She saw, as clear as day, Ever’s face striking the edge of the table. Clawed fingers dug into her work table, dragging inch-long divots. The memory came with pain, as sure as if she’d been stabbed—not through the heart, but the base of the throat, the point where the windpipe branched to transmit air to each lung. It choked her.

She hurt enough in the moment that she felt like she could die. There was only regret, and that regret killed her a little more every time she faced it. She leaned forward, forearms resting against the worktable, clawed fingers pointing in, touching flesh.

Clawed hands stretched out, fingers splayed out as far as they could go.

A set hand motion, like a gesture of a magician in one of Ever’s books. Except they weren’t called magicians. She’d tried to read the books since, but—it hurt too much.

Middle and ring finger extended, a sweeping, circular motion, sharp, fierce, focused.

Then her hand moved, claws turned away. She moved gently, back of her hand reaching out—

Tactile feedback. Hair. Skin.

She—stupid to do this when her mask was off. Sounds escaped her throat, touched by her power. She usually had rules about when she allowed herself this—this illusion.

Phantom hands touched her arm, near where the rigging ran along the length of it. They squeezed it.

The wizards and whatevers in your stories made hard choices, right? They worked with monsters for something more important. To vanquish greater evils. To save worlds.

A motion of her hand dismissed the apparition.

Channel injector, wave adjuster, screwdriver. She picked up what she needed.

She adjusted the components of the mask, then put it on. It wasn’t anything as complex as a new setting—only ensuring that everything kept working when she made it more comfortable to wear. New components made for a tight fit, and it was already sufficiently tight enough that she couldn’t open her mouth a fraction, her voice silenced.

The air filtered through the mask, and more feedback beamed into her eye indicated that the air quality was good. In a pinch she’d have the ability to breathe for at least two minutes before the filters gave out. She made sure to bring more, slipping them into her belt.

But the new components—she adjusted the dial at the side, claw-tips finding niche grooves, rotating. In her reflection she saw the mask’s external change. Roar, snarl, mouth clamped shut, teeth meshed. With each one, she felt out with her emotion power—felt the people downstairs.

Anger and hostility? Not much, all considered, but it was crystal clear in her mind’s eye where it existed. Tension? More than a little, and very clear, like a thrum of a guitar string. Overall? The setting with teeth meshed was more focused on range than a specific flavor of emotion. It worked just fine.