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I have plans to reintroduce morality and goodness to the lands, if allowed that is. :D

And in classic waffle fashion, provided it doesn't conflict with any GM/DM plans, I'd like to swap/write most reluctant and unassuming character gifted (or in their view cursed) in the alchemical arts.
Imma go out of left field for myself and write something related to the Hanged Man.

So dibs, I guess? Or fight me via haikus, thx.
Ziska




Ziska heard screaming. She heard talking. Her head hurt. Her face hurt. She could taste something metallic in her mouth, streaming slowly between her lips. Blood. Her own blood. She ran a hand along her head, until she felt a stab of pain that left her cursing. The cut was deep enough. It would keep bleeding. It would annoy her. Smashing a hand angrily the nearby circuit break panel, she spoke calmly to herself,"Get up. Get up. Get up...Get up, Ziska."

The leg actuators spun with fresh power as Ziska carefully moved her throttle, giving the shaken battle computer ample time to register the granular movements. Trying to see through fresh layer of red, Ziska gently moved her pedals, trying to find purchase on the ground beneath her. Metal groaned, demolished armor plates twisting, and then breaking off as the RVN-3L began to move. Somehow, improbably, the battered light mech stood up. Lying down was death. Standing still was death. Fighting was probably death. But Ziska had almost died several times. It didn't bother her. It didn't worry her. They'd drawn blood. Her blood, but she'd cut them too. The active NARC beacon still flashed happily on her HUD. One way or another, there would only be one RVN-3L standing.

Forcing her BattleMech to stand, Ziska wiped the worst of the blood from her face with the back of her hand. The comms chatter annoyed her. Killing was a business. A job was supposed to be done cleanly. She didn't need her feelings to kill. She didn't hate the Crimson Fists. A job was a job. A kill was a kill. But better them than her.

"You talk to much, you all talk too much," she hissed, shivering with a fresh pang of pain that dug into the front of her forehead, Doc wouldn't be happy, Reya would probably complain, and the Colonel would have some helpful advice Ziska decided with a heavy note of resignation. Not bothering to key her mic. Let them think her wounded. Let them think her already dead. They'd find out soon enough.

"Giggles," Ziska said, shifting her wounded RVN-3L into a shuttering gate as she ignored the alarm klaxon and warning symbology that glittered in front of her,"Kill this trash."

They needed to kill the enemy RVN-3L. They needed the ECM back. They were out of time. The other RVN-3L had to die. She wouldn't weather another volley of LRMs. Her RVN-3L wouldn't survive more LRMs. She had no armor left for the Longbow to sandpaper. It was time to gamble, Ziska knew, it was time to be clever, and it was time to see how cool the Crimson Fists were under fire. Hearing the tell tale swoop of burning rocket engines, Ziska saw a hail of LRMs thundering towards the enemy RVN-3L. She didn't miss the single SRM missile that followed soon after.

Deftly dancing to the side, Ziska aimed her own weapons at the RVN-3L and let loose another alpha strike. Overkill was the only kill as Thrice Hanged had always said.
I am intrigued and you have my interest!

Happy to write this in casual or advanced as well (I tend to write more along advanced, but I am flexible as always).
Ziska




Ziska didn't bother wasting words. For all her humor, banter, and jibes thrown around freely, she had little interest in chatting with the enemy. She'd let them stew in their own silence. She'd wait for their unease to grow. Killing was serious work. And she had no intention of letting the crimson Raven escape alive.

Hearing Saarinen's lasers cut through the skies, Ziska wasted no time waiting for her battle computer to spit out damage. Pushing the handle of her throttle full forward, she slammed her right pedal, sending her RVN-3L thundering through scattered wreckage as she cut the angle between the fleeing RVN-3L the now distant Longbow in a razor sharp curve.

Twisting her sights on top of the Ziska fired a NARC missile and her TAG laser at the rear of the RVN-3L. A rear shot would be ideal, a left rear torso shot acceptable. Matching the speed of the other light mech, she kept her tight intercept, firing her two medium lasers. The proximity warning system in her RVN-3L blared at her as the distance between the two opposed RVN-3Ls closed to 90 meters. Unflinching, Ziska fired a salvo of SRM-6 Inferno rounds at the crimson Corvid.

Peeling off, mindful of closing the distance to the lurking Longbow, Ziska, shifted at an angle to the enemy RVN-3L keeping her tag laser firing on target for as long as she could. It wouldn't do to catch an LRM volley from the Assault BattleMech and she had no intention of being sandwiched between the enemy RVN-3L and the two light BattleMechs the Crimson Fists had brought to the fight.

Ziska




Ziska frowned, what had been a wildly successful mission, was now verging on a disaster. Recon flights. Always recon flights. It occurred her for not the first time in her career as a professional mercenary, that air power was sorely underrated. Once, just once, she dreamed of fighting in the military command grown fat with BattleMechs, Combat Vehicles, and Aerospace fighters. She was tired of fighting on the losing side. She was tired of fighting on the poor side. She was tired of not having a lance of Assault BattleMechs ready to hot drop onto an enemy forces at a moment's notice.

Next life, maybe, she thought, not quite managing to smile. Maybe the Colonel could swing them a juicy Steiner contract. If they made it. It if they made it out of the battle. If they made it off planet. She'd always wanted to pilot an Assault Mech. Or steal one.

"Orders, Lance Leader?" Ziska said, fighting her natural inclination to react without hesitating, without overthinking, and without slowing down. Run or fight. Run or fight. Those were always the options. She preferred running, at least given the supplies they had just liberated, but they'd have to buy time for the transports. And they'd have to buy time for themselves. They needed to regroup, they needed to reorganize, and they needed to move. Together and fast. Souped up ECM would only do so much. All it took was one enemy aircraft to make it beyond the bubble, to get lucky, to send out a last desperate message. Even then, the happy times were over. Three dead VTOLs wouldn't go unnoticed. It wasn't going to be missed for very long that something was very, very wrong at Outpost F-10, no matter what they did now.

Time was running out.

Ziska took stock. Her BattleMech was undamaged. The Guardian ECM was operating within expected parameters. Her cockpit was cool again, well cooler. Her SRM ammo count was still adequate, she hadn't had to waste any missiles on the enemy combat vehicles guarding the outpost. The rest of the Green Knights had been quick and brutal enough. Burnt ozone still lingered. The clean, pungent smell kicked off by her medium lasers as they scorched the air and then the armor of the enemy combat vehicles before the NPRDE troopers were bathed in fire and shrapnel.

The short battle for the outpost, if it could be called that, had been a slaughter. The best sort of battle, provided you were on the winning side, in Ziska's view. She had no interest in fair fights. It was why the incoming VTOLs offended her. It was why their mere existence rankled her. Now it might be their turn. Their turn to die outnumbered and outgunned. Their turn to burn. And their turn to curse their bad luck.

Recon meant more baddies.

More baddies meant more problems.

More problems meant more problems.

And they were short of ammo, armor, and more than a couple of pilots for more problems.


___________________________________.......
Soup Kitchen · Late Afternoon · In collaboration with [&.Exit]Soup Kitchen · Late Afternoon · In collaboration with @Exit
_
Red. Vasra’s eyes opened to a scene of chaos. A red miasma surrounded her. She heard screaming. It sounded far away. She saw blood running down her arm. A moderately deep cut, she noted, falling into well-practiced medical detachment. Splinters of wood were lodged in her skin. She couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel it at first. Then the sounds came rushing back. And then the pain. A torrent of panicked voices. Terror, anger, and violence. For a moment, she felt the pain coursing through her, biting into her arm, tearing at her throat. She fought the panic. Her fingers shook as she pulled out the splinters that she could reach, pain giving way to fresh adrenaline. She hissed, grabbing hold of her arm, tightening around her torn flesh, feeling the blood pool between her fingers. She fumbled for her bag, withdrawing a bandage. Two quick loops. A tight pull that sent her head spinning and her knees buckling.

She felt far away. She heard only a roaring current. A strange feeling. A connection. Around her. Below her. Everywhere at once. Vasra couldn’t place it. She couldn’t identify the deluge. She could hear the water. She could feel it. She could hear it whispering. She could taste the spirit water in her medical bag. She could sense the power contained inside of the bottles. She could discern so much. Too much. She was a drop. She was a drop in the ocean. Losing herself to the vastness, she could not move, and she could not act.

Her thoughts returned in roiling whirlpool of emotion and recent memories. Sonam. Her patients. Spirit Water. She remembered why she had headed to the Soup Kitchen, why she had come. Sonam! Where was Sonam!? Scrambling to her feet, Vasra looked around, colliding with a broken table top as she tripped on a prone figure. Sonam, alive, clearly conscious, Vasra noted as she felt a hand grasp her outstretched hand.

"Don’t move, Sonam," Vasra said, her hands darting over Sonam, gently touching, shifting, and checking the extent of the other woman's wounds. There were several. A laceration over her left eye, it would leave a scar if they didn't use some Spirit Water...the beginnings of a string of deep bruises across her entire right side, and a deep cut on her right leg. The lack of pronounced pupil dilation, suggested that Sonam had not suffered a concussion. Sonam was fine, under the circumstances, having weathered an explosion she was more than fine. Her own arm was- She was fine. They were fine. They had been lucky. They had been lucky and now they had to help. They had to act.

"What the hell was that, Doc?" Sonam began, struggling to stand up, she leaned against Vasra as the doctor gestured for her to move slowly and helped her stand. A hand slipped and brushed against Vasra's arm. Her face whitened and Vasra let out a heavy breath as the pain stabbed her. It was a rush job. She would have to redo it later. She had to keep moving. She couldn't stop. They couldn't wait.

"Woah! Hang on, Doc, you're wounded. just wait-"

"I’m fine, Sonam, it’s nothing, just a couple of splinters. You’ll be fine too. Some moderate bruising and a couple of new scars, but you won’t need stitches. I’m sorry, but I need your help, regardless of your present condition. We need to get the wounded out of here. We can’t be sure the building is safe. There are too many of them. We can't wait for any help."

"Right, sure, let’s get to it," Sonam said, sounding less convinced that Vasra would have liked. But she listened. She knew Vasra better than to try to stop her.

The pair had only just reached the closet victim, when fresh screams of pain and more shouting echoed through the debris strewn warehouse. Vasra could see a familiar face, the son of her patient, contorted with unexpected rage. The boy was clearly wounded, blood streamed down his face. She had no time to act before he lurched at a wounded woman, striking her in the face with his blood soaked hands. She saw the young daughter of her patient, his sister, rushing after him, despite her equally obvious injuries. Vasra cursed beneath her breath and ran towards the commotion.

"Stop! Stop! What are you doing!? Stop it!" Vasra shouted crashing into the young man as her arms wrapped around him. He was strong. He was stronger than she had expected. He kept on trying to hit the prone woman. He wouldn't stop. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t seem to understand. He didn’t seem to notice her. Flailing wildly, he dragged Vasra with him to the ground as one of his knees finally gave way with a sickening tear of muscle. Even with his injuries, Vasra struggled to hold him. She felt an elbow crack into the side of her head and saw new shadows as she desperately tried to stop the wounded boy.

"Please! Stop! You are hurting yourself! You have to stop! It’s alright, it’s alright, just stop fighting!" Vasra shouted, words clear despite the blows that indirectly struck her.

Sonam was the first to notice. As she recovered, she watched Vasra throw herself at the man and as her arms wrapped around the trunk of his body, things around the room moved. Bottles half filled with liquid were flung from the floor as if tossed by a ghost. Puddles of water that had begun to pool on the ground were kicked up. Water from severed pipes in the ceiling fell along a curved path for the briefest of moments. The strange occurrences only lasted for a few seconds but it was not easily missed and more than that, it was obvious to her what just happened.

She cursed under her breath and looked again at the doctor in bewilderment. By now, Vasra had locked herself onto the male in a struggle she was handily losing and although her mind struggled to process the right and wrong in the situation unfolding before her, whatever she felt in that moment paled to the idea of her friend being killed. Panic stirred in her when they both fell to ground and in a blind haste, she shoved off the floor and took a step in their direction. But something was not entirely right. As she moved forward, a force that was beyond her control propelled her. As if she had jumped forward on account of an invisible push, she was launched in the direction of the scuffle with more speed than intended and instead of coming to Vasra’s aid, only managed to rush past them and slam into the wall. She hit the ground hard, cursing loudly as pain welled up from a collision she was not expecting and as fresh bruises received more punishment. Desperation pushed her to ignore her body’s protest and find her feet again and as she turned to find the doctor, she saw the little girl run up with a fury in her eyes unlike any she’d seen in a child. Her foot swung hard in the direction of the man’s face, connecting with his nose with a loud thud and breaking his concentration on the downed woman.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" The girl screamed. Her anger and triumph were short lived however as the man grabbed at her feet and dragged her to the ground with him. Attempting to ignore Vasra, he tried to right himself over her to pin her down. "GET OFF ME!"

Noise. More noise. More shouting. More fighting. Vasra lost her grip on the brawling youth. Her arms burned, her muscles aching as she pushed herself onto her knees. None of it made any sense. Not the explosion. Not the strange feeling. Not the young man. He was still going. He was still fighting. Vasra noticed the pipe sticking out of his chest. The fresh blood that had appeared below his nose. The angle was all wrong. The young girl’s shouting drove away the disorientation. They were out of options. They were out of time.

Vasra looked around. She tried to spot her bag. She needed sedatives. She couldn’t find her bag. Clouds of crimson dust still enveloped the warehouse. Debris covered the floor. She watched with growing horrors as the youth kept fighting and as he made a sudden grab for his sister. Vasra scrambled desperately towards the two siblings. She picked up a half shattered table leg, holding it in her hand like a club, raising it above her head. And then she let it drop onto the floor with a wooden thunk. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t. There had to be a different way. A better way. Vasra’s mind raced, her heart pounding against her chest as she tried to find a solution. She felt sick. She felt a sudden wave of nausea, a pain that traveled from her stomach to her head, flooding the synapses between her neurons with an ocean of feedback and sending her reeling her neurons bathed in an impossible sensation.

She heard a low noise, barely audible above the unfolding calamity. The distant sloshing of a gentle river. She felt a tug on her arms, then her hands, and finally her fingers. She didn’t think. She didn’t need to. She felt the water. She felt the water pouring from the pipes. She felt the water pooling all around them. When she moved, the water moved with her. The water was within her and she was the water. Puddles of scattered watered swelled into a small stream that raced along the floor. The stream grew into a wave as it surged forwards, gently rolling over the young girl, somehow merely dousing her with water as it crested, and broke violently on top of the young man. Enveloping him, as if alive, the wave dragged the mad teenager with it and flowed onward, smashing against the thin wall in a shuddering crash of sheet metal.
Ziska




"You've got a lovely singing voice, Giggles," Ziska seemed to purr over the comms, but there was no warmth, no real humor, and none of the usual mischief in her words. She was calm. She was ready. She was focused again. Most of the alcohol she had consumed in the morning had been left with her breakfast. Stowed hastily inside of a repurposed storage bin latched to one of the remaining tanks. She had felt better. She had felt better the second she knew the mission was going to kick off. Ziska hated waited. She hated waiting on a base, on a DropShip, or in some hollowed out mountain. There was only one place Ziska had patience. There was only one place she could feel the distractions fading. A MechWarrior sickness, Terse Thomas had called it, the love of battle, the lust for fighting, and the singular inability to live a normal life outside of killing people for stacks of c-bills.

"ECM coming online," Ziska said, sending out a final encrypted broadcast as the souped up Guardian ECM kicked into high gear with a pleasant hum. The Diagnostic Interpretation Computer burned fresh chrome, sending a wave of feedback coursing through her neurohelmet. Ziska gasped, crumbling backwards against her seat for a moment and letting out a low scream as she clenched her teeth together. Clawing against her controls, she pulled herself upwards fighting against the flood of information. she needed to orient herself. It was almost too much too handle. Too hot. No, cold. Colder and faster than the connection going straight into her frontal cortex had been just days earlier. She could feel the hair on her neck rising. She swore she could taste it. A metallic tang that seemed to kick her neurotransmitters straight off the fucking wall and into overdrive. So much sensory input. So much data. She was fast. She was faster. They were faster. The RVN-3L didn't disappoint. Reya didn't disappoint.

Ziska smiled, a pointless gesture she knew, sitting alone in her BattleMech cockpit, but she felt the familiar embrace of adrenaline drawing over her. She could hear the music. She could feel the beat. The macabre dance had started. And she had only to find a dance partner.

"ECM active," Ziska hissed using point-to-point broadcasting. Compressed into microwave bursts, her voice was even colder. "Enemy comms, down. Enemy sensors, jammed. We're off the map. Make it count."
Ziska

Collaboration with @Pilatus




Seeing the Colonel walk away, Ziska seized the moment before Reya could be distracted by the repetitive questions of some MechTech. Pouncing on the other woman from the shadows, Ziska wrapped an arm around Reya’s waist, and dragged the engineer with her as she strode purposefully away from any prying ears. She knew well from experience that the hanger was hardly the place for private discussion. As the pair walked, an impish smile formed on Ziska’s lips, "You know, some MechWarriors that I know, would be deeply, deeply offended if someone tinkered with their BattleMech without warning."

Pausing, Ziska flashed an impish smile , "Of course, I harbor no such base emotions. Generous and unburdened by guilt as I am. However, I am curious. Quite curious as it so happens."

"Now, I may not be an engineer with a fancy degree like you…However, I can read a spec sheet well enough. Standard Guardian ECM is neat, but it's not as flash as what the Colonel was saying. You did something to it. You must have. Don’t misunderstand me, I don't doubt your work, of course not, but as I may be operating in exceedingly dangerous places in the very immediate future, it behooves me to ask you for some particulars..."

Reya found herself suddenly hit by a cascade of thought and emotion. Praise from the Colonel was a rare commodity and it made her heart soar that she could make his job a little bit easier especially in their current circumstance. She could burn through a technical readout or decipher a schematic almost without a thought, but his words left her wide-eyed and stunned behind the modest smile she put on when he first mentioned being happy with her subtleness in the briefing. Go on the mission? The phrase repeated in her mind like a pulsing warning light. Her mouth opened slightly like she was supposed to speak, though not a word came out as he went on describing the need for her to go along with the raiding party. Throughout the entire time she had been with the Knights, never once had he suggested sending her into the field and though he spoke with calm professionalism, the unsaid was what had driven his point home: The stakes were now at their highest and there was no longer any room for miscalculation. Sure, she could list, describe and train someone on what to look for and what to bring back, however it was just another added risk and one that was within her control. The hard-logic engineer within her simply could not accept the potential of self-inflicted injury and the irony that it would be her own creation in the Raven’s ECM suite that would require such a measure of personal attention was also not lost.

He had left the decision with her, but her hyperactive mind was already processing a myriad of scenarios. Sending you is a risk. A voice in the back of her mind countered almost immediately. What if we get hurt or even killed?! Her mind was racing. Who is going to watch after us? What about Sunny? Who will take care of her? The thought of the young girl having to lose another person close to her made Reya nauseous almost to the point that she didn’t even notice herself being wheeled away by Ziska. Her legs carried her along amidst the throng of activity, but she wasn’t really listening to the words of the other woman. As they made their way away from the others she found herself holding on to Ziska’s sleeve and she felt like she was in a daze when she answered with a phrase she never uttered. "I’m sorry."

She sat down on an empty ammo crate and rubbed one finger back and forth across her lips slowly while her mind was still burning along like a particle beam. "We didn’t really have a lot of time to put a plan together... I can change it back." She said, looking back across the cave at the plethora of stirring activity. "The Colonel wants me to go on the mission."

"It’s a little late to be sorry. Not that I want an apology, fancy tech is fancy tech," Ziska said, flopping down next to Reya. Tapping a beat with her boot, she hummed the first stanzas of an old shanty she had heard sung in the Periphery. Five years. Five years had gone by fast.

Terse Thomas had taught her the song. He had taught it to the entire crew. It was yet another way to pass the long hours they spent waiting for a passing merchant to venture close enough to the derelict Warship. The ruined ship was good bait. Terse Thomas was dead, of course. Along with the rest of the crew. Davion pirate hunters, Ziska recalled. Too many of them. Too damn many of them for a ragtag band of hungover pirates to handle. She was the only one who made it. She was the only one to survive the scorching lasers, pulverizing autocannons, and endless rain of LRMs.

She’d made it. She’d made it when no one else did. They were too stubborn to run. Too proud to retreat. Awful traits in pirates. The last stand of the drunken dozen had been little more than a slaughter. A familiar story. A common experience. She had a Cat's luck, the nine lives of a feline they had always said. Professional colleagues died. Friends perished. Lovers were offered no mercy by the galaxy and left as quickly and as brutally as any others. The no doubt storied battle, at least to the Davions, for an unnamed pirate's moon had been a grim example of how to die in the most pointless manner. It was simply another piece in a long collection of horrible memories, Ziska thought to herself, not without a familiar sense of affection.

Guided by such positive recollections, Ziska turned her attention to her companion. Reya’s demeanor, while not unexpected given the present predicament of the Green Knights, struck Ziska as quite interesting. Reya could be many things in Ziska’s experience. Confident. Loud. Brilliant. And even very, very angry on occasion. Especially if a BattleMech was returned in a state best described as heavily damaged. To apologize. To show doubt. To show doubt about her own work. Well…that was certainly not the Reya that Ziska had come to know.

"Regretting volunteering for a combat operation? Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. I myself regularly regret that I didn’t pursue a long and no doubt storied career in a traveling Canopian pleasure circus," Ziska said with a knowing nod, a flask sliding from one of her sleeves and into her outstretched left hand seemingly out of thin air. Taking a strong sip, Ziska grinned as the liquor burned all the way down her throat. She shoved the flask into Reya’s hand without giving her a chance to decline and spoke with fire still dancing across her tongue,"Davion vintage. Whiskey. Quite good…or so I am told. Have some, it will help, I promise."

"It’s not that," Reya answered and shook her head. "He gave me a choice, but I have to do it. There’s just not anyone left that I would trust to make sure we get what we need." She continued with a little bit of reservation in her tone. The words had come out more cutting than she had intended. The Green Knights had some excellent technicians, but the Colonel hadn’t asked one of them to go, he had asked her, knowing full well the risk involved. She continued to gaze off towards some of the makeshift mechbays, passively studying the movement around the machines. "I’m just kinda all over the place right now." She said, "I guess all this has made me really think about what’s important to me." She sighed and shook her head again. Her lips and fists tightened up and she could feel another rush of emotion coming on just the same as when she was in the cockpit of Ziska’s Raven. "You and Lena are the best friends I ever had and now she’s gone…" She shrugged her shoulders and opened her hands as if she were completely exhausted for an explanation to herself. "Now I’m basically like Sunny’s mother… and if something happens to me then what?"

She was tearing up but didn’t want to cry again and instead took the flask from Ziska and tipped it back, ungracefully abandoning any of the usual decorum for which she was well known. As the burning liquid went down, she looked like she was about to turn green. "Is this paint thinner?" She squeaked. ‘Davion vintage’ tasted like it would strip the varnish off a cedar chest. She coughed as the fire descended and washed through her senses. Ziska was right though. It did help. If for no other reason than to make her think about nothing else than trying to hold down the meager contents of her stomach for a moment. She breathed in deeply and rubbed one hand over her face, still feeling the effects before letting the breath go again slowly. "I bypassed some of the major safety and operational protocols to make the output stronger." She said finally, turning her gaze back to the Raven which sat quietly across the cavern. The small table she had set out for herself and Sunny remained undisturbed. Just focusing on the sharp, ready lines of the machine helped her regain some of her composure. Within these machines, she knew exactly what she was doing and her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked on thinking about the havoc it would soon cause in Ziska’s hands- it was a satisfying feeling. "Functionally, you won’t notice anything different, but if we keep running it this way, it’s going to fry the ECM." She said. "I’ll have to change it back." The statement brought about a small huff of amusement and she looked back at Ziska finally. "And I probably voided your factory warranty, not that I think you’re worried about that."

"Oh, I suspect the Cappies aren’t going to honor my warranty, either way. You know, it’s strange, rip off a merchant or two, and suddenly the Cappies aren’t very friendly any more," Ziska said, taking her flask back and swallowing another mouthful of Davion gunsmoke.

"I will certainly do my utmost to not ride the red line past the very red line and into the extremely red line," Ziska added, smiling once again.

"To old friends," Ziska said, toasting with the flask as her free hand flicked to her brow in a mock salute that lacked any insult, "Them’s the breaks. This is the job. I’ll miss Lena though. She had good bones. She had potential. I liked her, even when she was a big softie. She was interesting. She made me laugh. And Pops, for all his talents as a dancer, is a far less pleasant partner for an impromptu waltz."

"Do not despair, though, my dear friend. Now is a simple time," Ziska said, jumping to her feet and grabbing hold of Reya’s hands. "Now is the easy time. Now, right now is the exciting time! It's the only time any of us are really alive. We either succeed or we die…quickly and hopefully faster than we can feel it. We don’t have to worry about the future. We don’t have to regret our pasts. We have no past and we have no future. We have only now. This moment. This shitty backwater planet. We’ll have our revenge or we won't and that will be that. This is our chance to show these Crimson Fists the Canopus IV Shuffle and then we’ll make them pay. We'll make them howl with rage before we send them to dine with the damned and Stefan Amaris. For Lena, for Golden Boy, and all the other assholes that they stole from us."
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