0.4 - Lockstep

Her mind raced, cycling through thousands of potential solutions to a situation she had never once prepared for.

Lyra—her subordinate, her constant—
the one built solely to walk at her side—
had just tried to kill her.

"Lyra… do you realize… what you just did?"

Lyra tilted her head gently, a gesture Proxima had seen countless times. A student trying to understand a lesson just beyond reach. But then—without hesitation—she leaned forward.

The air snapped with unstable Aether.

She moved.

Proxima slipped low beneath the crackling arc of Lyra’s palm, the scent of ozone and burning currents biting at her senses. Lyra’s strike had come not like a trained soldier—but like a broken algorithm, a weaponized instinct firing before conscious thought.

Without missing a beat, Lyra pivoted—an elegant, mindless motion—her heel cutting a perfect arc through the dirt as her other hand lashed out. Proxima leaned back, the blow grazing the space her throat had occupied a heartbeat before.

Too fast. Too perfect. No hesitation. No self-preservation. And worse—no fear.

That burning palm drove toward her head again. Golden eyes narrowed.

She ducked under the strike, slipping back with flawless grace, her gaze never leaving Lyra’s face.

“Lady Proxima?” Lyra’s voice floated after her—soft, perfectly measured. She couldn’t comprehend what she was doing. She wasn’t even aware of it.
“Where are you going?”

Proxima clenched her fists and forced the world to obey.

"Frame!"

The Aetherframe responded at once:

[Aetherframe Online — Nox Caelum Command Link Established.]

"Physiological records. Unit Lyra. Full logs since the disaster."

[All vital functions nominal. No system failures detected. Minor retinal and soft tissue damage recorded at initial exposure to the manifestation. Physical regeneration completed. No further anomalies logged. Unit Lyra’s systems remain within optimal operational parameters.]

Her jaw locked. Lips pressed into a thin line.

That wasn’t possible.

Before she could finish the thought, Lyra attacked again.

A roaring mass of flame spun into being—too fast, too dense—shrinking into a burning spark in those pale hands before detonating toward her with terrifying velocity.

Proxima didn’t flinch.

She extended a single finger, and the condensed Aether halted mid-flight—frozen, as if it had forgotten what momentum was.

With a flick of her wrist, the mass spun away, hurled over her shoulder toward the sea.

It exploded behind her with the force of an artillery shell.

Before the molten energy had even finished spiraling into the bay, Lyra was moving again.

Her feet barely touched the ground as she closed the distance, raw Aether bleeding from her like mist. Proxima tracked every movement—each step overextended, every joint straining beyond its designed range.

A second, third, fourth strike—Proxima blocked each with graceful parries infused with vector spatial magic. Every movement wasted nothing. Perfectly minimal. She turned Lyra’s own momentum against her, diverting the attacks without retaliation, without harm.

It was overkill for a physical exchange—but she couldn’t risk contact. Not until she understood what was creating the dissonance between Lyra’s mind and body.

It was a deadly waltz—one dancer flawless in technique, the other lost in a rhythm only she could hear.

And even as her movements grew more violent, even as the skin at her fingertips darkened and cracked under the strain of raw Aether overload, Lyra kept smiling.

Proxima’s earlier redirection hadn’t been just reaction. It had been a test.

Casual. Precise. Calculated.

A two-fold defense: neutralization—and sampling.

The Aetherframe responded instantly:

[Analysis complete. Caution: Anima signatures do not fully align with baseline output for Unit Lyra. Foreign Aetheric structures detected within Anima flow. Integrity compromised.]

Proxima’s expression didn’t falter.
But inside—her core staggered.

Foreign Aetheric bodies.

This wasn’t a malfunction.
This wasn’t a system failure.

This was corruption.
Her Anima—her soul—had been compromised.

And Lyra—her Lyra—was already standing beyond the threshold.

"Yes… She’s getting the approval now. I have to prepare—"

Proxima’s breath caught as her eyes fell on her again.

Lyra stood facing away, posture relaxed—shoulders light, stance loose and carefree.

She wasn’t preparing for combat.

She was talking to someone who wasn’t there.

A faint, innocent lilt colored her voice.

"—That’s right. My first trip to Ovum. My lady is quite excited."

Her logic raced to reject it—but the truth stood plain before her, framed by a darkening sky and the soft pulse of corrupted Aether swirling faintly around Lyra’s form.

She was stuck—trapped inside a memory that didn’t exist anymore.

Speaking to a friend who wasn’t there.
Smiling in a world already gone.

Lyra’s body twitched—then contorted unnaturally, as if some part of her remembered Proxima’s presence even if Lyra herself didn’t.

Without even turning, her hand lifted, and a spiraling vortex of compressed wind ignited in her palm. The air howled, tearing ash and dust from the ground, scattering it like the land itself had become unclean.

Proxima’s sensors screamed.

This wasn’t just wind—it was disruption incarnate, a perfect storm tearing at the very structure of the battlefield.

The spell released in a violent burst—raw, precise, and lethal.

Proxima vanished.

One step—a single golden afterimage where she had stood—and she was above the blast radius, standing on air itself, her boots locked against the invisible lattice of the Aetherflow.

From that vantage, she watched the spell carve a trench through the earth, the raw force of it shearing through stone like paper.

At the center of the devastation stood a girl untouched.
Her expression soft.
Her voice light.

Unaware she had just rewritten the landscape into a grave.

And even then—even then—Lyra kept speaking, her tone gentle, caught in the warmth of a conversation long past.

"So that’s why. You know how she loves excuses to pull out that human relic collection of hers."

Her illusion of control shattered—
just like the world Lyra no longer stood in.

As if to answer her silent fears, the cold, clinical voice of the Frame spun back to life within her mind’s eye.

[Analysis Addendum: Earlier damage to Unit Lyra’s ocular tissues is likely related to her current Anima incoherence. Prolonged visual contact with the manifestation has introduced a foreign element into her Anima that cannot be processed or filtered. Most probable outcome: Soul collapse.]

A death sentence, casually reverberated through her mind as her thoughts scrambled, ready to oppose this grim truth disguised as a diagnostic. But as if that faint hope had been detected, the Aetherframe moved to snuff it out as well.

[Prognosis: Terminal. Unit Lyra has ceased absorbing ambient Aether as of 38 seconds ago. Soul fragmentation has initiated. No known method exists to restore damage to the soul. Sugges—]

A golden shockwave burst outward from her, crackling arcs of energy lashing through the air.

"Shut up—! Where is the intervention and disaster relief? I need people here—on the ground!"

[Spatial anomalies formed in the wake of the disaster. Transportation magic is currently unfeasible. Manual deployment has been initiated, but estimated time of arrival is upwards of five hou—]

"Don’t screw with me! You just said Lyra is dying! Moonwharf is gone! I have survivors to worry about too!"

[Understood, Unit 00. Nox Caelum is doing what it can.]

No pause. No mirth. No comfort.

"How long does Lyra have?"

[At her current degeneration of self and soul, and given her current Anima output—likely less than thirty minutes.]

A pause.

Even the sentient oversight system—paused.

[Acknowledged: This information may be difficult for you to process. However, the preservation of life must remain the priority. Unit Lyra is terminal. Suggested course of action: Mercy—]

Her soul, logic, and mind erupted at once in a bellowing reply.

"No! She helped me rescue these people! She was fine! Ten minutes ago—she was fine!"

[Acknowledged. It is not unusual that early degeneration went unnoticed given the situation.]

And then—she remembered.

That empty face.
Those eyes that lingered too long on the horizon.

Then—a violet shadow drifted across her vision.

Her gaze followed it, time slowing at her convenience, as if delaying the moment might undo it.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, she searched for recognition—anything—but only found that Lyra was no longer there to stare back at her.

Only that small, beautiful smile remained, painted across her lips as she calmly prepared her next attack.

It would never even begin.

Proxima vanished—
As if the world itself could no longer hold her.

Rage and sorrow drove her forward as vector magic cracked reality’s boundaries, intercepting the violet shadow with a speed even causality struggled to process.

Her fingers snapped tight around the same wrist that had once been taken to save Lyra from a fish she’d later found cute—now turned into a weapon.

Her body spun horizontal midair, momentum and precision coiling through muscle and Aether-alloy bone.

And before a single breath had passed, she pulled away sharply—driving the movement through perfect angles—
dislocating the shoulder with surgical finality.

In the same motion, her heel slammed into Lyra’s back, driving her down like a lead weight toward the ground below.

Proxima hovered above, golden hair trailing like a banner of defiance. Among the Machina, she was the incarnation of victory itself—unbeaten, unstoppable. And yet...

She would have to change her tactics.

If she wanted to save Lyra, she’d have to disable her—make it impossible for her to continue, even if it meant doing damage no Machina should ever suffer.

However—

The thistle-haired girl stood.

Without hesitation. Without even registering the damage.

Any biological component of a Machina was flawless—near-instant in its healing capacity. Only damage to the frame, the artificial skeleton beneath, could amount to anything meaningful.

Proxima calculated her next move in the space between moments. Target the frame. Disable mobility. End the fight.

But that…

That was an error.

Lyra’s muscles pulled the dislocated arm forward anyway, the bone no longer supporting it—but the body moved regardless, driven by something beyond anatomy.

Her hands collapsed together in a runic formation before her, and even as one shoulder sagged out of place, her Anima surged again.

Without hesitation, she began to prepare another spell.

A storm gathered overhead—violent and sudden, as if the sky itself had turned its eyes away from what was unfolding below.

The first drops of rain fell, sizzling to steam as they touched the raw, glowing runes forming between Lyra’s trembling fingers.

She didn’t even flinch.

Her lips parted, voice soft—lost beneath the rising storm.

"I think… I’ve finally done it, Lady Proxima."

The spiraling storm above churned harder, unnatural violet light bleeding through the clouds as the spell began to take shape—too big, too unstable, too much.

Her shoulders sagged under the weight of her own creation, her small frame trembling—but her hands never broke their formation.

There, between her fingers—
a swirling mass of flame danced with black, liquid shadows.

Umbra and Ignis.

Compound magic.

The one discipline Lyra had struggled with all her life, the one lesson she could never quite master.

And now—even in madness, even lost to disillusion and the breaking of her soul—
she still tried to live up to Proxima’s expectations.

The rain fell harder.

Her exposed fingertips began to blacken as the overloaded Anima output burned through flesh, eating it away down to luminous, skeletal constructs beneath.

And still—she smiled.

A beautiful, perfect smile.

One Proxima had seen a thousand times before.

A smile meant for praise.

In Lyra’s mind, the sterile white lights and crystalline halls of Nox Caelum surrounded her.

She couldn’t quite recall why, but she found herself standing once more in the training chamber, locked in another simulation with her liege and mentor.

And there—so clear, so impossibly warm—Proxima’s voice.

"That’s it, Lyra. You’re finally getting it."

"I’m so proud of you."

Her soft, gentle smile stretched wider, her face beaming with a joy too large for the moment.

She smiled so brightly—her perfect teeth catching light in the glow of a dread flame—even as her clothes began to smolder.

Proxima tried to force the dread back down, to shove it back into the hollow space behind her chest where it belonged.

That much power—stabilized not through skill, but through sheer, agonizing output—was far too much for the girl to handle.

Just holding it pushed her Machina healing systems to their absolute threshold, burning through every last reserve just to keep her biological functions viable.

Her body began to release steam, curling around her like a morning mist.

The falling rain no longer reached her skin—evaporating before it could even touch her.

"Oh, Lyra… please…"

Drops of water clung heavily to Proxima’s long lashes as she shook her head in sorrowful resignation.

"Please… don’t."

But to Lyra herself—wherever she was—
cradled between her ruined hands… there was no terrible spell, no destruction, no death.

Just two hearts.

Not flesh. Not blood.

Only the last fragmented echoes of a soul…
And the raw, untethered death of a future that would never come.

Her lips parted—her voice barely a whisper, trembling with a warmth too pure for a moment like this.

"You know… I don’t know why. And it’s pretty silly, but—"

Her smile finally softened, faltering.

"I’ve never said it."

The words floated out on the dying air, as fragile and final as the breath that carried them.

Her emotional limiters began to fail alongside everything else.

"Lady Proxima… I love you. So much."

Her smile, a force that had been present since the battle began, faded entirely at last.

And in that moment—

She was already gone.

Her body just hadn’t realized it yet.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
—Two hearts burn beneath the rain. A sacrifice is inevitable.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

[Bonus Lore Fragment]

Lineage: Hyades Primary

Function: High Command Authority, Field Operations Lead

Aether Affinity: Classified

Physical Parameters:

Height: 153 cm

Optical Hue: Golden

Distinguishing Features: Short golden hair; unconventional human behavioral emulation patterns; frequently observed engaging in personal grooming and collecting human relics.

Behavioral Notes:
An eccentric among the Hyades, Unit-00 demonstrates a pronounced fascination with human customs and cultural artifacts. While fully capable of executing command functions with flawless precision, she is frequently noted for engaging in extraneous, emotionally-coded behaviors not required for mission parameters. Displays a persistent tendency to assign symbolic value inanimate objects.

Performance Evaluation:
Unparalleled tactical efficacy. Highest confirmed combat potential among all Machina—Nox Caelum or otherwise. Emotional limiters remain within acceptable variance—though recent logs indicate elevated deviation when interacting with Subordinate Unit Lyra. Recommend ongoing observation.

Lineage: Standard Service Model [Custom Emotional Parameterization by Unit-00]

Function: Personal Assistant to Unit-00; Aetheric Support Operations

Aether Affinity: Ignis (Primary)

Physical Parameters:

Height: 170 cm

Optical Hue: Overcast Grey

Distinguishing Features: Thistle-colored hair; exhibits unusually expressive micro-emotive reactions despite limited outward emotional variance; shows consistent deference to Unit-00’s behavioral eccentricities.

Behavioral Notes:
Initial analysis classified Unit Lyra as a textbook example of effective Subordinate-Class Machina: reserved, logical, and unwaveringly loyal. However, prolonged exposure to Unit-00’s unconventional behavioral patterns has resulted in subtle, emergent emotional responses. Frequently observed engaging in minor displays of curiosity and verbal sparring with Unit-00, despite lacking clear directive to do so.

Performance Evaluation:
Impeccable field performance within predicted parameters.(Within combat simulations.)
Emotional variances noted; deemed non-critical.