Three's a crowd. (open)

Training. Bastille was no exception to the generally accepted rule that all durability had to be upheld through rigorous and continuous training. She stood in an abandoned dance hall, for once clad simply in a leotard, a t-shirt, and her boots. She never trained without them. Her sword was idle, resting near her dusty backpack and bomber jacket. As always, her hair was left in a mess.

She'd been at this for hours. Since about 4am to be exact. That's what happens when you can't sleep. Crimson hues narrowed and she dashed forward, lunging and planting, stiffening, and transferring weight. She managed to land solidly on the beam, doing a triple flip and landing perfectly before gripping again and going to the spin and flip land. Suddenly her foot gave way and there was a loud crash heard as she hit the floor. Bastille grumbled and sighed.

"You've gotten soft Princess..." She chided herself.

"Ugh, never mind it, shut up and try again" She rebuked back.


"Try, try, try, - what's it all for anyhow?" She muttered as she returned to the far end of the beam. This time she rushed forward, planted and sticked her trick out without a hitch. She landed on the other side, standing completely upright and sighing.

"There, see?"

She let herself collapse and her chest rose and fell. Controlling your breathing to be as silent as the grave was also a hard work out. Her eyes closed for a second and she took a long minute to catch her breathe. Then, without much notice, she pulled herself up and moved to the mirrors on the far side of the room. She gazed at herself...quietly. An entire conversation seemed to go on between the three reflections, the real body being nothing but an audience member between them. The Princess. The Witch. The Knight. Her crimson eyes flicked toward the left most reflection, and the face in the mirror showed nothing but a distant, forlorn look that it probably had worn for as long as she could remember. The lips moved but no voice could be heard. Then the head moved towards the far right reflection which sat silently, stoic and stone faced. The grumpy frown on that visages face gave nothing to help the situation. And the middle reflection, the features distorted behind a crack in the mirror. Her lips were turned up in a smirk and she seemed to say something, although like the far left reflection, nothing was heard.

Bastille sat for a long while, looking between each of the three reflections. Then slowly there was a small chuckle. She turned and the reflections did too. They were just that, reflection anyway.


"What is truth? It's a relative question that by the basic standards of philosophy cannot be possibly answered because lies, what truth is not, cannot define it...so, we conclude that lies are also impossible to recognize. Perhaps it's better to refer to them as fact or fiction, and I much prefer fiction anyhow."

she muttered allowed, grabbing her sword and wrapping her hand up, getting ready to use it.

"Three's a crowd,..."

She ran and jumped flipping up into a hand stand onto the beam. It was very much like three people, triplets really, who never separated. They had the exact same memories, the exact same affiliates and effectants...but they were separate people. How they perceived the chemical reactions in the meat suit they all shared was different than the other. The body belonged to all of them, and so to- did it belong to none of them. Who was Bastille, .....even she couldn't answer that for herself. And frankly, she hadn't a care to figure it out.