"As you will, Emperor," states the machine intelligence - Caval-4954, you can see from her nameplate? She raises her hand and clicks her fingers theatrically. And eight atomic bombs explode. Atomics are relics, museum pieces, ineffective in war for hundreds of thousands of years. For countless generations the principles of warfare have drifted closer and closer to precision, skill and individual heroism. Wars are fought with heroes, with precision teams of skirmishers, with organization and discipline. Anything as indiscriminate as an atomic would be little more than the backdrop for the real battle - and that is exactly how Caval-4954 uses them now. Although she could have detonated all eight here without meaningfully damaging the neomaterials of the coliseum, as a tool to create vast vistas of fire in each direction and block out the sun with vast columns of hurled smoke and dust they serve [i]magnificently[/i]. One goes off at each compass point, bracketing the world in a ring of fire. A microphone is in Caval-4954's hand as she drops down into the arena, voice held clear by the will of a mad god even as hurricane winds strike from all sides. The blast waves merge and shatter together, causing the sky to rebel and twist. And the machine sings in a fast, dangerous, flowing rhythm - the poetry of the gun. "On your knees because you're down here with me A rebel, a traitor, and an Empress to be We burned the stars, we conquered death We took ten thousand worlds with us past the end -" "HA!" Five hundred combat machines, garbed in war paint, leap down into the arena. Though they are of five hundred different makes and manufactures they all follow the steps of the dance as best as they are able - low sweeping ground spins that some are able to turn into elegant rolls and flips. "HA! HA!" "Yeah, we know a thing or two about war," said Caval-4954 in a speaking voice for a moment, letting the note hang before rolling back into it with the flow of a jet fighter revving for flight. She approaches, left hand held out in a pointing gesture as she slipped into a different language for the next verse "그대여 hoo 왜 그렇게 웃고 있나요? 자꾸 마음이 그대에게 가죠 나 그댈 어찌 보내야 하죠 그냥 넌 나에게만 집중해봐 남들 눈이 중요한가 가득 품에 안아줘 봐 이름 따위 몰라도 돼 갖고 싶다 말해 봐봐 사랑해봐" Five hundred machines, the next rank in the arena, throws five hundred fedoras down into the ring. The five hundred dancing there already catch the hats in a sickeningly unified motion despite the howling atomic winds and step and slide, spinning them onto their heads, moonwalking backwards. This time they move towards Caval-4954 as she sings, casting themselves at her feet as she steps onto their backs with the slow, deliberate stabbing footsteps of a runway model. As she approaches other machines press up against her, running their hands across her body in a sensual way as she flicks them aside dismissively. They swoon and fall to earth like the ranks of the dead. The machines forming the road for the singer begin to form a pyramid - crouching into increasing steps so to provide her with an uninterrupted staircase for Cavel-4954 to ascend. She makes her way to the top, step after sensual step, and as she does the machines falling around her cast red silk streamers up at her. They wrap around and bind her like bloodstains, like the red thread of fate, wrapping her chest and legs and clinging to her metal skin like adhesive so that it forms a bloody silken dress swirling behind her like a peacock's raised feathers amidst the wind. At the peak of the pyramid she steps into bladed black high heels that wait there for her, and dragonfly-drones hover down low to wrap a white diamond necklace around her neck. All the while she's flowing through the next verse of her song. "The lightning could not stop us -" "HA!" "The glory could not stop us -" "HA!" "In victory we've become melodic, and your victories were all pyrrhic -" "HA! HA! HA!" "You hold the shield with breaking heartstrings We'll tear down Zeus's failed offspring You don't bend at the knees You just bend at the brain You can't see the victory Coming around again It's rising, It's rising, Can't you feel it?" "It's rising! HA!" "Can't you see it?" "It's burning! HA!" "Can't you taste it burning your tongue? They came and came too late to stop us There was a race and we ran alone All the wolves of Hermes and we were the better Get down and kneel before the throne." The music came to a halt, and Cavel-4954 leaned down from the top of her flowing, exalting pyramid of machinery. She looked down at you with shining painted eyes with lashes long enough to cut the soul. Those painted eyes blinked, and she said: "On your knees, you've come home." She spun the microphone and tossed it. It landed in the sand at your feet like the spear of challenge. The arena was silent. [Response level 2: [b]Bad Weather[/b].] * [b]Vasilia and Dolce![/b] The world outside shakes and roars. The blue void through that broken skylight goes dark. One of the butler-machines drops the glass she's holding, politely bows and requests forgiveness, and bends down to sweep it up. "Those are Kaeri," Galnius muttered, pointing at the distant shadows. He has [i]good[/i] eyes. "The machines are a distraction. We've got a hostile servitor formation out there, maybe twenty, but reinforcements will be coming. We stand good odds. If we support the Ceronian she'll go through them like a knife." It's the perfect military read from the textbooks of the Empire - you have a localized force superiority and should wield it to obliterate the enemy. It's also a good reminder that your enemy is playing by the same textbook. The Kaeri will gather reinforcements until their victory is mathematically determined and then crush you, as inevitable as Zeus. Victory will go to whoever acts with more boldness, more skill, more courage. But there's a different way - the way of Hera. All around are machines who, though they appear as still and servile as the furniture itself, clearly have [i]something[/i] unique about them. That paint is not uniform, it is a hundred little acts of self expression - and it's a hundred silent sentinels with who you can negotiate. Impress the machines with your own expression of individual style and they'll favour you as kin.