0.0.00 BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED

"Energy at 30%."

Rozelyn sighed in frustration at the automated voice's warning- she was already well aware of her predicament. She pushed the Sunset II back, its heavy legs and armament making each pulse of thrust feel sluggish and delayed. She kept herself trained on the rapidly-approaching enemy signature, countless missle systems ready to launch everything they had the instant she had a lock on the target. No lightweight mech could hope to survive her full barrage- she had more than enough missiles to blanket everything in her sight and then some, far more than it could hope to dodge. Just as she'd expected, it surged forward, clearly expecting a helpless heavyweight caught in the middle of a hasty retreat. One final pulse of thrust expended the last of her generator's reserves- but it was the last she needed, as her opponent finally came into view.

What raced towards her wasn't a mech. It was closer to a solid black mass of shadow, twisting and ungulating, a misshapen quartet of glowing red pinpoints serving as eyes. It was far from the first time she'd seen the beast- and yet, no matter how familiar it had become, it still inspired a rush of almost instinctual terror. It used that fear to steal a single instant from Rozelyn, her heart skipping a beat and adding a hundredth of a second of hesitation between her system locking on and her command to fire. Countless warheads spewed forth, fanning out in every direction, trails of smoke all converging on the entity. Against anything else, this barrage would have been a match-ending blow...

but Rozelyn already knew what came next. The beast demanded perfection. Even before the final missiles had left their launchers, she'd initiated the Sunset II's armor purge. Even before she saw it emerge from the smoke, she knew it was already far too late.

She'd been here before, what felt like a thousand times. That's why she wasn't surprised when the quartet of red points appeared through the smoke, leaping at her with such speed that even her mech's systems couldn't keep track. Or maybe that had more to do with the way it twisted and distorted, taking on impossible shapes purely to refuse every missile its chance to land. It took the Sunset II only a second and a half to shed its heavy armament fully- and, as always, that was just barely too long. It took the shadowy figure almost that long to close the gap, already beginning to swing its dark, formless blade. The beast always gave back what it stole- for a single fraction of a second, Rozelyn's controls lit up, offering her a precious chance to struggle. Rozelyn commanded her mech backwards again, desperate to score some small victory.

It meant about as much as her hundred missiles had, as the mass of shadows crashed into the Sunset II, well before it could act. With armor, the blow would have been devastating- without it, the Sunset was cleanly bisected, in a way that simply shouldn't be possible with model mechs. Rozelyn felt it, too, in a way that a virtual pilot shouldn't have been able to feel, for just that one infinitesmal moment.

Like always, she jolted upright, her consciousness rising suddenly on a wave of adrenaline. Rozelyn's heart leapt in her chest, thumping hard- her lungs burned with a demand for air, her mind reeled and tried to make sense of the world around her. She knew that she was just in her bedroom, startled awake by a nightmare- but it still took panicked glancing around to convince herself of that truth. When her eyes turned to the digital display of her alarm clock, she scowled.

Neither the distinctive red glow of the eight-segment display, nor the "4:23 AM" it indicated, brought her any comfort.

"I really need to get around to replacing this damn thing..."

Mumbling another vague, empty threat at the mostly innocent clock, Rozelyn turned over in bed. The one comfort of a recurring nightmare was familiarity- Rozelyn was fairly sure it wouldn't be back for another few nights, and dwelling on it was no longer especially worrisome. Once she'd found a comfortable position again, the gentle hum of her air conditioning was enough to carry her back into unconsciousness.

9:47AM

The rest of Rozelyn's morning went about as well as it ever did. The only real variation in her routine was how long it took to drag herself out of bed. This was easier said than done- Rozelyn's willpower and motivation had to compete with the comfort of a warm, soft bed, a battle almost as unfair as the one from her recurring nightmare. No, it was most frequently signals from her bladder that finally provoked her to shamble into her apartment's bathroom- and today was no different. She operated largely on mental autopilot, pulling her phone from its nearby charger and flicking through her "all music" playlist. Like every morning, the thought crossed her mind that keeping her phone beside the sink was a little weird, until she found a song that felt right.

She wasn't truly awake until she'd stepped into the warm cascade of water, her phone doing its level best to overcome the flowing sound of the shower from its perch on the nearby countertop. There was no set pace, only an order- it took most of the first song to rinse off and wash her face, the better part of the next two to fully shampoo and condition her long, unruly red hair, and most of a fourth to scrub down the rest of her body and rinse off. Sometimes she'd be halfway into a fifth before shutting off the water and reaching for a towel, but it always took at least starting a fourth song- slower music just meant moving at a slower pace.

Sometimes, she'd try to read into what songs came up on shuffle as a kind of horoscope, treating her music app like an oracale forwarning her about what the day would bring. Other times, she'd drag some errant dream-thought with her into the warm water, and mull it over thoroughly with the tools of a now-conscious mind. Occasionally, she'd just sing along to whatever song happened to come on, only accidentally tasting her shampoo of choice every now and then in the process. Regardless of what Rozelyn spun her wheels on, it wasn't until she'd begun the lengthy process of drying off that she allowed herself to start planning her day. That would carry her through her admittedly simple skin-care routine- as she simply didn't have the patience for much else- and other tasks like brushing her teeth.

This time, all she could think about was last night's dream. As familiar as it had become, something about last night clearly dug in deep- try as she might, her train of thought kept returning to that particular station, over and over. But what was the point? If she knew what it wanted from her, she'd have already figured that out. Her phone cycled to yet another song- this time My Demons by The Chameleons- and as soon as the first few bars played, Rozelyn spat out the foamy toothpaste into the sink in frustration before pausing the playlist. Rozelyn had never been much a fan of riddles or games of interpretation, and being shown the same thing over and over with no new direction? That was the real nightmare. If it had nothing new to say, the least it could do is shut the hell up already.

Rozelyn took a second to scowl into the mirror, as if she could project that anger back into the dream. All she really accomplished was getting mad at herself.

Next, there was the question of breakfast. In truth, calling it a "question" gave it far too much gravitas- most of the time, "breakfast" meant "microwaving a bowl of instant ramen", or if Rozelyn was feeling particularly adventurous, a bowl of cereal. The orange she paired with either one didn't do much more than assauge some of her guilt. It wasn't like she had to live like this- the city's universal stipend could absolutely cover better food on top of Rozelyn's current expenses- but it was more a question of effort. Cooking had never been her forte, and the effort required just didn't seem worth it first thing in the morning.

That was how she wound up with a steaming-hot bowl of instant ramen, peeling an orange idly as she pondered what to do with her day. It was a position she'd found herself in more and more frequently as of late, just one more frustration for the growing pile. At least this time, she had something approaching an answer.

There was always Acht Sieben.