Balmas

Breathless Dead

"Thank you," Alexa says, which is probably the single dumbest thing you can say to somebody who just casually shattered your world.

We've never met? Then, so, uh, mom isn't mom? Mom is a machine intelligence the size of a planet? Mom is dead?? Mom is a robot, but also the robot is Ares? Is Ares dead? Is Ares free?? Huh? What?! ??!???

Mom is dead. Holy shit, mom is dead. She stares up at the wreckage of gears pierced by a stop sign, and can't help but feel… well, a little guilty? For feeling glad? She's not the child of Athena? Or at least, not that Athena? Because wow, the one who actually raised her is… Look, she wasn't the one who killed her friends, that was all Liu Ban, but. Apparently she's a fragment of Liu Ban's mind? Liu Ban's imagination of what Athena was, that perfect frozen moment that Liu Ban worshipped and idolized so much he poured the resources of empire into making a literal idol of it? She'd pushed Alexa into the same direction that Liu Ban wanted her to go, because what else could she do, and Alexa had lowkey kind of hated her, she's now realizing? But also Alexa had thought of her, for so long, as the lesser of two evils? Good, by virtue of not being quite as totally shit?

Fuck, and Liu Ban's dead, too. She… well, she's torn. Because for so long, that was the only way she could be free, she was a hundred percent sure of it. But she also didn't want to be the one to kill him, to put the nail in that, eheh, coffin. Have Nero do it, somewhere she couldn't see. Feel betrayed when she has to do it herself. Even now, in the ranks of the Coherents, she felt every blow to his body, winced at every spearthrust, watched him dying with both glee and dismay, because somehow she'd imagined that… That what? That she'd leave him, half a corpse, on a desolate planet, and feel particularly gleeful about leaving him alive with a fate worse than death?

The seal is gone. She'd stared at Redana as she shattered it and felt… Well, she ought to feel something, right? A release of energy, a bowstring snapping. There should be a twang felt across the galaxy. She should bolt upright at the new movement in her limbs, feel a fire of ability to choose inside her chest. She shouldn't feel, she's sure, so confused, so empty. She's had these voices telling her what to do for her whole life. She's alone with her thoughts now, and the silence is deafening.

For so long, Alexa has been three things: the firstborn of Molech, the enslaved Pallas Rex, and the daughter of Athena. And now she's none of those, and she gets to choose what she wants to be, and you know what? For someone who just fought a war to get to choose what she is, she has no idea what that looks like and holy shit, being free is confusing.

The hammer sits in her hand like a lump. It's not chosen. It's not familiar. It doesn't burn itself into her mind, doesn't practically pull her into motion, shove patterns of thought into her. It doesn't have plans for her. It's just a hammer, new, ready for whatever she decides to use it for. She gets to choose what purpose it's put towards, just like she gets to choose what she does with herself.

"Thank you," she says again, more fervently this time. The first time was automatic, now she gets to say it for real. "For everything. I look forward to getting to know you for real, this time."

And then she's lunging at Redana, pulling her into a hug, and doing her level best to squeeze the life out of her. To pull her in, and show her how much she means to her. One arm snakes out to grab Ramses into the hug, and then one coherent after the other joins the squeeze, the press, and she can't stop thanking them and squeezing them and she never wants this moment to end.

But, alas, it is a battlefield, and she loosens her grip somewhat so she can grin at Redana.

"Now, how about we go save that cat?"

Breathless Dead

"You've never known love, have you?"

The Coherents catch her, swallow her in the press, as she knew they would. How could there be any beauty in the world, if they did not?

And Redana! She was worried she'd never see you again! You're getting the hug of your life after this, and probably a second one right after, and then you're going to tell her all about your new look, holy shit!

But still, she's staring up at Liu Ban, a look of shock on her face.

She stares at Aphrodite, meets his gaze across the battlefield, and levels one finger at her father.

"All this time! All this time, Aphrodite, I waited! You watched me wait, watched me slave for him, all in hopes that one day he'd love me, and you mean to tell me that he doesn't know how to love? For real?"
"All this time, you've never known what love is! What it feels like! You've never been in love! You've watched it happen, seen it from outside, and you decided you wanted people to love you, because people in love are half mad! What better servant could you wish for than one who loves you?

Liu Ban fights alone. He is all strength and too-long-limbs and terrible thundering strikes. And if she weren't so angry, she could almost feel pity for him.

"You saw how people in love hold to each other, and saw a servant who would never leave! And yes, love is greedy! When you have that person in your life, when you have so much of yourself tied up in them and so much of them tied up in you, you don't want to let them go! That you want them to stay, and you want to stay with them, and spend the rest of your life with them! But you saw that and saw only how love could keep a person bound to you, could keep them from leaving! But when you love someone, if they want to leave you let them go! You tear yourself apart, and you find ragged edges where pieces of yourself used to be and painful spots where they still are, but you do it because you want them to be happy, even if you're miserable because of it!

"You saw how people change for someone you love, and saw only how you could define a person, demand what shape that love should take! But people in love don't change because the person decided what they should be--you change because you want to be better! Because you want to fit yourselves together! And sometimes you don't change, and you talk, and you communicate, and you figure out together what the compromise is--whether a compromise can be reached, or who needs to change, or whether maybe no change is needed at all beyond what people want! And you do that together too, because love goes both ways! And you've never done that, because that would admit that other people might have value, might have opinions, that might rival your own!

"You saw what people will put themselves through for people you love, and boy, you're not wrong! People in love are crazy! Not gonna tell the story, but there's a reason for the new arms. That person is so important to you, you'd give anything to keep them safe, keep them happy, even if it means that you put yourself in harms way for it! But you saw only the act itself, of protecting them at all costs, and never considered that, again, love goes both ways! You've never sat awake and worried about a friend or lover, given yourself stomachaches with dread that something might happen to them! Never missed them, never cared! You never considered what you might do if it came down to it, how you'd throw yourself in the line to keep somebody safe, because you only cared about what you wanted!

"Degenerate hedonism, my ass! Love isn't about what you want, it's about what they want! And you can't decide that for them! You can't show them affection and declare that they owe you love! You can't force them to want what you want! And until you understand that, no amount of shutting up or waiting will make anybody else love you back!"

Breathless Dead

She's ready for the blow, bracing for it. The instant he moves, she's already jumping, rolling, on her feet and moving again for the second blow. Of course he's not going to take this lying down. She is his property, she is acting out, and now he is taking the only action he can to get his property back under control. Simple reason, and the very fact that you're objecting is why he needs to be in control. She's ready for that.

She isn't ready for the wail. Isn't ready for that lonely note to pierce her heart, almost make her hesitate. She wasn't prepared for causing her father pain because it's a very simple thing to tell yourself that your father is hot garbage, to tell yourself that you want him out of your life. It's entirely another to see someone you once cared for cry, hear that voice break in front of your very eyes.

How many times had she heard that voice as a fresh creation? Admired the range Molech put his voice through, how it swelled and shifted to fit the occasion--the bombastic welcome of an emperor to his visitors, the cajoling friend of the war prince to his generals, the demanding bark of the tactician. How many times had she trained, stayed up for weeks? All so that when the time came to show it off, finished a kata, a drill, an exercise, trembling with the effort of perfection, she could dream that maybe there was a voice just for her? Approval? Warmth? A quiet "well done?" "I am proud of you?"

She ducks, feels the wind of one sledgehammer arm passing above her, feels the heat as a pile of dead trees catches the blow and explodes into splinters.

How many times had she been met with disappointment? Nothing but a cold gaze, a nod of acknowledgement, of finally almost attaining the level he'd expected her to possess from the beginning? Beauty, grace, perfection, silence. Now that you're almost where you should have been a year ago, let's move on to something more your speed?

Or worse: How many times had there been a glare, a quiet scoff, a cold notice that she's still not good enough? How many "I know you can do better?" How many times where she's sure she's done every movement to perfection, and yet there is still more to be improved on?

How many times has he nodded in satisfaction and announced that she's now ready for the real thing, and motioned for the cage doors to be opened, ordered the guards to prod her trembling victims into the arena?

How many times has she heard "I know what will properly motivate you"? How many stolen faces? How many destroyed lives? How many exiled or executed comrades?

An overhand blow, a quick sidestep. A crater in the ground, crushed bodies, a silvery spiral of splintered weapons.

How many times has she actually heard that voice be kind to her? No, not even that--how many times has he asked for her opinion? How many times has he been there for her when she needed him to be? How many times has he talked to her without the need to give orders, just for the sake of talking?

Surely something like that would shine out in memory like a diamond in a pile of coal. So how come she can't remember him ever doing so?

Next to the bonfire of love, a familiar ember of anger rears its head.

"You broke me, Liu Ban!"

The next time Liu Ban rears up for a double-overhand strike, Alexa's picked her spot well. The fists come down, she rolls to the side, and when the fists come up, half a dozen abandoned swords stay lodged in Liu Ban's flesh.

"You told me that I could never be more than you created me to be! That my only value lay in fulfilling that purpose, in obeying you!"

On her next roll, she kicks up a glaive just in time for Liu Ban's next swipe, and watches it impale through his palm.

"You stole my life, Liu Ban! You told me that I was nothing! Nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded!"

She darts towards the gap between his legs, snatching a knife from a fallen body as she does.

"My friends didn't break me, Liu Ban! They only showed me how a family really treats each other!"

She's between his legs and jams the knife across one sinewy hamstring. Even with healing, even with all the bioengineering of the ancients, the knee buckles, its muscles cut.

"They showed me your lies, Liu Ban! They didn't break me--they showed me how to fix myself!"

The second the leg hits the ground, she's climbing the scaly back and dodging the swipes to grab her or brush her off.

"And now that I know that, you will never break me again! I'll fix myself over and over, as many times as it takes!"

One awkward swipe nearly knocks her loose, and it's only by plunging the dagger into his flesh like a piton that she stays on his back.

Panting, she gasps out, "You had so many chances to have a daughter. But you never wanted one, did you? You only ever wanted someone too weak and dependent on you to ever leave. You only wanted a slave.

"And you'll never have me again."

[Alexa's first hope-empowered roll is a 13 on Overcome.]

Breathless Dead

A fist of ice closes over her heart.

All this time.

All this time, she'd thought… No, that's not right. She'd hoped. Hoped, prayed, dreamed, nursed a tiny ember of a idea, even as she'd told the Alcedi of all his sins, that…

It's a dumb idea, really. She hates him. It'd never work. He's behind nearly everything wrong in her life. He created her to be a slave. He's not capable of being a father. Can't make the changes necessary. He's incapable of the self-reflection, the humility, to admit that he'd made mistakes. And even if he did, and even if she forgave him, she could never bring herself to trust him. But still, the idea that maybe, with some time and a whole lot of distance, she might be able to have the family she dreamed of back when she was first created…

Quietly, an ember nursed for two centuries unceremoniously winks out. It's long due, but it still hurts, leaves her cold. He's got to break her heart one last time.

But there was never any way for him to love her. There's no version of reality where he sees her as someone he's wronged, because that would need him to think of her as a person first. He never has, and he never will, because she's never been more than a tool in his mind. Something to be trained, and molded, and put to a task. If she obeys, then she's simply a tool fulfilling its purpose. If she disobeys, then the tool is broken and should be fixed until it does as its told. And now that the tool is more useful in pieces than whole…

Well, you don't keep a tool past its usefulness, do you?

She is a dreamer walking the steps of a too-familiar nightmare. She has seen it all, knows the end from the beginning. And yet no matter how she screams, curses, begs, still she is powerless to stop it. Still her body moves, weightless, as it picks through the pile of corpses, discards weapon after weapon, hefts a battleaxe. It's enormous, obviously ceremonial--filigreed to the nines, inlaid with pearl, carved with bas-relief triumphal battles across the head--but the gold-plated edge is still mono-filament sharp. As she sees her reflection gleaming in the gold, sees her doom lifting in front of her, all she can think is:

I should have hugged more people.

It's funny, right? You never think about it. Because there's always time for hugs. Which means hugs can happen sometime later, after everything's calmed down. You'll laugh, you'll embrace, just as soon as you can. And then everything goes to shit again, and you're running again, and you'll laugh and hug later again. Then you lose your arms, and hugs suddenly aren't an option. And then you get new arms, and you're running again, and now your dad wants your body, and you'll never hug people ever again.

The axe lifts, showing off the gleaming arms in the surface of the axehead.

And she just got them too. She was looking forward to breaking them in! It's a big adjustment, going from four arms to two. They're a different weight distribution--probably the same bulk, but in a single package. What's that do to her wrestling? She's gonna lose a few techniques, but she could probably figure out a way to compensate with the added power. What do these arms look like properly messy, with dirt and mud and weeds on them? What kind of detail work can she handle? Baking has been problematic before--maybe she'd finally be able to figure out how Dolce cracks eggs with only one hand?

Not if Liu Ban has his way, though. Wants to just plop his ratty-ass beard on her neck, ride her body like a stolen car.

Brand new dress. Brand new filigree. Brand new gifts! Gifts for her, presents from people she cares about! She wants to show off in them, for once. Wants to enjoy feeling wanted, feeling unique. Wants to find out who wanted her, and why, and find out how it isn't because she's the firstborn of Molech, or the Pallas Rex, or because she looks like her mom. The Coherents, the Alcedi--people who care for her because she's her, and not because of what she can do or take or kill or protect.

And she wants to care for them, too! Wants to have the opportunity to nurture them, get to know them, find out what makes each one unique! Not because of what they can do, or because she's their older sister and it's her job, but because she chooses to! Because what she wants is important, dammit!

This isn't a new ember of an idea sparking to life. If anything, it's an old one--an unfortunate habit of thought that Molech sought to stamp out wherever he found it. She thought she'd lost it long ago, scorched and gone, but there it is, burning merrily away! Not just burning--practically a raging bonfire, a warming flame of I matter! I don't want to die! Not here, not now, not like this, not ever, because I matter, and I care about me, and you know what, I kind of like me! I like being me, I like who I am, and I want to find out who I look like after today, and after tomorrow, and so on into forever! And none of that happens if I kill myself right now, and I'll be damned before I do it to please my asshole of a father!

And just like that, she's holding an axe. Not looming, not threatening, not having her body wielded against her, not taking aim at her own neck. Just her, holding an axe.

Gingerly, she moves an arm. The axe goes with it. Tentatively, as if at any moment the spell's going to break, she lowers it, throws it back onto the pile.

And it stays thrown, and she doesn't grab it again, and nobody is more surprised than she is.

She stares at it for perhaps too long.

And when she turns to Liu Ban, it's with a strange sense of wonder in her eyes.

"You know what, Liu Ban? Shove it up your ass. I'll be keeping me, thanks all the same."

[Move Taken: I Am My Own Master.]
[Move Taken: You Have Changed: Hero Destiny Playbook unlocked, Unbroken taken]

Breathless Dead

Madness, Madness, Madness.

Stop! Don't touch her! There's no time for this! They're in battle, with no quiet waiting room, no platter of chips, no time for recovery!

No, faster! Pick her off her feet, rush her forwards, muss her clothes, just so long as she's in that sarcophagus faster! She can't afford not to be at her best!

Knock her out! Don't let her feel this! Think of the pain she was spared before, how much it will hurt!

Don't you dare give her any sedative! She'll never forgive herself if she forgets a single moment of this. Shatter her skull if you have to, but she wants to capture every moment, remember this forever!

She hears the prayers, the chants, as if she were miles underwater and they on the surface. It's just her, a reassuring touch from Ramses, and the smell of cigars.

That beautiful bastard. He even managed to find a gold that matches her new filigree.

The Hermetic pronounces the final syllable, attendants raise the arms to her and--

***

Madness, Madness, Madness.

They're nothing like her old ones. Athena had four arms, and therefore the Pallas Rex had four arms. Athena uses her arms to wage war, and therefore the Pallas Rex would use hers to wage war. A reduced version, one that can be held on a leash, conjured and bound.

These are not the arms of a warrior, with hands to circle and weave, clench Aegis and spear, be the unbreakable wall upon which enemies break and the point of the invincible spear. These are not the arms of a princess, of a symbol, of one who must be seen always and never heard, pristine and perfect.

Alexa raises one arm, admires the way the light scatters through the sapphires embedded in the knuckles, reads the prayers and dedications engraved around the biceps. They're works of art, treasures to match or exceed the most precious crown of the greatest emperor.

But above and exceeding all of that, they're hers. No, not just hers--her. These are the arms of a girl who would spend time with friends. Who does not need to fear. Of a girl who would get dirt under her fingernails. Would discover, would explore. Would laugh, and love, and live, all without fear of loss.

Imperfect. Beautiful.
Her.

***

Madness, Madness, Madness.

The greatest crime imaginable is that there is not enough time for her to hug everyone who deserves it. Still, she passes herself from one coherent and attendant to the next like an overly enthusiastic python, squeezing and hugging with all the strength in her new arms, saving an extra special squeeze for Rams--

A horribly short, gutteral scream. She turns, sees the crimson comet crater against the dust, and she's running.

But something's wrong. Her legs won't work right--is it the arms? Is their weight throwing off her balance? She can see her goal, is staring at it like staring will make the body at its center less mangled, but her legs insist on carving the sand, bringing her sideways, make her look at--

She tried, you know. Tried to ignore him. Had been steadfastly looking away from the start of the battle from the looming form at the top of the pyramid.

But of course, he'd been lost, kidnapped. Of course she must return to his side.

Her feet don't stop pounding, but faces flare in her mind.

A desperate laugh burbles somewhere in her throat, and her feet dig deeper into the dust, carve longer strides, until she's at the base of the pyramid, staring upwards at the man who stole her life from her.

"Father Molech! As you commanded, I have led the Alcedi, and returned to your side when you were lost!"

Is there something there, Molech, or Liu Ban, or however you want to call yourself, that gives you pause? An edge to the voice, a hint that something is wrong, as your daughter starts to march up the steps of the pyramid?

God, she hopes so.

"I do hope you are pleased with my service, Father Molech! You look to be in far better health than when last I saw you!"

Breathless Dead

To think that all this time, she thought she knew what a phalanx was.

She darts from the phalanx! A step! A kick, sequins swirling around her! One ankle, hard as marble, falling like a hammer! An opening!

Oh, to be sure, she has fought in them! Felt the press of bodies, sheltered beneath her comrades' shields. Felt the invincibility of the press, the knowledge that, just for one second, all fought as one. But always…

She turns, and one Coherent offers a hand, a step, and she's above the press, dancing across shoulders to where she can most directly strike down, direct, engage

To fight for Molech was to be a pawn. Each phalanx moved as neatly across the battlefield as boxes on a map. Molech had decided what your place was, and if that meant that for the glory of Molech, a phalanx had to be sacrificed? Phalanxes advanced, moved, died, all huddled together, knowing that to break formation--to run, to flee--was to die. Ahead, glory and possible death. But behind? Decimatio, execution, slavery, or worse. Always, what was behind was worse. The phalanx held together through fear, through Molech's determination, through his knowledge of what you should be.

The formation parts just long enough for her to bull through a tree, and then engulfs her again, surging through the gap she's created.

The Coherents are chaos. Molech would sneer at the variable kit, at the way each insists of thinking of themselves as individuals, with different ways of fighting. And yet, it works. They shift and heave and pulse, each moving to support the other, each knowing the others well enough to understand, without speaking, how to help.

And by themselves, they'd be easy prey, hounded and harried by the Kaeri, pinched against the wall of thorns and flesh until the esoterics. But with her… She's not their leader. She would not dream to command them. But every time the Kaeri surge, again and again, she's there to open the path, or make an opportunity to be exploited, again and again, closer and closer to the esoterics…

A phalanx, but one that allows for each person to be their own without compromising its strength. What a concept.

6,1, +3. 10 on Overcome.

Breathless Dead

"Take it off."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm blind, not deaf, and I can hear the screams, take it--"

The blindfold whips off, blinding light sears into her eyes, and "Put it back on" dies on her lips, unspoken

She's going to see this tonight, she knows. In the quiet hours, when the ship sleeps, with only the dull rumble of the engine for company, these faces will be branded across her mind as brightly as right now.

It's unholy. Obscene. She's seen battlefields strewn with the dead, counted corpses, relied on the fugue of post-battle exhaustion to keep her from recognizing which were hers. But they always--always--got tended to. They burned, or were buried, or were committed to Poseidon, but always, Hades claimed them.

A hundred thousand eyes pierce her. She does not know them, but everywhere, sightless eyes stare at her, accuse her. She did not do this, did not plant the seeds, she does not know you, stop looking at her--

She can feel the aide's nervous gaze, even without looking. Feel her watching her, getting quietly more tense, watching her freeze. Damn you! Damn you for listening to her!

And damn her own eyes, for serving her! Because she had the blindfold removed for a reason! Everywhere, screams, chaos! The red glow of Ares approaching! Disaster, and only--

A whiff of cigar smoke lingers in the air. Acrid. Piercing. Sinus-clearing in its intensity. She staggers, and stares again.

Everywhere she looks, the unburied, the corrupted, the defiled! Stolen from life, stolen from death! Stolen from Hades and their quiet rest! The pitiful dead, victims as much as any of them!

They stare at her, yes! Pleading! Begging! Give us rest! Lay us down, free us from these shells, say the rites of Hades!

She takes one step, then a second, and then she's running, bounding and galloping across the desert to lead her troops. Saving the tides is hopeless--useful only as a battering ram, and now facing a wall too big to clear, but there are lives to save. Eyes on the Kaeri--see how they move, where they'll strike. They're against the anvil, and only avoiding the hammer's blows will save them.

Dimly, she's aware that she's singing. An old tune, from a sergeant who was old even before she was shaped. A hymn, a dirge, that beats with each thunderous footfall, to the god of the Dead.

Let her see this right, Hades. She does not know the dead, but this atrocity cannot stand. Only let them live, Hades, and all of these shall be given the peace they have not known for centuries.

Breathless Dead

How she hates the blindfold.

It wasn't so bad in the bridge. But here, as she hears conversations stop and breaths catch in throats! If it weren't for safety's sake--if it weren't for Molech's injunction!--she could look around. Could see whose words falter, whose eyes can't help but trace her as she goes!

And if she's moving her hips a bit more than usual, so the gown has a chance to move, catch the light, listening for the sharp inhales of breath when a hint of thigh flashes through the slit up the side, well...

How she'd gasped, when she'd first seen it! Admired the way each movement sent ripples and shimmers across the fabric! Each motion is a wave of sequins and silvered threads, each hem a crest of seafoam against the lapis and cerulean of the dress! Blushed and stammered when she saw herself in the mirror! How she'd sat, and wondered, and marveled, and again decided that she needs tear ducts! What a world, where she can have things as nice as this!

She shivers, and can't resist, even now, giving a little twirl of joy.

(Behind her, a Coherent chokes on her rations.)

Her back still aches, just a little. The Coherents had listened to her embarrassed description, looked at each other, and nodded. Then one had picked up their chisel, and another had heated up a crucible. The stylized dove's wings down her back, though, are worth the pain. The gold filigree gleams between the panels of the backless dress, a delicate gold pattern flying over a sea of blue.

Wings, for freedom. A dove, for Aphrodite. A reminder for herself once she makes it out of this.

She wears the sea on her front, the future on her back, and around her neck, the present: a silver chain, each link a symbol of those around her. A scarf. A tail. A tentacle. A scale. Reminders of friends, comrades, past and present. They sit against her, constantly close to her heart, a reminder of how and why and for whom.

For love. For her friends. And for herself.

And thus attired, Alexa goes to battle.

Breathless Dead

Alexa does not need to see the god of the dead appear to feel the chill in the air, hear the gasp of oaths, feel the press of bodies drawing away from the command table. Is uncomfortably aware, suddenly, of how uneven the bench is, and isn't that strange? Is suddenly glad that she doesn't have hands right now, cannot run her fingers along the bench, feel out the shapes?

Nor does she need to see Jil's face to hear the determination that lives there. What would Alexa do for a leader that had freed her from Molech? No, she doesn't need to answer that, because she already knows: what she's doing right now, for Redana. How far will the Alcedi go for her?

(Oh dear, best unpack that thought later on.)

And she doesn't need to see Mynx's face to know that she's not enough here. Oh, she's welcome, yes. But her help, her acknowledgement, isn't filling the void.

The air clangs with the sudden silence, and she doesn't need to see to feel the pressure of eyes on her.

"Bella has..." She frowns with the weight of thought. "Your forgiveness, Jil, but she has hurt all of us. Nearly killed Mynx once. Nearly killed Vasilia twice.

"I know that 'she could have been worse' is cold comfort in the face of that. Wow, she should receive forgiveness for not murdering all of us in cold blood. But she had three adepts. Three assassins, pardon my saying so, to use. And she didn't. She's held off, held back, hasn't killed us.

"And..."

Alexa sighs.

"I do not want to see her hurt. She's hurt us, yes. But I still find it hard to divorce her now from the friend she was on Tellus.

"Surely, we can afford to show her some mercy, if the chance arises?"

Breathless Dead

The worst thing about being blindfolded on top of armless is knowing a friend is in need, and being able to do nothing about it. She can hear Mynx, but not see her, not go to her, not find her in the tight, overcrowded quarters of the bridge. Can't risk stumbling and knocking the blindfold off, or tripping against the corner where she knows the palanquin is. She fidgets against the chair, stares around sightlessly as if she could magically triangulate to Mynx without knocking anything important over.

But what could be more important right now? She can hear everything that Mynx isn't saying--the pain, the bitterness, of knowing just how important it is that they get the ship back. No, not the ship, the person inside the ship. Of hearing how much people are stressing over someone else. The other person who grew up with you, who cared for you. You know, the important one.

She doesn't realize how tense she's gotten--how her shoulders clench, her teeth grind, her breath halts in her chest--until a hand gently lands on her shoulder and it's all she can do not to pop out of her chair like an unwinding spring. The hand draws away, startled, but comes back insistently. No fur, no peach fuzz, so not Isty. Mechanical slithering from below. Ramses, then.

She takes a breath, swallows, and manages to bite out a hushed, "Mynx needs--Help me to her. Please." Anything to help tell Mynx that no, you're not alone, you're not invisible, I see you, I hear you, you're important, too.