0.1 - Preparation

Within the sterile, sanctified halls of Nox Caelum, two stewards sat in stillness—guardians to humanity. One, a relic from the Age of Ideation. The other—younger—a subordinate, born in the Age of Mankind: an age of peace.

The shorter of the two raised her eyes from the Aether harmonics report before of her and sighed, half bored, half inclined to action.

"How long?"

The words slipped into the stillness like a drop into glass.

A low resonance filled the silence from the crystalline veins of the observatory itself, humming softly beneath the lattice floor. Outside, the reinforced panes shimmered with unstable light—waves of violet Aether curling like breath against the edge of Nox Caelum’s protective veil.

“Difficult to determine with precision,” came the answer—clear, measured, and oddly graceful. “The expanse doesn’t grow linearly. It pulses. Swells. Retreats. But based on the current density curve, I estimate less than a year. Likely less.”

A pause. The elder monitor continued.

“The last projection gave us a decade. The one before that, three to five years. We’ve recalibrated every three lunar cycles for two rotations now.”

She turned to glance back—eyes like liquid amber, bright even in the sterile white of the chamber.

“So yes. The field is inconsistent. But the proverbial cup… continues to fill.”

She didn’t sigh. But there was something like it in her posture.

Violet-white hair framed a calm, even-featured face as the taller Machina tilted her head. The expression she wore remained firmly within the bounds of stoic disinterest, but the gesture spoke, quietly, of dissatisfaction.

"Something on your mind?"

Lyra’s eyelids lowered for a brief moment, lashes folding over storm-hued irises the color of winter sky. Her voice, when it came, was soft—precise.

"You've grown more expressive lately."

She glanced around the empty room.

“There are no humans present,” she added, scanning with faint theatricality. “Just you and me.”
Then, after a calculated pause:

“Your speech patterns remain sociable regardless.”

Proxima’s expression shifted with pleased subtlety—an almost-smile curled her lips, the faintest wrinkle creasing the bridge of her nose. That specific kind of pride—light, vain, and self-congratulatory—radiated softly from her form.

“Heh. I’m glad you noticed.”

Proxima Nulla—golden-haired, smaller than her counterpart, and perhaps the most eccentric of the first-generation Machina. While it was within protocol for Machina to mimic human expression, few pursued it with such vigor. Most emulated just enough to avoid being mistaken for cold. Proxima, however, indulged in it. Perfectly. Constantly. Unapologetically.

“You say that, Lyra, but I genuinely enjoy the human experience,” she continued, turning with a theatrical swish of her sleeves. “We were designed to integrate, were we not? Seamlessly. Harmoniously. If that’s the case, then consider me exemplary. I am not just passing—I am thriving.”

She beamed, then leaned forward with exaggerated scrutiny.

“And I do believe I detected a slight edge to your tone just now. Could it be… peevishness? A pinch of irritation? If you’re suggesting I’ve become too human, I will take it as an immense compliment.”

Her smile widened, utterly self-satisfied.

“As your senior, you should aspire to emulate me. I’ve learned that people generally do that when they admire something.”

What began as soft pride had—very quickly—blossomed into full theatrical vanity.
Lyra did not shift her expression. And yet, somehow, she managed to look more annoyed.

“You are the only superior officer I report to,” she replied evenly. “If my calibration begins to drift, it will be your fault.”

A dry smirk flickered, quickly extinguished.

Proxima placed a hand over her chest as if wounded, though her eyes were bright with amusement.

“Now that,” she declared, “is human sarcasm. I taught you that.”
“Unintentionally.”

“Still counts.”

Their exchange could have gone on much longer—Proxima clearly had more to say—but Lyra returned to the matter at hand.

"It troubles me," she said, "that I lack a clear intervention model. Without decisive action, the probability of disaster continues to rise.”

That, too, was very Lyra. Direct. Unadorned. Sincere beneath the structure.
Proxima regarded her for a moment, then nodded. Arbitrary aesthetics aside, the thistle-haired Machina’s clarity had always been one of her best features.

“This would be a good time,” Lyra added, “for a learned senior to put my worrisome nature at ease.”

Proxima blinked—then grinned.
She revised her list.
Clarity. Beauty. Wit under pressure.

“You’re relying on me?” she said, placing a hand to her chest. “Well then—I certainly can’t disappoint now, can I?”

Proxima, like most of her kind, was a study in manufactured grace. But where others radiated solemnity—statuesque and distant—she leaned into playfulness with calculated ease. She was petite, her figure delicate and tapering, like brushstrokes painted with a finer hand. Golden hair, cut short with deliberate asymmetry, shimmered in the artificial light like soft-forged sunlight. Her eyes, bright as liquefied topaz, caught every flicker of motion—curious, clever, and impossible to read.

She wore her usual deviation from protocol—a self-tailored outfit of genuine human design: a fitted charcoal tunic with brass fastenings, a high-collared mantle draped at the shoulders, and soft boots polished to a mirror sheen. Unlike Lyra’s utilitarian whites, her garments were expressive—the kind of thing one might expect to see in the memoirs of a noble artisan, not a Machina unit.

Machina could replicate attire through Aether constructs in an instant. But Proxima insisted on real fabric. Real stitching. An indulgence, she’d once said. A decision.

“It’s not about the clothes,” she’d told Lyra once. “It’s about the meaning woven into them.”
Where her peers resembled goddesses carved from ideals, Proxima resembled a question left lovingly unanswered.

By contrast, Lyra stood almost a full head taller. Her beauty was quieter, more refined—etched in symmetry and silence. Violet-white hair, long and straight, flowed down her back like polished gemsteel, reflecting faint glimmers of the boundary field’s pulsing light. Her skin carried the cool luster of moonlit porcelain, unmarred, but never cold. Her storm-colored eyes were pale and calculating, the kind that took in everything, even when her expression said nothing at all.

Together, they looked less like sentinels of fate and more like dreams on the cusp of waking—radiant and untouchable.

Yet theirs was not the beauty of chance or nature. The balance of their features, the soft shimmer of their skin, the impossible harmony of motion and stillness—these were not blessings, but signatures.

They were Machina—born, not by union, but by will. Elegance was not gifted to them, but inscribed—written with precision, like scripture etched into soul.

"I'll survey the area myself," Proxima said at last, her voice tilting back toward a more formal rhythm. “Even with our capabilities, I’ll need to observe the field at ground level before I can recommend a course of action. You’ll remain here and assist remotely as required. Agreed?”

Lyra took a moment to consider this, her eyes flicking upward in quiet thought.

"While I do not disagree," she said, "I was hoping to accompany you. I could function as your field support."

Proxima paused.

That… was unexpected.

Machina were curious, yes—but their instincts were usually well-aligned with their designated roles. Lyra had never once expressed a desire to leave Nox Caelum. She had, from the moment of her birth, accepted her place without complaint.

“Ah. That’s right—you’ve never left Nox Caelum.”

Lyra nodded once, posture perfectly held.

“That is correct. I would like to see the world for myself. If I can do so while assisting you... all the better.”

Proxima narrowed her eyes—not in caution, but in mild curiosity. The anomaly near Moonwharf wasn’t insignificant, but it wasn’t unprecedented. Aetheric field disturbances were uncommon, yes, but not unknown. And this one, while large, wasn’t behaving in any of the ways that would warrant serious alarm.

She tilted her head slightly, letting the moment breathe.

“I don’t object,” she said at last, her tone light, almost bemused. “But I cannot guarantee your safety. If the field lashes out… well, we may have to deal with a scuffed knee or two.”

She let the words hang—just long enough to fulfill her duty. They weren’t warnings. They were ritual. Machina had no fear of pain, only of failing purpose—and in her mind, Lyra was in no real danger of either.

She placed her chin in one palm, the other arm resting lightly across her waist in a posture of mock deliberation. The gesture was entirely aesthetic. Her mind had already moved on to other things: dress selection, spell tuning, angles of sun through broken clouds.

“This won’t be a simple excursion,” she added, just to complete the performance.

But Lyra was already moving.

“I will ready myself at once.”

Slender fingers pinched the hem of her white dress in a graceful bow—slightly more formal than usual. Her movements were precise, but the cadence of them had quickened just so. When she straightened, the smallest smile brushed her lips. Fleeting. Contained.
But it was there.

A spark—of anticipation, perhaps. Or quiet joy.

Proxima exhaled softly through her nose, her eyes narrowing with pleased amusement as she turned away. She walked beneath the arching corridor with casual elegance, her thoughts syncing smoothly with the crystalline terminals embedded in the walls. Strands of golden Aether spilled from her fingertips like threads of silk, latching into the central lattice with practiced familiarity.

The system responded instantly, a chorus of soft harmonic tones filling the air.

[Aetherframe Online — Nox Caelum Command Link Established.]

A mechanical voice answered. Flat. Clinical. Comfortless.

[Hello, Unit-00. Purpose of external sortie?]

Proxima folded her arms, rocking slightly on her heels with the air of someone who had already made up her mind and simply needed the paperwork to catch up.

“Field study. Personal curiosity. A breath of fresh air for my subordinate. Isn’t that allowed, Frame?”

[Warning. External conditions remain classified as unstable. Area remains non-hostile to life; however, Aether density at the epicenter is—]

She sliced one hand through the projection, dismissing the data stream mid-sentence.

“All right, all right—I heard you. That’s a yes, then?”
A brief pause.

[Authorization… granted. Proceed at personal discretion. Risk assessment remains within acceptable thresholds.]

The interface dimmed and dissolved. Proxima tilted her head back with a slow, satisfied smirk.

“See? No need to worry about a thing,” she murmured, already turning toward her chambers. “She’ll remember this day forever.”

Her voice dipped—just enough to feel like something private.

“And I’ll make sure it’s fashionable.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Have you finished preparing the formula, Lyra?"

Storm-colored eyes drifted upward and to the left—contemplative, not distracted. She sat obediently, as Proxima had asked, the polished ivory of a genuine human-made comb moving carefully through the lengths of her violet-white hair.
Machina didn’t need grooming, not really. But Proxima insisted on it anyway.

"Yes, well..."

Lyra trailed off, her eyes dropping to her arm—partially gloved in soft black cotton, with the rest hidden beneath the hardened leather of a foreign-looking surcoat. Her brow creased slightly in mild confusion.

"This attire. And the comb. Wouldn’t it be simpler to rematerialize anything we needed? Or use visualization magic? Also, I can sterilize my hair more efficiently than—"

Proxima, half out of view, let out a tiny sound—half sigh, half exasperated hum—and continued combing without pause.

“Grooming rituals like this are important in human culture,” she said. “You know that. And these are real articles, mind you. Acquired through honest means.”

Lyra said nothing, but her expression shifted—minutely. Despite the stillness of her features, she somehow managed to radiate both suspicion and dismay.

“When you say it like that,” she murmured, “it makes me wonder.”

Proxima huffed again, more dramatically this time, and gently set the comb down into the half-open chest beside her—a container filled with neatly arranged human relics: brushes, brooches, lace gloves, old perfume bottles, and worn booklets written in dead dialects.

"Do you remember the first time I combed your hair?"

Lyra’s eyes rolled upward toward the sterile white ceiling, chin tilting back slightly as memory settled into place.

"You said it was a ritual used by human social cells to express affection."

Proxima dragged the storage chest back toward the corner of the room, grumbling as she shifted its weight.

“Families, Lyra. The word is families.”

A pause.

“That’s what I said.”

She had even dressed herself to match the aesthetic she imposed on Lyra—though the younger Machina had, as always, responded with a silent look of resigned compliance.

As they stood side by side, Proxima glanced over and noticed something quietly missing.
She hadn’t mentioned the question. The one she asked, long ago, after that first brushing.
It had always stayed with her.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Lady Proxima,” Lyra said, breaking the quiet, “are we also a social cell?”
“A family?” Proxima echoed, turning toward her. “Hmm… would you like that, Lyra?”

Lyra tilted her head. She considered the question for a long moment, as if evaluating the concept from multiple angles.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But… I don’t hate it.”

The simplicity of the response hit Proxima with a sudden, inexplicable jolt. She felt it then—that impulse the humans had a word for. Cute.

She looked at Lyra as one might look at a portrait, halfway complete, and somehow already irreplaceable.

Then Lyra’s flat voice returned:

“Most of us are designated a purpose at our creation. Mine is to serve you and be of use. Isn’t that what members of a human social cell typically do?”

Proxima combed gently through the last section of her hair in response, silencing her with motion instead of words.

“It’s family,” she said again, more quietly.

A pause stretched between them, soft and reverent.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Proxima smiled faintly to herself.

“This is your first time down to Ovum,” she continued. “After we finish our business, I figured we might visit one of our sisters. Or mingle with some locals. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Lyra stood, towering nearly a head taller than Proxima despite being her junior in both age and authority. She extended one arm outward, palm angled with mechanical precision, her index finger raised.

A pale white-blue glow surged to life at its tip.

“Charta.”

The light pulsed in response—measured, obedient—then began to expand. A containment field unfurled around her, delicate as spun glass and just as intricate. At her feet, runes and numbers coalesced in concentric rings—ephemeral equations and alchemic symbols dancing in a perfect rhythm, written in light with no visible ink.

Each arcane glyph blinked into being for a breath, then vanished—only to be replaced by another, cycling in an endless flow of logic and intent. The very air bent slightly inward around the construct, gravity folding in deference to its structure.

It was flawless work.

“Three nautical leagues from Moonwharf’s harbor,” Lyra recited calmly. “That should place us at the epicenter of the Aether disturbance—well out of sight from the local population. Especially at this hour.”

She turned her head, glancing toward the shorter Machina. “What do you think, Lady Proxima?”
Proxima’s golden eyes reflected the spell’s rotating rings of light. She took her time answering, and when she did, her voice was light with amusement—but not dismissal.

“In the middle of the bay, hmm?” she mused. “Subtle.”

She smiled—an impish, approving curl of her lips—and folded her arms as she watched another set of runes complete their orbit beneath Lyra’s heels.

“I’ve already activated air-walking enchantments for both of us. So no worries about getting soaked.”

She flicked her finger upward, dismissively, before adding with mock offense, “Also, you know I hate when you’re that formal with me.”

Lyra didn’t respond. Which meant she was smiling on the inside.

“You’ve already done more than enough to humor me,” Proxima added, voice softening. “Not that it’ll save you from a proper scolding later.”

Her expression lingered—not on the circle, but on Lyra herself.

“We’re heading out immediately. Be careful.”

Lyra nodded once, her usual stillness sharpened into quiet focus. The lingering softness in her face gave way to something else—not emotionless, but disciplined, practiced.

This was the Lyra who had studied, who had prepared, who had spent every year of her short life in perfect execution of her purpose.

She raised her finger skyward.

“Vectura Magica—Dux Stella.”

The incantation was clear, unwavering. A star's guide.

The circle flared brilliantly, every runic element resolving into a final cascade of light—then both figures were gone, swallowed by a column of radiance.