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 βββββββββββββββ | She did as told: knees bent, feet poised, flush against Garuda whilst they descended unto the thickest remnants of this foreseen Hell. Scylla had fallen from such heights before, of what seems so long ago, upon peaks of mountains and valleys bedded with snow and black rock. There was still the adrenaline that dialed her eyes wide and the exuberant peal of laughter that sliced across their spiritual manifest as they plummeted. When they landed, she was immediate and efficient, already rapt with the malicious intent to clear the carnage and stake her claim. Scylla fell to one knee, rifle butted against her shoulder, drawn up to her glare as her companions did much the same. It was repetitive and mindless, where bullets shredded and splintered hardened flesh of esoteric wood and roots. She fell those that chittered and screeched, flaying mandibles wide, their fanged shells met with the swift stab of her edged bayonet. Scylla went in ruthlessly with rapid fire precision and thrusts where needed; constantly on Garuda's six and aiming her rifle betwixt the zigs and zags Zephyr carved through flame and blood. |
ββββββββββ  ββββββββββ | S C Y L L A " L E V I A T H A N " F L E U R A N E β UDF: CETRA EAST COMMAND [Armory - Surface] β 06:45AM β @Rockette@Prisk@RezonanceV "It's not over till it's over, Ben." "Oh, I know. This is only the beginning." Down a hall - down another - down the rabbit hole and back, a cavern of steel, a void of dull treads and lackadaisical nails that edge over blacks and silvers and muted greys. It's a curious conclusion that the armory is displaced so far from the surface, is it the danger, or is it the risk; they were Aeons endowed with spirits of night and day, of water and sky, their weapons were just finer enhancements to their repertoire after all. These were curious musings -- for if she willed it, the water in the very air she breathed could be seduced to maim the walls that surrounded her -- and Scylla was content to appeal to her wondering mind in preset to the mission lain before them. It seemed an impossible quest, for how long had it been since she last spoke to Benjamin outside of mission logs and patrol summaries? Since his addled self came from the dark, whisper-soft... Louder thumps, those of heavier and accelerated urgency, jostled her from beyond, rounding around the corridors as the reality settled itself among descended chaos. The armory was crowded and hushed whispers rapidly accompanied those emptier corners as Scylla entered, and such was not nearly a surprise. For even if those like Garuda and -- oh, what's his name, the pilot -- were more famous than she, that shroud of infamy fluttered onto lithesome shoulders all the more. However, she was not here for those mutterings and inquiries, the brave that crowded to her shadow and listened aptly for any rejoinder the Leviathan would bless them with from her latest accomplishments -- or would they be labeled something far more malicious? Scylla busily attached her harness at checkout, tightening straps mindlessly, snug beneath her breasts and taut upon her back and shoulders that flexed under the queer weight of her detached spear ends before the suspension components activated and shifted that weight else where. Satisfied, Scylla accepted her firearms, holstered them as well and paused, just so, at the intermingled messages and reports and time stamps that came through the intercoms. "Hey... I'd like some cables or rope added into my gear." She doesn't explain for why and they care not to ask, but it's still approached with a raised brow and a shrug whilst attending to her request. Scylla's smile is brittle, but gracious none the less as she hoists the singular strap over head and fits it aptly like a cross body accessory with its main compartment secured at ribcage and hip. When she goes to ask for coms equipment, the armory attendants explain that the Garuda had already secured what they needed. It's the title before the moniker that causes pursed lips and a head tilt, she knows they refer to Emilia, but why don her in the dressings of a celebrity even further? She delicately fingers the trio of patches attached to her uniform - oh, as if there weren't enough. It's curious she thinks, but again it's that lamplight of adoration that adorns many of those in WarDiv with the higher chain of command. "All set, Leviathan?" "Oh, yes..." Her path topside is less of a memorable journey, even if suspicions tack their way up her spine in spindly attachments, ceaseless in their doubt. With Benjamin's possibility of becoming an Archon - she doesn't use the term Evolved as the UDF would - and the mysterious and sudden deployment of Dragoons to Junon Port, it's as if every possible occurrence hinges on one probability: the control of a God. Or would they even coin such a term to the unknown? Is this why they executed random interrogations during her rotations back to base? Why they often asked what lived beneath the waves and towers of home. She doesn't much like the drifting current of her thoughts, the direction far too aimless into the waves of conspiracies and paranoia. Is it suspect then that someone from Intelligence just so happens to be among them, and only one at that. Scylla's brow is drawn down upon her lashes, worked into concentration as it were whilst the hustling of soldiers and recruits brought her back to solid ground once more. There's a wider berth surrounding the gunships and carriers and the setting is perhaps a little jostling compared to the quieter and more secluded transportations she's accustomed to. But, as her mother said, she knew how to play well with others. "Emilia - or do I say Captain now." A playful flutter of her fingers here, coming close to ruffle that auburn mane that served responsible for her epitaph. The shuffling man she gives a once or twice pass over, from booted feet and up along his profile; all six feet, and to that dour face and harsh brow. Huh, didn't see him earlier now, interesting. "Didn't have a chance to say so early, by the way, Jeff - what a dick - but it's nice to be working with you again." A rapid interchange from brooding and thoughtful to endearingly genuine as was Scylla's renown; perhaps she belonged with IntDiv. She peered around Emilia's profile and into the personal carrier, spotted a seat quickly and slinked betwixt the Aeons liken to a feline. "A few more were behind me, I think. But, I'm ready -- Let's go." S C Y L L A " L E V I A T H A N " F L E U R A N E β STEELWATER [Personal Carrier] β 09:45AM β @Rockette@Prisk Steelwater. She's never been there before, banked at the south end of the Alacana River, but it's not hard to miss such destruction. No, she thinks, it's more than that. It's pure carnage: the decimation of a city sacrificed to fire and ash and towers of smoke that mock the buildings they climb besides and snake over; reaching higher for the heavens in vain. The horizon was blotted in shades of red and black, eclipsing the earth in ruin, and for just that sliver of a moment, Scylla sees Tenebre set aflame. It's a premonition of things to come, of things that may be, or perhaps this was fate lain before her in prophecy. She thinks to the mutterings of mad man - of a man that maybe she trusted once as friend and laughs. And they have to find him through all this shit. They are a looming cloud prepared to descend into the thickets of hell. The battle field calls as a siren to the wayward spirits thrumming alive in blood and bone, the wind is a song to her ears even here and she feels the tug of water like a puppet would from its master to the beckoning flames. The presentation of war is nothing new to these blue-black eyes that glimmer with a depth of cerulean. Stars fall in the eyes of the Leviathan that rises from the deep that is her soul awash in the spiritual manifest of an awakening storm, and Scylla is nearly flush against bullet-proof glass to gaze mercilessly upon the fight far below. Over the thrum of the blades and engines there is the far off tell-tale ring of explosives and hushed echoes of rapid fire, the sort of wide spray over large areas against what she assumes is the new strain of esoteric enemy awaiting them. Somewhere, far away it seems, are the pilots warning of their descent and the preparation and execution of the bomb run to clear out a majority of the hostiles. They need volunteers to clear out and secure their landing space, make sure it's devoid of any lingering enemies, marked by flares that the 'World Eaters' had bothered to spread out in a broad circle. They're almost snuffed out by the smog that billows in from the surrounding buildings lit aflame but spot lights from the chopper beam down and one of the pilots glances back and shouts: "Garuda, do what you do best: jump down, make it secure." Oh, Scylla's all over it now. "Nah-uh, not without me." Her simper is obtuse and all bright teeth softened on her pout as she weaves her arm around Emilia, the gunship door snapping aside as an accompanying soldier pries it open, the sounds from a continuous battle drowning against the blades inches above them. Wind raked hair snaps at her rouged cheeks and she shouts: "Always wanted to ask you to jump me!" |
