"She is a menace," Madeleine agrees, "A vicious trickster. To her we are all pawns on a dartboard."

She doesn't notice the smile creeping across her face. In her own mind, Madeleine is as cool and reserved as her voice is low and soft. Everything is normal and professional, even though her mind is oddly focused on the flush she saw on Machia's cheeks last night. Everything makes sense. Everything is correct. Everything is the way that it is meant to be. 

She rolls to avoid a sudden paintball. 

Except for that. The awkward phrasing of her question had cast a spell over this pseudo arena, and now she was not training with Titanomachia's old partner: she was fighting with Lios Emiral, The Angel of the Forest. Her vision is filled with sweeping blade-wings and and dry swirling leaves. The colors are sublime, but the way is shut. 

"Titanomachia has eyes that could swallow the entire world. It is no wonder people seem shrunken next to her. Has she ever even..? No, I am sorry. I haven't earned another question. But you are correct that she is a demon. A monster that lives only inside of that arena. And she doesn't remember to change her clothes unless I remind her. I do her cooking and her laundry when I come over. Sometimes she makes me rub her shoulders while she's watching her screens. I do not know what that has to do with training. I do not understand why she told me I am the future."

Madeleine hastily scoops up an armful of Machia's gear. Whatever dirt, gravel, or glass is mixed in there that is cutting her fingers is immaterial next to the speed she needs to conjure. Before it's even secure she is rushing headlong into Lios. Directly into that one sour step in her perfect form. She feels every impact with the ground run through her calves and all the way up into her spine. Faster, faster. Stronger, stronger. She is an arrow in the shape of a woman, only wobbling when you look at her close enough, and only because of the force with which she was fired. 

Arms still full of junk, she leaps and twists her hips to corkscrew a turn and a half through the doorway, where she lands heavily on her knees. She is much more careful with the equipment now that she is inside with it, arranging it neatly next to the leg already resting there.

And this time she does peel off her jacket, and frowns at the long line of bright paint tracing from her left shoulder all the way down to her right hip. Even her shorts are stained.

"...I should've guessed that wouldn't be enough. The score is even, Miss Lios. Go ahead claim your prize."

Hollow amber eyes look past the door frame to the remaining work. She is already tracing the arcs of her next attempt.