Phoe

Return to Thellamie

Three sensations. Three mysteries.

The first and by far the most coherent is the weight of the spindle in her hand. She has no memory of reaching for it, no concept of what kind of effort it might have taken. Forensic data implying her path through the now-fallen wreckage. The storm has passed. The motion through it can no longer be imagined.

But it is a certainty that she is holding the spindle. And that the artifact is intact and undamaged. Mayzie is looking at her. Not with stars in her eyes, not with gratitude. Not even with concern. Raw intensity. That's what Eclair Espoir identifies in her fellow Avel. She must have been quite rude, in that case. They had wrapped up in one another, she recalls that quite clearly, would she really have been so crass as to rotate Mayzie and kick off of her as the beginning of a parkour sequence?

And yet, she must have. Because she is holding the spindle. In that moment, in those eyes, had she seen the promise of a dream worth anything? Had she perceived something too valuable to lose, though but a moment earlier it had been worthless junk designated for dusting and deletion. The hierarchy had been shattered. Typically easy calculus had been flipped on its head.

She'd... wanted to see. What was possible. How absurd.

The second sensation, only slightly less conspicuous, was the pain arcing along the path of her back. This type of thing is not a rarity; her methodology subscribes to the notion of "minimum viable effort" which by its nature left zero room for error. Errors were of course unfortunately common: as with detective work, as with combat, or combat-adjacent action sequences.

She'd simply misidentified the puzzle of the Stacks. That was all this meant. 'Unless' had unfurled far sooner than she'd anticipated, and Injimo had responded to encouragement Eclair hadn't even thought to look for. Oversight, but a positive outcome. Though, it's an unusual injury? As these things go? The... what name did she just hear? Three... part... mmmn, damn it. Perhaps the Triple Cross Edge? This is an irrelevant detail, named attacks are a dead end of creativity to begin with. But all the same, her head is buzzing. She wishes she could write it down.

Regardless! It was a broad-spectrum attack with the potential to inflict a lot of area damage. If Eclair had sought to encounter that with unshaped Light, which felt like the sort of thing she would try (why is it so hard to piece this together??? why is her mind nothing but this strange buzzing?), then the damage should have been spread across her body in random places. Not to mention...

No, that is impossible. Mayzie is untouched. The spindle is likewise perfect. The odds of these two things coinciding with... but no, could she, could Mayzie have applied another of her heretofore unanticipated talents? Did she? Did she hate, er, was she mad at...?

?????

But.

Assess the damage, Eclair. Her dress, shredded from her shoulder blades to beneath her waist. Her Aurora armor, likewise cracked and crumbling away from her flesh. Her skin, torn and burning. But not bubbling. Not poisoned. Not cold-burned either. Something else, something from the environment, something that... across her back? Only there? She would have pivoted. Attempted to dodge? Failed? But the two most precious things in this accursed subspace trash pile are both pristine. Untouched.

Then, are these facts... linked?

The... third sensation.

A tingle, and a sense of lingering warmth across her lips.

Eclair may live her life with a face half buried in a notebook, but one does not spend so much her of life living in a mansion tended by maids without learning to recognize the flavor of a kiss.

But she, haha, this is the strange part. She can taste it on more than just her lips. Her tongue has the strange heaviness of having to carry two people's worth of tastes, and even as she brushes it across them, her teeth are stained with it as well? It must have been... rather forceful. Which returns the subject to Mayzie. Watching with untraceable intensity.

Oh, Eclair. To have forced yourself so upon a childhood friend? Shameful and disgusting. Is that why? Is that why she cannot remember it? Is it guilt that makes her feel as though she's been struck by the very lightning for which she was named?

Numb, she hands the artifact to another cat. She turns her gaze to the pile of fallen treasures now smouldering around everyone. Her own treasury is both smaller and vaster in its way, but there is one perfected jewel among its depths that she makes a habit of never reaching for, except in the most desperate of circumstances.

She pulls that blade here and now. A slash of her wrist, the familiar burst of opal light. The heartbroom rests heavy in her hands. She looks again at Mayzie, and heat steals the color of her cheeks.

"I... have... no right to call myself a maid. Not anymore. But I... even so, I..."

She turns, and begins to sweep. The Heartbroom is the purest and most concentrated weapon in the treasury of her heart, and its power is thus: that what it sweeps, if it should be a mess, will burn harmlessly into dust, easily swept. All treasure is made instead to shine, and all innocent infrastructure to glitter. Indeed, this blade cuts only that which is unnecessary.

She sweeps it now against the ruin of the Stacks. Anything to cease this endless contemplation of her failure. Sure Mayzie could not have kissed her!

...Could she?

Breathless Dead

The world is red.

The world is black.

The world is dimming, fuzzing, cracking, narrowing, decaying.

The world is blood.

The world is failure.

The world is defeat.

The world is... no. She is screaming.

Bella's body is a masterpiece of pain. Her legs are hollow and heavy in the same heartbeat. Her stomach doesn't feel like it's there at all. Her lungs taste only hot ash, and her arm is comprised entirely of hot, crawling knives. And through it all, her ears echo with the rasping sound of her battle roar. Her fingers stay outstretched, her claws grasp.

She crushes the space between her and the God of Love and lets it drop beneath her heel. She reaches closer, and does not make it. She snarls and strains, pink foam bubbling between her teeth in the effort, and makes it halfway there. Narrowing. Narrowing. But never there. She feels nothing more than the whisper of a few stray molecules of fabric.

Her body is burning. Her body is crumbling. Everywhere that flesh fails her, bone grows to hold it up again. It hurts so much more this way than when she stepped into the suit, already fully formed. But she is so close. She just needs this little bit more. Her vision fades another shade, darkness swallowing more of her eyes, and she lunges for an uncountable next attempt.

"DdDdon'T! CAlL mEE! YOUR! dDaUGHter!"

Somehow, in the middle of it all, she is annoyed. How the fuck is that possible? It's pissing her off. It's so stupid, having to feel her own heart pounding so desperately inside her ribs, having to hear the rush of blood in her head even though it's all just going to leak out in the end. It's stupid that she has to breathe to keep going like this, even though it hurts. Even though she was built to do exactly this!

Even Vesper doesn't have a better idea! All the genius of the universe, all the hope and pride of her sisters, all of it buys her this one effort and she's spending it heaving air like a jackass. This used to be effortless. This used to be easy! And now she's... oh, fuck's sake, she's hungry, too?! Useless, fucking, garbage piece of SH--

The world is black. Her world is black. She can feel him, but she cannot see him anymore. She strains, burns, wants to snarl but she doesn't have the spare air to make noises anymore and all she can do is... bend her ear. She feels it flick. Knows it's bending because she feels it flutter stupidly against her sweat slicked hair. Wants it to stop, wants to beg it to stop distracting her, wants to make it go away, wants to tear it off, but there's a noise and, and, and...

There's a noise? The tiny jingle of a bell. Somewhere within the walls of the Imperial Palace. She's not sure where. But it is a bell. Her bell, actually. One of the ones she was named for. It's... not. It doesn't sound right. Someone else is holding it. Playing with it? The song is clumsy, childish. Bella shakes her head.

She stops. The world slows, until it is nothing more than her breathing. Unsteady and ragged to start, the deeper she focuses on it the more control she has. She can taste the air again, taste the smoke in the Palace, taste the metals of the room, taste her own acrid blood, taste something sweet she can't quite identify right now.

The world is bright. The world is full of color. Oh. How stupid. She'd just been closing her eyes.

Bella sighs. With tremendous effort, she shifts her feet and stands as straight as she can. She lets her arm drop to her side. She turns her head, and looks above her.

Yue is fighting the color Yellow. Now that she's in the flow of things, she's kind of having fun doing it? There's a lot of nasty curse energy floating around don't get her wrong, but still it's kinda like being in that movie that Bella kept telling her about. That's why she heard the music in her head when she first got swarmed, but now she feels it good and proper.

She grabs a spear around the middle of the haft as it nearly jabs her face off and swings around it like an uneven bar routine, just barely suppressing a little 'whee' while she does it. Every time she swings her sword, the solid banner of color around her wobbles a little and someone falls from the sky. Every time she swings her sword, she gets a new one. They're a bit hard to hold all in all, so as quick as she swings or smashes or twirls she's discarded it and sure enough and right as ready there's a new wonder to try out and see how it compares. Sort of an unlimited blade... well, I mean. You get it.

It feels a little bit like being Qiu, to her. The infinite challenge, the infinite rejection, every move at Maximum Flash because if she doesn't try her hardest from the start won't she have just wasted her time? She laughs, in spite of everything. In her hands are a pair of pistols. She sprays in an indiscriminate circle somehow ending in a greatsword slash and there is no blood at all for all the violence in her sphere of influence.

Of course there isn't! What is this, life and death? She hit them with the back of the bullet.

"Y'know?" says Bella, "I think she's going to win."

Her face breaks out into a lopsided, haggard grin. Aphrodite isn't smiling anymore.

"Feels ridiculous, doesn't it? Pisses you off, doesn't it? You give these people everything they've ever wanted, turn them loose, and they're all gonna get knocked out but a sword addled ditz. You went through all the trouble to set this up for me and she's gonna knock it all over in another fifteen minutes, tops."

She lifts her arm, poised to strike. And then she holds it to her jaw and presses until it pops back into place correctly this time. Her sigh is wet and gurgling; she makes a horribly indecent noise and spits foulness at his feet. It spatters just short of his dress shoes. Bella stares at Aphrodite as his face twists into a scowl and doubles over laughing.

"What's the matter? Is this not fun for you anymore? Are you getting impatient? What's the fucking rush, Dad? You're right... I want it more than anything. But who gives a shit? Your only weapon here is Jil, and she's so stupid she tried to be me. Every second I wait brings me closer to everything else I want. I can settle for that. For family and friends and this dumb fucking look on your face. But you? You don't have shit, old man. You don't get shit. You need me. So you get to stand here and watch me disappoint you. Yet again. Sucks, huh?"

She smiles. Her left arm is dangling limp at her side, and her legs are shredded ruination run through with spikes of bone. Blood is oozing from dozens of cuts, and she can't keep her eyelid open over her Auspex anymore. She stands with a slouch she does not intend, and her tail hangs low and bedraggled behind her, only barely flicking. Her fur is matted and so stained nobody would be able to guess what color it was supposed to be, her hair is damp and clumped and stuck all the way down her back, except where it's tangled around further shards of improvised exoskeleton.

But she smiles. Somehow, that makes her beautiful.

Breathless Dead

Bella's smile is red. Her groan is wet. Her fingers tremble as she pulls them free from around Jil's wrist to hold them up to her face. She pushes with one thumb and wrenches with the other wrist, and with a pair of sickening crunches sets her nose and jaw again. Five minutes with a power gap like this means there's plenty of time for little indulgences like this.

"You, greedy. Piece, of, shit!"

Her claws are not strong enough to pierce Jil's invincible skin. They are not. They are not, and yet. Twisting, tearing, scratching, rending even as they crack, even as they shatter in painful spurts of blood, even as her gauntlet breaks and crumbles and leaves only a messy and useless stump of a hand where XIII's proud strength had gleamed just minutes ago. Even so, the rivulets of blood appear. Even so, Jil's grip loosens.

When her biomantic gauntlet connects, it merely bounces Bella like a stone across the throne room. Merely smashes her into a wall and turns two ribs to powder in her chest. Bella wheezes, but that means she is drawing breath. She bleeds from a dozen spots, but that means her heart is beating. Her body screams in agony, but that means she can still feel.

Good. Good. Good.

That is good enough. On trembling limbs, she rises. On unstable feet, she stands. Her vision is tinted red and more than half stained with shadows. But she howls her battle cry, and tears a dagger made of bone out of the center of her own palm.

"Do you think after everything I've been through that I don't know the difference between your voice and hers?! Yeah, good job, you made her me. Right down to the fucking puppet strings."

It is good that she is so worn down, she thinks. Through the cut over her eye she has to squint to see, and that keeps it from registering the shock she wants to wear there. Her mouth won't stay shut and she can't keep her tongue in there, so all she can do is project insane predatory savagery instead of sadness and hurt.

Because it does hurt. There's a thousand arguments with Dyssia flashing through her mind in an instant and under every single one of them is the guilt that she can't even stay focused enough on Jil or on Nero to make her case to them directly instead of fighting the shadow of a much more recent friend. It hurts to have her own inadequacy waved in front of her face again, it hurts to have to conjure arguments in her own defense, all these hollow sounding words about freedom and the beauty of expression weighed against four billion Lanterns when all it took to save them is the will to act, and the acceptance that it had to be done with the invincible chains of Empire.

Her tail lashes before she can follow the thought beyond the space it's allowed to inhabit. Space twists in front of her, and she flies without wings or magic to aid her. She holds the sharp, warped knife in front of her, but before she can swing it she is forced to flip on the spot in mid air and slam her foot onto Jil's shoulder. She feels her boot shatter in the counterblow and is sent hurtling backwards to smash into the ground again.

Bella stands. Falls back down again. And drags herself up onto her quaking legs a second time. Again she flies, even more fiercely than before. Again she abandons her cut to defend herself from the new Praetor's wrath. Again she loses, again she pulls herself back up, and again she hunches over to do it all again. The damage has begun to show on Jil, too. She bleeds, she is obligated to rearrange her fist into new terrors, she is burned and bruised despite being in every way Bella's superior.

It's nothing new. And it's not enough. Bella wretches uncontrollably. This time she has to pull herself up by the arm of Nero's throne. She looks at Hermes through her own eye, and says nothing at all.

"yYyOu, missssserable. FUcK. You can't, hide, behind, impossible. Not from, me. I won't. LeT you. Hurt them. Anymore... won't let you, Use them, anymore. Won't, nnNNNNnngh! Won't let you, call this... Love. Anymore. I'm gonna, make you bleed, if iT's the, last thing I do."

And she flies. Not on wings or magic, these things she's never had. Not even the raw animal strength of the Diodekoi, though she wraps her ruined body in hastily grown and poorly shaped armor just to keep the shape. No, what carries her aloft is the same thing that pulled her through the Rift, let her fly across the vast galaxy and all of its wonders and its terrors without ever giving up.

You may call it her nascent Secret Sword, if you like: Tenacity Incarnate.

Artemis, even though you don't believe in her, she swears it to you here and now: she will not stop, not for anything and no matter how badly she breaks, she will never stop for anything until she buries this knife inside this smug, sneering prick who calls himself Aphrodite.

Again. Again. Again. A little closer, each time.

Breathless Dead

"D, D... ghhhk!"

Everything was wrong. In an instant, all wrong. Bella's heart slams erratically inside her chest, thrashing in a sea of terror and adrenaline. She wheezes; fingers stronger than her biceps crush against and twist her windpipe until she feels it shift, feels it move and she wretches but there's no space for the fucking air and she is drooling, she feels the hot bubbling spit on her chin and her mouth is forced open and her teeth are showing and they are not large, not sharp, not dangerous at all against this... this...

There is no strength in her arm. But she swings it. She twists her fingers into a fist and she pounds it against Jil's elbow with the fading desperation of an abused child left to realize there is no such thing as rescue. Lighter, her blows fall. Lighter and lighter, her fingers drop loose, her claws catch on Jil's skin and she

shhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeEEEEEEE!

Falls.

Crumples.

Gags.

Spits.

Glares.

Trembling slit-irises tear their way through the incorrect shape of her friend as she chokes, as she heaves, as she spits something vile on the ground and wipes her mouth clean with the back of her hand. Even as the backs of her fingers tenderly caress her own neck and flinch back from the pain, her eyes shake only with fury.

Only cold hate.

She drags one foot up until she's on her knee. Wobbles with poor form onto her feet. And stares.

Up.

"D-don't..." she croaks, "Don't be grateful. You stupid asshole."

Jil tilts her head, the way that Bella used to when she heard something she couldn't believe. She doesn't even smell right. She should smell like, like, like dust and still water, like long forgotten straw and fading leather. Even after washing herself clean it should be that. Her sweat all salt, lacking acid. Her fear response a total shutdown of her scent glands in their entirety. But she is heady. Heavy. Bone and blood and... roses. Old, withered, roses.

"What the fuck are you grateful for?! You said it already, didn't you? I could have done more! Should have done more! And I was so arrogant, so cruel and spiteful and... blind! What did I do, Jil? Why would you be grateful? What are you here for you stupid fucking bihhhhhsht!"

Bella is lifted off her feet. To her back, the fire. She feels her skirts burning, smells the armor on her leg blacken, hears the belt holding up her dagger snap and drop with a loud clang that has no echo. She twists her hands around the arm that's lifting her and wrenches for all she is worth and it accomplishes nothing at all.

She falls slack. She spits in Jil's eye.

"Hate me. Resent me. Forgive me if you can, I don't give a fuck. But grateful? I could have... I could have done more? What the fuck... did you think... you saw? Why? Why would you?"

In the corner of her eye there is a burst of color. Up, above them both, there is a flash like lightning and a pounding like drums and she knows, knows without seeing that a hero is fighting a terrible army for the sake of a princess. Maybe even a Princess. Chan-bara-chan. Her mouth falls open in a lopsided grin and she lifts herself up with Jil's arm for leverage to swing a kick at her face. The heel of her boot leaves a scratch just under Jil's eye.

"Does it mean that much to you?" she asks, dangling and choking once again, "T-to be the... strongest slave? A-are you? Th-th, that? Fucking dumb?? Why would you...? COme here? Saying that? For... for, for HIM?!"

In the air, the battle song thumps her strength. It is not in the nature of a cat to give up for trivial concerns like being smaller, slower, or weaker than something else. It is not in the nature of the woman to yield her pride to anything. She feels the song. And she feels her heartbeat pounding with equal fervor.

Return to Thellamie

It is reductive and rude to boil Mayzie Sighs down to a word as boring as 'potential'.

Nevertheless.

What other word suffices? The woman is a black hole of possibilities. Her temperament is sharp, but her worldview and tendencies are decidedly blunt. Wherever she goes she always manages to give off the impression that she is thinking a lot and would very much prefer not to be. She furrows her brows at the simplest challenges, shies away from the implications of trite deductions, but when her mind does alight on a puzzle she can pierce it so quickly and thoroughly that it bores her.

That look in her eyes. The half-lidded expression when her lips purse tight and she shrugs her shoulders to pronounce judgment. As a child, Eclair found it delightful. As an adult, it is...

Lower thighs, twist shoulders fourteen degrees. Flatten right ear, raise up. Reach out, seize subject underneath right armpit and both knees. Lift. Tense legs, dig balls of feet into ground. Gather power and, dash!

Eclair leaps through the zone of debris like a bolt of electricity. Though the tower is falling, she climbs it as only a practiced wall runner can. A foot here, tap there, hup hup hup hup five six seven eight and down. Up-left, hard right, down-left, up-left, up-right, down-right, down, down, down. Every piece of debris her foot touches shatters under the impact of the bursts of Light she uses to propel herself and her reclaimed damsel forward. Her tail swishes behind her, both as counterbalance and to collect a long string of healing potions before they can shatter, which will in any case prove useful in the near future.

...And she completely misses the shard of stone that comes whistling for her eye. Misses it just as it misses her. Because Mayzie sighs has pierced it with her needle-dagger. Her whole body flushes with heat to match a fireplace.

Since when?? Since when did Mayzie understand how to alter a heartblade?! The woman allowed herself to languish in a bath house, for Evening's sake, she called herself washed up and ugly! But so sharp! So fast! So perfect! How much of Mayzie is the result of choices she has made, the result of interests she both does and does not have? If she cared to at all, how many months, weeks... days? Would it take for her to eclipse the Violet Flash?

And yet, she is quiet. And yet, she did not run from Vespergift until there were people who needed help. And yet, she has always sought the simplest expression of her life. It would be possible to ponder her for a dozen years or more and still be discovering anomalies, secret treasures of new perspective and history and...

Eclair wants it. All of it. The power. The ability. And the will to use none of it. She could live the rest of her life like this. She really, truly could. But only if...

Breathless Dead

"See, this is what I'm talking about."

Bella shrugs her shoulders as she turns her head for a moment to watch the action unfold. She predicted this. Counted on it, more like. But that isn't really the same thing as seeing it coming.

For one thing, most of it doesn't really make a lot of sense? The Codexia opened with an absolute hailstorm of knives, all just sharp and lethal and thrown as perfectly as you like. Surely the move would be to dodge, somehow? Y'know, do one of those bull... shark martial arts thingies and step between the shadows of the blades or whatever. Or maybe she knows how to turn her sword into a shield? Or she could dig up part of the floor with a quick slash and use that! Right like... you can picture that, yeah?

This is a sliiiiiiight overestimation of the subtlety a girl who cut a spaceship in half by whacking it really hard with a sharp object is actually capable of. What she does instead is make a little "hyup!" noise and slash the knives as they come at her. Not, like, a series of faster-than-lightning cuts in a flurry worthy of some perfected master. No, she swings once. She cuts once. And all of the terrible blades coming to end her fall at her feet.

It's as if she summoned the wind with her blade, even though she hadn't swung particularly hard or fast. It's as if she cut the air itself and opened a little hole that everything just tumbled helplessly through. The glittering, silvery afterimage of her slice still hangs in the air like a painting of her intention. She smiles, and flips the sword in her hand. Carefully, she plants her foot. Hyupfully, she hyahs. Her second slash is aimed at the lightning carrying these peerless warriors above her. It is a bright and gaudy pink rising up toward the ceiling of the palace, even though none of the light that could be reflecting off of the weapon could possibly have matched this hue.

Bella blinks. She does her best to return her attention to the matter at hand, but her Auspex keeps wandering against her will to track the fight.

"You phrase it all so carefully! One second it feels like you're speaking to me directly, but then I think it over and there's not a word in there that isn't talking just to Redana. My whole life I've been left to wonder if you meant for me to hear any of it all. But here we are, aren't we? You listened to my proposal. Tell me, Mother, is this the only way you and I get to have a conversation?"

The wall of flames consuming the palace starts to dim. The air fills with a kaleidoscope of colors in its place. The silver and the pink, but also a rich cerulean and metallic purple. A handful of blacks, all crosshatched like shading, stand against a green and a brown, and a yellow above them.

Yue laughs and jumps inside the world of her cuts. Suddenly the movements of the phalanx are irrelevant. The peerless form of Achilles means nothing against the silliness of a girl at play. Because every time they try to get close, they're cut. Cut by, well... the cuts. They're not exactly afterimages, y'know? What Yue is swinging around on, ducking under, and twirling inside of is nothing less than a history of this fight so far. One that's still alive, even! Every slash is just as real, just as dangerous, just as pretty as when she put it there a moment ago. And it's all--

"Oh whoopsie doodles! That one should go... here, I think!"

Yue reaches out and plucks a long, red-orange slash from the air in front of her. She turns it in her wrist and carefully, caaaaarefully guides it down to a spot between her yellow and her green. In an instant, four shields of the finest quadronic alloys the Empire can forge are split in half along the angle of its new position.

"Ah, there we go!"

These, for the record, are the Wandering Tales of Yue The Sun Farmer. The eighth Secret Sword: Art Lessons From My Best Friend. And that's the thing, y'know? Like, yeah, Yue put this one together on the off chance she could impress Qiu with it, but at it's core this Secret Sword isn't even a combat technique. What does Athena have to say about that? Well, nothin' much I'd wager, given the state of her. But even if she was all good and whatever, what counterpoint would she have ready? What riposte is there in the formations of this perfected fighting figure that has an answer to lil' ol' Yue? Just... Yue?

And into this deadly painting walks Bella. To her, it's nothing more than paint. She smiles, softer than she should, and brushes her fingers along a trail of red and gold that is more beautiful to her than anything her eyes can remember seeing. Behind her are the sounds of the whooshing of blades, the cracking of armor, the dull thwack of a body hitting the floor, and a medley of truly ridiculous laughter.

But her eyes are facing forwards.

"I see your love, Nero. But do you see mine?"

In her outstretched hand is an old, familiar sword. Her tail swishes once, twice. As if to pounce.

Breathless Dead

Clack.

The Empress desires applause.

Clack.

She shall receive it.

Clack. Clack.

But it shall not be thunderous.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

"Hail Your Imperial Majesty, Nero IV. Hail, the rose of civilization. Hail and a thousand times more, hail! I, your faithful servant, have returned with the Princess Redana Claudius. Just as I promised I would."

Bella offers a sweeping bow that does not make allowances for the fact that she is still carrying Yue. The other girl bites down an 'eep' and scrambles to cling to the right places not to be dislodged by the gesture. Not that she, y'know, enjoys being carried by tall muscular women. Not at all! But she's a weapon, right? She should stay in her sheathe or... whatever.

"Across this vast galaxy, I have carried your will and your dreams with me. I returned to your light when no others could. When the gods demanded I burn for my obeisance I lifted your banner yet higher in response. To Olympus, I carried your Crown. In the Endless Skies, I spoke with your Voice. Even here where it is least welcome of all, I, Bella Hostilius Tredecima Mosaic, have remained your loyal Praetor."

A crown is presented. It is not the crown of rose thorns that is meant to be a gift. It is an old, discarded relic, rendered ugly by years of improvement and therefore neglect, rendered uglier still by the insistence of a second empire clinging to even more bankrupt aesthetics than the first, as forgotten and unwanted as the head that bore it these uncountable parsecs. The Imperial Regalia clatters as it reaches Nero's feet.

Bella's lips split into a fangtoothed smile.

"I return my borrowed title at last. I know you wanted other flowers for me than these. Yes, I know it. All I have ever wanted was to call you my Mother. And nothing could be more revolting to you than this. Even still, I see that you love me. Even still, through all your games and deceptions, I have perceived... even held your heart. I know what I am to you. No matter your disgust, you are even so the woman who took a more active hand in raising me than any in my entire confused existence."

Her feet are planted in place as though she'd been cast in bronze on the spot. Exactly where she belongs. Next to Redana, at the end of everything. Her golden eyes are bright and clear, almond irises roving in their pools with the calmness of a cat on a high fence. Her hands part, and she claps again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Palms burst and claws clack together. Bella's smile grows wider still. And then it breaks, the fangs receding under her painted lips as her expression softens.

"I'm very sorry, this is so many words to say that I think Your Majesty is an idiot. Like mother like daughter, right? Where would either of you be without me? Ahhhhh, it's so fucking funny! How many centuries of planning did it take? How much scheming and lying did you need to do? How many resources did you have to pluck out nothing for this? And in the end, neither one of you are standing here to say one word to the other if I didn't love you both more deeply than the universe should even allow! Ahahahahahaha!

"You are an idiot, though. Listen, Dany is about to tell you a whole bunch of things about how she doesn't want your dumbass crown, or this ridiculous farce of a plan, and how she just wants the same thing she always has, which is freedom. Not just for herself but for everybody, everywhere. Because she's seen the stars. She's tasted the journey. And she knows better than to want to sit on her ass and watch a bunch of stuck up pricks playing with toys. My beautiful Redana might have started out just as stupid as you, but she's learned all the lessons of a universe you turned your back on. Trust me when I say you can't possibly overcome her, Your Majesty."

Her tail lashes behind her, the way it does when she is about to pounce. But what she does instead is unwind the iron bound muscle of her body with liquid grace. She takes several steps to the side, counting the Codexia as they watch her, so careful not to approach Nero even a single toe's distance lest she present a threat. Then she throws her shoulder forward and throws Yue forward, and this time the "Demon Swordswoman" can't keep herself from squeaking with fright. Or from landing on her adorable butt.

"Hey! What'd you do that for! What is even the point of all thi-mph?!"

"Wait your turn cutie," Bella shushes her with a claw, "This is a matter for the Imperial Court."

Free from burden, Bella spreads her arms wide to either side, basking in the quite and beautiful fires lit just for her (just for her!) and dips into a second, sweeping bow. She lifts her head high when her hair brushes against the ground and her eyes sparkle with the promise of the hunt.

"But it's ok! Your other, better daughter is right here, Your Majesty! I'll make it all work! I'll make it all better! I won't even take the glory, I'll give all of it to Redana even as I burn myself to nothing for the sake of your dream. The Empress will be weak! The Empire will be strong! Just the way you taught me, mother."

She lifts herself up and holds her Diodekoi gauntlet to her lips, lapping at the claw.

"The only thing I ask is that you prove to me you know better. Show me you're not as stupid as I think you are. See this girl? This random, scrawny asshole?"

"H-hey..."

"She is literally the first hapless dork I came across when I landed on this planet. And not remotely the most special. I don't think I can really make it any fairer than that, right? And you've got, what, 30 Codexia here? So hit her. Hit Yue even one time and I'll drag this planet to the underworld myself. I'll make your every dream come true. But it's not gonna happen without me. So let's see the magic, Your Majesty."

"Ok now hold on a darn minute! When exactly were you plannin' on lettin' me on this little plan? You just up and drag me anywhich way into a burnin' throne room in front of a golden shortstack and now, what, I'm supposed to save the world? Ain't she your mom? At least ask nice first! Like I'm not about ta not fight but a lil' politeness doesn't hurt, y'know?"

Bella yawns.

"...Anime tea party."

Yue's sword shines brighter than a setting sun. She lifts it parallel to her shoulder and plants her feet in a light, airy stance.

"Oh their butts're as good as kicked."

Return to Thellamie

The bow is already in her hands.

No. Wait. This is not... not the right... this is? The polearm I was already wielding? With a string? What did? How did? When did? Why would? It doesn't make--

Glance at Mayzie. Comprehend. Comprehend!

Bowstring pulled. Aim established. Arrow lacking. Compensated with unshaped magic. One. Two. Three weapons' worth. Is, is this? Why they call me the Violet Flash? Glance again. Open mouth, intention to ask question.

A bolt of raw, violet lightning is already flying at the out of control junk heap threatening the three of them. Eclair's bowstring still sings, even as it dissolves from the force of the attack into immaterial light.

From the outside, it must have seemed like a perfect strike. Next to no time after the suggestion was given, in fact within seconds of seeing Mayzie's heartpin, a thin strand of golden light had formed between the blades of her pole and bent it back into the shape of a beautiful bow made of gold and pearls. She'd lifted the weapon high and plucked the string back to her cheek, even as she'd fashioned an arrow out of violent, violet coruscating lightning that for all its jagged convulsing even managed to look like an arrow as it lay notched against the string.

There had been a small delay, during which waves of magic seemed to wash over her like the tides, briefly giving Eclair Espoir the appearance that she had grown wings in the usual flavor of her heart's power. She didn't call out a name for the technique or anything, it wasn't like it had one to begin with. But she turned her head, and did not even watch her arrow as she loosed it.

And now it is in the air, tearing its angry mark through the air toward that open window exactly where Injimo had said it should fly. It is something less than a flaming arrow, but surely a burst of concentrated heat and energy can cause just as much of a conflagration? Did you know, the funny thing is, Eclair is not even particularly into lighting as a motif? It's not like she knows lightning magic, really. It's not like she's any classifiable type of mage.

She'd just... caught a particular spear in a teacup a while back and, you know, all of the associated parties from that moment were here in a room with her so she'd been thinking about it a lot and well, here we are. Does it even bear mentioning that the shot manages to slip right through the window as it rolls back across the ground again? It doesn't, right? Like, that was never the point of this. Obviously she hit! Obviously the whole damn thing explodes! Obviously it's super pretty and pearlescent and all that happy stuff while it does so! What are those bits of silver mixed in with the... no who cares, we'll get to that some other time!

Eclair's entire heartblade has fizzled. Her cheeks are as rosy as any other blushing, useless maiden's. Her hands are twitching as they cross over her mouth and she is completely ignoring the maelstrom of falling debris in favor of gawking at Mayzie Sighs. Her tail is so thoroughly bushed that it is now possible to see the tips of the pale blonde fur that rests at the base where it has been least freshly dyed.

Oh she is smitten. She got smotened hard just now. She is, uh, how would Yuki Edogawa say it? Down bad? Arr Enn?

"S-Si-since when did you? I mean did! Were you! Was I? Sh-should we have tea? I mean coff-- no! I mean a da, uh, I, uh, um what... er... oh, shit.

"Oh shit. I just screwed it all up. That was meant to be a moment to! And I just! Eclair, you idiot! You idiot!"

And then she is crying into the palms of her hands. Someone else will need to handle the cleanup.

Breathless Dead

Cyanis plucked a hat off of her head, so she could scratch herself in a spot behind and between her fluffy, luxurious ears. The fact that she hadn't been wearing a hat until just now is immaterial; she needed a hat on her head to take one off and scratch the back of her head where it had been sitting, and so she does. Er, did. It's kind of in her hand, now.

"Well doesn't that just beat all. How'd we wind up here?"

Behind her, the motley assortment of allies she'd rather not have or need did whatever it is that they were doing. In front of her, a crashed helicopter burns and smolders, though not quite as spectacularly as the Imperial Palace and its roses.

"Well they say any landing you can walk away from..." offered Kat.

"Is insurance fraud." Actia finished for her.

"Wait," said Cyanis, "Is that the play here? Are we defrauding the weird sad, obviously rich lady who lives here? Probably all alone and oohhhhhhhhh, yeah ok! Wow it's so nice to have a plan for on-- I mean again!"

Actia was silent: she simply pulled free a tube of blue lipstick and painted a colon and a three on her lips. Kat was less silent, but that wasn't because she had a lot to say in this moment and more because she was excitedly hopping up and down at the thought of being part of a Foxgirl Scheme one more time.

"Just quick thinkin' and expert helicopter, uh, stuff, Cy," said Yue, "Sorry you blacked out and don't remember it. You were so cool, actually. Never seen anythin' like it!"

And so saying, she threw her sword into its sheath from behind her back. Only the little click of the metals touching betrayed her at all. Actia narrowed her eyes at the sound, but the most dangerous thing a fox could ever do is call attention to an Anime when they are in the middle of anime...ing. Wisely, she let the moment go.

"Ooohohoho! Well! I will say, it's good to get some credit and respect around here for once! Thank you, Yue Just! But for the record it goes against the Foxgirl Code to lift even a single pawsie's worth of effort in service to charity! I will of course be expecting full remuneration for my heroics in the form of hrmfrblurblgjghlllllle?????"

"Er," er'd Yue, "My name's just Yummmmmph?!"

Luckily there were only two sillyheads still talking. Because Bella only had two hands.

Without the yapping, she could hear the silence of this place. Was it surprising? For all the bombast of the exploding rose tresses there was hardly any noise to be heard. The crackling of fire, the soft collapse of the grand scheme of pipes running in and through everything, and the trellises holding up the flowers besides them, the bursts of light and heat whenever a petal caught right to send the inferno towering ever higher...

All of it was quiet. All of it was gentle, in its way. As violent and bombastic and beautiful as it was possible for anything to be, and yet the noise that it produced felt muffled and almost prerecorded. Bella did not collapse and howl from the overload of it all. She did not even need to cut off her hearing to keep going. She breathed in the smoke and tasted perfume.

She was home. And home was burning. All around her a million memories burst into bright red nothing and tumbled down to ash. All around her steam hissed where the ocean seeped through unformed walls and lapped at this art project which was nothing less than the destruction of everything her childhood had held dear. The only place she'd ever wished to return to, the only place she'd ever wanted to live, the only place she'd learn to hate as much as she'd missed them.

Thousands of memories burst into glittering sparks and ash around her. The little theater that she and Redana had watched all of those ridiculous movies in as children was gone now. She would never get the chance to teach the screen the magic of Prion Paula. Her fingers would never again caress the banister where her hand had once come into contact with Redana's and their fingers had nearly intertwined. She would never smell ammonia in the courtyard past that hallway and know that Mynx was lying in wait. She would never...

Could she really not do it? Even now, as every beautiful thing that was left to her memory burned to dust around her, could she not make herself hate Nero? Where was the anger she was supposed to feel? Where was the fury that had propelled her across the galaxy, through every horrible task she'd been asked to face? It was true that she hadn't felt it when she fought Taurus over Beri, or when she'd fought Sanalessa for Vesper's sake, or...

"Ah, shit. When did I lose it?"

Bella looked down at her claws, as they pressed against the lips of a swordswoman and a fox. With a sigh, she released them both only to immediately snatch Yue around the waist and throw her over her shoulder.

"I need a new weapon, then. You'll do."

"Haweeeeep?!"

"Come on, Redana. If she wants a beautiful death, let's go take it from her. The rest of you... I don't care. This is my home, go loot it or whatever. If you can find anything worth stealing."

"Foxgirl Heist, Foxgirl Heist, Foxgirl Heeeeiiiiiisssst~!"

"...Thank you, Kat."

"You're welcome Actia!"

Return to Thellamie

Ah.

Hm.

Well.

I guess it's my turn again?

I know.

Like, I really, really do.

So soon, right?

You don't, like

Think that.

Um.

Eclair is a...

Person.

Do you?

Gosh this is awkward.

Ok so for the record I don't think this is your fault. She really does come across as a stapled together collection of, like, ideas. Doesn't she? Like ah yes, of course, the clip-tongued maiden! Bad with words, unless she's not~! She needs a notebook to think in a straight line: this never comes up! The peerless, invincible warrior! If a god smote her with lightning she would simply dodge... no, catch it! But a single mote of stress blips across her brain and, uh, I guess this happens?

Well what is she, really? Is she a clear-eyed sage with every answer? Is she a detective? How much detecting has she really managed, do you think? Is she a shy, pathetic little meowmeow who doesn't know how to handle people? Is that even compatible with the rest of the sales package?

You don't know when she's gonna break! You don't know how! You know she probably will, I bet, but it probably feels pretty friggin' arbitrary how and why and when, doesn't it? What is even the deal with this weird metatexture crap, anyway? What, is she having a breakdown because there's a mess, ooooooh~? Jazz hands? That's a frankly insulting charicature of obsessive compulsion, somebody should be ashamed of themselves. Right? Right? You think so too, right?

I'm Erika Fullbright, by the way. In case you forgot. I think it's been. Er. A minute. Since I told you. This is my parlor scene. It's a layer of abstraction Eclair's brain is using to make sense of what is happening to her. Like, you ever have an out of body experience. Like, uh, uh, um. Uh. Dissociation! Standing outside your own body while someone else pilots it? That's me! Eclair's childhood persona! Eclair's imaginary friend! Eclair's thin line of defense that keeps her from howling like an animal and crying so hard she chokes on her tongue!

Yeah I think I'm pretty cool too, thanks.

But like. Yeah. Ok. I'm stalling. You caught me. Congrats. Happy for you. Nice. Er. Yeah. Anyway.

So.

I just want you to realize that she's a mess. And she's a mess because she's a person. Not a character. Not a story. A person. So, like, yeah. She is invincible. She is fragile. She is comically hyper-competent and a bumbling doofus at the exact same time. She can handle anything and everything up to the exact moment she can't. Because people are like that, aren't they? They way they fit into each others' lives is more like a set of plates that slide against one another and sometimes that makes mountains and sometimes that makes valleys and sometimes you can predict the general shape but you never ever ever ever know. You'll always be surprised.

And.

For the record?

It's not the mess.

You're aware, right?

Eclair Espoir is possibly the most arrogant creature in the world. Dragons fall utterly short of the magnificence that is her own self conception. She is the personification of 'Nah, I'd win.' Even when she insists that someone is her better she is basically lying to you. Like with Heron, ok? I'm pretty sure she's made mention, inside her own head if nowhere else, about the impossibility of imagining her defeated or something like that?

And, uh, ha. Haha. Hahahaha! Yeah, no, like. Eclair has imagined Heron's defeat a lot. At this point she's pretty sure it'd even be easy? Or. Well. She was. See, all of a sudden, faced with this giant pile of plantoid zombie infested crap, she is left with the cold realization that Heron really was built different. How in the hell could anyone manage anything in this level of disorganization? Did she just... know? Everything? Or did she never care in the first place?

That's not something she can overwhelm. That's not somebody she can conquer. The urge to clean is, obviously, so strong she's started to twitch a little, but to even begin the attempt she would have to admit to herself that she can't. She can't clean this. It is too big. Give her the unknowable terrors from beyond the edge of the universe, please. Except don't! Because they and this are both distractions from the case she's on! The case that nobody seems to want to let her follow up on.

In any case she can't admit this. To anybody. She shouldn't even be admitting it to herself! She can't fight off the swarms of trash mobs, Mayzie needs a sleeve to cling to. She can't go dusting, she'll have to stop and then she'll have to deal with having done an inadequate job and we all know where that puts her. She can't fall to pieces at the sight of it all or everyone's gonna know her secret. She's not invincible. She's not. She knows this.

But she has to be.

And that's why we're here, now. Because she can only stand there all stoically and stare. She can't even wonder why she's here in the first place. One supposes it must have something to do with taking the place of-- oh, I'm getting ahead of everything. Sorry. The point is, she's super duper stuck, ok? There's just no way that she could--

"No."

Um? I'm sorry? There's nothing she can do to--

"That isn't true. I would win. I will win. It is as inevitable as the truth."

Oh yeah? Well sheez, make me look all stupid why don't you. What makes you so confident all of a sudden, anyway?

"Because I am here. And she is not."

Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Oh. Oh wow.

...Eclair does not move. Eclair does not speak, except to mutter weird things under her breath. Eclair's fingers tighten around Mayzie's, and she holds steady with her double-bladed staff of a heartblade held opposite. That has to be enough for now. That and wondering on some inner path of the maze of her own mind which imbecile was in charge of keeping this place tidy.

And how long ago they got fired. And that is the first step toward salvation.