#edlingsbjorkman

Clean breakdown:

Shard dispersal & recovery:

Bianca’s fragmentation occurs at the end of Meteorfall (OG FFVII). Sephiroth’s Homecoming — retrieving her shards even across other AUs — unfolds during the FFVII arc:

Advent Children → first filament reclaimed

Dirge of Cerberus → additional filament

Remake trilogy → culmination, Edge of Creation reconstitution

These events are concurrent, not sequential centuries

Reconstitution point:

By the end of the Remake trilogy, Sephiroth has gathered all viable threads and reconstitutes Bianca. This version is imperfect but complete — a synthesis of shards, memories, corruption, and autonomy.

The 500-year gap (pre-Kilonova):

This is post-reassembly. Bianca and Sephiroth are already whole, active, aligned, and operating together. Most likely, riding planet to planet, as per Sephiroth's speech in Advent Children, infecting and destroying worlds with their Jenova cells as they search for the Promised Land (before realizing that there isn't one). The gap exists to allow:

Asmodeus’s long-term maneuvering

Asmodeus recruits Genesis

Gaia’s aftermath and cosmic drift

The slow escalation toward Abyssal Reckoning

Think consolidation, preparation, and expansion.

Kilonova Arc:

The Abyssal Reckoning, godhood, corruption, and eventual Kilonova Crisis (Heaven and the Creator trying to stop them) all occur after that 500-year interval. At this point, they are established divine entities acting in concert (until Genesis decides to be a problem, as usual).

Temporal Instability in FWC

How this applies specifically to FF7 and Kilonova arcs:

Shard recovery vs. chronology:

Sephiroth’s Homecoming unfolds across multiple worlds with differing temporal flows. A shard reclaimed later in one reality may be retrieved earlier relative to another. This is why the FFVII-era shard events feel simultaneous despite spanning OG, Advent Children, Dirge, and Remake timelines.

The 500-year gap:

The 500 years between FFVII and the Kilonova Arc reflect the Mortal Realms’s linear time, not universal time. For Bianca and Sephiroth — operating between planes — that span is elastic. They are not idle. They are moving through collapsed, accelerated, or stalled timelines while history in the Mortal Coil and other realms continues forward. Caelora (Heaven), Umbralyth (Abyssal / Hell), and the Mortal Coil (the Mortal Realm) each have their own lineral time with fully realized calendars.

Character Continuity:

Just remember: Time is flexible; causality is not. Effects still require causes. They just don’t always happen in the order a mortal calendar would expect.

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"I know him," Zhenya said, "he's a... friend."

In truth, he didn't know how to quantify their relationship. They'd done rehab together, Kris with his arm and shoulder, Zhenya with his knee. They rarely saw each other, only when the other was playing in their city and vice versa. Hell, they didn't even have each other's phone numbers. They communicated exclusively through Instagram, Kris sending him reels at all hours of the day, occasionally followed by a risque photo or two.

Or, he did, before Zhenya fucked up.

"Oh," Anastasiya blinked, her hand dropping to her side. Clearly, she had no idea what to say, how to fix or help, but that whatever he'd done, it was enough to keep him from going over. Zhenya didn't know either. Kris read every DM but never responded, not even simple haha when Zhenya tried to ply him with reels of his own. He might've truly screwed this whole thing before it even really took off.

"Kris--" Anastasiya began, pausing to chew on her lip. He didn't know how Nikita's wife knew him so well, and that made him wonder. "He holds grudges--"

She didn't need to tell Zhenya that. Even in the short amount of time they'd been talking--properly--he made it clear he held no love for anyone on the Cubs, Reds, Royals, or Dodgers. Zhenya had never felt such disdain in a text before. Then again, if he had to see the Flyers almost sixteen times a year, he'd probably feel that way too.

"But it's not like he can't be won over," she continued, "Just--be apologetic. He'll get over it."

Would he? Zhenya wasn't entirely so sure. "Thanks," he said, patting her on the shoulder, even though her words did nothing to help his predicament. Anastasiya smiled, lopsidedly, before she disappeared.

Zhenya glanced Kris' way. Surprisingly, the catcher was looking back, a small smirk on his face, mean and vicious. Beside him, the man made a comment then laughed, Kris' smirk only widening.

Zhenya jerked away, shoving his hands into his pockets as he zigzagged through the crowd, heading towards the porch. He didn't know what that was all about, and he didn't want to stick around to find out.

St. Louis was humid, even so late at night. Everything clung to Zhenya, hot and sticky and unpleasant. It sort've reminded him of Miami in a way, but Missouri felt claustrophobic, almost too much like Pittsburgh for his taste. If asked, he couldn't really describe how--maybe it was the constantly changing weather, maybe it was the small-town, Midwest state-of-mind that permeated every being.

Maybe he was just being dramatic. Who knows, only that he couldn't wait to leave.

Resting his forearms on the porch railing, Zhenya stared off into the Tarasenko's backyard. Both it and the porch were empty, everyone preferring to say inside and revel in the air conditioning that feeling constantly damp outside. Crickets chirped, fireflies dancing in the sky, their lights reflecting in the pool water. It was a nice night--too bad he was too sore to enjoy it.

Behind him, the sliding glass door opened and shut with a soft click. He didn't care to see who it was--probably someone just coming out for a smoke.

"Hey," a familiar voice said, one that Zhenya had been dying to hear but startled him nonetheless. Kris came up beside him, a good two feet between them, his hands curling around the railing. He looked good, but then again, the man always looked good. His skin had started to tan, a bruise blossoming along his forearm from where a foul tipped ball had got him, dark and deep. Zhenya had winced when it happened, a full-body recoil at the solid thump that had managed to be picked up by the mics. Kris, not so much. Zhenya had watched as Kris leaned forward on his knees, covering his forearm with his non-glove hand, squeezed the gloved one rhythmically as the training staff came out. Before they could even get to him he was up, pacing, still flexing his hand and rubbing at the arm. As the training staff got to him, he had pushed up his mask in one swift motion, face contorted in discomfort. Zhenya could only watch as he waved off the training staff, took a couple of practice pitches, then got back out there with applause from the crowd. He'd taken hits like that with a puck before, but always through padding. He couldn't imagine what a direct hit to the arm like that would feel like.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing that came out of Zhenya's mouth, his gaze focused on that mottled purple bruise.

"Yeah, I could guess that," Kris replied, dryly, turning to sling his forearms across the railing, leaning his back against it. "From your, y'know, endless messages."

Zhenya's face grew warm. Smooth move. "I really am," he tried again, mainly because he didn't know if or when he'd get this opportunity again. "Shouldn't've said that. Was disrespectful."

Kris glanced over, that small smirk still tugging at the corners of his lips. "Even if you were right," his tone held no room for argument, that if Zhenya tried, he'd be an even greater fool than he already was, "I still get paid more than you."

Zhenya barked out a sharp laugh. "What?"

Kris jutted out his chin. "I do. You guys couldn't even afford me." That smile grew, mean and vicious, the kind that Zhenya had plastered on his face during bench-clearing brawls. "That is, if I even wanted to play for your shitty team."

"Shitty--" Zhenya started, indignation bubbling in his chest.

Kris didn't even so much as blink. "I mean, hockey's a dying sport, anyways. Who even cares about that in North America? You probably should've focused on football, at least then you'd be worth something."

"Hockey not dying, am not doing it for money, team is not shit," Zhenya snapped, turning to face Kris. "America not the only place that exist, you know. Penguins good team, we win cups. Who you to say--"

"--All right," Kris said, amused, "I'm done. We're even."

"What?" Zhenya spluttered, that anger still there but now tinged with confusion.

"I said we're even."

At Zhenya's silence--or more accurately, quiet stuttering--Kris tossed his head, and said, "You insulted me, my sport, my team, so I insulted yours. We're even."

That's not the same thing, Zhenya almost said before clamping his jaw shut. Kris, too quick and observant for his own good, grinned. The conversation that started this all popped back into his mind.

It had been during the last series the Cardinals played in Pittsburgh, the two of them having gone out for a quick breakfast. Kris had been lamenting about the strains of baseball, agonizing over his one day off, how day games early in the year sucked because there was hardly anyone there. Zhenya, still not quite grasping why Kris liked baseball so much, why he'd given up hockey for it, had replied, "Baseball not even a real sport, anyways."

"The fuck you just say?" Kris had asked with a stunned laugh. It wouldn't be until much, much later, when Zhenya was overthinking everything, that he'd realize that it'd been in disbelief, not amusement.

Zhenya, stupid, oblivious Zhenya, had just shrugged. "I mean, how hard is it? Stand there, swing at ball, is not hard. Like golf, y'know. Why even practice so hard?"

"I play with some of the best athletes in the world," Kris retorted, his eyes narrowed. There'd been no humor in his voice, but, somehow, Zhenya hadn't noticed it.

"How can be best athletes when all American?"

"You couldn't hit a fastball even if it was right down the middle."

"Bet I could. Better than your teammates."

He had meant it as a joke, but clearly, the conversation had warped and became something he hadn't intended it to be.

Kris' smile turned sharp, almost a sneer. "Well, Mr. 101," he rose from the table, palm pressed flat against the hardwood surface, "Can't wait to see you in next year's draft class, then."

Kris had been so pissed that during his next game, he went four-for-four, was a triple-off from the cycle, and hit a walk-off. Even surrounded by his teammates, having won the God damn game for them, he didn't look happy.

Zhenya dipped his head, staring at the floor. The wood had begun to crack and splinter, dark fibers popping up under the white paint. "Am sorry," Zhenya said again, still feeling deeply hurt and angry but swallowing it back, knowing he didn't deserve to whine about it. "Really. I'm talk to Sid about, not know why make you so upset. I'm, like, not realize all work go into it, y'know? Sid and I go to games, he tell me about it, we look at pitches. Was like reviewing tape. He even take me to a batting cage--"

"Wait," Kris laughed, "you went to a batting cage?"

"Yes! Sid say I'm not know what is like, try to hit baseball. So, I'm say, take me. I'm see Sid hit, know he hit good. He take me, show me how do it, I'm hit."

"Yeah?" That grinned had turned full-on ecstatic, like it was the best news Kris had ever heard. "How'd it go?"

"Is hard," Zhenya whined, prompting Kris to laugh, "is like, ridiculous! I'm hit but then Sid say no, no hit, go foul, but I'm like, I'm hit. He ask me if I want to see other pitches, like splitters, and I'm say no, I'm can't even hit fastball!"

"It's a lot harder than it looks," Kris' face relaxed, that easy-going look that Zhenya was used to, "Y'know, hitting a round object with another round object."

"But make it look so easy. Whats your batting average again? Sid say is, like, insane. Consistent."

".330." At Zhenya's disbelieving sound, Kris continued, "It's why I'm paid the way I am. Not everyone can hit like that. I'm valuable, y'know, in baseball--like you are in hockey." Kris tilted his head back, peering past the lip of the porch awning to the faint stars sparkling in the dark St. Louis sky. "I don't expect you to understand that, not when baseball isn't really a thing in Russia, but this sport--it's everything to me. Everything I work for, strive for, is to get better at baseball, to be the player I know I can be, and I won't let anyone minimize that--not even you."

"I'm know, and I'm sorry. Really. I'm--well, not sure why I'm say. I'm guess--" Zhenya shrugged, truly at a loss for words, swinging from the hip at this point, "at time, not understand. I'm not watch baseball, like, ever, y'know? Look so easy, like kids sport. Then I'm watch you, and I'm see how hard you work, think, oh, is just Kris thing. Make assumption."

"A pretty fucking big one." Kris snorted. "Didn't feel so good having it thrown back at you, did it?"

Zhenya winced. "Like I'm say, sorry."

"Yeah, yeah. Just watch yourself, because next time you say something like that, I'm taking you to the cage, and letting Waino pitch to you."

"I'm not even hit fastball from machine! How I'm hit off him?"

Kris glanced his way. "Don't piss me off then, and we won't have to find out, will we?''

The topic seemed settled, even if just for the evening. Eventually, they went back inside, Kris to his group and Zhenya to his own. But by the time he made it back to his hotel room, there were several reels waiting for him in his DMs, one of which being a highlight reel of Kris' offensive plays. Not even a second after Zhenya hearted it, another picture came in, Kris with his back to the mirror, swathed in a black jersey.

I don't know if I should return this, the message said, from what I hear the player's kind've an asshole.

Zhenya smiled, typing back, you should, such asshole, not even a good player.

Shame, came the response, doubt they'll let me return it, though. Guess I'll just have to keep it.

Real shame. Zhenya scrolled back up, taking in the sight of Kris in a Penguins jersey, MALKIN stitched across the back of his broad shoulders.

Thought you all would find this answer interesting. I think in one of the AUs, they need to have a proper wedding.

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Ardyn Izunia Bianca approaches Ardyn with the same precision one uses for an unstable relic: beautiful, deadly, and steeped in centuries of corrosive grief. Ardyn’s charm meets her composure like two mirrors reflecting infinite facets. Their banter is sharp, elegant, and laced with dark humor. Bianca refuses to be drawn into his games, and Ardyn finds that resistance endlessly entertaining. He calls her 'little sovereign', she calls him 'the gentleman of rot', and both pretend these titles are insults.

Beneath the playfulness lies mutual recognition. Ardyn sees in Bianca a creature who carries cosmic wounds with startling grace. Bianca sees in Ardyn a tragedy that has learned to laugh. They do not trust each other, but they genuinely enjoy their exchanges. In battle, Ardyn follows her strategy out of curiosity: just to see how her illusions interplay with his chaos. She treats him like a wildcard. He treats her like a riddle.

Cloud of Darkness Bianca engages the Cloud of Darkness with reverent neutrality, meeting the entity as one cosmic force acknowledges another. Their interactions are quiet, almost ritualistic: two beings of controlled annihilation sharing an unspoken understanding. Bianca doesn’t attempt to humanize or interpret the Cloud’s intent; she communicates through calm reasoning and respectful bows. This earns her the entity’s rare patience. The Cloud listens to Bianca in a way it refuses most others, perceiving in her aura a refined, disciplined shadow rather than chaotic destruction.

During the Shinryu battle, Cloud of Darkness wordlessly gravitates toward Bianca’s illusions and spatial folds. The Cloud recognizes her as a being of contradiction — a creature born of light and void — and respects her willingness to use destruction with purpose, not hunger. Bianca finds the Cloud’s presence strangely grounding: a reminder that annihilation, when intentional, can be elegant.

Exdeath Bianca treats Exdeath with meticulous caution: not fear, but intellectual respect for a being whose existential logic borders on nihilistic ruin. She approaches him as one engages a metaphysical phenomenon, not a person. Exdeath is initially dismissive of her. She is a creature of contradiction, and contradiction offends him. But Bianca’s composure, cosmic literacy, and refusal to react emotionally to his threats gradually earn his attention. She is one of the few who can debate the nature of void and form without irritating him.

Their alliance forms around necessity. Exdeath appreciates her structured thinking, free from the emotional “noise” of her peers. During strategic discussions, they exchange curt, precise remarks that leave others baffled. Bianca does not trust him — she respects his purpose, not his motives — but she acknowledges that his presence is an integral component of the destructive balance. Exdeath finds her tolerable, which for him is high praise.

Kefka Palazzo Bianca handles Kefka with the effortless authority of someone accustomed to dealing with volatile nobles and misbehaving demons. She refuses to rise to his taunts, which both frustrates and fascinates him. Her strategy is simple: treat him like an unruly court jester whose antics are beneath her dignity. Kefka, bafflingly, responds well to this: in part because she never underestimates him. He delights in trying to pry irritation out of her, but her unshakable calm drives him to theatrical tantrums that Spiritus finds almost relaxing.

Despite his destructive impulses, Kefka occasionally shadows her in battle, drawn to the contrast between her elegance and his chaos. She redirects him like a matador, guiding his frenzy away from their own forces. During the Shinryu crisis, he attempts to sabotage Materia’s warriors, but Bianca’s illusions and dream-pressure restrain him long enough for the truce to stabilize. Kefka claims he finds her “boring,” but his constant orbit says otherwise.

Gabranth Gabranth and Bianca share a sober, almost militaristic rapport. He respects her for her strategic mind and moral clarity. She respects him for his discipline and refusal to indulge chaos. Their conversations are blunt but courteous. Neither wastes time on posturing. Gabranth quickly becomes one of her trusted anchors within Spiritus’s ranks, offering a grounded, practical counterpoint to Kuja’s theatrics and Sephiroth’s cold precision.

In battle, Gabranth appreciates that Bianca never overestimates herself. She issues precise orders, anticipates enemy patterns, and compensates for her own physical fragility. He acts as her shield when necessary, not out of affection but tactical necessity. This is a partnership both acknowledge without sentiment. During the Shinryu conflict, their coordination is seamless: Bianca directs the flow; Gabranth enforces it.

Garland Bianca treats Garland as the knight-philosopher he truly is beneath his armor: a man bound by destiny more than desire. She recognizes the tragic nobility in his fixation on the Warrior of Light. Her approach to him is direct, logical, and without pity; Garland respects this immensely. He appreciates that she doesn’t mock his fatalism or romanticize his loop. She simply analyzes the structure of his “destiny knot” and uses it to anticipate where battle tension will spike. In strategic councils, he listens to her quietly, head tilted as if measuring her assertions against millennia of experience.

In turn, Garland considers Bianca an anomaly: a being who understands destiny without being shackled by it. He occasionally tests her resolve with existential questions (“If fate demanded Sephiroth’s death, would you comply?”), and her precise answers reinforce his regard for her. During the Shinryu crisis, the two fight back-to-back with instinctive synchrony. Bianca respects his discipline and constancy. Garland respects her clarity and refusal to waste words.

Golbez Bianca respects Golbez’s gravity and honor, finding him one of the easiest champions to work with. His calm presence offsets the court’s volatility, and she often consults him when she requires a morally anchored perspective free from theatrics. Golbez, in turn, values her strategic sharpness and the fact that she never exploits his regrets. He views Bianca’s formal poise as a sign of respect. She treats him as a warrior, not a pawn or a monster. Their alliance is rooted in mutual dignity.

Golbez intervenes subtly whenever Kefka or Exdeath attempt to provoke her, not out of protectiveness but principle. During the Shinryu conflict, he works closely with Bianca to coordinate long-range pressure, respecting her battlefield manipulation spells as masterful tools of control. He admires her ability to wield darkness without surrendering to it, seeing in her a mirror of his own resolve. She, in turn, considers him one of the few stabilizing forces.

Kuja Kuja is Bianca’s closest ally and confidant within Spiritus’s side: a brilliant mind that mirrors her in elegance, theatricality, and emotional nuance. The two quickly form a “mutual admiration society,” recognizing in each other a refined intellect and a performer’s soul. Their conversations are musical: two tragic poets trading barbed wit and high philosophy behind silk fans. Bianca grounds Kuja’s emotional volatility. Kuja softens her cold precision. They become the unofficial political heart of the villain faction.

Together, they orchestrate diplomatic maneuvers, redirect Kefka’s chaos, subtly undermine Mateus’s overreach, and stabilize the faction’s narrative tension. Kuja is fiercely protective of her: not out of possessiveness but respect. During the Shinryu confrontation, the two move with balletic coordination: his trance-infused magic and her illusion weaves merging into devastating symphony. They understand each other deeply and, if not for Sephiroth, may have moved onto a romantic relationship.

Jecht Bianca treats Jecht with calm professionalism, appreciating his straightforward nature. In a court of schemers, madmen, and cosmic forces, Jecht’s blunt honesty is oddly refreshing. He respects her because she doesn’t talk down to him, doesn’t flinch at his bravado, and doesn’t mistake his laid-back attitude for stupidity. Bianca, in turn, often consults him when she needs the court’s emotional temperature read from a grounded, practical angle.

Jecht occasionally acts as a mediator for her: an unexpected role he takes on with surprising competence. He diffuses tension between Kuja and Kefka, or between Sephiroth and Mateus, simply by existing loudly enough to interrupt the spiral. On the battlefield, he follows her strategy without fuss, trusting her judgment. Bianca appreciates that Jecht is one of the few who treats her like a person rather than a political force.

Kam'lanaut Bianca and Kam’lanaut operate with a delicate, diplomatic equilibrium. She recognizes his ambition and polished composure, and he respects her sharp political instincts. Their interactions are civil, layered, and subtly barbed: two diplomats assessing one another’s motives while maintaining flawless courtesy. Bianca never underestimates his appetite for ascendancy, and Kam’lanaut understands that beneath her calm lies a mind capable of toppling courts.

Despite the mutual wariness, they work efficiently when goals align. Kam’lanaut appreciates Bianca’s ability to temper Kefka and Kuja, recognizing that her presence stabilizes the environment he intends to exploit. She values his disciplined tactical mind, even if she keeps him at a cautious distance. During the Shinryu battle, the two exchange few words but coordinate effectively through shared understanding of battlefield patterns.

Sephiroth The dynamic between Bianca and Sephiroth in Dissidia is defined by intellectual symmetry and controlled magnetism rather than emotional entanglement. They recognize each other as equals in restraint: two apex tacticians whose minds fold around the battlefield with frightening precision. Sephiroth respects her elegance, her discipline, and her refusal to indulge chaos. She respects his strategic mastery, uncanny foresight, and capacity for calculated silence. Their alliance is so seamless that the rest quietly refer to them as Spiritus’s “twin blades.”

In practice, Bianca becomes the only champion Sephiroth speaks to as an equal rather than an inferior. They plan together, anticipate planesgorger incursions, and co-author the staged conflict that draws out Shinryu. On the battlefield, their synergy is unmatched. Her illusions guide his strikes, and his presence protects her frail mortal frame. The two rarely need words. A glance, a shift in stance, a change in magical pressure. They move as one.

Snow Villiers Bianca finds Snow’s optimism baffling but not unwelcome. In a faction dominated by cynicism, Snow’s heroic bravado is almost refreshing. She treats him with patient professionalism, quietly redirecting his enthusiasm toward productive objectives. Snow, in turn, respects Bianca’s calm strength and sees her as someone who carries immense weight without complaint. He refers to her — privately — as the quiet backbone of the whole mess, which she pretends not to hear.

Despite their differing temperaments, they cooperate well. Snow’s raw power complements her battlefield control, and Bianca’s calculated strategies keep him from charging blindly into planesgorger traps. She appreciates that he does not fear Sephiroth or Kuja and treats her with sincere respect rather than awe or suspicion. In a strange way, Snow reminds her of a world that could have been kinder.

Spiritus Bianca’s relationship with Spiritus is defined by mutual sovereignty and rationality. She recognizes that beneath his deliberately “villainous” presentation lies a level-headed god who bears the burden of destruction not out of malice, but obligation. Her first act upon being summoned is to kneel in formal respect, not submission: a gesture Spiritus returns with genuine acknowledgment. For him, Bianca becomes the rare champion who understands the philosophical architecture of their cycle. He values her clarity, her refusal to posture, and her ability to cut through Materia’s inflammatory rhetoric without emotional entanglement. He trusts her assessments of planesgorger behavior long before the others do.

Over time, Spiritus comes to rely on Bianca as his political and metaphysical strategist, the “civilized blade” who stabilizes his hall. Her diplomacy is the reason he can host Sephiroth, Kuja, the Emperor, and Kefka in one chamber without the realm imploding. Spiritus respects her unique restraint: a darkness that is controlled, principled, and devoid of cruelty. He encourages her counsel, even when it challenges him, and gives her full discretion in shaping villain strategy. Though he knows she will eventually leave him when the cycle breaks, he honors her with a degree of dignity he grants to no other champion.

The Emperor (Mateus) Bianca and Mateus engage in a perpetual, elegant chess match: two brilliant tacticians circling each other with silk-gloved claws. She regards him as a serpent: beautiful, calculating, and dangerous. He views her as a political threat wrapped in celestial elegance. Their conversations glitter with double meaning, veiled threats, and refined venom. Bianca never gives him the satisfaction of flinching, and Mateus finds her unreadable composure intoxicating in a way he refuses to admit. They frequently challenge each other during councils, each framing their strategy as superior while Spiritus watches with amused resignation.

Despite this rivalry, Mateus respects Bianca’s intelligence more than any other champion. She treats him as a mastermind rather than a caricature of tyranny, and that acknowledgment sharpens his interest. During the Shinryu truce, they function as dual tacticians, occasionally finishing each other’s arguments with seamless precision. Bianca trusts him as far as one trusts a cobra, but she does trust his ambition to align with her objectives when the stakes demand it. Mateus, in turn, considers her the only figure capable of matching — or surpassing — his political finesse.

Ultimecia Bianca and Ultimecia maintain a cool rapport rooted in mutual comprehension of time, power, and political weight. Bianca respects Ultimecia’s poise and recognizes the deep exhaustion beneath her desire to leave the cycle. Ultimecia, in turn, identifies Bianca as a rare peer: a woman who wields darkness with elegance, not desperation. They exchange measured, almost academic conversation about temporal causality, destiny, and power: neither mocking nor condescending.

Though they are not allies in temperament, they function seamlessly when necessity demands. Ultimecia appreciates Bianca’s ability to keep lesser egos in check, allowing her to focus on high-level temporal manipulation. Bianca respects Ultimecia’s decisiveness and her refusal to be drawn into petty theatrics. During the Shinryu battle, they coordinate long-range suppression magic with ruthless efficiency.

Vayne Carudas Solidor Bianca respects Vayne’s discipline, ambition, and political acumen. He is one of the few champions she treats as a true statesman rather than a tyrant. Vayne recognizes in Bianca a sovereign mind: poised, quiet, and unafraid to wield power with precision. They converse like heads of state: measured, formal, occasionally adversarial, but always with underlying respect. Vayne often requests her insight when analyzing the cycle’s emerging political structure.

Their cooperation during the Shinryu crisis is exceptionally smooth. Both understand the necessity of unity, and both excel at commanding chaotic forces into order. Bianca appreciates Vayne’s unwavering focus and lack of theatricality, while Vayne admires her capacity to influence the court without ever raising her voice. They are aligned in method, even if their long-term ambitions diverge.

Zenos yae Galvus Zenos views Bianca with predatory fascination from the moment they meet. She is not afraid of him, not impressed by him, and not horrified by his obsession with battle: a reaction that confounds and enthralls him. Bianca’s poise under his scrutiny earns his grudging respect. She sees him clearly and refuses to indulge his hunger for spectacle. To Zenos, Bianca is an anomaly: a strategist whose detachment neither condemns nor encourages him.

Bianca, however, treats Zenos like a living calamity: something to be redirected, not cured. She recognizes the danger he poses to equilibrium and ensures he is deployed where his appetite serves the greater strategy without destabilizing the court. During the Shinryu battle, Zenos gravitates toward her illusions, drawn to the challenge they present. She uses this to channel him into constructive destruction.

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Hot tears welled in Kris' eyes, lips curling into a snarl. Mario had gone back on his word--he had promised that it was only going to be the two of them. No one else would find out what Kris had done to secure his spot on the Penguins. No one was supposed to know.

But here was Malkin, witnessing Kris at his lowest, and they had never even met.

"Everyone will know by the time we're done," Mario bit the shell of Kris' ear, nails digging into Kris' hips. "Not a single soul on that team won't know that you came to me and begged for me to do something, anything, to get you on that roster. That you dropped your pants like a bitch in heat and allowed yourself to be bent over this desk."

Kris' cock was trapped between the edge of his desk and his belly, weeping come onto the dark oak. He choked back a moan, which only led to it sounding like a sob. Mortified, Kris lowered his head, allowing his hair to obscure his face.

Mario's all talk, he told himself, grinding his teeth, he's all talk. All talk. That's it.

"Why don't you join me, Geno?" Mario turned his attention back to their observer. Kris flinched. "He's got a perfectly good mouth."

Kris had never given a blowjob before. He had tried, earlier, but he kept choking and snot had poured out of his nose and Mario had quickly grown annoyed. This had been the compromise. The thing that Mario had promised him would secure his future. Mario was going to talk to Therrien and it'd all be worth it.

"No," Malkin said, with only a slight quiver in his voice. "No, I'm--I won't."

Mario hummed, displeased. A thumb dug into the meat of Kris' ass, right into one of the spots where his zipper had rubbed him raw. "I see," he said, plainly. "You don't have the hunger for it. Not like Sidney."

Malkin inhaled, sharply, but before Kris could turn to look, Mario shoved his head down over the edge of the desk. Blood rushed to Kris' head and he closed his eyes again. Just a little longer, he told himself, a little longer and it'll be over, just a little longer--

"Get out," all the amusement and play was gone from Mario's voice. Clearly, Malkin's unwillingness to partake had soured Mario's mood greatly. Kris slumped against the desk in relief, whimpering as Mario resumed his brutal pace, the loud smack of his body against Kris' ass louder than the beating of his heart in his ears. "I said, out."

The door finally closed, and when Kris looked, Malkin was gone. Kris could've sobbed in relief if it wasn't for the harsh dig of Mario's fingers into his hips.

Dropping his head, Kris resolved himself to a couple of things: one, that once his teammates found out, they'd despise him for being so weak, for being so selfish as to think he deserved a spot on the team more than anyone else, that he'd sleep with Mario to get it. Two, that whatever chance he had of earning Malkin's respect and friendship were now gone, forever tainted by this. How low he'd get for just a taste of his dream.