Mox; The Fist O’ Iron [America]

300 years after the fall, in the ruins of Texas.

Bullets and lasers batter and scorch the walls of Rime Rock; the cornerstone of ‘civilization’ in this part of the wastes and the home of the God-Emperess of The Great White.

This chunk of land for some reason or another is caught in a perpetual snow storm with the snow not melting as it should instead piling up over this star shaped plot of land.

The city of Rime Rock had been built atop the great mound of compacted snow, being boiled down for clean drinking water or the purest of all of treasures; Ice.

For decades the rule of the God-Empress has been challenged by rival elements and for decades has she held strong in her white knuckled grip over The White.

This however… was different.

A week ago she had begun losing contact with her patrols, a few days later she lost contact with her outlying territories and now the enemy sit at her gates as the storm rages overhead painting the field white with powdery snow.

The defenders on the wall are pinned down, only able to blindingly fire around corners and over cover in the hope that they by some miracle hit their mark but the God-Empress has unlimited water, not bullets.

High up on the hill, the castle of the God-Empress sits on her throne made from ice (The Purest Water There Is) as her knee bounces, thinking over her options.

She can’t afford to lose the wall, her people will get butchered and they’ll steal all her shit! But sending her will leave the The God Empress ****, what if they sent someone over the walls? what if the **** on the walls is just a distraction? What if the real danger is already in the city?!

She’s knocked from her thoughts by a dull boom that rocks the castle, hopping up from her seat she runs to one of the windows, peering out at the battle lines where a chunk of wall is missing, presumably having crumbled into unsteady debris.

Just as she begins to wonder what the hell was happening she sees it, a woman, hovering off the ground, her long black hair gently flowing out in all directions like tentacles moving of their own accord.

She hoists her hands aloft like a preacher giving mass, raising her palms to the heavens as debris slowly lifts from the ground and begins to orbit her, for a moment it’s almost beautiful, when any of the defenders think to take a shot at the floating woman the bullets seem to stop as they reach the radius of the woman loosing all momentum and **** and joining the orbital dance.

Finally the peace is broken once critical mass is achieved; from a distance the Empress can’t even see the girl only the roiling ball of refuse and bullets before the dam breaks; with a mighty push of her outstretched hands the debris that had once acted as a shield becomes a series of projectiles that rain down with horrific ferocity, one after another, rocks, spent casings, bullets, tin cans, all of it is launched like rounds from a machine gun slowly drilling holes though the walls itself.

It becomes readily clear that her intent is not to target the defenders but instead to target the platform they stand upon; softening the structure up before chipping away again.

When she runs out of ammo she raises an open hand, her eyes narrowing as she slowly closes her fist, another chunk of the wall crumbling and turning into debris which she is swift to make use of for her next attack.

The atmosphere of the throne room grows grimmer still as the sight sinks in, she has **** now, a Changeling is on the field and a powerful one at that, if left unattended there won’t be much left of the wall, it’ll take weeks to repair and that’s assuming the mutants don’t get wise.

She lets out a soft exhale, her head bowed and eyes closed as she steeled herself for this decision, if there’s an assassin in her midst then she’ll need to deal with it herself… the front line needs The Fist.

The God-Empress needn’t turn to address the other figure in the room, standing as a silent watcher, a final line of defense.

“Go… show them the God-Empress’s wrath” she speaks, prompting only the sound of hydraulic hissing and the dull thumping of heavy footsteps in response as the figure lumbers out of the door.

———————————————————————

The battle rages as the defenders are steadily **** from the wall either by well timed shots or the inexplicable power of the Changeling raining upon them a hell that their training ill-prepared them for.

Down below the city watch can spot the enemies, thick as locusts, taking cover behind burned out cars or in the shanty houses that surround the city proper.

The attackers wear soot across their bodies like war paint, their weapons are low quality and their training seems nonexistent but sheer numbers and their Changeling make up the difference.

For every bandit slain, another 2 takes its place and costs the lives of at least one of the defenders in the process by the time the tide turns only a dozen men and women remain on the wall, either in the grips of panic or waiting for a perfect opportunity that will never come.

Then, they hear it, the sound of hissing hydraulics and the whirring of machinery, the defenders look back down the ramp, watching in awe as their last hope ascends to the battlements; they had a chance!

The great figure leaps from the top of the wall creating a great thud like lead pipe hitting dirt but amplified as dust and sand is flung outwards in a blast wave before settling into an obscuring cloud where only a vague shape can be seen.

The figure is absolutely titanic, standing at around 12 feet in height, resembling a squat humanoid shape but lacking a head.

For a moment all is quiet, gunfire has ceased, the officers on both sides have fallen silent, no longer shouting orders to their respective troops as they are stunned by the sight of that shifting figure in the fog of war.

The fog clears, dispersing and fading away as the dust settles, revealing further details of the mighty behemoth.

The armor is custom job and it shows; great rusted iron plates bent and bolted into place by rivets the size of baseballs comprise the center of the suit presumably housing the operator within.

The legs and arms are almost skeletal in appearance; hallow with the shocks and hydraulics visible with the cables tucked behind the machinery like arteries.

The entire craft is painted using yellow and black splotches of pigment, the colors of the God-Empress; marking it as her fist.

More then a few ghost stories have sprouted up around the enigmatic character, some stories say she was a bandit once, walking the wastes in her mighty suit forcing settlements to pay up or she’d lay waste to their towns and villages all by herself.

Others posit that it ain’t a person at all; an automaton, built by the God-Empress to hold down the wastelands arms as she rifled its pockets.

Just as the tension reaches a boiling point a raspy cry is heard out from amongst the enemy ranks. “SCRAP ‘ER BOIS!”

And with that the peace is broken and the bullets start to fly once more, focused on the mechs heavy armor resulting in no real damage; the salvo bouncing off with a high pitched PINK sound.

The machinery groans as the hydraulics begin to hiss and wheeze, the great bulk of the mech beginning its charge deep into the bulk of the enemy forces.

The mech holds aloft a sword, one far too big for any human or mutant to hold, forged from the finest old world steel the God-Empress could acquire costing a small fortune but clearly worth every penny as the mighty blade begins hacking through bandits as though they were overgrown weeds.

The soldiers on the wall rally, using the distraction The Fist provides to lay down a barrage of their own on the bandits who have partially forgotten about them in the wake the mighty machine.

Bullets fly at almost every trajectory, blood spills and limbs fly painting the scenery in a carnival of **** and chaos.

The Fist has just crushed a bandit under foot with a sickening crunch when a great mass collides with them, staggering them for a moment before they turn in the direction and spot the Changeling, hovering ominously as garbage and debris rise from the ground to orbit the woman.

She’s smeared in the same ritualistic soot as the rest of the attackers, her naked form a patchwork of runes and symbols indicative of her tribes primal roots. The woman’s eyes are rolled back into her skull as though she were communing with the gods as their body rampaged on the material plain of its own volition.

Another volley comes, a large chunk of rock that had been ripped from the earth comes sailing, The Fist stiffening their mechanized shoulder as they charge through it causing the dried chunk of earth to explode into hundreds of tiny pieces.

The spiral twists and turn around the Changeling creating a maelstrom that is slowly picking up speed. The machinery wheezes and groans as The Fist begins the charge, arm held out front like a shield, ready to block or bat away further attacks as she begins covering ground.

More projectiles are launched; dead bodies, chunks of rubble, an old fridge, the changeling clearly having changed priorities as she focuses her efforts on bringing down the God-Empress’s favored weapon.

The barrage does little to slow the creaking machines march as it stomps closer and closer. In the split second before The Fist can reach her she pushes her hands forward, everything caught in her orbit suddenly snapping to position just a foot from her palms, stacking together to create a barrier made from cinder blocks, wooden pallets and corpses, bound tight and compressed together by raw telekinetic ****, just in time to absorb a might blow delivered by the mech as it slams its fist into the barrier the feedback sending the changeling flying backwards.

The changeling is able to catch herself just in time before the momentum and height of the fall spell her doom. Without the constant attention of the Changeling, the barrier crumbles away into a pile allowing the march on the Changeling to go unimpeded.

The mech draws in, sword raised, ready to deliver a killing blow and break the back of the siege when it comes to a shuddered halt.

The mechanical joints and servos seize up and stutter, trying to follow the commands given by the operator but they can’t. The entire craft begins to groan and creak as though it were exposed to the pressure of the deep ocean.

The Changeling holds her hands in a loose sphere as though attempting to crush a ball that’s not there, visibly straining as she brings the full brunt of her power to bear upon the mech.

The chassis rattles as the plates begin to shift, denting inwards ever so slightly as the legs begin to press forward, the strain of crushing the cockpit forcing her to lessen her focus on keeping the limbs stationary.

It’s like the mech moves in slow motion as it reaches out with its skeletal metal hand, stopping and moving in tiny jerky motions as the motors are **** into a strange game of red light green light.

The dents in the cock pit become larger and deeper as the psychic becomes ****, putting all of her power into destroying the machine and the woman inside, blood trickles from her nose and her limbs seize up, on the verge of a seizure or popping a blood vessel in her brain.

The hand wraps around her upper body and tightens its fist, and with that, it’s done. Smoke rises from the mech as it’s barely able to trudge its way back to the city walls.

What few desert rats remain scatter at the sight of their most powerful member getting crushed like a grape but that doesn’t stop a few defenders from popping them in the back as they ran.

The battle is won, the enemy had never breached the walls despite that clearly being their primary target, it will take a few days to repair the damages but re-establishing the God-Empresses authority over the outlying regions of The Great White will be a challenge.

But if The Fist knew the God-Empress then she knew precisely what her next move would be.