Phoe

Breathless Dead

The hallway screams like a mute. She raises one hand halfheartedly, almost lazily, and drags her claw tips across the length of the hall as she walks. Her reward is nothing but a soft susurrus of tearing polymers, and thin lines of jagged gouges rippling up and down like waves as her steps carry her unevenly, unsteadily, but ever forward. The blackened material glides like water underneath her fingertips. It defeats her even so. She draws a deep and shuddering breath, and even this is swallowed up into the blackness of the sleek, dark corridor.

This is no place for the singing of bells. She tears her sleeves from her arms as she walks; where they fall marks the end of her attack on the wall. No pleasure, no comfort to be had in the act. Her feet fall against the floor like snowflakes on a bed of wet leaves. She is quiet when she wants to be, but here she is a shadow. Mist. Nothing. Every step presses down into the soft and giving material until it springs back up with the lifting of her knee and bounces her forwards. Her damp, bedraggled skirts cling forlornly to her legs, the unheard drip drip drip from the lace linings and her hair tips even now washing little puddles of dejection in a line behind her.

Ahead of her, the soft and tremulous flicker of candlelight. Her eyes swallow the offering, two pale golden orbs, sweeping through the darkness. The servant who comes across her flinches, as if shrinking into a hunched up ball would save her from the merciless knives and poisons and wires that lie hidden everywhere aboard the Anemoi. Stupid, worthless dog, those aren't even what you should be worrying about. Bella snaps her fingers. The scrawny young servant snaps to attention.

"Clean this. All of it. Now."

"I... um, o-oh! A-a-a-at once, Praetor!"

She dips into a deep bow that manages to be at once serene and servile even as Bella kicks off her soaking, broken boots right in front of her. It is enough to spare her any deeper punishment. A child of the Kennels knows all sorts of ways to make a Bad Girl beg forgiveness, after all. She sniffs, and walks on without further comment, the sounds of scrubbing and sniveling soon swallowed up by the walls once more.

The door slides open with barely a touch, and even less sound. Activated by the presence of her body heat, lines of perfect crystals hum and glow until the room is filled with pale yellow light. Dim enough to be slept under. Perfect for reading, if one were so inclined. Bella shivers. Her fur is a matted mess. Her tail is bony and pathetic. There is no one here to see her. No one to hear her. Her arms bend gracefully and with the practiced hand of a servitor charged with years of tending to the attire of the most important person in the galaxy slide her bottoms down her legs for her to step out of cleanly. Her fingers lift automatically to carefully unbutton her shirts, skipping over the spaces where fate or some cruel god has stolen one or two from her. They join her other clothes with a wet slap.

Her fingers glide across the thick collar around her neck, now the only piece of clothing on her body. Her creamy, smooth skin glistens in the cool air of her room, marred by little goosebumps that nonetheless do nothing to bring her to the chest of drawers where fresh clothes lie waiting. The room bears witness to her perfection. The exacting lines at her shoulders and her thighs where her fur ends and the flawless, almost human flesh begins. The chemicals they used to burn away the rest of her warm white fur didn't even leave lasting scars. Of course not. They wouldn't have dared to make a mistake with a child of pedigree like hers. Even the deep marks where they tore out her whiskers were polished away until nothing remained but beauty. But Bella.

Her fingers softly trace each burnished metal link on her leash in turn, finding comfort in the slick smoothness of the metal and the regularity of each shape. All of it purpose built. All of it perfect. All of it...

She pricks a finger against the jagged edge where Jas'o broke her unblemished image in front of the Princess. She grinds her fingers against it harder, seeking blood. The tiniest drip draws a sigh from her lips, that forces her head over to the porthole looking out across the terrible reaches of the polychromatic hell that is Space. Where she's waiting, again. Where she slipped away to, again. Where she's--

"Re... dana..." the whisper is entirely too loud inside her ears. Lush and filled with longing, for a safe life where things made sense and the girl who opened the Box still smiled at her. For home. Nothing more than that.

Bella tears herself away from the nightmare she's now swimming in, and her half-lidded eyes find her feet. She squeezes them shut, but the pictures won't go away. The smells are stuck on her. She walks slowly to her dresser and opens up the top drawer, the one where not a shred of clothing can be found.

She takes the decanter in her hand. Such a small thing, but unique in all the world. The stopper is a glimmering red rose, each petal carved individually by the hand of some master craftsman to trap the precious treasure inside. A birthday gift, fit for a princess. One she hadn't had time to bring with her when she was scrambling to bring ruin to the only home she'd ever known. Bella pulls the stopper free with a trembling hand, and stares longingly at the clear liquid inside.

She draws out several drops, only a precious few, and dabs them with surgical precision on her pillow, and at the corners of her bedsheets. She closes the bottle, and waits. One, two. Three. She closes her eyes, and breathes deep.

There it is. Nothing to ruin it this time. Nothing to spoil the feeling. The smell of the garden that swims in Redana's perfume. The butterflies and giggly gossip and sunshine naps that nobody but the Princess of Tellus has ever worn. Will ever wear. Bella's breathing slows. She carefully puts the decanter away, locking the drawer when she closes it and then climbing smoothly on top of the bed.

Her eyes drift shut. She floats inside a bubble called home. She gives one final shiver, and curls herself up tightly. There, with the lights still twinkling in their softness, without even climbing under the covers, she drifts off under the watchful gaze of the Oneiroi.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne snorts, and tosses her head back to laugh like a lion. Regal and bellowing, as much roar as mirth, she fills the halls with her sound as easily as she's filled them with herself. Her hands grab possessively up and down her Annunaki prisoner, leaving few secrets between them. Then she snaps her fingers, and the chain lowers her all the way to the floor to wiggle and pant and moan herself into a stupor. There are other matters to attend to, yes.

"Is that so? Is that the dearest wish of your heart, that crawled all the way through the dark and the cold just to find me and speak it into the world? I wonder..."

Clonk. Clonk. Clonk. Marianne's boots pound out a heavy tread from every side of her... guest as she moves closer. She looms over the other girl, smoking like she's just been on fire, smelling like a forest full of charcoal after a storm. Her teeth are even sharper and less inviting when she scowls.

"Open yourself to me," she thunders and grabs the girl by either side of her head, "You have no secrets. You have no lock, I need no key. Unfold. Unfurl. Unravel. Reveal the pathway to your heart and let me walk the pathways of your secret garden."

Her grip is iron. The shadows deepen across her face and warp her mask to something animistic and terrifying. The third eye opens on her forehead, and burns with terrible golden light. Impossible to look away from, impossible not to wish she'd blink.

[Unleash Your Powers: 8. Marking Angry for a deep look at the world of Daisy's heart, which Marianne will draw her own conclusions from]

Breathless Dead

"Guh! Ahhh, AHHH! Let! Me! Hffff, aaahhhh, nnnrrrrrgh! Go! Traitor! TRAITOR! Useless, guhhhaaah! Statue!"

Bella screams like she's dying. Like the touch of stone and bronze on her skin and fur that's holding her in place is tearing the life from her body. Her thrashing would send lesser soldiers tumbling to the ground in disarray. She should be free. She howls. She should be turning to pounce, to tear with her claws until not even the miracles of modern medicine could save the idiot who dared to grab her. When she kicks her legs, her flexibility is almost as surprising as the shock of the impacts they cause.

She is a whirlwind of death. She is a storm. She is a prayer to the chaos and fury of Ares. And she is held fast by the statue of Athena. Who else could contain her right now? All at once, Bella's body falls slack in defeat. Did you know? There are few things in the universe heavier or more awkward than an unsupported body. Only her tail maintains its furious assault; the rest of her is an awkward anchor seeking the ground. This too would be the death of almost any Hoplite. Be proud, Alexa.

"...You're so pathetic."

The words are choking her. Has she run out of breath? Is her froth cutting off her speech? Or is she... has she started crying? No, that's impossible. Her body bursts from slack to fighting in an instant as she tries again to kick her way into a clawing position. Her furious hiss is unmistakable, though unsteady. Another failure; she droops a second time.

"What would you know about friendship, anyway? Did the Princess tell you to make nice with every filthy rat and piece of scrap that's snuck on board that filthy piece of shit you call a ship? Ha, sounds just like her. All those stories she used to read instead of studying... she's so stupid."

Bella's ears flicker up and down, bending just slightly behind her before they droop as slack as the rest of her body. Her head lowers, and she burbles with wet laughter. Up, then down. Sharp, then sick. The kind of sound a person makes because the alternative is falling to ruin. Because she can't control anything else. She's held and she's helpless and the tension that keeps rippling through her body before it collapses again says in a loud voice that this is not ok.

"She doesn't need you, Alexa. The second you don't live up to her idea of you, you're gone. The snooty harem bitch, too. Gone. She's probably thinking about it even now, hahaha. None of you useless bastards did a fucking thing to save her from Jas'o. You weren't there to keep the Ceronians from tearing her to pieces! I was! Me! I'm the only one! The only one who's good enough for her! I, haha, I'm all she needs!"

This as far as the conversation goes. There's nothing left in her throat but these words, whispered over and over like a prayer. A spell she's cast to shield her heart. She is calm. Still. Perfect. Her feet touch the ground, and her tail flicks appreciatively. Her head tilts up and she eyes Alexa coolly. And she smirks.

"I'm all she needs."

She leaps back just before a sharp crack fills the room again, and the loudest explosion anyone has heard all day finally knocks over the walls. She's leaping, riding the massive chunks of crumbling architecture like a surfer riding a wave, because somehow she felt this coming. But what about you, Alexa?

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Ah, the careful whisper in the dark: fighting to be heard and missed with equal force. What could be worse than being caught, except for being ignored? When the effort of these few chanced and clumsy words costs a person their life, when their frightened and pounding heartbeat sounds louder in their ears than their plea, when fear and doubt and uncertainty quiver in every hoarse syllable, and these words are spoken anyway? They are worth more than the proclamations of a thousand so-called Kings and Queens. They are worth more than a pile of riches so deep they could pay for a lifetime's worth of idle pleasures and never near the bottom. They are worth more than an army arriving at your back with the coming of the dawn. Such words deserve an answer. Such words can summon Marianne.

Laughter cracks like a whip in the dark. Everywhere this little interloper steps, the ground cracks at her feet. Small splinters at first, that grow wider and wider as steps turn to stomps and even full on leaps away, until the hall is filled with an eerie green witch-light as the world inside the architecture bursts open for these chosen eyes to see. There's a yelp and a lash of chains, and with two yanks in two directions, Daisy sinks down to her thighs as Abijah rises from a particularly wide hole to dangle from the ceiling by her ankles.

The proud Annunaki is wrapped provocatively in chains that seem placed to tease and tantalize as much as they're there to hold her in place. The ones wrapped into a thick ball around her wrists and hands make sense, as do the links squeezing her calves together, but does she need the ones snaking around her thighs or her stomach? What are the ones pressing up against the underside of her chest supposed to do other than, um... lift and separate? She's been stripped of her veil, too. Or rather it's been put to better use crammed inside of her lips, with a small length of silver bindings holding it in place and making sure she's little more than a silent witness to this meeting of the minds.

All at once, the ground sews itself shut again. It's disturbingly solid and even more disturbingly still squeezing Daisy's legs like a vice. But just before she can scream for forgiveness or for help, a hand grabs her by the collar and roughly drags her up out of the ground to drop her on her butt on the hard, smooth, frigid stone of the arena catacombs. There is the sound of a deep breath, and a cloud of smoke wafts from somewhere in the darkness.

"Do you know? When summoning a demon, it is customary to make an offering. Shall I take your soul, little robin? I think I will, if I do not like the sweetness of your song."

Her burning eyes are the only source of light down here. Marianne's teeth glint with evil sharpness against that backdrop with her wide and daring grin. Her boots tap softly on the ground until she's standing just at Abijah's side. She traces her fingers along the Annunaki's spine with a playful sort of possessiveness, stoops to press her thumb against the underside of her jaw, and rises to fingers along the crisscrossed pathways of chains winding up and down her thighs. Marianne leers at her guest.

"You would like to taste the goods as well, yes? Come and speak with Marianne! What wish do you have that makes you so bold, hmm? What weight has dragged you down into my world, hmmm?"

Breathless Dead

Betrayed. Betrayed. Betrayed.

Bella is soaked with adrenaline. Every nerve is lightning, arcing backwards from the tips of her fingers and her toes across the length of her limbs, deep into her core until her heart pounds and sends them to explode inside her brain. She chokes on her words with great, heaving gasps. Her retort is lost inside her growl. Her wit is something she slashes into the floor beneath her hands.

Betrayed. Betrayal. Traitor.

Her heartbeat quickens. It rushes like a river until the pulsing of her blood is the only noise inside her desperately straining ears. And even still, the word echoes inside her. It bounces. It leaps, like a dancer by the fireside, gleefully adding more wood and fanning the roaring bonfire without regard to the dry brush all around it. Her body burns, white hot. She shakes with the effort of keeping it inside of her.

Traitor. Traitor! Betrayed! She!

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT! UP!"

Bella explodes, faster and more terrifying than any Thunderbolt seen this day. She tears gashes in the floor as she bounds on all fours at the start, unaware of every sensation except that of moving forward. Her legs shatter the marble tiles as she leaves them. Her feet touch the ground once, and scream lightning at her body.

She flies. Her golden eyes are trembling, ugly, filled with hate and wet in spite of everything else. She flies, and her spine curves to support the bend in her elbow. Her claws sing like scythes through the air as she hurtles toward Vasilia. The weapon that felled both Queen and King now turns itself on a Captain.

Bella swings, with the full force of her body. Her hand slashes in a wide arc travelling diagonally from face to foot with a furious rush and a pressure that seems to tear gashes through the air itself. Wild power, without restraint or care for it, lacking any precision or intent except to see the other cat fall messily in half right in front of her. There's so much raw strength in her swing that it sticks her claws into the ground like spears where it finishes. She follows the momentum without a hitch and spins in a full circle that carries a crushing heel straight at the pistol taking aim at her.

Bella wrenches herself free. She rolls her neck from side to side without a single pop or crack, and starts hunching low for another pounce. There's a terrible laugh that won't stop bubbling out of her lips. She grins, a sick thing that drips with slobbering malice instead of mirth.

"Redana is mine," she trills, as her eyes flicker dangerously, "I won't let you steal her from me, you backwater slut."

[Vasilia, damage your Grace]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Abijah ab-Marduk!

This is not how you pictured your afternoon going. It was supposed to involve a lot more sipping fizzy drinks and being fanned by your absolute cutie of a slave-girl, for one thing. And for another you weren't supposed to even see Lady Jezcha, let alone have her pawn off her duties on you at the last minute. Spoiled little Daddy's Girl, who does she think she is? Next time you'll give her a piece of your mind, that's what you'll do!

Haha, who are you kidding? She is terrifying. She'd probably shoot you in half just for thinking about this, let alone saying it. Besides, the chain had got to be respected, or else how were the poor, stupid slaves to be expected to know how to fall in line? But that's not stopping you from being in a foul mood. Patrol the arena, Abijah! Oversee the cleaning, Abijah! Whip the slaves, Abijah! Bitch. You honestly can't decide whether you'd rather this turn out to be a waste of your time and at least be over quickly or actually find something worth policing and have a fresh target to take out all this frustration on.

You're just about to reach the conclusion that you need a punching bag after all when a horrifically cold wind comes clawing up your legs and pulls a shiver straight out of your spine. Brr. Your expertly trained ears pick up the heavy clomping of feet and you wheel around with slightly too jumpy to be intimidating energy and raise your weapon into firing position. A ratty earth girl with a broom drops cowering to the ground in terror, but it's of you. There's nothing else here.

"Show yourself!" you bark, but you're already wincing inside because the upward trail of your voice just betrayed you.

You growl, and the slave girl prostrates herself on her stomach, not sure how else to please you. You sigh and lower your weapon a moment later. You're being stupid. It's just because Shamash has come. You're nervous because if you get blamed for some stupid draft spoiling their glory and their pleasure it's going to mean hell for you and yours. Better go find that busted tunnel so you can get a slave to fix it in time.

You make it twenty paces into the shadow of a wall before instinct makes you pull your weapon up again, hot and ready to fire. You definitely heard that. That... that horrible scraping sound. The clattering. The throaty chuckle rolling just behind it. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. You can't even tell if the footsteps are getting closer or farther away, because they seem to be coming from a dozen different directions all at once. You spin twice around, but there's nothing here besides the shadows. The shapes splashed across the walls remind you of wings.

"Where are you? Surrender yourself now!"

You have to fight to sound authoritative; the air is getting so cold in here it's starting to dull your thoughts. You hear a strange, metallic click and spin to see the source, and your blood freezes in your body all at once. She's here. The demon is here, with her baleful eyes and her disgustingly tattered, foul smelling rags, leaning on a wall and puffing on a burning stick of incense. The cloud of smoke she breathes out smells like death. Oh no. Oh heavens, grant you strength, she's smiling.

You fire without thinking about it, more times than you can count right now. The wall smolders in response. There is no Demon there at all. So why can you still see the ruby glint of Ma-Ri-Ann's fangs?

Rattle, rattle. You hear the jangling of chains just behind you, just above, just... underneath! You spin, you dance, you point your weapon everywhere, but you find nothing but vile smelling mist to shoot at.

"Allons enfants de la Patrie~"

This is a spell. This is an evil spell. It has to be a spell. She... Ma-Ri-Ann casts spells, right? Your feet feel heavy. Your legs are turning to stone, surely. Why can't you move?!

"Le jour de gloire est arrivé!"

It's so cold. It's so, so cold. Forget being mad, forget Jezcha, forget whatever punishment you're supposed to be afraid of, you need to run! It can't be worse than this... singing, and the scraping metal accompanying it.

"Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé~"

You summon every last bit of energy left in your shivering, frozen body, and you sprint toward the sun. Toward safety. You make it six full strides before the serpents find you. Cold and metal, made of links instead of scales, but slithering, wriggling, squirming, squeezing, biting just the same. You open your mouth to scream, only to find an arm bursting forth from the writhing mass of chain-serpent to clamp its red gloved hand across your lips underneath your veil.

"L'étendard sanglant est levé!"

In the tunnels beneath the arena, a chill winter's wind is howling. The body of Abijah ab-Marduk sinks into the floor with screams reduced to whimpers. And those soon smothered by laughter. The shadows writhe and deepen.

This place belongs to her. To the demon, Marianne.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne leans further forward on her perch, so much that she swings around and dangles upside down from the underside. She folds her arms across her chest and taps away at the crook of her elbow with an impatient finger. Her face is frozen in a permanent smirk, and all her breathing is done by way of half-laughing snorts out of her nose. But she is quiet enough, still enough, hidden enough to allow for this small indulgence.

So, this is what it looks like when a shield plays at being a spear. And for that matter, what it looks like when a mongrel dog plays at being a gentleman. Quelle suprise, their dance is a wonder only to slack-jawed dimwits and drunkards waiting to stumble home with lightened pockets and heavier hearts. It takes patience and vision to see a sham for what it is.

And still, she holds her hand. This is Canada's moment to shine, bright as she is, and her moment to dance. A cloak must know when to hang itself on the rack, lest its owner stumble on the tattered, fluttering ends. Therefore wait, Marianne! Watch, Marianne! A dagger in the knight is worth ten spears in the glittering sun! And when the trumpet sounds your song, then it will be your turn to dance, yes yes!

Marianne's eyes dart all across the room, marking each grovelling Annunaki in turn. She is out of patience with Shamash, beyond needing to care about the nameless dredge, but Jezcha holds her attention longer than the rest. Ah, is this your doing, little star? How sweet you are to worry! Fret not, Marianne has found tonight's calling card, yes!

It's not sloth that's held her hand. It is not mercy. It is not fear. It is not even trust. It is merely the understanding that a castle must sometimes be pulled down brick by single brick. Her chosen sisters, they were dreamers with heads full of glittering ideals. But she, Marianne, was here to do a job. And she did not achieve that job by selling out results for anybody's pretty thoughts. Canada would not fail. Canada might get herself maimed beyond recognition tonight, but even that will serve the Cause. The opening, the crack, the moment where the mission will smother everything like a blanket carved from pure night sky will come. And when it does, she will dive. And they will, together, tear loose another brick or three.

Attendre et espérer.

Breathless Dead

Bella's boot squeaks on the hard surface of the palace floor. Her ears strain and twitch toward every little sound that slips under the roaring of the engines settling outside in the storm that thunders as furiously as ever. She flinches; there are so many. Another step backwards, toward the door, toward freedom, toward her life, and the squeak is so loud that it's deafening. The ship is just a holo her messy princess left on before she passed out. The storm could fit inside a tea kettle. They don't measure up to the squeak squeak squeak of her boots, inching backwards.

The wet and incomprehensible moans of her Mistress as she strains as heroically as she used to in wrestling practice against her bonds, like the only thought inside her head is to wriggle free enough to crack her face open on the floor. The grinding of Bella's teeth joins the horrible chorus trying to drag her to her knees right now. Her bells chime angrily as she pulls her arms even tighter around her princess. Do they mean nothing to you, Princess?

There's a scraping grind of bronze settling into place that draws Bella's eyes away from her Mistress and across the room to Alexa. Her gaze slides down the length of that form, this love song to Athena, down her legs to lock on to where her feet are planted. Bella's face twitches. Surprise. Betrayal. And for a single moment, a hurt that she can't keep off of her features. Squeak, squeak, squeak go the boots. She backpedals faster. She'll be at the door before long, and...

Bella drinks deeply of the storm-soaked air. Her ears flatten against her skull to drown out the noises, leaving her inside the world of scents instead. In and out, in and out. Her muscles relax as she picks up the whiff of the Princess' favorite perfume peaking out from beneath the tang of her sweat, fear pheremones, and the strange musk of sickness that's plaguing her poor broken body right now. She squeezes tight again, hard enough to steal breath this time. No. No! Leave that one behind. That is not for you, Bella. Find it again, the speck of warm cinnamon cloaked in roses and violets that swim in a sea of...

Her nose wrinkles. She sniffs again. Again. Again! She spits violently. That disgusting reek of pure laser. Bella's ears perk up just in time to catch a single sound more terrible than any other in all the vast universe of sound trapped inside this room.

"Redana."

She trembles. Her lips curl upward, showing sharp, dazzling teeth. Her golden eyes are burning, open wide as they can go and filled with the bitterest of hatred. Hatred for her stupid scent that she wears like a barbarian clown. Hatred for her tacky captain's uniform that no sane person would do anything less than burn, and yet, and yet... that scoff. That stupid, sleepy drawl. Confidence stolen from some dark crevice where no one else would even think to sniff for it. The tail, swishing so lazily behind her. Her ears, her nose, her, her, her..!

"Redana..."

Bella isn't stepping backwards anymore. Another twenty paces at the most and she'd be free. Her mouth opens, but the only sound that comes out is a low hiss. Her every motion is slow and deliberate. Even rippling with tension and aggression as she is, she stoops down to set Red-- her Mistress on the ground with a gentleness that's immediately swallowed up by the way she shoots back to full height, and the deliberate stride with which she steps over her body.

Bella's tail is raised high behind her, fully bushing in a display of naked hatred more ancient even than the lost empires that sowed the seeds of her homeland. The fur on her arms and legs bristles right alongside it. Her left leg slides in front of her and strains more rigidly than steel with readiness and with need to explode forward and pounce in the only sort of motion that could satisfy her right now. Her arms hang in front of her as she curls and uncurls her fingers, stretching her deadly and still dull-red claws and the glistening talon-rings on her index and middle fingers. The shattered half of her collar's chain slumps around the front of her and clatters against the floor. Her back hunches forward until her fingers are low enough to dig grooves into the marble.

Her every breath is a hiss. Every sound her throat makes is choked with flecks of spittle. Every muscle coils like springs and tenses with pure, animal lust for revenge.

"...say her name..." the words sneak out in strained and barely audible chirps in between her growls.

"Don't..." her chest heaves with the effort of pulling in enough air to calm herself, to bring everything back under control.

It's too late. It's much too late for that. How dare she. How dare she do it so easily. How dare she, how dare she, how dare she?

"DON'T YOU EVER SAY HER NAME AGAIN! Stupid bitch, I'll tear it right off your lips!"

Breathless Dead

There is nothing of softness in Bella's face. There is no hint of joy. The thought that she might purr comfort or sing as sweetly as the muses is to be banished from the mind forever. Bella is rigid. Her jaw is clenched so tightly that it might shatter soon, and her lips are pressed thin against one another as she chances a glance down at her squirming, struggling, suddenly very noisy ward. Her eyes are sharp and hard, and no less determined than Redana's. She has not come here to fail.

But there's an instant before everything breaks, where her fingers find the softest bed of gold in the entire universe and move themselves faster than the speed of thought to smooth those mussy locks. Her thumb tastes wetness; a tiny flicker of motion that reaches across time and finds them both safely home and whole. Redana's tear beads against Bella's thumb. The heat of it is unbearable; she flicks it away and with this new motion rips them back from Tellus to exist again in the crumbling landscape of the World Eater.

She opens her mouth with a loud and deliberate breath to speak to Alexa, and in this moment she's interrupted. Her ear flicks with irritation. Bella lifts her head and pulls her princess tighter against her. Her claws press more insistently as she squeezes tight. Possessive. She wrinkles her nose and flicks her tail from left, to right, and left again in a gesture of supreme irritation.

The scoff burns a path up her throat as it forces its way into the world. Her face melts slowly into a vicious sneer, muscle by muscle bubbling and rippling and reshaping itself to convey the sheer depths of her scorn. Her fangs flash brilliant white against the redness of her lips. Bella straightens her spine a little sharper and pushes out her chest, inexorably drawing the princess deeper into its prison. Her eyes flicker briefly and shrink themselves to slits before she suddenly stirs and noiselessly stretches her neck.

"...What the fuck is that supposed to mean? This what you deal with all the time, Alexa? Gods, no wonder you're eager to hitch a ride out. Right then, somebody please tell the circus reject to fuck off. I know it's hard to understand, but I actually don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne bears witness to this moment. Her coat flutters behind her, and inside its shrinking shadow her ruined wings wrap themselves around her shell. Her hood is torn from her head and flaps around her neck with a series of dull thwacks, the bounding of a half severed head. Her chains are rattling furiously. She raises one arm to cover her face, but there's nothing to hide the brilliant golden hair that's whipping unchecked behind her with all the rage of a waterfall and shining as though it were a crown pronouncing her a queen. The red-tinted gleam of her teeth shines painfully bright.

She is scowling. A thousand insults shred themselves to bits on her teeth before they escape her mouth. This is an important moment. A turning point. A moment of reckoning she has allowed to happen in her sloth, and so must allow to play out in full. She is decided. She will not cut Canada down at the knees. She will not swoop in and steal her away, she will not add her voice to this chorus, will not step onto the stage and wrap around her like some smothering security blanket. Great paws of shadow tense themselves at the edges of the light.

She leaps up, and is gone. Marianne finds a column of Doubt looming over Canada's battlefield, and she spins herself around it and vaults on, up, and on again until she reaches the top. She leans forward at the edge on all fours. She is a lioness waiting to pounce. But just now, she bears witness. From the cracks inside the light, she watches, and snorts, and smolders.

She knows who you are, Canada Taliv. She knows how this will end. Marianne is watching, waiting, to see what kind of shape your dagger-heart might be. This is the moment, the only moment, for you to find out what sort of teeth are hiding in your mouth. What is a dagger to you, Canada Taliv? And once it's in your hands, how will you choose to wield it?

Marianne leans forward. Her burning eyes drink in the sight of a god, the first god of her young life. She licks her lips with relish. She will bear witness.