Makita sits in front of the two graves she dug every day. Sometimes it is only for a minute or two, sometimes for hours, but each time she cries
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Maya's autoshield flares up, bullets ricocheting harmlessly off the blood-red squares of light, sparks of white-orange-yellow flying.
"Shields--" she says, activating the offensive portion of her defensive protocol.
The writing on the inside of one square of red light tells her that the protocol integrity is holding steady at 98%; another feeds her the precise location of her foes; another says 'ACQUIRING TARGET.' More numbers and letters scroll past here and there; Maya's eyes flick over them only briefly, only to be certain that she is not missing anything vital.
"Range: First increment. Depth: One-triple-zero. Protocol: Drop."
There is nothing on Maya's face but grim satisfaction as her eyes flash to white and begin to glow.
"Kasting."
Red lines appear in a wide circle around her, on the ground. The earth shakes and begins to rumble ominously; there are cries of fear from the scavengers.
Wandering looters.
Profiteers. They smell war and infest the battlefields, hunting for blood money.
"Goddamned witches--" someone spits, but nobody answers him. A few of them are still shooting, trying to break through those damned shields -- and she's not supposed to have autoshields that good, most of the newer witches can't manage it, and it's just their luck to get stuck with an officer who knows what she's doing -- with a rain of firepower. Most of them are running.
Trying to, anyway. It's hard to run when the earth splits and drops away under your feet.
This is as much a favor to the Gorkas as it is to the Fleet, thinks Maya, and the voice in her head is cold and detached.
The ground falls away in specific patterns, under the grid marked out by the red light. It's impressive. It's awe-inspiring, the level of precision shown in this display of power; the frozen ground sheering away at perfect right angles for 1,000 meters down. Men hurtle, screaming, to their deaths, along with tons of ice and snow and pavement and earth. One hits a protruding pipe on the way down, with a loud CLANG! His shriek cuts off abruptly.
Maya stands at the center of it all, on a pedestal of rock and ground barely wide enough for her to stand on, surrounded by a thousand-meter-deep hole.
Damn you, Urik, for protecting me.
The last straggler loses his frantic, clawed grip, and falls, scrabbling for purchase, to his death. With a great groan and creaking clank of metal and thunderous crunch of ground giving way, the shelled-out krawl tips and begins to topple over the edge of the enormous hole.
Makita froze as soon as she spotted the witch. She knew that the idiot scavengers were already dead, and she knew that the witch would go out of her way to kill a 'Gorka if she was spotted. That's just how the Reds were
( ... )
[ooc: I didn't want that to get too long. So I need someone here (Kyuzo maybe?) to break this up before the letter flutters free, she catches it, and pulls herself up to follow Maya.]
As the krawl tumbles into the pit behind her with a shriek of metal, Maya lifts a hand. A bridge of rock and pavement roils up out of the ground with the grinding roar of rock, rising higher, higher, higher, until it links her pedestal with solid ground.
Makita hangs frozen in place as the witch walks away. Please don't turn around, please don't turn around, please don't turn around.
After a minute or so Makita begins to shift, preparing to pull herself the rest of the way out of the pit, but as she swings her leg up something slips from her pocket.
The letter! She promised! With a desperate twisting motion she swings to hang from the rusted pipe by the fingertips of one hand as her other hand swings the sickle's tip into the fluttering piece of paper.
It catches. It holds.
With a deep, almost relieved, breath, Makita swings her legs up to hook around the pipe and then slowly inches her way back to solid ground. Once there she spends thirty seconds just lying in the snow, clutching the letter to her chest and breathing raggedly.
This time, I'm not leaving. And you're not here to save me.
She stares down into the black of the pit, the wind pushing at her, setting her coat to whipping about her legs. She moves a boot near the edge; a shower of pebbles and small rocks slough off and fall down, down, down, until they can't be seen any longer.
Either I find you, or the Gorkas find me first. Either way.
Maya draws her foot back and walks across the bridge. On ordinary ground, her boots crunch in the hardpacked snow, leaving a trail of steady, perfectly even footprints.
Thirty seconds spent lying in the snow recovering. Makita would like to take more, but time's a luxury in Bahamut, and not one she can afford. With one last deep breath she pushes herself to her feet, tucks the letter into her coat, and moves lightly across the snow after the witch leaving almost not trace of her passing.
Makita lets her fingers brush across the pistol in her pocket and her teeth draw back in a predatory snarl. Damn witches. They've taken so much, and now it's time to take some back.
He's bruised, he's bloodied, he's got a leg that probably isn't broken but sure as hell feels like it is--
But he's alive. He's not down at the bottom, a broken wreck like Ilya and Nikola and all the rest. Can't kill old Koba that easy.
"Bastard -- Red witches --" Koba pants, each breath harsh and tearing in the frigid air, as he pulls himself up to the edge of the pit. "Didn't get me!" The words give him strength.
"Not Koba!"
He'll just hold here. Just a minute. Get his breath back, and gather himself for one final push.
The hailer makes a soft click as Kyuzo brings it to position; not from its firing mechanism, but simply because the movement makes the gun shift in its placement against his right gauntlet
( ... )
"Shields--" she says, activating the offensive portion of her defensive protocol.
The writing on the inside of one square of red light tells her that the protocol integrity is holding steady at 98%; another feeds her the precise location of her foes; another says 'ACQUIRING TARGET.' More numbers and letters scroll past here and there; Maya's eyes flick over them only briefly, only to be certain that she is not missing anything vital.
"Range: First increment. Depth: One-triple-zero. Protocol: Drop."
There is nothing on Maya's face but grim satisfaction as her eyes flash to white and begin to glow.
"Kasting."
Red lines appear in a wide circle around her, on the ground. The earth shakes and begins to rumble ominously; there are cries of fear from the scavengers.
Wandering looters.
Profiteers. They smell war and infest the battlefields, hunting for blood money.
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Trying to, anyway. It's hard to run when the earth splits and drops away under your feet.
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The ground falls away in specific patterns, under the grid marked out by the red light. It's impressive. It's awe-inspiring, the level of precision shown in this display of power; the frozen ground sheering away at perfect right angles for 1,000 meters down. Men hurtle, screaming, to their deaths, along with tons of ice and snow and pavement and earth. One hits a protruding pipe on the way down, with a loud CLANG! His shriek cuts off abruptly.
Maya stands at the center of it all, on a pedestal of rock and ground barely wide enough for her to stand on, surrounded by a thousand-meter-deep hole.
Damn you, Urik, for protecting me.
The last straggler loses his frantic, clawed grip, and falls, scrabbling for purchase, to his death. With a great groan and creaking clank of metal and thunderous crunch of ground giving way, the shelled-out krawl tips and begins to topple over the edge of the enormous hole.
I ( ... )
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Damn you, Urik.
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After a minute or so Makita begins to shift, preparing to pull herself the rest of the way out of the pit, but as she swings her leg up something slips from her pocket.
The letter! She promised! With a desperate twisting motion she swings to hang from the rusted pipe by the fingertips of one hand as her other hand swings the sickle's tip into the fluttering piece of paper.
It catches. It holds.
With a deep, almost relieved, breath, Makita swings her legs up to hook around the pipe and then slowly inches her way back to solid ground. Once there she spends thirty seconds just lying in the snow, clutching the letter to her chest and breathing raggedly.
That was too close.
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Maya pauses halfway across the landbridge.
I would have died in Al'Istaan if not for you.
This time, I'm not leaving. And you're not here to save me.
She stares down into the black of the pit, the wind pushing at her, setting her coat to whipping about her legs. She moves a boot near the edge; a shower of pebbles and small rocks slough off and fall down, down, down, until they can't be seen any longer.
Either I find you, or the Gorkas find me first. Either way.
Maya draws her foot back and walks across the bridge. On ordinary ground, her boots crunch in the hardpacked snow, leaving a trail of steady, perfectly even footprints.
I've seen enough of this world.
She walks into the wind and the twisted, skeletal remains of the city, a lone, upright figure in a long coat.
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Makita lets her fingers brush across the pistol in her pocket and her teeth draw back in a predatory snarl. Damn witches. They've taken so much, and now it's time to take some back.
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But he's alive. He's not down at the bottom, a broken wreck like Ilya and Nikola and all the rest. Can't kill old Koba that easy.
"Bastard -- Red witches --" Koba pants, each breath harsh and tearing in the frigid air, as he pulls himself up to the edge of the pit. "Didn't get me!" The words give him strength.
"Not Koba!"
He'll just hold here. Just a minute. Get his breath back, and gather himself for one final push.
"I--"
There's a shadow falling across him.
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