X - M A N S I O N

---

^{Two Days Later, Night | Salem Center, New York City}



Those six words sat like an anchor at the bottom of the television screen. Above them a bunch of Jumped up, make-up caked pundits and talking heads were screaming at one another about what they were calling the 'Bayville Incident.' Over a dozen men and women in suits had appeared to give their expert opinion on the threat that mutants posed to America's youth. There was all sorts of talk about arming teachers, making watchlists and putting armed security in every one-room schoolhouse in the States.

No matter what channel Scott flipped to it was all the same. Lance Alver's photo was plastered across national television and it had stayed there for the past two days straight. They were calling him all sorts of things: the Bayville Menace, a deranged psychopath, a disturbed youth; one particularly bizarre old man had taken to calling him the 'first stone' in an "avalanche of mass killers to come."

All of it pissed him off. But the one thing that really got to him was every time they mentioned the other mutants. Evidently, the media had gotten to one of those kids Lance had attacked because they'd actually started to discuss the X-Men by name. Opinions on them varied, of course. Some people thought the X-Men and Lance had both come to the school with the same goal in mind but had ended up at each other's throats. Others thought the X-Men were vigilantes that had tried but failed, to put a stop to the attack.

Those people were the ones that really got to Scott. They were the only ones giving him and his team the benefit of the doubt, but even they were quick to agree that the 'X-Men' had done more harm than good. "Let the police handle it," they fervently said. "A bunch of kids in masks are just going to get in the way."

As much as it made his blood boil, Summers couldn't help but feel like they were right.

There were other stories interspersed between breaks in the main event, none of them good. Some guy dressed like a Spider had attacked more NYPD officers in the city proper. A supermarket in Atlantic City that had refused service to mutant customers had been burned to the ground by protesters. A millionaire executive at Roxxon named Clayton Burr and his wife had both been abducted from their home and their son was just found dead in his office, his body torn to shreds by metal shrapnel.

They all shared a common thread that Scott couldn't help but notice. Every single story that ran that day- on every single news channel he could find- was about violence conducted by mutants. The talking points differed, the channel logos changed, and even the stories weren't all the same. But the agenda being pushed by everyone with a voice was paper thin. They all marched lockstep in their demonization of people they didn't so much as try to understand.

The remote in his hand crunched, it's plastic shell cracking and the electronics inside crumbling. Scott dropped the remains of the device onto the carpet before he rose from his chair. The voices coming from the TV grew distant as he left the room and started down the hallway toward the garage, stopping at his room to snag a coat and stuff his uniform into a duffel bag before making his exit.

Just as he stepped out of his door, though, he found a hand pressed up against his chest.

Jean Grey was a good six inches shorter than Scott and nearly fifty pounds lighter, but she didn't have any trouble stopping him in his tracks. All it took was a look.

"Oh, uh, Jean-" Scott started, clearly caught off guard. He would've thought everyone else was either asleep or stuck in their usual nightly routines by now. Summers retreated a step back into his bedroom, trying in vain to conceal the bag he had over his shoulder behind the door frame. "Did you need something?"

She let her hand fall away as he stepped back, crossing it over her other arm. She didn't bother answering, a knowing- and disapproving- look on her face.

Scott cleared his throat and turned his eyes away. "I'll be back soon. No need to worry about me."

"Uh huh." Jean sighed, lowering her chin into her chest. "You gonna talk to me or are you gonna keep pretending like nothing's going on?"

"I don't know what you-"

"Dude." Grey cut him off. "You never sneak out. Mister 'up with the sun' should'a been in bed an hour ago."

Summers locked his jaw and turned to look at her. Her hoodie bore on it the image of a skeleton with its mouth duck-tapped closed and two, boney middle fingers held high, and the name of some punk band he'd never heard of right underneath it. That was only what Scott noticed first, though- what he cared about more was the blue material of her uniform that peaked up around her neck.

"No." He shook his head, attempting to squeeze past her. "No, no, no. You're not coming with me."

"Oh, come on!" She snarled, punching the door frame to put her arm directly in his path. "You can't go out there by yourself, especially with everything that's going on."

Scott hesitated for a moment before grabbing Jean's arm and pushing it down, forcing his way out of the room so he could start toward the stairs. "How'd you even know what I was doing?" He asked incredulously, fully aware of the fact that she was just a step behind him.

Grey took him by the arm and spun him around to face her. "How do you think, you idiot?" She poked his forehead repeatedly with enough force that it began to sting. "Your brain's been practically screaming it since dinner."

Summers grabbed her finger and pulled it up over his shoulder, dragging her face closer to his. "How many times do we have to tell you 'no mind reading' until it gets through that thick skull of yours?" He asked in an annoyed whisper.

"You know I can't help it. Dick." She pulled her hand away, though she refused to step back.

"Maybe if you took those meds the Professor gave you-"

"-So I can be a drooling moron? Bobby's already got that covered, thanks." She scoffed.

Scott just threw up his hands. "Whatever. Fine. Let's just get out of here." He conceded. When Jean made up her mind he knew there was nothing he could do to change it, and he wasn't in the mood to argue with her for another forty minutes. The pair made their way down to the mansion's garage, completely unaware of the pair of glowing yellow eyes that had borne witness to the whole ordeal.

H A N ' S P I Z Z A P A R K I N G L O T

---

^{Two hours later, Night | Brooklyn, New York City}

The classic sound of CCR'S Fortunate Sons rolled out of the convertible's expensive stereo, smooth as silk but as powerful as a typhoon. Jean's black-booted foot tapped against the dashboard in time with the music, her hands currently occupied helping guide a hot slice of pizza into her open maw.

Scott's mood wasn't nearly as good as hers. His expression was twisted in dour concentration as he stared down at his phone, scrolling through endless incident reports and news coverage. Occasionally he'd flip from those over to another page scattered with digital notes, reminders and things to improve or follow up on.

The fight with Lance had been disastrous by most accounts. Bobby had managed to go toe to toe with Alvers, but he'd gotten so cocky that he nearly cost the rest of the team, those students and even himself their lives. And Hank had lost control of his anger again. Scott blamed himself for all of it. The onus was on him to keep everyone in line. He was the leader. He should've pulled them together when it mattered most. If he even had a little bit of real control over his powers, Cyclops knew he could've ended that fight in a second. All it would've taken was one, solid blast to the chest.

As it was, though, Scott couldn't have done that without killing Lance and probably someone else on the other side of the street. He felt frustratingly useless in that encounter. He couldn't control his team, his powers, or-

"Can you, like, stop feeling bad for yourself for two seconds and actually eat?" Jean interrupted, her mouth half-full of pizza. "You're really getting my mood down, dude."

Scott just grunted. "You're the one that wanted to come. And I am eating."

"Uh huh. Sure you are."Grey said, glancing at the slice of pizza Scott had set back in the box after taking exactly two bites. Taking in a breath she focused on it, compelling her psychic energy to surround the unfinished food and lift it into the air. She guided it over toward Scott's face and, in the same movement, reached over and plucked the phone from his hands.

"Hey!-" Summers started, only to find his open mouth stuffed with cheese, pepperoni, sausage and a whole load of tomato sauce. He looked like he wanted to complain, at first, but it didn't take long for him to take the slice himself and start scarfing it down until it was nothing but a few crumbs on his chin. "Alright, there. I ate. Now give me my phone back."

"Noo way, buddy." Grey shook her head. "No work allowed during graveyard-shift pizza time. It's the law. Look it up."

Scott didn't reply, except to lean across the front of the car to try and swipe his phone back. Grey was quicker, however, and managed to swap it into her other hand so she could press it up against her window. "Ahh. Too slow as per usual, Summers."

"Alright, that's it. You asked for it." Summers clicked his seat belt off and lunged across Grey's seat in an attempt to pin her arm down long enough for him to get his phone back, prompting Jean to squeal and squirm to get it as far away from Scott as possible.

The two's struggle only lasted a minute and a half before it was rather rudely interrupted by that same phone pinging in Jean's grip. She only glanced at it, one arm pressing into Scott's face to force him out of her personal space as the other held the phone toward the windshield. Summers took her by the wrist and forced it down, his smile faltering. He recognized that particular tone. "Hold on, that's important."

Jean furrowed her brow, handing it back to Scott. She knew when he was kidding and when he wasn't. "What is it?" She inquired, letting her feet drop off of the dashboard and back down onto the floor, intent on leaning over to get a view of the screen for herself.

"Sentinel app," Scott replied. "It pings me every time the NYPD mention a mutant on their scanners. Looks like...shit, that's not far from here." He quickly fumbled to stick the smartphone onto its mount on the dashboard. "A precint in Queens just got hit. That's twenty minutes from here."

"Ten if you floor it." Jean agreed with a nod.

"Call the team."

"And let them know we were out this late? Alone?" She scoffed. "Bobby and Kurt don't need more ammunition as is. Nah, we can handle it."

Scott just sighed, pulling them out of the parking lot and starting down the road much faster than he should have. "Here's hoping."

L O N G I S L A N D

---

^{Night | Queens Borough, New York City}

The wind pounded into Scott's ears with a roar no lion could match as they shot across Brooklyn and into Queens. He jerked the steering wheel to the side to narrowly avoid a car turning into the street he was busy barreling down at dangerous speeds, ignoring every red light along the way. He could already practically hear the professor chiding him about such recklessness, but on this particular night, Scott wasn't all too concerned with following the rules of the road. Anger was cutting through his veins like a virus, seeping into his fingers and forcing them to clamp down on the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles go white.

Jean had been right. Putting the pedal to the metal had gotten them to the 105th precinct in just ten minutes' time. He let his foot loose off the gas at the sound of sirens- they weren't approaching, though; it actually appeared he was coming up on them from behind. The building melded into view as he rounded the corner, revealing a fleet of cop cars as they sped out of the station's garage in pursuit of their mutant attacker. The sight of it made Summers' stomach drop.

Only two nights ago a psychopath who just happened to be a mutant murdered a pair of New York's Finest. It didn't take a mind reader to feel the rage bubbling just beneath the surface of those officers as they raced after the culprit. There were no reports of casualties coming out of the precinct, at least not yet, but...that wouldn't matter. Not when a bunch of angry cops with guns got their hands on whoever did this.

"We'll get to 'em him, Scott." Jean placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, snapping Summers back into the present.

He had a half a mind to give her the 'no mindreading' spiel again, but it felt like a waste of breath at this point. Instead, he let his hand fall down to the gear shifter and eased the gas back down, pushing past the precinct once the police cruisers had gone on their way. "We don't have a lot of time before they catch his trail. Do you think you can reach out to him? Find out which way he went?"

Jean gave a hesitant nod, falling back into her seat so she could concentrate. Her eyes slipped closed and her mind's eye opened in the same instant, revealing to her a hundred faces in her immediate vicinity. 'Face' wasn't an accurate term- not really. What she saw was more of an...imprint. A brief, surface-level imaging of a mind. It was easy to parse through them when they were like this, though it took a bit of strain to reach out for specific traits that might stand out.

'Mutant' was an easy one, letting all the faces that word didn't resonate with melt away. There was Scott right beside her, his image far more detailed than most. And there were a handful of others. A child hidden under a blanket with her cellphone, pretending to be asleep. An old man knocked out on his favorite chair. The police officers spreading out in front of her, though their connection to the word was...dark, to say the least. But she couldn't find their perpetrator.

She cycled through a few labels the criminal might give him or herself without any luck. Whoever they were, they didn't seem to affiliate themselves with the seedier parts of New York City's underbelly. It was possible they weren't any kind of thief, gangster or mobster- this might've been the first thing like this they'd ever done. Hell of a start to a career.

Jean furrowed her brow, glancing over at the precinct itself as they drove past it. She noticed a window was broken and glass had been shattered across the lawn. It was quite a fall. At that height, most ordinary people wouldn't have been able to stand back up, let alone escape the police. She zeroed in on a new word. 'Pain.'

"I've got him," Grey told Summers, raising her voice to be heard over the wind and the sirens. "Keep going straight, then hang a right." There was something...off about him. The imprint read like it was two different people, completely distinct from one another yet placed right on top of each other. One of the faces was recognizable as a person, but the other...The other felt horribly alien. Its very presence near her mind made her throat tighten and her eyes water. It was like nothing she'd ever felt before.

The convertible's driver was none the wiser to the nature of the thing they chased, however, and eagerly pressed on in the direction Jean had pointed him to. Scott's heart was pounding against his chest as he tore across the pavement light lightning, glancing over at his mirrors every other second to keep an eye out for the police that were so very near to them. Trees, houses and the night sky raced passed them on either side like a blur of green, browns and black. He slammed down hard on the break the moment they reached the intersection, skidding across the pavement to make the turn in record time. They were off to the races again without pause, soaring down the road with abandon.

Sure enough, though, his recklessness had proven fruitful: their prey's back had come into sight.

Whoever he was, he appeared to be wrapped up in some kind of costume. He was dressed head to toe in a skintight suit as black as midnight like you'd expect any thief at this hour to be- but then there was that big, ugly beetle symbol stretched all along his back, painted on in a blinding white. When juxtaposed on the field of black that was the rest of his suit, it sort of looked like a giant target.

"You see him, Jean?!" Cyclops roared, his fingers dancing across the rubber of the steering wheel with an equal measure of anxiety, excitement, and anger. "Let's slow him down!"

Jean blinked a few times to get the block splotches out of her eyes, nodding in agreement. She stuck her arms out the side of the car, keeping her palms held straight out and her digits as widely spread as possible. She focused fully on a bundle of objects sitting on the side of the street that they were rapidly approaching: a couple of garbage bins full to the brim with trash and a mailbox filled with much the same. She took in a deep, ragged breath, willing her mind to grasp each of the containers with an unseen hand. A silent scream fled through her parted lips as she strained to tear the mailbox's post from the dirt and lift the pair of surprisingly heavy bins from the ground, bringing them into the air and dragging them alongside as they approached the mutant from the back.

"Hey, pal, you got mail!" She shouted, heaving her arms forward and willing the objects to fling through the air toward the black-clad man's back.

Kent Nelson had sat on that bench many a time before. Sometimes with Inza. Sometimes alone. It'd been there for quite awhile in one form or another. His favorite was the wooden one, made from the same Willows planted all 'round him, that they'd put up way back in the 18th century. This one wasn't great, he had to admit. It's deep black, wrought iron frame was sturdy, sure, but it was so uncomfortable. He hated what it did to his back.

Hell of a view, though. Hell of a view. Especially now when the sun was starting to dip underneath the water of the Ram Horn, almost like the channel was swallowing Earth's star whole. It's light cascaded across the open water like God throwing stones across a pond. They shot out in a spray of a thousand, individual tendrils of fire that reached from the horizon all the way to the stony shore. Every time Kent saw it it took his breath away. He thought he'd caught lightning in a bottle, and the next time he sat on this bench, the majesty of it would disappear. It kept, somehow. And that made it all the more special.

It'd been far too long since the last time, he realized. He couldn't even remember when the last time was. Kent felt a tinge of guilt in his chest. The only reason he'd come back was because he had nowhere else to go now that the Tower of Fate was locked to him. And he had the audacity to stain this poor bench crimson. Terrible as it might be, it didn't deserve to be bled on.

"I've lost my way, haven't I?" He muttered, followed shortly by a sigh. A painful one. That last blow he'd taken to his side must've done more damage than he initially thought. Reaching down he pulled at the dark blue material of his costume, lifting it up to reveal the mangled flesh that still clung to his side. Blood, pus and dark magic dripped down it- all of it flowing from the big, ugly mark in the center.

Arrogant. Stupid. Reckless. He should've known challenging Mordru in his own domain was folly from the start, and yet the mighty Doctor Fate did it anyway. Threw himself into the fires of Hell and expected not to get burned. Even an amateur would've had the forethought to know it was a bad idea.

"But not you, right, Kent?" Nelson laughed, only for it to transition into thundering coughing fit. "Kent Nelson, biggest moron in the Nine Realms, at your service."

The helmet was sitting in his lap, those empty eye sockets glaring up at him. 'I told you so!' They seemed to scream. 'I told you how it'd end, but you went anyway, and now look what you've done to me!' The Helmet of Fate was older than anything Nelson had ever encountered. Though he'd found it in an Egyptian Tomb, even then he'd known it was far more ancient than the Pharaoh it'd been buried with. It'd spent the vast majority of its existence spotless. Shining, like polished gold. Now Kent looked down at it and saw that polish fading. He could see small cracks along the faceplate and the crown. He used think the thing was indestructible.

Just like him.

But Nobu was dying. The Lord of Order had gone silent. If it wasn't for his uneven breathing in the back of Nelson's soul, Dr. Fate would've thought him dead. But his time was running out, and when he went so too would Kent. And there was no telling when existence would join them. Could be tomorrow. Could be in a hundred thousand years. But without Nabu...Without all of the Lords of Order...

Time was going to run out eventually.

"Stupid, Nelson. Stupid, stupid, STUPID!" Dr. Fate roared as he leapt up from the bench where he sat. With a great heave of his arm he chucked the Helmet of Fate, watching it sail through the air until it landed like a stone in the Ram Horn channel. Despite it's weight it didn't sink. Instead, the helm floated atop the water, refusing to flow with the current. Just sat there, staring up at the rapidly darkening sky.

"I killed us." He breathed, falling back down on that uncomfortable seat. "I killed us all."

"Death's not so bad once ya get used to it." A gruff voice, corrupted by one too many cigars over the years, called from behind Kent.



"I need your help, old friend, n' it sounds like you need mine."

♦ Issue #1 - Humbled

Kent Nelson had sat on that bench many a time before. Sometimes with Inza. Sometimes alone. It'd been there for quite awhile in one form or another. His favorite was the wooden one, made from the same Willows planted all 'round him, that they'd put up way back in the 18th century. This one wasn't great, he had to admit. It's deep black, wrought iron frame was sturdy, sure, but it was so uncomfortable. He hated what it did to his back.

Hell of a view, though. Hell of a view. Especially now when the sun was starting to dip underneath the water of the Ram Horn, almost like the channel was swallowing Earth's star whole. It's light cascaded across the open water like God throwing stones across a pond. They shot out in a spray of a thousand, individual tendrils of fire that reached from the horizon all the way to the stony shore. Every time Kent saw it it took his breath away. He thought he'd caught lightning in a bottle, and the next time he sat on this bench, the majesty of it would disappear. It kept, somehow. And that made it all the more special.

It'd been far too long since the last time, he realized. He couldn't even remember when the last time was. Kent felt a tinge of guilt in his chest. The only reason he'd come back was because he had nowhere else to go now that the Tower of Fate was locked to him. And he had the audacity to stain this poor bench crimson. Terrible as it might be, it didn't deserve to be bled on.

"I've lost my way, haven't I?" He muttered, followed shortly by a sigh. A painful one. That last blow he'd taken to his side must've done more damage than he initially thought. Reaching down he pulled at the dark blue material of his costume, lifting it up to reveal the mangled flesh that still clung to his side. Blood, pus and dark magic dripped down it- all of it flowing from the big, ugly mark in the center.

Arrogant. Stupid. Reckless. He should've known challenging Mordru in his own domain was folly from the start, and yet the mighty Doctor Fate did it anyway. Threw himself into the fires of Hell and expected not to get burned. Even an amateur would've had the forethought to know it was a bad idea.

"But not you, right, Kent?" Nelson laughed, only for it to transition into thundering coughing fit. "Kent Nelson, biggest moron in the Nine Realms, at your service."

The helmet was sitting in his lap, those empty eye sockets glaring up at him. 'I told you so!' They seemed to scream. 'I told you how it'd end, but you went anyway, and now look what you've done to me!' The Helmet of Fate was older than anything Nelson had ever encountered. Though he'd found it in an Egyptian Tomb, even then he'd known it was far more ancient than the Pharaoh it'd been buried with. It'd spent the vast majority of its existence spotless. Shining, like polished gold. Now Kent looked down at it and saw that polish fading. He could see small cracks along the faceplate and the crown. He used think the thing was indestructible.

Just like him.

But Nobu was dying. The Lord of Order had gone silent. If it wasn't for his uneven breathing in the back of Nelson's soul, Dr. Fate would've thought him dead. But his time was running out, and when he went so too would Kent. And there was no telling when existence would join them. Could be tomorrow. Could be in a hundred thousand years. But without Nabu...Without all of the Lords of Order...

Time was going to run out eventually.

"Stupid, Nelson. Stupid, stupid, STUPID!" Dr. Fate roared as he leapt up from the bench where he sat. With a great heave of his arm he chucked the Helmet of Fate, watching it sail through the air until it landed like a stone in the Ram Horn channel. Despite it's weight it didn't sink. Instead, the helm floated atop the water, refusing to flow with the current. Just sat there, staring up at the rapidly darkening sky.

"I killed us." He breathed, falling back down on that uncomfortable seat. "I killed us all."

"Death's not so bad once ya get used to it." A gruff voice, corrupted by one too many cigars over the years, called from behind Kent.



"I need your help, old friend, n' it sounds like you need mine."

Demetrius is rather plain and unassuming by all accounts. He's short in stature for someone his age at only 5'6, and he tries his best to hide his wiry frame; partially out of insecurity and partially because it keeps attention off of him. Demi does this by wearing baggy clothing like oversized shirts, jackets and work jumpsuits- one of the many signs that he doesn't care much about maintaining his appearance. Other signs include his unkempt and shaggy mane of hair, tendency to hunch his shoulders and slouch every time he sits, and the uninterrupted presence of dark bags under his eyes.

Rational
Honest
Disciplined
Reflective

Nihilistic
Cynical
Anxious
Suspicious
Obsessive

Ever since he first achieved Perfect Synchronization, Demetrius has suffered regularly from mood swings, bouts of anxiety, and depression. He regularly takes medication in an attempt to stem these, but finds that the side effects of mental sluggishness and physical fatigue impair his abilities as an engineer and a pilot. This leads to stretches of time where he'll ignore his prescription so he can stay 'sharp,' only to end up spiraling into nihilistic despair until someone shoves a pill down his throat.

Demetrius and Mara were born to be mercenaries, literally. Their parents were members of a defense contracting company called the 'Black Steel Battalion.' The outfit, while technically independent, worked exclusively for Paragon and its subsidiary companies, breaking legs and intimidating smaller settlements into accepting the generous contracts they were being offered by the megacorporation but were refusing to sign. It was bloody business, and both Demi and Mara were stooped in it from the start. Both of them pulled their weight around camp from the moment they could walk, and while Mara was more interested in combat roles like their father, Demetrius took to engineering like a moth to the flame.

He spent practically every moment of his early life watching the mechanics take apart and repair mechs, bombarding them with questions with every breath and volunteering for any kind of work that got him close to those titanic war machines. It seemed to be the only thing he was interested in- the only thing that made him genuinely happy. And he was good at it, too; his intense fascination and willingness to learn allowed him to excel in a difficult field where many others had failed.

He was more than a little conflicted when he found out that he tested positive for Neural Combatant compatibility and was told he'd be fighting on the front lines in his own mech. It gave him a newfound appreciation for the machines he'd been working on for his early life, of course, but it also meant he'd be spending more time fighting in NCs than fixing them.

The next several years of Demi's life were exceedingly frustrating for him. He got very little satisfaction out of the act of piloting, but the battalion required that he do it- he had better sync rates with the Reichsritter than anyone else in the outfit, God knows why, and they believed he was far more useful here than in the gear pits. To make matters even worse, he achieved Perfect Synchronization during this time, and ended up developing several disorders that would follow him for the rest of his life. He felt trapped by the demands of those around him- trapped by the constant pressure to do what was best for the company, for the family, to ignore his own needs and wants.

So when Mara came to him and poured out her own issues and suggested that they leave, Demetrius was more than happy to oblige. The two of them spent nearly a month combing through their contracts with Black Steel until they found a clause that they could use to make it void without sacrificing their most important assets: their NCs. After managing to secure their independence, the duo began their year-long journey from central Europe over to Mara's chosen destination: New Anchorage.

Prodigious Engineer: Demi has spent his whole life around NCs, and practically grew up with a wrench in his hand. It's one of the few things he's truly passionate about, so it's no wonder that he's dedicated countless hours to mastering his craft. There isn't a problem with his mech, or anyone else's for that matter, that he can't fix on his own provided he has the tools and the time to do so. The only area where he still has some room to grow is in his coding, as he enjoys the act of working with his hands far more than he does the minutia of computer work; still, he can do it, and he can do it quite well.

Competent Pilot: While no master of war by any means, Demetrius still has a good deal of experience operating the Knight in combat situations. He can hold his own in an NC fight, especially when he has a reliable squad that he can depend on to watch his back and cover for the few blindspots in his skill set.

Danger-Close Fire Support: Thanks to the massive size and particular armament of the Reichsritter, Demetrius's role in any given squad is to act as a mobile fire support platform. He aids his squadmates by providing suppressing fire on enemy positions and mechas, forcing them to shift their full attention to Demetrius and his heavy weapon fire while his squadmates rapidly advance and assault the enemy position. He acts in a similar role during defensive operations or retreats, generally trying to slow the enemy down via sustained ordnance and force them to engage him- the Knight's heavily armored body and (optional) combat shield attachment allow it to take several magnitudes more hits than a faster but more lightly armored assault NC.

Demi speaks with a slight German accent and is fluent in three languages: German, his first language, English and French.

Is very protective of his tools. Will only share them with people he really trusts.

Works best when he can block out background noise, usually using heavier rock music for that purpose.

Theme

Knight (English translation); Reichsritter (Original German)

Heavy Bipedal

Support

The Reichsritter is a behemoth of a mech at nineteen meters in height and over eighty tons in weight. Packed to the brim with layers of armored plating, the Knight's most notable attribute is it's ability to take an insane amount of punishment and keep going. It rarely wavers under enemy fire, advancing through everything thrown at it to launch back a fierce counteract using the Thermal Rotary Cannon (TRC-11) attached to its right arm. It's left arm remains free to allow for a level of versatility in it's loadout- depending on the situation it can either equip another offensive weapon for maximum damage potential or a defensive tool to make the mecha even tougher than normal.

Originally manufactured by Paragon and purchased by the Black Steel Battalion, the NC was thought to be somewhat sluggish, and it's previous pilot often complained that the TRC-11 chewed through battery packs and heat sinks far too quickly. Demi was able to modify the cannon to be 200% more efficient at the low cost of a slower rate of fire. Other modifications include longer barrels for increased effective range, an 'elbow-locking' function for more stability during sustained fire, and an improved target identification algorithm. It's 'sluggishness' was harder, though, and required that Demetrius remove the shoulder-mounted missile launchers to drop the tonnage on the upper body down to more manageable levels.

Thermal Rotary Cannon-11: The Reichsritter's primary weapon, the Thermal Rotary Cannon is an arm-mounted, high capacity support weapon. It can put out six hundred rounds of thermal ammunition in a minute at an effective range of fifteen hundred meters. It can generally get around two hundred rounds out of a single battery pack before it has to be replaced; it's advanced heat sinks can handle roughly two minutes of sustained, fully automatic fire before they either need to be swapped out or given a cooldown period of five minutes. It isn't recommended that the TRC-11 be pushed after it reaches it's max heat, unless the pilot wants to risk the weapon cooking its internal systems until they're unsalvageable.

Reinforced Combat Shield: A rather large piece of specially made armor that can cover the main torso, legs and head of the Knight when placed in front of it, the combat shield is an optional piece of equipment that dramatically increases the survivability and toughness of the mecha. Destroying or damaging the shield with small arms fire is nearly impossible, and even heavy ordinance would need to repeatedly bombard a specific piece of it before the armor would crumple. The easiest counter would of course be to target the Reichritter's exposed limbs, or to launch Area of Effect munitions to simply ignore the RCS.

Shoulder-Mounted Hellfire Launchers: Originally standard issue on the Knight, the Hellfire Launchers were a pair of missile racks that jutted out of each of the NC's shoulders. They had two primary modes of use: either as a 'dumb fire' artillery to blanket an area in explosions or in a 'lock-on' state that would track enemy aircraft and mechas after they'd managed to lock on to their target. While both forms were generally useful, Solon had them removed as they made the NC quite top heavy and awkward. He left enough of the system behind in both shoulders that they could potentially be reinstalled with a little bit of time and elbow grease.

Mara spent her whole life as a soldier and that fact is burned into her very identity. Rigorous, daily training has resulted in her developing a fair bit of muscle and an athletic frame- though no amount of hard work can make her grow any taller than 5'7, unfortunately. She's been dragged into more than a few brawls in that time, leaving her with plenty of scars, both big and small. The most visible of these are the cut along her left cheek and the numerous, smaller abrasions that pepper her jawline, neck and upper body.

Her 'style,' if one could call it that, reflects on how military life has shaped her: she continues to wear the same grey Battle Dress Uniform, work boots and the fur-lined aviator's jacket that were all given to her by Black Steel back when she first became one of their pilots. She's since removed all their iconography, of course, and replaced them with an embroidering of Icarus's wings; after all, who would be dumb enough to continue to wear the colors of a group they turned their back on?

Confident
Passionate
Empathetic
Gregarious

Aggressive
Impulsive
Possessive
Dependent

The Polaris Shift drastically warped Mara's natural aggression and impulsiveness, causing her to develop symptoms of Intermittent Explosive Disorder. This disorder is characterized by frequent outbursts of anger and aggression, almost always disproportionate to the 'slight' that caused it. These outbursts become even worse when Solon is in the cockpit, morphing acts of violence into an almost relieving or intoxicating experience. Her symptoms appear to be worsening with time, and her previous methods of maintaining or seizing control over her emotional state are becoming less and less effective. Worse still, the release and pleasure she feels during these incidents seem to be growing more intense and addicting- and that fact terrifies her.

Mara was always the more combative of the two Solon twins, even from the beginning preferring to solve her problems with her fists than her head. That aggression and bravado made her a shoe-in for soldiering, according to her superiors at Black Steel, and she started her training regime from an extraordinarily young age at the discretion of her father. They instilled within her a discipline and strong sense of duty, and gave the skills she'd need to eventually develop into the excellent pilot that she would one day become.

She was ecstatic when she learned she was NC compatible, and all but leapt into the first mecha they'd let her climb into. Piloting was easily the most thrilling experience she'd ever had, and Mara dedicated herself to being the best in the entire battalion. It was a goal she got closer and closer to as she grew, both as a person and as a pilot, her skill and maturity developing well in tandem with one another. Her fondness for the outfit grew as well- she fell in love with the sense of purpose and comradery that came with her service. She was meant for this; she was meant to be a soldier.

Her first few sorties gave solon a healthy dosage of reality, however, as she was forced to turn her guns on flesh and blood people for the first time. She was able to rationalize it, at first:

The other pilots she fought were out to kill her, too, so why shouldn't she kill them first?

Her outfit wouldn't be targeting them if they didn't have it coming- her commander was a good man.

Mom and dad were encouraging her to fight. That meant it had to be okay, right?

Slowly but surely she came to the realization that these were little more than excuses. The guilt she felt every time she watched another mecha fall continued to build and build until it was so heavy that Mara could no longer bear the weight. It forced her to start asking questions. It compelled her to confront the worst parts about herself, about the work she did for Black Steel, and whether or not she would be able to continue to serve under such conditions. These weren't questions that came to her easily or in a short amount of time, but rather had to be teased out, long term, all while she busied herself acting as little more than a glorified leg breaker for a monolithic, uncaring megacorporation for nothing more than a simple paycheck.

She attempted to bring these worries before her family, she tried to get them to understand why she was hesitant to fight for them, but all it resulted in were dozens of fights and arguments with her parents about what was really important in the world. They argued- vehemently- that all that really mattered was that they do what they needed to help each other, that they needed to be loyal to the battalion; the company had given them so much, and it was only right that they give back as much as they could. Mara wrestled with that idea for quite a long time before she was able to reject it completely.

From there she decided that she could no longer continue to work for Black Steel in good conscience, or any corporation for that matter. She wasn't sure where she could go to avoid the massive shadow they cast over the world, but she'd become convinced of the fact that working for such organizations was wrong, and that it was a great disservice to waste her skill on a cause she didn't believe in; that left her with the 'simple' task of finding a cause she could believe in.

Enter a recruitment ad she found for New Anchorage.

Trained Professional: For all of it's faults, the Black Steel Battalion knew how to turn boys and girls into hardened soldiers. She developed a wide breadth of skills both during the initial training process as well as during her active service, including but not limited to: operating a firearm, basic CQC and hand to hand, survival in extreme environments, field medicine and equipment maintenance. All of this was packaged along with a healthy sense of discipline and the resolve to see the day through, regardless of the personal cost or difficulty involved.

Excellent Marksman: The primary area of expertise, the skill Mara has spent her entire life honing, is her marksmanship. She has an intuitive sense of range, projectile drop, standard deviation and how weather affects specific types of projectiles. Even without the assistance of her targeting computer, Mara's aim is impeccable, bordering on prodigious. This skill doesn't translate as well outside of the cockpit, since shooting a hand-held weapon and aiming the Icarus's gun are such diametrically different things, but she's practiced enough in gunplay to operate normal firearms at a competitive level.

Precision, Speed, Reconnaissance: Mara Solon's role in an engagement is to act as a forward operative with the goal of gathering strategic intel on enemy numbers, armament and movement while also engaging them from a safe distance. Icarus's highly mobile yet lightly armored frame requires that she be constantly vigilante in how she's positioned; if she stops moving for more than a few minutes she's liable to catch a bullet. Knowing the composition and capability of enemy combatants is vital for her success as a scout and as a marksman- the vulnerability of her particular machine means that she doesn't have the luxury of missteps.

Mara, like her brother, speaks with an accent, but unlike Demetrius it gets significantly thicker when she begins to lose her cool- at her angriest she has a habit of switching back to her native German without fully realizing it. She also never learned French.

Keeps a strict schedule to keep herself sane and in control, including daily meditation and long exercise regimes.

Theme

Icarus

Scout Marksman

Icarus is a Paragon manufactured, lightly armored NC designed specialized for the task of battlefield reconnaissance and eliminating high value/vulnerable targets from extended range. Standing at only seven meters tall and twenty five tons in weight, Icarus is one of the smallest and lightest NCs in its class. It's frame is streamlined to minimize drag and stripped of all but the lightest armored plating for maximum potential mobility. Originally Icarus featured a black and gunmetal grey paint-job to match the aesthetic of the rest of the Black Steel Battalion, but since leaving Mara has swapped it for a softer white and blue palette.

Light Beam Rifle (LBR): The Light Battery Rifle is Icarus's weapon of choice for engaging in long range engagements while still remaining consistently mobile. It uses a specialized system of mirrors to fire a powerful beam capable of piercing through thick armored plating to burn internal systems. A great degree of precision is required for it to actually be effective- each shot won't do much unless it's able to pass through something important, otherwise it's essentially just poking holes in a metal can. The LBR is a recoil-less, rapid fire style rifle that can fire off continuous bursts of energy beams for several minutes before the battery has to be replaced.

Plasma Knife: Close quarters is the last place Icarus wants to be, but there are times where Mara doesn't have any choice in the matter- in those moments she's always glad to have a secondary weapon on hand to defend herself with.

Directional Rockets and Jump Pack: The main source of Icarus's mobility are the jump pack and directional rockets installed on the NC's back and limbs, respectively. Its jump pack allows the NC to reach otherwise inaccessible strategic positions, while the directional rockets focus more on improving strafing and letting Icarus run circles around enemy mechs.

Advanced Sensor Suite: Icarus possesses a wide array of electronic detection equipment including Radar, LiDAR, and thermal imaging. On top of these reconnaissance tools it has an entire electronic warfare suite for the purpose of disrupting enemy communication and obscuring their ability to track Icarus's squadron mates. These systems are constantly being tweaked and upgraded personally by Mara's twin, Demetrius, keeping their tech one step ahead of rival organizations.