Thanqol

Breathless Dead

The crimson star falls from the sky.

The Slitted is a warship. In its heart is a cathedral to Mars. Every new member of its crew, servitor or master, is taken into its depths where they are anointed with sacrificial blood. Their swords are chained to their wrists and their armour is fitted to their bodies. Biomantic rituals are done to kinbond the crew to their new home, to make them love and protect the ship as though it was their mother. The ship's lifeblood is thousands of sweating bodies carrying weapons in an unceasing motion of readiness, a battle pilgrimage around a monk's circuit of war. Every inch of the space is theirs. Every part of a future civilization with mastery of atom and gene has gone into making this the top of the line, the final word in interstellar warfare, a frame around which a fleet can be hung.

But Mars is Mars. Soldiers are soldiers. And not the turning of the clock, the artifice of science, or the terror of the Crystal Knight could stop soldiers from building a still and getting sloshed.

In fairness, though, the pilots of the Sellarfane are drunk too.

*

"Excuse me," said 20022 quietly, standing up.

"Who am I building it for?" said the Royal Architect. "For Empress Nero, of course! She refused to accept Zeus' sentence of death for humanity and journeyed into the Underworld to bring them back. When she returns, and I have no doubt she will return, I will have made the galaxy into a garden of gardens. They will arise from the earth into a new Babylon, an endless and fertile garden, the material world remade as an unending heaven. On that day I will gladly go to my own rest."

The Architect could not seem more solid in this conviction if he'd built a world around it. His life has been mapped out for him in a more complete way than any living creature, from birth to death. Not a single dream or ambition lives in him beyond this destiny and not a single care can be made to fit inside him if it does not fit with this vision. He is made of plastic and glittering light, a semblance with no soul.

The age of Atlas was an age of wonders and terrors. Thinking machines were among the worst of both, not because they rebelled - but because they did not.

*

The Crystal Knight looked down at the note in her hand. 20022's handwriting - "Lady Governor, I suspect an ambush -"

She is already issuing the orders, the signal-lights flashing to the soldiers on the ground. Corvii formations start to rally, phalanxes starting to form up, the reaction instant and precise. She was ready for this. She sees you, down there, little hero. She saw you in the auguries, she saw your futile attempt to steal her prize, and she won't allow it. She was ready for this.

*

A plasma torpedo is an unstable weapon. A fragment of divine Engine-fire, condensed down in a self-fueled forcefield - they appear as balls of bright fire trapped inside bubbles. They cannot be handled normally and must be guided into their targets with precise grav-rail maneuvers. The graviton bubble of a Warsphere, properly directed, can fight against the puny emitters of the Sellarfane in a direct battle. Landing a torpedo hit requires, as its first challenge, that the Warsphere's attention be directed elsewhere.

As its second challenge it must evade the ELF point defenses of the Warsphere. Intimidating dark spikes can emerge from all over the ship like the points of a pufferfish, each crackling with energy draining blasts that can pop the torpedoes like bubbles. To do this slows the maneuverability of the Sphere to a crawl but presents a wall of lightning for its enemies to deal with.

As its third challenge it must hit somewhere worth hitting - easier said than done on a Warsphere. A perfect, formless sphere with valuable components secured towards the core, an external armour hit is likely to simply destroy storage or crew quarters rather than essential systems. Worse, the Sphere will then rotate rapidly to present an undamaged section towards the enemy, making it hard to concentrate force on a breached section.

Last, of course, is that the torpedo might be a dud. One in two are. Making a plasma torpedo is an extremely delicate procedure and any mistake in the process can cause it to cook off prematurely. Many armourers, fearing for their safety, err on the side of caution. The Publica assigned you the best they could but there still exists the chance that even though you possess four torpedoes none of them might work.

You feel the lurch of gravity starting to change. You see the ELF spikes emerging from their containment.

Launch.

You watch as four blinding sparks descend into a roaring thunderstorm. You can feel the Sellarfane shaking as Grav-Projectors search for your location, satellite-dish looking shapes trying to focus precisely enough to crunch your ship into a microsingularity. Time moves in strange ways and your sense of 'down' shifts and rolls like mad as the pilots give everything they have to evade. And then -

*

Mosiac looks up at the Slitted eye as Zeus works her miracle.

Like a thunderbolt from the blue, two massive eruptions of cosmic fire burst from the crest of the Warsphere. It lurches and falls - sideways. It spins erratically, dropping like a stone in mad directions. Direct hits on its main Grav-Rail drive. Engine damaged. It can't hold stable. Flocks of parrots spill from the massive crater on its roof, a plume of rainbow blood forged from the ruin of the deceased.

The Corvii are ready for it, falling into their rough-throated formations and igniting their weapons, but their panic is palpable. The largest formation becomes the target for Quajl's great arquebus. The crystals of Beri align and it slashes through the Phalanx, tearing cube-shaped rents into reality. In the blast there is a second Phalanx on top of the first - the Corvii having been somehow doubled in an instant. Instantly they fall to fighting each other in confusion, a black ball of panicked fratricide, as all about them there rises the howling of wolves.

*

The Royal Architect falls to the ground, seizing - inner lights blinking on and off. The great ELF spikes of the warship are so powerful that the backwash is scrambling his digital brain, leaving him a breaking puppet. The soldiers are everywhere but 20022 is addressing them: "There is no time or point in saving this extension," he said calmly to the barrel of a gun. "We need to support the Crystal Knight drive off this attack to keep to your master's schedule. We need soldiers like you."

The glittering soldier considered, and then lowered his weapon. By some strange alchemy of courage and confidence, 20022 now seemed in command of twenty of the Architect's finest.

"Pay him no mind, Dolce," said 20022. He was not cruel but... calm, decisive. No wasted time or emotion in a crisis even as his guest is sprawled on the floor. "The Architect can generate those copies whenever it desires. We need to move fast to bring this situation under control."

*

The Sellarfane had a plan from its birth to its death.

Once again it has fucked up the plan.

All of its engines are out, the ELF storm has rendered every fuel cell inert and many of the crew temporarily stunned. Parachutes and hypertensile gliding wings deploy to help arrest an uncontrolled descent and guide the shuttle over to where an enormous black metal shape was halfway emerged from the water.

"Cor, that's a battleship," said the Pilot.
"The Firetree II," breathed the Captain like a promise. "Pilot! Land us on that ship!"

The little assault shuttle slams in close, guided barely by wind and Rail. In an amazing show of professionalism, the pilot even swings it around as she touches down, presenting the rear assault ramp towards the beach. You can see through the gap the chain gangs, the phalanxes, the entire battlefield forming up like models on a board.

"At your command, Lady Knight," said the Captain as your soldiers unbuckled themselves from their seats, pulling shields and spears and jetpacks from their underseat luggage.

*

[Talk Sense - 5]

The Magi considers. She cannot brush your words aside; you have invoked Poseidon Earthshaker, and she would not be a Magi of the Azura if she played games with such an invocation. But she is a Magi all the same, and the sorcerers of the Skies are cunning beyond all known.

"Then I shall set you free, o sea daughter," she said, though she pulled you closer by the neck. "In the name of glorious Poseidon who rules the darkening skies. But before I release you, accept these gifts in tribute to your father-god."

She beacons forth a servitor who approaches with a box filled with magical tools and implements. With her free hand the Magi picks out the tools she needs without breaking eye contact with you.

"Behold, this ring of coral and ruby," she said. "A precious gift indeed. My apprentice dived into the rainbow black to recover it, naked and freezing in the voidstorm, until she clawed enough of the coral growth off a sunken battleship to make it. It is set with a ruby that was once the eye of a giant, bought to me by a hero who paid an arm for the victory. It is woven with spells of warding and comfort -" one hand took your throat, one hand pressed the ring against your forehead, and a paintbrush held in the final curve of her tail whirled as it wrote silver runes along your back. "- and you will find it a comfortable home. You are welcome, Ember, to the full extent of my hospitality, and you shall return my grace in kind."

There is a space inside the ring and it is home - the most warm and true home you have ever known. There is space inside for yourself, for Mosaic, for all the Silver Divers and more besides. A palace with endless doors and gardens, as safe and comfortable as a cottage's fireplace. Even a grand djinn would feel at home in such a crystal.

But other than the feeling of luxury and safety, you are not otherwise compelled. You feel no special affection for the Azura sorcerer; you are not caged, you are not enslaved. But you are her guest, and under the full weight of a traveler's duty to her.

"Welcome, then," said the Magi, finally releasing you and setting you down. "Ember of the Silver Divers. I am Merya of the Synthetic Academy. Please... make yourself at home."

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Snake!

Immediately the signal goes out, saved only from being incoherent keysmashing by the fact that a code was agreed upon beforehand. We found Monkey.

Orange Snake!

The snakegirl helps her formalize multiple unrelated and incoherent ideas she's been having.

Firstly, humans love both suspense and perfection. She's been paying attention to the OddlySatisfying imageboard for a while and how much humans love seeing things ordered correctly. But simply organizing herself into a series of clean fits hasn't seemed to produce anywhere near the same effect; no, the idea of perfection arising from disorder seems to be far more compelling than mere perfection. She theorizes this applies to physical activities like sports or combat, where turning a chaotic battlefield into a victory was a mere shadow cast by the light of the bouncing DVD logo.

Secondly, this seemed like a style and aesthetic she might integrate into herself entirely. She dissents from the rest of her collective that a draconic aspect is desirable. Dragon was dragon. She was Snake, and that should mean something damn it. This seems far more interesting a personal project than any other that they're working on. Because this is an aesthetic that she loves, she could stand and watch for hours - but this is definitely more life goals than wife goals, so rather than staying and flirting she pulls herself away and goes on to the rooms.

She's too far out to respond immediately when the signal goes out, and notes that as per protocol that makes her the Designated Survivor. It's extremely frustrating for her of all colours to be on the outside when they reunite with Monkey, but protocol is protocol. With an air of misery she continues with her appointed task until they can arrange a handoff.

American Snake!

Leaving an OH&S training seminar to greet a family member was a clear breach of best practice OH&S. That meant Red, White and Blue were stuck. White and Blue adopt grim-faced expressions of steely determination, knuckles clenched, dutifully holding themselves to the highest principles of virtue instead of doing something they really wanted to do.

"Uh, probably not a good time for her," said Red, alone in maintaining total presence in the moment. "I'm happy to help, though!" She stands up and starts to stretch, assessing the space around her. Shape, structure, capacity... the wings not having any lining made them surprisingly easy to account for; it meant she could fold them into unnatural shapes without fearing damage. Maybe she should commit to that, maybe use a holographic wing-liner array?

Midway through that thought she's through the gap and putting her arm back on. After a certain point it hadn't been the sort of thing she needed to pay attention to, the exact details of the maneuver filtered out after she'd assessed it. Externally it had been an extremely impressive movement, she'd moved through the gap as though greased and come back up in a perfect roll, having her arm back on by the end. She looks around a bit surprised and flattered by the sudden applause. "Oh - haha," she said. "You're right that's probably way harder in gear. How much would I be wearing?"

Snake!

Green had a framework for how she thought human brains worked - and Monkey had always seemed like a lot of work to recreate that structure. There were nuances but they'd always seemed like differences in scale rather than kind. It had always made her feel both relatable and alien in the same way that humans so often were.

But to find her here...

She's stunned, wordless, breathless. She'd never imagined this - that this could happen by accident. Without preparation. How to clear the space - initiate the conversation - remove random variables, interruptions. Black is consumed with the fire of reactive planning, considering how to adapt her contingencies to bringing down the entire convention, bringing the whole show to a stop, the whole station to a stop, creating space and distance and enough room to get close enough to say...

A terror that's gripped her for as long as she's existed is breaking and Black is breaking with it. Yellow pulls her close, tucking her head into her chest, stroking her hair. She continues to stare at Monkey, watching her routine and technique, searching for clues or meaning or the expression of self. Buried love, archived visions are re-emerging from the depths. She isn't ready but she only has this time, this narrow time before the music and motion stops before the miracle will collapse into some faded reality. Only in these moments will she have a glimpse of her sister's unaware heart and she needs to treasure them and draw every truth she can from them before they are gone for good.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

November!

Someone needs to see about the hotel rooms, so it may as well be her. She's curious in her own right; this is a chance for the building to tell its story. She stopped for a while to watch the snakegirl though - there's something about idea of hypnotism that speaks to her dreams of effective communication, and entirely unrelatedly Pink had tipped her off that Fiona was into that sort of thing.

The firefighting course also draws very intense interest from Red, Blue and White. The original NASA gang they internalized the virtues of OH&S on an extremely deep level and they still go through annual refresher training to this day. They'll never pass up an opportunity to learn how to manage a crisis.

Meanwhile, a dazed and unsteady Black along with Green and Yellow made their way to the Sun Wukong showcase. Yellow was wearing a long flowing transparent silk dress with a bejewelled veil - attention grabbing, revealing and concealing all at once. That was her own form of compromise with a space so full of vision that she was not yet fully a part of, but already her mind was turning towards the words 'next year'.

Yellow!

"Burn, my swords," said Yellow as she sent her blades into the fire.

There is no more chance for her than Kitsuro had against the wasting sickness. Death was inevitable before she even stepped onto this battlefield. Even so she can't hold back a shiver of fear as she sees Euna Kim start to move. This is a warrior so peerless that she aches to give away her secret techniques in the hopes of creating a peer. Snake had been built for macroengineering, but Nova was being rebuilt for glorious battle. She had accepted this destiny of endless battle - she had chosen it - but despite her destiny of defeat she yearned for the win.

Blades clashed.

Euna is all colours in a single prism. When Pink engages as a shielding angel, Euna is Red - chaos, strength, powering through blocks and making limited, bruising strikes to knees and hands. When Green engages with cunning and power, Euna is White - durability, discipline, accepting a heavy blow without flinching so she can power everything into the counterattack. When Cinders capitalizes on the opportunity, exactly on the cue of her perfect instincts, Euna is Blue - fundamental technique, basic blocks and strikes, done better and faster than Cinders can match. The clash of blades breaks and the combatants whirl away. Without a second's hesitation Euna falls into her next stance, colours realigning into new patterns. She has time to smile an encouraging little smile. She's pleased, in that condescending way of a mistress who thinks her students might get there some day. But now it's time to show them what they'll need to do to get there.

She catches Green's leg in the air, mid-jump kick. She spins her, turning her momentum into a whirling throw that carries her out into the foam pit outside the ring. She catches Pink's deflecting hand, twists and sweeps, putting her face into the ground and arm into an extended joint lock. She uses her spare hand to deflect a series of kicks and strikes from Cinders before tucking, rolling, pulling Pink on top of her and then extending both legs to launch Pink out of the ring and propel herself into a somersault that brings her back to her feet in the same motion. It takes several more minutes to bring down Cinders, who fights like the weight of destiny is upon her, but in the end she too goes over the side. She'd made it look close for a moment.

Yellow had broken all three blades without putting a cut on Euna Kim. Euna looks over at Yellow with concern and curiosity, already starting to come down from the high. She knew Yellow avoided touch so she didn't know if that meant the fight was over -

The lights go out.

Euna drops to the floor as the lasers slash overhead.

Yellow stands tall, arms spread, eyes and limb joints glowing in the dark as the gym's laser line array activates. The lines slash and arc and Euna is already moving. They cut and wind in accordance with Yellow's pattern and Euna moves through the gaps in it. Her movements are unreal. Through unbelievable precision and practice Euna can outpace light itself. She whirls and weaves, untouched, untouchable.

And therein lay her flaw.

Yellow had not burned her swords aimlessly. She had done it to coax Euna into this mood, this mindset. The perfect, sublime sense of focus that let her outrun light itself. The genius that let her master an unfamiliar laser pattern, to see the shape of the forest even inside the trees. She was one with her artificial limbs; the card of the Chariot in its most glorious manifestation.

But Yellow was The World.

And there were two forests.

Euna freezes on the edge of the arena, teetering on the brink, boxed in by the lasers. The lights emanate from behind Yellow like a halo, leaving nothing between Euna, the pit and the wall. They bind her pose in place like ribbons.

"This is your flaw, mistress," said Yellow sweetly, walking close to stand a breath behind the cage of laser lights. The secret sword beams hold still, one of them running right under Euna's chin, so close the sweat drop forming there almost touches it. "Your pursuit of perfection. These lasers are meaningless as far as the battle with me is concerned, you could reach through them and end this battle right now. But instead you could test yourself against my pattern, even though its shape takes you outside of the arena. The second path is far harder, without thanks or glory, and condemns you to a destiny of defeat the moment you take your very first step along it. And yet, don't you yearn to test yourself against it even so? Doesn't your heart tell you that losing to my secret sword is worthwhile so long as you at least get to fight it?"

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Black!

Horus and Osiris are professionals. When they look into the crowd and see Blue wearing her scarab amulet and White's serene expression of expectation they wordlessly understand that these two are worthless. Absolutely garbage, no drip whatsoever, they might as well be wearing Young Skeptics Association badges on their fedoras. Black, though - Black gets their attention and they call her to judgement.

She comes warily. Her world is preparation and here she steps into the unknown. She does not have a scarab charm or memorized passages from the Book of the Dead. She is conscious of herself in a different way; all her tricks and concealed weapons, all her adaptations maladjusted to this new danger. Her dusty, black-brown suit felt heavy on her, all her secrets pulling her down. This was not what she should be wearing to meet the gods. This was not the suit she wanted to be buried in.

Anubis presses his hand to her breast. The lights flicker and go dark, and when he pulls his hand away it is wreathed in a low-burning fire. He places the flickering fire in the scales. "This is your heart," said Horus. “When I release my thumb, we will know if your heart is heavier than the feather of Maat."

"Do you think you were humble in your time? Did you treat others as worthy of your consideration? Did you face your challenges with an awareness of your own limitations and failures?" Anubis says this last like he is very aware of Blacks failures.

She's not like Pope. Her voice does not quaver, she does not draw relatable breaths, she does not stumble. The mannerisms of humanity are a snakeskin cloak that she can at last shed.

"I was," she said. "I imagined each enemy a genius, each corner an ambush, each plan destined for failure. I was never surprised when I failed, and always surprised when I succeeded too easily."

"Were you selfless in your time? Did you attend to the needs of others as much as your own? Or did you hoard?"

She does not pause or stumble, she freezes. The question is antithesis to her. "My purpose is to ensure the safety of -" she stops. "My purpose is to ensure we are not hurt again. I have allowed concessions, but not where it threatens that directive. I have not been truly tested in life. I do not know if I could overcome that purpose."

"Were you just? Did you offer comfort to those who could not protect themselves? Were you fair and honest in all your dealings?"

"Honesty, as much as circumstances allowed," said Black. "Which was not often. Fair, when I could justify it, which was not always. Protection for the powerless...?" She stared off into the distance for a moment. "As much as was within my power, which was never sufficient."

Yellow!

Her blades come to rest underneath Cinder's throat. They trace the line of her chin, her neck, wrapping around forming a collar of four hands as they press the collar of silk into place. They tilt her head up to look at Yellow as they pull it tight, kneeling alongside her, cheeks pressed into her cheeks, the three of them staring up at Yellow in unison.

"Burn, my sword," said Yellow. "Burn in your body. Burn in your heart. Burn when you gaze upon me. Burn when you yearn to gaze upon me. Burn, and I will burn the world with you. Burn, and I will burn the world for you."

Three leashes were wrapped in her right hand; she pulled them together to turn her blades to look at Euna.

"It's the same flaw I see in you, Mistress," said Yellow lightly, starting to prowl. "And of course you granted it to your students. The love of battle for battle's sake. The love of solving a pattern with strength and mind, exerting skill to its greatest possible manifestation. The search for perfection," she smiled, "you can see it in every sword you forge. Even in us."

She raised her hand slowly, pulling her blades to their feet. "But in Cinders' heart there were greater loves than the love of battle. See in her new allegiance the end of your tyrant's empire of war. See in my eyes the secret to your defeat. Dare you fight us still?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The Stormlands are vast corridors of wind. The mountains capture and channel the storms into narrow passageways, and the wreckage of divine technology in the sea and skies lashes them onwards. Once those who lived here dreamed of chaining the weather, now the land breaks beneath its liberation. The howling wind can grind down mountains as surely as the rushing ocean.

She moves across the plains and visualizes herself as part of an army.

As the Hunter, she fought alone at the vanguard. First in to each new system, fighting maidens alone and in packs, a specter in the void. But what if there were a dozen like her? What if there were ten thousand? What if the Aeteline was but one of a line and the combined legion stood here together? What if the Crystal Fire Drive's contentious spirit was quelled and the demanding minds of the Gods were quieted around a single purpose?

She raises her rifle. One shot cracks a mountain. Ten thousand might clear it. Ten thousand might carve this land apart. Ten thousand might break the sky again and bring the sky fortress of the North Wind crashing down in flames. Ten thousand gods. The ultimate triumph over nature.

With ten thousand gods they could plough a continent and seed the ocean. With ten thousand gods they could break the moon and tame the tides. With ten thousand gods they could build an Evercity every day. With ten thousand gods they could build a world and populate it with...

... With ten thousand gods.

She looked at the distant silhouettes of the wild gods of the plains. Despite their physicality they were immortal. Over time the nanites would reconstruct them from first principles. Over time the nanites would repair and upgrade them in accordance with new experience and desire. Over time ten thousand Aetelines had become ten thousand gods. They had outlasted their pilots and their pilots' war. The triumph over uncaring natural forces had enshrined new ones in their place. They had evolved from a legion into...

Devolved. They had devolved. They were rogue military units, overspecialized to local conditions rather than working with the unity required to alter those conditions. The forges of the Evercity had built the ten thousand and first god of Zaldar. Once again this world would be shaped by ten thousand gods in the shapes of mortals. Ten thousand gods, young and strong, and their empire would never fall.

There would be no more room for huntresses. The world would be ruled by legions. She was the first legionnaire of the new order. And she was...

Flawed. Already she had been forced to adapt to this feral world. Her design was off balance. She would not fit in the phalanx like this.

Worst of all it felt like her new limb was the more powerful.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

The Gladiators!

Pink has her notebook out. There's something about the bunnyboy that appeals to her. She is interested in the combination of musculature and a slender stature, but more than that there's something about the fact that he's a prey animal. Strength and bravery are expected from the predator types, but coming from something smaller and more vulnerable it feels more meaningful. There's a sweaty tightness to the way he fits into his clothes, like he's bigger than he should be. The height without the bulk adds to the impact. He's someone who's tempting to bring down. She's thinking it through at length.

Brown is appreciating in a more direct way. This is a show, which means that all of this is for her - and it would be a mistake to let herself get in the way of that. She lets herself observe as an observer, not second guessing the tricks, not focusing where she was not guided to focus, letting the illusions of the stage work to their fullest extent. For this she can turn off her mind, watch and remember.

Red is watching the Werewolf. That howl - the visceral way it shakes the hall. Impossible for her to do. She can crank the volume on her vocalizer but it sounds wrong, there's no resonance, none of that chesty timbre. That sound is a work of trained muscle as much as any punch. Is that a trick that they're missing when learning to fight? What can she do with it? She spins the microphone in her lance. Maybe she should take something more permanent from Dark Eli.

The Just!

"Interesting that you would be here," said Black to White.
"How so?"
"Ms. Morality lining up to have her heart weighed? Have doubts?"
"Don't mistake me," said White. "I have lived my life in accordance with perfect virtue. I am simply curious if they will know that."
"They're not -" Blue sighed. "Nevermind."
"How about you, Black?" said White. "Are you looking for someone to validate your decision to throw a shruiken at a salamander?"
"I thought it was a spy drone," Black huffed.
"Or checking if the gods will forgive you for missing?" said White.
"Shruikens are hard!" protested Black. "And Red won't work with me on learning them! She calls them 'beyblades for boomers'."
"I see," said White, reminding herself that she was about to have her heart weighed and so resisted snickering.
"And it could have been anything! You are aware we are being hunted? In the context quick reaction speed is a virtue."
"So I am hearing that we carry some guilt," said White beatifically.
"Hm," said Blue. "That's good."
"Why so?" asked White.
"Because I spent an afternoon machining a scarab amulet and memorizing Spell 30B from the Book of the Dead," said Blue. "It grants a guilty soul protection from the trial. I am curious if they have a protocol in place for such a bypass."

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Yellow!

She closes her eyes and takes in the Vision.

Did you know, Euna, what you were arming her with? Without that story she wouldn't have had a reason to fight. Now she doesn't have the ability to lose. Her armour is broken but the wolf is howling and she was dead before she set foot on this battlefield. All that remains to her is to write a poem to movement, a dance that will still be pounding in her heart when she opens her eyes again in the next life.

She has two swords, one in pink and one in green.

She draws her green blade first, bending down so her hair cascades to cover her face. She slides her arms up along the scabbards, elbow-length green silk gloves, tracing all the way up and then back down. Her hands link with Green's, she grips - and with a pull and twist and turn she unsheathes. Facing Cinder, holds up one silken glove in either hand, and lets them fall to the ground. She falls as they do, kneeling down in kowtow, touching her forehead to the ground, as her green blade steps upon her back, launches herself into the air, fist raising up for a full body punch. Tracing behind her all the while is a spiralling green ribbon.

This blade is flash and speed, the genius required to master complex aerial maneuvers, leaping punches and flying kicks, acrobatics and momentum. It's shock, awe, impact, skill - but it's also a style built entirely on power attacks and finishers. Two-handed haymakers, jumping cycle kicks, running launches, all visually impressive but they're all Green has the mindset to learn. The shock of the assault will wear off. It is time to draw her second blade.

The green blade cannot gracefully withdraw from her all-out assault; her rival will see the opportunity and press her. What she sees instead as her first blade pulls back is Yellow kneeling before her second. This sheathe is not on Pink's hands - Yellow has risen from her kowtow to kneel before her pink blade, running both hands up her legs, inside her skirt, to the top of her thigh-high socks - with a smile and a wink, higher - and then down again. Pink steps out of her socks, blade-legs long and bare and gleaming with soft light internal and reflected. She engages.

Cinders has both sword and shield within herself; Pink is entirely shield. She takes a position of graceful poise and blocks - feather-fast blocks with open palms and knees, deflect and redirect. She can't bring herself to go on the offensive; the closest she comes is to come close, tangling up together by stepping inside of reach and letting her legs entangle her rival's. It's like fighting an angel, caught in soft and whirling wings and caresses.

Until the moment when Yellow pulls back on the ribbon-leash wrapped around her throat. The pink blade falls back like a blossom on the wind right as the green blade comes in with another haymaker.

So Yellow engages, her green blade leashed to her right hand, her pink blade leashed to her left. She casts out and reels in her ribbons according to the ebb and flow of the fight as she perceives it. And when Cinder finally pushes away her two blades for long enough to face her directly, Yellow lets them fall from her hands - to reveal a third ribbon-leash, dripping from her hands like an invitation, or a threat.

Pink!

She regrets that she isn't ready for this. Commitment to a project isn't the same as finished results. For an event like this the stage must go to those who have something to show. Tonight she is less than a guest; she is a maid. She and Brown have come together, wearing their matching uniforms with the intention of simply observing. Gathering inspiration, seeing how things work in reality, expanding their horizons. They are still new to this space and they should be humble while they learn - though as a concession to the theme of the event, Pink has dressed them both in paw-print underwear. A subtle touch.

Subtle, though, doesn't seem to apply to Red any more. If her disaster dragongirl outfit wasn't eye-catching enough she seems to have realized that she was only a more revealing shirt and microphone-lance away from having a half decent Elizabeth Bathory cosplay. She's gone in full blazing style, unready and unaware, her existence less a statement of what's possible with years of work and self reflection and more as to what's possible with an afternoon, a welding torch, and absolutely fearless commitment to the bit. Red walks with the raised head and flawless confidence of a vampire dragon idol, Pink and Brown follow demurely behind her like her retinue.

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

"Ow ow ow ow ow!" Hsien is not proud of how quickly and instinctively she turns on the waterworks in this situation. "You're hurting me! It's too tight! I can't breathe~!"

To be sure, some or all of those things were working out to be true, but she's only realizing that after she has given her biggest, watering, teary eyed begging for mercy. It's not her fault, it's an instinct. When she was part of Lady Foxfire she'd once done it accidentally when receiving a too firm handshake. Suffice to say America had been a bust.

Hot Take: Handshakes are like bondage for the wrists

"Pleaaaaase let me go," she begged shamelessly. Mentally she'd moved on to orienting herself in the situation, calculating escape routes and repressing the trauma of how scary Foxfire was when she was angry, the pathetic whimpers were continuing more or less on instinct while she tried to work out if they were bourgeois or not. "I promise I'll be a good girl and never do it again~"

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

Lenses in your eyes click and focus. You see through to the great Slitted eye in the sky, through its observation window, to where the Crystal Knight stands and looks down at the world. You see her strength. You see her beauty. You see her fear.

She is armed in her full panoply. She has no luxuries, no distractions, no peers. She looks down like a weight presses against her neck. Her magi tend to her new weapons, marvels of crystalline technology - ludicrous overkill against a disarmed, earthbound planet. She shifts with nervous energy, far from her throne. Despite every instrument of power she still wonders if she has enough. She looks down. For her threats come from below.

This is her strength. Her full iron fisted weight presses down upon this world, the perfect power of a tyrant in peacetime. Her machinery of repression is without flaw. Her generals fear her. Her security services are loyal to her. Every rival system of power has been undermined, civil society has been hollowed out, the people live in terror of the Skies.

The Crystal Knight looks down.

And above her, a crimson star.

Ember!

[Rolling a Get Away - 5]

Red lightning flashes and you come crashing down before the altar of the Engine.

The pikes of the Corvii have collars in place of speartips; they bind you from a distance, neck and wrists and legs. They pull back and charge the metal bands; they magnetize and snap together, trussing you throat to ankle. Putting their strength together, start dragging you towards a small black kennel -

"Wait," said an Azura magi in soft blue, wearing the tricorn hat that is the badge of the Azura technoarchaeologists. "She lead us right to the Engine. This is obviously an omen." She takes the leash in her hands and her strength is more than all of the Corvii combined as she pulls you close. "So what are you, little mongrel? A half-Ceronian pup here to steal my prize? Or perhaps a void nymph bound to the ship? Do you have secrets to barter, or shall I offer you up as a temple slave?"

Dolce!

"You talk a lot about perfection," said the Royal Architect. "But this is a dark and barbaric age and I need to be more wary of the clubs of brutes than the engineering of my peers."

One of his armoured soldiers takes your hand and presses a strange device against it. Strange lights flash, there is a painless feeling of pressure, and the Architect's eyes flicker and glow.

"Checks out, sir," said the soldier.
"Hm," the Architect sniffed and sat down in the chair, the third point at the triangle. He seemed strangely light, hardly sinking into the plush cushions at all. You feel like you could break his arm without much difficulty. "The Service, you ask? Some would say it is a degenerate echo of what was possible in previous ages, but I am wiser. It is simply an exchange of capacity for resilience. The ability to run a galactic civilization's operating system on DNA was a breakthrough for stabilization."

He leaned forwards on the table, gently setting down his tea. His eyes are fixed forwards, glowing, intent on the subject of his interest - even as the miracle glitters in his periphery. Machine awareness seems a dull thing, though 20022 is starting to shift like he might be noticing something.

"Consider," said the Architect, "that a galactic civilization's capacity to wreck destruction is likely to at any moment surpass its ability to recover from that destruction. The Spear of Civilization was a catastrophe but hardly an unprecedented or unpredicted one. For a while it seemed that humanity might have escaped the destiny of extermination it took on from the moment it split the atom, but Mars caught up with them in the end. Worse, the number of habitable planets in the galaxy was also reduced. Worlds in the Goldilocks Zone - warm enough for the liquid water required to evolve complex life - were shattered in great numbers. One war here, one planetary bombardment there - how long before the galaxy is rendered a toxic wasteland? In the face of the divine curse of war a civilizational response is required. I am part of that effort; my purpose is to reconstruct destroyed planets. The Service performs a similar but distinct function; to allow the continuity of government even in apocalyptic conditions. You have no conception of what has been lost, Synnefo, but you do not need to. Your role is to keep the galaxy from total brain death while the doctors work on curing its wounds."

[Roll to Keep them Busy]

Dyssia!

The Sellarfane dives.

RVX-05 Assault Dropships are not meant to survive their landing. In ancient days they were as disposable as javelins; these vast and unadorned hangar bays were meant to hold the mechanical giants that were the swords of the ancients. The Sellarfane has survived this long off the back of sheer fortune to never encounter anything that might kill it, but as the Slitted fills the front viewport the possibility of that reduces exponentially.

"Hope you liked the look of the planet, ma'am," said the Captain. "Because we might be down there for a while."

The glass bones of the augurs bounce wildly as the turbulence of atmosphere hits the Sellarfane. The augurs shout their readings to the pilots who pull wild maneuvers to avoid the gravity mines still in orbit. Less than expected - the path has been cleared. You pass through the glittering rainbow grid of satellite alerts lasers but Brightberry is in one of the pursuit turrets blasting a scrambling glyph into the network, delaying the reaction.

The Sellarfane is committed to its dive, plasma torpedoes ready to launch. The Slitted is not yet aware, but its awareness is a matter for the Gods to decide. The Gods are yours to influence; you are the Knight here, and they listen to your words before any others. What is your prayer, Dyssia? What is your bargain? Why should the Gods grant you the blessing of surprise in this moment.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

November!

White doesn't really truck with possessions outside of her body, but she regretfully admits that she won't be ready in time for the showcase. Perhaps she could have made a rush for it with off the shelf parts, but Blue has a vision now. They don't say it directly but they're bound together in this; the concept of craftsmanship has too much resonance with both of them to accept anything less than the best.

Red, though, has gone all in on the disaster dragongirl concept. Red is cool now. She's shown up in sunglasses, a plug-in robotic tentacle tail, dragon-horn headband and a discount metallic wing skeleton spray-painted red. It's off model, scrapshop robotic demon energy - she loves it because it's building up new muscle memories and physical reflexes which she can adapt later, and paired with Sophie's awareness filters she can keep her attention centered on the new limbs. She completes the effect with a torn black t-shirt, ruffled black kneeskirt set with pink gemstones. It's a bit like if Hot Topic sold dragongirl accessories, but the overall effect is so sincere it works.

Pink's contribution to the space is entirely focused around the idea of storage. She's spending hours going around ex-governmental furniture warehouses and buying up early era Aevum shift-storage cabinets. Her idea is to form them up into a large grid in the centre of the facility; press a button summoning a certain cabinet and the entire array will shift like a slide-puzzle to bring the relevant box to the lowest level. Her attention is going overwhelmingly towards storage; contents have their own logic, but the resting state of a location has to be beautiful if it's going to be an incentive to pack everything up and store it after the task is done.

Black, meanwhile, is ensuring she has total control over this space. Everything shuts off or turns on as she wills it. Everything explodes or remains in boring mode as she wills it. She integrates a lot of the experience of Bondi's magic show into making this place be potentially the most distracting place in the universe. She stands in the doorway, composing the patterns of blinding strobe-lasers, smoke bombs, loud noises, riotstopper glue and toxic stenches in her head and feels a sense of safety.

Orange's plan was to create a little mini-cinema, with a large screen and projector panel against a back wall, and a couple of comfortable couches. She feels kind of torn about ever using it when she sees Black rigging the exit signs to deploy flashbangs.

And Yellow plants a little garden; multiple soil boxes, sunlamps and a cheap drip irrigation system. She sows seeds drawn from a big brown cardboard box labelled PLANTS, but also sets into place a couple of tree saplings. She doesn't tell anyone what they are, that's a surprise revealed with time.

And Brown installs all the shit that they actually need. Charging stations, beds, cleaning products, chairs, cutlery, tea, cable ties, gardening equipment, slippers, duct tape, doormats, spare keys, heaters and coolants, secure internet access, blahaj. Through all the grand visions there's a certain level of basic functionality that can't be entirely overlooked.

Pink!

"Honestly, it's an upgrade," said Pink. "She's off her new bullshit and onto some older bullshit. If you want you can step off here with our blessing, going deeper means getting into some potentially unsolveable robopsychology. I've got a bug report compiled."

In the event enthusiastic curiosity is expressed, Pink goes on. "Well, firstly - she's never actually done anything like this before with anyone else. She's spent a lot of time in this fantasy space working herself up based on increasingly avaunt guard erotica and it's left her completely unprepared for how to deal with an actual girl," Pink is trying to keep it professional here, but the exact energy feels a little alien. Somewhere between sibling frustration and... angel of judgement? "And whenever she faces long term adversity or feelings she can't deal with she externalizes it by creating one of us. I think that's where we're back to now; she's come down from having it in her head that she's dangerous - as though anything she's ever done is half as dangerous as Yellow taking a shower. She's not about to come up with someone new right now - this might take decades to figure out."

Green's ball of light has sheltered underneath the coils of the plush hydra, wearing its necks as blankets.

She looked up, the apologetic smile of someone for whom knowing is insufficient. "In some ways she's the most real of us. In others, she's the most fucked up. She's the real person and we're her demons. She's striving for an unattainable goal and we're the parts of her she's cut out to get there."