A scoffing noise, a curled lip. “Don’t project your insecurities onto me.”

A cluster of new screens pops up: live video from the killing fields. Misery immediately recognizes the shapes of the Faithful seraphs—four arms, four feet, the glimmering gray of holy labradorite. A sacred arrowhead where the visage would be. Somewhere in those glowing chests are the pilots, most celebrated warriors of the Faithful. But wait, where are the Heretics? Misery scans the spread of live feeds for eldritch abominations, anything that resembles the nightmares of her childhood, and you’d think those would leap out at her instantly, but there’s nothing.

Wait. No. There they are. Same eight-limbed forms as the friendlies, no wonder she missed them. The Heretic seraphs look nothing like she’s imagined. No wild spikes, no shifting forms, no extra limbs. Maybe the holy labradorite is a little darker, or catches the starlight differently. Instead of a head they have a ball of light like a mockery of a sun. But otherwise they look no different from the Faithful units. Misery is stunned by how mundane they look. As mundane as a Forge-given superweapon can be, anyway.

The princess says, “Each of those screens will stay on each enemy. Pay attention.” As Misery leans forward, squinting, she points. “That one’s Beggar. That one’s Tinker. That one’s Sailor.”

They look identical, but it’s trivial to remember which screen is which. Misery pushes the universe out of her consciousness to focus on the trio of bright squares, which must become the entirety of her world. She will not allow herself to consider the pleasure she feels at the easy conviviality being offered by the princess.

On the video plaza attacker and defender meet, and the air grows thick as a sulfur burn. Misery shivers as Beggar shoots forward and swings its lower arms, sword-bearing, in the direction of Xito Green-2. An answering clash. The voices in the command room become an overlapping babble, too dense and fast-flowing for comprehension. This is nothing like how it goes in the dramas. Here there are no perfectly timed crosscuts, no dramatic close-ups, no swelling music to stir the devotional soul. Just technobabble and military fusslessness. It’s an alien world, urgent and deadly. Misery’s jaw hurts.

The seraphim of Xito Green-2 move in concert, a machine optimized through practice. Everyone knows where to go, everyone knows what moves to pull. A single command triggers an intricate moveset whose efficiency speaks to hours of simulation grinding. It’s beautiful to watch the formations build and break apart.

But the Heretic unit slices differently. It swoops and spins and strikes with careless fluidity. A dancer’s sensibility. It’s impossible to map its attacks to movesets. With their blocky presets, the Faithful units look like falling rocks trying to crush a missile. Beggar weaves like winter wind through their clumsy grasp.