Team Reforged; Power and Overpower
Copyright© 2026 by FozzieBare
Chapter 4: Queen on a Throne of Blades
Amy had forgotten how much waiting was involved in having her picture taken. Not the actual pictures. Those happened quickly. Everything around them did not. Lights had to be moved. Then moved again. Then somebody decided one of the lights had been better where it started. The throne had to be adjusted.
One of the replica blades, supposedly forged from the armor of WarMACs Amy and Furiosa had destroyed, helped form the left side. It was apparently reflecting too much light, which led to three people spending several minutes arguing about whether the problem was the blade, the light, or the camera.
Amy sat nearby in a folding chair and watched. She had expected to be nervous. She wasn’t. Not exactly. There was something oddly comforting about how mundane the whole thing was. Nobody was trying to redefine her. Nobody was asking what Furiosa would wear. Nobody had shown her a rack of costumes and asked which one made her look most intimidating.
She had arrived in clothes she had chosen. Good jeans. Boots. A dark shirt. A Reforged jacket Marcus had suggested she bring but had not insisted she wear. That was it. Amy Williamson. Possibly Amy Williamson with professionally adjusted hair, because apparently there were limits even she had to accept.
The makeup artist approached. Amy saw Marcus move. He had been trying very hard not to hover. He was failing. Not badly. But failing. The poor man had spent most of the morning pretending he was interested in his phone while actually monitoring every conversation that came within six feet of Amy.
The makeup artist held up a small case.
“Just camera work.”
Marcus was already halfway out of his chair. Amy looked at him.
“Marcus.”
He stopped.
“I’m fine.”
The makeup artist glanced between them. Marcus looked faintly embarrassed.
“Right.”
Amy smiled.
“A little makeup isn’t going to destroy my sense of identity.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
“You were about to tackle her.”
“I was not.”
The makeup artist raised an eyebrow. Amy did too. Marcus sighed.
“I was going to ask what she was doing.”
“From six inches away?”
“I am an attentive agent.”
“Sit.”
Marcus sat. The makeup artist smiled.
“I like her.”
“You haven’t known her long enough,” Marcus muttered.
Amy turned back.
“Go ahead.”
It wasn’t much. A little foundation, mostly because the lights did strange things to skin. Something to cut the shine. A little around the eyes. The makeup artist asked before doing anything beyond that. Amy appreciated it. She found herself thinking about the difference. The distinction would have sounded stupid a week ago.
Maybe it still sounded stupid. But there was a difference between somebody helping her look like herself on camera and somebody deciding what version of herself would sell best. The first was technical. The second was personal. Amy could live with technical.
“Done.”
Amy looked in the mirror. She looked like Amy. A slightly more evenly illuminated Amy.
“Good.”
Marcus stood.
“Everything okay?”
“Marcus.”
“Just asking.”
“I still look like me.”
He looked.
“Yeah.”
Amy caught the relief in his face. Something softened in her. He was trying. Maybe too hard. But he was trying.
“Relax.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re waiting for someone to attempt an assassination.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“You’re a talent agent.”
“Exactly.”
Amy laughed. That helped too.
The throne looked even more ridiculous in person. It had been built for the shoot rather than rendered digitally. That had apparently been important to the photographer. Real metal. Real pieces of metal fabricated to resemble damaged WarMAC armor.
Real metal blades, deliberately battered and broken, although the edges had been dulled and secured so Amy would not accidentally end the shoot by impaling herself. It was tall. Heavy. Dark. Not comfortable.
“Of course it’s not comfortable,” Amy said.
The photographer looked offended.
“It’s a throne.”
“People sit on thrones.”
“Symbolically.”
“Kings and queens famously do not have asses.”
The photographer stared at her for half a second. Then laughed.
“Okay. Fair.”
Amy climbed the small platform. The original concept sketch had shown Furiosa sprawled across the throne like some triumphant barbarian queen. One boot forward. Elbow resting on a broken weapon. Chin raised. Challenge in the eyes. Amy remembered looking at it months ago. It had been cool.
She could admit that now. It had also felt like wearing someone else’s clothes. The photographer looked through the camera.
“How do you want to sit?”
Amy almost laughed. That question mattered more than the photographer knew. She settled back. Not slouched. Not sprawled. Both feet planted. Hands resting easily. Back straight. She looked toward the lens. The photographer waited.
“That’s it?”
Amy nodded.
“That’s it.”
“No sword?”
“No.”
“Want to put a foot on one of the blades?”
“No.”
“Smile?”
Amy thought.
“No.”
Marcus stood several feet behind the photographer. He said nothing. Good. The photographer adjusted the lens.
“Okay.”
The shutter clicked. Again. Again. Amy did not try to look fierce. That was the strange part. She had spent years knowing how to look fierce. Furiosa had been built from that. Set the jaw. Narrow the eyes. Tilt the head just enough. Make the viewer feel challenged. She didn’t do any of it.
She just looked at the camera. Serious. Quiet. Certain. The shutter kept clicking. Marcus watched. The first idea had been obvious. Furiosa on a throne of broken blades. The champion. The warrior. The woman who had beaten her enemies and built a seat out of what remained. It would have looked good.
It would have sold. It would also have been completely wrong. Marcus watched Amy sit there. No snarl. No theatrical triumph. No exaggerated swagger. Just Amy. He had a thought. Then immediately knew he could never tell her.
She looks like a queen.
Not Furiosa. A queen. Not because she was sitting on a throne made from broken blades in triumph. Because she was sitting there, and she knew what every one of those blades had cost her to reach. Marcus looked away before she caught him staring. She would mock him for the rest of his natural life.
Possibly longer.
“Marcus?”
Damn it. He looked back.
“What?”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The weird emotional face.”
“I do not have a weird emotional face.”
Amy looked at the photographer.
“Does he have a weird emotional face?”
“Absolutely.”
“Traitor.”
The photographer lowered the camera.
“Whatever you were doing before that, do it again.”
Amy’s amusement faded. She looked at the lens. Serious again. Click. Click. Click. Marcus smiled. Not enough for Amy to notice. Probably.
The interview was supposed to be easy. Marcus had made sure of that. No ambush questions. No weird gossip. No relationship excavation beyond what Amy was comfortable discussing. No surprise guests. No attempts to turn the thing into a confessional. The interviewer was a woman named Rachel whom Amy had met once before.
She knew WarMAC. That helped. Not obsessively. Not enough to start arguing about weapon heat curves. Enough to know what questions were worth asking. They set up beside the throne. Amy remained sitting on it. Rachel took a chair nearby. Marcus stood off to one side. Amy noticed.
“You’re still hovering.”
“I am standing.”
“Menacingly.”
“I am an agent.”
“Apparently that means something different where you come from.”
Rachel smiled.
“Should I be worried?”
“No,” Amy said.
“Yes,” Marcus said at the same time.
Amy looked at him. Marcus shrugged.
“Professional instinct.”
Rachel switched on the recorder.
“Ready?”
Amy nodded.
“Sure.”
They started with easy things. Vegas. The summer tournament. How Reforged had changed. Whether Amy thought they were better than they had been in the spring.
“Yes.”
Rachel waited. Amy smiled.
“You want more than that?”
“It would help.”
“We’re deeper. More experienced. We have people who know what tournament weekends actually feel like now.”
“You?”
Amy nodded.
“Me too.”
“What did Vegas teach you?”
Amy thought.
“That being good isn’t enough.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“Meaning?”
“Everyone at that level is good.”
Amy gestured vaguely.
“You get to a tournament like that and nobody’s there because they accidentally won a raffle. Everybody can pilot. Everybody knows their machine. Everybody has plans.”
“So what makes the difference?”
“Doing all of it while tired.”
Rachel laughed. Amy smiled.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Knowing when somebody needs to sit. Knowing when you’re playing because you’re the best choice and when you’re playing because your ego doesn’t want to come out.”
That one had taken Amy longer to learn. She didn’t say that.
“Knowing that losing one match doesn’t mean everything is falling apart.”
Rachel nodded.
“And now Reforged thinks they’re ready?”
Amy tilted her head.
“I think we’re readier.”
“Careful answer.”
“I’ve learned.”
“From Kevin?”
“Unfortunately.”
Somewhere behind the camera, Marcus snorted. They moved on. The throne. The joke behind it. The fansite. Eventually Rachel glanced at her notes.
“I have to ask about Cedandan XIV.”
Amy groaned.
“No, you don’t.”
“I absolutely do.”
“Marcus?”
“You created this monster.”
“Traitor.”
Rachel laughed.
“For readers who somehow haven’t encountered it...”
“Lucky people.”
“ ... Cedandan XIV started with something you said after the TrueGamers incident.”
Amy’s smile weakened. Not vanished. Just changed.
“Yeah.”
Rachel noticed.
“Do you mind talking about that?”
Amy thought about it.
“No.”
Marcus shifted slightly. Amy saw him. She shook her head once. He stayed where he was. Rachel waited. Amy folded her hands.
“The whole Cedandan XIV thing started as a joke.”
“About your purse.”
“About my purse, yes.”
Amy smiled faintly.
“Because apparently my purse is now an object of state.”
“Under High Command supervision.”
“High Command has entirely too much power.”
Rachel laughed. Amy did too. Then she became serious.
“The joke was me trying to deal with what had happened.”
Rachel didn’t interrupt.
“TrueGamers wanted me in a box.”
Amy looked toward the camera.
“Actually, that’s probably too nice.”
She thought again.
“They wanted me in a neat little box they could belittle and ignore.”
Marcus’s expression hardened. Amy kept going.
“They had an idea of what I was supposed to be, and when I wasn’t that, they decided the problem was me.”
She shrugged.
“The Cedandan XIV thing was basically a throwaway line.”
“And now?”
Amy smiled.
“Now I apparently rule a planetary government with an increasingly complicated military command structure and a national policy concerning handbags.”
Rachel laughed again. Amy’s smile widened.
“It got away from me.”
“Would you stop it if you could?”
Amy considered.
“No.”
The answer surprised Rachel.
“No?”
“No.”
Amy looked down at the broken blade beside her.
“It’s silly.”
“Very.”
“And that’s why I like it.”
Rachel waited.
“I like that when people think of that whole mess now, a lot of them think about purses and High Command and whatever stupid thing Cedandan XIV declared war on this week.”
“The coffee machine.”
Amy closed her eyes.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“High Command released a statement.”
“High Command needs adult supervision.”
Rachel grinned. Amy shook her head.
“But seriously, I appreciate it.”
Her voice softened.
“People took something ugly and turned it into something silly.”
She looked toward Rachel.
“They don’t think first about somebody trying to decide what I was allowed to be.”
A pause.
“They think about the joke.”
Rachel nodded.
“And that helps?”
“Yeah.”
Amy thought about it.
“It really does.”
The interviewer glanced down at her notes. That should have been the safe point to move on. Marcus relaxed slightly. Rachel looked back up.
“Speaking of people deciding what you’re allowed to be...”
Marcus’s head came up. Amy saw it. Rachel did not.
“We’ve heard that a production company is making a show based around a competitive gaming team.”
Marcus began moving.
“And from the photos that were leaked to Variety and some of the other trades, it appears to be at least loosely based on Reforged.”
Amy went still. Marcus was already halfway across the room. Rachel smiled, completely unaware.
“How honored do you feel about that?”
Marcus opened his mouth. Amy raised one hand. He stopped. Rachel finally noticed him. Her smile faded. Amy looked at her. For several seconds, nobody spoke. The photographer had stopped adjusting equipment. The makeup artist looked very interested in something across the room. Marcus stood three steps away.
Ready. Amy knew exactly what he would do if she asked. End the interview. Now. No argument. Maybe take the recorder with him. She almost let him. Instead she looked back at Rachel.
“I’m not.”
Rachel blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not honored.”
The room became very quiet. Rachel’s face changed.
“Oh.”
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