Our third face works with the other two in a split second. Changing the shape of the explosion to come. Changing the trajectory of the piece of debris that is about to be cast off the wall.

Their March strides away, blade in hand.

She is unflinching as the explosions rock the building, casting off chunks of rubble.

One chunk of level will intersect the woman’s head. By the limited understanding of the power, the paint will last two or three minutes, then lose its adhesion. The unconscious boy will fall.

Their March has her soldiers, standing on rooftops, some far above, some to the side, some at right angles to her own.

Music as these humans enjoy it is not the most common thing. It doesn’t persist through multiple cycles, and when it’s something that a species does enjoy, it often takes other forms.

When their March imagines herself a conductor, her rapier and hand directing movements and directions, it is a very Earth thing and a very March thing.

“Here come the big guns,” she speaks.

Her eyes follow the metal suits soaring through the air. Mechanical dragons—three of them, two large and one small.

Despite the distance, the large machines in the air practically on the far end of the city, they spot her. All three reorient, facing her.

Weapon in hand, their March sets her feet firmly on the roof. She points her blade, flicks it.

In that same moment, their March’s intuition or sheer chance, one of the airborne craft unleashes a barrage of missiles. They move without apparent rhyme or reason, smaller jets on the sides altering their trajectories.

Her timing can’t quite account for it all. Nothing bars her from running for it, but it looks as though the missiles are capable of being remotely directed. Some pass behind buildings. Some go low, others high. Spreading out.

Another point of the sword, another flick.

Tori of their March’s army pulls at a collection of the missiles. The missiles attempt to steer back, but when they do, they hit the back end of the building. When they strike, they create projections—solid light, see-through, geometric with the edges more visible than the panes.

March thinks of block-stacking puzzles. One piece removed, another set in place.

Subordinate Ixnay, another member of the army, has the power to freeze things mid-motion. Ice crusts around the missiles and the walls nearest them as they terminate moving in mid-air. The ones passing behind that same building circle around, arcing toward her.

Her rapier traces a circle on the ground, as the missiles come her way. March’s Tori gets one. March’s Ixnay gets another. The last is going especially high, barely avoiding the buildings that jut down from the ‘ceiling’ of this region.