Getting ready half comprises protocol drills and half comprises getting dressed. The former agenda is conducted in a huge round room that is both projector and vid plaza. The Archbishop has it programmed to mirror the Grand Amphitheater, the hallowed arena where the Emperor deigns to breathe the air of mere mortals. The biggest public forum on the Capital, the Grand Amphitheater is used for everything from religious celebrations to Savior’s Day Parades to sports events. Misery knows the inside of the Grand Amphitheater intimately: the dark green tiers stacked to the stars, the bucket seats lined with holy opal, the sun-defying floodlights. The colossal 3D field embedded with holy obsidian where gravity is humanity’s plaything. From ages five to seven Misery watched every match of the Angels’ League, the brawler tournament with retired seraph mechs, their deadly weaponry scooped out and replaced with light show. She memorized stats and pilot names. Their favorite colors and flavors. Devoted more heart to it than to her actual religion. Misery will never admit to the long nights she spent dreaming of pilothood as a child, but those nights existed, a vast jungle of cringe, fantasies bursting from the rich loam of naïveté and sincerity. She imagined herself an exalted combatant, wrapped in angry polymer and steel, raining down destruction as the crowds sang their adoration.

What would baby Misery think if she could see what her adult self is doing? She wouldn’t understand, would not see the depth of the shit Misery’s in. She would be impressed and overawed by the prestige and importance of the people she’s meeting. Baby Misery was stupid as fuck. Grown-up Misery is taken through the paces, is taught to navigate the setup, avoiding butzed-off areas for dignitaries and decor. There’s the penitent’s pathway, a tongue of plush red, and the dais containing the throne, rendered as a block of tooth-white deadmarble. A floating platform will take her from the waiting area to the Emperor.

They run through a script, Pyrex Imogen playing the role of the Duke, the princess her older brother. The Lady Alodia Lightning hunches upon the gleaming throne, face slouched in an expression of absolute boredom. “Show him what the Larex Forge has gifted you,” says the Archbishop, and that’s Misery’s cue to take the Tear of Assan and repeat her feats from yesterday. This is a practice round, so she doesn’t waste her energy. Just goes through the motions.

“Oh, wow,” drones the princess, chin and cheek spilling out of her palm.