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In her youth a wooden practice sword, unfortunately precise in its approach, fractured the Marchesa's forearm. Arabella didn't much remember precisely which bone, or how it had felt to have it set; general anesthetic ensured the memory never lodged in her mind, if she had really noticed the sensation at all. But she did remember how the splint had felt. The way it had restricted the movement of her arm, the consistent pressure it had applied. It was a lot like how the braces her gunner clasped about her person felt. The series on her left arm were secured last, and she pushed gently against them; only until she felt resistance. She didn't push past it. That would have made the machine around her move, and inside Thunderchild's belly that would be... An issue. But the resistance proved that the intricate series of buckles and loops about her person were doing their job. A strap about her middle secured her in place and provided her anchor; down both legs and her left arm were a series of braces that locked her limbs into position relative to the cords and anchors attached near each of her major joints. Not very comfortable, and even on standby inside the hangar her enclosure was steadily getting hotter. A thick layer of ballistic glass gave her a view into the hangar beyond, the other machines being prepared, and she wondered if they were feeling the same things.

Maybe not to the same extent. While the machines were all unique, all arguably prototypes, she had questions about the very interface she controlled. Arabella had championed it herself. She believed it was perfect for her Damocles, and she knew she could control it. The trouble, and why she knew her Kingdom was planning to do away with it in future colossi, was how much work it was. Simply operating it was taxing, let alone the weeks of practice to learn to control it as fluidly as it was capable of. And she had never actually performed the drop they were about to undertake. The concept worked, of course, but that little niggling doubt remained. It was all technology that was so new. Had it all been tested properly? Would it work properly for her unique colossi, every one of them must wonder? So on, and so on, and so on. 

"Tutto pronto, Marchesa?" 

 "Si," The Marchesa answered simply, forcing confidence into the simple answer. It would work or it wouldn't. If it got her to the ground successfully she would handle the rest. "Al tuo post ora."

Her gunner nodded and gave the modified version of the bow she was due. To require such formalities all the time was impractical, to say the least of its ridiculousness. So the compromise had been struck to allow them their formality without interfering with their duties. The young man hurried to one of the two hatches behind her and she heard the door slam and ratchet shut. Whatever problems she might face, she knew, were mild compared to theirs. The descent for them would be fairly cold. And those reinforced doors were meant for her safety, not theirs. A risk, and all too likely sacrifice, that they accepted without reservation. She trusted them to do their jobs, and they her to be worthy of their efforts. Trust that had taken time and training to build.

And now it was time to put it to work.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, herself following the last few checks that she needed to perform. Her right arm was relatively unencumbered to enable her to access the emergency release she now felt for before returning her hand to hilt-shaped grip that served in place of a right wrist brace. At the one minute warning she softly began to pray. 

[i]Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in próelio...[/i]

At ten seconds she opened her eyes.

And at one the Damocles dropped.

Despite the way the system pulled at her limbs she kept the machine's own limbs straight, avoiding the possibility of interfering with another, larger falling colossus. Moments after the drop began the gaseous envelopes inflated, the sudden resistance driving the brace into her midsection. But relief washed over her at the mere fact that they worked. The rest, as she had thought, was up to her. Damocles struck earth like a mighty comet and as its legs bent so too did hers; giving ground, rather than keeping rigid, absorbed much of the impact though the force was still enough to make her feet ache. The cratered ground became visible as it smoothly rose in sync with her, the mighty avatar of her will stretching piston and valve to do as she bid. Her left arm rose, bringing with it Damocles' machine gun aimed at the fog ahead preemptively.

[i]Lasciali venire.[/i] A flick of her right wrist triggered the pneumatically deployed sword to swing out and lock into place, ready and lethal. [i]La mia lama ha sete. [/i]