Die. Respawn. Repeat.

He-Who-Wanders was not suited for diplomacy.

In all fairness, very few of those he considered to be the core rebels were actually suited for diplomacy. Bimar was more likely to start a fight than not; Thys and Thaht were too excitable and too impatient respectively; Miktik was an utterly terrible liar; Vahrkos...

Well, Vahrkos was probably the most suited amongst them for diplomacy, now that He-Who-Wanders thought about it. But he was also the most combat-ready of them. The kobold brothers couldn't bring their gear anywhere near the military base, so sending them there to try to extract information from the general was suicide at best. Vahrkos had the best odds of surviving that encounter long enough to bring them information about Whisper's plans.

He-Who-Wanders hoped that the Trialgoer was telling the truth about his loops. It all seemed a little unbelievable, but the proof had been nearly undeniable.

Though even if he had been lying, what choice did they have? To go against a Trialgoer directly... their little rebellion in the midst of Isthanok was all they could do, and even then—even as secretive and minimal as their actions were—they'd suffered losses. His sister, for one.

Vahrkos had been the only one there for him when she was killed. She was a bright spark for their group, and all of them lost something the day she died. The others had been too busy with their own grief, and though he understood, it still hurt.

Bimar lashed out at anyone that came near. Miktik spoke to no one and nothing—she spent all her time with the AI core she'd been developing instead, whispering to it when she thought no one was looking. Thys and Thaht worked harder than ever on their inventions, coming up with new weapons that nearly won them the Arena championship.

And then there was him. He-Who-Wanders. A silverwisp just like She-Who-Whispers. He'd always felt a little bit like an outcast because of the fact. It was no secret that Isthanok as a whole tended to treat silverwisps a little better than all the other species; he had advantages the others didn't. It didn't mean things were easy for him, but it did mean he didn't completely understand what they faced.

The way others looked down on crows like Bimar for their more simplistic style of speech. The way Miktik was sometimes seen as a pest. The way Thys and Thaht were thought of as amusing entertainment. The way Vahrkos was seen as nothing but a soldier.

Vahrkos, He-Who-Wanders knew, was the farthest thing from a soldier he could imagine. The morphling was certainly capable of fighting. He was terrifyingly effective, if anything. But he didn't enjoy the act—refused to participate in it, outside of circumstances that made it necessary. He'd been with his sister when she died, and he'd gotten gravely injured in his attempt to save her.

It was a miracle that he'd survived that encounter with He-Who-Guards at all, really. Or, technically, She-Who-Whispers, controlling He-Who-Guards as though he were a puppet. The thought of it continued to make him feel sick to his nonexistent stomach.

She-Who-Sings. Her name still made his form flicker with grief, the ethereal wisp that made up his head flickering for a moment like a candle flame.

Vahrkos had been the only one to seek him out in the time when he was grieving her death. The morphling was still gravely injured, and try as he might, He-Who-Wanders couldn't quite bring himself to visit him. He spent his days wandering the garden outside the morphling's home instead, tending to the flowers, watering the plants.

He still remembered the first time Vahrkos managed to find him.

"I'm sorry." The morphling's voice was still weak, and despite himself, He-Who-Wanders spun toward him with a flare of white-hot rage that burned down just as quickly into an aching grief. Vahrkos stood before him, steadying himself on a crutch and looking at him with eyes so sad He-Who-Wanders didn't know what to do with them.

"It's not your fault." The words were meant to be kind, but He-Who-Wanders found that he spoke with a harsh, bitter texture that he didn't intend. The idea that Vahrkos blamed himself enraged him. The morphling had gotten so badly hurt already, and he knew without a doubt that his sister wouldn't want Vahrkos to blame himself...

There was a difference in culture to blame there, too. To blame yourself for another's death was to disrespect their sacrifice. Music was his sister's first love, but she was no slouch in battle; he had no doubt she'd made sure that Vahrkos could return alive.

They were both silent for a long moment.

"I did not know her well," Vahrkos said, breaking the silence. "Will you tell me about her?"

"...Of course."

He-Who-Wanders hadn't known at the time how much it would help to just walk along the garden with Vahrkos, regaling him with tales of his sister during their childhood. Of the music she loved the most, and how she'd gotten involved with the rebellion to begin with—her favorite kinds of music were loud and rambunctious, and very much did not fit in with what She-Who-Whispers considered 'perfect' for her city.

In return, Vahrkos listened. And who could have known how much he'd needed someone to listen to him back then? He certainly hadn't known. He hadn't realized it until he found himself in Vahkros's arms, the morphling humming a strange tune to him as he cried.

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"They look like stars," Vahrkos said.

"...What do you mean?"

"Your tears. When your kind cries, your tears do not fall; they float into the sky, glowing with Firmament. They look like stars." Vahrkos caught one with a hand, letting the ethereal dust linger on his finger. "...I hope you don't mind my saying so, but it is beautiful. It is like your grief itself is reminding those around you of the beauty of what was lost."

"...I've always been ashamed of my tears."

"You shouldn't be."

And just like that, Vahrkos returned to his humming, and He-Who-Wanders listened.

Now that he thought about it, he'd never asked about that song. He-Who-Wanders hoped he would get the chance to ask, now that he knew he wanted to. He really wasn't suited for diplomacy.

"Any last words?" the guard asked him grimly. He-Who-Wanders sighed. Stupid, stupid paranoid merchants and their equally paranoid guards; all he'd done was ask to see the merchandise in the back, and now he had a spear pointed at his head.

"I'm here on She-Who-Whispers's behalf," He-Who-Wanders said. "You know what will happen if you try to kill me."

The guard hesitated.

Whisper could hear almost anything that happened anywhere in the city; invoking her name made it a near certainty that she would find you. But it also meant that it was well-known in the city that anyone who dared evoke her name were her direct agents. The guard knew that as well as he did.

He-Who-Wanders held his breath.

Please let this work.

Vahrkos was rather surprised to find himself being led quietly into the base rather than openly attacked—especially given that he'd done little to disguise the hositlity he felt toward each and every one of them. These were people who, in one way or another, supported She-Who-Whispers and her regime. No one was inducted into the Isthanok military without first proving that they were loyal even without Whisper's orders hanging over them.

Perhaps his demeanor was calmer than he'd intended? People who could read morphling body language were few and far between; too many of his kind were treated as weapons of war. Slaves, in effect, though the word seemed too distasteful for many to use.

So many excuses. Morphlings were too dangerous without their control suits, the politicians would claim. Too volatile. Too difficult to find and keep track of, with their different forms and their ability to find slipstreams in the Firmament.

Like pests. Like an infestation.

He-Who-Wanders was one of very few individuals that had never looked at him with fear.

"We've made a lot of progress with the Craven Arena, sir," the soldier beside him said cheerfully. Vahrkos tilted his head slightly so he could stare down at the smaller silverwisp. The soldier straightened his back under the weight of his gaze and spoke with undeniable pride. "Almost all Arena attendants now use the rewards we provide, and all tests with the infected rewards now work as expected."

Vahrkos was careful not to allow his expression to change.

This... was a case of mistaken identity. That wasn't too unusual—there weren't very many free morphlings around, and other species were notoriously bad at telling morphlings apart; they distinguished one another more through pheromones than by physical appearance. Why the general of the base didn't have more security in place to prevent this, he had no idea, but it was working out to his advantage.

"List the test results," Vahrkos said, keeping his voice as impassive as possible. This was the sort of information he was here for. He never would've guessed just walking in would work, or he would've done it a long time ago.

"Uh, well," the silverwisp stumbled a little. "She-Who-Whispers can listen in through the treated items as expected, even through Firmament barriers and the normal imbuements that would otherwise keep her out. Her Whispers can reach through them as well, although they're still only about eighty percent as effective."

"Only eighty?" Vahrkos made his voice sharp, and the silverwisp flinched.

"I-it's up from seventy, sir!" he said hurriedly. "We're pretty sure we can get it to around ninety, but any more and it's going to affect the clarity of the audio feedback to She-Who-Whispers. Besides, the other functions work almost perfectly, so we won't need her to act personally most of the time! Sir."

"I see," Vahrkos said coolly. "Define almost."

Talk as little as possible. Get the other party to make all the assumptions. Vahrkos had never been officially trained in this sort of thing, but it seemed simple enough—this silverwisp was afraid, and as long as he thought Vahrkos was angry, he would keep talking.

"Uh—" A nervous flicker of Firmament. "Basic punish and capture functionalities are at full capacity and can be remotely activated. The void suit deployment is—it's almost there, sir, I swear."

Something snapped. Vahrkos wasn't sure what it was until he glanced down; he'd gripped the badge he'd been given too hard, and the metal had broken into fragments. He stared at the crushed badge in his hand, then at the skittering fragments of purple Firmament that escaped and cascaded over his chitin.

The silverwisp beside him froze. "You're not the general," he said.

Vahrkos stared at the silverwisp. The young soldier looked back up at him, clutching at the clipboard in his hands, almost like he was hoping he'd be told he was wrong. How exactly had he been figured out? Something to do with the badge, no doubt. Something about the Firmament inside it?

He'd kept it contained out of pure instinct as soon as he'd been handed the badge. Allowing foreign Firmament to interact with him was how he'd initially been trapped by a void suit, a long time ago; he would never make that mistake again.

It seemed the general did have a security system of sorts in place.

"No," Vahrkos said. "I'm not. That badge was supposed to react to anyone that wasn't the general, I take it?"

The silverwisp narrowed his eyes. "I don't know how you got around it," he said, pulling a weapon out of his belt. Not only that, but Vahrkos felt a pulse in the slipstreams that surrounded them—some sort of signal to the base, no doubt. It felt like the whole place was suddenly coming to life with Firmament. "But you're not getting out."

A confirmation, then. Good information to have. Information he'd have to make sure to bring back to the others, or else this whole trip would be for naught.

"We will see about that," he said plainly.