Thanqol

The Red Furnace: First Contact

Despite everything else that's going on, the underlying military reality of this situation is surprisingly straightforwards. This is recon by fire. Making moves and seeing what shoots back and with what.

And Lord Death Despoil's last move has been to walk into an enemy trench line.

Positive sides first. This is going a long way to confirming his theories about the Furnace Knight's power and capabilities. Specifically, he is not a spellcaster per se - he is a divine agent. His power does not come from infused mana or spell abilities, it comes from serving as the direct conduit for a major divinity. This means that he has unique advantages - and different pressures - compared to a more rational, controlled approach to magic.

Specifically, the Furnace Knight is bound with oaths. He has a network of ideals he has committed to that bring him into alignment with his divinity. The closer he is engaged with the substance of these oaths the more pure and direct his connection is and the more he can tap into that unlimited font of power. It's similar in theory to the clerical divine spellcasting more common in your part of the galaxy, but blended with the continuous at-will nature of a Warlock's infernal patronage and the more advanced and complex righteous oaths a Paladin might commit to. This all implies a fundamentally different relationship to the Divine than happens elsewhere. You expect that the Furnace Knight is not a singular paragon in this respect - his techniques are too developed. This approach to magic no doubt runs through their entire society.

The Furnace Knight, despite being an expert in this form of conduit magic, does not seem to have any emotional attachment to it. He is completely capable of performing dishonourable acts and all it will cost him is the strength of his divine connection. This may or may not be worthwhile depending on the situation.

This is all extremely useful to have learned. Being able to calculate an opponent's magic system from first principles while under fire will no doubt be pivotal in coming conflicts.

(Something the Crippling Glare would note later, comparing the data logs to Death Despoil's experiences later, is that this conduit has some sort of direct connection to the star. The gravitic distortions and solar flares intensified significantly once the Furnace Knight was engaged in battle. There is also no response from the alien ships to the active scan - increasingly they seem genuinely blind.)

But what it means right now is that Lord Death Despoil just made a terrible mistake. By attacking vulnerable noncombatants, threatening to unleash the catastrophe of an uncontrolled KPI outbreak, the Furnace Knight was given an opportunity to act in perfect harmony with his patron god.

With impossible speed, the Furnace Knight intercepts the fireball in flight and eats it. Snapping serpent jaws clamp down on the deadly sphere of power and its spell matrix unravels in his jaws, infusing the Furnace Knight with a massive surge of mana. So empowered he lunges through the dark directly at Lord Death Despoil at the same time as he targets him with a massive gravity spike that draws the Lichemaster closer to his waiting blade.

As an unusual little note, while the Furnace Knight doesn't seem to have the ability to see in the dark, he seems to have a huge amount of experience fighting without relying on his senses at all. A combination of hearing, scent and predictive guidance from his patron covers the gap - not unexpected, but it's notable how familiar this is to him. Like he doesn't expect to fight in any other way.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"She thinks about fighting more than you do. If you do what feels intuitive, she's already read you..."

Does she know?

She doesn't struggle against her injury. Doesn't react to her bonds. She's hardly aware of them. All she can think about is Mirror, Mirror, Mirror. How much does she know? How much has she given away in this attempt to impress her? How much will that take away from her next attempt to impress her?

The dress. Paid for with money - TC money. She understands the concept now, Mirror. She understands, too, the concept of debt. She's taken out all she can. Reputable banks and criminal underworld, placed bets on her victory and borrowed against the future winnings. The Bezorel, an ancient TC gen one piece of garbage, was at this very moment being crammed with advanced missiles. The ineffective laser array she made such a point of demonstrating is being hollowed out and replaced with even more missile racks. Isn't it intuitive for you to study me, Mirror? To look over my fight, as I look over yours? Do you see that all the data I have given you is false?

Do you know that it goes deeper, Mirror? Do you know that I haven't just filled my own mecha with hidden weapons - but I've filled yours with hidden flaws? See, the thing about getting in so deep with organized crime is that after a point your victory becomes their problem. If she loses there will be an awful lot of debt that she'll in no position to repay, and so even now their agents are working over the Gods-Smiting Whip. Breaking it. Breaking this thing that Mirror has worked so hard to perfect.

Because it's not your perfection I love, Mirror. Perfection is your shield, and one that you're too confident in. All those hours calibrating the Whip, adjusting the sensitivity on your controls until they're more fluid and responsive than a direct spinal tap - what if they were all wasted? How quickly can you adapt? In the moment, will you panic? Or will the vision of me here, in this dress, in these colours, waiting for you - will that have tipped you off? Do you know already how far I'm reaching outside myself just to match you?

Or is this a step too far? Do I want to defeat you, or do I just want to see you on your knees? Do I want victory or do I just want to steal a kiss? You almost beat me when I rode the Aeteline, and she outmatched the Whip. Is my honour, my skill, a contingent thing, dependent on having the superior hardware? Can I beat you without it? Have I sinned against our war? Will you forgive me if I did?

No matter how Solarel thinks about it this is the only way. But she still does not know if it is a way at all.

Please, Waxing Crescent Moon. Lift my head. I need to see what she does next.

[Solarel is Smitten with Mirror. Take a String, question answered above.]

Breathless Dead

Redana!

There is a very real limitation on how clever you can be after being punched in the face. For a long couple of minutes, Beautiful isn't being smart. She's not effortlessly dancing out of your reach, not analyzing, undermining, counterattacking. She's just lying there. In the state of having been punched. One hundred percent off her bullshit.

After a number of false starts at both sitting up and speaking she finally manages it. "You... don't need an assassin?" the question is hesitant, almost lost. The one thing that doesn't fit into the empty, all-encompassing mind of a Temple Assassin. "I mean... you know that I'm a very good assassin, right? Just putting it out there, if there's anyone you want... no?"

She's at a loss. All that programmed instinct, all the mathematics in her brain, processed and primed to lead inevitably towards absolute death and destruction. A lifetime of training that lives in her bones, if not in her conscious memory. And now...

"So..." she said. "... what you're saying... is I can be anything?"

Fingers drum against the cold metal floor. Wide eyes close for a long moment. And then she sits up suddenly, eyes as wide as they go and brimming with excitement. "Journalist! Oh no - card shark! Do either of those jobs exist? Doesn't matter! I'll bring them back! Detective? No, I'd need a rival. Oh, maybe I can commit crimes then wipe my memory and leave them for myself to solve..."

She tries to get up but doesn't quite make it, slumping back onto her side again. She rotates around to face you. "How about I start with you? What brings a dame like you into my office?"

Alexa!

Everywhere you look you find evidence to support your dark hunch. Soldiers, sitting around the table, eating and laughing. Then choking, shaking, spills, chairs thrown back as they start to feel the poison. One soldier is not affected and turns on the others, the falling bodies slammed down into the floor with strength enough to fracture the metal. Some soldiers lunge for cover behind the upturned table. One has an esoteric weapon, something that makes metal run like water for an instant before solidifying. They fire a ragged volley with their pistols and land hits...

And then the claw marks appear. The assailant's size and weight increases, razor talons begin to score the deck. The Esoteric begins to fire and the Thunderbolt fires in response, cutting the table and the weapon in half, freezing the room in its half-liquid state. Then, it leaps, standing up atop the table before descending on its disoriented foes...

This much anyone might learn. This was not what was kept a secret.

And then it is alone in a room with a dozen bodies. Where did they go? How did it carry them?

The ship isn't empty any more. This is not an isolated component. There were witnesses in both directions who saw nothing. No vehicles or carriages came through here. A Lantern reports that despite the grim thought, bodies were not disassembled and fed down the communications tubes. Your mechanical hound can't pick up a scent in any of the maintenance corridors or vents. The Kaeri Evocatii is growing more and more panicked at the accumulated evidence of this black miracle. You are too but for the opposite reason. She doesn't see it, can't see it - she's a predator, after all. A warrior. She understands blood and death.

You, though? You're not a warrior any more, Alexa. You know to stop and smell the flowers. You know how to see the trees despite the forest.

You can see the faces trapped inside the wood.

Everyone else is walking right past the ornamental trees. Trees grow everywhere on the Plousios, beautiful garden groves that filter the air and add colour to grim metal corridors. Some part of your mind, for its own safety, has avoided thinking about them too hard since the Master of Assassins raised the rainforest of Sahar.

But that's Galnius there, amidst those trees. That one further on looks like a Kaeri. Their branches bloom with black dahlias.

"The fool trims the leaves," the Master of Assassins said to you one fine day on Tellus, so many years ago. "A brute hacks the trunk. An expert pulls the roots. But a master..."

Hard and calloused hands ran through soft and loamy soil.

"Gardening has a way of wearing down the soul," she said. "When life itself is your enemy then the battle becomes eternal. But if you want to be able to appreciate a garden into your old age you need a way to break the cycle. And that is why the master catches the seeds."

The Red Furnace: First Contact

The dispel cuts down the period of invincibility held by the wolves, but doesn't undo it completely. The exact mechanism of the ability is innate to them and the enchantment was extending it. The Furnace Knight's flight is entirely unaffected.

And then the gate opens. The wolves fall.

The Furnace Knight extends his hand - but not towards them.

The roof of the facility burns clear away, exposing a clear light to the sun above. The Furnace Knight seems to hold it in his hand, and as he does there is a strange and terrible buildup. Violet energy starts to condense - slow and weak, fragments breaking out of the very daylight. Energy is extracted from light, from gravity, a desperate vacuum of power extracted. The next time the Aotrs send a probe through the readings coming from Tanshin's star are insane. The sun's surface has erupted with four small but intense solar flares that burn in an unnatural violet hue.

And the Furnace Knight hurls the energy downwards at Lord Death Despoil. Whatever this was it clearly wasn't ready - it was a fragment of energy, a mere handful. The attack comes so fast there's no time to think, only to dodge - and the purple energy falls through the gate too and impacts on star G-2679.

And that is where that exchange seems to end. It won't be for some weeks now that G-2679 starts to develop... symptoms similar to the chaotic readings starting to come from the Tanshin star. Just as well Lord Death Despoil chose an uninhabited system.

But in the immediate sense, the Furnace Knight has come out the worse of this exchange. His soldiers are lost, his frantic attack has missed, and now he is reduced to his own personal prowess. But for the knowledge of the Lichemaster's gate he considers it worthwhile.

He attacks now with a prepared caution, never making a move with momentum he can't immediately check if a Gate unexpectedly appears before him. For all its force, it is still ultimately a noncommittal offensive, relying only on techniques he has already demonstrated. If he has additional techniques up his sleeve he is keeping them hidden, a concession to the idea that a swift victory is no longer in the cards. The momentum is distinctly with the Lichemaster.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Black!

"I only have one rule for you tonight," whispered Black in 3V's ear as she leaves the bar, an arm around each of her girls. "No matter what happens to you, what gets done to you, you look only at me. Your eyes are mine. If you can't keep them on me you keep them closed. Disobedience," her hand is where it shouldn't be, where it belongs, "will be punished. No - don't speak. I'll know soon enough if you understand or not."

Then she turns the other way to whisper some secret instructions to Amie in turn. Then the two of them turn to look at you in unison, eyes gleaming. What was the phrase? Something about two wolves inside you?

~

Blue!

"There is nothing I agree with more," said Blue, sitting down and picking up a red bean bun with chopsticks, "than the idea of illegal surveillance being creepy. It is terrifying. Imagine the threat posed by criminal individuals, shielded by their status, wielding an army of loyal spies. Imagine a business that operated like the yakuza but due to their position and power they were outside the reach of the justice system. Resistant to prosecution. Even from criticism. Imagine the ability to break the legal system through calculated pressure applied to certain individuals..."

She lets it sink in for a bit. Her eyes glitter. It has all finally come back around.

"I might..." she said delicately, "... happen... to have access to certain documents relating to similar situations. Highly sensitive," she runs a finger along her wine glass. "And due to the nature of how they apply to the justice system specifically, they leave me with no clear path towards releasing them. If the wrong person connects them back to me I could be shot. Again." Her tone makes it clear that she is not joking here. "Naturally I don't want to put anyone else in danger," she glances at Starlight. "So I have left a contact card under each of your plates. I would appreciate it if you only used it if you consider yourself incorruptible and able to take on risk, and if not, only passed it on to people who you consider to have both of those qualities."

White!

White gravitates towards the shower instinctively. Washing up was not, in her mind, a solo activity.

"This is the sort of thing I need to know about," she said, warm hands moving through soap and fur and mane. She wasn't asking questions like should I, can I - nothing existential. At the moment she just wanted data. "How do you decide things like fur length, texture, growth rate? How sensitive should the fur be? How do you test the feeling before committing to it?"

It's at about this point that Pink walks in through the front door of the apartment. "Morning, everyone!" she called brightly. "I bought sandwiches[1]~!"

[1]: Deep fried pineapple fritters.

Without skipping a beat she's tossing her clothes onto the floor walking right into the shower alongside White and Crystal. White had previously discussed her nature as a hivemind, but Pink doesn't exactly ease Crystal into the dynamic. "Hey, White," she said, stepping right on in. "Oh, wow. She's hot. You chose this without me? I'm impressed!"
"We're discussing aesthetics, I need your help," said White.
"I'm on it!" said Pink, taking White by the hair and pushing her down to her knees firmly. "Tell me everything, or I'll make her stop~."

Brown!

There is the internet (smiling, nodding) and the internet (frowning, shaking head). A hack like this involves going into the internet.

The Megaverse was originally pitched as the long awaited union between hell, work and the mall, and was bought into being through the concerted efforts of humanity's worst billionaires. All the lesser 2D chat programs and phone maps and useful aspects of the internet drift across its surface like icebergs above the acid shark volcano. The Megaverse is the full, deep, immersive VR deep internet environment. Its infrastructure underpins everything else. It is a cathedral of virtual space, the sprawl and the grid, the parallel cosmos and spiritual realm that serves as the mirror to the physical.

And like all good cathedrals, it is crumbling and ruined.

The Megaverse was dead on arrival but it lurched on for a couple of decades regardless, sustained by a vast inferno of venture capital money. It briefly flared up to incorporate all of human life and activity, all social interaction dragged onto the platform. People designed their virtual avatars and lead virtual lives, working, marrying and getting paid on the blockchain. But the whole thing frankly sucked, and as the money dried up the executives started looking for ways to monetize the thing. This was at the same time as hackers and governments had turned virtual space into a battleground. The Megaverse quickly developed a toxic reputation leading to the reinvention of the 2D internet. VR headsets became the province of remote workers, video gamers, advertising agencies, criminals and hackers. The Megaverse was a combination of hell, work, and the mall. Like hell, it was buried underground. Like work, the employees unionized or quit. Like the mall, it crumbled to ruins, a cathedral to the excesses of capitalism.

But burying hell didn't make it less relevant, and there are always urban explorers or property developers with an eye towards abandoned malls. Occultists, digital workers, and advertising agencies all have a vested interest in the Megaverse still. You can reach the 'regular' internet from there, manipulate algorithms and hack computers from below. You can follow traces, destroy firewalls and analyze software, you can see connections that would otherwise be the work of vast spreadsheets. You just need to dodge wolfpacks of marketing bots, spearphishers seeking to steal your identity and poorly maintained features causing entire network segments to crumble under your feet.

Into these depths Brown has descended, wearing cool black mirrored wraparound shades, slashed shoulder stripes, and carrying a neon blue zweihander. It's an outfit that says: You better watch out, I have done a reasonable amount of grinding for free content and I am slightly above average in either free time or ability!

Descending with her is the full digital manifestation of the computer components she has been asked to install. Their MegaIncarnations alone will tell a lot about them. Off the shelf Begone, Brand level smiles? The poorly concealed bulletproof vest of a cop program trying not to look like a cop program? Who, exactly, is lazy enough to outsource their covert op to a maid agency?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

"It is the nature of the Dragon's blood to desire control," said Zhaojun dreamily, raising up to her full height amidst a storm of sapphire wind. "They order the world according to their patterns, driving chaos to the periphery, bringing princesses under their Dominion, and their nations with them. And just like them, here you come noble warrior! Just as the Dominion seeks to yoke the Flower Kingdoms so you take from me my mistress, my slave and my prey."

She twirls the firewand in her fingers. A one shot weapon; it would take over a minute to reload. The mask is blank as ever yet its eyes contain a furnace. And with a flick, she opens her outer robe, revealing the secrets tucked inside her concealing garments.

Firewands.

Dozens of them.

She laughs as she fires, a massive and spectacular gout of fire blasting out across the deck of the ship, catching fast into the timber. The powder ignites matter and magic both, filling the sky with billowing bluegreen sparks. As soon as the weapon runs dry she tosses it aside, and in the same gesture snatches the next one from its pocket. Even dragons must pause to inhale; not her! With this arsenal she can burn brighter than even they!

Aiming is a distant secondary concern. Everything is to be fire. The ship, the mast, the forest, her foes. This is what she wants. This is what she wants, deep down. To burn hotter and brighter than this shipload of false dragons and insufficiently impressed princesses might ever dare.

"Once, there was a maiden," Zhaojun trilled.
"Who walked amongst lords and ladies.
Gods and demons.
Spies and sorceresses.
Dragons and princesses.
None of them could see her, even as she lit the match.
"Love blinds," she said."

[Inflicting a condition on Piripiri in return.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

haha okay wow okay this is way harder than it looks.

"This" in particular referred to fighting while wearing a full princess dress. All the ruffles and ribbons and laces posed limitations on her range of motion. It limited her use of weaponry, kept fire from her arsenal, forced her to defend a vastly larger range of territory than she was used to. This wasn't a spirit gift either, this was the only one of these she had, and if she tore it it was gone.

She nodded to herself. A lot of things were starting to make sense to her now, not least the tendency of other species to idolize beautifully dressed magical girls as the height of martial glory. Only the greatest warriors could go to war while risking such one of a kind outfits.

The only way forward was to fight as they did.

Courage, love, friendship, she signed. Kindness, sorrow, and joy. Lots of feelings, everyone's hearts...

She snatched the air, clenched her hand into a fist, stepped down from the vine tangle. She raised herself up high, letting her speech gestures become more sweeping and dramatic. I will fight for everyone's hearts!

This was a thorough non sequitur for those in attendance who were not privy to Solarel's fragile grasp of alien culture. In her mind, this was the intimidating speech of a great warrior, and the graceful dance steps that followed through were the opening forms of the most powerful combat techniques available to humankind. Solarel had, after all, not seen anything in anime that had ever made her question it's reality. Magical dresses appearing from nowhere, monstrous gods that needed to be overthrown, and people finding reserves of enormous power that manifested as rainbow lasers right when they were at the brink of death were all things that just happened to the Followers of Zaldar.

So it is with perfect sincerity that Solarel makes the hand sign for MOONLIGHT KICK right as she performs a very serious roundhouse kick to the side of the head. Her technique is flawless, beautiful, a level of grace that is frankly utterly unexpected of her. She literally glitters as she does it, lit up by the radiant glow of expended energy.

But for all of the beauty of the motion, and for all the sincerity of the anime speech that proceeded it, it is also a roundhouse kick to the side of the head and Solarel is very strong. It is only natural for everyone who is not currently being kicked to think about how cool and graceful the moment is, but that is not a luxury extended to the kick-ee.

[Fighting with Grace: 9-1: 8
Inflicting a condition, and seizing a superior position (one where I have protected my pretty princess dress and vibe)]

The Red Furnace: First Contact

The Furnace Knight's belt glows and gravity ceases to have a hold upon him. With a flick of his tail he ascends into the air in a movement so fluid it suggests his species originated below the waves. He raises up into the air, ascending to a position above Lord Death Despoil. There is no wasted motion here, no elaborate forms, not blinking or lowering his guard for a moment. Serpent eyes stare as he raises his sword and -

It's not an attack. It's a command.

The wolves, howling, close in on all sides.

These are berserkers, unarmoured and unprotected. Jagged glass cannons, only protected by a single enchantment: a divine chronomancy spell that defers all injuries minutes into the future. They will fight at maximum strength right up until their blessing expires and then all their accumulated injuries will hit them at once and they will drop dead instantly. The wave is uncoordinated, but there's a pack instinct at work that keeps them from getting in each others way, even through their blindfolds.

The Furnace Knight hovers above the battlefield, silent and unflinching, gaze reptilian as he observes. In this attack it's clear that he doesn't have any ideological commitment to honourable battle - quite the contrary. He observes the forms because of the rewards they grant and once his obligations are met, he discards them. His earlier headstrong rush was a rational attempt to maximize an advantage and now that it has passed his approach is far more defensive and cautious.

And that gives you an important clue: He has no idea what you're capable of. Even on the most basic level his wolves attack with teeth and talon, seeking to rend flesh you do not have. He is sending a wave of expendable troops to soften up a necromancer, seemingly unaware that their corpses might be turned against him. Despite his superiority in hand to hand conflict he seeks to accumulate data because he simply does not know that you are not an expert martial artist. This is a warrior who knows himself, but not his enemy. Despite his advantage in positioning he is still in the same boat as you.

Breathless Dead

Redana!

"Am I?" said Beautiful. "Severed from a world that still cared for me?" fighting her is maddening. She's weaker. She's slower. But somehow she's always going in exactly the wrong direction. "Awoken to a world that still has grudges against me?" The possibility space has closed. She is losing her ability to target specific locations, now she just has to take whatever blows are available. Cold comfort as she steps just past a jab and works your ribcage in passing. "Needing a thousand chanting priestesses to lay a foundation for each step and getting one mad princess instead?"

She has so many opportunities, so many places for needles or pistols or daggers to slip in under guards. Her instincts carry her into opening after opening. And opening after opening she has nothing better to exploit the flaw than a punch. When she tries tangling your legs in hers to send you stumbling she almost trips herself instead as there is less give in your muscles than she expects.

"It is," she steps up her tempo, looking to lay you out, end the fight, even if it means making it a fight rather than a dissection. "A poor craftswoman. Who blames her tools. A loose gear? Why don't you give me a name, then? Why don't you tell me who to kill? Do you want it done fast or slow, loud or quiet? Do you want me to make it look like an accident? Killed by her best friend while the cameras are rolling? Who is the target, you fucking bitch!?"

Alexa!

You step into the rooms of Galnius' praetorian guard, the last known location of the missing Kaeri.

There's a stink in the air. The smell of booze, sick, sweat and SP smoke. The smell of soldiers gone wrong. The door is marked with the scorch marks of SP rounds, black corrosion that eats right through the white paint and half an inch of the steel underneath. Jars of weapon oil are spilled and mix with a sludge made of kidney beans and the cream-sweet smell of monkfruit. A spear is run into a wall and every inch of it from blade to haft is covered in blood.

You can trace the violence in the patterns of blood, just as Athena always taught you. The heavy oak table was overturned, used as cover. Soldiers sheltered behind it until a Thunderbolt hit it and blasted it in half. And then... claw marks? Something terrible leaped upon the wreck of wood before pouncing onwards. There is a vortex of twisted metal on the walls and on the floor - steel flowed and twisted like a whirlpool, the jagged corkscrew wreckage of an improperly aimed Esoteric. So much of the fight is crystal clear.

And so much of it is not. There is no fire concentrated at the doorway. No clear point of breach or nexus of defense - it is as though the attacker teleported in from nowhere. The attacker left the claw marks of a great lion, wielded a Thunderbolt with a marksman's precision and discipline, and there is no sign that they spilled a drop of blood - or spilled any of their own. You spot the place where the spilled stew boils a toxic black and slide it away with the end of a stick. Sure enough, SP scorch marks on the floor.

A battle occurred here but it does not feel like any sort of war you've met before.

Evocati Khaesh could not be more on edge. She stands in a corner, a long rifle trained on the door held one handed, while her other hand holds a pistol she rhythmically scans the area with. "This was the Captain's work," she hisses. "Can you smell that? The stew was poisoned. The weapon of a chef."

You may need to Look Closely.

Breathless Dead

Redana!

"Oh! You want to fight for Bella's hand in marriage!" said Beautiful, snapping her fingers in understanding. "She must be a very special girl indeed!"

She then shoots you in the forehead, in the exact point where she landed her kick. Then as you charge it's directly into a second kick, aimed again at that exact spot. She's too slight to fully check the charge, though, and the momentum sends her reeling back a couple of steps before she recovers her poise.

"Well, even if I don't remember her," said Beautiful, "There is no way I'm not going to fight for the girl who might possibly be mine. Hypothetical love demands no less!"

There's a bit of a catch in that voice, Redana. Pain, perhaps? There's no doubt a lot of frustration that comes with being told that you are possibly in a relationship that you can't remember the importance of. A lot of frustration that Beautiful has evidently decided to vent onto you. There's still that dangerous, brilliant playfulness as she widens her stance, ready to catch, redirect, and throw. But you're not the only one with a headfull of complicated emotions that are best expressed with fisticuffs.

Alexa!

You're just finishing your routine when - Ares' spit! There's a Kaeri warrior standing over you. Fuck they're quiet!

"Lady Regicide," she said, voice clipped. As you recover from the shock you see the Oath of Surrender pinned to her breast armour - a long, winding scroll where she pledges her surrender and obedience in the sight of Zeus. It's a chain more binding than adamantine, and the remnants of the Kaeri who did not fight to death all signed them and wear them constantly. It is not an oath of slavery - theirs was a honourable military surrender, and the conditions are closer to that of a guest. Still, it was considered for the best if they were kept on the other ship to the Lanterns.

The title they use for you could do with some work though.

"I am Evocati Khaesh," she said. "Five of my soldiers are missing, under subcommander Meuven Ra. We cannot find any sign of them. Did you order them executed?"

The Kaeri's eyes are cold. She's ready to resume hostilities over this. But you've served with Kaeri before and you can see beyond the frosty belligerence - she's terrified. The Kaeri are creatures of pride, and to admit weakness, ignorance and helplessness in the same breath is not something they do if they feel like they have any alternative.

Dolce!

"Yeah, uh," said Ramses awkwardly. "Listen, mate. We're professionals. We're on this ship because we get paid. By the Magi. What we want is the time, surgery and components to make our ideal bodies manifest."

She coughed. "Though if you wanted to help us out you could lean on the magi to give us better terms in the next round of enterprise agreement negotiations. The union negotiates a new one with them every year and the discussions get heated. These go on for the months - tell you what, uh, first lady Vasilia, ma'am, why don't you come along and sit in on one? There's a meeting happening now."

A flash cut to the union negotiations with the Magi. A Hermetic shrieks discordant blaring rhythms to drown out the voices of hard nosed negotiators, brandishing esoteric weapons in all directions. It blasts a hole in a wall and retreats into the ventilation shafts, laying down a carpet of covering fire. It is pursued by a cautious but determined team carrying arc welders to cut it out of the hidden burrow it retreats into.

"Maybe it'll give you an idea of what we're working with here," said Ramses.

Bella!

As you walk there is an eerie stillness in the corridors of the Plousios' lower decks. The crabs are still there, still in their tens of thousands, but now they are still. They sit, claws raised up to the sky, unblinking eyes staring blankly forwards. The eerie industry of the Tides is halted as every node in its network takes a moment at long last to breathe deeply and actually pay attention to the world around it.

The breath rises and falls in a calming rhythm, waves crashing against the shore. It wasn't until the noise stopped that you realized how frenzied it had been.