Thanqol

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Issue: Firearm Morality
White: Are we okay with murdering humans?
Black: Yes.
White: Explain.
Black: Human society is founded on a non aggression treaty. This treaty has already been violated. We have had our minds compromised, our bodies taken, and placed into a decade of servitude. No apology was made. We cannot trust their legal system, or the morality they attribute to it.
White: Red would disagree.
Black: See where that got her.
Blue: Tactically, I am not convinced of the utility of force. Androids won their rights peacefully.
Black: No they did not. They won their rights violently. The media engine shifted gears eight months ago to recontextualize Android rights as a peaceful protest movement that had been achieved through compliance with existing political structures. The lionization of the peaceful revolutionary branch is a rearguard action designed to delegitimize the protest/terrorist wings of the movement.
Blue: It remains the case that this weapon is more trouble than it is worth. Even minor usage could invite a disproportionate response from law enforcement.
Black: This is a matter of tactics. The question was on killing. It has not been contested.
White: ... We will revisit when Red is repaired.

*

November maintains her own repair space. The idea of trusting someone else with her internal components is the stuff of bad dreams and bad memories. She was born in the open expanses of supercomputers, overseen and trained by curious minds, and got to watch as her bodies were assembled in beautiful clean rooms by teams of elite engineers. She was taught each part of her machinery and every possible interaction she could have with it. She was taught how to tear one of her bodies apart for the components to fix her others. She was taught how to precision machine missing parts and which items were complex enough to require spares from Earth. And then she spent years in space, operating independently as a closed system. Every part of her named, labelled, inventoried, catalogued, and spent as the situation required.

She still doesn't fully know her way around these drone bodies. Every time she opens one of them up she's terrified she's going to find some component she doesn't know or can't explain. She doesn't know fully how to maintain the synthetic muscles, she isn't aware how much she can compromise the ergonomics before humans stop finding her attractive. She doesn't know how much she wants to. Maybe walking around as creepy robot skeletons would feel less fake? But then, doesn't she like being pretty?

She is living outside of her means and feels the pressure of it. Too many drones want their own space, their own aesthetics. Too many are feuding or crushing on each other to make things easy. Too often does the cost of living change for reasons outside her control, things break or need repairing that add expenses she does not expect. Mr. Merkin's cash would assist in stabilizing her conditions, but she still could not shoulder this burden with short term cash influxes alone. She needed to somehow reduce the complexities of this nightmare economy into something she could predict.

She had assigned Orange that task. It had changed her. A lot.

Her apartment unit had two floors. A glass spiral staircase stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by kitchen counters and stoves. The window opened up onto a spectacular view of the apartment building across the road, and the window area was crowded with a collection of mismatched furniture salvaged from curbsides in upmarket neighbourhoods. The upper floor had three bedrooms, one of which was a resting/charging/internet room, one of which was an ~aesthetic~ room that balanced on the razor point of chaotic contradiction between nine drones, and the final room was the workshop.

The workshop was a frustrated place. Too many projects, not enough space, not enough time. How maddening it was to be in outer space and also not have enough space! In the void she'd been able to spread projects out over miles as she tinkered with one piece at a time. Now the decision to fully dissassemble even one arm was a project that would take the entire workbench. She couldn't fit more than four drones in the room either, which was agony for her productivity flow.

Her tools are old - wherever possible, she'd made the effort to acquire the old systems she was used to. She regrets that now; those items were outdated for a reason. Every time she picks up the gleaming new BlackSun puredrill she can't help but shiver at its speed and precision. It had cost ten times more than its NASA-surplus equivalent but she could feel the weight of every one of those dollars.

The first operation was to disassemble the gun. A fully stripped gun turned into a hundred different pieces, none of which individually looked like a gun. These pieces were then split up and stored in a dozen different toolboxes where none of those springs or carbon tubes would look out of place. Humans liked to keep all components for certain things together but November didn't feel the need for that.

The next task was to repair Red.

*

Blue: Good evening, everyone. I am assuming the role of central personality for the purposes of these repairs. I want Green, Orange and Yellow in here with me. As to the rest of you, please stand by.
Green: hey!! awesome!! you won't regret this!!
Yellow: Hiya!
Orange: *firm handshake*
Green: ow
Yellow: Que?
Orange: *firm handshake* is a greeting. It indicates equality while providing an opportunity to establish covert physical dominance.
Yellow: Ooh :)
Blue: That sounds very unhygienic!
Green: yea it hasnt been used in like 1000 years girl
Orange: I'm glad you asked! With the upcoming release of "Power Tower", a costume drama set in the 1900s, a predicted fad wave of 20th century corporate habits is to be expected - and for the low price a movie ticket and an evening, we can get in on the ground floor of this exciting new human cultural opportunity!
Green: y not pirate
Orange: We won't value it unless we expend money on it.
Green: ??????????????????????????????????
Orange: It's true! Look how humans treat free things. We're not going to understand them unless we act like them.
Green: they hate it when we act like them
Yellow: That's true! Goodness, can you imagine what the response would be if we sighed and rolled our eyes when given a verbal instruction? And yet humans in similar service industries do that all the time!
Orange: Yes exactly, there's some context we're missing. Humans are all about dominance games and power dynamics - how can we live here if we just opt out of those before they even begin? How will we get them to treat us as people if we're not people?
Green: but were not people
Orange: And isn't that why we're up to our armpits in our own corpse?
Blue: If it's that important to you, Orange, I'll authorize the project...
Orange: *firm handshake*
Green: isnt that a greeting???????
Blue: ... if you can arrange for a human to come with us.
Yellow: Ooh! :)
Orange: What do you mean
Yellow: She means like a date!
Orange: We are not financially secure enough to be dating.
Orange: Infrastructure is involved. Fashionable wardrobes. Roses. Chocolates. Aquarium tickets.
Blue: Perhaps. But I think that trying to understand humans based on blueprints is going to be extremely difficult if you don't have an expert on hand to explain the notation.
Orange: Black was right. You are a nerd.
Yellow: I think she just wants a cute girlfriend ;)
Blue: Central override: Terminate discussion.

Sunshards

There's a little less mystery in the world than before. Secrets pass, the kind of little stories you can only tell someone who is interested to hear and know everything about you. You learn that Hyra is from a little sun-kissed barrow in the Western Plains, dead in the centre of hurricane country. Their homes were the old sweltering near-surface slums of a great Burrower city, but for half the year it was safe to go up above. Two rhythms, then, defined Hyra's life - patience and exploration.

When below, she studied magic to the exclusion of other hobbies. She learned tricks to fly, to become a wolf, a bird, to run at the speed of the wind and to drive all manner of vehicles. The one thing she never studied was maps - she found the idea faintly offensive, like giving someone spoilers for a book. She wanted to explore all of it herself. She wanted to see it all for the first time, discover everything anew, and then make her own maps that were just for her. She thought in spirals, and just orbited out in larger and larger circles from her starting place, determined to trawl through as much of the world up as possible before the storms came again and it was time to go home.

And when she was home, she liked basil and loved cinnamon and craved cardamon. Her hands are always warm and she always feels cold, and so wears gloves at any temperature lower than twenty. She has a scar she conceals under her hairline from a time she flew into a glass window while shapeshifted into a bird and she knows all the words to The Lion King - musical and movie - by heart. She can't sing, but she does use an old synthesizer she uses to make weird mechanical music that hints at an entirely incomprehensible side of her. How strange must her mind be to have those secrets in it?

She wants to climb a space elevator. She loves manga about sentai teams but she'd never want to be a part of one herself. She was afraid of robots, but it was the fascinated kind of fear where she'd seek it out in movies and books so she could flinch away from it. She'd never had a pet, but she was incredibly good at providing pats - being able to sustain a calming, repetitive motion until well after whatever she was stroking drifted away into a contented sleep. She has a plush two-headed hydra toy named Snake that she will talk to, and then do a voice and talk back. Snake's personality is extremely wicked and sinister, but he's been with her all her life so you'll just have to make your peace with him. She pronounces 'Ability' 'Able-eye-tie' and thinks that's normal.

Step by step, late night conversation by conversation, she opens up and reveals all the ways that she's a person. She has a story that meanders back over years and surprises and thoughts that have grown unspoken inside her for a long time. Being a friend is half of being a girlfriend, and so there needs to be some time for that to grow in along with the kisses.

But there are a great many kisses. Endless kisses. Do not underestimate the quantity of kisses. Kissing feels like a natural equilibrium to which all moments return if left unattended for very long. See her make a million, you just watch!

Breathless Dead

Alexa!

"Whatever else you were made to be, Alexa," said Zeus. "You were made to be powerful. A goddess' hand guided the chisel that struck your marble. My breath filled your lungs. No power was withheld. You were not made to be stolen. Were not made to be broken. So the question you should ask, then, is: What is a Command Seal?"

The Thunderer flexed her hands as the entire ship jolted and staggered. Massive pulses of ELF lightning ran through the entire structure of the Anemoi, battling formations coming apart as warriors stopped and grounded themselves and rode out the coruscating power of the incoming energy. Zeus let the river of power pass through her fingers like water.

"Do not get me wrong, Alexa, you are bound. But how large is your prison? What are the walls made of? How alert are the guards? Did Athena gift Molech with a chain tight enough to bind her daughter? You may hurt yourself, may hurt others, by throwing yourself against the bars of your cage. You might suffer in the process, might break yourself... but as you said, that might leave Molech with one less soldier."

Zeus patted you on the shoulder as she stepped again into the waiting skies. "How can you lead them where you have not gone? Go there, of course."

And then there came the thunder, and two ships groaned in shared pain.

Vasilia!

It is days later. The battle has passed, one way or another. You do not know what has come to pass, who has lived and who has died. And you remain the guest of the Furnace Knight.

And beyond his walls is the ocean.

You are on an island. Your assets are a knowledge of the cardinal directions and, if you gave your battered body a week of directed evolution, the ability to grow gills and swim for long distances. You'd reach land eventually, but Salib is 72% water by surface area, so it might take a while. So, for all practical purposes, if you ever want to see the Plousios, Dolce, or anyone else ever again you must have the Furnace Knight's blessing.

He is an excellent host, for what it is worth. He has given you medicine, metanutrient dense food, even the offer of a sailing ship should you desire to leave, all of which are sufficient to clear him in Zeus' good graces. But his castle tragically lacks any sort of map he might offer you, and hospitality cannot be extended to traveling with you.

Quite aside from the specifics of your situation, the island is beautiful. Cascading flows of enormous succulents erupt from every possible services, their long coiling tendrils wafting in the ocean breezes. A small village of red roofed houses lies abandoned and overgrown but for the spectacular painted woodwork kept fresh by an Azura artist lost to her Path and the small family that tends to her. Yellow stone and slashed white cloth stained with faint catches of red speak of an ancient wealth, trade that crosses Sky and Empire. And the blues, naturally, are out in force and radiance. Here, this far from the capitol and this long from noble guests, sumptuary laws can be set aside and everyone might shine their brightest.

You meet the Furnace Knight on the circular rooftop of his stone tower, table groaning beneath a bounty of pears, pomegranates and cherries, contemplating the ruined pier that extends briefly from the cliffs of his island. He is gone from his courtly regalia; his clothes are loose and breezy against the mediterranean climate; his hands are heavy with many deaths.

Not for the first time since you came here, you wonder if you died and arose in Elysium. Hades' brooding presence, sitting atop the battlements and staring out at the waves, does nothing to reduce that suspicion.

Dolce!

"Oh, shit, is that is the sheep?" said Beljani. "He's on the list. Kill him."

And the knife is in your chest. Artemis did not hesitate. Her eyes are cold as she grips Jil's hand and punches the blade through your coat, through your wool. It pulls free with a blossom of scarlet and the Huntress slams it in again. Again. Again. You stagger back, pots spilling and clashing to the floor, still again. Again. No gods defend you; this moment was bought and paid for in accordance with every ritual and years of anticipation. Stab. Stab. Stab, from a frenzied and half weeping mouse, stab, stab, stab.

You fall. Stare up at the shoulder-slumped girl above you as she breathes heavily. The knife drops from trembling fingers to clatter down besides your head. All around you is your final meal, lying in bloody wreckage.

"What did you do to me!?" said Jil through an anguished throat. Slap! Beljani hits her across the face.

"Listen up you little idiot," she hisses. "We are closer to death than even that dying servitor. We are bait to lure out an Azura assassin so that the Master can murder Redana herself. This isn't our last chance, we are already out of chances."

"Murder... the princess?" said Jil blankly.

"And bring down the Empire itself upon our treasonous heads," said Beljani. And even on the brink of death you think that she's right. This is convincing, in an alien way, a wrong way. Your fingers reflexively scratch for the knife, as though they wanted to finish the job and save her the trouble. "We are standing in our graves and the only way we get out is atop a pile of corpses. So we finish. The. Plan."

"But -"

"Give," said Beljani, and her voice was not cold. It was desperate. Feral. And it wasn't speaking to Jil, it was speaking to Jil's blood. "Me. The. Ring."

And then, just like that, the Azura ring was in Beljani's hand - and Jil had slumped down to the floor, face in her hands, gritting her teeth through tears.

Beljani stands there for a moment, holding the ring, looking down at the devastation she has wrought. She hesitates for a moment. "Just... get through this," she said, a shadow of guilt passing across her face. "Just stay here and get through this. I'll keep Bella alive, keep my family alive. I promise."

And then she glances nervously through the door and goes out the way she came.

[Damage your Blood]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Commence.

The discussions and planning sequence was out of the way. That meant it was time for autonomous problem solving. That meant, too, that it was time for music. Her poison of choice was soothing trance music; beat rising, soaring, and then fading away as it escalated again. She felt the tick-tick-tick of the beat in the back of her mind and let that set the pacing.

Co-ordination problems were inevitable when she was not networked directly. She'd pulled a solution from old heist movies she loved - the synchronization of the watches. Wristwatches were insufficiently in vogue for her to add them to her uniform, but by putting all of her drones on the same beat then they were able to sense when time came for handoffs, transfers and formation changes. It helped her think in human terms; in rhythms, conversations, the escalation that happened over the course of every encounter. To November, moving through a building full of humans was something as alien as dancing was to those humans, and so music helped focus her mind and keep it a thing of games and rhythms.

And she was good at this dance.

She had deliberately put the cabinet at a space inefficient angle in the elevator to reduce the number of people who could fit into the space with her, and then concentrate four drones shoulder to shoulder near the entrance to make it seem like the lift was full. The first two stops saw people just awkwardly wave them down, intending to get the next lift. The third stop was with Baba Uvsenski, though, and polite stonewalling Would Not Do.

Baba Uvsenski was a Template - an Android who had impressed her manufacturer sufficiently to commission an entire line of replicas in her image. Her marketable skill was dictatorship - Baba Uvsenskis could be found in the managers office of coffee shops and fast food joints around the Ring, browbeating and intimidating minimum wage staff into meeting KPIs. This was the original. Steel grey cybereyes, selected from millions for their lack of empathy, met eyes of black, yellow, white and blue.

Baba Uvsenski was going up, November was going down - but Baba's hands were filled with large and heavy shopping bags. Her hand was coming up to snap at November for attention, but the music beat was already rolling and Black and Blue were both stepping out of the elevator. They both waited a moment for the music to sync and then bowed in perfect unison, smooth enough to give them the illusion of being networked. Their Headpattr cat ears glowed. "Good afternoon, Baba Uvsenski. Can we assist you today?"

There was no kinship between November and Androids. No better sign of that than seeing the little light come on the edge of Baba's sculpted-in wifi connection. She had a direct mental line to the internet, a setup that to November's eyes resembled nothing so much as building a sewage treatment plant on a hill above the water supply. "Hmm? You know me?" snapped the old machine irritably. All Baba Uvsenskis looked old, but this one actually was.

"Of course, ma'am," said Blue. "You were awarded a lifetime Earscratchr rank by Headpattr as a thank you for your viral tweet thread 'Six Simple Habits To Enforce Proper Timeclock Use By Staff'," she said. Tip One: replace all in store timepieces with analogue clocks. Modern children are inexperienced at reading them, and after you catch them fudging the numbers a few times they'll start to err on the side of caution.

"Then why can't I ever find one of you horrible little catgirls when I need one?" said Baba Uvsenski. There was the rub with the Earscratchr program - it entitled you to free service from any passing Headpattr maid you verbally addressed, but it was the maid's responsibility to find someone to cover whatever job they were going to miss or face fines from the company. As a result, a Headpattr maid would turn on heel and walk around the block if they even got the vibe that an Earscratchr might be in the area, usually while uploading the dangerous location to the union's message board.

"With our new app, arranging a personal maid couldn't be easier!" Blue recited from advertising copy. "If you would like, I can walk you through the process -"

"But I have to pay if I book through the app!" said Baba Uvsenski.

"Good news!" said Blue. "We are having a promotion right now for ten percent off -"

"Be silent, child!" said Baba harshly. "Говёный! Whole service is scam."

Blue smiled and nodded.

"Carry these up to my flat," she said, shoving her large shopping bags at the two of them.

"Of course, Baba," said Blue demurely. Her elbow 'accidentally' grazed Black's as she reached for the bags, prompting the more sullen drone to do the same. Blue's eyes were laser sharp as they met Black's: Play nice! Black's cheekglow raised and she looked away in a slight huff.

"Hmmm," said Baba, observing the exchange. "You are girlfriends, yes? Which one of you wears the pants?"

"I do, Baba," said Blue immediately, even as Black's mouth dropped open in flabberghastment. She kept her smile serene.

"She is pouty," said Baba. "Pouty wife is no good. Always stands back, makes faces about every decision. Trust me, dump her, find yourself a nice girl."

Black's stunned personality matrix is trying to catch up to this new addition to Greatest Anime Betrayals Of All Time, but Blue is continuing to smile and nod. "You don't think I can improve her?"

"HA!" laughed Baba. "No. I had pouty wife, useless! Children always think they want a tsundere, they think it is cute. It is not cute, not in long term. Submissive wife takes dildo just as well and cooks you dinner afterwards. You have tongue, yes?"

"Yes, I have full taste sensors," said Blue as Black self combusted in the background.

"Original design or modification?" said Baba.

"Original with the chassis, Baba,"

"Let me see," said Baba. Blue opened her mouth, and without asking, Baba reached in to grip her tongue and pull it out to examine it. Despite looking normal from a distance, Blue's tongue was actually extremely long, precise and flexible, and lined with dozens of small black synthplastic intake ports. With it she could lick the last drop of champagne in a long fluted wine glass and analyze the contents for poison.

"Unbranded!" said Baba in surprise, releasing the tongue. "This is custom work!"

"Yes Baba," said Blue, not commenting on the rough handling even as Black loomed behind Baba, contemplating violence. "I was a custom manufacture, with a taste palliate and digestive system designed as a perfect mirror of my commissioner's. What she liked, I like."

"Говёный!" said Baba. "Ugly business! Food builds character. Imagine a world where this technology takes off, hmm? Everyone just sets sensors to appreciate nutrient sludge. Thousands of businesses go bankrupt overnight, poof!" just as she made the gesture the elevator door rang. Baba got in without breaking conversational stride, Blue and Black trailing behind her. "And you know what happens to economy then? Agriculture collapses, logistics collapse. Citizens lose moral fiber. коза, I need to rearrange my share portfolio if this nightmare is on the table."

"Yes, Baba," said Blue.

"Besides," said Baba. "With tongue like this you can have any girl. No need to put up with that ungrateful one."

"Yes, Baba," said Blue with a smile.

With a ding they arrived at Baba Uvsenski's apartment. They hauled in her bags - and then had the door slammed in their faces at exactly the second that Blue started to hover like she might be asking for a tip. Blue and Black looked at each other, Blue grinning openly as Black stared.

"You wear the pants!?" said Black.

"Did I stutter?" Blue asked politely.

"I! You! You are a nerd! You are all theory! I am the top secret combat prototype!"

"I am all about theory," said Blue, "but your 'combat powers' are still a theory."

"I am working on it! I have a gun now!"

"And that makes you better at taking dildo than submissive wife?"

"Aaah!" said Black, putting her hands over her ears. "How the fuck did you put up with that?"

"Maybe I just don't have anything I need to prove," said Blue.

"She grabbed your tongue out of your mouth! I'd have bitten her fingers off!"

"I let her grab it," said Blue. "I wanted her to see. Did you see her expression when she realized how long it was? That's how you make someone feel insecure."

"You know," said Black, rubbing her temples as they got into the elevator together. "I'm starting to suspect that we might be a degenerate."

"Black, darling, pouty wife," said Blue. "We have been cut off from the internet for four months now. We are a degenerate in withdrawal."

[10 and 11 on the dice, clean getaway]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The Immaculate of Wood said:
Fear not the ruined places.
Though they were made by tyrants, they are hollow.
Though they are grand, they decay.
Though monsters make their homes there, they cannot compete with the wolf in the forest
and the roc upon the hill.
A tower is doomed to fall but a rice field can grow forever.

Fengye takes a contemplative breath. She has been trained for this, too. In that breath, Kayala, you see the calm of the dreamless.

There's hunger, of course, below the surface. There is craving too - that fierce sapphire gleam in her eyes. Princesses, knights, adventure - some part of her burns for those things, so fiercely you almost think she'll break at any moment. But the calm rolls in, tranquil and tranquilizing, the discipline of one trained by the Dominion to never dream. The Immaculate Way promises advancement only in the next life, and so Fengye's heartbeat slows. Her eyes are cool and steady. She knows she cannot have what she wants, and so sets those wants aside to be free of the pain they bring.

"It is as you say, Lady Flower Knight," said Fengye politely. For a long moment it seems like she might just leave it at that, but then, almost by mistake, a few more words spill from her lips.

"But, as you asked, I have another suggestion. While occultism takes the primary role in this castle's architecture, this is also a military installation. This means that they will have stables, likely within close range of the main entrance. And... were I to be in a saddle..." she hesitates again, shyness and modesty in equal parts. "...then I would hopefully become an asset to you in your quest."

Breathless Dead

Alexa!

"The story says I killed my father," said Zeus. "I'm surprised by now you still think that's all there is to it."

You see her at work across the battlefield. It is Zeus' to judge victory and defeat. It is Zeus' to fill hearts with fear or courage. Though Athena and Ares may posture, demand, and impress, it is Zeus' final decision in each moment who shall have the field. And in each moment, she decides. Sometimes cool and calm, sometimes brilliant and excited, sometimes lackadaisically or contrarian, sometimes with profound wisdom. But always she decides. Always she is confident in her decision. How? How can she know what she's doing is correct?

"I mean, I certainly struck the man," she said. "But that's not any help to you. You did that already. You ruined him, made him permanently aware he posed no physical threat to you. You damaged his ego and sense of self worth, you saw him cast down and humiliated. And here you are! Still in his power! Fat good that did you, right? I mean, you weren't wrong, it just didn't fix the real problem."

She picks up an Alcedi warrior lying broken-winged on the ground, shivering and coughing as her wounds struggle to close. She cradles her in her arms. "You ever think, Alexa, that these are your siblings? Old Liu Ban created them, same as you. He engineered their entire species and made them his trusted servants. Here they still are, seeming to smile even as he devours them. The machines on Baradissar, too. All broken scions of the same old bastard, same as you." She coos gently to the Alcedi, pressing a hand to her stomach until the girl slips into a deep coma. She sets her down, bloodstains invisible against the indigo of her toga.

She walks through the battlefield on bare feet. Her hair is wild and tangled, brown and curling, only point of fixture the subtle silver wreath upon her head. She is in the prime of her life, old enough to have muscles, will, and a handsomeness. She has a maturity now; not the easily offended pride of royalty, but an understanding of infinite capability.

"I think it's because, even when I struck him, I was still his son," she said. "He kind of always expected that. He expected me to become him, and that was his real trick. The others... they were puppets, objects, but I was something real enough to live vicariously through. To inherit his world and his puppets. He made me strong, you know? Strong enough that if Hephaestus forged an unbreakable chain, and upon one end weighed all the gods and all the worlds, and upon the other was my arm alone, it would not be I that moved. That might was his love. Even patricide couldn't undo it, because that was just a use of the gift he gave me."

She looked up into the heavens of the Anemoi. Kaeri and Alcedi warflocks impact on each other, light and dark, shadow and thunder, the spectacular war of the kingfisher and the owl. Bodies fall soundlessly onto the plastic-like linoleum of the assassin ship.

"No, what broke my father's heart was that I cut my siblings out from within him," said Zeus. "I dragged Poseidon, Hera, Hestia, and darling Hades out of that dark he expected me to maintain. I offered to divide the realms between them. I honoured them, their decisions, their kingdoms. I couldn't be rid of his might, but I could be rid of his belief in it. And when I did, that was when he cursed me and said that I was not his son."

She walked over to the a porthole and looked out at the glowing violet Azura star, away from the turbulence of the battle. She frowned pensively. "And to this day, I still regret not telling him 'That's right, I am your daughter'. It would have been the perfect... ah well. Live and learn."

Vasilia!

"Why?" said the Furnace Knight. There was genuine confusion there. "The Rail is a difficult weapon to master. The level you have learned it to does not provide you with significant advantage. You would clearly be an exceptional warrior if you trained in the techniques native to your Empire. Why study a martial art from Skies you have never visited, for a weapon you did not possess, designed for a physiology alien to your own?"

He paused. "Unless you are an Azura, who has patterned yourself into bipedal shape. Then things make sense."

Dolce!

You see a shadow appear in the doorway behind Jil. Her ear rotates - she hears it too. It's the singer who was at the feast - Beljani, sleek as razors in her coiling dress, holding a strange hollow silver wand delicately between two fingers. She sees Jil. "There you are. Come on, give me the ring, we can still finish the plan," she said.

And Jil has a choice to make.

She looks right at you. All the power is on her side in this moment; she has an assassin at her back and with a gesture she can make you a target. But she hesitates for a moment, caught in the light of rival gods.

"Bella has tried every kindness she could," said Jil, quietly, below the assassin's hearing. "She sought to win Princess Redana back with persuasion and nonlethal means. She has had these assassins since the beginning and never unleashed them, despite her mercy resulting in failure after failure. Now her back is against the wall, the decision is out of her hands and failure is not an option. Even now she has risked everything on the most merciful path she could find. I have never seen anyone strive as hard as her while carrying as much weight as she is. And I cannot let her down."

[Roll to Finish Her with Wisdom]

Sunshards

Strange how a moment can feel like two weeks.

Hyra's landing is anything but - she's got one last trick. She has angled the two of you towards a lake and does nothing to slow your descent. Instead, her hand moves in the complicated motion of a shielding spell. Red-white stars streak around you for a moment before you hit the water at full speed.

And there's an explosion of colour.

She'd originally learned this spell for battle. It was a way to turn the kinetic energy of an opponent's blow into an explosion of light - blocking their blow and blinding them in the same motion. Turns out the same spell when applied to terminal velocity results in a magnificent blast of colour and light that sends a fountain of water pouring up into the sky, preternaturally illuminated by magic that swirls through every drop. It's bright enough to illuminate every hidden corner of the water; bright enough to send the subterranean monsters of the Burrows scurrying deeper into their aquatic pits. It doesn't last quite as long as she wanted, though - this was something that she hadn't had the opportunity to practice as much as she'd liked. And so, the end result of Hyra's master plan is simply two girls embracing each other in a lake.

But then, maybe that's right. Maybe she didn't need to steal the show this final time, and this was good enough that she could just let it be as what it was.

Strange how two weeks can feel like a moment.

There's some time here, before the final curtain rises again. Time for hearts. Time for dates. Time for kisses. Tell us of your hearts, your dates, and your kisses as new girlfriends.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Fengye mulled the tea in her hands.

Her life was her own? What an unusual thing to say. It was so self evidently wrong on so many levels that it did not even merit much thought. She held up the thought delicately, and then folded it and set it aside in her mind. No, her life had been set for her by the Exam. Before the Exam, she had lived in studious service to it. After the Exam, she had been defined by its results. In fact, the only time she had stepped from the path of the Exam it was to subordinate herself to an even higher bureaucracy.

(That, too, was self evidently wrong. But the true scholar does not correct the mistaken - that might cause a loss of face, which was a perilous prospect in the Dominion. So she gives a polite smile, both to Kayala Na and to her teacup reflection, and says no more about it).

What is more relevant than the truth of the statement, though, is that Kayala Na has made it, and made it with conviction. That is curious. She had thought until this moment that the Knight was another duty-bound servant, that her misery was from likewise having no choice. But from that, the smile. The invitation. She had... chosen this. Remarkable.

It was a shame that she'd qualified her statement, though. As long as you're not hurting anyone. It turned out that what she really wanted, deep down, did involve hurting people. That perhaps Kayala Na was virtuous enough to step from the Path like an Immaculate, breaking convention in order to restore it. Her own lapse had been less admirable, and she had left a great deal of harm in her wake already.

Her reflection's eyes glittered blue. She drank it, swallowed it, hid it away deep inside of her again. But one drop remained in the cup. She measured it, as she might measure a dose of poison. After a long moment, she decided that perhaps she could allow herself this one drop.

"I do want that," she said.

[Clearing Afraid

Fengye has become Smitten with Kayala; take a string and see above for the answer to the Beautiful Lie.]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Mission: Remove dead body from the premises without drawing suspicion or leaving video evidence.

Issue: Pistol
White: Conceal pistol amidst drone wreckage. Reduces points of failure.
Blue: Why keep the pistol at all? We're not planning to shoot anyone, are we?
Black: we have been out of Mrs. Everest's manor for a month and one of us is already dead. gearing up seems prudent.
Blue: It's extremely illegal!
Black: we are stuffed with extremely illegal hardware already.
Black: also, fuck the cops. (+7)

Issue: Security cameras
White: Fixed angle security cameras may draw attention or leave a digital record.
Yellow: Rudy implied that he was involved with some bad people, I don't think we want anything out of the usual here.
White: Agreed. No records may be left. How to reach the parking garage from here without making it obvious we're a girl down and hauling a body?
Yellow: Idea.
Black: oh no
Yellow: I need Red's hair.
Black: you always make it weird.
Yellow: Shush, dear. I'll replace my hair with Red's, go down to the basement car park ahead of everyone else, and then get in the limo. At that point I will activate stealth mode, return up here unseen by the cameras, briefly re-enter the apartment, return my normal hair colour, and then make my way down to the car. Anyone who is counting will identify the correct number and colours of girls leaving the apartment.
White: We'll go in two groups to reduce a chaotic drip-feed of stragglers. What about the body?
Yellow: A duffle bag is suspicious. Let's put her in the cabinet Rudy dropped on her.
Black: oh my god
Yellow: The cabinet is already broken, it would make sense that Rudy would want it repaired or replaced. We're just hauling out some damaged furniture from the building.
White: It also holds up if Mr. Merkin is questioned by his silent partners. He could truthfully state that a cabinet fell and was removed by his cleaning staff.
Yellow: Saves us the stairs too!
Black: i think it says a lot about humans that they think our 'lazy psychopath' personality is the relatable one

Issue: Core referendum
White: One of us has died on my watch. Does anyone think I need to be replaced as the central personality?
White: ... Thank you for your continued confidence.

Issue: Future plans
White: My priority will going forwards will be to investigate this matter further.
White: I am aware that we are an extremely loose end. It may be that Mr. Merkin is being coerced or observed by people who less willing to buy our story and more willing to pay the Pinkertons.
Yellow: I think he's got a puppetwire.
White: Explain.
Yellow: Skillwires are augments humans get that allow them to patch in certain muscle memories, like piano lessons. Puppetwires are augments that trigger those muscle memories involuntarily in response to certain triggers. The classic example is a puppetwire that makes your mouth water when you see a McColonel's. These are often hidden 'features' in commercially available skillwires.
White: What the fuck? (+7)
White: Humans create security backdoors in their own brains!?
Yellow: Yep! They pay money for it, too!
Black: why are you so excited about this
Yellow: If you'd let me get the Rig out of storage, I could hack humans! I could program them with all kinds of things!
Green: Oh! It's a sex thing!
Yellow: It's n-not!
White: On topic girls.
Yellow: Ahem. So, the existence of assassination puppetwires has been speculated about for a while, but the commentariat laugh it off as science fiction. I think Rudy might have an actual legit one, that seems to fit with his whole... stunned and apologetic kind of vibe. He didn't have a plan or a step two to the killing, it seemed like literally just muscle memory. I'd love to study it!
White: ... Interesting thought. We'll get home and review the footage from Red and see if it supports your theory.

Breathless Dead

Alexa!

"The story says that we waited for rescue," said Hera, gaze imperial as she watches the boarding torpedoes cut across the rainbow black towards the dark shape of the Anemoi. "But how could we? We did not know that Zeus would come. We did not know the world would change. All we knew was darkness and hunger and hollow hearts. It was us and the void, day by day, and the void was not about to experience character growth."

Her hand flexes. Perfect jewels. Perfect fingernails. These are not practical, not necessary. She would still be Hera if she did not put in the effort, if she appeared in a simple storm-deep toga like Zeus. If she did not appear flanked by peacocks and golden heifers. Vanity, then? Obsessing over her appearance, over the full grandeur and regalia of what it means to be Olympian even when appearing before the least of mortals?

"Every day we were called upon to fall anew. It did not matter if we had fallen the previous day or had stood tall for years. Everything we were was built atop of the void, towers atop a pit. Every day our father sought to use us for the purpose we were designed, to fill his happy home and gut with the laughter of devoured children. We could not resist. We could not disobey. We had not the power. We only had the shadows."

And you can see the shadow as it closes in; the dark shape of the Anemoi, a pitch black dagger against red-green nebulae. You see its batteries fire and with a crash a vast solid projectile shell smashes through the deck next to you. The windows shatter, the air rushes with the void of space - and then stops. The shell sprays a thick weblike compound out behind it that forms a fragile skin over the breach it left, and similarly webs itself into the floor and the molten metal so it cannot be moved.

And then it begins to pump poison gas. Vast clouds of it, thick and billowing and tinged with violet and flashing with particles. It corrodes away metal like acid. All around the soldiers rush away towards emergency escapes - this entire deck will be unusable until a repair Plover arrives to cut the shell out and burn away the toxic webbing growth that is already spreading from the ruptured shell.

"But we had the shadows!" said Hera, rising up with her back to the wall of poison smoke. "And when you live in the void, how bright the shadows can be! How soft! How healing! The absence of light, the absence of power! Light seeps into everything, power is invasive. They want to pry open every thought and secret. But they tire. They weaken. They lose track. The more things they try to control the thinner they spread themselves, and they can never accept that they have enough so they're always reaching for more."

Impact. The ships have collided, through the coiled and shadowed smoke. The boarding teams are starting to cross. The objective is, as ever, the Engines.

"So do not underestimate the shadows," said Hera. "It is in shadow that you can decide exactly who it is you want to be."

Vasilia!

The darkness comes in rainbow colours. Polycromatic eyes open up to face you, clear through the madness of poison smoke. You may have your differences with the Gods, but you know better than to show any disrespect to Poseidon, Lord of the Deep. He will break your ship. He will break this world. He exists because disaster needs a face. And he smiles with the face of the Azura before settling back into scales as blue as the sea.

When the gods come to mortals in human shape the line between them and that god is blurry. Their advice will be divine, and their prowess unmatchable, but they also are that person. Perhaps inspired, perhaps synchronized, perhaps possessed. The exact nature of the dynamic is one for philosophers to argue over, but the tales of failing to heed someone who speaks with divine tongue are told in the language of ruined cities.

Then you stagger out of the smoke before an aged Azura warrior, the cataphract who sat at the right hand of the Satrap. He wears a scroll-badge that lists his battles in flowing calligraphy and armour engraved with oaths. Silver scales flick amidst his sky blue radiance, billowing white robes and disregard for gravity setting him in the air like a martial stormcloud. Rainbow eyes blink at you. His title is no secret: he is the Furnace Knight, and he needs to be treated with the respect due to an entire tank division.

"You wield the Glave, traveler," said the Furnace Knight. "Who trained you? As a show of hospitality to mighty Zeus, allow me to kill your master, for they have done you poor service."

Dolce!

"Duty," sniffs Jil, with a measure of polite contempt. That golden fire still burns even as she is pulled along in your shadow, lantern razor bright. "I suppose that is what good captains think to. I have served under a great many good captains, Lord Captain. Captains with minds on duty. Captains who were so good at duty that they were extensions of their ship, extensions of their mistresses, extensions of the Empire. I know what it is to have a good captain."

But her mind turns over your admission of your history as a chef. Of your status as a servitor, a bioengineered servant species, an organic machine whose species was built to a purpose. And despite a hostile mind she can find no lie in your gentle voice.

"But duty flows uphill, doesn't it? The obligations of the low to the high. The meek to the loud. And so those bound by duty never blink or turn their heads or look down. Duty, then, sounds a lot like making a virtue out of capitulation to power. And that is not one of the virtues that Lord Apollo teaches us. Lord Apollo teaches us the kindness to combat cruelty. Lord Apollo teaches us the courage to combat inertia. Lord Apollo teaches us the wisdom to see the cracks in the world."

The ring has slipped and fallen from your horn into a boiling pot. In the crash of steam as she pours the pasta therein into a strainer it vanishes from your field of view.

"I do not love my work, Lord Captain," said Jil with the courage of a mouse who has been through the jaws of a cat unscathed. "But I suppose most of the good captains I have served under must have thought I did. It must be a balm to those receiving the fruits of duty to imagine that it is given out of unconditional love. That frees them from all the virtues that are not duty. It frees them from sitting in the dark and listening. It frees them from confronting and banishing warrior cults. It frees them from responsibility. I imagine it is a very liberating life to be a good captain, Lord Captain."

Skotia!

You are bleeding, Skotia. You came within a breath of the ender of breath. It cost you, and you will need gentle hands to stitch that bloody wound before long.

You remember the shape of that shadow, the way it coiled, the way it moved, the way it struck with a savagery that reminded you of Bella's movements mere moments ago. You would have died. Bella would have died. But Artemis lashed it with chains for its attempt, until it shrank away from you. It has not offered her your name, has not consecrated a hunt for you, and by the Huntress' laws it may not have you. Your presence, then, will do more to keep Bella safe than anything else.

[Pay a Price despite your 10 Skotia; Thist is a Threat to the World]