"Does it matter?"

And the answer, of course, was yes. It mattered quite a lot. Because no: she was not ready at all. Call it beginner's luck, call it a difficulty ramp, call it unreasonable torture, but Madeleine does not so much as sniff the scoring zone in the next four attempts.

The first was also the most promising. She'd pushed her running form further, using the extra power she understood was on tap now to let her get away with a truly ridiculous form. Hunched forward lean and low, she moved by pulling her legs forward into her chest and then kicking back into the floor. It gave her back her arms and turned her entire body into a vehicle for raw speed and power until she transcended the form of the motorcycle into almost the pure perfection of the horse... but then she twitched. Machia hadn't even hit her with anything extra yet, it was a simple mistake and her form required perfection. A tangle of limbs slipped and hit the ground so hard she skipped. Three times, into a wall. 

The second time she didn't trust herself like that again. That was a different kind of mistake. It was only the focus on running that was giving her so much control to begin with, so when she put her focus on going slower so she didn't hit herself again she flipped right back around to feeling sick and twitchy. She tried to walk around and slip into a clever dive, but what she did instead was lurch and stumble backwards as much as forwards, like one of those 'drunken fist' street performers you sometimes saw at malls next to the guy with the saxophone or guitar, except there was no secret grace to it. Her body convulsed as soon as Machia hit her with a fresh dose of gel and in the sudden spike of ferocity she got her nose smashed in by a staff. Mess had been very politely aiming for her shoulder, but her stupid face had other plans. 

She needed a minute to stop dripping blood before attempt number three.

Wasn't a whole lot of point to that, though. The blood stayed with her anyway. Learning, learning, she was always trying to be learning. Holding it back was impossible, so what if she leaned back into it instead? Only this time instead of trying to be perfect she'd do the easier thing and attempt to disrupt the Placer pattern. She tracked Machia first and foremost, even managing a smile when she saw the way she insisted on walking. Anticipate it. [I]Anticipate it.[/I] She wanted to at least use the power spike this time, so she planted her foot and wound up putting it right through the floor. She felt her vision go red, and for four impossible seconds she had no idea where she was. She came to on top of Stripes, with his arm in her mouth. 

"Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry..."

She dipped her head between each beat. Dakinis are really weird about violence sometimes. Sometimes you could forget they were a machine intelligence with the constant bro routine. But then they'd do something like shrug off a moment of ultraviolence where all of their limbs came off because they still attached perfectly again and then Madeleine was forced to reckon with the fact that they had an entirely different set of priorities than she did. Creepy. She wanted to go home.

But she has another round to try. She'd made a bunch of different kinds of mistakes at this point, so if she's worth anything as an A! player then now is the time to put those together into something resembling the mysterious grace she's supposedly capable of. So back to basics; she'd do what she did best and focus on running. Aggressive form but controllable lines, and a single sharp boost forward to close. It really should be simplicity. Even though her nose aches and her mouth is radiating pain, if she can at least control this next burst to show promise, she...

She breathes. 

Her back flickers. Like it's growing spikes. Like it's growing wings. She pushes off, she runs, perfect planning, perfect aggression, the very best she's capable of. 

The lights start to flash. 

Madeleine Cross has no face. There's a distorted black shroud where features should be, fluttering faintly in a nonexistent breeze. 

Darkness swallows the room.

Then light.

The two fight, rapid bursts of blindness in two fun flavors.

She is... floating? Arms and legs bent at impossible, broken angles. Dangling as if from the ceiling like a doll on a string. She moans. Her hair pulses as though it were breathing. 

And then the lights come back on, and Madeleine is simply writhing on the floor while she gasps for air. Her face normal, her body normal, everything reduced to a trick or the light. A strange power surge on the grid and nothing more. If she didn't look so pale it'd be like nothing was even the matter.

"I'm... fine..." she heaves, willing herself to flip over off of her back to try and push back onto her feet (she falls, and cracks her head), "I'm fine. Fine. Please... let me... try again. Everything is... I just, I just need... water. That's, that's, that's a-all."