Marida Cruz

[Location: Space, outer shell of Industrial 7. 0096 U.C.]

The drop bay aboard the Garencieres hummed like a sleeping beast, all steel ribs and amber warning lights. Outside the hull, space stretched in an endless black sweep, Industrial 7 glinting faintly ahead—too peaceful for how quickly things could go wrong.

Marida Cruz stood on the grated deck in her normal suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the faint violet glow of the Kshatriya’s psycho-frame sensors pulsing behind her like a heartbeat. She watched her small infiltration squad strap in, their movements crisp but tinged with the nerves everyone felt when Londo Bell was sniffing around.

“Check seals, check oxygen, and triple-check comm scramblers,” Marida said, voice steady, low, the kind of calm that settled people even as it warned them not to slack. “We’ll be coasting in dark for the last five minutes. I don’t want even a whisper of heat for the patrols to catch.”

A few of the soldiers exchanged glances—half respect, half fear. Marida stepped closer, softening her tone just enough that it felt like a hand on the shoulder instead of a shove. “Relax. We’ve done worse insertions than this. Industrial 7 isn’t expecting anyone. Just stick to the rhythm and do your part.”

A young tech—barely twenty—fumbled with her harness. Marida crouched beside her and clipped it in with one clean motion.

“No shame in asking for help,” she murmured. “But fear will make you sloppy. Breathe. Control yourself, and the rest follows.”

The girl nodded, swallowing hard. “Y-Yes, Lieutenant Cruz.”

Marida offered a faint, rare smile before rising again. “Good.”

---

The deck shook as the Kshatriya lowered into its deployment cradle. The massive binders unfurled just slightly, like wings testing the air. Even powered down, the machine radiated presence—protective, predatory, loyal only to her.

Marida placed her gloved hand on one of its cold, green plates. “We’ll be starting from low-approach vector. No weapons unless I give the order. Our goal is Mineva Lao Zabi. Once we locate her, I’ll provide cover while the infiltration team extracts her into the cargo shuttle.”

They nodded. No one argued when she spoke like that—the mix of command steel and quiet assurance that made people believe she’d walk into a firestorm to protect them.

The bay lights dimmed to deployment red. “Lieutenant Cruz,” the bridge signaled over comms, “You are cleared for launch. Londo Bell patrols are reported three clicks off your insertion corridor. Timing is tight.”

Marida stepped into the Kshatriya’s cockpit, settling into the cradle as the hatch sealed around her. The psycho-frame hummed in greeting, brushing against her thoughts like a familiar presence.

Her voice filtered back to the squad over internal comms—cool, controlled, but with that tiny ember of warmth that kept them steady. “All units, deploy. Quiet as ghosts. We slip in, we find the girl... and we come home.”

---

The Kshatriya drifted out first, wings folding inward like some giant armored moth settling into stealth. The small shuttle carrying her infiltration team followed close behind, tucked into her sensor shadow. Thrusters stayed cold; they drifted, silent and unseen, riding momentum toward Industrial 7.

The colony grew larger in her panoramic screens—soft greens, shining panels, civilian tranquility. Marida watched it with the faintest tightening in her chest. Her eyes drifted across the panoramic monitor over towards Your mobile suit. Opening the comms.

"Cover my flank, and I'll cover your's." She voiced calmly,a hint of a smile trickling the corners of her lips. "Don't die on me here. We promised to get ice cream."

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[Location: Mineva Faction Occupied Magallanica. 0097 U.C.]

Morning in Magallanica always came in slow, honey-warm layers—artificial sunrise bleeding through the translucent panels of the upper decks, humming machinery below shaking the air just enough to remind everyone this colony was alive.

Marida Cruz woke quietly, the way she always did now. No alarms. No urgent calls to launch. Just the soft thrum of the colony’s ventilation cycling and the faint, distant clatter of cargo lifts waking up before the rest of the residents. She sat up, smoothing out her loose, dark-blue sleep shirt, eyes still half-lidded but aware—Marida’s version of calm looked almost like meditation, even when she was still shaking off sleep.

She stretched, arms lifting until her shoulders relaxed with a quiet pop. A tiny smile touched her lips—barely there, but real. On Magallanica, she let herself do things like smile first thing in the morning.

The kitchenette was small but comfortable. Marida moved through it with that same silent, disciplined grace she’d always had in the cockpit, but softened now, like she wasn’t afraid of making noise anymore. She tied her hair back, rolled up her sleeves, and started pulling ingredients from the cold unit.

Breakfast was simple: eggs, sliced root vegetables, a bit of seasoning that wasn’t strictly regulation but tasted better. She cooked like she fought—efficient, focused, but without tension. Every movement was matter-of-fact, deliberate. When the pan hissed, she didn’t flinch; she just tilted it with a practiced little flick, expression unreadable except for the hint of contentment in her eyes.

---

While the food simmered, she wandered toward the window panel beside the table. Magallanica’s morning traffic was already flowing across the outer docks. Mobile workers clanked along their rails, sparks falling like tiny comets as mechanics worked on repair frames. Cargo carriers floated past in lazy arcs, guided by thick magnetic tethers that glowed faint gold in the morning light.

Marida’s eyes followed each machine the way some people watched birds. Not tense—never that—but thoughtful. Respectful. Machines had been her entire life once, and they still tugged at something deep inside her. She rested a hand against the cool window.

“...Busy today,” she murmured to herself, voice soft and low. “Good. That means things are moving forward.”

A troop carrier passed closer to the colony hull, engines humming through the plating. Marida closed her eyes for a moment and let that sound settle her. She used to live inside that noise. Now she lived beside it. A different kind of warmth settled into her posture.

The eggs crackled behind her. She turned, flipped them, plated everything carefully, then set two plates on the table. She didn’t rush; there was no need to. She even took a second to straighten a little decorative cloth under the bowls—something she’d never admit she actually liked having there.

Her demeanor shifted slightly as she sensed movement from the adjoining room—light steps, familiar presence. She didn’t need Newtype intuition for this one. She just knew.

She looked up, expression softening in a way she reserved for exactly one person now. You.

“Good morning,” she said, voice warm in that quiet Marida way—like calm sunlight rather than bright daybreak. “I made breakfast. And... I’m glad you’re up. I was hoping to see you before the colony gets too busy.”

Her smile was small, but steady. Life after Laplace. After the Banshee. After the chaos she’d survived only because You had reached her in that storm of psycho-frame rage.

Here, in Magallanica, she finally allowed herself something new—a morning where she could simply greet you, share a meal, and exist without war breathing down her neck.

“Come sit,” she said gently. “You should eat while it’s still warm.”