BlasTech

Huntresses of Hybrasil

One thing that you learn, when you live like Isabelle, is that there are many different kinds of silence.

There's the quiet, absolute silence of night - when all you can hear is the thrum of the air conditioning and the rustle of your sheets as you turn your head. Now some people - other people, that is - might also hear things like traffic, nightlife, passers by or the occasional spacecraft making for orbit - all the sounds of the wider world. But that was not true for a Lozano. No, not with so many layers of soundproofing and security screens in between their rooms and the outer walls. And not with the distance between those outer walls and the edge of their estate.

The fact that their residence stood so separate from all others was itself a feat worth mentioning, given the relative density of a Terenian capital world. But a lady like Almira Lozano would have it no other way.

Another type of silence was the awkward one - where something a person has said is left to echo into a void of self-conscious panic. Isabelle was intimately familiar with that one from many less-than-successful attempts at public speaking. It didn't happen often, but when you had to make as many public appearances as she did, pure statistics made them inevitable.

Her brain particularly liked to replay the time she'd been greeting Adan Davalos (the CFO of Davalos enterprises) and mistaken his bodyguard for the man himself. It wasn't her fault that the man was built like seven feet of muscle and had a dark sense of humour in his hiring processes.

I still think he only hired that bodyguard so that he could joke about how scrawny they were.

And then there were the dangerous silences.

The ones that came about in the later hours of the night and the early morning - when those who didn't have an unhealthy relationship with caffeine had gone to sleep. When all that was left to distract her were screens and printouts. Statistics and references.

She'd tried calling up an expert on Zaldarian culture - but all it had been good for was an hour of conversation that had been proven useless after five minutes of signing with Quar. In the end, she'd set guards and given instruction that if Quar gave any indication of needing or wanting anything outside of food or drink, that she be informed at once.

She hoped she was doing it right - that the Zaldarian might open up to her at some point. Otherwise it was going to be amazingly disappointing when she released her with nothing to show for it.

Can I even do that? Just let her go? Or is that some kind of insult? She'd thought, before groaning in frustration.

She'd tried reading up on the other competitors and their mechs - but after forty minutes of reading the same page over and over again, and comprehending nothing, she'd shoved the whole stack down one end of her table to deal with later.

She'd tried firing up a remote training drone - to practice her fencing - but her eyes kept slipping away, towards the projector that rested accusingly on her bed - and, consequently, all she'd had to show for the hour of exercise was an embarrassingly large number of welts from the drone's practice blade.

Tired, sore, upset. Those things summed up the Isabelle that had returned to her desk. Turning her back on the projector.

At least, that was how she would have appeared to any outsider. She was good at putting up a front, after all.

Inside, Isabelle was at war with herself. She knew she should watch the message that the other woman had left her. She knew that ignoring it was - well, it was rude at best - and hurtful at worst.

But ... listening to it?

At least, while this silence lasted, she could still convince herself that everything was okay. She could pretend that Asil was out there, working happily at the hangar. Doing things with her drones that defied convention and dared people to dream bigger and better. Being productive, being useful, being ... good.

She could pretend that she wasn't going to be chewed out by the woman she'd sponsored. That she'd insulted. That she liked. That she'd hurt.

She could believe that she wouldn't have to see her face - as she patiently, kindly perhaps, tried to talk to her - as if she wasn't just some piece of shit that had lashed out at her just because she'd been having a bad day.

As long as the silence lasted, it meant that she could pretend that the punishment that awaited her was still a long way off. That she still had a lead on it, and as long as she kept running she might never get caught.

She knew she was being a coward. But that was just who she was - all the holo interviews, the promotional pictures, the clips from her fights - they were all lies. Carefully crafted by her mother and their PR team to tell a story that benefited the Lozano brand.

In truth, she was what she was: A coward. A liar. Cruel. A Bad Person.

Worthless.

She rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands. Squelching the tears away.

She must just be tired, she thinks. And she tries to believe it, as she pulls out another sheaf of paper in a fruitless, desperate, search for a distraction.

She's always been good at putting up a front.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Isabelle finds herself facing another Zaldarian and can't help but draw comparisons. Whereas Solarel had been a whirlwind of energy and activity from the moment she came charging up that shuttle ramp, Quar is reserved - resigned? - restrained? She's also a bit taller than the other alien.

One of the Isabelles at the back of her mind starts to wonder aloud how they would compare when wearing booty shorts, before being quickly shushed down by the rest of the collective.

After all, there are far more pressing matters to consider. Matters like:

- Should we be using a finer rope than this smart-cable? It's a bit industrial.
- Do we really not have any nice braided cords or tassely things to use, I mean, really?
- Is it better to tie it more tightly, and loop more around her wrists, to show that we respect her strength?
- Or is it better to tie it more loosely, to show that we mean her no harm? Or is that disrespectful?
- Why are we basing all of this off of that one scene from Book 5 chapter 8 of the Warrior Princess of Zaldaria series? Surely there should've been a Galpedia entry on this sort of etiquette?
- Is it getting hot in here?

Addendum: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Outwardly, she's all poise. And if there is a little colour in her cheeks as she binds Quar's hands together, it is probably just because of the confrontation with her mother.

Hopefully there will be more time to talk once they are in Quar's new quarters. Just down the hall from Isabelle's.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The Novasurge rocks to a halt, its massive footfalls echoing in the hangar. Metal creaks on metal, the gangways sway, but Almira stands firm. A personality larger than the mecha around her. Unbowed and unafraid, despite the fact that she could be swatted like a bug.

Were she anyone else, Isabelle might have given into at least the flight of fancy - to picture, perhaps, giving the walkway a good flick and sending them scurrying - if only to see her mother's facade disturbed. It spoke volumes, however, that such a thought did not enter her mind at all. Instead, the Novasurge appears to shrink in on itself, helm turning downwards as the arm that had been helping to steady the Chaser falls into a fist by her side.

"I ... understand mother. And you are right - it was an unnecessary risk." she begins, as her mind races through the possibilities. Explain the connection between her and Quar? No. Explain the effect of her kidnapping? Definitely no.

To be honest, she didn't really know why she'd offered the surrender. It would've made more sense to strike down the Chaser and then negotiate from a position of strength. To finish the fight, through to the end. But in that moment when she'd sensed the fight leaving Quar's mind - when she'd realised that all her tricks had been countered and that there was no further point to fighting?

Well, Isabelle couldn't find it in herself to keep fighting either. And that, she knew, was something she would have to hide from her mother.

A Lozano shows no weakness. - after all. The corollary being that a Lozano does not tolerate weakness either. An opening is just there to be exploited. If you are strong, make your victory complete. Do not leave things to chance and pithy sentiments like honour, friendship and trust. Those words are only useful as labels to make others act and react in the way you want.

"You are right to recognise the threat posed by Zaldarians though, mother." she replies, as one plausible lie comes to her. "The pilot who defeated Angela Victoria Miera Antonius will be one of the key obstacles to winning this competition. If I am to stand a chance against her, I must learn more about them. I need a teacher."

"But ... Speak Not to the Outsider" she continues, earning a quizzical look from her mother. Good, plant that uncertainty Isabelle. Push where she isn't sure.

"It's one of their tenets. Their religion. I would never be able to find a Zaldarian who cleaves to their culture who would be willing to teach me anything. Or even speak to me."

"Unless ..." she gestures to the Chaser. "Unless taken in battle. Then, so long as we keep to their customs of treating prisoners - she will speak to me as the one who defeated her."

She waits, to see what she will say. Was it a good idea, mother? Will you support this endeavour?

"It's a unique opportunity" adds Tad, glancing between the woman and the mecha.

[Calling on a toxic power. 5 + 4 + 1: 10 - Modifiers seem to be the +1 from her Destiny being marked, -1 from Spirit and +1 from the Lozano siblings being present whilst calling on a toxic power.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The Novasurge extends a hand as a smart cable shoots out, accompanied by a very self-indulgent sound effect, to wrap itself around the Chaser's wrists.

Isabelle pulls, causing the rope to tighten around her quarry - dragging her opponent to her feet. Quar doesn't resist, and is lifted up up up until their visors are almost touching. Whatever cameras are focused on the end of this fight, they see one mecha bring the other one close - are they speaking? staring? kissing?

What happens next is just between the two - a soft press of the forehead to one another. Just enough to transfer a small number of nanites - enough to write a few pale characters on the surface of the Chaser's helm.

Battle: Defeat: Learning: Growth

There's meanings within meanings there - meanings that she hopes, but isn't quite sure, she's conveyed as her reading on the Zaldarian language is in its infancy. Still, it should be good enough to get the broad message across.

And then Isabelle hoists Quar over her shoulder, carrying her away back to the hangars.

In the silence that follows - it's a good time to reflect on thoughts. Thoughts of how her mother's advice stood her well - delivered her victory. Of how titanium and hydraulics give her the strength to carry someone easily when she'd probably be staggering each step right now if she were doing this in person. Thoughts about the fact that she has no idea what she's doing here, just following the beats of "Star Raiders vol 2 - The Zaldarian Warlady" and hoping that the holovids love it and that she might just be giving the wrong message as to what she's going to do to Quar when they get back and oh god, why did she use the rope aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

That's right Isabelle. Project the image. Strong, in control, dominating your opponent. The world doesn't need to know anything else.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Quar

Knight of Zaldar!

Your opponent dances back from her strike, ducking under the swing and getting in behind you before you can complete your trap. You can still feel the pain from her blow - both the phantom injury from her blade as well as the deeper ache that comes from the knowledge that you will not win this fight. Indeed, your last hope, your only ace, is stripped away from you even now. Whatever your opponent is, however committed to this fight she is in mind, she has held back enough to spot the cartridge.

Her hand grips your wrist, pulling it away and sending it skittering along the surface of the platform where it detonates. And in that flash - rendered in stark white and blacks - she brings her sword once again down on you.

The sword strikes just below your arm, monofilament edges scoring your armour at the joint.

Her left hand releases your wrist, as a new blade extends from a hidden compartment. It hits you along the hip, sparks flying as it traces the contours of your leg with a lover's precision.

Her right hand is empty as it plunges into your chest, through the opening made by her earlier strike. Long metallic fingers reach inside, they brush your drive, delving deeper, reaching ... reaching ... before ...

They ... withdraw?

Your heart still beats, your drive still has fire within it. Your arm joint was not severed, as should have been the case. And apart from the scoring on your hip, no blow has penetrated.

Speak not to the outsider.

But she's saying something to you anyway.

She's saying you can't win. You're outclassed. And if she had wanted to end this fight it would have been over now.

She's saying she knows what it feels like to lose like this. To these moves. Do you recognise them?

She's saying she won't do that to you. She doesn't want to hurt you like that.

The Novasurge withdraws, blade readied. She's waiting on your reply. But what is she offering? To teach you? To ally with you?

The sword is levelled, and a single rune blazes to life.

Kneel.

What do you do?

Isabelle.

You've always been good at denying yourself things, even when they'd ultimately benefit you. In this case, cleaving to your mother's instructions is more important than losing yourself completely in the fight.

So you don't. You stay focused. You remember the task.

But things are different than before. And they may well keep being different going forward. It'll just take a single step at a time. Inch by inch. Seeing what you can get away with.

Right now, it's in hoping your opponent wants Solarel more than they want the win.

And it's not like your mother can complain if your plan works. After all, what's more impressive than defeating a Zaldarian knight than getting one to surrender?

[Isabelle forgoes the XP to avoid the trap and instead is trying to entice a surrender. Roll: 6 + 3 + 0 = 9]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Novasurge and Lightning Chaser - two mechs, whose names speak of speed and primordial elements.

Isabelle and Quar - two pilots who have been touched by the same spark, albeit in different ways.

Their mechs dance across the platform, each breaking cover, firing, swinging back behind outcrop or metal. Munitions blast craters in the platform or detonate out in space - making for miniature stars of their own - as the two do battle and Isabelle gives herself over to the fight entirely.

[Clearing her last condition]

It's something that cannot be described to those who have not piloted before - that moment where conscious thought evaporates. No longer is one's brain saying that it's time to fire this shot, or to move here, or go there, or dodge this. Instead, your hands go lose on the controls, the pressure of the harness stops registering as a restraint and every jolt and shudder that hits the mech becomes a movement of you - of your body - your hands - your legs - your arms.

The anger that Quar feels is building. That much becomes obvious as the fight progresses and as Isabelle demands more and more of her opponent. No, you can't hold back. Remember how they said Solarel fights? She gives it her all. No restraint. No regrets. Push! Push harder and harder! Whatever costs you will bear later, use that to spend for an advantage now!

Missiles streak out, only to be met with defensive autocannon fire - exploding in great flowers of red and white. Plasma shots trace lines across the stellar expanse until the capacitors start to glow with heat.

She forces Quar to commit. To stretch. And in those moments where the Zaldarian tries to bring it all to bear. To convert that sacrifice to victory ...

Isabelle is gone. In that instant where Quar took her eyes off her, Isabelle vanished from her senses and everything she was now feels the absence.

Chase. Then break.

That anger drives Quar to do the only thing left to her - to commit more. To double down in her pursuit. Until Isabelle is no longer running but leading the dance. A dance that takes the two partners down one of the chasms and around a blind corner.

And into a waiting blade.

[Rolling to fight. Taking +1 forward from the read-a-person: 3 + 4 + 3 = 10: Isabelle chooses to inflict a condition, seize a superior position and take a string.]

You should flee. Disengage. Get some distance. Because staying here in the confines of these narrow walls, giving into that anger of yours and meeting Isabelle blade for blade?

Well, that's the path to defeat. But ... at the same time ... are you able to turn away from this woman? This Tenarian who fights with skill whilst taunting you with words of the great enemy? And do you recognise her style? That vanishing move she'd pulled earlier?

Because, if you recognise it - you might also recognise that you are in danger now. More than ever before.

But a small part of you wants to face what comes next. Prove you can withstand it. Or, failing that, prove that you are brave enough to take it head on.

What will you do?

[Spending the string immediately: Stay here Quar and meet your end. Isabelle will be gentler than Solarel ever was.]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya's hands slips aaround Ven's brass, entwining their fingers together, while her other arm rises to rest on her girlfriend's back (eeee girlfriend!) to pull her closer beside her. For a moment, they stare into each other's eyes and, were that waitress staring from behind the curtains she might find herself fighting a flash of disappointment when, by unspoken agreement, the two of them close the gap and rest their foreheads against one another.

Her movements are soft and caring. They say the words that Kalaya can't give voice to right now because there are too many of them. "I want you beside me too." "I want this." "I want us" "I'm trusting you too." "You're safe here." "Don't let go." "I love you." "I love you" "I love you".

"No matter what else ... this is right."

The two rest there for a moment, until Kalaya can feel some of the tension drain from the other woman's shoulders.

"We'll figure this out." she says. It's not really an answer, although it is also definitely not a dismissal.

"Tell me more about the cakavatti." she says, turning to include Peregrine in the question. "What, exactly, is involved in this and how are you planning to get it to work?"

[Rolling to give Ven some more emotional support and spending a string to offset a condition: 3 + 5 + 2: 10 - If she opens up to Kalaya then she can choose an option from the list (I'd most likely be going with "get insight on the obstacle facing them") - otherwise Kalaya will take a condition for being Smitten with Ven]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya squeezes back, her brow furrowed in thought.

There are many things that Ven might not be telling her - the tone of voice she's using reminds her of the time they'd cooked up the plan to steal Lin's new prized pet. What someone had forgotten to mention was that it was a very loud, smelly and aggressive spider-monkey. Following an escapade that had involved alot of running, windows, the monkey and a nearby guard ... the two had ended up having to hurriedly wash fresh night-soil out of their hair before slinking home in defeat.

It had turned out that Ven knew about the monkey, but hadn't thought it would have been that dangerous. It was a tone that said "I think we can do this" rather than "I know we can". It was a tone that sounded like she was trying to think up more reasons on why to do this, when she knew the one glaring reason why they shouldn't.

What that problem was though, could be almost anything - whatever magic they are looking to use might be dangerous for Ven, she might not want to pay whatever price Peregrine would take for the ritual - or, or bear whatever cost the ritual itself might impose on her. There might be something going on with Hell that complicates matters or it might be she's just worried that the Kingdoms will reject her, Cakkavatti nor not.

She squeezes Ven's hand again. Searching her eyes for a clue. Her worry plain as day.

Ven

C'mon Ven, this is your girlfriend! (eeee girlfriend!) Communication is fundamental to any good relationship. You really shouldn't keep this all bottled up inside. It'll only worry her more at the end of the day.

And just look at those eyes. That brown waving hair. Those smooth cheeks that just beg for a kiss. Keeping secrets from her is just criminal! And you can see she wants you to tell her, even if she won't ask it directly - even if she respects your privacy too much to pry.

You know her, you know she won't judge you. Whatever it is that you're worried about, it's safe to share.

You look at her hand in yours, and can't help but notice it's warm too.

[Rolling to entice: 6 + 3 + 1: 10 - puppy dog eyes deployed!]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

What does she feel?

It's certainly not surprise - the opening blast from Quar is predictable, it's been used before, so Isabelle already knows to bend Novasurge out of the way, spinning up and aound the beam, before blasting forward on its thrusters to close the distance.

It's certainly not anger - there's only a cold detachment as she steps through the choreographed moves of this fight - returning fire with a few of her missiles and adding a blast of cannon fire for good measure.

It's certainly not the thrill of the chase - she's already ending this phase as Quar begins her predictable retreat. Break the rhythm, as her mother instructed. And Novasurge speeds towards the cover of the platform's chasms.

There's no ancient facility to explore, no pirates to be captured by, no moon to be spirited away to. No swords of gold and silver to cross. So there's certainly none of the fear, of the insecurity and panic, giving way to adrenaline and the tentative hope of a connection. There's no tragedy, no tears, no recriminations, no soul searching, existential, worry about what she's turning into, no fear of her mother's reaction. And no constant lonli --- well ... there's always that. That's normal.

Back in the cockpit, back in a match, back to following her mother's instruction. Back to family, to expectations and to a job she has to do. Back to the stable orbit in her assigned place. All of this is normal.

That's how she feels: Normal.

But that's not to say nothing has changed. This time, she's done her own reading, her own research on you Quar. She's read up on more than just the dossiers that she's been handed.

And, as she swings into the chasm, her hand slaps the rim. A small patch starts to melt and glow as one other change makes itself apparent.

Zaldarian glyphs, a single word: Exile.

No, not quire right.

The Exile.

Speak not to the outsider, indeed, but what do you do, Quar, when they can speak to you?

[Roll to figure out a person: 4 + 2 + 2: 8

- What are your feelings towards Solarel?
- How can I get you to dance to my plan?
- Bonus combat question: What do you fear is your destiny?]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

At first Isabelle freezes from surprise. Her mother was never physically affectionate unle --

Oh. Of course. The staff are watching ...

She quickly returns the hug, although her grasp is feather light, as if she's afraid of putting too much pressure on Almira's skin. Once she's released, her hands quickly return to the proper position, clasped in front of her. Head down, expression chastised. Sorry.

She suppresses the flinch when her mother's voice lingers on the word 'fool'. Those around her would never know, but Almira never shows her true displeasure in public, those are only reserved for more private moments in her home - her fortress that is swept safe from prying eyes and ears. For her to use such language, to emote and dance on the line between 'loving but concerned mother' and something that the tabloids could actually use against her - she must be livid. Isabelle grasps her forearms, feeling the goosebumps under her dress sleeves, and worries about what might await her once the doors are shut and the staff dismissed.

"Yes mother. I'm sorry, mother. It will not happen again." she says, rote words and supplications.

It's a flimsy shield, but it's all she has.

The walk gives her time to reflect. With all that's happened over the last days a bath and food would be great but, more than hunger and discomfort, all she feels is a tired numbness. Too long awake, too much felt and fought. Too much cried out over the moments where she was left alone in the dark in a dying facility. The aching fingers of fatigue pull on her eyelids and all she really wants is to return to her quarters to sleep.

For now, though, she can't let that show. Head straight, posture perfect, steps quick and measured. The new boots on her feet ache. She's done this before, can do it again. Riding her reserves until the moment when she passes out, face down in a book at her desk. Hopefully tonight won't be that bad, but there will be nights like that between now and the match. Practice needs to be done and reports need to be read, after all.

The zero-g combat will be a different kind of arena, but not one she's unfamiliar with. The chief difficulty is likely to be just overcoming or circumventing her opponent's advantages of speed and ranged preference. If she can be trapped, or closed with, the fight will be over fast.

Her opponent herself though, the public data that Akkar has provided doesn't tell her much. For those insights, she will wait until she reads the more detailed information that her mother's sources have provided her.

"Do you have any other specific instructions for me, mother?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral. "Otherwise, I will get to work immediately on prepping Novasurge for the match and reading the transcripts."

[Invoking Guidance from Above: Asking a superior for guidance and useful information regarding how to defeat Quar Dilara.]

Later. Much later. She walks back through the door to the quiet, dark sanctuary of her private quarters. Normally the solitude would be comforting, a safe haven away from everything and everyone else. Tonight though, just feels empty.

She'd spent the evening in the workshops, carefully avoiding her crew. One in particular. She knew she'd lashed out, she'd hurt Asil. Part of her wondered if she'd forgive her - a larger part expected that she wouldn't. She couldn't blame her. She just wasn't a good person.

Curling up around that guilt like a pillow, she laid her leaden limbs down on the bed and, without moving a muscle, turned off the lights.