"One possibility is that I can see the future," said Titanomachia, placing her freezing cold hands on your neck, slicing down the shoulders and to the elbows before the gel runs thin. "In which case, you will easily pay me back with your winnings, with a travel budget to spare. The other possibility is that I do not, in which case I will wash out and return to a life of popping bubblewrap at neurologically significant moments. Naturally, I have no idea which!" firm fingers ran the gel down your neck and back. "The frontier is where science and magic touch, after all."

The gel didn't stay cold. It began prickling against skin, a pepper spice crackling and tingling, patches of heat and numbing moving like sunspots.

Machia was voice, eyes, hands. The way she moved made it so hard to focus on what she was actually doing, how she was dressed, what she even looked like. It was a constant magician's trick - listen to my voice. Look into my eyes. Feel the touch of my hands. There was an awareness of her outside those things, but her attention was sword and shield and when it was pointed at you it was so hard to focus.

Hands. Down your front. Across your stomach. Over your hips, skipping, skipping, thighs - Voice. "The earrings - when did you get them? I haven't seen them before. Are they comfortable? Do they interfere with your ear movements? Who made them?"

Eyes. Vibrant magenta, looking up at you. This time she is kneeling before you, hands on your legs, running lower, shielding herself with her absolute attention. Too much of you in her for you to distract.

With Titan? I don't think she knows what that is.

Then this must be when she learned. Because what else could you call it? Madeleine's skin is covered in fireworks and ice dancing all across her. And even that, even then it does not obliterate the mindfulness of the fingers touching her skin. Melting her tired muscles. Massaging, caressing, brushing-against-but-not-quite-worshipping, torturing, yes torturing, everywhere except one specific place, why did she, why would she..?

But all of that means nothing. Because this is just to cover her in cubegel. All of this excitement is in service to preparing an aural anti-hypnosis training session, and that is only about defeating Taowu. What Lios said about Titanomachia was correct - the arena was always with her. There was always someone else in the room. It was correct. It should be correct, except...

Except those eyes are looking at her. And then she asks the question. Such a boring, petty, mundane question. And as the words fall from her lips, Madeleine feels as though she's melting. Training is gone. Taowu has faded into nothing. In the moment, in just this one moment, it is only Madeleine and Machia. And she is dressed in nothing.

"Ah, ah, aaahhhhhh~" she sings.

"Th-this f-feels... really weird." she recovers. Her legs twitch like traitorous jelly underneath her, and her tail is dancing a samba. But she turns her head down, and she meets those eyes with her own.

"IiiI! Had to have them, mmmgh, m-made custom. There's a, oh god what is that, a woman in the C-Cat District who speciAAAAlizes in modified ears. Name is, uh, CA, Cassidy. Lowe. I think. Sssshee said it once, and she talks... a lot. I HAA, had her take my measurements. It c-c-c-cOSt my l-last stipend. But she finished... a week ago. They, nnnnffffff, are, are beautiful. I have a, a, a, a gun. To do the, piercings myself. So I, mmf, you know."

She has lost track of what is sweat and what is spicy medical slime on her body and if there is anything else that fits the vague description of this feeling she is forgetting right now. Her back is tense and her legs are not, her hands are gripping each of her forearms and slipping free and for a moment all she can do is pant.

Pant and look. Watch. Stare with burning amber eyes. She bites down on her lip and with a giant shudder forces herself to continue.

"They are... mnGHH! Comfortable for a while but I... can only wear them for, for, for a, a, AH! A few hours! I c-can rotate ok but it's, a little... StIFf and I, uh. Um. Wh-why are you stopping? Be thorough. They're, because of the bar they get... stuck upright. Can't fold or fl-flutter. So it, gosh, cramps. But I do... like them. Do you... think they're pretty?"

"This is why you're hard to read," said Titanomachia thoughtfully. "On the grass you're so strong, but here..." her fingers gripped Madeleine's toes, pressing the last of her devil substance into the soles of her feet. "Yes, I do like them. But not at the expense of your ear mobility - though maybe that's the point?" she touched a gleaming wet finger to her lips thoughtlessly as she thought. "Maybe something could be done with - mm. Mmm!" She tried to brush her elixir off her lips without wiping her hands first. Then she laughed, bit her lip, and went over to the basin to wash her hands.

"Silly - itchy, right?" she gave another futile brush of her lips with clean hands. "I forgot how sensory this stuff is. Normally it's drowned out by the injury, but if you put it onto healthy skin - oh, that's another idea - another time. Okay. Well, this still works to my agenda."

Blackness. The blindfold was soft, silken, wrapping gently and firmly without the smallest wrinkle or crease. Then the wrists, pulled into a silky bond - absolutely impossible to shift despite feeling soft and relaxed on skin. Then - the push.

A gentle, guided push, pitching face-forwards in the dark - caught by something/nothing. The levitator. A surreal feeling - gravity still applied, down was still down, hair spilling down around your face until Machia smoothed it all over to one side. But there was simply no desire to fall beyond a certain point. It wasn't a cushion of air, it wasn't being lifted and held, it was that all the potential energy of your fall was -

Not all. You were still falling, just very, very slowly. Your hair and tail, lighter strands, could fall faster as they had less kinetic energy to drain. But for the rest of you it was an unreal feeling; the freedom to move and thrash and kick and spin and continue moving through an eternal, windless skydive.

At least until she grabbed your ankles and bound your feet. Then it was just...

The earphones weren't on. You could hear Machia humming, hear her absently rubbing her sensitive lips, hear her pulling the lid off a marker. "We haven't started yet," she said, taking your ears in her hand, feeling the holes of the piercings. "I need to be very precise for the next part, so I'm going to trace my work first. Try to hold still -"

The cold, wet tip of the marker touched your spine, right between your shoulder blades. Dot. Another point, a centimeter down. Dot. Another. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Down to the base of your spine.

Circle.

To the left. Dot. Dot. Dot. Going up. Dot dot dot. To your shoulder - star. Under your arm. Circle. Across the top of your arm, dots all the way down to your elbow, another circle, dots to your wrist, star. Down each finger, then back, then a circle in your palm. Then back up your arm, the patten repeating, stars on each shoulder and a circle on the base of your neck, before descending down the other arm.

Then she turned you over. It was so easy for her, in your weightless ever-fall, your hair tumbling in slow motion and racing ahead of you. Dots up the arms, broken by circles at sensitive points. A star on your navel, then dots up along your body. Dots and circles run around and across your breasts in a figure-eight. Finally the pattern concludes with a star on your throat.

Calm. Methodical. Timeless. Soft. You could imagine your body, the pattern of circles and stars wrapping around you like a dress. Machia hadn't spoken while she was working, other than the occasional soft sound of her biting her sensitive lips. Only at the end, as she clicked her marker back into its lid, did she say, "Are you ready?"

"You have no appreciation for fashion at all. Yes, the restriction is the point. No it is not serving some secret competitive function. Do you have any understanding of the concept of lines?"

Madeleine is blind. Madeleine is falling. It's a very strange sensation; it's different from being suspended and there is no sensation of weightlessness. But without the feeling of the air fighting her there's nothing to conjure the image of plummeting toward the ground either. She is simply above the ground, a creature of gravity with no ability to fulfill her contract with it. Not quite falling, not quite flying, not quite floating. If it was like anything at all it was like being held, a sensation that only intensified when the ropes started pulling across her ankles.

She sighs.

"I didn't hear you complain about my tie or my vest, or even my coat. All of those were tight enough to keep me from moving properly but that isn't an issue. At home, I have pieces I can't even bend in. Sometimes I wear shoes I can't run in, and they hurt my feet if I'm in them too long. It's fine. It completes an aesthetic. The posture is... as important as the piece itself."

In this permanent floating/falling/held state it is difficult to conjure much in the way of a strong physical response to anything. It feels oddly safe. Against the backdrop of her skin prickling and itching from neck to toe thanks to the extreme amount of gel coating her a marker barely registers at all. There's just a slightly different kind of wetness, and then the vague awareness of ink drying on her skin before it settles. She can envision the pattern, but only by focusing on every dot and following the pattern down her spine and around her legs.

"It's the sense of formality and attention raised ears imply. With all of the clothing, it compels me to stand and sit taller than I normally do. The design is striking, the color stands out against my hair, but... it is in the end about compelling my body into the most pleasant shape possible. Sometimes that means fighting my nature. Sometimes it means leaning into it harder. Now that I have the piercings I can play with chains and charms that allow for more flexibility, but - please pay more attention to where that's going - my ears are beautiful. I think. I wanted to make them unignorable, too."

There's a strange vulnerability to being marked up like this. Especially in the grip of the levitator where she's not even privy to the sensation of having laid down on the ground. Nothing is touching anything, and all her wandering mind has to contemplate are the twin sensations of her tumbling hair/tail, and the pattern of markings crossing her skin. It's very easy to stay still, she's far too relaxed (and tired) to even squirm, but even so she can't help but think a little about whether she is being dressed up or prepared for slaughter. What was the point of all this cubegel? What was the aim of this next exercise?

"It upsets me, having to explain all this to you. You don't get how beautiful you are. Some of us have to work very hard to catch up, thank you very much. But even still, the things that I could do to your body... you waste so much potential! If you'd just give yourself over to me even one time, I could, I could!"

Madeleine stammers. Her skin has fully gone over to warmth from the initial chill of the gel, but she shivers as though she were underneath a high powered fan. The sense of her impending doom bothers her so much less than the sudden, unplanned vulnerability of the truth, this weakness and longing she'd already revealed to nothing so that she wouldn't have to reveal it to its source. Her entire body flushes with color, and her empty ears flick vigorously.

"I mean. I-- yes. Forget all that. I'm ready. Do it."

"Your key phrase is, 'Autumn Wolves Can't Won't Chorus,'" said Titanomachia.

Voice. Hands. You couldn't see her eyes, but you could feel them following the lines upon your body. All the way back to the origin. The headphones slipped over your ears, fingers again touching the spots of the piercings - and then, sound.

Not coherent. Barely audible. It was not music, not rhythm, not open skies. This was not sound for sleeping or dreaming, this was sound for focus. Crystal lines of sound, the sound of foreign skyscrapers in winter, glass shining crystal. A heartrate that was aspirational, coaxing an increase in tension, even as the gentle cushion of the levitation field intensified. There was no pressure but even squirming against the bonds became almost impossible. The will for movement became disconnected from physical results. A tired mind was intensified with nothing to focus on. The feeling of the cubegel across your skin crackled. And then

Pain. Scalding pain. Familiar scalding pain. A single drop of boiling hot coffee had dripped precisely down onto that point in the center of your spine where the first dot in the sequence waited. It hurt as it channeled all the energy it could directly into your nerves.

Soon the fire was spent - a single drip of warm sweat on your exposed spine. The gleaming beat of the music was not aspirational any more; your heart rate had risen to sync with its pounding, hypnotic focus. It held your mind there, as suspended as your body -

- and then the next drip landed. Just as hot. Just as painful. The next drip in the sequence.

What's funny is that this is an almost perfect environment for memorization. She has no body. She has no weight. She cannot shift or wiggle or speak or do any other stupid thing that could mess her up, so all that's left is just a mind in a world of perfect rhythm and glass. The vibrations are just the phrase moving through her consciousness, the tempo is high but the phrase this time is so simple it's almost

I

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G.

Breath. Breath. Breath without breathing.

Pain. Pain. Pain without feeling.

The shape of her body is defined by scalding drips. She is not Madeleine. She is a constellation.

Smelling vaguely of Yirgacheffe.

It is the kind of hot that should scar her.

It is the kind of pain that should break her.

She is a body of stars trapped inside a telescope, a spine and a beating heart with limbs that are only theoretical and invisible hair that drifts toward the floor with a soft pull like a lover's hand around her skull. The nebula is crackling with low heat and kinetic energy and her sweat is colder than ice and it hurts much sharper than it should because it's healing straight away but then it sizzles and the syncopation and

D
R
I
P

She is defined anew. The pattern changes. Same as the marker, the burst and the wet and then the lingering evaporation. A dress designed in coffee. A hideous waste she cannot scream about. A smell that is frenzying and soothing in the same exhausted thought and Autumn Wolves C█N'T Won't C████s.

Madeleine.





Madeleine Cross.



That is the spell: Pain is what happens to her. She is.

So. Again.

Autumn. Wolves. Can't. Won't. CH♦RUS.

...That was one of the stars, wasn't it?

Maybe she clenches her teeth. Maybe she hisses. Maybe she is still breathing. But she is, at least, Madeleine Cross. So even if this is ultimately beyond her, she tries.

Oh, darling.

We have not reached the star yet.

We have

drip

just about

drip

Reached the first

drip

circle.

Heat. Iron. Pressure. The base of your spine, just above your tail. A screech of tearing guitar through the crystal focus in your ears. A branding iron presses down into the circle. One. Two. Three.

Release.

The beat cycles for a moment. A moment of breath. A whisper of soft breath on your skin, eyes close enough to feel, checking for damage, ensuring that the healing is taking properly. Listening for a sign that this is too much.

Wait.

What do you mean?

This has all been the dots?

Then... what about the... wait.

Pressure? I don't

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

pain hot hurt no press stop why there'snostaticthereshouldbesomethingsharpcutoffmythoughtsitsallclearIfeelitIfeelitIfeelitIknoweverythingthat'shappeningthisisworseworseworseithurtshurtshurtshurtsmakeitnotIdon'twantitautumnwolvescan'twon'tyouknowalreadyIshouldn'thavetosayitthisiscruelthisistoomuchIcan'ttakeitIcan'tdoitIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tI

thre'se a tingh lkei ari on hre bcak adn it feles ncie. Mdaliene tkase a beraht and trsie ot clma hreslfe dwno. is't funyn. wnhe the netx dpro cmoes seh cn'at feel ti. hTe fcous is lal nO oen poitn and ti hruTs so muhc taht hte dtos juts trace bakc tooooooooooooo the criscle. It wsan't os bda wehn it statred btu het mroe teh rnio bruned Madelnei wnatde ot csream. she falots ni teh ira adn baerth hadr. Through theet. Yuo nudertsnad, rghit?

it's the dffiercne bewtnee holding yoru hand over stmae and, and, adn... grpinpg a hot pna by the handle wtihout rlaeznig it's been voer heat the hwoel time. A delay. Then htur so sharp it obliterates eyrvhtngi lsee.

If this is the circle the star must be worse. If this is the circle the star must be worse. If this is the autume the wolves cna't won't chousr.

"Plllllleaaase. I can... I can... do... this... Mhh. Machiaaaaaa."

The dots are easy now. The circels are hard but she's dnoe one now. Another. Make it to eht next one. Jsut one more. Another circle. And then hold on. Madeleine. Madeleine Cross.

Even if you fail.

Please.

Make it to the worst.

Dot. Dot. Dot. All the way back up to the shoulder. Dot. Dot. Dot. There's a rhythm to it, as calm and precise as the music. Pain as performance. Order. Structure. Predictability.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Star.

The star is the part where she bites you.

Her teeth sink into her shoulder. Her fingernails scrape down your side. It's not as painful as the circle but it's far less controlled, far less predictable, the music descending into chaos - you are blindfolded and bound and in the claws and teeth of something that is biting you, clawing you, you are a prey animal and you need to run, need to run, need to run -

Then - then!!

Something soft and warm touches your lips. Coffee, perfect gentle warm. Your blindfold is pulled off. Magenta eyes are staring directly into yours. A raised hand, fingers counting down from five, hot breath on your face. Hell into heaven and you are running out of time to remember how to deal with the transition - to reject what is against your lips and bring them back under your own control.

Do you?

Her lips are for drinking coffee and her eyes are for staring into Machia's. Her skin, in all its varying states of marking and disrepair, is an engine whereby the heat of her body may be discerned from the sweat on top of it. Her breath is for gasping - first the desperate panting of a cornered and tortured animal, and then the slower more reverent 'oh' of a hiker observing an unexpected sunrise.

In short, that is what Madeleine Cross is worth. That is what she's for. She is only vaguely aware of the fingers disappearing toward zero, and only when the hand lowers completely does it cross her mind that there is a challenge for her to fail. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0, -1, -2, -3...

Her face turns redder. Her heart ceases to race, but simply flutters instead. Why won't her body work right? Why won't her brain? All of that was awful but she's still Autumn Wolves Can't Won't Chorus. So what is? Why is? This... feeling? She sips coffee with undignified desperation and shrinks away from the aggressive face held much too close to hers.

"...Ah. I knew it. The moment where it switches to kindness really is the hardest part. That was a total failure. I'm sorry."

She's still there. Machia is still there. Even the coffee is still there, which is somehow the most intense thing to realize of the lot. Steam is hissing off of several parts of her body as cubegel repairs her poor abused torso but all she can focus on is the light and delightfully fruity notes of the drink still held as if in offer, as if she were worth this beautiful treat prepared in the exact way she prefers it. It's a specialty cultivar, even, and the longer she considers that the more of her brain seems scrambled.

Was. Um. Was anybody speaking just now?

"In, in, in my... defense," she stammers, "I, I only messed up that bad because of you. If it had been, uh, a-another face, I, er. I wouldn't have failed. Your eyes are just so... or, no, it's really your smell? N-no, I mean! I don't! I don't... know. It doesn't matter. You're the one Taowu will use against me, if it comes to that. So you're the one I have to overcome."

She sighs, a noise that is three quarters sniffle. Uncountable minutes of condensed pain she endured as a crystal song all creep across her now, all at once felt as phantoms in the form of rapid healing.

"I can't, uh. D-do that again. Right now. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. Hold me. I'm at my limit..."

"Hmm!" said Machia, pausing from her examination with genuine surprise. "That's - you said you can't do any more? Objectively you can't, it's time for enforced dinner and bed, but I thought I'd have to -"

She embraces you. The levitator deactivates, and it's her turn to pull you down into a princess carry. Machia stares at your bruised collarbone for a moment, lips twitching, then lifts you and carries you over to the table. She sets you down and slides the bonds from your wrists and ankles, ensures your tail is sitting comfortably, and then she opens the rice cooker.

Heaven in saffron. An obsidian spoon drips with golden rice, spice stains leaving crimson ribbons amidst the peas and onion. Half of the rice grains are soft and fluffy, and half of them are crisp and caramelized. Three huge, golden synthprawns add a centerpiece, and after a moment in the press, quartered flatbread slices heavy with greens minced into a dipping sauce add a refreshing side. More than a little artistry had gone into the timing; having a meal ready to serve at any point during the evening forestalled a repeat of yesterday's complaints.

The session had been much shorter, and the bonds had been much better on the circulation. Machia still picks up a prawn with chopsticks and holds it to your lips without waiting to be asked.

"Baseline," she said, touching your shoulder gently where her teeth had been. "Leave the marker on for now - it'll keep if you don't use the pink body wash in the shower. That was the 20% mark, we'll only progress once you have that mastered. Oh yes, I meant to ask - I sent a drone to your apartment to pick up any pillows or plush toys that would help you sleep, but I think I somehow have the wrong place because it's saying that there's nothing there except coffee cups."

"Thash ha grr'sh mishchrruh--"

Madeleine swallows her prawn.

"...mischaracterization. There is a desk as well. And a lamp! Not to mention a chair, which is where I hang my coats. The rest of it is dedicated to closet space. There would be no room for my clothes if I bought something as useless as a bed, Machia. Don't be stupid. And do not paint me to be some kind of coffee-obsessed lunatic. I enjoy it an ordinary amount, thank you very much. Oh, and Blanche is in the closet furthest from the door. That's my tiger plush, she guards my very best dress. Though she does also help me sleep, but how did you?"

Her thought is interrupted with a mouthful of golden, delicious, fluffy rice, which she chews with all of her typical poise and dignity. This is much easier than it was the other night; her extremities are not fighting her nor is she dehydrated to anywhere near the same degree. She is simply exhausted and in large amounts of pain. Completely ordinary.

But just the same she does not protest the steady flow of food being offered to her but quite contentedly opens her mouth to accept every varyingly crispy or soft or chewy or shrimpy bite. At some point into the second prawn her ears start to flutter. Immediately after she notices she holds up a hand for a pause and frowns. She reaches for a glass of water and sips.

Just how long has Machia known how to cook? What had been the point of making Madeleine do it for so many months, if she'd secretly been better in a kitchen the entire time? Was it just not scientifically interesting enough if her dinner guest wasn't on the edge of breaking?

"This is very good," she says instead of any of that, "Thank you."

A beat. Madeline watches another prawn dance in front of her lips. She bites down on it with a blush.

"Just... for the record, this is not my limit. I could easily endure another session tonight, possibly even two. Given how badly I failed, I'd prefer it, even. But we have more training tomorrow, and the unsanctioned match on Friday coming up as well. I thought you would appreciate it if I... wait. Twenty percent? Just how little do you think of me?! Put me in now, you jerk! I'll show you twenty percent!"

Machia lazily reached out to touch the star in the center of the bitemark. "Twenty," she said, flicking her finger up, catching your chin in the motion, "percent. Also, I absolutely forbid any sort of solo pain training. You have more than one match to win, you have opponents other than Taowu and you will proceed according to my schedule exactly."

"Though," she said, suddenly thoughtful. "If you are that motivated... I suppose I could offer a little additional training, as an incentive. Be a good girl, hit your athletic and recovery targets, convince me you're going to make the finals, and I'll reward you with additional focus training. Sound fair?"