Phoe

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Fall. Fall. Fall. Fall!

Marianne is a storm. She is little more than hot fury in the shape of a young woman, raining endless blows on Canada's and wedging her ever deeper into the ground. Every strike scythes through thinner and thinner air as the space above is torn away from the space below, leaving nothing here but Marianne. No air to breathe but her. Nothing to feel but pain and fury ever more sharply. It spreads and seeps across the audience, but it washes over Shamash harmlessly. The worst of it crashes down only on Canada.

Fall. Fall. Fall. Fall! The words crash like thunder, no longer bothering or able to fully hide her presence in a place so thoroughly corrupted by her heart. Crétine! Pourquoi fais-tu ça? Voulez-vous mourir? Tu m'emmerdes! Why! Won't! You! Just! Stop?!

Tattered shadows billow across the arena like a rotting cloak, as if they were a physical thing, her terrible coat made large enough to swallow the sun. The sound of school bells is deafening, and all the more horrible for how damaged they seem. Louder and louder, they sound like nothing so much as rust singing of the sadness of rot and ruin. Just underneath it, a girl is sobbing. Is it any consolation to know your traitor is crying too, dear Canada?

But every storm has to end. Every nightmare fades away. Marianne sinks back into her protective shell before Shamash starts tearing chunks out of her body, leaving behind a shattered and broken arena, a quavering, sick crowd, and nothing more. She wraps her arms tightly around Canada, and as one they sink through the corroded mesh that had been the floor, leaving only sands and the hope that someone would decide this had all been to save a useless hero from the wrath of a god behind.

[Marianne is clearing Angry, having hurt Canada as her act of 'breaking' something]

Breathless Dead

Bella's lips press tight together as she contemplates Mynx's words in silence. Her eyes, set hard as gemstones, watch that face with unblinking wariness. She watches the line of her... companion's jaw, looking for the quivering that suggests weakness, or that slight twitch of her lips she gets when she's trying to hide a punchline. That little blink she suddenly develops when she's struggling with a character.

But there's nothing. Nothing but strength and a strange sort of softness that fills Bella with a sense of hope that feels too good to be real. So good it might hurt her. She doesn't dare latch onto it; no smile deeper than a smirk crosses her face. Her eyes never lose that sharpness. Until she closes them. Bella's body settles deeper into Mynx's embrace, and for a small moment she lets her world shrink to just the sounds, smells, and warmth of the only person anywhere who can be... no. Who understands.

"Ha, remember when she was training for the Olympics? She got so sucked into wrestling and racing she'd forget what food was. We had to say everything three times before she realized it meant anything. She's always been such a..."

She lets the thought melt into a chuckle, and the chuckle build into bright and melodious laughter of the sort that hadn't escaped her mouth since before the faithful day when she'd laid eyes on the streets of Tellus beyond the world of the palace. It's the kind of sound that makes a person think her voice was made for singing before anything else. Sweet enough to let it serve as an offering to Hera. For a moment the memory is more refreshing, more revitalizing than all the water that was laid out to help her back on her feet.

And then she sighs and opens her eyes, and everything becomes sharpness and hard edges again.

"What we need," she says, "Is to get rid of the distractions. We won't let her think she's playing the hero, we'll cut her off, keep her away from her merry band of morons. Kill them, catch them, chase them off, I don't care. I only need her. Once I've got her to myself... then she'll see. She has to."

Breathless Dead

Bella is trapped inside a prison shaped like herself. All of her senses have boiled away to just two sensations: dry, and pain. The first is the feeling of her tongue, her mouth, her eyes, her throat. And there are, there are, there are words hanging just underneath the dry, but they're impossible to hold onto through the dry. The cracking. The feeling that something wrung her out while she was lying on this strange bed and drained her until she was empty.

She is not aware of the glass in her hand, a bulky and unshapely bit of faux-crystal that would weigh too much if it weighed anything at all. It touches her lips and disappears into the dry with a series of gulps that ring like thunderclaps. Her ears press flat against her skull (and in so doing, she discovers that she has ears), but the sound is deep inside her. Inescapable. Needed, because it washes away some of the sensation of being cracked and yearning like some sort of servitor-shaped desert.

The other feeling is pain. Bella blinks and her eyelids shudder with the effort. She turns her head and her neck cracks like it's trying to snap itself in half. She looks at the lights, dim as they are, and her eyes are forced shut as they scream in spark-filled agony. The rushing of her blood is a snake squeezing her skin and it hurts and her breath is an icy gale that stabs her lungs with needles and it hurts and her muscles won't stop twitching and it hurts and the glass is in her hands and it hurts and the water goes down her throat and it hurts, and it hurts it hurts it hurts!

Bella is dimly aware that she has curled up tight into the soaked sheets again. So... soft. And so drenched, more storm cloud than blanket. Uncomfortable. She tosses them aside again, and in the space of that motion she realizes the problem is herself. Her fur is damp and matted. Her skin glistens like diamonds. And Hera help her, she's freezing. She shiver starts in her neck and spreads across her body in goosebump-ridden waves that spill the next glass of water on the bed, the floor, her lap, and everywhere it isn't wanted. She lifts her hand.

"I..."

But her order melts into a sigh; Mynx is already at her side with a warm towel and a fresh blanket, just as soft and quiet as she used to be with Redana. She closes her eyes as the feeling of skilled fingers press through warm fabric to pat and rub her dry. When she opens them again, she notices her clothes sitting neatly folded on a chair on the far side of the room. She forcefully swallows the purr threatening to boil up out of her, but when the towel is pulled away and replaced by the blanket, she throws herself backwards into the arms holding it. The surprised squeak that meets her ears draws a fresh flinch, but Mynx doesn't draw away.

Bella is warm. Bella is held. She lets her eyes flutter half-closed, still watching the room but taking in nothing. And as they sit there in silence, over untold minutes where neither of them move except to breath or feel the beating of each others' hearts, she ceases to be a desert, ceases to be a prison, ceases to be a temple to pain, ceases even to be a Praetor, and for a moment becomes simply Bella again.

"...Miss her." she rasps.

"Hm?"

"Princess. I miss Redana. My Redana. I just want... why did it happen? Why doesn't she miss me too? Why doesn't she want me anymore?"

She tilts her head back to look at Mynx, and see what kind of face looks back at her.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne lets out a breath with a long, slow shudder. It escapes her mouth in wisps that curl above her in a tiny shivering trail, as it pulls her hand inexorably upward to slip between the chains of her mask and beneath her shadows to brush the tips of her lips. Her fingers come back cold.

"Do you see that?" she sighs heavily, "She is so beautiful..."

Her heart races. Her fingers curl into fists. For the first time, she feels hesitation creep into her legs. But it is not the body of Étoile Ravenelle that holds her back.

"It hurts me to do this to her. Truly. But I must. Mon beau chevalier, you wonderful shining idiot. I cannot use her like this. She will kill us all. Do you see? There is nothing left but this, yes."

No more time for teasing. No more time for reunions. Marianne does not glance back at Celestine to see the look on her face. She steps forward into the window, and melts away.

Damn you, Canada. Where was this invincible battle maiden routine when they came in the first place? If you could not do it then when it was needed, you will not do it now. And if this is how you want it? Fine. Meet Marianne.

The arena sounds with the howling of the wind, the rattling of chains. Marianne leaps through the paths running through her own true body to appear, just for a second, in a patch of darkness behind Canada. Blink and you'll miss it. But the crack of boot on back is unmistakable, as it staggers Canada forward into a web of rusted mesh. The nightmare floor swallows her up to the ankles, leaving nothing between her and Shamash's next pointlessly cruel and savage strike.

Go down already! How is she supposed to save you like this?

[Marianne is using the point of Team Canada just generated selfishly, shifting her Danger up and Savior down. Directly Engage: 7. She is taking Canada's "location", but stay tuned for exactly how that goes down]

Breathless Dead

"I don't care."

The smile falls off her face faster than she can hold on to it as she stares straight into Beljani's eyes. Her own burn with dark jealousy. No more hesitation. No more uncertain flickers in Mynx's direction. Her muscles ripple with unsteady, awkward power as her every thought and instinct bends further toward the Oratus. Claws flex atop her sleeves. Her tail finds it purpose again, lashing behind her with powerful strokes that give no consideration to how often or how hard they rain down on Mynx's back and legs.

"I don't care," she says again, in that perfect space between laziness and the absolute focus of keeping her words from slurring, "You're a weapon. I need stories about your past like I need an ethics lesson from Redana. And if I have to sit through another one of those I'm just going to tear my ears off, so..."

Anger fills her chest with sparks and fire. Jealousy squeezes her with python-like tenacity until she she can hardly breathe. Fear draws her feet too close together, and wine holds them stupidly in place. Her posture is a rigid mess of emotions that are tearing her to pieces even as they build her into something primal and invincible. When she finally uncrosses her arms, the dizzying speed almost manages to hide how clumsy the gesture is. Her fingers find Mynx's shoulder before her eyes can. She squeezes until she can feel the bone beneath the tendons.

Bella's eyes are growing blurry. She squeezes them shut, rattles her head in a way that sets her leash to jangling, but when she opens them again it's even worse. She scowls. She has to force herself not to spit; she can't risk her drink coming up after it. She sways with uncontrollable and bizarre grace that is only prevented from dancing her straight to the floor by the support of the one person on the entire ship who would dare to try in the first place.

"I've heard enough. I've made my decision. Your talents are less than useless to me right now. You'll stay on standby until... no. You'll stay on standby forever. I won't fail. I... nngh. Come on Mynx, we have more important work to do.

Bella seizes the shapeshifter by the arm, using entirely too much claw for her work. She means for every step away to be powerful, sure, and straight. But each one takes greater thought and effort until, by the time her silhouette is disappearing into the murk, they loom larger in her mind than she has space to hold them. Her breathing turns to coughing. Somewhere in the motion, she's slammed Mynx into a wall, action without memory, without context. She pins her there, pushing her face uncomfortably close, until there's nothing in the world but the shapes of their eyes meeting each other and the steam and stench of Bella's wine-soaked breath, which drips heavily across the galaxy.

"You..." there's a command here, somewhere. An order. Bella's sense of strength wars with her feelings of powerlessness, and in the midst of that fight she finds herself shoved to the very bottom of everything. There's a sense of, of, of of of, of pressure, a haze, a... a... white. And in the white she has no more power to talk.

Breathless Dead

Jasmine is the gag that binds her tongue.

It is a hundred times worse than being in the Admiral's dining hall. It isn't any less overwhelmingly potent than her memories of that place, but instead of the swirling cocktail of information and despair, this is like trying to breathe in a one-note bomb. No... not one-note. Bella wrinkles her nose and pulls her lips up over her teeth. There's a... spice sneaking underneath the floral miasma, like inhaling sparks from a fire.

It itches. It burns. It swallows the rest of the room, the feeling of her clothes and the breeze, even the expression on Beljani's face. It's like having a wad of cotton rolled onto her tongue, like a permanent shiver stuck in her back, like a... like a... a hole that's swallowing her up and trapping her inside a world she can't master with a thousand years of trying. No antivenoms for her. Why should she get the protections Mynx has apparently been handing out to every other last member of the ship. Stupid bitch, she probably did this on purpose. Just to see. Just, to... just...

Only one sensation that manages to rise above the noise. She feels it rising up from her stomach in an unmistakable surge of panic (Not panic. It's not panic. She is not afraid). The wine tastes just as oily and soft coming back into her mouth as it did going down. Bella blinks in surprise and clenches her teeth to keep the precious gift from spilling out between her lips. She swallows it back down with delicate politeness. That wine is the embrace of the Empress; she will not waste a drop.

As it slips back down her throat, she can feel it start to drag her down with it. There, at last: it squeezes at her muscles, it rolls inside her stomach, it wraps around her with the warmth of a favorite blanket that weighs her body down with that comfortable and familiar sensation of pressure. She unwinds over the course of several long, deep breaths. Uncoils, really. Her ears droop and her tail sways stupidly behind her, every little swish pulling her down, down, down, draining her until she's empty of everything.

Then it fills her up again with desire. To stumble back to her room and not leave her bed. To be touched. To lean her weight on something that can bear it and feel the relief that comes with support. Her eyes flicker lazily at Mynx.

It takes the effort of an olympic champion to get her to flick her ears until they stand at attention, ready to listen for all the little cues she needs to hold on. It's even harder for her to keep her feet underneath her, to make her arms fold underneath her chest instead of flopping uselessly at her sides. She twists her lips into a confident and sharp-fanged smile, which takes greater will by far than everything else combined.

"Izzat right?" she slurs as she squeezes her claws into her elbows, "You know, talking to you I almost wouldn't believe you're one of them. So eloquent! Such... mm, good breeding. And yet, here you are, stuck in your corner in front of a perfumed fan. So out with it already. I'm really curious! How exactly do I break you, pretty bomb?"

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

From up on high in her box seats, Marianne clicks her tongue. She grabs her left hand in her right and rubs at the back of it as though scratching an itch. There's no time for her to make a conscious choice about what's to become of her domain, but her trap is sprung. This is enough.

The arena comes to life: shadows go skittering in all directions like a swarm of scarabs to cover everything Canada touches. Their touch is cold and slippery, and though little enough each band can do to slow the blinding rush of Canada, they are the difference between the speed of thought and the speed of distraction.

Where her feet fall, the building grows more sinister, more hostile. Patches of floor warp, and the whorls of debris drag unsuspecting ankles down and turn sure-footed sprinting into blindingly awkward stumbling. All around them the ground washes away until it's little more than rusted-out mesh hanging over a black chasm leading to the Paths Between. Chains rattle and brush over hips. The air grows stale and unpleasant.

Through it all, Shamash is untouched. He is a welcome guest here in the domain of Marianne. Canada is not. Above, Marianne's face twists into a smirk. Her chuckle is throaty and mirthful. Do not fail her, chevalier.

[Defend Shamash: 10 Canada's 11 is reduced to a 9, and she'll need to pick which of her Engage options she gets to keep]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"Hahahahaha! Tu te fous de moi? J'aime cela!"

Marianne covers her face with one gloved hand to smother her chuckling. It does very little good; her sharp teeth flash around her arm as though it wasn't there at all. Her shoulders roll with mirth as her fingers spread wider. In the gap that forms between them, she fixes one burning eye directly onto Celestine's two blue ones. She burns her gaze directly through the little sister's heart, watching and waiting for her to flinch.

She doesn't. Marianne dips into a low, sweeping bow instead. She holds it for une, deux, trois... and snap, she's gone. Une, deux, trois again...

CRUNCH!

Her boot catches the Thornback in the back of the head. Marianne snaps dramatically, and several blackened chains rise up from the floor like angry vipers and lash the broken little housepet into a more pleasing shape. They wrap and bind the limbs together, winding through all of the twisting spikes and twice around the joint of each finger, and then yank painfully until it's dragged partway into the wall in the pose of a stereotypical cactus like you'd see on tv. She grins wolfishly, and turns to the students.

"Welcome, my darling little future sycophants! Are you working hard to become the best slaves you can be? Be sure to tell your masters everything you see here tonight, don't miss a detail! This is an important night, yes! The most important night of your lives, yes yes! Tonight, Professor Marianne is here to teach you lessons your school is too lazy and too frightened to let slip. Watch and learn, my darlings! You will soon see the difference between a thief and a hero. Learn well the difference! Recapture your sparks, mes chéries, both roles are needed for a revolution."

Marianne wraps herself into a corner of the room and comes crawling out of a chair near Celestine with a low purr rumbling up in her throat. She squeezes this littlest star on both her shoulders and then lifts her bodily into a princess carry so she can march the pair of them across the box to press Celestine's face against the window.

Below, the arena crawls with shadows that give this place, already neglected and spooky, the kind of aura you'd normally associate with horror stories. Every door looks bent and broken, every bit of equipment is rusted over or dripping with some unmentionable slickness, and the ground... well, it's not normally supposed to move like that, is it? It's subtle, though, and where the eye watches it too long the shadows melt away to cover some other corner, crevice, or device. The faint howling of the wind, like a trapped animal, is just present enough to send shivers up the spine even all the way up here. But still, it's slight enough as to be mistakable for the stamping of feet, the fluttering of banners, the fervor of the crowd. It's only when you really look that you notice how many loose bits of chain are strewn about, literally everywhere.

Marianne smiles, and cups her hand under Celestine's chin.

"There, you see, little one? I have stolen the Great God's arena. Next, I shall steal his kill. Ah, ah! Not a peep, chérie. Canada Taliv will die tonight, and Marianne will kill her. Nothing shall bring her back except the hope in your heart that begs for heroes. Keep her safe, yes? That is your assignment tonight! This is how I shall steal the Great God's eyes. Do you want that, little one? Would you beg to see him blinded? Would you pray to crack the walls of this perfect city?"

Marianne dumps Celestine on the ground before she can give an answer. She barks with laughter at the indignant glare getting shot at her, then harder still as Celestine's attempt at an answer turns into an awkward yelp as a chain yanks her up by the foot to dangle her upside down from the ceiling. The hurt on her face is real, isn't it Little Star? But she won't miss the pressure those chains put on her hand as they slip the piece of paper with the note you wrote for her. Worry not, Marianne loves you both, yes.

Breathless Dead

Even Bella hesitates before she walks into the light. Her posture stiffens and her smooth gait turns awkward for a step or two, just enough to get her to slosh some of her wine on the ground. She bends down automatically as if to clean it, but only winds up stretching her back for a moment before taking another long sip from her glass. She sniffs. That is not her job anymore.

Her hand lifts dreamily, as if in a daze, and she brushes her fingers against a spot on the back of her head. Under most circumstances, her hand would drop back down and that would be that. If she hadn't stumbled forward, if the light had been slightly different, if her hair was not tied back the way it is, if eyes less attentive than Mynx's were watching her right now, if, if, if.

But the gods have willed it so, and the traces of a wide scar shine through. It's an enormous, ugly thing: not a mark of punishment meant to prove the Empress' love, but a souvenir from a battle that left no other marks on history. Redana and assassinations are very old friends, after all, even if she's too stupid to know that. It must be an old scar, a partially raised starburst where a trick knife had caught her before it burst into pieces, but against the rich darkness of her hair it seems starkly white and fresh. Almost as if she'd spent several years digging at it herself. Wouldn't that be just like her?

Her hand drops again, but it's too late. Her hair never quite settles back over it, and that mark of imperfection lingers in sight, impossible not to stare at. And that's the thing about perfection: once it's gone, you can never have it back. If the eye wanders from the blemish on her head, it won't be able to help but notice her talon jewelry in new light. Or the way the tip of her tail doesn't quite match the shape and color of the rest, or the spot at the back of her knee where the fur doesn't come together quite right and the needle shaped puncture mark that counts for some other fight or training exercise. They're all over her, but only in the places you wouldn't think to look. Of course they are. A servitor like Bella is meant to be looked at and admired, so naturally they wipe away blemishes on the most visible parts of her almost faster than she can acquire them. But who would waste time and resources tending to tending to the wounds of a maid where they're so easily covered up? You'll never find them if you don't go looking.

Bella sucks a breath in through her teeth. Her glass is empty again, and there's nothing here to fill it. She's squeezing it so hard it's a miracle it hasn't shattered in her claws already. Her golden eyes are sharp and piercing, and they seem to slide right over the Diodekoi. She turns her head and stares through Mynx, instead. Her yawn is full of teeth.

"Hmph. Well this one's simple enough, I don't see a need to waste my time asking more questions about it. Come on, let's keep going. Whatever... all this is, it's giving me a headache."

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

It's a rare thing for Marianne to find a moment for herself. Always more to do, another face to threaten, a heart to crush. But carefully, carefully, never stepping too hard in case her shell breaks around her and Étoile loses the spark that lets her be Marianne. So many places to be, so many plans held together by her willingness to be the one in the center tugging at every thread. Always a face to present, always theater to perform.

But just now? The pieces are all in place. Her sworn sisters have assigned roles, and all she needs to do is wait for her moment to cash them out. There are no Annunaki overlords for her to step on and no citizens to awe or housebroken slaves to wash away. In this moment, she is a sphinx without a riddle to tell. A dragon with no great warriors to challenge her. And like all beasts of legend with nothing to constrain them, she takes the chance to stretch her wings and fly.

Étoile is a ball of warm, happy fire in her chest just now. Marianne runs through the city with her hood pulled off and her luxurious golden hair spilling out behind her like a banner as she passes between the cities Above and Below along the paths made just for her. Clomp clomp clomp go her boots as she runs first vertically and then across the surface of an apartment wall. Just before gravity can take her again, she tenses her legs and pushes, and oh! How she soars!

The wind whips at every lock of hair and shredded flap of her coat. It pulls at her heavy, baggy pants and ruffles them around her knees. She is sailing, soaring, cutting through the air like a knife and then she twists her body with a gymnast's precision, putting her back perpendicular with the street below and bending herself into a rainbow so that her momentum carries her body all the way around into a ponderously slow flip. If anyone were watching, they'd be reminded of a large fish playing in an ocean current. She kicks her foot down and squeezes in between the shadows of an archway and the roots of some massive alien tree planted there to bless it.

Shifting, pulling, twisting, flying. Marianne handsprings off a spike growing out of a random Noble's desire to be left alone (oho, how curious! But not tonight, non), and flips herself end over end until she's leaping and running over massive warping fronds that spread across this space in a choking canopy of neglect and fear. The slightest misstep would send her tumbling into an abyss with no concepts to find purchase on, where only angels or the most beautiful of devils could hope to take wing and find the light again. But even though the meta-leaves shift and snap horribly mere instants after she passes, they suffer Marianne to pass. Of course they do: she's held aloft on a wire named Belief, the star of her very own wuxia show.

A massive grin spreads across her face, and for once it carries nothing of savagery or sardonic disdain. There is joy and there is anticipation, and her shell feels lighter than a feather on a scale. She throws a spear-tipped chain into the side of a massive black wall the size of the night sky and swings around in a wide, looping arc before releasing and sailing deep into the warping sky to land on the smallest of a series of pillars climbing up and up forever toward a spot of blinding bright light. Ahhh, there is her Canada!

The greatest thrill of all would be to climb back into the pathways of her sworn sister's soul, where she could wrap herself around Étoile and tear through space in her true body and finally finally finally test the limits of her powers. Oh, to fight like that, yes! To run like that, yes yes! But that golden door is sealed behind a lock she cannot pick. She must be allowed back inside, and tonight is not the night for it in any case.

She climbs lightly and easily through the twisted sea of Annunaki hubris to a door leading back into the realm of ordinary minds. In one moment the stadium seating is empty, and in the next she comes bubbling up through the bottom until she's standing on her toes at the edge of a chair. Her face splits open in a vicious grin. Oh, Canada. How brightly you burn. How dazzling shall be your fall!

[Tangled Web: 13. Marianne will have an opportunity to act against Canada, and take +1 forward while doing so for the remaining duration of this scene]