Dyssia has never seen war. Not before today.

Oh, she thought she knew what it was. Been in battles, doncha know? Seen the results. Felt the exhaustion left behind when adrenaline runs out, once all that's left to keep muscles raising and falling is the thought of what will happen if you don't.

Her nose is full of chemical weapon and burning flesh.

She thought she understood what she proposed to bring to the galaxy. Peace, prosperity, freedom, all served on the tip of a spear. Her spear, of course--her weapons, her plans, her friends.

Her plans. What a laugh that is, right?

She's a child once more, being taught a lesson by a master too good at what they're doing to be truly frustrated with her.

They're demons--beautiful, terrible, fallen angels, carrying out their work with barely a thought. No, no, that's wrong, [i]without[/i] thought. On instinct, on a level that training could never instill.

She has no plan. Had no plan coming here, still doesn’t have one.

Her gravrail feels inadequate, impossible. It's a fool's errand to deflect that . There are too many cannons aimed at them fired by people who've just demonstrated their perfect coordination.

Bella is on the ground. Eyes drill into the back of her skull. She rises.
There's no time for words. Which, when you think about two gravrail masters doing the same thing in the same space, is damned inconvenient.

The ground cracks between them. Her heart quails, and she almost shuts her rail off entirely.

But the shots are missing, is the thing. Close, right? Close enough to shave hair, to deafen the one ear that particular shell whizzes past.

But she meets Vasilia's eyes in between shots, and darts away from the Shogun.

Vasilia will protect the Shogun with the formation. Mars will protect.

She?

She doesn't have a plan, and if this goes wrong, she'll be isolated and vulnerable. Or, you know, as vulnerable as any gravrail master can be? Which is to say, as vulnerable as she was stepping on any planet with a large enough number of Ceronians?

Anyway.

The point, see, is that you don't always need a plan. You don't always need to be elegant and upright and a master. That's for Vasilia and Bella and Redana.

For her, sometimes you just need to fuck shit up.

Two gravrail users going at it in a small space is a recipe for disaster. Everyone knows that. Stories about palaces torn apart, chaos spread, disasters unmitigated. 

But as bunkers and emplacements crumble around her, as shots go wild and miss and stray… Sometimes it pays to be good at fucking up.

[b]Overcome with hope: 5,3,6, -1: 10[/b]