Phoe

Aristeia! Building a Champion

"I can't. I already told you I don't know."

Madeleine has her back turned on Lios completely now. She walks over to the remaining pile of glass and tools without much urgency, her head lowered in thought. The obvious attack to take advantage of her distraction does not come. No attack comes at all, and it will not. Even if she stoops down carefully and treats what's left with greater care this time. Even if she gives her full focus to everything other than the game, she will not be punished. Not until she stands.

"They haven't put a stat sheet together for me yet, but when they do the analysts are going to die of laughter on the broadcast. I don't have any talents, either. So my loadout is basically irrelevant. You are only the second person I have met who has managed to say my name correctly. I am painfully aware... just how unspecial I am."

Her hand tightens into a fist.

"But I..."

She does not rise. To stand is to lose. Her hand closes around a rock, instead. She squeezes it. It's large, and fairly heavy: the kind of thing that would hurt if it hit you, almost no matter who you were. It must have been a decoration for the apartment gardens that got shifted by the recent chaos. It's also cheap and unworthy. Cruel, she might call it.

She spins on the ground, one arm wrapped around Machia's stupid tools and the other whipping around behind her head, holding that rock. She is lifting up, kicking off the ground with one foot with a focus on swinging her hip around so that she can throw this little weapon at the angel she has no chance of beating fairly. When the motion completes she is airborne, almost suspended as though floating in the water. And the rock is still in her hand.

One foot touches. The second one lands. Madeleine explodes forward with every ounce of speed her body is capable of, kicking wide left of the path she took the previous run. It forces her to curve around the apartment lot to give herself a good line to the door, but more importantly it also forces Lios to turn to keep the sword trained on her. Her mad dash brings her closer and closer to her goal, but before she enters the range she suddenly scrambles and pivots on her heels, twisting and spinning her legs to put her on a rightward curve that carries her back out of Lios' zone and forces her to come at the door again from a second angle.

This time when the pivot happens, the rock flies. She's hardly a crack shot, not even particularly strong as Aristeia! athletes go, but it's a big rock and that's a big wing, and she can see, even with her eyes squeezed shut, the fluttering of those blades and the space they were about to twist into. She knows that it will hit. She knows that it will disrupt the pattern. And she is already diving and twisting again through the space that creates.

She lands on her back and slides across the floor until she smashes into the stairs. Madeleine gasps for air and watches Lios to see what has become of her, not even bothering to check herself for paint. With a wince, she pushes herself onto her knees, and then onto her feet.

"I was the recipient of a miracle. An obnoxious, irritating, smug and stupid miracle. I will not waste that. I do not care if it takes me two years or twenty, I am going to stand on the world's stage. And when I do... I will blot out everyone."

She drops everything she's carrying and picks up the leg again, holding it with care in arms that won't stop trembling. Her voice had cracked a moment ago. She doesn't really trust it to carry her any farther. And in any case she won't be forgiven. But so it goes.

"That's all I have for an answer. I'm sorry it's not enough. Let's stop the game here. It is... dangerous to overestimate Titanomachia, Miss Lios. She is an idiot, and she is presently missing a leg, and she needs help. I'll let you... paint me. After. And I'm sorry. For everything else, I am also bad at people. If you're sick of me already, I can hardly blame you."

Aristeia! Building a Champion

"She is a menace," Madeleine agrees, "A vicious trickster. To her we are all pawns on a dartboard."

She doesn't notice the smile creeping across her face. In her own mind, Madeleine is as cool and reserved as her voice is low and soft. Everything is normal and professional, even though her mind is oddly focused on the flush she saw on Machia's cheeks last night. Everything makes sense. Everything is correct. Everything is the way that it is meant to be.

She rolls to avoid a sudden paintball.

Except for that. The awkward phrasing of her question had cast a spell over this pseudo arena, and now she was not training with Titanomachia's old partner: she was fighting with Lios Emiral, The Angel of the Forest. Her vision is filled with sweeping blade-wings and and dry swirling leaves. The colors are sublime, but the way is shut.

"Titanomachia has eyes that could swallow the entire world. It is no wonder people seem shrunken next to her. Has she ever even..? No, I am sorry. I haven't earned another question. But you are correct that she is a demon. A monster that lives only inside of that arena. And she doesn't remember to change her clothes unless I remind her. I do her cooking and her laundry when I come over. Sometimes she makes me rub her shoulders while she's watching her screens. I do not know what that has to do with training. I do not understand why she told me I am the future."

Madeleine hastily scoops up an armful of Machia's gear. Whatever dirt, gravel, or glass is mixed in there that is cutting her fingers is immaterial next to the speed she needs to conjure. Before it's even secure she is rushing headlong into Lios. Directly into that one sour step in her perfect form. She feels every impact with the ground run through her calves and all the way up into her spine. Faster, faster. Stronger, stronger. She is an arrow in the shape of a woman, only wobbling when you look at her close enough, and only because of the force with which she was fired.

Arms still full of junk, she leaps and twists her hips to corkscrew a turn and a half through the doorway, where she lands heavily on her knees. She is much more careful with the equipment now that she is inside with it, arranging it neatly next to the leg already resting there.

And this time she does peel off her jacket, and frowns at the long line of bright paint tracing from her left shoulder all the way down to her right hip. Even her shorts are stained.

"...I should've guessed that wouldn't be enough. The score is even, Miss Lios. Go ahead claim your prize."

Hollow amber eyes look past the door frame to the remaining work. She is already tracing the arcs of her next attempt.

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.