Balmas

Breathless Dead

It's not actually a full decision to lay her fingers on the keyboard again. And honestly, that should probably concern her, right? Seems to happen a lot? Decisions just makin' themselves, down in that heart? But also the music hasn't stopped yet, right? There's more yet to the dance.

And so she dances on, heedless.

… Why "heedless?" Heedless of what? Heedless is a strange choice of internal monologue, the censor insists--

An olive finger brushes her neck, shoots lightning through her spine, and she hurls herself into the dance with renewed vigor.

Of course it was Hephaestus. No wonder that the universe is so different now from the time of knights--the gods themselves are different. Demeter herself takes on his aspects, subsumes him, becomes the craftsman--ha, the graftsman!--of life! And so it follows that noting can remain the same.

Is he still around? No god can undo what another god has done, yes, but if one mortal can steal fire from the gods, certainly another should be able to do the same? Is Hephaestus dead? Consumed? Dormant?

She's shining, brilliant, metallic, a blade--no, no, a tool. She dances, gleaming, across the keys. New input! New information! More! What then, life? What happens then?

Would that be better? To live in the age of knights--to live in the never-ending Portuguese? Smash the pyramid, return life to death--Life to Death, whispers the chortle in her ears--Could that work?

Aphrodite. The purple strings dance her fingers clicka-clack so satisfying across the keyboard. Aphrodite, around since time began, around as Time. Desire. If he were imprisoned, what would that do? How would the universe change? A wish, a boon, a journey, a chance, the beat drumming in her ears like an earthquake, frantic, continuous, heedless, thrum, thrum, thrum--

Breathless Dead

Does a marionette ever feel the strings?

Or do they just feel the whirl of the dance, the pulse of the music? She moves, and did the string pull, or was it just the right movement in the moment? Another string pulls, but she's moving beforehand to--

Don't you hear it? Not as the ears hear, but as the heart, as the feet, coming up through the floor and pounding in every cell of her being--

She's not a puppet of Dionysus--she's his dance partner. His fingers sit on her hips, her back against his chest, his breath runs down her neck and into her fingers.

What to ask? What to find? What to make?

The chairs, the chairs, it comes down to the chairs, floor to ceiling, heavens to abyss. You can't enter the same parameters and expect the experiment to come out different.

So what if there's a universe with a normal Dyssia? Or a universe with a Dyssia who chose not to become a Knight? Who cares about that? What's the point?

The chairs.

A world without--the consuming hunger, desire that destroys. What did Demeter do? Why isn't Hades here?

… what would happen if Hades were here?

The strings are pulling, but already her fingers pirouette across the keyboard.

Breathless Dead

The lighter is the entire world, glittering and sparkling like a malevolent jewel.

But it's the smell--foul, acrid, and yet somehow also sweet--that chases lightning down her hindbrain, flushes the thoughts out like ice cold adrenaline chases out tiredness.

You know that smell is one of the oldest senses? Before mammals, before Azura, before biomancy or anything, when life was nothing more than bacteria in an ocean, smell defined chemicals, smell was food, smell was life.

The smoke fills her nostrils, lays heavy on her tongue.

Aphrodite was in the vault.

The thought lands in her head with the certainty and finality of a thunderbolt.

Zeus was pissed. Why was she pissed?

Because the father she'd put so much effort to imprison had been released.

Had been reborn. Gods get reborn. Dead relics to twin gods Athena and Mars, trapped in a submerged and temple, needing to be purged and rededicated to the proper gods of war.

Chronos, the titan. Aphrodite, the titan. The desire that destroys.

How do you change the results? You can't target the gods. You have to target the seats, you have to target the laws, you have to change the constants and she can feel the thoughts whirl, see the lighter, see it click see it change see it mold and break and reform and--

And disappear.

She has to know. She has to understand and she can see the world in shades of lavender and she has to know and this is the one chance to meaningfully change the world and make something different, something better and--

She has to come back when Mosaic isn't there to stop her. Has to know. Has to hear Vesper speak.

She has to know.

Breathless Dead

Purple eyes.

She's always been struck by his eyes, you know? Purple, but in the way a nebula is purple. Deep, like you could fall inside them and never hit bottom.

Those eyes look like he's just told the best joke, and is caught in the split second between punchline and laughter.

A whole--

Just like that? A whole universe, in a typewriter?

The implications are explosive! The seats do the decisions? It makes sense--you can't solve structural problems with personal addresses, but--

So if you replaced the gods--

Could you even replace the gods? Would it do anything? How would--

She could find out. Right? If Vesper can rewrite reality to--

Fuck, that just caught up with her. That's-- Is there a single well-adjusted person on--

Well, no, no, and if the Generous Knight was right, that's objectively correct--

She could--

The experimental possibilities. To rewrite time. To rewrite the gods! To rewrite herself, the Skies, the what-ifs--

She can. What would she even ask? What if I--

Dionysus's stare is like a drill, a pressure, a weight on her. Why does he even want her to-- Does he have a-- No, of course no, Dionysus never plans, so why does he--

She's hovering, she realizes. She--Gods help her, she does want to touch it. To have your fingers on the levers of the universe. She could spend days--no, no, years toying with this. Figuring out what happens if she does this or if she does that, like a perfect oracle.

… Is it real? It can't be real. It's an artifact, a gift, a, a,

An icy chill runs down her neck.

What does it mean to be real? When there are--no, not swords, the sword is different, but, you know. Crystals. Guns. Whatever they are, of Hades, summoning alternative selves, alternative versions. Is this the same thing? If she--

She stares at the levers, fingers frozen in the act of reaching out.

If she changes the universe, it's a blink of an eye for her. An instant rejiggering of time and space, all in a handy jug of a universe where nothing bad spills out.

She could find out what things would be like for herself if she. Well, you know, if she hadn't made any number of decisions. If she hadn't been a knight. What things would be like in a world where she had never needed to become a knight, because she'd been more normal. If she'd ignored the push of prophecy. If she hadn't saved the Pix.

She doesn't regret those choices, but at the same time, they hang over her, a never-ending stream of what-ifs. You can't live your life that way.

But also, if you-- If you fall down the well of seeing everything else, you can't live today, either.

… Is it real for them? If she moves a lever, makes a decision, what happens to the people on the inside?

Well, the same thing that happens to people when she makes a decision on the outside. Except on the outside, there aren't do-overs. There are real relationships that suffer, real people that suffer, and you can't take it back. You can't try and retry until you--

It's real enough. It's real enough that her hand is already shrinking away from the levers of power by the time the snarl reminds her that there are more than three people in the room right now.

And to her credit, she doesn't flinch! She was already decided!

What was it that Demeter did?

"I'm also curious how it works."

Eloquent as always, Dyssia, your teachers would be proud.

Breathless Dead

That. That is.

She's falling down the hallway, and wishing terminal velocity were faster. Shouting to clear the hall, shouting to be heard above the alarm, shouting to--

No, actually, terminal velocity is fine. It's her brain that isn't fast enough, right?

How is she supposed to respond to this? What kind of brain could figure this all out in real time?

She's chasing her friend, because, you know, friend, panicking, chase, help, it's-- it's automatic, right? Brains in her tail, so the brains in her chest can figure things out.

It's like, Dyssia has already pissed off one god, right? At least? Definitely Aphrodite, and court is still out on whether Apollo hates her or just doesn't care if she exists?

And here comes Mosaic saying--

Well, exactly what honesty demands, right? "Hey, if you come with us, you're fucking yourself, please know that in advance, leave now if that's not what you want."

And--

Damn her eyes if she isn't considering it.

Because, on the one hand, they're friends. Or at least, she likes to think that they're friends. That--

Well, that Mosaic is--

--Is outpacing her, what the fuck how--

Mosaic trusts her. That, in itself, feels like a wondrous, miraculous thing. Trusts her to let her know about her own past, trusts her to--well, to give her this choice, right? To be honest with her about what staying could mean.

And she wants to reward that trust. She does!

But also, she's a Publica knight, with a Legion--or a good part of one--depending on her.

That is a lot of people who would need to be convince to follow up on this. A lot of people to be shafted if she makes the wrong call. This isn't-- This isn't something she gets to decide on her own. There are decisions, and then there are Decisions.

It's not like any one of them get to get off this ride right now, though. Alarms blaring, a distinct absence of ships to escape on, a sector full off Bronzey's crew hunting them down.
She isn't even clear, in her own head, which way she ought to side.

Or, no, let's be honest with herself, she knows which way she's going to side. It's just a matter of convincing herself it's smart to do it.

A wish from a god half the galaxy thinks is dead. What couldn't she do with that? What would she even do with that?

One problem at a time. Figure out the now, and let later happen later. Vesper first, ship second, wish… sometime.

Breathless Dead

There is no universe where Dyssia doesn't try for the hug.

It's not a decision she's making, right? Bone-deep. Instinctual. Written in--

Shit, fuck, that's. That's a bad comparison to give right now. Note to self, erase 'bone-deep' from personal lexicon, at least around Mosaic. No, upgrade that to in general.

Point is, Mosaic is.

You can't not offer hugs to someone hurting so bad.

Carefully, eyeing the claws, watching for the first twitch of discomfort, the first hint of a facial tic that might signal that…

Please accept this, Mosaic?

"That's... a lot, is. Is an understatement."

A new god? Planets of--one planet of the dead? She's not gonna remember all this she needs to write it down so she can--

But one question looms over the rest.

"Have you… No, no, rather. Why-- If it cleanses hearts that are in pain--"

How come you haven't used it on yourself?

You can read the words on her face. She's not comfortable with them existing in her head, much less speaking them aloud. It cuts much too close to a basement ship room, dark, dingy, full of drones.

"… You're in a lot of pain, Mosaic."

Breathless Dead

It's not possible to occupy two spaces at the same time, but Dyssia is doing her best.

(Or. You know. Yeah, it totally is, actually. She's done it, and found herself quite charming in the brief window she had to get to know herself.. The entire point of the sword--gun?--swordgun on the table is to, you know, summon your underworld clone and holy shit she's from the underworld.)

Up to this point, it would have been all too easy to pick up the signs--the twitching cheeks, the flaring hood, the fidgeting tail, the flicks between Mosaic and the vent in the corner. Would it be possible to get to that vent before--no, no, silly idea, she's seen those claws shred through steel. Collapsing the vent behind her would just mean that Mosaic has time to work up a lather before she gets Dyssia.

Now, though, the clenching and unclenching fingers, the--is she vibrating?--the held breath, as if any opening will be the start of the explosion, speaks of a very different direction she wants to go.

She's from the underworld! Not just from, not just a visitor, born there!

Claws! Red eyes! Danger! Clearly upset, at her, in a way that will result--will not result, probably?--in violence. Upset in a way that shows iron mastery of will in not lashing out, and which should not be tested by crowding! Historically bad results from crowding, especially with claws!

But she can answer so many questions and hell where does she even start and--

She's gonna rub this alllll in the face of the Oracle. See? See? It does exist! It's not a myth! You have way too many references to Hades for it to be a myth, you can't just erase a figure of that kind from history and say it doesn't exist, and she'll tell you all of that just as soon as--

As she goes home.

Which she can't.

Because she sacrificed that for success in saving--

And, you know, totally worth it, but also--

An entire planet, Mosaic, and are you absolutely--no, no, you're right, silly question but if we could get the gun back could we trade that and--

Don't ask to have the logic explained, don't ask to have it explained--

Deep breath. Realize the breath is still being held. Exhale, then deep breath. Don't let the pleading edge into your voice.

"Tell. Me. Everything. Don't leave out a single detail."

Breathless Dead

Does she trust her?

No, the mental censor insists, revise that sentence. Make it clearer.

Does she trust her, in both sense of she and both senses of her?

Would she trust her?

Because, on the one hand, right, Dyssia has done a lot of good for Mosaic, for the people of Bitemark. She's her sign from the stars, the comet that came right in the nick of time to get her people out.

And also, on the other hand, there's a scrap of fabric that's been carefully ironed in Dyssia's quarters, and a plover with tiger stripes that don't match its neighbors.

And also, third hand, sword, sold, in the process of being.

Which Mosaic doesn't know about. Yet.

Dyssia doesn't flinch at the sniffing, which she counts as a major triumph because--

It's like, maybe Mosaic's nose can't do all the things the Silver Divers say it can do. Given the things she hears, she'd be amazed if--

They say she can smell your thoughts.

Does she already know?

Should she trust her?

She doesn't flinch, no, but the hesitation is drawing the moment out longer and longer, and the longer it takes to respond the more it feels like she's winding up a lie.

Does Dyssia want Mosaic to trust her?

Yes, obviously yes. Wants in a way she'd have difficulty expressing to anybody else? Should probably interrogate that thought at a later time, after she gets out of this room.

Does she want it more than--

"The synnefo approached me," she admits. "Gun's worth more than the planet. He gets the gun, I get to redesignate the planet however I want."

Look at those claws. Tick, tick, tack.

… Look at that face. Dyssia's not good with faces, she'll be the first to admit it, but the words are sinking in.

"We'd gotten to the point of negotiation where the planet got freed, got given free access to technology and hyperlanes, and nobody else got to fuck with the planet in perpetuity when--"

She gestures at the sword on the table, but her eyes are on Mosaic.

"Well, now the gun's a sword, now the sword's in the space where the synnefo was, now there's bits of wool drifting down and Gemini bearing down on me and saying that's her sword, give it back and--

"And you know this sword, don't you? How do you know this sword? Why do you know it? Where d'you recognize it from? Mosaic, what's going on?"

Breathless Dead

I want to throw it into a star.

Ah. This has.

She's not blushing.

What did she walk into, exactly?

She's not! Just because she, you know, walked in on--

What was Mosaic doing before--

She wants to throw it into a star she needs it and your fingers would be so deep inside yourself and is that what she was no it doesn't smell like it and--

Dyssia sits. Hovers. Curls around the table as if-- Carefully uncoils. Doesn't know what to do with her tail. It's a stupid tail, don't listen to it.

She's still clutching the sword, she realizes, with a start. White-knuckling it, now that she notices. Which means that Mosaic has noticed it. Because of course she has.

"If you want, I can recommend some juicier texts," she says, blurting it out like words loaded into a shotgun, and doesn't blush hard enough to turn purple.

"That is! I mean!"

She stares at the sword, and wills her fingers to unclench enough to lay it on the table between them. Neutral. Our sword. Definitely not something she's going to use on you, and not something you're going to destroy, because if you destroy it then she can't trade it for several billion lives and--

"I'm pretty sure this was a gun before. Do you remember it being a gun before? Also, I may have--We may need to un-un-reality the Synnefo."

Breathless Dead

I!--

What?

Are you actually insane? Like, out of your gourd mental, off your rocker lunatic?

(Note to self: invent a rocker for Azura. Seems like a very good way to spend a fortnight or two and after that, she gets to curl up around a bucket of cocoa on her new rocker.)

Have you forgotten the, I dunno, half-dozen hours we just spent fighting a snake-turned-tree-turned-crab?

(Which, now that she thinks about that evolutionary arc, she's almost jealous?)

But the point is, no stabbing! Minimal stabbing! Minimal, ahaha, minimal point!

She is realizing, now that it's very important, that the sword did not come with a holster. Sheath. Sheaths are for swords, holsters are for guns. Unless they're scabbards, which.

Scabbards for swords, holsters for guns, sheaths for knives, maybe?

A-ny-way, the sword did not come with anything to protect the sharp edge from, for instance, sending an unsuspecting Stonetribe laborer into another realm where fuck knows what's happening. And she doesn't know that it isn't doing that, and she doesn't know how to turn it off or turn it on and she really needs to figure out how to turn it off, because turning it off either brings back the sheep she very much didn't stab or brings herself back to whatever reality is--

Look, this is going to get very confusing. Either way, she wants out. Out of this hallway, potentially out of this reality, and for that she needs someone who can figure out this sword.

Someone who is not siccing waves of people on her for her to dodge, juke, and very gently throw out of the way. She's doing a lot more movement than they are--dodging from floor to ceilings, freezing feet and hands to walls, and diving her bulk into quickly-created holes in their ranks.

She has a sword. Now all she needs is a plan.

[Get away: 6,4,+2. 12. Choosing to get away quickly and quietly, avoiding harm and attention. She's looking for someone who might understand this technology--probably to Brightberry, though I'm open to alternatives]