Between every day is a night, a night composed of a series of dreams. Some of these dreams may be brief, excerpts of a nonexistence, a conversation or just a glimpse of a greater narrative that'd never be properly explored. Other dreams may be longer, a day or more, enough that it can feel familiar enough to settle into, enough to call reality. Perhaps it draws inspiration from memories to better construct this realistic fiction, though it has the freedom to twist such truths, and the leniency dependent on the dreamer's haze to deceive them as truths.
Not all, but some dreams can grow so elaborate that they impose their own history, one that doesn't necessitate borrowing from memories even to entrance the dreamer. Family who've been long gone, friends who've never existed to begin with, people who may exist in truth but only in likeness, morphed into new beings with different relationships enough that they really are hardly like their inspirations at all, perhaps another deception to trick the dreamer into believing this false reality.
Regardless of the complexities of such dreams, the vast majority will not be remembered, in fact they may not return to the dreamer at its end at all. Even so, a grave remainder will fade soon after, leaving at most fragments of its ending, a microscopic remnant of what otherwise felt like a whole other life.
Some may be more memorable than others, but eventually they fade in the memory of the beholder, another false reality overridden by the proper truth.
Ultimately, most of these dreams will be forgotten.
For the series of dreams will always conclude the same way.
The dreamer's awakening.
That awakening isn't so gentle but rather it barges with a blaring trumpet's horn, though that horn's bravado is compressed with a tin-like effect, losing much of its vibrance as it squeezes out of the two arrays of tiny circular holes cut into the metallic rim that has a glossy pink finish, a portion of that rim cut out from the black rubber layer covering that edge with its own. To the left of the left array is another cutout revealing a substantially wider hole whose diameter is nearly that of the full rim, and attached to it between the two arrays is a white cable that sits on the white tabletop that the device sits on. The rubber edge is thin, not even half an inch tall, the shape generally that of a thin brick. While the rim is made of that rubber material, the face pointing to the sky instead is constructed out of plastic of the same black color, with glyphs embedded into the plastic. On the top left corner of the brick are two cutouts side by side, the left for a black dot and the right for a white dot.
The music emitting from the device doesn't have far to travel as the room the table resides in isn't much larger than a walk-in closet, the lower half of the walls painted red and the upper half painted blue. These colors are only brightened to visibility by the window that breathes a yellow radiance into the room, creeping up to the table that the black brick sits on.
That brick continues to sing its compressed fanfare before a brown-skinned hand grabs it from beside the table and yanks it, tugging on the cable for just a moment before its tether snaps and the head detaches off the brick, falling below the table to which a young male voice groggles. A moment later, the music comes to a sharp halt, allowing for just a brief moment of peace and quiet, appreciated with a calmed sigh.
The very next moment, it's again interrupted by a distant voice of an older man, muffled as though spoken from beneath the floor, shouting: "YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE!!"
Another sigh follows, though it verges more on a grunt before the boy's voice shouts back clearly, "COMING!!"
Then, that hand places the black brick back on the table, the hand of the arm of the torso dressed in a plain white shirt. The being is a south asian boy who seems to be around twelve years old, with short black hair and dark blue eyes. He rubs his eyes with both hands, clearly fatigued, before grabbing the edge of the surface he sits on: a bed mattress with a white cover. The mattress is supported by a solid frame of white-painted wood with four legs that contact the white carpet floor.
Another piece of furniture standing on the carpet floor is a dresser with five physical shelves, similarly made of wood painted white, which the boy approaches –wearing blue cotton shorts–, pulling on the knobs to extend the drawer. He reaches inside the top drawer to pull out a pair of white socks while shuffling through what sounds to be a pile of cloth articles that are other clothes.
Leaning against the dresser that the boy eventually steps away from is a thick black backpack with physical metal zippers defining various compartments, though all are shut. Near the bed again, the boy grunts impatiently to himself while shuffling, seeming to be dressing himself. It doesn't take long for the shuffling to conclude, and moments later the boy returns to the dresser, now wearing a pair of dark blue sweatpants. He reaches for the black backpack with his left hand, grabbing it by one of the straps and approaching a closed blue door at the other end of the room. He's dressed in a blue hoodie though a lighter tone than the pants, his other hand gripping the black brick device that he then slides into the right pocket of his sweatpants. Freeing that hand, he grabs and twists the silver knob, pushing the door open just before that voice shouts– still from below though less muffled: "JAMES, WHERE ARE YOU, I STARTED THE CAR!!"
The aggression of the shout warrants anxiously clenched teeth from the boy before he begins walking hastily down the white hallway, his footsteps muffled by the same carpet as he slips his arms through his backpack straps, shoulders it against his back, and repeats in a similar shout, "COMING!"
Recalling a dream, even moments after awakening, can be as difficult as recalling a memory of early childhood, as if minutes past a dream equate to decades past reality. It begs the question, if dreams are experiences to the mind, how different are they from memories? From the perspective of the recaller, what legitimacy does an old memory hold over a dream if both grow foggy so quickly, especially when those old memories may seem to have no discernible effect on their present.
Maybe the people who exist in those memories were so vastly different to who they are now, if around at all, that they may as well not be themselves or real at all. Maybe the setting is one that hasn't been visited in such a great length of time that it perhaps never existed to begin with.
If there isn't an anchor, someone to verify these past experiences as truths, what separates the past from a dream? Especially when those images are a blur, when those dreams may borrow aspects of reality, how can one know if what they say was an experience they truly once had?
How does one know if they did truly once stand at the edge of that cliff under the overwhelming white sky, illuminated not by a discernible single source such as a star, but rather a permeating network of white caustics stretched across the horizon not static in place but slithering and waving?
Even if that cliff was real, what about the field of mountains further past, ranges and sierras for as far as can be seen amongst a forest, mountains that are not grounded by its widest base but hover with an exposed inversion, forming the shape of diamonds? Despite how hazy that image was, there were details like the faint white glow of the stone lower half that would've normally been concealed beneath the surface, like a source of living energy propping these titanic natural structures afloat.
Yet the strangest nature of this experience, perhaps real or not, is that despite that specific recollection of those mountains, the figure that stands before it all at the edge of the cliff is hardest to recall. There was a figure indeed, a humanoid turned away to face past that cliff, its posture straight with its hands behind its back in a manner almost authoritative. No color can be recalled of this figure, no texture, perhaps it was dressed in robes or at least loose clothing as the attire flapped in the winds.
What is recalled however is a voice, one that echoes with that same authoritative prominence, powerful yet simultaneously humble and kind, for it speaks: "I do not fault you for the loss of our paradise, I would've never thought he'd be waiting for you, I would've never thought he'd return. If I had known he'd be a threat, perhaps I should've…no, it wouldn't have fared better."
The figure shakes its head before lifting it to the sky, contemplating seemingly to itself, "All those infinities of toil…to be undone so instantaneously…what a cursed power to persist through realities. And now it permeates through every layer, embedded into the very fibers of all existence, and gone is its purity…."
The figure then lowers its head to gaze straight at the mountains in the distance before taking a step back, closer to the observer whilst explaining, "I've relinquished my capacity to amend, it is now you who holds that power. I can only gaze upon this reconstruction from beyond but you must understand it from within, only then possibly could you find a remedy."
Just then, the figure's head begins to turn, and yet that's when vision of this experience begins to distort worse, fogging like mist clouding a windshield, as even that voice gradually loses its clarity as it declares, "As heavy of a heart it is to do this, you cannot maintain these understandings, not yet at least. I do not take pleasure in this, but there will come a time when this won't be necessary, and only then will you understand. And only then will you both meet me for the first time."
One night can carry the sequence of many dreams, enough that the first several may be entirely forgotten before the dreamer can awaken. Given the speed a dream can occur, operating at a runtime desynchronized with reality's clock, the maximum quantity of dreams producible within an average night is difficult to assess.
However, that quantity will of course be finite as that night's length is finite, and so while the dreamer may experience millennias of realities in the hours of their rest, there will eventually be a last dream of the night. That said, this last dream's composition wouldn't be anything unique in particular compared to the rest, this last one wouldn't inherently resemble truth nor would it lean on fantasy further. There's no reliable indicator during the dream to signal to the dreamer that this is the finale, though of course they'd most likely be operating under the assumption that this is reality, as becoming aware of the false reality is a rarity that again isn't any more likely to occur in the final dream.
The only indication of the final dream being the final dream is it ending with the absolute awakening, when that dream is followed directly with reality.
However, if dreamers believe their dreams to be reality during their experience, their state of mind, their trust in reality would be no different upon awakening. In that way, they may once again blindly trust this world, only being correct by the happenstance that they are no longer dreaming.
But at the same time, if they are capable of distrusting their dreams, they could very easily distrust their reality too.
If it all feels the same, then how could one truly know, without a doubt, that they've woken up?
What makes absolutely certain that they're not falsely believing reality? What makes absolutely certain that they're not falsely distrusting a dream?
Perhaps to one's experience, reality is just one long dream.
Long like that dream is the road built of a dark asphalt-like material, a road that someone runs down, wearing brown leather shoes. Judging by the pitch of his heavy yet excited breaths as well as the stature of his body, that runner is a young Japanese boy, at best at the start of his teenage years.
He's dressed in dark gray shorts, paired with a lighter wool coat, though it's not too warm to fatigue him in his run between two long buildings each only about two floors tall, constructed of dark scarlet wood. The roofs are triangularly bent, passing over the walls to form natural roof canopies.
At the end of the nearing end of the parallel buildings aren't more structures but an open space, leaving no obstruction to the sky which breathes down a crimson radiance that drenches those buildings and the boy.
Ultimately reaching the end of the long buildings, the boy slows down his run, huffing and puffing but clearly energized enough given the flare in his eyes, reflected off the teeth of his smile. He needs not to run anymore, as he instead casually strolls forth into the open area before him, its breadth expansive enough to stretch past his forward-focused sights, and its depths similarly infinite, though not the ground itself. For not far beyond him, the asphalt floor cuts with an abrupt drop, from where the sea continues past, a boundless sea continuing on to the end of the horizon, a calm body basking in the same red luminescence of the overall sky above, its light only slightly dimmed by the dark clouds scattered around, denser further on.
To better appreciate the breeze, the boy raises his two arms, making a T-shape with his body, letting the loose fabrics of his coat rustle like leaves, the wind hollering in his ears. It's loud enough that he doesn't immediately hear the womanly voice shout to him from behind, for his focus is instead on taking in a deep breath of that chill air, like a refreshing sip.
He does however catch a sight from the left edge of his vision, prompting him to turn his head in intrigue, to which he notices that further down the vast port is a pair of adult men marching towards him, dressed in wine red uniforms composed of long pants, a buttoned up coat, and a cap. The two men march side by side with distinguished, formal forms, extracting the boy's total attention as he turns to face them fully.
Again that womanly voice shouts, this time her speech is clear to the boy as: "Osamu!"
Attentive to his surroundings, the boy instinctively turns around to find that pacing past those long buildings is a woman seemingly in her thirties, wearing a fair white dress under a gray wool coat, terror in her eyes upon noticing the approaching men. She hurries faster towards the frozen boy, reaching him before the calmly paced men to then grab his shoulders and immediately lecture, "Don't get so close to the water, and you know better than to not run off on your own! Especially here where…," though she catches her voice, turning to remind herself of her own surroundings, specifically the two men reaching conversational distance where they stop with heavy steps, as if stomping the ground to announce their arrival.
Washing out that disapproving grimace to replace instead with a forcefully uplifted smile, the woman tilts her head innocently and excuses, "So sorry for bothering you, my boy just really loves the docks and can't help himself in the morning! My mistake for choosing a place so close to the port, heh."
Before the mother and her young boy, both men have stoic, almost passively irritated glares they beam down on the two. The man to the right however huffs out that fire, releasing it to lighten himself to a casual smile which he directs to the boy. The man then recalls, "Osamu, you said?"
Fighting to uphold that smile, the mother's face struggles not to contort itself into a concerned grimace, and through that struggle she playfully confirms, "Yes yes, he's our second born. His older sister is much more responsible, I wish he took more from her really," outwardly scolding him though placing her hand on his shoulder in instinctual protection.
Glancing briefly to the mother, the man returns his gaze to the boy, maintaining that innocent smile of his own as he assures, "You have nothing to worry about, there is no mistake."
He then bends forward to the boy, reducing his stature to better level down with him, more closely meeting at eye level though stopping at a higher elevation before retorting, "He likes the docks, yes? He will make for a fine sailor."
From the direction of the sea emits a gentle constant buzz which the boy turns his gaze to as the mother emits a laugh to that compliment, albeit it's a slightly nervous laugh, as her hand runs down her boy's arm to grab his wrist. She nods and thanks, "Thank you very much! We'll be going now, sorry again for the intrusion-."
"Woah, are those ships? I've always wanted to see a landing!" The boy interrupts in excitement, perplexing the mother and even the two men. As those men turn to face the sea where that buzz grows louder, the mother turns to face the boy to ask in a slight scowl, "What on our Earth are you on about," just as the men's eyes widen abruptly and the man to the left shout, "Oh god, it's an invasion! Get a hold of the palace, we need her!"
He immediately spins and begins racing back in the direction he marched from, and following him is the other man who shouts frantically, "On it!" They both leave the mother and the boy standing at the docks, watching the sailors race off, and immediately then the mother spins and begins racing towards the direction she ran from, holding her puzzled boy's wrist tight to grab him with her while crying, "We need to get home now! Hurry!"
The boy follows her steps, as he has to if he wishes not to fall forwards, accelerating with her as they make their dash away from the port, their footsteps softening as the buzz grows.
From within the dark clouds scattered amongst the red sky, a bulb of yellow light peers ever so dimly, followed immediately by a few others nearby, followed then by multiples more, spawning rapidly such that the dots begin to cover the clouds.
That buzzing, while muffled from the isolation provided by the walls, is much louder inside the dimly lit room vaguely resembling a cargo plane's interior given the dark gray metallic industrial walls which form a corridor, only visible by the red lights that run along those walls by the curved ceiling and floor. Along each wall and grounded on the floor are several pairs of armored shoes, primarily dark gray metal though with a golden Y-shaped imprint in the vague resemblance of sandal straps. Above the ankles are darker heavy quilted fabrics binded by a golden exoskeletal guard, though there's heavier protection for the thighs which feature shorts constructed from rings of long dark metallic plates, almost like the pattern of a skirt though separated for each leg, providing greater flexibility and coverage. That same plated design is used for the torso over the darker belt, up to where a plated golden chest guard sits over, sitting between two gray pauldrons adorned with grids of small golden square beads, a texture resembling mongolian armor. Their upper arms have the same plated rings, though golden instead, with more near-black quilted fabrics for the forearms where a metallic plate sits over, strapped by buckles. That fabric continues to form a glove, the quilted design applying protection though not nearly as thick, leaving space for dexterity.
The faces of the adult men are mostly exposed, though they're protected by heavy helmets primarily made of that dark gray metal, the shape similar to samurai helmets given the cap over the head and curved plates protecting the sides and back, those curved plates again adorned with those golden square beads.
They all sit in silence on a row of seats attached to the wall, letting that buzz outside dominate the space that doesn't seem grounded as the floor slightly shakes, yet none of them waver. Additional turbulence follows, indicating that they appear to be mobile. Above them are rows of cabinets, and between each seat is a long device with the appearance of a rifle held against the wall potentially by magnets, made of dark steel with an extended stock and smooth body, the underbelly golden. The barrel has a uniquely sharp point at the end, almost making the whole weapon resemble a wasp stinger as the scope smoothly blends into the barrel too.
Most of them simply face forward, where another row of similarly armored men sit on similar seats under cabinets, some of whom mirror those glances with their own. A few of them turn to their right, where past the benches is a wall to the corridor-esc space, curved in an arch, almost like a wide door shut, as the room seems to be shaped like a huge pill with flat floors.
Down the other end of the room past the seats, that pill shape partially closes but leads to another room which seems practically empty like a short hallway, only leading to another further past where only two seats can be seen facing the other way, both occupied by people focused ahead at a wide screen displaying the sight of the open air amongst the clouds. Even from the room further back, that space most resembles a cockpit, as the entire space appears like a plane, that middle space being the cargo area, where those men are the soldiers primed for deployment in the cabin.
From the cockpit, one of the pilots shouts over, "We're entering hostile territory, prepare for drop. Sentries take position," to which two men, one from each side, stand up simultaneously. They both grab rifles beside their seats, yanking it off its attachment, and with it they march into the next space, seeming to be the cargo area. As they do, the metal walls of the interior spontaneously begin folding in small metal sheets from the middle of each long face, as though the solid walls are merely composed of thin plates. Those sheets continuously fold outwards, widening the breach into an open curved doorway, which is when the folding stops, concluding the opening with the folded plates not even visible. What does now become visible to those stationed soldiers is the open sky they stand high in, the thick clouds zooming past. Approaching the edge of the open door of the moving vehicle, the soldier on the right side lowers his gaze to peer past the clouds, catching a sight of the boundless red sea, glimmers reaching up this high.
The opening of the door also invites the buzzing sound, though far louder now, and with that raised volume comes a raised clarity in the direction of the sources of the buzzing as it's clearly coming from just about all directions. While one of them is directly above the ceiling, the soldier raises his gaze, leans towards the opening, and turns his head back to focus on a source within sight: a flying ship moving in the same direction as them from behind, the size of a cargo plane but instead of a single pill-shaped body, it instead has three, the backmost being longer than the rest. Also rather than two horizontal wings, the vehicle seems to be carried by rapidly rotating fans like helicopter blades, which emit a yellow radiance such that the blur glows. The ship features two primary colors: gray and yellow, as the back pill features a stripe design resembling a wasp, as in fact the entire vehicle bears resemblance to that very insect though at a massively grown scale. Attached to the back pill, hanging by the bottom of the curve is a long gray cannon barrel naturally angled downwards: the stinger. This design matches the spherical head of the ships, the windshields being long black panels wider at the sides like bug eyes, though connected as a single visor in the middle. Directly above the eyes are the antennas, or rather a pair of additional cannons not nearly as huge as the stinger in the back yet intimidating in its own right, tilted out in a natural resting position much like its reference.
There's many other ships further behind that one, an entire airborne fleet scattered across the sky, all of them flying in the same direction, with the same purpose. The soldier turns directly to his side where another ship drives right beside them –a little further ahead–, the buzzing wings creating a majestic fan effect though one that'd seem massively dangerous to stand near. Yet his gaze drifts to the head of that ship, where a figure's shoes are planted on the surface of the hull right in front of those wings.
Those shoes are similar to the soldiers': a black metallic mold with a Y-shaped golden design mimicking sandal straps, though the knee doesn't use the same quilted fabric but instead a metallic shin guard made of similar material to the soldier's armor, specifically sporting the grids of golden square beads. A leather trench coat flaps in the winds, long enough that it's as low to the surface as the knees despite being lifted by the current.
Like a reversal of the soldiers' armor, the quilted fabrics are worn over the thighs, but reinforcing each is another metal plate with the same golden bead grid, both on the outer thighs. A belt made of a faded crimson fabric is tied around the waist, above which is a torso plate of the same material as the thigh plating, covering much more of the body with this style of armor, its mongolian similarities far closer.
The same golden plated chest plate rests above the abdominal plating, and crossing over the chest is a pair of folded arms, both covered in sleeves of the leather coat, the material thick as the forearms have a pattern of puffed rings similar to puffer jackets, although wavy like smoke rather than perfect circles.
That same pattern follows down the trench coat flapping in the winds, squeezed only in the arms, for even the lapels rustle as do the white bangs of hair parted around the face of the Japanese man, whose appearance lends itself to an age in the forties. Like the emission of the wings behind him, his glaring eyes themselves are yellow, focused forth, for his body remains still on the moving vehicle, unshakable.
The vehicle he stands atop is notably larger than the rest of the fleet too, its hull thicker and its body slightly longer with an additional cannon on each side of the central pill, as if this was a swarm of wasps, he'd be standing atop the queen bee. It's fitting too, as it's that ship at the head of the fleet, the one man himself standing out in the open, though many of the ships around him have open doors on their sides where other soldiers stand guard, armed with rifles.
Onwards the fleet travels, the wind hollering far louder given the speed and altitude, and yet it's not nearly as loud as the collective buzzing of the swarm.
That buzz has grown in volume from the ground by the port region, for it can even be distinctly heard not from the dock but the city deeper into land, reaching cube buildings made of wood similar to the dockside structures, though these are far larger, a quarter of a city block each. The buildings vary in height but most are around five stories tall, indicative of the physical glassy windows forming a grid on each face. Many of the buildings are made of the same scarlet color as from the docks, but some of them have been painted white, with other buildings sporting a mix of those colors to distinguish the supporting corners.
Between those buildings are the asphalt roads where mobs of people run away from the buzzing, matching with screams and cries of their own in terror. Children are led by parents, teenagers try to pull their grandparents, all leading to a hectic evacuation off the streets as some people trip over from the volume of traffic.
Among that crowd is the boy Osamu, running alongside his mother who turns at an intersection, huffing as she desperately retraces her steps back home. As they run, the mother notices a crowd funnel into the next building ahead, guided by a few men in casual coats by the open doorways who shout for attention, one of them pleading: "Leave the doors open, there's no time!"
As the boy and mother race past that crowd, the mother glances back with a frown of uncertainty that raises anxiety, pestering her as she shakes her head in conflict.
All the sudden, the mother spins around and dashes for the crowd, still holding onto the hand of her boy who shouts anxiously, "Wait, don't we need to go to dad and sis?"
The mother shakes her head as she joins the crowd flooding into this random building, explaining over the sea of shouts: "They're safe at home, and we need to be safe too. We'll find them after, don't worry, we'll be safe. They haven't even sounded the alarms…," though that assurance perplexes the mother herself, as she turns her head to the direction of the docks where the buzz blares from.
Freezing in place from her own thoughts, the mother doesn't notice the line continue on through the doors, as she stands in place right before the entrance, standing in front of the remaining crowd. One of the men by the door urgently exclaims, "MISS, PLEASE HURRY!"
Snapped out of her contemplation, the mother blinks and hastily apologizes, "So sorry," before resuming into a hurried jog. She drags her boy by her hand, although strangely enough the boy's focus has shifted to the sky above them, now being the one to turn towards the docks as a brief pink light reflects off his eyes to which he stares astonished.
Now from the edge of the dock, what were formerly dim yellow lights in the distance have grown to a visible fleet of ships, those yellow lights distinguished as wings above the hulls. The docks themselves have emptied for nobody would dare stand out in the open, certainly not at the doorstep where the invasion would be entering from. With the speed of those ships moving like the planes they function as, they approach that dock at a rate such that they'd pass in less than half a minute, especially given the complete lack of resistance.
Driving towards that entrance, the pilots in the cockpit of the ship tailing the leader keep their focus through the clear windshield where they can observe the city below, a vast land that stretches as wide and deep as can be seen, for it's no mere island but rather a continent. The city isn't composed of skyscrapers though, but instead it's architecturally similar to the mid 1900s, better allowing for the pilots to peer deep into the land they approach.
They steer the ship using a console of physical buttons, switches and levers, analog controls the pilot on the right side has most control over, as the left pilot seems more to be a co-pilot, there to assist but not nearly as active. While there are no analog gauges, on the edges of the screen are colored digital visualizations of such information, allowing the pilots to assess their status without shifting their gaze. Not only are there widgets for gauges, but there are video streams of the crew in the back of the ship, streams of camera footage off the sides and back of the vehicle, along with a digital map of the land ahead with a direct red arrowed line leading to a point not too deep, presenting the destination.
Little of the sea is left to still be visible from the windshield as the ship nears the dock, the land seconds away from flying over. Both pilots keep their eyes stuck to the view of that land in anticipation, but that view is abruptly obstructed by a pink flash of light to which the copilot immediately exclaims, "STOP," as the pilot hastily yanks back a lever at his side.
Pilots in other ships have a similarly dramatic reaction with horrified eyes and gritted teeth, yanking back their levers as the buzz of their ships hisses, as if screeching against the air.
All the sudden and seemingly inexplicably, the massive zooming fleet slows down sharply, decelerating from nearly supersonic speed down to a full halt in seconds, the buzz of their wings softening dramatically though it remains passively as the wings don't simply stop spinning. Despite the unchallenged momentum of the swarm, even the leading ship stops short of the dock, for it remains above the waters. It's perhaps not even a half mile from the edge of the dock, nonetheless it freezes in place. Impressively despite the sharp stop, the man standing atop the leading ship doesn't stumble or waver, but instead manages to remain exactly in place with the same pose: arms crossed over his chest as his trench coat waves in the wind albeit with a slightly tapered gravitas given the loss of movement. He keeps his gaze forth, staring straight at the figure staring back at him, standing at the same altitude but without a surface to stand on.
That steady, attentively stern stare that the man wears begins to sharpen into a glare fueled by a more personal rage, his eyebrows furrowing and his forehead scrunching. His yellow irises retain an air of control, but there's a sense of discontent.
Maintaining his pose, the man just stares at the figure at his level, his trench coat continuing to blow back by the high winds as does his hair. While his arms are crossed over his chest, burying his hands under his elbows, the exposed hand of the figure is held out to be seen as its arms are out, the soft palm open and facing back at him which is illuminated by a strange pink outline.
That open hand is feminine and leans on the side of petite, soft as if ungrazed by the world. It emits that glowing pink outline, not causing the whole hand to illuminate but just the edges around the fingers and palm. What does emit off the palm however is an intriguing pink smoke-like substance, or perhaps a gas, a gas that bears a great resemblance to a nebula, as microscopic particles flicker and gleam like the residuals of a supernova. The breeze blows it between the fingers past the back of the hand, that same breeze rustling the sleeve resting above the wrists.
The sleeve isn't that of an ordinary casual attire as it drapes in an arch as it's the sleeve of a kimono, one made with a black fabric base overlaid with a pattern of shimmering rose gold in various interesting lines, with a solid ring along the cuff. From that cuff, multiple lines run up the sleeve in parallel, with orthogonal lines randomly connected between and of various thickness.
That same pattern is applied on the skirt, though it's notably looser than a traditional kimono's, sporting the flexibility more akin to one of a samurai. Below that skirt which reaches by the ankles, the figure doesn't wear heavy metal boots but rather casual white sandals with rose gold straps exposing the feet, the bottom of the sandals resembling kimono sandals given its two stubs, though they're smoothened to provide a curved base. While the skirt obscures the legs, it's tightened up and stretched horizontally as while the right leg is straightened, the left leg is bent such that the foot rests against the knee of the right leg, balancing in the air. The edges of the kimono as well as the exposed leg and sandals emit the same pink outline, for it wraps around the entire body.
The figure's other hand is also open, both arms stretched out, raised by a low angle, emitting the same pink nebular mist. Both hands rest below the waist, which is wrapped around by a hot pink obi belt with a green obijime cord which sports a golden pin. Past it continues the rose gold pattern which appears to somewhat resemble a web in the long lines emitting from the same point bounded by rings, but those rings are inconsistent in thickness and only sometimes pass through all lines whereas most only connect two or three, such chaos in fact more like the pattern of shattered glass.
That pattern reaches the collar lined in rose gold, tucked over a white collar of an inner layer. Past the collar is the exposed neck, behind which is long flowing hair, not black nor brown but pink, the same color as the eyes of the Japanese woman.
Her eyes are sharpened too in a focused glare, though she carries an air of relaxed confidence, stern but in control, standing in the air with her arms out as energy exudes off her body.
Holding that glare for a few moments longer, the man standing atop his fleet pivots his focus past the woman, briefly scanning the city below him and off into the distant horizon before meeting back to whom he directs his notice to, speaking in a voice deep with an authoritarian weight seasoned with a faint grogginess of aged fatigue: "There's been far enough time for a defensive fleet to show itself, and the base stationed here is capable of composing a comparable one too. But they've lazed to even defend their own homes in favor of sending you. You're nothing but a lawn dog to them."
Across from him, the woman just stares back for a few moments of silence, though strangely that insult sparks a smirk, keeping her pose as she corrects in a snarkily brazen voice not gentle but with a brattish edge, "She was actually really hesitant on holding them off for me, she's not used to it. But she gets that they would've just been a bother, and it'd be her fault if there were accidental casualties."
That counter is met with a scoff from the man, keeping his arms folded as he shakes his head and mutters, "I guess we can agree that they would've been useless, I'd have had all this by now given their joke of a national defense. They confuse the bullying power they have as a police with military might, and your involvement has only spared them to continue their delusion. A slave who begs to work is still a slave, and what's worse is the imbecility of your master."
A giggle is breathed from the woman who now shakes her head, nebular gas still rising off her hands, finding humor in those further insults before she casts one of her own, "You really do need this game of politics to make you feel like something, don't you? This big show of all your cool warships and epic soldiers all here at once, it's almost comparable to having a friend, isn't it?"
Both of those closed hands protruding from those leather sleeves, resting over the golden plated armor, begin to tighten as a golden mist begins seeping out of the palms, rising in the air. The arms then finally unfurl, the left arm dropping to the side as the right arm is extended forth.
"Keep to your game too, it has nothing to do with any of this," the man mutters as thicker mist discharges from the hands, golden like fire yet with the consistency of smoke, though as the pointer finger uncurls, the mist's natural rise diverts to crawling along the finger, encasing it like a glove.
The arm extended forth, the pointer is directed along the man's sight like a held gun, the covered fingertip the barrel's aperture. Staring down that arm through that fiery yellow glare, the man orders: "This is the last time I'm playing with you, leave or you fall with them."
Staring down that arm too, the woman huffs yet doesn't move her own arms despite the threat against her. She only shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly, and in a tone of that same light she wagers, "Do you think you can reach me before my hands can reach each other? How many ships do you think I can catch from here? Other than yours, of course."
Keeping his arm steady, aiming his finger straight at her head as the red sunlight cast down from above brightens with a white shimmer, the man wagers back albeit in his stone cold voice, "You're bluffing, we're not fighting on the ground, that won't work."
"You sure about that?" Now the woman seems to be providing the threats though in an almost gloating tone despite her body remaining still.
That fact doesn't seem to alleviate the pilots sitting in the cockpit, tense with clenched teeth as they tightly grip their controls, fingers on the proverbial triggers to act on reflex.
Not protected by a solid windshield but instead hanging off the side of the ships, the soldiers standing by the leader are notably unsure themselves, their gaze constantly fluctuating from the woman and the leader, looking to him for confidence but struggling to uncover any. They keep their arms down, the barrels of their rifles not pointed at the woman, as though they're aware that it'd be of no use to do so anyways. In fact, their best chance of victory would be to not act at all.
Yet deep in this tense standoff, a few of the soldiers are distracted as they stare up at the flaring white light coming from the sky where a gentle hum exudes among the buzzing.
At the raised fingertip, the very tip of the golden smoke begins to condense, brightening into a concentrated singularity.
Passively, nebular pink gas sizzles off the hands, her weapon already having been charged, as in fact that gas begins to start thickening off the palm, concentrating at the point where the two hands would make contact.
High in the red skies the two challengers face off, the Warlord standing on his ship, his trench coat waving like the excess smoke emitting from his primed hand, aiming at the Champion standing in the air, her hair also waving like the stretched sleeves and her open smoking hands. White light shines down on them and the surrounding ships, though most concentrated between the two challengers.
All the sudden, the hum that was nearly silent –overpowered by the buzz and winds– abruptly raises volume to a near roar to which that light intensifies like a beacon, and from that beacon in the sky fires down two figures at such speed that they're only a blur, immediately catching both of the challengers' attention as their gazes drop to the floor in bewilderment as do their arms.
That beacon plummets all the way down to the red sea near the port, though that's perhaps for the best as not a second later two figures crash into those waters, erupting explosions against the surface which immediately muffle below where their bodies naturally begin descending in the bubbly depths.
Both of those bodies are male, only their heads exposed which identifies them to be Latino, seemingly in their forties, similar enough that they may be related. They both have black hair, though one of theirs is distinctly longer with unkempt bangs whereas the other is better groomed, his hair wavy. The man with the bangs also has strangely crimson red eyes, which illuminate in a starry shape within the iris as though his eyes are stars. The other man has similarly starry eyes though his are azure blue.
What perhaps makes them stranger is the attire they're dressed in, both of them similar to be suits covering the rest of their bodies from the neck down, as the man with azure eyes has a suit made majorly of an azure fiber-woven fabric fit tightly to his body as his musculature presses through. On his chest is an azure vibrantly glowing insignia in the shape of a tilted obelisk, vaguely resembling a pencil from which a multitude of glowing lines run across his suit, three of them up to the shoulders where a slim golden armor runs from one elbow to the other like a pauldron, connected over the collarbone as a single piece. On the shoulder blades are embedded crystals emitting a frosty glow, cut into the shape of that same obelisk.
More of those streaks run across the body, down the arms where they branch off like trees to cover more area, some of them reaching the bottom of the forearms which sport a white leather pad that blends into the front hand of the gloves, and on the top of the forearms is a matte black pad with darker ridges which integrates into the backhand of the gloves; on the knuckles are those same frosty crystals as reinforcements.
Streaks run around the back, and three run down the abdomen where the ribs are protected by black leather pads below which are white leather pads nested above the waist, around which is a golden belt made of the same material as the pauldron which has a buckle on the right side, and in the center is the same pencil insignia glowing azure like the streaks that run through it. Below the belt are only two streaks, one per leg which runs down the thigh, branching orthogonally to wrap around and under the white leather pads protecting the outer thighs. The main leg streaks reach the knees fitted with high boots made of the same black material as the gauntlets, furthermore reinforced with those frosty crystals on the shin of the knee and tips of the shoes.
Over his shoulders is a black hooded cape made of a material similar to chainmail though more tightly woven and with a softer silk-like appearance, though it isn't attached to his body but rather hovers directly over, tracked with his shoulders as if held autonomously.
The man with crimson eyes has a similar suit, though instead of azure fabrics his suit uses a metallic scaly dark crimson material, tightly fitted still. On his chest is a bright crimson insignia whose shape is a rotated rounded rectangle representing an eraser, from which streaks flow from, including up to the shoulders which are armored with dark silver pauldrons instead of gold. That same material is used for the belt –which also sports a crimson insignia of the eraser at the center–, but also the knee-high boots and the gauntlets over the top forearms that integrate with the gloves from the wrists. Hard black meshes reinforce the ribs and outer thigh. The crimson streaks that spread over the body only branch again at the thighs, using straighter lines than the other man. He's additionally armored by a jagged near-black red material resembling obsidian, three rings of it wrapped around his boots like buckles and composing the soles. Chains of that same material are wrapped around the forearms, three to be precise, with thinner chains wrapped around the palm and fingers. A much larger chain is wrapped around his neck, long enough that it would be able to rest on his chest, though it instead floats under the water. He also has a similar hovering hooded cape though made of a dark red material resembling cloth with a galaxias texture, the bottom edge of which has wave trims like the curves of wings.
Both of the men appear delirious initially as the white light fades away, but they both begin jolting as if in agony, bubbles streaming out their mouth and nose. The man in red clenches his teeth as the man in blue shakes his arms and places his gloved hands over his face as if the water is actively hurting him.
The strange pain is immense enough that he raises his head up and frantically swims up with strokes of his hand, rising back to the surface. As he does, his legs flash blue before his body is abruptly launched straight up with enough force to penetrate the surface from below, causing another eruption, his body leaving a residual trail of blue energy particles.
Now in the air and still soaring, the man hastily wipes his face in a desperate attempt to remove the water though it's already been absorbed. That pain has incited him to launch himself so high that he passes the buildings immediately, rocketing up though as the residual energy trail fades from his legs he begins losing propulsion.
That's no matter though, as his upward gaze has already noticed the fleet of floating objects in the air, only about fifty feet above him. While that may still seem far above, he remedies that by raising his right hand towards the object to the left of the one at the front of the pack. Of course his arm doesn't reach far enough, but from his palm projects a translucent cable made of an azure energy which endlessly grows as it soars up the air, reaching the curved side of the object almost instantaneously, seemingly attaching to the surface without any visible hook.
The cable stops lengthening after making contact to which the man closes his hand as if grabbing the cable, and instead begins retracting, reeling the man up with quick acceleration, able to make that remaining fifty feet in just a couple seconds. Before reaching the surface he's anchored to, he jerks his arm back just as that cable suddenly disappears, freeing the man whose body is flung over the object itself, just enough to land on its head miraculously right in front of the spinning wings which he notes by instinctively rolling back to spring to his feet.
The man again wipes his face, his hair still soaked, but as he adjusts himself he spins around to find the fleet of floating objects: the huge wasp-shaped ships. He also happens to first face the ship to his right pulled slightly ahead, where he immediately locks eyes with the man in the leather trench coat, who has already locked his yellow gaze on him.
Staring at the strange man who fell from the sky and rose from the sea, the man in the trench coat stares with a stern expression, on edge though clearly puzzled given his inquisitive forehead scrunch. The man in blue stares back at him, much more openly bewildered given his wide eyes. He holds that stare for a few moments before turning left to find the other person standing, albeit not supported by a physical platform, that being the woman in the kimono who's also staring right back at him, though her expression is more openly confused.
Upon locking eyes with the woman, the man in the blue suit slowly drops his jaw, that bewilderment morphing into pure shock, astonishment, one leaving him speechless. His eyes shine, radiating their own glow as he can't move his gaze away.
Somewhat taken aback by the hard stare, the woman's eyebrow raises in perplexion, though she's not sure of what to say, yet her reaction is clearly not as intense.
While she doesn't speak, the man in blue does, his voice naturally deep though the single word spoken shifts up in pitch from a mix of confusion, uncertainty, and pure awe: "...Kokei?"
That utterance further puzzles the woman, her eyes widening and lips parting as she freezes for a moment, her head tilting to the side as though struggling to respond properly as variables and possibilities rush through her head, all of which are invalidated before a word can be spoken.
Across from her, the Warlord in the trench coat turns to face the Champion identified as Kokei, and he's much faster to respond as he immediately accuses in a spiteful tone, "All your big solo talk, and you were hiding an ally?"
She immediately switches focus back to the Warlord, that perplexity remaining though it morphs defensively as she argues, "Huh, I don't even know him-," though the Warlord raises his arm back up, pointing his finger which the golden mist emitting from his palm crowd around, concentrating at the tip.
The man in blue turns towards the Champion being pointed at, and he leaps forward as the back of his body flashes blue, thrusting him off the platform at an interceptive angle. As he spins to face the Warlord, he raises his right hand which spontaneously combusts into an azure blue blaze, initially naturally chaotic though those flames swiftly calm into a circular crest shape.
With the slight jerk of his wrist, the man in the trench coat propels a ray of focused mist from his finger, leading a trail. At that exact moment, the flaming crest hardens on its own, furthermore the solidified disk morphs material and color, that fire manifesting into the same frosty crystal material reinforcing his knuckles, though the crest's edge instead becomes a metallic silver material, one which instantaneously secretes an expanding sheet of blue energy extending several feet to enlarge the shield's reach just as it catches that golden bullet at the center, which doesn't so as make a scratch on the surface.
That act occurring in just a second, Kokei's pink eyes widen stunned, further befuddled with a slight hint of intrigue.
Contrastingly, the Warlord's yellow eyes sharpen enraged, subsiding curiosity for bold intent as he keeps his finger extended forth to point and command in a shout: "Launch the dive mission, frontline squadrons resume your assault, we'll catch up. We won't cower over a single additional man."
Standing by the open side door of the ship to the left, the soldier faces the leader in shock, as do the other soldiers stationed in the open, visibly uncertain about the plan. They however independently quell their own anxiety as their expressions stiffen determined, and suddenly many of the ships at the front half of the fleet begin driving forth again, starting at a slow speed but gradually accelerating.
His starry eyes tracking those ships, the man in blue curiously observes the resuming advance of the fleet, though notes that not all the ships have begun moving as many further in the back remain stationary, but most notably the head ship the leader stands on stays still. Still, there's more than ten ships that do begin moving, driving towards the city, passing him and moments later Kokei who keeps her focus locked on the leader even at the disregard of the fleet.
Understanding that the assault just simply bypassed the only active defense, the man in blue's expression visibly tenses with an uneasy conflict, ultimately determining, "I need to stop them," before spinning around and launching himself towards those advancing ships, the shield in his hand combusting into an azure blaze that loses shape and dissipates into nothing.
Just as he passes Kokei, she declares her own determination: "I need to stop him," before she begins drifting in the air towards the Warlord, her eyes flaring brighter as does the outline around her.
Hearing that diverging decision, the man in blue turns his head and protests, "But we should-," before the Champion interjects boldly, "I'm handling it," before she extends her open right hand at the Warlord, whose body suddenly illuminates with the same radiating pink outline as hers. He in fact begins floating too, though against his will as the Champion pulls her arm back and thrusts it forward, and a moment after the Warlord's body is flung backwards as if grabbed by a powerful yet invisible hand.
Astonished by the imperceptible strike, the man in blue, thrust into this situation without any context of who he was dealing with and the greater circumstances at play, understands simply the weight of an assault of this scale on a city of such urbanization –inferring a dense population– and so he firms his face and turns back to face the escaping fleet.
Far below the clouds that the assault resumes among, the calm waters by the port are struck again from within as another being bursts from the depths, erupting another splash. That being is the man in the crimson suit, who's propelled by a similar energy leaving a residual particle trail, though these are crimson red like the radiance emitting from his chest.
It doesn't launch him nearly as high as the other man before he suspends himself in the air with a passive levitation only about ten feet above the water. Despite being in the seemingly painful water for longer, he isn't as insistent on wiping his face, for his focus is instead diverted up that drifting fleet high in the sky. He doesn't spring into action immediately, but instead observes from afar at first, his cape waving in the shore breeze.
Meanwhile, the Hero in the azure suit dashes in the air towards one of the pods among the resuming assault, and as his hands are set ablaze in blue, another of those translucent energy cables are projected off his body, but rather than it being from his hand its instead from the side of his hip. That cable attaches to that ship he's chasing, reeling him closer to allow for better aim as he extends his left arm as the fire in that hand curves into an arch before materializing into a silver compound bow, though the string itself is made of the energy cable used to carry him. As he places his right hand by that string, the fire from that hand extends forth to manifest a silver arrow with a flat head that has a few vents along the sides allowing for a blue light to passively emit.
Pulling the string back, the Hero primes the bow before releasing, firing that arrow which strikes the wall of the ship, the tip sticking onto it though not immediately triggering a discernible effect except for the blue light now pulsing.
Watching the arrow on the ship for a few moments in anticipation, the Hero ultimately questions seemingly nobody around, "Orial, why has the pod yet to change course?"
While there's no other physical beings present close enough to respond to the Hero, a voice does speak to him nonetheless, a sophisticated British male voice which seems to speak directly to him from the suit itself as though a part of it: "My apologies sir, but I'm unable to register this pod's operating architecture. It's entirely foreign to me, more so than the pirate train."
The Hero sighs in disappointment but assures to that voice, "Interesting…no matter, I appreciate the effort."
He glances down to find that they're reaching the end of the sea, as the portland is approaching close. He raises his head back up to the ship he's tethered to before judging, "I can't let them simply fall out of the sky, but I'll figure a way to stop them."
All the sudden, a thunderous boom with reverberation like a supernova startles the Hero, prompting him to turn his head to the source where a bright pink light emits from, his azure eyes widening in astonishment. Before that light can naturally dissipate, it's overwhelmed by a yellow radiance that arrives with a raging sizzle sound like the afterwave of a flame, one that evokes an anxious expression on the man.
The compound bow in his hand erupts into an open flame that dissipates, clearing his hands still flaming, primed as he accelerates towards the ship which he turns to face with an insistent determination, using a combination of the cable's pull and his suit's push from the back.
Peering out of the open side door of a driving ship, one of the soldiers –armed with a lowered rifle– notices the translucent blue energy wire attached to the striped hull before him, only the wire itself visible as there isn't a clamp or hook whether it's embedded that deeply or it doesn't exist at all.
His eyebrow raises curiously, following that cable out to find the other end attached to the hip of the Hero in the azure suit, barreling straight for him, his hands flaming blue like the flare in his eyes. At once, the soldier raises his rifle, sliding the stock against his shoulder, and presses fire with a release of golden yellow bolts of concentrated laser energy, fired at the rate of a steady assault rifle, every bolt exiting with a punch like lightning crackle.
` Just as that first shot is fired, the blaze burning off the Hero's hands takes shape, the fire in his left hand manifesting into a circular shield already held forth as the one in his right refines into a hilt of what would be a sword, though without a blade. Both tools materialize simultaneously, the shield made of the same metallic rim around the crystal core which absorbs the first few shots. As the Hero's body is pushed to the side away from the ship by a sideways propulsion of blue energy off his suit, the shield's metal rim emits an extended energy disk to expand the shield just as the empty hilt emits its own energy construct, that being a blade three feet long, the end curved into a sharp point. Made of that same blue plasmic energy, it hums passively, leaving a trail of light as the man swings around the ship before the wire reeling him in vanishes, immediately then being replaced by the projection of another cable though it attaches directly onto the soldier's waist. Even as the soldier tries to aim higher and lower to land a shot, they're all absorbed by the expanded energy shield that fully protects the body, all until the last moment when the Hero swings his arm to the side right as he swings his other arm to slash the soldier across the chest with the energy blade.
Just as the Hero lands on the floor, the soldier collapses there too albeit without any visible gash or injury, for no blood is shed. The Hero swiftly inspects the interior, turning to the right to which he comes in contact with the large crew space where rows of soldiers just stare back at him, and at that moment the Hero's eyes widen in anxious shock. All at once, soldiers reach for their rifles at their side and roll off their seats, though the Hero manages to position his shield protectively before the first shot lands. He maintains his stance as more soldiers open rapid fire on him, though his attention is pulled around towards the cockpit where the copilot aims a smaller firearm at him: the same dark gray and yellow palette as the rifles but in a pistol formfactor, featuring the same general curved design. At the end of that curve is the barrel which fires a single golden yellow bolt straight for the Hero's unshielded side, though that man is quick to swing his blade and parry the shot itself. Not only does the bolt absorb into the plasmic blade, but that blade unleashes a projectile of its own in the form of a concentrated stroke of energy like the blade has become the force of its own swing. That slash-shaped projectile reaches the cockpit before the copilot could take another shot, striking both him and the pilot simultaneously in the neck, causing them both to slump into their seats albeit once again there's no visible wound.
Regardless of the ambiguous lethality of the strike, the decommissioning of both pilots immediately results in the ship beginning to nose dive as the dashboard begins blaring alarms. The Hero's eyes widen upon that consequence, nearly stumbling back instinctively though the ship maintains its own gravitational field to hold him upright, as it does for the many soldiers who begin marching towards him, pressing fire. Returning focus to those soldiers to notice their advancement, the Hero reels his left arm back before punching it forward, pumping the shield which expels another projectile: a circular wall of energy the same radius as the extended shield, one that washes through most of the soldiers at the center, dropping their bodies instantly as they shout and scream in anticipation.
The soldiers not directly struck dive to the benches, leaving just enough time for the Hero to kick off the floor and out through the side door, leaving the sinking ship at once. The first soldiers to recover from their dive notice that ditch, but they then immediately notice their plummet to which they rush towards the cockpit. A couple soldiers stop at the side door to peer out, seeking the man who's seemingly doomed them as other soldiers slip into the cockpit, maneuvering around the bodies of the pilots, huffing desperately as they read the console, clearly uncertain of how to take control. After glancing up at the windshield to catch sight of the dock's shore growing larger in view, the soldiers grow more frantic as one of them begins flicking switches on the console at random, and another grabs a lever and yanks it up, though one of those switches flicked causes the engine to audibly stutter as it seems they're only worsening their case. They begin to shout at each other more as the red-reflected waters grow clearer the closer they get, some of them turning around to begin racing for the side door in an effort to ditch the ship entirely.
As the ship accelerates towards the sea, from beyond the edges of the windshield burst glowing blue wires which curve around the windshield before joining together as more wires emerge orthogonally to connect together, forming a net right in front of the soldiers. Just a moment after the connection, the ship abruptly begins decelerating, the men instinctively stumbling forward though catching themselves as the gravitational field maintains its hold,and in just a couple seconds the ship fully stops, suspended in the air over the sea.
Perplexed, the soldiers gasping for air turn around and pace towards the side door where they find that net also present, seemingly wrapped around the entire ship to protect it from a hard landing, although the net is also too dense for the soldiers to slip through, functioning doubly as a trap.
It is true that the net encases the entire wasp-shaped ship, still angled vertically down in a nose dive, but at least no longer in free fall. The net's shaped like a pill in that it converges to one point at both long ends, one point being right past the head of the ship, and the other point being from a silver device resembling a small rocket command module with an attached thruster hovering in the air, though the net doesn't necessarily all connect at that end but rather many individual cables seem to have been fired from the ring around said thruster. Hovering in the air beside that thruster is the man in the azure suit, both hands held towards it as it had just been created, though he lowers his arms now that such creation is complete.
His hair waving intensely in the wind, the Hero's starry eyes calm upon assessing the safety of the ship, though that calm can only exist for a second before his attention is diverted to the several ships that soar right past him, their buzzing louder than the wind they drag which blows his hair forward. Through that hair he peers at the ships with sharpening eyes, nudging his head to the mission incomplete. What's more, lowering his gaze below reveals that he's directly by the edge of the port, meaning the ships are practically over land now. With every second endangering more lives, he raises his head, spins, and thrusts himself with a propulsive boost from his back to fling himself towards those passed ships.
Those ships continue their advancement well past the original leader who had stood atop his ship, and as they continue to do so, that leader is simultaneously flying backwards from the head of the ship towards the rapidly vibrating wing propellers. That knockback could lead to a fatal collision but is halted as the man throws his hands down, those hands emitting yellow smoke as do his legs, seeming to bear some propulsive property as it decelerates his flight to a full suspension right in front of the buzzing wings. His boots land back on the metal rounded surface of the ship, his black leather trench coat and white wavy hair dancing in the winds produced by the wings, all as he glares down beyond the head of the ship, where standing not on any physical surface is the woman in the black and rose gold kimono.
The Champion stares back at the Warlord as the long sleeves of her kimono wave like her pink hair, silky and long enough to reach to her back if still. Her entire body is outlined with a gentle pink radiance, the same color as her eyes, the pupils of which are white with a sinusoidal bright pink curved streak through it across her irises. She doesn't have nearly the same aggressive glare, as while she's clearly focused, she bears a confidence that reflects a sense of ease.
That ease reflects in the looseness of her movements as she raises one arm to aim at the Warlord, her hand opening as a point of pink light awakens in front of her palm.
Noticing the emergence through that stern glare, the Warlord hastily raises his own right arm to take aim as the smoke emitting from that hand concentrates right in front of the extended pointer finger, brightening until he releases it into a bright beam like a laser. It moves with the speed like one too, immediately striking the Champion yet the head of the beam stutters right before it could make contact with the neck, and instead diverts direction off and away as if shielded against.
Seemingly unphased by that strike, the Champion keeps her hand up as that light erupts into an orb the size of a basketball, made of that nebular pink energy concentrated in that sphere though gently smoking, overwhelmed with its own power. She then releases that power with a casual stretch of the hand, sending that orb flying straight for the leader, striking him in the chest. The orb doesn't explode however, but rather stops on his chest, no, centered within it, bleeding out of his armor. He lowers his head in horror before his entire body is lifted off the ship roof, rising with the movement of the Champion's hand –open with the palm facing up. From her perspective, the Warlord hovers right over the palm of her hand before she jerks her arm towards herself, right as the orb carrying the man abruptly flies straight towards herself. She then raises her arm up, ascending the orb, her gaze locking to the metal roof with the clear intent to slam him down.
Yellow smoke bursts out of the Warlord's body, practically setting off a smoke bomb just before the Champion throws her arm down, however neither the orb nor the opponent is sent smashing down.
Instead, as the Champion raises her head in curiosity, the Warlord drops out of the smoke on his own accord, winding his right leg back with smoke covering his boot. Before the Champion can raise her hand, the Warlord kicks her straight in the face, knocking her flying towards the wings of the ship. She doesn't stop herself before making contact either, genuinely flying into the rapidly vibrating glowing propellers which abruptly halt in the very fraction of the second she flies through, letting her pass in between. The very moment after the passing, the wings resume, as if she had forcefully gripped them in place to protect herself.
She reorients herself in the air and decelerates to a stop by the end of the ship, choosing not to ground herself as she hovers a couple feet above. Already facing back at the spinning wings she had been thrown through, she swings her arm up to take aim through the wings as another pink orb manifests over her palm, though as she closes that palm into a fist that orb's residual smoke tightens up as the orb itself brightens, refining. She then flicks two fingers up, prompting the orb to launch at near bullet speed straight forth.
She watches the orb vanish past the wings, anticipating the next attack, attentive even if maintaining her calm demeanor. With her focus set ahead, she doesn't notice several of the ships further behind her –the portion of the fleet that didn't continue with the advance– rotate to the right. By turning their long sides towards the battle, they line the Champion up with the open side doors, each one a soldier stationed at, each one raising their rifle. With a silent command, at once they all launch a rapid barrage of golden bolts straight at the Champion, who only notices by the thunderous boom of the shots coming from behind, her eyes widening in that shock as the outline around her subtly brightens.
The first bolts to reach the Champion nearly strike her back, yet the bolts themselves freeze just a few feet from making contact, their golden core highlighted by a pink radiance. Those that follow are similarly frozen, as in seconds her entire back is covered by suspended bolts, grouped so intensely it's blinding. She rolls her eyes and sighs as if in disappointment, raising her arm up in front of her face, her palm facing the sky before another orb spawns right before her eyes, the pink radiance illuminating her face. The orb refines again with a sharper surface, and once sufficient she turns her head towards the gunfire, her retaliation primed.
However, right after turning her head, from above the wings rise the Warlord, bounding high as his entire lower body is covered in yellow smoke, his arms both pointing at the Champion with concentrated rays primed. Yet in anticipation, the Champion turns her head again as all the bolts covering her back are suddenly dragged around her, shifting to line up in front of her before the entire barrage is launched straight for him.
That accumulated firepower redirected to the very leader of that army is sent like a fireball, prompting the leader to propel himself downwards to dodge the mass. After dropping between the fireball and roof, he then fires both of the concentrated beams at the Champion, who raises her free hand in a blocking motion, not dodging the beams but instead letting them reflect off her arm, the parallel streams splitting.
As the Warlord lands on the ground and rises up to his feet, now on the other side of the wings, the Champion's eyes dart to the orb still hovering by her hand, ready for use. Her attention then diverts behind herself where gunfire hasn't ceased but continues to pile up bolts behind her, practically forming a wall of golden light. Her eyes dart once more back to the Warlord who begins charging at her, maintaining his concentrated beams as more smoke begins to wrap around his arms.
The Warlord halts both beams upon reaching close enough, instead focusing on surrounding his fists with smoke, the right one he winds back as he enters within reach. Before he can throw that punch, the Champion launches herself backwards along with all the bolts accumulated behind her, which is sent back to the stationary fleet, some of them striking the exposed soldiers whereas others are quick enough to dodge away. That brief pause of the volley allows the clarity for the Champion, who flashes a smirk, to extend both arms towards the leader in a gesture almost inviting before jerking her arms back as if signaling for him to follow, forcing him to do so as his body is outlined in pink and thrusted off the ship floor, straight into the open air towards her and the many ships further.