for your victory so future Machia gets to have this lovely cake."

She set the remote on the table. Flexed her fingers, settled them into place. You could almost feel those fingers settle into place on your reins.

"But present Machia is your enemy," she said brightly. Her hands rolled over the device. Those hands, so much stronger than the electric tug of her reins. "Can you beat her?"

There are actually so many problems with this situation.

She has at least managed to pick up the cup, so that's step one down. She can't claim she's ever owned dishware as nice as this, but practice is really a matter of desire and willpower more than opportunity. As in Aristeia!, as in life, would that be about right? She's got her index finger inserted through the undersized handle and her pinky extended to let the bottom of the cup rest on it while her middle and index fingers curl around the side. This isn't... ideal form, she wouldn't call it, but it creates a stable surface that also lets her leverage the curve of her wrist for additional pressure and stability when she needs it. At the very least, holding her coffee is no problem.

And this is completely, utterly useless to her because her lips and teeth are clenched around a golden bar. How? How had she not been thinking about this the entire time she was walking here? Was she just stupid? Was Machia? Is this whole thing a terrible trap and the final push to strip her of all dignity tonight? No, at the very least it isn't that. Machia was many things, but among them was a famous connoisseur of sweet things. Not to mention a woman possessed of negative amounts of restraint. She wouldn't taunt herself with a dessert she thought she could not eat. Could she be lying? No. The setup is too unwieldy, she's put too much thought into this. Besides which, it wouldn't serve as good training. So she, at least, thought this was somehow possible. But was she an idiot?

The jury remained out.

She lifted the cup, following the sudden curve of her neck so she could take a deep breath while it was still at its peak heat. Oh, the aroma was heavenly. Rich, and deeper than even the color implied, Madeleine detected notes of cinnamon and chocolate. These would be the signature qualities of the cultivar then, how surprising there was still somewhere so wet so high above the sea (Dedication. Willpower. Enjoying coffee was not a skill that came naturally to anyone). If she could get even a drop of this on her tongue it would be the highlight of her life.

Well first she... hrm. No. Typically the done thing would be to rest the rim on her bottom lip, but how's that supposed to work when the whole thing would just clink against her bridle? Not to mention that if the direction of her head turned at all she could chip this delicate material or even shatter it outright. Never mind not spilling anything, she'd be lucky not to wear the whole thing. So what if she..? No. How would that even? It doesn't make any sense. No seal, no funnel, no point of...

Oh, what if she pinched her bottom lip in her free hand and poured that way? But no sooner does she lift her hand to try it than she realizes this too is a dead end. There would be multiple points of failure at the moment of the sip, and it would limit her ability to keep her eyes on everything she was doing, besides. She had to abandon instinctive form entirely, which really only left one avenue. Oh, this was going to be a disaster.

But one impossible thing at a time. If this is an arena, then she's on a timer to get the the scoring zone before her window disappears entirely. Whatever she did she'd need a stable moment to do it in, something she couldn't do with brute force. She'd have to start by engineering a window. She watches Machia. Watches the placid smile spread across her face, watches her deep and curious eyes. One the way here, she'd taken a fascination with anticipating Madeleine's own natural movements and proclivities. She won't do that now, that'd be too helpful, but that would still be her instinct, surely?

She'd reverse it, then. Follow Madeleine's line of sight and push the exact opposite way she'd then try to move. Well if it worked, she'd know where she was ending up, and if she could anticipate it she could keep her center of balance long enough to try and have a... No. To win.

She shifts her weight toward the back of her chair. As soon as she feels the tug in the opposite direction, she leans in and brings her cup to the top of her mouth. She strains against the pull, just enough to tilt her head up less than one degree, and puts the cup in position. She has it for only a fraction of a second, and then she's obliged to extend her arm to keep the cup stable.

But she can taste it! It isn't much, but now that it's on her tongue she feels the rush of delicious notes underneath and through the bitterness (itself a sensation she adored). Her chin is, amazingly, dry. Her shirt is unstained. The table has not a splash at all. She presses her lips against the bit and tries to swallow, and immediately she can feel the liquids in her mouth try to pull forward and dribble back out. The things you learn in a challenge like this, huh? She'd never thought about how many muscles in her face were supposed to be involved in an act like this.

But she's saved by the size of her sip. Any more in her mouth, and it'd be an instant game over. But as it is, the muscles in her throat tighten daintily and she feels the warm liquid sliding down inside her. She blinks, and forgets herself for a moment. She stares at Machia, lifts her eyebrows in surprise, and tilts her head in the tiny lull that follows.

That worked?

"Do you know why I'm so fixated on this?" said Titanomachia. It was a sign of how absolute her focus was; so fixated on every twitch of your muscles that all the other words inside her spilled out. The rest of her was slouching, one elbow on the table and supporting her chin, the other hand idly tracing the edge of the remote - an inadvertent illusion making her look casual. "Khan. Odds are you'll at least one of Khan or Musashi. Khan doesn't get a lot of focus, but she's a dedicated scorer assassin. You can't outrun a motorbike. You're going to get hit. She favours this," she absently mimicked a horizontal right-handed sword slash. Your eyes can see that despite the sloth of the gesture she has the timing and aim correct to the instant.

The second she completes the slash, her left hand suddenly slams hard on the remote, throwing your head all the way to the side.

"Neck shot. She likes the style of the opening decapitation strike, even if it'd be more effective to hit the legs," continued Machia, keeping that same pressure on your right - this is your suit locked fully into place, tilting your head into an angle. "Right now she's coming around into an akira slide to observe the damage she did and line up her next shot. The next pass she's going to take an arm."

Those magenta eyes held the future inside them. Every variable. Her own long, equine ears twitched, focused.

"Can you hear her coming?"

She... she can.

All that she can perceive with her eyes is the room in front of her: the table, the maids and their ladies, that stupid cake and Machia's glimmering eyes. She can see her arm and she can see the cup held at the end of it, just like she can see that it's trembling a little. She sees silverware, carpet, chandeliers and furniture. Everything, everywhere, all of it mundane.

But she can hear the motorcycle whining as it revs. Her ears flick and try to follow it in a dark mirror of Machia's. Is it coming? Is it already here? When would the blow connect?

She can feel the heat of the arena, even in this plain and boring (beautiful) room. The intensity isn't like the lower leagues at all! Nothing from her training, nothing of her career could have prepared her for this feeling. Only her dreams, and those always end being swallowed by--

A sword? A sword! How is she supposed to block a sword? It's faster than her! Stronger than her! Not dodgeable, not blockable, and it would be the deathblow if she let it. She can hear the tires screech. She can hear the rush of the blade. She is out of time, and the puzzle isn't solved.

Madeleine uncrosses her legs.

She swings one up high over the other and rolls her weight from one hip to the other. Swing, lift, stomp, shift, repeat. She doubles the gestures and recrosses from the opposite side, her best attempt at the seated equivalent of a dodge roll. When the blow falls she is already leaning into it. Though her hand still shakes, her fingers keep the cup firm. And she is already moving it into position so that as her neck finishes settling into its new angle she is ready to attempt another sip.

She dares for two, this time. When the cup lowers, her eyes follow it. She locks onto the cake. There, that is it. That is the scoring zone, that is victory. She has never wanted to see someone else eating more in her entire life. Patience, patience... follow the path. Can she do this?

Yes.

Machia leaned forwards. Took a deep breath. Blew on your face - the side of your face, the hair, the rush of air where that sword just passed by.

She is seeing the entire hexadrome now, how everyone moves, how everyone positions. The possibilities and limitations of each body. Her mind overlays it onto reality more completely than a VR simulation. She is not arbitrary when she inflicts two sudden pulls on the reins, lighter than the sword blow but still sharp. "When Khan misses she turns in the saddle and fires her contender in a parthian shot," said Machia. "Body shots. More relevant in a different training scenario. Only testing neck and control today."

A series of sharp, stattico impacts, some softer tugs representing body impacts, occasional sharp pulls left and right from head strikes. She doesn't need to say it for you to recognize being drawn into a combo by Li Ting. The sequence has a rookie's predictability, none of Sammy's creative, improvisational flair, but is delivered with such sleek perfection that you could set your watch to it.

More than once you see Machia's hands twitch on the remote. She wants to stand up. Wants to use the strength in her own hands. Wants to lean over the table and wipe the floor with you herself. But she's not allowed to. Because of the experiment. Because of her injury. Her only way out is through you. Your only way out is through her.

Things are beginning to reach a point where the fidelity of the training is working against her. Titanomachia's vision is so singular and so perfect that the places where it runs up against the limitations of the setup for her experiment are jarring. Madeleine can still feel the coolness on her cheek where the sword brushed past her. She can hear the roar of the crowd (they're calling for her blood. the longer she goes without failing, the angrier they become), and Li Teng's perfected combo attack ripples through her ribs.

But when she looks at her hand, she still sees a cup of coffee. She's all too aware that the motions of her shoulders - the way she is shivering and shuddering into the blows - are actually concessions she's making to Machia's vision, silly affectations to try and sell herself on the idea that this is real and proper training and not just a hamfisted play at revenge for Madeleine's lack of deference earlier.

It makes her so angry. At what, she doesn't know. She can't think about this sort of thing right now. She wants to leave this chair, she wants to run out of this miserable, glittering, beautiful cafe. She wants to be able to actually taste what she is certain she would think is the best coffee in the entire world. She just wants to be finished.

But she doesn't. But she asked to come here. But she can't. But she isn't.

Madeleine thrashes in her seat with the viciousness of a caged animal. The only reason she does not slosh hot coffee everywhere is because she's already drank more than half the cup. She swings a kick across the table that does not connect with anything, and notices with a pang of guilt how perfectly her center of balance remains as she rolls through the motion and balances on her toes on the arm of her chair. She perches there, takes an awkward and petulant sip of her drink, and slumps back into a seated position.

This is sad, she has decided. It is making her sad. But the only way to make it end is to get to the bottom of this cup. Then she could sit and enjoy the atmosphere of this place while she watches Machia have dessert. Probably she has forfeited the possibility of getting a second cup for herself she would be allowed to enjoy properly, but that's...

That doesn't really matter. She just can't stand that look in this woman's eyes. So she is going to win. That is all there is to it.

Machia slowed, then stopped. Her fingers traced the edge of her remote. She was frowning now, having shifted from focus to reflection. The pressures and pulls continued, but faded; her attention wasn't on it any more.

"You're doing it again," she said. "You start weak, gather strength, and then lose focus so close to the finish. It's like you don't want to win." She leaned back in her chair. Her fingers move mechanistically over the remote; no longer simulating the rise and flow of battle, but now going through the optimal counterforce motions to get you to spill your drink.

"I wondered if it was a biological problem," she said, already talking about the situation in the past tense. "If your heart wasn't strong enough or you weren't pacing yourself correctly, but this test rules that out. All the physical factors are controlled for and performing excellently. The problem is mental. But is it an inhibition? Fear? Rewards insufficiently tempting? Combination of?" She wasn't expecting a response. Her attention had turned from your neck to your eyes as she contemplated how mere physical control was insufficient for her purposes.

"I'm afraid this means your training is going to get weird," she said, pulling remotely on your bridle.

She can feel the reins pulling her back as if she'd tried to buck her rider, but she fights the pull. Hunches her shoulders forward, leans as far as she dares and even squeezes the table between them with her free hand. She has to do this so she can stare at Machia.

She has to stare because she can't speak. Or rather she won't speak. Not another word through this stupid, garbling piece of (really hot) garbage. (Shut up, shut up, you are not helping) Not another word so long as the place they're sitting is inside of an arena. If there's a contest to be won (for my sake, for her sake...) then there's nothing she can say with words. So she says it with her eyes instead.

Her amber eyes are burning like molten pools of gems inside of a furnace. Liquid, shimmering, fierce. (Go to hell, Machia) She leans in closer. (Get over yourself, Machia) So close that her bit could touch those lips if she could just strain hard enough to close that final gap. (Look at me, Machia. Look at me. See me.) Her eyes shimmer, flicker, endlessly deep and endlessly mesmerizing, haunted and watching and... no, not angry. Not if you can tell the difference. She is once again feeling competitive.

(I am going to bury you).

Madeleine releases the table and allows herself to be pulled back, all the way back into her chair. She sits herself down again with as much decorum as she can muster. She cannot tell if it is a lot, or none at all. It occurs to her that this all might have been easier if she'd simply submitted, if she'd bowed her head and let herself become a beast. She'd been tempted, several times. The image kept twisting through her with its unseen claws: the cup on the table and Madeleine on her knees. She could push her tongue out underneath her bridle and lap at pitch black salvation like the Pet the table reservation called her.

It would be simple. Without risk, so long as she paid attention. It was the fastest way to win.

Unless she did this.

Yes, Machia, this is about to get weird. She glances down at what's left of her coffee and brings it close to her face. The wonderful thing about a drink like this is that when you don't pull its temperature down with cream (like some sort of coward) it remains delightfully hot for quite some minutes. Even this extended struggle has barely dipped it below serving temp at all. Oh yes, this would quickly become quite unpleasant. Madeleine grins at Machia, as much as she is able, and then she sets her expression to one of detached composure.

She brings the cup to her lips.

She pours it, carefully, into her mouth.

She does not swallow. She cannot swallow. Neither can she completely close her lips. Rich, hot darkness, bitter and bottomless and endlessly complex and nutty dances across her tongue. The heat builds up in her cheeks and still all she does is hold it there. She tilts the cup toward Machia and even runs her fingertip through the center to show that there is nothing left.

But the contest has not ended. It cannot, until this delight slides down her throat. And she cannot compel it to do so without losing half of it. She holds it in her mouth, head stubbornly tilted up to keep from losing.

And, like this, this ridiculous creature, this equine shadow woman slides down from her chair. Her posture is not that of a beast, whatever she may be wearing. She is regal and careful as she bends on one knee. Not a princess as she'd been called earlier this evening, but now a knight. She picks up her sword (fork). She cuts a delicate slash through Machia's cake and steadies the bite.

She rises and lifts the reward toward her trainer's lips. This is how the battle is to be. And if she can win... if she can win!

Well, if she can win, maybe there won't be that much to say.

"Hm?"

The train of thought continues on without her. It sails elegantly out the door and down along the road. A vision of a future no longer within the boundary categories of the world's possibilities, to be severed from the skein of fate by the machines of the moon. Macha's control is in her eyes, and they blink. Her control is in her lips, and they are silenced by immanent sugar and cream. Her control is in her mind, and it is blank.

Her cheeks slowly start to tinge and glow. Her breath gently disturbs the cream held close to her lips. Her eyes are lowered, the power of seeing broken by the power of being seen. Her hands caress the remote as they might midnight hair. For a moment there is stillness.

Then focus returns.

"You haven't won yet," said Machia, soft fingers becoming hard again. It wasn't about Khan or Sammy or anyone else in this moment. She wasn't anywhere but here. She wasn't even thinking about your training. She wasn't fighting for anything but to break open your lips.

Madeleine's war from now on is to maintain eye contact with Machia. That is the nature of the magic she has cast here, and the vessel that contains her victory. The longer she can capture the magenta inside her amber without blinking, the more she will grow. The less she lets the bridle pull her away, the steadier she can keep her head, the more time she will have to weave her magic. The longer she does this, the more invincible she will seem.

She grabs her tail and wraps it around Machia's wrist. Now they are fastened tight together, one above and one below. She stares through wide eyes like a lanternfish, the blackness of her hair contrasting against the paleness of her face to sell the illusion. You must believe she is invincible, Machia. You must believe she is inevitable. You must believe that she can do this forever.

You cannot be allowed to think through the ramifications of what she's done. You cannot be allowed to know how uncomfortable this really is. On, on so many levels. Inside her mouth the heat is building. Her tongue is growing overwhelmed from the heavy flavors. It will be hardly any time at all before she gags, and then she will be obliged to either cough or swallow when she cannot afford either one.

She tugs her tail tighter, pulling Machia further into the moment. Stay here, you brilliant moron. Stay with me. Believe me.

She dares to push the fork forward. She cannot force Machia's lips open, but she can paint them with decadent chocolate creams. She can let Machia feel their weight, their softness, their richness, and call to mind the flavor that is right there, if she will only blink one more time.

Or she can pull away, leer at Madeleine, and pull on her reins. Then she will break. There will be no choice but to swallow, and at least half of what is in her mouth will come dribbling down her chin. Even then it might be called a victory, if someone kindly were to wipe it clean before it fell and feed it back to her, drip by drip. Or it might spatter against the table, and just be called her loss.

But which world does she live in?