you will recall our names

Muimui isn't afraid of Poppibuster. No, he's quite familiar with how to destabilize and even depower Soosoo's creations. Another iteration of twee little maid robot such as Poppi or Lila is no threat - just see how bulky the form factor on this one. Why, it would barely be able to catch him!

He can see the silhouette of Poppi Mk. II within the chest compartment. What a farce!

Soosoo does good work. Tora learned well. But this? This Nopon-shaped maximalist overcompensation? If this all they're going to send to do their dirty work...

But then Poppibuster itself speaks, and Muimui squeaks.

"C'mon, Shulk - what you need is some action!"

Doug wouldn't consider himself the biggest adrenaline junkie BLADE's ever seen, but he's far from the practically-convalescent logistically-minded Shulk, who eschews his combat prowess and hangs over R&D all day. Obviously a Harrier could never understand being a homebody, though.

But...if it's Skells Shulk wants, then it's Skells Shulk'll get.

Shulk peers tiredly up at Doug. Yep, this is his shot.

"Listen. You come with me, and you can doctor up my Skell any way you want. How's that?"

Oh, sweet victory. Shulk's got some color in him - a smirk, even!

"Your mimeosome is impressive, human."

He's right, of course. Fiora's mim body is the most well-integrated to the human nervous system of all models, at the cost of occasional connection failures and increased emotional wear. She hadn't asked for it. It had just...happened this way.

The point of the mims isn't to help them live forever, though, right? It's neither a happy accident nor a sad one.

"I don't have endurance like you do, Ga Jiarg," Fiora says plainly. "There's no need for me to be impressive. I've still got a lot to learn."

It hadn't been a compliment, but...

"Heh. Do you even know how to play that thing?"

Perun looks up, but doesn't stop carefully turning the Fonsan Viola over in her hands. "No. Why?"

"Well, it's only half as effective as this one," T-elos elegantly jerks a slim, violet-nailed thumb over her shoulder at the Army-Issue Violin on the shop counter. "I don't understand why we had to sell it for you to buy that."

"If I just wanted the 'best' instrument, I'd have saved up my money and bought an arpeggione. But this one...it speaks to me."

T-elos eyes the other Blade. "Yeah?"

Perun just smiles.

"So you're a lifeform from Elma's world..."

It confounds Luxaar, absolutely, that anyone, but especially this puny example of a human, could stand before him with hand to chin and foot tapping, studying the floor as much as Luxaar's own feet, as if it were all just a trivial puzzle.

Why does he not tremble in fear? Why does he not draw his weapon, feeble though it may be?

It will be no issue to extinguish him, of course. But a human that does not act unprovoked, that cannot be provoked...

"Well," Shulk concludes, still mild. "She took you down once."

"You don't have to be so guarded around me, Gray."

And maybe a bodyguard doesn't have to be guarded at all, can be cautious without being mutely fractious, but Gray is.

Gray is stalwart, is staunch. Gray is bulky, beyond the structured High Entia vestments. Or rather, not beyond but beneath.

He nods, curt. "All is well, Prince Kallian."

Kallian's smile, gentle and genuine, reminds him why he holds firm to this line. Not that it's not natural to him, a comfortable stance. But it's a stern face, sure.

He'll keep playing it, molding it. No doubt. For peace like that.

The morning sun is so bright behind the Aegis that Isurd cannot tell which it is gently shaking him awake (though with a touch of impatience, which he has to acknowledge is merited, since they'd not made him go home once he and Mio had "finished" studying, instead leaving him to his own devices on the first floor with an ether lamp and a pile of books salvaged from Morytha), muttering his name distractedly while pulling wayward strands of hair from the corner of her mouth.

He supposes it's nice to know he's not the only one who awakes a wreck.

Xord...man, he's huge. Big arms, big legs, big belly. Lanz's first thought is that he doesn't know what he'd do with all that, himself.

Lanz's second thought is that he doesn't know what to do with it right now.

Some kind of hot, nervous feeling he's getting. Something so...right, about the way Xord moves.

And sure, he's not gonna get on his own case for getting a crush on an old guy - it happens, right? Sure, it happens.

But this is more than that, somehow. Or...sideways. Different.

Yeah, Lanz wants to be that big, that warm, that dangerous.

"Your Majesty, your beautiful long hair...how do you maintain it when you're fighting?"

Nia bites back a fond pout as she looks down at Ethel, so small yet so mighty. The bobbled elastics she uses to tie it back are a help, to be sure, and she doesn't really do all that much fighting, anymore, now does she?

But that answer won't satisfy the little firebrand.

"Lotsa Blades are just born graceful. You wouldn't know it to look at me, most of the time. But I can tell you'll do just fine."

Ethel's clearly pleased - and inspired - by the approval.

Nia puffs out a huge breath, letting Dromarch's Twin Rings fall to her sides. "Well, Poppi, you're certainly doing fine for yourself!"

"Poppi's Nanomachine Repair is highly effective in dangerous situations," she affirms. "Nia must have confidence in it, not to take her Blade form."

"As if I can't heal you all just fine like this!"

"Just fine," repeats Poppi. "But not superlative."

Nia almost curses, at that, but, well, does Poppi still count as young and impressionable, even like this? Not to mention the insult to Dromarch.

"Anyway," she concedes, because Poppi's not trying to be mean. "Cold, in Tantal..."

"Just seems like everyone who remembered me is either dead or too important to care, now. Or too busy to hang around the City."

"I hear you...I don't remember much of anything, and there's no one here who ever knew me! Have you ever considered taking up farming?"

Hackt's not a rude person, but he shoots Addam a dirty look all the same. "Is that just their universal tactic? If you're out of a plot, take up tilling one?"

But Addam's right, unfortunately - it's as good a use of time as any, and Gamma never had been the agricultural type.

Does it hurt any less, that it's M that's gone, and not Nia's own Mio, here in the Aionian flesh?

M, who'd had a baby of her own, and gone on for so long. M, who hadn't wanted to see this thing through. M, who'd been trapped by the unintentional ills of another, and lost so much hope she might well have been lost forever.

Oh, Nia's darling girl is as clever as ever, to have orchestrated all this. Puts all her mam's own schemes right to shame.

To have sent herself here, even not knowing...

Indeed. She's given Nia hope.

"So, you wanna talk to a mercenary about war?"

"I don't want to, actually," Garrett says, tapping a finger on the tabletop in front of him, well removed from this alternate Vandham's just-as-massive hands, laid carelessly diagonal. "I'd rather it be a moot topic completely. But, if you are game to the topic, what say you? Should the unprepared be permitted to take on missions beyond their ken?"

Vandham nods. "I hear ya. But it's not about ken - it's about kin. What's in here," he jabs Garrett's chest. "They've gotta do what they feel they ought. That's their own strength, completely."

Fishing cures all ills, it seems. Maybe it's the meditative aspect. Maybe it's the game of chance. Maybe it's the mighty struggle between girl and sea.

Fiona would never have expected Fiora, so brash and bouncy on her heels, to sit so quietly - pensively - at the shore.

She's better at sitting in silence than Fiona is.

But then Fiora whistles, high and sharp, when Fiona reels in a whopper of a Krodlax. "Alright! Now we're talking!"

Which gets Fiona chattering, all bravado. "No beastie can best Colony Mu - not even you, Fiora!"

"Hey, hey! Guess I've gotta get my act together..."

Consul and Moebius manoeuvres are always distinctly unpleasant events for Poppi to process. They are as significant as any move made by Aionios's soldiers, of course, since one affects the other and since when a Consul exposes itself as Moebius, something sinister is surely happening, but Poppi wishes she could skip them all the same.

H is one of the worst. She goes on and on about how much she loves her "children" that she has prepared for her special Flame Clock, and how she despises those who do not perform up to her standard.

The most destructive of technological advancement.

"Refugee, is it? Come along, you'll do just fine."

Milton's seen it all, by now. Every businesslike busk of a woman in charge of things trying to shuffle him into the pack, get him all taken care of, brush his teeth and tuck him into bed. Of course. It's what people do with lost children.

But this act is actier.

"Hey, lady."

Vanea blinks, as if she's shocked he can talk.

"I think I can take care of myself."

And instead of popping him a "What makes you so sure?" or a "Well, we'll just see about that," Vanea looks pensive.

After years of despondent groaning every time a newcomer goes running at the very sight of Wulfric's wonderful face, he finds a terrible pleasure in the fact that he's able to chase Consul U off with the same.

A nice "Groaargh!" should do it. Maybe a "Woaargh!" - tasteful, tasteful. And a solid "Hragh, hroar, hrraah!" for good measure.

U goes flying into the air almost immediately, and for a moment Wulfric considers continuing his preternatural assault. But, he will spare her, as he means her no real harm. Probably.

Anything for Juniper, of course. And for his own sanity, as well...

"C'mooon, Samon, just this once?"

Samon has no idea where Ouroboros got off offering the Boundary around to their...hungry friends, but he, like all Nopon, was not born yesterday, and is not at all fooled by Boreas's claim of borrowing the vessel "once" and "once" only.

Now, it should be out of his wings. After all, what they do with the ship is their business. However, if Boreas's snack-filled venture could provide some nourishment for a hardworking shipwright, it should be no problem to ensure sufficient cargo space. And Boreas does seem eager to help gather materials - with all speed!

Sharla's mastery of a Sniper Rifle needs no further instruction; she's a ace shot, and everyone's got that clear. Picking up an Assault Rifle is no challenge, either. Just give her a gun, and she's good.

Sharla's a medic at heart, though, which means she carries a knife for team support that amounts to more than just kicking the enemy in the head. Celica's Black Bane has good synergy with a sniper's kit, too.

Her hand on Sharla's, showing her the sequence of slices, is almost as intimate as a cheek lined up for sight.

Gentle approach. Fleet feet. Steady hand.

"Nonsense. There's no need to evacuate. Not when we have the Conduit."

Don't be ridiculous. It's perfectly safe. Elma reserves admonition about the need to evacuate from the environs of the Conduit itself, immediately, and focuses on the facts.

"You have no evidence as to what will happen when you activate the Conduit. You don't know what worlds lie beyond, nor do you have any strategies on how to take humans there."

Klaus says nothing.

"There are people living on this planet right now whose lives are frozen, threatened by the Saviorites down here and the Samaarians up above.

"So, Klaus?"

My, but if the warring countries' leaders' cabinets aren't full of the most dazzling accoutrements. Mikhail, another one of Nia's old-fox advisors, must have been a charmer for centuries back. Why, Masha's sure even Founder Cassini knew of him, and his...ways.

But he, like Minoth, waves off flamboyance - says he's seen too much, in his old age. He appreciates Masha's drag...recreationally, which really isn't how drag is meant to be enjoyed (honey, it's not just a performance, it's a lifestyle! and that lifestyle is a lifelong performance), and he won't take any jewelry over his Core.

Gorgeous little thing...

Distrust for Houseless folks is far from Guernica's style. He tries not to brew it in his own house - literally, the building - and he makes quick quash of it with his silent disapproval, so -ists and -phobics know the Elder won't tolerate it. The whole point of the City is to give a place for life to grow, no matter where it came from.

But then there're folks like Gort, who if they had a House would no sooner be thrown out of it. Leery dude, resourceful but damned unhelpful about it.

Maybe there's hope for the greedy sod. Maybe not.

Sena's remark that Pyra's "warm, not like Mama," is a casual one, but it makes ponder all the same. Warmth isn't really a core aspect of Brighid's personality - which is why the flames are blue, most like.

Sena, of course, has the most bubbly, volatile personality of any of their little flock of toddlers, which means that she's prone to falling hushed when rebuffed.

Yes, Pyra doesn't make anything much of it, but she knows she'll stay Sena's warmest, gentlest auntie for as long as she possibly can. Until Sena herself grows into her own warm and strength and boundless possibility.

"And you are the emissary from...?"

"Goldmouth," Dickson supplies, just because he wouldn't feel quite right saying Silvertongue. Raqura gasps, at that, as if she's just tasted something unpleasant and is more put off by the shock than by the bad taste itself.

He grins, smokes his cigar; she rankles further.

Urayans are harder sorts than this, or so he's seen. This dame could probably throw her weight around a lot more than she does, if she had any brains.

"Your Majesty's not partial to merchants, then?"

Raqura's expression sets. "Not those like the criminal Nopon. Not those that are seedy."

If Mio, a cat, is inclined to be charmed by puppylike partners, then Gwin's an easy candidate. Equal parts sheepish and spirited, he's here today to honor the memory of someone who couldn't go on - someone with strengths he hadn't found in himself at the time of their departure.

But...Mio isn't the type to lead someone else around. Not anymore. She's looking for a partner, and while Gwin could be that...he wants someone to look up to, she feels. It's not so bad this way, though. They're still cut out to be great friends, and a great combat team.

X's foul harvest has been but a passing mention, to Zeon, among the river of horror stories constantly flowing from Lanz's mouth. But surely, there had been relief, in learning that the Moebius L had not been Lanz's own past incarnation?

Well. There'd have been no way of knowing. He'd disappeared without a trace, simple and servile to the last.

No chance of Zeon himself ever becoming a consul. Even before the Ouroboros Stone, and the smashing of the Flame Clocks.

Indeed, he will keep up his fearless fight against Moebius. He will be an ally no matter his colony's rank.

"I can't help but be suspicious of you, Gael'gar..."

Gael'gar's mouth frowns, but the rest of his impossibly fake smile remains in place. "Me? Why, but I only wish to protect the future of the High Entia. I have laid out my convictions for you quite plainly, Lady Vess."

So he has. And it's not that his logic is difficult to follow. Or, well... That is to say, it's difficult to follow in that it's not sensible, not that it's nonsensical.

Regardless. Vess knows she can trust someone when she wants to share her dumplings with them, and Gael'gar...doesn't pass.

"And you, Sever. You've certainly...not changed a bit."

Well, obviously. It's the Driver that's the problem, not the Blade. Why shouldn't he be just the same as ever? And Azurda is the one who hasn't changed, for five hundred years, right? For another eight hundred before that! Or so he's heard. Flying around all by his lonesome. The ideal setup.

But Sever doesn't say all that. After letting Azurda hear his own voice echo just a moment longer, he hisses, replying, "You don't consider yourself lucky to remember me, I suppose."

"On the contrary." Azurda smiles. "I find you fascinating."

"I wouldn't have left you behind, Matthew. You know that, right? Not ever."

The memory of Alpha's voice speaking from Na'el's body, without even the otherworldly armor to give him away, chokes Matthew's throat as much as it had Na'el's voice. Yeah, he gets that Alpha was only extrapolating from the weakness in Na'el's soul, or whatever, but a selfish part of him wants to deny that his dissension to Alpha's plot could have caused him to lose his sister even more completely.

He clings desperately to Na'el, palm cradling the crown of her head.

"Think I need reminding, even so."

"A Homs afraid of heights. I should not be surprised."

Of course Yumea's incilid, superior air is uncomfortable and undeserved, to Cammuravi. There is no honor in treating anyone in such a way; honor is found in treating all comers with equal respect and expectation.

But, conversely, she is right. He has an acute phobia of heights and instability.

She assumes, however, that just being up this high on the Bionis is troubling to him - being in Alcamoth most of all. Is High Entia architectural technology not acutely stable; are not the upper levels of the Bionis quite grounded and broad?

Nim really can't decide what's worse - endless fighting and destruction of natural landmarks and resources, all while giant machines patrol the wasteland they've created, or building sentient, autonomous machines to do the fighting for you.

"They shouldn't make things like these!" she cries, peering around a crag of rock at V's Colony's patrol force, heedless of her companion's frantic shushing.

But ah, there appears V himself, who intones, "They? You mean me - V! For these are my own personal creations."

And Nim would love to give him a knuckle right to the face, but it looks like it might hurt. Lots.

"Y'know, you're no fun anymore, Rex."

"What, y'mean I don't yap on like you do, now? Thought that would have been a good thing for you."

Kora smiles, crow's feet first, and pops her lips.

"May-be so, but! I can't just chat with someone who doesn't talk back," she says, reaching for Rex's shoulder to shake but forgetting that he's immobile and immune to that, now. "Nice jacket," is her smooth recovery. "Synthetic Armu leather? I like it! Oh, you know, I saw the cutest bag in Alba Cavanich the other day - it was designer - with charms on the buckle, and--"

"Oh, Melia, you're the icon of refinement."

Dahlia makes everyone blush, but Melia finds herself faltering most frequently of all. It must just be rare to find someone so openly friendly and genuine; someone so consistently predisposed to gentleness over gentility.

Her Spotlight, for instance - it does wonders for Melia's already-potent summoned ice elemental, and even if it'd apply the same to any element Melia chose, it makes her just that slightest bit more partial to ice.

Make no mistake: Dahlia is warm through and through. Nothing mystical about her.

"My thanks, Dahlia. Ensure that you, too, keep your chin up."

"Crashing the Incomplete Siege-Lev into the boy's pet robot? Are you mad?!"

Most consuls refrain from cowering in fear until their very endless lives are threatened; until it's an Ouroboros Interlink itself staring them down, reaping their stolen life back to justice. Until a beast of will awakens to oppose them, Moebius are virtually invincible. Time is precious, but they possess it without measure and without a universal share of discipline. Q, however, righteously quivers under the fire of Vangarre's ire.

Wasted time? Picking up the pace? Gaming the stakes?

Oh, Vangarre knows all about that. And Vangarre doesn't tolerate slackers.

"Well, you're just the terror of industrial complexes everywhere, aren't you?"

Valdi's little, it's true - a small specimen among any Machina, not just the first-order kind. His voice is high, his frame is slight. He's never gotten on with oligarchs; that's sort of a trend, for him.

But what Chausson doesn't seem to understand is that Valdi's not interested in funding, or begging it, or skirting superciliously around it. He just wants to take spare Skell parts, otherwise sent to the bin in a glorious heap, and scrap together his own version of BLADEhood.

"Every street needs its resourceful rats, sir."