Phoe

Breathless Dead

The spiral leads her to the center of everything. And there it, they end. Abruptly. The command is so fierce it almost frightens her. Halt, halt! Stop what you're doing right fucking now!

And so she does.

Bella drags her claws through the first available object (a banquet table overladen with toxic smelling liquors) and pulls herself from full speed to dead stop in a fraction of a second. Wood and metal shavings spray everywhere, splinters pound the floor like darts, bottles crash every which way and fill the room with a truly toxic miasma that even the very greatest of assassins would struggle to replicate, and her dress is almost certainly ruined forever. But she has obeyed; the innocent is spared.

Her shoulders sag with the fatigue of a creature that could only maintain its power through its constant expression, suddenly brought to a halt all at once and forced to comprehend how tired it truly was. She glances to her left, and there is nothing but variously stunned and angry faces. To her right, the same. The Hunt has abandoned her. No, that's not quite right. The Hunt has commanded that she wait. Cut off from the path, there is nothing else to do but look.

It is a strange creature that looks back at her. Its scales are beautiful and shimmering even in this murky light, but to her they seem more like facets on a jewel than anything that belongs to a living creature. Every ridge and crest is fascinating to look at. Its wings remind her of nothing so much as her old camera. Well, no, it's the eyes that call to mind the camera. But from there it's hard not to think about projector screens, about taking what she'd made and daring to let it blow up to the size of a wall and seeing, for once, the actual shape of her journey.

It is colorless. Almost odorless, she has to specifically look to find the faint tinge of silicon and glass. And then suddenly it is anything but colorless. Not blood, but living light, a prism with no need for outside help to split the colors. It shivers with bursts of firework light, all of the flash with none of the heat or sound. It cranes its neck and flashes rainbow waves, as though it were exalting Zeus and Poseidon in the same luxuriant motion. It flaps a wing, and in that gesture are the ideas and words of long dead or dormant civilizations Bella has no names for.

She calls it Gaia, because nothing else will stick. Her breath catches in her throat. In this moment, in spite of everything, the rest of the world slides out of view. Her feelings recede from her heart, and this time there is not even the incoherent joy of Motion to bring her outside of herself. The little creature opens its mouth, and sparks tumble out instead of sounds. She is barely aware that her face is growing warmer in response.

There is wonder, trapped inside her eye. Wonder, waging war with the sharp, predatory instinct of a beast still desperate for a name to devour. Her mouth hangs open, only slightly, showing fang. She is wary, but she is spellbound all the same. Her finger shakes almost uncontrollably as it reaches for the beast's neck. Just a little more. A little more. That's it, just one moment farther and she'll have it.

It is warm to the touch. But it's a soft and gentle heat when compared to the inferno even now threatening to devour her. It feels like a wine glass when she strokes it. Even the bumps and ridges along its surface only feel smooth, stimulating, fascinating. She strokes one fingertip down across the length of its back and all the way past its tail. When it shivers, she smiles.

A deep throated purr escapes her, but for this single moment, she's too fixated to notice it.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Solarel!

She insisted on getting the bed, despite being the guest. Despite it not being large enough for the pair of you. She insisted you take the floor, too. Fought you for it. Won. Cheated like a fiend, but who were you to complain about legitimacy?

She didn't smile at you, but the posture of her body (the lift of her tail, the unnecessary arch of her butt into the air, the curl of her spine, and the way the sheet was one quarter flopped over her bare back, the only "clothing" she had on at all) left the impression of an unbearably smug aura just the same. She stretched her arms out onto the pillow in front of her, and lazily rolled onto her side so she could peer down on where you were seated from the safety of her glorious perch.

She made no secret of her bare chest. Wasn't it softer than what you'd seen before? Didn't it seem decadent? She stretched, turned, curved, flaunted. She lifted one leg up to her head and held it there. Her eyes smiled like a river, though even now her face was nothing but curt frowns. At best, pursed lips. In some ways she was very careless with her secrets. But if she was an open book, it's because every page was written in glyphs. Of course she was. Her whole stupid language operated on glyphs. Dense and information rich. Too rich, actually. The more a person looked at one the more unfolded out of it, and there were so many layers of interpretation that even masters could only guess as to the intent.

That was Mirror. In every way the perfect Hybrasillian, and yet content as anything to stay here as your prisoner, cut off from the lot of them. Turn your head one way, and one truth would fall out of her. Blink, and another would take its place. Ask her which was real, and a third laid down overtop of both.

"What's your interest in that word?" she asked, "That's literal children's tales. You are beyond this, I think. I say you are, so it's true. I would rather you... nnnnf. Mmmmm. Hm. Well. If it really means that much to you."

She relaxed back down into the bed and rolled herself tight into the sheets. Now that she was wrapped up, her lips curled into a giddy smirk. You might have realized it then. One layer of protection, always. The shape of it was immaterial.

"An'Suhn'Na'Nq'Muhn'Dohl'Vsht'Suhn'Sa'Syr. [The Moon Reaching Stars]. Very simple concept, very very old story. The language is different now, much smoother. I can tell you many stories much better than this one. And faster, too. But we call this one by its name, and let the children sing it before they've learned to read star names, because..."

She sighed. Turned her eyes away from you to stare wistfully at the ceiling.

"I wish you would stop pretending to care. Let me go already. You can't cook a fish to save your life. Even the ones you bring me are some kind of fucked up. What am I supposed to do with these? I'll starve in another day or two."

Untrue. Demonstrably untrue. She was eating you out of house and home, pushing the boundaries of prisoner/guest rights to their maximum. She'd put on a fair bit of weight since becoming your prisoner, which was an incredible relief to see because she came to you emaciated almost down to her bones. Still, she complained about it daily. The fat, and the starvation both. The only point she stuck to consistently was that fish was overdone.

"Old things are large things, do you understand? The moons of a planet, the stars themselves, watch them chase and frolic and play. They were here before us. They will be here after. To be old and not discarded, it means you have grown. It is why we cultivate. It is why I have not forgiven you for shattering my cup. That crystal had been coaxed day on day since the minute I was born. It was mine. How many... no. No. No. Nevermind. No. I say, no!

"The lesson is over. I am not interested in your voice right now. Not your signs, either. I have thought of a better use for your tongue. Climb up here and unwrap me. When we're finished, I tracked down a new anime. They call it the Garden of Sinners. I am very, very curious~"

And that was it. This one time, and no other, she gave herself to you without needing to be wrestled into submission first. She took everything you had to give her, and she yowled loud enough to wake new Gods the entire time. Her hands on your head, holding you without guiding you. Always one layer of protection, right? Never less, but never more either.

Maybe she hadn't asked you to give her a new scar that time because in her mind, she'd already taken one. She had highly specific interpretations of winning and losing, after all. But the flip side of that was that she was never not playing games.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

There is a drink in her hand. How did it get there? What is it? It feels cold. The glass is wet. She puts her lips around the straw, and sips. It's sweet. Ahhhh, it's so sweet. It's sweet, but she could drink this forever. How odd. Normally, sweet makes her tongue curl and her mouth feel covered in fuzz. Not unpleasant, but overwhelming. Small tastes only. But this? More than half gone already. She wants more. What a pity it would be gone soon. The sound of dry sucking at the bottom of the glass is a melancholy song, indeed.

Her body is soaked in sweat. Her fur is sticking to her body suit. She is not in her cockpit anymore. There are voices all around her. Her arm is trembling as she pulls the zipper down to cool off. Where did her drink go? She would like another one, please. She pulls the zipper down halfway down her stomach. She tugs on one side of the split to let the air hit her body. That feels better.

Slate is speaking. Slate is staring at her. What is she? Oh. Oh, of course.

"Failure," says Mirror, cutting across her chief mechanic, "Of imagination. Mine, I mean. Not your fault. Simply not."

"I'm really sorry, Boss. I shoulda known better than to press your buttons right before a match. I was, honestly I was so scared to come back and find you still there that I didn't come back until way too late to do anything. Not that I didn't have eyes on her the whole time, but I mean, man. I'm just so sorry. I don't get what adds up to wins and losses in that head of yours but I've been working with you long enough to know that wasn't the fight you were looking for. I'm sorry Boss. Really am. But we're a team, yeah? You gotta let me take a little bit of the blame here."

Is she touched? Is that moving? Is she simply too tired to stay standing? What is moving her body right now? Mirror's mind races in circles, but her body moves deliberately to just where it wants to be. She wraps her arms around Slate, and hunches down to bury her face in their neck.

And for a moment there are no words between them, nor need for any. Their bodies are soft and warm, too warm in fact, against each other. Their hands seek nothing except to hold on. A million apologies pass between them in the space of three shared breaths, and then just before it gets too be too much Mirror pulls away again.

"I'm..." she says.

The thought splinters against the memory of her drink. Maybe she should ask about it. It really would be nice to have another.

"I am..."

Around and around it goes. The entire thought is in front of her, and some unseen force is making it feel unclean. She can't touch it. She can't. It isn't right. But maybe, it is. Maybe it's just upsetting and she's just a coward who can't own up and say it. She wipes a hand across her face, which is how she notices she's chewing on the tips of her hair. She frowns.

"Considering retirement."

"What?! Boss, what? No!"

"Why not? I very clearly can't keep up. Solarel reduced her own battle power to near zero to forcibly ascend her own vision and personal capabilities. She was already ahead of me and the only thing my work accomplished was catapulting her even further ahead. She plucked no fewer than four secrets from me and all I could do in return was shatter that piece of shit relic she was riding. And have you seen what the Humans are doing here?"

"Boss, come on. This is a bad joke. It's not like you."

"I've run it over and over again. How would I handle a fight without the Whip? It's a dead end. Sensory overload would kick in after ten minutes and then I would lose, irrevocably. It's a farce, Slate. I am a farce. Unwelcome in engineering, unfit to be a researcher, and as a pilot I only expose new facets of my ugliness. They must surely be mocking me by now. Nine Drive is exposed before it's even finished. So why doesn't quitting suit me best?"

"You didn't sleep last night, did you? What was the last thing you ate?"

"Irrelevant. I was sharp. My apm was near personal best. Fatigue and hunger did not affect my performance to any meaningful degree. If anything, I should--"

Slate had to know she'll die for clamping a hand over Mirror's mouth. Professionally, that is. But she does it anyway, because it's worth the price. Mirror can't follow the thought any farther if she can't express it. There are benefits to sticking around the eccentric types so long, aren't there?

"Boss I am telling you, if you're about to say that sleeping and eating are bad for your performance then they've already hit you a lot harder than you know. Not saying that pretty little Human girl wasn't worth it, mind, but goddess just rest already damn you! How's it feel for me, having to hear this? What do I do if you up and vanish? Nobody needs a mechanic who can't work on neural systems, you... dummy! Look just, we'll, uh, order something, ok? I'll get it sent up here. You want another drink? Something bitter this time, the way you like it. And while we're waiting just... just let the team take care of things, how about? Dunno what we've got around here that's soft enough to sleep on, but we'll, uh, I mean. Uh."

Mirror's eyes flow so freely that it's difficult to read her, especially with her mouth hidden like this. Her breaths through Slate's fingers are sharp, but slow. Her hand isn't shaking anymore when she grabs Slate's and pulls it away. She doesn't speak, even when she frees herself. All she does is push on her mechanic's shoulders until they drop to kneeling. And then she lies down, resting her head on their thighs. She smirks at the sudden blush, but dutifully closes her eyes, as instructed. Proper maintenance was not just about the repairs you could do with a wrench, no matter how good you were with one.

"...How did it look? The fight. From the, from the outside. How did it look? When it's her, I... When it's her I can't see anything else. So, how? How was it, actually?"

Breathless Dead

Every footfall is a symphony. The soft clatter of sandals stamping down onto the ground and the springy crackle of them curling and tensing to spring forward back into the air again. The ecstatic shiver of impact climbing up her legs. The pressure that shakes her knees and rolls her hips. Each motion carries her forward, explosive and liquid smooth at the same time. The harmony of raw power, directed at a purpose. Uninterrupted, perfect rhythm. The feeling of total invincibility that urges her forward faster and faster and faster.

The ship is alive with all manner of scents, but each one falls away in turn as though she'd swatted it into the wall and stepped over its corpse on her way ahead. The Plousios becomes a funnel with a curious void at the bottom of it, faint and astringent chemicals painted overtop delicate alchemy that takes a host of other smells and twists them into a knot where each layer cancels out the next one perfectly. A chameleon odor that could convince any mind that it couldn't smell anything at all, but for that tiny nip of something like floor polish. The signature that the world's greatest forger couldn't help slipping into the masterpiece. She takes great, noisy sniffs and feels as much as smells that painted knot lurching ahead of her, skittering through vents and walls that refuse to hide anything from the great huntress.

Her chest heaves. Her shoulders roll with every clawing stretch in balance with the crushing pistons that are her legs. Her spine compresses and curves, and with every fresh snap back to a full upright posture she is rewarded with the tingling rush of a fresh breath of air laced through with adrenaline. This perfect speed is not effortless. On the contrary, it feels and is the maximum level of exertion her body is capable of. This is ecstasy. All her physicality is bursting through her nerves in every direction, building and building and building in intensity until the heat rolling off her body becomes a tangible thing on its own.

She is blind. Sight is worthless to her, so she discards it. The entire ship and all its many visions and obstacles melt away into less than an indistinct blur. There is nothing to run through except the golden footfalls curving up and over and around and through a pair of sharp spiraling lights. One in soft gold and the other in shining silver. And for the first time, she recognizes this presence for what it is. Who it is. This light has been everywhere with her for her entire life, and only her own tiny mind kept her from recognizing it sooner. Artemis beckons. She follows, faster still. To the crabs and kingfishers, the wagons and the lanterns, she must seem like nothing. A bolt of danger, there and gone before it can register.

Except.

It's an accident of her own running form that she turns her head at all. The slightest shift of her neck to accommodate a flying leap over some part of the gold-and-silver path. That's all. The first is only a flash. She ignores it, to sink back into the raw bliss that is motion. The Hunt.

Except.

Bella sees her clearly. The sharp edges of her joints. Her awkwardly jutting hips and her short but powerful legs, that tiny nose that looks too prim and delicate to belong on the rest of her diminutive yet iron frame. The bouncing of her sweat soaked ponytail trailing behind her.

There's nothing regal about her, just now. She couldn't seem less like a princess if she tried. She doesn't look kind, either. Not panicked, not stupid, not brave, not clever. Her unsupported breasts jiggle with every lunge of her body, as tiny as they are. The muscles in her stomach roll and stretch into all kinds of exotic patterns as she hurtles down the same path as the one beside her. In this moment, she doesn't even have a name. She's not even the girl who opened the Box.

She just is. Clear and just as distinctive as The Path. Keeping pace with the same huge and obvious effort that was turning her own body into song. Is she beautiful? Desirable? Distracting? These things all require thought to pick apart and identify.

All Bella knows is that she's there. She's as much there as Mynx and Artemis. Bella breathes a little bit more freely. Her legs feel a little lighter than she remembers, if she could remember anything to begin with. So she runs. Alongside a girl who can keep up.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Nnngggh, Nnnnnnnnn, ffffft, hhhsssssst, Ghk!!"

Mirror lifts out of her seat and settles back down on it on a loop. Up, down, up, down. Her hands pound on unresponsive controls, no longer making any attempt at guiding her precious Nine-Tails toward victory of any kind. She smashes wildly, punishing an unfeeling machine for falling victim to an attack she failed to account for all on her own.

She is beyond words. They come out as animal sounds, or they terminate in broken thought loops that don't come out at all. Unworthy thoughts. Wants to express. Desperate to express. But they do not. They cannot. They will not order themselves correctly and that is enough to paralyze her mouth as much as her mecha.

So she fills her comms with nonsense breathing to go with the nonsense data streaming over half her monitors. That the lights stay on is a particular sin. Not a generic power drain but a specific unraveling of systems. The ramifications spiral faster than she can track them. Right now all she knows is that she's been violated. Exposed. There is an audience to see her, hear her, maybe even feel her as she pounds her head into the back of her seat, slashes her hands through the air with useless rage, grabs at her breasts and squeezes. Up and down, twist. Her hands tremble as they slide down her body. Her noises melt into useless chirps, and she stomps her foot down on a stuck pedal, over and over and over again.

She is hot, and bothered, and she is bothered that she is hot. Fuck this. Fuck her. Get her out of here, let her be alone, let her fucking process this. There is so much work to be done. There is so much she wants to do to herself. She is defeated, she is a victor, fuck it fuck it fuck her fuck it let her GO!

Any machine would be defeated by this. Any pilot would be blinded by this. Not her fault. Not. Random chance. External factor, outside the fight. Victory snatched by cheating. Not her fault. Not.

Wrong. Entirely her fault. Night spent in dresses and pleasure when it might have been spent on better maintenance. Fight with Slate cost her pit crew time. Breakdown in communication, always her fault. That is what it means to be Mira of the Fisher Clan. That is why the promise is whispered, when any healthy cat would speak it loudly so that the stars could hear it and carry it to the goddesses. Her fault. Undeniably.

And that's the revelation that cuts across her storm like a sword. Her hands caress her cheeks, big slow circles, one, two. She is free. If one assumption is wrong she can assume others are incorrect as well. Count them. She is bothered that she is turned on. No reason to be. Mecha drawing power, physical sensory data intact. Promise of night beyond belief, guaranteed climax. Small wonder she's excited to wear it tonight. Hasn't felt like this in years. Next: that any pilot would be blinded. No. No. Mirror is cut off from sense data. The exploit that paralyzes the Gods-Smiting Whip does not affect her. She does not need a link to move, she can scramble about in this cramped compartment. She can make repairs. She has power most anyone else would not. And it would be stupid not to use it.

Continue. Should The Beast That Gathers Power be incapable of withstanding this kind of attack? No. The exploit left power. Anything can function with energy, even without a functioning control scheme. Resources the only thing that matter. Her perfect weapon. Invincible. Eating that which makes it weaker and turning it into strength. Two disabled Tails had been converted into the Fang. That had been defeated. But she had one more disabled tail still mounted on her shoulder. No need to move, no need to aim: she was already pointing at her wine condition.

Mirror traces two fingers over her forehead, and sighs. Work quickly, fool. She hops over the top of her chair and presses herself down on the floor of the cockpit. There are panels to be torn up, wires to be repurposed, power conduits to direct where they are needed. Slate had a point: her wrench technique was quite sexy, wasn't it?

"Channel. All available. Power. Tail Six. Crystal Fire. Integrity holding. Estimate: eighty seven percent. Rerouting. Safety disabled. Goodbye. Solarel. We will not. Dance like this. Again."

Finite aim is impossible in this conditions. Irrelevant. Tail Six's energy discharge has enough power behind it to power her entire mecha. The white hot, unstable beam is large enough to cut an asteroid in half. It does as well for the Bezorel, mercifully frying the connection to its neural link in the same instant it bifurcates the ancient weapon at the shoulders. A cockpit and very little else falls to the ground as the rest of its sixty year old frame bubbles and melts away into unsalvageable scrap. The beam crashes into the rock with a series of explosions that rock the arena hard enough to be felt, if only distantly, by the other competitors fighting all around it. Repairs from this might be difficult even for Zaldarian nanotech.

Serves them right. Fuckers.

"Disconnecting power. Restore functionality. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Confirm. Confirm. Confirm."

Mirror slides back into her chair and dances across her dials once more. The Gods-Smiting Whip is sluggish, only barely capable of a slow walk (and even that feels incorrect), but it moves. It limps across the battlefield to wrench its trident out of the crater wall, and lifts it to the sky in a symbol of conquest.

"Never. Try. This." she stops, makes a frustrated growl, and has to start again four times before the words will come, "Never. Try. This. Shit. Again. Start. Over. And do not. Dare. Lose. Under... Under... s-stand??"

No more. No more. She needs to leave. Process. Overcome. No more.

[Mirror risks (some of) the secrets of her piloting technique and mech construction to Defy Disaster with Wit:
4, 5 + 2 - 2 + 1: 10]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The canyon walls? Bizarre. Nonsensical. She was broadcasting. That's a certainty, vocalized response after final outburst confirms. Retrace memory, activated after? Doesn't line up, definitely broadcasting. Her entire damage report was record between them. Point blank, no opportunity to dodge. Pointless to do so even if it was possible. Nine Drive confirmed incapable of further shielding. Kill shot. Kill shot. And yet, the canyon walls. Why?

Risk of damage to the Bezorel? Absurd. Superior pilot, inferior machine. But protracted battled favored tech edge. Even broken Nine Drive preferable resource to empty missile racks. One limb, slow turn speed, designed for planting and barrage, any tactician on Solarel's level would trade the Bezorel's life for the Gods-Smiting Whip's. Not paying attention, then. No, also absurd. Not her. Not clever, creative, beautiful, desperate her. She knew. Understood the flow of fight, understood the opportunity, passed on it.

Mirror blinks. She is surprised to find herself above the crumbling canyon, still lighting up with explosions as the missiles set off self-destruct mechanisms and trade the Bezorel's capabilities for pyrotechnics. Her hands carried her here on their own, as automatically as they'd dodged that awkward, lancing kick. She has no memory of either maneuver. And suddenly, she understands.

"Set piece," she mutters, "Romantic. Win condition."

She scowls. Every motion on her console is meticulously tracked this time, full focus on the battle as she rushes into the air after Solarel.

"Disingenuous! Foolishness! When have you lost? When? You think you're losing now? Explain! No, do not. Do not bother. You say 'unsolved', but I am marked, marked marked. Marked. You say 'impossible', but I am defeated. Losing, even now. You. Broken machine, broken God. Rusted relic. Me. Honed machine, partner god. But look. At us. Look. At me. Told you. Told you!"

She is a blazing star, burning through the sky. She is a tangled mess of systems built only for communication that can't find any way to bridge this infinite gap, this last impossible inch. If words and signals and expressions and displays and endless training sessions weren't enough to make her heart be heard, maybe this would do the trick. Maybe everything she had would let her touch something soft, sweet, and worth possessing. If not her fingertips then her tongue. If not her tongue then her body. If not her body, then, then... then flip her over one last time, spread her apart, and fucking take her. She'll yield. This once. Promise.

"I chased you. For years. You. Revamped. Nine-Tails. Built Nine Drive. For you. Were your. Eyes shut. Last night? Who did. I want. To see. Me?"

She thrusts her trident through the Bezorel's left foot, vaults over the top of it, and smashes her knee down on the sword arm where it couldn't reach her in riposte. The fight tilts down from the sky and the pair of them come crashing back down to the earth again. The crater they make together breaks the river wall, and floods the hole with rushing water that splashes across their bodies with a burst of deep cold that explodes all at once into scalding steam.

In the hissing, obscuring sauna built for the two of them, the Gods-Smiting Whip hurls its trident away with enough force to bury it halfway up the shaft in the crater wall. Mirror's fingers dance faster than ever, guiding her mecha through the precise and complex motion of snatching several of her Sacred Tails out of the air in each hand. Instead of projectile beams, their tips sprout focused blades, which it spirals in great crescent sweeps, brrrr, brrrr, brrrr, szzzzzt! No more arms, Solarel. No more sword. But you are not finished yet.

"You say. You want. My eyes. To see you. I can't. I can't. I can't. My focus. My attention. My mind. You cannot. Ask more. Of me. You cannot. Stop. My eyes. From wandering. I cannot. Turn off. My mind. Is seeing you. Not enough? You said. It was. Fine. Lies? Even. Now. I am. Thinking. About quilting. There is. Pattern. Want to capture. Show you. Colors. But I cannot. Be what. You say. You want. I am not. The girl. You need. I am. Broken. But you. Are the one. Who broke me. You are. Why. I see. Outside."

Two tails interlock in her hands. Tail Five floats in front of them and connects to form a full spear shaft. Mirror leaps back and plants the Gods-Smiting Whip's feet in a wide stance that hold this spear in front of her, guarding the cockpit from direct fire. There's a rumbling in the air, and blue-white arcs of raw power race across the haft, some even climbing over the Gods-Smiting Whip itself. Suddenly, the energy coalesces into a massive, unstable energy blade more than twice the size of either machine. Just existing makes it vaporize water and melt rock.

And even still, there are tears in Mirror's eyes. She grits her teeth, and tightens her grip on the controls until her fingers feel about to break.

"This is. My. Loss. But I can. Still. Give you this. Because. I love you."

She holds the blade aloft, and armor crumbles from the arm of her own mecha just from the force of it. Joints and servos glint in a sudden burst of lightning strikes the massive plasma configuration.

"Nine Drive System, Full Configuration. First Form. The Fang That Devours. The Sun."

[Fight: 4, 3, +2, +1: 10. Inflicting another condition, seizing a second advantage, and taking a string via flirting. This triggers Feelings 4, and with the Mask dissolving in the presence of Solarel yet again, Mirror makes an immediate additional exchange of strings]

Breathless Dead

'You don't have to follow me.'

Bella watches Redana's retreating back without saying a word in exchange. Her fingers pinch the cold glass, and her eyes dip to stare at the swirling dark red liquid, instead. The name on the side is visible even through the wine. All around her is the sound of panicked cries, clattering bells, and heavy feet running both toward and away from danger. Assassin, assassin is the cry ringing in her ears. Assassin, assassin say the stench of creeping mists. Assassin, assassin whisper the softly blooming flowers that creep along the ground.

'You don't have to follow me.'

She doesn't. Hi Bella bye Bella. It's so clumsy and stupid it makes her want to laugh. She sips at her wine, instead. Not so much as a smile. What would she smile about? It could technically be any of them, she supposes. Assassin, assassin. Her sisters. If Beautiful was awake again she could be capable of anything. Beljani seemed less likely. Harder to set her off, easier to contain her, but even still. Surrounded by Magi she could set off this kind of terror, too.

'I'll come back this time. I promise.'

Bella lifts the glass and drains it in a motion, as has become her custom. She smacks her lips together and winces. This was stolen from her personal stock on the Anemoi, and mulled it as part of some twisted experiment to turn it palatable. Dipshits. What the fuck were cloves and anise supposed to do for something this oily? The orange notes begged for herbs, a lemongrass or something. She should punch whoever was responsible for this.

'I'll come back this time. I promise.'

'Bella, you're okay. You're okay! Oh Hera and Aphrodite, thank you for keeping her safe!'

It won't be her. It can't be her. She's dead. Even though this feels like her, looks like her, smells like her, it's not. She's dead. Bella killed her herself. She is dead and buried and she is not to be trusted in the first place. Bella sniffs the air like an animal, and scowls.

'Pretty disciplined of me, huh?'

'You don't have to follow me this time.'

'so... I'm happy. That's all I wanted. I just wanted you to see...'

'You don't have to follow me this time.'

She's going to be sick. The memories crawl in her head like insects, buzzing and bursting with every fresh flower she notices. Bella paces. She turns back and forth, cracking her tail like a lash as she goes. No. No. No. It can't be. It can't! She can't breathe. Her chest is going to collapse. The walls are creeping closer; soon they will crush her.

'Hey, Bella! How are you doing?'

"...Mynx."

Don't have to follow? Fucks sake, Redana. Of all the times for you to try. Bella spins one final time. The pressure of the blood rushing through her body looks like it could kill her at any moment. But she glides over to Dolce with the poise of a goddess. She puts the signed glass in his hand before he can say anything.

"I don't have anyone else I can... just... make sure it doesn't break. I don't have anything else right now."

She turns her back to him immediately. That treasure was the only thing holding her in place; now that it's been safely handed off, she vanishes like she's been shot out of a cannon. Toward danger. Toward Redana. Toward Mynx. Easier than breathing to run. It's in her blood, after all. She slips between formations of soldiers and under the foot-endings of floating Magi like she was born to move. She has something to protect. Several things. There are things that need to be said.

The further she goes, the more toxic the miasma. She was an idiot to deny the obvious. Bella picks up the place and dives into the thick of it with reckless abandon, but the thicker it gets the more it feels like she's feeling behind instead of catching up. She wheels about and heaves, growling with frustration. Typical Mynx, damn her. Toxins and trickery and lies, there when you don't need her, and find when you want her.

Toxins, and trickery. And softness. Support. Best friend, the only one to ever put up with her bullshit. Toxins. And an antidote for every single one. She puts her hand to the wall, follows it to the floor, and... there! Bella plucks a small white flower from the ground, and pops it stem and all into her mouth. Fuck, it's as bitter anything. That wine would've loved this. And when she swallows, suddenly she can see the golden path unfolding before her. She rushes down it in pursuit of a princess, and a mistake begging to be set right. Whatever the cost, she...

She doesn't have to follow. But she does.

[Overcome: 9. Bella expends a use of her Clever Tricks to make it stick]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Tail one response time below acceptable parameters. Designated unfit for battle operations. Three and Six showing twelve percent list from sight aiming. Target systems unreliable. Energy Transfer Conduits, confirmed damaged. Lowering output by twenty one point three percent to compensate. Tail Five..."

She's still broadcasting. Every word of her assessment is being sent directly to Solarel. She should stop. No, fuck it. Pointless, she'll intuit just as much from the lack of comms. She should lie. No, fuck it. Pointless, accurate information flow is the entire point of intonation to begin with. Pointless. Pointless, pointless, pointless!

"Continues holding overcharge. Remains suitable finisher option, cost of use unknown. Nine Drive System assessment: forty two percent total operational capacity. Further battle not rec-- AAAAAH!"

Mirror's fingers dart across her console. Even with the Gods-Smiting Whip in idle posture her fingers are constantly in motion with stupefying speeds. In the air it resulted in continuous vector adjustments, making her sneakily hard to hit with precision weaponry. But on the ground like this those inputs had to go into smaller things. Tiny weight shifts and maneuvering her trident between offensive postures without committing her to an opening. Her functional tails shift back and forth like a small cluster of fish avoiding a predator, while the damaged ones pivot between targets from her shoulders, never resting on any one spot long enough to provoke a reaction. All to keep her busy during moments of quiet. Because reflex reactions were actually thought reads, and her mecha's response time was necessarily slower than a traditional pilot's. Well, in actual fact it was faster, but the complexity of the control scheme sacrificed macro level movements for micro ones, so moving at an actionable level required her to keep ahead of the fight nine times out of ten. Better to waste motions then to keep muscle memory engaged. It was too risky to respond from neutral.

Until the sniper round cracks across her cockpit. Mirror's eyes widen with shock, surprise, and fury. She may well be crying; even she isn't sure. She commits the cardinal sin. She takes her hands off the joysticks, and away from her buttons. She clutches at her head as if she'd taken neural feedback. She pulls at her hair as if she wants to pull it out by the sheet. When she can't take the pain anymore she reaches behind her head and squeezes the top of her chair until it feels like her fingers are about to break.

The rhythm of her breathing has become irregular and heaving. She is definitely crying; you can tell by the sniffling. And even then, her legs work at the foot pedals to shift Nine-Tails away from the angle of attack she'd just taken.

"What would I do? What would I do!?"

No more typing. No more consideration. She needs her hands for too many other things, the thoughts spin too violently to spare the shift from routine. Crack, crack, crack, crack. The sound of the shot echoes across her plans, her words, her sudden attempts at spinning up consideration for the question she'd been posed. Because she, crack, crack, hadn't, crack, thought about it at all. She seethes, and her hands tremble. She has to keep resetting the position of her hands to keep moving. A tear spatters on her console. In the video feed, it looks like her eye is leaking.

"Why did I ever try to explain myself to you?! You never listen! No matter how much effort I put in, you don't respond! You just say whatever's already on your mind, like a, like a..!"

She falters in the middle of her fury. The only words that come to mind are slurs. [Crossed Stripes], [Color Whore], [Wander Eye]. Terrible names. Her fur darkens with anger that she even thought of them. She clucks her tongue that she couldn't think of any that hadn't been used on her. Her ear twitches toward the sound of a bullet hitting her mecha again, and she cannot tell if it's a memory or a new hit.

"One?"

Her breath hitches. Her eyes flicker across a full dozen screens dumping information every which way, and the thought fizzles. Unsure, unsure. No data. Sense memory. Damn it. What was she? She needs two breaths to pick up the original discarded thought again.

"What would I do?" she asks again with the same intensity as if she'd never vocalized the question in the first place, "Why even ask me? Might as well ask what I'd want to wear if I wasn't disfigured! Ask me how I'd think if my brain worked! Ask me... I'd lose, you idiot! Obviously I'd lose! What potential? Fucking what potential! Fuck your talent. Fuck your riddle. Fuck you. You clearly already see the shape of everything. That's why you're mocking me, right? Because your eyes are clear, and I can't even see past..."

Past her. Past Solarel. That movement. That shot. That... How could? But she? Then... what had, what had, what had (crack, crack), what had been the fucking point of it all? Everything she'd given up every disadvantage of her system was meant to create a thing that only she could hold. She was trying to climb a mountain nobody else could even see. And Solarel was vaulting it blindly, on nothing but her absurd talent. She, she worked, she, but then, what was, what, there was no, no, no no no no...

There was no point to any of it. None at all. Mirror was not a genius. Not even a creative. It hadn't occurred to her to imagine a role reversal in the first place. It hadn't. And now that she was trying, all she could see was failure. Solarel would master the Gods-Smiting Whip before she figured out how to read the information screens. Mirror would still be struggling with the fear of feedback and the sluggishness of her own suddenly huge and freshly mutilated body. What would she do? What would she do, with her volley defeated and her arm cut off? Lose. Lose, lose, lose, lose, lose.

No growth. Stunted. Thinking she was clever, thinking she was unique, that had crushed her completely. Now she was like a child still trying to master basics. No, worse than that. Much worse. A child still had a lifetime to develop mastery, and few preconceptions to overcome. This was like being a machine that had been built wrong from the start. Now she was obsolete before she'd even overcome her limitations. Worth less together than she'd be as scrap. Defeated. Utterly defeated. The light leaves her eyes entirely.

But her hands keep moving. A pair of tails flip in midair and rain gargantuan laser blasts down on the severed arm of the Bezorel until it blows up into a scattered pile of superheated scrap. One weapon off the list. She couldn't understand why she was bothering. But even more than that, she couldn't stop herself. The laser arrays next. The...

A hand more clever than it realizes twists a joystick down. It takes thirty seven button presses inside the duration of the tilt to pull the maneuver off. The Gods-Smiting Whip lunges forward and thrusts its trident directly at the Bezorel's open cockpit. The plasma tips stop just short of skewering it through. It gets so close that the barrel of that sniper rifle grows warm. She follows through with another step and wrenches her weapon backwards in the same motion. Step, pivot, whip crash! She sweeps for the Bezorel's heavy legs and forces it to dodge in whatever awkward way it's capable of.

Show her. Show her. Show her! If you're going to win, then do it while you're taking this seriously!

"Stop. Exposing. Not clever. Even. Idiot. Even myself... Countermeasures. Not as. Clever. As you think it is."

[marking Hopeless]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Da da da, dadaadada, da, da, da."

Wordless. Atonal to a fault. But nevertheless perfectly on rhythm. Mirror's voice guides her fingers across her complicated control board and serenades her once upon a time lover at the same time. The first time they fought, she used song lyrics as a shorthand to guide her through the list of best-use responses and macros. The words were meant to be a focus, something to turn her hands over to a part of her brain that wasn't being used to notice stimuli or create plans. Picking familiar phrases often overhead in the background while doing work to push the movement all the way down into the realm of memory.

Total disaster. Calling to mind actual songs put the music in her mind, and the rhythm was inevitably slightly off to very off from the patterns of an actual battle. The worst thing was that none of her field tests had revealed it as a weakness! It took Solarel, with her constant shifts and rushes and the utterly impossible fluidity with which she moved her body for Mirror to realize the degree to which she was confusing pattern associations for actually being on beat. What felt like perfect responses in practice were actually woefully inadequate against the real deal. They'd fought for a full day, but the truth was that she'd barely kept up the entire time. In fact, she hadn't kept up at all. Her loss was inevitable; the only victory to be had was in the achievement.

So now she used her voice to tap out the beats she could actually perceive in front of her. She was right to associate battle with music, with dancing, but it took a superior partner to show her how deep it really went. On her own, she tried to impose the fastest rhythms and inputs possible. Even now with years of practice it was still her preference. Fast, fast, fast. Speed enough to compensate for imposing a barrier between thought and action. But this led to sloppy, inefficient movement, while the world around you spun on, uncaring and unyielding. It was not a bad thing to follow someone else's rhythm.

For example, this rain of lasers from the Archimedes Array could trick an observer into thinking they were a curtain and only a full strafe action would be sufficient to avoid it. In actuality it sprays beams in tight clusters (part of the designer's desperate attempt to make it output any damage whatsoever), so the pattern of fire could be expressed in sixteenth beats. Da da da, darara, da da.

Nine-Tails flares with the brilliant blue-white halo of thruster fire, and so begins the dance. It is unnecessary, strictly speaking, to dodge this first salvo, but warmups are an essential part of peak performance. It spins rapidly around the edge of several beam clusters, shoulder flips over another, and slides in between the middle of the final volley. Mirror dodges at the absolute edge of the attack range, letting the lasers just kiss the paint of her Gods-Smiting Whip. Enough to provide data streams for her to read, to plug into a neuromesh later and experience in privacy. She lets the sequence carry her perilously high into the sky, a perfect target for what comes next. But so what?

> i will say whatever i want to about your relic.
> what does it matter to me how many cretins you defeated with it?
> i watched your previous round.
> says a lot more about you than it.
> that thing is nothing more than a net you are caught in.
> i will

Aha. The weakness of her setup, speaking requires the same fingers she uses for dodging. Very clever to exploit that. Mirror has to stretch frantically to stomp the lower pedal with enough force to move out of the path of the first missile. That's a kiss she won't survive with her decency intact. There is dancing to your opponent's rhythm and then there is bending to their will. Foolish. She narrows her eyes and scowls. She hates feeling foolish.

"Full throttle. Keep up if you dare."

The Gods-Smiting Whip dashes over the top of the canyon just ahead of the path of the rain of missiles strong enough to blow its armor to shreds. Where'd she get access to this kind of firepower? It doesn't make sense. Purchasing goods and services was a function even Mirror could barely wrap her head around, after hours of study! How had this idiot gone and done it so easily? She zags back across to dodge another barrage, and then a third. She floats untouched as the rack detaches from the Bezorel and falls into the river with a massive spray of water. The sneer is just curling its way across her lips when Sorarel's voice hits her ears.

She's boxed in. Impossible to dodge. A true kill shot. What can she do? What can she do?? Her too!?

"Shit. Shit. Shit!"

The fireworks are spectacular. The individual explosions overlap in a truly impressive concussive and pyrotechnic display interlaced with crackling blue energy from her crystal fire drive. It's loud, bright, and hotter than the sun sweltering in the deepest part of the jungle. Even in this downpour it takes a full thirty seconds for the smoke to start clear.

And underneath it, a pristine blue glow. Eight free floating tails swirl about the last guiding tail curved up above the Gods-Smiting Whip's head. Between them, bolts of energy spark and interlock in a spherical hard light shield. The power quickly flickers and the shield shatters like glass, but mecha and pilot are untouched. Tails One, Three, and Six slump out of formation, and are quickly snatched out of the air and planted on its shoulders like cannons.

"N-Nine... Drive... System," Mirror's voice shakes with anger, "Full Configuration. Th-Third Form... Moonlight. Immemorial. Vanguard."

> your voice.
> still so beautiful.
> were you practicing?
> your intonation impressed me, well done.

"But I'm going to kill you now."

All her effort. Hundreds of hours of it. A thousand new concepts and mechanical improvements made since that day. And one beautiful dipshit eclipsed it all in the space of two words. With, with nothing! With absolutely nothing, she'd!

Her trident thrums with power as she slashes it through the air. Lightning crashes through the sky in response. One third. Her calculations said she could afford one third of her full repertoire before the major matches. Well mission fucking failure, thank you very much. A loss. There's no other thing this can be considered but a loss!

The thunder roars. Nine-Tails rockets down into the canyon at absolutely suicidal speeds that only don't shatter its legs because it burns out half of its thrusters in a last second counterburst, instead. A vicious kick to the legs knocks out several of the Bezorel's stability struts. Spin. Another kick to the chest makes it stagger. The trident crackles when it tears through the ancient mecha's right shoulder. Mirror twists it inside and slashes it free, taking the entire arm with it. One step back, two.

...It was like this in bed, too. Settled questions of power and dynamic suddenly flipped and turned into struggles to keep on top and control the flow of pleasure and vulnerability. It made her so fucking hot. Even now she twists her legs inside the cockpit, pressing her thighs together and panting like she'd just come up from a dive.

Shameful. Pathetic. This... this is a loss. What else could she call it?

[Mirror activates Center of the Web, taking +1 ongoing for the rest of the scene.
Fight: 8. Inflict a condition and take advantage in the form of literal disarming.
Mirror is Smitten.]

Breathless Dead

There is time enough for one response before the little tea party comes to an end. Two, in fact. Another smile passes across Bella's face: less amused this time, but just as genuine. This is kindness born from pain. This is warmth born from sadness. She can't use it in place of an apology, because it isn't one. What good would that do her, after everything she's done? This is resigned acknowledgement; that she's heard what she's been expecting to hear this entire time, and now she will take her permission to melt into the shadows and disappear forever.

The second response must be a thank you, then. Bella sits and waits for Dolce to meet her eyes again, even though it probably costs her a chance to escape. Even though it takes enough time to leave an awkward silence in the air, she sits patiently and watches for him to finally look up from his tea. He needs to see. He needs to watch her screw her eyelid shut tight over her Auspex until she's staring at him through just one mortal eye, looking like an exhausted traveler staring into the sun. It's important, so he'll know the reason the pressure suddenly abates. That he knows that she knows: she was too much. She is sealing herself off for his benefit.

"Hey, Redana~"

She swings that playful tone like a sword. Not even turning to look, she rises from her chair with supreme confidence. She can smell the bewilderment all over her princess, after all. This light bit of teasing is all it will take to make her freeze up long enough to let Bella disappear again. She'll do a better job of it this time. It's an empty as fuck ship, all she needs to do is bend away from the sounds of people this time. No more projects. No more tea. No more--

She feels the hand clamp around her wrist before she makes it two steps. Bella snarls, and whirls about to scream obscenities, but they die on her lips. Prion Paula smiles at her, and holds up the forgotten wine glass. She's even filled it, as if to prove that signature was stronger than any drink. In Bella's hand it feels more like a chain. She's trapped. Trapped again. If only the thought of bolting didn't make her feel sick. She sighs, and takes a tiny sip from the opposite end of the glass from her treasure.

"They're filming a sequel to my favorite movie here."

The teasing confidence is gone from her voice. She still has her eye squeezed shut like an idiot, but it's turned on the wrong target now. Her back stiffens and her tail wraps itself around her thigh. She reaches behind her to lift her sea-soaked hair off her neck for a moment, and lets it fall again with a wet slap. Her eye darts to Redana's hair again and again, no matter how many times she tries to direct it elsewhere. Red opens again, to duel with Green.

"Your captain was just inviting me to review the set. You know, to show there's no bad blood. So generous of him; if the gods had been a little kinder to me these last few months you can bet I'd..."

She lets the threat fall silent, unfinished. Her fingers play around the stem of her glass, the smooth, cool roundness only felt across her fingertips because of her lack of talons these days. She frowns, and worries at her dress.

"...You kept that braid in. You mor-- Princess, please put more care into your appearance. A sloppy thing like that doesn't suit you."