Balmas

Breathless Dead

Alexa should be afraid.

He threatens to end all that she cares for, threatens to end civilization as they know it. And, staring at that face, she believes it. Every nerve should scream, wrack her with the tension of knowing that she is in the presence of--not an apex predator, because that elevates her to the position of something he would hunt. Something so utterly beyond comprehension that whatever instincts she has should writhe with terror.

And yet...

There is nothing in the world but those two eyes. Twin wells, portals into infinity, and full of such wonder!-- She could spend an aeon reading the stories in them, and still only scratch the surface. Tales of romance spanning galaxies--daring escapes, forbidden meetings, passionate confessions, swordfights, murders, passion, and more. Alien races, unlike anything she's seen. Looking into these eyes, there's a vague part that remembers that Aphrodite, like Zeus and her family, is born of titan's blood. In those eyes, she sees all that Aphrodite has promised, and more besides.

And at the very center, in the heart of the black hole, a small twinkle surrounding those three little words.

Dimly, she feels pressure against her hands. How did she feel that, under the overbearing weight of those eyes? Everything feels... not off, but diminished, somehow. No, not diminished, not really. The sound is the same as it ever was, as is her vision. But in the presence of Aphrodite, in the midst of such a vibrancy of life and love, everything else must feel like a pallid imitation.

She looks down, wrenching herself away from those eyes to meet the gaze of one of her bridesmaids. She has to be--she bears the bumps and bruises and dented metal from the trip here. And yet, the maid is smiling. Gently. Encouraging.

They're flowers. That's what the maid is doing. Is giving her a bouquet. Of course she is, can't be a bride without-- She should thank her, right? That's what's done in this circumstance, is be...

Tenderly, the maid closes Alexa's fingers around the bouquet and withdraws back to the cluster of the other bridesmaids.

She knows these flowers. Molech didn't garden, himself. That is to say, he wasn't the one in the dirt, tending to the weeds and the watering. But he drew the plans and ordered the work, and woe betide the errant soul who dared disturb his mastercraft by picking them.

And yet, here they are, in her hands. Errant, wild, run mad with two hundred years of crossbreeding and patchwork.

Her eyes track inexorably through the crowd. Wild, free. Patchwork, run mad. Beautiful in their chaos. There's barely room to contain them all, pushing, shoving, vying for space to see... see her. To watch her get married. Is that touching, she wonders?

The sweep of the room continues to Caval, waiting patiently. Even now, she's impossible to read. Is that excitement? Dread? Eager expectation? Terror? There's nothing to read in that strange, bulging optic array. Does she want this? Is she a mere puppet to the will of the god of madness? No, no, that's. Well, it's possible. But Alexa doesn't want to consider it. Doesn't want to believe that even the gods would be so cruel as to deprive someone of...

...of the ability to choose. To decide who they are. More important, to decide who they want to be. To fix them in place, and tell them, "your lot, and no more."

Her breath hitches as she turns once more, finally, to Aphrodite, and hopes she's making the right choice.

"I... do not."

She cringes back, waiting for the smiting. When it doesn't come, she cracks her eyes open again.

"I do not marry this woman," she hesitantly declares, if for no other reason than to fill the void. "I barely know her." Slowly, marveling at her own audacity, but picking up steam, "I have not spent time with her, listened to her, held her as she cried or cried in her arms. I have not marveled at the way the sun streaks across her chassis, or found wonder in her smile. I cannot greet her at the doorway with her favorite food, or whirl her away to a romantic evening, because I have not spent enough time with her to know any of that."

She desperately hopes that's a smile creeping around Aphrodite's lips, because all the gods couldn't stop her now.

"I do not love this woman. And I admit that I am as yet unversed in the ways of love, and perhaps in your wisdom you have chosen my perfect mate out for me. If so, I am so very sorry for once more disappointing you, failing you. But I cannot marry someone I do not love, or ask her to marry me when I know that she does not love me. That is not fair to her, and it is"--her voice chokes a little, and she has to rally before continuing--"and it is not fair to me."

The crowd, for once, is silent. Alexa shrinks into herself, and soggily wipes her nose. "I... I am very sorry for wasting your time."

Breathless Dead

"No!"

Thank all the gods that Molech is dead. Just imagine what he'd say if he saw her like this?

Pushing, shoving, biting, breaking away only to be swarmed again by the wall of bodies? Sloppy, lacking technique, undignified. Fit perhaps for peasants, but reflecting poorly not just on her, but on her teacher.

And yet--she can just imagine the downwards pinch to the mouth, gods help her if ever it reached full scowl--she's still not striking the way she should. Pulling punches, misdirecting strikes. When will you understand, Alexa, that you are a weapon? You kill. It is what you do, it is what you are. You were created for this. I created you for this.

"Aphrodite!"

There's no time, she laments. No time for offerings, no proper ritual. No time to figure out how best to placate him, can't choose her words. She is not above begging, pleading, if only it will be heard.

"I was wrong![/i]" Important. First step. Admit fault.

She recognizes this passageway, and speeds up. There's no time--

"I believed myself beyond love! Unworthy! Unlovable!"

Music pours from the great hall--the wrong music, improper, mad, whirling, hypnotic, a dirge keyed for revelry.

"But I--you knew! You had to know!"

The mob surges through the great hall, carries Alexa abreast like a wave.

"There was one I--" and here, even now, the word 'loved' is choked, wrung out, demoted, commuted to "--cared for!" It's been two hundred years. He knows. It's safe, even here, in front of the crowd.

The surge deposits her at the dais before the God of love and the mad dancer, One of the bridesmaids straightens out the wrinkles in her dress.

No time!--

She thrusts the letter at Aphrodite. "I beg you," she breathes. "If not forgiveness, reprieve. If, in this letter, there be no love, then…" She shudders, and studies the floor. "Then I am a fool. Then am I a fool who knows naught of love, and more fool me for believing.

"Set me a task, ask of me what you will. I have not earned this, I know but…"

She barely dares to breath.

"If love there be in this letter, then am I still a fool for believing myself past your reach. But a fool who can be taught, and who can hope to rekindle what was."

She can't even bring herself to watch him, too afraid of what she might see.

Breathless Dead

Alexa rushes forward, hands reaching and grasping--not for the letter, but for the messenger. She's all gentleness and tenderness as she props it up, cradles it against her. Come, sit, relax against her. You've waited so long, you've done such a good job, and she's proud of you. Rest your head against her shoulder, sit, don't close your eyes just yet. We'll open the letter together, won't that be nice? I'm sure that, after so long, you want to know what's inside it too, right?

She knows it's useless. This messenger had its purpose and, now that its message is delivered, its mission fulfilled, the purpose keeping it going has fled. Already, the various subtle pumps and whirs have gone silent and the metal begins to cool under her touch. Still, long she sits, holding the dead robot close. You did well. You had a task, you fulfilled it admirably. Well done, thou faithful servant. You were magnificent. You were important. You mattered.

She's trembling, she realizes. Her first real clue in two hundred years. And for once, she's desperately thankful that Minerva never paid attention to her when Alexa told her not to write letters to her. It's a paper trail, she'd said. Alexa receiving mail of her own would be logged in every celestial bureaucracy imaginable. It might tip Molech off as to what they were doing. It's too risky, Minerva.

Thank the stars she didn't listen.

Alexa's hand lingers on the wax seal for too long. She's stalling, she knows. Putting it off. It's... What if it's bad news? If the last letter she ever received from Minerva was a breakup note? If the reason she never saw Minerva again was because Minerva didn't want to see her? She's better equipped to handle it now than she was two hundred years ago, but she's sure that the heartbreak would still destroy her.

But... What if it's not? If it's a message telling her where she went? What to expect? If there's word of what heppened to her? Could she live with herself if she didn't at least read it?

Alexa shudders, and breaks the seal.

Breathless Dead

Oh. That's. Yeah.

Alexa lays one head against Caval's shoulder, feels the engravings against one cheek, breathes in the aseptic scent, and lets out a bitter little huff of laughter.

Yeah, that's just about what she expected.

"If that's what you want."

***

This isn't what she wants.

There are a dozen thoughts running through her head right now, but they keep coming back to that.

Which makes no sense, she keeps telling herself. What does it matter if she's married? She only just found out that Aphrodite is actually taking an interest in her, which, wow, mindblowing. Is it really wise to try to turn away from Aphrodite again?

Which she'd very much like to do, honestly. Wants to stomp out of here, demand an audience with Caval, or run away, or something. Wants to rage that no, this isn't how love happens, this isn't right, how dare you?

But... what would be the point? You can't fight the gods. This is not a problem that can be stabbed, and she doesn't have the materials to do a proper augury to Aphrodite.

Alexa picks at the dress she's been given. It's not surprising that they have her measurements--she's pretty sure there must be a closet somewhere in the palace full of ceremonial garb designed to fit her. Can you imagine the shame of the Pallas Rex violating the norms?

"There must be a reason for this," she decides under her breath. Because it can't be the one that's being presented.

Fellowship: The Heart

Well, fuck.

Some thing in the Heart aren't that bad, Gramps had said. Can be reasoned with, bought, avoided.

But not angels. Gramps wasn't one to get bogged down in their metaphysical construction--what was important was that they tangled the tracks, could shrug off the most inventive 'bold's tricks, and couldn't be convinced to leave a train alone. Best thing for it? Throw something else at it, and make a quick exit.

With that in mind, he casts around--there! That support beam that Sasha just plowed through! Honestly, this it's a wonder it hasn't fallen apart yet, and this room's already so on fire, so he's not actually hurting the station by dropping a hundred robots on top of the angel by shooting at it. He's just... hurrying it along, is all.

[Not sure whether this is Overcome or Keep them Busy, but it's a 9 either way.]

Breathless Dead

Alexa is lost and does not know the way out.

Everything is happening too fast. No conversation lasts more than thirty seconds before the augurs declare it doomed, fruitless, bereft of blessings. She manages to keep track of the first five names, at least, but faces start to blur into one another.

The only constant as she's shuffled from one failed candidate to the next are the cheerful faces of the Augurs, the friendly voice of Caval, and Aphrodite stalking behind the Augurs, ticking boxes and flipping signs.

[Damaging Sense to Speak Softly: 6.]

How long does it take to tire out two indefatigable beings? How many faces, how many names, how many beings, until it's all Alexa can do to lean on Caval for support?

"Why?" she breathes, head sagging against Caval's shoulder.

Not even how is this possible, but why? Why is she doing this? Is this revenge? Entertainment? Does she genuinely believe that by appeasing Aphrodite, they may be spared? Is she trying, gods forbid, to help Alexa?

And the world stops.

No, that's not right. It's just the noise--the ever-present, all-consuming noise--has dropped to murmurs, the crowd focusing in on the Augurs.

Oh gods, what's that number say?

Breathless Dead

I've never had a hubris of my own before.

It's a strange thing for her mind to latch onto, no? Such a small detail to focus on, and probably patently incorrect to boot. She, Alexa, had brought down the wrath of a god on an Empire. She, the scion of Molech and Athena, had singlehandedly destroyed an empire spanning the galaxy. She's known for centuries that she was the Warsage's downfall, but she hadn't realized that it had happened so early! Not even in ignoring the rituals, or in performing them wrong, but in believing that Aphrodite didn't--

But so long as she's focusing on that, she can put off thinking who told her to believe that in the firs--

No. Don't. There's not enough time for--just focus on the present, okay? Like the two--no, four? Call it four robots. Two. She can do two. Caval and--shit, what did she say her name was, did she say her name? You should be good at this, you got training specifically in remembering people at court, you useless--

How is a Pisel-class loader even sentient? You don't need to give a crane a big brain--just enough to move to location A, recognize target B, and figure out the best path to move it to location C. You expect her to believe that in two hundred years, she--it?--she had just, just, decided it was going to be something different? Is that even possible? You are what you are, you don't just--

Caval gives her an encouraging shove, and she staggers against the crane's dangling hook. "But I have a girlfriend," she very carefully does not say. A), it's not true. Not yet, at least. B), if it were, that's exactly the thing you should never tell somebody who has a grudge against you.

One wide-stretched eye flits to Caval, and then up, up the crane. They're really serious about this, aren't they?

She takes one hitching, heaving breath, and sits in the hook of the crane like it's a swing, lets it haul her up to eye level. "It is," she hesitantly decides, "a pleasure? To meet you?"

Breathless Dead

"I am beneath the notice of the god of love."

The sentence comes out automatically. The words have been trained, drilled, and practiced, until they can be martialed into formation on command. But there's a quaver there, words which come out just that little bit too quickly. It's less rebuttal and more reassurance.

It's not like she's neglected the rituals at any point, you understand? Aphrodite must be respected as any of the others. She makes the demanded sacrifices, performs the expected rites. But she also understands that it's not a matter of tit for tat, of exchange of worship for romantic conquests. She cannot love or be loved, so why ask for the impossible?

But...

But there's always a but, isn't there? That gnawing pit of uncertainty, churning in her gut. Did she offend Aphrodite in pursuing Minerva?

Even worse, was it because she didn't when it counted?

No, that's... That can't be. Cannot be. It'd be insane. No, that's wrong. Has to be wrong. Can't be right.

If there's any justice in the world, it's not right.

Breathless Dead

Alexa has never had a fair fight before.

There have been curbstomps, yes. Knock-down, drag-out brawls where one side is desperately overmatched, yes. Battles where the chaos of Ares destroys any semblance of order, battles where she desperately wishes the other side could see how thoroughly they're beaten so they'll run so she doesn't have to hurt them.

But never an even, one-on-one duel where both combatants were the same. It's just something that she's never experienced.

Isn't that exciting, Alexa? Shouldn't this make your pulse pound, your heart race? Finally, a chance to prove your skills! A chance to show the might of Molech is superior, even in an even duel!

But it's not. And she's not. Maybe in other circumstances, where nothing is at stake, she could sink into that enjoyment.

Should she be terrified? Finally, a chance to be expunged by someone who knows her, knows her history, knows what she deserves and why? Someone who will stop at nothing to see justice done for her crimes? Shouldn't that send a thrill down her spine?

But it doesn't.

And it'd be lovely to think that it's because of friendship. Because of tea ceremonies, or shared drinks, or a wonderful afternoon with an adorable wolf-girl.

But the truth is, she's wondering. Struck dumb, almost. Staring at the robot in front of her, hearing the ring of divine ceramics against impossible, nonsensical, mass-produced, unyielding steel. Marveling at the perfect movement, the impeccable defense, the divine confidence, the sheer overwhelming threat.

What was the point? The point in the training, the long nights, the early morning, the pain, the deaths? If the touch of Athena could turn a weak skirmisher into this...

"You are amazing," she breathes.

Fellowship: The Heart

At the first scream, Coleman's in Sasha, swinging the hatch shut on the leash, and jamming the fuel feed open. This is against every regulation, against every wise word, against everything he's been taught. You do not give an engine a head of steam unless you know damn well that you've put in the effort to clear the road ahead of it.

Unless.

Unless staying here is 100% guaranteed to be more dangerous than letting the engine run.

One brass-and-steel arm snakes out and grabs the wolf in a fireman's carry, and Sasha bellows a warcry.

Where to? Fuck if he knows. To, right now, is much less important than away.

[Get Away, 2,2,+3: 7. Taking Wolf with.]