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Text on a page or a picture in a book can't really convey power. The best wordsmith can't convey the way it [i]feels[/i], to grasp the enormity of a foe, to see the muscles rippling under its hide, witness its shadow all but blot out the sun, see the world illuminated almost exclusively by the red of its eyes. There's no way to convey the force of presence backing the animosity inside those crimson orbs. It's not conscious. It's a primal understanding, a knowledge that you are completely, utterly, impossibly outclassed by the towering nightmare of ebony, bone, and blood leering down at you. It's a split-second understanding in the face of the beast itself, something only someone else who's seen it will ever understand. But the words come back to you anyway. 

[i]Manticore. Riesen class Grimm. Venomous spines in the mane. Claws. Tail. Teeth. Low armor, highly tenacious. Many, many times the size of a hunter.

I swear to God, I'm having a word with whoever in the airship managed to miss something that big.[/i]

Still, with all encompassing terror comes adrenaline.

With adrenaline time seems to slow down.

And with that extra time fear turns into spite. 

While the Manticore's paw came down, Ben's feet were already pushing off of the ground [i]hard[/i] and sending him rocketing aside. The few percentage points dropping off his Aura gauge told him Deinamig had a hand in that, but the force got him out of harm's way without much time to spare. The paw came crashing down where he'd been only a few precious seconds before, but he didn't have time to think about that. No time for hindsight. Not if he was going to feed this fucking Grimm its own fucking teeth. Artorius and Lawnslot were back in his hands before the thought even finished crossing his mind, and before his foot ever connected with the roof again. He landed nimbly but he didn't stay still. Staying still was death. He was on the move. A single shotgun shell rocketed towards its face far above, something to distract it, while he darted away from its paws and got ready.

Knowing this wasn't the time to hold back, he triggered the release of his second battery and watched the Aura gauge on his BaSTEELs rocket up to three hundred percent. More than enough to keep Deinamig going, and himself safe. Especially with the way he was moving. Part of what made the Manticore deadly was its size, yes, but it existed on a scale that was by the very nature of its existence disassociated with the one Ben existed on. Ben was tiny in comparison. The Manticore's efforts to crush him were like trying to swat a fly. Easy when it stops moving, or when you know where it'll be, but when it's in motion? When it's moving too fast and too erratically for you to track?

Good fucking luck.

"Well, we've got a party on the roof!" Ben said into the radio with a tone that was a little too cheerful to actually convey the frenetic pulse beating through every fiber of his being, training paired with centuries-old instinct to keep him alive. Slipping some Fire Dust rounds into Lawnslot made him stop talking a second, just long enough to aim and fire a few times at its eyes and reverse direction as soon as it looked like it might have worked out a pattern to his movements. "Jack, you guys gotta get the survivors out [i]now.[/i] Know I told you I'd try and back you up, but [i]I'm[/i] gonna need backup. Manticore up here."

Would've been nice to be able to get a message to ASL, but that wasn't happening. Earpieces were ten lien at Good Buy, and by God he was going to buy four of the fucking things when they were done here. There was no 'if'. There was no [i]question[/i] as to whether or not he was walking away, as to whether or not he would win, as to whether or not this was the day that Manticore died. He was Benjamin Lloyd. He was part of Bastille. He was the [i]captain[/i]. He was immovable, insurmountable, and invincible. He wouldn't let Lauren lose here. He wouldn't let Sangue lose here. He wouldn't let Amy, either. So neither would he.

Anything else'd be hypocritical.

Deinamig fueled his legs, keeping him one step ahead, while his eyes tracked the massive beast's movements. It couldn't get the drop on him, it was too big for that. Any attack'd be telegraphed a mile in advance. And when it was, he'd be getting out of the way. His tonfa combined with a series of quick, mechanical clicks leaving him with Caletfwlch held in both hands. That Manticore had one blind spot. Its underbelly had no armor, and no way for it to attack him. Once he saw an opening, that's where he'd be going.

Time to prove, once and for all, that Bastille wasn't second best to [i]anyone[/i].