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Selma had— she admitted perhaps reluctantly— a point.

Here she was upon a stage, with an expecting audience and a performance to give. Did she revel in the chance? No. She had been pouting beneath the rain. It was Godless and unpleasant, that went without saying; but she was wrong to simply [i]accept[/i] it. More than that she was wrong to wish her own performance over quickly, however much she might prefer the warmth and dry. 

Then again, she could make her own.

The [i]devushka[/i]'s scarf barely qualified for the term so large it was, but it had been draped around her neck for warmth. She gathered the ends and drew them taut about her throat to keep it safe. Much of her team— of [i]Kheper[/i]— was already in motion, but they had things easily in hand thus far. One was down for the count, its disgraceful flailing indicative of an artificial mind that knew not when it was beaten. If there was a single quality for which she praised them— since it certainly wasn't aesthetics— it was drive. Single minded, unthinking, [i]unquestioning[/i] drive. They would act in pursuit of their directive so long as there was power to their circuits. Such determination would have been laudable in a living being. In a machine, an imitation of human imperfection, it was simply... Sad. A facsimile of true will that it could never begin to understand, let alone truly emulate. It had no choice, no agency in its actions beyond that granted to it by a few lines of code. It strove without knowing for something that not only lay beyond its reach but beyond even the scope of its comprehension.

Enough was enough.

Her Parma appeared about her, garnished in addition by a single white scarf, and in an instant she was as warm and dry as she had been in her own  bed. The ground for a few feet around her was dry, the water upon it lifting off in a cloud of steam as the artisan brandished her Gladius. 

[color=7e5e7f]"Bang."[/color]

The four missiles streaking towards Selma had been launched from the same box, and though capable of seeking were locked upon the same target. They were clustered, a fact that increased their capacity of simultaneous destruction as much as their potential for unintended fratricide. If one went up, so too likely would the others. For example, if a brilliant flame detonated in their midst and took the magically charged warheads with it. That would clear Selma for the moment, next up was the importance of helping her pinned comrade. 

With a melodic war cry, announcement as much as challenge, she sent a blast straight at the second drone's sensitive looking 'head' seeking to draw its attention.