Hitzel's fingertips itched.<br/><br/>It was a psychological stress response, one that reared it's head every time she knew she was going to be called upon to utilize her powers. More a creature of impulse than forethought, she only noticed the trickle of gravitons between her fingers when she had time to reflect that she was going to have to grab hold of them in short order. While the quantum physics involved had long since become a stable science, it remained far too elusive a subject for her to understand technically. She had had sizable difficulty with basic physics, let alone the quantum variety. No, her intimacy with gravitation was something inherent and instinctual.<br/><br/>The gravitational force crawled across her fingertips like a river of ants. Every mass pulled at her to varying degrees, as if a string connected her nervous system to them. Lashed to the world via a bridle of gravitational force, the only way she ever got any sleep was in the embrace of a null gravity bed. This world of matter still pulled at her even in the cocoon of anti-gravity, but it was a great deal less distracting.<br/><br/>But then life was full of little distractions... especially for her. Obsessive compulsive by nature, she pulled her gloves tight against her skin for the fifth time in as many minutes. This was followed by checking the payload cylinders on her mass drivers. That finished, she proceeded to tighten and loosen the straps of her vest, working to adjust its position by small degrees to maximize protection while keeping her mobility.  It was rapidly becoming a ritual, as she obsessively went through the motions of checking her gear. This was all the more senseless because she had an AI specifically designed for this purpose nestled in between the hemispheres of her brain.<br/><br/>Thinking about it, she decided to calibrate the targeting system for the third time this hour. She lifted her fingers up in front of her eyes for calibration. An iridescent orange grid spread across the surface of her arms, the effect visible only to her, as it was being fed directly into her cerebral cortex. Bright orange text in times new roman etched itself across the left corner of her vision.<br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: times new roman;">Grapple Systems...........Readied<br/>Ammunition Count.............99%<br/>Targeting HUD............Preloaded<br/>Vital Signs....................Nominal</span></span><br/><br/>When it had first been implanted, the AI had helpfully rattled off Date, Time, Temperature, Global Position, etc. During training, there was a particular incident Hitzel recalled in which the HUD had produced so much useless information, she was unable to see through all of the glowing text. She had since streamlined it to three basic questions. How much ammo did she have, where were the targets, and was she still breathing?<br/><br/>The rest seemed somewhat superfluous. As it finished calibrating the targeting system, she flexed her fingers experimentally as she peered over at Ratchet. Illuminated by a thin green glow, defining him as a friendly target, she settled into the sidecar of the OC. Considered to be something of a daredevil, she was hardly surprised to be taking the back seat on a stealth mission, and she didn't begrudge him the wheel. To say that this mission did not play to her strong suits was an understatement. Her primary skills were decidedly more combat oriented.<br/><br/>As everyone began their final checks prior to the mission, she pulled her gloves tighter against her skin again, like a nervous tick. This was their maiden voyage. She was less afraid of death than she was of mission failure at this point. Success justified both the existence of this project and her own life up to the point. In the middle of adjusting her vest one more time, Hitzel closed her eyes. The flow of gravitation was ever present, and more powerful with her eyes closed, tickling across her toned form as if her armor weren't there.<br/><br/>Lightening the load was one of the things she did best. Leer, Ratchet, his suit, and a Buick, weight wasn't a problem when it came to her gyrokinesis. The difficulty was precision. Over the years of training she had grown in sheer power rather than finesse. Early on it had been suggested that she might be able to fly with the proper application of her power. It was an unmitigated disaster...<br/><br/>Not so much flying as simply falling upwards, she had long since learned to utilize her grapples. Impressively rated to lift upwards of eight hundred kilos, this figure was decidedly sufficient for someone who could reduce the grip of gravity exponentially, "Get us to the pylon, and I can get us up there too sweet."