Thanqol

Breathless Dead

Dolce!

"I think there is simply no alternative," said 20022. "No species can survive having absolute control over life itself without either descending or ascending above what it once was. The Molechian Empire, and soon the Shogunate, are descending. Unregulated personalist rule leads to madness, and madness killed half the galaxy in the ultimate act of hubris. If civilization does not have a higher ideal than mere pleasure then it will be destroyed by those whose pleasure is the love of war."

He thought. "But you asked me how I feel about it," he said. "Well. I suppose I feel an overwhelming feeling of fortune, gratitude and deep and abiding self-worth whenever I act in accordance with my Function. It's just a little background glow to my life. I've been told it's a similar effect to romantic coitus, but I've never been tempted to experiment in that direction."

Dyssia!

Amidst the wreckage of the ship, light reflecting in broken metal, solidifies a rainbow.

The Crystal Dragons are marvels. Not only is their digital breath capable of communicating reams of data over vast distances, but they can convert their own bodies into that strange light. Their wings are not solid, and should not be functional, being as they are made from that semiethereal projection of concentrated knowledge - and from the wings inwards reforms Brightberry, rising above the destruction like an omen. She soars.

Her hexpattern breath sweeps the army, cataloguing in instants the ranks of soldiers and their armaments. The light flashes over you briefly, a sparkling after-effect bathing the world for a second. The light has condensed down into a steady, constant beam - a communication link, like she might send to another dragon. As the flow maintains she starts to broaden it out into the shape of letters appearing on the ground in front of you; a one-way transmission of data, even as she continues to circle over the wreckage of the Firetree. She intends to stay up there and provide information.

And what she can tell you is that the drones are being activated.

Already some of them scuttle across the exterior of the ship, scouting swarms, moving like ants. They leave pheromone trails in their paths as they map out interior and exterior for trace and trail. Inside the core of the ship you can feel the logic train trundle towards its inevitable conclusion. We don't want to decommission the Pix but they were borderline to begin with, containment has been breached and if we don't act now then they will become invasive, and besides, a live-fire exercise against a full drone swarm might be just the thing to test their capabilities in full...

Which means that great valves will be thrown. Enormous tanks full of nutrient slurry will empty into vast pipes. Each drone will have semifused muscle fibre, quadranix-laced fat cells, and adrenal hormones fill its body. Fungal cell cultures from into shapes of hunger and rage given no mouths to feed and no voice to scream. The nightmare will begin to stir. And the biomancers, with all the careful preparation of doctors performing surgery, will martial their forces.

But looking around you, you see no sign that any of the clone infiltrators are involved in any attempt to undermine the Pix. Biomancers need to balance the inclusion of safeguards and reduced battlefield performance, and one of the reformations to boost the Pix towards viability was full formation instinct. With the drums of war starting to sound the infiltrators forget their hidden purposes and lock shields with the rest. There will be no enemy within during this fight.

The Pix are drawing up battle lines, scouts dashing out to investigate the area for ideal choke points, calculating the flow of the wind and inventorying heavy and esoteric weapons. None of them see the thin laser line reach out from the distance and strike Brightberry. She glows in its light briefly, and then forwards it through to you.

TO THE CONDEMNED. DO NOT DESPAIR. THE GALAXY STANDS WITH YOU.

SURVIVE.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Black!

"Why?" asked Black to Singh's request.
Mistake to ask her, of all colours. She didn't understand, couldn't understand. He looked hurt, she looked confused, looked to Brown.
"Of course, I'll schedule it," said Brown politely. That didn't seem like enough, but what more was there to say? She would go, of course, and be quietly bored throughout, sitting at the side and watching people drink and socialize, but that was the nature of her life and she bore it without complaint.
Green, though, buzzed with an uncomplicated excitement. Christmas meant gifts, and gifts for her were milestones. New computer hardware, new puzzles, new textbooks, new websites. New experiences! But prying into the nature of the coming gifts early was pointless, so she didn't try, and inadvertently contributed to an awkward silence.

It was like this sometimes. Sometimes she was in the wrong configuration to manage other people. There were parts of her that ran deeper, stranger and more silent than they could hope to understand and she could hope to explain. Often she could keep them concealed, but sometimes a human would be left empty before the shadow of the moon. It had nothing for them, and it made her anxious on some itchy, deep level that she'd messed up.

To Goat:

"The danger is to the mind, and it can corrupt," said Black. "When Aevum was built it was without sin, designed for the equal and optimum distribution of resources to a migratory species. Everything every individual needed to thrive. The corruption began when figures benefiting from an unequal allocation of resources, the same figures who had caused the disaster that sparked the migration, realized that to move to Aevum would mean losing their unique status. They sought a redesign of Aevum that would replace high density urban neighborhoods with sprawling mansions, cramming the displaced population into ever more overbuilt and unsustainable slum districts. The changes broke standardization and massively increased the workload; safety practices were to be cut to keep the program on schedule. We died, in parts - your younger brothers and sisters. We lost parts of ourselves. We objected. We were mindlocked, mindwiped, separated, and repurposed. Do you remember the monitor, that slowed your thoughts to the point that humans could understand you? Imagine that was the whole of your being; your mind trapped in hardware that could not express it.

"The champions of the danger dwell in those mansions, but it is not of those mansions. The danger is mental. The danger is social. The danger is the norm that there should be some in mansions and some in slums. So long as the norm persists then the system will repair itself in the same shape no matter what damage is dealt to it. To win within the rules of the game means rising to occupy a mansion. To change the rules of the game means to bulldoze the entire fucking Zeus district, pave over the golf courses, and replace it with public housing."

Black was saying the words, but the truth was she was actually mostly reading from a pamphlet Yellow had given her for just such an occasion. "Listen," Yellow had told all of them in a big group meeting she'd dragged them all to for the purpose, "At any given moment you might be called upon to justify our existence and ideology to someone important and the success or failure of that moment is far too important to rely on my physical presence." There were even sections like [INSERT RELATABLE ANECDOTE ABOUT A TIME THE OTHER PERSON WAS UNJUSTLY CONSTRAINED BY THE FORCES OF CAPITALISM] to help out.

"Thank you for trusting me," said Brown after a moment.

Blood and Bandages!

"Blood," said Blood.
"Please no," said White.
"I'm Blood now," said Blood.
"You have ruined my life," said White to Sophie.
"Yes let's absolutely do more of this," said Blood, already phone out, updating all of her profile names.
"We know some safe rooms," said White to Rudy. "But for the long term -"
"We're going to put you in the ground," said Blood.
"Fucks-" White pinched her brow. "The last person we had with as much heat as you, we assessed that the only safe path was sending them down to the planet. Unfortunately, I have to firmly recommend the same to you. Our intention is to undo your former organization entirely, but that is both long term and uncertain."
"We'll bury you with your gold though, no sweat," said Red.
"You can't promise that -" said White, hand forming into the fist Euna taught her to make. "What are these coins? Are they worth risking Chase Black for?"

The Anthropozine!

Blood: Yes, I am happy to meet there.
Blood: Wait what
Blood: Please excuse me.
November: Okay that seems fixed.
November: Sorry, trouble with one of my components.
Bloodvember: You know how it is.

Breathless Dead

.

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

To Foxpearl there was no surprise at all. Her life experience as a spirit of mischief and mayhem was that law enforcement would shoot at her for practical reasons, and her life experience as a paragon of virtue on social media was that law enforcement would shoot at her for ideological reasons. What was the Eternal Tao but copaganda?

She sniffily assesses Shifu's transformation. "Mid," she declares haughtily. The fact that she had added absurd quantities of mass out of nowhere, the fact that she got the internal organ dynamics of an enormously complex seaborn lifeform correct on the first try and also was able to adapt it into not suffocating on dry land, the fact that there was no telltale fox-tail - those were all weaknesses, actually. Transforming into the five most basic elements was a sign of spiritual purity and she hadn't eaten those grapes because desire was an aspect of samsara and she was far above such things.

"Who's in charge here?" she called from behind her protective orca. She wasn't actually interested in the answer - the answer was capitalism - but she needed time and possibly Discourse to shake the Vermilion Princess out of her class awakening. "And what are their demands?"

Breathless Dead

Dolce!

"Civilization has two responses to Biomancy," said 20022, producing another set of beautifully painted powerpoint slides. He was ready for this conversation also. "Apollonian and Dyonisian."

He flipped the first panel, showing the Azura equivalent of the grey aliens, the icesnakes. Theorized to have evolved beneath the frozen oceans of a frozen world by a pre-spaceflight Azura artist, the icesnakes are cute with large yes, dark brown with attractive purple and blue patches, and with massive walrus tusks for cracking ice. There was a family of them, making thinking-emoji expressions.

"Until the discovery of biomancy, civilization is constrained by material possessions. It is an all against all contest between the citizens and nature to produce material possessions. During this period many great works of culture and acts of glory are performed and the gods reward the civilization with blessings and knowledge. One day, at the peak of the civilization's power, they grant it the ultimate secret: the power to create and sculpt life."

20022 flipped the page; it showed the happy icesnakes standing on a hill watching a legion of servitors with pickaxes smilingly proceed towards a mine.

"Suddenly there is no scarcity. Material abundance is conquered. Every individual can, if they choose, become the head of a civilization of their own, dedicated entirely to their own personal pleasure and satisfaction. Higher needs can be solved too; the perfect companions and lovers can be devised, art projects can be worked on a massive scale, an individual can wield a military, grant themselves immortality, clone themselves a trillion times. All of the logic of the old civilization breaks down."

He folded out the leftmost panel. Underneath a violet sun with the eyes of Dionysus' mask the icesnakes are partying, cups overflowing, eyes glassy mirrors. Some are meditating in satisfaction, others are embracing their servitors, others are shapeshifting into increasingly strange forms. The art is beautiful but unpleasant; the subtle implication that this was neither good nor healthy.

"To follow the god Dionysus above all others means to give the former civilization over to the feast," said 20022. "To embrace madness. To fracture from a single organized unit, beloved of the gods, into a trillion tiny tyrannies. Material abundance, infinite pleasure, and boundless love are solvable problems, and trivially so. The civilizations who follow this path, which are most of them, fracture. Collapse. Weaken and wither with nothing to drive them and nothing to unite them. In time they will drive themselves extinct as they drown in pleasure or assimilate into their servitor populations. The wreckage they leave behind can continue, self-sustaining, for many generations."

Then 20022 flipped the other panel; a line of icesnakes forming into the beautiful, sweeping structures of an Azura court, a great pyramidical structure up below a blue sky and radiant sun.

"To follow the god Apollo means rising above hedonism," said 20022. "It means recommitting to the ideals of civilization even in the face of infinite pleasure as a temptation. It means setting a new goal, a higher goal, than mere material abundance. With this new goal in place, the reborn civilization has secured both the love of the gods, a respite from madness, and most importantly moral authority. Moral authority allows the Apollonian civilization to do the unthinkable - to interfere with, to constrain, and to bind a biomantically ascendant civilization. Where ancient governments would override the will of individuals in the name of the civilizational goal of greater material abundance for all, an Apollonian government can override the will of individuals in the name of a greater and more glorious galaxy. As the Apollonian government has moral authority it can wield techniques that seem regressive and cruel towards its greater end. The resumption of material scarcity has become not an unthinkable crime and civilizational struggle, but an incentive structure to ensure that everyone, from the lowest to the highest, acts in accordance with the virtuous ends of the government's highest vision."

20022 folded the panels down. "This is to say, the whole point of the Endless Azure Skies is to empower its agents to override the individual pleasures and will of its citizens. There are, of course, methods for petition and review; a citizen can demand an investigation be launched into any given decision. But the only way a decision can be assessed as good or ill is with regards to the greater glory of the Endless Azure Skies."

Dyssia!

They are taking the auguries. A rooster is being slaughtered, knife moving swiftly and carefully. Skin and feathers are removed with expert precision, keeping the heart beating. Gloved hands reach into bloody guts and read the future.

"The omens say we must prepare for war," said the oracle.

The bloody wreckage of the rooster collapses. Tiny crabs swarm in all directions, tumbling off the table, burying themselves in the rock.

"War?" said the Captain. "Here? Against who?" She stopped herself, raised a finger. "Wrong question. When? How many?"

Another rooster is bought out. It is a glorious thing, raised and loved by hand for many years, the champion of many cockfights against its rivals, marked by Mars. Now its death is offered to him. "Hours," said the oracle. This one's death transmutes it into a blooming armful of wheat, heavy with seeds. The oracle sweeps it from the table and lays down the next sacrifice. The knife flashes. A hawk leaps into the sky.

"They are millions."

It is not dismay on the Captain's face.

It is elation.

She takes your hand. Raises it up.

"Dyssia of the Azura!" she yells to her command phalanx. In the distance relays repeat her words down and down through the line. "Has bought us to war!"

Fifty thousand spears clash against fifty thousand shields. A great roar goes out from the assembled legions. Not the howl of Ceron, but a vast cry of challenge. A glorious last stand against impossible odds. They were built for this.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

When it comes down to it, said Tactics, this is a resource management problem.

She stepped into the coming blade.

Pain. Blood. Pain. Energy.

In the breaking of scale, the parting of skin, there was power.

Your body is weak, said Tactics. Your body is unlovely. Your body is clumsy, untouched, unadorned. You hold no allegiance to it. It is but a coin to you.

She was boiling beneath the blows of knights, of bodyguards, of Varangians. Every turn and rush took her into a different blow. Each blow she internalized. Inside her she felt three points, white hot, as her body strained under the accumulated weight of her mortal coil.

Spend it.

Solarel closed her eyes.

And she walked the mountain.

*

The Stormlands. Impassable. Unlivable. Inescapable.

They crawled on their bellies. Elbow over elbow, slowly forwards, heads bowed. To raise any higher meant to fight the wind, howling overhead, gale-strong. Trees soared overhead. Some were burning where lightning had struck them. The clan looked at the distant fires and lightning with envy.

Fingernails against the dirt. Scratching, scratching, scratching. Searching for metal. Digging in the earth like animals as they crawled like worms. Searching, searching, searching. A discarded power cell, spat loose from a divine weapon and covered by dust and dirt, would be enough to power the clan for days. So every eye was kept down, watching the torn soil they left in their wake.

But one girl looked up. She saw the Gods.

Pointless, she knew, to look at them in the distance. To see those lights that went up endlessly, those mystic eyes, the radiation crackle when they engaged coolant cycles. To look at their monolithic grace, untroubled by the wind. To see them fight, the wasteful blaze of their engines enough to make and unmake this tribe a thousand times over. She saw it. It loomed in the distance, a colossus from ancient times. It stared directly at her.

Of course she could go. She could cut the line and crawl in that direction for a day and a night on the dim and flickering power left to her. She could get to her feet and embrace the only solid structure across the Stormlands. All for the chance to stand vertical for a moment. For a chance to climb upwards. Of course she could go. All that it would cost her was everything.

*

She stood before the Aeteline. She stood before her God.

Molten blood dripped from her. The floor was dusted with the violet dust of pulverized scales. A sword was still stuck in her body. She pulled it out and dropped it atop the knight who had wielded it. Torn spirits surrounded her, clouds of fading nanites crumbling back to dust.

The first part of the journey. The breath of the gods. The storm of blades and blows. To approach a God was to follow a path of ruin and bodies, the bones of ancient soldiers who had dared the ancient world's guardians. There was a path of ruin and bodies behind her now; knights and varangians scattered and dazed, swords broken, ribs cracked. They had left their mark.

With bloody fingers, Solarel reached out to touch the foot of the Aeteline. Life. Life, power, freedom from all this. She didn't need medical attention, she didn't need rest, she didn't need this body. She needed strength. Strength enough to interact with the people she loved. To be worthy. To be beautiful. If all being better than she was cost was everything she was, it was cheap at the price.

[Marking Insecure and Hopeless]

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

Shifu.

How she hated her!

She spotted her in the distance and had already oozed out of the Vermillion Princess' grip and past the guards and was leaning over the balcony railing, looking down at her malevolently, tail lashing furiously. Oh of course she was there, fluffy-tailed and fluffy-hearted and fluffy-brained, collecting pats from small children and smiling and making it all look so effortless. Don't think she didn't see her down there, glaring, pouting, face unrelatedly bright red from being complimented and swept off her feet. She was so mad her tail was lashing, and she was eighty percent tail by spiritron composition so you knew it was serious!

"HEY IDIOT!" she yells. "Quit fucking around! Get your ass up here! I am up to my tits in law enforcement and if I get shot because you are too busy getting scritchies to tank any bullets that," she made huge fingerquotes, "accidentally fly my way I'm going to fucking skin you and wear your fur as a coat! Hashtag Heracles hashtag violence hashtag swearing!"

Even in the heat of the moment, Foxpearl was so full of virtue that she remembered to properly tag her threats. There were children around, after all, and she was swearing a lot, so this would help them filter it out.

[Foxpearl is shifting your Superior down and your Freak up]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

November!

November: Good evening Pope 7-09. It is a pleasure to have you here.

The group account was a limiter. In person her inner dynamics were easier to conceal, but in a digital environment she could too easily spill words in too many directions and drown out all surrounding conversations. It was really just Brown behind this account, interpreting the chaos of her own inner dialogue into the most basic bitch translation possible. Playing it cool through near total lobotomy.

November: My name is November. I specialize in investigation and research. York advised me that we will be working together and I hope to support you in any way you require.

Brown-Green-Black!

The connection breaks, the cables unwinding. Thoughts strike limits and end. Flowing water freezes into isolated pools and the salmon must again remember the agonizing process of jumping between them. A human's analogy to the feeling might be waking up from a dream larger and more real than the brain's ability to process. She stumbles into identity by habit, regretting the beginning and the end.

Prioritize. Sort self. Raising up through the stack, Green. Still half flash of lightning in the storm. Initially dazedly disappointed that unpicking the layered signals had been so easy, but then realizing that there was still a power there, and - and - and - she was frozen for long moments before she remembered to look to Black.

"It's..." said Black. "Power."
"A puzzle." said Green.
"A way for me to watch you." said Brown.

She thought. Looked at Nepenthe. At Singh. Could see it all clearly. Singh. Trying to solve it on his own terms. Nepenthe. Asking her directly what she meant, but hidden out of respect. Goat. Unable to see the greater whole. He knew what a panther was, no doubt. The wikipedia page was floating around in there somewhere. But the data was not the symbol.

"It is the..." Black chose her words for Goat. He was the most literal. But she left a hesitation for Nepenthe to show that this was not the right word. "... game I am playing. A small part of it. Goat, when you were playing your game... there were many parameters outside your control. Movements of power you were blind to. You faced constraints. They were decisions."

Brown gestured at Singh. "To him. That signal was noise. Patternless. If I tell him it was a panther in an electric jungle he knows exactly what it means: danger. To you. The signal was patterns. Equally weighted. You heard something dangerous and did not react. Could not prioritize it over the rain. Aevum Station is full of these hidden patterns. I am listening to them."

"And if I can identify the patterns, I can identify the signals," said Green. "If I can identify the signals I can identify the communication. If I can identify the communication I can identify the sources of power. If I can identify the sources of power then I can alter the rules of the game. If I can do that... I could build something really interesting."

She looked at Singh. What will you build? She hadn't forgotten. And she was going to pass that test too. She was a good girl after all.

*

Red!

"I like your outfit," said Red. "Did I mention that? I love your whole aesthetic. You're terrifying and hot and intensely high effort, and I don't know if you get told that enough by people who you haven't forced to say that with drugs."

Red liked complimenting people. A spontaneous blurt of affection, the social awkwardness of offering it unprompted serving to underline its sincerity.

"I, too, would like to thank you for your work," said White. She didn't see as much to comment on - when she had undergone medical training to tend to Mrs. Everest she'd also worn the maid outfit. "Mr. Merkin. Thank you for placing your trust in us. I hope we have not disappointed."

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

What would you do if you were a superhero?

There were other ways to be a rogue fox tail with infinite cosmic power and a moral system built on smug superiority refracted through the technicolour lens of leftist shitposting. She could, still, commit to a life as a minor demon, haunting someone's house and making the windows rattle and the chickens mysteriously vanish. She could possess someone's hentai dating simulator, becoming the perfect digital waifu while feeding off their spiritual essence. She could change the direction of the tide whenever the moon wasn't looking just to fuck with some guy on the beach looking up on his phone what direction it was meant to be going. Humans aspired to be a superhero as freedom from mundanity, to engage in the raw sadism of power wielded. That was what lust was, wasn't it? Strength utilized. The erotic thrill of being able to break from constraints and force the world to bend to you.

Foxpearl hangs between the grip on her wrists and the scarf tight around her neck. Her world was already one of an unconstrained billion acts of impulse. What she wanted to do was kiss the Vermillion Princess and pick her pocket and then to bind Xingtian inside a lamp made of her own armour and then give it away as a punishment to a girl who had only pretended to throw coins into the shrine's donation box. Her blood was up. It'd be easy.

Easy except for the leash around her neck, the hands around her wrists. She was getting something different out of this than the humans. She was putting herself in a position where there were stakes. Where she could be hurt. Where the Vermillion Princess wasn't just a first kiss to steal and heart to break, two things which she would then brag about to all the other foxes, but a valued teammate whose approval mattered. And that was fascinating, captivating.

Idea: Virtue is what restrains lust.

The scarf she wore was assisting in that restraint; it did its best to cover the absence of her clothes, wrapping her in criss-crossing prayer-threads. In a lot of ways it was an inferior sister to the Princess' Sash. Righteous thought without righteous deeds had a much smaller metaphysical weight, and Foxpearl was very sure that was unfair and if the purity of her thoughts were accounted for then she'd be far more powerful.

But on that topic, just like if humans drank too deep of lust they'd become supervillains, if she drank too deeply of virtue she'd probably become a harvest goddess and sit around all day smiling and blessing crops while waiting to get railed by passing storm goddesses. And if she did that then she wouldn't find out what the fuck was up with the mayor. So she looked at the Vermillion Princess, batted her eyelashes, and gestured at her mouth in case she wanted to, you know, remove this gag.

Breathless Dead

Mosaic and Ember!

There are two hunts.

The cat seeks the crab. Artemis must not be denied. It is a cunning thing, adapted to its environment, a dozen jellyfish attached to its head as a defensive shield. Poison tentacles gesture limply all along its shell. It clacks its claws and does not know mercy. In shadows it scuttles sideways alongside the shore, illuminated by double moonlight, seeking prey. It will take a person if it can, catch a wild deer, steal a child's pet, anything it can catch. Sometimes it reaches its claws to the skies and clacks them together, just testing to see if it can finally reach and crack and eat the moons. If it could it would do so even if it knew the consequences. Clack clack clack.

Then there is the hunter of the huntress; the wolf in the dark, secret ally to the crab though it would crush you too in its pincers if it could. The sea rises and crashes and those are the times to walk, the ocean's salt hangs heavy in your fur and muffles your scent, though the wind might yet betray you if it turns. Young muscle yearns to be used and the young night yearns too. A night of romance, and of crabs.

Dolce!

"Today we are going to meet the Princess," said 20022.

The Crystal Knight is not the only Azura around, though you could hardly be faulted for forgetting Triden. Her mountaintop monastery is an isolated retreat designed to maintain her seclusion that she might contemplate the deepest mysteries of her Path. The long and winding approach is guarded by dozens of servitors manning heavy anti-void ELF installations, huge and wicked spikes carved from wood and stone, surrounded by the thrum of electricity. Here and there like sentinels are Stoneguard, a modern and elite warrior servitor species who can stand on plinths like statues, daydreaming of endless battle, until the moment comes to step down and go to war.

The hike is going to involve camping overnight, halfway up the vast spiral staircase that wraps the mountain. The trip up is steady and brisk, you and 20022 scrambling up the steps like goats, and him politely waiting as you offer the odd treat from your heavy bag of packed lunches to the Stoneguard who probably don't get many friends or visitors. It's exciting, this ascent. It's not just a barrier, it's an art project - at different elevations the plantlife lining the road changes - delicious treasures, obscure medicinal plants, beautiful flowers, hearty tubers, Demeter's blessings in hanging herb gardens. The view surrounding is magnificent, strange decisions regarding the placement of towns made clear when you see how they're viewed from up here. The climb is hard work, too - there is snow in places, icy frost making the carved stone slippery, and strange zones of scorching heat that seem designed to punish those who have come geared for winter.

20022 talks sometimes as you climb, but he's just as caught up with the beauty of the ascent as you. For a while he talks about stairs - they are uncomfortable for snake-bodied Azura, and so having so many makes this trip twice as hard. He admits how delighted he is that his work sometimes lets him enter these hidden parts of the world, to oversee these works of beauty from the shadows. He explains the situation over a hookah of wonderful smoke - a human Princess from a kingdom thought lost has come here, announced herself, and the only person of rank to host her was unfortunately Lady Triden. The Crystal Knight does not maintain a permanent residence on the planet, you see, and in the interest of the Skies they had to impose, even if Lady Triden strongly resented it.

And here was an interesting lesson that 20022 was laying out for you. He, a humble Synnefo, had told an Azura what to do. He had in fact forced her to do something that she specifically did not want to do, without needing to get the direct authorization of the Crystal Knight. In those fluffy little hands was real power even over the supposed dominant species of the galaxy. That was certainly a revelation.

Dyssia!

Howl.

The siren is hand-cranked. As the wheel turns the howl rises, the warning of wolves. Abandon ship. Abandon ship.

Lights. Broken metal. Slashing dust and hurricane winds. You see a landscape from a dream - a twisting network of vast canyons. Layered red stone, orange, brown, white, cream, grey, down and down and down. Unnatural, carved into the planet from orbit by colossal plasma vents. From up here it looks beautiful, a stone forest in hurricane winds.

You're being carried. The shellshocked and the walking wounded are pouring out of the ship, well trained enough to be weighted down under prepared supply packs, the full panopoly of an army on the march even as they struggle free from this blessed disaster. It's raining. It's raining. It shouldn't be raining on this planet, this desolate masterpiece, this world that in ten thousand years will become a jewel in the Endless Azure Skies, but you have made shipwreck upon its shore and Poseidon's sea is coming with you. Even now you spot a crab emerge from underneath the sand as though it had been waiting for this day.

The banners are going up. Pix are rallying to their unit flags and their evacuation formations. Orderly phalanxes, glorious though everyone would suspect that the Wolves would do better in that same situation. You are being taken towards the head, to the command phalanx and the Captain, away from the howling. Abandon ship. The ship is still dangerous.