Lunation Flux

"No Galatic Knight for you?"

"No Blast Fencer for you?"

Doug blinks. "Hello? You been to see Yardley recently?"

It hadn't been conscious, necessarily, but Seren's still glad he noticed. They'd been thinking about where the Blast in Blast Fencer is supposed to come from, meanwhile. The mythical multigun is the weapon most apt to blast, isn't it? Or most likely literally any other variety than the tepid, subtle psycho launchers. But that's an issue and an exercise for later nominative determinism.

Seren waggles their hands on either side of their head for a few seconds to help them focus, pointedly ignorant of whatever Doug might think as he patiently awaits a response.

Right. Voice. Resting.

"Easier to mask in battle, when everyone's shouting. The way my voice sounds when I'm using Subterfuge is the way it ought to be, generally."

When they can stand still and waste time debuffing debuff resistance. Moments like that make them question the theory of defense as the best offense - or, no, that's L's way...

"Huh. Good to know." Doug nods along, happy to carry the conversation even when Seren drifts. "But seriously, no stellar Arts for little ol' Seren Sirius?"

They do just love listing them off in their head - Stellar Ray, Shooting Star; Astral Protection, Purge and Heal; Starfalls Blade, Blossom, and Rondo; Starlight Duster and Kick, Astro- Geo- Nova- libriums...

If only the -libriums were true to their suffixial word (and apparently for humans they were often tranquilizers, which was quite the curiosity and irritant to Seren).

"Would you believe I get dizzy doing all the acrobatics? Since...everything used to move around me, and now I move around it. Them. Things."

Maybe it's the sad, simple truth, or maybe it's a cop-out. Seren tries not to do cop-outs.

And Doug believes it, which is a good sign. "Makes sense, I guess. It's...a lot. But then, I don't have half the concentration Lao does to sit still and aim a sniper rifle."

Oh, yeah. "My hand-eye coordination's lousy. You didn't notice?"

"No, what- you're saying you're clumsy?" Doug's faraway look morphs into lip-splitting amusement. "Ha! Hadn't noticed, no!"

"I didn't say that," Seren replies blankly. It's exactly this that they hate - being seen as a petite, fun-size "chaos gremlin" who's also oopsie-doopsie oh-so-clumsy what-a-silly-girl, instead of a serious person in a vessel that they refuse to modify, because it does represent them and they're really not sure they're able to navigate what BLADE is presenting to them any other way.

They'd finally found an outfit they felt comfortable in, but the body... Still too tall, still too shapely. It makes sense that the mimeosomes are built to match the most average range of heights and builds, with characteristics like hair, skin and eye color more easily editable for personalization and identification, but still...still. The lack of diversity in height throughout NLA shouldn't seem as odd as it does, for a being whose entire sense of scale is completely different.

But L does survive longer swimming through lava...they should ask Lin how she fares, usually.

"I'll be your Galactic Mastermind," says Seren, coming back to Mira. "Just keep me in one place, and we'll be glittering."

Learning the Commando classes all the way down the tree has been so taxing. They're used to it by now, throwing around orders and dodging underfoot of the nastiest Falsaxums to keep everyone up (up, up, Upper Hand), but they cannot wait for the day when all affinity and ranking is through, and they can just settle back to their team.

That's why they're so grateful for Doug's still-beaming face right now. "Not too much," he warns, on the topic of shining stars, "or the indigens'll eat you!"

Well. Mostly grateful. Seren throws Doug a look that they hope reads as "yes, true, fair, agree, but do not say 'snack size'." It's tough being belligerent, isn't it?

Doug recovers with an amiable, "Aren't you always glittering, though? Kinda written on your face."

Often plain, always preternatural. "Didn't you notice? I like hunting better at night."

"You call it hunting and you're not a Harrier? Some people, I tell ya."

"Well, we are subduing wild animals and other creatures. So...hunting."

Doug does know that Seren doesn't like picking fights with indigens that don't have it coming to them, whether because they all immediately jump on attacking the intruder straight to the death, because they're - the indigens - going to win, or because it's just a hassle. It's not that Seren doesn't see the point of fighting, not that they don't find it enjoyable to mount a strategic effort and experience the exertion with their team, such a central part of all BLADEs' lives. It's not that they're anything so noble as a pacifist. But if it's not required, why do it?

It's not that they're lazy, either.

But they are an Interceptor because they refuse to be beaten - never mind that sheer chance will have the native creatures eking out stubborn victories at the very tail end of their health pool just as fairly as four full BLADEs (well, maybe three, or three and a half, or three and three-quarters...) could pull the same.

They're happy to protect, and to learn something about the habits of the wildlife as they go. Everyone's got it dangerous - it's just that Seren isn't so sprightly as to walk around asking who up gungin' they ho...and no, they will not repeat where and from whom they had the misfortune to hear such an immoderate, ungainly phrase.

"Hey, always wishin' you good hunting, Seren."

At this point Seren just has to admit that Doug is timing out his responses so generously on purpose - watching them space out, literally, and not minding it a whit. And that's...well, it's more than they can expect from a Mortifole or a Unafulge!

So now it's Seren's turn to beam, tamping down a twitchy, sparkly, twinkly cheek. "I've always got it, with you!"