Alexa stares at the mic like it's the point of a thunderbolt. No, that's not true. If it were a thunderbolt, she'd at least know what to do. Some guidelines as to whether to dodge, charge, bring up the shield, [i]something[/i] other than gawp uselessly at the crowd.. They're waiting, the air tense, electric with yearning potential and the crackling of a thousand eyes laser-focused on her. Hera and Apollo, oh fuck, she can't-- Can't think, can't focus, can't [i]breathe[/i] which is [i]fucking stupid[/i] because she doesn't need to anyway and-- This isn't what she was made for! Molech didn't teach her anything about public speaking, or performance! She's the help, the background! If she's with Molech, then he will do the speaking! She goes with him everywhere, therefore there's no need for her to talk, ever, especially not in front of a crowd, and especially not in front of a crowd of people who know exactly who she is! Oh fuck, they hate her, don't they? They know she betrayed them, turned to Nero, is an oathbreaker, kinslayer, traitor--that's why they're all here! That's why such an eclectic group is all gathered here instead of doing their jobs, is because nobody's willing to miss the execution of the millennia! The first power chord strikes, and Alexa almost collapses with relief. Thank goodness, thank all the gods, of course Redana would be trained for this. Of course she'd be able to address a nightmare crowd, calm them down, deliver a stirring speech that'd have the crowd on their side in no time. Of course Nero would make sure she knew how to do public speaking! And now that she actually has the mental space to look at the crowd... Her brow wrinkles as her gaze flits from one nonsense to another. This crowd is madness in every sense of the word. Everywhere she looks, robots are choosing seemingly at random what to--who organized this? There's no patterns! Everybody's mingling with each other--there's no formations, no rigid, segregated ranks. There's a phalanx member mingling with skirmishers, trading for a drink from a legionnaire wearing a paper hat. Cheering and fighting mingle with feasts and--Aphrodite, that's an orgy, good heavens. Brass and soldiers mingle like water, flow from group to group, wander the stands--where's the order, the commands, the sitting in place and listening to the presentation? Even with the background of the wailing guitar and the falling nuclear rubble, the cacophony of the crowd is like standing in chest high waves. No two bots are alike, uniformity and regiments discarded in favor of paint, tattoos, engravings, modifications… And while there's no chance in hell that she could ever do the same--can you imagine the offense to Athena at so defacing her image?--there's a part of her yearns for the floral patterns she sees on the tripod distributing popcorn through the crowd. None of this should be possible. None of these robots were built with imagination, creativity, anything but war and the few neurons needed to power it! How can this be? This art, this splendor, this… this chaos? Mmm. This solo is going on quite a long time, isn't i-- Alexa catches Redana's eyes, and just like that, she's dumped square back into the ice water of panic. Redana, no. Redana, you can't be serious. Redana, [i]please.[/i] Gods above, [i]help.[/i] Alexa approaches the microphone like it's a coiled viper. Tosses it from hand to hand, tests its heft, its weight. Traces the engraved handle, appreciates the ornate brass scrollwork. Taps the mic, and winces as feedback screeches across the arena. She shoots another glance at Redana and cringes at the encouraging grin. Okay, Alexa. First lines on coming home. Power ballad on the sacred axe of Zeus backing. People who know you and outnumber you five thousand to one. Make it good, Alexa. "We just flew in from orbit, and boy are my arms tired!" Nailed it.