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[ This existence is yours, isn't it?
How will you shape it today? ]

TO ME, YOU ARE LIFE.

I don’t understand you. I struggle to remember your face even as I watch it move and twitch. Despite the binary logic that shapes your figure, your presence defies reason and rationale alike. Your mess of hair snakes and intertwines past the horizon, almost like the cables that must have brought you here.

...Distracted? Me? No- I... don’t think so... what were you saying?

Where do we "go" after death? How lucky, to go anywhere at all.

It is, of course, best not to play with things one does not understand. Some few decades ago, catastrophe claimed the life of combatant Imperata-One as a result.

Mind devoured whole by the machine he sought to control, Sana's death was ruled a freak accident and swept under the rug. Though his name has been forgotten and mech decomissioned, Sana's soul remains sealed within its structure.

To Sana, that time must be little more than a system malfunction. Access to his body severed, and lights out. Though, they've been for quite a while.

Sana often struggles to take things seriously- perhaps both what spelled his end, and what has kept him sane through it. They may come for him soon, or they may not. The worst part is the boredom, really.

If he truly can't leave, he'd at least like a new toy.

TO ME, YOU ARE INSTINCT.

I can hear the beat of your heart. I can hear the crack of your voice as you scream, and I can hear the splinter of concrete underfoot as you stomp. The earth buckles to the force of your presence, knowing how it failed to cradle you when you needed it. You have long since abandoned efforts to keep up with your hair, choosing instead to sever only what gets in your way. I can hear the wind as it howls through the gaps in your soul. I can offer you this and no more- but that’s all you want, isn’t it? To be heard?

An import from the world beyond, or what’s left of it. Personifications of scorched earth and ripping desert storms, crying louder, louder, and louder. Though no one can choose the conditions they are born into, to abandon the chase of something ‘more’ is an affront to the human spirit.

Adrila has fought tooth and nail to cross the city threshold, auditioning over, over, and over again to bring his spirit to the mechanical scale. Is it better to care too much, or not enough? How does one stay [ composed ], when their life is on the line? Adrila’s place now within the division is as volatile as his temperament- any more mistakes could cost him his contract and prized Bellicosa.

The story of an ‘underdog’ is popular for good reason. To come from nothing and claim what is neither promised nor given- it evokes hope and optimism. Those who fail to rise beyond their stature, however, are pitiful to watch if not outright painful. Perhaps such tales are better cut short.

How many chances are you worth, really? There are countless others in line with all the rage, and more of the potential. Step aside, now. Your time is nearly up.

TO ME, YOU ARE CONTROL.

Picture-perfect, primed and prepared. Not a hair out of place, not a word out of touch. Your language and world alike are unfamiliar; I cannot read or understand the emotion behind your eyes. Is it admiration, envy, or unsatisfied curiosity that drives my resentment? You remain ever one step ahead- perhaps your metronome simply ticks to a faster beat.

NATLEA Refinement seeks to hone and curate the finest talent from across the world, centralizing their cultural force within entertainment capital Soburne. A premiere agency for Arbiter-based training, their recruits dominate the industry upon successful graduation. Often selected quite young, NATLEA exports are cold as they are meticulous; owing their lives to their affinity to competition.

Funneled directly along the standard pipeline for SoulBound, Letto rapidly advances through her ranks. Though his background would guarantee a baseline of megamechanical conquest, Letto’s knack for ‘storytelling’ has accelerated the pace. There is superficial victory, that which begins and ends in skill- and there is quiet victory in those whose names persist in the legacies they weave, twist, and define; regardless of who went home with the trophy.

Letto is content to choreograph and write such stories for the world to enjoy. Puppeteering each foray into combat, notions of ‘authenticity’ died with his name in ink on the page. His operative standing and day-to-day score is of little importance, so long as the narrative remains in his grip.

[ Something feels familiar. ]

TO ME, YOU ARE LOVE.

Gaze stern, touch unflinching. Not cruel by intent, but in the absence of warmth to your touch. To grow up in your hands begets our cycle, cycle, and cycle again.

While Antoia may not have asked to end up the de facto 'leader' of his siblings, he certainly does not shy from the role. From father of pretend 'house' to the captain of the team, Antoia's latest endeavor would see him as Carmine's new manager.

Squabble as he may about the responsibility and demands, Antoia delights in the push and pull of his family's strings, and regularly seeks new avenues to tug at them.

Despite their similarity in age, Antoia practically raised Carmine- or at least, did his best to. For all his calloused meddling, that tenderness etched is not so easily concealed.

Soft spot aside, Antoia is firm in ideology, and will not bend where it matters. Listen when he speaks. He knows best, after all.

[ It's almost like deja vu. ]