The street is illuminated with shocks of glittering light in autumn red. It bleeds into a metallic crimson light. The daemonic effect not only changes the hue of the light but the reflective properties of everything it falls upon. A cackle fills the air -

And then, the snap of a chain. A great shadow pulls a collar tight. And --

*

Titanomachia and Madeleine Cross are suddenly back in her apartment. Everything is back the way it was. The remanants of the arcane are gone - the daemonic presence, the vines, the bloody dress. Even the clocks have wound back. It is as though none of it happened.

But -

- Machia maximizes one of the streams on her monitors. Taowu is sitting for an interview in a talk show, dressed in a debonair floral violet dress with a crimson cravat. Her hand is holding a leash - and attached to that leash is Lios Emiral. Her armour has become a cage of chains and vines, her face-concealing helm jagged with bladed oak leaves, her silver tarnished to obsidian blacks, her two-handed blade coursing with crimson daemon light.

"- so why did you target group three, O Demon Princess?" the reporter was asking.
"I've had my eye on my dear knight for a while," said Taowu pleasantly, lounging in her armchair and raising a hand to trace her fingernail under her blade-slave's chin. "Nothing against group three personally. But I know some people are looking at dear little Sammy as the name to beat this season." Her eyes gleamed red. "We'll see how they feel after my darling pet joins me in the winner's group."

"I think," said Titanomachia in a humbled voice, "that I will listen to you about the supernatural next time."

Madeleine watches the screen in silence. Occasionally she reaches up and touches the spot beneath her eye socket with two fingers, but apart from that she doesn't move a lot, either. Some strange mix of horror and fascination keeps her eyes glued to the screen.

This is her fault. It's her fault in three ways, minimum. If she hadn't told Lios about the cake she would have stormed off like normal and been safe. If she had done a better job with the summoning circle, Taowu would not have appeared and everything would be a mess, but safe. If she had stood her ground and fought, then things would have...

She reaches up and brushes the spot under her eye again. She shivers.

Guilt and shame and some much stranger third thing squirm inside of her uncomfortably. All she can do is watch the broadcast and sit inside of her own head. Was she telling the truth to these people, in front of these cameras? Was this whole thing really all about..? No. No, her presence today was only due to the combination of Machia's reckless half-finished homework and Madeleine's inadequacy as a spirit medium. The song she sang, the words she spoke... those were meant for just the two of them.

But then why? She wouldn't need a hostage, and thinking about it from the perspective of arena stories there was no reason for somebody as famous as Taowu to involve a nobody Madeleine in one of her extracurricular feuds. Even allowing for the boost of interest associated with her training with Machia, it'd fizzle as soon as she got into the arena proper and failed to get herself into the winner's group with all the other major players. And Taowu was very cautious, for a demon. Even Madeleine hadn't been sure if her whole routine was a clever hacker's scheme for the camera or if she'd been legitimate until she'd come crawling out from the apartment floor.

That didn't make any sense unless her interest in Lios was legitimate. And that meant she valued something about Lios, and that meant she probably would have made a play like this at some point or another. There wasn't even a way of knowing what had happened in here to begin with, since she'd run away like a frightened animal. Maybe Lios Emiral was a sub? Maybe she signed on for this?

Madeleine blushes, and shakes her head. She pulls her tail around from behind her and starts to comb it with her fingers, one two three four, two two three four...

It was beyond her. She'd have to ask if she wanted to know. Although, if Lios did not already dislike her before, then--

She turns her head, and stares at Machia.

"...Are you familiar with the story of Der Freischütz?" she asks in monotone, "Six magic bullets for the huntsman, and one for the devil."

She brushes her tail in silence for a moment, and then she shifts her seat closer so she can brush Machia's instead.

"The thing I hear most people ask is, 'what if I never shoot the seventh bullet?' This is because they do not know the story. People are not as clever... as they like to give themselves credit for. They might miscount, or assume they can live with the consequences. Or something outside of their control might compel them to reach for the gun. In the operatic version, a man even teaches his son to forge new bullets to pass the cost off to him. It does not matter. The final shot strikes him cold. I have found that dealing with the Underworld is always like this. It does not give: it only pretends to, so it can take. That's why the only school of magic I practice is banishing."

There had been a horrible knot in Machia's tail hairs, but Madeleine has soothed it out with clever fingers and soft strokes of the back of her hand. The brush might have been easier, but it's hidden in a drawer somewhere, and she could not stand up to retrieve it. Only now is she able to take her feet. She walks away, and picks up the cybernetic leg.

"It isn't fair at all," she says, clutching it tight, "I first came to you deaf and you fixed me. I cannot even heal your leg in return."

On wobbly legs, she stumbles back across the room. She kneels in front of Machia as though proposing, aligning the leg with one hand and tracing the smooth, cold metal of the connection ring with the fingers of the other. She leans forward, and touches her forehead to Machia's thigh. Her ears wiggle plaintively, quietly begging for something she does not receive.

"I am sorry." she whispers as she pulls away.

There is no good way to do this gently, except to wrap her fingers around Machia's upper thigh. She grips the firm flesh there and, slowly and carefully as she can, slots the cybernetic back into place so she can begin the delicate work of locking it and reactivating it. In the end, that's all she's really capable of.

"...!"

There are cybernetics that can come off as easily as taking off a glove. Titanomachia's has no such kindness to it. Everything about this mechanical limb was built to simulate the peak of athletic potential, and among other things that requires a full artificial nervous system. The sensory feedback from reconnecting it is fire and ice, the jagged shapes of a sleeping leg awakening, cramps and bruises, muscles clenching and testing reflexively as they do their best to link to that crackling brain.

Machia is biting her knuckle. She is shivering. Because in addition to the surging sensation of electricity bridging flesh and synthfibre is the feeling of hands. The feeling of breath. The feeling of soft hair, blown out to overwhelming levels by the miracles of technology. Be gentle, she yearns to whisper. Be firmer, demands a voice crackling along the edge of her spine. She feels the shape of a weakness within her, that she wants to feel with stolen strength.

To reach out and take -

"And yet," she said, hand rolling into a fist below her teeth.

She reached down and took Madeleine by the chin, turning her head up to look into her eyes. "I do not accept that there is power you will not master. I will find the path. I will make you capable of walking it. Your path is to the top and you will go through her too."

Sometimes she wondered if when she was talking to Madeleine she was talking about herself. That she'd master this device and achieve that championship herself as she always thought she would. Sometimes in lonely nights she wondered if this was just a way to keep her hand in while she recovered.

But now, with the dark-haired girl sending electricity from her fingertips to her thigh, burning her to her brain, she didn't wonder. She never asked that question when they were together. Something about those golden eyes drove doubt from her mind. This was her sword.

When Titanomachia was hopping all over her apartment on one leg, she did not appear vulnerable. When she was imprisoned in Taowu's vine-chains, even struggling, even failing, even during the worst matches of her career there was no point Madeleine could remember where Machia did not feel like she was holding some kind of secret strength inside her. In face one time she had even come here early and unannounced, and happened to find her sleeping on the couch. Even then she seemed invincible. Shatterproof. Starve her, drown her, throw her off a cliff, Titanomachia would always feel like a woman who could move the entire world.

But here? With her fingers under Madeleine's chin and that look inside her eyes? With her teeth clenched and her lip trembling? With her voice, her voice, her... voice...

Madeleine's fingers slip. A jolt of electricity surges through Machia, followed by a palm on her hip sliding slowly inward. She watches the change in posture and expression with a storm inside her eyes. All that power, tamed. All that strength, useless. All that possibility, pointed desperately at a murky, blind path with pitfalls at every bend. She slides her fingers back down Titanomachia's soft thigh, whispers her wordless apology into her skin, and finishes the reconnection.

Yes, now she looks vulnerable. Even weak. And so radiant it hurts to look at her. When? When did she become beautiful?

She pulls her hand down to rest it on Machia's knee. She allows her head to be lifted higher. Her breath hitches and her body stiffens in the cold air of the room, goosebumps clearly visible on each of her pale, bare limbs. She does not blink. She does not flinch. She does not smile.

"...Yes."

"Then," said Machia. "We will begin by addressing your weaknesses."

She opened a drawer and drew forth a long coil of crimson rope.

"I have wondered for a time if your weakness is the binding of your hands," she said, taking Madeleine's hands up into hers. "The way you take to my table. The way you froze just now. I second guessed myself when you bore the bit with something approaching dignity, but I have my confirmation."

The red thread wove between fingers and across palms, bringing hands together in prayer.

"You hesitate when you are bound," said Machia. "Perhaps it is what drew you to the Hex in the first place. It's what drew Lios. But weaknesses can be the greatest strengths - and the key for you will be knowing exactly how you are bound."

She looped the rope around your neck and back, above and below your breasts, bringing your hands to your chin, reaching down to wrap around your ankles and bind them together. The interlock enforced the kneeling, praying position.

"If your wrists are bound, use your tongue," said Machia. "If your tongue is gagged, use your hips. Accept the limitations imposed on you. Do not volunteer limitations that have not been imposed. When I bind you, I will take the time to do so properly - to permit you only the freedom I have chosen to give. If you are bound by a less attentive mistress and you volunteer the same obedience I have compelled I will take it as an insult. There is a difference between limitation and true helplessness and you will not be complete until you know exactly where that line lies."