Mom arc
I wonder what this could possibly mean.....

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Mom arc
I wonder what this could possibly mean.....
Slow Burn, Part 1
Gurne was a normal imperial ace pilot. He consistently ranked high in most simpod tests, he performed well on the battlefield, and bumped shoulders with the other aces. He lived a fairly normal life, at least normal for an imperial ace- better than average rations, all the girls he could want throwing themselves at him, the usual. He felt a little bit empty, but, with the way the warfront was looking, it was probably just the toll the war was taking on his mind. Nothing more.
Slow Burn, Part 2
Gurne, whether he liked it or not, was entrenched against a group of enemy light mechs. The rebels knew their home terrain, hid behind the rocks and only opened fire when Gurne wasn't looking their direction.
"Kiki! Mind breaking them up for me? I can't do shit with these fuckers constantly taking potshots at me from all sides!"
"On it, Gurne. Stop whining like a bitch and let a real pilot take care of things." Gurne watched on the mech's IR monitor and heat radar as one of her thermite shots connected directly with the enemy, splattering a molten payload all over the rebel chassis. The flames carved a path through its armor and overheated the core until the only noise left on enemy channels were the screams of the dying rebel. Gurne muted the channel, took a breath, and started returning fire on the disrupted rebels.
When when when bestie drops a new mechsploitation story etgkj90uwjs90jugershbjdirhbjfkhjberisohbjrihjrefth9rfju9hrefd-0hjgyw9shbc 9je90h]rhr9ejh9]0erhjopd
"My son was completely fine"
Your daughter smiles when I tell her to lick my boot. She grins when I threaten her with electric shocks. When I put the barrel of a loaded gun in her mouth, she lets it go all the way to the base, her eyes fixed dead on the hammer.
Completely fine, yes; for a pilot of her station. She's doing exactly what she should be. But as a son? That poor, useless thing, working variably dead-eyed behind the counter at a dead-end job or nowhere at all? Entirely insufficient.
She talks about you sometimes. Not in any recognizable way, of course; nothing she could possibly understand as motherhood exists in her memories. Not of you, not of anyone. Just dreams. Dreams of a mysterious, distant woman and an unfamiliar voice telling her she's wrong. I'll admit, you've been useful at times; she is often wrong. But training out your unhelpful damage to her has been a hassle to say the least. I've never seen a pilot so reckless, so ignorant of its own pain, so tolerant of Hell, until I met your daughter.
I have no jurisdiction on Earth unless one of my pilots is stationed there. She has been instructed to stay far away from that planet, to keep you far away from her. These two things do not mean I would not gun you down the moment I saw you if I was given the opportunity. I suspect watching your limp, lifeless body, gushing blood from every bullet hole would heal Pilot #502 in a way no amount of forced amnesia, no amount of sedation, no amount of re-education ever could.
I'm sure you've heard the stories; you've probably shared some yourself. Young men disappear one day. A simple note, a calling card left in their place, emblazoned with the insignia of Station Delta. We have quite the reputation among broken mothers, blinded by the tears in their eyes and the fantasies they tell themselves, as nothing more than kidnappers. Some kind of wicked draft desperate to take their beloved sons from them; those sons they never gave another look to until they were already under our care.
We don't mind it. A scared populace is useful. But mark my words, and repeat them at your own peril:
She chose this.
And you dare cry for her?