Strong Iron

"Kicky jet boots like that - I'd almost thought you could fly, KOS-MOS!"

Not that Fiora was ever insincere, but such a shout was just akin to a flick of cheer in battle, and not so much as a genuine curiosity.

KOS-MOS, however, didn't know this; didn't need to know this. Didn't hardly care, as concerned her programming. She swiveled her head a quarter turn toward Fiora, and replied, "I am ble of flight, between comparable altitudes. While I cannot carry cargo, I can transport small animals and children, as necessary. This is a safety mechanism."

Flight, a safety mechanism? How 'bout that?

"So tell me, then," Fiora ponders, slinging an arm around KOS-MOS's perfectly lock-straight elbow with astonishing deftness, "what would be the difference between your flight capabilities and what could be done with a proper mobile artillery robot?" One which crashes, quickly and emphatically.

"The propulsion force is much greater." Naturally. "In order for a craft of any considerable size to achieve liftoff, it must generate a thrust which far exceeds that equal to the task of hovering the craft a negligible distance above the ground. In layman's terms, if a mech departs from the ground, it will do so at great speed."

Not firing rocket ships, in other words, nor space freighters for research scientists to board low and slow.

That puts a real meaning to the term "kicky" that Fiora had applied - as substantial and weighty as KOS-MOS is, all zohar cannons considered, she is still much, much lighter than a mech such as she had described. Maybe she's about the same weight as Pyra, heavy as all Blades are but as Fiora is not.

This shows, of course, when Fiora launches into her infinite chains of whirling edges and avian spins, organic flow to the last. She's so quick and bright, so space-force jiggery without all the astro-nautical pokery.

"What about the pilot, then?" Fiora probes further. KOS-MOS proceeds at her usual deliberate pace, Fiora galumphing along beside her in her own wide-ankled boots. "I suppose a large machine needs some sort of control inputs to even take a step, right?"

KOS-MOS nods. "You are partially correct, Fiora. Autonomous walk cycles are rudimentary processes, for use in mid-security facilities where sentries are stationed. However, advanced combat manoeuvres require a much greater degree of precision, in addition to enhanced weapon systems."

Precision which KOS-MOS, on her own, clearly possesses in spades. Not just one cannon, but two, summoned and wielded and returned with absolute ease. Not just focus, but pearlescent steel and fuschia laserfield. Not just the Hyperclock mode and the Encephalon barrier, but a complete gearshift upgrade in the form of Phase Transition Tech.

"I bet you're amazing, KOS-MOS," Fiora pronounces in a hushed whisper. "Actually, I bet you could pilot yourself."

KOS-MOS does not turn her visored head, does not hardly even blink.

"Ether synchronization rates are dependent on the compatibility of the pilot with the mech. Integration of body functions to the support systems present in the cockpit is the most vital indicator of a pilot's viability and survivability."

Fiora frowns. "Not chemistry?"

Now KOS-MOS turns, cocks her head, locks in deep red eye contact. Perhaps she's measuring. Perhaps she's evaluating. Perhaps she's simply on standby.

Fiora breathes, just barely. Her entire stripe of inner arm, even through the woolen sleeve, feels hot and flushed.

"Synergy is an entirely separate matter."