Phoe

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Madeleine's face is turning red.

It's so obvious! Beyond obvious that she would... well no, the paint sword specifically was rather clever and novel, but still! But still! All that leniency she requested and it was granted to her before she even started! Small wonder she's being lectured on basic components of Aristeia! construction like she'd been isekai'd into her role.

She glances down at the cuff of her jacket, now splattered with yellow paint. No chance of that coming out. Of all the stupid things to have done, just because she'd needed to ride the bus? She doesn't have the money to fix or replace this stuff! And why is she even worrying about that in the first place when she is so close to the threshold of her dream and all she can think about is--

"Have you two been intimate with each other?"

She's so flustered, she has to ask the question like this: in this pointlessly roundabout way. Not 'do you know which part of her name means to most to her', but 'have you had sex?' so she could tease out the implications of their respective attempts at magic by the affirmative or the negative reply? As though it even accomplished so much?

What a pointless and boring question. She was certain she'd get mocked for it.

Madeleine sets Machia's leg down inside the stairwell, propping it with deep care against the railing where it won't have to lie on the floor in neglect. She gets halfway to pulling off her jacket before she thinks better of it, and shrugs it back on. Now that she's made one trip she is more cautious on the exit. Lios is giving every sign of halting for the question and answer section, but if they both respected that this would take longer than all day. Neither of them was stupid enough to think they could get away with that. There would be... consequences.

Which made this a trap. Her ears flutter with a mixture of nervousness and latent embarrassment while her watch the zone around her with an almost disembodied attachment. The moment where a fighter switched from sword to gun was obvious, but now that she'd put the idea in Madeleine's head, Lios was almost certain to use the threat of it to bait her into worse responses to the blade instead. No, she needed to ignore the lesson. Treat this like the arena and not a tutorial segment. The next real attack would come from that sword, she is certain.

She just needed to see the lunge coming. That's why she circled around so slowly, using the wait for her response as cover to put the right amount and shape of distance between the pair of them. When she stooped down to fetch these stray tools. That's when it would happen. Was she really up for this?

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Madeleine looks down at the tools and debris. She looks up at Lios. She looks around the street, at people alternately fleeing for their lives or gawking at the spectacle. She looks at Lios again. At the leg in her hands. Down to the scattered tools and glass again. At Lios. At the leg. Up at the window.

She frowns.

"...Yes, I don't see why not. Though I will point out I am not wearing synskin, so if you wouldn't mind striking me with the flat of your blade I'd really appreciate it."

Or you could aim for my leg, a voice inside her mind whispers, though it cannot force the words through her lips. She opens her eyes as wide as they can go, and draws a breath sharply through her nose so she can hold it in her belly. No. Begone, you. Go haunt someone else.

Now Madeleine lowers herself to the ground, clutching Machia's leg close to her center of balance like the treasure it's become. The balls of her feet tighten against the earth, the synthetic rubbers of her shoes creaking as she readies herself for launch. Her ponytail flops forward over her shoulder, its tip now brushing back and forth against the ground.

"To be honest, I don't believe that I can beat you. But it's been given to me to crush you anyway, so I suppose there's no point in holding back. Would you like to compete for secrets? There are things about you and Titanomachia I would like to know. Or you can name your own price, of course. I don't really care."

She doesn't wait for negotiations to finish. The muscles in her thighs tense once and then she is off on a dead rush toward the door. Her pale legs are flashing in the sunlight as they push the rest of her forward like a shadow. The wind is in her hair and even with the weight and awkward shape of an artificial leg hugged against her ruining her form, she is motion itself. And for at least this one tiny instant everything is right with the world.

Aristeia! Building a Champion

"No, not at all. Hello, Miss Lios."

Madeleine is dressed today in a pair of simple, tight fitting black shorts with a white tank top she has covered with a black racing jacket sporting red accents at the shoulders and elbows. Her hair is pulled back into a practical and very basic high ponytail that happens to be a very close match to the horse tail swishing behind her in lazy sweeps. With tight, calf-high socks and high performance running shoes completing the ensemble, it is very much an outfit optimized for training barely balanced against the fact that she had to take the bus to get here.

Looking around now, she wonders if that's going to happen at all. She stoops down and picks Machia's cybernetic leg off of the ground before slinging it over her shoulder like a sword. She holds out her other hand and dangles an extremely elegant box by the end of the black ribbon tying it together.

"If you wouldn't mind? I'd like you to sneak this in her fridge while I deal with, uh, this. I don't care if she notices, it just needs to be there. It is... important."

She shrugs, out of words in front of a stranger in her life. A celebrity to her nobody. All they have in common is Machia, and given that she calls her 'Titan', maybe not even that. Which one did Machia actually prefer? She did not know how to ask. Neither did she understand why this question mattered enough to spend time thinking about it. She glances down at the scattered tools and winces as the sirens continue to build on top of one another.

There's a lot here. Not to mention the glass that would need cleaning up. This was going to be the work of several trips.

Aristeia! Building a Champion

That was the end of it. Titanomachia stood up to leave, and Madeleine immediately started choking. By the time she'd recovered her breath enough to look up, she was alone.

Yes, alone. For all the people here with her and all the eyes still on her, none of them mattered at all. None of them were Hers. What mattered was the cake still sitting on the table, and the name still ringing in her ears. She reached up and felt the straps on the back of her head still holding her bridle in place. It didn't tug on her any more; the point of wearing it was finished. She fumbled with the buckles, the many locks and various (now inert) servos fighting her one last time before the harness finally pulled loose enough for her to tug the straps up and over the back of her head. She winces when the bit dug into the bottom of her jaw.

She stroked the long and now slightly wet bar of metal with trembling fingers. Every part of her was shaking right now, actually. Even her breath felt ragged, like she'd just been in the arena. She watched the empty door in silence, only occasionally turning her head to look at the empty chair instead. Finally, she shook her head.

"You're wrong about me, Machia. It's hard to see what you see."

Madeleine picked up a napkin and dabbed her face clean. She stood around awkwardly for a moment, still holding her bridle in one hand, neither chasing nor following the only woman who could make her dreams come true. She picked up the fork again and put this single stubborn bite of cake between her lips.

It was sweet. She had no idea chocolate could be this sweet. Rich and creamy, yes, but sweet and sweet and sweet again. One of the whipped creams feels almost more like trying to hold a cloud inside her mouth. She could not fathom how skilled a baker would have to be to put that much air in it when there was still this much sugar weighing it down. It was like descending into a cave, and where she had expected the cool and dark she was instead blinded by a wall of pure quartz.

She set the fork back down on the plate and sat back down in her chair. Alone. She lifts one hand to signal the waitstaff.

"I would... like a box for that, if you do not mind. And it would be nice if I could have a second cup of coffee if I could. Before I leave. Same as the first. You may bill the woman who just left. I am, after all, her property..."

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Madeleine's war from now on is to maintain eye contact with Machia. That is the nature of the magic she has cast here, and the vessel that contains her victory. The longer she can capture the magenta inside her amber without blinking, the more she will grow. The less she lets the bridle pull her away, the steadier she can keep her head, the more time she will have to weave her magic. The longer she does this, the more invincible she will seem.

She grabs her tail and wraps it around Machia's wrist. Now they are fastened tight together, one above and one below. She stares through wide eyes like a lanternfish, the blackness of her hair contrasting against the paleness of her face to sell the illusion. You must believe she is invincible, Machia. You must believe she is inevitable. You must believe that she can do this forever.

You cannot be allowed to think through the ramifications of what she's done. You cannot be allowed to know how uncomfortable this really is. On, on so many levels. Inside her mouth the heat is building. Her tongue is growing overwhelmed from the heavy flavors. It will be hardly any time at all before she gags, and then she will be obliged to either cough or swallow when she cannot afford either one.

She tugs her tail tighter, pulling Machia further into the moment. Stay here, you brilliant moron. Stay with me. Believe me.

She dares to push the fork forward. She cannot force Machia's lips open, but she can paint them with decadent chocolate creams. She can let Machia feel their weight, their softness, their richness, and call to mind the flavor that is right there, if she will only blink one more time.

Or she can pull away, leer at Madeleine, and pull on her reins. Then she will break. There will be no choice but to swallow, and at least half of what is in her mouth will come dribbling down her chin. Even then it might be called a victory, if someone kindly were to wipe it clean before it fell and feed it back to her, drip by drip. Or it might spatter against the table, and just be called her loss.

But which world does she live in?

Aristeia! Building a Champion

She can feel the reins pulling her back as if she'd tried to buck her rider, but she fights the pull. Hunches her shoulders forward, leans as far as she dares and even squeezes the table between them with her free hand. She has to do this so she can stare at Machia.

She has to stare because she can't speak. Or rather she won't speak. Not another word through this stupid, garbling piece of (really hot) garbage. (Shut up, shut up, you are not helping) Not another word so long as the place they're sitting is inside of an arena. If there's a contest to be won (for my sake, for her sake...) then there's nothing she can say with words. So she says it with her eyes instead.

Her amber eyes are burning like molten pools of gems inside of a furnace. Liquid, shimmering, fierce. (Go to hell, Machia) She leans in closer. (Get over yourself, Machia) So close that her bit could touch those lips if she could just strain hard enough to close that final gap. (Look at me, Machia. Look at me. See me.) Her eyes shimmer, flicker, endlessly deep and endlessly mesmerizing, haunted and watching and... no, not angry. Not if you can tell the difference. She is once again feeling competitive.

(I am going to bury you).

Madeleine releases the table and allows herself to be pulled back, all the way back into her chair. She sits herself down again with as much decorum as she can muster. She cannot tell if it is a lot, or none at all. It occurs to her that this all might have been easier if she'd simply submitted, if she'd bowed her head and let herself become a beast. She'd been tempted, several times. The image kept twisting through her with its unseen claws: the cup on the table and Madeleine on her knees. She could push her tongue out underneath her bridle and lap at pitch black salvation like the Pet the table reservation called her.

It would be simple. Without risk, so long as she paid attention. It was the fastest way to win.

Unless she did this.

Yes, Machia, this is about to get weird. She glances down at what's left of her coffee and brings it close to her face. The wonderful thing about a drink like this is that when you don't pull its temperature down with cream (like some sort of coward) it remains delightfully hot for quite some minutes. Even this extended struggle has barely dipped it below serving temp at all. Oh yes, this would quickly become quite unpleasant. Madeleine grins at Machia, as much as she is able, and then she sets her expression to one of detached composure.

She brings the cup to her lips.

She pours it, carefully, into her mouth.

She does not swallow. She cannot swallow. Neither can she completely close her lips. Rich, hot darkness, bitter and bottomless and endlessly complex and nutty dances across her tongue. The heat builds up in her cheeks and still all she does is hold it there. She tilts the cup toward Machia and even runs her fingertip through the center to show that there is nothing left.

But the contest has not ended. It cannot, until this delight slides down her throat. And she cannot compel it to do so without losing half of it. She holds it in her mouth, head stubbornly tilted up to keep from losing.

And, like this, this ridiculous creature, this equine shadow woman slides down from her chair. Her posture is not that of a beast, whatever she may be wearing. She is regal and careful as she bends on one knee. Not a princess as she'd been called earlier this evening, but now a knight. She picks up her sword (fork). She cuts a delicate slash through Machia's cake and steadies the bite.

She rises and lifts the reward toward her trainer's lips. This is how the battle is to be. And if she can win... if she can win!

Well, if she can win, maybe there won't be that much to say.

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Things are beginning to reach a point where the fidelity of the training is working against her. Titanomachia's vision is so singular and so perfect that the places where it runs up against the limitations of the setup for her experiment are jarring. Madeleine can still feel the coolness on her cheek where the sword brushed past her. She can hear the roar of the crowd (they're calling for her blood. the longer she goes without failing, the angrier they become), and Li Teng's perfected combo attack ripples through her ribs.

But when she looks at her hand, she still sees a cup of coffee. She's all too aware that the motions of her shoulders - the way she is shivering and shuddering into the blows - are actually concessions she's making to Machia's vision, silly affectations to try and sell herself on the idea that this is real and proper training and not just a hamfisted play at revenge for Madeleine's lack of deference earlier.

It makes her so angry. At what, she doesn't know. She can't think about this sort of thing right now. She wants to leave this chair, she wants to run out of this miserable, glittering, beautiful cafe. She wants to be able to actually taste what she is certain she would think is the best coffee in the entire world. She just wants to be finished.

But she doesn't. But she asked to come here. But she can't. But she isn't.

Madeleine thrashes in her seat with the viciousness of a caged animal. The only reason she does not slosh hot coffee everywhere is because she's already drank more than half the cup. She swings a kick across the table that does not connect with anything, and notices with a pang of guilt how perfectly her center of balance remains as she rolls through the motion and balances on her toes on the arm of her chair. She perches there, takes an awkward and petulant sip of her drink, and slumps back into a seated position.

This is sad, she has decided. It is making her sad. But the only way to make it end is to get to the bottom of this cup. Then she could sit and enjoy the atmosphere of this place while she watches Machia have dessert. Probably she has forfeited the possibility of getting a second cup for herself she would be allowed to enjoy properly, but that's...

That doesn't really matter. She just can't stand that look in this woman's eyes. So she is going to win. That is all there is to it.

Return to Thellamie

She's going to be very upset about this later, but Eclair Espoir the Violet Flash has fallen asleep inside of a bath.

She is not in any danger! Just to be completely clear about that! But this is why she was insisting on standing to begin with, don't you see? She could force herself to march on, probably break herself to save the world, sheer willpower could have held her together long enough the shatter Timtam's new cult and clear the board of any other villains who tried to take advantage of the chaos. I'm pretty sure she had it in her. But only if she never stopped.

And it had been insisted that she stop. And she did not know how to insist back that she not. So she peeled off her remaining clothes, draped a towel across her front for modest, and waded into the waters so she could lean against the rocks where she might be served tea and have her back tended to.

And the tea was - ok, well. It's not really tea if we're being real about it. This is what you'd refer to in the Manor (or in any good shop if we're being the realest) as an "herbal infusion". But anyway. It is mint and catnip and those both already tend to make her very sleepy, and there is honey in there to disguise the taste of medicine, so into the midst of the warmth and the wet you introduce sweet steam and healing admixtures which themselves have known sedative properties and, well. Yeah.

She was polite enough, well. Let's say strong en-- actually no no no wait. Stubborn! That's the one, yeah. Eclair is stubborn enough to drain her cup (polite and proper sips only!) before she admitted that her neck was too heavy to keep it up and let it slowly sink into the crook of her elbow. She admitted nothing about the heaviness of her eyelids, but those fluttered shut before she had time to complain in any case.

And now she is snoozing. And not, I wish to be clear on this point a second time, in danger of drowning. Her stance is very strong, and even in sleep she won't toss or loosen enough that she might float out into the lake and be lost to Heron's treasury. She is a hero, which means she's strong enough to fall asleep wherever and the only result assuming it sticks is that she's rested by the end of it. She is also (whatever she insists) a Maid, and that means that even asleep she cannot impose upon her guests by becoming a liability.

So no. She's just asleep. In a pool of very warm and pleasant water. Wearing no clothes. You all could, were anyone so inclined, do anything you wanted to her. Win any argument, draw whatever on her face, even tend to her wounds properly if that's your thing. The world has need of a hero, just as soon as it starts moving again. And Eclair has a need to become one, just as soon as she starts moving again. This is the chance to figure out what that looks like on her behalf.

But. Uh. Yeah. She is asleep. With all that this entails. And normally? In a steamy, fun kind of story? This is where her lowered inhibitions would tease secrets from her lips and embarrass someone close to her. Sort of a... what'd they call that? A Sleep Cute? Or something like that. But she is down too deep for even mumbled words. And. Like. Besides? I think we already know what she would have said in her sleepy mumble voice. Sorry. Just imagine it if you need that, kay?

She'll be mad about this when she wakes up. No matter what anyone does. No matter how good she feels. She could not afford this indulgence, do you understand? But she is here. She is vulnerable. At the mercy of varyingly broken people who will not stop gathering around her.

And she is... snoring.

Aristeia! Building a Champion

She... she can.

All that she can perceive with her eyes is the room in front of her: the table, the maids and their ladies, that stupid cake and Machia's glimmering eyes. She can see her arm and she can see the cup held at the end of it, just like she can see that it's trembling a little. She sees silverware, carpet, chandeliers and furniture. Everything, everywhere, all of it mundane.

But she can hear the motorcycle whining as it revs. Her ears flick and try to follow it in a dark mirror of Machia's. Is it coming? Is it already here? When would the blow connect?

She can feel the heat of the arena, even in this plain and boring (beautiful) room. The intensity isn't like the lower leagues at all! Nothing from her training, nothing of her career could have prepared her for this feeling. Only her dreams, and those always end being swallowed by--

A sword? A sword! How is she supposed to block a sword? It's faster than her! Stronger than her! Not dodgeable, not blockable, and it would be the deathblow if she let it. She can hear the tires screech. She can hear the rush of the blade. She is out of time, and the puzzle isn't solved.

Madeleine uncrosses her legs.

She swings one up high over the other and rolls her weight from one hip to the other. Swing, lift, stomp, shift, repeat. She doubles the gestures and recrosses from the opposite side, her best attempt at the seated equivalent of a dodge roll. When the blow falls she is already leaning into it. Though her hand still shakes, her fingers keep the cup firm. And she is already moving it into position so that as her neck finishes settling into its new angle she is ready to attempt another sip.

She dares for two, this time. When the cup lowers, her eyes follow it. She locks onto the cake. There, that is it. That is the scoring zone, that is victory. She has never wanted to see someone else eating more in her entire life. Patience, patience... follow the path. Can she do this?

Yes.

Aristeia! Building a Champion

There are actually so many problems with this situation.

She has at least managed to pick up the cup, so that's step one down. She can't claim she's ever owned dishware as nice as this, but practice is really a matter of desire and willpower more than opportunity. As in Aristeia!, as in life, would that be about right? She's got her index finger inserted through the undersized handle and her pinky extended to let the bottom of the cup rest on it while her middle and index fingers curl around the side. This isn't... ideal form, she wouldn't call it, but it creates a stable surface that also lets her leverage the curve of her wrist for additional pressure and stability when she needs it. At the very least, holding her coffee is no problem.

And this is completely, utterly useless to her because her lips and teeth are clenched around a golden bar. How? How had she not been thinking about this the entire time she was walking here? Was she just stupid? Was Machia? Is this whole thing a terrible trap and the final push to strip her of all dignity tonight? No, at the very least it isn't that. Machia was many things, but among them was a famous connoisseur of sweet things. Not to mention a woman possessed of negative amounts of restraint. She wouldn't taunt herself with a dessert she thought she could not eat. Could she be lying? No. The setup is too unwieldy, she's put too much thought into this. Besides which, it wouldn't serve as good training. So she, at least, thought this was somehow possible. But was she an idiot?

The jury remained out.

She lifted the cup, following the sudden curve of her neck so she could take a deep breath while it was still at its peak heat. Oh, the aroma was heavenly. Rich, and deeper than even the color implied, Madeleine detected notes of cinnamon and chocolate. These would be the signature qualities of the cultivar then, how surprising there was still somewhere so wet so high above the sea (Dedication. Willpower. Enjoying coffee was not a skill that came naturally to anyone). If she could get even a drop of this on her tongue it would be the highlight of her life.

Well first she... hrm. No. Typically the done thing would be to rest the rim on her bottom lip, but how's that supposed to work when the whole thing would just clink against her bridle? Not to mention that if the direction of her head turned at all she could chip this delicate material or even shatter it outright. Never mind not spilling anything, she'd be lucky not to wear the whole thing. So what if she..? No. How would that even? It doesn't make any sense. No seal, no funnel, no point of...

Oh, what if she pinched her bottom lip in her free hand and poured that way? But no sooner does she lift her hand to try it than she realizes this too is a dead end. There would be multiple points of failure at the moment of the sip, and it would limit her ability to keep her eyes on everything she was doing, besides. She had to abandon instinctive form entirely, which really only left one avenue. Oh, this was going to be a disaster.

But one impossible thing at a time. If this is an arena, then she's on a timer to get the the scoring zone before her window disappears entirely. Whatever she did she'd need a stable moment to do it in, something she couldn't do with brute force. She'd have to start by engineering a window. She watches Machia. Watches the placid smile spread across her face, watches her deep and curious eyes. One the way here, she'd taken a fascination with anticipating Madeleine's own natural movements and proclivities. She won't do that now, that'd be too helpful, but that would still be her instinct, surely?

She'd reverse it, then. Follow Madeleine's line of sight and push the exact opposite way she'd then try to move. Well if it worked, she'd know where she was ending up, and if she could anticipate it she could keep her center of balance long enough to try and have a... No. To win.

She shifts her weight toward the back of her chair. As soon as she feels the tug in the opposite direction, she leans in and brings her cup to the top of her mouth. She strains against the pull, just enough to tilt her head up less than one degree, and puts the cup in position. She has it for only a fraction of a second, and then she's obliged to extend her arm to keep the cup stable.

But she can taste it! It isn't much, but now that it's on her tongue she feels the rush of delicious notes underneath and through the bitterness (itself a sensation she adored). Her chin is, amazingly, dry. Her shirt is unstained. The table has not a splash at all. She presses her lips against the bit and tries to swallow, and immediately she can feel the liquids in her mouth try to pull forward and dribble back out. The things you learn in a challenge like this, huh? She'd never thought about how many muscles in her face were supposed to be involved in an act like this.

But she's saved by the size of her sip. Any more in her mouth, and it'd be an instant game over. But as it is, the muscles in her throat tighten daintily and she feels the warm liquid sliding down inside her. She blinks, and forgets herself for a moment. She stares at Machia, lifts her eyebrows in surprise, and tilts her head in the tiny lull that follows.

That worked?