Matter and Energy
"Three sisters!"
"—Shushutorian!"
Together, all three of them lifted the pendants into the air and again brought them down, a flash of illumination, falling cherry blossom petals, and then—silence. Uncomfortable looks.
"What is this get-up?" Clotho roared in sudden frustration, pulling at the short kimono she now wore, gentle red embroidered with gold.
Atropos, arrayed in gold and black, stepped forward, her expression passive, the weight of ornamentation remaining in her thick dark hair.
"Now, now, Clotho, we went to great lengths to obtain such baubles."
She looked down at her own hand as if contemplating the jewel that rested there, the gem that had allowed for their transformation.
"What did you call it again?" she asked. She lifted her head, sighed slightly. "No matter, I remember. Baramiracle pendants."
"Charmless baubles," Lachesis said, brushing her hair from her shoulder, similarly adorned to Clotho. "This wasn't worth our time, sister."
The eldest of the three sisters, dressed in the likeness of a child, solemn face and narrow eyes, glanced sourly up at her sister.
"Hold your tongue, Lachesis," she instructed.
Those moments as the host of Jyamatanoorochi, as the Orochi Malgam, had emboldened her sister, Atropos thought, even at the clear expense of her health.
"You lost them, correct?" she asked their audience.
The three women stood before her, smartly dressed, the difference in age relative to that in the appearances of the three Hades Sisters who now possessed the mirror of their strength.
"The baubles. You lost them," she clarified.
At the head of the three women, the eldest sister, a streak of grey running through her dark hair nodded her affirmation.
Atropos smiled.
"Yet even now, you are still able to transform. Is that right?"
"So what if it is? What's it to you?"
The youngest sister, Atropos thought, glancing at her with dispassion. Somewhere in her early 50s. A half century. What fleeting lives these humans had.
"Will you not challenge us?" Atropos asked, marginally curious.
Behind her, she felt the struggle of Lachesis restraining Clotho.
"I welcome your efforts!" the youngest of her sisters goaded. "Come on and try!"
Atropos turned her gaze to the last of the women, the middle sister, the place in their own trinity that Lachesis occupied.
"Nee-san," the woman said to the eldest with hesitation.
Wise, astute, clever where Lachesis was cruel. Atropos could respect that. Zodiac magic was temperamental, she knew that, and this was the Year of the Dragon, and the dragon was romantic and idealistic, a perfect match for roosters.
They knew something.
"Tell me," she said, directing her comments to the middle sister.
"You don't have to say anything, Tsukiko!" the youngest one again.
Atropos narrowed her eyes.
"It would be fortuitous for you to speak now."
The eldest of the three women steeled herself.
"We don't need to answer you," she announced with a coolness that rivalled Atrops's own. "Nor do we need to fight you."
There was a flash of movement, white and gold, the shape of a figure interposed between them. Atropos casually lifted her baton, blocking the edge of a blade, finding the eyes of a white tiger on the hilt.
She looked up at the figure between them, armoured and lithe, a Kamen Rider, she thought, another alchemist.
In the black visor of his helm, she saw herself reflected.
No. Not a Kamen Rider. Something else.
"Who are you?" she asked calmly.
"Lady! If you were thinking all zodiac magic would look the same, you were dead wrong!'
She felt Clotho and Lachesis move behind her, and she threw out an arm.
"Wait," she instructed.
Qi power.
"Hmm."
She pushed back with her baton and the new stranger went stumbling, the three women hastening to his side.
"Kou!" the youngest of the women said.
The figure nodded.
"I've still got it, don't worry."
"Don't listen to him," the hilt of the blade said swiftly. "He definitely does not still have it."
Qi power was a facet of zodiac magic, Atropos thought. Interesting.
"Dragons, tigers, and roosters, oh my," she said softly, her voice absolutely lacking warmth. "This year promises to be very interesting."
The image of Geryon falling surfaced in her mind, the poison arrow of Zeus's favourite son passing through him in the fading sunset of Erytheia. Grandchild of Medusa, nephew of Euryale, of Stheno, a man who believed himself their master.
At last, she smiled.
"Very interesting indeed," she said to no one but herself.
A cloud of black smoke stirred, and they were carried away, the baramiracle pendants still in their possession.
As the darkness occluded her vision, she caught one last glimpse of the oldest of the three women, the look of cold contempt, and perhaps, she considered, they might soon have a new target for their displeasure with the world.
The smoke curdled in their absence.