- Pronouns
- She/Her
Official Flag of the Margraviate of Jaburo
Impresario
Jaburo is an old city.
Some would even argue it is only a city by technicality, that it is more an impenetrable fortress. One built atop a plateau overlooking the world. Her father argued that it was a fitting symbol for the Kingdom as a whole. An unconquerable bastion of the crown that would be the Cult's rock upon South America.
The Siege of Jaburo barely lasted a month.
Evangelista looks out the window of the car, an Anneheym imported from CanMex like most things she uses these days, and stares at the city from afar.
Vast smokestacks and chimneys from the metropolis' factories create a haze that clouds part of the city in smoke. More of them now than in her childhood, the result of new industrial policies to strengthen the Kingdom. Most of them were barely damaged in the fighting to reclaim the city, she'd been exact on her orders to achieve such.
The haze grants the D'Oro Palace a mystical quality to it, shrouding the castle complex in a way that makes it seem mysterious and something out of the fairy tales sister used to tell her. It also disguises the missing walls, dried blood and artillery craters.
Under such conditions and looking at it from the city's outskirts, she can almost pretend that nothing had changed since the past decade, the damage and scars of the Civil War, barely visible.
To magically transport herself to when she was younger, just one princess of many far down the line of succession. Maybe she can act like she's on a family trip or a picnic with a classmate from a good baronial family. She's been wanting to show off her progress with ballet, while it is beneath a princess to participate in the contests and plays of Jaburo's opera houses, sneaking of via changing places with one of her sisters is a simple—
"We are here, your Grace." With that, she's returned to reality by the deep dulcet tones of her bodyguard. The other thing she owns that's from the Divine Monarchy. Tall and broad shouldered to tower over her, but not to the degree that His Majesty did. Dark skin and short dark green hair contrasting with her pale complexion and rich brown locks. Gregorius Godwinson is a leal knight of the Order of Leo, one of many invited to her Kingdom.
If she recalls, his oaths in order are: To The Cult, To His King, To His Order, To His Superior and then finally to Her. Someone intended to be her minder essentially.
She turns to face Greg and gives him the softest smile she can muster. If she is to wrap him around her finger, such gestures are important. Do ignore the fact that she's twenty three. Her instructors would be most cross with how she's using her etiquette training and talents, rolling in the shallow graves they were thrown in.
From how his breath hitches, she can tell it's had some effect, truly fortunate that her partner in this farce is at least aware of how courtship works.
The two of them wait as the occupants of the other Anneheym cars vacate their vehicles. The rest of her small guard compliment, of whom Greg is merely the head of, the most she can take with her to a trip like this on such short notice. The day's affairs will have to be handled by her double.
To maintain secrecy both for herself and for the site's location, she hadn't exactly announced her visit ahead of time. Only calling the station via a secured line just as they left the Palace in the middle of the night. And judging from a rather panicked and haggard guard standing at attention at the station's entrance, she's going to enjoy this visit.
Trying not to let a giddy smile show on her face, she patiently waits for Greg to exit the vehicle and open the door on her end, holding out his hand she grabs it to exit the car onto their destination.
Station Scorpio is one of many research sites that she's sponsored in the past years. Located in the outskirts surrounding Jaburo, its primary purpose is to analyze and study the vast technological and mechanical ruins beneath the city's depths. And from such analysis either salvage functioning suits or derive new innovations from old garbage.
Jaburo is an old city.
One who's buried history stretches into untold eons, immortalized in the ground and dirt beneath it. Each successive generation building atop the work and ruins of its predecessors before they too are buried.
Sometimes she wonders while staring at the excavated homes, bunkers, Mobile Suits and other such relics beneath the city. Will this Jaburo, the Jaburo she knows and was born in also be buried by the ceaseless march of time?
"You look morose, your Grace?" Greg interrupts her again and she feels a flash of hot irritation run through her before she stomps it down.
"It's merely the weather, thank you for worrying." She hugs the fur coat they had brought with them tighter around her frame for what good it will do to combat the cold. The winter solstice was a mere few weeks ago but the weather remained chilly especially as high up as they were.
Thankfully she did not have to wait long before they were led further into the facility, tuning out a sycophantic toad apologizing for the poor conditions of the facility and how they were oh so unprepared for her inspection.
Perhaps you shouldn't have been bragging about having restored a combat capable E-type, then?
She smiles at the toad whose name she refuses to remember, not even saying anything. It'll only be an inspection if they give her reason to make it one.
"Are the controls to your liking, your Majes—your Highness!?" Evangelista makes a humming noise as she grips the control stick to maneuver the salvaged machine around. A routine inspection of a Mobile Suit's capabilities.
The suit opens and closes its fists while she moves the arms and legs around, testing their maneuverability while standing in place. More akin to a warm up before an exercise than anything else.
Slower responsiveness and with a longer delay than on a Borjanon, despite the suit supposedly hewing closer to an E-Type according to that toad. Outwardly its frame is remarkably preserved, the faded black and purple of its armor striking in its condition, but the controls and internal processing might as well have been salvaged from a B-Type. And she's suspecting that it was.
Activating the exterior camera, she looks down at the gathered scientists, her escorts and retinue. She does not bother answering the toad's little panicked question. Wasting her type claiming that his team had recovered a combat capable E-Type.
Oh how much of a surprise it must've come to that toad to see her hop into the cockpit with the grace that she did. She directs her gaze to the test-pilot that was supposed to have demonstrated the machine to her entourage. A scrunched expression of nervousness is on his face as the man's eyes are glued entirely towards her and the suit.
Muting herself she leans back into the leather head-rest as she adjusts her grip on the controls. She takes a deep breath and focuses.
At this moment she is not Marcher-Princess Evangelista, but 1st Dragoon Eva. Muscle memory from her time piloting a B-Type during the war finally kicking in.
It's like moving with weights around her limbs as she forces the machine to begin jogging around the designated test area. Once satisfied with that, she makes the E-Type leap forwards, using the leg thrusters to slow her descent. The machine shakes as she lands with a deafening thud on both two feet sending dust everywhere.
Suppressing an ugly, unbecoming laugh forming in her throat, she smiles a manic grin. The machine is her puppet and she is its master!
She quickly swivels around to face the ensemble crowd of spectators, scientist and her retinue alike. Then she puts the suit into throttle.
The leg thrusters hum into life as the machine rushes forward, towards the crowd of soft squishy targets. Cries of fear and alarm ring out as she approaches, some of the more cowardly scientists, especially that little toad, trying to flee only to be stopped by her guards. Who remain stone-faced and stoic in the face of her advance.
Putrid little toad, if you aren't confident in the controllability of this machine then why are you passing it off as combat capable? You're not the one doing the dying in it if it isn't!
She's laughing openly now as she rears the sticks back to bring the machine to a screeching, grinding halt. Sending out of clouds of dust and dirt as the E-Type skids to a halt just a handful of meters away from crushing the crowd.
The research station crew look up at her, at the machine in utter terror as she stares down at them. All of them.
She lets out a breath, calming herself and she's a Princess once more.
"Impressive progress salvaging this unit." She finally says unmuting the speakers, she can see the tension slowly bleed off of the researchers and engineers. "However, I would not say this unit is combat capable, Professor Lem. Do avoid wasting my time with such proclamations in the future."
She makes the suit kneel onto the ground holding out a hand near the cockpit so that she can step out, back into the world beyond.
Running her fingers one last time against the cold metal of the suit, she exits the E-Type, opening the cockpit to take a dainty step onto the waiting hand, where below her retinue eagerly await to escort her. She delights in seeing the toad begin to sweat and make excuses for himself, shifting blame around every which way. Ignoring the angry irritated glares sent to him by his subordinates.
In the end it was an inspection after all.
Once she's down on the ground, Greg leans in close to whisper in her ear. "There's been a situation in Quito, your Grace. The telegram says your attention is needed."
Clicking her tongue in irritation at having her visit cut short, she quickly gives a short little speech thanking the station crew for their hard work, while subtly implying that there might soon be a shakeup in their leadership. From the now hungry and vindictive looks in his team directed towards the dejected looking toad, it seems her message was received.
Leaving Station Scorpio behind, she looks out once more towards her City as they make haste towards their next destination.
Jaburo is an old city.
A story of untold and storied histories. Where great men and women had left marks, both literal and metaphorical, piling upon the legacies that bear their weight upon the living, upon her shoulders today.
Only time will tell what she'll leave behind in her wake.
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