Krayzikk

Secundi Lux

---

"RIVKA, I CAN'T CATCH HER IN TIME!"

Shielded from the glare by her opalescent lenses Rivka's eyes snapped up and immediately narrowed. Crystal had begun to fall. Selma spotted her, processed, yelled, and Rivka herself heard, processed, and spotted her in turn. Mere moments, barest instants, but in this case those were crucial fractions of the time needed. She was the last person who should handle this. Gravity, earth, ice, and water were all better choices to save her than fire. That didn't matter. If the devushka said she couldn't save her she couldn't save her. Chie and Aoife were occupied, and that left her.

The word 'impossible' never entered her mind. The Ars Magi jammed her rifle through a sling on her Parma immediately, planted her feet, and cast the incoming drones out of her mind. Though live-fire this was still an exercise; medical staff were nearby, she was garbed in her Parma, and she was resistant to the heat the missiles would generate. Coupled with her supernatural might she would survive— if painfully— anything that came her way. But neither gravity or chance played any favorites, and impacting uneven terrain at terminal velocity was dangerous, even for an Ars Magi. Maybe even lethal. A member of her team was in danger. Her roommate, her friend, was in danger.

Letting her down wasn't an option.

The lilac-hued girl pushed off from the ground as hard as she could. The water below her feet evaporated, the concrete dried, scorched, and cracked near to shattering in the span of a few seconds of blistering heat. To thermal imaging she looked like a brand new sun, the glare of her fire as bright as before but sustained. Contained, sustained explosive force launcher her into an intercept course like a blazing comet shaded in orange and gold upon every opalescent accent. Practice, practice, practice had been the name of the game since the first time she tried this stunt; the ache in her ankles had demanded it. She could generate the lift, slow her descent, but control was proving elusive; fire was fickle, it performed as it was bid and no more. Without any sort of fine vectoring proper flight was beyond her. For now. But fire would obey, it would do exactly what she damn well needed it to do. It didn't have to be graceful. It just had to be enough.

The two Ars Magi collided, and collided hard, but Rivka wrapped one arm tightly around her roommate to keep her from slipping away. That, admittedly, was as far as her plan had gone. Their momentum, the opposite of each other, canceled each other out— nearly. Rivka had ascended a decent bit faster than gravity had accelerated Crystal. That was the science. The reality was simpler. They both slowed, and jointly reached the apex of Rivka's new trajectory before they again began to fall.

She felt rather lightheaded, actually. Dizzy. Channeling so much fire so fast, perhaps, but there wasn't any room for that. There wasn't any room for weakness. Seconds of respite, and she needed every one to muster her focus again to visualize the fire needed to slow their descent. All she had to do was slow them down.

Rivka never said a word.

Clad in Iron, War of the Worlds and Mecha

---

In her youth a wooden practice sword, unfortunately precise in its approach, fractured the Marchesa's forearm. Arabella didn't much remember precisely which bone, or how it had felt to have it set; general anesthetic ensured the memory never lodged in her mind, if she had really noticed the sensation at all. But she did remember how the splint had felt. The way it had restricted the movement of her arm, the consistent pressure it had applied. It was a lot like how the braces her gunner clasped about her person felt. The series on her left arm were secured last, and she pushed gently against them; only until she felt resistance. She didn't push past it. That would have made the machine around her move, and inside Thunderchild's belly that would be... An issue. But the resistance proved that the intricate series of buckles and loops about her person were doing their job. A strap about her middle secured her in place and provided her anchor; down both legs and her left arm were a series of braces that locked her limbs into position relative to the cords and anchors attached near each of her major joints. Not very comfortable, and even on standby inside the hangar her enclosure was steadily getting hotter. A thick layer of ballistic glass gave her a view into the hangar beyond, the other machines being prepared, and she wondered if they were feeling the same things.

Maybe not to the same extent. While the machines were all unique, all arguably prototypes, she had questions about the very interface she controlled. Arabella had championed it herself. She believed it was perfect for her Damocles, and she knew she could control it. The trouble, and why she knew her Kingdom was planning to do away with it in future colossi, was how much work it was. Simply operating it was taxing, let alone the weeks of practice to learn to control it as fluidly as it was capable of. And she had never actually performed the drop they were about to undertake. The concept worked, of course, but that little niggling doubt remained. It was all technology that was so new. Had it all been tested properly? Would it work properly for her unique colossi, every one of them must wonder? So on, and so on, and so on.

"Tutto pronto, Marchesa?"

"Si," The Marchesa answered simply, forcing confidence into the simple answer. It would work or it wouldn't. If it got her to the ground successfully she would handle the rest. "Al tuo post ora."

Her gunner nodded and gave the modified version of the bow she was due. To require such formalities all the time was impractical, to say the least of its ridiculousness. So the compromise had been struck to allow them their formality without interfering with their duties. The young man hurried to one of the two hatches behind her and she heard the door slam and ratchet shut. Whatever problems she might face, she knew, were mild compared to theirs. The descent for them would be fairly cold. And those reinforced doors were meant for her safety, not theirs. A risk, and all too likely sacrifice, that they accepted without reservation. She trusted them to do their jobs, and they her to be worthy of their efforts. Trust that had taken time and training to build.

And now it was time to put it to work.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, herself following the last few checks that she needed to perform. Her right arm was relatively unencumbered to enable her to access the emergency release she now felt for before returning her hand to hilt-shaped grip that served in place of a right wrist brace. At the one minute warning she softly began to pray.

Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in próelio...

At ten seconds she opened her eyes.

And at one the Damocles dropped.

Despite the way the system pulled at her limbs she kept the machine's own limbs straight, avoiding the possibility of interfering with another, larger falling colossus. Moments after the drop began the gaseous envelopes inflated, the sudden resistance driving the brace into her midsection. But relief washed over her at the mere fact that they worked. The rest, as she had thought, was up to her. Damocles struck earth like a mighty comet and as its legs bent so too did hers; giving ground, rather than keeping rigid, absorbed much of the impact though the force was still enough to make her feet ache. The cratered ground became visible as it smoothly rose in sync with her, the mighty avatar of her will stretching piston and valve to do as she bid. Her left arm rose, bringing with it Damocles' machine gun aimed at the fog ahead preemptively.

Lasciali venire. A flick of her right wrist triggered the pneumatically deployed sword to swing out and lock into place, ready and lethal. La mia lama ha sete.

Clad in Iron, War of the Worlds and Mecha

shall we begin?

Name: Marchesa Arabella Fortunado
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Job: Operator of Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Appearance: Tall, toned, and possession of pale blonde hair. The Marchesa once dressed fitting with the nobility of her position, but instead works to balance between that view and the practical necessity of her new role. Arabella stands tall and straight, seemingly aloof and confident.
Personality: Friendly, enthusiastic, compassionate, and appears to be completely the opposite of all three. By appearances the Marchesa is reserved, aloof, and does not deign to speak with those outside of her Damocles' crew. The reality, more simply, is that she is a little self conscious about her ability to speak the English of most of her compatriots. Marchesa Fortunado takes the historical purview of the marchese very seriously; hers is the duty to defend her empire's borders, though her protectorate has since expanded to the whole of the planet upon which she stands.
History: Born to Italian nobility, during the period of reunification, Marchesa Fortunado was raised in a comfortable environment and educated to the highest standards of her family. Her only problems may have been political were it not for the invasion of demons from the Red Planet. Instead she championed her country's efforts to build a titan of their own, personally entreated her distant cousins in the capital for support, and made it painfully clear that she would permit no one else to be her Empire's sword. The Damocles was built to her specification and she ventured to the war's front by the English Channel upon its completion.
Equipment: Sidearm, both firearm and the bladed, courtly symbol of her authority. Various other odds and ends.
Fighting Machine: Damocles



Designation: Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Crew: Variable, but minimally an operator and a munitions handler for each high caliber weapon.
Description: In the vicinity of 9 meters tall, the Damocles is built to maximize the mobility and speed of the Martian-derived magnetic-mechano limbs integrated into its frame. Its limbs, thus, are armored fairly sparsely; its protection is centered around the cockpit of its operator. The loaders of its pair of capital armaments, by necessity and occupational hazard, are much less protected. The two ten inch guns, originally stripped from an Ammiraglio di Saint Bon-class battleship, have had half the barrel chopped off for reasons of size. At thirty four feet long they would have more than doubled the Damocles' height and rendered it impractically top heavy. Instead, integrated into its back and rising over either shoulder, it gives the Damocles a battleship punch at much closer ranges. In comparison to most Colossi the Damocles has been painted in riveting gold, emblazoned with an Italian coat of arms, and a gleaming crown upon its head.

Weapons: A gleaming, 4 meter broadsword secured to Damocles' right forearm. Though it can be folded flush with the forearm for storage, pneumatics will deploy and lock it into a position analogous to that of a handheld, human-scale blade. Mounted to its back and loaded by a crewman each are two ten inch guns, and its left forearm contains a motor-driven Bailey machine gun and ends in a bayonet that can deploy the same way as its sword.
Traits: Demons from Mars require a God from the Earth, and Damocles was built to scale. Fast, powerful, brazen, and built to fight like the human being at its core. But a grace like that cannot be managed by a machine. To enable such feats the Damocles is controlled by a state of the art force-feedback man machine interface; strapped into place with tethers attached to its operators limbs the Damocles will, in broad strokes, ape its pilot's motions. The principle, and mechanics, have been compared to that of an enormous string puppet; the trouble being that hyper extension of Damocles' joints has the potential to be mirrored on its operator.

Clad in Iron, War of the Worlds and Mecha

shall we begin?

Name: Marchesa Arabella Fortunado
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Job: Operator of Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Appearance: Tall, toned, and possession of pale blonde hair. The Marchesa once dressed fitting with the nobility of her position, but instead works to balance between that view and the practical necessity of her new role. Arabella stands tall and straight, seemingly aloof and confident.
Personality: Friendly, enthusiastic, compassionate, and appears to be completely the opposite of all three. By appearances the Marchesa is reserved, aloof, and does not deign to speak with those outside of her Damocles' crew. The reality, more simply, is that she is a little self conscious about her ability to speak the English of most of her compatriots. Marchesa Fortunado takes the historical purview of the marchese very seriously; hers is the duty to defend her empire's borders, though her protectorate has since expanded to the whole of the planet upon which she stands.
History: Born to Italian nobility, during the period of reunification, Marchesa Fortunado was raised in a comfortable environment and educated to the highest standards of her family. Her only problems may have been political were it not for the invasion of demons from the Red Planet. Instead she championed her country's efforts to build a titan of their own, personally entreated her distant cousins in the capital for support, and made it painfully clear that she would permit no one else to be her Empire's sword. The Damocles was built to her specification and she ventured to the war's front by the English Channel upon its completion.
Equipment: Sidearm, both firearm and the bladed, courtly symbol of her authority. Various other odds and ends.
Fighting Machine: Damocles



Designation: Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Crew: Variable, but minimally an operator and a munitions handler for each high caliber weapon.
Description: In the vicinity of 9 meters tall, the Damocles is built to maximize the mobility and speed of the Martian-derived magnetic-mechano limbs integrated into its frame. Its limbs, thus, are armored fairly sparsely; its protection is centered around the cockpit of its operator. The loaders of its pair of capital armaments, by necessity and occupational hazard, are much less protected. The two ten inch guns, originally stripped from an Ammiraglio di Saint Bon-class battleship, have had half the barrel chopped off for reasons of size. At thirty four feet long they would have more than doubled the Damocles' height and rendered it impractically top heavy. Instead, integrated into its back and rising over either shoulder, it gives the Damocles a battleship punch at much closer ranges. In comparison to most Colossi the Damocles has been painted in riveting gold, emblazoned with an Italian coat of arms, and a gleaming crown upon its head.

Weapons: A gleaming, 4 meter broadsword secured to Damocles' right forearm. Though it can be folded flush with the forearm for storage, pneumatics will deploy and lock it into a position analogous to that of a handheld, human-scale blade. Mounted to its back and loaded by a crewman each are two ten inch guns, and its left forearm contains a motor-driven Bailey machine gun and ends in a bayonet that can deploy the same way as its sword.
Traits: Demons from Mars require a God from the Earth, and Damocles was built to scale. Fast, powerful, brazen, and built to fight like the human being at its core. But a grace like that cannot be managed by a machine. To enable such feats the Damocles is controlled by a state of the art force-feedback man machine interface; strapped into place with tethers attached to its operators limbs the Damocles will, in broad strokes, ape its pilot's motions. The principle, and mechanics, have been compared to that of an enormous string puppet; the trouble being that hyper extension of Damocles' joints has the potential to be mirrored on its operator.

Clad in Iron, War of the Worlds and Mecha

Secundi Lux

---

"Privet, dorogiye!"

These machines sought with their own senses, and in their thermals a single point glowed vibrant red. Some of their spotlights settled upon it, light piercing the gloom to illuminate the threat to their searching sensors. The threat wasn't hiding; the harsh lights refracted on the steam issuing forth every time a drop of rain struck her skin, reflected off of the lenses over her eyes and the opalescent inlay on her spinning Gladius. Where they started dull by the end of its twirl they again glowed crimson, sharing Rivka's changing definition of 'reloading'. After all, there were no bullets. It was her power harnessed into a form she understood in and out; it was not an instrument itself but a conductor's baton. She was herself the symphony.

The Baeterran laughed, clear and musical, and bowed deeply to her robotic foes.

"An encore, then? Akh, tol'ko dlya vas." Her baton snapped up, sight flipped open and aligned with her eye. The spotlights impeded her own vision, even through her shades, but they also gave her unmistakable locations for her targets. She drew a breath, in slow and steady, and watched the bob of the loose formation of lights. As fast as their brains were they were simple, without creativity or genius. A tune generated by algorithm in the face of her artistry. Which was why she saw the shot they didn't account for, the moment that two targets overlapped and became one.

Her Gladius answered with both barrels, spewing white hot bursts of her Elementum at the same instant. If one of lesser power was enough to pierce one, then what these miniature suns would do scarcely bore thinking on. If it weren't fun. Who knows, they might have clustered closely enough that she could get some collateral damage out of those darling little novas. She'd need a moment to 'recharge', though, and the axes of threat were multiplying quickly. She jerked the bayonet off of her rifle with her other hand and held it loosely. A quick pivot and a few steps back put most of the enemies within her sight— if peripherally— and a wall at her back.

"How are we looking, girls?"

Secundi Lux

---

Selma had— she admitted perhaps reluctantly— a point.

Here she was upon a stage, with an expecting audience and a performance to give. Did she revel in the chance? No. She had been pouting beneath the rain. It was Godless and unpleasant, that went without saying; but she was wrong to simply accept it. More than that she was wrong to wish her own performance over quickly, however much she might prefer the warmth and dry.

Then again, she could make her own.

The devushka's scarf barely qualified for the term so large it was, but it had been draped around her neck for warmth. She gathered the ends and drew them taut about her throat to keep it safe. Much of her team— of Kheper— was already in motion, but they had things easily in hand thus far. One was down for the count, its disgraceful flailing indicative of an artificial mind that knew not when it was beaten. If there was a single quality for which she praised them— since it certainly wasn't aesthetics— it was drive. Single minded, unthinking, unquestioning drive. They would act in pursuit of their directive so long as there was power to their circuits. Such determination would have been laudable in a living being. In a machine, an imitation of human imperfection, it was simply... Sad. A facsimile of true will that it could never begin to understand, let alone truly emulate. It had no choice, no agency in its actions beyond that granted to it by a few lines of code. It strove without knowing for something that not only lay beyond its reach but beyond even the scope of its comprehension.

Enough was enough.

Her Parma appeared about her, garnished in addition by a single white scarf, and in an instant she was as warm and dry as she had been in her own bed. The ground for a few feet around her was dry, the water upon it lifting off in a cloud of steam as the artisan brandished her Gladius.

"Bang."

The four missiles streaking towards Selma had been launched from the same box, and though capable of seeking were locked upon the same target. They were clustered, a fact that increased their capacity of simultaneous destruction as much as their potential for unintended fratricide. If one went up, so too likely would the others. For example, if a brilliant flame detonated in their midst and took the magically charged warheads with it. That would clear Selma for the moment, next up was the importance of helping her pinned comrade.

With a melodic war cry, announcement as much as challenge, she sent a blast straight at the second drone's sensitive looking 'head' seeking to draw its attention.

Secundi Lux

---

Water was, under the right circumstances, peaceful and serene. Graceful and artistic. Endlessly kind and endlessly gentle and just as implacable, as merciless as Poseidon's wounded pride if its tides were not respected. But most of all, and most relevant at this moment, water was wet.

Haaa-choo.

In Baeterra water was valued, prized even. And it was respected. Without it the land would have been unlivable, its use as carefully considered and measured as any other critical resource. It had never been, in Rivka's life, something so carefree as she had heard in other cities. It wasn't scarce, so large a city could never be supported if it was, but a downpour so torrential was a rare occurrence and one that any sensible Baeterran was inside for. Not standing outside, pitting little more than a thin layer of hydrophobic garment against God's tears. And it was cold. And she had to use fire in the rain.

That they were 'Team 5' and not something much more graceful, a name like that which Crystal had labored upon for so long with such devotion, would normally be an affront but in the face of this misery she could manage little more than a sullen look on the subject. Her own magical affinity, at least, was enough to keep her warm; much of her team, too, if she stood closely enough. But it wasn't making her much happier.

"I want to scrap these quickly." The musician stated, quiet, subdued, and unhappy. "I want something hot to drink. With caffeine. Or marshmallows."

Secundi Lux

---

The night, all told, had been perfectly acceptable.

That was the conclusion of her own internal after action report. She sang her way through the thought process, every detail of the evening from front to back— but quietly. Ish. Crystal had asked very diplomatically if she could keep it down and in light of such a reasonable request Rivka was doing her best. 'Quiet' was something of a foreign concept; with so many musicians under one roof she was accustomed to the air being filled with sound, whether she added to it or not. But it was a simple request on the face of it.

If only obliging it was proving so easy.

Nevertheless she gave the evening due consideration as she removed from herself the uniform that she had come, with some reluctance, to at least accept. It needed a wash, then an iron, but more importantly she needed a shower. It would help to muffle her singing, too. Dancing with the cadet— Amalee— had been nice. To chat, to discuss her feelings on music, perhaps to encourage someone to pick their instrument up anew— worthwhile indeed. Ahhhh and the tsarina.

A smile that a lesser mortal might have called smug rather than satisfied crossed her lips and unbidden her tune climbed a few decibels while the Baeterran washed her hair under the water. That had been a victory, a coup-de-grace even. She was allowed to be smug about that. Progress was progress, a few steps further towards her proper success. Ah, but that seemed— more sensed than heard— to be a grumble from Crystal. She was getting a little loud. Think on that more quietly, at least for now.

Who knew what new triumph the morning would bring?

"Crystal?" She asked, turning off the water and swaddling herself in a towel. "Did you want the shower before bed?"

All in all, things were shaping up well.

Secundi Lux

---

"A perfectly laudable goal." The musician said with an easy smile. "I think those with the potential to better the world have an obligation to do so, in whatever form that is. Not all that different from why I elected to become an Ars Magi."

"Have you kept in practice?" Rivka tilted her head inquiringly. "With the piano. To do a simple thing well is better than a difficult thing poorly, and it's always a shame if a skill is allowed to rust. Perhaps you can let me know how it has gone if you go to another show. I intend to perform at the same venue as often as they'll let me, schedule permitting."