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The core principle of exothermic reaction is maintained in the field of egregoric thermodynamics. Bonds contain energy, and potent bonds contain more potent energy. Heat is the currency of chemical change. Likewise, pain and violence are the currency of power. Pyrotechnics is the science of rapid heat and pressure release. As with the atom bomb, a revolution in the science of rupture is a revolution in warcraft. On a chemical level, every heartbreak is a bomb. It is therefore necessary to understand the underlying principles of loss. Through loss we are led to grief. Grief, which is itself a dense consolidation of gravity and weight, leads to the creation of catastrophic pressures. The successful capture of these pressures can fuel our most brilliant dreams.

Elementary Forces and Egregoric Energetics, second edition, by Dr. Ulysses Kane and Dr. Hannibal Markov (UCF 258, USA 2034).

Deep in the Kunlun mountains, Xinjiang, China, UCF 09/30/453

“Heathen at 3 o’clock!” Tang’s voice rings through the klaxon of engagement. Flechette whips around to her right, heaving a titanic vibrablade against the hull of a PLAA jumpfighter. The blade shrieks, a demonic sound, a howling banshee of serration shredding through feet-thick plates of blast steel armor. The sleek, twinjet aircraft hovers for a moment, still, as if pinned to a point in space, before each half of the bifurcated craft begins to plummet some three hundred feet to the ground.

“Edge,” Flechette gasps out — her own callsign — in affirmation. Flechette wrenches her blade out from the Xinjiang mountainside where it had embedded itself, steam billowing out from the joints of her THRONE as titanic plates of combat ceramic ripple fluidly down its back.

Flechette’s THRONE mech, the BIRTH OF VENUS, is nearly unrecognizable as machine. Towering at 515 feet tall, vaguely humanoid, more a gargantuan hybrid creature somehow both lupine and cetacean than anything else, the VENUS is an exemplar of the UCF THRONE foundries, a magnificent leviathan of sleek plates of combat ceramic and massive, whirring servos, each knee and elbow joint a bleeding-edge technological miracle the size of a tank. And how beautiful she is, pale curves inlaid with stealth-alloy filigree and arc-plasma signal diffusion channels, tracing shining runic patterns through tectonic flanks and hips. Of course, the greatest miracle is not her size, nor her strength. It is her agility, the fluidity with which she slinks and flows like water through the motions of perfected violence. She is an immense behemoth predator, as if summoned from some horrific elder age of war in heaven, and bound to a more vulgar era. Rising from the VENUS’ shoulder blades are two immense wings, feathered with gleaming white ultracarbide and interleaved with fusion scramjet repulsers.

Every THRONE is a work of art, as unique and individual as any human person. Tang leaps to action in his own TEN RIGHTEOUS IN SODOM, pressing the back of his mech against that of the VENUS, affording Flechette cover and support. The TEN RIGHTEOUS appears more of an upright locust, spindly and bladed, contrasting Tang’s own bulk.

“Edge, we’ve got inbound enemy THRONES. I’d say they’re less than twelve klicks out, coming from the north. Airborne.” Tang and his mech whip out a segmented leg, carving an arc through the earth, obliterating three enemy ground-troop transports and an armored artillery vehicle.

“Roger that. Prepare to engage. I’ve got your back, Tang. Let’s show these heathens how we like to dance in the mess hall.”

“Ha! I didn’t know the VENUS had two left feet.”

“She’s a better dancer than I am,” Flechette responds, chuckling.

“I sure hope so. Don’t step on my toes.” Flechette sees Tang’s jovial grin in her HUD on the commsline.

“And don’t fall behind! The TEN RIGHTEOUS isn’t quite as nimble as she once was.”

“Ah, you’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. TEN RIGHTEOUS may be a third-gen THRONE, but she’s still as fast as any of ‘em. First to three downs buys the first round?”

“Make it four.”

“Deal. You gonna eat those words, little killboy.”

THRONE combat is a terrible sight to behold, and one which few bystanders ever live to remember. Mountains crumble underfoot. Canyons are carved in the ground where swordblades drag. Weather changes in an instant as exhaust heat and halo-radiation violate the heavens. Angels and demons fighting over conquest of the Earth.

Flechette never feels more alive.

“How’s your score, Edge?” Tang hollers over the sounds of exertion, the echoing booms of skyscraper-sized blade-edges clanging against each other.

“Two down, Tang. Working on a third right now. We’re earning our fuckin’ paychecks today.” She accentuates her expletive with a brutal swing of her sword, bashing an enemy THRONE’s face to a pulp against an icy cliffside, splattering hemosynthate and neuronic control matter across the landscape.

“Haha! Hell yeah we are brother.” The TEN RIGHTEOUS winds back one of its colossal insectoid legs before firing it at Mach 2 against the sternum of another THRONE, causing it to burst in a gush of red and green.

“Looks like I might be getting a free round tonight,” Flechette laughs.

“Oh you wish, Edge.”

A leonine THRONE pounces from atop a mountain towards the turned backs of the VENUS and the TEN RIGHTEOUS, before being impaled by a spear thrown from the heavens, crackling with blue light. Seraph descends in his six-winged angel, the HEAVENSPEAR.

“Hey! That one was mine, Seraph!” Flechette shouts over the cacophony.

“Can you two lovebirds focus on the fucking mission? We need to be pushing. Gain ground.” 

“Yes, Father Seraph.”

“Good. We’re coming up on the weapons lab. Keep your wits about you.”

The HEAVENSPEAR leaps into the air before disappearing into the glare of the sun overhead.

The fireteam approaches the weapons lab. An unnerved tension pulls taut through the atmosphere, waiting to be plucked.

“Tang—”

“I’m feeling it too, Edge. Seraph, we’re not facing enough resistance.”

“What, you want to inflate your killcounts that bad? When has anyone complained about facing too little resistance?”

“No, he’s right, Seraph. Something feels off.”

“Could be a trap,” offers Tang.

“Seems plausible,” Flechette agrees, perfectly in sync with her cross, as usual.

Flechette knows Seraph can’t help it. As much as he loves being right, he cares about the integrity of the mission first and foremost. And it’s true that there’s a surprisingly small amount of pushback from the PLAA as they venture deeper into the mountain range. As if the fireteam is being invited in.

“Okay, maybe we should call in some backup. I’ll make the—”

Wing Erra speaks up on the commsline.

“Fireteam Six, we are moving on enemy position. Cut the chatter and ready Thanatic charge.”

A Thanatic charge, equivalent to a 5 megaton nuclear warhead, but uniquely capable of ripping through halo-hallow fields, is strapped to the back of the HEAVENSPEAR.

The agile giants continue to weave their way between mountain passes and valleys, still unsure if proceeding is the correct move. Unfortunately, their tactical decision-making is too slow. It is already too late.

“Do you hear that?” Somebody whispers on the commsline. Everyone stands perfectly still, listening in the silence. In the distance, there’s an ominous sound — a high whine, punctuated by an arthropod clicking…

“TANG, GET DOWN!” Flechette shouts, tackling her cross’ THRONE with her own.

Immediately, a swarm of somethings scream past, a black cloud of whirling, writhing things, flying eels tipped with spears, each clicking rapidly with that horrific telltale sound.

Thanatic energy. The PLAA has Thanatic weapons. And they’ve managed to miniaturize them down from something that requires a THRONE to carry and power, into some kind of… Pythonic unmanned drone the size of your arm.

The Lieutenant Dominion is the least lucky. Leading the push, his THRONE is nearly totally devoured, pocked full of holes as the drones whirl and wriggle through the air before worming their ways through the halo-hallowed THRONE hull like it’s wet sand, with a thnk-thnk-thnk-thnk. The Thanatic energy burns everything it touches into white ash. White, for purity, for total death. The cleansing mark of ontological incineration. An early snow blankets the mountain valley below.

Seraph immediately drops the Thanatic charge, its countdown already running, and roars off back to the Rumsfeld, the wings of the HEAVENSPEAR blasting through the invisible membrane of the sound barrier with that hellish clap.

“We’re close enough that the charge is in range. You better get the fuck out of there, lovebirds, or you’re gonna end up as microbial dust in a lily-white crater.”

“SERAPH YOU FUCKING DICK!” Flechette screams after him, still protectively covering Tang’s cockpit with the VENUS’ hands. Not that it would do much in the face of Thanatic arms. But instinct prevails, and Flechette’s singular mission, her overwhelming drive at this juncture, is clear as an eagle’s call through the night — keep her cross alive, and survive at all costs.

“E-edge. Hey, I— I think one of my primary repulser engines was damaged by those things…”

Flechette whips the viewport around, staring at the 9-inch diameter circular hole burned through the TEN RIGHTEOUS’ anterior engine. Fuck! No, no no no no no— 

“Edge… Edge, don’t worry about me. You get out of here. I’ll — I’ll book it, don’t worry. The TEN RIGHTEOUS has the fastest legs in the fleet.” His voice is reassuring, pleading, but there’s a sharp roughness of anxiety in it. All around, pilots are screaming as their THRONES are incinerated by weapons they have never seen before, never been trained to counter. The air is choked with the white ash of disintegrated armor plating and human flesh.

Think, Flechette, think!!! Fuck!!! Not like this! The pair have 32 seconds before the charge goes off. That charge has an active radius of ~15 kilometers. The Ten Righteous is fast on foot, but not that fast.

“Flechette, I— it’s gonna be okay, brother. Let me go.”

From somewhere dark and hidden, forgotten or sealed, Flechette feels a deep, animal pull. Like some alien cohabitant of her psychoscape is calling out to her, wordlessly, offering a menacing contract of understanding. No words are exchanged, but something deep inside of her clicks, like a tiny bone snapping under an immense weight, and she understands. Let me out. Give yourself over to me. I will save us all.

The presence is titanic, overwhelming, heavier than the total burden of Heaven focused to a pinprick. Cold, alien, inhuman, and yet — horrifically familiar. It feels like the pressure of the throttle against her palm. It feels like the smell of neuronic interface fluid. VENUS…?

It’s the only invitation necessary. Flechette evacuates her body, falling into some deep place where the great machine soul of the BIRTH OF VENUS hides while under her dominion. As she fades from awareness, the last thing she can feel is a body — her body — releasing a barbaric roar, as the BIRTH OF VENUS tears open the bindings of its prison.

The body that is Flechette Jaydamn opens its eyes, but what looks out is not Flechette, ace pilot of the ARC. The BIRTH OF VENUS contorts, abandoning any semblance of anthropomorphic motion.

25 seconds until ignition. 24 seconds until ignition. 23 seconds until—

The BIRTH OF VENUS seizes hold of the TEN RIGHTEOUS IN SODOM. It braces its legs against the mountainside, before flaring its wings at maximum thrust and leaping forward, obliterating the mountain with its force. The BIRTH OF VENUS accelerates at Mach 10. Tightly clinging to TEN RIGHTEOUS, and Tang, the VENUS fulfills its purpose, the only mission it can comprehend now, that which it comprehends with such totality as to function to the subsuming of all other conscious awareness.

Protect my cross. Get home safe.