The earth shook with the footsteps of giants. 

[i]Enavant[/i] vaulted the mountaintop, coming down hard on the forest decline. He slid, the trees snapped beneath his hip and he flattened a wide swath on his way to the base. Desmon Solier’s body sweat through the chill of the cockpit, but for now all he could feel were the seconds clawing for hold as they ripped by. 

Twenty to go. 

The hills opened up before him, miles and miles of shallow rises and river-marked valleys. Plenty of space at a glance, but was it really enough? 

Behind him a low, bestial howl pierced the wind. 

It would have to be enough. He hit the mountain’s bottom and kicked off into a sprint. His Savior was larger than the average, but still fast. Desmon had run track as a boy, he had the form, and the beast had the lungs. Even if he wouldn’t win out in the long run, he only had to last fifteen more seconds. 

[i]“She’s just left[/i] Spectre[i],”[/i] Toussaint’s voice came through the comms. Normally a composed man, Desmon could hear the barest hint of revulsion in his voice. [i]“You’ll have time but you need as much distance as you can get.”[/i]

[i]Enavant[/i] pushed harder, ran faster. He didn’t think about [i]Spectre[/i], about the sound of Lousei’s screams before control had cut her comms. She was already dead when he’d left her, or as good as. Mourn later, win now. 

Five seconds. 

He stomped through the narrow valleys, the courses of centuries-old rivers changed underfoot. Hands digging into the hillside, he pulled himself up onto a level stretch of the plain as another howl reached him. He froze, whirled. In his hands he held a wing-tipped spear as long as he was tall, and as he clutched it tighter, a coil of white light spiraled up the blackened shaft. The tip burst into pale fire.

[i]Enavant[/i] phased. 

He felt a static tingling on the back of his brain. He heard his own thoughts in stereo, layered with the thoughts of something else that was trying to [i]be[/i] him as much as it was trying to [i]undo[/i] him. As long as it had taken him to run out the first clock, he now raced a second. Three years without a growth, but today he feared he might walk out of the cockpit and into the operating room. 

If he walked out. 

[i]“She’s coming,”[/i] Toussaint said. 

[i]Enavant[/i] held his spear across his body, as though he meant to slash out with it, and waited. Waited. He did not need to wait for long. 

It cleared the mountain he’d come from, a Savior silhouetted by the sun. It fell upon the side gracelessly, righting itself partway down and then [i]leaping[/i] into the air and crashing down onto a low-rising hilltop. Earth and rock exploded beneath it, the hill caved into a storm of dust. 

[i]Enavant[/i] swung his spear out, the light on its haft and the fire of its tip left a white-hot trail that lingered behind as an after image, then two, then three. They hovered before him, spears of burning light. With his free hand he clasped one, twirled it ready and reeled it back. 

Moments passed. The dark edged his vision, his Savior had no eyelids to blink it away. 

A shape pulled a plume of dust to the side like cloth. [i]Enavant[/i] stepped and launched the fiery spear forward. It soared like a bolt of lightning, the air shattered at its tip, and it connected with the dirt in an explosion of white flame that blew the dust away and replaced it with a gout of silvery smoke. 

The shape carried on, buried itself into the earth. Desmon felt a spike of confusion as the smoke cleared and he saw that it was not a Savior. 

It was an axe, and in the next moment it vanished. 

She came charging from the ruined hillside. Smaller than he was, but more for the thinness of its limbs than its height. In one hand she clutched a second axe, a mirror to the first; its hilt was short and its blade curved wickedly down almost to the curled pommel. Her other hand reached out, clawed fingers clutching into a fist. The air bunched in her grasp, tore like paper, and with a sharp swipe she ripped her first axe back into being. 

[i]Blotklau[/i] ran at him, not like a person, but like a beast trying to mimic one. Her mouth was a fanged, panting grin, her eyes a foursome of red fury. She was drenched in ichor, and though there were a number of gashes on her body, Desmon knew that most of it had come from whatever was left of [i]Spectre[/i]. 

What would she leave left of him?

[i]“Solier!”[/i]

Desmon snapped back, snatched another spear from the air and hurled it at her. [i]Blotklau[/i] ducked low like a dashing wolve, digging her axes into the earth for leverage as the bolt passed over her, only managing to sear her shoulder. He grabbed the next one—god, she was close—and took a moment to aim, to try and anticipate. With as much force as he could muster, he loosed the spear, and with her drawing ever closer he was certain she couldn’t dodge it. 

And he was right, she couldn’t. She didn’t. Instead, she whirled one of her axes up with incredible speed and slapped it by the haft, sending it spiraling out and unwinding into smoke. 

There was no time to make more. There was hardly time to grab his spear with both hands. He wasn’t primed for a melee, he was meant for support. He’d done so well when it was two versus two, when he and [i]Spectre[/i] had pinned the second opponent down and pierced its heart. Alone, what was he meant to do, really? 

[i]Blotklau[/i] opened her mouth wide, roared so loudly Desmon thought he could feel his real ears pop. She leapt into the air, axes raised high over her head, and all he could do was scream back and bring up his spear. 

Then she was on him. 

[hr][hr]
Dahlia was on her, throwing fast but telegraphed hooks at Quinn’s head with her kick-pad gloves. 

“[color=skyblue]Remember, don’t watch my hands, watch [i]me[/i],[/color]” she’d said. “[color=skyblue]Watch my body, watch my eyes. Don’t try to figure out what I’m going to do, I’ll tell you. You just have to listen.[/color]”

This had been their routine for the past month. Dahlia couldn’t really practice with her in Dragon, so when Quinn wasn’t getting adjusted to moving around in her own Savior, she brought the girl here, to the pilot’s gym. 

When she’d first started, Besca had told her that CQC was the bedrock of all Savior combat. The giants moved as fast and felt as responsive as their own bodies, and if weapons couldn’t be relied upon—or in some cases, [i]especially[/i] if they could be relied upon—then you had to know how to kick and punch like you meant it. 

Dahlia still had trouble swinging at Quinn like she meant it. But they’d been rigorous, their hours were long and hard, and once they’d gotten her over the initial aversion to hitting back, Quinn picked up fighting pretty quick. 

Besca came by when she could. Today she couldn’t, but she’d promised to meet them for lunch when they took a break. There was no window in the gym, but a wall clock promised that once this set was finished, they could be done until their evening session.