Phoe

Breathless Dead

It's written that prior to the reign of Her Imperial Majesty Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Tellurian, most servitors had never known the taste of wine. Vast quantities of land were required to grow the grapes and age the juice into something fit for consumption. Wine was the drink of warriors and was reserved as such. In any case the servitor population was far too massive relative to True Humanity to support letting it pass their lips except perhaps by the grace of a particularly kind master or on especially bountiful or backwater planets where resource management was either so trivial or so pointless as to be ignorable.

But when Nero claimed the throne at the end of her grand adventures and war to end wars, she looked around at her empire and frowned. "I will not suffer my citizens to wither under the labor of those who know neither the pleasures of song or fine drink." Many insisted it was impossible, to say nothing of being pointless. But the Empress is very much not the kind of person who is dissuaded by doubters and lesser men.

Treasuries were emptied. Trellises were built, winding around all manner of available farmland on Tellus deep within the impossibly vast heating shafts that shot through the planet like arteries. The Empress herself devised a method by which the resulting liquids could be rapidly aged to a point of 'acceptable quality' using large amounts of heat and pressurized casks made from an aluminum alloy to prevent its manufacture from eating up the valuable space on her precious and desperately cramped planet.

And thereafter the lowest serving girls and even kennel trainees were given wine with their daily meals. Morale is said to have improved by an amount the Empress personally quantified as being 23.87429%. It is written that she smiled before promptly turning her mind to grander matters and never visiting the issue again.

Bella takes a long draft from her cup, letting the thin and oily liquid slide across her tongue and down her throat. The taste is watery and metallic, just barely not bitter or dry by way of how thoroughly boiled out whatever the originally intended flavor had become. And then, just underneath the surface come the comforting notes that truly make the Tellurian vintage so distinct and memorable: a daring slash of chemically extracted orange, a few drops of pure acid like rain, and then bringing up the rear is a scent almost more than a taste that can only be described as a furnace. The taste is heat. Let it linger in your mouth long enough and it will warm you, truly. It cannot be drunk without calling to mind an infinite field of concrete and a maze of glass, steel, and chipping gold filigree. A city so cramped and dominating that even the vast and open halls of the Imperial Palace feel confined by it. Desperate. Comforting. Home.

Bella snaps her fingers and then snatches the bottle out of the hands of a tiny and particularly frightened servant girl. She ignores the squeaking apology and refills her glass herself before taking a much slower and more deliberate sip. She ignores the tear that comes rolling down her cheek, and watches those violet eyes contemplate the infinite mystery of nothing whatso-fucking-ever.

She bites her lip in between sips, tilts her head to one side. Her ears twitch, seeking information where there is no more to find. Behind her, her tail curls with pleasure before flicking the feet of her chair. Not those eyes, she decides at last. Not that power. She is not jealous. She is a Praetor. Empress Nero's own praetor. The grandest servant of the absolute ruler who has never made a single mistake.

"You do not..." she begins, and then trails off.

Bella swirls the reddish liquid around in her cup, pinching the unsatisfying vessel between her fingers. Like everything else on the Anemoi it feels purposefully made to attract as little attention as possible. Matte black and slick to the touch, even the sloshing of the wine inside it sounds muted. Impossible not to hate it here. She swirls it again, more forcefully this time, just to the edge of spilling it all over. Her ears perk up as a pair of droplets splash against the table in front of her, just missing her clump of tablets and documents she brought with the intention of taking copious and detailed notes. She has not touched them, except to hold her pen in the exact way a certain princess used to before her tests. The final word of her thought, 'approve', fades into the hum of the dampers.

"I will use her however I see fit. But... I don't have any use for shattered planets. What's the point in smashing those dumps, anyway? You make better use of a weapon when you can act like you don't need it, so that's what we'll do here. Have a report sent to my room before this evening with the details of the place we're supposed to be travelling to. We're going to cut the princess off from all the little voices that keep, hffff, distracting her. Then it won't matter what Zeus does to protect her. No blood this time. Clean and proper, just the way she likes it."

Bella allows herself a smirk before she drains her glass for the second time. Her hand is already moving to fill it up again.

"...Now show me the next one. Don't you dare leave anything out."

Breathless Dead

It's the eyes that draw her in.

So vibrant! Bella has always prided herself on her powers of perception, but those eyes are violet windows into the invisible truth of the universe. Her tongue laps at the back of her teeth again and again as she stares. She swallows painfully; her throat is suddenly drier than Redana's textbooks. And the color... Bella has her mother's eyes. These are unique across the galaxy. Not just how they glint like brooches fit for the Empress' neck, but the sharp spark, that flash just underneath the surface that seems to devour the entire ship even despite being turned toward absolute nothingness.

Bella is dimly aware of the sound of her claws tapping on the table in front of her. Power. Absolute power. Power to know all, power to see all, the power to draw lines between each and every thing that could be. The power to never be taken by surprise. With that much power, a person would be invincible. With that much power, a person could never be betrayed.

"...Mynx," her voice sounds rough and unpleasant in her ears, without the husk or the melody she associates with speaking, "Call for wine."

Her fingers move to softly brush against her collar. The leather sinks beneath her probing fingertips with a pleasing suppleness that threatens to pull a low purr from her parched throat. She bites down hard until the feeling passes. Her hand pulls back to the hard, cold steel of the links that still dangle from the hook looped into the collar. Her leash. She closes her eyes, and there's no stopping that throaty rumble of pleasure this time.

Down, down, down. Link by link, until she finds the broken piece at the end. Her eyes open, and she watches the Ikarani sitting in perfect stillness again. No leash on that one. No control. But still, those eyes... yes. Eyes were always the path to strength. You could see it in every person. Just look at Redana. Just look at Her Majesty. With eyes like that, Bella could, could, could.

No. She swallows again, and turns her head to watch Mynx for a long moment. The straightness of her spine, the expression on her face, the particular notes of citrus she's chosen to hide her natural scent under today. Even now. For the briefest of instants, Bella smiles.

"She sounds more like a bomb than a person. The princess only has her little band of misfits, this would be such a waste of... hrn. No. If they can escape the Armada then we should treat them like a credible threat. Still, Re-- the... princess would be at unacceptable risk. Tell me how to control this. How do I make use of an Ikarani before she burns?"

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

It might have been possible to go your entire life without ever knowing Marianne had emotions other than "amused" and "angry". And yet, here she is with her burning eyes and dangerously glinting teeth, with her fluttering, shredded coat and the thin wisps of smoke curling off of her body, with those golden chains glinting inside the shadows of her face. And the word to describe her is... surprised. Stunned, really.

Nothing changes about her posture or expression, but her aura feels almost unrecognizable. It's like she took a sip of water and swallowed it wrong, and in the act of choking forgot for a moment how to be a demon. There's a human under all of that mystic theatricality. Somewhere.

And then she tosses her head back to laugh, and the moment shatters to pieces. The crushing weight of her presence comes rushing back into the room all at once, and she springs lightly forward to pat Set on her head and ruffle her hair.

"Is that how it is? Is that how it is, ma belle petite chose? Ah, to be young, to be a dreamer chasing stardust! This is why I do not let you reform the tyrants with literature, little bunny. But come, come! If you are so lost, Marianne will help you with your homework, yes!"

She smiles with surprising sweetness, right before she flicks Set lightly on the nose. In another breath she's slipped into the floor and comes sliding out of a corner holding a scrap of paper and an incredibly beat up looking pen. With a series of unnecessarily aggressive strokes, she quickly scrabbles out a list of names. They're nonsense, mainly: minor celebrities from before the world fell, and a few other noteworthy names like Veronica Peters, one time assistant secretary to the Mayor of Halcyon City. All pointless. Stupid. At the bottom she jots down the names of a handful of doctors, and then underlines one so fiercely it tears a hole in the page: Antoine Ravenelle. She flicks the paper with contempt at Set and crushes her pen to bits, which may well have been a mercy for the poor thing.

"You will memorize this list. These are your demands. You will steal the listed names from the petty overlord by any means necessary, and you will not fail. It is imperative that you do not. Your golden ticket expires at midnight, and this is the price it will fetch. You will do this by telling the truth. You will tell him that I am out tonight, that I am seeking Shamash, and that with the slightest motion of my lips I will spill his deepest secrets before the god themself, and all the revelers drawn into their wake. You will tell him that the price of a silent evening and a clean bill of health for his name will be these names, lifted up and freed into the care of a safe place of your choosing. You will not drop names from this list. Memorize it and destroy it. Take in every detail. Wield them like swords, Set."

Marianne unfolds her arms and steps into the shadows, more literally than most. Her presence fades from the room for one moment. Two. Three. Her head comes creeping out of the wall again, and she flashes a wide and wolfish grin.

"I have faith in you, mon petite lapin. I would not lay this at your feet if I did not. Let that faith be your voice, yes! We are invincible. Uncatchable. We are legion. And by the time they realize the truth of our great cause, it will already be too late. Bonne chase!"

She cracks her neck, which rings disturbingly through the walls, and disappears for real.

Breathless Dead

Bella's hand hits the wall so hard that it reverberates through the hallway, even despite its sound swallowing padding. Her muscles ripple across her arm, and her claws tear into the wall as though it were made of paper. She towers over Mynx to the point where she needs to hunch her back to push her face close against the shapeshifter's. Her breath burns inside her chest, her throat, her mouth. It gushes from her in steamy waves that wash over Mynx's face. She feels her lips curl upward, showing teeth. Her golden eyes are stinging, and she doesn't know the cause. No amount of twitching, flinching, shivering, not a squeak or a yelp or anything draws a single note of pleasure into her body. She snorts.

"Let's get one thing perfectly clear," she snarls, "I am not your toy. I am..."

Her tail thrashes furiously behind her as she drags her hand across the wall to grab a fistful of Mynx's shirt. She lifts her bodily into the air, but there's nothing for her to do with all her strength. No surge of pleasure runs down her spine. No wet relief bursts from her heart. Her fingers tremble around the folds of fabric, and she throws Mynx to the ground. She looms like a colossus in the hall, but her shadow is shaking. It doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right.

"I'm not some weak little pet you can just... I'm! I'M! I'm a fucking Praetor, you stupid bitch! So don't think for a second you can fuck with me ever again! You don't know shit. You don't... you're never there when it matters, so just... no. No. Don't you dare. Don't you tell me you're sorry. Don't you look at me like that. Where were you when Redana ran away, huh? Where were you when the Empress was punishing me for it? Where were you when I was training for the Games, where were you when they carved me open just for winning them? Where were you, huh?! Nowhere! Useless! You're useless, Mynx!"

Bella heaves with the effort of her vulnerability. Don't fall apart. Don't fall apart. Not here. Not again. The Princess needs a calm servant. She needs control. Poise. Perfection. Bella draws a deep breath through her nose, full of the smells of fear and unease, and pushes it through her teeth. She dusts herself off, setting her skirts, sleeves, and hair into a beautiful dance that seems entirely out of place on her body.

The moment passes. She turns her head away to hide the sudden blush, and offers out her hand without saying another word.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"You think that I am kidding? Is that what you think of me, mon petite lapin? Do I seem like the kidding type?"

Marianne's smile is as lewd as her hands are grabby. Every little flinch, every spark of guilt, every flicker of the eyes only draws her in closer. Her fingers possessively trace the lines of Set's collarbones as she presses her face deep into the crook of the smaller girl's neck. Her breath is steamy, smoky hot, and the golden links of her mask are icy cold in contrast. She nibbles her way up to the ear; every nip cuts like stone knives.

"Do I," she leers, with her fingers lifting Set's chin to pull them eye to smoldering eye, "like to tease you? To make you squirm? I should very much like to play with you until all the little secrets you keep tucked away from me come tumbling out onto the floor, yes~"

She darts in like a snake, but her lips touch only Set's forehead this time. She smiles, with genuine mirth, and in another moment has slipped down into the floor so she can pop back up from the ceiling.

"Alas, we have no time, the night is in its adolescence. Be calm, my sister, calm. You are not needed elsewhere. Canada will die tonight. There is no other future for her apart from death; not since she went and challenged Shamash to single combat. Be calm! Calm. All is as it should be. All is as it must be. Your wonderful plan cannot be paid for except by her corpse. Ha! She thought to seize her dreams by punching a madman in the face! You belong together, she and you: the dreamers and the damned."

Marianne rolls with laughter like a thunderstorm as she falls down to the floor. She flips effortlessly on the ride down and lands with a dramatic thud on the soles of her boots. As she rises to her full height she tosses her tattered coat behind her like a cloak and cracks her neck with several sickening crunches. And she smiles. Tenderly, this time.

"I have already laid the traps, do not concern yourself with Ca-Na-Da. I will see to it that she dies the death that best serves the Cause. It will be a better lesson for her than our long talk could manage. You must put her from your mind. There are riches only you can steal from the Seneschal, and your window is closing. Steel your heart, Set. Draw from him a treasure he will mourn the loss of, and don't give anything back in exchange. D'accord?"

[Anathet, Marianne is telling you how the world works. Shift your Savior down and Danger up, or reject her influence]

Breathless Dead

Bella is nearly as adept at hiding her reactions to things as Lorventi. Just ask Redana; she's like a sphinx! There are only a couple of subtle tells that give her away. Like the violent twitching of her eyebrow just now. Or the way her eyes open so wide in incredulous shock. There's the way her lips curl back into an even sharper sneer, of course. And if you watch very carefully you can see her reach out with both hands as if to strangle something, then clench at nothing. She moves them up to her head but there's nothing for her do with them there, either. She winds up folding them across her chest in a gesture that is not the slightest bit defensive, no not at all, and taps one claw into the crook of her elbow.

"You," she snarls, "Unbelievable as-- hhhrrrngh! How am I only hearing about this now?! Are you telling me they've been here the entire time? You let me march straight into... I could have just... I had to... son of a bitch!"

Bella's tail lashes behind her as she sways unevenly on her legs, evidently not knowing whether she wants to plant her feet or pace with them. The motion sends ripples up and down her skirts that give off the impression of a black burning candle in the wind. She squeezes her arms tight and takes a deep breath. And then another one when that doesn't work.

"You're gonna cite some sort of dumbassed bureaucracy thing at me, I just know it. Don't even bother. I don't want to hear it. Just stand there and nod, or I swear to Hera I'm going to throw you out an airlock right... hhhhffffff... no. No. It's fine. It's fine that this happened. I learned more by going there myself. It's fine. Fine!"

Slowly, she lets herself uncoil. She has to pinch her nose between her thumb and a talon, but she even forced her breathing into a calm, normal pattern. Unbidden, the image of Redana flashes into her head: smiling and laughing, all sweaty and covered with dirt from wrestling all day, taking her Bella's words at face value without having to be asked to. Bella's ears start to flatten, and she violently shakes her head to clear it.

"Just... yes. I would like to inspect them for myself. Now. Right now. And bring me Mynx. The... Toxicrene adept to you. I have... things I need to discuss with her."

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"Hush my darling, hush. You will never fix their hearts with such tiny, timid hands, non! You must be bold, yes! You must be fierce, yes yes!"

Marianne licks her lips suggestively and caresses Daisy's cheek with a gentleness that can only be described as sisterly. When she grabs the paddle, she takes the smaller girl by the wrist and squeezes the fingers until her grip is just so. Her other arm slinks around the waist and braces Daisy'e leg.

"There, you see? When you strike..." she draws Daisy's arm back, "You take away their anger~"

They swat together, against the thigh of the Annunaki who'd been trying to scare Daisy into submission. Whatever her name was. Whack! Whack whack! Marianne guides the wrist and gives the blows the proper force, the kind that cows and shushes. The kind that leaves marks, but does not shatter or maim. It's the line where Daisy can feel the fight go out of her 'Mistress' without being made to take her place?

Marianne barks with laughter as she watches the aggressive leering turn to whimpers, and then begging.

"They will not be mad, little flower. My Accomplice. They will not make a peep after this, non, non! They understand. They know there will be much worse for them than these gentle love taps if they displease me, yes. They are afraid of Ma-Ri-Ann. You are not theirs anymore, chérie. You are mine. Say it. Feel it. And then play with these toys properly, yes?"

***

It's a favorite game of Marianne's to startle her companions as much as possible when she comes to see them. Today that means bursting out of the dark corner of a wall that Set has been resting against and wrapping her arms possessively around her partner while flashing that red soaked grin of hers right into Set's pretty face.

"Ça va?" she asks before she grabs her fellow thief behind the head and kisses each cheek in greeting.

She slides out of the wall like she's a thing melting out of the surface of it, snaking her way through the air with a playful jingle and draping herself all over the diminutive phantom thief. Ah, to play! To know before she looks that her sworn sister will show her nothing but resolve in her eyes. Faith, this is called. Or love, perhaps. Je taime, Set.

"We gather this day to mourn our darling Canada," she says with casual disinterest, "Whose heart is so twisted up inside she cannot see the shape of the world she lives in. She is doomed, yes. Doomed to die. I have seen it. C'est le guerre, n'est-ce pas?"

She chuckles, and the grip around Set's shoulders tightens.

Breathless Dead

"He's not a threat," Bella says with lazy disinterest as she threads her legs through a thong, "Until I say he is."

The muscles in Bella's back are tenser than the cables running through the ceiling above her. If not for the rippling across her bare skin every time she stretches forward for something it would be easy to assume she'd been carved out of a very large gemstone. The subtle traces of barely visible white lines slash haphazardly across her back where various Masters and Instructors couldn't be bothered to fully wipe away the signs of their lessons. Here and there they seem sharper and stand out more clearly, and when her shoulder blades roll back together those fresher lines knit together to form a pattern. The rose looks meant for her flesh; no other back could bear its beauty.

She draws a sharp breath through her nose. Her tail curls tightly at the tip before it lashes aggressively around her knees. She plucks a skirt off of a hanging wire, and then all at once her body unclenches. She sniffs again. No fear smell, here. She sighs, and pulls the lacy fabric up around her hips to the narrow band of her waist.

Black and white, her colors. So black and white her clothing today, as well. As always, since her mission began. Satiny layers of curling black fabric flutter unevenly against her legs, short enough to expose the better part of her left thigh while long enough to brush the ground at her right on the outermost layer. Each line of fabric is trimmed with an intricate white lace frill that naturally draws a wandering eye down the length of her leg and back up the bare fur to marvel at the wide black belt with the golden laurel buckle she fastens before she's even selected a shirt.

Her ears bend to the back of her head with every beak click and soft crunch that signifies the Captain has squeezed or opened her fists again, seeking for the sounds of the squish of boot on carpet or (more likely) the whistle that signals 'precision' to her removal from Lorventi's precious hierarchy, but nothing comes. They wiggle delicately atop her head as she slips a soft and warm looking black shirt up over her outstretched arms and then all the way down to tuck in around her belt. The bare sleeves dip open around her shoulders to show off more of her prized white fur, and the flares around her wrist are trimmed with still more prim and proper white lace.

She reaches up and gingerly lifts her braid and its ribbons up from underneath her shirt collar and tosses the shimmering masterpiece of her art carelessly down across her back. Her golden eyes gleam in her reflection in the closet mirror. This is a good look. The princess will like this look. She'll remember, when she sees it. This time, she'll remember who her real friend is. Although...

She reaches one final time and pulls out a stiff white corset with pearl fastenings. With a deeply practiced care that no one ever notices, much less praised her for, she squeezes it around her waist and delicately clasps each opalescent catch into place until, with a tiny suck of air, she finishes with the one just underneath her breasts. She smirks at her own reflection, and the prominent treasures she's put securely on display. Yes. This time for sure.

"But you're absolutely right about the Princess' little band of misfits. I couldn't agree more, Captain. Nuisances, the lot of them. Troublesome? Absolutely! Why, I'd say they're a bigger obstacle to our mission than anything we've run across so far, and that includes the leviathan."

Bella steps into her boots with a jingle and saunters across the room to the table where her jewelry lies waiting for her. She slides her talons lovingly into place on her fingers. When she turns to face the Captain, her face twists into a sneer.

"Them, I've got no use for. 'Removing' them is my will exactly. And I know just which one to start with..."

Breathless Dead

Bella's fingers slide through her wet hair like little fish swimming down a river. Combs caught and brushed pulled; a servitor's hands were the best tools for any beautician, and Bella's hands were artisan. She reaches up to her scalp and pulls down in gentle, rippling waves of motion that send soothing tingles down her head and neck as she works. Her fingers hunt down the beginnings of knots with the tenacity of a trained assassin and pull them into smooth alignment with only the gentlest of tugs. Not so much as a single strand pulls loose.

"I am aware of the issue, Captain." she growls.

The towel draped across her shoulders is her only concession to modesty. The soft plipping of water rolling off her body onto her chair fills her ears with each fresh pull through her hair. When she tosses it all behind her, it slaps against her back with a wet thwack that calls to mind the cracking of a whip. She almost doesn't flinch. She almost doesn't cross her legs so gingerly and pull them up tighter against her body.

She almost manages to feel smooth, confident, and poised. But she is not Empress Nero. Her eyes flicker over the captain's rippling, lifelike armor. More than a match for any dress Bella's ever touched in her life. She clicks her tongue and reaches up behind her head to start tying back her hair. Someone else would use another... a servant for this, but not her. This work is too delicate to be left to a faker or a hack. Bit by bit, she weaves tiny rings of braids into the cascade of hair down her back. Delicate little chains that crisscross around and constrain the fury of a blue-black waterfall.

"I hope you realize how stupid you sound. 'He's a problem. I'll dispose of him of you wish it, Praetor.' You know, Odoacer plays games just like this. You wanna push him into committing some sort of insult at dinner and then shove him out an airlock? I'm sure Hades loves technicalities like that."

Bella rises up out of her chair and pulls the down across her body to start patting the rest of herself dry. Where it passes, her skin glistens and her fur shines radiant and fluffy white. Her tail curls and flicks behind her in apparent pleasure. But her legs draw in close together. Every bend she makes is carefully choreographed to angle certain parts of her body away from prying owl eyes. She lets the towel drop completely and turns her back on Lorventi, stepping toward her closet and staring thoughtfully at the outfits hanging there awaiting her pleasure.

"...He won't be a problem," she says with a glance over her shoulder, "And even if he is, I can hold the chain together. Put it out of your head, got it? Her Imperial Majesty's word is law: humanity is a precious treasure. We'll deliver him into her love as it suits our schedule."

The air inside the Anemoi has a permanent chill to it. That's the only reason for the shiver that runs down her body. Nothing else.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne squeezes her fingers through a keyhole to stick her hand inside a desk drawer and pulls out an old, well worn book with a ratty leather cover and faded (but still dazzlingly intricate) gilded script reading 'Daisy'. She snorts and flips past the chapter about the boys who wouldn't kiss her, past the one about the boys who kissed her too much, over the tarot-like illustration that depicts her questioning her own identity, and tears out the chapter about her hopes and dreams pages at a time. Useless, to have wasted time dwelling on what's already written so clearly on the rest of her.

She snaps the book shut with a huff. This is a heart like so many others. And it is a scene that should not exist. No true breeding ground for hate, this. No deep darkness to confront and convert into more of herself. Small wonder then that she'd offer up her soul for an evening's worth of discipline to the petty tyrants that tormented her daily life. So typically human. No bargains to be struck. The kinder thing by far would be to burn out her little garden and leave only the--

Marianne stops in place, great paw a hair's breadth away from smashing through a wall on her way back out. There's a heart in her chest beating out of sync with the one that's supposed to be burning there. She frowns and strains, and doesn't move a single inch. This is the first time in her entire existence she's been the bound one, yes?

Her eyes open and look upon the scenery. Her perfectly ordinary, liquid blue eyes. When she smiles, it is not a thing of teeth and fear, but the soft every day sort of kindness that belongs in a home like this one. More than all the thunder and the chariots, more than all the smoke and rage. It's the smile of a big sister, home from school for the first time in months and ready to be Family again.

And then the moment passes. Marianne's savage grin melts over Étoile's face as she stretches her enormous catlike shadow body with carelessly languid energy. She tilts her head toward the world outside the little flower's sanctum. She licks her lips, and spreads her battered wings so she can wrap them all around the room.

All at once, the noises cease. It is quiet here. It is calm. The air is filled with starlight. The room is filled with the quiet burbling of the ocean, as though far away. She watches the flower wash clean, if only just. And bit by uneven bit, she melts into nothingness.

*****

It's a difficult thing to have your heart explored like an ancient ruin. By the time Daisy can put the pieces of herself back in order, it is plain that Marianne has had time to wander. She looms over Daisy and burns so sharp and bright that it hurt to look at her. In her hand is a... paddle? Behind her, three figures writhe against their tight and salacious chains, managing little more than helpless wiggling. Marianne leers and offers the paddle more insistently.

"A bargain struck, yes? Take your vengeance, my little... no. My Accomplice! Grab it and teach them what their 'great chain' is truly good for, yes yes yes!"

Marianne's shadow stretches far outside the bounds of her human shell in the excitement of the moment. Her grin splits her face in half. Her laugh is so terrible it turns every frustrated, muffled cry for help or defiance into the frightened squeaking of mice in seconds. Then she collapses all at once into her body and leans against a wall as calm as you like. She pauses, and takes the time to light a new cigarette.

"But be warned, my dear Accomplice," she blows the smoke in an unfocused cloud and seems to hang about her shoulders, "I am a hunter of hunters. We are sisters only so long as you devote yourself to the Cause. Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ma chérie. Take what you are owed. The rest we leave for teaching. Ours is a slow burn. Ours is a harsh curriculum. You are mine, yes. Before the night is through, you will do important work for me, yes! You are mine. And I will take from you until I am repaid. D'accord?"