let's begin the experiment!
Chapters
Chapter 01: Mia & Yelv
Chapter 02: Juniper & Mòrag
Chapter 03: Ryyz & Eleonora
Chapter 04: Manana & Big Joe
Chapter 05: Alvis & Dan
Chapter 06: Godfrey & Poppi
Chapter 07: Helmer & Hugo
Chapter 08: Wulfric & Bart
Chapter 09: M & Nia
Chapter 10: Sever & Fei
Chapter 11: Gael'gar & Valdi
Chapter 12: Crys & Ino
Chapter 13: Frye & Dromarch
Chapter 14: Yumea & Febronia
Chapter 15: Ashera & R
Chapter 16: Zephyr & Riku
Chapter 17: Kevin & Nimue
Chapter 18: Masha & Azurda
Chapter 19: Tora & Linada
Chapter 20: B & E
Chapter 21: Kino & Amalthus
Chapter 22: Virgil & Kallian
Chapter 23: Sigurd & Lora
Chapter 24: Eunie & V
Chapter 25: Gaignun & Grahf
As happy-go-luckies go (happily and luckily, if there's any sense in this damn whole different world), Mia isn't the worst. Meanwhile, Yelv is a kvetcher with the worst of 'em, which elevates him beyond counterpart complainer to a nuanced, textured gruffness ready to lay down howling raygun backside with a resistance-bungling Subterfuge.
You know, the usual stuff. Mia's is a smile Yelv'd rather not see fade, but screw your head on a little tighter tomorrow, yeah? Yelv is Mia's "pard" sure as she's his (she's not) and she'll poke those droopy corners with gusto. Don't Reclaimers and Curators work hand-in-hand?
"Your aim is true, Juniper."
"One good thing to come out of Ardainian oversight, I suppose."
Mòrag smiles, a tight and thin thing. The young archer is keen in their criticism of the empire's late imperialistic efforts, and while the Special Inquisitor would love to be able to write such a thing off as valuable and vibrant but ultimately impotent youthful curiosity and verve, because there are so many other things keeping spanners wrenched to all of international politics after the collapse of the World Tree, she knows she can't.
Juniper's right. They didn't learn their skill for hunting, foremost.
Eleonora's always liked her job: chief operative liaison in charge of mission reports is neither an easy nor a difficult role to handle, but through all the red tape and endless, endless filing, she gets to talk to her BLADEs, get their feedback and check in on the world through the eyes of more than just survey statistics.
The most important part about it is that she gets to put her eyes right on the danger while the danger stays far, far away, out of her hands.
Until Ryyz shows up, absolutely indescribable to duty.
"Unfortunately, I'm on your walls."
Undoubtedly, there's something off-putting about Big Joe - Greaty Joey, as Manana calls him.
Many a Nopon is multi-talented, and many a Nopon is left to their own devices to be so spec-tell-acular, but it's not many a human who realizes that many a Nopon would look something like Big Joe, if they were human. With clown collar, incongruously loud sense-of-self-importance, bold yet natural color palette, and unimaginable resilience through time and the elements...
Somepons are special secrets of the universe, sparkling like stars behind every night and day!
...or maybe somepon are just erratic and strange, but lovely people nonetheless.
Discontented and disheveled, Dan arrives in Bledavik for the tournament. Alice's wedding dress hangs in dusty flounces from his knapsack, and Dan feels as if he's truly approached his purpose, here so far from Lahan.
What's left of Lahan, anyway.
That's why he's here. Where else does he have?
A strange fellow in ridiculous boots is there, standing just to the side, not really turning his head or blinking too much.
"Hey!"
He still doesn't blink.
"Hey!" Dan trots over, waving the dress without a thought to its symbolism of surrender. "Are you here to fight?"
Wink. "It appears so."
"Hey, show me again, Poppi?"
Poppi's head tilts; fractional degrees, an emulation of non-artificial behavior that became and becomes her own idiosyncrasy. "This not Justice Knight mode, Godfrey," she reminds him gently but methodically. "Judgement Day mode operation several degrees more severe than Godfrey's intended administration of justice."
"Well, y-yeah, but..." Godfrey frowns, unused to the actual deceleration of his demeanor that results from Poppi's uncomplicated yet firm nature. "C'mooon - Quantum Judgement! You gotta show me!"
"Quantum Judgement requires a target," Poppi intones again.
He won't get anywhere by being overeager. Or...maybe that's all he's got going for him?
If he could have a stateside counterpart like Helmer... Well, that would be the ideal, wouldn't it?
It's not about delegating and relegating those that can and those that can't to deskwork and battlefield, irrespectively, handing off the drudgery to someone else. It isn't even about pocket-planting sycophants where they're most helpful.
Hugo likes being on the ground. Helmer likes being in the chair. They enjoy their own work, and check each other's.
That's what ruling, and government, should be about, after all. Symbiosis. Mutual governance. Appointment by qualification and aptitude and most of all enthusiasm, rather than contentious birthright.
Anyone who doesn't know Bart well enough might think that his schtick is, primarily, based in honor and reputation - barring that kind of reputation, perhaps the other, noting the escapades and (haber)dashery of a pirate careening across the sands and the sea.
Anyone who doesn't know Wulfric well enough might think that he's monstrous regardless of whether or not he's actually a monster, and wishes to speak at length with an approximate final count of nobody, if they haven't bones to pick or chew.
The both of them are much closer to center than that: compassionate, deep-feeling, and brave.
The thing about Nia being all on her lonesome (wherever and whenever Dromarch - her Dromarch - came in, she honestly forgets, horrifying as it is) is that there was never anyone bearing the sad duty of watching her drift.
She had no family, which was most of the entire problem. Just her against the world. No one to pride. No one to disappoint.
It's not Mio's responsibility now, to mind the possibility of someone out there with her best interests at heart besides the ghost of her Noah.
But it breaks Nia all the same. If only she could reach out...
"I wish you'd calm down, Sever. You're really getting on my nerves. A guy could stand to have a normal conversation once in a while, you know!"
That Fei. Always complaining. Sever doesn't complain! Why doesn't Fei calm down?
Sever likes music. Fei likes art. Sever likes killing people. Fei likes not killing people.
They could get along, if Fei even tried. Sense of humor, anybody?
Yes, somehow, this artist bit really makes him a bit of a weirdo. So particular. "So fussy..." Sever says aloud. So help it, the hissing sound that issues making Fei jump isn't exactly unamusing.
Valdi's only an infant when Gael'gar first meets him. Yes, an infant - Machina technology homogenizing the growth rates has come along at wonderful speed. Why, the little boy might even be coherent!
Not that he'll assume such.
"What a handsome young fellow you are!"
"Thankyu!" the boy babbles. He's flexing his hands and gazing about. Chirps Valdi, "Growing so fast!"
Aww! "Yes, you are! Truly, I believe our comingling races are the future."
Of a sudden, Valdi frowns.
"Doesn'matter what. Just who."
"Of course it does! You're a Machina!"
Having had enough of Gael'gar's derisive tone, Valdi waddles stoutly away.
Even when Crys doubts his decision to become Moebius (an entirely separate entanglement for which he lacks proper presence of mind), sight of Ouroboros persists.
Does life just go on, the same tune in repetition ad inifinitum?
No. It develops. It changes.
And among those changes is a Blade - a living avatar of one - named Ino. Crys has never aged a day and he never will, yet looking at Ino just fills his bones with mawing creak.
Maybe Ino would play a moderate second violin, in recreation, but the body herself (itself? if a Blade) is a dancing, crackling piccolo.
"Ahhh...that's the stuff."
Even being around someone with as calming and grounding a presence as Dromarch can't stop Frye from continually downing the "brewskis", as the great tiger has heard him call his chosen liquid solace, among other things (also suds, slops, swipes, and schwenk, more dejectedly and derogatorily at each alliterative marker).
"So long as you're enjoying yourself," Dromarch rumbles.
Frye tips back the last and pounds his tankard. The shaking table musses his fur into a backwash, unfortunately. "What, you got a problem?"
And yes, Dromarch can hedge prissy, if he likes.
"Don't you ever drink water?"
Somehow, Yumea cannot find it within herself to act disdainfully toward the new attendant of the imperial villa's gardens. Perhaps it is the fact that she comes into their sacred place with no pretensions toward anything higher than that simple life position, whether or not she possesses the proud headwings of a pure-blooded High Entia. The same cannot be said for all supposedly reticent residents hereof.
In fact, Febronia's are some of the smallest headwings Yumea has ever seen. Delicate, buried among bang-brushed platinum-silver hair.
She will survive the Telethia, certainly. But she seems to wish the flowers would, instead.
Oh, R is a righteous old jackal. Ashera's spoken with her in some depth before - never with as much assurance to her swagger, of course, because loath as she is to admit it, she wasn't always this confident. She was, however, always going to be. Always going to get here.
Consuls are nothing compared to Commanders. They all know it, even if they've convinced themselves, on the outside, that it isn't true. Yes, they all have their grand gimmicks, their petty personalities, their evocative little marching-order masks...
But R is nothing without Ashera. Only gloriously ridiculous, and it's absolutely delicious.
Zephyr sighs. "I've been here since the war."
Everyone knows the mythical number. And what else is there to think of, when you've been alive for that long? No one questions Queen Zephyr. No one could stand to gain anything from questioning Queen Zephyr. Shevat is far from the greatest of the world's worries, its kind and sorrowful queen cursed to ever-subsistent life through scientific means not of her own choosing least of all.
Riku only nods. What have we been doing, indeed? So long as we can stand tall atop the snow, it matters not how much has fallen.
Kevin's never been good with delicate matters. He might be highly intelligent, but that's no guarantee on emotional delicacy. And, it's not that he couldn't act more sensitively if he tried. He just...doesn't prioritize it.
To Nimue, kindness and total consideration of all the variables - that is, not just the numerical and strategic ones - is the key to handling people, and to succeeding even in grimmer pursuits. However success can be defined, in such instances.
It's unfortunate...when someone doesn't remind you to foster that kindness. It can make all the difference.
That's what we need to leave behind.
Pageworn pictures are all Masha has to prod her along in divining the core symbolic story of Azurda's life - lives? Well, and of course she has the secondhand account the queen of Agnus - her affiliation, in a manner of speaking - had offered along with the photographs.
But no, Masha prefers to simply...let it stew. She's no medium, but with the stray physical effect in hand, the right resonance will arrive eventually.
In that twinkling yellow eye smoulders wisdom that both predates and outspans Aionios. A beautiful bridge between cryptic and long-winded...stratified, crystallized Lexos fossil will do the trick.
"So you have expertise with maintaining mechanical bodies?"
Tora gulps.
"None of the Nopon from the Bionis have ever shown such aptitude."
Tora gulps again. Usually, he and the word "aptitude" don't so much get along as sidealong sideeye each other for a while until he figures out a solution to fool it again, for a while. It's not that he isn't competent. It's just that no one else has ever thought him remotely so.
"Erm...", he holds out a carefully curled wing, "...one mechanical body - that of Artificial Blade, Poppi!"
Linada nods, approving. "We all have to start somewhere."
To be, or not to be?
That's B's question. And E's, too.
It's very interesting. Most of the female Moebius are much more straight to the point, concerned with the plain actuals of their soldiers' behavior as opposed to the hypothetical drama, the metaphorical gambit of it all. They shepherd real sheep, while the foddered-off men concern themselves with drama and vigour - and aesthetics.
Is there, in fact, any point in pretending any different? Rather, in pretending that pretense is not the point of the thing?
They're all washed-up, unimaginative anti-caretakers.
Dreadful. Tiresome. Horrid.
And yet, somehow...still quite droll.
Amalthus has never met a Nopon he's liked. Difficult, if not impossible, to figure into the Architect's plan, and answering to no one; concerned only with commerce and self-possession.
The loud ones are loud, and the conniving ones are bastards.
The shy ones usually shut up and stay that way. But this one, an eyesoring chartreuse with plume like an endive - Coeian Chicory, to be specific -, clears its throat once, twice, thrice, and declares: "Mister 'Malthus should apologize to Kino for kickings!"
"You were standing there," the Praetor offers dryly.
"Yes, Kino was!"
Oh, Father. Not an optimist with dignity...
"I don't like guys who get up and make a bunch of fancy speeches," Virgil warns. "Too many people think they know what's going on in the world, because too many other people have told them all about it - bought and sold it all. But none of that crap matters, when the screws get put."
Kallian, an adviser frequently advised, can say nothing to combat this. High Entia have remained relatively untouched for centuries. No one knows what, concretely, will happen at the head of the conflict.
So. Not quite true.
"Someone must attempt. We can't all be rebels alone."
Lora smiles, a tired thing. It looks wholly in place on her; homegrown and unique, an expression all her own.
Apropos, for their conversation: "So I don't really know who my father is. I only...suspect, and if I ever find my mother, I'll ask her, see what turns out, but other than that...I'm just me. Lora."
"It sounds like Lora's an alright person to be," Sigurd says encouragingly. He's lived a lot of life, depending now on his own steadfastness to moor.
That's why he doesn't expect Lora to bump his arm, replying, "Sounds like Sigurd is, too."
Nopon Chess is a geek's game. Right up Taion's alley - you blunder your way through a few moves, too focused on the snuffin' strategy to see the glasses inchin' up until he pops you one: "I'd planned this" -check- "four turns ago."
But this ain't about Taion. No, it's about that blunder-mudder V. There's nothing Eunie hates more than stupid people - really, what she and Taion have in common. People who just...really, seriously don't get it.
She'd love to play V a square game. On her own, she'd beat him, an' knock his crown, clock and block right off.
Sorry!